by Erin Dionne
“And the song plays, and the wife launches herself at the husband, and—”
And it’s like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on my head—and I know what that feels like, because I took that ice bucket challenge when it was a thing and recorded a ton of kids in Nev’s Have A Heart Club doing it.
There’s an initial shock, and then my whole body, down to my toes, is zapped by ice-lightning.
I am not supposed to be at the library.
I am supposed to be with Nev and Max.
<< PAUSE >>
Okay, let’s discuss this: You think I am a total flake.
I get it. I’d think that, too, if I weren’t me.
But I can’t really explain how crazy easy it is for me to get swept up in stuff, how the only thing that I can focus on is what’s right in front of me.
Seriously.
And it’s not like the conversation at lunch went well!
So don’t be too mad at me, okay? Cut me some slack.
<< RESUME PLAY >>
“They are going to be so mad.” I take a deep breath, or try to. It gets stuck in my throat and I cough. I didn’t even get as much done at the library as I wanted to—all of their copies of The Giver were checked out, and I forgot to bring mine from home. I did fix my vocab tests, though.
“Calm down, honey. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
I want to believe my mom, but I know that they are going to be annoyed. They’re already annoyed that we can’t show the movie at the Hoot. I’m sure, if I’d had my phone with me, they would have reminded me. They’d probably been texting all day, but the phone was still attached to the charger, somewhere in my room.
“Do you want me to drop you off at Nev’s father’s house?” Mom asks as we turn down our street.
I gulp, then nod. Probably best to get it over with—if they are even still there. I had no idea if the plan was to get together morning or afternoon. And that makes me anxious.
But Mom’s car is in front of the house now, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m crossing the front lawn. I tap on the door, half hoping no one hears and I can slink home to pretend like nothing happened.
No such luck. It swings open, and her dad gives me a big, then puzzled, grin.
“Hess! So nice to see you. How are you?”
I stammer something in response and he tilts his head.
“I am afraid, though, that Nev and Max aren’t here. They left an hour ago and went for ice cream. Would you like me to tell them that you came by? I think they were expecting you.”
I take a breath: onetwothree in, onetwothree out. “Yes, please,” I say. “Tell Nev I’ll call her, too.”
He closes the door and I race home, dreading what I’m going to find on my phone but knowing that I have to check it.
It’s worse than I thought:
Yesterday 8:20 p.m.
N: See you guys tomorrow, rite?
M: 11:30?
N: Yep. At Dad’s. Hess?
And then:
Today 11:45 a.m.
N: Where you at?
11:48 a.m.
N: Hess?!
11:50 a.m.
N: WTH?
12:00 p.m.
N: Forget it. Don’t come.
I type my apology to them both:
OMG, guys. So so so sorry. Mom took me to the library. Where are you? Can I still meet you?
I stare at the screen, willing the little notice to change from Delivered to Read.
Finally, it does. My stomach twists and my shoulders are somewhere up by my ears. I try to breathe and relax. Maybe they won’t be mad. Maybe it’ll be okay. I wait for the little bubbles that show you someone is responding.
I wait.
And wait.
But there’s no reply.
Dad’s sitting at the table, half an everything bagel in front of him and his forehead scrunched up. He’s wearing one of Jack’s oversized track hoodies, but one sleeve hangs empty.
“What’s up?” I grab a blueberry bagel from the bag on the counter and go in search of garlic cream cheese. Sounds gross, I know, but it’s my fave.
He shakes his head. “It’s this article … ” He squints at his phone screen.
“The bakery one?” I take my bagel from the toaster. He nods, not looking at me.
“Can you type yet?”
He shakes his head no. “Not fast enough. The break in my shoulder is high, so I can’t rest my right arm on the desk and try to half type with my right hand. I’m one-winged for another couple of weeks, according to the guys in PT. I should’ve fixed that darn step.”
“It’s okay,” I say, spreading the cream cheese across the blue-purple bagel. “It wasn’t your fault.”
