I look for boysenberry ice cream again, but it’s not in season.
“Well, my goodness,” says Grammy. “I guess I’ll have chocolate.”
“Grammy, that’s boring.”
“Boring? Pish posh. At my age, boring is good. Surprises cause heart attacks. Remember that when April Fools’ Day rolls around.”
Parker laughs, and a little bit of tightness lets go inside me. I don’t know how much Parker knows about Grammy, but I’m glad he gets to see her being regular old Grammy tonight, not the Grammy who forgets where she is.
He steps up to the counter and says, “I’ll have blood orange mango tango, please.”
“Good choice,” says the boy behind the counter. “And how about you?” he asks me.
I look at all the different flavors one more time. “I’ll take the same thing.”
“Hey, good choice.” Parker nudges me, and a burst of fireworks erupts from the tiny place between my ribs where his elbow touched.
I turn away to grab my ice cream so he won’t see my face heat up.
We all sit at the booth next to the big window at the front. Mom talks to Mrs. Harris. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without the baby, Amelie, since she was pregnant. Grammy doesn’t talk to anyone, just eats each bite of her chocolate ice cream as slowly as possible. Parker and I compare karate techniques and our plans for which weapons we’ll train with after black belt.
Then, when I’m halfway done with my ice cream, I see Sofia walking past the window with Marisa Nunez. Sofia’s carrying her backpack and her green sleeping bag, the one she always brings to my house for sleepovers.
Marisa says something. Sofia laughs. They don’t see me.
I watch them cross the street and open the big, dark theater doors.
“Is something wrong?” Parker asks.
Grammy looks up from her chocolate ice cream.
Slowly, I turn away from the window. “Oh, nothing. I saw Sofia with Marisa.”
“Sofia, your best friend?”
“Yep.”
“Who’s Marisa?”
I poke at my ice cream with a spoon. “You’ll meet her on Monday.”
There’s nothing wrong with Marisa Nunez. Not really. She’s tall and pretty and lives in a big house, and all the teachers like her. Sofia’s been going to church with her for about a year. But Marisa’s best friend moved away right before Christmas break and now … that sleeping bag.
Grammy leans close to me and whispers, “That used to be you, didn’t it?”
I don’t say anything, but Grammy nods like she knows everything and never puts yarn in the freezer. “Mmhmm, I’ve seen that look before. I’ve been there.”
“You have?” I whisper back. “What did you do?”
She puts her lips right close to my ear and says, “Magic.”
I sigh and swirl my ice cream around. I guess I couldn’t expect Grammy to stay normal all evening.
That night, I call Sofia to ask about her rehearsal. Maybe the sleeping bag was a prop for the show. Maybe the theater floor is hard and dirty and Sofia wanted something to sit on.
Her mom answers the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Martinez. Is Sofia there?”
She clucks. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kate. She’s sleeping over at Marisa’s tonight.”
“Really? But I thought …” My voice trails off before I say, I thought she couldn’t sleep over tonight, because I can’t believe I was too stupid to realize what was going on.
“I’ll tell her you called, okay?”
After I hang up the phone, my fingers itch for something to do. Something to distract me from thinking about Sofia and Marisa having a sleepover. I walk into the music room and go straight to Dad’s guitar.
He left it here when he took off. That’s how I know he’s coming back. Dad would never leave his guitar forever. He loves it too much. I’d rather think about that right now.
I take the guitar to my bedroom, wipe away the dust, and carefully tune the strings. He’ll want to know I took care of it while he was away. I remember what he said.
“Cradle it. A guitar is like a lover.”
“Tony!” Mom smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “A lover?”
Dad smirked. “Sorry. A guitar is like a baby. Don’t hold it stiff. Relax into it.”
I fold toward the guitar and press my fingers against two of the frets. With a small sigh, I gently run my right thumb over all the strings to play an E-minor chord. That’s the chord Dad always said was his favorite.
“An easy way to add a little bit of sadness to a song.”
“Why would anyone want to add sadness to a song?” I asked.
