by Cari Best
“Show me how to do the cha-cha,” he said.
So Shirley did. “One, two, cha-cha-cha,” she whispered, just loud enough, stepping forward with her right foot, backward with her left, and then three steps together with both feet.
Surprisingly, Barry got the hang of it right away and kept coming back for more whenever Mr. Hoffmann played a cha-cha like Ricky Nelson’s “Travelin’ Man” or “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini.”
But Shirley would never forget the slow dance she had with Maury to “Will You Love Me Tomorrow,” a song performed by an all-girl band that Mr. Hoffmann played at the end. Her left cheek against Maury’s right cheek, her right hand in his left hand, her left hand on his right shoulder—just like Shirley had imagined it would be when she’d first heard there would be a prom.
“Tonight you’re mine, completely. You give your love, so sweetly,” Shirley sang with the record—in her head. She didn’t know if you were supposed to talk when you slow-danced, so she didn’t.
But Maury did. “This is what Beryl Abbie would say right now: ‘Slowly but surely’”—surely said like Shirley instead of like “shoe-r-ly”—“‘they danced at the prom on the very last day of sixth grade.’”
Shirley laughed, first because she couldn’t help it and second because she was happy. Especially when her eye caught Barry slow-dancing with Marcy Bronson. Shirley thought it didn’t matter who had asked whom.
Just before it was time to go home, all the teachers lined up to sing a made-up song like a quadruple barbershop quartet, swaying to the highs and lows of Mr. Hoffmann’s recorder:
Down the road from A-lex-and-er’s
Where the shopping lies,
Don’t forget P.S. 606
When you’re in junior high.
Then Mr. Hoffmann took the recorder away from his mouth and sang “Quuueeens” all by himself.
Everyone clapped and laughed, and some kids even cried as they wished each other great summers and exchanged addresses.
Shirley knew she would miss the friends she’d made—friends she might never see again, like Barry-the-Brain and Benny, but hopefully not Edie. She would probably even miss Mr. Merrill.
She heard him say, “Good luck, kid,” as she filed out the door for the last time.
Shirley looked in the direction of the voice. “Thanks,” she said.
What could be the reason for Mr. Merrill in my life? Shirley asked herself as she walked. Then she knew: To make me stronger with words. With my voice.
* * *
“You can’t dance at two veddings with one behind anyvay, so it’s a good thing you’re not going to camp this year,” Grandma said when Shirley told her about Mrs. Greif’s French club during the summer.
Shirley laughed and went on, “We’re going to learn about the Louvre and the Palace of Versailles, read The Little Prince from beginning to end in English and in French, and learn to bake buttery French pastries and crusty pain” (French for “bread”—say a very clipped “pa,” as in pat, with just a hint of an n). Shirley hugged Grandma. “Which reminds me,” she said, gently breaking the embrace to find her French dictionary. “The word for hug in French is not easy to say: it is étreinte—say: ‘long a-trant.’”
* * *
Late that afternoon, Shirley walked to the bus stop to meet Anna on her way home from work, determined to tell her everything about her plans for the summer.
But first Anna asked, “Did you have a great time at the prom?”
Shirley had to answer. “Really great!” she said, with a few carefully chosen details thrown in, before she got to the heart of the matter. As they walked arm in arm toward the apartment, Shirley said, “Only losers go to day camp when they are twelve years old, like I will be when Breezy Bay starts in July, and I am not a loser.”
“Who said you were a loser?” asked Anna.
“A loser can be implied,” said Shirley. “It’s how a person feels about herself. I am not going. And that’s the end of that.”
“Who died and left you boss?” asked Anna without alluding to anything specific.
But Shirley said, “You know who died,” giving Anna a chance to finally address the big dead issue that stood between them.
But, of course, Anna didn’t. She looked quickly at Shirley and then she looked away.
Anna thinks that I could not possibly know about my father being dead, thought Shirley. Come on, Anna, don’t be afraid. I can handle it. I have handled it. Be a big girl. Just say it: your father is dead.
