Call Me Hope Page 4

  FB = Feel Bad 20-150 Points

  G = Grab 25 Points

  SA = Sarcasm 35 Points

  GL = Glare 40 Points

  LO = Loser 50 Points

  SH = Should 60 Points

  HL = Hopeless 75 Points

  LA = Laughed At 75 Points

  B = Brat 85 Points

  DS = Dumb Shit 100 Points

  I = Interrupt 100 Points

  SW = Swear Word 150 Points

  S = Stupid 200 Points

  Now I needed a prize, but not an army tank. I’d have to think about it.

  Any thoughts about prizes disappeared the rest of the day as I read Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read the mean things people in hiding said to her. Check this out: “Am I really so bad-mannered, conceited, headstrong, pushing, stupid, lazy, etc., etc., as they all say?… Kitty, if only you knew how I sometimes boil under so many gibes and jeers. And I don’t know how long I shall be able to stifle my rage. I shall just blow up one day.”

  It felt strange that someone so long ago could have had the same feelings I had. Anne needed a point system like Joshua’s and mine. Instead, she had her best friend, Kitty, her diary to talk to. I named my notebook Penny. Have you heard people say, “A penny for your thoughts?”

  CHAPTER 9

  Plans into Action

  By Sunday afternoon I thought my arm was going to fall off, but I wasn’t done yet. I still wanted to wash and iron all the clothes I planned to keep. I’d discovered clothes I hadn’t worn for a long time but still fit me, like a white blouse with glittery stars on the pocket and a pair of black jeans I didn’t like before, but now I do. It was fun to think about wearing something different for a change.

  I poked into the living room where Mom and Tyler were watching a football game. “Do you guys have any extra hangers?”

  “In my closet,” said Mom, her eyes glued to the TV.

  “You can iron my stuff.” Tyler tossed me his spongy football.

  I threw it back, hitting his head, and stuck out my tongue. “Forget it.”

  “Careful, Missy,” said Mom.

  “Of what?” As soon as I’d said it, I knew I’d gone too far. WHY did I do that??? WHY did I push???

  “Hope Marie.” Firm but not a raised voice. Whew. Just a warning. But she GLARED. Yes! My first 40 points!

  “I’m going.” I practically skipped down the hall to her room, grinning like I’d just won a contest.

  When I reached her bedroom door, I wasn’t so excited. In fact, this was pretty stupid. Why would I want to win an arguing contest with my mom? It always made things worse. Yet, there was something itching inside me, scratching to get out, to stir her up, and I let it happen.

  Problem Solve: Points for Not Talking Back. NTB: 50 Points. Just think, if I’d bitten my tongue on the bus, I wouldn’t be a weekend prisoner.

  Mom’s closet door stood open like someone’s mouth showing off a mishmash of partly chewed food. Mixed-up shoes spilled into the room; dresses hung lopsided; her bathrobe, nightgown, and last week’s pants overloaded the door hook; and a mountain of dirty clothes guarded the closet floor.

  I pawed through the jam-packed rack, collecting a handful of empty hangers. As I reached the end, something sparked a memory. I pulled out the last hanger and stared at the dress. Then I walked over to Mom’s dresser. There she was, in that silver-framed photo, wearing the same blue-and-white-checkered sundress. Holding me. Brand New Me wrapped in a baby blanket. Just home from the hospital, she’d told me. She was smiling. Not a pretend actress smile. She looked like she was really happy to have me.

  I dropped the empty hangers on the floor and slowly sat down on her unmade bed. Still hugging the checkered dress, I snuggled under her sheet and blanket, nestling my head in her pillow, smelling her hair. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my mother walking up to our house with me in her arms and Tyler running outside begging to see me, hold me. My throat tightened. Should I get points for not crying?

  It was almost dinner and I was finally done. Everything was washed, ironed, hung up, or folded in dresser drawers.

  I turned slowly in my swivel chair, surveying my room. The furniture glowed and the mirrors shined. But, now, without anything to do, I heard the silence. It moved slowly around my room, slipped along the walls, brushed across my arms, filled my ears, and gnawed my gut. Was this how it felt in prison? Was this how Anne Frank felt all those whispering, tiptoeing days in the “Secret Annexe”? It was a lonely silence shouting all the things you couldn’t do, places you couldn’t go.

