* * *
The tin was empty and lying on my bedroom floor when I came home. At first I thought someone had broken into our trailer and stolen the money, but nothing else was touched. The front door had been locked and no windows were even open.
It didn’t take long to find out that Dad had taken my Paris Project money to spend at his favorite place on the planet—the dog-racing park—which wasn’t a place for dogs to run and play and have fun. It was a place where grown-ups gambled on dog races and also played poker, according to Mom.
Even though I’d never been there, I hated that place!
It was where Dad was when he should have been home. It was where he started going in January with his old high school friend Mr. Tom, who turned out to be no friend at all. Mom’s face always pinched up when she told us Dad was there. I guess Dad went so much that he ran out of his own money to gamble with and decided to start taking other people’s.
How could he do something like that?
My dad did that.
My dad, who played in the community pool with me and Georgia, who sang wobbly love songs to our dog, Miss Genevieve, who creamed my corn in Monopoly on a regular basis.
My dad stole all my Paris Project money.
I couldn’t imagine ever forgiving him for that… and especially for what happened right afterward. I know that wasn’t entirely his fault, but still.
* * *
In the sweltering Florida heat, I let out a slow, quavering breath, tugged the red beret tight on my sweaty head, and wrapped my arms around myself.
Why did everything have to be so difficult?
I bet nothing was this difficile in Paris!
According to Mom’s travel guides and magazines, Paris seemed to be a thousand times better than Sassafras. Un millier de fois!
Trying Hard to Be Enough
ON MONDAY, AUGUST 24, AFTER my first day of seventh grade, I planned to arrive at Miss Delilah’s School of Dance and Fine Pottery twenty minutes early, because I still had to put on my ballet clothes and didn’t want to miss a minute of instruction, especially since Georgia paid so much for my classes.
Sweat pooled under my armpits and dripped down my sides. It was always hot in Sassafras, even during most of the winter. After school I needed to rush home to take care of our pooch, Miss Genevieve, who had all-white fur except for a brown patch around his right eye, and the Mirandas’ dog, Scarlett Bananas, who was white with brown patches and two cute floppy brown ears. I gave Miss Genevieve a quick walk, which I didn’t get paid for. Then I gave Scarlett Bananas a longer walk, which I would be paid twenty dollars for at the end of the week.
Cleveland’s Parisian Dog Walking at your service! (Some of my customers have asked about the name of my company, so I point to my red beret, which is perfectly Parisian. But I don’t mention I practice speaking French with my four-legged customers. Oh, beau chien. Oh, beautiful dog. My furry friends never correct my pronunciation or make fun of me.)
Scarlett Bananas was my only customer at the moment. I’d been walking her for about eight weeks. It was hard to build my Paris Project fund back up with only one customer and needing to buy clothes for ballet class, but I was doing the best I could. Maybe when I moved to Paris, I’d have more customers. I hoped so, because I’d miss our dog terribly, plus I’d need the money. It is very expensive to live there. Très cher!
I grabbed the bag with my très cher dance clothes and headed to Declan’s. There was still time before I had to leave for dance class, and I knew Declan would help me feel less nervous about my first day.
I hustled along the extended horseshoe-shaped driveway that ran through our trailer park, past the community pool and car-washing station, along the path to the Maguire trailer. It was easy to spot their trailer because it was covered with bumper stickers, like KEEP CALM AND FIDDLE ON and FIDDLERS NEVER FRET, because Mr. Maguire was a fiddle player. He taught lessons over in Winter Beach at the JAM School of Music and played at Winter Beach restaurants some nights. There were two lawn chairs parked outside under an awning. One of the lawn chairs had a deep impression in the middle; that one was Mr. Maguire’s.
I bounded up the two steps and knocked, bobbing from foot to foot while I waited.
The door flung open. “Scout!”
