You dont know everything.., p.2
You Don't Know Everything, Jilly P!, page 2
“Yup! I can’t wait until she’s old enough that I can teach her how to cut vegetables and then I’ll be the head chef and she’ll be my sous chef.” Dad calls me his sous chef sometimes. It’s a fancy way to say assistant who cuts all the vegetables.
Aunt Alicia laughs. “Well, there are a couple of steps between birth and wielding a chopping knife, but glad to hear you’re ready to help teach her the ways of the kitchen.”
Jamila and Justin tumble into the house soon after, with Aunt Joanne a few steps behind them. Justin’s hair is shaved close to his head while Jamila’s fluffy curls surround her face. They have matching, toothy smiles. Aunt Joanne is white, with short reddish-brown hair and purple glasses. She flops into a kitchen chair while Justin and Jamila run around the table.
“How was the park?” Aunt Alicia asks.
“Great!” says Jamila. “I jumped off the swing while it was still swinging and I didn’t fall down!”
“We see-ed three sp-uirrels!” Justin says, poking three fingers into the air. Three is his favorite number, because he’s three years old.
“Perfect timing, hon.” Aunt Joanne puts her arm around Aunt Alicia’s waist and their lips touch briefly. Aunt Joanne is so tall and Aunt Alicia so short that Aunt Alicia standing up isn’t much taller than Aunt Joanne sitting down.
Aunt Alicia turns to Justin and Jamila. “Dinner’s ready, so go wash up!”
Soon we’re all enjoying the meal. Jamila scrunches her face at the salmon. Aunt Joanne makes her try it, but she spits it back out and focuses on the carrots. Justin eats everything on his plate and is finished before any of the rest of us. He loves food. And when Aunt Alicia mentions chocolate cream pie, he literally falls out of his chair with excitement.
“How you find the time to bake between your job, the kids, and me, I’ll never know,” says Aunt Joanne, her face radiating pleasure and pride.
“And I’ll never tell.” Aunt Alicia gives a dimpled grin.
Aunt Joanne turns to me. “On the days I’m supposed to cook, we usually get Shandong.”
“Unless it’s Monday,” Aunt Alicia says. “They’re closed on Mondays. Then we get whatever’s on special at Safeway.”
“I have many skills,” Aunt Joanne says proudly. “Cooking is not one of them. Thank you, Alicia, for gracing us with your talent.”
“Oh, this? It was nothing.” Aunt Alicia waves her hand in the air, but her eyes let us know that her modesty doesn’t run very deep.
“I wish I could have a baby sister every day, if it means food like this,” I say.
“It’s a good thing your dad’s such a great cook,” says Aunt Alicia. It’s true. Mom makes a good meal, but Dad’s the true chef in the family. “Your mom’s probably going to be exhausted with the baby.”
“She’s already been exhausted for the last two months.”
“I can only imagine,” says Aunt Joanne, turning to Aunt Alicia. “I don’t know how you did it.”
“So how long after Justin was born did things get back to normal?” I ask.
Aunt Joanne looks at Aunt Alicia.
Aunt Alicia looks at Aunt Joanne.
They both look at me. And then they start to laugh. At first, it’s a single chuckle from Aunt Joanne, mirrored by Aunt Alicia. Then Aunt Alicia lets out another burst, followed by Aunt Joanne, until they’re both howling. Justin and Jamila laugh along too, throwing their heads back and slapping at the table with their hands, even though I’m pretty sure neither of them have a clue what they’re laughing about.
“Yeah, so … I’m gonna go with never?” Aunt Joanne wipes at her eyes.
“I wouldn’t put it nearly that soon,” says Aunt Alicia.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” I say. “It’ll never be the same again.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Jillybean.” Aunt Alicia picks up her fork and digs into her salmon.
When we’re done with dinner and dessert, I want to go back to the hospital to see my Emma, with her teeny tiny fingers and her squishy little face. I miss Mom and Dad too, and I text Dad to ask him to pick me up for a morning visit, but he says that he will pick me up at school for an afternoon visit, and that they will be home for good on Tuesday, so I can see them all I want then. I wonder whether Emma will already look different. Maybe a little less wrinkly.