  Well, there’s one thing you end up doing with a lot of silence — you think. You think about how life could be better and you make up little plans like getting a dog or cat to keep you company or having a best friend that tells you all her secrets. You put together big plans like running away, listing in your head the clothes you’ll need, the kinds of food that won’t smash or spoil, the backstreet route to the bus station; buying a ticket to Portland and heading up Highway 99W through New-berg and Tigard; finding the runaway shelter.

  But what about Tyler? I’d miss Tyler, even though I didn’t see much of him now that he was in high school. But he still opened my door and threw things at me; made me laugh with some funny story, imitating the teachers or lip-synching country-western singers. It’s always been Tyler who’s gotten me through the rough times with Mom. He’s come to my rescue, teasing Mom out of her bad moods. Why she’s nice to him, I don’t know. Maybe she just likes boys better. Maybe he wasn’t an accident.

  Someone knocked on my door. “HeyHop! Let’s go! Dinner!” Speaking of my brother.

  I jumped up and whipped open my door.

  “Out of my way!” I pushed him down the hall and stepped on his feet. He grabbed my arm and swung me into the kitchen.

  “Enough, you two,” said Mom, setting our plates on the table. Stew, tossed salad with apples and nuts, and corn bread. “Nice dinner, Mom.” There. I meant it and you couldn’t start an argument with that.

  Mom smiled. “Thanks. I like weekends when I have time to cook.” Good response.

  Tyler was slurping down his stew.

  “Where’s the fire?” I asked.

  He kicked my shin.

  “Hey!”

  “Okay,” warned Mom.

  I dipped my bread in the stew.

  “Don’t play with your food, Hope. Your manners are atrocious. You look like a baby eating with her fingers.”

  I glanced at Tyler.

  “Why do you look at your brother when I’m talking to you?”

  Oops. Forgot to be careful. My ears flashed hot.

  Mom pointed her fork at Tyler and chuckled. “He’s not going to help you out.”

  You’re too late. He already has. Don’t you remember Baby Me crying on the sofa and you yelling, “SHUT UP! FOR GOD’S SAKE, SHUT UP!”? And how I just cried louder? And how Tyler climbed onto the sofa and lay next to me, whispering, “Shhh. It’s okay. Shhh.” If you can’t remember, I’ll tell you the story he’s told me whenever I’ve felt scared.

  I set the dripping corn bread on my plate and stared at the microwave clock. 5:42. Maybe I should wait a minute for a better number. Until then, I’d calculate a few points: 20 for feeling bad, 75 for Mom laughing at me, and 50 for not talking back.

  “Did you learn anything this weekend?” Mom asked.

  I hesitated. “Yes.”

  “What?”

  This was tricky. I could easily answer, “I learned that you were once a Nazi prison guard.” Instead, for an additional 20 points, I spoke carefully. “I should keep my mouth shut most of the time… and… it takes half a box of Tide to wash everything in my room.”

  Her eyes pierced mine. I stopped breathing. Funny, Mom, please think I’m funny.

  “Well,” she said, all huffy, “just remember this weekend as you walk back and forth to school.”

  On an angry scale of one to ten, she was probably only a two, so I decided to t
ry my luck. “Can I have my allowance? My room is perfectly clean.”

  “It means clean all week, Hope, not just one day. Plus, you need to do dishes all week, too, starting tonight.”

  “Tyler didn’t have to do them last week, so why do I?”

  “I —,” started Tyler.

  “He’s in high school now, with lots of homework,” Mom said, standing up, which meant the conversation was over.

  “I have lots of homework, too.”

  “Don’t whine, Hope,” she said, walking out of the kitchen.

  End of discussion. Turn your back and leave the room. Fifteen points.

  Tyler silently cleared the table, stacking the plates and bowls in the sink. He even wiped off the table, then tossed the sponge in my face.

  “Hey!” I wiped my face on my sweatshirt. “Don’t you have homework?”

