fourteen
Miracle of miracles, DiDi agreed to let me take babysitting jobs from the moms at the library as long as I kept my perfect grades. It was my very first time with a real paying job. Come to think of it, it was the very first time for a lot of things.
It was the first time I had spending money of my own, and with what these moms were paying me to watch their cute kids and sit in their beautiful houses, I was able to get myself some really nice clothes like I’d always wanted. I mean, I had the uniform to get me through the school week, but the weekends were a different story, because now I had people to see and places to go.
It was also the first time that I wasn’t being completely truthful with DiDi.
A couple of times on Saturday mornings, she’d ask me if I wanted to help her plan the Gala menu, and I’d tell her I was going to study at the library. But then I’d stow my stuff away in the children’s coat closet and double back and meet Trip and everyone in town for a day of Absolutely No Studying. Just Fun.
Living in a Walking Town meant we could go anywhere we wanted anytime. I could walk from our apartment to school, to the library, to this cute little boutique with the prettiest clothes I’d ever seen in my life. But best of all, I could walk to the movies, and that was Trip’s favorite thing to do. We’d go to this great old movie theater that always had Saturday movie marathons. Trip loved old horror movies the best. I didn’t always get to sit next to him, but that was all right. There was always a big group of us. I was just good and glad to be there. I didn’t even mind that Mace would toss her perfect hair and give me the death stare whenever Trip wasn’t looking.
Even school days were fun for the first time. I still got all my top grades, though I had to stay up later at home to get all my extra credit done, since my days of studying during lunchtime were over. But DiDi didn’t need to know that. Or that I spent all my study halls and free time talking to Trip about, oh, everything in the world. He listened and listened and didn’t always say much himself, but that was okay. I had plenty of KOBs to open up at home, telling me that even though he wasn’t good at saying stuff out loud, he still wanted to let me know how he felt. DiDi’s KOBs, on the other hand, I’d stopped opening, dropping them in the garbage on my way out of the cafeteria. It’s not like they were ever going to say anything new.
One day, Mr. McGuire was writing on the board when we walked into the classroom. Trip swung into his seat like he always did, and I looked at him like having a beautiful, rumply boy want to sit next to me every single day was the most natural thing in the world. Billy hurled himself into the seat on my other side and gave me a wide grin.
“Hey, Tripper! Hey, G!”
I gave Billy his hourly high five that I’m pretty sure he would shrivel up and die without. Then Trip laughed at us and as I turned back to him and looked into his Wish Pie eyes, I just wanted to tell him everything about how I felt inside and how I had never in my life even come close to liking a boy like him who sent me sweet notes who maybe or maybe not was my boyfriend, and if only I could tell him—
“The Truth!” Mr. McGuire bellowed, pointing to the huge words he had just written.
I jumped about a foot in the air, which made both Billy and Trip just lose it. Mr. McGuire never gets mad, though. He just started passing out papers, calm as can be.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have started our preparations for landing. Please make sure your tray tables and seat backs are in the upright position, so we can begin our talk about the Truth. In literature and poetry.”
Right away, I could feel myself starting to think about other stuff. See, I’ve never really been into reading a lot of stories and poems. My librarian friends at my old school used to make suggestions all the time, but DiDi prefers I don’t waste time with daydreaming and nonsense. She figures that the arts are just not the direction I should take my Recipe for Success. That science is more the road for me. Even though I was making up my own Recipe from now on, I had to agree with her about that. After all, it was in my blood and it was the part of Mama that was a part of me. I wasn’t about to let that go.
“Ponder this, O brilliant pupils: Is writing fiction no more than lying? Making up a story so real, so full of true feeling that while we read, we can only accept it as true? At least within its context. Beautiful lies. But lies nonetheless.” Mr. McGuire strolled to the window and gazed off into the distance, like maybe the rest of his lecture was out there by the football field. I started thinking about the extra credit I could ask for in math later.
“Now… poetry, on the other hand. Many would argue that to speak poetry is to speak the Truth. A truth so beautiful it makes the heart hurt with its honesty. Please look at the papers I’ve put on your desks while I read ‘This Is Just to Say’:
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
“Penned by the inimitable William Carlos Williams. Now compare that to—someone give me an example of your favorite book—ah yes! Always ready with an answer, Mr. Billy Fender?”
“My algebra book. I always cry at the part where you don’t know what x stands for.” Billy pretended to blow his nose.
