Terrible Terrel Read online

  But I squash all that stuff down: we’ve got a job to do!

  “Okay,” I say, taking charge. As soon as I say this, I finally feel like my old self. “We’ll meet at Jerzey Mae’s house tomorrow afternoon.” My life is finally back on track. I take an enormous bite of pizza and swallow it, hoping I can keep the voice in my head quiet for just a little while longer.

  Wednesday after school, Dad drops me off at the triplets’ house. They live in a fancy house in a part of Harlem called Strivers’ Row. Their dad lets me in. He’s a college professor and always looks like he’s working out some math problem in his head, even though he teaches African Studies.

  He stares at me for a moment. I wait for him to stop thinking and realize that I’m standing there, which he eventually does. “Oh, hello, Terrel,” he says. “Go on up—the girls are in Jerzey Mae’s room.” He drifts back into his study as I clomp up the thickly carpeted stairs.

  I could have guessed that everyone would be in Jerzey Mae’s room. JoAnn’s room is strewn with clothes and sports equipment, so you can barely walk across the floor without tripping. It’s no wonder she ended up with a cast on her leg. Jessica’s room is tidy, but it’s full of animals, like Shakespeare the rat and Edgar the mynah bird. Meeting in there is like trying to meet in the middle of a zoo.

  Jerzey’s room is as tidy and pink as Jerzey Mae’s clothes. JoAnn and Al are sprawled on the floor, and Jessica and Brenda are sitting on the pink canopied bed. Epatha is digging through Jerzey Mae’s closet, accidentally knocking things off hangers as she goes through the clothes. Jerzey Mae looks restless, as if it were taking every last ounce of restraint she had not to jump up and stop her.

  Epatha holds up a pink sweater and cocks her eyebrow at it. “Girlfriend, you gotta get off this pink kick,” she says. “Pink is nice, claro, of course. But why not try purple? Or green? Or blue? Or all three, like me?” She twirls around like a fashion model and strikes a dramatic pose.

  “I like pink,” Jerzey Mae says.

  Epatha throws her hands up in the air. “I give up. Hey, T.!” she says, noticing me. “Ready for Operation Dump Marjory?”

  “You bet I am,” I say.

  We get to work. With seven of us, there is a lot of arguing about what should go into the letter.

  “Start off with My dearest Marjory,” says Epatha. “That’s how Papa starts his letters to mi madre. I snuck a peek at one once before Mama grabbed it away.”

  “Why does your dad call your mom Marjory?” JoAnn asks. “Isn’t her name Maria?”

  Epatha hits her with one of Jerzey Mae’s sweaters.

  “Come on, guys,” I say. “It’s what we say next that’s important.”

  “Just write, I can’t go out with you anymore,” says JoAnn. “Get to the point. Why pussyfoot around?”

  Jessica disagrees. “The letter’s going to make her sad. We should at least say some nice stuff about her.”

  Brenda perks up. “She knew quite a bit about blood circulation,” she says.

  “I was thinking more like a compliment about her looks,” Jessica says.

  Jerzey Mae, who is taking dictation, puts down her pink pencil to think. “In romance books, the man is always telling the woman that her eyes are limpid pools.”

  None of us knows what limpid pools are, but it sounds good, so we decide to put it in.

  Epatha paces around the room. “Oh! Her shoes were fabulosos, too. I think they were Kenneth Cole.”

  Jerzey Mae scribbles furiously.

  “You need to say she shouldn’t try to get in touch with him,” Al says. “If she calls up to ask why he sent the letter, this whole plan’s going to fall apart.”

  “Good idea,” I say.

  “She’ll see him at ballet when she’s picking up Tiara Girl,” Epatha says.

  We fall silent. “Well, we’ll just tell her to ignore him,” I say.

  “Because talking to her would be too painful!” Epatha says triumphantly. “It would be a reminder of their ill-fated love.”

  “…Ill…fated.…love…” Jerzey murmurs as she writes.

  “How should we end it?” I ask. “It should be businesslike. It can’t be too mushy, because he’s breaking up with her.”

