Running through Sprinklers Read online

  And she is, says Mrs. Ando, who opens the door. I’m hoping this will interest her enough.

  The three of us sit on the bottom bunk looking at the photos. Nadine takes the albums and flips through them carefully.

  “Look how pretty she is,” Nadine says. “Her outfits are so cool. I think those pants might be in style again?”

  I can’t believe how interested Nadine is. She LOVES these pictures.

  “Want to have one to keep?” I say.

  “Umm . . . no . . . that’s a little . . . They are your mom’s. . . .”

  “It’s no problem,” I say.

  Jen says, “So what’s the deal with these photos?”

  “So . . . my mom told me today she was married before. Can you believe it? I couldn’t find any photos with him in it. Do you see him?”

  “But he is here,” says Jen, who wants to be an investigative reporter. “Just because he isn’t in the picture doesn’t mean he’s not there.” She points to one that shows a finger that accidentally slipped across the lens. “He took all these. He was obsessed with your mom. These pictures say that about him. No normal person takes this many pictures of one woman.”

  Nadine nods. “They are great photos, though.”

  Then I suddenly remember: In the hallway there’s an oil painting on the wall. Of a woman with orange hair. Very abstract. I never noticed it before.

  “Who is this supposed to be?” I asked my mom.

  Mom: “Me.”

  “Who painted it?”

  “A painter in Korea who was in love with me. He asked me to marry him.”

  “Really? He proposed?”

  “Lots of men did,” she says. “You know how pretty I was back then.”

  “How many proposed?”

  “Three. No, four.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, they were just men. Men who wanted to marry, that’s all.”

  And as I tell this story about my mom and the painting and all the men, Nadine looks down and smiles—even laughs. With her eyes partly closed like that, her eyelashes look like little black fans. I haven’t seen Nadine this interested in anything I’ve had to say in months. Maybe the telling of this story is closing the distance between us. Maybe it reminds her of me and my family and how great we all are together. I hope so.

  31

  MOM’S OLDEST SISTER, Eemo, is visiting from Korea. She says to me in Korean, “You can start wearing a bit of makeup now. You’re old enough.”

  Every morning, whenever she’s here, she and Mom sit on the living room floor with their big metal makeup kits that look like tool kits and examine themselves in their hand mirrors then lightly paint their faces with soft brushes.

  One day, Eemo hands me a lipstick. I open it; it’s brand-new. It’s a shade slightly darker and pinker than my actual lip color. She also gives me a little red compact mirror in the shape of a heart. I put it in my backpack.

  The next morning, Mom comes in my room to wake me up. She hands me a pair of short jean shorts from her closet. “They used to be mine,” she says. “I think they would look good on you.”

  I try them on in the bathroom and stand on the bathtub ledge to get a full view in the mirror: They are so short you can almost see my butt cheeks hanging out.

  I wear all my new things to school and feel eyes on the top of my thighs.

  Even after school, when I’m standing on the side of the road by the school, other kids’ moms whisper to each other and look at me from the parking lot. A man with a beard in a blue truck slows down as he drives by. He stops for a second. Then Mom pulls up and I slip in the car and she says, “Very nice! But those are summer shorts! At least wear tights. It’s November, crazy girl!” The truck drives off.

  That night, I can’t sleep again. Why did I do that? How did nobody stop me? Mom didn’t notice or care because she was busy with Eemo.

  I bet Nadine would have stopped me, because that’s what friends do. You need your friends to keep you from wearing embarrassing clothes. I’m so embarrassed that my stomach hurts thinking about it all. I stare up at my glow-in-the-dark stars and close my eyes and the stars are still glowing and dancing in the darkness behind my eyelids and then I open them again.

  I wonder if Nadine is in bed too, thinking about me, or of something else, like a math problem or another friend, like Rachel. She must be. She must have someone else to talk to at school. Someone else to do everything with, there.

  I can’t think about this right now. I can’t.

  Sleep. Please. Just sleep.

  32

  YOU KNOW IT’S almost December when your mom packs mandarin oranges in your lunch.

  I pull one out and get a whiff. They don’t really smell of oranges, but of something else. In the garage, in the Korean fridge, Mom keeps jars of kimchi and hot sauce and baby fish. Sometimes, if there isn’t any room in the other fridge, mandarin oranges, too.

  I’m standing at the window in class, looking out onto the soccer field and the mountains behind. Snow falls from the sky, like the outside world is a snow globe and someone just shook it, shook us.

  “Yay, snowball fights at lunch,” says Jen, who is suddenly standing next to me, looking out. “I need to face-wash Josh, to get him back for last year.”

  She gets serious and says, “Sara, are you okay?”

  “What? Why?”

  “You seem . . . sad.”

  I want to tell her everything. About how this has been the worst few months of my life. I look at her and, for the first time, really look at her. And I realize how big and warm her brown eyes are.

  “Yah, I’m not doing so well,” I say.

  “It might be this time of year. Everything gets so quiet,” she says. “Also, they haven’t found Daniel yet. It’ll be harder to search for him with the snow.”

