I still wasn’t happy to be stuck in Denver, so dangerously close to Larimer High. But now that we had no car, nor any other means of transportation, I was relieved to find a place that was open and warm and welcoming. A place where Grandma Pat could rest, Tucker could eat as many waffles as he wanted, and Nola could sing her heart out, karaoke-style.
“Why are we just standing here?” Del grabbed the door handle, rolling his eyes as the rest of us stood shivering in the cold, staring up at Nola’s name in lights.
Riding on a wave of noise, the heavenly aroma of hot food washed over us the moment Del opened the door. I smiled as the thrum of laughter and the mellow sounds of slide-guitar and ukulele warmed me, ears to toes.
The inside of the restaurant was long and narrow, with booths along the walls, and tables and chairs jamming the center of the room, right up to the small karaoke stage. There was green shag carpet on all the walls, and the floors were wide planks of waxed pine.
The only brightly lit spots in the restaurant were the karaoke stage and the all-you-can-eat waffle bar. Both were festooned with pink and yellow twinkle lights, tiki torches, and colorful paper lanterns. Fake palm leaves and raffia streamers hung from the ceiling. A plaster volcano towered next to the doors to the kitchen, fake flames dancing from its crater.
We’d stepped out of the snow, into a wacky tropical paradise.
A paradise packed with people.
There was no hostess in sight, and no one appeared to have noticed our arrival. Everyone was too busy whooping and hollering, cheering loudly for the tall woman on the stage.
The woman had to be Laverne LaFlamme. She looked like the queen of the place. Lit by a web of spotlights, she wore a bedazzled, double-ruffled muumuu. A towering orange-and-yellow wig tilted precariously atop her head. Around her neck, she wore a lei of rainbow-colored silk flowers. She also had the longest false eyelashes I’d ever seen.
While we waited for someone to seat us, I watched Ms. LaFlamme, spellbound by her flamboyant glam and sparkle. Standing center stage, strumming a rhinestone ukulele, the restaurant owner belted out a song with a decidedly downhome Hawaiian-country flair. It was everything I’d always loved, and more.
“It doesn’t look like there’s any place for us to sit,” Samson said, his voice barely audible over the noise. I scanned the booths and tables. Samson was right; every seat in the restaurant was taken. There was a group of young soldiers dressed in tan-and-brown fatigues, with big duffel bags at their feet. They sat near a table of teenagers with crazy hair and piercings. Even at this late hour, families with young children, and men and women in business suits, crowded the restaurant. At the center of the room, a rowdy bunch of ladies were celebrating a bachelorette party. There was even a collection of old veterans in ball caps sporting military pins and patches with the names of ships and wars from days gone by.
The people inside the restaurant were from every walk of life imaginable, and they were all part of the party. Everyone was eating. Everyone was chatting. And everyone—everyone—wore the same rainbow-colored lei as Laverne LaFlamme, giving them all at least one thing they shared in common. Inside Volcano Laverne’s Hawaiian BBQ and Waffle House, it was like the blizzard, and the differences between people did not exist. Here, no one had to be alone during the storm.
As I looked around at the packed restaurant, hoping there was a place for us too, Laverne launched into her chorus:
We all ate red-eye gravy and poi,
Luau chicken and hominy grits—
“Aloha, kiddos! Good evening, ma’am! No need to lurk in the doorway.” Laverne paused her song, still strumming plink-plunkedy on her ukulele. With an encouraging wobble of her sky-high wig, the restaurant owner called out, “Be sure the door is closed behind you good and tight! We don’t want to invite mean ol’ Mr. Storm inside, do we? Come on in and sit a spell.” Then she hollered to the crowd, “Make some room, people!”
Laverne beckoned us inside, pointing us toward a space the bachelorettes were opening for us by squishing together and sitting double on their chairs. Our hostess put her lips right up against the microphone, paused in a breathless way that made the entire audience go quiet, and said: “For those of you who may have just walked in, I’m your hostess with the mostest, Laverne LaFlamme, and this here’s my place.” The crowd inside the restaurant went wild—some of the soldiers even stood up to cheer.
