“So…I have a big favor to ask of you—and I want to make it clear right up front that we would insist on paying you for this—her father and I were wondering if you would be willing to take Alvina under your wing, so to speak. For a little while. Maybe you can smooth out the rough edges. She likes you.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “Wow.”
“Daunting?”
“Yes, I guess so. It’s not how I picture myself, in charge of somebody. I don’t know if I want that much responsibility for another person.”
“It’s not like that. You wouldn’t be ‘in charge of’ her. We’re not asking you to come up with some sort of program. We’re just asking you to be around her. Hang out with her. Take her with you now and then when you go someplace.”
“So you’re not expecting, like, a boot camp?”
She laughed. “Oh please, no. Just be yourself, that’s all. Big sister without the bossiness. Hopefully something will rub off on her.”
Well, I still wasn’t comfortable with the whole idea, but I finally said okay, but only if she promised not to pay me. She agreed. So now I’m Alvina’s—gulp!—big sister.
September 6
Every day so far I’ve been putting an orange half on top of the barbecue. Today I put it three houses down the back alley, on the roof of a toolshed.
September 7
We went to the mall today—my new “little sister” Alvina and me on our bikes, Dootsie in her cart behind me. They had the school day off, I played hooky. Dootsie wanted a Babar the Elephant lunch box. She didn’t want to take her lunch to school in it. She just wanted to carry the lunch box.
She forgot about the lunch box as soon as she spotted Piercing Pagoda. “I wanna nose ring!” she cried, pulling me toward the mid-aisle stall.
“No,” I told her. “You already have your ears pierced. Your mother would not allow it.”
She hugged me. “You’re my boss now. You can say yes.” She turned up the charm. “Pleeeeease.”
“You’re wasting your adorable face,” I told her. “Besides, they don’t even do noses here.”
She stomped her foot. “Bullpoopy.”
“I want a tattoo,” said Alvina. Just as I was turning to respond, a hand flashed out and slapped the back of her head and three boys went racing by. Alvina screamed, “I’ll kill you!” and started after them, but she jerked to a halt because my hand was tight on the back of her collar. “Oww!” she squawked. “You broke my neck.”
“Sorry,” I said. At that moment I was glad she wasn’t my real little sister.
She reached for my hand. “Let go.”
“No, Alvina,” I said. “You let go. You’re not a warrior. You’re an eleven-year-old girl.”
Dootsie poked her leg. “You’re a human bean.”
The boys were down by Auntie Anne’s now. They were facing us, laughing. One of them was the blond-haired boy—the picture on her bedroom door. It was his hand that had slapped her. Back in May at the Dogwood Festival, Alvina had beaten him up. Bloodied him. Embarrassed him. Beat up by a girl! Another boy might have slunk home and crawled under his bed and never come out again. But here he was, still with his buddies, facing his tormentor, thumbing his nose at her. I liked this kid.
Alvina was pulling on my arm like a dog on a leash. She pointed up the mall. “Yer dead meat! Yer roadkill!”
I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her close. She was panting.
Dootsie looked up at her in fear and fascination. “You gonna beat ’em up, Alvina?”
“No,” I said, “Alvina is not going to beat anybody up. Alvina is going to find out that boys are people too. They’re not the enemy. Alvina is going to learn that fighting is not the only way to deal with them.”
I took each girl by the hand and led them in the opposite direction from the boys. We found Dootsie’s lunch box. And a DVD for Alvina. It was my treat. I told her she could pick anything she wanted as long as it was in the comedy section. She groaned and tried to steer me to horror, but finally she gave in and chose The Nutty Professor.
