Paper Things (6 page)

Daniel.

“So, how is it being patrol leader?” I ask Sasha when I meet up with her after school. What I don’t say is
Ms. Finch caught me in the computer lab and I think I might be in serious trouble
or
Daniel turned in my bibliography and really saved my behind, but I think the only reason he did it is because he feels sorry for me.

“The best part is getting out of school early,” she says.

“And the kinders,” I prompt, smiling at the nickname.

“Yeah, they’re OK,” Sasha says. But she doesn’t sound as excited as she did just yesterday. I wait for her to tell me what’s changed, but she remains quiet.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” I stop and pull two math sheets out of my backpack. I hand one to Sasha and slip the other one down between my Paper Things folder and my science journal.

She moans. “Fractions and decimals
again
?”

“Want some help?”

“Please! I don’t get them,” she says. “Especially their relationship.”

“Why don’t I spend the night tomorrow night, and I could help you then?” I suggest, hoping my voice sounds natural, casual. It’s easier on Gage when I stay with Sasha. He can get into Lighthouse without West sneaking him in, and his friends don’t seem to mind as much when it’s just him crashing at their place. Maybe he and Chloe can even have a date night!

She pauses. “Or we could stay at Janna’s.”

My stomach lurches. “I thought you didn’t like it at Janna’s that much,” I say, hoping this sounds like the logical reason for not inviting her over for months.

“She rents the best movies,” Sasha says.

“Forty-eight-hour rule,” I say, sighing with what I hope sounds like regret. I always used to hate this rule of Janna’s — that she needed at least forty-eight hours’ notice before a guest came over — but now I’m grateful for it.

Sasha sighs, too, though hers sounds less regretful and more frustrated. “I’ll ask my mother if you can come over
again
tomorrow night.”

“Great!” I say, trying to ignore the emphasis.

“Call tonight after you ask,” she says.

“OK,” I say, hoping she won’t wonder why I’m calling on Gage’s phone again.

Even though I know that Sasha is a little bit resentful about having to ask her mother if I can stay over
again,
all I can think of at this moment is that extra twin bed in her room, with the puffy comforter and clean, crisp sheets.

Heaven.

As I cross the road to Head Start, I see the airplane man from the soup kitchen sitting against a brick apartment building. He’s got his arms wrapped around his dog, his chin resting on its head. The dog lifts its head and wags its tail as I come closer.

If Janna, the Queen of Rules, as Gage likes to say, were with me, she’d pull me away and remind me never to speak to strangers (rule number 72). But I’ve seen this man lots of times at the soup kitchen, so he’s no longer a stranger to me. Besides, the dog is looking at me with its big brown eyes, and all I can think about is Leroy, our old terrier.

“May I pet him?” My voice wobbles a little. I’ve never spoken to the airplane man before, not even to ask for a plane. Guess I felt that I should have outgrown them — the way I probably should have outgrown my Paper Things by now.

He nods and I reach down and touch the soft brown fur between the dog’s ears. The dog reaches its nose out and nudges the palm of my hand as if to say, “More.”

“What’s his name?” I ask.

“
Her
name’s Amelia.”

Amelia smells funky, like Leroy used to when he went too long between baths, but I move my hand all the way down her back just the same.

“Poor girl hasn’t eaten today,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down his beard, like his chin itches.

“How come?”

“Some days food’s just a little harder to come by.” Amelia rolls over to show us her tummy. She’s loving the pats.

“The soup kitchen doesn’t allow dogs, right?” I ask.

He nods, looking at me more closely now, like he’s trying to place me. “Right. But even if they did, dogs need food that’s made for a dog,” he says. “Or eventually they get sick.”

Poor Amelia. I reach into my coat pocket and touch the coins I’ve collected today. They’re more than just found money; they’re my way of showing Gage that I can help. But then I look at Amelia’s eyes, and I swear my stomach does a flip-flop.

“Here,” I say, holding out the fourteen cents. “I know it’s not much, but if you keep looking, you might find enough to buy a can of dog food. A can of Alpo only costs fifty-two cents at Walmart.” I know because I was cutting cans and boxes out of the mailer last week to tuck behind my paper cabinets.

“You seem to know a lot of things,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“Ari. Short for Arianna.”

“Thanks, Ari. But I can’t take your money.”

“It’s OK,” I say. “I’ll feel better if I know Amelia isn’t hungry.”

“You’re a good kid,” he says, and lets me drop the coins into his palm. Just then, I hear my name called from across the street. It’s Carol at Head Start, and she’s holding the door open for me.

“I better go,” I say, giving Amelia one last pat.

“Next time I see you, Arianna,” he says, “I’ll have an airplane with your name on it.”

As I stand on the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for a break in the traffic, I place my hand in my empty pocket.
It’s OK,
I tell myself.
I’ll search for pennies for twice as long tomorrow.

“Do you know him?” Carol asks as I pass through the door, but before I’ve had a chance to answer, she asks if I wouldn’t mind putting up a bulletin board in the front hall. She explains that she’d like me to staple up yellow construction paper with a lime-green wavy border all around the edges, and purple letters that say,
WELCOME
,
SPRING
! The board is high, so I have to stand on a small step stool to reach. It’s actually kind of fun, and I feel like one of the teachers today instead of one of the kids.

Carol goes back inside the classroom, and Fran pops out.

“What do you think of these?” Fran says, carrying out some artwork the kids just finished. She’s holding pussy-willow pictures made from brown paint blown through a straw, with little pieces of cotton ball glued on.

