Fish in a Tree

by Lynda Mullaly Hunt

  “Shut up!” I say to Shay just as Mr. Daniels walks back in. “You’re the losers. You. Not him.”

  “Ally?” Mr. Daniels calls. “Come here, please.”

  “What?” I ask, trying not to sound disrespectful.

  “I haven’t known you to name-call before.”

  “They can call me anything they want. And believe me, they do. But they can’t say anything about Travis. Never.”

  “Is Travis your older brother?”

  “He’s my big brother.”

  He half smiles. “Is there a difference?”

  “Yeah. There is. An older brother is older. A big brother looks out for you and smiles when you walk into a room.”

  He nods slowly. “I see.” He clears his throat. “I understand you’re upset and I appreciate that you’re defending your brother, but walk away next time. Okay?”

  I nod, but I have to admit that I’m getting awfully tired of walking away.

  CHAPTER 21

  Butterfly Wishes

  Our classroom is brainstorming ideas for a community service project.

  Shay raises her hand. “I am having a birthday party and inviting everyone because I don’t want to leave anyone out.”

  “How does that relate to our community service project?” Keisha asks, and the whole class waits for an answer.

  “Well, it’s about community. Everyone being involved.”

  “Yeah, right,” Keisha whispers to me.

  Mr. Daniels compliments Shay on inviting everyone and moves on quickly. Later, as we get our stuff for lunch and recess, Shay speaks to Jessica in her loud voice. “I’m so mad my mother is making me invite everyone.” Then she looks directly at Keisha and me and says, “I hope some people know better than to actually show up.”

  • • •

  My mom insists I go to Shay’s party. Even after I tell her that Shay is mean, my mom asks, “Well, there will be other kids there, right? You may actually have fun.”

  Albert grabbed his invitation from the mailbox before his mother saw it. Keisha’s family is visiting her grandmother. So I’m alone.

  At lunch, I ask Albert and Keisha about some diseases I can use as an excuse not to go.

  “How about bubonic plague? Otherwise known as the black plague?” Albert asks.

  Keisha almost spits out her milk. “Seriously?”

  “Uh, that may be a bit much,” I say, but then I begin to wonder. “What does that look like, anyway?”

  “Oh, well . . . chills, fever, cramps. Seizures. Toes, fingers, nose, and lips turn black because the cells die. And you’d likely spit blood.”

  “Albert,” Keisha says. “That’s nuts. She can be sick like a normal person, you know. Cough. Runny nose. Sound familiar?”

  “That’s fine,” he says, taking a bite of his sandwich. “It just seems uninteresting, that’s all.”

  • • •

  Shay’s party is at the Butterfly Gardens, and when I arrive, I recognize some girls from other classrooms. They are all wearing friendship bracelets. Jessica wears even more now. I still ache to have some and wonder if Keisha would like a bracelet like that.

  Soon, we are lined up and brought to the main butterfly garden, which is a clear plastic tent set up inside a bigger room. The tent is filled with plants and flowers, and flying around are tons of butterflies. People stand there as the butterflies land on them, and you can feel how happy people are just by watching their eyes.

  Before we enter the tent, a lady talks to us about the butterflies. She tells us about their patterns and to look for ones with a giant dot on each wing. These are adaptations to scare other animals into thinking they are eyes, so other animals will think they are bigger and more dangerous and leave them alone. I wish I could do this with Shay—and that Albert could do that with those boys.

  She reminds us not to grab any butterflies, because they are injured easily. We are supposed to stand and let them come to us. Then the lady points to me and says, “They’ll love your orange shirt.”

  She’s right. The butterflies do come to me. Their colors and patterns make me wonder why I haven’t been drawing butterflies. They don’t fly like birds. Instead, they kind of fly all over the place. Makes me wonder if I’m part butterfly.

  I put my arms out like a tree and one, then two land on my arm. I love them. I never knew before how much I love butterflies.

