Full Cicada Moon (16 page)

Someone comes into history

and hands Miss O'Connell a note.

She reads it and nods and walks toward my desk.

My pencil makes a jiggly line in my notebook.

Notes in school are never good news

unless they're from your friend.

It says:

Please send Mimi Oliver to Mr. MacDougall's office.

Mr. MacDougall tells me to have a seat

and sits on the edge of the desk,

clasps his hands in his lap

and makes the kind of smile

that can mean he has something awful to say.

Or it can be his way of tilling the soil.

“How are you doing, Mimi?

Are you feeling at home now at school,

making friends?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hear good things about you from your teachers.

You're a star student—

a real credit to your race.”

I wonder

if anyone ever said that to Mr. MacDougall,

or if he has any idea

how much it hurts.

But I nod and make a little smile

because he's the principal

and I don't know why he called me to his office.

He unclasps his hands and sits in his chair.

“I told you

I was going to make a decision about . . .

that ruckus you and Miss LaVoie instigated.

That's unusual behavior in our school,

in our town.”

“I know, sir,” I say. “But I wanted to stand up for what I believe in.”

“Which is?”

I take a breath,

remember the picture on the wall of Papa's study,

and say, “Equal rights and protection under the law.”

He leans forward. “I have to tell you, Mimi,

at first, I didn't like what you were doing.

It was rebellious

and there's too much of that going on

in our country these days.

But when I saw the other students

supporting your idea,

I thought differently.

And then I realized you were not rebellious

but courageous.

You know what that means?”

“It means being scared

but doing it

anyway.”

Mr. MacDougall leans back in his chair.

“You're absolutely right. So I've been thinking

about girls doing wood and metal work

and boys doing cooking,

and I came up with a solution

that will make everyone happy. Starting in January,

we'll have two new after-school clubs—

the Carpenters Club for the girls

and the Chefs Club for the boys.

How about that?”

He smiles, wanting me to say something.

“That's great, Mr. MacDougall—

for now. But it's not the same as having classes.”

“No,” he says, “it's not, but we can't have classes.

So, that's what we're going to do.

It's my decision.”

He might think the subject is closed

but I know it isn't, so I say,

“Maybe later we can have classes,”

and think
Drip, drip, drip
.

The bell rings, and he dismisses me.

When I stand up to leave, I say,

“Thank you, Mr. MacDougall.

You're a real credit to your race.”

My last class before Christmas vacation

is science. We're doing an experiment

to distill wood, and the room smells like burning leaves.

“Time to finish up, people,” Mrs. Stanton says.

Linda, my lab partner, and I quickly write down our results

and finish up.

The bell rings for the last time

of 1969, and we start to leave the room.

Mrs. Stanton says, “Mimi, please stay for a few minutes.”

Stacey and I are going to town after school

to shop for presents and eat sundaes,

so she says she'll wait at her locker.

Mrs. Stanton sits at the desk next to me.

“I wanted to talk to you about something

before we all go on vacation.”

She's smiling a different smile than Mr. MacDougall's.

“You remember what happened last spring

with your science project?”

I say, “How could I forget?”

“That was unfortunate,” she says,

“but I was so impressed with your project—

you went above and beyond what you needed to do

for the grade.

And I know it was a great disappointment

when your moon . . . disappeared.

Many other people were, too.”

She goes to her desk, “I hope

what I have to tell you will make up for that.”

Mrs. Stanton hands me an envelope,

which has my name on it.

“At the end of school last spring,

I nominated you to join a group of students

from all over the country”—

It keeps sounding better and better—

“to go to Cape Kennedy this summer

and learn about the space program.”

“Me?” I ask.

She nods, and points to the envelope. “Open it.”

Inside is a letter addressed to me

that says exactly what she told me.

“Thank you so much,” I say, my heart fluttering. “But . . .

how much will it cost?”

Mrs. Stanton smiles and says, “It's a scholarship program.

All expenses, including your housing and food,

and travel to and from Florida,

are paid by the scholarship.”

I didn't win first prize last spring, but this is

the best prize.

Then I do what I never thought I'd do

to Mrs. Stanton. I hug her.

She laughs

and says, “I guess that means you want to go.”

“This is pretty,” Stacey says, weaving her fingers

through a silk scarf draped around a mannequin.

It is blue and yellow, with irises and daffodils

and buttercups all melting together.

