How High the Moon (10 page)

When it was almost my turn, I opened my purse and dug around like my offering was on the bottom and I was scooping it up.

Susie made sure everyone saw her fifty-cent piece before she dumped it in, then she handed Charlie the can, instructing him—like Mrs. Fry buzzed off his ears along with his scalp so he couldn’t hear Miss Tuckle’s instructions—and as soon as he dropped his nickel in, she yanked the can out of his hand and reached it around him toward me. I glared at her. “I think Charlie can pass a can without your help,” I said.

I pulled my hand out of my purse, keeping it balled into a fist like it was holding my tithing, and buried it deep in the can. When my knuckles touched the cool bottom, I swirled my fingertips to jingle the money already in it, to make the noise of “my” coins dropping in. Boy, it wasn’t easy, feeling those coins cool against my fingers—including Susie’s fifty-cent piece—knowing that I could
easily lift out enough to pay for the rest of my scooter and save myself a whole bunch of time. But I couldn’t steal from Jesus, even if He’d forgive me as long as I was sorry enough afterward. Borrowing money from Him when I wasn’t coming to Sunday school anyway was one thing, but swiping money out of the offering plate was another.

I felt Miss Tuckle watching me as I passed the can to Robert, and I hoped that she didn’t know I had fake-tithed.

My stomach felt a little weird when Miss Tuckle took the can from Robert. I told myself I’d do better. Promised even. Next week, I told myself, I’d pay Jesus back every penny I borrowed. Even if I had to sell my plastic purse to Jolene to do it. Yep, that’s what I’d do.

“Miss Tuckle?” I said, as I tossed a crayon back into the empty ice cream pail, my picture finished. “Didn’t we have a story about Moby-Dick in one of our lesson plans?”

Miss Tuckle was dabbing up a mess from a tipped-over Styrofoam cup. “Moby-Dick?” she asked as she dropped the soggy purpled napkin into the trash can.

“That’s not a Bible story!” Susie said.

“True,” Miss Tuckle said. “That’s a novel by Herman Melville. Maybe you’re thinking about the story of Jonah and the whale?”

“Probably,” I said, because didn’t that just figure.

Miss Tuckle started telling the story of Jonah, which wasn’t going to help me a bit, but I was polite and waited for her to stop before I asked her how to spell the last name of that Herman guy.

Miss Tuckle thanked us all for coming, especially Charlie, so everybody stared at him all over again. “Have a good week, children, and God bless.”

The air outside felt like a fever after sitting in that cool, musty basement. Charlie and I waggled through the men and ladies who’d just finished church and were coming down the steps after shaking the good reverend’s hand. Every time I saw the church folks, I thought of how respectable they looked in their suits and hats and nice dresses, and every time, I thought about how Teddy
had the same church-look and how he should be standing with them. But maybe things weren’t like they looked at church, either. And maybe Pop was right when he told a customer that church was for sinners. It sure would have explained why Teddy didn’t go (though it didn’t explain why Pop didn’t go), because I doubted that Teddy had sinned a day in his life—well, except for if “Thou shalt not kill” meant cows, too.

“Come on, Charlie, let’s hurry. I want to make sure no one bought my scooter.”

We were halfway across the church parking lot when Miss Tuckle called my name. I stopped and turned, my Jesus picture flapping in my hand as I waited for her to reach me.

Folks in town called Miss Tuckle an old maid because she didn’t have a husband (never even had a boyfriend) even though she was thirty-two years old. Everybody thought that was a shame since she was real nice, even if she wasn’t much of a looker, with the only bumps she had above her waist coming from her shoulder blades, which poked out extra chicken-wing-sharp because she was a sloucher. Still, her face wasn’t all that homely, and she
was
nice. Nice enough that I didn’t want her to know what I’d done and be mad at me. Or worse yet, to tattle if she ever ran into Mrs. Fry again.

“Charlie?” she said when she reached us, her non-Christmas lips smiling. “Could you give us a minute?” Charlie nodded, then just stood there, so Miss Tuckle took my arm and walked me away from Charlie and the sinners.

