I spy Dad across the room, helping himself to sweet potato casserole. He is talking to an older man, pointing to a green Jell-O mold that no one has touched. He has been so secretive with behind-closed-doors activities and has forgotten to punish me for the Jim Beam. I am wary.
The room starts to smell of mushroom soup and face powder, so I step outside to breathe fresh air. The sun is at the point where it’s painted a wide streak of orange and pink across the evening sky. I lean against the warm brick church wall, feel the heat sink into my bare skin. I close my eyes for just a second, letting loose my thoughts of Finn.
“Hey there,” he says. I open my eyes, and it’s as if he magically stepped out of my daydream. With the sun behind him just so, and his new bowler hat, he could be a movie star on a poster. I would buy it, hang it in my room, say good night to it.
“Hey yourself.”
“Is Charlotte still here?”
“She left a little while ago.”
“I thought I would tell her I was sorry.”
“For what?”
“I sort of told Christopher to lose our address.”
He takes off his hat, and the soft wind blows back his hair. Yes, he definitely has movie-star quality. I wonder if he would consider ditching his linguistic studies and moving to California. We could live in Mrs. Dupree’s apple orchard, assuming his first movie made enough to buy it.
“She chooses bad guys,” he says. “I hope you don’t. Pick a good guy, Sarah.”
His actions will always reveal more than his words. Check.
It would only be a few years to wait. Maybe less than ten. I’m pretty mature already, and it’s not like he’s an adult professional with a real job. He only delivers pizza in a rickety Toyota, so our real ages are closer than they look.
“Okay,” I say. It sounds just right.
“My mother is back, so you know…”
“You’d rather be at a funeral. I totally get it.”
He smiles, stares into the blue-pink sunset.
“So when are you going back to dictionary school?” I ask.
“Why? Are you ready for me to leave already?”
“No, I just want to know,” I say. My plans to leave are flexible.
“Well, of course. It would be weird not saying good-bye. And I want a report back telling me you’re going to read all the books I’ve given you.”
“Sure.” They are already on my dresser, lined up in the order I will read them. And you be sure to take me with you when you go.
“Sarah Nelson, you are remarkable in ways you don’t yet understand.”
What I wouldn’t give for a pen and paper right now. I might even ask him to write it down so I’ll never forget the line. In ways you don’t yet understand.
I say, “Will I ever see you again?”
“Well, don’t make it sound all dramatic.”
I guess I must sound dramatic to all men.
“I’m going away, too.”
“You are?”
“Yes.”
“This is about your mother?”
“It’s always about my mother.”
“We’ll keep in touch.”
Keeping in touch is not enough. It is two cards a year and a wishing you a Doggone Happy Birthday.
“I think I love you.”
Well, I can’t believe the words came out of my own mouth. There she is, this different girl using my mouth, my lips, without permission. Maybe this is what going crazy is like. Maybe I have a split personality, too. All I can figure is that hearing people talk about Mr. Dupree’s life gave that other side of me courage. You think about what you want people to know about you more than ever.
His gaze falls to the concrete ground, telling me all I need to know. For him, love is a trouble word.
He says, “Someday, you’ll understand, Sarah, but you don’t really love me.”
“You know, you just said the one sentence I hate most in the entire English language,” I tell him. “It is a linguistic cop-out for people who don’t have an answer or don’t want to answer. I understand a lot more than you realize.”
He runs a hand through his hair, something I’ve pictured my own self doing, wondering how it would feel in my fingers. I love it when he does this. It’s the way you know he’s about to say something good.
“You are… unique,” he says. “Unique. And since it’s clear you are wise beyond twelve years, I will not bow to the linguistic cop-out. I’m sorry. So I’ll just say that I’m flattered and that some boy is going to be very lucky someday.”
He trails off.
“Vampires and mortals have the same problem,” I tell him. “They can’t do anything about their feelings except feel them and look at each other.”
