“Oh, that’s not a problem. I always have some right here.” Patting his front pocket, Officer Weston continued, “I have a gap between my two front teeth. More like a crevice, really. It’s a magnet for popcorn.” He demonstrated the effectiveness of the toothpick.
“I am well aware of what a toothpick can do, Officer Weston. What I am trying to teach you—and the result Elizabeth hopes to achieve by having you take this class—is that we have evolved from ancient times when men stuck twigs in their mouths to dislodge bits of food. What we want to do is accomplish the task with a minimum of distraction.”
What better way to accomplish the task than with a toothpick?
“Putting foreign objects into your mouth is not considered polite,” Miss Melton-Mowry said. I was beginning to think she could read my mind!
“But it’s not foreign,” Officer Weston protested, reaching into his pocket for the box. “These Diamond toothpicks are made in the USA.”
Miss Melton-Mowry tweaked the creases of her blouse collar. “Let’s try Delton, shall we? Delton, if I’d looked at you that way and you suspected I was alerting you to something in your teeth, what would you do?”
“I’d excuse myself and go to the bathroom to check.”
“Exactly. There are two reasons for these subtle maneuvers, Officer Weston and Miss Corcoran. One, it is not conducive to the appetites of other diners to see someone mining their mouth for bits of food at the table. Two, it is a courtesy to the dining companion who may have food lodged in her teeth to draw as little attention to it as possible.”
“But what if you’re wrong and your food gets cold?” I wanted to know. “Cold food is not conducive to my appetite.”
Miss Melton-Mowry directed the intensity of her gaze at me. There was something to this staring stuff.
“In polite society, Officer Weston, couples often develop subtle cues that they give each other in situations such as these.”
“You mean like how Jim Leyland used sign language to tell Verlander to throw a slider?” Officer Weston proceeded to do a good imitation of the former Detroit Tigers’ manager calling pitches from the dugout.
“More subtle, Officer Weston. Remember subtlety.”
He moved from hand gestures to wiggling fingers.
“More like…a touch on the shoulder or a meaningful look.”
“Like this?” I put my hand on Miss Information’s shoulder, ducked my head and batted my eyelashes.
“Yes, more like that.”
“What were you conveying, Cass—Miss Corcoran?” Officer Weston wanted to know.
“I was suggesting she might like to excuse herself to the ladies’ room to see if she could find her missing head.”
—
That afternoon, I got on my bike and retraced my route all the way to Livvy’s house, timing my arrival to be the same as when I’d first seen her jumping head; I was hoping to get another sighting. Nothing. Quiet. No dog. No bouncing. There was a car in the driveway and a tricycle on the front walk, so I leaned my bike up against the mailbox, careful not to let the wheels smash any more flowers, went up to the front door and rang the bell.
A mom answered, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Hello,” she said.
“Hello there. I’m Cassidy Corcoran.” I held out my hand and shook hers, never mind it was still wet. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance.” It doesn’t hurt to make a good first impression on moms—especially moms whose houses smelled like they’d been baking with cinnamon. “I was wondering if Miss Olivia was at home.”
“Livvy? My Olivia? Are you sure you have the right address, dear? Livvy doesn’t…well, she doesn’t usually have friends with manners like yours.”
Was that a compliment? Or no? I waited for her to answer my question.
“Where are my manners? I’m Mrs. Dunn, Livvy’s mom.” Mrs. Dunn set down her dish towel and picked up an envelope and a piece of paper from the table in the hall. “Did you say Cassidy?”
I nodded.
“Livvy’s gone to summer camp already, Cassidy.”
“Oh. Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“At least eight weeks. That is, if all goes well.” Mrs. Dunn put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry you missed her. But…she left something for you.”
“For me? Are you sure?” I held out my hand for the envelope.
“I’m afraid you have to swear an oath first. Would you be willing to do that?”
“Pinky-swear? Spit-swear? If there’s blood involved, I might have to request a Band-Aid.”
