by Shawn Stout
It’s a long walk from Mrs. Watson’s car into Portwaller’s Blessed Home for the Aging. Antler Lady at the front desk is on the phone and nods at the three of us when we come in. I’ve got my big nose sniffing the air for any trace of fried onions to see if it’s followed me from Patsy Cline’s. Because without the charm in my pocket, all sorts of bad things could happen.
“I hope the others come back,” says Patsy Cline as we walk past the front desk.
“Me too,” says Vera Bogg.
I shake my head and think of the butterfly charm. “They won’t,” I say. “Not if the Bad Luck has anything to do with it.”
“I don’t believe in bad luck,” says Vera Bogg.
“Me neither,” says Patsy Cline.
“Then why have all these bad things been happening?” I ask.
Patsy Cline says, “What bad things?”
I tell her about Miss Stunkel and the notes home, and the bump in the road that made me lose Crispy Sticky, and the kids quitting the mural, and my eyelash blowing away. And other things like my brother the alien. And my dad being Graveyard Dead. And losing Favorites.
“She’s got a point,” says Vera Bogg. “That’s a lot of bad stuff.”
Patsy Cline touches my arm and says, “That’s not bad luck. That’s just the way things are.”
“Then what about the awful smell this morning?” I say.
“What smell?”
“The one in your house that smelled like fried onions.”
“Fried onions,” says Patsy Cline. “Mom puts them on top of her meatloaf.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “If there isn’t any bad luck, then there can’t be any good luck. And I want to believe in the Good Luck.”
I hear voices from the activity room, and when me and Patsy Cline and Vera get there, my mouth falls open. Marcus, Alexander, and Birgit are there, already painting. Mr. Rodriguez, too.
“Look at that,” says Patsy Cline, smiling.
I don’t know if she means the mural or that the rest of the group is here, but it doesn’t matter because just look.
Marcus is putting something on the truck that looks like an antenna. Alexander is painting a robot on Jack Be Nimble’s T-shirt. And Birgit is putting the last of the color on a rainbow unicorn that is shooting sparkles out of its horn.
The three of them look up at us, and then just at me. I don’t know what to say, because half of me is still scared about the Bad Luck, and the other half can’t believe that the rest of the kids came back to finish the mural. Even without my charm.
Just then, two old men and one old lady are in the doorway of the activity room and they peek inside. “Would you look at that,” one man says. “There’s a bird in a truck. Now that’s something you don’t see every day.”
“That’s Mother Goose,” says the old lady, nodding.
“Nice ride,” says the other.
Alexander holds up a paintbrush dipped in blue and says, “Penelope, what color do you think this robot should be?”
I’m about to tell him that whatever color he wants is fine by me, but that a blue robot would really be the best. But then I look at the three old people in the doorway. And I know it’s not up to me. The mural is really for them, it’s all for them. So I ask.
They look at one another, the old people do, and finally the lady says how about blue?
Alexander and me smile, and I tell her that’s what I was going to say.
Vera Bogg smiles and says, “They like it. Even if there isn’t any pink.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, Vera Bogg.” Then I unfold a stack of newspapers on the table next to the paint and grab the red and white tubes. I squeeze them onto the newspaper and mix them together with a paintbrush until I start to get that raw hot dog feeling. “Here,” I say to her. “Pink.”
Vera says, “Whoa, baby,” and grabs a paintbrush, cupping one hand under the bristles, so as not to lose one drop of pink.
When the mural is finally finished, Mr. Rodriguez claps his hands and says, “You guys have done a righteous job. All of you. People will start arriving soon for the official unveiling, so just hang tight until then.”
All of a sudden I’m nervous. Stomach sick, tongue-swelling nervous. All that good luck: the kids coming back, finishing the mural in time, the old people liking it (three of them, anyway). With all that good stuff, I just know the Bad Luck can’t be far away.
Patsy Cline and Vera are admiring Little Bo Peep’s sheep, which is now all pink. I tap Patsy Cline on the shoulder. “Do you think your mom called my mom?”
“She said she was going to,” she says. “I’m sure she did.”
“Okay.”
“What more good luck do you need for today, anyway?” she asks me. “The mural is already done, and it looks dandy.”
I want to tell her about Nila Wister for real, about what she asked me to help her do. But I know I’m not supposed to tell, that this is something that has to stay between Favorites. And I wonder if being Nila’s Favorite is going to be harder than I thought. Because right now, getting Nila Wister out of here feels like a job for a muscleman, someone who is used to lifting the world over his head. And Favorite or not, I can’t lift much more than a paintbrush. Especially without my charm.
19.
People arrive with a chocolate cake and red punch, and Mr. Rodriguez is busy directing them where to put it. Patsy Cline and Vera Bogg are back to talking about the mural again, and when Vera says she doesn’t know why the farmer’s wife would cut off the tails of the Three Blind Mice anyway and isn’t that cruel, I slip away.
I head for the front desk because maybe Antler Lady will let me use the phone. “Excuse me,” I say to her. “I need to call my mom.”
She tucks one side of her angel-winged hair behind her ear and that’s when I notice she’s got a name tag on her chest that says ARLENE. With those antlers, I think she looks more like a Tina, but I decide to keep that to myself.
