Love, Stargirl

by Jerry Spinelli

  ME: Kiss.

  YOU: I think I’m sorry I asked.

  ME: The more he doesn’t kiss me, the more I want him to.

  YOU: I am. I’m officially sorry I asked.

  ME: But even that’s not cut-and-dried.

  YOU: No?

  ME: I mean, I kind of want him to and don’t want him to at the same time. Does that make sense?

  YOU: For anybody but you, no.

  ME: I want him to, but I’m afraid.

  YOU: Of what?

  ME: I’m afraid I won’t be befuddled anymore. I’m afraid a kiss will answer a question I’m not sure I want answered.

  YOU: Which is?

  ME: I think you know.

  October 13

  O = (BY)340 Birch(F)

  October 16

  Red slipper sock in the window.

  With our mothers’ blessings, Dootsie and I both played hooky to help Betty Lou past her bad day. She was in fine shape by lunchtime, but we were having so much fun we stayed till after dinner.

  October 18

  I took Cinnamon with me to Calendar Hill today. He rode in my pocket. I think I’ll take him with me every Thursday morning. At least I know how he feels about me.

  As I walked down Rapps Dam Road I was vaguely aware of something trying to get my attention, but my head was flying off elsewhere. Then, when I reached Route 113, before crossing, I heard the barest breath of a whisper say, Turn around. I looked in my pocket. Cinnamon was sleeping. Then again: Turn around. I turned around—and there it was. As I looked back up the road all the way to my house, every porch light along the way was lit. Subconsciously I must have known it, because my flashlight was not switched on. Starting with the Cantellos, neighbor after neighbor must have passed the word along over the weeks of Thursdays until, now, my whole path was aglow. I was so touched. I stood there at the intersection of Rapps Dam Road and Route 113 and called aloud down the corridor of porch lights: “Thank you!”

  October 20

  “I’m gonna be a waffle!”

  That’s what I woke up to. I was out late last night at a play in the city with my parents. Even homeschoolers have Saturdays off, so I was sleeping in this morning. Or trying to. Because Dootsie was straddling my back like a jockey and shaking my shoulders and bellowing: “I’m gonna be a waffle! Your mommy’s gonna make me a costume for Halloween!”

  I tried to growl. I tried to be as unpleasant as possible. “Dootsie, go away.”

  She crawled under the covers with me. She snuggled into me and whispered into my ear: “I’m gonna be a waffle.”

  She grabbed my head in both hands and turned my face to her. She propped open one eye with her fingers. “I’m gonna be a waffle.”

  I gave up. I blobbed out of bed. I put on my robe. I slunk downstairs. I drooped at the kitchen table while my mother laughed and told me how Dootsie came barging in this morning (don’t tell any robbers, but my mother unlocks the front door when she gets up to make way for Dootsie’s frequent early-morning visits), telling my mother she wants to be a waffle for Halloween and will she please make her a waffle costume.

  My mother suggested that she could do me up as a fork. I could pretend to be eating the little waffle. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Pleeeeeeze!” Dootsie begged, but I think I’ll probably pass on that and settle for taking the waffle around from house to house.

  In my groggy state this morning I wouldn’t have wanted to admit it, but I’m actually grateful for Dootsie’s attention these days, even when it’s pesty. It helps distract me from thinking about you-know-who. I’ve only seen him once since the no-show at Calendar Hill. It was a few days later. I was in Margie’s when I saw him heading my way with two of his Honeybees. I jumped up. “I’ll be back,” I told Neva, the new helper, so she wouldn’t clean off my table. As I ducked into the kitchen, I said to Margie, “I’m not here.”

  I heard the doorbell tinkle. I heard a yip or two from the girls, but that was all. My anger was no longer flaming. It had hardened to a scab over my wound. It was protecting me from being hurt again, and I wasn’t about to let him rip it away, not even with an apology. Before long the doorbell tinkled again. When I stuck my head out, they were gone.

  October 21

  I thought I should do something with Alvina. Nothing spectacular. Just a simple walk through the park, let the gorgeous autumn colors make their pitch to her, maybe soften her ever-bristling prickles. I was about to call her when the phone rang. It was her. She didn’t say hello. She just started screaming:

  “I know what you’re doing! You rat! You fake! I hate you!”

