Never Been Texted

by Linda Joy Singleton

  No lights on at my house plus an empty driveway equals no Blake. Another late night for him. I’m not speaking to him anyway because of the whole birthday-forgetting thing.

  I defrost a pizza and start on my homework. Chewing spicy pepperoni, I can’t focus on calculus equations. My thoughts drift. Even dripping wet from the fountain, he looked amazing. Could Rory be right? Does Derrick like me? Talking to him was so easy, natural, like we’d been friends for years. And he’s the one who asked me to show him Castle Top. Not a date. Well, maybe a little like a date. But seriously? How can I even be thinking this? I’m really losing it. Or gaining something… someone. Is it possible? I definitely felt energy sizzling between us. Did Derrick feel it, too?

  My phone chimes with a text. I glance down at Derrick’s number. My heart soars and then plummets.

  Need to see you. ASAP

  I’m not the girl he’s messaging.

  My life sucks. School mornings suck. I wake up in a beastly mood and just want to crawl beneath my covers and never come out. But I didn’t achieve a 4.0 by skipping school, especially when there’s a quiz in French. Besides, I need to cross my name off the Talent-Mania sign-up sheet. And I’d rather be at school anyway since home is full of silence and awkward glances. My stepdad finally remembered my birthday. He apologized and handed me a twenty-dollar bill, generous for him but a bitter consolation. Then he hurried off to work.

  At school I have a hard time focusing on lectures, and when teachers aren’t looking, I sneak texts to Rory. I wish I’d never told her about my Saturday non-date with Derrick. Now she’s determined to help me impress him, advising me on how to flirt and selecting date-wear from my pathetic closet. I tried to diffuse her enthusiasm by showing her the latest text Derrick sent to Beatrice, where he begged to see her and signed Prince. He belongs to Beatrice and doesn’t even know my real name.

  There are no more texts from Derrick, and I assume he and Beatrice are back together. I hope they live happily ever after. Not really. But in my thoughts I’m more generous than in my heart.

  As the day drags on, my mood darkens. Things get worse when I try to cross my name off the Talent-Mania sign-up list. The paper is gone. I ask around and find out the maximum number of entrants was reached, so the list was sent on to the contest organizers. To withdraw my entry, I’ll have to go to Mayor King’s office, where I might run into Derrick and his girlfriend. No, thank you.

  The rest of the week blurs by in sameness, until Saturday morning. I’m too stressed to eat breakfast. I stir my spoon in my cinnamon oat-flakes until the flakes go limp and remind me of soggy daisy petals sailing in a fountain. I dump my cereal down the garbage disposal. Derrick won’t show up, I tell myself very firmly. He’s into Beatrice and has completely forgotten me.

  Still, I can’t not go. I have to see for myself, to make sure. Besides, Toffee and I have a special walking routine on Saturdays.

  He’s there.

  At the fountain.

  My heart does that jumpy thing, and I forget how to speak.

  “And here she is!” Derrick waves from his seat on the rim of Stone Face Fountain. “Hey, Jane.”

  Toffee breaks from her leash, flings herself in his arms, and licks his face. I envy my dog. Pathetic.

  “Down. Down, Toffee. I’m happy to see you, too,” Derrick says as he bends down for Toffee’s leash and hands it to me. “Lead on, tour guide. No leash required.”

  I know I’m blushing as his fingers brush mine. Why does he have to be so nice and funny? I remind myself sternly that he has a girlfriend.

  “Let’s get this tour started,” I say, giving Toffee’s leash a tug.

  “What will it take? Ten, maybe fifteen minutes to see all the hot spots in the metropolis of Castle Top?”

  “Do not mock my town.” I lift my chin and repeat one of Mom’s misquotes, “‘True wisdom is knowing that others know more than you.’”

  “Actually the quote is from Socrates and it’s ‘The only true wisdom is knowing you know nothing.’”

  Damn. Not only nice and funny, but smart, too. I harden my heart and say crisply, “You have a lot to learn about Castle Top.”

  He arches a skeptical brow, but I hold my head high with confidence. I know the real Castle Top from the ground up – a dog’s point of view. Nothing boring about my town, and I’ll prove it to Derrick. He’s been living on the hill far too long.