“Of course,” says Arlene. She pushes the phone closer to me and says, “There you are.”
Mom doesn’t answer. I hang up and tell Arlene I need to try another number. Maybe Patsy Cline’s mom can tell me if she talked to my mom and told her to bring the butterfly in my pants pocket in the Heap in my closet over here, pronto. But before I can do that, Grandpa Felix is here to take our picture.
“There’s the artist,” he says. Only he says it funny like he’s from somewhere else other than Portwaller. He holds up his camera bag. “Are you ready for your close-up?”
I shrug.
“What’s wrong?” he says. “Nerves got you?”
I tell him that my nerves have got me bad, and he says, “I’d be worried if they didn’t. This is a big day.”
But he has no idea how big.
Then Grandpa Felix takes one of the cameras he’s got around his neck and hands it over to me. “Here you go.”
“What for?”
“I promised the next time you could take a picture, didn’t I?” he says, winking at me.
I throw my arms around his middle and squeeze. Partly because I’m excited to finally take a picture, but mostly because I need something to hold tight to. Grandpa has to pry my arms loose, and when he does, I lead him to the activity room, where I tell Mr. Rodriguez that my grandpa is here to take our picture. Mr. Rodriguez smiles big and then waves his arms to herd us together. The next thing I know, we’re all standing in front of the mural smiling and saying, “Beans.”
By this time the nurses are wheeling the old people into the room, and some are walking on their own. I have to go see about Nila Wister, because this is when I’m supposed to get away. But when I turn around to leave, I run straight into my mom and Terrible.
“Did you bring it?” I say.
Mom says, “Mrs. Watson called me about some butterfly charm?”
I hold my hands out. “Where? Where is it?”
“I don’t know, Penelope,” she says. “I couldn’t find it.” Then she tells me it wasn’t in my pants pocket, wasn’t in the pile of clothes that was supposed to have been picked up either, Missy. And not in my closet, which is a giant mess. Sorry, she says. And by the way, no more anything until that closet is clean.
I don’t know how she can think of clean closets at a time like this.
Terrible looks at the mural. “How’d that giant bird get a driver’s license, anyway?”
I shake my head at him and say, “I have to do something.”
Up until now, me helping Nila escape was as real as Mother Goose driving a truck, as real as unicorns with sparkles, as real as aliens on Jupiter: not very. But now that it’s here, I just don’t know. I want to find a corner to hide in and tell the Bad Luck to come find me once and for all. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to do this.
On the way to Nila’s room, I find a small corner behind a fern in the hallway, and I squat there and wait. “Here I am,” I say to the Bad Luck. “It’s me, Penelope Crumb. Come find me because I can’t take your sneak attacks.”
I don’t know how long I’m here, but the Bad Luck doesn’t show up. Nila Wister does. She tells the nurse who’s pushing her chair to leave her here, that she’s going to visit awhile here with her new friend. Which I think is me.
After the nurse leaves, Nila says, “What in the name of Pete are you doing back there?” And before I can answer, she says, “I’ve been waiting for you. Come on. We’ve got to get moving.” She points down the hall. “This way. I need to get some things from my room.”
I get to my feet and before I have the chance to think, I’m pushing her, and we’re going.
“I was beginning to think you’re the kind of girlie who says one thing and does another,” she says to me.
“I don’t know what kind of girlie I am exactly.”
“You are the kind that’s going to help me get out of here,” she says.
When we get to her room, she tells me to fetch her bag from the closet. Then she points to the dresser and has me open the drawers and stuff all her clothes into the bag. She doesn’t have much, nothing like the Heap, and even though I’m stuffing as fast as I can, she’s telling me to hurry up about it.
Grandpa’s camera swings around my neck as I empty her drawers. “You don’t have to be so bossy,” I tell her. When I’m done, she leans down over the bag and pulls the zipper closed.
“There’s something about the sound of a zipper,” she says. And she’s smiling.
“You have teeth,” I say. “I’ve never seen them before.”
She taps them with her fingernail and then clicks them together. “And they’re all mine, too. No falsies.”
“I want to take your picture,” I say, holding Grandpa’s camera up to my eye. “So I can remember you.”
Nila rubs her hands together. “All right, but make it quick.”
She looks up at me, and I tell her to say “beans.” When she does, I snap her picture. “Okay, now one more just in case.”
“What?”
“A good photographer always takes more than one,” I tell her. “That’s what Grandpa Felix does.”
She tells me to be quick now, and I take another. And when I look at Nila through the camera’s viewfinder this time, she looks so fragile. Like her bones are made of butterfly glass.
“Do you want to take one of me?” I say. “I can mail it to you.”
“What for?” she says.
“Because I’m your Favorite,” I say. “And so you can remember what I look like when you’re back home in Coney Island.”
I shove the camera at her and then I turn my head to the side and smile. So she has a good view of my big nose. Which is my favorite feature. After two clicks, she hands the camera back to me and says, “Now let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”
I lift the bag onto the back of her chair, and hang the strap across the handles. Then I grip the back of her wheelchair and we go. Every time a nurse passes us by, I stop, worried that we’re going to get caught.
