How High the Moon Page 2

  “Well, it’s a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Carlton said. “I can think of a few girls who could benefit from this program.” They both looked at me and dropped their voices to whispers.

  After Miss Simon left, Mrs. Carlton slipped all of the papers—except one—into her wire basket. She brought that one over to my desk and handed it to me. It had the words SUNSHINE SISTERS drawn across the top of the mimeographed page like it was supposed to be Bible-fancy. “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s a new summer program, one I’m hoping you’ll be interested in. I think you’d get a lot out of it.”

  I skimmed the page, then looked up and tried not to get distracted by her skinny stretched-out earthworm lips, lipsticked out of the lines to make them look fat. I wondered when she started painting them like that.

  “Oh. I get it,” I said after I skimmed the paper some more. “It’s a program where older good girls try to help younger bad girls learn to act like respectable young ladies.”

  Mrs. Carlton leaned her butt against the desk across the aisle from me. “I wouldn’t exactly say that, but it does sound like a wonderful program. They match a grade school student with a high school girl with similar interests, and you spend time together.”

  I sat the paper down. “To do what? Schoolwork? Because if that’s it, then I’m not much interested.” The way my hands fell when I folded my arms over the desk, my right hand ended up cupping my left elbow, where the skin was gray and dry and scratchy. I poked my elbow out toward her. “See this, Mrs. Carlton? How my elbows are cracked and gray like little volcanoes? Teddy harped on me all winter about these things, saying that no respectable young lady would run around with elbows that look like this.

  “Teddy said this as if there is one thing respectable about me in the first place. Or him, for that matter. We’re poor white trash, Mrs. Carlton, both of us. And like I once overheard Mrs. Gaylor say at the post office: There’s nothing short of reincarnation that can change poor white trash into something respectable.

  “I don’t think Teddy believes there’s such a thing as a hopeless case, though, because he still tries to make me better. Always telling me to wash up good before school, because hand-me-down dresses or not, I should have enough pride in myself to scrub the gray scales from my elbows, put my messy curls back in barrettes so people can see my eyes, and look like a little lady. He harps on me to curb my temper, because little ladies shouldn’t fight like barroom drunks, and he reminds me to stop singing at ‘inappropriate’ times. His harping about that doesn’t do much good, either, because I can’t help singing and humming. Even when I’m sitting on the toilet. You ever hear of anyone doing that, Mrs. Carlton?” I shook my head. “I don’t know. This singing all the time is like an affliction, or something.”

  “You call your father Teddy?” Mrs. Carlton asked.

  “Oh, Teddy’s not my dad,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. Mr. Favors is your uncle.”

  “My uncle? Nah. He’s just the boyfriend Ma left me with.”

  The minute those words got out, I thought, Shucks! I hope I didn’t say something I wasn’t supposed to! “He’s real respectable, though, even if he’s dirt-poor,” I added quickly. “He taught me to stop swearing… can you believe it? I can’t. You remember when you were on playground duty last year, how many times you had to send me in for cussing? Anyway, Teddy is as good as Jesus. I’m not kidding. Okay, maybe the only affliction Teddy’s gotten out of me so far is cussing, but he never gives up. Course, he should know he’s out of luck changing me on all counts, because the fact of the matter is, no matter how many times I scrub my elbows to bleeding, they still look like this. And no matter how many recesses you make me spend inside for being naughty, you know like I do that the next time you let me loose on the playground, somebody—probably one of the Jacksons—is gonna say or do something to make me mad and I’m going to scream at them or slug them, or both. Then I’m going to end up right back in here baking like a potato while you do your papers. Not because I want to be bad—I don’t—but it’s like it’s in my blood and I can’t get it out.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Mrs. Carlton, but frankly, I think it might be a situation like with old Mrs. Fry’s dog. He’s so mean that he has to be kept tied all the time, and she has to toss his food to him and scoot his water dish to where he can reach it with a stick. That’s how mean he is! Jack Jackson says the only thing that’s gonna calm that mutt down is a lead pill between the eyes, but Mrs. Fry won’t have him put out of his misery. It’s probably just bad breeding. That’s what Teddy says is wrong with Poochie, anyway. And if that’s the case with me, then you can bet I got that bit of bad blood from my dad’s side. But I’m getting off the topic now, aren’t I? Sorry about that. And sorry to seem ungrateful about this program you and Miss Simon think is so swell, but frankly, Mrs. Carlton, I don’t think no high school do-gooder is going to be able to clean these things out of my blood, do you? Well, not that I even want my affliction for singing fixed, because I love music more than anything.”

