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  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF NORMA FOX MAZER

  “Mazer is one of the best of the practitioners writing for young people today.” —The New York Times

  “It’s not hard to see why Norma Fox Mazer has found a place among the most popular writers for young adults these days.” —The Washington Post Book World

  A, My Name Is Ami

  “A satisfying novel about the ups and downs of 12-year-old Ami’s relationship with her best friend Mia … The writing is light but consistently sensitive and realistic, as the joys and disasters of the characters flow towards a moving and memorable ending.” —School Library Journal

  “The atmosphere and the girls are right on target.… An accurate slice of teenage life.” —Publishers Weekly

  B, My Name Is Bunny

  “[Bunny] is a likeable, true-to-life character who hates her name and wants to be a professional clown. Her friendship with Emily is the source and depth of this simple story of two teenagers learning about life … [a] story of growth and acceptance with accurate and touching emotions.” —School Library Journal

  C, My Name Is Cal

  “Deftly sketched … Mazer’s skill in telling the reader more about Cal than he knows about himself, while narrating Cal’s unique, taciturn voice, is especially memorable.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Readers will recognize themselves.” —Booklist

  Dear Bill, Remember Me?

  A New York Times Notable Book and a Kirkus Choice

  “Highly accomplished short stories, variously funny and moving, about ordinary, contemporary girls and their relationships with mothers or boyfriends.” —Kirkus Reviews

  “Eight short stories, powerful and poignant, about young women at critical points in their lives.” —The New York Times

  “Stories that are varied in mood and style and alike in their excellence.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  Summer Girls, Love Boys

  “Featuring female protagonists, the stories mix the bitter and the sweet of life while encompassing a variety of narrative techniques, settings, themes, and tones.… Mazer writes honestly and provocatively of human emotion and circumstances while she demonstrates her versatility as a writer.” —Booklist

  Good Night, Maman

  “Mazer writers with a simplicity that personalizes the history.… Direct … honest.” —Booklist, starred review

  What I Believe

  Norma Fox Mazer

  For my amazing poet friend, Meg Kearney, whose

  belief in me while I was writing this book was

  more important than she will ever know.

  I also thank my editor, Jeannette Larson, for her quiet

  patience and for asking me to write “a few more poems.”

  —N. F. M.

  Memo to Myself

  Try not to stumble over chairs or your feet or anyone else’s feet.

  Do not stare at Casey Ford.

  Remember he is the hottest and nastiest boy in school.

  Ask yourself why you keep forgetting that.

  Remind yourself he told you your front teeth were way big.

  Ask yourself why you keep forgetting that.

  Do not talk about Dad to anyone.

  Try to be nicer to Mom.

  Try very hard to act normal.

  So What Do You Do for Fun, Market, Casey ford Sneered

  and I got a bit flustered (he’s so hot) and stupidly told him about writing in my journal, my notebook, on the palm of my hand, on napkins and scraps of paper, which got me one of those Vicki-Marnet-you-are-strange-strange-strange looks, and now I’m thinking if people are gonna look at me like that (and they are, they have, they do, they will), why not just go for it and say although I intend to be a lawyer, writing is fun for me, so I write run-on rambling sentences like this one for fun and I write crazy things like sestinas and pantoums and all kinds of poetry for fun, which I started when I was six and couldn’t spell and wrote Bewaer little gril if you are weerd expeshlee if your daddy has a beerd, the zingo line being if you are weerd, which, even way back then, I knew I was, unlike my big beautiful brothers, who are regular and normal and do regular, normal things like Spencer’s sports and Thom’s student senate, and that’s not all that’s normal about them, they also have normal hair, which might sound unimportant, but isn’t if you have irresponsible, impossible, ridiculous hair like mine, which has led to my secret plan, that as soon as I am old enough to do what I want and not freak out Mom and Dad, I will shave it all off, and then my strange outside will match my strange inside—in a word, weerd.

  Rug Love Sestina

  For years, with every fleet beat of my heart,

  I loved Revco, each bright brick and stone.

  This was where my dad worked, and his eyes

  brightened whenever he said, like a song sung

  just for me, “Revco is fine, the best. I’ll never leave.

  Our future is secure, it’s one thing I know for sure.”

  On Take Your Daughter to Work Day, sure-footed,

  we raced—his long legs, my short ones—to the heart

  of his life, his office. I loved that room, wanted to live

  under the desk! On top, photos of us all, silly and stunned

  in the sun at our lake house, Mom swimsuited, singing,

  Dad building a fire, us kids capering and crazy-eyed.

  First time in the office, age six, colored stones

  in my pocket, seeing his raspberry rug, I took leave

  of my senses, flung myself nose down, closed my eyes

  and rolled like a little dog-girl, yipping, “Sure, sure

  do love you, ruggy raspberry rug.” A rug love song

  to please my dad. But, no. “Vicki, get up!” I heard.

