The First Rule of Climate Club, page 8
“Nothing legal. Why?”
“I need money.”
“Have you tried putting up a babysitting flyer?”
Not helpful.
“Good idea. I’ll try that.”
I wonder what the illegal ways to make money are.
EIGHTH PERIOD
It’s like a craft store threw up in Mr. Lu’s classroom. It’s quiet except for the sound of scissors, and Hannah’s sewing machine, and marker squeaking, and Elijah’s aggravating humming.
I’m going to be an avocado. My face will be the pit. Hannah says her mom taught her how to sew when she was three. She shows me her Etsy page, where she sells pillows made out of old jeans, with embroidered slogans. Then she measures me for my costume.
Elijah is already wearing the banana costume.
Some kid is staring through the window of the classroom door, so Ben covers it with newspaper.
Mr. Lu, Shawn, and Rabia are working on a budget spreadsheet so we can explain exactly how we would spend the grant money, and everyone else is arguing over how to make the display panels realistic, hopeful, interesting, and informational all at the same time.
Hannah tells me not to move or I’ll get stuck with a pin. When she’s finally finished, I text Lucy and ask her if I can check on her after school.
She doesn’t reply.
WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEFTOVER MUFFINS
When Lucy doesn’t respond to any of my messages by eight at night, I panic.
I ask Mom to take me over to Lucy’s for a minute and say that it’s a matter of life and death. She doesn’t believe it’s a matter of life and death, but she takes me anyway because she wants to drop off leftover zucchini muffins.
When adults don’t know how to help a friend, they drop off food.
“Can you explain to Lucy’s mom that it makes sense to see Shawn Hill’s dad’s doctor?” I ask on the way.
“Oh, Mary Kate. It’s late. I’m not going to barge in on her right now.”
“Whatever,” I say, frustrated.
Mom waits in the car while I run up to the front porch. Lucy’s mom answers the door and thanks me for the muffins.
“Can I talk to Lucy for a minute?”
“She’s asleep, hon.”
I almost leave, but then I don’t. I need to do whatever it takes.
“Do you think you could talk to my friend Shawn’s mom about seeing that immunologist? Dr. Houlish? Shawn says he saved his dad’s life.”
Lucy’s mom looks tired. She has gray hairs sprouting up all over the top of her head and dark puffiness under her eyes.
“Oh, hon. I know you mean well. I really do. But we have this under control. We have to wait and see if the higher dose of anxiety meds works.”
My heart speeds up. “How are more anxiety meds going to stop her body from hurting and her skin from itching and all the other symptoms? None of this makes sense.”
“Mary Kate, we have been to over a dozen doctors. At some point, we have to stop and trust somebody.”
Blake comes down the stairs, grabs the container of muffins, and walks away. Lucy’s mom closes the screen door.
I turn away, then turn back. “Is it because the doctor is out of pocket? Because I know Lucy has one thousand three hundred and seventy-two dollars in the bank, and she’ll want to spend it if it means she’ll feel better.”
Lucy’s mom opens the screen door and walks out onto the porch. “How did you know Lucy has that much money in the bank?” she whispers.
I freeze.
“I— She probably told me a while ago.”
“She couldn’t have mentioned it a while ago. Her grandmother gave her an early bat mitzvah gift just last week.”
“She . . . I just . . .”
I start crying again, and I turn into a sobbing, shaking pile of kid on the porch floor. Lucy’s mom hovers over me, and my mom comes running from the car. My hot tears are dripping on Lucy’s mom’s bare feet. I crawl on my hands and knees, with my hair stuck to my face, and sit on the porch swing, trying to catch my breath.
Lucy’s mom is pacing back and forth.
“She’s so sick she thinks she’s going to die,” I say. I suck in my breath, then breathe out more words I shouldn’t be saying. “She wrote her last will and testament. That’s how I know what she has in her bank account. It’s in her last will and testament.”
“Oh no,” Lucy’s mom says.
She and my mom stare at me like I’m a dog that is about to be put to sleep.
“I don’t know how to process this,” Lucy’s mom says. “It’s too hard.” She looks at my mom. We all sit on the porch steps. “I keep waking up every day, praying she’s better. And sometimes it seems like she’s starting to improve. Then she takes a huge tumble. I’m tired of doctors without answers.”
My head hurts and I want to go home, but I have to keep trying.
“Please go to one more doctor. He’s an immunologist. You haven’t tried that kind of ’ologist yet.”
She laughs a little. “That’s true.”
“Shawn’s mom said you can call her anytime.”
Lucy’s mom stands up and wobbles a little as she catches her balance. “You know what, Mary Kate. I’m going to call Shawn’s mom right now, okay? I’m heartbroken my baby felt like she needed to write a will.”
“Please don’t tell her I told you. She’ll be mad.”
“I won’t say anything. Can you text me Shawn’s mom’s number?”
I do.
She calls.
They talk for two hours.
WHEN NOTHING MATTERS MORE THAN LUCY
By the morning, Lucy has an appointment for Friday at 9:00 a.m. because, according to the receptionist, “We never get cancellations, but we just got one a few minutes ago.”
