Wreath (28 page)

J
ulia stuck her head in the art room and breathed in the smell of papier-mâché.

“May I help you, Miss Watson?” a stern voice asked, and the younger teacher tried not to groan. She had figured the veteran art teacher, Cathy Colvin, would have gone home by now.

“I need to retrieve a few supplies I left here in the summer,” Julia said.

“It’s December, for heavens’ sake,” Cathy said. “I had to put those in a box to get them out of my way.” She sighed, as though packaging them had been a severe inconvenience. “They’re in that corner over there.”

Julia looked with dismay at the jumbled mess of paint and brushes in the box and knew it was her own fault. She should never have left them in the art room in the first place. Holding the box like a shield, she headed for the door, unable to resist studying a row of paintings clipped to a clothesline on the side of the room.

Most were traditional in tone, with muted colors and out-of-pro-portion buildings. But one was a stunning impressionistic piece of an old car, in bright colors that made the soft edges bold and compelling.

“Goodness,” Julia said softly, moving closer.

“I know,” Cathy said. “It’s hideous, isn’t it? That student doesn’t listen to a word I say. I told the class what the proper colors are for that type of work.”

“Who painted it?” Julia asked.

“That new girl. The one with the Christmas name.”

“Wreath Williams?” Julia asked.

Cathy clucked and nodded. “She’s done well on tests, but she’s one of the most untalented artists I’ve ever taught.”

The words echoed what teachers had told Julia in her own early schooling, and she scowled.

“Wreath’s doing well in my class,” she said, feeling a fierce desire to snatch the piece of art down and lecture the other teacher on how original and excellent it was. “She doesn’t talk much, but she’s got a high A average. She’s very interested in current events and business.”

“Maybe that’s where her talents lie.” The art teacher made the words sound like an indictment. “That girl never asks questions, which automatically brings her grade down. She’s so quiet I scarcely remember to call on her.”

Cathy had moved to a closet and pulled a piece of peppermint out of her purse.

“Maybe it’s because she’s new to Landry,” Julia said. “She seems shy.” The girl had opened up slightly since Julia had seen her on Thanksgiving, but she was still intensely private and accepted praise as though it were a gift someone was going to snatch back.

“Well, she’d better snap out of it. Most of her grade will come from class participation and her art projects, so if she doesn’t get better, she’s going to be lucky to get a C.”

“Just a C?” Julia said. “But she’s one of our top seniors. She’s a scholarship contender.”

“Not from what I’ve seen.” Cathy moved to the door. “I need to lock up now.”

Julia’s heart felt heavier than the box as she walked out of the room and watched the older woman rush down the hall, as though she couldn’t get out of the school fast enough.

“Mrs. Colvin,” she called out, surprised at how loud her voice sounded in the empty hall lined with metal lockers. The woman turned, and Julia rushed to catch up with her. “Would it be all right with you if I worked with Wreath a little? Maybe tutored her?”

“It’s fine by me. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up, if I were you. Her average will be tough to pull up.”

Julia’s steps were lighter as she walked back to her history classroom, thinking of techniques she might suggest to Wreath. The girl dressed in the most fascinating collection of clothes and obviously had an eye for color.

If teaching art classes was not a possibility, at least she could keep her skills tuned by helping this student.

The next day, as Julia stood in the doorway of her classroom, she watched clusters of rowdy teenagers joke and shove each other in the hall. Her third-hour social studies class would start in five minutes, and she scanned the faces, hoping to catch Wreath before class. She spotted the girl, walking slowly behind a crowd, staying a few steps back. As usual, she wore a funky outfit that could have looked ridiculous but was pulled together with the right touches.

In the wake of the noisy students, Wreath looked small and alone before she noticed Julia watching her. Then she straightened her shoulders and moved forward more quickly, breezing into the classroom with the others.

Julia hesitated, wondering about using her spare time to tutor the girl … and if Wreath would even be interested. She had seen Wreath emptying the trash at the furniture store a few times after school and figured there couldn’t be much time for art studies, between her job and homework. Most of the kids in Landry High had it rough, and Wreath was probably no different.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Julia called Wreath’s name.

The girl, almost to her desk, turned, her brow furrowed as she looked down at her backpack. “Yes, ma’am?”

“See me after class, please.”

“Is something wrong?” The girl had stiffened like a character in a stop-action movie.

“I need to talk with you,” Julia said. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Wreath scarcely heard a word of the history video as she tried to figure out what the teacher wanted to discuss. They’d had a good visit on Thanksgiving Day, and Wreath had chatted with her after class a time or two since. Her grades were good in every class but art, and she hadn’t missed any school except that first day.

Glad for the lowered lights in the room, she looked down at her faded clothes and wondered if something about her appearance had given her away. Miss Watson was her favorite teacher, and she hoped she wasn’t getting moved to another class. She had heard kids talking about a shift in teachers to adjust class sizes.

She glanced over to the next row of desks and saw Law, who watched the documentary intently. She liked sharing classes with him and hated to think about any of her classes with him changing.

When class was over, Wreath collected her textbook and pack and looked up to see a line of students waiting to see Miss Watson. She looked at her watch and thought about her art class, where the teacher already seemed to dislike her. She couldn’t be tardy.

As she tried to decide what to do, the teacher caught her eye and waved her on. “Wreath, I’ll catch up with you later. I don’t want you to be late for class.”

Throughout the art lesson, Wreath fretted. Usually she interacted very little with her teachers, and Miss Watson’s request worried her.

To make matters worse, the art class had turned out to be her biggest disappointment of the school year. She wanted to ask Mrs. Colvin questions about the color wheel and other store design questions, but found the woman unapproachable and abrupt.