  I stood and saluted, hoping he’d laugh and leave

  Discipline Dad on the rug with dog-girl. His eyes

  shone on me again. Still, that moment, like a stain,

  was hard to clean away. Could even his sure

  love be shaken? Scary thought! My heart

  took its time slowing. Love is a twisty, tricky songster,

  but hate is a twistier, trickier, turnaround song.

  Now I hate Revco. They fired Dad! “No anger. Leave

  it be,” he told us. Said he wasn’t bitter or heartsick.

  “The company had to downsize to save its life. I’ll

  take my time finding a new job. Hey! This is my shore

  leave!” Mom, laughing, picked up one of my stones,

  predicted jobs would pelt Dad like rain! The stone

  fell. We all scrambled to rescue it for her. Strong

  quick Spencer got there first. We cheered, so sure

  of our happiness, all of us chattering and lively.

  That night, stargazing on the deck with Dad, eyes

  on the sky, he pointed out Orion, Betelgeuse. “It’s an art

  to read the stars, baby.” I never wanted to leave

  his side—my sure song for so long. Now? His eyes

  are stone changed. Just looking at them hurts my heart.

  Doing the Dad Math

  1 year, 9 months

  336 résumés

  897 phone calls

  13 flights to 8 states

  25 interviews

  Zero luck.

  Dad Stats

  Height, 6 foot 2

  bad he hunches now. His

  weight was 180, and 2 times

  is a complete circle. He’s

  56, and half of that is 28 years
<
br />   he put in at Revco. He used to

  sleep 6 hours, times 2 now is

  12 every night, plus couch time. He lost

  9 pounds, 2 sets of car keys, 3 wallets,

  his smile.

  My Brothers

  Call me flatfeet, funny face,

  Missy Trippy, Vicki Wicky.

  They tease me, squeeze me,

  hug me,

  shove me.

  Love me.

  If I Was a Perfect Person

  I would write in this notebook every day, and only beautiful things, and I would give up wanting a dog, which is probably just a bad habit, and I would never be annoyed at Thom for sneezing or wheezing, which is the chief reason we can never have any animals, not even a little wheely-going gerbil, which is just as well because I’d probably get bored with an animal who could only communicate by running in circles, and speaking of animals, which we all are, biologically I mean, if I was even half a perfect person, I would stop thinking that Dad asleep on the couch again looks like a zombie, which I guess, to be exact, is not an animal, but not exactly a human being, either, because zombies don’t do anything but sleep or go around half dead or, should I say, half alive, like Dad these days, which is a mean, nasty, and really bad thought, especially for a daughter, but it’s a thought I think, which I wouldn’t think, I’m sure, if I was a perfect person.

  Mom Cinquain

  Her skin

  smells like lemons

  and soap, and when I lean

  up against her, I’m a baby

  again.

  Bright Red Socks

  On field-trip day I wore jeans, a sweatshirt,

  woolly red socks, and badly beat-up boots,

  which had belonged to my brother Thom.

  My darn feet have grown from size five to eight.

  Bethani Ollum, smooth-as-syrup girl,

  also wore red socks and old hiking boots,

  also her brother’s. Her motive: coolness.

  My motive: cashless. Bethani’s clan girls

  screamed and oohed and aahed over her boots

  and new bright red socks. So cool … I’m going to

  ask my brother … old boots, oh, beautiful!

  She took my arm. Girlfriend, we planned it,

  didn’t we? Quick as light, the clan began

  oohing, cooing over my beat-up boots.

  That’s how I became the new Best School Friend

  and Chief Amuser to Bethani O.

  It’s a toady job—and demanding, too,

  but it keeps me busy—and I like that!—

  busy enough to blot out, blank out, blink

  away—sometimes—what’s happening at home.

  Attention, Mommy!

  Your Hair Is Growing Like Grass

  Says she can’t afford Mr. Willy anymore.

  Says she sort of likes having long hair.

  Says it’s big bucks just to walk through his door.

  Says long hair reminds her of being silly and young.

  Says she doesn’t know where those words came from.

  Says before she speaks, she should bite her tongue.

  Says, how did I get to this point, anyway?

  Says, never mind, I’ll cut my own hair.

  Says, let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?

  Mrs. Mack, Haralson School Bus Driver,

  Has Big Fat White Arms

  which she leans on the steering wheel while she works

  me over. “You’re a country-club cupcake, Cookie,

  so how come you climb up on this bus

  all the time now, and your dad don’t drive

  you to school no more?”

  triple-time cinquain

  mom says

  dad should have time

  for everything these days,

  like fixing the faucet downstairs.

  plenty

  of time

  to write grandpa

  —he’s alone, hates the phone—

  or uncle jud—also alone—

  but dad

  doesn’t

  do anything—

  too tired out all the time.

  mom can’t even leave him alone,

  or won’t.

