Dear Opl (8 page)

“Praying to get rid of your troubles is like clipping your fingernails,” he told me once. “You can cut them short all you want, but they'll always come back. You gotta learn how to manage them.” And once I heard him tell Ollie, “Folks pat you on the back if you admit to talking to God, but the second you tell anyone God talks to you, you're guaranteed a one-way ticket to a white-padded room.”

I nervously wondered if we would have to join in on a communal message to God. But it wasn't so. Aura just told us to close our eyes and find balance. “Move around from the front of your toes, the sides of your feet, and balls of your heels. Find the center.”

I did as Aura told us to and swayed back and forth and from side to side. And then felt the world go topsy-turvy and a wind gush at my face. I opened my eyes to see the ground getting closer. I thought I was going to smack nose first into the hardwood floor, but suddenly Aura's hands caught my shoulders. “Steady there, honey,” she whispered.

“Now reopen your eyes, take a breath in, and sweep your hands around and up to the sky. Swan dive down, moving forward to your toes, bending your knees if necessary.”

If
necessary?
I almost snorted. It was very necessary.

“Let's skip right to downward facing dog by moving your legs back and positioning your weight between hands and feet. Feel your heels reaching for the floor.”

Just then Fishbowl let another one rip. Jeez Louise! What did this woman have for lunch anyway? I
knew
everyone was looking at me. I could feel their glaring gazes. But when I snuck a peek, I saw everyone's heads busy looking at their own hands and feet. They must have been quick to glance up and spot the culprit. I know I would have been.

The rest of the class was a blur of up and downs and holding our bodies in poses with names made up by four-year-olds
.
There was one that sounded like you just pulled a rabbit from a hat:
tadasana
. Actually, my favorite one came at the end. It was called
savasana
or the “corpse pose.” I call it
the
one
where
we
get
to
lay
down
on
the
floor
and
let
everything
flop
where
it
wants
to
go
cuz
you're exhausted
pose. G-pa started snoring within ten seconds of hitting the floor. I don't think falling asleep was encouraged, but I don't think farting through every pose would get a giant thumbs-up either, and folks let that one slip.

Aura finished the class with all of us sitting up with our eyes closed again. She told us to pay attention to our breathing this week. I wanted to tell her Mr. Stretchy was way ahead of the rest of us on that one, but maybe his needed medical attention and not just personal awareness. I peeked again to see her bow to the class and say, “
Nama
s
te
. Peace.”

I liked the word.
Namaste
. I rolled it around with my tongue while copying the little bow everyone else gave back to Aura. When I looked up, people shuffled to stand from their mats. Aura came straight to G-pa and me on her fairy feet, her black pants stirring up a breeze of dust bunnies. “Welcome to you both and thank you so much for joining us today. I'm Aura, and you are?” She waited for G-pa to answer.

“Stiff, sore, and out of shape.” He reached for her hand and got to his feet. “Whew! That's one workout I'd never thought to see myself doing. But I suppose these old joints will be happier for it tomorrow.”

She tilted her head. “I hope you didn't overdo any of the pose positions. I always tell people to listen to the wisdom of their bodies. Yoga shouldn't hurt.” She turned to me. “Did you enjoy yourself this afternoon?”

I smiled. “Uh-huh. I'm Opl. It's spelled O-P-L because I'm trying to condense myself. And this is G-pa—I mean Walter. He's not planning to come to any more classes. He's just here to make sure I'm okay. G-pa's not much for getting out of his La-Z-Boy.”

G-pa's face went a little red and he coughed. “Um, well, I'm a bit past the point of buffing up for show.”

Aura smiled, and I swear I saw her perky nose get dimples. “It's a good thing yoga doesn't concentrate on
buff
work then. But you'd be surprised to see how many men—and men of all ages—come to join us on a regular basis. They often fill up half my class.”

I knew what G-pa was thinking, and if he had his laptop open and mine in front of me, I'd see this:
THAT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE HERE CHECKING HER OUT IN HER STRETCHY PANTS—NOT BECAUSE THEY'RE TRYING TO WORK ON TOUCHING THEIR DOGGONE TOES.
I could almost see his fingers moving to type, but he kept quiet in the mouth department.

