Dear Robespierre,
Goodbye, my goaty friend. I was fired from taking care of you because I was trying to take care of you.
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I wonder if goats understand irony.
Please blow kisses to Laverne, Shirley, Kaczynski, Lizzie Borden and all the rest. I will miss you a lot and will come back to visit if they'll let me on the premises. Your affectionate pal, Ruby Oliver
I had a panic attack late that night. After I got out of Anya's office, after I snuck back to Family Farm to write my goodbye note to Robespierre, after I called my dad and asked him to pick me up early, after I made it through a dinner of sprouted-chickpea bread and something Mom called Sea-Veggie Pizza; after I had suffered through my mother saying Anya was an "unsympathetic troll" and my father saying he was sure that if I had another chance I'd "make different choices about how to handle a stressful situation"; after my father criticized my mother for the Anya-troll comment and after my mother yelled, "I'll call anyone a troll who acts like a troll! I say it like it is, Kevin! That's what I'm all about in this world. Saying it like it is, troll or no troll! You used to be able to handle it! You used to love that about me!"
After my mother burst into tears and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door shut, and after my father, without a word, dragged the box of sugary breakfast cereal from its hiding place underneath the kitchen sink and began to eat it, without milk; after Dad had washed the dishes and I had wiped the table, after he'd gone into the bedroom to make it up to my mother, after all that, when
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I went to my room and was thinking, ironically, that I was handling the whole debacle with a reasonable degree of calm-after that, I had the panic attack. I had lost my job.
Anya used to like me and now she thought I sucked. I would miss Robespierre and Laverne and Shirley and the rest.
I would miss the smells of the zoo and the sound of the penguins as they dove into the water.
I would miss being good at something, good at relating to animals and speaking in public for the penguin feedings.
I had no money.
I had to earn money or I couldn't pay for gas.
If I couldn't pay for gas I couldn't use the car.
Also, I was living in the middle of my parents' marriage. No one ever says this about families, and maybe people who aren't only children don't even notice it, but half the time I feel like I'm this extra person watching them have a marriage. They fight, they kiss, they discuss the inlaws, they do projects, they take down the Christmas tree and reminisce about things I don't remember, they fight some more-and it's all this personal stuff that I really have no business witnessing, except I have nowhere else to go because I live here. I'm just trying to eat my dinner and instead I'm in the middle of this grown-up relationship that is complicated and disgustingly mushy and sometimes angry.
I know they're not getting divorced or anything, but when your parents argue it makes the whole universe seem like it's tipping, like everything could change if they
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got mad enough at each other, like the world isn't a safe place.
And of course, that's true, isn't it? The world is not a safe place.
All this I was worrying about on top of the job problem and the boy problems, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. There was no air in my room and my heart was so loud I felt sure my mom was going to pop in and say, "Roo, your father and I are having a serious conversation, could you please keep your heart down?"
No air.
I remembered this trick Doctor Z taught me, where you get a tennis ball and you toss it back and forth from one hand to the other, keeping your eyes on it. The concentration balances the two spazzing-out sides of your brain. Gasping, I left my room and went into my dad's greenhouse. I knew there were a couple of those hand-strengthening squeezy balls in there, because my dad uses them to de-stress.
The greenhouse smelled of dirt and flowers. I don't know what kind. There were some blooms and they weren't roses, that's all I know. I found one of the hand-strengtheners and sat on a plastic crate, tossing it back and forth. Back and forth. Just watching the ball and nothing else, until--after a bit--my breathing became normal and I looked up.
The southern deck of our houseboat looks out on the Hassinblads' northern deck, and I could see George Hassinblad through his window, cooking something in a
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pot on his stove and drinking root beer out of a bottle. The greenhouse felt calm and I could see the stars and there was stuff growing.
My heartbeat slowed. George Hassinblad's sporty little wife came in from a nighttime run and the two of them sat down to eat the soup he'd made. They laughed. George spilled soup on his lap and wiped it off with a dish towel.
My dad's old CD player is filthy with potting soil. On top of it sits a collection of CDs devoted entirely to nostalgic heavy metal. It's Hutch's fault. Ever since he became my dad's garden assistant, he's encouraged Kevin Oliver's musical tastes in directions that other people can only call unpleasant. He and Dad rock out whenever they're working in the greenhouse. I walked over and hit Play without looking at what was in the box.
Na na na NA na na na NA na.
Steven Tyler's demented squeal blasted through the greenhouse.
Na na na NA na na na NA na. Aerosmith's "Walk This Way."
Retro metal isn't my thing, but I stood and danced like a maniac until the song was over.
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9.
I Uncover the Secret Mental Health of Hair Bands
Hello there, Ruby,
You probably don't know this about me, but: my brownies have reached crazy ninja-good level.
Also, I am behind on community service hours.
If you want some help with the chubby thing, whatever it's called, let me know.
Finn
--found in my mail cubby, written on unlined white paper in lines of blue ink that slanted down toward the right corner of the page.
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On Friday, Finn Murphy-soccer-team stud muffin and Kim's ex-boyfriend from before Jackson-Finn Murphy left me a note.
He had never written me a note. He was Kim's ex, but he'd liked me back in elementary school-therefore making him yet another boy I was supposed to stay far away from. Even now, months and months after they'd broken up, by talking to Finn I'd risk spoiling the delicate truce at which Kim and I had finally arrived just before winter break.
But hey, I needed bakers.
I got the note Monday afternoon, so Meghan and I went to the B&O Espresso after school. The B&O is a coffee bar a little ways off Broadway. It has spankin' cake. You can go in there and do your homework and drink lattes or espresso milk shakes and they never kick you out for being there too long. Finn was working the counter, like usual.
"Got your note," I said as Meghan and I walked in and plopped ourselves at the table nearest the register.
Finn blushed. Actually blushed, to the roots of his cropped sandy hair. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a black apron. He had the thin forearms and thick legs of a soccer player, big thoughtful eyes and the general look of someone who is good at skiing.
Why was he blushing?
Wasn't this about the ninja brownies?
It had better be about ninja brownies.
"I'll have a Valencia mocha," said Meghan.
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"Same," I said. "And can I get the chocolate raspberry torte?" I had no business buying myself exotic tortes when I'd just lost my job, but the thing was calling to me in all its chocolaty deliciousness.
Finn wiped the counter in front of us and started making coffee drinks.
* "You're our first boy," said Meghan.
"Don't bring gender into it," I said. "You're our first anyone besides me, Meghan and Nora. If you want, you can be a founding member of the inaugural Baby CHuBS."