Tell Me

by Joan Bauer

  I bounce from side to side, say, “All rigghhhht . . . the band is here . . .”

  All of them grin except for one pretty blonde girl who is taller than the rest. She walks up to me.

  “Who are you?” she demands.

  “Ease up, Caitlin,” a boy says.

  “Who are you?” she says, like I didn’t hear the first time.

  “Anna McConnell. Who are you?”

  She looks shocked, like I’m supposed to know. Hands on her hips. “I’m Caitlin Crudup!”

  Hands on my hips, or my stem, actually. “Welcome to the library.”

  She marches past me. The band goes to talk to the genius.

  Now more people are coming into the library. I’ve got a good crowd. That always gives me energy. I’m feeling strong, I’m touching hearts, but it’s hot in this suit.

  The genius walks over. “Okay, that was good. You’re hired—for no money.”

  I smile. Welcome to community theater.

  “We need you back tomorrow morning, starting at ten. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And, look, that girl Caitlin, she’s like that. She’s the lead trumpet player.” He whispers the next part. “Her dad owns half the town. Don’t worry about it.”

  I nod.

  He smiles. “I’m Ben. I’m on drums.”

  The band walks by. Caitlin glares at me like I’m crawling with bugs.

  If I were dressed like a daisy I’d probably keep my mouth shut, but I’m not. I push the pink petals out of my eyes. “Caitlin, if you knew me and decided you didn’t like me, that would be okay. But you don’t know me. I just got to town, so give it a break.”

  Her face turns cranberry red.

  The band loves that.

  Caitlin storms off.

  Ben laughs the hardest. “Nice one, Petunia.”

  I wonder what happens when you insult the spoiled-brat daughter of the richest man in town.

  Seven

  Mim left her meeting and sent Burke to pick me up.

  I have a feeling I made a mistake with Caitlin—she doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who lets things go. I lean back in the passenger seat of the Flower People truck. “So, Burke, I keep hearing about this guy, Coleman Crudup.”

  His face gets tight. “You’ll hear more, I’m sure.”

  “You know him?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  I drum my fingers on the door. “So, what’s he like?”

  Burke points a finger at me. “Stay away, Anna. He’s not a good guy.”

  I bite my lip. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I do.” He drives up a winding road that gets narrower. “And it just so happens . . .”

  Now a huge house appears—it’s yellow with white shutters, three stories tall with a wraparound porch filled with plants and wicker furniture. The front door looks like it’s built for a giant. There are balconies by the windows and three chimneys on the roof.

  Burke pulls by the locked gate. “That’s one of Crudup’s houses.”

  “How many does he have?”

  “A few around here, and at least one on an island somewhere.”

  “Wow. He’s rich.”

  “Money-wise he’s rich, but not in any other way.”

  I nod. I get the difference. “I met his daughter. She doesn’t like me.”

  Burke smiles. “I’d take that as a compliment.” He backs the truck up. “Come on, I want to show you something else.”

  It’s long and gray, at least a block long, and it doesn’t have windows. The roof is rounded and trucks are parked outside.

  “It used to be an old airline hangar,” Burke explains, “but now . . .”

  We go through the huge doors.

  Oh, wow!

  This is where the floats are being decorated for the parade.

  “In a week we’ll have so many volunteers, you won’t be able to move in here.”

  There’s scaffolding everywhere—a few people are high up on it, decorating, painting.

  Burke points to a float in the corner. “That’s for the library. They’re going to have a twenty-foot bookworm covered in flowers.”

  Fun!

  “And over there is the middle school jazz band float.”

  It’s not as big as the others, but still. I walk with Burke past all the floats. There’s yellow caution tape around some of the areas. A lady climbs up a ladder and waves at Burke.

  “The flowers go on the last few days,” he explains. “If we put them on too early—they’ll die.” He touches the float we’re passing. It says CACTUS CHARACTERS on the side with prickles coming out of the sign.

  “They just grow cactuses,” Burke explains. “No flowers.”

  A man working that float raises a paintbrush. “Cactuses have flowers, boy.”

  “You’re right, sir.”

  “We’ve got four hundred and sixty-three of them showing up.”

  Burke grins. “That’s going to be great, Mr. Burley.” He tells me, “You won’t even recognize these floats by parade time. People work day and night.”

  “Where’s Coleman Crudup’s float?”

  Mr. Burley says, “Crudup thinks he’s above it all. He doesn’t want people to see his design till the parade.”

  Burke looks up at the scaffolding. “Crudup doesn’t get it, Anna. When my family first moved to town, I volunteered as one of the decorators. It’s hard to explain what happens. People come from all over to help decorate the floats. They don’t get paid, but they get to be part of something special that gives a lot of people happiness.”

  I look at the middle school jazz band float. There’s a big note on a musical staff rising above the stage. The words above it say MIDDLE SCHOOL BLUES. That’s cool. I want to work on that one.

  I bet Caitlin will have a few words to say about that.

  Maybe it was the petunia thing or what I said or didn’t say, or maybe she doesn’t like medium-height girls with curly hair, or maybe she’s just a major-league mean girl that I should avoid like food poisoning.

