Free True To Form by Elizabeth Berg Page A

make a little seed of what you saw, they swallow it, and it blooms again inside their own heart.
    I see the shadow of my father at the screen door. I know he’ll stand there for a minute, and then turn on the yellow porch light and call me in. I wish I could stay out longer. The air is so soft and warm, the fireflies are coming, and time has that slowed down feeling. If a summer were a girl, she’d always be lying stretched out in the grass in a long white dress, her arms over her head, her eyes half closed.
    Now the sky is dark, and the stars come out, arranged in their ancient patterns. There is the belt of Orion. The Big Dipper. The North Star. What a name that is, North Star. It’s as satisfying to say as a good dinner is to eat.
    The porch light goes on. Every time I feel like this and have tocome in, I lie in bed and feel the earth whisper my name, like it’s trying to tell me I forgot something out there, and to come back and get it. But I won’t ask to stay out longer. It could start an argument, and the sound of angry words at this moment would be like desecrating a church. I get up and head inside. I wish I could leave a trail of gratefulness behind me that you could see, glowing thanks. I would pay to see stars, but I never have to. This to me is one of those miracles.

S O , M RS . O’ CONNELL,” I say. I clear my throat. “First, I want to thank you for letting me talk to you in private.” We are sitting at the kitchen table, and my hands are folded and resting exactly in front of me, which is the way world leaders do it when they have peace talks. Except for Mr. Khrushchev, who is fond of using his shoe to bang on the table. “I really appreciate it,” I say. Cynthia is waiting in her bedroom, probably biting her nails to the quick.
    â€œThat’s quite all right,” Mrs. O’Connell says, and she’s so stiff her lips hardly move at all when she says this. She tries a little smile that gets an F.
    â€œThis is about the Girl Scout troop idea,” I say, and Mrs. O’Connell says, “I’m well aware of that.” She stirs her coffee with her fancy little spoon from Belgium. She has a whole wooden rack of spoons from different countries hung up on the wall of the kitchen. Each day she uses a different one for her coffee. She’s wearing a lime green shift, and has a filmy yellow scarf tied in her hair. If you didn’t know her, you’d see her and think, What a pretty woman. But after you talked to her about five minutes, you would only think, Eeeeeeyikes! Ordinarily I would be nervous about talking to her about anything; I mostly just like to avoid her. But I feel so bad for Cynthia. And I don’t know why, but the fact that I’m going to Texas in three days makes me feel strong.
    â€œI have talked a lot with Cynthia about it,” I say, “and she so much appreciates your asking her and everything like that, but we were wondering if maybe she isn’t a little old to be doing this.”
    â€œToo old to be doing what?”
    I stare at her for a moment, then shrug. “Well . . . like . . . camping out.” Then, in a smaller voice, “In the living room.”
    â€œWell,” she laughs. “I hardly think she’s too old to be camping out. Many adults camp out. In fact, you have to be old enough to camp out; there are many dangerous things you have to learn to do. For example, do you know how to start a fire, Katie?”
    â€œNo, ma’am,” I say, and in the back of my brain is: “It’s not something that comes up for me to have to do too often. These days, we have stoves and heat built right in.”
    â€œWould you know what to prepare to eat in the woods?”
    â€œNo, ma’am.” Ditto the same kind of thing in the back of my brain, having to do with grocery stores and kitchens.
    â€œWhat about protection from wildlife?”
    â€œWell,” I