The Key to Extraordinary Page 11

  Cody wiped the mud off her face. “As far as wild-animal encounters go, that one wasn’t so bad.”

  “I need some Boneyard Brew,” I sighed. “Back to the cafe to figure out what to do next?”

  “I have to go home first,” Cody Belle said. “But I’ll meet you there later. Don’t give up, Emma. We’ll find it.”

  But I had my doubts.

  We walked Cody Belle back to Sweet Peaches. Before she split, I reminded her it was a jamboree night. I didn’t want to miss a dance at the cafe, especially since we probably didn’t have many left.

  “Don’t give up, Emma,” she said again as she gave me a squeezingly tight hug. “We still have time.”

  But we didn’t have time. Not at all. Warren Steele had already sent his men to survey the land, and Blue had the papers set to sign. It was just a matter of days. Maybe less.

  Earl walked home beside me. I thought he might split, too, when we got close enough to the path near his house. But he didn’t, and we walked on in silence for a while. Maybe the fact that he couldn’t talk was what caused me to open up.

  And I mean open up, like spill out a waterfall of thoughts.

  “I have a theory about Beretta Simpson,” I said to Earl. “She has a rare and unusual gift. Whatever you’re most sensitive or insecure about, she knows it. It’s like she can see the invisible target on a person’s heart and ZAP—she goes right for it.”

  We emerged from the woods and walked into the cemetery. The setting sun was peeking out through the shattered sky, casting pink and gold light across the stormy underbelly. The cafe looked beautiful in the fading light. Maybe knowing my days there were limited made it look even more beautiful than usual. Sometimes you don’t realize how special a place—or a person—really is until they’re slipping away from you.

  “I guess she’s the least of my worries, though. For right now, anyway. This place is my sanctuary. My mom loved it here. My dad, too, probably.”

  I spoke softly. I didn’t think Earl had heard me. But then he unzipped my bag and pulled out a notebook. He scribbled a note for me to read.

  I know your mom is gone. What happened to your dad?

  “He died before I was born,” I said, handing the notebook back. “I don’t talk about it, because I think people feel sorry for me enough as it is.”

  He turned the page and scribbled a new note.

  Does living beside a graveyard bother you?

  “No.” I plucked a dandelion from the grass and stuck it in my braid. “I know this sounds weird, but I think about death so much anyway … that it almost makes me feel better to be here. To try and find out stories about the dearly departed. They’re not just names to me. Know what I mean?”

  Before I could ask Earl if he wanted the full tour experience, he scribbled something else in the book.

  My sanctuary is under my house. I feel safe there.

  “You aren’t afraid of rats?” I asked.

  He grinned, and shook his head no.

  “That makes sense. A guy who explores this cemetery at night isn’t afraid of anything … Are you ever going to tell me what you were looking for out here that night?”

  He looked at me as though he wanted to tell me. But he said nothing. Instead, Earl sat down pretzel-style beside a grave and turned the page. I tossed my bag on the ground and sat down beside him while he scribbled.

  Earl passed me the notebook.

  What’s your deal with Beretta Simpson? What’d she do to you?

  I didn’t answer at first. I let the wind fill the silence between us. A few rose petals tangled in the grass, and I picked one up. Pressed it between my fingers. Earl scooted closer, until his knees were touching my knees. And he waited.

  “It’s more what she said than what she did,” I finally told him. “I have this scar, here—”

  I touched the small zigzag scar above my mouth. “When I was born, my mouth looked different. It’s called a cleft lip. I had surgery to fix it when I was a baby. But it still looked different in school. You don’t remember?”

  He shook his head. He watched my mouth as I spoke. My fingers twitched with a desire to cover it. “I had more surgeries as I got older. My last one was two summers ago. My scar’s not as obvious now. But when we were little kids, Beretta used to push up one side of her lip and pretend to be me, and her friends laughed at her doing it. And then they’d all smile goofy and lopsided and say, ‘Look—I’m Emma!’ because that’s how it looked when I smiled, I guess. She still does it. You’d think it wouldn’t hurt anymore, but it hurts just as much. And it hurts because I know she’ll never stop. She’ll always make fun of me.”

