I run all the way back to the Rest Easy, sure I’m breaking another one of my uncle’s rules, like Never Run When You’re Worried. Before heading upstairs, I poke my nose into the dance studio, just to say hello to my piano.
For the next hour, I lie collapsed across my bed, staring first at the clock, then at the chipped ceiling paint. Wiggling glowworms dance like all get-out in my belly. But at exactly 4:20 I hear somebody banging around in the front hall. I take the steps two at a time and almost crash into Miss Sister carrying a basket of something feathery.
“Oh my. Always something left to the last minute. Need to get back to the auditorium. See you there!” She hurries to her car and drives off in a swirl of red streamers and fake palm fronds.
Bummer. I was hoping for a last-minute pep talk.
I tuck my ironed dress shirt into my jeans just as Mr. Hernandez appears. “Break a leg, Theo!” he calls out. Which reminds me of Anabel and her mom. Great.
Good thing Johnson Junior High School is just down the street, because it’s about five hundred degrees and the white-hot sidewalk almost knocks me over. Will I pass out before the curtain even goes up? Hoping my sneakers don’t stick to the bubbling tar, I cross the parking lot and open the side door into the auditorium.
“Oh my stars! These tappers move around more than a flea on a dog.” Miss Sister waves her clipboard at the dancers. “Quiet! We have an audience out there.”
Oh yeah. The audience. I swallow the tightness in my throat.
“Here’s your program,” she says. “Got your name right on it! Hope your uncle’s here to see this!”
In your dreams, Miss Sister.
I open the folded white paper. Little American flags decorate the front.
MISS SANDRA GRANDERSOLE’S TAP AND BALLET RECITAL
IN HONOR OF OUR TOWN’S 100TH ANNIVERSARY
AND ITS DESTINY
JUNE 11, 1974
THELONIOUS MONK THOMAS, ACCOMPANIST
Yikes. My name, my real name. Right there for the world to see.
Hey. It looks pretty cool.
Miss Sister swirls around, then fiddles with the fat beads circling her neck. “Like to get all fancied up,” she says. When she shakes out her skirt, sequins catch the light. “Now, Theo honey, I expect you’ll want to come out at the end and take a bow, maybe cut a rug with me. The children might even have a little something for you.”
Okay. Now I know I’ll faint. Or worse.
She taps a long red fingernail at my chest and smiles. “You’re up first. You and the glowworms. Get out there and tear that piano to pieces.” She moves toward the rope that opens the big curtain.
From the auditorium wing, I peek out. Man, people are so close, one false note and they’re onto me. What a fake I am! I’ve never played the piano in front of an audience. Well, nobody but the preacher and our church. Nobody who cared if I missed a note.
Sweat pours down my back. A gazillion parents must be holding their noses at my BO. I try not to stare at the waving cameras. Wait! Is that Mrs. Johnson, Anabel’s mom, smack-dab in the front row? Close enough to stand up and knock the music off the shiny black piano or even slam it closed? She’s not supposed to be here.
Why had I thought this was a good idea?
I clutch my sheet music. Not that I need the music. I can’t hardly read music! I can play my three songs with my eyes closed. Or tossing a baseball. In my sleep. Deep breaths, Theo. You can do this. I take the six steps across the stage on feet as heavy as the piano bench. Please don’t let me faint and fall on my face. Please don’t let me trip on the floor lights. Please.
The curtains open and Miss Sister starts talking before I find middle C on the upright piano. “Welcome to our dance recital. This year’s theme is Destiny’s History.” I think she says something about the first number, but my heart’s pounding so loud it drowns out everything. Oh, why can’t I be that black lizard from the Rest Easy’s porch railing and blend into the piano bench right about now?
Miss Sister looks right at me. “Ready, maestro?” she says, and disappears into the wings.
Miraculously, my hands hit the right keys, and a line of little girls dressed in green leotards and tights hold each other by their waists and snake across the stage. I’m not sure what glowworms have to do with the history of Destiny, but I’m sure Miss Sister has that covered. Not counting the girl who stands off to one corner of the stage waving at her mother, the Tiny Tapper Glowworms perform without a mistake. I play the last chord. The curtains close. The lights go dark. Miss Sister scoots a fake palm tree off to one side of the stage, clicks her fingers for the next number, and I finally breathe.
