Sunshine Picklelime (18 page)

PJ held her breath, reluctant to say anything about her creative block after such a perfect morning. She rose and began shaking sand off the blanket while her mom collected the rest of their things.

“What about Squirt?” Mrs. Picklelime eyed the squirrel, still draped around her daughter’s neck. “Is he going home with us like that?”

“Of course!” said PJ, tugging his tail. “Aren’t I nicer than the water-bottle carrier?”

blackbirds

Mrs. Patel found PJ
in the back garden, frantically spinning the compost bins around and around. “Child, stop. You’re making the earthworms dizzy,” she said, tilting her head from side to side.

“I need to do crazy things, Mrs. Patel.”

“How so?”

PJ took a step back. The bin continued to swing to and fro for a few minutes. “I still can’t seem to sketch anymore.”

“PJ, that’s enough. Go and change and wash your face and hands. Evi Lenz has invited us to watch her make a new batch of Lemon Nectar truffles. I have slivers
of lemon peel for her right here,” she said, holding up a bag.

“But I’m—”

“No buts, PJ. I’ll wait for you at the front gate.”

Ten minutes later, PJ appeared in ripped jeans, a huge T-shirt fashioned out of recycled sugar sacks, and sandals shaped out of old car tires. Expecting Mrs. Patel to say something like, What will you wear next, child? she was surprised when Mrs. Patel nodded her approval and said, “Aha, much better.”

Off they went on foot to the Dream. They arrived just as Ms. Lenz lifted the cover off a large pot of melted white chocolate on a hot plate at the back of the shop. A sweeter-than-usual fragrance filled the air.

“Oh, perfect timing, Shanti and PJ. Come over here and watch me,” she said. She thanked them for the lemon slivers and emptied the bag into a special shaker. She placed the slivers next to her other tools—a funnel, corn flour, and little silver forks—all lined up on wax paper covering a large silver tray beside the hot plate.

She explained that handmade truffles had to be crafted very carefully according to temperature, to make sure the semisoft truffle filling mix of chocolate and lemon nectar did not fall apart when dipped in melted chocolate.

“Before we dip balls of chocolate-and-lemon-nectar mix in here,” she said, stirring the pot of warm white chocolate, “I have to make sure the consistency is just right.”

They watched wide-eyed as Ms. Lenz brought a slab of the mix from a cool spot in her shop and placed it on the wax paper. To PJ, it looked like a block of white fudge. Ms. Lenz scooped out a generous tablespoonful and squeezed it through the funnel to create the perfect size for the first truffle.

“My hands have to be dry and not too warm,” she said. So she patted corn flour on her hands before rolling the young truffle into a smooth ball between her palms. She then stuck the tiny silver forks into either end of the truffle, dipped it in the pot of thick liquid chocolate, and placed it on the wax paper.

Finally she shaped the surface with the forks, sprinkled the truffle with lemon peel, and let it cool while she prepared a second truffle.

Nodding at the two little lemon truffles and then at PJ and Mrs. Patel, she said, “Go ahead, ladies. Those are for you.”

“Brilliant,” said PJ as she popped one in her mouth. It dissolved faster than anything she had tasted before. The tiny lemon-peel slivers tickled her tongue.

“Goodness,” said Mrs. Patel, fanning herself. “Quite intoxicating! My, oh my, Evi. Sure you haven’t added anything stronger than lemon to the mix?”

Ms. Lenz laughed and shook her head. Her copper curls bounced around, and PJ really did hear bells ringing.

Once they’d recovered from the shock of tasting freshly made truffles, Mrs. Patel helped to squeeze the mix through the funnel, Ms. Lenz rolled the raw truffle between her palms, and PJ used the little forks to dip and shape it.

As the trio worked together in harmony, Ms. Lenz explained that people like her who came from a long line of chocolatiers took special care of the tools of their craft. “We call this cooking pot
trampier,”
she said. Holding up the little silver fork, she added, “And this is the
trampier-gabel.”

She showed PJ how to use the fork to “pockmark” some of the truffles to look like little lemons, as a variation on those sprinkled with peel.

The fragrance of white chocolate and lemon became even more intense. PJ studied the rows of perfect truffles. The circular shapes reminded her of the stepping stones
in Ms. Naguri’s garden. “Ms. Lenz,” she said suddenly, “do you meditate when you make truffles?”

Again, more laughter. “I like working calmly and consistently,” she explained. “Yes, anything you do over and over to try and achieve perfection is meditative. Today it’s different.” She began to place several truffles in a special box. “I’m taking these to Ruth’s parents. They’ve sat shiva—that’s a week of mourning when friends and family join them in daily prayer in their home. Everyone brought food. But it’s time I brought them something sweet. It’s traditional in my family.”

“You mean these truffles are sort of … blessed, Ms. Lenz?” PJ asked.

“Perhaps, yes,” she agreed. “Ruth is in my heart right now.”

“Then no ‘perhaps’ about it!” Mrs. Patel said. “The truffles
are
blessed.”

Tears began to prickle PJ’s eyelids. She tried to brush them away.

“It’s perfectly OK to cry, child,” Mrs. Patel said.

“We have all lost someone who is dear to us,” Ms. Lenz said. “But there are
always
others who need our friendship just as much.”

“And need your chocolate, too, Evi,” Mrs. Patel added, helping herself to another truffle and offering one to PJ.

PJ closed her eyes, remembering the day she took lemon truffles to Ruth and Josh. The truffle melting in her mouth right now tasted totally different. It seemed to fill her ears and her whole head and lift her feet off the ground. She couldn’t speak. It was comforting to be with two adults who didn’t expect her to say anything.

