The Summer I Saved the World ... in 65 Days

by Michele Weber Hurwitz

  Wait. What about Eli? Why is she flirting with that guy? I don’t get her sometimes.

  “So, anyway,” I say, and turn to Sariah. She’s unwrapping a cookie and taking miniature bites around the edges.

  I find out she went to a different junior high. She dances. Giggles a lot. She collects frogs, little glass and plastic and metal figurines. “I have a hundred and two,” she says.

  “Wow. That’s a lot of frogs.”

  “Uh-huh. I have two whole frog shelves in my room.” She brushes cookie crumbs from her fingers. “Did you know frogs don’t drink water but they absorb it through their skin?”

  “I didn’t know that.” I laugh and sort of poke her. “This is getting weird.”

  But she’s completely serious. “Frogs are fascinating. Some scientists think frog juice can cure diseases.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Frog juice?”

  She nods. “Chemicals in their skin. People might be able to make medicines from them.”

  Okay then.

  “Did you know there are thousands of species of frogs in the world?”

  “Um, no.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jorie sitting on plaid guy’s lap, laughing hysterically. Her real laugh, not the fake one she did with Eli. I feel a pain in my stomach.

  “Cookie?” Sariah offers.

  I pull an apple from my bag. “No, thanks.”

  Sariah looks away. Maybe I’ve hurt her feelings, not being so interested in frogs. But c’mon, it’s a little strange.

  I touch her arm. “Your drawings are amazing. You’re really talented.”

  She smiles. “Thanks.”

  Number thirty.

  Jorie laughs; Sariah chews. It feels like I’ve crossed over to the other side of something. And I’m not sure it feels right. But the other side didn’t either. So where am I supposed to go?

  Two people have told me I’m an old soul. Mr. Pontello and Grandma.

  It’s not as creepy as it sounds.

  An “old soul” is a spiritual person who is wise beyond her years. A soul who has lived before. A person who sees everything in the universe as part of one great interwoven tapestry.

  First, Mr. Pontello. There were times when he’d be lecturing about World War II or Vietnam, and I got things on a deeper level, more than just the facts and figures we needed to know for the test. People fell asleep in his class and laughed at his cowboy boots and buzz cut, but he made me love history. Showed me how we can learn from our mistakes. On my last essay of the year, Mr. Pontello wrote in the margin, You are an old soul.

  Grandma told me when she taught me how to sew. She said she could tell by my stitches.

  She said they were too even and steady for a young person and I was much too comfortable with a needle and thread.

  “But I’m only ten,” I said.

  “Don’t worry.” She peered closely at a tablecloth she was repairing. “It’s a good thing. A very good thing.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You will one day. Something will happen.”

  Old souls, she explained, may not be the most light-hearted people in a room, but their hearts have the kind of light that stays on for a long time.

  That sounded a little scary. It made me think of E.T.’s glowing red heart.

  But now I think I’m getting it. I wish I could tell her. Something happened the day I planted Mrs. Chung’s marigolds.

  When I get off the bus, Mr. Millman is helping Mrs. Cantaloni carry in the grocery bags piled in the back of her minivan.

  I stand in the middle of the street and watch Mr. Millman pick up two bags in each hand and follow Mrs. Cantaloni inside. She’s getting so big, she waddles. He comes back out for the rest of the bags, whistling.

  Wait. Whistling? Are my little efforts rubbing off on someone else? Maybe doing good is contagious, like stares.

  Perhaps for Mr. Millman, but not Mrs. Millman. She’s standing in her driveway, holding Beanie on a tight leash, tapping her beige loafer. When Mr. Millman finishes with the bags, he walks toward her, and she says, “I can’t remember the last time you helped me with the groceries.”

  “Is it my fault you do the shopping when I’m at the office?”

  “And what’s with the cigars all of a sudden?” she snaps. “You’re going to get tongue cancer.”

  Mr. Millman stamps his foot. “Myrna, live a little.”

  “I live just fine, thank you very much!”

  All this time, Beanie’s been pulling at the leash, sniffing something in the air. Suddenly, she breaks free and bolts into the Dixon weeds.