But Anna didn’t.
Instead she said, “If you think you can loiter on the streets of Queens all summer, my darling daughter, when I am far away in Manhattan, then you have another think coming.”
But Shirley was prepared. “I will not be loitering. I am going to help Mrs. Greif start a French club, assist Luke with the maintenance of Sparrowood Gardens, walk Mustard while Mr. Bickerstaff is at work, and watch Markie when Mrs. Goodman needs to catch up with herself or her laundry or window washing or dirty dishes, since there will no longer be a Hal on Sundays to give me my allowance. I will earn the money myself, like Phillie does.”
Anna looked at Shirley and this time, she did not look away.
Shirley slowly counted to six to deliver the penultimate pièce de résistance while she had a rapt audience in Anna: “And I am going to Lake Winnipesaukee this year, too.” Then the ultimate: “And you are going to the Royal Academy of Ballet from now on—not me. And if you want to sit in the bathroom to get ready for your class for thirty minutes, be my guest, because I am done with that, too.”
Anna lit a Benson & Hedges. She took a detour, leading Shirley to the deserted playground and to the swings next to the clothesline, next to the No Ball Playing field, behind their bedroom window and Luke’s apartment next door to the laundry room. Anna put her secondhand designer purse at the bottom of the slide. Each of them sat on a swing.
“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like ballet?” Anna asked.
“Because I was afraid to,” said Shirley. “Like you are sometimes afraid to tell me things.”
“When am I afraid?” asked Anna, ever the roiling hurricane. “Name one time.”
That was all Shirley needed to launch her attack. Even though she had only planned to talk to Anna about her summer activities, Shirley would not let this opportunity slip through the cracks of the ancient Sparrowood Gardens playground and into oblivion.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” said Shirley. “You were afraid to tell me my father died because I was a little kid and you didn’t know how to say dead so it wouldn’t hurt. You let all those years go by without any explanation, thinking it would all go away.” Shirley’s throat did not close. “Well, I have news for you: Sad news hurts. And if it doesn’t, then there is something missing right here.” Shirley put her hand over her heart.
“Who told you he died?” Anna asked.
“I opened the Larry’s Taxicab letter last week,” Shirley confessed. “I didn’t understand what most of it said—except for the deceased part.”
“I can explain,” said Anna. “Uncle Bill encouraged me to bring a lawsuit against Larry’s Taxicab Company because your father had a heart attack and an accident on the job. Or an accident and then a heart attack. Uncle Bill thinks I am entitled to some compensation as the wife. But it is taking a long, long time to sort out.” Then Anna added, “When my ship comes in, you and I will take a nice vacation. Maybe to the Pocono Mountains. And I am sorry you had to find out that way.”
“I am okay with knowing,” Shirley said. “In fact, I am more okay now than when I waited by the curb all those Wednesdays for my father to come. And I felt so empty when I had to go back upstairs alone, thinking he didn’t love me anymore.”
“Shirley,” said Anna. “My girl.”
“Knowing things, even terrible things, makes you tougher,” continued Shirley. “It’s important to know everything you can so you understand your own life.”<
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Anna’s nose was turning red. A plain weepy, splotchy red. Not pretty red like Shirley’s slow-dancing prom dress. Anna wiped her nose, her eyes, her cheeks. Shirley came over to Anna’s swing and sat in her lap; she put her right arm around Anna’s back, and held the chain of the swing with her left hand, both feet on the ground, rocking the swing gently back and forth like a cradle. Who ever heard of an almost-twelve-year-old sitting on her mother’s lap? Shirley wondered. Then she thought, Who cares?
“Your father loved you,” said Anna. “But I didn’t love your father.”
Quite suddenly, though Shirley had never wanted to tell Anna about her trouble with Mr. Merrill, she decided to tell her now. Shirley got off Anna’s lap and returned to the other swing, where she blurted out everything. To prove to Anna that she was not the kid she used to be. The kid that Anna thought she still was. That she—Shirley Alice Burns—had recently handled a very hard situation all by herself.
