Chrissa

by Mary Casanova

  “He’s like a little kid,” Tyler said.

  “Yeah, he loves that thing.”

  Tyler threw his snowball at the cab but missed. There is nothing Dad loves more than a good snowball fight, but today he just waved. We passed the small red barn and the three-stall garage on the left and the two-stall garage on the right. It had a new sign above the door that read MAXWELL POTTERY. Dad is a potter, and here at Nana’s house he has a ton more studio space. Plus he gets to ride Grandpa’s old tractor. No wonder he had wanted to move.

  Climbing the steps to Nana’s Victorian home is like stepping back in time. I love its gingerbread trim, its wraparound porch with the sloping green floor, white railings, and wicker furniture now covered in canvas for the winter. I’ve always loved visiting—but now it’s supposed to be my home. Weird. Instead of a normal doorbell, the carved entry door has a brass knocker with a lion’s head. I lifted it and knocked three times—bang, bang, bang!

  Nana opened the door, and the aroma of freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies rolled out. “You two don’t have to knock,” she said. “You live here now, y’know.” She was still in her fuchsia workout jacket and pants. Every afternoon she works out at the Edgewater Community Center, one block from school. But even with all that exercise, Nana still has a huggably soft body—unlike the thin and wiry instructors who teach the classes at the center. Nana tucked her bobbed gray hair behind her ears. Though her eyelids were rimmed red from crying, she smiled at us. “Hungry for cookies?”

  “You bet!” Tyler said, dumping his backpack and jacket on the floor.

  She turned. “Uh-uh.” She pointed. “There’s the closet.”

  Tyler groaned, but we promptly put away our boots, hats, mittens, and jackets and set our backpacks on the shelf.

  When Nana went back into the kitchen, Tyler whispered, “She’s like Central Command! We can’t get away with anything.”

  “Yeah, she’s tough,” I agreed. “Even when she’s feeling sad about Grandpa.”

  Things were a lot more casual at our old house, with everything thrown everywhere most of the time. But Nana had made it clear that keeping an orderly house was her one requirement of house sharing.

  The sound of dripping came from the nearest bathroom. I waved Tyler over and we peeked in. Under a glow of stained-glass light, Nana’s Siamese cat pawed at the water that trickled from the faucet. Nana usually allows Keefer a few minutes every day in the sink. He whines outside the bathroom door until someone turns on the water. Now he glanced at us with his slanted blue eyes, as if to ask, What?

  “Keefer,” Tyler laughed, “you are such a silly, goofy cat.”

  “At least he’s a clean cat,” I said.

  “Then that makes him a silly, goofy, clean cat.”

  As we walked past the formal dining room, the hallway phone rang.

  “Nana, should I get it?” I asked, fingers crossed that it was Amanda.

  “You live here, remember?” Nana called back sweetly. “Just answer it.”

  I picked up the receiver. Nana insists on keeping her old black rotary dial phone. No call-waiting. No caller ID. It’s ancient. “Hello?” I said.

  “Chrissa?”

  I didn’t answer. I thought I recognized the voice of one of the Mean Bees, but I wasn’t sure which one. It wasn’t the meanest one, but I couldn’t believe they were bold enough to harass me at home, too! I made up my mind right then and there—I was not going back to Edgewater Elementary.

  “Chrissa Maxwell?” the girl pressed. “Do I have the right number?”

  “Yes,” I said, wavering between hanging up and wanting to find out why I was getting a phone call.

  “This is Sonali…Sonali Matthews, from Mr. Beck’s class. Can you talk?”

  Let’s see, I thought. Shall we talk about how three girls ruined my first day of school? How, because of them, I am not going back?

  I let the silence grow.

  “Chrissa?”

  “What?” I replied without a speck of enthusiasm. I pictured Sonali with her long silky hair, as slippery as her heart must be.

  “I have to say I’m sorry. Plus, I have something for you. Can I stop by?”

  I knew what Nana would say. When someone says she’s sorry, you need to forgive her. My lips were glued together. The words just weren’t there. “Now? Is this some kind of bad joke?”

  “Yes. I mean, no—it’s not a joke. And yes, I have something. So can I come over? Right now?”

