“You’ve never given me a bracelet.”
“If you want a bracelet, I will give you a bracelet.”
“Yes, if that’s what girls like Sandy wear, I want one.”
“Look at Rama, wanting to go with the flow!”
We hang out inside the mean girls’ restroom for four minutes before anyone enters. I pretend to fix my hair and Rama rearranges the folds of her scarf. By the time Sandy enters, I’ve primped for six minutes and am thoroughly sick of looking at myself. “Rama, isn’t this bracelet cool?”
“Yeah.”
“My older cousin, in New York, she says shoelace bracelets are the thing.” I hold out the blue-and-white bracelet, hoping the bathroom fluorescence will make the silver threads gleam. “They are really easy to make, especially in Beatty Middle School colors.”
“So pretty,” Rama says with a lot of faux enthusiasm.
Sandy smiles. “That is nice. Can I see it?”
“Keep it. I can make more,” I say. “I can teach you how to do—”
But Sandy beats it out of the restroom before I can say “it.”
Only time will tell if my sad attempt at being nice made any difference in the world. Right now, it’s clear that Rama doesn’t think it did because she’s got her hand on her hip and she’s shaking her head.
“Don’t say anything.”
“Do you know anyone in New York?”
“Nope.”
“You still owe me a bracelet.”
I’ll make her a stupid bracelet this weekend. Right after the most beautiful sky scene of the year flies over my house. It happens tomorrow and she doesn’t even know it’s coming. My gift to her and it’s something I can give without any parental unit fearing I’m messing with her culture. I may not know a boatful of facts like Wayne Kovok, but I know one thing. Everyone likes to stop and look at unusual things. Especially if they float over your house.
chapter 27
Here is a girl being shown the way by the universe.
Saturday before sunrise.
No one in the house is awake. Not even Larry.
When it is time, I go outside in the backyard. You can hear them coming by the sounds of hot air.
Shhhhh. Shhhhhh.
A sea of hot-air balloons sailing over our neighborhood. They come in this direction every year. They start at a park miles from here, and then float over rooftops all around town. They are like quiet surprises.
I look forward to this day like Christmas. It is one small thing in my life that has not changed.
I turn on my phone and call Rama.
“May I speak to Rama?”
“Do you have any eggs?”
“What?”
“Oh, I thought that was our secret phrase.”
“Yeah, sure. Ha-ha! Eggs. I have something for you.”
“A bracelet?”
“Better. Go out in your backyard and look at the sky.”
“Is it falling?”
“Just go!”
I can hear her walking, door opening and closing. Then, “Wow! This is amazing.”
“I know, right?”
I sit down on the dry grass and then lie flat next to the vegetables so that I can watch the balloons.
Shhhhhh. Shhhhh.
I love that sound.
One is striped like a rainbow. Another is the Lone Star flag. There is Darth Vader’s head, which is always Dad’s favorite. Also, a giant bumblebee, and I swear the guy in the basket waved at me. I wave back.
Shhhhhh.
There are at least fifty of them in the sky now, or so it seems. When they are silently floating and not pulling the lever to release hot air into the balloon, you can almost believe they aren’t real things, but painted right onto the sky. Silently gliding. Peacefully sailing. Not in this world with problems, but above it where they are only concerned with air. Only traveling as fast as the wind blows.
“I think a guy waved at me,” Rama says.
“Was it the bumblebee?”
“Yes!”
“Yeah, he waved at me, too.”
I bet he could see Rama’s scarf against the grass. She probably cuts a pretty image lying there.
Rama and I say nothing for a long while. Just watch the sky dotted with colors and advertisements and the breathy sound each time a balloon driver pushes hot air into the balloon.
“How long does this go on?” Rama asks.
“A good half hour.”
“I wish I was up there.”
“People would look small and insignificant.”
“There would be no horrible Saturday math tutoring.”
“Just clouds. And we could see where Woman Who Goes Somewhere is headed.”
“Okay, I’m going to go now. I want my mom to see this.”
I wish Mama and Laura would come out here, too, but they are both in their own worlds now. Sleeping or absorbing cartoons. And that is okay. Because there it is and I’m alone to see it.
My sign.
My sign to go forward is floating above. The Tom Thumb grocery store balloon. It almost makes me laugh out loud. A woman in the basket has a thick ponytail and a nice smile. We both wave at the same time. Woman Who Smiles scatters little bits of paper. They fall like white butterflies down onto Fargo Drive and beyond. I wait for one of them to come to me. A coupon.
Five dollars toward anything in the store. Today only.
The balloon hangs in the sky. I want to be in the basket and see the view from above. Thank the woman for the coupon. I bet life looks easy. Quiet. Safe.
And then the Tom Thumb descends slowly and looks to be barely above the rooftops. Slowly and gently, it falls toward Fargo Drive. It falls!
Now, it just seems to skim the trees. Something must be wrong. Really wrong. Will it land on our street or at the intersection? I can’t believe it is going down, light as a feather.
My phone rings. “Are you watching this?”
“Yes, I see it coming down near your house. Do they seem to be okay?”
