Heaven Is Paved With Oreos Read online

  We ate our ice cream in silence. Then his mom pulled up and he left.

  Monday, June 17

  My weekend was not productive. I spent the whole time thinking about Curtis and Rome but I got nowhere with my thoughts.

  This morning, D.J. drove Paul and me to Prophetstown.

  Mom stayed home from work until D.J. got there to make sure we knew what we were doing et cetera. As soon as D.J. pulled up in front of our house, Paul took his guitar and headphones and climbed into the back seat of her car so he wouldn’t have to sit next to her. Sitting next to her was obviously going to be my job.

  We rode awhile without saying anything. I wondered if I should ask about Curtis and what he’s thinking, which D.J. might know given that she’s his sister. I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up, though.

  “So,” D.J. asked, “you doing anything fun this summer besides walking dogs?” Oh: Curtis had not talked to her—but he had been in Sheboygan all weekend.

  “My grandmother wants to take me to Rome. Rome, Italy.”

  “Cool . . . That is really, really cool. What are you going to do there?”

  I said we were going to visit churches, and then D.J. asked about Z, and so I spent the rest of the car ride describing her. Describing Z could take a whole car ride and then some.

  Z is not a normal grandmother. Normal grandmothers don’t wear four earrings in one ear and two in the other, or dress in loose, dangling clothes that make you look like a hippie, which is what Z used to be. She is the only grandmother I know who goes on water slides, and when she slides down she makes a noise like a cowboy. The other kids on the water slide were extremely impressed.

  Z was born in Two Geese, Wisconsin, but then she moved to California and Oregon and New York City. She did not come back to Wisconsin until my great-grandmother Ann got sick—which I remember because I was five when Grandma Ann died—and then Z decided to stay. Now she lives in Prophetstown in an apartment in an old painted house with a dog named Jack Russell George.

  I am in Z’s apartment now, eating Oreos with milk and writing this down. It is important to eat Oreos the right way. Z and I are in agreement on this, and Paul, too. We are dunkers, not scrapers. Eating the filling first is a violation of everything that is the Oreo Way and also leaves you with two dry cookie halves. Not good. Luckily we live in the dairy state of Wisconsin, so milk is readily available. Z used to tease me that milk was Oreo spelled backwards. She jokes that that’s how I learned to read so early—from reading all those Oreos. She says Oreos + yoga keep her young.

  Now I am going to walk Jack Russell George.

  Monday, June 17—LATER

  Training a dog is a lot harder than it looks.

  Jack Russell George is extremely smart, even for a Jack Russell terrier. This is how smart he is: when Z is at work and he has no one to play with, he drops a tennis ball down the stairs and runs down and catches it at the bottom and does it again. This is hilarious to watch and I am sure it is excellent exercise, but it is also noisy. The sculptor who lives upstairs from Z does not find it hilarious at all. That is where I come in. I am supposed to walk Jack Russell George to the park and throw him a tennis ball so he can release all his stair-bouncing kilowatts of energy.

  The problem is that while Jack Russell George is tremendously good at fetching the ball, he is not so interested in returning it.

  I think I need a book on dogs.

  I am back home in Red Bend now. On the ride back, Paul listened to music in the back seat and ignored us. I asked D.J. about her basketball practice. She said it went really well and she really likes playing with girls on this level. But she was far more interested in Z than in basketball, which I appreciated because then I could contribute to the conversation. D.J. wanted to know, for example, why we call her Z, which is a tremendously long story and it makes some people uncomfortable, so I have to be careful how I tell it.

  You see, Z had Dad when she was only eighteen years old. My dad was born in the 1960s, when a lot of people didn’t like girls having babies when they weren’t married, and Z had to drop out of college and move back to Two Geese. But Z didn’t want to stay in northern Wisconsin with a baby, and she couldn’t raise him on her own, so she kind of gave Dad to her parents and then moved to California, where there was more work and stuff for someone like her. Dad grew up in Two Geese with a bunch of uncles and aunts, including an uncle who is only three years older than he is. Uncle Tommy’s more like an older brother. And out in California my grandmother changed her name from Alice Zorn to Azalea Zorn, but everyone called her Z. Even my dad as a little kid said Z because he already called his grandmother Mom. Sometimes Z jokes that she’s Plan Z, as in the opposite of Plan A. She’s the last resort.

