foot. She was making a Russian peasant costume for a play to be presented in Denver. Mr. Caraway was on a stepladder outside, painting windowsills. No muttonchops; in fact, not much hair at all. The house itself could have been anyone's. Glossy bentwood furniture, throw rugs over hardwood floors, Southwest accents: an Anasazi-style wedding vase here, a Georgia O'Keeffe print there. Nothing to proclaim, "You see? She came from here."
Same with her room. Except for Cinnamon's blue and yellow plywood apartment in one corner, it might have belonged to any high school girl. I stood in the doorway.
"What?" she asked.
"I'm surprised," I said.
"At what?"
"I thought your room would be different."
"How so?"
"I don't know. More...you."
She grinned. "Stacks of fillers? A card-making operation?"
"Something like that."
"That's my office," she said. She let Cinnamon out. He scurried under her bed. "This is my room."
"You have an office?"
"Yep." She stuck her foot under the bed. When it came out, Cinnamon was aboard. "I wanted to have a place all my own where I could go to work. So I got one."
Cinnamon scampered out of the room.
"Where is it?" I said.
She put her finger to her lips. "Secret."
"Bet I know one person who knows," I said. She raised her eyebrows.
"Archie."
She smiled.
"He was talking about you," I said. "He likes you."
"He means the world to me," she said. "I think of him as my grandfather."
My inspection yielded two curious items. One was a wooden bowl half filled with sand-colored hair.
"Yours?" I said.
She nodded. "For birds looking for nest materials. I put it out in the spring. Been doing it since I was a little girl. I got more business up north than here."
The other item was on a bookshelf. It was a tiny wagon about the size of my fist. It was made of wood and looked like it might have been an antique toy. It was piled high with pebbles. Several other pebbles lay about the wagon wheels.
I pointed to it. "You collecting stones, or what?"
"It's my happy wagon," she said. "Actually, it could just as well be called an unhappy wagon, but I prefer happy."
"So what's it all about?"
"It's about how I feel. When something makes me happy, I put a pebble in the wagon. If I'm unhappy, I take a pebble out. There are twenty pebbles in all."
I counted three on the shelf. "So there're seventeen in the wagon now, right?"
"Right."
"So that means, what, you're pretty happy?"
"Right again." "What's the biggest number of pebbles ever in the wagon?"
She gave me a sly smile. "You're looking at it."
It didn't seem like just a pile of pebbles anymore.
"Usually," she said, "it's more balanced. It hangs around ten, a couple to one side or the other. Back and forth, back and forth. Like life."
"How close to empty did the wagon ever get?" I said.
"Oh..." She turned her face to the ceiling, closed her eyes. "Once, down to three."
I was shocked. "Really? You?"
She stared. "Why not me?"
"You don't seem the type."
"What type is that?"
"I don't know..." I groped for the right words.
"The three-pebble type?" she offered.
I shrugged.
She picked up a pebble from the shelf and, with a grin, dropped it into the wagon. "Well, call me Miss Unpredictable."
I joined the family for dinner. Three of us had meatloaf. The fourth-guess who-was a strict vegetarian. She had tofu loaf.
Her parents called her "Stargirl" and "Star" as casually as if she were a Jennifer.
After dinner we sat on her front step. She had brought her camera out. Three little kids, two girls and a boy, were playing in a driveway across the street. She took several pictures of them.
"Why are you doing that?" I asked her. "See the little boy in the red cap?" she said. "His name is Peter Sinkowitz. He's five years old. I'm doing his biography, sort of."
For the tenth time that day she had caught me off guard. "Biography?" Peter Sinkowitz was coasting down his driveway in a four-wheeled plastic banana; the two little girls were running, screaming after
Same with her room. Except for Cinnamon's blue and yellow plywood apartment in one corner, it might have belonged to any high school girl. I stood in the doorway.
"What?" she asked.
"I'm surprised," I said.
"At what?"
"I thought your room would be different."
"How so?"
"I don't know. More...you."
She grinned. "Stacks of fillers? A card-making operation?"
"Something like that."
"That's my office," she said. She let Cinnamon out. He scurried under her bed. "This is my room."
"You have an office?"
"Yep." She stuck her foot under the bed. When it came out, Cinnamon was aboard. "I wanted to have a place all my own where I could go to work. So I got one."
Cinnamon scampered out of the room.
"Where is it?" I said.
She put her finger to her lips. "Secret."
"Bet I know one person who knows," I said. She raised her eyebrows.
"Archie."
She smiled.
"He was talking about you," I said. "He likes you."
"He means the world to me," she said. "I think of him as my grandfather."
My inspection yielded two curious items. One was a wooden bowl half filled with sand-colored hair.
"Yours?" I said.
She nodded. "For birds looking for nest materials. I put it out in the spring. Been doing it since I was a little girl. I got more business up north than here."
The other item was on a bookshelf. It was a tiny wagon about the size of my fist. It was made of wood and looked like it might have been an antique toy. It was piled high with pebbles. Several other pebbles lay about the wagon wheels.
I pointed to it. "You collecting stones, or what?"
"It's my happy wagon," she said. "Actually, it could just as well be called an unhappy wagon, but I prefer happy."
"So what's it all about?"
"It's about how I feel. When something makes me happy, I put a pebble in the wagon. If I'm unhappy, I take a pebble out. There are twenty pebbles in all."
I counted three on the shelf. "So there're seventeen in the wagon now, right?"
"Right."
"So that means, what, you're pretty happy?"
"Right again." "What's the biggest number of pebbles ever in the wagon?"
She gave me a sly smile. "You're looking at it."
It didn't seem like just a pile of pebbles anymore.
"Usually," she said, "it's more balanced. It hangs around ten, a couple to one side or the other. Back and forth, back and forth. Like life."
"How close to empty did the wagon ever get?" I said.
"Oh..." She turned her face to the ceiling, closed her eyes. "Once, down to three."
I was shocked. "Really? You?"
She stared. "Why not me?"
"You don't seem the type."
"What type is that?"
"I don't know..." I groped for the right words.
"The three-pebble type?" she offered.
I shrugged.
She picked up a pebble from the shelf and, with a grin, dropped it into the wagon. "Well, call me Miss Unpredictable."
I joined the family for dinner. Three of us had meatloaf. The fourth-guess who-was a strict vegetarian. She had tofu loaf.
Her parents called her "Stargirl" and "Star" as casually as if she were a Jennifer.
After dinner we sat on her front step. She had brought her camera out. Three little kids, two girls and a boy, were playing in a driveway across the street. She took several pictures of them.
"Why are you doing that?" I asked her. "See the little boy in the red cap?" she said. "His name is Peter Sinkowitz. He's five years old. I'm doing his biography, sort of."
For the tenth time that day she had caught me off guard. "Biography?" Peter Sinkowitz was coasting down his driveway in a four-wheeled plastic banana; the two little girls were running, screaming after
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