Natalie and the Downside-Up Birthday (3 page)

“Nat, this shopping trip is supposed to be fun,” Mom says. She smiles at the people who stop and look down at us before getting their grocery carts.

I have been standing here, crying about Rocket and crying about Sasha. Only now I’m all out of cry. I don’t know how long it took, but those tears are out of me.

“Remember our deal, Natalie?” Mommy asks. She wipes my tears with her red gloves. “If you’re a good girl and help with the groceries, then you’ll get your turn on the horse. Right?”

I wish she hadn’t said that about my horse. On account of I think I was maybe wrong about those tears being all out of me. There are some more left in my head. Plus, they want out when my head thinks about purple Sasha kicking yellow Rocket.

“Ready?” Mommy stands up because she was kneeled down by me. She brushes grocery-store dust off her pants and coat.

She grabs a big, shiny shopping cart, and I take a little yellow cart. Only because that cart is so yellow, it makes me think of my horse, Rocket. I
have to close my two eyes real fast so tears can’t leak out my eye bulbs.

With my eyes closed, my brain still sees Sasha’s purple coat sitting on my horse, Rocket. My yellow horse, Rocket. Today I will make yellow my favorite color. For Rocket, that’s what. And purple will be my most unfavoritest color on account of Sasha’s coat.

Only that doesn’t go for tomorrow.

“Let’s check out the bakery,” Mommy says. “Maybe we can get some good ideas for cupcakes. Granny’s coming over later.”

I know this already. Granny and I are going to be baker ladies for my kindergarten cupcakes.

Mom walks along the glass bakery window, past cookies, to the cupcake section.

I push my favorite-color-yellow cart after her. Cookies go by me. I am almost to the cupcakes when I see something that makes my cart stop. There, in the middle of the top shelf, is the most beautiful cake I have ever seen. There are three cakes piled up into one cake, making stairsteps to the top. And that whole entire cake is purple, that’s what. With pink and purplish flowers all around the outsides.

“Mommy! Mommy!” I cry. “Look at this!”

She walks back to where I am. My nose presses
on the cold glass so I can see this cake better. Right in the middle of that cake are big pink letters. I know those letters and even those words on account of I am a kindergarten girl. That cake says, “Happy Birthday!”

“Can I have that cake?” I ask my mom.

“Nat, Granny is making your birthday cake. You know that,” Mom says.

I do know that. Granny and I are making cupcakes tonight. But my granny is making my real birthday cake all by herself for my Saturday party.

“But Granny doesn’t make purple,” I say. “Or flowers like these flowers.”

Mom leans in for a better look. “I’m not even sure that cake’s real. I think it’s a model so people can order a cake like it.”

This sounds like a very smart idea to me. “Let’s order a cake like it!”

“Nat, we don’t need a cake. Granny’s making you a cake. That’s much better than having a stranger make your cake, isn’t it?”

I’m remembering the cake Granny made for my mom’s birthday. It didn’t have flowers. And it wasn’t purple.

“Come on, Nat,” Mommy says. “I need to get some milk.”

“I want to stay and look at cakes.”

She sighs. “Fine. Stay put. I’ll be right up this aisle.”

I hear Mom’s boots
squeak, squeaking
and her cart
squeak, squeaking
away.

“Mother, is that
my
cake? They forgot to put my name on it!”

I know that voice, even before she starts shouting and crying. That voice belongs to Sasha. She runs up to the cake window and shoves me out of her way.

“See?” she screams at her mom. “It doesn’t have my name on it! Or a six! Make them do it over.”

Sasha’s mom’s shoes don’t
squeak, squeak
. They
click-clack
. They are brown and pointy with skinny, long heels. “Now, sweetie,” she says. Sasha’s mom does not sound aggravated, even though Sasha is screaming like a not-so-nice girl. “That isn’t your cake.”

I can’t help smiley-facing a little at this news. This purple cake is not mine, but it’s also not Sasha’s.

“I ordered a purple cake!” Sasha shouts. “Just like this one!”

“I know you did, honey,” says her mom. “But we asked them to have it ready Saturday morning. Remember? I’m sure this one isn’t your cake.”

The baking lady comes over to the window.

She’s wearing a white apron and a white hat ’cause that’s what baker ladies wear in this HyKlas Grocery Store. “I remember you, young lady.” This could be a good remember or a bad remember. “Your mother’s right. I’ll bake your cake myself for a Saturday eight a.m. pickup.”

Sasha frowns at that purple cake. “So whose cake is this?
I’m
the one who gets a purple birthday cake. You can’t let other people copycat my purple cake.”

Sasha turns her frowny face to me. “Natalie, are you trying to buy this purple cake?”

“No,” I answer. Only I wish very much I could say yes.

Sasha’s eyes squeeze into little lines. “Do you promise?”

I squeeze
my
eyes into lines. “I don’t have to promise.”

“Mommy!” Sasha cries.

Sasha’s mother runs up to her. “Now, sweetie. Nobody’s going to have a birthday cake like yours.” She tries to toss me a smiley face, but it’s pretty much crooked. “Hello, Natalie. Are you and your mother shopping for your birthday cake?”

