My heart began to beat fast. I’d never heard of Jack Whippie, but if she had married him, that would have made her Mildred Whippie. Mrs. Mildred Whippie.
Could it be?
I pulled Mrs. Whippie’s latest letter from my skirt pocket and flipped the envelope over so I could examine the postmark, which I never really noticed.
It read: Dandelion Hollow, California.
30
WILL THE REAL MRS. WHIPPIE PLEASE STAND UP?
Dandelion Hollow. Not San Francisco.
How was that possible? I always mailed my letters to the PO Box Mrs. Whippie gave me. But if the postmark said Dandelion Hollow, that would have to mean Mrs. Whippie mailed her letters from town.
As Dad and I silently drove home from the auction, I hooked the cupcake charm on my bracelet and remembered something I’d overheard not too long ago:
“We all miss someone.”
“Oh, Milly, I know. I know we do.”
“It looks like Mom’s light is out,” Dad said when we got home. “Maybe you could talk to her tomorrow.”
“Sure, Dad,” I said as I headed slowly up the staircase. “Tomorrow.”
In the gap underneath Aunt Mildred’s closed door a small strip of light spilled into the hallway. I knocked.
“Come in,” Aunt Mildred said.
I opened the door and stepped inside. Aunt Mildred was sitting at a wooden desk, brushing her hair.
“Izzy, I am so glad you came to visit. . . .” She stopped abruptly when she saw the letter in my hand.
I looked around. My old room looked really different now. Cream-colored curtains framed the window. Teacups and porcelain jewelry boxes decorated the bookshelves and dresser. Colorful scarves were tacked to the walls. A pale pink throw rug was draped across a small couch.
And in the air hung the scent of roses and cream.
“Your room smells like my letters,” I said. Aunt Mildred opened her mouth to speak, but I rushed on, “I heard something interesting a while back. I heard you and Grandma Bertie talking about someone you missed.” I held up my wrist, and shook it, and the charms on my bracelet clinked together. “You were talking about Jack Whippie, weren’t you?”
Aunt Mildred put down her hairbrush and stood up. “I wondered when you’d figure that out.”
“You’re Mrs. Whippie? You run the charm school?”
“There is no charm school . . . Not for anyone else but you and your friends, anyway.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Do Mom and Dad know about this?”
“No.” She gestured to the couch. “Come and sit . . . Now,” she added, in her usual cranky tone, when I didn’t move right away. “I’ll tell you everything, but it’ll take a while.”
“I heard your parents talking one day about doing something unusual to get you to change your behavior,” she began after we had both settled on the couch. “Janine mentioned a charm school, which, if you ask me, was a load of horse rubbish. I didn’t think you’d appreciate some prissy-fissy school telling you how to hold a teacup or how to make polite conversation. What’s the point in all that nonsense? You may not believe me, Izzy, but you remind me a lot of me when I was your age. You think it’s hard being compared to Carolyn? Try having a twin sister who can charm the pants—excuse the expression—off of everything and everyone. Anyways, I saw how things were going for you, and I guess I thought maybe I could help somehow. After I saw that new store—Charming Trinkets—I came up with the idea for a different kind of charm school. I made up a flier and put it in the mailbox—your Mom was too busy to look too much into it, and I used my old PO Box from San Francisco. I had your letters forwarded from there back to Dandelion Hollow.”
“But why did you use a bracelet and charms?” I asked. “That’s kind of odd.”
In answer, Aunt Mildred reached over and picked up a pink-and-white porcelain box from the dresser and handed it to me. “Open it,” she said.
“But—”
“Just open it. Trust me.”
I lifted the lid. Inside was a charm bracelet, but it was unlike any I’d ever seen. A gold chain, vintage-looking, hosting more charms than I’d ever seen on one bracelet. A tiny passport, an ice skate, a small book, an apple, a teapot, a watering can, a miniature Eiffel Tower.
I looked up. “I don’t understand.”
