The Kindness Club: Designed by Lucy

by Courtney Sheinmel

  I shrugged. “Did you learn about the pioneers going west when you were in school?”

  She shook her head. “By the time we moved to the States, the teachers had already taught those lessons. But I studied on my own a lot. My parents kept speaking Japanese at home, but as soon as I learned enough English, it was the only language I’d speak. I wouldn’t answer to my given name. I went bowling because it seemed like a very American pastime.”

  “Dad said bowling actually started in ancient Egypt.”

  “He’s right,” Grandma said. “But I didn’t know that then. My new friends hung out at the bowling alley, and I wanted to be like everyone else.”

  “Not me,” I told her. “I like being unique.”

  I’ve never met anyone exactly like me before. People think I’m Japanese, but that’s only three-quarters true. My dad is 100 percent Japanese, but my mom was only 50 percent. The other 50 percent was African American. She had dark skin and wavy black hair. There’s a photo on my dresser from my first birthday. I’m holding my favorite bear, Timber, in my right hand. My left arm is stretched above my head, my fingers twisted up in my mother’s hair. Her name was Leilani, which means “heavenly flowers” in Hawaiian.

  My point is, whether it’s on the inside, like my genes I got from my parents, or on the outside, like the jeans I made for myself, I’m different from everyone else.

  “I know you like your uniqueness, my mago,” Grandma said. “It’s an excellent quality.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling pleased. My grandmother is always nice, but she’s also the kind of person who only gives compliments when she means them.

  “Now, speaking of history,” Grandma said, “you should go on and do your work.”

  I took off the rubber gloves, handed them to Grandma, and headed up to Oliver’s room, which is my favorite space to do my homework. His room is bigger than mine. Mine is the size of a closet—a big closet, but still a closet. In fact, it really was once a closet. I had a real bedroom-sized room when I was born, but then Grandma moved in, and they made up the closet room for me. It has a bed in it, and a dresser pushed up against the opposite wall. You can just barely open the drawers all the way. When Ollie left for college, Dad said he should switch rooms with me and stay in the closet when he visited. But I didn’t want to change things. My room is still my room. I just use my brother’s for homework purposes, and to visit Poseidon.

  The chapter I needed to read started on page fifty-two: why the pioneers went west. Basically, they were poor and they wanted to get rich. Their stuff was old and damaged. They mended holes in their clothing and kept wearing it. They didn’t have money to worry about how things looked or if they were in fashion. They just patched things together and kept wearing them—shirts, pants, socks, blankets. But they thought they were headed west for a better life. Along the way a lot of people got sick and died. Maybe some of them had weak hearts, like my mom. I bet if the pioneers had known what would happen, most of them would’ve kept on living right where they were.

  I flipped the page and looked at the comparison maps of the United States, then and now. Back then, before westward expansion, there were some states sectioned off in the east, but the west was one big gray area.

  All fifty states were in the “now” map, carved out from east to west, colored in different colors. There was no gray area left. It was its own kind of patchwork quilt, like the ones the pioneer women made. Lines were drawn seemingly haphazardly. Idaho really was a funny shape. Our own state of Maryland was so teeny-tiny, while Texas was really big.

  I wondered who decided what borders went where. And who decided on the shapes of things? Michigan was shaped like a mitten, which was cool. But none of the other states looked like clothes. If I was designing things, I’d even out the size of things to be fair, and I’d definitely change the shapes. More clothing shapes, like sunglasses for California, and maybe a cowboy hat for Colorado. And I’d add other shapes, too, like flowers and stars, even a horseshoe, or the head of a unicorn.

  Down the hall, I heard the phone ring. It was probably Ollie. I flipped my textbook shut and headed out.

  CHAPTER 3

  The phone rang a second time, then a third, as I walked toward the kitchen. Grandma was probably drying her hands before picking up the receiver. “Hello?” she said as I came through the doorway.

