ONE
I Hate Stairs
On the last day of school, I fell down the front steps of my house and broke my leg. After the surgery, my doctor said I’d have to wear a cast on my leg for most of the summer.
“You might think your world will get smaller,” Dr. Ames said. “But depending on how you spend this time, your world could actually get bigger.”
I rolled my eyes, but stopped when I heard Mom fake-clearing her throat.
“We appreciate your good care,” Mom said to Dr. Ames. “Don’t we, Ivy?”
We certainly did not. We did not appreciate anything or anyone because we knew what this meant. Spending the summer with my leg in a cast meant no bike riding around Forest Park. No swimming. No watersliding. No scootering. No practicing gymnastics in my backyard.
And I was expected to feel appreciative? No, thank you.
“I’m sending you home in a wheelchair,” Dr. Ames said. “But I’d like you to start using crutches as soon as possible.”
“Where do we get the crutches?” Mom asked.
“Third floor,” Dr. Ames said. “Physical therapy. They’ll fit Ivy for crutches and teach her how to use them.”
He paused to make a sad-clown face. Then he pointed at my cast. It covered my entire left leg, from my foot to my upper thigh.
“I’m sure this isn’t what you had in mind for summer, Ivy. But I know you’ll make the most of it.”
“Of course she will,” said Mom.
“If I were you,” Dr. Ames continued, “I’d spend this time learning something new. Not just how to walk with crutches, but something fun. A new skill, a language, coding. I hear coding’s a terrific thing for kids to learn. You could take an online masterclass.”
I started to roll my eyes again, but Mom gave me her aggressively fake smile.
“Now there’s an idea,” she said in a singsongy voice. “What do you think about taking an online masterclass, Ivy?”
What did I think? It was summer. That’s what I thought.
I’d worked hard all year. I’d won the fourth-grade spelling bee and the fourth-grade multiplication bowl. I’d earned a perfect score on my Trojan War project, which was pretty impressive considering it was supposed to be a group project and my so-called partner, Melvin Moss, disappeared the day after we got the assignment.
More to the point: I didn’t want to take an online masterclass. I’d spent most of third grade online. Besides, I already knew how to code.
“Whatever you do,” Dr. Ames said, “think of this experience as an adventure. You’re probably the only ten-year-old girl in your zip code with a minimally displaced fracture of the tibia and fibula just above the ankle. Write down what you learn on this journey. Capture the wisdom with paper and pen. I think you’ll find it a valuable exercise.”
Mom was now looking at me with bugged-out eyes as if to say, Please, Ivy. Just be polite. We’ll stop for ice cream on the way home.
So I said the only thing I could think of that wouldn’t be rude to the doctor but would also convey how miserable I was and would be all summer long.
“What I have learned so far on this journey,” I said slowly, with bitter tears burning in my eyes, “is that I hate stairs.”
* * *
My street is shaped like a lollipop. Most of Magnolia Circle is straight, but there’s a loop at the end where cars can turn around. Some people call my street a cul-de-sac, which Dad told me is French for “bottom (cul) of (de) a sack (sac).” It’s a fancy way of saying dead end.
My family—it’s just Mom, Dad, and me—uses the term cul-de-sac to mean any situation that leads nowhere.
The idea of spending the summer with a cast on my leg seemed like a cul-de-sac if ever there was one. My best friend agreed. Teddy Samuelson lives across the street in a four-story apartment building called Magnolia Manor.
The day after my surgery, Teddy came over with his dog, Lotty. It’s short for Lottery. Teddy was so happy the day he got an Irish setter, he felt like he’d won the lottery. So he named the dog Lottery, which was quickly shortened to Lotty.
Lotty is best friends with my dog, Winthrop. He’s a rescue sheepdog who looks like a distinguished professor in serious need of a haircut.
“Should I sign it?” Teddy asked, gesturing with his head at my bright green fiberglass cast.
I was sitting in the wheelchair feeling sorry for myself. My bad leg was propped up with pillows on a chair.
“I don’t care,” I said.
“I could write my name on it,” Teddy said. “And Lotty’s name, too, if you want.”
“I don’t care,” I repeated.
“Or I could draw something,” Teddy offered. “You always say I’m the best artist in fourth grade.”
“Going on fifth grade,” I said.
“I could draw Lotty and Winthrop,” Teddy said. “I’d need to practice first, but I bet I could do it.”
“Whatever.”
I don’t know why I was acting so crabby toward Teddy. He was only trying to be nice. It wasn’t his fault I was stuck inside my house for the summer.
“It’s terrible about your leg,” Teddy said, “but I have even worse news.”
“Nothing’s worse than this,” I mumbled, crossing my arms and staring out the window.
“Mm-hmm,” Teddy replied. He suddenly sounded like he might cry. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Something’s wrong with Lotty.”
I turned to look at Teddy’s dog. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She won’t eat. She won’t play. All she wants to do is sleep.”
“Did you take her to Dr. Juniper?” I asked.
I knew Lotty’s doctor because my family and Teddy’s family used the same veterinarian, Dr. Juniper. She’s the vet my mom took her pets to when she was a kid.
“We went yesterday,” Teddy said. “Dr. Juniper said she doesn’t know what’s wrong with Lotty. We have to go back on Monday. She wants to do tests. She’ll probably have to draw more blood.”
“Maybe it’s the flu,” I said. “Do dogs get the flu?”
Tears welled in Teddy’s eyes. “I don’t know. I just want her to be back to normal.”
I knew the feeling.
“She can’t even walk around the park,” Teddy said, sniffling.
“I can’t, either,” I reminded him.
A few moments of silence passed as Teddy stroked Lotty and I scratched Winthrop’s ears.
“Want to play gin rummy?” I finally said.
“Sure. I know where the cards are. Kitchen junk drawer, right?”
I didn’t have time to say right. Teddy was back, shuffling the cards in a matter of seconds.
What I learned from that:
Best friends know exactly where you keep your cards.
TWO
Dogs and Dead Ends
Our neighborhood was never especially interesting. I always thought it was because we didn’t have a lot of kids on our street. It’s mostly older people who liked the combination of big trees, medium-size houses, and small, shady yards.
But news that we were getting a street sign created instant drama. In early June, someone at St. Louis City Hall decided we needed a sign that said dead end at the entrance to Magnolia Circle.
Teddy was my source of all news on the subject.
“So,” he said, on day five of our gin-rummy battle, “everyone on Magnolia Circle received a notice in the mail that said a dead-end sign would be installed on September first, ‘barring significant opposition to the plan.’”
I pushed my wheelchair back a few inches from the table so I could evaluate my cards. “Does that mean we’re getting the sign?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Teddy said, looking at his cards. “My mom says the older people on our street like the idea of a dead-end sign because they think it will cut down on ‘turnarounders.’”
Turnarounders is what we called people who turned down Magnolia Circle by mistake. When they realized the street was a dead end, they’d speed up, zip around the circle, and zoom away, as if there were something contagious about our quiet tree-lined street.
“And, of course,” said Teddy, “everyone who lives in my building likes the idea of the sign because they say it’ll mean more street parking for us. Our doorman, Joel, really wants the sign because he’s really tired of people asking him to save parking spaces for them.”
Copyright © 2021 by Kate Klise
