“But…we’re not even close to downtown.”
“True, but the river is straight from here to downtown. Usually there are lots of boats out…I see a few…but the weatherman said the visibility was so poor tonight, it wouldn’t be worth watching from the river.”
The familiar whiz of an amazing firework about to explode made me look up; above my head, a thousand dancing sparklers lit up the sky.
“My dad has all kinds of gauges in the backyard; he’s a bit of an expert on barometric pressure. He said the fog would lift just in time.”
“I think your dad should get nominated for the Dad Hall of Fame, Delton. You can tell him I said that.”
“I promise to relay your message.”
“And now…let’s shut it and watch the fireworks.”
“Agreed.”
It is hard to lie back and get comfortable in a canoe; but when your boat is bobbing gently in the water and the world’s best kaleidoscope is exploding over your head, you don’t really mind how hard the seat is.
“Delton Maximilian Bean!” Mrs. Bean shouted from the dock as we paddled in. “You were not supposed to stay out for the fireworks. You don’t have your noise-canceling earbuds.”
“Sorry, Mom. Can’t hear you over the ringing in my ears.”
Mrs. Bean investigated Delton’s head like he’d just come back from the war, turning his face this way and that to make sure all the parts were in place.
“That was the best fireworks show ever, Mrs. Bean!” I said, laying on the enthusiasm. “I think your plan worked. Your son is now full of do-daring!”
Mrs. Bean held Delton at arm’s length, regarding him like maybe she wasn’t sure about this do-daring idea of hers. “Well,” she said, finally. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, dear.”
We drove home and, before I could make my getaway, Delton whispered, “Take this, Cassidy. You have to practice your breathing techniques before you look at even the smallest bug.”
“Roger,” I said, shoving the folded piece of paper into my back pocket. “Over and out. Oh…” I reached into the front seat and punched him in the arm…not too hard. “You’re all right, Delton. Thanks. And thank you, Mrs. Bean. Happy Independence Day.”
“With our big luncheon only a week away…” Miss Melton-Mowry flipped through her notebook with so much energy she tore a page.
“Tick, tick, tick.”
“That’s not helpful, Officer Weston. As I was saying last week, we’ll need to discuss what to wear. For men, business casual would normally be fine. That would be an open-collared shirt with a blazer; but, since we’re trying to impress, I’d like you to dress in business attire—that would be jacket and tie. For the ladies…”
I stopped scratching my mosquito bites. I hoped, on top of everything else, I wasn’t going to hear the five-letter word that always comes up around weddings, funerals and fifth-grade graduations.
“Cassidy will have to wear a dress, won’t she?” Delton said.
“No I won’t.”
“A dress is the correct attire for a summer luncheon, Miss Corcoran. I’m sure your mother will find something appropriate.”
“We can leave my mother out of this, Miss Melton-Mowry. I don’t wear dresses. I…I’m allergic.”
“Allergic?”
Officer Weston leaned closer and whispered in my ear, “Make this fly and I’ll buy you an ice cream sandwich.”
“It’s just that I get all itchy and twitchy when I put one on.” I stood up to demonstrate, doing a pose I learned in yoga that looks like you’re trying to scratch an itch between your shoulder blades. Since Miss Melton-Mowry didn’t seem impressed, I threw in a few zombie moves for good measure.
“Be that as it may, you’ll have to find a fabric that doesn’t irritate your skin. Need I remind you, Miss Corcoran, that you are participating in this event as restitution for damaging my property?”
I glanced over at Miss Information, whose head was still in her lap. I’m pretty sure Miss Melton-Mowry left it there to remind me even when she wasn’t reminding me.
“No. But how come they invented dresses, anyway? You wear one and you can’t climb on the monkey bars or swing on the swings unless you want everyone and their uncle to get a free show.”
“Jersey’s a good choice,” Delton said, risking a massive demerit to consult his phone under the table. “It’s a soft knit fabric and it moves with you, so it would be appropriate for your active lifestyle.”