  “Hey, Ollie!” I shouted.

  Grandma brought a finger to her lips to signal I should be quiet. Not Ollie after all. I was about to slink away when I heard Grandma say, “Shoot,” into the phone. That was about as close as my grandmother got to a curse word, and she didn’t even use that one very often. “I’m working a part-time job at Quinnifer’s … yes, that’s right, the stationery store. I’m on tomorrow. Since it’s only my second shift, I’m afraid I can’t ask them to let me out of it. I am so embarrassed about this, Valerie.”

  The person on the other end of the phone, Valerie, must’ve said something back, because Grandma paused and leaned against the counter.

  “Mmm hmm,” she said. “I know you’re understaffed as it is, so that’s very understanding of you. Thank you.”

  “Is everything all right?” I asked after Grandma hung up. She looked at me like she hadn’t known I was there, hanging in the doorway, listening to her half of the conversation the whole time.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I just forgot I was signed up to volunteer at the Community House tomorrow.”

  Ever since I started school full time, back in kindergarten, Grandma has been one of Braywood’s premier volunteers. She fund-raises for the library, makes meals for needy families at the food pantry, reads to residents at the senior center every Tuesday, and works at the Community House every Thursday, where she looks after kids whose parents have jobs that keep them out later than the end of the school day.

  “But you always volunteer on Thursday afternoons,” I reminded her.

  “I know,” she said. “I guess I’ve been so busy that I forgot what day it was.”

  “You forgot what day it was?”

  “Temporary amnesia,” Grandma said.

  I hoped it was temporary. I read a book once about a girl whose grandfather had something called Alzheimer’s disease, and he forgot more and more things until he forgot almost everything—including his granddaughter’s name.

  “How did your social studies homework go?” Grandma asked.

  Phew. She remembered I was doing my social studies homework. “It was fine,” I said. “I didn’t do the questions at the back of the chapter yet, but I finished all the reading. You know what Theo told me …” I let my voice trail off.

  “What? What did Theo say?”

  “Oh my goodness.”

  “What?” Grandma repeated.

  “Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness! I just had an idea. And it’s such a good one.” I rubbed my hands together, as if I’d discovered something. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. This is so perfect.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “We can volunteer for you,” I said triumphantly. “The Kindness Club. Call Valerie back and tell her.”

  “I appreciate this, Lucy. But you don’t have to do this—and your friends certainly don’t have to. The three of you aren’t responsible for my missed obligations. I’m sure they’ll manage at the Community House tomorrow. Perhaps they’ll put on a movie for the kids. That usually works to keep everyone quiet and contained—at least for a little while.”

  “Or they can do a super cool project with us,” I said. “Come on, you said family helps out.”

  “I did, but—”

  “I really want to do this. I mean we. We really want to do this. Every club needs a project, and we don’t have one right now. What if, well, what if we never get one?”

  “You think you’d lose your club?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not. It’s the first time I’ve really belonged in something—I mean, outside our family, of course.
”

  “The thing is, Lucy,” Grandma said. “Some of the kids at the Community House are not much younger than you are. I know how mature and helpful you are—but Valerie may think I’m just handing her three more kids she needs to look out for.”

  “She won’t have to look out for us. We can do this. I know we can.”

  “I know you can, too.”

  “So can’t you explain it to her,” I said. “Please.”

  Grandma nodded. “Let’s give it a shot. Call your friends and see what they think. If they’re free, I’ll call Valerie.”

  “Great!” I grabbed the phone from the base and began to dial Theo’s number.

  “Lucy?” Grandma said. When I looked at her, she was smiling, and a sliver of her teeth showing. “Thank you,” she said.

  I smiled back. “You’re welcome,” I told her as Theo picked up on the other end. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi back! I just had the best idea for the club! Wait till you hear this!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Theo said yes about volunteering at the Community House, and then we three-way-called Chloe at her dad’s, and she agreed to come, too. Grandma called Valerie back to let her know.

