by Rose Kent
“Peer-mediation training helps you understand how all conflict goes back to the same tainted well,” Kim said, giving me a handout titled “Basic Human Needs.” “We all want similar things out of life, such as to be treated with respect, to do something well, to belong to a group, et cetera. When someone else gets in the way of those needs being fulfilled, fireworks erupt.”
I nodded. Made sense to me, but what I didn’t get was how I could possibly help fix problems. In my family, trouble had a way of tangling up so badly that even when I wanted to help, I couldn’t. I got caught too, like a bug trapped in a spider’s web.
“Peer mediation sorta follows a script,” Devin explained in a husky voice. “One at a time each disputant explains what he or she thinks is going on. Then one of us mediators repeats what was said, using facts and restating the feelings.”
“Disputants have to be willing to agree to ground rules—no put-downs or interruptions, and they must be open and honest,” Kim added.
After storytelling, Malika said, came brainstorming solutions. “Mediators restate the problem and then encourage the disputants to come up with a solution together. It works better if they figure it out. But be prepared. This part gets messy.”
“Messy, heated, and stuck,” Gabby added.
Mr. Win jumped in. “During the brainstorming phase, we’re deep in the weeds of the problem. Egos kick in, and disputants are often reluctant to admit mistakes or look for another way through the conflict. That’s when our mediators earn their big bucks by encouraging, prodding with more questions, and sticking with the resolution process.”
“All that’s true except the part about us earning big bucks. We work for cookies,” Ritchie whispered beside me.
Then Kim explained the last step. “Once a fair, specific, and do-able solution is found that both disputants can live with, we write it all down, and everybody in the room has to sign the agreement. After that, we thank them for coming, and the mediation ends.”
“Nicely explained,” Mr. Win said. “Anything else, team?”
Gabby spoke quickly. “We almost forgot. Watch for the hidden agenda.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Usually there’s more to the problem than meets the eye. Something else might have been said or done that led to their dancing the trouble tango.”
Mr. Win nodded. “Indeed. Thanks, Gabby.”
Knock-knock.
“Speaking of dancing the trouble tango, our disputants are here. I believe Malika and Devin are our designated mediators today. The rest of us will move to the back and take an observational role.”
A boy and a girl walked in the room. The girl had a kerchief over her long, thick hair. She towered over the boy and wore raggedy, old-fashioned clothes. The boy wore a leather cap and a fake scraggly beard.
“We just came from dress rehearsal for the musical,” he explained.
Devin welcomed the disputants and asked them to sit down and introduce themselves.
The girl scooted her chair as far away from the boy as she could.
“I’m Sophie and I play Golde in Fiddler on the Roof,” she said, frowning as she crossed her arms over her apron.
“I’m Justin and I play Tevye,” he said. Pointing toward her, he added, “Tevye is married to Golde. Poor milkman.”
Immediately Malika stated the ground rules, emphasizing the bit about no put-downs. “The musical director suggested you two come to peer mediation after an incident took place at Monday’s practice. Please tell us what happened.”
With that, Sophie and Justin took turns speaking, without looking at each other. Sophie said they’d been rehearsing an important scene in Act One and practicing “The Wedding Dance.”
“Justin kept stepping on my toes and twirling me at the wrong times. He wasn’t taking it seriously. All he wanted to do was flirt with Brooke—she plays my daughter. And when I complained to the director, Justin pointed to the papier-mâché cow backstage and shouted, ‘I’m dancing with a cow!’ The whole cast started laughing, and that’s when I threw the milk pail.”
Justin gave his version next, which sounded a lot different. He said he’d been doing his best to keep up with the dance. “You think Sophie would help, but noooo. She acted all mean and witchy, just like Golde is to Tevye!”
“No put-downs, Justin. You agreed,” Devin interrupted.
Justin continued. “Okay, okay. I admit I was messing up on the footwork—it was tricky. But Sophie kept rolling her eyes and mumbling, ‘Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match—only find someone who can dance.’ And then she ran to the director saying I wasn’t taking it seriously. I guess I snapped. But she had it coming.”