“Give me that.” I tried to swipe Delton’s phone. “I want to look up ‘straitjacket.’ ”
“Mr. Bean! Put your phone away this instant. Miss Corcoran knows how important it is to live up to her agreement. I am sure—”
“If I don’t wear a dress, will I go to jail? Even though I’m a kid?”
“We lock kids up, too.” Officer Weston yawned and put his elbow on the table so he could prop up his head. He probably had to work a double shift to make up for all the time he spent in etiquette class. “C’mon, Cassidy. Let’s learn the rules of polite society. I’ve only got a couple of weeks to get reformed myself.”
“I will be very pleased to wear a dress to the country-club luncheon, Miss Melton-Mowry,” I said in my best robot zombie voice (though I did not stick my arms out).
“Thank you, Miss Corcoran. Let’s review the cutlery now, shall we?”
—
“I don’t know how a person is supposed to enjoy lunch when she’s all wrapped up like a Christmas present in bows and ribbons,” I said to Delton as we stood at the window waiting for our moms.
“From my observation, most girls seem to enjoy wearing dresses.”
“Well, you must be observing some very strange girls.”
“Cassidy, I was thinking…do you want to come over tonight? I’ve compiled an impressive list of insects that you—” Delton was interrupted by his mother coming through the front door and throwing her arms around him.
“Hello, Cassidy,” she said, after she’d kissed Delton’s head maybe four times. “How are you on this beautiful day?”
“Well, to be honest, I’ve been better, Mrs. Bean. I tried creating my own reality during etiquette class and making a power outage, but I couldn’t even get the lights to flicker.”
“Delton is enjoying class with you. What did you say about Cassidy the other night after the fireworks, Delton? Oh, I remember. You’re a real live wire.”
“A live wire would have worked, too. Usually they evacuate the entire area when there’s a downed power line. Or maybe a sewer backup.”
Mrs. Bean looked at her son. I could tell she was wondering what the polite-conversation response to a sewer backup was.
Despite all the etiquette mind-washing, I still had the touch.
“Say, Mrs. Bean, would you mind if I came over tonight so Delton and I could practice our, um, cutlery skills?”
“Of course not. In fact, if you like, you could come over for dinner and practice. We’ve been setting the table just like Miss Melton-Mowry does so Delton will be ready for your big luncheon.”
“Oh, that’s okay. We’re doing that at my house, too. Miss Information was supposed to have dinner with us tonight but she’s under the table.”
“Don’t you mean ‘under the weather’?”
“Right. Under the weather.”
Honestly. How did I get here? I mean, making polite conversation with Delton Bean’s mom? Asking to go over to his house? I told myself if Delton could teach me not to flip out when something squirmed or crawled in front of me, then I could run off on my own—no Jack required.
“It’s a deal, then,” I said, looking around for my own mom. Enough chitchat.
Time to go to the park.
“If my stomach wasn’t rumbling like Saturday afternoon at the River City Raceway,” I told Mom once we were in the car, “I would have you drop me off at the park.”
“I’m afraid we have another errand after lunch, Miss Cassidy. I just spoke with Miss Melton-Mowry about the lunche
on. It seems we’ll be needing a dress for you.”
“Ugh.” I curled up in the backseat. “Help me, I’m melting.” I was doing my best Wicked Witch of the West impression, but Mom didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror. I stayed a puddle for thirty seconds before I said, “Seriously, Mom?”
“Seriously.”
“The torture just goes on and on.”
“Let’s not worry about that now. What did you learn in etiquette class today?”
“I learned there really is such a thing as being bored to death.”
“But you’re not dead.”
“Not yet. Etiquette class is like arsenic poisoning. It takes time. I promise you, by the end of the summer, I’ll be pushing up daisies.”
—
“Look at that face.” Magda passed me a paper napkin, which I was required to fold and place next to my fork, now that we officially set the table at the Corcoran Estate. “You look like you ate a whole package of Warheads.”
“You’d wear this expression, too, dear sister, if Mom was making you shop for a dress.” I set down the butter knife, business side toward the plate, and the spoon next to that.
