The Way to Stay in Destiny Page 4

  My head’s spinning!

  Tomorrow, right after school, if I can find Dawson’s Bait Shop, I’ll be there.

  On Tuesday after school, Anabel’s waiting under a sign:

  Night Crawlers 50¢ a Bucket.

  “Did you get lost?” she asks, tapping her watch.

  “Geez. I’m not that late.” I’m not telling her it took me at least fifteen minutes to come up with a lie for my uncle about breaking his Homework After School, No Exceptions rule. Yeah, I know. I should be sitting at the Rest Easy writing my essay about “What I Will Do This Summer.” I’d rather be at Dawson’s Bait Shop with Anabel. “Had to stop by the Rest Easy first,” I tell her.

  “Hey. You know Miss Sister, right?” Anabel asks.

  “Remember, I live at her rooming house.”

  “You wouldn’t tell her about me skipping dance class last Saturday?”

  “You skipped?” I smile. “I thought you tossed those tap shoes into the petunias to make them smell better.”

  “Very funny, Theo.” She starts toward the bait shop, then stops. “You don’t actually like listening to that tap-dancing music all day long, do you?”

  Actually, yes. I love the music. Some days Miss Sister’s piano reminds me of my life at my grandparents’ farm. And even before that, of somebody who showed me middle C when I was barely big enough to reach the keyboard.

  Instead of confessing, I say, “What’s up with you and dance classes?”

  She sinks onto the wooden bench in front of Mr. Dawson’s shop. “Dancing’s as much fun as having a sprained finger, missing the end of softball season last year.”

  I take a deep breath of salty air and bait shrimp. “Why don’t you just quit?”

  “My mom loved ballet when she was a kid. She’s sure it’ll make me graceful.” Anabel kicks hard at a wooden crate leaned up against the steps. “What do I care about being graceful? But you know, moms.” Rolling her eyes, she drags out the word, then says it again. “Moms. Ugh.”

  Actually, I don’t know. Not really. But maybe I’d have a mom who cared that much about making me good at music, or at anything. She’d be just like Miss Sister, reminding me to practice, playing duets, baking brownies. Hey, I believe in happy endings! Sometimes.

  Anabel stands up. “I’m figuring out how to skip the big recital and never take a dancing class again, forever. When Miss Sister’s not looking, I sneak out. Go to a movie. Maybe hide from my mom and read a book at the beach.”

  “We going to the beach?” I ask hopefully.

  “Maybe later.” She leans over and paws through her knapsack. “You heard about Destiny Day coming up?”

  “Miss Sister said something about her recital and a big celebration.”

  Anabel rolls her eyes like I’m totally out of it. Which I pretty much am. “Forget that recital! Destiny Day takes over the town square. This year people will wear costumes from the olden days. Kind of weird, actually.” She holds up a sheet of paper and drops it into my hand. “Behold, Mr. Wyatt’s One Hundred Years of Destiny extra-credit project!”

  I glance at the notes she’s scribbled on the handout. “What’s this got to do with me? I only just got here. You think he’ll give me extra credit?”

  “Listen up, Theo. I need a whole lot of extra credit,” she says, smiling.

  I read the assignment, slowly this time.

  Get to know Destiny!

  Research an aspect of our town’s history (1874-1974).

  Present it at the special Destiny Day festival.

  File a carefully written and researched document with the president of the Historical Society.

  Anabel points to the paper. “I’m going to find out everything about baseball in Destiny. When and where. And of course, who. Throw in something that sounds good for more extra credit, batting averages and home runs. Take a bunch of pictures. Oh, I don’t know. I’m better at the writing part, but I stink at history. Actually, I stink at math, too. I need help.” She looks right at me. “You.”

  “Me?” I squeak. Yeah, right. What if I mess this up? Then instead of having one friend, I’ll have zero. I’m real good at figuring that math out.

  “You’ll be great,” she says. “You’re smart. You love baseball. It’ll be fun.”

  When I start breathing again, my heartbeat slows down. “I know a lot about baseball players. There’s this book my granddaddy bought me. When I was about six. Been reading it ever since!” Geez. That was a dorky thing to admit to.

  “Books. Good. Make our research even better,” Anabel says.

  Okay. Seems easy enough. I can do this!

