Hope Is a Ferris Wheel (22 page)

And I knew, even though she wasn't giving anyone the elbow, that this was what it was like to have a best friend. So I told her thanks and explained, while she made a neat pile of salami on the table, that I'd gotten the club back. “It'll probably just be called the Poetry Club now,” I told her. “We'll do other people besides Emily Dickinson. Maybe even some haikus.”

“Oh, good!” she said. “Let's make sure Langston stops drawing bras all the time, though. And, Denny, you have to talk more.”

“Fine,” Denny muttered.

“What?” Genny said, holding her ear closer to him.

“Fine, I will talk more, and in complete sentences,” he said, glaring at me. I guess that wasn't going to change.

“Do you still want me to find some more club members?”
Genny asked. I remembered what Denny had said about keeping her out of detention.

“No,” I told her. “I think the club is perfect just the way it is.”

“We're exclusive!” Genny shouted. She turned to another lunch table and tapped a fifth-grade boy on the shoulder. When he turned around, she yelled, “YOU CAN'T JOIN THE CLUB!”

I wouldn't trade Genny for all the fifth-graders in Mr. Savage's class. It turns out I just needed one person.

One friend.

A friend who didn't care that I lived at Treasure Trailers and who thought my mullet was cool.

And I had three, if I counted Eddie and Langston. I didn't know how they felt about the mullet, or Treasure Trailers, but they were definitely friends. If they weren't, I probably would have been punched by now.

I looked at Denny and sighed. If I had to put up with him to be Genny's friend, then I guess it was worth it.

Genny and I spent the rest of the day telling everyone they weren't in the club. Some people said, “What club?” and some people said, “Who are you?” and most people said, “Who cares?”

But we kept doing it anyway.

Star Mackie

November 5

Week 1 Vocabulary Sentences

When I first sat behind
lanky
Denny Libra, I had no idea I'd end up being best friends with his sister, or that I'd end up throwing applesauce at his head. I was too busy thinking that living in
poverty
would keep me from making any friends at all. But now I have an
abundance
of friends, all thanks to the Emily Dickinson Club. (And you, I guess, Mr. Savage. For writing her poems on the board.)

But now the club's changing, and Eddie's going to make us read a bunch of
alternative
poems so we aren't just reading about Emily Dickinson all the time. I was a little
reluctant
to change the club, but it turns out there are a few other good poets, and besides, it's a lot harder to run a club than I thought it would be. I'd rather let Eddie run it sometimes than get
hysterical
every week trying to find something new and interesting to do.

Now I am trying to make sure these sentences are complete and
circumstantial
(even if they're not alphabetical), but I am also occasionally looking at the mostly blank postcard sitting next to me. It's supposed to
be for my dad, who is not even
neutral
about wanting to see me—he is completely opposed to seeing me at all, ever. But he can't send back a
covert
poem that is cleverly disguised as a postcard.

So I'm sorry to tell you that I think, after this, I am done with the word
vexation
.

Hopefully forever.

I
found Eddie in Miss Fergusson's room after school, scowling at a pile of papers. “I can't believe you're making me do this,” he said as I approached his desk.

“I thought ‘The Turtle and the Bagpipe' was your favorite poem,” I said.

“It's ‘The Bagpipe Who Didn't Say No,' ” he said, “and I told you, it's not my favorite. I just couldn't memorize any of the poems in that book, and I wanted to keep it so badly.” He told me how he'd snuck the book from Mrs. Flower's desk, written the poem in there, and then recited it for her the next day. And then she'd had to give him the book, because the poem was in there, after all.

I can't believe he didn't think he was smart.

But I could tell it really was his favorite, still, because he'd never found another poem to take its place as
Amarica's Gratist Poem
. “Besides,” I told him, “I want to know why you like it so much.”

“Whatever,” he said. “What metaphors are we supposed to pull from here, anyway? And what are we gonna talk about? It's a love poem about a turtle and a bagpipe.” He brushed all the papers into his backpack and, waving good-bye to Miss Fergusson, headed to the door. I headed out with him.

Once we were in the hallway, I handed him my postcard. “Read this and tell me what you think.”

“Who's Frankie?” he asked.

“My dad.”

“Why do you call him Frankie? I don't call my dad by his first name.”

“It's a long story. Will you shut up and read it already?”

