Something Maybe Magnificent, page 1
For Kervin
Thank you for stepping into the gap
and showing three kids
that they’re magnificent
and deeply loved
YELLOW (Hope)
I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.
—Sylvia Plath
Step (noun): a flat surface (let’s hope), especially one in a series, on which you place your foot when you’d like to move from one level to another.
Steps must be approached with extreme care, since sometimes they can be narrower than they appear and you don’t realize your feet have grown half an inch in six months, so you step where you think a step should still be and (surprise!) there are two and your giant foot is bent in half between them. You can save face and blame it on your shoes, which your mom bought a little too big because you won’t stop growing. (You’ve asked your body to please please please stop growing because it’s not fun being taller than all the boys in seventh grade, but it won’t listen. At least parts of it won’t listen. Other parts… you’re still waiting for them to grow.)
If you live in a house like mine, steps might sometimes give out when your brother lunges to rebound your terrible half-court shot. (It’s not really a half-court, it’s an unmeasured slab of crooked concrete that ends at an old rusty pole with a basketball rim fixed on it. It was here when you moved in.) His foot will slam right into the rotted wood—and all the way through it. He’ll need help getting his leg free from broken wood and debris, and you’ll need help getting up off the ground from laughing so hard. Luckily, you have a little sister who’s going into fifth grade and understands both comedy and need. When you’re all standing again, you’ll try to figure out how to tell your mom about another thing on your falling-apart house that gave up without any help whatsoever.
Steps can keep you from moving forward, slow you down, damage you in ways you can see and can’t see. (Remember that time in Ohio when you slid all the way down Grandma’s steps and bruised your butt so bad it hurt to walk and you couldn’t show anyone the battle scar?)
They sway and sag and trip and trap and pretend to be something they’re not.
Steps can’t be trusted.
June 4, 6:09 p.m.
It was a little too hot this afternoon to spend the hours someplace that wasn’t air-conditioned, but Mom told me I needed to get some vitamin D. (She worries too much about that, if you ask me.) So I stretched out on the hammock to read a little Sylvia Plath.
I figured I’d give it fifteen minutes, and that would satisfy her. But Sylvia Plath completely sucked me in. I just discovered her last year, when the public library had a poetry display, and now I can’t get enough. She has this poem, “Daddy,” that is so remarkably accurate I wonder if she somehow met Dad before she died. He would have only been nine the year she died, but he probably flirted shamelessly then like he does now, and she was the kind of person who could see the future in stark detail, I’m sure.
Right now I’m reading her journals.
She’s so much better at journaling than I am.
I know it’s completely irrational, but I feel like Sylvia Plath and I may have shared a life. I don’t think I believe in reincarnation, but sometimes I wonder if I’m Sylvia Plath reborn. And that thought should never, ever, ever go farther than this journal.
Anyway. Wow. All that vitamin D must have done something to my brain, because that’s way off from what I intended to write here. Or maybe I have heatstroke. Or maybe (yeah, probably) it’s entirely the fault of what happened after my enjoyable walk through Sylvia Plath’s journals.
What happened after?
Like you don’t remember.
There I was, reading in my hammock, feeling such peace and quiet and probably as close to blissful as a person can get, thinking about how if the whole summer passed just like today I’d call it a magnificent one, when the loudest rumble I’ve ever heard, like four thunderstorms stacked on top of each other, smuggled all the hope out of the entire world.
I’m not exaggerating.
The birds scattered, King ran barking to the road, and I groaned.
“King!” Maggie shouted. “Get away from the road!” She thinks he’ll listen to her order him around. King does what he wants, so he stood there barking his head off, right in the middle of the road. You could hardly hear him, though, over the noise of The Dumbest Truck in the Universe.
