Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli Page A

inside the door. It was smothered with business cards and notices. I pointed to one that said “Odd Jobs—Ask for Mike,” call this number. “So what’s that tell you?” I said, with more challenge in my voice than I intended.
    She read it. “Well, it could be that Mike lost his regular job and can’t find another, so he’s hiring himself out. Or even if he has a regular job, it’s not enough to make ends meet. He’s either not very neat, or he can’t afford a whole piece of paper. This is just a scrap.”
    “So what would you do for him?” I said.
    “Oh, I don’t know. My parents might have an odd job they need done. Or maybe I do. Or maybe I could just send him a card.”
    “What kind of card would he get?”
    “A Keep-your-chin-up card.” She poked me. “Hey, want to play a card game?”
    I had a feeling she wasn’t talking about poker. “Sure,” I said.
    She said she invented it. “All you need is your eyes and one other person. I pick somebody on the street, the mall, a store, wherever, and I follow them. Say it’s a her. I follow her for fifteen minutes, not a minute more. I time myself. The game is, after fifteen minutes of watching her, I have to guess what kind of card she needs.”
    “But how can you get it to her?” I said. “You don’t know where she lives.”
    “True. That’s as far as it goes. That’s why it’s just a game. It’s just for fun.” She snuggled into me. She whispered in my ear, “Let’s play.”
    I said sure.
    She said we needed a mall. I usually steered us away from the Mica Mall—too many silent-treatment MAHS kids hanging around there. We drove ten miles to the Redstone Mall. It was a Saturday afternoon.
    We picked out a woman. Lime-green skort. White sandals. We guessed her age was early forties. She was buying a soft pretzel—regular, salted—at Auntie Anne’s. She carried the pretzel in a little white paper bag. We followed her into Suncoast Video. We overheard her ask for
When Harry Met Sally
. They didn’t have it. She passed Sonoma, then came back and went in. She wandered about, touching pottery with one fingertip, feeling surfaces. She stopped before the dinner plates. She lifted one with a French café painted on it. “Van Gogh,” Stargirl whispered. The lady seemed to think about the plate, even closed her eyes, holding it to her chest with both hands, as if feeling vibrations. But then she put it back and walked out. On to Sears. Lingerie. Bedclothes. I was uneasy, spying from behind a rack of frilly somethings. She was flipping through nightshirts when time ran out.
    Stargirl and I conferred in the corridor.
    “Okay,” she said, “what do you think?”
    “I think I feel like a stalker,” I said.
    “A good stalker,” she said.
    “You first,” I said.
    “Well, she’s divorced and lonely. No wedding ring. Wants somebody in her life. A home life. She wishes she were Sally and her Harry would come along. She would make him dinner and snuggle with him at night. She tries to eat low-fat foods. She works for a travel agency. She took a free cruise last year, but all she met on the boat were creeps. Her name is Clarissa, she played the clarinet in high school, and her favorite soap is Irish Spring.”
    I boggled. “How do you know all that?”
    She laughed. “I don’t. I’m guessing. That’s what makes it fun.”
    “So what card would you send her?”
    She put her finger to her lips. “Hmm…to Clarissa I would send a While-you’re-waiting-for-Harry-be-good-to-yourself card. How about you?”
    “I would send a”—I mulled over the phrasing—“a Don’t-let-Harry-catch-you-flicking card.”
    Now it was her turn to boggle. “Huh?”
    “Didn’t you see her pick her nose?” I said. “In Suncoast?”
    “Not really. I saw her hand go to her nose, like she was scratching it or something.”
    “Yeah, or something. She was picking, that’s what. She was quick and sneaky. A real pro.”
    She gave me a playful shove. “You’re