Swapped for rubber tuoxie slippers that I
Tap, tap, tap against my grandma’s kitchen stool
As peppercorns crackle in her wok.
I peek at Jane to see if she thinks my poem is terrible compared to hers. But her hand is over her mouth and she’s squinting like she’s really concentrating. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
“Now,” announces Miss Reynolds. “Pick your favorite part of your partner’s poem, circle it, and share it with them.”
Jane and I look at each other for a second and giggle. Jane goes first. “I really liked the part about the music. ‘I’m from the slow build of piano chords, guitar strings, and a trio of voices.’”
“I like your line about charcoal and graphite on your fingertips.”
“Thanks!”
A few seconds later, Miss Reynolds says, “Did you pick one out and share it? Good. Here comes the fun part. You and your partner together are going to write another one of these poems, but this time for a famous person in history, and then …”—she pauses with a finger pointing toward the ceiling and looks around the room—“on Thursday, you will present your poem to the class. But you will not just read your poem. No, no. That’s boring.” Miss Reynolds laughs. “You’re going to present the poem you and your partner write about a famous person in a way that represents those favorite parts from each of your personal poems. You can perform together if that works, or split the poem into two parts and perform separately. Your choice.”
The class stares. Miss Reynolds stares back at us, her mouth open in an excited O like she’s waiting for us to cheer or something. “So you’ll be using something about you to share something about a person from history!”
Again. Silence.
“Here, I’ll give you an example.” Suddenly, Miss Reynolds is in front of me, whisking my poem away and reading the part Jane circled. “‘I’m from the slow build of piano chords, guitar strings, and a trio of voices.’ Oh, that is lovely.” She holds up my piece of paper. “So, Kate here could sing for her and Jane’s presentation.”
My heart starts beating super fast. “No,” I whisper. But Miss Reynolds doesn’t hear me. She’s still talking.
“Presentations will be on Thursday; you’ll have the next two days to research, write, and plan together. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
The class begins murmuring, partners leaning their heads together. Jane picks up her poem. “So you’ll be singing. Maybe I can …”
I shake my head. “No. No way.”
“But the poem made it sound like … you like to sing?”
I can’t help thinking of Mom and Dad and me crowded into the music room, laughing and singing.
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you.
I shake my head, and the memory disappears like someone threw a rock through the window.
But before I can say I don’t sing anymore, Sofia is next to me. “Are you really going to sing?”
I open my mouth but no sound comes out. I want to say yes. If it means Sofia will stand by my desk and talk to me and look at me like she thinks I’m awesome again, I want to sing.
Maybe it’s like Sofia said about wishing and praying. It never hurts to try everything. Not when it’s important. Everything includes things you don’t want to do.
“Um, I guess so.”
Sofia bounces a little. “Yes! I can’t wait.” Then a little quieter. “If you’re singing again, you can totally do the next musical with me and Marisa.”
“Oh, yeah. You and Marisa.”
Everything goes blurry except Sofia waving at me and then walking back to Marisa, who gives me a quizzical look.
Suddenly, the intercom buzzes. “Miss Reynolds?” comes Miss Williams’s voice.
“Yes?”
“Will you please send Katherine Mitchell to the office?”
“She’s on her way.”
It’s Dad.
It has to be.
He’s come to take me home. The blurry brain fog clears immediately. I jump up, grab my poem, and practically skip out of class. Maybe I will be able to sing again. Maybe this is like that moment at the end of a fermata, when you’re not sure your voice can hold out much longer, but then finally, you get to breathe and the music moves forward again.
Chapter 11
I walk through the halls as fast as I can without getting in trouble. Once the office doors are in sight, I search for any sign of Dad—his A’s baseball cap with the red stain, anything. But all I see is frizzy white hair, a purple dress, and a big gold bag.
“Grammy,” I say as I walk in. The doors that lead to the rest of the school buzz as they lock automatically behind me. “What are you doing here?”
