Portia's Exclusive and Confidential Rules on True Friendship

by Anna Hays

  Trying to make my mother happy, at least until she discovers that there are in fact no dreams to report, I respond, “Okay, Mom.”

  7:47 A.M.,

  PALMVILLE STREET

  I hold the jar containing Sweet Sunshine on my lap. My knapsack rests precariously on the car floor in front of me. Our hybrid quietly heads toward town. I watch Frederick sitting at the edge of the driveway, staring at our car. I stare back at him, even though he can’t see me.

  At the first red light, Indigo glances down at Sweet Sunshine, who is happily chewing on her piece of fresh homegrown lettuce. “We make quite a team, don’t we?”

  “Yes. That was an inspiring rescue last night!”

  “I was wondering how the case with Misty is progressing. Has the Sweet Sunshine rescue provided you with any new insights?”

  “It’s confidential, Mom. Anything I’ve told you about the case, and what’s happened between you, me, and Sweet Sunshine, is entirely classified.”

  With a smile on her face, she calmly says, “You can count on me. I won’t reveal anything to anyone at any time, now or in the future.” She stops the car at the front entrance of Palmville Middle School and sneaks a kiss on my cheek. “Have a beautiful day at school.”

  I place Sweet Sunshine securely on the passenger seat while I grab my knapsack and step out to greet the world of middle school once again. Indigo zooms off, but then I see her put on the brakes and carefully back up. Through the opened window, she hands me Sweet Sunshine. “I think you forgot something. Or should I say, someone.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Good luck with the pomegranates.” This time she zooms off and keeps going all the way to The Tent to start her long day of inventing recipes and baking, roasting, and grilling vegetarian, preservative-free delights.

  8:01 A.M., THE FRONT STEPS,

  PALMVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL

  I prep for the much rumored math quiz while waiting for Misty, who seems to be late a lot. I quickly make a note of this fact and then get back to math madness. As I search for the chapter that I’m certain we’ll be tested on, the postcards that Vera had given Misty fall to the bottom concrete step just below me. I lean forward to gather all three of them, quickly glancing at the short messages on each card. The words send my imagination spinning back in time to when they were written. For fun, I try to picture the people who wrote them.

  POSTCARD #1:

  A FADED IMAGE OF A BOUQUET OF INTERWEAVING VIOLETS.

  Valentine…

  Please rush to me now. For our lives are destined to be together.

  Forever yours,

  Willie

  Willie was surely young and in love. Maybe he was on leave from a World War.

  POSTCARD #2:

  A PHOTO OF MOUNT RUSHMORE WITH A SCRIPTED MESSAGE,

  “FACES OF THE FABULOUS FOUR.”

  Dear Aunt Sylvia,

  Just a line to let you know that we got this far without any trouble, not even a flat!

  Love from Etienne, Joseph, and Rose

  The third postcard strikes me as different from the others. It doesn’t appear to be as old-fashioned. The image invites me to wonder where it is and why its writer has traveled so far away from home. I’ve never seen an ocean so crystal blue. The sandy beach, in contrast, is a pure white. Tall green ferns sway in the breeze. There’s not a person, animal, or building in sight. It’s a desert island! What sparks my curiosity most about this image is the message printed in a bright, sunshine yellow color on the upper right corner. It reads, “Imagine.”

  I turn over the card with great anticipation. Whispering the message to myself, I read the note.

  Aloha, Vera.

  Your glorious gift is beyond description.

  Fondly, Patch

  My whole body shakes as I spell out the letters. P-A-T-C-H. It’s him! This is a postcard from my nowhere-to-be-found father!

  All I see is the postcard. Everything else around me is a total blur. My heart beats faster as I check the address, and there it is, Trash and Treasures, 278 Main Street, Palmville, CA. That means Vera knew Patch! They even had a correspondence!

  IMPORTANT QUESTIONS: Why would Vera pretend not to know my father? Why would she let me run around in circles trying to find him when she clearly possesses key information about him?

