My Girl

by Patricia Hermes

  "What's the matter?" I said to Shelly. "You mad or something?"

  "Not mad. But your dad didn't like what I did with Reverend Porter's wife." She sighed. "Mrs. Porter looked like an old schoolmarm, so I highlighted her cheekbones with blush. And her lips, they were too thin, so I made them . . . sensual!"

  "So what's the matter with that?" I asked.

  Shelly sighed again. "Your father said that Mrs. Porter never had sensual lips in her life, so I had to do her over. Then he told me to mind my own business about you. . . ."

  "Me? What about me?"

  But she just shrugged and pulled a candy bar out of her purse and began unwrapping it.

  "Look!" Thomas J said, pointing.

  It was Megan and Lisa coming down the street arm in arm, with Judy trailing along behind.

  Megan and Lisa are the prettiest girls in class—and the meanest. Judy's nice, though. The problem is, Judy's new and she doesn't know better than to hang around with Megan and Lisa. She'd better learn, though, or she'll end up just like them.

  They stopped near the curb by Shelly's camper. "Look, it's Vada and her little boyfriend," Megan said, just loud enough to make sure I heard. "Aren't they sweet, playing basketball together?"

  "He's not my boyfriend," I yelled. "And we're not playing basketball. I'm holding the ball. Can't you tell the difference.

  "I bet she kisses him on the lips!" Lisa said.

  Megan laughed hysterically, like Lisa had said the funniest thing ever.

  I pointed at Thomas J. "Do you think I'd kiss that ugly thing?" I said.

  "Yeah, anyway!" Thomas J said.

  I just gave Thomas J a look. Dummy! Didn't he know he was insulting himself?

  Suddenly he made a face back at me, like he had just figured it out.

  "Let's leave the lovers," Megan said. "We have something better to do anyway."

  "Yeah," Lisa said. "Judy's father owns the new movies, and we get to see all the movies we want—for free!"

  "You want to come sometime?" Judy said, smiling up at me. And she smiled at Thomas J, too. "You can if you want. My dad would let you."

  "Ew! Marcia said. "Don't invite her. She'll have to bring her boyfriend. And he might bring all his little dead moths or something."

  Megan slid her arm through Lisa's again, and then the two of them started down the street. For just a minute Judy stood looking at us; then she hurried after them.

  When they were halfway down the block, I could hear Megan and Lisa chanting this stupid baby song: "Vada and Thomas J sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes TJ in a baby carriage."

  I made a face at their backs. They could at least come up with something original, something that didn't sound like they were in second grade. But it was always the same, had been for years. They were jealous of me and Thomas J being friends, that's all.

  "Want some chocolate?" Shelly said, holding the candy bar out toward me.

  I shook my head no. Those snobs. Jerks.

  "Chocolate?" Shelly said to Thomas J.

  "Can't," he said. "l'm allergic to it."

  "To chocolate?" Shelly said.

  "He's allergic to everything," I said irritably.

  "Vada," Shelly said, "you shouldn't let those girls upset you."

  I thumped the basketball hard. "I'm not upset," I said. "I'd never hang out with those snobs, anyway. I only surround myself with people who are . . ." What? What was Thomas J?

  I didn't know. Except he was my friend. My blood brother. Then why was I suddenly so irritated with him?

  None of us said anything for a while.

  "Pretty ring you're wearing," Shelly said, looking down at my hand.

  "It's a mood ring," I said. "It tells what mood I'm in."

  I looked down at it, too. Uncle Phil brought it back for me when he went to Miami last year. It's supposed to turn colors, from blue to green and gray and black, depending on your mood.

  It stays black on me practically all the time. Like now.

  "It doesn't work," Thomas J said. "It always stays black."

  "It's only black when you're around," I said. "You put me in a bad mood."

  "Maybe black means you're happy?" Shelly said.

  I shrugged. "I don't think so. Shelly, how can I get thirty-five dollars?"

  "What do you need it for?" Shelly asked.

  "She's crazy," Thomas J said. "She wants to go to school over the summer."

  I made a face at him. "It's not real school, it's a writing class. I want to be a writer."

