Love, Stargirl (18 page)

I told her about the day at the picnic table and Perry’s no-show today. “I’m so mad I almost didn’t stop here. I almost rode all the way to his house.”

“So you’re feeling jilted. Do you know that word? It’s old-fashioned.”

I nodded. “I know it. Yes. I feel jilted.”

“Because he said he would meet you and he didn’t.”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t believe it because the other day the sparks were really flying, so to speak.”

“Yes.”

She pushed the donuts in front of me. I shook my head. “Not hungry.”

She sighed—“Love trumps appetite”—chose one for herself, and took a bite.

“It’s not love,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know
what
it is.”

She chewed, thinking. She stared into my eyes with soft intensity. “It’s more than anger, isn’t it?”

I blinked. “Is it?”

“You’re confused.”

“Yes.”

“Befuddled.”

“Yes.”

“One of my all-time favorite words—‘befuddled.’ It sounds exactly like what it is, doesn’t it?” She stood and threw up her arms and gazed at the ceiling with as pure a look of befuddlement as I’ve ever seen. She cried out: “Befuddled!”

I wagged my head, giggling in spite of myself. “Good grief, Betty Lou. I get the point.”

She sat back down, muttering, “Befuddled…befuddled…” under her breath. It occurred to me that Betty Lou sometimes became theatrical because, confined to her house, she was her own best entertainment.

She became serious again. “Of course you’re befuddled. How could you not be? He seeks you out and he sneaks up beside you during your meditation—which, by the way, was a
very
impressive thing to do—and sends you all kinds of romantic signals—and then he breaks his promise and doesn’t show up for your date on Calendar Hill.”

“That seems to be the way he is,” I said. “He even has a reputation for it. His harem girls call him a rolling stone.”

She nodded. “Well, you know what they say—a rolling stone gathers no permanent girlfriends.”

“I’m not asking for permanence,” I said.

This time her stare was intense without the softness. “What
are
you asking for, Galaxy Girl?”

Good question.

“I don’t know. Something.
Something.
Instead of nothing.”

“Well now”—she wagged her finger at me—“aren’t you being a little unfair to him? It’s not nothing. It’s Perry—what’s his last name?”

“Delloplane.”

“It’s Perry Delloplane—and whatever comes with him. It is what it is. Maybe you’re trying too hard to put a name on it.”

“Labels,” I said.

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“I told him I hate labels. Maybe I was kidding myself.”

“Or maybe you’re merely uncomfortable with uncertainty. Like the rest of the human race.”

“So at least I have company.”

She laughed. “Lots of it. And that means you’re sitting in a classroom of billions, trying to learn the same lesson as the rest of us.”

“Which is?”

“Which is: How to Be Comfortable with Uncertainty.”

I waited for more. All she said was, “Warm your coffee?”

“No,” I said. “So, are you going to tell me how? Give me a hint?”

Her eyes went wide. Her fingers fluttered on her breast. “As Miss Piggy would say:
moi?
I’m astounded that you think that I, a mere small-town agoraphobic, would have the answer to one of life’s great questions.” She bowed her head over the donuts. “I am flattered.”

“Good,” I said. “Now if you can put the flattery behind you, I’d appreciate an answer.”

She struck a pose of sagely ponder. “Well then…I do believe that if anyone has the key, it may be the Buddhists.”

“The Buddhists.”

“Yes, the Buddhists. You know what they say—well, of course they say many things. You would do well to read the Buddhists. They come out of the East, but they have much to say to us westerners of the modern age. I remember one day when I was about twenty-eight—”

“Betty Lou”—I pressed my finger to her lips—“answer, please.”

“Ah, yes, the answer. Live today. There.”

“Live today.”

“Yes. Live today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Just today. Inhabit your moments. Don’t rent them out to tomorrow. Do you know what you’re doing when you spend a moment wondering how things are going to turn out with Perry?”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re cheating yourself out of today. Today is calling to you, trying to get your attention, but you’re stuck on tomorrow, and today trickles away like water down a drain. You wake up the next morning and that today that you wasted is gone forever. It’s now yesterday. Some of those moments may have had wonderful things in store for you, but now you’ll never know.” She looked at me. She laughed. “Such a solemn-faced listener you are. If I were a teacher, I’d like to have thirty of you in my class.”

