D, My Name Is Danita

by Norma Fox Mazer

  “You do?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I thought nothing worried you, Dani!”

  “Lizbeth. Everybody worries about stuff. Didn’t you ever hear Daddy worrying about things? Everybody worries!”

  “I’m glad you told me.”

  She was looking at me seriously. It was intense, a real moment. For once, I felt very close to her.

  Chapter 4

  “My poem is called, ‘To Arnold With Whom I Used To Pick Raspberries When We Were Children Thirty-five Years Ago,’” I said.

  “A bit louder, please.” Mrs. Avora, sitting below the stage in the first row, tossed her purple scarf over her shoulder.

  “My poem is called, ‘To Arnold With Whom I Used To Pick Raspberries When We Were Children Thirty-five Years Ago,’” I repeated loudly.

  “Is that the title, the whole thing?” Mrs. Avora asked.

  “Yes.” Why had I picked a poem with such a long title? My hands started sweating. “It’s by a poet called Hilda Wilcox.”

  I looked at Laredo, who was sitting in the second row, to see how I was doing. I should have worn my glasses. Laredo’s face was a blur. But I could see that she was jabbing a finger toward her mouth. We’d agreed on that signal if I wasn’t speaking loudly enough.

  “IT’S BY A POET CALLED HILDA WILCOX,” I almost shouted.

  “Danita, are you planning to repeat everything?” Mrs. Avora touched her hair. It was cut straight across her forehead. “I surely hope not.”

  “This poem is not what you usually think a poem is. It doesn’t rhyme and it’s not boring.” I took a deep breath. Was I speaking clearly? I had a tendency to mumble in public. I had to remember to speak slowly and distinctly. “It’s sad,” I said, emphasizing each word. “It’s about two people—”

  “Danita,” Mrs. Avora said. “Don’t explain what you’re going to do. Do it! These are the tryouts, dear. This is it.”

  I licked my lips.

  I began the poem over again. The third time! Was that a mistake?

  “‘To Arnold With Whom I Used To Pick Raspberries When We Were Children Thirty-five Years Ago.

  “‘Arnold, you were a fool to shoot yourself: Social arrangements aren’t everything.’”

  I paused, suddenly remembering that I was supposed to use my hands expressively.

  “‘Even if your wife threw you out,’”

  (I made a throwing motion.)

  “‘Even if your own children turned their backs on you,’”

  (I turned my head sharply.)

  “‘You should have lived to spite them.

  The trouble is you never learned

  More than the human species matters.’”

  I stumbled here, because all at once I remembered that I was also supposed to use my voice expressively. I almost groaned out loud, but swallowed it up with a cough.

  I put as much feeling as I could into the last two lines. That was where I always wanted to cry.

  “‘Now I’ll pick for myself the raspberries that you can’t pick.

  The reddest ones are just as good as last year’s.’”

  I stopped.

  “That’s it?” Mrs. Avora asked.

  “Yes. The end.” I wiped my eyes.

  Laredo clapped really hard.

  Mrs. Avora said, “Lovely poem. Thank you, Danita,” and wrote something in her notebook. “Next,” she called. “Denise Bright.”

  “‘Hark!’” Denise Bright was saying as Laredo and I walked out of the auditorium, “‘Is that the morning sun yonder?’”

  “So what do you think?” I asked Laredo. “How’d I do?” She squeezed my arm in a consoling way. “It was that bad?” I said.

  “Maybe you can do backstage stuff for Greasepaint, work on sets or costumes …”

  “Maybe,” I sighed.

  “It’s an alternate plan,” Laredo said. “It’s always a good idea to have an alternate plan. That’s what I do when things go wrong, Dani. I have an alternate plan.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Why had I set my heart on Greasepaint?

  “I am right,” Laredo said. “I told you my father wrote that he’s sending me airline tickets for Thanksgiving?”

  “You’ll finally get to meet your baby brother.”

  “Maybe,” Laredo said. “Remember last spring? Remember where I was supposed to go—Texas? Remember where I was—right here? See what I mean about alternate plans? If my father doesn’t come through with the tickets again, instead of being depressed, I’m going to go out and do something really nice for myself.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it out. I was talking to Geo about it last night.”

