Yearbook Read online

  Andrea nodded. “That sounds exactly like me,” she said. “I can’t decide if I want to start reading again because then I’ll have to act upon it if it’s true. And I like being in control.”

  “I’ve found, now more than ever, that being in control is a myth,” I told her. “It’s taken me eighty years to learn that. You can control aspects of your life, but you’ll never be completely at peace that way. Peace comes with the acceptance and faith that come with a strong testimony. And happiness comes with serving others the way the Savior would have us do.”

  “I didn’t know this shopping trip would get so serious,” Andrea said. She didn’t seem angry, though, for which I was grateful. I had wanted to talk to her about the Church for a long time.

  Ethan walked through the door of the restaurant, looking dejected. “Did you find anything?” Andrea asked.

  “No. We can go home. Girls are way too hard to shop for. I’ll figure something out later.” He looked at us and at our partially eaten dessert. “Do you two need some help with that?”

  After the three of us had finished up the cheesecake, I paid the check and we walked back through the mall the way we’d come. Andrea had her arm linked through mine again, and I was grateful to have her to lean on. When we walked by the store where we’d found the glass ornament, I had an idea.

  “Ethan! Why don’t you buy Michaela one of those beautiful prism ornaments, like the one we bought your mother? You could have it wrapped in one of those gold boxes tied with the red velvet ribbon that they have in there. And on the card you could tell Michaela that the ornament reminds you of her. That she makes your life more beautiful and colorful. That she brings rainbows into your life.” It was what I would have done if my husband had still been alive.

  Ethan stopped walking and stared at me. I felt my face flush a little. I had obviously gotten too carried away for the gray-sweatshirt generation. Something that seemed romantic to me would probably seem overblown and laughable to him. I laughed nervously and started to say something, anything, to change the subject.

  “Grandma,” Ethan said, “that’s perfect!”

  Andrea agreed. “That’s very romantic, Grandma.”

  Driving home in the car with the holiday music on the radio and my grandchildren humming along, I felt completely happy and utterly exhausted. Ethan was driving so I held the velvet-ribboned boxes with the prism ornaments inside. I felt as though they were for me and held them very carefully to make sure they were safe. I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes, but I could feel the boxes in my hands and I didn’t fall asleep.

  After the kids had dropped me off and kissed me good-bye, I went in and hung the replacement ornament on my tree. I stood there for some time as the light from the lamp near the tree reflected off the ornament and bounced rainbows into the different areas of the room. It made me think of a testimony. In its red velvet-lined box, the ornament was pretty, but once it was taken out and light was allowed in from different angles, it was truly beautiful. It was time to take my testimony, precious as it was, out of its box.

  The phone rang several hours later. It was only eight o’clock, but I was already in bed. “Hello!” I said, trying to sound bright-eyed.

  “Grandma, it’s Ethan. I gave Michaela her present tonight since she’s going out of town for the holidays and she loved it. Seriously, Grandma, she even cried. I just wanted to call and thank you.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome. I’m so glad she liked it.”

  “Yeah, she really did. Oh, and my mom says we’ll pick you up at five tomorrow for Christmas Eve dinner at our house. Or earlier if you want. Just call.”

  “Thank you, Ethan.”

  “Bye, Grandma.”

  I hung up the phone. I felt more awake after talking to him. I sat up straighter and reached for the rolling desk next to my bed. I pulled my writing tablet and my scriptures over to me. I decided to do something I’d been thinking about for a while. I’d write a letter to each of my three grandchildren, to their mother, and to my son, and let them know how I felt about them and about the gospel. I had been putting it off but now it seemed there was no time like the present. I could give the letters to them as birthday presents in the coming year.

  I pulled the lid off my black fountain pen and wrote names on top of five envelopes: Rachel, Andrea, Ethan, Chloe, Ben. Who should I write to first?

