by Andrea Beaty
Before I could inform Mom that Grandma Melvyn wouldn’t be taking meds or anything from me for the next two hundred years, Mom hugged me and ran out the door.
I grabbed my lunch box and backpack and left Grandma Melvyn’s envelope on the kitchen table with three peanut butter cups (Grandma Melvyn’s favorite) and went to school.
Nothing interesting happened at school all day. And even if it did, I wouldn’t have noticed. I was too busy thinking about Grandma Melvyn’s photograph and trying to figure out how I could make it up to her even though I knew there was no way I could. The longer I thought about it, the worse I felt.
What do you call a whole bunch of knots tangled together? A noodle of knots? A caboodle? Knot-a-lot? I don’t know, but by the time I got home at around four o’clock, I had one in my stomach. It felt like a whole family of boa constrictors twisting around, trying to squeeze one another to death.
The envelope and peanut butter cups were still on the table when I got home and Grandma Melvyn’s door was wide open, but she was not inside. Grandma Melvyn was gone. Her suitcase was gone. Her pillow was gone. Everything Grandma Melvyn had brought to our house was gone.
Except for a tiny triangle of glass at the foot of the dresser, there was no sign that she had been there at all.
It was first-grade math to figure out where she had gone. I grabbed the key from the cupboard, got out my bike, and started toward Grandma Melvyn’s house.
It was hot outside—more like June than March. After two blocks, I was sweating like a dog, and not one of those little bald Chihuahuas, either. I was sweating like a big, hairy Saint Bernard in a sauna. At the equator. During the summer. And, yeah, I know it’s always summer at the equator. I’m just trying to draw you a picture. Not a pretty one, is it?
After three blocks, I found Grandma Melvyn’s pillow lying beside the sidewalk. I picked it up, balanced it on my handlebars and kept going. In the next block, I found her knit hat on a lilac bush and stuffed it into the pillowcase. A block later, I found her Windbreaker. Then a sock … then her other sock … her VIVA LAS VEGAS sweatshirt … her sweatpants. Block after block, I scooped up the clothes, stuffed them into the pillowcase, and kept biking toward her house. I only hoped I wouldn’t find Grandma Melvyn walking along in nothing but her birthday suit. (And I don’t mean the purple one she bought in Atlantic City last year.)
At last, I saw Grandma Melvyn sitting on the bottom porch step of her house in an ELVIS LIVES! T-shirt, jogging shorts, and her flashing jogging shoes. Grandma Melvyn wearing clothes was good. Grandma Melvyn’s knee was horrible. Her knee looked like a bright pink cantaloupe. She sat with her leg propped up on her huge roly-poly suitcase.
I dropped my bike on the grass and ran over to her. Grandma Melvyn awkwardly covered her knee with her hand and gave me a Wicked Wobble Eye that could melt iron.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Get lost,” she said.
“I’m going to call Mom,” I said. “Let me help you inside.”
“I like it fine right here,” she said.
“Please, let me get you some ice,” I said.
“I don’t need Trixie. I don’t need ice. And I don’t need you,” she said.
“I’m calling Mom,” I said.
I set the pillowcase on the step and went to the door, but it was locked. Grandma Melvyn hadn’t even been inside. She had rolled her fat red suitcase ten blocks in the hot sun with a bad knee and couldn’t even climb the stairs to get inside her own house when she got there.
I pulled the spare key from my pocket and unlocked the door. Then I called Mom from the old-fashioned black telephone on the narrow table in the hall. It took forever for the rotary dial to slowly click out the numbers. I wound the thick phone cord around my index finger over and over while I stared at my feet to avoid looking at the curlicue-shaped patch of sad blue paint on the wall. Mom was in a meeting, and I had to get her out of it to tell her about Grandma Melvyn. I thought she’d be really mad, but she said she’d come right away.
I got a glass of water and a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, then I went outside and gently set the bag of peas onto Grandma Melvyn’s knee. She gasped and jerked back in pain.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She didn’t say anything. She repositioned the peas and closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry for everything,” I said, sitting on the step beside her.
