Love, Stargirl (2 page)

January 19

My happy wagon is almost empty, Leo. Only five pebbles left. Happywise, I’m operating on only 25 percent capacity. Remember when I first showed my wagon to you? How many pebbles were in it then? Seventeen? And then I put another in, remember? I never told you this, but before I went to bed that night, after we kissed for the first time on the sidewalk outside my house, I put in the last two pebbles. Twenty. Total happiness. For the first time ever. It stayed that way until I painted that big sign on a sheet and hung it outside the school for all the world to see…

Was that my mistake, Leo? Did I overdo it? Did I scare you off? It seems like ever since then I’ve been taking pebbles out of the wagon. And now it’s down to five and I feel rotten and I don’t know how to feel better.

So I played hooky today. My mother trusts me to play hooky every now and then. (In fact, we have a course called Hooky, but not for credit.) I just got on my bike and rode. Rode and rode. Now that I think of it, I was heading west. To Arizona? Somewhere along the way I heard a sound. I looked up. A Canada goose was flying across the gray sky. Honking. I’ve never seen a solo goose before. They always fly in
V
-shaped flocks, or at least in pairs. Had he been left behind? Was he trying to catch up, calling, “Hey, wait for me!”? Had he just lost his girlfriend and was calling out her name? Was she dead? Or flown off to Arizona with another goose? One voice honking across the sky. The loneliest sound I have ever heard.

And then I thought of the bundled man in the cemetery. I turned back. I hadn’t realized I’d come so far from town. I rode to the graveyard. There he was, same spot, sitting in an aluminum folding chair, green and white strapping. This time I went in. His chin was on his chest. He was dozing. Most of his face was lost behind the brilliant red and yellow plaid scarf. An old-fashioned black domed lunch box sat in the grass under the chair.

I was afraid to go too close. I foot-pushed my bike around behind him. There were two names on the gravestone: Grace and Charles. Under her name were the dates of her life. Under his name were his birth date and year, then a dash, then nothing. Death day to come. Under that was
TOGETHER FOREVER
.

Grace. It was her second date that surprised me—she died four years ago. And still he was here. Grace. I think she gave him the scarf. I think she called him Charlie.
Grace.
I whispered her name.

I backed away as quietly as I could.

January 27

I babysat Dootsie today. Her mother and father said they needed to “escape.”

Dootsie lives on Ringgold Street, a short bike ride away—but a long walk for a little girl on a cold day at six in the morning. I still can’t believe she did that. When I arrived she was invisible. You know she’s disappeared when you see her standing at stiff attention with her face scrunched and her eyes squeezed shut. She was in a corner in the dining room. I said to her mother, “Well, it looks like Dootsie’s gone. Nobody here for me to babysit. I guess Cinnamon and I will have to go home. Bye.”

As I turned to go, Dootsie screamed. “No! I’m here! I’m here! I’m just imizible!” She came running. “Cimmamum!”

So I stayed and the Pringles went out and Dootsie played with Cinnamon and then we painted her room. She paints her room almost every day. She’s allowed to paint anything she wants in her room except the windows. Walls. Doors. Furniture. Think: balloon filled with 50 paint colors bursts and splatters room. Think: squashed aliens. Think: little-kid paradise. Don’t think: little-princess room with canopy bed and ruffles and frills and pink. So there I was, brush in hand, letting loose the bedroom-painting maniac that hides in all of us.

Then we talked about you.

Dootsie: “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Me: “I’m not sure. I used to.”

Dootsie: “What’s his name?”

Me: “Leo.”

Dootsie: “Is Leo a human bean?”

Me: “We’re all human beans.”

Dootsie: “Do you love him?”

Me: “I think so.”

Dootsie: “Does he love you?”

Me: “He did. And then he didn’t. I think he will again.”

Dootsie: “When?”

Me: “Someday.”

Dootsie: “Where is he?”

Me: “In the state of Arizona. Far away.”

Dootsie: “Why?”

Me: “Why what?”

Dootsie: “Why is he far away?”