  I was once a “fun” grandmother. I went to Disneyland every year with them; I played ball with them; I helped them with their homework. When I first moved to the Seattle area, I lived in an apartment and they liked to come over and watch movies and have popcorn. Now that I am having so much trouble getting around and they are in high school, those parties are a thing of the past. I am eighty, after all. It’s amazing I’ve held up as long as I have.

  It has all caught up to me, though. It catches up to all of us. I think that I had somehow anticipated being the first elderly woman to sail smoothly into old age without any noticeable aches or pains. I imagined myself as wise and serene. I certainly did not imagine myself in an “assisted living” home called Azure Bay, heating up my cocoa on a hot plate and having to call a nurse to help me unfasten the clasps on my red garnet earrings.

  One of the things you lose when you grow old is the ability to provide comfort for someone else. Something else you lose is the ability to be genuinely useful to others. People are always comforting you, coddling you, helping you to do things—or leaving you completely alone.

  I am one of the lucky ones because I am treated very well. The nurses give me a pat on the arm after they bring my morning pills. They grip my shoulder kindly when they help me walk somewhere. Rachel, my daughter-in-law, hugs me, as do my grandchildren and my son. The other day in fact Chloe jumped on my lap and hugged me with such enthusiasm that her mother looked worried for me.

  My family will bring me things I ask for, since I don’t drive as much anymore. Just yesterday morning Rachel drove over with a particular brand of licorice I like and some soft, cushiony tissues, not the cheap hospital-type they have here. My son, Ben, calls every day or two and comes by often on the weekends. He’ll even drive me to my hair appointment and wait there with me.

  I knew, however, that it had been some time since I offered physical or emotional comfort to someone. To have comforted Andrea even a little at lunch, to have helped Ethan find something special—it felt wonderful. I needed to remember those feelings and to bear my testimony more often to my family and to others. Perhaps I had missed the chance to serve a mission with my husband, but there were others to share my testimony with, including my very own granddaughter.

  So I started writing the first letter very, very carefully. I wanted it to look and sound perfect. I knew it might take a few drafts. I had time, though, as long as I started now. A little rainbow from the prism ornament danced on the page.

  The next morning, I put a Book of Mormon on the table in the residents’ living room. It was gone by that evening. I decided that the next day, I would talk to someone in Azure Bay about the Church. What better time than Christmas?

  Chapter 11

  January

  David Sherman

  Today they handed out the ballots for the senior class awards—Funniest, Most Likely to Succeed, Most Beautiful Eyes, etc., during seventh period, which is journalism for me. I write just the comics and a sports article once in a while, so I can spend most of my time bugging the other kids or finishing up my homework for other classes. Anyway, I was filling in the blanks on my ballot when I heard my friend Jake behind me say to someone else, “Funniest? That’s easy. I’m voting for Dave Sherman.” The someone else said, “Me too.” Then they went on to discuss the next category.

  I looked down at my ballot. Although I had felt flattered at first when they said that, now I wasn’t so sure. Was that all anyone ever saw me as? A funny guy? I’ve done other things in my life. Just because I have a good time doesn’t mean that I’m always feeling like life is funny. Although I h
ave to admit there are a lot of things in this world that are hilarious. But still, why wouldn’t they vote for me for something else? How about Most Likely to Be President Someday? Now there’s something I could really enjoy. And who’s to say that it couldn’t happen?

  “What are you freaking out about?” asked Avery, the cranky new girl assigned to the computer next to me.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Then could you try to quit snorting and grunting like a water buffalo in heat? Some of us are trying to get stuff done instead of spending hours on those stupid ballots.”

  Ouch. “Pardon me,” I said sarcastically. “What are you writing about over there, anyway? Something profound and soul-searching like”—I paused dramatically—“‘The History of our School Mascot’ no doubt.”

