Page 12 of Mazywood

They all squatted to compare their prizes, while the mothers—or, in Mazelle’s case, her mother and father—hung back to let them enjoy each other’s company. This was a weekly ritual every Monday: To see whose prizes were the best.

They held out their palms in a circle: Mazelle had dug out a tiny washboard, which she already knew wasn’t the winner—not only was it boring, but she had collected a couple at home on her windowsill as a reminder that Gram used to do washing. Amelia got a football, which only made her frown. Stan proudly held a crown. Davie showed off his tiny derby. But Danny Wu’s fat palm held a sheriff’s tin star, and they all rubbed his head and told him he had won. It was best to keep him in a good mood before the cameras rolled, or Mrs. Wu would spend all morning trying to get him to smile. She appeared as Ming Ming the Laundry Lady because she needed to be near him.

Their tutor, Mrs. Hillbrandt, waved to the kids from the lot office.

“We’re doing class first today!” she said. “Except you, Mazy—time to see Mr. Lorenzo.”

The others pouted because they had to go do their lessons and Mazelle didn’t. Mazelle hadn’t told them that in Florida, colored and white children weren’t allowed to go to school together. She wished she didn’t know it herself. That was only one of the reasons Li’l Gumshoes felt like a dream to her—not quite real—and the lot was a kind of fairyland.

“See ya, Mazelle!” Jake said. His dimples were to die for! He said her name like music.

Mazelle glanced back at Jake’s mother to see her staring, tight-lipped, and she wasn’t the only one staring. For Mazelle’s first two years in Li’l Gumshoes, she and the other kids had just chased Scout and played tug-of-war and nobody cared who was meeting with Mr. Lorenzo.

But her best friends, the older kids, had left. The old days felt long gone.

Mazelle didn’t visit Mr. Lorenzo’s office often, and it had changed since the last time she’d seen it: the wooden desk bigger and shinier, with a more colorful lamp and padded wooden chairs in front of his desk. His wall was covered in posters from Li’l Gumshoes, since those were his most famous pictures, and Mazelle noticed that she and Scout were at the center of almost every one: her plaits a mess and her mouth wide-open with shock in the terrible dresses she wore. The Li’l Gumshoes Detective Agency—so designated by a misspelled, hand-painted sign with several handprints posted outside of their treehouse headquarters—was a gang of kids who solved mysteries while they avoided their chores. Mazelle used to be proud to see her face on the posters, but now the images annoyed her because she never looked pretty, only silly. Amelia was six, but she was allowed to wear makeup and nice dresses.

Mr. Lorenzo was in a great mood, heartily shaking her father’s hand like they were old war buddies, giving Mother a polite kiss on the cheek, and hugging Mazelle like he was family. He’d even remembered to put out his cigar that Mother hated, although his office reeked of it. The director, Buddy Sharpe, was also there with his wife, Millie, who was the nicest woman Mazelle had ever met except for Mother. Mr. Sharpe got the credit as the director, but Mazelle thought his wife should be considered the director too, since she was the one who could get everybody smiling to do another take after a long day. Millie Sharpe looked like a star herself with her fashionable clothes and bobbed hair; she’d been an actress too. Mr. Sharpe was five inches taller than Mr. Lorenzo and looked at least ten years older. Mr. Lorenzo still had a baby face, although he must have been at least thirty.

Mazelle finally noticed a smallish white man in a businesslike gray hat she didn’t know standing in the corner. His eyes glowed at her like blue marbles, his dark hair streaked with silver at his forehead above a tanned, smooth face. The man marched forward with a wide grin, his arm outstretched to shake Mazelle’s hand. His face was kind, even familiar, so Mazelle took a step toward him—but before the man reached her, his foot caught the edge of Lorenzo’s thick rug… and his body twisted and flew! Mother gasped as he seemed sure to crash into Mazelle, or Lorenzo’s desk, but he landed in a perfect somersault and kept up his stride with his arm outstretched as if it had never happened. Scout barked and paced with excitement.

