“No.” I laugh and push harder on the ground. The swing moves faster. “Not married.” I hope he’ll lean back over me again.
“Boyfriend?”
I feel like dancing. “No boyfriend.” I take my hand off the swing’s chains so I can slip off my ring and show him. “It’s an artist ring.”
Cole picks the ring out of my palm and places it on his third finger. The ring fits to his third knuckle. “Too small,” Cole says, and flicks it off.
I gasp as the ring flies through the air. If it slips through the cracks of the gazebo, I’ll never find it beneath the weeds. Cute or not, I never should have let Cole take the ring.
But just as I think the ring is history, and my stomach does some kind of strange mushy dance that I hope doesn’t turn into excusing myself so I can throw up, Cole catches the ring and holds out his hand. “Ring?”
“Yes!” I grab for it and slip the band back on my finger. Suddenly all the warm feelings for Cole are gone. I want to start yelling that he doesn’t understand. Dad gave me that ring. And Dad hasn’t called and doesn’t seem to care that he left me.
Just as I’m ready to explode, Cole slips his hand inside his shirt and pulls out a silver medallion on a chain.
The angry words die in my throat and I move closer to him. “St. Christopher?”
“Safe travels,” Cole says. “My dad gave it to me.”
“Your dad?” I want to know all about Cole’s dad. Is he like mine? Opal doesn’t talk about a husband. Did he leave? Did he die? Where is he?
Cole sticks his chain inside his shirt. He begins to talk as if he’s answering my unspoken questions. “Dad left when I was six. He never liked the Island.” Cole stares into the dark night, and his jaw clenches. “He told me to wear this and think of him. I was six. Does a six-year-old understand that?”
Before I can think, I reach out my hand and entwine my fingers with his. I want to tell him that I understand. “Do you wear it all the time?” I ask.
“Just when I need protection.” Cole’s jaw unclenches and he stares down at our hands, linked together, like he’s puzzled how they got that way.
I quickly unhook my fingers. The heat rises in my face. “Protection from what?” I try to pretend that the whole hand-holding thing didn’t just happen. My hot face tells me otherwise.
“Well…” Cole pushes hard on the ground. The swing moves fast. “I was nervous because I wanted to ask you…”
I feel like I can’t breathe.
“…if you wanted to do something…”
I hold onto the swing as it moves faster and faster. I wonder how fast it can go before falling off the silver hinges. My breath whooshes out. “Okay.” I feel like Sammy’s bubbling giggles. “What are we going to do?”
Cole stops pushing on the ground. The swing slows. “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “What do you like to do?”
“Mmm…” I stall for time. I’m not sure what I like to do. It’s the Island, not Chicago. In Chicago there was plenty to do, or as Mom used to tell me, plenty of ways to find trouble. But this is the Island, and as far as I can tell, there isn’t much to do besides waving to people on the road. The silence between us makes me uncomfortable. I have to come up with something.
“I have this list,” I say and flip open my sketchbook. “It’s things to do on the Island.”
Cole looks over my shoulder at the list.
I gasp. Item number two: Find a boyfriend. I slam my hand over the list. Cole places his hand on mine. His fingers are cool on my wrist as he lifts my hand.
“What’s that?” He points to Find a boyfriend.
“Nothing.” I want to curl up and hide. “Just something silly I made up.”
Cole jiggles his left leg and taps item number four, Swim with the orcas.
“I don’t know if you can swim with them, but we could see them.”
“Swim with them.” I once heard a girl at school saying that she went on a cruise to Mexico and got to swim with the dolphins. It always sounded like fun to me. And, right now, anything sounds good. As long as Cole doesn’t mention the Find a boyfriend.
“See them.” Cole studies me. “Not swim with them.”
“Okay,” I say. I’m going to surprise Cole. I am going to swim with the orcas.
