Snow Lane

by Josie Angelini

  I glance down at her shoes while she sits. She’s wearing bright white sneakers, and her socks are pale pink and scrunchy. Everything she’s wearing reminds me of cotton candy. Kristin is an only child. Her house is so quiet and her clothes are always new. I look back up at her, but she isn’t looking at my shoes like I’m looking at hers. She’s looking right at me and she’s smiling. Kristin is always smiling.

  “It was amazing,” she says.

  “Yeah?” I say, feeling her smile make me smile.

  “I went to camp. It was so fun. We went hiking and berry picking.” Kristin breaks off and reaches into her brand-new backpack, not catching my frown. Why does everyone talk about berry picking like it’s awesome? “And we learned how to make friendship bracelets,” she says. “Hold out your hand.”

  I hold out my hand and she puts something in it. I open my palm and see she’s given me a purple-and-green woven thing. I look up at her, confused.

  “That’s a friendship bracelet,” she says. She laughs and shows me her wrist. It has five of these brightly colored woven bracelets around it. And it looks so cool.

  “I love it,” I say, not sure what to do. “How do I put it on?” Kristin shows me how to tie it so the ends lie flat. “You made this for me?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes a little. “And now you can’t make a friendship bracelet that’s purple and green for anyone but me, because those are our colors.”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding frantically. “Purple and green. You and me.”

  “You’re so funny, Annie,” she tells me. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too,” I say. I realize after I say it that I mean it. It’s so fun to smile and let your voice rise up high, almost like you’re singing half your words. We don’t talk like that in my house. “So, tell me about camp.”

  While my sister stares out the window, ignoring us, what I learn is that camp is a magical place. It’s full of songs and swimming and big shady trees. Camp is where you make friendship bracelets and spend the day floating along in a canoe and eating something called s’mores. It has marshmallows in it. Kristin can’t believe I’ve never eaten a marshmallow, but it’s true. We can’t afford to eat store-bought sweets in my family, but I skip over that and beg Kristin to keep talking. I want camp. I want to live there someday.

  “You should come with me next year,” she tells me as the bus pulls up the drive to school. “You’d really love it, Annie. And everyone would love you because you’re so easy to talk to.”

  “Maybe you’re just easy to listen to,” I tell her instead of telling her the truth: I’ll never go to camp. She smiles so wide I can see every one of her teeth.

  “That’s why I love you, Annie.”

  I smile at her. Kristin says she loves people all the time, and I like that about her, because it makes me think she could probably love the whole world if she put her mind to it. It makes me happy to think that—that there’s a person who’s so nice they could love everybody. I try to be like that, but most days I can’t.

  When we get off the bus, she loops her arm in mine and we go like that to homeroom, our arms linked together like we’re on our way to eat marshmallows in a canoe. I’m about two feet taller than her and I have to stoop down so I don’t elbow her in the lip, but I’m laughing and skipping along with her anyways, because it feels nice to be one of those girls who laughs and skips.

  We both have Mrs. Weiss for homeroom because Kristin and I are in a special class together. It’s called ACT, which is short for Academically Creative and Talented. Kristin is the smartest girl in our grade, so she totally belongs in ACT.

  I’m in ACT because I took this weird test when I was seven and it was all puzzles and questions about what groups I would make out of a bunch of odd shapes.

  The people who tested me kept giving me funny looks when I’d answer, but they were nice and they let me answer out loud rather than write it down. I like figuring things out in my head rather than writing them down, because whenever I write things down, the letters and numbers start to wiggle all over the page.

  I thought I did okay. But then afterward all the adults stood around looking at me and frowning and talking about what needed to be done about me like I was sick or something. And then they put me in ACT, which I thought was a mistake because Fay always says I’m stupid. Miri thinks I’m smart, though, and Miri’s waaay smarter than Fay.

  I like ACT because all I have to do is think about what I want to think about and tell the class about it later. They’re called oral dissertations, which means you do them out loud, but sometimes I get to use models, like the time I wanted to think about DNA because I was wondering why I was the only one in my family who got my dad’s green eyes.