He shoved me, just a little bit, but stopped to read. I watched his eyes move back and forth, reading the poem I'd written on there. The same one I'd started last month. I'd finally finished it.

Hope is a Ferris wheel –

It takes you Low and High;

And when you reach the Top,

It's like you can touch The Sky!

And when it takes you Down –

Hope becomes A Thing

That, When you're getting Off,

You take With you to Bring.

“Your meter's off a bit,” Eddie said, handing back the postcard. I didn't know what that meant. “But it's good,” he added, thankfully, because I wasn't going to send this to Dad without Eddie the poetry genius's approval.

I tucked it safely away in my pocket.

On my way home, I stopped by the mailbox, hoping, really hoping, that Dad would like the poem so much, he wouldn't throw it away or rip it to shreds or anything like that.

The thing was, I would never know. Because he couldn't send back the postcard, and until I decided to send him my address, he also couldn't write me back at all.

I knew that when he read it, he probably wouldn't understand it. Maybe he'd never been on a Ferris wheel before, and there was no way he'd know that I'd been on one. But I still wanted to share my poem with him, because I had figured out how to finish it all on my own. I knew he liked poetry, and if Eddie said it was a good poem, then
I knew Frankie would think so, too, even if he found it confusing.

Besides, it was the best kind of poem: a truth poem. That, I decided, was the fourth Emily Dickinson category. For her, hope was a thing with feathers, and for me, it's a Ferris wheel. And I hope it never stops spinning.

Anyway, I dropped the postcard in. Because the postcard itself wasn't a hope; it was a dream. And dreams need to fly.

There is only one name on the front of this book, but don't be fooled. Without the help of some very generous people (and institutions), this book simply wouldn't exist.

First, thanks to my family—Mom, Jessica, and Donald—for practically everything. Support, food, shelter, advice, socks, phone calls, and most importantly, a sense a humor.

The Vermont College of Fine Arts is an amazing place, and I am so very proud to have been a part of it. I would like to extend extra thanks to my four advisors: Alan Cumyn, Rita Williams-Garcia, Julie Larios, and Shelley Tanaka, all of whom were instrumental in Star's development. And another thank-you to my graduating class,
the Thunder Badgers, for being collectively awesome and awe-inspiring.

Elysia Willis and Brian Millet were my first (non-VCFA) readers, and it's because of them that I didn't lose sight of this story. (And that I survived my first year of graduate school.)

Speaking of graduate school, I never would have made it there if I hadn't taken Professor Kathryn Reiss's YA literature and writing classes in college.

And speaking of teachers, my former drama teacher, Barry Blake, was kind enough to read my first draft and give me extensive notes. (He was also kind enough to put up with me in high school.)

All of these people helped me to be a better writer.

Then there's Sara Crowe. As an agent, she's unstoppable. She never gave up on me or my book, and I'm so happy I've got her in my corner.

Tamar Brazis, my editor, took this book and made it shine. It's because of her that I am proud to put my name on it. And to the rest of the Amulet team (and especially the three M's: Maggie, Melissa, and Maria) for being the best publisher a writer could ask for.

And finally, there's Brandon. He consoled me through rejections, never complained about reading a draft before
I sent it off to Sara or Tamar, and bought me countless candy bars when I needed them. Thanks for sticking around, buddy.

ROBIN HERRERA
is an aspiring cat lady living in Portland, Oregon, with her fiancé and one very mean (but precious) cat. She received her BA from Mills College and her MFA in writing for children and young adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. When not chasing cats, she can be found at her desk at Oni Press, where she works as an administrative assistant, or at the library, where she severely abuses the hold system. This is her first book.

1.
Sometimes Star's idea of normal doesn't match up with other people's perceptions. What are some aspects of her appearance or life that Star sees one way but other people see a different way?

2.
When Star starts the Trailer Park Club, why do you think she has a hard time finding other members to join? Was there ever a time when you judged someone without knowing them?

3.
How does the author use Star's vocabulary lists to tell you more about Star and her life? Why do you think Star doesn't turn them in, even after she learns how to do them correctly?

4.
Star objects to vocabulary words that she considers old-fashioned—like
defenestrate
and
vexation
—because the same thing can be said in a more modern way. Do you think it's important to preserve words, or should language be allowed to change over time?