The History of Hilary Hambrushina Page 4

  But that got dull fast, so I began peering into Kallie’s yard. Ever since the fight with my mom, I’d been thinking about the way I’d treated Kallie. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had been kind of rude to her, like when I’d made fun of her names. I thought I might’ve offended her, and I wanted to tell her I hadn’t meant to be so nasty. Don’t get me wrong, I still felt my mom’s accusations weren’t fair. But I figured that since Kallie and I were neighbours, we couldn’t completely avoid each other, so we might as well be civil.

  Then one day, I was standing at the fence longer than I usually did. Kallie’s yard intrigued me. Someone had planted blue wildflowers, and their honey-sweet scent drifted faintly over the fence. Water trickled in one of those portable stone fountains, which sat between two shrubs near the back door. But the best part was the hammock strung between two trees. I’d always wanted a hammock, but our trees were too far apart for one.

  “Hello,” said a voice.

  I tried to duck, but it was too late. A woman was standing a few feet away from me, at the gate leading into the yard, and she was looking right at me, smiling.

  I peeked up over the fence again. “Hi,” I murmured.

  “You’re Hilary, aren’t you?” she asked. I nodded. “Kallie’s told me about you. Hello. I’m Calypso, Kallie’s mother.” Her voice was musical, like Kallie’s, but in a different way. If Kallie’s was a bird chirping, her mother’s was the calm lapping of waves against the shore. She held out her hand to me, and when I shook it, it was warm. I smiled. “We do hope you’ll come over sometime.”

  “Sure,” I said, without realizing what I was agreeing to.

  “Wonderful. See you later, then.” She turned and went back through the gate, her sundress swishing in the breeze.

  It wasn’t until I got to my room that it dawned on me that I’d agreed to visit Kallie. I wanted to apologize to her, but I had no intention of hanging around with her again. I shuddered, picturing myself trapped in her house for hours, while she told me the symbolism of every name imaginable. No. I’d have to figure out a way to go over, apologize, and leave quickly. I’d have to come up with a plan.

  A few days later, Mom announced that she was going shopping and asked if I wanted to come.

  This was rare. Mom usually only took me shopping when I needed new clothes. We went once in the fall and once in the spring, and both of us thought that two shopping trips together every year was plenty. But I loved shopping, and since Lynn wasn’t around, there was no one else to go with. So I agreed to go. Big mistake.

  First, Mom spent over half an hour in a kitchen store, trying to decide what kind of salad tongs to buy. Then she dragged me to two more stores to look at sets so similar they were probably clones of the first. She kept trying to get me interested in the stuff she was buying, even though she could see I didn’t care. Finally she said she would buy me some new clothes for junior high. I perked up and asked if we could go to The Limit.

  She gave me a sideways glance and said, “If you like.”

  But you can guess what happened when we got to The Limit. The usual. I showed my mom a blouse that I thought was stylish, cheap, and — and this was the most important thing for my mother — modest. She made a harrumphing noise and turned away. We lasted less than ten minutes there. But this time, instead of waiting until we got to the car to start fighting, we began as soon as we left the store.

  “Why won’t you let me buy clothes from there?”

  Mom sighed. “Hilary, I’ve told you before. Those clothes are too revealing. They’re too old for you.”

  I wiggled uncomfortably. Could my mom be right? Was it wrong for me to want those clothes? Suddenly I felt like one of those women who bought the leather skirts.

  “Mom, didn’t you notice? They have a section for junior girls. You know what that means? Eight-year-olds can shop there. So how can you say the clothes are too old for me when they make the same clothes for people younger than me?” I thought this was quite brilliant, and I didn’t see how my mom could argue with it.

  But she didn’t even bother. She just sighed again and said, “Oh, Hilary. You’re so naive.”

  “I am not!” I said angrily. “And what does naive mean anyway?” When she didn’t answer, I said, “Lynn’s sister works there!”

  Mom looked at me, hand on hip. “What difference does that make? Do you honestly think I’d buy you those clothes just because Lynn’s sister works there?”

