Granny Torrelli Makes Soup

by Sharon Creech

  They don’t know, I thought. They don’t know that Bailey can hardly see.

  Come on, Rosie, Bailey said, and I gathered up my books, and we walked on down the street, just like that.

  Bailey, I said, how did you know I was there? How did you know I needed help?

  And then he bowed low and said, I hear really, really good. And I am your prince—Prince Bailey—and I came to your rescue.

  That Bailey!

  THE RESCUER . . .

  We finish our zuppa, and Granny Torrelli places the sliced oranges on two salad plates, and then she sprinkles olive oil and salt and pepper and parsley over the top.

  Isn’t that something? she says. That Prince Bailey coming to your rescue!

  Yes, I say, it was something.

  And I am thinking how I want to be the rescuer. I want to rescue Bailey. I want to fix him, give him new eyes, make everything easier for him.

  And Granny Torrelli, that mind reader, she knows I am thinking about Bailey, and she says, So, Rosie, are you going to tell me about that Bailey? Why you are so mad at him today?

  I get up, go get the Braille books, bring them back to the table. Watch, I say.

  And I open a book and close my eyes and run my fingers over the raised bumps and I read. I am still a little slow, but I read! And when I stop and open my eyes, Granny Torrelli is sitting there with her eyes sparkly shiny wet.

  Oh, Rosie! she says. You did it! That smart head of yours! It is like a miracle! Show me!

  And so I kneel beside her, and I put her fingers on the page and let her feel the bumps which are letters and words. It’s hard, I say. You need to start with just a few letters.

  She hands the book back to me. It’s a miracle, Rosie. Bailey must be so proud!

  I close the book. No, I say. Bailey is not proud. Bailey is mad. That Bailey boy!

  And so I tell her what I have been wanting to tell her all night—about how it took me a whole year to learn the braille, in secret from one of my teachers at lunch every day, sneaking the books home, opening them at night in bed, wanting it to be a surprise to everyone, but especially, most especially, to Bailey.

  And today after school I went over to Bailey’s, so excited to show him. I flopped on the couch, yakking away about this and that, and casually—oh so casually—I reached for one of his Braille books and I opened it.

  He was sitting on the floor, his back against my knees. He heard the book open. What book is that? he said.

  I told him.

  One of mine? he said.

  Yes, I said. Want me to read you a little bit?

  He laughed. Sure, he said, sure, you just go right ahead and read!

  He was feeling very smug, I could tell, so sure that I couldn’t read his Braille book.

  I let my fingers move across the first line, and then I backed up and started at the beginning, reading aloud: There is a place where I often go. It is cool and calm—

  Bailey whipped around, put his hands out, found my hands on the book. He pushed my hands away and grabbed the book and ran his fingers over the page rapidly.

  You cheated, he said. You probably got the regular book and memorized the opening. He slammed the book shut.

  I grabbed the book from him. I didn’t cheat, Bailey. Listen. I opened the book again and read the whole first page, and as I was reading it got very quiet, as if Bailey were not even breathing, and when I finished I felt so proud, and I thought Bailey would be so happy, so proud. I looked up at Bailey, but Bailey was not happy, was not proud.

  He said, You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Rosie?

  Yes, I said.

  Well, get over yourself, Rosie!

  What?

  I said, “Get over yourself, Rosie!”

  I felt as if all the blood in my body were pouring down, down, down right out the bottom of my feet. I got up, started for the door, expecting, hoping, wishing he would stop me, but he didn’t stop me.

  I opened the door, stepped out onto the porch, with no words in me, no breath in me, just a loud wail going on in my head and slam!

  Just like that, Bailey slammed the door behind me as if I were nobody, no buddy, no pal, just a nuisance nobody.

  WHY, WHY, WHY?

  Oh, Rosie! Granny Torrelli says.

  Why? I ask her. Why did Bailey say that mean thing to me and slam the door on me? Why?