  Earl’s eyelashes fluttered. He looked away, toward the tall stones. He looked like he was pondering something important. A hard math problem.

  Earl reached for the notebook again and turned to a blank page.

  Your smile is what made me want to talk to you. Because it’s nice.

  He ripped out the page and gave it to me.

  My face felt warm and prickly. I nodded. “I like your smile, too,” I told him.

  He chewed on his lip as he snatched the page back to write something else. Then he passed it to me.

  I like your smile because it’s different. Cool different. Your smile is pretty.

  My face felt sunburnt as I read the page. “Thank you,” I said shyly. And I smiled back at him. Really smiled. I didn’t try to hide my face or cover my smile. I just grinned. I couldn’t stop smiling after that. My cheeks stung from smiling so hard.

  “Are you hungry, Earl?” I finally asked him. I folded his note and put it in my bag where I’d remember to pull it out later.

  Earl nodded.

  I pulled a crumpled bag of BBQ chips from my bag and we shared them, while Gypsy Roses blew over the grounds all around us. I kept talking. Earl kept listening.

  These were my favorite sounds right then:

  A crinkling bag.

  Crunchy chips.

  The sheer whisper of wind tangled up in the trees.

  Earl’s laugh … rippling through the air.

  I paused, my chip in the air midway to my mouth.

  A laugh wasn’t talking … but it was something. And maybe it was a sign that his voice wasn’t far away. Maybe Earl could talk. Maybe … he just didn’t want to. Not yet.

  I tried not to pretend it was a big deal, but I had to admit it: Hanging out with Earl in the graveyard, eating chips, made my heart feel fizzed over. Later on, I’d drum out some thoughts about Earl Chance, and they would be happy like a heartbeat.

  The dark clouds that had followed us all day long finally gave up a low growl. Earl and I rose to our feet and hurried toward the gate. I told him Topher’d be happy to drive him home, but he shook his head no.

  “At least let me walk with you,” I said, pushing the gate open for him. But Earl shook his head again, popped his hood, and took off in a long-strided run.

  “See you at the jamboree, okay?” I yelled after him. He waved but didn’t look back.

  I headed back into what would be the cafe for only another few days, if Warren got his way. My heart sank like a bowling ball at the sight of Steele Associates trucks pulled into the grass. The back tire of the red pickup had smashed Blue’s favorite iris. Warren’s workers were walking around the cafe, making notes, making plans that had nothing to do with me. He’d probably put a wrecking ball through the stained-glass window before the ink dried on Blue’s signature.

  Blue’d decided to close the restaurant for a few hours that afternoon so Warren’s people could have some room to look around. Plus, she needed time to think, she said. Since we had a jamboree that night, I knew the cafe would fill up in short order once we opened back up. At the top of the wooden ramp, a certain spin through the window caught my eye. “The ghost!” I grinned as I raced through the door.

  But it wasn’t the ghost.

  What’d I’d seen was Granny Blue … dancing.

  She’d turned up the jukebox so loud t
he walls were vibrating to the sound of recorded steel guitars. As I’ve said, some songs are fight songs, and they give you the courage to push through an ordeal. But some songs latch on to you, heart-first, and pull you out on the dance floor. Blue was caught up in a dancing song. She was all alone in the cafe, just spinning in circles. She stopped and bowed to an invisible partner, then crooked her arm as if a ghost was holding on tight, ready for do-si-do.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her so animated. It nearly made me mad, at first. It was a poor time to dance, considering Warren Steele’s deadline pressing down on our shoulders and the Boneyard Cafe in dire straits. But the jamboree nights had also taught me this powerful truth: When life gets heavy, sometimes your heart needs to cut loose. And nobody danced like Blue; she’s not elegant or formal about the way she moves. She’s not worried about timing. She just lets the music tell her what to do—lets it pull her body this way and that. The way Blue dances is the best kind of dancing; she dances because she’s happy, not worried a lick about what people think.

  Maybe I should have walked away and let Blue keep dancing by herself. But seeing her so happy filled me with happiness, too. It’d been a long time since I’d seen her grin that way.

  She swirled to a stop when she saw me standing in the doorway. “Emma!”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said sheepishly. “I thought you were the kitchen ghost.”

