Love, Stargirl (22 page)

“I have a mockingbird! Up on the telephone wire out back! Listen! I’ll hold the phone out!” I heard a window go up. I heard faint birdsong. “Hear?”

“I do,” I said.

“I’m so happy! My own mockingbird! I’m terrified it’s going to leave!”

“Try putting a sliced orange outside,” I said. “I hear they like that.” I thought of her problem. “Just toss it into the backyard. He’ll find it.”

“I will! I will!” Then a pause, a shriek. “I have no oranges!”

“I’ll bring some over.”

“Hurry!”

Had you guessed, dear Leo, what the mysterious equations were about? I lured the mockingbird from street to street, block to block, with oranges until we reached 335 Ringgold—Betty Lou’s address. Don’t ever tell her. I want her to think this is strictly between her and the mockingbird.

Days till Solstice: 27

November 25

I heard back from Archie yesterday. He says forget about history. Don’t worry about making my Solstice conform to descriptions in books. For thousands of years every culture and country and age has done Solstice its own way—why should I be any different? They’re all based on the same sun, the same earth, the same special dawning. It’s about time turning a corner. It’s about knowing that warm days will return, that there will be another planting, another harvest. It’s about rejoicing. It’s about people together. He underlined it:
together.

The Perry Suspense is getting to me. Before, I was trying to avoid him. Now I’m antsy. I just want to get our next encounter out of the way so we can get on with whatever comes next.

November 26

So I rode my bike past the high school as the students were leaving. I didn’t see him. (I don’t know what I would have done if I did.) I went downtown. I checked in Margie’s. No Perry.

“And you can say goodbye to Neva,” said Margie. “This is her last day.” Neva was right beside us, wiping donut trays, but she was as quiet and somber as the first time I met her. Margie reached out and patted Neva’s tummy. There was a hint of sadness in her smile. “Baby time.”

Neva’s highlighted hair and glittery earrings seemed to mock her mood. When I said, “Congratulations, Neva,” she only nodded.

Don’t-know-when-to-stop me, I tried a question: “Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”

“Girl,” she muttered. Hard to believe this was the person who talked my head off two weeks ago.

“That’s nice,” I said brilliantly. I needed an escape remark. I added, “Well, it’ll be a nice Thanksgiving present,” and headed for the door.

Back outside, I resumed my search for Perry. I walked up and down Bridge Street. I bumped into two of the Honeybees. They tried to drag me into Pizza Dee-Lite, but I said I had somewhere to go. I rode over the canal to Perry’s place. I circled around Ike’s Bike & Mower Repair. I did everything but stop and knock on the back door. I rode home—mission unaccomplished—

And bumped into Perry on my front porch.

With Dootsie.

I parked my bike. Dootsie jumped into my arms.

“We were just looking for you,” he said. “Your mother said you were out, she didn’t know where.”

He was blushing. I had never seen that before.

“Just cruising,” I said. “Giving my ankle a workout.”

I felt his blue eyes on me, but I kept mine on Dootsie. She was fingering my eyebrow scar. A few days ago I had brought Alvina to Calendar Hill with me for protection. I wondered if Perry was using Dootsie the same way.

“So…hanging out with first-graders, huh?” I said.

He chuckled, shrugged. His usual breezy glibness was gone. He was uneasy.

Dootsie tapped my nose. “He likes you.”

I tapped her nose. “Of course he likes me. And I like him. That’s what friends do, they like each other.”

She wagged her head. “No, silly. I don’t mean
that.
I mean”—she cupped her hands and whispered in my ear—“he likes you for a
girl
friend.”

“Oh really?” I was wondering how to turn this conversation in another direction when my father’s milk truck pulled into the driveway. He came out with an armload of tent poles and stakes. He clattered past us into the house and was back on the porch in a minute, scowling at me.

“Well, Miss Hospitality, there’s already two things you didn’t do. You didn’t introduce me to your friend”—he nodded at Perry—“and you didn’t ask them to come in out of the cold.”

“I’m her friend too,” Dootsie protested.

My father took her from me. “You need no introduction. You’re famous.”

I introduced my father to Perry and invited them into the house. Sometimes life goes its own way and drags you along.

