So many of the questions had to do with terrorism that I said to my mom, “Should I be worried? Is Allison Springs a MAJOR terrorist target and not just some tiny town in Maine? People seem to be VERY WORRIED about terrorism here.”
My mom said, “The truth is, Ruby, if you know your neighbors and they know you, you don’t have to worry about terrorism nearly as much as people think. Not in a place like Allison Springs. But the other truth is, that’s not what people want to hear during an election.”
Still . . . my mom may have been trying to get me not to worry. I am “neurotic.” “Neurotic” means “I think about things until I am sick.”
I googled how to avoid terrorism, and it said you should (1) always be aware of your surroundings, and (2) if you see something, say something, and (3) remember that terrorism can occur in places where you LEAST expect it, places like Allison Springs.
So now when I go out, I’m trying not to blink very much, and I’m making sure to scan in all directions for signs of TERROR. Do they have a lot of terrorism in Indonesia?
Your Meaning Twin,
Ruby
To: “Fatima” [email protected]
From: “Ruby”
[email protected]
Date: October 1
Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your American Pen Pal, Friends Around the World Pen Pal Program Dear Fatima,
EUREKA! I went to the Allison Springs Public Library and I asked Mr. Allison to help me figure out what percentage of mayors were event planners. I tried googling so many combinations of words (“mayors, by occupation,” “mayors, by former occupation,” “mayors—what did they do before they became mayors?” “number of mayors who worked in event planning,” et cetera), but I couldn’t get an answer for you. Mr. Allison said we would have to do our own research. He said that we could take a “sample of Maine.” I asked him, “What is a sample?” He said, “Sometimes when you can’t see everything, you look at a small piece of something instead, and you can draw conclusions about the larger piece from the smaller piece. The smaller piece is the sample.” I said, “What if you are looking at the wrong piece?” He said, “That is true, Ruby. That is a danger. At the very least, though, we can learn about mayors in Maine. Are you ready for some painstaking research?” An interesting fact about “painstaking” is that it is pronounced “painstaking” when it should be pronounced “painstaking” because what you are doing is “taking pains.”
We found out that there are 432 towns in Maine, and none of the mayors are former event planners. So, the answer is 0 percent of current mayors in Maine come from an event planning background! My mom would be the first. Mr. Allison said we could increase our sample to the rest of the country some other time but it would have to be another day, because the library was closing.
Mr. Allison is the town librarian and the town historian. He is a descendant of Captain Allison, who founded Allison Springs. He went on a date with my mom once. Mr. Allison looks like a pencil. He is very skinny, and his hair is reddish pink, like a pencil eraser. He has long, blondish red eyelashes, and his Adam’s apple is very “pronounced.” “Pronounced” means “I sometimes can’t stop looking at it when he talks.” My mom said the fact that he looks like a pencil is not the reason she did not go on a second date with him. I like Mr. Allison A Lot because he is even better at finding things out than me. I do not know much about boys, but I think superior research skills would be a Very Good Thing to have in a boyfriend. I asked Mom what was wrong with him. She said “no chemistry.” “No chemistry” means “a person doesn’t make you feel excited in your heart and other organs.” My mom says “no chemistry” about everyone, though.
Can I tell you something, Fatima? Maybe it’s because you asked about it or maybe it’s because my mom has been so busy with the campaign, but lately, I have been thinking a lot about my dad. I know he is dead, but I would like to know what he was like, and what he looked like, and am I like him, and do I look like him? Is he like Mr. Allison? Or is he like Ms. Reacher, back when she was “presenting” as a man? Who knows? I don’t even know his name. If I knew his name, I would google him. I don’t want to make my mom sad but I also would like to know. Is it wrong that I would like to know?
Your Friend and Meaning Twin,
Ruby
P.S. Please don’t mention any of the “personal” stuff in the Skype chat on November 2. I know you wouldn’t.
To: “Fatima” [email protected]
From: “Ruby”
[email protected]
Date: October 5
Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your American Pen Pal, Friends Around the World Pen Pal Program Dear Fatima,
I may have done a Very Bad Thing. I’m not ready to tell you about it yet, because you’ll think I’m a terrible person. I don’t want you to think I’m a terrible person. The Very Bad Thing part comes at the end of the story, so I don’t have to say it right now anyway.
Thank you very much for the advice. It was hard finding a good time to talk to Mom because she is Very Busy with the election and always with Mrs. Morgan or the people (mostly volunteers) who work on her campaign. Late Friday night, everyone ate pizza, which took forever. Finally, they left, and I said, “Mom. We need to talk,” like you told me to. “I want to know more about my father.”
She said, “Ruby, why do you want to know about this now?”
I said, “Because I’m getting older.”
She said, “You are. It’s true.”
I said, “And I’m lonely.” I didn’t know I felt lonely until I said this.
She made a :( I pretty much live my life to avoid seeing my mom make that expression. I quickly said, “Not ‘lonely.’ But I am ‘alone’ more often, with the campaign.”
Mom said the story I have heard before. She said that she “loved him,” but in a way, she didn’t “know him” very well. (That makes no sense to me. How do you love a person you don’t know?) She said that he died in a car accident, and he didn’t know she was pregnant. She said that she came to Maine because she couldn’t bear to be around the places she’d been with him. She said it was a long time ago and she was a different person.
I said, “What was his name? You never say his name, and you don’t have any pictures either.”
She said, “It’s too painful.”
“Then just tell me his name,” I said.
“His name is . . .” She sighed. “Why does it matter?”
“Why is it a secret?”
“It’s not a secret,” she said. “You never asked. His name was Mariano Donatello.”
I repeated the name, “Mariano Donatello.” It felt so beautiful on my tongue, like licking a Creamsicle? in summer. I said it again. “Mariano Donatello . . . Mom, I’m Italian?”
“Yes,” she said. “I guess so.”