Dear Opl (13 page)

Everything moved along swimmingly except for one frustrating fact. Alfie Adam was not responding to my invitation. Correction.
Invitations
. After sending my first email to the Alfie Adams Trying to Save the World One Bite at a Time Headquarters, I waited three days. Three days that trudged on like a snail with a limp. I could have walked to England to get an answer faster. Except after the third day, I still had no answer. So…I wrote him again. And again. And four more times after that. I was officially a stalker.

In the meantime, I told everyone about the Grand Opening. I wanted a good showing for when Alfie Adam finally got my letters and wrote he was coming. Likely, someone at the office was holding on to all his mail. I bet he was making a particularly tricky section of the world healthy but they had trouble understanding his English. His language contained all sorts of words our grammar teachers would never allow. Words that aren't in any of my dictionaries and a few that most of us would get detention for saying. Hopefully, his translators translated his message with a stutter. I think it might be more effective that way because you had to pay extra attention to understand him.

But as each day passed, my frustration grew into a giant stress ball. What if he was mad at me for writing all those things about him in my blog? And this was his way of getting me back? What if he was writing about the silly, fat girl from Virginia in his own blog? What if he was telling the whole world he would make an example of how nothing good will ever happen to people who work against him—even if they've changed their mind and stopped eating fast food?

I wandered down the hall, excused from Mr. Inkster's science class to use the bathroom. I passed two of the most popular eighth grade girls, who sized me up before continuing their whispery gossip. They had such shiny hair. Un-pimply skin. Clothes that had no wrinkles and made them look like miniature runway models. Teeth that revealed smiles like a flash of lightning. They were perfect thirteen-year-old female specimens our science class should be studying under a microscope. They were walking blue ribbons.

Because I was caught up thinking about how to make my next apology letter to the Grunch more apologetic, I realized I'd passed the bathroom about fifty paces ago. I turned around to trek back. When I opened the restroom door, I heard those same girls talking in their stalls.

“Have you read it yet? It was so funny,” one of them said.

“I know, right? She is so totally cool. I love her snarky answers. I'm thinking of writing her for advice about how to skip class without getting caught.”

The first one snorted. “She's not going to answer you. I bet
Dear
Opl
gets a million questions a day. And yours is too lame.”

Dear
Opl?
I thought. They're talking about my blog! I stood by the sink, waiting for a stall.

The toilets flushed and they both came out to fix their hair—without washing their hands!

“How do you know if she'd answer me or not? You don't write her blog,” the class-skipper said, making a face at her friend.

My heart started whamming in my chest.
Could
I
do
this?
I took a big breath and turned toward them. “Actually,
I
write her blog.”

The two girls looked at one another and broke out in cackling laughter.

“OMG,” one said in between fitful bursts. “You have got to be kidding me. You
wish
you wrote that blog.”

The other girl threw her hair over her shoulder. “I'm so tired of these wannabes. Especially the fat nobodies. It's truly pathetic.” They opened the door and sauntered out.

My face went sticky hot. I suddenly didn't have to use the toilet. I just wanted to leave.

I stepped into the hall and saw them leaning against the wall by the lockers. They rolled their eyes at me and then suddenly attempted to make themselves look pretty. I turned to head back to class but smacked into Ethan, who was busy looking down at his phone.

“Sorry, Opal. Are you okay?” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I nodded, going red with embarrassment. The girls were right. I was pathetic.

“By the way,” Ethan said, “may I send your
Dear
Opl
blog on to my friends in England? They would get an absolute stitch out of your writing. It's so brill.”

My eyes grew wide, flying to the girls behind him at the lockers.

Ethan twisted to see what I stared at and then turned back to me, his hand covering his mouth. He pulled it away. “Sheesh! What a dolt I am. I'm really sorry. I promised Summer I wouldn't say anything and I didn't know they were there.” He looked at me with puppy dog eyes. “Forgive me?”

I nodded.

He looked at the girls behind him and put a finger to his lips, then jogged on down the hall with a wave of good-bye. I glanced back at the two girls. One of them looked right at me and smoothed down her long hair. “I bet she probably paid him to say that.”