  IMPORTANT FACT: No real friend would do that to another friend.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder, which shakes me from the mild state of shock in which I find myself. I look up, and it’s Webster. “Ms. Avatar.”

  I gasp. “Webster! It wasn’t supposed to be you!”

  “Are you certain about that?”

  “Yes, absolutely!”

  He scratches his head. “I was wondering something.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a personal question. Do you mind?”

  I look around for Misty to appear and rescue me from this really uncomfortable boy/girl exchange. “Is it the same question you were going to ask me a few days ago?”

  “Uh, I was wondering…”

  The first bell rings, signaling that we have two minutes to get to Mr. Scuzzy’s class. I grab my knapsack and stand up so quickly that I lose my grip on Sweet Sunshine’s glass home. Webster tries to help me prevent the jar from hitting the ground and shattering into a thousand pieces. As we struggle to keep the jar from falling, the cover loosens and out jumps a very anxious Sweet Sunshine.

  She immediately crawls around the back of my shirt! With a book bag on my back and a glass jar now in my right hand, I take my left hand and try desperately to catch Sweet Sunshine, causing my books to spill from the bag, flying into the air. Webster leaps to the rescue, carefully collecting the books one at a time for me.

  I spot Sweet Sunshine crawling down my sleeve now. “Sweet Sunshine, you’re still with me. Please remain calm. I’ve got you!” I delicately catch the orphaned cricket and place her inside the jar. Webster stands there, witnessing my goofy cricket dance. He’s got my books piled neatly on the steps. And he’s retrieved the postcard from Patch, my new groundbreaking piece of material evidence for the case.

  I am so overjoyed to have rescued Sweet Sunshine for the second time in twenty-four hours that my hands spring forward, grabbing Webster and giving him a major-motion-picture hug. He backs away with an “I’ve just seen a ghost” expression on his face, stumbling down the path to the main entrance of school. I look down at my shoes, and there, under my left foot, is the essay I wrote for Mr. Scuzzy on second chances. It’s torn down the center, with Webster’s footprints on it, and now it’s got mine on it too.

  W.H. and I are bonded together through our footprints on my punishment essay. I make a quick mental note of this potentially poignant fact, then race the second bell before I start accumulating even more middle school demerits.

  As I rush to class I smile, knowing that I have concrete evidence of my father’s existence tucked inside my back pocket. Vera was right. Nothing ever stays the same.

  Chapter 15

  8:16 A.M., MEDIA AND TECHNOLOGY FOR THE MILLENNIUM CLASS

  , PALMVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL

  Misty has been trying to get my attention ever since she walked in late to Scuzzy’s class. I’ve got Sweet Sunshine safely nestled between my hat and my math textbook, which are all buried deep inside my book bag. I refuse to even acknowledge Misty. If I do, I might receive an even worse punishment than writing an essay, since third chances are rarely, if ever, granted by teachers.

  Every time Scuzzy turns around to write on the board, Misty loud-whispers to me, “Is she here? Do you really have her in your very own possession? I can’t believe you found her!” She grins so wide I think her mouth will break. Her braces sparkle in the morning sun. I look at her only from the corner of my eye. Besides the fact that her purple-tinted braces look extra bright this morning, I notice that she’s got a monster pink Band-Aid on her left arm. The plastic strip seems to be hiding red scratch marks.

  Mr. Scuzzy is staring at me, repeating my name slowly. “Port
ia?”

  “Hi!”

  “Hello, Portia. Now can you tell us how you view twenty-first-century media as it relates to your life.”

  “Isn’t that kind of personal?”

  Mr. S. thinks seriously about what I’ve just asked. “Interesting. What you’re saying is that with the Internet and cell phones and PDAs, media has become personal.”

  Following along, I’m surprised how easily I dug my way out of this potentially disastrous teacher/student moment. “Absolutely.”

  Then Mr. S. has an idea. “I’d love to hear more about your theory. How about gifting us with a short essay on it for class tomorrow?”

  I smile and agree to the assignment. Do I really have a choice?