We junked it up for lunch. Chocolate-cherry cheesecake and ice cream sodas at the Cheesecake Factory. (They didn’t have strawberry-banana smoothies.) The girls sat across the table from me. Dootsie kept spooning whipped cream from the top of Alvina’s soda. I kept telling her to stop it. “You have plenty of your own.” She ignored me, giggling with every new theft. To my surprise, Alvina did not seem especially bothered. Every time Dootsie dug her spoon into Alvina’s whipped cream, Alvina simply took a spoonful of hers. And then Dootsie snatched Alvina’s cherry and popped it into her mouth, and before Alvina could retaliate, Dootsie had devoured her own cherry as well. Alvina smacked her on the hand with her long-handled spoon. The giggling stopped. Dootsie’s eyes got huge as she stared in disbelief at the smear of whipped cream left on her hand. Alvina was now concentrating on her soda as if nothing had happened. Dootsie’s lip began to quiver.
“Dootsie, come over here with me now,” I said. I pulled her soda to my side. Dootsie came over.
We ate our cheesecake and slurped our ice cream sodas in silence for a while. Then I said, “Alvina, have you ever heard of counting coup?”
“No,” she said.
“It’s a tradition from Native Americans,” I said. “You want to hear how it goes?”
“No.”
“Okay, good. I’ll tell you, then. It has to do with honor and the idea that there’s more honor in touching than in killing. Say you’re a member of a tribe and you’re at war with another tribe. If you killed a member of the other tribe, that would be a big honor for you. If they had such a thing as trophies then, you’d probably get the biggest one.”
Dootsie grumped, “I didn’t get a tropy for Mrs. Blob.”
I patted her hand. “Someday.” I turned back to Alvina. “But there was an even greater honor, an honor that would live forever. If you wanted this greatest honor of all, you would not kill that other warrior. What you would do was you would sneak up on him and just touch him—like maybe just lay the point of your spear on his shoulder for a second—then off you go. And for the rest of your life you get to tell the story of how brave you were to get that close to your enemy and not even hurt him. And for generations to come your children and great-great-grandchildren will repeat your story around the campfire, and you will become a legend.”
Dootsie was all ears and open mouth. Alvina was noisily slurping the last of her soda, but I knew she was listening. I reached down and touched Dootsie’s shoulder with my fingertip. “That,” I said, “is called counting coup.”
We walked the mall some more. Dootsie got tired and tugged on me. “Carry me.” I lugged her around for a while, and as soon as I put her down Alvina said, “Carry me.” I chuckled at her little joke, but her face was its usual stone self when she repeated, “Carry me.”
I stared at her. “You’re serious?”
“Okay, fine,” she said. “Don’t.” She walked away.
I snatched at her, hoisted her up, and carried her through the mall as long as my arms held out. We got some strange looks and Dootsie got plenty jealous.
On the way home, if Dootsie stuck out her fingertip and touched Alvina’s shoulder once, she did it a hundred times, each time saying, “Coo to yoo.” By the end, Alvina was losing her battle not to laugh.
September 8
Do you know what day this is, Leo?
It’s our anniversary. Two years.
The first time we saw each other.
Two years ago today—two turns around the sun—I walked through the lunchroom at Mica High with my ukulele, captivated by one pair of eyes staring at me, your eyes, terrified that I would sing to you. And though I passed by your table and went on to sing to someone else, I did leave something behind with you: my heart. Of course, you didn’t know it at the time. Maybe I didn’t either. What have you done with my heart, Leo? Have you taken good care of it? Have you misplaced it?
September 1
0
I think I’ll do this in a kind of shorthand from now on. Make it more fun for you.
O of course will stand for Orange.
Then comes the ® sign, meaning I Set One Out Again Today.
Then (A), meaning Alley behind Street Address That Follows.
Or (BY), meaning Backyard.
Then the Street Address.
Then (F) for Fence.
Or (P) for Pole.
Or (SE) for Something Else.
So, for today…
O = (A)219 RappsDam(F)
Got that? Today I put an Orange on a Fence in the Alley behind 219 Rapps Dam Rd.
Curious?
Mystified?
