Confusion Is Nothing New Read online

  Anya takes the sneaker, reaches inside, and retrieves a plastic baggie filled with rainbow-colored gummy bears. “Do you want to make a movie?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “She’s searching for clues about her dead mom,” Daniel explains.

  “When did she die?” Anya asks.

  “I don’t know exactly,” I admit. “It was a couple weeks ago. I never really knew her. I don’t know much about her at all.”

  Anya hands me a gummy bear. “It’s weird, isn’t it? I don’t know anything about my biological mother either. Did you ever look her up online?”

  Over the years, I’d considered doing an Internet search. It would be easy enough, and with a name like Korkenderfer, the odds are good that I would find something. But between Dad’s information blackout and my own superstition that I might jinx some possibility of meeting her one day, putting Wilma Korkenderfer into Google always felt like the wrong thing to do. “I never looked,” I admit.

  Anya places her hands on the laptop keyboard. “May I?”

  I take a big breath, then let it out. “Okay,” I say mostly to myself. “Her name was Wilma Korkenderfer. Some people called her Korky.”

  Anya types quickly, then hits ENTER. A second later, a confused look crosses her face. “Why am I looking at Cyndi Lauper?” she asks.

  “Cyndi Lauper was her favorite singer,” Daniel offers.

  Anya’s eyes narrow. “Was your mom a singer too?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I know she was in a band.”

  “I think we found her.”

  Daniel and I slide to the end of the bed so we can see the screen. Anya points at a neon-themed homepage. “Wilma ‘Korky’ Korkenderfer was the lead singer in a band called CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD!”

  “Does Cyndi Lauper know about this?” asks Daniel.

  Anya clicks on a new link. When the page opens, it features a full framed photograph of a smiling woman in bright red lipstick, bold green eye shadow, and long, dark hair teased into a shape that is wild and enormous. She’s wearing a zebra-print jacket over a neon-green top the same color as a pair of massive rectangular earrings that nearly touch her shoulders.

  “That’s got to be your mother,” Daniel says to me. “She looks just like you!”

  I examine the photo closely. “Really?”

  “She’s very pretty,” says Anya.

  “She’s something,” I say.

  Anya points at the screen. “According to this, Wilma ‘Korky’ Korkenderfer died on Tuesday, October 7, following a long, hard battle with leukemia. She formed CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD! more than a decade ago with drummer Seamus Brady, who was also her husband and high school sweetheart. She is dearly missed, and the band continues to be inspired by her passion and her love.”

  “The band continues?” I say. “Where? When? And who is Seamus Brady?”

  Daniel leans forward to see the computer. “Ellie, didn’t your mom and dad meet in high school?”

  “They did more than meet. My mother was pregnant at their high school graduation.” Dad’s never pointed this out, but I know it’s true because math.

  Anya clicks to another page, then zooms in on a dark-haired man holding a pair of drumsticks. “That’s Seamus.”

  “You weren’t her only sweetheart, Seamus,” Daniel says to the screen.

  “Is there anything else?” I ask.

  Anya clicks around the site. “It looks like they only play music from the 1980s. They’re popular too. They’ve got at least a couple shows a week all year long. They’re even busier in the summer.”

  “Is there anything else about my mom?” I ask.

  “Not that I noticed,” says Anya.

  “Is there anything in there about Ellie?” says Daniel.

  Anya shakes her head. “I don’t think anything like that would be on the CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD! website.”

  Of course Anya’s right. But still, it would be nice to find even the smallest bit of proof that Wilma “Korky” Korkenderfer knew I existed.

  “You’ve still got the shoe box,” Daniel reminds me as if he can read my mind.

  “What shoe box?” says Anya.

  Quickly, we tell her all about the unexpected treasure chest Dad dropped into my lap earlier in the evening.

  “How do you know if it’s really from your mom?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know anything. That’s the problem.”

  “You’ve got lot of scenes but no story,” Anya says thoughtfully.

  “You think we should make a storyboard?” says Daniel.