  Geo was Laredo’s other friend. They had “met” over the summer when he dialed the wrong number. If it had been me he dialed, I would have hung up. But not Laredo. “I liked the sound of his voice,” she’d told me. She talked to him for an hour that first time. Now, almost every week, either she phoned him or he phoned her. But they still hadn’t met face to face.

  “He was so cute last night,” she said, “all excited about whales. He’s reading about them for a project for his biology class. Did you know that the tongue of a blue whale weighs as much as an elephant?”

  I shook my head.

  “Did you know that so-called killer whales are actually totally friendly and like to have their bellies scratched?”

  “I might have heard about that.”

  “Did you know that humpback whales sing?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard their songs on a record. My father borrowed it from a friend of his to play for us once.”

  Laredo linked her arm with mine. “You knew that? You’re so smart. I didn’t know any of it.”

  Chapter 5

  “We had Greasepaint tryouts yesterday,” I said at supper the next night. “I blew it. I’m not going to make it in.”

  “It was good you tried out,” Lizbeth said. She dug into her Jell-O. “It’s good to try out things.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” She was quoting Mom.

  “Sweetie!” Mom said. “You really blew it?” She gave me a warm, tender look. I wished she wouldn’t do that! I knew she was being sympathetic, but it made me feel as if she thought I’d fall apart if she were just matter-of-fact.

  Dad wasn’t much better. “Don’t worry, Dani, acting isn’t your thing, anyway,” he said.

  But that was the point! I’d finally figured out why I’d wanted to make Greasepaint—to prove to myself that I could do something that wasn’t “my thing.”

  “But since you tried out,” he went on, giving me his version of Mom’s warm, tender look, “you can’t let it crush you if you didn’t make it, sweetheart.”

  Thank goodness the phone rang just then. One more drop of sympathy and I’d probably melt into a puddle! I pushed back my chair. “I’ll get it; it’s probably Laredo.” I rushed into the kitchen and shut the door. “Hi, Laredo,” I said, picking up, “what are you doing? Am I glad you called! My family—”

  “Uh, excuse me,” a male voice broke in, “I’m calling for the head of the house.”

  “Oh! Excuse me!” My cheeks got red. “Is this you, Mr. Homan?” He was the foreman in Dad’s print shop. It sounded sort of like him.

  “Uh, no, this is not—” He coughed. “Is the head of the household in?”

  “I’ll get him,” I said. “Who should I say is calling?”

  “A friend. Say a friend, for Mr. Marrin.”

  “For who?”

  “Mr. Daniel Marrin. Is this his home?”

  “Do you want Daniel Merritt?”

  “Merritt? Umm, I might. Have I made a mistake? I have this name someone gave me. He’s an old friend of my, uh, stepfather’s and he asked me to look him up.”

  “Daniel Merritt?” I repeated.

  “Who is this?” he said.

  “This is Danita Merritt, the daughter.”

  “Oh, I see. Let me check this name. Daniel … Marrin.�
�

  “Sorry, you have the wrong number.”

  “You’re sure?” He had a nice voice, deep and kind of calm. Now that I heard it, I was really embarrassed that I’d thought it might be Mr. Homan’s. Mr. Homan was old! This voice was much younger. “D. Marrin?” he repeated. “You sure he doesn’t live here?”

  I laughed. “I ought to be sure. I live here.”

  He was laughing, too. “I didn’t mean to doubt your word! It’s just, I want to be one hundred percent sure. I told my stepfather I’d look up this old friend. So this isn’t six five six, two two one three?”

  “This is six five six, two two one one.”

  “I guess I made another mistake. Sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay,” I said again, “you were close, anyway.”

  “But no brass rings, right? Well, thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome. ’Bye.”

  “’Bye,” he said. But he didn’t hang up. “Oh, uh, would you know where a good place to rent a car is? I’m new in town, and—”

  “Out at the airport, I think. When my father has a trip to make, he always rents a car at the airport.”