He puts the phone down and gives me a half smile. “Actually, Hess, it is my fault. I’d been putting off fixing the steps because I’d always find something better to do than repair them. And they were dangerous. I guess I should just be glad that it wasn’t you or your mom or your brother that fell. Then I’d feel even worse than I do now.”
If this were a movie, I’d throw my arms around him and give him a hug. I’d tell him that I’d help, and he’d find a way through it and write the best darn article about that bakery that anyone had ever seen. It’d be sweet and we’d have a “moment.”
But I can’t say that. I can’t help. His forehead scrunches back up.
I take my bagel, about to slip out of the room.
Another look at Dad, chin propped in his good hand, frowning at the table, and I put the bagel on the counter. I step closer to the table.
“Dad?” He turns to me, still frowning, still sad. Without saying anything else, I lean over and give him a kiss on his cheek.
“I’m gonna help you,” I say.
He tilts his head.
“Remember? You’re taking me to the bakery, to shoot while you interview the owners?”
He grins. “You’re right. Get ready.” We high-five, and just like that, we make a movie moment.
EXT. Nazari’s Bakery. A brick-front building with large windows displaying breads, cakes, and treats. A pair of empty blue window boxes on either side of the door. The door opens.
CUT TO: Bakery interior. Four small café tables and chairs are to the left of the door. Display cases filled with more breads and pastries across the back. Signs offering coffee, hot chocolate, and “light fare”—salads and spreads.
Pan across the display cases, lingering on the pita and loaves of bread, baked to a golden perfection and dusted with flour. Then the tarts, fruit-topped, shiny with glaze.
VOICE
Can I help you?
End scene. Darkness.
Dad steps forward and extends his hand to the short, dark-haired man behind the counter.
“Matthew Greene,” he says. “I’m writing the Weekender article on your bakery. This is my daughter, Hess.”
“Adnan Nazari,” the man says. His eyes are warm and he has a dimple in one cheek. “Welcome to Nazari’s Bakery!”
“Is it okay if Hess films? We spoke on the phone … ” Dad trails off, and both men look at his sling.
“Of course!” Mr. Nazari says. “Absolutely.”
“Thanks.” I click the camera back on and keep one eye on the screen, one eye on where Dad and Mr. Nazari are going.
INT. Bakery. MR. NAZARI comes out from behind the counter.
MR. NAZARI
We opened in February of this year.
DAD
This space used to be a burrito place, right?
MR. NAZARI
Yes. The owners were retiring. My wife and I did all of the work in here.
The men stand next to one of the café tables.
MR. NAZARI
Come in the back. I will show you where we bake.
CUT TO: The kitchen area of the bakery. All of the mixers and appliances are sparkling clean. Ingredients are labeled in bins on shelves, and a big sink off to the side is empty.
MR. NAZARI
/> This is really a family store. My wife and I take turns doing the bread in the morning. It’s an early day—four o’clock in the morning. My daughter, Zada, helps at the register when she is not at school. Working the register helps all of us with our English.
OFF-CAMERA VOICE
(mine)
Your English is very good!
MR. NAZARI
Thank you. We study hard.
I get footage of the ovens, the cooling racks for loaves of bread and other treats, and the prep and baking areas. Then Dad and Mr. Nazari sit down to talk at a small table in the back. I take a small tripod out of my bag and set it on a nearby counter, adjust the zoom, and check the sound. I attach my external mic.
“You’re set,” I say. “I’ll go in the front while you’re talking. Just turn the camera off when you’re done.”
“Oh!” Mr. Nazari hops out of his chair. “I need to get Zada.” He crosses the room to a desk tucked in an alcove, and dials his cell phone. He says something in … Syrian? Arabic? I don’t know what they’re speaking—and comes back.
“She’ll be right down,” he says apologetically. “Sunday afternoons are slow, so she doesn’t usually have to work.”