  “I’m in,” I say.

  “Listen up. I’ll explain as we go.” She gives two men leaving the bait shop with their fishing rods the once-over and lowers her voice. “For now, this stays between you and me. If my mom gets wind of me doing a baseball project for everybody in town to see, she’ll make us put tap shoes on the players.”

  Picturing Hank Aaron and his teammates tap-dancing, I laugh out loud.

  “Be serious!” Anabel steps up to the screen door. “Come on. We need to interview old-timers. Like Mr. Dawson, inside. I already talked to my dad. Got lots of notes.”

  “Miss Sister’s lived here forever. Did you ask her?”

  “Theo, get with the program. I’m avoiding Miss Sister. You can interview her.” She laughs and says, “Maybe you can help sneak me out of her dance class.”

  “I’ll help with the baseball part,” I answer.

  Anabel holds up her notebook and pen. “Mr. Dawson’s older than anything. He’ll know something.” She pushes open the door, leaving me on the steps with the assignment sheet. I follow her into Dawson’s Bait Shop.

  Inside, a man behind the glass case puts down the fish he’s cleaning and wipes his hands on his bloody apron. He steps in front of the counter. “Hey there, Anabel. Going fishing? Got some crickets, penny apiece.” He winks. “Special fancy ones, just for you.” He’s one of those old guys who laughs at his own jokes.

  “No fishing today.” Anabel opens her notebook to a clean page. She nods my way. “My friend Theo just moved to Destiny. We’re doing a school project.”

  “So what can I do you for, kiddos?”

  I stare at the gray beard that reaches to Mr. Dawson’s collar and moves up and down when he talks. I wonder if one of those crickets he’s selling might be hiding in that bushy beard.

  “We’re researching the old days of baseball. Daddy claims you know everything,” Anabel says.

  “I know the younger spring training players came to Destiny. Cheaper than living over in Tampa or St. Pete. ’Bout twenty years ago, let’s see, back in the 1950s. Year Ike won the presidency, how I remember it. But my memory’s fuzzy.”

  Anabel’s scribbling notes as fast as he’s talking, and I’m watching over her shoulder, thinking how I’ll never be able to read her chicken scratch. “Ever talk to any of them?” she asks.

  “I used to see them over someplace near Gulf Shores Avenue playing catch. Every once in a while, one of ’em would stop by my place for shrimp or crickets.” Mr. Dawson has what my grandmother called smiling eyes. If a person’s eyes were smiling, you could trust them for sure, she always said.

  “You remember any of the players’ names?” I ask, stepping up next to Anabel.

  “I remember a tall, skinny guy in particular.”

  “Who’s that?” Anabel stops drawing what I guess is a map of Destiny and looks up.

  “That Hank Aaron fellow. Just passed Babe Ruth’s record.”

  I knew it! Fate! I’ve ended up in Destiny. The same as Hank! Smiling like nobody’s business, I bite my lip to keep from blabbing about seeing him play one time, telling everything I know about Hammerin’ Hank.

  “Nobody paid much attention back then,” Mr. Dawson says. “Nice young man, near as I remember.”

  Before the words escape from my mouth, wondering how anybody could forget anything about Hank Aaron living in Destiny, Anabel closes her n
otebook. Then Mr. Dawson taps his forehead and says, “You youngsters work hard! School’s ’bout the most important thing.” He points to the faded sign on the counter: Ice and Advice, then turns back to gutting fish.

  “Thanks, Mr. Dawson.” Anabel waves, and we’re out the door.

  “Wow!” I sit on the wooden bench to take it all in, hoping Anabel hasn’t heard my geeky wow. My head’s spinning! But while I’m dreaming about Hank Aaron standing here holding a bucket of bait shrimp, she’s halfway down the sidewalk.

  “Great stuff, right? Wanna walk by the beach on the way home?” she calls back.

  This day can’t get much better. If I had to leave my grandparents’ farm, if I’d dreamed of a place to end up? The beach, baseball, and a piano would have been there.

  Pretty soon, I hear water noises. Birds squawking!

  When we stop in front of a sign — a picture of a weird-looking creature with a pointy, sharp thing sticking out of its body — I read out loud, “ ‘Shuffle Feet for Stingrays.’ Yikes. What’s that mean?”

