Wiped Clean
an excerpt

Aunt Tara came into the school in a swirl of funny skirts, decorated with little bells and mirrors, and wrapped up in her navy coat and her ugly long scarves. It wasn’t hard to spot Aunt Tara in a crowd. Aunt Tara swept up to the desk, exchanged a few words with Miss Holling, the desk lady, and signed a piece of paper on a clipboard. Then she came back to the couch where Batsheva was sitting. “C’mon, kid,” she said playing with a strand of Batsheva’s hair. “Let’s go.”

She drove a little powder blue station wagon with a cracked bumper and a sticker on the back bumper that said “If this is blue, you’re driving too fast.” It made no sense, because the sticker was actually red. Grown-up humor. Inside, it was always a little too warm, even in the middle of winter, and it smelled a little funny, like orange popsicles. But the seats were comfortable, and Aunt Tara insisted that “shotgun gets the dash,” which meant in normal people terms that the passanger could control the music. Batsheva put in her favorite music, the ones with the rock music and the flutes, and tried to think about how she was going to ask embarrassing questions to her not-aunt.

They’d only gotten a few blocks away, going who-knew-where, when Aunt Tara poked her in the side without looking and said “So, spit it out.” In normal people words, that meant “tell me what you’re thinking.”

So Batsheva did. “Do you ever… Have you ever…” It wasn’t coming out right, but she kept trying. “Sometimes, are things one way on one day and then on another day they’re another way?”

Her aunt smiled a little, a funny smile, and nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Definitely. That happen to you today?”

Batsheva could have screamed with relief; this was normal? If it was just her, that was scary. If it was normal, then it was just annoying. “Yeah,” she said, picking up speed. “I mean, first there was the whole thing with those hamsters- I mean gerbils. And then there was that a teacher today and I still don’t know her name!”

Her aunt looked confused now, and Batsheva felt bad about that, because Aunt Tara often couldn’t follow what you were saying if you talked fast or quiet, even though she would pretend to. She tried again, slower this time. “I had a day like that,” she said more carefully. “Yesterday I didn’t have any gerbils and today I have two gerbils.” Aunt Tara almost interrupted, but Batsheva just kept talking. “And yesterday I had Ms. Batista, and today there was a totally different classroom and a totally different lady with the wrong color hair and everything.”

The car pulled over quickly. Batsheva’s stomach cramped; this probably wasn’t good, was it?

Aunt Tara pushed the lever on the car until it touched the P for “park” and turned to Batsheva. “You don’t remember Chewie and Florazelle?”

Batsheva couldn’t figure out if she was worried, confused, or angry. She considered lying about it, but now that she’d already told the truth, it would just look worse to backtrack. “No?”

Breathing out, Aunt Tara took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “And you had a different teacher yesterday who wasn’t Ms. Spokel?”

“Yes,” said Batsheva, glad her aunt was covering her eyes. This was easier if they didn’t have to look at each other.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Aunt Tara fervently, which wasn’t very polite even if Aunt Tara didn’t worship Jesus. Maybe especially if she didn’t.

“You shouldn’t take God’s name in vain,” said Batsheva. It was an old point between them, but Aunt Tara could be pretty rude like that. Batsheva’s mom said that not getting too angry at Aunt Tara was kind of like forgiving little kids for picking their noses in public.

But Aunt Tara didn’t even glare or growl. She just stared around her as though looking for answers written on the upulstry of the car. She looked funny and she kept making hand motions like she was about to talk, only she didn’t actually say anything. “Christ!” she finally said again very loudly and very rudely.

Batsheva poked her. “Don’t do that.”

Her aunt poked back. “Shush yourself and let me think.” She sounded abstracted now, but she was less wild-eyed. Batsheva was very confused. After a few more moments, Aunt Tara rested her head back on the seat rest and turned her face to look at Batsheva. “Okay, kid, here’s the situation.” And, in very kind, gentle terms, she informed Batsheva that the world was either very magical, or something bad probably had happened to Batsheva, possibly along the lines of brain damage.

“Which, hey, could be worse,” said Aunt Tara with a somewhat forced cheerfulness. “After all, between me and Marco, it’s not like you’ll be the only one.”