  Mrs. Carlton’s eyes got soft, like maybe I wasn’t getting on her nerves so bad anymore, even though I was still babbling. She slipped sidesaddle onto the seat of the desk she was resting against, and her voice sagged, too, when she said, “Oh, Isabella. You don’t have bad—”

  I interrupted her. “Mrs. Carlton, I sure do wish you’d call me Teaspoon. Every time you say ‘Isabella,’ I’ve got to think about who you’re talking to, because nobody calls me by that name but you teachers. I swear, when you yell at me during class and I don’t shut up, it ain’t so much that I don’t hear you, it’s that I don’t know you’re talking to me.”

  “Well, Isabella. A teacher—”

  “You know how I got the name Teaspoon?” I asked, because I was sure if she knew, she’d appreciate the name a bit more and maybe start using it. Mrs. Carlton started to say something, but I thought she was just planning to tell me that she didn’t know, so I continued.

  “Well, before my ma and I came here to Mill Town, we lived in Peoria, Illinois, and downstairs there was this tavern. Every Tuesday night, this old guy would come in to dig the coins out of the back of the jukebox and to change up a few of the forty-fives. The first time we were down there, after he got done with his work, he got a few tunes going, and ‘After Midnight’ by Patsy Cline came on. I knew that song because my ma sang it sometimes, so I started singing along.

  “I wasn’t more than four years old, so I don’t remember the whole incident, but my ma sure did. And she’d tell the story every time someone asked about my name. She’d tell them how that whole place got quiet when I started singing, people turning around on their stools to look at me, their eyes bugging out of their heads. And when the song ended, the whole crowd exploded with clapping. Well, except the old jukebox man, who was staring at me like he just got gobsmacked.

  “When the applause ended, he just stood there shaking his head, and finally he said, ‘Now you tell me how a lil’ bitty baby like that—who don’t look like she got more than a teaspoon of breath in her whole body—can belt out a tune like that!’ Everybody laughed, and from that day on, my name was Teaspoon. And every night we went down there, they’d sit me on the bar, or a stool, and they’d have me sing. Gave me chips and soda pop for doing it, too. And money. I’d put the nickels and dimes or quarters into my pocket and Ma would shake them out each night after I changed into my pajamas.”

  Mrs. Carlton’s out-of-the-lines clown mouth smiled a bit.

  “Okay, so maybe I did just turn ten last week,” I said, “but let’s face it, I’m still way small for my age, so the name still fits. That bracelet you have on your wrist there? I’ll bet I could slip it clear up my arm to my shoulder, and if I let it go, it would slip right back down and bounce across the floor. It stinks to be this little, because I get treated like a baby all the time, but I guess I shouldn’t mind because skinny, small girls grow up to have nice figures, while girls who are just
-right and filled out by the age of twelve usually grow up to be fat ladies. Anyway, I really do wish you’d call me Teaspoon. Isabella is just too fancy of a name for someone like me, don’t you think? When I grow up and fill out and become a glamorous singer, then Isabella Marlene is going to fit me like an elbow-length glove, but for now, Teaspoon will do.”

  “Isabella,” Mrs. Carlton said, putting her hand up like Mrs. Fry did when she was trying to get Poochie to stop grabbing at her reaching stick. “Can you pause a minute and take a breath? I’d really like to talk to you about this program before the bell rings—”

  “Sure,” I told her, and I clamped my lips tight so no more words could get out.

  She started talking about the story we just had in our Weekly Reader. The one about ducklings who didn’t know they were ducks because the first thing they saw after they hatched was a ball, or a human being, and how this made them grow up to believe they were a ball or a person, too. I fidgeted in my chair while I wondered why on earth she was talking about ducklings, when she said that what she wanted to talk about was that Sunshine Sisters program.