  Thomas J grinned. "She only wants to take it 'cause her sweetie pie's the teacher."

  "Shush up!" I said, and I pushed him, but not really hard.

  "Well, I think you'd be a fine writer," Shelly said. "Maybe someday you'll even write a book like Jacqueline Susann. Did you ask your dad?"

  "He won't give it to me," I said.

  "I gotta go," Thomas J said. "It's lunchtime. I told my mom I'd be home for lunch."

  I got up and began dribbling the basketball across the porch.

  "So go," I said.

  I didn't say, "Don't pee on the hydrant," like I did yesterday. But I thought it just the same.

  And I hoped the snobby girls turned and looked. They'd see Thomas J and I don't spend all our time together.

  I dribbled the ball across the porch the way Uncle Phil said I should, trying not to look at it. I was getting better at it, but it was hard. I wondered if I should try to be a basketball player when I grew up. Maybe I'd be the first girl in the professional leagues. I was learning a lot this summer, mostly from Uncle Phil. He's really good. He says that once he was almost in the pros. And Daddy likes basketball. He watches it all the time on TV.

  I practiced some more, trying to dribble without looking at the ball. I was actually getting pretty good.

  Maybe I'd show Dad. He'd be impressed.

  I opened the front door.

  "You coming, Shelly?" I said over my shoulder.

  "In a minute," she answered.

  I went in the house, still bouncing the ball, still not looking.

  "Hey, Dad?" I yelled.

  No answer.

  I went on through to the back, but no one was there—no Dad, no Uncle Phil, nobody. Just Gramoo, rocking slowly.

  The basement door was open.

  "Dad?" I called down. No answer.

  "Dad, you down there?"

  And then suddenly the ball was gone. It bounced away from me and down the steps.

  Down the steps.

  "Dad!" I yelled. "Dad, are you down there?"

  Still no answer.

  Very slowly I went down the stairs—but not all the way. I stopped, like always, on the bottom step.

  "Dad?" I called softly.

  Dad wasn't there—but somebody was. Well, some body was. On the table. Probably that Mrs. Porter that Shelly had been talking about.

  Oh, gross.

  But I had to get my ball. What to do?

  The body wouldn't hurt me. Dead people were . . . dead. Right?

  I took a deep breath. I looked around, then stepped off the bottom step.

  Then I raced over to the ball, snatched it up, and ran back for the stairs as if the dead were chasing me.

  I ran all the way up, clutching the ball. Safe. The body hadn't moved.

  But when I got to the top, the door was closed! Closed! And I'd left it open. I knew I had.

  I turned the handle and pushed.

  Nothing.

  It was stuck!

  I threw myself against it. But it didn't budge. And my ball rolled away again and down the stairs.

  "Oh, help!" I yelled. "Let me out. Please, help!"

  I looked over my shoulder. From here I couldn't see the body on the table. Had it moved?

  I shoved at the door again, but it wouldn't budge.

  "Help!" I pounded on the door. "Oh, help, help! She's going to get me. Help!"

  I was stuck.

  Sing! Sing! Gramoo
said to sing. It keeps the scary stuff away.

  I rattled the doorknob.

  "Help me!" I shouted. "Oh, please. Help."

  I began singing and crying at the same time. "Oh, help! Doo wah diddy . . . help!"

  I was sobbing. Oh, stupid me. Where was Dad? Gramoo? Uncle Phil? Somebody!

  I pounded on the door again. And suddenly it swung open so fast I almost fell out—out and into Shelly's arms.

  "Shelly!" I cried.

  "Vada!" she said. "What happened?"

  "My ball. I lost my ball!" I was sobbing. "It went downstairs and I got locked in!"

  I turned and kicked the door.

  Shelly put her arms around me. "Come on, sweetheart," she said. "It's okay."

  I pulled away. Gramoo. I wanted Gramoo.

  I ran to Gramoo and practically jumped into her lap. I buried my head in her chest.

  "Gramoo!" I cried.

  Why couldn't I stop crying? This was so dumb!