Aura turned to me. “And, Opal, yoga isn't really something that helps folks slim down but rather
open
up
. Creating space can be a wonderfully healthy thing too.” She smiled at me.

“I love your name,” I blurted out. “Where does it come from?”

“It's Greek. It means breath.”

“Wow, your parents are awesome. They must have known what you'd be when you grew up,” I said. “I'm planning to come to your classes twice a week, if that's okay.”

She put a hand on my shoulder. “Opal, you are welcome whenever you can make the time. It's beneficial for people of all ages and of all types.”

I wondered if she meant
you
fat
people
, but I pushed the thought away. I wanted to like Aura. I also wanted her to do something about Fishbowl Farter. “Do the same people come each week?”

“There are some folks who have been coming for years and others who pop in and out when it suits them. It's easy enough to practice at home.”

And
most
people
learn
to
pass
gas
at
home
when
they're alone too,
I thought to myself. I'd have to plan carefully where I placed my mat next time. I wondered if it was okay to get up and move if someone you didn't like sat next to you. Just like school. Except I was usually the reason someone got up to move.

Summer still wasn't talking to me, so I had to eat lunch alone. I stopped throwing my apple away, but I didn't eat it either. I decided to give it to the soup kitchen guy. At first, I didn't say anything. I just put it on the step next to him as I walked home from school. I didn't even look at him the first couple of times, so I couldn't tell if he was happy or not.

By the fourth time, I met his eye and held out the fruit to put in his hand. He smiled. It was pretty scary. He had a chipped tooth. I wondered if he'd broken it on the apples. I finally worked up the nerve to ask him about it the next day, but the apple that came with our lunch tray turned into an orange.

The guy's eyebrows, which I first mistook for caterpillars, shot up with surprise when I handed it to him. “Hey, I ain't no charity case. I figure I owe you a good two hours' worth of work now.” He pointed to his sign. “What do you want me to do?”

I looked at him. My stomach prickled. Talking to him was hard enough. Employing him was something else altogether. I wanted to run, but that seemed stupid since I'd started the whole
let's be friends
bit by giving him food. Now it felt like I had a stray dog who wanted to follow me home. Mom would be super angry. She'd told us no more pets. Especially if it turned out to be a man.

“Umm,” I said, stalling. I could only think of math homework. “How are you with figuring out the lowest common denominators?” Maybe I could leave my worksheet with him and pick it up in the morning.

His face looked like I'd asked him to translate Chinese.

“Never mind,” I said. “Do you know how to wash windows?”

He nodded.

“Okay then. There's a bookshop on Main Street with icky dirty ones. You can do those.”

• • •

On my way home, I stopped at the public library where Mom worked. We were researching maritime trading routes in history class and were reminded three times we couldn't use Wikipedia as a source. In fact, we all had to prove we'd visited the library to hunt for real books by bringing back a sheet of paper with the librarian's signature on it!

So it did not surprise me to see Summer at a reading table doing the same thing I was about to do. The surprise was seeing her pack up as soon as she saw me coming.

“Aren't I forgiven yet?” I asked. An adult at the next table gave me a finger to the lips gesture.

Summer tilted her head and shifted the books in her arms. “In my family, people don't just
say
sorry. They make amends.” With that, she turned and headed for the librarian to check out her books and get an autograph.

My heart sank a little—partially because Summer was still angry with me, but also because I wasn't entirely sure what kind of “amends” she expected.

I went to my favorite explainers, Merriam and Webster and looked up
amend
. Their first entry said, “to put right.” The next said, “to change or modify for the better: improve.” And then there was a little bitty part down at the end that said “to reform oneself.”

Sheesh
. Everybody keeps asking me to change! I slumped over the big dictionary and let my head thump on the desk. I didn't have to lift it up to know who shushed me again.

How in the world could I prove to Summer that I was “new and improved”? I drummed my fingers on the desk. Do I write Alfie Adam an apology letter on my blog? Should I wear a chef's hat to school with his face on the front of it?

