The War with Grandma

by Robert Kimmel Smith

  Susan took her to the warehouse to let her pick out any that were in the discard area, which was a lot.

  I said, “I don’t understand why we need costumes.”

  Grandma Sally said, “Shush. Let me finish my story.”

  There were so many costumes. Her favorites were ones from The Phantom of the Opera, The Little Mermaid, and The Tempest, which is a really weird Shakespeare play, according to my dad. Grandma couldn’t decide, so Susan said, “Take them all.”

  Grandma Sally hesitated, but Susan said, “Donate what you don’t use.” So then Grandma was excited and took everything, and a ton of props including a fake doorway, a large plastic skunk, and a box of old stage makeup.

  Grandpa said, “There is no way you can fit all that in my car.”

  Grandma said, “I’ll take the truck.”

  Grandpa said, “Are you serious? On the freeway?”

  Grandma said, “Dead serious.”

  Grandpa knows when Grandma sets her mind on something, there’s no changing it.

  He helped her get packed. They also were able to get in some boxes of my dad’s baseball cards, a pile of trophies, some old board games, and a bag of my Aunt Jenny’s old dolls that were very disturbing.

  She left at three a.m. the next day, drank two Diet Cokes, stopped once for gas, and now here she was.

  That was Grandma’s story.

  * * *

  —

  Dad stared at all the boxes of his stuff and said, “Mom. I don’t need all this. Where am I going to put it?”

  I couldn’t believe it. Like that was the biggest issue that needed addressing? Not Grandma speeding to our house with mermaid costumes flying out the bed of her truck planning on usurping the competition?

  “We’ve been enjoying them for all these years, honey, we wanted you to have a chance to cherish them. I’m sure you’ll find space,” Grandma said.

  “Can’t you leave them in my bedroom? Or up in Dad’s new office?” That was the attic where my dad had to live when he was a kid during the war with Great-Grandpa Jack.

  “Your dad still uses his office, we’re renting Grandpa Jack’s apartment in the basement, and I’m turning your bedroom into a vocal studio,” Grandma explained.

  “Excuse me?” Dad said, and I am going to stop telling about this conversation because it got a little dicey. I guess Dad didn’t want his room to change and now I think he knew just a teeny, tiny little bit how it felt to change partners on me unexpectedly.

  When everything was finally sorted out, I once again asked the question that had been burning in my heart and soul. “Why do we need all these costumes, Grandma?”

  She smiled! A very wicked smile! “Why you ask?”

  She reached over and pulled a green spiky wig out of a bag and put it on my head. Just plopped it down like it was a beanie or something.

  “We need them because, though we don’t know what the challenges are for this competition, we do know how to put on a show. We are going to be the most fabulous contestants for Raspberry Ambassador this town has ever seen. I promise you that.”

  “Strawberry, Grandma. Strawberry.”

  “Oh yes. Strawberry. What difference does it make?”

  I was doomed.

  13

  Oh Puffo

  For the record, I don’t know how to put on a show.

  I have never known how to put on a show.

  I know how to study for a test. I know how to win the fifth-grade Risk tournament. I know how to beat Diego in the science fair. And I knew we could win the competition without putting on a show.

  Dad didn’t seem too happy either, probably because he had to go through his stuff and who knew what Mom was going to say about all his old baseball cards or the weird dolls, so I decided to go straight to the source and set up some ground rules for this partnership before it could wreak more flattened mailboxes or worse.

  “I don’t put on shows, Grandma,” I said. “I’m not wearing costumes.”

  “Oh puffo, of course you are.” She was getting a few more things out of the truck and I was following her around.

  “No. I’m not.”

  “You are,” she said. “But let’s work that out later. Can I put my suitcase in your room?”

  “What?”

  “I want to get settled.”

  I stared at her, confused.

  “I’ll help you,” Hattie said.

  Our house only had two bedrooms, Dad’s writing loft that had more spiders than windows, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the front room that had a sloped ceiling because of the porch. There was no space for houseguests. Again, that was why my grandparents always got a motel room when they visited.

  “Are you staying with us?” I asked, trailing after Hattie and Grandma into our room.

  “Of course, I need to be close to the action.” She plopped her purse on the floor.

  “But where are you going to sleep?”

  “Right here,” she said, sitting ON MY BED!

  I stood in the doorway. “There?”

  “Sure. With you. We need to strategize and plan whenever an idea strikes us. We would be at an extreme disadvantage if I was clear across town.”

  There was no room for Grandma on my bed. None. I mean I guess technically there sort of was room. SORT OF. But not really. Not really and especially not enough room for her ideas that strike her in the middle of the night.

  She lay back on the mattress, right in the middle of all my stuffed animals. My octopus got shoved off. Hattie lay down beside her. I didn’t move.

  “Come,” Grandma Sally said, patting the other side of her where my octopus had once been.

  I was going to be sleeping with Grandma in my bed.

  Grandma was going to be my partner.

  Grandma thought I was going to put on a show.

