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MRS. IPTWEET
Chapter One: Blah-ville
It was another boring
day in my boring life and I wasn't even ten yet. I came home from school
and my mom was taking a nap. Her job as bookkeeper at the bookkeeping
company is any early-bird job. This means she is sleepy in the afternoon
when I come home from the Dullest School in the World. Her nap means I
have to be quiet, quiet, quiet. I am nine-and-a-half and being quiet is
not my style. There was nothing to do but leave our boring house in search
of some excitement.
Except that our street is extremely boring, too. It's called Durham Street,
as in DOOR HAM. I wish big, smart, snorty pigs lived on our street and
answered the doors when I knock. That would be interesting, and our street's
name would make sense. But snorty pigs never answer the doors around here.
On this dreary day in the month of March, I couldn't take the blahness
any longer. I decided it was time for Drastic Action. I said to myself,
"Self, it's time to walk to the Corner Market and watch some crimes
being committed."
I quietly put on my blue sweater. I quietly closed the front door, and
quietly tiptoed down our steps to the sidewalk. I scuffed to the corner
to cross our street. I always remember to look both ways, since my mom
would be really upset if I got run over.
At the corner, I looked to my left, down my street. No cars were coming.
I saw the houses and the trees in rows. So far, the most interesting things
about my street are the trees. They are tall and wide. They live between
the sidewalk and the curb, two long rows of big tree-ness on both sides
of the street. Their name is Maple. The maple trees on my street are extremely
leafy in the summer. They have bare arms in the winter. Winter is the
dull time, so that is when I spy on the birds' nests and mark their location
on my maps.
On one of his visits, my dad showed me how to draw a map. He said I should
start small, so I made a map of my bedroom. I drew a rectangle first,
and then pretended I was looking at my room from above. I imagined I was
glued onto the ceiling. Then I drew my bumpy pink bedspread and my silky,
heart-shaped pillow from Aunt Belle. This pillow is full of interesting
smelly leaves and twigs from the desert.
My Aunt Belle lives in the Southwest. It is all desert there. Aunt Belle
is a Professional Recycling Cowgirl Artist. This means she collects interesting
objects that have been squished up, stomped on, or run over. Most people
think of these objects as trash. Aunt Belle attached them together in
an artistic way, always with a Western theme.
Personally, I think Aunt Belle is living an interesting life. My mom thinks
Aunt Belle's career is unsanitary, so I am not allowed to pick up trash
off the street to send to her, no matter how artistic it is. I promised
to wear gloves and put the smashed-up stuff right into a plastic bag so
that no part of the artistic trash comes into contact with any part of
my body, but still the answer is No. This is another reason why my life
is so boring.
After I looked to my left, I looked to my right. I was glad I did because
a gigantic old truck was barreling down the side street. I waited on the
corner for it to pass, but instead the truck slowed down and stopped in
the middle of the street in front of me. The driver man rolled down his
window and leaned out of his noisy, smelly, purple truck.
"Hey there, young lady, what is the name of this street?" he
yelled at me.
I used my loud voice and yelled, "Durham Street."
I heard him say to his passenger man, "Did you hear that, Bob? This
is Durham Street. All righty-rooney." Then the driver man yelled
back to me, "Thank you kindly, Miss," and tipped his baseball
cap to me. He rolled up his window and put on his turn signal. He turned
right onto my street.
I don't think I ever saw a purple truck turn onto Durham Street before.
Who are these guys, I wondered? What are they doing here? Maybe something
interesting is going to happen on Durham Street. The last time a few moments
of excitement happened around here was last summer.
Last summer at number four-o-two, Mrs. Romero's parakeet, Señora
Puff o'Fluff, escaped. It flew right out the front door and perched on
the branch of an azalea bush. There was a big hubbub, but then Mr. Miller
of number four-o-four caught Señora Puff o'Fluff in his bare hands.
He offered Señora Puff o'Fluff a piece of banana, and that was
that. Our street went back to blahness.
I thought that if I ever escaped from here, it would take more than a
piece of fruit to get me back.
I watched the big truck crawl slowly down our narrow street. But the truck
did not stop. It kept going to the very end. Then its turn signal started
blinking and the truck turned right onto the busy street, gone forever.
I sat down on the curb.
What's the use, I thought.
I wished my dad still lived around here.
On his last visit, my dad said I did a good job on my bedroom map, and
that even though I am only nine-and-a-half, I am a Budding Cartographer.
My dad is a Classical Banjo Player. My dad uses maps a lot in his career,
to get from one playing gig to another. That way he does not have to ask
anyone for directions. My mom says it's a guy thing, not asking for directions.
My dad's dream is to become a World Famous Banjo Player and give solo
banjo concerts at Carnegie Hall. He says the banjo is seriously underestimated
in big-time music circles, and he hopes to live long enough to see it
properly appreciated.