Grandma Melvyn roughly grabbed the glass from my hand, splashing my arm with cold water. I wiped off my arm as Grandma Melvyn pulled off her glasses. I looked away as she dried the drops of water that had somehow splashed behind her glasses into her eyes.
We sat silently on the step until Mom drove up and backed the car into the driveway. She helped Grandma Melvyn into the front seat while I locked the house and loaded Grandma Melvyn’s things into the trunk. Grandma Melvyn sat stiffly in the passenger seat as Mom stretched the belt over her body and clicked the buckle. Mom closed the door and got into the driver’s seat and started the car.
As they drove down the street, Grandma Melvyn stared in the car mirror at the dork with his bike standing in a patch of dandelions. At last, the car turned the corner and was gone.
THAT NIGHT, I DREAMED THAT I HIT GRANDMA MELVYN WITH MY BICYCLE. SHE was standing on the sidewalk in front of her house and I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. I plowed right into her knee, and it swelled up like a balloon about to pop. The worst part was that she didn’t yell or scream or anything. She just looked at me and whispered, “ … Trixie.”
I woke up and tried to think of something else, but I couldn’t. After a while, I fell asleep again, but it took a long time, and when I had to get up for school, I was so tired and slow that Mom had to drive me so I wouldn’t be late. School dragged all day, but at least it was Friday and there was an assembly in the gym for the last two periods. The whole school heard a lecture and watched a movie about dental hygiene. To answer your questions: 1. Yes, it involved actors dressed like toothbrushes. 2. Yes, it was as boring as it sounds.
I should have hated it, but I didn’t mind at all because it gave me a chance to sleep. Besides, Cat was gone, so I didn’t have anybody to laugh at the movie with. I wondered where she was. She had been in line behind me when we left the classroom, but she never made it to the gym. Everyone went back to class for ten minutes before the final bell, but Cat wasn’t there, either. I know that Cat can flake out, but this was a bad time to do it.
When the bell rang, all the kids in the talent show went to the auditorium for mandatory practice. I wasn’t in the mood for it. I wasn’t even sure Grandma Melvyn would still let me use the cabinet in the talent show, and I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t—though I still hoped she would.
I still wanted to show the world what I could do, but that didn’t seem so important anymore. Now I had another reason to perform my act. I wanted to show Grandma Melvyn what I had learned from her and to thank her. Maybe that would help her feel better. Just a little. Maybe it would show that she was important to someone. To me.
I went to the auditorium to get ready for rehearsal. Cat wasn’t there, either. Remember when I said that the practice was required for everyone, no exceptions? If she didn’t show up before our turn, we would be out of the show. I sat in the auditorium seats waiting with the other performers until our turn.
Talent show practice wasn’t much of a practice, because none of the dancers danced and none of the singers sang. (Which, come to think about it, is a lot like the actual show.)
Practice was teaching everyone how to line up. If you think it’s easy to line up kids, you’ve never been in a school. It took half an hour just to line up the kindergartners. It was like herding a bunch of baby goats. I guess that was appropriate, since they both smell funky and try to eat everything they see.
Cat and I were the final act in the lineup. You’re probably thinking that’s because they wanted to save the best for last. It’s not. They were trying to keep parents happy. Last
year, my act was in the middle of the show. When the fire marshal closed down the show after me, a whole bunch of second-grade dancers had nowhere to show off their moves. (Note to last year’s audience: You’re welcome.)
I was starting to worry that Cat wasn’t going to make it and we’d be kicked out of the show. Finally, she came running through the auditorium door, plopped into the seat beside me, and smiled. She didn’t even say sorry or anything. I should have been mad, but I was just glad to see her.
Principal Adolphus looked at me.
“I’d like you to run through your whole act,” he said. “You know, just to see how it goes.”
You might think it was unfair for me and Cat to run through our whole act when nobody else had to, but it was okay. I didn’t mind the practice.
Everyone paid extra close attention when we took the stage. Before we started, Principal Adolphus checked out the cabinet—just in case. And he checked it out after—just in case. And can I tell you? All the other kids clapped! Our trick worked perfectly. No flying amphibians. No high-pitched screams from Mr. Adolphus. No firefighters. No problem.
