My favorite drink was Spar-berry, from Zimbabwe. It was like sparkling berries of delight. My least favorite was from Italy. It was called Beverly, and it was . . . it was . . . blegh. It was awful, and why anyone would drink it on purpose was a mystery I doubted anyone could figure out, even Professor Rigsby.
We ended our tour by filing in with a big group of tourists to view a second movie. This one was peaceful and relaxing, and the seats didn’t move. Basically it was one big commercial made up of all the squillions of Coke commercials that had ever existed. I liked it, especially one commercial about an adorable baby polar bear, and another commercial where tons of people got together and sang, “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke.”
It made me realize that really, the entire World of Coke was one big commercial. But I didn’t care. I loved the World of Coke. I loved everything about it.
And then:
Something moved on my armrest, and I jumped and cried out.
“What?” Amanda said. “Did your seat move?”
“Not fair!” Chantelle said. “Mine didn’t!”
“Girls. Shhhh,” Ms. Meyers said, giving us a stern look from way down at the end of the aisle.
I zipped my lips and did some dramatic pointing. I unzipped them just enough to whisper, “My seat did not move. My seat has a toe on it!”
I was sitting in between Amanda and Chantelle, and they both leaned in to check my armrest. Propped up on it was a real live human toe, probably female because of the chipped red polish, and in desperate need of lotion.
“Ew!” Amanda whispered.
“I know!” I bent over and looked beneath my seat, where I spotted two empty sandals. In Atlanta, you could wear sandals in November, because it rarely got cold. I sat back up straight. Jerking my thumb over my shoulder, I whispered, “It belongs to the lady behind me.”
“You think?” Chantelle said.
“Well, it better!” I huffed. If it didn’t, omigosh. I imagined the headline: Disembodied Toe Floats through World of Coke, Terrorizing Small Children! Ahhhhhh!
“Make her move it,” I told Chantelle.
“Excuse me? You make her move it,” Chantelle said.
“Why me?”
“Because it’s your toe!”
“It is not my toe, and I am terribly offended!” I folded my arms over my chest. “The only way to make it up to me is if you move it.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Fine,” I grumbled. I turned to Amanda, resting my head on her shoulder and batting my eyelashes. “Amanda? Will you move it?” Pwease?”
“No way,” Amanda said. She giggled. “Just . . . poke it.”
“Or tell the lady to move it,” Chantelle said. She peeked behind us, then dropped back with a plop. “Except never mind. I think she’s asleep.”
Asleep? When she was supposed to be appreciating Atlanta by watching Coke commercials?! What kind of horrible tourist was she?!
I looked at the toe. The toe looked back. It was one ugly toe. What if it had a fungus? Its bad-lady owner clearly didn’t take good care of it. What if it had a flesh-eating toe fungus, and it spread to me, and when the Coke movie ended, all that would remain in my seat was a pile of skin flakes and a telltale chip of red toenail polish?
“A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do,” I said under my breath.
So I leaned over, fished around in my backpack, and sat up with my hot pink Hello Kitty gel pen.
“No!” Amanda said, her eyes wide with horror, delight, or both.
“Ready, Kitty?” I whispered.
The Hello Kitty charm at the top of the pen bobbled her head. “Ready!” she said in a high-pitched kitty voice.
I gave that toe a quick, fast jab, and Chantelle and Amanda gasped. But the toe? The toe didn’t move. The toe didn’t even flinch!
I. Was. Shocked.
I poked it again. It didn’t move again.
“Well, folks, I’m sorry it’s come to this, but it has,” I said.
“Winnie?” Amanda said nervously.
I couldn’t let her distract me, so I pretended she was a moth.
“Winnie,” Chantelle said.
I turned her into a moth, too.
I twisted sideways, uncapped my gel pen, and drew two eyes on that toe. The toe didn’t move, so I added a scowl, two angry eyebrows, and a pointy nose. Then freckles. Then zigzaggy electrified hair.
The toe moved. I quick sucked in my breath. I froze all my body parts except for my eyes, which searched for a place to hide my pen.
Amanda’s lap! Yes! I placed the pen on her jeans, then folded my hands in my lap like a good little Coke girl.
