Losing Penny (31 page)

“Today we’re going to draw our very own
super-heroes,” I told the class as I passed out comic books. “Let
your imagination go wild. If you were a super-hero, what powers
would you have?” I turned the kids loose on their easels and
wandered around the room, watching them work.

O’Toole lounged on his bed in the corner, his
head resting on his paws. Mr. Everett and a few of his harem
remained in the back, but I kept one eye on the kids and another on
the door. Artie should have returned before the class started.

“Who’s that?” Travis, a ten-year-old in cargo
pants and a robot sweatshirt, curled his lip at Savannah’s drawing
of a winged creature flying over a city skyline.

Savannah rolled her eyes at Jessie who
answered for her friend. “That just happens to be Letriciana,
Goddess of Reincarnation.” The two girls stood side by side as if
linked by an invisible chain. They wore identical jeans with the
word Juicy written on the pockets and they each had on a pair of
bumblebee shoes with matching, glittery beads threaded onto their
laces.

“Carnation?” Travis lived in Woodinville, a
city neighboring the town of Carnation. “There isn’t a Goddess of
Carnation!” Travis’ straw hair pointed at the ceiling and a line of
freckles crossed both of his cheeks.

“
Re-in-
carnation,” Savannah said,
adding a cloud to her sky.

Travis also added a cloud to his sky.
Whenever he moved his arms the robot’s ears wiggled. “Can she fly,
or is that thing on her back a jetpack?”

Savannah set her pencil down to give Travis a
hard, I-don’t-believe-you-could-so-stupid stare. “Goddesses don’t
need jetpacks.” She flipped her blond hair over her shoulder before
she picked up her pencil. “Those are wings.” Savannah considered
her work then drew a lightning streak through the cloud.

“If you think she can be a superhero, she
can’t,” Travis said as he drew his own lightning streak. “Only men
can be superheroes.”

“That’s not what Hailey Clements says,”
Jessie piped in.

My throat tightened as it always did whenever
anyone mentioned my grandmother. I feared anything—my blush, my
eyes, the way I shoved my hands into my pockets—would reveal my
lie. My eyes caught Savannah’s father’s. I wanted to take my
paintbrush and paint a frown over his knowing grin.

Jessie, despite her pants, was a “Royal,
Loyal” reader—a Haileyism for devoted fans. There were, naturally,
readers who were neither royal nor loyal, but Gram hadn’t given
them a name, because she refused to acknowledge their
existence.

“Hailey Clements says that everyone can and
should be the hero of their own life,” Jessie continued. Her dangly
earrings jiggled when she nodded her headed. She didn’t dress the
conservative part of a Royal Loyal, but I knew Gram would love
Jessie. Gram relished and encouraged blind devotion.

Savannah nodded and drew a dog on the street
below the flying Goddess of Reincarnation.

Robot ears wiggled at me as Travis also drew
a dog. A cloud, a lightning streak, and a dog all floated in the
white space of Travis’ page. Travis was having a hard time finding
his own hero.

I could relate.

My eyes slipped back to Savannah’s dad
chatting with Mrs. Schumann, a woman I’d never seen in anything
other than tennis whites. It was hard to say if she played before
or after Travis’ art class because I’d never seen her sweaty and
I’d never seen her racquet, but I’d seen the panties under her
tennis skirts a hundred times.

Savannah set down her pencil again and glared
at Travis. “Stop it!”

Travis added a puff of fur on his dog’s tail
so that it resembled a dandelion. “Stop what?” Travis asked, his
freckles turning upward.

“You’re copying me!” Savannah stamped her
bumblebee shoe and the beads jingled.

Savannah was right, he was copying her, but
before I could separate them, I noticed that O’Toole had left his
bed to rummage in an unattended backpack. My heart picked up speed
as I remembered O’Toole’s last experience with a student’s half
eaten candy bar. The dog had a nose for chocolate. I could relate
to that as well, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of another barf
scene, especially not in front of the students. Or the parents.

I snapped my fingers at O’Toole but he
ignored me. “Jeanine, your bag,” I called to a pale and timid girl
who watched in horror as O’Toole rooted in her backpack.

Travis’ lips twisted into a grin. “Yeah,
right. As if I wanted to draw the Queen of Carnation.”

“Could someone please get the dog,” I called
from across the room.