“It’s falling slowly. No trees nearby,” she says. “Wait, it’s landing at the intersection, right in the center!”
I hang up and run to our front yard. A big, superwide truck breezes down our street. It has a giant sign on the side of it that reads TOM THUMB CHASE VEHICLE. And then, from a distance I watch the billowy material of the balloon fall to the street softly, layer upon layer. And one last shhhhh.
If a balloon can land safely on Fargo Drive, then a girl can walk to the grocery store. Don’t ask me why this makes so much sense. It just does.
This is my sign.
chapter 28
Here is a girl with a mission and a five-dollar-off-anything coupon. Good for today only!
I’ve thought it out. The conversation might go like this.
We don’t have any other ideas except to ask the Jenningses for a ride, I will say. Mama hasn’t wanted to ask for any help, which seems like backward thinking to me. The topic we don’t speak of is all tangled up with her pride. The pamphlets about agoraphobia hidden in Mama’s drawer indicate this is a common response.
Patients often want to try to beat this condition themselves and refuse help and treatment.
Let me think about it, Mama will say.
And I will respond, Mama, I’m hungry! and it will be this that makes her get out of her bed.
I step into her room.
“Mama, I’m going to the store,” I tell her. She is rolled up under her comforter this morning, drinking coffee made of three-day-old grounds. She doesn’t know my sneakers already walked 1.2 miles with me in them. She’s going to freak out, but I’m prepared.
“Okay,” she says. “Just take your phone.”
“We really need dog food. And I could get you more coffee.” I am already starting into my argument in favor of going alone on the long walk to the store when her response hits me.
“Okay,” Mama says. “I’ll get my purse.”
Mama will get her purse.
&nb
sp; Wait, Mama will get her purse?
That’s it? No arguing? No debating? No We can live on turnips, the original settlers didn’t have a grocery store?
I wasn’t expecting this.
Mama gives me a look I don’t recognize. A letting-me-go kind of look.
“Text me as soon as you get to the store,” she says. “I’m also going to give you the Life Alert necklace, which you can push if you need help.”
“If I’ve fallen and can’t get up?”
“Well, the authorities will come if you push it, so—”
“The authorities aren’t going to come. I’ll be fine.”
“Come and give me a hug.”
Her arms surround me and I feel like I’m in a safe, warm circle. For a minute I don’t want to leave this tiny safe space. Or our house. But there it is. A tiny voice. Or maybe it’s the growl of a stomach. The gut instinct. Either way, it’s the sound of urgency combined with the want of food. Mama didn’t resist like I expected she would. I wonder if this is a good thing. Some other kind of sign. A sign of how change has come for Mama, too.
Here is a girl who will feel all the fear and go forward anyway.
I walk.
When I leave 4520 Fargo Drive, Woman Who Goes Somewhere is also stepping fast down our street. Since she is something of a pro at this walking thing, I pick up my pace to match hers. There is safety in pairs.
She is a mess, of course. Her hair spilling out from a pink baseball cap. Some large shopping bag slung over her shoulder. My hair is pulled back in a tight ninja-style ponytail. My backpack against my back. Change and dollars from Mama’s purse float in my pocket. Change and dollars I will exchange for an actual gallon of milk and toilet paper and dog food and coffee.
The world seems at once too big and full of a thousand small details.
My skin is electric with fear. It’s on high alert for danger and nefarious individuals.
Let’s face it, I’m scared.
Very scared.
I’m trying to be courageous, five minutes at a time. Five more minutes. And then another five. Talking myself through it. Knowing I won’t get lost as I’ve memorized the directions. I’m going to absorb every landmark and sign if it kills me.
Blocks of cement sidewalk along Fargo Drive mark my progress. Twelve squares. Check for nefarious people, creatures, and weather disruptions. Falling balloons and wannabe hipsters. Remember the rules about strangers and promises.
A stranger shouldn’t promise you anything. It is a tactic to win you over.
Remember the rules about using your voice.
Your voice is your greatest weapon. Use it.
Remember the rules about screaming.
There are many.
At fifteen cement squares, I pass a little kid playing with a ball in his front yard. He is alone. No parental unit in sight and I want to protect him. Or shout a warning. Or dress him in orange.
More and more of Mama’s rules spill out until it is crazy noisy inside my head. The only thing that breaks the spell is a sign against a fence.
BE AWARE OF DOG
I am aware. There is no one more aware than me.
Twenty-five squares and I’ve reached Bray Road. Bray Road is busy, four lanes across and a thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit. At Bray, Woman Who Goes Somewhere turns to the left and I go to the right. I walk along the sidewalk toward the intersection of Bray and Hooks Boulevard. I pass a jogger in a black top and dig my hands deep into my pockets. She nods. Nothing nefarious.
On the other side of Bray Road, there’s a big empty gray-green field. It is for sale. I remember passing that real estate agent’s sign when I was in the backseat of the green Toyota and Dad was driving me someplace, but I never stopped to notice his name. It’s Wilson Carver, if you want to know. He has dark hair, great teeth, a wine-colored tie, and you can call him if interested in the twenty-five-thousand-square-foot lot for sale.