  “Lynn’s mom buys her clothes from there!”

  “Well, that’s her business. We’re going to another store. Somewhere where the clothes are more suitable to girls your age. We’re going to Maxford’s!”

  (Yes, you read that right. Maxford’s. As in the department store where shoppers push grocery carts and prom dresses are sold next to chain saws and blood pressure monitors.)

  “Mom, no! Not Maxford’s!” I squealed, as if she was holding a frothy-mouthed monster on a leash, about to let go so it could attack me.

  By this time, several people had turned to look at us. As humiliating as it was to go to Maxford’s, it was better than throwing a tantrum. I gave the people who were staring at us a dirty look, and hurried after my mom.

  When we got to the store, she tried to interest me in what she called “the latest fashions” there. Fashions from Maxford’s, I thought. That’s a laugh. What are they called, the Garbage Pail Collection? What losers everywhere are wearing this fall.

  But it soon became obvious she was going to buy me something, whether I liked it or not, so I figured I might as well at least choose which ugly clothes I had to wear. I fingered a brown-and-beige striped top.

  “This is O.K.,” I said unenthusiastically.

  “Let’s see.” She grabbed it and looked at the price.

  “Well, I don’t like it that much —” I began, alarmed.

  “This top is only ten dollars! I’m buying it!”

  From there things got worse. Another horrible striped top ended up in our shopping bag, and so did a pair of hideous beige terry cloth pants (part of a two-for-one deal with the top). By the time we got home, we were both fuming.

  “I’m never wearing these clothes!” I shouted, as we stormed into the house.

  “For God’s sake, Hilary, why do you always have to do this?”

  “The clothes from The Limit are perfectly fine for people my age!” I yelled. I spotted my dad coming from the kitchen carrying a mug of coffee and the newspaper. “Dad would let me buy clothes there, wouldn’t you, Dad?” I asked him.

  “No, he wouldn’t,” said Mom irritably.

  Dad looked from one of us to the other, like he wasn’t sure which pit bull to stroke.

  “What kind of clothes?” he said.

  “Clothes from The Limit. They’re stylish, cheap, and everyone wears them.” I glared at my mother.

  “Tops with no midriff and skirts cut up to here” — Mom slashed at an area three inches below her hip bones — “They’re not appropriate for a twelve-year-old girl.”

  “They’re not all like that! Dad!” I turned to my father.

  “I think you should listen to your mother, Hilary.” When he saw my incredulous face, he said gently, “There’ll be plenty of time for those clothes later.”

  I couldn’t believe Dad had taken her side. Mom must have already poisoned his mind with dark tales about the wickedness of The Limit. I turned my wrath on her. “Why did you even bring me shopping anyway? If you were going to choose all my clothes, why didn’t you just go by yourself?”

  “I was trying to make you feel better,” she said sharply. “I should’ve known it would be a mistake.”

  My jaw dropped. “Well, next time, don’t bother trying!”

  I stormed off. Mom yelled at me to take up the bags with the clothes. I grabbed the bags roughly and dragged them upstairs. One of the tops fell out and I left it lying on the stairs gazing sadly up at the skylight. When I got to my room, I hurled the bags against the wall. I th
en began stomping up and down the length of the room, kicking magazines, books, and a pile of clean laundry out of my way. (Mom had left the laundry in my room, hoping I’d put it away. As if I was going to do that now!)

  I stomped for a while, hoping Mom would come up to see me and apologize or continue the fight. Either way, I didn’t want to go to her. But she didn’t come up, and I stayed in my room, feeling trapped. After about half an hour, my dad knocked at the door.

  “Hilary? That girl from next door has come to see you. She’s downstairs.”

  Going down to see Kallie would be a good way of leaving my room without letting my mom win. I forgot that I hadn’t yet formulated a plan to get away from Kallie if I got bored. Right then, escaping from my mom was more important.

  When I got downstairs, Kallie was standing in the front hallway, barefoot, wearing polka-dot shorts and a purple and orange T-shirt.