  Grandma yelled at Dawn Allerton.

  “Come on, goose. Don’t be silly. Cuddle up to your grandma.”

  I sighed and lay down next to her. This was a lot to take in and I wasn’t sure how it was going to work out with us winning.

  She pulled me close and she smelled like coconut and flowers and she was soft and warm. Even though I had no idea what was going to happen next, and I was scared—very, very scared—it felt good to be next to her.

  “I’ve missed you both so much,” Grandma said, holding each of our hands.

  “We missed you too, Grandma,” I said.

  She saw the strawberry pictures and the town song lyrics and the Jewel facts. “It’s a dream board! You’re really serious about this competition, aren’t you, Meg?”

  “I’m so serious, Grandma.”

  “She really is,” Hattie said.

  Grandma smiled. “I love to see passion. I do.” She turned to me. “Look at my face.”

  I looked at her.

  “Look at my face,” she said again.

  “I am looking at your face.”

  “No. Really look at my face.”

  I tried to really look at her face. “You see these lines? These wrinkles? This age spot?”

  She let go of our hands and she pointed to a brown circle on her cheek.

  “Yes.”

  “These all equal wisdom. They equal experience. They equal spirit.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and said, “Do you trust me?”

  I hesitated. Grandma Sally had always been great. I loved her. But could I trust her in the most important competition of my life? Shouldn’t she be trusting me?

  “Meg, do you trust me? I can only do this if you trust me.” She reached out, her eyes still closed, and patted my face.

  I looked at Hattie, who was watching this whole thing like it was a movie.

  I didn’t have any other options. I really didn’t
when her hand was holding on to my nose.

  “I trust you, Grandma,” I said, my voice cracking.

  Her eyes flew open. “Do you really?”

  “Yes,” I said, more resolutely.

  “I believe you. I think we can win this thing.”

  “Okay,” I said, and she smiled and hugged me again.

  “Now let’s get to work,” she said.

  14

  Unforgettable

  “This is perfect. This is absolutely perfect,” Grandma said to herself after I caught her up on the details for the Strawberry Pancake Breakfast and our speech. Her face was very close to the computer screen that the acceptance email was on even though she was wearing gigantic orange glasses. “Three minutes to make a huge splash and then get out, that’s the ticket. You always want to leave them wanting more.”

  It was getting close to dinnertime and I felt like Grandma had been here ten years. “I mean, is it a splash that we need? Or a well-crafted speech?” I asked.

  “Oh, Meg, lead with your heart, my girl. Speeches are boring,” Grandma said.

  That was rude. How did she know my speech wouldn’t be heart-led? And boring? Who said speeches had to be boring?

  She stood up from the computer and said, “Follow me, girls,” and marched into our bedroom.

  Grandma was trying to take charge. I was coming around to the fact that she was my only hope for the competition, but I was not going to give her control.

  Nevertheless, I followed her.

  “Hattie, can you bring us that box in the front room with the green marker on it?” Grandma asked.

  Hattie left and I really didn’t think she’d be back any time soon because there were so many boxes, but she was fast, pushing this big box ahead of her. MISC was written in bold lettering on top.

  Grandma opened it and rummaged through all kinds of things. Bandanas, mustaches, a fake rabbit. My stomach started to feel queasy. She yanked out a big, black thing. “There we go,” she said.

  She held it up. It was a tuxedo jacket with tails and sequins on it.

  “Hold on to this,” she said, and put it on my lap.

  She rummaged some more and pulled out another one.

  “Grandma, what are you doing?” I said.

  “Now hang on. Bear with me.”

  Out came a top hat.

  And another top hat.

  White shirts.

  Black sequin pants.

  Red bow ties and belt things all followed until my eyes were swimming.

  “This is what we’re wearing tomorrow morning for the pancake breakfast,” she said.

  Now my stomach was full-on hurting.

  “I absolutely am not wearing that,” I said. No one would take me seriously if my entire outfit reflected back at them, not to mention I’d never seen let alone owned as many sequins in my entire life.

  She put on one of the top hats. “This is what the Phantom wore in The Phantom of the Opera in our city production. It’s iconic.”

  “But why are there two costumes if there’s only one Phantom?” Hattie asked.

  “One for the Phantom, and one for the understudy.” She winked at me. Oh my gosh. Was I the understudy? Me?

  “Grandma,” I said, working to stay calm, “I’m not wearing this.”

  “We’ll see.” She put the other top hat on my head, stood up, and started taking off her weird jumpsuit.

  I turned and looked at the wall. “Grandma, I’m not kidding.”

  “You just said you trusted me.”

  “I know, but the competition isn’t a play. It’s about the town and strawberries and about, you know, our heritage. It’s serious.” It felt cheesy to say it like that but it was really how I felt.

  She ignored me! She just kept putting on the clothes. I wasn’t looking, but it seemed like that was what she was doing given all the rustling. “Hurry up, Meg. Get dressed and let’s get working on our speech,” she urged.

  Hattie was smiling at me and I started to panic.

