My Girl

by Patricia Hermes

  I went upstairs to my room and sat on my bed. Another whole day with Gramoo not speaking. Another whole day and I was no closer than before to getting that money—the money I needed to be with Mr. Bixler.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Next morning I was out on the porch jumping rope with Thomas J, still thinking about the money. I had no idea where to get it, and class was starting in just two days.

  I had one end of the rope tied to the porch swing, and I was turning the other end.

  Thomas J was jumping, at the same time telling me about this great giant slug he had found that morning.

  "It was as big as my hand!" he said, panting.

  "Yuck!" I said. "How can you stand crawly things like that?"

  "They don't crawl," Thomas J said. He was breathing really hard, a little whistling noise coming out with each breath. "They slither."

  Thomas J isn't supposed to jump rope. It's bad for his asthma, but he does it anyway.

  "Gross!" I said.

  "Not gross. They're nice," Thomas J wheezed. "I'm up to sixty!"

  I wanted him to stop, but I didn't dare tell him. He gets really mad if he thinks I'm trying to take care of him.

  I think one reason we're friends is that I don't act like he's a frail little baby, like everybody else does.

  But I couldn't let him wheeze like that.

  "Hey!" I said. "There's Shelly."

  She had just pulled up in her camper.

  "Let's ask her if we can look around inside her camper. Want to?"

  "No. I want to jump."

  But his face was deep red, almost purple.

  "Come on," I said. "Let's do it." I dropped my end of the rope.

  Thomas J tripped. "Hey!" he yelled. "What'd you do that for?"

  "l didn't do anything," I said. "Come on."

  Thomas J got up, pushed his glasses firmly back on his nose, and followed me to the camper.

  We waited on the curb while Shelly parked it.

  As she opened the door to get out, I said, "Can we look around inside your camper?"

  She looked at her watch. "Sure," she said. "I have time. Come on in. I'll give you the royal tour."

  Thomas J went up the steps first, and I followed him. I could still hear the little whistles in his breath, but not as loud.

  Shelly followed me in.

  There were ropes made of brown and green beads hanging between the driver's part and the back part. Thomas J pushed them aside and we went in.

  Wow! Neat. There was a tiny couch, kind of cream-colored, and a white wooden table with a matching bench and some wall cabinets and a stove and a tiny refrigerator. There was a little red and white striped rug on the floor, and white curtains with daisies on them on the windows. There was a cookie jar shaped like a dog on the table, and one red plastic rose in a vase on a plastic lace doily. On the wall over the table was a little brown wooden cuckoo clock and a shelf of books. There were even tiny towels on the tiny sink.

  I loved it! It was just like a regular house, only very little and on wheels.

  "Where's your bed?" I asked.

  Shelly pointed to the couch that ran along one side near the back.

  "It folds up," she said.

  "Wow, cool!" I said. "Really cool. I wish I had one like this."

  "Can you really eat and sleep here?" Thomas J said.

  "Yep," Shelly answered. "Can and do."

  Thomas J jumped behind the steering wheel then, clutching it tightly, making noises like he was pretending to be driving. "I'm driving us to Liverpool," he said.

  "Liverpool?" Shelly asked.

  "Yeah," I said softly. "He's a big Ringo fan."

  "Oh," Shelly said. "Would you guys like something? A soda?"

  "I would!" I said.

  Thomas J was still making driving noises and hadn't heard her.

  "Thomas J?" Shelly repeated, louder. "A soda?"

  "Yes, please," Thomas J said.

  Shelly opened the tiny refrigerator and took out two sodas and put them on the table.

  Thomas J stopped driving and came and sat across from me. He wasn't so red, and—at least from across the table—I couldn't hear his breath whistling anymore.

  "Isn't this great?" he said. "Don't you wish you had one?"

  I nodded. I did. I'd love to drive away somewhere in this.

  Shelly got out some ice cube trays and shook out the cubes.

  "Hey!" Thomas J said, poking at his glasses. "Look at how small those ice cubes are."

  But I was looking at a book I'd taken off the shelf. It was a love story, with a picture of a man and a woman on the cover, looking deep into each other's eyes.

