At the Second Street Deli, I ordered three turkey sandwiches and three chocolate-chip cookies. With a few dollars left in my pocket, I carried the white sack and my Hallmark bag down the street, over four blocks, and into Next to New.
The morning shoppers were gone and the closet cleaners hadn’t arrived yet. I found Anita and Ruthie studying the Chinese restaurant menu. “But we can’t eat the rice,” said Anita.
“Just don’t eat the fortune cookie,” said Ruthie.
“How about turkey?” I said, holding up the sack.
“Hope!” they said together.
“Is a sandwich okay?” I began opening the bag. “You don’t have to eat the chips, but you do have to eat the cookies, because they’re for my birthday.”
“Your birthday?” Ruthie practically shrieked. “But you shouldn’t be here on a sunny spring Saturday — you should be out with your friends, shopping or —”
“Stuff it, Ruthie,” Anita said, slamming her elbow into Ruthie’s side. “Hope came to the right place. Let’s celebrate.”
Anita hustled us to the storage room and whipped out a card table and three folding chairs, flowery napkins, and the Easter globe off her desk. She cranked the globe key and shook the glitter while Ruthie and I handed out sandwiches, pickles, olives, chips, and chocolate-chip cookies. With “Here Comes Peter Cotton-tail” chiming away, I told them about my twenty-five dollar tour of downtown Eola Hills and passed around my stuffed kitten. “I’ve always wanted a pet,” I said. “I think I’ll name him Peter.”
“We are honored you and Peter chose to celebrate your birthday luncheon with us,” said Anita, raising her Diet Pepsi.
“Absolutely,” said Ruthie, standing up, raising her coffee cup. “To Hope and to many more turkey sandwiches.”
“Thank you,” I said, the cold turkey warming my stomach.
After “Happy Birthday” and the last bite of cookie, Anita announced, “Next to New will match your twenty-five dollars. Consider this your gift certificate.” She handed me her napkin with $25 scribbled across the flowers. “Not exactly fancy wrapped, but you didn’t give us much notice.”
“Enough notice for next year, though,” said Ruthie.
And I knew they wouldn’t forget.
CHAPTER 20
Next to New Me
Anita needed sundresses. “Hot fashion for a hot summer.”
I’d already taken in my summery things and Tyler warned me to stay out of his clothes. Mom had brought home two new dresses when she’d gone shopping with Lydia (on my birthday), which got me thinking, planning, and waiting for the right moment.
Monday morning, spring vacation, Tyler was still asleep and Mom had left for work. I tiptoed down the hall, past Tyler’s bedroom, into Mom’s room, and across the floor to her closet. I opened the door. It squeaked and I froze. Forget it, Hope! My eyes wandered to Mom’s dresser and touched the photo of my baby self, curled in her arms, snuggled against her checkered dress, on that sunny day in March twelve years ago.
I could have stayed in that warm picture forever but reminded myself of the mission and quickly moved through the hanging clothes, stopping at the blue and white homecoming dress. My heart stopped as I grasped the hanger and pulled the dress from the closet.
At Next to New, I tested the iron while Anita fussed at her desk, coughed, glanced at Mom’s dress, eyed me, opened and closed drawers, released a loud sigh, then sank down on her chair. “What else does your mother want to sell?”
I arranged the dress and began ironing. “Nothing.”
“Hmm. That’s odd. Most people bring in a pile of things they want to get rid of.”
“She’s too busy.”
“Well, it’s a lovely dress. Doesn’t look like it’s ever been worn.”
“It was.” I turned the fabric gently, my hands patting, spreading, resting, longing to hug the blue-and-white-checkered dress one last time.
Anita shook her head and left the room.
Spring break at Next to New turned into a party with the Two-for-One Sale, balloons, door prizes, and food. Ruthie brought in fresh veggies and a great dip she said was low-cal. Anita made low-carb carrot cake that tasted like cardboard. I robbed our garage of diet pop and apples and I bought a new jar of green olives.