“Winnie, no!” Amanda whisper-squealed, flicking it off her.
“Girls,” Ms. Meyers said, bending forward at the waist and shooting us a sternier stern look than her first stern look.
“Sorry!” I mouthed. I pointed at Amanda, but above Amanda’s head so Amanda couldn’t see. I waggled my eyebrows to say, She’s a wild one, I know, but I’ll calm her down.
You better, Ms. Meyers said with a head tilt.
I gave her a thumb’s-up, and then I settled back in my seat. I looked at the toe and smiled, imagining what its owner would think when she saw. If she saw, even. People didn’t always examine the bottoms of their own toes.
If she did see, I hoped she’d be amazed. Amazed and thankful, because without even asking, she’d received a genuine autograph from a genuine girl from Atlanta. Not just any girl, but a girl who was, frankly, a pretty big deal. A girl who was me.
December
Eeeeeee! I loved Christmas. I loved it and wanted to marry it, and I would never spell it that bad way with the “X” plus the “mas.” One night about a week before school let out for Christmas break, I gave a stirring speech during dinner about that very subject. About how spelling it like that really did take Christ out of Christmas, only instead of applauding, dumb bunny Sandra jumped in and tried to show off how smart she was and how un-smart I was.
“What about people who don’t believe in Christ?” she said. “What about Jewish people and Muslims and”—her eyes scrunched, then widened—“Rastafarians? Really, Winnie. Have you ever stopped to think about the Rastafarians?”
I pointed at her with a green bean. “First of all, I don’t know what a Rastafarian is. And second of all, I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about me. I, Winnie Perry, refuse to take Christ out of Christmas, and the Rasta-whatever-ians can either like it or lump it. But for the record, I am more than happy to share Christmas with everyone.”
“Great, but not everyone wants to share Christmas with you,” she said. “How do you think all the non-Christians feel when you go trotting around saying, ‘La la la! I’m so special because I’m a Christian!’”
“I don’t say that.”
“You are right now.”
I smiled triumphantly. “Ahhhh-HA! And that is where the cookie crumbles, because I’m not standing on the street with a foghorn, now am I?”
“Bullhorn,” Dad said.
“Bullhorn,” I said. “Nope, I’m simply having a lovely conversation with my family as we enjoy a lovely dinner.” I turned to Mom. “And Mother? Thank you for this delicious meal.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Thank you for saying thank you.”
“Thank you for saying thank you for saying thank you.”
“Oh good grief,” Sandra said.
I turned back to her. “Anyway, God is God is God whether you’re a Jewish person or a Muslim or a Rasta-whatever-ian. That’s what I think, and so does Maxine, who just happens to be Jewish. And last week, her mom came in and taught us all about Judaism and made us potato latkes.”
I called up the potato latkes’ salty, crispy deliciousness and said, “Mmmm. Do you know how to make potato latkes, Mom?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I can make a mean red velvet cake, though.”
“Could you learn to make potato latkes?”
“I’ll look in
to it,” she said. “So Maxine’s mom talked to your class about Judaism? That’s great.”
“She does that every year, Mom. Dreidel, gelt, menorahs . . .” I put down my green bean, because I didn’t like green beans. Tearing off some bread for myself, I said, “I’m practically Jewish myself by now.”
Sandra snorted.
I gave her a haughty look. “And for the record, Maxine and her family celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah. Unlike some people I know, they do want to share the joyful story of how baby Jesus came to be born.”
Sandra gestured at my plate. “My, oh my. You certainly have a long way to go on your green beans, don’t you?”
I stuck my tongue out at her. She stuck her tongue out at me.
“Girls,” Dad said.
“How was baby Jesus born?” Ty asked, sticking a green bean up each nostril. He hated green beans even more than me.
Ooo, excellent question, I thought. Not to brag, but just as I was an expert on Judaism, I knew quite a lot about “the birds and the bees,” as adults liked to put it. My specialty was conjoined twins. I’d seen a Discovery Channel show about two sisters whose heads were connected, and it was quite eye-opening.
Not that baby Jesus was a conjoined twin.
“Do you mean just Jesus, or how babies are made in general ?” I asked.