Chapter Ten
After stained glass class and a picnic lunch in the park, I wander to the library. It’s a small red brick building at the end of Main Street that reminds me of illustrations I saw in my early reader books. Running my tongue over my teeth, I try dislodging the nine-grain bread stuck in my back molars. Failing to dislodge much of anything, I pull out a bottle of strawberry lemonade from my bag, unscrew the cap, and tilt my head back to take a large swallow. As I drink, the stained glass bird and flower suncatchers hanging in the library windows sparkle in the sun.
I imagine Opal walking into each building on the Island. She’d hold out a tray of stained glass suncatchers. “This one will be nice for your window,” she’d say, and continue working her way to every place in town until all windows on the Island sparkled with light.
I toss my empty bottle in a wire trashcan and head up the stone steps of the library. I like to browse the art section and look for new books on technique. Dad always brought home books from the Art Institute. “I’ll return them,” he said. He never did. Instead, the books filled my bookcase. While classmates talked about The Secret Garden, Charlotte’s Web, and Where the Red Fern Grows, I knew about the Impressionists, the Surrealists, and The Romantics.
Oscillating fans circulate air from two corners, and a woman whom I assume must be the librarian nods at me. She places a book on a shelf. Her long flowered skirt flows in the breeze from the fans. The clipped blonde hair that frames her face reminds me of Mom, and I wonder if she’s lonely in Chicago without me.
“Can anyone use these?” I ask as I nod toward the computers lining a wall at the front of the library.
“You can.” She smiles at me. “Jasper is a patron. I’m on the school board with him.” The librarian’s cheeks turn pink, and I know that she has a little crush on Jasper.
“Thanks…” I look around for a name posted somewhere.
“Nancy,” she says. “My name is Nancy.”
“Thanks, Nancy,” I nod and sit down on a hard wooden chair in front of the computers. The chair rocks underneath me. “This might need a screw or something.” I rock back and forth, feeling like I could topple over at any minute.
Nancy’s face turns a light pink. “I know. I’ve been meaning to take it to your uncle. I just haven’t had the time.”
“I know someone who might be able to help fix it.” A blush rises in my own face as I think about Cole strolling into the library with his hands tucked inside his short pockets, asking, “How can I help?” I want to laugh. It’s romance hour at the library. The only thing we need is the romance books.
Nancy moves a book from a cart to a shelf, and I know the title before I see the whole front cover picture: Experiments in Photography. The heat leaves my face and I feel ill. I’m in that book. Page 65. It wasn’t planned. Dad was trying different angles, and I practiced flying like a bird, legs and arms outstretched when I flew into Dad’s picture. “I’m sorry,” I cried as I tumbled to the ground. Even at five, I knew I had made a terrible mistake by getting in the way of Dad’s shoot. Dad grunted and re-shot the picture.
Later, Dad liked the one with me flying like a bird. He maneuvered the size, shape, and lighting and said, “I’ll call it an experiment.” That picture was the one most people remembered. Dad always said he planned the picture, only I knew different. I bite my lower lip and fight down the wave of nausea that creeps over me while the memories shoot around me like small bursts of fireworks. Dad.
The librarian slips the book onto the bottom shelf with a loud thump that sounds like a door closing inside me. I push away the memories, click the mouse, and hit Internet. I type in my e-mail account password and click into my e-mail. My heart pounds, and I hope t
hat Dad has sent me something.
Anything.
He’ll tell me that he just couldn’t get to a phone, things have been tight, and he’s sorry.
But instead, Mom’s name flashes onto my screen and I pop open the e-mail.
I’m sorry about the lack of mentors. Your uncle and I hoped it would be a program you would enjoy. We thought it would give you something to do for the summer.
I frown. Why do I need something to do? Why can’t I just be in the summer? I continue reading.
But you’re in luck. There are still openings in the last session at Fishers. I really think you will like this opportunity. I miss you and would like you to come back home.
My heart thumps. I don’t want to go home to take summer classes at Fishers. Even if Mom misses me, and—I swallow—I miss her.
I signed you up for French and an Art History class. All you need to do is click into the school web page and verify your schedule. I can fly out in a week or so and we’ll go home together. Love, Mom.
