One Day and One Amazing Morning on Orange Street Page 2

  Ms. Snoops had so many questions! What kind of person ate a hamburger and fries for breakfast? What was he writing? Should she call the police? But there was something else about that mysterious stranger. Ms. Snoops had seen him before. But where? When? Why, oh, why did he look so familiar?

  Ms. Snoops sighed. It was time for her daily magic trick. She plopped down onto her yoga mat. Sometimes the trick worked its magic. Most of the time it didn’t.

  On the mat she placed a perfect orange that had been picked from high up on the south side of the orange tree, where the sweetest oranges grew. She sat cross-legged on the yoga mat in front of the perfect orange.

  And then she chanted, over and over:

  NOW, NOW

  MAGIC NOW,

  SHOW ME HOW,

  MAGIC NOW . . .

  Ms. Snoops figured if she could just keep noticing the oranginess of the orange and its sharp perfume and its pockmarks and its almost perfect roundness, then she could hold on to her disappearing memory. Remembering the distant past was a cinch—and something she loved to do! Worrying about the future was pretty easy, too. Remembering the recent past was much trickier, and lately she just couldn’t seem to wrap her brain around lots of things happening right now.

  But her stomach began to growl, and, oh, that orange smelled good! So Ms. Snoops stopped what she was doing to eat it for breakfast, with a nice hunk of Gouda cheese.

  ust around the time that car with the mysterious stranger pulled up under Ms. Snoops’s window, Ali discovered her name spelled out in nasturtium seeds in the empty lot. Sitting cross-legged in a sunny spot near the fence, she just happened to glance down near her left foot, and there it was. ALI.

  “Manny, look!” she called out to Edgar’s nanny.

  Ali examined the seeds again. OK, maybe the “A” was a bit of a stretch, but the “L” and the “I” did seem to be perfectly formed.

  Manny was strapping Edgar into the orange tree’s swing. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Ali. She sighed. She was being silly. What’s the big deal about a bunch of straight lines? Any tidy squirrel or a particularly intelligent rat could have laid out the seeds like that. It was so hard to be a scientist when she kept hoping for miraculous things to happen.

  Then again, strange and interesting things did seem to happen in the empty lot. For instance, the amazing ideas. Of course, you could get ideas anywhere, but Ali’s best ones seemed to come to her in the empty lot. She had just had an amazing idea that morning, as a matter of fact, just before she discovered the nasturtium seeds. Ali couldn’t wait to announce it to her fellow members of the Girls With Long Hair Club. She hoped they would agree that it was a kind and generous idea, the sort of idea that made you feel like a kinder and more generous person just for coming up with it.

  But sometimes in the lot, someone would get an amazing idea, and soon after that, there would be an argument. Ali had some theories about why those two things would occur together. At that moment, she was considering two of them:

  (1) There was a surplus of invisible, buzzing orangey electrons that inspired ideas and created friction, especially in warmer weather.

  (2) Los Angeles was known as the City of Angels, and the lot was a hangout for a group of bored, invisible angels, who liked to inspire ideas and stir up trouble.

  The first theory sounded more scientific, but the second theory was more fun.

  “Did you ever have a great idea that arrived out of nowhere, as if, say, a little angel whispered something in your ear? Something you’d known all along, but didn’t know you knew?” she asked Manny.

  “Lucky you,” he said, gently pushing Edgar in his swing. “I have to work hard for my ideas, and they’re not always so great.”

  Ali smiled at this, because in her opinion, Manny, as well as being politely modest, had very good ideas. His real name was Manuel but it had been so wonderful, so fitting when he’d said, “Hey, everybody, call me Manny the Manny!” Ali loved words, and she especially loved that words and names, like shoes, could fit.

  Manny could juggle and do magic tricks. He entertained children in hospitals where he called himself Magic Manny. His torn jeans came from Planet One, the coolest store ever. He knew umpteen unusual things to do with an orange, such as piercing it with his penknife, inserting a straw in the hole, then drinking the juice on the spot! Today he had made a little rabbit for Edgar from a flattened-out orange rind. For all these reasons, Ali loved him.

