Roll with It

by Jamie Sumner

  “I understand that, Alice, but I think I can help if you let me continue working with her. I can show her a few more exercises, gentle ones, that can build up her strength.”

  “Mom, he’s the best PT I’ve ever had.”

  “Three more months,” Coralee pleads. “That’s all we want. Just let her finish out the semester before you decide.”

  “Come on, darlin’, you know when you’re outnumbered,” Grandpa shouts through the window.

  Mom walks to the edge of the porch. She stands there with her back to us.

  After a minute when nobody moves, she says, “Lord help me.”

  It’s all I need to hear.

  “Wahoo!” Coralee yells, and spins.

  Mema says, “That a girl!” and Grandpa slaps the table.

  Hutch just walks down the steps, nods at all of us, and says, “I’ll see you Monday, Ellie.”

  “Don’t look so disappointed,” I say to Bert, who’s standing there with his hands in his pockets.

  “Yeah, what’s eating you?” Coralee says.

  He closes the laptop slowly and picks it up. “I had twenty-eight more slides.”

  12

  Test Kitchen

  The first few weeks after I came back to school, everybody was really nice to me. Like, really nice to me. All the teachers talked to me like they talk to the soccer players when they come back from concussions.

  “Ellie, you just take it easy now. You get tired, you tell me.”

  “Ellie, Nurse Patsy has been made aware of your special circumstances. You go lie down anytime you need to.”

  “If you need extra time to get to class, Ellie, you just let me know.”

  It was super annoying.

  The only teacher that didn’t do it was Hutch. He even made me wear ankle weights to try leg lifts. He’s printed out all the exercises and made a binder I have to work through. I’ve never had homework in gym before.

  The students were weird in the beginning too.

  My first day back Sierra texted me at lunch: u want to eat w us?

  I looked up and she waved, and I half waved back. It was nice and all, but I couldn’t imagine going alone, and Coralee would probably set their table on fire, so I just said, nah im good. thx though, and waved again and she was fine with it.

  Later, in speech, she asked me for the recipe for the snowballs, and I wrote it down on the back of her English notes.

  Everybody’s mostly back to normal now that a month’s gone by and I haven’t collapsed in a puddle in the middle of the hallway. One good change stuck, though. People stopped looking over me and look at me now. It’s nice. Easy. I guess getting sick and disappearing for a while finally turned me visible. Or maybe it was the snowballs. Food is the universal hello.

  Now I’m in the kitchen and I’m practicing. I realized something while I was making the cookies in front of the class: I’m my best self when I’m baking. I’m patient and I’m not nervous and I’m good at it. And so now I’m trying to be great at it.

  The fish fry is coming up soon, and the big pie Bake-Off. I thought I’d have more time to prepare, practice my skills, but being sick sucked all the time away. And now this is the final part in the plan that I didn’t tell even Coralee or Bert. This is the final piece that will prove to Mom that we have to stay, past the summer, into seventh grade . . . maybe forever. It will prove I am more myself here and happier here than I could ever be in Tennessee.

  No pressure.

  For years I’ve had to listen to Mema tell me over the phone about the chocolate mousse or the cranberry apple or the double butter pecan that’s won. The winner gets a one-hundred-dollar gift certificate to Food & Co. and a big blue ribbon. It’s always some mama or grandmama who’s been baking her whole life, and it’s a recipe that’s been passed down for twenty-five million generations. It’s always a safe bet that wins.

  But not this year.

  This year I am going to be the youngest baker in history to win, and it’s going to be with something brand-spanking-new.

  Except I have no idea what to make.

  The counter is covered in cookbooks. Some are Mema’s and the pages stick together. Some are mine I brought from home—ones that used to be Mom’s that she never used. I’ve also got every single cooking app open on my iPad. Still nothing.

  Grandpa walks in and side-shuffles toward me with a whistle. He’s been in the garage doing his woodworking, and he smells like sawdust and oil.

  “You could catch flies with that mouth, baby girl. What are you thinking so hard about?”