I pull Hearts & Arrows out of my bag and flop onto the couch. Hearts & Arrows is the second Magically Mysterious Vidalia novel. I already read it when it came out two months ago, but the third book, Roses & Thorns, isn’t going to be released until next year, and I can’t wait that long for more. The cover has smooth silver words with bumpy mountains in the background. I love to trace the letters with my finger. H-e-a-r-t-s.
Hearts & Arrows is seriously the greatest book I have ever read. It’s even better than Swords & Secrets, the first book in the series, which was my favorite book of all time until I read Hearts & Arrows. By the end of Roses & Thorns, Gwenella the half troll is going to glow solid green, I just know it.
“Didn’t you just finish that book?” Aunt Alicia asks, sitting next to me with her own thick volume.
“Yeah.”
“You do know other books exist, right?”
“Yeah, but this one’s so good! I mean, Gwenella is the best!”
I end up reading the same paragraph over and over. I sped through these pages last time, but now that I know what’s going to happen, this part is a little slow. I mean, it’s still Vidalia, so it’s still good, but it’s not as great as other parts of the book. And right now, I’ve got baby on the mind too much to concentrate. I need to talk to someone.
Aunt Alicia is deep in her book. Aunt Joanne is running a bath for Justin and getting Jamila ready for bed. Mom and Dad are at the hospital. So I log on to De La Court and open Young Vidalians.
JillyinP has entered the chat.
Hi, JillyinP. profoundinoaktown is already here. Pull up a chair (or spin yourself a web, if you’re a Great Spider) and join in.
JillyinP: where the heck is everybody?
profoundinoaktown: a couple people just logged off
profoundinoaktown: the east coast people are probably asleep already
JillyinP: Oh right. I’m not usually on this late
profoundinoaktown: where were you today? you’re always here on sundays
JillyinP: I was at the hospital!!!
profoundinoaktown: oh, that sucks
JillyinP: No, it’s good. My baby sister was born
profoundinoaktown: in that case congratulations
JillyinP: Her name’s Emma and she’s tiny and adorable and I got to hold her
profoundinoaktown: cool
JillyinP: But now I’m at my aunts and I’m bored
profoundinoaktown: i’m bored too. that’s why i was here even though no one else was
JillyinP: I mean I love my aunts and all, but I want to be back with my parents and Emma
JillyinP: I hate to complain
profoundinoaktown: no, go ahead, you should. today is officially complaint day. what you got?
JillyinP: no, it’s your turn
profoundinoaktown: ok. how about this? my mom had it out with me because i didn’t make my bed before i left for school last monday
JillyinP: Ugh. Making the bed it the worst. I mean, I’m just going to have to unmake it to get back in it later.
profoundinoaktown: right? i already gave the big bedroom to my sisters because i stay at school during the week. i should be able to keep my room the way i want it. but she’s all upset because my bed is going to sit unmade for a couple of days
JillyinP: the horror!
profoundinoaktown: no kidding
JillyinP: Do your parents complain about shoes on the furniture?
profoundinoaktown: we’re not even allowed to wear them in the house
JillyinP: What about when you’re in the middle of something important and they make you stop so you can help them move a table or something?
profoundinoaktown: but if you ask them to help you, it’s all about how you’re interrupting and you can just wait
JillyinP: it’s the worst!
profoundinoaktown: no, the worst is when your parents announce that the whole family’s going out and they don’t give you any warning at all and you just have to stop what you’re doing because they’re the parents and they say so
JillyinP: the words “because I said so” should be outlawed
JillyinP: so are we just complaining about parents here?
profoundinoaktown: heck no
JillyinP: because I want to give a shout-in to people who say that Vidalia sounds interesting but books take too long to read, so they’ll just wait for the movies
profoundinoaktown: i hate those people!
profoundinoaktown: and what’s a shout-in?
JillyinP: the opposite of a shout-out
profoundinoaktown: of course! and i’m going to give a shout-in to people who read the books but still suck anyway. *cough* elvengrl *cough*
JillyinP: the best thing about turning fourteen is that we can go to other chat rooms and ElvenGrl won’t be there for at least a year
profoundinoaktown: she’s 11?