  “Plan Z . . .” D.J. laughed. “I like that.” Then she asked the question people usually ask. “So, who’s—if you’re okay talking about it—who’s your dad’s dad?”

  I chewed on a hangnail, but then I stopped because that is bad for your nails. “Z was in New York, you know, when it happened, and she’s really, really into music, and Dad’s full name is Robert Zimmerman Zorn . . .”

  D.J. looked blank. A lot of people do not know who that is.

  “Robert Zimmerman is the real name of Bob Dylan. You know, that singer from the 1960s? He wrote ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ and a bunch of other songs . . .”

  “Your grandfather is Bob Dylan?”

  “No. Z says he’s not. She’s never said who Dad’s father is. She named Dad that because Bob Dylan was born in a small town in Minnesota and he ended up world famous, and she wanted her son to know he didn’t have to be in a small town forever. Also she really likes Bob Dylan.”

  “So Z wanted your father to be famous?”

  “She wanted him . . . she wanted him to know he had options.”

  “Huh,” said D.J., thinking about this. “That’s wild.”

  “Do you know what I think?” I lowered my voice. “I think my dad’s father is someone famous—someone famous besides Bob Dylan. Z knew a lot of famous people—you should see her apartment. She’s always saying a girl has to watch herself around musicians. I think that’s why she taught Paul music—so he’d have some luck with girls.”

  We both looked back at Paul with his eyes closed, jamming on his air guitar.

  “Huh,” D.J. said again. She did not say, That seems like a stretch, although I bet that’s what she was thinking. I was thinking it.

  “Z loves coming to your basketball games,” I told D.J., which is a true fact and I have been waiting for a good time to tell her and this seemed like it. “She is your hugest fan.”

  D.J. laughed. “Whew, now I know . . . Thanks for the chat.” Because by then we were home.

  Riding with D.J. Schwenk is a lot easier than I’d thought it would be.

  Thursday, June 20

  I have been supremely busy reading Two Lady Pilgrims in Rome. It is a book that Z mailed to me with a note saying “I hope you love this old sourpuss as much as I do!” It was written more than a hundred and fifty years ago by a lady named Miss Lillian Hesselgrave who went to Rome with a friend and visited all seven pilgrimage churches. That’s why Z went on her pilgrimage, to copy Miss Hesselgrave.

  Z is right. Miss Hesselgrave is absolutely a sourpuss. She complains about everything: indecent ladies and Roman drivers and bad Roman tea. She describes a church as being beautiful and mysterious with incense and chanting priests and pilgrims in brown cloaks, so I can 100% understand why Z would want to go there . . . but then in the next sentence she warns about the deadly night air! It is like she is saying, You must visit Rome, but for goodness’ sake don’t go there! I am not sure why this was one of Z’s favorite books. Perhaps there wasn’t a lot to read in Two Geese, Wisconsin.

  I will tell you what is interesting, though: trying to figure out what Miss Hesselgrave is talking about. For example, when she says Rome ladies are indecent, she doesn’t mean indecent like the way Emily dresses. She means that they show th
eir ankles. When she complains about Roman drivers, she means horse drivers because there weren’t any cars back then. And I think that when she talks about bad night air, she means air pollution . . . although you’d think the air would be polluted during the day too—polluted from all those horses.

  I hope the Romans have fixed their air since then, because if—IF—I go, I do not want to have to worry about air pollution.

  Today I went to another baseball game and you-know-who was there. Curtis didn’t look much at her, but he didn’t look much at me, either. He focused on the game.

  I left before it ended.

  Friday, June 21

  Today D.J. asked Paul if he was going to Rome too.

  Paul looked surprised. “I’m playing this summer,” he said, like that explained everything. “The guitar.”

