Courage for Beginners

by Karen Harrington

  chapter 37

  Here is a girl in need of an honest chat.

  Hello, RamaKhan.

  Hey, MM.

  Mmmmmmmm.

  Question.

  Answer.

  Do u ever feel like the world is showing you things you don’t want to see?

  Duh.

  That’s deep.

  I wear scarves. World looks diff with scarf.

  We’ll go to Paris and we’ll both wear scarves.

  Good idea.

  Good night, friend.

  RamaKhan 4 ever

  chapter 38

  Here is a girl at risk of falling over because she has one foot in her backyard and one foot in the world.

  Well, at least Mama has noticed that Laura is sick. Pale as chalk, rolled up on the couch, washcloth-on-her-head sick.

  Animal Planet is on, of course, but she’s not watching it. Mama sits on the floor, hair all pulled back in her orange scarf, stroking Laura’s arm.

  “What’s going on?”

  “She has a fever,” Mama says. “We’re out of Tylenol. But it is about to rain.” The look in her eyes says it all. I need you. I like that look. I might even love it.

  “I’ll go get an umbrella,” I tell her. “It’s no problem.”

  “Take the Life Alert necklace. And the coat. And call me when you get there.”

  “It’s not cold enough for the coat.” The dreaded orange coat is not coming out.

  “Just do it for me.”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t look at anyone, memorize license plates, and cross the street if you see a feral animal.”

  Here is a girl realizing her mother slept through previous chapters of the story in which the heroine already journeyed to the store unscathed.

  “Seriously, Mama!”

  “It was on the news,” she says. “Feral hogs.”

  “There are no feral hogs on our street.”

  Feral animals have never before been on our list of what to be wary of in the world. But who knows. The more things change, the more strange things you might see on Fargo Drive.

  It didn’t matter too much because her words feel good to me, as if she is coming out of her depressed funk and morphing back into safety Mama. Safety Mama is better than sleeping Mama.

  “Spinach and chicken, too, right?”

  “And some chicken soup and orange juice would be good for Laura.”

  “And cookies,” Laura manages. “I want animal crackers.”

  That kid never turns away an opportunity for a treat.

  The field on Bray Road looks like a wasteland.

  Gray.

  Spooky.

  Nefarious.

  You could imagine zombies rising up from that field, all with the same face. Wilson Carver, zombie real estate agent.

  All down the street everything is going from green to brown in a snap, the trees shrugging their leaves all at once and the laundry-water-colored clouds starting to drizzle. It could be a painting.

  I pull the hood up on the dreaded orange coat and push on to the intersection. Then, a loud thunderclap. Unusual for November. I’d be scared if I had time to worry about weather.

  I know the route so well that before long, I am stepping into Tom Thumb and rolling a cart through the aisles like this is what every twelve-year-old with a chic Supercut and a bad coat does.

  Oh yes, I did know Honeycrisp apples were on sale!

  My cart fills up with a nice big container of chicken soup and a huge bag of oyster crackers because, well, they were right there next to the soup. Then, on to the other items on my list. Animal crackers. Tea and honey. Chicken. Spinach. Two bottles of Tylenol, just in case.

  Oh yes, I do need this hairspray for my new hair.

  At the checkout, the girl says, “If you add just ten more dollars to your order, you can get a free turkey.” Her name tag says BLESSED.

  “Is that really your name?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she responds. “I’m truly Blessed. Now, about that turkey?”

  If they go back and view the security cameras in Tom Thumb, they will see a stupefied red-haired girl try to make a decision about a frozen turkey on a cold day in November all while Christmas music plays overhead.

  Here is a girl being given the offer of free food and, finding no real argument against it, darting back into the depths of the store for a ten-dollar item.

  “This isn’t for you?” Blessed asks as she scans the box of French Roast Brown home hair color.

  “My mom.”

  “Turkey to station five,” Blessed the checker calls into a speaker. A guy bags the groceries and then deposits a giant frozen turkey with a yellow plastic handle on it into my cart.

