by Anne Dayton
“We’ll have to figure out a way to make it happen,” she says. “I really feel like we’re all meant to be together somehow.”
“All?” I raise my eyebrow.
“All four of us,” Zoe says, nodding. “From detention. That was no accident, the way we lived through miracles. We’re supposed to do something with that. I know it.”
“I don’t know.” Christine I can maybe deal with. But Cheerleader Girl? No way. Even if we are called for something special, I think it’s just the three of us.
“But we’ll start with Christine.” Zoe pops another Oreo into her mouth. There’s a determined look in her eye.
“Sure,” I say, unsure how else to respond. “What are we going to do, kidnap her and force her to be our friend?” My eyes travel down to the picture in my hands until I study Zoe’s frozen face again.
That’s when it hits me. I know what’s different about the photo.
I look up and see Zoe biting her lip. “We’ll figure something out,” she says quietly.
I’ve never seen Zoe this happy in real life.
“Okay.” I smile, and her cheeks redden a little. “Let’s recruit Christine.”
12
It’s cruel to make a teenager wake up a seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. But apparently the Alzheimer’s patients do better with visitors early in the day, so we’re meeting in front of the nursing home at eight o’clock. There are a few adults from church here, but mostly it’s the teens. Don’t get me wrong. I like old people. I just don’t like any people at eight o’clock on a Saturday. I pray for patience. I know these people will appreciate us being here.
“Have fun, honey,” Mom says as she pulls onto the circular driveway in front of Stonehill Manor Assisted Living. I make some incoherent noise, then turn to open the door. “Oh, there’s Michelle McGee,” she says, her voice brightening as a blue minivan pulls up behind us. “Don’t forget she’s giving you a ride home later.” I turn in time to see Riley climb out of the car and slam the door.
“Great.” I swing my legs out and step onto the pavement, then shut the door and slowly walk toward the entrance. Mom was thrilled to have worked out this little plan, which allows her to spend all day “antiquing” and forces me to ride home with Riley, who my mother is determined to make my friend. But of course I wasn’t informed of the dastardly plot until it was too late to protest, argue, or beg. Besides, if I showed any sign of resistance, she’d seize on it and use it as an opportunity to teach me a lesson about loving others like Jesus did. It’s only a short ride from the assisted living facility to my house, I reason, but somehow it still feels like a plot hatched to drive me crazy. Mom doesn’t even like antiques.
I trudge toward the entrance, and Judy is already there, cheerful and perky at this ungodly hour. That weird guy Dave is there too, wearing a tie with piano keys up and down it, along with a couple junior girls I recognize from youth group, and some women from church. And, of course, Riley.
Riley doesn’t look at me as we stand in the early morning sunshine, waiting for someone to tell us what to do. I study my feet. There’s just not much to say, and everyone is fairly quiet. Finally one of the church ladies decides it’s time to go inside, and we all trudge through the door and listen to directions.
All of us, I notice, except Riley. As soon as everyone is inside, a black sports car pulls up, and she hops right into the front seat. I catch a glimpse of a guy’s face as the car pull away.
What is she thinking? Is she seriously ditching this? I can’t believe her. Does she even know that guy?
No one else seems to have noticed her little stunt. The woman in charge reminds us that the Alzheimer’s patients are often confused, forgetting people they’ve known their entire lives and sometimes thinking they’re back in their childhood, but though they may not show it, they appreciate us being here. She also instructs us to split up, don’t be shy, ask questions, don’t contradict the patients if they say something that’s obviously untrue, and remember that whatever you do for the least of these, you do for God.
Most of us look at each other, a little uncertain how to begin, but Dave takes right off down the hallway, his green board shorts swishing, walks into the first room, and begins talking to the wrinkled man hunched over in a recliner. From my dumbstruck spot in the hallway, I can see that the man inside, Mr. Stanley Fisher according to the nameplate on his door, smiles and raises his head.
