I, Emma Freke (10 page)

“Well Maine's just like Wisconsin,” concluded Penelope, “cold at night and miles of trees. I bet she knows exactly where you can get all this junk.”

We locked up the shop early and headed over to the library before it closed at five o'clock. As we trotted down Harbor Street, something occurred to me.

“If those kids are there again, Penelope, I don't want to talk to them.”

“Which kids?”

“You know, that class that hangs out over in the corner with that teacher guy, Gordon.”

Penelope stopped in her tracks.

“But they were really nice!”

“I'm just not interested, ok?”

That wasn't entirely true, because I did want to know what kind of group they were and what they were learning. Plus it did seem like they had fun together. But there was no way I was going to approach them again . . . especially after that awkward introduction when they
almost
laughed at me.

Just then two little girls skipped past us, their mother following behind.

“Hello!” Penelope chirped as usual.

The little girls giggled and waved.

“Hello!” said the mom.

I frowned. I knew Penelope was wondering what was wrong with me, why I was so unfriendly. The problem was people weren't friendly toward me first. Maybe if they were, then I'd be friendlier.

“Emma?”

Penelope stopped again and grabbed hold of my sleeve.

“I just want to say that if you're going all the way to this reunion all by yourself—”

“I
know
,” I interrupted her, “I have to be more talkative and outgoing and—”

“No. I was just going to remind you to bring that gold mojo bead I gave you for good luck—you're gonna need it!”

At that moment, I didn't care one bit if she was a little more than two years younger and fifteen inches shorter. Penelope was the best friend ever.

As usual, Stevie was sitting at her reference desk near the computers. She was wearing a wide headband that pushed her frizzy yellow hair out at the sides, and every one of her earrings was the sparkly kind. They looked like Hungarian crystals. We sold a lot of those at the shop.

She read my reunion invitation and the accompanying list of supplies.

“You must be so thrilled, Emma!”

At this point, I was more nervous than anything. What if I didn't fit in with the Frekes either? What if no one at the entire reunion liked me or resembled me? I knew if I kept allowing myself to have these thoughts I would probably chicken out. So I put my doubts aside the same way I placed beads in their correct box. Once in a while, I would check to see if they were still there, but for the most part, I tried not to obsess about them.

After all, I was only going to be gone for a few days. Donatella said my flight left Friday morning and that I'd arrive home late Monday afternoon. I planned to stuff my suitcase with snacks in case no one fed me. I also wanted to bring plenty to read if there was nothing for me to do or if no one talked to me. In fact, I had already made one main five-point list for the trip, which listed five sub-lists covering five categories with their own lists:

“I have an extra tent,” said Stevie. “Do you want to borrow it?”

“Of course she does!” cried Penelope who was beginning to act like she was coming with me. “Can we go get it now?”

Stevie laughed. “Do you mind waiting about ten more minutes until the library closes? I live right around the corner.”

“Sure,” I said. “Sounds good.”

Penelope could barely sit still in her seat. She told me she was going to research everything I needed to know about Wisconsin from the state bird to sports teams.

“I'm only going for a long weekend,” I reminded her.

“Emma, don't you get it?” she asked, still wiggling. “These are
your people
!”

I let that sink in for a bit. Could it be true? Would I finally know what it really felt like to belong?

“And you know what else?” she asked.

“What?”

Penelope leaned over and whispered, “You might even find your
joylah
.”

“Joylah? Is that an African word?”

“I think it's just a Gray Mom word,” said Penelope. “Whenever I'm out of sorts, Cynthia or Katherine always tells me I have to find my joylah, my groove zone, my smooth place back in the track!”

I was pretty sure I had never found my joylah. Ever. Maybe that's what was wrong with me.

“Penelope?”

An older boy stood in front of us, his arms full of books.

“Hey!” she beamed. “You're one of the mosh-pit kids!”

“Yah,” he grinned. “You should come back and hang out with us sometime. We meet here all summer.”

Penelope sank into her seat as if she had just remembered our conversation earlier.

“Maybe,” she mumbled. “I'm kind of busy.”

Then he looked directly at me.

“I'm Jared.”

I stared down at my lap.

“Didn't Gordon say your name was Emma?”

“Yah, that's her name!” squealed Penelope.

I could feel my cheeks burning. Why did he keep talking?

“You can both join us anytime. We do lots of really cool things.”

Penelope kicked me under the table.

“Okay,” I barely spoke. “Thanks.”

Stevie's apartment was a small cozy cottage connected to a huge brick house owned by a rich man from France who was rarely in town. Her place was very tidy and had lots of little rooms that reminded me of a maze. Everything was so interesting, kind of like a museum. She had a bunch of paintings and antiques everywhere, but all placed perfectly. And she had this wonderful wooden loom that took up more than half of one room.

While Stevie went to look for her extra tent in the storage shed out back, Penelope and I milled around looking at all her cool stuff.

“This is how
my
life is going to be.”

