Mrs. Darling is one of those mothers who loves to submit photos of her kid to the newspaper. Not every now and then. It's more like her second career. Heidi's entire life had been documented in the Nordby News, from her first tooth (Local Baby Bites Grocery Clerk) to her Girl Scouts cookie sales (Local Girl Declares New Peanut Butter Flavor Yummy), to her signature ponytail (Local Middle School Student Cuts Hair for Cancer Patients). You get the point. I'd been in the paper once, when the king and queen of Norway came to Nordby. You can pick me out of the crowd if you look for the tall girl with the neon blond hair standing in the third row near the statue of Leif Erikson.
Mr. Prince flipped through page after page of personal recommendations. Then through page after page of activities: Pep Club, Yearbook Committee, Dance Committee, French Club, Sophomore Class Treasurer, Future Business Leaders of America, Honor Society, Sons of Norway, Swim Team, Nordby Chamber of Commerce Student of the Month. Dizziness swept over me. The average brain can't handle so much data.
"Heidi's a sure thing," he said, closing the notebook. "She'll get into her first-choice college, no problem. I want all the students here at Nordby to go to the college of their choice. But you've got to be competitive, Katrina. You've got to step up to the plate.
Heidi's resume is not all that unusual."
"It's not?" He had to be joking.
"Students your age are publishing books, creating Internet businesses, setting world records."
"They are?" I sat back and took a huge breath, picturing my Closet of Failure.
"That's why you've got to get involved. Right away." He handed me a slip of paper.
"This will help you get started. It's a checklist of things that will give you a better chance at getting into college. Internships, apprenticeships, community service, those sorts of things. By the way, do you know what you'll major in?"
"No. Should I?"
He grimaced, as if thinking, This one's a total loser, poor thing. "It's never too early to set goals. What are you good at?"
Pouring coffee. Cleaning tables. Attracting weirdos in skirts.
"Nothing, really."
"Everybody is good at something."
"I'm not so sure that's true."
"Of course it's true." He pointed to a poster of a bunch of people dressed in various uniforms. Everybody Is Good at Something. "What about your friends. What do they like to do?"
"Well, Elizabeth takes lots of art classes. And she's won some awards."
"Excellent. You should take some art classes with her. Who else?"
"Well, Vincent swims and--"
"Vincent Hawk? Oh, he's a dream applicant, that's for sure. If he's your friend, then you should definitely get a letter of recommendation from him, before he gets too famous. In the meantime, why don't you take this aptitude test. It will only take about ten minutes. Answer the questions honestly or it won't do you any good. The answers are analyzed by a company in Seattle. We should get the results on Monday or Tuesday."
"Do I have to? I'd like to get to class."
"I really think you should take it. Only ten minutes."
So I took the test. It was a bunch of personality questions about what I'd do in different situations. Would I fold under peer pressure or would I stand my ground?
Did I prefer large groups or being alone? If I answered all the questions honestly the results would be, Aptitude: Zero. Dominant Characteristics: Boring. Top Career Choice: Coffeehouse Girl. I already knew I wasn't good at anything. I didn't need to see it confirmed in writing.
But I answered honestly, just in case some miracle occurred and the test's analyzer uncovered a hidden talent-- a diamond in the rough.
I handed Mr. Prince the test.
"Be sure to get started on that checklist," he told me. "Okay." I shoved the checklist into my pocket and went looking for Vincent.
Eleven
It's too cold to eat in my car," Elizabeth said as I closed my locker. "The windows are icy."
Principal Carmichael had strict rules about not eating in the hall or in the gym, so that left us, on a nasty winter day, with one option. We stepped away from the locker and joined the hot, hormonal current of ravenous teens, pushed along like flotsam until we reached the cafeteria. I hadn't yet spoken to Vincent. He was still busy with interviews.
Students squeezed onto benches, shoulder to shoulder. Conversations erupted, utensils clanged, paper and plastic crinkled. The overhead fluorescent lights washed out everyone's food.
Elizabeth grabbed my arm. "Face is sitting over there. Look, he's eating french fries."