  About the time I started being suspicious that Mrs. Carlton had the same affliction as me and her mind had wandered off like a puppy with no leash, I got it, because she brought up how girls need role models, just like ducklings, so they can learn how to be ladies. “You lack feminine influence, Isabella,” she said.

  I was trying hard to be a good listener and not interrupt her, but she was wrong on that count, so what could I do but butt in?

  “Well, things aren’t always how they look, Mrs. Carlton. Here. Take my hair for example and I’ll show you how it works.” I used my pointy fingers to bring her gaze to the bottom row of my curls, hovering about an inch or so below my ears. “It looks like I got short hair, doesn’t it? Well, watch this.” I grabbed clumps of curls on both sides of my head and tugged them straight so that they touched below my shoulders. “See? I don’t have short hair at all.” I let go of the clumps so they could bing back into place.

  “Yep, that’s how things are in life now and then, so you can’t always believe your eyes. Like you looking at me living alone with Teddy and assuming that I don’t have anybody to teach me about being a girl. It might look that way, but it ain’t so. I have feminine influence. I have the Taxi Stand Ladies, for starters. They’re the ones who gave me that bit of smarts about skinny girls growing up to have nice figures. Do you know the Taxi Stand Ladies, Mrs. Carlton?”

  “The Taxi Stand Ladies?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I call them anyway. They’re the two ladies who stand on the corner of Fifth and Washington, right across the street from The Pop Shop, where the mailbox is—or inside the store at the window if it’s raining or there’s a razor wind blowing. Right where people on my side of town wait if they want a lift in Ralph’s taxi. But the Taxi Stand Ladies have only been in town a couple of weeks so maybe you don’t know them yet, even if you know The Pop Shop. Or maybe you just don’t get to my side of town. A lot of fancy folks don’t, and you strike me as kind of fancy with that nice bracelet and all.

  “Anyway, I call them the Taxi Stand Ladies because all afternoon and night, they wait there on the corner for Ralph to come along so they can take a spin. Then after a bit of time, they come back and stand there until Ralph makes his way back to the corner again, some gentleman or other in the front seat.

  “By the way, the Taxi Stand Ladies go by nicknames, too, which proves that you don’t have to be a baby to have one. They call themselves Walking Doll and The Kenosha Kid.”

  Mrs. Carlton made a funny sound in her throat, like maybe she had a hair stuck on the back of her tongue or something, so I asked her if she was all right. She nodded, so I continued.

  “Anyway, I got the Taxi Stand Ladies, and I got old Mrs. Fry, too. She’s my neighbor lady. The one with the mean dog. She fixes me and Teddy’s clothes when they get a tear, and sends us over baked stuff now and then. Teddy helps her out, too. Last week Ralph came and brought her a great-grandson she didn’t even know she had. Imagine that! He came with a note pinned to his jacket, written by Mrs. Fry’s daughter in Texas, saying that the boy was sent to her by her son, who lived in Chicago and was getting sent to the clink for doing something bad, though Mrs. Fry’s daughter didn’t say what. She only said that with her rheumatoid paining her feet and hands so bad, she didn’t have it in her to chase after a kid. Old Mrs. Fry doesn’t have the rheumatoid, but frankly, I don’t see what difference it would make, since from what I see that kid never moves anyway—well, except for his hands—so why would anyone have to chase after him? Anyway, Charlie got sent from Chicago to Texas to Mill Town. Sort of like a homing pigeon that doesn’t know his directions. Charlie Fry is the new kid that’s always sitting on the brick ledge on the edge of the playground at recess like a Humpty Dumpty, if you’re wondering who he is. He’s only eight years old, but he’s as tall as me. A whole lot fatter, though.

  “But I’m veering off the trail again, when I only meant to tell you that Mrs. Fry gives me pointers on how to be a little lady. Yep, that’s what she does. She tells me not to thump my feet so hard when I walk indoors, and not to stuff whole cookies in my mouth. And she reminds me to keep my knees together when I sit in dresses. Things like that. By the way, I passed along that bit of smarts about keeping your knees together when you sit to the Taxi Stand Ladies, since apparently they never heard that one before.”