We were in the show.
GRANDMA MELVYN’S KNEE LOOKED A LITTLE BETTER ON SATURDAY MORNING, but Mom took her to the doctor just to make sure that she hadn’t done any damage to it. He said she hadn’t, and he had some other good news, too. The insurance company was going to pay for her knee replacement surgery. He scheduled her for the operation in ten days.
While Mom and Grandma Melvyn were at the doctor’s, I grabbed the twenty-six dollars I’d saved for a top hat and biked downtown to find something for Grandma Melvyn. I couldn’t un-tear the photo or fix the frame. I couldn’t fix her leg. I couldn’t fix anything, really, but maybe I could cheer Grandma Melvyn up a little. Maybe I could do something to show her I was sorry.
I knew it was going to be tough, but finding something for Grandma Melvyn turned out to be impossible. I went into both department stores downtown and the three antique shops, but I couldn’t find anything that inspired me. On my way home, I stopped at the big drugstore on Cherokee Street. It had everything. And I mean everything, including an aisle just for weird products from TV, like the Weed-Whack-i-nator and Monkey Snuggies. You know the stuff. I looked at all of it, but nothing said “Grandma Melvyn” to me. It did say, “People have too much money and free time and probably should turn off the TV and read a book once in a while.”
I walked up and down the aisles and found everything from pudding to Pampers. Glue to glitter. Candy to canes. I bought three of those items and biked home. Hint: I did not buy candy, pudding, or Pampers. Secret confession: I did buy candy, but I ate it on the way home, so I’m not including it in the list.
You probably think you know what happened next. You probably think I went to the kitchen, spread some newspapers on the table, used the glue to draw a beautiful geometric design on the cane, and sprinkled it with glitter, creating a unique and magnificent work of art perfect for any aging ex-magician who loves pizzazz.
Shows what you know.
I went to the kitchen, spread newspapers on the table, and used the glue to draw a line, which made it look like a Labrador retriever with a gluey tongue had licked the cane. I scraped away as much of the extra glue as I could and changed my design.
Remember what I said about always having a plan B in magic? It’s a good idea for art, too. Since my beautiful geometric design wasn’t going to work, I changed it to a beautiful bouquet of flowers with a green stem.
I sprinkled green glitter over the cane. The glitter stuck. It stuck to the line, which was nice. It stuck to my gluey thumbprints, which was not. It stuck to every drip and dribble. It stuck to everything. I tried to brush away the extra glitter, and it stuck to my hands. To my arms. To my face, my shoes, my teeth, my … You get the picture.
That’s when I learned one of the most ancient laws of the universe: Glitter is evil.
The cane was a disaster. The kitchen was a disaster. My face was a disaster. Before I could figure out what to do next, Mom and Grandma Melvyn opened the front door. I scooped up the newspaper and cane, opened the door to the garage, and tossed everything inside. Glitter snowed down inside the garage like it was Christmas on Mars.
I slammed the door shut as Mom and Grandma stepped into the kitchen. Grandma Melvyn leaned on her cane with one hand and Mom’s arm with the other. She swayed back and forth and hummed to herself.
“Just a few more steps,” said Mom. “Then you can nap a bit.”
“What’s wrong with Grandma Melvyn?” I asked.
“She got a shot at the doctor’s office,” Mom said, “and it’s making her drowsy.”
“Can I help?” I asked.
Mom looked at the glitter-bombed kitchen and my glittery smile and sighed.
“Yeah,” she said. “You can clean up your mess.”
I followed them to the family room and helped Grandma Melvyn settle into the recliner. I covered her with a small blanket (and a significant amount of glitter). Grandma Melvyn looked at me like I was out of focus.
“A leprechaun,” she said. “That’s nice. Trixie didn’t tell me we had leprechauns.”
Grandma Melvyn patted my sparkly green hand, closed her eyes, and drifted to sleep. Maybe I helped Grandma Melvyn feel better after all.
