100 Days and 99 Nights Read online

  “Yogullamatula,” I weakly yelled after him.

  “Doodee! Doodee!” he yelled down the stairwell in his annoying super-squeaky voice.

  “Ike Sense,” I tried to reassure myself, but couldn’t. Not liking his behavior one bit, I stomped upstairs to report the event to my mother. I pushed open her door. At the foot of her bed she was doing the jumpy dance she does while pulling on her panty hose.

  “Isaac Swishback McCarther did not finish his breakfast AND he stuck out his tongue at me with food on it! Uchhh.” As soon as I said it I wanted to slurp the words back but I couldn’t, so instead I kept going. “And then, and then, and then, he kept making fun of the word duty! It is not a funny word. Not even nearly as funny as llama. Not even close. He just doesn’t understand how important that word is!”

  Then, like an unknotted birthday balloon that had just finished whizzing the room, I plopped onto the corner of my dad’s side of the bed.

  Flowery print skirt crumpled around her hips like a life preserver, Mom finished yanking her stretchy panty hose into place, then rested her hands on my shoulders and rubbed them.

  “You have to remember he is still too young to really understand the meaning of some very important words. Wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded, too tired to answer with words.

  “BUT, missy,” she continued sternly, “don’t be a tattletale.”

  Ouch, I thought to myself. A tattletale. That’s what I sounded like? A tattletale. One single step above a fustilug. Wasn’t I in charge when my parents weren’t around? Why was it tattling when it was clearly Ike who was way wrong? Not fair!

  “Now, let’s get going. Shoes on, backpack packed. We’ll talk more about this later. We’re going to be late for school.”

  I did an about-face and fast-turned into my room. Stray animals, dirty clothes, books, and dolls dotted the pink carpeting. At that moment the whole mess seemed like it was absolutely my elephant, Edgar’s, fault. I kicked him and he tumbled trunk over tail into the darkness under my bed. Anyway, he was not a real live animal, I thought as I got dressed.

  Not being a tattletale was definitely a Dad rule, but if Dad were here he would definitely make Ike understand about duty.

  Jaguar

  My first nursery school teacher gave Julian my jet-black jaguar to me in Kenya. She said jaguars moved the most beautifully of all the animals.

  Unlike home, school was still mostly the same routine. My teacher, Ms. Pitcher, had us read and write, and when we got tired we would do arithmetic.

  For our class play we put on my favorite scary story, Little Red Riding Hood. I wanted to be her, but so did every other girl in the class. We all liked the bright red cape with the fancy hood. Being a good pretender, I knew I could do a fine job skipping through the forest on the way to Grandmother’s house.

  My second choice was the wolf, but that was every boy in the class’s first choice. They all wanted to wear the hairy coat and sneak through the forest trying to trick Red Riding Hood. Being a good pretender, I knew I could do a fine job at that too.

  Unfortunately, Ms. Pitcher picked Martina to be Little Red and mistakenly chose Pedro to be the big bad one.

  I was sometimes happy for Martina getting to be Red because she was my bestest friend being the bestest character. And Martina was as good at pretending as me . . . almost. But sometimes during practice, watching Martina say, “My, what big eyes you have, Grandma,” I got mad inside because . . . well . . . it was exactly what I wanted to be saying. Being mad at Martina made me sad because you shouldn’t be mad over your best friend’s good luck. So then I was mad-sad.

  Watching Pedro stamp and yell around the stage really steamed me because I would have been a much better wolfie.

  I would lick my lips as I tried to sweet-convince Martina to leave the brown paper path. “Just behind those trees is a meadow filled with beautiful flowers that your old granny would love. Red Riding Hood, you must go pick her a bunch.”

  Pedro forgot that first line and mumbled the second. Oh boy, did that really get me steamed.

  Dad missed the class play, but that was okay, my part wasn’t so big. I was the little yellow bush, sitting between two larger brown bushes, and when the pearly-toothed wolfie passed, hunting Red Riding Hood, my papery leaves quivered and shook. The audience laughed and that made me feel that I was a most excellent frightened yellow bush.

