by Beth Vrabel
“Are you nervous?” she asked. I didn’t know if she was asking about starting a new school or about the essay contest. Finalists were going to be notified that night. A nod applied to both so that’s what I did.
“Don’t be. You’ll be fine. No matter what.” She leaned in and carefully painted in the letters for the word welcome.
I sat down on the sidewalk to watch. Sandi tapped on the glass from the opposite side of the window and waved. She had come along to watch Kerica, too, but quickly ducked inside to sit next to Mayor Hank. She was hoping he’d slip and say if she was a finalist in the contest, I think.
Things with Sandi were a little odd. It’s like she didn’t know how not to be a jerk and I didn’t know how to stay mad at her. Her mother had walked with her to the library the other day so she could check in with Mrs. Morris. Elizabeth McAllister had paused in front of where I was sitting. Her fists clenched and unclenched and I could feel her anger radiating off her just as clearly as I could feel love from my mom and dad when they were near me.
“Come on, Mom,” Sandi had coaxed, but her mother stayed put in front of me.
I braced myself, but all she said was a super crisp, “Thank you for helping Sandi with her essay.”
Surprised, my head jerked toward her. “You’re welcome,” I squeaked.
“I’m sure you’ll be keeping her . . . condition . . . to yourself.”
I nodded. For the first time in my life, I was glad I was blind so I didn’t have to see Sandi’s face.
Chapter Eighteen
Dear Miss Alice Confrey,
We are pleased to inform you that your essay has been selected as a finalist in the first annual Sinkville Success Stories competition. You and the other two candidates will have your essays published on the town website and in the Sinkville Gazette. Residents will be able to vote on their favorite essay up until the day before our reception, to which you and your family are cordially invited. We will announce our winner at the reception.
You should be pleased with your accomplishment.
Sincerely,
The Sinkville Success Stories Children’s Contest Committee
Mom wore a blue dress that swung around her calves. Dad didn’t change out of the tie and white button-down shirt that he wore to work. James slicked back the hair that hung in his face for months, saw how white his forehead underneath was compared to his tanned face, and combed it back where it had been. But I appreciated the effort.
I smoothed my yellow sundress and tucked Tooter under my arm. He wouldn’t be coming, of course, but I held him until the moment we left. We had been carrying him around since we had found out about his tumor. Sometimes he had trouble walking. But the real reason was we all just wanted to have him around all the time.
“Wish me luck today,” I said, and Tooter licked my cheek.
The reception was held at the high school auditorium. And it was packed.
We had to read our essays on stage in front of everyone. My eyes fluttered so fast the edges of the room seemed to dance. The first person to go was the boy I had seen talking with Mayor Hank. His name was Josh Andros and I didn’t hear a word of his essay. I was too busy concentrating on not peeing or pulling a Tooter on stage. I did hear the applause that drowned out my hammering heart. A couple of hoots, too.
Sandi was shaking just as hard as me as she went on stage. “You can do this,” I whispered to her as she passed and she stopped and nodded to me. I knew she and Mrs. Morris had been practicing reading her essay all week. And she read it flawlessly.
“Wow,” Josh said under his breath.
“What?” I whispered back as the crowd continued cheering. “I can’t see.”
Josh’s face flushed but he answered, “The librarian and her daughter are giving a standing ovation.”
I jumped out of my chair, too, and cheered.
Too soon, it was my turn. I swallowed a sour taste in my mouth as my name was called. My essay was in 36-point font, but I was so nervous I still had to hold it close to my face. At least, I did at first.
“The Sinkville Sycamore’s roots run as deep as the town’s history. It saw Native American camps. Revolutionary battles and civil war. It was there when countless couples fell in love picnicking in its shade. It held those couples’ children in its limbs. It grew as our town grew. It never moved from Sinkville soil.
“Some storms scarred it. Some limbs were lost. Some people cut into its trunk. But the land supported it, allowing it to change and letting it grow. In the same way, the success of lifelong residents of Sinkville lies in their willingness to live simply, grow steadily, and weather their storms.”
I took a deep breath and turned the page of my essay. The first part was about Mr. Hamlin, who was in the front row with Sarah. The crowd murmured when I spoke of the lake water flowing through his house and how he wished he had saved his mother’s sink. There was a smattering of applause when I got to how Sarah would be going to college this year but plans to return to Sinkville.
I read what I had written about the Williams Diner welcoming everyone during the civil rights movement. How it’s where Mill workers refresh before going home. My voice shook all over again when I spoke about how it’s where a newcomer will realize she is at home.
A few people laughed when I talked about teenage Mayor Hank’s awful handshake painting at Williams Diner, but more people said, “Hear, hear!” and whistled when I added that because of this town’s support, they got the most passionate mayor possible. A few more cheered when I said an artist was bringing that handshake back to the diner’s window.
I read about the unwanted frogs, turtles, and snakes finding a new home with Dr. Ross. I talked about how he worked to rehabilitate the animals others would give up on, like Chuck and the opossum babies.
