“Remember I told you about my old Post-it wall back home?”
When she still looked lost, I continued. “I had a wall with almost a hundred Post-it notes with fun quotes, memories, things I was grateful for, you know.”
“Oh yes,” she said in a small voice, her expression betraying her words.
“Come here.” I grabbed the house in one hand and Miss T in the other and dragged them both down the hallway and into my room. I placed the pop-up house on my desk and opened up my walk-in closet.
I had made the inside of my closet my new and somewhat-sparse Post-it wall. Since I wasn’t quite sure if or where to put a Post-it wall in my new room, I had decided to start in the closest.
“Look!” I said.
Carefully, Miss T entered and positioned herself at arm’s length from the wall. She looked at me for approval before she stepped closer to read. “Oh my,” she said, and giggled when she came across one with her name on it. She read it out loud. “Had another fun day in Dylan’s Porsche with Miss T. “That’s me.” She turned and smiled.
“I know.” I nodded. “And these little yellow guys are Post-its,” I explained.
“I know. I’m not that old.” She took a step back and peeked at the pop-up house on the desk. “So, he made you a house of your favorite paper things,” she said, nodding. “Very romantic, I say.” She winked and faced the Post-its again. “Do you mind?” she asked, pointing at my closet.
“Go ahead. They’re all PG-rated.” I almost blushed, thinking how I had almost made a Post-it about my desire to run my fingers through the tiny curls in the back of Hans’s neck, for starters.
Miss T moved closer to me, trying to read the ones nearest the ceiling. “‘Eating chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven with Mom.’ I guess there must be quite a few of those?” She turned and looked at me with her eyebrows drawn together. “Did you ever have any close friends your own age?”
“Um, a few, I guess. That girl, my cousin Maddie, I told you about and her friends, we were really close, but, um, we moved a lot when I was a kid, you know,” I tried to explain.
Miss T nodded. “I know. I never really had any good friends growing up. We lived a few miles away from school and I used to ride the bus home every day, leaving all the fun, friendships, and afterschool play behind. I had my brothers and my sister, of course, but we never really got along.” She smiled. “I need to sit.” She sat down on the edge of my sofa bed, still glancing at all the colored Post-it notes in my closet. I had about thirty by now.
I sat down next to her. “You know, Miss T, sometimes I think I was born in the wrong century. It’s like ... I never really enjoyed all the stuff all my almost-friends like. I mean, what’s so exiting about hanging around the mall, window shopping, and drinking Gatorade? And when every single girl in my class went to the movies to watch a pair of sexy abs on some teenage boy-turn-half-man-half-wolf; well, I preferred to stay home with Mom and Dad and watch an old movie—with Tom Hanks in it. I’ve probably watched Forrest Gump a thousand times by now.” I looked down at Miss T and smiled. Her eyes were fixed on her lap and she looked tired. “I know a lot of people would probably call me a loner, maybe even a loser, but I guess we can’t all be like Mom, making friends in the frozen aisle at Safeway.”
“Right,” Miss T looked up and smiled. “But you became my friend,” she said, holding her hand up against her bosom.
“But that’s exactly it. I’ve always loved being around older people, or at least, people older than me—like Mom and her friends and Grandma and all of her card-playing friends. Actually, I think it makes perfect sense. I mean, older people have lived so much longer, experienced much more than me. Is there a better way to learn about life than by those who have actually lived it?” I nodded, agreeing with myself.
“Well, maybe it’s also the safe choice. Your Mom, your Grandma, Martha and me, yes, we have a lot of life lessons to share but, besides love and support, we can’t give you what kids your own age can. To make honey, young bee need young flower, not old prune!” She looked up at me and nodded.
“What?”
“It’s what Mr. Miyagi—one of my favorite short actors—says to young handsome Daniel in the Karate Kid, the old version,” she explained like I had never heard about this dinosaur movie. I had. It was, still, on Dad’s top ten list.
