Tell Me (19 page)

I walk to the birdhouse, to the path that leads around Mim's garden. The flowers are bigger than when I got here.

I'm bigger, too.

I've ridden a horse.

I've helped capture bad guys.

I might have had something to do with my parents getting back together.

I've been a singing petunia.

I hope there's an essay in eighth grade about how I spent my summer vacation, because I don't want all this material to go to waste.

But now I have to go home.

It's not easy to say good-bye to people when you've shared major life moments.

Winnie's eyes get red when I hug her.

“I'll be back,” I tell her.

I want to transport Siri and Ben to Philadelphia.

Ben is leaving for camp in one hour. He hands me a CD of the middle school jazz band. Siri says, “I think you should live here, Anna.”

Part of me does, too.

“I'll be back, you guys”

Now for the really hard good-bye . . .

“You can brush her down if you want to.”

I take the curry comb from Taylor and move it in the circle motions. I don't want to leave this horse.

Zoe turns to look at me.

“I guess you know I have to go. I don't live here officially.”

Zoe knows this.

Taylor peeks back in. “For a twelve-year-old, Anna, you're beyond okay.”

“Thanks.”

“Actually, I think you're kind of ageless.”

“And I think you're the coolest friend to share your horse.”

Taylor leans against the stall door. “That was pretty awesome of me.”

I give Taylor a hug. She says, “I'll leave you two
alone.”

I stand there brushing Zoe.

I look at her.
So, what are you about?

I think you like the fact that you're strong and you can give people a ride.

I think you like to go fast.

I think you know about loving.

You can tell when somebody's hurting.

I think you care about that because of what happened to you.

She moves her great horse head across my shoulder. I feel her strength and her heart as close as anything.

I wonder—if you'd just had an easy horse life, would you care this much?

Mim and I stand at the train station.

“I'm going to miss having you around, Anna.”

“I'm going to miss being around. I'll be back.”

“You'd better.”

I smile. “How 'bout next week?”

“I'd love it, but I'm not sure how your parents would feel about it.”

Speaking of my parents . . .

Mim is probably the wisest person I know, so I ask,
“Do you have any advice for me about Mom and Dad and everything?”

She thinks about that. “Well, it seems to me, when people are going through a hard, confusing time, they need a little encouragement, so if you can step up and encourage your parents, I think that would help them and you.”

I'm not sure how it will help me, and I tell her that.

“It'll help you focus on the best parts of them,” she explains.

“I'll try, Mim.”

“Something tells me you'll do more than try.” She hugs me hard and I hang on. The train is boarding. “Off you go now.”

Mim touches her heart and I touch mine.

“Thank God you're back, kid.” Fred Dimsdale grabs my hand. “Your replacement . . .” he shakes his head. “It was painful to watch. He was clueless, no connection with the people, no understanding of the heart of a cranberry.”

I'm in the cranberry suit. “I won't let you down, sir.”

Lorenzo adjusts his
I'M WITH THE CRANBERRY
button and grins as the big music starts up. Dance music.

And I am a dancing cranberry!

“Remember, Anna. The drama coach for the high school is here to see us. I told her we were good enough to go to their after-school program.”

I nod. We are good enough.

We run out of the store, rocking, clapping, shouting, “Yes!”

Clapping to the beat.

One, two, three, four . . .

Lorenzo struts over, holding the mic.

I dance around him like we practiced.

Lorenzo shouts to the crowd, “Have you had your antioxidants today?”

I pause, cup my ear, listening to hear if the people say yes.

Nobody's shouting. They will.

“Have you?”

The crowd shouts back.

One, two, three, four . . .

A woman runs up, puts her arm around me and motions to a man. “Take my picture with the raisin, Herb.”

“Actually, ma'am, I'm not a—”

“She's a cranberry, lady!” That's my dad.

“Well, excuse me!” the woman says.

Small Dumb Move, Dad.
I put my hand up for Dad to cool down.

