Paper Things (5 page)

“You could choose any famous American and you chose Alcott?”

“She wasn’t just an author, you know,” I say. “She was an abolitionist and fought for women’s rights.”

“I know. I was gifted, too, remember?” Briggs likes to remind me of this. According to Gage, Briggs got into a bunch of good colleges but went to a nearby business school to save money. He’s the first one in his family to go to college.

Which reminds me to get the coins I’ve collected and drop them into the piggy bank Briggs gave me. It’s from One Stop Party Shop and is pink with daisies all over it. After I tap the coins in, I shake it like I always do. It’s getting heavy. When it fills up, Briggs and I will take it to the bank, where they have a coin machine that will count your coins and pay you back in dollar bills.

“Hey,” he says after the shake. “I brought you something.” Gage and Chloe come back into the apartment just as Briggs reaches into his closet and pulls out a hat that’s shaped like an upside-down ice-cream cone. When you put it on, it looks like someone just turned a cone over on your head and the pink ice cream is running down your face. It’s very funny, and we all laugh when he plunks it on my head, but it takes me a minute to realize why Briggs brought this hat home for me.

“We don’t have Crazy Hat Day anymore,” I say.

“What?” Briggs and Gage say at the same time.

“But it’s an April Fools’ tradition!” says Briggs. The first of April is coming right up.

“Yeah, Brigster,” Gage says. “Remember when you wore that octopus hat and Mr. O. called you Calamari all day?”

Briggs laughs. “That name stuck for months! And remember how in third grade you came to school with all your baseball caps piled up on your head? Every year after, some kid tried to beat the record by wearing more. Heck, they’re probably up to a hundred hats by now — that is, they would be if they could still do it.”

“Mr. Chandler, our new principal, says that traditions like Snowflakes and Crazy Hat Day get in the way of learning,” I say.

“Snowflakes?” asks Chloe.

The three of us explain that Eastland used to have all these cool traditions. At the sign of the first snowfall, the whole school would stop what they were doing and make paper snowflakes to hang throughout the hallways. In November, we’d hang homemade cards for the teachers, thanking them for all they do for us. Then at lunch, we’d have a big potluck feast that the parents made. And on April Fools’ Day, kids wore crazy hats.

But the best of all the traditions, the one that we won’t be doing for the very first time in the history of Eastland Elementary, is the fifth-grade campout in the library. Sasha and I had looked forward to this event for years. What could be cooler than sleeping over in the school with all of our friends and getting to see what the school is like at night, when it’s dark and quiet and almost no one else is around?

But one of the first things Mr. Chandler did when taking over earlier this year was cancel all school traditions. We have to stay on task, our principal says. Which basically means if it isn’t on a test, we can’t do it any longer.

“Well,” Briggs said, putting the hat back in the closet, “it’s a shame. This would have been one cool crazy hat.”

It’s second period. I wrote up a rough sketch of an outline during homeroom and now I’m in computer lab, wondering if I can create my bibliography on the laptop in front of me without Ms. Finch noticing. Not an easy feat. Ms. Finch is the type of teacher who notices
everything.

We’re supposed to be exploring different sites that make word clouds. “Visual representations can be powerful,” Ms. Finch says. I make eye contact so she thinks I’m following along. “What words come to mind when I say
community
?”

Paper Things,
I think, but of course I don’t say it. Instead, I open a blank document, pull one of the library books onto my lap, and begin typing the title and author, hoping the desk is doing a good job of blocking me.

Daniel, whom I’ve been determined to ignore since he dove onto the seat beside me — thereby forcing Sasha to sit on the other side of the lab — reaches over and grabs the book from my lap. I want to yell at him, but I can’t risk alerting Ms. Finch, so I settle for a glare. I think he’s just trying to get me to focus on my computer work, but instead he stretches over and starts typing on my laptop!

