In Which Brief Stories Are Told

A Real Deal

A Real Deal Lynnette loves linoleum. The words tasted bittersweet, like lemonade. She said it again: Lynnette loves linoleum. She inhaled deeply. Lynnette loves the lovely smell of linoleum. Her swollen tongue teased the enamel of her front teeth: lovely, lemonade, linoleum. She tried to recall what it had been like when she lost her front teeth, how funny she must have sounded. But it was years before. Lynnette loves licorice. That’s what the vinyl smell in the back store reminded her of. Especially the shiny black twisted licorice that Uncle Karl called “bike tires.” Or the long, thin, stringy kind she and Jamie would buy at Lucy’s and then lace into Chinamen ’s braids on their way to choir practice after school. Lucy’s licorice. Lucy’s licorice laces. She missed candy the most, more than choir. But she missed school too. Lynnette loves lessons. She missed playing on the monkey bars with Jamie at recess. “Too risky,” Uncle Karl had said. Risky recess. When her knees had begun to look like the maps that hung above the chalkboard—black and blue and green continents darkening pale oceans—Uncle Karl had said, “No more.” In Which Brief Stories Are Told 46 ) Every time she bumped her desk, she’d get another bruise. Lynnette hated it. She hated . . . what? There was no h-word for it. Now she stayed home, waiting, often in the cool shadows of the back store, where she’d discovered among the long, dark skids of rolled carpet and linoleum a quiet place of her own. She’d pick her spot according to her mood—bright orange shag, cranberry Berber, imitation hardwood or brick—choose the best rolls to settle on, and she’d rest, or read, if there was enough light. She liked The Babysitters Club, and Nancy Drew, and those orphans—The Boxcar Children. After school, Jamie would bring her assignments home. Jamie. Generous Jamie. Jamie, the jolly giant. Yes, all right. Jamie the jolly giant jumps. Jamie the jolly giant jumps . . . giraffes. She giggled. Jamie the jolly giant jumps giraffes and juggles jam. She’d have to remember that one. Jamie was so lucky. She had Mrs. McLain this year. Marvelous Mrs. McLain. Lynnette missed Mrs. McLain, her favorite teacher, missed her fifth-grade classmates. The year before, when she had gotten so sick that she’d had to stay at U of M, every week the kids in Mrs. McLain’s class made her get-well cards or pictures . By the time she came back from Ann Arbor, the bedroom she shared with Jamie was plastered with rainbows and unicorns . Somehow the kids in her class had known what her favorite things were, and she suspected Jamie. You told them! Lynnette had yelled—as best she could, her voice still weak from treatment. It’s not that she wasn’t a little pleased, of course—even touched—by the gesture. But the big fuss wasn’t necessary. She hadn’t wanted to be sick; it just happened . She was no special person. Her mother had made that clear. Jamie refused to take the cards down. “Too bad for you, BooBoo ,” she said. “It’s my room too.” Surely, if anyone understood, it was Jamie, her cousin and best friend. Jamie had even stayed with her in Ann Arbor for A Real Deal ( 47 those weeks last summer when Lynnette’s blood thinned to Kool-Aid. They played about a hundred games of Girl Talk, and they sometimes slept in the same room at the Ronald McDonald House. Just like at home. The Ronald McDonald House. What Uncle Karl called “the Golden Arches Grand Hotel,” Jamie called “the Puke Palace.” “Where all the throw-ups stay,” she’d said. On days when Lynnette felt good, she and Jamie made fun of the bald, plump, pale children, in spite of the fact that she knew—they all knew— there was no one sicker than she was. Lynnette loathes leukemia. There, that was it. She looked at her watch. At school her friends would be in social studies, unless they were watching a movie. Today was—Thursday? Wednesday ? What had Jamie said? Chicken fingers or pizza on the school menu? She couldn’t remember. It’s either one more day, or tomorrow . Lynnette hated social studies, despite the s, its lisp and hiss. Uncle Karl called it “Dates and...