In the meantime, he is doing his part to spread the Joy of Banjo by playing
at dances, weddings and parades. I myself have never been to a dance,
wedding or parade. My mom says I am not old enough yet to handle the excitement.
I think my mom is wrong about this.
I admire my dad for his dedication to fine art music, but I wish he would
visit me more. I have a new map to show him. After I made my bedroom map,
I made a map of my street. To draw my map, I pretended I was floating
in the sky above my street and looking down. I drew fluffy circles onto
my map where the trees are located. Then I drew shapes for the houses.
I marked each house number and the neighbors' names that I know. If I
didn't know who lived there, I marked down a large orange question mark,
or whatever color I felt like using.
The house at number four-o-six is empty. No one has lived there for a
long time. I marked a black X on it, because it looks kind of spooky.
I used a green pencil to mark down where the pets live. Dog. Cat. Pig.
Ha ha. I marked down each bird nest and lavender plant.
My Gran Modesta had a thing for lavender. Lavender was her favorite plant,
color and smell. So far there is only one lavender plant on my street;
it's in a pot on our front porch. My mom and I dug it up from Gran's garden
after Gran passed on.
To add some excitement to my street map, I marked where the sewer drains
are, and any especially large sidewalk cracks. My mom says that the big
gnarly maple tree roots have caused these cracks, but I think the cause
could be mini-earthquakes or tectonic plate-shifting. My mom says that
we don't live in an earthquake zone, but in case she is wrong about this,
I measure the width of the cracks each month. If I detect any sudden changes,
or if there are any big earth-moving events, I will alert the neighborhood.
I have marked these exciting danger zones on my map in red pencil.
I sat on the curb for a few minutes. If only my neighborhood was full
of Wild Parakeets, Talking Pigs and Earthquakes, I'd never be bored. But
no. Ordinary people answer the doors, the birds are in their cages and
the ground is perfectly still. Ho hum, ho hum.
I stood up and brushed off the back of my pants. The coast was clear so
I crossed our street and turned down the back alleyway toward the creepy
creepiness of the Corner Market.
I have always been suspicious of the Corner Market. The Corner Market
is located in the middle of the block, so its name is a big fat lie. I
think the Corner Market is a front for something nasty. The owner guy,
Big Nick, is short. Big Nick's grown-up son, Little Nick, is tall. The
two Nicks cut coupons from stacks of newspapers, then claim the coupons
as if customers bought stuff.
My Aunt Belle told me that doing this is totally illegal; it is a way
they make money.
At the top of the back alley I scanned the ground for any trash art that
I wouldn't pick up. Nothing but dirt, scraggly weeds and concrete. I looked
up and guess what? A big surprise happened to me. There was the big purple
truck parked at the other end of the alleyway! Oh, wow, I thought, excitement
is happening. But what kind of excitement?
Maybe it's a robbery. The driver man was friendly, though, and he was
not wearing a mask. Maybe they are FBI guys in disguise and are searching
for spies or criminals on Durham Street. But I have not seen any suspicious-looking
people around. Or maybe it is a moving truck. Maybe new people are moving
into the empty, spooky house. I hope they have a kid my age or at least
a snorty pig to play with. Ha ha.
There was a lady standing in the driveway near the purple truck. I saw
that she was staring down at a sorry-looking patch of dirt. I walked on
down the alleyway towards the lady and the mysterious truck.
I didn't know then but my life was about to change forever.
When I got close, the lady turned around and said, "Hello there,
Youthful One." And then she went back to staring at the patch of
dirt. I said, "Hello," and stared at her.
Her skirt was bright orange and billowy. Her blousy top was yellow, with
a mountain painted on it. On her feet were bluish-green high heels with
tiny polka dots cut out, so I could see rosy pink leather underneath.
And on her head was a large straw hat, with a million silk flowers and
papier mâché birds nesting all the way around the brim. Under
her hat, I saw her flaming red curly hair. What a weird and cheerful way
to dress, I thought. This lady looks like a party.
I knew I ought to stop staring at the lady, so I stared at her patch of
dirt. It was similar to the other pathetic patches of dirt poking out
between the concrete slabs of the alleyway, but hers was worse. Her dirt
was covered with gravel and stones. I wondered if she was a gardener.
Probably her day is ruined because nothing ever grows in the boring dirt
around here except dumb weeds.
The lady stopped staring at the gravel and stones. She took a deep breath,
looked at me, and said, "So, Young One, are you one of my new neighbors?"
I said, "Yes, ma'am."
"And where do you live?" the lady asked me.
"Across the street at the other end, ma'am," I said. "Our
house has a lavender plant in a pot on the porch."
"Lavender is a lovely plant and a powerful herb."
"Yeah. And it has a good smell, too."
"Yes, it does," said the lady. Then she asked me, "Have
you lived here a long time, Young Miss?"