I leave Dad and Mr. Nazari to their interview and return to the front of the store. Before I remember that they haven’t spoken to me since yesterday’s mess, I text Nev and Max pictures of the tarts and bread in the display case. Max would love this place. I zoom in on a strawberry tart.
“Can I help you?” a soft voice says.
I jump. “Sorry,” I say automatically.
A girl around my age, her head wrapped in a scarf, is behind the counter. She looks familiar.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Hess. My dad is talking to your dad in the back.”
“I’m Zada,” she answers. “Do you want anything?”
Well, yeah! “Sure. My dad will pay you when he’s done.” I look at the case, trying to decide.
“Do you like baklava?” Zada asks. “Mama just made some this morning.”
“I’ve never had it. What is it?”
“Delicious,” Zada answers. “Hold on.” She disappears into the back and comes back with a big plate of what looks like dessert lasagna—layers of some kind of dough with a glaze and nuts everywhere.
“Try it,” she urges, taking a forkful. The dough rustles as the fork breaks through the layers. “My grandmother made the best baklava, but Mama’s is good, too.”
I stab my fork in the other side of the baklava square. It smells sweet.
“It’s honey and nuts and stuff,” Zada says, catching me studying my fork.
Things I like. I nibble the edge that’s on my fork and am rewarded with a sweet, sticky, crunchy taste. Oh, heck yeah. I take a big bite.
“It’s good?” Zada asks.
I can only smile and nod, my mouth too full to answer. It’s amazing. Max would eat the whole pan. When I’m done, I smile again.
“Delicious!” I say. “Hey, do you go to Howard Hoffer Junior High?”
“I’m a seventh year. No—wait—seventh grader,” Zada says.
“I’m in eighth grade.” For the time being, I think. “I don’t see you around school.”
“I take ELL classes to learn English and only switch for my art class,” Zada answers.
Oh. That explains it. The English Language Learner classroom is down this hall that I never use.
“Your English is very good. I don’t think I could move to a new place and learn a language like you’re doing.”
Zada smiles. “I’m working hard.”
And then I remember: Zada was in Mr. Sinclair’s office the day that I had the epic panic attack.
“Do you know Mr. Sinclair?” I ask. And as soon as the words leave my lips, I decide that I’m not going to tell Zada about the panic attack. I don’t have to be a mess to her right away.
“He helps me sometimes,” she says. “He asks me if I’m making friends, and if I’m okay.” From the look on Zada’s face, I can tell that sometimes she’s not okay.
“And,” she goes on quickly, “he gave me a secret weapon to help with my English!”
She sees my raised eyebrow and says, “I’ll show you.” She leaves the table, and I happily devour more baklava. Dad should really bring some of this home. And not tell Jack we have it.
Zada scoots behind the counter and comes back, a stack of books in her hand. She proudly slides them across the table.
Roller Girl. Babymouse. Smile. I flip through them.
“Graphic novels,” Zada says. “They help me learn English. I can see the story when I read it and know what the words mean.”
I don’t say anything. I feel like the floor has opened up under my chair.
“You get to read graphic novels … for school?” I can’t quite picture Ms. Walker assigning anything to us with pictures. But this is just like storyboarding, and three pages into Smile, I’m hooked.
“Yes.” She smiles again. “I liked that one. Would you like to borrow it?”
I’ve been zipping through the book as she spoke. “Um, you don’t mind?”
Zada shakes her head. “It’s okay. I reread it to study. You can borrow it.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll take care of it,” I say. I haven’t been this interested in a book since I started listening to A Sea of Serpents.
Dad and Mr. Nazari come out of the back room. Dad has my camera in hand.
“We’re all set, honey,” he says. I ask him to bring home some baklava, and Zada goes to box it up while Mr. Nazari rings up our order. Zada returns with the baklava.
“Thanks so much,” I say. “For the book, too.”
“You are welcome,” she says. She takes a breath. “I’ll see you in school?” she asks, almost like she’s afraid of my answer.
