When it’s time to go, the campers look sweaty and exhausted, but their faces are bright. I bet Miss Robyn will have a room full of happy nappers by five o’clock.
Seeing how much they like skateboarding gives me an idea—an off-the-wall idea. What if they got to be in the skate-off? Like in a special division or something. As part of their own Mighty Munchkin Skate Team. How cool would that be!
“Hey, Miss Robyn,” I yell, as we’re leaving. “Did you see that sign on the gate about the Lawrence County Skate-Off?”
***
Mirror, Mirror
The whole way home I’m pretty happy with myself. Miss Robyn liked the idea of getting the campers involved in a community event. She’s planning to make some calls to see if the kids can be included. “It’ll heighten awareness of the abilities of Down syndrome children,” she told me.
When I open our front door, the first thing I see is Mom and Dad. Dad’s John Lennon–inspired bifocals have slid to the tip of his nose. He’s fallen asleep on the recliner, and I’m guessing he never got through the magazine that’s on his lap—the one with the huge trout on its cover. Mom gives him a peck on the cheek and cozies up with her crafts on the couch. Her face is bright and alive, but her hair is bluish gray. For a second, I see a portrait of my parents that catches me off guard. They are old! I didn’t come into their lives until they were in their fifties. And I showed up because my mother, B. Rose Aurora, couldn’t care for me. Is B. Rose crazy? Maybe she’s been in a loony bin for the last twelve years. Maybe she’s a spy. Maybe it’s simpler than any of the above reasons. Maybe she didn’t want to be my mom. Or, maybe she’s dead.
I still worry a bit about who’s checking up on me. That person doesn’t need to. I’m fine. George and Ellie Baransky have been great parents. I have lived in a happily-ever-after household. I want to let the birthright thing go, but it’s hard.
“Something bugging you, Bern?” Dad asks, stretching.
“Can you tell me exactly what’s in that letter—my birthright letter? Please? Where is that letter?”
“Oh, we shoved it away somewhere,” Mom answers. “Bernie, don’t have a cow about—”
“Things you can’t change,” Dad says, finishing her sentence, as usual. “The person who wrote that letter wanted us to tell you things. We did. And they wanted reassurance that you were doing well. You are. Everything’s cool-o-roonie.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, sweetie,” Mom says. “Leave it be.”
I don’t push, which Mom and Dad appreciate. I feel like the situation is hopeless and not hopeless. I’m curious, but not that curious. I have a lot of other things to think about, and I’m grateful for that.
In my room, I turn my attention to the skate-off. I’ve got to get to the park more often to master the rock and roll. I’ll have it down soon if I can get some practice in. On paper, I write down some tricks I want the campers to learn, if they can compete. Then I give Roxanne a call to fill her in.
“And I’m also sorry for having zero patience when you were trying to skateboard,” I say. “Odelia pointed that out to me.”
“I forgive you,” Roxanne says. “Odelia’s super nice. But even she can’t teach me to skate. I am not a skater. I won’t be any help getting the kids in shape for the skate-off.”
“Why don’t you fix their hair before the competition?”
Roxanne’s not answering.
“Roxanne?”
“Don’t they have to wear helmets?” she asks. I can feel her brain cells zapping a mile a minute through the phone.
“Yeah, but . . .”
“I could give the girls matching ponytails. Ooh, and add glitter to the ends or . . . let’s see, what about wash-out dye? What to do for the boys? I’ll come up with something. Maybe face paint? Or temporary tattoos. And make-up. Everyone in a show needs make-up. Even you, Bernie!”
“No, I don’t,” I say. “So, you’ll work your magic on the kids?”
Roxanne giggles. “Roxy, Super Stylist to Your Stars, at your service.”
The next day at noon, I meet Odelia in the street and together we skate to Smile Academy. It’s not our day to be there, but we’re both looking forward to an afternoon skate session with the kids. Odelia’s thrilled that she and the campers may get to be a part of the skate-off. When we roll around to the parking lot, Miss Robyn calls us over for a quick meeting.
“I phoned the president of the council last night,” she says, “to make a plea to allow the campers to perform at the skate-off. I didn’t want to waste any time. He said he’ll have to clear it with the judges and the committee, but he doesn’t see a problem. He thinks it’s an excellent addition to the program.”
Odelia and I both shout, “Yay!”
“It’s up to you,” Miss Robyn says. “You have two short weeks to turn our campers into skateboarders.” Miss Robyn winks. “Our goal is to have them shine in their own right, nothing more. The council assured me that each camper will get a big blue ribbon for their participation.”
This makes me feel better. I’d hate it if they didn’t win something.
When the kids file out, we stay in the parking lot to review how to stop and go and how to skate safely without running into each other. It’s like starting from scratch. No one seems to remember anything! Elizabeth, who yesterday finally got up the nerve to stand on her board herself, has forgotten how. Robbie and Angelo are being stubborn. They’ve decided to play Follow-the-Leader. Timothy wants to see how many jumping jacks he can complete in a minute. And Claire and her friends are stretched out on the ground, guessing which clouds look like farm animals.
I’ve had it. “Hey, don’t