  “Oh,” D.J. said. You could tell she was trying not to smile. “That’s cool.”

  “Yeah . . .” he said, already on Planet Paul.

  So D.J. talked to me instead. She doesn’t seem to mind that I’m three years younger than she is. I appreciate that. I like that D.J. will be at Red Bend High School in the fall. It means I will know a senior who will also know me. I also appreciate that D.J. is not the kind of girl who mentions her boyfriend every two minutes like some girls I can think of (= Emily Enemy).

  D.J. had so many questions about Z that when we got to Prophetstown I invited her up to Z’s apartment, because Z’s apartment is unique and special. One entire end of Z’s living room is record albums—the big old-fashioned kind. Hundreds of them. And all over the walls are photographs of Z with bands and with other famous people, or at places like Woodstock, which was a famous music recital back in the 1960s.

  “Whoa,” D.J. breathed. She studied the pictures. “Do you know who these people are?”

  “No, but Z does.” (Duh, Sarah.) “I know the albums, though. I used to study the covers for hours.”

  “Look at this guy! It looks like a ferret climbed onto his face and died.”

  “People used to be exceedingly good at hair,” I said.

  “I’ll say. Keep these dudes away from open flame . . . Shoot, I’ve got to go. But this place is great. I wish I knew someone like this.”

  Then she left and I walked Jack Russell George and wrote in this journal and tried not to eat all of Z’s Oreos. D.J. had some of Z’s Oreos too, before she left. D.J. is also a dunker. She is even cooler now that I know that.

  Z likes D.J., and now D.J. Schwenk likes my grandmother too. The universe feels extremely happy right now.

  Friday, June 21—LATER

  D.J. did talk about her boyfriend today on the ride back to Red Bend, but it wasn’t in an Emily-bragging kind of way. She said that this weekend they’re going to Lake Superior with Brian’s parents and her mom is freaking about it. But, she says, her mom shouldn’t worry, because Brian’s mother is as strict as she needs to be. I did not ask her what that meant specifically.

  I do not know what D.J. would think of Curtis’s and my Brilliant Outflanking Strategy. But I suspect someone who has a real boyfriend would not approve of someone who has a fake one, particularly if that fake boyfriend is her brother.

  D.J. asked if we’d decided about Rome. I said no and that there was still a lot to figure out.

  “I bet.” D.J. nodded in a sympathetic kind of way.

  Mom was home when we got back to Red Bend, and she invited D.J. in so she could pay her. She offered D.J. a pop, but D.J. said she just wanted to get home and shower.

  “What do you think of this whole Rome business?” Mom asked D.J., rummaging around in her purse for money.

  D.J. leaned against the door frame. “The trip, you mean? Sounds like a pretty great learning experience.” She grinned at me. “I bet even Sarah could be smarter.”

  Then D.J. left and Mom started supper. She didn’t start right away, though. She stood there for a long time staring at the counter.

  Saturday, June 22

  Z came for supper tonight and brought Chinese food. At least this time the vegetables weren’t all purple. That happened once when she was on her one-color-a-day diet, and it was not good.

  Z also brought a sample poster for the Dog Days of Prophetstown, which is a huge festival that Prophetstown will be holding in August with a dog talent show and a dog parade and dog portraitists (of dogs, not by dogs), and Z is going to lead an outdoor yoga class called Downward Dog—which is a real yoga position—for dogs and people both.

  “Do dogs even do yoga?” Mom asked.

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” Z said with a bark (ha! joke!) of laughter.

  Z brought us fortune cookies, too. I find fortune cookies fascinating even though they do not actually predict the future. Here is what our cookies said:

  Paul: Be alert to good news. Paul said he would try.

  Mom: Today exists between yesterday and tomorrow. Mom said, “Thank goodness someone finally clarified that for me.” Mom does not appreciate fortune cookies.

  Dad: You will solve a problem. Dad always solves problems; it’s his job. Not so insightful, that cookie.

  Sarah (= me): That which is priceless has no cost. Mom rolled her eyes, but I was okay with it.