  "Vada!" Shelly said, coming to me and crouching beside me. "Vada, it's all right. Don't be frightened. You know what my mother used to do when I got scared?"

  I didn't answer. I just hugged Gramoo tighter, still crying.

  But Gramoo didn't hug back. She probably didn't even know I was there.

  I felt like pummeling her with both fists. Listen to me! I wanted to scream. Try! You know I'm here.

  "Listen, Vada," Shelly continued, even though I didn't answer her. "My mother said I should close my eyes and imagine the most beautiful place in the whole world. A place with rainbows and flowers and horses to ride. And she said as long as I was thinking of it, I'd always be safe."

  "Gramoo used to say I should sing," I said, my voice still shaky. "She said it would make me not scared. That's what she said."

  "Well, that too," Shelly said.

  "It didn't work," I said.

  "Try my way, then," Shelly said softly.

  I couldn't. I was too scared to close my eyes. All I'd see would be that body, that dead body. I just kept hiding in Gramoo's chest, but my eyes were open.

  "What were you scared of?" I finally asked.

  "Me? Well, when I was your age, my uncle took me to see The Wizard of Oz. Did you ever see it?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, I was afraid of the Munchkins."

  I sat up and looked at her. "You mean the flying monkeys."

  "No," Shelly said. "The Munchkins. I couldn't sleep at night because I thought they lived under my bed."

  "But the Munchkins are good," I said. "Everybody likes them."

  "I thought they'd get me," Shelly said. "Come on, Vada." She held out her hands to me. "Let go of Gramoo. You're too big to be sitting on her lap."

  I untwisted myself from Gramoo and stood up. Gramoo began to rock again, slowly, slowly.

  I brushed at my jeans. "Were there willow trees in your special place?" I asked.

  "Yes," Shelly said. "I think there were willow trees."

  "Okay." I nodded. I straightened my shirt and jeans. "l'm all right now," I said. "l'm completely recovered."

  CHAPTER VII

  For the rest of that day I hung around in my room, recovering from being scared half to death. And also trying to come up with some method of getting that thirty-five dollars by next Thursday. I knew there was a way, if I could just think one up. I thought of washing dogs and cats, and I thought of walking dogs and cats, and I even thought of baby-sitting babies, even though I don't much like any baby. But even though I thought and thought, nothing came to me, not one single thing that would work in time.

  Finally I had an idea. Not a money idea, but maybe a place to get an idea—Uncle Phil. He has lots of money and is always coming up with schemes to get more. Mostly, they involve women—at least, that's what Dad says—but maybe he'd have an idea that would work for me.

  That night I went downstairs and to the kitchen. Gramoo was there, but no Uncle Phil.

  "Where's Phil?" I asked Gramoo.

  She just rocked and rocked.

  I went over and stood beside her, my hand on her hair, like I had done the other day.

  "How you doing, Gramoo?" I asked.

  No answer.

  "Gramoo?" I said again, "look at me."

  She was bent over, her head down, looking over her knees at her shoes.

  What was she thinking about? Was she lonely in there?

  Since I couldn't see her face, I got down on my hands and knees. That way I could sort of look up into her face.

  For a minute, looking at her from upside down like that, I was almost sure she was looking back at me, knew who I was.

  "You okay?" I whispered. "You hear me?"

  She blinked.

  "You can hear me, can't you?" I said.

  And then she blinked again, and I thought I saw tears in her eyes.

  I touched her face, but her cheek was dry.

  "You okay?" I whispered. "Why won't you talk?"

  I patted her cheek then, gently, over and over. It was soft, more than soft, like flesh without any bones underneath.

  But there was no other sign she had heard me at all. Her eyes seemed just as blank as they'd been for ages.

  I stood up, then patted her hair a little again and brought her a drink of water.

  She took a few sips, like she does sometimes, like water is one thing she notices and cares about.

  After she drank it down, I went out. I closed and locked the door behind me.

  We have to do that—lock Gramoo up at night when there's a viewing going on and in the daytime if there's a funeral, to be sure she doesn't just wander in on people. She did that a few times when she first got weird, and scared people half to death.

  After I had her locked up, I went to the front, to the casket room, still looking for Uncle Phil.

