Picturing Alyssa
Page 8
Warren Stanley was holding very still. With his eyes closed, he said in his big, gentle voice, “Jesus taught us to love one another. In our silence we wait, listening for guidance about how we can carry God’s light in our own small, simple ways. We are challenged to live our faith, so that our lives may speak. If we follow the true leadings of the spirit, our lives will shine with love, honesty, and oneness with all others.”
A peaceful sigh went through the room. Suddenly it wasn’t so hard to sit. Alyssa looked at Warren Stanley, and thought about what he’d said. When meeting ended and everyone shook hands, a new idea zinged through her. Other people were talking to Warren Stanley, so she waited.
Warren Stanley noticed. “Do you have something to say, Alyssa?” he asked.
Her mouth was dry. “Can there be another peace march?”
He didn’t laugh. “I don’t decide those things, my friend,” he said. “If you’d like, I’ll find out if anything’s in the works. How does that sound?”
She nodded. When she looked at the other grownups, Dad smiled at her.
Rachel’s phone rang and rang. “Rachel,” Alyssa said to the answering machine. “It’s me, and it’s Sunday afternoon. Can you go to the library?” Dad and Mom weren’t nearby, so probably they wouldn’t hear. Why should they keep her from talking to her best friend? All she was phoning about was the school project.
Rachel didn’t call back. Ethan was playing a computer game, and turned grouchy when she kept asking to see if Rachel had sent any messages. Nothing came through, and after a while Ethan wouldn’t let her check anymore.
Dad was outside, digging in the garden. Last year Mom had done it. Dad’s face was wet with sweat when Alyssa went out to talk to him, but he didn’t look stressed. She could smell the fresh smell of the dirt. A robin perched on the fence. “Dad?” she said.
He turned around in a hurry. The robin scolded and flew away. Dad laughed a little. “You surprised me,” he said.
“Can I go to the library?” Alyssa nudged her toes into the turned-over earth. “I have to do some research for my project.”
Dad breathed out sharply. “Always that project,” he said. “I’m tempted to tell your teacher how much trouble that project’s been causing.”
“No!” Miserably, she looked up at him.
“Well?” he said. “You mention it at the strangest times — like four in the morning, when you should be in bed asleep. What would Mrs. Fraser say if I told her you used it as an excuse for your disappearance the other night? We were frantic. So was Lori Lowell.”
It was all turning out wrong. “I just want to get it done,” she mumbled. “It’s due next week.” A scared sizzle shot through her. She always turned things in on time. It was never like this — with the deadline almost here, and no idea what she was going to do. It would be wrong to lie about the Underground Railroad — but it was so tempting.
Dad’s blue eyes were looking right at her. He didn’t seem in a hurry to get back to digging.
Alyssa swallowed hard. “So — can I interview you? About what your ancestors contributed our way of life?”
Dad laughed and whacked the shovel into the dirt. “Sure,” he said. “If you want to talk about how to run a sewage treatment plant. You know that’s what Grandpa Dixon did before he retired, don’t you?”
Alyssa felt her mouth twitch. “Yeah. And that’s why you’re a college teacher instead.” If Mom were her usual self, she might actually think about it; it was a brave kind of topic. But right now it was too scary. Already she could imagine Brooklynne snickering, and the awful whispers. “What about Grandma?” she persisted.
Dad shook his head. “She was always busy taking care of the family. It’s sad; she never had much time for herself, and even now she doesn’t because of your grandpa’s bad back. Is that the kind of thing your teacher wants?”
“Not really.” Great-Grandpa Dixon had been a truck driver. There was nothing wrong with those kinds of jobs; it was just that they were so obvious. The report would have to be about Mom’s side of the family.
A robin sang in one of the trees; it sounded like sunshine coming out in little twists of music. Alyssa stretched. “So can I go to the library?” she asked.
Dad picked up the shovel. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “I’ll take you. How about helping me finish up here, first?”
