Paper Things

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  Gage picks me up today, just like old times. Janna’s working this evening; Gage and I are going to Flatbread for pizza. As soon as we’ve walked out the door, he tells me that he’s going to have a room all his own at the stability house that West told him about, and that the people who run it have already helped him set up a savings account.

  While listening to Gage’s ideas for the future, I hear Fran call good-bye. I turn to wave, and I see her — not behind us, not walking to the bus stop as usual, but pedaling away on a bike. I can’t wait to hear how that happened!

  That night, I work on the application for Carter Middle School. Fortunately the blanks for address and name of guardian are now easy to fill in. For one of the questions, I write about my experience working with the kids at Head Start and about coming up with the idea for Reggie’s paper wishplanes. I don’t know if these are the sorts of things that will impress the Carter people, but they’re my truth.

  I stare at the last question, the one that basically asks you to describe what sets you apart from your peers, what makes you special — what makes you Carter material.

  I wonder if the people at Carter will read about me in the newspaper, talking about my experiences being homeless. That sure sets me apart. Maybe Sasha’s right, and they can’t legally discriminate against me for something like that, but I still can’t really believe that a school like Carter would want to admit a student whose most noteworthy quality is that she didn’t have a home for a month and a half.

  I push the application aside. Maybe in the morning I’ll have the answer to the final essay question. But I sure don’t have it now.

  I come downstairs to breakfast, and Janna, coffee cup in hand, is hunched over something at the breakfast bar. Her facial expression goes from smiling to a moment of sadness and then back to pleasure again.

  “What are you reading?” I ask. She gets up from her seat, motioning for me to sit down, to see for myself. It’s the morning newspaper, and on the front page is a picture of me in my crazy hat, and the headline:

  HOMELESS GIRL PROVIDES MEANS FOR OTHER STUDENTS TO UPHOLD VALUED TRADITIONS

  My stomach drops. I lean back in the chair, waiting for her to yell at me for airing my private business in front of the whole world, for being disloyal to her and to Gage.

  Instead, though, she clears her throat and reads the article aloud:

  “Ask anyone who attended Eastland Elementary School in the past twenty years and they will happily tell you about the school’s April First tradition: Crazy Hat Day. This year, however, Mr. Chandler, the newly appointed principal at the elementary school, abolished the practice, along with many of the school’s other traditions, citing a need to focus on academic standards instead.

  “Today, in a protest led by Keisha Cooper, students wore crazy hats to express the importance of these traditions and the role they play in building a learning community. This isn’t the first time students have indicated their dissatisfaction with the changes at Eastland. Earlier this month, Arianna Hazard (who is credited with having had the original idea of a civic protest) and Daniel Huber hung snowflakes throughout the halls to bring attention to the issue.

  “At the onset of Crazy Hat Day, Ms. Hazard was found at a crafts table she set up to provide materials for students to make their own hats if needed. Many weeks of homelessness have made Arianna Hazard particularly sensitive to students who might be in need of extra support.

  “ ‘One of the best things about the Eastland Elementary traditions is that they let everyone feel like part of the same community, just like Keisha said,’ explained Ms. Hazard. ‘And I wanted to make sure that everyone who wanted to be a part of Crazy Hat Day had that opportunity — whatever their lives are like or whatever group they belong to. We’re all Eastland Tigers, and this is our way of saying that.’

  “Thanks to the efforts of students like Arianna Hazard, Daniel Huber, and Keisha Cooper, the voices of the students were heard. By the end of the day, the Port City School Board agreed to reinstate these long-standing traditions.”

  Janna puts the paper down.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush. “I know I shouldn’t have said anything, and maybe now you’ll get in trouble or Gage will, and I’ve blown my chance at getting into Carter, which is all Mama ever wanted for me, but —”

  “Hush, Ari,” Janna interrupts. Then she leaves the room.

  I stand in the kitchen, fighting back tears. What have I done?