  Wow. The guy was good-looking, too, even better-looking than Uncle Phil. And the way he was looking at the woman . . . I didn't think anyone would ever look at me like that. Not that I wanted them to or anything.

  Shelly came back with the ice in some glasses, poured the sodas, and then gave them to us. "I don't think you should be looking at that," she said to me, nodding at the book. "It's a little too old for you."

  I put it down, shrugging, and picked up my soda.

  Too old? What'd she think I was—a baby?

  Shelly put the book on the shelf with the other books. I could see that they were all the same kind of story—all romance novels, all the same pink cover with a man and a woman looking at each other.

  "Did you read all those books?" I asked.

  She nodded.

  "What are they about? Romance and stuff?"

  "Not 'stuff,' " she said, laughing. And then she said, "Love." She said it soft, dreamy-like.

  "Oh, gross," Thomas J said.

  "Oh, I don't know," Shelly said. "They're just fun to read."

  "Are you married?" I asked her.

  "No, I'm divorced."

  "Daddy says it's bad when people get divorced," I said.

  Shelly sighed. "It is. But sometimes married people find out they just can't live together."

  "Megan's parents are divorced," Thomas J said.

  Shelly turned away and started patting the books into a neat row.

  Thomas J reached over then and lifted the lid of the cookie jar—the dog's head part. "Is it all right if I have a cookie, he asked. And then he said, "Hey, where are the cookies?"

  Because when he brought his hand out, instead of cookies, he had a handful of dollar bills.

  Shelly turned around. "Oops!" She made a face. "You found my special hiding place. My savings."

  "What are you saving for?" Thomas J said, dropping the money back in.

  "Nothing special," Shelly said. "Just putting it away for a rainy day."

  Why do grown-ups say such dumb things? What's a "rainy day," anyway?

  Suddenly, right over Thomas J's head, a cuckoo bird jumped out of the clock. It shouted "Cuckoo!" once, then disappeared back inside its little house.

  It scared the wits out of me. And out of Thomas J, too.

  He jumped up and poked at his glasses. "Uh-oh," he said. "I was supposed to be home for lunch. Thanks, Shelly. See you, Vada."

  And he left, tripping on the little rug on his way out.

  Shelly stood up, straightened the rug with her foot, then took Thomas J's glass to the sink. "Well, Miss Vada," she said. "What do you say we go back over?"

  I stood up slowly. Very slowly. An idea was forming—a terrible idea. "Can I use your bathroom first?" I said.

  Shelly laughed. "Everyone wants to use the tiny bathroom."

  "Yeah," I said. I laughed, too. And hoped it sounded real. My mouth felt frozen stiff.

  "Well," I said. "But listen, you don't have to wait. Daddy'll be mad if you're late, anyway."

  She looked at her watch. "You're right," she said. "Just slam the door when you come out, okay?"

  "Okay," I said.

  She pushed aside the beads at the front and went out.

  After she left, I watched her from the window. She walked funny, sort of wiggling as she went, her rear end swaying.

&nbs
p; As soon as I saw her go up the walk and inside the house, I turned and went back to the table.

  My heart was pounding like mad. But nobody would ever know. And I would pay her back. Somehow. I'd work or I'd baby-sit. And I'd give up all my allowance till the end of summer. So it wasn't really stealing.

  But I'd never stolen anything—taken anything in my life. Well, that's not true—I did, once. I remember once in the supermarket, I ate a whole bag of M&M's while Gramoo was talking to Mrs. Sennet. And then I stuffed the empty bag behind the bread. But I was only five when I did that. Now . . .

  I put a hand on my throat. My throat was suddenly so dried up. And the lump . . . I swallowed hard.

  But I would give the money back.

  Then I reached in the jar and took out a handful of bills.

  I counted them quickly, not wanting to take any more than I needed.

  I got thirty-five dollars—three tens, five ones—then stuffed the rest back in the jar. The jar still felt heavy and looked pretty full. But I fluffed the rest of the money up so it looked even more full.

