YOU: You’re saying love makes its own magic.
ME: Praise be. There is hope.
YOU: I think I’d like to take Stargirl 102.
ME: Stargirl 102 is the same subject matter, but from Starboy’s point of view. The lesson is: he must hear violins too, the same ones she hears.
YOU: He did. I did.
ME: Maybe so. But you also heard the drumbeat of others. And the drumbeat overpowered the violins.
YOU: I can change.
ME: I hope so.
November 19
I feel panicky. Only 32 days till Solstice and I don’t even know what I’m going to do. I wrote to Archie, asking him for ideas. Of course, there’s one thing I do know: the central event, the Moment of Moments, will be when the sun peeks over the horizon (pray for clear skies!). I will funnel that light into a hole in a tent—my mother is going to make it—and when it comes out the other side of the hole it will be a single golden spear of light.
But all else is a question. Where shall the golden spear land? There must be a ceremony, but what will it consist of? Who shall I invite? At that time of day, will anybody come?
O = (A)335 Ringgold(F)
November 20
I was about to enter Margie’s today when I saw Perry inside. He was sitting at the counter, talking to Neva. I kept walking up the street. I’m nervous about seeing him again. What should I say? How does he feel? I don’t want to hurt him, but I also don’t want to string him along.
The tent will be about the size and shape of my bedroom. My mother has oodles of dry goods connections and she’s found this material called Blackbone. It’s very tightly woven and coated and, like a dark window shade, it keeps light out. That’s what I want. I want it pitch-black inside the tent to dramatically set off the golden sunbeam coming through the hole. My mother says most people with ordinary sewing machines wouldn’t be able to work with Blackbone because it’s so dense, but her heavy-duty costume-making equipment can handle it. My mother is working from a tent plan drawn up by my father. He will also get poles and stakes from the lumberyard.
Except for a little limp and a scar over one eyebrow—and a tendency to smell tar in unexpected places—my health is back to normal. No small thanks to Dootsie. She keeps brushing my hair and humming homemade tunes to me. Sometimes she shows up with a little white satchel that says DOCTOR. She takes out a toy thermometer and sticks it in my mouth. She listens to my heart with her toy stethoscope; she closes her eyes and nods and murmurs, “M-hm…m-hm.” She gives me a glass of water and makes me take a pill (peppermint). For a while there, every time she saw me she took off my shoe and sock and gave me a foot massage. Though I surely enjoyed it, I had to put a stop to it the other day when we bumped into the Pringles at the Blue Comet diner and she tried to do it there.
November 21
Tomorrow is Thursday. Calendar Day. And I’m thinking the unthinkable. I’m thinking about not going. Because I’m afraid Perry will be there. I never expected such a complication to interfere with my Solstice routine.
November 22
I went, after all. Because I had a brilliant idea. I called Alvina. I asked her if she could sleep over and go with me in the morning.
“Will it get me out of school?” she said.
“Not really,” I said. “There’ll be plenty of time to get to school after sunup.”
“Then I’m not doing it,” she said with a snoot.
I groaned. “All right. You can stay home and hang out with me all day—but only if your mother says so.”
When she returned to the phone, she said, “My mom says it’s okay. She says it’ll be like a field trip.”
“Plus if you’re with me you won’t be getting into trouble.”
Alvina snapped, “Hey—how’d you know she said that?”
“I’m psychic.”
I only felt a little guilty. Her mother was right—this would be good for Alvina, not to mention give a little more of myself a chance to rub off on her. There was no need for her to know that she would also be running interference for me. If Perry did show up, I figured Alvina’s presence would keep things from getting too tense or touchy.
By last night I was regretting the whole thing—and wishing we had a bigger house with a guest room. Alvina slept with me, but she was no out-like-a-light Dootsie. She squirmed and kicked at me all night. I had no sympathy for her as I dragged her out of bed. I had to practically dress her. If it weren’t for her anti-Perry value, I would have left her under the covers. It was a sight, my mother and I both wrestling Alvina and trying not to let all three of us go flying down the stairs. Not surprisingly, Alvina wanted to curl up on the porch with my mom, but I dragged her off down Rapps Dam Road as thin snowflakes flurried in the porch lights.