  QUESTION: Why is Mr. S. so essay-crazy?

  I mentally take note of Mr. Scuzzy’s possible personality problem. Then it hits me that he said “tomorrow.” That means the day after today! This mystifying case starring Misty Longfellow is turning out to have a not-so-kind impact on my free time.

  Class sludges forward until the bell finally rings. That’s when Misty races over to me. “So extraordinarily sorry I was late today!” She waves her bandaged arm in my face. “Maxwell was extra moody this morning.” She looks around for the soy mayo jar. “Where is she? I’ve got to see my little girl!”

  I lead Misty to my locker, then slowly take Sweet Sunshine’s glass condo out of my book bag and hand it to her. She’s so overjoyed that she does an ancient rain dance in the middle of the hall. Her dance is so jungle-crazy that she loses her grip on Sweet Sunshine’s temporary home and sends the glass jar flying high into the air. I reach out with both hands to catch it. But another set of hands is there first, intercepting and catching it just before it comes crashing down to the floor.

  The two hands and ten fingers belong to Webster!

  Misty is horrified at what’s she’s almost done. When Webster calmly hands her the jar, she quickly checks out Sweet Sunshine, who is shaken, but not stirred. She stares at Sweet Sunshine’s big bug eyes. “I promise never to forget you, my Sunshine.” She turns to Webster, but it’s no surprise that he’s already off to earth science class to challenge his brain cells.

  IMPORTANT NOTE: Webster is revealing a whole new side of himself with this second heroic act of total self-sacrifice for a cricket.

  Then I remember something important. Webster and I held hands and hugged in less than one week!

  SECRET TRUTH: Even though Amy insists that my maybe crush on Webster Holiday is fictional, I’m starting to think it might be real.

  The bell for my next class is about to ring. I hand Misty the postcards Vera gave her, except for the one safe inside my back pocket. “Is it okay if I keep one? There’s something about it that reminds me of someone very important to me.”

  Happy and grateful for me rescuing Sweet Sunshine and for trying to figure out Maxwell’s ongoing psychological problem, Misty enthusiastically says, “Of course!” Then she adds, “So, you’ll be coming by to see Maxwell, right?”

  “I’ve got a very busy afternoon.”

  Misty discloses alarming new details about the subject. “Maxwell has gone through a complete and total personality change. Now he’s snapping, growling, scratching, and snarling!”

  I don’t want to break my date with Amy, and I’ve got to go to Trash and Treasures and The Tent to investigate the new material evidence for the Patch case in the form of a postcard, so I suggest, “What if I come by later in the day?”

  Misty’s voice cracks with emotion. “I’ve never had a friend…like you before!”

  The bell rings and I scramble to my next class, managing to leap into my seat with a forced smile on my face just before the bell has finished its tinny, shrilly ring. A star is born when I casually reach for my social studies notebook as if life right now were totally normal.

  2:35 P.M., MATH CLASS,

  PALMVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL

  I’ve spent every free minute of the day sneaking peeks at practice quizzes and printed worksheets. Now it’s quiz time! When Miss Killjoy hands me the long-awaited math test, which has been pestering me like a hungry mosquito, I surprise myself. I calmly thank her and slowly, with confidence, complete the test before every other kid in the class, with the exception of Webster Holiday, of course.

  FACT: My current state of calm has to do with my discovery this morning. Once the radical shock of reading the postcard wore off, I found myself floating on a cloud. I’m still riding on it.

  Without being too obvious about it, I slip this extraordinary piece of my family puzzle out of my pocket to look at it again. It’s real! Then I quickly slip it back inside my pocket for safekeeping.

  It’s five minutes before class ends, so I decide to review the quiz one more time. This time I notice I missed a question. It’s for bonus points too.

  Bonus Question: Does Math Matter?