Till I hear somebody in the audience whispering, loud.
“I can’t believe Miss Sister allows that boy in the recital. What is she thinking? He’s nothing but a bad influence. He and that uncle.”
My ears burn red-hot. I dig my nails into my hands. Even with the curtain closed, I know. It’s Anabel’s mom.
The curtains open and I glance back. She’s looking around, twisting her neck like a flamingo. She might as well be on the stage when she announces to her entire row, “Anabel’s with the flappers waiting for her grand entrance. I sewed the feathers into her headpiece myself.”
Oh man. By now Anabel has ditched her feathered and fringed costume and is a million miles from the auditorium.
As the lights come up again, I sneak a better look. The way Mrs. Johnson’s dressed, she might be going to see those Rockette dancers in New York City. A fancy hat covers up her jet-black hair. White gloves pinch her hands as tight as water balloons.
Water balloons! If only I had one about now, Mrs. Johnson would be history.
She catches my eye and glares. But I breathe in and out, turning my breaths into music beats. I focus on a sliver of brightness falling on the keyboard from the piano light and think about harmony. Once the first note sings out, nothing matters but the rhythm of tap shoes matching my bass chords. Me and my piano in perfect time with Mexican hat dancers shuffle-tapping on stage. Shuffle shuffle. Heel toe heel.
Three more dances, set to recordings, then my last number.
“ ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.’ To honor our World War II veterans,” Miss Sister announces.
I play without one mistake, wipe my hands on my jeans, and can’t stop the grin that sneaks up. I want to lean over and kiss the keyboard!
When the lights go down again, I slide off the piano bench before girls in swishy skirts dance out to their flapper record. I’m outta here before Mrs. Johnson beams that fake smile toward the stage and doesn’t see Anabel. Don’t need to be around for those fireworks. Or for the grand finale. Miss Sister will do a kick or two from her Rockette days. The glowworms will prance across the stage with flowers. Maybe some for me. Who cares about flowers. I’m sure not coming out and cutting a rug with Miss Sister.
Okay. Maybe just one look.
Backstage, Miss Sister’s holding a crepe-paper torch and wearing a red, white, and blue cape. She’s the Statue of Liberty, surrounded by all the flappers except one. I back out toward the door to escape.
“Hey, Theo!”
Busted. Mamie sees me and grabs my hand. Pulling me onto the edge of the stage, she hands me one rose.
“You did really good,” she whispers. I’m sure my cheeks match the red rose.
Now everybody on stage claps and cheers, swaying to the recording of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Mamie and another glowworm present Miss Sister with the whole bouquet of flowers. The audience stands, shouting, “Brava! Miss Sister!”
Everybody but Anabel’s mom. Mrs. Johnson’s sitting dead still. Right there in the front, arms crossed, eyes squinted together tight.
I can’t leave fast enough. Pushing open the side door, I step into late afternoon sun so hot, cars should be sizzling on the blacktop. The air’s too heavy to move an empty potato chip bag dropped on the ground. Clutching my rose, I try to catch my breath.
Then I see him. Off to the
side of the parking lot holding his hat, dressed in a clean uniform, my uncle lifts his hand, frowns, and waves just a little.
He heard me play. I’m in big trouble now.
Just as I’m deciding to make a break for it, Uncle Raymond walks over. I hop back. But he reaches out and hugs me. My uncle, hugging anybody. Wow.
“Looking good, Uncle Raymond. Even got your name on a new shirt!” I point to the patch: Raymond, sewn in script over his pocket.
“Boss gave it to me today. Guess the boys at work want me to stick around.” He ducks his head and kicks a rock on the blacktop, then blurts out, “They told me I could leave early. To hear this music for myself.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and clutch my good-luck charm in one fist. “Thanks for coming.”
“Let’s walk back to the Rest Easy. We need to talk,” he says. He hasn’t smiled since that half hug, so I’m not sure what he’ll say. Other than Yeah, that sounded nice, but No Piano Playing Ever Again. He’s already said that a few times.
We’re turning the corner at the edge of the parking lot when I see somebody behind those big poisonous bushes Mr. Hernandez warned me about.
“Theo. Pssst. Over here.” Anabel’s crouched behind the sticky, itchy red flowers, dressed in cutoff jeans and one sneaker. With about a mile of tape wrapped around her bare foot.