“Pleased to meet you, little lady,” the man said in a fancy accent. And winked at her.

Mazelle shook his hand, amazed at his grace. She had seen great stage shows, but never anyone with this stranger’s fluidity, as if his body were rubber. His blue eyes twinkled.

“Hold on now—you’re Charlie Chaplin!” Daddy said, the first to recognize him.

Charlie Chaplin! Mazelle stared up at the man with amazement. She couldn’t see it: He wasn’t much taller than she was! And he wasn’t wearing his signature makeup and mustache, or his oversized Little Tramp costume, so he looked nothing like the star on-screen. But his grin told her it must be true. How often had Mazelle skinned her knees trying to balance on railings the way he walked a tightrope in The Circus? Once, Aunt Ruby had covered her legs with welts when she caught her trying to slide down the stairs like Charlie Chaplin after she’d seen his stunt in a picture.

“My goodness, it’s an honor to meet you!” Mother said. “We’ve seen all your pictures. Mazelle idolizes you.”

“The regard is mutual,” he said to Mazelle. “I’m sure I’ve seen all your pictures too.” His voice was from a land far away. England, maybe? And so refined! Although she played a role herself, she was stunned by the differences between the actor and his famous character.

“I can do it too—see?” Mazelle said, and she backed up a few steps. Now that she was in the room with Chaplin, something she had only dreamed of, she was eager to show off for him.

“Mazelle, don’t—” Mother started, but Mazelle was already pretending to trip on the rug. She instructed her limbs to mimic Chaplin’s awkward fall and graceful somersault. She landed almost perfectly, but she bumped a table. The colorful stained glass lamp she jostled would have crashed to the floor if Mr. Sharpe hadn’t caught it. Mazelle quickly pulled her dress back down; she’d forgotten how it would fly up to her waist.

“Holy bejeezus!” Lorenzo said. “That’s a Tiffany lamp! No more stunts in my office, both of you. What’s the idea, Chaplin? You could have hurt the dog!”

Mr. Lorenzo’s accent from Brooklyn sounded blunt and ugly. Mazelle was surprised to hear him scold Charlie Chaplin the way he scolded the Sharpes, but Chaplin didn’t seem to hear Lorenzo. Chaplin clutched Mazelle’s forearms and leaned close to her as if no one else was in the office. “You, my dear, have a genius knack for comedy,” he said. “You’re the one worth a fortune. It’s not just the dog.”

“Yessir,” Mazelle said. She bounced on her feet. Hearing praise from Charlie Chaplin made Aunt Ruby vanish from her mind—although her arms were still sore where Chaplin was holding her after Aunt Ruby’s strikes with the hairbrush. And he thought she had talent!

Scout barked with joy and walked in circles between them, sharing her excitement.

Chaplin went on earnestly. “I started with nothing too. Look at me: I’m puny. People get fooled by that and underestimate me…” For the first time, he glanced back at Lorenzo before bringing his liquid-blue eyes back to hers. “But everyone loves an underdog. Use your comedy to show your heart—and then the world will know your name, Mazelle Washington.”

His eyes were sad despite his smile. Chaplin pinched her cheek and said to her parents, “Watch over her. This is a dodgy bloody business for children.”

“Oh, you bet we do,” Mother said.

“Yeah, we’re all watching over her just fine,” Lorenzo said. “Didn’t you say you had to rush off? A meeting to make sure your next shoot isn’t another circus like The Circus?”

Chaplin’s face knotted with annoyance—or real anger. The Sharpes looked startled by Mr. Lorenzo’s remark, their eyes bulging. Mazelle had laughed herself silly watching The Circus, so why was Mr. Lorenzo naming it as an insult? She felt uneasy witnessing the slow-motion argument between Mr. Lorenzo and one of her favorite stars, and she noticed her parents shifting uncomfortably too.

A minor storm left Chaplin’s eyes before he tipped his dapper hat, but his sweet smile was gone. “Cheers, Lorenzo. You’re cheeky, I’ll give you that. Remember what I said.”

“Remember what I said.”