“Just tunes I make up. I can’t read music too good.” I rub the polished black wood, and I don’t close the keyboard cover. “Never saw such a fancy piano,” I say.
“If you want to tickle the ivories, play away.” She sits next to me, hits a few chords, and music bounces around the room. “How about I show you a duet? Something easy we could do together.”
“No, thank you.”
“Why, sure you can!” She plays more fast notes, then looks at me. “After my classes? Maybe next week after school? School’s just down the street,” she says. “If you’re planning to be here awhile.”
I’m not sure how to answer. When my grandparents couldn’t take care of me anymore, my uncle rode a bus from Alaska to Kentucky to get me. But he wasn’t about to stay there. Claimed there’s nothing back at the farm for him, never was. So he took me from the school where I’d been in the same class with the same twelve kids forever. Here in Destiny, I’ll be the new kid for the first time in my life, and the school year’s about ended. But that’s gotta be better than sitting upstairs tossing a baseball up and down by myself, right?
“Yessum. I’ll start school Monday.” I glance down at my balled-up fists, then back at Miss Sister. “But I don’t know about the piano. My uncle said not to play.”
“Why on God’s green earth not?” she says. “That’s just plain silly.”
“I don’t think he appreciates my music. Hate to make him mad.” Mad enough to up and leave me at some foster home and never come back is what I don’t say.
“A fine, polite boy like you make anybody mad? I bet that’s just not possible.” She pats my hand and smiles. “No music? Humph. Over my dead body.”
Extra chores. Make up the beds tight with that military fold thing Uncle Raymond taught me. Keep getting straight As in school. Follow the rules. My head’s spinning, but I can do it. When Miss Sister taps across the shiny studio floor and out the door, I begin to play her piano like all ten of my fingers are on fire.
When Miss Sister’s Saturday morning students start piling out of their cars, it’s time to disappear. No way am I getting caught in the middle of a floor full of giggling girls in their dance outfits.
I race upstairs and grab the list propped on our nightstand.
FIND OUT WHERE THE LAUNDROMAT’S AT.
REMEMBER WHITES SEPARATE FROM DARKS.
HANDKERCHIEFS AND UNDERSHIRTS FOLDED IN SQUARES.
I wad up Uncle Raymond’s note and bing! — into the corner wastebasket like a strike in a catcher’s mitt.
Before I can get out of my room and downstairs with the dirty laundry, tires screech and a car door slams right under my window. I push the curtain to one side, open the window a little. A girl’s stepping out of a convertible. Long black ponytail. Bright orange sneakers. Braves baseball cap. She’s holding a pair of shiny shoes with her thumb and one finger, her arm stretched way out like they’ve stepped in something smelly.
“Don’t need a ride,” she says. “I’m walking home after dance class.” The girl shifts her bag across one shoulder and turns toward the Rest Easy.
The lady driving the blue Cadillac leans to look at herself in the side mirror. She straightens her hat and peers over huge sunglasses. “I’ll be at my Destiny Day Art in the Park meeting. Enjoy your tap class, Anabel dear,” she calls out.
“Bye, Mom” is all the girl says. Then the car tires crunch in the gravel, the convertible pulls away, and that lady doesn’t even notice her six-foot-long scarf caught in the door, waving like a flag on the Fourth of July.
Grabbing our laundry, I head downstairs and onto the porch just as the girl tosses her knapsack and shiny shoes into a thick bed of purple flowers. She walks away from the Rest Easy fast. I wonder where she’s going. Then I remember where I’m going. The Laundromat.
Inside the studio, Miss Sister’s already calling out “Shuffle! And tap! And turn two three!” — warming up her class. When I step back into the front hall, that kid Mamie sticks out her tongue and rushes past me toward the crowd of girls in pink leotards. Ignoring her, I find a note on the kitchen bulletin board.
MAGIC COIN LAUNDROMAT,
CLEAN AND CONVENIENT
3 AZALEA ROAD, OFF MAIN STREET
TUESDAYS ARE FREE SOAP DAYS
I quickly head to the sidewalk and cross the street. Pretending to be out for a walk in the hot Florida sunshine instead of hauling dirty clothes and detergent to the Magic Coin.
Until the girl in the Braves cap glances back.