"Do you wanna sit over there?" I couldn't imagine sitting at the same table as the golf team. Besides looking totally out of place, what would we talk about? Golf seemed like the most boring game in the entire world.
"Sit by Face? Are you crazy?"
We found a spot in the corner, on the floor near the vending machine. Except for the constant clunking of packaged snacks, it wasn't so bad over there. A guy walked by with his hand shoved in some girl's back pocket. Elizabeth shot them a nasty glare.
"That's so demeaning," she said. "Why don't we have boyfriends?"
I opened my thermos of carrot soup. "Because we don't talk to boys. Except for Vincent."
"Are we talking to Vincent? Shouldn't we be giving him the silent treatment?"
"Maybe." Soup steam drifted up my chin. "I want to know what he was doing with that cup."
"I'm telling you, it's all about Heidi. I still think she likes him." Elizabeth pushed her gold bangles up her arm and opened her lunch bag. "If I asked Face to go to the Solstice Festival with me, do you think he would?"
"I don't know." Seemed unlikely, but who was I to squash her fantasy?
"Why doesn't anyone ever ask me out? Look at me. I've got style." She lifted the hem of her denim skirt, exposing her hand-painted tights. "And I've got good breath. Don't I have good breath?" She blew in my face.
"Yep. Good breath." At that moment in my life, boyfriendlessness wasn't high on my list of worries. Last night, after my grandmother had fallen asleep, I had gone downstairs to snoop through the pile of bills. Quite a few were stamped Past Due.
How do you pay past due bills if you don't have any customers?
"And I've got boobs. I'm overflowing with boobs. So what's the problem? I want to go to the festival with a guy this year." She stared across the cafeteria, longing filling every cell in her body. For a moment, her longing infected me and I pictured myself standing beneath the decorated Solstice tree, holding hands with a boyfriend. My boyfriend.
The Solstice Festival had long been my favorite holiday. It started with the decorating of an enormous tree, erected in the center of town. As a little girl I'd fill a pinecone with peanut butter and roll it in birdseed. Then all the kids would hang their pinecones on the tree. Each family would bring a worn pair of shoes and stick it under the tree--
an Old World tradition to symbolize harmony throughout the year. St. Nick would come and hand out candy. And we'd sing carols and stroll the street, stopping at each shop for a special treat. Then we'd get dressed up and go to the grand feast at the Sons of Norway Hall. We'd eat some good stuff, like salmon and hot rolls, and I'd ignore the disgusting stuff like lutefisk and Jell-O salad.
I stopped filling those pinecones years ago, when I started working in the coffeehouse, but I still got caught up in the merriment. The little kids always came in for hot chocolate, extra excited if it had snowed. Anna's was the most popular stop for hot chocolate.
Until Java Heaven.
"I'll tell you what the problem is." Elizabeth unwrapped a cupcake. "The problem is that these stupid Nordby boys are shallow. They aren't ready to think outside the box, you know? If they'd just get their heads out of their butts once in a while they'd realize that I'm a great catch."
"You are."
"So why doesn't Face notice me?"
"Because you're sitting in the corner on the floor."
She sighed. "What's the matter with me? Why can't I
just go up to him and talk? Why do I get so nervous?"
"I don't know." I kind of knew. Back in the seventh grade I'd been in love with a guy named Sean. I cut his photo out of our yearbook and tucked it into my jewelry box. It was still in there. But, like Elizabeth, I never did anything about it, just wasted way too much time longing. He moved away at the end of that school year, never knowing how I felt. That image popped into my head again--me, standing beneath the Solstice tree, holding hands with a guy. He was tall and handsome, but it wasn't Sean. He looked like...Malcolm.
"My feet start to sweat every time I think about talking to him," Elizabeth said. "Don't you think that's weird? Maybe I should go see a doctor."
"I wouldn't worry about it." I ate my soup, then unfolded the checklist that I had crammed into my pocket. "Mr. Prince gave me this."
"He gave everybody one."
"Yeah, but do you notice anything about mine?"
She shrugged, then licked frosting off her finger.