I loved Declan’s nickname for me. It came from the book To Kill a Mockingbird, which he loved so much he insisted I read it. Scout was the narrator of the story; she was a scrappy girl, who probably looked a lot like me and needed to understand the injustice her daddy was fighting. It was a good book, and a compliment to be called Scout. “What’s kickin’, chicken?” I asked, even though Declan looked more like a rooster than a chicken, with his red hair.
“Get in here, Scout. It’s too hot outside. Want a limeade spritzer to cool off?”
I did.
Our trailers were similar, except the Maguire trailer was loaded with stuff. Musical instruments and albums that belonged to Mr. Maguire and tons of cooking equipment—colorful bowls that were chipped here and there, an old blender, a dented metal colander, large spoons for stirring and scooping—that belonged to Declan.
I sat on the bench at the kitchen table and sneaked a peek at Declan’s computer. He’d been watching a cooking video on YouTube.
Declan stuck his head into the fridge and came out with a lime from Weezie’s Market and Flower Emporium; I knew that because there was no other food store in town. Winter Beach had a farmers’ market on Saturdays, but only in wintertime. Occasionally Mr. Maguire took me and Declan there and treated us to lunch from one of the vendors. We always ate on a picnic table near the stage with live music. Mr. Maguire never forgot to put a handful of dollar bills in the musicians’ tip jar before we left.
I checked in my bag to make sure everything was there while Dec rummaged around in a cabinet near the sink and pulled out a small juicer, a cutting board, a bottle of agave—his favorite sweetener—and a pitcher. He reached into a drawer and extracted a big knife and grabbed a bottle of seltzer.
I tapped my toes and nibbled on a fingernail. “I only have, like, ten minutes, Dec.”
He stopped slicing the lime and glanced over at me. Because of his recent start-of-school haircut, Declan’s ears seemed to protrude more than usual, which he hated but I thought was adorable. He looked like a Vulcan from that old TV show Star Trek. “Where you heading in such a big hurry?”
I held up my bag. “Ballet school with Miss Delilah. Remember?”
Declan’s mouth stretched into a smile that seemed to make the freckles on his cheeks stand out. “This is really happening, Scout. You’re going to do it.”
I nodded. “First item on the list.”
Dec came over and gave me a hard fist bump. “That’s how it’s done.”
I smelled tangy lime, and little bubbles of possibility floated through me—like even a twelve-year-old girl from Sassafras, Florida, could really make it to Paris, France.
Declan finished making the limeade and poured it into cups.
We clinked our cups. “To Paris,” he said.
“To Paris!” I swigged the sweet, tart fizzy drink. And to best friends.
I left Declan’s trailer filled with happiness. It was always like that with Dec. I was sad over the reason he and his dad had to move to our trailer park when Dec was in third grade, but glad they were here now. Really glad, especially after my supposed friend Jenna Finch dumped me. Declan would never think I wasn’t good enough for him, even after what happened to Dad. He was a true friend.
Clutching my bag of clothes, I speed-walked all the way to Miss Delilah’s School of Dance and Fine Pottery, ready to show those ballet girls I could twirl and plié and leap as good as they could. Just because they lived in the nicer part of town with the fancy houses didn’t make them better than me. I knew Jenna would be in the class. She’s taken ballet every year since she was little. A tiny part of me hoped that when Jenna saw me there, she’d remember some of the reasons we became friends in the first pla
ce. Because we’d be outside of school, maybe she’d start talking to me again. Laughing with me. Wanting my friendship back.
Since the older kids’ class was at five o’clock, I got to see the little girls in leotards from the earlier class stream out the door and into the parking lot to meet their moms. I gave silent thanks to Georgia for making sure I wasn’t stuck in a class with them. Imagine me towering over all those little kids. That would have been très embarrassing.
A metallic-blue BMW swung into a parking spot, narrowly missing one of the bitty ballerinas. I recognized that car.
Jenna Finch stepped out of the passenger side and slammed the door.
I inhaled so sharply that I choked on my own spit.
Jenna slung her pink duffel over her shoulder and headed toward the dance school without a glance in my direction.
