Love, Stargirl Page 14

  “Arizona Leo. The guy who didn’t dump you.”

  “I’m not finished with the other conversation yet. I want to know more reasons why you like me.”

  He held up a warning finger. “Hey, I said you’re interesting—”

  “Fascinating.”

  “—fascinating. I never said I like you.”

  I did a mopping-the-brow pantomime. “Oh good. That’s a relief. Because I don’t like you either. Wouldn’t that have been icky if we didn’t agree?”

  He spat out his chewing gum. “Icky.”

  “Borlock.”

  He nodded, smiling. “Leo Borlock.” He pulled out another stick of gum. He handed me the wrapper. “Leo Borlock, huh?” He seemed to chew on both the gum and the name. I felt a flurry of questions about you coming on, but instead he said, “Oh yeah, the calendar.”

  “Huh?”

  A conversation with Perry Delloplane is about as straightforward as the path of a soccer ball.

  “Your calendar. That’s pretty not typical too.”

  “Really?” I said. “You don’t think many girls plant a spatula in a farmer’s field every week and at the end of the year wind up with a big homemade sundial to celebrate the Winter Solstice? You don’t think so?”

  “Not girls or boys.”

  “So you’re impressed.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Just sort of?”

  “Very sort of.”

  “And your crappy home planet, does it have a Solstice? Does the sun ever rise on Poop World?”

  His reply wasn’t the grin and quip I expected, just: “Once in a while.”

  “Well then”—I paused, plunged—“do I have a treat for you. How would you like to join this impressive, fascinating girl next time she goes to plant a sunrise marker on Calendar Hill?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

  I remembered waiting for him on that morning back in August, hoping. I reminded myself that I had not specifically invited him that time. I wouldn’t make the same mistake now.

  I tapped his knee. “Thursday morning. This is Friday. That’s six days from now. Can you remember?”

  “I can count to six.”

  “Before sunrise.”

  “Before sunrise.”

  I told him where it is. I had never seen him on a bicycle. “Can you get there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you wake up early enough?” I knew I was pushing too hard, but I couldn’t help myself. “You have an alarm clock?”

  “I don’t need alarm clocks.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “I live in a house without clocks.”

  “Me too.”

  I believed it. I think he would be a clockless person, rich or poor. We seemed to intersect at many points. Suddenly I felt flirty again. “So, jealous?”

  This time he was the one taken off guard. “Huh?”

  “Of Leo?”

  He grinned. “No comment.”

  “You know,” I said with an air, “Leo said the same thing to me once, the first time I ever had a real conversation with him.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. He was already starstruck—so to speak. I had sent him a valentine card and tweaked his ear in the lunchroom and, you know, just generally overwhelmed him with my charms. I think you can relate to that.”

  “Right.”

  “Right. But he was so shy and absolutely terrified of me. So he still had not spoken a single word to me. And then this one night I looked out the window and I saw him walking up and down the street in front of my house, trying to work up the nerve to make a move.”

  “Did he?” Perry’s expression and voice said, I’m really not interested, but I knew that was a mask.

  “No. So I did. As soon as I opened the front door he ducked behind our car in the driveway. We talked, but we never laid eyes on each other. At least not directly. Cinnamon scooted under the car and went to him. So at least Cinnamon saw him. I asked him if he thought I was cute.”

  “Wha’d he say?”

  “That’s a silly question. A resounding Yes! of course. And that’s when I asked him if he thought Cinnamon was cute too, and that’s when he said, ‘No comment.’”

  “You remember everything people say to you?”

  I locked into his eyes. “Everything some people say to me.”

  We fell silent. We just looked at each other, sitting cross-legged on the picnic table. As in my meditations, I had no awareness of time passing, only a sense of the air between us electrified with eyes.

  When we got down from the table, I found, to my surprise, that I was chewing gum. We walked off through the park, and I think we were both relieved to turn our talk to safer subjects, idle chitchat, anything but ourselves.

