I couldn’t speak. She pushed past me, shaking her head, hurrying to catch up to the others.
“Wait!” Leanna called. “She’s Cassandra Jovanovich. Are you Rita?”
She turned around. “I’m Rita. Yeah. Who wants to know?”
My tongue felt thick in my mouth.
“Are you her mother? Cassandra Jovanovich’s mom? Was your mother’s name Shirley?”
Bless Leanna.
The woman walked over to us and I could see her clearly under the bit of yellow light.
“Who are you? Who’s Shirley?” she demanded.
Not her. It isn’t her! Couldn’t be! She is way too old. Too many wrinkles. And I can see gray roots. No way she is twenty-eight. Not her. My knees felt like water. I started to giggle.
“Sorry. Sorry.” I yanked on Leanna’s arm, pulling her as I backed up. “Sorry. I thought you were…” But she had turned away.
I leaned against the building.
Leanna stared at me. “Sure? Are you sure she wasn’t your mother? You’re not just saying that?”
“No. I swear. But the sign…she’s so much younger in that photo. What if it had been her? Oh, Leanna – what if my mother turned out to be a stripper?” The relief. The sheer relief made me giddy.
For what would the How-Great-We-Are Club think of me if they found out?
And there it was. The memory of Patty Huggins, telling me I was ill cause my mama was a bad girl.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I slept just great and in the morning, I danced around the crazy sunken living room and sang out loud. I couldn’t wait to get back to the theater – to my best performance. I’d show everybody.
“Nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide!” I sang along with The Vandellas.
We had four more shows, and I didn’t mess up. Each time I went onstage, I was the Cowardly Lion, just the lion – no baggage or worries in my head to pull me out of character.
And just like when I was the stepmother in Cinderella and the angel in church, it felt perfect. I knew who I was. I knew what I wanted. No one could ever take that away. Ever.
Mary saw how happy I was. She said, “When we go to Berkeley in July, we’ll see about a side trip to Hollywood. Would you like that?”
I let out a shriek and ran to hug her. And then, feeling like she should know the truth, I told her about Senorita.
“And I thought, I really did, she was my mother. And I was sick. I was so mad at her. That’s why I blew my cue. It wasn’t stage fright. It was because of her.” I remembered Heather. “So tacky,” I said, with that same disdainful shiver. “But it’s okay. It wasn’t her. And I was so happy because how…I mean…yuck. Right? I’d never live it down. I’d rather never find Rita than know that.”
Mary didn’t smile, or nod her head in agreement. She got this look like…like I was her student, and she’d caught me cheating on a test.
“Don’t judge, Cass. It’s beneath you.”
“What?”
“Don’t ever judge what a woman has to do, or chooses to do, to survive. You don’t know anything about her life or what led her to becoming an exotic dancer. I’m disappointed in you.”
Uh-oh. “But – ”
“No, Cassandra. No buts. You’ve been in this house long enough to know how I feel about all the ridiculous double standards and biases against women. You’ve been part of the discussions when I’ve had students and colleagues in. I thought you’d learned something. I’m disappointed that you would judge this woman and find fault with her.”
Something in me boiled over. “That’s not fair! What about me? What about my life? I’m female, too, you know. And I’ve been handed around like a sack of potatoes. I don’t know how she – Senorita – got there. But I sure know how I got here!” I could hear my voice getting high and shrill, but I wasn’t acting, and I couldn’t control myself. “I didn’t get a choice, did I? Did I? No one asked me. No one cared! No one! Everyone makes fun of me! Everyone finds fault!” I remembered all of the taunts. “Everyone judges me! ‘You’ll end up just like Rita.’ So forgive me if I’m glad Senorita isn’t my mother!”
I ran to my bedroom and slammed the door. It was déjà vu. How often had I done this? Sitting on my bed, sobbing, wanting to die. How dare she? How dare she?! But now what would happen? As if I didn’t know.
And then she was in my room, her arm around me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. You’re twelve, and I’m a dunce.”
It was such a strange thing for Mary to say, I stopped mid-sob and stared at her.
“I…ah…I’m not used to talking to young women. So I’m, well, over my head, I guess. But you’re right. You’ve had a challenging life, and I have no right to judge you.” She took my hands. “I wanted you to have some compassion for her, for all women like Senorita, that’s all. But I was so righteous that I didn’t stop to think. I didn’t think to have compassion for a child.”
She still hadn’t said it. The thing I was dreading.
“We need tea,” she said, and I followed her to the kitchen.
She got up on the step stool, and rooted around a top shelf. “How about cocoa instead?” She was holding the yellow tin of Fry’s.
Five years old and back in Grandma’s kitchen, and if I was to hear the worst – again – then it might as well be over a cup of cocoa.
“So, now you’ll send me away? To another relative?” I whispered.
“Oh, honey! Oh, Cassandra! Why would you think – ”
“Because. Because I ‘disappoint’ and then…”
She rubbed her eyes. “Oh, Lordy.” She put her arm around me. “Peter and I are not going to send you away. We became your legal guardians. That’s forever. Understand? But…there is something.”
I sat at the table, wondering. I didn’t trust this legal guardian stuff. How much longer till they changed their minds? The end of the school year? The end of the summer? And what about Berkeley?
