Beverly Quarter Chapter 12
On Tuesdays, I’m using this newsletter to publish a book called Beverly Quarter: Invisible Frenemy. It’s got nothing to do with the rest of the content of this newsletter. I mean, for real: It doesn’t even contain the word burpee. But I think you’ll like it.
I wrote it to make my kids laugh, their friends laugh, and their parents laugh. I’m guessing most of you have kids, or know kids, or were kids, so you’re my target audience. I explain the book’s backstory here.
Give this chapter a read. If you like it, read it to your kids, their friends, their friends’ parents, random strangers on the street, etc.
I’ll keep publishing the newsletter as usual on Thursdays. This will just be bonus content.
CHAPTER 12
The drive to the park only took five minutes but it seemed like five hours. Sally was trying to decide whether to be excited or terrified. New things scared her. What if this place had a Slide of Death? Would she ride it? Or chicken out?
Beverly Quarter was sitting in the front. She told Sally over and over again that she voted for excited. In fact, all she did for the first four minutes was bounce up and down on the seat and say, “excited” over and over again.
Finally, Beverly Quarter stood up on the seat, turned around and said, “are we there yet?” and then climbed into the back with Sally.
“Are we there yet?” Sally asked her dad.
Just then, her dad slowed down and turned right into a parking lot. “Yes,” he said. “Wow. Look at this place.”
He parked the car and then helped Sally get out. They walked across the hot pavement to the grass. Her dad was carrying the picnic basket, his lawn chair, the sun screen, three bottles of water, his sunglasses, Sally’s sunglasses, Sally’s hat, a hula hoop, two basketballs, a tennis racket and a kitchen sink. As always, the right front pocket of his pants was full of grapes, in case he or anyone else got hungry. Neither one of them spoke for 30 seconds. As far as they could see, nothing but playground equipment and kids climbing on it.
Suddenly her dad held out his arms wide and hummed a song he called the Die Hard theme whenever Sally asked what it was. He always did this when something he thought was cool happened – the pizza man arrived, a good play in a baseball game, when he won at Uno. He said it was a song from a movie. Her mom said it was actually Beethoven. Sally just thought it was weird.
“Holy cow,” her dad said. “I’ve never seen so many invisible friends.”
“DAD!”
“Kids. I mean kids. Kids. I’ve never seen so many kids.”
There really were dozens and dozens of them, all dressed in Day Glo colors that did not appear in nature, with half of them named Mackenzie, half Olivia, half Ava, one-third Caden, two-thirds Brendan and four sets of twins, all eight of them named Jackson.
“I’m scared,” Sally said.
“Of what? What’s there to be afraid of?”
“What if nobody likes me? What if nobody wants to play with me? What if there’s a Slide of Death and I’m too scared to go down?”
“You’ve gone down the Slide of Death in the park at home, right? That means you know you can go down this one. All you have to do is make sure it’s clear, and then go down.”
“Why do you always say that?” Sally asked.
“Say what?”
“Make sure it’s clear.”
“Oh, it’s a long story. I hit something on the way down a slide once, and I never want that to happen to you. That’s how I got that scar on my leg.”
Sally loved the scar. It looked like a whip being cracked. It also kind of looked like a lightning bolt but her dad always rejected that description.
“But don’t worry about that. Go play. I’m sure somebody will play with you, sweetheart. Just run out there and start playing. Introduce yourself to someone.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Well, then just play and see what happens. There must be kids playing tag or hide and seek or something. You can just join in. I’m sure someone will invite you. This is good practice, honey. For your whole life, you’ll have to introduce yourself to people. You might as well start now,” her dad said.
He looked at her. She didn’t make even a slight move toward the playground. Neither did Beverly Quarter.
“I’m going to go sit down and solve all the world’s problems. You are not invited to come with me. You have to go play.”
Her dad carried his picnic basket, his lawn chair, the sun screen, three bottles of water, his sunglasses, Sally’s sunglasses, Sally’s hat, a hula hoop, two basketballs, a tennis racket and a kitchen sink to the shade of a tree. He set the kitchen sink down next to a dresser full of little girls sundresses that another dad had brought. He unfolded the chair, sat in it and put his water bottle in the holster. He only stayed there for a second before he stood up, walked over to some other dads and started talking. Sally had become an expert lip reader in her years of being denied access to adult conversations. She was certain that her dad said, “blah blah bliddity blah” for the next two minutes straight.
She saw him point to the scar on his leg and watched as the first dad said, “wow, cool!” the second said, “awesome” and the third said something that appeared to be “looks like a lightning bolt” after which her dad shook his head vigorously.
She didn’t move for that whole time. She didn’t want to run to the playground in the first place, and in the second place, even if she did, she didn’t know where to start. It was just that big, and there were just that many kids there. It was a little bit like going to a donut shop that had a million donuts. It might have been easier if there were only one kid on one swing set instead of dozens on dozens.
Sally was the only little girl in the world who read the rules at the park, so she walked to the sign that laid out what she could and couldn’t do. She recognized the source of the rules immediately. “Ah,” she said, “the Akron doctrine. That’s so retro it borders on unimaginative.”
She read it out loud in a mocking tone.
“You must not run.”
“You must not chase another kid.”
“You must not be chased.”
“Loud laughter is strictly prohibited.”
“Quiet laughter is strictly prohibited.”
“Medium laughter is strictly prohibited.”
“You must not have fun of any kind.”
Suddenly she heard someone say, “What are you waiting for?”
Sally had almost forgotten Beverly Quarter was there.
“I’m scared,” Sally said.
“Of what?”
“What if nobody likes me?”
“Everybody likes you. Anybody who doesn’t like you is stupid. You’re awesome. Come on, let’s go!”
“But I don’t know what to say to anybody.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll tell you what to say.”
That helped. Beverly Quarter always knew exactly what to say, Sally thought to herself. Without waiting another second, Beverly Quarter sped off toward an apparatus that looked like a pirate ship. As she ran, a scabbard suddenly appeared in Beverly Quarter’s right hand, an eye patch grew over her left eye, and her left leg turned into a peg leg. A parrot that had not been on her shoulder a second ago spun its head completely around and said to Sally, “pieces of eight! Squawk! Pieces of eight!”
Giggling, Sally yelled, “ahoy, matey!” and chased after her.