I handed in my biography. I thought of taking out the section about inventing a vaccine to prevent hair balls in lions, but I didn’t. Just because Charles found it wildly funny or even peculiar doesn’t mean anything. Because Charles is peculiar himself.
He stays up all night watching reruns of old sitcoms on TV—“The Munsters,” “Gilligan’s Island,” “The Brady Bunch.” He goes to bed at sunrise and sleeps away half the day. It’s easy to avoid him on this schedule. Maybe that’s why he does it. Maybe he’s trying to avoid us. He doesn’t even join us for dinner, which is fine with Jessica and me. But it bothers Mom and Dad. They think eating dinner together is the single most important part of family life. They’ve been seeing Dr. Sparks. They want Charles to see him again, too, but so far he’s refused.
“That quack!” Charles shouted at Mom a couple of nights ago. “He knows nothing! You’re blowing your money on him.”
“Fine,” Mom said, without raising her voice. “Then we’ll find someone else. Someone you feel more comfortable with.”
“Don’t count on it,” Charles told her.
At the dinner table we don’t talk about him. Jess and I try to keep the conversation light, but you can tell Mom is stressed-out and Dad’s not himself, either. He tries not to let us see he’s distracted, but he can’t fool me. I’ve seen him gobbling Pepto-Bismol tablets. And I’ve heard him talking quietly with Mom late at night, long after they’re usually asleep. I’ve stopped asking them about Charles and what’s going to happen, but I haven’t stopped wondering if we have to live this way until he’s eighteen.
On Monday my biography came back marked A+, and in the margin Ms. Lefferts wrote, Excellent work, well thought out, delightful reading. See me. When I went up to her after class, she said, “Rachel, I had no idea you were interested in the theater.”
She was referring to my imagined career as a great actress. I’d written that Rachel died onstage at the age of ninety-seven. It was weird writing about my own death, but I suppose if I absolutely have to die—and death is a fact of life, isn’t it?—then ninety-seven isn’t bad, especially if I’m able to work right up to the end. Besides, since I’m just thirteen now, that gives me another eighty-four years to figure things out.
Ms. Lefferts was in one of her hyper moods, talking very fast, using her hands to punctuate every word. “I’m going to be advisor to the Drama Club next year and I certainly hope you’ll join.”
“Well …” I began.
But she didn’t wait for me to finish. “I know you’re busy. I recommended you for that helping program myself …. What’s it called again?”
“Natural Helpers,” I said.
“Yes, Natural Helpers … but the Drama Club could be a very exciting experience for you. We’re going to do a fall play and a spring musical.”
“I’ll—”
“That’s all I’m asking. That you give it your serious consideration. Because we really need people like you … people with a genuine interest in theater.”
“It sounds—”
“Oh … and I forgot to mention we’ll be going to New York to see at least two plays.”
“Will we go by train or bus?” I asked.
She seemed surprised by my question. “I haven’t worked that out yet. Do you have a preference?”
“Yes,” I told her. “I prefer the train.” I didn’t add that I get motion sick in cars and buses but not on trains.
“Well …” she said, “I’ll keep your preference in mind. I’m hoping to get tickets to a contemporary drama and a Shakespearean comedy.”
“Shakespeare is my favorite,” I said.
Ms. Lefferts put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly. “Mine, too, Rachel. Mine, too.”
What am I going to do about all these activities? I wondered as I got into bed that night. Mom says the trick is to know your own limits. But I don’t know what my limits are. I wish my teachers wouldn’t expect me to do everything!
I decided to make a list. In one column I wrote down the activities I’m participating in now—Orchestral Band, All-State Orchestra, Debating Team, plus a private flute lesson each week and forty-five minutes of practice a day. In the other column I wrote down the activities I’m thinking about adding next year—Drama Club and Natural Helpers. Also, Stephanie wants me to run for eighth-grade class president. She’s already volunteered to be my campaign manager and she’s thought up the perfect slogan—Rachel Robinson, the Dare to Care Candidate.
I tried to figure out how many hours a week these activities would take, not counting president, but until tomorrow, when I go to the introductory meeting of Natural Helpers, I won’t really be able to come up with an exact figure. I wonder if it’s even possible to handle so many activities. I wish I could be a regular person for just one year! But then Mom would be disappointed. She’d say it’s a crime to waste my potential. I wonder if she’s ever wished she could be a regular person.
I turned off the light and lay down. Burt snuggled up against my hip and Harry at my feet. I closed my eyes, but my mind was on overtime. What if class president isn’t allowed to participate in other activities? What if Natural Helpers turns out to be a full-time activity? What if I get a part in the school play, which means rehearsals every afternoon, when I’m supposed to be at Debating Club preparing for an interschool match and Orchestral Band is rehearsing for the spring concert and my flute teacher says I haven’t been practicing enough and my grades start slipping and everybody says I’m not doing my job as class president because I’m too busy doing other things and I am impeached by the class officers? Being impeached would be even worse than being expelled. Being impeached would probably make the local papers!
Suddenly I felt my heart thumping inside my chest. I sat straight up, frightened. The cats looked at me as I leaped out of bed. But then a voice inside my head reminded me to stay calm, to breathe deeply. I began to count backward from one hundred. That’s it … count slowly … very slowly … that’s better …
The panicky feeling passed, leaving me drenched with sweat. I lay back down and closed my eyes. Psychology Today says one good relaxation technique is to imagine yourself in a serene setting, like a beautiful tropical island with a white sand beach and palm trees swaying gently in the warm breeze. Yes. Okay. I’m on an island, swinging in a hammock, when this incredibly handsome guy comes up to me. He’s carrying a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He sits beside me and begins to read. After a while he reaches for my hand, looks deep into my eyes and, not being able to resist a moment longer, kisses me. It is a long, passionate kiss … without tongues. The idea of having someone’s tongue in my mouth is too disgusting to contemplate.