Bonjour, Jenna! “Hi, Jenna.” I rushed up to her, painfully aware that her shiny brown hair was in a tight bun with no stray pieces, and mine was a sweaty mess under my beret. I had tried to make the bobby pins work, but they kept poking my scalp, and my hair wouldn’t stay put. It was hopeless. I wished Mom or Georgia were home to help, but they were both working and now my hair didn’t look like it was supposed to.
Jenna’s mom probably helped her achieve the ideal ballerina bun.
Parfait! Perfect!
Jenna pivoted toward me. Her bun, I noticed, didn’t move a millimeter.
My heart sped up. Jenna was looking right at me, like I actually existed.
“Hey, Cleveland,” she said, easy as key lime pie, as though she hadn’t ignored me all of sixth grade, all summer, and today at school. “What are you doing here?” Jenna stood near the door and stretched her right leg up toward her head. It made a tiny clicking sound. “You don’t take ballet,” she said into her kneecap. “Right?”
I lifted my paper bag to show Jenna I had all the things I needed to take ballet, but then I lowered it and slid the bag behind my back. Why didn’t I think of buying a pink duffel like she has? “I’m signed up for class now.” My heart hammered. What can I say to make her like me again? I pretended to feel bright and cheerful. “Advanced ballet.” Just like you.
Jenna stretched her other leg in the air for a few moments. How does she do that? Will I have to do that? I felt woozy—my legs might break off if I attempted those moves. Then who would walk Miss Genevieve and Scarlett Bananas? Maybe advanced ballet wasn’t the best idea.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” Jenna said.
I thought of Georgia fighting for me to be able to join this class and how I had to show Miss Delilah that I knew the ballet positions. “Well, you can,” I offered helpfully.
Jenna looked me up and down. “Okay then.” She flung open the door and walked into the cool air, leaving me standing out front, with my messy hair and my ballet clothes in a paper bag; my bubble of happiness popped.
I took a long, slow breath for bravery like Georgia taught me and reminded myself how important the Paris Project was. I had started planning it because of how Jenna treated me after she moved; then it felt more important than ever with what happened with Dad. There was only one way to get to Paris, and that was by completing each item on the list. Then I would be ready (and hopefully have saved enough money). So I opened the door and marched across the chilly lobby, past Miss Delilah’s office, past the studio, and into the changing room.
A bunch of girls were already in there, adjusting their leotards and stuffing clothing and pink duffel bags into lockers.
“Hey, Jenna,” Nicole Kyle said. “I so don’t feel like dancing today.”
“Me neither.” Jenna cracked her neck. “Let’s go home.”
“Okay.”
Both girls laughed as they put on their ballet slippers.
I placed my bag on a bench near a row of lockers and pulled on my new tights, careful not to poke a fingernail through them and cause a run. Luckily, I chewed my fingernails, so there wasn’t too much nail left to make that happen.
When everyone was dressed, they walked to the studio. Jenna led the pack. I followed at the rear, shivering, but not from the air-conditioning. This was really happening. I was going to complete the first item on my list!
Wearing my new leotard, tights, and ballet slippers, I felt like a real ballerina. And my beret made me feel like a French ballerina, so everything was perfect as I approached the studio at Miss Delilah’s School of Dance and Fine Pottery.
From the doorway, I noticed there were no boys in the group. Zut! Who will toss me into the air? None of the girls looked hearty enough to do it without dropping me on my head.
As soon as I entered the space with the wood floors, mirrored wall, and long barre, Miss Delilah called out, “Come here, please, Cleveland.”
Maybe she wanted to welcome me to the “family” or tell me some rules since I was new.
Miss Delilah put her hand on my shoulder and said in a soft voice, “Cleveland?”
“Yeah?” I smiled big, even though I had an embarrassing space between my two top front teeth. I wanted her to know how happy I was to be there.
The other girls were at the barre stretching, but I saw them sneaking glimpses at me and felt my cheeks heat up. I wanted to be stretching at the barre with them, like a real ballerina who might someday be performing onstage at a Parisian theater, with patrons tossing roses at her feet and shouting, “Magnifique!”