  Granny Torrelli presses her knuckles to her cheeks and says, Hmmmmm. This is a tough one, Rosie.

  And then Granny Torrelli does a strange thing. She opens her hands and places them over her eyes, and I hear a little sound and see her chest moving up and down, and I can hardly bear it. Granny Torrelli is crying.

  And I get up and stand behind her, patting the top of her head, and I say, Don’t cry, please don’t cry! And I am feeling so miserable because I have made two people unhappy today, and I don’t even know why or how.

  Granny Torrelli wipes her eyes and motions me to sit beside her.

  What did I say? I ask.

  Oh, Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. You and Bailey, you are like me and Pardo, and you made me think about him.

  And so she tells me about the last day she saw Pardo. They were sixteen. She was going to America in a few days with her uncle. Pardo begged her not to go, but she wanted to go. America was everything! It sounded dazzling to her, full of everything, full of promise and excitement.

  She wanted Pardo to come, too. Her uncle would loan him the money for the boat fare. But Pardo said it was crazy. She should stay in Italy with her family, with him, and they would get married, and they would have children, and he would work, and she would raise the children and cook and clean and be the mama.

  And my granny Torrelli told him she didn’t want to cook and clean and be the mama. She wanted to go to America and have adventures.

  Pardo got mad at her and told her she was too full of herself, full of impossible dreams, full of crazy wishes. He told her, Go then! Go!

  And she was so angry with Pardo and went home that night and packed her one suitcase and did not leave her room until the day came when her uncle took her to America.

  And Pardo never wrote to her and she never wrote to Pardo, and one day she got a letter from her sister saying that Pardo was untangling his black mangy dog Nero from the train tracks where his rope leash was stuck, and the train came and. . .and. . .that was the end of Pardo. He was squished.

  And so, Rosie, every day I am sorry I was so mad at Pardo, sorry I didn’t write to him, sorry he did not know how much I loved him.

  And we sit there. Quiet. Granny is thinking about Pardo, and I am thinking about Bailey, and we are not eating our salad of oranges.

  IN MY HEAD . . .

  I am thinking about Bailey and Pardo. I am wondering why Granny Torrelli didn’t stay in Italy, but then she wouldn’t have married my grandpa Torrelli, and she wouldn’t have had my mother, and my mother wouldn’t have had me—not this me.

  And I am wondering why Granny Torrelli never wrote to Pardo, and why Pardo never wrote to her, and why that still bothers Granny Torrelli now, after all these years.

  And she gives me an answer out of the air, as if she knows my question. She says, Rosie, I was such a stubborn girl! Too stubborn to write a letter. Too stubborn to say sorry. And here is the thing I learned: A friend like Pardo does not come along every day. She pokes at her oranges, shiny with olive oil sprinkles.

  And then out of the air I sense something about Bailey and the Braille books. Until today, Bailey could do something that I could not, and he wanted that and needed that.

  It hits me zap! Just like that.

  Granny Torrelli, I say. Let’s go to Bailey’s. Let’s take some zuppa to Bailey and Carmelita.

  Granny Torrelli hops out of her chair. Si, si, si! she says. Zuppa for Bailey and Carmelita!

  She pulls out a plastic bowl, pours in some soup. Bread, too, she says, grabbing the loaf.

  Oranges? I say.

  Si, si, si! Oranges for Bailey and Carmelita!


  We zip around the kitchen, dash out the door with our zuppa and bread and oranges, and we slip across the lawn and up the steps and knock on the door, and suddenly my heart is thumping like a little frog in my chest because what if Bailey slams the door again, and what if Bailey is still mad, and what if Bailey doesn’t want our zuppa and bread and oranges?

  THE DOOR OPENS . . .

  Carmelita opens the door, a big smile on her face when she sees Granny Torrelli. They hug and start chattering in Italian.

  Carmelita waves her hand toward the stairs. Bailey’s up there, she says. Go on.

  She doesn’t know about our fight, I think. I go up the stairs slowly, afraid. I do not want another door slammed in my face.

