Call Me Sunflower Read online

  “So tell me how the other half lives,” Scott said. “Have you hit your head on any chandeliers yet? Broken any crystal goblets?”

  I giggled. “Grandma Grace makes us take off our shoes so we won’t scuff up her hardwood floors. And you have to be careful when you sit down for dinner that you don’t slide right off the shiny chairs—a maid comes every week and polishes the chairs, can you believe that? Mom says Grandma Grace has always been a neatness nut, and she’s not giving an inch even though she has three new people living in her house.”

  “Oh, I can just see it now. How’s your mom adjusting to being back in Grandma’s house, maid service and all?”

  “Actually”—I paused a minute, choosing my words carefully. I had to make this good—“she’s miserable. Absolutely miserable. She fights with Grandma Grace all the time. And she’s really lonely. I think she cries every night, because her eyes look all swollen in the morning.”

  “Hmm …” Scott hesitated. I guess he was letting those words sink in. I thought about Sunny’s Super-Stupendous Plan and remembered to make it dramatic. That was key.

  “Do you think you can send one of those Eezy Breezy Sleep Masks so she can sleep better? Or maybe a pound of cucumbers? That will help make the bags under her eyes go away.”

  “Maybe it’s allergies,” Scott finally said. “It can be hard getting used to a new part of the country—”

  “Oh, it’s not allergies. I know loneliness when I see it.”

  About that time, there was a knock and a bang on the door, and then Autumn threw it open, saying she couldn’t wait any longer. So I said my goodbyes and love-yous and handed the phone to my sister.

  After Autumn and I finished talking to Scott, Mom got on the phone, but not for long. She told him a little about her classes and asked about his, and before you knew it, she was saying we’d taken up enough of his time and we’d talk to him next week.

  It was a normal, polite conversation—the kind you have with someone you see every day. Like, “Can you remember to pick up tomatoes and pickles at the grocery store?”

  Mom did not sound like someone who was missing the love of her life. The situation was even more drastic than I’d first suspected.

  As soon as Mom hung up, I raced upstairs and pulled out my notebook, where I’d taken notes from the YouTube video. Then I opened my craft supply drawer and pulled out a blue glass bottle, a pile of tissue paper, and a bottle of glue. Now all I had to do was mix up some glue and water and, voila! Instant decoupage.

  Using my paintbrush, I glued the tissue paper to the bottle and coated the top of the paper with more decoupage. According to YouTube, I had to apply at least three coats, waiting for each layer to dry before adding another. It took most of the evening, but that worked out fine since I couldn’t get started on the rest of the project until everyone was in bed.

  I waited until I heard Mom’s and Grandma Grace’s footsteps on the stairs followed by the shutting of bedroom doors. Fifteen minutes later, I grabbed my strongest pair of scissors, a cloth bag, and my flashlight.

  The old wooden steps creaked and my heart thumped as I tiptoed downstairs in the dark. By the time I made it to the back door, the grandfather clock was three minutes away from striking midnight.

  I waited until the clock bonged, a loud enough noise to cover up the squeak of the back door. The hairs on my arms rose up as I stepped out into the backyard. I quickly glanced back at the house. Completely black except for a dim light in the kitchen and a hall light on upstairs.

  There was no time to waste.

  A summer breeze blew through my thin pajamas as I flicked on my flashlight, making me shiver as the dark shadows of tree branches moved against the grass. Luckily, I didn’t have to go far. Mrs. Wright’s rosebushes lined the back fence of her yard, so all I had to do was open the gate she shared with Grandma Grace.

  The rest was easy. Almost. All I can say is there’s probably a good reason for using special scissors for gardening. Especially if you don’t want to get pricked by thorns. But if you saw away long enough, art scissors will do the trick. I filled my bag with red, white, and pink roses and dashed back across the yard before anyone noticed I was gone.

  ***

  “It’s about time!” Autumn called out to me as I came downstairs the next morning. “I thought you were going to sleep all day. I wanted to wake you up but Mom wouldn’t let me. Look what we found on the front porch a few minutes ago!”

