YA The Boy on Cinnamon Street (10 page)

Chapter
Twenty-two

Sometime in the middle of the night, I become aware that I am sick. My throat is burning and my ears are ringing. I get up to go to the bathroom and I start shaking with chills. Grandma sees me from her bedroom and calls out, “Louise, are you all right?” I stumble and fall on the floor and Grandma gets out of bed and comes over to me.

The room feels like a wobbling spaceship lost somewhere in the dark sky. “Louise, Louise,” she says, “drink this water and take this Tylenol. Lift your head up.”

Somehow I am back in my bed and there is light coming through my penguin curtains. For some reason the bills on the penguins are the brightest yellow I’ve ever seen. One of the penguins seems to be waddling as the curtain quivers in the draft. Has it stopped raining? I have a glass of water right near my face. I don’t think I can sit up to drink it.

Then it’s night again and my pillow is damp and when I open my eyes, my grandma is leaning over my bed. She has a tray of food in her arms. “Louise,” she says, “you haven’t eaten anything for two days. I have some soup for you. Do you want to try eating some?”

“No. No. I can’t.”

Now the penguins are in shadows. Their faces are dark and gloomy-looking. The baby penguin has fallen over. Grandma turns on a light and it hurts my eyes. She fluffs a pillow behind my head, I think, and she offers me a sip of soup on a spoon. I tilt my head and take it. “What time is it?” I ask, and Grandma says it’s afternoon. “Which afternoon?” I ask.

I sleep and sleep and sleep and my dreams are confusing. I am moving through layers of penguin curtains. I get lost in the blowing light fabric. My mother takes my hand and leads me through them. She tells me something very important. She whispers it in my ear. It rolls over me like a breeze from the open window. When I wake up, I remember that she told me something important that day in the rowboat. I remember what she said.

When I open my eyes, I see a bouquet of lilacs by my bed. Grandpa is sitting near me, reading. The window is open a crack and the curtains are breathing in and out in the air. Then I fall back asleep and days go by, or weeks, I don’t really know. I keep sleeping and sleeping.

Sometime, somewhere, I wake up again and Grandma sits on the edge of my bed. I think it is afternoon. I keep my head on the pillow and I tell her what happened at the opening and what happened after. I tell her how I went to Cinnamon Street and broke in. “Grandma, we need to fix the back door window now. Tell Grandpa,” I say. Then I tell her what I remember. All of it. I even tell her about my mom and the way I had found her that day lying in her bed. I tell her about the tree and me way high up in the arms of it screaming. I tell her everything, and then Grandma and I fall against each other, our foreheads touching. My grandma’s tears fall on my cheeks and my tears fall on hers. “Isn’t it strange that it was Benny’s mother who came in the house? She called the ambulance,” I say.

“It was Benny who touched off your memory, honey. Yes, it was. He helped you remember,” says my grandma.

“I miss her,” I say. “It hurts so much.”

“Me too, honey. Me too. But it’s a terrible thing to bury something inside you and never let it out. It’s better to face it, to yell and to scream and to cry and let it out. For both of us. Good not to keep things bottled up, because when you bottle things up, they can go off like a volcano.”

“I think I did go off like a volcano, Grandma, just like the one in the state of Washington,” I say. “And now it hurts because I miss her and I remember her. I didn’t want to remember her.”

“Oh, honey. Honey. Honey,” Grandma says, hugging me. “Oh, honey, honey, honey, honey, honey, honey, honey.”

My grandma draws back the penguin curtains for the first time in maybe a week. A week and a half? She opens the window and I can see that outside, it is spring finally. There are little green leaves on the trees and there is the sound of tiny unseen birds singing. There is a thick warmth to the air and a sort of pale yellow cast to everything. The lilacs in the vase by my bed fill the room with a delicate spring smell. “Your grandpa picked these for you,” says Grandma.

“Tell him thanks,” I say. “They’re beautiful.” And I close my eyes again and drift away into sleep, but it isn’t a confusing, terrible, dark sleep anymore, it’s a gentle resting kind of sleep.

Chapter
Twenty-three

When you are sick, you think of all kinds of very dumb things. One of the things that floats into my mind is that new T-shirt shop that opened up in the South Pottsboro shopping mall a while ago. The owner has been offering to make T-shirts with anything you want written on them for only five dollars a shirt. Suddenly, everyone in South Pottsboro has been wearing shirts with things written on them, things that are hard to say out loud and easier to put in writing. Grandma and I saw this guy and girl in a restaurant, and the guy’s T-shirt said,
DARLA, WILL YOU MARRY ME?

“Isn’t that a hoot!” my grandma said. “Now, how did he do that?”

I explained it to my grandma and she went, “Aha, I get it. Maybe I should have a T-shirt printed that says, ‘Phil, it’s time to turn off the TV, put it in its suitcase, and go to sleep.’ ”

“Oh, Grandma,” I say.

