by Cari Noga
When we finally get to the school, there’s a bunch of buses ahead of ours. A couple of kids stand up and start shoving each other in the aisle, but Miguel looks up in the rearview mirror.
“No horsing around on my bus, boys,” he says. He’s not yelling, but you can tell he means it. He sounds like he did the first day, when he told Aunt Jane he was going to open my crate.
The boys stop, but don’t sit down. They’re the ones who got on at the stop where the mom wanted the old driver.
“Sit down,” Miguel says in the same voice.
Everyone is watching the boys now. One sits, but the other one stands for a few more seconds, watching Miguel.
“Come on, Pete.” Another kid yanks his arm, and finally, he sits.
“Excelente,” Miguel says.
The bus in front of us moves. We’re next in line. Miguel opens the door. My stomach elevator drops about ten floors. He smiles at me.
“Hasta pronto, linda,” he says, winking, as I get off. See you this afternoon. So he’ll drive the bus back, too.
On the sidewalk there’s a ton of kids yelling and waving and pushing past me in all directions. Everybody seems to be meeting someone else and smiling. My stomach sinks further.
“‘Excelente’? Hello, this is America? We say excellent,” somebody behind me says.
Someone else laughs. “Spic.” Another laugh. Huh? They’re laughing at Miguel? I spin around to see if either one is that boy Pete, but there’re too many kids who all look the same, all white arms and T-shirts and big flopping backpacks. A bell rings, and everybody starts going in the same direction, to six big glass doors under the sign, “Traverse City East Middle School.” Inside is louder than outside, lockers slamming, kids yelling. The faces blur, mean kids and strange kids and maybe friendly kids. So many.
“Lucy! Hey, Lucy!” I hear my name from across the hall.
There’s Jared waving at me. Relief rushes in, pushing away both anger and fear.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” He shifts his backpack to his other shoulder. “Did you get your schedule?”
I nod, reaching into my pocket. They mailed it after I had orientation. “Math, Western Hemisphere Studies, gym, A lunch, Life Science, English, Digital Communications.”
He looks at his. “I’ve got A lunch, too. And Digital Communications.”
“Cool,” I say. If I were at school with Graciela, I’d have someone all the time. But at least I’ll know someone at lunch. That’s the most important. Jared might not be cute, but he’s not rude or mean. He’s a friend.
Chapter 46
JANE
After Lucy’s bus disappears over the ridge, I check Matt’s room yet again, to be absolutely sure. I clear the folders and papers off the rolltop desk and poke into all the little compartments, open all the drawers. I drag it away from the wall, to check if something’s slipped behind. There’s an old baseball team photo from when Matt was about twelve and a dusty collection of pencils, rubber bands, and paper clips, but no gray velvet bag of jewelry.
Dropping onto Matt’s bed, I close my eyes and retrace the events. The window broke in the storm. Juan brought the new glass to fix it. The new papers from Langley arrived. When I stored them in the desk, I must have subconsciously noticed the jewelry was missing. Then, waking from that nightmare a day or two later, discovering it really was missing.
But how could Juan have known the jewelry was there? Could he just have gone looking for valuables and concluded a desk was a likely place to keep them? Would he be that brazen? Who else has been in the house?
Lucy, of course, who even slept in there a few nights after the storm. Jared and Rebecca, on their workdays. Esperanza, the day she took Lucy to the movies.
Lucy doesn’t even know I have the jewelry here. Jared isn’t buying new cars and wedding rings. Nor is Rebecca. Esperanza has a vested interest. Maybe she was the one, after all. That day she took Lucy to the movies, she could have looked around while waiting for the bus.
But Miguel brought them here. He wouldn’t bring thieves. Then again, how well does Miguel know Juan and Esperanza—or any of them, really? They just call him, the migrant health clinic, the Head Start office, or the farmers themselves when they need a liaison. Speaks Spanish, work connections all over Old Mission and Leelanau, and no family or personal commitments of his own, which makes him available nearly round the clock. Should I tell him about it?
