by Sally Warner
Matteo Molina’s arm shot up. “What kind of art chores?” he asked when Ms. O’Hare called his name. He sounded a little suspicious. “Like cleaning out brushes and stuff?”
“No,” Ms. O’Hare said, shaking her head. “More like making posters and banners, and working on the special newspaper for Homecoming, complete with the famous insert of the football players, and so on. It’ll be mostly lettering, some cut-and-paste, and a little computer work, of course, but there should be some creativity involved. It’ll be fun,” she promised – sounding unconvinced herself.
But it did sound like fun, at least to Skye. It would be something to do after school, anyway.
“So, how many of you can I count on for, say, at least once a week? Or twice weekly, when we get closer to Homecoming?” Ms. O’Hare asked, clearly not expecting anyone to volunteer.
“Do we get extra credit?” a voice asked from the rear of the class.
“No,” Ms. O’Hare said, shaking her head. “Just my undying gratitude. And it might help preserve the real art class someday, if I can prove we’re actually useful to the school.”
“Well, I can’t do it, except for Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Jamila announced to the class. “Because of track.”
“And I have gymnastics Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” Matteo said.
“How about Tuesdays?” Ms. O’Hare said, an expression of hope mingled with surprise on her face. “And then maybe we can add Thursdays later on, if it becomes necessary. I should be able to get you all out of here by four thirty or so. May I see a show of hands, please?”
Skye slowly raised her hand, worrying a little about Maddy as she did so. It could prove to be a long walk home for her neighbor, if she had to go alone.
Amanda’s hand went up, too, as did Pip’s, Jamila’s, and Matteo’s.
“That’s five,” Ms. O’Hare said, sounding pleased. “Why, that’s excellent, people. Any questions?” she asked.
Kids sneaked glances at the clock – the bell was about to ring – and shook their heads.
“All right, then,” Ms. O’Hare said, looking greatly relieved. “Please report for duty tomorrow afternoon at three, and we’ll see what’s on the agenda.”
“Ms. O’Hare?” Skye asked after most of the art kids had bolted from class. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Skye,” Ms. O’Hare said, looking up from stuffing her notebook into what looked like a gingham-lined feedbag. “What’s up? Terrific map, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Skye said, blushing a little. “Um, I was just wondering if a girl who doesn’t take art could be in art activities on Tuesday afternoons, too. Until I go back home to Albuquerque, that is,” she added. “See, this girl–Maddy – lives on my grandmother’s street, and we always walk home together.”
“Until you go back home to Albuquerque?” Ms. O’Hare asked, instantly focusing on the wrong thing, in Skye’s opinion. “But you’re living here now, aren’t you?”
“Not really,” Skye said. “I mean, I’m here,” she tried to explain, her eyes on the floor, “but I’m not really here, if you know what I mean. It’s only temporary. Just until my big brother gets better.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘only temporary,’ Skye,” Ms. O’Hare said quietly. “Unless you consider everything to be temporary, I suppose. Each moment in life is important, you know.”
Oh, great, Skye thought. Just what she needed, a philosopher. “Excuse me, but I’m going to be late to my next class,” she said, wishing she had never asked Ms. O’Hare about Maddy.
“Sorry,” Ms. O’Hare said, scrabbling in the feedbag once more. “I’ll write you a note. And of course your friend can join us after school. The more the merrier!”
Skye wanted to tell Ms. O’Hare that Maddy wasn’t an official friend, not one that she’d chosen for herself, and that she wasn’t especially artistic – or merry, for that matter. But she decided to keep her mouth shut.
“Thanks, Ms. O’Hare,” was all she said.
10
Dear Scott
HI SKYE. U R MY KEBORDING 2-DAY. JT QUIT HE MOVED TO WAKKO TXAS. MOM IS ALL SAD + DAD BUT ME THE MOST B-CUS JT WAS MY ONLY FREND SINCE JERMY. IT USTO BE DIFRENT NOW IT SUX. FROM SCOTT
Dear Scott, I’m sorry JT had to quit, but Mom will hire someone else to help out.
