Ask My Mood Ring How I Feel Page 13

  “This girl,” the man explained, “is asking for donations.” He turned to me. “Sorry, but we can’t help today. Maybe another time.”

  “Now wait a minute,” the woman said, pushing him aside. She took off her gloves, stuck them in her pocket, and held out her hand so I could shake it. “My name’s Ann. What’s yours?”

  “Erica.”

  “Well, Erica, what are you raising money for?”

  “Breast cancer research. It’s for a service learning project I’m doing at school, but mostly it’s for my mom.”

  “She has cancer?”

  I nodded.

  “You poor thing,” she said. Then she looked at her husband. “Don’t just stand there. Go inside and get some money.” I wanted to laugh at the way she ordered him around, but I didn’t want to ruin this chance at a sponsor. “How old’s your mom?” the woman asked as we waited.

  “Forty.”

  “That’s young, which means she’s strong. I bet she’s going to be just fine.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  Her husband returned and handed me thirty dollars. I gave him the clipboard, and he filled out the sponsor information.

  “Can I get back to the yard?” he asked his wife, the way kids ask parents for permission to play.

  She nodded, so he turned on the edger. As soon as he got back to work, Ann put on her gardening gloves and headed to the side of the house again. I tried to say good-bye, but I don’t think they could hear me over the loud machine, so I moved on to the next house.

  I really wanted to get more sponsors, but almost everyone waved me away. A lot of them said “not now” or “come another time.” I knew they never wanted to see me again, that they were trying to get rid of me, but I wrote their addresses on a list called “Come Back Later,” vowing that I would return in a few days. After all, the 5K was one month away! So I kept walking, the day getting hotter and hotter, my nose feeling sunburned, sweat trickling into my eyes, and blisters forming on my feet. Once in a while, someone donated, but at this rate, it would take a year to get five hundred names. I didn’t have a year! Mom didn’t have a year! I glanced at my mood ring—amber again, a deeper shade, which meant I had moved from feeling unsettled to feeling despair. No wonder my shoulders drooped.

  I noticed that I was near Patty’s house, so I decided to stop for a break. She wasn’t the best cure for despair, but maybe she could help me take my mind off my own problems for a while.

  When I knocked on her door, her grandfather answered. He had moved into her house after his wife died two years ago. Patty was real close to her grandparents, so when her grandmother died, she felt awful. We Robins bought and signed a card for her, and then we got together and baked cookies. We must have given Patty four dozen. Normally, she loved cookies, so we thought they’d cheer her up, but when she bit into the first one, she didn’t smile. She didn’t frown, either. She had no expression at all. And when I watched her eat that cookie, I imagined it was as bland as pasta with no sauce or spices. We wanted to help Patty, but when you’re sad, nothing, not even cookies, can make you feel better.

  Is that how I would feel if Mom died? I hated to think about it, but I had to be prepared. What if radiation therapy didn’t work? What if Mom got sicker and sicker till she couldn’t take it anymore? Would I ever get over the sadness? A few weeks after her grandmother died, Patty returned to her old self, but I don’t think I could ever get back to normal if something awful happened to Mom. My mood ring would probably stay black for months, maybe even years.

  “Are you okay?” Patty’s grandpa asked. “You look like you’ve seen a big, hairy watermelon.”

  I looked up at him. “I’ve never seen a hairy watermelon before.” Then I tried to imagine a watermelon with hair. What a ridiculous image! I couldn’t help laughing, and it was such a relief to smile after spending the whole morning with a frown.

  “Grandpa!” I heard Patty’s voice behind him. “Quit teasing her.” He moved aside and Patty waved me in. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, leading me to the kitchen, where a bunch of papers had taken over the table. “Can you believe my English teacher called and told my parents I hadn’t done a single thing this week?”

  “You haven’t,” I said, remembering how Patty had complained about her homework.

  “Sure, but did she have to call?”

  “It’s her job.”