  I think about the story Albert told in social studies when we were studying Native Americans. He said that they believed butterflies were special creatures and wish givers. And that if you can catch a butterfly, whisper your deepest wish to it, and then set it free, it will carry your wish to the spirits, who will grant it.

  I would never grab a butterfly, but once again, my hands do things without my say-so. When a beautiful, bright orange-and-black one lands on my hand, I loosely close my fist around it.

  And then my thinking part steps forward and quickly realizes what I’ve done. I open my hand and the butterfly zigs and zags before landing on the ground.

  The lady who gave us the directions is next to me in a second. “Oh no, what have you done?” she asks.

  I want to explain about wish givers, but Shay and the others appear. “It figures it was Ally. She probably killed it. Everyone knows you can’t touch a butterfly’s wings.”

  “I didn’t kill it. I mean, I would never hurt it. I had a wish and I thought that . . .”

  The girls laugh. “Such a freak show,” Shay says.

  Suki rushes to the butterfly to try and help, but a woman runs over and tells her to step back.

  “Who are you with?” the woman asks me.

  Shay’s mother steps forward. “She’s with us, but she’s not my daughter. She’s part of my daughter’s party.”

  I wish my own mom were here; she’d understand. I feel terrible watching the butterfly on the ground, flapping its wings and not going anywhere. I know the feeling.

  The first butterfly lady wears white gloves as she puts the injured one in a box, saying, “At least its wings aren’t torn.” The second lady stares at me like I’m a ruthless butterfly hunter.

  I want to say I’m sorry, but I forget to because I’m watching mind movies of the butterfly falling and falling and never being better. And then the movie is filled with butterflies that are all falling like rain. And I feel as sad as I did watching the real one fall.

  Suki comes over. “I know you didn’t hurt the butterfly on purpose.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble. She’s right, but it was still my hand.

  I guess I just had to make that wish.

  Sometimes a person will do just about anything for a wish to come true.

  CHAPTER 22

  No Way to Treat a Queen

  Later, I try to call Albert, but a recording says that the number is no longer in service, and I worry that he had to move away or something.

  When I see him at school on Monday, I am so relieved.

  I run up to him. “Albert, is it true that if you touch a butterfly’s wings, you keep it from flying ever again? Basically, kill it?”

  “A rather curious question for such a cold day. In temperatures such as these—”

  “Albert! Just tell me. Yes or no.”

  “No, it is a myth that you render a butterfly unable to fly by touching its wings. The powdery residue on their wings is actually scales. They shed these scales on a regular basis, so merely touching them is okay. You only injure the butterfly if its wings are torn.”

  I remember how the lady said its wings weren’t torn. I hug Albert until I realize what I’m doing. His surprised expression is so hilarious. Like Einstein himself just told him that Earth is not round but instead shaped like a spoon.

  • • •

  “Nice shirt, Albert. Is it new?” Shay laughs at her own comment. Before he can answe
r, she draws her fingers down her own sleeve. “I got a new sweater. It’s purple, which is the color of royalty,” she says, looking directly at me. “That’s why it’s my favorite.”

  I wonder what she wants from us and I hate that I never know what to say to her. I come up with great comebacks to her the next morning, hunched over a bowl of cereal.

  “Indeed. Purple is the color of royalty,” Albert tells Shay.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” Her voice is singsongy and makes me wish she’d go eat paste.

  “You two are just so uncouth.” She turns to me. “I bet Ally doesn’t even know what the word uncouth even means. Do you?”

  “I know what uncouth means,” Albert says. “I know something else, too. Only an uncouth person would wear snail snot.”

  She looks at us like we’re wearing it.

  “You say purple is the color of royals,” he says. “They only wore purple because it was the most difficult and expensive color to make. In medieval times, they needed to collect three thousand Murex brandaris snails to have enough slime to make one cloak. So, good for you. I’d prefer beige.” He turns to me. “What about you, Ally? Slime or beige?”

