Meeting Miss 405 (3 page)

She puts the pen down and lays the cloth on top of it. It drapes over like a little blanket on a skinny body. “I don't have one of them, either.”

No TV! And no computer! I know she only has her bicycle, and no car. She must be
very
poor. “What
do
you have?”

“I have a list here of everything we might do together while I am watching you.”

“When Mom was sick I stayed home every day by myself and took care of her.”

“I'm glad you could do that for her.”

“She is depressed.”

“Your father told me that. It must be hard for you all.”

“I don't care.” I stab my fork into the sardine and hold it up. It has no head or tail. Sardines are all middles. As I put it in my mouth, I watch Miss Stella pick up her cloth and start wiping another pen.

Sardines and wine gums do not go together. But I eat them all, and I drink the milk. Then I sit still for a bit until the sick feeling goes.

When I tell Dad what I had for a snack, he will not let Miss Stella babysit me anymore.

“Shall we look at my list?” she asks.

“I can hardly ever read grown-up writing. Grown-up writing is a mess.” I feel myself getting ruder. I don't know if I can stop.

Miss Stella pushes a paper across the table to me. “Give it a try.”

Her list says:

Homework
. I already did all my homework at school.

Reading
. I'm one of the top readers in my class. I don't have to have it written on a stupid list. And I bet she has no good books.

Old photographs
. I'm not old enough to have old photographs. And I don't want to look at pictures of all her dead relatives like I do with Grandpa on rainy days. He forgets all the names of people in the pictures and makes them up, as if he is inventing a whole new family.

Singing
. I am a good singer. But here?

Sewing
. Mom has a sewing machine she won't let me use yet. But I don't see one here.

Drawers and cupboards
. What about them?

A walk
. Where to?

I am not about to tell her that I like lists too. But I am about to say that I can think of a gazillion better things to do than what's on this stupid list. Then I suddenly realize I can read every word. “You said you don't have a computer!”

“So I did.”

“But how did you get this lettering?” I look at the list again. “If I could write like you, I would get extra points for handwriting for sure. Mr. Howarth is very strict about it. And keeping your notebook tidy. And doing fractions and stuff in straight lines.”

“In my day we called that penmanship. This is calligraphy. Which is why I have these.” Miss Stella holds up a pen. The nib winks at me in the sun coming through the window. “I could teach you,” she says.

“Add it to the list.” I push the list back to her. “I want to see you write like that.”

Miss Stella wipes the pen with the cloth again. She takes a lid off one of the bottles of ink and dips the pen deep down into it. Then she pulls the list toward her and writes very slowly,
Calligraphy lessons for Tansy
.

Then she gets more ink on the pen and draws a little flourish under the list.

Like this.

Next morning Dad makes me an egg again. And toast in rectangles. I poke at the egg and try to get the slimy parts away from the yellow, but it just sticks to my fork.

“Don't play with your food,” says Dad. He leans against the counter, cradling his coffee mug in his hands. “How was your evening?”

I was asleep on Miss Stella's couch when he came home. I woke up but did not let on. So he rolled me ever so gently onto his shoulder and carried me down the hall.

“It was okay.”

“Just okay?”

“It was okay.” I decide not to tell him about the sick-making snack. “Are you going to be late today?”

“No. We finish striking the set today. I have just a couple of short runs to do, so I can be here by the time you get home from school.”

Dad's a limo driver. He works for the movies and drives all kinds of famous people around. He says that his job is just a lot of waiting around. Then more waiting around. It sounds very boring to me.

He collects autographs in a little book with a blue leather cover that Mom gave me for my birthday. I can never read the writing. But Dad tells me who they are and reminds me that this is for later, when I am grown up.

“Will you pick me up?” I ask.

“The limo goes back today, Tan. Want me to come by in my truck?”

“Nah.”

Dad cleans the counter with the smelly old rag, even though dishes and stuff from yesterday are still there. I smush my egg up and put it to bed under a blanket of toast.

“Did you pick up cookies for school?” I ask.

“Darn. This weekend. I promise.”

“Can we get wine gums?”

“Payday is candy day. But why wine gums suddenly?”

“I had them at Miss Stella's.”

“So things went okay, then?” He pulls a bag from the drawer and shoves my sandwich in. Without wrapping it in plastic first like Mom does.

“Dad? Is it rude to be nosy?”

“Yeess…” He doesn't sound sure.

“Miss Stella made a list of what we could do when I go to her place. She says I can spend one afternoon each week poking around her house. In her drawers and cupboards even! One room for each week that I'm going to be there.”

“That
is
a little strange. Has she lost something?”

“She says that curiosity would not have killed the cat if it had the run of the house. What does that mean?”

Dad edges me out of the chair with one hand and moves me to the door without clearing the table first. I grab my lunch bag and coat on the way.

“Perhaps you were being nosy, and she saw you,” says Dad. “Maybe she thought it would be better to invite you to have a look than have you sneaking around behind her back. We had that talk about being well behaved. Remember?”

“Did you turn on the dishwasher?” I ask as we walk down the stairs and into the parking lot.

“Darn.” Dad unlocks the door of the long white limousine and I climb in.

Dad looks at me as he slides into his seat. He sticks the key in the hole but doesn't start the engine. Instead he laughs and leans over to rub my cheek. “Let's not tell your mother about my lousy housekeeping.”