"Mine's full of blank spaces. There's nothing on it. You've got your art classes and your art awards. You want to go to the Rhode Island School of Design. You want to open a gallery in New York. What do I want to do?"
"Face is getting some ketchup." Elizabeth craned her neck to watch. She couldn't relate to my situation. Talent was wired into her. She exhaled it. It oozed out her pores. She probably even farted it. Had I been born without the talent gene? Sitting at the edge of the chattering crowd I felt like a freak with my naked checklist. Surely there were others like me, born without an inkling of direction. The wanderers, the amblers, the dabblers, united by our purposeless mantra-- I have no idea what to do with my life.
I was a big blank space.
"What if I end up like Irmgaard?"
"Are you going to take a vow of silence?"
"No, I mean she's got to be forty. And she's making soup and living alone. That's sad.
Don't you think that's sad?"
Elizabeth unwrapped a sandwich. "Maybe she likes to make soup and live alone."
"The point is, if I don't start doing something with my life, then I'm not going to get anywhere." I waved the checklist. "If I don't put some amazing things on this list, no college is going to accept me."
"Just make a bunch of stuff up. I mean, who will know?" Elizabeth ripped the checklist from my hand and set it on her knees. "Activities. Activities." She pulled a pen from her purse. "What is that stupid game those old guys are always playing?"
"Hnefatafl."
"How do you spell that?"
I spelled it and she wrote: Captain of the Hnefatafl Club, a society dedicated to the preservation of Viking culture. "Get one of the old guys to write you a letter of recommendation." She scanned the page. "Look, there's a space for languages." She wrote: Viking.
"I don't speak Viking."
"You know some words, don't you?"
"I know 'Hnefatafl.' "
"Well, there you go. That's more than most people know." She swept sandwich crumbs off the list. "Oh look, here's a space for volunteering. You're always helping those old guys."
"The Boys?"
"Yeah. Don't you make them sandwiches?"
"So?"
She wrote: Eldercare Volunteer, helping senior citizens with daily activities.
"You're totally exaggerating."
"Everyone exaggerates. You think I'm going to tell an admissions committee that I won first place in an art contest that only two other people entered? I'm going to say that it was open to national and international entries because it could have been. I mean, nowhere on the rules did it say that you couldn't mail in an entry from Tasmania. You need to get The Boys to write letters of recommendation. Oh, I know what else. You can come with me tonight to my Life Drawing class. The teacher doesn't charge for the first visit. Then you can add that to activities."
"I can't draw. You know that."
"Who cares? Katrina, you've just got to play the game."
"Whatcha doing?" Vincent stood over us.
I shoved the checklist back into my pocket. "Nothing," I said.
He knelt, greeting me with his usual chlorine freshness. "Hey, sorry I didn't call you back. I was really tired when I got home last night. It was kind of a big day, you know?"
"We saw you on channel seven," Elizabeth said, her mouth full of sandwich.
"I was on channel five too. And CNN and FOX." He shook his head. "I still can't believe it. One day I'm worried about paying for college. The next day I've got a full scholarship."
I forced a smile. I should have thrown my arms around him, should have jumped up and down like a baboon. Vincent had saved someone's life and had been rewarded beyond his wildest dreams. But all I could think about was that stupid Java Heaven coffee cup.
Elizabeth elbowed me. "Tell him."
"Stop it."
"Tell him."
"Tell me what?" Vincent sat against the wall.
Elizabeth leaned across my knees and got right in his face. "We saw you, Vincent Hawk. We saw you holding that cup. You know how Katrina feels about Java Heaven. You've totally hurt her feelings."
Vincent shifted his weight. He looked away. He shifted again because guilt can be very uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Katrina. I didn't buy that cup of coffee and I didn't drink it. You know I wouldn't do that."
"Then why were you holding it?" I asked.
"It was Heidi's cup. She asked me to hold it while she fixed her ponytail and then she walked off. I handed it to the camera guy right after the interview started."
"Oh." I had gotten so angry after seeing him holding that cup that I hadn't watched the whole interview. "What about the Vincent Mocha? Can he use your name like that?
