Windfall (6 page)

“I'm fine,” I say. I decide to keep my sizzling idea to myself for now. Mom always says, “Let it percolate before you pour.” For once I will take her advice.

I spend the next two days percolating. I gaze out the classroom window at that swath of dirt where anything could go. Plain, boring, inedible grass is an insult. It's like asking an opera singer to sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” or a chef to cook Kraft Dinner. I remember the lines Mom read at the memorial:
Turn me into
song; sing me awake
. I imagine plants bursting up from that brown pool. I see vines and branches rustling and pulsing with nourishment, their fruit swelling.

My idea is good.

“Mrs. Reynolds!” I burst into her office at lunch. Words tumble out of me. “The dirt in the side yard. Could GRRR! plant a garden there? Like Nelson Mandela did when he was in prison? Each class could take turns looking after it.”

Mrs. Reynolds doesn't even consider it. “No,” she says.

“But we'd have fresh food. Kids could learn how things grow.”

“Students would track dirt into the school. It would look untidy. Strangers would take the food.”

“So what? They'd be
eating
it.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No, Liza Maybird,” she says. “And I don't appreciate your insinuation that this school is like a South African prison.”

“It didn't used to be!”

“Get to class. Or I will see you in detention.”

Now I understand Niall's fury.

When I go outside for recess, I wonder if seeing the patch of dirt will anger me more. Instead it slows me right down. It is simply “there,” free of expectation. It's patient like Richard. What had he missed out on? What had he dreamed of doing when he was my age?

Now, I imagine Richard happy and golden on his bench. I see sprigs of green reaching, small explosions of color. I know what I am going to do. I only hope the girls of GRRR! will get on board.

Chapter Twelve

Leland, in his prize bowler hat, is at the front door handing out tickets as the girls arrive. Silas organizes the clothes into piles and stacks the books on the dining-room table. I've arranged my bedroom as a change area. I set up Mom's full-length mirror in the living room.

I'm serving Moroccan-style mint tea. I stuff loads of mint from our yard into tall glasses, add a tablespoon of sugar, pour in boiling water and stir. Silas yells that everything's ready, and we head into the living room. I've strung Christmas lights for ambience and put out chairs.

The floor is covered in clothes. Finally, there's a knock at the door. Olive thinks we're going for a bike ride. I open the door and stand there grinning.

“What?” she asks.

Then everyone yells, “Surprise!” Olive looks into the living room and screams.

After the shock wears off, she sets down her helmet and examines the piles. She chooses a pair of skinny jeans and a striped T-shirt—a complete outfit. Then she chooses a book,
Island
of the Blue Dolphins.
It is based on a true story of a twelve-year-old girl who survives alone on a California island for eighteen years. She builds a house of whale bones and sealskins, and she hunts birds at night. She even makes a skirt out of cormorant feathers.

My heart lurches when Olive chooses it. I want to read it again. Later, when Lizzie tries on my old jeans, I get the same feeling. I realize it isn't about the
things
—I've read that book a hundred times and those jeans don't fit me—it's about saying goodbye.

Mom says that in giving, we get more. She doesn't mean more stuff or money. I've asked. She means we feel more goodness. I get it. I watch my friends light up over their new clothes and books, and I feel good. I get some great scores too, which helps. I choose jean overalls with just the right bagginess and a T-shirt silk-screened with the image of a dragonfly breathing out fire. On my second round I take a cool wool kilt with silver clasp pin and a fantastic pair of slightly scuffed Oxford shoes.

We didn't waste our afternoon in a mall! And we had tons of laughs, especially over a padded bra that each of us tried on—as earmuffs, knee protectors, bunny ears. As the party winds down, Melissa and Emma T. head outside to play. They quickly return, shocked and unhappy.

“What happened to your tree house?” Melissa asks.

“What happened to your
tree
?” Emma T. moans.

I tell everyone about honey fungus, and how the tree
had
to come down. They don't cheer up much. So I tell them about the scions that we'll graft onto a living tree in the spring. That helps, but they're still glum.

So I tell them my idea. I talk about “food miles” and the great taste of local food. And I tell them about the patch of dirt at school that's about to get “paved over” with grass.

“Why don't we go out one evening and plant it with food?” I say.

Three girls yell, “Yeah!” Everyone else is thoughtful.

“Wouldn't we get in huge trouble?” Afareen asks.

“For what? For planting food?” I ask.

“For going against the principal.”

“The principal goes against us every step of the way,” I say. “She doesn't care about the Earth. But we don't have time to
not
care. The ice caps are melting, and we're losing plant species every day. The time is now.”

“We have to be able to look after it,” Deirdre points out. “To water it and weed it.”

“There's a water tap right there,” I say. “My mom has an extra hose in the basement. We could schedule work parties.”

“We could invite people to help,” Deirdre muses. “Put up a sign, like,
If you eat this food, please give back by
doing twenty minutes of weeding
.”

Everyone starts talking at once. Well, a few are quiet.

“No way,” Olive finally says, shaking her head. “No way, no how. I'm not doing it.”

“Come on, Olive,” I urge. “We're making a point.”

In the end, half of GRRR! likes the idea, a few are undecided and four, including Olive, are against it.

“If you do it, you can't claim it as a GRRR! action,” Olive says. “We aren't all on board.”

“Fine,” I shout. I'm furious. I look out the window at the emptiness where the apple tree had been. I feel that a garden is owed to me. “Or maybe it means you aren't part of GRRR!”

