Meeting Miss 405 (6 page)

Dad takes a great long trembly breath and looks away from me. I can see tears shining at the edge of his eyes.

“I'm sorry I yelled, Dad.”

He looks at me again, and the tears are gone. Men must have fewer tears in them than women. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Tan.” He stands and picks up my plate. “Do you want to get up for a while? Come into the living room? We can play a game of Sorry. It must be my turn to win. We'll make smoothies—
a couple of bananas are about to go bad and we should use them.” He sees me scrunch up my face. “Oh. Right. You despise bananas now. Well, we can use ice cream and chocolate powder. Okay?”

When I get up, Dad hugs me hard. I hug him back, feeling his shirt, smelling his smell, feeling safe for now.

I tuck my list inside Harry Potter and brush my hair. Then I go to find Dad.

He is sitting at the computer in his bedroom.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“There was something I wanted to show you.”

I stand behind him and peer at the screen. “What?”

“I googled your Miss Stella. Guess what I found?”

“Miss Stella's in Google?”

“All over it, like a dirty shirt.”

This is a dumb expression. But I know it means all over the place, not a judgment about laundry.

“
Stella Vickers was trained at the Slade School in London and within ten years had earned an international reputation for her work on illuminated texts, found in important collections worldwide
,” reads Dad. “More than seven thousand web pages mention her, one way or another.”

“What is an illuminated text?”

“A book that is very carefully hand-produced, with special lettering and ornamentation.”

“I guess ornamentation is all the pictures and patterns that go with the words. She taught me how to do some. Flourishes, she calls them. Why is she famous?”

“Her work is considered the best in the world. It has been in exhibitions. The Queen even has one of her books.”

“Our queen?”

“So it says here.” Dad clicks at the computer some more. “Your Miss Stella is quite the dark horse. Not letting on how good she is, or how well-known.”

“But she is poor! Miss Stella has no car. Or a computer or a cell phone! How can she be famous?”

Dad grins at me. “Being renowned for something does not make you rich, necessarily. And not having
a car or a cell phone does not mean you are poor. You know that Mom and I taught you not to judge by appearances.”

“And not to judge a book by its cover!”

“That too. Next time you see her, you can ask Miss Stella all about life as a famous calligrapher. Looks like you may be on your way to being one too.” Dad looks across the room to my
Tansy
sign on his dresser.

He turns off the computer. “Come on. You find the Sorry board while I make those smoothies. We'll have one of those new cookies too.”

After school the next day, Parveen gets to come home with me for a while. At last! I think it's because she told her grandma I know someone who knows the Queen. Her
Bebe-ji
has pictures of the royal family all over their house. Specially Princess Diana, who is pretty, but dead now.

Miss Stella is in the lobby when we get there. She is holding a box. “Here you are, then. Your dad was called in to work so you're stuck with me. Do you
reckon we can find something to keep us busy? And who is this?”

I introduce Parveen, and Miss Stella shakes hands with her. Upstairs, it feels funny having Parveen in the apartment that is not mine but feels like it is. She looks around at all the stuff I am so used to seeing.

“What's in the box?” I ask Miss Stella.

She puts it on the table. “Come and look. Brushes galore. All the way from China.”

She lets Parveen and me open the box. Inside are layers and layers of lovely papers in all colors, so thin you can almost see through them. One layer of paper, then a layer of brushes with bamboo handles. Long yellow handles with dark bristles. Then more paper and more brushes, until we get to the bottom.

“Fifty brushes. Think they will last me?” says Miss Stella.

“Chinese brush work is very difficult,” I tell Parveen. “Miss Stella says I can try soon if I keep doing as well as I am with my calligraphy.”

She looks impressed.

We spread all the brushes out on the table and run our fingers along the bristles.

Parveen smiles as she strokes her pretty fingers along the brushes as if they were piano keys. She has a lovely smile with very white teeth. I bet she flosses more than me.

“Find a snack, you two,” says Miss Stella. “Then we can figure out how to spend our afternoon.”

I am just pulling the box of triangle cheese out of the fridge when Miss Stella reaches in beside me. “I found this for you.” She hands me a jar. “You might want to use it for your school lunches.”

Parveen reads the label. “Pea butter? We have
dahl
, which is made of peas.
Bebe-ji
makes it as smooth as butter. Maybe this is the same.”

“Similar, perhaps,” Miss Stella replies. “It says it is ideal for nut-free diets.”

I remember the
manufactured-in-a-nut-free-facility
cookies Dad bought. If Devin wasn't allergic, we would not have to worry about stuff that could kill him by accident.

I have a thought. “Hey, Parveen. If I take Devin a sandwich made specially with nut-free bread and pea butter, do you think he might stop giving me a hard time?”

She shrugs.

Then I shrug.

“How about you tell me about this hard time Devin gives you,” says Miss Stella.

I have never bothered her with stuff about Devin and Ryan and their mean jokes about nutcases and funny farms. When Mr. Howarth asked me if I have a Trusted Other who I can talk to, I said Dad. But sometimes Dad is not enough. And anyway, I did not want to tell him what Devin had been teasing me about.

I have a pulling feeling inside where my heart hurts. I close my eyes and put my hands on my chest. I feel the hard bone under my shirt and wait for the ache to pass. But it is still there.

When I open my eyes, Parveen is sitting at the table with a handful of brushes, running her fingers gently across the soft bristles. “Go on. Tell,” she says.