GRANDMA MELVYN SLEPT IN THE RECLINER ALL AFTERNOON WHILE I unsuccessfully attacked the glitter in the kitchen and then got ready for the talent show. I found sparkles in places that should never sparkle, and I don’t mean the kitchen.
By the time I got cleaned up, it was already six o’clock. I was supposed to be at school an hour ago, and I still hadn’t eaten anything. In fact, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. I was suddenly starving. I went to the kitchen and snarfed down a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal. Magically delicious.
Time was ticking, but I had one more thing to do before I got out of the house. I still had not done anything to tell Grandma Melvyn that I was sorry. I knew that sooner or later she would wake up from her nap, and I wanted her to know that at least I had tried. I wrote on the back of Grandma Melvyn’s ticket: “Dedicated to the Amazing Melvyn. I am sorry.—Robbie.”
I checked on Grandma Melvyn. Part of me hoped that she would be awake and would want to come to the show. The rest of me was afraid that she would be awake and not want to come to the show.
It didn’t matter. Grandma Melvyn was still asleep, with her glasses on the table next to the chair. I had never seen her without her glasses, and for the first time, I looked closely at her creased face. Instead of the lion tamer or a world-famous magician, Grandma Melvyn was just a tiny old woman snuggled beneath a glittery blanket, her thin cheeks puffing in and out as she snored softly. I quietly put the ticket and a peanut butter cup on Grandma Melvyn’s blanket.
Grandma Melvyn wasn’t going to make it to the show, but at least Mom and Ape Boy would be there to tape it. I could show it to Grandma Melvyn, and maybe Cat could come over to watch, too.
It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.
MOM WAS STANDING BY THE KITCHEN SINK, TALKING ON HER CELL PHONE.
“Can you drive me to school?” I asked.
She waved her hand at me.
“Look … No. That won’t work!” she snapped at the person on the other end of the call. “No! I’m telling you the rate is wrong.”
Mom was annoyed. She paced back and forth. I tapped her arm to get her attention. I was already late and had to get to the school before the show began. Mom raised her finger to tell me to wait.
“I said I’d get it done,” she said. “E-mail the numbers now.”
I tapped her arm again.
“I have to go NOW!” I said.
Mom put her hand over the phone.
“Just hold on,” she said, and then put the phone up to her ear again.
I didn’t have time to hold on. I was late and Mom didn’t even care.
That’s when Ape Boy came into the room and climbed onto a chair. His
hand was stuck inside a giant orange bag of candy. Reese’s Pieces.
“Hey!” I yelled. “Those are for me and Mom!”
“Shhhh,” Mom said. “Not you … I’m talking to my kids.”
Mom snapped her fingers at us and signaled for us to be quiet.
I grabbed the bag from Ape Boy, but he grabbed it back and the plastic bag ripped apart. Reese’s Pieces flew through the air like tiny orange, yellow, and brown hailstones.
“Mom!” Ape Boy screamed.
“Where’d you find that bag?”
“Mom gave it to me!” yelled Ape Boy.
“You liar,” I said. “She wouldn’t do that. It’s for Movie Night.”
Mom put her hand up to silence me. She tapped her watch face with her finger and pointed angrily at the door. “Seven percent is the wrong rate …,” she said, and walked out of the room.
My face burned with anger, and I ran out the door and slammed it behind me. I ran down the street and cut through the field toward the school, kicking clumps of grass as I ran.
When I got to school, I was really late, but Cat was waiting for me by the flagpole. I kicked the flagpole and it made a loud echoey clanging noise.
“Hey there,” she said.
I didn’t say anything.
“It looks like a good crowd,” she said.
Silence.
We should already have gotten our stuff from the cabinet and headed to the library to wait for our turn to go onstage. Cat knew that, and she could have gone to the library without me, but she didn’t.
Instead, she kicked the flagpole.
Clang!
“That’s awesome,” she said, and kicked it again and laughed. “Watch this.”
She pulled her fist way back like a Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robot punching a wall or something. Then she fakepunched my arm and kicked the flagpole at the same time. Clang!
Cat burst out laughing and did it again.
