You can’t win them all.
Three times. It takes me three rings of the Bingle to know that she’s not answering. Maybe she isn’t home.
“Drop this off for Mrs. Carson.” Ma comes into my room and hands me a brown bag.
“Okay,” I say.
I walk slowly past Lola’s house, trying to sneak a glance in the window, but all the curtains are drawn.
“Jimmy!” I turn to see Santa, Matty, and Ralph running up behind me.
“Holy Cow!” Santa says. “You look terrible!”
“I know,” I reply. “The Polinskis are at the station. I think I’m safe at the moment.”
“We heard all about it,” Matty says. “Geez, Jimmy. You sure took a beating.”
“Everyone is talking about it,” Ralph adds.
“That’s just great,” I say. “Hey, I gotta drop this off for Mrs. Carson.”
“Come to the park when you’re done,” Santa says, already heading toward the alley.
“Maybe,” I say. But I only want to see Lola. I walk down the street, keeping my head low and avoiding anyone’s eye contact.
“You are so bruised, my dear!” Mrs. Carson says when I knock on her door.
“I was worse this morning. Ma wanted you to have this.”
“Thank you, thank you. You know, Lola stopped by,” she says, keeping an eye on my reaction.
“Really? What did she say? She’s so mad at me!”
“She needs some time, Jimmy. That’s all.” She smiles softly.
“Time heals all wounds,” I reply. Rule #8.
“While I have you here, there’s something I’d like you to have.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say and cross my fingers, hopeful for another baseball card. She slowly makes her way to the bookshelf and picks out a leather-bound book.
“What’s this?” I ask when she hands it to me.
“It’s a journal. An old one, but empty,” she says. “I thought giving it to Lola might be a nice gesture. Better coming from you than from me. She told me that you had her journal and she didn’t have anything to write in.”
“I do have her journal. But it has blood stains all over it.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Carson says. “Well then, all the more reason for a new one.”
I stand on the porch for at least ten minutes before I have the nerve to knock.
“Jimmy!” Mrs. Sheridan says, opening the screen door and stepping outside. “You look terrible!”
“Yes,” I say. Hearing about my bruised face is becoming tiresome. “Can I please see Lola?”
“I’m sorry, Jimmy. Lola isn’t up for it today, and she’ll be helping at the store a bit more now.”
“Oh.” My lip starts to shake uncontrollably.
“Maybe come by in a few days and see if she’s free,” Mrs. Sheridan says.
“Really?” The tears are now flowing, and I wipe my nose on my sleeve. She hands me a handkerchief from her housecoat pocket. “Maybe I can just see her for a minute?” I blubber.
“Jimmy,” she begins to whisper. “Lola doesn’t have many other close friends. Most girls don’t understand her the way you do. I think she just needs time. Don’t give up on her.”
“I’d never give up on her,” I say softly. “I mean, I did give up on her, but I made a big mistake. Can’t I just see her?”
“Not today,” she replies and slips back inside.
“Mrs. Sheridan? Can you give her this?” I hand her the blood-stained journal.
“Of course,” she says, and closes the door.
I leave her porch and sneak to my room, close the door, and sit on my bed. Will she ever forgive me? What can I do? The empty fishbowl sits on the bedside table, and I wonder if there is any real luck in the world.
Create your own destiny rings in my head. Create your own destiny.
I open the new leather journal and title the first entry: Dear Lola.