I made chocolate-fudge brownies using the cholesterol-free directions, which meant I had to take out the egg yolks — a slimy mess. Instead of frosting, I just sprinkled powdered sugar all over, which looked pretty and had to be less calories.
Closet cleaners kept us pretty busy all week, with summer clothes coming in and sale stuff going out. One slower afternoon I was on hanger duty: gathering strays; sorting plastic, wood, wire; taking extras to the storage room. I was tidying the stack behind the consignment counter when a woman’s voice drew my head around. She was talking about the clothes she’d brought in like she knew exactly what we expected.
“Everything’s washed and ironed. No stains or rips. It’s all good.”
There was a hint of something familiar in her voice, how she paused between sentences, the casual confidence. She smiled at Ruthie, her face shimmering under fluorescent lights, her forehead smooth, her reddish-blond hair curving softly under just below her ears. She wore a peach-colored sweater set and pearl earrings. She seemed so, I don’t know, so — smart.
Just as I turned back to the tangle of hangers, I heard a very familiar voice. “Hey, Mom, there’s some Liz Claiborne shirts on the New to Us rack.”
Brody. Our eyes met while my arms were entwined in a hanger mobile.
“Hope! Hi. You working here?”
“Well, sort of, not really.”
“She keeps the place going,” said Ruthie, taking Mrs. Brinkman’s clothes to a back rack.
“Mom,” said Brody, “this is Hope.”
“I’m happy to meet you, Hope,” said Mrs. Brinkman with a sparkly white smile.
“Thanks, me too.” I tried to return half a sparkly smile.
“Any sweet deals?” asked Brody.
“Sweaters, jackets, turtlenecks, wool pants,” I said, dropping my hanger mess back into the box.
Brody nodded. “How’s spring break?”
“Okay,” I said, wishing I could take another good look at his mother.
“Mrs. Brinkman,” said Ruthie, now checking the computer screen, “you have twenty-seven dollars on your account.”
“Thank you,” said Brody’s mom. She smiled at me again. “Hope, could you join us? We’re going to play miniature golf.”
I didn’t know what to say. Yes, I’d love to play golf with you, dress like you, sound smart like you, live with you. Geezuz, Brody had an Angel Mom!
“Oh, thanks,” I mumbled, “but I’d better not.” I looked at Brody. “Maybe another time.”
Brody and his mom left with Brody giving me a wave at the front door.
“Ruthie,” I said, combing my fingers through my hair, just as tangled as the hangers.
“Uh-huh.”
“How do you think I’d look with shorter hair? Like below my ears? I mean, wouldn’t it be better for summer?”
“Oh, darlin’, you’d look spectacular — let’s go for it.” I panicked. “You’re going to cut it?”
“You think I’m just going to hack away at your lovely hair?” said Ruthie, leading me back to the storage room. “I’ll have you know, I was a beautician in my former life.”
Before I knew it, Ruthie had me sitting on a stool with a towel from LINENS around my shoulders. She began combing, brushing, untangling, and suggesting shampoos and conditioners.
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I should just go bald.”
“Hold still.” She aimed the comb and scissors, poised for attack, then stopped. “What will your mother say?”
“She doesn’t care.” The words escaped before I could grab them. I panicked. I’d never said them out loud, to anyone.
Ruthie dropped her arms to her sides, her face shifting from happy to sad.
I paused, then s
lowly said, “She never cares.”
“Oh, sweetie, I care.” And she bent over, wrapped her arms around the towel, around me, pulling me tight against her chest.
“I care,” echoed Anita, walking across the room with an armload of sale signs, “but I certainly wouldn’t let this lady near my hair with anything sharp.”
“You be nice,” said Ruthie, straightening up. “We’re about to perform a little magic — just call me the Hairy Godmother.”
“Bad, Ruthie, really stinks,” said Anita.
“I asked her to,” I said in Ruthie’s defense.
“Oh, in that case, we’re all in trouble.” Anita sat at her desk to watch.