(By the way, I used to be your friend, a long time ago. And things used to be different for me, too, in case you forgot!!! And you don’t have to keep saying I’m your keyboarding assignment. I know that’s the only reason you write me.) Skye Dear Scott, I’m sorry I was so mean in my e-mail yesterday. Some of the girls at Amelia Ear hart are kind of snotty, especially Taylor Shusterman, who says I should try buying vintage, if I can’t afford nice new clothes! You got me on a bad day. (Kids here think Sierra Madre is the center of the universe. Taylor even thinks New Mexico is not part of the USA and that Spanish is my native language. How dumb can you get?) From your sister, who is not a foreigner, Skye
HI SKYE, THATS OK. U R PRETY WERD HAHA. TALOR IS A DUM NAME 4 A GIRL. IT IS COLD HERE, LAST YR I WAS PLANG FOTBALL. THIS YR I AM TRING TO WAK + NOT FALL OFER. FROM SCOTT
“How’s Scott doing?” Gran asked Skye at dinner that night: turkey meat loaf with regular ketchup, for which Skye had had to negotiate in the supermarket aisle, steamed peas, spinach salad, and a whole-wheat roll. “Is his writing any better?”
“Well,” Skye said, after pausing to take a sip of milk, “it was never all that great, even before the accident. But I guess he’s improving,” she added. “At first, it took him so much time to type out a word that he usually forgot what it was.”
Tears filled Gran’s eyes, and Skye looked away, because grown-ups showing emotion was a thing she did not like to see.
“I’m so glad he has someone to write to, Skye,” Gran said. “Someone who really cares about him.”
“Writing to me is just part of his rehab,” Skye objected quietly, poking through her salad with barely disguised suspicion – because she now knew that Gran liked to sneak extra nutrition into her dishes when least expected: tofu cubes, tempeh strips, nuts and seeds. She found these things tucked into her sandwiches and folded into omelets, as well as sprinkled onto her salads.
It was like being an unwilling member of some cult, Skye thought, longing suddenly for her mom’s slapdash attempts at cooking: pre-cut cheese squares melted onto English muffins for dinner, or tortilla-wrapped hot dogs, or bright orange macaroni and cheese from a box.
And then there were last summer’s salty, greasy takeout meals: sweet-and-sour everything, from that one Chinese restaurant that delivered; the family-sized buckets of spaghetti with meat sauce from their favorite Italian restaurant, complete with garlic bread, of course; and anything drive-through.
“And you really care about Maddy, too,” Gran was saying thoughtfully. “That was so nice of you to include her in your art activities group, Skye. Maddy’s mother says she’s really blooming.”
“You don’t have to say that,” Skye mumbled, because she didn’t like talking about her friends behind their backs. Well, her almost-friend. “Maddy’s doing great in art activities. Ms. O’Hare says she doesn’t know what she’d do without her, because everyone else is such a diva.”
“Is there something the matter with your salad?” Gran asked suddenly.
“Uh, no,” Skye replied. “Not really.”
“‘Not really’ isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, Skye,” Gran said.
“I’m sorry, Gran,” Skye said, loading up her fork with spinach. “It’s just that my mom makes salad differently, and I guess that’s kind of what I’m used to.”
Gran thought about this. “Well,” she finally said, “what about if you plan the menu for tomorrow night? What sounds good? You name it.”
Skye grinned at her. “How about beanie-weenies, and iceberg lettuce salad with orange bottled dressing?” she answered, thinking of home. “And a butterscotch pudding cup with whipped topping for dessert
?”
A shocked silence seemed to hover over the dining-room table. “I hope you’re joking,” Gran finally said, barely squeezing out the words.
“Not really,” Skye said softly. “But never mind. It’s okay.”
“I – I could try making the beanie-weenies, if you tell me how,” Gran said, sounding brave. “And you can pour ketchup all over it,” she added.
Skye managed a laugh. “Thanks, Gran,” she said. “But the way you cook is okay. I’m getting used to it, in fact.”
Dear Scott, Hi! Guess what? I think Gran has a boyfriend! She had a date last night, and I had to go over to Maddy’s house.
Maddy is this girl who lives across the street. She comes to art activities with me. She has a syndrome of some kind, but it doesn’t seem to bother her much.
