Granny Torrelli Makes Soup

by Sharon Creech

  Janine moved into the old Wicker house, you know which one?

  The yellow one across from you? Granny asks.

  No, the green one, Bailey says. Yellow one’s still empty. The new girl is the same age as me and Rosie. Really nice girl, isn’t she, Rosie?

  I am mangling the almost-dough, strangling it. Mmph is my reply.

  What? Bailey says, hearing my snotty voice. You like her, don’t you?

  Granny is giving me the look, big time. I stop being a jerk, temporarily, and say, Sure, she’s nice. But my snotty self has to add, I guess.

  Bailey turns his head toward me and my tight, stingy voice, and he says to Granny, Well, she seems nice to me. Funny girl, too, always laughing, and very curious, wants to know why and how and all that.

  My ice queen has turned into a tiger, rumbling in me, wanting to pounce on that Bailey boy. I am thinking, I am nice, I am funny, I am curious!

  Granny Torrelli, the mind reader, says, Sounds like my Rosie girl. So maybe you and Janine will be friends, Rosie?

  I am too busy strangling the dough to answer. I am thinking how that Janine girl made me introduce her to Bailey, and how she swooned all over him, wasting her smiles and tossing her head at someone who couldn’t even see her. And when she figured that out, she cooed and patted him, like he was a little dove, and Bailey smiled his big smile at her, and I wanted to throttle them both.

  I am wanting to push Bailey out of the house and tell Granny Torrelli all this so she will be on my side and know why I am being an ice-queen-tiger Rosie, when Bailey says, Janine is dying to learn Braille.

  Whaaaat? I say. I think my tiger is going to leap out of me, chew Bailey alive.

  Don’t sound so surprised, Rosie, Bailey says. You wanted to learn it, didn’t you?

  My words are so tangled in my head, I don’t know where to start. Little mutters come out of my mouth. Buh-uh-muh—

  Then Bailey says the worst thing: So I’m going to teach her.

  Even Granny Torrelli knows why this would make me crazy. She knows how hard I learned in secret, how long it took me, and how Bailey was mad at me at first. She knows my head must be crazy with wondering why he would so quickly offer to teach Janine, when he never offered to teach me.

  Bailey must sense something in my mutters, because he says, defensively, Well, she asked me. Begged me! What was I supposed to say?

  That Bailey boy. I am wanting to take this sticky dough and sling it onto his face.

  VIOLETTA . . .

  Granny Torrelli says, Rosie, give Bailey a turn with that dough before you beat it to death.

  I shove the bowl at Bailey and go to the sink to wash my hands. I scrub them, rough, as if they are covered with tar. I feel Granny Torrelli’s eyes on my back.

  She says, Did I ever tell you about Violetta?

  Nope, Bailey says. Tell!

  Rosie? Granny Torrelli says. You want to hear about Violetta?

  Sure, I say. Anything is better than hearing about nice, funny, curious Janine.

  First I have to tell Bailey about Pardo, Granny Torrelli says. Pardo was my buddy, my pal when I was growing up. We were like this, inseparable, she says, squeezing her thumb and forefinger together, just as she did when she told me about Pardo. Then one day, a girl comes to stay with her aunt, next door to Pardo. Her name is Violetta.

  The way Granny says her name, I hear a little ice queen in her voice.

  Cool name, Bailey says, Vee-oh-LET-a.

  Puh! Granny Torrelli says. Well, I tell you, that name means little violet, but she was no little fragile violet, that Violetta. She swings into our village, all long curly hair and long legs and big mouth. Chia-chia-chia, chatterbox all day long.

  Bailey laughs. Chia-chia-chia, he says, echoing Granny Torrelli.

  Granny Torrelli flicks her hand in the air, as if she is flicking away a fly. “Oh, Pardo,” Violetta would say, “oh, Parrrrr-do, you are so strong, you are so handsome, you are so smart, please will you help me with this, and please will you help me with that?”

  I love it that Granny Torrelli has a little ice-queen tiger in her, too.