  “Um, okay,” I finally responded. I set down the phone and stared into the mirror above the small table.

  “Chrissa? Coming for cookies?” Nana called.

  “Just a minute, Nana.” I stopped chewing my lower lip, combed my fingers through my hair, and then ran up the staircase to the third room on the left. My room. If Sonali was coming over, she might want to see my room.

  Moving like a tornado, I tossed dirty socks and jeans into the laundry basket, rearranged my stuffed animals, and put my favorite—a buttery soft long-eared rabbit that I call Mopsy—on the center of my pillow. Then I straightened the circular sheers that hung over my bed and stood back. I’d worked magic—almost as if I’d waved Ms. Rundell’s sparkly wand. Phew!

  Not bad.

  Hungry for cookies, I raced down the stairs. Just as my feet hit the landing, the knocker sounded. Bang, bang!

  “I’ll get it!” I called out.

  I opened the door.

  “Hi,” Sonali said, holding a big red gift bag. I could tell the bag had been used before, which was cool. We recycle, too.

  “Come in,” I said, holding the door open. I wasn’t sure, but Sonali almost looked as if she had been crying.

  Standing behind her on the steps was Sonali’s mother. “Go on now. You know why you’re here. I’ll wait in the car.” She adjusted the bright silk shawl over her coat and then turned back toward a black Jetta, its tailpipe puffing white.

  Sonali nodded and then stepped inside.

  Suddenly I had the feeling that Sonali was being made to come over. Made to apologize. My mood dropped to my toes.

  “Here,” she said, handing me the bag. “These are your valentines. The ones that we—I mean I—took from your mailbox. Sorry.”

  A lump lodged itself in my throat.

  I peered into the bag and saw a bunch of envelopes with my name on them. So the class had been prepared for my being there after all. I hadn’t been left out. I felt a tiny bit better.

  Sonali shifted her weight from one boot to the other, as if waiting for something from me. Forgiveness, probably. But I wasn’t ready to give her that, especially since she didn’t really seem sorry. Or at least not sorry for what she’d done to me. If anything, I guessed that she was sorry she’d gotten caught.

  “Your mom’s waiting,” I said.

  “Yeah, I better go.”

  The lump shifted just enough for me to ask, “But why did you do it?”

  “Tara told me to.”

  “You do whatever she tells you?”

  She looked beyond me to the grandfather clock in the hall. When she finally met my eyes, she answered. “She said to take them home and not say a word. But my mom found them. And, well, like I said…sorry.”

  My irritation flared. “So your mom made you return them. Did she make you say you’re sorry?”

  She nodded. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m grounded for the weekend. But my mom has to show a house right now, so I gotta go.” She spun and pulled the door open, as if she couldn’t wait to get away. She ran down the porch steps, through the falling snow, and hopped into the car, looking straight ahead. The car left tracks in the fresh snow as it pulled away.

  I had hoped her visit would make me feel better, but now, holding my bag of valentines, I felt even worse.

  By the time I entered the kitchen, Tyler was outside, piling up snowballs by the leafless willows. Nana was at the table, her teacup nesting in her hands. “Who was that at the door, Chrissa?”

  “Oh, a girl fro
m my class. I, uh, forgot my valentines at school.” I emptied the red bag onto the table.

  The scent of Nana’s peppermint tea teased my nose. “Why, that was awfully nice of her to bring them,” she said and took a sip.

  I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Yeah.”

  “Chrissa,” she said, reaching for my hand. “What’s wrong?”

  If I were to tell her about my day, I’d probably start blubbering. How could I tell her it had been the worst day of my life? She’d feel awful for asking us to move in with her. I bit into the flesh of my lower lip. Besides, Nana had her own sadness with Grandpa gone. In comparison, what was a lousy day at a new school? “Nothing,” I lied. “I guess I’m just missing Amanda and my old friends.”

  Her face softened with a faraway look. “Hmm. I know what you mean.”

  For a few moments, Nana and I gazed out the window, watching Tyler. Snowflakes continued to fall from the gray sky, turning the willow branches into a lacy tent of white. On the frozen lake, the rink we’d shoveled earlier had disappeared. If Amanda lived nearby, I would invite her to come over and help me shovel—and then we’d skate together.