  “Oh, I’d have to go for beige.” I try not to smile, as much as I want to, and I try to keep my voice from sounding as happy as it is, because the look on Shay’s face when she looks down at her new sweater, like she is actually covered in snail slime, is pretty unforgettable.

  CHAPTER 23

  Words That Breathe

  Monday is vocabulary day, when Mr. Daniels goes over the new words for the week. As far as reading lessons go, this isn’t so bad. All I have to do is listen as he tells us the word’s meaning, and I can usually remember it because I make mind movies about each one and that helps me remember.

  I’ve always had one important rule in the classroom, which is to try to lie low. If I’m called upon, I’ll say, “I don’t know,” even if I do. I discovered that giving a teacher an answer makes them expect more from me, and then everyone gets disappointed. If they never get an answer from me, they stop asking.

  But today, during vocabulary, Mr. Daniels brings up two words: alone and lonely. He asks for volunteers to explain the difference between the two.

  It’s like my arm doesn’t belong to me when it goes up. Mr. Daniels stops midsentence and looks at me.

  “Yes, Ally?”

  What have I done? I try to figure out what I should say. Maybe ask to go get a drink? But the thing is that something deep inside me really does want to answer. Because I’m an expert on these two words. I know what they mean. And how they feel. Especially after that butterfly party.

  Mr. Daniels’s eyes are wide, and they are waiting for me. “Ally?” he says. “It’s okay, now. Take your time.”

  And it’s like he can see right into my guts. Knows how sad I am. Like he’s handing me a flashlight in a dark room.

  I lock eyes with Mr. Daniels and I forget anyone else is even there. I say, “Well . . . alone is a way to be. It’s being by yourself with no one else around. And it can be good or bad. And it can be a choice. When my mom and brother are both working, I’m alone, but I don’t mind it.” I swallow hard. Shift in my seat. “But being lonely is never a choice. It’s not about who is with you or not. You can feel lonely when you’re alone, but the worst kind of lonely is when you’re in a room full of people, but you’re still alone. Or you feel like you are, anyway.”

  I look at Mr. Daniels. He has his hands stuffed in his pockets and his face looks sad. I try to remember what I just said, but speaking in class has made me so nervous that my mind is doing its Etch A Sketch thing. Unable to play my words back. What did I say? Why does he look like that?

  Staying quiet and having people think you’re stupid is better than talking and having people know for sure.

  Mr. Daniels says my name.

  “Huh?”

  No one laughs. Not even Shay or Jessica.

  “Well,” he says, “if I had a trophy to give out for the best answer of the year, I’d give it to you for that.” He throws his hands up as if to celebrate. “That was . . . well, excellent!”

  I stare at my desk, wondering why he would say that.

  “Ally?”

  I look up. “Thanks,” I say, feeling like I have to move. Leave. Why is he acting like I won the Brain Olympics just because I answered a question? “Can I please go to the bathroom now?”

  Mr. Daniels seems confused. “Uh, yeah. Sure, Ally. Go ahead.”

  When I stand, Shay squints at me and shakes her head. She doesn’t even have to say anything and my brain plays the things she would say.

  Even when I do something right, I feel like I’ve done something wrong. If I were a coin, I’d be a wooden nickel.

  CHAPTER 24

  Imaginary Hero

  Mr. Daniels asks us to write about our favorite fictional character—a person we consider to be a hero—and be ready to tell the class about who it is. It’s funny how much trouble Albert has with this. He tells Mr. Daniels that looking up to a character that isn’t real is illogical, but Mr. Daniels tells him it will be good for him, which confuses the heck out of Albert. He mumbles all the way back to his seat. Albert never mumbles. He either talks or he doesn’t.

  Oliver is in his seat listing the names of every superhero I’ve ever heard of. “Superman, Captain America, Batman.” He looks upset when he turns to Suki nearby. “Is Robin a superhero? I mean, his outfit isn’t scary. At all. And he has no special powers. But Batman doesn’t really, either. But at least Batman can drive the Batmobile and fly the Batplane. Robin just rides along. I don’t think I’d want to just ride along. What do you think?”