  “Shuffle your feet underwater. Stirs up the sand. Scares the stingrays off.” She moves her feet back and forth, real fast. I try it and land on my rear end.

  I jump up, look around to be sure nobody saw that, then stare out at the clear blue water. “Let’s get closer,” I say.

  When we’re standing near enough to the water that the wind makes it hard to hear, Anabel asks, “You ever been surfing, Theo?”

  “Only been to the beach once,” I answer.

  And my uncle made me leave as quick as I got here.

  “Not a lot of big waves in the gulf unless there’s a storm coming,” Anabel says. “But I bet you’d be great at surfing.”

  Except I don’t know which end of a surfboard to hang on to. And my uncle’s already threatening to find a new job, probably someplace far away from crashing waves.

  “I’ve barely put my big toe in salt water,” I say. “But man, can I swim. Mostly in the creek near my granddaddy’s farm.”

  “This summer, I’ll teach you to body surf.” Anabel points out to some guys in wet suits, some with boards, some just floating around.

  Now we’re close enough to the gulf to splash each other. Keeping a watch out for stingrays, I kick off my sneakers to practice that shuffle thing in the water.

  “Maybe I’ll try surfing,” I say. At the beach this summer with Anabel. Cool.

  Then I push back one long shirtsleeve and touch the ugly scar running down my arm, almost to my hand. I remember the last wish I made. Sitting in the backseat of my parents’ old car. I was barely four years old, telling knock-knock jokes. I’d wished for mint chocolate chip ice cream, hot fudge sauce thick as mud. Mom sang that silly song “I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream.” The next thing was white sheets on a hospital bed. After that, I stopped wishing.

  “Earth to Theo?” Anabel punches my shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing much. Just ice cream.” That was so long ago, my scar’s almost faded. Now I can remember that song and kind of smile.

  “Good start to our Destiny Day project, huh? I gotta get home, though. Tonight’s family togetherness time in front of Happy Days on TV.” Anabel hurries past the row of palm trees growing beside the sandy walkway.

  Shielding my eyes from the blazing hot sun, I watch the waves pick up and the pelicans dive for fish far out in the water. Truthfully, wishes are piling up. To find out about Henry Aaron and the baseball players with Anabel. To push Uncle Raymond so far out of my head, the music takes over. To stay in Destiny, playing Miss Sister’s piano forever.

  On my third day at Johnson Junior High, by the time I relocate my social studies classroom, the only desk left is so small, that skinny kid Mamie could barely fit in it. While I squeeze myself into the seat, Mr. Wyatt’s explaining the Fountain of Youth. Telling us Seminoles lived right near Destiny. He’s drawing chalk pictures and rambling on about a hundred-year-old banyan tree still standing in front of the county library. “Page forty-three of your Florida history book. It’s famous! A famous tree!”

  Mr. Wyatt’s a whole lot more excited about the life of that banyan tree than Uncle Raymond is about our life together. Maybe if I ace this project, my uncle’ll decide Destiny is A-OK. Big maybe.

  Anabel’s in the front row, writing as fast as Mr. Wyatt scribbles words on the chalkboard. Other kids raise their hands to nail down their topics, calling out “Seminoles!” and “Old tree!” They consult with partners and review note cards together. I’m still trying to find my pencil.

  Before I even open my book, Mr. Wyatt strolls to the back of the room and says — not so loud that everybody’s listening — “Theo, maybe you want to participate in our special history project? Learn a little who, what, where, when, how about your hometown?”

  “Okay,” I answer, turning hometown around in my head. I glance at Anabel, thinking she’ll chime in.

  Mr. Wyatt looks around the classroom. “Care to pick a partner?”

  I’m not too great at speaking up in a class I’ve been a part of for exactly three days. But I sit up straighter, clear my throat, and announce, maybe a little too loud, “Anabel. I’ll help Anabel.”

  Heads pop around. Girls giggle. Guys shake their heads in total disbelief. Pretty much everybody rolls their eyes at the new kid who volunteered to help Anabel. But she nods and even smiles, and Theo Thomas gets printed on the chalkboard next to Anabel Johnson.

