[Ernie Barrett is a fictional character, but his persona is dedicated to Arn Berglund, a very special friend and my hero. May he rest in peace.]

CHAPTER 35

ERNIE BARRETT

July 6, 1967

Roberto, aka “Rob,” loves to brag all day and night about our house sitting on a full acre of land. Brook Glen is a lifetime away from our rundown slum tenement on White Street or our attached apartment in Success Park. But I would give anything—NO, I would give everything—to go back to either one.

Yesterday, I met Ernie, the boy next door and an Eagle Scout. Ernie seems like an okay kid, but he’s no Chris Santoro.

Today I went for a long walk through the Nature Center off Brook Glen and ran into Ernie, wearing an olive-green short-sleeved shirt and matching Bermuda shorts, with binoculars around his neck. I tried to pretend I didn’t see him, but he caught up to me.

As he focused on the trees, I focused on how to get rid of him. He was staring through his stupid binoculars, pointing out this bird and that bird, as if I cared.

I didn’t want to hurt Ernie’s feelings, but I had zero interest in being his friend, and anyway, it was obvious we had nothing in common.

Or maybe we did, because when we both heard a loud tapping high in the trees, Ernie pointed out an adorable black-and-white woodpecker.

He gave me a strange look when I told him it was my first-ever sighting, even though I’d seen Woody Woodpecker on television a thousand times.

His love of birds reminded me of the time when that poor bird family died on the back porch on White Street.

On my way home, he followed behind me and explained all his merit badges.

He was proudest of his First Aid, Life-saving, and Emergency Preparedness badges. He excitedly told me he had an Eagle Scout card signed by JFK and that he wanted to become a doctor when he grew up.

I told him about the one time I went to Girl Scout Camp for two horrific weeks on a scholarship, but I got kicked out for pooping behind our tent because I was afraid to use the disgusting outhouse. He looked at me, dumbfounded.

And that’s when I decided to tell him, “Until two days ago, my name was Tony Morgan, but now it’s Tonya Russo because my mom married a jerk who decided I should have new first and last names.

And also, the jerk’s name is Roberto, but he goes by Rob now because, in addition to being a jerk, he’s a liar and a fake.”

For whatever reason, I told Ernie everything about me, including growing up in the slums, having a grandmother who raised me and my teenage mom, the rats and cockroaches, and a father I never knew because he gave me up.

I was on a roll, so then I said in a loudish voice, “I was baptized Catholic when I was eight, so I could go to a new school to get away from Tit, who was beating me up every day, and speaking of birds, I used to have a nest of birds that I loved, but they ate the rat poison on our back porch on White Street and croaked.”

I could tell by the look on Ernie’s face that he had never met anyone like me before, and not in a good way.

I made him promise to keep his mouth shut about what I told him, and he said, “Scout’s honor.”

When we arrived at Ernie’s house, he stood frozen in place, suffering from severe shell shock. As I walked away from him, I looked back and shouted that if anyone deserved a merit badge and a card signed by JFK, it was me.

Maybe Ernie’s not so bad after all, but he’s still no Chris Santoro.

Stay tuned for Chapter 36: The Longshore Country Club Pool

CHAPTER 34

THE NAME GAME

July 4, 1967

Mom and Rob returned from their honeymoon two days ago, and I moved to Westport today. I couldn’t bear to say goodbye to any of my friends, so I refused to do so.

I had almost nothing to take with me—just a handful of clothes and Adam’s piano, which filled the entire moving truck. I said a silent goodbye to Bridgeport, Success Park, and to everything and everyone I ever loved there, and I was proud of myself for not breaking down.

Until it came time to say goodbye to Mem—that’s when everything hit me. We fell into each other’s arms and sobbed, loud and heaving, our faces sopping wet from each other’s tears. Mom scolded Mem for riling me up. I wanted to scold her for scolding Mem, but I was hoping for a good moving-to-Westport day with Mom, so, as usual, I kept my thoughts to myself.