An overzealous woman lugging an armload of books and a bleary-eyed child passed my chair and whispered, “I just need one more thing in the cooking section, and then we'll go, I promise.”

Poor
kid
, I thought.
Ugh, the cooking section.

I sat up straight in my chair and whipped my head around to follow them. “The cooking section!”

I could almost feel the spittle coming from the grumpy reader's mouth as she shushed me for the third time. She might insist I leave, and then I'd never get the librarian's signature. But maybe I'd get something better—Summer's forgiveness.

The idea that popped into my head made me cross my fingers as I scanned the shelves of cook books. “Please be here, please be here,” I said under my breath. I needed one of the Grunch's cookbooks. Any one of the fifty billion he'd written. It would probably have a title like
Say
No
to
Yummy
Food
or
How
to
Make
a
Miserable
Meal
. It didn't matter which one; they would all churn out the same flavor of torture.

When my fingers landed on the spine of one of his books, I let out a huge sigh of relief and pulled it to my chest. Finally. If my words of apology weren't good enough to stomach, then I'd stomach somebody else's words instead. I decided to cook Alfie Adam's food and serve up some sorry on a platter with a little please-forgive-me parsley on the side.

• • •

At home, on my bed, I wrestled the book out of my backpack and found the Grunch's face staring back at me. His hands held a fork and spoon, perched before a bowl of spaghetti. He looked so happy. His eyes crinkled with perkiness. The name of the book was
Alfie's Meal Madness: Stand Up & Take a Seat
.

On the inside cover, someone had left a penciled note. It said, “YouTube has videos of all these recipes.” I turned the page and skimmed his introduction. It babbled a lot of “The whole world grows fat and I plan to make you all healthy” nonsense. I hated the book already. I wanted to rip the pages out because they made me think of Mom's stupid skinny jeans, but then I thought about Aura and her peaceful inhalations and exhalations. She said to pay attention to our breathing this week. Mine was racing and huffy. Not good yoga breathing at all. Not too different from Mr. Stretchy's, actually. I wonder if he attended yoga class to get into skinny jeans.

I couldn't believe I had thought this would be a great way to get Summer back. Kids don't need to know how to cook. We had grown-ups for that.
They
were supposed to make all the meals.
They
were supposed to deliver the food.
I
was supposed to do nothing but eat it.

I grabbed my laptop and searched for the videos the book suggested. A long list of them came up on my screen. Each lasted around eight or nine minutes. This was a stupid idea. I shut my laptop with a crisp snap. No. No to I'm-here-to-ruin-food-for-you Alfie Adam, no to cookbooks and how-to videos, no to yoga and the Fishbowl Farter, and a big fat NO to skinny jeans.

I sighed. This also meant
no
to my best friendship in the whole world.

Why couldn't I just get what I wanted? Why was this so hard? I just wanted Summer to be my friend again. I just wanted Mom to be like she used to be. I just wanted to have my old body back. I just wanted Dad to be alive. Why couldn't everyone be like they used to be? Change sucks.

I reached over to my bedside table and opened the drawer. I took out a Kit Kat bar—something that has never changed—and then went to my blog page. I saw a new comment.

Blondiebird:
Dear Opl, I saw your blog on my friend's Facebook page and clicked on it because I could really use some advice. Basically, I hate swimming. I hate pools, lakes, oceans, even puddles. I haven't taken a bath since I was five. (Showers aren't a problem.) You'd think I'd be safe, living in central New Jersey. No oceans there, right? But my mother insists that I join my school's swim team. To “face my fears” and prepare me for this grueling ordeal, she's going to make me take swimming lessons. I've tried explaining to her my very rational terror of drowning, but she just tells me I'm being unreasonable. Please help! I'm sick of my brother calling me “Aquaphobic Ariel”!

I scratched my chin and thought about poor Ariel. She didn't belong in a big pool any more than I belonged in tiny pants. We lived in a similar pickle, and I was guessing we might have been separated at birth but were still parented by the same mother.

Dear Blondie,

First of all, have no fear. No, I don't mean of water, but of being alone. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, about 6.3 million American adults have some type of phobia. Holy mother-of-pearl! Happily, many of us ditch being afraid as we grow older—unless of course you have a fear of growing older (gerascophobia), in which case, you may not make it that far.

