dress?”
“Of course you can. It’s a creative dress night. You should wear it. You know Benny will be there. This is it.”
It takes me hours to get ready and we only have one bathroom, so when I’m all done with my shower and nails and my hair and everything, I step out of there in a cloud of steam, and there’s Grandpa looking all desperate, hopping up and down from foot to foot, waiting to get in. “You know your grandpa has that wild loose bladder,” says Grandma, folding her arms as I pass her in the hall. This is my life.
Finally the dress is on. The shoes are on. My hair is blown dry. I look in the mirror and I add the crown of flowers. Then when I’m all done, I go out into the living room, and Grandma and Grandpa are standing there with cameras. Two different kinds. There’s Grandpa’s old Nikon with a big silver flash on top, and Grandma’s little digital camera. They both start shooting away.
“Oh, isn’t it just lovely. Oh, Louise, I wish your mother were here. I do. I wish your mother were here to see you like this. She would be so thrilled. Her little baby!” My grandma starts crying, and then Grandpa goes over and they bury their faces against each other. They are all hunched over together in the corner, and I’m standing here in my dress and my crown of flowers, just standing here, waiting.
On the way over in the car with Grandma driving, I am thinking it’s weird. Being unrealistic and stupid one day, you change your name to Thumbelina and suddenly your life turns into the story…. The lights along Pottsboro Avenue are reflected in the puddles and raindrops on the windshield, giving everything a glittery exciting feeling, like I’m being whisked off to a faraway land in a storybook or something. Grandma looks over at me with a happy, proud face. Then a shade of worry crosses over her forehead and she says, “Louise, darling, do you really think the crown of flowers is appropriate for an art opening?”
“What?” I go. “Why not? It’s a free country.”
“Well, if you feel happy wearing it, then it’s the right thing.” And she looks over at me and says, “Oh, you are such a sketch!” My grandma always calls me “a sketch.” This is an old word that none of my few friends have ever heard of. The Wizard of Oz, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Sleeping Beauty. Thumbelina. The Ugly Duckling. Take your pick. We all adhere to one of those stories, even my grandma. And her vocab is just part of all that.
I lean my head against the car seat, and my feet do not touch the floor. I can see my patent leather shoes swinging there with those little white bows on the toes. Today I was with my grandma coming back from the grocery and some old geezer from one of her classes met us on the street and looked at me and said, “Oh, you must know my great-grandson over at Pottsboro Elementary. Are you a fourth grader too?” Later, Grandma tried to ease my pain by saying, “Oh, he’s an idiot. Really, honey. He’s always asking me if I get the ‘special seniors over eighty-five’ discount at the Bargain House.”
Grandma switches on the radio to a rock station. To please me, I think, she turns up the volume. To be quite honest, I hate listening to loud music with my grandma.
Finally, Grandma stops the car before the Plow and Chaff Café. “Honey, have a perfect night,” she says, and then another shade of worry draws across her face. She closes her eyes for a minute and then she blinks them open and smiles at me.
Chapter
Twenty
I walk toward the lit-up café. It is completely jammed with people, tons of kids from North and even a few from South. I recognize some parents and a few aunts and uncles. I can see Annais’s art teacher in there carrying an unlit pipe, wearing a beret, and chatting with Mrs. Elliot. I’m looking for Reni and Henderson. Where are they? I make my way to the refreshment table and there is Reni with an apron over her pink dress. She’s handing out
“Of course you can. It’s a creative dress night. You should wear it. You know Benny will be there. This is it.”
It takes me hours to get ready and we only have one bathroom, so when I’m all done with my shower and nails and my hair and everything, I step out of there in a cloud of steam, and there’s Grandpa looking all desperate, hopping up and down from foot to foot, waiting to get in. “You know your grandpa has that wild loose bladder,” says Grandma, folding her arms as I pass her in the hall. This is my life.
Finally the dress is on. The shoes are on. My hair is blown dry. I look in the mirror and I add the crown of flowers. Then when I’m all done, I go out into the living room, and Grandma and Grandpa are standing there with cameras. Two different kinds. There’s Grandpa’s old Nikon with a big silver flash on top, and Grandma’s little digital camera. They both start shooting away.
“Oh, isn’t it just lovely. Oh, Louise, I wish your mother were here. I do. I wish your mother were here to see you like this. She would be so thrilled. Her little baby!” My grandma starts crying, and then Grandpa goes over and they bury their faces against each other. They are all hunched over together in the corner, and I’m standing here in my dress and my crown of flowers, just standing here, waiting.
On the way over in the car with Grandma driving, I am thinking it’s weird. Being unrealistic and stupid one day, you change your name to Thumbelina and suddenly your life turns into the story…. The lights along Pottsboro Avenue are reflected in the puddles and raindrops on the windshield, giving everything a glittery exciting feeling, like I’m being whisked off to a faraway land in a storybook or something. Grandma looks over at me with a happy, proud face. Then a shade of worry crosses over her forehead and she says, “Louise, darling, do you really think the crown of flowers is appropriate for an art opening?”
“What?” I go. “Why not? It’s a free country.”
“Well, if you feel happy wearing it, then it’s the right thing.” And she looks over at me and says, “Oh, you are such a sketch!” My grandma always calls me “a sketch.” This is an old word that none of my few friends have ever heard of. The Wizard of Oz, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Sleeping Beauty. Thumbelina. The Ugly Duckling. Take your pick. We all adhere to one of those stories, even my grandma. And her vocab is just part of all that.
I lean my head against the car seat, and my feet do not touch the floor. I can see my patent leather shoes swinging there with those little white bows on the toes. Today I was with my grandma coming back from the grocery and some old geezer from one of her classes met us on the street and looked at me and said, “Oh, you must know my great-grandson over at Pottsboro Elementary. Are you a fourth grader too?” Later, Grandma tried to ease my pain by saying, “Oh, he’s an idiot. Really, honey. He’s always asking me if I get the ‘special seniors over eighty-five’ discount at the Bargain House.”
Grandma switches on the radio to a rock station. To please me, I think, she turns up the volume. To be quite honest, I hate listening to loud music with my grandma.
Finally, Grandma stops the car before the Plow and Chaff Café. “Honey, have a perfect night,” she says, and then another shade of worry draws across her face. She closes her eyes for a minute and then she blinks them open and smiles at me.
Chapter
Twenty
I walk toward the lit-up café. It is completely jammed with people, tons of kids from North and even a few from South. I recognize some parents and a few aunts and uncles. I can see Annais’s art teacher in there carrying an unlit pipe, wearing a beret, and chatting with Mrs. Elliot. I’m looking for Reni and Henderson. Where are they? I make my way to the refreshment table and there is Reni with an apron over her pink dress. She’s handing out
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