We hiked along a poorly marked, overgrown trail, jumping over logs and wading through wet patches until we stepped into a clearing, I now felt the same way I had when I’d seen the spirit bear: As though I’d just stumbled into a dream. A grand piano and a bench, covered with trailing ivy, were just sitting there as though someone had prepared a concert for the forest dwellers.
“What …?” I began.
“Olivia Wendelson’s husband couldn’t bear the thought of visiting his wife in the cemetery, but he wanted to preserve her memory somewhere. So he bought this plot of land and put her piano out here. For a few years, people came to visit it all the time; but now it’s all but forgotten, I think. At least I’d forgotten about it until today.”
“Does it still play?” I asked.
“It probably doesn’t sound very good, but I do think it still plays,” she said. “Try it.”
I circled the piano feeling quiet and a little shy, but I really, really wanted to play it. Finally, I sat on the bench and ran my fingers over the keys. My reflection stared back at me wide-eyed and full of wonder from the shiny black surface. How it could still be shiny after all this time, I had no idea. I smiled. I’d found my reflection picture for Frankie.
I’d memorized only three songs during my piano lesson days, but as I looked at the piano with the sun streaming down on the ivy, I knew what song to play.
“You Are My Sunshine” came out warbled and out of tune, but the notes ran together in an oddly magical way, filling the clearing and slipping under my skin.
Vivian stood with her eyes closed until I finished. “It will be perfect for the center of my exhibit. Not a tree — but a piano. And inside the ivy that’s crawling all over the piano, treasured memories will be tucked away.”
“Can I help?” I asked.
“You need to work on your set pieces for the play. But you can stay over tonight and help me — if your dad says it’s okay.”
I called Dad on the drive back, and he agreed to let me stay over. The rest of the evening was a flurry of work. We managed to build the piano with chicken wire and stretched fabric, and we also created wire ivy vines and some fabric leaves. We hadn’t eaten by eleven o’clock, so Vivian called to order takeout.
“Would it be okay if I went back to New York with you? For the exhibit?” I asked.
“Isn’t that the same night as your play?” she asked.
“Yeah, but … I’m not really sure I want to … I don’t know.”
“If you want to come with me, you’re welcome to. But consider staying for the show. You’ve worked so hard, and seeing it all come together would be really special.”
I took a bite of pizza that was still so hot the cheese stretched out in long threads. “I can work on the leaves this week, if you want me to. And maybe I can get some people to help at rehearsals, during downtime. ‘Cause you’ll need a lot of leaves — for the trees and the ivy on the piano.”
“Only if you have time,” Vivian said. “Actually, let’s make a pact.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Let’s both promise not to bury ourselves in work to try to avoid our feelings — like we did before.”
“Yeah, so we’re making a pact not to work?” I asked.
“We’re making a pact to be artists. By now you know the difference between working and creating. I do too, but I’ve been so busy working that I haven’t allowed myself to create.”
“I haven’t been able to draw in my sketchbook either,” I said. “It just feels … empty.”
“That’s what I mean. How have you felt tonight?” she asked.
I hadn’t been thinking about how I felt, actually, which was the opposite of what I’d been doing for the past few weeks. Until tonight, all I’d done was think about how miserable I was.
“I want to draw.” I took my last bite of pizza and threw away my paper plate and napkin.
Vivian had bought an inexpensive bed, but she still had the air mattress we’d brought out for her. So she set it up in the living room.
“You’re sure you don’t want to sleep in the bedroom?” she asked.
“No, this is perfect.”
Vivian set my two canvases side by side, the waves and the swinging girl. I piled up the pillows so I could lean against them and draw, facing the canvases. I turned to an empty page in my sketchbook.
I divided the page into eight squares and started sketching. First, I drew the box at the bottom of the ocean and a dolphin swimming by. Then I drew the key. In the next box, I drew the key being tossed on the waves. Then, the key was up in the air being carried by the wind. The key soared over trees, through clouds, past the nose of a spirit bear, and came to rest on top of a forgotten piano.
I looked back at the drawing of the locked box. I still wasn’t ready to open it yet, but tomorrow I’d tell Vivian that I’d accept her pact. I would try my best to be an artist. Because even when I didn’t have any answers — even when I felt confused and frustrated and lost — drawing helped me to see new possibilities.
I closed my sketchbook and went to look out the window.
I’m here.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Chapter 27
Ruth’s Song
The next day at rehearsal, I dipped my brush into the gold paint and began tracing my pencil lines. The metallic swirls stood out against the vivid green of the box, the perfect compliment. Everyone else was busy running through the show, so I could lose myself in the painting.
Across the field, Cameron and the band started playing Ruth and Annabelle’s song. I knew the music, but I hadn’t actually seen their dance. Was I being selfish? It was like Ruth and I were on opposite sides of a brick wall; each of us pushed, but neither of us seemed able to knock down the barrier. No matter how much we shouted to one another about how things looked from our own side of the wall, neither of us could see the other side.