To hear the teacher tell it, art was one big set of rules, which went against everything Wreath had always believed. Her third-grade teacher in Oil City had praised Wreath’s artistic ability and told her to go with the flow. That teacher had liked Wreath’s yellow skies and blue suns and purple trees, but Mrs. Colvin was a stickler for realism.

In most ways, Wreath was a rule follower, but she thought art was about being creative and expressing yourself. Today’s lecture was tedious.

“Miss Williams, would you agree?”

The teacher’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and it took her a minute to realize that she was the Miss Williams being called upon. She didn’t have a clue what the woman had been discussing. “I’m …” She hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure about much, are you?” the teacher asked. “You weren’t sure when we talked about impressionism last week either.”

A handful of students snickered, and the art teacher threw them a look that would have stopped a marching army. Fearing she might throw up on her desk, between this woman’s attack and Miss Watson’s request for a meeting, Wreath tried to gulp in air.

“The lines of realism are more definite,” a voice said from the back of the room, and Wreath was so relieved she thought she might slide right to the floor.

“Thank you, Destiny,” Mrs. Colvin said. “You are correct.” The teacher favored certain students with praise, including the cheerleader, but Wreath didn’t care. She could have hugged Destiny at that moment.

As Wreath made her way to the cafeteria, dreading the daily decision of where to sit, the other girl walked up next to her. “Aren’t you going to thank me?” Destiny asked.

Every time Wreath looked at Destiny, who usually sat by Law on the bus and at lunch, she was reminded of everything she was not, everything she did not have. Destiny hadn’t worked at the Dollar Barn since school started, and Wreath had learned that her mother was a popular science teacher and her father a dentist.

Destiny sometimes paid her compliments and once had even invited Wreath to a youth group at her church.

“I guess not,” Destiny said.

“What?” Wreath came back to the present.

“I asked if you were going to thank me for saving you in art class. That’s the last time I’ll stick my neck out for you.”

“Oh no. I mean, thanks,” Wreath said. “I had no idea what Mrs. Colvin asked me. I owe you big-time. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

The cheerleader offered a small smile. “Will you help me out?”

Wreath frowned. “What’s up?”
What could I possibly offer a girl like Destiny?

“You can tell me where you get your clothes.” The girl’s word came out in a rush.

Wreath looked down at her hand-me-downs. “Just because you did me a favor, you don’t have to be mean about my clothes.”

“Mean?” Destiny looked at her as though Wreath were a bona fide nutcase. “I thought you might let me in on where you’re getting those cool vintage clothes.”

“Cool vintage clothes?”

“Some girls say you must get them through suppliers for the furniture store,” Destiny said.

“I suppose you could say that.” Wreath recalled the boxes of rags and junk she had dug through to come up with today’s skirt and sweater. She had borrowed black embroidery thread from Faye to turn a small hole into a bumblebee.

“All the girls want to know where you buy your outfits, but they think you’re stuck up and are afraid to ask,” Destiny said.

“They think I’m stuck up?”

“You never talk, and you don’t hang out after school or go to any of the basketball games or anything.”

“I have to work after school and on Saturdays,” Wreath said. “Is that why you don’t take the school bus much?”

“Yeah, I ride my bike. That way I have it after school.”

“Can’t you bum a ride?”

“I like riding my bike.” Wreath hated the defensive note that crept into her voice. In truth, the early morning ride in the dark was wearing her out, and she could hardly drag herself home after work. With the days short and the weather cold, she knew she needed to come up with a better plan. That’d be another good list, but she’d been so busy lately she hadn’t taken time to make many new lists.

“Well, if you’re ever ready to fess up, I hope I’ll be the one you tell.”

“‘Fess up? I don’t have any secrets.”

The other girl gave her a playful shove. “About the clothes, silly. That’s a great look.”

As Destiny walked into the cafeteria, Wreath sagged against the wall. A few weeks had passed since her thoughts had been this jumbled. Her apprehension at being in trouble with Miss Watson mingled with disbelief that Destiny, one of the most popular girls in school, liked her clothes and had bailed her out in art class. That almost felt like having a friend.

“You going in, or you eating outside today?” Law asked, walking up with a group of guys.

“Come sit with us,” Mitch said. “What’d you bring for lunch today?”

Mitch and Law were about the only kids Wreath talked to most days, and at lunch they sometimes brought their trays and sat down next to her. Like Destiny, Mitch was popular and seemed to have plenty of money, but he joked around with her and never let Law live down the black eye.

Wreath usually ate an apple and a half a peanut butter sandwich and refilled her water bottle in the fountain near the gym. The boys, who ate from the lunch line, gulped immense amounts of food, sometimes sweet-talking the student cafeteria workers into extra everything from hot dogs to fried pies.

Wreath’s worry seemed to have increased her appetite, rather than diminished it, and she debated whether it was worth hard-earned money to go through the cafeteria line. She had adapted to living alone in a dark place without running water, learning how to stay clean and be vigilant, but she never got used to being hungry.

Today her stomach seemed emptier than ever.

She hoped Law would share a school roll with her, as he did some days, because the oversized balls of yeast helped fill her up and were the tastiest things she ever ate these days.

Mitch, however, was the one who caught her staring at the tray of food and held out a roll. “My aunt’s not paying you enough to buy lunch?” he joked.

“Here, have part of my mystery meat,” Law said. “I had a bag of chips after English, and I’m not all that hungry.”

Wreath sat on her hands to keep from reaching for the plate. “No, thanks. I brought my lunch.”