kidding.”
I held up my hands. “I’m serious. She was standing in front of the comedies. Her finger went in and when it came out there was something on it. She carried it around for about a minute. And then, just as she was leaving Suncoast, when she thought nobody was looking, she flicked. I didn’t see where it landed.” She stared at me. I raised my right hand and put my left over my heart. “No lie.”
She broke out laughing, so loudly I was embarrassed. She grabbed my arm with both hands to keep from collapsing. Mallwalkers stared.
We carded two others that day: a woman who spent her whole fifteen minutes feeling leather jackets—we called her Betty—and a man we called Adam because of his huge Adam’s apple, which we renamed Adam’s pumpkin. No more pick-’n’-flickers.
And I did have fun. Whether it came from the game or simply from being with her, I don’t know. I do know I was surprised at how close I felt to Clarissa and Betty and Adam after watching them for only fifteen minutes.
Throughout the day, Stargirl had been dropping money. She was the Johnny Appleseed of loose change: a penny here, a nickel there. Tossed to the sidewalk, laid on a shelf or bench. Even quarters.
“I hate change,” she said. “It’s so…jangly.”
“Do you realize how much you must throw away in a year?” I said.
“Did you ever see a little kid’s face when he spots a penny on a sidewalk?” she said.
When her change purse was empty, we drove back to Mica. Along the way she invited me to dinner at her house.
22
Archie had claimed the Caraways were normal folks, but I still couldn’t imagine Stargirl coming from an ordinary home. I think I expected a leftover hippie scene from the 1960s. Make love, not war. Her mother in a long skirt with a flower in her hair. Her father’s face framed in muttonchop sideburns, saying “Groovy!” and “Right on!” a lot. Grateful Dead posters. Psychedelic lampshades.
So I was surprised. Her mother wore shorts and a tank top as she worked the pedal of a sewing machine with her bare 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
I held up my hands. “I’m serious. She was standing in front of the comedies. Her finger went in and when it came out there was something on it. She carried it around for about a minute. And then, just as she was leaving Suncoast, when she thought nobody was looking, she flicked. I didn’t see where it landed.” She stared at me. I raised my right hand and put my left over my heart. “No lie.”
She broke out laughing, so loudly I was embarrassed. She grabbed my arm with both hands to keep from collapsing. Mallwalkers stared.
We carded two others that day: a woman who spent her whole fifteen minutes feeling leather jackets—we called her Betty—and a man we called Adam because of his huge Adam’s apple, which we renamed Adam’s pumpkin. No more pick-’n’-flickers.
And I did have fun. Whether it came from the game or simply from being with her, I don’t know. I do know I was surprised at how close I felt to Clarissa and Betty and Adam after watching them for only fifteen minutes.
Throughout the day, Stargirl had been dropping money. She was the Johnny Appleseed of loose change: a penny here, a nickel there. Tossed to the sidewalk, laid on a shelf or bench. Even quarters.
“I hate change,” she said. “It’s so…jangly.”
“Do you realize how much you must throw away in a year?” I said.
“Did you ever see a little kid’s face when he spots a penny on a sidewalk?” she said.
When her change purse was empty, we drove back to Mica. Along the way she invited me to dinner at her house.
22
Archie had claimed the Caraways were normal folks, but I still couldn’t imagine Stargirl coming from an ordinary home. I think I expected a leftover hippie scene from the 1960s. Make love, not war. Her mother in a long skirt with a flower in her hair. Her father’s face framed in muttonchop sideburns, saying “Groovy!” and “Right on!” a lot. Grateful Dead posters. Psychedelic lampshades.
So I was surprised. Her mother wore shorts and a tank top as she worked the pedal of a sewing machine with her bare 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
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