  “I want to make something amazing for the pie contest.” I point to the books. “But everything’s already been made.”

  He walks over to the counter and flips a couple of pages. I see a bruise on his arm as big as a quarter. It’s plum purple and I wonder how he got it.

  “Well, as the Good Book says, there ain’t nothing new under the sun. Seems to me like you’ve got to pick what speaks most to you.”

  I think on that for a minute. He’s right, of course. The problem is, nothing’s talking at the moment.

  “Think of it this way,” he says, and drinks down a cold glass of water from the sink. “If you were a pie, what pie would you be?”

  I haven’t got the first idea. He sees my face and laughs and pats my shoulder on his way back out.

  “Don’t worry about it, Alice baby. You’ll figure it out.”

  He hasn’t called me Alice in weeks.

  13

  Bert’s Tiny Town

  It’s damp and dark, but I don’t reach out to pull the cord dangling from the light bulb. Nobody knows where I am. I wasn’t even sure my wheelchair would fit down the ramp.

  But it did, so I’m sitting in the quiet in the pitch black of the canning shed. I don’t need the light to know that rows and rows of mason jars sit on the shelves higher than I can reach. Mema’s set mousetraps everywhere, so I don’t hold out a hand. But I know what’s here. Beans and okra and tomatoes and peaches and blackberries and strawberries and apples and squash. Everything from the garden, waiting to be brought out into the light.

  Somewhere in here something’s got to speak to me.

  Or not.

  Because after twenty minutes in here, I still don’t know what in the world to do, so I back on out when I hear Mom calling and move on to plan B or C or W or whatever I’m on now. I get her to drive me over to Bert’s.

  We pull up, and I feel a little hesitant for a minute. I’ve never actually been inside his house. It’s beautiful, baby blue all around and white porches, like it could be on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. If Better Homes and Gardens ever featured a trailer.

  There’s no ramp, though, no way to get to the front or back door, so Mom has to go up and knock for me. Mrs. Akers steps out and gives Mom a big hug. I know Bert’s dad from years of shopping at Food & Co., but I haven’t met his mom before. She doesn’t look anything like I pictured, like Mrs. Claus or Mother Goose or whatever you look like after having thirteen kids. She’s tiny, with a neat gray bob, and she’s shouldering a satchel that looks a lot like Bert’s. I forgot she does all the accounting for Food & Co. I guess Bert gets his smarts from all sides. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but Mom nods and smiles and walks back to me as Mrs. Akers gets in her car and drives off.

  “Bert’s out back, honey. Want me to push you?”

  “Nah, I got it.”

  I roll across the grass toward the backyard before she can ask me why I needed an emergency visit to Bert’s. I didn’t tell her I was actually hoping to catch Mr. Akers.

  But when I come around the corner and into the yard, there’s nobody there at all. Just a few apple trees and a patch of weedy garden near a shed. I look back, but Mom has already disappeared down the drive.

  “Hello!” I yell, and a couple of birds shoot off from their spot on the telephone wire.

  The door to the shed creaks open and Bert’s head pops out. His hair is crazier than usual—like a Chia
Pet.

  “Ellie.”

  “Bert.”

  He looks embarrassed, like I caught him stealing or smoking or watching anything on the CW.

  “Uh, I was actually looking for your dad. I wanted to ask him a few questions about some spices he might have in the store. But, uh, I can come back.”

  “No. Stay.” He walks down the little ramp from the shed but then just stands there. I forget sometimes that without Coralee around, Bert can be hard to talk to.

  I rock a little in my chair. Some of the blossoms from the cherry trees land on my shoulder. Bert reaches down to pick them off, and I see he’s got something in his hand.

  “What is that?”

  He pulls it back and looks down, like he forgot it was there. We both look together. It’s a tree. A tiny tree carved out of clay, no bigger than a dime.

  “This is a blackjack oak, native to the Southwest, particularly here in Eufaula.”

  He holds it up an inch from my nose.

  I look closer. It really does look just like the trees all over town.

