Despite some pretty dire conditions in her life, ten-year
old Isabella Marlene is a happy girl. Full of life and
sassy as they come, the future looks pretty bright for this
little girl -- that is, unless circumstances beyond her
control get in the way.
Growing up in Mill Town, Wisconsin, Teaspoon (a nickname
given to her because of her small size) was abandoned by
her mother Catty five years previously when Catty ran off
to find fame and fortune in Hollywood. Teaspoon has lived
with Teddy Favors (the boyfriend her mother also abandoned)
since then and Teddy tries his best to properly raise the
rambunctious little girl.
But Teaspoon has an active imagination, stretches the truth
a bit at times, she tends to get into fights with the
Jackson kids across the street, plus she finds adventure
around every corner, singing and humming everywhere she
goes. In a word -- she's a handful!
When her teacher recommends that Teaspoon become involved
in a new mentoring group, called the Sunshine Girls, she
agrees because she wants to prove to Teddy that she can be
a good girl. Teaspoon is paired up with high school senior
Brenda Bloom, the reigning Sweetheart of Mill Town whose
mother owns Teaspoon's favorite movie theater, the
Starlight Theatre. As opposite as night and day, the two
girls seem unlikely to get along and get off to a rocky
start.
As the summer progress, Teaspoon and Brenda become closer
as the theatre undergoes renovations and Brenda is put in
charge of putting on the biggest live show the theatre has
ever seen. It's discovered that Teaspoon has a talent for
singing and she is excited that she and Brenda will be the
centerpieces of the big Sunshine Girls number at the gala.
But will the sudden appearance of Teaspoon's mom throw a
kink into the works, or will it be Brenda's secret romance
that will threaten to ruin everything?
Set in 1955, HOW HIGH THE MOON by Sandra Kring, is a sweet
look at growing up in a small town. Kring populates her
story with a cast of compelling, delightfully quirky and
definitely memorable characters. Readers will long
remember - Teaspoon's next door neighbor Charlie, who has
come to live with his great-grandmother and has a gift for
playing killer piano by ear; the Taxi-Stand ladies Walking
Doll and The Kenosha Kid; and the handsome Johnny Jackson,
the poor but beguiling Prince Charming of Mill Town - after
the reading is done.
A charming piece of Americana, this is a perfect novel to
take along to the beach this summer.
From the author of "The Book of Bright Ideas, How High
the Moon" illustrates that each person is both teacher and
student--and that the only opinion that really matters is
the one a person has of herself.
Ten-year-old Isabella “Teaspoon” Marlene has been a handful
ever since her mother, Catty, dumped her with an old
boyfriend and ran off to Hollywood. Teaspoon fights, fibs,
never stops singing, and is as unpredictable and fearless as
a puppy off its leash. Still, Teddy Favors, a man who has
taken his share of kicks, is determined to raise her right.
Teaspoon wants to be better for Teddy—even if that means
agreeing to take part in a do-gooder mentorship program and
being paired up with Brenda Bloom, the beautiful reigning
Sweetheart of Mill Town. Against all odds, as the summer
passes, this unlikely duo discover a special friendship as
they face personal challenges, determined to follow their
hearts instead of convention.
It’s while Brenda and Teaspoon are putting together the
grandest show the Starlight Theater has ever seen that Catty
returns to Mill Town, shattering illusions and testing
loyalties. But by the final curtain call, one determined
little girl shows an entire town the healing that can happen
when you let your heart take center stage.
Excerpt
Chapter One
I was sitting at my desk, second seat back in the row by
the window,
staring outside watching jump ropes twirl and kids chase
one another
across the playground. The sounds of thumping red rubber
balls and excited
voices floating in through the rectangle screens were
nothing but a
big fat tease, though, because I couldn’t go out for
recess. Again.
I had to sit at my stupid desk and twiddle my thumbs while
Mrs. Carlton,
my fifth-grade teacher, corrected papers and ignored me,
even though
I was baking like a potato in the sun.
I was supposed to be working on my English assignment, but
I hadn’t
gotten farther than writing the date—May 13, 1955—at the
top of
my paper. I knew that was about all the farther I’d get,
too, because
I was supposed to write about Moby-Dick, and I didn’t even
know who
the guy was. I wasn’t really listening when Mrs. Carlton
read us a
chapter after recess for about a bajillion days in a row. I
could see
the book cover in my head, though, and it had a big fish on
it, so I
was thinking Moby-Dick might be that guy who got swallowed
by a whale
and became a rib bone in the story that Miss Tuckle, the
Sunday school
teacher, told us. But I wasn’t sure because I wasn’t
exactly listening
then, either.
“Isabella . . . your paper . . . ,” Mrs. Carlton said, and
I turned
away from the window.
“I can’t concentrate with all that yelling and laughing
going on
outside,” I told her.
“Try,” she said, without looking up.
“Plus,” I added, “I’m about melting to death. These windows
are working like a magnifying glass. I’m not kidding. It’s
so hot
on my arm that I think I might start on fire. That can
happen, you know.
