The History of Hilary Hambrushina Page 5

  Kallie dropped her paintbrush and raced after the dog, stepping in the paint with one foot.

  “Kallie! You stepped in the paint!”

  “I’ve got to stop Woof!” she exclaimed. “He’s headed downstairs!”

  I stood there, wondering what Dear Abby would do in this situation. Before I could decide, a loud bark erupted and an Irish wolfhound scampered into the room. The dog was only about a foot shorter than me. We looked at one another. Then it stepped towards me, spilling a jar of green paint. It began wagging its tail, and green sprayed every which way.

  “Kallie!” I screamed, ducking. “Get up here!”

  But I couldn’t wait until she arrived. I had to stop the dog myself. I tried to grab it, but it scooted away. I chased it around the room, but I only ended up kicking over several more jars of paint. The dog seemed to think we were playing a game because it never once moved towards the door. Finally I lunged at the animal, and we both ended up tangled in the hammock.

  Trying to control the thrashing body under the soft, damp fur was like wrestling a wet shag rug that had come to life. Kallie ran in just in time to see me trying to clamp my arms and legs around the dog, like one of those toy koala bears that clamps around a desk lamp.

  “Be careful,” I said. “There’s paint all over the floor.”

  She stepped carefully towards us and slowly unwound the hammock. As soon as the dog was free, it leapt up and wagged its tail. Kallie snapped a leash on the animal. I stood up wearily.

  We looked around the room. Rivers of paint were coursing over the floor. Stuffed animals, books, and clothing had several splashes of new colours on them. Kallie and I were covered with paint and dog hair.

  Suddenly Kallie started snickering.

  “What’s so funny?” I demanded.

  “You. Your face. Look.” She pointed to a mirror propped up against the wall of her closet. Specks of green paint dotted my forehead and cheeks as if I’d caught a disease from an alien.

  “You look like you’ve had an outbreak of polka-dot-itis!” Kallie said. “Be careful. It’s very deadly.”

  “Well, what about you?” I pointed to the streaks of red paint on Kallie’s forehead.

  She leaned forward to look in the mirror and burst out laughing.

  “You’re suffering from Terminal Licorice Face syndrome!” I cackled. “Slowly, your entire body will be taken over by the wicked Lord of the Licorice!”

  Soon we were bent over like accordions, laughing uncontrollably.

  The wolfhound barked happily. Kallie sighed. “Oh, Fortunado.” Then she said seriously, “We’d better clean this up.”

  “Where’s Woof?”

  “I put him in the basement. We’ll put Fortunado there, too.”

  “What happened downstairs?”

  She gave me a see-for-yourself look.

  The downstairs hall was covered with two sets of red prints, one from Woof’s paws and the other from Kallie’s left foot. It looked like a one-footed person had been chasing a rabbit.

  But before we could follow the one-footed person’s route, the front door swung open and Kallie’s parents were standing in the hallway. They were smiling, but as their eyes rotated slowly around, their smiles dropped like melting playdough.

  “Callisto Amonalisa Eadoin Foster,” said her mother. “What in Hades went on here?”

  Not surprisingly, Kallie’s parents weren’t any happier when they heard the explanation. After the lecture about not letting dogs near open cans of paint (that was one I’d never heard before), her dad told her she’d have to clean up all the paint, and he got out the cleaning materials.

  Meanwhile I was standing around awkwardly. I didn’t want to scrub the floors, and now that the hubbub was over, I was angry. Why had Kallie left open jars of paint on the floor? She should’ve known the dogs would get at them.

  But just as I was contemplating making a quick exit, my mom’s voice broke into my thoughts. Hilary Laura Boles, don’t you dare run away. You helped cause this mess, you help clean it up. I suppressed a sigh and turned to Kallie.

  “Can I help?” I said, in what I hoped was a pleasant tone.

  Kallie’s mom smiled at me. “That would be very nice of you, Hilary.”

