tread lightly. “And, uh . . . what makes it special?”
“Special?” Carlos asked slowly.
“Yeah, I see you, you know, paying extra attention to it. Dusting it. Explaining it to customers. What’s the story behind it?”
For a moment, Carlos didn’t say anything, and Teddy worried that he’d give her another monosyllabic answer. But then, as if her question had flipped a switch, something changed in his posture; he went from rigid and focused to relaxed and engaged. “Well, there are a lot of things that make it special, but specifically, this pirate ship is from 1989 and has cannons that actually shoot round bricks. In later years, LEGO used two different types of nonfunctional cannons—one with the old cannon mold that could still move but didn’t have a spring, and another mold that was a solid piece. But that’s specific to the US. In Europe—”
Teddy nodded eagerly, trying to keep up as Carlos kept talking. Convince Carlos to be my friend. Check.
27
Dear Everett,
I didn’t eat a ghost pepper this weekend, but the roof of my mouth is still burned from my first-ever fried pickle, which seems like kind of the same thing.
I’m sorry your weekend wasn’t the best. Mine wasn’t the greatest ever, either. I’m supposed to be facing my fears and trying new things and finding my passion, but I had a chance to be bold this weekend and I let it pass me by. I had a chance to do something that scared me, and instead I ran away. I hope I get a chance someday to make up for it.
This week I’m going to a sewing class with one of my best friends. She’s a kindergarten teacher and she can do every crafty thing under the sun, so I’m sure it will be easy for her. And as for me? Well, my fifth-grade art teacher once told me that not all of us were “blessed with artistic ability” and that I probably had other things I was good at. This was after I painted an (admittedly very . . . abstract, to say the least) portrait of Shaquille O’Neal for an assignment where we were supposed to paint a hero. The weirdest thing is, I didn’t (and don’t) care about basketball. I think I heard some other kids talking about how great Shaq was and decided to run with it. So not only did I paint a very poor portrait of Shaquille O’Neal, but I didn’t really even like him that much in the first place (no offense to Shaq, who seems like a great person). I feel like there’s some sort of lesson there.
But the difference between the old me and the new me is that I’m determined to try something new, even if I do totally suck at it.
Anyway, I’m sorry a woman ran away from you and puked. That’s not a sentence I thought I’d ever type to Everett St. James, but here we are. Here’s hoping the rest of your week is better.
In Shaq we trust,
Theodora
Everett was mad.
This was a familiar anger, the kind he felt whenever an adult was dismissive of a child. It was something he was used to feeling—when he saw a parent insult their kid in public, when he heard anyone laughing at a child’s honest question, whenever someone put down the dreams and desires and plans of a tiny person who trusted them. He felt a fury that coursed through his body and turned his hands to fists.
Because this was the core belief of his show, of his work, of his life: children deserved respect. They deserved to be listened to, believed, and accepted. All children deserved the space and time to explore their interests, hobbies, and passions, and he was unfortunately aware that there were so many well-meaning adults in the world who could crunch a child’s self-esteem under their heel without even knowing it.
And that was what had happened to Theodora back when she was only a kid and barely knew who she was. Someone had told her she wasn’t creative, and she’d believed it. And here she was, years later, still carrying around that erroneous belief, still thinking she couldn’t do anything artistic because she hadn’t been “blessed.”
Everett knew, of course, that was bullshit. Everyone was creative. Just like that possibly Picasso quote he’d told Theodora about in his first email, everyone starts out an artist. But sometimes people encountered parents or teachers or other authority figures who stomped all over their dreams before they even