Project Me 2.0, page 13
I look at Dad’s perfect form, which is basically a cross between Derek Jeter and Tom Brady, with a little Usain Bolt thrown in for good measure. “Say what?”
“These legs, Far,” Dad says. “End of sophomore year. I had a huuuuge growth spurt. Think I grew a half a foot in four months. Which sounds cool, right? Except, it was like all of a sudden I didn’t know where my own feet were anymore. Or my head. Or my hands. Missed every pitch, overshot every throw. Tried out for varsity baseball—and got cut. It was… the worst. I thought my life was over.”
My mouth drops. “You didn’t make a team? You?”
“ ’Fraid so, Far.”
“But… I… You never…,” I sputter, thinking about all my missed swings at the batting cage. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”
“I don’t know why. I guess I should have,” Dad says. “I guess I always thought if you knew I’d failed, you wouldn’t be proud of your old man. Kind of stupid of me, wasn’t it?”
I’m stunned. I don’t even know what to say.
“I fail at plenty of things,” he continues. “Didn’t pass the bar exam the first time. Or the second. I’m terrible at tests. They make me sweat and forget my own name. I actually broke out in hives before the SATs. But, Far, failing doesn’t mean you’re a failure. It just means you tried. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise. That’s on me, buddy, not you. You are not a failure. Not in any definition of the word.”
I still don’t know what to say. It’s a lot to take in. I can’t quite square in my brain the image I’ve always had of “Perfect Dad” to some nervous guy with skinny legs sweating over a test or worrying that he won’t impress Mom.
“C’mon.” Dad gives my back a friendly tap. “How about we get moving again? And back to the story.”
“Okay.”
“So there I am,” Dad says. “Spindly legs wobbling around in the air, and what happens next? I tip right over. It was like slow motion. I could feel myself going, but I couldn’t do a thing about it. I was like a cartoon character. Landed right on the refreshment table. Hit it just right, too. That punch bowl went flying like it had been launched from a catapult.”
“No!”
“Oh yeah,” he says. “And it gets worse.”
“Worse?”
“Yeah. Guess where that punch bowl landed?”
I think. “On Mom.”
“Bingo!” Dad says. He pokes the air with his pointer finger.
“Wow.”
“Oh yeah. I figured she must hate my guts. She looked so nice that night. Most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Like Molly Ringwald,” he says, all dreamy-like.
“Who?”
“Oh, never mind,” Dad says. “Anyway, your mom’s all decked out in this pretty white dress. Pretty white dress that’s now all covered in fruit punch.”
I laugh a little.
“So then your mom walks over, a sticky orange slice clinging to her hair. And all I can think is ‘where do I hide?’ Seriously, Far. I would’ve crawled under the gym bleachers, but they were all pushed back to make room for the dance.”
“So what did you do?”
“I stood there like an idiot while George pointed and laughed and made these crazy snorting sounds.”
Hmmm, maybe that’s why Mom actually kicks Dad and George out of the house all the time.
“Yep,” Dad says. “But then your mom, she stopped right in front of me, plucked the orange peel off her head, and said, ‘If you’re going to get me some punch, David Turner, I’d like a cookie to go with it.’ ” Dad laughs. “And, well, the rest is history.”
I don’t say anything. I just think as we keep jogging up Gentle Way.
“So, Far, all I’m saying is, you just never know. Okay? People can surprise you.”
Yes, they certainly can.
We puff along in silence, and then here we are, right in front of Anna’s house.
“You know,” he says, slowing down. “Maybe you should go talk to her.”
My face turns beet-red. Dad saw Anna in the window yesterday?
“I mean, imagine if I’d succeeded in hiding from your mom at that dance,” he continues. “There might not be a you.”
“It’s not the same,” I say. “She probably doesn’t even want to talk with me.…”
“You don’t know that,” Dad says. “She’s your friend. Come on, Far. You’re Rocky Balboa! At the steps of the Philadelphia Museum!” Pow-pow-ka-pow. His fists jab an imaginary foe.