JillyinP: yeah, she was telling us one day how proud she is of her username because it looks like the word eleven. Someone asked what she’s going to do when she turns 12 and she had no answer
profoundinoaktown: i hate her
JillyinP: me too
profoundinoaktown: you know what else i hate? pickles. it’s bad enough when they put them on the side of your plate at a diner and you lose a couple of potato chips. but when they put it on a burger it ruins the whole meal. if i wanted sour veggies, i would have asked for them. go ahead and leave off the rotten lettuce while you’re at it
JillyinP: well there you have it. everything sucks but lollipops
profoundinoaktown: true story. you know what else sucks?
JillyinP: what’s that?
profoundinoaktown: i gotta go
JillyinP: That does suck. It was fun chatting with you without, you know, a lot of people here
profoundinoaktown: yeah it was. good night j
JillyinP: g’night
profoundinoaktown has left the chat.
I’m hungry again before bed, so I head to the kitchen to make myself a JP PB&J. PB&J stands for peanut butter and jelly, and JP stands for me, Jillian Pirillo. Aunt Alicia and Aunt Joanne don’t have any berry jelly, only apricot jam, but it’ll have to do. I use my patented technique. Someday, I’ll pass it on to Emma.
I imagine telling her, “First, you take out a slice of bread. Whole wheat’s okay, but no seeds or nuts or anything. Then you spread creamy peanut butter on half.”
I picture her looking up at me with eager eyes. “The left half or the right half?”
“The left,” I say.
“Okay.” Then she asks, “Which one’s my left?”
I point and she attacks the bread with a peanut-butter-laden knife. The bread is a little ragged by the time she’s done, and she missed a corner, but I don’t say anything. This is only her first JP PB&J. I must’ve made a thousand.
I talk her through the next steps. “Put one tablespoon of jelly—I recommend mixed berry—in the middle of the other half, like this.” I drop a dollop, spread it out, and hand the spoon to Emma for her to do the same. “Then you lay another slice of bread on top. Make sure it’s not the end slice.” End slices are for desperate times.
I cut my sandwich right down the peanut butter–jelly border. Some of the peanut butter mixes with some of the jelly in the middle, but that’s part of the charm, which is what you’re supposed to say when homemade food isn’t perfect.
I imagine Emma picking up her knife and doing a pretty good job cutting her sandwich, except she pushes a little too hard at the end and jelly squirts out the side.
“And there you have it, a perfect JP PB&J!” I proclaim. (Well, mine is anyway, and hers isn’t too bad for a first try.) “Now, for the taste test!”
We pick up the peanut butter sides of our sandwiches and toast, “TO PEANUT BUTTER!” We each take a large bite. The proper way to eat a JP PB&J is to alternate bites from either side, so we pick up the other sides of our sandwiches and toast once more, “TO JELLY!”
I’m going to make the best big sister ever.
Macy and I live two blocks apart at the top of Oakland Avenue in Piedmont, California. I think it’s funny that Oakland Avenue is in the city of Piedmont, when the city of Piedmont itself is inside the city of Oakland. I think they should rename the state of California to Piedmont, so that people could live on Oakland in Piedmont in Oakland in Piedmont. Dad says not to hold my breath for that one.
Back in elementary school, Macy and I used to take the bus home. The engine would diesel its way up the hill and drop us each off on the corner of our blocks. Now that we go to Piedmont Middle School, we have to make the trek ourselves. (I estimate that it’s roughly a hundred-degree incline, but Macy says I’m not very good with angles.) By the time I reach my house, I can see bits of Oakland peeking between the trees if I turn around, and even San Francisco, if it’s not too foggy.
I pass the house with grapevines and two yellow VW Bugs in the driveway, the yard with a dozen bird feeders and another dozen stone turtles, and the three houses in a row that got together to make a giant stepped succulent garden. Our yellow house greets me with its second-floor windows that look like giant, sleepy eyes. The level walkway to our front door always feels weird after the climb, like I am a mighty troll whose stride carries me across valleys.
