The Secret Hum of a Daisy by Tracy Holczer Page B

tried to eat my sandwich. Cardboard.
    â€œThat’s Mrs. Donatello,” she said, nodding toward Hairnet Lady. “She yells in Italian because she thinks we can’t understand what she’s saying. But Beth wrote down a few words one time and we looked up the translation.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Now we all know how to swear in Italian.”
    Mrs. Donatello hurried away from Archer and Stubbie, all flailing arms, to deal with one of the smaller kids, who’d dropped his whole lunch tray and burst into tears. Stubbie immediately grabbed for another straw.
    â€œI was wondering if you had a chance to look over my list.” She took a big bite of the hot dog she’d brought with her. Then she said around a mouthful, “Hom hahs ah sah guh.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t eat those, you know. They put cow hooves in hot dogs,” I said.
    She squeezed an extra packet of ketchup on the hot dog, then took another big bite. “There, now I don’t taste the cow’s hoof you just put in my mind.”
    I took the list out of my backpack to make her happy, and handed it to her. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
    â€œWe should start with number seven, Archer Lee Hamilton, since he can’t keep his eyes off you,” she said.
    I about choked, even though I wasn’t eating anything. The last thing I could imagine right now was dealing with boy feelings.
    She took a swig of milk and cleared her throat. “When we were six, Archer decided to dig in the side yard for hamsters. He kept insisting if he dug a hole deep enough, he’d find one. By the end of the week, he had most of us helping him until Ms. Pimkin discovered us and put a stop to it.
    â€œWhen we got to school the next Monday, we had a hamster for a class pet. Ms. Pimkin had been very impressed with our determination. Everyone cheered for Archer. And since he was pretty clumsy and his pants never matched his shirts, his hero status was short-lived. Until he turned eleven and grew six inches and some pretty decent muscles.”
    I looked over her list and found Archer Lee Hamilton and the story she’d just told. I found Beth Crinkle, who took a label maker with her everywhere and was furious with her brown curly hair because it was impossible to organize, which I sympathized with. Then there was Ginger, who was known to break out into Shakespearean monologues, which Jo was starting to think she made up as she went along, because who would know the difference? Stubbie had just tried to do a stand-up routine for the talent show, frozen there like a side of beef, and had to be walked offstage. It went on and on.
    â€œWhen did you write all this?”
    She shrugged. “Over the weekend. Since we didn’t get a chance to talk or anything. Feel free to ask questions. Choosing the right details gives me good practice since I’m doing a documentary for my final art project. In fact, I should interview you. You probably know more than I do, and I’ve lived here all my life.”
    â€œKnow more about what?”
    â€œYour grandma, and Bear River Park.”
    â€œSorry, but I don’t know anything about either.”
    If she thought that was surprising, she didn’t show it. She ate the last bite of hot dog. “I haven’t done all my research, but your grandma designed Bear River Park fifteen years ago. Everyone has a story about it. Beth Crinkle was born there. Her parents were listening to a Barry Manilow cover band at the gazebo, and apparently her mom boogied down a little too hard to ‘Copacabana’ and her water broke. Your grandma designed a lot of things in town. Gardens and stuff.”
    It was strange how each new thing about Grandma stretched the picture of her I’d been carrying around in my mind. It took effort to squeeze her back down to the right size and shape. Like refolding a map.
    â€œWhat’s your documentary about?”
    She put a finger