  “Can I help you to your car?” he wants to know.

  “No thanks.”

  The thing with grocery stores and credit cards is that you don’t realize how much you are buying with your eyes until you carry it with your arms. And then you start to wonder if you really should have accepted a free frozen turkey.

  But I was really thinking about how nice it would be to eat this potentially delicious turkey with Dad. Last year, all we could afford was that little rubbery turkey-breast thing Mama cooked up in a loaf pan. (Of course, I have to wonder if this free turkey thing was available last year.)

  “Are you going out?” a woman says. Apparently, I am blocking part of the exit. I bundle up the two bags of groceries, stuff another bag into my backpack, and grab the turkey by the handle.

  I walk.

  I am cold.

  And wet.

  I now know what it is like to trudge.

  I trudge.

  Just crossing the Tom Thumb parking lot makes my arms so sore they might snap off like drumsticks. Stupid free turkey. The rain falls in a steady, miserable drizzle. The hair around my face is all soaked and stuck to my face in odd places. Without a free hand to brush it away or pull my orange hood back up, I trudge more.

  As I cross the Tom Thumb parking lot, I dream about a steaming cup of tea and honey and a nice view of Animal Planet. Then, the screech of tires. Superbright lights. A car horn.

  “Can’t you see?” a person shouts.

  “Sorry, buddy,” another responds.

  A red van is about five inches from me.

  “Hey, are you okay? Sorry. Boy, glad you were wearing that bright orange. That coat’s a lifesaver, huh?”

  I set the turkey down for a moment and readjust it in my hand.

  The dreaded orange coat just saved my life.

  Wait, the dreaded orange coat just saved my life?

  No way.

  “That’s between me and you, turkey.”

  I continue toward Bray Road, trying to focus on each cement sidewalk square.

  The rain comes faster but I don’t care.

  I could already smell the aroma of Mama’s garden-grown herbs blended into the stuffed, buttery bird. I pictured our table set with the fine china we never use. The tablecloth with the printed blue flowers. And best of all, Mama coming fully out of the funk that sends her to her bedroom and keeps her from washing her hair.

  Because I really needed her to wash her hair.

  Mysti, this is just what I needed! she will say.

  Then Dad, calling from the hospital.

  Oh, Mysti, you are my hero! Save some for me because I’m coming home!

  Even Laura will look at me with those big blue eyes, and tell me she’d clean my room for a month because I’d made all her dinner dreams come true.

  “My taste buds are alive again!”

  Here is a girl who would soon bring a heretofore unknown peace unto 4520 Fargo Drive, the consequences of which would include finally getting much-needed orthodontia and a trip to the mall.

  Even though I am cold and my arms might snap off from the weight of the turkey, I am smiling.

  Happy.

  Hopeful.

  But when I pause at the crosswalk, a giant Ford truck rolls through a puddle and a tsunami of
rainwater drenches me solid. If that wasn’t bad enough, through the window I can see Anibal Gomez looking at me and laughing. Well, this is the cold moment that shakes me back into reality and out of a warm storied world. The world where I pretend I’m an author observing a twelve-year-old character who looks a lot like myself, gap-toothed expression and all, and is prone to unfortunate plot twists.

  Like carrying frozen turkeys in the rain.

  What are the chances his family would drive by at the same time I’m covered in orange and holding a turkey?

  About the same as a hot-air balloon landing on our block, I guess.

  Anibal is looking and laughing. Well, like I’ve always known, people like to stop and look at unusual things.

  And I’m sure I look unusual.

  At the house, I run in from the cold as fast as someone carrying a frozen turkey can run.

  Mama gives Laura the medicine and then brings me a clean, dry towel that she had warmed in the dryer. Man, she gets me sometimes. She hugs it around my back.

  “Mysti.”

  That was all she said. Just my name.

  Here is a girl hearing her name spoken with a certain quality not unlike an adjective.

