by Greg Howard
“And you say this Stuart has done other birthday parties before?” Mrs. Martin asks. “Like how many?”
I can’t hear what Mr. Grayson is saying to my friends above because of all the cafeteria noise, but I have a bad feeling.
I lower my voice to nearly a whisper. “I can guarantee you, Mrs. Martin, that Stuart has been the main attraction at thirteen birthday parties.”
Stuart is thirteen years old. So it’s not like I’m lying or anything.
“And he was rewarded very well at those parties.”
That’s not a lie, either. Stuart is an only child and an only grandchild, so he always gets a ton of birthday presents.
“Oh? Well . . . how much does he charge?” Mrs. Martin asks.
Mr. Grayson’s long legs bend at the knee. Crap.
“I could probably get him to do it for an even one thousand dollars,” I say quickly.
Mrs. Martin either chokes or chuckles. I can’t be sure which.
I keep going before she can say no. “And that’s a real bargain. Don’t tell anyone you’re getting him at that price.”
The vice principal is squatting now and we’re face-to-face. Double crap!
There’s a pause on the line. “I’ll pay twenty dollars. And make sure he’s here by one o’clock a week from Saturday.”
Once again my ask-for-way-more-than-you-expect-to-get strategy works.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say into the phone. “He’ll be there. And thank you for your business.”
Mr. Grayson holds out his hand as I close the phone.
“Give me the phone, Pruitt,” he says. “Now.”
17
THE FREE SAMPLE
Mr. Grayson kept my phone until the end of the day and gave me the first-ever strike of my middle school career. No one is sure how many strikes Mr. Grayson gives before he calls your parents. It kind of depends on his mood, I think. But I don’t care as much about the strike as the fact that he took my phone away. I don’t know how the vice principal thinks I’m supposed to conduct business at school without it. What if Mr. Billy Shannon calls me back in the middle of math class? Or during a school assembly? Does Mr. Grayson seriously think I’m going to let that call go to voice mail? No, thank you very much, Vice Principal Grayson, and have a nice day.
As soon as I get my phone back, I call Dad and ask him if it’s okay if I bring my friend Charvi to visit Pap this afternoon. He said he thought that would be fine since Pap has been feeling better. It’s been almost three weeks since I’ve seen Pap and I haven’t been able to tell him about the Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency at all. I think it will cheer him up, because all he ever does is sit in a wheelchair in his room all day watching TV. And since he’s blind, by watching, I mean his wheelchair faces the TV and he talks back to the characters on the shows like they’re in the room with him. Pap Pruitt isn’t crazy or anything, though. I think he’s just lonely—which is kind of sad—so I try to visit him as much as I can. Dad didn’t seem to mind at all that I wanted Charvi to go with us and he didn’t even ask me why. Just tapped her address into the GPS and we were on our way.
Penelope guides us in the direction of the Battery, close to downtown Charleston. Penelope is what Dad calls the British lady GPS voice blaring through the minivan. Dad loves Penelope and talks back to her like she’s a real-live person all the time. I think he has a crush on her, but she doesn’t sound interested in him, like, at all.
“Turn right onto Ashley Drive in one-point-five miles,” Penelope says, like she’s bored out of her mind.
“Why, thank you, Penelope,” Dad says in a terrible British accent.
Penelope doesn’t ever say you’re welcome, though. Or maybe she does in Dad’s head.
They should have kid GPS voices. I think I would be great at that. During the summers, I sometimes go with Dad on his landscaping jobs and I’ve learned how to get around Charleston pretty well. And I wouldn’t sound bored or British if I were giving directions on GPS. I would just sound like a real-live kid. Actually that’s another great business idea:
Anything Real-Live-Kid GPS Service
A division of Anything, Inc.
Michael Pruitt—President, Founder, CEO, and Guidance Expert
I would be all, like, Dude, turn right at the McDonald’s up ahead and if you pass Chuck E. Cheese, you’ve gone too far, so don’t do that, yo.
And my dad would probably say, But where’s Penelope?
And I would say, Yeah, so, Penelope got fired for sounding bored all the time and—yo, dude, you just missed your turn! What’s the matter with you? Pay attention and stop thinking about Penelope.