“Okay, um, here we go, then,” Judy says nervously, and it gives me some satisfaction to see that even she is struggling with this. She turns down a different hallway and disappears. The rest of the group scatters, and I’m left standing alone. I say a quick prayer. I know I can do this, but I don’t know how to start. Why is it so hard for me to talk to new people? I bite my lip and try to decide which way to go.
“There you are!” a squeaky voice calls out, and I turn to see a stooped old woman coming toward me. The weird thing is, she looks genuinely delighted to see me. She takes a timid step forward, then places her hand on the wall to steady herself. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Molly,” she says, shaking her head as if I’ve been naughty. She takes another small step.
“Oh, I’m not . . .” I start to correct her, but then remember that we’re not supposed to correct them. Oh well. I guess if she wants to call me Molly, I can deal with that. “I’m not sure where we were headed,” I say uncertainly, but she smiles and points to an open door down the hall.
“You were going to show me what you bought at Woolworth’s,” she says.
Woolworth’s? Didn’t that store go out of business in like 1912?
“Did you find something for Father?” She walks slowly toward me, and I nod lamely. Does she think I’m her sister? “The stores get so crowded this time of year.” She catches up to me, and we walk a few more steps to the open doorway, where she gestures me inside. I take a quick look at the nameplate on the door and commit the name Sarah Slater to memory, then nervously step in and gasp.
Sarah’s room is decked to the gills for Christmas. She has a plastic Christmas tree, hung with glass balls and tinsel and little framed pictures of people she must have once known. There are wrapped packages under the tree, lights strung around the window, an advent calendar on the wall, and a Nativity scene on the table on the corner. It’s festive, and kind of nice, except . . . it’s October.
“Please have a seat,” Sarah says, gesturing to the wooden rocking chair in the corner. She shuffles toward the bed and lowers herself down slowly.
“Now, who are you?” She tilts her head, and her wrinkled face puckers a bit.
“I’m . . .” I look around, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to say. Do I tell her I’m Molly? She seemed to like Molly. Please, God, give me the right words to say. “I’m Ana.” I let my breath out slowly. She seems content with that answer.
“Have you seen my tree?” She asks, pointing toward the faux fir. I nod, then move off my chair so I can take a closer look at the ornaments. “I decorated it myself.” Sarah seems kind of confused, but she smiles a lot, and something about her voice is soothing.
I stare at a black and white photo of a handsome man in a small frame on the tree. The man is clad in a crisp white navy uniform with the name Slater on the left. It looks like it’s from World War II or something.
“Who is this?” . Sarah leans forward, squints at the picture, and purses her lips.
“I don’t know,” she says quietly. Her face looks pained, and her cheeks are a little pink.
“That’s okay.” I pick up another picture, this one of two little girls in matching pink dresses. The car in the background makes it look like it was taken in the fifties or sixties. “How about these girls?”
She leans in, then shakes her head. “That . . . may be Molly, but . . .” Her voice trails off. I try to smile for her, but we both know she doesn’t remember who these people are. “Let me show you my Nativity,” she says. I slip an ornament off the tree and look at the back
while she shuffles over to the manger. A shaky hand has written “Patty and Becky Slater in front of Sarah and David’s new house, 1954.” I turn it over and look at the little faces again and realize these girls must be Sarah’s daughters. I take a deep breath.
“Did you see this Joseph?” she says, fingering the small wooden figure. I slip the ornament back onto the tree, then walk over to see her figurines. She begins to tell me the story of Christmas, pointing out all the relevant players in their miniature form, though she calls the shepherds plumbers for some reason. I half-listen. The other half of me is praying for Sarah, and for Molly and Becky and Patty, wherever they are.
***
It feels like it’s only been a few minutes when Judy pokes her head into Sarah’s room. “Ana?” she says, her face registering surprise to see me sitting on Sarah’s bed holding the stuffed bear Sarah insisted needed a hug. “It’s time to go.”
I turn to Sarah. “Thank you for talking to me today.”
“You come back soon. We have so much baking to do before Christmas Eve,” she says, her eyes lighting up. I stand up and stretch.
“Okay. I will. Thanks, Mrs. Slater.”
She nods. “You’re welcome, Ana.”