“I think it’s really unprofessional that Miss
Artie brings that creature to class,” Mrs. Wagner said. She looked
up from her novel but didn’t budge from her chair.

“It’s her school,” Mrs. Langley replied with
a shrug, her amused eyes on O’Toole who was licking clean a
Snicker’s candy wrapper.

“Not for long,” Mrs. Devon said.

“Really? I hadn’t heard that,” Mrs. Langley
replied.

I hadn’t heard that either, but I didn’t have
time to wonder about it right then because O’Toole gagged. I
grabbed the Cocker by the collar and hauled him out the back
door.

“Hey, what’s up?” Artie asked as she climbed
from her Jeep.

“Chocolate,” I muttered, handing over the
dog.

“Aw, the downfall of so many,” Artie said,
taking a grip on O’Toole’s collar.

I rolled my eyes at her and hurried back into
the class, silently agreeing with Mrs. Langley assessment of
professionalism and creatures.

I returned to class in time to watch Travis
draw a city skyline. His buildings stood a little straighter than
Savannah’s. He drew in strong, fast, even lines. “Hailey Clements
is an old poop,” Travis said.

I scowled. Grammy wasn’t a poop. If Grammy
were a bodily function, she’d be a reoccurring twitch, not a
poop.

Travis compared his picture to Savannah’s and
liked what he saw. “And I’m sick of listening you talk about her,”
he said.

Me too.

“That’s very nice, Travis,” I said, stepping
behind him and trying to discreetly angle his easel so that he
couldn’t see Savannah’s work. “Where would you imagine the
sun?”

Travis flashed a smile at Savannah and drew a
circle in the in the corner of the page.

Savanna stamped both feet. The beads on her
feet jingled reminded me of a parade pony. “Can’t you see he’s
totally copying me?” Savannah wailed.

A small hush fell and I felt the stares of
the students and parents resting on my back. When Savannah stamped
her foot again, the jingling seemed much louder.

“That’s where
my
sun is!” Savannah
bordered on tears.

“Isn’t the sun in the sky the same for
everyone?” Travis said, feigning wisdom beyond his years. He
stepped away from his easel, considered his masterpiece and smiled.
I wondered which he most enjoyed, his art, the attention, or
teasing Savannah.

Before I could separate them, Savannah ripped
Travis’ picture off his easel and put it next to hers for
comparison. “See?” Her voice quivered indignantly.

The parents in the back of the room stopped
talking. Savannah’s father stopped laughing. “He’s drawn everything
just like me,” Savannah complained.

Travis assumed bull-charging stance, his hair
seemed, if possible, to stand a little straighter. “Have not!” He
lunged for his picture.

Savannah lifted the easel and pictures over
her head. If someone didn’t do something Savannah would bean
Travis, or Travis would tackle Savannah. Through the open door I
heard the familiar sound of O’Toole vomiting.

Travis knocked me into Savannah and the three
of us fell taking two easels with us. My elbow crashed against a
desk but I caught myself with one hand as Travis toppled on top of
me. As I fell I lost my glasses, but I could still see a blurry
robot just inches from my nose. My elbow stung and my eyes swam in
dizzy pain.

For the first time ever I thought that maybe
Gram was right: maybe I should quit my job at the academy.

“Hailey Clements says there is never a need
for violence,” Jessie said, a voice of reason not far above us.

Travis clambered off me. A strong hand pulled
on my arm and set me on my feet, but I still couldn’t see.

“But Hailey Clements doesn’t know about
Letriciana, Goddess of Reincarnation.” Mr. Everett slid my glasses
onto my nose and sight returned. I glanced around at the parents
surrounding me. No longer hovering over their children, they
shifted their maternal instincts to me. Their expressions varied
from horror to worry to amusement. Well, only one looked amused,
and I knew just from his touch that the instincts we shared were
more animal than maternal.

Parents and students watched as I brushed off
my pants and blinked away tears of pain and embarrassment. I waited
for Mr. Everett to scold his daughter or for Travis’ mom to demand
an apology, but all I heard was O’Toole’s continuous retching.

“She knows about everything,” Jessie said.
She put down her pencil, and gathered up her jacket. She refused to
make eye-contact with Savannah’s father. Gram would love her
jutting little chin and her righteous indignation.