“I’m going to be your ballet teacher for this class.” Miss Delilah did not let go of my shoulder. My impulse was to shrug her hand off, but I could feel the girls staring and didn’t want to mess things up on my first day, especially in front of Jenna.
“That means”—her grip tightened a smidge—“what I say in this class goes.”
I nodded. And maybe grimaced a little too. I didn’t understand why Miss Delilah was saying that. Of course I was going to listen to whatever she said. I wanted to be the best one in the whole class.
“And I say you absolutely, positively may not wear that hat in my class.”
It’s called a beret. “But—”
“I told you already that you either had to wear your hair in a bun or pin it up as best you can. You’ve chosen to do neither.” She finally let go of my poor shoulder and bent so she was a little above me, but looking directly in my eyes. “What if that thing were to fall off and cause a problem?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” I finally understood what this was about. “It never falls off.” I patted the top of my beret. “It’s on there like superglue. Promise. I tried the pins, but they wouldn’t work on my hair. It’s too fine.”
Miss Delilah forced air from her flared nostrils, but it wasn’t in the relaxed way Georgia had taught me when I needed to calm down. Some of those disgusting air molecules from Miss Delilah’s nose rained down on my forehead. I wanted to run into the bathroom and scrub my forehead clean, but I stayed still, like I was practicing to be a statue at the Louvre. “Well, we can’t take that chance. Can we?”
I took a tiny step backward, away from her stream of gross nose air.
Yes, we can! “I, um…” My voice dropped to a whisper. I didn’t want to talk about this, but I understood she wasn’t going to let it go too easily, and I was eager to join the other girls and start dancing. “Miss Delilah?” A couple of hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. “I never take this beret off.” I didn’t tell Miss Delilah I took it off to shower and sleep, because that particular information was none of her business, plus it wouldn’t help my case. “Because…” I might have let one or two of those tears spill over on purpose. “Because… it’s from my dad.” I said that last part a little too loudly. Even though I was upset with my dad for what he did, I missed him so much… and somehow wearing the beret made me feel like he was there with me, instead of where he really was.
The other girls were openly staring and whispering behind their hands now. I even heard a couple of gasps. I wished Georgia were here. She wouldn’t let Miss Delilah talk to me like this. S
he’d make sure I could wear my beret, which wasn’t hurting a single person.
Miss Delilah stood there, looking at me over the frame of her glasses.
My beret suddenly felt like it weighed as much as the whole stupid town of Sassafras, but I stood there, under the weight of it all, watched by every girl in class and Miss Delilah, with what could only be described as expressions of pity.
Pity!
The last thing I needed was someone feeling sorry for me. I was Cleveland Rosebud Potts—destined for Paris—and I certainly didn’t need anyone’s dumb pity face!
Miss Delilah touched her index finger to a mole on her cheek. “Let it not be said I don’t have charity in my heart. I’m going to allow you to wear the hat this time. Before the next class, though, I will personally help you pin your hair up. And, Cleveland, even the good Lord above won’t be able to help you if that thing falls off your stubborn little head during my class.”
I shook my stubborn little head. “Won’t fall off.” My voice came out sounding small and weak, instead of strong and firm, like I’d intended.
Miss Delilah pushed her glasses up on her nose and said in a fake-sympathetic voice, “We’re all real sorry for the unfortunate circumstance of your daddy. Aren’t we, girls?”
I hated that people in Sassafras knew everything about everyone else, especially the things you didn’t want them to know. Most especially when those things were written about in the local newspaper because certain awful things that recently happened to our family were a matter of public record. Everyone in town knew that my dad stole money from his boss, Mr. Ronnie Baker, at the auto supply store. That fact was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt in court. What the busybodies in town didn’t know was that my dad took money from me, too, after he stole the money from his boss. I wasn’t about to tell any of them. They also knew exactly where my dad was now. And that was the most embarrassing part.
The Paris Project Page 2