Anna’s perfect-lipstick mouth dropped open at the beginning and stayed that way until Shirley had finished.
“You would never plagiarize anything,” said Anna, scraping her espadrilles on the ground. “I’ll cripple him,” she added, exaggerating as only Hurricane Anna could. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“That’s why,” said Shirley, standing up. “You would have made it a gargantuan deal and not let me fix the problem myself.”
“It is a gargantuan deal,” said Anna.
She sat as still in the swing as Shirley had ever seen her mother sit.
Shirley was immensely relieved that the Mr. Merrill secret was out. She hoped Anna would get it: Get Shirley Alice Burns for the first time in both of their lives. Get that Shirley needed to stand up on her own two feet—and that Anna needed to let go.
But then Anna surprised her by saying, “Just think of all the money we’ll save if you don’t take ballet.”
“Not if you take ballet with Madame Macaroni,” said Shirley.
“Very funny,” said Anna.
“Why can’t you?” Shirley asked.
“I meant very funny about her name,” said Anna.
Shirley had forgotten that no one knew about Madame Macaroni’s alias except for her.
“And just think of all the money we’ll save if you don’t go to Breezy Bay Day Camp,” said Anna.
“Do you mean it?” asked Shirley.
“I mean it,” said Anna.
On the way back to their apartment, Shirley said, “I’m sorry about Hal.”
“I know you are,” said Anna.
Anna sang “Hit the Road, Jack!” like Ray Charles all the way home from the playground, which Shirley interpreted to mean: Good riddance, Hal. I will be okay without you.
When they got home, Grandma said, “I vas going to send a search party to look for you two. Then I looked from the bedroom vindow and I saw you vere on the svings.”
* * *
After dinner, Anna took to cleaning furiously. Shirley supposed she missed Hal more than she let on.
It had been a good day. A lucky day. But it wasn’t over yet. When Shirley brought the trash over to the garbage house, a few of the kids were already there. Not for tag-around-the-garbage-house as Shirley had expected, but for something else.
“We’re going to play spin the bottle tonight,” said Monica Callahan. “You’re invited, Shirley.” Monica showed Shirley the empty cream-soda bottle she’d been hiding behind her back.
“Am I invited?” asked Beryl Abbie.
“Sorry, Beryl Abbie,” said Monica, being uncharacteristically sensitive to the small girl’s feelings. “You’re not old enough.”
* * *
There were six of them seated in a circle on the cool, dry floor in the dimmest corner of the laundry room: Monica Callahan, Dale Rosenberger, Maury Gordon, Curtis Karl, Laurence-with-a-u Livingstone, and Shirley Alice Burns. Shirley’s stomach fluttered like feathers in front of a fan.
“Does everyone know how to play?” asked Monica.
Shirley was glad that Edie had explained the rules to her so she wouldn’t draw attention to her unworldly self. But when Maury admitted that he didn’t know how to play, Shirley was glad to hear the rules again.
“If Dale spins the bottle like this,” said Monica, demonstrating how to do it, “then she gets to kiss the boy closest to the nose of the bottle—Laurence in this case. Or she can kiss the girl closest to where the nose of the bottle stops.”
“No thanks,” said Dale. Everyone knew that Dale liked Curtis and would rather kiss him.
Now Shirley’s stomach felt as wavy as Jones Beach on a stormy day. She wished she hadn’t eaten so much spaghetti for dinner. I want to be here, she thought. I have wanted to do this for so long. She pushed her stomach in with two hands. Maury sat to her left, Curtis to her right. It was boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl. Six former sixth graders in all.
Shirley got to kiss all the boys that night, but it was Maury’s kiss that meant the most: warm and soft like the inside of one of Grandma’s buttermilk biscuits.
Chapter 18
CHILDREN WITH PUG NOSES
Anna, either by chance or on purpose, had left her eighth-grade autograph album in the Palace of Light on the shelf with the matches, Shirley noticed when she got home that night. If the second of the two situations was the case, and Anna actually wanted her to read the little book, Shirley was more than happy to oblige.
