My Girl

by Patricia Hermes

  I stood up. " 'Ode to Ice Cream,' by Vada Sultenfuss," I said. " 'I like ice cream a whole lot, It tastes good on days that are hot. On a cone or in a dish, this would be my only wish. Vanilla, chocolate, or rocky road, Even with pie à la mode.' "

  I looked up. "That's all I have so far," I said.

  Mr. Bixler said, "Vada, you know, it's sweet and all. Very sweet. But . . ."

  "Sweet," Charles said. "Like ice cream?"

  Mr. Bixler laughed. "No pun intended. But Vada, next time I want you to try to express what's in your soul. Your dreams. Your hopes."

  My hopes? That you'll wait for me to grow up.

  But I sure wasn't going to express that!

  "Yeah," said Ronda. "In poetry you have to tell how you see the world—your fears, your dreams, your innermost secrets."

  "Secrets?" I said.

  "Secrets," Justin said.

  Everybody was looking at me, like they expected me to say a new poem right there on the spot, tell about all my secrets.

  I could feel my face getting hot. Wow. If I had to tell real secrets . . .

  I took Shelly's thirty-five dollars. And worse secrets. Much worse.

  "Only the secrets you want to share," Mr. Bixler said quietly, looking at me like he knew I was worried.

  "In this class, we share only what we can share."

  Whew! I sat down, relieved.

  Good thing, or I'd never be a poet. How could I write about the really big secret? That I'm afraid I might have killed my mother.

  CHAPTER X

  The next morning I spent a lot of time writing a poem for next week's class. And then I had an idea. Dad is always writing death notices to put in the papers when people die. Since I was taking a writing class now, maybe I'd be good enough to help him! He'd be real proud of me if I could do that. But I wasn't going to tell him about taking the class, of course, 'cause then he'd need to know where the money came from.

  I would pay it back.

  I ran downstairs to his little office.

  He wasn't there, but suddenly I heard music coming from the kitchen—not radio music, real music.

  His tuba! I haven't heard him play that since . . . well, since ages ago, when he used to play and Gramoo and me and Uncle Phil would dance and sing. And then I heard him singing, just like he used to. "Harry's wild about me!" he sang.

  Wow! Was Gramoo better? Was she talking?

  I raced down the hall to the kitchen, but stopped short outside. Because the music had stopped, and I could hear Dad and Shelly talking—and they were talking about me!

  First thing I heard was Dad saying, ". . . want to apologize for the other day about Vada."

  About me? What about me?

  There was a silence, and then Dad went on. "I guess I was a little harsh, practically telling you outright to mind your business."

  I crept closer to the door.

  "No," Shelly said, "I shouldn't be sticking my nose into other people's business. It's just that I like Vada so much."

  She does? I like her, too. But what had she done?

  I peeked around the edge of the door.

  Shelly was standing just inside the door, a newspaper in her hand.

  Dad was across the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Gramoo, his tuba in his lap.

  As I watched, he stood up, put the tuba down, and began patting Gramoo's hair.

  But just like always, Gramoo acted like there was no one there at all.

  That didn't stop Dad. He just kept patting and patting.

  "See," he said, looking down at Gramoo, but talking to Shelly over his shoulder. "After my wife died, Gramoo moved in to care for Vada. They were very close. Gramoo was just like a mother to Vada. But lately, as Gramoo's mind is wandering more and more, Vada's changing. She's always thinking she's sick. And . . ."

  Dad's voice trailed off.

  "I think it's just that she's confused about death," Shelly said. "Maybe growing up in a funeral home."

  Dad shook his head. "No, it wasn't until Gramoo got sick that Vada started acting crazy."

  Crazy! I have not been acting crazy.

  And I hated having them talk about me like this.

  But if I coughed or something, they'd be mad at me for eavesdropping.

  "She'll snap out of it," Dad said.

  "She will," Shelly said.

  Who? Grarnoo? Or me?

  Did he mean I wasn't really sick? But I am sick. I mean, I hope he's right, but if my mom died and . . .

