The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z.
Read The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z. Online
Authors: Kate Messner
The
Brilliant Fall
of
Gianna Z.
Kate Messner
Walker & Company
New York
Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
—from “Birches” by Robert Frost
For my parents, Tom and Gail Schirmer, who brought me up with books to read, trails to explore, courage to dream, and love to back it all up. Thanks.
And for all the Global Citizens who have gone out collecting leaves . . .
That which does not kill me makes me stronger.
—
Friedrich Nietzsche
CONTENTS
F
orty-one minutes to cross-country practice.
Forty-one minutes to shorts and running shoes.
Forty-one minutes to crisp October air that smells like apples and leaves and wood smoke all at once.
And that means forty-one more minutes of science class.
I try to catch Zig’s eye, but he’s busy taking notes, so I look around while Mrs. Loring lectures us about the wonder of trees. Her dark eyes are huge behind her glasses, like she has the most exciting news ever.
“Did you know there are probably more than twenty
thousand
species of trees in the world?”
I don’t think Kevin Richards knew, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care. He’s wadding up tiny balls of paper, trying to shoot them into the desk in front of him. Ruby Kinsella’s sitting there, but she’s too busy writing in the green marble notebook she always carries around to notice she’s under attack. I hear a rustle behind me and turn to see Bianca Rinaldi rummaging through her backpack for lip gloss.
“Twenty thousand!” Mrs. Loring says. “And scientists think there may be a thousand different species in the United States alone.”
That’s a lot of trees. I pull out my sketchbook and start doodling some of them. I wish I had my colored pencils.
The clock ticks.
Forty minutes.
Forty minutes of Bianca kicking my desk and smirking about the fact that Dad drove me to school in the hearse this morning. I argued, but it didn’t do any good.
“It has four wheels and runs fine. It’ll get you there,” he said.
“Four wheels and a huge sign that says ‘Zales Funeral Home’ on the side,” I said. “I might as well show up at school with a coffin strapped to the roof.” But he had a pickup at nine, and Mom needed the van anyway.
It’s been Bianca’s favorite topic of conversation all day.
“Poor Gianna.
Imagine
having to ride around in a car full of dead bodies,” she whispers to Mary Beth Rotwiller, and they crack up. I look down at my sketchbook where I’ve penciled in the classroom window, the trees outside, the track I wish I were running on right now.
Thirty-nine minutes.
“So,” Mrs. Loring says, “given all those different kinds of trees, completing your leaf collection should be a piece of cake. I’d like to review the requirements one last time. Please take out the project packet I gave you.”
I pull my science binder from my backpack and flip through the papers, but I can’t find the leaf project stuff. It might be in my locker. Here’s a French handout on parts of the body I’m supposed to be studying for a quiz next week.
“Psst. Gianna!” Zig slides his desk a little closer to mine. “Look on with me,” he whispers.
Zig is my lost-homework hero. Mom says I have attention issues. Zig has the opposite of attention issues. I bet he could find his second-grade name tag if you asked him. And it wouldn’t even be wrinkled.
“Here.” He points to the list of requirements on his paper as Mrs. Loring reads them off.
“You need twenty-five different leaves. You’ll organize and catalog them, label each leaf with its common and scientific names, its geo graphical range of distribution, its primary characteristics, and its main uses. You should find a creative way to display your leaves. And I expect you to meet all your deadlines. The final project is due one week from today.”
“One week. Got that?” Zig whispers and nudges me with his elbow. I nudge him back. Okay, it’s more like a sharp poke, actually. But he knows better than to tease me about deadlines. My brain and deadlines have never gotten along, but finish lines are a whole other story. I’m only good with time if it has to do with running.
Which reminds me. Thirty-four minutes.
“Your first deadline is rapidly approaching,” Mrs. Loring says, tapping the big “OCTOBER 11TH” she’s written on the blackboard. “I want to see ten leaves by Monday to make sure you’re on track.”
I
wish
I were on the track. I look out the window. Thirty-two minutes.
“Then you’ll need to have all twenty-five leaves collected and identified by next Thursday so you’ll be ready to turn in the final project on Friday,” Mrs. Loring says, and smiles out over our desks. She’s sure we’re all well on our way.
