Calamity Jayne and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Lawn Gnome (28 page)

Miss Banfield got to her feet.

"Of course not. We're just evaluating last night's amazing performance."

"Oh, I wouldn't actually call it amazing," I said. "After all, I practically grew up on a horse."

"She's talking about
their
performance," Taylor pointed out.

"Of course she is," I said. "I was only joking."

I walked over to the circle of desks, about to observe that someone was missing again when the classroom door opened, and a powerful whiff of vanilla musk nose-smacked me in the olfactory. (I get it. Women like to smell good, but hello. For the sake of those who might be allergic, know when to say when.)

 "Why hello. You're Jada, aren't you?" I said when I recognized the latecomer. "I'm Tressa Turner, with the
Gazette
. You were sick the last time I was here. I'm sorry you missed out on the halftime event last night. I'm sure you've heard by now, it was awesome! I hope you're feeling much better now."

She nodded and took a seat in one of the desks.

"Miss Banfield gave you my business card and filled you in about the little feature I'm planning. Right?"

Jada's eyes went to her coach.

"I heard something about it. But I'm really not interested in participating. I have so much going on right now."

"Oh, I know! I know! You've got schoolwork and cheerleading and, oh, that hunky boyfriend of yours. Mick Dishman, right? He's a hottie."

"What exactly were you wanting again?" Miss Banfield asked.

"What all reporters want," I said, leaning towards the coach. "A great story that causes lots of buzz and gets people talking."

"Well, I'm sorry, but we've talked it over and I don't think any of the girls are interested in being in your feature right now. They just don't need or want that kind of distraction right now. They have other things to focus on. Right ladies?"

Heads bobbed up and down.

"That's right. We aren't interested," Cissy said. "Are we?"

This time the heads shook.

"Count me out."

"No thanks."

"Too busy."

"Not a good time."

Lord. They sounded like me trying to get out of chaperoning one of Kari's middle school events.

"Honest," I pressed. "It wouldn't take much time at all. I'd just interview each of you separately and learn your stories, hear about your families, your strengths, weaknesses, successes, failures—"

"I believe my girls have indicated they don't care to participate, Miss Turner. If you would let us get back to analyzing our performance." She moved to the dry-erase board and picked up a cloth and quickly wiped it off. I was able to read the words, "self-object" and "need to belong" before they disappeared.

"Oh, wow! Maslow's hierarchy of needs," Taylor said.

I blinked.

Maslow's what?

Taylor moved to another section of dry-erase board and pointed at a large drawing of a pyramid comprised of five separate sections.

"Maslow's hierarchy of needs," she said. "Abraham Maslow was a researcher who came up with a theory relating to human motivation and development. You often see it in pyramid form like this with the most fundamental and basic needs like food and safety at the bottom while secondary needs that include things like love and acceptance and self-esteem appear higher on the pyramid."

"You know Maslow?" Miss Banfield approached Taylor.

"Of course. I was a psych major. His research of the forties and fifties was initially well received, but recent scholarship tends to indicate that such ranking of needs and the hierarchy itself is flawed and, therefore, to some extent invalid."

"Invalid? You mean it's wrong?" Jada asked.

"Not necessarily wrong but certainly not universally accepted," Taylor responded. "You see, needs can change from culture to culture and race to race and religion to religion based on those demographics and others. Needs tend to be highly individualized rather than a one size fits all application. If you see what I'm saying."

I gave the pyramid a closer look.

"Physiological needs like thirst and hunger were at the bottom. Above that came issues of safety like protection and security. Social needs like love and belonging were next up on the pyramid, with the warm, fuzzy, feel-good, esteem needs next. Self-actualization appeared at the tippy-top."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this!" Miss Banfield said, her voice sharp and shrill. "On the contrary! Maslow's work has been respected for decades as a leading template for developmental psychology."

Taylor shot me a "what the hell button did I push?" look and I shrugged.

I didn't even know what self-actualization referred to.

"I think we'd better agree to disagree," Taylor said. "There's certainly a broad body of work and research in this field, and it's growing all the time, that tends to indicate Maslow's research is at best incomplete and at worst, flawed—"

"You're wrong!" The cheerleading coach said. "Flat out wrong. And I think I'm going to have to ask you both to leave."

