Five Things About Ava Andrews

by Margaret Dilloway

  “I’d better get them some bowls.” Jīchan heads in there, Cecily following.

  We’re eating our ice cream around the dining table, when Nana Linda comes in, looking us over as if we’re a bunch of nice gifts someone’s left for her. “So great to meet all of you!”

  I remember to introduce everyone. Each kid stands up and shakes her hand. “What nice manners!” She sits down next to Jīchan, who’s scraping his spoon against the bowl.

  They all look at me expectantly, as if I’m the one in charge. It’s time to bring up our cause. I imagine my heart will start beating faster or something like I’m nervous, but nothing happens. Maybe my friends make me braver. Or the ice cream does. “Nana Linda, what else do you think we can do about Navegando Point?”

  “Yeah, Ava told us what happened in the meeting.” Ryan speaks around a mouthful of mint chip. “They should have let you talk.”

  “Well.” Nana Linda leans back in her seat. “Does that mean you all are interested in helping our cause with more than an email? Because I have some ideas.”

  We all look at each other. I expect someone to say, Why bother? But everyone nods.

  Nana Linda takes out her little laptop from her big bag. “Let’s start with some research. Who wants to type?”

  Cecily reaches for it. “I will.”

  “What about one of the historical landmarks?” Ryan asks. “I saw a house with that. It had a plaque and everything.”

  “Google to the rescue.” Cecily’s fingers fly. “It’s got to be fifty years old for the national landmark, and we’ve got fifteen more years for Navegando Point.”

  Jīchan speaks around a mouthful of butter pecan. “Check for local historic landmarks. San Diego only. I’ve seen those.”

  Cecily searches. “There is one.” We gather around and read the description.

  “I don’t see anything about age limits,” I say.

  “Me neither.”

  “Maybe we’re just not seeing it.” Cecily does a search on the page. Nothing.

  “No phone number for them,” Nana Linda says. “Interesting. Let’s send them an email.”

  “We need George Washington to have slept there or something,” Chad says. “Or at least Richard Nixon.”

  “I kind of doubt anyone would care about Nixon,” Ryan says.

  “Look up the Facebook page,” I say to Cecily.

  “People still use Facebook?” Cecily squints.

  “Old people do,” Ryan says.

  Nana Linda cough-laughs. “It’s still a good way for groups to organize.”

  The Rescue Navegando Point Now! page has eleven thousand likes. That’s a lot of people. There’s a plan they came up with that’s a compromise. I point it out. “Why don’t the developers do this—just use the areas around Navegando Point but leave the old buildings alone?”

  “Probably because it doesn’t match their vision.” Nana Linda peers at the screen. “It makes sense to me.”

  People aren’t sharing the posts from the page, though, and there are only about a hundred likes on the news articles. I shake my head in frustration. “Do people just not care?”

  “People tend to be apathetic unless something directly affects them,” Nana Linda says.

  We look at her blankly.

  “Apathetic means they don’t care. They’re not moved to action,” she explains. “So you might not care about Navegando Point closing unless you’re personally affected.”

  “Like we are,” Ryan says.

  We’re quiet for a minute. “But it actually affects a lot more people than just us.” I tell Nana Linda about my thought on the way here. About how we won’t be able to afford to buy a house or even go enjoy the water.

  “Exactly right, munchkin.” Nana Linda nods. “There’s a ripple effect. Navegando Point businesses closing mean all those owners might lose their housing. The new businesses price out other, more affordable stores. Soon only the most well-off can enjoy living here.”

  “So . . .” Cecily puts her palms on the dining table. “Let’s start posting on social media and sharing with all those people. Tell them why they should take action.”

  “Oooh, let’s write a blog post,” Ryan says. “And share it to that page.”

  Nana Linda squints. “Yes, and let’s also make a petition page with the link. Sound good? We’ll send it to your parents to share with all their contacts.”

  “My mom has four thousand friends,” Ryan says. “But only five she sees in real life.”

  “That’s the way of social media,” Nana Linda says drily.