  I produced long lists of things that Dad missed. He missed soccer on Sunday. I dribbled the ball between two girls, gave a big kick, and scored. At Ike’s karate class on Monday, he learned how to high kick. Afterward, he tried to practice on his blocks and hurt his foot. I made the mistake of laughing, which seemed to make it hurt a ton more. At my ballet class on Tuesday, I am getting good at standing on my toes, and the teacher told me so. Dad missed movie night in the den on Friday, in our pj’s, cuddled up on the couch under a Grandma Swishback quilt, with bowls of buttered popcorn. We watched mostly silly movies, because Mom said she “needed a good laugh.”

  Dad missed it all but mostly I just missed him.

  “You will make a fine reporter someday,” Mom commented after reading one of my longish letters to Dad listing all our activities. I puffed out my chest — this was a big deal since she already was one.

  Kangaroo

  Being the keeper of my blankie, Katie my kangaroo used to have a lot of responsibility, but with her pouch now empty she was very sad. I felt bad for her, so one night I did the old kangaroo-switcheroo. I snuck a washcloth from the hallway closet, folded it up, and stuffed it in her pouch. She thought it was my scrap of Swishback blankie and became much happier. Kangaroos are not the smartest animals in the world.

  My favorite day was no longer Saturday. Trying to be in charge, I told everyone what to do and when to do it, but being the boss isn’t as much fun as it sounds. Especially when you are taking the place of someone who was much better at being the boss than you.

  There were few pancake rules followed. Aprons weren’t properly tied, measurements were a mishmash, and there were no discussions about the spelling of flour or the funny sound of words like llama, yogurt, and spatula. Also there was much “borrowing and lending” of jobs. Ike grabbed the spoon and attempted to drop the batter down. Instead of simple circles perfectly placed he ended up with a mountain of mush that gushed over the sides of the griddle. Need I say that this was yet another amazing example of Ike Sense? And I told him so. He needed to know that unlike the eggs, Dad’s rules should not be broken.

  Ike stuck his pancake-battered tongue out at me. I wanted to crack him one with my wooden spoon but that wouldn’t have gone over well with Mom. It was a Dad rule: The first one who lifted their hand in anger was wrong and would certainly be punished. I could just hear his warning, Use your words, not your fists. I swallowed hard, thinking it was a big responsibility being in charge. I had promised him I would be “can-do”; that was my duty.

  Mom helped us make pancakes as best she could, but no matter how hard she tried to beat, melt, or flip, the cakes were never too tasty. I guess Swishbacks really don’t make perfect pancakes.

  Saturday after Saturday they failed to “meet muster,” as Dad would say. Once they were burned on the outside, once mushy on the inside, twice they were too salty, and another morning too floury (NOT flowery!), then too much baking soda — yech! I felt bad for Mom. This was absolutely not her job, but she kept trying. Then a Saturday came when we waited in the kitchen not so excited about another pancake disaster. Mom entered looking like she was still asleep.

  “Grandpa McCarther is coming over to take us out to breakfast at Pancake Palace,” she said in a sort of asking way.

  “Yesssss,” essed Ike, who liked the Pancake Palace ’cause he could order pancakes full of chocolate chips.

  “Let’s get dressed.”

  Ike raced to his room. I was not as happy. This would never happen if Dad were here. The Pancake Palace was the enemy.

  “Go to the Pancake Palace? Sure, i
f you like hamburger instead of steak, frozen fish sticks instead of fresh fish, tinfoil instead of pure gold!” Dad would instruct the traitor who made that particular suggestion. I had to figure a way to get him back home — fast.

  Pancake Palace — I slowly got dressed. The thought of paying double for pancakes that were not even half as good as ours made me want to puke. This was my fault. Dad left me in charge of the routine and the rules and I had . . .

  The knock on my door interrupted my thought. Mom slanted her head into my room.

  “Hurry, Grandpa will be here any minute.”