  Since I’m the newly anointed queen of essays, I decide to give it a try. Here’s my answer:

  At first I wondered the same thing. Does math matter? But recently I stumbled on what can only be described as a miracle. The odds of me finding this certain object, which cannot be disclosed because its content is personal in nature (and has nothing to do with math), are nearly impossible, and yet it happened. The only way I can explain it is probability, statistics, and chance all wrapped up in one of the best presents I could ever ask for. As I think about it now, math can explain a lot of seemingly inexplicable events in life, even how the universe works and why there are so many stars in the sky. So, does math matter? Yes! It matters to me a lot.

  A collective sigh is heard in class when the bell rings. The highly anticipated Killjoy pop quiz is now officially over.

  Chapter 16

  3:05 P.M., OUTSIDE MY LOCKER,

  PALMVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL

  Amy drops her sketch pad accidentally on purpose directly in front of my locker. Dipping down, she casually flips through the pages filled with colorful drawings. “Pardon moi, is this mine?”

  “You’ve got more sketches. I must see what you’ve been up to at once!”

  With a devilish grin, Amy insists, “I’m saving them for later, when we get together. We are meeting up at Purple Haze, aren’t we?”

  “You’re not going to believe what happened. I stumbled on a postcard with Patch’s name on it. Actually, Misty found it when we were at Trash and Treasures. It’s a huge, potentially earth-shattering breakthrough in the Patch case.”

  Eyeing my newly discovered plaid detective hat, Amy asks, “Where did you pick that up?”

  “It’s the new hat I wrote you about. Misty found it!”

  “Of course she did. So what time are we going to meet?”

  “Amy, this afternoon is so jammed. I’ve got to investigate why Vera has never revealed to me that she knew Patch, and then I have to track down Indigo to discuss this new piece of incredible evidence.”

  Amy dramatically slides the sketchbook into one of her dozen designer school totes that she alternates every day of the week.

  I continue, “And Misty’s bunny is seriously freaking out! He needs me!”

  Amy smacks her lips together. “So glad you and new girl are becoming such good friends.”

  “What a relief. I thought it was bothering you. Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Let’s all hang out tomorrow!”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve got this new friend, and…” Amy checks her pink bubblegum watch. “Look at the time. I really must go!”

  IMPORTANT FACT: My attempt at finding a way to bring an old friend and a new friend together has clearly backfired. Amy has zero interest in spending time with Misty.

  3:23 P.M.,

  TRASH AND TREASURES

  This afternoon Vera wears a straw cowgirl hat, a white T-shirt, and a pair of cut-off jean shorts that cover her knees. She’s polishing an over-the-top set of silverware from an era I haven’t studied yet in school. She lifts a decorative salad fork against the hanging factory light and casually asks, withou
t looking at me, “How’s the case?”

  I respond, “Which one?”

  She turns to me. “Take your pick!”

  I spring into action. In 100 percent investigation mode, I begin, “How long have you lived in Palmville?”

  “Since I was born. I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

  “Interesting.”

  Setting the fork on the counter, Vera asks, “Something to share?”

  “I found new evidence today, by accident.”

  Vera then leans against the table, searching for the answer in my eyes. “Now you’ve got my full attention. Spill.”

  Checking to see if my hat is still on my head (it is!), I confront Vera. “You knew my father, didn’t you?”

  Without missing even half a beat, she answers, “Yes, I did.”

  I slip out the postcard signed by Patch and hand it to her. “I thought you were my friend!”

  She smiles knowingly. Then, with a mellow tone in her voice, she tells me, “Everything has its own timing.”

  I don’t say a word, but my face says everything. Vera knows that she owes me more than a cloudy day explanation. She continues with her side of the story. “It just hasn’t been the right time to reveal what I know yet.”

  QUESTIONS: What is Vera not telling me and why?

  I take charge of the moment. “I have an idea. Come to the Patch Powwow on Sunday. Indigo and I are going to review the case. I think you might be of some help.”

  Vera is middle-of-the-night quiet. I count to twelve. Then she finally responds, “Is there a time I should show up at your doorstep?”

  Careful not to let any hint of emotion slip out, I say, “Dinner will be served at seven.”

  With a smile and a wink, Vera says, “Sunday at seven it shall be.”