  Mrs. Chung starts coming down her driveway, swinging the crutches fast.

  The weeds are moving where Beanie must be nosing through them. Mrs. Millman runs to the edge. “Beanie, darling! Come out of there right now!” She stands on her tiptoes. “Stan! Do something!”

  “What do you want me to do?” He has a little smile. I think he’s enjoying this.

  Mrs. Chung reaches Mrs. Millman just as Beanie darts out of the weeds, howling with that awful hurt dog sound.

  “She’s bleeding!” Mrs. Millman shrieks.

  I knew this was coming.

  “Kumiho.” Mrs. Chung nods. “Fox in those weeds. She waits. Watches.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mrs. Millman says, scooping up Beanie, who’s yelping in pain. “Stan! Take me to the vet! Something bit Beanie! That place is a menace!”

  He motions toward their garage. “C’mon!”

  Thomas, in his driveway, raises his sword. Jack Cantaloni and his brothers run out as the Millmans leap into their car and back out of their driveway. Mrs. Chung is staring at the weeds, nodding.

  In a second, the Cantaloni boys have hit a baseball into the weeds. Haven’t they figured out how to hit closer pop-ups? But then the balls would land in Mrs. Millman’s yard. What a choice. Weeds with a kumiho or the crazy woman of the neighborhood.

  Mrs. Chung turns and starts toward her house. “Bad sign.” The boys just stare at her.

  We need a good thing. This very minute.

  I approach Mrs. Chung. “Some legends say foxes are wise and can be faithful guardians,” I tell her. “You know, watch over everyone.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I read it on the Internet.”

  “And so you believe it?” She shuffles away.

  Well, I tried.

  “Can you get the ball?” Jack asks me. “Did you see where it landed?”

  “Yeah.” I find the ball and toss it to him. What could have bitten Beanie? I don’t see or hear anything. Maybe a spider.

  Jordan tosses his mitt into the air. Jack says, “Thanks” and nudges the middle brother. “Jeremy, outfield. I’m batting. Jordan, you pitch.”

  Thomas is still in his driveway.

  “Hey, guys, so who’s catching?” I ask.

  Jack shrugs. “We don’t have a catcher.”

  “Thomas?” I wave. “They need a catcher.”

  He walks over, hesitant.

  Jack sizes him up. “Can you catch?”

  Thomas puts down his sword. “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” Jack points. “Stand right there.”

  Thomas’s brown eyes are shining. Thirty-one.

  The tiny flame in my heart is getting stronger.

  32. I use $2.17 of my own money to buy a tasty-looking bone for Beanie. That poor dog was definitely bitten by something, and she has to live with Mrs. Millman. I leave it on their front step.

  33. I wrap up two slices of banana bread in foil and drop them off at Mr. Dembrowski’s. Mrs. Bennett made a loaf for me as a thank-you for watching Thomas that day. No one’s been eating it except me.

  34. Mom has about fifteen unopened bottles of lotion in her bathroom, a miniature beauty supply warehouse. She can’t possibly use all of these. I wrap one with a ribbon and give it to Jack Cantaloni.

  “I think your mom could use a foot rub,” I tell him. Mr. C. always gets home late, and travel
s a lot for his job.

  Jack looks at me like I’m as crazy as Mrs. Millman. He unscrews the top, sniffs it, and then squeezes the bottle. A big glop of lotion squirts out and lands on his shoes.

  “Yuck,” he says. It’s all over his hands, too.

  Backfire.

  “Maybe I should take that back,” I say.

  He hands it to me and heads inside, shouting, “Mom? My shoes are full of smelly girl stuff!”

  Does an attempt still count?

  Speaking of Mrs. Millman—Beanie has been wearing one of those dog lampshade cone things. She had to be shaved on her back and get five stitches after what Mrs. Millman calls “the attack.” She contacted an animal control service, but since there’s no one living in the Dixon house, they said they couldn’t set a trap without permission.

  Eli hasn’t been around much. But Jorie is zooming ahead with her homecoming plan. She asks me to go to the mall with her. “I want to show you the dress,” she says. I think she had a fight with Antarctica.