  Bailey must hear me coming because he stands in his doorway looking toward me.

  Bailey! I say. Don’t you be mad at me. I am a stubborn Rosie, and I am full of myself, but I don’t want you to be mad at me. And I will stop reading Braille and—

  Wait, he says, and he goes back into his room and returns with a blank piece of paper, which he hands to me.

  What? I say. I am thinking he is being mean, playing a mean joke, giving me a blank piece of paper, but then I look closer, and there are little bumps on it, and I run my fingers across it. There are just two words to read, and those two words are I’m sorry.

  And I hug Bailey. I hug the living daylights out of that Bailey boy!

  And we do not talk about it, not this day. Instead we go downstairs, and we sit at the table, me and Bailey and Granny Torrelli and Carmelita, and we eat more zuppa.

  TUTTO . . .

  In the dark, Granny Torrelli and I slip back across the lawn with our empty bowls.

  Very, very good zuppa, I say.

  Si, si, si, Granny Torrelli says. She glances back at Bailey’s house and then at me. Tutto va bene, Rosie.

  All is well.

  That zuppa, that Granny Torrelli, that Bailey boy!

  SHE’S BACK . . .

  Granny Torrelli is back. It’s Saturday, Mom and Pop are at work, and Granny Torrelli is in charge.

  We’re making pasta! she says as she breezes in the door and sheds her coat. She rubs her hands together. Pasta, yum! She squeezes my cheeks with her soft fingers. How’s my Rosie girl today?

  Good, I say.

  Bene! Now go get that Bailey. We need his help.

  I dash out the door, race across the lawn, and up the steps, fling myself into Bailey’s house, calling, Bailey, Bailey, Bailey boy! Wanna make pasta with Granny Torrelli?

  Bailey stands at the top of the stairs, tall and strong, his soft hair catching the light from the window on the landing. He smiles that great Bailey smile.

  Sure, he says, and he is already feeling his way down the stairs, calling to his mother, Going to Rosie’s, Ma.

  I hear her call, Okay, Bailey. Hi, Rosie, ’bye, Rosie!

  I am a little shy with my buddy, my pal Bailey today. We are over our fight about my being too full of myself. That’s over and done! But there’s something else squeezing in between us, something new, something I don’t like, not one piccolino bit. And Bailey doesn’t even know it, not yet. That Bailey boy. What am I going to do with that Bailey boy?

  CIAO . . .

  Ciao, Bailey, Granny Torrelli calls out as we come in the door. She says it like this: Chow. It means both “hi” and “good-bye.” I like that little word ciao.

  Ciao, Granny Torrelli, Bailey says. He moves up close to her and lets her kiss both his cheeks, that way she does.

  She’s already got the big wooden pastry boards on the table and the bowls on the counter, and she is plucking things from the cupboard and refrigerator: flour, salt, eggs. Aprons, she says, we need our aprons!

  I find the big white aprons in the closet and slip one over Bailey’s soft hair and tie it for him. Granny Torrelli snares the wooden spoons and looks around, checking to see if she’s got everything she needs. We are going to make some superior pasta today, she says.

  Bailey smiles. He loves Granny Torrelli.

  Granny Torrelli pushes a bowl in front of Bailey and takes his hand to show him where the bowl is. Then she hands him the bag of flour. Go ahead, she says, dump some in. I’ll tell you when to stop.

  Flour dust sifts into the air.

  You two wash your hands, she commands. We obey.

  She hands me the salt. Four pinches, she says. This is how Granny Torrelli measures, in pinches.

  Big pinches or little ones? I ask.

  Medium, she says.

  I squeeze out four medium pinches of salt, and then I start to reach for the eggs, but Granny Torrelli touches my hand lightly, stopping me. She puts Bailey’s hand on the eggs. Then she moves his hand to another empty bowl. Crack them into that bowl, she says to him.