Did she see me? The last thing I need is to get caught carrying my uncle’s smelly laundry! What if she’s in my class on Monday? I should slink away before she notices.
Plan A: Walk as fast as I can. On the opposite side of the sidewalk.
Plan B: Run even faster back to the Rest Easy.
Too late.
The girl’s stopped dead still in the middle of the sidewalk. I’m about to run smack-dab into her. Yikes! I can’t breathe! What to do with the dirty underwear? I toss my bag behind a tall blooming bush and leap back on the sidewalk.
“Hey there.” She looks straight at me. Whew, she’s smiling. Maybe she didn’t notice I just zigzagged on and off the sidewalk with a big bag of underwear. “My name’s Anabel Johnson. What’s yours?” She’s almost as tall as I am, but she talks ten times faster.
“Theo Thomas,” I manage to squeak out.
“How come I don’t know you? I’ve lived in Destiny all my life. There’s only my junior high.” She gives me the once-over. “You do go to school, right?”
My huge tongue’s stuck in my mouth. I’ll never be able to talk to this girl. Why aren’t I back home in Kentucky where I know every single kid in my entire school? I swallow and finally answer, “Just moved here. I’ll start Monday. Sixth grade.”
She looks me over. “Are you smart?”
Huh? I gulp, not sure what to say. “Math’s my favorite subject. And history. I guess I’m smart in that.”
“Listen up. Mr. Wyatt. Sixth-grade social studies, second period,” she says, pushing long black bangs off her forehead and fanning herself. She keeps walking. Since she’s still talking, I try to keep up. “He’s the good teacher. You’ll get him if you’re smart. Or if your parents push you into his class like mine did. My daddy’s the mayor of Destiny.”
Ha. My parents definitely won’t be getting me into Anabel’s second-period social studies class. They died when I was four. But living on my grandparents’ farm — practically forever — I mostly made As.
“Gotta go. See you later. Monday at school, right?” Anabel smiles again and disappears down a side street right near the Magic Coin Laundromat.
Which, unfortunately, is where me and my dirty clothes are headed. I race back to grab the hidden laundry bag.
Inside the steaming-hot Laundromat, a little girl’s picking her nose in front of the blaring TV, glancing from Miss Piggy to her mother stuffing the washer with a hundred towels. Trying to ignore the smell of bleach making me gasp for breath, I toss handkerchiefs, white shirts, and Uncle Raymond’s dirty socks in a washing machine. Add exactly one cup of Tide Super Clean. Drop a quarter into the slots. For about a second, I dangle my new bandanna over the hot, soapy water. See how Uncle Raymond likes it when his white shirts turn pink. See if my uncle orders me to do laundry again. I jerk the red bandanna back. Nope. Not making him mad about shirts. Not since I discovered Miss Sister’s piano.
I sit on a washing machine, tapping out a tune. Made-up music’s bopping around in my head like my third-grade times tables. Ba dada dada, yeah! I can’t wait to sneak back to the dance studio.
Then I see her. Anabel! Right near the front window. I hop down and look for a place to hide. Or a way to pretend I belong here. The soda machine! I fumble in my pocket for a dime, push it in, and wait for a cold drink to drop. With my back turned to Anabel Johnson, of course.
Too late. She breezes up. “Hey, you again. Theo. What are you doing here?”
I blab something about g
ot lost, checking out where the Laundromat is ’cause we just moved here, need a grape Nehi. She shrugs like everybody might hang out with their uncle’s dirty laundry at the Magic Coin on Saturdays.
Anabel points across the street. “I’m waiting for the movie. The bargain show. Cokes are cheaper here than over at the Clearview.” She drops her money in the machine and grabs her drink. “You want my world-famous tour of Destiny before the movie starts?”
When she heads for the door, I stash the Tide inside my laundry bag and follow her.
Anabel nods toward a line of palm trees. “The best thing about this town? The beach. Two streets thataway.” She stops under the banner about Destiny and that Town Time Forgot thing and shows me a wooden marker right near the post office.
I reach down to touch the letters, avoiding the green pricker plant growing around it. “The yellow paint on the sun’s almost rubbed off. Must be old,” I say.
“Old and nobody pays attention to it.” She touches her baseball cap.
I read the faded marker: Atlanta Braves Home Away from Home.
“What? The Braves played here?” I ask.
