Meeting Miss 405 by Lois Peterson

CHAPTER 2
The First Fifteen Minutes
    Miss 405 is very old. And she is wearing shiny green shorts! I stare at her tanned wrinkly skin, which goes all the way down her legs in little ripples. Right to her bare feet.
    Dad pushes me in ahead of him. “Miss Stella. This is Tansy.”
    â€œI thought it might be,” she says. “Come in, Mr. Hill.”
    â€œCall me Lew. Please,” says Dad.
    Before she can tell us to just call her Stella, I say, “In case you want to know, my name is Tansy with a T,” like I always do. This time I also say, “It was Grandpa’s dumb idea to call me after a dumb wildflower.” Dad taps me on the shoulder.
    Well, it’s true!
    I never knew knees could be bony and wrinkly at the same time. I don’t want to look up. Maybe Miss Stella’s face is all pleated like a turkey’s neck.
    She leads us down her hallway. It is just like ours, but with everything on the wrong side.
    All I can see is a roll of crinkly gray hair tied in a knot with a yellow pencil stuck through the middle. And a baggy black shirt that hangs down over her shiny green bum.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Dad says. “It looks like we caught you in the middle of supper.”
    On her dining room table is half an avocado on a blue plate and a brown bowl of popcorn next to a whole pile of magazines and papers.
    â€œI can eat that any time.” Miss Stella shoves everything to the other side of the table. “Sit for a while.”
    Dad takes one chair, and I stand next to him. I rest my elbow on his shoulder. When he tries to shrug me off, I press down harder.
    â€œNow, I did tell you I have little experience with children. But I understand that you are in a spot,” says Miss Stella.
    â€œIt is short notice, I know,” Dad says. “Her mother is…”
    I press harder into Dad’s soft blue shirt. The pointy part of my elbow fits right in the dip by his neck. If he tells this wrinkly Miss Stella-whoever-she-is about my mother, I will never come back. And I will not say another word to him. Ever.
    But he makes a phony little cough. “My wife had to go away for a while. With seven weeks left in the school year, you can see why we need a sitter. Just until the end of term. Tansy can’t stay alone yet.”
    â€œI could too!”
    Dad reaches across and takes hold of my elbow, leading it off his shoulder and down to my side. “I often work long hours,” he tells Miss Stella, holding my hand so I can’t move it. “Sometimes I don’t get home until ten. You must tell me if this will be inconvenient.”
    Miss Stella picks up the spoon stuck in her avocado. But instead of digging into it, she asks, “Can I offer you some iced tea?”
    Her face is as brown and wrinkly as the rest of her. Like those rust-colored cliffs in the Fraser Canyon with ridges where the rain has run through. Her eyesare light light blue. As if the color got washed out. Maybe she stood too long on her balcony in the rain.
    â€œThat would be nice,” says Dad.
    â€œTansy?” Miss Stella makes a little puffing noise as she gets up. Just like Grandpa.
    â€œI’m not thirsty.”
    While Miss Stella is in the kitchen, I ignore Dad’s frowny look. I run my fingers through the stack of paper. I love popcorn, but I’m not hungry enough to grab a single kernel.
    Miss Stella comes back holding three glasses. Like a waitress, with two in one hand. She puts one on the table in front of me. “Some for you. Just in case.”
    In case of what?
“This is red,” I say. Iced tea should be brown. With a slice of lemon squatting on the rim of the glass.
    Lemon I could give to Mom if she was here. Dad and I despise citrus.
    â€œIt’s Roy Bus,” she says. “Not tea at all, really. But delicious.”
    Roy who?
I want to ask. But I am not talking to either of them.
    Dad takes a sip. Miss Stella takes a sip. I stick one