Claudia Kishi, Middle School Drop-Out

by Ann M. Martin

  The “decorations” consisted of a bunch of black and orange crepe-paper streamers, a few corn stalks, and a pile of pumpkins.

  “Yeah, sure, they’re great,” I muttered. Mal gave me a funny look. But before she could say anything, Mr. Peters (who was wearing an Einstein mask, with a funny white wig) announced that it was time for the pumpkin-carving contest.

  “Enter it, Claud,” said Jessi, giving me a little push. “You’ll win first prize for sure.”

  I stood stock still, resisting the pressure of her hand. “So?” I said.

  “So it’ll be cool,” said Mal. “We can show you off to all our friends. They’ll be so impressed when they find out what a great artist you are.”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “Who cares if a bunch of little brats are impressed by me?”

  Mal and Jessi just stood there with their mouths open, staring at me. I saw the hurt in their eyes, but it was too late to take back what I’d said. Anyway, I didn’t want to take it back. I meant it. The sixth- and seventh-graders were so immature.

  I turned and walked away from Mal and Jessi. As I left the cafeteria, Ron Belkis called after me. “Claudia, my fair maiden, wait up!” The visor on his knight costume kept falling down over his face as he ran after me.

  What a jerk. I ignored him and kept on walking. And I didn’t stop until I was home. Then I went to my room, shut the door, and did some serious sulking.

  Two hours later, when the BSC meeting started, I knew I’d been wrong to take out my feelings on Mal and Jessi. I apologized to them as soon as they arrived, and they seemed to accept my apology. But I knew Mal and Jessi didn’t really understand what I was going through. None of my friends possibly could. After all, they were right where they belonged. How could they know how awful it was to feel as if you didn’t fit in?

  The only place I’d felt at home recently was at Serena McKay’s art class, and now that was over. I’d attended the final session the night before. Our work was hung in the art gallery, ready for the show and judging on Saturday. I wasn’t even sure I was going to attend the show. I didn’t expect to win a prize. After all, I was only an eighth — I mean a seventh-grader. So why go? It would only make me feel more depressed.

  Art class was great, but it wasn’t real life. I had to face that fact.

  Anyway, at the beginning of our meeting, I passed out pretzels again, but again, nobody seemed to notice that the cuisine wasn’t up to my usual standards. Mal and Jessi were too busy reporting on how much fun the party had been, and the rest of the club members were gabbing about plans for the dance.

  “So, my mom said she’d drive us over, and Watson will pick us up,” Kristy told Abby. “Is Anna coming?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Abby. “She’s dressing as Hildegard von Bingen. That’s some famous woman composer. Nobody will have any idea who she is, but that doesn’t bother Anna.”

  “Sharon said she’d be glad to give us a ride,” Mary Anne told Stacey. She glanced in my direction and sighed. “I sure wish you were coming, Claudia,” she said.

  I felt tears come to my eyes, but I refused to let them drop. “I don’t,” I declared. “Who wants to put up with Alan Gray prancing around saying ‘Smmmokin!’ all night?” I didn’t mean to sound sour, but I guess I did. After that, none of my friends even made eye contact with me.

  Okay, I admit it. I sulked through the meeting. I was acting like a child, and I knew it, but I couldn’t seem to stop. I felt separated from my friends, but the truth was that I had been the one to do the separating. They didn’t care what grade I was in. And it wasn’t their fault I couldn’t go to the dance. They cared about me — or at least, they did until I started acting like the world’s biggest pill. Eventually I was going to have to snap out of it, but that day I just couldn’t find it in my heart to do it.

  If anything could pull me out of my doldrums, you’d think it would be trick-or-treating. After all, what’s more fun than being with a bunch of kids on the most kid-oriented holiday of the year? I mean, kids love holidays, but Halloween is something special. There’s the dressing up part of it, which would be fun on its own. But then you add in the fact that people are handing out candy right and left, and there you have it. Kid heaven. And Claudia heaven, too — you’d think. Dressing up + kids + candy = happiness, right? Well, not in this case. Somehow I managed to hold onto my lousy mood throughout the evening.