You should tell him that he can't use your name."
"Well..." Vincent looked away for a moment. "I didn't know anything about that drink, but I'm not sure it's such a bad thing, Katrina. Ten percent of the profits will go to the swim team. We need new lane dividers and new timers." He frowned. "It's just a stupid drink."
I stiffened. "It's more than that. Mr. Darling is trying to close us down. Your name will help him make more money. And..." I didn't want to admit how bad things were.
Vincent knew what it was like to be poor, but Elizabeth didn't have a clue. Anyway, I'd been raised to believe that money matters were personal. It was embarrassing too.
Every day we worked and worked, only to sink deeper and deeper into debt.
Vincent nudged me. "Don't be mad. What can I do?"
Despite his calm, steady voice, all my worries burst to the surface. Like an out-of-body experience, I watched myself from across the room, painfully aware that I was acting like a pouty child. But I couldn't stop.
"I want you to hate Java Heaven as much as I do. That's what I want. You're my friend, not Heidi's. I want you to help us, not them."
Vincent Hawk, best friend since the fourth grade, smiled sweetly. "I'll always be your friend. If you want me to do something for Anna's, I will."
"If I come up with a special drink, will you help serve it and maybe sign some cups?"
"Yeah, of course."
Of course. He was still the same old Vincent. Heidi could trick him into holding her stupid cup of coffee, but she'd never be his best friend. I felt a million times better.
The bell rang. Vincent wandered off. Elizabeth tossed her garbage, then pulled the checklist from my pocket. "What are you doing?" I asked.
She clicked her pen. "You said you were going to create a special drink, right?"
"Right."
She scribbled something, then smiled.
Vice President of Product Development.
Twelve
That afternoon, Principal Carmichael announced that People magazine would visit on Friday, which meant that Vincent's good deed would spread throughout waiting rooms and beauty shops everywhere. Maybe he'd sign a book deal. Maybe someone would buy the movie rights. The possibilities were endless. Fortune had cast its big golden net
over the swimmer from Nordby.
Despite the chill, I felt kind of springy walking home-- almost perky. It was one of those rare moments when I wasn't comparing myself to everybody else. Elizabeth had helped me see the ridiculousness of the checklist. And with Vincent in our corner, we would make tons of money at the festival. We'd call it Hero's Hot Chocolate, with the actual hero serving it. Our line would wind down the sidewalk, blocking the entrance to Java Heaven. I snickered, imagining Mr. Darling yelling at us to move the line.
We'd donate 10 percent--no, make it 11 percent to a local charity. Sure, Hero's Hot Chocolate was a short-term answer, but one thing at a time.
Lars, the oldest of The Boys, sat on the bus bench, his ruddy face half-hidden behind an upturned collar. "How come you're not at Anna's?" I asked.
"Can't get down the hill. My legs are giving me trouble."
I sat next to him. "Did you take your arthritis medicine?"
"Can't remember." He scratched a tuft of white ear hair. "I might fall going down that hill. There's no dignity falling in public."
"I'll help you walk," I said. Eldercare Volunteer.
He pulled his knit hat over his ears. "I don't need help. I'm taking the bus."
"But Lars, you know your son doesn't want you to take the bus."
He narrowed his cloudy eyes. "My son needs to mind his own business. It's a public bus and I'm the public."
Lars's son was Officer Larsen. Officer Larsen had sent his father to a detox facility dozens of times, but he always went back to drinking. Last year, at age eighty-two, Lars had almost killed some joggers on his drive home from the Nordby Pub. The state took away his driver's license. A few days later he moved in with his son. The doctor said that Lars's liver was in terrible condition, along with high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and stiff joints. He needed to start exercising or he wouldn't live much longer. But Lars wanted nothing to do with exercise. So Officer Larsen hatched a plan. There would be no alcohol in the house. If Lars wanted to drink, he'd have to walk the mile to the Nordby Pub on Main Street. That way he'd be forced to get some exercise. All the locals knew not to give Lars a ride. Everyone agreed that it was for his own good.