  “Chrissa, why don’t you give your friend a call?”

  I jumped up. I hadn’t seen Amanda in six days, but it seemed like six years. “Thanks, Nana!”

  I ran to the hallway phone and dialed.

  “Oh, Chrissa, I’m sorry,” her mom said. “Amanda went with Haley’s family for a Valentine’s weekend in Des Moines. They’re going to stay at a hotel and do some swimming and shopping. She’ll be glad to hear you called. She really misses you, you know.”

  I hung up and gulped down my feelings. Then I trudged up the staircase to my bedroom for a good cry.

  Before I went to bed that night, Nana said, “How about going out to breakfast tomorrow morning, just you and me—and Cosmos and Checkers?”

  I wasn’t sure what llamas had to do with getting breakfast, but I didn’t protest.

  Early Saturday morning, as I followed Nana down the shoveled path to the small barn, I came up with a plan for never returning to Mr. Beck’s class. I would be home-schooled, just like my cousins in Texas. Dad and Nana would be my teachers. All I had to do was talk them into it.

  As we entered the barn, the llamas stood tall and curious in their stalls, their necks extended and ears alert. But with their long eyelashes, they seemed almost human.

  “Hi, Cosmos! Hi, Checkers!” Nana called.

  This time, I didn’t flinch or back away. Instead, I stepped into Cosmos’s stall and gave her a hug. Though llamas aren’t big cuddlers, she gave me llama kisses—wobbly, warm, and harmless nibbles on my face. Unlike horses, llamas can’t bite. They’re more like cows that way, only a whole lot cuter.

  Nana and I clipped on their lead ropes, tied them outside their stalls, and brushed their coats. Then we fed them grain from buckets. When Checkers finished her grain, she stretched her neck toward Cosmos to try to snitch from her bucket. Instantly, Cosmos flattened her ears and pressed her chest out in warning.

  “Watch out, Nana!” I said. “Cosmos looks like she might kick!”

  Nana moved aside and tugged on Checkers’s lead rope. “Mind your own business, Checkers,” she scolded. Then to me, she explained, “Llamas have a pecking order among themselves—so they sometimes fight over food and spit or kick sideways to show who’s boss and to get their way. These two have accepted us as their leaders. Still, they act up with each other at times to show dominance.”

  “Just like with the Mean Bees,” I said.

  “Is that a TV show, or some music group?”

  I laughed. “No, Nana. Just some girls at school.”

  With the Mean Bees, it seems like Tara shows dominance and Jadyn backs up whatever Tara says. And then Sonali does whatever Tara says—even if it means being mean to or hurting another girl. But girls aren’t llamas. We’re supposed to care about one another—at least that’s what I’ve been taught. I shouldn’t have to put up with being bossed around by other girls. But not being a llama, I can’t just give a swift kick every time they bug me.

  While Checkers waited, Cosmos finished her last bits of grain. Then we led them out to the van. Cosmos’s white coat blended in with the fresh snow as she walked eagerly alongside me. She is pregnant, but she really doesn’t look much wider yet than Checkers, who stopped every few feet to paw in the snow for a mouthful of frozen grass. Nana tugged Checkers forward. “C’mon, you little food hound.”

  I eyed the van, with its back doors open and the middle and back seats removed. I didn’t know what Nana had in mind.

  “In you go,” Nana said to Cosmos. Apparently Cosmos loves van rides, because she hopped right in and then kushed by tucking her four legs under her body while holding her head upright. Head high, she peered out the side window.

  Checkers danced back and forth, but Nana tapped her on the rump and finally she too hopped into the van and kushed. Then Nana closed the back doors. “Y’know, Chrissa, before Grandpa became too ill, we used to have full-sized llamas. Remember?”

  I remembered being afraid of them, but I was smaller then and they were twice as big as Cosmos and Checkers.

  “I remember,” I said.

  We climbed into the front seats.

  “Grandpa and I used to take them to the nursing home on pet days to cheer people up. They could put a smile on the grumpiest of faces.”

  I twisted in my seat and scratched Cosmos. Her hair was so thick I could lose my hand in her coat. Nana was right—I found myself smiling at Cosmos’s long lashes and sweet eyes.