  She'd never know. And it really wasn't stealing, not if I was going to give it back.

  For some reason then something came to my head—a clear picture of something that happened in second grade. My class went swimming at the Y, and I found a hair ball in one of the showers and I don't know why, but I ate it. But I do know that it tasted better than the castor oil that Mrs. Baublitz made me drink afterward.

  Weird, to remember that just now. But nobody would make me drink castor oil, or do anything like that. This wasn't anything bad like eating hair balls. This was just borrowing money.

  Borrowing it.

  CHAPTER IX

  On Thursday I waited till right before it was time for the class to start. Then I raced to the community college and signed up and paid for the course—thirty-five dollars. For a terrible minute I thought the lady at the desk was going to ask where I got so much money. Like Daddy had said, it was a lot of money for a kid.

  But she hardly even looked at me. All she said was "Room one forty-two. Around the corner on your right."

  And she gave me a little card that said I was allowed to go to class, and a name tag.

  I wrote my name on the tag and stuck it on my shirt. Then I went down the hall and around the corner to room 142.

  It was a big room with lots of windows and a door that led outside to a courtyard with trees.

  There were a lot of people standing around just inside the door. Mr. Bixler was at the desk in front, doing something with some papers. He didn't see me come in.

  He wasn't wearing his regular school clothes, a tie and jacket, like he wears in our school. Instead, he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, sort of like what he was wearing painting the other day. I wondered if there were different rules for grown-up school and kids' school.

  I also wondered if he'd gotten his pet.

  I went in and slid into a seat. Mr. Bixler still hadn't noticed me.

  I looked at the men and women there. Some of them were weird-looking, and all of them were old. There wasn't anyone even near my age. Also, there wasn't any woman who was extra pretty who Mr. Bixler might like, although there was one who was sort of pretty. Her name tag said Ronda, and she had long black hair and was wearing a long skirt and a tight shirt with a belt around the waist, and boots. Boots! In the middle of the summer. She seemed to be with this scuzzy-looking guy named Justin with a beard and some beads around his neck, the kind of beads like girls wear. Wow! Were they Ronda's beads? Anyway, if Ronda was with him, I was pretty sure she wouldn't be after Mr. Bixler.

  They were talking to two men—one with a name tag that said Charles and one named Ray.

  Charles was super-thin with a pointy nose, pointy chin, and points even on his wrists and elbows. He was wearing real skinny silver-rimmed glasses, not the chunky, beat-up kind like Thomas J wears. He looked like an accountant.

  Ray was short and chubby, with a nice face that made him look a little bit like Santa Claus without the beard. But his fingernails and knuckles were dirty. I bet he worked in a garage or something.

  At a desk near me there was a lady named Betty—a mother, you could tell that. She looked tired. And next to Betty was Mrs. Hunsacker! Mrs. Hunsacker? She's our town librarian, and she's at least a hundred years old. Why was she taking a course about poetry?

  There was a bunch of other people, too, but they were in the back and I couldn't see their name tags from here. I wondered why so many came to take a course in the middle of the summer. I also tried to figure out how much Mr. Bixler got paid for this.

  I was so excited to be here—with him, yet not in regular school. I wondered if he'd be happy to see me, his prize pupil.

  I even had a poem ready, just in case.

  Did the thirty-five dollars go right to him? Or did it go to the college and they paid him?

  Either way, it couldn't be a lot of money.

  And thinking about the money made me feel nervous again. But I would pay Shelly back.

  In a minute Mr. Bixler asked everyone to sit down.

  He said it in his usual nice way, just the way he talks to kids in class. That's what's good about him—he talks to kids just like they're grown-ups and to grown-ups like they're kids, everybody all the same.

  When everyone was seated and quiet, Mr. Bixler began reading from a paper in his hand.

  " 'The great way is not difficult for those who have no preferences,' " he read in this soft, low voice.

  " 'When love and hate are both absent, everything becomes clear and undisguised.' "

  He put the paper down and looked over the class, a very solemn kind of look. "What do you think the poet is trying to tell us here?"

  Blank stares from everyone.

