“Remember the joke you made about me being Sleeping Beauty?” Odelia asks.
I nod and take a few more gulps.
“Sometimes I pretend that Sleeping Beauty was my mother.”
“Why?”
“Serena tells me that my father caught my mother asleep in the woods one day. He thought she was beautiful and wanted to talk to her, so he woke her with a kiss. That was the beginning of their courtship.”
“And they married, had you, and they died? The end?”
“Yes,” Odelia says softly.
Another awkward silence sneaks into the room. I need to lighten things up. “No mean fairy who curses a baby? No wicked witch who casts a spell?”
Odelia runs her delicate fingers across the kitchen cabinets. “It’s a short, sad tale.”
“You’ve got me,” I say, giving her a friendly punch in the arm.
“Bernice! Never, ever, ever use violence to get your point across. We’ll talk about this in a later lesson.” Odelia takes out her ODELIA’S GUIDE TO THE SOCIAL GRACES notebook and makes notes.
“No!” I say.
“Oh, yes! And in the meantime, don’t hit me. I’m fragile.”
I let a smirk escape in her direction before hopping up on the counter. “I’m starving. Let’s get lunch. What do you want?”
Odelia pulls out a kitchen chair, sits, and folds a napkin on her lap. “I’d like a spinach and carrot stew with baby potatoes, please. And a large glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice.”
I think it’s funny that Odelia expects me to get this for her. “I hate to tell you this, Odelia, but we don’t have a chef who whips up meals for us.” I expect her to put up a fuss, but when she just looks down and closes her eyes for a second, my heart bends a bit.
In the fridge, I find two juice boxes and put one in front of Odelia. I walk to the pantry and grab the peanut butter, jelly, and bread. I get two butter knives from the drawer, use one to make my sandwich, and offer the other to Odelia.
Odelia studies the knife for a second. Then she lets out a weary sigh and makes her own sandwich.
When we’re both done, I put our lunches in plastic wrap. “We’re taking them to go,” I say, and yank Odelia from her chair. “We’re going to the skate park.”
Odelia doesn’t quite get the meaning of a sandwich to go. As we walk, she doesn’t take a bite. Instead, she picks at the crust and leaves a trail that Hansel and Gretel would appreciate. Long habits—in this case, Odelia’s habit of sitting properly at a table and being served—must be hard to break.
As soon as we get to the park, Odelia finds her spot on the bleachers. She places a napkin on her lap and dives in. I hurry for the gate, hoping that no one has noticed I showed up with a princess.
There’s a sign posted:
ATTENTION SKATERS
AGES 11–14!
COMPETE IN THE LAWRENCE COUNTY SKATE-OFF
SATURDAY, AUGUST 15TH AT NOON
PORCHTOWN SKATE PARK
Prizes awarded.
Entertainment by No Boys Allowed
A skate-off! And my favorite band’s a part of it? Wow! I reach for an entry form stapled to the sign and read it quickly. I can do only four out of the five required tricks to qualify for the competition. “Fiddlesticks!”
“Dude, say what? You ready to rock this?”
I recognize that voice, and eye contact with its owner is out of the question. “Maybe,” I spit out. I hide behind the entry form and feign intense interest in it. I hear Odelia inside my head: Be a pine tree, never a willow. And I stand slightly taller. More like a skinny shrub.
Wyatt says nothing. I say nothing. Here we go again. Fiddle, fiddle. Fiddle with the entry form. Fiddlesticks!
Wyatt takes my silence as his clue to leave. I can’t blame him. He obviously can’t talk to a person who isn’t talking back.
“Later, Dude,” Wyatt says, and I peek around the paper in time to see him sailing away on his board toward the half-pipe.
I’m a disgrace to the social graces. Why didn’t I say something, anything to Wyatt about how much I wanted to be a part of the skate-off. He. Was. Right. There. I failed. He bailed.
After I spin around the park for a half hour, carefully avoiding Wyatt, I roll to the gate and flip my board into my hands. I motion for Odelia to follow me home, and I fill her in. “Wyatt wanted to talk to me, and I . . . I . . .”
“You said nothing?” Odelia asks.
“Almost nothing. What can I do?” I ask her. “What can I say to him when I see him?”
“I’ve been contemplating a lesson that may be helpful.” Odelia takes out her notebook, and reads:
“ODELIA’S GUIDE TO THE SOCIAL GRACES
LESSON 4: GENUINE GREETINGS
OBJECTIVE: Bernice will learn to master conversational beginnings. Like a skilled weaver, she will use appropriate greetings to weave relationships with her elders and her peers. (Note to self: To Bernice, a greeting consists of mumbles and snorts, similar to those made by a snoring octogenarian.)”
“What a mouthful! And I don’t sound like a generic octopus.”
Odelia pinches the bridge of her nose as if trying to ward off a big headache. “An octogenarian is someone who is eighty-plus years.”
She may be a clueless princess, but there’s a good amount of brainpower under that tiara. Her vocab would make a college professor proud. Still, I’m not entirely stupid. “I may not know what an octogenarian is, but I can carry on a conversation with most people.”
“Bernice, you cannot hold a conversation with Wyatt or any boy, and you know it. When a boy asks a question, how do you answer?”
“Fine. Cool. Good. What up?” I would never say that last part, but I had to throw it out there.
“Those responses will get you nowhere. Try saying hello, and add his name. It shows you’re glad to see him and you want to get to know him.”
“No
