The List of Things That Will Not Change Read online

  Sheila said, “He won’t come, baby. Even if you invite him. He won’t come because your daddy is marrying the man he loves, and Mission is too stupid to see that it’s wonderful.”

  Dad had folded the invitation list into a tiny square, and he was squeezing it between two fingers. Angus told me that you can’t fold a sheet of paper more than seven times. It’s impossible.

  Jesse was petting Rocco under the table, running his hand down the back of Rocco’s head, which is what Rocco loves best. When Jesse talked, it was like he was talking to Rocco.

  “I’m sorry, honey.”

  Sonia said, “So…who’s gonna be there that I know? Besides you guys?”

  “You know Angus,” I told her. “And Lizette is coming. Remember her? From ice-skating?”

  “I have to go,” Sonia said. “It’s almost dinner.” And before anyone could say anything else, her hand reached out and she disappeared.

  “Well, that was fun for about five minutes,” Sheila said.

  “Who’s Uncle Mission?” I said.

  Jesse said, “Mission is our brother.”

  “He was,” Sheila said, slapping a “love” stamp on an envelope.

  * * *

  —

  At bedtime, I asked Dad if you can get a divorce from your brother. He said no, you can’t. “He’s still their brother, Bea. But Sheila is angry. Mission hasn’t been kind to Jesse. It’s like Mission doesn’t want to know Jesse anymore.”

  “But why?”

  “Because Jesse is gay.” He shook his head. “Mission doesn’t know how to make room for the real Jesse. Sometimes when people want something to be one way, they just pretend.”

  “Does he even know about us?” Even though I hadn’t known about Mission until an hour ago, this seemed rude to me.

  Dad rubbed his face with one hand. “I’m guessing he knows a few things. But, Bea, this isn’t about us. We’re fine. We’re more than fine. It isn’t even about Jesse. This is Mission’s problem, not ours.”

  “But does he know about the wedding or not?”

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  “Maybe he’s waiting for an invitation. Maybe he’d come.”

  “I don’t think he’s waiting for an invitation.”

  “Sometimes people change,” I said. “You tell me that all the time.”

  “You’re right, Bea. Some people do change. I’m just guessing.”

  He said good night and started to leave. With one hand on the doorknob, he said, “Bea. Family can turn their backs on you, just like anyone else. I’m sorry to say it.”

  When Dad left, I felt awful, and I had to think through everything before I figured out why.

  If Jesse’s brother could turn his back on him, maybe Sonia could, too.

  Maybe Sonia wouldn’t choose our family, either.

  My hand woke me up again that night. I closed one eye, went into the bathroom, and ran hot water over it until the itching stopped. The apartment was silent. I walked into the living room and looked at the couch—it was empty. Sheila must have gone home.

  Our invitations were piled up on the table, neat stacks of them, stamped and ready. The extra invitations were still in the square cardboard box. I took one, along with an envelope and a little RSVP card.

  There’s a drawer in the kitchen where Dad and Jesse keep phone numbers and business cards for people like the exterminator and the farmer Dad buys chickens from. Jesse leaves his address book in there, an old black spiral. I found Mission’s name under M and leaned on the kitchen counter to write his address on the envelope with the calligraphy pen. It didn’t come out like the ones Sheila did, but I figured he would have nothing to compare it to.

  I went back to the table. The stack of books for Sonia’s head was still there, but Jesse’s laptop was gone. I found the “love” stamps. Jesse had picked them especially for the wedding invitations. I stuck one on the envelope, thought about it, and put a second one on. Just in case.

  I mailed the invitation the next day, on my way to school.

  Miriam didn’t open the door on time for our appointment that week, which had never happened before. I sat in the waiting room with Mom, listening to the hum of the noisemaker and drawing a maze all over the back cover of my math folder with a ballpoint pen. After a while, the side of my hand was all blue from ink, which matched how mad I was getting at Miriam for forgetting about me.

  Finally, a woman came out, crying. She didn’t look at us. She took her coat from the coat rack and left without putting it on. A wave of freezing air came in as she closed the door.

  Miriam’s head popped out five seconds later. “Bea, I’m so sorry I kept you waiting.”

  “That woman was crying,” I told Miriam after we sat down.

  She crossed her legs. “Yes.”

  “So now she’s just walking down the street like that? Crying?”

  She waited a few seconds, and then said, “She’s upset. Sometimes she cries. That’s normal.”

  “I don’t think it’s normal. What happened to her? She’s not even wearing her coat.”

  “Let’s talk about you, Bea.”

  “I hope she stops, though,” I said. “It looks so bad when you cry.” I made a face, all scrunched, sticking my tongue out.

  She said, “It looks so bad?”

  I nodded.

  Miriam didn’t say anything right away. I hate it when she does that, because I know it means she wants me to think, and sometimes I’m just not in the mood.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I wanted to look at my face in the mirror, to see what I was feeling, because I wasn’t sure. But my face just looked like my face. For once, it wasn’t saying anything.