  October 6

  I know you have questions, Leo. And I know you’re busy with other things at college. So I’ll ask them for you:

  YOU: Do you like him?

  ME: Yes.

  YOU: Love him?

  ME: Next question.

  YOU: I hear he counted your freckles.

  ME: He did! You believe it?

  YOU: He likes you, doesn’t he?

  ME: Mm…yes.

  YOU: Yes, but?

  ME: He’s a rolling stone. His nickname is Dandy. He has a harem.

  YOU: And you want him all to yourself.

  ME: I didn’t say that.

  YOU: Maybe you’re afraid if you get too close to him he’ll dump you.

  ME: Maybe.

  YOU: Like I did.

  ME: I wish you wouldn’t put it that way.

  YOU: But I did. I dumped you. And I’m sorry. I regret it now.

  ME: Hey—enough! This is my fantasy interview. I’ll give you your lines.

  YOU: Sorry.

  ME: Speaking of sorry, why don’t you ask me if I feel sorry for him.

  YOU: Do you feel sorry for him?

  ME: “Sorry” doesn’t sound right. Maybe “caring.”

  YOU: Would you like to fix his crappy world?

  ME: I can’t fix his world. Maybe I can fix him. A little bit, at least.

  YOU: How?

  ME: Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just by being around him. He handed me his chewing gum wrappers yesterday. That’s a start.

  YOU: Fixing a person—some people might call you a busybody.

  ME: So be it.

  YOU: So, with this Perry guy here, what are we talking about—a reclamation project or a budding romance?

  ME: I’ll let you decide.

  YOU: Are you surprised he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet?

  ME: Yes.

  YOU: Do you want him to?

  ME: Yes.

  YOU: What about me?

  ME: No comment.

  October 7

  O = (BY)210 Birch(F)

  October 8

  I met Alvina after school. I did the most basic kid thing you can do: I took her to Pizza Dee-Lite. I prayed her enemy boys wouldn’t show up. They didn’t. She threw a small fit because a mushroom from my half of the pizza wound up on her pepperoni half. Otherwise she was harmlessly unpleasant. As per Mrs. Klecko’s instructions, I simply tried to be myself. I have a feeling I’m not rubbing off on her.

  October 9

  Margie has a new helper. A woman. She does what Alvina did—sweeps, helps out in the kitchen, keeps the coffee going. Except she gets paid in real money, not donuts. Her name is Neva. Margie introduced her to me, saying I’m her “best customer.” “Hi,” I said. “Neat name.” “Thanks,” she said, and went back to the coffee urn. Not exactly chummy. Suddenly grumpy Alvina wasn’t looking so bad.

  Neva looks to be maybe in her late thirties, forty. Her brown hair is long and curly and streaked with blond highlights. She wears dangling earrings and oodles of makeup. You might say she’s glamorous (from the neck up), but you hardly notice because she’s so shy. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t look at Margie when Margie speaks to her. She doesn’t look up when the door tinkles and someone comes in. S
he wears a huge, gaudy diamond that must be a fake. She wears loose dresses. I guess she has to, because she’s pregnant. Very.

  October 10

  Tomorrow is Thursday. Calendar Hill day.

  October 11

  He wasn’t there. I can’t believe it.

  This time I didn’t hang around waiting for him. I planted the marker and ran back to the house. I told my mother I felt like taking a ride. I pedaled to Betty Lou’s house. The sun was just now coming up. I knew she was still sleeping but I didn’t care. I punched the bell until she opened the door. She was so shocked when she saw me that she took a step outside the doorway. When she realized where she was, she shuddered, pulled me inside, and slammed the door.

  “Stargirl, what’s the matter?”

  I started to tell her.

  “Wait—” she said. She led me by the hand into the kitchen. She made coffee and put out donuts. She took a seat at the opposite end of the table. Then she grabbed another chair and pulled it close to me. She took my hand. She rubbed it. She studied my face. “I’ve never seen you this angry. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you angry at all.” She studied me some more. She cupped her hands over my ears, pulled them away, put them back, pulled them away. “I’m making smoke signals from the steam coming out of your ears.”

