Call Me Hope

by Gretchen Olson

  “What’s that?” Annette stood next to my desk, pointing at the clipboard.

  My chest grabbed, but I faked cool. “The Fifty-Fifty Club. Want to join?”

  “How?”

  I unzipped the plastic bag and took out one yellow coupon. “It’s worth fifty percent off one thing at Next to New.” I smoothed out my sign-up chart, knowing Annette would love all the tidy lines and numbers. We used to play bank in kindergarten — she’d fill out the deposit slips and I’d run the cash register.

  “If you want to join, sign your name on line number one.”

  “I don’t know about Next to New,” she said cautiously. “Isn’t it just old, leftover clothes?” Her nose crinkled.

  I pulled out the page of instructions. “It says they have to be in really good condition. I’ve seen the stuff — it’s awesome. And fantastically low prices.” I sounded like a car commercial.

  Annette eyed the yellow coupon. “Well, I suppose it’s okay. My mom loves half-off sales.”

  “Do you want to sign her up, too?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.” Annette picked up the red pen and carefully printed her name, and then her mother’s on line two. I slipped one more coupon out of the bag, signed my name to the back of both, and handed them to Annette. Now she looked excited, probably because she had something to share with her mother. Before I could feel jealous or sad, Jessica and Lauren were standing there, rattling off questions, saying how they’d sold clothes at Next to New. Lines three and four, please.

  “I love that store.” It was Brody. My eyeballs practically popped out. Brody loves Next to New? Brody Brinkman, Mister Dressed in his Gap khakis, collared shirts, and V-necked sweaters?

  “Yeah, it’s great,” he said, now sounding like Mister Gap Salesman. “My mom shops there all the time. She made it a game when I was a little kid, searching for the best bargain. Now I go in sometimes just to find a sweet deal. I’ll really make points when I tell her about this sale.”

  Before you could say “fifty percent off,” Brody had a yellow coupon in one hand and a pen in the other. Line five, please.

  CHAPTER 12

  Surviving Should

  “They’re all gone!”

  Anita frowned and stopped tagging a pair of pajamas. “What’s all gone?”

  “The coupons,” I answered. A bunch of fourth grade girls at recess had gone crazy, dying to hold the clipboard and sign their names.

  “Ah,” she said, smiling. “What a saleswoman. Good job.”

  Good job. The words echoed in my ears as I looked around the store. Only a few customers at 3:16 on a Tuesday afternoon.

  The bell above the door jangled and in walked Brody with his yellow coupon. That was fast. Maybe he really did love this place. He glanced around, then saw me and combed his fingers through his hair.

  I leaned back against the counter.

  He made his way to the rear of the store. “Hey,” he said, dropping his backpack to the floor. “There was a Calvin Klein sweater here a few weeks ago, but” — he glanced toward Anita, who was busy tagging again — “it was too much money,” he whispered.

  I nodded.

  “This helps.” He held up the coupon. “I hope it’s still here.”

  I nodded again. I felt like I should be directing him, but I had no idea where anything was, except for lay-away boots.

  Brody picked up his backpack and gave a slight wave, then headed off toward the front corner.

  “Do you have a few minutes to spare?” Anita handed me another stack of yellow discount coupons.

  My mind clicked off the minutes: Tyler, football practice, home at 5:30. Mom, 5:45 if she stopped at the store. I checked the wall clock. 3:20. “Sure.”

  “I’m minus a gal today. How’s your ironing?”

  “Ironing? I thought everything came in ironed.”

  “We touch up special items — prom dresses, expensive shirts, whatever. The high school Homecoming dance is in a few weeks, so all the fancy clothes need to look extra fancy. They’re in the back.” She motioned to the storage room. “Just remember — low heat. Would you mind? I’ll deduct five dollars from your hiking boots.”

  Five dollars. “I’m a great ironer.”

  The Next to New dresses were all shapes, lengths, sizes — a short, sparkly black dress with spaghetti straps; a red and green plaid crinkly skirt and matching blouse; a simple peach-colored long dress, almost like a nightgown; plus some silky pants and ruffly tops.

