Hope Is a Ferris Wheel

by Robin Herrera

  When the lunch bell rang, Mr. Savage told me to stay while the rest of the class went off to the cafeteria. I inched toward the front of the room, unable to make myself get there any quicker. But eventually there I was, gripping the edge of Mr. Savage’s desk for support.

  “I’m glad you turned these in,” he started. “I’m curious about why some of these sentences are about what a terrible teacher you think I am.”

  Oh, right. I hadn’t only written bad things about Denny. I’d written some bad things about Mr. Savage, too. Maybe I should have reread those sentences before I turned them in. I told Mr. Savage how the sentences were written a long time ago and that I never thought anyone would see them.

  “Hmm.” He had the whole pile of sentences in front of him, his fingers lifting the corners and letting them fall back down. “So you don’t feel that way anymore, then?”

  I could have lied and said yes, because even though I didn’t like him, I never wanted to hurt Mr. Savage’s feelings. But I looked him in the eye and said, “Well, you did think I hadn’t done my sentences when I really had. And it’s not fair to treat me like a delinquent just because I wasn’t turning in the sentences.” I figured I’d share one good thing about him, so I added, “I liked learning about Emily Dickinson.”

  “I know,” he said. “Miss Fergusson was telling me all about your club the other day. Trying to convince me to let you keep doing it. She said you were very respectful and smart, and I just kept thinking, ‘Are we talking about the same Star Mackie?’ ” He laughed, although I didn’t think it was very funny. “Anyway, when I read your sentences, I realized she was right. I just had a hard time seeing it.”

  “I guess you’re not so bad either,” I said, which made him laugh again. He had a weird sense of humor, I decided.

  He took the first four pages off the pile and slid them over to me, saying, “I do need these first ones redone, unless you’re willing to accept half credit on them. You’re supposed to—”

  “Use the words in a sentence,” I finished for him. “That’s why I never turned them in.” The ticking clock reminded me that I was supposed to be in the cafeteria, and that the line for hot lunch would be very long, and that I would soon not have enough time to talk to Genny. “Do I get my club back now?”

  It was like he knew I was in a hurry, so he took a long time thinking about it. “Are you still going to have it in Miss Fergusson’s room? Because if you wanted, you could have it here again. I know a lot about Emily Dickinson, you know.”

  The clock kept ticking, but I knew I wasn’t getting out of there without a good answer, so I ignored it. “Yeah, I know. But I think we might actually change the club now. And I’m probably not going to be in charge of it anymore. We’d probably have to take a vote, and Miss Fergusson has a quilt and a couch, and that’s a major plus.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “Miss Fergusson tells me it’s a great club. But if you ever want any help, you know, with the Emily Dickinson stuff …”

  I nodded, taking my Week 1 sentences. “I’ll give these back to you soon.” And I turned to leave, finally.

  “One more thing,” he said. “Do you really hate the weird words?”

  I stopped, confused. “What?”

  “I’m required to teach you certain words,” he said. “But I can’t resist some great old-fashioned ones, too. I know they’ll never show up on tests, but I keep hoping I’ll hear someone using them.”

  I always assumed Mr. Savage was trying to torture us with those weird words, not that he really liked them. “Well,” I told him, “I’ve been using the word vexation a lot. I guess it’s not that old-fashioned.”

  I tried to leave again, but before I made it out the door, I heard, “One more thing.”

  “You already said that,” I told him.

  He laughed again. It was more of a chuckle. “Don’t get into any more fights, all right? It makes me look bad.”

  “The beard makes you look bad,” I told him, and I was gone before he could think of one more thing.

  I ran all the way to the cafeteria, even though you’re not supposed to run in the hallways. The hot-lunch line was too long, so I skipped it. Who needs to eat, anyway? I found Denny and Genny sitting across from each other, completely silent except, probably, for their chewing.

  “Hi, Denny,” I said first, to show Genny that there were no hard feelings about Denny being a jerk all year and the big fight we’d had yesterday.