Perry was not at the calendar. I was relieved but still wary. I swung my flashlight beam around. I kept expecting him to come walking out of the darkness, kept expecting to hear his voice. The cold had awakened Alvina as I could not. When she saw the arc of white markers she said, “Cool.” I explained the calendar to her. I told her that this was how prehistoric people located themselves in time, in the eternal cycle of the seasons.
I let Alvina pull out the rope. The flurries had stopped. We waited. The sky remained gray with high clouds. The sun, when it rose, was just a smudge, but it was enough. I quick dug the hole and Alvina planted the marker. She tamped the loose dirt with her fist. She coiled the rope back to the croquet stake. She stood there for a while, staring along the new sun line out to our star 93 million miles away. “Cool,” she said.
“Give me a minute,” I told her. I sat on the cold, clumpy ground. I turned my back on the smudgy sunrise so that I was facing west, facing you. I closed my eyes and I did something I’ve been thinking about: I sent you a message. A question. I hope you receive it.
Then I got up and we left.
Later, I took Alvina to Betty Lou’s for lunch. As I was about to ring the doorbell, Alvina said, “I’m not going in there.”
“Why?” I said.
“Because she’s a witch.”
“Who said that?”
“Everybody.”
“You listen to everybody? Doesn’t sound like you, Miss Don’t-Mess-With-Me.”
“She didn’t leave this house for years and years. Her face is all white and dusty, like chalk. She never opens the windows. There’s mold and slime all over. And cooties. It’s disgusting.”
“If it’s so disgusting, how come you bring her donuts every week?” I said, and rang the bell.
The door opened at once. Alvina flinched back. A hand came out and a crooked finger waggled to us and a creaky, creepy voice leered, “Come in, my children.”
I laughed. Alvina squawked and headed for the sidewalk. I grabbed the tail of her jacket and pulled her back and dragged her into the house. I stood behind her and wrapped my arms around her and made her face Betty Lou, who was her usual magnificent self in purple bathrobe and bright red slipper socks. “Betty Lou,” I said, “this is—”
Betty Lou interrupted, “I know who it is. The pip. Alvina. My donut angel.”
She held out her hand. Alvina put hers in her pockets. I snapped, “Alvina!” but Betty Lou laughed out loud. “That’s okay. I wouldn’t shake the hand of somebody with cooties either.”
I boggled. “You heard?”
“I saw you coming. I was at the door, listening.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Very interesting. So, Alvina, what else do they say about me?”
Alvina mumbled, “Nothin’.”
“Oh come on, Alvina. Don’t be such a wuss. If you don’t tell me, I’ll shake my hair and cooties will fly all over you.”
Alvina backed tighter into me. “There’s a dead body upstairs. You sleep with it. It’s your husband that died forty years ago.”
Betty Lou’s eyebrows went up. “I’m impressed. Seems I’m much more interesting than I ever realized.” She headed for the kitchen. “Well, come on in, you two. I have some cootie buns for
you.”
I kept hold of Alvina’s hand till we were seated at the kitchen table. Betty Lou brought out a treat I had never seen before. “Homemade sticky buns. Yum yum.” She passed the tray before Alvina’s nose. “And your choice—raisins or pecans.”
“Go ahead, take two,” I said.
“I’m not hungry,” said Alvina.
“Alvina—” I took her head in my hands and swiveled it around the kitchen. “Do you see mold and slime anywhere?”
Betty Lou play-slapped my hand. “Oh, let her be. If she’s hungry, she’ll eat. Nothing worse than being forced to eat, especially homemade sticky buns. Right, Alvina?”
Alvina glanced at the tray of buns. She nodded.
“In fact,” said Betty Lou, “I think I’ll warm them in the microwave. Warm sticky buns? Raspberry Zinger tea? Yum-eee.” She squeezed Alvina’s stunned face in her hand and put on a down-home accent: “Honey, it don’t git no better’n this.”