Evi Lenz touched PJ’s cheek. “Mrs. Patel says you do wonderful pastels. Bring your sketch pad here next time?” Pointing at the formal pictures of chocolates on the walls, she said, “Boring, aren’t they? I’m a rebel, PJ. I want you to draw dancing truffles, singing truffles, mountain-climbing truffles, flying truffles, truffles on bicycles. Bring them alive for me!”

PJ hesitated. What if she couldn’t deliver? “Are you serious, Ms. Lenz?” she asked.

“I
am
serious,” said Evi Lenz. “No rush. Think of this as your summer job.”

“Wow,” was all PJ could say.

“Not too fast with your ‘wowing,’ PJ,” said Mrs. Patel. “Your art project for school comes first, remember? Off we go now, child, or your parents will complain Evi and I have ruined your appetite with sweeties!”

PJ couldn’t wait for art class to be able to tell her teacher Mr. Santos about the Chocolate Dream and the request from Evi Lenz. Surely her block would lift by summer?

All morning she could hear him singing Spanish love songs at the top of his rich tenor voice in the studio down the hall, so it was hard for her to concentrate on earlier classes in history and English.

In fact, both Mr. Santos and Mr. Flax, the botany teacher, were busily preparing a large empty space in the big studio for the students’ upcoming end-of-semester art show that PJ now knew was to be titled Art in Nature and Nature in Art.

Groups of students in art or botany had been given wall and display space to do whatever they chose, new works or a collection of works completed during the semester. Themes had to link art and nature in any creative way.

After discussing the project with both Mr. Santos and Mr. Flax, PJ felt inspired to create a sort of storybook presentation of her drawings, starting off with the discovery of Lemon Pie in the yellow rosebush and ending with the tree house and the other birds. At least she could use
her existing sketches and not risk being unable to draw anything new.

When she told Mr. Santos about Joshua’s camcording adventures, he suggested they work on a mixed-media presentation in Ruth’s honor.

Joshua said by phone, “In Ruth’s honor? Oh, PJ, if only she could see it and enjoy it!”

“I know,” said PJ. “But it’s also for you and your folks.”

Joshua had missed so much school because of Ruth’s death that he was still trying to catch up. He apologized to PJ since she had to do most of the preparation.

PJ shrugged this off. Perhaps it was best if she worked out her creative blocks on her own, anyway.

During class, Mr. Santos asked PJ how she would like to display her artwork. “You have a choice, PJ,” he said. “Freestanding display boards? Or a scrim?”

“Scrim?” asked PJ, puzzled.

“That huge canvas hanging over there,” he said, pointing at some scenery showing a view of a house and a brick wall, salvaged from a school play staged the year before.

“Maybe the scrim, Mr. Santos,” she said, not entirely convinced this was the best choice. She studied it and
tried to see how it might be used. “Can I paint over it?” she asked.

“Of course, PJ.”

PJ wondered how she could do this. Throw pots of paint at it and step back to see the results? Take a random choice of colors and sponge over them? Or to be safe, should she simply use the leftover yellow paint from her room? She had to think about this.

When PJ cycled home later, her mind seesawed between ideas that felt great one minute and dumb the next. She was so caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t notice a sudden wind at first. It seemed to gust in from the sea. Branches swayed. Tins and bottles rolled noisily along the sidewalks. Sea spray trickled down PJ’s cheeks and she had to stop for a minute to dry her hands on her jeans.

Above, flocks of blackbirds lined up on the electric wires as far as the eye could see and then swooped down and swooped up in a bizarre U formation. PJ stopped and watched them. They were noisy and unfamiliar, and smaller than the crows she’d met on the beach.

Were they bringing some sort of message? Was there another oil spill? Or were pirate ships busily hijacking cargo boats out in the bay?

The wind became too strong for her to cycle, so she wheeled her bike the rest of the way home. She hoped her bird friends might swing by to bring news of some kind. But her lawn and window ledge were bare. No one responded to her sharp whistles. Not even Squirt was out there, swinging from one branch to the next. She just had to be patient.

PJ spent the late afternoon unpinning her drawings from the corkboard. She slipped them between the pages of a firm drawing block to keep them nice and flat to transport to school the next day.

She also finally decided to use her leftover yellow paint for the scrim, so she trotted downstairs to ask her dad for the drop cloths, rollers, and tray.

“Are you kids painting the school?” he asked, lowering his newspaper.

PJ explained the upcoming project.

“Sounds interesting, but art doesn’t put beans on the table, PJ. Don’t get fancy ideas for the future from this project, will you?”

“Dad, this summer I
can
put beans on the table,” PJ said, and started to tell him about the request from Ms. Lenz.

“That’s great, PJ,” he cut in.

PJ could see his mind was miles away, so she left it at that.

There was nothing on the evening news about the swarms of blackbirds passing overhead. The image kept bothering PJ, so she returned to her room, hoping one of her bird friends would hop in and update her. No such luck.

The blackbirds had looked like a dark cloud announcing something, but what? Later that night, PJ found out. The wind began to howl. Lightning split the sky and lit up her room. Rain slashed down and hit her window-panes with such force that when PJ opened them and put her head out, the rain stung her cheeks. Below, the bamboo fountain filled up with water and started to snap back and forth.

Within moments, Squirt came hurtling onto the ledge. He hopped inside, cold and bedraggled. His tail was so wet and skinny, it made him look like a big rat. PJ dried him and tried to fluff his fur, but all he wanted to do was jump into his tartan-lined box and curl up in a ball.