  I think he caught on to what I was doing, because he said, in a very fake, happy voice, “Oh, hi, Star!” Which was the first time he’d actually said my name. To my face, at least.

  But I think Genny could tell we were faking. “I’m sorry Denny was such a crab to you,” she told me. “I understand if you don’t want to be my friend anymore.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I told her. “For making your brother look like a doofus.”

  Denny was back to glaring.

  “He always looks like a doofus,” Genny said, and Denny shifted his glare to her. It was nice to hear her standing up to him a little. “Do you have anything to eat?” she asked me, and before I could answer, she ripped her sandwich in two and gave me a piece.

  And I knew, even though she wasn’t giving anyone the elbow, that this was what it was like to have a best friend. So I told her thanks and explained, while she made a neat pile of salami on the table, that I’d gotten the club back. “It’ll probably just be called the Poetry Club now,” I told her. “We’ll do other people besides Emily Dickinson. Maybe even some haikus.”

  “Oh, good!” she said. “Let’s make sure Langston stops drawing bras all the time, though. And, Denny, you have to talk more.”

  “Fine,” Denny muttered.

  “What?” Genny said, holding her ear closer to him.

  “Fine, I will talk more, and in complete sentences,” he said, glaring at me. I guess that wasn’t going to change.

  “Do you still want me to find some more club members?” Genny asked. I remembered what Denny had said about keeping her out of detention.

  “No,” I told her. “I think the club is perfect just the way it is.”

  “We’re exclusive!” Genny shouted. She turned to another lunch table and tapped a fifth-grade boy on the shoulder. When he turned around, she yelled, “YOU CAN’T JOIN THE CLUB!”

  I wouldn’t trade Genny for all the fifth-graders in Mr. Savage’s class. It turns out I just needed one person.

  One friend.

  A friend who didn’t care that I lived at Treasure Trailers and who thought my mullet was cool.

  And I had three, if I counted Eddie and Langston. I didn’t know how they felt about the mullet, or Treasure Trailers, but they were definitely friends. If they weren’t, I probably would have been punched by now.

  I looked at Denny and sighed. If I had to put up with him to be Genny’s friend, then I guess it was worth it.

  Genny and I spent the rest of the day telling everyone they weren’t in the club. Some people said, “What club?” and some people said, “Who are you?” and most people said, “Who cares?”

  But we kept doing it anyway.

  Star Mackie

  November 5

  Week 1 Vocabulary Sentences

  When I first sat behind lanky Denny Libra, I had no idea I’d end up being best friends with his sister, or that I’d end up throwing applesauce at his head. I was too busy thinking that living in poverty would keep me from making any friends at all. But now I have an abundance of friends, all thanks to the Emily Dickinson Club. (And you, I guess, Mr. Savage. For writing her poems on the board.)

  But now the club’s changing, and Eddie’s going to make us read a bunch of alternative poems so we aren’t just reading about Emily Dickinson all the time. I was a little reluctant to change the club, but it turns out there are a few other good poets, and besides, it’s a lot harder to run a club than I thought it would be. I’d rather let Eddie run it sometimes than get hysterical every week trying to fi
nd something new and interesting to do.

  Now I am trying to make sure these sentences are complete and circumstantial (even if they’re not alphabetical), but I am also occasionally looking at the mostly blank postcard sitting next to me. It’s supposed to be for my dad, who is not even neutral about wanting to see me—he is completely opposed to seeing me at all, ever. But he can’t send back a covert poem that is cleverly disguised as a postcard.

  So I’m sorry to tell you that I think, after this, I am done with the word vexation.

  Hopefully forever.

  I found Eddie in Miss Fergusson’s room after school, scowling at a pile of papers. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he said as I approached his desk.

  “I thought ‘The Turtle and the Bagpipe’ was your favorite poem,” I said.