As soon as Dootsie took off her winter coat she pulled up her shirt and yelped, “Look!”

My heart sank. It was a tattoo. Black and yellow. A honeybee. On her little belly proudly bulging.

I glared. “Really, Perry, this is taking robbing the cradle to a new low.”

Perry was all flustered innocence. “Hey—she
wanted
it. I made her ask her
mother.
It washes off. No big deal.”

Dootsie fished into her pants pocket and came out with a paper tattoo. She thrust it in front of me. “For you!”

“No, thank you,” I said, still glaring at Perry. “I don’t do dandelions. Or harems.”

It was written all over Perry’s face:
This was a bad idea.
He repeated weakly, “It washes off.”

“Right,” I said, taking the tattoo from Dootsie and flipping it over to him, “but not everything washes off, Mr. Delloplane.”

I’m not even sure what I meant by that, but it sounded good. And then my mother was trailing cooking smells into the living room and inviting the two of them to join us for dinner, and I wanted to shout,
No!
but instead found myself telling Dootsie to call and ask her mother.

For dinner we had spaghetti and meatballs—veggie-burger balls for me. Dootsie kept my parents in stitches.

My father drove Dootsie and Perry home—Dootsie insisted they ride in the milk truck, not the car. As my mother and I cleaned up the dinner table, she said, “So…Perry…”

“Mm.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Not really.”

“No?”

“No. I thought he might be. Might become. But no.”

“So…what?”

“Friend. I think. I hope. Once I get over being mad at him. He’s a pretty neat guy.”

“And Leo?”

“Leo’s still”—I nodded toward the window—“there.” I patted my chest. “Here.”

She smiled, kissed me. “I’m glad Dootsie’s in your life.”

“Me too.”

“Little sister you never had.”

I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.

November 27

I need a break from the Perry thing. I went to see Charlie at the cemetery. He was nodding off in his chair. As I was walking my bike away I heard, “Hey!”

“Didn’t want to wake you,” I said.

He inserted his hearing aid. He pulled his thermos from under the chair. He twisted off the red plastic cup, thrust it at me. “Hot chocolate.”

“No thanks,” I said.

He pulled a second cup from his pocket. This was new. He held it out. “Come.” It was an order.

“Okay.”

He poured us both some. He pulled a blanket out from under the chair. This was new also. He already had a blanket over his legs. He didn’t need another. He laid it beside the chair and unfolded it once. “Sit.”

We talked about small things. Somewhere along the way I said, “I’d like to hear about you when you were little. Before Grace. Just Charlie.”

He blinked at me. I could see him making the effort. He gazed at the tombstone. He shook his head, gave up trying. “Ain’t no before Grace.”

As if to confirm, a large crow settled boldly onto a head-stone only several plots away, cawed once loud and rudely, and flew off.

I invited Charlie to come to Thanksgiving dinner with us. We’re going to Betty Lou’s. He said no, he’d rather stay here. He said his daughter will pack him a turkey dinner to bring along. It will include Grace’s masterpiece: sweet potato casserole with marshmallow topping. He grinned, wagging his head. “Won’t be the same, though. She knew how to do the marshmallows just right. Singe ’em. Brown, not black. Just crusty enough.” He closed his eyes. He was tasting it.

November 28

I was pedaling along Route 113 today when I saw Arnold. He had his new pet rat. On a leash! They were on the other side of the road. I practically crashed into a telephone pole. I stopped and stared. The rat was gray and white. What they call a hooded rat, because the gray covers its face and comes down over its shoulders. Someone—probably Arnold’s mother—had worked up a tiny harness (a collar wouldn’t do on a rat) and an ordinary dog-type leash. The rat was scooting along after him. Arnold’s shuffle seemed a little slower than usual. I finally started up again and wobbled giggling all the way into town.

Days till Solstice: 23

November 29

Thanksgiving Thursday for me began at Calendar Hill. Since he wasn’t working on the holiday, my father took over sit-on-the-porch-and-keep-an-eye-on-Stargirl duties. For a milkman, getting up a little before sunrise must feel like sleeping in.

I was less anxious about Perry this time. I didn’t really expect him to be there. He wasn’t. It was so cloudy there wasn’t even a hint of sun, so I had to guess about the marker placement. I stepped back to look at the arc of white markers. If time has to be measured, this is the way to do it. I felt a tingle of excitement. Only three more to go.