Savannah’s father snorted and flashed his
dimples at me. “No one knows everything,” he said to Jessie’s back.
“Except for maybe the Queen of Reincarnation.”

A Haileyism came to mind. “Those people who
think they know everything are especially annoying to those of us
who do.” I wasn’t in the mood for Haileyisms.

The bell struck five, officially ending
class. I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Mothers and students
gathered up folios, returned pencils, put on jackets, and called
good-bye. I waved to them as they disappeared out the door.

But Savannah, Jesse, and Mr. Everett stayed
behind. Mr. Everett considered Jessie’s portrait of a beaked nosed
woman wearing horned rimmed glasses. “Is that your hero?”

I turned away, hugging my smarting elbow,
before Jessie could give the answer I didn’t want to hear. “Hailey
Clements is your hero?” Savannah’s father asked.

I collected pencils, determined not to
listen.

“She’s my superhero,” Jessie said primly.
“She saves people, and that’s what superheroes do.” Jessie shrugged
into her jacket.

I put the pencils into the tin can pencil
holders. Savannah’s father put his hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “She
doesn’t save anyone. She’s just a nice elderly woman.” He cut a
glance at me. “Some even say that she doesn’t write the column and
that it’s really written by a team of therapists.”

“That’s not true!” My own voice surprised me,
I hadn’t meant to speak. I concentrated on the pencils and forced
my voice to sound calm, matter of fact, and emotionally detached.
“Why would she need a team of therapists? She’s the sage of sticky
social situations. She doesn’t pretend to replace MDs or
psychologists.”

“Ah, but what is she pretending then?”

“She doesn’t pretend at all.” Which wasn’t
exactly true. “She’s syndicated in the U.S., Canada, Mexico, and
Bangkok.”
That
was true. I stood tall, tugged my smock into
place and then, embarrassed, fussed over the art supplies. “And
when all of the newspapers are collapsing, she’s one of the few
columnists that have successfully transitioned onto the Internet.
Her blog is the--”

“Do you think Hailey Clements is pretend?”
Savannah interrupted my spiel.

I took deep breath, mortified I’d gotten so
carried away. I reminded myself that farts and braggarts are
equally popular.

“Of course not,” I told Savannah. “She’s a
sweet woman who is trying…to make the world a better place.” I
snapped an easel shut and pinched a finger. I yelped and put my
wounded finger in my mouth.

“You think she’s a do-gooder?” Mr. Everett
asked.

“She’s very successful
and
charitable.”

“Huh.”

He leaned against the table and crossed his
legs at the ankles. He looked ready to engage in conversation
instead of looking ready to leave, as one should when class has
been dismissed.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“You don’t think she writes her column for
the money…or for fame?”

Grammy Hailey, still beautiful and
scrupulous, relished her role as the world’s answer to everything.
TV talk shows, fundraiser luncheons, news interviews, Grammy Hailey
loved the camera and spot light. I, on the other hand, valued
anonymity. “Maybe all that fame is more difficult to live with than
it might seem. Maybe it’s hard to be the world’s know it all.”

He snorted.

I carried the supplies to the closet and shut
the door. “Seriously. I bet she finds it hard to have a normal,
balanced life. She probably longs for a life where random strangers
don’t know her face or ask her advice. Maybe she can’t hire a
plumber, reserve a plane ticket, or get a mammogram without someone
recognizing her.” Not everyone sought her advice, of course, but
whenever I went anywhere with my Gram, I found the hushed whispers
and long stares unbearable. She was once getting a Pap-smear, her
feet in stirrups, bottom to the edge, when a troubled
nurse-practitioner unburdened herself. Gram laughed when she told
me, but I’d decided long before that to keep my life private. I put
my finger back in my mouth because it still hurt, but also because
I needed to stop talking.

“I understand,” he said, grinning as he made
a guess. “I’d feel the same if my grandmother handed out platitudes
and clichés.”

I pushed back my hair and turned to face him.
“She’s not a cliché. It’s not a bad thing to offer advice without
being overburdened with information.”

He sat a little straighter and then laughed
long and hard. “You’re good! You sound just like her! You know I
overheard you that day in the grocery store. I read Hailey’s
Comments that day. And the next. That lemon line, the one I
overheard you say, it didn’t come out until today.” He motioned
toward his briefcase. “In fact, I brought in the paper to ask you
about it.”