I fumbled for my voice. “You’re just…so right. I think when I meditate I’m trying to do that, live in the moment, but the rest of the time I think I’ve been pretty much a flop. Lately, anyway.”

She laughed again. “Welcome to Floptown. We’re all flops. None of us gets it right all the time.” She threw out her arms. “C’est la vie!”

I nodded. Stared at her. Looked around the room. Looked out the window. Heard the faint hush of today passing by. “Be comfortable with uncertainty, huh?”

“Embrace the mystery.”

“I usually love mysteries. When I’m not in them.”

“Let’s hear it for mystery!”

We clinked our coffee cups and gave three cheers to mystery.

“So,” she said, “still mad?”

I checked myself. I started laughing.

“What?” she said.

“Yes. I’m sorry”—I couldn’t stop laughing—“but I’m still a little mad. After all that wisdom you just poured into me.” Suddenly I no longer felt like laughing. “What’s wrong with me?”

Her face was all softness and sympathy now. She was seeing something in me that I myself didn’t want to look at. “At the risk of sounding like a know-it-all, I think I have the answer to that.”

I felt my lip quiver. “Yes?”

She took my hands in hers. She spoke barely above a whisper. “You’re lonely. And that’s made you vulnerable. You’re not at full strength.”

I nodded, my eyes filling up. We just sat silently for a time, holding hands, holding more than hands.

At last she said, “And actually, I’m a little bit glad you’re still mad.” She handed me a Kleenex.

I sniffed. “Really?”

“I’d rather you be mad than devastated.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yes. Devastation can lead to bad places.”

“Such as?”

“Such as…groveling.”

“I don’t grovel.”

“If you had ridden your bicycle all the way to his house this morning, what would you have done?”

“I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t have groveled?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t have thrown yourself at him?”

“No.”

“Don’t ever throw yourself at a man.”

“I won’t.”

She studied me. She nodded. “I believe you.” She held out the plate of donuts. This time I took one.

I reached out and touched her. “You never jilt me, Betty Lou. I always know where I can find you.”

She wagged her head with a wounded smile. “Sad but true.” The smile healed. “But don’t get overconfident, young lady. I may jilt you yet. My fantasy is that someday you will come to my house and ring the bell and ring the bell and I’ll never open the door…because”—she smacked the tabletop—“I won’t be here!”

October 12

YOU: You heard her.

ME: Yes.

YOU: She said you miss me.

ME: She also said live today.

YOU: Right.

ME: And you’re yesterday.

YOU: Oops. But—hey—
I
never jilted you.

ME: You did worse. You turned your back on me.

YOU: Double oops.

ME: I’m just saying that for the record. I’ve forgiven you.

YOU: Whew! So, do you believe everything she said?

ME: Oh yes. But…

YOU: But?

ME: But there is one thing I didn’t say to Betty Lou. One word.

YOU: What’s that?

ME: Kiss.

YOU: I think I’m sorry I asked.

ME: The more he doesn’t kiss me, the more I want him to.

YOU: I am. I’m officially sorry I asked.

ME: But even that’s not cut-and-dried.

YOU: No?

ME: I mean, I kind of want him to and don’t want him to at the same time. Does that make sense?

YOU: For anybody but you, no.

ME: I want him to, but I’m afraid.

YOU: Of what?

ME: I’m afraid I won’t be befuddled anymore. I’m afraid a kiss will answer a question I’m not sure I want answered.

YOU: Which is?

ME: I think you know.

October 13

O = (BY)340 Birch(F)

October 16

Red slipper sock in the window.

With our mothers’ blessings, Dootsie and I both played hooky to help Betty Lou past her bad day. She was in fine shape by lunchtime, but we were having so much fun we stayed till after dinner.

October 18

I took Cinnamon with me to Calendar Hill today. He rode in my pocket. I think I’ll take him with me every Thursday morning. At least I know how
he
feels about me.