  I did about a jillion Punnett squares but it didn’t add up, so my dad and I built a double helix out of a bunch of painted wood blocks so I could see how easy it is for the nucleotides to get scrambled sometimes during the unzipping, and if even a few nucleotide pairs get scrambled, you get a different gene. Green eyes means your DNA is scrambled between brown and blue. I get that now because of the model, and it makes sense to me because I’ve always felt a little scrambled in how I see things. But mostly it was fun because everyone really liked the color I picked for adenine. Hot pink.

  Kristin painted her fingernails almost the exact same shade for a month afterward. I always think of nucleotides when I see hot pink now, which is good and bad. It’s good because it makes me smile, but it’s bad because I can’t tell anyone else why I’m smiling without sounding like a freak. There are times when I think that no one in the world is ever going to understand what makes me smile, and I probably shouldn’t try to explain it to anyone, because there are some things that are just never going to make sense to other people.

  There are eight of us in ACT and everyone is, like, way smarter than me. We still have all the regular classes the other kids do, we just do ACT as extra. Everyone else in ACT gets 100s on everything in the other classes, including spelling. But I’m glad I’m there even if it is extra, because I get to think my own things and I don’t have to turn in a project until I’ve figured out whatever it is I’m thinking about, like with my green eyes. Basically, the teachers leave me alone.

  We get to homeroom and Mrs. Weiss already has something written on the blackboard.

  We are star stuff which has taken its destiny into its own hands.

  —Carl Sagan

  WHAT IS YOUR DESTINY?

  It takes me a few seconds to untangle the letter salad on the blackboard, but eventually I manage to make all the vowels behave long enough to get it.

  And it’s like I’m standing on top of a hill, looking down at the whole world.

  A couple of years ago my dad let us watch this special on PBS. Normally we don’t get to watch TV because the Solid Gold Dancers are pornographic, but my dad made an exception for Carl Sagan, probably because he doesn’t do any dancing at all on his show Cosmos.

  I wished I could have watched that show forever, because every time he said “billions and billions,” I felt like I was as small as a nucleotide but just as important. I felt like I was a part of something that’s bigger than I can see, bigger than any of us can see, and that’s the best part. Every time Carl Sagan pointed out how little we all are, no one was bigger than me. No one was more important. Infinity makes us all equal somehow. I like that.

  And now Carl Sagan wants me to find my destiny.

  This is important. This is something that’s really going to make everything okay, even better than finding a license plate with three threes. I’m going to find my destiny, and then it will all make sense because even when you’re scared, having a destiny means you’re going to be okay, because people with destinies don’t just shit (fifteen Hail Marys) the bed.

  I’m not supposed to swear even in my own head, but sometimes you need a word with a little more oomph in it than a regular word, so a swear word is the only thing that will work. This is a sw
ear-word moment. This is the moment I’m going to find my destiny.

  Crap (five Hail Marys). What the heck is my destiny?

  “Annie? Would you take your seat, please?”

  I look down at Mrs. Weiss. She’s about two inches shorter than me, which is weird because she’s my teacher, but I’m getting used to adults being littler than me because all the Bianchis are taller than normal people.

  I take a seat next to Kristin and behind Jordan Dolan. If Kristin is the smartest person in our class, Jordan isn’t far behind. He’s quiet, but when he says something, I like to listen, because he hardly ever says anything that doesn’t mean twice as much in half the words.

  Jordan turns around and smiles at me. “Hi, Annie,” he says.

  “Hi, Jordan,” I say back. “You’re tan.”

  He nods and purses his lips like he’s thinking of what to say next, but he decides against talking for a while. Jordan does this a lot. I’m used to it because my dad is the same way. When my dad is actually around, he hardly gets a word in edgewise what with all of us jabbering at him day and night. I wonder how Jordan got to be like he is, seeing as how he doesn’t have eight daughters who are all as chatty as a flock of seagulls. Jordan does have a lawyer mom, though. Maybe that’s it.