He poked my stomach. “Because if it’s in a song, it’s not inside you anymore. See?”
I strum that chord a couple more times, but it doesn’t get the sadness out of me. Instead, my eyes get hot, and I have to hurry to put the guitar away.
I’m a brown belt in karate. I don’t wear pink. I’m strong.
And crying isn’t strong.
That’s why I can’t make music anymore.
I haven’t been able to for a long time.
Dear Dad,
Have you ever had a question but you were afraid of the answer? I have a question for Sofia but I’m scared to ask it.
I have lots of questions for you too. Questions like when will you come home? Why did you leave us? Do you still love me?
But I wouldn’t ask those things even if I could. Because what if the answers are never, you did something wrong, and no?
Love,
Kate
Chapter 8
The next Monday is February fifth. Spring is here. The blossoms on the trees in Mr. Harris’s orchard this morning prove it.
Spring hasn’t changed Miss Reynolds’s class any, though. She still stands so straight and tall you’d think she had a ruler glued to her back, but she holds her hands the way a princess would and swishes from place to place, as if she’s wearing a ball gown and not a flannel skirt and sweater. Right now she’s reading something. A poem, I think.
It’s actually probably a great poem. Miss Reynolds only reads us really good stuff, but I’m not hearing any of it. Because I can’t stop staring at the hugest cherry-blossom– colored ribbon ever. It’s on Sofia’s head, right over her long, brown ponytail. My stomach buzzes like there’s a bunch of honeybees inside itching to fly out.
One measly sleepover and Sofia goes back on our pinkie promise and decides to become Pink One and Pink Two with Marisa? I tap my pencil against my desk. At least Sofia isn’t wearing all pink, though. It’s just the bow in her hair. Marisa is way worse. Her entire outfit is a bright shade of bubblegum. Hideous.
My eraser rubs a hole through my paper. I tried to call Sofia yesterday. I wanted to tell her about how Grammy forgot who I was that morning. My hair was pulled back under a baseball cap and she looked at me and said, “Tony!” It always hurts when she says Dad’s name. Having her see him when she looks at me is a new kind of sting, though.
But when I called, Sofia wasn’t home from church yet, and she must have been busy afterwards because she didn’t call me back.
I didn’t think big and important things like best friends could change so quickly. Then again, all it takes is one day for Mr. Harris to put out his bee boxes and suddenly winter is gone.
I stare at that pink bow, pull out one of my special sparkly gel pens, and put it to a new, fresh, hole-less piece of notebook paper.
Sofia, I write. I’m not sure what to say next. Some words, like Why did you break your promise? should only be spoken, not written. They’re the kind of words that you hope can disappear after you say them. I think for a moment and then write our code for we need to talk.
Sofia,
Penguins balance eggs on their feet. Lockers, after lunch.
Kate
I tap my pen on the paper a few times. When I look up again, I’m practically blinded by Marisa’s bubblegum sweatshirt and pants. And I know it’s not nice, but I
can’t help writing something to show Sofia how silly she looks.
P.S. Don’t you think Marisa looks exactly like a stick of gum today?
One of Sensei’s favorite sayings rings in my head. Kindness is the greatest form of strength. But Sensei’s words are easier to ignore than those bees in my stomach.
I sloppily fold the note into a small square, nothing fancy. I never can figure out that fancy note folding. After I write Sofia on top, I tap Amy’s shoulder in front of me. She takes the note in this sneaky way where she pretends to scratch her shoulder, but is really grabbing the paper, and then slowly moves her hand up to the front of her desk and nudges Alejandro, who taps Sofia’s elbow with the note.
Sofia isn’t as sneaky as Amy; she just turns around and grabs it. That gets Marisa’s attention.
Oh, no.
She won’t understand the coded message, but thinking about Marisa reading the P.S. on that note makes me want to crawl over the tops of the desks and snatch it away.
Marisa leans way over to see who sent the note. When she sees Sofia written in my special sparkly ink, she turns and looks at me for a second like she just realized I existed and might still want my best friend. Marisa whispers something to Sofia.
