The Crazy Things Girls Do for Love (21 page)

But nothing is without its problems, is it? For, despite all of this and the crates of used goods already locked up in the school’s storeroom, the project is still short on funds. Volunteers have been sent out carrying leaflets and wearing Earth Day buttons to ask for donations from local businesses and the community at large, but except for Cody convincing the electric company to be an official sponsor (which owes something to the fact that Cody’s father knows the CEO) the response has been less than overwhelming.

“It’s like we’ve built it, but nobody knows it’s here,” said Cody. “What we need is someone with a serious kick-butt sense of salesmanship to go out there and talk these birds right out of their trees. Someone who really knows how to get people to part with their dough.”

Two hands were waving in the air before he’d finished speaking.

* * *

“I think it’s terrific that you’re giving up another Saturday at the mall to raise money for the Earth Day Fair,” says Mrs Kewe. On Saturdays, of course – unless there’s a big game, a flu epidemic or a major weather event that closes roads and shuts down power – Sicilee, Kristin, Ash and Loretta always go to the mall. At least they used to. Before Sicilee had so many other things to do. “That’s what I call real dedication.”

Sicilee smiles. “Oh, I’m dedicated all right.”

Her hand beat Maya’s into the air by at least a half of a nanosecond. There was no way she was going to let Maya raise hundreds of dollars single-handed and get all the glory and praise.

“What about a ride into town, then?” asks her mother. “I think you can risk a tiny carbon toeprint in such a good cause.”

“That’s OK.” Sicilee’s smile is serene. “I’d rather walk.”

Which, strangely enough, is true. Although Sicilee used to feel the same way about walking as the emperors of Europe and Asia felt about work (all right for some, but not for them), over the weeks of walking to school she has actually begun to enjoy it. She no longer counts the blocks or groans with boredom or wishes she was in one of the cars that race past her, talking about what this season’s colours will be or listening to her latest download. She notices things that before would have passed her by like clouds – not just the meerkats on Burr, but that pond with ducks on Millett Lane and the wild parrots on the north side of town and the old barn that sits at the edge of one of the newer, anonymous housing developments like a ghost. She looks forward to seeing the Jack Russell who always runs out to greet her from the pink house with the swing on the front porch, and to passing the old man walking his dachshund who always wishes her the top of the morning, and to meeting up with Abe for the last leg of her journey. These things make her days more interesting, very much in the way that cloth-covered buttons or a necklace of glass beads will set off a plain dress.

Breakfast over, Mrs Kewe stands on the front porch, waving her goodbye. It’s a beautiful day. Cold, but bright and sunny. If you look closely, as Sicilee now does, you can see the first buds appearing on the trees, the first flowers poking up through the ground. Winter is winding down.

Sicilee strides along, her hair blowing behind her, smiling with confidence, imagining Cody and her strolling through the Earth Day celebration arm-in-arm. She has no doubt that she will succeed in getting donations where others have failed. After all, if there’s one thing Sicilee is very good at, it’s getting money from people who don’t necessarily want to give it. She’s been practising on her parents since she was two. Like the carrot dangled on the end of a stick in front of the poor donkey, Cody has stayed just out of Sicilee’s reach for all these months. Yes, they are friendly. Yes, she has found herself standing so close to him that she can see the weave in his organic cotton shirt. Yes, he sometimes smiles at her in a way that makes her feel as if she’s been punched in the stomach; sometimes looks into her eyes in a way that makes her forget where she is. He has even flirted with her now and then. But the promise she sees in his melt-your-heart smiles and soulful looks has never been fulfilled. Not even close.

The truth is that he’s friendly with everyone; smiles at everyone; even flirts with Ms Kimodo and Mrs Sotomayor. The fact that he heaps praise on her
Easy Ways to Save the Planet
campaign doesn’t count for anything, either. He heaps praise on Maya’s
Do You Know?
posters with just as much enthusiasm. Indeed, he pretty much praises any idea that comes up – no matter what it is or who suggests it – as though it’s the biggest thing since penicillin. It’s no exaggeration to say that,
That’s awesome, man, that’s truly awesome!
and
That is, like, fantástico! You knock me back!
are phrases that come out of Cody Lightfoot the way hot air comes out of an air-conditioning vent. And, to make matters worse, lately Cody is so completely focused on Earth Day that those precious moments when she would walk the last block to school or the first block from school with him no longer happen. He’s always either late or leaves early, running off to give newspaper and radio interviews; to talk to church and civic groups; to convince the bowling league, the American Legion and the Historical Society that they all have a part to play in saving the Earth.