  That was a cheap shot—I knew it and so did she. That had been the last article she’d written. She’d been assigned to do it because she was the newest staff member, the low man on the totem pole. Plus no one else had wanted to do it. Articles like that are the worst. They’re no fun to write and none of the other students read them; I don’t even think any of the teachers bother to read them. Which gives me an idea for the next time it’s my turn to write an article like that. . . .

  Anyway, it really was a lame article to write because our mascot is the joke of the state of Washington.

  We’re the Lakeview High Skippers. The Skipper is some poor soul dressed up in a little sailor outfit, wearing a gigantic papier-mâché head with an idiotic grin and a papier-mâché sailor hat attached. The Skipper does not strike fear into the hearts of our opponents. The Skipper, in fact, may be one of the most counterproductive mascots ever. He makes our opponents want to beat us up even more. And it’s hard to get pumped up over a hyperactive, frantic sailor running around, exhorting us to win.

  The worst part of all, though, is the part in our school’s song where the Skipper does his little hornpipe dance, skipping about gaily and generally doing irreparable damage to our fearsome image. And the song itself—“We are the Skippers, the mighty Skippers”—makes me think of an army of plastic, pink Skipper dolls marching out to battle with Barbie and Ken. It’s so bad it’s almost funny. Almost.

  Avery looked like she was getting ready to say something, but then she stopped. I could feel Mr. Thomas glaring at me even before I turned around. “David, why do you have to give her such a hard time?” he asked.

  “She gives me a hard time too, in case you hadn’t noticed,” I said. “Not five minutes ago she told me that I sounded like a water buffalo in heat.”

  Mr. Thomas is good at holding in his smile even when he thinks something is funny. “That wasn’t very nice of her. But your constant battling is interfering with everyone else’s work. So since you’ve both managed to disrupt the whole classroom, I’m sending the two of you out with the survey on the school’s dress code.”

  “No!” I moaned dramatically. Whenever we do a “serious” article about “serious” student opinions, we take surveys to all the classes during seventh period and have the students fill them out. I could not care less about what students think about the dress code. I know what I think about it and isn’t that enough? Plus the worst part of it is that there are so many surveys, it’s impossible to carry them all and make the rounds of the whole school in forty-five minutes. So Mr. Thomas has one person pull—get this—a little red wagon while the other person runs into the classroom and drops off the surveys. It’s like an insane, childish mail delivery service. He does the same thing when it’s time to deliver the school papers.

  Avery was barely able to control her anger. Several choice comments floated through my mind, but I didn’t say them. She started whining again. “But I have to finish my article! You shouldn’t punish me because he’s an idiot!”

  Mr. Thomas gave me the handle of the red wagon and Avery a list of the classrooms. “Check off each classroom number as you drop them off. You’d better hurry.”

  It didn’t go well. The surveys were huge and bulky and our school is so big there were hundreds, maybe even thousands, of them. It wasn’t exactly easy to drag a wagon full of them down the hall at lightning speed. Avery was mad at me because I wasn’t fast enough but she wasn’t making it any easier either.

  She just grabbed the top bunch off the wagon, stalked into a classroom, laid them on the nearest desk, then stalked out again. No explanation to the teacher, no small talk with any kids in the class, nothing. I, on the other hand, kept running into people or teachers I knew and wanted to talk a little. What was the problem with that?

  Avery thought there were about seven hundred problems with that. “You’re slowing us down! You’re talking too much! I can’t believe I have to do this!” For someone who cared so little about how she looked or about anyone else in the world, she was sure worried about getting this done.

  Finally, I’d had enough. “Listen,” I said, “you pull the wagon if you think you can do a better job. I’m sick of listening to you.” We were standing right next to the doors of the upper level of the gym, which meant that we still had about half the school to go, and I refused to listen to her screechy little voice for the rest of the trip.

  Avery grabbed the wagon handle right out of my hand. She was strong. In fact, she was too strong. She yanked the wagon out of my hand, but she’d pulled with such force, she couldn’t keep her own grip on it. The wagon went careening through the gym doors and between the guardrails on the upper deck, sailing toward the gym floor below . . . and the Skipper.