When Mom turned onto Brook Glen, the wooden sign read “Dead End.” I prayed this move wouldn’t be a dead end for me. A babbling brook ran alongside the road on both sides, like something out of a postcard. My nose was pressed against the car window, dumbstruck.

Rob’s house, set far back from the street, was even more beautiful than I had imagined, and there were only four houses on Brook Glen. The long driveway was covered in crushed stone that made a crunching sound as we pulled up to the house.

The first room we entered was Rib’s. Yes, Rib has his own room, the “prep kitchen,” and he settled in just fine. He dragged his doggie bed just outside the pantry door and set up camp. Can you imagine having two kitchens in one house?

Then Mom took me to my bedroom, the sight of which brought tears of both joy and sadness to my eyes. I was walking into my new room, my new life, while leaving my old life behind.

At first, I was upset with Mom because my closet was full of clothing she’d bought for me without my approval. But when I saw how excited she was to finally have the money to buy me so many beautiful, expensive things, I didn’t have the heart to be angry. Even though I hated the clothes she picked out, I know she tried her best.

As I organized my bedroom, I felt guilty for not feeling more grateful, as I took it all in. A plush lavender area rug, partially covering a beautiful oak floor, and a queen-size canopy bed covered in purple gingham.

There were windows on three sides of the room, filling it with bright sunlight. Looking out the windows, I saw shrubs, lawns, and trees instead of rundown buildings. My bedroom was so large that it had plenty of room for Adam’s piano.

As I folded and put away more ridiculously expensive clothes Mom left on the bed, the day’s news blared from the TV. Yes, I have a television in my room.

The Jews in Israel had just defeated the Arabs in a six-day war. I watched with mild interest—only because of Naomi. It reminded me of how much I missed her.

I miss all my Bridgeport friends, especially Chris. But Mom says it’s time for me to make new friends and start a new life. I might be starting a new life, but I will never forget where I come from. Bridgeport is who I am, whether Mom likes it or not.

I think it’s going to be hard to start a new life, and I’m afraid, but what choice do I have? Whatever I say will only upset Mom, so I’ll keep doing what I always do and say nothing.

The great news, though, is that Mem made a deal with Mom that she’ll drive to us from Bridgeport every Friday night after work and stay until Monday morning. Mem will cook, clean, and do everything she did for us in Bridgeport. Mom and Rob agreed to pay her a salary, allowing Mem to quit her weekend side jobs. The best part of the deal is that I’ll have Mem with me in Westport every weekend.

I thought moving day was going well until Mom came into my room tonight and said, “Rob and I need to talk to you.” I figured I was in hot water about something.

When I sat with them at the kitchen table, Rob had a pad of paper. He wrote my name—Tony Michaels—then said, “Tony. It’s a boy’s name.” He crossed out Tony and scribbled Tonya on the paper, saying, “Now, Tonya, that’s a beautiful girl’s name.”

“Tonya?” I asked Rob, confused. “Yes,” Mom answered. “I agree with Rob. It’s a beautiful, very classy name. You’ll get used to it.”

My brain felt like it was on fire from the crazy thoughts racing through it. Were they seriously suggesting I change my first name?

“And look how good it looks with my last name,” Rob continued, writing down Tonya Russo. I stared incredulously at the name.

Then I gave Mom the death stare. “It’s pretty, but Tonya Russo isn’t my name. I’m Tony Michaels, Mom. That’s my name, and I’m good with it.”

My heart was racing, and I kept repeating the Hail Mary, praying they wouldn’t dare change my name. Mom looked at me, annoyed. “It’s your name now. Rob is adopting you. Your father gave you up. He doesn’t want you using his last name anymore, so you’ve got no choice.” Even as I screamed and cried and carried on, Mom and Rob ignored my pain.

But the worst pain was Mom’s words about my father. Those stinging words killed something inside me. How could my father not want me to use his last name? He gave me up. Why didn’t he fight for me? Why did Mom have to be so cruel? What had I ever done to deserve such excruciating pain?