“I’m sure raising your right hand would be sufficient.”
I raised my right hand while Mrs. Dunn squinted at the paper. “Her handwriting…” She turned again and picked up a pair of glasses from the hall table and read: “Do you, Cassidy sorry-I-forgot-your-last-name, promise to commit the Chipmunk Code to memory, to destroy the original, and to never divulge this key or any message created with it to anyone under the age of twenty-one, most specifically and especially any living boy? PS All animals and birds except talking parrots are okay.”
Mrs. Dunn looked up at me.
“I do.”
“Well, then. There you are.” At the exact moment she handed me the envelope, we heard a loud thudding noise on the stairway behind her. I stretched until I could see the three monster pirates sliding down the staircase on what looked like an upside-down bath mat.
“Man the controls, Captain! We’re going down!”
Mrs. Dunn threw her body in front of the door so they wouldn’t slide right outside. “Lovely to meet you, dear,” she said, and slammed the door.
There was no point in going right home. Nosy Magda was sure to smell a mystery, and since she was a living person, I couldn’t let her see the code. No. This was mine. I kept on riding to Riverside Park and found an empty swing set. Tearing open the envelope, I pumped my legs a few times and looked over what Livvy sent.
Cassidy, here’s my address. After you memorize the Chipmunk Code, which was created by me and my last best friend, Judy Hansen, you should write me a letter in code. It is deadly boring here when we’re not doing flips, so make it interesting and that’s an order!
Chipmunk Code
For every letter of the alphabet, the Chipmunk Code had a picture. A was a heart. B was a kite. C was a candy cane. So now I had to memorize this and write Livvy a letter? We never got to the point where I told her I don’t like memorizing or writing. Couldn’t I just steal Magda’s phone and text her? Pumping higher, I stuck the code in my back pocket, wondering if Livvy wanted me to be her new best friend. I liked the idea of being best friends with a girl who had a trampoline, but if I couldn’t use it all summer, what use was that?
I needed to think more about this, but swinging cross-legged and cross-armed is a life-threatening activity. Would falling out of a swing and breaking my neck be interesting enough for Livvy Dunn, I wondered. For someone I’d just met, she had a lot of requirements.
—
“Cassidy, may I borrow your hands after dinner?” Dad asked me as we were finishing our exciting dessert of yogurt and pineapple bits.
“Do they have to be connected to my body?”
“As a matter of fact, they do.”
“Borrow your hands” usually meant Dad had a “fix-it” project, and that meant he needed my help. He’s not good with tools, like Jack or his dad, and I can tell it really bothers him when Mom suggests we ask one of them for help, like she did last week when there was a leak under the kitchen sink.
The good news is, during Tigers season that meant Dad and I would go down to the basement and listen to the game on Granddad’s old transistor radio. I would have Dad all to myself—no Magda dissertations on mold!—for at least half an hour, and sometimes things even got fixed.
Tonight we carried the silverware drawer down to the basement. “Lucky you,” Dad said as he emptied the forks and spoons onto the counter. “You can practice setting the table while I work.”
“Maybe.” I pushed the pile away. “If we have time. Let’s fix something first.”
“Mom tells me these drawers aren’t gliding, but the wheels work okay…. ” Dad turned the drawer over and held it up to his eye, looking down the drawer glide like it was a telescope. He handed the drawer to me so he could tune in the ball game. It was the third inning.
“Tigers are down, two to one.” The crackling of the radio and the familiar voice of the announcer, Dan Dickerson, made the back of my neck prickle. Listening to the Tigers in the basement with my dad was like…I don’t know, like playing an epic game of freeze tag. It just felt right.
“I’ll take it back now.” Dad held out his hand for the drawer.
My fingers were covered in grease after running them along the glides. “Uck, what is this? Engine oil?”
“It’s not the first time Mom’s complained. I applied some WD-40 to them a few months ago.”
“I think that makes them stick worse, Dad.”
“Oil doesn’t make things sticky, Miss Cassidy. It makes things slippery.”