  And so we spend the next hour writing a blog post. The others help, brainstorming what to say. Well, Chad helps somewhat less, but it’s all good.

  The crushing-boulder feeling I had on the way here goes away.

  For the first time since Brett Rosselin walked into our class, I get the sense that what we do might actually make some kind of difference.

  Chapter 21

  The second to last Monday of September, we have Cotillion. It maybe wouldn’t be so bad if Dad didn’t have to go early and leave late. But he does, so I’m here almost an extra two hours. “I want you to help this time,” he tells me as he unlocks the auditorium doors. “Set up the chairs. Ask an adult what else you can do. Same as at home. Got it?”

  I nod mutely.

  The setup part goes quickly. To my surprise, I find that I actually feel better when I’m doing something instead of sitting doing nothing. I accidentally walk into a metal chair with my shins. Ouch. That’ll bruise. I take blood thinners, which makes you bruise easily, so I’ve always got marks on me.

  Today I’m wearing a dress, courtesy of Cecily, who’d found it at a thrift store at some point. It’s long and black velvet, with sleeves that come down to my palms. Luke said I look like Morticia Addams in it, which I had to google. She’s a witch character. I wanted to wear black lipstick, but Dad said absolutely not.

  I sit in the middle of the other girls. It’s too bad Cecily’s not taking Cotillion; it’d be nice to have a friend here. Everyone else is in their groups. It’s not at all like improv. I look around. I actually recognize a lot of them from my classes, either new to me this year or from elementary school. I bet they don’t even know my name.

  Kiley, Becca, and Cherine sit near me again. Tonight they’re talking about Mr. Sukow’s commercial project. Also known as the Longest Project in the History of America. They must have him during a different period.

  “Who can make a napkin interesting?” Becca rolls her eyes.

  “Yeah. I wanted the margarine container, but I got an extension cord,” Kiley says.

  I clear my throat. “I have the napkin, too.” They don’t hear me because they’re all louder and faster talkers than I am. My voice is as lost as a whisper during a heavy-metal concert.

  I slump down. I wish Dad could see this conversation happening. Then maybe he’d understand where I was coming from when I said how hard it is to talk to people.

  If Dad were here instead of me, he’d just talk and they’d listen. It’s like I’m always wearing an invisibility cloak that makes people stop listening. I’m not competitive like my brothers or my mom; I have a hard time telling people what to do.

  Then I remember Ryan. As long as he’s conscious, he has a hard time shutting up. But he listens to me. Sometimes I think he has to make a big effort to do it, but he does do it.

  I mean, everyone’s capable of toning it down, right? If I can turn it up, they can turn it down. “I’m in Mr. Sukow’s fifth period,” I say, making my voice a little louder, as if I’m in improv class. The girls turn to look at me, ready to hear what I’ve got to say. “I have the napkin, too,” I repeat, louder, squeezing my hands nervously against the material of my dress. The velvet feels nice and soft, and I want to pet it like it’s a kitten but that might also look weird, to have me petting my leg like a small animal. “I have an idea for what might help.”

  There’s a small silence. “Sure,” the black-hai
red girl, Cherine, says. “I’m totally stuck.”

  I tell her about the improv game, how you can think about what napkin reminds you of and brainstorm from there.

  “You do improv? Like on that TV show?” Kiley says, as if I’ve said, I can fly like Superman. “But you’re so quiet! I didn’t even think you could talk!”

  “Kiley!” Cherine says. “Rude much?”

  My cheeks burn. Does everybody have to have this reaction?

  “I could never do improv,” Cherine says. “Just get on stage and make stuff up?” She shudders dramatically, making the blue sequins on her top jingle-jangle. “No thank you. How scary.”

  “Yeah, I don’t even want to do this commercial project, and we get to practice it.” Becca pulls her creamy cardigan around her. “That you do improv is totally incredible.”

  They all look at me admiringly. I stare at the floor. “Thanks.” Okay, so I talked and they talked back. What now? I swallow and give them a tiny smile, so they know I’m not being snooty. They smile back.