How did this happen? Lucy texts during lunch, while Mr. Beam is reading tarot cards for the new principal in the back office and pretending to have a meeting.
Fairies, I text back.
That’s what I thought. Will you come with me? To the doctor?
It’s a school day. I have a math test. We have to get ready for Applefest. None of this matters more than Lucy.
Yes.
LETTER TO MY BABY NIECE ON THE IMPORTANT ROLE OF FAIRIES
Dear Sweet Pea,
Confession. I still believe in fairies. Sometimes I feel them sprinkling magic on me. It gives me courage and wisdom and other things I don’t normally have. There are forest fairies. And water fairies. And flower fairies. And there are front porch fairies.
Love,
Auntie
THE BEARSVILLE CLIMATE CLUB PODCAST
EPISODE ONE
ME: I’m Mary Kate Murphy, and welcome to The Bearsville Climate Club Podcast. Shawn Hill and I are here to talk about our exciting Applefest grant competition project.
SHAWN: Our Fisher Middle School climate class is excited to teach people in our community about how much food is wasted in America and how food waste is contributing to climate change.
ME: So how much food is wasted in America?
SHAWN: From our research, we found out that Americans waste forty percent of the food we buy. More than sixty-six million tons of food are thrown away each year, and most of it ends up in landfills.
ME: Wow. That’s hard to even imagine. How does the food in landfills contribute to climate change?
SHAWN: The food decomposes in the landfill, and the decomposition process releases methane into the atmosphere. And methane is an even worse greenhouse gas, in some ways, than carbon dioxide.
ME: So what can we do to reduce food waste?
SHAWN: We can start by not buying so much food in the first place. Only buy what you need. And we can write letters—to restaurants, schools, supermarkets, food courts, and hotels—and ask them to look at how much food they are wasting, and tell them how to use extra food for programs that feed families dealing with food insecurity instead of sending it to the landfill.
ME: That’s common sense.
SHAWN: Yes.
ME: Do you have any other suggestions for dealing with food waste?
SHAWN: Yes, I do. We have a very exciting solution, and it has to do with dirt, worms, and other good stuff. If you want to find out what it is, come see the Bearsville Climate Club at the Applefest grant competition in Honey Hill on Saturday, September twenty-fifth, from ten to five. Please stop by our booth. And if you like our project, vote for us!
ME: Thank you, Shawn, and thank you to our listeners.
Jay plays upbeat music.
Rabia raises her hand and says, “And that’s a wrap.”
“Wow, you were really good,” I say to Shawn.
“Thanks,” he says.
We share the podcast all over social media.
We tell our parents to share it on Facebook.
And Mr. Lu shares it with everyone in his PhD program, his bicycling club, and his karaoke potluck bird-watching collective, whatever that is.
PIZZA NIGHT
After everyone from climate class leaves Mark’s band room, I ride with Mom to pick up Dad from the bookstore, and pizza from the pizza place. When we get to the bookstore, we see somebody waving on the corner near the Congregational church.
“What’s that?” I ask Dad as he’s locking up.
“Oh, that’s Mayor Stuffed Shirt. Standing on the corner with a ‘Vote for Me’ sign is the closest he’ll come to campaigning. And yet people will vote for him.”
“Why?”
“Because he promises not to raise taxes, even though he does every year. People don’t bother to check.”
“Wow.”
“He does look sharp in that three-piece suit. That’ll pick up a few votes.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep. Not a joke, Mary Kate.”
THE APPOINTMENT
The car ride on Friday morning almost feels like normal times. Lucy’s mom listens to an audiobook, and Lucy and I sit in the way back of the minivan talking about Molly’s sophomore planting mums with her dad. Lucy’s still skinny and itchy and blinky, and she’s dizzy and nauseated from riding in the car, but she’s talking and laughing a little.
Does your mom need to use your savings money? I text her.
She looks down at her phone and shakes her head. No. Aunt Michelle is paying for this. She says she’ll do anything to get me better.
It’s always good to have Aunt Michelle on your side.
We watch bat videos the rest of the trip. Bats always seem to calm Lucy down.
When we pull into the parking lot, Lucy’s mom lets out a big sigh. “Let’s do this,” she says.
We wait a long time in the waiting room. Lucy’s mom is getting irritated. The receptionist heats something up in the microwave, and the whole office smells like feta cheese, which makes Lucy gag.
“Oh, come on,” Lucy’s mom says way too loudly.
“Mom, stop.” Lucy takes her hands off her face and glares at her mom.
I’m getting more stressed by the minute. There are only so many times I can read the same pamphlet about peanut allergies.
The nurse finally calls Lucy’s name.
Lucy pulls me by the arm. “Come on,” she says.
The doctor is kind of tall, halfway between my dad and Lucy’s dad in age, and he sounds very smart. He asks maybe a hundred questions, and every time Lucy or her mom answers, he says, “Right, right, right”—exactly three times. He examines Lucy, stares at her rashes a while, asks about the blinking and the arm jerking and calls them “tics,” and takes a photo of the finger-shaped purple marks on her back and legs. He spends a long time asking about the bottom of her feet.