Stinging, prickles of wretchedness rushed from my heart to my stomach. I wanted to run away. I wanted to hide. But just thinking that thought made Rudy jump into my head. We had both practiced hiding in order not to get hurt, and he told me that one of these days I'd just have to take the bull by the horns. I took a big breath.

“Not one penny,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “Ethan would never lie. And he'd never gossip about people behind their backs. He likes me just the way I am, and he thinks I'm really funny.”

One of the girls made a snort. “Isn't it amazing how the one thing fat people cling to most—apart from a fistful of food—is the belief that they're funny?”

I fumed. “You know what else is amazing? The fact that 3,895 other people believe I'm funny too. Because that's how many followers I have for my blog. And do you know what I think
they
would find the most amazing? It's that the two most popular girls in our school
still
don't wash their hands after they've had a pee in the bathroom. GROSS!”

I flew down the hall, my heart wishing it could fly out of my chest. I went straight to the vending machine outside—the one the chefs are still campaigning to get rid of—and ordered up a super colossal king-size Hershey's bar. I walked to the old beech tree and fell in a heap on the bench beneath it. The wind whipped the dry, frizzled leaves around the base of its trunk. I didn't mind the cold. It helped numb the festering bite of their words. But it didn't help enough. I stared at the huge Hershey's bar.
Who
cares?
Clearly not these stupid girls. Obviously, Alfie Adam didn't. Why should I? I wanted to be fat. I needed the protection. Fat protected people from all the pokes they got from the world. To heck with all the homemade crap; I was going back to all my real friends—Nabisco, Cadbury, Hershey's, Pringles. The only ones who knew what it takes to get through bad times. I opened the wrapper and peeled back the foil. I broke off a big chunk and held it right against my lips, daring myself to open my mouth.

An arm fell across my shoulder as someone plopped down on the bench beside me. “Opal, you're daft to consider eating out here today. I've been searching everywhere for—” Summer's words stopped short when she must have seen the tears spilling out my eyes and the chocolate smooshing into my face. She twisted me to look at her. “What's the matter? Opal, what's wrong?”

I shook my head and grunted a few words that came out like caveman talk. Then I took one of Aura's big breaths and started again. “Nothing a colossal amount of chocolate won't fix.” I tried to rein in my running nose with a big sniff.

“What?”

“It's nothing. I'll get over it.”

Summer gave me her
The
queen
will
now
call
out
her
troops
if
someone
has
messed
with
her
subjects
look. “What ‘it' must you get over?”

I sighed and hiccupped at the same time. “Bathroom gossip. About me of all people,” I burbled. “Who would have thought anyone would have wanted to talk about me?”

“Who was it—and what did they say?” Summer's eyes narrowed to reveal the tiniest slice of blue.

“Thing One and Thing Two.” That was everyone's nickname for the girls. “They called me a fat wannabe. And even when they found out I was writing
Dear
Opl
, they still kept whispering about me. They said awful things.”

Summer clicked her tongue. “It doesn't matter what anyone else says.”

“Except for the
she's fat
part. That bit still kinda matters to me.” I brushed the tears away with the back of my hand. It had chocolate smeared on it.

She rolled her eyes. “Believe it or not, Opal Oppenheimer, you're not fat. Nor are you a stick like those ninnies who think that even by chewing on their fingernails they're gaining weight, but who wants a life like that?”

I took a big breath in, the frosty air crystallizing Summer's words. “They're just so perfectly put together. It feels like what they say
should
matter.”

Summer rolled her eyes. “Do you remember the day I came over and you wanted to show me how to cut up an avocado? You said you always asked your mum to buy two just in case. When I asked why, you told me some things that looked perfect on the outside could turn out nasty on the inside. Isn't it the same for people?”

I pressed my lips together, thinking. It was true for the Grunch only in reverse. I hated everything about him until I got my facts straight. And I admit, I said some pretty rotten things about him in the beginning. And Rudy is no great looker, but he's the nicest, most harmless person I'd ever met. He was like a real Woody from
Toy Story
, except with chipped teeth. But I certainly didn't think that for the first couple of months I darted past him. Even poor little Ollie—the cutest kid on the planet—gets a knuckle sandwich only because somebody doesn't like the way he looks in women's clothing. Jacob Berndowser doesn't know a thing about why Ollie dresses the way he does. Okay, maybe I don't either, but I wouldn't shove someone down because I didn't like their Tinker Bell costume. I'd have to draw the line at the Fishbowl though. Because not only does she look like she's in need of a major overhaul on the outside, there's something rotting away at her insides too. Chances are she's filled with kimchi.