  Grandpa was fun. It would be a little like having a daddy around — but older.

  “Esme — I know making the pancakes is your responsibility, and you have been doing a great job. But I need a little break. You know, get out of the house. No dishes to wash kind of thing. You would really be helping me out. Understand?”

  I did.

  “Maybe we’ll convince Grandpa to take us all to a movie after.”

  Her head disappeared exactly as the chime of the front doorbell appeared. I quickly finished dressing and marched down the stairs to Grandpa’s hugs and kisses.

  “What are we up to on the old bedzoo?”

  “Second time through to Katie my kangaroo,” I smiled.

  “Still no X?” Grandpa teased, taking my hand and leading us all out to his car.

  “No X.”

  “Hmmm. Too bad. We’ll think of something.”

  I didn’t comment on the poor quality of pancakes at the Palace or say a word about our duty to Dad to make pancakes while he was away. I didn’t even comment on the flood of syrup Ike poured onto his plate. I was very proud of myself.

  “How are your pancakes, dear?”

  “Top-dog, Mom,” I said, then gulped another cardboardy piece.

  I had a duty to make things just a little easier for my mom.

  Every day, all the time, she was doing work and chores: writing or making calls for a new Drum & Bugle article, cleaning, shopping, cooking, laundrying, walking Napoleon, paying the bills, and double-dealing with Ike, who had more problems and was getting into more trouble “than you could shake a stick at.”

  One Sunday she even tried to mow the lawn. Ike and I sat on the front stoop watching her pull the rope to the engine over and over. The machine would make sad little whirls and whirrs but then sit silent.

  “Dad does it in one pull,” Ike challenged.

  “Sometimes two,” I helpfully called out across the lawn, then suggested, “Maybe it’s broken.”

  Ike and I burst out laughing, knowing it was not.

  “It’s not funny!” she yelled, and stormed into the house. Later a corporal from the base came and started it with one pull. Ike and I happily sat outside while he back-and-forth-marched the lawn in his fatigues.

  Mom was right. It wasn’t funny. I could help more. I would help more. I promised to help more. I’d empty the dishwasher, bring my own dirty clothes downstairs, put out my school clothes at night, and not get into any silly arguments with Ike.

  Every once in a great while Dad did call us from the great faraway. He couldn’t tell us exactly where he was or exactly what he was doing because it was a secret. I imagined him standing in the center of a giant desert. Not another person near, only sand as far as anyone could possibly see, camel looking over his shoulder, phone pressed to his ear. He asked me what I was doing and I said I couldn’t exactly tell him because it was a secret too. I wondered if he closed his eyes and imagined me standing in our kitchen, Ike and Mom looking over my shoulder, phone pressed to my ear.

  Each call ended with, “Esme, Ike, I love you and soon I’ll be home to tell you exactly so.”

  The nights were difficult because he was not here to tuck me in and I didn’t have my blankie to cuddle against my cheek. The days were difficult because that was when you were told bad news. When Principal Pershing poked her partly gray, all-the-way curly head into class we all held our breaths — one girl sent home — one boy sent home. We were all so very brave. It was our duty.

  Lamb, Lion

  One really windy, cold day, Grandpa took us out to the playground. He said, “Don’t worry, March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.”

  Ike and I thought this was hilarious and laughed so hard we nearly burst, because everyone knows that if a lion is even near a lamb it eats it. The next week Grandpa brought me a cuddly lion and curly lamb. So far, I have to say, lying on my bed together, Larry my lion has been extremely polite to Lucy my lamb.

  In history class, Ms. Pitcher taught us that a long time ago, in World War II, fought during my great-grandfather’s years, the children at home did many things to help the soldiers who were away. She said that this helping was called the “home front” because they did it right here at home in the good ol’ U.S. of A. and that it was a very important part of winning the war.

  My hand shot up but before Ms. Pitcher could call on me I burst, “What can we do to help on this ‘home front’?”

  “Please wait to be called on, Esme.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but . . .”

  “Does anyone have any ideas about what we can do to help?”