I get out of bed and I go to the window. There is a pink magnolia tree in bloom right in front of our building. It’s so beautiful and I never even noticed it before. “Oh, that tree,” says my grandpa when he brings me some more soup, “that tree is why we bought this place. I mean it’s the most beautiful tree in the whole world.” Grandpa sets the tray down. I look up at him, and his face is framed by an explosion of pink and red magnolia flowers behind him out the window. In my mind I have a T-shirt made. It says, “Love you, Grandpa. Love you. Love you. Love you. Love you.”

The veggie noodle soup is like magic. It’s my grandma’s secret Wizard of Oz potion. I eat it all and then I lean back on my pillow and check my cell phone. I see that Reni has been leaving messages, worrying about me, wondering where I am. But there’s nothing from Henderson.

I walk around my room, and it feels seriously good to be out of bed and on my feet again. I think I’ve been sick for more than a week. It feels like forever.

When I try to call Henderson, a message comes on immediately that says, “Hey, the robots from planet Zing Zong have zapped Henderson Elliot to a distant galaxy. Please leave a message.”

Later in the afternoon, when I’m lying on top of my covers, basically better but not all better, Grandma taps on my door. “Sweetie,” she calls, “you have a visitor. Reni is here. Reni. Reni. Reni.” Grandma has her arms around Reni when she opens the door. My grandma is so glad to see Reni, it’s as if saying her name once isn’t enough. She has to repeat the name three times because once doesn’t say it all. My grandma knows that Reni is huggable and lovable, but Reni doesn’t know it and there’s no way to make her know something like that. She has to find out for herself.

“Reni Reni Reni!” I go.

And Reni says, “Thumbelina. Thumbelina. Thumbelina.”

And Grandma goes, “Oh, you gals don’t miss a beat, do you?”

Reni’s carrying a bouquet of roses. “A lady at a flower shop gave me these. They were free,” she says, “because they’re on their last legs.”

“Oh, like me,” I go. “Ha ha.”

Reni sits on my bed with the fading roses in her arms. She looks at me. Then she squeezes her eyes real tight and frowns. Finally she says, “I’m a jerk for mixing you up with Benny M. No, it was my fault. I led you astray. It wasn’t you. Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I say. “I’m okay. But I remembered everything about my mom. You know? You know what I mean. So be careful. I might start crying. Do you think you can be friends with a true Kleenex hound?”

“It was my fault. I’m the serious jerk,” goes Reni. “I went wild and ate two tubs of ice cream and a whole box of cookies and four ham sandwiches. I’ve gained five pounds this week. I’m sooo bummed. It’s too late now. I’ll never get to go to the Spring Fling Dance.”

“Me neither, Reni. But it’s only one dance, and there will be others coming along. My grandma says there will be lots more dances. And we’re gonna change things. Soon, everybody in the world will be begging to be our friends. Come on, Reni, put ’em up. Put ’em up.” I make two small fists and I hold them in front of my face.

Reni looks down at the roses. “Even if I had lost twenty pounds, Justin Bieber wouldn’t show up from Hollywood to take me to the Spring Fling Dance. He never even answered my letters.”

“No,” I say, “probably not. Hey, letters only cause trouble.”

“Yeah,” goes Reni, “maybe. Still, if Henderson hadn’t been gone, I wouldn’t have eaten that whole tub of macaroni and cheese at midnight. Henderson guards over the fridge. He would have stopped me.”

“He would have?” I say. “Henderson stops you from eating stuff?”

“Yeah,” she goes.

“Where is Henderson anyway? He doesn’t answer his cell.”

“He got accepted at the writer’s camp in Idaho. He’ll be there for a few more weeks. He can’t have a cell phone there. It’s against camp rules. But he can call home once a week from their office,” says Reni. “This is a big deal, you know.”

“Has he called home yet?” I say.

“Yeah,” goes Reni, “he’s having a pretty good time. They have an indoor pool there. He’s written fifteen more pages on his novel. He’s changed the title and there’s some girl who’s in love with him. She’s been following him around, calling him a genius.”

“She’s stalking him!” I say “He should notify the authorities immediately.”

“No,” says Reni. “He didn’t say she was stalking him.”

“Oh,” I say and look down at my fingernails that I painted with silver nail polish the night of the party. When I’d finished painting them, Grandpa said, “Looks like you just slammed your fingers in a car door, pal.” Maybe so. Maybe so. (I am chairman of the board of idiots who don’t know until it’s too late what they feel.) I need to talk to Henderson. Who is this creep following him everywhere, throwing around words writers love to hear? I mean, tell a writer he’s a genius and of course he’ll start liking you. But that’s cheating. I have to talk to Henderson. It can’t wait.

“When are you going back to school?” says Reni. One of the roses on her lap is dropping its petals. They fall on the floor around her feet.

“Soon,” I say.

“Good, I’m glad you’re going back. I was worried about you.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Thumbelina?” says Reni. “If Benny didn’t write the note and if Benny didn’t send you the book, then who did?”‘

I look at Reni and I get tears in my eyes again. I remember Henderson holding me in the darkness of Cinnamon Street. I remember his long arms around me. I remember his voice softly in my ear.
“Frosty the snowman was alive as you and me.”
I take Reni’s hand and I squeeze it and I don’t say anything. I keep looking at Reni and tears keep rolling and pouring out of my eyes.

