Allie Jo
Knit one, purl two. Or at least I thought that’s what knitting would be. I loop the yarn around the needle and try to pull it back.
“Oops! You dropped a stitch.” Sophie lays her own needles down and takes the ones she’s lent me.
We’re sitting in the parlor next to the grand staircase that separates us from the front-desk area. I happen to think it’s an excellent sitting area, good for reading, for thinking, and especially for spying on every single guest that comes to check in, but since there’s not much going on today, knitting is okay too.
When Sophie and I first met yesterday, I was a little put off after Mom dragged me away from the third floor and that girl hiding in the closet. Also, I saw how pretty Sophie was. In my experience, pretty girls are usually mean, like Jennifer Jorgensen from school—that’s why you have to avoid them. But the first thing Sophie said was how lucky I was to be living here, so I shucked the chip right off my shoulder and crunched it under my feet.
Sophie hands my knitting back to me. “There you go!”
Raising the needle up, I examine a few rows that weren’t there before. You’d think a person might get mad, someone doing their project for them, but I’m glad. Sophie said I should start off with a scarf, and she wondered if it ever gets cold in Florida, but I said a scarf would do just fine, since I saw it was nothing but straight lines. Easy as pie.
Boy, was I wrong. You’ve got to have nimble fingers to knit, and Sophie’s pale fingers fly with the yarn. She’s making a scarf, too, but hers has patterns she knits right into it. Still, I’m happy with mine. She let me pick from her bundles of yarn, and I pulled out a ball of the most shimmery green I’ve ever seen.
My best friend, Melanie, doesn’t knit. She likes to watch TV and go swimming, but only if there’s no one else in the pool. This is on account of she’s kind of what you might call—well, I don’t like to say anything bad about her; she’s my best friend and all—but the kids at school call her Shamu, so now you know what I’m talking about, but I didn’t say it myself.
If I get really good at knitting, I’ll teach Melanie how to do it when she gets back from up north. I hate that she’s gone all summer. Not only is she my best friend, she’s my closest friend, and I really mean that—she’s the only girl from school who lives in bike-riding distance. I don’t count Jennifer Jorgensen and her little followers; they don’t live too far, but they think they’re so big because they’re one grade ahead of me. When Melanie gets back, we’ll knit ourselves all kinds of fancy stuff and everyone else will be jealous.
Where’d you get that? Jennifer Jorgensen will ask, eyeing my scarf.
I’ll toss it around my neck. It’s one of kind, I’ll say, and Melanie and I will walk off airily.
“Oh, um … ,” Sophie says. “I think you dropped a couple of stitches.”
“Oh!” I hand the little bit I’ve done to her, determined to pay more attention. “You’re really good at this. How long have you been knitting?”
Her eyes fastened to the needles, she goes, “I don’t know, a long time. My grandma taught me.” She hands my scarf back to me, which is about two inches long now. “She wanted me to have something to do, since I stay indoors a lot.” She picks up her needles. “I have allergies.”
“Allergies!” I drop another stitch. Putting my knitting in my lap, I glance at her. She doesn’t look like she has a disease or anything. Well, maybe she is kind of slim and sort of pale, but I expect that’s from being indoors all the time. “That’s terrible!”
She shakes her head. “It’s not bad. My parents are like experts when it comes to medicine, pollen counts, and allergens. When I was little, my mom kept my stuffed animals in bags.”
“Bags?” They wouldn’t have been able to breathe. Sure, I know they don’t need to, but when you’re little, you think they do. That’s why you also feed them.
“To keep the dust off.” She looks at me. “But none of my stuff is in bags now. I mainly get stuck indoors a lot.”
I think about that and nod. “You’ll be stuck indoors anyway,” I say. “This is the rainy season.” When she looks confused, I explain. “There’re two seasons in Florida: hot, and hot and rainy.” Then I say dramatically, “You’re in the jungle now!”
She takes her eyes off her knitting and looks at me wide-eyed.
I like a good audience. “Yes,” I hiss. “Alligators! Fire ants! Lizards!” Melanie sometimes hangs lizards by their jaws from her earlobes, trying to gross me out. It works.
“What about monkeys?” she asks. “Monkeys live in the jungle.”
“Monkeys!” I nod. “But not here. In Silver Springs. They made the Tarzan movies there a long time ago and the monkeys escaped. Now they’re all wild, living in the treetops.”
“Wow!”
Of course this makes me like her more. I like anyone who appreciates what I’ve got to say. Plus, look how nice she is, sharing her good yarn with me and everything.
“Welcome to Florida,” I say with a big smile, then quote the slogan: “The rules are different here.”