  I swiveled my head to my classmates. Some were deep-thinking, others confused. Richie and Georgina sat in the back, with bored to pieces expressions, passing notes and not paying much attention, which is what they did best.

  Pedro, who had taken my second-choice part in the play, piped in, “At my house before we go to sleep we pray for all the soldiers’ safe return.”

  “Good, Pedro. That is something. What else? Something more . . .”

  The lunch bell rang a sudden end to the discussion. Richie and Georgina, no longer bored to pieces, brown lunch bags clasped in hands, led the class’s hungry charge from the room.

  Sitting on the seesaw at recess up and downing across from Martina, it began bothering me. We weren’t doing anything to help on our home front except worrying, and I wasn’t sure that really helped at all.

  “What do you think about the home front?” I questioned up the slanted wood.

  “I liked it better when we were learning about the Minutemen. In a minute they would rush out of their houses and hide in the woods to get them lobsterbacks . . . lobsterbacks!” Martina giggled, straightened her legs, and launched me back down.

  My imagination drifted off to lines of live lobsters marching through the dirt streets, claws gripping muskets, antennae sticking out of pointy red hats. Then I thought of the children during the World War helping the soldiers on the home front. We weren’t doing anything. . . .

  “Let me down, Esme,” Martina moaned from the upside of the seesaw, but I was thinking so hard I didn’t hear a word and didn’t budge.

  “Let me down! Esme!” Martina cried. But my mind was in another country.

  “Esmerelda Swishback McCarther!” commanded Principal Pershing from near the swings. “You let her down this minute!”

  And being a good soldier, I did. Martina hit hard. There was crying. We ended up in the school office, sitting on the pen-scarred wooden bench under the kindergarten’s rows of blue construction paper pictures. “It was an accident, I swear. I would never do anything to hurt you. I am sorry,” I apologized. Which was totally true, so although Martina’s bottom was still sore, she nodded that she believed me, and although Principal Pershing was still totally sore, she nodded and believed me too.

  “Back to class, you two.”

  “But . . .”

  Before our principal could turn and retreat into her office I explained what we had learned in class and asked, “What can we do to help on our home front?”

  I flashed a hopeful look at Martina. Someone in such a principal position would have an easy solution to this hard home front problem.

  “All do what they can,” she commented, “and there’s not much we can do.”

  My stomach felt like the trapeze artist who just missed grabbing her partner’s hands. It flipped and flopp
ed, tumbling down toward my feet.

  Martina stopped sobbing, screwed up her face, and stated, “My mom says in the marines there is always something we can do.”

  I felt that Martina would one day make a top-dog marine.

  Monkey, Muskrat

  Martina gave me my monkey. One rainy playdate she pulled it from her backpack and placed it onto my bedzoo, sliding it between Mandrake my scruffy-whiskered muskrat and Lucy my snowy-haired lamb.

  “I don’t have any animals with X to give you but I was wondering if you had room for another M?”

  “Sure I do. Thanks.”

  “My great-aunt Joan gave it to me.”

  I calm-waited for the rest of the story, since no one gave away a perfectly good monkey, even to a best friend.

  “I named it after her husband, who she doesn’t like so much anymore. And if she doesn’t like him anymore, neither do I.”

  “Oh.”

  “It reminds me of him. If you could not change his first name it would probably make him feel better. The thing is, it doesn’t start with an M. It’s Karl, with a K.”

  She was worried that since the monkey’s first name did not start with the same letter as his last name (monkey), like my other animals, it might get teased.

  “The others will treat him like their best friend no matter what his name is. And look . . .”

  I picked Karl up from between Mandrake and Lucy and moved him exactly one spot over to the right.

  “See, now he sits next to my nightingale — Florence.”

  This showed Martina that there would be no teasing on my bed and that her monkey would be in good company.

  So that is how I adopted Karl the monkey.

  My hand was already up as Ms. Pitcher turned from the blackboard where she had just pink-chalk-written 4 x 4 = ______.