  “Watch out!” I called, but the Skipper didn’t move. I watched in horror as the wagon crushed the Skipper’s skull, bits and pieces flying everywhere. Then I realized that there wasn’t any blood. Only papier-mâché. No one had been wearing the costume; it had been sitting on a chair on the gym floor, waiting for some unlucky freshman to put it on and give it life for the pep rally later that day. The Skipper, or at least the soul of the Skipper, still lived.

  Down on the gym floor, the wagon lay on top of what was left of the Skipper’s head, which looked like a busted piñata. I saw a flash of movement and a blonde head. The beady little eyes of Principal Downing peered up at us. Avery and I stood there like deer caught in the headlights. Avery’s mouth was wide open. The gym was absolutely quiet for about two seconds.

  Then I heard a tapping sound. Was someone clapping, happy to witness the Skipper’s grand finale? Perhaps the poor underclassman who had been conned into serving as school mascot and would now never have to be humiliated again by wearing the Skipper’s head? Nope. It was Principal Downing’s high heels stabbing the floor as she made short, furious strides up the bleachers to us. A wagon wheel skittered across the floor and clanked to a stop against the other end of the gym. The last few surveys floated to the floor, in memoriam.

  What could I do? I sat down on the floor and laughed so hard, I couldn’t get air. I couldn’t breathe. Something about the whole situation just killed me. The wagon flying through the air, Avery’s anger and how she’d hurled the wagon straight through the bars onto the floor, the Principal’s outrage, the Skipper’s head obliterated, the fact that we were careening around the school with a little red wagon in the first place—I was dying.

  “Shut up,” said Avery and something in her voice made me pay attention. “Do you think this is funny? I am going to be expelled for this. The last time I was in her office, she told me that I was going to get expelled if I pulled any more stunts.”

  “Why do I care?” I said. “I’ve seen you smoking on the school grounds. If you care so much about school, why didn’t you think of it before you messed up the other times?”

  She looked completely pale and shaken. “I didn’t care then. I’m still not sure how much I care now. But I do not want to be expelled because I threw a wagon onto the Skipper’s head.”

  That started me laughing again. I couldn’t help it. Avery shot me a look of pure hatred, and Principal Downing, out of breath, climbed the last bleacher and stood in front
of us, her hands on her hips.

  “What are you two doing?” she said.

  Avery folded her arms and stood there. She didn’t say a word. I kept laughing, even though I felt bad for her.

  Principal Downing asked again, louder, “What are you two doing?”

  “I’m sorry, Principal Downing,” I said. “I seem to have lost control of my little red wagon.” I snorted with laughter. I felt Avery turn to stare at me.

  “Why did you have a wagon in the school in the first place? And why are the two of you are wandering around unsupervised during class time? The mascot is ruined! What were you thinking? We needed him for basketball season! I don’t believe this.”

  “It’s not our wagon,” I explained. “It’s Mr. Thomas’s. He uses it for the school paper—to distribute it and stuff. We were handing out surveys for an article. We were pulling it along in the hall and it sailed right through the door and . . . squished the Skipper.” I tried not to laugh again, but it was useless.

  Principal Downing marched us right back to Mr. Thomas’s room, where he confirmed our story. She asked him how he expected her to pay for the damage to the Skipper and he looked tired and said he was sorry. He would have the newspaper staff do a fundraiser to help purchase a new head. (Loud groans and evil stares at me from the newspaper staff.) He sounded so subdued that I saw Ms. Downing look at him with something like understanding and say, “Thank you very much. That will be perfect.” And later she brought back the remains of the red wagon and apologized for being so upset which I thought was weird.

  But the weirdest thing of all happened after I’d been running track that day. I went out to my car and found Avery Matthews sitting on the hood, wearing a huge parka with the hood pulled up against the cold. She was hunched over her notebook, writing, and stopped when I came up.