"Wait a minute. I'm sorry if I upset you," Taylor began, but the teacher put her hand up.

"You'd be upset too, if two strangers barged into your classroom and interrupted a private session with students."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Taylor said.

"Why are you here anyway?" Martina asked. "She's the reporter. Why are
you
here?"

"She's my sister," I said. "And chauffeur, since my car was vandalized. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Miss Banfield?"

"Of course not. It's the first I've heard about it!"

"How about your girls?" I turned to the cheerleaders. "You're popular, right? You're cheerleaders. Everybody wants to be you. Or wants to be your friend. Have you heard anything about all the vandalism going on? Because if school is anything like it was when I was here, if anything was going around the school, the cheerleaders knew about it. So? Do you? Know anything? I mean. Any guesses who might be pulling this crap? Any
hierarchical theories
?" I said, looking back at the teacher. "Any researched-based, educated guesses based on Mr. Maslow's theory of motivational needs, Miss Banfield?"

"That's it!" Martina said. She stomped to her desk and hit the button to the intercom.

"I need a principal in my classroom. I have parties in my classroom without visitor passes who refuse to leave."

"Don't get your spandex in a wedgie," I told the teacher. "We're going." I passed Jada on my way to the door. "You sure you're feeling better, Jada. You're awfully pale," I said and dropped a business card on the desk in front of her. "Just in case you change your mind."

I walked sedately to the door, opened it for Taylor, and gave a cheery little wave to the classroom occupants.

"See you next week!" I said.

"Next week?" Martina shook her head.

"Career Day! Mick Dishman is bringing me. I can't wait! Hmm. Maybe I'll even do a story on it. Toodles!"

I shoved Taylor into the hall. As soon as the classroom door closed, I grabbed her wrist and booked it for the nearest exit.

"What are you doing?" Taylor asked.

"Saving you from the humiliation of your first ever bawling out by a principal," I told her.

Am I my sister's keeper or what?

It was almost two hours later when I finally dropped Taylor off at the Dairee Freeze. She was a little late, and Uncle Frank was a little peeved. Okay. So she was a lot late, and Uncle Frank was a lot more than peeved.

I wasn't exactly thrilled to be driving a car that catered to a senior citizen clientele and sported hot pink swirlies resembling weird-shaped rotini pastas, but I had things to do, places to go, people to see.

I ignored most of the honks, catcalls, and heckling—that is, until a car pulled up behind me—"this" close to my back bumper (or Taylor's back bumper)—and laid on the horn. My gaze flew to the rearview mirror.

Another Buick.

Another senior citizen behind the wheel.

A close encounter of the gammy kind.

Gram and Stepper.

I gave them a "hey, hello, have a good day, see you later" wave and motioned for them to take the spot I'd been about to pull into.

Fat chance. When I pulled into a parking space around the corner from the newspaper office, they followed, parking right next to me.

Joe rolled down his window.

"Nice Pepto-mobile," he said. "Is that supposed to cure diarrhea or cause it?"

I shook my head.

"Tressa Jayne Turner! What have you done to Paw-Paw Will's car this time?" My gammy's bellow could be heard at the Kut 'n' Kurl two doors down. "All those pink whirligigs. It makes me dizzy just looking at it."

"Sorry, Gram. But honest it's not my fault. You see, we've got this group of scofflaws—"

"Oh, wow, look who's going all thesaurus on us!" Joe said.

"What's dinosaurs have to do with Tressa trashing Paw-Paw Will's car again? She sayin' some T-Rex did it? 'Cause I'm not buying it."

"No. T-Rex didn't trash it, and neither did I, Gram. Some bad people trashed it. Very bad."

"Craig said the Plymouth got all filled up with dead animals. And now Pappy's Buick's crapped up. What about the gnome? You find it yet?"

"I'm getting closer," I evaded. "What are you two doing in town this fine morning?" I asked and watched Joe get out and walk around the car to assist his wife.

"It's hair day," Gram said once she was on the sidewalk. "I always get my hair done on Saturdays. Plus we got the Historical Village doin's tonight. That Blast from the Past Masquerade. Don't you remember?"