Art History. I choke and think my lunch might come up, right onto the library computers. Nancy and I will have to clean it up, then toss that sawdust down that they use in schools. I click out of the Fishers website. With a quick flick of the mouse, I delete Mom’s e-mail and the next three e-mails. I don’t need to take a survey about paper products, I’m not interested in refinancing a home, and I sure don’t want to learn about someone in Nigeria who has six kids and needs my help.
At the bottom there is an e-mail from the Art Palace. I scan through the newsletter. It’s full of summer information: Classes for Young Artists Ages 4-11. Volunteer Opportunities for teens. And pictures of the artwork that has been done in the classes. At the bottom, there are links to upcoming art activities in Chicago. There’s a link to the Chicago Art Institute’s Summer Art Exhibit series. I click on it and browse. It’s a long schedule, and I want time to look at it. I hit print and glance around the library for a printer. Usually there is at least one printer near the computers, but this library seems to be a little confused about how to set them up. I log out of the computer, gather my bag, and head to the front desk.
“Hello?” I hit the silver bell. “Nancy?”
No one appears.
A piece of paper lies face down on the printer, on the other side of the counter. Seeing no one around, I jump over the counter. I fold the e-mail and stick it into my pocket.
“What are you doing?” a small voice asks. “Are you a librarian?” Sammy drops her books on the table. Three of them slide off the stack and onto the yellow carpet. Sammy doesn’t seem to notice and leaves them on the ground. I hoist onto the counter and swing my legs over. I’m not very graceful, and my right knee crashes into Sammy’s pile of books. The stack tumbles to the ground.
Sammy giggles.
“Shh,” I say. “It’s a library.”
I bend over and pick up books. One of the titles catches my eye. Slugs and Their Habitat. I shake my head. I don’t remember reading books about slugs when I was five. Dad chose books for me about artists living in Paris, or the French Quarter in New Orleans. At bedtime, I loved to lean against Dad and listen to him read. I didn’t understand most of the stories, but Dad would always get a faraway look in his eyes. He’d stop halfway through the book. I always had to nudge him and ask him to finish the story.
I place a book on the counter and wonder who picks out Sammy’s books. Does Sammy really like books about slimy things?
“What are you doing?” Sammy swings her pink plastic purse against her leg. The denim overalls are back, and one of the straps drops over her red shirt.
“Picking up your books.” I motion toward the open drawer book drop in the library hallway. “Why didn’t you drop the books there?”
Sammy rolls her eyes. “Because…” She pronounces each syllable very slowly as if I am a child who needs everything explained. “They are overdrawn.”
“Overdue,” I say, amused at Sammy’s expression.
“That’s what I said.” Sammy places her hands on her hips.
“You said overdrawn.” I copy Sammy and place my hands on my hips. I hope she won’t get mad like in the stained glass shop. I’m not sure how often five-year-olds get angry, or why they throw fits, but I don’t want to find out in the quiet library. Thankfully, Sammy drops her hands and giggles. When she stops giggling, she unzips her pink plastic purse and pulls out a five-dollar bill.
“They must really be overdrawn,” I say, and place the last book on the counter.
“Overdue,” Sammy says to me as she slams her hand on the silver bell.
“Careful,” I lift Sammy’s hand. “You’ll break it.”
Sammy ignores me and hits the bell with her fist. “Hello!” she yells.
“Maybe she’s out to lunch.” I yank the bell away from Sammy.
“I have to pay,” Sammy shakes the five-dollar bill in the air.
“Leave it on the counter with your books.” I can’t imagine that anyone is going to steal five dollars from a stack of books. It doesn’t look like anyone even uses the library.
Sammy sets the crumpled bill on the stack. “You’re sure? They won’t be overdrawn?”
“No, they won’t be overdrawn.” I place my hands on Sammy’s shoulders and point her toward the door. “Where’s Opal?”
“She dropped me off.” Sammy shakes herself free. “You’re supposed to walk me to the shop.”
I’m not sure I like being told what to do by a five-year old. I adjust my art bag on my shoulder and push open the double doors of the library. “How did you know I was in the library?”
Sammy points to the window. “We saw you,” she says. “At the computer.”