Tufts of yellow grass scatter the dirt between the rocks—it’s been another year of drought, but even when there isn’t a ban, we never water the grass. Dad says water is a precious commodity and should only be used for food-bearing plants. So the lemon tree gets plenty of water, but the rest of the lawn is yellow. Mom says that maybe next year we’ll replace the lawn with native, drought-resistant species. Dad says she’s been saying that since they bought the place.
The door is locked, which is unexpected. Mom, Dad, and Emma were supposed to leave the hospital by noon. Even more unexpected, the lights are off inside and the house is empty.
I check my phone and there’s a voice mail from Dad. Not a text, like he usually sends, but an actual voice mail. He only calls if there’s really good news or really bad news, and I already know the really good news. I tap the message icon on my screen.
“Jilly—it’s Dad. We’re held up here a little later than we expected. [brief, awkward chuckle] Everything’s fine. Just [pause] you know, running a few tests to make sure Emma’s shipshape before they ship us out. [deep breath] Order from Paulie’s for dinner—you know where the cash is. Get breadsticks. We’ll be home soon. Love you. [shuffling and scuffling] [Click]”
I order a pepperoni-and-mushroom pie—the official pizza of the Pirillo household—breadsticks, and throw in an order of soda. Then I pull out my social studies textbook and read about Aztec cities and agriculture.
The pizza arrives before Mom, Dad, and Emma get home, and the smell fills the house. I’m about to cave and eat a slice when I hear the car pull into the driveway. I’m all ready to jump into Dad’s arms, but the door doesn’t swing open like yesterday, and Dad doesn’t leap inside.
Instead, he holds the door for Mom and follows her in, toting Emma in her car seat. Mom’s hair is pulled back into a ponytail, her eyes are red, and her face is as pink and splotchy as Emma’s. She looks like breathing is taking a lot of her concentration. She heads right to the couch.
“Welcome home, Emma,” Dad says, more quietly than I would have expected. He sets Emma’s car seat down next to the couch.
“What happened?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
Dad opens his mouth a few times before speaking. “She failed the hearing test.” Dad takes a deep breath. “Nothing’s certain yet, but it looks like Emma has a problem with her ears.”
“Might have,” Mom corrects him.
“Might have a problem with her ears.”
“Is she Deaf?” I ask.
Like Profound? I think.
Dad shakes his head. “It’s too early to say.” He drops onto the couch next to Mom and stares at the television. It isn’t even on.
The pizza’s still in the kitchen, and I’m still hungry, but Mom and Dad don’t look like they’re budging, so I bring in the pie and some plates and put them on top of Mount Coffee Table. I call it that because of the papers, magazines, and cardboard packing piled high. Sometimes there are even avalanches. I return to the kitchen for soda and cups. When I get back to the living room, the pizza box is still closed, so I load two slices of pizza onto plates, put them in front of Mom and Dad, and hand Mom the remote.
“Thanks, Jilly,” Mom says as she turns on an old ’80s game show we like to watch reruns of, while Dad pours soda for Mom and himself.
I get myself a slice and a cup of soda and sit on the floor by Emma, who’s sleeping. She looks like a scrunchy little ball. I lean in close and listen to her tiny, even breaths. She smells slightly sweet. I can’t see anything wrong, around her ears or anywhere else. She looks perfect to me.
Perfect? Did I really say that tiny monster was perfect? I take it back. Profound was right about babies: They cry, they yell, they scream, they shriek, they squeal. And even if they may have a hearing problem, that doesn’t make them any less loud. Every once in a while, they eat until they fall asleep. Then they poop in their diaper, which wakes them up, and they start all over again.
And that’s why I’m awake and ready for breakfast at five thirty on Friday morning. Dad is pressing buttons on the microwave when I enter the kitchen. He needs to be at the auto shop early so that other people can drop off their cars and complaints before they go to work. Mom and Emma are in bed together, so it’s just Dad and me.
Without needing to ask, he pulls two extra links of sausage out of the freezer and adds them to the three ready to be zapped. I pull out two bowls, pour us each a serving of Raisin Bran, and place the milk on the table.
“How was your night, Jilly?”
“Ugh! That little beast screamed all night long.”