We grin at each other and sing along with the radio all the way to school.

When we get there, I jump out of the limo and watch Dad drive away. Then I realize that I forgot to ask him what Grandpa said when he called last night.

I hope Mom does not come home today. That kitchen is a mess. She would have a fit.

Devin Roberts and Ryan Lurie are blocking the door of my classroom and won't let me pass.

Now that Devin has gotten over his allergic reaction, he's as rotten as ever. “Hey, Tansy,” he says. “You know all nuts are forbidden in school, hey? That means you, you know.” He laughs. “Your mom is in the loony bin. The nuthouse!”

That was ages ago, I want to say. Anyway, how does he know? She was only in the hospital for a few days, and I didn't tell anyone. Maybe Parveen did.

He stands so close to me that I can smell his breath when he shouts. “Your mom better not come anywhere near me. Fruitcakes have nuts in them, you know!”

I push past him and walk over to his group's art table. I shove my fist right into the middle of his papiermâché dinosaur when no one is looking.

At least, I hope it's his.

“Is your mom a blithering idiot?” Ryan yells. He has a skin disease that makes his face look sunburned all year round. I want to tell him he should use more sunblock. Then I remember that Dad says we should not make fun of the afflicted. Ryan is afflicted, for sure. Just like his dumb buddy.

As I go to my seat, Mr. Howarth bustles into the room. “Chop chop,” he says. “No dillydallying. Ryan.
Sit down, please. Devin. Hand out the readers. Tansy, I want to see you at recess.”

I slide into my seat next to Parveen. “What did you do?” she asks. She is always afraid of doing something wrong.

Even if someone else gets into trouble, she gets upset.

“Nothing.” Maybe she did tell Devin.

“Why does he want to see you, then?”

“That's my problem,” I tell her. When I see her eyes get teary, I feel bad and lean over to her desk. “I'll tell you everything. Like always. But you must promise not to tell anyone else.”

Now she nods and looks happier. When Parveen bends over to pull out her books, I watch her long shiny braid swing down her back like a thick rope. I used to have long hair, but Mom said I made too much fuss getting the knots out.

I wonder how Miss Stella brushes her long gray hair without her eyes getting all teared up.

When I looked over to her balcony this morning, all I could see were jungly plants and flowers filling in the gaps between the railings.

I think about Parveen's hair and Miss Stella's hair and her balcony garden for so long that I almost forget to be worried about why Mr. Howarth wants to see me.

But once I remember to worry, I can't stop.

Reading and Comprehension lasts a very long time when you're worried.

On my way home I decide not to ring my buzzer. But when I get there, my finger reaches out all on its own.

Dad answers.

I have been so busy thinking about what Mr. Howarth talked to me about, I forgot that Dad said he'd be home! My backpack bumps against my leg as I run up the stairs. But he is not waiting for me like Mom would be. Even on her bad days, when she spent all day at the dining room table in her nightie, she would be waiting at the door.

“Dad?” I walk into the kitchen. Breakfast is still all over the place.

“Here.”

I find him in the bedroom dumping clothes into the plastic laundry basket. “Gotta get this stuff in. Want to come down with me?”

The laundry room makes a funny echo. Sometimes I hear dripping but never see any water. I bet a black widow spider is hiding in there somewhere.

I pick up the sock peeking out from under his bed and drop it on top of the basket. Mom's blue nightie and green cargo pants are flopping over the edge. “Remember not to put Mom's cottons in the dryer.”

“Tansy. I can't do everything right, so I'm not going to try. I want to get this stuff in the wash or there will be no clean socks or underwear tomorrow.”

I giggle when I think of going to school half naked. But I stop when I think about Mom.
She
would never let me run out of underwear. Why can't Dad at least
try
to do everything right.

“So. How was your day?” he asks.

“Dad? Do you have a Trusted Other?”

He shifts the basket to his hip and looks at me. “A what?”

“Mr. Howarth said that he knows I must be having a hard time with Mom away. He told me that sometimes
a Trusted Other helps us in difficult times. But what does it mean?”

Dad drops the basket onto the bed and sits down next to it. He pulls me in front of him so I am standing with his knees pressing into my legs. “Perhaps he thinks you might need someone to talk to if you get sad. Or confused. Or lonely while Mom's away.”

I make a little braid of the hair by his forehead. If Mom was here she would say it needs cutting. “But I've got you.”

“You do. Of course you do,
ma petite saucisson.”

That means “my little sausage” in French. Mom calls me that all the time.

Dad unravels his silly braid and brushes his hair back with his fingers. “Sometimes we need someone else to talk to,” he says. “Someone who is not too close to us. Did Mr. Howarth have any suggestions?”

“He said I could go to the counselor's office. He said that's what Ms. Carlton is for, and that she's a good listener.”

“That might be a good idea.”

“Dad?”

“Yes, Tansy?”

“
You
tell me everything, don't you?” He does not say anything for a long while. Then he gets up from the bed and turns around as if he has forgotten where he is or what he was doing. When I touch his arm, he looks at me and sighs. “Yes. Of course I do.”

While I wait for him to come back from the laundry room, I make a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. I cut it in quarters and put two quarters on one plate for me. And two on another one for Dad.