  I listened to Grandma explain about the Kindness Club, and I knew Valerie must’ve said we could come, because Grandma pressed the button to put the call on speakerphone, so I could talk, too.

  “Valerie Locklin, meet my granddaughter, Lucy.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” I said.

  “It’s very good to meet you, too,” she told me. “We’ll be happy to have you and your friends help out tomorrow.”

  She went through the rundown of what Chloe, Theo, and I could expect. Basically there’d be about fifteen kids in the big rec room, ranging in age from really little, like preschool age, to third grade, which was just two years younger than us. But those two years make a big difference. I’m much more mature now than I was when I was eight years old.

  “We try to arrange a big project each day for everyone to work on,” Valerie Locklin told me. “But we don’t have anything like that on the schedule for tomorrow.”

  “It was my job to come up with something,” Grandma broke in. “I’m sorry to say I didn’t get a chance to do so.”

  For a second, that knot of fear in my stomach came back. Another forgotten thing.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Valerie Locklin said. “We don’t always have a coordinated project. But if you don’t mind, Lucy, I may ask that you and your friends split up. One of you may be helping the grade schoolers with homework. Another may be doing finger painting with the little ones, and a third might be reading to kids in the story corner. We ask that our volunteers be flexible. That sound okay to you?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Flexible is my middle name—and it’s Chloe’s and Theo’s, too.”

  Of course Valerie Locklin knew I was kidding, and she laughed. “Good to hear,” she said. “I’ll plan on seeing the three of you tomorrow.”

  I have a lot of thoughts at night when everyone else I know is sleeping, and I’m supposed to be sleeping, too. It’s not that I don’t want to be sleeping. In fact, I try to sleep; I really do. I close my eyes and attempt to hypnotize myself into a not-awake state: You are getting very sleepy, Lucy Melia Tanaka. That’s right. Very verrrrrrrrrrrrry sleepy. Now go to sleep, Lucy. Go to SLEEP SLEEP SLEEP!

  It doesn’t always work, because other thoughts kick in, such as: What will I wear to school tomorrow? And the day after that? And after that?

  Sometimes when I finally fall asleep, the answers to my fashion questions come in my dreams. That night I was thinking about what to wear to the Community House. Something that said, Hey, kids, I’m a totally fun person to hang out with. It had to be that, plus something I wouldn’t care about if the kids accidentally smudged it with un-wash-off-able finger paint. That was a problem, because I cared about most of my clothes.

  I rolled over in my bed, burrowing into the corner, the coziest spot. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to focus on dreaming up the perfect outfit. But other things were pinging around my brain. Thoughts of Grandma being forgetful. It wasn’t like her at all. Usually she remembered EVERYTHING. She remembered whether the dishes in the dishwasher were clean or dirty without having to open it and check (back when our dishwasher still worked). She remembered when I had spelling quizzes and math tests and every other school thing, and she made sure I studied enough. She remembered things for my dad and my brother, too. It was like her brain was some kind of safe deposit box. But what if it cracked open? What if she forgot my study schedule, and whether the dishes had been cleaned, and whatever Dad and Ollie needed her to remember? What if she forgot me, like the grandfather in that book?

  This isn’t a book, Lucy, I told myself silently but sternly. There’s nothing to worry about, so think about something different. If clothing isn’t working, then you should think about … hmm … think about sheep! Yes, that’s it. That’s what you should think about. Counting them is supposed to make you sleepy, even though that sounds pretty silly. But don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.

  Okay, here it goes: One invisible sheep, jumping over the bed. It’s white and fluffy, like a robe … with a face and a few limbs. Okay, that’s weird, but you need to keep going, Lucy, because you’re not sleeping yet. Two sheep. Three, four.

  Ugh.