  “They were giving away free turkeys.”

  Mama regarded the turkey, almost caressing it.

  “Oh, won’t this be nice,” she says. “I can’t imagine how heavy this must have been in the rain.”

  “Nice for when Dad comes home at Thanksgiving, right? A real turkey.”

  I should have left well enough alone because the mention of him makes her go into cleaning mode.

  “Yes,” she says, wiping down the counter.

  “And this is for you. That gray line on your head must disappear before Dad comes back.” Mama holds the box of French Roast Brown home hair color. You would think I’d just given her the Mona Lisa.

  “Mysti, well, that is so sweet of you. I must look a fright.” Mama runs a hand through her hair.

  I change my clothes and settle down to watch What Animals Think, Part 2. Maybe I will get insight into Larry’s thoughts.

  “I hope you feel better, Laura,” I say to her.

  “If I die, you must solve the mystery of the Woman. I saw her today and she was wearing a man’s clothes and a ski hat.”

  “You aren’t dying. You just have a fever.”

  “Just promise.”

  That kid is stubborn in sickness and in health.

  “Okay, I promise,” I say. “Hey, I got a giant turkey.”

  “I need a cup of water.”

  Laura already has a cup of water, but she wants me to play the part of dedicated sister so I bow to her commands. She is too engrossed by the TV animals to be impressed about what I will now forever refer to as my poultry trophy, anyway.

  She drinks her water and then her eyelids grow heavy. Before she goes to sleep, I tell her the joke of the day.

  What did the dog say when he sat on the sandpaper?

  Rough! Rough!

  “Don’t forget your promise. I must know the answer before my death.”

  “You should be in the talent show, Laura.”

  And then, there is a text from you-know-who.

  I didn’t know an orange had legs!

  Very funny.

  Was to me.

  What’s up?

  Not much. Just waitin 2 go 2 movies.

  Oh.

  I think your pic will make a nice poster!

  No way!

  Way!

  Don’t Anibal!

  LOL!

  Seriously! Just stop it.

  Got 2 go.

  Don’t be a jerk!

  Whatever. Nerd.

  I open the stupid box of stupid animal crackers and eat them in front of the TV. I bite their legs off one at a time to make them suffer. That’s how angry I feel right now. Take that, you stupid animal cracker.

  It doesn’t make me feel better. Just thirsty.

  chapter 39

  Here is a girl imagining that different fears have different weights.

  Here’s the thing about fears. We are only born with two.

  The fear of falling.

  The fear of loud noises.

  All other fears are learned.

  That is what it said in Mama’s hidden pamphlets.

  The purpose of these fears is to alert you to danger. All other fears can be unlearned. Therefore, it is important to monitor one’s thought life and discern between negative and positive thoughts. Keep a journal and identify your fears. Then, identify the emotions that go along with them.

  At school, I’m standing in front of my locker trying to decide what I’m most afraid of. I’m identifying the emotions that accompany my present fear. Because there is an eight-by-ten-inch picture on my locker featuring a dripping wet skinny girl in a ridiculously puffy orange coat holding a large frozen object. She looks like a wet orange duck. And as I glance around the hallways, I see copies of this picture. Everywhere.

  Girl Who Wins Fashion-Disaster Prize.

  The picture is pretty funny. I mean, I would laugh if it wasn’t me. Kids pass me in the hallway and I hear the laughter and little comments. And really, that doesn’t bother me. I hear comments all the time. So, if I’m going to do what the pamphlets say, I have to be honest.

  My fear really isn’t about the bad fashion statement.

  My fear isn’t that there are unknown copies of this picture in the world.

  My fear isn’t that some of the pictures already have cartoon captions on them.

  My fear is that I’ve lost a friend forever.

  My fear is that maybe he wasn’t my friend all along.

  I tear the picture off my locker and stuff it in my backpack.