“Well, you deserved that milk pail hitting your fat head!” Sophie shouted.
Once again, Devin reminded them about the ground rules. Then Sophie got up and said she’d had enough, and Justin said it figured, but Malika gently coaxed Sophie back.
When they’d calmed down, Devin continued. “Okay, let’s restate the problem. Sophie, you are upset that Justin made a joke about you that hurt your feelings. Justin, you are upset that Sophie insulted you and told the director you weren’t taking things seriously, which hurt your feelings. Is that correct?”
Sophie and Justin both gave slight nods. Beside me, Mr. Win jotted down a note and passed it to me: “Notice the body language.”
I studied the disputants. Sophie’s legs were crossed and she kept picking at her cuticles. Justin’s face was red under that fake beard, and he wouldn’t look at her either. I felt myself drinking in their toxic emotions, as Gabby would say.
“Brainstorming time,” Malika said. Turning to Justin first, she asked, “What can you do to solve this problem?”
“Nothing. Sophie’s never going to change,” he said.
I thought, Poor Devin and Malika. This mediation seemed harder than running track!
Malika kept prodding. “What can you do, Justin?”
He paused for a long stretch, then spoke more softly. “Maybe I could avoid comparing her to a cow. That is kinda low.”
Sophie didn’t offer much initially, but then she said she could stop throwing props. It was hard to tell if she was serious, since she kept looking down at her fingernails.
“What else can you do now, Justin?” Devin asked.
He shrugged. “I guess I could apologize for what I said. But heck, it would be easier to dance with a cow than with you, Sophie. A cow would be more patient.”
Sophie turned to him, then jumped up and started moving her feet. “If you paid attention to the pattern—hop two, step two, twirl two, stomp-stomp-stomp—you’d get it. The only thing you pay attention to is Brooke’s dumb giggle!”
Gabby leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Hidden agenda. She’s got a crush on ol’ Tevye.”
With that, Justin turned to Sophie. “Easy for you, what with all that ballet training you’ve had. I’ve never had a single dance lesson. And you always act like you expect me to mess up. Remember when we did Grease last year? You told the makeup crew that I danced rock and roll like I had rocks in my sneakers!”
Gabby tapped my shoulder this time. “Hidden agenda number two. He feels inferior,” she whispered.
Devin turned to Sophie. “What can you do to help Justin feel more confident as a dancer? You’re the stars of this show. You have to support each other.”
Sophie turned to Justin. “Hmm … I could stay after and practice one on one with you. And I guess I could be more patient. You’re not ruining ‘The Wedding Dance,’ Justin. You just need to slow down. You sing ‘If I Were a Rich Man’ perfectly—jiggly, sweet, and funny, just like you’d expect from a milkman.”
Justin sat up straighter in his chair. “Really?”
Sophie smiled. “Really. You mean Brooke hasn’t told you that?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” Justin said, smiling back.
The rest of the mediation went smoothly. Both disputants agreed that in the future they would
stop airing their issues publicly and instead talk privately, and they apologized to each other. Then, after signing the agreement, they left together, practicing “The Wedding Dance” footwork all the way down the hallway.
Mr. Win complimented Malika and Devin afterward for not letting the mediation get derailed. “You kept hope alive, even when things were headed south,” he said. Then, as kids started leaving, he turned to me. “Any questions on what you observed, Tess?”
I shook my head. I had to admit I was impressed with Malika and Devin. I might have thrown in the towel back when Sophie and Justin were raging at each other.
“Alrighty then,” Mr. Win said. “Study that training booklet, ’cause next month is your debut, though not in a musical.”
“Mine?”
“That’s right. You’ll be in the mediator’s chair beside Ritchie.”
What did I know about getting people to get along? A month—I needed six months, maybe six years! Worry pinched at me beneath my sweater. I shouldn’t have joined Peer Mediation Club, I thought. I should’ve stuck around the apartment and made another patch for Winnie’s cushion.
