Betti on the High Wire (24 page)

Lenore the adoption expert lady was there, clapping and smiling. She probably felt that I had adapted, at least a little, to being adopted.

George’s mommy was there clapping and so was Mayda’s dad. Mayda’s dad took the day off from work, both jobs, so he could see Mayda in the circus and meet me: Mayda’s new friend. And Nanny, in her dark gray glasses, was clapping. “Marvelous,” she kept saying. “Just marvelous.” She could see all sorts of things.

My mom and dad were clapping too. My dad, of course, was doing a funny disco dance to the circus music.

“Mom!” I called out, sniffling. “Did you see that?”

So my mom came over and checked me for scratches or scrapes. None. I was a very clumsy circus girl. My mom just smiled at me and looked happy because she knew I was happy.

Today—my birthday—I’ve decided to start calling Mr. and Mrs. Buckworth my mom and dad.

And who knows? Maybe I’ll like it. Maybe I already do.

Auntie Moo says that there’s a reason you find a person, and a reason that a person finds you. That’s why we were so lucky that she found me and I found her when I was toddling around. And George and the leftover kids found both of us. Well, that’s exactly how I feel now. I feel lucky that I found Mayda after I kicked Bobby Ray at Day Camp. I feel extra lucky that my mom and dad, the Buckworths, found me at my circus camp.

“Babo?” whispered George. “I think we’re going to be friends forever.” He giggled and touched my red clown nose with his new finger. “Don’t you, Babo?”

“Probably,” I said with a big sigh. “Yes.”

I looked up at the sky and there wasn’t a single thing falling. It was a blue sky. I squinted and blinked as the sun sparkled in my good eye and my lucky broken eye. And finally ... I started to laugh like crazy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(BLAH BLAH BLAH)
THE END

DEAR READER.,

 

You may be wondering where in fact Betti comes from? You may want to pummel me over the head, feed me to Cindi the lion, and smoosh me in the center of a fire circle for not telling you through this whole entire book.

Well, it’s not that I’ve intentionally played tricks on you or kept secrets. The problem is that I haven’t been able to name her country. And trust me, I’ve tried and tried and tried.

But there are far too many people disasters—wars—happening in our world right now. There are too many countries, like Betti’s country, where kids have to watch the sky for things falling, and listen for the booms. Their homes have skeleton walls and shot-out windows. And people they know have disappeared or been killed, like Betti’s circus family. That’s what happens sometimes during a war. But, remember, what also happens is that people try to save each other.

I’ve worked in some of these war-torn places, and I’ve worked with kids like George and Betti. Little tigers, filled with fear and love and broken eyes, who are still trying to believe that this is a beautiful world. To name Betti’s country would mean that I’d be circling one small spot on a very large map—and that doesn’t seem fair—when there are so many strong and courageous kids all over the world.

Maybe, dear reader, you will have a much easier time naming Betti’s exact place, and the color of her face. Maybe you’d like to name the texture of her trees, and the food she eats, and the language she speaks.

You are welcome to, if you wish. Wherever she comes from, please be kind.

Sincerely,

To Rebecca Sherman, my lovely agent, who has courageously supported me and fought for my work like a little tiger, and to Kate Harrison, my lovely editor, who has tremendous insight and had sweet Betti dreams from the beginning.

To the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas at Austin for giving me three free years to make a transition from the stage to this page, and to my professors there, Suzan Zeder and Shirley Lukenbill, who patiently read the early bad Betti drafts.

To the Anderson Center for Interdisciplinary Studies, which gave me a perfectly peaceful month surrounded by art, and beauty, and artists, while I finished revising Betti.

To my mama, Patricia, who doesn’t have a tail, but who has held out her arms when I’ve reached the end of my line, and to my dad, Thomas, who has been there to catch me.

To my sisters, who have humorously contributed to my circus life; to my nieces and nephews, who are tough literary critics; and to my friends, who have shared their Big Mouth stories about being writers for years and years.

Finally, to my old dog, Rooney, who lovingly drooled on my feet under my desk, and to my nana, Irene, who wisely saw color in dark places.

I thank you.