The Way to Stay in Destiny

by Augusta Scattergood

  She sighs, then asks, “Who taught you, Theo?”

  “Taught myself. My grandparents told me Mama first showed me piano notes. But my parents were killed in a car crash when I was little.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Miss Sister squeezes my hand.

  “It’s okay. I don’t really know much about my parents. Except that Mama was a musician. Daddy, too.”

  I look at my hands resting on the smooth keys, wondering whose long piano fingers I inherited. For sure, my eyes came from my daddy. Maybe that’s why Uncle Raymond doesn’t like looking me straight in the eye. I heard him and Granddaddy arguing about Daddy the day Uncle Raymond showed up at the farm to claim me.

  Pushing that picture out of my head, I shut my eyes and quiet music pours onto the keyboard. Even if it doesn’t make me forget my uncle completely, playing this piano takes me someplace else.

  When I stop, Miss Sister puts her tiny hand on top of mine. “Theo, that music’s a dream,” she says.

  “I’ve only played on our old piano at the farm. School didn’t have music classes.”

  “Good music is all about the harmony. You know harmony?” Miss Sister stretches her hand into a chord and I play the same notes, only lower.

  “Nice. Harmony.” Soon I’m playing the Mexican hat dance better than she does.

  “Does the music just hop out of your head, honey?” Miss Sister asks.

  “No, ma’am. It jumps out of my fingers.” I laugh and play faster now, humming, pumping the shiny pedals.

  When I stop, Miss Sister says, “Once your uncle hears you, he’ll be downright busting with pride.”

  “I’m not sharing a single thing with Uncle Raymond. He won’t want me being at the piano with you.”

  “We’ll see about that,” she says. I play until the sun sneaks low out the front window. Finally, Miss Sister sighs and says, “I should help Mrs. Hernandez with supper. You sit here a while longer, honey.”

  She doesn’t move yet, so I play another jazzy tune from the radio in our room. Then a song I heard in Spanish coming from another radio early this morning. The words and melodies jumble around in my head, coming out perfectly together on Miss Sister’s piano.

  Her hands go right up to the frilly collar covering her heart and she says, “Truly, Theo, you have a God-given talent.”

  Over the music I say, mostly to myself, “We’re gonna have to figure out a way to break that news to my uncle.”

  Miss Sister’s Rules for Sundays

  No checkers or card playing till after 1:00.

  Serve yourself. Peanut butter and bread are on the tables. Rinse your dirty plates and leave them in the sink.

  I dance like nobody’s business all week, but Sundays are my quiet days.

  S. Grandersole

  On our first Sunday at the Rest Easy, I read Miss Sister’s note tacked up in the dining room, then grab my baseball glove and head outside. As far as I can tell, there’s no rule against thumping a fuzzy tennis ball against the toolshed extra hard. Even on Sundays.

  Thwack! Slam the ball, catch it on a bounce. Again. Again. Till I hear a voice across the tall hedge, coming from the alley.

  “Psst. Theo? That you?”

  I stop thwacking and turn. Anabel! Sneaking around the bushes, also holding a glove. And a baseball.

  She leans around me to look toward the back door of the Rest Easy. “What are you doing here? Where’s Miss Sister?”

  “Don’t know where Miss Sister is right now, but I live here.”

  “Huh?” Anabel backs away. “You live here? With Miss Sister?”

  “With my uncle.” There. I said it. Maybe she won’t mind being friends with the new kid who lives at the Rest Easy Rooming House with his uncle who forces him to make up his bed with some stupid military fold thing and do the laundry every Saturday.

  Fat chance.

  For now, she keeps talking, taking big steps backward toward the shed. “I was on my way to the school. Looking for somebody to catch with. Didn’t know you played,” Anabel says, and she tosses me a hard, low ball, overhanded.

  “I was a pretty good shortstop, before.” I drop my tennis ball and field her grounder.

  “Before you moved here? Too bad you didn’t get to Destiny before they picked summer teams.”

  Yeah, well, no way my uncle cares about signing me up for something I really might love.

  Anabel stands up straight and looks right at me. “Hey, maybe they’ll bend the rules. We don’t get new players who are any good.” She punches her mitt and waits for my throw. “I bet it’s no fun. Being new.”