See you on the flip side, Mr. Carver.
I sight the crosswalk that separates me from store-bought food. It is a beacon. A few steps across and I will be away from a busy street full of fast cars shuttling strangers here and there. Strangers who shouldn’t mess with me or they will be sorry. My screaming voice is legendary. At least, I hope that it is.
I step into the suburban shopping center and mentally draw a careful picture of the layout. Tom Thumb. Supercuts. Gas Station. Dry Cleaners. Jewelry Store.
Five minutes more. And it’s not so bad.
There’s also a row of clothing shops. The mannequins in one window wear colorful scarves and giant rings on fake fingers. It looks French to me. I’d like to stay and admire them awhile, but there’s a slow-moving car behind me. I feel its heat like hot breath, hear the squeak of tires. If I turn, I’ll see a scruffy face. Bearded. Reflective sunglasses. A gold tooth. Hook for one hand. A nefarious individual who captures young children.
Remember to never leave with a stranger. Scratch and claw and bite and kick with your legs, the strongest part of your body, but never leave with them if you want to be found again.
I picture myself doing all those things at once.
Here is a wild girl, scratching and clawing and surviving. Ka-pow!
Then there is a car right by my side and I sweat and boil like I’m a pot of water on a stove. I do my best to turn and look without it being obvious. When I do, it’s just a slow-moving, blue-haired lady behind the wheel of a big blue car. Of all the people to worry about. Geesh!
Five minutes longer.
My heart beats faster. I identify a woman with a toddler pushing a stroller toward the Tom Thumb entrance.
Mothers with strollers are safe.
A group of teenagers crosses the parking lot and heads into the Supercuts store. They are laughing. Carefree. They have no worries. A haircut is a luxury no family who eats turnips can afford.
That should be the joke of the day. Except that it’s true.
The electric doormat opens as Woman with Stroller enters Tom Thumb, me right behind her. The cool air sweeps me up and invites me inside.
I text Mama and she replies with a smiley face. I can picture her at the kitchen table. She will sit there staring at the salt and pepper shakers until I get back, her knuckles going white from gripping the table.
At the checkout, I place items on the conveyor belt. A sack of dog food as big as my backpack. Four apples. A four-pack of toilet paper. A half-gallon of milk. A small box of detergent. A pack of Wintergreen gum. And a package of M&Ms for Laura because she will not believe I walked here unless I return with a store-bought talisman.
I look at all my items and wonder if I can really carry them back to Fargo Drive without my arms snapping off.
Quick, I put the half-gallon of milk in the soda fridge right under the magazine stand. I would rather have clean-sheet day than fresh milk.
I stuff all that will fit into my backpack and carry the rest toward home inside white plastic bags. I regard Wilson Carver, still with his cardboard smile in the empty field. I count fourteen cars along Bray Road. I am aware of the dog on Fargo Drive. And I feel calm when I spot the same little boy, still playing with his ball in his front yard.
He, too, is miraculously safe on Fargo Drive. Or maybe it’s no miracle. Maybe he’s just not afraid.
The entire adventure took me an hour.
I put one shopping bag down at the door of 4520 Fargo Drive and unlock the door. I can’t believe this is my hand, all etched with deep red grooves made from carrying grocery-filled Tom Thumb bags.
Here is the hand of Mysti Murphy, girl who buys food.
I display my store-bought trophies on the kitchen table. All of it except the gum. It is hiding in my pocket and it’s for Rama.
“Oh… um…” Mama says nervously. “Are you okay? I mean. Oh, Mysti—”
“You don’t even have to make a T-shirt with my face on it because I am not missing,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster.
“Well, I love you, so sue me.”
Mama lowers herself into a kitchen chair and holds on to the side of the table. Her face says she is playing that scary movie inside her head called Dangerous Things That Might Have Happened to My Daughter. I put the apples away. Unwrap the toilet paper. Fill Larry’s bowl with kibble.
Then I slice a fresh crisp apple and put three pieces in front of Mama. I promise you, fresh fruit tastes better if you bought it yourself.
“Why is Laura asleep?”
“She has a cold.”
“I should make her some tea.”
Mama sits at the table picking at the blue place mats while I heat up a mug of water in the microwave. She’s gone to a far-off place, so I leave her there and bring the mug of tea to Laura.
“Knock, knock. Tea and M&Ms, dear sister.”
“How was it? Scary?”
“A little. It’s actually exhausting to be on alert for so many things.”
“You look tired.”
“Must be the reason Mama naps so much.”
“Right.”
“What does a dentist call his X-rays?”
“What?”
“Tooth pics,” I tell her.
Not that I would know anything about a dentist firsthand.
chapter 29
Here is a girl missing her friend.
Wish I could talk to you.
We need to do this project.
I gave you supplies.
A picture of the Alamo and Popsicle sticks?
Yeah.
Like I couldn’t get that on my own.
I have basketball.
I have stuff too!
Just do it. It’s easy.
Dork!
Dad?
Better, but not home yet.
R u still there?
Courage for Beginners Page 10