  Anyways, I can tell he’s got a lot to say, but I know from being around my dad that if I even take a breath to talk, he’ll clam up and I’ll never know how he got his tan. I sit still and wait even though it’s, like, torture.

  “I built a boat,” he tells me after being quiet for a long while.

  I’m trying to picture that, but I can’t. I need scale. “Do people fit in it?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Does it float with people in it?” I ask, still trying to picture Jordan’s boat.

  He nods again.

  I glance down at his hands, and I can see how they got square and rough as compared to last year. I know what his hands look like really well, because Jordan and I always get paired up for stuff, mostly because he picks me as a partner. Probably because I don’t rush him when he’s deciding which five or six words are worth saying. I think Jordan’s hands are bigger than mine now, which is strange.

  He takes a breath like he’s going to ask me something, but he never gets the chance. The bell rings and Mrs. Weiss stands in front of the blackboard.

  I like teachers. I know that’s a goody-two-shoes thing to say, but it’s true. I always nod when the teacher asks a question you’re supposed to answer yes to, and I always laugh when they’ve told a joke that isn’t all that funny, because I get so uncomfortable when they’re looking for something and no one is giving it back to them. My teachers try really hard, and most people don’t try hard at anything.

  “Hello, fifth graders. Welcome!” Mrs. Weiss says with way too much enthusiasm.

  I smile big for Mrs. Weiss, and not just because I’m embarrassed for her for trying too hard. Some teachers are like that. They try too hard to be cool and peppy. I’m always nice to those teachers, though, because at least they try. I like Mrs. Weiss.

  “You’ve all had a chance to read what I wrote on the blackboard, correct?” she asks, already knowing the answer. “Who here knows who Carl Sagan is?”

  Every hand goes up. Jordan even laughs a little, like he’s saying, Of course we know who he is.

  It’s weird to think Jordan and Kristin might have been watching the same TV program I was watching, and maybe even at the same time.

  I look over at Kristin’s T-shirt. It has a cat on it and the whiskers are sparkly with glitter. Her jeans are the palest shade of blue. I look at Jordan with his polo shirt, khakis, and Docksiders. His socks are so white and his hair is freshly cut. I can see a pale strip of skin on the back of his neck.

  I imagine Kristin and Jordan watching Carl Sagan at the exact same moment as me. I see them in pajamas. I see them on big couches. I see them eating snacks, because rich people have pajamas and big couches and snacks. I bet they weren’t a little bit hungry while they watched. I bet they could hear every word because there was no yelling, nobody started hitting anybody else, and no one ended up going to bed scared. Just because you see the same TV show doesn’t mean you saw it the same way.

  “This year for ACT, I want you all to start thinking about your own individual talents,” Mrs. Weiss says. I can tell she’s being extra serious because her eyebrows are all squished together and it looks like she’s going to cry. “I want you to think about what your unique talent could mean to the world if you applied it to a profession.”

  Jimmy Collins raises his skinny arm. All of Jimmy Collins is little and skinny, except for his ears. You don’t normally think of ears as fat, but there’s no other way to put it. Jimmy Collins has fat ears. It’s not just that they stick out, it’s that they’re big and fleshy like ears aren’t supposed to be. His earlobes are thicker than thumbs. He gets teased a lot, but not by anyone in ACT.

  We don’t tease each other in this class because in third grade we saw a puppet show about respecting each other’s feelings. The main puppet was a dolphin. Basically the dolphin said that being the kind of person who hurt other people’s feelings was way worse than having fat ears. I agree because it makes me hot all over when I see other kids tease Jimmy Collins for his ears, and because I like dolphins.

  Mrs. Weiss calls on Jimmy a little reluctantly. She was on a roll and he stopped it.

  “Yes, James?” she says. Nobody calls him James but her. James has the same amount of letters as Jimmy, but it feels bigger. And I think Jimmy Collins is just too little to be a James.