  Just then, Janna returns, carrying a scrapbook. One with my name on it! She takes the scissors from the utility drawer, picks up the newspaper, and cuts out the article.

  She opens the scrapbook. As she flips through the pages, I catch glimpses of pictures — pictures of me, and of Gage, and of me and Gage. Pictures of Mama and of the three of us together. Pictures that I thought were lost for good. All this time, Janna had kept them safe in a scrapbook.

  About halfway through the scrapbook, the pictures stop being familiar. And I realize that somehow, without our ever realizing it, Janna had been taking pictures of me and Gage, documenting our time here with her. There’re pictures of us leaving for school, pictures of us cleaning up after dinner, pictures of us laughing together in the living room. Just everyday moments caught on camera — and saved in a book.

  Janna stops at a blank page near the back, takes a glue stick from her pocket, applies glue to the back of the article, and carefully pastes it in the book. Above it, with a black Sharpie, she writes: Proud Moment.

  “I know that you and Gage hold your mother’s wishes for you close to your hearts, and I support that,” Janna says slowly. “But you’ve got to understand that she would never want any of her wishes to cause suffering. Your mother wanted you and Gage to love and support each other always — no matter where each of you was living — and that’s what you’ll do.

  “And your mother wanted you to go to Carter because she wanted you to shine. But, Arianna Hazard, you can shine wherever you are. That doesn’t come from the school. That comes from you.”

  She points to the picture of me in my crazy hat. “See! Look at you, girl!”

  Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. I stare at those words emblazoned above the article: Proud Moment. Janna isn’t ashamed of me, or of Gage. She’s proud of us. She’s always been proud of us. And she knew my mama better than anyone.

  “Could you take me to Office Mart later?” I ask suddenly.

  “What for?”

  “I’d like to make a copy of the article for my Carter application.”

  In the end, the people at Carter might not choose me, but at least they will have gotten to know me — the me that my experiences have helped me to become.

  Coming back to school on Monday isn’t easy. Janna had reacted well to my public announcement that I’d been homeless, but I have no idea how kids at school will act. Fortunately, Sasha and Keisha are right there, waiting for me at my locker.

  “Did you see the front page of the paper, Ari?” Keisha asks. “Wasn’t that cool?”

  I am relieved to hear Keisha’s enthusiasm — and to know that she didn’t mind sharing the spotlight — but I also can’t help noticing that Sasha’s quiet words of agreement are just that — quiet. I hope she isn’t feeling as if she’s being pushed into the shadows again.

  Throughout the day kids approach me to ask questions or make comments about my homelessness. Some are awkward: “Did you have to ask people for money?” or “Was it scary being on the streets?” Some are very personal: “Why would you leave the home you had?” At first, these questions make me nervous, and I’m afraid to answer. Afraid that my answers will lead to teasing. But as the day wears on and I have more conversations, I realize that kids are just being curious, that everyone wonders whether something like homelessness could ever happen to them, and I try to answer as honestly as I can without getting defensive.

  During final announcements, Mr. Chandler tells us that the fifth-grade sleepover will be on May 11 — two w
eeks before graduation and one week before applicants hear whether they’ve been accepted to Carter. “Eligible fifth-graders will have completed all their assignments, paid any library fines they may have, and have consistently exhibited good Eastland citizenship throughout the school year.”

  Good citizenship? As I ponder this last requirement, I notice that Mr. O. is looking right at me.

  “Will we have a presentation tomorrow, as promised, Ms. Hazard?”

  The kids laugh. At the end of the day, my last name is still the funniest thing about me.

  Right after dinner, I ask Janna if she’ll listen as I practice my presentation. I know she’ll find areas for improvement. As I click on my slide presentation on her computer, I can tell that she’s especially pleased with my subject — and touched that I chose someone who she introduced to me.

  “Did you know that Louisa May Alcott was a nurse, like you?” I ask her.

  She nods. “During the Civil War,” she says. “And just like me, she raised a little girl whose mother had died.”