  Mal and Jessi and I had agreed to take a bunch of kids trick-or-treating, so we met at Mal’s house right after dinner. The Pike kids were already on hand, of course, and they were practically bouncing off the walls with excitement.

  Adam, Byron, and Jordan weren’t coming with us. They were going trick-or-treating with friends, instead. But they didn’t mind showing off their pirate costumes. Jordan nearly took off my head with his sword when I walked into the Pikes’ den, and Adam let out a yell of “Avast, ye landlubbers!” Jordan showed me his papier-mâché parrot, which looked excellent perched on his shoulder.

  Vanessa drifted in next, dressed in tie-dye, bells, bangles, and beads, and looking very hippie-ish. “Peace and love and happiness,” she said, flashing me the peace sign. “Halloween is the grooviest.”

  Nicky’s mummy costume was perfect, and Margo and Claire both looked awesome, too.

  Jessi arrived next, with Becca and Charlotte in tow. Charlotte was dressed as a doctor and looked just like her mom, and Becca was wearing one of Jessi’s old tutus. No sooner had the two of them arrived than the rest of the kids showed up.

  The youngest were Jenny Prezzioso and Jamie Newton, who are four years old. Both of them have baby sisters, so their parents were happy to have us take the older siblings trick-or-treating. Jamie was a robot, and Jenny was a black kitten. Then there were Laurel and Patsy Kuhn. Their older brother Jake had made plans to go trick-or-treating with Matt Braddock, so the girls came with us. Laurel, who’s six, was dressed as a fifties girl in a poodle skirt and saddle shoes. Her sister, who’s five, made an adorable fairy princess in a pink satin dress, her mother’s high heels, and a “diamond” tiara.

  The kids had a terrific time. We took them on a tour of two different neighborhoods, and they filled up their goodie sacks to the brim. (They told everyone about Hospital Buddies, and people were very generous with the treats.) Mal and Jessi (who were also wearing their costumes) collected some treats, too. They thought the night was terrific.

  Me? My mood didn’t lift. Oh, I chowed down a couple of chocolate bars the kids gave me, but for once candy didn’t make my outlook brighter. All I could think about was what a good time every eighth-grader at SMS was having that night while I was stuck with the little kids. It was the worst Halloween ever.

  My phone started ringing before I was even fully awake the next morning. The first call was from Stacey.

  “Claud? Boy, did I miss you last night!” she began. “The dance was okay, but it just wasn’t the same without you.” She chattered on, telling me about everyone’s costumes, about the decorations, about the refreshments. Every couple of sentences she mentioned again how much she’d missed me, or told me that somebody had asked about me.

  I knew she was trying to make me feel better, and I tried to be polite. But the fact was that she was only making me feel worse about missing the dance. It sounded like a pretty good one, and hearing about it made me feel even more left out.

  Finally, she asked if she’d see me later at the hospital party. I said yes, but I wasn’t so sure about that. I didn’t feel much like going to a party.

  As soon as Stacey said good-bye and hung up, the phone rang again.

  “Claud? It’s Mary Anne. I just wanted to tell you how much I missed you last night.” Mary Anne was using that understanding, sensitive voice of hers. “Logan said he missed you, too,” she went on. Then she told me about the dance.

  I listened, saying “Uh huh,” and “That sounds like fun,” in the right places, but the fact was that I couldn’t wait to finish our conversation and say good-bye.


  Finally, Mary Anne wound down. I hung up the phone, climbed out of bed, and started thinking about what to wear. Then the phone rang again. This time it was Abby.

  “Hey, Claudia!” she said. “Know what? You didn’t miss much. The dance was okay, but not great.” She went on talking about how much everybody had missed me, but I started to tune out. Obviously, my friends had decided I needed cheering up, and they’d all agreed to call me. Didn’t they think I’d see through their plan? They were treating me like a little kid. I hated the idea that everyone felt sorry for me.