How come? she almost asked. But Dad’s face was sweaty. Dirt was streaked across his forehead and his neck was sweaty. Usually Mom did the gardening. Dad didn’t seem grumpy about doing it. And in Iowa … Deborah and her brothers and sisters did so much work. How could she say no?
Alyssa got the extra garbage can for Dad, and several black garbage bags. Then she sat down and pulled the long white weed roots out of the dirt after Dad dug. Pink earthworms wriggled in the loosened clumps of soil. She touched one and smiled at its cool, slithery feel.
“So,” Dad said. “You’d like to go to another peace march?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s something kids can do.”
“That’s my girl, Lyssa.” It sounded like Dad was smiling.
When a big section of the garden was dug, they took Mom’s car to the library. Alyssa noticed little crumbs of dirt clinging to Dad’s shirt. There were wet circles under his arms. She checked her hands. She’d washed them, but the blue nail polish was scratched and worn. Wedged beneath her fingernails was dark, crusted dirt. She picked at it until only a tiny bit showed.
Dad was quiet as he drove. Alyssa noticed dirt under his fingernails too. When he stopped for the red light at Hartford Street, he turned to her. “Lyssa.” He sounded incredibly sad. “Why can’t you tell us about Friday night?”
She stiffened. “I told you over and over!”
“Are you worried something might happen?”
Alyssa leaned forward, stretching the seatbelt. “I told you. I went to Iowa. It was 1931, and Martha Clayton was going to have a baby pretty soon. She looked really sick. Mom never looked like that.”
A car with loud, thumping music caught up with them in the next lane. Dad sighed. “What, exactly, do you plan to do at the library?”
“What do you think? Look for books. And go on the computer, since Ethan’s hogging ours. All because of his stupid game.”
“Books on what? What will you look for on the computer?”
“Iowa, I guess. I don’t exactly want to research the history of sewers. Who wants to give a report on poop?” She knew she shouldn’t have said it, but it just came out.
Dad’s mouth tightened. “I’ll come in with you,” he said.
The library was busy. All of the computers were in use, so Alyssa signed up for the next available one. Dad sat down in the section with the newspapers. Alyssa noticed that wherever she went, he seemed to be watching her. Resentment flared through her as she wandered up and down the aisles. Didn’t Dad trust her?
There were only two books on Iowa in the children’s section. Alyssa took them off the shelf and sat at a table that was behind Dad’s back. Chatham was there, a tiny dot near Des Moines on one of the maps. Corn and soybeans … Hogs, cattle and sheep … The earliest explorers were French — that wouldn’t work for her report. Her ancestors wouldn’t have fought the Indians … She couldn’t find anything about the Underground Railroad. President Herbert Hoover came from Iowa … He was a Quaker! And he’d been president in 1931! Excited, Alyssa wrote down the names of his relatives. Maybe they’d be in the big family book! If they were, her report wouldn’t be so hard after all.
“Look at the brown-noser. Even on a Sunday — always sucking up to the teacher.”
Alyssa tensed. Not Brooklynne! She checked the clock and went straight to the computers. It was time for her turn — and the library would close before her half hour was finished.
“Excuse me,” she said to the teenager who was checking her messages. “I’m signed up for this computer.”
The girl didn’t even look up. “Just a sec,” she said vaguely.
“Um …” Alyssa tucked the books against her side. “Excuse me, but the library’s closing soon. My time was supposed to start five minutes ago.”
The girl scowled at her. “Chill out, will you? What’s a minute or two?”
Alyssa gulped in a frantic breath. What should she do? Get a librarian?
“Hey, Brandi.” Brooklynne sidled up to the computer. Her shiny blond hair jiggled on her shoulders as she shoved against the girl. “Scoot over. I need to send something.” She looked straight at Alyssa, flashing her braces in a fake smile. Her eyes gleamed like hard, polished stones.
Alyssa’s stomach froze. Brooklynne and the teenager looked like they might be sisters. Why had she bothered trying to stand up for herself? What was Brooklynne going to do?
Meanwhile the girl, Brandi, grimaced. “Just a minute!” she snapped.
