She glanced at me for a nanosecond.
I held my breath.
I am the statue of a perfectly normal child.
Roll. Roll. Rolling my lucky sea glass.
My perfect pose was broken by a man in a frilly black pirate shirt who pushed into our row. His musky cologne made me want to barf my morning oats. Acid gurgled up into my throat as all my senses overloaded.
I did not want Dad to take me out already. I had to get through this so Mom could give Elvi the tiniest I-told-you-so look at the reception. I breathed through my mouth.
Stay strong, Charity.
Once Elvi arrived at the altar, the organ stopped. The whole church got quiet.
Pin-drop silent.
My stomach tightened.
Get me out of here.
Even after so many explosions over the years—in classrooms, movie theatres, grocery stores, restaurants—losing control here would be embarrassing beyond calculation. Elvi’s big day. A hundred people sitting silently. In a church!
I can do this.
My body rocked back and forth, back and forth, and that silly Pinocchio song played on repeat in my head.
Rock. Rock. Rock. Rock.
Fact: Wishing upon a star does NOT work. I have tried. And, far as I know, NO one has a magic talking cricket.
Rock. Rock. Rock. Rock.
Keep a lid on the kettle.
Lots of times, I can stay in control. It’s just so much harder when the pressure is high. My meltdown would ruin it for Mom and Dad too.
We would never be invited anywhere. Ever. Again!
My body rocked back and forth, back and forth.
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The lace on my collar bit into my neck. My hands shook. They begged to rip off this cupcake dress and run out the door in my underwear.
The pastor began with a prayer. His voice sounded like a lullaby. “Heavenly Father, we pray for your presence here as we gather to unite this man and woman in holy matrimony.”
I prayed too. Or tried to. My silver sandals tap-danced on the stone floor.
Tap, tap, tap.
Mason peered at me again.
Stop! Not you too!
My mind wandered back to the sandbox, our faces smudged with peanut butter and blackberry jam. I scooped sand into buckets while Mason planned the castle layout. “Fill it higher, Charity. Right to the top. Then I’ll put water in, and it’ll be cement for our tower.”
Cousin = friend. I thought that was the rule.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not anymore.
He looked back again. His eyes were hot laser beams. They shrank me to a puny guppy.
Stop staring!
I see all the pity-stares. I see them even when people think I am not looking.
Define pity: A poison offered to another person as if it were a gift of pure gold. People feel better about their own lives by looking down on mine. That’s my definition, not Webster’s.
“Are you okay, honey?” Mom asked.
Even she could not predict that I would not last five minutes. Pity poisons bubbled up inside me like steam rising in Gram’s copper teakettle. My mind tried to turn off the heat, but my hopeless body continued to percolate past its boiling point . . . KETTLE EXPLOSION, coming fast.
Probability: HIGH.
The pastor’s voice droned on and on. My thumping heart set off a tremor inside my chest. Stronger and stronger. A magnitude 8.6 earthquake.
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My hand squeezed the sea glass tight. My fists beat my shaking legs.
Stay still! Stay still!
I gulped hard.
You got this . . . you got this.
Dad’s voice called from a million miles away. “Let’s take a little walk, Cherry Girl.”
Countdown to KETTLE EXPLOSION . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
My hand yanked free from Dad’s and hit Aunt Kiki in the head. Her feathered hat flew off like a tiny frisbee. She shrieked. Dad scrambled to pick it up.
When he moved, my body bolted into the aisle, jumping and clapping. My brain told my body to stop, but somewhere the wires short-circuited. My body did not obey.
Jump, clap, jump, clap.
I screamed at myself inside my head.
Stop now! Sit down! You are ruining everything!
For everyone!
Forever!
My legs jumped higher.
What a relief to move. I could jump to the clouds.
Misfire! Misfire! Why can’t my neurons talk to my muscles?
Jump, clap, jump, clap.
Mason’s eyes popped out of his head.
You wanted something to look at? How is this for you?
Mom tried to grab my elbow.
Hard to catch a moving target.
Jump, clap, jump, clap.
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I begged my mouth to stay shut, but I could not breathe. I gripped my neck. Could not get air . . . into . . . my lungs. Then I breathed in sweet oxygen and exhaled . . . an ear-smacking scream.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
All eyes on me. Elvi’s white face somehow now red as a baboon’s butt.
I tumbled down the aisle. My pink underwear in full view.
Could this get any worse?
At last Dad scooped me off the floor and flew me out superhero style. My voice moaned like a humpback whale.OOOOWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAH!
Page 312: Whales communicate using a complex language that scientists cannot yet understand.
Mom ran out the door with us and turned to offer an “I’m sorry” nod to all the guests. I did not look at them, but I knew they were shaking their heads and whispering, “Those poor parents are saints.”
My name is Charity, and I am a charity case, someone that other people pity.
It’s right there in the name.
Bert and Ernie
My parents are as different as Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street.
Mom, she is Bert—a whopper worrier and as serious as long division. Her brown, flowing hair is always sensibly ponytailed, and by the end of her busy day, half-fallen in her face. Her green eyes focus like a four-eyed fish on her multiple tasks of helping me while still looking after Dad, our dog Hero, and the brick cottage we call home, exactly 0.3 miles from the bay.
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