I bought Papa a CCR album at New Sounds,

and now we're looking for Mama's gift

in Cottle's boutique.

Mama would love this scarf,

but it costs three dollars more

than I have left of my babysitting money.

Stacey had already bought presents

for her mom and dad, but today

she bought “Leaving on a Jet Plane”

for her sister, Ava, who just came home

from college in Georgia—

because Stacey likes the song.

“You should keep the record for yourself

and get Ava something else,” I say.

“You don't buy Christmas presents for yourself,” she says.

“Then I'll give it to you.”

“Well, where's the surprise in that?”

“I'll think of one,” I say,

and give her fifty cents.

Then I slip the record in my pocketbook.

“Do you girls need help?” asks the salesgirl,

who appeared out of nowhere.

“We're just looking at all the pretty things

in your store,” Stacey says, putting on her charm.

She keeps smiling, but the girl

doesn't go away. She's looking at my pocketbook.

“Did you just take something?” she asks. “Did you

put something in there?”

“No,” I say, “just a record.”

“Let me see that,” she says, tugging my strap.

“She said she put a record in there,” Stacey says.

“We don't sell records here,” says the girl.

“We know,” I say, finding my voice,

and it's not respectful.

“You girls need to leave—now,” she says,

and points to the door.

She follows us out,

and I say, “We'll just buy that scarf somewhere else,”

and Stacey adds, “And Mrs. Cottle will hear about this.”

Outside, Stacey says, “She can't talk to you like that.”

“Never mind. I'll get Mama some cold cream.”

“Who gets cold cream for Christmas?”

I head toward the drugstore,

but the feeling that I want to bury myself in a deep, dark hole

for the rest of my life follows me. I can't get away from it,

no matter how fast I walk.

“She didn't know who she was talking to, Mimi,” Stacey says,

catching up to me. “Mimi Oliver,

future astronaut. You should have shown her that letter.”

“Can we please forget it?” I say,

though I know I can't. “Let's go to the drugstore

like we planned.”

“Okay,” she says, “but promise you won't buy cold cream.”

Stacey and I sit at the counter

and order sundaes, even though

it's freezing outside

and I'm not in any mood to celebrate

anything.

Whenever I think about what happened,

my neck prickles. And even though

I can tell Stacey anything, I don't want her

to see how horrible I feel right now.

It's hard to smile when you're trying not to cry.

“Didn't you want to piggyback that girl?”

she asks. “I did.”

“For me?” I ask,

and she says, “I sure did,”

and spins on the stool.

“Hey, Mimi,” she says.

I look up, and she's staring at me in the mirror

cross-eyed,

and then it's easy to smile.

By the time our sundaes come, I don't feel so bad.

“You girls done with school now?” asks the nice soda jerk.

We spoon our sundaes and nod.

“Well, happy holidays,” he says. “Those are on the house.”

After he walks away I say, “He balanced out the day,”

my sadness starting to melt.

Stacey licks the back of her spoon. “I've decided . . .

there are jerks and nice people everywhere.

And you just have to hope you meet fewer jerks.”

Then I say, “And try not to
be
one.”

Just then, Victor walks in.

When he sees us, he sits at the other end of the counter.

“Did you know he was coming here?” I ask.

“No, and I can't talk to him

after what happened. I'm so embarrassed.”

“He probably is, too. Those boys were jerks,

but Victor wasn't.”

Stacey looks down. “You're right,” she says quietly,

and glances at him.

Victor looks everywhere

but at her.

Then I say, “Hey, Victor, look in the mirror,”

and nudge Stacey.

At first he only glances up,

but when she crosses her eyes at him,

he smiles,

and crosses his at her.

I whisper to Stacey,

“That's the first step.”

Then in the mirror, I see David.

He has been on suspension since the dance

ten days ago.

“Don't look, but look,” I tell Stacey,

and point at the mirror.

Victor sees him, too, and sips his Coke

coolly, but his foot is jiggling.

David walks over to the counter

and sits two stools away from Stacey.

She eats a spoonful of ice cream.

“Hey, Stacey,” David says

softly. She takes another bite.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“About what?” she asks.

“You know—the dance.”

“I'm not the one to apologize to,” she says,

her eyes darting to Victor.

Then she puts her spoon down and turns her stool to him.

“I'm waiting.”