Soon the smell of homemade sticky buns filled the kitchen. She made Raspberry Zinger tea for herself and me. As she laid the warm tray of buns on the table, she made sure to pass it by Alvina’s nose. I was gagging on chuckleballs.
“So,” said Betty Lou, sitting down, “you can go upstairs if you want, see the body.”
Alvina shrugged. “That’s okay.” Then she looked straight at Betty Lou. “How come you never leave the house?”
Betty Lou’s finger shot into the air. “Ah, the inquisition.” She eyed Alvina slyly. “Okay, Donut Damsel, here’s the deal. You agree to eat one sticky bun—and I’ll spill the beans. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I’ll confess. I’ll squeal.” She held out her hand. “So, is it a deal?”
This time Alvina shook. As Betty Lou told the story—“The Abominable Agoraphobic,” she called it—including chapters on her reign as Dogwood Blossom and stuff even I had never heard, Alvina polished off the whole tray of sticky buns and three cups of Raspberry Zinger.
November 23
Day by day the voice that started as a tiny whisper has become louder and louder until this morning it woke me out of my sleep:
HE HASN’T TRIED TO CONTACT YOU SINCE
THAT DAY. IT’S BEEN MORE THAN A WEEK. GUESS
WHAT? MAYBE IT’S MUTUAL. MAYBE HE
DOESN’T LOVE YOU EITHER.
It comes as a shock. I feel:
a. Embarrassed (that it took me so long to see it)
b. Embarrassed, the sequel (for believing I was the only one not in love)
c. Insulted (how can he not love me?)
d. Relievede.
e. Curious (what happens next?)
November 24
Today I got the phone call I’ve been looking forward to for months. It was Betty Lou, squealing with joy:
“I have a mockingbird! Up on the telephone wire out back! Listen! I’ll hold the phone out!” I heard a window go up. I heard faint birdsong. “Hear?”
“I do,” I said.
“I’m so happy! My own mockingbird! I’m terrified it’s going to leave!”
“Try putting a sliced orange outside,” I said. “I hear they like that.” I thought of her problem. “Just toss it into the backyard. He’ll find it.”
“I will! I will!” Then a pause, a shriek. “I have no oranges!”
“I’ll bring some over.”
“Hurry!”
Had you guessed, dear Leo, what the mysterious equations were about? I lured the mockingbird from street to street, block to block, with oranges until we reached 335 Ringgold—Betty Lou’s address. Don’t ever tell her. I want her to think this is strictly between her and the mockingbird.
Days till Solstice: 27
November 25
I heard back from Archie yesterday. He says forget about history. Don’t worry about making my Solstice conform to descriptions in books. For thousands of years every culture and country and age has done Solstice its own way—why should I be any different? They’re all based on the same sun, the same earth, the same special dawning. It’s about time turning a corner. It’s about knowing that warm days will return, that there will be another planting, another harvest. It’s about rejoicing. It’s about people together. He underlined it: together.
The Perry Suspense is getting to me. Before, I was trying to avoid him. Now I’m antsy. I just want to get our next encounter out of the way so we can get on with whatever comes next.
November 26
So I rode my bike past the high school as the students were leaving. I didn’t see him. (I don’t know what I would have done if I did.) I went downtown. I checked in Margie’s. No Perry.
“And you can say goodbye to Neva,” said Margie. “This is her last day.” Neva was right beside us, wiping donut trays, but she was as quiet and somber as the first time I met her. Margie reached out and patted Neva’s tummy. There was a hint of sadness in her smile. “Baby time.”
Neva’s highlighted hair and glittery earrings seemed to mock her mood. When I said, “Congratulations, Neva,” she only nodded.
Don’t-know-when-to-stop me, I tried a question: “Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”
“Girl,” she muttered. Hard to believe this was the person who talked my head off two weeks ago.
“That’s nice,” I said brilliantly. I needed an escape remark. I added, “Well, it’ll be a nice Thanksgiving present,” and headed for the door.