“Are you comparing me to a vampire?” he wants to know. I haven’t thought far into this argument. In fact, I just pulled it out of my brain this minute. Of course he’s the vampire, but I won’t say it if it offends him to be the dangerous person in this relationship.
“That’s not the point,” I say.
I want to make him understand all he needs to do is hold my feelings. Never tell anyone. Just let them rest in his hands until I can collect them again, but no, he is not following my logic. I want to say how I’ve imagined kissing him, him kissing me back. I see myself being able to tell Lisa, “Oh, who did you meet at camp? Is that so? Well, I met a linguistics student. Nineteen years old. He kissed me and then I went off on my trip. It was the summer of my dreams.”
I’m about to make the most intelligent comment of my life when you-know-who destroys my chance. My dad is so talented at ruining my life. Someone give him an award.
“There you are. Hello, Finn.” He has a bit of green Jell-O on the corner of his mouth, and do you think I’m going to tell him? No.
“Finn just offered to drive me home,” I say. “Would that be okay?” I feel bold with a capital B. If I die tomorrow, at my funeral they will whisper, She was a girl who knew what she wanted, and wasn’t it lucky she’d been kissed once?
Truly kissed.
“If it’s no trouble for you, Finn.”
“He was going home already.” I feel the fullness of my lies. They are dressing me up from head to toe.
“Okay, then.” He kisses me on top of my head, and it’s flat-out embarrassing right in front of your imaginary, possibly future boyfriend.
I step up to Finn, tell him I’m ready. I can’t read his face quite clearly, but I know he’s not saying no. He’ll take me.
The inside of Finn’s Toyota is messy in a neat way. Stacks of papers on the floorboard. Two bags of books in the backseat. Half-empty bottles of water in the cup holders. You can smell his cologne. He places his hat on the dashboard, puts the key in the ignition. The radio is set to a country station, the singer singing something about worn-out jeans and a broken heart. I hope the DJ says the name of the song. I must have it.
I watch Finn’s profile, my favorite way to look at him. The sunlight has drained away completely. The moon is rising and looks to be about as big as a platter. If I had dreamt about this scene, this song, this dress, this hat, this guy my whole life—I would never come up with a better scenario than this one.
I cross my hands in my lap. I think I have all the necessary ingredients to make this happen, make this dream come true. This is something just for me, I want to tell him. Something a girl can keep in her mind forever. Just say it, Sarah. Say it. You’re a woman now. You should be able to say these things.
A deep breath. He slows to a red light. We are a block from my house. I think about how I should say, I want you to be my first real kiss, but not just for the kiss, but because it is you, Finn Reynolds. I’ve read it’s important to carefully choose your first kiss. It will be the measure of all future kisses.
“Listen, do you think what I’m wearing is okay for a date?”
“What?” He can’t mean what I think he means.
“That girl I mentioned,” he says. “This is going to be
our first date. Should I change?”
“No,” I say, quiet as a mouse. “That is fine.” Nothing is fine.
I want to grab at my words in the air, retrace everything I’ve ever said to Finn, rearrange the thoughts so I would sound smart and he would like me. Why didn’t I present my argument up front and then ask him? Appeal to the part of him that wants to succeed, tell him I must win this dare with Lisa, it is my time to be kissed, it can’t be just anyone, because a girl will remember this until she’s forty and old.
“I think I’d like to walk home now,” I say. “Will you stop the car?”
He pulls the car over, leaves the ignition running. The glow from the moonlight makes us look healthy and nice. You would think this would make me less sad, but no, I am not. I am the definition of sadness.
“Sarah, I’m sorry.” Why does it sound so much more beautiful when he says it? I don’t know. Sarah. On his lips, my name sounds like a compliment.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say.
Now he has an expression that isn’t in the catalog of his expressions.
“I hope we are still friends,” he says.
“I’d change that shirt if I was you,” I say. “You don’t want to smell like casserole. And don’t wear that hat.” It is the best I can do.