  I yawned, trying to act uninterested in the whole thing. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “I’ll heat up the leftover pancakes,” Grandma Grace said.

  “Look!” Autumn pointed to the vase full of pink, red, and white roses. “Flowers for Mom. From a Secret Admirer!”

  I dropped into a chair and laughed. “A Secret Admirer?”

  She shoved the card into my hand. “Read it.”

  “‘To Rebecca,’” I read, though I’d already memorized the words. “‘You are as beautiful as a rose, without the thorns. From Your Secret Admirer.’”

  “Can you believe it?” Autumn asked with a giggle. “Mom has a secret admirer!”

  “I’m not sure why you find that so hard to believe.” Mom smiled and handed me a glass of orange juice.

  “What do you think Scott will say when he hears about it?” I asked.

  “He’ll probably get on a plane and fly down here to investigate,” Autumn said.

  “Investigate?” I repeated.

  “Yeah. It means put the clues together, like a detective. We’re learning about investigations in science.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know what it means, Autumn.”

  “I bet it’s from one of your old flames,” Grandma Grace said.

  “Doubtful,” Mom replied. “Last I heard, James had moved to Canada to protest the United States’ war policies. With a lady friend.”

  “I wasn’t talking about James,” Grandma Grace said. “I was talking about Doug Simpson.”

  Mom snorted. “Doug Simpson? I never went out with him.”

  “I know. But he’s had a thing for you since junior high school. He still lives here, you know. Divorced. I ran into him a few weeks ago and mentioned that you were moving back here.”

  Mom groaned. “I wish you hadn’t said anything, Mom.”

  I clunked my glass down on the table. “James? Doug Simpson?”

  “James was my very first boyfriend,” Mom said, a dreamy look in her eyes.

  Well, this was just ridiculous. Mom had never talked about old boyfriends before.

  Autumn giggled. I didn’t. “Who’s Doug Simpson?” I asked.

  Mom rolled her eyes. Then she shook her head and sighed at the same time. “Just some guy I knew growing up.”

  “Don’t write him off so quickly,” Grandma Grace said. “People change.”

  I didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. It wasn’t where I needed it to go. “Mom already has Scott, you know. Maybe he’s the one who sent the flowers.”

  My grandmother raised an eyebrow. “He’s in New Jersey, and your mother is here. If he wanted to send flowers, don’t you think he’d at least sign his name?”

  Mom laughed. “Scott is definitely not the type to send flowers. Besides, it’s probably just a joke from one of my old friends.”

  “Think what you want,” Grandma Grace said, “but if I were you, I’d keep my eyes peeled.”

  “I can’t wait to tell Scott about this,” I said.

  “It’ll give him a good laugh,” Mom said.

  I curled my hand in a ball under the table so no one would see the cuts. I wanted Scott to laugh about it as much as I wanted another thorn in my finger.

  Romance was turning out to be way more complicated than I thought.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  My New Teacher!!

  We start school on Tuesday! Miss Harkin is staying home with her baby & I got th
e new teacher: A MAN! His name’s Mr. Stohler. Emma G. says he’s old and bald! Help!!!

  From [email protected]

  To [email protected]

  Re: My New Teacher!!

  Sorry you didn’t get Miss Harkin. When did you talk to Emma G.? I have three male teachers this year. They aren’t bad, but they aren’t great like my art teacher either. One of them wears ties with smiley faces on them every single day.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Mom Has a Secret Admirer!

  Hi Scott! You’ll never believe what we found on the front porch! A vase of roses for Mom, from a secret admirer. The note said: “You are as beautiful as a rose, without the thorns.” I think you need to get down here AS SOON AS POSSIBLE to keep an eye on the situation.

  Love,

  Sunflower

  P.S. Mom cries every night, even though she tries to hide it. I’m sure of it now. She must be wishing we had stayed in New Jersey with you! Can you please send that Eezy Breezy Mask or those cucumbers? ASAP!!

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Re: Mom Has a Secret Admirer!

  Roses from a secret admirer? Well, your mother is a beautiful woman, you know. I wish I could hop on a plane to come see you, but I can’t get away from the store right now.