Sofia shakes her head, but Marisa whispers something else.
Sofia told me once that Marisa tells her to do things she doesn’t want to do and that she has a hard time saying no. It didn’t seem like a big deal before, when it only happened at church. But now I may as well be in one of those courtroom shows, waiting for the judge to give me a verdict.
Sofia’s shoulders slump forward. She turns the note over, unfolds it, and lets Marisa read it right alongside her.
My fingers clench the edge of my desk, and I suck in my breath. She’s just like Benedict Arnold. I only know that because Miss Reynolds taught us about him this morning, but I didn’t think Sofia would ever, ever in a million years act like him. I never thought she’d betray me.
I can tell the minute Marisa finishes reading. Her back stiffens, and she pulls off her bright pink jacket. Underneath it is a sparkly pink shirt though, which isn’t much better. Marisa seems to realize this. She crosses her arms over her chest and spreads her hands out over her sleeves.
“Miss Reynolds,” she says.
No.
“Someone is passing Sofia notes, and it’s distracting me.”
Miss Reynolds stops reading, makes a humming noise, and plucks that note out of Sofia’s grasp. The little hairs on my arm stand up.
Miss Reynolds’s slender hands barely touch the note, holding it like it’s been made by the sweet mice and birds who sew her flannel skirts at night and might fall apart at any second. Her eyes find me. “Kate,” she says, “what do you have to say to me for interrupting my class?”
“I’m sorry.”
“And to Marisa and Sofia for distracting them?”
I slide down low in my chair trying to hide. “Sorry.”
Miss Reynolds nods to Marisa and Sofia. “You were obviously riveted by the words of George Ella Lyon. Perhaps you’d like to finish reading the poem to the class?”
Marisa raises her hand. “I would!” She never gives up a chance to perform.
“Go ahead,” Miss Reynolds hands her the book.
Marisa takes a deep breath and speaks in her stage voice. All her words turn to mush in my brain, though.
Sofia showed Marisa my note. A special, secret, just-between-friends thing. If she shared that with Marisa, what else has she shared with her? That I’m afraid of caterpillars? How I peed my pants on the Ferris wheel? That my dad left and never came back? I don’t know what I can trust her to keep secret anymore.
I try to stare Sofia down. Try to make her turn around and see me with just the force of my eyeballs. But she doesn’t move.
I drum my fingers on the desk a few times before Parker leans over. As he turns the page of the book he’s sneakily reading in his lap—The Hobbit—he whispers, “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t need to be so nervous.”
My face heats up. Just like he promised on Friday, Parker’s in my class, and Miss Reynolds sat him right next to me. He’s been reading all morning, though, even telling me, “You don’t pause when Bilbo’s facing trolls” when I asked if he was going to put the book away for Language Arts.
Do I say something back? Will everyone know I like him if I do? I stop drumming my fingers and instead start twisting my hair.
When Marisa finishes reading, Miss Reynolds clears her throat and rubs the corner of her eye. “Thank you, Marisa. Now class, wasn’t that a beautiful poem?”
Nobody says anything. A few people shrug their shoulders.
“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming today.” Miss Reynolds claps her hands. “Okay, next I want everyone to partner up!”
I snap to attention, pulling myself out of my chair as quickly as I can. “Sofia,” I call.
But before she can turn around, Marisa’s arm shoots out and grabs Sofia’s shoulder.
Sofia glances back toward me and mouths, “Sorry.”
I want to tell her it’s okay, that I know we’re still best friends so it doesn’t matter. Instead, I flop back into my chair and turn to where Parker was sitting only a few seconds before, but he’s gone, paired up with someone else across the room.
“I’ll be your partner,” says a voice. It’s Jane Chu. She stands next to my desk and leans toward me, waiting for an answer.
“Oh, um …” I glance back at Sofia again. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m hoping she’ll change her mind. But she doesn’t. She just laughs at something Marisa said and scoots her desk a little closer.