Not.
She reviews how to use a leaf identification key, even though she’s sure we’ve mastered that by now.
Not.
She reminds us that she has poster board and binders available if we need them, but she’s sure we’ve all taken care of materials by now.
Not.
She reminds us how much fun this project is going to be.
Double not.
I open my sketchbook again and scratch in a big barren tree with branches as empty as my leaf collection is right now. I’ll start collecting tomorrow. How hard can it be?
I draw in the sports field with soccer nets standing guard at each end. We’ll be out there for cross-country today, too, doing our track workout. I sketch the oval that rings the field and try to texture it with the edge of my pencil to make it look gravelly.
Finally, the bell rings, so I don’t have to settle for just drawing the track. I sign my sketch at the bottom—
Gianna Z.
—because artists should always sign their creations. I grab my notebooks and head for the door.
“Two weeks to sectionals. Two weeks!” Coach Napper tweets her whistle to mark the end of our last 800-meter run. It echoes high and sharp against the brick wall in back of the school. “You need to get a move on, Zales!”
“Huh?” I stand up from my lunge stretch. What’s she talking about? I just had my best run of the week. “I’m set, Coach. My times have been—”
“Your
times
are fine. I’m talking about your science grade. Coach Loring—
Mrs
. Loring—just came over from the soccer field to talk with me. No passing grade—no sectionals. I’ll have to send your alternate.” Coach nods at Bianca Rinaldi, who’s just jogged up to us.
“Oh, wouldn’t that be
sad
?” Bianca turns her lip-glossy mouth into a phony pink frown. “But I’m ready if you need me, Coach.
I’ve
knocked ten seconds off my regular four-mile time in the past two weeks.” She tugs at the bottom of her purple stretchy T-shirt so it almost covers her belly. The silver sparkle letters on it spell out,
It’s not how you play the game;
it’s how you look when you play the game.
“Keep working on it, Bianca.” Coach nods. Bianca tosses her ponytail and trots over to Mary Beth Rotwiller, sitting on the steps.
This is
not
happening. Bianca Rinaldi isn’t a runner. She might look like a model for running shorts, but she’s not a runner. She’s not breathing hard. She’s not sweating. There’s no mud on her sneakers, not even on the bottoms. You can’t run cross-country with clean sneakers.
Coach can’t send Bianca.
I say it out loud. “You
can’t
send her.”
“I have to send her if you’re not eligible. Take care of it.” Another tweet of the whistle, and everyone heads for the locker room.
I pull open the door and a blast of hot, wet air hits me— a haze of shower steam, sweat, and body splash. I go to the sink, splash cold water on my face, and look up to wipe the drips off my pointy chin. If it’s really how you look when you play the game that counts, I’ve got trouble. My curly red hair frizzes itself into a bad imitation of a shag carpet when I sweat. My cheeks turn the color of ripe strawberries anytime I run, so even if I’m not really pushing it, I look like I’m about to pass out.
“You okay?” Ellen Frankenhoff’s face appears in the mirror over my shoulder. “You’re kinda red
à la visage
.”
“Huh?”
She pats her cheeks. “
Visage
means face. We need to know it for the quiz.” Ellen is in my French class and has clearly been studying more than I have. I hope I remembered to put those notes in my backpack.
“My face is always kinda red.” I turn and reach for my wind pants on the bench behind her.
“Tell me about it. Exercise is so overrated.” Ellen pulls on her sweatshirt. Her glasses get stuck in the hood, so I reach over to help her get untangled.
“You’re getting faster, though,” I say. “You’re doing really well for a new runner.” Ellen never meant to be a new runner. She was perfectly happy going to Recycling Club after school, but her mom signed her up for the cross-country team after she saw a new report on adolescent obesity.
“Oh, Ellen’s gotten
lots
faster, hasn’t she?” Bianca tosses her empty water bottle on the floor, steps up to the mirror to smooth her already-smooth blond hair, and smirks. “Maybe
she’ll
be your alternate when you fail science, Gianna.”
