Cinnamon (Shooting Stars 1)

And Grandmother Beverly would pop like a bubble and be gone along with all the other demons that haunted our home.

We could change the channel on the television set. We could play our music and light our candles and talk to the lonely dead spirits.

And never be afraid of the darkness.

3 Playing the Part

I fell asleep in my chair, dreaming about the love story Mommy and I had created in the attic. It wasn't what I had intended to do, but it almost didn't matter that I didn't come up with a story to tell the Nosy Parkers in school. I decided to simply ignore their curiosity and hope they would stop gaping at me, but Grandmother Beverly was right about gossip, especially about gossip concerning us. It had its own life, its own momentum. People act like they don't want anything to do with you, but as soon as they can learn something about you, they seize it and then take great pleasure in spreading the news, especially if it's bad news. It didn't take too long, less than forty-eight hours, actually.

Classes at my school might as well have been interrupted and an announcement delivered over the public-address system that went something like. "Attention, attention. Two days ago Cinnamon Carlson's mother had a mental breakdown."

That was how fast the news about my family spread. Reactions of my teachers went from aloofness to pity to looks that said, "It's not surprising to me."

The only teacher who did show sympathy and concern was Miss Hamilton. When the bell rang to end class, she asked me to stay a moment. She waited for the rest of the class to leave and then she turned to me, giving me her best long face and saddest eyes and asked how I was doing.

"I'm fine," I told her.

"I want you to know you can come to me anytime. Cinnamon. Please don't hesitate." she said as

if we both suffered from the same disease. Well, she lived alone and, these days. I felt alone; maybe loneliness is a disease, but everyone has his or her own way of curing it, I thought. If she knew some of the things I did, like talk to the dead Carolyne and her son Abraham at their gave sites, she might not be so anxious to have me try out for one of her plays.

I nodded, kept my eves down, and left as quickly as I could. Clarence was waiting for me in the hallway.

"What was that all about?"

"Act One. Scene Two," I said.

"What?"

"Nothing. Forget it. I'm hungry," I said and

marched off to the cafeteria. Clarence had to sit near a window and preferably one on his left side. If there wasn't a seat free that satisfied him, he would eat outside at the bench tables we used in the early fall or spring, no matter how cold it was. Fortunately, today, a day with a dreary overcast sky and a constant northerly wind, there were free seats at a table right below a window. He rushed to it and put down his books to claim the place. I followed and put my books beside his before going into the lunch line.

Sometimes. I brought my lunch, which usually consisted of a container of yogurt and an apple, but with all the commotion at home. I had not had time to buy any yogurt and Grandmother Beverly certainly hadn't bought any for me. She didn't consider it to be proper food. She called it novelty food or, if anything, a dessert. It did no good to read the description of nutrients on the side of the cup.

Today. I thought I would just have some soup and a platter of chicken salad. When I glanced to the right. I saw the heads of other students practically touching temple to temple as they gazed my way and cackled. In moments. I expected to see eggs rolling under the table.

I got my food as quickly as I could and returned to our table. No one else had sat there yet. "So, they moved her?" Clarence asked as he started on his platter of macaroni and chees

e, eating from the left side of the plate.

"This morning," I replied. "I'm going to visit her right after school."

"Your father. too?"

"No. Hell be there at night after his dinner meeting in the city, or so he says."

"Don't you believe him?" Clarence asked, surprised at my tone of voice.

I was silent, thinking about the last two days. Mommy's illness had rejuvenated Grandmother Beverly. She now had the strength and stamina of a forty-year-old. The morning following Mommy's being taken to the hospital. Grandmother Beverly was up ahead of Daddy. I heard her moving about the hallway and down the stairs.

Because Daddy was a broker on Wall Street, he had to be out of the house very early to make his commute and be ready for the opening bell at the stock market. I never saw him at breakfast during the week, but up until the last year or so. Mommy would get up to be with him. Grandmother Beverly sometimes didn't rise until I was about to leave for school, and she never rose early enough to say goodbye to Daddy in the morning.

Suddenly, she was doing it.

By the time I was dressed and down to breakfast. Daddy was already gone, of course: but Grandmother Beverly was still in the kitchen. I heard the dishes clanking as well as pots and pans. Curiosity quickened my footsteps. I stopped in the doorway and what I saw shocked and confused me.

"What are you doing?" I asked her.