  She laughed and said, “I figure ghosts are nothing to be afraid of … not if you invite them out of the dark places to dance every once in a while.”

  I walked over to the jukebox and turned the volume down. “You’re not just going to give up, are you, Blue? Can’t you see how happy this place makes you? You can’t just let Warren have it!”

  Blue’s eyes were suddenly glassy with sadness. Instead of answering my question, she said, “You know what I’ve been thinking? It’s time you learned the secret family recipe for Boneyard Brew.”

  My heart leaped. “Really?”

  Blue nodded.

  “But it won’t matter soon,” I said sadly. “We won’t be selling it after that.”

  “But we’ll make it for each other. We’ll still pass the recipe—and the secret ingredient—down for generations.”

  “Like the Book of Days,” I said.

  Blue sighed. “Something like that. You want to learn to make it or not?”

  “Yes!” I ran to the kitchen and tied my too-long apron.

  Granny Blue started by pouring thick cream into the Cocoa Cauldron. Then she shaved a block of chocolate and dumped that in the kettle, too.

  “Hold the spoon like this,” she said. She locked her hands around mine, so I could feel the movements. Then she let me go, and let me try by myself. I wanted to prove to her that I could make Boneyard Brew exactly right. I mean, I don’t mind doing dishes at the cafe. We all take turns doing that. But I have way more fun when Topher lets me help him bake. And actually making brew for the Boneyard Cafe? That’s bona fide chef stuff.

  “Looking good,” Blue said approvingly. “Once this last swirl of cream disappears, we’ll add the secret ingredient.”

  “So what is the secret ingredient?” I asked her. “Is it the chocolate?”

  “Quality chocolate is important.” Blue smiled. “But no … it’s something else.”

  Blue wiped her hands on her apron and spun around, ducking her head as she stepped into the pantry. She was so tall that she didn’t have to tippy-toe to reach the tall shelf. She returned with a small blue glass jar and unscrewed the lid. She held the jar out for me to see. The powder inside was dark and sparkly. Glitter-dirt, was my first thought.

  But I was fairly certain Blue’s special ingredient wasn’t dirt.

  “Take a whiff of this,” Blue said. “Tell me what you smell.”

  The powder had a sweet, spicy aroma to it. “Cinnamon?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Blue shook her head. “Guess again.”

  “Something … spicy. Cayenne?”

  “Good guess, but no.” Blue grinned. “This jar contains the rarest and most wonderful of all ingredients you will ever cook with, Emma Pearl: pure, undiluted hope.”

  Blue pinched a small amount from the jar and snapped the dust in the batch of Boneyard Brew. When hope hit the surface, the whole cauldron bubbled and sparkled.

  “What’s it really?” I asked.

  “Hope!” Blue said again. “You stir while I tell you the tale. Many years ago, when we were young idiots instead of old idiots, Club Pancake took a road trip to the World’s Fair. I don’t suppose they have the World’s Fair anymore. But the World’s Fair was a big to-do for many decades. You saw new inventions, fine contraptions, thinkers, and dreamers, and all kinds of crazy food. I ventured down one of the food aisles and saw a funny-looking booth with colored flags rippling from the tent poles. A little man stood on an old chair in front of the booth. He played a jaunty tune on his mandolin. He had one of those long mustaches, the kind that swirl at the ends. And he was peddling little unmarked jars of spices. Well, I picked up one of the jars and, as soon as I did, the music stopped. The little man touched my arm and asked me a question.”

  “What’d he say?” I asked, stirring the brew slowly.

  “He grinned up at me and said … ‘Do you truly believe that anything is possible?’ ”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I told him the truth.” Blue smiled. “I said, ‘Absolutely!’ The little man handed me this jar. He said once every ten years—on the coldest night of the year—stardust falls on top of Mount Mitchell. That’d be a miracle in itself, the ability to catch and keep falling stardust. Takes years to learn how to harvest stardust properly. But the stardust on that mountain comes from the North Star—the wishing star. He collected the stardust so carefully, he said, sifting through snow with his bare hands for tiny wish particles that glowed in the moonlight. Do you know how much hope rests on the wishing star, Emma Pearl?”