“Jack Whippie was my high school beau—it’s an old-fashioned word, it means boyfriend. He asked me to marry him, and I said yes.” Aunt Mildred stared distantly at the scarf on the wall, lost, I think, in a different time. “We married in secret, on my eighteenth birthday, at the courthouse. I didn’t think my parents would approve—Jack wasn’t from a respectable family. That’s one of my greatest regrets: that I didn’t even tell your grandma about it. She wasn’t there to stand next to me on my wedding day.
“Jack didn’t have money for diamonds, so instead of a ring, he gave me this charm bracelet. Of course, at the time, it was just a chain with a tiny book charm. He said that our life together was going to be like the best stories: adventurous and full of daring. He said every new place we traveled to, every new thing we did, we’d add a charm to my bracelet. I wish you could have seen him, Izzy,” she said, and her voice cracked. “How young and handsome he looked that day.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, after the ceremony, we went our separate ways. Jack was going to tell his parents; I was going to tell mine—we thought it was best that way. Jack left right away—he wanted to drive me home, but I chose to walk instead. I knew what a fight I was gonna have with my parents, and I wanted to enjoy the spring rain.”
Aunt Mildred winced, and her eyes became glassy. “Less than a block from the courthouse, a car ran a red light, right as Jack was driving through the intersection. In my nightmares, sometimes I still hear the sounds of screeching tires and shattering glass.” She looked down. “Jack was killed instantly—the doctors said he probably never knew what hit him. I was in shock after that. I don’t remember a lot from those days, but right after the funeral the county clerk pulled me aside and asked me if I wanted him to tear up our marriage license. He hadn’t filed it yet—but he knew my parents, and under the circumstances, he thought it was better that way. I was an eighteen-year-old widow with no one to talk to, so I said yes.”
She blinked, and a tear ran down her cheek. “No one ever knew that for less than one hour, Jack Whippie was my husband, not my boyfriend. I finally told your grandma one night, when I couldn’t stop crying. I showed her my bracelet and told her everything. She knew I didn’t like small-town life, and she told me I should still do it all, everything Jack and I had talked about, just on my own. ‘Go out and earn those charms,’ she said.
“A week later, she showed me an advertisement in the newspaper. They were looking for Americans to teach English in Europe. You didn’t need any experience. You just needed a high school diploma and a willingness to travel. I had both, and by then I knew I needed to leave. So I did. First to San Francisco to get some training, then to France. On my first weekend in Paris, I set out to find a jewelry shop to purchase my first charm.” She tapped the miniature Eiffel Tower on her bracelet. “After that, I was hooked. Every new thing I did, every new place I traveled, I bought a charm—I have so many now I can’t even keep them all on the chain.”
“But time passed, and I began to miss Bertie. Nearly forty years of traveling, and I knew it was time to come home. I guess when I saw what your grandma has—a lovely family—it made me remember again what I lost when Jack died, and I’ve been pretty bitter about it. Your parents are saints for putting up with me.”
She looked at me and sighed. “Writing those letters gave me a chance to be someone else for a while, instead of cranky old Aunt Mildred.” She smiled mischievously. “And I can’t say it hasn’t been a laugh, watching everyone in town get so worked up over the Star Bandit—when she’s been right here the whole time.”
“You knew?” I said.
Aunt Mildred rolled her eyes. “You sent your letter
s to me, remember? I may be old, but I’m not brain-dead.” She patted my wrist. “The memories and the friends you make, Izzy, that’s a prize unlike any other, because they’re yours alone. It’s your life, your story, and no one else’s.”
I stared at my own bracelet—at the tiny jukebox, paint palette, cupcake, envelope, and treasure box—and wondered what my story would look like, if I kept adding to it, charm by charm. When I was as old as Aunt Mildred, would I care that some rotten kids at school used to call me Toad Girl? I bet I wouldn’t—but maybe one day I’d buy myself a tiny toad charm, because I wouldn’t want to forget it either. Maybe I’d even buy a star charm, to remind myself that once upon a time I was the Star Bandit, and for a short time, the whole town was talking about me.
