Goodbye Mr. Terupt Page 2

  “A jellyfish sting results in tiny barbs being left in the area of contact,” he began. “It’s important not to rub or itch the irritation because that can cause the barbs to release more venom and even get lodged into the skin, making it worse. The best approach is vinegar, or if that isn’t readily available, you can try dousing the area with ocean water, but not freshwater and definitely not urine, which is a common misconception.”

  Luke continued explaining, but we were done listening. He should’ve stopped at the vinegar, because he’d just added insult to injury. Lexie’s smile vanished and was replaced by a fierce death stare that she shot at Peter. In fact, she looked ready to kill him. Lexie and Peter had one of those on again–off again relationships, but honestly, I didn’t know if they’d ever make it back to on again after this fiasco. I often wondered the same thing about Mom and Dad. Would Mom try again with Dad? Only time would tell—just as it would for Peter and Lexie.

  “It’s all a matter of osmosis,” Luke continued.

  “Oh, shut up,” Peter growled. “You don’t know everything.” He kicked sand at Luke and stormed away.

  Poor Luke didn’t know what to make of Peter’s sudden outburst. He was lost. “But I do know,” he told us.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Jeffrey said, leaving it at that. There was too much to explain.

  I helped Danielle and Anna get Lexie to her feet. We did our best to brush the sand off her back, but that wasn’t the main issue: she also had sand in her hair. We made Lexie take her pony out and tip her head down and shake, which turned out to be largely ineffective. She needed a shower, that’s all there was to it, but we still assured her she looked fine. It didn’t matter that we were stretching the truth because the real problem was in the fact that “fine” would never cut it for Lexie. She was miserable.

  “I swear, I’m going to get even with him,” she promised us, glaring at Peter in the distance. “And this time I’m not going to play nice.”

  Honestly, those two were made for each other. I glanced at Danielle and Anna and shrugged. Here we go again, I thought. Danielle better start praying for Peter now.

  After Lexie put her hair back in a pony, we went to retrieve our shoes. We found Peter and walked around aimlessly. That jellyfish hadn’t only stung Lexie; it had sucked the life out of our party. It seemed like our fun was finished, but then we spotted something that made us smile again—Mr. and Mrs. Terupt, and little baby Hope.

  “We wondered if we’d see any of you here,” Mrs. Terupt said.

  “Are you enjoying the festival?” Mr. Terupt asked.

  “Yes! It’s been great,” Luke exclaimed. “Well, except for—”

  “We’ve had a grand time,” I interjected. We didn’t need to tell Mr. Terupt everything. Unbeknownst to us, that sentiment went both ways. “Hi, Hope,” I whispered, bending lower and peeking inside her stroller. Lexie and Danielle and Anna crowded around to see her too.

  “Where are you headed?” Jeffrey asked Mr. Terupt.

  “We’re taking Hope to see the puppet show they’re having on center stage.”

  “Oh, I forgot about that. My parents mentioned taking Asher to that. It’s supposed to be good.”

  “That’s what we’ve heard,” Mrs. Terupt agreed.

  “Mr. T, I hate to burst your bubble, but isn’t Hope a bit young to appreciate any of that?” Peter asked.

  “Babies are sponges, Peter. Hope might not be ready to take in everything, but she’ll soak up some of it.”

  “Mr. T first began reading to Hope when she was still in my belly,” Mrs. Terupt said.

  Peter went bug-eyes. “Sheesh.”

  “Hope likes poetry,” Mr. Terupt said. “The rhythm, the play on words, the beauty and magic of it.”

  The language of love, I thought, and smiled. I enjoyed novels in verse, but I was most interested in the poems my father continued sending to my mother. Did poetry also contain healing powers?

  “I prefer nonfiction,” Luke stated. “Maybe Hope would like to hear something about dinosaurs or snakes?”

  “Snakes?” Peter scoffed. “For a baby girl? You definitely don’t know everything.”

  “And neither do you,” Lexie jabbed.

