“It happened,” I insist.
Calvin Pace! huffs Hannah.
You were not raised by grizzlies!
“Like you’d know. Why do you think
my favorite teams are from Chicago?”
I don’t get it.
The only “sports” Hannah gets
are gymnastics and dance.
But Mrs. Peabody understands.
He’s talking about the Cubs
and the Bears, Chicago’s baseball
and football teams.
If Hannah rolled her eyes
any harder, they’d pop
right out of their sockets.
Sometimes she’s just so serious!
Well, she might not be
laughing, but other kids are.
And so is Mrs. Peabody.
Guess a few people
think I’m funny.
Definition of Punch Line:
The End of a Joke
Cal’s stupid stories
always have punch lines
attached. Usually they land
with a thud. In the really old
movies my mom likes
to watch, a trombone
or whatever would go
waaaagh-
waaaagh-
waaaagh-
waaaagh.
A few kids snicker
in the way that says Cal
should just jump off a cliff.
But some of the others
actually think he’s entertaining.
Misty isn’t amused,
but our other best friend,
Brylee, is. I poke her.
“Don’t laugh at him.”
Why not? He’s funny.
“He’s ridiculous.”
When she scowls, her nose
wrinkles. That’s mean.
It was, kind of, I guess.
But also true.
Still, I zip my lips.
I don’t want my friends
to think I’m mean.
* * *
—
That silly story is on my mind
for the rest of the day.
It bugs me until dinnertime.
Not even the promise of lasagna
can make it go away.
Cal doesn’t notice. Man, that
smells good! Just like my mom’s.
Mom nods. It’s an old family
recipe. Our mother taught us
how to make it, but it takes most
of the day, so I don’t do it often.
Why didn’t I know that?
Now I’m even more annoyed.
“Did ‘Ma Griz’ make termite
lasagna?” I laugh at my own
joke, and when Mom looks
confused, I explain.
That’s so inventive, Cal!
You know, some people get
paid to make up stories.
He grins and reaches for
the Parmesan. You think I could
be an author someday?
If you work hard, you can do
anything you put your mind to.
Where have I heard that
before? Mom is a total
cheerleader. Dad can be,
too, but . . . That reminds me.
I’ve got a big meet in the morning.
In gymnastics there are levels
requiring more and more advanced
skills. Level one is easiest, level
ten the hardest before “elite.”
Right now, I’m level eight,
and if I score well tomorrow,
I could move to nine.
I really want my dad to be there.
I hate when he misses Friday
night dinners because
I can’t be sure he’ll be at
my Saturday events.
“Hey, Mom. Think Dad will
make it back in time?”
Her attention shifts to me.
He’s sure going to try, honey.
He’ll catch an early flight and come
straight from the airport.
If there are any delays, he’ll call.
Dad’s out of town for work.
He tries to get home every weekend,
but sometimes his projects go longer.
That used to mean Mom and I
would do girl stuff, like manicures.
Not anymore! Cal got into polish
one time. He didn’t paint his nails.
But he did decorate the bathroom mirror.
With Red Cherry skulls and crossbones.
Speaking of red, Cal drools
lasagna sauce when he asks,
Makes it in time for what?
“My meet.”
A giant sigh escapes him.
Another one? Tomorrow?
Definition of Impatient:
Hannah, When It Comes to Cal
Cal knows when my meets are.
And what days I go to practice.
Almost always he has to tag along.
Cal needs supervision.
Be quiet! I say silently to myself.
Too bad myself won’t listen.
“Don’t be rude. Yes, another one,
and this one is really important.”
He squirms a little in his chair.
I thought they all were important.
I really don’t feel like explaining,
so I’m glad when Mom jumps in.
If Hannah does well tomorrow,
she can move up a level.
I’ve been working extra hard
on super difficult routines.
Not world-championship level.
Not yet. But I want to qualify one day.