Pixie Pushes On

by Tamara Bundy

  My heart was so full of missing Charlotte that my head couldn’t begin to think about schoolwork right then, so I just shrugged and said, “Well, what do you want us to change? Should we do a dance? Sing a song? Maybe turn our speech into a big ole poem?”

  “That’s it,” Berta yelled. “That’s a good idea! The poem thing—not the dancing and singing thing—although I am a good singer.”

  I was about to tell her I was joking when Ricky added, “Yeah! A poem could be nice.” He looked at me. “You know how much you like Charlotte’s poems? I’ll bet if we wrote a poem for part of our speech, it’d make people remember it more.”

  I did like Charlotte’s poems. And I figured it might be nice to think of Charlotte while I was writing one of my own.

  But before I could think any more about it, Ricky turned back to Berta. “But now, me and Pixie better be getting these eggs sold and the sugar her grandma needed.”

  I was happy to move on, so I headed to the counter. Grandma’s ration book was inside the basket with the eggs. I pulled out the stamp for our allowed amount of sugar and handed both the stamp and the basket to Berta’s daddy.

  Mr. Green smiled a real nice smile. “Maybe before long we won’t need these here ration books anymore, and people can buy any amount of anything they want.”

  I nodded, ’cause it seemed the polite thing to do, but truthfully, I couldn’t remember when we didn’t have to take the stamps and the book to the grocer with us. The idea of not doing it that way, and buying any amount you wanted, seemed strange to me.

  He handed me the sugar and some change for the eggs, then winked and said, “Mark my word, everything will be back to normal one day soon.”

  As much as I wanted to believe yet another grown-up’s promise, I had to wonder if I’d even recognize what normal looked like if it ever did decide to come back into my life again.

  CHAPTER 35

  It was finally the day for us to give our speeches in front of the class so that Miss Beany could choose who got to present during the pageant.

  Since two of Berta’s favorite things are being the center of attention and talking, Ricky and I agreed with her that she’d be the best one to give our speech.

  It took a long time to put the right words into our poem, but I think we did it.

  I know without a doubt the poem we came up with wasn’t near as perfect as one of Charlotte’s, but I thought she’d be proud she inspired it.

  The first group to present gave a speech about doing our part with war rations and victory gardens—the gardens President Roosevelt, may he rest in peace, asked everyone in the country to plant. It was a pretty good speech, and so was the next one about a day in the life of a soldier in the war.

  When our turn came, the three of us stood up in the front of the classroom—but Ricky and I stood off to the side holding the collection of wartime pictures we’d cut and pasted from Life magazine. I looked over at the lonely row of desks where I’d sat when Miss Beany wasn’t 100 percent sure I wasn’t gonna give the whole class polio. Hard to believe how long ago that was. And that made me sad, thinking how long ago it was since Charlotte was here.

  I shook my head, trying to shoo away those gloomy thoughts, and tried to focus instead on Berta giving our speech.

  “Our late president Franklin Roosevelt in his first inaugural speech said, ‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.’ But what is fear, and how does someone overcome their fear and become a hero?”

  I dang near memorized that speech myself, but standing beside her, listening to her recite it to our class, I got goose bumps.

  After talking about soldiers and everyday heroes of the war, she recited the poem we wrote.

  There are heroes all around us,

  especially in a time of war.

  Some fight on the battlefield,

  and some run the local store.

  Heroes come in different shapes:

  some are women, some are men.

  Some fight for life in a hospital

  so they can come home again.

  There are heroes all around us

  and within us all—it’s true.

  Because the power to be brave

  also lives in me and you.

  Had to admit that might have been the best speech ever.

  Miss Beany liked it too. And Ricky, Berta, and I were all kind of tickled when everyone clapped for a long time.

  At the end of the day, Miss Beany announced that our speech was chosen to be given during the pageant.

  We squealed and hugged each other.

  “That really was good.” I smiled, feeling pride swelling inside me.

  Ricky touched Berta on the shoulder. “You have such a good memory,” he said.

  And she did—she remembered every single word of our speech and poem without any papers to look off of.

  Berta smiled. “I know! Daddy says I’m like an elephant—I never forget anything.”

  I wanted to add she also never forgets to compliment herself, but I swallowed that thought as we were enjoying the good feeling of our accomplishment.

  CHAPTER 36

  With the pageant only a week away, there was a lot more practice and preparation to do. Miss Beany announced that it was going to be bigger than the Fourth of July and that the whole town was invited. I think the teachers added every patriotic song ever known to the program.

  I didn’t mind learning extra songs the last week of school instead of doing arithmetic and spelling. But I was surprised when Miss Beany asked me to sing “God Bless America”—and extra surprised she wanted it sung as a duet with Berta.

  That meant the last week of school I had homework with Berta. Of course, she insisted we practice at her house since her daddy owned a phonograph player and even had the record of that song. I’d heard it on the radio more than any other song ever sung, it seemed. But I still didn’t know it by heart.