  “It’s ‘The Bagpipe Who Didn’t Say No,’ ” he said, “and I told you, it’s not my favorite. I just couldn’t memorize any of the poems in that book, and I wanted to keep it so badly.” He told me how he’d snuck the book from Mrs. Flower’s desk, written the poem in there, and then recited it for her the next day. And then she’d had to give him the book, because the poem was in there, after all.

  I can’t believe he didn’t think he was smart.

  But I could tell it really was his favorite, still, because he’d never found another poem to take its place as Amarica’s Gratist Poem. “Besides,” I told him, “I want to know why you like it so much.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “What metaphors are we supposed to pull from here, anyway? And what are we gonna talk about? It’s a love poem about a turtle and a bagpipe.” He brushed all the papers into his backpack and, waving good-bye to Miss Fergusson, headed to the door. I headed out with him.

  Once we were in the hallway, I handed him my postcard. “Read this and tell me what you think.”

  “Who’s Frankie?” he asked.

  “My dad.”

  “Why do you call him Frankie? I don’t call my dad by his first name.”

  “It’s a long story. Will you shut up and read it already?”

  He shoved me, just a little bit, but stopped to read. I watched his eyes move back and forth, reading the poem I’d written on there. The same one I’d started last month. I’d finally finished it.

  Hope is a Ferris wheel –

  It takes you Low and High;

  And when you reach the Top,

  It’s like you can touch The Sky!

  And when it takes you Down –

  Hope becomes A Thing

  That, When you’re getting Off,

  You take With you to Bring.

  “Your meter’s off a bit,” Eddie said, handing back the postcard. I didn’t know what that meant. “But it’s good,” he added, thankfully, because I wasn’t going to send this to Dad without Eddie the poetry genius’s approval.

  I tucked it safely away in my pocket.

  On my way home, I stopped by the mailbox, hoping, really hoping, that Dad would like the poem so much, he wouldn’t throw it away or rip it to shreds or anything like that.

  The thing was, I would never know. Because he couldn’t send back the postcard, and until I decided to send him my address, he also couldn’t write me back at all.

  I knew that when he read it, he probably wouldn’t understand it. Maybe he’d never been on a Ferris wheel before, and there was no way he’d know that I’d been on one. But I still wanted to share my poem with him, because I had figured out how to finish it all on my own. I knew he liked poetry, and if Eddie said it was a good poem, then I knew Frankie would think so, too, even if he found it confusing.

  Besides, it was the best kind of poem: a truth poem. That, I decided, was the fourth Emily Dickinson category. For her, hope was a thing with feathers, and for me, it’s a Ferris wheel. And I hope it never stops spinning.

  Anyway, I dropped the postcard in. Because the postcard itself wasn’t a hope; it was a dream. And dreams need to fly.

  There is only one name on the front of this book, but don’t be fooled. Without the help of some very generous people (and institutions), this book simply wouldn’t exist.

  First, thanks to my family—Mom, Jessica, and Donald—for practically everything. Support, food, shelter, advice, socks, phone calls, and most importantly, a sense a humor.

  The Vermont College of Fine Arts is an amazing place, and I am so very proud to have been a part of it. I would like to extend extra thanks to my four advisors: Alan Cumyn, Rita Williams-Garcia, Julie Larios, and Shelley Tanaka, all of whom were instrumental in Star’s development. And another thank-you to my graduating class, the Thunder Badgers, for being collectively awesome and awe-inspiring.

  Elysia Willis and Brian Millet were my first (non-VCFA) readers, and it’s because of them that I didn’t lose sight of this story. (And that I survived my first year of graduate school.)

  Speaking of graduate school, I never would have made it there if I hadn’t taken Professor Kathryn Reiss’s YA literature and writing classes in college.

  And speaking of teachers, my former drama teacher, Barry Blake, was kind enough to read my first draft and give me extensive notes. (He was also kind enough to put up with me in high school.)

  All of these people helped me to be a better writer.