When her mom brings up her mental health issues and says the word outbursts a few too many times, Lucy tells her to never say that word again or she’s running away from home.
Dr. H doesn’t seem fazed. He reminds me of Father Milt when Pea was screaming during her christening.
“Back to the feet,” he says. “Do they burn?”
“Yes. All the time, but really bad in the morning,” Lucy says, resting her head on the wall next to the examining table. “Can we take a break?”
Dr. H tells Lucy to get dressed and meet him in his office.
Lucy kicks her mom out and puts on her shorts and her T-shirt. “He asked more questions than all of the other ’ologists combined. And nobody has ever taken pictures of my gross purple marks before.”
We meet Lucy’s mom and Dr. H in his office and sit in fancy leather chairs.
“Okay, let’s see,” he says. “I strongly suspect you’ve got some tick-borne or vector-borne diseases brewing, probably more than one. Infections can cause the immune system to go into overdrive, which may be causing inflammation of the brain, something we call PANS.”
“Lucy was tested for Lyme disease early on,” her mom says. “And she’s never had the bull’s-eye rash.”
“Many of my patients never had a bull’s-eye rash. And most labs don’t have the sensitive equipment necessary to diagnose these diseases, so we’re going to send your blood to a couple of labs I really trust. Anyway, it’ll take a few weeks to get results, but your symptoms are so textbook. The pain, the tics, the brain fog and sudden onset of mood changes, the foot discomfort, the headaches, the striae—those purple marks. Did they crop up with the other symptoms?”
“I think so,” Lucy says.
Her mom nods.
“And have you noticed any improvement with the anti-anxiety medication?” Dr. H asks. “I know you recently increased the dose.”
“No. None,” Lucy says.
“Right, right, right. And considering you spend a good deal of time outside and you have pets, it all adds up.”
“So why haven’t any of the other doctors suggested this?” Lucy’s mom asks.
“That’s the million-dollar question,” he says. “All I can tell you is I see this all day, every day. I treat with antibiotics and strong herbal antimicrobials, and my patients get better.”
“Like, all better?” Lucy says.
“When it’s caught early? Absolutely,” he says. “Sometimes we need to do some additional therapies, but right now let’s see where your blood work leads us.” He takes out a lab sheet. “In the meantime, you have the option of starting treatment right away, which I would be okay with, considering your symptoms are so severe and you’re missing school. Or you can wait until the blood work comes back.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable giving Lucy strong antibiotics until the blood work comes back,” Lucy’s mom says.
Lucy stands up and faces her mom. “It’s my body, Mom. I’m not waiting weeks. No way. I’m starting the medicine today.”
Lucy gets thirteen vials of blood taken from her arm and then eats a whole sleeve of shortbread cookies with orange juice. While we wait for the antibiotics to be ready, we drive to the beach to lie down flat in the sand and stare up at the cloudless sky.
“You’re going to be okay,” I tell Lucy. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah. I’m going to be okay.”
HONEY
When Lucy’s mom drops me off, Sarah and Pea are at our house to help Charlotte knock on doors this weekend. They’re going to be coming as much as they can before the election. Sarah wants me to go with her, but knocking on strangers’ doors is the last thing I feel like doing.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Sarah says, snapping Pea into the baby carrier. “Come with me. You can help me if Penelope gets fussy.”
“I don’t know what to say to people.”
“You don’t have to say anything. You can stand there and look friendly.”
I put on a yellow “Charlotte Lane for Mayor” T-shirt and hold Sarah’s clipboard.
We have a local “turf.” That means we can walk to the houses where we’re door knocking. I’m responsible for handing people the “Come Watch Charlotte Lane Debate Mayor Grimley at Honey Hill High School” flyers.
When we get to the first house, I ring the doorbell. A lady answers, and before we can say anything, she says, “You already have my vote. Have a great day,” and shuts the door. Sarah marks her in the yes column, and we go to the next house, where a messy-haired dad carrying a baby about the same age as Pea answers the door, and says, “Oh yeah. We’re all in for Charlotte.” They have a boring conversation about baby sleep schedules; then we mark him and his wife as yeses and keep going.
“This is easy,” I say.
“I told you,” Sarah says.
We get some “Nobody’s homes” and hang information on their doors. We get a couple “Not interesteds,” and a few more “You have my votes,” and one “Didn’t we go to high school together?”—which ends up being a twenty-minute trip down memory lane.
The next guy answers the door in shorts. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his hairy stomach is sticking out. He takes one look at us and says, “You need to stay in your own lane, honey.”
“Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?” Sarah asks.
“It means you think you can run for mayor when our mayor has been doing this since you were in diapers.”
“I’m not running for mayor,” Sarah says. “Charlotte Lane is.”
“Why don’t you go home and take care of your kids, honey. You’ve got no business being in politics.”
He slams the door.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” I say, knowing my sister.
“I’m saying a lot of things in my head right now,” Sarah says, “but the best way to deal with people like that guy is to get votes for Charlotte.”
