Dear Opl (15 page)

“Who's that?” I turned from the window to look at him.

“Jacob Berndowser. The big turd.”

“Is this the guy who's been giving you trouble at school? The one who keeps pushing you down?”

Ollie nodded.

“Have you told Mom about him?”

He shrugged. “Sort of. She talked to my teacher, but the whole thing's kinda about Mom.”

“I thought it was about…your costumes.” Everyone at home was trying to be patient with Ollie's dress-up phase, but I guess the Bulldozer wasn't the tolerant type.

He shrugged again. “That too.” He took a big breath and put his hand on the doorknob. “Well, I'm not going to let him ruin Mom's day. I'm sick of him pushing me around.”

“Attaboy,” I said a little uncertainly. I wasn't so sure Mrs. Clause gave off the impression of someone not to be messed with, but I applauded his attitude.

And in thinking about attitudes, mine began to sink. Cranking my head to see up and down the street, I could make out no fancy cars, no limousines, no police escort. Where in the world was my Grand Master of Ceremonies? How could this be a Grand Opening with no Grand Opener?

I looked at the clock. We had five minutes till speech time. A knock on the window startled me. I turned to see the postman, holding up a stack of mail and his eyebrows in question. I opened the door to let him in.

“Congratulations on the big day,” he said, handing me the stack. “A couple of things were piling up at the post office for the bookshop. I figured your mom has been too busy to pick them up. So I thought I'd drop them off. I hope to stop in later and have a browse around, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, slumping a little.
Looks
like
you're not going to miss anything sticking around right now.

I tossed the mail onto the counter, but it scattered to the floor behind the register. Mom might bristle if she stepped on all of that when she came to ring up the first customer. I went round the other side to pick everything up. Kneeling on the floor, I found a couple of trade magazines from publishers with their new book lists, a bill from the electric company, a postcard from my great-aunt Gladys, congratulating Mom on the new shop, and a big envelope with my name on it, but the bookshop's address. The postmark said, “London, UK.”

I felt my mouth go dry. My hands felt like the pasty, thick dough G-pa and I kept trying to work with to make pie crusts. I fumbled with the flap, sliding a finger beneath the sticky seal, and pulled back sharply when the zing of a paper cut zigzagged through me. I hissed and then sucked on the stinging part. After a couple of seconds I used my shoe to hold down the edge of the flap, tearing it open.

I looked up at the clock. Three minutes till showtime. I didn't really want to see this, I kept telling my shaking hands as they reached inside the envelope. They pulled out a large, glossy photo of Alfie's goofy smiling face. He wore his chef clothes. All white. It looked like he'd scrawled his first name across the bottom of the picture with a big X underneath it. At least I think it was his first name. Maybe he'd had Maya Papaya write it.

A paper clip held a note attached to the photo. It read,

Dear Opl,

First of all, congrats on such a stellar job with your learning to cook. I'm sure you're an inspiration to all thirteen-year-olds out there who are now taking those first steps to follow your lead. Keep up the great work!

I'm sorry my schedule doesn't allow for traveling to your mum's new bookshop opening, but it was incredible of you to think of me. Tell her cheers from me. I hope her cooking section proves hefty enough to hold all my books and the many out there that encourage folks to eat well and wisely. Hey, maybe you'll have a book in that section one of these days!

Thanks for your support in Meal Madness and keep spreading the word. Have a brilliant Grand Opening.

Cheers,

Alfie

The old me would have crushed the letter between my hands. I would have made my fists into car crunching, compact smashing, lethal weapons and then pounded the letter into the rubber matting beneath the cash register. But parts of the old me were still here. The parts that gave in to the rush of hot emotions, feeling the accompanying stinging tears streak down my face. I didn't want to care. But I could imagine that both Dr. Friedman and Aura would have told me that the caring part of me was not a part I should skinny up. But I still wanted to send Alfie Adam's words to someplace I wouldn't have to see or hear. “He's not coming.” I kept saying it over and over again and hugged myself tight with the words.

I felt a hand draw me up by the shoulder. Two big hands pull me into a soft, flannel-shirt hug. G-pa stroked my hair and rubbed my back. “What is it, Opal?”