  I can see our classmates behind us, in the reflection of the window, talking and throwing paper planes because Monsieur Tanguay stepped out to go to the washroom or call his girlfriend or something. And I think, all these kids have no idea what it’s like to lose anything.

  Monsieur Tanguay comes back with our report cards.

  In the hallway, I show my report card to Ms. Lee, holding my thumb on the math mark, which is a B–.

  “Congratulations,” she says, and pats me lightly on the back.

  “All As,” I say.

  “Great, keep it up.”

  “I’d like to discuss possibly skipping a grade.”

  “I didn’t realize that was an option for you. Let me talk to Mr. Tanguay.”

  “I need to know soon.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  It won’t be long now until they realize I can skip a grade too, and be closer to my true self.

  33

  DAD IS DRIVING down Fraser Highway, and on both sides of us is the snow-covered forest. It looks like something out of a fairy tale. There is snow on every single little branch, soft like white fur. When you zoom out and look at it all, as a big picture, it’s mainly white everywhere, except for thin black lines, the bits of branches that have decided to reveal themselves ever so slightly. In the distance I see the shape of Mount Baker, but it’s white as well. We drive toward it a bit as we head to the mall.

  It’s not like I believe in Santa or anything, but I’m here to see him. They do a big thing at the mall every year and put up a massive fake Christmas tree decked out in multicolored bulbs and flashing lights, trying to coax people into the Christmas spirit, and it actually kind of works, at least for me.

  The best part about Christmas at the mall is that the customer service desk wraps presents for a small donation and they do a pretty good job. Not that I can get many presents with my allowance, but I’ll get something for my parents and for James. Anyway, they’ll even put ribbon and a bow on the gifts if you want, which is great, especially if you suck at wrapping, like me.

  I’m waiting in line with all the little kids and their parents. I wait for a good forty minutes and
when it’s finally my turn, I march over to Santa and sit on his lap because this needs to be done correctly for it to work.

  I whisper in his ear that I want my best friend back, that I want to skip a grade, and that it would be nice if Daniel Monroe was found alive. Santa just stares ahead as the elf girl assistant says, “Smile for the camera.” Flash.

  Dad is somewhere in the bookstore, where I left him about an hour ago. I told him I needed to get a present for him and that’s why I had to be alone. I did get him a mug, by the way, and had it wrapped while I was in line to see Santa, so it’s not like I lied that much. Dad was pretty nervous about me walking around the mall alone, but I promised him I wouldn’t talk to any strangers.

  I look down the various aisles and I can’t see him. Then I actually walk down them all, but I still can’t find him. I start to panic for a second. Maybe something happened to him. Maybe HE talked to a stranger and is now gone. But then I see the elbow of his brown suede jacket sticking out and he’s there, in the corner, sitting on a stepping stool reading a book about a former prime minister, the one he really likes, who always pinned a red rose to his suit.

  Dad looks up. “Thank goodness,” he says. “You’re back.”

  When we get home, I run upstairs with the photo of the stunned Santa and me on his lap with a blank expression. I put it under my dresser, next to my pink razor blade, as proof that I tried absolutely everything.

  34

  MOST DAYS DURING the winter break, because the Andos are in Victoria on Vancouver Island and I have nothing to do, I just lie around on the couch under the TV blanket and watch cartoons or old Christmas movies with my brother.

  Sometimes . . . I forget about James. I mean, not forget forget, but I just, like . . . don’t think about him much or . . . ever. I mean, I don’t really play with him except when Mom makes us practice our piano duet. And when it just happens.

  We used to play a lot more.

  I am two years old.

  Dad and I go to the hospital and I see Mom. She is lying on the high metal bed holding a blanket and asks me if I want to meet my new little brother, James. Dad picks me up.

  He is red and ugly. His face looks like a little bulldog.

  Ewwwww!!

  He’s bigger now and looks kind of cute. I drag the yellow laundry basket into the kitchen. I pull James into it with me. And we sit there in the laundry basket for a while, peaceful. It’s like our little home.

  We make a fort out of sofa cushions, chairs, and bedsheets. We go inside with a flashlight. Another little home.

  We are small.

  We are in the backyard.

  We are in our tae kwon do outfits.

  We stand in front of each other and bow.

  And then we start fighting and we’re doing our karate moves and kicks and he punches me in the stomach and he turns and I punch him in the bum and then he comes around and kicks me in the leg and then I start moving my arms like a windmill and go toward him and he starts to run away and then he stops and turns around, starts to do the windmill thing toward me because he’s such a copycat and then I run away and then I stop and turn toward him and I do it, I kick him in the privates, and then he falls to the ground and I win, I am the champion!

  Later, in my room, I think, I’m the worst sister in the world. But then I get over it. And do it again the next day.

  The duck pond down by King George Highway has frozen over and James and I are skating alone together. Usually we come with the Andos, but they are still away. There are tons of other kids around, but we don’t know them. The pond freezes to black, not white like the ice rinks. It’s a little scary, actually, and for a second when I look down, I think I see a person’s face staring up at me through the ice, but I’m just being crazy for a second.