  Jorie’s mom drops us off. “Don’t leave your purse in a dressing room if you go out to get a different size,” she says as we get out of the car.

  Jorie rolls her eyes, which are pale blue, like faded jeans. “Bye, Mom. Love you.” She tucks her arm through mine and lets out a contented sigh. “I love the mall.”

  I laugh. She’s in her second home.

  We go into this store with way-too-loud music and a fake-friendly girl handing out coupons and spritzing us with perfume. Jorie takes a dozen dresses into a room. Colors called Morocco and Miami. (Red and yellow.) Jorie comes out and models them for me.

  “How would I wear my hair with this one? What about shoes? What goes with yellow? The red one makes me look like I have more on top, don’t you think? Do you know Eli’s favorite color? The boy has to match his tie to the girl’s dress. I probably should eliminate Miami. Eli wouldn’t want to wear a yellow tie.”

  “Are you going to let me answer, Jor?” I smile at her in the mirror.

  “Which is your favorite?”

  My nails still have little bits of the light pink polish she did weeks ago. I hold them up. “I’m pink; you’re red.”

  “You’re absolutely right. I just want to try on that purple one.… ” She goes back into the dressing room.

  I walk around the store, trying to avoid the perfume girl (who doesn’t remember she already sprayed me), and I see Sariah, with a woman who must be her mom.

  Uh-oh. I don’t want to hear any more about frogs. And if I say hi and Jorie sees us talking, I know she’ll do that half smile with the corner of her lips pulled up. A Who’s she? smile. I morph into not such a nice person, pretending to be absorbed in a rack of tank tops.

  This erases, like, ten good things.

  Luckily, Sariah and her mom leave the store, and I don’t think she saw me. Or if she did, maybe she also spotted Jorie coming my way in a ruffly purple dress (Maui) and got it.

  Then I see it. A dress. I pull it out. Blue. Not even really blue, more like a hint of the lightest blue you could ever imagine. I have to summon vocabulary words to describe it. Words like “gossamer” and “ethereal.” If I was going to homecoming, I wouldn’t have to try on a dozen dresses. This would be it. If I got asked. Which is unlikely. Closer to impossible.

  On the way home, in the backseat of her mom’s car, Jorie turns to me. “I have a serious question. Why do you never text me back? Are you ignoring me or something?”

  “It’s my phone. It’s possessed. Texts don’t always come through.”

  “Nina Ross. How can you live without a phone? Sometimes I just do not get you.”

  I know.

  “But,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder, “I love you.”

  I know.

  “Remember at camp, when we jumped off the cliff together into that freezing lake?” she says.

  “Together? You made me.”

  “I had to! That was the only way you were going to jump!”

  “We screamed the whole way.”

  Hitting the water, I thought I was going to drown. I plummeted so deep into the shocking cold that I thought, This is how I’m going to die. Jorie grabbed my arm and pulled me to the shore. Then brought me my towel. Wrapped me up and rubbed my back until my teeth stopped chattering.

  She lifts her head. “It was fun that day. One of our best times.”

  “Jor.” I blink back a tear, then lean against her.

  She takes my hand.

  For a split second of our lives, we are right there with each other.

  “I love you too,” I whisper.

  She closes her eyes. “It’s hard. So much effort. Being on all the time …”

  I think about her seventh birthday party. And now her new group. The guy with the plaid shorts throwing her water bottle.

  “Then don’t do it,” I say. “Just be yourself. Remember, everyone else is already taken.”

  Jorie shakes her head. “But I want to.”

  We turn into the cul-de-sac, and the moment evaporates.

  “Look!” Jorie squeals.

  Eli’s shooting baskets in his driveway. No shirt on.

  “Oh my God,” she breathes.

  I have to agree.

  “Mom, let us out.” Jorie unbuckles and scoots forward. Her mom stops, and Jorie tumbles out the door. “Hey!” she calls, in a voice that gives “hey” a whole new meaning.

  Do I follow? Sit in the car? No rack of tank tops to hide behind.

