Portia's Exclusive and Confidential Rules on True Friendship (7 page)

6:24
P.M.,
P
ALMVILLE
S
TREET

I
ndigo and I round the corner to our house, and there is Frederick waiting for us at the bottom of our driveway. As soon as we get out of the car, there's the usual cat-who-thinks-he's a dog routine, lots of tail wagging, frantic panting, and jumping around in crazy circles, going nowhere. When Frederick finally calms down, I show him the extra-large glass soy mayo jar that is now serving as Sweet Sunshine's rent-free condo.

He's curious at first. Then his jealous streak sends all the gray and white fur on his back pointing up to the sky. His sad puppy-dog cat eyes appear to actually fill with tears. I
explain, “Sweet Sunshine is just an insect. Besides, she's not mine.” Frederick swipes at the jar again with his furry right paw. “It's true,” I continue. Then he lets out a Saint Bernard–size growl. “Frederick! You have to understand that Sweet Sunshine was in trouble. I had to rescue her. She belongs to my new friend Misty, who I know will fall in love with you the moment she sets her green-gray-colored eyes on you.”

7:13
P.M.,
M
Y
B
EDROOM

D
inner is going to be late tonight because of our Mission Impossible cricket rescue. I change into my drawstring pajama pants and my vintage Beatles tee and tune in to my favorite radio station. I take my hat off and balance it on top of the largest book on my bookshelf,
The Absolute Complete Unabridged Version of the History of the World.
That's where I keep the most important piece of evidence about my missing father—a photograph. It's a black-and-white, out-of-focus image that Indigo has confirmed is Patch, my missing father.

I slide the photograph out to take my three-hundred-billionth look at it. I study it carefully, then close my eyes, trying to imagine my father back when he first met Indigo. I'm sure he spoke in a calm, deep voice, and when he laughed, he would send catch-on-fire sound waves across the room. He was most likely perfect in every way.

I then remember that I have to write my punishment essay for Mr. Scuzzy, so I sit at my desk to give it a try. I manage the following short paragraph just as the wind chimes ring from downstairs.

I press save and look up at the ceiling, using my X-ray vision to imagine the night sky just beginning to make its appearance. I silently ask the heavens to please let Mr. Scuzzy accept my essay for what it is, even if it is kind of short. Please let him care more about quality than quantity. Please let him give me a second chance.

7:26
P.M.,
A
VATAR
K
ITCHEN

Dinner Menu at the Avatars

Nearly-a-Burger with Real Cheese

Gluten-Free and Simply Saucy Chili Fries

Crispy Carrot Chips

Over-the-Top Soy Vanilla Yogurt Cups

 

Crunching on a carrot chip, I eye Indigo suspiciously. “What's the occasion?”

“You!”

“Me?”

Indigo adds, “And me!” A thunderous growl rumbles
at my feet, which leads Indigo to say, “And Frederick, too! We're all together now. Isn't it wonderful?”

“Mom, you're forgetting something, or should I say someone.”

“I included Frederick.” This is followed by the sound of Frederick's extra-long tail drumming a happy beat on the floor. Then Indigo adds, “Oh, and of course, our overnight visitor, Sweet Sunshine.”

I look into her deep brown eyes. “Patch! He's still missing, and until he's back home with us sharing a family meal, we're not ‘all together.'”

She squirms in her seat. “We're working on it, aren't we?”

“You've been so busy with pomegranates and Rock that there's been 0 percent progress.”

Indigo defends herself. “I'm doing my best. I've really been trying, Portia.”

“There's no evidence of that, Mom. And now, with
another case on my plate, I don't want to lose ground with our search for Patch.”

Gently Indigo reaches for my hand. “Trust me.”

I let her hold my hand for exactly three seconds.

Indigo conveniently leaves the table and goes into the kitchen to prepare a mystery dessert, which she pours into a bowl. Then she proudly presents it to me. “Honey-sweetened pomegranate syrup to sample with the vanilla yogurt cups.”

I quickly slurp up my yogurt covered with sticky red syrup, which actually tastes okay, except for the puckery effect of the pomegranate. Indigo will be happy to hear that I'm giving her tasty dessert 3.75 stars (out of a possible 5). But my food review will have to wait until later because the phone rings, interrupting our evening. It's Rock, one of Palmville's bravest.

To avoid listening in on Indigo and Rock's sticky-sweet conversation, I invite Frederick to join me outside in our backyard garden for some night air. He follows, sniffing madly down the narrow path to one of my all-time favorite spots, the hammock that hangs between two slumping lemon trees. I jump on it, letting my feet touch the sky as I slowly rest my head on the canvas pillow at just the right angle. I've perfected this move over the years, so it's not something I really think about much now. Frederick knows the routine too and follows along, landing squarely on my stomach. It's always the same thing. First I shriek, “Ouch, Frederick! Your paws!” Then he apologizes by licking my face with his rough tongue, begging for forgiveness. Then I say, “I love you, Freddy Fred Frederick!” This evening I add, “You see, here we are having one-on-one time, just like I told you we would!”