Aunt Mildred held out her bracelet. “This is the most valuable thing I own. It represents the life I’ve lived these last forty years. But it’s too heavy for my wrist now; I haven’t put any charms on it in a long time. I suppose I’m too old for adventures, and since I don’t have any children of my own, well . . . I’d like you to have it. I’d planned to give it to you after your last task, but I guess now is as good a time as any.”
I looked at the bracelet, all golden and colorful; it was making a musical, tinkling sound as the charms clinked together in Aunt Mildred’s trembling hands.
But if the bracelet was the story of her life, it seemed wrong for me to take it. After all, her story wasn’t over yet. Aunt Mildred was still alive.
“I don’t think you’re too old for adventures, Aunt Mildred. I think you should keep it.”
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. She settled the bracelet back in the porcelain box and stood up. “I have something else for you.” She removed a tiny silver box from her desk and handed it to me.
Inside the box, a small butterfly charm rested on pale pink velvet. The wings were golden and plated with shiny blue and green abalone shell and speckled with tiny rhinestones.
“Wow, Aunt Mildred. Of all the charms you’ve given me, I think this is the prettiest. What do I need to do to earn it?”
Aunt Mildred shook her head. “Nothing. This one is to help you remember.”
“Remember what?”
“The butterfly is one of God’s most beautiful creatures. But for the first half of its life, that butterfly inches along as a clunky caterpillar, moving slower than all the others, never knowing that one day, things will change. They will change. I know starting middle school hasn’t been easy, but you just keep being yourself and making memories—building a good story—and one day you’re gonna wake up and realize you’ve changed, and instead of inching along, you’ve sprouted wings, and you’re flying, soaring higher than you ever thought you could.”
She ran her finger over the tiny golden wings and continued, “I know Janine said some terrible things tonight, but I’ll tell you something right now: Just because your mother has trouble fitting into her own skin doesn’t mean you need to feel uncomfortable in yours. Things will change in that department too. You may not believe this, but your mother used to drive Bertha crazy. In the letters your grandma wrote me, it was always full of the things Janine did to irritate her. But one day the two of them woke up and realized they loved each other to pieces, and they weren’t strangers anymore. I believe that will happen for you and your mom too someday. Until then, you’re just going to have to be patient and accept her as she is.”
“But I’m not the patient kind,” I argued. “Generally speaking, me and patience aren’t on speaking terms.”
“Well, Lord in heaven, Izzy,” Aunt Mildred said, rolling her eyes again, “none of the spunky ones ever are. But what other choice do we have?”
31
LUNCH?
“Wake up, sleepyhead! Or should I say: Wake up, sleepy Star Bandit!”
I rolled over in bed and blinked at Carolyn, who was already dressed for the day. “Five minutes,” I said, and closed my eyes.
“Nope, not in five minutes. Now. Dad says he and Bozo are pulling out of here in an hour, so you might want to get your lazy behind out of bed sometime this century.”
Carolyn began to sing at the top of her lungs—some song in Italian she knows I hate—and I couldn’t drown her out, not even when I buried my head under my pillow.
Most days, I think my sister is amazing. But times like these, when she takes it upon herself to become my own personal operatic alarm clock, I wish I had a roll of duct tape to shut her up. I settled for throwing my teddy bear at her.
“Missed!” she said, and kept singing.
“All right, all right. Zip it.” I sat up. “I need to talk to Mom anyways before we all leave.”
“Um . . .” Carolyn’s eyes shifted away, and I could tell she knew all about our big fight last night. “She already left.”
“She left?”
“Yeah.” Carolyn nodded apologetically. “She said she wanted to be the first to set up her booth, so she, Grandma Bertie, and Aunt Mildred left an hour ago.”
“Oh.” I lay back down. I’d figured after such a terrible fight last night she’d want to make up, or punish me, or talk to me, at least. But Pumpkin Palooza was a pretty big day for her campaign; I guess she didn’t want to waste any of it.
“So . . . you know I’m the Star Bandit?” I asked, staring up at the ceiling.
Carolyn nodded. “Impressive. You are a not-so-evil genius, and I love it.”