  It wasn’t working. I was still awake. Possibly even wider awake than I was before I started imagining sheep leaping above me. Thoughts are like bowling balls. You always want them to go one way, straight down the center of the lane, and knock down all the pins you’re aiming for. But a lot of the time they veer off course. Sometimes so far off course that you don’t get any pins down at all.

  I hit the light switch beside my bed, because I don’t like sitting in the dark for too long. It’s not that I’m scared of it. It just feels lonely. With the lights on, I was still alone, but I could see my “fashion wall,” where I tack up things I’ve ripped out from magazines, and my dresser with the framed pictures on top, and the end of my bed with my stuffed animals. Some kids think ten is too old to keep stuffed animals on your bed, but I am not one of those kids. I looked at the row of them—Pammy, Patty, Monku, Furry, and Timber.

  Of course Timber. I reached down to the end of my bed and picked him up. He looked much better in the picture of Mom and me. Since then, his pink nose had been rubbed white, and one of his ears was gone. I sat him right next to me and put a hand on his head, thinking about my mom. I didn’t remember her, except for things I saw in pictures. I thought I could remember that day, my first birthday, sitting in her lap with brand-new Timber. I played that moment in my head over and over again, like a movie on repeat in my brain.

  Did Mom name Timber for me? Or did I come up with the name myself? That part I couldn’t remember at all. That part wasn’t in the memory-movie.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and then someone pushed it open. “Lucy?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  He stood in the doorway wearing pajama bottoms and one of his work shirts, which was turquoise with a black collar and black buttons. His first name, Kenji, was stitched in black thread over the breast pocket. If he turned around, I knew the back of his shirt would say Tanaka Lanes in bold black letters.

  “I saw the light coming from under the door,” Dad said. “I thought perhaps you fell asleep with it on.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I just haven’t fallen asleep yet.”

  “You shouldn’t be up so late, Lucy.”

  Tell me about it, I thought.

  “I wasn’t on purpose,” I told him. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, no,” Dad said. “I only got home a few minutes ago.”

  “Wow, it’s really late.”

  “Work is late sometimes,” Dad said with a shrug.

  “I told Grandma I could help out, if you need it,” I said.

  “Tanaka Lanes is my job to take care of,” Dad said. “And school is yours. Sp
eaking of which, is your homework done?”

  His voice had turned stern, the same tone as when he’d said, You shouldn’t be up so late, Lucy, and I didn’t think I deserved that tone at all. My whole life, I’d always done my homework on time.

  Which is exactly what I said to him: “I always do my homework on time.”

  “Just checking,” Dad said, back in his regular voice. “Learning anything interesting?”

  “Just the usual school sort of stuff,” I said. “We’re doing a section on the pioneers moving west before there were states out there. But tomorrow—” I cut myself off, as the spark of an idea hit me.

  “But tomorrow what?” Dad asked.

  “Oh my goodness!” I said, not answering the question.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I just had the best idea. THE BEST!”

  “Shush, Lucy, you’ll wake Grandma. If you get much louder, you’ll wake Mrs. Gallagher, too.”

  “Sorry,” I said in a lower voice. “But I’m helping Grandma out tomorrow. That’s what I was about to say. The Kindness Club will be volunteering at the Community House, because that’s what Grandma usually does on Thursdays, except she took a shift at the stationery store tomorrow.”

  “Your poor grandmother,” Dad said. “She’s spread a little thin these days.”

  “That’s why I said I could help out, too.”

  He shook his head. “Tell me your idea.”

  “Valerie Locklin from the Community House said they try to think of a big project all the kids work on together, and I just thought of something to do—we’ll make a patchwork quilt! Just like the United States!”

  “Shh, Lucy,” Dad said. He paused. “What about the United States?”

  I lowered my voice again and explained. “If you look at a map, the states all fit together like patches. We could give each of the kids a patch of fabric to decorate. When they’re all done, I’ll sew all the patches together to make one big Community House quilt. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a great idea, and I also think it’s time for you to go to sleep.”