Frederick and I swing on the hammock to the tune of the lone bird who lives in one of the trees above us. If I look up through the green leaves huddled together, I can see him singing his evening song. Every once in a while he flaps his wings, showing off the black-and-white-striped pattern Mother Nature has so kindly given him. Maybe
his song sounds sweet, but I'm certain that when a bird sings that loudly and that sweetly, it's because he's searching for something, like a girlfriend. So really his sugary melody is kind of a sad song. I look up past the branch at the moon, which only reminds me of Patch, who is somewhere out there living an extraordinarily adventurous life, and who doesn't have a clue that I exist.

1. My father's name is Patch.
   
2. I have a blurry black-and-white photo of him wearing a hat.
   
3. I've received colorful postcards from him (in my dreams) with super short messages on them, promising an imminent return.
   
4. I am Patch's daughter.
   

As I swing back and forth, I realize that the singing feathered bachelor and I have a lot in common. We're
both searching for a loved one under the glow of tonight's silvery moon.

A loud giggle travels from the kitchen through the screen door, interrupting the winged Romeo's “where is my true love?” melody. He stops to listen. Then he picks up on Indigo's giggly tune, mixing it with his own, and soon I'm hearing it in stereo.

I swing back and forth, staring at the moon, plugging my ears from the chirping, singing, giggling bird above me and from Indigo's extra loud and extra long conversation with Rock. I decide to take out my PDA to see what digital news has come my way.

There are two messages waiting for me. The first one is marked “Extremely Urgent,” and it's from Mademoiselle Clamdigger.

I quickly reply to her message to reassure her that our friendship is still on solid ground.

I read the second message. It's from Misty.

Indigo is finally off the phone. She waves at me through the screen door. With dueling friends, one new and one old, occupying my mind, I make my nightly trek to my bedroom. Indigo interrupts my train of thought, gently grabbing my hand. “You're right, Portia, we've got to change the direction of the search. It's time for a new approach.” Her voice crescendos with renewed energy. “Let's reserve Sunday nights for a Patch Powwow, where we gather all our research and findings from each week. That way we'll always be on the same page, and we'll be able to compare notes about our progress. Sound good?”

I give my mom a giant polar bear hug, which we both know means, Yes, that is so entirely cool of you to step up the search!

7:28
A.M.,
A
VATAR
K
ITCHEN

A
morning phone call from Rock interferes with Indigo's latest breakfast creation. She's attempting pomegranate waffles with wild cherry and lime organic spread. My taste buds beg for something simple. Perhaps a bowl of Corn Flakes? But her insistent look demands I taste her pomegranate creation. I twist my fork into her newly imagined red-tinted breakfast, while she heads to the refrigerator and takes out my prepared lunch, meticulously packed in a reusable lunch bag. She balances the phone under one ear and hands me my packed lunch, all while dancing to an invisible beat.

Indigo finally hangs up from her conversation with the firefighter. She adjusts her long single braid, then pulls a stool up to the table. “I must hear about last night's dreams. I've been waiting all morning!”

“That's impossible, Indigo. You've been on the phone all morning.”

“Just one dream will do, Portia.”

“Nothing comes to me.”

Frederick interrupts his morning leftover pomegranate waffle to chase my PDA (which has mysteriously found its way to the kitchen floor), swatting at it like it's some sort of
giant bug. When I finally retrieve it, I see that I have a message from Misty. She's super psyched that Sweet Sunshine is “coming home” today. She instructs me to meet her at the front entrance of school and promises that she'll be prompt!

Indigo gathers her necessities for another busy day at The Tent. She juggles freshly picked limes and lemons from our backyard, then packs them into her “Green Is My Favorite Color” hemp bag. She tosses a small piece of lettuce into the soy mayo jar presently housing Sweet Sunshine, providing the three-legged insect with some morning nourishment. “We'll get back to your dreams later, Portia. I expect a full report.”

Trying to make my mother happy, at least until she discovers that there are in fact no dreams to report, I respond, “Okay, Mom.”

7:47
A.M.,
P
ALMVILLE
S
TREET

I
hold the jar containing Sweet Sunshine on my lap. My knapsack rests precariously on the car floor in
front of me. Our hybrid quietly heads toward town. I watch Frederick sitting at the edge of the driveway, staring at our car. I stare back at him, even though he can't see me.

At the first red light, Indigo glances down at Sweet Sunshine, who is happily chewing on her piece of fresh homegrown lettuce. “We make quite a team, don't we?”

“Yes. That was an inspiring rescue last night!”

“I was wondering how the case with Misty is progressing. Has the Sweet Sunshine rescue provided you with any new insights?”

“It's confidential, Mom. Anything I've told you about the case, and what's happened between you, me, and Sweet Sunshine, is entirely classified.”