Waiting outside for the late bus, I told Gabby I was having second thoughts on being a peer mediator.
“Don’t give in to your inner fear,” she said, patting my back. “Read through the materials once, and you’ll be fine. Trust your persistent ox instinct.”
Just as I was about to come up with another excuse, Gabby pointed out that: one, I was exactly the kind of mediator Ottawa Creek Middle School needed, and two, the kids in Peer Mediation Club were a lot of fun.
“And from what I see, you could stand to ramp up the fun in your life,” she added, winking as the bus pulled up.
I grinned, waved goodbye, and climbed onto the bus. I didn’t exactly agree with Gabby, but something about the way her tangly wild hair bounced when she spoke wouldn’t let me set her straight.
Chapter 12
Many hands make lighter work in retail too. Seek out employees who are willing to roll up their sleeves and do whatever it takes.—The Inside Scoop
Back at the apartments, Chief and I set a new record by finishing Operation Homebound in one hour and twenty-five minutes. And that included a pit stop in Building Two, apartment 209—to provide a design consultation for a Mrs. Jankowski. She had dinner guests coming, and she wanted to give her living room a snazzy look. Winnie had raved about my decorating flair, and Mrs. J. was so pleased with how I rearranged her end tables, candlesticks, and antique picture frames that she insisted on tipping me with a ten-dollar bill.
Afterward, I picked up Jordan at Winnie’s and started making grilled cheese-and-pepper sandwiches for dinner. But I got distracted helping a grouchy FrankenJordan solve his subtraction problems and burned the bread, and I was too tired to make anything else. So we ate mixy cereal instead (half Cheerios, half cornflakes). Later, we looked at Ranger Rick magazine in bed until I saw that his eyes were closed, and I got up. I felt sleepy, but I wanted to wait for Ma to return.
She got in close to midnight. Even the man next door had turned off the war movie he was blasting by then. And when Ma finally arrived, she sounded like she was dragging a sack of bowling balls.
I got out of bed to investigate.
“Whatcha got there?” I asked, squinting in the dark room.
“An old friend who’s missed you something awful,” she said, brushing her gray-streaked hair from her face and lugging something heavy up onto the kitchen counter.
I flipped on the light switch. Our old sewing machine! It looked polished and shiny and, well, better.
“Lady Kenmore’s got a new drive belt. The Sears service guy says she’s good for another five years or five hundred yards of sewing, whichever comes first.”
I touched the machine’s arm shaft, then lifted the presser foot like I was about to slide fabric underneath. Perfect. Now I’d be able to sew the rest of the patches for Winnie’s cushion much faster.
“This is good news,” I said, smiling.
For a minute we both stood silently with our arms folded, admiring the sewing machine like it was a marble sculpture in a museum.
Ma spoke first. “I figured you’ve been missing your craft work something awful, Tess. And I’ve got a project to get started on myself.”
I was about to tell Ma all about peer mediation and how I’d be co-mediator for the first time soon. That and about Operation Homebound and how Chief actually complimented me on my customer relations. Ma and I had hardly spoken two words lately, and I missed talking.
But now she had me curious about her project. Ma and sewing mix like orange juice and diesel fuel. Once she accidentally slip-stitched the crotch closed on a pair of her shorts. Another time she hemmed Jordan’s dress slacks inside out.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“Curtains for the display window of the ice cream shop,” she said, reaching for a shopping bag on the floor. “I picked up this darling fabric today. I’m going for a cozy café look.”
She pulled out a lightweight chintz with red and yellow flowers along the top and bottom edges. The middle was covered with stemmed cherries with a mint-green background. It would need a lining to blend all those colors, for sure.
“Have you measured the window?”
“Naah, I eyeballed it,” she said as she walked over to the sink and started filling the coffeepot with water.
“You know the saying, Ma: ‘Measure twice, cut once.’ Are you adding a valance?”
She shrugged. “I can hardly say valance, never mind make one. Plain curtains will have to do.”