The Dumbest Truck in the Universe deserves a description, in case this guy doesn’t stick around much longer (and that’s both the dream and the plan). It’s a big truck with gigantic wheels that require an extra step for Mom when she’s getting in. It’s not new but looks like the owner cares a lot about it (he does), with gleaming black paint and the kind of windshield you can see right through. Which is a feat of car washing superpowers out here in the middle of nowhere, where bugs think they’re safe to fly in swarms. I’ve tried to get the lovebug and dragonfly guts off Mom’s windshield from time to time. After a while I figured it was better not to break my fingers. Fingers wrapped around a soapy cloth, of course—no way would I ever touch bug guts without plenty of padding between me and those guts!
But the worst part of The Dumbest Truck in the Universe is its engine. It’s the kind of engine that announces itself from a mile away. And not a whining announcement like Mom’s Ford Escort has started doing. This is one that says, Hey, everyone! Pay attention! Kyle Moreland is coming! And if you don’t hear that, you’ll hear the knocking sounds it makes when he turns into the drive. And if you don’t hear that, you’ll hear the country music blasting from his speakers. Probably his favorite, Reba McEntire. (I am not a fan of country music. I am also not a fan of… we’ll get to that.)
Well, guess what? I don’t want Kyle Moreland to come. Ever.
But Kyle Moreland came. Kyle Moreland comes every Wednesday evening, bringing three pepperoni pizzas, two liters of Coke, and one smile that could burn a hole in the dark if you let it. Lucky me, I’d stayed out long enough for afternoon to turn into evening, and now he probably thought I’d been waiting for him.
Kyle Moreland is Mom’s latest boyfriend. He’s been around longer than the rest—like way longer, like thirty-three dates longer, like long enough to start leaving things at the house. On purpose.
A razor in the shower. (I used it to shave my legs the other day, and I heard Mom apologize for the “misunderstanding.” It wasn’t a misunderstanding. He left it, he doesn’t live here, I needed a razor, it looked like a nice one. That was it. Of course I felt guilty—I’m not completely conscience-less—but when it comes to Kyle, you sort of have to suspend guilt and, you know, do what you have to do to get rid of him.)
Shoes by the front door. (Doesn’t he need them when he isn’t here?)
Some tools under the kitchen sink.
The roar of Kyle’s truck got closer while I debated whether I should stay outside and completely ignore him when he pulled up, or run and hide in my room.
I decided to hide in my room.
I bolted from the hammock and pounded up the porch stairs. Or at least I tried to.
The problem is, the last stair has a hole where Jack’s foot smashed through it. And guess what my foot decided to do?!
That’s right! Follow Jack’s phantom foot! So unoriginal!
I have to admit, I panicked a little. There is no telling what lives under that porch. Probably pits of vipers, nests of poisonous spiders, maybe even some families of rabid rats. So as I stood there trying to pull out my foot, I was thinking about all those things, and my foot started tingling and my vision tunneled and I couldn’t breathe and I almost died, and then I smelled the pizza and Kyle said, “Oh my God, Victoria, let’s get you out of there,” and I said, “I can do it myself,” but thank goodness he didn’t listen and—
I was freed because of Kyle.
Kyle saved me from the vipers and spiders and rabid rats.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still have to go.
It just means I said my first two words to him.
“Thank you.”
He looked like he won something.
He hasn’t won a thing. No one wins against Victoria Reeves.
Just you wait and see.
June 4, 8:13 p.m.
I’d like to say that after twenty-six Wednesdays of eating pizza for supper, I’m sick and tired of greasy pepperoni, stringy salty cheese, and tart tomato sauce. But I am so not sick and tired of it that just the smell wafting from the boxes Kyle set on the porch when he saw my predicament and decided to be a completely unnecessary knight in shining armor made my stomach growl so loudly Kyle laughed.
Stupid stomach.
He thinks he can win us over with pizza. He has another think coming.
I sat down at the table, same as everyone else. I told myself I would only have one piece. That’s all Mom has anymore, along with a gigantic salad, even though by Wednesday that salad’s gotten pretty slimy and wilted.
But how many did I have?
Four.
Four!