“Just up the road. Braves spring training. Supposedly, once upon a time, famous baseball players lived in Destiny. Daddy says nobody notices the sign, even once Hammerin’ Hank started chasing the record.” She looks around, then whispers, “I’m thinking of changing that.”
Anabel’s eyebrows go up in a question, but all I can think about is Whoa! Hammerin’ Hank Aaron?
I pat the skinny book that’s almost always in my back pocket and smile about as big as the sun on that marker. “Home run king. Passed Babe Ruth’s record. Henry Aaron’s my all-time favorite player ever.”
“Cool, Theo!” Anabel ignores my dopey grin and nods like I’ve won the prize on the $10,000 Treasure TV game show. Then she turns toward the movie theater. “Movie’s starting soon. See you Monday at school,” and she disappears into The Revenge of the Giant Tarantulas.
Before we left my grandparents’ farm, Uncle Raymond warned me, Don’t set your hopes high. Just means disappointment. But there are two things I care about. And it’s not man-eating spiders and the best detergent for getting out stains.
Number One: Playing Miss Sister’s piano.
Number Two: Hank Aaron breaking records.
Yeah, I know. Dream on, Theo. Right? But I can’t help it, my hopes are up. Only one day in Destiny, Florida, and already I’m thinking this may be okay.
By the time I get back to the Rest Easy’s front porch, the Saturday morning dance classes are over. Before I can sneak inside the studio, here comes Uncle Raymond dragging up the sidewalk, clanking his heavy tool chest. I race upstairs with our clean laundry. Where that kid Mamie’s standing in the hall, boring a hole through me.
“What ya got?” She’s doing that hand on her hip thing.
“Nothing,” I answer.
“Sure is a big bag of nothing. Lemme see.” She grabs for the laundry. I whip it over my shoulder and quickly back into my room. Mamie sticks her tongue out and shuts her door.
Great. Terrorized by a five-year-old.
Hurrying to put away clean laundry before my uncle shows up, I’m smiling about Anabel. Thinking at least one sixth grader in Destiny knows my name. Somebody who likes baseball, same as me. I’ll get the good social studies teacher. Have a friend to sit with at lunch on Monday! I’m whistling Miss Sister’s music and dreaming about her piano.
Till the door bangs open and Uncle Raymond storms into the room. Pulling off his greasy uniform shirt, he tosses it onto my bed. “Take this. For next Saturday’s washing.” He looks around the room. “You get your chores attended to? You see my note?”
Before answering, I reach into my shorts pocket to touch the shiny good-luck piece Granddaddy gave me. “Yessir. Read the note. Followed your directions.” I concentrate on turning my uncle’s white handkerchiefs into perfect squares the way he showed me.
“Don’t think you took much time making that bed. You spend a day in the army, you know how to make a bed up.” Uncle Raymond’s pacing around the room. “Didn’t your granddaddy teach you a thing? Sure made me work hard when I was coming up on that blasted farm.”
Since my uncle hasn’t ever talked about growing up, all I know was he couldn’t get away from his family fast enough. “Granddaddy taught me plenty,” I say quietly.
“Don’t seem like you had rules,” he answers. “A boy needs rules.”
Under my breath, I curse my uncle’s rules.
Grabbing my shoulder, he wheels me around to face him. He shoots me the evil eye and says, “I’m heading out. You hear me? Don’t be running all over town getting in trouble, neither. Number one rule, be home before dark.”
“I don’t have any place to run to,” I say, pulling away from him. “Where’re you going?”
“Meeting somebody at the diner for supper. Mostly, I keep my business to myself. But this is work.” Uncle Raymond opens a drawer, digs through his folded underwear. “Thought you did shirts today, boy.”
I hand him a blue shirt.
“Not my work shirt. My dress shirt.” When I reach into the laundry bag and pull out a wrinkled — but clean! — white shirt, he says, “Needs ironing.” He sniffs the shirt, shakes it out. “You know how to iron?”
“Never learned that one,” I mumble.
“No need to get smart.” He throws water on his face and slicks back his hair. “Won’t be gone long. You better not be sneaking down to that piano. Need your word on that.”
I move closer to the tiny closet and pretend to line up pants on hangers. “Not playing the piano.” If I’m not looking at my uncle, telling a lie doesn’t count. I turn around and nod. But a nod’s not my word.
