Trish collected our cards and told us how proud she was of us already.
“Have a restful week,” Trish said. “Be good to yourselves.” She reminded us to bring a blank book to next Wednesday’s Group, for journaling purposes.
Ten minutes later, we were standing outside the hospital, waiting for the moms to pick us up. Me and Ashley Barnum. Ashley Barnum and Me. She was drawing swirls in the dirt with one toe. I was doing standing butt crunches. One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and . . . I was on number seventy-nine when she said, “Isabelle?”
“Yes?” I couldn’t believe it. She was speaking to me. Ashley Barnum was actually speaking to me.
“You go to John Jay, right?”
“Yes.”
“8-A homeroom?”
“Yes.”
“Minx’s English?”
“Why, yes.” Why, yes? Suddenly I’d developed a British accent? Duh!
“Well, here’s the thing,” Ashley said. “I mean . . . I know we don’t really know each other or anything, but I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t, you know . . .”
“I won’t tell,” I said.
Ashley Barnum drew another snail trail in the dirt, nodded. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
“Anyway,” Ashley said, “it’s not a big deal or anything. I mean, my mom just flipped about this gum she found in my backpack. She thought it was, um, Ex-Lax or something? She saw this thing on TV . . .”
“Yeah,” I said. “Same. I mean, my mom flipped too, ‘cause she thought I was throwing up or something.”
“Yeah?” said Ashley Barnum.
“Yeah.”
There was a pause while I tried to think of something cool to say. Do you know I’ve wanted to be you since fourth grade?
But Ashley’s mom pulled up in her shiny black car and signaled with her cigarette for Ashley to hurry up, and Ashley said, superfast, “So, thanks, Isabelle. I’ll see you in Minx’s class, third period, ‘kay?”
“’Kay,” I said. “Minx’s class.” You betcha, girlfriend. Call ya later!
As the car peeled out, a little spray of dirt fanned through the air, just above the spot where Ashley Barnum’s toe had been.
3
THAT NIGHT I MADE IT THROUGH an entire dinner without talking to Ape Face. I wanted to drive her bonkers.
“If you think the silent treatment bothers me,” she said, “think again.”
“Mom?” I said. “Would you pass the peas, please?”
“You can ask your sister for the peas, Isabelle. They’re right in front of her.”
My mother had about six peas on her plate, and a piece of chicken the size of her thumb. This is how much she eats. Before Daddy, she ate real people’s meals. Now she eats doll meals.
Ape Face held up the bowl, balancing it on one hand. “Would anyone like some peas? . . . Anyone?”
“So, Mom,” I said, completely ignoring Ape Face. “How was your day? Any exciting papers to grade?”
My mother is a college professor. She teaches American literature. There are piles of her students’ papers all over the house. People say, “Wow, your mother’s pretty messy.” But they don’t know she used to be neat.
“Isabelle,” my mother said. “April is offering you the peas.”
“I changed my mind,” I said. “I’m not in the mood for peas after all.”
“Honestly, Isabelle,” said my mother.
“Honestly, Isabelle,” said Ape Face, frowning and shaking her head.
My mother shot April the look that means Enough.
“Mom, do you hear anything?” I asked. “I don’t hear anything. . . . What’s that? . . . Is that a fly buzzing in my ear?”
“Isabelle,” said my mother quietly, spearing exactly one pea with her fork. “Stop it.”
“Fine,” I said.
There was a moment of silence. Then Ape Face said, “Mom, guess what? I’m writing a story. ‘Group of Frogs,’ it’s called. How’s that for a title?”
Mom reached over to ruffle the Ape’s hair. “An excellent title. I can’t wait to read it. What’s the plot?”
This is the way it goes with them. They are their own mother-daughter book club. If you want to join, go right ahead.
I got up to clear my plate. On my way to the sink I did what I always do: try not to look at Daddy’s empty chair, but can’t help myself. This time there was a big, messy pile of papers on top of it. I couldn’t believe it. A lot of people put piles of stuff on chairs and pass right by them, not thinking a thing. But looking at this pile, my stomach hurt so much I felt like someone punched me.
In my room, I ran straight to my closet. That’s where I keep my stash, under one of Daddy’s old flannel shirts that nobody knows I have. For the longest time after he died, I kept the shirt under my bed, wrapped in a paper bag. I would take it out whenever I missed him because it had his smell. Clean and warm, like grass.
This shirt was a legend. My mother was always trying to throw it out because of the missing buttons and the pocket that got ripped off in a football game. But every time Mom tried to get rid of the shirt, Daddy would rescue it just in time. It was their special game. “There you are,” he would say, dragging it out of the Goodwill bag and slipping it back on. And Mom would wag her finger at him, pretending to be angry. “Jacob Lee. You are impossible.” This was his cue to chase her all around the house until he caught her and wrapped her up in his arms, in that big soft shirt that smelled like him.
One time last year, right before my birthday, I took the shirt out from under my bed and jammed my face in it, hard, because I missed him so much. That’s when I realized it was all smelled out. I breathed in, and . . . nothing. It was just a shirt. Just a ratty old shirt that could have belonged to anyone.
There wasn’t much left in my stash, only a few packages of Fig Newtons and a half-eaten bag of Doritos. I didn’t bother pushing the bureau against the door this time because I knew Mom and Ape Face wouldn’t be up for a while.
I sat on the floor of my closet while