“You don't think I'm fat?” If anyone was going to tell the truth about this, it would be Summer.

“No. I think you're goofy, beautiful, and funny. And I think you're starting to make sense when you talk about food. And I'm amazed at what new quirky concoctions come out of your brown bag when you spill your lunch across the table. And I think it's the hardest thing you've ever done, not stuffing your gob with junk food at all hours of the day and night.” Summer took her scarf off and wrapped it around my neck. “I like the fact you've gone all crackpot swami on me with your yogurt poses and mental mind tricks. It makes you so much more interesting than Dr. Seuss's Toxic Twins.”

I brightened at this. My spine grew straighter with each word my best friend said. Yes, she thought I was crazy. But she thought I was healthy crazy.

I wrapped my arms around her, giving her the biggest hug I could muster. “Summer, you're just like that newscaster, Gina Jacobs. You look in the underneath.” I'd have bet anything she practiced just as many mental mind tricks as I did. Because to see as Summer did, I'm pretty sure she must have been using her third eye.

We had one more day before our break for the winter holidays. Everyone at school either sang Christmas songs or talked about their upcoming vacations. Three people wore antlers on their heads and one person had a flashing Rudolf nose strapped to his face. Everything served in the cafeteria had been Winter Solstice–themed for the last week. Bowls of Mistletoe and Holly salad looked too prickly to eat. Thor's Mushroom Puff Pie, Odin's Nut Loaf with a bayberry and pinecone sauce, the Return of the Sun King Soup, and a Great Mother Caraway Cake stood untouched on a long buffet table day after day. Above the table hung newly decorated signs that said, “Bright Blessings!” and “Merry Meet!” and “Help grow the fiber of your character: eat more beans!”

It might have been easy to get swept up in the holiday frenzy, except for two things. Number one was my plan for getting Mom to hire Rudy—and that would unfold tomorrow night. Number two was the Grand Opening. The morning after number one.

I'd been nagging Mom for the last two weeks, telling her how once customers started walking through the door, she would have a hard time manning the shop by herself.

“Well, I meant to ask you about that anyway, Opal,” Mom said, yawning. Her shirt was misbuttoned and she wore two different colored socks. “I figured since you had two weeks off, you could stay on. You've been doing such a stellar job. And during that time, I could put up a sign by the cash register saying I wanted to hire. Two weeks is plenty of time to find someone perfect.”

But I already knew someone perfect. And he could continue to do a stellar job. “I'll bet you'll find someone sooner than you think. And by the way, I'm making a special dinner for you tomorrow night. A celebration for the bookshop opening. You're gonna love it.”

Leaving school that afternoon, I ran to the soup kitchen steps for hopefully the last time. I handed Rudy a plastic container full of stuffed red peppers, my old My Little Pony hairbrush, and a bar of soap. “You're coming for your official job interview tomorrow night at my house. You might want to spruce up a bit. Maybe appear not quite so…earthy.”

Rudy's eyebrows shot up. “An interview?”

“Yeah,” I said, “but I consider that working too, so you'll get food for it.”

I zipped off before he could renegotiate our terms and headed for home. I had to start preparing what all good cooks call
mise
en
place
. That means everything in its place. For instance, before you heat the pan, you chop the onions. And line up the spices beside the pot. The rest of your ingredients wait at your fingertips for the moment you need them. All the pieces floated around me: preparing my big celebration dinner, helping Rudy get a job, Mom's Grand Opening, and of course, making sure Alfie Adam would show up. Some
mises
would be easier to put
en
place
than others. And although there might be fifty ways to skin a cat, I knew only one way to skin an onion.

• • •

Mom opened the bookshop front door and I heard a tiny wind chime tinkle above us. She looked around a little startled. “What was that?”