Mom smacked a peanut butter and jelly sandwich down on the table in front of me. “You wouldn’t have to shop for a new dress if you hadn’t wrecked your graduation dress.”
“How was I supposed to know all that lace wasn’t flame-retardant? FYI, serve from the left, Mom.”
Mom sat down and put her elbows on the table and her chin on her fists. “FYI, this isn’t exactly how I hoped to spend my summer afternoon, either.”
Instead of pointing out her many etiquette don’ts, I said, “I know. I’m sorry, Mom. Maybe we could cut off the parts I burned?”
“You’d look like Cinderella in the part of the story where she was being abused,” Magda chimed in. “Bad idea.”
Swiping my finger across my plate, I stuck a jelly-covered digit in my mouth. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s take a break from being miserable. Want to eat lunch on the roof with me, Mom?”
“Your finger is not a utensil, Miss Corcoran. And the roof isn’t…I know! We could all eat together outside on a picnic blanket. Remember when you girls were little and we used to lie under the oak tree while I read Anne of Green—”
“Sorry, Mom.” Magda pushed back from the table. “I’m conducting an experiment that needs constant surveillance. I say we let Cassidy commune with nature by herself.” Grabbing a handful of potato chips, she stuck one in her mouth before adding, “She needs time alone to set an intention to be civil while you’re shopping.”
“I can eat in the oak tree,” I offered.
“Fine, but no higher than the second floor. Oh, and I almost forgot. This arrived in the mail for you today.” Mom handed me an envelope covered in skulls and crossbones, except for the part with my name and address written on it.
Grabbing it out of my hand, Magda said, “This looks like hate mail. Maybe it needs to spend some time in my laboratory to ensure it doesn’t contain any suspicious substances.”
“It’s top-secret,” I said, trying to grab it back.
But Magda held it out of my reach. “Top-secret from the Door County Academy of Gymnastics?”
“It’s the kind of letter that should only be read in a tree.” Mom took the letter from Magda and handed it back to me. Then she put my sandwich in my lunch box and threw in a couple of extra cookies, maybe to show there were no hard feelings about her picnic idea.
With my lunch-box handle in my mouth and the letter in my back pocket, I climbed up our oak tree to the piece of plywood Jack and I had wedged into a spot where three big branches split off from the trunk. I was glad Magda and Mom had seen my supersecret letter from Livvy filled with the code no one but me could read because I’d spent hours memorizing it over the weekend. Well, it felt like hours. Maybe Magda would mention it to Bree, who would mention it to Jack, who would discover he wasn’t the only one in the world with secrets.
But first things first. I was starving.
Balancing the lunch box on the plank, I opened it, broke off half of a half of sandwich and crammed it into my mouth.
“Tree etiquette,” I said with my mouth more than full. “One, always eat with your mouth open and spray as many crumbs as possible. While mumbling. Two, if you wipe your mouth, do it with the back of your hand and then, if the food is good, three, lick it off. If not, swipe it on your shorts. Four, never, ever use a napkin. It will either blow away or you’ll drop it. Save a tree and use the tails of your shirt if you have to.”
Impressed with my new set of rules, I searched the ground for someone who might be eavesdropping. How do you know if you’re funny if there’s nobody to hear you? Even Bree wasn’t around.
I leaned back against a gnarly branch and slipped the letter out of my pocket. I also pulled out the piece of paper Delton had given me in class; that one could wait.
Careful not to tear any of the great pirate art, I used my fingernail under the flap and worked to get the letter open—mostly—without tearing. This was going to be great—for once, I’d done my homework. Only three people in the world—me, Livvy and Judy Hansen, whoever she was—could read it.
Only, I couldn’t read it. I stared at the letter for a full minute. It was written in code all right, but it wasn’t the code I’d memorized! Instead of moons and lightbulbs and candy canes, there were angles and squares and dots. It was a different code! I crumpled up the letter and stuffed it into my lunch box. Did she have so many friends and codes that Livvy Dunn couldn’t keep them straight?