  Then there’s Sara Crowe. As an agent, she’s unstoppable. She never gave up on me or my book, and I’m so happy I’ve got her in my corner.

  Tamar Brazis, my editor, took this book and made it shine. It’s because of her that I am proud to put my name on it. And to the rest of the Amulet team (and especially the three M’s: Maggie, Melissa, and Maria) for being the best publisher a writer could ask for.

  And finally, there’s Brandon. He consoled me through rejections, never complained about reading a draft before I sent it off to Sara or Tamar, and bought me countless candy bars when I needed them. Thanks for sticking around, buddy.

  ROBIN HERRERA is an aspiring cat lady living in Portland, Oregon, with her fiancé and one very mean (but precious) cat. She received her BA from Mills College and her MFA in writing for children and young adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. When not chasing cats, she can be found at her desk at Oni Press, where she works as an administrative assistant, or at the library, where she severely abuses the hold system. This is her first book.

  1. Sometimes Star’s idea of normal doesn’t match up with other people’s perceptions. What are some aspects of her appearance or life that Star sees one way but other people see a different way?

  2. When Star starts the Trailer Park Club, why do you think she has a hard time finding other members to join? Was there ever a time when you judged someone without knowing them?

  3. How does the author use Star’s vocabulary lists to tell you more about Star and her life? Why do you think Star doesn’t turn them in, even after she learns how to do them correctly?

  4. Star objects to vocabulary words that she considers old-fashioned—like defenestrate and vexation—because the same thing can be said in a more modern way. Do you think it’s important to preserve words, or should language be allowed to change over time?

  5. Star collects a group of friends she didn’t mean to when she starts the Emily Dickinson Club. How do they—Genny, Eddie, and Langston—express their friendship to her? What does friendship mean to you?

  6. The first time Star saw the man she thought was her father, she was riding the Ferris wheel at the fair. How does the physical experience of being on a Ferris wheel relate to their relationship? How does Star use it as a metaphor?

  7. Star thinks Emily Dickinson, who had a very sad life, was “writing to make herself happy,” just like her sister, Winter. What are some of the reasons people write? Why does Star? Why do you?

  8. Winter likes to write scary stories, but when her teachers read them, she got in trouble. Do you think the school was right to expel her over her words? Why or why not?

  9. Star is inspired by Emily Dickinson’s poem “Hope,” also known as “Hope is th
e thing with feathers,” and she discusses the idea of hope with many other characters in the book. Which character’s definition of hope do you like best? How would you describe hope?

  10. Gloria has been friends with Star’s mother, Carly, since they were kids. Over the course of the book, Genny becomes Star’s best friend. What are some similarities and differences between these two sets of best friends?

  11. After going to Oregon with Winter, Star finds out that the man she thought was her father really isn’t. How does Star think this discovery will change her relationships with Winter and her mother? Does she still think that after she talks to them about it?

  12. Star writes a letter to her biological father, but it is returned unread. She then decides to send him a postcard with a poem she wrote, even though he might never read it. Why do you think she sent him her poem? Do you think this was a good idea? Why or why not?

  13. Star’s classmate Jared writes a poem based on Emily Dickinson’s “I’m nobody! Who are you?”. Read the real poem below:

  I’m nobody ! Who are you?

  Are you nobody, too?

  Then there’s a pair of us —don’t tell !

  They’d banish us, you know.

  How dreary to be somebody !

  How public, like a frog

  To tell your name the livelong day

  To an admiring bog !

  Star thinks all of Emily Dickinson’s poems fit into a few themes: nature, God, death, and truth. Where does the above poem fit? Do you think there should be other categories? What does this poem mean to you? Would you rather be somebody or nobody?

  14. Eddie wants the Emily Dickinson Club to begin with reading “Because I could not stop for Death,” also called “The Chariot.” Later, he recites a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks for Star. Compare and contrast Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop for Death” with Gwendolyn Brooks’s “We Real Cool.”