Bored British Penelope guides us into a cool-looking neighborhood called Wagener Terrace close to the Ashley River, and right into Charvi’s driveway. It’s a pretty old house that’s been fixed up to look like it might have when it was first built, like, a hundred years ago. You know, but better.
I’m surprised to see Dinesh sitting with Charvi in a swing on the big wraparound porch. I didn’t even explain to him why I’m taking her to meet Pap at Prince George. I hope he’s not mad about that. They hop up and run out to our minivan before Dad even has a chance to stop. Dad pushes the button to open the automatic door.
“What’s up?” Dinesh says, piling in. “Hey, Mr. P.”
Dad salutes Dinesh, but it looks goofy and not very official.
“Hey,” I say, waving to Charvi as she gets in behind Dinesh.
Dad pushes the button and the door closes in super-slow motion.
“This is Charvi, Dinesh’s cousin,” I say to Dad.
“Nice to meet you, Charvi,” Dad says. He looks over his shoulder as he backs out of the driveway. “Buckle up, you guys.”
Charvi is dressed in jeans and a light blue T-shirt, with her hair pulled up in a ponytail. Dinesh looks like he’s going to church, though, wearing khakis and a white button-down shirt. I guess he catches me eyeing his clothes, because he shrugs.
“I’ve never been to a nursing home before,” he says. “I didn’t know what to wear.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I say to Dinesh, “but what the heck are you even doing here?”
Charvi raises her hand. “Guilty. My mom didn’t like the idea of me going off with you since she’s never met you or your dad. No offense. So I asked her if I could go if Dinesh comes with me. She was cool with that.”
“I totally understand, and am not offended at all,” Dad says, pulling out into the street.
“Turn left onto Battery Way in point-seven miles,” Penelope says.
“Brilliant. Thank you ever so much, love,” Dad replies.
Dinesh and Charvi exchange a glance. Dinesh leans forward and whispers in my ear, “Dude, why is your dad talking like Dumbledore?”
I just shake my head. Parents can be super-crazy embarrassing.
* * *
* * *
When we arrive at Prince George, I’m surprised to find Pap Pruitt sitting in front of the TV, not in his room, but in the nursing home’s common area. He must be feeling a lot better, which makes me feel a ton less worried about him. Pap sits by himself watching The Andy Griffith Show—his favorite—while other residents are grouped together at game tables, on sofas, and sprawled out in La-Z-Boy recliners like they’re tanning under the fluorescent ceiling.
It’s really bright in here, because just about everything is white—the walls, the ceiling, the floors. About the only other colors in the room are the fake green plants and the ugly brown furniture. I don’t care what the staff of Prince George Nursing Home thinks, I can tell you right now that green, brown, and white do not go together. And I’m not even a professional decorator. Unless . . . maybe I am:
Anything Nursing Home Redecorating Service
A division of Anything, Inc.
Michael Pruitt—Pre
sident, Founder, CEO, and Queer Eye for the Old Guys
It could work.
Dad touches Pap lightly on the shoulder as we approach. “Hey, Dad.”
You can’t be too careful with blind, old people. You don’t want to sneak up on them and give them a heart attack or anything.
Pap Pruitt smiles at Dad’s voice. “Sherwood.”
Yeah. My dad has a funny name. But it only sounds funny to other kids my age. Adults act like it’s no big deal. Weird.
“I brought Mikey, Pap,” Dad says.
Pap Pruitt reaches in my direction, which is kind of freaky because I haven’t made a sound yet. I think it’s kind of cool how sometimes you can’t even tell he’s blind. Dinesh and Charvi look amazed, too. Like Pap just did a magic trick by sensing where I’m standing.
“Mikey,” Pap says.
And that’s all he needs to say. It’s like he can have a whole conversation with you just by saying your name. Like just then I felt like he said to me, Hey, there, Mikey. I’m so glad you came. Why has it been so long since your last visit? Is it because I’ve been sick? Or because this place creeps you out? I get that. It creeps me out sometimes, too. I’m just glad you’re here now.