When she turns around, I can tell she’s not at the school. Not really. She’s lost somewhere inside her brain. Her eyes are wide and she taps the ends of her fingers together. “Kate,” she says. “Oh, Kate. Is this the post office? I thought this was the post office, and I have this letter.” She opens her gold bag. “It’s somewhere in here.”
Miss Williams slides a white envelope across the counter. “It’s right here, dearie.”
I don’t like how she says dearie. Like Grammy’s a child or something. “This is my grandma,” I say.
“I was hoping that was the case. Otherwise, I would have had to call the police. She mentioned a phone call from Kate and the name on the letter is Anthony Mitchell. I put two and two together and I’m glad I was right.”
Grammy snatches the letter back from Miss Williams. “That is my personal mail. It’s very important. I just … And she won’t mail it!” Grammy points at Miss Williams. “I need to get this letter to Tony. I need to get it to him today!”
I take the letter out of her hand and look at the name written across the top of it in big curvy letters.
Anthony Mitchell.
Dad. There’s no address underneath. Just empty space and the invisible question: Where is he?
“He needs it,” Grammy whispers. “He needs to know I love him.”
I run my finger over that spot where an address should be, the spot that should be filled with my address. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll make sure he gets it. I promise.”
“I don’t want you making sure he gets my letter,” says Grammy. “This woman should make sure he gets my letter. It’s her job. This is a post office after all.”
“No, Grammy. You’re at my school.”
“Oh.” Her eyebrows unscrunch and she looks around the office. “Oh. Oh, yes.” She takes the letter back. It shakes in her hands. “I … I think I need to go home.” She stuffs the envelope back into her purse. “I’m so sorry,” she says to Miss Williams. “So, so sorry. I can be such a silly old woman sometimes.”
“It’s quite all right, dear.”
Grammy opens the office door to leave.
“Wait!” I walk up to Miss Williams and whisper, “Can I walk her home? Just in case?”
“I’ll need to call your mother to get permission.”
After Miss Williams hangs up the phone with Mom, she says, “Your mother will meet you at home, Kate.”
A few minutes later, Grammy and I are outside. The morning fog has burned away somewhere up in the sky, and the sun shines bright and white. We pass the bus stop where a mom with a baby is waiting. The bus here loops all around the edges of town, which are covered with orchards and farmland, and then turns into the center, where the businesses and stores are, to drop people off at supermarkets and the post office.
“Oh my,” Grammy says as we cross the street. “That was embarrassing.”
“It’s okay. Miss Williams is nice. She doesn’t care.”
“She treated me like a baby.”
“I know. I didn’t like that either.”
Grammy sighs and puts her arm on my shoulder. It’s kind of a hug, but also kind of a help, so she can step over the curb and back onto the sidewalk. We walk by Mr. Harris’s almond orchard. The branches are filled with white flowers and his bee boxes
are out by the side of the road. When the wind blows, flower petals float down and bees buzz past. I remember how Dad used to say it was the closest thing to snow the valley would ever see. I reach out and catch one of those snowflake petals in my hand.
“Kate, what happened to your hair?”
I don’t remind Grammy that I’d talked to her about it before on the phone. Telling someone they’ve already heard something doesn’t help them remember any better.
“I got gum in my hair when I was trying to spy on Sofia with her new friend, Marisa.”
“Spying? Good heavens, child, this isn’t the Cold War. Why were you spying?”
I sigh and tell her everything about Sofia and Marisa. I don’t know if it’s harder or easier to tell things to someone who is going to forget everything you say. On one hand, I never have to worry about Grammy telling anyone else. On the other hand, it’s sort of like when we ran out of clean washcloths and I tried pouring water over one of mom’s special dusting rags. It just rolled off in big old beads.
“Sounds like you need some magic,” says Grammy.
“Yeah, that’s what you said on Friday.”
Grammy chuckles. “Well, a broken clock is right twice a day. And I’m right about this.”
