Where I'd Like to Be (3 page)

“A million dollars isn’t serious?”

“Of course not,” Murphy said. “It’s not even important.”

Now the clock read 11:12.

“You’ll get another chance in the morning,” Murphy whispered. “So make it something good.”

I closed my eyes and thought of good things to wish for. I would wish for Murphy to like me, even if she was exotic and interesting and I was just myself. I’d wish for Granny Lane to get her eyesight back and for Mr. Willis to win the
Upper Room
magazine essay contest, which he tried for every year. And right before I fell asleep, I decided to wish for a million dollars. Maybe it wasn’t important, but it sure would come in handy.

The next morning Corinne and her husband, Dan, loaded up the dorm van with everyone who went to the middle school and drove us to school. We usually had to ride the bus that pulled up at the end of the drive every morning at 7:30, but Corinne and Dan had to take Murphy to the front office to sign her in, so we all got to ride. I made sure to sit next to Murphy so I could point out the few spots of interest between the East Tennessee Children’s
Home and Lawton Crockett Middle School.

“So do you know whose homeroom you’ll be in?” I asked her as the van neared the school.

“The paper they gave me says I’m in room one hundred and twenty-four,” Murphy said, leaning her head against the window. She sounded bored with school already. “Mrs. Cattrell. But I switch out for math, to the accelerated class.”

I was impressed. Not many of the foster-care children I knew were in the accelerated classes. I was in accelerated reading, but that’s just because I’d been reading since I was four. Mr. Virgil Willis taught me. Every morning he’d bring over the
Johnson City Press
, and we’d read through the sports section. As a result, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of baseball, which hasn’t come in handy so far, but you never know.

“I’m in Mr. Sanders’ class. We sit next to Mrs. Cattrell’s at lunch,” I told Murphy, “and they don’t care if we mix up tables. So we can eat together.”

“Girl, you talk too much in the morning,” Donita said, reaching out her foot to kick me
lightly on the shin. “Fact is, you talk too much all the time.”

I knew she was just joking, because if she hadn’t been, she would have kicked me a lot harder. Me and Donita had always gotten along real well, even if we weren’t best friends. She and Kandy had naturally gotten matched up together, on account of them arriving at the Home at the same time and both of them from Knoxville. But I liked how Donita always had some interesting project going on. Last summer she started a green-bean business, growing beans in our garden and selling them to the congregation of the First Baptist Church after Sunday services, and lately she’d been talking about taking a correspondence course in how to speak Japanese so she could be an international businesswoman one day.

“I’m just trying to give Murphy some important information about her new environment,” I told Donita. “I’m trying to be helpful here.”

“Miss Murphy Oil Soap can eat lunch without your help,” Donita said, kicking my other
shin. “She don’t need you there to hold her hand.”

“I’ll see you at lunch, don’t forget,” I called to Murphy after we arrived at school, and she was headed toward the main office with Dan and Corinne. She nodded without turning her head, but I was pretty sure she’d heard me.

When lunchtime came around, I carried my tray, with its taco, salad, beans, and Jell-O square, out into the cafeteria, searching for Murphy. I expected that she’d be sitting all by herself, looking lonely, hoping that I’d be there any minute to save her from the humiliation of eating alone.

Which was why it was such a surprise to see Murphy with her head thrown back, laughing like she’d heard the funniest thing in the world, and Logan Parrish beside her chewing on a taco, smiling and smiling.

O
ne day last spring, when the beautiful May morning was begging all us kids to come out and play, and our teacher Mrs. Harris kept hinting she was going to turn us loose for recess ten minutes early since most of us had done real well on the math test, Logan Parrish threw a fit because he’d gotten a ninety-eight instead of a one hundred. He stood in front of Mrs. Harris’s desk waving his hands around like a crazy person, while everyone in the classroom moaned and groaned and yelled out, “C’mon, Logan!” and “Save it for after school, Logan!”

By the time Logan was done, we could look out the window and see all the other fifth grade classes already on the playground. We’d missed
seven minutes of a beautiful spring day recess on account of Logan Parrish, but he ignored the boos that came his way as he walked back to his seat, the ninety-eight unchanged on the top of his test paper, still fussing and fuming under his breath.