  It was just too confusing. Maybe Shelly was right. Maybe I was confused about death, but I didn't think so. It's just that I keep getting sick. And that's not pretend or confused. That's real.

  Dad turned to face Shelly.

  I started to back up farther. I didn't want them to turn around and catch me there.

  "Well," Shelly said after a minute. She wiggled the newspaper. "I was just looking at the movie schedule. I love movies, don't you? There's a revival of Love Story. I saw that, cried my eyes out."

  "I haven't been to a movie since . . ." Dad paused. "In ages," he said softly.

  "Oh, I love movies," Shelly said. "The drive-in, especially. I don't think there's anything more romantic than being at a drive-in in your convertible on a breezy summer evening with that someone special, looking up at the stars." Her voice got dreamy-sounding, like it had the other day when she talked about love stories. "With someone special," she said again.

  There was a long silence.

  Then Dad said, "Someone special."

  Shelly nodded. She took a few steps closer to Dad.

  "You smell good," she said, sniffing. "What are you wearing?"

  Dad just shrugged.

  "Formaldehyde?" he said. They both laughed.

  They just stood there looking at each other then—I mean, really looking at each other, into each other's eyes. And I could tell Dad wasn't thinking about me at all anymore.

  Suddenly I had a scared feeling, because I knew where I'd seen that look before, or one a lot like

  it—on the covers of Shelly's love stories.They seemed to stand there forever.

  Then suddenly Dad turned away from her. He bent and put his tuba back in the case, fiddling with it to get it to fit right.

  "Well," Shelly said finally, "I guess I'll go back to work."

  Dad didn't answer.

  She started for the door, and I fled for the stairs.

  But as I did, I heard Dad say, "But I do like playing bingo. I go every week. You could come with me on my next bingo night. If you'd like."

  She could go? And he'd never let me go, in all the times I've asked!

  "I'd like," Shelly said.

  "It's a deal," Dad said.

  "A date," Shelly said quietly.

  I fled up the stairs. He is so mean! Ask Shelly, but leave his own daughter home! I did not want him going out with Shelly. I mean, I like her and all, but I did not want him liking her—not liking her so much that he wanted to be with her and not me.

  I ran to my room to work on a plan. I couldn't believe he'd let his own daughter stay home, when he let practically a stranger come with him. If he had any heart at all, he'd let me come. But just in case he didn't—either have a heart or let me come—by next bingo night, I'd have a plan to stop this date.

  CHAPTER XI

  It was almost a week till the next bingo, and there was another writing class first. I thought of writing about Dad and Shelly and bingo, but decided no. It wasn't anyone's business, especially if I had to read it out loud. So I finished my poem about ice cream, and added some feelings—how I felt when I was eating ice cream and how I felt when I was finished. Like, cold. And sad because I wanted more.

  I hoped that would satisfy them.

  I got to the college early, but I didn't mill around with any of the people before class. Instead, I went and hid out in the bathroom till class time. I didn't think I wanted to talk to the old people, especially Mrs. Hunsacker. And Ronda seemed nice, but her poem had mad
e me nervous.

  I had a feeling Daddy wouldn't like me doing this too much.

  Finally, when it was time for class to start, I went in and sat down. And that's when Mr. Bixler said, "Why don't we have class outside there under the trees?"

  He pointed to the place just outside the door.

  Wow! Class outside. He never let our class do that.

  So we all trooped outside and sat in a circle on the grass and we took turns reading our poetry.

  People had been busy writing all week. I couldn't believe how many people had written poems. But most of the poems I didn't understand, and the ones I did were pretty boring.

  In fact, the whole class was kind of long and boring.

  My poem had more feelings in it, but when it was my turn, I said I wanted to pass.

  Mrs. Hunsacker had said that, and Mr. Bixler said fine.

  It wasn't that I didn't really want to read. It was just that I was afraid people would start bugging me about how I should reveal more secrets.

  But finally we got to the best part—when it was Mr. Bixler's turn to read.