“Like rabbits out of a hat?”
“Oh, no,” says Grammy. “That’s not real magic. That’s tricks and sleight of hand. I’m talking about Everyday Magic.”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe in magic.”
“That’s too bad,” says Grammy. “It only works if you believe in it. That’s the first rule of Everyday Magic.”
We get to the house, with the gravel driveway covered in weeds, waiting for Dad to come home and pull them. Grammy opens the front door.
I don’t think I believe her. This is all probably just a part of Grammy getting older and her brain not working how it used to. But her eyes sparkle the way they do when she’s really in her mind and seeing me, so I keep her talking. It’s nice to have her actually be here. “How does it work? How would it help with Sofia?”
She taps her chin. “Well, when I was younger, my best friend, Alice, was mad at me for kissing … oh, what was his name? It doesn’t matter. I made her a magical gum-wrapper necklace and said sorry. We went right back to being friends again. Just like it never even happened.”
“That doesn’t sound like magic. That sounds like making up.”
“Hmmmm.” Grammy sets her gold bag on the floor. “That is one way to look at it. But I think forgiving someone is a special kind of magic.”
I can’t help wondering, though. If Grammy believes in magic and if forgiveness is a special kind of magic, why hasn’t she used it on Dad yet? I cross my arms. “I still don’t believe it.”
“Well, if you don’t believe it, you’ll never see it.”
Chapter 12
Grammy walks to Dad’s office and opens the door. “I think I’m going to lie down,” she says. “All the excitement wore me out. Thanks, Kate.”
As soon as the latch clicks, I go into the kitchen and pour myself a bowl of cereal. I can’t help thinking of what Sofia said to Marisa. Something Kate and I used to do … Kind of silly.
I know what Sensei would say about those thoughts. The same thing he said to me on Friday when I was so tired from the jumping side kick. Do not focus on the pain. Focus only on the next move. But I still don’t know what my next move should be when Mom walks in the door. I step out of the kitchen to greet her. She throws her keys in her purse, kicks off her heels and says, “Where’s Pat?”
“She’s in bed.”
“Oh, good.” Mom shakes her hair out and pulls it into a ponytail. “Sounds like I need to find someone to come in and watch her immediately.”
“Watch her? Like a babysitter?”
Mom nods and takes out her earrings.
“Grammy’s not a little kid.” In my mind, I hear Miss Williams calling her dear again.
“No, but she needs help. What if she didn’t walk into your school but went somewhere else, and we didn’t know where she was?”
“She would’ve remembered eventually,” I argue. “She doesn’t want to be treated like a baby.”
Mom pulls me into a hug and strokes my head like I’m a lost kitten. I stay stiff against her arms. “Oh, Katydid, this is all part of the … What is in your hair?”
“Gum. Remember?”
“Oh, yes.” Mom nudges me back into the kitchen. “What are you doing with chewing gum? Isn’t it against school rules?”
“It wasn’t me. I was on the ground and sort of fell under a desk—”
“Why were you on the ground?”
I sigh and mumble, “I was … spying.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “On who?”
“Sofia and Marisa.”
“Who’s Marisa?”
“Sofia’s new friend. They had a sleepover together on Friday.”
Mom walks to the cupboard and opens it. “Why were you spying on them?”
“Because … well, I said something mean about Marisa and I knew she was mad at me and I thought maybe she was saying mean things about me to Sofia.”
Mom sighs. She stands on her tiptoes to reach for the jar of peanut butter on the second highest shelf.
The peanut butter used to be on the highest shelf. Every time we needed it, she’d call Dad in to help her get it down. He used to walk into the kitchen, flexing his muscles.
“Stand aside; let your man help his damsel in distress.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed him away. “I don’t need any help. I’m an independent woman!”
We don’t put anything on the top shelf anymore.
“Katydid, do you remember when I ran Mayor Gerton’s very first campaign?”