I followed the sound to the top of the door and scrambled for a reply. “Oh, that? That's just a…a thing I found in a box and put up yesterday. You know…to let you hear when someone comes in and you're not up at the cash register.” I knew Rudy had to have been the one to put it up last night.

“When did you do it? It didn't make a sound last night when we left.” Mom's last day working at the library was yesterday and she'd announced that she had some last minute paperwork to do at the shop while I finished a couple of odd jobs and would “keep me company.” I used the time to write a list full of every reason Mom should hire Rudy.

My heart skipped a beat it could have used. I started to feel light-headed. “Well, that's because you always leave from the back door, right?”

“Oh,” she said. “Right.” Mom went into the back and I took off my coat and tossed it on the counter. I tried to fling my other anxieties along with it, except everywhere I looked I saw little things Rudy had done to spruce the place up. He'd made a welcome sign with old mangled silverware, spoons and forks twisted into lettered shapes. An old flour sack slumped by the front door with a word in red threaded lettering:
Books
. A hand-printed sign stapled to a stick read:
Donations
for
the
shelter
. And the box of Christmas ornaments and garland Mom and I had brought yesterday, intending to hang this morning, had already been hung.

Mom came in from the back by her office cubby, switching on the lamps around the shop. “Opal? Who did all the decorating?” A deep crease formed between her eyebrows and her eyes darted from one piece of Christmas fluff to the next.

“We did, Mom,” I lied and swallowed hard. “Don't you remember? You said you wanted the garland along the edges of the big stacks and tinsel on the counter?”

She scratched at her messed up hair and her gaze went fuzzy. “I don't. I'm not remembering this at all.” She sat down on Dad's old favorite reading chair. Mom had originally put the snuggly, leather La-Z-Boy in storage because she couldn't stand seeing it in the house any longer. But now it lived in the bookshop where lots of people would get to read in it. Just like Dad. “Something's wrong with me, Opal. I'm losing my mind. There are so many things going on…my head must be playing tricks with me.”

“Mom,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Everyone can see how exhausted you are. You're hardly sleeping trying to get stuff ready. Just remember, you can't do it by yourself. We're all pitching in where we can, but you don't have to keep track of everything.”

She shook her head, like a dog shaking water out of his ears. “Right. And I'm amazed at what you've been doing—which apparently has been a lot. A lot more than I was aware of. I guess I haven't been paying much attention, but…thank you, Opal. I just want it to be perfect.” She gave me a hug and went back to her desk. I sat down in Dad's chair and counted the hours until the charade was up.

• • •

Six o'clock clicked into place on the oven timer. I had thirty minutes to finish. I peeked inside a bubbling pot and turned the flame down to a quiet burble. The scent of cinnamon escaped with the steam, floating upward to mix with the smells in the kitchen. I laughed, imagining all the aromas up there on the ceiling, like a massive odor party, each one pointing to the others from which pan they slipped out.

G-pa had helped me all afternoon. The two of us scoured cookbooks for the last week, deciding what we'd prepare. Ollie, dressed as Pippi Longstocking, wired orange braids and a stuffed monkey strapped to his shoulder, had set the table with five place settings. Confused when I handed him the plates and silverware, I explained to both Ollie and G-pa that it was good luck on the eve of a Grand Opening to set an extra plate. You never knew who would show up hungry.

Mom was due any minute because dinner started at six thirty tonight. We'd decided on an earlier time to give everyone extra sleep before the big day tomorrow.

G-pa walked back into the kitchen, freshly showered and shaven. He'd put on a blue collared shirt with a white hanky sticking out of his breast pocket. He had even changed out of his slippers. I pointed to his hanky. “What's that?”

“It's a pocket square. It's supposed to make me look fancy.”

“I think it makes you look like you have a runny nose. Don't lean over too far into any of the pots.”

G-pa grunted but picked up a spoon. Just then we heard the front door open and Mom yelled out. “Opal? Please come here.”

I looked at G-pa and whispered, “Showtime.”

I skipped into the front hall and stopped short. Rudy stood beside Mom, who had her arms crossed. He also stood in front of a husky police officer who had hold of Rudy's elbow because his hands were handcuffed behind him. The officer's other arm wrapped around a jumbo-sized box of saltine crackers.