How do you say, I hate pizza like I hate you, Kyle, with four pieces? You don’t.
Kyle watched Jack and Maggie and me with a gigantic smile that practically split his face in two. And once, when I wasn’t really paying attention, I smiled back.
Uuuuuggggghhhh!
The pizza made me smile. Not Kyle.
We finished supper, and Kyle said, “Anybody up for Monopoly?” I practically sprinted to my room bef ore Mom could volunteer me.
She does that a lot now. I think she’s trying to make Kyle feel better.
No, I am not interested in Monopoly. I am not interested in playing any game with Kyle or eating supper with Kyle or being anywhere near Kyle for longer than I absolutely have to be. And I’m not interested in playing any game with Kyle or eating supper with Kyle or being anywhere near Kyle even if I have to according to Mom—just to be clear. I have zero interest in The Problem Known as Kyle, except in figuring out how to fix it.
I’m chewing on some ideas. Stay tuned.
ODE TO PIZZA
So greasy, cheesy, look at you
You’re such perfection—I’ll take two
Okay, you got me—I’ll take four
and some days I’d like even more
But girls, you know, we have to stop
before we look like we might pop
Yes, I’ll admit this ancient rule
Is reprehensible and cruel!
We’re hungry too! We want to eat!
Who says we must be small, petite?
Well, look at that, this poem has stepped
from ode to beat, I guess I’ve swept
some feelings down for way too long—
what could possibly go wrong?
I’ll tell you what—now pizza’s linked
with things that should become extinct:
injustice, inequality
they’re both so gross I want to scream
Oh, pizza, I will sing your praise
I love you in a hundred ways
but you cause problems—yes, you do
I really should be leaving you
But smell-touch-taste you’re so well dressed
I still say you’re the very best
(And you taste divine)
THE NO-FAIL PLAN FOR THE PERFECT SUMMER VACATION
Before I get too much further into this Second Magnificent Summer of Victoria Reeves, I should probably tell you my No-Fail Plan for the Perfect Summer Vacation, for record-keeping purposes.
1. Forget about Dad.
We heard from him a whopping zero times this whole year, and no one’s said anything about Jack and Maggie and me going to visit him this summer. So I’m just going to pretend that wasn’t another one of his broken promises and that he never actually said anything about it and now our lives can resume as normal, or as normal as they can be with a mom who works two jobs and a dad who has a replacement family, which is probably why he hasn’t sent Mom any money in the last year to help out with too-tight shoes and worn-down track spikes and a backpack to replace the one Maggie decided to use for our cat Fluffy’s bed when Fluffy was “too tired and fat to move” one night and it turns out she was having kittens right there on my backpack. (Mom got Fluffy while we were visiting Dad, and she was a brilliant surprise when we got back home. I thought. Until that moment.) I had to trade my perfectly fine and functional backpack—until a litter of kittens was delivered on it—with one of Memaw’s in-your-face bags she likes to buy. I picked the tamest one, which had a quote from Mary Shelley stitched across it: “I do not wish women to have power over men; but over themselves.” It was either that or one with a quote from Margaret Thatcher, who was a British prime minister: “If you want something said, ask a man; if you want something done, ask a woman.” I didn’t think that one would go over well with the boys at school or with my US History teacher, Mr. Salty. (That’s not his real name; it’s what the kids call him. For being salty.) I had to carry that bag the rest of the year, because a certain member of our family who disappeared couldn’t bother to check in and see if we needed anything.
And now I have completely not succeeded at forgetting about Dad. Thanks, brain. Try harder tomorrow.
2. Get published.
For this, of course, I’ll have to do a whole lot of writing. Short stories, poems, maybe I’ll even try my hand at some essays. But summer is a wide-open space, and I plan to use mine well. (I try not to think about rejections. I know publishing doesn’t come without rejections, but I still hope I’ll have victory first. If I get one yes, the nos won’t hurt so bad, right? Something tells me that’s probably not true.)