But this – at last – could be the thing that finally makes Cody take her seriously. Looks, popularity and a passion for vegetables may all be ignored, but money is always guaranteed to attract attention.

Marching into town like an invading army, Sicilee stops just outside the square to assemble her troops. Although the historic village of Clifton Springs has spread out over the centuries since it was founded, and is now surrounded by several shopping centres and acres of housing developments, the heart of the village is still only four blocks of quaint wooden houses and small brick buildings around a large green where sheep once grazed. In the middle of the green, surrounded by oak trees and silver birches, there is a clapboard church (rebuilt 1820), a monument to the Civil War dead on one side and a sign pointing to the basement that says St Paul’s Thrift Store on the other. She will start on the east side and work her way around.

Sicilee glances at the clock on the church tower.

Unlike Mrs Kewe, Kristin, Ash and Loretta were far from delighted by Sicilee’s new sense of dedication.

“What, you’re going to miss
another
Saturday?” Loretta made it sound as if Sicilee had missed those Saturdays on a whim when, in fact, one was cancelled by the weather and Sicilee couldn’t make the other because, as chairman of the music committee, she was auditioning bands. “Are you too good for shopping now?”

“Of course not.” Sicilee laughed. “I just have a lot to do for Earth Day.”

“Again?” asked Kristin. “Are you rebuilding the planet all by yourself?”

Sicilee laughed once more. “If only, right?”

“You mean you’d rather do that stuff than come with us?” demanded Ash.

Sicilee said that of course she wouldn’t. “But you know how it is. Duty calls.”

“It seems more like it’s pulling your strings,” said Loretta.

Ash was looking at her in a wierd kind of way. “You know, you look the same, but you’re different,” she said. “It’s like nerds have taken over your body.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I just like to do what I say I’ll do, that’s all.” Sicilee promised she’d meet them for lunch. “It’s not going to take me very long. Save me a seat,” she ordered. “I’ll be there by one.”

No problem
, thinks Sicilee as she sets off to circle the green. As her father has said (more than once), she could talk a turtle out of its shell and it would thank
her
. She’ll be finished by noon.

Unfortunately, Sicilee’s belief that getting people to contribute to the Earth Day celebrations is going to be as easy as getting a couple of hundred dollars from her mother suffers its first setback in Small World (Klothes for Kids), which also happens to be the first store she tries.

Bright and bubbly, Sicilee explains that she is from the Clifton Springs High School Environmental Club, that they are planning a major celebration for Earth Day and that she is asking for either donations of money or suitable objects for the grand raffle. Her hand is ready to reach over the basket of socks next to the register for the cheque.

“Don’t waste your breath,” advises the manager, Mrs Costa. “I told the girls who came the other day that I’m not interested. Earth Day, smurfday, that’s what I say. It’s just another excuse to get money out of people.”

“Oh, no, Mrs Costa. That’s, like, so untrue.” Sweet Mary, she’s not asking for money to buy new pompoms for the cheerleaders, she’s trying to save the planet. “Earth Day is like Mother’s Day. You know, when you show your mom you really do appreciate all the stuff she does for you even if you don’t always say so? Only, this is for Mother Earth, not your own mom. And instead of giving her flowers we’ll plant some.”

“So you say,” snaps Mrs Costa. “But I never heard of no Earth Day before. How do I know you’re not making it up?”

“Because it’s been going for years.” Sicilee’s smile doesn’t flicker or dim. “You can check it on the Web. Years and years and years. All over the country. And all over the world, too. It’s our recognition of how much we owe our planet.” Since Sicilee’s attention was focused on Cody Lightfoot when he explained the origins of Earth Day and not on what he was actually saying, she can only hope that this is true. “And our celebration’s going to be really great.” She lays a flyer detailing the day’s events on the counter. “Just look at all the stuff we’re doing to help everyone shrink their carbon footprints.”

“I don’t have a carbon footprint,” Mrs Costa informs her. “I’ve never been on a plane.”