  I smile at these connections between Janna and Louisa May Alcott. But, as I’m clicking through slides about Louisa’s Little Women, I recognize another connection that I hadn’t made until now. Every reader of Little Women thinks that the main character, Jo, will marry her best friend, Laurie. But she doesn’t. Laurie marries Jo’s sister Amy instead.

  I turn to Janna with my mouth wide open.

  “What?” she asks, and suddenly I’m scrambling for a careful response. “What?” she repeats.

  I give up and blurt, “Why did my father marry Mama instead of you?”

  She gives me a look of total surprise, and I’m afraid that she’s going to ask me how I know about her relationship with my father — that I’m going to have to confess to snooping — but she doesn’t. Maybe she assumes that Gage told me, or maybe she’s more concerned with my question than how I arrived at it.

  She shakes her head as if trying to clear out what’s not important. “Relationships can be very complicated,” she says. “I think I was trying too hard to shape your father into the man I wanted him to be. I had a specific course for the two of us, and I was forever outlining my plans. Your mother was different; she was more playful, more spontaneous, and more accepting. I think your father liked who he was when he was around her.”

  “Was it terrible when he chose my mother instead of you?”

  Janna’s silent for a moment and then nods. “They broke my heart, and I’ll tell you now, I was not forgiving. In fact, I was rather hateful. I never thought your mother would get back in touch with me.”

  I’ve always wondered why Mama chose Janna to raise us instead of someone who knew us better, like Marianna, and now I feel even more confused.

  Janna must have been thinking along the same lines. “I guess your mother figured that since I had loved your father at one time and had cared deeply for her, I’d have no trouble loving you and Gage as well. And she was right, of course. Though I know now that I took out some of my old hurt on you guys, especially Gage.”

  It’s in this moment that I realize that Janna is the only person I know who knew, really knew, both my parents. Suddenly I have a million questions: Did my father like to read? What kind of music did he listen to? Was he shy?

  Maybe when my application to Carter is completed and my social studies presentation is finished, I’ll ask Janna these questions. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll start to get a sense of the dad I never knew.

  My presentation on Tuesday goes very well. Instead of using animation or movie clips as I thought I might, I stop my slide show midway and present a little melodrama — a short old-fashioned play that has lots of scary action — just like the plays that Louisa May Alcott used to perform with her family, and like her characters performed in her books. I thought of asking Sasha and Keisha, and maybe even Daniel, to help me with the performance, but in the end, I decide to play all the parts myself. This time I’m trying to make my classmates laugh, and I succeed.

  I knew that I wanted to end my presentation with one of Louisa May Alcott’s quotes. At first I was going to use this one:

  Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead.

  But finally I decide on this one:

  My book came out; and people began to think that topsy-turvy Louisa would amount to something after all.

  Which didn’t remind me of Janna.

  It reminded me of myself.

  When my presentation is over, Mr. O. pulls me aside to tell me that not only have I done well, but I’ve also satisfied the requirements for attendance at the fifth-grade sleepover! Thankfully, my good citizenship (or lack of) was never mentioned by anyone.

  On the night of the fifth-grade sleepover, droves of kids arrive at Eastland Elementary with sleeping bags in their arms. I’ve no sooner gotten out of Janna’s car when Daniel grabs me.

  “Are you going to help me free Gerald?” he asks.

  “No way,” I say. “He’d never survive.”

  “Jump from the bleachers?”

  I don’t get a chance to object, because at that moment, Sasha pulls me away. “Hurry,” she says. The girls are sleeping in the library and we won’t get a good spot unless we spread our sleeping bags out now.”

  “Meet me in the art room at nine,” Daniel says.

  Ugh, I think, suspecting what Daniel wants. The art room is close to the polished math hallway.

  After claiming our place in the mystery section of the library, Keisha, Sasha, and I head to the cafeteria for dinner. The teachers, wearing their own crazy hats, are serving us pizza from boxes tonight. I laugh when I see Ms. Finch wearing a hat piled high with birds.

