books

Bounce

sneak peek

Here is how Birdie drops the bomb:

He takes us to the best restaurant ever—Cook’s, on Bailey’s Island—and he says we can order whatever we want. This means a full lobster dinner for Mackey and a tuna roll for me, plus fries. He waits until our tongues are busy celebrating before he lets it fly.

“Kids, I’m getting married.” Then, “We’re moving to Boston.”

And there you have it.

Bam! Life as we know it: over.

Mackey keeps eating like nothing has happened, grabbing steamers by their slimy black necks and dunking them in butter. All he does all day is eat and play computer games. You would think he’d weigh five hundred pounds by now, but he doesn’t; he’s a beanpole. Six feet, two skinny inches and he’s only fifteen. I know a lot of people call him Lurch behind his back, or Pizza Face because of his zits, and he is not exactly the most popular kid on the block, but I have to confess he is my brother. Who right now is my only ally.

“Ah hem,” I say, and kick Mackey under the table. But he just grunts and grabs a bunch of fries off my plate. So I stare across the table at our father. “How are you getting married? You don’t even date.”

“I know,” Birdie says, smiling. “Isn’t it remarkable?”

Remarkable.

It is, actually. Because who would marry him?

First there is the name, Albert. His friends call him Bert, and we call him Birdie, but still it’s Albert. Then there’s the beard with oyster cracker crumbs in it. And the big dork glasses and beak nose. If you really want to know, there are also a few black fingernails from when his hammer slipped. And he’s wearing overalls as usual, which aren’t what you would call fresh off the clothesline. Sometimes you want to take him by the shoulders and say, I know you’re a carpenter, man, but come on! A little effort here, please!

But Birdie would just laugh. He doesn’t care about looks or what people think. His theory is why shop at the Gap when you can get the same thing at K-Mart for less. He is baffled that I want jeans with a certain label on them, not that we could afford them anyway. We are not exactly rolling in it. Which leads me back to my original question: Who would marry Birdie?

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say.

“I know,” Birdie says. “I know!”

But he’s missing the point, which is I can’t believe he is doing this to us, his own children. Who have only been gone for six weeks.

I think back over the letters he sent me and Mackey at camp—letters about our dog Clam, and about how the tomatoes were growing, jokey letters with cutouts from the Sunday funnies. But no mention of a mystery woman. Or the tiny detail that we might possibly be moving. To a whole other state.

“Her name is Eleni Gartos,” Birdie tells us. “She’s a college professor. History.”

“Good for her,” I say low. I stick my straw in the ketchup, smear it around on my plate, make a masterpiece.

“I did some work on her beach house this summer,” he says. “That’s how we met.”

“Of course it is,” I say.

There’s a moment of silence. Then—and it kills me to ask this, but I have to—“Does she have any kids?”

Birdie clears his throat. “Uh huh.”

“How many?”

He picks up his iced tea, takes a sip, sets it down again. “Well. Six.”

Six.

Six kids.

Six kids that we will soon be related to.

It’s too much even for Mackey. A mouthful of chowder flies out of his mouth and onto the table. “What is she,” he says, “Irish?”

Birdie hands him a napkin. “Greek, actually.”

I wait for Mackey to give him the business, say, Well, we’re not moving to Boston with a bunch of strangers. I don’t care if they’re Irish, Greek, or Siamese, you can just forget it!
But Mackey doesn’t say that. He says, “Can I get two desserts?”

Typical.

Fifteen year-old brothers miss the point just the way fathers do. It’s that apple and tree thing. They are the same kind of dense.

I am more of the feeler type, with my heart big and swollen in my throat. How anyone could eat strawberry shortcake right now is beyond me.