I patted Dad’s shoulder, trying to come up with a nice way to say it. “I can see how you would think that, but when you put oil on something exposed like these glides, it attracts dust and dirt and that’s what makes it stick worse.”
“Really?” Dad swiped along the glide and got a black stripe on his finger. He sniffed it—just like Magda always did!
“Turn up the volume, Dad. I think Avila just got on—”
“So you’re saying I made things worse?”
“What I’m saying is we can fix this. Hand me that bottle of Oil Eater, will you?”
Dad handed me the bottle and a clean rag. Then he sat in one of our lawn chairs so his ear was closer to the radio. “Two on and two out. Kinsler’s up.”
I started rubbing. “Dad, if I was sworn not to tell something to a boy, would that include you?”
“Though I am male, I am not technically a boy. So, depending on how much you needed to talk about it”—Dad stopped talking and looked at me—“I would say since I’m no longer a boy, it does not include me.”
So I told him about Livvy. How she was all of a sudden there…and then not there. How she seemed to want to be my new best friend…and how her code reminded me of hobo signs, but it wasn’t so easy to memorize, especially on top of all the stuff I had to learn about manners.
“Very interesting.” He handed me a new cloth in trade for the blackened one I gave him. “This young lady seems…mercurial.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that…her mood changes a lot. But then, she also sounds…adventurous. I can see why you’re drawn to her.”
“Donna Parker says I remind her of Livvy.”
“She does, does she?”
“I guess I’ll memorize the code. At least it makes more sense to me than etiquette class.”
“Only if you want to, Cass. This assignment is voluntary.”
“What I really want is for me and Jack to hang out like we used to…and to take him over to jump on the Dunns’ trampoline between one and two while the little monsters take their rest.”
“Come here.” Dad pulled me onto his lap. “Let’s listen to the game.”
If I worked my way to the side of the chair and put my head on Dad’s chest, I could still fit, with one ear listening to his heart and one listening to the game. Brian Corcoran didn’t have to prove he was a fan; his heartbeat took off for the races whenever Dickerson announced a hit: “It’s a fly ball right over Sizemore’s head…but no! Caught at the bleachers. Tough luck, Tigers!”
“How’s it going down there, you two?” Mom called down at the top of the fifth.
“Fine.” I jumped off Dad’s lap and he picked up the drawer.
“We’re cleaning the glides,” he called up.
“You must be doing a thorough job.” She waited for an answer, but when we didn’t give her one, she closed the door.
“Are we done, Cass?” Dad asked.
“Are you kidding? The game’s tied.”
Running his finger over the clean glides, Dad asked what more we could do that would last four innings.
“What we need is something to make them slippery…something that doesn’t attract dirt.”
“Uh…” We heard the crack of the bat. I’d lost Dad to the game again. “Darn. Caught in foul territory. Slippery, slippery…soap?”
“I said that doesn’t attract dirt, Dad. Try to focus, will you?”
“I’ve never been good at multitasking.”
“That’s okay. I have another idea. Keep your ear glued…. ” I went upstairs and asked Mom for some wax paper.
“I suppose this is a full nine-inning project,” she said, handing over the box. “You can tell your dad I enjoyed my quality time with the dinner dishes.”
“Sure.” Slamming the basement door, I ran back downstairs.
Mom opened it behind me. “I hope he’s at least quizzing you on place settings. You have to set the table in your next class.”
“Roger that.”
“Nothing’s changed,” Dad told me. “Still no outs.”
I tore off a sheet of wax paper and rubbed it along the clean glide.
“And what will this accomplish?”
“Just an idea I have.” I didn’t mention that it came from watching Mr. Taylor run a piece of wax paper over the teeth of his jacket zipper to get it unstuck.
We polished the glides for a while, then gave up and listened to the end of the game. Tigers eked out a three-to-two win.
But even sweeter was when we were back upstairs and Dad said, “Cassidy, you are a genius!” as I reinserted the drawer and it slid smoothly along the track. “Thank you, sweetie!”
