13

MY SCRAPBOOKING TO THE OLDIES class has officially begun. I won’t deny that I’m
disappointed with the turnout. So far it’s just Stormy, Alicia Ito, who is sprightly and put-together—
short, buffed nails, pixie cut—and wily Mr. Morales, who I think has a crush on Stormy. Or Alicia.
It’s hard to know definitively, because he flirts with everyone, but they both have full pages in the
scrapbook he’s working on. He’s decided to title it “The Good Old Days.” He’s decorated Stormy’s
page with music notes and piano keys and a picture of the two of them dancing on Disco Night last
year. Alicia’s page he’s still working on, but his focal point is a picture of her sitting on a bench in
the courtyard, gazing off into space, and he’s affixed some flower stickers around it. Very romantic.
I haven’t got much of a budget, so I’ve brought my own supplies. I’ve also instructed the three of
them to collect scraps from magazines and other little bobbles and buttons. Stormy’s a pack rat like
me, so she has all kinds of treasures. Lace from her kids’ christening gowns, a matchbook from the
motel where she met her husband (“Don’t ask,” she said), old ticket stubs to a cabaret she went to in
Paris. (I piped up, “In 1920s Paris? Did you ever meet Hemingway?” and she cut me with her eyes
and said she obviously wasn’t that old and I needed a history lesson.) Alicia’s style is more
minimalist and clean. With my black felt tip calligraphy pen, she writes descriptions in Japanese
underneath each picture.
“What does it say here?” I ask, pointing to a description below a picture of Alicia and her
husband, Phil, at Niagara Falls, holding hands and wearing yellow plastic ponchos.
Alicia smiles. “It says ‘the time we got caught in the rain.’”
So Alicia’s a romantic too. “You must miss him a lot.” Phil died a year ago. I only met him a
couple of times, back when I’d help out Margot with Friday cocktail hour. Phil had dementia, and he
didn’t talk much. He’d sit in his wheelchair in the common room and just smile at people. Alicia
never left his side.
“I miss him every day,” she says, tearing up.
Stormy jostles her way between us, green glitter pen tucked behind her ear, and says, “Alicia, you
need to jazz up your pages more.” She flicks a sheet of umbrella stickers Alicia’s way.
“No, thank you,” Alicia says stiffly, flicking the page back at Stormy. “You and I have different
styles.”
Stormy’s eyes narrow at this.
I quickly go over to the speakers and turn up the volume to lighten the mood. Stormy dances over
to me and sings, “Johnny Angel, Johnny Angel. You’re an angel to me.” We put our heads together and
chorus, “I dream of him and me and how it’s gonna be.. .”
When Alicia goes to the bathroom, Stormy says, “Ugh, what a bore.”
“I don’t think she’s a bore,” I say.
Stormy points at me with her hot-pink manicured nail. “Don’t you dare go liking her better than me
just because you’re both Asian.”
Hanging around a retirement home, I’ve gotten used to the vaguely racist things old people say. At
least Stormy doesn’t use the word “Oriental” anymore. “I like you both equally,” I tell her.
“There’s no such thing,” she sniffs. “No one can ever like anyone exactly the same.”