The room goes silent. A few girls start gathering their clothes and books. When everyone is gone, I stomp to my room and give the lovers' telephone a yank. I mean to pull it out of Olive's window and back to my house, but it snaps in two.

That evening Olive and I don't talk. And we certainly don't meet in the tree house. I snap at Mom at supper and ask to be excused before dessert.

“You're tired,” Mom says soothingly.

I'm tired, all right. I'm tired of Olive always being so careful and good. Also, I think furiously, I organized the clothing exchange for her, and she never thanked me.

Chapter Thirteen

“Nice outfit,” Mom says at breakfast. I'm wearing my kilt with the dragonfly T-shirt and leg warmers I made last night. I used the sleeves of an old sweater. “I noticed Deirdre got the dress you practically lived in last summer,” Mom says. “I'm surprised you gave it away.”

“It was hard to give stuff up at first,” I admit. “Even if it didn't fit me anymore. But it got easier. I mean, the dress doesn't mind who wears it.”

“One of my favorite writers, George Bernard Shaw, said people become more attached to their burdens than their burdens are to them,” Mom says.

“Cool,” I say. I wonder if Olive is a burden. Maybe I'm more attached to her than she is to me.

“Hey, Liza?” Leland asks. “Did Silas and I do a good job helping with the clothing exchange?”

“Yes, of course you did.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“You never said thanks.”

“I didn't?”

“No,” Silas says.

“Sorry, you guys,” I say. “Thank you. Thank you very much. You were amazing.”

I take ten deep breaths, reach for the phone and dial Niall's number. He's busy on the roof, his mom tells me. She asks if I could swing by. I hop on my bike and pedal through the park. I stop at Richard's bench for a moment, but I don't feel that he's watching anymore. It's just a little lonely.

Then there's a rustling in the bushes. A large raccoon wanders out, sniffing at the ground. It's not at all interested in me.

Niall's house is what you call ramshackle. It's an old shingled thing, painted light blue.

Three teenagers are doing surgery on an old car in the driveway. Two ancient-looking cats snooze on frayed rattan chairs on the rickety porch. A mower sits in the middle of the overgrown lawn. Tumbledown as it is, it's alive. I'd take this place over a five-thousand-square-foot mansion anytime.

Niall's mom emerges with a pie in her hands and points upward. Niall is on the roof, wrestling with what looks like a black snake. “He's building us a solar shower.” His mom beams. “Niall, you've got a visitor!”

“Niall's got a visitor!” the teenagers tease. My face gets hot. Niall looks down and smiles. “Come on up!”

His mom sends me up the ladder with a plate of pie and a mug of tea for us to share. It's an awkward climb.

As we sip tea, I tell Niall my idea and GRRR!'s plans. He immediately starts planning an irrigation system. “I'm glad you want to help,” I interrupt. “I'm also hoping, well, that BRRR! will agree to us using the three hundred dollars from the bike wash. We could use it for plants and tools.”

Niall looks at me funny. He studies my nose, lips, hair. He catches me watching him and gulps.

“Okay,” he blurts. “I'll talk to the guys. I'll call you later—or how about I bike to your place?”

“Sure,” I say, while my heart flops about like a fish in a net.

That evening Olive arrives at the back door with a coil of hose in her hands.

I break into a wide smile. “So you're going to help out after all!”

“No,” Olive says firmly. “Liza, I'm sorry, but I don't
always
have to agree with you. And you know I'm a scaredy-cat.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I mutter. We both smile. “This is for the speaking tube you've been meaning to make. The tin can phone broke.” She looks me in the eye. I know she knows I broke it. I also know she has been crying. “And I found these.” She pulls out two funnels. All I have to do is tape the funnels to the hose, one at each end, and our speaking tube is done. Wealthy people used to use speaking tubes to talk to their driver from the backseat of the Rolls or with the servants in other parts of the house. Nowadays they're only seen on submarines and in playgrounds.

“I also want to thank you for the clothing and book exchange,” Olive says. “It was really cool.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That's okay.”

“And Liza?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you still have that padded bra?”

“What do you need it for?” I ask. But one look at her and I burst out laughing. She has the funnels under her shirt. We laugh together. Then we get out the electrician's tape and work on our communication system.

Chapter Fourteen

I spend a few afternoons with Imogen. We cycle around town, meeting gardener friends of hers. There are some amazing secret gardens in the city. A group called Dogwood Initiative is taking over vacant lots to grow food for anyone to pick. A lot of people talk about seed sharing as a way to keep a variety of seeds in circulation to ensure biodiversity. A few give me baggies of seeds with names like Monster Kale or Bliss Garlic. Everyone says that their own food tastes best.

One of Imogen's friends talks about food security. That means that everyone should be able to access nutritious food. Everyone in the world should have enough money to buy food or land to grow their own. The food should also be appropriate to how people live. So if they're vegetarian, they should be able to get vegetarian food. Food security also means that the food is raised in a safe way—safe for the environment and for people's health.

One day Imogen leads a bicycle tour of GRRR! and BRRR! members to a “farm” in the city. It is a house where the yard has been completely turned into garden beds. We get lessons in mixing soil and planting swiftly and secretly.

A couple of nights later, we're ready. After dark, Melissa, Afareen, Hayiko, Emma T., Niall and I bike through the quiet streets. We are pulling trailers of compost and plants and shovels. We use bungee cords to strap everything snugly so that nothing rattles.

Imogen found the plants for us. She also landed us a load of free horse manure. Free poo! And she checked the site to make sure the soil was well drained and had good sun exposure.