  I’m at a table surrounded by girls I’ve known most of my life. We’re recalling Eastland memories, laughing at all the silly things that happened over the years. Just as I start to remind everyone of how frightened we were in first grade when Smokey the Bear came to school, I hear someone singing. Others hear it, too, and we turn to see where the music is coming from.

  It’s Daniel. Of course, it’s Daniel. He’s standing on a bench, trying to lead the entire fifth grade in a chorus of “Eensy-Weensy Spider.” A kindergarten song.

  No one joins in.

  I look to the teachers, hoping that they’ll stop him. End his humiliation, I think. He’ll still get to check off number 5 on his bucket list.

  They don’t stop him, and he moves on to sing “Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed” — all five verses.

  A few kids make the hand motions, but none will join in the singing.

  Daniel looks at me as if to say, Come on, Ari. I sat in the front hallway behind the crafts table for you. You owe me this.

  And I do owe him this moment — I know I do. But still I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to sing.

  Daniel finishes “Five Little Monkeys,” and there’s silence. I guess everyone is wondering what he’ll do next.

  If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that Daniel Huber is persistent. He starts to sing “Food Group Boogie,” and a few kids laugh. A few quiet voices join in.

  I look over at Sasha to see if she’s rolling her eyes. She glances at me and then without saying a word, she jumps up and starts singing and dancing along with Daniel. Then she gives me the biggest, brightest smile, which says, I bet you didn’t expect this!

  I sure didn’t. Not for a moment. But there’s lots that I don’t know about Sasha — and lots that she still doesn’t know about me — and I make a quick wish that we’ll have lots of time together at Carter to learn those things.

  Her actions are contagious. “Food Group Boogie” is just wild enough, just bizarre enough, that everyone in the room eventually gets to their feet to join them. Even me.

  We go from singing “Food Group Boogie” to “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” and then “The Hokey Pokey.” Not one student sits out. I ca
tch Hannah’s eye across the cafeteria, and we exchange smiles.

  Daniel reminds all of us that tonight, despite our plans for the future, we are all Eastland Tigers.

  It’s nine o’clock and I’m nervous. Was Daniel serious about meeting him in the art room? The entire fifth-grade class is gathered in the auditorium, watching a movie. If I slip out and get caught wandering the halls, I worry that I’ll blow any last chance I have of getting accepted to Carter. Still, I feel like I already let Daniel down once tonight and I don’t want to do it again.

  I get up from my chair in the gym and move toward the back doors, hoping that any teacher watching me will just assume that I’m heading to the girls’ room. The halls are dimly lit and totally silent, and I don’t mind admitting that I’m afraid. I keep expecting someone to jump out of the shadows and catch me breaking the rules.

  But no one does.

  Daniel is in the art room, looking at one of the painting books, when I walk in. Even though he’s expecting me, he jumps.

  “I am not going to slide down the math hallway,” I say. “And I really don’t think Gerald would do well out in the wild.”

  He doesn’t respond. Instead he blushes as he holds out a small, silver-wrapped box.

  “I’ve given up on the list — for now,” he says. “But I didn’t want you to open this in front of anyone else, in case you hate it.”

  The last thing I expected was a present. It’s not my birthday, and even if it were, I wouldn’t expect Daniel to get me anything. My fingers shake a little as I open it.

  Inside the box is a necklace with a little silver snowflake charm, which sparkles like glitter. Holy moly!

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “It’s perfect.”

  Daniel beams.

  Then he takes hold of my hand and walks me back to the gym. I don’t object.

  Now it’s Monday, and the necklace still hangs around my neck. Sasha has dance rehearsals all week, so I’m walking to Head Start alone. It’s a warm May day, and I’m looking up — taking in the new green leaves, the cloudless sky — when something catches my eye. It’s an airplane, a paper airplane, jutting out from a shrub. I gently pull it out and notice that this one’s been folded from a report card. No doubt it’s one of Reggie’s planes and someone must want better grades.