  A chuckleball escaped before I could stop it. “Don’t make me laugh, Betty Lou. I’m not in the mood.”

  She dropped the smile. “I know. Sometimes I make light of things at the wrong time. I guess I think anyone lucky enough to have a mockingbird outside her window can never have a bad day.” She petted my hand. “So…tell.”

  I told her about the day at the picnic table and Perry’s no-show today. “I’m so mad I almost didn’t stop here. I almost rode all the way to his house.”

  “So you’re feeling jilted. Do you know that word? It’s old-fashioned.”

  I nodded. “I know it. Yes. I feel jilted.”

  “Because he said he would meet you and he didn’t.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can’t believe it because the other day the sparks were really flying, so to speak.”

  “Yes.”

  She pushed the donuts in front of me. I shook my head. “Not hungry.”

  She sighed—“Love trumps appetite”—chose one for herself, and took a bite.

  “It’s not love,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know what it is.”

  She chewed, thinking. She stared into my eyes with soft intensity. “It’s more than anger, isn’t it?”

  I blinked. “Is it?”

  “You’re confused.”

  “Yes.”

  “Befuddled.”

  “Yes.”

  “One of my all-time favorite words—‘befuddled.’ It sounds exactly like what it is, doesn’t it?” She stood and threw up her arms and gazed at the ceiling with as pure a look of befuddlement as I’ve ever seen. She cried out: “Befuddled!”

  I wagged my head, giggling in spite of myself. “Good grief, Betty Lou. I get the point.”

  She sat back down, muttering, “Befuddled…befuddled…” under her breath. It occurred to me that Betty Lou sometimes became theatrical because, confined to her house, she was her own best entertainment.

  She became serious again. “Of course you’re befuddled. How could you not be? He seeks you out and he sneaks up beside you during your meditation—which, by the way, was a very impressive thing to do—and sends you all kinds of romantic signals—and then he breaks his promise and doesn’t show up for your date on Calendar Hill.”

  “That seems to be the way he is,” I said. “He even has a reputation for it. His harem girls call him a rolling stone.”

  She nodded. “Well, you know what they say—a rolling stone gathers no permanent girlfriends.”

  “I’m not asking for permanence,” I said.

  This time her stare was intense without the softness. “What are you asking for, Galaxy Girl?”

  Good question.

  “I don’t know. Something. Something. Instead of nothing.”

  “Well now”—she wagged her finger at me—“aren’t you being a little unfair to him? It’s not nothing. It’s Perry—what’s his last name?”

  “Delloplane.”

  “It’s Perry Delloplane—and whatever comes with him. It is what it is. Maybe you’re trying too hard to put a name on it.”

  “Labels,” I said.

  She nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I told him I hate labels. Maybe I was kidding myself.”

  “Or maybe you’re merely uncomfortable with uncertainty. Like the rest of the human race.”

  “So at least I have company.”

  She laughed. “Lots of it. And that means you’re sitting in a classroom of billions, trying to learn the same lesson as the rest of us.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is: How to Be Comfortable with Uncertainty.”

  I waited for more. All she said was, “Warm your coffee?”

  “No,” I said. “So, are you going to tell me how? Give me a hint?”

  Her eyes went wide. Her fingers fluttered on her breast. “As Miss Piggy would say: moi? I’m astounded that you think that I, a mere small-town agoraphobic, would have the answer to one of life’s great questions.” She bowed her head over the donuts. “I am flattered.”

  “Good,” I said. “Now if you can put the flattery behind you, I’d appreciate an answer.”

  She struck a pose of sagely ponder. “Well then…I do believe that if anyone has the key, it may be the Buddhists.”

  “The Buddhists.”

