I chained the bike to a bench, and Grub and I headed to the arched entryway of Hilltop Nursing Home. I carried the cardboard salad container—100 percent recycled material, mind you—while Grub dove and tumbled behind me, avoiding imaginary machine gun fire and mortar explosions.
The glass doors opened automatically as we approached, and a wave of nursing-home odor smacked me right in the olfactory receptors.
Now—disclaimer—I have nothing against old people. In fact, I hope to be one someday. But we all know that nursing-home odor. It’s like if you bottled up the smell of a hospital, added a splash of grade-school cafeteria, then threw in a little diarrhea, and tried to cover it up with Lysol.
Grub commando-crawled past me into the lobby. I heard someone playing the piano in the distance.
Grub ducked beneath a nearby reception desk, Nerf bazooka at the ready. “All clear, Sarge!” he shouted.
Do you know one good thing about nursing homes? Old people love little kids like they love their hard candies. That means it’s nearly impossible to be embarrassed by your little brother “playing army,” Grub’s favorite game.
I approached the lady at the reception desk.
“Hi, are you here to visit someone?” she asked.
“No, actually I’m making a delivery to . . .” I checked the receipt again. “Missy Stouffer.”
The woman glanced down at a day planner. “Ms. Stouffer is in a meeting right now, but if you’d like to have a seat in the common room, she’ll be with you shortly.” She pointed down the hall.
“Thanks,” I said, then turned to Grub. “Let’s move, Private.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” he shouted, barrel-rolling past me to clear the path of enemies.
As we made our way, the piano music got louder and louder. What was that song? It had an old-time, dreamy feel to it. It reminded me of the Beatles for some reason, but I couldn’t place it.
The hallway opened up into a large room, where a crowd of white-haired, wrinkly people sat in various armchairs and sofas around a black grand piano, nodding and tapping in time to the music.
As the final chords resonated through the room, the crowd burst into applause, and I glanced over at the piano player. I was expecting some old guy to be sitting there, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Instead, it was the girl who changed everything.
TWO
EVER GET CAUGHT STARING AT SOMEONE? IT’S STRANGE HOW FROM across a room, forty feet away, you can tell when you’ve made direct eye contact. How big is the pupil in the human eye anyway, a few millimeters? Isn’t it crazy that we can tell when someone else’s millimeter-sized dot of blackness is directly lined up with our own? I don’t know about you, but when this happens to me, I find the best approach is to suddenly jerk my vision a few degrees away, and act as if I’ve just seen the most interesting thing in the universe.
That’s exactly what I did when the piano girl looked up at me. I don’t know if it’s because I was caught by surprise, or if I had a mild Lysol high, but I completely panicked. First of all, she was smoking hot, and I mean that with all due respect and admiration. Shiny black hair. Dark eyes. Coppery skin. Dimples. Yellow sundress. A thin silver chain around her neck that made me realize just how inviting a collarbone could be. Second of all, she looked to be my age. Third, and possibly most important, whatever that song was, she’d played it like a pro, without any music in front of her. The melody still lingered in my brain, taunting me with its familiarity.
I stood there frozen in the middle of the hallway, salad in one hand, receipt in the other, and stared at a spot on the wall like the world’s lamest statue.
Thankfully, the moment was interrupted by the cackling of an old woman in the crowd. “Enough of this sappy shit, Cupcake! How ’bout some Tom Jones!”
I looked back over to Hot Piano Girl for a reaction and—get this—she smiled at me. My brain said, “Smile back,” but my gut said, “Look back at that spot on the wall.”
Hot Piano Girl then went into what must have been a song by Tom Jones, for Cackling Woman hopped up—pretty spryly, I might add—snapped her fingers over her head, and started singing: “Well she’s all you’d ever want, she’s the kind I like to flaunt and take to dinner . . .” Some of the neighboring residents sang along, while others slept through the performance. A man in the far corner rose from his wheelchair, put a hand over his heart, and in his best tenor started belting out, “O say can you seeeeee . . .”
I remained frozen in the hallway, in awe of the spectacle.
I dared to look back at Hot Piano Girl.
She smiled again.
I smiled back this time but screwed the whole thing up. Imagine school-photo day, when your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. I immediately wished I had thought of something cooler to do. Hot Piano Girl motioned toward the crowd with her head and raised her eyebrows in amusement. I still had the cheesy smile on my face, but I couldn’t take it off now, because she’d notice. So I continued smiling, and raised my eyebrows back at her, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
Suddenly, I snapped out of my hypnotic state, remembering I had an eight-year-old I was responsible for. I hadn’t heard any battle cries since the Tom Jones song began, so I knew he must be hiding somewhere nearby.
“Grub?” I yelled.
Nothing.
“Private Grub, what’s your twenty?” I called again.
“Behind the tree, sir,” called his tiny voice from behind a potted plant.
“Copy that, carry on,” I replied, relieved I hadn’t lost him.
I looked back at Hot Piano Girl, who gave me the “d’awwww, that’s adorable” face. I’m pretty sure my own face turned a dark shade of maroon, but for the first time all day, I began to feel glad I had my weird brother with me.
The moment was cut short when a nurse wheeled a big skeleton of a man with a face like a bulldog around the corner. He looked like he was a hundred and fifty years old.
“Right behind you, soldier!” he shouted at Grub, whose plastic helmet peeked above the plant.
My brother paused for a moment, taking in the man’s gray sweatshirt adorned with military patches and medals.
“Were you in the army?” Grub asked from behind the plant.
“Damn straight I was. Sergeant John Porter, Fifty-Ninth Artillery Regiment, G Battery. Fort Hughes, Philippines, World War II.”
Grub’s eyes widened—he’d never met anyone who’d actually fought in World War II before. Grub must have recognized the insignia of a superior officer, because he immediately hopped out from behind the plant and stood at attention. “Heavy action there, sir?”
Sergeant Porter snorted. “Got our asses handed to us in Corregidor. What’s a little boy like you know about it?”
I took a step toward Grub at the man’s harsh words, but the nurse behind him smiled at us reassuringly. She put a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. “Be nice, Blackjack. This little soldier’s just curious.”
The man eyeballed my brother for a moment and nodded. “At ease.”
Grub’s body relaxed. “I’ve read a lot of books, sir.”
“Well, believe you me, I’ve got stories that’s not in any books.”
“Okay, Blackjack,” the nurse said. “Time to say good-bye so we can listen to Rose.”