There’s no way to prove anything, though. If it was Juan and Esperanza, they’ve obviously sold it. All I’d do is make Miguel feel attacked or guilty. Gloria’s jewelry is gone, and regardless of who actually took it, it’s partly my fault for keeping it here, against Langley’s advice.
Down the hall the phone rings. I roll off Matt’s bed. The only saving grace is that Lucy didn’t know about it to begin with.
“Robert Sears from the TCAPS food service office, returning your call,” a male voice says, brusquely.
“Oh yes.” I left the message almost two weeks ago. Nice of him to get around to calling back. “I called about becoming a vendor for the local lunch source program. Carol Montgomery gave me your name.”
“You’re a grower, then?” His voice softens a few degrees.
“I run a CSA on Old Mission.”
“Are you farm-to-school certified?”
“Excuse me?”
“Farm-to-school certified. It’s a USDA credential.”
“Mrs. Montgomery didn’t mention any credential.”
“As a principal, she wouldn’t be aware.”
“I’m practically certified organic,” I say.
“That’s a good start. If you’re organic, you’re aware of all the hoops the bureaucrats make you jump, right?” Now he sounds chummy. And apparently didn’t notice I said practically.
“Uh-huh.” My stomach is sinking, thinking of the smug loan officer. Don’t count your chickens, Jane. Or your bushels of apples or your new income stream.
“To work with schools, this is one. I can send you a link to the application on the Michigan Department of Education website—”
“How long does it take to get approved?”
“I’m new here, but it can’t be worse than California.” He laughs. “A few months. Three, four, I’d guess.”
November or December. Not much growing around the forty-fifth parallel then. “I see. Well, thank you for calling back, Mr. Sears.”
“Not a problem. So you think you’ll be applying, then?”
“I’m not sure. I’d hoped to start sooner . . .”
“I understand. It’s a pain. Just the way it is with government money. But I think it’d be well worth your time.”
“Why’s that?”
“I got hired to bring farm-to-school here. I’m looking to build a model for the state. Lots of work ahead. One reason I didn’t call back sooner, on top of the new year starting.”
Acknowledging that he was late mollifies me. “A model for the whole state?”
“Michigan’s way behind. But these are win-win-win programs. Kids eat better, they do better in class. Schools support the local economy. Growers—who just happen to be parents and voters—put away a little in their pocket.”
An evangelist, speaking the gospel of Plain Jane’s.
“This area’s a natural for it, the way farm-to-table’s already taken off at restaurants. Wish I could wave a magic wand and make the red tape disappear, but I can’t.”
“Hmm.” He’s persuasive. But can I put my faith in him?
“There’s one other thing. The district wants to expand employee wellness. The school board’s approved offering a benefit starting first of the year.”
“I’m not following.”
“They’ll give employees a lump sum, say a hundred bucks apiece, that they can spend on wellness. Gym memberships, personal training, CSA subscriptions.”
A hundred dollars per employee? Times, what, several hundred, right? Do that math, Mr. Loan Officer. “Do you need any, um, credential for that?”
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“Nope. There’s an employee wellness expo coming up next month to kick it off, introduce employees to vendors. You could have a table. Bring some samples.”
Chapter 47
LUCY
My toes curl inside my Hello Kitty high-tops as Mr. Abernathy hands me the grungy yellow pinny. The mesh material feels sticky, like it hasn’t been washed since school started two weeks ago. Ick. But at least we don’t have to pick teams. Pete, that mean kid from the bus, is in this class, but he doesn’t get one. Hooray. After listening to him every day, I’m pretty sure he’s the one who said Miguel should speak English.
“Yellow serves!” Mr. Abernathy blows his whistle and throws the volleyball to our side of the net.
Everyone else must already know how to play. A tall, pimply boy who’s in my math class smacks the ball over to the other team. A girl hits it to another girl who hits it into the net.
“Off the net, off the net!” Pete yells, charging up from the back row, diving to the floor where the ball bounces.
“Yellow point!” Mr. Abernathy blows his whistle again, and then suddenly both the whistle and Pete’s stomping to the back row are drowned out by a blaring alarm, louder than anything I ever heard before, louder than ambulance sirens or my window breaking during the thunderstorm or Sarge the first time he saw Lexie. Four times it buzzes, then pauses, and in the pause Mr. Abernathy yells.