Ruthie pressed the cold scissors against my forehead and hair began to fall away. I closed my eyes until, at last, Anita handed me a small mirror. I saw my eyes first. They seemed bigger, browner — prettier. And I seemed older without those long, scraggly ends hitting my shoulders.
“I like it.”
CHAPTER 21
The Prize
“Who cut your hair?” Mom demanded.
“It w-was my idea,” I stammered. “I asked her and —”
“WHO?”
“Uh, this lady at Next to New. She asked if you’d care and I said you wouldn’t.”
“I don’t,” she said, “but the boys will.”
“Huh?”
“Boys like girls with long hair.”
“Not all boys,” I said, wondering if Brody liked his mother’s hair short.
Mom threw her hands in the air. “Dye your hair green with purple stripes for all I care.”
Sarcasm: 35 points.
The next morning I stood in front of Next to New, checking out my reflection. I touched the soft ends of my shampooed, conditioned, gelled, dried, and curled hair. Thank goodness I liked it after cramping my arm muscles with all that blowing and rolling.
Anita looked up from the cash register. “Ohmygosh. Ruthie! Come see who just walked in.”
Ruthie appeared from ACCESSORIES, carrying an armful of belts and purses. “Oh, Hope.”
I stiffened.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, dropping her load right on the floor and marching over to examine me.
I stood there, soaking up all their smiles and shiny eyes.
“Thanks,” I said, and without thinking I gave them each a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
Thursday was slow. When we finished our two o’clock break, Anita brought out a cribbage board and deck of cards. “Winner gets a prize,” she said.
“I love prizes,” said Ruthie. “What is it?”
“You’ll see,” she said, shuffling the cards.
Cribbage — Anita and Ruthie’s favorite game. I’d heard of their nightly matches and a running winner-loser record. At the end of the year, the loser had to take the winner out to dinner in Portland.
I watched as they examined their hands, discarded into the “crib,” laid cards on the table, counting as they went, moving little silver pegs into holes around the wooden board.
When Ruthie moved her peg around the last corner, she announced, “Winner! Prize, please.”
Anita smiled and took Ruthie’s hand, leading her from the storage room to the men’s bathroom.
“Excuse me, darlin’, but I don’t need to go,” said Ruthie.
“Come on.” Anita tugged.
“The MEN’S room?” Ruthie protested.
Anita didn’t answer except for a “Shhh.”
I walked behind them and heard a hushed “Ohhhhh.”
“Come here, Hope,” whispered Anita.
I walked cautiously between them, to a box, peeked over the edge, and smiled. I bent down and watched the gray and white kitten, curled on a bed of towels, stretch a tiny leg forward and arch its head with a slow-motion yawn, then snuggle back to sleep. Its tiny body moved ever so slightly with each quiet breath. I touched its silky fur and began stroking its back. A faint purr floated up from the box.
“Where did you get it?”
“A customer,” said Anita, proud of her prize.
I picked up the little fluff ball and cuddled it next to my face.
After more ooohs and aaahs and petting and purring, we named him Resale after vetoing Ruthie’s vote for Snickers.
“Looks like you’ve fallen in love with him already, Hope,” said Ruthie. “Why don’t you take him home? A companion for Peter.”
I froze. “No, no, I couldn’t do that.” I handed Resale to Ruthie. Please don’t ask me why and make me explain that my mother has never allowed pets, that they stink and pee and puke in the house.
“Then Resale will be a shop cat,” said Anita, “with Hope in charge.” She eyed me. “That means a clean litter box.”
I breathed. “No problem.” Ruthie placed Resale back in my arms and his little motor began humming.
CHAPTER 22
Preparation & Permission
“Aren’t you going to the parents’ meeting?” I stared at Mom, stretched out on the couch, watching the news.
“What meeting?”
“Outdoor School. I’ve been reminding you for two weeks.” I knew I was getting close to trouble, but I didn’t care. This was too important. I held up the flyer I’d taped to the refrigerator. “All the sixth-grade teachers and ODS counselors will be there.” My ears warmed a warning but I couldn’t quit now. “There’s a slide show and refreshments.” How else could I convince her!?