“Sure. But you know what everyone’s going to be saying today: Gosh that odd Izzy Malone. I knew there was something not quite right about her. She’s nothing like her sister, Carolyn.”
We were silent until Carolyn took off her jacket and said, “Move over.” She stretched out on the bed next to me. “Mom didn’t mean it,” she said softly.
“She meant it a little bit.” We stared at the ceiling together until I said, “Do you know how much easier my life would be if you weren’t so wonderful all the time?”
Carolyn thought about that for a second. “Would your life be easier if I was a juvenile delinquent?”
“Yes. Yes, it would,” I said. “Can you get on that?”
“Sure—I’ll add it to my to-do list. In fact, I think I have an opening after my guitar lesson today. Become a juvenile delinquent, check.” She paused, and added, “People think I’m odd too, you know. I told some girls at school that I practiced on the piano two hours every morning and they looked at me like I was the biggest dork they’d ever seen.”
I laughed. “Did you tell them how you practice?”
Every morning at precisely five a.m., Carolyn wakes up, sticks in her earbuds, and cranks her iPod with classical music. Then she places her fingers one inch above the piano and plays silently, her fingers never actually touching the keys, so she won’t wake up anyone in the house.
“Hey.” Carolyn pointed up at a pattern on the ceiling. “I think I see Italy.”
“That’s not Italy. That’s a boot.”
“Duh. Have you ever even looked at a map of Europe? That’s exactly what Italy looks like.” She sat up. “I have to get going, but I’ll head over to the festival after my lessons are over.” She smiled. “I can’t wait to watch you race.”
After I got ready for the day I went out to the backyard. Austin and Mr. Jackson were already there with Dad, who was holding a tape measure and smiling proudly. Bozo was officially the biggest pumpkin he’d ever grown. Dad had to rent a forklift to get him onto Mr. Jackson’s huge flatbed truck.
I felt weird that Austin had been standing in my backyard while I changed and brushed my teeth, so I ignored him and turned to talk to his dad.
“Hi, Mr. Jackson.”
“Hello, Izzy. Are you ready for the regatta?”
“Absolutely, sir. I’ve been working out on Dad’s rowing machine every day.”
“Have you ever raced a giant pumpkin before?”
“No, but there’s a first time for everything.”
Mr. Jackson grinned. “I suppose there is. Just promise me you’ll b
eat Mike Harrison.”
“Amen to that,” Dad said. “Every single time I walk into the hardware store, he goes on and on and on. . . .”
Once the truck was loaded up and ready to go, Dad drove it slowly through town with Mr. Jackson riding in the passenger seat, while Austin and I waved from either side of Bozo in the back. The day was overcast and brisk—scarf and caramel apple cider weather—and the sidewalks were filled with people on their way to Pumpkin Palooza. Men doffed their hats, and children riding on their father’s shoulders waved as we passed them.
Pumpkins, pimply squashes, and scarecrows on hay bales lined the long driveway up to Caulfield Farm. A special staging area had been set up for everyone participating in the regatta. Dad stopped at a line of trucks—each of them with a large pumpkin in the back—and shut off the car. At the front of the line sat a forklift and a gigantic scale. Each pumpkin had to be weighed before it could be hollowed out and turned into a boat. The trick was to grow a pumpkin large enough you could sit in, but not so huge it would be too clunky to row.
Daisy was standing in front of the scale, writing down the name and weight of each pumpkin. She waved when she saw me.
“How’s the competition looking?” I asked.
“Fierce,” she answered, then made a face. “Grandma liked your dad’s ideas, so now I’m grounded for a month too.”
“Misery loves company,” Dad said, coming up behind her. He handed me and Austin some change. “Why don’t you two see if you can’t find us all some coffee and donuts while we wait?”
Austin and I left the staging area. It was still early, and all over the farm volunteers were running around getting things ready before the festival officially started. I heard a few whispers as we walked, and I was pretty sure I heard someone say, “Right there, Stan. That’s her. That’s the Star Bandit.”
I think Austin heard too, because he said, “You could have told me you were the Star Bandit, you know.”
The Charming Life of Izzy Malone Page 14