I walk up and hand it to him instead of putting it in the assignment cubby.
“Thanks, Ally, but if you’re done, why don’t you put it in the cubby?”
I push it toward him a little more. “I thought you may want to check it over.”
We lock eyes for a few seconds and then he reaches out to take it from me. “Okay,” he says. He looks at it, his eyebrows scrunch up, and then he looks back up at me. He stays quiet. Thinking, I can tell.
I hear it in my head. Do better, Ally. And I would. I would magically do better and Mrs. Silver would carry a trophy for me so big, she’d have to carry it on her back.
“Ally?”
“Huh?”
“I said that you can just put it in the cubby, then.”
And the pictures in my head pop like bubbles. I walk away without taking it back.
• • •
As soon as we all sit down in the cafeteria, Keisha announces to Albert, “Okay. This has been killing me. All. Day. Long.”
“What?” I ask.
“Albert. So this Flint shirt that you wear every day.”
He interrupts. “I do not, in fact, wear the same shirt every day. I have five identical ones.”
Keisha’s eyes are wide. “Seriously, Albert? You bought the same shirt five times?”
He doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal. “It’s the one I liked.”
“Well, anyway, Albert,” Keisha says. “I finally found out what the heck your shirt means. I googled ‘Flint’ and you know what I found?”
His eyes widen.
“It’s a place in Michigan, a kind of rock, something people use to light campfires, what arrowheads are made of, and a kind of sneaker.”
Albert doesn’t say anything.
“Albert? Did you hear me? What is with the Flint shirt? That just makes no sense . . . No sense whatsoever.”
Albert fidgets.
“Hey, Albert,” I say. “You okay? You know, Keisha didn’t mean any harm. She just . . .”
“I am quite aware of her intentions.”
I worry. “What are those?”
“To find out why I wear this shirt.”
Funny how my brain wants to make things complicated and his just cuts to the simplest thing. Well, the simplest thing with a bunch of fancy words and mile-long sentences.
“The meaning of my shirt is not any of those things.” He closes his eyes before he takes a deep breath. “Flint is an immortal genius from Star Trek. Season three, episode nineteen. It is titled ‘Requiem for—’”
Keisha laughs, interrupting him. “Albert, are you kidding me?”
Albert clears his throat and glances at the clock.
“Albert,” I say, poking the side of Keisha’s leg, and she—by some miracle—stops laughing. “Go ahead. I want to know.” After that day of being mean, I want to be extra nice. “So, Flint is a smart guy?” I ask.
Albert readjusts himself in his seat. “Flint goes away to his own planet. He puts up invisible barriers so that others won’t sense life-forms there. He creates robots to protect himself and keep him company. They are . . . predictable.”
“Sounds super weird if you ask me,” says Keisha. “Why wouldn’t he live on Earth with people?”
“He had once lived on Earth. He left to be alone. He wanted to be alone.”
Keisha falls forward, dropping her arms on the table. “Why the heck would a man leave Earth with everything here to go off and sit on some rock in space all by himself?”
Albert hesitates. “Well . . . he says it’s to ‘retreat from the unpleasantness of Earth and the company of people.’” Then he looks up right into my eyes. “I can see that. I can see why someone would want to avoid being with other people. A great number of them are not very nice to me . . . and, well . . .”
“Listen, Albert.” Keisha’s voice has softened. “I didn’t mean . . .”
Albert interrupts. “I was not implying it was you who is not kind to me.”
I’m relieved.
“But there are others who are not kind,” he says.
CHAPTER 19
Not-So-Sweet Secret
Just as I thought, my mother smiles when she sees Albert, Keisha, and me walk into Petersen’s. She seats us in a booth right in the middle of the restaurant and takes our order. Keisha sits next to me and Albert fills a good part of the seat across from us.
“So,” Keisha begins. “Thanks for inviting us for ice cream.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Must be cool to come here every day,” she says.
“Is the ice cream free?” Albert asks.
“My mom doesn’t let me have ice cream more than once a week. And it isn’t free, but we get it for half off, I think,” I tell them.
Albert fidgets a bit. “So, do either of you ever miss Mrs. Hall?”
“Our old teacher Mrs. Hall?” I say. “She was okay, but I like Mr. Daniels way more. He’s nice.”
“He is,” Keisha says. “Goofy, but in a good way.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I do not think he is a trusting person,” Albert says.
“Mr. Daniels?” I ask.
Albert rubs his palms on the top of his jeans. “He inquired about my bruises. I think he hypothesized that they came from my parents. Then I had to speak to the school psychologist.” He shifts in his seat. “My parents rescue insects and arachnids from our home, taking them outside rather than killing them. It’s illogical for my parents to save spiders and hit their own son.”
I look over at Keisha. Hoping she knows what to say. She doesn’t.
I take a deep breath. “Well, Albert, even I’ve wondered where all those bruises come from.”
His voice is quiet. Like a boy. Not a robot version of one. “There’s a group of boys. I meet them many days after school.”
“You meet them?” Keisha asks.