Pap’s wearing his favorite blue denim overalls and he looks even more ancient than the last time I saw him—not much hair left, and what he has is greasy and flaky. His skin is pale, with lots of brown spots that are much bigger than Colton’s freckles. He’s not wearing his dentures because he doesn’t like them and says they’re only good for eating.
Pap touches my chest and leans closer to me. “Who are your friends, son?”
Charvi and Dinesh look amazed again, this time that Pap had figured out I brought friends without seeing them.
“This is my best friend Dinesh and his cousin Charvi,” I say, touching Pap’s shoulder.
Dinesh and Charvi both say hello and then I launch into telling Pap all about my new business, and how Charvi is one of my clients, and how I have four other clients, five if you count Fifi. And I tell him that Fifi is blind, too, which makes Pap smile. I also tell him all about the talent show next Friday and how if one of my clients wins, I’ll make my first-ever commission. That makes Pap smile with his whole face.
He leans even closer to me. “All it takes is a dream and a prayer, right, Mikey?”
I nod even though Pap can’t see me. “That’s right, Pap. All it takes is a dream and a prayer.”
I can’t wait to come back real soon and tell Pap all about how successful Anything Talent and Pizzazz Agency is. Because the talent show is only the beginning of my plans.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Pap says in a crackled whisper.
A pesky lump forms in my throat, because when your hero tells you he’s proud of you, well, it doesn’t get much better than that.
A tall, dark-skinned lady wearing a gray pantsuit walks over to us. “Wow, Mr. Pruitt. You have quite the fan club today.”
That’s Mrs. Prosser. She runs all of Prince George Nursing Home, so she’s, like, super-crazy important and famous here. Dad shakes her hand, which looks very professional.
Pap turns his head in Dad’s direction. “Did you bring me some chewing gum, Sherwood?”
That makes Charvi giggle a little, and Dinesh smiles. Pap Pruitt always asks for chewing gum—Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit is his favorite.
Mrs. Prosser touches Pap on the shoulder. “Now, you know you can’t have any chewing gum, Mr. Pruitt. You might swallow it.”
She says it kind of loud. Like she thinks Pap will have trouble hearing her. I want to remind Mrs. Prosser that Pap Pruitt is blind, not deaf, but that doesn’t seem like the professional thing to do right now.
“Mikey wanted to bring some friends to meet his granddad,” Dad says to her. “Mikey, you remember Mrs. Prosser.”
I don’t know why adults always tell you that you remember someone whether you do or not. Usually, though, that’s Dad code for be polite and say hello to this person even if you actually don’t remember her. But what Dad doesn’t know is that I was hoping to run into Mrs. Prosser today, so this is perfect.
“Hi, Mrs. Prosser.” I stick my hand out to shake hers.
She smirks a little before she takes it, like she thinks I’m acting too big for my britches, but it’s okay because shaking hands is always the professional thing to do.
Pulling one my business cards from my back pocket, I hand it to Mrs. Prosser. She eyes it like it’s fake. Or maybe she’s trying to figure out the whole pizzazz/pizza thing.
To distract her from Lyla’s messy and unprofessional-looking correction on the card, I gesture to Dinesh and Charvi. “This is my best friend Dinesh and his cousin Charvi Lahiri, Mystic to the Stars.”
Both Mrs. Prosser and Dad look surprised at that.
“Wow,” Mrs. Prosser says, inspecting Charvi up and down, like she is super-impressed to be meeting a real mystic. “How interesting. Have you worked with any stars that I might have heard of?”
Charvi and Dinesh look at me, panicked. But it’s okay. I got this.
“Charvi’s number one client at the moment is Coco Caliente, Mistress of Madness and Mayhem,” I say confidently.
Julian would be proud.
“Oh,” Mrs. Prosser says, crinkling her face. “Is she one of the Avengers?”
“Um,” I say. “Yeah. Sure. Right.”
Dad glances away and shakes his head a little. Busted.
“I brought Charvi to interpret a dream that Pap told me about last time I visited,” I say, changing the subject quickly.
Pap turns his head in my direction with a puzzled look twisting his face. “You remember that, Mikey?”