  Now I wasn’t so sure. I mean, I’d done piles of pants and shirts, but what if I put a huge iron hole through one of these gorgeous things? What if I had to pay for it? I sucked in a deep breath, blew it out, and spit on the iron. A low-heat iron should only produce a quiet sizzle, while high-heat spit makes snaps, crackles, and pops. Yup. Quiet sizzle. Good to go.

  I arranged the black dress on the ironing board, wondering who had owned it and why they’d given it up. Like a ship, the iron glided across the flowing fabrics and I floated across a decorated gym. I saw myself in each dress as I pressed, smoothed, turned, hung, snapped, and zipped. Now all I needed were shoes, jewelry, and a date.

  “Looks good.” Anita poked her head in the doorway. She held up a yellow coupon and flipped it over, showing my name. “Calvin Klein sweater.”

  Five dollars for ironing and fifty cents from Brody’s coupon. That left only $3.05 between my hiking boots and my feet.

  I looked past Anita and scanned the store.

  “He left a few minutes ago,” she said.

  Warm, warmer, warmest. (My ears.)

  “He’s nice.” Anita flipped off the light in the storage room. “And he brings in good clothes.”

  Even though I’d done years of my own washing and ironing, I hadn’t fixed things like rips or missing buttons. Neither had Mom or Tyler, so the pink plastic sewing basket bulged high and wide with bits of sad shirts and shorts and pants poking through narrow slots like prisoners waving to be rescued. I’d outgrown more orphaned outfits crammed in that overflowing basket.

  With the house still to myself, I hauled the basket to my room and dumped the mound on my bed like a pail of packed sand. I began sorting — Tyler, Mom, me, Mom, me, me, Tyler, Mom. It looked like most of my stuff had button problems. I found the button box and pawed through it, matching colors and sizes, then picked thread and a needle.

  That night at dinner I decided to break the news. I hadn’t said one thing yet about the Fifty-Fifty Club or the clothes I was taking to Next to New, but the purple boots were going to come home soon and they needed an explanation.

  “I’m president of the Fifty-Fifty Club.” The words nearly clogged my throat.

  “What’s that?” Mom asked, buttering her roll.

  So far, so good.

  “Next to New — the resale clothing store on Main Street,” I said, my words racing to catch up with my pounding heart. “They have this deal where you can give out these discount coupons and whoever brings them in gets fifty percent off anything and you get fifty cents credit.” I gulped for air.

  “What possessed you to step foot in that disgusting store?” Mom set her knife down. “And how in the world did you get conned into a sales scheme? I’ll bet those secondhand people spotted a real sucker when you walked in. How could you be so clueless, Hope?”

  I shrugged. Now my heart banged in my ears like a band of miniature drums.

  “How does the store know you get the credit?”

  “I write my name on the back of the coupon before I give it to someone.” I could barely hear myself over the drums.

  “Isn’t that just great? Your name is spread all over Eola Hills.” She waved her roll through the air. “I suppose you put our phone number and address on it, too, so we’ll get crank calls and strangers at the door.” Her jaw set tight. “When will you ever think before you act?”

  Tyler cleared his throat, but it didn’t catch Mom’s attention.

  Mom kept on. “You should have a code or a stamp instead of yo
ur name. The store should have thought that one through. I’m going to call them.”

  “No!”

  Mom stared.

  “I mean — please don’t call.” I paused, scrambling for words. “It’s okay, really. I’m only giving them to kids at school. Really. They’re not ‘spread all over Eola Hills.’”

  “Don’t mimic me, Hope.”

  “I’m not, Mom. Honest.” PLEASE LET THIS END. NOW.

  I decided not to tell about my clothes, but I still had to mention the boots. “The credit is going for a pair of hiking boots.”

  “Hiking boots?”

  I cringed.

  “Sweet,” said Tyler. “You’ll need ‘em for Outdoor School.”

  My eyes melted into Tyler’s. He winked.

  “Hope,” Mom said firmly, “those boots have been worn by someone else. Probably several someones. You’ll get athlete’s foot or some strange disease and I don’t have the time or the money to take you to the doctor. I don’t want those boots in this house.”