I shake my head as I walk down the hallway and push open the clear glass front doors of Stonehill Manor. The group has scattered by the time I make it out, but Riley’s freakishly blond hair announces that she’s returned. At least she had the smarts to come back before her mom arrived. She and Dave are the only ones standing around waiting for rides home. The plight of the young and the carless.
“You’re back?” I raise my eyebrows. “Lucky us.” Riley pretends not to hear. She is focused entirely on Dave, batting her eyelashes and jutting out her hip.
“Did Tyler go surfing today?” she asks, laughing as if this is a totally innocent question, though of course it’s not. I perk up and listen in.
Dave shrugs. “That’s where he usually is Saturday morning.” I file this information away in my mental crush file. “I guess you’d know that better than me.”
“You couldn’t talk him into coming to the nursing home with you?” Riley asks, as if she does visit the nursing home.
Dave chuckles. “Not his style.” He finally notices me standing behind them. He smiles, then quickly turns back to Riley.
“I’ve only bumped into him once or twice. Where does he usually surf?” Riley asks. There are several really famous places to surf around here, so it could one of many, but her line of questioning here is totally obvious. Riley surfs, and she wants to know where to “run into him.” Even though it’s stupid and obvious and I’m sure Dave sees right through her, I can’t help but lean in a bit to hear the answer too.
Dave shrugs. “I have no idea. I never go.” Riley’s face falls. “How about you, Ana?” Dave says, turning toward me. “You a surfer chick?” He makes a hang loose symbol with his hand.
“Not in this lifetime.” I laugh, trying to picture where exactly surfing would fit into my packed schedule.
“Sweet.” He nods. “Your brain gets pickled by the salt water, you know.” He nods, pointing to his own head. “Best to stay away.” Riley opens her mouth to protest, but before she can get a word out, he gestures toward the door to Stonehill Manor. “You guys should come back next week.”
I don’t know. It was ok talking to Mrs. Slater, but it was weird. And since she probably won’t remember me next week anyway . . .
“Maybe,” Riley says. I can’t even look at her or I might gag.
“It means a lot to them.” Dave smiles at me, which totally catches me off guard.
“Do you do this regularly?” Riley nods toward the building.
“Mos’ def. Every week.” He starts to move his arms and legs strangely, and Riley and I stare. She looks as confused as I feel. What is he doing? Slowly, it dawns on me.
“Is that the Charleston?” I ask, laughing. I’ve seen people do this weird old dance on the History Channel. Dave snaps his fingers and points at me.
“We have a winner. Mrs. Elton in room 203 taught me last month. She’s pretty nimble for a ninety-year-old.”
“Wow. Your parents make you come every week?” Riley sneers.
“My parents don’t make me come.” He brushes a lock of hair back behind his ear. “I just like old people.”
“Oh.” Riley winces a little, no doubt realizing her mistake.
Dave nods. He’s figured her out. “How about you, Dominguez?” He narrows his eyes and for some reason I suddenly want to hide. “You here because of your parents too?”
“Uh . . .” I swallow. “I mean, I came here because they—“
“My mom’s here,” Riley says as the blue minivan pulls into the driveway again.
“I’m going with Riley,” I say. Dave doesn’t say anything, just watches us as we both walk quickly to the car.
Riley opens the back door and slides in, leaving me to walk around to the other side.
“What a weirdo.” Riley rolls her eyes. I don’t know if I agree, but disagreeing seems too hard.
“Hi, guys,” Mrs. McGee says from the front seat. I notice for the first time that there’s a kid sitting in the passenger seat. “You must be Ana. I’m Michelle McGee,” she says, her voice low and sweet. Her blonde hair is neatly tucked behind her ears and her light blue sweater looks like cashmere. “And this is Michael, Riley’s brother.”
“Hey,” I say, nodding, but Michael doesn’t acknowledge me at all. I guess it runs in the family.
Mrs. McGee pulls the car out of the parking lot while Riley stares out the window. Michael starts tapping on the dashboard, marking out a very regular beat. No one else seems to notice, so I try to ignore it.