“Both,” Ty said.
Dad opened his mouth, then closed it. I opened my mouth, but Mom jumped in before I could say anything.
“Ok-a-a-ay,” she said. “No more talking. Just eating. And all three of you better eat every single bean on your plates, or those beans are what you’ll find waiting for you under the Christmas tree.”
Ty started cramming beans into his mouth like a crazy person. His chipmunk cheeks went up and down as he chewed.
“Ty’s eating his beans!” I exclaimed. “Beans, beans, the musical fruit. The more you eat, the more you—”
“Winnie,” Dad warned. “Why don’t you get to work on your own beans, hmm?”
“Fine, fine.” I stabbed two beans with my fork and shoved them in my mouth. Blech.
Sandra’s gaze traveled around the table as if she had no idea how she ended up in this family. But guess what? She did end up in this family. She was one of us, and without her, we wouldn’t be us.
“I have just one thing to say,” she announced.
“So say it,” I said with my mouth full.
“Make that two things.”
“And those two things would be . . . ?”
She munched off the tip-top of a single bean. She chewed, swallowed, and patted her mouth with her napkin.
“Goodness gravy, you slowpoke,” I said. “Dad, would you poke that slowpoke?”
“I will,” Ty said.
“Ty, no,” Mom said. “Winnie was kidding.”
“Actually, Mom—”
“She was kidding,” Mom repeated.
Sandra cleared her throat. “One: baked beans make you toot, not green beans.”
“Blah-bitty-blah,” I said. “And two?”
She shook her head. “Oy.”
The next day, the two fifth grade classes got together to draw names for Secret Santas. I loved Secret Santas almost as much as I loved Christmas, so I hoped I would draw Amanda’s name, or Chantelle’s. But I knew I probably wouldn’t, and I was right. The folded-up piece of paper I drew from the bag said “Mindy.”
I read it silently and thought, Huh. Mindy was new this year, she was in Mrs. Tompkins’s class, and she was best friends with Katie Jacobson. She hadn’t found me amusing when I pretended to be a mad scientist at the World of Coke. That was pretty much all I knew about Mindy, and it didn’t add up to a lot.
Well, that’s okay, I told myself, folding the paper back up so no one could peek. By being Mindy’s Secret Santa, I’d get to know her better. Presto-magico!
I spent a lot of time on Mindy’s gift. First I bought an awesome plastic container that I’d spotted in an odd little store at Peachtree Battle Shopping Center. That might sound boring—a plastic container—but this one wasn’t boring at all. It was a transparent pale pink rectangle, with crisp edges that begged to be touched. The top fourth of the rectangle was the lid, and when the lid was pulled it off, it made an awesome swicking sound. I took the lid on and off a zillion times just to hear that sound.
The container by itself was cool, but I made it even cooler with puff paint. I used fancy lettering to write Mindy’s name diagonally down one side, and then to add more flair, I added a buzzing bumblebee and painted wavy lines by its wings to show that it was on the move.
When I painted the bumblebee, I guess I wasn’t really thinking holiday-ish thoughts—or maybe I wasn’t thinking, period. Because what did bumblebees have to do with Christmas or Hanukkah or whatever holiday the Rasta-whatever-ians celebrated?
But a bumblebee was what flew into my brain as I sat there wondering what to draw, and so a bumblebee it was. A bumblebee with a big chubby stinger. Then I filled the whole container with miniature Reese’s cups. It was tricky, because of course I wanted the Reese’s cups to fill the entire rectangle, not just the part of the rectangle that was below the lid. I invented a creak-crack quick-pop-one-in SLAM! technique that worked pretty well, though, and I filled that baby up. Mmmm-mmm.
I knew that when Mindy popped the lid off for the first time, Reese’s cups would spill out in a flood of gold foil. That was okay. It would just add to the fun!
We had our actual gift exchange on the last day before Christmas break. The kids in Mrs. Tompkins’s class filed into our room and dropped their wrapped presents off at Ms. Meyers’s desk, where our presents were already stacked. Then they found seats on the floor, and everyone was chatty and full of high spirits. I spotted Mindy and bounced in my seat. She was going to love her present. Hee hee!