  Anya shrugs. “This isn’t a movie.”

  I study the photos scrolling across the screen. Even though Wilma Korkenderfer is gone, it’s clear that the band is still alive and kicking. “I have a better idea,” I say. Anya’s laptop has a touchscreen, so I reach over and put my finger on the link that says SHOWS. A simple calendar appears on the screen, so I scroll down the page. It only takes a moment to find exactly what I am hoping for. CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD! is playing at Trinity College in two weeks.

  “Anybody want to go to a show?” I ask.

  When I get home, I find my father flipping through bills and paperwork at the kitchen table. A few sad-looking pieces of pizza sit on a plate in front of him. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  I place the cardboard box, which I retrieved from Daniel’s garage, on the counter. I point at the pizza slices. “Those look like roadkill.”

  “I ordered out,” Dad admits.

  “It definitely doesn’t look like something you’d make.”

  “Eat it or don’t,” Dad says. “It’s up to you.”

  I pull out a chair and sit. “I had cookies at Anya’s.”

  “Store-bought or homemade?”

  “Anya gave us Polish cookies that she made with her mom.”

  Dad pokes at a limp piece of pizza. “They were probably better for you than this.”

  “Anya and her mom bake a lot.” I hesitate, then ask, “Did my mother bake?”

  Dad turns back to the bills. “Korky did not bake.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t add anything else.

  I’d intended to come home and take everything I just learned about Wilma “Korky” Korkenderfer and throw it in Dad’s face, but if he can keep secrets, so can I. “I’m sorry I stormed out earlier,” I offer.

  Dad stands and brings the plate of pizza from the table to the garbage. “You were with Daniel. I knew you’d be okay.”

  For some reason, this makes me angry. I mean, what was the point of storming out in the first place if Dad’s not even upset about it? I push myself away from the table and pick up my shoe box. “I’m going to finish my homework.”

  Dad turns to face me. “You went out and you still had homework?”

  “Now you’re upset?” I say. “Because I have homework?”

  “You know the rules, Ellie. School comes first.”

  “School comes before a dead mother?”

  Dad slaps the kitchen counter so hard that coffee cups rattle inside the cabinets. “Stop talking like she was actually your mother.”

  “Did she give birth to me or not?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “So you’re saying that I don’t have a mother.”

  “Yes,” says Dad. “That is exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up.” I stand, tuck the cardboard treasure chest under my arm, and head for the door.

  The next morning, Dad is out of the house before I’m even awake. As usual, he’s left a homemade muffin and a glass of fresh orange juice for my breakfast. He’s also packed me a brown-bag lunch. Dad’s lunches are so good that it’s not uncommon for kids to offer me money for them. This morning, I eat a Hershey bar and throw everything else away.

  Outside, I meet Daniel on the sidewalk, and we walk to school together like always. Apparently, the world is going to just keep turning despite the fact that my life has been turned upside down.
“You’re sure we’re not suspended or expelled or something?” Daniel asks me.

  “I’m sure.”

  At school, Daniel and I head down the long hallway that runs behind the auditorium and leads to the music room. If you’re in the band at St. Francis, you start every day in the music room. The location protects the rest of the building from the honks and screeches and various painful noises we tend to make when we’re learning a new piece. Sometimes we make those noises just because we can. In any case, keeping the band away from the quieter parts of teaching and learning is a good idea. This Monday morning, however, there’s nothing but silence in the music room. Even our percussion section, typically a collection of hyperactive twitches and finger tapping, is still. Sister Stephanie stands at the desk that used to belong to Mr. DeGroot.

  “Here’s the thing,” Sister announces once the first-period bell stops ringing. “Your old band teacher is no longer a member of the St. Francis High School community.”

  “What do you mean?” asks a skinny Irish kid we all call Sinbad. His real name, spelled Cinead, is a Gaelic word that every single teacher pronounced incorrectly on the first day of school. “It’s Kinny,” he tried to tell them.

  Not anymore.

  “I mean that I have invited Mr. DeGroot to pursue other opportunities,” Sister says.

