“Not a problem.” I pretend five-year-olds escaping from me happens all the time.
Sammy pulls out two stools from the wooden table and tosses her plastic purse on the table. “Sit here.” She pats the stool. “Next to me.”
I set my black art bag on the floor and perch on the stool next to Sammy. I don’t want to tell her, but Sammy seems kind of bossy for a five-year old. I don’t remember the five-year-olds in the Art Palace acting so bossy. And I’m sure I was never this bossy.
Opal hands me a roll of copper foil before she picks up a piece of glass from my tray. I perch on my elbows and watch Opal. Sammy copies me and leans forward on her elbows. I take my elbows off the table and place my hands in my lap. Sammy takes her elbows off the table. She places her hands in her lap, smiles at me, and giggles.
I’m not sure copying me is so amusing. “Watch her.” I point to Opal. “Not me.”
“I already know how to do this,” Sammy says in the bossiest tone I’ve heard yet.
“I don’t.” I move the stool closer to the table and away from Sammy.
Sammy moves her stool closer to me with one loud scraping noise.
I ignore her.
Opal ignores both of us. She peels away the paper backing from the copper foil before setting a piece of cut glass centered on foil. “The trick is to have an equal amount on both sides.” Opal folds the edges of the foil and presses it around the glass sides. She slides her middle and ring fingers along the edges of the glass until it presses down with no bubbles or creases against the glass edges, then snips the extra foil with a utility knife. She hands the piece to Sammy.
“See.” Sammy moves her fingers over the copper foil edges. “I get to help.” She swings her legs on the stool, and they bump into the wooden table.
I reach over and pull Sammy’s stool out so her legs don’t bump. One day of thumping is enough. “Better,” I say. “My legs don’t bump.” I move my legs freely under the table.
Sammy swings her legs and picks up a Popsicle stick, which she waves in the air before pointing it at me. “Abracadabra. Turn into a…” Sammy pauses, and bites her tongue. “A frog.”
I can’t help but giggle. Sammy looks so serious as she waves her Popsicle stick and stares at me, believing that I really will turn into a frog. I don’t want to disappoint her, so I hop to the ground. Crouching on my legs, I jump. I have to admit, Dad’s studio is never this much fun, not with all his rules about no talking.
Sammy laughs and waves her wand at me. “Abracadabra. Sound like a frog.”
I croak, “Ribbit. Ribbit. Ribbit.”
And then my feet hit dark, soiled work boots. I look up and find Cole’s blue eyes gazing into mine. “Hello, frog,” he says. I lose my balance and plop onto the floor.
Sammy waves her wand. “Turn into Jasmine.”
Cole reaches down to me. “Want some help?”
Of course I want help, and I feel just a little bit foolish. Lacing my fingers into Cole’s, I let him pull me up. My face feels very hot. “Sammy turned me into a frog.” I hope Cole doesn’t think I hop around on the floor all the time.
“You’re lucky,” he says. He keeps his hand linked with mine. “She turned me into a slug.”
I shudder. I’d rather be a frog. I haven’t seen the slugs yet, but I’ve heard about them—thick brown creatures the size of a ring finger that slither onto the pavement after a long rain. I move my fingers against the inside of Cole’s smooth palms. He rubs his fingers over the top of my hand, and my stomach dances.
“Cole!” Sammy cries. “Look at my glass.” She unzips her purse and yanks out her glass.
Cole looks interested but keeps his right hand linked with mine. Secretly, I’m glad to see that Sammy doesn’t get all the attention from Cole. “Looks good, Sammy.”
“She’s helping me make a house for them.” Sammy turns toward me. “Right?”
I start to shake my head. I didn’t say that I would help Sammy make a house, I only told her about my houses. But now I worry that Sammy will throw a fit if I say no, and I can’t risk Sammy telling Cole that I’m mean to her. That will not win me points with either Cole or Opal.
“Sure,” I say. “We can make houses for your glass.”
I hope she forgets, or else I’m going to have to figure out how to find shoeboxes and material at Uncle Jasper’s house—things I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have lying around anywhere.