  Jessica jumps up. “I just saw a letter on Dad’s desk. He’s sending it to his publisher. That should be businesslike enough.” She runs down to the study and returns with a sheet of paper, which she gives to Jerzey Mae to copy.

  After a long discussion, we finally have a draft that includes everyone’s ideas. “Read it back to us, Jerzey Mae,” I say.

  Jerzey Mae picks up the letter, clears her throat, and recites what she’s written.

  My dearest Marjory,

  Your eyes are limpid pools, and you know a lot about the way the human heart and blood vessels function. Also, your Kenneth Cole shoes are very nice.

  I can’t go out with you anymore. Please do not call me. Also do not talk to me at ballet, because it would be a painful reminder of our ill-fated love.

  Thank you for your time and consideration.

  Best regards,

  Mr. Liu

  “He’s not going to sign a letter to his girlfriend ‘Mr. Liu,’ you goofball!” says JoAnn.

  Jerzey Mae glares at her.

  “His name’s Bruce,” I say quickly. “That’s really good, Jerzey Mae.”

  Jerzey Mae says she’ll print out the letter on her good stationery that night. I pull an envelope with Marjory’s address written on it out of my backpack. “It’s already stamped,” I say. “So you can just stick it in a mailbox when you’re done.”

  “How did you find out where she lives?” asks Brenda with interest. “Did you follow her home or something?”

  I shake my head. “I looked in Dad’s address book when he was in the shower.” I hand Jerzey Mae the envelope. She tucks it into her desk.

  “Well,” Epatha says, “that was a good afternoon’s work.”

  “Thanks, you guys,” I say. “This should do the trick.”

  Chapter 15

  The next day, I think about the letter every once in a while. If Jerzey Mae mails it today, it should definitely get to Marjory’s by tomorrow, making Friday the best day ever—Grocery Shopping Day and No More Marjory Day. Maybe Marjory will be so mad that she’ll make Tiara Girl take ballet classes somewhere else, because then Marjory won’t have to run into Dad. That would be amazing. I wonder if it’s too much to hope for?

  Time drags on Thursday night. We get our mail around three in the afternoon, so if Marjory gets hers about then, she’ll probably have the letter in—I count on my fingers—twenty hours…nineteen hours and fifty-five minutes…nineteen hours and fifty minutes…

  Finally I realize that my staring at the clock isn’t going to make the time pass any faster, so I go into Cheng’s room. He’s building a model airplane. “Want to help?” he says.

  I hold the plastic parts together as he carefully applies glue. I like hanging out with Cheng. Even though he’s my brother, he doesn’t pick on me or talk down to me. I think I enjoy times like this the best: when we’re working on something together and not even talking.

  I hear something. It sounds like music. Cheng looks up from his desk and smiles.

  “Hear that?” he asks.

  I nod. “What is it?”

  “Dad. Who do you think?” He focuses on the plane again and applies another layer of glue. “He’s started singing again. Haven’t you noticed?”

  I hadn’t. I guess I never paid attention. “I don’t remember him ever singing,” I say.

  Cheng points his desk light at the plane so he can see it better. “You don’t?” He delicately brushes glue onto a tiny part, then gently puts it into place on the tip of the right wing. “He sang all the time when I was little. He was even in a community opera production.”

  “Really?” I say. It’s hard to imagine my dad in an opera.

  Cheng nods. “After Mom died, he stopped singing. I almost forgot that he sang at all, un
til I heard him a few days ago.” He smiles. “I’m really glad he’s dating Marjory. He seems a lot happier. Have you noticed?”

  I feel prickly and uncomfortable. “Not really,” I say. This is mostly true. I’ve been so wrapped up in wanting to get Marjory out of our lives that I haven’t really noticed how Dad’s been acting.

  I think about the letter. “Maybe they’ll break up,” I say casually. “You never can tell what might happen.”

  Cheng lets go of the piece, and watches to make sure it stays in place. “I hope not,” he says. “Losing Mom was really hard on all of us, but especially on him. I think he’s been really lonely since she passed away.”