My essay ended with more about the Sycamore. “When I sit under the Sinkville Sycamore, I cannot see the top of the tree. I see the limbs stretching toward the sky and know the roots dig just as deep. That is Sinkville’s success.”
No one clapped as I finished. No one.
I took an awkward step backward toward my chair, my face flaming so much that my eyes watered. Then an ear-splitting whistle cut the silence, followed with, “All right, Alice!” in my brother’s voice.
And then the applause, breaking me apart and putting me back together.
Mom met me at the bottom of the stairs to lead me to our seats. Her face was wet as she pressed her cheek against mine. “I’ve never been more proud of my daughter,” she whispered in my ear.
Gretel popped up from her seat to hug me as we walked by. I noticed Mayor Hank, seated next to her, take her hand when she sat back down.
Sarah stood by Mr. Hamlin’s wheelchair at the end of our aisle. “I can’t believe you’re here!” I gushed and squeezed her grandfather’s hand.
“Wouldn’t miss it, Gnome Girl.”
Anthony Hamlin shook my hand from his seat but kept his eyes on his dad. “I didn’t know that story. I mean the whole story, about the lake,” I heard him whisper.
“You did great.” Sandi leaned forward from the row behind me and squeezed my shoulder when we finally reached our seats.
“You were amazing!” I whispered back, turning in my seat.
She put her mouth next to my ear so I could hear her whisper over the applause. “Mom said I could have anything I wanted if I could nail the essay speech. She’s taking tomorrow off work. We’re not shopping or anything. We’re just going to hang out.”
I grinned at Sandi and she smiled back.
Mayor Hank made his way to the stage, his hands raised to quiet the crowd. Just as they stopped clapping he said, “Let’s give another hand to our young writers.” And then the crowd erupted again.
All this applause and I’d soon be deaf as well as blind. But I smiled anyway.
I had done it. I made Sinkville my home. Next to me, Mom leaned forward to take a tissue from Mrs. Morris. Kerica was bouncing in her seat, just like Eliza used to
do. Dad had his arm around James’s shoulder. I squeezed my eyes to see it clearer and saw that we truly were like the Sycamore’s roots, stretching out in hidden ways but staying connected.
I realized, it didn’t matter who got the prize. I already won.
But I’m not going to lie: really winning was pretty awesome, too.
Acknowledgments
I had the privilege of growing up in a paper mill town like Sinkville and spent a lot of time catching fish and being chased by geese at a lake created to support the mill. The lake seemed so natural, making the glimpse of a driveway or road dipping into its depths fascinating.
My grandpa would tell me stories about a whole town under the water. As it turns out, the homes were razed before the water was pumped in, but I let Mr. Hamlin keep his drowned farmhouse intact.
Growing up, the mill smell never bothered me, but man! It hits me now when I come home to visit. What also hits me is the realization of how blessed I am to have such a charming hometown.
Family and friends who read Alice’s story will certainly be able to pick out a few other inspired-by-true-events moments (seriously, do not provoke a squirrel). Despite the ties to real life, Alice’s story is through and through her own. Much love and thanks go to those who gave me the time, encouragement, and insight to craft this tale.
Nicole Resciniti, super-agent and friend, thank you for believing in me and pushing me to dream bigger than I could’ve hoped. Thank you to my fantastic editor, Julie Matysik, whose love for these characters and their world means so much to me. Your talent brought this story to a whole new level.
Thank you, also, to the experts with Historic Columbia who shared their knowledge and time, which helped bring to life the fictional town of Sinkville. I am grateful for the insight from University of South Carolina History Professors Dr. Bobby Donaldson and Dr. Robert R. Weyeneth. Any errors with regards to accuracy are mine alone.
Much love also goes to the friends and family who read early versions of this story. Thank you, Buffy, for showing me that everybody has a story and for polishing this one. And to my cousin Dane, who not only responded but took seriously my hypothetical if-a-dog-pees-on-someone-can-that-person-sue question.
Mom, Dad, Amy, and Michele, thank you for cheering me on every step of this journey.
God blessed me with two amazing families, the one I was born into and the one I married into. Thank you, John, Debbi, Tim, and Amanda, for the love and encouragement.
I saved the best for last. Jon, I’ll never be able to thank you enough for working so hard to create this beautiful life we share. Emma and Benny, you are endless sources of joy, love, and inspiration. But please, no more squirrels.
References
For more information about albinism and related visual impairments, please check out NOAH (National Organization for Albinism and Hypopigmentation) at www.albinism.org.
For more about the civil rights movement in South Carolina, check out Historic Columbia at www.historiccolumbia.org.
About the Author
Beth Vrabel grew up in a small paper mill town in Pennsylvania. She won a short-story contest in fourth grade and promptly decided writing was what she was going to do with her life. Although her other plans—becoming a wolf biologist, a Yellowstone National Park ranger, and a professional roller skater—didn’t come to fruition, she stuck with the writing. A graduate of Pennsylvania State University, Beth was a features columnist and editor before becoming an author. Beth also writes the Pack of Dorks series.
Keep your eyes peeled for. . .
pack of dorks
CAMP DORK
BETH VRABEL
available from
Sky Pony Press
May 2016!