His voice is sandpaper rough. Like he’s been chewing on rocks since we got here—which would probably be hard to do without his dentures.
“What dream?” Dad asks.
Mrs. Prosser glances at my business card again and then crosses her arms. I don’t know if that means she thinks I’m joshing, or if she’s super-crazy interested. But she doesn’t leave, which is kind of the whole point.
“Pap said he’s been having a dream about Grandma Clara,” I say to Dad.
Pap’s eyes go moist and hazy on a dime. Dad always said he never saw two people more in love than his mom and dad. He said Pap was never the same after Grandma Clara died, and that’s when his health started going downhill.
Charvi steps forward right on cue. Dinesh pulls a chair over and positions it in front of Pap. Sitting, Charvi takes Pap’s wrinkled and knotted hands in hers. Dad and Mrs. Prosser actually take a step closer, like they don’t want to miss the show. I should probably charge them to watch Charvi in action. And I bet Pap Pruitt would pay good money to have his dream interpreted, but . . .
Michael Pruitt Business Tip #364: Sometimes you have to give away free samples to make the big sale.
“Tell me about your dream, Mr. Pruitt,” Charvi says, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply.
Dinesh looks over at me, grins, and nods. Probably because he thinks this was a brilliant idea I had. He’s right.
Pap clears his throat. “Well, now, let me see, sweetheart. I remember seeing my Clara in a beautiful garden full of all her favorite flowers—roses, daisies, tulips, azaleas. She called them all her babies.” Pap chuckles a little before continuing. “Our front yard used to be one big old flower garden.”
Pap coughs into his shoulder. The cough goes on a lot longer than usual, which worries me. It doesn’t sound so good at all.
He finally stops and clears his throat. “I fenced the flower garden in to keep the critters out and Clara would spend hours out there tending to it, teaching the kids how to plant and prune and such.”
I look up at Dad. He covers his mouth with his hand and his eyes have misted over. Grandma Clara died before I was born. I never knew she was a gardener. She’s proba
bly the person who taught Dad how to be such a great landscaper.
“In my dream, Clara is young and beautiful,” Pap continues. “Just like the day I met her. She waves at me and I want to go to her, but I can’t.”
Charvi’s eyes are still closed tight, like she can see everything Pap is describing to her on the inside of her eyelids. She hasn’t let go of his hands, either. “Why can’t you get to her, Mr. Pruitt?”
Mrs. Prosser leans in, her face soft and her eyes glassy.
“There’s a black wrought-iron fence that goes all the way around the garden. About ten feet high. There isn’t any gate, though. So I keep walking around the fence. Around and around the garden looking for a way in. A way to my Clara. But there ain’t one.”
Pap’s eyes are swollen puddles now. He reaches into the pocket of his overalls and pulls out one of the handkerchiefs Lyla and I gave him. That’s all he ever asks for around Christmas, or his birthday. Just new handkerchiefs. Oh, and some Juicy Fruit gum. Pap wipes his eyes and blows his nose.
I can tell Mrs. Prosser is trying hard not to cry. She twists her mouth and scratches her nose with the back of her hand—both dead giveaways that someone is trying not to lose it. She probably thinks it would be unprofessional. She’d be right about that.
Charvi finally opens her big brown eyes and smiles at Pap. “Thank you for sharing your dream with me, Mr. Pruitt.”
He smiles and wipes his eyes. “Call me Pap, sweetheart. Any friend of Mikey’s is a friend of mine.”
“Can I call you Pap, too, then?” Dinesh asks.
Everyone laughs as Pap nods over at him. “Sure you can, son.”
“I think your dream is beautiful,” Charvi says. “I believe that your wife is trying to tell you that she’s okay. She misses you, but she’s doing just fine. And that you shouldn’t be sad or worried about her.”
I look over at Dad. He’s grinning from ear to ear, but his eyes are all shiny. Mrs. Prosser beams at Charvi like she’s the baby Jesus.
Pap’s face softens, and he gives Charvi a sweet but sad smile. “But I can’t get to her. I can’t get to my Clara because of that fence.”