  By the time Kristy called, I was fed up. I came close to being rude to her, but she didn’t seem to notice. She just went on and on about how lousy the decorations were without me on the committee, and how much everyone had missed seeing what costume I had come up with. Blah, blah, blah. I heard her voice, but I wasn’t really listening. Finally, she said she’d see me that afternoon at the hospital party. Then we said good-bye and I hung up my phone with a sigh. Hearing about the dance, I felt like the Poor Little Match Girl, standing on the cold and snowy sidewalk with her nose pressed against a window, looking into the bright warmth of the rich people’s house.

  I sat on my bed, still dressed in my pajamas, and thought about pulling the covers over my head and hiding from the world for the rest of the day. I certainly didn’t feel like going to the Halloween party at the hospital. I wasn’t even too thrilled about attending the opening of the art show. I suppose I should have invited my friends to the opening, but I hadn’t even mentioned it to them, and nobody had remembered to ask about it. Same with my parents and Janine, who were busy with errands and weekend activities. If I went to the opening, I’d have to go alone.

  It was tempting to think about going back to sleep — until I thought of Serena McKay. She had been so nice to me, and so supportive. After the show, I’d probably never see her again. It wasn’t right to stay away. I wanted to see her one last time and thank her for everything.

  I forced myself off the bed. I marched over to my closet and pulled out the first thing I put my hands on: a long black jumper with red embroidery around the neckline. I put that on over a white turtleneck, added a pair of dangly earrings with red glass beads, and twisted my hair into a casual knot. “Good enough,” I said, checking myself in the mirror. For once, I didn’t much care how I looked. All I was going to do was check out the show quickly, congratulate the prize winners, say thanks to Serena McKay, and head back home.

  Once the show was over, that was the end of art class. I’d have nothing to look forward to. Just months and months of being a seventh-grader. It was going to be a long, long year.

  I ate breakfast by myself, since Janine and my parents had already left the house. Then I threw on a jacket and headed to the college.

  On the way, I started to feel a tiny bit excited about seeing my work hung in a real art show. I’ve had my own art shows (the best one was the junk-food painting show, featuring portraits of Twinkies and Ring-Dings), but this was different. Lots of people who really knew something about art would be coming to this show, including the arts reporter from the Stoneybrook News.

  I felt even more excited when I arrived at the college and saw a big yellow banner with red letters. It was strung across the main entrance, and it advertised our show. People were streaming in. As I entered the building, I followed the crowd that was heading for the show.

  “Hey!” I heard someone call. I turned to see a man from my class, the one with the goatee. He was passing in the opposite direction, across the crowded hall. He gave me a smile and the thumbs-up sign, and I smiled back. The crowd pushed me along, so I didn’t stop to talk.

  As I entered the gallery, I looked around for Serena McKay. She was nowhere in sight, but I did spot some of the other students from my class. Everyone waved and smiled at me. “There she is!” I heard someone say, as they pointed in my direction. I turned around, expecting to see Serena behind me, but nobody was there.

  I decided to take one more look at all the artwork, even though I’d seen it just the other day. Somehow all the drawings and paintings looked different now, when the gallery was fully lit and thronged with people. They looked more official, more like pieces of art in a museum. I started with the paintings hung in the first small room of the gallery, figuring I’d work my way back to where my piece was hung, in the third room.

  As I was rounding a corner, I nearly bumped into Dr. Johanssen. “Why, hello, Claudia,” she greeted me with a smile.

  “Hi, Dr. Johanssen,” I said. It was nice to see her there. I hadn’t expected to see anyone I knew at the show.

  “Congratulations,” she said.

  “Thanks!” I answered, feeling like a real artist. I wasn’t sure what she was congratulating me for, exactly. Maybe that’s just what people say to you at openings.

  I went on gazing at the artwork in the second room. The room was full of people, all of whom were laughing, talking, and sipping cider from plastic champagne glasses. They moved from painting to painting, looking thoughtfully at each one. It was interesting to hear their comments.

  “I like the sense of space in this one,” said a man dressed in black to a woman dressed in white.