  Promise me you’ll keep me posted!

  Love,

  Scott

  ***

  My weekend was a complete flop. The secret admirer had fallen, SPLAT! Scott didn’t sound the least bit worried about Mom’s ex-boyfriends who might be sending her flowers. And Mom wasn’t any better. She’d totally brushed away the idea that the flowers could have been from Scott, and she hadn’t said one word about the photos I’d put up all over the house, not even the one on the bathroom mirror!

  I needed a new and improved plan, and I needed one super-quick. The longer Mom and Scott were apart, the harder it would be to get them back together.

  I spent all weekend revving up my brain power, meditating in one of those tricky lotus positions Mom had taught me. Still, I came up with nothing.

  Zero. Zilch.

  My creative thinking skills, the ones that had helped our team place third in the regional Odyssey of the Mind competition last year, had flown right out the window. I needed to jumpstart my creativity.

  And that’s why I found myself jotting down September 10 in my notebook when there was an announcement about OM tryouts over the intercom on Monday morning, even though I hadn’t planned to join any clubs at this new school.

  I bit my lip, thinking about how different Odyssey of the Mind would be without Scott as a coach. He’d volunteered for the job the last two years. I pictured him wearing his blue COACH cap, cheering and clapping about team members’ ideas, no matter how silly they sounded, because “you never know when a stupid idea is actually a genius one.” He’d bounce on his toes, waving his hands in the air to get the rest of us excited as he scribbled everything down on a big chart board, and then he’d say, “You guys are awesome.” Instead of high-fiving us, he’d toss us a Jolly Rancher or a chocolate kiss when we shared especially out-of-the-box ideas.

  I was still thinking about going out for the team when I sat down next to Jessie in art class that morning. She smiled at me, and I smiled back.

  “Today we are going to work on self-portraits,” Ms. Rusgo said as she twirled her long hair into a bun and pinned it with chopsticks. “I call this unit ‘Window to My Soul.’”

  “We’re going to draw pictures of ourselves?” Brent called out from the front row. “Cool.”

  “Actually, we’re going to draw representations of ourselves. That means the goal is not to draw a picture that resembles what you look like in the mirror. I want your drawings to reflect what you look like inside.”

  A wave of murmurs and nervous giggles filled the room.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Ms. Rusgo said. “I don’t want you to focus on accuracy. For example, you don’t need to try to make your nose look exactly like the one on your face. I want you to draw ‘the real you.’”

  A few more giggles rippled through the classroom. Ms. Rusgo ignored them as she passed out large pieces of paper and asked some kids to pass out the oil pastels.

  “But Ms. Rusgo, if we’re not drawing our faces,” someone else called out, “what are we supposed to draw?”

  “Aha,” Ms. Rusgo said. “That is a good question.” She turned to her easel at the front of the room and sketched the outline of a head and shoulders. “It’s up to you to decide what you want to put on the inside. And, remember, use your colors wisely—as we discussed last week, colors evoke feelings and memories.”

  “It’s like the heart paintings,” Jessie whispered to me. “We can just draw things we like.”

  I didn’t want to disagree with her. I nodded and got to work. Ms. Rusgo turned on her music, and a folk song—one I recognized from Mom’s playlist—filled the room. I fell into a sort of trance, like I always do when I’m concentrating on my artwork.

  By the time Ms. Rusgo asked everyone to start cleaning up, I’d drawn stars for my eyes, our home in New Jersey as my nose, Stellaluna stretched out for a mouth that only curled up a little on the ends, and Mom and Scott in circles on each side of my mouth, for the cheeks.

  Jessie drew in her breath when she saw my paper. “Ooo, I love it!”

  “You did a nice job, too,” I said, looking at her portrait. It was almost identical to her heart drawing, even though Ms. Rusgo had stopped at our table and suggested that she draw personal things, not the symbols you find on T-shirts and notebooks.

  “Thanks,” Jessie said. “I wish I was an artist like you.”

