by Sandra Byrd
What should I do, God? I try to be an honest person. You know that. But I’m lonely, and the newspaper is one place I think I can fit in. It’s not going to hurt anyone if I just make it sound like I’ve had a little more experience than I have. I know I can do the work. Then maybe I’ll make some friends, have a normal lunch table to sit at. And You know my dream is to be a journalist. Could You just make this teensy little thing happen?
I tried to listen but heard nothing. And of course, I didn’t sleep well.
Chapter 4
Three days later I got an e-mail from Jack.
From: Jack
To: Savannah Smith
* * *
Hullo, Miss Smith. We’ve got several applicants for the journalist position. Of course, the most important thing to any editor is the quality of the writing of those contributing. To that end, could you please write a sample article on one of the topics below and e-mail it to me by the end of the week? It may take me a while to read through them all, but I’ll notify you if you’re a finalist.
“What’s that?” Mom walked into my room with a stack of clean clothes.
“An e-mail from the editor of the paper! He wants me to submit a sample of my writing!” I jumped up and down in the room and my mother celebrated with me.
“Don’t worry about chores,” she said after I’d explained to her that I needed to write a sample article. “Just focus on this.”
She went whistling down the hall, happier, I think, than even I was.
Well, maybe not. But we were both pretty excited. She called my grandparents and Auntie Tricia long-distance to tell them and to ask them to pray.
I spent all evening writing the article. Louanne even kept Growl quiet. It was a family effort.
The next day, I polished the piece and wished I had a friend who also wrote who could proofread it for me.
The third day, I sent it in.
Chapter 5
A few nights later we were having company for dinner, so I skipped my Fishcoteque run.
“Mmm,” Louanne said. “Who’s coming?”
“Aunt Maude,” Mom answered.
“No, no, nooooooo!” Louanne wailed. Giggle, who had been calm up to this point, was instantly alarmed by Louanne’s noise and joined in with a howl.
I had to admit, I felt like howling myself.
“We have to have her over,” Mom said as she grabbed some foil-wrapped potatoes from the cooker, aka oven. “And it might be enjoyable. It’s been a long time since we had any kind of company at all.” My mom loved inviting people over. At our house in Seattle she’d always had her friends over for game nights or tea or Bible study.
“Maude’s not even our aunt,” Louanne persisted.
“No . . . she’s a friend of your grandmother. And she’s our landlord. If you want her to let us keep Giggle, we need to make sure she really, really likes us.”
“Aha! I’m going to be on my worst behavior!” I said. “Just a minute. I’m going to put on my black lipstick and mess up my hair and play screaming metal music from my laptop.”
Louanne looked as if she might cry.
“Just kidding, just kidding,” I said. “I don’t like Giggle, but I do like you.”
Giggle growled at me, and I threw a towel at him.
At six on the dot, Aunt Maude arrived. Dad opened the door. “Maude, how nice to see you!” he said, kissing her cheek. “Girls, come and say hello to Aunt Maude.”
I walked forward and kissed her cheek, following my dad’s lead. I got a big sniff of her face powder and quickly turned my head to sneeze it out.
“Not ill, are you?” she inquired. “I’m susceptible to head colds and such. I wish I would have known if you were feeling dodgy.”
“No, it’s allergies,” I said. And I didn’t mention who I was allergic to.
“Hi, Aunt Maude,” Louanne said sweetly. Right by her side, looking like Puppy Charming, was Giggle.
“And this must be the lovable little mutt,” Maude said, softening for, I guessed, the first time ever. She reached down and scratched him behind the ears, and he nuzzled her hand. He knew who buttered his scone.
I was glad for Louanne, who looked as if she might collapse with relief. I understood. Giggle was one of the reasons London was bearable—fun, even—for her.
After taking off her cape and setting down her bag—both of which suspiciously looked like they’d been stolen from one of those British nanny shows—Aunt Maude followed us into the tiny kitchen. Like most people in England, we lived in a semidetached; that is, a house divided neatly in two with one family on one side and one on the other. Which meant the rooms were much smaller than the ones back home.
“Well, looks as if you’re taking good care of the place.” She sniffed.
“Thank you,” Mom said. “Won’t you have a seat?”
Mom brought out the meal, which she’d kept plain just for her guest.
“Meat, two veg, and jacket potatoes,” Maude said approvingly.
“Care for butter?” I asked. And those were the last words I got in for the entire meal. Maude told us all about her varicose vein problems, her digestive problems, the crime problems that Wexburg had now that they’d never had before, and how unlikely it was that England would ever be the same again, no matter what the Queen did, God save her.
Two hours later we politely closed the door behind Aunt Maude and slumped onto the sofa in the sitting room.
“And you want to make more British friends?” Dad teased my mother.
“They can’t all be like that,” Mom said. “Can they?”
Dad and Louanne went to clean the kitchen, and Mom and I stayed to talk.
“Do you think all of them are that way?” I asked quietly. “I mean, the women . . . and the girls my age?”