  “What was the first thing you read to Hope?” Anna asked, wisely continuing the conversation before Peter and Lexie needed boxing gloves.

  “A book called The Penderwicks,” Mr. Terupt answered. “It’s the story of four sisters. It reminds Sara of her childhood.”

  “Mrs. Teach, you have sisters?” Lexie asked. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, you did. We met them at their wedding,” I reminded her.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I have three,” Mrs. Terupt replied. “They all live back home where we grew up.”

  “You must miss them,” I said.

  “Yes, I miss them—and their help,” she said, “which brings up something Mr. Terupt and I wanted to ask all of you. We’re in need of a babysitter, and—”

  “I’ll do it,” the girls jinxed with me. We looked at each other and giggled.

  “Looks like you’ll need to hold job interviews,” Peter teased.

  “Or we could do it together,” I offered. “We’ll be the modern-day Babysitters Club.”

  “I used to love those books,” Mrs. Terupt mused.

  “Does that mean guys are excluded?” Luke asked, sounding defeated.

  “Of course not,” Mr. Terupt replied.

  “Yay! Then this is our new project!” Luke cheered.

  “Whoa. Time-out,” Peter said. “If I’m involved then we need to be called the Babysitters Gang, not any girly club.”

  “Ugh,” Lexie groaned, still angry with him.

  “I’m not sure I like the idea of a gang babysitting my daughter,” Mrs. Terupt said, “but okay.”

  “I charge a hundred bucks per diaper change,” Peter added.

  “You know, I just might pay your fee to see you wrestling with a poopy diaper,” Mr. Terupt remarked, keeping a dead-serious face.

  Simple as that we became the Babysitters Gang. Our first day on the job wouldn’t be until the end of summer, when Mr. and Mrs. Terupt had beginning-of-the-school-year faculty meetings that they needed to attend, and it would only be for a few hours, during which Hope would probably spend a portion of that time napping, but I was already excited.

  Poetry, I thought. I wasn’t a poet and I knew it, but perhaps I could try to write a few for Hope. My first would be an ode to her daddy.

  Ode to Mr. Terupt

  He showed me the way.

  Us the way.

  Finding himself,

  and his missus,

  along the way.

  And now there’s

  Hope,

  surrounded by love,

  and dancing words.

  And soon

  The Babysitters Gang.

  Life could be hectic, but Sunday afternoons were reserved for family dinners. No exceptions. It was the one time during the week when Grandma expected everyone to be present at the table—and that included Anna and her mom, Terri, since Terri and my brother, Charlie, were officially engaged. I enjoyed the dinners, the food and the being together, but I was a tad nervous on the Sunday following the festival. I worried the adults might ask Anna and me about our day there, pushing for specifics, and I didn’t think the mention of Peter wanting to pee on Lexie would go over well. That wasn’t exactly appropriate dinner-table talk. Fortunately, it never came to that because Charlie had news he wanted to share. Unfortunately, things got heated after his big announcement.

  “Terri and I have been talking,” my brother started, “and we’ve decided to have our wedding in October, when things on the farm have slowed down. We want to keep it small and we’d like to have the ceremony out back o
n the ridge. An outdoor wedding has been Terri’s dream since she was a little girl.”

  The ridge Charlie was referring to was on the far side of a field behind the barn. There was a gorgeous view from there. It would be especially beautiful in October when the fall foliage was in bloom. The ridge was one of Charlie’s favorite spots on all the farm—mine too—so I thought it was a wonderful idea.

  “You mean you want your reception out there,” Grandma said, and chuckled. “You’ve got to get married in the church. That’s the only way.”

  Anna and I grasped hands under the table. That wasn’t what Charlie meant.

  “It’s not the only way, Grandma,” my brother tried gently explaining. “People get married outside all the time.”

  “Yes, but the church is the only right way,” Grandma countered. There was nothing gentle in her voice.

  “But, Grandma—”

  “Charlie, you’re getting married in the church,” Grandma insisted.