  When I came back, I said, “Sometimes I can tell my mom has been crying.” It had happened two times, once in fourth grade and once at the beginning of fifth. Both times, she had come out of the bathroom pretending she had just washed her face, but I could tell.

  Miriam waited.

  I said, “It’s like I’m not supposed to say anything. And I don’t even want to say anything. It’s like—” I stopped.

  Miriam waited.

  “It’s almost like I feel mad at her.”

  She nodded.

  “Which is really mean,” I said.

  She tilted her head. “Why?”

  “Because it’s mean to get angry at someone for crying.”

  Miriam said, “It isn’t mean, Bea.”

  I waited. Miriam taught me to wait if you want the other person to say more.

  She said, “It might be scary to think your mom has been crying.”

  “But then I would be scared. Not mad.”

  She waited.

  I waited.

  Then she said, “Remember how sometimes one feeling is behind another feeling?”

  I shrugged.

  She waited.

  “So angry is behind afraid?” I said.

  “Or maybe angry is in front of afraid. The angry kind of takes over.”

  I said, “It’s like when two vowels go walking. The first one does the talking.”

  Miriam smiled. “You lost me.”

  So I explained it to her. Her face got really bright when I was talking, like she was happy. Maybe it’s tiring to be the one explaining everything all the time.

  * * *

  —

  That night I spent my whole five minutes worrying about Sonia. She had her Skype account set to “Do Not Disturb” and she hadn’t answered my emails.

  Sheila said to give her space. But I worried that if we gave her space, Sonia might decide it was easier to just forget about us.

  Dear Sonia,

  The invitations are all finished now, but Jesse says we aren’t going to mai
l them until next week, so they are just sitting on the table. He says you’re supposed to mail them six weeks before the wedding. I don’t know why.

  Also, Lizette and her grandma came over and we got to try five different kinds of cake! (Guess how she does cake samples? She brings mini cupcakes! Isn’t that cool? And they all had different frosting.) We got to pick three kinds of cake, because a wedding cake has three layers. I never thought about that before. Each layer is actually a whole different cake.

  We picked 7 Up cake for the bottom layer (the biggest one), lemon cake for the middle, and chocolate cake for the top. And they are all going to have buttercream frosting. Don’t worry, it tastes really good.

  I wished you were there when we picked the cakes.

  You accidentally turned your Skype account off, I think. I tried to send you some messages, but your light is red. When you get this, maybe you can send me an email and tell me if you turned it on again?

  Your sister in seven weeks,

  Bea

  Something happened that April. I’m not sure it’s “officially” part of the story about Dad’s second wedding and the sound of corn growing, but I’m going to tell about it anyway, because everything is attached in my mind: Sonia, Angelica, Uncle Frank, the wedding, and this random bat that flew into Mom’s apartment one night. (Yes, there are bats in New York City. I had never known that before, either.)

  Mom shook me awake by the knees in the middle of the night. She had turned on every light in my room, and for some reason she was holding the cat.

  “Don’t panic,” Mom said, “but we’ve got a bat.”

  I felt like my brain was still under the covers. What?

  “Red was going nuts,” she said, patting him.

  The pieces were coming together. Slowly.

  A bat?

  “Where?” I sat up. I had never seen a bat up close. I jumped out of bed and went for the door, but she said, “Leave that door closed!”

  “Where is it?”

  Mom slid into my bed. “In the living room, last I saw. The super is coming up to get it out. He said I should open all the windows and come in here with you.” She smiled. “Everything will be fine.”

  The doorbell rang, and Mom went out, making sure the door clicked behind her. I heard voices—hers and our super’s—and then Mom came back.

  “How did it get in?” I said.

  “The window,” Mom said. “I heard something go bang—it must have been the lamp hitting the floor. I went out and saw Red leaping everywhere with this terrifying face on. I haven’t seen him move like that in years! At first, I thought he was after a bird. But then I saw it hang itself upside down, and I realized, oh, bat.”

  She began to look very interested in my face, scanning it. I could almost feel her eyes traveling over me, down my arms and neck, like when she was looking for eczema scratches.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “Nothing!” She was brushing my hair away from my face with her fingers, looking all along my ears, and even behind them.

  “Mom! What are you doing?”

  “I’m…looking for bat bites.”

  “Bat bites?”

  “You were asleep, Bea. We both were. And we don’t know how long that bat has been in the apartment.”

  I jerked away. “What are you saying? Did it bite us? Do bats do that? Angus told me they eat bugs!”

  She pulled me back for more inspection. “I think they do eat bugs, usually. I’m sure we’re fine.” Then she saw the back of my neck. “Bea! Your eczema is much worse. How long have you had these scratches?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve been itchy.”

  She shook her head and moved down my arms, to my hands. “You’re bleeding!” She held up my hand to show me a place between my fingers. “You haven’t been doing that hot-water thing, I hope. Why aren’t you using your medicine?”