  “Doesn’t matter one way or the other.” I toss the ball up and down and kick at the dirt to show her I don’t care. I throw her a high ball just as my uncle appears on the back steps. I glance over. He nods. I ignore him.

  “That man’s looking for you.” Anabel holds her baseball up, asking if I’m ready.

  “He can wait.”

  When she hears Miss Sister rattling around in the kitchen, Anabel turns around quick and slips through the back hedge. “Gotta go. Can’t let her catch me.”

  “Wait a minute! What’s the big deal?” But she’s raced off down the alley and I’m inside the dining room without finding out why she’s avoiding Miss Sister.

  Even this Sunday lunch is a whole lot tastier than what my uncle fixed the week we waited to leave Kentucky. He didn’t learn how to cook from my grandmother, that’s for sure. We pile potato chips on top of our sandwiches and grab a couple of homemade brownies. Except for two old men arguing about whether it’s about to rain, the dining room’s empty. We sit at one end of the long table.

  “Who was that out back?” Uncle Raymond takes a big drink of his sweet tea.

  “Just a girl. In sixth grade. I’ll probably see her at school tomorrow. Maybe we’ll be friends.”

  “Maybe,” my uncle grunts. He finishes his sandwich, tightens the top to the pickle jar, and stands up.

  “Definitely we’ll be friends,” I say even though I have no clue.

  Uncle Raymond sits back down. “It don’t pay to get attached to people. Even to a place.” He narrows his eyes at the old men at the end of the table swapping fish stories.

  “I like it here,” I say.

  “Don’t matter what you like. I’m not sure about this here place, Destiny. Tire changing’s beneath me. Learned engine repair in the army.” Uncle Raymond wads his paper napkin up by his plate just as Miss Sister sashays over to our table.

  “Good afternoon, boys. Enjoying those brownies?” she asks.

  My uncle barely looks up.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I stand up and answer. Miss Sister smiles and I think that’s a wink. I smile back like we’re sharing a secret.

  “Made them myself. We usually don’t fix Sunday meals; Mrs. Hernandez’s day off. But you being new and all.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Just wanted to make you welcome. You need anything, let me know.”

  When she moves toward the kitchen, my uncle glowers. “Don’t need people getting in my business,” he mutters, and I worry whether he means Miss Sister or me.

  I push my chair in and walk toward the kitchen, balancing my plate and glass. Uncle Raymond follows. He stands close to me, scraping leftover potato chips into the trash.

  “Where’re you off to in such a hurry?” he says.

  “Nowhere.” I need to get away from my uncle so I can breathe better. Before he can grab me, I say, “Back later,” and hurry toward the door.

  Just off the front porch, a tall white bird creeps closer to the brightest red flowers I’ve ever seen. Slipping out the front door, I walk fast toward the sound of squawking seagulls, remembering what Anabel said is the best thing about Destiny. I glance over my shoulder every third step, jogging down the sidewalk. Pretty soon, I see the pier. At the end of the dock, a pelican perches on a bucket of fish guts, staring at me. Two guys throw fishing lines into the water. Off in the distance, a sailboat catches the wind and speeds up.

&n
bsp; “Wow, cool!” Yikes. Did I just say that out loud? Yep. I love it here, though. Sinking down onto the beach, I lean against the seawall. A smell I don’t know — warm sunshine and salt water mixed together — makes me think I could stay in this town forever. I let the sand sift through my fingers and picture me — maybe with Uncle Raymond — out there fishing. I’m daydreaming about catching the biggest fish in the universe when a shadow blocks the sun.

  “What you doing? Ain’t you got something better to do?”

  I’d recognize that snarl anywhere.

  Uncle Raymond’s work boots kick at the sand. His arms are crossed. Miss Sister’s little dog’s behind him, also snarling.

  I jump up to face him eye to eye. And to get away from Ginger Rogers. “Sure is nice at the ocean,” I say.

  “Told you once already. Not the ocean. Gulf of Mexico.” Uncle Raymond jabs a finger at my chest, hard. “Waste of time, the beach. You’ve seen enough,” he says, then turns and heads back toward the sidewalk.

  “We could fish,” I call out. “That’s not wasting time. Granddaddy and I used to catch trout in the farm pond.”

  He stops and waits till I catch up with him. “I fished all the time in Alaska. Before I had to leave so quick.” Uncle Raymond stares out at the water. “No time for that now.”

