For Mamma, with all my love
Thank you to all my family, Brenda Bowen, Cylin Busby, Nöelle Paffett-Lugassy, Karen Riskin, and Richard Tchen
Angel Talk
The Little Angel of Imagination dipped his brush in black paint and made a circle, leaving a small point of white in the center. He added lashes.
The Archangel of Imagination came up beside him. “What a beautiful eye. What kind of animal will it be?”
“A horse. I’m painting a horse race.”
“Really? I didn’t know you like horses.”
“I don’t like them, I love them,” said the Little Angel of Imagination. “My favorite pastime is hanging around the farms where they train racehorses.” The little angel used brown to fill in the rest of the horse’s head around that shining eye. Long, slender legs pounded the earth. A thick mane and tail trailed in the wind. Finally, he turned and searched through his paints. “Oh, no.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t have the right color for the grass.”
The archangel smiled. “Skip the grass. Just put in a lot of palm trees.”
“But there aren’t any palm trees at this racetrack.”
“So what? It would look great. And you could add those cactuses with the yellow flowers and . . .”
“No way,” said the little angel. “I’m painting a particular race. The Kentucky Derby. And the grass has to be blue-green.”
“Well, how about that aquamarine over there? That looks just like the sea.”
“But the grass in Kentucky isn’t like the sea.” The little angel threw down his brush. “This is so frustrating.”
“Relax. No one will care if you make the grass a slightly different color from how it really is.”
“I’ll care. Everything has to be just right. This is the most important horse race ever. And now I can’t paint it. I’ve got to find something else to do.”
The Archangel of Imagination picked up the paintbrush and carefully cleaned it in the jar of water. She held it out to the little angel.
The little angel took it without looking her in the face. “That was stupid of me. I got carried away because horses are so wonderful.” He dried the brush with a soft cloth.
“Hmmm. That reminds me . . .” The archangel pulled a book out of the folds of her gown and flipped through the pages. “Yes, here it is. Oh, little angel, have I got a treat for you.”
“What?” The Little Angel of Imagination closed up his tray of paints and turned to the archangel expectantly.
“Someone who needs help badly. And you’re just the right angel to give it.”
“A lot of help?” asked the little angel. “Enough to earn the rest of my feathers?”
“Absolutely,” said the archangel.
“Can I choose the kind of bell that will ring when I get my wings?” asked the Little Angel of Imagination. “Because if I can, I want the bell that rings at the beginning of a horse race.”
The archangel laughed. “We’ll see, little angel. We’ll see.”
TV
“Louie!”
Louie didn’t look up from the TV. He stayed super quiet, hoping Mamma wouldn’t figure out where he was.
“Louie!” Mamma called again. He heard her footsteps.
Louie got up off the couch and ran for the stairs. If he shut himself in the bathroom, no one would bother him. Then he could go back down to the TV once Mamma had given up on him.
Mamma beat him to the stairs. “Didn’t you hear the phone ring?”
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you answer it, then? I was busy and by the time I got to the phone, they’d hung up.”
“Next time, answer faster,” said Louie.
“Louie, it’s almost always for you.”
“No it isn’t.”
“It used to be.” Mamma looked thoughtful. “Why don’t you call someone and go play?”
“I don’t want to play.”
“You’re getting addicted to that TV.”
Louie didn’t answer. It was true. So what?
“Please, honey. You’ve got to get outside and have fun.”
“TV is fun.”
“What’s fun about it?”
“I always know what the characters are going to do.”
“That’s fun? That’s boring,” said Mamma.
“For you, maybe. I like it.”
Mamma’s shoulders slumped. She looked sad. “Will you please go call Sean? Do it for me, okay?”
Louie went into the kitchen. His little brother, Willard, was kneeling on a chair, mashing up bananas in a bowl. Willard grinned at Louie. Louie picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Hello.” It was Sean.
“Hi,” said Louie. “What’s up?”
“I’m getting some guys together for D and D.” Sean hesitated. Finally, he asked, “Want to play?”
“I’m busy,” said Louie.
“Okay.”
“Bye,” said Louie. He hung up.
“That was rude, Louie,” said Mamma.
“No it wasn’t.”
“Poor Sean. You call him up, then you say you’re busy. You never see him anymore.”
“He didn’t really want to play with me,” said Louie.
“What a thing to say. He’s your best friend.”
“Sean likes role-playing games. You know, like Dungeons and Dragons.”
“What’s that?”
“He makes up adventures and quests and junk I’m not good at.”
Mamma laughed. “How can you not be good at a game?”
Mamma had no idea. Sean made up wild, dangerous adventures, and Louie just ruined the whole game by having the character do something stupid and ordinary like break an arm. Louie could never think of anything exciting. “I like TV.” He walked out of the kitchen to the family room.
Mamma followed him and caught him by the arm. “Listen, Louie, you’ve been sitting in front of this TV all morning. You even ate your lunch here. That’s enough. You’re going to play with Willard now.”
“Willard?” Louie almost fell backward in shock.
