That night Mom said, “I was so busy with Stella’s class today, I forgot to bring the order binder home. I’m going to head back to the store to pick it up.”
“I can go for you, Laney,” Dad said.
I asked Dad if I could go with him and he said yes. My hair was wet because I had taken a bath. Usually I take a bath and just hang out at home until it’s time to go to bed.
It was the first time I was riding in a car with wet hair and pajamas, and it felt kind of funny. Well, I was only sort of in my pajamas. I had changed out of pajama pants into jeans, but I kept my pajama top on. It looked like a regular long-sleeved shirt so I don’t think anyone could tell.
Dad opened the door to the store and there was that special aroma (aroma is another word for smell) that just means Batts Confections. It’s a mix of chocolate and mint and cinnamon and a million different other candy flavors. I wish I could wrap it around myself, like a blanket. It’s so comfy.
We walked inside and I looked over at the Stella’s Fudge Counter. There were two customers taste-testing different fudge flavors. I could tell they were taste-testing because Stuart was giving them eensy weensy pieces. Mom calls them “slivers.” People can have slivers of as many different flavors as they want. That way they can decide what their favorite is, and then they can buy it.
When Stuart saw Dad and me he waved. “Well if it isn’t Miss Stella,” he said. “How lucky am I to see Stella Batts twice in one day! Hello Stella!”
I got a funny feeling when Stuart said my name over and over like that. It almost didn’t sound like my name anymore, and it made me feel shy.
“Hey darling, do you want to stay up here or do you want to come down to the office with me?” Dad asked.
“I want to go with you,” I told him.
We said goodbye to Stuart and then we walked through the door marked “PRIVATE” that’s behind the cash registers. I love going through that door because regular people aren’t allowed.
Behind the “PRIVATE” door, there’s a small hallway that leads to a staircase. There’s also an elevator. Dad says it’s a freight elevator, which means it’s there to move boxes from one floor to another, and not really for people.
Mom and Dad share an office in the basement. To get to it, they usually walk down the stairs. When I’m with Dad, we get to take the elevator so I can press the buttons. (Mom won’t ever take the elevator—not even when I’m with her—because one time she got stuck in an elevator and now she’s afraid of them.)
I pressed the button for the elevator and the doors opened. We stepped inside and I pressed the button marked “C,” which stands for cellar. That’s another word for basement.
The elevator is pretty slow, so it’s lucky we only had to go down one floor. Dad pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the office door. He flipped on the light switch and walked over to his desk. Then he cracked his knuckles. “If I were the order binder, where would I be?” he said. I knew he was talking to himself and not me, because he does that sometimes.
As he looked around, he started piling up other things—a box of samples from a new candy supply company, some papers and catalogues, and a green shopping bag, which was the same shade of green as the green kind of M&Ms. It was tied with a white satin ribbon, which made it look kind of like a present.
“I thought you just needed to get Mom’s binder,” I said.
“I did,” Dad said. “But whenever I’m in here I find other things I could work on.”
“Oh,” I said. “What’s in the bag?” I noticed a label on the side, with SCHEHERAZADE written in fancy letters.
“It’s from Fran, who runs the new bookstore. It’s just about set to open and your mom sent over a basket of chocolate-covered pretzels as a ‘Welcome-to-the-Neighborhood’ gift, so Fran dropped this off to thank her.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“I imagine it’s a book,” Dad said.
“Is the bookstore called Scher—I can’t say that word.”
“It’s pronounced SHUH-HARA-ZA-DUH,” Dad said. “It means a woman who’s a good storyteller.”
“Cool,” I said. I didn’t know there was a word for that. I said it in my head slowly, the way Dad had. It was five syllables, which was one more than Penelope. It sounded really fancy.
“Oh, there you are,” he said, suddenly talking to the order binder. It had been right smack in the middle of his desk the whole time. He put the binder on top of the pile and picked up the whole thing. “It’s always the last place you look.”
“But it has to be the last place you look, because once you find something, you stop looking,” I told him.
“You’re too smart for me,” Dad said.
“I can help you carry some things if you want,” I said.
“Thank you, darling.” He handed me the bag to hold and carried the rest himself.
“You always call me ‘darling,’” I said. Dad locked the office up again and we headed toward the elevator.
“That’s because you’re my darling,” Dad said.
I pressed the button and the elevator door opened. We stepped inside and I pressed the button marked “1.” “How did you decide on the name Stella?” I asked.