“He's not coming. He was never coming. I'm stupid for believing in him. I'm stupid for trusting that anyone is going to be there when I need them. And I'm ugly and I'm fat.”

G-pa pushed me back so he could see my face. It was soggy and splotchy red. I could see it reflected in the pint-sized shiny safe Mom had installed beneath the cash register.

“Number one, girlie, you are not stupid. You are never stupid for having faith in a person you care about.” He pointed to Alfie's headshot beside me. “I take it you invited Mr. Adam to the shop's first day, like you invited half the town it seems. If he isn't coming, it's because he can't, not because he won't. There's a difference.”

I grunted.

“This guy taught you a lot, Opal. But just because he isn't here doesn't mean you have to throw it all away.”

“What's the point?” I ran a sleeve under my nose.

“The point is,” G-pa said, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and getting back onto his feet, pulling me up with him, “he was a good teacher. But he has a lot of people to teach. And the guy has found how to do it in a big, broad way. It would take too long one-on-one.”

I blew into G-pa's hanky. I thought about sending it back to England with Alfie's picture.

“And another thing,” G-pa said. “You're not fat and you're not ugly.” He squeezed me back into a rough, smushy hug. “That's something else we can thank that fellow for.”

“Not making me ugly?”

“Nope. Ugly's on the inside. I think what you did for your ma and this guy Rudy is a beautiful thing. Ugly people are full of hate and selfishness—and don't forgive. You might have gotten the goofy-looking gene from me, but that's not ugly. Goofy you can fix with mascara or hair gel or something. It's that we're in the kitchen together. We're talking about food and old recipes. We're making new ones. You're feeding people you love. That's top-notch stuff. That guy Adam had a lot to do with it.”

“You did too, G-pa.” I squeezed him back.

“Let's not give up though. Just cuz the guy can't make it to your party, doesn't mean you should cancel the party, okay? We gotta keep cooking good stuff.”

The party. I swallowed hard. Who's going to give the speech? I had it all planned out. I looked up and wiped my eyes again. “G-pa? Alfie Adam was supposed to give a dedication speech. I don't have anyone now.”

“Sure you do. How 'bout his second in command? The person who has studied him for these last few months?”

I pulled back. “Me?” I shook my head. “I can't do it. I wouldn't know what to say.”

He put an arm around my shoulder and walked me toward the door. “It's like cooking a new recipe. Sometimes you just have to trust the right stuff will come out. Have a little faith in
yourself
, Opal.”

We put our coats on. G-pa opened the door and we stepped out into the silvery, crisp morning. People rubbed their hands together and stomped their feet to stay warm. I looked back and saw Mom peeking out the window, nibbling on her nails. I ran back in and pulled her outside to stand next to Rudy at Chefs Jerry and Patricia's table. They were handing out samples of their Beautiful Bowel Beverage line. I think it should be renamed The Super Duper Pooper Scooper. It didn't sell well at school.

I tapped Mom on the shoulder. “Mom? My surprise can't make it, so I'm filling in last minute. Are you okay with that?”

Mom turned to look at me and her face broke out into a sunny smile. “You're going to officially open the store? At the podium?” She looked out at the gathering crowd.

I nodded, feeling my stomach bunch up in knots. G-pa winked at me from behind Mom. “Uh-huh. Should I go up there—” Someone shouted in the crowd and people spread apart like the circled waves of water when you throw a pebble into a pool.

“I AM NOT!” we all heard Ollie shout.

“YOU ARE TOO. YOU'RE A BIG OL' PANSY GIRL!”

That was Jacob Berndowser a split second before Ollie took a running leap and head-butted him in the stomach. The Bulldozer got dozed. A collective gasp came from everyone around them as they wrestled on the ground, little fists snatching at one another, little legs tangled up in our Christmas tree skirt. Ollie lost his shower cap.

I saw Mom rush toward them, the crowd splitting like she was Moses leading the way through the Red Sea. “Ollie!” she shouted. But before she reached them, a gold tasseled circle flew through the air and lassoed around the boys, pulling them to a standstill. Or a laystill.