  I blubbered out a “Huh?”

  She told me she overheard her parents talking about my assignment, about taking her under my wing. I tried to tell her that’s not how it was, but she wasn’t hearing.

  “You ever come near me again, you’ll get a knuckle sandwich. And anyway I’m glad. Because I never liked you anyway. I just felt sorry for you because you’re such a loser. And ugly!”

  She hung up.

  October 22

  I don’t really blame Alvina. If I thought someone befriended me just because it was her job to do so, I’d be mad too. I keep thinking that the right words, healing words, are out there somewhere, but I can’t seem to find them.

  O = (BY)422 Birch(SE)

  October 24

  Dootsie is out of control. Her first-grade teacher called Mrs. Pringle today. She said, “If I hear your daughter blurt out, ‘I’m gonna be a waffle!’ one more time, I’m going to lose my lunch laughing.” Mrs. Pringle had to hide the waffle costume so Dootsie won’t wear it to school every day.

  Dootsie is not 100 percent happy, though. She’s miffed that there’s nothing for her to win. The parade at school is just that—a parade. Not a contest. No prize for best costume. After her stunning first place at the Blobfest, she craves victories.

  “I’m gonna win,” she said one day.

  “No,” I said, “you’re not going to win, because there are no winners. You’re just going to walk in the parade with everybody else.”

  Her face was pouty. “I’m gonna lose?”

  “No, you’re not going to lose either. There will be no winners, no losers. Only ghosts and witches and goblins. And a waffle.”

  “A square waffle!”

  My mother had given her a choice: round or square.

  “Yes, a square waffle.” I picked her up. “And square waffles everywhere will be counting on you to show the world how wonderful a waffle can be.” I kissed her nose. “Can they count on you to do that?”

  She rolled her eyes, considering the question. Finally she shrugged and gave a lukewarm, sighful “I guess.”

  When I take Dootsie around on Halloween night, we’ll stay pretty much in her neighborhood. We’ll start at Betty Lou’s house. And we won’t be the only ones visiting that address. I’ve learned that Betty Lou Fern’s is one of the most popular Halloween destinations in town. Her famous agoraphobia draws trick-or-treaters like ghosts to a haunted house. They get a creepy thrill out of stepping onto the porch of a dark dwelling that the inhabitant hasn’t left in nine years. They shiver at the possibility that they might get a glimpse of her face. They ring the bell. They knock. They wait. They tremble. But all they ever see is the door open just wide enough for a hand to come out—an almost-old lady’s hand—holding a wooden bowl full of donuts cut into halves.

  I took a deep breath and called Alvina to ask her to come with us. She hung up as soon as she heard my voice.

  It won’t surprise me if we run into Perry in our travels. I’m sure he won’t pass up this chance to fill a pillowcase with free food.

  Oh yes—and Cinnamon will go as a fork.

  November 1

  I missed Halloween. I missed the last week. Here’s what happened:

  It was a Wednesday when I wrote to you last. So before sunup next morning, as usual, I headed for Calendar Hill, walkie-talkie in one coat pocket, Cinnamon in the other. As usual, I said goodbye to my mother sitting
on the porch. As usual, I passed from glow pool to glow pool as our neighbors’ porch lights escorted me down Rapps Dam Road. When I got to the dead end, as usual, I crossed Route 113.

  That’s when the usual stopped.

  I saw flames, off to the right. Even now I don’t have the words to describe that moment. The fire. The night. The silence. The solitude. It didn’t seem real. It didn’t seem now. The first thing that popped into my head was: Lenapes! Next thing I knew I was yelling into the walkie-talkie: “Mom! Fire! Call 911!” Running and yelling toward the little stucco bungalow: “Fire! Fire! Wake up! Wake up!”

  I stepped in a hole. Fell hard. Got up. Cinnamon! Squashed! I checked. He was okay. I held him in my hand and ran. “Wake up! Wake up!” The roof was an orange and yellow blanket of flames, warming my face, lighting the night. The mailbox was bright as midday. White letters on the side said MORNING LENAPE. The little red mail flag was down. Cinnamon’s eyes were orange pellets.

