by Joan Bauer
“I just think I should be there, Bean, but nobody else does. What do you think?” I throw the disgusting ball. He catches it and brings it back. “There’s hard stuff in the world, Bean.” I throw the ball, Bean jumps up and catches it. “Nice one, boy.” I’m about to throw the ball again when another tennis ball rolls past me on the ground. Bean jumps on it, wags his tail, and brings the tennis ball back to Taylor.
What’s she doing here?
“I got bored,” Taylor says.
I smile and throw my ball and Taylor throws her ball. Bean is in dog heaven chasing balls and bringing them back again and again.
Taylor shakes her head. “This dog has OCD.” She throws her ball. Bean races off to get it. “I heard about the matchbook, Anna.” Bean brings the ball back. Taylor throws it.
“Mim says the nail salon opened a year ago,” I mention. “That’s all she knows. She doesn’t get manicures.”
I look up to the roof. That’s where I need to be. “Come on,” I tell Taylor. We climb the ladder to the roof deck.
“Okay, this is amazing,” Taylor says.
I throw her a big pillow. “Secret thinking space.”
Taylor looks at me, thinking. “How are you doing?”
“I’m not so good at waiting.”
“Lost kids have been found based on the tiniest bit of information, Anna.”
“I know.”
I watch a leaf blow by, dancing on the wind. “Why did you pick missing kids for your report?”
“It’s complicated.” She sighs. “When my mom died, I kind of lost my dad, too, because he didn’t know how to be with me. I just felt like I was missing—a missing girl—and I did the report on missing kids. It was one of the things that helped me. I learned that we have to pay attention to things around us—things that don’t feel right.
“You know what you get working with horses? You get this new ability to watch and listen, because a horse is always giving you clues as to how it’s feeling. And, it’s funny, working with Zoe—who was scared a lot in the beginning, and I was scared, too—I came to see that my dad was scared. I just thought he was cold and selfish, but he was scared. He didn’t know what to do.” She looks at me.
I never once thought of my dad as being scared.
Taylor shakes her head. “Here’s one of my worse Dad memories. I had to dance with him at his wedding with everyone looking on. I wanted to just burst into tears.”
I close my eyes. “I know.” I had a bad dance with my dad, an almost dance, actually, at an awful father/daughter fundraiser. Awful because Dad doesn’t dance and didn’t want to. Awful because so many kids had to dredge up a father substitute for the party. Awful because he and Mom had a big fight before we left.
I always wanted a do-over dance with Dad.
“Did you ever want a different father, Taylor?”
She leans back on her arms and stares straight ahead. “Lots of times.”
“Is it bad to want that?”
“It’s honest.”
“Did you ever have one picked out?”
“Not exactly. Do you?”
I mention Carla Strawlings’s dad, who is a widower and a vet and the kindest man I know.
“Vets are excellent role models. My grandma is a vet—retired now. Totally awesome. After Mom died, my dad kept asking me, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ like I was supposed to not be sad. But when I came here, my grandma kept telling me what was right with me and how to build on that.”
I blurt out, “I’m scared my parents are going to get divorced.”
“Whatever happens, you’ll be okay.”
“How do you know that?”
She puts her hands behind her head and looks at the clouds moving across the big sky. “Because you’re fierce.”
I am?
“You can handle anything that comes.”
I put my hands behind my head, too, and smile.
Then from the garden I hear, “Are you up there?”
It’s Mim, motioning me down.
Taylor and I crawl back to earth on the ladder.
Something’s wrong. Mim looks pale. “What happened?” I ask.
“Not much. Brad called the sheriff, who said that Star Nails is run by a man who gives to local charities. . . . He’s an upstanding member of the community. . . .”
“What about the girl?”
Mim shakes her head. “The sheriff said his office would continue to look into it.”
“We’re not trusting the sheriff to do that, right?”
“I don’t trust him to do much on this,” Mim agrees, “if anything.”
Taylor looks at her hands. “My nails are a mess.”
I look at her hands. They just look regular to me.
Taylor smiles. “I need a manicure. I hear there’s a nail salon on Rose Street run by an upstanding member of the community.”
Sixteen
I’ve never had a manicure, but I decide not to confess.
“Is this a good idea?” I ask from the backseat
“It’s an idea.” Mim drives down Rose Street.
Past Crudup’s Country Market with the smiling face of Coleman Crudup on a big sign.
Past Crudup’s Corner with another big sign: a smiling Coleman Crudup looking at a cow who looks pretty happy, too.
Past the big sign that mentions there are three other Crudup markets in the five-mile area.
Mim drives past Mabel’s Place and parks across the street in front of Star Nails.
My heart is racing.