  Dad told me if he didn’t respect someone, he didn’t care if they liked him or not.

  I want people to like me. Actors need this.

  So, if I were Caitlin Crudup, what would I be about?

  I shake that thought from my head. I don’t want to think about Caitlin. But it doesn’t want to leave.

  If I were Caitlin Crudup . . .

  I’d be used to getting my own way.

  I’d want to always be in charge.

  I’d probably know that not everyone likes my father. Lots of people don’t, probably.

  I know what that’s like—just a little.

  And then this thought comes . . .

  If I were Caitlin Crudup, maybe I wouldn’t even like my father.

  Or maybe she’s exactly like him.

  That’s probably it.

  I don’t like the way my dad is acting these days, but I know what he can be, and I’m not giving up on that.

  I don’t know what to do about it, but I’m not giving up.

  We’re heading back to Mim’s. Burke stops the pickup at a stop sign on a narrow road.

  “Oh!” I say.

  Out from behind the trees walks Zoe with Taylor in the saddle. Taylor waves at us. Burke gets out, grinning.

  “Hi,” he says to her, still grinning.

  “Hi.” She looks down. This girl is so pretty, but not as pretty as this horse.

  I can’t stay in the truck. Zoe and I are connected. I walk slowly toward Zoe, not paying attention to anything else.

  “Hi, girl,” I say.

  Zoe swishes her black tail. “Take a couple steps back,” Taylor tells me. “It shows respect. Let her invite you in.”

  I do this. Zoe turns
her head toward me. I look at Taylor.

  “Be specific in what you tell her, Anna.”

  “Okay. Zoe, I’m going to walk up to your side now and pat you.”

  Zoe looks at me with the softest eyes.

  “We’re already friends,” I remind her. “All right, I’m walking now.” I do this slowly. “That’s a girl.” I put my hand on her side. “I’m going to rub you.” And I do this. “Does that feel good?”

  Zoe cocks her head at me.

  “You’re going great,” Taylor says. “Nice and easy. She was shot by a hunter. It was an accident, but she was really skittish for a while. I worked with her for a year.”

  I can’t stop patting this horse. “She’s so beautiful.”

  Taylor looks down. “Anna, here’s what you need to know about a horse. They’re just like us. They know when you love them.”

  That’s the coolest thought.

  Taylor gives me an apple. I hold my hand out, and Zoe takes it. And I don’t know why, but I just feel the mess with my dad right now. Zoe shakes her head, flares her nostrils, and backs up.

  I back up, too.

  I look at Taylor. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, she picks up on moods.”

  I stand there trying to not be moody.

  “You’ve had your Z moment. Don’t worry, you’ll have more.” Taylor makes a clicking sound, and she and Zoe walk across the road and trot up the path on the hill.

  Burke stands there watching, smiling.

  He stands there longer than is necessary, in my opinion.

  A car comes up behind us and starts honking.

  Burke jumps into the pickup. I get in, too.

  I take out my phone and send this to Lorenzo and Becca: I’ve had my Z moment.

  Lorenzo writes back: Zorro?

  Better than Zorro.

  Becca: You went to a zoo?

  No cages here—everything is free! I miss you guys.

  Lorenzo writes: Good!!

  I look at the plastic rhino on Mim’s bookcase. It’s got teeth marks on it—from Bean, probably.

  “Rhino, I used to play with you. Do you remember?”

  I inhale through my nose, throw my voice. “I remember,” I make it say.

  “Life was simpler then,” I tell the rhino.

  Another nose inhale. “Tell me about it.”

  When you can throw your voice, you’re never really alone.

  But I could sure use a friend in this town.

  I put the rhino down, stand in front of the full-size mirror, cock my head, make a rubber face.

  I raise one eyebrow, put it down.

  I push back my hair and wiggle my ears. I’m rusty at this.

  I get close up to the mirror and wiggle my nose. This is close to my best trick.

  I stand on one leg, then the other.

  Mr. Dez always told us, “The world doesn’t need more cookie cutter people!”

  I stand there looking.

  I go deeper.

  I see a girl whose dad needs to sit on his anger and he can’t.

  I see a girl who wants to be home and wants to be here at the exact same time.

  I flop into the hugging chair and try not to think about my life.

  Mim comes in. “Are you singing much these days?”

  “Not really.”

  “Winnie said that the girl who was singing with the middle school jazz band has to have her tonsils out. The band needs a singer.” Mim looks at me.

  I go deeper into this chair.

  “And, not that it’s my place to volunteer you . . .” Mim says.

  “You always volunteer me!”

  “So I’m staying in character, but I did mention that you can sing.”

  “I don’t really sing!”

  “You sang when you delivered the “I’m Sorry” bouquet. And I distinctly remember you as a singing radish. You got a standing ovation.”

  That was one of my best moments ever.

  “Winnie said she’d let them know.”

  “Mim!”

  “How can it hurt to let them know?”