  He cups it and points to the shed. “Well, you’re here now, so I might as well show you.”

  He helps me up the ramp to the shed, and I see it’s bigger and brighter in here than I thought. There are windows at the back that let the light spill across the floor, or what would be the floor, if it weren’t covered in a teeny-tiny town. It’s like looking down from an airplane window.

  “This is Eufaula,” Bert says. He half smiles but won’t look at me.

  I lean down to get a better look. There’s the lake in the middle and an actual metal bridge that connects our side to the rest of town. I spot the church and our school, and back down by my feet is Bert’s blue house and also mine and Coralee’s. He even made a gravel path. The Dairy Queen up the road has an actual sign that lights up. Red Oklahoma dirt runs underneath it all.

  “Bert. This . . .” I can’t find the words.

  “I know, it’s frivolous, really. Just a bit of fun.” Uh-oh. He’s gone British. He rushes forward to block my view.

  “No, that’s not . . . It’s beautiful.” It’s not the right word. Maybe genius? Or epic? But it makes Bert calm down a little. “Move out of my way. I want to see it better.”

  He steps aside and points out the grocery and the Dollar General and the tiny cars crossing the bridge. I spot the Putt-Putt Emporium and something clicks.

  “You helped Bill and Will design the course, didn’t you?”

  He shrugs.

  “Why are you hiding this? It’s amazing!”

  I take the tree from his hand and study the leaves. Apparently, it’s autumn here. The leaves are all reds and yellows. He sighs and points to the corner, by the window. For the first time I notice the damage. The hills are smashed and cracked, like they were hit by an earthquake. Houses are toppled into the cracks.

  “Some guys at school found out.”

  “What do you mean ‘found out’?”

  “I stayed after history one day to ask Mr. Rollins if he had any old printouts of the town, and we got to talking about it. I guess word got out.”

  He won’t look at me. I turn back to the damage. It’s like a cake sunken in the middle and crumbled to bits.

  “Who did it?”

  “I’m not sure. But there were notes in my locker. ‘Dudes don’t make dollhouses, Roberta.’ Stuff like that. They smashed up a lot more of it, but I’ve been able to repair a good chunk so far.”

  “Didn’t you try to find out?!”

  Bert flinches. I didn’t mean to yell, but come on! I’m furious.

  “Look, Ellie, I don’t want a fight. I just—I just want to be left alone.” He takes his tree back and sets it in a patch of light near the lake. I reverse back out into the yard. I want to hit something.

  “It happened just before Christmas. It’s why I stopped riding the bus.”

  Oh.

  “Like I said, I’m working on fixing it. Dad ordered me new plaster, and the new blackjacks just came in to paint.”

  “Can I help?” It’s the least I can do if I can’t punch somebody.

  “You want to?”

  “Sure.”

  And so for the next two hours, we sit in the sun and I paint trees in greens and golds. The breeze is cool and we don’t talk. For a little while I forget about anything else but the tiny leaves. It’s like baking—a totally mesmerizing act of creation.

  14

  A Revelation

  I wake up with waxed paper stuck to my cheek. I fell asleep at the kitchen table last night after testing a gazillion recipes. It’s less than a week until the fish fry, and I’ve still got no clue what I’m going to do. And now I’m waking up to one less day, and the birds are tweeting outside like this is a Disney movie.

  I had that dream again, the one where I can walk.

  I wake up in my bed at home, but home is back in my pink room in Nashville. And instead of reaching out for my wheelchair like I always do, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed instead. Just like that, I am up.

  Mom is yelling from the living room to “get a move on it” or we’ll be late, and so I run down the hall into the bathroom. And this is the beauty of it all: I take a shower. I stand under the water and let it fall all down me and swirl around my toes. I look down and my legs are strong, like with actual muscles, and my kneecaps don’t stick out like knots on a tree. I start singing some Carrie Underwood song, which is proof this is a dream because, hello, country music is not my thing.

  And then when I come out, Mom is in the kitchen sipping coffee by the stove, and her hair is long again, and when I go to hug her, I can look right in her eyes because I am almost as tall. I am almost as tall.

