Serendipity and Me (9781101602805) (20 page)

 

Miss Conglin announces a special treat.

We will watch a DVD this afternoon—

our production of
Peter Pan
.

She's brought popcorn

and pillows for us to sit upon

on the floor.

 

This day just keeps getting worse.

Serendipity is in peril

and now I'll have to sit through

that whole painful performance.

 

I'm moaning to Taylor at recess

and Kelli hears me.

She swishes by and says

Too bad you missed it, Sara.

 

Not too bad for you

I throw back at her.

It's supposed to sound like a joke

but I get my voice wrong.

It sounds like an accusation

like my words are pointing fingers.

I can feel the just-kidding look

fall off my face.

So I say it instead:

I'm just kidding.

Really.

 

But I sound like a mean girl.

 

 

 

Kelli flips back

What's wrong with you?

You won anyway.

 

I have no idea what she's talking about.

 

I turn to Taylor and she looks

as confused as I do.

 

Taylor gets her Harriet-the-Spy look

and says,
I'm on it.

She casually walks over to

a group of Kelli's friends.

She's back in no time.

Remember that note you told me

Garrett gave to Kelli?

 

I nod.

 

He was answering her do-you-like-me note.

He checked “I like someone else.”

 

Hope flares.

 

He didn't say,

but they think it's you.

 

Maybe this day isn't so bad

after all.

 

 

 

Garrett sits in the second row of pillows

and there is an empty pillow

in front of him.

 

I don't wait for someone else to sit there.

I remember how my mom

made things happen

and I think maybe

I can do that too.

 

I try to be casual.

I sit in front of Garrett

like I don't notice he's there.

I can see his straggling foot

out of the corner of my eye.

 

I put my hands behind me

like I'm going to lean back

and my fingers brush his shoe.

 

He jerks it back.

 

I look behind me             grin.

Foot still ticklish?

 

And then I see that slow smile come

like a sunrise on a lake.

 

Beautiful.

Too bad I have to face forward.

 

 

 

I decide the best way

to get through this performance

is to imagine myself

in the role.

 

I manage it all the way to the end

when Wendy is grown up

and her daughter says of Peter

He does so need a mother.

 

And Wendy says,
Yes, I know.

No one knows it so well as I.

 

Just then a piece of popcorn

sails over my head

and lands in my lap.

 

I look behind me at Garrett

mock-studying the ceiling

with a smile twitching

at the edges of his lips.

 

He's underlining the end.

 

Because there on the screen

is the whole cast

taking in applause and

holding up a big sign that says

For Sara!

 

 

 

That image warms me

as I'm walking home from school.

It overlays a cold feeling.

How can I get Dad

to fall in love with Serendipity?

 

Maybe I could soften him up.

I try to remember what kinds of things

used to make Dad happy.

I flash on pictures from the box

where we're hiking in Yosemite.

He loved walking through the trees.

 

We haven't done any hiking

since Mom died.

We don't even have a car to get us there.

But he does love trees. . . .

I could make him a tree picture.

I could get him a tree seedling.

I could . . . none of this has anything

to do with Serendipity.

 

I'm feeling hopeless             until I slip my hands

into my jacket pockets.

 

I remember Garrett's quick hands

when my fingers close

around a familiar object.

 

A thimble.

 

 

 

Warm again.

I remember Mom's inscription

about Dad—

“who makes the world a poem”—

and I think Yes.

I am holding a kiss in my hand.

 

I keep the thimble tucked in my palm

to give me strength

when I face Dad inside.

 

Dad's bedroom door is open.

His leather bag is gone.

A short note on the kitchen table.

Mrs. Whittier is home

if you need her.

 

What I need is Dad here and a miracle.

Serendipity comes running

stretches her paws out toward me

her back end high in the air.

Then she drops loudly on her side

and rolls over to show me her tummy.

 

So cute.             Dad needs to see this.

 

I rub her tummy, then go to my room

to find a nest for the thimble.

I'm trying to think of some special way

to show Garrett how I feel

when I see—

 

there on my pillow

a stack of papers

in Mom's handwriting.

 

More of Mom's poems.

 

As I page through them

it strikes me

they're all about cats.

 

I pick up the first one to read.

 

 

 

SONNET FOR A CAT AND HER KITTENS

 

The musty-sweet smell of hay is in your

fur, kitty. A hint of where you've hidden

your babes. I know strangers are forbidden

to linger near the sun-dappled nest or

stroke the tiny tender noses before

you allow it, but I've watched your children

tussle in the night. Am I forgiven

if I explain that your son has a roar

like a dragonfly, and your daughters grow

more like you every day? Their faces draw

me; I can't help but climb up to the loft

while you're away and watch them swaying low

in their walk, or curling up on the straw

to sleep. They are my joy; so clean and soft.

 

 

I pick up another one. . . .