“I’ve seen it. Believe me,” I assured her and rolled my eyes thinking about all the times Dad had tricked me or basically bribed me into seeing it with him. Wax on, wax off.
“I’m just saying, maybe going out there in the world,” she said, pointing at the windows, “with people a little less wrinkled, could teach you a lot about life, too.”
“I guess.” I looked up at the skylight window.
Of course, she was right; it was a safe and easy choice, but it was also much more than that. With older people I never had to pretend. I could pretty much be myself and I didn’t have to be or think or act a certain way. But maybe I just hadn’t met the right friends? I closed my eyes and leaned all the way back on the bed. But why did it have to be so hard to make new friends?
“Now what are you going to do about him? I know how much you already like him,” Miss T said, pulling me from my thoughts.
I propped myself up on my elbow and faced her. I nodded and felt my cheeks burning. Geez, just thinking about him makes me blush.
Miss T leaned over and touched my chin. “Happens to me all the time,” she said, smiling. “Rosacea,” she whispered.
“Uh-huh.” I nodded. Maybe it was not all about color control. Maybe thirty-five wasn’t a magic number. Did Mom know?
“What did the note say?”
“That he made it for me so, um, I now have a brand-new house to fill with new memories or something.” I thought about his little weird-looking h’s and couldn’t help smiling. Again.
Miss T kicked off her slippers, got up from the bed, and grabbed the house from my desk. “Maybe,” she said, holding it up to the light. “Maybe he was telling you something else too. See how fragile it is?” she said, blowing at it. “Maybe he was trying to tell you that little pieces of paper are not the strongest foundation to build one’s dreams, hopes, and life on. Maybe he was trying to tell you that it’s about time to get out of the closet, literally speaking.” She nodded in the direction of my Post-it closet. “Or maybe my old English skills are kicking in and I’m overanalyzing it the way I do everything. Maybe it’s just a house.” She looked down at herself and adjusted the housecoat. Then she cleared her throat and looked back up at me. “Ella, don’t be so afraid about meeting new people or making new friends. What’s the worst that could possibly happen? That they won’t like you? It’s not like you know them or anything, right?”
I nodded.
She sat down next to me. “Then there’s nothing to lose. Nothing to be afraid of, right?”
“I guess not.” I was trying really hard to believe her—like I had tried to believe Mom so many times before—but just thinking about it made my legs go all weak. It was always scary. It was still scary. “But that doesn’t make it any easier,” I said, my eyes glued to the floor.
Her voice softened. “I know. I know. Have you ever seen Little Miss Sunshine?” She looked at me from over her glasses.
“Yes.” I smiled. “It’s actually one of my all-time favorite movies.”
“Mine, too,” she said with a cheerful voice, clapping her tiny hands together. “Remember the part where Olive and her Granddad are in that motel room, and the poor little girl’s sitting in her bed with her oversized glasses, feeling so scared about the whole contest? And when he asks her why she’s afraid, she tells him that it’s because she’s so afraid of being a loser?”
I nodded. It was actually my favorite part in the entire movie.
“And do you remember what the old man says to his little girl?”
I nodded, already knowing what was coming next.
Miss T looked up at the ceiling. “He says, ‘You k
now what a loser is? A real loser is somebody who is so afraid of not winning that they don’t even try.’ But you are trying, right? Well, then you are not a loser’.” She lowered her face and looked me straight in the eyes. “Never stop trying, Ella.” She placed her cold little hand on top of mine. “Are you going to meet him?”
“But, but, but... I don’t know where to find him.” I wasn’t just saying that. It was true. I had looked, but there was no address or phone number in the box. Once again, I was stuck with a box with no address on it.
“Well, he found you.” She cocked her head to one side.
“Yes, but how?” I had been so excited about the whole pop-up house that I hadn’t even given it any thought. How in hell had he found me?
“I guess the same way that coffee-slurping Frank found you. Through your Mom.”
I nodded. Of course. It had to be. Again, Mom was making friends for me—without even trying. “They all talked about some upcoming event. He even asked if I was going.”