That was just the sort of misfit Logan Parrish was. He didn’t even try to get on anyone’s good side, the way poor old pimply Molly Dietz did, handing out Twinkies at lunchtime and writing book reports for people. You couldn’t even feel sorry for him. He couldn’t care less whether you did or not.

“What are you laughing about?” I asked, setting down my tray, trying to hide my disappointment that Murphy was eating lunch with the most despised person in the sixth grade. “Did I miss a good joke?”

Murphy tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Oh, we were just discussing Mrs. Cattrell. She explained how to multiply square roots in class today. It was pretty painful.”

“She has to use a calculator, if you can believe it,” Logan said, shaking his head, which
as usual was covered up by a grungy blue Fraley’s Feeds baseball cap. “It’s so pathetic.”

I examined my taco. Math was not my strong point. “So how’s your first day going, anyway?” I asked Murphy. “I mean, besides the square roots and all?”

“Okay,” Murphy said, taking a bite of pinto beans. “I’ve seen worse schools than this one, I guess.”

“You should join the band,” Logan told her. “There are a few people who aren’t morons in band, unlike the rest of the clubs in this school.”

He had a stringy little piece of lettuce hanging from his glasses, but before I could think of a polite way to mention it, Murphy reached over and flicked it off. “There seem to be some low-flying vegetables in the air today,” she said, smiling at him, her green eyes shining. Logan went red, and he looked at Murphy all googly-eyed, like she was a present Santa Claus had just dropped on the table in front of him.

Murphy leaned over and tapped her fork on my tray. “Hey, Maddie, can we have boys over at the dorm? I mean, can Logan come over?”

“Ricky Ray comes to visit me in the afternoon sometimes,” I said. “So I guess so.”

Logan wiggled his eyebrows at me. “Is Ricky Ray your boyfriend?”

“Ricky Ray is six,” I told him. “He’s a little young for romance.”

Looking at his watch, Logan said, “My mom’s picking me up for a dentist’s appointment in five minutes. Should I tell her to drop me off at the Home this afternoon, around four?”

“Sure,” Murphy told him. “It’s the first dorm as soon as you come up the driveway. I’ll be waiting out front.”

“Waiting to do what?” I asked as we watched Logan walk out of the cafeteria, his two-ton backpack hanging off his right shoulder, his trumpet case in his left hand. “What on earth could you think up to do with Logan Parrish?”

“Well, there’s math homework, for one thing,” Murphy said, popping her Jell-O with a spoon. “And looking for something to do, for another. I’m the sort of person who always needs something interesting to do, wherever I am. I was raised that way.”

“But why Logan Parrish?” I asked. “What makes you think he’ll be interesting?”

Murphy began packing up her stuff. “What you don’t understand about Logan is that he’s a frog prince.”

“A what?”

“A frog prince. A person who once was a frog but who got the right kiss and turned into a prince. Can’t you tell he used to be an amphibian? He’s still not used to being human, that’s perfectly clear to me,” Murphy said, shoving a notebook into her backpack. “It’s like he’s not of this world, not of that world.”

I’ll tell you, my head was starting to spin. For one thing, who in the world would kiss Logan Parrish?

I stood and picked up my tray to take it over to the trash. “I think you’re confusing Logan Parrish with some fairy tale,” I told Murphy. “Trust me, they’re two entirely different things.”

“Don’t you believe that magical things can happen?” Murphy looked at me like she was dead serious and expected a serious answer in return.

I was stumped. “I guess I never thought about it,” I said. “But I haven’t seen much evidence to prove it.”

“Oh, there’s more to everything than the eye can see,” Murphy informed me. “I thought everybody knew that.”

I
was in a bad mood when Ricky Ray came over that afternoon, which he sensed right away. Little kids are smarter than anyone ever gives them credit for.

“Let’s look at the books, Maddie,” he said, tugging on my sleeve. “It’ll make you feel happier.”

We were sitting in the common room, on the brown couch that had coffee stains all over it. It had been donated by someone from the First Baptist Church of Elizabethton, which is the church that sponsors the Children’s Home. Whoever donated this couch needed to cut down on the caffeine; that much was clear.

“I don’t feel like it, Ricky Ray,” I said. “You have to be in the right mood for the books to work.”