Me: “He goes to school there. I moved here to Pennsylvania.” (Oops…now you know. We moved to your home state. Well, I won’t narrow it down any more than that.)

Dootsie: “Did he kiss you?”

Me: “Yes.”

Dootsie: “Did he kiss Cimmamum?”

Me: “Yes.”

Dootsie: “I don’t wanna talk about him anymore.”

So we talked about other stuff and painted some more, and then she said, “Let’s go visit Betty Lou.”

“Who’s Betty Lou?” I said.

“Our neighbor. She’s afraid to go out. She’s diborced.”

This sounded interesting. I left a note on the dining room table in case the Pringles came home early, and we went next door and rang the bell. The door seemed to open by itself. No one was there, but a voice said, “Come in.”

“She’s behind the door,” Dootsie said, and waltzed in. She waved. “Come on.”

I went in, the door closed, and standing before me was a person in a purple bathrobe and bright red slipper socks. Dootsie pointed at me. “This is my friend Stargirl. She kissed a boy named Leo.”

The person shook my hand, smiled. “Betty Lou Fern.” Dootsie thrust out her hand, which Betty Lou shook also. “Did she tell you I’m afraid to go out?”

“Right after she told me you’re the neighbor.”

She laughed. A big, bold laugh. “She tells everybody. The whole town knows I’m agoraphobic. Isn’t it silly?” She waved us on. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make us hot—EEYOWWW!”

Suddenly Betty Lou was standing on a dining room chair, screaming, “A rat!”

Cinnamon was poking his head out of Dootsie’s coat pocket.

“It’s just Cimmamum,” said Dootsie. She pulled Cinnamon out and offered him to Betty Lou. Betty Lou screamed louder.

I took Cinnamon. “Cinnamon is my pet rat.” I lowered him deep into my pocket. “He’s really tame and friendly.”

“But he’s a
rrrat.
” She snarled the word. “There’s a
rrrat
in my house.” She stepped up onto the table. The teased top of her black and gray hair was flattened against the ceiling. She was trembling.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “We’d better go.”

“No!” shrieked Dootsie. She jabbed her finger. She scowled. “Betty Lou, you come down here.
Right now.
”

“I can’t.”

And then a new look of horror came over Betty Lou. She covered her eyes with her hands. “Stop!”

I looked at Dootsie. She had rolled her eyeballs up till they disappeared. Mucho creepy. “Are you coming down?” she said.

Betty Lou squeaked, “Are you going to keep the beast out of sight?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to let its tail touch me?”

“No.”

“Put your eyes back.”

“Okay.” Dootsie’s eyeballs rolled back down into place. “I did.”

Betty Lou came down and made hot chocolate. She took donuts out of the freezer and warmed them in the microwave. “I always have something good to eat for Dootsie. That’s how I lure her over here. Since I’m afraid to go out, I have to find ways to make people visit me.”

Dootsie piped, “I’m her best visitor!”

Betty Lou laughed. “She’s right. She visits me almost every day.”

“And every day I get a donut!”

Betty Lou nodded. “Once a week I have a dozen delivered from Margie’s Donuts.”

She took a bite of her crème-filled. “Mmm. Margie calls them the best in the world. She’s right.”

I asked her, “Do many people have agoraphobia?”

“More than you might think.” She glanced nervously at the living room. I had taken off my winter coat and put it on the front porch. Cinnamon was warm in the pocket. “Don’t rodents flatten themselves?” she said. “Do you suppose he could squeeze under the front door?”

“He can’t make himself that flat,” I told her. “You’re safe.”

“The word ‘agoraphobia’ comes from the Greek,” she said.

“It means fear of the supermarket!” piped Dootsie.

Betty Lou laughed. She curled her fingers in Dootsie’s hair. “Close enough. When she hears me say it a few more times she’ll get it right. It’s fear of the marketplace. And Dr. Dootsie’s personal diagnosis for me
is
—” She nodded at Dootsie.

“She’s a mess!”

Betty Lou howled. For someone so fearful, she seemed surprisingly jolly. “It just popped out of her mouth one day: ‘You’re a mess!’ I haven’t stopped laughing yet.”