“Just act like we aren’t doing anything wrong,” she tells me.
“Are we doing something wrong?” I whisper.
“No. We. Are. Not.” But then she says, “It depends on who you ask. Another person might have a different opinion on the matter.”
All of a sudden, I want to know if fourth graders can go to prison. The Fortune Lady must be able to read my brain thoughts because she says, “And you’re not going to jail. My goodness, it’s not like we’re robbing a bank or anything. Besides, you’ve got your charm. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”
“I have to tell you something,” I say, stopping once again.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t have the butterfly charm with me.”
“Don’t tell me you lost it,” she says.
“No, it’s at home in the Heap,” I say. “I think it is, anyway.”
“Big mistake,” she says, shaking her head. And then says that she doesn’t know what a Heap is but it sounds like a place where things go to get buried. “No matter, I’ve got mine, so that should keep the good luck on my side.”
But she doesn’t say what it will do for my side. And when I tell her that, Nila Wister says, “Luck will find you.” Then she points her old finger toward the other end of the hall. “Now we’ve got to go.”
I push her past the nurses’ station toward the activity room. I smile at the busy nurses and put a look on my face that says, Don’t Worry, She’s Just Going for a Walk and Not Leaving Forever. It works, because nobody stops us and asks me where I’m taking her.
“Now wait here for a minute,” Nila Wister tells me. “We have to make sure the busybody who sits out front isn’t there. You go check.”
“Arlene,” I say.
“Who?”
“The busybody,” I say. “She let me use the phone.” I tiptoe around the corner. Nobody is at the desk, and the path to the front door is clear. “She’s not there,” I tell Nila when I get back to her.
“Good,” she says. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t you want to say good-bye to anybody?” I ask.
She’s quick to say no. “Nobody here will even know I’m gone.”
And I know what she means. I push her past the activity room, past the crowd, past the mural, past my mom and Grandpa Felix and Terrible, who don’t look like they’re missing me at all.
“Fast now,” says Nila. She’s pointing toward the front door. “Go, girl, go!”
I start to run. Here we go, and pretty soon me and Nila Wister are speeding toward the door. The door is an automatic, so I slow my legs until it opens for us. “Don’t slow down!” she yells.
“Stop bossing,” I say again, and I steer her through the open door and out onto the street.
My heart is pounding in my chest, and I don’t know if it’s from pushing this wheelchair or because we just made it outside and now what?
Nila cranes her neck around to look at the door. “We’re out, we’re out. And nobody saw us.” Then she gives out a little whoop. “Don’t stop now,” she says. “Get me to the bus stop down the block.”
“My arms are tired.”
She tells me I’m young and that she hardly weighs more than a loaf of bread. I get her going again, and the farther we get from Portwaller’s Blessed Home for the Aging, the more I can feel the Bad Luck around the corner. “I don’t know about this,” I say.
Nila leans forward in her chair. “Come on, come on.”
The cars on the street blow past us as I try to slow my heart. I look behind to see if anybody’s coming after us. And truth be told, I wish someone would. But nobody does, and even with Nila, my new Favorite, right here with me, I can’t help but feel really very alone. “Wh
ere are you going to go?” I say.
“I told you,” says Nila. “Home. Can’t you push me any faster?”
“Coney Island?”
“Home,” she says.
“But what for?”
“My life,” she tells me.
I stop. And that’s when I remember. “Your posters, Nila! Did you forget them?”
Nila doesn’t say anything for a long while and then holds on to her acorn charm and whispers something I can’t hear.
“Nila?”
She sighs and says, “It’s all right. Leave them.”
“But they’re your life,” I remind her. “You said so.” I look behind us, down the street. “We’re so close. I can go back.” And I don’t wait for her to tell me no, because I know Nila wants those posters, I know it, and I wouldn’t be much of a Favorite if I didn’t go get them.
20.
When I take off running, I can hear Nila Wister shout at me, “Big mistake!” But I keep going. Fast. Because when you don’t have your charm in your pocket, the only thing you can do is try to outrun the Bad Luck.
I run past slow people on the sidewalk, weaving in between them, and I dart around a lady with a stroller and then a dog walker. I’m nearly flattened by the stroller and eaten by a pack of poodles, but somehow I make it back to Portwaller’s Blessed alive, thank lucky stars.
I stop to get my breath at the front door, but I don’t stand still for too long. And then after I put a look on my face that says, I Definitely Did Not Just Help an Old Lady Escape, I go inside.
A crowd of people are gathered around Arlene’s desk and they all stare at me when I come in. “I didn’t do anything,” I say, trying to act all normal and not like I just stole an old lady in a wheelchair.
“That’s her,” says Arlene to one of the men in the crowd. And she’s pointing at me.
I want to say it’s not polite to point and then go about my business, but then Mom and Terrible and Grandpa Felix are here and they ask me where I’ve been.
“Outside,” I say.
“You are so in trouble,” says Terrible.
I guess our crowd starts to get noticed, because the next thing I know, Patsy Cline and Vera Bogg and Mr. Rodriguez are here, too. And Patsy Cline says, “What’s all the fuss?”