Then instead of waiting for me, she does the telling. “Those mean kids? There are two of them. And sometimes their other friends. They yell at Tansy and tell lies to everyone else about her mom. May I have a snack, please? And a glass of water?”

In the kitchen I put five cheese triangles, a handful of almonds and a bunch of dried apricots on a plate. When I eat them, I hardly ever think of Miss Stella's wrinkly skin anymore.

I fill two glasses with water and watch the patterns it makes as it pours.

By the time Miss Stella has cleared the table, I know I will tell her about Devin and Ryan and all the rotten things they say about me and my mother. Things that are true. But not right.

For just a minute I remember that I had planned to ask her about being famous and the Queen's book. But that will come later, I think.

Right now I know I need a Trusted Other.

So I look at Miss Stella sitting waiting across the table, and I take a deep breath.

Parveen and I have both eaten our snack by the time we finish telling Miss Stella all about Devin and Ryan sneaking up on me to make fun of my mom, and telling me that if Devin dies of a nut allergy it will be my fault. And yelling at me in the playground and riding around and around us on their bikes on the way home from school.

Miss Stella has not eaten a thing. But I know her by now. She will not eat and do anything else at the same time. When she eats or reads or smells the tomatoes grow or watches the ivy climb up the trellis or walks to the store, Miss Stella does one thing at a time and leaves everything else until later.

I asked her the other day if she is Super-Concentrated Miss Stella even when she goes to the bathroom. She just laughed.

“You are so brave to put up with all that,” says Miss Stella when we are done telling. “Have you told your teacher?”

“Mr. Howarth knows,” I say. “Maybe. I think he heard Devin once.”

“Then why does he not speak to the boy?”

I shrug.

“Has he been a teacher very long?” Miss Stella asks.

“Remember on the first assembly, the principal said this was his first job?” says Parveen. I watch her twirl the end of her braid in her fingers. It looks like it would make a good calligraphy brush!

“And we were lucky to have him?” she continues. “He went to our school when he was a kid.”

“I see,” says Miss Stella. As if she really does.

“What do you see?” I ask.

“Poor man must be pretty scared. His first job and a bully in the class.”

“Devin is not a bully. Not really.”

“Of course he is. Even if what he says is true.”

“But it's
not
true,” says Parveen. “Tansy's mom is not in a nuthouse. That's a mental hospital. This time she's just away at Tansy's grandpa's.”

“My mom is in a clinic,” I tell her. “It's like a mental hospital. My mom is really sick. Depression is more than just being sad.”

“Oh.” Parveen runs her finger down one of the ripples of her braid without looking at me.

I suddenly remember something. “You said Mr. Howarth was scared, which is why he has not said anything to Devin. What did you mean?” I ask Miss Stella.

“Bullying is something teachers need to learn to deal with. It's part of his job, you could say. But even if he is really well-trained, that is a great responsibility. Just like dealing with thirty children every day.”

“We only have twenty-seven kids in our class.” Parveen flips her hair back over her shoulder.

“Devin is scared too,” says Miss Stella. “Which is why he is a bully.”

I remember Dad saying something like that to me too. But why would Devin be scared? I have never figured out the answer.

Then a thought comes into my head.
Because he could die at any minute
.

Suddenly it is like someone has dumped a bucket of cold water over me. My skin feels as if it is shrinking. How would I feel if a tiny trace of nuts got on my skin or in my mouth and I fell over and my tongue got thick and there was no more air to breathe?

I would be scared all the time
.

“Poor Devin.” I think I am saying it to myself, but the words get out.

“Devin was mean to you,” says Parveen. “Names are bad. I wish your mom was not in a clinic. You could have told me. But yelling at people in your class is bad. Why are you sorry for
him
?”

“Because he thinks he could die.”

A huge tide of tears keeps coming. I swallow hard to keep them away. But it doesn't work. I am such a baby.

Miss Stella gets up and puts her arms around me. I feel little rocking movements and smell her cucumber soap and feel her scratchy hair against my cheek.

Poor Devin
, I think.

I cry and cry.

Parveen rips the silver paper off one little cheese triangle, then another, while Miss Stella rocks me and rocks me.

I use a whole bunch of tissues. They sit in a wet clump on the table. Parveen is trying out an easy calligraphy pen and is pretty good at it. I can read her name upside down across the table. I watch her write it again and again.

In a little while, when I'm still trying to catch my gulpy breath, Miss Stella goes outside to deadhead her flowers. That means she takes off all the dead flowers and crumbles them up and puts them back in her pots, where she says Mother Nature takes care of them.

When I think about how my mother is not around to take care of
me
, I cry some more.
Poor me
.

Miss Stella rubs my back as she passes me on her way into the kitchen.

At last, when I stop crying and can breathe again, I sniff rather loudly. “Tomorrow I will take a pea butter sandwich to Devin,” I say. “It will be a peace offering.”

Parveen turns her paper over. I should tell her to wait until the other side is dry.

But instead I take a piece of good paper from Miss Stella's special drawer. I pick up my favorite pen, which we keep in a red satin box. “I have a plan,” I say. And I dip my pen in the ink and very carefully start a new list using my best calligraphy.

“You make me very proud,” Dad says after I tell him about my list. It took me a long time, and I concentrated so hard that I hardly noticed when he came to pick me up.

We are eating fish and chips out of paper. If Mom were here she would heat plates while Dad goes to the fish-and-chip shop. She would set out cutlery and placemats and napkins.

Dad puts the open package in the middle of the table. We eat with our fingers; we will wash our hands later.