  “You canned him?” says Sinbad, who can make a snare drum sound like a collection of dancing firecrackers.

  Sister nods. “Pretty much.”

  Hannah Shupe raises her hand. “What’s going to happen to the band? Who’s going to be our teacher?”

  Josh Rios, who is a six-foot-three-inch sousaphone player as well as a defensive lineman and a heavyweight wrestler, steps forward. “I could do it,” he says.

  “Just because you’re big doesn’t mean you should be in charge,” says Charlotte Rios, Josh’s twin sister, who sits right in front of me.

  “Why don’t we wrestle for it?” Josh suggests.

  “Because I would destroy you,” Charlotte tells him.

  The class laughs because Josh weighs nearly three hundred pounds, and Charlotte is the size of a stuffed rabbit. Of course, Charlotte marches our field show carrying a quad rack of tenor drums that are twice her size. Every once in a while, she drops the drumsticks and bangs on the drums by hand, which compels Josh to begin a Puerto Rican bomba dance that looks like a cross between running in place with a scorpion in your pocket and hugging a pack of invisible puppies. Now that I think of it, I feel like I’ve been doing the bomba for several days now. In any case, if it comes to a wrestling match, I’ll put my money on Charlotte. Josh must agree, because he raises both hands in surrender.

  “I’ve already got a new teacher for you,” Sister Stephanie tells us. The news inspires a sudden buzz and commotion that fills the room. “It is not Josh,” she adds, “though I bet he could do a pretty good job.”

  Josh throws a big smile toward Charlotte, who just rolls her eyes.

  When the room quiets down, Sister continues. “Before we talk about your new teacher, I want to make a couple of things very clear. First, what happened with Mr. DeGroot is not the fault of anybody in this room. He brought that on himself. Second, as far as the future of the band, I marched low brass when I was a student here. There will always be a marching band at St. Francis of Assisi High School as long as I am your principal.”

  Daniel hops onto his stronger leg and howls. “Aroooo!”

  “Mr. Field,” Sister says sharply, “despite my great love for the band, you probably don’t want to bring yourself to my attention for a few days.”

  Daniel chokes back his cheer and drops into his seat almost before our principal completes the sentence.

  Sister turns her attention to me. “That goes for you too, Miss Magari.”

  “Yes, Sister,” I say.

  Meanwhile, huge smiles cover every face in the room.

  “So here’s what we’re going to do,” Sister Stephanie continues. “I want everybody to take out their instruments.” The clatter of horn cases, music stands, and shifting chairs nearly overwhelms the principal’s voice, but she keeps going. “I want Hannah to come up here and do her drum major thing. I want the rest of you to play that jump-up-and-down song.”

  “ ‘Jump on It!’ ” hollers Daniel.

  Sister shoots him a stern look. “What did I tell you?”

  “Sorry!” Daniel puts the piccolo to his mouth, lifts his eyes to the ceiling, and tries to look angelic.

  Hannah steps to the front of the room. She’s just about to count off when Sister Stephanie interrupts. “One more thing,” she adds. “Your new band teacher is standing outside in the hallway. Be sure to make a good impression. And Mr. Field?”

  Daniel is startled. “Yes, Sister?”

  “Don’t hold back.”

  “Yes, Sister!”

  “READY?” shouts Hannah. “ONE! TWO! THREE!”

  The brass explodes. Our percussion section goes crazy. I’m banging on a spare glockenspiel, but it still sounds great. At the drum break, Daniel dances and hops and spins like a wild animal possessed by the patron saint of caffeine. We approach the finale, and even Sister Stephanie is waving her hands in the air. We race into the song’s final stanza like a battering ram smashing through a brick wall. I don’t know if we have ever sounded this good. On the last note, the entire band bursts into spontaneous applause. That’s when a small man wearing a pair of wrinkled cotton pants, worn loafers, and an untucked denim shirt slips into the room. He’s clapping too. “Mr. Leary,” Sister Stephanie says to him, “meet the band.”

