“Me too.” Amy shook her head. “I mean…it’s okay.”
Miles’s half smile got Amy’s attention. It made him look adorable. Or maybe adorkable. She wasn’t sure which.
“Miles was the one who spilled the soda on you?” Tate busted out laughing.
Amy’s face flamed red. She wished she hadn’t just told Tate about the embarrassing incident.
Miles’s face, Amy noticed, looked even redder than hers felt. This made him seem even more adorable. What was wrong with her? This boy’s bowling shoe hit her in the forehead and he spilled soda all over her lap. Why was she feeling so tingly being near him?
While Amy wondered about this, Randall dropped onto one knee in front of Tate. For a moment, Amy thought Randall might be hurt and she should yell to Mr. Schu for help.
“Tate?” Randall asked in a whisper-wobbly voice.
Tate chomped on another Jelly Krimpet. “Yeah?”
“Okay, here goes….Tate Elizabeth Victoria McAllister, I couldn’t weight to ask you to the dance.”
At that, Miles pulled a ten-pound hand weight from the backpack and did a bunch of arm curls.
Mr. Schu and the other kids in the library gathered around to watch.
Randall cleared his throat. “It would be really sweet if you’d go with me.”
After that cue, Miles reached into the backpack, pulled out an entire cardboard box of Jelly Krimpets and handed them to Tate.
Tate staggered backward as though someone had pushed her.
The kids standing around laughed.
Tate touched her fingertips to her chest. “You want to go to the dance…with me?”
Randall, still on one knee, nodded so hard, Amy thought his teeth might clack together.
Tate blinked a few times. “Well then, Randall Fleming the Third, heck yes!”
Amy felt her eyes fill up. This was more romantic than the best fairy-tale love story she’d ever read. She could barely keep herself from jumping up and down and clapping.
Randall let himself fall backward and collapse, a hand over his heart. A laugh burst from his lips, but that quickly turned into a cough. Randall was lying on the floor, coughing.
Amy saw Miles’s eyes grow wide. “You okay?” she asked him gently.
Miles shook his head. “Huh?”
Amy touched his shoulder. “Miles?”
Randall sat up and cleared his throat. “Phew, that wasn’t so bad.”
Miles let out a quick breath. “Okay. He’s okay.”
Amy wondered why Miles got upset that Randall was goofing around.
Tate was beaming.
Mr. Schu and the kids standing around applauded, then went back to what they’d been doing before the big dance-posal.
Amy wondered if Miles might get down on one knee now and ask her to the dance. But she realized that was a ridiculous fantasy. After all, she didn’t know much about the boy, other than that he wore bowling shoes to school and was kind of clumsy, which would probably make him an awkward dancer anyway.
Tate giggled, and Amy pulled herself back to what was actually happening and how happy Tate must be. Good feelings bubbled up, and a smile spread across Amy’s face. She couldn’t help it, because it felt so good to be included in this moment.
Miles offered Randall a hand and pulled him up from the floor.
Randall moved in to give Tate a hug and seal the deal.
Tate, much shorter than Randall, grabbed him around the middle and lifted him off his feet.
All four of them cracked up.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you later, then,” Randall said, nodding at Tate.
“Definitely,” Tate replied. “I mean, you live next door to me.”
“Oh, yeah.” Randall ducked his head. “That’s true.”
“See you,” Miles said, looking at Amy.
Amy felt a shiver run from her forehead to her feet. She offered Miles a little wave and a shy smile.
Mr. Schu gave Randall a double thumbs-up when the boys passed the circulation desk.
Tate and Amy went back to shelving books, but they got very little work done between talking and giggling about what had just happened.
“Randall’s got piles of brothers and sisters,” Tate told Amy. “I always love the noise and commotion when I go over to his house.” She looked down for a moment. “And I’ve had a crush on that boy since we were in third grade and he used to wear a bow tie to school.”
“A bow tie?” Amy asked.
Tate nodded. “And look at him now. That boy is the only one in this whole boring school with any style.” Tate twirled, her checkered skirt flaring out. “I mean, besides me.”
Amy thought Miles had a style, too, with those bowling shoes he wore. It was just that Miles’s style was…different.
“Would you help me pick out a fun outfit to wear to the dance?” Tate asked. “And shoes? I mostly have different-colored and -patterned Converse sneakers. I know if Perla were still here, she’d have gone with me to the consignment shops, but…”
Amy felt like Cinderella—being asked to help Tate find something to wear to the dance, but not going to the dance herself. “Sure,” she said. “That would be fun.” She was glad to be asked. “But Converse might be a fun footwear choice for the dance.”
Tate tilted her head. “You might be right. Hey, want to come over after school today and we can talk more about it? I’ll text my parents and let them know.”
“Yes!” Amy said too loudly. Then, more softly: “I’ll let my uncle know.”
“Awesome sauce!”
Amy appreciated that Tate didn’t ask why she’d let her uncle know instead of, say, her mom.
The two girls high-fived hard.
Amy’s hand stung a little, but she didn’t mind.
She was feeling pretty good when the bell rang and Tate gave her an extra Jelly Krimpet. “I’ll meet you outside the library after school, and we’ll walk to my house together. Okay?”