“What? Where?” Miss T took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.
“When I went to Starbucks. The Pinkalicious-face night,” I explained.
“Oh.” She smiled. “And you said?”
“I don’t remember,” I said, biting down on my lip, “because I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, but I clearly remember he said he hoped to see me there.”
“Where is there?”
“I don’t know. That’s the whole problem,” I said, starting to feel a little panicky. “I don’t know, Miss T. I don’t remember.” I looked at my pop-up house, appearing to be readying itself for takeoff—blowing in the fresh morning air coming in from the windows. “I don’t know. I don’t know,” I said, throwing myself hard onto the bed.
A million meals
“That’s where we’re going.”
“Where?”
“There.” Dad pointed at the TV with the remote in one hand, a piece of bacon in the other. I looked at the screen. A big outdoorsy kind of guy was explaining the difference between a rattlesnake and a python. He was standing in some kind of lab, surrounded by snake tanks.
“What? To a snake lab?”
“No, silly, not there. The Seattle Convention Center. Look.” He grabbed another piece of bacon. “You just missed it, wait.” He pointed with the remote again and backed it up a few seconds.
It was Labor Day weekend and it was raining, not a gentle and warm Indian summer sprinkle kind of rain, but raindrops the size of Starbucks cups making the sound of thunder every time they hit the skylight in the living room.
“Geez,” Mom said, looking out the window.
We were all still in our PJs, trying to figure out whether to stay up or go back to bed. I was voting for the latter.
“Here! There!” Dad said, pointing with both the remote and the bacon this time.
The news guy on TV was interviewing some local environmental guy in white socks and sandals, of course, standing by the riverside near Snoqualmie Falls. They were talking about the consequences of a new oil leak somewhere in the Mexican Gulf.
“Terrible,” Mom said and sat down next to Dad. She looked at the empty plate. “Frank, you didn’t?” She looked at Dad and raised her eyebrow.
“No, Ella did a damn good job, too,” he replied, trying to hide the last piece of evidence somewhere in his mouth.
“One piece, I might add.”
Dad looked at me as if to say, “Thanks for nothing.”
“Frank, it’s not good for you, you know that. That was ten pieces of bacon.”
“Okay, okay.” He stood up. “Enough already about bacon. Shove it and listen.” He pointed at the TV and turned up the volume.
The news guy now stood in front of a big glass building in downtown Seattle, this time interviewing a young man wearing a red t-shirt.
“That’s where we’re going,” Dad said again, puffing out his proud chest.
“What does it say?” Mom said, squinting her eyes. “A million meals?” She looked at Dad for help.
“That’s it!” I shouted. That was where Hans was going: One million meals. “That’s what he was talking about. That’s where he’s going. Yes!” I slumped hard against the coach and made a fist. I had found him. Maybe I would see him again. Maybe. I took a deep breath. Just like clockwork, my heart started pounding with both excitement and anxiety.
“Yeah,” Dad said, looking weird at me, “he just explained that.”
“No, no, not that guy,” I said, pointing at the guy in the red shirt, still going at it. “Hans,” I explained, looking at Mom.
Dad’s eyes shifted with wonder between me and Mom. “Who’s Hans?”
“The other Frank,” Mom explained.
“The right Frank,” I corrected her.
“Frank?” Dad said, pulling his hair, “I thought you said his name was Hans?” He slumped down next to the empty bacon plate, shaking his head.
“Right,” Mom and I said at the same time, giggling.
“Whatever.” Dad shook his head and looked at the news guy, who had moved indoors—covering some local art exhibition in Tukwila.
“Well, count me in! I’m so going.” I looked at Mom and smiled.
“Of course, you are. We are all going, right Frank?”
Dad stood up, eyes and ears still on the news guy, interviewing a woman dressed in a horrifying purple outfit. “Of course, we are,” he said and grabbed the remote. “Let’s go make a million meals.”
We tried humor once. It didn’t work.