“Spies.” I rub the top of her head to let her know I’m teasing her. Although something twists inside me, and I wonder if Opal really is spying on me.
Sammy bounces next to me on the sidewalk and giggles. “Were you doing something bad?”
“No.” I stop at the crosswalk and shake my head. “Not this time.” I smile to let her know that I’m joking. I don’t do bad things.
“But you were behind the counter.” Sammy places her hands on her hips. “That was bad.”
“All right.” I throw my hands in the air. “I was doing something bad.” I hold my hand out to Sammy as we stop at the corner of Main Street. Cars rush past the green light. “Take my hand.” I sound like Mom, but the last thing I want is for something to happen to Sammy. I feel like her older sister, and I want to protect her.
“I can do it.” Sammy shakes her head, glances at the green light, and steps off the sidewalk. “I know green.”
“It’s yellow.” I reach for her. My hands grasp empty air as Sammy sprints across.
“Wait!” I call as the light turns red. “Don’t move!” I step back on the sidewalk. Three cars move into the intersection and I can’t see Sammy. Did she make it to the other side? I haven’t heard any cars squeal. My heart pounds. What if Sammy gets hit, or worse, someone takes her? I’ll have a lot more trouble than just finding an Island mentor!
“Sammy?” I yell.
The cars clear, and Sammy jumps up and down on the sidewalk. She sweeps her arms at me in big waves. I swing my head both ways and eye the street. Two cars move forward into the intersection. Tapping my foot, I yell at Sammy. “Stay there!” My palms feel sweaty and my heart is pounding hard. I wonder if this is what a panic attack might feel like.
“Hurry, hurry,” I plead with the cars, and bounce up and down on the sidewalk.
The cars finally pass and I run into the street.
Sammy’s plastic purse lies on the sidewalk.
But Sammy is gone.
My brand new work boots thump hard on the street as I dash across the pavement. “Sammy!” I call, and curse my boots. They aren’t much better running shoes than sandals. Why did Sammy have to run ahead of me? Why couldn’t she just walk by my side? I try to remember where I’ve seen the Island police. Is it on the other side of Main Stree
t? Or maybe there are police boats instead of police cars.
“Boo!” Sammy says as she jumps out from behind a red brick building. “Green means go.”
“What were you doing?”
I grab Sammy’s arm and hold on tight. I’m not in the mood for listening to Sammy recite pre-school lessons about traffic lights. Instead, I feel like giving her a lecture about not scaring people, just like Mom, who lectures me when I won’t answer my cell phone because I’m too busy drawing. I make a silent pledge to answer the phone when Mom calls. No matter what.
Sammy holds out two pieces of broken colored glass in her left hand and points toward the green dumpster behind the stained glass shop. “They missed.” She unzips her plastic purse and drops the glass pieces inside.
“You’re not going to throw those away?” I push Sammy away from the dumpster and give her a quick shove toward the front of the shop.
Sammy shakes her head, and blonde hair streams across her face. She wipes a strand out of her mouth and slips her hand into mine as if nothing has happened. “I collect them.”
Slowly my heartbeat returns to normal and I breathe again. But I do not release my death grip on Sammy.
“Where do you keep the glass?” I ask. Sammy’s collection makes me remember my rock collection. I used to find rocks in the park across from our house. I’d carry them home and paint faces and colors on the rocks, before making shoebox homes by cutting up old blankets and sheets, lining the boxes, and placing the rocks inside like furniture. Sometimes I sold the rocks at Dad’s art shows for twenty-five cents.
“On my windowsill.”
“I used to have a rock collection,” I tell Sammy. “I’d make a home for them, like a doll house.”
Sammy giggles and slips underneath my arm as I hold open the door. Someone has tacked the yellow contest flyer to the wall, and it no longer rustles in the breezes of the door.
I follow her inside the stained glass shop. Opal watches Sammy as she zigzag runs across the floor. She shakes her head and hands me a green apron. “Thanks for walking her back.” Opal’s fingers linger on my arm.
Stained Glass Summer Page 9