  Wow! Grown-ups are just like kids in class.

  I raised my hand.

  And Mr. Bixler almost fell over backwards.

  "Vada?" he said. "Vada Sultenfuss? What are you doing here?"

  "Taking a writing course," I said. "I paid my money. And the poet means that if you don't care about anybody no problem. The big problem is only when you do care."

  He just stared at me.

  "I want to be a writer," I said.

  "But this is an adult poetry class," he said.

  I felt like saying, "Well, I'm an adult poet." But of course I didn't. I didn't want him to throw me out. Could he do that—if this was just for grown-up poets?

  "Hey!" Justin said, jiggling his beads like he wanted to be sure everyone noticed them—or him. "I think it's real beautiful. She wants to write poetry."

  "More power to you," Ronda said, smiling at me. She really had a pretty smile.

  Mr. Bixler was just staring at me. "But . . . you're sure you want to do this?" he asked.

  I nodded.

  And I wished he'd stop making such a scene about it! Didn't he think kids could write poetry, too?

  "All right, then, if you're sure," Mr. Bixler said. "Welcome to the class."

  Gee. Some welcome for his prize pupil.

  "Well, then," Mr. Bixler said, finally not looking at me but looking around at the class. "Well, then, in this class we'll be exploring feelings, the feelings of published authors and poets such as the one I just read, as well as your own feelings expressed in poetry. I would like you, when you write, to express not only experiences but most of all, your feelings. And what I read earlier is a reminder that the absence of judgement helps us appreciate reality. Listen to your classmate's writing with an open heart. Now, who wants to go first?"

  Betty spoke up. "I wrote a poem, but my son spilled tomato rice soup on it."

  Charles muttered, "Yeah. Right."

  "Well, it's true!" Betty said, and her face got all red.

  Ray raised his hand. "I got one!" he said, and he stood up and began reading. "I sang a song for you to hear, I painted a picture for you to see, I picked a rose for you to smell, I planted grass for you to touch. But you did not hear my song. You did
not see my picture. You did not smell my rose. You did not touch my grass."

  Old Mrs. Hunsacker spoke up. "Maybe she was out of town," she said.

  Who was out of town? I wondered.

  And for some reason that seemed to make Charles mad. "That's not funny," he said. "His poem is about futility. We toil in unrewarded obscurity."

  "Speak for yourself!" Mrs. Hunsacker said. "I own a split level."

  And what did that have to do with poetry? Gee, grown-ups are weird.

  Charles must have thought so too, because he said, "You're such a spud!"

  And Mr. Bixler said, "I hear judgment."

  Gee! And this was supposed to be a writing class.

  Ronda raised her hand. "I experienced something with my boyfriend the other day. And I wrote down a few words."

  Mr. Bixler smiled.

  "Good," he said. "The floor is all yours."

  He sat down, and Ronda stood up. She pulled her skirt down and smoothed it, then smoothed her shirt.

  She began to read, in a sweet, low, breathy voice, like people do in love scenes in the movies.

  Wow! It didn't matter what she wrote, if she could talk like that.

  She said, "He protects me like a blanket from the cold dark night. As I look into his eyes, I know it's right . . ."

  She went on and on.

  I looked around.

  Was she allowed to be saying this?

  But everyone was just nodding and smiling at her, and no one seemed embarrassed but me. Well, me and Mrs. Hunsacker. Mrs. Hunsacker's face and neck were very red. Even her ears were red.

  Ronda finally ended the poem saying, " 'I can't fight it. There's no point.' "

  I looked at Mrs. Hunsacker again.

  She was fanning herself.

  Then I looked at Mr. Bixler. I wondered if he was going to yell at Ronda.

  But he just smiled. "I'm glad you're willing to express yourself," he said. But his voice was kind of flat, and I couldn't tell at all what he was really thinking.

  A couple more people raised their hands and read, and Mr. Bixler talked some more.

  Finally I got up my courage and raised my hand. "Yes, Vada?"

  "I wrote a poem, too," I said.

  "I'm glad!" Mr. Bixler said. And he made a motion for me to stfind up, and he sat down.