  When Miss Sister’s dog looks up at him and wags her tail, I say, “Ginger Rogers followed you? Miss Sister says she doesn’t take to strangers. Sure doesn’t like me.”

  Uncle Raymond lets the little dog lick his hand. “All animals take to me. Your mama and I had a goat. Named him Charlie. Chewed up one of your mama’s doll babies. Made her mad as the dickens.”

  Whoa! That’s as much as my uncle’s ever said about my mama. I hold my breath, waiting for more. Instead, Uncle Raymond scratches the dog’s ears, then walks away from me. “Git on back to your room,” he hollers over the sounds of the ocean.

  Make that the gulf.

  As soon as we open the screen door, Miss Sister calls out from the front room, “Wipe the sand off your feet, boys!” She’s leaning over, turning the knob on the TV to one of those movies where dancers make big circles and kick to old-timey music. My grandmother loved those old movies.

  Uncle Raymond drags his heavy boots across her red-and-pink doormat, then starts toward the stairs, but I say hello to Miss Sister before following him.

  “Come sit with me! Bet there’s a baseball game on here somewhere. Don’t mind changing the channel one bit. I’ll get us some iced tea.” She jumps up and flounces off before Uncle Raymond can escape upstairs. I tune the TV, then collapse onto the sofa. Sitting on a straight-backed chair as far away from me as he can get, my uncle crosses his arms and glares.

  When Miss Sister hands me my tea, I say, “Braves game today. Hank Aaron already passed Babe Ruth’s record. Now everything’s gravy.”

  She passes around her brownies. “Here you go, boys. Now let’s see who can hit one out of the park.”

  “If anybody can, Hank Aaron can,” Uncle Raymond says. Then he jumps, kind of like he’s surprised himself, talking to Miss Sister about baseball. He doesn’t say another word until the game ends. “Thanks for the tea,” he mumbles, and stomps up the stairs without even a look back. Miss Sister raises her eyebrows, but we don’t talk, just sit together drinking our iced tea. The last place I want to be is upstairs with my uncle. The first place I want to be is here. Near Miss Sister, not too far from her piano.

  On Monday morning, my stomach thinks I’ve eaten chicken and gravy for breakfast when all I’ve done is gulp down a glass of water at the bedroom sink.

  Grabbing the big brown envelope from my top drawer, I don’t look at Granddaddy’s picture postcards that still keep coming. Instead, I take out my school records and race toward the front door. Where I almost run into Miss Sister wearing a dress that looks like she’s stolen somebody’s orange-flowered curtains.

  “Barely seven o’clock and already too hot to move.” She stops dancing around her broom, sweeping up that slithery Spanish moss stuff that hangs off most every tree in Destiny. “Oh my lands, your first day of school! Do you have all the paperwork?” Miss Sister peers around me. “Where’s your uncle?”

  “Uncle Raymond can’t miss work. Early shift. He called ahead, told them I was coming.” I hold up my birth certificate and my report cards from Kentucky. Starting school this close to summer vacation may not be the smartest move, but it’s better than being stuck upstairs in my room. Alone. Friendless.

  Miss Sister squints at my report cards flashing in front of her face. For a minute I think she’s about to ask another question, but she pats me on the shoulder and shoos me down the sidewalk. “Principal Jackson’s little girl is one of my dancers. You need anything, he’ll take good care of you.” She points down the street. “One block down, then turn left. James Weldon Johnson Junior High School’s written across the building. You can’t miss it.”

  I crunch across a neighbor’s driveway made of shells bleached so white I shield my eyes. Great. First day at school and already my loser-new-kid T-shirt’s a dripping ball of sweat. When I push open the heavy front door, a blast of frigid air-conditioning hits me.

  In the middle of the wide hall, I stop dead still. A million framed pictures stare out. Classes of kids who’ve probably known each other since they left baby teeth under their tooth fairy pillows. Or banged up their knees falling off monkey bars in kindergarten. Like me and the friends I left back home. I may never ever be a part of Destiny, Florida, but I trudge off to find the principal’s office, eyes straight ahead, avoiding looking at the walls of Johnson Junior High.