  “Put it on,” Hattie said.

  I glared at her.

  I didn’t want to do this. It had all spun out of control so fast, so quickly. “Grandma,” I said, glancing at her. “Let’s slow down and talk about this.” I thought maybe she’d listen to reason, maybe, but she didn’t even stop tying her shoes. It was no use.

  “Go ahead, goose,” Grandma said. “We don’t have much time.”

  I grabbed the stupid pants and jacket and belt thing that I found out was called a cummerbund and went to the bathroom and changed.

  * * *

  —

  You should have seen it.

  Really and truly.

  It was the worst.

  Even worse than the maroon velvet dresses Mrs. Owens made us wear for the choir concert last year, and those things were tight and scratchy. At least there were fifty other girls wearing them. Not this time. This time it was me and my grandma. Nowhere to hide.

  “What’s going on in there?” Grandma asked, knocking on the door like a drum.

  “It’s huge,” I said.

  “Let me see.”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “Open the door,” Grandma said.

  “No.”

  “Open it, Meg.”

  I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. I opened the door.

  There was Grandma in her full tuxedo and it looked like it was made for her. She actually looked good. Like a triangle-haired lady Phantom of the Opera.

  Then there was me. Me in saggy pants that were falling down and a huge white shirt, a ridiculous bow tie, and a jacket with puffy shoulder pads.

  Hattie couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Stop that, Hattie,” Grandma said, but she was smiling. “We just need to, hmm, turn around.”

  I turned around, heat rising to my face like an oven.

  “Give me your ponytail holder, Hattie.”

  Soon Grandma had bunched up the back of my jacket and I guess secured it with the ponytail holder so it sort of fit. Sort of. She tied the shirt in the back too and she rolled the top of the pants.

  “Grandma, this is crazy.”

  “No, it’s not. We can fix it.”

  “We can’t fix it.”

  “Oh, we can. We have all afternoon and I told you I brought my sewing machine.”

  Then she put the top hat back on me and pulled me to the mirror in Mom and Dad’s room.

  It was bad. It was so bad.

  Hattie covered her mouth.

  “I love it!” Grandma said. “This is perfect.”

  We heard the back door open and Dad’s voice. “Mom. I really don’t have room for the baseball…” He showed up in the doorway, his voice trailing off.

  “Wow,” he said, smirking. Was he smirking?

  “Isn’t it perfect for the opening ceremonies presentation?” Grandma said.

  “It’s a strawberry pancake breakfast, Grandma. We don’t have to dress up.”

  “Oh puffo. What do you think, Peter?”

  I could always count on Dad. Always.

  “Uh,” he said. “Well…” He had to come through. He had to. “You know, one thing’s for sure,” he said. “No one will forget you.”

  I gaped.

  My dad, Peter Stokes, who wrote in his book The War with Grandpa these exact words, check for yourself: When I grow up and have a kid I will never make him do anything he really does not want to do.

  Dad wrote that!

  And he wrote, This is a solemn promise, so help me God.

  He did say there were some exceptions, like we had to brush our teeth and not play with matches or poison and he’d make us go to school. But tuxedos were not an exception!

  “Dad,” I said in desperation
. “Remember your promise?”

  “What promise?”

  They were all staring at me. “The promise in your book that you wouldn’t make your kids do anything they didn’t want to?”

  Dad smiled. “Oh, that promise.”

  “Yes, that promise.”

  He shrugged. “Meg, you want to win this competition, right? I think Grandma is on to something here.”

  My dad, my ally, was now a traitor.

  15

  Early-Morning Drills

  The next morning Grandma got up at five.

  I did not.

  It was still dark outside, the sun was barely coming up, and Grandma whispered to me, “It’s time, Meg.”

  I lay there like a rock. I would not be moved.

  She tried again. “Meg. Come on,” she whispered. “We have to get ready.”

  I swallowed hard. All night long I’d tossed and turned, worrying about what I was going to do about the costume. Meanwhile, right next to me, Grandma happily slept the hours away, and now she was up at the crack of dawn.

  Grandma put her hand on my cheek. “Wake up, goose. Let’s get going.”

  I opened one eye, trying to be very brave. “Go ahead,” I whispered. “I’ve decided not to wear the tuxedo.”

  She knelt next to me. “What?”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “Meg, sweetie, you’re doing it.”

  “No,” I whispered, my voice betraying me.

  She was quiet. Then she said, “Meet me in the kitchen when you’re done getting dressed.” And then she left! Just like that.

  I lay there.

  And lay there.

  And lay there.

  Finally, I’m ashamed to admit, finally I did get up. I got up. I put on sequin pants. I put on a white shirt. I put on a sequin cummerbund or whatever. I put on a sequin jacket.

  Why, you may ask, why would I give in?

  Now remember, dear reader, this was before the official war was declared. At that point, I thought Grandma was harmless and had decided to help me win because my dad couldn’t be my partner. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She’d just lost the part of Miss Hannigan. She was fragile, after all.