“No,” I said.
Boo Boo told me that a proxy is someone who is authorized to act on behalf of somebody else. A proxy could take your place and vote for something. Or sign some legal papers for you. It’s like a proxy person has permission to play the part of you.
“Sounds like pinch-hitting,” I said.
She slapped the bench. “ ’Zacly! You wanna pinch-hit for Boo Boo?”
“Sure,” I said. “What am I doing?”
She told me. She wanted me to go to Scooper Dooper. She wanted me to order a banana split. All three scoops chocolate. Wet walnuts. Hot fudge. Extra whipped cream. Four cherries. One for each scoop, plus one. No pineapple. Just like we talked about. “And then,” she said, and she turned fully to me on the bench and her voice went soft and solemn, “you gonna sit there—in a window table, you got that?”
I nodded. “I got it.”
“A window table in front, so’s you can see the peoples walkin by…” She waited.
“Got it.”
“And you’re gonna eat that banana split. Only”—she poked me softly—“it ain’t gonna be you eating it. It’s gonna be me.” She could see I was struggling to keep up. “Listen to me, Miss Cammie…” She took my hand. She placed it on my chest, then hers. “There’s love between you and me. A love bridge.”
I squeezed her hand, which seemed big as a baseball glove. I loved the disparity between our fingernails—hers red and long and glamorous; mine stumpy, ragged, dirty. “I like that,” I said.
“And that love bridge, that makes us sisters. Y’see?”
I nodded. “I see.”
“So you is me and I is you.” She frowned. Maybe at the grammar, maybe at the idea. Whichever, she laughed the frown away. “You with me?”
“I’m with you.”
“So, when you’re up there eatin’ the banana split…” She paused; she seemed to be getting her thoughts straight. “Eatin’ that banana split…it’s goin’ in”—she poked me—“you, but the one tastin’ it”—she poked herself—“is me.” She cocked her head. “Still with me?”
“Still with you,” I said. Even though I wasn’t, not really.
She looked away, into some beyond I could not see. A peacefulness came upon her. “Miss Cammie, as long as you’re eatin’ that split, I’m gonna be out…without bein’ out.”
We stared at each other, silenced by the wonderfulness of the notion.
She jabbed a red fingernail at me. “And don’t you think you can fool me, girl. If there ain’t four cherries gone into that moutha yours, I’ll know it.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll do it right.”
She smacked the bench. “It’s gonna work. I know it.” She leaned into me. “You know why?”
“Why?” I said.
She slumped. “Miss Cammie,” she said with exaggerated dismay. “We went over this. It’s gonna work because…”
She waited for me to complete the sentence. I couldn’t. I was on summer vacation. The last thing I needed was a pop quiz. “Because…?” I peeped.
She took my face in her hands. She pronounced a syllable: “Luh…luh…”
I cried: “Love bridge!”
She kissed me on the nose. She swallowed me in a hug. “Only two peoples with a love bridge can do it.” She tapped me. “Proxy.”
I nodded. “Proxy.”
“Sisters.”
I looked up at her. I fell into her eyes. “Sisters.”
Sisters.
The word occupied the space between us as the brewery whistled lunchtime. We wrapped it up with a flurry of will-yous and yes-I-wills and “Four cherries!” As we left the Quiet Room, I released a thought that had been nipping at me. “Boo Boo,” I said, “I know it’s really gonna be you eating the banana split, but can I sneak in just one bite for myself?” As I recall, she was laughing too hard to reply.
I was at my backyard gate when a thought flew straight through my brain and out my mouth: “Boo Boo!” I called. “I left the note!”
By then she was heading in for lunch, towering as always above the others. I could only hope that she heard me.