  “So now I have a whole bunch of homework,” Patty went on, “and if I don’t finish, I’m going to be grounded.”

  “I’m going to be in trouble, too. I can barely keep up. Who knew eighth grade was going to be so hard?”

  She nodded.

  “How long will you be grounded if you don’t catch up?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t be grounded during Derek’s party.

  “For forever,” her grandpa said from the other room.

  Patty just rolled her eyes. In a quieter voice, she said, “I have a serious case of writer’s block. You have to help me. You never have writer’s block.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No. Everybody knows you’re the one to turn to when we can’t think of ideas.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. So will you help?”

  “Of course,” I said, pointing at my T-shirt. It had two stick figures. One had a circle for a head, but no body. The other stick figure was complete. It held a straight line in one hand, and its speech bubble said, “I’ve got your back.”

  Patty studied it a minute. Then she laughed. “Oh, I get it. This one guy’s holding the line that would make up the other guy’s back.”

  I shrugged and nodded at the same time. Except for GumWad, my friends always took a while before getting my T-shirt jokes.

  “So what’s your homework?” I asked.

  “I have to write similes, and I can’t think of a single one.”

  I thought a moment. “How about as droopy as a thirsty sunflower or as panicked as a cat-chased mouse.”

  She wrote them down, and together we thought of a few others. Then she had to pick a popular story and write it from a different point of view.

  “I don’t even know what that means,” Patty complained.

  “It means to forget the main character and pretend the story belongs to someone else.”

  “So instead of Cinderella,” she said, “pretend the story is about the fairy godmother?”

  “Sure. You could do that, but how about pretending the story is about the glass slipper?”

  “But that’s an object, which means it doesn’t have a brain. How can something without a brain tell a story?”

  “That’s the fun part,” I said. “What’s the slipper thinking as it dances around the ballroom? As it gets left behind when Cinderella runs off? And as the stepsisters stick their fat, smelly feet in it?”

  She thought about it. “I guess I could write a story about that.” She sounded doubtful, but an intense brainstorming session convinced her that she could write the story.

  Just then, her grandfather walked in. “All done?”

  “Almost,” Patty said. “At least I know what to do now, thanks to Erica.”

  “Sounds like you owe her one,” her grandfather said.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I had fun helping with the homework.” I stood, ready to leave.

  “And where are you going?” Patty’s grandfather asked.

  “I need to walk around the neighborhood. I’m raising money for cancer research.” I grabbed my clipboard. “Would you like to donate?”

  Patty’s grandpa reached into his pocket and pulled out a five. “I guess I should,” he said, “since you helped my Patty with her homework.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said, taking the money and handing him the form.

  As he filled it out, he said to Patty, “You should return the favor and go with Erica.”

  “You want me to knock on a bunch of weird people’s doors? Can’t I pay her back by buying her lunch or something?”

>   “I don’t need help,” I said. “I can do this on my own.”

  Her grandfather thought a minute. “Make sure you knock on that red door two houses over.”

  “I already did.”

  “So Mrs. Cavazos signed your form?”

  “No. She didn’t even answer the door.”

  Patty’s grandpa put his hands on his hips. “Well, I’ll be.” Then he said, “Just a minute.” He took out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Hello?” I heard him say. “How are you doing, Mrs. Cavazos?” A woman spoke on the other end of the line but I couldn’t understand her. “And how’s that pipe I fixed last month?” He listened a bit. “I’m so glad to hear it isn’t giving you any more trouble and that I was able to save you from hiring an expensive plumber.” While he listened, he winked at me. “Actually, I do need a favor,” he said to the phone. “I’m sending Patty over with a friend. She’s raising money for a fund-raising event, and she’s been going around the neighborhood looking for sponsors. I told her how nice you are and that you’d really like to donate.” I don’t know what the woman said, but when Patty’s grandpa got off the phone, he said, “Mrs. Cavazos is going to help, so you two go over right now before she changes her mind. And, Patty, go to Johnny’s, too. Tell him he can borrow my lawn mower any time, and tell Sally that I’ll feed her dog when she goes out of town next week.” He paused, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh, yeah, tell Jamal he can donate the ten dollars he owes me. Got all that?”