"Yes, ma'am, my whole entire life."
"And how long would that be?"
"Nine-and-a-half years, ma'am."
"And how is your life going so far, Youngster Gal?"
I didn't answer the lady right away. I had never really thought about
how my life was going. It just seemed to go by itself. I said, "Um,
great. Really good. It's okay, I guess, but I get bored sometimes."
The lady's eyes got all bright and sparkly. She looked right at me and
said, "Ah, yes, boredom."
"I am a Budding Cartographer, though." I told the new lady about
my bedroom map and my map of the street. She said my maps sounded very
interesting.
Then she asked, "Do you know anything about gardening, Miss Girl?"
I said, "Um, well, my Gran was a gardener."
"Oh, you have a grandmother?"
"Yes. But she died," I said.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," the lady said.
"Yeah," I said. "I miss my Gran. So does my mom."
"Oh, I am sure."
"My mom still gets sad a lot. And grumpy, too."
"It takes some time to get used to life without a loved one,"
the lady said.
"Yeah, it's taking really long," I said. "Usually my mom
is only in a bad mood when my dad blows into town to take me out for a
quick visit. But since Gran has gone to her reward, my mom is in a mood
a lot."
The lady nodded her head. She said in a quiet voice, "It's understandable,
but not easy."
I said, "My friend Bea's mom says soon my mom will be feeling better."
"I am certain that is true." The lady smiled at me. I looked
at her patch of dirt. "So do you know anything about gardening, Miss
Girl?" the lady asked me again.
I said, "My mom says the dirt around here is too stressed out to
grow anything special. Just weeds and trees can take the city air. My
mom doesn't let me water Gran's lavender plant. No, ma'am, I don't know
anything about gardening."
The lady said, "Great! I wonder if you would consider assisting me
in Tapping the Power of the Ground?"
I said, "Huh? Okay. Sure. But I don't really know what that is."
"That's wonderful," she said. "We'll start as soon as I
have settled in. Please call me Mrs. Iptweet."
"Mrs. Iptweet. Um, okay," I said. What a weird and cheerful
name, I thought. Like a kind of bird or a fancy cracker.
Mrs. Iptweet asked, "What shall I call you?"
Out of my mouth, all by itself, came "Sheherazade."
Chaper Two: Why Did I Say That?
Why did I say my name
was Sheherazade? Sheherazade is not my real name. My real name is dreary
and dull. My name is terrible for a girl who likes adventure and excitement
like me.
But Sheherazade, the exotic storyteller lady in Arabia, had a great name,
a truly great name. Gran Modesta read to me about Sheherazade. Sheherazade
was a great storyteller in a faraway land who told one thousand and one
stories which saved her life. Gran and I even made up our own exciting
stories about Sheherazade. I really like the name Sheherazade. Probably
the name Sheherazade means Brave Adventure Girl or Miss Ultra Amazing
in Greek or Persian, or some other mysterious foreign language. So far
I only speak one language.
Mrs. Iptweet said, "It's nice to meet you, Sheherazade."
Then I heard the sound of big feet stomping around inside the big purple
truck. The driver man and his passenger guy climbed out of the back of
the truck. Mrs. Iptweet said, "Sheherazade, please meet Mr. Bob and
Mr. Darryl. They are skilled experts in their field."
Mr. Bob and Mr. Darryl wore bright orange jumpsuits with purple embroidered
patches. Their patches said Relocation Engineers Unlimited. Mr. Bob took
off his green hat and bowed to me from the waist like a prince. Mr. Darryl
put two fingers onto the edge of his cap and winked. I said, "Hey,"
and put my hands in my jeans pockets, because I don't know what else to
do when people bow and wink.
Mrs. Iptweet said that my name, Sheherazade, was a very interesting name.
She decided on calling me Zaady or Chérie for short, because variety
is the spice of life. Chérie means Dear One in French. I said that
those nicknames would be fine with me.
Mrs. Iptweet said, "Okey dokey, Zaady Gal."
I thought Mrs. Iptweet was pretty funny. I felt a giggle start to happen
in me.
Then Mr. Bob said, "Well, Darryl, my man, shall we fulfill our destiny
for today?"
Mr. Darryl said, "Absolutely, my friend. Let us prepare."
Mr. Bob and Mr. Darryl stretched and flexed their muscles and began the
parade of boxes into Mrs. Iptweet's new house. All the boxes were labeled
in blue glitter letters. The first box out of the van said HAMMOCKS. The
next box said DANCING SHOES.
Then WIGS.
Then PUPPETS.
Then MAGIC WANDS.
Then DOLLS.
Then GLITTER.
Finally, FEATHERS and TWINKLE LIGHTS.
I wished I could open up the boxes and see the dolls and wigs and puppets
and glitter and magic wands and everything else right away, but more stuff
was being carried out of the big purple truck.
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