Jack Jackson started a grass fire in his backyard using a
magnifying
glass, and Johnny, his big brother, had to put it out with
a blanket.
I have very dry skin, Mrs. Carlton.”
She looked up at me and sighed, her lips painted big and
red like Lucille
Ball’s, and said, “Then take a seat over there.” She
pointed to
the first desk on the other side of the room. The one
closest to the
door.
Me and my big mouth!
I didn’t have a thing to do but hum and think about how
hungry I was.
After recess we still had to have math and reading class
before it was
lunchtime.
I thought about the ice cream we were going to have for
dessert, and
the next thing I knew, my mind was scooting off to the
drugstore to
remember the best strawberry sundae I ever had.
I guess you could say that I got that sundae because of Ma.
All because
one night while I was still in kindergarten, she came and
sat on my
bed, the stink of smoke and booze from The Dusty Rose still
clinging
to her auburn curls, and she said, “I gotta go, kid. I’ve
got dreams
to chase.” Then she walked out. Just like that. Leaving
nothing behind
but me, a sinkful of dirty dishes, a pair of elbow-length
gloves still
in their box, and Teddy, her boyfriend of a year, bawling
on the arms
of his ratty work shirt.
After Ma left, Teddy tried to help me stop missing her so
badly. He
was sweet as sugar at first, hugging me when I cried and
playing with
me when I was lonely. But when a few days went by and I
still wasn’t
eating more than a sick mouse, he got downright bossy.
“Teaspoon, I know you miss your Ma. I do, too,” Teddy
said. “But
you’ve got to start eating again, even if you don’t have an
appetite.”
He put a plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of milk in front
of me and
told me I had to get them down. “If you don’t, you’re going
to
make yourself sick.”
I didn’t know people could make themselves sick by not
eating, but
I sure was glad to hear it! When we were living above the
bar in Peoria,
Ma left me with a lady down the hall, and on the third day
I got so
sick that I puked on her quilt and her cat. She somehow got
ahold of
Ma and told her to come get me. So when Teddy told me I
would get sick
if I didn’t eat, I decided that it was a good plan. I slid
my plate
away and crossed my arms, and said I wasn’t going to eat
for nothing.
Teddy swayed on his feet a bit, then he planted his boots
on the floor
and cleared his throat and said, “Isabella Marlene, if you
don’t
eat, I’m going to have to punish you.”
Maybe it was Teddy’s scrambled-egg-soft voice, or the way
he couldn’t
set his chin when he gave an order because he didn’t really
have one
to set in the first place, but whatever it was, his warning
didn’t
scare me. It only grated on my nerves like a skeeto bite
itch. So I
crossed my arms and I said, “I hope I do get sick, because
then you’ll
have to call my ma and she’ll come and get me.”
Teddy’s squished-back chin quivered a little, and he put
his hand
on the top of my head. “Teaspoon, your Ma wouldn’t even
know it
if you got good and sick, because I don’t know where she is
to tell
her.” He looked down at me, and there was water in his
eyes. “It’s
just you and me now,” he said. “Teaspoon and Teddy. And I’m
not
going to let you get sick.”
My arm came up to hide my eyes when he said that, because I
started
crying and I didn’t want Teddy to see. He hugged me to his
leg and
stroked my dark curls. And when my tears turned to hiccups,
he took
me to the drugstore and bought us both a strawberry sundae
for supper.
While we were there, somebody popped a quarter into the
jukebox and
played Teresa Brewer’s “Music! Music! Music!” and just like
that
my toes got light enough to tap (even if all they could tap
was air,
since my legs were dangling off the bar stool), and I
started singing
along with that snappy tune: All I want is having you, and
music, music,
music! Teddy didn’t even tell me to stop singing because I
was in
public and had a mouthful. He just put another coin in the
jukebox and
asked me what else I wanted to hear. Course, I knew that
that would
be the last time Teddy’d ever let me sing at the table or
with food
in my mouth without harping, and so far, I was right.
“Isabella. Stop daydreaming and get to your paper,” Mrs.
Carlton
said, not in a very friendly tone, either, and the memory
of that sundae
melted right off my tongue.
I picked up my pencil and poked the lead between my two
front teeth
as I tried to think about what to write, wishing I hadn’t
thought
about strawberry sundaes because it made me start thinking
about how
sad I was when Ma left. I didn’t like thinking about that,
so instead
I tried to think about how pretty she was. How good she
could sing.
How nice she smelled. I didn’t have much luck, though,
because the
truth of the matter was, by the time I was eight years old
most of the
pictures of her I had in my head had dried like spilled
milk nobody
sopped up, and they flaked away. I had six stupid miniature
plastic
baby dolls to thank for that.
I got those dumb things and that little pink crib to put
them in at
Ben Franklin, and all I did in the days right before Ma
left was sit
on the floor and play with those dolls. I should have been
looking at
Ma instead, because after she was gone for about a year or
so, when
I tried to see her all I saw were those dolls—naked and
pink like
newborn hamsters, two blue dots for eyes painted crooked on
their faces,
seams running along their sides.