  The man smiles at the class. “You can call me Billy.”

  “They can call you Mr. Leary,” says Sister Stephanie.

  He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Sister.”

  The principal socks Mr. Leary in the arm. “Don’t ‘Yes, Sister’ me.”

  “But you’re my sister.”

  The class sits up a little straighter.

  “Mr. Leary is my brother,” Sister Stephanie tells us. “That’s why you will treat him with an abundance of respect.”

  Daniel raises his hand. “Which one of you is older?”

  “Mr. Field,” Sister Stephanie says to Daniel, “you must really want to join me after school for detention this week.”

  “She’s older,” says Billy Leary.

  “I am not,” says Sister.

  Sinbad glances back and forth between our principal and her brother. “Wait a minute,” he says out loud. “You’re Billy Leary?”

  “I am Billy Leary,” the new teacher confirms.

  “THE Billy Leary?”

  “How many are there?” asks Charlotte. She turns to our new teacher. “Are you somebody?”

  “You guys,” Sinbad says to the class, “this is Billy Leary.”

  There is no reaction.

  Mr. Leary turns to his sister. “Is this the abundance of respect you were talking about?”

  “He was a big rock and roll star,” Sinbad explains.

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” says Sister Stephanie.

  “Hey,” Mr. Leary tells his sister, “don’t interrupt the boy.” Suddenly, our class finds this man who needs a haircut and looks as if he might sleep in his clothes a lot more interesting.

  “My dad has one of your albums,” Sinbad tells him.

  Billy Leary gives him a smile. “You are officially my favorite student.”

  “We found it at a yard sale,” Sinbad continues. “They were asking for a dollar, but he got it for fifty cents.”

  “The position of favorite student is available once more,” Billy Leary announces to the class.

  “Enough chitchat,” says Sister Stephanie. “Mr. Leary—with the emphasis on MISTER—is a professional musician. He has worked with some very talented and well-known people. In fact, he’s helped a lot of them to become better. I think he can do the same with you.”

  Hannah raises her hand again. “What instrument do you play?”

  Mr. Lea
ry gives a little shrug. “Pretty much all of them.”

  “At the same time?” asks Daniel.

  Sister shoots a look at Daniel, who slides down in his seat.

  “Mr. Leary is here because he is very kind,” Sister informs us.

  “I bet he’s here because he’s afraid of his sister,” says Josh.

  “Smart man,” Charlotte and Sister Stephanie say at the exact same time.

  “I came because I love to make music,” Mr. Leary tells us. “Would anybody like to join me?”

  Everybody’s hands go up. Our new teacher turns to Sister Stephanie. “I can take it from here.”

  “You’re sure?” she asks.

  “This is the music room,” Mr. Leary tells her. “These are my people.”

  By lunchtime, rumors have convinced at least half our school that the new band teacher is Bruce Springsteen. The other half now believe that Sister Stephanie used to sing in an all-girl group called the Go-Go Girls. “Was she a Go-Go Girl before or after she joined the nuns?” asks Josh, who is eating a whole pizza for lunch.

  Charlotte looks up from a history book propped between a water bottle and a banana. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “She was probably a Go-Go Girl before she was a nun,” Josh says thoughtfully. “On the other hand, who says nuns can’t be rock stars?”

  “They weren’t the Go-Go Girls,” says Sinbad, who is working on a set of math problems at the end of the table. “They were just the Go-Go’s.”

  “Sinbad’s right,” I say. I know this is true because I stayed up late going through all the things stuffed into Mom’s cardboard box. I studied the CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD! website too. Apparently, the name of her band must be capitalized, italicized, and always include an exclamation point at the end. I don’t know why. In any case, CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD (exclamation point!) is a dedicated eighties tribute band. They play county fairs, music festivals, private functions, corporate outings, concert venues, and college campuses up and down the East Coast. Their set list definitely includes songs by the Go-Go’s.

  Daniel drops into a seat, shoves a handful of French fries into his mouth, then tries to speak. “Elles mom waf um rokumm bam.”