“When?” Sammy picks up the Popsicle stick and moves it alongside the copper edges. I’m relieved to see the stick turn back into a stained glass tool and not a magic wand. I’m not sure I could explain to Sammy that I don’t want to play her games with Cole watching.
“Soon.” I hope that will be enough of an answer. Beside me, Cole squeezes my hand.
“That’s a nice thing for you to do,” he says.
“It’ll be fun. I like being with Sammy.” And that’s the truth. It surprises me, but I do like being with Sammy. Even when she runs across the street and scares me to death, and even when she’s a bit bossy, I like being with the feisty little girl. She reminds me of myself, and there is something comforting about seeing parts of myself mirrored in her.
Parts of me that Dad didn’t always like.
Cole whispers into my ear, “I think she likes being with you, too.”
Sammy smirks at us. “Cole is kissing Jasmine.”
I pull away from Cole as the heat rises in my neck. I’m glad to see Cole’s red ears match my neck. As if she knows we need her to interfere, Opal hands Sammy another piece of glass and smiles at Cole.
“Sorry,” she mouths.
I feel even hotter and try to make sure my hair covers my neck. I pick up a piece of glass and try to concentrate. I flatten the edges of the copper foil around the glass and hand the covered piece to Sammy to smooth with her Popsicle stick. I pretend Cole isn’t leaning against the table in his lazy slouch, watching me with his sharp blue eyes. I pretend it’s just a normal afternoon in the stained glass shop and we’re making stained glass. I pretend, but the only problem is that it’s not working, and I’m about ready to explode with something that feels strange and different and wonderful to me.
As I’m trying to sort it all out, Opal plugs in two soldering irons to outlets attached to the sides of the wood table. She arranges the copper foiled glass pieces on the paper pattern and with a cotton swab dabs clear white flux onto the points where each of the glass pieces met.
Cole clears his throat. I look over at him, and because I want to show off my new work boots, I raise up my foot. “No sandals.”
Cole touches my boot. “Nice.”
I reach out to grab the table before losing my balance. Good thing Sammy didn’t turn me into a flamingo. I’d never make it. I unwind two inches of soldering wire from a spool. I hold the soldering iron and melt a small amount of solder onto the tip. When the tip is hot, I drop a bit onto the wire. The hot tip melts the foil and joins the two pieces together like a kiss. A kiss I am hoping to get from Cole—soon.
Chapter Eleven
When I open the door of the stained glass shop the next morning, squares of blue, purple, and green light shine across the linoleum floor. By noon the colors on the floor will fade, and in the afternoon fluorescent lights will illuminate the store as the sun moves to the back of the building where there are no windows—just the storeroom behind the purple curtain. The storeroom where the contest entries wait. If I want to enter the glass girl I’ve been working on the last two days, I’d better start thinking about how to make her shine. Right now she still looks like something an amateur would make, with her thick soldered lines and dirty glass.
“Hot today.” Opal sets the wood tray with the soldered glass pieces on the table. Wiping her forehead, she pushes aside a strand of gray hair.
I agree. Today seems like summer on the Island, and for the first time I’m not freezing in my black halter top and sandals. In fact, it’s perfect weather for swimming with the orcas.
; And Cole.
I double-check the black ties of my bikini top underneath my halter top. I can’t wait to go swimming with the orcas. Cole called last night to tell me that we could go out today. He told me, proudly, that he’d just passed his Washington State Boating Safety License, and so he was allowed to take me out in the boat—all by himself. I was glad to hear he’d passed the safety test, but I really liked the part about us being by ourselves. I’d wondered if we were going to have to share the boat ride with Opal or Uncle Jasper.
I shiver as I think about Cole. If I’m lucky, Cole will kiss me in the boat. No, not if. I will be lucky, and Cole will kiss me in the boat. Orcas will jump through the water while the ferry glides by on its way to Anacortes. I can feel the sun shining on us as Cole’s warm lips meet mine. I shiver again. Delicious.
Opal points at my swim bag and pulls me out of my imaginary kiss. “Place it under the counter.” She hands me a soft white cloth and bottle of glass cleaning solution. “Then clean off your piece. The cleaning will bring the shine up in the glass.”
