Out of the Box(12)
SEVEN
That evening, Mom misses our nightly phone call. I know I shouldn’t worry. She often works late. Then again, maybe she had something scheduled for tonight, and she forgot to mention that she wouldn’t be calling. Whatever she’s doing, I hope it gets her mind off her troubles. All day, I’ve been saving up interesting things to tell her, little things that might make her smile— like the fact that Jeanette got me a dentist appointment at the end of this month. After half an hour of hanging around the wall phone, though, I’m pretty sure my very punctual mother won’t be calling, and I’m relieved when Sarah comes to the door.
She’s wearing yet another of her many awesome outfits, this time a white blouse with tight jeans that show off her butt. Her hair is shiny, and she’s applied the faintest hint of lip gloss. I stand there in my basement-cleaning shorts and a ragged T-shirt, still puzzled that she wants to be my friend.
She flops onto the couch and asks what treasures we unearthed today.
“My favorite was Wardrobe Renovation Made Simple—all about how to make dresses out of aprons, scarves out of pant legs, and bowties out of old socks,” I say. “A Loving Look at Outhouses: A History in Pictures was pretty good too.”
She laughs, and I don’t tell her that these books were presents from my mom, because I don’t want her to think my family’s weird. I’m sure they must have seemed like the perfect gifts at the time. Mom tries really hard to give people stuff she thinks they might like. When she gets it right, she’s ecstatic.
“So?”
I look up, meeting Sarah’s gaze. I realize I haven’t heard a word she’s said. “Sorry. What was that?”
“I asked if you want to go clothes shopping with me sometime. For school.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure how to answer. I could pretend to be thrilled and go along, or I could invent an excuse. But excuses mean lying, and lying is exhausting. Besides, the truth has to come out sooner or later, even if it means she’ll declare me a total disappointment as a friend. “I actually kind of hate clothes shopping,” I admit. “It’s genetic. My mom hates it even more than I do.”
“She does?” Sarah asks, clearly unable to imagine anyone like this. “Who do you go with then?”
“My dad,” I say. “We’ve got a pretty good system. We go through the store and grab a bunch of stuff that might look okay on me. I try it all on and choose a few things, and we head to the cashier. Once a year. Quick and painless.”
Sarah doesn’t stop staring. “You let your father help pick your clothes? Tell me you at least go to a decent store.”
“The Gap. Sometimes Old Navy. I only ever get T-shirts and jeans anyway. Shorts in the summer.”
A look of pity flashes across her face, and under any other circumstances, I’d be indignant, but if that pity gets me out of a shopping trip, I’ll take it.
“Oh well,” she says at last. “Nobody’s perfect.”
Now I stare at her, until she bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding, Ellie. You don’t have to come shopping if it’s not your thing.”
I smile as if I knew it was a joke all along. I wish I didn’t blush so easily though. I ask if she wants some milk and cookies. She agrees, and when I come back with a tray, she’s looking down at her nails. “Do you still have that book about making dresses from aprons?”
I scan her face, waiting for the punch line, but I realize she’s serious. “You want to make bowties out of old socks?”
She shrugs. “I like sewing. It could be interesting.”
I laugh and tell her I’ll go get the book.
Sarah’s nothing like the person I first thought she was, and this summer is going better than I ever could have imagined.
Every day since finding the bandoneón, I’ve been trying to play it. I still sound like poultry with breathing problems, but now and then I get a decent run of notes. Alison would be proud, I think.
And if Mom could stop worrying about teenage rebellion, she might be a little proud too. She always wanted music lessons when she was growing up, which is why she enrolled me in classes almost as soon as I could talk. Today I manage an almost-recognizable rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on the bandoneón. I let out a whoop and drop onto the bed, grinning. The instrument case falls off the bed and lands on the floor. For the first time, I notice something brown peeping out from behind the red inner lining.
It’s a blank envelope, slightly bigger than letter size, full of papers: a map of Uruguay; a bit of paper with a Victoria address written on it; two old-fashioned airline tickets; and more money than I’ve ever seen at one time. It’s not Canadian money. Most of the bills are American, but some say República Argentina. The American money alone adds up to almost two thousand dollars, and the numbers on the bills from Argentina are all in the thousands.