Close to Famous (16 page)

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Authors: Joan Bauer

BOOK: Close to Famous
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Now he knew I couldn't read.
He'd probably tell everybody!
Like Daddy learned in the army, I could stay and fight or leave without too many casualties. “I've gotta go,” I said, and headed toward the door.
“Foster,” Miss Charleena said, “wait!”
Reading had caused me enough wounds. I was outta here.
“Foster!”
I ran past Macon, not looking at him. He was laughing at me, probably, thinking I was stupid.
I ran out the back door and raced down the hill. I heard the awful siren blaring from the prison. I was in my own kind of jail where the gates lock tight, and no matter what, you just can't get out.
Twenty-Two
I WAS BREATHING hard when I got to the main road. I was remembering, too, all the way back to first grade when I got put in the lowest reading group, the Daisies. Some kids called us the Dandelions.
“Dandelions, dumb dandelions,” they'd shout.
I ran toward Fish Hardware, remembering the guy who worked at the ice cream place in Nashville, who sneered at me when I said I wanted chocolate. He pointed to a big board. “What kind of chocolate?” I didn't know, I didn't care, I just wanted to get out of there. So I ran off, just like now.
“If you applied yourself, Foster . . .” Mrs. Ritter always told me.
I only knew about applying glue to something to make it stick. Applying myself to school seemed like school would stick all over me and never come off.
“What in the world are we going to do with you?” Mrs. Ritter asked.
I could think of a few things.
Take it easy on me.
Teach me different.
Care about me just a little.
So many times that year I wanted to shout, “It's not like I'm waking up in the morning and trying to mess up. I just don't get it!”
And now Macon knew.
I got to Fish Hardware. Mama always said if I was ever in need she'd drop everything.
I walked inside past brooms and hammers and lightbulbs and tools of every kind. I walked past Amy.
“Hi, Foster.”
I didn't say hi back.
“Are you okay?”
I shook my head. I heard Mama's voice coming from the back.
“If I were you, I'd paint it a deep blue and use this bright white paint on the windows and ceiling. That room will pop like you can't believe!”
I walked over to where Mama was talking to a big woman who had her back to me. “Hi there,” Mama said to me.
I started crying. I didn't mean to, honest.
“Baby, what's wrong?”
Amy headed over. The big woman turned around.
It was that principal, Mrs. Dupree!
That made me cry harder.
“Foster,” Mama said. “What happened?”
Mrs. Dupree stared at me, waiting for my answer.
“We can't live in this town anymore!” I shouted. “We can't!”
I pulled the sheet around my bed. It wasn't much of a place to hide. I felt like I did when I was little, throwing a sheet over a table and sitting underneath it. I needed a fort where nobody could reach me. Normally when I'd get upset, I'd hug Daddy's pillowcase and it would make me feel a little better.
All I had was a sleeping pillowcase with nothing special inside. I threw it on the floor.
I hated Huck!
“Foster.” It was Mama. “Someone's here to see you.”
“I can't see anyone right now.”
I heard a girl's voice say, “I'll just leave them here, Mrs. McFee.”
I dried my face on my shirt and pushed the curtain back. Amy was standing there holding the prettiest flowers. “I thought these might make you feel better, Foster.”
“That's so nice. I'm sorry I ran out.”
“Everybody has bad days.” She looked around the Bullet. “This is so cool. You have your own inner sanctum.”
Amy and I had a chocolate cupcake, and it didn't take long before I told her I wanted to be the first kid on the Food Network.
“The way I've got it figured, the cooking world needs a famous kid chef who isn't afraid to stir things up. That's a cooking joke.”
She laughed. “I can see you doing that, Foster! I've got a dream, too, but it's dumb.”
“Dreams aren't dumb.”
“Well,” she whispered. “I want to be a singer.”
I told her about Mama.
“I've heard her singing to herself, Foster, and I thought, she's so good!”
“You should talk to her about it.”
“I couldn't . . . I mean, I could. I'm brave about hardware, but singing is so personal.”
She needed some coaching. “Look, you can't wait for people to come to you. You've got to get out there and make your own breaks.”
She looked down nervously.
“I've been at this awhile. It takes time.”
I told her about my NEVER, NEVER, NEVER GIVE UP sign that I had back in Memphis. I didn't mention that I tore it up in sixth grade after Johnny Joe Badger called me the “stupidest girl in Memphis.” There were some pretty stupid girls in that town.
I told her how Eddington Carver and I were watching this ant crawling around trying to carry something twice his size. The ant kept dropping it, but he picked it back up again and again. Eddington counted seventeen times.
“You've got to be like an ant,” I told her.
I told her how it took years for Sonny Kroll to become a famous chef. “Nobody wanted him at first. He wrote letters, he knocked on doors, he made DVDs. Finally, he got a break. And you know what he said? He appreciated it all the more because it didn't come easy.”
I figured that was enough for one day. I also figured I should probably take my own advice.
Mama, Kitty, and Lester were standing outside the Bullet as Amy left. Something didn't feel right. As Amy headed down the road, Mama said, “Lester heard something on the news, Baby.”
“What?”
Lester put his hands in his pockets and sighed. “Well, this cook you love so much, Sonny Kroll. I'm sorry to tell you, but it seems like he was in a bad accident.”
I felt a bolt go through me.
“He got knocked off his motorcycle, and he's in the hospital. He's in critical care.”
“No!”
“He's in a hospital in California,” Lester added.
“
He's not going to die!”
“Honey, I don't know. They said on the news he's in a coma.”
“
People can get better from that, right?”
Lester nodded. “Sometimes.”
“
But sometimes means yes, right
?”
Tears ran down my face.
Don't die on me, Sonny. Don't die.
It was late. I couldn't sleep. Sonny always wore a helmet when he rode that bike. I pictured him lying by the side of the road.
I can't just lie here.
I went to the kitchen quietly and looked at his cookbook. I got a piece of paper and a pen. The clock read 11:38 P.M. How come I could read a clock and not a book? How come I could write my name and not a letter?
This is what I wanted to write:
Dear Sonny,
 
I never wanted to be good at writing the way I do now. If I was good, I' d write you a poem about all you've given me. You've brought so many ingredients into my life. You've taught me to be brave and to always share what I've got with other people. You're not just a cook, you're my friend, and I want you to know I'm cheering for you here in West Virginia to get better. I want you to know that I'm only twelve, but I've been watching your show for five years, since my daddy died. I want you to know that I think you're close to the best man I know.
Your #1 Fan,
Foster McFee, soon to be seen on Cooking with Foster
But I didn't know how to write all that down. Slowly, I wrote what I could:
Deer Sonny
 
U R not a loan.
Twenty-Three
I WALKED UP to Miss Charleena's back door carrying the cookbook. I didn't care who answered. I didn't care if Macon had told the whole world that I couldn't read. I was going to read this cookbook if it killed me.
Macon was watering the flowers. I didn't look at him. I knocked. Miss Charleena answered. I held Sonny's cookbook out to her. I told her about his accident.
“I'm ready to do this now,” I told her. “I'm not going to run away.”

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