I stared at Ma. Her face looked worn like a crumpled lunch bag. Sleep would do her good.
I picked up the sewing machine from the kitchen counter and carried it out to the living room.
“Where are you going with that?” she asked.
I moved the lamp off the desk facing the big window and put the sewing machine down.
“I sew better with natural lighting. Valances aren’t hard for me and they’re worth the extra time. They give tab tops a finished look, and that’s how you’ll get the cozy café atmosphere.”
Ma smiled bright like the North Star. No, even brighter. The North Star’s North Star. “Does this mean you’ll make the curtains?”
“I’ll make them once I have good measurements. But only if you go to sleep, Ma. You look really tired.”
“Hands down, I’ve got the best daughter in Schenectady—with the finest decorator know-how too!” Ma shouted, hugging me. Her skinny bones poked out from beneath her sweater.
“I’m still not sold on the ice cream shop,” I said. “But there’s no sense wasting a nice chintz fabric.”
“The Inside Scoop says a healthy skepticism is an advantage to an entrepreneur, so you’ve got a leg up in this business.” Ma turned off the light. “Let’s hit the hay. I’ll bring you the window dimensions tomorrow.”
I shook my head. “I do my own measurements. You take Jordan with you to the shop tomorrow. After school I’ll catch the bus downtown and bring my tape measure.”
Chapter 13
The menu is the treasure chest of the ice cream shop. Ensure it leaves customers ecstatic, duly agonizing as they choose from an array of sinfully sweet frozen treats.—The Inside Scoop
“Well, howdy-do, interior designer!” Ma shouted down from a ladder as I walked into A Cherry on Top the next day. A drippy piece of wallpaper was hanging over her arm. Half the shop was covered in wallpaper that looked like a sea of smiling yellow ice cream cones.
I smelled Murphy oil soap as I dropped my tape measure on the counter, next to a big box of sugar cones, a case of toppings, and an opened can of Dr Pepper. I stared over at the giant bow window with crown molding, which poured light in from the street. There was plenty wrong about this ice cream shop, but Ma was right about something. That window was an eye-grabber, just begging to be dressed up.
Jordan dashed out from behind the counter, wearing his favorite
yellow shirt, a server’s paper hat, and a devilish grin. “Ice cream?” he signed.
“Two scoops, please,” I signed, and he pretended to serve me. I handed him make-believe coins, then licked my imaginary cone and peeked down at the freezer.
“How come the freezer’s empty?” I called over to Ma.
“It’s called a dipping cabinet, and filling it comes later,” she said, smoothing the wallpaper with her hands.
“I don’t get it. Equipment and supplies are everywhere, but no ice cream. What’s an ice cream shop without ice cream?”
“I’m working off a business plan, Tess. And I’m up to the part that says, ‘Get your shop in tip-top shape before investing in product.’”
Who was I to argue with the Ice Cream Gospel According to Delilah? Still, I thought we should have at least a half gallon in stock. Truth was, this curtain installer was hoping to take measurements and be rewarded with some Rocky Road.
I looked around. The shop did feel quaint and old-fashioned, what with its long marble serving counter and checkered-vinyl swivel stools. I personally wouldn’t have opted for that goofy cone wallpaper, but the bright color scheme worked. And the mirror behind the cash register was outlined in lightbulbs that gave a retro, funky look, like it belonged on the vanity of an old movie star.
I walked into the storage room in the back. It was sky blue and smelled freshly painted, and I remembered when Ma returned to the apartment with her deli smock splattered with blue paint. One of the pillows that belonged on the apartment futon was on the floor, and the shelves over the sink were stacked high with supplies: nuts, bags of candy, plasticware, napkins, sauces, and a whole case of maraschino cherries.
Jordan followed me in, plopped down on the pillow, and turned on the TV. A McDonald’s commercial came on, and he pulled his hand down from his chest to his stomach, signing “Hungry.”
“Jordan the hungry hippo,” I signed back. The sign for hippo uses the Y hands to show a wide mouth opening and closing. I like how it resembles the real animal.