  “Lonely?” I say. “How can he be lonely? He has six kids! What’s wrong with us?”

  Cheng’s eyes are tender. “Nothing’s wrong with us, T. You know Dad loves us a lot. Look how hard he works to take care of us. But sometimes family isn’t enough. You have Dad and Danny and Tai and Edward and me and Waylon, but what would your life be like without your ballet friends?”

  I think of Epatha, with her crazy clothes, always speaking three different languages; Brenda, talking backward and carrying around all those medical books; Al, who just moved here last summer but is already a good friend; Jerzey Mae, who’s not quite as fussy about stuff as she used to be; JoAnn, with her baseball caps and roomful of sports stuff; Jessica, with her poetry and her animals. What would my life be like without them?

  Lonely.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Cheng asks.

  I turn around at his door. “I gotta do something,” I say.

  I go back into my room and shut the door so I can’t hear Dad singing. I feel low and mean. Suddenly I remember Tiara Girl’s friend saying Marjory looked happy, and Tiara Girl replying, “I don’t care if my aunt’s happy!” in a really ugly voice.

  I wanted Dad and Marjory to break up because I wanted things to be easier for me. I didn’t think about Dad’s feelings at all. I’m as bad as Tiara Girl. Actually, I’m worse. At least Tiara Girl didn’t actually try to break Marjory and Dad up.

  I have a great dad, and I’ve just ruined his life. I really am Terrible Terrel.

  I run over to my backpack, dig out my phone, and dial. After a few rings, Jerzey Mae picks up.

  “Did you mail that letter?” I ask. My heart is pounding. Maybe it’s not too late.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, sounding pleased with herself. “I put it in the mailbox on the way to school today. Marjory should definitely have the letter tomorrow.”

  “Oh, man,” I say.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  Clearly there’s only one thing to do. I’ve got to get that letter back before Marjory sees it.

  Chapter 16

  I run back into Cheng’s room, where he’s gluing a wing flap on a model airplane’s left wing. “You have to help me,” I say.

  “With your homework? Sure,” he says. “Just let me finish sticking this on.”

  “No!” I say. My voice sounds strained and a little bit panicky.

  Cheng looks up at me in alarm. “What is it, T.? Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. How much should I tell him? In the last ten minutes I’ve gone from thinking I’m a genius to thinking I’m the worst kid in the world. Cheng isn’t mean and horrible like I am. I can’t bring myself to tell him what I’ve done.

  “Can you take me somewhere tomorrow after school?” I say.

  “What’s going on, Terrel?” Cheng asks.

  “Please don’t ask me any questions, okay?” I realize with alarm that I might start crying, and bite my lip hard to stop myself.

  Cheng is clearly surprised to see me out of control like this. He closes his eyes tightly, as if he were wrestling with my request, but finally says, “Okay, T. No questions, as long as you promise me you’re not going to do something stupid.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “I’m trying to undo something stupid I already did.”

  He nods. “All right. I’ll pick you up after school tomorrow, and we can go where you want. But I’m staying with you.”

  I take a deep breath. Now I just have to hope we can get to the letter before Marjory does.

  * * *

  Cheng is waiting for me outside after school the next day. It’s clear but really cold. When I breathe in, my nostrils stick together. When I breathe out, a white cloud forms in front of my face. I pull up my jacket hood and stamp my feet; my toes are already turning into blocks of ice, and I’ve only been outside thirty seconds.

  “Where are we going?” Cheng asks.

  I show him the address. Luckily, Marjory lives only about fifteen blocks away. We walk quickly and don’t talk. I wonder how we’re going to get the letter back once we’re there. Our mailbox is in the lobby of our building. You need a key to get inside the lobby, and you need a key to open the mailbox. I brought a bobby pin because I saw an old movie where someone used a bobby pin to pick a lock. But I’m thinking Cheng isn’t going to keep his no-questions promise if I start breaking into a building.

  Maybe we’ll get there before the mail carrier. “If you ask a mailman for a letter you didn’t mean to send, does he give it back to you?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so, T.,” Cheng says. “That’s tampering with the mail. It’s against the law.”