  “Please, Mom, please, I really, really want them. I promise I’ll keep them in the garage.” Now I was begging for my life.

  “You should save your money for a brand-new pair. Check the ads. They have sales all the time. You should get a better deal in the long run.”

  “But, Mom, these boots look like they’ve never been worn. I put them on layaway and I only have three dollars and five cents left to pay.”

  “You shouldn’t put anything on layaway, Hope.” Now she was eating her roll. That slowed my heart. “If you don’t pay it off on time, poof! There goes your hard-earned money. You should wait until you have the whole amount, then go in, buy it, and bring it home that same day.”

  “I’ll have the money in time so I won’t lose a penny.” PLEASE let this be over.

  “Well, throw your money away if you want.” Yes. Sarcasm, loud and clear (35 points), which always meant she was winding down and I could go ahead with my plan.

  “I sure wouldn’t spend my money that way.” She shivered. “You wouldn’t catch me dead in that store. Remember, Hope, you should start with new, not Next to New.” She chuckled at her own cleverness.

  Should, Should, Should. I hated should. It made me feel stupid. Really stupid. SHOULD needed points: 60. And, I still needed a Grand Prize.

  As I watched Mom still making fun of me, my boots, and my coupons, it finally came to me:

  CONGRATULATIONS!

  * * *

  YOU’VE REACHED THE 5,000

  POINT GRAND TOTAL.

  FROM THIS POINT FORWARD,

  YOUR MOTHER, D.D. ELLIOT,

  WILL NO LONGER SAY MEAN,

  HURTFUL THINGS, AND

  YOU WILL NO LONGER

  REQUIRE A POINT SYSTEM.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 13

  Tangled Memories

  The button-sewing project took a few days, along with washing and drying. I still hadn’t said anything about my clothes going to Next to New, not that I was doing anything wrong. They were my clothes, after all. And I certainly couldn’t wear them anymore. It’s just that I got such a sick feeling whenever I thought I should tell Mom something. I knew exactly how it’d go: The minute I opened my mouth, I would’ve made all the wrong decisions, I’d be shoulded to death, and I’d feel super stupid and guilty afterwards.

  So, I kept pretty quiet, sewing in my closet, sneaking into the laundry room while Mom watched TV or talked on the phone. I didn’t want to chance ironing; I planned to haul wrinkled clothes, in hopes of ironing them at Next to New.

  The day our Holocaust project was due, I carefully rolled my concentration camp map, slipped rubber bands around each end, and placed it on a soft bed of outgrown dresses, skirts, and blouses, packed in Tyler’s old Nike sports bag. With a few T-shirts and pants tucked along the sides, the map looked safe. My backpack hid the remaining clothes. I tried to convince myself I wasn’t a thief, but my heart thought differently, shouting out confessions as I walked through the kitchen.

  “Bye, Mom,” I said, wishing the door closer.

  “What’s in the bag?” She started the dishwasher and wiped her hands on the towel.

  I froze.

  “Uh, it’s my concentration camp map. Due today. I don’t want it to get wet — since I have to walk.” I guarded my voice. Not one hint of sarcasm. 50 points.

  “And it’s well-padded so it won’t get squashed.” I gave the side of the bag a gentle pat and moved again for the door. My ears prayed for silence.

  “Good luck,” said Mom.

  Good luck! Better than silence! I couldn’t believe it.

  “Thanks.”

  Out the door and down the driveway. I reached the sidewalk and my knees turned to mush. I had to force each leg forward, one at a time, for a few steps until some strength returned. With a misty drizzle dusting my face, I ran, jogged, and fast-walked to school. It made me think of Anne Frank, who walked away from her home forever in a steady rain, wearing layers of clothing, trying to disguise pants, vests, and stockings so the Nazis wouldn’t suspect she was going into hiding.

  When Mr. Hudson called for the maps, I slowly removed mine from its protective cocoon and carried it like long-lost treasure back to my desk. I slipped the rubber bands off and spread the map, smoothing it flat, my fingers moving gently across drab wooden barracks and dark smoky skies, guard towers and garbage dumps, yellow stars on striped shirts and red blooms on the lone rosebush.