As I walked down Rapps Dam Road I was vaguely aware of something trying to get my attention, but my head was flying off elsewhere. Then, when I reached Route 113, before crossing, I heard the barest breath of a whisper say,
Turn around.
I looked in my pocket. Cinnamon was sleeping. Then again:
Turn around.
I turned around—and there it was. As I looked back up the road all the way to my house, every porch light along the way was lit. Subconsciously I must have known it, because my flashlight was not switched on. Starting with the Cantellos, neighbor after neighbor must have passed the word along over the weeks of Thursdays until, now, my whole path was aglow. I was so touched. I stood there at the intersection of Rapps Dam Road and Route 113 and called aloud down the corridor of porch lights: “Thank you!”

October 20

“I’m gonna be a waffle!”

That’s what I woke up to. I was out late last night at a play in the city with my parents. Even homeschoolers have Saturdays off, so I was sleeping in this morning. Or trying to. Because Dootsie was straddling my back like a jockey and shaking my shoulders and bellowing: “I’m gonna be a waffle! Your mommy’s gonna make me a costume for Halloween!”

I tried to growl. I tried to be as unpleasant as possible. “Dootsie, go away.”

She crawled under the covers with me. She snuggled into me and whispered into my ear: “I’m gonna be a waffle.”

She grabbed my head in both hands and turned my face to her. She propped open one eye with her fingers. “I’m gonna be a waffle.”

I gave up. I blobbed out of bed. I put on my robe. I slunk downstairs. I drooped at the kitchen table while my mother laughed and told me how Dootsie came barging in this morning (don’t tell any robbers, but my mother unlocks the front door when she gets up to make way for Dootsie’s frequent early-morning visits), telling my mother she wants to be a waffle for Halloween and will she please make her a waffle costume.

My mother suggested that she could do me up as a fork. I could pretend to be eating the little waffle. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Pleeeeeeze!” Dootsie begged, but I think I’ll probably pass on that and settle for taking the waffle around from house to house.

In my groggy state this morning I wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, but I’m actually grateful for Dootsie’s attention these days, even when it’s pesty. It helps distract me from thinking about you-know-who. I’ve only seen him once since the no-show at Calendar Hill. It was a few days later. I was in Margie’s when I saw him heading my way with two of his Honeybees. I jumped up. “I’ll be back,” I told Neva, the new helper, so she wouldn’t clean off my table. As I ducked into the kitchen, I said to Margie, “I’m not here.”

I heard the doorbell tinkle. I heard a yip or two from the girls, but that was all. My anger was no longer flaming. It had hardened to a scab over my wound. It was protecting me from being hurt again, and I wasn’t about to let him rip it away, not even with an apology. Before long the doorbell tinkled again. When I stuck my head out, they were gone.

October 21

I thought I should do something with Alvina. Nothing spectacular. Just a simple walk through the park, let the gorgeous autumn colors make their pitch to her, maybe soften her ever-bristling prickles. I was about to call her when the phone rang. It was her. She didn’t say hello. She just started screaming:

“I know what you’re doing! You rat! You fake! I hate you!”

I blubbered out a
“Huh?”

She told me she overheard her parents talking about my assignment, about taking her under my wing. I tried to tell her that’s not how it was, but she wasn’t hearing.

“You ever come near me again, you’ll get a knuckle sandwich. And anyway I’m
glad.
Because I never liked you anyway. I just felt sorry for you because you’re such a
loser.
And
ugly
!”

She hung up.

October 22

I don’t really blame Alvina. If I thought someone befriended me just because it was her job to do so, I’d be mad too. I keep thinking that the right words, healing words, are out there somewhere, but I can’t seem to find them.

O = (BY)422 Birch(SE)

October 24

Dootsie is out of control. Her first-grade teacher called Mrs. Pringle today. She said, “If I hear your daughter blurt out, ‘I’m gonna be a waffle!’ one more time, I’m going to lose my lunch laughing.” Mrs. Pringle had to hide the waffle costume so Dootsie won’t wear it to school every day.

Dootsie is not 100 percent happy, though. She’s miffed that there’s nothing for her to win. The parade at school is just that—a parade. Not a contest. No prize for best costume. After her stunning first place at the Blobfest, she craves victories.