  “Yes, the Buddhists. You know what they say—well, of course they say many things. You would do well to read the Buddhists. They come out of the East, but they have much to say to us westerners of the modern age. I remember one day when I was about twenty-eight—”

  “Betty Lou”—I pressed my finger to her lips—“answer, please.”

  “Ah, yes, the answer. Live today. There.”

  “Live today.”

  “Yes. Live today. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Just today. Inhabit your moments. Don’t rent them out to tomorrow. Do you know what you’re doing when you spend a moment wondering how things are going to turn out with Perry?”

  “What am I doing?”

  “You’re cheating yourself out of today. Today is calling to you, trying to get your attention, but you’re stuck on tomorrow, and today trickles away like water down a drain. You wake up the next morning and that today that you wasted is gone forever. It’s now yesterday. Some of those moments may have had wonderful things in store for you, but now you’ll never know.” She looked at me. She laughed. “Such a solemn-faced listener you are. If I were a teacher, I’d like to have thirty of you in my class.”

  I fumbled for my voice. “You’re just…so right. I think when I meditate I’m trying to do that, live in the moment, but the rest of the time I think I’ve been pretty much a flop. Lately, anyway.”

  She laughed again. “Welcome to Floptown. We’re all flops. None of us gets it right all the time.” She threw out her arms. “C’est la vie!”

  I nodded. Stared at her. Looked around the room. Looked out the window. Heard the faint hush of today passing by. “Be comfortable with uncertainty, huh?”

  “Embrace the mystery.”

  “I usually love mysteries. When I’m not in them.”

  “Let’s hear it for mystery!”

  We clinked our coffee cups and gave three cheers to mystery.

  “So,” she said, “still mad?”

  I checked myself. I started laughing.

  “What?” she said.

  “Yes. I’m sorry”—I couldn’t stop laughing—“but I’m still a little mad. After all that wisdom you just poured into me.” Suddenly I no longer felt like laughing. “What’s wrong with me?”

  Her face was all softness and sympathy now. She was seeing something in me that I myself didn’t want to look at. “At the risk of sounding like a know-it
-all, I think I have the answer to that.”

  I felt my lip quiver. “Yes?”

  She took my hands in hers. She spoke barely above a whisper. “You’re lonely. And that’s made you vulnerable. You’re not at full strength.”

  I nodded, my eyes filling up. We just sat silently for a time, holding hands, holding more than hands.

  At last she said, “And actually, I’m a little bit glad you’re still mad.” She handed me a Kleenex.

  I sniffed. “Really?”

  “I’d rather you be mad than devastated.”

  “You think so?”

  “Oh yes. Devastation can lead to bad places.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as…groveling.”

  “I don’t grovel.”

  “If you had ridden your bicycle all the way to his house this morning, what would you have done?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You wouldn’t have groveled?”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t have thrown yourself at him?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t ever throw yourself at a man.”

  “I won’t.”

  She studied me. She nodded. “I believe you.” She held out the plate of donuts. This time I took one.

  I reached out and touched her. “You never jilt me, Betty Lou. I always know where I can find you.”

  She wagged her head with a wounded smile. “Sad but true.” The smile healed. “But don’t get overconfident, young lady. I may jilt you yet. My fantasy is that someday you will come to my house and ring the bell and ring the bell and I’ll never open the door…because”—she smacked the tabletop—“I won’t be here!”

  October 12

  YOU: You heard her.

  ME: Yes.

  YOU: She said you miss me.

  ME: She also said live today.

  YOU: Right.

  ME: And you’re yesterday.

  YOU: Oops. But—hey—I never jilted you.

  ME: You did worse. You turned your back on me.

  YOU: Double oops.

  ME: I’m just saying that for the record. I’ve forgiven you.

  YOU: Whew! So, do you believe everything she said?

  ME: Oh yes. But…

  YOU: But?

  ME: But there is one thing I didn’t say to Betty Lou. One word.

  YOU: What’s that?