  I tell you, that Violetta, she hypnotized Pardo! He was stumbling around as if he’d been kicked by a mule, all in a daze over Violetta.

  I see Bailey smile, then stop midsmile. He is thinking. I wonder what about. I want to bore a little hole inside his head and see what he is thinking.

  Granny Torrelli shifts her feet on the chair and says, I tell you, I am not too much liking this little Violetta chickie. I am not too much liking the way she is falling all over my buddy, my pal Pardo.

  Bailey turns his head toward me. I know he can’t see my expression, but still I look down at my feet, stare at my shoes. I want to hear how Granny Torrelli handled the Violetta chickie, but there is a knock at the window behind me. I turn.

  Uh-oh.

  JANINE . . .

  Janine is standing outside, waving and smiling. I slink to the door, let her in, arrange my mouth into a smile, but it is so hard. I feel as if my face will crack into many pieces and fall onto the floor at her feet.

  She hugs me. Hey, Bailey! she says, and rushes over to squeeze him to bits. And who’s this? she says, smiling down on Granny Torrelli sitting in her chair.

  This is Granny Torrelli, I say, and then add, dumbly, She’s mine.

  Granny Torrelli smiles at me, then at Janine. You must be Janine.

  Oh! Janine says, tossing her frizzy cool black hair. You’ve heard about me, then?

  Granny Torrelli says, I heard a new, nice girl, name of Janine, moved into the neighborhood. I’m figuring that might be you.

  Janine beams at Granny Torrelli. That’s me! she says brightly.

  It is all I can do to keep my inside tiger from jumping out. I take a couple deep breaths, try to stay calm.

  We’re making pasta, I say.

  Really? She draws the word out—Reallllllly?—as if making pasta is the most extraordinary thing she has ever heard of, ever in her life. People really make pasta? That’s so, so fascinating. Like, how do you do it?

  Granny Torrelli glances at me quickly, checking to see if my tiger is in rein, maybe. Granny explains to Janine about the flour and the eggs and the dough, but before she can finish, Janine interrupts her.

  Oh, this is so extremely fascinating!

  And I am thinking I will die if she stays to help us. I want to tie her up and throw her out the window.

  Bailey is standing there smiling his smile at everyone. His hands are still in the dough bowl.

  But I am rescued, at least from that one wretched thing. Janine says, I would so love to stay and watch, but I can’t. She turns to Bailey. I just went over to your house, Bailey, but your mom said you were here.

  Grrr. She didn’t even come to see me, her new best friend?

  Janine races on. I just need to know, Bailey, what time tomorrow I can come for my first Braille lesson.

  Granny Torrelli heaves herself out of her chair and comes toward me, as if she is going to the sink. She gives me one quick look, a simple look but full of meaning. Her look is a warning to my tiger self, but it is something else, too, as if she is beaming me a little comfort.

  And suddenly I am thinking, Oh no, oh no, not tomorrow, please not tomorrow, because I haven’t yet reminded Bailey that tomorrow we are having the pasta party. Today we will make the pasta and the sauce, and tomorrow we will put it all together, me and Granny Torrelli and Bailey and Carmelita and my mom and pop. And I can’t tell Bailey this now, because then Janine will want to come to the pasta party, too, and I don’t want Janine at our pasta party, even if she is my new best friend, who is not really my best friend at all.

  But maybe Bailey knows about tomorrow, maybe Carmelita has told him, because he says to Janine, I can’t do it tomorrow, sorry. How about Monday after school?

  I am wanting to hug that Bailey boy for telling her not-tomorrow, but I am also wanting to slug him for Monday-after-school.

  Janine does not miss
a beat. Oh, that’s okay, Bailey. Monday is great! Perfect! You want to come to my house?

  Grrr.

  Sure, Bailey says.

  Perfect! she says, tossing the frizzy cool black hair. ’Bye, Bailey (squeezes his arm, pats his shoulder), ’bye, Granny Torrelli (smiles her perfect white smile), ’bye, Rosie (hugs my tiger self), ’bye, ’bye, ’bye!

  And she is gone, and we are left in the wake of all that smiling Janine girl.