  And there he was, standing in front of an open casket, both hands on the lid, just standing there looking in.

  "Uncle Phil?" I said softly.

  He spun around.

  "Don't scare me like that," he said, a hand on his chest. "You'll give me a heart attack." But he grinned at me.

  I smiled back.

  Uncle Phil is really very good-looking for an old person. He must be at least as old as Dad. He fought in some war somewhere, and he had a steel plate put in his head. Dad says he's never been the same since. I wouldn't know, because he's always been the same to me. One night Uncle Phil said he picked up a radio station from Oklahoma in his teeth. That must have been really neat.

  "Uncle Phil?" I said. "How can I get money?"

  "Work," he said. "work hard, like me."

  "What kind of work?" I said.

  "Do what I do. It's good money."

  I shuddered. I was not working with dead people, that was for sure. And I was too young to be a bartender like him.

  "I don't mean when I grow up," I said. "I mean now, today."

  He waved a hand at me. "Play! Be a kid. Don't worry about work."

  This wasn't helping any. He sounded just like Mr. Bixler.

  And then I had a sudden idea. "Want to play Scrabble?" I said. "We could play for money. I could go get the game?"

  "Not now," Uncle Phil said. "I'm hiding from your dad. He wants me to do some chores. I want to take a nap. Is Gramoo locked up?"

  I nodded. And then I said, "Uncle Phil, is she mad at me?"

  "Gramoo?" Uncle Phil said. "Mad at you?"

  "She doesn't talk to me anymore. Is it my fault she stopped talking to everybody? You know, that she's mad at me or something?"

  "Vada, she's old. She's senile."

  "How long's she going to stay senile for?"

  "Vada, sweetie," Uncle Phil said. "People don't get better from it. You know that. Your dad told you that."

  "But not ever? He didn't say not ever."

  Uncle Phil shook his head. "Not ever."

  He was looking into the casket again.

  Not ever? Ever?

  She'd never rock me and tell me how my mom would have loved me and how
she, Gramoo, loved me more than anything?

  I didn't believe she'd never get better.

  "Uncle Phil," I said. "Remember when Gramoo used to dance with me? I'd stand on her feet and she'd twirl me around and we'd sing and Dad would play his tuba? Remember? That was just a little while ago. You used to dance, too."

  "Still do," he said. "Still do!"

  He was running his hands over the lining inside the casket, like he was feeling the material, deciding if he wanted to buy it.

  It gave me the creeps to watch him do that.

  "Why are you a womanizer?" I asked him.

  "What?" He turned back to me. "Where did you hear that?"

  "Daddy said you are."

  "Well, a little of that might do wonders for your dad."

  "Of what?"

  "You'll find out someday."

  "Is he mad at me?"

  "Who? Your dad? Why would he be mad at you? What's this all about?"

  I just shrugged. I couldn't tell him why I thought Dad was mad at me—not the real reason, anyway. So all I said was "He doesn't talk to me much, either."

  "He's got a lot on his mind," Uncle Phil said. "With Gramoo sick, he's got to do so much now—laundry and cooking and his job and all. Now look, I've got one of my headaches, so be a good girl and let me sleep for a while, okay?" He took off his shoes, laid them gently inside the casket, then put one foot over the side, preparing to climb in.

  "You're sleeping in there?" I said.

  "One of the quietest places in this world," he said, grinning.

  As I watched, he settled into the casket, sliding down, smiling as he nestled his head onto the pink satin pillow.

  I shuddered, but I just said, "Okay. 'Night."

  "Nighty-night," he said, smiling.

  I went out and shut the door behind me. As I turned, I saw him pull the lid halfway down over himself.

  How could he sleep in a casket? Wouldn't he be afraid he'd never wake up? He is too weird.

  I know I would—be afraid of never waking up, that is.

  I went back upstairs, thinking. Uncle Phil was nice, but he was wrong. It was probably just what Dad had said—he hadn't been the same since they put that plate in his head. He didn't understand things. Because it couldn't be that Gramoo would never talk to me again. He was just saying that because he didn't know when she would begin.