  What would a fireman do? I ran to the porch. “Wake up! Wake up!” I ran back to the mailbox. I put Cinnamon inside. Closed the metal flap. Opened it—afraid he wouldn’t get enough air. I pointed to him. “Stay there!” Back to the porch. “Wake up!” I tried the front door. Locked. Above me the fiery roof sounded like sheets flapping in the wind. The smell was sharp, tarry. Frantically I looked around. Chairs. Wicker. I picked up a chair, pointed the legs at a front window, rammed it into the glass. It bounced back. Flames lit the inside of the house. I could see a grandfather clock. Somewhere a siren was wailing. I rammed the chair again, this time screaming like a karate chopper. The window shattered. I tried to yell, “Wake up!” but I was drowning in smoke….

  Next thing I knew there was something over my face. I was looking up into a man’s eyes. He was saying, “Just breathe regular. We’re giving you oxygen.” And then my mother’s face, with a look I’d never seen before. I tried to cry out, “Cinnamon!” but my breath was bitter tar. And then the flashing lights…the stretcher…the siren….

  I was in the hospital for a week.

  Since they were mainly concerned about my lungs and I was too out of it to complain, it wasn’t until later that first night that a nurse pointed and said, “Look.” My ankle was like a grapefruit, thanks to the hole I stepped in. Pretty soon it was packed in ice. Then compressed with a felt donut. And elevated above the sheets. And there were cuts on my hands and face from flying glass. And an oxygen tube up my nose. And I was wheezing. And I couldn’t talk.

  But I could write. I scratched out a note to my parents—they were waiting in the emergency room—telling them where I had put Cinnamon. My dad left and was back in fifteen minutes. He said the mailbox flap was still open but Cinnamon was gone. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t surprised. The only time he stays put is when he’s with me. He must have run out of patience and got himself down from the mailbox and…

  The nurse glared. “Stop crying,” she said sternly. “You’ll gunk up your tubes.”

  For the first two days I was allowed no visitors but my parents. On the second day my parents finally gave me some good news. No one had been home in the burning house. The owners were at their time-share condo in Florida.

  Dootsie and her mother came the third morning. Dootsie wore her waffle costume to cheer me up and because I was going to miss Halloween, but as soon as she saw me she burst into tears. I was still hooked up to oxygen. I still couldn’t speak. She tried to pull the tube out; she thought it was hurting me. She asked about Cinnamon. She read the answer in my face. Her mother led her away sobbing. There’s nothing sadder than a sobbing waffle.

  An hour later Alvina showed up. She hollered at me the whole time. The presence of my parents didn’t faze her.

  “I thought you were supposed to be smart. But you’re not. You’re dumb. You’re stupid. So don’t think you’re getting any sympathy from me. It’s a good thing you can’t talk because you’d probably say something stupid. You tried to break into a house that was on fire. To save somebody. And nobody was home! It doesn’t get any stupider than that. The first thing you’re gonna say to me when you can talk is, you’re gonna say, ‘I’m stupid.’ If you’re not too stupid to understand what I’m saying, nod.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Goodbye.”

  She stomped off.

  I guess she’s not mad at me anymore.

  The Honeybees came. They brought me a pink teddy bear to keep me company. In spite of myself, I find that I like them. Considering that each of them has a one-third stake in the same time-share boy, they seem to get along surprisingly well. They kid each other about who his favorite is. They say I should join them. They say I’d make a great Honeybee. I’m pretty sure they’re kidding (pretty sure), but I went along with it. I said don’t you think the Dandy Man might have something to say about that? They said oh, don’t worry, he’s already said something.

  I thought: Hmm.

  Next day, Himself showed up. He brought a copy of the Morning Lenape, with a front-page story about the fire and a picture of me (school photo from Arizona). The story calls me a “heroic homeschooler.” It says the fact that the residents—the Van Burens—were away at the time “does not detract from the valor of the young girl who put her own life in jeopardy to save her neighbors.”

  I handed it back to him with a sneer. “As Dootsie would say, ‘Bullpoopy.’”