  I could just listen to him forever.

  "I have something from a famous poet here," he said, smiling. "I'd like to share it with you."

  He leaned against a tree and read softly: " 'A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.' "

  He looked over the class, smiling at us, his eyebrows raised.

  What a smile!

  I definitely hoped he'd wait for me to grow up.

  "What do you think the poet is saying here?" he asked.

  Charles spoke up. He has a very whiny kind of voice. I bet he was the kind of kid who had no friends when he was in school. "Well!" He cleared his throat. "Obviously Keats is saying that everything that is good never dies."

  "No!" Ray said. "He means things die, but not their memory."

  "People die," I said. "I've seen them."

  Mr. Bixler smiled at me. "Yes," he said. "But Keats was exploring what happens after they die."

  "They come to my house," I said.

  Charles laughed and then tried to cover it up with a cough.

  I made a face at him.

  Mrs. Hunsacker raised her hand.

  "Yes?" Mr. Bixler said.

  "It's time to go," Mrs. Hunsacker said.

  "Thank you. But first Ronda and Justin have asked if they could lead the class in group meditation."

  Meditation? What was that?

  Justin was right next to me, and he stood up. "This is really very cool," he said. "Okay, this is what you do—you send out your vibes to the group. Now get into this meditation position."

  He sat down next to me and crossed his legs like he was a Buddha or someone doing breathing exercises on TV.

  It wasn't hard to do, but a lot of people, like Mrs. Hunsacker, couldn't get their legs crossed like that.

  Mrs. Hunsacker had on a skirt, too, so she was having trouble getting it tucked between her legs.

  Finally she gave up and just knelt there like she was in church, praying.

  When everyone was pretty much set, Ronda said, "Now everyone hold hands. You should try to feel what the other person is feeling without speaking any words."

  Everybody took everybody else's hands.

  I wished I'd gotten next to Mr. Bixler. But he had Betty and Ray.

  I had Justin and Ronda.

  I took their hands.

  "Now close your eyes," Ronda said, in that low, breathy voice. "Close your eyes and breathe easily."

  I closed my eyes—after I saw that everyone else did.

  Weird. This was definitely the weirdest class I'd ever been in.

  Justin began talking. "Send out your vibes," he said quietly. "Receive the others' at the same time. Can you all feel it?"

  I didn't feel anything, except that it felt weird sitting there in the middle of a bunch of strangers with my eyes closed. It was a little bit like sleeping on a bus.

  I opened my eyes, and peeked.

  Everybody else's eyes were closed, even Mr. Bixler's. He looked kind of cute with his eyes closed.

  There was a long silence. I kept looking at everybody.

  Mrs. Hunsacker's eyelids were twitching, like she was asleep and dreaming in there.

  "Okay, open your eyes," Ronda said quietly. "But keep on holding hands."

  All the others opened their eyes. I pretended to be blinking at the light.

  Justin's hand was getting sweaty, and he had a hangnail that was rough. I wanted to drop his hand so I could wipe away his sweat, but everyone else was still holding on.

  "What did you feel?" Justin asked nobody in particular.

  Ray said, "I felt Mrs. Hunsacker's strength."

  Strength? Mrs. Hunsacker looked pretty old and weak to me.

  "I felt something," Charles said. "I felt that Ronda is one with the earth. She's so cosmically in tune!"

  What did that mean? I looked at Ronda, wondering if she knew or if she'd be insulted.

  But all she said was, "Right! That's exactly what I sent out. And I felt you were full of peace and inner harmony."

  Charles? Peace? He looked like a nervous wreck.

  Mr. Bixler was smiling at me. "What did you feel, Vada?" he asked. "Anything special?"

  I wanted to say I felt Justin's hangnail. But I knew that wasn't what they meant.

  I just shrugged, and Mr. Bixler winked at me, like he and I had some secret.

  I wondered if he didn't feel anything, either.

  Justin dropped my hand, and everyone else dropped hands, too.