  “You think if we married someplace other than in the church we wouldn’t still be together?” Grandpa retorted. “Hogwash. You could never live without me.”

  “I’ve needed the Lord with me every step of the way to put up with you, so yes, it’s a darn good thing we married in His church,” Grandma responded.

  “I didn’t need any church,” Grandpa said.

  “Well, I did,” Grandma snapped. “And so do Charlie and Terri.”

  Terri’s shoulders sagged.

  “That’s enough,” Dad thundered, bringing his fist down on the table and making the dishes jump. “This is Charlie and Terri’s wedding, not any of ours. If they want to get married on the ridge, they’ll get married on the ridge. The last thing any of us is going to do is ruin their day. Is that clear?”

  That was the end of it. It wasn’t often that Dad overruled Grandma, but his say was final.

  Anna squeezed my hand. I was happy for Charlie and Terri, but I wished Grandma wasn’t so upset. “You might not always like change, but you can’t be scared of it. You need to have faith. Isn’t that what you told me, Grandma?” I reminded her.

  She huffed. She remembered. She’d told me almost the exact same thing earlier this summer when we began discussing the possibility of me moving away from needles to an insulin pump for my diabetes. My endocrinologist was really in favor of the change because she had seen better control of blood sugars from her other patients using the pump, but I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t that I didn’t want people staring at me because they’d see it. I got used to people staring at me a long time ago. I was just scared. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t like needles, but I was comfortable with them. I knew how to use them and I was worried the pump would be too complicated and that I might goof it up. And goofing up your blood sugars could be very serious.

  “Danielle, not only are you a smart girl, but you’re responsible and independent. Give yourself some credit,” Mom had said. “You can do this.”

  That was when Grandma told me not to be scared of change. “Lord knows there’s plenty in this world that I still prefer the old-fashioned way, but I also realize there are instances when change is for the better. Let’s not forget, once upon a time women couldn’t vote. Imagine that, leaving all of the important decisions to men. If that had never changed we’d all be extinct by now.”

  Mom and I laughed.

  It was after Grandma’s pep talk that I made the decision to move to a pump. I didn’t have it yet because it had to be ordered and approved by our insurance—which, according to Mom, was a major pain in the butt, excuse her French—but I would be getting one soon. At this point, I was looking forward to it. With time, I hoped Grandma would get used to the idea of an outdoor wedding and maybe even find herself looking forward to it.

  It was quiet and uncomfortable around the table after that heated exchange, but that didn’t stop Terri from trying to make things better. “Mrs. Roberts,” she said to Grandma, “I was hoping you’d go to church with Charlie and me on the morning of our wedding and say a prayer for us, asking the Lord to give us his blessing. There’s no one I’d rather have do that for us than you.”

  Grandma stared across the table at Charlie and Terri. “I’d like that,” she said.

  Anna and I squeezed hands again. It was going to be okay. Better than okay. Beautiful. And it would’ve been if I was as responsible as Mom believed.

  * * *

  —

  Later that night I checked my sugars and said a prayer before climbing into bed.

  Dear God,

  Please comfort Grandma and please be there for Charlie and Terri even though they aren’t getting married in your church. They’ll be getting married instead on the beautiful ridge you’ve provided us. Amen.

  I should’ve prayed for myself, but selfish wasn’t my style. Not being selfish almost cost me.

  I kept it inside, buried deep. I didn’t like the way I was feeling and I didn’t want anyone to know—not even Danielle. And not Mom. She was the problem. Well, she and Charlie were.

  Lexie and her mom had Vincent, her mom’s boyfriend, living with them now, and it didn’t mess anything up. Lexie loved Vincent and said everything was better with him around. Charlie hadn’t even moved in with us yet and he was already messing things up.