“My granny is making my birthday cake,” I tell her.

“Is she, now?” says Sasha’s mom.

“My granny is the best birthday-cake maker in the whole wide world,” I tell her.

This is not so much a true thing. Last year my granny made me a brown birthday cake. She called it a volcano cake. On account of it fell inside itself when she took it out of the oven. Then the gooey insides oozed outside. But it tasted good.

“Well, isn’t that nice,” says Sasha’s mother. She whispers something to Sasha.

“Good.” Sasha smiles at me in a not-so-nice way.

I walk away to help my mom get milk. ’Cause guess what.

I am tired of looking at purple cakes.

Leaving the cake window, I go past brownies. Past donuts. Past cupcakes. I feel frowny inside.

Only then I see something I had forgotten about in this grocery store. This something is the most wonderfullest thing about the HyKlas Grocery Store. Except for the horse outside.

Samples!
That’s what! They give away free food here and call it a “sample.” Samples are where you can try out food before you eat it. I think this is a very good idea.

If I ever meet Mr. and Mrs. HyKlas, I will tell them so. Plus also, I will tell them that they should give sample horsey rides on Rocket. So I could see if I like those horsey rides.

A woman is standing behind a table full of samples in little plastic cups. Samples only come in tiny sizes. But you can have as many as you want. Mostly. If nobody is there to stop you.

“Would you like to taste our new fat-free bacon?” The sample lady smiles at somebody behind me.

I turn around to see my mom there.

“Go ahead, Nat,” she says. “I was thinking of switching to this brand. See how you like it.”

Mom takes a sample and eats it first. “That’s good.” She asks the lady some questions about fat.

I take the cup with the biggest sample in it. I hold the cup high and drop the sample into my mouth.

I chew on this sample. It isn’t juicy like our old bacon. It tastes kind of like Laurie’s pencil. Or rubber bands.

I don’t want this rubber pencil taste to go down to my stomach. It might stay there, tasting rubbery all night.

I want this yucky taste
out
.

I spit the rubbery bacon sample back into the plastic cup. Only I miss. Because that cup is so tiny. That’s what. ’Sides, I already squished that cup on accident.

“Natalie,” Mom says in a not-happy voice.

“I’m sorry.” I pick up the rubber pencil bacon
from the floor. My mom makes aggravated eyebrows at me.

I don’t want her to think I’m not keeping our deal about being good and getting to ride on yellow Rocket.

I can still taste that rubbery. But I think about Rocket. I love that horse, Rocket.

I take a giant breath, close my eyes, throw back my head, and dangle that rubbery, chewed-up bacon over my open mouth.

“No!” shout my mom and the sample lady at the same time.

I open my eyes. I close my mouth.

“You can throw it in here,” the lady says. She holds out a plastic wastebasket.

I do that. “That wastebasket is a very good idea,” I tell the sample lady. And I’m thinking I’m not the only sample taster to spit this stuff out.

Mom heads for the next grocery street. I follow her, but I’m hunting for more samples.

The best samples are always back in the bakery part of the grocery store. But they keep those samples way up high. This is another thing I would like to talk to Mr. and Mrs. HyKlas about.

On the top of the cookie counter I can see a big plate. I know there are sample cookies and cakes on there. But they are too much high up to reach. Even by jumping.

And even if you stand inside of your yellow cart on your tippytoes, you cannot reach those yummy samples. I know this for true ’cause I tried that one.

I walk over to the bread. Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. HyKlas get mixed up and put good samples over there.

And sure enough, there is one. It’s a plate with a plastic bubble top. Plus I can reach that plate.

I lift off the bubble top, and there are sample brownies in there! Plus also, there is not even a sample lady guarding these brownies.

My tummy is grumbling. It wants very much to try out these brownies, so I try out one.

Then I try out another one.

And those two samples are so yummy that I try out two more at the same time.

“Hey! Leave some for the rest of us!” This mean thing is said by Sasha. She has a yellow cart that is heading for my samples.

I want to say something kind of mean to Sasha. Only I can’t because my mouth is full up with brownie samples. Words won’t fit in there.

Sasha’s mother
click-clacks
up to the brownie samples. “Would you like to try a brownie, Sasha?” she asks.

“Yes, please,” Sasha says. She takes a big sample her mom hands her right into her mouth. “I
like it. Can we buy some? Can we? We need more snacks for my birthday party.”

I wait for Sasha’s mom to tell her about whining and not needing brownies if you’re not in the desert starving.

But Sasha’s mom just takes a sample herself and says, “Of course, honey. Good idea.”

I look around for my mom, so she can tell them about the desert. But Mommy is talking to a lady from church who talks a lot.

I guess it’s up to me. I turn back around to tell Sasha about the desert kids. Only I’m too late.

Sasha takes the last sample off that sample plate and stuffs it into her big mouth. That’s what.

We end up at the checking-out counter the exactly same time Sasha and her mom get there. My mom lets Sasha’s mom go first. This is a mistake. On account of we have to watch them unload both of their shopping carts.

