The play was a great success, but the audience was a disaster.
- Oscar Wilde
“I’m running away from home!” my little brother yelled as he stomped toward the back door.
Scared, I ran to my big sister. She’d know what to do. She was wise. She was resourceful. She was almost in fifth grade.
“Angela!” I called, bursting through our bedroom door. Her long ponytail draped onto the book she was reading, all curled up on her bed. “Mitch is running away from home!”
She dropped Ramona the Brave, and her feet hit the floor. Mom only worked three afternoons a week, and we’d convinced her that we did not need a sitter. Angela had taken a baby-sitting class, and I had earned the childcare badge in Girl Scouts. We could take care of ourselves, for heaven’s sake. But losing our little brother on the first day would likely unconvince Mom in a hurry.
“I tried everything,” I said, trying not to cry. “I told him that we love him, that he had no place to go, that it would be really cold at night. I didn’t know what else to say. I thought of everything I could.”
We scurried to the back door where we found Mitch just standing there.
“Mitch,” Angela began sweetly.
“I’m leaving, and you can’t make me stay!”
“Where will you go?” she asked.
I’d already thought of that.
“I don’t know yet.”
“What will you eat?”
I’d thought of that, too.
He grabbed an apple out of the lunch sack he clutched in his fist and waved it at her. Then he opened the door.
“Wait!” Angela said. “You can’t leave yet.”
“Why?”
She didn’t say anything for a few seconds and then blurted out, “You can’t leave until after the talent show!”
Talent show? I hadn’t thought of that!
“Yes!” Angela took his hand and led him to the couch. “Have a seat.” Then she announced like the ringmaster at the circus, “The show is about to begin!” Grabbing my hand, she dragged me to our bedroom.
Mitch called out, “Okay, but it better be quick’cuz I’m leaving!”
Angela and I rustled through our closet, jabbering and planning, and within minutes she entered the living room with a shawl around her shoulders and The Sound of Music songbook in her hands. The dining room floor next to the living room was six inches higher, providing a perfect stage. I plopped next to Mitch to double her audience size, and she began to sing real high.
“I’ll climb every mountain, swim every sea, follow every rainbow, if you please won’t leave me.”
Mitch rolled his eyes and stood up. I shoved him back onto the couch and raced to the bedroom. “Wait!”
Minutes later, I stumbled down the hall and into the living room … er, performance hall … wearing my ballet leotard and tutu. I plied and tippy-toed and twirled, waving my arms toward him, then toward me over and over again, then clenching my heart, I finally collapsed at his feet like a wounded swan. Mitch looked more confused than convinced and simply said, “I’ll get my coat.”
“Wait!” Angela pleaded. “I wrote a poem just for you.”
Mitch slumped back onto the sofa and rolled his eyes.
This time she had a beret sitting sideways on her head and a tablet in her hands. In a voice that sounded more like our English teacher, she began.
Please, please, Mitch, don’t run away.
I need you here so we can play.
We’ll play Star Wars in dirt and make a mess.
I’ll never again make you wear a dress.
Before he went to kindergarten a couple of years ago, he’d been a much better sport at our tea parties.
He pushed himself off the couch just as I showed up with my hula hoop around my waist. Angela and I had been practicing a lot, and I was up to six consecutive revolutions, including the four on its way down to my ankles. I swirled my hips as hard as I could while Angela clapped and pretended to be impressed.
Mitch was not.
He headed for the door.
“Okay, then,” Angela said, as if she was giving up. “If you’re going to leave, we’ll help you pack.”
Mitch looked confused. Me too.
“You go to your room and get your coat, and we’ll get the other stuff you’ll need out there on your own.”
“Fine, then!” Mitch tromped down the hall to his bedroom. Angela hurried to ours and got our suitcase from under the bed.
“Ramona had this idea in my book,” she whispered. We hustled to the living room and the encyclopedia shelves. There we fit volumes A to M into the suitcase and snapped it shut.
Mitch came back into the room with his coat on, looking sadder than I’d ever seen him.
“Good-bye then,” Angela said all happy-like, and she motioned to the suitcase.
“Good-bye,” Mitch mumbled, grabbing it.
He tried to lift it, but it wouldn’t budge. He grunted, but Aardvark to Mussolini was too heavy for him. Finally, he started to drag the suitcase to the back door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned and stared at the songbook, the tablet, the tutu, the hula hoop and the pleading look in his sisters’ eyes.
He smiled just a little. “Okay, I guess I’ll stay. But only until tomorrow.”
- Christie Rogers