“So it’s not just the marketplace you’re afraid of,” I said.

“It’s everywhere.” She pointed. “Everywhere on the other side of that door. Isn’t it silly? I keep telling myself,
There’s nothing to be afraid of.
Look at all those other people walking around out there—all those human beans, as Dootsie would say. Nothing bad is happening to them. But I can’t seem to convince myself.”

I tried to imagine being afraid to go outside. I couldn’t.

“How long?” I said.

“Nine years now,” she said. “It started on a beautiful sunny day in May. May nineteenth. The birds were singing, the flowers were blooming, the weather was warm. It was one of those perfect days you get a couple times a year. I had my garden gloves on because I was going to the backyard to plant my tomatoes. I had three tomato plants in those little green plastic boxes. Better Boys. And I went to open the back door and the knob was stuck. I couldn’t seem to turn it. I tried and tried, even with two hands. Finally it turned, but by then—I don’t know—it’s like something had happened, like that stuck doorknob was telling me maybe I didn’t want to go out after all. And then the phone rang, so I took off my gloves and went to answer it. It was my old friend Hildegard. We always talk forever. When I finally got off the phone, there were two messages waiting, so I dealt with them, and then it was time to make lunch and then I had to watch my soaps, and it wasn’t until the next morning that I noticed the three tomato plants still on the kitchen counter. And somewhere deep inside myself I knew I didn’t really want to…”

She stopped. She stared at the counter, but she was seeing something farther away. I don’t think Dootsie and I were breathing.

“…want to…plant them anymore,” she went on. “So I just stood at that back door there”—she nodded to it—“and just stood there and stood there and stared at the doorknob, and finally I quick reached for it and turned it and suddenly the door was open, and I just…stood there. I couldn’t move. The fresh air washing over me felt threatening. The world outside that…that rectangular door frame, it was all too much, too big. Dangerous. I’d like to tell you I fought valiantly with myself, that I tried really hard to step over the threshold into the backyard. But I didn’t fight. I knew I wasn’t going to do it. I closed the door and I haven’t opened it since. I only open the front door to let in visitors.”

“She doesn’t even put her hand out to the letter box!” said Dootsie.

“Not even that,” said Betty Lou. “Dootsie brings my mail in. She stands on a porch chair and reaches in and gets it. I have my groceries delivered.”

Dootsie blurted: “And donuts!”

“And donuts,” said Betty Lou. “A girl named Alvina brings them from Margie’s every Monday.”

Dootsie frowned. “I hate Alvina.”

Betty Lou frowned. “Be nice.”

“Alvina is a grump.”

Betty Lou laughed. “True. But Alvina brings your donuts, doesn’t she? She leaves them on the porch and Dootsie brings them in with the mail.”

“Wow,” I said. “Quite a system.”

Betty Lou nodded. She smiled sadly. “Wow is right. It’s called coping. And I haven’t even told Dootsie this yet—the other day for about ten seconds I was almost afraid to come out of my bedroom.” She looked around the room. “Good grief. Afraid of my own house. I’m getting worse.”

“Hey!” piped Dootsie. “I’m getting worse too. Mommy said.”

“And did Dootsie tell you I’m divorced?” said Betty Lou.

“I’m afraid so.”

“She calls her old hubband Potato Nose!”

“
Mr.
Potato Nose,” corrected Betty Lou.

That gave us all a laugh. We did a lot of laughing until Mr. Pringle came to the door to fetch Dootsie. As I rode my bike home, I kept thinking of two people—the lady in the house who won’t go out and the man at the cemetery who won’t go in.

February 6

Snow.

Gobs of it. Up to my knees. Up to Dootsie’s ears. We made a snowman. I took Cinnamon out of my pocket so he could see it. I put him on my shoulder. I sneezed. The sneeze knocked him off. We looked down. Nothing but a hole in the snow. Cinnamon! Four hands digging frantically. We got him. He was freezing. Shivering. His tail was blue. We breathed our warm breaths on him and rubbed him and kissed him. When he kissed us back, we knew he was going to be OK, even though his tiny tongue was cold.

February 14