“I have something for you, Isabella,” she said. She reached out and took my hand, then put a quarter into it and curled my fingers around it. “For the offering plate next Sunday,” she said in a quiet voice filled with so much pity that if she wasn’t my Sunday school teacher or I didn’t like her, I would have been tempted to give her both of my birds. She gave me a proud smile and walked away, her wide skirt rustling in the breeze like angel wings.

“What did she give you?” Charlie asked, probably because he
thought it was a piece of candy. I didn’t answer him. I just ran across the parking lot as fast as I could, hoping that I wasn’t getting the stomach flu or something, because my belly sure wasn’t feeling good.

When we got back to the yard sale, I saw my scooter waiting for me under the card table right where I’d left it. The banana-legged lady had another lady standing next to her with the same bowed legs, so I figured she must be the sister. I sprinted toward their yard like a jackrabbit, that quarter Miss Tuckle gave me burning in my hand like a potato baked to hell-hot.

It sure is amazing
how badly you want to do good after you’ve done something bad. Teddy came home from work that night, and for whatever reason, he came in through the back door, not the front, so he saw my new scooter leaning up against the side of the house. I didn’t lie, I told him the money to buy it came from selling my toys. I just didn’t tell him that the money should have gone to Jesus instead. Sure, I felt guilty after I said it, and that guilt gnawed at me all through supper, right through our nightly game of Scrabble (so that I was even
glad
when I lost). Stayed with me through school the next day, too, so that when school let out and I had to go to the first meeting of the Sunshine Sisters, I didn’t even say
crap
on the inside.

Miss Simon was waiting in the cafeteria, looking smart in a fancy suit with what I knew from listening to the Jackson girls was a pencil skirt, the fabric probably tweed. She stood with her hands folded in front of her while two teenage helpers took the shoulders of us little kids and put us up against the wall like crooks in a lineup.

I stood with my arms tucked behind me, the bricks cool against my butt, doing what all the other Little Sisters were doing—
looking at the Big Sisters (though I was humming a little and I don’t think anybody else was doing that). Boy, those Big Sisters sure were a clean, respectable bunch, with their clothes pretty and matching and their hair all shiny and held back in ponytails or with ribbon headbands. I couldn’t say the same about the rest of us. Me especially.

At least once every season, Mrs. Jackson came out on the steps when I was in their yard and handed me a bag or two of hand-me-downs. I’d bring them home and Teddy would have me bring them to Mrs. Fry, who tugged each item over my head, then made me stand still while she poked straight pins up and down and around the seams so she could “fit them right,” even if when she got done, they didn’t.

Not that I cared one way or another. That is, until I realized that the Big Sisters were watching us, just like we were watching them, and I looked down. Man, how could I not have noticed until then that the hem of my red, white, and blue plaid dress was down past my knees on one side, and up above them on the other? Or that Jolene’s old supposed-to-be-white-but-now-gray sweater was stretched like taffy? I turned in the toes of Jennifer’s scuffed brown shoes and sank closer to the wall.

Back when I was still with my ma, I had long hair halfway down my back—my waist if I stretched it out—but I wanted short hair like hers. So I got ahold of the scissors one morning while she slept, and I cut it short (but for a few clumps of curls I couldn’t reach in the back). When I was done, I sat sidesaddle on the edge of the bathroom sink and sang into the mirror, thinking I looked as glamorous as Donna Reed. But when Ma woke up and saw me, it was plain she didn’t think I looked nice. “Oh, all your pretty curls. Look at them. Just look at them,” she kept saying as she fished my curls out of the sink and swept more off the floor.

The next time I looked in the mirror, I didn’t think I looked beautiful anymore. I thought I looked ugly. That’s how it is when you borrow somebody else’s eyes, I guess. And that’s how it was
when I noticed that the Big Sisters were gawking at us with pity-faces or wrinkled noses as they whispered to each other. Some of them looking like they were trying to decide which one of us might have scabies or fleas or some other dreadful health affliction that might be catchy.

Once we were all in place, Miss Simon clapped her hands to make everybody shut up, then introduced Mrs. Gaylor, who was an older lady, dressed to the nines but walking like her girdle was crushing her. Mrs. Gaylor yammered on and on about the importance of girls having positive role models and all that other hooey I already heard from Mrs. Carlton, then wound down her big blab with a promise that we’d all have a fun, “rewarding” summer filled with “wonderful surprises.” I almost got excited about that part. Until I remembered that Teddy once told me that he had a nice surprise for me, and it turned out to be nothing but milk toast.