  I spent the next two hours scrubbing Kallie’s hall, living room, and kitchen. Kallie and I also scrubbed our faces, arms, and legs so we wouldn’t look like freaks. There wasn’t much I could do about my clothes, though. I had no idea how to explain those to my mother.

  Kallie saw me to the door. “I’m really sorry about everything, Hilary.”

  But all I said was, “Why did you put the dog on your head anyway?”

  “I thought it would be safer.” I gave her a look. “I trained him to sit there. Sometimes he’ll sit for up to a quarter of an hour when I’m reading. I thought he’d better sit there instead of running around. It’s true,” she said defensively.

  My look hardened. Did she really expect me to believe that?

  Her eyelids drooped. “Well, thanks for coming over anyway. I really enjoyed painting the walls with you. And thanks for the Hambrushinas. They’re quite idiosyncratic.”

  Whatever that meant. “See you around,” I said. Before she could answer, I left.

  When I got home, Mom was scooping out the dinner salad, using her new tongs. She smiled when she saw me, but her expression turned to one of dismay when she took in my paint-stained clothes.

  “Hilary! What happened to you?”

  I paused, my hand on the banister. If I told my mom the whole story, I knew she would never urge me to hang around with Kallie again. In fact she’d probably encourage me to stay away from her. The golden cheeseburger was within my grasp. I could be rid of Kallie for good if I said the right thing now. I opened my mouth.

  And closed it. Maybe it was out of fairness to Kallie, since the whole thing was an accident. Maybe it was out of guilt or just common decency. But for whatever reason, I didn’t rat on her. I said casually, “Kallie and I spilled a little paint. It’s no big deal. We cleaned it up.”

  “Oh.” There was a horrible pause when I thought my mom would question me further, but she turned back to the salad. “Hurry and get changed then. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  After dinner, Mom and I declared a truce. Not because we’d agreed on anything, but because we didn’t want to argue anymore. I sat in my room, leaning against the door with the squeaky hinge and flipping through the stack of glossy celebrity magazines Lynn had given me. But I was thinking about Kallie. I was more confused now than when I’d first met her.

  Painting the walls had been fun. It wasn’t the kind of thing I’d ever do with Lynn. But that was the problem, too. Kallie was so different from Lynn that somehow being with Kallie had only made me miss Lynn even more. Plus, no matter what my mom said, Kallie was weird. Otherwise she wouldn’t sleep in a hammock. I remembered her comment about how she wanted the room to be unique. Maybe that was why she did strange things. Just to be different. It didn’t seem like a very good reason for doing something, though.

  Shrugging it off, I settled into a magazine and began daydreaming about what I’d wear on the first day of school, if I suddenly had a mother transplant. One thing was certain: I wouldn’t be wearing what I’d had on today. The paint would probably never come off. Which got me thinking that despite all the commotion, the only really terrible thing about today was that I hadn’t been wearing one of my new Maxford’s tops.

  -6-

  A Hilary Boles Original

  The next week, I started checking the e-mail every couple of hours to see if Lynn had sent me a message. (Of course I didn’t have my own e-mail address. We had a “family e-mail.” But it was better than nothing.) No e-mails came, though, and I went back to daydreaming. Part of me enjoyed these daydreams, but another part thought, Get a life. It’s pathetic to keep imagining what Lynn’s doing. You think she’s thinking about you right now? Think again.

  This part of me wondered what Kallie was doi
ng. She hadn’t been by since the paint incident. Then one morning, when I was pulling my bike into the driveway, I saw her bringing a recycling box to the curb. She waved and came over.

  “How’s it going?” I said.

  “Excellent. I’ve been helping my dad unpack and decorate for the last few days. What’ve you been doing?”

  I shrugged. “Not much.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to come over anytime.”

  I nodded. Was she inviting me now, or was I supposed to wait a few days?

  “See you!” She bounded away.

