Paper Things (27 page)

Coming back to school on Monday isn’t easy. Janna had reacted well to my public announcement that I’d been homeless, but I have no idea how kids at school will act. Fortunately, Sasha and Keisha are right there, waiting for me at my locker.

“Did you see the front page of the paper, Ari?” Keisha asks. “Wasn’t that cool?”

I am relieved to hear Keisha’s enthusiasm — and to know that she didn’t mind sharing the spotlight — but I also can’t help noticing that Sasha’s quiet words of agreement are just that — quiet. I hope she isn’t feeling as if she’s being pushed into the shadows again.

Throughout the day kids approach me to ask questions or make comments about my homelessness. Some are awkward: “Did you have to ask people for money?” or “Was it scary being on the streets?” Some are very personal: “Why would you leave the home you had?” At first, these questions make me nervous, and I’m afraid to answer. Afraid that my answers will lead to teasing. But as the day wears on and I have more conversations, I realize that kids are just being curious, that everyone wonders whether something like homelessness could ever happen to them, and I try to answer as honestly as I can without getting defensive.

During final announcements, Mr. Chandler tells us that the fifth-grade sleepover will be on May 11 — two weeks before graduation and one week before applicants hear whether they’ve been accepted to Carter. “Eligible fifth-graders will have completed all their assignments, paid any library fines they may have, and have consistently exhibited good Eastland citizenship throughout the school year.”

Good citizenship?
As I ponder this last requirement, I notice that Mr. O. is looking right at me.

“Will we have a presentation tomorrow, as promised, Ms. Hazard?”

The kids laugh. At the end of the day, my last name is still the funniest thing about me.

Right after dinner, I ask Janna if she’ll listen as I practice my presentation. I know she’ll find areas for improvement. As I click on my slide presentation on her computer, I can tell that she’s especially pleased with my subject — and touched that I chose someone who she introduced to me.

“Did you know that Louisa May Alcott was a nurse, like you?” I ask her.

She nods. “During the Civil War,” she says. “And just like me, she raised a little girl whose mother had died.”

I smile at these connections between Janna and Louisa May Alcott. But, as I’m clicking through slides about Louisa’s
Little Women,
I recognize another connection that I hadn’t made until now. Every reader of
Little Women
thinks that the main character, Jo, will marry her best friend, Laurie. But she doesn’t. Laurie marries Jo’s sister Amy instead.

I turn to Janna with my mouth wide open.

“What?” she asks, and suddenly I’m scrambling for a careful response. “What?” she repeats.

I give up and blurt, “Why did my father marry Mama instead of you?”

She gives me a look of total surprise, and I’m afraid that she’s going to ask me how I know about her relationship with my father — that I’m going to have to confess to snooping — but she doesn’t. Maybe she assumes that Gage told me, or maybe she’s more concerned with my question than how I arrived at it.

She shakes her head as if trying to clear out what’s not important. “Relationships can be very complicated,” she says. “I think I was trying too hard to shape your father into the man I wanted him to be. I had a specific course for the two of us, and I was forever outlining my plans. Your mother was different; she was more playful, more spontaneous, and more accepting. I think your father liked who he was when he was around her.”

“Was it terrible when he chose my mother instead of you?”

Janna’s silent for a moment and then nods. “They broke my heart, and I’ll tell you now, I was not forgiving. In fact, I was rather hateful. I never thought your mother would get back in touch with me.”

I’ve always wondered why Mama chose Janna to raise us instead of someone who knew us better, like Marianna, and now I feel even
more
confused.

Janna must have been thinking along the same lines. “I guess your mother figured that since I had loved your father at one time and had cared deeply for her, I’d have no trouble loving you and Gage as well. And she was right, of course. Though I know now that I took out some of my old hurt on you guys, especially Gage.”

It’s in this moment that I realize that Janna is the only person I know who knew, really knew, both my parents. Suddenly I have a million questions:
Did my father like to read? What kind of music did he listen to? Was he shy?

Maybe when my application to Carter is completed and my social studies presentation is finished, I’ll ask Janna these questions. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll start to get a sense of the dad I never knew.

My presentation on Tuesday goes very well. Instead of using animation or movie clips as I thought I might, I stop my slide show midway and present a little melodrama — a short old-fashioned play that has lots of scary action — just like the plays that Louisa May Alcott used to perform with her family, and like her characters performed in her books. I thought of asking Sasha and Keisha, and maybe even Daniel, to help me with the performance, but in the end, I decide to play all the parts myself. This time I’m
trying
to make my classmates laugh, and I succeed.

I knew that I wanted to end my presentation with one of Louisa May Alcott’s quotes. At first I was going to use this one:

Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead.

But finally I decide on this one:

My book came out; and people began to think that topsy-turvy Louisa would amount to something after all.

Which didn’t remind me of Janna.

It reminded me of myself.

When my presentation is over, Mr. O. pulls me aside to tell me that not only have I done well, but I’ve also satisfied the requirements for attendance at the fifth-grade sleepover! Thankfully, my good citizenship (or lack of) was never mentioned by anyone.

On the night of the fifth-grade sleepover, droves of kids arrive at Eastland Elementary with sleeping bags in their arms. I’ve no sooner gotten out of Janna’s car when Daniel grabs me.