  That Granny Torrelli. Me, I always want to do things for Bailey because he can’t see, things I think are too hard for him, like cracking the eggs. But Granny Torrelli is showing me that Bailey doesn’t need so much help, that I should quit being such a take-charge Rosie.

  Rosie will pick out the shell bits, she says, and I do.

  It is good being in the kitchen with Granny Torrelli and my buddy Bailey, and I want to slow the day down so I can keep Bailey here with me all to myself.

  MY WARM AND

  COLD HEART . . .

  Bailey is whisking the eggs with a fork, all that gooey yellow swirling around, and I am watching his hands, and my heart is so full of that Bailey boy that I want to grab him and hug him. But I don’t.

  Instead, I can’t help it, I think about that Janine girl, that new girl up the street, that too-friendly new girl, and just like that, my heart switches from warm to cold. I am ice girl, ice queen. That Janine girl, she is making my mind swirl.

  First day she moves in, I go over and introduce my Rosie self. She smiles all over the place, especially when she finds out we are the same age and will go to the same school. She tells me I can help her find her way around, that she is so glad, so very, very, very glad to know someone in her new neighborhood so soon! Isn’t she so, so, so lucky? she asks me.

  She is a pretty girl, I give her that, with cool frizzy black hair, and she is so confident, that Janine, flipping her head this way and that, flashing her sparkly white smile, no braces or anything.

  Do you have a best friend? she asks me.

  Yes, I say.

  She puckers her pretty mouth. Oh, crud! I left my best friend in New York. I was hoping you could be my new best friend.

  I am thinking, Hold on a minute. You don’t even know me and I don’t know you. It takes a while to be best friends. But I don’t say that. Instead I say, My best friend is Bailey. That’s a boy. I don’t have a girl best friend.

  I am surprised I say this because I do have a girl best friend, and that is Marlee at school, but Marlee is not allowed to go anywhere except school, and I am not allowed to go to her house because her father is very creepy, and maybe I am thinking I could use a second-best girl friend.

  Janine says, A boy for your best friend? How strange!

  I am about to tell her there’s nothing strange about it at all, when she says, That doesn’t count, a boy being your best friend, so I’ll be your best girl friend.

  I make my mouth smile. Part of me is very suspicious of this Janine girl. I don’t want an instant best friend. But part of me is flattered that she must like what she sees of my Rosie self, to want to be my friend so fast.

  I am thinking all this as Granny Torrelli makes a well in the flour and pours the gooey yellow egg glop in the middle. She says, Okay, the fun part now. You can squish it all together. Take turns.

  And so Bailey and I take turns squishing the flour and eggs with our hands, and we are laughing and making a mess, and my heart is warm again, just like that. I am an odd Rosie girl.

  WHAT’S NEW?

  Bailey and I are taking turns mooshing the flour and egg goo, and our hands are sticky. Granny Torrelli sits down and props her feet on a chair and says, Okay, s
o what’s new here on Pickleberry Street? She’s such a goof. Our street is Pickburr, but Granny always calls it Pickleberry.

  Nothing much, I say.

  Oh, really? Granny says. A whole week goes by since I’ve been here and nothing happened? Niente? Zero?

  Bailey laughs. Well, he says, that new girl moved in.

  I am instant ice queen.

  What new girl? Granny Torrelli says. You mean a brand-new girl, like a baby girl? Or you mean a girl who is new to Pickleberry Street?

  I say nothing. My tongue is frozen. My lips are ice.

  Bailey says, Tell her, Rosie. Tell her about Janine.

  My eyes are freezing solid, round ice globs. My ice words drip out: You tell her, Bailey.

  Granny Torrelli gives me a look. I know that look. It means, What’s up with you, Rosie girl? I smoosh my hands in the dough, study the sticky mess, say nothing.

  Bailey doesn’t hear my ice, or if he does, he pays no attention. His sticky hands are suspended in the air while I am having my turn at the dough. His head is tilted up slightly as he responds to Granny Torrelli.