“Anabel?” I say. “Shouldn’t you be hiding better?”
She peeps out from the oleander bushes. “Wanted to hear how your music was. Congratulate you.” She taps her bandaged foot. “If Miss Sister sees me, here’s my excuse.”
Then I remember. “This is Uncle Raymond, Anabel.” Turning from my uncle to my friend, I don’t even try to explain one to the other.
“Nice to meet you.” When Uncle Raymond reaches out to shake her hand, I notice he’s cleaned the dirt out from under his fingernails to match his spotless uniform shirt.
“Did you hear Theo play? He’s really good. Or so I hear. I missed his big day.” Anabel points to her foot again. Uncle Raymond nods instead of answering.
Now the crowd’s starting to pour out. Happy noises spread over the parking lot. I look at Anabel and say, “You better get out of here. Your mom’s gonna find out you ditched the recital. Miss Sister, too.”
“My mom’ll get over it. But she won’t realize I wasn’t dancing like some idiot flapper girl till I confess and explain I’m never dancing again,” she says, like she’s solved her lifetime tap-dancing problem.
“She was sitting in the first row, center aisle,” I tell her. “Breathing down my neck.”
“Yikes.” Anabel turns, ready to run with a fake broken toe and one sneaker missing. She stops and glances back toward the auditorium. “Maybe she didn’t notice I wasn’t there?” she asks.
“She noticed,” I answer.
“I should drop a hammer on my toe. Make it real.” She looks around, maybe for something heavy, like she’s seriously considering injury.
Before I can answer, Mrs. Johnson, her face redder than Miss Sister’s streamers, steps away from the crowd. Clutching her program and her big pocketbook, she storms across the parking lot. My uncle moves closer to the oleander bush. Who wouldn’t choose taking a chance on a prickly rash over facing Mrs. Johnson up close? I pretend I’m a statue. It doesn’t work.
“Anabel? What’s going on? What are they doing here?” Mrs. Johnson glares at me and my uncle. When she finally stops huffing, she notices the bandage. “Oh dear. What happened?”
“Bruised my foot a little.” Anabel takes two wobbly steps back, then says, “Actually, Mom, it’s fine. It’s an excuse.” Leaning down, she slowly unravels the yards of white gauze.
“An excuse? You couldn’t dance that one flapper number? All those hours spent sewing feathers and tassels wasted?” Mrs. Johnson’s shoulders and huge hat droop and her high heels sink into the dirt.
“I planned to explain to you and Daddy. Later. Didn’t think you’d come at five o’clock.”
Mrs. Johnson touches a fake purple flower on her fancy blouse and takes a deep, sad breath. “I missed seeing my only child perform.” She narrows her eyes and says, “Did he have something to do with this? I thought we talked about inappropriate friends, Anabel.”
I should be hurrying to the Rest Easy where I belong. No matter what my uncle plans to say to me, it can’t be as bad as listening to Mrs. Johnson. But Uncle Raymond moves closer, stepping between me and Mrs. Johnson. Before he can answer, Anabel’s right in front of her mom, firmly planting her hands on her hips.
“If you’re talking about Theo, he didn’t even know,” she says.
Just a little white lie. And actually, I didn’t know she’d show up in shorts and a bandage on recital day, caught red-handed.
Anabel grabs my wrist. Her voice gets louder. “It’s not polite to say that about him. He’s my good friend.”
Wow! Chills run up my arm even though it’s ninety-eight degrees out here. Anabel opens her mouth to say something else nice about me, I’m sure. But Miss Sister’s waltzing over to us now. “Why, Raymond Gary, you came!” He clutches his cap. Miss Sister keeps talking. “Did you enjoy our recital? Wasn’t Theo’s music the icing on the cake?” She looks at Anabel and winks. “How’s that foot, dearie? Think you’ll be able to dance on it soon? Or maybe run a few bases?”
“We were just discussing her injury,” Mrs. Johnson says. “And her future as a dancer.”
“Mom, nobody in the history of softball players has ever been one of those ballerina people you think I can be. Next year, I’ll be on the school team. Lots of practices.” She stares straight at her mother, her voice steady. “Dancing lessons are over.”
“Over? Not forever, of course. I know what’s best. Dancing will make you graceful.”