It was as if the car crash hadn’t even happened. Nola’s eyes sparkled with every light and sequin and bedazzlement. I could see her thoughts as clearly as if they’d been written in Twisted Tangerine across her forehead. Nola Kim was imagining that very same crowd cheering the very same way for her. Just as she’d always dreamed.
As soon as she finished her song, Laverne LaFlamme invited someone else into the spotlight. “Marine Corporal Vasquez. You’re up, sugar!” The chords of an all-new tune rose from a karaoke machine at the foot of the stage, and from speakers in every corner. While the soldiers raised another cheer, television screens lit up around the room, ready to display the lyrics to the next song. Shaking her hair loose from a tight, regulation bun, Corporal Vasquez slapped a few hearty high fives and jogged to the platform.
Laverne placed her ukulele in a clear plastic tub full of other playful instruments: kazoos, slide whistles, Boomwhackers, and tambourines. When she reached the hostess station, she grabbed a stack of menus and an armful of flower leis, batting her long eyelashes.
Grandma pushed aside her blanket and got shakily to her feet.
“I-I think I took a wrong turn somewhere. This isn’t the winter dance. Cleavon will never find me here.” Grandma turned in the direction of the door. But before she could take two steps, she teetered and swayed. Then she spilled to the floor, like a Hawaiian puka shell necklace with a broken string.
“STOP YOUR FUSSING! THERE’S nothing wrong with me.” Grandma slapped feebly at Del and me as we lifted her gently back into her wheelchair. Samson shot me a worried look.
“Mrs. B. is probably dehydrated. How did I not think of that?” Nola berated herself as she picked up Grandma’s blanket and tucked it around her. “Old people get dehydrated really quickly.”
“Who are you calling old?” Grandma snapped, adjusting her tiara.
Laverne looked us all up and down. Her warm expression radiated amusement as she took in Tucker’s face paints, Nola’s smeared makeup, and Samson’s leopard-print sling. “Woo-ee! It looks like you people have been chewed up, spit out, and stepped on.”
It was exactly how we all felt.
“Come on!” Laverne motioned for us to follow her. “I’ll put you kids and the Empress of Fierce”—she gave Grandma a long-lashed wink—“someplace quieter and more comfortable.”
As Corporal Vasquez belted out a song about love being a battlefield, we trailed after Laverne LaFlamme, making our way across the large, tropical dining room. With a swish in her hips and one hand in the air, the restaurant owner led us down a short hallway, past the restrooms. Laverne unlocked a door at the end of the narrow corridor and let it swing wide, revealing a set of stairs, going up.
“There’s nothing wrong with me! It’s just a leg cramp.” Grandma Pat continued to object, her hands flapping like the wings of startled mourning doves. “I don’t need all this trouble. Take me home! I’m missing my shows.”
“I’m sure these young folks would like to get you home as soon as possible, ma’am,” said Laverne. “Unfortunately, there is a storm outside that’s got everyone stuck. But you’re at my place now, where everyone is welcome. You can watch your shows on the TV in my apartment, sugar. I’ll work on getting you something to eat and drink so that you can get your strength back.”
“Waffles!” Tucker leaned forward to shout-whisper into Grandma’s ear. “Ask for waffles, Grammy.” Grammy. It was a term of endearment I’d never heard Tuck use before, and even though Grandma didn’t respond to it, Tucker
smiled as if she had.
The steps leading up to Laverne’s apartment were steep and narrow. I knew it would be a struggle to get Grandma Pat up them if she really did have a leg cramp. But Laverne fixed that problem in a snap. Startling everyone—my grandmother most of all—Laverne bent down and swept Grandma up out of her wheelchair. Then she carried Grandma up the stairs like she was nothing but a dress on a hanger.
“Okay.” Grandma’s voice floated down the stairs as the rest of us followed. “I’ll stay. But only if you can make a decent tuna sandwich, missy.”
“Waffles, Grammy!” Tucker reminded Grandma as he stomped up the stairs behind her. “I told you to ask for waffles.”
Laverne’s apartment was small, but it was colorful and comfy and warm, just like her restaurant. We quickly shed our coats and hats, admiring Laverne’s overstuffed chairs, the purple velvet sofa buried under a dozen throw pillows, and a musical-motion hula dancer lamp. One entire wall of the apartment appeared to be made of windows. But tonight the blinds were drawn, shutting out the storm that had its nose pressed to the other side of the glass.