September 12
I was downtown buying buttons for my mother—she’s making costumes for a production of The Pirates of Penzance at People’s Light & Theater—when I saw Perry. He was coming out of Pizza Dee-Lite. He turned the other way and walked up Bridge St., so he didn’t see me. We were probably the only kids on the streets this Wednesday morning: me the homeschooler, him the renegade truant.
He had a slice of pizza in one hand, a paper cup in the other. He shook the hand with the pizza and a piece of tissue paper fluttered to the sidewalk. He ate the pizza slice in about three bites. He seemed to eat half the crust, then tossed the rest into the street. He gulped his drink and tossed the cup into the gutter. I could hear him belch. All this happened within the space of one block.
I was fuming. I called: “Ever hear of a trash can?”
He turned. When he saw it was me, he smiled and waved. “Hey.”
I walked up to him. “I said, ever hear of a trash can?”
His smile disappeared. He took a Snickers bar from his pocket, pulled the wrapper halfway down, held it out to me. “Want a bite?”
“No,” I said.
He chomped off half the bar. He stood there chewing in front of me, looking at me. “How’s Dootsie?” he said.
“None of your business,” I said.
He laughed, spewing peanut bits.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
“I was just going to say that.”
“This may come as shocking news to you,” I said, “but this happens to be the world I live in, and so maybe it is my business.”
He put the rest of the candy bar in his mouth, crumpled up the wrapper, and tossed it over his shoulder. His eyes never wavered from mine.
“You’re crapping up my world,” I said.
He grinned. “You could say I’m crapping up my own world.”
“Exactly.”
His tongue came out and felt around his mouth, mopping up stray chocolate and pizza sauce.
“Exactly,” he said. “So, what, no homeschool today?”
“Stop changing the subject.”
“What was the subject?”
He started walking. I didn’t have much choice but to go along.
“The subject is you and your habits.”
“My crappy habits.”
“Your crappy habits.”
“They bother you.”
“You could say that.”
“Do you have any crappy habits?” His voice was steady and pleasant. You might have thought we were discussing Ondine or something.
“You’re changing the subject again,” I said.
He snapped his fingers. “Forgot. That’s another bad habit I have, changing the subject.” He put his finger in the air. “Okay…subject…crap…crap…” He put his finger to his lips, pretended to ponder. He looked directly at me. “Okay. The world is crappy already. What harm is more crap going to do? If the world’s a dump, then everything is garbage.” He shrugged. He smiled. “Okay?”
I just stared at him. His face tilted and came toward me. For an instant I thought he was going to kiss me, but he tapped me on the forehead. “Hello in there?”
“If the world’s a dump,” I said.
He grabbed my hand and shook it mockingly. “That’s what I said. Congratulations.”
“But the world isn’t a dump.”
“Says you.”
“But you believe it is.”
“Says I.”
I stared at him some more. I didn’t know where to start. “You’re wrong.”
He shrugged. “Sue me.”
“You can’t believe—”
“I can believe anything I want.”
He continued walking. I followed. I was beginning to realize how little I knew about him.
“Why?” I said.
He laughed. “We’re back where we started.” He put on a petulant little-kid voice: “Nunna your business.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” I said. “Cheer you on—‘Yay, Perry!’—when you steal and junk up the town?”
He wagged his finger in my face. “You’re not supposed to do anything. You’re the one trying to change me. Remember? As far as I’m concerned, you can do anything you want.”
“Except criticize you.”
“Hey,” he said, “if that’s how you want to spend your life, getting on my case”—he threw out his arms—“be my guest.” He turned his deep blue eyes on me. “And anyway—” He let it hang there. He was smirking.
Suddenly I felt as if I were on roller skates. “What?”
“I know why you’re doing it.”
I stopped. He walked on.
“Doing what?” I said. “What? Why?” I think I was babbling.
He flipped his answer as blithely as a candy wrapper over his shoulder: “You know.”
September 14
Morning Lenape ad:
He says the world is a bad place
but I’ve seen him on the high dive,
the pride in his eyes.