  I hate that dream. Because most times the wheelchair just mildly sucks. But after those nights it sucks big-time.

  Mom walks in while I’m peeling the waxed paper off my face.

  “There you are! I can’t believe you slept in here.”

  “Yeah.”

  She takes in the jars of canned goods, the half stick of butter, the empty carton of eggs, the baking soda spilled down the side of the microwave.

  “Did you figure it out?”

  “Well,” I say, rubbing the crusties out of my eyes, “it’s not custard or caramel or almond or strawberry or chocolate or licorice.”

  “Licorice?”

  “I’m ruling nothing out.”

  “I’m not sure process of elimination is your best bet here, El.”

  Mom sweeps a big pile of eggshells into the trash under the sink.

  “If you have a better idea, you let me know.”

  “Hey, don’t get sassy with me now. You want me to help you with a bath?”

  “No.” The dream is still too real. “I’m going to lie down for a little bit.”

  “All right. We’ve got church at ten, though, and you know your Mema.”

  In church, I try a different strategy.

  Dear God,

  Please help me find the perfect pie, the one that’s the most me. Or at least give me a hint.

  And also, I know you saw that dream last night, because according to Genesis, you know just about everything. I want you to know that I’m not going to ask for that, okay? I’m not going to ask for some sort of miracle.

  But if I were going to ask for a miracle, would you please help Grandpa? I don’t mind the CP so much most of the time, but I think the stuff with Grandpa is driving him a little crazy. Or crazier. And I don’t mean that in a mean way. I mean, I think he’s tired of being confused, and I think maybe that might be worse than not walking? So I guess I’m asking, could you please make him better?

  And also help me with my pie.

  Amen.

  I don’t know if it was the prayer or what, but when we bow our heads for the benediction—the blessing at the end of the service—I get an idea.

  “You want me to rinse these for you?”

  It’s the day of the fish fry, and I’ve just put the pie
in the oven. If this one isn’t perfect, there won’t be any time for a re-do. Coralee is sitting on the kitchen table, smack on top with her legs crossed like she’s about to meditate.

  “No. Stay where you are. This kitchen is tiny enough as it is, and I need the space.” It’s also a thousand degrees in here, so I lean over her and open the window.

  “You think ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’ is a bad thing to sing in Oklahoma?” Coralee’s been practicing for a new pageant in July.

  I shrug. Four months in the state isn’t long enough to give me an opinion.

  “Oh well, I don’t care. I love me some Willie Nelson,” she says, and then hops down. “I’m off to get changed. See you for your victory lap.” She’s still humming when she passes Mema on her way out the door.

  “Well, this place has never smelled so good in my life. What you got in there, a slice of heaven?” Mema tries to peek into the oven, but I block her.

  “No. Uh-uh. You’ve got to wait for the big reveal like everybody else.”

  “All right, all right, Miss Thing. But as soon as that’s out of the oven, you’ve got to get yourself down to the bedroom. Your mama sent me to tell you it’s time to shower and change.”

  I stop to look at Mema. She’s like summer come early with her white capris and red-and-white checked shirt.

  “You look like a picnic table.”

  “Well, thanks a lot.” She fans herself with a big straw hat.

  “I meant that in a good way.”

  This is how I always remember her best—summer Mema, drinking tea out on the porch, frying up okra, planting bulbs in the flower beds, and chasing off the rabbits with water from the hose. On our last night every August, I’d make Mom sleep on the couch so I could fall asleep holding Mema’s hand. I never wanted to leave.

  And then it hits me as I roll on back to the bedroom. I might never have to.

  15

  Fish Fries and Pie

  All of us in Royal Oaks decide to caravan over to Bethlehem Methodist together. So at noon on the money, Mom and I pull into the church parking lot, followed by Mema and Grandpa in the Buick, and Susie, Dane, and Coralee in their old pickup. A minute later Mr. and Mrs. Akers and Bert pull in next to us.