Penelope looked confused.

“What's that mean? How's it gonna be?”

I thought about how to put it all into a couple of words.

“My own.”

In the corner of the kitchen, I discovered stacked cages hiding behind a palm tree. A tiny hammock hung across the top cage. Something was sleeping in it tucked under a tiny red blanket. I stuck my finger inside, and a pointy nose poked out.

Penelope jumped back.

“What the heck is that?”

“That's Cuddle,” said Stevie as she walked into the kitchen. And that fella,” she nudged at an old towel in the lower cage, “is Puddle. They're ferrets.”

Cuddle climbed out from under his blanket after hearing Stevie's voice. He wedged his tiny nose between the bars.

“Cuddle is the outgoing one. Wanna give him a treat?” Stevie asked.

Penelope was a little frightened, but I thought the ferret was adorable. He was so long and thin, like a small weasel, but he was an unusual coffee color with a dusting of chocolate brown and very cuddly looking.

I gave him one of his special liver snacks, which he pulled daintily from my fingers.

Penelope decided she liked him now.

“He's kind of cute! Can we hold him?”

“Maybe later,” said Stevie. “This is still his sleepy, mellow time. In a couple hours, he'll get super playful.”

I studied the lump under the gray rag in the lower cage.

“What about Puddle?”

“Puddle,” sighed Stevie, “prefers to stay under that towel most of the day. It's strange because ferrets are normally very friendly. But he doesn't even like me to pick him up.”

Penelope asked, “Why, was someone mean to him?”

“Nope,” said Stevie. “They're brothers. I got them both as babies. And the veterinarian says he's perfectly healthy. I guess it's just his nature.”

“Man, that stinks,” said Penelope.

I peeked in the lower cage and whispered, “I know how you feel, Puddle. You need to find your joylah too.”

And the gray towel moved a tiny bit.

The tent and other supplies were piled on Stevie's back porch. She had everything from sleeping bags to lanterns to mosquito netting.

“Can I borrow this?” asked Penelope who was holding a metal popcorn popper, the kind you used over a fire.

“Sure,” said Stevie, “if you promise to be extra careful with it. That was my grandfather's popper. When he was a child, that was the only way they cooked popcorn.”

Penelope hugged the funny contraption.

“I'll be
super
careful. Anyway, my Gray Moms are old too. They'll know how to use it.”

I was overwhelmed by all the equipment. Did I really need all this stuff to sleep outdoors for the weekend? For the hundredth time that day, I began talking myself out of the trip. But then, as if reading my mind, Stevie said I didn't need too many supplies for a quick weekend outing—basically the tent, a good flashlight, and a sleeping bag. She just wanted to show us all her gear for fun.

We spent about an hour learning how to set up the tent and take it down. It was meant for two people, but seemed perfect for one tall one. When I finally got the hang of it and it was time to leave, Penelope refused to get out of the tent. Even though she practically lived in a mansion with everything in the world, she claimed she liked it better than any old house.

Stevie said it was because a tent represented adventures and possibilities, giving you the stars every single night. But a house stayed in one place, safe but always the same.

And that was the very thought I clung to for the rest of the week . . . until I arrived at the airport.

“I'm not sure if I'm reading this right, but I think my plane ticket says Departure: 10:11
A.M.
Not
11:10
A.M.
?”

My mother had finally found my ticket stuck between two parking citations at the bottom of her enormous purse. Wrapped in her bubble gum pink silk bathrobe, she was slumped over a strong cup of jasmine tea attempting to wake up before her usual nine o'clock hour. Nonno and Eggplant were already out on their morning walk, which included a coffee with Nonno's ancient friends down at the pier now that the weather was warm.

Donatella limply stuck out her hand.

“Lemme see that.”

I had been packed for two days, everything waiting by the door. That morning I awoke before the sunrise at five o'clock and was ready to go by five thirty.

My mother held the ticket out as far as her stubby arms allowed in order to focus on the numbers. Suddenly, she straightened like a soldier at attention. Then she looked at the clock on the wall. It read 8:20.

“My makeup! My clothes!” she hollered as she ran for the bathroom.

I followed her.

“How far is the airport?” I asked.

She was already brushing her teeth.

“Shush der nour.”

“What?”

She spit.

“Just under an hour!”

“But I'm supposed to be there like two hours early for security and the whole guardian thing—which means I should have arrived nine minutes ago!”

“Then scoot and let me get ready, already!”

She shut the door in my face.

I knocked on it really hard.

“What now?!” she hollered from inside.

“Skip all that and just get dressed—I'll miss my flight!”

Donatella opened the door a crack. She was brushing her thick dark hair as roughly as you would a horse's tail.

“Just calm your karma, Emma! Believe me, you won't miss a
thing
.”

Amazingly, not a single police officer was staking out speeders along the highway as Donatella drove eighty-five miles an hour in Nonno's old burgundy Cadillac all the way to the airport. The car shook so hard I was sure something would fall off.