  For the next few days, I hung around at home waiting for Kallie to call on me. She owes it to me after the whole thing with the paint, I thought. But as the days went by and she never came, I realized she wasn’t going to come over. So, feeling like a princess who’s been asked by a servant to empty the chamber pots, I decided to call on her.

  When she opened the front door, she looked happy to see me, and we went upstairs. The paint cart was in the middle of her room.

  “We can finish painting the other wall,” she said enthusiastically. When she saw the look on my face, she added, “Don’t worry. My parents said we could. We’ll put the paint on the cart. And the dogs are in the backyard.”

  Kallie said I could paint anything I wanted, so I did. Sometimes I just made shapes without worrying what they were supposed to be. And I added lots of Hambrushinas.

  As I was admiring a particularly fine bronze Hambrushina, Kallie said, “So what are your hobbies, Hilary?”

  “Hanging around the mall. Watching movies. Listening to music. Talking on the phone. The usual stuff.”

  “Is that all?” She sounded disappointed.

  “Why? What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, but it all takes place within such a small radius. I bet you shop for CDs at the mall and see a movie there. Then you go home, play your CDs, talk on the phone, and plan your next trip to the mall.”

  I frowned. Somehow Kallie had managed to make really cool activities sound boring. “Yeah. So what?”

  “So you only ever go to one place: the mall. Don’t you ever do stuff outside or go to museums or art galleries?”

  I snorted. “Are you kidding? Who’d go to a museum unless they had to?”

  “I would. And I go to art galleries all the time. My dad exhibits stuff there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He rents space from galleries and displays his work. Sometimes galleries invite him to be part of a show.”

  So Kallie’s dad was an artist. I knew people who did pottery or hooked rugs for church bazaars, but I’d never met anyone who had exhibited something in a gallery. It was like knowing a famous author. I looked at the walls thoughtfully.

  “Is that why you’re so interested in art? Because your dad’s an artist?” I asked.

  “I guess,” she responded. “I’ve been interested in art as long as I can remember.”

  “Me, too. I’ve always enjoyed doing art and writing stories.” I found myself telling Kallie about my collage.

  When I finished, she asked, “Would you mind showing it to me?”

  “Of course. I mean no, I wouldn’t mind. If you’d really like to see it.”

  “I would.”

  Five minutes later, we were in my room. My heart began beating quickly. I lifted the collage carefully and put it on my desk. Then I waited for her reaction.

  She frowned and stepped forward. She peered into the cracks of the lampshade and put her face close to the cardboard, rotating her head from side to side, as rhythmically as a lawnmower. Finally I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.

  “Well?” I asked timidly.

  She stepped back as if she’d been struck. “It’s platinum, Hil. I love the way you’ve used different materials, textures, and shapes to symbolize the variegated and chaotic nature of life.”

  “Uh … thanks. That’s what I was going for.” I had no idea what she meant, but at least she wasn’t being sarcastic. To hear Kallie say my collage was “platinum” made me feel… I don’t know how to describe it, except to say I was more comfortable with myself than I’d been in a long time.

  “By the way,” said Kallie, “why did you tell me you don’t write stories?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we first met, you said you don’t write stories, but today you said you do. How come?”

  I remembered telling Kallie I didn’t write stories, but I hadn’t realized I’d corrected the lie. I couldn’t think of another lie to explain this, so I told the truth. “I do write stories, but only for school. I stopped writing them on my own a long time ago.”

  Her face fell, like she was disappointed. I turned away.

  A couple of days later, Kallie came over and asked whether I wanted to make wooden boxes. I’d begun to think maybe she wasn’t so bad and it would be O.K. to hang around with her, even if she wasn’t interested in boys or movies or fashion. But only until Lynn got back. Then I wouldn’t need Kallie anymore.

  Kallie and I spent the day painting designs on old scraps of wood. She showed me her father’s studio. Her dad was often at home, working. He helped us make our boxes by gluing the pieces of wood together and screwing hinges into the wood so the boxes could open and close.