Then Mom made me feel even worse by saying, “Take a look at yourself. You need a new identity and a new look. You have to stop biting your nails, and we need to do something about that hair.”

Mom continued, despite my sobbing. “And we’ve also decided to send you to Charm School. It’s called Junior Years, and your interview is next week. We live in Westport now, not in the Bridgeport slums. Those days are over, thank God. It’s time for you to play your part. From now on, you go by Tonya. Tonya Russo.”

I ran to my room in despair. Mom was right about one thing. We were all playing a part. I’m just a poor kid from the other side of the tracks in Bridgeport—Mom’s awkward, ugly duckling of a daughter. I’m not the Westport Tonya they’re hoping for. I am and always will be Bridgeport Tony. “TONY MICHAELS,” I screamed at the top of my lungs in my matchy lavender room, with my pink princess telephone, baby grand piano, and fancy-shmancy new life.

I called Mem and told her what happened, but she said she couldn’t do anything for me, even though she wanted to. Mem warned me not to make waves. She told me to be strong and do whatever Mom and Rob asked of me to keep the peace. Mem’s biggest fear was that she wouldn’t be allowed to see me, so she made me promise not to rock the boat.

So, my new name is Tonya Russo, and according to Mom, I’ll get used to it.

But I’ll never get used to the pain of my father giving me up. Or the shame that I wasn’t good enough for him or his name. Never, never, never.

Click here for Chapter 35: Ernie Barrett

CHAPTER 33

THE WESTPORT WEDDING

June 25, 1967

Mom’s wedding day was mostly a blur. I had hoped to be her Maid of Honor, but she didn’t pick me. Should I be surprised? No, because she never picks me for anything.

Mom bought me a Pierre Cardin tangerine-and-pink paisley-pleated dress for the wedding with matching tangerine shoes. Mem said I looked beautiful, but I thought I looked like a fruit salad.

At St. Ambrose Church, tears rolled down Mem’s face during the entire ceremony, and I don’t think they were out of happiness.

What I remember most about Mom’s wedding day was the drive down the tree-lined entrance to Longshore Country Club for her reception.

The grand road, flanked on both sides by majestic trees and rolling emerald-green golf hills, caused my heart to pound almost out of my chest. I had never seen such a beautiful entryway to anything in my entire life. I was shivering despite the unairconditioned, sweltering car that Adam gave Mem when he died, and the scorching weather, unusual for June.

Mem thought I was shivering from uncontrollable excitement. No, I wasn’t shivering from excitement—I was shivering from uncontrollable fear: fear of grandiose trees, fear of Westport, fear of not being pretty enough, fear of living without Mem, fear of not fitting in. Fear of Roberto, aka ROB.

Speaking of not fitting in, when Mem pulled up to the front of the club’s entrance, the valet guy gave us and our clunker car the once-over before cringing as he got into the steamy seven-year-old Dodge Dart to park it.

I was the only kid invited to the wedding and reception, so I stuck by Mem, which wasn’t much fun because she was still physically healing from her heart problems and mentally not healing at all from Mere Germaine’s passing.

Halfway through the reception, I met two of Rob’s friends, Tim and Lana O’Connor. Lana snuck me a glass of champagne and offered me a job babysitting for their two-month-old daughter, Kiki.

Mom is 29, but Lana is 22, only eight years older than me. Mom is prettier, but Lana—a blonde beauty in her own right—is more sophisticated and way more charming. Maybe it was the champagne, but I immediately warmed up to her. She dragged me outside, and we shared a Marlboro. She pulled out her wallet to show me photos of Kiki and told me about her life in Westport, which sounded glamorous but lonely. The cigarette wasn’t my first, but the champagne was.

According to Lana, her husband Tim manages a family-owned chain of steak restaurants in New York City, so he works six, sometimes seven, nights a week.

When the reception was over, Mom and Rob jumped into a  sleek white limousine for a night at a fancy New York City hotel, followed by a week-long honeymoon in Bermuda.

Before Lana left, she gave me her phone number and made me promise to call her.