After a big bear hug, he added, “Now to that other little chore…memorizing the place setting.”
“Ugh.” I stuck out my tongue and crossed my eyes. “What difference does it make where everything goes as long as you can reach what you need?”
“But you wouldn’t know whose is whose, would you? It makes it easier with rules.”
“That’s what all grown-ups say.”
“Think about baseball. Imagine if the players decided to run to home whenever they felt like it. It would be a free-for-all and no fun to watch. But when the batter runs to first base while the third baseman is stealing home…that creates a tension. Then we’re on the edge of our seats.”
“Etiquette creates tension, too…it gives me a tension headache.”
“In etiquette there are rules for different reasons. Let’s say you had a delicious meal set in front of you and you went to take a drink of water and the person on your right was drinking from your glass and the person on the left was drinking from his glass. How are you supposed to get any water?”
“Excuse yourself and go to the water fountain?”
“All right, then, say it was Cherry Coke.”
Dad was upping the ante. Mom doesn’t keep Cherry Coke in the house and we are only allowed to drink it when we go out to eat—which is about twice a year!
“Then I’d have to wrestle somebody.”
“And your fries would get cold.”
Dad had a point. I hate it when he has one of those.
“Okay, so teach me how to do this.”
“You need to make a mental diagram. When we reorganize the store and I have to memorize where we’ve put everything in the new layout, I try to match it with something I already know. Like…our backyard. I’ll tell myself, ‘Okay, produce is now along the Fensters’—excuse me, the Bensons’—hedge; dairy is by the back steps; sundries are in the fire pit…’ ”
“What are sundries?”
“Bottle openers, disposable lighters, that sort of thing. Let’s have a look at that place-setting diagram.” Dad grabbed the diagram off the fridge and stared at it. He put his hand on my head and massaged it, which is how my dad does some of his best thinking.
“It’s as plain as the nose on your fac
e, Miss Cassidy. Or should I say a plate. Home plate, to be exact. If I were imprisoned—pardon me, attending—etiquette school, I’d memorize the place setting on a baseball field. And I’d make this”—he grabbed a dish from the drainer—“home plate.”
“Jack! Wait up. There’s something I want to show you.” With all the etiquette classes I had to take and all the lawns he had to mow, I’d barely seen Jack all week. With our volunteer time at the Humane Society (Mom’s pathetic substitute for letting us get our own pet) and geocaching in Aman Park with Dad (who always has to practice Cache In Trash Out), here it was, Sunday night, and we hadn’t even talked about possible pranks for tomorrow’s picnic.
Now he was crossing our backyard with what looked like a big sausage in his arms. It’s not easy to hide a big sausage, especially one with a bow tied around it, but that’s what he tried to do as I ran to catch up with him.
“What’s that?”
Jack squished the package to make it smaller. “Nothing.”
“So…that’s air inside that paper?”
“You mean this?” He looked at the bundle in his arms like he’d never seen it before, like it was no big deal. “Oh…just some—”
I made a grab for it, but he was too quick for me. Still, I tore an edge and something flew out. We were losing light fast. I dropped to the ground to see.
“It’s not like I want to keep it,” I told him. “I just want to see what…flowers? You got flowers in there?” I held up a sad droopy flower.
“Since you have to know, I accidentally Weedwacked a bunch of Mrs. Delaney’s hydrangeas and she told me to get them out of her sight.”
“So you tied them up in butcher paper and were taking them to Bree?”
Jack grabbed the flower and tried to push it back inside with the others. It was hard work. Hydrangeas are big and floppy. “Mom did that for me. She said that’s how they come from the florist. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. You’re really…gone on her, aren’t you? Bree, I mean.”
Ignoring my question, Jack set the flowers on the ground and held out his hand. “Well, what have you got? You were going to show me something.”
Cassidy's Guide to Everyday Etiquette (and Obfuscation) Page 16