Soon Grandma was settled deep into the sofa cushions. With her feet propped up on a satin hassock, and the television remote held high in her bony hand, Grandma really did look like an empress, reigning over Laverne’s TV, in her dress and her tiara. Once she had something to eat and drink, and found a show to watch, I couldn’t imagine anything in the world pulling her away from such comforts.
And yet, we were still in the city. Grandma was still in her party outfit. I couldn’t let myself relax.
When Laverne handed me her phone, I took a big breath and let Samson dial Momma’s number. Samson stood beside me as I held the phone to my ear. This time, Momma answered on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Momma. It’s me.”
“Gypsy! Thank goodness!” Momma exclaimed as soon as she heard my voice. “Where are you? Are your brothers all right? Your grandmother too? Samson left two messages, but—you know your brother—he said very little. I’m so sorry, Gypsy,” Momma babbled on. “I didn’t know my phone was off. I had a small problem with the car—heh.” She gave a short, self-conscious laugh. A laugh that teetered on the edge of hysterics. “But I’m back at Grandma’s house now. I should never have left you kids all alone and in charge of Grandma Pat. Tell me what’s happened.”
It didn’t seem right that Momma was the one apologizing, like it was somehow her fault we’d all gone missing while she was out. I knew, once she heard our story, she’d be demanding our sorries instead.
“We’re all safe,” I assured her, even though two niggling words kept hounding me: For now. We were all safe for now.
I told Momma the barest skeleton of our story, leaving out the bits I knew would upset her most: Tucker accidentally taking ownership of a kitten; me stealing a homeless person’s shopping cart; all of us removing Grandma from the safety of the medical center. And, of course, the total destruction of Mrs. Kim’s new car. Samson and I could tell Momma and Poppa those things later, together, when we were all face-to-face. With Momma stuck in Evergreen, and the rest of us trapped in Denver, it wouldn’t do any good to freak her out completely. Laverne spoke briefly to Momma too, offering her own grown-up assurances that we were safe. Then I ended the call with a cross-my-heart promise to stay in constant communication until we could find our way back to Evergreen.
When I hung up the phone, Nola said, “We don’t all have to stay up here with Mrs. B., do we?” She gravitated toward the door, like the music downstairs was a magnet and she was made of iron filings. “I mean . . . I could just sing one song, then come back up—”
“You wanna sing, sugar?” Laverne beamed at Nola.
“More than anything! It might be the last chance I get before my parents ground me for life, or worse. With the skills they have, they might surgically remove my vocal cords.”
“Singing is Nola’s dream,” Samson told Laverne.
Nola clasped her hands and grinned at Samson like he was the first person who had ever truly taken her dreams seriously. If she had been a cartoon character, a halo of red and pink hearts would have appeared above her head and started spinning.
Nola’s reaction made Samson blush and look away. “Well . . . it’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“If that’s the case,” said Laverne, “let’s get you up on that stage, hon!”
“Yes!” Nola punched the air, then reached for her cosmetics case. “Just let me touch up my makeup first.”
“Stop, stop, stop!” Del shouted before Nola could unlatch the case. For a second, I thought Del was trying to stop time, even though he knew now that he couldn’t. But Del was only trying to stop any further makeover catastrophes from happening.
“I can’t stand by and watch this go down,” he told Nola, shaking his head. “My gran would never forgive me. You need to holster your lip liner and take a seat before you make a bigger mess of your face than it already is.”
Laverne chuckled, raising one finely drawn eyebrow of her own as she nodded her agreement. Putting one hand on Nola’s shoulder, Laverne gently led her to a tall stool next to the island in the kitchenette across the room.
“Just come down whenever you’re ready, sugar. We’ll fire up your tune of choice.” Before she left, Laverne disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a fresh package of makeup-removing wipes; she slapped them into Del’s hand the way a trauma nurse might slap gauze into a doctor’s palm on the front lines of a war zone.
