“Oh, no…” He reaches out, touches her. She’s looking shocked and hurt and mad all at once, and he can’t tell if any of it is serious. “Really…not anymore.”
She lets herself be persuaded. And now she straightens her spine and puts on a sniffy air. “Well, I for one did not fantasize anything. I stuck real crayons up my real nose.”
He loves it. “Impressive.”
“And out of my ears! And guess how old I was.”
“Three.”
“Ten!”
They crack up, wobble, stagger until, blind with laughter, they bonk foreheads.
He’s always been content to watch others be silly, mindless, childish. He never knew it feels so good. It occurs to him to tell her his mother’s early definition of boys versus girls, then decides to hold it for next time. Next time. He already knows that sleep tonight will have to contend with laying out plans for next time.
“When I was three, I used to sing ‘I’m a Little Teapot.’ ”
She stops, backs off. She bends her body into a pouring teapot. “This too? The whole thing?”
He pours himself. “The whole thing. I used to do it every week.”
“Did you have an audience?”
“Guaranteed,” he says. “I live in a place for writers. They stay in cabins. They eat in my house.”
“I know,” she says. She’s grinning.
“I could show you. It’s out in the boondocks. I practically live in the woods.”
“I love boondocks,” she says.
“I walk in the woods. I let daddy longlegs crawl on me. I could show you salamanders. Did you know frying pans used to be called salamanders? I can make root beer from sassafras!”
He’s not sure if he’s impressed her speechless or if she’s simply content to listen. In any case, she’s still grinning and nodding with every revelation. What’s the world coming to? Worm: Mr. Talky.
“Guess who I met a couple weeks ago?”
“Who?”
“Daisy Chimes.”
That stops her cold. She boggles. “No way.”
“Way,” he says. “Ever read Wendy Wins?”
She screeches. “Is Bijou beautiful?” Sends him a doubtful look. “You read it.”
“Will. Soon as I get it,” he says.
He wishes he could show her Becca’s signed copy.
“I have a cool hat. I think you’d like…”
And here it is. They’ve walked and talked right up to it. The empty lot at the corner of Swede and Birch. Weedy, scruffy, ugly even in the barely diluted darkness of a distant streetlight. It’s perfect.
He takes her by the hand and leads her into the middle of the lot. A bottle goes skittering, now a can. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t ask what’s going on. Since he first had the idea, he’s assumed he will introduce it, frame it, tell her the story. And now: No. Say nothing. Leave it to her.
And already she is running to the center of the lot, twirling, hands to the sky, shouting: “Fireflies!” She turns to him, arms, it seems, welcoming the world. “I’ve never seen so many.”
And she runs to him, gracelessly plunges into him, has to steady him from falling. The delight, the wonder in her eyes, is something he’s seen in only one other. “You said.”
“What?” he says.
“There’s a better show.”
Yeah, he did, didn’t he?
They wander hand in hand, wordlessly, through the dancing fireflies, Becca’s fallen stars.
The old question comes, just barges through the magic and into his head. He knows this is the absolute worst possible time to ask.
And maybe the best.
With a prayer that he’s not about to blow the whole thing, he says, “Can I ask you a question?”
She’s been doing a skip step, like a little girl. Now she stops, plants herself in front of him, grins. “Took you a while.”
He’s baffled. “Huh?”
“Why did I say it, right? Tell you to get a life?”
Is she a mind reader? Are all girls? “Well…yeah.”
“Well, no,” she says, backing off. “Not until you tell me something.”
A curveball. “Like what?” he says.
“Like…” In first grade he might have called the grin on her face naughty. “Something personal. Say something personal to me.” She twirls once. “Take your time,” and whirls off among the fireflies.
Is this a critical moment? Worm’s not sure. He figures he better play it safe, embarrassing or not. Suddenly he finds her carefree romp annoying. “Are you gonna frolic or are you gonna listen?”
She stops abruptly, cups her ears with her hands (which he also finds annoying). He takes a deep breath. “I sweat easy. So I have Right Guard in my backpack.”