Of course, I couldn’t cross my arms and legs in the tree, so I just sat there fuming. What was the matter with that girl? To calm down I tried chanting om; I even looked cross-eyed at a cardinal that had the great misfortune to land near me in case that would help. Instead, I ended up throwing one of my cookies at it.
If I climbed down now, I risked taking my anger out on another human being, which meant I’d be grounded for life for assault—probably on my older sister.
There was nothing to do but read the note of instructions Delton had given me—written in plain English.
“Cassidy, I copied this off the Internet. Read it through at least a few times before you try imagining an invertebrate.”
Full-Diaphragm Breathing and Progressive Relaxation for Panic Disorder by Dr. C. T. Mills (anxietydoc.com)
Panic disorder? Was that what Delton thought I had? Was that what I had? Maybe some full-diaphragm breathing would help me forget the hours I had wasted this weekend learning the Chipmunk Code!
When people experience a phobia, they often report being short of breath. Some feel they can’t breathe at all. However, if you can say “I can’t breathe,” you can, in fact, breathe, because we speak by making air vibrate.
The trouble is, you are only breathing with your upper body or your chest. You need to learn to breathe with your belly.
Geez. You’d think a doctor would know that your stomach was in your belly, not your lungs.
I stuck the paper under my lunch box and ripped the straw off my juice box. Slurping—loud—I balanced a cookie on my nose. Then I tried to touch it with my tongue before reading more.
What you want to do is activate your diaphragm, the muscle that inflates your lungs. To do this, place one hand on your belly and one on your chest and practice breathing with only the belly hand moving.
I followed the instructions. Though this was difficult to do in a tree, I think I figured out what all those pale-faced teenagers were doing in yoga class—breathing from the bottom of their stomachs. The next thing I was supposed to do was close my eyes and check in with different parts of my body. Starting at my feet, I tensed them up and then relaxed them. Then I went to my calves. Then my knees. How were you supposed to tense your knees, I wondered.
The cool part was, all this distracting was making it easier to forget how much I wanted to punch a certain someone.
“Cassidy, it’s time to go,” I
heard Mom shout from the base of the tree.
“I’m meditating,” I shouted back.
“Well, you’ll have to finish in the car.”
“Who meditates in the car?” I asked after my face had been scrubbed with a washcloth and a comb yanked through my hair. Like a four-year-old.
“People with schedules. My book club is tonight and I still have to make my spaghetti pie.”
“Are you going to cook one for us?”
“No, I’m going to let you starve. Of course I am, though I do have conditions.”
“You’re not going to make us eat like we’re polite society at dinner again, are you?”
“Yes, I am, in fact. And if you’re lucky, I’ll let you demonstrate for Norma Pearce when she comes by to pick me up.”
“Seriously?”
“Not really, but I do have some conditions for this store visit, young lady. I want you to promise there will be no zombie act, no cross-eyed looks, no stuttering, no sneezing fits, no diabetic comas, no fainting spells, no sudden blindness. In other words, behave yourself. There’s a spaghetti pie on the line.”
Mom pulled into the parking lot, parked crooked and slammed the door after she got out—Corcoran sign language for “not in the mood.” I had to give it a try anyway.
“C’mon, Cassidy.”
“I can’t…I can’t feel my legs.”
“Did I forget to say ‘no paraplegic stunts’?” Mom yanked on my arm and half dragged me into the store.
“Good afternoon, ladies. Can I help you find something?”
“Are you sure you’re up to the challenge, Ms…. ” Mom squinted to read her name tag. “Evans?”
“I just celebrated my ten-year anniversary at Stetler’s.” She pointed to a star next to her name. We started the long walk to the juniors’ department.
“Good…a veteran. Cassidy here needs a dress for a summer luncheon at the country club.”
“Oh. I see. You might find this section more…appropriate.” Ms. Evans did a half-turn and started to walk in the opposite direction.
Cassidy's Guide to Everyday Etiquette (and Obfuscation) Page 18