  Mom and I used to go out to lunch on weekends. She used to join me in the kitchen while I was plopped down doing my homework. We’d chat about school and she’d make us hot chocolate or some other fun drink. We used to have mother-daughter movie nights, when we’d cuddle on the couch with a big bowl of popcorn. We used to…but not anymore. I was happy for Mom, but I didn’t want to lose her. I liked Charlie—a lot. But I knew what I was feeling, and like it or not, I couldn’t help it. I hoped everything would get better and these dumb feelings would go away after they got married. But it wasn’t Mom or Charlie or me and my feelings that I should’ve been worried about at the wedding.

  Peter needed to get away, so it was a good thing we had wrestling camp. After the stunt he almost pulled at the festival, I was surprised Lexie didn’t have Wanted Dead or Alive posters of him hanging around town. I was excited for camp because I had high goals this season. I was on a mission to pin all of my opponents and finish the year undefeated.

  We decided to attend the camp at Cornell University. Cornell has one of the best college wrestling programs in the country, so there was going to be a bunch of great coaches and wrestlers there. It was Terupt’s idea for us to go, but it was Dad and Asher who gave us a ride to camp and got us registered. Terupt was busy repainting his house and being a dad.

  Just like at last summer’s camp, we were in a dorm with all sorts of older high schoolers. What was different was Peter. Must’ve been he’d learned his lesson last time because he stayed away from the older guys. He didn’t get involved in their pranks and shenanigans, so we weren’t running around with targets on our backs. This time around, Peter got himself into trouble by complete accident.

  It all started on our third day, when we were at our evening session. We had this guy Rex, who was one of the wrestlers on the Cornell team, leading our practice. Rex was jacked. Muscles rippled over his entire body. But it was the tattoo of a bear wearing a red Cornell wrestling singlet drawn on his calf that Peter thought was so cool.

  “Nice tat,” Peter told him when he came walking by to check on us to see if we were getting the hang of the technique he’d just demonstrated.

  “Thanks,” Rex said.

  “Are you guys the bears?” Peter asked.

  “We’re the Big Red, but the bear is our mascot.”

  “Cool,” Peter replied. “I’m thinking about getting a lion.”

  “You are?” I said, surprised. That was the first I’d heard him mention wanting a tattoo. “When?”

  “When I turn sixteen, if my mom will let me. I want a lion like the Penn State masco
t. That one is awesome.”

  “Are you guys trying to be wiseasses?” Rex asked, snarling.

  I could see Peter was just as confused as I was. “No,” he croaked.

  “You think you’re funny? You little punks,” Rex spat. He stared us down for a good ten seconds and then marched off.

  Peter turned to me. “What did I say?”

  “I don’t know, but you sure pissed him off. And somehow, I’m involved again. Way to go.”

  We spent the rest of that practice staying as far away from Rex as possible. Being a coach, he had the power and authority to torture us anytime and anywhere he pleased—and he had reason to want to punish us. This was even worse than last year’s trouble.

  When we got back to our room that night I hopped on my laptop and did some research. Turns out Rex had taken third in the country this past season. His lone defeat came at the hands of a guy from—you guessed it—Penn State. Peter and I had had no idea, but Rex thought we were busting his chops about getting beat. It was pretty clear Rex still wasn’t over that loss. Nothing about it was funny. He was angry. Real angry.

  Fortunately, Rex was cool and chose to ignore us after that and we continued to leave him alone too. We weren’t worth his time and we were A-OK with that. So things were still good at camp until our final evening session of the week. The Cornell wrestlers, Rex included, had led that workout and they decided to teach us how to play one of their favorite games to conclude practice. I’d never heard of the game Slap Back. Neither had Peter, but he still proved to be the best.

  Basically, Slap Back was a game of tag. To play, we had to take our shirts off and lie on our bellies side-by-side with our partners. Picture pairs of wrestlers spread out all over the wrestling mats. Two kids were picked to stand up and start the game. One was designated the tagger and the other was running for his life to avoid getting tagged. Why? Because you tagged the runner by slapping him on his back—his bare back—as hard as you could. A good smack left a nasty handprint and almost instantly turned bright red. The best slaps resulted in grotesque welts.