  Announcement, a Tanka

  Dad listened, his hands

  steepled. Mom did the talking.

  “We’re putting the house

  up for sale. We have no choice.

  We’re drowning in debt. Drowning!”

  Mom’s Monologue

  “Listen, kids, I know it’s a shock about selling the house. The bottom line is—we’ve run out of options. We’ve held on for almost two years, hoping for a break for your dad. You know how hard, how vigorously, he’s tried to find a job suitable to his experience, but, well, it’s not going to happen. I don’t want you to repeat this, he’s discouraged enough right now, but it’s not just the economy. It’s his … age. We don’t think he’s old, but the marketplace does. It’s just horrible, and …

  “No, forget that, I’m not going there.

  “The point is—we can’t afford to go on this way. I’m going to be looking for work, but what I can get, after all these years, I don’t know!

  “But I don’t want you guys to worry. I’m just trying to fill you in. We’re going to work things out. We’ll find an apartment in the city—those twenty miles closer to everything will make a big difference. We’ll have one car, not three. And renting means no house taxes, or water and sanitation bills, or paying for garden work and housecleaning, because wherever we live is going to be a lot smaller than this place, trust me on that. And we’re all going to pitch in.

  “But face it, we’re going to have less. Less of everything. Less of everything we don’t need. That can be a really good thing. Am I right? Aw, Vicki, don’t look at me like that. I know you don’t want to move, and we wouldn’t if we had any other choice.

  “I’m sorry, kids, I’m really sorry … but it just has to be. Try to look on the bright side, okay? It’s an adventure—for all of us. We’re going to be pioneers. Well, not exactly! I just wanted to make you laugh. Come on, you guys, all of you, picture it—less junk in our life, less showiness, everything more down to earth, maybe more like the way I grew up. You’ll like that, won’t you, Thom?

  “Kids, one last thing. I don’t want you talking about this to your father. He’s got enough on his mind without being reminded of, well, of anything … I really think this move will help him—help all of us. A fresh start. That has to be good, right?”

  Ten Things I Didn’t Say to Mom—and Won’t

  1. Every time you say, “Don’t worry,” I worry more.

  2. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  3. The other day in school, I was so nauseous I had to go to the nurse’s office. She asked if there was any tension at home.

  4. I said no.

  5. You and Dad made the decision to sell the house. You didn’t ask me or Spencer or Thom anything, but it’s our life, too. It’s my life. My life right here on Sweet Road, where I’ve always been. Where I belong.

  6. I never thought about my life before.

  7. I didn’t have to. I just lived it.

  8. I will never just stay home and take care of my kids, like you—if I even have kids.

  9. I’m going to go to law school, and I’m going to work and have a career and never be poor again.

  10. And, P.S. I don’t want to be a pioneer.

  The Real Estate Agent

  “You must be Vicki, right? I’m Nina Byrd.

  I guess you’ve heard from your mom about me.”

  Lemon hair, lemon dress, she warbles a laugh, golden.

  “This house is great, it’ll show really well.

  I told your mom, it’s going to sell in no time.”

  She holds a sign, HOUSE FOR SALE, bright letters, red.

  “Okay, Vicki, will you give me a hand here?

  Should we land this baby right over there?”

&
nbsp; She pushes the sign into grass, green.

  “Don’t talk much, do you? Excited to be moving?

  I’m sure delighted to be selling this house.”

  She’s hammering, bracelets clinking, silver.

  “Well, this is part of the job I don’t fancy.

  Say, Vicki, you want a chance at this?”

  Two-handed, I squeeze the hammer, blue.

  I punch and pound that sign

  Deep into the ground, but not deep enough.

  Not far enough to bury it, bury it, black.

  We’re Still Here on 5555 Sweet Road

  but strangers peer in rooms, run water

  in sinks, open all doors, tap walls,

  ask us, How old is this house?

  Ever have any problems?

  Does the skylight leak?

  Is the school safe?

  Cellar dry?

  And by

  the way, why

  are you moving?

  Is something wrong here?

  There must be a reason.

  Is it neighbors—do they fight?

  What about taxes—out of sight?

  It’s such a nice house, why would you leave?

  Why?

  Lies in the Locker Room

  I pulled on my jeans and lied to Bethani that selling our house

  and moving to the city was just a goofy idea that my parents

  came up with for no reason at all, and putting on my socks

  I lied that they were like that, which I said rolling my eyes

  as if they were sort of crazy and impulsive,

  then buttoning my shirt, I lied that they probably wouldn’t

  go through with it, and while I pulled my hair into a ponytail

  I lied that even if they did

  I didn’t care

  no I didn’t

  not one

  little

  bit.

  Subj: Moving Plans? Really?

  Date: June 15 Time: 5:35 P.M.

  From: Ms. Ainsworth To: Victory Marnet