The music stopped abruptly, mid-song. They’d start again, probably, once they’d worked out some detail or another. I stifled a groan. I couldn’t avoid it. Maybe I couldn’t see things from Ruth’s perspective, but as long as I sat around nursing a grudge and refusing to be there for her since she hadn’t been there for me, I was making things worse between us. I’d made a pact with Vivian not to work harder, but to create. I couldn’t create as long as I held on to all of this anger.
I rinsed my brush in the water bucket and left it there to soak. The music started up again when I was halfway across the field. As I got closer, through the trees I saw a skirt twirl here and a hand extend there. Once I’d passed into the clearing, I stopped to watch. Ruth had taken on some of Annabelle’s glow. Her arms moved in graceful arcs as she leapt and spun. The dance was a call-and-response. Ruth danced, and then Annabelle responded with movement of her own.
Annabelle hadn’t taken out any of the turns in this dance. Clearly, Ruth knew some secret to turning, or else Annabelle had taught her well, because at the end of the dance, they went into a sequence where Ruth spun in looping circles around Annabelle, faster and faster until I felt dizzy just watching her. When they finally stopped, they each held up an arm and looked straight up, mirror images of one another. Then, surrounded by a cloud of fog and through a well-placed trapdoor in the bottom of the platform we’d built for this scene, Ruth disappeared.
She came out from under the platform to watch the rest of the scene — something she wouldn’t be able to do during the actual show. No one expected her to stay curled up in the dark during rehearsal, though. The minute she saw me standing there, she stopped and looked confused. I smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, nodding toward where she’d danced just moments before. She came over to me, her expression still tentative.
“I thought you were painting.”
“I heard your music and decided to take a break. Amazing, by the way.”
She looked at me then, hope and worry mixed on her face. “Do you really think so? I got a few of the steps wrong …”
“No one would have known, Ruth. I had no idea you could dance like that.”
“Annabelle’s a really good teacher—” Ruth stopped as though she’d said something wrong.
Ruth and I were never careful around one another. This wasn’t what we did. We told each other what we thought; we argued stuff out. We didn’t do this careful, polite thing. I smiled at her, but I didn’t force the sadness out of it.
“And you’re a really good dancer. I’m sorry it took me so long to come see you.”
Now it was Ruth’s turn to smile sadly. We both knew what she was about to say, and I stopped her before she said it.
“It’s not okay, Ruth. Not really.”
“Shhh!” Claudia hissed at us, which brought real smiles to our faces.
“I’d better get back to painting,” I told her.
“I’ll come help after rehearsal sometime, if you want me to. Or I can just keep you company or whatever. We both know I’m not the best artist in the world.”
“Good thing, too. I’ve got to save one talent for myself if you’re going to be the dancing-singing-acting queen.”
“Shhh!” Claudia hissed again, even though we were whispering now.
Ruth and I did identical eye rolls and then grinned at each other.
“See ya.”
“See ya.”
My grin lasted all the way back to the music box.
After rehearsal, Ruth, Bea, and Lindsay stopped by the set-design station.
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Ruth asked. “My mom’s waiting for me with the twins now, but I can help after rehearsal on Saturday, if you want. I’ll bring paint clothes.”
Bea and Lindsay watched me with tentative smiles, like they expected me to start shouting any minute. “Actually, if any of you would like to help Vivian, she needs some help more than I do.”
“With what?” Bea asked.
“She’s making a piano covered with ivy for her exhibit, and a bunch of trees. So she needs a bajillion leaves made of fabric. I’ve been cutting some out, but if you wanted to take some fabric and patterns—”
“Fun!” Bea lost her worried expression and clapped her hands. “We’d be helping with a real New York City art exhibit!”
As I wiped off my hands and passed out fabric to the girls, I noticed Andrew watching me while he walked across the field with Cameron. He looked away as soon as he caught my eye, but not before a half-smile crossed his face.
Bea and Lindsay left with their armfuls of fabric, but Ruth hung back. “I heard your mom came home, Sadie. How is she?”
I almost shrugged, but stopped myself. “Not so good.”
“I’m sorry,” Ruth said. “I’ve been so busy thinking about the play and Annabelle that … well, I’m sorry.”
A car honked.
“You’d better run,” I nodded toward the parking lot, “so your mom says yes about helping on Saturday.”
“Right.” Ruth gathered up her things and jogged off.
I should feel better now that Ruth and I were talking again. And while I still didn’t know what was going on between Andrew and me, that didn’t feel like the real issue — the numbness that wasn’t going away. Any minute now, the floor could drop out from under me, and I’d turn into “crazy Sadie” all over again.
“Need help with those brushes, Sadie?” Penny asked, walking past me on her way back to the office.
I remembered her promise that I was going to be okay, and I wanted to ask her to stay, to tell me how she could be so sure that was true. But I thought I knew what she’d say. Just like the dancing girl in the bakery in our play, I’d have to find my own song, my own dance. And maybe it was enough to know that people like Penny believed I could. One day.
“I’ve got it. But thanks!” I said and then hurried to finish because Dad would be waiting for me.
And Mom. But I’d worry about her later.