I give Jane a small smile. “Sure.”
“Oh good!” Jane throws herself into the desk next to me, her smooth black hair swinging into her face. “Whatever the assignment is, I’m in charge of drawing, okay?”
“Okay,” I say with a shrug.
“Unless …” Jane kind of points at me with her hand. “I mean, you don’t really want to draw, right?”
“Nah.”
Sofia is laughing again.
“Oh good,” says Jane. “I love to draw. I’m not, like, super great at it. But I’m better than most of the Picassos around here.” Jane winks at me and I can’t help it, I laugh. Just a small laugh, more a snort, but it’s enough to get Sofia to turn around for a second and look. First at me. Then at Jane.
I glance down at Jane’s pink tennis shoe and orange tennis shoe. Jane moved to Atwater last summer, and I don’t know much about her except that she tries to wear as many colors as she possibly can all at once. Some people think that’s weird. I guess everyone likes a rainbow, but not really on a person. Part of me wonders what Sofia will think of me and Jane being partners.
Miss Reynolds claps her hands again to get everybody’s attention. “Here is your assignment. Write a ‘Where I’m From’ poem like the one we just read, but for yourself. Remember to write lines that put us in the places you have been and show us the things you’ve experienced. Make us see, feel, hear, and taste them. You’re going to hand your poem off to your partner in a second for the next part of this project. Although …” Miss Reynolds looks at the watch on her wrist. “That might have to wait until after lunch. We’ll see. Okay. Start writing!”
The whole class gets to work. I turn to Jane and say, “I kind of didn’t listen to the poem.”
She’s sketching the letter K and filling it with flowers. “Yeah, I know,” she says without looking up from her notebook. “I figured that out when you were passing notes. It’s okay. It’s super easy. Here, I’ll show you.”
She rips out a piece of notebook paper and taps her pencil on it while she squinches her lips up to one side. “Okay, so I’m an artist and an only child. I adore my grandma and love watching her cook. She makes the best Dan Dan noodles.” She writes all of that on the paper. “But that doesn’t sound like poetry, right?”
“I guess not.”
“You guess?” Jane looks up at me from
underneath her thick black bangs. “Have you ever listened to poetry?”
I think back to Dad one night with his guitar in his arms, writing me a song on the spot.
“How do you do that, Daddy?”
He stopped strumming. “How do I do what?”
“Make up the words like that? How do you know what to say?”
Dad laughed, reached out, and tweaked my nose. “A song is just a poem. And a poem is just words with enough space in between them for your heart to take a deep breath and keep going.”
“I’ve listened to poetry,” I tell Jane. “Lots of it.”
Jane smiles. “Good. Then you’ll be awesome at this. So now, all I have to do is look at that list of details about me and where I come from and make them more poemy.”
“How do you do that?”
Jane hunches over and whispers like it’s a secret. “You close your eyes and think about how all those things feel on your skin and in your ears and on your tongue, and you write it down.”
The hair on my neck stands up the way it does whenever Dad plays a key change.
Jane and I both get to work, and by the time I’m done, my brain feels looped around my pencil. But I’ve got a poem. At least, it looks like a poem.
I am from the gravel just beyond
The last almond tree in the orchard.
From air whistling when my leg
Slices through it in a perfect kick.
I’m from the slow build of piano chords,
Guitar strings, and a trio of voices
Chasing away emptiness.
My pencil hovers over that last line wanting to erase something from so deep inside me off that paper and away from the eyes of people I barely know.
Sofia laughs, and I lose my concentration. She and Marisa lean their heads close, giggling about something. Marisa glances at me and then looks away.
I feel like I’m on the other side of a window with my nose pressed up against the glass. What are they saying? Why is Sofia laughing? There’s only one way to find out. I slowly drop my hand with the pencil to the side of my chair and let the pencil roll down my palm, off my fingers, and onto the floor. It comes to a stop next to Amy’s desk.
The Three Rules of Everyday Magic Page 3