little squinty eyes almost shut. Every time he says something, the lady next to him in the floppy straw hat laughs and squeezes his knee.
“I want to get his autograph,” I say.
“Don’t bother the man,” says Mom.
“I want to!”
“Well …” She starts pawing through her beach bag. “Do you have something for him to write on?”
I think fast. My napkin. It’s not really dirty, just a very faint chocolate smudge, he’ll never notice. “I need a pen,” I say, smoothing out the creases in the napkin. I’m nervous he mightleave before I can even ask. “Hurry, hurry. Don’t you have something to write with?”
“Just hold your horses,” Mom says. She sticks her arm in the bag all the way to her shoulder and scrabbles around until she comes up with this short yellow pencil stub, like the ones she and Delia use to write down their canasta scores. “Here.”
“That’s all you’ve got? How can I ask Snooky Lanson to write his name with something so stubby?”
“That’s it, kiddo,” she says. “Take it or leave it.”
I take it and the napkin and walk slowly over to the table where Snooky is sitting. The closer I get, the slower I walk. Nobody looks at me, they just keep talking and laughing until I’m standing close enough to touch him. It’s strange to see him up close. He has very pink skin, peeling in patches from the sun, and orangy- yellow hair that sticks up funny. I always think of him in black- and-white, and here he is in color. His shirt is all bright with palm trees, flamingos, sailboats. His hamburger has just one bite out of it. He’s holding a french fry, waving it around while he talks.
When he looks at me, I am afraid because his eyes are so pale, blue and pale and blank as the stationary Delia gave me for Christmas to write thank-you notes on. I want to write on his eyes: “Dear Mr. Lanson, How are you, I am fine. Thank you very much for signing my napkin. I am sorry about the pencil. Thank you very much. Yours truly, Cassandra Palmer.”
That way I wouldn’t have to talk. But I open my mouth and out comes a squeak. “Could I have your autograph?” The straw-hat lady next to him bends down to me and says with her juicy pink lips, “Isn’t she sweet?” I don’t feel sweet. I feel dopey. The napkin has gotten all wrinkled and sweaty, and I don’t even want to think about the pencil.
But I hand them both to him anyway. He smiles his wide Snooky smile and doesn’t seem to notice the stubby pencil or the dinky napkin. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Cassie,” I mumble. And then he writes. The napkin tears alittle as the pencil digs in, but when he hands it back it’s still in one piece and below where it’s printed “Chamberlin Hotel” in swirly blue letters, he’s scribbled “To Cassie, best regards, Snooky Lanson.”
I don’t know what to say. Thank you doesn’t seem to be enough. “I will treasure this,” sounds goofy. So I curtsy. I haven’t done that since kindergarten, but I remember how. I dip low over one bended knee and stick the other leg way in back of me, and say the only French words I know: “Mercy bocoo.”
The straw-hat lady applauds, and Snooky and his friends all laugh. Then he leans over and gives me a kiss on my cheek. I can feel his stubbly whiskers, white, almost invisible against his pink and scabby cheeks. And then I turn and run back to my mother and Delia, who are sitting with their eyes and mouths round and surprised.
“What was that all about?” Mom asks.
“He wants me to go on his show,” I say. “He likes the way I curtsy.”
Mom and Delia look at each other. “See what I mean?” my mother says. “She tells the most fantastic stories with such a straight face.”
“Sometimes,” I say, carefully folding the napkin and tucking it into the pocket of my terry robe, “they’re true.”
MOM’S MORE EXCITED about Snooky’s autograph than I am. She won’t let me just paste it into my scrapbook, like I want to
“I want to get his autograph,” I say.
“Don’t bother the man,” says Mom.
“I want to!”
“Well …” She starts pawing through her beach bag. “Do you have something for him to write on?”
I think fast. My napkin. It’s not really dirty, just a very faint chocolate smudge, he’ll never notice. “I need a pen,” I say, smoothing out the creases in the napkin. I’m nervous he mightleave before I can even ask. “Hurry, hurry. Don’t you have something to write with?”
“Just hold your horses,” Mom says. She sticks her arm in the bag all the way to her shoulder and scrabbles around until she comes up with this short yellow pencil stub, like the ones she and Delia use to write down their canasta scores. “Here.”
“That’s all you’ve got? How can I ask Snooky Lanson to write his name with something so stubby?”
“That’s it, kiddo,” she says. “Take it or leave it.”
I take it and the napkin and walk slowly over to the table where Snooky is sitting. The closer I get, the slower I walk. Nobody looks at me, they just keep talking and laughing until I’m standing close enough to touch him. It’s strange to see him up close. He has very pink skin, peeling in patches from the sun, and orangy- yellow hair that sticks up funny. I always think of him in black- and-white, and here he is in color. His shirt is all bright with palm trees, flamingos, sailboats. His hamburger has just one bite out of it. He’s holding a french fry, waving it around while he talks.
When he looks at me, I am afraid because his eyes are so pale, blue and pale and blank as the stationary Delia gave me for Christmas to write thank-you notes on. I want to write on his eyes: “Dear Mr. Lanson, How are you, I am fine. Thank you very much for signing my napkin. I am sorry about the pencil. Thank you very much. Yours truly, Cassandra Palmer.”
That way I wouldn’t have to talk. But I open my mouth and out comes a squeak. “Could I have your autograph?” The straw-hat lady next to him bends down to me and says with her juicy pink lips, “Isn’t she sweet?” I don’t feel sweet. I feel dopey. The napkin has gotten all wrinkled and sweaty, and I don’t even want to think about the pencil.
But I hand them both to him anyway. He smiles his wide Snooky smile and doesn’t seem to notice the stubby pencil or the dinky napkin. “What’s your name?” he asks.
“Cassie,” I mumble. And then he writes. The napkin tears alittle as the pencil digs in, but when he hands it back it’s still in one piece and below where it’s printed “Chamberlin Hotel” in swirly blue letters, he’s scribbled “To Cassie, best regards, Snooky Lanson.”
I don’t know what to say. Thank you doesn’t seem to be enough. “I will treasure this,” sounds goofy. So I curtsy. I haven’t done that since kindergarten, but I remember how. I dip low over one bended knee and stick the other leg way in back of me, and say the only French words I know: “Mercy bocoo.”
The straw-hat lady applauds, and Snooky and his friends all laugh. Then he leans over and gives me a kiss on my cheek. I can feel his stubbly whiskers, white, almost invisible against his pink and scabby cheeks. And then I turn and run back to my mother and Delia, who are sitting with their eyes and mouths round and surprised.
“What was that all about?” Mom asks.
“He wants me to go on his show,” I say. “He likes the way I curtsy.”
Mom and Delia look at each other. “See what I mean?” my mother says. “She tells the most fantastic stories with such a straight face.”
“Sometimes,” I say, carefully folding the napkin and tucking it into the pocket of my terry robe, “they’re true.”
MOM’S MORE EXCITED about Snooky’s autograph than I am. She won’t let me just paste it into my scrapbook, like I want to
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