pull down the shades. Everyone’s gone to Jack’s baseball game except Lenny and me. I sit on the couch with the cassette player balanced on the arm next to the wall, singing along:
Chick-a-boom Chick-a-boom don’t ya jes’ love it …
“Watch the clock!” Lenny shouts. When he dances, he forgets that time exists. Inside the glass doors of the big clock on the mantel a brass pendulum swings back and forth, ticking off the minutes above the Mars bars. Pop hides candy in the clock so he can have a snack when he stretches out in front of the television late at night.
Almost eight o’clock. I still need to write my essay on Marco Polo.
“Let’s start over,” Lenny says, stopping to take a breath. “How about the Who?”
He digs through the stack of cassettes and hands me a new one. After turning off the light, he waits for me to slip it into place and then run to the switch and turn it back on at just the right time. This is what Lenny calls an “opening shot.” You have to get the timing right.
I slide in the cassette, snap the door closed, and get ready to push the play button.
“Wait, wait!” Lenny yells, and he takes off up the stairs.
I hear the door to the attic open and close. What on earth is he doing?
Before I can hardly breathe, he’s back with Uncle Lucius’s walking cane, the one Uncle Lu takes to the mountains to poke in the underbrush and run off snakes when he’s searching for ginseng.
“What are you doing with that?”
“You’ll see,” he says.
Lenny points the cane and tells me he’s ready. So I push in the play button and hurry to the light switch.
Perfect opening shot! Lenny holds the cane in place and dances around it.
The Who sings:
I can see for miles and miles and miles …
Faster and faster. Round and round. He gives the cane a kick. Slides it under his arm. Whips it out and …
I can’t stop it, can’t get a word out. Lenny twirls the cane like a majorette’s baton and hits the blue glass light shade, splintering it into a million pieces. They fall onto the wood floor in a circle around his feet, and for a moment it looks like Lenny’s on a real stage surrounded by a thousand twinkling lights.
“We need a broom,” I say, and I head toward the kitchen. Neither of us says a word while we’re cleaning up. Lenny gets the vacuum cleaner to suck up the fine pieces and I start upstairs to write my essay on Marco Polo.
“My mother danced on a real stage with a real spotlight and music played by a live band,” he says.
“I know.” I turn and leave him staring up at that bare globe like he can wish it back together.
“Don’t tell your pop,” he says when I’m halfway up the stairs. “Maybe he won’t notice.”
“Maybe,” I say.
I do my homework as quick as a snap and jump into bed, thinking Pop will discover the broken light shade the minute he walks in the door. But maybe not. I cross my fingers under the covers. Maybe he won’t find out until Lenny’s left home. Maybe I’ll be gone by then, too, and he won’t even remember what the light looked like when it had a shade.
T he May Day Royalty Contest …
Every day at lunchtime the jars go up on a table outside the principal’s office. Alma Jo, the school secretary, sits at a folding chair behind the table and watches the jars, counts the money. Rolled-up dollar bills, silver, lots of pennies. Each jar has a label with a photo and name of the girl running in the May Day contest. The queen will come from the high school, the princess from sixth through eighth, and the miniature queen from elementary. Kindergarten and first grade have their own candidates for the Tiny Miss crown.
This contest has nothing to do with beauty or personality or good grades. It has everything to do with money. The one with the most wins. So if you have money left over from lunch, you can put it in the jars. Or you can bring a donation from home or help wash cars at the Piggly Wiggly on Saturdays or buy big packages of
Chick-a-boom Chick-a-boom don’t ya jes’ love it …
“Watch the clock!” Lenny shouts. When he dances, he forgets that time exists. Inside the glass doors of the big clock on the mantel a brass pendulum swings back and forth, ticking off the minutes above the Mars bars. Pop hides candy in the clock so he can have a snack when he stretches out in front of the television late at night.
Almost eight o’clock. I still need to write my essay on Marco Polo.
“Let’s start over,” Lenny says, stopping to take a breath. “How about the Who?”
He digs through the stack of cassettes and hands me a new one. After turning off the light, he waits for me to slip it into place and then run to the switch and turn it back on at just the right time. This is what Lenny calls an “opening shot.” You have to get the timing right.
I slide in the cassette, snap the door closed, and get ready to push the play button.
“Wait, wait!” Lenny yells, and he takes off up the stairs.
I hear the door to the attic open and close. What on earth is he doing?
Before I can hardly breathe, he’s back with Uncle Lucius’s walking cane, the one Uncle Lu takes to the mountains to poke in the underbrush and run off snakes when he’s searching for ginseng.
“What are you doing with that?”
“You’ll see,” he says.
Lenny points the cane and tells me he’s ready. So I push in the play button and hurry to the light switch.
Perfect opening shot! Lenny holds the cane in place and dances around it.
The Who sings:
I can see for miles and miles and miles …
Faster and faster. Round and round. He gives the cane a kick. Slides it under his arm. Whips it out and …
I can’t stop it, can’t get a word out. Lenny twirls the cane like a majorette’s baton and hits the blue glass light shade, splintering it into a million pieces. They fall onto the wood floor in a circle around his feet, and for a moment it looks like Lenny’s on a real stage surrounded by a thousand twinkling lights.
“We need a broom,” I say, and I head toward the kitchen. Neither of us says a word while we’re cleaning up. Lenny gets the vacuum cleaner to suck up the fine pieces and I start upstairs to write my essay on Marco Polo.
“My mother danced on a real stage with a real spotlight and music played by a live band,” he says.
“I know.” I turn and leave him staring up at that bare globe like he can wish it back together.
“Don’t tell your pop,” he says when I’m halfway up the stairs. “Maybe he won’t notice.”
“Maybe,” I say.
I do my homework as quick as a snap and jump into bed, thinking Pop will discover the broken light shade the minute he walks in the door. But maybe not. I cross my fingers under the covers. Maybe he won’t find out until Lenny’s left home. Maybe I’ll be gone by then, too, and he won’t even remember what the light looked like when it had a shade.
T he May Day Royalty Contest …
Every day at lunchtime the jars go up on a table outside the principal’s office. Alma Jo, the school secretary, sits at a folding chair behind the table and watches the jars, counts the money. Rolled-up dollar bills, silver, lots of pennies. Each jar has a label with a photo and name of the girl running in the May Day contest. The queen will come from the high school, the princess from sixth through eighth, and the miniature queen from elementary. Kindergarten and first grade have their own candidates for the Tiny Miss crown.
This contest has nothing to do with beauty or personality or good grades. It has everything to do with money. The one with the most wins. So if you have money left over from lunch, you can put it in the jars. Or you can bring a donation from home or help wash cars at the Piggly Wiggly on Saturdays or buy big packages of
Similar Books
