She got up to get the art supplies Big Momma kept in a shoebox. Big Momma called it the “just in case” box, just in case somebody wanted to create something beautiful.
Melody found the box in the dining room and set it on the table. Then she headed back into the living room to get the construction paper from its spot in the piano bench. Big Momma came downstairs and shut off the TV.
“Big Momma, I think we should have a welcome party for Val and her parents,” Melody said excitedly. “I’m going to make a banner with all their names on it.”
Big Momma smiled in approval. “That sounds like a fine idea,” she said. “You go on and work quietly in the kitchen, though. It’s time for my first afternoon lesson.”
Melody gathered her supplies and went to the kitchen, closing the door behind her as the doorbell rang. She arranged her crayons on the table, spread her paper just so, and carefully began to outline the word “WELCOME” in big block letters. She could hear the low hum of Big Momma’s voice, a few piano chords, and then a familiar child’s voice.
It was Diane Harris! Melody stopped working to listen.
The metronome that Big Momma used to show her students how fast or how slow to play their music started to tick, tick, tick! Diane’s fingers fumbled over the piano keys. “Try again,” Big Momma said calmly.
The choppy playing started and stopped, and then started over very slowly.
“Go on, go on.” Big Momma sounded encouraging.But suddenly the piano was silent.
“Mrs. Porter, I can’t do it!” Diane said. “I’ll never play the piano as well as I can sing.”
What had happened to Diane’s bossy gym voice, Melody wondered. And her sure and steady choir voice? She sounded just the way Melody felt about doing a solo—nervous.
“Don’t fret,” Big Momma said to Diane. “This is new for you. Sometimes people are afraid of what they don’t know.”
Melody felt that Big Momma was speaking directly to her about the Youth Day solo.
Big Momma went on. “You have to take your time, and open your heart to learning. It may not be easy, but the things worth having usually don’t come easily.”
“Do you really think so?” Diane asked.
“I really do,” Big Momma assured her. “You can shine with this instrument if you work hard enough.”
In the kitchen, Melody smiled. Maybe, she thought, Diane and I are more alike than we are different. Melody picked up her crayon again, and drew a big yellow sun in the corner of her sign.
Dances and Dollars
Melody settled back in the worn seat of his old work truck. It smelled like warm soil and flower petals. She inhaled deeply.
“How was school today?” Poppa asked, shifting gears.
Melody was distracted for a moment because she was watching people drive. Daddy said she was a true daughter of Detroit, the Motor City—the place where so many cars and trucks were built. Melody dreamed of driving her own car one day. She’d play the radio loud and sing along, maybe to one of Dwayne’s hits…
“Melody?”
“Oh! Sorry, Poppa. School was okay.”
“Just okay?” He gave her a curious look. “Hmm. Well, I have an idea that I think is more than okay.”
Melody took her eyes off the sleek blue Thunderbird hardtop car passing by. “What is it?”
Poppa laughed. “Now I have your attention!” He slowed on 12th Street in front of his shop, Frank’s Flowers, and pulled the truck around to the delivery entrance at the back. “How would you like to make a special arrangement for your mother and Big Momma for Mother’s Day?”
“Yes!” Melody said, jumping out of the truck.
They stepped into the workroom, which was one of Melody’s favorite places. The walls were lined with shelves that held vases of every shape and size, rolls of ribbon, and dozens of flowerpots and baskets. An old wooden worktable stretched along the length of the wall, and shears, floral tape, pins, and other supplies were arranged neatly on its surface. There was always music on the radio. This afternoon it was jazz. She recognized the saxophone sound because Daddy used to play one.
Melody dropped her book bag beside the door. There was a long cardboard box at one end of the table.
“Go on, look,” Poppa said. Melody took a deep breath and carefully lifted the top off with both hands.
“Ohhh!” she gasped, smiling up at him. Inside the box wasn’t candy, or toys, or anything else that would delight most nine-year-olds. The box was filled with flowers and feathery green ferns. “Red roses!” she said, taking a long sniff of their sweetness. Roses were Big Momma’s favorite. “And yellow lilies, and pink freesia.”
“Somebody knows her flowers,” her grandfather said, taking a delicate china vase from the shelf.
Melody looked up at him proudly. “Can I really make this one all by myself?”
He tilted his head to one side, and the sun from the windows made his silver beard shine. “Yes you can, Little One,” Poppa said. “When you’re done, we’ll leave it here in the cooler so it stays fresh. I’ll bring it to the house early Sunday morning, and I’ll hide it so your grandmother doesn’t see it until after church. Watch out for the thorns.”
“I will!” Melody said. She opened a drawer and took out the girl-size gardening gloves that she kept at the store. She pulled on the gloves, climbed up on a stool, and carefully picked up one of the roses. She was so busy imagining just how she would mix the colors and flowers in the vase that she didn’t notice Poppa leaving the workroom.
Melody hummed along with the music as she clipped the ends of the stems carefully, the way Poppa had shown her, so the flowers could “drink” more water when she put them into the vase.
She ignored the tinkling of the bell on the front door as customers came and went. But when the telephone rang, she heard a voice that wasn’t Poppa’s