Some of the older girls didn’t bother hiding their horrification (which I decided, if it wasn’t a real word, should be) when they saw what Little Sister they were stuck with. Like Tina, who got Mindy Brewer, a bucktoothed girl with a snarl at the back of her head the size of France. Tina cringed like she suddenly smelled dog poop when Mindy stepped forward after her name was called. Just like the Big Sister with curly hair like mine did when she got stuck with Alice Limpkins, the girl who was a flunky—twice over—and
did
have flea bites on her legs in fourth grade.

Lots of those older girls looked upset when their Little Sister stepped away from the wall to join them—but not Brenda Bloom. She only smiled when she called out my name, like she didn’t even notice that I was afflicted. When she put her hand on my shoulder to lead me to a table, I heard one of the Little Sisters behind me say, “That lucky!” And I almost did feel lucky, too. Because Brenda was the prettiest—and probably the nicest—best girl of the bunch of best girls, so getting paired with her was sort of like drawing the best gift under the tree in the classroom Christmas gift exchange.

When we got to the table—Brenda and I on one end, and some
other poor loser like me and a big girl with poufy hair and a shiny necklace sitting across from us—Brenda started paging through her packet for the
GETTING ACQUAINTED
paper. “I didn’t think you’d show up,” she said as she dug.

“Yeah, well I have my reasons,” I said.

Brenda pulled a page out of her folder. “Care to share?”

“Nope,” I said as I gawked around the room.

One thing I noticed right off was that the big Goody Two-shoes girls sat straight, like they had an invisible rope to the ceiling running right through them that came out the tops of their heads. I couldn’t say the same for us afflicted kids, though. The girl sitting to my left was drooped over, her hand holding up her head like it was too heavy to stay up on its own, which it might have been, since she did have a noggin the size of a standard pumpkin, and me, sitting on one leg, my free leg bouncing. When I noticed, though, I put both my feet flat on the floor and sat up straight.

“Isabella,” Brenda said, looking down at the paper. “I’m going to read a list of activities, and when I mention one you like, you tell me, okay? This is how we’ll find out what interests we have in common.”

Brenda sounded like a schoolteacher as she read the list filled with things like badminton and tennis. Things I never even did once, so how would I know if I liked doing them or not? And then she read things that weren’t even “activities” but just plain work, like cooking and sewing. Things I
knew
I didn’t like.

When the list Brenda was reading got so long I couldn’t listen anymore, I got on my knees and leaned over the table so I could see just how much longer it was going to take. Sure enough, the activities under the pen tip Brenda was using to keep her place was Santa-list long. “How about I save you the trouble of reading that whole thing,” I said, “and just tell you what I like doing. Okay?

“I like riding my new scooter—well, it’s not actually new, but it’s new to me—and playing marbles and jumping rope and jacks. Scrabble, too, but only with Teddy because he doesn’t mind if I
dance around and sing while he takes his turn. Those are the things I
like
. But the things I
love
are singing and movies. I sing all the time, and most of the time I don’t even know I’m doing it. Did I hum or sing since we sat down? I’ll bet I did.” Brenda nodded and smiled. “Yep. Figures. It’s an affliction I’ve got, but one I hope I don’t have to fix in order to become respectable.”

“You have a very pretty voice,” Brenda said.

“Oh, I was probably just mumbling or humming. That’s what I do when I don’t know I’m doing it. I’m still hearing what’s going on around me when I do that, but when I sing for real, I really belt it out. Jennifer Jackson—she’s not here, even though she should be because she has the affliction of being noodley—told me once that when I sing, she can feel it shake right down in her tummy, and that I give her goose bumps. It’s a very good sign if you give somebody goose pimples when you sing, you know.”

Brenda smiled again, which made me wonder if she wasn’t making fun of me in her head, like I did sometimes when kids said something so dumb that I thought it was funny, but I didn’t want to laugh out loud and make them feel bad. “I’ve no doubt that you do,” Brenda said. “And by the way, I like those same things.”

Brenda twirled the tail of a pink scarf she had tied around her ponytail as she scanned the rest of the page. “And the last question. What do you hope to get out of this program?”