  Granny Torrelli is standing right next to me. As the door closes, she whispers in my ear one word: Violetta.

  HAIRCUT . . .

  Terrible silence in the room for several long minutes, until Granny Torrelli examines the dough and says, Okay, dough needs a little rest, and she puts the bowl to one side. Bailey goes to the sink to wash his hands, and I flounder there in the middle of the kitchen, like a fish that has been thrown to shore.

  Granny Torrelli sits back down and says, So, you want to hear more about Vio-let-ta?

  Bailey and I answer quickly, Yes! as if we are both grateful for Granny filling up the silence in the room.

  I am not too proud of what I am going to tell you, she says. But I don’t think you’ll hold it against me. She smiles at me. So there is Violetta with the long beautiful hair, gushing over my Pardo, and there is Pardo like her little slave, helping her carry this and that, and I am turning into a monster, so mad at both of them.

  Granny Torrelli leans forward, lowers her voice as if what she is about to say is a secret. So one day, I get that Violetta alone, and I ask her if she isn’t hot with all that heavy hair hanging down her back. She says, “Well, a little,” and I tell her that I bet she would feel so much better if she chopped all that long hair off, and I bet she would look really cute with short hair. This is not true, I do not think she would look really cute with short hair. I am a monster.

  Bailey dries his hands, sits at the table. And? he says. And then what?

  I tell her I am a good haircutter (another lie), and I get the scissors and I convince Violetta to let me chop off her beautiful long hair.

  No! I say. Not really?

  Really, really, Granny Torrelli says, reaching up to finger her own hair which is tucked into a bun at the back of her head. I chop, chop, chop, all that beautiful long hair falling on the ground, and in the middle of chopping, I get afraid, what am I doing? I slow down, be a little more careful, I even up the sides, take a little more off here, fiddle with it. The whole time Violetta is sitting there with her hands over her mouth, uttering little squeals as the hair falls away.

  Bailey is shaking his head. He can’t believe my granny Torrelli would be a monster girl.

  So I finish, Granny Torrelli says. My hands are shaking. Violetta stands up, tosses her head, and I almost fall over dead when I take a good look at her.

  Was it that awful? I ask. I am already thinking of taking the scissors to Janine’s head, snipping off all that cool frizzy black hair. Did Violetta look really, really ugly?

  Granny Torrelli taps the table, one, two, three times. No! She did not look ugly. She looked even more beautiful!

  Bailey laughs; I gasp.

  But, but—I don’t know what I want to say, too many things bubbling up in my throat. And Pardo? I finally say. What did he think of Violetta’s new short hair?

  Granny Torrelli says, Puh! He thought she looked like a movie star!

  Granny Torrelli gets up, says, Have to take a little pause, and off she goes to the bathroom, leaving me and Bailey alone in the too-quiet kitchen with the dough and thoughts of Janine and Violetta swirling in the air.

  A LONG PAUSE . . .

  So quiet there in the kitchen, just me and Bailey while Granny Torrelli is taking her little pause. Then Bailey reaches across the table, finds my hand, and taps on it once, lightly. A little grin is on his face.

  Rosie, are you jealous?

  Puh! I say, just like Granny Torrelli. Jealous? Me? Of what?

  Of Janine.

  Janine? Jealous of Janine? Now why would I be jealous of Janine?

  My mind is in a riot, thoughts racing around, crashing into one another. I am jealous, I know it, a million, zillion times jealous, but I can’t stop myself.

  Bailey taps my hand again. I don’t know why you would be jealous of Janine, unless you think that I would like her better than you, Rosie.

  Crash! Zing! Things flying around inside my head so fast. I am thinking, Hurry, Granny, hurry, come back from your pause and rescue me before I say something utterly stupid. But Granny is taking a long, long pause.

  Finally I say, Well, would you, Bailey? Would you like her better than me?

  I am shocked at my bold Rosie self. I want the answer, but only if it is the right answer. If it is the wrong answer, I want Bailey to evaporate, and I want the whole world to vanish.