“Fine,” I say. When Dad starts talking in analogies, all hope is lost. Maybe this is how he actually wins all his cases. Keeps yammering till the judge gives up, the jury goes to sleep, or the defendant just throws himself on the mercy of the court.
I lumber up the brick walkway and tap lightly on the door. No one answers. Oh well. I tried. I spin around to make my getaway. Dad shakes his head and points at the house.
Criminy!
I press the doorbell this time. Footsteps. Voices inside. Oh man.
The door swings open.
Anna stands on the other side. Her red hair is tied up in two little pigtails, just like back in kindergarten, and she looks sweet and sleepy in a pair of pink fuzzy footie pajamas with a little rabbit holding a bunch of flowers on the front. What time is it anyway? How early did Dad get me up? I smile a shaky half smile and start to raise my hand to wave.
Anna blinks twice and looks down at her fuzzy pink-clad feet. At the very tip of each one is a little white nose with black whiskers sticking out from the sides. Pink bunny ears flop over the top. Anna’s eyes grow wide. Her mouth opens. “Oh my… Ahhhhh!” She turns and runs up the stairs in a blur.
Great. She can’t even stomach looking at me. Thanks bunches, Dad. I stand there like a bozo, my feeble wave hanging limply in the air.
Anna’s mother appears, holding a spatula in her right hand.
“Hi, Farley,” she says. “Sorry. Getting a late start around here this morning. And look at you, out for a run already!” She taps my shoulder and waves the spatula toward Dad on the sidewalk, then looks back up the tall stairs. “Anna! Come back down.”
“No!” I hear from somewhere far off in the house. “Why did you have to make me get the door? I hate you!” Something slams.
Super good going, Dad.
“I’m sorry, Farley,” Mrs. Murphy says, cheeks flushing. “I’ll make sure she calls you later.”
“Yeah, uh, okay. Thank you.”
I jog right back down the walkway and straight past Dad.
I don’t care how many great stories he tells. There’s not a single thing he can say now to get me out of my room until I’m eighteen or the EMTs come lift me out with one of those giant cranes.
25
“I AM GETTING KIND OF cooped up in here, dude. No room for my daily stretches. I’m very unbalanced!” Tomy turns and attempts a downward dog, bumping his pixelated head on the clear plastic of his sea monkey prison. “See? How about letting a guy out?”
I shake my head, glancing around my own self-imposed prison. “Sorry, buddy,” I say. “You got me into this mess. Unless you can figure out a way to get me out of it, we’re stuck here together.”
“Ah! Is that all?” Tomy says. “The answer is right in front of you!”
I roll my eyes. The only thing I see right in front of me is my bed. “Good idea,” I say. “I think I’ll take a nap.”
“No, dude. I mean the answer!” He points his miniature finger at my computer. Just like that, the screen lights up and a scroll unfurls with a whoosh.
Step Six: Reality Check
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.
Tomy shrugs and points at the computer again. “You have a better idea?”
I sigh. Not really. So I sit down in front of the computer and read. It’s not like I have anything left to lose, or anywhere to go.
Your next exercise is to reflect on your goals. Where are you on your journey? Write down your progress.
Okay, here goes:
Ran all the way to Burt’s house. And back in record time. (Even if that doesn’t count completely. I was in a hurry. I had no pants.)
Climbed a rock wall.
Ate a prune.
Made a complete and utter fool of myself.
So much for that. Next?
Now take stock of yourself. Write the three phrases that describe you now. Reflect on how you’ve changed since your journey began.
All right, three things that define me now. That’s easy.
Still “husky.”
Dumber than when I started.
The furthest thing from brave.
Oh, wait. I’d better add broke to that list. Dad docked my allowance for the next six weeks, thanks to those million-dollar smoothies I had the nerve to put on his tab. Yeah, for all you math geniuses out there, that’s thirty bucks. Dad charges interest. Apparently, twenty dollars is not an acceptable tip. At least, not if you’re the one giving it.
“Well?” Tomy says. “Have you gained any new insights?”