Mom looked at her hands for a minute. “No, no, I don’t. We just haven’t found the right ones yet.” She stood up. “I’ll be right back.” A minute later she came back with her Christmas cookie cookbook.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I was worried you’d left that at home.”
“Never,” Mom said. “Today I was moping around feeling sorry for myself, thinking that I’d be planning my annual Christmas cookie exchange if I were at home. Then I thought, why not have one here? I’ll invite all the neighbors.”
I didn’t really want to stick a pin in her balloon, but someone had to say something. “Do you think the neighbors . . . well, do you think they seem like the cookie-exchange type?”
“Never know till you try!” Mom said. “Since Christmas is just over two months away, I’m going to hand out invitations soon. Maybe hold the party a week or two before Christmas. And—” she snapped the book shut—“how about you, Sav? How about that Hazelle in your maths class? Isn’t she on the newspaper staff too?”
“Oh, Mom. Hazelle wishes I were yesterday’s news. And bad news, at that. If anything, she’s probably trying to convince Jack not to offer me a position.”
“How about those girls at Fishcoteque?” Mom pressed. I had to admire her persistence. And maybe she was right.
“The ones in my science class?” They had smiled at me in class again this week. And shared their dissecting equipment.
Mom nodded hopefully.
“Science club meets tomorrow. I could give it a try,” I said doubtfully. I didn’t mention that I was the only one in class who had popped the crayfish’s eye during the dissection. Really, my only skill was writing. But so far, no word from Jack. Face it, he probably wasn’t going to invite me to join the staff. Maybe it was just as well—maybe I had it coming, with my false pretenses and all.
“That’s my girl,” Mom said. “Tomorrow then. Science club.”
Chapter 6
Science club met after school on Wednesday. I strolled in just as they were getting ready to experiment, but I noticed that Gwennie from science class (and Fishcoteque) wasn’t even there.
I pulled on a white lab coat, snapped on some goggles, and felt very intelligent indeed. The teacher p
artnered me with another new person, and we stood over a little Bunsen burner with two glass beakers. The teacher spoke pretty quickly, and I was having trouble keeping up with his instructions. Especially since his accent was so thick. I’m not sure I understood it at all. The liquid in the blue-rimmed beaker went in first . . . or was it the red one first? Don’t put the liquid from the yellow bottle in . . . or did that one go in all of them?
“Did you write all that down?” I whispered to my lab partner.
“I thought you were getting it,” he said. He looked about as clueless as I felt.
I looked around and saw that several others were pouring the liquid from the yellow bottle into a beaker. So I did the same thing and then set it on the stove, or cooker, or whatever they call it. Apparently everybody else had done something special to their beakers first or had superstrength ones or something. Oh no!
My beaker was the only one that shattered, sounding like a hammer hitting a lightbulb. It spewed dangerous liquid in every direction. Great. My British nickname would be Beaker Breaker.
“Ah, blimey,” my partner said and tried to distance himself from me.
After getting the mess cleaned up and everyone calmed down, the instructor came over.
“Miss . . .”
“Smith,” I said. “Savannah Smith.”
“Have you ever had a proper chemistry class before?” he asked.
I shook my head. He said nothing more—he just kept looking at me.
“I guess I should try the gymnastics club?” I suggested, knowing that really all I wanted to do was write.
“That sounds like a splendid idea,” he agreed. “A really splendid idea.”
Chapter 7
The gymnastics club met every day, but new people could only try out on Mondays. I skipped Fishcoteque and slipped into a leotard after school. I had no idea that the gymnasts were expected to do anything involving coordination on the trampoline, nor that the trampoline would be so bouncy. Weren’t they supposed to have spotters by the sides? Did people in London sue for injuries like they did in Seattle?
“Miss Smith! You all right?” The coach came running to my side as I lay on the cool mats several feet below the trampoline. Great. I’d be known as the Bounced Beach Ball.
“I’m . . . I’m fine.” I tried to pull myself up off of the floor. One kind-looking girl held out her hand and pulled me to my feet. She smiled at me before heading back to do some perfect turns on the balance beam.
The coach made sure I was all right and then asked, “Have you done a lot of work in gymnastics?”
“Not blooming likely,” I heard someone behind me mutter.
I shook my head. “I guess I should try the art club?”
“An excellent idea. If you fancy art, you should give it a go.” She nodded approvingly and went back to the balance beam.
Well, no, I don’t fancy art, actually. I fancy journalism. I went to change back into my school uniform. Maybe an e-mail would be waiting for me when I got home.
Chapter 8
Tuesday morning I got up early and, after putting on my uniform, headed off to school. Jesus, I need some help, I prayed as I made my way around campus. I’m trying, but nothing’s working out right. And to tell You the truth, it’s pretty lonely.
I looked for the school newspaper at one of the stands—it was supposed to come out on Tuesdays—but surprisingly, none were there. None were anywhere on campus, as far as I could tell. I’d been hoping to see if a new writer’s byline was listed. If not, maybe I still had a chance. It was possible—I’d been spying on the newspaper table during lunchtime, and I hadn’t seen any new faces yet.