  I tell myself that nothing about this situation will block my greatest goal: getting to Paris. This is a picture like those in Mama’s wedding album. This will be a picture of someone who will no longer exist in ten years.

  But knowing that doesn’t make my chest feel any lighter. In fact, my chest feels like an elephant sat on it.

  Here comes Rama, waving one of the puffy-orange-coat pictures. Today, she is wearing a red scarf. Burgundy Wine.

  “This is the work of that horrid Gomez boy!”

  “I know.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I guess you just won’t save him from cancer.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  “Why were you out walking in the rain like that anyway?”

  “My sister needed medicine. She’s sick.”

  “I’m sorry, Mysti. She’ll be okay.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Most everyone can be saved. It’s a statistical probability.”

  Lunch.

  We open sticks of Wintergreen gum. And then Wayne Kovok sits down at our table and reads, of course. And you will never guess, but the book is that thick one about Steve Jobs’s life that Mr. Jennings raves about. And it gives me a little hope.

  “Wayne?” I ask.

  “What?” Wayne mumbles.

  “No fact du jour?”

  “What? No. Too busy reading.”

  “That’s the book my neighbor was reading.”

  “Yes, this guy Steve Jobs was incredible. He played all kinds of tricks on kids at school. He figured out how to make long-distance calls free and sold these boxes to people so that they could steal calls, too, and then when he was in college—”

  “Wayne!” I have to stop him. He is a run-on sentence with a mouth. “So you are excited about it, that’s good.”

  “I’m tired of being hassled by Joe Busby,” Wayne remarks out of nowhere. “He doesn’t believe I talked to this guy in China on my ham radio, but I did.”

  “Joe Busby is a jerk,” I say. Joe Busby likes to tell everyone he is a model because he did some shirt ads for JC Penney and now owns a lifetime supply of plaid button-downs. I call him Boy Who Lacks Humility.

  “Okay then, you can be part of our club,” Rama says. />
  “I don’t want to be in a stupid girls’ club,” Wayne replies. “I just want to eat my sandwich.”

  “She’s kidding, Wayne,” I say. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, you are already in our club.”

  “Did you know that Wayne is the most common middle name of criminals and serial killers?” Wayne says.

  Here is a girl witnessing a potential inventor struggling mightily to emerge from poor Mr. Kovok’s mind.

  “I wouldn’t say that to girls,” I say.

  “Don’t worry, I find girls more complex than technology.”

  Wayne Kovok might have continued to forcibly educate us on circuits if Rama hadn’t offered him a piece of Wintergreen gum so that he had to pause.

  “Mysti, that poster was stupid,” Wayne says.

  “I’ve already forgotten about it,” I say. “It was very juvenile.”

  Before we leave the cafeteria, Wayne turns to us and asks, “Are you guys going to the fall social?”

  “Are you kidding?” I say. “No way.”

  “Girls make no sense. You tell me I’m in your club and then you do… whatever,” he says.

  I feel bad for Wayne.

  “Told you,” Rama says.

  “Told me what?”

  “Told you he wanted to go,” she says. “We can’t go if you don’t.”

  “Your mother wouldn’t let you go anyway.”

  “I negotiated a summer math course for two hours at the social. As long as you go, of course.”

  “Are you sure you’re not going to be an attorney? You do a lot of negotiating,” I say.

  “I can’t go if you don’t go. That was part of the negotiation. That, and I must be in the talent show. And I must win.”

  “You must?”

  “My mother would be disappointed.”

  “Oh.”

  “And if I don’t win, I’ll be so despondent and will need someone to go to the social with me.”

  “Fine, I’ll think about it,” I say, just to get her off my back. Who wants to think about a fall social when she is currently the social joke of the day?

  “Think of Wayne.”

  I think of Wayne.

  You have to wonder if the Wayne Kovok of the future will become even more socially awkward and then invent the next big thing in his garage, the way Steve Jobs had done. Or live up to his name and become a serial killer. I hope for the first option and keep my head down the rest of the day.