by Joan Bauer
“She’s a cranberry, lady!” That’s my dad.
“Well, excuse me!” the woman says.
Small Dumb Move, Dad. I put my hand up for Dad to cool down.
Dad starts laughing. I put my arm around the lady and pose.
Herb moves into place with his camera. “Everybody smile.”
Yeah, I know about smiling.
They get my extreme cranberry grin.
Click.
I give her a coupon.
“You look like a raisin,” she says, and glares at Dad.
Fred Dimsdale groans at this news. Raisins are his big competition.
Thinking quickly, Lorenzo shouts. “But can a raisin do this?”
He points to me and I do a cartwheel, which isn’t easy in a cranberry suit. We’ve added a lot of new moves. I don’t land too well, but everyone’s applauding.
People are coming over to dance with me and get their pictures taken.
Fred Dimsdale is happy.
Dad is as happy.
The drama coach from the high school is smiling. This is good.
Mom walks up carrying shopping bags. Dad looks less than happy that she’s bought so much stuff.
Let it go, Dad.
I run over, put my arm around him.
He laughs again
I wish Mim were here. But I picture her in her garden. I picture her heart getting stronger.
I wish Kim Su were here. I have a feeling that one of these days she could be a very good dancing cranberry, and I don’t say that about just anybody.
I look out at the faces and, for a minute, I don’t just see a crowd, I see people, real people, and I wonder where they’re happy and where they hurt and what things do they keep down inside and what do they love most. And being in the cranberry suit helps me look at them in a different way.
Some kids run up to me, and we jump up and down on the little stage in front of the Wide World of Cranberries store.
Two of them giggle and run back to their parents, but a small boy with sad eyes looks up at me and quietly says, “My dog is sick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She’s pretty old. She sleeps by my bed.”
“She must love you a lot.”
He bites his lip and nods. Then he hugs me. “Thanks, cranberry.”
He runs off.
I pass out more coupons. People like them, but here’s what I’d like to pass out instead.
What I Learned This Summer by Anna McConnell
Pay attention to what’s going on around you.
Trust your instincts.
If you see something, say something.
Don’t be afraid to do something BIG.
Listen to people, really listen, and figure out how you can help.
Lorenzo taps his button: I’M WITH THE CRANBERRY.
But if I was wearing a button, I’d want mine to read: TELL ME.
Tell me what’s going on with you.
Tell me what’s wrong; how I can help?
Fred Dimsdale is talking to Dad.
“You’ve got a great girl there.”
“I know.”
I waddle over. Mr. Dimsdale says, “You seem older than when you left. You’ve added a new depth. Look at this crowd.”
“I learned a lot this summer, sir.”
“Use it, kid.”
I will.
I go up to a sad-looking old man and bow. How can I make you smile?
That old man takes my hand and he twirls me around like we’re on a dance floor, and I am thankful that my mother forced me to go to ballroom dancing for those six agonizing weeks.
People clap, and then he bows to me and he goes into the store.
Then I go up to my dad and bow. I take his hand.
“I don’t dance, Anna.”
He said this at the father/daughter dance.
“Try, Dad.”
“Uh . . .”
“You just do this . . . see? ”
Dad doesn’t right off.
“No, look, you go one, two, three, one, two, three . . .”
Our dance isn’t smooth like when I danced with the old man who knew the moves, but that’s okay.
“Let’s give it up for the cranberry and her father,” Lorenzo shouts.
I smile at Dad and he grins at me.
And we dance in front of the Wide World of Cranberries store as the people applaud.
Epilogue
The day after my birthday, I thought I saw her at the grocery store.
A thin girl with straight, dark hair in a ponytail with a yellow scrunchie.
I ran up to her, but it wasn’t Kim Su.
All last summer I kept her in my heart, hoping.
It’s hard to turn that off; it’s not like switching off a light and leaving a room.
I used to think that being brave happened instantly.
You take a big leap and don’t look back.
But being brave also happens when you take small steps,
Even unsure steps.
Sometimes it takes a lot of courage to be who you are.
—Anna M. McConnell, age 13, Philadelphia
WITH THANKS TO:
Marie Holm, a coordinator for women and girls at risk in Orange County, California, whose work gave me the seeds of the idea for this novel.
Kally Reynolds, a coach and mentor to women at risk in Phoenix, Arizona, for her insights and inspiration.
U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Department of Homeland Security, for their assistance in helping me authenticate this story.
John Hurley, Artistic Director of the Ready, Set, Go Theater Company, who shared his experience training and loving horses.
Jean Bauer (also known as my daughter), who helped me understand the connection between a horse and its human.
Chris Blair, my assistant, who keeps things humming.
Rita, Laura, and JoAnn, dear pals who never waiver.
And special thanks to Regina Hayes, my editor and friend.