I half expect to see a van with a ripped American flag sticker parked in front, just to make things really clear. I look at the Star Nails building—small and white, with steps leading to a porch. The front door has a silver star on it. I look at the upstairs windows. The pink curtains are closed.
Taylor adjusts her sunglasses. “We are undercover. My name is Bianca.”
Oh please.
“You, Anna, are Tess.”
“I don’t want to—”
“And, Mim, you’re—”
“Tired.”
We get out of the car.
“Remember everything,” Taylor whispers.
“And if at any point one of us doesn’t feel safe, we all leave,” Mim mentions. “Agreed?”
Agreed.
“Be exceptionally normal,” Taylor adds. “And, if possible, boring, so we can blend in.”
Mim smiles. “I’m not sure this group is capable of boring.”
We walk up the steps, through the pink door with the silver star on it, and into a large room where Asian women are sitting at tables doing nails.
A smiling man walks up. “Family plan?” he asks, laughing.
Taylor elbows me and we start laughing.
“Three manicures,” Mim tells him.
“Pick color.”
Mim, who doesn’t go wild, picks clear, I pick Whisper Pink, and Taylor, after what seems like ages, goes for a glittering red called Crimson Sparkle.
“Will this color glow in the dark?” Taylor asks the man, who doesn’t laugh.
I’m looking at every face in this place. I don’t see the girl. I’m the only official girl here. Taylor is massively mature.
“Sit, please,” the man says to me. He smiles big. He has a gold tooth. “You sad girl today?”
“No, I’m just . . .”
“She’s an actor,” Taylor explains. “You know. Moody.”
Thanks.
He doesn’t know moody.
“Everybody happy here,” he shouts, and the women who are doing manicures look up and smile. “We make you star,” he tells me. “Okay?”
“Sure,” I say. I’m looking around for the lady I saw in the van. She isn’t here either.
Maybe this whole thing is
a joke. Maybe nothing I thought I saw was right.
Mim has one hand soaking in a little bowl.
“What’s your name?” she asks the young woman who is cutting her nails.
I can’t hear what that woman says.
We’re supposed to leave if anyone doesn’t feel safe, right?
Except we don’t have a signal for that.
Taylor shakes her head at me.
And that means what?
A nail lady in a pink Star Nails shirt examines my hands. She rubs them.
“Soft,” she says.
“Thank you.”
My nails are supershort and jagged.
“Bite?” she asks.
“I’m sorry?”
She touches my nails. “You bite?”
“Oh, yes, sometimes. It’s a bad habit.”
“No bite,” she says. “Pretty.”
She rubs stuff on my nails. I can hear Taylor say, “So where are you from?”
“Vietnam,” her nail person answers.
I don’t know what to say to my lady.
Seen any girls with baby animal eyes lately?
“Wow,” Taylor is saying, “I’ve always wanted to visit your country. How long have you been here?”
The woman looks nervously at the man, who comes over. “Girls come to be Americans.” He points to an American flag above the cash register. “Very proud.”
I gulp. My brain goes to the PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN sticker on the van.
I don’t look at Taylor or Mim or anyone.
“Relax hand,” my nail lady says.
“I’m sorry.”
“I love Vietnamese food.” That’s Taylor. “Totally love it.”
“You like?” her lady asks.
“The sandwiches, the spring rolls. To die for.”
“No die.” The man laughs. “Happy!”
The women look up smiling and look back down. The man claps his hands. “Happy!”
I try to memorize every corner of this salon, every face.
“Relax hand,” my nail lady says.
“Sorry.”
“I drive here every week from Colton,” a woman tells Mim. “Best manicure around.”
The man smiles at her. “Good customer!”
Sure is happy here, although it doesn’t seem real.
“I’m here from San Francisco,” Taylor lies. “Have you been there?”
Her nail lady shrugs and looks down.
My nails are looking good—smooth and even. The lady gives me a hand massage and I feel my muscles relax a little.
“Tight,” she says, rubbing my thumbs.
“I guess.”
More customers come in. Every seat is taken.
The lady paints my nails with Whisper Pink. I love it. She’s so careful, like an artist painting. She puts on another coat.
“You star now,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“Happy!” The man claps.
I put my hands under the dryer. Another lady comes over and gives me a magazine.
“Thank you.”
“Nice,” she says.
I look at her. She has the biggest eyes. Really huge eyes.
“Nice,” she says again.
I look down at the magazine, it’s open to a page with pictures of shoes that have such high heels, they look like they’d kill a person.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
There’s nothing happening here that I can see.
Nothing that points to this girl.
The nail lady with the big eyes is watching me.
I just want to leave, okay?
We don’t exactly have a signal for that!
Taylor and Mim aren’t paying attention to me. Mim is talking to the woman next to her like she has all the time in the world. Taylor is lying away: “Yes, I have a career on the stage, but I try to be balanced. I can’t say yes to everything.”