Mamma made a little tsk. “I’ve got to take your grandmother to the beauty parlor this afternoon, and we have guests coming to dinner, and . . .”
“Who’s coming to dinner?” Louie asked in alarm. “You didn’t invite those people with the mean kids again, did you?”
“The Fords. And their kids aren’t mean. They’re just a little. . . I don’t know. . . exuberant.”
“I hate them.”
Mamma screwed up her mouth. “Well, maybe this time you’ll like them. Anyway, I need you to play with Willard while I work on dinner for a while.”
“If you cook dinner now, it’ll be cold and rotten by the time everyone gets here,” said Louie. “On the other hand, then maybe they’ll never come again.”
“Don’t be a wise guy. I have to chop things and make the dessert and, well, you know, Louie. Just help me, okay?”
“I’ll chop things. You play with Willard.”
“Louie, you need to play. Come on.”
“I hate playing with Willard, Mamma.”
“You seem to hate everything today.”
“No I don’t. But I can’t play with Willard. What can I play with a three-year-old?”
“He’s almost four.”
“I’m a zillion times older than him.”
“That’s not true. Anyway, this is a ridiculous conversation. You’re going to play with Willard so that I can get some things done, and that’s that.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Well, hurry up. I need you.” Mamma kissed Louie on the cheek. “Look, I don’t know why you’ve gotten into this TV thing, but it needs to be in modera
tion. You’ve spent every weekend on that couch for the past couple of months.”
“It’s not like a disease, Mamma. It’s not going to kill me.”
“Maybe not, but it’s not doing anything good for you, either. Playing is good for you.”
“How?” said Louie.
“I don’t want an argument. I’ve got to have your help right now. Just a couple of hours.”
“You don’t really need me. A moment ago you were encouraging me to go off and play with Sean. Now you’re saying you need me just because you think it’s good for me to play.”
“I do need you, Louie. Your father had to go into the office today, and there’s no one else to help me. Please,” Mamma whispered.
“Oh, all right.” Louie sighed and followed Mamma back into the kitchen. He looked at Willard.
Willard grinned at Louie.
“Why do you always grin at me, Willard?”
“I love you.”
“Oh.” Louie loved Willard, too. He just didn’t want to play with him. “All right. We have to play. What do you want to do, Willard?”
“Cook.”
Louie looked at Mamma. “He should help you, Mamma.”
Mamma took an odd-looking vegetable out of the refrigerator. “You two go play somewhere. Somewhere besides the kitchen.”
“Come on, Willard, let’s go upstairs to your room.”
“No.” Willard climbed off the chair and ran out the back door.
“Mamma,” said Louie.
“Hurry up,” said Mamma. “Scoot.”
Angel Talk
I’m not the Little Angel of Friendship or the Little Angel of Patience,” said the Little Angel of Imagination. “I’m just me. Louie has too many problems for one angel.”
“Are you having a crisis of confidence?” asked the Archangel of Imagination.
“No. But I can only help with imagination.” The little angel took out his sketch pad and drew the outline of Louie’s face.
“Somehow Louie has lost his imagination; that’s his problem. Why do you think he doesn’t want to play with his brother?” asked the archangel.
“Little brothers can be annoying,” said the Little Angel of Imagination, filling in Louie’s hair on the drawing.
“What about not wanting to play with his friend?”
“Maybe he’s going through a shy stage,” said the little angel. He erased Louie’s nose— it was too small.
“Really? Do you remember the reason he gave his mother for not playing with Sean?”
“He said Sean likes role-playing games, and he’s not good at them,” said the little angel. He put down his pencil. “Ah, I see: Role-playing games take a lot of imagination. Maybe you’re right. But playing with a little brother doesn’t take imagination.”
“Oh, doesn’t it?” The Archangel of Imagination gave a small smile. “How long has it been since you played with a little kid?”
“Too long,” said the little angel slowly.
“I know what you mean.” The Archangel of Imagination looked wistful for a moment.
“Are you sure this is really a job for me?” asked the Little Angel of Imagination. “His mother seems to be working on him pretty good. Maybe she’ll do everything that should be done.”
“I think you can add a lot. And, besides, I think you’ll have fun on this job. After all, you did say you like horses, didn’t you?”
“This has something to do with horses?” The Little Angel of Imagination smiled wide. “When do we get to the horse part?”
“Now.”
Stewball
Willard ran straight for the doghouse. The dog was sleeping behind it in the shade of the huge old tree, like always. “Wake up, Stewball.” Willard leaned over Stewball and shouted in her ear. “Time to play.”
The dog opened her eyes and looked groggily at Willard.
Louie got on his knees and searched around under the bushes. “Here’s the soccer ball.”
“I can’t play soccer,” said Willard.
“Stewball can.” Louie kicked the ball.
Stewball ran scrambling after it.
Willard clapped his hands and laughed.
Louie played with Stewball till the old dog collapsed in a heap.
“My turn,” said Willard. He straddled Stewball.
The dog groaned.
“What are you doing?” Louie dribbled the ball in a circle.
“I’m riding her.” Willard bounced high. “Get up, doggie. Gallop.”