I must have fallen asleep then, but when I awoke in the morning I had a gnawing ache in my jaw.
The next afternoon I went to the introductory meeting of Natural Helpers and nearly passed out when Mrs. Balaban presented someone named Dr. Sparks. Could he be that Dr. Sparks? I wondered, as I slid lower and lower in my seat. How many psychologists named Dr. Sparks can there be in one town? He must be the same one! Suppose he recognizes my name and asks if I’m related to Charles? Suppose he tells Mrs. Balaban that with my family situation I shouldn’t be a Natural Helper?
I worried all through the meeting. I hardly heard a word he said.
But when the meeting ended, Mrs. Balaban thanked Dr. Sparks and he left without addressing any of us individually. I felt so relieved I let out a low sigh. Only the girl next to me seemed to notice. Then Mrs. Balaban told us we should think long and hard about becoming Natural Helpers. “I’ll need your answer by the last day of school,” she said. “And remember, it’s a significant commitment. Helping others always is. You’ll have to be aware and involved all the time.”
Aware and involved all the time, I thought as I sat in the dentist’s office after school. By then my jaw was killing me. I opened and closed my mouth, hoping to relieve the pain.
Unlike most of my friends, I’m not afraid to go to the dentist. I have very healthy teeth. I’ve had just two small cavities in my entire life. Besides, our dentist, Dr. McKay, is also a stand-up comic. He performs at the Laugh Track, a comedy club on the highway. He tries out his material on his patients, so in this case you might say, going to the dentist is a lot of laughs!
“So, Rachel … how do you get down from an elephant?” Dr. McKay asked as he adjusted the towel around my neck.
“I’ve no idea,” I told him.
He tilted the chair way back. “You don’t … you get it from a duck.”
I laughed, which wasn’t easy to do with my mouth open and the dentist’s hands inside. I hate the taste of his white surgical gloves.
“Hmm …” he said, poking around. “Are you wearing your appliance?”
I tried to explain that I’d lost it, but he couldn’t understand me. I guess he got the general tone, though, because he said, “So, the answer is no?”
I nodded.
“Well, you’re clenching your jaw again.”
I tried to act surprised. I said, “I am?” It came out sounding like Ah aah?
“Uh-huh …” he said. “And grinding your teeth, too.”
Grinding my teeth? That definitely did not sound good.
“Everything all right in your life?” he asked.
I wiggled my fingers, indicating so-so.
“Still getting all A’s in school?”
I wish people would stop acting as if there’s something wrong with getting all A’s. I waved my hands around, our signal for letting me sit up and rinse. After I did, I said, “This doesn’t have anything to do with school.”
“Maybe not, but I’d still like to see you learn to relax. And so would your teeth.”
People are always telling me to relax, as if it’s something easy to do. When Dr. McKay finished cleaning my teeth, he moved the chair to an upright position. “I’m going to do an impression,” he said.
I assumed he meant an impression of someone famous. So I was surprised when he said, “Open wide, Rachel …” and he slid a little tray of flavored goo into my mouth.
On the way out of Dr. McKay’s office I met Steph, who had an appointment with the orthodontist in the next office. “How do you get down from an elephant?” I asked. I hardly ever tell jokes because no one laughs when I do. I don’t know if this means my comic timing is off or people just don’t expect me to be funny.
“How?” Steph said.
“You don’t. You get it from a duck.”
Steph just looked at me.
“It’s a joke,” I said. “Down … as in feathers. Get it?”
“Oh, right …” Steph said. “Now I do.” But she didn’t laugh. Then she said, “Did you hear about Marcella, the eighth-grade slut?”
“No, what?”
“She got caught in the supply closet with Jeremy Dragon.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No. Why would it be a joke?”
“I don’t know. The way you set it up, I thought you were going to tell a joke.”
“No, this is a true story,” Steph said. “It was the supply closet in the arts center. When Dana found out she went crazy, yelling and screaming in front of everyone!”
“Really?”
“Yes … then Jeremy goes, ‘How come it’s okay for you but not for me?’ And Dana shouts, ‘What are you talking about?’ Then Jeremy goes, ‘You know what I’m talking about!’ And he walks away, which makes Dana so mad she takes off his bracelet and throws it at him. It hits him in the back of his head. So he turns around and goes, ‘Thanks, Dana!’ Then he picks up his bracelet and puts it in his pocket.”
“You were actually there?” I asked. “You actually saw this happen?”
“No,” Steph said. “But everybody’s talking about it. Everybody knows!”
“What was he doing in the supply closet with Marcella?”
“What do you think?” Before I had a chance to respond, Steph answered her own question. “Pure animal attraction!”
“Yes, but the difference between humans and animals is that humans are supposed to think,” I explained, “not just react.”
“But let’s say you were alone in a supply closet with Jeremy Dragon …” Steph said. “Wouldn’t you react?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. I’m reacting just thinking about it, like any normal person.”
“Are you suggesting I’m not normal?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It sounded like you did.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Good, because I’m as normal as you!”
“If you say so.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Lighten up, Rachel, will you?” Stephanie said, shaking her head. “You’re never going to make it to eighth grade at this rate.”
I wanted to ask Steph exactly what she meant by that remark, but she went into the orthodontist’s office before I had the chance. It’s not as if I wouldn’t want to be alone with Jeremy Dragon. But I’d choose someplace more romantic than a supply closet at school!