Once Upon a Time: True Stories of an Aspiring Writer

14: Wednesdays

ON A DAY THAT WE DON'T have field hockey, Christine and I have just gotten back from study hall, where we've worked hard on math homework for the past half hour. Sometimes we goof off or spend the time looking up our crushes' houses on Google Maps, but today it's important to work. I have a busy afternoon ahead. 

So we hang around until dismissal, where I head not to my bus room, but to the fourth grade classroom, where car riders are picked up. Often, Ben is there too, because he's got piano lessons after school---I always try and muster up the courage to say goodbye to him but will never succeed. 

I have lessons too, sort of. Do I? It's hard to explain, but why try? 

It's the usual scene. The teacher in charge of the chaos, aka my math teacher and academic advisor, tries to quiet the students by doing the "3, 2, 1" countdown, and when that doesn't work, she forbids them to talk at all. If they're good, maybe they'll earn "whisper voices" back, but most likely they won't. It's the same story every time. 

Soon, I hear my name over the walkie-talkie the teacher is holding up. I pick up my bag and go downstairs and outside to wait for my grandma's car to reach the front of the line. Ten minutes later we'll pull into the Melody Lane entrance and she'll mess around and go, "Hmm, I wonder who lives here?" We riff off this until we pull into the driveway. 

The first order of business is snacks: either chocolate chip Pepperidge Farm cookies or Potato Sticks, complete with Sunkist orange soda with a straw. (Later on, the snack will become a chocolate-dipped Dove ice cream bar.) We'll sit around the little round table in the center of the little kitchen, play some Go Fish, or, later on, Sorry. Then we'll play a few rounds of UNO until around 4:30.

Grandpa gets here around that time. Before we leave, Grandma sends me off with a couple of dark Dove chocolates for the road. And we're off to our destination. 

I'm going to see a friend. 

****

Visiting Miss B started with a recommendation from...probably a teacher from much younger days or some other authority figure, believing as a young child that it would help me. Remember when my teachers noticed my lack of wanting to play with other people at times? This may have been a result.

Her work generally helps kids with disabilities, as well as some others. I still go to her house, but now we're more like friends. Besides, I'm convinced that anyone else who visited her house would want to do it every week, too. 

I'm not sure of her age--I asked once, my young self not knowing what was inappropriate. But if I had to guess, I'd say mid to late fifties, but regardless, she's always welcoming. She used to wear headscarves in the early days, but not anymore. These days, she wears nothing in her hair, the shoulder length brown hair teased out, but can still almost always be seen wearing long cotton skirts and Sketchers. 

But the real trademark has to be her South African accent. She's the first person I've ever met who is from Africa. The living room to the right of the foyer reflects this: wooden carvings adorn the simple room as does a map of the continent on the wall. 

Sometimes we start by baking bread. It's a time-honored recipe of flour, yeast, and water.  Sometimes we make it into pretzel shapes as we talk about our lives, with her toy poodle, Pebbles, weaving around our legs on the brown-orange tile floor. On other days, we make French fries, straight from potatoes that we peel ourselves. But a lot of our visit is just spent talking. 

"What is your News of the Week?" she asks, as we roll the bread dough into snakes. This is the hardest part of the hour, in my opinion. What did I do that was interesting? I went to school, and Christine came over, but that was about it. Nothing really warrants a report. But I really don't want to go away to boarding school, so I talk about that.