  I will say that it is a little iffy for a bunch of people to be skating on a pond. I mean, what if it’s thawing? We’d fall through. But people seem convinced it’s fine since there are a lot of people skating, though if you think about it, that’s when you should avoid the pond because the more people who skate on it, the more likely it’ll crack. Anyway, I try to stop thinking about all this.

  James and I hold each other’s elbows and one of us skates backward as the other skates forward. Then we switch. I’m not sure why we are doing this. Part of it is to practice skating backward, I think, but the other part of it is to see if we can trust the other not to ram us into something. It sounds like a dumb thing to do, but it’s pretty fun.

  It’s Christmas Eve and James and I lie under the Christmas tree, looking up. This is our favorite place. You can’t see all the lights twinkling, but you can see the blue and red and yellow glowing in different spots, illuminating certain pine needles, like mini spotlights for those needles. We always put a couple of ornaments under here, near the bottom, just for us to see, like the paper angel and the random red-felt flying boot my aunt made. We want to sleep here, but Mom says it’s dangerous and for us to go to our actual beds.

  Later, in bed, I can’t fall asleep. I go to James’s room and say, “I’m so excited, are you?”

  He says, “I’m super excited too. Want to sleep in my room with me?”

  “Okay,” I say. “But don’t pee the bed.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  I really hope he doesn’t. But I sleep with my arm around him regardless. He’s my brother.

  35

  IT’S CHRISTMAS DAY and we open our presents by the tree and I get a sweater and skirt from “Santa,” though, coincidentally, the red ink from the card that says “From Santa” matches the red pen sitting on the kitchen counter. Jeez, Mom and Dad, real smooth.

  But James is clueless. He actually still believes. Remember, we’re talking about a kid who still pees the bed at the age of ten.

  Something slips through the mail slot with a big crash. Which is strange because there is no mail delivery on Christmas Day. On the tile floor is a small rectangular brown box with no Christmas wrapping paper. Written on the side, in black ink: To Sara. Merry Christmas.

  I rip open the box. It’s my favorite perfume! Wait! What?

  I look outside through the window, but no one is there.

  I lock myself in the bathroom with the perfume. I set it gently on the ledge of the tub and run the bath. As I sink into the hot water, I stare at the bottle through the steam, its shape blurry.

  Was it Nadine who gave it to me? But she’s away. Maybe she got the mail carrier to do it? But it’s Christmas; he isn’t working. But she is the only one who knows it is my favorite perfume. I mean, James knows too, but he obviously didn’t give it to me because he was sitting next to me opening presents when it came through the slot. Plus, it’s in Nadine’s nature to give it to me. Like that ice cream cone or that hamster playground. I guess that was technically for Cookie, but still. I can’t think of anyone else who would do such a thing.

  But then I get scared. Do I have a stalker? Is this someone who is trying to take me, to kidnap me? Stop being ridiculous, I think. It was totally Nadine. She got it to you, somehow. She hasn’t forgotten about the things you like. I calm down and smile. What a sweet surprise. She’s the best.

  Later, after I step out of my bath and towel myself dry, I squirt the perfume on my wrists, rub them together, then against my neck. I feel so grown and confident and ready for whatever will come next.

  36

  THE ANDOS ARE home from Vancouver Island, just in time for the annual New Year’s Eve party at our place, the best night of the year.

  When the doorbell rings, I worry for a slight second that Nadine won’t be there. Maybe she’s at some cool high school party. But when I open the door and see Mr. and Mrs. Ando, Jen, Megan, and Nadine, I am relieved that at least one thing is for sure and will remain the same between our families: our New Year’s Eve.

  It’s about nine o’clock and we perform our annual skit for our parents in our living room. We usually take about half an hour to rehearse right before we perform, and it’s always a
variation of the same story: A dance teacher is getting the dancers ready for a big competition and the underdog, James, dressed up as a girl, wins. Actually, James doesn’t mind dressing up, but I think it may be because he gets to finally win at something in his life, even though he has to pretend to be a ballerina, and a girl, to do so. I was going to direct this year, but Nadine came up with the variation on the story and of course she’s always the lead actor and dancer, obviously, because she is so good. I can tell she’s really into it. It’s our best play yet. And for most of the night, it feels like the good old times.

  Except for certain things. Nadine and I don’t sit next to each other at the kids’ dinner table in the family room. I wind up between James and Jen. We also don’t run up to my room to get away from everyone and play on our own for a bit. I’m kind of looking for a moment to tell her that I might be skipping a grade as well. Or at least that the vice principal is considering it.

  But we all just sit downstairs most of the time, on the couch, watching the pre-show before the dropping of the ball in Times Square in New York City.

  Nadine casually says, “I wasn’t even going to come tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I was supposed to babysit Mom’s friend’s baby while she and her husband went out. But they canceled because the baby is sick and so they decided to stay home. I’m pretty sad. It would have been my first babysitting job.”