Shirley was flush with the thrill of the recent clandestine experience she’d just shared with the five other Sparrowood Gardens kids, especially Maury, filled with the fun she’d had at the prom, the pride of graduating from P.S. 606Q, and the excitement of looking ahead to a summer like no other summer she had ever looked ahead to before.
“Who could be luckier than I am, Mouse?” Shirley asked. “No one.”
Shirley eagerly opened the small leather autograph book in the privacy of the Palace of Light, saying, “Here we go!”
The first thing Shirley noticed was the exemplary cursive writing—even from the boys. Not true for everyone in her class. The second thing she noticed was that the girls who’d autographed Anna’s album wrote mostly about boys and love and marriage and babies, while the boys wrote silly things upside down and crooked just to be remembered. To leave their marks on history.
Shirley wondered why the girls couldn’t be silly, too. In any case, she hoped she would find something about Anna’s boyfriend if she’d had one then. Maury was going off to Camp Eureka, a science camp, for an entire month. Maybe he wouldn’t even want to be her boyfriend when he came back.
Inside the album, Anna’s name was glittered in gold, Anna Botkin, along with the school she went to, P.S. 20, the Bronx. Shirley imagined that Anna liked glittering the numbers and letters as much as she liked polishing her nails now.
Shirley flipped to the beginning. After Anna wrote about reading this autograph book in her old age, which she apparently had just done, there was a page on which the principal of Anna’s school had written: To the sweetest girl in the world, you have changed my attitude toward life. What had Anna done, Shirley wondered, to inspire him to write that? Maybe Anna answered the phone in the school office in a loud and clear voice, like she did at Mr. Joseph’s, and always knew what to say when people asked questions like “How many grades are there at P.S. 20?”
Anna: “There are eight. Thank you for calling.”
Shirley felt validated when she read the parts in Anna’s album that described Anna exactly as Shirley knew her:
Anna, Anna loves to bite
Better yet, she loves to fight
She’s so mean, but yet despite
I love her with all my might.
Shirley liked this one, too:
New York girls are pretty
New York girls are nice
But when it comes to Anna
Hot dog! She cracks the ice!
And this one:
May your path be strewn with roses
And your children have pug nos
es
Yours till a mountain peaks
And sees a salad dressing.
This is what Shirley found out from reading Anna’s autograph book: Anna was once a girl like her and Pippi Longstocking and Astrid Lindgren. She got into trouble, kissed some boys, tried her best in school, played hard at recess, was afraid of things, laughed a lot, and maybe even had a big dream like Shirley did of the Peace Corps. It didn’t say if Anna cried or not, but then Shirley didn’t cry much either.
This is what Shirley concluded: I guess Anna must have been around long enough for me to get her genes. When Grandma moves, and Anna and I are on our own, I may have to be the voice of reason, even if Anna won’t listen. And I am more than ready to be pugnacious.
Chapter 19
THE REASON FOR MOVING
The following Saturday, Shirley heard Grandma saying goodbye to the white ceramic dog, the heart picture frame, and the aqua-colored doll chair, among other things.
“I have no vindowsill in my new apartment,” said Grandma, “so you can keep all these pretty things, Shirley, my sunny child.”
“Okay,” said Shirley. “And when you come over, you can visit them.”
Because she didn’t own a suitcase, Grandma packed her life into seven Macy’s shopping bags: her clothes, shoes, coats, whatever sewing and knitting things she had (needles, bobbins, thread, yarn, buttons, scissors, dress material), and three entire bags of hardcover books along with their dust jackets, which Grandma had indeed hidden under her couch-bed as Shirley had suspected.
“If you ever need anything, tell me,” Grandma told Shirley. “I vould give you my life.”
Shirley stuck to the front of Grandma’s polka-dot cotton dress, filling her nose, her eyes, her skin, and her heart with Grandma, knowing how precious a life was.