Back outside, I resumed my search for Perry. I walked up and down Bridge Street. I bumped into two of the Honeybees. They tried to drag me into Pizza Dee-Lite, but I said I had somewhere to go. I rode over the canal to Perry’s place. I circled around Ike’s Bike & Mower Repair. I did everything but stop and knock on the back door. I rode home—mission unaccomplished—
And bumped into Perry on my front porch.
With Dootsie.
I parked my bike. Dootsie jumped into my arms.
“We were just looking for you,” he said. “Your mother said you were out, she didn’t know where.”
He was blushing. I had never seen that before.
“Just cruising,” I said. “Giving my ankle a workout.”
I felt his blue eyes on me, but I kept mine on Dootsie. She was fingering my eyebrow scar. A few days ago I had brought Alvina to Calendar Hill with me for protection. I wondered if Perry was using Dootsie the same way.
“So…hanging out with first-graders, huh?” I said.
He chuckled, shrugged. His usual breezy glibness was gone. He was uneasy.
Dootsie tapped my nose. “He likes you.”
I tapped her nose. “Of course he likes me. And I like him. That’s what friends do, they like each other.”
She wagged her head. “No, silly. I don’t mean that. I mean”—she cupped her hands and whispered in my ear—“he likes you for a girl friend.”
“Oh really?” I was wondering how to turn this conversation in another direction when my father’s milk truck pulled into the driveway. He came out with an armload of tent poles and stakes. He clattered past us into the house and was back on the porch in a minute, scowling at me.
“Well, Miss Hospitality, there’s already two things you didn’t do. You didn’t introduce me to your friend”—he nodded at Perry—“and you didn’t ask them to come in out of the cold.”
“I’m her friend too,” Dootsie protested.
My father took her from me. “You need no introduction. You’re famous.”
I introduced my father to Perry and invited them into the house. Sometimes life goes its own way and drags you along.
As soon as Dootsie took off her winter coat she pulled up her shirt and yelped, “Look!”
My heart sank. It was a tattoo. Black and yellow. A honeybee. On her little belly proudly bulging.
I glared. “Really, Perry, this is taking robbing the cradle to a new low.”
Perry was all flustered innocence. “Hey—she wanted it. I made her ask her mother. It washes off. No big deal.”
Dootsie fished into her pants pocket and c
ame out with a paper tattoo. She thrust it in front of me. “For you!”
“No, thank you,” I said, still glaring at Perry. “I don’t do dandelions. Or harems.”
It was written all over Perry’s face: This was a bad idea. He repeated weakly, “It washes off.”
“Right,” I said, taking the tattoo from Dootsie and flipping it over to him, “but not everything washes off, Mr. Delloplane.”
I’m not even sure what I meant by that, but it sounded good. And then my mother was trailing cooking smells into the living room and inviting the two of them to join us for dinner, and I wanted to shout, No! but instead found myself telling Dootsie to call and ask her mother.
For dinner we had spaghetti and meatballs—veggie-burger balls for me. Dootsie kept my parents in stitches.
My father drove Dootsie and Perry home—Dootsie insisted they ride in the milk truck, not the car. As my mother and I cleaned up the dinner table, she said, “So…Perry…”
“Mm.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Not really.”
“No?”
“No. I thought he might be. Might become. But no.”
“So…what?”
“Friend. I think. I hope. Once I get over being mad at him. He’s a pretty neat guy.”
“And Leo?”
“Leo’s still”—I nodded toward the window—“there.” I patted my chest. “Here.”
She smiled, kissed me. “I’m glad Dootsie’s in your life.”
“Me too.”
“Little sister you never had.”
I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.
November 27
I need a break from the Perry thing. I went to see Charlie at the cemetery. He was nodding off in his chair. As I was walking my bike away I heard, “Hey!”
“Didn’t want to wake you,” I said.
He inserted his hearing aid. He pulled his thermos from under the chair. He twisted off the red plastic cup, thrust it at me. “Hot chocolate.”
“No thanks,” I said.