“Dogs don’t gallop.” Louie balanced the ball on top of his toes, then flipped it straight up. When it came down, he butted it with his head.
“Stewball’s a horse,” said Willard.
“She’s a dog.”
“She’s a horse,” said Willard. “She gallops.”
“Oh, yeah? Stay right here.” Louie ran to the back door and peeked in the kitchen. Mamma was on the phone and she was writing something on a pad of paper. Louie tiptoed inside, opened the freezer, took an ice-cream sandwich, and tiptoed back outside.
Willard was waiting for him at the door, eyes huge.
Louie walked over to Stewball. “Here, girl, smell this.” He unwrapped the ice cream and held it in front of Stewball’s nose.
Stewball opened one eye. She sniffed hard.
Louie held the ice cream higher.
Stewball stood up and ate the ice-cream sandwich.
“She’s up,” said Louie. “Let’s see you try to gallop her.”
Willard grabbed a huge clump of Stewball’s hair in each hand and thrashed his legs around until he managed to get all the way onto her back.
The dog wobbled and sat down.
Willard slid off.
“Willard,” called Mamma from the window. “Don’t sit on Stewball.”
“I’m riding her,” said Willard.
“People can’t ride dogs. Stewball isn’t big enough.”
“I told you,” said Louie.
“Feed her more ice cream,” called Willard.
“Ice cream?” Mamma came to the back door. “Louie, is that what you got when you snuck into the kitchen?”
“Huh?” Louie dribbled the soccer ball all around Willard. “Why’d you tell on me?” he said out of the side of his mouth.
“Ice cream, ice cream,” called Willard. “Feed Stewball and she’ll get big. Then I can ride her.” He hugged Stewball.
Mamma walked out into the yard and picked up the ice-cream wrapper. “Louie, did you feed the dog an ice-cream sandwich?”
“She needed it,” said Louie. He kicked the ball against the side of the garage.
“Louie, don’t break a window. And I don’t buy ice-cream sandwiches so you can feed them to the dog.”
“She liked it,” said Willard.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Mamma. “Ice cream is people food. Dogs eat dog food.” She gave Stewball a scratch behind the ears. “Good old dog.”
“Good old horse,” said Willard.
“That’s why I can’t play with Willard, Mamma. He’s doesn’t know anything. He thinks Stewball’s a horse.”
“Willard, no matter what, you can’t sit on Stewball, and Louie . . .” Mamma turned to Louie with an open mouth. Then she shook her head. “I’m in a rush. Just play.”
Angel Talk
You were right about Louie’s problems,” said the Little Angel of Imagination. “But this doesn’t have anything to do with horses.”
“Not real horses, no,” said the archangel. “But I’m sure you don’t have any trouble imagining the horse inside that dog.”
“Actually, a dog isn’t all that much like a horse,” said the little angel. “Horses have hooves, and their tails are long strands of hair, and their heads . . .”
“Wait a minute,” said the Archangel of Imagination. “Are you telling me you can’t pretend a dog is a horse?”
“Well, when you put it that way, sure, I can pretend. But Louie obviously can’t.”
“So help him,” said t
he Archangel of Imagination.
“No,” said the little angel. “Stewball can’t even carry Willard around. The last thing we need is for Louie to start seeing the dog as a horse and for him to climb on, too. He’d crush the dog.”
“Then you have to find another solution.”
“The perfect solution.” The Little Angel of Imagination rubbed at a paint stain on his hand. “I’ll do my best.”
The Sandbox
“Go play in your sandbox,” said Louie.
Willard grinned. He ran to the sandbox and dug happily.
Louie kicked the soccer ball against the side of the garage.
“Louie, I told you not to do that,” Mamma called from the kitchen window. “You’ll break a window. Go play with Willard in the sandbox.”
If you’re so rushed, Louie thought, how do you have time to spy on me? He dribbled the ball over to the sandbox. “What are you making, Willard?”
Willard looked up and grinned. “A horse-food bowl.” He ran to the bottom of the oak tree. He came back with both hands full, and dumped leaves and twigs and acorns into the sand bowl. “Here, Stewball. Eat.”
Stewball lifted her head and looked lazily toward the sandbox.
“Here, Stewball,” Willard called again in the same tone Mamma used when she called Stewball to dinner.
Stewball stood up and walked over. She looked at the mess in the sandbox and walked away.
“Dogs won’t eat leaves and junk like that,” said Louie. He went to kick the sand bowl, but as he drew back his foot, it stuck there in midair, as though someone were holding it. “What?” He wiggled his ankle until his foot felt okay. Then he looked again at the sand bowl. “When I was little, I used to dig all the time,” he said.
“What did you make?” asked Willard.
Louie got on his knees and dug a deep hole. He made a high wall all around it.
“Oh, it’s big,” said Willard. “Now it’s a real horse-food bowl.”
“No, it’s not,” said Louie. “It’s a wishing well.”
“What’s a wishing well?”
“You close your eyes and throw in a coin and make a wish.”
Playing Games Page 1