  “Do you have an idea for your project?” Mr. Wyatt asks, waving the chalk next to our names.

  Before I can blurt “Baseball!” Anabel calls out, “We’re still working on it, Mr. Wyatt. A few details to figure out.”

  Okay. Maybe a few details. Like that who, what, when thing. Or whether her mom’s turning it into a Baseball Players Dance in Destiny project.

  “Remember” — Mr. Wyatt looks around at his students — “Destiny Day’s less than three weeks away. Your reports will go to the Historical Society’s files. Saved in perpetuity. If you don’t know that word, look it up. Make your projects interesting! Make them fun!” Hands shoot up again. Construction paper’s flying. Everybody’s going for extra credit in social studies.

  I haven’t even collected my books or my thoughts before the buzzer blasts the class into next period. Mr. Wyatt makes sure we get our assignment sheets, pick up the markers, and leave his room organized for the eighth-grade world history geniuses lining up outside his door.

  “Psst, Theo.” Anabel steps closer to my desk and whispers, “Remember. Don’t say much about our research yet.”

  “I thought you were all gung ho about Baseball in Destiny,” I answer.

  “I have to ease into it. Daddy’s helping me prepare my mom.”

  Mrs. Johnson and Uncle Raymond could get along real good. Good at bossing people around. Stuffing my notebooks into my knapsack, I head to gym class, wondering how exactly we are gonna convince Anabel’s mom that baseball’s bigger than dancing. But Anabel can worry about that. I’m worrying about getting through this day and back to the Rest Easy’s piano before my uncle comes home.

  * * *

  I’d forgotten about Wednesdays. Dance classes will arrive any minute. I drop my school stuff in the hall and open the studio door.

  Miss Sister’s waiting. “Right here.” She pats the empty space next to her. “Just enough time for a few notes before the snowflakes appear.”

  “Snowflakes?” I look out the window. “It’s a hundred degrees in the shade.”

  She laughs. “My littlest dancers, silly.”

  I slide onto the piano bench.

  She pats my back. “Sit up tall, Theo. Let me hear you swing. Hit those notes hard!” she says, straightening her music book and pointing to the black squiggly things on the page.

  “You know I can’t read those notes. Just give me the melody.” I smile and she nods slowly, humming a few bars, singing about glowworms.

  I’m about to play along with her song. But first I
glance toward the window, hoping neither dancing snowflakes nor my uncle is lurking on the porch. Miss Sister sees my scrunched-up mouth and of course my hands. I’m sitting on my hands. She stops humming.

  “I know you’re worrying about your uncle. But what that man doesn’t know won’t hurt him is all I’m saying. With a little practice, I swear you could be playing ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ for my recital.”

  I gulp. “Your recital?”

  “Put those fingers on the keys! Hands curved! Time’s wasting!” Miss Sister plays the glowworm song and I follow along.

  What if I do get good enough for her dance recital? Maybe at least Uncle Raymond would understand about me and music.

  Or he could lock me in my room for the entire summer — heck, for my entire life — just for disobeying his order: No Piano Playing Ever. Anywhere, Anytime.

  At exactly 3:45 the next day, it’s a perfect beach day. But I’m trudging up to my room where Uncle Raymond will be waiting. I’m obeying his Homework After School, No Exceptions rule. Baseball project, maybe hang out with Anabel? No way. Not today.

  When I open the door, a magazine’s in front of his face. It’s easy to see the picture on the cover. Snow, lots of snow. And I don’t mean Miss Sister’s snowflakes, her littlest dancers. Nope. The real thing.

  He barely nods. “You go to school today?” he finally asks.

  Now, that’s about the world’s dumbest question. I answer it anyhow. “I went to school.”

  It might be nice to tell him about the baseball project. It would be nicer to tell him I’ve been playing the piano, that Miss Sister thinks I’m good enough to play for her dance recital. But he’d just yell. Besides, no way am I talking to somebody not interested enough to put down a magazine.

  Uncle Raymond turns the pages, staring at each picture, and yep, the magazine’s about his favorite place in the world. Where he ran off to after he got out of the army. A state so much prettier and nicer and cooler and better than Kentucky or Florida or anywhere else he can think of. Except no way can he live in a little cabin in the Alaskan wilderness now. Now he’s got me.