“Definitely!”
Mr. Schu nodded at Amy as she walked past his desk. And that nod made Amy feel wonderful, like he knew, too, that things were finally turning around for her.
Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution. —ALBERT EINSTEIN
Mr. Schu nodded, because he knew magic could happen in the library—all kinds of magic, not just book magic. And he was like the magician who helped it happen. Libraries and good librarians are wonder-filled like that. If you don’t believe me, it’s probably because you haven’t discovered a magical library or librarian…yet.
I hope you do, though. They can make a life-changing difference. You just don’t always realize it at the time. Libraries can help you fall in love with science or travel or math or…ideas. Libraries house a collection of the thoughts, ideas and imagination from so many people across so many times. Quite a wondrous thing, if you stop and think about it.
But for now, let’s think about Amy and Miles and the story at hand.
We’re approaching the especially good parts. You don’t want to miss anything important, like Marmalade. She may be only a cat, but she matters…as do all Earth’s creatures.
Oh, you’ll see what I mean.
Enough with this paws, er, pause in the story.
Onward!
Tate’s house, it turned out, wasn’t a house. It was the Buckington Bed & Breakfast, established in 1987. There was a sign out front, on a black iron frame, that for some reason Amy read as Buckington Dead & Breakfast, est. 1987. She wondered for a moment what it would be like to combine a bed-and-breakfast with a funeral home. That would certainly be the ideal name for it, but she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to stay there. Amy shook the thought from her head, because it was weird. She was weir
d. But she did think a B and B funeral home might make an interesting setting for a story someday.
Tate clapped her mittened hands together. Her nose was bright pink. “I’m so glad you could come over today.”
“Me too,” Amy said, and she was, because it was nice not to go back to the funeral home, to the likelihood of a viewing taking place. She didn’t say this to Tate.
Inside Buckington Bed & Breakfast, there was a wooden desk where guests checked in, and beyond that a small dining room with big windows, a living room with a grand piano and shelves that were loaded with books and board games, and a set of stairs that, Tate explained, led to their six guest rooms.
Buckington Bed & Breakfast was much more cheerful-looking, Amy noted, than Eternal Peace Funeral Home, with its somber colors and old-fashioned furniture.
Amy shivered with happiness at being there.
A calico cat slunk into the room and rubbed against Amy’s right ankle.
Tate scooped up the cat and petted behind her ears. “Who’s a good girl?”
“So Randall lives near you?” Amy asked.
“Right next door.” Tate cradled her cat. “But I end up going over there instead of him coming here, because he’s allergic to Marmalade.”
Amy looked into the dining room. “He’s allergic to marmalade? Like jam?”
Tate laughed and held up her cat. “This is Marmalade.”
“Oh.”
“Want to hold her?”
Amy wasn’t sure, but she accepted the cat carefully. Marmalade nuzzled into her neck and purred. It reminded her of coming home to Ernest and how good that always made her feel. She didn’t want to let go of the warm, soft cat.
“Wait here!” Tate ran off. She returned with an instant camera—the kind that takes pictures and prints them right away. Tate took a photo of Amy cuddling with Marmalade and handed it to her while gently taking the cat from her arms. “Let’s go to my room.”
Tate put Marmalade on the floor, and the cat darted upstairs.
“What a sweetie.” Amy followed Tate while keeping an eye on the developing photo.
“She’s really friendly with the guests. They write nice things about her in their online reviews.”
Amy imagined what people might write about Ernest in an online review. That he had big, sweet eyes. That he always begged for food. That he knew when you needed him most and would curl up in your lap anytime, no questions asked.
The walls of Tate’s bedroom were covered with posters of female bodybuilders, some of whom were lifting barbells that looked impossibly heavy.
When Tate took off her coat, Amy noticed how muscular her arms were. She remembered Tate hoisting Randall off his feet and how Tate had practically crushed Amy’s hand the other day when she shook it. “So you love weight lifting?”
“Oh yeah. I go to the gym every other morning with my dad before school. He’s my coach. I just started competing.”
“That’s so cool.” Amy tucked this little fact into her mental writer’s notebook. She knew it would make an interesting detail for a character in one of her stories someday.
Tate flexed a bicep, and Amy could see, even underneath Tate’s sleeve, how large and defined her muscle was.
“Remind me not to get you mad at me,” Amy said.
Tate plopped onto her bed and pointed to a chair for Amy to sit on. “No worries there. I can’t imagine getting mad at you. Besides, I use my powers only for good—you know, winning competitions.”
Amy took off her coat and hung it over the back of the chair. She sat, still holding the photo, which was almost fully developed. “How’d you get into weight lifting?”
“It’s just something I started doing when I joined my dad at the gym one day and realized how much I liked it.”
Amy felt that way about writing. She wrote a story one day when she was bored and hadn’t been able to stop writing since.
When the photo showed clearly, Amy passed it to Tate. “Marmalade’s adorable.”
“Thanks.” Tate tapped the photo. “Randall’s so allergic to cats, he’d probably start wheezing from looking at this.” She passed it back to Amy. “Keep it.”