  “Guess what!” she exclaimed before I could even say hello.

  “What?”

  “I’ve almost finished putting my room together, so it’s ready for you to see!”

  “Great,” I said, slipping on my sneakers.

  As we climbed the stairs to Kallie’s room, I asked where her parents were.

  “Out.”

  My face fell. I’d been hoping to see her mom.

  Kallie’s room was the first on the left. Swinging open the door, she spread her arms out and said, “Ta-da!”

  Although I was expecting something unusual, I wasn’t prepared for what greeted me. The walls and ceiling were black, and the ceiling had a pattern of white dots and lines that reminded me of the night sky. A huge hammock stretched like a crescent moon between two walls. Some sort of rope-and-wheel apparatus that looked like something we’d built in science class last year was attached to the wall and ceiling above the ends of the hammock. In front of the window was a telescope pointed outside. At least a hundred stuffed animals sat against the walls, and books and clothes lay scattered on the floor.

  “What do you think?” asked Kallie proudly.

  I didn’t know what to say. It was the strangest room I’d ever been in, but also the most interesting. I thought of my own room, with the shiny new Damian Sámos poster (the same one as Lynn’s) on one wall and the old wallpaper my dad still hadn’t taken down on the other. The wallpaper had faceless Victorian ladies holding flowered parasols, and I loved it — when I was six. Then there was the squeaky hinge on my closet door (another thing my dad hadn’t fixed). Even my new lavender chenille bedding, which I’d begged my mom to buy, looked so boring compared to Kallie’s room.

  Finally I mumbled, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Really? Fantastic! I wanted to make it unique.”

  “Is that the night sky?” I asked, looking at the ceiling.

  “Yeah. Those are the constellations. Razi and I finished painting them last night.”

  I stared at her. “You painted them? You mean it’s not wallpaper?”

  “No, but if you thought it was, it must mean we did a good job.”

  “You did an amazing job!” I exclaimed. I looked around the room in awe. How could Kallie have painted such a complicated pattern? I couldn’t imagine painting a wall so well, let alone a ceiling.

  Kallie was beaming. “Thanks. We did it mostly at night because we could see the sky then. We had a big map to help us during the day, but you can’t really get the feel of the stars without looking at them, you know?”

  Actually I didn’t. I’d never thought about that before.

  “But the real reason I asked you to come over,” said Kallie, grinning, “was because I was wondering if you wanted to help me paint stuff on the walls.”

  For the first time, I noticed that the walls had no patterns on them.

  “You want me to help paint your room?” I was surprised and kind of honoured. After all, she barely knew me. “O.K.”

  “Great! Stay there!” She dashed out. I looked around. That’s when I realized something was missing. When Kallie came back, pushing a wooden cart with jars of paint in dozens of colours, I asked, “Uh … Kallie, where’s the bed?”

  “What bed?”

  “The bed you sleep on?”

  “Who says I sleep on a bed?” She moved some stuffed animals to the hammock.

  “Where do you sleep then?”

  “In the hammock, of course.”

  I was stunned. “You sleep in a hammock? Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well … isn’t it uncomfortable?” I said, starting to feel impatient. Why did she always have to answer my questions with another question?

  “No. It’s excellent, especially in the summer, when it’s so hot. And if I’m bored and can’t fall asleep, I can swing. You can’t do that on a regular bed.”

  No. I had to admit she was right about that.

  “What does that do?” I asked, pointing to a rope that dangled at one end of the hammock.

  “Watch.” Kallie grabbed the rope and yanked so roughly I gasped. The hammock shot up to the ceiling.

  Kallie was grinning. “Isn’t it platinum?” she asked, as she yanked the rope again. The hammock bounded back down.

  This made me uncomfortable, and I became even more uncomfortable when Kallie put some orange paint on the wall and began circling it around with a small brush. I didn’t want to stand there doing nothing, but I didn’t want to start painting either. Kallie was obviously a great artist. I’d always thought I was pretty good, but I knew anything I painted would look like a two-year-old’s scribbles compared to her drawings. So I walked over to the window and looked out.