  Caitlin Crudup jumps to mind. She doesn’t want me anywhere near her.

  Mim’s phone rings. She walks out of the room saying, “Doria, Coleman Crudup’s placement in the parade is number seven, also known as last. And, no, he cannot pay for his daughter to lead the parade. This parade is not for sale!”

  Morning. Eight twenty. I’m warming up my voice.

  Ah ah ah ahhhhhhhh ah ah ahhhhhhhhhh

  I go up one note.

  Ah ah ah ahhhhhhh ah ah ahhhhhhhhhhh

  Bean is in the bathroom holding his disgusting, mangy ball.

  “What?”

  Bean drops the ball. It rolls toward me.

  “I have to get ready. I have to be a petunia.”

  I put pink blush all over my face, pink lipstick. I put on mascara. Petunias need long lashes. I flutter my lashes.

  Don’t mess with me.

  Bean whines.

  “I can’t play with you in this outfit.”

  Ah ah ah ahhhhhhhhhhh ah ah ahhhhhhhhhh

  Honestly, I’m up to being a petunia. Not much else.

  Definitely not a singer.

  My phone rings. It’s Mom.

  “Hi.”

  “Well, hi.” She sounds like she’s trying to hold it together.

  “Have you broken any eggs?”

  That’s a joke. She doesn’t get it. “Oh, Anna, how are you?”

  Mom, you sound awful.

  “I’ve sort of got a job.” I mention the petunia.

  She half laughs. “You’ve got range, honey.”

  “Mom, you don’t sound too good.”

  “Well, I’ve been better.”

  Bean pushes his ball to me. I kick it back. He pushes it again.

  “Do you have time to talk, Anna?”

  “I’m supposed to be at the library, I can call and say I’ll be—”

  “No, we’ll talk later.”

  “Mom, did something happen?”

  She’s quiet.

  “Dad’s okay?” I say this louder.

  “Yes. We’ll talk later. I love you.”

  Call ended.

  But not really.

  My mind seems to be finishing all the sentences.

  She and Dad had an awful fight.

  They’re going to get a divorce..

  She wants me to come home.

  I suppose I could do that. I can hang out with Lorenzo.

  They’re selling the house.

  Peanut died.

  No, she would have told me right then.

  She’s got some terrible disease . . . or Dad does . . . or I do.

  Stop it, Anna.

  Eight

  “I hear you’re a singer,” Ben says.

  I shake my head. Petals fall in my face.

  “Winnie told me. Librarians don’t lie.”

  “I sing like anybody else.”

  I try hard to look like I mean it, but it’s hard to look serious in a puffy petunia suit. I head toward the front of the library.

  I’m not going to go round and round about my call with my mother.

  No hamster brain allowed. The show must go on!

  “We need a singer in the band,” Ben says after me.

  Run it by Caitlin first, okay?

  I pull down in my actor’s soul. Today I’m going deep as a petunia.

  The library doors open. Three little kids run in and instantly hug me.

  “Hey,” I shout, “this is the way to start the day!”

  We start dancing, and their mothers are smiling. More kids show up, more parents—in just a few minutes I’ve got a c
rowd.

  People take my picture.

  Puffy pose.

  A little girl comes up to me and whispers, “I didn’t want to come to the library, because my best friend said she hates me.”

  “That’s hard. I’m glad you came.”

  She goes to the children’s section, gets a book, and comes back to read it here.

  When you hurt you need people around you.

  “Yes, the library float has a bookworm.” That’s Winnie Dugan walking by on her phone. “It is not a tired symbol, Doria, it’s classic. We have a huge book decorated with roses and a reading tree. We’ll have one hundred mum plants decorating the staircase.”

  Winnie looks at me. I wiggle my nose. She smiles. She needed that.

  Back to the ever-growing group.

  “Petunia, will you read to me?”

  “Petunia, will you be my babysitter?”

  Three little boys, triplets, start twirling me around. I don’t even know how much time has passed, but all of a sudden I feel so tired.

  “You guys,” Ben shouts, “leave the petunia alone.” He points to the children’s room. They scurry in there.

  Ben hands me an iced tea. “Take a break, Anna.”

  I take off my petal hat and head outside. My hair is wet from sweating. I sit on the library steps next to the camel-shaped bush.

  I look at the camel. “How’s it going?”

  Voice trick time. “I’m thirsty,” it says.

  A boy asks me. “How did you do that?”

  “It’s a secret.” I do it again.

  A man and woman walk up holding hands; they smile at me.

  My parents used to hold hands.

  I drink my tea as an old van pulls up. A lady gets out, shouting on her purple phone, smoking a long cigarette. She’s not speaking English; she looks Asian. She puts on big white sunglasses.

  A man sits in the driver’s seat of the van. A girl is in the back looking out the window. I wave to her; she waves back a little. The man honks the horn, and the lady on the phone yells something at him I don’t understand. He yells back.

  I look at the girl in the van. My parents fight, too.

  The girl hits the window. The man shouts. The woman walks over, waves her cigarette at me. She’s wearing a hot pink shirt with a silver star.