“You know this story,” Dad said.
“I want to hear it again,” I said. That’s another one of my favorite things—hearing stories about when I was little. I forgot to put it on my list.
“Okay, darling,” he said. The elevator door opened right then and I followed Dad back into the store.
Stuart called out, “Hey Stel, come here.”
Dad pushed me toward the fudge counter, so I had to go. Stuart held out a fudge sliver. “It’s our newest flavor,” he said. “Peanut butter cookie dough fudge.”
I looked over at Dad. I had already had dessert with dinner, so I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to taste it, even though it was just an eensy weensy piece.
“Go ahead,” Dad said.
I popped the fudge into my mouth and sucked on it, like it was a piece of caramel. I could taste all the flavors mixing together. The peanut butter and cookie dough and chocolate made the most perfect combination.
“Well?” Dad asked.
“I love it,” I said.
“Say thank you to Stuart,” he told me, even though I was going to say it on my own.
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m glad you liked it,” Stuart said. “It’s the first flavor I invented, so thank you for trying it.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
I said it really softly, so Stuart said, “What?”
“You’re welcome,” I said a little more loudly. I don’t know why I felt shy again, but I did. I reached for Dad’s hand, even though that’s kind of a babyish thing to do.
“Goodnight all,” Dad said. “Our compliments to the chef.”
“Bye Dave,” Stuart said. Dave is my dad’s name—short for David. He has a nickname, too.
We got to the car and Dad put all of his stuff next to me in the back seat. He waited for me to put on my seatbelt and then he turned the key to start the engine.
“You forgot to tell me the name story,” I said.
“I’ll tell you now,” Dad said. “Mommy was pregnant with you. We were so excited because we were about to have our very first baby. We didn’t know if you would be a boy or a girl, so we had two names picked out.”
“Nicole for a girl and Andrew for a boy,” I said.
“Exactly right,” Dad said. “But then you were born and the nurse asked us for a name for the birth certificate. Mom and I looked at you and we both thought the same thing.”
“You didn’t think I looked like a Nicole.”
“Nope,” Dad said. “And of course you didn’t look like an Andrew, either, but those were the only two names we had agreed on. So the nurse just put ‘Baby Batts’ on the little nametag around your ankle. Mom and I called you ‘BB’ for short.”
“I had a nickname back then,” I said.
“You did,” Dad said. “But we still had to come up with a name to put on your birth certificate. Some other parents had left behind a baby-name book. The nurse gave it to us, and Mom and I started reading the names out loud to you, to see what would fit. You know, it’s a big decision to name someone. Your kid will have to live with that decision for the rest of her life.”
“The rest of someone’s life is a long time,” I said.
“It sure is,” Dad said. “Then, at one point, I was trying to get you to fall asleep and I was reading the name book to you. I said, ‘Sweet dreams, little Stella.’”
“And I closed my eyes.”
“Yes, exactly,” Dad said. “You seemed to know I was talking to you. I looked over at Mommy and asked her what she thought of the name Stella. She loved it as much as I did, so that became your name.”
“Did you ever think you made a mistake?” I asked. “Like maybe it sounded like an old lady’s name, or maybe I wouldn’t like it?”
“Nope, not for one second,” Dad said. “It’s who you are. Now it’s my favorite name.”
“More favorite than the name Penelope?”
“They’re both my favorite names,” Dad said. “My favorite names for my favorite girls.”
He clicked the rearview mirror down so he could see me in the back seat, and then he smiled at me. It made me feel kind of bad about not liking my name. But I couldn’t help it.
Just then Dad drove over a bump and the stuff in the back seat slid over toward me. The bag from Fran fell into my lap. I twirled the satin ribbon around my fingers. It felt so soft, like fresh fudge, or actually even softer. It was almost squishy, like a giraffe’s lips. Most people don’t know what giraffe lips feel like, but I touched a giraffe at the zoo last year. It bent its long neck down and its lips brushed against my hand. I was scared at first, but it didn’t hurt me at all. It was very gentle.
I turned the bag over so I could see the label again: Scheherazade. I let go of the ribbon and traced the letters so I could remember how to spell it. Scheherazade. Scheherazade. Scheherazade. It was a name for a writer. Maybe it could be my new name. My life would probably be totally different with a name like that. I could be Scheherazade, a really good storyteller, who wouldn’t ever slip and fall. People could call me Sherry for short. They would never, ever call me Smella.
And my new name would look perfect on the cover of my book.