  His eyebrows went up. “Bullpoopy?”

  “I’m no hero. I just happened to be the only one around at that time of night.”

  We argued about whether I was a hero or not. He won by default, as my sore throat gave out. He was touching a scar on my face when my mother, who had been out of the room, walked in. I introduced them. In the presence of my mother, he suddenly seemed timid. His swagger was gone. I had never seen him be anything but bold before. He patted my teddy bear and left.

  Betty Lou has called every day. She’s hating herself for not coming to see me, but from the start I ordered her not to. I don’t feel I’m the reason she should brave the terror of leaving her house, especially since my condition isn’t critical. So we talk and I don’t let her hang up until I’ve persuaded her once again not to feel guilty.

  I came home from the hospital this morning. The first thing I did was dump every pebble out of my happy wagon. Empty. Because Cinnamon is gone.

  I can’t bear to think what happened to him. He’s a house rat. He doesn’t know about cats and hawks. He doesn’t even know there are rat-hating people in the world. I keep seeing him walking up to somebody…somebody with big shoes and loathing in his eyes….

  I found out they had kept something from me. The day after Dootsie visited me in the hospital, she went missing. She was gone for hours. The police found her near the burned-out house. She was looking for Cinnamon.

  I hadn’t slept very well those first few nights. They did a blood test and found some toxins from the smoke, so they gave me medicine for that. My airway was constricted, so they gave me medicine for that. I developed a touch of pneumonia—more medicine. My spit was gray—no medicine for that. Gradually things cleared up. They pulled out the oxygen tube, cut back on the pills. Food stopped tasting smoky. My spit is nice and white now.

  So my body is doing better, but not my dreams. I see Cinnamon. Sometimes he’s wandering a wasteland that looks like the Arizona desert. Señor Saguaro bends down to speak to him, and red-beaked vultures spill out of his elf owl hole. Sometimes Cinnamon is on a crowded sidewalk, dodging shoes, looking up, trying to get someone’s attention. Sometimes I don’t see him, I only hear him, his voice calling my name over and over.

  November 5

  The reporter from the Morning Lenape came to the house today. She’s still trying to make me into a hero. She wants to do a profile. I wasn’t friendly. I answered two or three questions, then pointed to my throat and croaked, “Can’t talk.”

  She shoved her notebook at me. “You could write your answers.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t write.” I grabbed
my crutches and hobbled up the stairs to my room and shut the door. I heard her car start up outside. She was probably changing her headline: HEROIC WITCH.

  I don’t care. My armpits hurt from the crutches. My leg itches under the plastic splint I have to wear whenever I’m not sleeping. I still can’t take a deep breath, but even if I could it wouldn’t help my heart. I miss my Cinnamon. My littlest friend. I hurt where no crutch or splint can reach.

  November 8

  I had a fight with my mother last night. (Surprised?) When she found out I intended to go to Calendar Hill this morning, she blew her stack:

  “You’re not going anywhere! You’re still on crutches! You’re still wheezing!”

  “I am not wheezing,” I said calmly, maturely—since she obviously wasn’t going to play the part of the grown-up here.

  She jabbed her finger in my face. Her cheeks were red. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Debate over.”

  She turned her back on me and walked away.

  “Well, I’m going,” I said calmly, maturely.

  She stopped. Her shoulders stiffened. She turned. Her eyes were glistening. She said only one word—“Susan”—and turned and walked away.

  She never calls me by my first first name unless she’s really, really upset. At that point I remembered a moment during my second day in the hospital. My parents were in the room. My father was standing, my mother sitting in the chair. They were showing me their cheery faces, daring that old gray spit and wheezing to get me down. Suddenly I started coughing so hard I knocked the IV stand over and practically blew out my oxygen tube. My father ran from the room calling, “Nurse!” A nurse came and got me settled down. When she left and I turned back to my parents, my father was standing directly in front of my mother’s chair, so I couldn’t see her. He was still smiling and cheery and squeezing my hand. After a minute he moved aside, and there was my mother’s face again, smiling and cheery. And now I know clearly what I hadn’t known then—my brush with danger had unstrung my parents much more than they had allowed me to see.