Hello There, Do You Still Know Me?. Laurie B. Arnold
a foul odor drifting through the door.
“Wow. Smells like the boys’ gym,” Noah said.
“Or something dead.” Violet scrunched her nose.
“Or both,” I said.
Here’s one thing I’ve learned about living in a hotel: you never knew who or what you’d to bump into. One whiff and my nose told me exactly who was inside.
Surfers. I recognized the no-deodorant rotten compost smell I’ve come to know and not love in Jacó. La Posada Encantada was a favorite with the surfers since it’s right smack on the beach. Two guys in their twenties stood in front of the desk. A stringy scraggly-haired one and the other shaved bald as a soccer ball.
Usually Sofia, the front desk clerk, checked in guests, but today was her day off. Rosalie Claire was behind the counter, her fingers flying on the ancient computer keyboard. Her coffee-colored skin was shiny with sweat from the Costa Rican heat and her braided black hair was partly covered with a red bandana.
“Dude, you’ve got like, a dinosaur computer from the Ice Age. Does it run on electricity or does it eat meat?” The scraggly-haired guy snorted at his own joke.
“A new computer’s on our list.” Rosalie Claire’s sparkly brown eyes crinkled with a grin. “You must be Riptide Atkins. Welcome.”
“That’s me. In the flesh.”
“The gross and smelly flesh,” Violet whispered.
Rosalie Claire handed Riptide a key to Room Five.
“Dude, we need two. One for me and one for Wingnut.” He motioned to his buddy.
She unzipped the battered tan leather fanny pack she always wore around her waist, fished inside, and pulled out another key.
“Cool.” Riptide stuffed it in his pocket.
But he had no idea just how cool Rosalie Claire’s fanny pack really was. It was magic. She kept regular things in there like anybody would, although if she needed something to help somebody out, then presto, it would just show up.
“Madison, would you kids kindly show Mr. Atkins and his friend to their room?” Rosalie Claire smiled her secret smile, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking about their stinky armpits.
The two surfer guys grabbed their surfboards and their bags, and followed us outside down the open breezeway. We passed Room Two where a pile of fresh white folded sheets sat by the door.
“Lady in White’s staying there. She’s terrified of dirt, only wears white, and changes her own sheets three times a day. She won’t let us touch them,” I whispered to my friends.
“Looney tunes.” Violet made the “crazy” sign, her finger twirling circles beside her ear.
“Pretty much. We sometimes have the strangest guests checking in. OK, here we are. Room Five.”
“Thanks, dudes.” Riptide unlocked the door. As soon as he opened it, Wingnut left his surfboard outside and lugged in his suitcase.
Riptide patted his shoulder bag. “Well, gotta go chill and play me some Battle Wizards.”
“Awesome game.” Noah gave Riptide the thumbs up.
“You know it, dude.” Riptide leaned his board next to Wingnut’s and dragged his duffle through the door.
We headed back down the breezeway toward the lobby. A pile of trays with dirty dishes now sat in front of Room Three.
“The old guy in there must have just put them out,” I whispered. “He says he’s a travel writer. He showed up the day after I did and nobody’s seen him leave his room since.”
“How can anyone write about travel if they never go outside?” Noah wondered.
“My thoughts exactly. Unless he’s writing a book about room service.”
Violet, Noah, and I carried the trays back to Thomas’s Café. Leroy trotted behind us, probably hoping the leftovers would miraculously fly to the floor.
The inn’s kitchen was a beehive of busyness with Thomas bustling alongside his employees, Miguel, Arturo, and Rose, as they prepared for the dinner crowd. His white apron looked like a painting I might have done in preschool. It was splattered with black from beans, red from salsa, and bits of something green. Thomas always whistled while he cooked, either theme songs from cartoons or the tunes from his childhood in the Dominican Republic. That’s where he’d lived until he moved to New Orleans with his family when he was ten. Today it was the theme song from Scooby Doo.
When Thomas noticed us with the trays, his licorice black eyes lit up.
“You kids are hired! How’d you like to stay here all year and help out? I’ll pay you in compliments and all the food you can eat,” he joked.
“Will. Work. For. Food.” Violet’s eyes shone at the thought.
I giggled. “She’d do it. She’s a bottomless pit!” More than once I’d watched Violet eat an entire large pepperoni pizza. All by herself. Never ever does she gain a single ounce.
And me? I would have loved to stay all year, but soon I’d be going back to Truth or Consequences. Only two weeks left of my summer vacation before I’d be reunited with my cranky grandmother.
“There you are!” Rosalie Claire scurried into the kitchen. “Since you three have been on the beach all afternoon, you must be starving. What do you say we spoil your appetites with a backwards dinner? Dessert first?”
“Yes, please,” I said, because I knew what was in store.
We pulled up stools at a narrow wooden table in the corner of the big industrial kitchen, its chrome counters polished to a shine. Rosalie Claire served us three fat slices of her famous blueberry pie. Then she unzipped her fanny pack and pulled out a jumbo Milk Bone for Leroy. He sniffed it and hung his head.
“Tired of Milk Bones? Who can blame you, boy? They are a little on the dry side.”
Leroy thumped his tail in agreement.
She dropped the Milk Bone into the trash and poked around in her pack. Out came a gigantic juicy bone.
“Try this,” she said, and Leroy snatched it.
“Holy guacamole!” Violet’s eyes went wide. “That thing is huge!”
“How’d you do that? How did it even fit?” Noah stared at the fanny pack.
Rosalie Claire smiled. “A magician never reveals her secrets.”
“But how does it work scientifically?” Noah asked.
Rosalie Claire shrugged. “Honestly? I’d tell you if I knew, but I don’t. There actually might be a good scientific explanation, although I’ve always chocked it up to one of life’s great mysteries.”
“Speaking of magic, this blueberry pie is almost as magical as your fanny pack.” Rosalie Claire may have spoiled Leroy with meaty bones, but she spoiled me with her pie. It tasted exactly like my mom’s. Kind of like summer sunshine sprinkled with sugar. That’s because when my mom was a kid, they’d both learned from the pie master herself, Rosalie Claire’s Grandma Daisy.
Grandma Daisy had lived next door to my mom when she was growing up in Truth or Consequences. She would go over there as much as she could. My grandmother hated that. Partly, I think, it was because Grandma Daisy was African-American, just like Rosalie Claire, and Florida was as white as vanilla pudding. I think my grandmother was prejudiced, although she’d never admit it. And the other part? My mom liked