  And recently, about two weeks ago, just around the time Ali began her digging project, Manny had the best idea of all.

  One morning during his first week at work as Edgar’s nanny, Ali, Manny, and Edgar had gone to Pacific Park. Pacific Park was ten and a half blocks away. It had eight swings and a castle with turrets she could swoop down from with Edgar in her lap. They’d land in a big pile of sparkly sand.

  Ten and a half blocks went by quickly when you were starting out and smelling the bacon and morning muffins at the diner, or hopping over a gas line at the pumps, or looking for TV stars sitting outside Starbucks. But it felt like twenty blocks going back home. Somehow the same sights weren’t as interesting when you were seeing everything for the second time that day, all tired out. And nobody had looked like a TV star, going home.

  But then, as they’d turned the corner onto Orange Street, Manny got his great idea.

  “Whoa, now that’s a tree for a swing,” Manny had said, pointing to the orange tree, its thick branches like strong arms. As if they had a choice of other trees! The sycamore branches were too high to reach, and who ever heard of a baby swing on a scraggly old tropical palm?

  Soon after that, Manny had bought Edgar’s plastic swing with his very own earnings, a special, enclosed swing that looked like a little throne. And then Ms. Snoops hung up the wind chimes and that birdhouse from McDonald’s, which Ali called the Birdhouse of the Golden Arches. Then Leandra got her own amazing idea for the Girls With Long Hair Club. And . . . presto! They had their very own private park and meeting place. Something happy had come about from something sad, although of course the sadness of Edgar’s operation was much bigger than that happiness. But still.

  Now, as Manny gently pushed Edgar in the swing, the bells on his dreadlocks tinkled and his skin smelled of patchouli oil. He pretended that the little orange-rind rabbit was pushing Edgar.

  Ali stared at Edgar, hoping, hoping for a tiny smile. No dice. And then she remembered her idea, which was just too amazing to wait for the Girls With Long Hair Club.

  “Manny, listen to my idea . . .” Ali began. But before she could finish, Leandra strolled into the lot.

  “Whee-hoo! It’s a scorcher already!” Leandra said.

  Leandra flopped down under the big tree, her long hair spread out on the ground like a thick blanket. The goal of the club was to grow hair long enough to sit on. Leandra was almost at that goal, as she so often liked to tell the other club members. But it wasn’t so obvious because her curly hair grew up, around, and sideways rather than straight down, like Ali’s.

  Edgar whimpered. Ali went over to him and put her hand on his warm little head, then kissed his fingers, one by one. Manny lifted Edgar out of the swing and gently bounced him on his knee in the shade of the tree.

  “I wish Bunny would hurry up and get here,” Ali said. “I have an idea I want to share.”

  “She’s saying good-bye, and that will take her forever,” said Leandra. “Her mother is going on a business trip by plane. What a baby.”

  “But—” Ali began.

  “I know, I know,” said Leandra.

  They were silent for a few moments because they both understood. It was so hard for Bunny to say good-bye when her mother had to travel by airplane. Ali began to dig in the dirt with one of her archaeological tools (a garden trowel belonging to her dad). Ruff had already been digging there, too, and it was the same place she’d found the heart-shaped stone and the rusty nails. A fruitful spot.

  “Well,
let’s discuss this orange cone business while we’re waiting,” said Leandra, grumpily.

  “Maybe it means a marathon or a parade will be coming by today. That would be fun!” said Ali. “Why do we have to worry about something bad that hasn’t even happened?” Especially when something bad already has, thought Ali, looking at silent Edgar on Manny’s knee.

  “I guess,” said Leandra. “Hey, let’s not even wait for Bunny. I have an idea I want to share, too!”

  “You share yours, then I’ll share mine.” Ali felt that her own idea was so amazing it needed to go last.

  But just then, as if out of nowhere, Robert appeared in the lot, from the direction of the bougainvillea vine. He was carrying a giant shoebox (nike, blk+rd, 14w), which had once contained his father’s sneakers.

  “Hey, Rob-o!” said Manny. “How’re you doing?”

  Robert smiled broadly. He loved when Manny called him Rob-o! He wished other people would pick up on the nickname, but so far, no one had.