  “Can I check you now?”

  “What?”

  “For bat bites.”

  “Oh—yes. I guess you should.”

  I lifted her hair and looked at the back of her neck, the way she had done to me. I checked her feet and ankles, and I pushed up her sleeves and stared at her arms. Everything looked normal.

  “What do bat bites look like, anyway?” I said.

  Mom was facing away from me, but I could see her face reflected in the dark window next to my bed. She closed her eyes.

  “You know what?” she said. “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  —

  When I woke up in the morning, Red was curled around my feet. I looked at my clock and realized I was already late for school.

  “Mom!”

  She came in with a funny look on her face. “It’s a no-work, no-school day!” she said. She plopped down on the bed and told me about how, after I’d fallen asleep, the super had finally managed to throw a towel on the bat, scoop up the bat and the towel together, and toss both out the window. The bat flew away. Mom said she wasn’t opening a window for a year. Then she told me that we had to get rabies shots.

  Rabies. Shots.

  “But why?” I said. “It didn’t bite us—we checked!”

  She said it was impossible to rule out the possibility that it did bite one of us, because we were asleep when it came in.

  “But I would know if a bat bit me!” I said. “I would have woken up!”

  “Probably. But it’s not worth the risk.”

  “Why? What happens if you get rabies?”

  “There’s no cure for rabies, Bea.”

  Oh.

  “What about Red?” I asked her.

  “Red gets a rabies shot every year. He’s safe.”

  “How many shots is it?” I asked.

  She didn’t know.

  “How big is the needle?” Dennis Mason had told me once that rabies shots are as long as a ruler and that they go straight into your stomach.

  She didn’t know. We were going to the doctor in an hour, and the doctor would tell us everything.

  “What if it’s ten shots?” I said.

  She just looked at me.

  “What if it’s twenty-three?”

  She laughed. “I’m pretty sure it’s not twenty-three shots, Bea. And on the brighter side, Dad made us muffins and dropped them off on his way to work.”

  We went to the kitchen to look at them. Dad had put them in a basket I recognized from his apartment. It was strange to see that basket on the table at Mom’s. And there was a note from Dad with a lot of exclamation points: “Chocolate chocolate-chip muffins!! I tripled the chocolate chips!!!”

  “Triple chips?” I said, staring. There was no place on any muffin that wasn’t covered by a chocolate chip. “For breakfast?”

  She pushed the basket toward me. Which made me think that Dennis Mason was probably right about the needle.

  Mom slammed a couple of glasses of milk on the table, and I managed to eat two muffins, which is how I learned I’m pretty good in an emergency. Better than I used to be, anyway.

  “These are so good,” Mom said.

  “I know.”

  She swallowed and sighed. “We should really get some window screens.”

  Dennis Mason was wrong about the bat shots. The needle is regular-size, and the shots just go in your arm like all the other ones. You don’t have to get twenty-three of them. You need five, which was still five more than I wanted.

  The doctor was named Dr. Thomas, and she said we only needed two shots the first day. We’d have to come back for the other ones. Mom got hers first. When it was my turn, I put on my rock face, which is what I do when I don’t want anyone to know what I’m thinking. It’s the face that always makes Mom ask, “What’s going on in there?”

  But this time she just took my hand and squeezed
it.

  Once, twice, three times:

  I. Love. You.

  I kept my rock face on but squeezed back two squeezes:

  How. Much.

  And waited.

  Right when the doctor put the first shot in, Mom squeezed back, long and tight.

  * * *

  —

  We walked home through the park, and Mom made me laugh by daring every squirrel we saw to bite her, now that she was almost rabies-proof.

  * * *

  —

  At Mom’s, I usually worry on my bed, cross-legged, with my back against the wall. That afternoon, I thought about Sonia, whose Skype light was still red. I thought about Jesse’s brother, Mission, and whether my invitation ever got to him. I thought about Angelica. It had been a long time, but Dad said she wasn’t better.

  Worrying takes a lot out of me. When I opened my eyes, I was hungry.

  In the kitchen, Mom was standing in front of the refrigerator, holding a big container of Dad’s pasta salad. Mom and I both love it. Dad must have left us a food package while we were getting our bat shots.

  “Hey,” I said. “Dad came. You didn’t say ‘Box!’ ”

  “Box,” she said. And she reached for the salad bowl.

  * * *

  —

  Late that night, full of pasta, all I could do was lie in bed and scratch. The places between my fingers and on the backs of my knees were itching like crazy. Finally, I decided to get my ointment from the bathroom cabinet. Mom had made me promise, again, not to use the hot-water trick.

  As soon as I opened my bedroom door, I heard Mom’s voice. She was on the phone.

  “Of course I’m sure, Daniel. Don’t be ridiculous. This has gone on too long already. No more food boxes.”

  —

  “I’m sure. We’ll be fine.”

  —

  “This conversation is over. You’re getting married, Dan—and I can certainly learn how to cook a chicken.”