David sighs and walks over to Victor,

who stands up.

Then David says something to Victor,

very low, and Victor nods

solemnly. It doesn't look like forgiveness

but it might be a step.

I've never had proof about my science project,

but I've had suspicions,

and when David comes back to Stacey,

I ask, “Where did you put my moon last spring?”

David frowns

and walks out of the drugstore.

Then Victor slides his Coke down the counter

and sits near us. “That was good,” he says to me.

“But you just let him get away with it,” Stacey says.

“No, I didn't—he knows I know. And that's enough,” I say,

and finish my sundae.

At Stacey's house, I have to relive the scarf thing all over again

when Stacey tells her mom.

“I don't think that girl meant anything by it,”

Mrs. LaVoie says. “I think you read

too much into it.”

“Mother, you should have heard her,

and she practically grabbed Mimi's pocketbook.”

“But who would ever think Mimi,

of all people,

would shoplift?”

Maybe Stacey's mother can't imagine

anyone thinking that way about her,

or she doesn't want to think anyone she knows

would shoplift.

Or she feels bad about how she acted

before she met Mama.

All at once, I understand

why Stacey keeps telling the story,

why she can't let it go,

and why her mother is making excuses for that salesgirl:

They're embarrassed.

They've never had anyone like me or my family so close.

And this is a whole new world for them,

with all new rules.

All at once, I'm not mad or sad

or embarrassed anymore.

Instead, I hug Stacey and then her mom

and pardon them

for their confusion

about everything, because,

just like me, they are learning

how to take

one small step.

Stacey's mom is driving me home.

We pass Cottle's,

which is still open.

I want that scarf for Mama,

and this will be my last chance before Christmas.

I have to try again.

“Please stop, Mrs. LaVoie,” I say.

She slams on the brakes. “Goodness, Mimi—what's wrong?”

“I want to go back to Cottle's.”

“Whatever for, dear?” she asks.

“My mom would really love that scarf.”

“Well, if you're sure . . . ,” Mrs. LaVoie says.

“I'm sure,” I say,

and she parks in front of the store. They open their doors,

too, but I say, “I want to go in alone.”

Stacey says, “I want to tell that girl where to go,”

and her mom says, “Don't talk like that.”

That salesgirl is still here.

She rushes up to me. “I thought I told you to leave.”

“I want to buy that scarf with flowers on it.”

“So, you didn't find it somewhere else,” she says

with her hands on her hips. “We're about to close up,

so are you going to buy it or not?”

“I am, but . . .”

She whips the pretty scarf off the mannequin

and follows me to the register.

“Don't worry,” I say. “I won't steal anything on the way.”

“Gift wrap?” she asks at the counter,

snipping off the price tag with a pair of scissors.

“Does that cost extra?” I ask.

“A dollar.”

“No, thanks.”

She presses the keys on the cash register

and says, “Fifteen fifty.”

This is the problem,

but I'm prepared. “I only have thirteen dollars.”

Her mouth stays open for a year,

then she says, “What are you trying to pull?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I don't have enough money . . .

but I have this,” and take the Apollo coin

that Timothy gave me out of my pocket.

“Can I pay the rest with this?”

I'm scared she's going to throw me out again,

but she takes the coin and holds it near the lamp,

turns it to see both sides. “This is a real collector's item,”

she says, looking at me through her hair.

“Okay, it's a deal.”

I try to smile.

She sets the coin on the cash register,

places tissue paper in a Cottle's box,

and lays Mama's scarf inside.

“I can't pay for the box,” I say,

and she says, “It's free.”

I'm glad she's not a chatty salesgirl,

because my throat aches

whenever I think that coin won't be in my pocket anymore.

The front door opens.

She calls out, “We're closing,”

and a man says, “I need something for my niece.”

She ties a bow on the box, and I turn around to leave—

and there's Mr. Dell, taking up the whole aisle

and looking at me.

He pulls off his red-checkered hat

and holds it with both hands.

My heart is pounding out of my chest

and I have jitter legs really bad.

I have to get out of here,

but the only way is past Mr. Dell.

I take a step toward him,

and he does something surprising:

he moves aside

and says, “Pardon me.”

In the car, Stacey turns around and asks, “You okay?”

I shrug. Mama will get a beautiful scarf for Christmas.

But I just gave away something

much more precious than two dollars and fifty cents.