Suddenly Dad was nearby, watching. So was one of the librarians. Go away! Alyssa thought hard at Dad, in his dirty work shirt … That was the last thing she wanted Brooklynne to see. Maybe the librarian would say something.
Brooklynne reached across her sister and grabbed the mouse. She opened a new message, keying in somebody’s address. Then she looked at the toolbar and changed the font.
ALYSSA STINKS. For a long, terrible instant, the words sat there on the screen in huge red letters. Then, with a click of the mouse, they vanished. The message was sent.
Alyssa squeezed her lips together, but that didn’t stop tears from spilling down her cheeks.
“You do, you know.” Brooklynne looked pointedly at Alyssa’s front.
She couldn’t help checking her shirt. There, on her stomach, was a smudge of dirt from the garden. She tried to hold her head up proudly. “I don’t need that stupid computer,” she said. But it came out choked with crying.
The librarian was saying something to Brooklynne. Alyssa turned away.
Dad’s arm came around her. “Let’s go home, Lyssa,” he said quietly.
They headed for the door. Then the alarm beeped because she hadn’t checked out the books. Sniffling, Alyssa dug in her purse for her library card. The librarian at the checkout said something to Dad, but Alyssa was too upset to pay attention.
Once they were outside, Dad’s arm settled around her again. “Who was that girl?” His voice was grim.
“Brooklynne Bayne.” It hurt to talk. “Only the mayor’s daughter. And the new TV anchorwoman’s.” Then her foot hit a concrete parking block. She pitched forward.
Behind her came the sound of mocking laughter.
Dad spun around. By the time Alyssa was on her feet again, he was halfway back to the building. But Brooklynne had vanished.
Chapter Twelve
Rachel didn’t come to school the next morning. A quivery feeling kept darting through Alyssa’s stomach as she sat at her desk. She didn’t dare look across the room, toward Brooklynne and Mackenzie. The message at the library was too awful! Who did Brooklynne send it to? Mackenzie? Or did she send it to a lot of people?
“Class,” Mrs. Fraser said, “we have a very important date next week.” Mrs. Fraser’s hair was cheerful and fluffy … not like Mom’s. When she wrote May 13 in neat yellow cursive letters on the chalkboard, everybody groaned. Mrs. Fraser turned around to face them. “I expect every one of you to give your very best effort to this project,” she said. “It’s the most important thing you will do in sixth grade. In addition to researching, displaying, and talking about information that may not always be easy to find, you have been developing long-range organizational skills.”
Alyssa doodled in her notebook as Mrs. Fraser’s voice droned on and on. “… Next year … seventh grade … junior high … genealogy project … very important part … grade for social studies …” Alyssa’s pencil stalled on a bird doodle as the smooth swish of chalk told her that Mrs. Fraser was writing on the board. “Geography … Language arts … Communication skills …” There were snappy tics as Mrs. Fraser dotted each i and crossed the ts. “… Citizenship … report card.” Alyssa’s face burned. Mrs. Fraser wasn’t being fair! The doodled bird grew a gigantic claw that reached into the middle of the page.
“As always,” Mrs. Fraser continued, “… top five projects … Kennedy School Citizen of the Year Award … something new. I want all of you — all of you, Seth … keep … research … find something … Internet … print it out. Mr. Bergman … class assembly based on your reports.”
The quivery feeling in Alyssa’s stomach turned into a cold, heavy rock. She looked up at the flag hanging in the corner, and at the picture of the president. The classroom lights glinted on the circle of foil stars around him.
“… Quite an honour … take our principal’s invitation seriously … when our freedom is so much at risk … proud … my students … set a good example for the younger children here at Kennedy School.”
The display of war medals sat on the wall like a cluster of Mrs. Frasers, each one staring right at her. Now the words on the bulletin board said AMERICA — HOME OF THE BRAVE. The wall by the door was covered with artwork of soldiers, guns, and flags. Some of the boys had drawn tanks and planes, and bombs exploding. Way off to the side where people wouldn’t notice them were two American eagles. One had her name in the lower right corner; the other had Rachel’s. Where was Rachel?