  Leandra lifted up her head. “Do you mind? We’re having a club meeting here!”

  “So what?” said Robert, feeling his face flushing pink, like a grapefruit (Embarrassment Level One). “It’s public property. Well, it’s not public property, but you guys don’t own it. And it’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  Boy, did he sound like a jerk. It’s a free country?, for halibut’s sake! But he could remember a time, a few short years ago, when they’d all hung out in the lot together: selling orange juice to people walking by, putting on carnivals, launching imaginary rockets, or just doing nothing. Even doing nothing used to be fun! When exactly had things changed? He himself felt like the same person inside.

  “Robert, how about giving us an hour or so?” Ali asked kindly. “Then the lot is all yours.”

  “Thanks,” said Robert, “but I’d actually like to ask Manny a question.”

  “Fire away!” said Manny.

  “One-on-one, privately,” Robert said. Robert could feel his flushed face progressing to Embarrassment Level Two (tomato). And when exactly did his face start looking like some sort of produce whenever he was around these girls?

  “Sorry, Rob-o. I’m working now,” said Manny. “How about stopping by the Garcia’s while Edgar’s napping, say one P.M. or so?”

  “Great,” said Robert. Maybe his mission will have been accomplished by then. He shifted his big shoebox to his other arm, hoping one of the girls would ask him what was in it. Then he’d be able to answer, “Nothing. Yet.” Heavy emphasis on the “yet.” Just to keep them in suspense.

  But nobody asked him anything. “See you later,” said Robert, before slowly walking away.

  “Now, where were we?” Leandra asked, glaring after him.

  “Your great ideas,” said Manny. He began to feed Edgar an orange slice. Edgar chewed it slowly, the juice dribbling down his chin.

  “Right,” Leandra said. “I was thinking—”

  “Robert is lonely,” Manny interrupted. “Maybe he wants to join your club.”

  Ali and Leandra giggled.

  “Robert doesn’t want to join the club. He just wants to eavesdrop, then make fun of us in front of my brothers. You should hear them go on and on,” Leandra said.

  “But really,” said Manny. “I know the club is for girls with long hair, but maybe you could change your focus to include him.”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you. That’s what my idea is about. Changing our focus!” Ali said. “But not with Robert,” she quickly added.

  Manny began to push Edgar in the swing again. “How would you feel if your best friend suddenly moved to New Zealand?” he asked.

  “Well, that’s life,” said Leandra, gruffly.

  “Right. That’s life,” said Ali, feeling a twinge of guilt like a pinprick. That’s exactly what her mother had said, but in a much kinder voice, on the awful day they’d told Ali about the tumor growing inside her brother’s brain. In his cerebellum. Cerebellum was one fancy word she wished she’d never had to learn! “Why? Why? Why?” Ali had cried. “That’s life, mi vida,” her mother said. “It’s nobody’s fault.”

  Now Ali was afraid to look up and see Manny’s disapproval, so she began busily digging in the dirt again.

  After a while, Leandra said, “I’m not waiting for Bunny. Here’s my idea.”

  Ali wasn’t listening. Her trowel had dug deep, scooping up some more nails, and a small piece of charred wood. She put everything into her bag.

  “Why do you bother with that junk?” Leandra asked.

  “It’s not junk,” Ali said. “OK, maybe this stuff is junk, but it’s fun to think I’ll find something really important. And look at this find!” She took the little blue stone from the pocket of her shorts. “It’s shaped just like a heart.”

  “Let’s see,” said Leandra, leaning closer. “Well, I think it’s liver-shaped. Actually, no. It’s shaped like a lung.”

  “Very funny,” Ali said, frowning. She rubbed it again, then pressed the stone to her lips.

  “I’ll bet you’re making a wish right now,” said Leandra. “You are! You’re actually making a wish.”

  Ali shrugged. “So what? It just felt like a wishing moment. I didn’t want to waste it.” She hurriedly dropped the stone back into her pocket.

  “Oh, grow up!” said Leandra. “Anyway, back to my idea.” She looked at Manny and twirled a lock of hair around her forefinger. “I think we should all have dreadlocks, like yours, Manny. I really like dreads, and then it will also be easier to see whose hair is the longest.”