  Suki opens her mouth but no sound comes out. It doesn’t matter, because Oliver has moved on. “Spider- Man. Maybe I’ll write about him.” He holds up his palm in Suki’s face. “He shoots webs. And he swings from buildings. That would be the BEST!”

  “Hey, freak,” Shay whispers, glancing over at Mr. Daniels, who is working with someone at his desk, to make sure he can’t hear. “We don’t need to hear every weird thought in your tiny little brain. We’re trying to work.”

  Oliver’s face is unmoving. Until he says, “If. I. Were. Aquaman. I. Would. Summon. The piranhas. To take you away. You could be their queen.”

  Keisha starts laughing and Mr. Daniels finally looks up. “Keisha?”

  She puts her arm down on her desk and leans her forehead against it. Trying to stop laughing. The more she tries, the more Shay glares. With Mr. Daniels watching, most everyone goes back to their work. After a while, even Keisha does.

  But I keep looking around the room. I love how Albert can’t choose one character while Oliver wants to write about everyone.

  However, I don’t love how much trouble I’m having writing about my character. Makes me wish that I were a fictional character.

  • • •

  When Mr. Daniels calls me up to his desk, he’s holding my paper. A teacher holding my paper is rarely a good thing. But Mr. Daniels doesn’t cover my papers with red ink like other teachers. They used to look like they were bleeding.

  Mr. Daniels has written in green and he apologizes for not being able to read my writing. He says that my character sounds really interesting, but he’d like to know a bit more. “Will you read this out loud for me?”

  Uh-oh. I take it, squeezing my eyes into slits. Trying to read my own writing. I wait for him to pressure me to try harder. To do something I can’t do.

  He slides the paper out of my hand. “Well,” he says, “why don’t you just tell me instead of reading? First of all, tell me your person’s name.”

  I feel such relief that I’m afraid to blink. I hate this pressure. But this time I’ve been saved. I keep my voice down so no one can hear. “It’s Roy G. Biv.”

  “Oh, wait,” he says. “Like the colors of the color spectrum?�
�

  I nod.

  He stares. Before he can tell me I’ve messed up the directions, I say, “You said fictional, and I figured you meant a book character like Alice from Alice in Wonderland, but Roy isn’t real and there isn’t any other character that means as much to me as him. I love the colors and I use them in my art and art is about the only thing . . .” I stop before I confess to feeling like a failure at everything else.

  “That’s clever, Ally,” he tells me. “I actually like that you chose someone who isn’t a book character, exactly. You think out of the box.”

  I see a mind movie of me standing outside a huge glass box. Everyone else is inside it. Together.

  “Do you know what it means to think out of the box?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “It means that you are a creative thinker. You think differently than other people.”

  Great. Just once, I want to be told I’m like everyone else.

  “It’s a good thing to be an out-of-the-box thinker. People like that are world-changers.”

  Wait. His face doesn’t look like this is a bad thing. “Is that like setting the world on fire?” I ask, smiling a bit.

  “Exactly that.” He nods.

  Then he stares at me long enough for me to wonder what he’s thinking before sending me back to my seat.

  • • •

  The next day, when it’s time to tell the class who my character is, I begin by asking everyone what their favorite color is. It’s fun. I think this part of being a teacher would be cool. I’d rather eat crayons than do the rest of it, though.

  I take out a color wheel that I made at home. It’s white cardboard and I’ve broken it into seven pie-shaped pieces. I figured out that each angle has to be about 51 degrees to have seven equal pie pieces. I used Travis’s protractor to draw the lines exactly. Then I colored each piece with a different Roy G. Biv color and I made them really dark. “What color do you get if you mix all the colors together?” I ask. Most kids guess dark colors.

  “My favorite color is white,” I say, “because it is a mixture of all the colors.”