In Alyssa’s notebook, the doodle bird that had started out beautiful was now ugly.
“Tristan,” Mrs. Fraser said. “How is your project coming?”
“Um …” The boy fumbled through his papers. “Okay, I guess.”
“Good. Matthew?”
Would Mrs. Fraser go down the rows and ask everybody? Alyssa started writing fast, making things up and jotting down whatever came to mind.
“Alyssa.” She jumped. “How is your genealogy project coming? Have you decided on a topic yet?”
Alyssa’s heart pounded. “Yes,” she said. Her voice got stronger. “I’m writing about the Underground Railroad. Some of my ancestors helped with it.”
Mrs. Fraser actually smiled at her. “How interesting! We’ll look forward to hearing more.” Then, just as suddenly, her face froze into a tight mask. “Which Underground Railroad?” she asked. “You aren’t talking about the Vietnam War, by any chance, are you?”
Alyssa’s hands shook so badly that her pencil clattered onto the floor. “No.” A huge, trapped feeling surrounded her. Maybe this was what “dread” was like. She took a deep breath. “My ancestors helped slaves escape to Canada. Before the Civil War.”
With luck, maybe it would be true.
Rachel came to school the next day, but she was quieter than usual. Alyssa felt so keyed up about Brooklynne’s bullying and about her report that she didn’t think to ask why. Should she tell Rachel about lying about her family history? But she couldn’t seem to get Rachel alone to talk about it. Besides, Rachel had to leave school early; the music festival was on, and she was playing her clarinet in several competitions.
In desperation one afternoon, Alyssa spread all of her things out on the dining-room table. She flipped through the big blue book. Herbert Hoover wasn’t in it, so she couldn’t talk about the things he did when he was president. She found the Claytons’ page, with Deborah — who ended up marrying somebody named James Albert Newlin. Then she found pages about George’s parents, and about Martha’s parents, the Goodens. There wasn’t anything about Martha’s grandparents, but the book was full of Claytons. There were so many of them that it was impossible to figure everyone out. There were Claytons in Iowa, and Claytons in England. There were Claytons in Australia. Somebody she’d never heard of had been a missionary in Japan. There was a Clayton born in 1702. “Mom?” she called. “Can you help me?”
The only answer she heard was a thumping sound. Mom must be doing something in one of the closets. Alyssa picked up the heavy book and wandered around the house, looking. Mom wasn’t in th
e baby’s room. She wasn’t in Alyssa’s room, either. Alyssa hesitated at the doorway of her parents’ bedroom. Clothes were heaped on the bed. Boxes and suitcases were jumbled about. Alyssa’s heart skipped a beat. “Mom! What are you doing?”
Mom jumped. She was wearing a t-shirt and baggy jeans — in fact, they were Dad’s clothes. Her hair was dirty again. Her face had a frustrated, unhappy look. “Nothing fits.”
Alyssa didn’t know what to say. She dropped the genealogy book on the bed. It slid off and thudded onto the floor, along with Mom’s pretty tank top covered with pink roses and a pair of white shorts.
“What do you want?” Mom’s voice made it sound like Alyssa was just one more job she had to take care of.
Alyssa felt like stomping away — but only Mom could help her. “I need you to explain some things,” she said. “For my genealogy project.”
“What do you need to know?”
“This book!” Alyssa opened it to Deborah’s family’s page. “There’s too many Claytons! It says George Clayton was born near Chatham, Iowa, in 1895. But who were his parents? There’s two Edwin Claytons. And who are the ones that came from England?”
“Let’s check our entry,” Mom said. “This is so complicated.” She flipped through the pages. And there they were — Jennifer Sarah Hadley married to Gregory Thomas Dixon, with Ethan Gregory and Alyssa Claire.
Alyssa shivered, remembering the blank spot on Deborah’s page beside the baby Alice, who was born in 1931. Really, there should be a place for Charlotte too. Charlotte Jane Dixon.
Mom seemed to be thinking the same thing, for she sat down with the book in her lap and closed her eyes for a moment. “What are you going to write about?” she asked.