Dad starts laughing. I put my arm around the lady and pose.

Herb moves into place with his camera. “Everybody smile.”

Yeah, I know about smiling.

They get my extreme cranberry grin.

Click
.

I give her a coupon.

“You look like a raisin,” she says, and glares at Dad.

Fred Dimsdale groans at this news. Raisins are his big competition.

Thinking quickly, Lorenzo shouts. “But can a raisin do this?”

He points to me and I do a cartwheel, which isn't easy in a cranberry suit. We've added a lot of new moves. I don't land too well, but everyone's applauding.

People are coming over to dance with me and get their pictures taken.

Fred Dimsdale is happy.

Dad is as happy.

The drama coach from the high school is smiling. This is good.

Mom walks up carrying shopping bags. Dad looks less than happy that she's bought so much stuff.

Let it go, Dad.

I run over, put my arm around him.

He laughs again

I wish Mim were here. But I picture her in her
garden. I picture her heart getting stronger.

I wish Kim Su were here. I have a feeling that one of these days she could be a very good dancing cranberry, and I don't say that about just anybody.

I look out at the faces and, for a minute, I don't just see a crowd, I see people, real people, and I wonder where they're happy and where they hurt and what things do they keep down inside and what do they love most. And being in the cranberry suit helps me look at them in a different way.

Some kids run up to me, and we jump up and down on the little stage in front of the Wide World of Cranberries store.

Two of them giggle and run back to their parents, but a small boy with sad eyes looks up at me and quietly says, “My dog is sick.”

“I'm sorry.”

“She's pretty old. She sleeps by my bed.”

“She must love you a lot.”

He bites his lip and nods. Then he hugs me. “Thanks, cranberry.”

He runs off.

I pass out more coupons. People like them, but here's
what I'd like to pass out instead.

 

What I Learned This Summer by Anna McConnell

 

Pay attention to what's going on around you.

Trust your instincts.

If you see something, say something.

Don't be afraid to do something BIG.

Listen to people, really listen, and figure out how you can help.

 

Lorenzo taps his button:
I'M WITH THE CRANBERRY
.

But if I was wearing a button, I'd want mine to read:
TELL ME
.

Tell me what's going on with you.

Tell me what's wrong; how I can help?

Fred Dimsdale is talking to Dad.

“You've got a great girl there.”

“I know.”

I waddle over. Mr. Dimsdale says, “You seem older than when you left. You've added a new depth. Look at this crowd.”

“I learned a lot this summer, sir.”

“Use it, kid.”

I will.

I go up to a sad-looking old man and bow.
How can I make you smile?

That old man takes my hand and he twirls me around like we're on a dance floor, and I am thankful that my mother forced me to go to ballroom dancing for those six agonizing weeks.

People clap, and then he bows to me and he goes into the store.

Then I go up to my dad and bow. I take his hand.

“I don't dance, Anna.”

He said this at the father/daughter dance.

“Try, Dad.”

“Uh . . .”

“You just do this . . . see? ”

Dad doesn't right off.

“No, look, you go one, two, three, one, two, three . . .”

Our dance isn't smooth like when I danced with the old man who knew the moves, but that's okay.

“Let's give it up for the cranberry and her father,” Lorenzo shouts.

I smile at Dad and he grins at
me.

And we dance in front of the Wide World of Cranberries store as the people applaud.

The day after my birthday, I thought I saw her at the grocery store.

A thin girl with straight, dark hair in a ponytail with a yellow scrunchie.

I ran up to her, but it wasn't Kim Su.

All last summer I kept her in my heart, hoping.

It's hard to turn that off; it's not like switching off a light and leaving a room.

I used to think that being brave happened instantly.

You take a big leap and don't look back.

But being brave also happens when you take small steps,

Even unsure steps.

Sometimes it takes a lot of courage to be who you are.

—Anna M. McConnell, age 13, Philadelphia