“ODS,” she said like she was imitating me.
“Outdoor School,” I said, verging on angry impatience. “There are important forms to fill out.”
“If they’re that important, someone will send them to me.” She clicked to another channel.
“Mr. Hudson is going to teach some fun campfire songs.”
She looked at me. “I don’t think so.”
“Please, Mom. Please go. I’ll get your jacket and car keys. You just have to go.”
She sat up. “Hope Marie, stop your damn whining. I don’t have to do anything.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I do not take orders from a twelve-year-old.”
My arms dropped and the flyer slipped to the floor. I turned and left the living room. The rest of the evening crept by as I stared at my math and out the window. I went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror; I could see the twitching in my cheeks as I ground my teeth back and forth. Maybe Mom would change her mind, get off the couch, and drive to school. She’d be late but that’d be okay. She’d hear the songs and meet the counselors and —
“Hope,” called Mom through the bathroom door. My heart jumped. She was going!
“Don’t hog the bathroom.”
I sighed and watched my eyes droop. “I’m coming.” I flushed the empty toilet and ran the sink water.
When I opened the door, Mom smiled and kissed my cheek. “Thanks, sweetie, you saved my life.” There it was again, that stupid kissy-sweetie thing right after being so pissy. I hated it. It didn’t make any sense and it certainly didn’t make me feel kissy-sweetie.
Was this really happening? What I’d dreaded and feared since the first day of sixth grade? That there really was a chance — a big chance — I wouldn’t go to Outdoor School? No. It couldn’t happen. But I felt like I was sinking into a deep hole, swallowed in cold darkness. NO, I wanted to scream, I’m going!
The next day, Mr. Hudson gave me a parents’ packet. “It has everything in it except the slide show and counselors.”
I pulled out the equipment list. Sleeping bag. Air mattress. Flashlight. Suntan lotion. Pajamas or sweats. Boots or sturdy shoes. My sturdy purple boots were ready. So was I. I was going.
“I said a boom chicka boom.” Mr. Hudson clapped his hands and slapped his legs.
“I said a boom chicka boom,” we called back, clapping and slapping.
“I said a boom chicka rocka chicka rocka chicka boom.”
Clap, slap, clap, slap. Mr. Hudson looked around the room.
We had pushed the desks against the walls and now
sat cross-legged on the floor in a circle with Mr. Hudson sitting in front of the whiteboard.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding his head up and down.
“Oh, yeah,” we answered, our voices rising, our hands burning.
“One more time.”
“One more time.”
Outdoor School was still three weeks away, but we were more than ready. We’d learned loud silly songs and quiet nighttime songs, ones with hand motions and some with full-body action, like the “Squirrelly” song where you turn around, bend over, and shake your rear, then hop on one foot in a circle.
We’d learned how not to put up a tent when Mr. H wound up in the middle of a green mess.
Now we were making cooking stoves out of empty coffee cans and tuna fish cans. We poked triangular holes around the coffee can base for air vents. Then we made fire starters by rolling narrow strips of ripply cardboard and cramming them into the tuna can, which Mr. Hudson filled with melted wax. As the wax hardened, we stuck a piece of candlewick into the center.
“Buddy burners,” announced Mr. Hudson, lighting his fire starter, then placing the open end of the coffee can upside down over the tuna can. He dropped a dab of butter on the flat top of the coffee can stove. The yellow glob sat there for a moment, then eased into a puddle and started bubbling. “There isn’t a knob for high or simmer,” he said, spreading the butter with a pancake turner.
We crowded closer as he cracked an egg on the coffee can edge, then poured the insides onto the buttered griddle. Snapping and popping, the egg quickly changed from slime to a yellow and white eyeball. “You can try for easy-over,” said Mr. Hudson, flipping the egg with the pancake turner. He winked at us. “It’s in the wrist.” With another flip, he had it on a paper plate and handed it to Peter Monroe.
We started to protest but shut up as Mr. Hudson spooned pancake batter on the stove and we all got a turn at flipping and eating.
Call Me Hope Page 8