The class laughed, as always.
Mr. McGuire wiped an imaginary tear from his eye and flicked it into the air. “Ah yes. A classic tragedy…” And that is why he is hands down my favorite teacher. Back home, a smart aleck like Billy would be in the principal’s office after that. “Anyone else? Someone less sentimental, perhaps? How about Missssssss Galileo!”
Mr. McGuire has yet to call me Leia. He said he loved the name Galileo and he just had to meet the mom who was creative enough to give it to me. He turned red when I told him that wasn’t going to happen, seeing as Mama was dead. I didn’t mean to make him feel bad; I was just Saying It Like It Is. He said sorry and that she must have been an extraordinary woman, and I replied that she was.
“Miss Galileo? We await your response with bated breath.”
Darn. “Uh, me?” I said. Because, remember, I like to come up with really snappy zingers.
“Uh, you, Miss Galileo,” Mr. McGuire said. “In your humble scientific opinion, does poetry lie or tell the truth?”
I thought about it. “Well… isn’t it all lies?” I asked. “Aren’t you just trying to entertain people when you write stories or poetry—or, you know, whatever?”
“Or-you-know-whatever.” Mr. McGuire pretended to pull a knife out of his heart. “Miss Galileo, clarify your point. Are you saying William Carlos Williams was simply trying to entertain someone with the story of eating the cold plums instead of expressing a deep truth?”
“Well, maybe none of that ever happened, and he just presented it that way because he wanted to look good. He probably just wanted people to think he was something he wasn’t.”
“Or perhaps, Miss Galileo, he wanted to take something painful from his past—stealing plums—and turn it into something beautiful—a poem.”
I shrugged. “Maybe… but I don’t know why he has to make it all stretched out and funny-looking on the paper. He should just Say It Like It Is.”
“Alas, I believe we have a realist on our hands, but one with her own style of debate. So I will let your argument stand in light of the fact that we will have an assignment in which each of you will come up with your own answer. This semester we search for the Truth.” He pointed to the words on the chalkboard again. “What is your Truth? Reflect upon it. Write it. This assignment will be due in four weeks.”
Everyone cheered.
“During which there will still be regularly assigned homework.…”
Everyone booed.
“And your Truth will be written in the form of poetry.”
The booing went up in volume.
“Put away the pitchforks and torches, O angry villagers,” Mr. McGuire said. He’s the only teacher I know who won’t even blink at a room full of booing students. “Poetry takes time. I want you to think—dare I say, ruminate—for a while. Take notes. Live with it. For those of you in need of a definition for ruminate, please see Mr. Fender.”
I raised my hand. “Can we do an essay or a report or maybe research a poet instead?”
Mr. McGuire studied me for a moment before answering. “Sorry, Miss Galileo, but it looks like you’re going to have to search the stars for inspiration. Now, everyone, I want to see Truth on the page. Show me this and make way for a life filled with riches, fame, and high marks in English.”
Trip was watching me in that special way he had. “This is a really good one for you.”
“Me? Why? I don’t like poetry.”
“Well… you always tell the truth, and now… now all you have to do is make it rhyme or something.”
Billy leaned in toward us. “This is just to say I wish you could get your sister, DiDi, to pack an extra fried chicken and butter sandwich. They look so… uh, fried and salty, and all I’ll probably get to eat is a Healthy Revolution Tomato. Forgive me. I already stole your lunch.”
Then he held up the brown bag he had snuck from my backpack. I laughed and grabbed it back. Knowing people like Trip and Billy was the best part of moving here, but I did have to disagree with Billy on one thing. There is nothing in all the world better than a true summer tomato. Because it never needs to become anything else to be the best it can be. No fancy frying or shish-kabobbing or anything like that.
It is what it is.
And that’s just fine with me.
True Summer Tomato
• The best homegrown summer tomato you can pick
• Salt
That’s it. A tomato and salt.
Now, you all calm down. As long as there are ingredients, this is a recipe.
Pick the tomato warm from the garden.
Sit right there in a sunny patch if you’ve got one.
Brush off any dirt and bugs, but don’t make yourself crazy.
Sprinkle with a little salt. And don’t you dare add one other thing, because there’s just something about a tomato being a tomato. Eat it like an apple. Let the juices run down your chin, and then wipe ’em away with your shirtsleeve. You heard me. The perfect summer tomato is worth half a shirt.
And that’s the truth.
Serves 1.