  I take the “Prince” to see his kingdom.

  “First stop, Shakespeare’s Theater,” I say.

  “Castle Top doesn’t have a theater.”

  “You think?” I smile mysteriously, turning on Othello Road which winds along a creek and only has two homes. We pass the newly remodeled two-story belonging to the large Dunwilly Family and turn into the driveway of an off-kilter one-and-a-half story shack owned by Samuel “Shakespeare” Bottoms.

  “We’re going to this dump?” Derrick frowns at the weathered shack, the boarded-up front window, and the front porch sagging into riotous weeds.

  “Not the house.” I point to the high backyard fence made of shiny new redwood. Through a polished wrought-iron gate, I glimpse small figures and hear the crackling sound of electric speakers. “Hurry or we’ll miss the show!”

  Derrick purses his lips with reluctance but follows me through the gate, and I turn to see his eyes widen as he takes in the rocked yard with colorful planted pots and a roped path leading up bleachers where tiered seats are crowded with mostly children.

  “How could all this have been here yet I never knew?” he asks as we climb to the third row and sit on the hardwood seats.

  “People from the hill communities hardly ever come down to the valley. Around here kids skate, walk, or bike to Shakespeare’s shows.”

  Derrick looks curiously at the raised stage with elaborate lighting, cables, speakers, and high-tech devices. “What’s all the equipment for?”

  “You’ll see,” I whisper, putting my finger to my lips as overhead stage lights flicker. Toffee, who knows the routine, has already jumped onto my lap. “Any minute now.”

  Overhead lights spark like fireworks on the stage, and a rumble shakes the seats like thunder. Shakespeare loves drama and has spared no expense to create a high-tech outdoor theater. Rather than remodel his house, he put all his gas money into theatrical effects, living for art.

  An explosion of smoke puffs a cloud of grayness over the stage, and when it disperses, a hunched, withered man, draped in a black cape leans on a hawk-head wooden cane. A real hawk squawks from overhead, fluttering to a wooden pedestal off to the side of the stage.

  “Welcome to my humble production,” Samuel, AKA Shakespeare, announces, dramatically tossing aside his cane and standing tall. His cape flaps with a Dracula-like flourish, and his eyes seem to flame with dark fire.

  The audience explodes in applause, and I spot the Dunwilly children in the front row with their parents. I recognize many of the other kids, too, who always rush out to pet Toffee when we’re walking.

  “Our play is The Shoemaker and the Birds,” the aged thespian declares in a booming British accent. Shakespeare’s accent changes with each role, and I have no idea what his real voice sounds like. “I will perform a retelling of a familiar olden tale with themes of generosity and greed. Settle in your seats and travel back in time to a humble village in the 1800s, when kings and lords ruled in glittering wealth while poor peasants drudged through life in poverty, except for those rich with kind hearts. The show begins forthwith!”

  Shakespeare claps his hands, and a bulky square box rises from the floor then expands into a gigantic screen stretching across the stage. The screen comes alive in high definition with a scene of a cobbler’s shop from “Once Upon a Time,” where scraps of leather and tools are scattered on an old-fashioned wood countertop. Shelves span a wall behind the counter, clearly meant to display shoes, but empty.

  “Cool,” Derrick murmurs beside me.

  “It’ll get even better,” I tell him in a hush be
cause the show is starting.

  “Once there was a poor shoemaker who had no wife or children or money.” Shakespeare tosses aside his cape to reveal peasant clothes like a shoemaker would have worn centuries ago. “The shoemaker had barely enough leather to craft one last pair of shoes, but he was weak with hunger and struggled to lift his hands to grasp his tools. Still, he was a kind man, and when a stranger came to his door begging for food, he gave away his last stale slice of bread. When the stranger left, the shoemaker retired to sleep, sure he was not long for this world – but that night something remarkable happened.”

  Shakespeare snaps his fingers, and bright-colored birds fly from their tower atop Shakespeare’s roof. A spotlight shines onto a round pedestal ascending from a corner of the stage. The birds flutter to the pedestal and tap their beaks on leather pieces, as if actually making shoes. I always feel like I’m watching real magic (rather than fancy Hollywood-type effects), and I can tell by the way Derrick is leaning forward that he’s caught up in the story, too. We both gasp when holographic shoes appear; not flat images but multi-dimensional shining leather shoes. Wings flap as birds soar into the sky, leaving their gift of shoes while the shoemaker acts like he’s sleeping.