  So one afternoon, I followed Berta home from school.

  “Hey, girls!” Her daddy waved to us when we walked in the store. “Prudence, nice to see you. I’m glad you come over. Berta don’t get a lot of friends visitin’.”

  “It’s not really a friend visit, Mr. Green. We got homework of sorts to do.”

  Those words took a sliver of the smile away from her daddy’s face, and I admit to feeling a smidge mean about saying it the way I did.

  But Berta didn’t seem to notice. She acted like she was hosting a party and I was her guest of honor. She grabbed my hand and said, “Come on—I’ll show you my room. It’s upstairs.”

  I guess I always figured she lived near the store, but I never knew she lived in the store. Well, if truth be told, she lived above the store. So I followed her up the stairs, right past the indoor toilet she’d been bragging about—which I had to admit looked pretty nice and didn’t smell like an outhouse.

  Come to find out nothing was near as fancy as I had imagined it would be. Her stairs creaked as much as the stairs at my house, and her room was no bigger than Charlotte’s and mine, even though I am sure her closet had lots more clothes in it.

  She wasn’t at all satisfied with me not complimenting her on her room, though. Looking around like she was searching for something special, she finally found a braggable item. “See my ribbons and awards? This one is for the spelling bee last year—you weren’t here then, but I won it fair and square, no matter what that Olivia says.” Her face pinched up for a moment like she was hearing Olivia disagreeing with her right then, but she moved on. “And this is from my 4-H project from last summer at the county fair. I can only do cooking and sewing projects, since we don’t live on a farm or anything. You’re so lucky you live on a farm.” After those words, she smiled one of her famous extra-big smiles.

  Butter my biscuit! Me . . . lucky?

  “Um . . . thanks,” I said. �
��Can we practice the song now?”

  “Sure,” Berta said. “I was just about to say let’s go into the parlor.”

  I wasn’t certain what a parlor was or where in a house it might be located, but I followed her through a hallway with some shelves of books and then into a room that most folks would call a living room. She walked over to the corner of the room and announced, “Ta-da!” like she’d performed a magic trick.

  Her phonograph was even prettier than I’d thought it would be. There was one at school, but this was nicer—maybe the nicest one ever made.

  When it was shut, it looked like a fancy version of Granddaddy’s radio, only made out of smooth red wood, which looked—and felt—like touching glass. But when Berta lifted the lid, I saw the phonograph part. And waiting on top of the turntable was a shiny black record.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  And even though that could have been bragging, it didn’t bug me. It just felt like we agreed. She turned a knob and lifted the needle, and the music started.

  “God bless America, land that I love . . .”

  Even though I’d heard that record on the radio before, there was something about having it right there in front of me, like the lady herself was singing just for me.

  Of course, the lady and Berta were both singing just for me, since Berta was bound and determined to let me know she knew the whole thing by heart.

  Still, when I heard the last part—“My home . . . sweet . . . home!”—I got goose bumps again. “That was nice,” I said real soft.

  Berta smiled like I was talking about her singing, which was pretty good too. But I didn’t need to tell her that, since she tells everybody that all the time.

  “Daddy says I have my mama’s voice,” she said, kinda proud but also kinda sad.

  And I understood. “Then your mama must’ve had a real pretty voice.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Sometimes I pretend I can hear my mama’s voice. But that’s silly, ’cause I wouldn’t really recognize it, would I?”

  I blinked a few times, trying not to get too emotional. “That’s not silly. Sometimes I pretend my mama’s talking to me, too—but I can’t always remember her voice either.”

  Berta nodded so slow it almost couldn’t be called nodding. Then she smiled—a real honest-to-goodness smile.

  We practiced our song over and over so many times that day that I figured God would hear us high up in heaven and have no choice but to bless America and all of us soon enough.

  CHAPTER 37

  If a blessing was on its way to me, it rightly got sent to someone else.

  The night of the pageant, I sat at the dinner table, proud of the pretty white dress with blue and red ribbons that Grandma had sewn for me. I was so excited I couldn’t sit still. I practiced the song in my head, thinking how I’d end it with my hand in the air on the last note, just like I’d imagined the real singer on the record would end it.

  ’Course, when she was singing it, she most likely wasn’t sitting at the table with a bowl of vegetable soup. And unfortunately, in my excitement about singing, my bowl tumbled smack-dab into my lap. When I stood up, my dress was more red than white.

  Grandma didn’t even have time to scold me about my messiness, since we had to find another dress for me to wear right away—and seeing as how I’d grown a foot over the last few months, the pickings were slim. All that was left for me was an old gray dress that had absolutely nothing to do with America.

  “Quit tugging at the dress, Prudence,” Grandma said to me when I walked back into the kitchen in the too-tight dress.

  “I can’t help it, Grandma. I don’t think I can sing in this thing. I can barely take a deep breath.”

  She shook her head. “Well, it’s going to have to do.”

  She was right. We were out of time.

  And to make everything even worse, just then Daddy walked into the kitchen wearing his farm clothes and announced, “That old sow’s giving birth tonight—I just know it.”