  I felt my cheeks flush and looked back down at my portrait. Jessie’s was cheerful and happy, all pinks and yellows and sunshine, as if she’d never had a negative thought enter her head. Mine was full of darkness—blues and grays and shadows.

  “Hey, you’re new around here, aren’t you?” Jessie asked as we put away our supplies. “Where’d you move from?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “I thought so. I have cousins who live there. Every time we visit, we go to the most awesome Italian restaurant, Valencio’s. Have you ever heard of it?”

  I shook my head. “I love Italian food, though.”

  She grinned. “Hey, you want to sit with us at lunch today? I just have to stop at my locker.”

  “Okay,” I said calmly, but my heart was doing jumping jacks. Someone had asked me to sit with her at lunch! And not just someone—someone important. Jessie was pretty and friendly, one of the most popular girls in the whole sixth grade. And she had asked me, me, to sit with her.

  For a split second, I thought of Dragon Boy. We’d shared a lunch table all last week, me focused on my journal and him on his book. Even though we’d only exchanged a few words, I wondered how he’d feel when I didn’t show up today.

  After we stopped at Jessie’s locker, we headed to the cafeteria. “Hey, ya’ll!” Jessie said as we approached her usual table. “Everyone, this is Sunny. She moved here from New Jersey, and she is the best artist ever.”

  “Cool,” said Chloe Summers, a girl with short white-blonde hair and sparkly earrings who was in my math class. A few of the others looked up at me and waved. But Cassie, my locker partner, didn’t wave or smile. She gave me a look that said, Who do you think you are, trying to make friends with our Jessie?

  I glanced away, quickly sitting down next to Jessie. I was unwrapping my sandwich when I heard my name being called. Or, my ex-name.

  “Sunflower, hi!” Lydia ran up to me and dropped her lunch box on the table. “I was looking for you.”

  “Sunny,” I corrected her. My cheeks were blazing. Last week, I’d been so lonely, I would have been thrilled to see Lydia, even if she was a big know-it-all. But now I didn’t know how to react.

  The other girls stared at Lydia’s long sk
irt, bushy pigtails, and T-shirt that said IF YOU LOVE ANIMALS CALLED PETS, WHY DO YOU EAT ANIMALS CALLED DINNER?

  Lydia plopped herself down across from me and started talking like she hadn’t even noticed the table was full of people. “So I wanted to tell you that I really liked the poem you read today. It’s one of my favorites, too.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Miss Clements had chosen me to read the daily poem. I’d flipped through her collection and picked one of my favorites: “The Road Not Taken,” by Robert Frost.

  “Oh, I just love Robert Frost! His poems are really deep. Last year, my mom and I did an entire unit on him: symbolism, analysis, metaphors …”

  I nodded, looking down at my cheese sandwich. The rest of the table had gone eerily silent as the other girls stared at Lydia. Jessie’s table was Invitation Only, something I’d figured out on the first day of school.

  Lydia pulled out her lunch. “It’s a little hard getting used to public school. Mom used to let me decide on my units, and now there’s other people telling me what to read and what activities to do. It’s definitely not as stimulating, but Mom says I’ll get used to it.” She unwrapped her sandwich and a strange smell floated up into the air. Then she took a big bite. Tomato sauce oozed out and a slimy brown glob dropped onto her foil.

  “Eww!” Cassie screeched. “What is that gross stuff she’s eating?”

  Lydia put down her sandwich and stood up. She reached across the table to shake Cassie’s hand. “I’m Lydia.” Cassie gave her a rude look and crossed her arms in front of her chest. That didn’t discourage Lydia. “Lydia Applebaum. We’re in the same language arts class.”

  “Whatever,” Cassie said. “What in the world is that thing?” She wrinkled up her nose and pointed at Lydia’s lunch.

  Lydia sat back down in her chair and held up her sandwich. “It’s a ratatouille sub. Want a bite?”

  “Eww, gross!” Cassie said, and some of the other girls echoed her.

  Jessie raised an eyebrow. “What’s rat-a-too-ee?”

  “Grilled eggplant smothered in tomato sauce, spices, and cooked onions.”

  More Ewws, and this time Jessie joined the chorus.