  I glance down at the fairy-bird on my palm then reach out to show it to Derrick. He smiles as if impressed, and I whisper, “It’s henna. Like a temporary tattoo.”

  “Nice,” he whispers back.

  When he leans closer, my heart flutters and I think maybe he’s going to touch the bird on my palm, clasp my fingers in his, and pull me close. But reality slaps me, and I realize I’m being stupid. I jerk my hand back before I embarrass myself by making a move on a guy who already has a girlfriend.

  Derrick gives me a puzzled look then turns back to the stage where the cobbler is once again waking to find newly-made leather shoes. Derrick’s caught up in Shakespeare’s storytelling spell, unaware of the drama playing out in my head. I hug Toffee to my chest and focus on the stage.

  The performance continues with the shoemaker selling his shoes and sharing the money with his poor neighbors, gaining fame and fortune as the birds craft fine shoes while he sleeps. He achieves great wealth but fears the birds will leave him, so one night he waits for them with an exquisite gilded cage. That night, the birds don’t come, and they are never seen again.

  When the screen folds up and lights fade from the stage, Shakespeare claps his hands and his winged performers flutter down to the stage, each bird lifting a wing, bowing alongside Shakespeare. There’s a flash of smoke and when it clears, the birds and Shakespeare have vanished.

  The audience goes wild with foot stomping, whistling, and applause.

  “Wow,” Derrick murmurs. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Better than a cinema, huh?” I grin.

  “A thousand times better. Those birds were amazing! Like they were really making shoes. And that ending, how did they all just vanish? I can’t figure it out.”

  “Don’t even try. That’s part of Shakespeare’s mystique.”

  “He could charge lots of money for such a phenomenal show. Shouldn’t we pay him?”

  “Only if you want to insult him. Besides he never comes back to the stage. When he vanishes, he’s gone until the next Saturday. Come on.” I stand, gesturing for Derrick to follow. Around us, kids swarm like bees on the scent of honey, hurrying out of the yard. “We don’t want to miss the next show.”

  “More birds?” he jokes.

  “No.” I smile. “This time? Frogs.”

  We walk about a mile down a country road to a grassy hill overlooking a field normally used for baseball, soccer, and other neighborhood sports. The well-used playing field is ringed by sloping grassy hills. We don’t have folding chairs like the groups of families and friends sitting closer to the field, so I lead Derrick to a shady area under a pine tree and we sit cross-legged on the grass with a clear view of the action down on the field.

  Over a dozen kids with their frogs line up in the center at painted white lines in the dirt. When I was a kid, Mom and Blake (I called him Dad back then) always came to watch when I raced a frog. I’d treat my frog like royalty, searching for the biggest flies for snacks and keeping my frog athlete comfy in a plastic wading pool. I never did win a first place trophy, but I sure had fun trying.

  “Frogs have to leap three consecutive times, each cumulative distance added for their score. Then the jumps are measured by a panel of parent judges,” I explain to Derrick as I cuddle Toffee on my lap. “Anthony Dunwilly’s frog, Torpedo, won the last seven races. “He’s massively huge.”

  “Anthony or the frog?” Derrick says, shading his eyes with his hand as he looks down at the field.

  “Definitely not Anthony. He’s the skinny kid with the Mohawk.” I point to Anthony as he struggles to hold a frog that probably weighs more than he does.

  Derrick whistles low. “You weren’t kidding. That’s some monster frog.”

  Even though Anthony is a great kid, I’m rooting for his little sister, Tabitha. She’s so shy she won’t talk to me, but she loves to hug Toffee.

  Mr. Dunwilly, a chubby teddy bear of a dad, lifts his hand to silence the audience. “The frog that jumps the farthest wins the authentic fake gold frog-on-a-stick trophy. Hand it over, Anthony. The trophy has to go to a new winner.” He gestures to his boy, who reluctantly gives the trophy to his father.

  “They share the same trophy?” Derrick asks.

  “It’s a huge honor. Each winner gets their name engraved on the plastic-fake-gold frog’s butt.”