“Well, no,” he says. “They meet me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He nods once and then stares at the floor.
“Can’t you tell anyone?” I ask.
Albert shrugs.
“Well do you at least hit them back?” Keisha asks.
“I don’t believe in violence. And anyway, it seems to me that big kids would get the blame in a fight. No one’s going to think a big kid like me didn’t start it, so they would assume I give the punches, not receive them.”
He stares at his vanilla ice cream and then looks up. Maybe a little happier. “This reminds me of ice cream on Ellis Island.”
“You may have a skull full of brains, but, again, Albert . . . no sense,” Keisha says.
“When the immigrants came to America through Ellis Island, they would sometimes get ice cream for a treat. But they didn’t recognize ice cream. They thought it was butter, so they spread it on toast.”
We laugh.
“I think this is like that. Those boys just think I’m a fighter, so they . . . well, fight me.”
“No, Albert,” Keisha says. “They think you won’t fight. They think you’ll just keep being their punching bag. That’s why they fight you.”
His eyebrows scrunch up.
“Albert. This is no joke,” Keisha says. “They leave nasty marks on you! Don’t your parents get mad? My mother would hunt down anyone who did that to me.”
“My father is busy with his inventions and my mother has other things to worry about.”
“You should ask them for help,” I say. “I think Keisha is right.”
He shrugs. “I don’t want help. I should be able to solve this.”
“Albert!” Keisha says, her dark eyes wide and angry. “You can solve this. Just don’t let those boys pound on you! You said you’re bigger than they are.”
“Yes, I call them the fire
ants. A group of small beings that can become overwhelming.”
I laugh, but I’m sad on the inside.
“No, seriously, Albert.” Keisha is downright mad now. “Teach them a lesson. Hit them back!”
“I don’t think it is within my nature to hit someone. I will not meet violence with violence. I won’t stoop to their level.”
“Stoop to their level?” I ask.
“If I act like them, I am no better,” he says.
“Well, I say this is like trying to give Jell-O a spine,” Keisha says.
Albert squints, which makes me wonder if he’s actually mad. “Some of the most lethal creatures on earth are invertebrates.”
“Don’t throw that science at me,” Keisha says. “All I know is that you need to stick up for yourself. If you just let them do that, it’s like telling them it’s okay.”
Albert stays quiet.
Keisha’s voice is no longer soft. “I just don’t get it, Albert. What in the world would it take for you to fight back?”
Albert looks upset. I know Keisha is trying to help him, but I think it’s like throwing him an anchor for a life jacket.
“So, Albert. You’ve always liked science?” I ask, trying to get another conversation going. But Keisha gasps and looks at the ceiling—frustrated with Albert.
“Yes,” Albert says. “But, Ally, I would like to ask you a question.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Shay is not kind to many people. But I have observed that she is the most unkind to you and I don’t understand it. Do you know why?”
“Yeah,” Keisha says. “She really does seem to have it in for you.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“Oh, is there a story?” Keisha says. “I just love a good story.”
“There’s no story. I won the art award last year. She was mad about that.”
“Oh no. There’s more of a story, all right. Now, spill it.”
“Let’s just say she holds grudges.”
“Spill it. Use the word grudges and there has got to be a really good story!”
“Well . . . on my second day here last year, I’d bought a bag of cheese crackers at lunch. I was assigned to sit next to her, which she wasn’t so happy about. I was almost done with my sandwich when she grabbed the bag of crackers from the table and ripped them open and ate them.”
“Are you kidding? She did that?”
I nod. I really don’t want to finish this story.
“She is unbelievable,” Keisha says, shaking her head.
“Anyway, I kind of had this habit of doing things without thinking. Well . . .” I pause. “I used to do it even more than I do now. So, when she took a piece of cake out of her lunch box, I reached over, sunk my fingernails through the frosting, grabbed a hunk, and stuffed it in my mouth.”
Keisha hangs over the table laughing while Albert looks like I stuck him with a pin. “You did that?” he asks, wide-eyed.
“And then . . .” Uh, I really don’t want to tell them this. “While I licked the frosting off of my fingers, I asked her, ‘So how do you like that?!’”
I cringe when I think of Shay’s face. Total surprise followed by looking at me like I was a disease on two feet. And somehow, deep down inside, I knew I’d pay for that forever.
But Keisha is still laughing. “That is the best. More people ought to put that girl in her place. She walks all over everybody.”
I kind of think out loud, “She thought I was a freak.”
“She deserved it. Just taking your food like that? Are you kidding?”
“Well, the thing was,” I say, and then I stop because I can’t quite push out the rest. “I was mad that she’d eaten my crackers. But, when lunch was over, I reached into my jacket pocket and found mine.”
Keisha laughs loud and long while Albert raises his eyebrows. “Wait,” Albert says, “she didn’t actually eat yours?”
I shake my head.
“So she thinks you grabbed a hunk of her cake for no reason?” Keisha asks.
“Uh, yeah. Kind of. Yeah.”