  Unfortunately Kallie’s mom wasn’t usually around because she worked all day for a web publishing company. “She’s the chief technology officer,” said Kallie proudly. I thought it was pretty cool that Kallie had a mom with a Ph.D. in computer engineering from Waterloo. It was especially cool because Kallie’s mom looked more like she should be gathering flowers on a South Pacific island than sitting in a boardroom in downtown Toronto. (Looking back, it’s hard to believe I had such Jurassic attitudes. As if pretty women like Kallie’s mom couldn’t be chief technology officers. But still, I didn’t know many women who had these kinds of jobs. You know, jobs that involved science or math. Neither my mom nor Lynn’s worked outside the house. I didn’t know what Chanel Winters’s mom did, but I was pretty sure it didn’t involve math or science.)

  But Kallie’s mom wasn’t only into computers; the room next to the studio was a sewing room, where she made clothes using her own designs. And when I did see her, she was super nice. She asked me questions about my hobbies, she made lunches for Kallie and me, she even showed us how to dye material. Soon Kallie’s mom was second only to Chanel Winters on my list of People I Wanted To Be Like.

  And one of the coolest things about Kallie’s parents was that they let Kallie call them Calypso and Razi instead of Mom and Dad. I wondered why my mom didn’t do things like design clothes or cook Indonesian appetizers or paint.

  “How come you don’t paint?” I asked her.

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “Didn’t you notice the new colour of the kitchen table and chairs?”

  “Yeah but that’s not real painting. You should paint for fun. You should paint a picture to put in the living room.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time to paint for fun, Hilary.”

  I asked her how she’d feel if I started calling her Sylvia instead of Mom.

  “I wouldn’t like it,” she answered.

  I sighed. My mom was just not as cool as Kallie’s mom, and I had to learn to accept that.

  I stared out my bedroom window into the backyard. The babysitting job had fallen through. Again. It seemed every time I got a chance to babysit, the mother or father ended up cancelling. This time the kid supposedly had malaria. But I knew what had really happened. The mother had found someone older than me. At the time, there was a surplus of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds in our neighbourhood. And people preferred to hire them because they had experience. But how was I supposed to get experience if no one would hire me? I’d asked myself and my mom this many times, but neither of us had an answer.

  As you probably know, other than babysitting, there aren’t many options for employment for twelve-year-olds, except for mowing lawns, which I t
hought was more of a guy’s job. And I needed money. My allowance was a pathetic ten dollars a week. It wouldn’t even buy a CD or a ticket to a Friday night movie. How was I supposed to survive junior high without any cash?

  Then one day, I had a brainstorm. Not just any old brainstorm. A big, loud thunderstorm with zigzagging lightning. And it happened at the art gallery, of all places.

  Kallie’s dad was bringing a piece to the gallery, and Kallie asked me to go with them. As I came over to meet them, she was helping her dad lift some kind of machine into the trunk of their car. The machine resembled a rolling pin between two wooden boards.

  “It’s the wringer part of a wringer washer,” explained Kallie.

  I remembered the noise I’d heard when Kallie was moving in. “Is this the thing you guys were trying to start up in your driveway?”

  She looked surprised. “Yes. It’s my dad’s exhibit.”

  I frowned. “Why is he exhibiting an old washing machine?”

  “He fixed it up so it looks like a printer. The paper goes in there.” She pointed to a tray. “That wasn’t part of the wringer, my dad added it. That thing that looks like a rolling pin has ink and letters on the bottom. The paper goes under it. My mom built a mechanism so the paper goes in and out automatically. That’s what we were trying to start up, that mechanism.” She stepped back. “It symbolizes the changing yet unchanging nature of technology and society,” she said grandly.

  Weird, I thought.

  When we arrived at the art gallery, a man unlocked a side door for us and helped put the wringer on a trolley. We followed him and finally came to a raspberry-coloured room where other people were gathered and items resembling machines sat on platforms. When the people turned to greet Kallie’s dad, I realized that they were also artists and the machines were their work.