Amy tucked the photo into her coat pocket. “Thanks.”
Near Tate’s bed, in a wicker basket, were balls of colorful yarn. Tate pulled out two knitting needles and some purple yarn and began moving her fingers fast. “Do you want a snack or something?”
Amy shook her head, mesmerized by what Tate was doing. She noticed there were knit animal hats on surfaces all over the bedroom: A koala. A monkey. Two zebras. And an elephant. “You made all these?”
“Yup.” Tate’s fingers never stopped moving, knitting needles clack, clack, clacking. “I sell them through my online store, Hats Off to You.”
“Oh my gosh. I love it.”
“Thanks. It’s something my aunt Annette taught me to do a few years ago. Do you knit?”
Amy shook her head.
“Want to learn?”
“Um, I guess so.”
Tate showed Amy how to do a simple stitch with some multicolored yarn that had a Knit Wits label on it.
After a couple hours’ effort, Amy had knit half a crooked square. She felt quite proud of herself.
In that same time, Tate had made an elephant hat and held it up for Amy to admire before putting it into a padded envelope to mail to a customer. “Custom order,” she said. “They wanted a purple elephant. I think it looks pretty cool. You like?”
“It’s amazing.” Amy bit her lip. “Hey, thanks for inviting me over. I’m really glad I met you, Tate Elizabeth Victoria McAllister.”
Tate ducked her head. “Well, I’m really glad you moved here from Chicago, Amy Iris Silverman. Not everyone wants to be friends with a weight-lifting girl with blue hair who knits animal hats.”
Amy almost said she was glad she moved here from Chicago, but she stopped herself. “Yeah, only smart people would want to be friends with you.”
Tate’s cheeks turned pink. “Aw, thanks.”
“I’m glad I walked into the library yesterday,” Amy said. “Not everyone wants to be friends with…” She almost said a girl with a leg-length discrepancy. “A girl who lives in a funeral home and has hypergraphia.”
Tate tilted her head. “You live in a funeral home and hyperwhoia?”
Amy worried she’d said too much. That was why she liked writing. She could always revise her written words and get them just right, but not so much with spoken words. “It’s, um, my uncle’s funeral home—Eternal Peace—and my dad and I moved in with him. And the word is ‘hypergraphia.’ You know, an obsessive need to write. That’s me, Hypergraphia Girl.” Hypergraphia Girl? Oh, how Amy wished there were a delete key on her mouth.
“Gotcha.” Tate nodded. “I think it’s cool that you love writing so much. I’ll have to read your stories sometime. And who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?”
Lots of people. Amy thought about the girls in the cafeteria who got up and walked away when she sat at their table the other day. And about how Kat was her only friend her age back in Chicago.
But here was Tate, this stylish, weight-lifting, superfun girl with her own business knitting animal hats, who wanted to be her friend.
Amy understood Tate hadn’t expected an answer to that last question.
And who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?
She also knew that because of Tate Elizabeth Victoria McAllister, things were looking up in Buckington. Amy had made her first friend her own age.
And who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?
Tate’s words tap-danced through the happiness centers in Amy’s brain, tripping joy switches left and right.
And who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?
Those lovely words played on repeat
in Amy’s mind, propelling her one giant step closer to reaching her goal of a happy ending to her own story.
At the bowling center, Miles’s mom pulled him behind the front counter and ducked down, as though she were on a secret spy mission. “You ready for Pop’s seventy-fifth-birthday party next weekend?”
Miles nodded. He was ready, although he’d need next week to earn about twenty-five more dollars so he’d have exactly the amount needed to give his grandpop the best present ever.
“Good. Let’s go over the plans.” His mom looked toward the snack counter, then ducked a little lower. Even though they were far from where his grandfather was sitting, Miles’s mom whispered. “Mercedes will arrive Thursday, the day before the party.”
Miles couldn’t help grinning. He’d missed his sister since she left for college in August. And he’d never admit it to her, but he was so disappointed when she went skiing in Vermont with her roommate’s family over winter break instead of coming home. Mercedes always managed to calm Miles’s fears and tell him he was being a nincompoop when he worried too much.
“So here’s the plan.” His mom grabbed Miles’s shoulders. “Stick promised to take Pop out for a long dinner at the Dining Car and keep him out so we can get everything ready here at the lanes. Your dad even bought a disco ball to hang for the party.”
“Dad’s weird,” Miles said.
“I know. I thought you and Mercedes could act as lookouts for when they return so we can all leap out and yell ‘Surprise!’ Sound good?”
Miles bit his lower lip. “You think that’ll be okay…for Pop’s heart?”
Miles’s mom stood tall and tousled his hair. “You, my dear son, worry entirely too much.”
“But—”
“I know. I know. But Pop’s been fine since his heart attack. I mean, a little crankier, but fine.”
Miles shrugged. The doctors said his grandpop had lost about 50 percent of the functioning of his heart. That sounded like a lot of functioning to Miles. And a roomful of people yelling at a seventy-five-year-old man who’d had a heart attack seemed like a risky proposition to him. “Maybe we shouldn’t do the yelling part when Pop walks in.”
In Your Shoes Page 9