And fill out my contest form, I remind myself. Today is the last day to enter into the contest. For the last two days, I’ve watched as people brought in glass panels, glass bowls, and even glass float balls. As each new entry was brought into the shop, I felt more and more like an outsider. How was my stained glass girl ever going to compete with these masterpieces?
My stomach grumbles. Uncle Jasper didn’t have anything for breakfast besides coffee. I told him not to worry, that I could grab a croissant or muffin top from the coffee shop two doors down from the stained glass shop. But I’m not sure I could eat anything anyway. My stomach feels like it’s knotted too tight.
“Muffins in the backroom,” Opal says. “Help yourself.” She pats her stomach and makes large circular motions.
I laugh at her mimicking my growling stomach. “Thanks.” I pick up the glass girl, soft white cloth, and bottle of cleaning solution. The bottle slips through my fingers and thumps to the floor. I try to tell myself that everything will be okay.
“I don’t really like contests.” Opal slips her hands into her blue jeans pockets. She gazes toward the backroom. “All those entries to judge. It makes me tired.”
“But it’s your contest,” I say, amazed at Opal. I’d love contests—if I were the judge and not the entrant.
“It’s too much pressure. Especially this contest.” Her blue eyes meet mine, and the light in the center sparkles.
“Pressure,” I say, and nod.
I know about contests and pressure.
The bathroom door crashes against the wall as I spray cleaning solution on the glass and wipe it with the soft towel. “You didn’t wait for me!” Sammy holds her hands on her hips and glares at me.
“Yes, I did.” I dry my hands on the green bathroom towel and try to think fast. She’s right. I didn’t wait for her. But there aren’t rules that say I have to wait for Sammy to be in the shop before I begin my work. Now I have to come up with an answer that won’t send her screaming out of the store and back to the worktable, where she’ll kick her legs and thump all morning. Quickly I say, “I waited for you to enter the contest.”
Sammy’s pout slowly changes, and I can’t help but smile at her. Denim overall straps hang over a green t-shirt with white lettering. I can’t read the t-shirt, but I’m glad to see that if the overalls rarely change, at least the t-shirt under them does. Sammy rubs her eyes. Seeing her green shirt has a tiny spot of toothpaste in the center, I slip a terry cloth towel off a rack and run it under water. I dab the edges of Sammy’s shirt, and the toothpaste spot turns into a wet spot. A large wet spot.
Sammy jerks away. “You made a spot!”
“I’m cleaning you,” I say. “Like the stained glass.” I replace the towel in the rack, flick off the bathroom light. I turn Sammy toward the shop.
Sammy giggles. “Race!” She dashes ahead of me to the front of the store and yanks a half sheet of manila paper from a bin.
“No fair.” I catch up to her at the front counter. “You cheated!” I reach around her to grab a contest application, and Sammy slaps my hand.
“I got it.” She waves the piece of paper in the air. She grabs a pen from a plastic cup by the register, and the pens tumble to the ground.
I search the shop for Opal as Sammy bends over my application form and presses the pen to the paper. Is it against the rules for someone else to fill out the entry form? Especially if that someone else is only five years old?
When my eyes meet Opal, she nods at me. “It’s okay.”
“J. A.” Sammy stops printing. “How do you spell Jasmine?” She moves her tongue over her lips.
“J-A-S-M-I-N-E,” I say slowly. At the speed Sammy is moving, it will take all day to fill out the form. I peek over her shoulder and see spaces for my address, phone number, and a brief description of the glass item.
“Let me do it.” I reach for the form. Time is ticking, and it’s only a matter of minutes before Cole shows up to take me on the boat. My stomach flutters with delicious butterflies again.
Sammy hunches over the counter and yanks the entry form away from me. “No. I’m doing it.” She bites her lower lip. “What’s your address?”
“Hurry up,” I say. “I’m going swimming with the orcas.”
Sammy drops the pen. “I want to swim, too. I like to swim.”
Frustrated, I stare at her. I like Sammy and I don’t want to hurt her, but there are places where she is not going. One is my date with Cole. I pick up the pen and jot down Uncle Jasper’s address.
Beside me, Sammy hops up and down. “Can I go, Aunt Opal?” she asks.
No. I shake my head and clutch the pen harder. No. No. No.