  I’m praying I don’t run into Anabel while I’m holding my school records for the whole world to see: Thelonious Monk Thomas. What did I do to deserve a name that hard to pronounce and easy to make fun of? What were my parents thinking?

  When I finally pass Anabel, she’s surrounded by girls in softball shirts and she’s racing so fast down the hall, she doesn’t even smile. Dream on, Theo. Just because she bothered to ask my name and toss around a baseball with me doesn’t mean we’re friends.

  By the time I figure out where my classrooms are, not to mention my locker combination — 9L-8R-3L-6R — it’s sixth-grade lunch. I inch my way through the cafeteria line. Hot dogs floating in slimy water. Canned peaches that have probably been there since last week. I grab a grilled cheese and a carton of milk and survey the crowd.

  Is every lunch period in every junior high in the world the same? Groups huddled together with their backs turned to anybody different? My T-shirt is neon yellow and black. I look like a tall bumblebee. Uncle Raymond cut my hair way too short. No way I’m sitting with the boys wearing those patrol belt things. Not the jocks lobbing rolls across their table, either. I add an apple and cookie to my orange plastic tray and slide into a corner table to read my milk carton and wish I was back in Kentucky.

  “Hey, Theo.” Anabel! She waves a carrot stick from two tables over. “Remember me?”

  Of course I remember the only sixth grader who’s said a single word to me in my entire lifetime in Destiny.

  “Wanna sit here?” She pats the metal chair next to her. A boy stops eating to hang on her every word. She glares at him and at a girl rolling her eyes at my bumblebee shirt. I settle on the empty chair and bite into my grilled cheese. Cold and hard.

  “Everybody around here a Braves fan?” I ask, reading her T-shirt.

  “Not everybody. Me, though. Your team’s the Braves, right?” Anabel stops polishing her apple to wait for my answer.

  “Yep.” I twirl the straw in my lukewarm milk and wonder how it would feel to hang out with Anabel and her friends, talk about baseball. Maybe I’ll start by offering her the oatmeal cookie on my tray. I glance down at her lunch. Carrots, the apple, chips, a chocolate cupcake with squiggles on top. A thermos with her name on it. I stuff my boring brown cookie in my mouth.

  Anabel points a potato chip at me. “Remember what I told you about the Braves and spr
ing training?”

  “You mean that sign downtown?”

  “There’s more baseball in Destiny than that marker near the post office.” She raises her eyebrows and says, “Daddy says a lot of players lived around here. My mom says ‘Who cares?’ ”

  “Your mom’s not a fan?” I fiddle with my grilled cheese.

  “She’s a fan of girls learning to dance,” Anabel says. “Ridiculous, huh?”

  Before I can answer, a deafening buzzer signals the end of lunch, so loud I almost choke on my sandwich. After that, chairs start clanging and scraping, kids laughing and talking. “Later,” Anabel mouths and follows the crowd. I dump my tray and head for the cafeteria door.

  By last-period math, a substitute teacher and the window air conditioner sound like they are about to give out. I’m scribbling musical notes across the top of my homework assignment, trying to stay awake. Anabel’s three seats in front of me, close enough so I can read the buttons pinned to her knapsack: Eat Your Veggies, Make Friends Not War, Softball Rocks. I’m daydreaming about playing a jazzy piano tune for her. Catching a spring training game together next season. Surfing at the beach.

  “Hey, psst, you. Theo.”

  Huh? Who knows my name?

  The boy in front of me passes something behind his back. Theo Thomas is written in curly script across a tightly folded square of paper. I look around, checking the faces, then slip the note in my shorts pocket. When the bell finally rings, I dart out the door.

  Shielding my eyes from the sun that bounces off the blacktop, I walk fast, patting my pocket about fifteen times. Yep, still there. I turn the corner, head for the Rest Easy’s front porch, and sink onto the front steps. I unfold the note and read:

  Dear Theo,

  Meet me near the beach at Dawson’s Bait Shop.

  Tomorrow, 3:30 sharp.

  Don’t be late!

  Your friend, Anabel

  Wow, Anabel! My friend Anabel wants to go fishing? Maybe walk over to the beach? But my uncle’s ordered me to do homework first, every day after school, no matter what. Not to mention, he isn’t too crazy about wasting time. If Uncle Raymond thinks the piano is a waste of time, for sure he’ll think kicking back on a beach chair is.