  I shook my head.

  “Enough for a lifetime,” Blue said. “Just a pinch of wishing stardust in someone’s drink fills them with hope, no matter how sad their days have been. It doesn’t just work on people, either. A pinch of wishing stardust over a dried-up garden makes it bloom bright.”

  I looked down at the contents of the jar. “And so you sprinkled it in hot cocoa?”

  Blue nodded. “I did. Because people need hope. You’d be amazed at what a person can do with just a pinch of it.”

  “If we have so much hope in the hot cocoa, why are we ever sad?” I asked.

  “It took many years for me to see that hope doesn’t take sadness away,” Blue said sincerely. “But hope reminds you there’s something good in spite of the sadness. There’s joy still ahead, still yours for the taking.”

  That’s one thing I’ve always loved about my granny. Regardless of my age, and the fact that I’m small for my age, she’s never been one for baby talk.

  “You said it took a long time for you to figure that out. How come?”

  Blue took over stirring for a while as she mixed in another spiral of glitter. “I had my Destiny Dream when I was twenty years old, Emma. I dreamed of boxing gloves in my field of blue flowers. I’d already set my sights on becoming a professional boxer at that point in my life. So the dream was just affirmation for me. I would win the women’s boxing championship of the world.”

  I hopped up on the nearest counter. “You were a famous boxer.”

  “But I wasn’t a winning boxer.” Blue smiled at me. “I traveled from state to state. I’d fight. Sometimes, I’d win. But every time the championship rolled around, I lost. And I’d get letters from home about how my mama was sick and wanted to see me. About how Periwinkle missed me like crazy. I thought they didn’t understand. I was fighting for them. If I could just win the prize money boxing … they’d be set for life. We wouldn’t have to depend on this cafe. Lord knows it’s never been easy to keep this place up. So I kept fighting. That’s when these happened
…” Blue traced her finger down one of her flower tattoos, an iris with purple petals.

  “You got your first tattoo?”

  Blue nodded. “I got a flower for every state I passed through in my boxing days. But I got flowers for … other reasons, too. This iris on my forearm, it’s the state flower of Tennessee, of course. But I remembered the irises that grew down at the general store where Peri and I ate candy bars on Friday nights.”

  She pointed to a cluster of blue flowers around her wrist. “These reminded me of the forget-me-nots that bloom in Blackbird Hollow. That’s where my friends were. And I wanted to know they were always with me. Every flower on my arm has a meaning: Hope. Joy. Love. Patience. I guess I wanted permanent reminders that it’s possible to bloom, even when you feel defeated. I finally gave up fighting. Came back home, penniless. Mama and Club Pancake were waiting for me at the door with hot cocoa. Hot cocoa with a pinch of hope inside.”

  Blue grinned as she stretched her arm out to me. I traced the red rose inked on her forearm. “That was my last tattoo,” she said wistfully. “A red rose for true love. I got it when I met your grandfather.”

  She left the brew simmering while she traced the tattoo with her own hand. The lines around her eyes deepened. I’ve heard laughter is responsible for the lines on our faces as we age. And I hope that’s true. But I knew so many of Blue’s lines had come from sorrow.

  “I didn’t have him in my life for long,” she said. “And I went through … a dark spell when he passed on. Even then, Club Pancake was there for me, sprinkling hope in my brew. I did the same for them, many times.”

  I nodded. “Topher would do that for me, too. And Cody Belle. And you.”

  Blue nodded. “We’re lucky, you and me. To have people who love us more than wishing stars.”

  She continued stirring as she talked. “I remember your grandfather’s last year on earth. I knew he wouldn’t be here long, you see. Some weeks, I felt numb. Like it was impossible to feel again. You know what that’s like.”

  I nodded.

  “It was Greta and Periwinkle who pulled me out of my slump. Periwinkle bought me a brand-new jukebox full of new songs. And Greta took over making big cauldrons of hot cocoa. We’d closed the cafe to the public that night. We danced up the dust of days gone by. We drank the stuff that dreams are made of. Your mama was a little girl back then. She danced, too. She loved the cafe even when she was little. Just like you. You remind me so much of her.”