  “Johnny, Sally, Jamal,” Patty repeated, counting them off on her fingers. “Got it.”

  I didn’t really want her help, didn’t want her to see me get doors slammed in my face. That was the last thing I wanted my friends to talk about. They had already gossiped about my troubles last week when I wasn’t supposed to have any trouble. And I worried that my promesa counted only if I did it on my own. But Patty’s grandpa was forcing her to help me.

  “Let’s kill two birds with one stone,” I suggested to Patty. “Grab a trash bag and we’ll pick up garbage along the way.”

  “What a sensible girl,” her grandpa said, all impressed. Patty just rolled her eyes, but she grabbed the trash bag anyway.

  As we walked to the house with the red door, Patty said, “Before my grandpa moved in, I didn’t know any of these people. But he went and made friends with everyone, which means they’re always in our business. It’s such a pain.” The red door was open, so instead of knocking or ringing the doorbell, Patty called through the screen. “Mrs. Cavazos? Are you in there?”

  A middle-aged woman approached. She said, “Patty, it’s nice to see you.”

  “Nice to see you, too,” Patty replied. “My grandpa’s glad to hear the plumbing’s okay. Those leaky pipes can sure mess up your floor.” Patty paused a minute before remembering why we were really here. “This is my friend Erica.”

  “Mucho gusto,” Mrs. Cavazos said.

  “Mucho gusto,” I replied.

  “Her mom has cancer,” Patty said, “so she needs money for a cancer race next month. My grandpa said you’d help.”

  I couldn’t believe how blunt Patty was, but Mrs. Cavazos didn’t seem to mind. She said, “La pobrecita. What kind of cancer does your mother have?”

  “Breast cancer,” I said, and since she had a small statue of La Virgen de Guadalupe on her porch, I added, “I made a promesa at that shrine in the valley, so I have to get five hundred names.”

  Mrs. Cavazos nodded. I could tell she knew exactly what a promesa was. She had probably made one herself. She told us to wait a minute, and then she returned with a check for twenty-five dollars. As she filled out the sponsor form, she said, “Mrs. Martínez’s car broke down last week. When you get to her house, tell her to call if she needs a ride to the grocery store. I’m going in a couple of hours.”

  Patty nodded, and when we got back to the street, she said, “See what I mean? Everybody knows what’s going on with everybody else. No privacy at all.”

  How awful, I thought. After all, I hated my friends talking about me even when they were just reporting what happened over the weekend. Iliana wasted no time telling the Robins about my mom’s cancer or about my first attempt to get sponsors, and GumWad told our whole class about Sonic. Never mind Shawntae, who blabbed about every dream with me in the starring role.

  As we walked, Patty found some bottle caps at the curb and a crushed aluminum can. When I pointed at a burned-out match, she shook her head.

  “Are you being selective about the trash you collect?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  Who knew what that girl was up to?

  We soon reached Mrs. Martínez’s house and mentioned the grocery store. “Gracias, gracias,” she said, all grateful. For a minute, I thought we were giving her a ride. When Mrs. Martínez saw that her friend had already given money, she matched the donation.

  When we got to Johnny’s house, Patty said, “Your yard looks great. My grandpa said you could borrow his mower whenever you want.”

  When we got to Sally’s house, she said, “So are you looking forward to your trip next week? My grandpa said not to worry about the dog. It’s no trouble for him to come fill his bowl.”

  And when we got to Jamal’s, she said, “My grandpa’s in no hurry to get back his ten dollars, but if you have it on you, he said you could give it to my friend. She’s raising money for cancer research.” As we walked away, she said, “I’m really getting the hang of this.” She sounded excited.

  I didn’t like the way she blabbed my whole story to everyone, but how could I complain when her blunt attitude resulted in sponsors and when Patty was having fun? It seemed as if everyone donated, and like Mrs. Cavazos, they gave us messages, too. We must have passed along twenty.