  Manny grinned and made an OK sign with his thumb and finger, but Ali frowned. “That’s not going to fit in with my own idea.”

  “Why not?” asked Leandra, looking annoyed.

  So Ali told her about the imaginary, theoretical angel, and how the angel had whispered something that Ali had known, but just hadn’t known she’d known all along: her amazingly kind and generous idea.

  “Get to the point,” said Leandra.

  “OK, let’s say we grow our hair so long we can sit on it. What’s the good of sitting on our hair? So what? Then what will our club do?”

  “Well . . .” said Leandra.

  Ali continued. “But let’s say we grow our hair really long, and then we cut it off! Then we can send it away to an organization that makes wigs for sick children who need them, like Edgar. I’m not saying Edgar should wear a wig. But lots of other children who’ve lost their hair would like to. And we would be growing our hair for a reason, to help other kids! It would be altruistic!”

  A fancy, fitting word she was finally able to use.

  “And our club could have another focus,” Ali continued. “It could be the Girls Who Dig Club, for instance.”

  “You mean cut our hair all off?” asked Leandra, who had been thinking of a long, magnificent ponytail of dreadlocks with ribbons and tinkling silver bells threaded through it. “That’s the dumbest idea ever! And so is the Girls Who Dig Club!”

  Ali caught her breath, tears springing from her eyes. “Well, I think the Girls With Long Hair Club is the dumbest idea ever!”

  “It is not!” yelled Leandra. “And anyway, I wouldn’t cut off my hair for anybody! Even Edgar!”

  Invisible orangey electrons buzzed, or angels giggled, depending on your theory.

  Edgar began to cry. Leandra stomped off. Manny shushed Edgar and put him gently into his stroller. He told Ali to cool down, hang loose, and schedule another meeting.

  Soon the lot was empty, except for Robert-behind-the-vine again, still seeking to fulfill his secret mission.

  henever her mother had to go on a business trip by plane, Bunny Perkins knew what she had to do. She chewed only on the right side of her mouth, tied her sneakers in double knots, and wore her mother’s purple gardening hat outdoors, where she avoided sidewalk cracks. If she saw a squirrel or a hummingbird, she had to tap the hat, then blink rapidly three times. She also wished on a cloud (or weather permitting, the sun) at flight time
. If school was out, she climbed the orange tree next door to actually touch the sky, then waved at her mother’s plane for good luck. She always knew what time it was scheduled to fly by.

  Her parents knew about the hat-wearing, which was obvious. They thought that was kind of cute. Bunny didn’t bother telling them about all the chewing and tapping and blinking and tree-climbing and sky-touching, which even she knew was less cute. But so far everything had worked, bringing her mother home safely every time. Bunny wasn’t taking any chances.

  And just before her mother went on a business trip, that’s when the questions popped into Bunny’s head: all sorts of questions about all sorts of things that needed to be answered right then and there, before her mother went away.

  For instance, she had questions about her name. Her parents said “Bunny” was her real name, but maybe there was another name somewhere, a beautiful name that “Bunny” was short for.

  “You know it says Bunny on your birth certificate,” said Mrs. Perkins, as she packed her bag.

  “But maybe you showed me the counterfeit one,” she said, “and the real one is hidden away.”

  “You mean the one with Rabbit on it?” asked Mrs. Perkins.

  Bunny tried to get a good look at her mother’s nostrils, but her mother was bent over the blouse she was folding. Mrs. Perkins’s sense of humor was the annoying kind, where it was hard to tell if she was cracking a joke. Unless you studied her nostrils. If her nostrils flared, that was a sign she was joking.

  “You know, it’s been nine whole years since we officially named you. I forget where we hid the real birth certificate,” Mrs. Perkins said, zipping her carry-on.

  Bunny leaned over and nostril-checked. “Stop joking,” she said.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Perkins said. “I shouldn’t be joking now.” She hugged Bunny and squished Bunny’s face against her chest. “You know you were named after a wonderful woman.”

  “Kids keep asking me if I eat a lot of carrots,” Bunny said, in a squished-face voice. She felt her mother sighing.