3. Spend as much time with Mom as possible.
I know it’s a weird thing for a thirteen-year-old to want to spend time with her mom. Who wants to spend more time with their parents, especially during summer break? I have two reasons for it: First, Mom works a lot, which means we don’t get to see her nearly often enough, and even though there are days she makes me so mad I want to scream, I miss her a lot when she’s not here.
The second one is probably the biggest, most important reason: The more time we spend with Mom doing family things that don’t include Kyle Moreland, the less time she has to spend with Kyle and possibly (hopefully not) fall in love.
So there you have it. A recipe for the perfect summer. And since this one doesn’t include the wild card of Dad, I’m much more hopeful that it will actually turn out to be magnificent.
(I really should have learned my lesson by now.)
STEP BY STEP: ANOTHER YEAR GONE AND THE THINGS DAD MISSED (AGAIN)
I tried to convince Mom to get me blue-colored contacts (just like I did last year) and presented what I thought was a logical, well-researched argument (which my debate teacher says is important). Mom still said no.
I grew another two inches! (Which means the clothes Dad bought us last summer don’t fit anymore.)
Jack finally caught up with me, so now we’re the same height and he’s not as mad about it anymore (but he’s mad about lots of other things he doesn’t talk about).
Mom let me start wearing lip gloss along with black mascara—but no other makeup until high school. Even though all my friends are wearing it. (I won’t repeat what she said when I told her that. It doesn’t deserve space.)
The Spice Girls released their DYNAMITE album, Spice. (Sarah and I dance and sing to it any chance we get.)
I saw the movie Twister and am now afraid of wind, rain, and clouds. (I hid in our bathroom during the last four thunderstorms. Mom and Jack think it’s funny, but who will be laughing when they get snatched up by a raging wind funnel? Well, not me, but you get the point.)
I wrote an essay about twisters that my seventh-grade English teacher, Ms. Reynolds, said was “stupendous.” She encouraged me to keep writing, which, of course, I plan to do.
I tried babysitting to earn some extra money and figured out it is not for me. (Turns out, I don’t like kids all that much.)
I won second place in the district track meet for the mile run. Coach Finley says I might take the top spot at next year’s district meet. I plan to work hard enough to do it.
I made it through seventh grade. (Enough said—I don’t want to relive any of the details, okay? Especially not what Jesse Cox said when Sarah told him I had a crush on him. Sometimes boys can be very mean, and they should work on being a little nicer because being a boy is not an excuse for being mean.)
I made the twirling squad again. (And I perfected a double toss-turnaround. It’s amazing, if I do say so myself.)
Ellen DeGeneres announced on public television that she’s gay. (Which I think is one of the most fearless things I’ve ever seen a woman do. I want to be more like Ellen DeGeneres.)
I read more books (everything Judy Blume has written, all of Sylvia Plath’s poetry collections, and the rest of Victoria Holt’s books, among many others).
The phone rang and I thought it was him.
The phone rang and I hoped it was him.
The phone rang and I convinced myself it wasn’t him and that it didn’t matter and it was for the best anyway.
I grew up a little more—mostly.
June 5, 7:42 a.m.
Mom was already gone when I got up this morning, but since Jack and Maggie were still in bed, I figured I could squeeze in an early run before cooking some eggs and toast for us.
I’m the resident cook in the summer, as much as I hate it. Jack and Maggie know how to cook, but Jack’s too lazy to put in any effort when it comes to eating and would have Froot Loops or Lucky Charms (the store-brand ones, of course—no room in the budget for the real thing!) every single morning if no one cooked anything. Plus, he once salted a batch of eggs so much it made our mouths burn. We ate them anyway, since we know not to waste food in our house, but all that salt made us swell up like Jack, Maggie, and Victoria balloon versions of ourselves. Funny looking back, but it was not funny then. I was afraid the salt had burned my taste buds right off my tongue. I had to take one of Mom’s forbidden chocolate kisses, which she keeps in the freezer, just to make sure I could still taste.