  “Are you getting out?” Jorie’s mom asks.

  “Um.”

  “I’ll pull into our garage,” she offers.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  I think that was a good thing from her. In some weird way.

  “I like your shirt today,” I tell her. “That color looks really good on you.”

  She smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “Really? I wondered if it was a little too young for me.”

  “No, it’s cute.”

  She gets out of the car and squeezes my arm. “Thanks for noticing.”

  Okay, that’s number thirty-five.

  I’m more than halfway to my goal of sixty-five good things. Some of them haven’t been exactly anonymous, but who says I can’t change the rules midway? It’s my plan, right?

  I’m walking toward my house, trying not to look at Jorie and Eli, when Thomas runs up in his scarred cape. I kneel, and he practically knocks me over with his fierce hug.

  “The cape still works okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah! But who fixed it?”

  I grin at him. “Someone I know with special powers.”

  If only this was true, then I could fix a lot more things.

  “Who?” he demands.

  “A person who tries to be good,” I whisper. “And fight off enemies, just like you.” He nods. “So are you catching a lot of criminals?”

  He makes a muscle. “Yep! Lots of bad guys around here. But I’m tough!”

  I feel his upper arm. “You sure are.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Jorie softly punch Eli’s bare stomach. He grabs her little fist, and she fake yells, “Ow!”

  Well.

  “I’m going home, Thomas. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  “Don’t go!” he cries. “Want to help me kill the bad guys?”

  I shake my head. “You don’t want to kill them. Just put them in jail, right?”

  He frowns, then motions for me to come closer. He cups his mouth with his hand and whispers, “Eli says Daddy has to give Mommy some money or else he might go to jail!”

  I look at Eli. What’s going on?

  “Daddy comes over. Mommy and Daddy fight. Daddy goes away. Eli tries to find him and get the money.”

  Oh.

  I pick Thomas up, and he cries a little on my shoulder. I carry him back to his mixed-up house and set him down on the grass.

  “Thanks,” Eli says, ruffling Thomas’s hair.

  “Nina,” Jorie says, laughing. “You’re such a mom!”
<
br />   Thomas is up in a second, leaping through the air, his cape streaming behind him.

  Eli smiles as Thomas slashes a bush with his sword. He glances at me. “So you sewed his cape, right? That day you watched him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He kept asking me how it got fixed. I finally told him it was this new superhero called Mystery Girl. He loved that.”

  “My secret identity.”

  “Something everyone should have,” Eli says, and nods.

  “I don’t get it.” Jorie looks from Eli to me. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Eli picks up the basketball.

  “Tell me!” Jorie begs.

  Eli shoots the ball. He’s got a few curls of hair on his chest. Where did those come from? I don’t know if I’m grossed out or fascinated.

  “Okay,” Jorie says. “Don’t tell me.”

  Eli tosses me the ball, and I catch it. “Two on one?” he says, raising an eyebrow, looking from me to Jorie.

  Another thing I can do besides sew—shoot a basketball. Matt taught me. The distance from the edge of our grass to our basket is about the same as the distance in Eli’s driveway. I back up, bouncing the ball.

  Jorie puts her hands on her hips. “You can’t make it from there. Anyway, Eli’s been showing me how to do a layup.”

  Eli tips his chin. “Go ahead, Neen.”

  Swish.

  He bounces the ball back to me. “Shoot till you miss.”

  I make four more; then the ball hits the rim.

  “Okay, my turn,” Jorie sings.

  “I gotta go anyway,” I say.

  “You sure?” Eli grins. “Jorie could definitely use your help.”

  Jorie gives him a little push. “Shut up.”

  I start walking toward my house. “It’s okay. You guys play. I have to do something for art that’s due tomorrow.”

  “Nina!” Eli shouts.

  I turn back. I’m on my grass. Eli chucks me the ball. “Try it.”

  “From here?”

  “No way,” Jorie says.

  I focus on the basket. This would be the shot of a lifetime. I heave the ball with all my strength, like I’m doing the shot put or something. It misses by several feet.