From: Sadie Douglas
To: Frankie Paulson
Date: Thursday, April 26, 8:41 PM
Subject: A Concert for Forest Dwellers
I gave the pocket watch to Vivian, and it reminded her of the piano in these pictures I’ve attached. It’s a real piano sitting out in the woods — and it still plays. Can you believe it? So Vivian made a piano just like it (but out of fabric and chicken wire, of course) to be the center of her art show, with treasures tucked into the ivy.
Vivian and I talked about my coming to the show with her, and Dad says I can. So it looks like I’ll be back in New York very soon! Send me some more drawings.
From: Sadie Douglas
To: Pippa Reynolds
Date: Thursday, April 26, 8:53 PM
Subject: RE: WHERE ARE YOU????
Sorry, sorry, sorry, Pips. I miss you too.
I found out why everyone was protecting Annabelle. She starved herself last summer, but I have no idea why. So now everyone is all worried that she’s not eating again. At first I was really upset because it seemed like Andrew and Ruth and everyone else were blaming me for it. But I had an okay conversation with Ruth today. And I don’t know what to think about Andrew. I can’t figure out why someone as perfect as Annabelle, who has everything she could possibly want, wouldn’t eat. What’s that about?
Mom is home now and still really sick; but mostly she’s unhappy, I think. She just stares out the window or lies in bed. I can’t feel anything about her at all, Pips. Not sad or mad or frustrated or anything. It scares me.
Send me some good news about you.
Chapter 28
Elements
Ruth smiled at me as I slipped in, almost late, to class. I took out my notebook and pencil as quietly as I could, as Ms. Barton started talking.
“On Monday, I asked you to write a poem, but I didn’t give you much guidance — just to see what you’d do. Well, your poems ranged from humorous to practical to deep and meaningful.”
“The meaningful one was my ode to pepperoni pizza,” Mario called out.
“I put yours in the humorous pile, actually.” Ms. Barton smiled. “Here’s my point: Poems can be any of those things — silly, serious, you name it. So we’re going to spend some time working on poems from prompts. You can take them in whatever direction you’d like.”
“What about —” Mario began.
“As long as you keep it appropriate for school,” Ms. Barton interrupted.
My mind was filled with thoughts about Mom, but I couldn’t write a poem about her — not when I had no idea how I felt.
“I’d like you to choose a natural element to compare yourself to. It could be a force of nature or something you find outside. Use descriptive language and poetic form to show why you and this element are alike.”
“I don’t get it,” Abby said.
Erin leaned over to whisper an explanation, but Ms. Barton interrupted. “Thank you, Erin, for your help. But maybe we could all use an example? I’ll read you a poem that I love.”
She flipped open a worn, leather book and turned to a page she’d marked. The poem she read was about how the poet felt like an ink pot — sometimes so dried up that the words just wouldn’t come. Other times he overflowed with so many words that he couldn’t write them down fast enough.
“Now, an ink pot isn’t a natural object,” Ms. Barton said, closing the book. “But notice how the poet uses adjectives and draws out the metaphor? That’s what I want you to do.”
I closed my eyes, but no images came to mind. Ms. Barton circled the room. She’d probably think I was fooling around if she found me drawing, but I wasn’t sure how else to come up with an image. I didn’t want a repeat of the crumpled poem from Monday. Ms. Barton seemed to be in a relatively good mood this morning, so I might as well give drawing a try.
As soon as my pencil touched the page, ideas started to flow. I sketched quickly, giving myself plenty of options. A tree wasn’t right. Not a flower either, or a river, a waterfall, a volcano.
Ms. Barton stopped at my desk. “How are those ideas coming t
oday, Sadie?”
“I think I’m getting closer.”
She smiled. “Great. Good work.”
Maybe it only bothered her when I drew during math. Fair enough, since my drawings had absolutely nothing to do with math, and we both knew I was only avoiding the tangle of numbers. As I relaxed into my drawing, I found myself sketching a key tumbling in the wind.
And then I knew what to write my poem about.
It came out in a flurry of words — so fast that I didn’t feel like I was thinking. I was catching the words as they poured through me, the same way my pictures sometimes did when I drew at night.
What if the wind
could choose
whether
to bluster or breeze
to swirl or storm
to lilt or lie still
But the wind cannot choose
Instead, the sun
The moon
The angle of the earth
Combine
Outside pressures
The wind cannot control
Like me
The wind wakes up
Only to discover
What others have planned
Still, maybe she chooses
Sometimes.
When the bell rang, I waited until everyone had turned in their poems before I walked up to Ms. Barton’s desk with mine.
As I handed her my poem, I said, “I’m sorry about the other day. I wasn’t feeling very ‘poem-y.’”
Ms. Barton smiled and tapped her fingers on the stack of poems on her desk. “I thought that might be the case. May I read this now?”
When I nodded, she looked down at my poem. Her lips moved as she read down the page.
“You know what?” Ms. Barton said, finally looking up. “I really hope she does get to choose some of the time.”
I nodded again, feeling the heaviness lift a little more. All of these tiny choices — writing the poem instead of blowing it off, watching Ruth dance instead of pretending to be too busy with my sets — might not change anything around me, but they changed me. And maybe that was enough.
“Nice work today, Sadie,” Ms. Barton said.
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