“Fiddlesticks!”
***
Awesome Is as Awesome Does
Dad steps out of the truck and comes running. “You cool-o-roonie, Bern?”
I turn and Odelia is nowhere in sight. I tell Dad, “I’m fine.”
That was close. If Dad had seen Odelia, I’d have to come up with an explanation as to who she is, why she dresses like she does, and what in the world I’m doing hanging out with her. Ugh. Too much.
Dad picks up his charts and rerolls them. “Should I ask?”
“Nope. You wouldn’t understand.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re practicing to become a model.”
“No way,” I say. “I’m not even close to model material.”
“Miss Teen America?” he asks. “Are you entering a pageant?”
“Really, Dad?” I say impatiently. “I’d never do that.”
“My cutie-patootie, whether you see it or not, you are a beauty. If you entered a contest, you’d be a shoe-in for first place. I’ve got other books in the basement, if you need them. And three old fishing poles. I’ve got cinder blocks, too. You’re welcome to use those, if you want to build up muscle.” Dad flexes his bicep. At least, I think that was his bicep. Hard to tell.
Dad’s just being nice. “Let it go,” I say. “Don’t worry. Everything’s good.”
I look around to see if Odelia’s hiding in the bushes, but she’s not. All this time, I’ve been worried about how embarrassing it is for me to be seen with Odelia. And now it’s just sinking in. She knows I’m embarrassed! I feel sort of bad about that. I suppose I could’ve introduced her as a friend—a friend who dresses like a princess because she’s in community theater, maybe. Wait. Hold up for a minute. Odelia is a friend?
“Bernie,” Mom hollers from the back door. “Can you come here?”
“Go rescue your mother,” Dad says. “Her crafts aren’t cooperating, and she’s been hootin’ and hollerin’ at them. Poor gal’s been frustrated with her progress since I left at six this morning, and she’s phoned me twice to tell me about it. She’s ready to send for reinforcements, like the ladies from her club or the needlepoint police.” Dad winks and shoves me toward the door. “I’ll clean up this mess.”
Mom’s Love’s Fresh Lemon perfume scent hits me when I’m within three feet of her. Lemon is such a Mom smell. It’s her signature fragrance. I consider my old signature—sweat, body odor, and board wax, and wonder if people will notice anything different now that I’ve discovered fruity body products. Mom is yakking on and on about Mrs. Martin. I tune in, hoping she’s found a job for me like washing windows or cleaning out their garage. I need money for a new board!
“Since you aren’t gardening anymore,” Mom says, “I have an idea. At the Handy Women of America Club meeting, Barb O’Malley asked me if you’d like to help out at the summer camp her daughter, Nellie, goes to.”
“Smile Academy? The camp for kids with Down syndrome?” I ask.
“That’s the one. The counselors could use some help Tuesday and Thursday mornings, especially at craft time.”
“Do I have to? This is a job for you, not me.”
Mom opens the door wider. She motions for me to come in and park my butt at the kitchen table. Her hands are on her hips. I’m in for a mother-daughter showdown.
I explain. “I don’t have a clue how to act around challenged kids. I’m pretty challenged myself.” I hope this gets me off the hook, but Mom isn’t saying anything. “Um, what’s a camp counselor get paid?”
“First of all,” Mom says, “you aren’t old enough to be a camp counselor. You would be a volunteer, and volunteers don’t get paid. And second, your only challenge is that you are my beautiful daughter who has led a charmed life. You have lots to offer. You’re funny; you’re smart; you have a good heart; you are strong. Spread the love, Bernie. Spread some of you.” Mom whirls her hands in the air, presses them to her chest, and then pushes the invisible love toward me.
“But, Mom—”
Mom squeezes my shoulder a little, and gives me the listen-to-your-mother look. There must be a manual that teaches moms how to shame their children into doing what they want. I get it. I don’t have a choice. I’m Smile Academy’s newest volunteer.
“Report to Miss Robyn at the academy at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Craft time starts at ten. You can leave before or after lunch. In the afternoon, the kids go outside to play or the counselors take them for a walk around town.”
“Whatever. Sure,” I tell Mom, even though I’d rather spend my free time at the skate park.
The next morning, I fly out of bed with ollies, pop shove-its, heel flips, kick flips, and half-pipes on my mind. Then reality sinks in. I’m helping at Smile Academy. The highlight of my day will consist of keeping kids from eating glue sticks. And I won’t be coming home with extra cash, which means no new skateboard in my future.
Smile Academy opened in the beginning of the summer, but I’ve never paid much attention to it. I pass the old Victorian house with the wrap-around porch and smiley-face daisy sign on the way to the skate park, but it’s always been just another Main Street business. I make a mental note to avoid the huge crack by their driveway when I go by, but that’s the most thought I’ve ever given the place.
Today, I don’t pass it. I stop and slowly walk up the creaky wooden steps.
“Bernice! Wait! Let me catch up, please.” Odelia is walking quickly toward me. Her tangerine gown makes a swishy sound. Her tiara is hanging by a few curls.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I wanted to see you again,” she says cheerfully, adjusting her tiara. “Where are we going?”
“I’m volunteering at Smile Academy,