I try to brush his hands away, but I see that he’s at the Port City library site and is searching for Louisa May Alcott. He clicks on the title of my book, copies the bibliographical information, and pastes it into my document. And just like that, I have all the information I need for my bibliography — with hardly any typing!

“Daniel?” Ms. Finch asks. I freeze. Have we been caught?

“Group, common, society,”
Daniel says calmly.

“Very good,” Ms. Finch says, and moves on.

I let out a breath. Across the room, I catch Sasha’s gaze. She rolls her eyes, as though Daniel was being a show-off. I smile at her, but secretly I’m grateful to Daniel. Doing my bibliography this way will save me a ton of time — and is less likely to get me in trouble with Ms. Finch, since I don’t even have to take the rest of the books out of my bag. I know their titles and authors, and that’s all I need for looking them up on the library’s website.

As the rest of the kids are typing in words (“How do you spell
organization
?” I hear Linnie ask Ms. Finch), I look up the information for the next book. I’m careful to type only when everyone else is typing.

I’m getting close to the end — all the information is in place, but I’ll need to fix the spacing before I turn it in — when Daniel reaches over and brushes his hand across my keypad, minimizing my bibliography.

“Daniel! ”
I snap. “Quit messing —”

“Ari,” says Ms. Finch from behind me. Her wool pants brush against my arm. “Have you pulled up the class results?”

“Results?” I say weakly, but Daniel jumps in.

“We pulled up the results together. See?” He points to the word cloud on his screen. The word
community
is large and in the center. Around it are words in different sizes and colors, hanging together like a floating mobile.
Togetherness
stands out in large bold letters, almost as big as the word
community.

Ms. Finch nods and moves on.

I glance at Daniel. “Thanks,” I mutter, wondering why he’s gone out of his way to help me — but too afraid of the answer to ask.

“Come with me to the lab,” I say to Sasha. “Please?”

“That bibliography was due ages ago,” says Linnie. We’re at the lunch table, and I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to get my bibliography printed and in my hands before social studies.

I ignore Linnie and continue to wheedle Sasha. “Please,” I repeat. “It’s my only option.”

“Without a pass?” She’s staring at me the same way her mother does anytime she thinks I’m luring Sasha into mischief.

“If we ask for a pass, the monitor will just say that Ms. Finch isn’t there during lunch period. And that’s the whole point.”

Sasha sighs. I have never asked her to break the rules before. “Let’s go,” she says.

“Chandler will have your heads if you’re caught,” Linnie says.

I ignore her and wait for the monitor to walk over to one of the noisier tables. When he does, Sasha and I slip out of the lunchroom.

“Just act confident,” I say to Sasha. “Like we have been asked to run an important errand.”

“I’m pretty sure teachers aren’t fooled that easily,” Sasha says.

But when we pass Mr. Granger, our fourth-grade teacher, in front of the teachers’ lounge, he says, “Hello, ladies,” without stopping us — probably ’cause we used to be his best-behaved students. For a moment I wish I were still a fourth-grader.

Mademoiselle Barbary does stop us, but I say, “Computer lab,” in such a strong, sure voice that she just nods and says,
“Vite, vite!”

“See?” I say.

“Just go,” Sasha says, nodding to the lab, up ahead.

Dim light behind the narrow window tells us the room is not being used, but Sasha stops cold when I open the door to go in. The computer lab, with all the laptops and MP3 players, is probably the worst place in the whole school to be caught without permission. And we both have a lot to lose. I risk never getting a leadership role. Sasha risks losing the points she’s made by being patrol leader. We could both end up with detentions, which stay on your permanent record. So much for Carter Middle School then.

I slowly open the door.

“I’m going back,” Sasha says. Her face is a splotchy red, the way it always is when she gets nervous.

For a moment I consider going back with her, but I’m so close to being able to hand something in to Mr. O. . . . I nod OK and then slip into the lab. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, then I slide over to the laptop smack in the middle of the row ahead of me. I’m pretty sure it’s the one I used. I hope it hasn’t been powered down; Ms. Finch is the only one with the passwords for signing on to the computers again.