I repeat my mantra of silent no’s and finish the application as the store bell dings. “What’s going on?” Cole asks.
I drop my pen on the counter and turn slowly around to see Cole, who takes my breath away in his khaki shorts, which show his long, tanned legs and a blue t-shirt that matches his eyes. He looks fabulous.
“We’re going swimming!” Sammy jumps up and down. “Swimming.”
Cole ruffles Sammy’s hair. “I don’t know about swimming,” he says. “We’re going to see the orcas.”
“But she said.” Sammy looks from Cole to me. Her eyes are wide and she looks at each of us as if we are under her microscope. Sammy knows one of us is lying, and she’s going to figure it out.
“Not today,” Opal says. “Cole is taking Jasmine.”
Relieved, I pick up the glass girl and contest form. Five-year-olds don’t win everything.
My cell phone beeps from under the counter, and I jump. My cell phone! Ringing! I drop the contest form and pen, and fumble through my swim bag. I can’t answer the phone fast enough. “Hello? Dad!” I knew it! Perfect timing! He’ll wish me luck for the contest and apologize for the contest that he missed in Chicago.
The cell phone hums in my ear, but there is no voice. “Dad?” I yank the cell phone away from my ear and read the screen. “Private caller.” It has to be Dad! “Hello?” I shout. Maybe phone calls from Africa take a while to travel through a line. There will be a brief pause, and then I’ll hear his voice on the other end. “Jasmine,” he’ll say. “How’s my girl?”
“Hello, hello?” I shake the phone, but there is only silence. I know he’ll call back. It will only be a matter of minutes before the phone rings again, and I’ll hear Dad say, “Sorry, just had a bad connection there.”
“Jasmine?” Opal says.
I flip around. Sammy, Cole, and Opal all stare at me. It is as if I’ve suddenly been transformed into someone they don’t know. Someone I’m not even sure I know.
“What?” I shrug my shoulders like it’s no big deal that I was just screaming into the phone. “Where does this go?” I shake my glass girl and application in the air. I expect to hear my phone ring again at any second.
“In the back.” Opal raises an eyebrow at me. “Remember?”
> “Right!” I try to pretend that I haven’t just forgotten everything in the hope that Dad is finally calling me. And just as I regain my senses, my phone beeps. A message! Dad left a message! I’ll listen and then we can all laugh about how excited I am over a silly phone call.
I log into my voicemail. “This is Chicago Bell. This is a reminder that the system will shut down for two hours on Saturday evening for routine line maintenance.”
I can’t stand it anymore. I hurl the cell phone onto the counter. It misses and hits the floor with a loud thud.
Before I can decide whether to feel embarrassed, ashamed, or a little bit of both, Cole steps behind me and picks up the phone. He holds it gently in his hands before turning it over and checking the screen.
“It’s dead,” I say. Just like the way I feel inside.
“It can be fixed.” Cole sets the phone on the counter. He gazes at me, and I want to hide under the counter. I acted like a five-year-old, and I don’t know how to explain the feelings that are hurting me. Instead, I motion toward the back storeroom and pick up the glass girl. “Contest,” I mutter.
I stumble to the backroom. I know Cole is regretting his decision to show the new girl the orcas. I’m not interesting or fascinating. I’m a mess.
I bike ride slowly behind Cole, following him to the marina. I want to turn around and pedal home, but home isn’t Uncle Jasper’s house, and Chicago doesn’t feel like home either. I bite back large sobs. I’m afraid if I open my mouth I might start bawling. Cole slips off his bike and walks it down a small ramp to a bike rack. I follow him and leave my bike next to his.
He looks at me like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what. I turn away from him so he doesn’t have to try to make conversation.
Cole walks down to a motorboat parked in a slip at the edge of the ramp. He hops into the boat, and I jump in behind him, thinking it will be easy. The boat swings under my feet and I grab for the slick, vinyl sides while trying to pretend that I’m used to getting into boats. The truth is, I’ve only been out on a big fancy boat once, on Lake Michigan. The boat was a special trip with Dad’s Art Institute faculty. I ate tiny appetizers and drank soda from little cups while everyone congratulated Dad for his latest art award.
Stained Glass Summer Page 10