“Dream on, Mom,” Anabel practically shouts. Now parents and kids pouring out of the auditorium make a huge circle to walk around us. “This is not gonna work. I don’t care about being graceful. No dancing. Ever.” She tosses the bandage, barely missing Mrs. Johnson.
“Ballroom dancing could be fun,” I joke under my breath. In case Anabel heard me, I take a step back.
Mrs. Johnson heard me all right. “Miss Sister, you need to be careful of who you let stay at the Rest Easy. I don’t appreciate thievery.”
“Nothing was stolen.” Miss Sister faces Anabel’s mother and says quietly, “The money was misplaced, and it turned up. That’s that.”
I chew on my lip, hold tight to my good-luck coin, and slide closer to my uncle. But my heart’s beating faster than the hat dance song. If anybody can save this day, it’s Miss Sister.
She glances at Mrs. Johnson, then takes Anabel’s hand. “Dear, your future is as a softball player.”
“Thanks, Miss Sister,” Anabel says.
Mrs. Johnson’s shoulders sag even deeper. “Are you sure about this?”
Anabel rolls her eyes at me and glares at her mother. “We’ll talk about dancing at home, Mom. Or rather, not dancing.”
Mrs. Johnson slips her arm around Anabel’s waist to help her hobble off. With a broken toe. Which doesn’t exist. I’ve heard enough about Anabel and her toe to last three lifetimes.
Once they’ve disappeared, Uncle Raymond finally speaks. “That woman believes she can boss the world.” He shakes his head, then turns to Miss Sister. “Thanks for taking up for me. Not sure I deserved that.”
“You made things right, Raymond. It was all a misunderstanding.”
“Can we help carry something back to the Rest Easy?” he asks. “Me and Theo are good for that.”
When we finish packing up the fake palm tree and her record albums, and every bit of crepe paper’s off the stage, Miss Sister says, “Almost time for supper. See you back home.” She squeezes her tiny self into her packed car and drives off. Tucking record albums under my arm and a paper flower in my pocket, I start toward the Rest Easy. Before I’m out of the parking lot, Uncle Raymond stops me.
“Wait up, son. Almost forgot.” He hands me a
n envelope, then quickly heads back to the auditorium for flowers and streamers.
I open it. A card. With birds and trees and a bright round sun and a corny verse about having a beautiful day. My fingers trace the handwriting across the bottom. All my uncle’s written is
LOVE, RAYMOND T. GARY
I’m about ten feet taller than I was when I woke up this morning. Being mad at my uncle felt good for a little while. It feels better when I stop being mad. If I didn’t think Anabel or even Mamie might see me, I’d skip all the way to the Rest Easy.
Even after we’ve hauled every fake palm tree into the Rest Easy’s attic, the piano problem hangs in the air like a storm cloud. But a plan is playing out in my head. It’s gotta be perfect. By the time a lizard scoots down one table leg and back up another, I’ve figured it out. But will Uncle Raymond agree?
Careful not to trip on the rose-colored carpet still loose on one side, I take the stairs two at a time. This is my house now. I know exactly which frayed edges to step over. When I open our bedroom door, I see my uncle’s pulled out his beat-up army duffel. The one he dragged all the way from Alaska to Kentucky and now Florida.
Uncle Raymond starts talking. “Here’s the thing. I see you love playing the piano. You’re good. I heard you. But I can’t live someplace with all this music.”
“Because it reminds you of your family? Your sister?” I ask.
He nods. “Maybe one of these days that’ll be a happy memory. So far, it ain’t.”
“So, you’re going?” I ask.
Uncle Raymond stops stuffing T-shirts into his bag and rubs the faded stenciling across the side: Sergeant Raymond Gary. After a while, he says, “Gotta take that job in Mount Flora.”
“You don’t gotta do anything,” I answer. “If you don’t want to.”
He shakes his head. “I won’t say if I go, you go. But I don’t know what else to do. We need to stick together.”
Moving his duffel so I can sit right next to him, I say, “I have an idea. I’ll stay here with Miss Sister while you try out the new job. Come back on your days off. I checked the bus. It’s not hard. When you’re at the Rest Easy, I’ll try to keep away from the piano. Or play so quiet you can’t hear.”
The Way to Stay in Destiny Page 10