I asked Mem to stay until everyone else had gone, embarrassed that someone would see her beat-up car. I was still in a panic over moving to Westport, but excited about getting to know Lana and baby Kiki.

Click here for Chapter 34: The Name Game

CHAPTER 32

FROM RAGS TO RICHES

June 21, 1967

I graduated from eighth grade today. And on Saturday, Mom’s getting married.

With Mere Germaine gone, Mem is surviving but barely thriving. For whatever reason, the three of us don’t mention her at all. It’s like she never existed. I think we’re all afraid to upset each other, so we keep our treasured feelings and memories of Mere Germaine to ourselves.

Leaving my Bridgeport friends is going to be impossible. I have no idea what another school will be like or if the Westport kids will accept me, and honestly, I’m terrified.

I take for granted that I’m among the most popular girls in school, and according to Chris, I’m the prettiest. Speaking of Chris, he’s still dating Juliette, so we both agreed to settle for being close friends, although it’s doubtful I will ever see him again.

Chris invited me to his after-graduation pool party, but while everyone else was dancing and having a grand old time, all I could think about was moving to Westport. Chris played songs like “Let’s Live for Today” and “Seven Rooms of Gloom.” It seemed like every song he played was meant for me. Even though our house in Westport has more than seven rooms, knowing me, I’ll feel gloomy no matter what, at least in the beginning.

We all jumped into Chris’s above-ground and leaking pool, which was too small for even half of us to fit into, so we were squeezed together in the waist-deep water like a bunch of packed sardines. When the song “San Francisco” by Scott McKenzie started to play, I got teary-eyed and shoved my way out of the crammed pool to sit alone, feeling sorry for myself.

Chris immediately ran over and put his arm around me. I placed my head on his shoulder and forced myself not to cry, although the tears streamed down my face.

Chris gently wiped them away and then thanked me again for not telling anyone about falling out of his drunk father’s fast-moving car. I told Chris that my friendship with him was worth every black and blue, and ache and pain I suffered, and I would do it again and again and again. He laughed when I told him that maybe not again and again and again, because one near-death experience was probably enough.

I dried off and walked home, thinking about how once Mom and Rob returned from their honeymoon, we’d be moving into his “colonial-revival-style home,” whatever that means.

And according to Mom, we’ll be rich. A fancy town, a grandiose house, lots of money—everything Mom always dreamed about, but not me.

Although I’ve spent my entire life sleeping in the same bed as Mem, having a gigantic bedroom to myself can never make up for the fact that I’m leaving behind everything and everyone I love. I won’t be that far, but Mom will never allow me to invite my Bridgeport friends to Westport. And she has made it abundantly clear to Mem that I’m forbidden to return to Bridgeport ever again.

Leaving Mem will be impossible, because I have never lived without her. And once we’re gone, she’ll be left all alone. As someone who grew up coming home to an empty apartment, I know firsthand how lonely this will be for Mem, especially now that Mere Germaine is gone.

I keep going back and forth, trying to figure out how to get out of this Westport move, but it’s a useless exercise. Mom keeps promising me that I’ll make new friends, but I’m not so sure about that.

She thinks our going from rags to riches will make everything perfect, but she doesn’t know anything about me or what makes me happy. Or maybe she knows but doesn’t care.

I’m not looking forward to leaving Bridgeport, but I’ll admit, I am looking forward to being rich, mostly because I’m sick and tired of being poor.

Last night, I prayed that we would be one big happy family once we moved to Westport. That’s what Mom and Rob keep promising me. We’ll also be a family with lots of money, so maybe Mom and Rob are right, and everything will turn out how they expect it to.

I’ll be the female version of my favorite comic book character, Richie Rich, and Mom will play the part of Richie’s mother, Regina, but a skinnier, prettier version. Rob can play the part of Richie’s father, Richard Sr., but I only care about Mom and me. I sure hope Rob turns out to be a better husband and father than he was a boyfriend.

Click here for Chapter 33: The Westport Wedding