Sicilee’s smile takes on an almost angelic quality. “Maybe not, but I bet a lot of the clothes you sell have flown here. They couldn’t all have come by mule train.”

“That doesn’t count,” says Mrs Costa. “That’s business. I’m talking about personally.”

Someone less accustomed to getting her own way might retreat under so much pig-headed opposition, but Sicilee is undaunted. “Well, that’s fantastic then, isn’t it? If you, personally, have no carbon footprint, then you’re already on our team!”

Mrs Costa, however, is on no one’s team. “What’s this?” she wants to know, her finger tapping on something halfway down the flyer. “Second-hand clothes? You’ll be selling second-hand clothes?” She looks up, her smile as thin as a snowflake and just as cold. “Business hasn’t been so good lately. Do you seriously expect me to donate money to something that could affect my business? Isn’t it bad enough that I’ve got that thrift store across the street?”

It should be mentioned here that Mrs Costa is nothing like Mr Kewe (who has never been known to use make-up, dye his hair blonde, or wear frilly blouses with big bows at the neck), and yet, at this moment, she reminds Sicilee so much of her father that they might be twins. Mrs Costa is being illogical in exactly the same way that Mr Kewe is when he says things like,
Do you realize, Sicilee, that there are girls in the world who don’t have any shoes?
– as if those girls will be somehow better off if Sicilee never buys another pair.

Sicilee makes the same earnest face she uses against her father’s irrationality. “Oh, of course not, Mrs Costa. That would be ridiculous.” Sicilee knows that people respond better to self-interest than to self-sacrifice. She shifts from side to side, tossing her hair over her shoulder, looking vulnerable and corn-syrup sweet. “That’s why I know you’ll want to help us, right? Because we’re not trying to put you out of business. It’s global warming that’ll do that.” Sicilee leans towards the counter as if she’s about to pat the manager’s shoulder. “I mean, let’s be honest here. If we don’t save the planet, there won’t be any children left to wear your clothes, will there?”

Emboldened by her success with Mrs Costa (who finally coughs up one hundred dollars), Sicilee storms around the square, handing out her flyers and smiling her I-know-you-want-to-help-
really
smile, overcoming the most obdurate and irrational arguments with sincerity and common sense. We buy too much. We waste too much. We depend too much on resources that are running out and can’t be replaced. Sicilee is unflappable, unstoppable. “Less is more,” she explains. “If you buy a year’s worth of groceries, you don’t eat it all on the first day, do you? Yet that’s pretty much what we’ve done with our finite resources,” she says. “When half the world’s a desert and the other half’s under water, nobody’s going to care if they can send emails on their cell phone or not,” she warns. Realtors, lawyers, the jeweller, the toy store, the boutique, the deli, the market, the gift shop, the soda fountain, the candy store, the bike store, the hardware store and the sports store all put up a fight, but are defeated in the end by the rolling thunder of Sicilee’s perseverance and persuasion. She amazes herself with how much she knows. She puts the cheques in a green envelope and slips it into her cotton bag.

Sicilee is so involved in her task that it isn’t until she comes around to where she started that she looks up at the clock on the church tower again. How time flies when you’re saving the world. The only way she’d make lunch at the mall is if she’d left two hours ago.

It is then that her eyes fall on the sign by the door that leads to the basement of the church: St Paul’s Thrift Store. Sicilee’s had a successful morning. She’s in a good mood. And perhaps the merchants of Clifton Springs aren’t the only ones who have been moved by her arguments.
Why not?
she thinks. Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she strolls up the path and disappears inside without even bothering to check that no one’s watching her.

Chapter Thirty-five
Plastic girl in a plastic world

The
Birch Grove Shopping Centre is part of the suburban sprawl that surrounds the historic village of Clifton Springs. Unlike the historic village itself, there is nothing either quaint or attractive about the shopping centre – and no grove of birch trees, either. It’s simply a row of box-like concrete buildings with the supermarket at one end and a small parking lot dotted with litter and weeds in front. There are similar – if not actually identical – shopping centres in every direction. What distinguishes Birch Grove (at least today) is the presence of Maya Baraberra outside the entrance to the supermarket, dressed in a skirt covered with dozens of plastic bottles and a jacket and hat made of plastic bags. Ah, the things a girl will do for love.