Sure, sometimes I tried to talk to her when her bath was
done and she
was sitting under that helmet drying her rollers and paging
through
movie magazines, but she couldn’t hear me with that hair
dryer whizzing
in her ears, so I just went back to playing, bouncing those
dolls in
the plops of water Ma dropped on the floor when she stepped
out of the
tub because those were their mud puddles.
I let everyone believe that I still remembered Ma well—how
she looked,
the sound of her voice, the way her skin smelled—but the
truth of
the matter was, I wasn’t sure I remembered her right
anymore at all,
because when I thought of her, her face looked suspiciously
like Glinda’s,
the good witch from The Wizard of Oz. And when I thought of
her singing
voice, it sounded an awful lot like Teresa Brewer’s. Even
when I thought
I was remembering her smell, I’m not sure if it was her
smell I was
remembering, or the perfume of Mrs. Fry’s peonies in
summer.
It didn’t matter, though, I told myself. One day soon I was
going
to be watching a movie at the Starlight Theater and Ma was
going to
come on that screen and I’d take one look at her face and
remember
her as though I’d never forgotten her. And then I’d know
that she’d
be coming home to Teddy and me soon, because the way I saw
it, chasing
your dream was like winning a race at the last day of
school picnic,
and once you crossed the finish line the winner, there
wasn’t nothing
more to do but pick a prize out of the basket and head
home.
And wouldn’t it be a happy day when Ma came back! For me,
and for
Teddy, who I knew missed not only her but his Oldsmobile,
too.
Teddy didn’t have the money to buy another car after Ma
drove away
in his, and it was too far for him to walk to work come
winter and would
cost him too much to take Ralph’s taxi every day. So he had
to quit
his job with the Soo Line Railroad to take one closer to
home. At the
meatpacking plant over on the south side of town, Mill Town
Meats, though
most folks called it The Hanging Hoof. Every morning until
I was eight
and could get around by myself, Teddy got me out of bed,
fixed me an
egg, and walked me across the street to the Jacksons’ to
get sat on—babysat
by Mrs. Jackson, or sat on by Jack for real, if he was in a
scrappy
mood—then Teddy hiked to work. When his shift was done,
he’d pick
me up, fix me some supper—usually eggs and fried potatoes,
because
after seeing all that blood at work, the last thing Teddy
wanted was
to see more of it sizzling in his fry pan—then he’d sit on
the sofa
and mourn the loss of the lady he loved more than
electricity.
I was upset when Teddy had to stop working for the Soo Line
after Ma
left—upset because I thought he was the conductor, and
whenever a
train rattled through town while he was gone, I was sure it
was Teddy
blowing that whistle. Promising me that he was at work, and
that he
hadn’t run off to chase his dream of becoming an electric
man. Jack
Jackson set me straight on that one, though. Telling me
right in front
of his brothers and sisters—all six of them with J names
and heads
shaped like lightbulbs—that Teddy wasn’t nothing but a Soo
Line
shit shoveler. “It’s true!” Jack yelled when I called him a
liar.
“Teddy doesn’t do nothing but scrape the shit out of the
cattle
cars once they’re delivered to The Hanging Hoof.”
I never did tell Teddy that I knew he was a shit shoveler
and not a
conductor, which was probably for the best, him always
wanting to look
so respectable and all. Not that it mattered, because soon
after, Teddy
stopped being a shit shoveler and took a job at The Hanging
Hoof, probably
butchering cows, judging by the blood on his clothes, even
though that
seemed impossible since Teddy wouldn’t even kill a spider.
Not even
if it was big as a fifty-cent piece and I was standing on a
chair screaming
at him to lambast the creepy bugger. Instead he got a
plastic cup and
an envelope and he trapped the spider under the cup, then
slipped the
envelope under it for a cover and carried him outside. If
Teddy did
kill cows at The Hanging Hoof, I told myself, then it had
to be one
of those contradictions. I didn’t know for sure if I was
using that
word right, though, because when we had it on our spelling
list and
Mrs. Carlton asked for a sentence using the word, I raised
my hand because
I thought I had a good one: Teddy Favors is a cow-killing,
spider-saving
contradiction. But Mrs. Carlton called on Jolene Jackson
instead.
It was the same week we had affliction on our spelling list
and I raised
my hand for that word, too, planning on saying: People who
sing while
peeing on the toilet probably have an affliction, but she
didn’t call
on me that time, either. Which is probably a good thing,
come to think
of it, because we weren’t supposed to say pee in school.
Only restroom.
And I didn’t think that People who sing while rest?rooming
on the
toilet probably have an affliction was a real sentence,
because it didn’t
sound right to me.
I looked at the desk at the front of the room. “Mrs.
Carlton?” I
said. “Is People who sing while restrooming on the toilet
probably
have an affliction a proper sentence?”
Mrs. Carlton looked up from her work and
frowned. “Isabella, what
does that have to do with Moby-Dick?”
I shrugged. “I was just wondering.”
She sighed and told me to get busy, then she went back to
grading papers.
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