  That got me focused on his clothes instead of mine. “Daddy, why aren’t you ready?” I asked. “We have to leave in a few minutes.”

  He looked confused. “Ready for what?”

  “Tonight’s the pageant at school,” I reminded him.

  “Oh! Right.” He shook his head. “Honey, I’m sorry—but the sow’s pretty old, and she’ll need help getting her litter out.”

  Granddaddy spoke up. “Charles, you go to the show, I’ll stay.”

  “No. I should handle it. I need to be there.”

  “I think your daughter might need you more tonight.” Granddaddy spoke low, like he didn’t want me to hear, but I did.

  Daddy shrugged and gave me a smile. “Pru—you understand, right? You’ll be okay if I miss your show. Maybe you can sing your song for me later?”

  I wanted Daddy there at school—watching me on that stage. But I knew the farm was important to him. “Sure . . . Daddy.” I smiled back as best I could.

  “Well, speaking of the show,” Granddaddy said, “we’d better be getting our young star to her performance now.”

  I tried to smile. “Ah, Granddaddy, I’m not that good.”

  “I know better, Pixie.” He picked up my hand as we headed to the car.

  * * *

  * * *

  The school cafeteria was decorated in all sorts of patriotic pictures colored by the students over the last week. There was a table with red punch, and cookies cut in the shape of stars. Some of the audience sat in chairs while some stood against the walls, waiting for the pageant to start.

  Right as the crowd got extra loud from everybody greeting everybody else, Principal Logan hushed us all and welcomed everyone, saying how happy he was to end the year with good news. I wasn’t feeling the good news right then; mostly I was feeling the tightness of the too-small dress.

  My class watched from the hallway as the first graders got things started, marching and singing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” I could see Betsy singing with them, grinning even more than usual. She couldn’t take her eyes off her mama—who smiled back at her from the front row.

  When the second graders were getting set up and the first graders were being seated on the floor, Betsy saw me and waved. When I lifted my arm to wave back, I heard something snap.

  “Oh no,” I whispered to myself, but Ricky, standing next to me, must’ve heard.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be great.”

  But as he said that, I heard a ripping sound. And Berta, who was standing on my other side, warned me, “Be careful. You busted two of your buttons on the back of your dress.”

  I stiffened my back against a wall as the third and fourth graders got called to perform “My Country ’Tis of Thee.”

  Somehow, my dress was getting tighter with each breath I took.

  When our time came to move to the space in front of the cafeteria that was serving as our stage, I walked sideways as slow as I could, keeping my back to the wall. Berta saw me taking a place in the back row, instead of where I was supposed to be—beside her, in front. She shook her head something fierce, but I just looked away.

  I didn’t care—my head was throbbing like someone was hammering on it. My dress was clinging to me like skin. And I thought I smelled like soup.

  Miss Beany introduced Ricky, Berta, and me as the ones who wrote the fifth-grade speech. Even in the back row, I tried to concentrate on every word of the speech while Berta gave it, but my mind kept coming back to my too-tight dress. I couldn’t even enjoy the round of applause we got when she finished.

  Next, we all sang “You’re a Grand Old Flag.” We were also supposed to march in place while singing, but I was sure my whole dress would march right off my body if I moved too much, so I just kind of swayed from side to
side as careful as I could. I saw Grandma and Granddaddy nodding and smiling at me, but I sure didn’t feel like nodding or smiling back.

  Then it was time for Berta and me to sing our song.

  Miss Beany introduced us, and Berta jumped out to stand away from her row. I went to move forward too, but when I took a breath to do so, I heard a couple more pops from what were certainly my last buttons.

  I couldn’t move.

  Berta stood in her spot, fanning her fingers my way, motioning for me to come to her, while I shook my head, wishing I could just disappear.

  She left her spot in front to come back to me, speaking in a loud whisper, “Forget about your silly buttons—we have a song to sing.”

  Except I couldn’t say—or sing—a word.

  And even though my mouth refused to work, somehow my feet managed to run me out of the cafeteria, my bare back broadcasting my shame to the entire school.

  CHAPTER 38

  Granddaddy and Grandma tried to tell me I didn’t embarrass myself beyond repair, but I only found comfort in the fact that summer was here and I wouldn’t have to see most everyone from school until the fall.

  That night, I tossed and turned—and so did my brain—for what felt like hours, till I finally got out of bed. Peeking into Daddy’s room, I saw him sound asleep. He must’ve come in after I went to bed.

  Walking downstairs to Grandma and Granddaddy’s room, I heard each stair creak louder than the next.

  “Is Daddy mad at me?” I whispered when I got to their open door.

  Grandma mumbled something and scooted over.

  I took that as an invitation to sit on the edge of her bed.

  Grandma’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Why would your daddy be mad at ya?”

  “He didn’t even remember I was singing in the show, and I told him over and over. But it’s more than that—it’s like the only thing he cares about lately is the farm.”