“Fire drill! Everyone line up!” Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. “Line up!” He’s pointing to the other side of the gym, behind Pete’s team, where another teacher’s opening double doors. Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. Beyond the other team I can see through the doors.
Grass. All grass.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. “Line up, everyone! Outside, walk away from the building to the football field. Walk, don’t run.” Mr. Abernathy herds us to the door, still blowing his whistle.
Walk to the football field? Make her car crash. I can’t go out there. I can’t. But where can I go? My stomach elevator dropping, I hang behind the pimply kid as I scan the gym. On the side wall, one section of the bleachers is pulled out. I could hide underneath, if Mr. Abernathy doesn’t see me. Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. If he’d look away for even a couple of seconds, I could sneak—there! He’s sticking his head out the door, talking to someone outside. I duck under the bleachers, peeking out through a crack. Did anybody see?
The last kid goes out. My stomach elevator stops, then lurches as Mr. Abernathy comes back. “Everybody out?” The sun casts his shadow long on the gym floor. He turns toward the bleachers. It feels like his shadow’s pointing right at me, and then it swings away again, and he bangs the doors shut. A couple of seconds later, the buzzing finally stops. I exhale a shaky breath, clutching the cold metal edge of the bleachers, inhaling the stale sweat of the pinny.
Five minutes tick by on the clock covered with a cage. I did it. Pretty soon another bell will ring and everyone will come back inside. If I time it just right again, I can blend in when they come back, like I was there all along.
All of a sudden the doors fly open and Mr. Abernathy’s shadow stabs at the bleachers again. “Ortiz! Lucy Ortiz! You still in here?”
I freeze, then drop down into a crouch. Kids start running in behind him.
“Lucy Ortiz! You in here?”
“Under the bleachers!” It’s Pete, that big jerk. “I see her. Right there!”
Mr. Abernathy walks over to the bleachers and folds his arms when he sees me, a clipboard pinched under one elbow. He blows his whistle. “Rest of you. Back on the court! Back in your places. Yellow still serves.” He turns back to me. “Come on out, Lucy.”
Slowly I emerge from under the bleachers. I try to find something nice in his face, like how Miguel’s cheeks crinkle when he smiles or Daddy’s eyes would shine. I can’t.
“You’re new this year, right?”
I nod.
“But you had fire drills at your old school.”
I nod again.
“Care to explain why you stayed inside?”
I shake my head.
“You know, we call these drills because it’s practice. For the real thing. It’s a matter of your safety.”
I nod as I look at my shoes, curling my toes again, then flexing them. I’m starting to poke a hole in the right one.
“If this were a real fire, you’d be risking not only your life, but a firefighter’s.”
He’s right, but if I walk on grass, who knows what else I’d risk? I can’t tell him that, though.
Mr. Abernathy heaves a sigh. “You seem like a nice kid, but if you won’t even talk to me, there’s not much I can do.” He starts scribbling on his clipboard. “Failure to evacuate during a fire drill is an automatic detention.”
Detention? “But I have to take the bus after school!”
“Doesn’t have to be today. You’ve got a week to figure out transportation and report, then it doubles.” He rips a piece of paper off his clipboard. “Back out on the floor now.”
Aunt Jane is going to be so mad.
It turns out I don’t have to tell her, because she already knows. The school emailed her.
“Failure to evacuate for a fire drill. Let me guess, you would have had to walk on grass.” Her hands are on her hips.
I shrug and nod at the same time, looking around for Lexie.
“I thought so. What are we going to do about this?”
“Just do the detention. What’s the big deal?” It’s the same argument we had the time she tried to take me to that therapist. Lexie wanders in, and I pick her up, a big, furry shield.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“There’s probably a late bus. Or the Livingstons could pick me up. Or Esperanza. So don’t worry, you won’t have to interrupt your work,” I say.