  “There’s another hammock in the backyard,” I said.

  “That’s Udu. This one’s Budu.”

  “You named your hammocks?”

  “Yes.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Why?”

  She turned to me, paintbrush held over the wooden floor. The orange circle now had green hair and pink eyes, which looked at me owlishly. Frowning, she asked impatiently, “Why do you ask so many questions? And are you going to help me paint or just stand there? Because if you’re just going to stand there, I’d like you to stop talking. It’s disturbing me.” A drop of green paint rolled off the end of the brush and hit the floor.

  “Oh, bugaboo!” said Kallie, which I guessed was her way of swearing. “Hey, that looks good.” She squatted down and began making a circle on the floor.

  I knew I had to either start painting or leave, and I didn’t want to run away. So I picked up a big paintbrush and dipped it in a jar of magenta paint. Then I started making circles on the wall, a few feet away from Kallie. Gradually the circles turned into fluffy shapes that looked like flowers from another planet.

  “That’s neat!” said Kallie, leaning over. “What are those?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.” We painted in silence for a few minutes until I said, “Let’s call them Hambrushinas.”

  Kallie’s head snapped up from the floor, where she’d been making the green circle into some sort of creature with many arms and eyes. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since I met you.” Her wide smile assured me that this was a compliment. I smiled back.

  We continued filling Kallie’s wall with creatures, flowers, and trees in every colour on the cart. Kallie left the open jars on the floor, and I did the same.

  “Who’s Razi, by the way?” I asked.

  “My dad,” she said. “Hey, do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  It turned out Kallie was also an only child. “Do you like being an only child?” I asked.

  She frowned. “Yeah. I don’t mind being by myself. And there are advantages. Your parents can give you more attention.”

  “Yeah, and more Christmas presents!” I said, grinning.

  “And they treat you more like an adult.”

  I left that one alone.

  “But sometimes, I wish I had someone to share things with,” Kallie continued. “You know, like stories and
ideas. I share that stuff with my parents, but it’s not the same as having someone your own age. It can get kind of lonely.” She stopped painting to look at me. “Do you ever get lonely?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I’d never admitted this to anyone but Lynn.

  I watched Kallie for a while. She was painting the wall again, and her long legs looked like wires in her skimpy shorts. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “What kind of food do you eat?”

  “Huh?” She turned around. “What do you mean?”

  I collected myself. “I mean, what’s your favourite food?”

  She scratched her head. “That’s hard. I like lots of things. Sour cream and onion potato chips, strawberries, deep-fried ice cream, hot and sour soup, coriander … although I guess that’s a spice.”

  “Do you like cheeseburgers?” I asked. I had a weakness for cheeseburgers. I still do.

  “No! I’m a vegetarian. I don’t eat meat.”

  “Really? How long have you been a vegetarian?”

  “All my life. My parents don’t eat meat either.”

  So Kallie had never tasted a piece of meat. I couldn’t help feeling she’d been deprived, but I also admired her. I didn’t think I’d be able to live without meat. Maybe certain kinds of meat, but not cheeseburgers.

  Just as I was wondering how my mother would react if I told her I was becoming a vegetarian (it involved her cooking dozens of cheeseburgers to tempt me away from my solemn vow) Kallie said, “Woof.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe it was some sort of signal, and I was supposed to say “Meow.” I decided it was safer to pretend I hadn’t heard it and keep painting the wall.

  “Woof!” she said angrily.

  I jumped, turning around. A small black poodle was sitting next to an open jar of paint. The dog cocked its head innocently and shuffled towards Kallie.

  “Good boy,” she said. She picked up the dog, placed it on her head, and arranged its legs and tail around her face like feathers on a fancy hat. The hat clung to Kallie’s head for nearly a minute while she painted purple trees. Then it stood up, leapt off, and sailed through the air like a flying squirrel, landing on a jar of red paint. The jar tipped over, the paint spilled, and the hat ran out the door, leaving a trail of red paw prints. I know this sounds crazy, but I swear it’s true.