As I did last week, I sat facing west and sent you my message. I’ll do it every week from now on.

Betty Lou was a wonderful Thanksgiving hostess. No bathrobe on this day. She looked like a regular person in a skirt and sweater—well, regular if you don’t count the turkey headdress pinned to her hair. “I’ve worn it every Thanksgiving since I was six,” she said.

She made everyone, including Cinnamon, sit in the kitchen while she bustled about and asked my father a hundred questions about being a milkman and my mother about costume making. She was so chatty and breezy that when she said, stirring the giblet gravy, “You know, Mr. and Mrs. Caraway, your daughter and Dootsie are my lifeline,” I almost missed it. My mother reached for my hand and squeezed.

At the festive dinner table, printed name cards told us where to sit. Yes, there was a card for Cinnamon and a tiny antique dollhouse saucer with three candied cranberries. For Cinnamon’s vegetarian mother there was tofurkey, for everyone else turkey, and cheese-and-garlic smashed potatoes for all. It took us hours to eat because we spent so much time laughing. Betty Lou turned from inquisitor to storyteller. She re-created hilarious scenes from her school days and made fun of her agoraphobia and even lampooned her disastrous one and only marriage to Mr. Potato Nose. At one point my mother laugh-snorted coffee out her nose.

Later, in the living room, the mood mellowed. Betty Lou enthralled my parents with her tale of the night-blooming cereus (back in the living room for the winter, thanks to her neighbor Mr. Levanthal) and the moonlit hours she shared with me. It was chilly in the house—Betty Lou left a back window open, “the better to hear my mockingbird.” Twice she held up her finger and whispered, “Let’s just listen,” and we sat there smiling, eyes closed, as the mockingbird entertained us and cups of hot mulled cider warmed our hands.

It was the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.

December 3

I think of you in your college. I wonder how many roommates you have. You’ll be interested to know that your college is on the same latitude as my Pennsylvania town. Of course, you are still well to the west of me, but weather travels from west to east, and it’s nice to know that the rain and snow that falls on you in a day or two will fall on me.

I sat down today and started writing out the guest list. I was shocked at how many. I asked my mother if the tent could be made bigger. She said no, there’s not enough time to order more Blackbone.

I’ve put Dootsie and Alvina to work. I went to a crafts store and bought sheets of bright yellow foam and a bunch of bar pins. Then I made a sunburst pattern out of cardboard and gave everything to the girls. Dootsie’s job is to trace the patterns onto the yellow foam, then Alvina cuts out the sunbursts. Dootsie keeps begging to do the cutting, but Alvina has orders not to let her near the scissors. Alvina keeps complaining about Dootsie’s sloppy tracing.

Days till Solstice: 18

December 5

Again I saw Arnold walking his rat, only this time I did something that surprised even me. I got off my bike and started walking along with him. I said hi. He said hi. I asked him the name of his rat. He said, “Tom.”

“Nice name,” I said.

“Are you looking for me?” he said.

It was as if I were hearing his eternal question for the first time.
Was
I looking for him? Had I been looking for him all along and didn’t know it? What if I said yes? How would he react? I peered into his grizzled face. His eyes seemed empty, unfocused, but I knew that was not true. They were simply seeing another place, another time.

“I’m not sure, Arnold,” I said. “Let me get back to you on that.”

And then, surprising myself again, I started talking. I hadn’t planned to. The words just came gushing out. I started off talking about the Perry Problem. The Kiss. Stuff I hadn’t said to Betty Lou or my parents or even Archie. But pretty soon I veered away from Perry and on to you. Us. I told him about the First Day, when Kevin said, “Why him?” and I tweaked your earlobe and said, “Because he’s cute.” I recounted every moment of the First Night, when I came outside and you hid behind the car and I let Cinnamon loose to visit you and we had the sweetest conversation I’ve ever had in my life, me on the front step, you crouching behind the car, unseen to each other. Later, on the same sidewalk, the First Kiss. The Forever Kiss.

On and on I gabbed to Arnold. I think I had discovered that the closest I could come to reliving the past was to tell my story to someone, the right someone.