  Great. I wonder if they throw eight-year-olds in jail. A feeling of desperation crawls up from my stomach into my throat.

  The one good thing is that it’s early, so Marjory’s probably still at work. I just have to hope that she has one of those mail slots in her door. If she does, maybe I can stick my hand in and fish the letter out.

  Finally we turn onto Marjory’s street. I check the numbers as we go.

  “There it is,” Cheng says. “Number forty-seven.”

  Marjory’s house is one of those old brownstones. And I’m relieved to see that there is a mail slot in the door. It even looks pretty wide; I’ll bet my hand will fit. And, best of all, I see a mail carrier at the end of the next block. She must have delivered Marjory’s mail just a few minutes ago.

  I’m flooded with happiness. Just one more minute and this will all be over. I won’t be Terrible Terrel anymore; I’ll just be a normal kid whose dad is dating some lady. It could be a lot worse.

  I run up the steps, kneel down, and push up my jacket sleeve so I can stick my hand in the mail slot.

  That’s when the door opens.

  It’s Marjory.

  Chapter 17

  During our science lesson at school, we talked about prey animals. Those are the animals that other animals hunt. Instead of running away from danger, some prey animals freeze, in hopes that the hunter animal won’t notice them. That seemed really stupid to me until just this very moment. Because when Marjory says hello, I automatically freeze. I don’t even breathe. I just crouch down there by her door, as if somehow she won’t see me, even though I’m wearing a bright orange coat and a pink scarf.

  “Hello, Terrel,” she says. “Are you looking for this, by any chance?”

  She holds out a letter. I recognize Jerzey’s small, neat handwriting.

  The letter is on pink stationery.

  Pink! How could Jerzey Mae have used pink stationery? Of course Marjory must have known it wasn’t from my dad. I didn’t have to drag Cheng down here or anything. I didn’t “save” Dad’s relationship after all. Instead, I just got myself into trouble.

  I slowly stand up.

  “Would you like to come in?” she asks. “Is that one of your brothers out there?”

  Cheng is hiding behind a tree, but his coat’s kind of puffy, so it sticks out. He slowly appears.

  “You come in, too,” she says.

  We walk into Marjory’s house. It feels warm and homey. The walls are painted a buttery yellow, and a carpet blanketed with yellow roses covers the living room floor. It’s not a fancy house, just a nice one.

  “I think
you and I should have a little talk,” she says to me. “Cheng, why don’t you hang out in my office? I’ve got a few games on my computer if you’re interested. It’s the room all the way down on the right.” She points down the hall.

  He looks at me with concern, reluctant to leave me, but what choice does he have? He heads toward her office.

  Marjory turns to me. “Want something to drink?”

  I shake my head. She doesn’t look mad, but some people don’t look mad even when they are. They just look normal until they start screaming or throwing things at you. I’m really hoping Marjory isn’t one of those people.

  “Sit down, Terrel,” she says, motioning to the couch. I sit down and sink back into the cushions, which are soft and comfortable.

  “You look like you’re freezing,” says Marjory, which I am. She takes an orange blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over me, then sits in a yellow armchair beside the couch.

  “So. Want to tell me about that letter?” she asks. Her voice is gentle.

  I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Not really.”

  She chuckles. “Maybe I should try that again. Why did you write the letter? I assume it was you who wrote it.”

  I suppose I could get off on a technicality here and say I didn’t, since Jerzey Mae actually did the writing. But I say, “Yeah, I wrote it.” I shift on the couch. “Are you going to tell my dad?”

  She seems to be evaluating this. “I might not need to do that,” she says. “Maybe we can keep it just between us girls.”

  I slowly let out the big breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  She continues. “But we do need to talk about this, Terrel. Are you unhappy that your dad and I are going out?”

  I don’t know how to answer this. I’m not as unhappy as I was a few days ago. Now I get it that Dad needs a friend who’s not one of us kids. But the idea of some woman coming in and taking over the grocery shopping and maybe even taking over my household binder still makes me feel mad and helpless.