  Maybe he was trying to keep the conversation going. Maybe it was like Geo and Laredo. Except I wouldn’t get away with it; my parents would never let me be friends, not even phone friends, with someone they didn’t know.

  “Is there a bus going out there?” he asked. “Would you know that?”

  “I’m not sure. I could ask my father for you. You want to wait, and I’ll just go ask—”

  “No, no, no, that’s okay. I shouldn’t keep you any longer. Thanks a lot for your help. I really appreciate it.”

  “Sure, you’re welcome. ’Bye,” I said again. “Good luck in finding Mr. Marrin,” I remembered to say, but he’d already hung up.

  Later, I looked up Daniel Marrin in the phone book. No Daniel Marrin. No D. Marrin. No one with a name even close to Dad’s with a phone number off by only one digit. Maybe I’d heard wrong. Had he asked for Daniel Harrin? Or Daniel Sarren?

  After puzzling over it a little while, I let it go. I forgot the phone call and the funny coincidence of names. Why would I remember it? It had been a mistake. Of course it had been a little different than the usual wrong-number call, in that we’d practically had a whole conversation. And he’d had such a nice voice! But that was still no reason for me to remember it.

  Chapter 6

  Friday after school, the list of people who’d made it into Greasepaint went up on the bulletin board on the first floor near the office. I stood with Laredo, looking for my name. LAWSON, RUDY. MONAGO, HILARY. OPECITO, PAUL … If I’d gotten in, my name would have been right there between LAWSON, RUDY and MONAGO, HILARY. MERRITT, DANITA. I must have read that list ten times.

  “Let’s go,” Laredo said. We went out and crossed over to Division. We were going to Laredo’s house. It was warm, the air smelled of leaves and smoke.

  “I’d like to know what I did wrong …” I kept chewing over the tryouts. “I didn’t realize for a while you were giving me the signal to talk louder.… I bet I blew it right then.… I suppose I should be relieved I didn’t make it. If I had to get out on a stage in front of a real audience, I probably wouldn’t survive.”

  Laredo made a clicking sound in her teeth. “Dani, you didn’t expect to make it. I didn’t expect you to make it. Plus, you’ve had two days to get used to the idea that you wouldn’t make it, so give it a rest.”

  Why didn’t I pick up on her voice, the rush of irritated words? Then I wouldn’t have been caught by surprise later. Well, I wasn’t being my most observant self. Actually, I was being completely self-centered.

  Laredo unlocked the downstairs door next to the People’s Beer Hall, and we went up. Inside, we took off our shoes (one of Mrs. Gerardi’s rules) and went into the kitchen. I helped myself to a soda. “I just hope Mom and Dad don’t make a big fuss and try to make me feel better.”

  Laredo made another clicking sound. It flickered through my mind that it wasn’t a sympathetic click. I half knew I was going on and on about Greasepaint. I still went on and on.

  “I know my parents mean well. They’ll probably figure out some special treat just to help me feel better.… They should leave me alone, let me work things out myself. I shouldn’t have told them today was the day I’d find out for sure.”

  “You have such terrible problems.” Laredo was sitting on the counter and banging her heels.

  “I guess I should start thinking about working backstage. At least you don’t have to try out for that,” I said.

  “Are you always going to slink around life, Dani?” Bang bang.

  I put down my soda. “Hello? Excuse me?”

  Laredo pushed her hair behind her ears. “It’s disgusting the way you operate,” she tossed off. “If backstage was your first choice, okay … but since it isn’t, it’s just settling.”

  Music drifted up through the floor from the bar below, sounding a little tinny the way music does when you hear it from a distance. “Settling?” I repeated.

  “Yes. Settling, as in ‘second best.’”

  “Laredo, you were the one who gave me the idea of working backstage. The alternate plan … remember?”

  “Oh, please.” Bang bang. “Taking Greasepaint so seriously … what a big fuss over completely nothing!”

  “You’re mad at me,” I said.

  “I am not!”

  “Why are you mad at me?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Laredo, talk to me.”

  “No! Just go home.”