“Of course,” I say. I like talking to Zada. I make a mental note to go down that ELL hallway this week.
Nev didn’t message me last night, not even to respond to the photos from the Nazaris’ bakery, so I’m not surprised when she doesn’t show up at my locker … but I was still kind of hoping she would. I cram my stuff in there, narrowly avoiding another landslide, and drag my feet to Ms. Walker’s room for homeroom. I didn’t sleep well—I stayed up way too late reading Smile—and today I feel like the undead. To make matters worse, for the first time ever, I’ve left my camera at home.
I may as well be naked.
As soon as I cross into homeroom, Ms. Walker waves me to her desk. Frowning and tight-lipped, she passes me an Office Appointment slip—but not the regular kind. It’s the bright yellow one that means you’re meeting with more than one administrator. Translation: You’re in trouble.
“Don’t be late,” she says, frown getting even deeper. “After fifth period.”
I nod, feeling too awful to even see who is on the slip, and take my seat. The morning announcements begin—and of course, the first one is a reminder that academic permission forms for the Hoot are due by the end of the day.
“A yellow office slip?” Sarah, in front of me, pretends to be looking for something in the bag on the floor next to her desk. Her long, dark hair acts as a shield between her words and Ms. Walker. “Way to go.”
The words land in my heart like knives hitting a target.
She grabs a pen and straightens, her hair sliding across the top of my desk like it’s straight out of a shampoo commercial. It takes all the strategies I have not to pull it.
“Shut up,” I say.
“No talking during morning announcements, Miss Greene,” Ms. Walker says, but she’s looking at her phone, and my anger grows even hotter.
I spend the last ten minutes of homeroom one-two-three breathing, and wondering how bad the rest of the day will be.
Two periods later, I’m back in Ms. Walker’s room for language arts. I slip my corrected vocabulary tests—three weeks late, but they’re done!—into the Finished Work basket on her desk.
“The end of the marking period is in two we
eks,” she says to the class, “so if you are missing any assignments or have to make up work, you have until next Friday to do so. Then my grade book is closed and we start fresh for the last portion of the year.”
I almost snort out loud. Starting fresh? Ha! That would be nice, but that’s not really how it works. Especially with Ms. Walker.
She tells us that our last test on The Giver is next week—aren’t we done with this book yet?—and then she takes a stack of papers off her desk.
“These are last week’s tests. I’ll hand them back to you at the end of the period.” She taps them and puts them back. “If you have any questions regarding where you stand, please let me know. We can go over my grade book together.”
We get a list of new vocab words. Then talk about The Giver.
Just give the tests back. Just give the tests back, I think. My brain is stuck on a loop, and nothing is getting through it. Finally, with five minutes left in the class, she grabs the tests again.
“Most of you did very well,” she says. She holds the pile casually, like it’s junk mail or a section of newspaper.
Chills run up and down my back. My armpits are a swampy mess. I one-two-three breathe. I think about Black Widow, Miss Piggy, and Wonder Woman. The panic ants crawl out of my socks anyway. I jiggle my legs. Breathe more.
She’s still talking.
Pass them out! I want to shout. Even though I know I didn’t do a good job—I couldn’t have, because I didn’t finish—a tiny part of me hopes that I did enough. Enough to pass. Enough to have something to feel good about. Enough to pretend that the slip in my bag is not bright yellow.
Finally, she starts moving down the rows, handing back the tests.
“Nirmal.”
“Javvy.”
“Allie.”
And this is worse than the waiting. Because soon I’m going to know.
My armpits are sopping wet. Ms. Walker stops next to Sarah’s desk, hands her her test.
Then, me.
“Hester.” She puts the test facedown on my desk, and says, “Stay after class, please,” before she moves on.
I have déjà vu. Only this time, I’m panicking too much to even move. I’m rooted to my chair, and a part of my brain wonders if I’ll simply have to stay here for the rest of the day. The green marker shadows through the paper.