Sasha’s cart: A gazillion brownies in a big white box. A gazillion cookies in plastic boxes. Bags of balloons. Packages of bouncy balls. Packs of Old Maid cards. Toys. Games.

Sasha’s mom’s cart: A gazillion cupcakes with purple icing. Another gazillion cupcakes with rainbow icing. Another gazillion cupcakes with white icing and sprinklies. Other white boxes I can’t see through.

I stop watching ’cause it makes my stomach twitchy to see all that stuff.

My mom reaches for the white stick that keeps different people’s foods from getting mixed up. She sets the stick on the black moving checking-out counter to keep our stuff away from Sasha’s stuff.

Sasha and her cart are in front of me. Mommy and her cart are behind me. I don’t have my yellow cart. ’Sides, it was empty. Plus I forgot it
somewhere in the HyKlas.

My mom starts unloading her cart. Here’s what’s in Mommy’s cart: three boxes with pictures of cake on them, juice boxes, napkins, a bag of sugar, a bag of powdery sugar, and butter.

There are more grocery things in Mommy’s cart. But they are very boring.

Between the checking-out place and the outside doors, there is a sample table. I didn’t see it when we came in ’cause of tears in my eyes.

I have to walk around Sasha and her mom and their food to get to the sample table.

“Don’t go outside, Nat,” Mommy calls.

“I won’t,” I call back. This is a true thing. I am rule-keeping Natalie 24. On account of I made that deal about riding my horse, Rocket.

On this sample table, there are tiny plastic cups of green drink. It could be lemonade.

I pick up one of those could-be lemonades. This makes me remember that I am very thirsty. I slurp in a big mouthful of green. Only I don’t swallow. On account of this is NOT lemonade.

It stinks and tastes exactly like green worm juice.

The sample lady comes running over to me. Her face looks like
she’s
the one who drank this stuff. “Oh, honey. This is for people playing sports. Runners drink it so they won’t get dehydrated.”

I don’t know what that means. But nobody should have to drink this stuff.

The worm juice is stuck in my mouth. It won’t go down the rest of me. My stomach is shouting, “Don’t you send that junk down here!”

And my mouth is shouting back, “Well, I’m not keeping that stuff in here!”

Right then, somebody’s little cart smack-a-roos into the back of me.
Pow!

Green stuff sprays out of my mouth like a super-shooter.

“Gross!” Sasha is standing behind me.

I wheel around on her. “You did that on purpose!”

“Did not.” She pulls purple gloves out of her purple coat pockets and puts them on.

I make my eyes into lines like Mommy when she’s aggravated. “
You
ran into me!” I shout.

Green worm juice is all over the floor. People are walking around that mess.

“Clean up on Aisle One!” comes the big fat ’nouncement for the whole entire HyKlas to hear.

Sasha’s mom comes running over and takes Sasha’s hand. “Let’s go to the car, sweetheart,” she says.

Two grocery men follow Sasha and her mother out the door. Each of the grocery men has a special cart with Sasha’s groceries.

A boy in a white apron wipes the worm juice off the floor.

I bend myself down and whisper to him, “I’m really sorry I made a mess. I was trying out the sample. And Sasha ran into me. And that green stuff wouldn’t stay in my mouth. On account of it tastes like worm juice.”

He winks at me. “Yeah. They should put a warning on the label, if you ask me.” Then he walks off with his broom and rag. I think he is a very smart boy.

Mommy comes running over with our groceries. “Natalie, is everything all right?”

“Yep. Can I ride Rocket now? Please?” I add. ’Cause that’s the nice way to ask things.

She smiles. “I guess you better take your last ride as a five-year-old. Huh, Nat?”

Together, we push the silver cart with our grocery bags in it. Instead of pushing to the car, we go straight to Rocket.

“Here I come, Rocket!” I shout. I climb up on Rocket’s back and hug his neck.

It’s very hard waiting for Mommy to find her quarters for my Quarter Horse. Finally, she drops two quarters into the black box.

I grab the reins. “Giddyup, Rocket!”

Rocket doesn’t giddyup.

“He needs more monies, Mommy,” I tell her. “I put in two quarters.” She goes through the whole purse hunt again. She finds two more quarters and puts them in. They
clunk, clunk
into the money hole on the black box.

I am so excited that my heart is thumpy.

Only Rocket still doesn’t go.

“Giddyup, Rocket! Please!” I bounce up and down on his back. I lean way forward. “Go!”

He doesn’t.

Mommy pushes a silver button on the box.
Nothing happens. “I guess it’s broken,” she says.

“No!” I saw Rocket working before. A very bad picture comes into my brain. Purple on yellow. Sasha on Rocket.

Mommy bangs on the black box. “It won’t even give me my money back. Come on. Let’s go home. I’m freezing.”

I climb off of my horse, Rocket. “I’m sorry, Rocket,” I whisper. My neck is chokey.

Mommy pushes our cart through the parking lot. “Maybe it’s too cold for the horse ride to work.”

I look back over my shoulder at Rocket. I know it’s not the cold’s fault that my horse, Rocket, won’t work. And I know whose fault it is.

Sasha’s. That’s what.