  “Call us the pony express,” Patty joked.

  “Or the ponyless express,” I said.

  She giggled at that. “Ponyless but not penniless,” she added, glancing at my manila envelope. Seeing Patty in a good mood was putting me in a good mood, too. Even my mood ring sensed it and turned to a sapphire blue.

  One message led to another. A guy named Luke said he had extra tomatoes from his garden. Mrs. Johnson said she would donate them to the soup kitchen. Hector said he could drop them off when he picked up his daughter, who volunteered there and who agreed to babysit for a lady named Lindsay, who in turn said she had coupons for free car washes at the gas station and was giving them away on a “first come, first served” basis.

  “Isn’t it crazy?” Patty said about all the messages. “My grandpa doesn’t mind, but it drives me nuts.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But look at us. You found some cool trash, and I got twenty-five new sponsors. This has been my most productive day yet!”

  3 SIDE EFFECTS

  After spending time with Patty, I made my way home. I felt exhausted but excited, too. Finally, I was having success with my promesa.

  As I turned onto my street, I heard the familiar roar of a lawn mower. Mr. Landon, our neighbor, was working on his yard. I could tell he had just started because most of the grass was still long. When I got to my front yard, I waved at him, and then Dad stepped out.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said, eager to show him the names I had collected.

  “In a minute,” he answered. He seemed angry, and I wondered if Jimmy was acting up. Maybe I should have stayed home. With Mom ill, Jimmy was hard to control, and Carmen liked to pick on him, making things worse. But Dad wasn’t angry at the family. He was angry with Mr. Landon because he went straight to him and said, “Can you mow another time? My wife can’t rest with all that noise.”

  Mr. Landon shrugged. “Sorry. Got to do it now.”

  “But she needs her sleep,” Dad said.

  “If it’s too loud, tell her to wear earplugs. Why’s she turning in so early anyhow? It’s only four o’clock. Who goes to bed at four o’clock?”

  “Do you want to know who goes to bed at four o’clock?” Dad said, his voice getting loud. “You really want to know? Pe
ople who are sick, you hear? People who have cancer.”

  I could tell Mr. Landon felt bad because he got apologetic. “I’m sorry to hear that Lisa’s sick. Really, I am. She’s always been a kind lady.”

  Dad stood there a minute, took a deep breath. “Thanks,” he said, calmer. “Thanks for understanding and for agreeing to do your yard another day.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Mr. Landon quickly said. “I said I’m sorry, and I meant it, but I have to mow today. I work all week, so it’s the only time I have. I’ll do it quick, though, I promise.”

  For a minute, Dad looked like someone who had just lost a championship game. Then he looked like someone who felt cheated by the referee. “How’s this for a promise?” he said. “Next time you need something, don’t bother to ask because I promise not to help.”

  “Oh, come on now, don’t be that way,” Mr. Landon said. “Don’t be making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  Dad ignored him and stomped toward the house. He didn’t even remember that I was standing right there. Somehow the anger had blinded him.

  But Mr. Landon saw me and said, “Tell your folks I’ll just be an hour, if that. Sorry about the noise, but I have to do my yard. Hope you understand.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, feeling embarrassed because Dad wanted quiet rules for the whole neighborhood now.

  I went inside and found Jimmy on the floor with his toy cars, while Mom lay on her recliner all bundled up. Her lips looked chapped and her skin paler than usual because she hadn’t been enjoying the sun. She was watching TV, but her eyes were nearly closed. When her head fell forward, she jolted, surprised. I could tell she was fighting to stay awake awhile longer.

  “I got some more names for the cancer race.” I held up the clipboard and my manila envelope.

  “That’s wonderful,” Mom said.

  I sat on the couch, got comfortable. “Are you doing okay?” What was I thinking? I just asked the dumbest question in the world. Of course Mom wasn’t doing okay. She was sick.