Keisha’s laughter gets even louder just as my mother is looking across the restaurant, giving me “the look.” Keisha leans against me and says, “Okay. I admit it. That is the best story I’ve heard. In. My. Whole. Long. Life. Ally Nickerson, if I didn’t love you already for that flower thing you pulled, I think I may love you for that.”
CHAPTER 20
Is This a Good Thing?
I hear the front door slam and Travis calls for me. He sounds happy. I mean really happy. He appears in the doorway of my room. “Guess what?”
“What?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. He just stands there with a big, dumb grin on his face. And then I notice what he has in his hand and I jump up. “You got it? Really?”
He still doesn’t answer. He just shakes the keys like a baby rattle.
So we run outside, and sitting there at the curb is a surprise. But not the kind of surprise I’d hoped for.
“I know it doesn’t look like much.”
But he’s wrong. It looks like a lot. It’s enormous and bright green. I mean seriously. It’s like a pickle with tires. “No,” I say. “It’s cool.”
“You can’t lie to me, squirt. I know you too well.”
“Why are there lines on it?” I ask, leaning in.
“Oh, well, I guess the guy that had the car painted it with a brush instead of a spray gun. I’ll have to sand that out. And strip the chrome on the side. But the engine is good. It’s gonna fly.”
The only way this thing is going to fly is if he straps it to a giant balloon. A sketchbook picture is already drawing itself in my head.
“And there are no computers in a car this old. Just a man and his machine.”
I look up. “Is that really a good thing?”
He shoves me a little. “You’ll love it when it can take us places. To the beach? Six Flags?”
I look up quick. “Really?”
“Wherever you want to go, squirt.”
I had never imagined that his car would be our car. That he would take me places.
“You want to take it out with me now?”
“Sure. Am I pushing or pulling?”
“You’re going to be sorry you dissed this beauty. I’m telling you. You’ve got to be loyal to your car.”
“Travis, you do know it’s only a car, right?”
“Only a car?” he asks. “Only a car?” He runs to the other side and slides in. He unlocks the door for me and I get in, too. It’s a big bench seat. The Walking Liberty half dollar hangs from his rearview mirror. It makes me feel like Dad and Grandpa are with us.
When he turns on the engine, it sounds like a giant with a bad cough. We head up Farmington Avenue past St. Thomas Church.
It had been raining all morning, and now it starts again. Big drops of rain fall on the windshield like bombs. Travis says a bad word, pulls over, and grabs a silver spring and a piece of wet rope from the glove compartment.
“What are you doing?”
He jumps out into the rain, grabbing the windshield wiper on my side and connecting it to something at the bottom of the window with the spring. Then he ties that wiper to the second wiper and throws the rope through his window and jumps in. Laughing and dripping wet.
“What the heck are you doing?” I ask.
“Three. Hours,” he says.
“What are you talking about?”
“Three hours after this thing was registered this morning, the wiper motor went. So I went by the hardware store and rigged this up. Watch.” With his left arm, he pulls the rope and the wipers clear the window of water. When he lets go, the spring yanks them back down, slapping the bottom of the window.
“Hey, I thought you said you were a genius,” I joke.
�
��I am. All geniuses deal with bugs in the system.”
“Isn’t that more like what anteaters do?”
“Hilarious.” He laughs.
“Isn’t it a little hard to drive and do that?”
“You’re right, squirt. You can do the wipers,” he says, throwing the rope into the backseat. “Climb over and sit behind me.”
“Okay!” I say, climbing over the seat. I give the rope a pull and then let it go, and the wipers slap up and down. It’s kind of fun to see the wiper clear the window—make the blurry clear. And I think about what a great drawing this will be later and I’m happy for the weird pickle-colored car.
“Wow, this is fun—and hard,” I tell Travis. My arm is getting tired.
He watches me in the rearview mirror and laughs. I laugh, too, and it makes pulling the rope even harder.
We pull up to a red light and Travis tells me to look at the face of the lady riding the car next to us, and I do. She looks shocked and I think her expression is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.
Until I see Shay sitting next to her.
• • •
As soon as Mr. Daniels steps into the hallway to talk to another teacher, Shay says in her I’m-being-loud-on-purpose-so-everyone-can-hear-me voice, “So, Jessica. Yesterday, I saw that Ally riding in this disgusting green-colored car that I can’t believe was even allowed on the road. Ally had to pull a rope to even get the windshield wipers to work.”
“You must be joking,” says Jessica.
“Ally? What junkyard did you find that heap in?”
Jessica laughs like she’s supposed to.
I try to ignore them. My mom has always said you just ignore mean people because they are only trying to get a rise out of you.
“I mean, what kind of loser would have a car like that? Probably the only thing your mother can afford.”
Finally I can’t take it. “It’s my brother Travis’s car. And it is not a loser car.”
“Oh no. It’s a loser car all right. I guess that makes your brother Travis a loser.”
They laugh.
“I didn’t think there could be a bigger loser than you, Ally, but I guess I was wrong,” Shay says.
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