“Uh-oh,” I said as G-pa came up behind me. “Rudy? You're a little early. And I didn't know you'd bring a friend.”

Rudy twisted his head a bit over his shoulder to the officer. “I told you she knew me. I ain't trying to hustle nothing.”

Mom's eyes went super dark. Like the kind of dark where all the parents hurry their kids inside from playing in the yard just before the sky breaks open with crashing thunder and drenching rain. “Hey, Mom. How was work?” I said lightly. Hearing it come out that way surprised me because my stomach had relocated itself to somewhere around my kneecaps.

Her eyes went all squinty. “How was work?” Her voice did not sound as light as mine did. “It was great until I thought I was being robbed!” Mom didn't normally shout, but when she did, it was competitive. She could be team captain at the Olympics.

“By who?” I said, ignoring the obvious. The police officer looked hopeful he could use his flashing lights and siren tonight. “Rudy?”

Mom put a hand on her hip and pointed with the other one. “How do you know this man?”

“I was kinda hoping to explain all that over the soup course. Rudy is supposed to be our dinner guest. Can we take the cuffs off him, Officer? This is not the greeting I planned.”

Mom wasn't budging. “This man had a key to my bookshop! After I turned out the lights and locked the back door, I remembered I'd left a thank-you card for you on my desk. When I returned, he was coming through the front door.”

“A card for me? Wow, thanks. Where is it?”

“Opal! He had a weapon in his hands!”

My eyes popped wide at this and I looked at Rudy. He swallowed and looked at the floor, mumbling something.

“What?” Mom snapped at him.

“It was a tree. A dinky little tree I was gonna set up by the cash register.”

I thought Mom was going to have a seizure. “What in heaven's name are you talking about? Why would I want a tree in my
boo
k
shop?”

Rudy and I answered at the same time. “It's Christmas.”

“Season's Greetings!” Ollie walked into the front hall balancing a tray with tiny mugs of mulled cider on it. He'd also changed his costume to the White Witch from
The Chronicles of Narnia
, Dad's favorite character from the movie. “Did you guys know winter lasts for twenty-one years on Uranus? We'd be drinking mulled cider until it came out our ears.” He giggled and then stopped in front of Rudy. “Can you untie him so he can have a drink?” he asked the officer. He tilted his head and continued. “Are there girl police too?”

“Opal,” Mom said through clenched teeth. “How did this man get a key to my bookshop?”

I turned to Rudy. “That was a nice last touch. Chances are you would have been a shoo-in had she not seen you come in.”

“Opal,” G-pa growled behind me. “Answer your mother.”

I sighed, slumping a little. “Rudy is my Christmas present to you, Mom. You know all that stuff that's been happening at your shop? All the decorations? The shelves being stocked? The cleaning of every floorboard, nail, and crevice? That's all been Rudy. He comes in after you go home and works through the night. You come in each morning, look around sleepily, and think I did all the work.”

Mom's eyes clouded over, like the sun couldn't quite peek out to sharpen things up. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“You needed the help. And we didn't have the money. Rudy agreed to do the work for food. So I've been making extra each day to bring to him at the soup kitchen where I found him.”

G-pa huffed behind me. “You found him at the soup kitchen?”

“Uh-huh. I met him almost four months ago and we got to talking. He's a super cool guy. He used to be a rodeo clown.” I turned to G-pa. “And he soldiered in Iraq until he lost part of his leg. But when he got home the bank took his farm.” I turned back to Mom. “I was trying to do the right thing. Trying to help two people who needed it. It was part of my community service.”

Mom shook her head. “Why did you keep all this from me? Why would you not come to me from the beginning?”

“You wouldn't have hired him,” I said, sighing.

“What makes you say that?” Her hand went back onto her hip.

“Because he's not…perfect.”

It was like watching a balloon deflate. Just the slight hiss without the big farting sounds. Mom's face turned the color of old fireplace ashes. She looked at the big guy in blue. “You can go now. I don't think we need you.”

He narrowed his eyes and said, “Are you sure, ma'am? You want me to take him with me?”

“No, no, no,” she mumbled, waving a hand through the air. “Just…un…cuff him.”

The officer put down the saltines and released Rudy's hands. Rudy rubbed his wrists as the policeman left through the front door.