  “Oh, yeah, almost forgot.” He wandered into the hall. “Lots of it!”

  CHAPTER 10

  #8726

  Monday was the longest day. I couldn’t wait to get home, grab my Next to New clothes, and race back to the store. I kept thinking about everything I’d ironed, hung up, and hid in my closet. I couldn’t keep my mind on math; instead, I did my own figuring, adding what I’d make from my clothes and shoes, two belts, a stocking hat, and a pair of mittens.

  “What were signs of hatred and intolerance toward the Jewish people?” Mr. Hudson’s words made me feel guilty for counting my money, when Holocaust victims had everything taken from them. Once more I was inside Life Is Beautiful and the concentration camp, rooting for Joshua and his point system.

  Brody remembered the sign in the bakery window and on Guido’s bookstore door.

  “Right,” said Mr. Hudson, “but signs aren’t always written. Like when daffodils bloom — they’re a sign that spring is on the way.”

  “Like a clue,” said Annette.

  Mr. Hudson nodded. “What were some clues that the Jews were heading for trouble?”

  “The Nazi soldiers marching into town?” said Peter.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Hudson. “And what about the two men taking Guido from his bookstore to see a city official?”

  “Yeah,” said Peter again, “and the one guy smashing his cigarette on Guido’s window.”

  “Good observation, Peter. Now, if you could use only one word to say what this movie was about, what would it be?”

  I heard “racism,” “courage,” “survival,” “bravery,” and “Holocaust.” I thought of Guido’s wife, Dora (Principessa, as he called her), who wasn’t Jewish, who raced to the railway station and insisted on boarding the crowded boxcar. I thought of Guido, trying with all his might to save Joshua, to protect him from the horror and give him hope, and, in the end, sacrificing his own life for his wife and son. My eyes watered as I saw Joshua wearing a helmet and riding atop the army tank. And I choked as I heard his ecstatic cry, “Mama!”

  “What?” asked Mr. Hudson to the silent room. “Was that you, Hope? Can you say it again, a bit louder this time? What one word describes this movie?”

  “Love.”

  2:55. I dashed from the classroom, out the school doors, alongside buses, down the sidewalk, and past a zillion houses. Out of breath, I fumbled for the key in my backpack, jammed it into the lock, and flung open the door. Storming into my bedroom, I slammed on the brakes. I stood, frozen, staring.

  My room. It looked awesome. For a moment, I sucked up all that tidiness, then announced: “100 points.”

  With my clothes on hangers slung over one arm and a bag full of shoes and stuff on the other arm, I maneuvered back through the house, out the door, and down the sidewalk. Now my feet barely touched the ground. My body was light and airy. I watched cars pass and wondered if the drivers had any idea that I, Hope Elliot, was on a mission, that I was about to make a great business deal. I smiled.

  Then panic hit. What if Mom came home early and saw me? Or someone told her I was hauling half the house away? I slowed my feet and my heart to a regular pace, my legs swish-swishing against the bag, but as soon as I spotted Next to New, my heart shot into double time. My eyes ached to see those purple hiking boots with the thick, black, sturdy soles. Please, God, let them still be there.

  NO! They weren’t in the window! Die. I was going to die.

  Someone opened the PULL door for me, and I huffed and puffed my way back to the consignment counter.

  Anita was sorting through a lady’s resale clothes.

  “Did you sell my purple hiking boots?” I blurted. “Sorry,” I added as the lady looked at me with squinchy eyebrows. For a split second it seemed Anita didn’t remember me or the boots or last Friday. Remember. Please!!

  “Oh, yes, the boots.” She smiled. “I thought you’d be back, so I went ahead and put them on our layaway shelf.”

  Relief saved me from passing out.

  “Here, let me help,” said Anita, reaching for my clothes.

  “I’m fine,” I said, trying to look cool. The second Anita turned, I dropped my bag to the floor. Oh, my arms!

  The lady left and Anita took my hanging bundle and arranged it on a tall clothes rack. “Now, let’s set you up with an account.” She clicked the computer mouse. “Name?”

  “Hope Marie Elliot.” I stood straight and tall, my feet tightly together, my hands at my sides, my eyes fixed on Anita’s pumpkin earrings.