“Are you going to help me free Gerald?” he asks.

“No way,” I say. “He’d never survive.”

“Jump from the bleachers?”

I don’t get a chance to object, because at that moment, Sasha pulls me away. “Hurry,” she says. The girls are sleeping in the library and we won’t get a good spot unless we spread our sleeping bags out now.”

“Meet me in the art room at nine,” Daniel says.

Ugh,
I think, suspecting what Daniel wants. The art room is close to the polished math hallway.

After claiming our place in the mystery section of the library, Keisha, Sasha, and I head to the cafeteria for dinner. The teachers, wearing their own crazy hats, are serving us pizza from boxes tonight. I laugh when I see Ms. Finch wearing a hat piled high with birds.

I’m at a table surrounded by girls I’ve known most of my life. We’re recalling Eastland memories, laughing at all the silly things that happened over the years. Just as I start to remind everyone of how frightened we were in first grade when Smokey the Bear came to school, I hear someone singing. Others hear it, too, and we turn to see where the music is coming from.

It’s Daniel. Of course, it’s Daniel. He’s standing on a bench, trying to lead the entire fifth grade in a chorus of “Eensy-Weensy Spider.” A kindergarten song.

No one joins in.

I look to the teachers, hoping that they’ll stop him.
End his humiliation,
I think.
He’ll still get to check off number 5 on his bucket list.

They don’t stop him, and he moves on to sing “Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed” — all five verses.

A few kids make the hand motions, but none will join in the singing.

Daniel looks at me as if to say,
Come on, Ari. I sat in the front hallway behind the crafts table for you. You owe me this.

And I do owe him this moment — I know I do. But still I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to sing.

Daniel finishes “Five Little Monkeys,” and there’s silence. I guess everyone is wondering what he’ll do next.

If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that Daniel Huber is persistent. He starts to sing “Food Group Boogie,” and a few kids laugh. A few quiet voices join in.

I look over at Sasha to see if she’s rolling her eyes. She glances at me and then without saying a word, she jumps up and starts singing and dancing along with Daniel. Then she gives me the biggest, brightest smile, which says,
I bet you didn’t expect this!

I sure didn’t. Not for a moment. But there’s lots that I don’t know about Sasha — and lots that she still doesn’t know about me — and I make a quick wish that we’ll have lots of time together at Carter to learn those things.

Her actions are contagious. “Food Group Boogie” is just wild enough, just bizarre enough, that everyone in the room eventually gets to their feet to join them. Even me.

We go from singing “Food Group Boogie” to “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” and then “The Hokey Pokey.” Not one student sits out. I catch Hannah’s eye across the cafeteria, and we exchange smiles.

Daniel reminds all of us that tonight, despite our plans for the future, we are all Eastland Tigers.

It’s nine o’clock and I’m nervous. Was Daniel serious about meeting him in the art room? The entire fifth-grade class is gathered in the auditorium, watching a movie. If I slip out and get caught wandering the halls, I worry that I’ll blow any last chance I have of getting accepted to Carter. Still, I feel like I already let Daniel down once tonight and I don’t want to do it again.

I get up from my chair in the gym and move toward the back doors, hoping that any teacher watching me will just assume that I’m heading to the girls’ room. The halls are dimly lit and totally silent, and I don’t mind admitting that I’m afraid. I keep expecting someone to jump out of the shadows and catch me breaking the rules.

But no one does.

Daniel is in the art room, looking at one of the painting books, when I walk in. Even though he’s expecting me, he jumps.

“I am not going to slide down the math hallway,” I say. “And I really don’t think Gerald would do well out in the wild.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead he blushes as he holds out a small, silver-wrapped box.

“I’ve given up on the list — for now,” he says. “But I didn’t want you to open this in front of anyone else, in case you hate it.”

The last thing I expected was a present. It’s not my birthday, and even if it were, I wouldn’t expect Daniel to get me anything. My fingers shake a little as I open it.

Inside the box is a necklace with a little silver snowflake charm, which sparkles like glitter. Holy moly!

“Thank you,” I whisper. “It’s perfect.”

Daniel beams.

Then he takes hold of my hand and walks me back to the gym. I don’t object.

Now it’s Monday, and the necklace still hangs around my neck. Sasha has dance rehearsals all week, so I’m walking to Head Start alone. It’s a warm May day, and I’m looking up — taking in the new green leaves, the cloudless sky — when something catches my eye. It’s an airplane, a paper airplane, jutting out from a shrub. I gently pull it out and notice that this one’s been folded from a report card. No doubt it’s one of Reggie’s planes and someone must want better grades.

In the same way that I used to look for pennies, I’m now looking for planes, and I find them. An airplane in the gutter is folded from a letter. One next to a trash can is folded from a restaurant place mat. It’s as if I’m on a treasure hunt and I can’t stop looking! Wedged up against a building is yet another tiny plane, which has been folded from a dollar bill. For a moment, I’m tempted to take this plane, but I don’t. I don’t want to stop the wish from coming true.

All these wishes cast upon the wind.

They remind me of my deepest, most precious wish.
Maybe I should ask Reggie to help me fold a plane from a Carter application.
But I no sooner think of the possibility than I decide against it.