I tap the keypad and it wakes. I’m logged on, thank goodness, but I can’t find my bibliography. I didn’t get the chance to save it before Daniel minimized the window. But there are no open windows on my machine.

My heart sinks. I click on the trash can. Maybe someone deleted it?

“Is this what you’re looking for, Arianna?”

It’s Ms. Finch, standing in the doorway with a sheet of paper in her hand. The light is dim, but I know she’s not smiling.

“I think so,” I say, guessing it’s my bibliography. My hands are shaking.

“You know,” she says, coming over and shutting the laptop, “I wasn’t born yesterday. A blank desktop tells me that a student has been perusing the Internet, that she’s been doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing.”

“I wasn’t on a restricted site —”

“No, you were doing your homework for Mr. O’Neil during
my
class time. You felt his assignment merited your attention more than mine.”

When she says this, it sounds worse. Worse than goofing off, worse than looking at stuff we’re not supposed to. It sounds like I don’t think she matters.

“I must say, I’m very disappointed in you, Arianna,” she says before I can figure out what to say.

Suddenly I feel the urge to tell her everything — about leaving Janna’s and hopping from place to place. About leaving the books at Chloe’s and struggling to find the time to do my homework. But I can’t betray Gage. Besides, Mr. Chandler instituted a “no excuses” policy this year, and I don’t want to break that rule, too. So I just stay silent, wishing I actually were invisible.

“Get yourself back to the cafeteria now,” she says, dismissing me, “before someone catches you without a pass.”

I nod and hurry to the door before she sees my tears. Ever since we left Janna’s, nothing has gone right. It’s starting to feel like the year when Mama died all over again.

We have a substitute teacher in science class, which is almost like having a snow day. No one bothers to pay attention, to do any real work. Lots of kids are talking, passing notes, even reading, in class. The sub doesn’t seem to care. She just draws a cell diagram on the board and explains what she’s drawing as if every single one of us found the structure of cells more interesting than juicy gossip.

I put my head down on the desk. The wood feels cool on my cheek.

“Do you feel all right?” the sub asks as she hands me a sheet of paper.

I sit up again and shrug. I can’t stop thinking about my next class: social studies. What am I going to tell Mr. O.?

Maybe I don’t feel OK. Maybe I’m sick. Maybe I should head down to the nurse’s office. I think of lying on the green cot, the white cotton blanket draped over me. In the nurse’s office, there’s nothing more to do than watch the hands on the clock tick around.

Yes, I’m definitely feeling sick. I gather my courage to say so, but just then, the bell rings and kids swarm like bees out the door and into the hall.

I let the crowd carry me — all the way to social studies. Mr. O. is standing at his desk.

“Mr. O’Neil,” I whisper as I approach him. What can I even say? I’m not allowed to make excuses, but if I just tell him I don’t have my assignment — again — he’ll think it’s because I didn’t even try to get it done.

Mr. O. picks up a piece of paper and waves it at me. “I was very glad to see this on my desk today, Arianna.”

I look down. He’s holding my bibliography. My bibliography, with my name at the top and the spacing corrected.

“Now that you have your sources, let’s see if you can’t get the outline to me, too,” he says.

I keep staring at my bibliography.

“Ari?”

“Oh, I have my outline,” I say, reaching into my backpack. “It’s not typed —”

Mr. O. looks down at my outline and to my amazement nods in approval. “Looks like an interesting paper, Arianna, especially this section on activism. Do you think I might see an introduction soon?”

“Soon!” I say.

“Promise?” he asks, a little too loudly.

“Promise!”

How did this happen?
I wonder, but I think I know.

I recall the word cloud we made in computer lab. What were some of the most prominent words?
Togetherness
and
help
and
support.
I decide that I’d also add
kindness.
And another word, which I’d type in ten times to make it stand out bigger and bolder than the rest: