Mila kept painting. She finally said, “I wish I knew what to say to help you the way you know what to say to me.”
Ms. Diamond’s face appeared above Rick’s. “Does someone need inspirational advice? How about this: ‘It’s not easy being green.’ Kermit the Frog said that, and he’s the wisest frog I know.”
Rick didn’t know how to respond.
Ms. Diamond went on, “That didn’t do it? Here’s another bit of advice: if you’re feeling blank or overwhelmed, think of your art making a difference to someone. Because it always does. Art never stops making a difference, no matter what or where it is. That often helps me flow when I get too crunched up in my own Now-I-Must-Achieve-Great-Things thoughts. And you look a mite crunched up to me.”
You are, you are crunched up, his stomach agreed. You’re acting like a pouch-bound kangaroo.
“I’m going to help with more work orders,” he said.
“When you’re ready, no rush,” Ms. Diamond said. “I have just a couple of them for you. The delivery man missed the last pickup, so Friday’s stuff is still waiting to go.” She nodded toward the stacks near her garage door, where Chompy McChompface the grizzly still sat. “Get yourself uncrunched first. Take one brushstroke and see where it leads.” Someone on the other side of the room called Ms. Diamond to settle an intense debate about different shades of blue and she hurried away.
Rick continued to stare at the ceiling. A new face appeared above his: the loud girl Liz from lunch. She stood over his inert body and waved. “There you are! Hi! Is this your friend?” she said, indicating Mila. She didn’t wait for an answer, but started peppering Mila with questions, introducing herself, as well as the girl she’d pointed out in the cafeteria, Q.E. Even though they all went to Eleanor Roosevelt Elementary, Liz and Q.E. were in a different troop than Mila since they were in a higher grade. Liz asked, “What’s your name? Mila? That’s pretty, do you use it when you autograph your work? I’ve been autographing my stuff Liz the Art Whiz.”
“I use my first and last names,” Mila said, pulling her dragon painting up on one side so they could peek at her neat Mila Herrera signature across the back.
Liz looked at the front of the painting and exclaimed, “Oooh! Let us see what you’re making!” The girls gushed over the beauty of Mila’s fire-breathing creations.
“How about you, Rick? What have you been working on?” Q.E. asked.
Rick waved at his own sign stack. He didn’t think anything there would impress them. But then Mila showed them the SPEED LIMIT UNICORN and other signs she and Rick had come up with. Liz said, “No way. These are too funny. Can we bring our stuff over here and hang out?”
Mila nodded, and the older girls went to drag their own signs closer to Rick and Mila.
“I’m going to ask if they want to collaborate with me, since I have one more biggish sign,” Mila told Rick. “Maybe you can join us? I’d like it if you did. I bet we could make something that would catch people’s eyes.”
That’s your cue to sit up and act like a friend, his stomach said. Rick willed himself upright and stared at Mila’s red dragons. He closed his eyes and pressed on them with his fingers. An image of the red dragons appeared on the inside of his eyelids in green. He opened and closed his eyes again. Red, green. Green for go: go paint with Mila, go fill out the Sepulveda work order. Red for stop: stop thinking you can help your family, stop thinking anything you do matters.
“You really believe what Ms. Diamond said, about how art matters and makes a difference?” Rick asked Mila.
“I don’t think it, I know it,” said Mila. “I mean, not every piece of art makes a difference to every person, but it doesn’t have to. It’s like this: the right art makes the right difference to the right people. Then their happy feelings start rippling along and makes other people happy, and before you know it: chain reaction. Happiness in all directions.”
“Like cooperation rippling through an ant farm,” Rick said. Then he felt like he’d been walloped on the head. His brain fizzed with the image of a series of road signs leading up and over Sepulveda Pass. “Wait…wait…whoa. I think I know a way to make my Snarl Solution stronger.” The image in his head grew, sprouting offshoots, until Rick saw it causing a chain reaction of epic proportions. “Oh man. Not just stronger. Unstoppable, maybe.”
Thank goodness. I thought you might mope forever, said his stomach.
“How?” Mila asked.
Rick stood and said, half to himself, “It’s something like setting up the most fabulous ant farm the ants of Los Angeles have ever seen so they’ll never be discontented again.”
Liz and Q.E. were just pulling their drop cloth next to Mila’s and overheard Rick’s last comment.
“Seriously, you are one interesting person,” Liz said.
Mila laughed. “He really is. But let’s start painting without him. He’s going to go be Colossal over there for a while.”
Rick skipped over to Ms. Diamond’s desk. He picked up a pencil and whizzed through her two work orders, then grabbed a blank one and didn’t come up for air until the unstoppable Snarl Solution idea was out of his brain and down on paper. He had to erase and rewrite segments of it a few times, examining the setup in his mind’s eye. Time flew by. Finally, he nodded. This was it.
But this isn’t like your normal ideas, his stomach said uncertainly. This is really big. Everyone’s going to notice it, and they’ll find out it was you. What’s Ms. Diamond going to think?
As long as it gets put up and helps my parents, I don’t care who finds out, Rick said. I’ll figure out how to explain it to Ms. Diamond afterward.
His stomach gurgled, considering. It’s definitely going to make people see things a different way.
The painting session began wrapping up, and adults trickled in to get their kids. Abuelita was one of them. The delivery guy came in through the garage door.
“Got some more purple whatchamahoosies for me?” he said to Ms. Diamond.
“You’ve never seen whatchamahoosies like these,” she answered him. One of her arms was dripping with streaks of blue paint. “Our city’s going to become the street art capital of the world. Everything’s stacked up and ready to go. Let me know if you need help moving that grizzly one.” She noticed her arm. “Actually, I’m a bit of a mess.”
“I’ll help! I’m super good at helping,” Rick volunteered. He needed to stick around a few minutes longer. He was hoping most of the Girl Scouts would clear out before he left so he could privately finish a detail on one sign for Sepulveda.
“Thanks, kid,” the delivery guy said. “I’ll go get that furniture dolly from the shed.”
“Abuelita, it’s okay if I stay a little late and help, right?” Rick asked.
Abuelita said sure, and greeted Mila and her two new painting partners. “Mi vida, want to go get a bag of fritters while we wait for Ricardo?” She took a closer look at their new painting in progress. “Is that unicornio wearing a bikini?”
Mila grinned. “That one’s mine.”
“We’ve got mythical creatures enjoying a day at the beach near Santa Monica Pier,” Liz said proudly. “What do you think of my Ferris wheel?”
“I did the Pegasus colts building a sand castle,” said Q.E.
“Extraordinario!” Abuelita took out her phone and asked the three girls to pose next to their painting. Liz’s father appeared, and he agreed that the group should take the short walk to Yum Num together. He took photos, too, and when they left, Abuelita and Liz’s dad were swiping at the photos and chuckling over a sea serpent wearing sunglasses.
Ms. Diamond got busy with cleanup. While no one was paying attention to him, Rick got up close to Chompy McChompface. A faint outline of Mila’s cartoony unicorns still showed underneath the dull brown boulders. Rick detached the work order attached to the sign’s edge and shoved it in his pocket. He told Chompy, “You’re going to be a part of this. But first, a minor alteration.” He grabbed the nearest brush and some paint and did wha
t he had to do.
When the delivery guy returned, Rick scooted around the floor, gathering everything else he needed for Sepulveda. He fastened the binder clip on top of his stack and helped the delivery guy load and balance it on the dolly, following him out to the driveway. Rick made certain his Snarl Solution signs were piled snugly together in the back of the truck. Then he helped bring out the rest of the Girl Scout signs that were ready.
The delivery guy was impressed with Rick’s energy. “You’ve got strong arms, kid. Maybe you’ll grow up to deliver things someday. I don’t tell many people this, because I don’t want word to get out, but it’s the best job ever. One day I’m hauling uniforms, next day cupcake paintings! Never a dull moment.” He waved as he started to drive away.
Abuelita walked up the driveway with Mila and a yummy-smelling bag. “Ready now, Ricardo?”
Ready to see what’s in that bag! his stomach said.
“Ready for anything,” he said.
Mila opened the bag and took out a warm apple fritter. “This is either to cheer you up because things didn’t work or to celebrate because things went well,” she said. “Is it doing one of those things?”
Rick took it from her and held it up in the air. “I hereby declare this a celebratory fritter.”
He’d given it his best shot. Now he’d have to wait and see.
CUE THE HEROIC MUSIC
RICK HAD NEVER been a fingernail biter, but he nibbled with a vengeance through his Wednesday-morning classes. Would the signs get put up in time? Or at all?
You did what you could, and you ate a nice fritter, his stomach answered. Why worry?
There were tons of reasons why. Probably what he’d tried was too over-the-top. Probably the LADOT workers had checked with Mrs. Torres before putting the signs up and she’d yelled “Nonsense!” Maybe she’d called Ms. Diamond to complain, and Ms. Diamond would call his parents anytime now to ban him from the art project. Probably the unstoppable Snarl Solution was never going to see the light of day. Probably he should abandon all hope.
When he saw Liz enthusiastically waving him to her cafeteria table during lunch, he ducked back out and headed to the school library. He didn’t want to avoid her, but he couldn’t cope with her loudness and the things she might say.
In the library, he logged on to a computer to search for traffic news. The computer’s firewall apparently thought live news was too intense for elementary school, so it kept redirecting him to educational websites like Kids InfoBits. He learned that Sepulveda Pass was named for the descendants of an eighteenth-century Spanish soldier. This did nothing to relax him.
At the Herreras’, he kept checking the weather-
and-traffic radio station. At home, he checked the online traffic maps. They all told him the same thing: the Valley was hot and dry, and traffic on the Pass was awful, as usual. He stayed up past his bedtime, listening to his radio at low volume for any late-breaking updates, but the news didn’t change.
Rick forgot to set his alarm, so he overslept Thursday morning. He didn’t have time to wait for his computer to load the traffic website, so he flipped on his radio while he got dressed. Let there be good news, his stomach complained. I don’t like it when you swallow fingernail bits.
The news anchor told a story about the mayor visiting the new California Two-Spot Octopus exhibit at the Long Beach Aquarium, and how the octopus had escaped from its tank before the mayor could have his picture taken with it. After an ad for Taco Taco Tacos and a public service announcement admonishing listeners to conserve water, the radio continued, “Next we have Ryan Porter with the traffic report. How are things out there on the roads?”
Ryan Porter sounded dumbfounded by his own traffic report. “I have a big surprise to share with our listeners today, Linda. I had to check this seven times before I believed it, and I had the helicopter pilot confirm that I wasn’t hallucinating. I’m still pinching myself to make sure this isn’t a dream. Here’s the scoop: everything on Sepulveda Pass is smooth going.” He said it again loudly and deliberately. “SMOOTH GOING. That’s right, you heard it here first: the Four-Oh-Five over the Sepulveda Pass has no accidents, slowdowns, or problems today. None. People are driving…perfectly. Gotta be a first in the history of our city, huh, Linda?”
“I’ll say! Fingers crossed it’ll hold up for the evening commute. And now a late-breaking update: the Long Beach Aquarium octopus was found camouflaging itself as a rock in the penguin exhibit and returned to his tank, so the mayor hopes to reschedule another photo session soon—”
Rick didn’t hear what came next. He ran out of his room, karate-chopping the air and doing ninja-esque dance moves. “Mom! Dad! You need to hear this!”
He turned the radio on in the kitchen, where Mom was drinking out of her biggest coffee cup, the one that was a bowl with a handle on the side, and Dad was punching numbers into a calculator. They listened to the next traffic report together. The reporter offered the news about Sepulveda with the same dumbfounded am-I-dreaming tone of voice.
“How nice,” Mom said. “Drivers getting a break first thing in the morning.”
“Nice?” Rick said. “It’s the best news ever! You’re not going to have any problems driving tomorrow, and you’re totally going to get that movie studio catering contract.”
Cue the heroic music! his stomach burbled. Start building the bronze Colossus of Roads statue!
Dad said, “If only we could know that the traffic would be okay tomorrow, too. But there are no guarantees on the mean streets of LA.”
Mom said, “Oh yes, there are. There’s the guarantee that traffic will never be in your favor, no matter which direction you’re going.”
Rick assured her, “Mom, this is going to be the same tomorrow, don’t worry.”
“It would be nice to focus on the quality of my food, not the nightmare of getting the delivery van through traffic,” his mom said wistfully. “Guess we’ll have to keep our fingers crossed.”
Rick said, “You don’t need to keep anything crossed. I know it’s going to be okay, because—”
“Sorry to cut you off, kiddo,” Dad said, checking his watch, “but we’ve got to go. And you’re late, so you’d better hurry up and get going, too. Hold that thought until tonight.”
Mom slugged down the dregs of her coffee and she and Dad were out the door.
“Everything’s going to be okay!” Rick yelled after them.
Rick could barely sit still through the school day. He let out his bottled-up energy by sprinting to the Herreras’ while his backpack bounced on his shoulder blades. Not a single dog had time to react as he rocketed by. At the Herreras’, he said a quick hi to Mila and asked Mrs. Herrera if he could turn on the television to check the news.
“Homework first,” Mrs. Herrera said. “And don’t you want a snack?”
Of course we want a snack, his stomach chirped.
“Checking the news is sort of part of my homework,” he said breathlessly. He was sure one of his teachers had assigned something today. Checking the news might have been it. “Please? It’ll only take a minute.” He was almost vibrating with excitement.
“Okay, as long as you’re done by the time the soccer game’s on,” she said. “Dr. Herrera is coming home early, so we’ve got a date with that couch.”
He dashed into the living room and grabbed the remote. The first channel showing news had what he wanted. There was a wide-angle shot of Chompy McChompface announcing THE SKY’S THE LIMIT. But Chompy looked much more interesting now. The bear’s grinning grizzly snout was obscured by the SPEED LIMIT UNICORN sign Rick had stuck to it with a glop of paint.
“Ha!” Rick said. That paint really had worked like centaur cement.
The television reporter sounded like he was on the verge of sobbing from happiness. “Today, the sky has indeed been the limit. This miraculous art installation we’re calling Magic Saves Sepulveda has allowed today’s drivers traveling southbound and northbound to experience a uniquely
perfect commute.” The camera cut to shots of YIELD TO HIPPOGRIFFS, SPEED LIMIT DRAGON, PHOENIXES RIGHT LANE ONLY, all the silly signs Mila and Rick had made together that he’d had installed on both sides of the freeway, interspersed with shots of hundreds of cars, none of which had their brake lights on. Then there was a split screen showing both sides of the top of the Pass. The southbound traffic enjoyed a view of the giant unicorn-faced grizzly bear waving at them. The northbound traffic got to admire Mila’s churning eddy of red, orange, and yellow dragons flying above the word Freeway.
Rick flipped to a different channel, then another, and realized news crews from across the state were reporting on Sepulveda Pass. It was the feel-good story of the day. Every channel repeatedly showed clips of the painted signs alongside cars zooming along in perfect harmony. It looked exactly the way he’d pictured it in his head.
He wished they would show a few shots of his personal signs, the regular ones he’d ordered interspersed with the zany ones, but he understood. To most observers, the regular signs weren’t newsworthy. They were ordinary objects doing their jobs. Only someone with deep traffic insight would leap to the conclusion that the zany signs grabbed drivers’ attention and made them feel something other than hopeless—happy, or entertained, or at least curious. Enough drivers feeling positive meant enough drivers obeying the road signs Rick had created, which would start a rippling cascade of non-hopeless driving. Boom! Happiness in all directions.
Today alone, 330,000 people were going to drive swiftly through those ripples. If the signs got ruined or taken down, more than 330,000 Angelenos were going to want to know why. SPLAT would not get away with messing this up.
“What are you watching?” Mila asked. “You’re humming and laughing in here.” She looked at the screen and stared. “Was that my dragon sign?” She watched the next news segment without speaking. Rick let the television do the talking for him.
When the show went to a commercial, he said, “What do you think?”
The Colossus of Roads Page 11