I had to drop off a transfer form at the office, and miraculously, as one of the Aristocats was leaving the office, she commented on my purse.
“Nice bag,” she said, offering a small smile. Her friends just turned their backs and continued their own private conversation.
“Yeah. I like Dooney & Bourke,” I said. It sounded incredibly dull, I know, but it was the first thing that came into my head.
“I’ve designed some bags of my own in art club,” she said.
“Art club?” My interest was piqued.
“Yes,” she said. “Do you draw?”
I have to admit, I was tempted to tell the world’s tiniest little lie, but my previous fib was a little too fresh, and I wasn’t exactly trying to hit a double.
“I like photography,” I said.
“Come along after school,” she said. “I’ll bet you can draw, too. See you later!”
She turned and walked away with her friends, but the invitation had been extended. Was this my first potential friend? What would Hazelle say if she saw me sitting at the Aristocats’ table?
Of course, this girl might not have invited me if she’d known what I knew.
I couldn’t draw to save my life.
Chapter 9
There was a handful of people in the art room when I walked in. The adviser seemed nice enough—he handed me a scribble pad and some pencils. “Have you got much experience in art?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I’m interested in writing and photography and other creative things.”
“Fine, fine,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I sat down in an open row, hoping there would still be a space available when the girl who’d invited me arrived. Of course there was a chance the other Aristocats would come to art club, in which case my chances of sitting with them were nil.
I opened the pad and started sketching on the edges of the first page just so I wouldn’t look all prim sitting there doing nothing and talking to no one. A couple of minutes later, by some kind of miracle, that Aristocat girl came in and recognized me.
“Hullo,” she said and slid into the seat next to me. I noticed her charm bracelet. Nice touch. I felt she was a kindred spirit right off.
“Hi,” I said.
“Ah yes, ‘hi.’ You’re American, right?”
I nodded. “My name is Savannah, but I go by Savvy. We moved here in August.”
She set her wool book bag down and then drew out a sketchbook and a brass pencil case. “My name is Penny. Year eleven.” That means she was fifteen going on sixteen, like I was.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m year eleven too.”
The instructor began talking and pointed to a large sandstone sculpture on a pedestal up front. “We’ll be sketching this today,” he said. “I’ve got it on the rotating platform so you can look at it from all angles as you draw. Pay attention to the clean lines, and the placement of the eyes and nose. See how there is no emotion? Be sure to copy that exactly.”
Penny grinned at me and set her pencil to a clean piece of paper about halfway through her well-worn notebook. “He gets cheesed off if you waste paper,” she warned me.
I chewed on the eraser and looked at a blank page one.
Oh well, here goes.
I tried to use short sweeping motions followed by long lines like Penny and the others did, but somehow mine just didn’t look the same. I did get the face outlined okay, but actually placing eyes, a nose, and a mouth inside its borders was challenging. I didn’t even try to make it three dimensional. I knew that was way beyond my abilities.
After a few minutes, the instructor came by, looked at Penny’s, and said, “Brilliant!” She flushed, and I was pleased for her, knowing that teachers here didn’t offer praise lightly.
He looked at mine and said, “We all have to begin somewhere.” But he wouldn’t look me in the eye, and he knew what I knew: I wasn’t going to make it much beyond the beginning.
Penny looked at my drawing, and I could tell she was struggling to say something kind. “I think the only place my artwork is going to be hung is on the refrigerator,” I said.
She laughed. “You’re a good sport about it, anyway.” She stared at my work, in which the eyes didn’t line up and one nostril was much larger than the other. “It looks like modern art to me.”
I
laughed with her. I didn’t care if I’d be known as the Stick Figurer.
“Speaking of modern art, have you been to the Tate?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what the Tate is.”
“It’s a fantastic museum. Chockablock full of great art—modern art, mostly.”
“We haven’t had a lot of time to sightsee,” I admitted. “And we’re not really sure where to go.”
“Well, it’s rather important you have some idea of what to do.” She flipped the page on her notebook. “I’ll write a list of places you might want to visit. And,” she said, smiling, “I’ll put down a few of the best places to shop, too.”
Penny scribbled out a list, then wrote a number at the bottom of the page. “My mobile,” she said. “You can text me if you have a question about it later.”
“Thanks,” I said and punched her number into my contacts list. “Here’s mine.” I wrote it down on a piece of paper. She slipped it into her bag but didn’t enter it into her phone.
As the instructor had said, we all need to begin somewhere.
The club was over, and I handed my notepad and pencils back to the faculty adviser. I think we were both relieved when I told him I probably would not be back.
I stopped by the newsstand on my way out. Still no newspapers. Odd. Something was up.
Chapter 10
The week passed quickly, but there was no e-mail from Jack. Most of me was sad—after all, I knew I could do the job. There was a little tiny part of me, though, tucked way deep underneath my rib cage, that was happy. I wouldn’t have to feed the lie.
Friday I arrived at class to see Jack standing outside chatting with Hazelle.
“That’s her,” Hazelle said, pointing at me like she was identifying a person carrying a deadly disease.
“Me?” I said, pointing to myself.