Water Balloon by Audrey Vernick

Author:Audrey Vernick [Vernick, Audrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

My Normal Abnormal Way

First thing in the morning, I turn my phone on. It sounds like a hysterically broken doorbell, ringing for each of the messages I've gotten. They're all from Leah.

I start reading them, but it's all Where r u and answer already! and call me! Not the world's most entertaining reading. I'm deleting them when I get a new one: Can i sleep over 2nite?

I check with Dad and then text back yes.

***

Because this is the funnest summer ever, I get talked into helping my dad in the yard after babysitting.

But the lawn already looks so much better. There are almost no dandelions left.

"It looks great. Why don't we go out for ice cream instead?"

"Nice try, Marley. I mowed, but that's just temporary—gets rid of the flowers before they have a chance to go to seed. Now I need to eliminate the plants."

"You want me to dig out wherever I see the leaves?"

"That's my girl. No more talk of this dandelion recovery plan, this dandelions-are-flowers-too propaganda. Help me make this lawn a happy place where blades of grass can be free."

And so we work side by side, taking breaks for drinks. Well, one of us takes breaks.

He brings the radio outside, and the familiar sound of baseball talk carries on the summer air. I dig and pull and pile and pack it all into one of Dad's airtight, keep-the - bad - plants - away - from - the - good - plants containers, so there's no chance of reseeding. At one point he picks up a ball (where did that ball come from? Did Jack leave it here when he was playing catch with Dad?) and asks, "Feel like having a catch?"

I kind of want to, but I throw like a stotal paz. "I've never learned the right way to throw, I don't think. Doctor, is it too late for me?"

"What kind of father didn't teach you how to throw? You throw fine. Let me see." And he tosses the ball to me gently.

I can't even throw my normal abnormal way because I'm thinking about it, trying to remember something about getting my elbow back. "I think thirteen might be too late to start," I say.

"I disagree. Here. Do this." And in slow motion, he pulls his arm back and goes through the throwing motion, stopping with his fingers wide open at the release point. "Ready?"

I try. I throw it as close as I can to the way he showed me, but I know I look lame. It reaches him, though. "How about you don't worry about form and we just throw the ball?"

"Okay," I say. I'm thinking it'll be about as much fun as fishing. It's a little better than that. I sort of feel like it's the least I can do for Dad, another small gesture. He seems so lost around me—the way he raced outside when Leah and I were hanging out—and this—balls, throwing—holds some kind of meaning for him.

So we stand and we throw.

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