September 15
Dori Dilson wrote and told me where you’re going to college. I like knowing where you are. I will always know where you are.
September 16
O = (BY)303 RappsDam(P)
September 22
It’s not a Thursday but I went to Calendar Hill anyway, because today is the Autumnal Equinox. Autumn begins. On this day the sun at noon is directly above the equator, meaning that day and night are equal. From now on until Winter Solstice, night will be longer than day. The light is leaving.
I had to pedal hard to get to the hill in time to plant today’s marker. I barely made it before the sun. I’m still getting used to living without clocks and watches. The main thing is getting myself up in time on Calendar days. When I go to bed the night before, I say to myself: When the sun is a bike ride away, I will hear it. It will sound like wind in treetops. I will awaken. And it works!
My father wasn’t too happy that day when he came home to a house without clocks. “How’s a milkman supposed to wake up at two a.m. without an alarm clock?” he said.
We had to admit it was a good question.
“Well, then I guess you’ll just have to sleep in the basement,” my mother said, sending me a wink. “Alarms at two a.m. are no longer part of my life.”
So my father bought himself a wristwatch with a tiny alarm that peeps him awake in the morning but lets my mother sleep. He couldn’t bear to see us take the hammer to his old watch, so he left it on a park bench for someone to find. Actually, he’s been pretty cool with the whole thing. After all, within the last year he moved from Arizona to Pennsylvania and from electronics engineer to milkman, so this was no big deal. My dad is very flexible.
All these little glitches aside, I have to tell you I love living in a world without clocks. The shackles are gone. I’m a puppy unleashed in a meadow of time. As I watched the sun come up this morning, I felt a new sense of kinship with it. Something primitive stirred inside me, something that remembers the rising sun by itself, before there were minutes and schedules and calendars, before there were even words like “morning.”
Days till Solstice: 90
September 28
I took my new sister, Alvina, on a milk run today. Her mother loved the idea. She was waiting with A
lvina on the front step. She waved as her daughter climbed into the truck. “Have fun!” she called.
I had forgotten that seating would be a problem, since the jump seat my father had installed for me was the only provision for passengers. Alvina and I scrunched onto the seat. “I don’t believe you’re doing this to me,” she grumped. “It’s still dark.” I grinned and nodded at my father. I had told him not to expect the cheeriest kid in the world. And then Alvina got up and without a word plopped herself down on my lap. Within seconds she was sleeping, her head lolling back against my shoulder.
She didn’t have long to doze, as my father soon pulled the truck up to Ridgeview Diner. “Breakfast time,” I said. I half led, half dragged her into the diner.
We took a booth at the windows. Alvina slumped in her seat, grumbled, “I don’t believe this,” and went immediately back to sleep.
“You still sure this is a great idea?” my father said.
When the waitress came and said, “Coffee, folks?” I shook Alvina awake. The waitress must have been wondering why we had this child out in the middle of the night.
“Alvina,” I said, “what do you want to drink? Milk? Tea?”
Her chin was on her chest, her eyes closed. “Coffee.”
“No coffee,” I said. “You’re a kid.”
“Always have coffee,” she mumbled. “Want coffee.”
I knew she was lying. I knew that eleven-year-olds and caffeine were not a great mix. But this whole day would be wasted if she slept through it. I looked at my father. He nodded.
“Okay,” I said to the waitress. “Three coffees.”
Ten minutes later Alvina was awake and the waitress was setting a stack of pancakes and bacon in front of her. The waitress tapped Alvina’s fingernail. “Snazzy.”
Alvina sliced at her pancakes and made her who-let-you-in face. “Snazzy?”
The waitress fluttered her own fingernails over the table. “Check out mine.” Hers were deep red with pink squiggles.
Alvina made a huffy show of patience and took a look. “Mine is better,” she said, and returned to her slicing.
Love, Stargirl Page 12