  "Well, Vada," Justin said. "Next time, try to feel something— something significant coming from the person."

  A hangnail is significant, I thought. Gramoo once had a hangnail on her big toe that got infected, and the doctor had to slice it off her. I don't think Gramoo thought it was insignificant.

  But I really knew that wasn't what he meant.

  But I also knew I didn't feel anything. Except a hangnail and a sweaty hand.

  "We'll do it again someday," Ronda said, addressing the whole group. "And don't worry, Vada. You'll catch on. You'll be able to send out and receive other people's messages very soon. It takes a bit of practice for some people, concentration. But it's so worth doing. You can get messages totally without words."

  And that's when I had a terrific thought, something I could do. If it really worked.

  We all collected out notebooks and stuff then and headed home.

  I waited till night, when the whole house was quiet and everybody was asleep. Then I tiptoed down the hall to Gramoo's bedroom.

  With the moonlight coming in the window, I could see Gramoo there in bed, lying flat on her back, her head on the pillow, her arms outside the covers, stiff-looking, almost the way they fix up the dead people.

  Silently I climbed up on the foot of the bed and sat down, my legs crossed in that meditation position. I took Gramoo's hand quietly and sat for a long time, sending her all the messages I'd been wanting to give her for a long time.

  But even though I sat quietly for a very long time, I didn't feel any messages coming back. But if she got mine, well, maybe in the morning she'd know what I was telling her. That I wanted her back. I needed her back with me. I missed her so much.

  CHAPTER XII

  Next morning Gramoo didn't seem much different, even though I watched her closely. But I was busy with other stuff, too, and I didn't have much time to just sit and watch, to see if she had gotten my messages. It was Dad's bingo day. And I had come up with not one, but two plans—plan A and, in case that didn't work, plan B. I called Thomas J and told him to be ready just in case I needed him for backup plan B.

  That night I planted myself right in the middle of the porch steps, so Dad had to practically walk over me to go to bingo. It was almost dark when he finally came out of the house.
r />   He was all dressed up—a nice sports jacket and his good shoes—and he even had on some after-shave stuff that smelled nice, not like formaldehyde from a funeral parlor.

  "Hey, Vada," he said, as he came down the steps. He tipped his head back and looked up at the stars. "Nice night, huh?"

  "How come you're all dressed up just to play bingo?" I said.

  Dad shrugged. "Just want to look nice."

  "How come?" I said. "You never cared before."

  Dad didn't answer. He kept looking at the stars.

  "And you're wearing smelly stuff, too," I said.

  "It's not smelly stuff," Dad said, laughing. "It's Old Spice."

  "Well, how come you're wearing it, then?" I asked.

  "Look, Vada." Dad sighed. "Look, Vada, Shelly's coming over and we're going to bingo together."

  "Shelly?" I pretended to be surprised. "How come?"

  "She likes to play bingo," Dad said.

  I was about to say, She does not, she likes to go to drive-in movies but then he'd know I'd been snooping.

  I stood up. "I'll go with you, then," I said. "Both of us! Okay?"

  Dad shook his head. "No, no, I don't think so," he said.

  "Why not?"

  "Well, it's just . . ."

  "It's not a date, is it?" I said. I made the word "date" sound like something that smelled bad.

  "Not a date, no. Not exactly."

  "Then I can come."

  Dad shook his head and sighed. "Look, Vada, you stay home here with Gramoo, all right? I've told you, this is my one night out. In a week or so the fair will come to town and I'll take you to that. Okay?"

  He didn't wait for my answer.

  He just reached over and kissed the top of my head, then patted my hair. "Umm, smells good," he whispered.

  And then he went down the steps and over to where his car was parked at the curb.

  I was going to yell, So you like her better than me! But I didn't. I had more dignity. And a backup plan, too.

  As I watched, Shelly pulled up in her camper. She got out and waved to me.

  Then she got in the car with Dad.

  I didn't wave back.

  As soon as they were gone, I raced for Thomas J's house and around the back where his room is.