  Z: Hell is paved with good intentions.

  Z frowned when she read it, and I noticed Mom and Dad looked at each other. But then Z grabbed a pen and carefully added the words Heaven is paved with Oreos. She held it up. “Much better, don’t you think?”

  We all agreed it was.

  If you look at the beginning of this journal, you can see I have taped Heaven is paved with Oreos on the cover. And I’ll tell you one thing: Z’s heaven will definitely have Oreos in it.

  Z is still here, talking in the kitchen with Mom and Dad. I suppose I should be there too, considering they’re probably talking about Rome (which, by the way, no one mentioned at supper, which means something). But then they’ll ask me what I think, and I DO NOT KNOW. Z says I should go, Curtis says I shouldn’t, Miss Hesselgrave says . . . I don’t know what she would say, but it is definitely something disapproving. D.J. says it could make me smarter . . .

  I like the idea of Rome making me smarter. I will admit that I like that idea a lot.

  Sunday, June 23

  Mom and Dad said—well, they didn’t say I could go to Rome. They said it was my decision but that they were okay with my going. I heard this and I thought, Thanks a lot, guys—I have no idea!

  But then I realized I actually did have an idea. I want to see all the things that Miss Hesselgrave talks about. I want to be smart for high school. I want to be a worldly world traveler.

  So . . .

  I AM GOING TO ROME.

  I called Z to tell her, and she said she knew all the time that I would do it.

  I think Mom and Dad like the idea of me getting smarter too.

  Sunday, June 23—LATER

  I called Curtis.

  When I wish him a good game, do I sound that bad? Because when he said “Have a good trip,” it did not sound good at all.

  Monday, June 24

  I told D.J. about my Rome decision. She did not indicate in any way that she had already heard the news from Curtis. Instead she said, “Fantastic! Send me a postcard of your favorite place. So you’ll have to visit a lot of places.”

  “Hey,” Paul said from the back seat. “You know what? We should have a birthday party for Z when you guys get back. I can play her favorite song. She’s going to be sixty-four, you know.”

  “Is ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ her favorite song?” D.J. asked.

  “Nah. But she taught me that one too. If I am old and balding and gray in the years to come, would you like me, think of me as honey dear? Buy me biscuits? Bring me a beer?”

  D.J. laughed. “That is not how the song goes!”

  “Beatles lyrics are, like, impossible to get permission to, so Z and I made up our own. If I go out and drink with my friends, will you pace the floor? Could you adore me? Please don’t abhor me, when
I’m sixty-four.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Paul barely says this many words in a week—let alone singing them! His lessons must be going really well. And D.J. is psyched about her basketballing club. That means ⅔ of the people in D.J.’s car are in extremely good moods, which makes the last ⅓ person (= me) feel even worse.

  Why did Curtis have to say “Have a good trip” like that? Because even though the words were “Have a good trip,” they sounded like I’m not happy at all.

  Tuesday, June 25

  Curtis had a game today. I asked if he wanted me to come, and he said it was up to me. He used to say he liked it when I came. So should I go or not? (Even asking the question is Emily-ish of me.) I wish there was someone I could talk to about this. Not Curtis, obviously. Not D.J.—Curtis is not a subject I could ever bring up! I can’t talk to Z.

  You would not think so, but Z is actually a difficult person to talk to about personal things. Last year when I got my period for the first time, I called to tell her, and that night she came to supper with a cake with WELCOME TO WOMANHOOD! written on it in pink frosting letters. Sometimes Z says I will do well in life because I have excellent judgment in men (her words). But then she’ll say I must be relentlessly alert to male oppression and that I need to experience the universe unfettered.

  Last year Dad had a conference in Canada and Z went with us—that’s when we went on the water slide, and I had to get a passport (for Canada, not the water slide). On the way back we drove through Two Geese, her old town. All of a sudden Z’s happy mood changed and she wouldn’t even let Dad stop the car. She just kept staring out the window and saying, “This is a terrible place to grow up.”