I was in a horrible mood. How could I be friends with Murphy if she was going to be friends with Logan Parrish? The very thought made me feel irritable up one side and down the other. She was sitting on the front steps that very minute, waiting for him so they could make some stupid plans that would probably cause Logan to wiggle his eyebrows some more. I hated to even think about it.

Ricky Ray leaned his head against my arm. “Maddie, Maddie, oh, won’t you go get the books?” he pleaded in a sing-songy voice. “It makes me so very, very, very happy to look at the books.”

I couldn’t deny Ricky Ray anything. “Okay,” I said. “But not all afternoon. I’ve got things to do. Important things.”

Ricky Ray just smiled. Nothing made him happier than to look at my scrapbooks of cutout pictures, and since he was the only person I ever showed them to, it was like we had a little club together. I knew I could trust Ricky Ray to treat the books with the proper respect. Even though he was only six, he was careful
with things. One of the first times I’d ever noticed him, he was trying to repair an ant hill he’d stepped on by accident. He would never mess up anything if he could help it.

I guess you could say I’d sort of adopted Ricky Ray. Or maybe he’d adopted me. After I’d been at the Home a couple weeks, I started walking around the big circle every afternoon, looking at all the buildings and wondering how long it would take me to save up to buy my own house. I pretended each step I took earned me ten dollars. One afternoon, I heard a little voice behind me say, “Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five . . . ”

I turned around and saw a blonde-haired kid with bangs flopping in his eyes, his expression as serious as a preacher’s. “What are you doing?” I asked, not mad, just curious.

“Helping you count,” he said. “Sometimes you count out loud when you’re walking; that’s how I know that’s what you’re doing. What are you counting, anyway?”

“Footsteps, dollar bills, a down payment on a brick house with a white fence around the front yard.”

“You don’t have to buy a house. You can come live with me and my mama when she comes to get me. She won’t mind a bit.”

Ricky Ray started walking again. “Thirty-six,” he said. “Thirty-seven, thirty-eight . . . ”

We got up to four hundred and forty-two that day. At the end of it, Ricky Ray said, “We could get bunk beds, when you come to live with me and my mama. You can even have the top one.”

There was something about him—the way he flicked his bangs out of his face with a shake of his head and looked at me with his straight-ahead smile, like he just knew one day we’d be living the high life at his mama’s house—that made me want to pull him into a big bear hug then and there. Instead I said, “You can have the top bunk, that’s okay.”

His face lit up. “Cool!” He started running toward the Children’s Dorm. “See you tomorrow!” he called. “Maybe we’ll get up to five hundred!”

And that’s how me and Ricky Ray ended up adopting each other.

“Here,” I said, throwing two black-speckled scrapbooks onto Ricky Ray’s lap after I got them from my room. “I hope you’re happy now.”

The
Book of Houses
and the
Book of People
were the only two scrapbooks I kept anymore. I used to have a bunch more, including the
Book of Animals
and the
Book of Nature
, but when I moved to the East Tennessee Children’s Home I became so busy with other activities that I didn’t have time to keep up with all of my books. Looking for pictures to cut out can eat up your whole day if you’re not careful.

Ricky Ray pulled the books close to his chest and wiggled in his seat. “Come on, let’s do a story.”

I couldn’t help myself. I snuggled next to Ricky Ray on the couch and opened the
Book of Houses
, breathing in deep its wonderful, papery smell, just as good as a library book’s in my opinion, maybe better. “See that one?” I said, pointing to a contemporary home in the Victorian style. “I found that in Saturday’s real estate section. I love it so much. Just read the
description: ‘Master bath with Jacuzzi, cathedral ceilings, eat-in kitchen, and many more must-see amenities!’ ”

Ricky Ray pulled open the
Book of People
to his favorite page. “She’s going to live in that house,” he said, pointing to a very tanned model in a black bikini with a boa constrictor wrapped around her shoulders like a mink stole. “That is the best house for her. Her name is Crystal.”

Ricky Ray always named the girls in the
Book of People
Crystal. Crystal happened to be his mama’s name, if anyone cared to get psychological about it.

I leafed through the
Book of Houses
, seeing if there were any other new pictures Ricky Ray hadn’t seen. He liked to be kept up to date. “Oh, look at this one,” I said. “It’s a 1930s-style bungalow with hardwood floors and ceiling fans. I found that on Sunday.”