With a smile on her face, she calmly says, “You can count on me. I won't reveal anything to anyone at any time, now or in the future.” She stops the car at the front entrance of Palmville Middle School and sneaks a kiss on my cheek. “Have a beautiful day at school.”

I place Sweet Sunshine securely on the passenger seat while I grab my knapsack and step out to greet the world of middle school once again. Indigo zooms off, but then I see her put on the brakes and carefully back up. Through
the opened window, she hands me Sweet Sunshine. “I think you forgot something. Or should I say, someone.”

“Thanks, Mom. Good luck with the pomegranates.” This time she zooms off and keeps going all the way to The Tent to start her long day of inventing recipes and baking, roasting, and grilling vegetarian, preservative-free delights.

8:01
A.M.,
T
HE
F
RONT
S
TEPS
,
P
ALMVILLE
M
IDDLE
S
CHOOL

I
prep for the much rumored math quiz while waiting for Misty, who seems to be late a lot. I quickly make a note of this fact and then get back to math madness. As I search for the chapter that I'm certain we'll be tested on, the postcards that Vera had given Misty fall to the bottom concrete step just below me. I lean forward to gather all three of them, quickly glancing at the short messages on each card. The words send my imagination spinning back in time to when they were written. For fun, I try to picture the people who wrote them.

POSTCARD #1:
A
FADED IMAGE OF A BOUQUET OF INTERWEAVING VIOLETS.

Willie was surely young and in love. Maybe he was on leave from a World War.

POSTCARD #2:
A
PHOTO OF
M
OUNT
R
USHMORE WITH A SCRIPTED MESSAGE
,
“F
ACES OF THE
F
ABULOUS
F
OUR
.”

The third postcard strikes me as different from the others. It doesn't appear to be as old-fashioned. The image invites me to wonder where it is and why its writer has traveled so far away from home. I've never seen an ocean so crystal blue. The sandy beach, in contrast, is a pure white. Tall green ferns sway in the breeze. There's not a person, animal, or building in sight. It's a desert island! What sparks my curiosity most about this image is the message printed in a bright, sunshine yellow color on the upper right corner. It reads, “Imagine.”

I turn over the card with great anticipation. Whispering the message to myself, I read the note.

My whole body shakes as I spell out the letters. P-A-T-C-H. It's him! This is a postcard from my nowhere-to-be-found father!

All I see is the postcard. Everything else around me is a total blur. My heart beats faster as I check the address,
and there it is, Trash and Treasures, 278 Main Street, Palmville, CA. That means Vera knew Patch! They even had a correspondence!

I feel a tap on my shoulder, which shakes me from the mild state of shock in which I find myself. I look up, and it's Webster. “Ms. Avatar.”

I gasp. “Webster! It wasn't supposed to be you!”

“Are you certain about that?”

“Yes, absolutely!”

He scratches his head. “I was wondering something.”

“Oh?”

“It's a personal question. Do you mind?”

I look around for Misty to appear and rescue me
from this really uncomfortable boy/girl exchange. “Is it the same question you were going to ask me a few days ago?”

“Uh, I was wondering…”

The first bell rings, signaling that we have two minutes to get to Mr. Scuzzy's class. I grab my knapsack and stand up so quickly that I lose my grip on Sweet Sunshine's glass home. Webster tries to help me prevent the jar from hitting the ground and shattering into a thousand pieces. As we struggle to keep the jar from falling, the cover loosens and out jumps a very anxious Sweet Sunshine.

She immediately crawls around the back of my shirt! With a book bag on my back and a glass jar now in my right hand, I take my left hand and try desperately to catch Sweet Sunshine, causing my books to spill from the bag, flying into the air. Webster leaps to the rescue, carefully collecting the books one at a time for me.

I spot Sweet Sunshine crawling down my sleeve now. “Sweet Sunshine, you're still with me. Please remain calm. I've got you!” I delicately catch the orphaned cricket and place her inside the jar. Webster stands there, witnessing
my goofy cricket dance. He's got my books piled neatly on the steps. And he's retrieved the postcard from Patch, my new groundbreaking piece of material evidence for the case.

I am so overjoyed to have rescued Sweet Sunshine for the second time in twenty-four hours that my hands spring forward, grabbing Webster and giving him a major-motion-picture hug. He backs away with an “I've just seen a ghost” expression on his face, stumbling down the path to the main entrance of school. I look down at my shoes, and there, under my left foot, is the essay I wrote for Mr. Scuzzy on second chances. It's torn down the center, with Webster's footprints on it, and now it's got mine on it too.

W.H. and I are bonded together through our footprints on my punishment essay. I make a quick mental note of this potentially poignant fact, then race the second bell before I start accumulating even more middle school demerits.

As I rush to class I smile, knowing that I have concrete evidence of my father's existence tucked inside my back pocket. Vera was right. Nothing ever stays the same.