  Bailey shrugs. I don’t think so, he says.

  That is his answer: I don’t think so. My tiger is raging.

  You don’t think so? I say. You don’t think so?

  Bailey’s mouth does a little scrunching thing. Was that the wrong answer? he says.

  And then there is Granny Torrelli, back from her long pause, with his wrong answer hanging in the air, hanging heavily in the kitchen air.

  SNAKES . . .

  Granny takes a look around, senses that maybe her pause should have been even longer, looks as if she is debating whether or not to leave the room again, but then she steps purposefully to the counter and lifts the bowl of dough.

  Bene, she says, I will do my little miracles and then we will make the snakes.

  Snakes? Bailey says.

  Fun part, Granny says, you’ll see. She sprinkles flour on one of the pastry boards, dumps the dough onto it, and then she kneads and pats and rolls the pasta with her hands, so graceful, so gentle, until the dough is gleaming and smooth. No more sticky patches. It looks beautiful. Then she shapes the dough into an oval and takes the big knife and slices off pieces, each one the size of a tiny lemon, and she places one lemon-size piece in front of each of us.

  Flour your hands, she says, like this. She shows Bailey by letting him feel her own hands. Now you make the snakes. Rosie, show Bailey.

  I glare at her. I am not wanting to show Bailey. Granny winks at me. I move over beside Bailey and take his hands and put them on the dough, with my hands on top of his. I show him how to roll with his fingers so the dough will get longer and thinner.

  I stop being mad at Bailey while my hands are on his.

  Oh, I get it, he says, and so I let go of his hands and stand back, watching as he swiftly rolls his dough into a perfect snake.

  Inside, I am thinking good things and terrible things. I want to stay there watching Bailey forever. I want him never to leave. I do not want him ever to be with Janine. I hate Janine for coming to live in our neighborhood. I want the snakes to be real and slither off the table and under the door and over to Janine’s and . . .

  You going to help us, Rosie? Granny Torrelli says, jolting me out of my head, bringing me back to the kitchen and the dough.

  We make all the snakes and then Granny tells me to chop them up, so I chop each snake into little inch-long pieces. I love the next part, when we make the little cavatelli.

  Show Bailey, will you, Rosie? Granny Torrelli says, and I am happy to put my hand on Bailey’s again, and dip his fingers in the flour and then show him how to take one of the little pieces and roll it with his forefinger against his thumb, pressing in as he rolls, so the perfect shape is made: It looks like a little dough canoe.

  Bene, bene, Granny Torrelli says, sitting across from us, watching me and Bailey, side by side, making the little dough canoes, the cavatelli. And for a time, it is peaceful in the kitchen, and I am outside myself, a calm place to be.

  SAUCE . . .

  All the cavatelli are spread out on the floured board where they will dry. Granny Torrelli says, Bene, bene, now it’s sauce time, and she has her nose in the refrigerator and is pulling out spareribs and ground beef and egg
s and garlic and onion and tomatoes. From the cupboard she snatches salt and pepper and oregano and bay leaves and olive oil.

  I am the director, she says. Let’s get this production moving!

  Granny dribbles olive oil in the big red pot, while Bailey and I chop onions and garlic, and then we toss them in the pot, and what a smell in that kitchen, what a good, good smell!

  Spareribs, Granny directs, and Bailey plunks the spareribs in the pot, where they sizzle.

  Tomatoes, chopped, Granny says, and so we chop all the tomatoes while Granny opens the wee can of tomato paste, the thick, red, sticky paste that will go in the pot with the tomatoes.

  As the spareribs are browning, I can’t help it, I say, So whatever happened to Violetta?

  Puh! Granny Torrelli says, settling herself on the chair and sniffing the good smells in the kitchen. Here is the good thing that happened: Marco.

  Who’s Marco? Bailey says.

  Granny Torrelli grins a little-girl grin, full of mischief. Very cute boy, comes to stay with his grandmother, next door to me. Very smart boy, too, and molto charming. Granny smiles at the ceiling as if Marco, the cute, smart, charming boy, is floating up there.