  What else can I say? I think about improv again, and that makes me think of Navegando Point, and the meeting Nana Linda and I went to last week. “Um, did you know that Navegando Point is getting torn down?”

  “Which one is that?” Cherine says.

  “The one with the haunted house?” Becca says.

  “No. That’s Old Town. Navegando Point is by the water. With the old shops,” Kiley informs them. She leans over to me and I notice her brown eyes are lined with royal blue, making them pop. “And the carousel.”

  “Oh, I like that place, but my parents say it’s too touristy.” Cherine cocks her head to the side. “They’re tearing it down?”

  “Yeah,” Becca says. “My mom wanted to go to her favorite Greek place the other day and it’s totally dark.”

  “That’s my dad’s favorite restaurant, too.” Maybe they can write letters. But those would probably be ignored, as well.

  Sometimes I wish I weren’t eleven years old. If I were a fifty-year-old lawyer, I could probably figure out what to do.

  Then Dad comes out in the middle of the room, telling us about the dance we’re going to do, and I’m sorry for more than one reason. Partly because I have to dance now. But mostly because I finally was able to say what I wanted to some people and it—surprise—did not end with me going down in flames, and I wonder why I’ve never done it before. I wish I had.

  Whatever you say is the right thing to say. Another improv motto.

  Becca and I exchange a smile as we stand up, waiting for the dance.

  I’m paired with a kid who’s surprisingly tall for a sixth grader. He’s wearing an actual suit instead of the dress shirt and slacks most of the other boys are wearing, navy blue with a bright red tie. “I’m Armando,” he says. His voice hasn’t changed yet even though he’s taller than I am.

  I click down the list of what Dad tells us to do. Introduce yourself. Start dancing. “I’m Ava.” It occurs to me that Cotillion is sort of like improv—we have to remember to do a bunch of stuff, and if we do it enough, it’s supposed to become natural. Or something.

  Armando gives me a quick nod. His hands are sweating like crazy, and I sort of pull down on my sleeves so his hands aren’t directly against mine, then wonder if that’s against the rules.

  Normally I’d be annoyed and counting the seconds until the dance was over, but today I feel . . . I don’t know. Worried about him. Wanting to make him comfortable. I show Armando the steps again. “It’s actually easier if you don’t look down. I know the steps, so you could just kind of follow me.”

  His scuffed black shoes slowly shuffle along in rhythm with me. “I think I got it. Is this good?”

  “Good enough.” I hold out my hand. He takes it and I rest my other hand on his shoulder. Now that he’s looking at me instead of the floor, we’re not nearly as clumsy.

  “What’s your favorite subject at school?” I ask him.

  “Math.” He ducks his head shyly. “We’re doing integers.”

  Now I don’t have to pretend to find something in common. It’s funny because normally I might pretend to be interested, even though I’m not. Because I’m looking for ways to be genuinely interested in what he’s saying, I am. “Oh, really? We’re doing those, too.”

  He starts telling me about some mathematician from the 1700s and his influence on math, and instead of tuning him out like I normally would, I really listen and pick out the stuff I relate to. I tell him about my mom’s job and how good she is at math.

  “That’s nice,” the boy says, then goes back to talking about math history.

  He’s ignoring Dad’s rules. I know this boy likes rules because he likes math, therefore he should be able to follow them if he tries. Maybe if I point them out. “Excuse me,” I say when he takes a breath. “Da—I mean, Mr. Andrews’s rules state that you should ask a question in return when someone offers information.” I squinch up my shoulders. “I did it. You should, too.”

  The boy blinks as he processes this. “You’re right,” he says at last. “I haven’t been following the rules very well. I’m sorry. I’m nervous about the dancing.” He blushes. “What kind of engineer is your mom? I want to be an engineer.”

  Finally.

  I guess nobody goes to Cotillion because they’re already perfect.

  The second dance goes about the same, except this kid knows the steps better. I even relax enough to laugh.

  I glance at Dad, who gives me a thumbs-up. This is all for Zelia, I remind myself. So I can visit. I remember our last call with a little pang.