“Mom, can we go to Nordstrom to get that dress I want?” Riley asks.
“We’ll have to see, honey,” Mrs. McGee says, sighing. “It depends on how your brother’s therapy goes.” Riley bites her lip. Man, sometimes I am so glad I don’t have siblings. The tapping changes pace, and Riley sighs.
“Drummer?” I ask Riley, arching an eyebrow.
She shakes her head. “Autistic.”
I have no idea what I’m supposed to say, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t “Oh,” which is all I can manage to squeak out. Riley stares out the window again. I swallow and try to think of something better. “I didn’t know.”
We’re silent the rest of the way home.
13
In Algebra on Monday, Riley avoids me. The way she ignores me is not as if I don’t exist; it’s more like she knows I exist and is completely determined to not acknowledge me. And Tyler, who actually said hi to me at youth group last night, is experiencing AAA—acute Ana amnesia— and has no idea who I am. Needless to say, I am even more thankful than usual when the bell rings to release us.
I slip into the hallway and walk to the picnic table where I meet Zoe for lunch. Sometimes we eat here, and sometimes I drag her along to French Club, but today is the first meeting of Ms. Moore’s new club, Earth First, so we’re going to walk to that together. To be honest, I’m not totally sure why I’m going, but I know Ms. Moore wants me there, and Zoe is all excited about it. Dreamy and Ed are very into conservation, and Zoe is quite knowledgeable about environmental stuff.
I sit down on the picnic table bench and flip through A Tale of Two Cities, which I checked out from the library hoping it would make me smarter, but it’s been so long since I’ve cracked this book that I don’t even remember what happened last. I give up and decide to just enjoy the sunshine instead. The air is cool, but the sun shines brilliantly, a rare treat, and it casts a warm glow around the courtyard. I lift my face up to the sun and soak in the warmth of its rays, then say a quick prayer of thanks. Soon Zoe approaches, her long flowered skirt blowing lightly in the breeze. Her red hair is piled on top of her head in a loose knot and a few tendrils fall down around her face. It’s the kind of style that looks effortlessly beautiful on her but would make me look like a Chia pet. Together, we walk toward
Ms. Moore’s classroom. Together. It feels so good to be able to say that. It feels good to have a friend.
Zoe pulls the door open and steps inside, and I follow. It’s a small group, I can already tell. There are a couple of junior girls talking quietly together, and . . . it can’t be. Christine Lee? I don’t know why I’m surprised to see her sitting there really, except my sense is that she’s not much of a joiner. I can’t imagine what would bring her here. But Ms. Moore doesn’t give us time for speculation as she quickly explains an overview of what she’s envisioning for the club and assigns us our first task: selling organic pumpkins bars at the upcoming Half Moon Bay Art & Pumpkin Festival. It’s not exactly saving the world, but Ms. Moore says that the first thing we need if we’re going to be able to make an impact is buying power, and this will help us raise money. The whole thing strikes me as a little capitalist for Ms. Moore, but I can’t deny the wisdom of her plan. Plus, the Art & Pumpkin Festival is no joke. Practically the entire Bay Area comes out for the festival. I know because we drove up from San Jose last year to see it, and that’s when the wheels in Mom’s head got to turning.
Christine stares straight down at her desk like she’s not listening as Ms. Moore explains all of this. But when Ms. Moore sends around a piece of paper and asks us to write our e-mail addresses and phone numbers, Christine dutifully adds her information to the list.
“Good, then,” Ms. Moore says, scanning the sheet to make sure everything looks right. “See you all back here next week. And in the meantime, start thinking of projects you would like to see the club tackle with our new wealth.” She laughs, then waves her hand to dismiss us. She takes a seat behind her desk and starts flipping through papers. I turn to Christine. She raises her eyebrow and smiles, then picks up her bag and stalks out of the room.
14
I slip out of Key Club and into the empty breezeway. It’s blissfully quiet after school. It feels kind of like when you’ve had a headache and it goes away—all of a sudden, it’s just pure, unfettered relief.
