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Authors: Tracie Vaughn Zimmer

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BOOK: Reaching for Sun
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Mom wants me

to love school like she does,

follow her lead to college,

make my mark:

the first astronaut with

cerebral palsy,

or at least

a doctor or lawyer,

something with a title or abbreviations, I guess.

But Mom’s dreams for me

are a heavy wool coat I

wear, even in summer.

backyard archaeology

I’m using the hand spade to plant

zinnias Granny started weeks ago

when I unearth a whole peanut shell

in the dark soil.

Gran’s told the story

dozens of times—

how in the 1920s the nasty boll weevil

nearly stole the note to this farm.

Gran’s two oldest brothers went off

to the factories in the north

to keep paying the taxes

while the little ones tried

to pick the plants clean

of the nasty devils. Hopeless.

So Great-Grandpa turned to peanuts.

One of the first to try the new crop—

a rare old bird, he was, too—

believing King Cotton could be overthrown

by a beetle.

Still, he saved this farm

when most around these

parts were lost.

But now

his big dreams, all lost,

empty

as the shell in my hand.

dress of leaves

I’m hidden

beneath the willow tree,

spying out her dress of leaves,

counting the roofers

on the latest house

that grows

behind us.

Suddenly

the dark parts.

A wedge of light and a boy

slip through,

the air sucked from my lungs

like a vacuum.

The boy’s face freezes like stone.

I cough uncontrollably.

“Sorry. I was following

a
Danaus plexippus

and thought it flew in here.”

When I try to speak

my voice is on vacation

and a high-pitched squeak

comes out instead.

“I didn’t mean to scare you …”

he says,

backing out.

“No. It’s okay,”

I finally stammer.

“Is it a bird?”

“No. A monarch butterfly.”

“Oh!”

My voice like new chalk,

but surprised by my bravery,

“Come on. I know

where they’ll be.”

“You do?”

“Sure—on
Buddleia
,

butterfly bush.”

And that’s how I meet Jordan,

the boy who just moved

into the rich neighborhood

that keeps spreading

behind us.

searching

I follow Jordan

as he examines leaves

from plants,

looks for insects on their undersides.

He pulls out his plant guidebook

to search for names

I already know.

“How do you know the name

of every plant?”

I shrug. “Always have.”

Jordan catches an inchworm,

puts it on my palm.

We watch it fold itself

again and again

up my arm

to my smiling face.

leapfrog

On the east side of the house

is Gran’s formal garden.

She always meant to visit

France or England,

but never got the chance

or the money.

Widowed at twenty-five and

working at the paper factory

didn’t buy plane tickets,

and raising a girl by yourself

was hard enough without dreams

of your own.

So she planted rows of boxwoods

in diamonds and rectangles,

lined the paths with crushed bricks

that crunch as you walk along.

Then planted Grace Darling teacup roses

and placed a wrought-iron

patio table in the center

of the shapes.

When Granny serves Jordan and me

Earl Grey tea

and butter cookies

but insists we call them biscuits,

Jordan doesn’t even roll his eyes—

and my heart leapfrogs

with the word

“friend.”

an acre of imagination

Jordan’s yard (and all his neighbors’, too)

is so serious:

lawn buzzed down like

a Marine recruit’s cut

and each house has:

two terra-cotta pots

perfectly placed on the porch—

color-coordinated bouquets

(like purses and shoes that

grannies and little girls wear

for Easter Sunday)

that match the front door—

and nothing more.

Our house is a crazy quilt of color

pots of every shape and size

nestled everywhere—

some hand painted,

others mortared with mismatched

chipped china,

all bursting with at least

three different plants—

sweet potato vine,

caladium,

lamb’s ear—

Gran’s palette

of color and texture.

The old shed

wears a half-done mural of the Eiffel Tower

made out of broken glass

and the sun dances across it

each day.

Baskets get tucked into

elbows of tree limbs,

window boxes painted navy blue

to show off the tuberous begonias spilling out

against the peeling gray clapboards.

Even our mailbox chokes

with a tangle of vermillion trumpet vines.

Our new neighbors

might call this a hillbilly’s cottage

and find our mix of colors

unfashionable.

But Gran says when she sold off

all but a slice of this old farm

she didn’t sell

the imagination of the Wyatt women with it,

though I wonder

if we could bleach it—

just a bit.

me, the dandelion

Gran calls Jordan’s dad at work

so he can go with us.

His dad says from now on we don’t

even have to ask.

We pile into her Jeep filled with

two-inch starter pots—

off to Lazy Acres,

where we help hands knotted

like asparagus fern roots

remember the feel of soil and spring.

It’s the only place

where I don’t stick out

like a dandelion

in a purple petunia patch,

and I like Jordan seeing me

in a place I belong—

everybody’s granddaughter.