Uncle Raymond sprays a shot of Ban extra-duty deodorant under both arms, tucks the wrinkled shirt into his pants, and frowns at the mirror. “Hang my shirts on one side, pants on the other.” Opening the door, he turns back. “One more thing. If we stay together, you need to learn how to iron,” he says, then he’s down the stairs, fast.
“If we stay together? Is that what you said? Where would I go?” I follow him into the hall. But he doesn’t look back. I stomp back into our room, muttering, “Sure thing, Uncle Raymond. I’ll learn how to iron right after you learn how to thank me for ironing.” I cram his underwear in the drawer and head downstairs.
When I pass her room, Mamie’s door shuts softly. This time, I don’t hear a peep out of that brat.
* * *
On the back of the Rest Easy Rooming House, somebody’s hammered a screen up and turned half the porch into a storeroom. Faded beach towels, two fishing poles, about a million flip-flops — not necessarily matched up with a partner — pile up in a big basket marked Lost and Found. I dig out a chair with one leg wobbling and the seat half busted and pull it near an open window.
Inside the studio, a blur of pink fabric flits across the window. I lean in closer. Miss Sister! She’s humming and there’s a tapping sound. Then, bam! My chair and my rear end hit the porch floor. Next thing I know, Miss Sister’s standing over me, shaking her head.
“Oh my stars, Theo. Are you back here stirring up a racket? Get up and sit with me a while. Scoot over, Ginger,” she says to a shaggy dog spread out on the top step. Ginger glares, next thing to a growl. Once she’s shooed her dog off, Miss Sister pats the top step next to her and I sink down. “Ginger Rogers is ancient, going on fifteen,” she says. “All she’s good for is chasing little lizards. I love her just the same.”
Now Ginger has taken over the shadiest spot at the bottom of the steps. I scoot down to pet her. She shows me her sharp little teeth.
“She doesn’t take to new people. Just ignore her.” Miss Sister pulls out a hankie and fans herself. “Anybody with a grain of sense stays out of the sun. But this big oak tree makes my back porch about the coolest place late in the afternoon.”
I lean over to grab a handful of dried-up grass shriveling near the bottom step. “I’m no
t used to Florida,” I say. “Never been anyplace so hot.”
“Your uncle wrote about a room. Happy to have a vacancy.” She points to the little sign in the back window.
MISS S. GRANDERSOLE
ROOMS TO LET
TAP AND BALLET CLASSES
“Where all have you fellows lived, Theo?”
“My uncle had a good job up in Alaska.” Which he tells me about once a day, but I don’t say that. “Me, I lived with my grandparents on their farm. Till they got sick.” I bite my lip, remembering what Uncle Raymond warned me about keeping family business to myself.
“Well, you’re here now. I hope you’ll stay awhile.” Miss Sister stands up and tucks a red curl behind her ear. “You want to come inside and play my piano? Unless you have something better to do. Like your laundry?” She raises an eyebrow that makes me wonder what she thinks about Uncle Raymond’s rules.
When Miss Sister wiggles an armful of jangly bracelets my way, I push that if we stay together thing my uncle said out of my head. She does a dance step, hands on her hips, kicking and swinging all the way to the piano. Of course, I follow her.
Wow! Miss Sister can play and talk at the same time and doesn’t miss a beat. “In case you hadn’t noticed, our town is about to celebrate Destiny Day. Folks dress up as old-timers from the 1800s when we were founded. June 1874! Exactly one hundred years ago next month!” Her fingers run up and down the keyboard. “I’m staging a special dance recital. ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ is a favorite! It’s kind of complicated. But the Mexican hat dance and ‘Glow Worm’ songs?” She flaps her hand to show how simple it will be, then plays a few chords of the hat dance thing. “You want to try?” she asks, and she slides over to one side of the bench.
I move the sheet music over and peer inside. When I hit a note, those soft things jump up like they’re saying hello. I touch a black key, quietly at first, then a white one. So what am I worrying about? Uncle Raymond’s long gone. My fingers fly up and down the keyboard. Again, then again. Faster! I finish my made-up song, with a few hat dance notes thrown in. Then I sit back and touch a tiny ray of sunlight jumping off the shiny finish.
The Way to Stay in Destiny Page 2