“You know, I’ve learned something just now. And it’s really uncomfortable. I’m not as smart as I think. I don’t know everything. Sometimes being a professor can make one think one knows it all.” She smiled at me. “Of course, after all these years you wouldn’t want to find Rita at Burlesque A-Go-Go. I dig that. I do. Just…please promise me, Cassie, that whatever you eventually find out, if it’s not pleasant, you won’t look down your nose at her. Okay? You’ve heard that saying? ‘Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes?’ Know what it means?”
The devil in me replied. “You mean, don’t judge a woman until you’ve walked a mile in her shoes.”
She laughed out loud and something shifted between us. Really. It was almost as if there had been some energy in the air keeping us apart, but then it floated away like the steam from the kettle.
“Grandma always made cocoa with hot milk, not water.”
She unplugged the kettle cord and put a pot with milk on the stove. “Then so will we.”
“Is that what you had to tell me? That you aren’t so smart?”
“No.” She stirred sugar – lots of it – and cocoa together and poured in the hot milk. She was nervous, I could tell. “First, I don’t know what happened to Rita. I don’t know anyone who does. I know she went to the States for a while, but after? I’ve always hoped she went back to school. She was very smart. She had every right to go to college or university.”
“I just want to know why she didn’t come back for me. They said maybe she couldn’t. Maybe it was too long and she…didn’t know what to say to me? Does that make sense to you?”
Mary shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t know how to come into your life again. Maybe she thought you wouldn’t want her. But Cassie, Rita was a lovely young woman. She had so many friends. Whatever her reasons, she would never be mean or spiteful or uncaring.”
It wasn’t much. But it was be
tter than nothing. I took a small sip of cocoa. And with all that sugar, it was…pretty good.
I wouldn’t judge. I was sick of being judged myself. I’d be sixteen soon enough. I’d think about it then. Suddenly, I remembered. “You said ‘first.’ First, like there was a second thing you had to tell me.”
Mary opened a drawer and handed me an envelope. Her hand was shaking. I pulled out a photo. Two girls, two boys. One was Rita. The other? I peered closer. “Is this you? With my mother?”
She nodded.
“And the guy with the glasses? Is that…It’s Peter!”
“It is. And the other is Ian, Peter’s brother. We met in the summer of 1953. The boys were on their way to a camp in Algonquin Park, and Rita and I met them at a party. I ran into Peter again years later at UCLA, and we discovered we liked each other very much.”
There was more, I could tell.
My brain worked it out faster than my thoughts and the words just came. “And…did my mother like…Ian?”
“She did. She was crazy about him. They spent a lot of time together that week.”
Like Grandma saying she wasn’t my mother. There was more to come. “My father. Ian’s my father?”
“Yes, Cassandra. And Peter…”
Dot…dot…dot.
“…is my uncle.”
Last Page, Leanna!
Leanna is coming with us to Union Station today. Mary and I are taking the train to New York City. We’ll spend four days there and see a Broadway show and the United Nations building. Then we will take the train to Chicago. Peter is in Chicago now, doing research. We will rent a car and drive to California. We are taking Route 66. When we get to Los Angeles, I will meet Peter’s family – my dad’s family. I might meet Ian. He is in Vietnam now, but might be home on leave.
I am packed. I’m not bringing much. Mary says we’ll go shopping in New York. But I am bringing Grandma’s brush set. Lana brought it over yesterday and she gave me money to spend however I wish. She is having a baby soon and she says it will mean the world to her if I will be “Auntie Cassie.”
Leanna slept over last night. At midnight, we snuck outside in our nightgowns and lay on the grass and looked at the stars.
Leanna pointed out Queen Cassiopeia’s Throne. “That’s you,” she said. “Queen Cassie – opeia! See how all the stars connect?”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Not dots. Stars. Connect the stars and see what emerges.
I held her hand and whispered, “Make a wish.”
My wish has already come true. I am going with Liz to MGM Studios in Hollywood. She works there and said I can take a tour and meet famous actors.
At long last, my road trip to California.
I…am…amazed.
About the Author
Sharon Jennings has written more than sixty books for young people. Her books have received many nominations and awards, including nominations for a Governor General’s Award, TD Canadian Children’s Literature Award, and Silver Birch Award for Home Free. She has taught courses on writing children’s books, and has visited schools and libraries both in Canada and abroad to talk to young readers about reading and writing. She recently traveled to Kenya twice as the Canadian juror for the Burt Award for African Literature. Sharon’s home is in Toronto, Canada.
Copyright and Dedication
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Jennings, Sharon, author
Connecting dots / by Sharon Jennings.
(A gutsy girl book)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-927583-62-3 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-927583-67-8 (epub)
I. Title. II. Series: Gutsy girl book
PS8569.E563C65 2015 jC813’.54 C2014-908139-1
C2014-908140-5
Copyright © 2015 by Sharon Jennings
Edited by Kathryn Cole
Designed by Melissa Kaita
Cover by Gillian Newland
Printed and bound in Canada
Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
Published by
Second Story Press
20 Maud Street, Suite 401
Toronto, ON M5V 2M5
www.secondstorypress.ca
Dedication: With gratitude to CANSCAIP
About the Author
Sharon Jennings has written more than sixty books for young people. Her books have received many nominations and awards, including nominations for a Governor General’s Award, TD Canadian Children’s Literature Award, and Silver Birch Award for Home Free. She has taught courses on writing children’s books, and has visited schools and libraries both in Canada and abroad to talk to young readers about reading and writing. She recently traveled to Kenya twice as the Canadian juror for the Burt Award for African Literature. Sharon’s home is in Toronto, Canada.
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