I dream of the lives

my hands

might know,

like all of those

I help here.

small envelopes

Today, the most popular girl in seventh grade,

Natalie Jackson,

slipped invitations between the vents in lockers,

passed them across my desk in algebra,

dropped them in laps as she glided

back to her throne

in the last row on the bus.

But this time

I didn’t have to study tornado drill directions

in the cafeteria

or pretend interest in the road signs,

because Jordan

filled that ever-vacant seat at the table

and then the canyon of green vinyl on the bus too,

then skipped his own stop and followed me on

home

like a stray.

stuck to my tongue

Each year

since I could walk

Granny’s built me

a hiding place.

But I’m embarrassed to see her

poking the bamboo poles in the ground,

tied at the top like a teepee

with leftover yarn.

She’ll plant them with scarlet runner beans

that will curl and dangle,

twisting their way

to the top—

shading my secret spot.

I wish she’d realize

I’m really much too old

for one now,

but the words get stuck

to my tongue

each time

I try to tell her.

autograph

Granny cuts orange yarn for us—

left over from lap quilts

she crochets

for the folks at Lazy Acres.

We loop the yarn in the plot Gran tilled today,

stepping back

to check our work—

even once from my window upstairs.

Finally, we slit open the bank envelope—

the marigold seeds’ winter home—

and we drip them

along the orange lines

in the cool dark soil

and dream of our signatures

blooming by summer:

Josie and Jordan.

whirligigs

Jordan knows

odd facts

about everything,

like how a day on Saturn is ten hours long

or how many people rode the first Ferris wheel (2,160).

But each day Jordan reminds the other seventh graders

that this kid who is a whole year younger than them

knows so much more—

it makes him about as popular as a pop quiz.

And even though he lives in the largest

of the brick mansions behind us

(where most of the well-liked rich kids live)

his house looks like the moving truck

just pulled away.

No pictures on the walls,

dusty boxes still stacked

in the corners of rooms,

no curtains

on any of the windows.

It even smells empty.

I learn Jordan’s mom died in an accident

when he was just a toddler,

and his dad really is

a rocket scientist

who works seventy hours each week.

So Jordan never had a shot to learn

some of the basics:

Don’t correct a teacher in front of her class

or launch up your hand with every answer.

He stands a little too close,

and his catalog clothes

might cost a bunch,

but they don’t match much.

His brown curly hair

drapes over dark chocolate eyes

and when he smiles, all his teeth

and even some gum

show besides.

He’s always excited

about some new experiment

to try in the garden

or at the lab in his

new basement.

But I’ve learned this fact for myself:

Days spin faster than a whirligig

in a spring storm

by the side

of my new friend.

bus stop

The path to the creek

isn’t too far,

and the bridge

Grandpa built

when Mom was just a baby

still solid as stone—

six doors down from that is Jordan’s house.

Each morning now

Jordan shows up on our screened-in porch,

munching from a baggie of cereal

before I even have my shoes on.

After school,

Mr. DeLong, the bus driver,

makes him get off in his own neighborhood,

but he’s waiting on our screened porch

by the time I get home.

jewels

The golden bushes out front

called forsythia are blooming now—

their long arms

trying to waltz with wind.

Granny, Jordan, and I cut

their dance short,

arrange them

in colored glass vases for

Gran’s old friends at Lazy Acres.

We turn the leftovers into

bracelets, crowns, necklaces:

jewels

that wilt by afternoon.

flicker

We go

to Jordan’s house

to pick up beakers, his microscope,

and graph paper

to set up another experiment

(this one measuring spores

on different kinds of ferns).

The foyer echoes

like the gym at school,

and it feels like nobody lives here

and almost,

they don’t.

A maid cleans.

A crew cuts the lawn.

Even the groceries get delivered.

Jordan’s dad is home, for once,

but he barely lifts his head

from his laptop to meet me.

His eyes

flicker in surprise,

but he slams

his attention back to the screen

and coughs to dismiss us.

In ten minutes we fill a big box,

and I don’t see the inside

of Jordan’s house

again for months.

snake

Between bites of PB and J

Jordan is telling me

about poisonous snakes

when

Natalie Jackson and her followers

arrive like royalty

a few seats down

in the cafeteria.

They start teasing us

about being in love—

the genius and the ’tard.

My throat feels like

I’ve swallowed an orange

whole.

But Jordan

goes on and on

(though the tips of his ears turn

crimson),

even repeats himself some,

about the preferred habitats of each species,

how you’re really not

supposed to suck out the venom

like in the movies,

and how they keep the rat population

in check.

Finally, Natalie and her tribe

leave to dump their trays, find fresh prey.

“You never know when you

might run into a snake,”

Jordan repeats.

“That’s true,” I agree,

as we watch some slither

on past.

snoring

Afternoons

you can always find Granny

BOOK: Reaching for Sun
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