Everyone turned to look at where it came from. Rudy held the other end of the rope. He'd ripped it off the entrance. I guess it doesn't take two feet to make a good cowboy.

Wow
, I mouthed at him. He followed the rope to where the two boys lay and I scurried after him with G-pa behind me.

“What in the world?” Mom said, pulling the boys up and unlooping them. My Red Riding Hood cape had a gaping rip down the back, our tree skirt may have been capable of hiding the ugly plastic Christmas tree stand, but it couldn't cover up the holes in Ollie's favorite pants. The last pair of pants Dad bought him before he left and were now way too tight to be comfortable. Tears spilled from his eyes, snot leaked from his nose. He cried harder than I'd ever seen him cry. Boy, this Bulldozer kid must really be mean.

But Jacob Berndowser whimpered too. Maybe because of the bloody nose Ollie gave him.
Way
to
go, buddy!
I thought. Mr. Berndowser leaped over about three shoulders' worth of people. He scooped up Jacob with one hand, clamping a handkerchief down on his son's bloody nose.

“Aw jeez, I'm so sorry,” Mr. Berndowser kept saying over and over again to Mom. “What happened? I was working on my Blackberry and when I looked up our guys were going at it with left hooks and uppercuts.”

“He's a big ol' pansy, wearing girlie clothes, Dad,” Jacob shouted. He sounded like Elmer Fudd with his nose held shut.

“Jacob!” Mr. Berndowser's eyes went wide. He turned to Mom. “I'm really sorry. We've already talked about this at home. Jacob's having such a hard time since I got divorced. Lashing out at everything.”

“I'm not a pansy.” Ollie reeled back, his little hands clenched into fists. “I'm trying to give my mom ideas!”

Mom grabbed Ollie by the shoulders and gently turned him toward her. “Give me ideas? For what?”

“So that Dad will come back!” His eyes still sparkled with fresh tears. And within seconds, so did Mom's.

She blinked several times, trying to keep everything inside and swallowed. “He's not coming back, Ollie.”

“But he might if you just tried some of my ideas!”

Mom frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard Dad say it! On that last day. He said that it made him
sick
that you weren't the person you were meant to be. That there was a lot of stuff you had to do. That you had to go find out who you could become. And since Dad left I've been trying to help you. All these costumes are my ideas. Maybe Dad wanted you to be a nurse or a flashy pop star and then he could come back. Why won't you even try?” he demanded. His face wrinkled with pain, with almost two years of misunderstood efforts.

Now Mom's face couldn't hold back. No matter how many times she tried to blink, she couldn't keep the tears from leaking out. “Honey, I have been trying.” She pointed back at the bookshop. “I didn't realize what you were doing for me. I'll probably never be a nurse, and I'll definitely never be a pop star, but I'm trying to be a bookshop owner. I think that's an honest effort, yes?”

“So why wouldn't he come back?”

Mom took a big breath in and looked upward. She shook her head. “Because people who die
can't
come back. It doesn't…work that way.”

“Even if he saw you trying to be what he wanted?”

Mom nodded. “Ollie, when I found out Daddy was very sick, I wanted to go with him. But he convinced me I had a lot left to do. That I hadn't finished my own living yet. It's been hard—for all of us, but I'm trying to find out what
I
want to do. That's what he really wanted. Does that make sense?”

Ollie stared blankly into Mom's face. “He can't come back?”

“Nope,” Mom said sadly. “But he's here in a different way. I see him everywhere. In you and Opal…and G-pa. He's around.” She scooped up Ollie in her arms, sniffled into his shoulder, and then turned to smile at me. “We'd better get this show on the road, okay?”

I snuffled back my own tears and felt G-pa's hands on my shoulders from behind. He kissed the top of my head. “Go gettum, tiger.”

I walked to the podium and stepped up on the rickety platform. I cleared my throat and looked across the crowd. My tongue felt like a giant rubber wedge, which was fine because I couldn't think of anything to say. How different could this be from writing a blog? When I sat on my bed and cracked open my laptop, the words just poured out. So I put my hands on the podium surface and closed my eyes, pretending to type.