“Tell me more of that tall tale, little big boy, while I search for my shows.” Grandma’s voice drew my attention as she and Tucker scrolled through the channels on Laverne’s TV. “I want to hear more about that girl who fell into the river and climbed out all sparkly and golden.” I was surprised Grandma wanted to hear more about our savvy ancestor, but Tucker happily began to tell the story for the second time that night.
“Okay, Grammy. Once upon a time . . .”
As Tucker and Cap’n Stormy nestled next to Grandma Pat on Laverne’s velvet sofa, telling stories and watching TV channels flip by, Nola looked at me and Samson, pleading wordlessly for us to stop Del from giving her a makeover. Neither Samson nor I made any moves to intervene. Samson slumped into one of Laverne’s overstuffed chairs and closed his eyes, still worn out from his fiery efforts to get Mr. and Mrs. Walker to the hospital.
“All right, I give in!” Nola said, shoving her cosmetics case toward Del. “But I’m trusting you. Promise you know what you’re doing? As artistic as Tucker’s face may be, I don’t want go onstage looking like a kaleidoscopic kitty cat. Don’t you dare give me whiskers!”
“Relax,” said Del. “All I’m going to do is take off those heavy black garage doors that have melted down your face. Then everyone will see the flashy sports car you’ve been hiding this whole time.”
Nola perked up at that.
As Del began to scrub the tear-smeared makeup off Nola’s cheeks and eyelids, I sat down on one of the stools next to them. I peered into the jumbled trove of Nola’s cosmetics case, bewildered by her collection of shadows and polishes, brushes and lipsticks, liners and applicators.
“Ooh!” I thrust my hand into Nola’s case and pulled out a small pump bottle of glow-in-the-dark glitter gel. The cloudy goo inside the bottle sparkled with specks of opal and silver and white, reminding me of the glimmer of moonlight on freshly fallen snow.
Without pausing to ask Nola’s permission, I pumped a big glob of the shimmering stuff into my hand, ready to slather it on my arms, or through my hair. But as soon as I felt the cold gel hit my palm, I remembered the way Grandma Pat had pulled her hand out of mine back in Evergreen, the way she’d used a glop of clear hand sanitizer to wash away any trace of savvy cooties I might have given her.
When I turned and looked at Grandma now, taking in her tiara and her gown, a different, more r
ecent memory filled my mind’s eye. I couldn’t savvy-see into the past, the way I could before the switch, but I knew I’d never forget the way Grandma had raised and lowered her arms under the moonlight, like an aged ballerina performing the last dance of the dying swan, while making upright snow angels in the storm. It might be one of the few magical memories I’d ever have of Patrice Beaumont. A memory as wonderful as any from the savvy side of my family.
Still holding the bottle of glitter gel, I got an idea that made me smile.
“. . . AND WHEN SHE got out of the water”—Tucker leaned his head against Grandma Pat’s arm as he continued the tale of our first savvy ancestor—“Eva Mae was covered in gold dust. Ha! She must have looked like a goldfish. Get it, Grammy? A goldfish?” As Tucker erupted into giggles, I knelt on the floor at the hem of Grandma Pat’s silvery skirts, careful not to block her view of the TV and make her cranky. I cradled a gooey puddle of liquid moonbeams in my palm, trying not to spill any of the glow-in-the-dark glitter gel I’d nicked from Nola’s cosmetics case. Using the tip of my finger, I began to dapple Grandma’s crinkly skin with the glittery goop, making her hands, forearms, and cheeks shimmer.
“What are you doing, Nettie?” Grandma looked at me as I reached up to add some sparkle to the wispy snow-white ringlets that framed her face.
“I’m just helping you get ready for the dance, Patrice,” I answered, happy to let my grandmother believe I was Nettie for as long as it took to apply the rest of the glitter. “It’s going to be sublime, remember? You want to look your best for your beau, Cleavon, don’t you?” I don’t know why I said it. The last thing I wanted to do was encourage Grandma to try to get to the imaginary dance. But I had my own motives for applying the glitter, and I wanted her to stay calm so I could finish.
When I ran out of glitter gel, I wiped my hands clean on my leggings, making them sparkle too. I carefully removed Grandma Pat’s glasses and cleaned them for her, wondering what she saw when she looked into the blur.