School is going okay. The meanest kids in school are on the football team. They pretty much leave us art kids alone, except when they feel like picking on someone, usually Pip. The bad ballerinas pick on Amanda and me, but so far it’s not too bad. From Art Jerk Skye
HI ART JRK HAHA! THAT IS A MESSD UP NAME. AND NO WAY GRAN HAS A BFRND. SHE IS 2 OLD. I WNT 2 THE MALL WITH MOM AND I SAW STACIE BUT SHE PRETND SHE DOESNT SEE ME, THAT SUX RELLY BAD. I PRETND IM BUSY LOKING AT STUFF IN A STOR SO MOM WILL BE OK WITH IT. (DON’T GET MAD, U R MY KEYBRDNG TODAY BUT ID WRITE U ANYWAY) LOVE SCOTT
Dear Scott, I am really sorry about Stacie at the mall. I think you were a lot braver than Stacie, because you were thinking about Mom, and Stacie wasn’t thinking about anyone except herself. Love, Skye
11
Sticky
As usual, Skye opened her locker with caution. It was two weeks before Halloween, and the tall narrow space was a mess, crammed full of textbooks, forgotten take-home announcements, stray assignments, a sweatshirt, and a couple of battered lip-gloss wands, among other things. But today, on top of her second-best hairbrush, was a folded piece of paper.
Skye hunched against her half-opened locker for privacy and unfolded the paper with fingers that had suddenly turned cold. Was this hate mail from one of the bad ballerinas, or just a note from Amanda?
But instead of being either, it was a really cool drawing–unsigned. It looked like a long, scary head with hollow eyes and a single listening ear, and it had ropy cords twining all around it. The head’s gaping mouth looked as if it was trying to say something.
It was a boy’s drawing for sure, in Skye’s opinion, but who had done it? Pip? Matteo? And why had whoever-it-was sneaked it into her locker?
Skye smoothed the drawing flat and slipped it into her school notebook.
“Urk! What are you eating?” Melissa Del Vecchio – one of the bad ballerinas – asked Amanda a couple of hours later, wrinkling her nose as she stalked by the art kids’ cafeteria table. Skye looked down, her finger tracing cloudy circles on the beige laminated tabletop. She’d been thinking about the mystery drawing.
“It’s called a peanut butter sandwich, Melissa,” Amanda said in her squeaky voice, but with exaggerated patience. “Can you say ‘sand-wich’?”
“No, I can’t,” Melissa replied, swinging her hair over her shoulder. “But I can say ‘gross.’ Do you know how many carbohydrates there are in that thing? And fat?”
“Nope, and neither do you,” Amanda said, taking a defiant bite of her sticky sandwich – which effectively ended her part of the conversation.
“Well,” Melissa said loudly, “it’s not exactly like you need extra carbohydrates and fat, Amanda. Just look at you.”
Amanda kept chewing, but Skye could tell she was embarrassed.
Pip cleared his throat. “Hey, Del Vecchio, do you know how much sugar is in that yogurt you’re carrying around?”
“It’s fat-free, stupid,” Melissa said, cradling the little container to her chest as if protecting it from Pip’s sarcasm. Aaron Petterson and Taylor Shusterman – the other bad ballerina – came up behind her, curious to see what was happening, with Danko, Cord, and Kee slouching close behind. Kee looked apprehensive, which made Skye like him a little bit more.
“Yeah, but how much sugar?” Pip asked, not backing down.
Aaron started prancing around, flapping his hands. “How much sugar? How much sugar?” he said, doing his version of a sissy voice, and a bunch of kids sitting nearby started laughing.
“Everyone knows yogurt is good for you, Philip,” Taylor said with a sniff, coming to Melissa’s defense. She tugged at her pink top, which was cropped as high as the belly-button police at Amelia Ear hart would allow.
“Pipsqueak. Pansy,” Aaron said to Pip – again. It was kind of like his refrain.
“He is not a pansy,” Amanda peeped in her helium voice, having finally swallowed her bite of sandwich. “And anyway, it’s really bad to call people names like that. It’s prob’ly even against the law. It’s like a hate crime, practically!”
“Oh,” Aaron said, looking mean and happy at the same time. “The pipsqueak pansy’s fat little friend is sticking up for him! And what makes you the expert about whether or not Pip is a – ?” Aaron mouthed the insult and waggled his hands in the air again.
“Shut up,” Amanda and Pip said in unison.
“And Amanda’s not fat,” Skye heard herself say. Maddy nudged her ribs.
“C’mon,” Danko said to Aaron, bored. “Let’s book. Who cares who’s gay?”
“I’m not gay!” Pip shouted, and for some reason, his voice rang out loud and clear above the surrounding din as if he were making an announcement over the intercom. Nearly every head turned, and kids pointed and laughed.
