and years and years. All over the country. And all over the world, too. It’s our recognition of how much we owe our planet.” Since Sicilee’s attention was focused on Cody Lightfoot when he explained the origins of Earth Day and not on what he was actually saying, she can only hope that this is true. “And our celebration’s going to be really great.” She lays a flyer detailing the day’s events on the counter. “Just look at all the stuff we’re doing to help everyone shrink their carbon footprints.”
“I don’t have a carbon footprint,” Mrs Costa informs her. “I’ve never been on a plane.”
Sicilee’s smile takes on an almost angelic quality. “Maybe not, but I bet a lot of the clothes you sell have flown here. They couldn’t all have come by mule train.”
“That doesn’t count,” says Mrs Costa. “That’s business. I’m talking about personally.”
Someone less accustomed to getting her own way might retreat under so much pig-headed opposition, but Sicilee is undaunted. “Well, that’s fantastic then, isn’t it? If you, personally, have no carbon footprint, then you’re already on our team!”
Mrs Costa, however, is on no one’s team. “What’s this?” she wants to know, her finger tapping on something halfway down the flyer. “Second-hand clothes? You’ll be selling second-hand clothes?” She looks up, her smile as thin as a snowflake and just as cold. “Business hasn’t been so good lately. Do you seriously expect me to donate money to something that could affect my business? Isn’t it bad enough that I’ve got that thrift store across the street?”
It should be mentioned here that Mrs Costa is nothing like Mr Kewe (who has never been known to use make-up, dye his hair blonde, or wear frilly blouses with big bows at the neck), and yet, at this moment, she reminds Sicilee so much of her father that they might be twins. Mrs Costa is being illogical in exactly the same way that Mr Kewe is when he says things like,
Sicilee makes the same earnest face she uses against her father’s irrationality. “Oh, of course not, Mrs Costa. That would be ridiculous.” Sicilee knows that people respond better to self-interest than to self-sacrifice. She shifts from side to side, tossing her hair over her shoulder, looking vulnerable and corn-syrup sweet. “That’s why I know you’ll want to help us, right? Because we’re not trying to put you out of business. It’s global warming that’ll do that.” Sicilee leans towards the counter as if she’s about to pat the manager’s shoulder. “I mean, let’s be honest here. If we don’t save the planet, there won’t be any children left to wear your clothes, will there?”
Emboldened by her success with Mrs Costa (who finally coughs up one hundred dollars), Sicilee storms around the square, handing out her flyers and smiling her I-know-you-want-to-help-
Sicilee is so involved in her task that it isn’t until she comes around to where she started that she looks up at the clock on the church tower again. How time flies when you’re saving the world. The only way she’d make lunch at the mall is if she’d left two hours ago.
It is then that her eyes fall on the sign by the door that leads to the basement of the church: St Paul’s Thrift Store. Sicilee’s had a successful morning. She’s in a good mood. And perhaps the merchants of Clifton Springs aren’t the only ones who have been moved by her arguments.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Plastic girl in a plastic world
The Birch Grove Shopping Centre is part of the suburban sprawl that surrounds the historic village of Clifton Springs. Unlike the historic village itself, there is nothing either quaint or attractive about the shopping centre – and no grove of birch trees, either. It’s simply a row of box-like concrete buildings with the supermarket at one end and a small parking lot dotted with litter and weeds in front. There are similar – if not actually identical – shopping centres in every direction. What distinguishes Birch Grove (at least today) is the presence of Maya Baraberra outside the entrance to the supermarket, dressed in a skirt covered with dozens of plastic bottles and a jacket and hat made of plastic bags. Ah, the things a girl will do for love.
Following a pattern that is now well established, Alice refused to come with her. “Even if I wasn’t going to my gram’s for the weekend, I wouldn’t come,” Alice declared. “I’m not really good at exposing myself to ridicule.” She didn’t think Maya should go either. “It’s kind of, you know,
Which, of course, is true. If it weren’t for Sicilee shooting her hand into the air as if it was on a spring and boasting about how easy it is to get people to donate when you’re doing it for such a good cause, right now Maya would be hanging out with her friends at Mojo’s, drinking coffee and listening to jazz like on any other Saturday afternoon. “It’s not
Well, she’s certainly doing that.
Maya began the day with the enthusiasm of a crusader. Let Sicilee go from store to store in the village like a double-glazing salesman. Maya would do something memorable and eye-catching. Something artistic. She wasn’t going to just ask for money like Sicilee, which any fool can do. Maya was going to make a statement; create an event. Maya would be living, breathing conceptual art. She wouldn’t be surprised if the town paper sent a photographer around and did a story on her:
But that was at the beginning of the day, long before those schoolgirls strutted by shouting out, “OhmiGod, it’s the Incredible Bulk!” – their giggling sounding like a swarm of locusts. Before those younger schoolboys pulled off some of her bottles and lobbed them at her, shrieking with glee. And long before the droves of Saturday shoppers arrived – pretending not to see her and shoving their carts past her so quickly you’d think they were giving things away inside. Maya’s been standing at the entrance to the supermarket since it opened and by now is feeling less like an installation in the Museum of Modern Art than someone dressed as a chicken to advertise a new fast- food restaurant. She is uncomfortable and constricted. Every so often she walks a few feet to the left or to the right, but movement is difficult and she can only see straight in front of her, so she never goes too far. She gave no thought to the fact that she might need to go to the toilet. She gave no thought to the possibility that she might see someone she knows. The last thing she wants at this point in time is her picture splashed across the front of
Smiling gamely and holding out a bucket that says CSHS ENVIRONMENTAL CLUB – EARTH DAY FUND, Maya stares out at the rows of cars, the busy road beyond them and the small huddle of concrete buildings on the other side. It’s not much of a view and after looking at it for so long Maya’s mind has started meandering – the way minds