Serendipity and Me (9781101602805) (9 page)

 

There are probably digital pictures

on Mom's old laptop

but I need pictures I can take in

and our printer's messed up.

 

I think I remember a box full of pictures—

I guess no one around here

was organized enough

for photo albums.

 

The box was pretty

with roses on the sides

and it used to sit beside the rocker.

 

It's not there now.

Missing, like the silver-framed

family picture.

 

No family pictures

on the family room walls.

Unless you count Shakespeare as family.

The kitchen has pictures of strawberries

and blue dishes.

The hall has pictures of paths through woods.

The grown-ups in this family are missing.

 

There are just those old pictures of me.

 

And a space beside the rocker

and on the mantel

 

where a family used to be.

 

 

 

So now I have another question

to ask Dad

in the quiet of bedtime.

 

Not just

Is that the same book

in Mom's fairy tale?

but

Where are the missing pictures?

 

I have another question

that will only be asked

in the quiet of my mind:

 

If there are no family pictures

 

does that mean

there's no family?

 

Dad comes out of his study again

this time carrying his laptop.

I found some templates you can use

for the free kitten posters.

 

Why is he so eager

to make this house

 

emptier?

 

 

 

By bedtime

I'm so worked up

I almost don't even want

to ask him anything. . . .

Which question do I ask first?

 

I cuddle Serendipity

and wait until he comes to say good night.

I wait until he straightens my covers.

I wait until he whisker-kisses my forehead . . .

until he stands at the door

 

then I start with the easy one.

Dad, that book you were reading today—

what's it about?

 

Dad looks at his watch.

It's a book of poems.

 

He hesitates at my pointed
And?

That's a long story, Sara.

I'll tell you more about it later,

all right? It's late. . . .

 

And now I can't ask

my question about family pictures

 

because how could that answer

be a short story?

 

 

 

Our cottage

is sweet in the daytime

almost like a gingerbread house.

 

Blooming vines climb

the outside walls

 

but they rustle against my window

in the dark

 

and I am afraid

of their shadows

 

until

Serendipity appears.

 

It is hard

to be afraid of the dark

 

when a cat

is standing on your face.

 

 

Dad doesn't have time this morning

to make scrambled eggs.

 

He tosses a Pop-Tart at me

clunks down a glass of orange juice

thwaps down a container of yogurt

slides a spoon across the table

before I have a chance to move.

 

But what about Serendipity?

I ask.

 

He throws his head back

shoots air out of his mouth

then shoves a tiny bowl at me.

Run next door and ask for some cat food

he says.

We'll buy our own this afternoon.

 

I tuck my kitty into my sweater

race across wet grass in bare feet

and knock on Mrs. Whittier's door.

 

I see our reflection in the window.

I haven't brushed my hair yet

and it's sticking up wildly

like Serendipity's head of fur.

 

We are dandelions of the morning.

 

 

 

Mrs. Whittier opens the door with a laugh

and clasps her hands together.

You have a kitty!

 

For now,
I say.

For a little bit, anyway.

 

She tilts her head

sets her silver earrings swinging.

She may know more

about my father and cats

than she's ever let on.

You can tell me about it later—

aren't you running late for school?

 

Yeah,
I say,
but I need some breakfast

for Serendipity.

 

Named her already?

She takes the bowl

and when she brings it back

Shoji—her tabby—is following her

his eyes on the bowl.

 

When she gives it to me

she reaches out the other hand

as if to smooth my hair

then draws it back

without touching me.

 

May you find a way to keep her, Sara.

Her solid voice has become soft.

If there's anything I can do. . . .

 

 

 

Miss Conglin looks up from her computer

when I put my papers on her desk.

Good to have you back, Sara

she says with a smile.

Did you understand all the makeup work?

 

I nod.

 

Did Garrett get the recording to you?

 

Yes. Thanks.

I wonder if I should say something more

about the play

 

and then three Lost Boys

and Tiger Lily

shove through the door

with their furs and feathers

all ready to be put away

in the costume closet

 

and it seems like old news

that has nothing to do with

empty-handed

me.

 

 

 

I feel the Pan's presence

when he enters the room.

 

The performance has

left its mark on him.

 

A sixth-grade celebrity.

 

The air tingles around him

and when I look his way

he's almost shiny.

 

I want to see the smile I saw

at my door.

I want him to smile at me

like when I was his Wendy.

 

But I can't even

catch

his

eye.