Then Reni’s cell phone rings and it’s her mom. She wants Reni to go to Tall Girl with Annais while she buys her some spring clothes. “My mom says I have to go along to show support and give my opinion.”

“Reni, tell me something. Does Annais
ever
have to show support to you?” I say.

“Oh, wow, look at the tree outside your window. It looks like a big bouquet from heaven,” says Reni.

“Yeah,” I say. “Anyway, I hate going to Tall Girl. I always feel like such a small girl. But do they have a shop called Small Girl? No.”

“Duh,” goes Reni, and she stands up to leave. “These roses need to be in water.” She smiles. She looks five pounds fatter and five pounds sadder.

“Reni,” I say to her, “oh, Reni.” I want to throw my arms around her. I want to call up Justin Bieber and beg him to write to her. But I can’t and I won’t. “Oh, Reni,” I say. “Oh, Reni. Reni. Reni.”

Chapter
Twenty-four

In the next couple of days, lots of memories of my mom begin coming back to me. It’s so strange. Sometimes I’ll text Reni about one of them. I’ll go, “Reni, I remember ice-skating with my mom. It was so cool.”

And Reni will text back, “Sick. You know how to ice-skate?”

Other times I’ll even text my grandpa. He loves that. He’s a whiz at texting. I’ll go, “Grandpa, I remember my mom taking me to school on my very first day of kindergarten.”

And he’ll text back, “Luv you.”

I do remember that first day at school. I was afraid to get in line with the others. There were so many kids. Everyone was bigger than me. My mom cried in a quiet way and then she said, “Go on, little penguin. Little penguin. I’ll be here at two thirty to pick you up.” Those steps across the playground were scary. The school building was enormous. The other children were so strong and noisy. Halfway there, I turned around to wave good-bye and saw my mother standing far away in the distance across the field of grass by the school yard. She was waving to me.

I could never be mad at my mother for what she did on Cinnamon Street. When it first happened and I had forgotten everything, counselors at school used to say to me, “Aren’t you angry at your mother for what she did?” And I would not understand. Angry? Mad? All I have to do now is think of her at the edge of that blowing green grass, standing there all by herself, waving to me. How small and cloudy she became. I knew then that I would lose her. I always knew I would lose her.

My grandma has been saying, “Some people are just not meant to be in this world. It’s just too much for them. Your mother was one of those people.” Believe it or not, it feels better to remember, even though it hurts, and sometimes when I’m alone in my room, I cry. And more memories come back to me and in some funny way, I feel I carry them around with me, as if my mom is a part of me now. Would Reni think this is psychotic of me? Henderson would understand. He would. I
know
he would.

Suddenly, I decide to get dressed and go up on the roof. My grandma says, “Honey, if you get up too early, you can have a relapse. Be easy on yourself. You’re mending.”

I have this image suddenly of me as a rag doll with all these mends all over my body. There’s a mend even over my heart. I think about my mother again. I reach out and take her hand in my mine. Seriously,
is
this psychotic of me? I want my mom. I want her back. I need her now. She walks with me toward the door. I feel her hand in mine.

I turn around and look at my grandma. “Can we call up those four goons who carried off my balance beam and tell them to bring it back?” I say.

My grandma looks at me, and her face kind of melts into pure breathtaking, dazzling relief.

I climb the stairs to the sky. Stepping out into the sunlight, the whole world is in bloom. It’s like while I slept, everything was changing. I can see lilac bushes and apple trees all over South Pottsboro, and every one of them is covered in flowers. For some reason this makes my eyes tear up again.

Mr. Anderson is up here planting his vegetable roof garden with twelve watermelon plants under plastic bubbles. I sit down on a chair in the sun and I nod to Mr. Anderson. He’s wearing green Farmer Jones type overalls and a farmer’s straw hat. “Louise, he’s a retired banker who always wanted to be a farmer,” my grandma said to me earlier. “Isn’t it wonderful! And even better, we all get free watermelons in late summer. That wasn’t in the condo documents!”

The sun feels sooo nice on my legs. I’m kind of thinking again about that letter Coach Tull wrote. I’m also thinking about what Henderson said about Merit Madson and Janie Brevette. Henderson is pretty smart. I suppose he could be right. If he’s right and they’re just jealous, then that’s not so bad.

While I’ve been sitting here, Mr. Anderson has set out all these little green, tender new watermelon plants. They look so eager somehow, all lined up in a row in the soil, like it’s their time now finally after millions and billions of years. It’s their moment on the roof. Wow. I wish I could tell Henderson that. I think he’s the only person in the world who wouldn’t go, “Huh?” when I said that. But now he’s gone away to writer’s camp and I can’t tell him anything. I feel like I’ve been wandering around lost in the snowy woods, completely baffled about what I feel. It was all buried under snow. I think then about the book Henderson sent me.
Thumbelina: A Fairy Tale.
The person who sent me that book knows me all the way down to my toes. And it’s Henderson.

Suddenly, I want to have one of those T-shirts made. It will say across the front in big letters,
HEN, CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME FOR BEING SUCH AN IDIOT? I MISS YOU SO MUCH
.