I will my hand to work, lean on the door handle of his stupid old car until it gives way. Slam! The door is shut, the metal-on-metal crunch echoes the kind of scream I’d like to make right now, but no, I cannot. I can’t let him see my tears. My hurt at letting him know all my secrets. All of them. The word futile surrounds me.
My face is streaked with tears. I told them to stay back until I got home, but they come unwanted. I wish I could see the pair of us from a distance. Him, in his car. Me, in my pillbox hat.
I walk down the sidewalk, hear my shoes clicking, stare at the full moon to guide me.
At home, there is a messed-up girl I see in the bathroom mirror, mascara all smeary and out of place. Her face red and full of despair. She whispers, Hello, heartbreak. My name is Sarah.
I lie fully dressed on my pink bed, tears sliding back from my eyes, filling my ears. I picture myself putting my love for Finn in my dresser drawer like a favorite shirt. Push it to the back. Forget it exists until it no longer fits. I would take it out a thousand years from now and say, oh, yes, I remember you. I used to like you, but now you are not my style at all.
Dear Atticus,
I want to start by saying I will never date a boy who has not read your book. I will ask them, and if they say no, they can just keep walking. They are not the one for me no matter how cute they are. This could be a good way to weed out the ones with no brain, don’t you agree? But hey, there is one boy I love who has read your book and I just can’t talk about him. I am trying to be strong and not cry. I should change the subject now because he makes me want to cry and I don’t want to cry in front of you.
So, new subject.
Right now, I am thinking about how you let your son, Jem, solve his problems after he’d gone and ruined Mrs. Dubose’s flowers. You made him face the consequences on his own. So I know you would tell me to do the same. I have to go face the scary stuff in my life, which in a word is my mother. My mother. Ugh. I have to go see her for myself if I’m ever going to make you proud. I want so much to follow your advice about being in someone’s skin, walking around in his shoes, and trying to understand. What I want to say is, why don’t others have to try to see things my way? I guess I know what you’d say. You can’t change others. You have to live with your own decisions.
If we were talking on your porch, you probably wouldn’t say anything to me. You’d just push your glasses up on your nose and look at me. Yes, I know what I need to do, Atticus. Why is the right thing so hard?
For now, I’ve ripped out the page from your book that has your definition of courage. I know I am licked already, but I’m going ahead anyway. I’m going to take this page with me, then tape it back inside when I get back.
So this might be my last letter for a while. Please do not forget me. I am already crazy to write you so much anyway. Even Mr. Wistler would agree. If there is ever going to be hope for me, I should start writing to real, flesh-and-blood people. But I can’t give you up.
Thanks for listening.
Your friend forever,
Sarah
Dear Nelle Harper Lee,
My name is Sarah Nelson. I am 12, and I’ve read your book three times. I wanted you to know how much I liked it, especially Atticus Finch. You might think I’m weird, but I felt like he just walked out of the pages and is real. He is such a true person. No one else fights for the right thing the way he does. I feel like I know him. Not every writer can do that, I can tell you. I’ve actually written letters to him, but I realized last night that those letters are really to you. You wrote him into being, after all. I have a lot of questions for you. I’ve read some articles about you on my computer, so I know you don’t let anyone come up on your porch and sit down for a chat. I will have to just write this letter and see what happens.
You should know right off that I am like every other nosy person in the world who is so curious about your life. I don’t know if some stories about your life are true, but the main thing I’d like to talk about is your family. It seems like maybe our mothers had a few things about them that made them unlike most mothers, who have a million cookie cutters and pack lunches with heart-shaped sandwiches and little notes inside. I will leave it at that because I don’t want to upset you, especially if all those rumors are untrue.
If you want to know, my neighbor Mrs. Dupree gave me her very own hardback copy of your book that has your signature. I promised her I would take good care of this copy. If my house catches on fire, I would rescue your book and my plant. Oh, this brings me to another question I have for you, which is, why do all the animals in your book have two names? I think I might be able to investigate this in Alabama without even bothering you. I could do a survey on the street and ask people the names of their pets. I think that is a good idea, and if I ever have a pet, I will give it a first and last name, too.