I look at my list. I look at stupid New Farley, still taped to the side of the computer in all his hope and splendor, wearing that ridiculous space suit. I look at Tomy again. He nods sagely, blond hair flowing around his head.
“Yep,” I say. “I finally figured out the ‘Y’ in TomY.…”
“Yes!” Tomy says with a fist pump.
“Yes,” I say. “There is no ‘why.’ ” I pull New Farley off the side of the computer, crumple him up, and toss him in the trash, alongside Old Farley. Maybe they can have a party together down there. Maybe New Farley can eat Old Farley’s biscuit hands and feet.
“But…!”
“And now I’m going to take that nap.”
26
MAN, WHY DOES THE DOORBELL always have to ring just when I’ve finally fallen asleep? Sheesh. I peel the pillow from my cheek and peek out my bedroom window. I bet it’s Burt again. Probably coming around to show me the fun pictures he and Anna undoubtedly took together in Grady’s photo booth right before they bought the last Dr. Fantastic.
But no, I can’t tell who it is. All I see is the top of a blond-haired head. And it doesn’t belong to Burt.
The doorbell rings again.
Someone better hurry up and get it. I have another 6.05 years until I’m leaving my room again.
Finally, I hear Mom’s muted voice and another woman’s voice talking. Then Mom says, “Please, come in. It’s good to see you.”
Footsteps clacking across the foyer. Kitchen chairs scuffling. The refrigerator opening and ice clinking in glasses.
Now Dad’s big voice. And he says, “Anna?”
Did Dad say Anna?
“Anna, of course, yes,” he booms. “Hi, Jenny. I wanted to say hello earlier today, but Farley ran away too quickly to come up to the door.”
My whole body turns to a pile of slush. Well, a bigger pile of slush. I creep toward my door and crack it open a notch.
“Excuse me?” Tomy says from his prison. “About earlier…”
“Shhh!” I put my finger to my lips and cup my hand over my ear to get a better listen to what’s happening downstairs.
“So,” Mrs. Murphy says. “I am terribly sorry to bother you over all this.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” Mom says.
“I just feel so bad. I don’t know what else to do. She won’t listen to reason,” Mrs. Murphy says.
Mom sighs. “Kids are funny, aren’t they?”
Gee, thanks, Mom. You think it’s funny Anna’s mother can’t get Anna to talk to me or to call or whatever it is she wants her to do?
“She just won’t come out of her room,” Anna’s mother says. “Told me she’s going to stay in there forever. Wants to sell the house and have Derek rejoin the air force! Request to be stationed in Antarctica.”
Wow. That’s a harsh response over a pair of Dr. Fantastic underpants. I’m definitely never leaving this house.
“She’s just so embarrassed,” Anna’s mother says.
Huh?
“Says I ruined her life with those pink bunny pajamas,” she continues. “Don’t ask me how. She’s the one who picked them out. But what do I know? I’m just her mother, right?”
“Oh, I know,” Mom says with another sigh. “It’s a tough age. Couldn’t pay me to be eleven again.”
All the grown-ups laugh.
Double huh?
“So anyway,” Mrs. Murphy says. “I was hoping you’d talk to Farley. See if maybe he’d give her a call or something. Stop by. She’s so worried about starting school with no friends.”
Dad chuckles.
“Well, we just need to get Farley out of his room first,” he says.
27
THIS TIME IT’S MOM AT my door. The latest to join the parade of well-meaning Turners. I throw a T-shirt over the tank to hide Tomy. He mumbles something in return.
“SHHHH!” I say as Mom comes into the room.
“Who are you talking to, Far?” she says.
“No one,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Got a minute?”
“Sure.” I sit on the edge of the bed. Mom sits next to me. There’s something square clutched in her right hand. She tucks it next to her leg and takes a deep breath.
“So,” she says. “Mrs. Murphy came by today.”
“Oh yeah?” I try to act like this is news.
“Yeah. She was hoping you’d give Anna a call or maybe stop by.”