  When Mr. Hudson picked it up, I could tell he was being careful, too. “Nice job, hope,” he said. I tried not to smile. Be cool. Nice job. That might even be better than good job. I wasn’t sure. I’d have to think about it.

  I had so many things on my mind that day, it wasn’t until afternoon that I noticed Brody’s sweater. My eyes moved up the brown and creamy white sleeve to his face. “Next to New,” he mouthed from across the room, pulling at the elbow. He gave me a thumbs-up and my ears turned hot.

  The bell jingled as I pushed open Next to New’s heavy door. I waved to Jodi Huffman, the high-school girl who worked after school three days a week.

  Anita was in SHOES.

  “Hi,” I said, sitting down on the bench.

  She tossed a pair of pink fuzzy slippers into a reject pile. “Pink isn’t selling these days.”

  I picked up the slippers and smoothed the helter-skelter hair. “They need mowing.”

  Anita chuckled. “You do lawns, too?”

  “No, just ironing.” I returned the slippers to the pile, stalling for time, mentally rehearsing my request. Would it be okay, that is, could I please use the —

  “What’s on your mind?” she asked, sitting down beside me.

  I bent over and unzipped the black bag.

  “Whoa,” said Anita. “Yours?”

  I nodded.

  “Cute.” She pulled out my all-time favorite sunflower sundress with matching hat. When I outgrew the dress, I wore it as a top with pants.

  “They’re all washed and I checked for stains and fixed rips and sewed buttons, and I know they’re supposed to be ironed.” The words stumbled over my nervous tongue.

  Anita stood up, handing me the dress and hat. “Be sure to fill the iron with bottled water, and use the smaller, children’s hangers.” She gathered her pile of reject shoes and slippers. “No rest for the wicked.” She winked and I hoped she wasn’t talking about me.

  I passed through my childhood again — smoothing, folding, and pressing memories: second-grade overalls so hard to undo that I peed in them more than once; a red flowery crop top too short during a time I wanted everything tucked in; a day at the beach in my blue shorts and sailboat T-shirt, when Mom built a sand castle with Tyler and me; a trip to the Eugene Zoo in Mickey Mouse sweats when Mom called me clumsy and clue-less after I tripped down the stairs leading to the monkeys; Jessica Dobie’s birthday party in my Winnie The Pooh dress and matching apron when Mom wished me a good time.

  Why do happy memories come tangled with sad ones?
Why can’t you just pull out the good ones and leave the bad behind? Is it better to forget them all or remember them all? That was definitely a problem in need of a solution.

  Anne took these things into hiding: her diary, hair curlers, handkerchiefs, schoolbooks, a comb, old letters. She wrote, “I put in the craziest things with the idea that we were going into hiding. But I’m not sorry, memories mean more to me than dresses.”

  CHAPTER 14

  New Friends

  Saturday afternoon was quiet. Mom was at Tyler’s football game and I was studying Anne Frank’s diary for a test. Tyler said I was on his blacklist for staying home and that I’d better ace the test.

  I took a break and wandered down to Tyler’s room. Surely he had some outgrown clothes. I started with his chest of drawers, pulling out stuff I hadn’t seen in years — sweatshirts, basketball T-shirts, football jerseys. The prize, though, was these jungle pajamas with lions and tigers, elephants, and parrots. Way too small. Besides, now he wore boxers and T-shirts to bed.

  The phone rang. I dived across Tyler’s rumpled bed and grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Hope?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a pair of purple hiking boots here with your name on them.”

  “Anita?”

  “Yes, sweetie. I thought you’d like to know. A bunch of your coupons came in today. Your boots are paid off and you even have fifty cents’ credit.”

  Purple hiking boots AND credit.

  “I’ll be there in a second.”

  I tore out of Tyler’s room and snatched my tennis shoes off the back porch, hopping and tying my laces all at once.

  In a flash, I was breathlessly leaning against Next to New’s front door, allowing someone coming out to let me in. A fresh surge of anticipation swept me to the back counter, where I was sucked into a crowd of closet cleaners.