“Oh,” I say, climbing down from the stool and touching one of the little fuzzy balls with my finger. And then my eyes sting with tears the way they do at the most ridiculous times.
Think of spring sunshine, think of petting Amelia, think of anything but pussy willows.
But it doesn’t work. A tear rolls down my cheek.

“My mom made these with me,” I explain to Fran, who is bending toward me, her eyes searching, trying to see into the secrets of me. But she doesn’t hug me the way Carol would.

“Maybe you would like to come inside and make a picture, then,” she says.

“That’s OK,” I say, sniffling and smiling to show that things really are OK. “Do you want me to put these on the board?”

She nods. “But start with the drier ones,” she says. “Or else we’ll have brown paint and glue dripping all over your yellow paper.”

I staple one of the pussy-willow pictures to the board and wonder what Mama would say about all the lying I seem to be doing lately. ’Cause the truth is, she never made pussy-willow pictures with me. Not ever. Janna did.

Janna used to do all kinds of crafts with us. She would spread a plastic tablecloth on the dining-room table and line up all the art supplies. Then she’d instruct us, like a teacher, on what to do first, what to do second. I was always happy sitting in my chair, wearing one of her old shirts for a smock, following her instructions. “Now take a teaspoon of brown paint and place it on your blue paper near the center. Not that much, Gage. Less! Less!”

I’d take my straw and gently blow the paint into a long, graceful stalk. Gage would blow too hard, causing the paint to run off the paper and onto the tablecloth.

“Gage, stop it!” Janna would shout. “Go grab a sponge and clean up your mess.”

“Why does everything always have to be
your
way?” he’d ask.

“Because I’m the grown-up,” Janna would say.

“Well, when I’m older, I’m only going to do the stuff
I
want to do,” Gage would invariably counter.

“Not while you’re living under my roof,” Janna would say, and then Gage would stomp off, forgetting all about the sponge and leaving Janna to pick up his mess.

After a while, Janna gave up craft time. Gage didn’t want to come to the table, and I didn’t want to do anything without Gage.

I think about pussy willows. How little fuzzy pearls bloom from sturdy, straight sticks. How they burst open just when you’ve had way too much winter, promising spring.

I look down at the artwork spread out on the floor. Some pictures look like pussy willows against a blue sky; some look like poodles rolling in a mud puddle.

“Here, Ari.” It’s Omar. He’s standing in the hall next to Carol, holding out a newly painted pussy-willow picture. “I made this one for you.”

It’s messy. The paint is streaming in unexpected directions, and the cotton balls are gloppy with glue.

“I love it,” I tell him. And I do.

“They want someone with experience,” says Gage. He and Briggs are sitting on Briggs’s love seat, looking at Briggs’s iPad.

“Maybe they’ll train,” says Briggs, who is trying to be patient, but I can tell he’s sick of Gage coming up with a reason for not applying to every job. I know, and Briggs knows, that it’s not that Gage doesn’t
want
to work — he works harder than anyone. And he really, really, really wants to get a job so we can get an apartment. It’s just that he hates it when he asks and people tell him no.

I look up from my math homework. “Who’s hiring?”

“Jiffy Lube,” says Briggs. “It’s a service station — for cars.”

“They want someone with experience,” says Gage.

“How do you get experience?” I ask.

“By working at a service station,” says Gage.

“How do you work at a service station?”

“By having experience,” says Gage.

The circle game has become one of Gage and my favorite games. All of our longings are trapped in circles where there is no beginning and no end.

“Hey,” Briggs says. “It just occurred to me — my boss’s brother owns a Jiffy Lube.”

Both Gage and I look at Briggs like he just found a trapdoor.

“Do you think it’s this one — the one that’s advertising?” Gage asks.

“I don’t know,” says Briggs. “I could ask. No matter what, I could still tell him about you.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” says Gage, letting his eyes speak a world of thanks.

We leave it at that and don’t say anything more about a job tonight. Hopes are as delicate as butterfly wings: say too much, want something too much, and they’ll crumble. Instead, I tell Gage about staying at Sasha’s tomorrow night, which makes him
très
happy. Then we both make phone calls — me to Sasha, Gage to Chloe.

Suddenly the evening feels a whole lot lighter. Briggs suggests we cook up some spaghetti and meatballs. Gage insists on a veggie, too. I open Briggs’s freezer and choose green beans.

“Did you know,” I say, after we’ve cleared our plates and Gage has started on the washing, “that Louisa’s first book,
Flower Fables,
was published by George Briggs? Maybe one of your relatives knew Louisa May Alcott!”

“Oh, yeah?” Briggs comes over and sits at the table with me. He takes my wrinkly Paper Things folder out from the stack of books.

“Aren’t you gonna play with your paper dolls?” Briggs asks.

“I can’t,” I say. “I need to write an introduction.” Anyway, I know from experience that there isn’t really enough room at Briggs’s for me to spread out my whole paper world and not have it stepped on.

He opens my Paper Things folder and pulls out one of my kids.

“Who’s this?” he asks.

I tell him her name, but I keep my eyes on the book in front of me. It’s my way of telling him I can’t be distracted right now.

“And who’s this?”

“That’s Miles.”

“Wow, Miles has seen some miles.”

I laugh. It’s true. I’ve had Miles since the year Mama was dying. He’s a thin scrap of paper, wrinkled and faded.