Aaron smirked. “Now we can book,” he announced happily.
“I’m ruined,” Pip muttered twenty minutes later in art class as they worked on their self-portraits. “Everyone heard me say it. I hate those guys!”
“I didn’t hear,” Matteo whispered, trying to make him feel better. “I was eating outside. I heard about it later, though,” he confessed. “I said, ‘Dude, no way.’”
“Thanks, I guess,” Pip told him. His freckles seemed to be standing out more than usual on his face, which was pale, Skye noticed.
“Well, he called me fat,” Amanda said, “but I don’t care. I’m not ruined. I hate him, too, though.”
“Excuse me, people,” Ms. O’Hare called out, looking up from the art book she was studying. “But I don’t think self-portraits call for a whole lot of chitchat. I’ll be coming around in five minutes for individual critiques, so please get to work.”
Skye bent over her assignment – which was a lot more interesting than what they’d been doing in art activities lately. In art activities, they’d been toiling away on posters for the food drive, and on a banner for November’s Homecoming game, and on posters for the dance, which was called “The Turkey Trot,” for some crazy reason, and on the special Homecoming newspaper, which promised to be dull beyond belief.
“Guess what?” Amanda whispered. “My mom says I can give a costume party the Saturday before Halloween, and all the art activity kids can come. Maddy, too, if she wants,” she told Skye. “But don’t tell anyone else about the party, you guys,” she added as Ms. O’Hare came gliding toward their table. It’s just gonna be us art jerks, that’s all. But it’ll be fun!”
Dear Scott, Things are okay at school, but the 8th grade kids I told you about have gotten worse. They keep picking on us art jerks for no reason. (Well, not on me, exactly, but mostly Aaron picks on Pip, who he calls gay and queer.)
I never know what to do when someone is mean to someone else. I mean, if I say something, will the mean person be mean to me next? And if I don’t say anything, doesn’t that make me mean, too? (You used to be kind of mean to me. Remember the sleepover party you wrecked? And that time at the restaurant?? And, and, and???)
Here is a mystery: a secret drawing got slipped into my locker! Oh, and Gran had another date. How totally embarrassing! Love, Skye
HI SKYE. I DONT REMBER BEING MEAN 2 YOU, JUST MOM + DAD. WELL A COUPLE TIMES 2 YOU MA
BE. SORRY. I DONT KNOW WHY I ACT THE WAY I DID, I CANT REMBER. BUT I REMBER BENG NORMAL 4 SOME RESON I WISH I DIDNT. ON HALLWEEN ME AND MOM GO 2 THE MOVIES 4 A TRET. NOW THAT IS PATHTIC. DAD STAY HOME ANSER THE DOOR SO I DONT SCARE ANY KIDS HAHA. IF I WAS IN CALFORNA THEY LEAVE PIP ALONE 4 GOOD. THIS ONE GUY AT MY SCHOL 2 YRS AGO KEEPS CALLING GUYS GAY AND IT TURNS OUT HE WAS THE ONE!!! HE CAME OUT LATER HE WAS NICE AFTR THAT, EVEN COOL. SAY HI 2 GRAN, MABE SHE TAKES YOU ON HER DATE!!!! NOW THATS SCARY. LOVE, SCOTT
12
Remembering
“Do you remember that Thanksgiving, the time I visited you in Albuquerque?” Gran asked the next Saturday afternoon, steam from her tea misting her glasses as she and Skye watched an old movie on TV. “You were what, eight years old? Nine?”
Skye didn’t really remember much about the visit–except for some weird dinners when Gran tried to “help out” in the kitchen, almost driving Skye’s mom nuts in the process. “Mmm-hmm,” she said, listening to the rain. “That was the year Scott threw the bowl of cranberry sauce on the floor because it wasn’t from a can.”
Gran winced a little, newly remembering. “Scotty always was a handful, wasn’t he?” she acknowledged reluctantly. “I still have pictures of that trip somewhere,” she added, looking around, as if they might be tucked away under a nearby sofa cushion. And then she sighed – probably thinking about Scott now, Skye thought. “I remember when you were born, Skye,” Gran said softly. “I was teasing Scotty over the phone, asking if you were a boy or a girl, and he said, ‘It’s just a baby, Gran. And I’m gonna help take care of it.’ Fierce as could be. And from that moment on, he was always looking out for you.”