“Oh,” my Forever Dad says. “I almost forgot. I was talking with Grammy and Granddad. They asked if you might want to spend a few hours at their house on Saturday while your mom and I go somewhere. What do you think of that?”
“I can’t sleep over on Saturday, November 20th,” I say. The man in the leather Patriots jacket looks up at the ceiling. “Or on Friday, November 19th. Because on Saturday I’m going to the park to meet Rick and on Friday I need to get ready.”
“Good job remembering,” my Forever Dad says. “But I meant this Saturday, the 13th. And how do you feel about going to meet Rick, since you mentioned it?”
“I think it’s a great idea,” I say.
“Good. Now, let’s get you back out on the court! You sure do have some super-duper basketball moves.”
I go back to the court and when I get there Ms. Dana hands me a ball and tells me to pass it to Alison Hill. I look back at the bleachers. My Forever Dad is talking to the man in the leather Patriots jacket again. I still don’t know who he is but I feel different when I look at him. He makes me want to hiss.
43
EXACTLY 6:44 IN THE MORNING,
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 12TH
I am at the Blue House even though I should be at school. I have to miss school today so I can go to the interview. With my Forever Dad. We are leaving right after breakfast.
I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and pee and then I check the whiteboard. It is on the wall next to the kitchen on the way into the dining room. My Forever Dad put the whiteboard up when he stopped working at school for the rest of the year to take care of me. He said the whiteboard helps me order my day and not be so anxious. Every day he writes on it what we’re going to do. Today the whiteboard says Go to Wagon Hill and then Go to the interview and then Out for lunch and then Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.
Which is from a nursery rhyme.
We are going to Wagon Hill to get some exercise. Exercise makes us feel better, he always says. “And today I need you feeling really great so that we can get through the interview.”
I go to the table and sit down at my spot. Next to my milk are two pieces of toast and some vanilla yogurt and a bowl with nine grapes. “Where will we go at Wagon Hill?” I ask. I don’t like going to Wagon Hill because we always go for walks there. There are lots and lots of different paths to walk on and they all join up together so the walk never ends until someone says It’s time to go home but I never know when that will be.
“Oh, probably just for a little walk. Don’t worry—we have to be back to the car by nine-thirty in order to be on time for the interview, so we’ll aim to be back at the parking lot by then.”
I like that my Forever Dad helps me know when we’ll do things. He makes me feel calm and safe. Almost like Michael Jackson.
When we get to Wagon Hill we park the car and walk up out of the parking lot. There are big open fields everywhere with a river far away through the trees and an old wagon up at the top. There are paths that lead through the fields. In the summer the grass in the fields is so tall that the paths are like a maze. Someone cuts them out with a giant lawn mower.
“Do you want to walk to the river, or to see the wagon?” my Forever Dad says. He is wearing his green fall jacket and breathing heavy because we are walking.
So I say, “If we go to the river can we go swimming?”
“Ginny, it’s a warm day for November,” he says, “but it’s still much too cold to go swimming.”
So I say, “If we go to the wagon can we go for a ride in it?”
He says no again because the wagon is an antique and there aren’t any horses.
So then I say, “Well how can I know where I want to go if there’s nothing fun to do in either direction?”
“It’s not about having fun today, Forever Girl,” he says. “It’s about getting some exercise.” He stops and leans against a big rock. “Just hold on a minute.”
I look at my watch. He makes a breathing sound.
“This is really tedious,” I say.
My Forever Dad laughs. And stands up again. “No, it isn’t,” he says. “I like spending time with you, you know. We haven’t really been able to do that since the summer. Let’s go up to the wagon. It’s a shorter distance.”
It gets windier as we walk up the hill. I have my red windbreaker on and I am glad. Then we get to the wagon. It is painted bright green. There are three other people there. Their jackets are open enough so that I can see what they’re wearing. None of them are wearing Michael Jackson shirts.
My Forever Dad sits down on a bench and leans forward with his arms on his knees. I ask if I can climb into the wagon. He says yes. So I climb up into the back. The floor of the wagon is made of six long boards. It looks like a place where Michael Jackson could perform so I start snapping the fingers of my right hand down next to my right leg. One, two, three, four. Then I bend my left knee and start moving my chin up and down.
I sing.
I sing “Billie Jean” in a low soft voice and when I get to the chorus I get louder and louder. The wind is blowing and my hair is blowing back. I look out over the fields and at the sky and sing just like Michael Jackson does. I say “Ooh-hoo!” and “Ow!” in all the right places.
Then I sing “Bad.”
And “Beat It.”
I do all the spins and stand on my tippy-toes. When I finish I see the three people who aren’t wearing Michael Jackson shirts. They are standing below me on the ground looking up. Their mouths are open. They have funny looks on their faces but then one of them starts clapping and the other two join in.
I see my Forever Dad too. He is standing next to one of the wagon wheels. I don’t remember seeing him move there. “That was great, Ginny, but it’s time to get down. We have to go,” he says.
I stomp my foot and make a frowning face. “I don’t want to,” I say. “I want to do another number.”
“Ginny, it’s time. Get down now,” he says.
“I don’t want to!” I say louder.
I am escalating the situation. Patrice says I do that because it makes me feel in control. I put my face in the wind and let my hair blow back again. I put my hand up in it just like Michael Jackson does and smooth it back.
The three people smile at my Forever Dad and turn away. It is like my audience is leaving so I stomp my foot loud against the boards of the floor. A lady looks back but then turns away again and keeps walking.
“Ginny, please,” my Forever Dad says. He puts his hand on his chest and looks away and takes a deep breath. “I can’t get upset about this. I’m not supposed to yell or get too excited. Just come down. Come down now. Get down and we’ll take a walk. Then we can go to the interview and get some lunch. You can pick the place.”
I climb down.
I like my Forever Dad a lot because he’s nice. Not as nice as Michael Jackson. Plus he really can’t dance. Or sing. But he’s still pretty okay.
44
EXACTLY 10:37 AT NIGHT,