"That's Blast
to
the Past, and I haven't forgotten."

"You're dressin' up, right?"

I frowned. "Dressing up" had lost its appeal after I was traumatized at a tender age when I was the only one to show up at a youth group Halloween party in costume.

I went as a bum circa Freddie the Freeloader (for those of you who don't know who this character is, Google him and you'll totally get it) complete with burnt cork whiskers, white mouth, blackened teeth, hat, coat, scarf, and knapsack. Oh, and bright pink vest. (The traditional red not working for me.) To this day I remember how I felt when my best friend walked up to Craig, Taylor, and me and asked, "Isn't Tressa coming?"

The worst part is that I was never permitted to get over it. Photographic evidence of it follows me to this day via made-to-order novelty item "gifts" such as calendars, puzzles, wanted posters, playing cards, coasters, and T-shirts. And don't get me started about the social media implications. Every time I get "tagged," I'm terrified to look for fear I'll see Tressa the Humiliated Hobo staring out from the screen.

"We'll see," I finally responded.

"Hang around, Blondie, and I'll buy you a late breakfast," Joe instructed.

I shrugged.

"Okeydokey," I said, not one to pass up a free meal. And putting off quality time with Stan the Man for an hour or so did not pose the least, little hardship—that was for certain.

Joe was back from the Kut 'n' Kurl in record time. He opened the passenger door and got in.

"Hazel's ought to be cleared out by now," Joe said, "so you should be able to find a parking space up front."

"And you're buying again, right?"

He shook his head. "Broke again, huh?"

"Pretty much," I said and backed out. "Is Gram really upset about the car?"

"She'll get over it," Joe said, fastening his seat belt. "Besides, it kind of bugs me the way she regards this car as a shrine."

I looked over at the senior.

"Uh, er, Joe?" I made a motion towards my crotch and then nodded at his fly. "Your insecurity's showing."

I laughed when he gasped and moved to pull up his closed zipper.

"Ha, ha, ha. Very funny," he said. "And it's not insecurity on my part. I just think it's creepy as hell."

"Creepy? This was Paw-Paw Will's last car."

"So what? He'd only had it for a year. He bought a new one every three years like clockwork."

"Can we talk about something else less depressing?"

"How about last night's game?"

"I said 'less' depressing."

"Wasn't that brutal? Especially that last inning." He winced. "Entertaining as all get out in the beginning? You bet. Tough to watch at the end."

"But you forced yourself to watch, right?"

"Donkey train wreck! Hello! How is 'Mighty Frankie' by the way?" Joe asked.

"I was afraid to ask Uncle Frank when I dropped Taylor off," I admitted.

"Good call," Joe said.

We sat at the four-way stop waiting for my turn to go when my phone rang. I checked the number. It was Dusty Cadwallader's cell number!

"Hello? Dusty?"

I heard noises in the background but nothing else.

"Dusty, is that you? Hello?"

I picked up sounds like you hear when someone's butt dialed you.

"Dusty? Dusty!"

I lost the signal.

Dang!

I tried resend, but the phone kept ringing until it went to voice mail.

A horn behind me sounded.

"Move that POS!" I heard.

Nice.

I made a left turn, hitting the button to call Dusty's number again.

"Anything wrong?" Joe asked.

"Sorry, Joe. But I think duty just called. I'm going to have to take a rain check on breakfast, but I can drop you off at Hazel's."

"Hold your horses. I can tell when something's afoot," Joe said. "So what is it? I heard you say Dusty. Was that Dusty Cadwallader on the phone?"

I looked at Joe.

"You know him?"

"Know him? Mr. Spacely? George Jetson? Mork? Nanu nanu. Flash Gordon?"

"I see his reputation precedes him."

"Cowboy Bebop?"

"Oh, wow! That's a new one. I haven't heard that one."

"I know. Hilarious, right? Almost as hilarious as Calamity Jayne.

That sobered me up.

"So you
do
know him. How well do you know him?"

 Joe shrugged. "We wrote the policy on his grandparents' home for years. They were a bit odd. Nice people, but they didn't get out much."