  “Laredo—”

  “No!”

  “Laredo—”

  “Shut up! Get out! Let’s call the whole thing off!”

  “What whole thing?”

  “Us.” She banged her heels.

  “Us? Are you crazy? You mean our friendship?”

  “Yes!” BANG BANG BANG. “Yes. Yes!” She leaned forward on her hands. Her face was flushed. “When you think about it, we don’t have anything in common. I mean, you and your cozy family with all their gooey sympathy. It just makes me sick!”

  “Laredo—you don’t mean it.”

  “I do!”

  I got my jacket and books. “You’re going to make a stinking doctor. Good doctors have feelings, they’re not cold and heartless.”

  “The door’s over there.”

  I picked up my shoes and walked out barefoot.

  I’d seen Laredo like this once before, a few months after we met. Her father was supposed to be flying east to see her. She’d been almost beside herself with excitement. Every time she’d talked about his visit, her face flushed, her hair stood out all over. Then the day she was expecting him, she got a telegram. She showed it to me. “‘Had to turn back in Chicago. Beverly sick. Very sorry. Love, Dad.’”

  “‘Love, Dad,’” she mimicked. “His precious wifey is sick!” And then, “Shut up,” she’d said to me, although I was only thinking of things to say and hadn’t said anything yet.

  She apologized later. “Something happened to me. I just felt so crazy—it just came over me,” she’d said. And I’d said, “That’s okay, that’s all right.” I felt sorry for her. She really missed her father.

  Now I wondered, was it her father again? Something told me it was. But something also told me, So what! So what if it was her father? So what if it was her mother this time? Or twelve tiny women with purple horns and pink tails? Did being upset give her the right to act that way, to declare our friendship kaput and order me out of her life?

  At home, I wandered around feeling empty. My disappointment about Greasepaint seemed minor compared to the fight with Laredo. Was that what it had been, a fight? It seemed more like an earthquake. Except an earthquake was an act of nature. This was an act of Laredo’s.

  Once or twice I looked out the window. What did I expect to see—Laredo, walking down the street, coming to apologize? There was nobody out there except a boy leaning
against a tree across the street. I wouldn’t have even noticed him if he hadn’t been bundled up in a jacket, a hat, and a scarf half wound around his face. Why was he wearing all those clothes on such a warm day?

  A little later, I looked again, and he was still there. Why was he looking at our house? What was he doing, snooping on us? Suddenly, I ran out the door, down the walk, and straight across the street. He seemed to almost jump in the air when he saw me coming. I got a glimpse of red sneakers. And then he was gone.

  Chapter 7

  Saturday, Mom drove me to the dentist. She was going on from there with Lizbeth to the stables. “You sure you don’t want me to pick you up later, Danita?” The third time she’d asked me the same thing.

  “I don’t want to wait around for you.”

  “Kirstie and I are riding for one full hour on the trails,” Lizbeth said. She was wearing her riding breeches and high, black rubber boots. She swished her riding crop. “And then I’m going to brush and curry King Abo Spring Morning. And I’m mucking, too. Mrs. Sandier-Frost said I could help muck out the stalls today.”

  “No matter how long I live, I will never understand why my sister considers it a privilege to shovel horse manure,” I said.

  “Well, that’s your problem, Dani.”

  “Oh, thank you, Lizbeth, I’m sure it’s normal to want to play in horse manure.”

  “I don’t play in it—”

  “Are you going to go to the mall afterward, sweetie?” Mom interrupted.

  “Maybe.”

  I should have just said no. Now Mom would ask if I had enough money with me, what I was going to buy, and then tell me if I got hungry to be sure to get myself something to eat, but not junk, something nourishing. And she’d say, You’re growing, it’s not good for you to go too long a time without nourishment.

  “… growing, and it’s not a good idea for you to go hours and hours without some food. Food is fuel, Danita.”

  Oops, I almost forgot that part. I had my hand on the door handle. “Is that it, Mom?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” I did, but did I have to say it every time she did?

  “Good luck, sweetheart. Hope you don’t have any cavities.”