Extraordinary October. Diana Wagman
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I said. “I just want to go home.”
Actually home was the last place I wanted to go. Mom would be at work. Dad would be tinkering in his workshop, building another flipping birdhouse. He’d want me to come hold a stick or something. Still I could look up Body Lice and Mange online, although if I had those things why would the itch just go away the minute I got outside? Maybe I was allergic to school.
Our neighborhood was a “planned community” on the very eastern edge of Los Angeles. Every house was one of three designs in one of three color combinations. Every driveway led to the same two-car garage. The wide sidewalks, the appropriate landscaping, even the mailboxes were unexciting and humdrum on purpose, so that no one and nothing would stand out. Only we were different. Our house was Model Number Three, just the same as every other third house, but our yard was unusual. Unfortunately it wasn’t because of the flowers or a vegetable garden. It was the 24 birdhouses, all different shapes and sizes and colors, strategically placed on poles. Our front lawn was like a forest, except the trees had no bark, no branches and no leaves, and they were painted colors to match the birdhouses on top. It was my job to mow the lawn through that obstacle course, and I have to admit I had sort of given up. We weren’t supposed to water the grass because of the drought so it was mostly dead anyway. Dad didn’t care. He loved birds. Interestingly, so did I. I don’t know why I found the little feathered things so amazing, maybe it was our name Fetterhoff which is German for Feather-House, but my Dad and I used to trek deep into the woods with our binoculars and spend hours looking up. Of course, that was before he got too fat to trek. Now he built birdhouses and stared out the window and his cheeks were so plump, his blue eyes were barely visible.
Maybe that was why I didn’t like the birdhouses—aside from the fact they looked ridiculous all over our lawn—they just reminded me of the guy my dad used to be.
“Sure you feel okay?” Dad asked as we pulled into the garage. “Betty, uh, the nurse, said maybe you have a virus.”
It didn’t even register that he was on a first name basis with the nurse. “I’m fine,” I said as I got out of the car. “It seems to have passed.” I was half hoping he’d take me back to school, otherwise the day stretched ahead of me long and empty. Nothing to look forward to until the good TV started that night. Of course I had plenty of homework. Tons in fact. Second semester seniors should not have to write long papers about World War I or do pages of Trigonometry problems. School was so over for me.
I watched him struggle with the one step up from the garage into the house.
“Damn knees,” he panted.
“Dad,” I began.
“Don’t.” He held up a hand. His fingers were so fat he couldn’t wear his wedding ring anymore. “I talked to your mom this morning. I’m going to see someone.”
“A doctor? A nutritionist?”
“Hypnotist,” he said. “The best in the country. Helena Gold. People swear by her.”
I couldn’t help but sigh. Sounded like baloney to me.
“Not Overeaters Anonymous?” I asked for the umpteenth time. “A.A. worked for the drinking.”
“I don’t need more meetings, just a jumpstart.”
He needed to eat less and get up off his ass and move around, but he was waiting for a magic wand. I knew he’d never find it, I knew there was no such thing as magic. Hypnotism? Whatever. At least he was trying something new.
“Okay, great.” I acquiesced. “Will the hypnotist make you walk like a chicken?”
He laughed with me. “Your mom wants her to make me lose some weight and fall in love with housework.”
“Everybody’s happy.”
“It’s a win-win.” He waddled off toward the den: birdhouse central. He used to work in the garage, but standing up at his workbench got too difficult. Now he sat behind a card table with an old shower curtain spread over the floor. It was only bad when he started painting. The enamel really smelled. “Come see the latest,” he said. “It’s an open-fronted nest box for the robins.” He paused. “And I’d like to talk more about that itch of yours.”
“It’s gone.”
“Already? Really? I mean, good, but still—”
I knew he wanted company. “Let me put my stuff away.”
I took the stairs up to my room two at a time. It was odd how good I felt after feeling so terrible. Better than fine, better than not itching, I felt lighter, springier. I closed my door and turned to the full-length mirror on the back. I usually avoided my reflection, but I took a deep breath and studied my face. Same brown eyes. Same few freckles across my cheeks. Hair brown as always, but looking good at the moment, shiny, smooth. Perfect, I thought, when I’m home alone so no one can appreciate it. I didn’t see any sign of illness. I pulled up my shirt and examined my stomach for little creepy-crawly things or rashes or anything weird, but everything looked normal. Same as always.
I wasn’t ugly. My parents always told me I was beautiful, but I knew I wasn’t. I was absolutely ordinarily kind of pretty. Everything fit together on my face and sometimes, with make up and when I was really happy, I had a little glow. I was 5’5”, average height and weight. Some days I wanted to lose five pounds, but living with my dad kept my own sweet tooth under control. Mom said we were both healthier because of his condition. She’s a stick woman, really skinny. My dad said when he and my mom walked down the street together they looked like the number 10. Ha ha ha.
I could hear Dad down in the kitchen at that moment, rummaging for something to eat. I shuddered remembering the night of my tenth birthday party. I couldn’t sleep, so I came downstairs and saw my dad eating my leftover birthday cake right out of the big bakery box. I hid behind the door and watched him read the newspaper and eat bite after bite. He ate the whole thing and it was a lot. I was shocked. He was overweight then, but he wasn’t enormous. I know it’s a sickness and he can’t control himself so we just don’t have the stuff in the house anymore. I never wanted another birthday cake.
My cell phone rang. That was a surprise; almost no one ever called me. I had to dig it out of my backpack, way down in the bottom under the papers, old lunch bags, pencils, and crap. Had to be a grown up. Maybe Mom. Anyone else would text me.
“Hello?”
“October Fetterhoff?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Walker Smith. We saw each other at school today—in the hallway.”
I almost choked on my own saliva. Blue-eyes? He was calling me?
“Oh yeah,” I managed. “I was scratching.”
Stupid! I kicked the side of my bed. As if he needed reminding.
“Yes. Are you okay?”
“Perfect. Thanks. Right as rain.” Ugh. Now I was sounding like some fake British girl out of a Disney movie.
“Great. Well. I’m a psychology major at Hayden College and I’m going to be doing an experiment at your school and I wondered if you’d like to participate.”
“Really?”
“It won’t take much of your time.”
He wanted me! But would I have to wear a hospital gown, or be filmed sleeping? I didn’t want him to see me drooling. “What kind of experiment?” I asked.
“It’s about the effects of college placement on the late adolescent.”
“I haven’t been placed yet.” My applications were all in, but I wouldn’t hear for a month.
“Exactly. I have a list of questions about your thoughts about the process, your hopes and aspirations and