  If she still wants me to, that is.

  After class, Dad’s talking to a lady who’s got her arm around Becca. He catches my eye and motions me over. I go to him, but try to stand as far away as possible without being totally rude. He knows I’m uncomfortable with strangers.

  “Ava, this is Mrs. Ladigan, Becca’s mom. She took Cotillion from your grandfather.” Dad looks smug, like he always does when people compliment him on Cotillion or tell him that his dad did a great job.

  “Cotillion is a brilliant experience for a child.” Mrs. Ladigan beams. With her perfectly blown-out brown hair, she reminds me of a TV reporter. “It taught me so much confidence. Of course, I hated it at the time.” She and Dad laugh.

  Wow. That’s the first time I’ve heard an adult admit it. I hold out my hand almost automatically, the way I’ve been trained. Don’t mumble, I remind myself, and don’t. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

  She shakes it. “Your father tells me you’re working on a plan to save Navegando Point.”

  I turn bright red. Or I think I do, since I can’t actually see myself. I should say, Yes, I am. Would you like to write letters? But my throat won’t work.

  Luckily, Mrs. Ladigan doesn’t seem to expect a response. Because she went to Cotillion, she’s all about not embarrassing me. “I’m an environmental attorney. I deal with land-use stuff a lot. Maybe I can suggest some things.”

  I nod mutely.

  “That would be great!” Dad says. “Thank you so much.”

  “No problem.” She digs into her purse and produces a business card, passing it to me. “Email me.”

  I nod again, relieved. Email I can do. Phone calls are another thing.

  She and Becca leave, and Dad turns to me. “That sounds promising, and it was very generous of her. Are you going to take her up on it?”

  “Did she mean it?” I turn the card over in my hands. The letters stick up and it looks super fancy. My first business card. The thought of emailing her makes me sweaty and it only happened about three seconds ago.

  “Of course she meant it. I didn’t ask her. She could have just said good night and left.”

  “But Mom’s always telling people we run into that they should have lunch, and she never does.” Promising extra stuff just seems like a grown-up thing to do.

  Dad bends and looks in my eyes. “All you can do is reach out. The rest is up to her.”

&nbs
p; I nod. Reaching out seems like it should be easy enough. “It’s just an email, right?”

  “That’s right.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Now let’s get you home.”

  Chapter 22

  Miss Gwen ends up renting a classroom at the Mission Valley Library. This is one of my favorite libraries, not only because it’s newer, with a second story, but also because it’s right next to an IKEA. Which means every time I go, I ask my parents if we can get meatballs. They say yes only once in a while, but it’s still worth an ask.

  “Don’t talk to strangers,” Dad calls after me as I shut the car door. “Go to the front desk if you have a problem.”

  “Dad! I know. I’m in sixth grade.” I turn away. A couple of older teenage girls walk by and smile at me, probably thinking my dad’s too overprotective. I pretend like I don’t know who he is and get myself inside.

  I walk into the main room past the check-out desk. The first person I see is Miss Gwen, sitting at one of the long tables in the middle of the room with her laptop in front of her. “Ah, just who I was hoping to see! How are you, Ava?” She pats the seat beside her.

  I sit, my bottom making a little squeaking noise on the vinyl seat cushion. “I’m fine. I’m sorry the theater closed.” I want to ask her why she told us not to worry, but what good will it do at this point?

  “Your grandmother emailed me.” Miss Gwen looks at me with seriousness. “She told me about the Port of San Diego meeting.”

  I squish my shoulders down. “We all wrote letters, but I don’t know if they even read them.”

  She sighs. “Probably not. They decided what was happening well before the public hearing. The developers give a lot of money to politicians.”

  That sounds like what Nana Linda was saying. The thought of them doing whatever they want makes me mad. “Then why do they even bother with a public hearing?”

  “To make it seem legit.”

  “But . . . that’s not right.” My face heats up like it’s been doing lately when I hear about injustice. I never cared about stuff like this before. Now it’s like I’m a superhero who’s always on the lookout for crime. Ava the Activist. All I need is a cape.