  “Now that’s something to aspire to – amphibian austerity,” he says, and I glance suspiciously at him to make sure he’s not being sarcastic. His smile is genuine as he watches the first contender, Anthony, gets his frog ready.

  Mr. Dunwilly raises his arm and shouts, “GO!”

  No shock that Anthony scores an impressive seventeen feet. But the audience gasps when Raymond Smith (his family lives on Second Street and has three Siamese cats) scores eighteen feet. His parents jump up and high-five each other.

  “I was sure Anthony’s Torpedo had it.” Derrick sounds disappointed.

  “They usually win,” I admit. “If Raymond does it’ll be his first time.”

  “So you’re rooting for him?”

  “Not him—Anthony’s sister, Tabitha. She’s only six and last in line.” I glance down at the littlest contender whose long brown braid wiggles as she fidgets. When she first got her frog, he was so little she called him Tiny. Even though Tiny has doubled in size, he’s still the smallest in the competition. I cross my fingers and wish, wish, wish.

  Around me, shouts erupt and I look up just in time to see Tabitha’s Tiny leap so high and far that people are standing up, screaming, and applauding like crazy. When I hear Tiny’s score, my mouth falls open. Twenty-two feet!

  No frog has ever gone farther than twenty feet, yet the tiniest frog owned by the tiniest girl goes twenty-two. Unbelievable!

  I hear a musical beep. My phone.

  Slipping it from my pocket, I check for messages. But there aren’t any. Why is my phone glowing? An image of a frog flickers on the screen, and I’m sure I’m hallucinating. The frog’s face shimmers into human features that look oddly like Farley from the phone store. He winks at me, and then the phone goes black.

  Shivers crawl on my skin.

  Either I really am hallucinating or my marvelous mauve phone is magic.

  As for the prince, he fell so deep in love with her, he didn’t take his eyes off her for a single moment. (Asbjørnsen and Moe)

  Down on the playing field everyone mobs Tabitha and Tiny like they’re celebrities, with cameras flashing and lots of hugging. I’d usually join in the fun, but I can’t stop staring at my phone. No further signs of freakiness, the screen lifeless and ordinary again.

  Did I imagine the strange images? A frog morphing into the face of the phone store man? Ridiculous! Yet when I looked into his face, he winked at me like we s
hared a secret. And how could a store I’ve never seen suddenly appear on a street that shouldn’t exist? I searched online, too, for the street and the W.I.S.H. store but found nothing. I wished for a mauve phone and was offered one for the exact amount of money in my pocket. How does that happen?

  When I glance up, I find Derrick studying me, his expression puzzled. “Something wrong with your phone?”

  “No.” I quickly shove it back into my pocket.

  “You had the strangest look on your face,” he says.

  “Things have been weird lately.” I meet his gaze. “Do you believe in magic?”

  “Is that a trick question? Or part of the tour?”

  “No trick.” I glance up at the gray-blue sky where clouds ripple like ocean waves, as if the world has flipped upside-down.

  “Seriously, magic?” Derrick laughs but not in a mocking way, more like he’s really considering what I’ve asked. “Have to say no. Turn on the news and all you see is violence and tragedies. My tutors are big on world history, so I know more than I want to about wars that destroyed civilizations. If there really was magic, people wouldn’t be so cruel to each other.”

  “Cynical much?”

  “I’m a realist.” He shrugs, his tone matter-of-fact. “Still it would be cool if I could believe in something like magic.”

  “Stick around,” I say, thinking of the phone in my pocket. “You never know what might happen.”

  With a gesture for him to follow me, we move away from the playing field and back to the street. I lead Derrick up the block to a weather-worn playground. When I was little I loved playing here, but a few years ago it was nearly swept away in a flood. All that’s left is a sagging slide and only two of four swings hanging on chains. I sit in a swing, lean back, and kick my shoe on the dirt to propel upward.

  Derrick slips into the swing beside me, kicking off into the air. “You don’t really believe in magic, do you?” he asks, his words rising and falling with the rhythm of his swing.

  “Um, no.” I hesitate, not wanting to sound crazy. “I just wonder about things that can’t be explained. Haven’t you heard stories of a mother who miraculously saves her child by lifting a car a zillion times her weight? How does something like that happen?”