“Happy!”
I don’t think so!
Seventeen
“Shhhh.” Taylor holds up her hand as we walk across the street from Star Nails. “Appear normal.”
“You’re talking about a life on the stage and living in San Francisco!”
Mim points to Mabel’s Cafe.
“And what about that happy guy?” I whisper. “And the way all the nail ladies looked up and smiled when he said it and looked back down?”
“Shhh.”
“I’m way past that!”
My phone rings. It’s Mom.
Big Bad Timing.
Appear normal.
I don’t want to go home.
“Hi, Mom,” I chirp.
Taylor turns around and mouths, Be careful.
“What am I doing? Oh, gee . . . well . . .”
Looking for criminals.
You know, the normal stuff kids do when they visit their grandmother.
“We got manicures, Mom.”
“Really? I don’t picture your grandmother being the manicure type.”
Mim walks into Mabel’s Place.
“We’re going to eat, Mom.”
Do I sound as stressed as I feel?
“Good. Are you relaxing?” Mom asks.
“Wow, you know, it’s just amazing what’s happening to my muscles here, Mom.” I rub my sore neck.
“I’m glad, Anna. You seemed pretty tense when you left.”
You should see me now!
“Well, there’s not much to report here, honey. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“How are you, Mom? Really.”
“Really? . . . Oh, my. Well, I’m glad to not be fighting with your dad all the time. I miss you and the house.” She sighs. “And I am really eating too much ice cream.”
I laugh. “Go for it, Mom.”
“Don’t worry. I am.”
I tell her, “I’m okay. I want you to know that.”
Mom says, “Well, if things gets boring, you can always come home.”
“Boring,” I assure her, “hasn’t happened yet.”
Mabel’s smells like caramel rolls—that’s their specialty. They are huge and we each get one.
Taylor is examining her nails. “This is the best manicure I’ve ever had.”
We sit at a table out back, eating our gooey rolls. It’s hard to talk about something bad when you’re eating something so good.
I’m trying to remember what I saw. On my napkin I write:
Happy!
NOT
The deputy who did zilch for us is at a table drinking coffee. Now he’s picking his teeth.
I write:
74
16
12
102
102 is the combined years Mim, Taylor, and I have been on the earth. We’ve seen a lot in that time.
One of the things I’ve seen is this: when something feels wrong, pay attention, and speak up.
“Everything in that place,” I begin, “felt strange.”
“I think we should go back,” Taylor suggests, “and get pedicures.”
I don’t want people touching my feet, and I sure don’t want to go back there!
Mim sips her coffee. “What’s the purpose of that?”
Taylor holds up a piece of gooey roll—the caramel drips down. “To observe.”
“We just did that,” I say.
“But now we know what to look for.” Taylor pulls her roll apart.
“What would we see that we didn’t see?”
The deputy now is scratching his neck, not looking for anybody.
On the napkin, I draw a picture of a van with a girl’s head looking out the window. Taylor grabs the napkin and the pen. “She had big eyes, right?”
“Bambi eyes.” She draws those.
I take the napkin back and write above the picture.
HAVE YOU SEEN HER?
I’m not letting this go.
Coleman Crudup isn’t letting things go either.
He’s creeping around town trying to become the sponsor for the festival.
“Sorry,” Mim tells him.
The parade is six days away. I’m going to march as a petunia, but also be a deputy petal person and manage twelve little kids dressed as flowers.
He wants to “donate” money so that his daughter’s band (that’s the middle school jazz band) can have the number one slot in the parade. He’ll buy all the flowers for his stores from Mim if she’ll just “bend a little.”
“No, sir,” says Mim.
There’s an ugly side to a flower festival.
At the library, I hear Caitlin apologize to Ben. “Daddy always wants me to be first. I told him, I don’t want that!”
Points for Caitlin.
Coleman Crudup is meeting with the mayor, meeting with the tourism council, running ads in the newspapers of nearby towns all to promote “our little festival.”
“He’s hitting everywhere at once,” Burke explains. “He’s giving donations to every organization in town who’ll take it.”
“How many take the money?” Taylor asks.
“More than we’d like.”
Flower madness hits Rosemont. Big trucks delivering flowers for the festival are everywhere in town. In the old factory building, an air-conditioning truck pushes cold air into the huge space to keep the thousands of flowers fresh. People wear crazy flower hats; Merv, who oversees the float building in the hanger, wears a cowboy hat with plastic flowers that blink.
This town is getting ready.
I am, too.
I’m back in the petunia suit, by the front door of the library, when Coleman Crudup marches in. He looks at me and laughs. I curtsey. I’m supposed to be adorable to everyone.
“You’re Mim’s granddaughter, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.” I do a twirl. “But today I am a petunia.”