His watch is buried in the woods, so he can’t be sure, but he guesses it takes at least five minutes for her to stop laughing. When she does, it takes another minute or two to catch her breath and regain her balance. She steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder. “Oh man…oh man…” She looks at him, touches his face as if to confirm he’s real. “I guess that sorta answers another question too. Deodorant in your backpack? I’d say you’re ready for girls.”
He’s never thought of it that way. Becca…Monica…they seem to know him better than he knows himself. For sure he’s learning one thing: making a girl laugh beats a winning game at Nuke ’Em ALL Now! any day. And girls—well, sure, they cry, but they’re also really, really good at being happy.
She raps lightly on his forehead with her knuckle. “The unknowable Mr. Tarnauer. Keeper of all thoughts.”
“So my question, please.”
She claps her hands. “Ah yes—the question. The question that’s been tormenting you forever.”
How does she know that?
She puts a hand on each of his shoulders and pushes herself to her tiptoes and brings her mouth to his ear. He feels the tiny puff of each whispered word: “I got your attention, didn’t I?”
The logic of it escapes him. Where’s a girl ghost to consult when you need one? He’ll work on it later. Meanwhile, he’s not done. “Then you didn’t talk to me for over a year. Didn’t even look at me.”
She stands down, takes a step back, looks surprised in a pleased sort of way. “You noticed? You cared?”
He feels himself maturing by the minute. New wisdom: one must be careful when talking to girls. He shrugs. How to put it? “It bothered me.”
A big smile from her. Good answer.
She pokes him in the chest. “Well, here’s some breaking news, you big dummy. There’s one thing you were wrong about. I never let you see it, but believe me, you were being looked at.”
And a year of annoyance and flusterment vanishes.
“And every time I didn’t talk to you or didn’t look at you, you noticed. Didn’t you, Robbie Tarnauer?”
She’ll call you Robbie.
“Well, yeah, but not in a good way. I mean, it made me not like you.”
He’s not sure how it happened, but he notices they are now very close to each other, all four hands holding, her face tilted up. She grins. “Really? You want to rephrase that?”
He understands he doesn’t have to answer. He feels like he’s been performing for her amusement.
Her hands have left his. They’re on his chest now. A kiss is coming. He’s known it for a while. But he’s cool. He had a good teacher. But no hurry. He’s discovering that talk—talk—can be a kiss of its own.
“I don’t even know why I stood up. The guys told me to get down.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I stayed up and walked till I came to you girls.”
“So brave.” She taps the tip of his nose with her finger. “In front of all those people.”
“I
didn’t know what I was doing there.”
“I did.”
“I thought I was gonna say Claire Meeson.”
“I didn’t.”
“I said you.”
“You said me.”
“I don’t even know why.”
Her whisper is conspiratorial: “I do.”
Becca, you’d love this girl.
Her hands have moved up now. They’re fearlessly cupping his cheeks, like it’s just another normal face. “Robbie, Robbie, Robbie…,” she says, the breath-puffs of her words pre-kissing his lips, “where have you been?”
Thank You
When this writer needed help, there was little waiting for answers from Joan Biondi, Marisa DiNovis, Mike Donnelly, Molly Gentilini, Teresa Hoover, Angel James, Kathy James, Lana James, Leah James, Sean James, Bill Johnson, Ben Spinelli, Lonnie Stebbins, and Jean Szegedy.
Special tribute to the unsung heroes of publishing: copy editors. My hawkeyes were Erica Stahler, Lisa Leventer, Amy Schroeder, Artie Bennett, and Alison Kolani.
Most thankfully—and regretfully—my deepest appreciation to the teacher whose name and letter I’ve lost; she planted the seed.
And to the two wonder women who simply made this book better: my editor, Nancy Siscoe, who came to the parade, and my wife, Eileen.
About the Author
JERRY SPINELLI is the author of many beloved novels for young readers, including Stargirl; Love, Stargirl; Milkweed; The Warden's Daughter; Crash; Wringer; and Maniac Magee, winner of the Newbery Medal; along with Knots in My Yo-Yo String, the autobiography of his childhood.
A graduate of Gettysburg College, he lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, poet and author Eileen Spinelli.
jerryspinelliauthor.com
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Dead Wednesday Page 13