  As we drove past the stone lions and down the road, I wondered where Nana was heading. We wound past houses and then toward stores and gas stations, finally pulling in at a fast-food restaurant. “Here we are,” Nana said.

  She drove up to the speaker phone. “Good morning. We’d like two egg-and-sausage biscuits, two orange juices, one coffee, and one hot chocolate.” Then we pulled forward to pick up our order. When the service window opened, Nana rolled down the car windows and Checkers craned her head out, too, like a fuzzy antenna.

  The woman at the window shrieked. “What is that thing?!” she asked Nana.

  “A mini llama,” Nana said calmly. “And her name is Checkers.”

  “Well, you scared me half to death!” Then the woman started laughing and called her coworkers to come and look. Pretty soon half a dozen workers were looking out the window at Checkers. Cosmos edged up between the seats, too, as if not to miss out on the fun.

  “Oh, they’re becoming regulars,” one woman said. “They came through last week.”

  “They’re adorable!” exclaimed another.

  A car honked behind us.

  “Guess we better go!” Nana said and waved good-bye. Just then two girls walked out of the restaurant and stepped in front of our van.

  Nana braked.

  My stomach lurched.

  I couldn’t believe it! What were the chances that two Mean Bees—Tara and Jadyn—would cross my path? Please, please don’t look at the van! But Jadyn turned with a sleepy glance our way, and then she shrieked and pointed.

  The car behind us honked again.

  “Nana, go!” I pleaded.

  “I can’t run them over, Chrissa!”

  Checkers pulled her head away from Nana’s side and brought it alongside Cosmos’s and my own. I must have looked like some weird three-headed creature. As the Bees scooted out of our path, they pointed and laughed.

  To my dismay, Nana pulled into a parking space. “Time for breakfast!” she chirped.

  I wanted to disappear. I’d never hear the end of this. I stared at the building across from the parking lot.

  A knock came at Nana’s window, and I forced myself to look.

  Nana lowered the window. “Hi, girls,” she said cheerily.

  “Do those things poop in your van?” Tara asked.

  Nana just laughed. “Not at all.” To my horror, she reached down and picked up a coffee can. “
Tell them, Chrissa.” My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I shook my head mutely.

  Nana shook the can. “No, they won’t go in the van. But when we travel, I always bring along some ‘llama beans’ to sprinkle on the ground when we stop, so they’ll know where to go. They’re well-trained.”

  Jadyn wrinkled her nose at the can. “That’s, like, disgusting?”

  “They’re just droppings,” Nana said, giving the can another shake as proof.

  The girls walked away, giggling.

  Nana handed me a wrapped biscuit. “Here you go, dearie.”

  But I couldn’t eat a thing.

  When we returned to Nana’s, Tyler dashed outside, yanking on his jacket. “Hey! Why didn’t you two take me along with you?”

  “You were sound asleep, Tyler,” Nana said, “and Chrissa and I needed some girl time.”

  Then Tyler and I led Cosmos and Checkers around the snowy yard, and even into the gazebo. The llamas turned their banana-shaped ears toward every sound. When a neighbor’s black Lab trotted over to investigate and sniffed too close to Cosmos, she lifted her hind leg in warning. Lucky for the dog, he got the message and kept his distance.

  “See that?” I said to Tyler. “Cosmos just warned him. It’s the same as my warning you about those girls on the bus. You think they’re being friendly, but I mean it—they’re not nice.”

  “Don’t start.” He held his hand out as if he were controlling traffic—the same signal Mom gives us when we start begging for something. If he wouldn’t listen, how could I explain that their friendliness was the opposite of what it seemed? That they were acting nice only to get at me. It was a very turned-around kind of meanness.

  After we’d wandered along the edge of the frozen bay a bit longer, we put the llamas away and headed inside.

  Mom greeted me in the kitchen with a hug. “There’s my girl!” She always sleeps late on Saturdays, when she can, to catch up from her long workdays. When she goes to see her patients at the hospital or clinic, she always dresses up. But on Saturdays, she relaxes in jeans. Today her hair was in a ponytail.

  I winced, remembering the Mean Bees. I suppose I could go to school on Monday with a ponytail to try to fit in with them, but then what? They’d change to headbands or something, just to be mean.