  She nodded. “It has an elegant, almost O’Keeffe-like sensibility,” she added, standing back to take a better look.

  I rolled my eyes. Just then, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Congratulations, Claudia,” said one of my classmates, the single mom.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Congratulations to you, too!”

  She gave me a funny smile and moved on, swept by the tide of people.

  I made my way through the second room and walked into the third. I spotted Serena McKay talking to a tall man who was trying to juggle a notebook, a pen, and a tape recorder. I figured he must be the arts reporter. I thought I’d avoid interrupting his interview with Serena, so I began to look at the paintings instead, intending to work my way through the room so that my piece was the last one I’d see.

  “There she is now,” I heard Serena say. “Claudia, Claudia!” she called my name over the hubbub in the room.

  I looked up and smiled, and she gestured to me to join her.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she said, as soon as I was standing next to her. She smiled and gave me a hug. Then she turned back to the reporter. “This is the young student I’ve been telling you about. Claudia Kishi. That’s K-I-S-H-I.”

  “Right,” he said, making some notes.

  I was amazed. Why was Serena McKay telling the reporter about me?

  “The judges had no idea that they’d awarded the first prize to my youngest student,” Serena said to the reporter. “They were shocked when I told them that Claudia is only in eighth grade.”

  “Seventh,” I said automatically. I was still trying to make sense of what she was saying. First prize? I couldn’t have heard correctly. I glanced across the room, trying to see my piece. As I looked, a tall man wearing a dark suit stepped aside, and I had a clear view.

  A view of my piece — with a blue ribbon fastened to the frame.

  I’d won first prize! I couldn’t believe it. How could the judges have thought my piece was better than all the rest? I was just a kid compared to the other students.

  “Claudia is incredibly talented,” Serena McKay was telling the reporter. “I predict she’ll be making a name for herself in the next few years.”

  He nodded and made some more notes. Then he thanked us both, told me that a photographer would be by soon to take my picture for the newspaper, and left.

  I was still in shock. Serena McKay just smiled at me. “How about that, Claudia?” she said. “You won. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  And that’s when I lost it. I began to cry.

  I was so embarrassed, but Serena McKay didn’t seem upset at all. She led me into a small janitor’s closet, sat me down on an overturned bucket, and made me tell her what was wrong.

  Everything spilled out. How it felt to have been sent back t
o seventh grade. How I missed my friends, and felt as if I’d never fit in with them again. How sad I was that art class was over.

  She listened, patting my back occasionally and handing me paper towels to blow my nose on. Then she told me something incredible.

  “I can relate to what you’re feeling, Claudia,” she said gently. “You know why? Because I was held back myself. Twice. I had to repeat sixth grade, and then I had to repeat ninth grade. I though I’d never finish school.”

  “But you’re so smart!” I cried.

  “So are you,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean we can do well in certain learning environments. Me, I have a learning disability. I still have a hard time reading. But with the encouragement of one excellent art teacher — Polly Thompson — I managed to make it through high school anyway, and I was even accepted at Rhode Island School of Design, one of the best art schools in the East. Now I have a good career teaching art. It took a lot of work and a lot of perseverance, but I made it. And so can you.”

  I was amazed. “Polly Thompson is one of my favorite artists,” I said. “Next to you, that is. That’s so cool that she helped you. And now you’re helping me in the same way.” I sniffed a little, and she handed me one more paper towel.

  “Let’s go on out there so you can enjoy all the attention a first prize winner deserves,” she said. “I have the feeling this is only the beginning of your long and fabulous career.”

  By the time I left the gallery, I was feeling terrific. It was as if my whole world had brightened. It wasn’t just winning first prize that did it, either. It was the talk I’d had with Serena McKay. She understood what I was going through. Not only that, she’d been through it herself, and I could see how well she’d turned out. She was an inspiration.

  She and I talked a lot, there in the janitor’s closet, and one of the things she said really hit home with me. She talked about having a support group — for her it was her family, plus one or two loyal friends — and about how important it was to feel that people cared about her.