The last thing I’d like to know is rather personal, if you don’t mind, but since you will probably never read this letter, well, I am going to put in everything I want to know. I wonder why you never married. If you are like me, it might be because there was one true person in your life and no one else was as good. That is the case for me. I would never get married unless it was to this one person, and that will never happen because he thinks I’m just a girl, which I won’t always be and why can’t he see that? Also, I read in your biography that you had a father like Atticus. I guess if you had that kind of father, any other person would be a poor substitute and that is why you had no use for a husband. I totally get that.
I guess this is all I have to say right now except thanks again for writing this book. It is my favorite book of all time and always will be. Thank you mostly for Atticus. I will never forget him as long as I live.
Sincerely,
Sarah Nelson
Chapter 30
I dug the hole a foot deep. It took some trying to get through the tight, dry grass with a fork, but I did it. Then I used a serving spoon to shovel out the dirt. There is a good chance this spot will get water from our neighbor’s sprinklers, but you can never be sure. It’s hard enough to leave Plant behind, but thinking of her wilting and dying is something I don’t want to imagine. I can’t take her with me, because from what I can tell online, they might not let her ride on the bus. And I can’t leave a note saying Please water Plant. Last summer when I was gone, she sat on the kitchen table and almost died of neglect. Every day he walked right on by her without noticing her obvious thirst.
I placed her into the hole and pressed the old dirt around her waist. Then, water over the soil. It should hold her for a while. I kneel at her new spot in the world and try hard not to cry. Tell her all the cool things she will be able to see from this view. The mailman. San
chez Lawn Service. Little kids riding bikes. That little girl in white sandals.
I toss the fork and spoon into our bushes to hide the evidence and wash my hands with the garden hose. The dirt under my fingernails won’t budge, but I’ll worry about that later. I have to take the next steps of my plan. First, I’ll ride the city bus for practice and then get a ticket for the real bus when the opportunity appears. In cop shows, as in life, you never know when you will have to make your move, so you must be ready. I begged Charlotte to take me to the Vikon El Bazaar, telling her I want another hat. She is game for this because she wants, what else, more shoes. Plus, I am planning to get a fake ID there with her help. I need one that says I am at least fourteen because that is the age you can ride a Greyhound bus by yourself. After I get the ID, it should be easy to pretend I am two years older, maybe even three if I apply the mascara just right.
The next step is telling my dad I am spending two nights with Charlotte so we can do plenty of girl stuff and suggesting wouldn’t he like time to go out with PBroom?
My plan is working.
I cross the cul-de-sac with my purse full of money, my duffel bag packed with my clothes, my real diary, and Harper Lee’s book. I tell myself it wasn’t a complete lie. It’s a soft one, like the ones he’s told my mother about love. The gentle, well-meaning kind of love. Because I wrote down my whole plan and knew Charlotte would never want to ride the bus on purpose, I had to do a small bad thing, a crime, really. I let all the air out of Finn’s tires so he would have to take Charlotte’s car to work. You should have seen the defeated car in front of his house.
And as long as I’d turned criminal, I decided to kidnap the potted plant those people kept putting out on their stump. I set it on Mrs. Dupree’s porch with a note. She will take care of it.
When we arrive at the bus stop, there is an old man with a brown shopping bag. He looks so hot I want to do something for him, but what is there to do? He has to get somewhere and so do I. It’s not as if I can turn on the wind. When the bus comes to a stop in front, he lets me and Charlotte get on first. I get a tiny thrill as I climb up the steps, scan the seats. Most of the passengers are traveling alone, faces turned toward the windows so you can’t see what’s in their eyes unless you stare at the grimy reflection, which no, I will not do today. I am not in the mood to talk to anyone except Charlotte. We need to be incognito. Incognito is one of my all-time favorite words because it can be a noun, adverb, or adjective. Mr. Smarty Pants someday-you-will-understand probably doesn’t even know this.
Sure Signs of Crazy Page 14