I wondered at first if you may have clithrophobia—a fear of being enclosed. How are you with hugs? Or maybe your fear wasn't one of water at all, but rather the dreaded accompaniment of most water activities—the swimsuit. Do you have a fear of undressing in front of someone—like in the locker rooms? That would be a classic case of dishabiliophobia.

I myself have a hefty list of phobias. Optophobia, the fear of opening my eyes in the morning, causes me the most trouble. It usually occurs on school days.

Personally, I don't think your fear of water should worry you, unless you're totally hygrophobic, where you have a fear of moisture all together. That would be weird.

Here's my advice: according to my science book, water doesn't want to swallow you up. It wants to hold you up. Also, the pudgier you are, the more buoyant you become. So I say, face your fears with an extra scoop of Chubby Hubby tonight.

I nearly typed “Love, Opl,” when I thought about Aura and my yoga class. I changed my sign off.

Namaste,

Opl

My bedroom door opened with a thump. Ollie came in with an armload of my clothes from the laundry room. Somehow he'd found my Sugar Plum fairy costume from when I was forced to take ballet in second and third grade. I danced horribly, but the instructor hadn't been the least bit picky. She'd just wanted as many bodies on stage as the fire marshal would allow and as much pink on us as a Pepto-Bismol commercial. We'd looked like the inside of a cotton candy machine with sequins.

I almost complained to Ollie that he was taking clothes from my closet without asking, but then realized he was
bringing
clothes to my closet without asking as well. Truthfully, he had saved me a trip up and down the stairs. I decided not to whine. Plus, he actually looked better in the outfit than I ever had.

I shook my head at him and sighed. “Breast cancer awareness day in first grade today?”

Ollie gave me a quizzical smile. “Nope. But Jacob Berndowser called me a boob!” He plopped my clothes on my bed and then looked at the open cookbook picturing a big dish of spaghetti. “Are you going to cook like G-pa?”

I snorted. “Apparently, I'm going to cook like Alfie Adam.”

“Who?”

I picked up the book and pointed to the cover.

Ollie tilted his head and took the book from my hands. “She's not all that pretty.”

“You don't need good looks to sell a cookbook. You have to have a gimmick. Alfie Adam doesn't like happy children.
His
recipes are chock-f of ideas meant to turn your stomach and make you never want to eat again.”

He pointed at another page in the book. Glasses filled with pink-and-yellow-and-purple colored liquid. “This looks yummy. Why don't you make these? They look like McDonald's shakes.”

I looked down at the page.
Frozen
Fruit
Smoothies
. “They're pretend shakes. They won't taste anything like McDonald's.”

“I'll eat it,” he said with a goofy grin.

“I know you will, buddy. You'd do anything for anyone. That's why you're so squishable.”

I'm not sure he heard me because he pulled my Harry Potter Sorting Hat down over his head and, although muffled by the hat, uttered something about Mom becoming a Hufflepuff.

I sighed and flopped back on the bed. “Fine. Write down the ingredients list and give it to Mom. I'll make it after school tomorrow. But just so you understand, this ain't no ‘Happy Meal.'”

• • •

1 ripe banana

1 cup of frozen fruit: mango, blueberries, or strawberries

2 heaped tablespoons of vanilla yogurt

1 small handful of quick cook oats (not instant)

1 small handful of mixed nuts

1 glass of soy, almond, or low-fat milk

I looked at my ingredients. Mom had gotten everything on the list. Strawberries for the frozen fruit and low-fat milk for the liquid part. I had no idea what all the other nuts were called, but I recognized almonds on the package from the candy wrapper of an Almond Joy bar. I found our blender in the back of a cupboard and remembered the days when Dad had made us chocolate malts on the weekend. Everybody got a glass and a spoon. Mom and Dad would sit on the back porch, sipping, while Ollie and I did cartwheels on the lawn. We'd run back to them for frosty, cold breaks. The blender hadn't been used since then and looked like it had been shoved to the back on purpose. I suppose if we didn't see reminders of him, we could pretend he'd never been here.