I shrug. I know where this is going. Another one of Mom’s public relations lessons. Everything in life is about public relations.
She sets the peanut butter on the counter and puts her hand on my shoulder. “The last mayor, the guy we were running against, ran a really nasty campaign. Lots of attack ads all over the place. But do you know what we did?”
I shake my head.
“We spoke only in positive terms. Didn’t run a single negative ad. And people responded. Obviously. We won in a landslide.” She takes her hand off my shoulder and points at me; that’s how I know she’s about to tell me the lesson I’m supposed to learn from all of this. “You catch more flies with honey. Not vinegar. Mean and nasty attacks are not the way to make sure Sofia’s still your friend.” Her voice softens. “You’re better than that.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I really am. Mostly because of the gum in my hair. But also a little bit because I can’t help thinking about Sensei, and how kindness is strength—and today I wasn’t kind or strong.
Mom wraps her finger around a piece of my hair above my shoulders. “Friends are a tough thing,” she says. “I remember those days.” I can tell she’s about to launch into another of her therapy talks where we hash out our feelings and discuss everything over and over, around and around. It makes me tired just thinking about it.
“Mom. I don’t …” I shrug. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Her mouth hangs open for a second before she shakes her head and unscrews the lid. She takes out a great big sloppy goop of peanut butter, and spreads it right over the bubblegum. She goes on picking and slicking for a minute before wiping off her hands and asking, “So how was the rest of school?”
“I wrote a poem.” I pull the folded-up paper out of my pocket.
Mom twists her finger around the gray patch of hair near her ears as she reads it. Finally, she sniffs and says, “That is really lovely. Truly, Katydid.” She reads it again and then points at the part Jane circled. “Why are these lines marked?”
“That was Jane’s favorite part.”
Mom sets my poem on the counter and rests her elbows on either side of it, leaning way over. “Mine, too.”
“That’s the problem,” I grumble. “Now I’m su
pposed to use the part of me mentioned in those lines to do a presentation.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Everyone … Sofia … they want me to sing.”
Mom’s mouth forms a silent O.
I take the paper back and smooth it out again, thinking that if it was a year ago, this wouldn’t be a problem. A year ago, I could still pick up that guitar in my room and run my thumb across the strings. A year ago, that was the easiest way to get Dad’s attention.
“You playing?” He asked, poking his head inside my bedroom.
I nodded. “I’m tinkering.”
“May I join you?”
“Mmmhmmm.” My tongue stuck out between my teeth as I tried to lay my pointer finger flat across all the strings. I strummed a chord, but it came out buzzy and off pitch, and I growled. “I can’t get this bar chord!”
“Ah, yes. When you can do that, you’ll know you’re a real guitar player.”
Dad took his guitar and played the chord like it was the easiest thing in the world. “You just need to grow a little more.”
“I don’t have time for that.”
“Sure, you do. But don’t grow up just yet, okay?” And then his fingers started plucking a familiar set of four notes—ba-dada-dum, ba-da-da-dum—like a rolling wave, and I knew our favorite song was coming. He sang in a voice that was almost a whisper. “So shut your eyes while daddy sings of wonderful sights that be. And you shall see the beautiful things as you rock in the misty sea.”
My fingers tap the rhythm of that song. “Part of me … wants to sing.”
Mom says too fast, “I wish you would.”
But then I remember the almost crying on Friday after karate when I played that E-minor chord on Dad’s guitar. The way all my sadness stayed squarely where it was, not even budging a little bit, and my eyes burned hot and blurry.
I shake my head. Mom wouldn’t understand. She likes to cry. She watches sad movies some nights and before she starts them says, “I just need a good cry.”
A few minutes later, Mom’s just barely finished rinsing all the peanut butter and gum out of my hair when there’s a knock at the door.
“Who could that be?” Mom dries her hands and heads out of the kitchen. I’m getting off the counter when I hear her say, “Oh, Parker. Come in.”
The Three Rules of Everyday Magic Page 5