“That’s not what I’m talking about, either! Your grass phobia, that’s the real problem here.” Her voice is climbing, higher, louder. “You refuse to go to the therapist, refuse to even try to overcome it. What if there’d been a real fire? You could have been killed!”
She’s almost shrieking, and the word vibrates, like it did when Mrs. Creighton told me about the car accident. Killed.
“It was just a drill,” I start, but my throat closes up as my hands clutch Lexie tighter, her heartbeat delicate against my arm.
“You didn’t know that!” Aunt Jane throws up her hands.
“Why would you even care!” I shout, wincing as Lexie’s claws dig into my arm as she jumps away. I run upstairs, fling myself on the bed, and cry.
Chapter 48
JANE
Before breakfast I go out to retrieve yesterday’s mail, forgotten in the fire-drill debacle. After I read the school’s email, I berated myself all afternoon. I should have told the principal about the phobia when I enrolled Lucy. Should have made her go to therapy, keep that sod in her room, insisted on the exposure. What if it had been a real fire and she’d stayed in the burning building? The question both terrifies and taunts me.
Take care of our baby, Gloria’s plea echoes. You will, won’t you?
Amid the usual junk mail and bills, the thick, creamy envelope with the ornate cursive address stands out. It’s also addressed to both me and Lucy. It looks like a wedding invitation, but I don’t know anyone who would be getting married, let alone inviting both of us. Back inside I turn it around in my hands for a few minutes before I give in and rip it open.
LATINAS IN MEDIA USA
CORDIALLY INVITES YOU TO THE
2011 ANNUAL LEGACY DINNER AND AWARDS
FEATURING PRESENTATION OF THE INAUGURAL
GLORIA SANTIAGO-ORTIZ MEMORIAL SCHOLARSHIP
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 25, 2011
LOTTE NEW YORK PALACE HOTEL
COCKTAILS 6 P.M.
DINNER 7 P.M.
AWARDS PROGRAM 8 P.M.
There’s a number and an email to RSVP, and in the corner, a final punctuation: “Attire: Black Tie.”
A light tread comes loping down the stairs, a
nd I instinctively drop the invitation facedown. But it’s only Lexie seeking breakfast. At least Lucy did have some creature comfort last night. When I followed her upstairs after her outburst, she refused to open the door. Did I overreact? She has to understand how serious this is!
“More trouble,” I tell Lexie’s patchwork back, frowning. Lucy will want to go, of course. But a midweek trip to New York City? Sentimental and laudable as a memorial scholarship is, it’s out of the question, especially after yesterday’s averted disaster.
With the progress she’s made using the stepping stumps and running the farm stand and all, I thought she’d move on sooner rather than later. Wrong again. She’s not acclimating to life here. Clearly I should have told Mrs. Montgomery about the phobia. In the detention email, the principal also asked to see Lucy’s school records from last spring, to find out what recommendations the social worker made. The last place she should go is back where it all started. Not to mention the expense of flying both of us to New York, hotels, and black-tie attire, too. It’s an annual event. She can go next year, when she’s settled in.
Upstairs Lucy’s door opens, then closes. Quickly I stuff the invitation back into the envelope and slip it into my CSA record book. She would never look through that.
After she’s left for school, I email regrets. Lucy’s school schedule, not wanting to disrupt new routines, I’m sure you understand. As I click “Send,” doubt flickers. Should I check with Sarah Fischer? One of her friends would certainly host Lucy, eliminating the hotel expense. In my mind’s eye I picture the school burning, with Lucy inside. No. Next year. She can go next year.
Saturday. Made it through the week, detention and all. Only one more Plain Jane’s delivery left this season. Lucy’s still asleep as I head outside with my coffee to take inventory. Tomatoes still holding their own. Potatoes. Onions and peppers. It’ll be good to have a break, though the looming year-end accounting feels foreboding. Should I get some chickens? Eggs I could offer year-round. We could eat them, too. Or maybe this wellness program at the schools will—
“How could you!”
I drop my coffee cup, splashing hot liquid all over my jeans, as the side door slams against the house and Lucy’s yell pierces the morning. She bounds toward me, taking the stepping stumps two at a time.