“I don’t know, Mom.” I shift so I’m not looking right at Mom’s big expectant eyes. “I don’t think she really wants to hear from me. Or see me. I think Mrs. Murphy was probably just trying to be nice.”
“Oh,” she says. “Is that what you think?”
I nod.
Mom’s quiet. Apparently she has no argument for this. Might as well be going now. But instead, she shifts around and pulls that square thing out from next to her leg.
“Can I show you something, Far?” Mom’s hand lands on my arm.
“Okay, I guess.”
She hands me the square. I glance down. It’s a picture. A picture of a really goofy girl with the biggest, goofiest smile in probably all of recorded history and the biggest, goofiest buck teeth I’ve ever laid eyes on. Poor kid. She’s wearing a pair of plaid pants, a striped sweater, and a thick purple headband. Only the headband’s not actually keeping any hair back; it’s just stuck on the top of her head like those silly plastic things from the party store that hold alien antennae. Even worse, she’s got a set of ears that stick out at least ten feet on each side.
I can’t for the life of me imagine why Mom wants me to see a snapshot of this sorry girl. Unless…
“Aww man, Mom. Are you trying to set me up or something?” That’s all I need.
“Well, I sure hope not. That would be strange, to say the least.…”
Suddenly, the sea monkey tank rattles on my desk. I freeze. Mom spins around just as the tank thumps to a stop. She stares for a minute. “Weird,” she says. “I could’ve sworn I saw something moving over there.… You didn’t secretly get a pet, did you, Farley?”
“No! It’s nothing,” I say. “Just, uh… my laundry pile falling over.”
“Farley…,” Mom says.
“I know. I know. Hamper in the hallway.” I force a nervous smile and change the subject. “So, what’s with the picture?”
“Right.” Mom shoves it into my hand and grins. “Take a closer look. Notice anything familiar?”
I study the girl. She’s holding a book and leaning on a yellow kitchen counter. There’s a clunky microwave with giant buttons in the background and an old phone behind her.… The kind with the long, twirly cord attached. A big wooden spoon and fork hang on the wall next to a cuckoo clock.
“Hey, wait a minute!” I say. “Is that Grandma and Grandpa’s house?”
“Sure is.” Mom grins.
“But what’s with the old phone? And that huge microwave?”
“It’s an old picture,” Mom says. “About thirty years old, I’d say.”
I look again at the girl’s blue eyes. I look at Mom, her blue eyes crinkling around the edges as she grins. I study Mom’s perfectly styled hair. Her made-up pink cheeks. Her row of straight white teeth. She smiles wider and nods.
“Nooooo,” I say. “Really?”
“Yep, that’s me. I’m about ten. Before the braces. And the hairstylist. And before I finally finished growing into those giant ears.”
“How come I’ve never seen a picture like this of you before?”
“Oh, Farley. Let’s just say when Meghan McCarthy turned fifteen and got the braces off, she was overcome with a fit of retroactive vanity and got rid of the, uh, evidence. Crazy, I know. At least this one picture survived. When I look at it now, I actually see that this girl was kind of cute. In her own silly way, that is. She’s happy, too.”
I look over at my Batman trash can and think of poor Old Farley crumpled up and tossed in there like a dirty tissue. And for what reason? For just being Farley. I think this one over and look at Mom again. I inspect the photograph.
“I’m glad that picture survived too. You’re right. It is kind of cute.”
Mom smiles. “Yep. You know, sometimes we’re not really the best judges of ourselves, if you know what I mean. Sometimes we can’t see our own selves clearly. Not for a long, long time. It can take a while to grow into the person we’re going to become.
“Look, Far,” she continues. “I’m not going to tell you that you have to call Anna. I’m not going to tell you to do anything. But I think it would be nice. And I don’t think you’ll be sorry if you do. Remember, it doesn’t feel good to think everyone is laughing at you. So consider it, okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Good.” She stands and pats my knee. “See you when you’re ready.”
“Okay, Mom.”
She walks to the door and nearly trips over that giant War and Peace asteroid.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, Far?” she says.
