Dyan Sheldon - The Crazy Things Girls Do for Love

“So they talk to each other.” Mr Huddlesfield waves half a wing at her. “What’s that prove, Waneeda? That instead of eating them we should send them all to Harvard?”

“Didn’t I say she’s been acting strange, Oscar?” interrupts Waneeda’s mother. “Have you noticed how she’s stopped flushing the toilet? Did you know she threw out all my air fresheners? Even that mountain pine you like so much? And she did something with the bleach. It’s disappeared into thin air.” It’s just as well she hasn’t been looking for the toilet cleaner in the last few days. “Didn’t I say that I don’t know what’s come over her?” Although her questions seem to be directed to him, Mrs Huddlesfield isn’t looking at her husband. She is looking at her only child – thoughtfully, trying to figure out what’s come over Waneeda that she can’t see. And then all the lights go on in the house that is Mrs Huddlesfield’s brain. “It’s that club, isn’t it?” This is in no way a question. “It’s that Clemens Reis! Isn’t he a vegetarian? I’ll bet he is. Look at those glasses of his. And that hat! He’s put you up to this, hasn’t he?” These aren’t questions, either.

Although you wouldn’t expect Waneeda’s mother to forget that Clemens once catapulted a large toy piano into her backyard, it has to be said that she has also never forgiven him for that event. From the moment the piano leg bounced against the back door and made her drop the pitcher of juice she was holding, Mrs Huddlesfield has thought of Clemens as an extremely peculiar boy. Trouble. Not normal. Not unless you live in another world. The kind of boy you want to keep your eye on – so that, years later, when he’s arrested for doing something outrageous and the reporters gather round the house and ask her what he was like as a child, Mrs Huddlesfield will be able to say, Oh, I always knew he was odd.

“It has nothing to do with Clemens,” says Waneeda. “I’ve never even talked about it with him. I made up my own mind.”

This would be a good example of wasting your breath.

“I should’ve known!” cries her mother. “When he came over the other morning like that, I should’ve known something was going on.”

Mrs Huddlesfield is referring to the first day Waneeda went door-to-door with the oak-tree petition with Clemens. He came to get her by climbing over the fence and knocking on the back door. To Mrs Huddlesfield, of course, this was just another example of how peculiar Clemens is. In her retellings of this story, Clemens came over the fence like a gypsy or a burglar. Waneeda’s mother wanted to know why he couldn’t come to the front of the house like anybody else would. And Clemens, sitting down at the table as though he’d been invited, said that he did it because it was quicker.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” sighs Waneeda. “Nothing’s going on.”

Waneeda’s mother isn’t listening. Conversation is largely a solitary occupation for her. “I don’t know why we can’t have neighbours who have normal children,” she continues. “I wouldn’t mind if you were seeing a football player. Or a basketball star.”

“I’m not seeing anyone,” says Waneeda.

“Personally, I’m surprised he could get over the fence,” muses Mr Huddlesfield, who has yet to return to his television show. “He’s not what you’d call athletic, is he? Not exactly All-American material.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen him the other day,” says Waneeda. Surprising herself, she relates the story of Maya’s runaway bicycle and Clemens Reis’ quick thinking and acting. “It was like he was some kind of superhero. He just jumped for her and pulled her off the bike.”

“A superhero who doesn’t eat meat?” Waneeda’s father gives a short, sharp laugh. “That’ll be the day.”

Mrs Huddlesfield continues with her alternative conversation. “He’s not a good influence on you,” she says. “What’s next? That’s what I want to know. Are you going to protest outside of McDonald’s? Are you going to go on demonstrations dressed in a tutu? Is that what you’re going to do?”

As if giving up meat is the first step on the road to anarchy and chaos.

“I’m not sure.” Waneeda nibbles on her lettuce. “Maybe I’ll plant some stuff in the backyard.”

“Plant stuff?” Neither Mrs nor Mr Huddlesfield ever goes in the backyard because they’re afraid of catching Lyme disease. “Plant what?”

“Plants,” says Waneeda. “You know, flowers – and maybe a tree or two. Maybe I’ll even grow some vegetables.”

“Did you hear that Oscar?” shrieks Mrs Huddlesfield. “She’s going to plant vegetables.”

“That’s exactly what you’d expect from a vegetarian,” says Mr Huddlesfield.

As Ms Kimodo has been heard to comment to friends and colleagues, Cody Lightfoot should be in the Foreign Service, not in high school. His ambassadorial skills are such that support among the students and faculty for Earth Day has grown steadily over the weeks – even to the point where the recycling bins Clemens fought to have put in the cafeteria are overflowing and teachers are sharing rides to school. He’s a born diplomat, a gifted schmoozer. Innately charming, Cody has persuaded every department in the school to make some kind of contribution to the event – from the bicycle-powered generator being built by the Science Club to the workshop on preparing vegetarian food promised by Consumer Sciences. Effortlessly charismatic, he has so inspired the other members of the Environmental Club that donations and workers are pouring in for the many activities and stalls that have been planned.

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.