  After entering my address and phone number, Anita asked, “If some of your clothes are stained or out of style or don’t sell after a few months, would you like us to donate them to a local charity?”

  I hadn’t expected that question. I’d figured all my stuff would sell.

  “The churches in town come by for —”

  “Yeah,” I cut her off, “it’s okay.”

  While Anita typed, I glanced at my hanging clothes. I felt a strange mix of pride and sadness, saying good-bye to part of my life, a part that might live again on some little kid’s head or feet. But how would I feel when I saw that bit of memory walking around town or on the playground? And just what kind of memory would it be?

  Anita pulled a pen from her hair, now looking redder instead of oranger. She wrote on a small card. “Your membership number is 8726.”

  8726. A good number. Anita had even written my name in beautiful cursive lettering. It was official. I was a member. I even had a card to prove it. Did that mean I could live at Next to New? Sleep in a changing room, curled up on the small bench, covered with —

  “What about your down payment?”

  I’d almost forgotten. I stuffed my hand in my jeans pocket and pulled out two crumpled dollar bills plus eighty cents.

  Anita typed again. “That leaves eleven dollars and twenty cents. Can you have that in two weeks?”

  Could I bug Mom for my allowance? Collect pop cans? Babysit? Nothing sounded very hopeful.

  As if reading my mind, Anita said, “We have a Fifty-Fifty promotion going on right now.” She held a bunch of narrow yellow papers. “Write your name on the back of these coupons and give them to all your friends and family. They’ll get fifty percent off one item in the store and you’ll receive fifty cents credit.”

  I nodded okay as I saw yellow coupons and shiny coins pouring from the sky, piling around me.

  Anita set my purple boots on the counter. “I thought you’d like to see them — you know, visiting rights.” She chuckled.

  They looked beautiful. I picked them up and rubbed my hand across their tops and bottoms. I fingered the leather laces. I longed to put them on and wear them home. Setting them back on the counter, I smiled at Anita. It was time to earn money: $11.20.

  CHAPTER 11

  50-50 Club

  I smiled. I smiled all the way home. I smiled at the six pop cans I picked up along the way. I especially smiled when I discovered my key to the kitchen door still stuck in the lock and Mom not home yet.

  I tried to hide my smile at dinner, working to look all sad about my life, but Tyler was telling funny stories about fo
otball practice and Mom was laughing.

  My smile stopped when I returned to my bedroom and pulled out my Holocaust homework — a drawing of a concentration camp. I sharpened my colored pencils, not that there’d be much color in this. From Mr. Hudson’s descriptions, I added sorting sheds where prisoners’ belongings were divided into piles of clothes, shoes, jewelry, books, and toys. Using a ruler, I carefully drew the watchtowers and wooden fence, adding rolls of barbed wire to the top. I lined up prisoners for watery soup and the bathrooms. German soldiers marched with their stiff legs high in the air. Then I decided to put in something that probably wasn’t there — a red rosebush — honoring all the Jewish prisoners who shed their blood. Maybe those poor Jews would have looked at that rosebush for hope. Maybe they would have given it a few spare drops of water, keeping it alive one more day. I think Anne Frank would have liked this; she was always looking for little things in her own hidden prison to be happy about, like a sliver of blue sky sneaking through a crack in the curtain or an extra ration of butter during the holidays.

  The next morning I walked into the classroom wondering if my nervous heart was banging too loud. The Next to New yellow coupons were safe in a clear, zipped plastic bag, and I’d made a sign-up sheet with the title “NEXT TO NEW SPECIAL COUPONS,” using bright red and yellow markers. I’d even found a clipboard and tied a red pen to it with a piece of string.

  But now what? Kids were still arriving, storing lunches, checking the First Things First board. Jessica, Katie, and Lauren sat in a circle on the floor, designing their geodesic domes; Brody and Justin were studying the World War II map.

  I sat at my desk, pulled out the coupon bag and clipboard, and began numbering the chart, wishing names would suddenly appear, filling the empty spaces. I went all the way down the page, thirty lines. What was I thinking? What thirty people would want these coupons?