If my life had been a movie or reality show, then I’m pretty sure that entering the hall of a thousand volunteers would definitely work as a season finale, the part where the long-lost soldier returns, where Lassie comes home, where justice wins or, in this case, I (the main character, hoping to find the cute German guy) am blown away by all the goodness in the world.
When we first got there, we signed in, got dressed in matching plastic hats and plastic aprons and got in line. Mom and I made fun of how Dad reminded us of our old butcher, Mr. Louis, back in Florida, standing there with his sterile, see-through plastic hat on his head and a plastic apron accentuating his growing belly.
Dad shook his head and looked at us from head to toe. “You two wouldn’t be laughing if you could see yourselves right now.” He was probably right. No one really looks sexy wearing a see-through plastic hat. Well maybe except for the obvious über-pretty people like Heidi Klum or Zac Efron.
Just as we were warming up with some more Butcher Louis jokes, there was a loud cheer.
“What was that?” Dad asked the tall woman standing in front of us.
“Every time we hit ten thousand more meals,” she explained and nodded in the direction of the conference room, “they announce it over the speakers. This was, I think, one hundred and ten thousand meals.”
I looked at the tall woman. She was wearing the red signature shirt just like that guy on the news this morning. It said, “One Million Meals.” I looked at Mom and Butcher Louis and couldn’t help smiling. This was actually the very first time I had volunteered to come. No bribery, no promises of going to McDonald’s afterwards, no extra TV time, and no Mom making hot cookies straight from the oven. I had come along because I wanted to, and it was all because of him, because of Hans. So much for the Mother Teresa in me: I had come along because of a cute German guy.
Another woman wearing a red t-shirt appeared out of nowhere and told us to follow her to our food-packing station. We turned a corner and stepped into a huge conference room full of people, food, and joy. There were two rows with tables and people as far as the eye could see. They were all wearing hats and aprons, measuring and packing food for people who had none. They were giving up a few hours of their lives to save the lives of others. Suddenly, I felt a lump at the back of my throat. I grabbed Mom’s hand.
Mom whispered, “I know,” as she squeezed my hand assuringly. “I know,” she repeated with a tear in her eye.
I nodded. With
out warning, I had been hit, I guess, by the addiction to charity that Mom and Dad had talked about so many times, the beauty of giving back. The mere sight of strangers standing shoulder to shoulder helping people in another part of the world was both breathtaking and heartbreaking.
“I feel it every single time,” she explained.
“Why are we stopping?” Dad asked from behind us. “Come on, you two,” he said, nudging me in the ribs with his elbow. “We’re here to have fun.”
Mom smiled. “Well, at least we’re not old, huh, Ella?”
I smiled. “Well, at least, I’m not.”
“Ha ha ha,” Mom said, sniffling.
We sat down at one of the tables in the back. I was put in charge of labeling food bags, Mom and Dad were in charge of gluing bags together with one of those old-school heating machines that always gets too warm and burns the plastic or stays too cold and doesn’t work at all. As I was labeling the bags, I watched the door, hoping for a familiar face.
I was on my 129th bag (I was actually counting) when he sat down.
Mom looked up and made eyes at me instantly, which, of course, made me blush even more (still no improvement on facial color control).
He smiled as he approached and said, “Hi, Ella.”
I tried to control my enthusiasm, and nerves. “Hi, Hans.” He was here. Mr. square-face-sexy-pants was actually here.
“I hoped you might be here,” he said, flashing those radiant blue eyes from across the table.
I glanced at Mom and Dad. They had both stopped working and stared at us, all ears. I looked back at Hans. “Thanks,” I said. Why did I just say thanks? So lame. How about “me too” or “are you here alone?” or something—something besides “thanks.”
Mom—equally surprised by my brilliant choice of words—looked at me like she was saying, “What the fuck?” (But of course, she wouldn’t say fuck.) I know, I mouthed back, rolling my eyes at her before I returned to folding food bags. Live a little, breathe a little, I reminded myself.
Hans scanned the table with his eyes and said, “Hi, everyone. I’m Hans.”
Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2) Page 16