  Mrs. Carlton looked shaky as she tugged the paper out from under my arms and took it to her desk, where she scribbled something at the bottom with a red pen. I sang a bit more of that Chuck Berry song, because it had a lot of zip, the toes of my water-stained canvas shoes tapping the floor so I could keep good time.

  “I got good timing, don’t I?” I said to Mrs. Carlton when I forgot the rest of the words because the song was new and I’d only heard it a couple of times. “That’s because I work on my timing with my radio. It was Teddy’s radio and he used to keep it on the kitchen counter and listen to it quiet when he was cooking or doing dishes. But I suppose he saw that I liked it even more than him, the way when it was on I always came in and sang with it, so he gave it to me to keep in my bedroom. Anyway, I sing along with the tunes it’s playing, then right in the middle of a verse or a chorus, I turn the sound down all the way and keep singing. Then here and there, while I’m still singing, I crank the sound back up to see if I’m in the right place. Sure is a good trick to learn timing, Mrs. Carlton. I’m so good at it now that I can start singing at the beginning of a song and even if I don’t turn the sound back on until the very last line, I’m smack-dab on the same word they’re singing. Timing is very important if you’re going to be a singing sensation,” I told her.

  “Do you sing, Mrs. Carlton?”

  “I sing in the church choir,” she said as she capped her pen, then brought the paper back to me.

  “Well you should sing more often than on Sundays,” I told her. “Singing makes you feel happy. And you could probably use a little happy right about now, if it’s true what Mrs. Delaney said. That your husband is running around with Betty Rains.”

  Mrs. Carlton looked like she had a whole fur ball clogging the back of her throat after I said that, and she turned away.

  “Uh-oh. I probably shouldn’t have said that, so I do apologize. That’s another affliction I have, Mrs. Carlton—if you hadn’t noticed already. I say things I probably shouldn’t. But just for the record, that Betty Rains isn’t nearly as pretty as you. She must have filled out at about the age of seven, judging by the size of her, don’t you think?”

  The bell in the hall rang then, and the two teachers on playground duty blew their whistles. “You may return to your seat now, Isabella,” Mrs. Carlton said.

  I folded and stuffed the paper she gave me into my desk, which was already so full that I had to lean on the lid to get it closed. Then I tapped my toes and watched the clock and waited for the school day to end.

  CHAPTER TWO


  When the last bell for the day rang, I leapt out of my seat like I had ants in my pants, but I didn’t even get out the door before Mrs. Carlton stopped me.

  “Isabella? Do you have the paper on the Sunshine Sisters program that I gave you?”

  “Yeah,” I said, even though I didn’t think I did. Mrs. Carlton asked me to show it to her.

  I dug around in my jacket pocket and screwed up my face to look all surprised when I didn’t find it.

  “Go get it,” she said, and I marched back to my desk with a big sigh. Once I found it, I held it up so she could see, and she said, “Be sure and give it to Mr. Favors tonight, okay? I put a note on the bottom asking him to call me.”

  “Oh. We don’t have a telephone, Mrs. Carlton.”

  “Well, does your neighbor lady have one he might use?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Fry can’t afford a phone, either. That’s why her daughter sent Charlie up with a note pinned to him; because she couldn’t call her to tell her he was coming. Course, you’d think she would have sent a letter. Her daughter bought her a television set last year. I’ll bet she wished she’d have bought her a phone instead, when it was time to ship Charlie off.”

  “Well, where does Mr. Favors go when he has to use a phone?”

  “To the pay phone outside the drugstore,” I said without thinking.

  “Good, ask him to call me from there tonight, please.”

  I didn’t want to put myself in a pickle, because I didn’t want no part of that do-gooder program, so I had to think fast. “Well, he works long, long shifts, Mrs. Carlton, so it’s late and he’s all in when he gets home. He ain’t gonna want to walk all the way to the drugstore after walking two miles home from work.”

  “Won’t want to, Isabella. “Not ain’t gonna. Does he work on weekends?”

  “He works on Saturdays. He gets an extra twenty cents an hour when he works them, so…” I stopped right there and didn’t tell her that he has Mondays off so he can work those Saturdays and stay under forty hours, because then she’d be wanting him to come in for a meeting.