Once everyone was settled down—or as settled down as we were going to get—Ms. Meyers selected the presents one by one, checked the tags, and called kids up to open them. My name was called before Mindy’s was, and I skip-hopped to the front of the room. Ms. Meyers handed me a shiny blue cookie tin with reindeers on it, and I pried the top off to find a mountain of homemade potato latkes.
“From Maxine,” said a slip of paper. I squealed and said, “Oh, Maxine, thank you thank you thank you!”
Maxine looked happy. “My mom says just microwave them, and they’ll be fine.”
I took a chomp out of one and made an I’m-in-heaven face. “Okay, but they’re already great. I like them cold!”
After that, I munched on potato latkes and waited for Mindy’s name to be called. Finally it was, and Mindy went to the front of the room. She was wearing an all-white dress with white fur (probably fake) around the collar and the cuffs of her sleeves. She was very fancy compared to me in my normal old jeans and a Dr Pepper shirt. She was very fancy compared to everybody, actually. But there was nothing wrong with fancy!
“For you,” Ms. Meyers said, presenting Mindy with her gift. I’d wrapped it very creatively. I’d covered the container with brown paper cut from a grocery bag. Then I traced my hands on a piece of orange construction paper and cut the handprints out. I glued the orange handprints on top of the wrapped-in-brown box, making them stick up like reindeer antlers. I drew eyes and a mouth on the reindeer’s face, and for the nose, I glued on a cotton ball that I’d colored red. It was Rudolph! It was adorable!
Mindy, however, seemed wary as she accepted my reindeer-wrapped gift from Ms. Meyers. Maybe she thought that was the whole present, a fake reindeer head.
“Open it!” I called, hoping to help her realize that she could open it, that the reindeer head was just an amazing wrapping job.
“From Winnie,” Mindy said, fingering the tag. She glanced around the room, and I waved and bounced in my seat. She tore off the brown paper and examined the personalized container of Reese’s cups. She had to use both hands because of how heavy it was.
“Aw w w w! That’s so cute!” Chantelle said.
I gr
inned.
“You lucked out,” David told Mindy. He turned to me. “Man, Winnie, I wish you’d drawn my name.”
My grin grew wider.
Mindy, on the other hand, didn’t crack a smile.
“Thanks,” she said flatly. She returned to her spot on the carpet and set the container beside her, while up front, Ms. Meyers gathered the remains of Rudolph the Wrapping-Paper Reindeer and threw the scraps in the trash. Later, when Ms. Meyers called out the next kid’s name, I saw Mindy nudge the container farther away. She didn’t even want it near her.
I was bewildered. Did I do something wrong? Misspell her name? Was she a Rasta-whatever-ian, and Rasta-whatever-ians didn’t believe in candy?
During lunch, I gathered my courage and walked over to her. She was sitting at a table with Katie Jacobson. It took a long time for her to notice me, but finally she glanced up and said, “Yes?”
My mouth fell open, but no words came out. I guess I’d expected her to say “Hi” or “Want to sit down?” or “Omigosh, I love the container you made. I just get really shy about speaking in public.”
She didn’t. She simply looked at me as if she were . . . I don’t know . . . a snooty saleslady at Macy’s, and I was a pesky little kid asking for perfume samples.
Katie laughed. It was an ugly laugh. A through-her-nose laugh.
“I was, um, just wondering if you like your present?” I said. As I spoke, my voice went up and up.
Mindy sighed. She fished something out from between her teeth with her tongue, grabbed it with her thumb and index finger, and wiped it on her napkin. Tilting her head, she said, “Do you want the truth or a lie?”
“What?” I said. My cheeks got warm, because who said things like that? People didn’t say things like that. Kids, especially, didn’t say things like that.
I should have turned around and walked away. Instead, I was so flustered that I clasped my hands behind my back and stammered, “I guess . . . the truth?”
“No,” she said, as in, no, she didn’t like my present. In a monotone, she ticked off reasons why. “I’m allergic to peanuts, which means I’m allergic to peanut butter, too. The container is tacky. Your handwriting is, like, so babyish, and I hate the color pink.”
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