  “You mean you want us to start thinking about what we want to be when we grow up?” Jimmy asks with a bored sigh. Everything seems to bore Jimmy. He sighs when he thinks other people are being stupid. Jimmy sighs a lot around me.

  “I want you to start thinking of your place in the world,” she says. She’s talking through her teeth because her jaw is clenched.

  Jimmy has a way of getting under your skin. He doesn’t misbehave, not in the way Wilson Williams and Richie O’Brian do. They always make fart noises at general assemblies and get yelled at by the principal. I guess what Jimmy does is make everyone feel a little stupid. Even teachers.

  “Instead of thinking of a job, I want you to think about how your talents could best serve the world,” she continues. “Even if you have to invent a whole new career that they don’t have a name for yet, I want you to do it. This year, I want you to find your destiny!”

  I have to stop myself from jumping up and hollering like Mrs. Weiss just scored a touchdown. I’m going to do this. I know I have a destiny, and I’m going to find it. Whatever it is.

  “Now,” Mrs. Weiss says, turning to the blackboard, “let’s brainstorm.”

  Chapter Four

  On Sundays the Bianchis go to church.

  We all put on clean clothes, and then we rock-paper-scissors for who has to ride in the back of the van.

  I always lose. Even when I win I lose, because Fay will hit me if she’s stuck in the back of the van and I don’t give her my spot in the station wagon. Not that the station wagon is any prize, let me tell you that much.

  We have three cars in my family, and all of them are crappy (five Hail Marys). My dad has a pickup truck my uncle bought for him that we use on the farm, the van is the van, and the station wagon is left over from before we bought the van.

  It’s so old. It smells like spilled milk and melting plastic, but it did make it to the top of Mount Washington three summers ago when we took four days off after raspberry season for a summer vacation. We even splurged for a bumper sticker that says THIS CAR CLIMBED MOUNT WASHINGTON, but I don’t think it counts if your car has to be pushed. What it should say is, The Bianchis pushed a station wagon up Mount Washington because our crazy mother thought it would be fun to go camping.

  She was wrong, by the way. Camping is not fun like the camp Kristin described with the bunk beds and the clean sheets and the care packages. Real camping is not
fun if you don’t have hiking boots, or a sleeping bag, or a place to pee, and none of your damn (ten Hail Marys) sisters will move over and share their sleeping bag with you. Evangeline actually yelled at me because my teeth were chattering so loud it was keeping her up. Worst night of my life, I think. I tried to wake up Mom and Dad and tell them how cold I was, but they yelled at me and told me to go back to sleep.

  All in all, we spent two days on the road and one and a half days out in the middle of the woods getting eaten by ticks. We haven’t had a vacation since.

  In the roshambo tournament for not sitting in the back of the van, I throw “rock” and get “papered” by Bridget, but I’m not too upset about it because at least I have new shoes. They aren’t dress shoes. They’re a kind of sneaker called Chuck Taylors, and I like them because they make me imagine my feet are in an old basketball movie.

  My mom didn’t want me to wear them to church with my dress, but seeing as how these are the only shoes I have, the Chuck Taylors won. I got them yesterday with Gina. She used the babysitting money she got on Friday night to buy them for me, because she said Mom would never get around to it because we don’t have any money left for the month because Evangeline needed a new concert dress. It pisses Gina off when Mom spends all the money on Evangeline or Aurora, but it happens a lot because they have to look nicer than the rest of us because they have to go up onstage, and if they didn’t have nice costumes and concert dresses, the family would be embarrassed.

  When we run out of money, Gina gives Mom what she makes babysitting so Mom can buy groceries. Which is pretty much every week. Gina thinks Nora and I don’t know she does it, but we do because we’re snoops. We share a room with her and we know that no matter how long she’s been babysitting other kids in the neighborhood, she only ever has five dollars for herself by the end of the weekend, tucked away under the broken ballerina in her music box. We know Gina doesn’t spend all that money on herself going out, because she doesn’t have any friends. Gina babysits a lot. Half the time I think she babysits for the money—I mean, of course it’s for the money—but also I think she does it to get away from all of us.