“All right!” Alex said, a little too loudly, as if to make up for Ethan’s and Lizzie’s silence. He positioned his tie in place—one layer of the printed fabric and one layer of a stiff white fabric called interfacing. “Here goes my entry into the sewing hall of fame!”
He sewed the first seam neatly and efficiently, then the second. But when he went to remove his tie from the machine, he pretended that his head was stuck to the fabric. “Ooh! Ouch! Help, you guys! I’ve sewed my hair to my tie! I’m going to have to wear it as a hair ribbon now forever!”
“Cut it out,” Ethan said. To Lizzie’s astonishment, he sounded angry. “Leave her alone, will you?”
Alex dropped his act abruptly. “Hey,” he said, “I was just kidding. It’s not against the law to kid someone.”
“You go next, Lizzie,” Ethan said with unmistakable chivalry.
Suddenly Lizzie understood. Ethan thought Lizzie minded Alex’s teasing; he thought she was close to tears because of Alex! Did he really not know the difference between mean teasing and flirtatious teasing? Didn’t he know that Alex’s teasing could never hurt Lizzie as much as his own coldness? But he wasn’t acting cold now. Despite everything that had happened in PAL math, despite the D he had gotten at Lizzie’s hands, he was defending Lizzie against the world once again.
Lizzie loved Ethan more than ever, not that she had ever really stopped loving him. She gave Alex a quick, apologetic smile, meant to say that she knew he hadn’t intended to hurt her by his jokes.
And yet … Ethan obviously still thought of Lizzie as a loser, as a pathetic, pitiful person whom he had to protect from the Alexes of the world. He didn’t seem to realize that Lizzie had changed, that Alex liked her now, that Alison liked her, even Marcia liked her. Everybody liked Lizzie now—except for Ethan. And Lizzie herself.
Well, she half liked her new self. She liked not being an outcast, she liked having friends, even having a real friend, Alison. She liked the new confidence she had developed; she liked being able to be funny in class, able to joke with boys. But she was worn out from trying to figure out how to be someone who wasn’t good at math, someone who didn’t write poetry, someone who, on the outside and the inside, was just like everybody else.
As the boys waited, Lizzie managed, for the first time, to sew her seams straight and true. But inside, everything felt more crooked and tangled than ever.
* * *
Lizzie called Aunt Elspeth after dinner, wondering if she’d be sitting home all alone or out having adventures in downtown Chicago. Aunt Elspeth answered on the third ring.
“Lizzie! How’s my favorite niece?”
“Okay, I guess.” Now that she had called, she didn’t know exactly what it was she had wanted to say.
“Just okay? You guess?”
“I had a fight with Ethan.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“It was about something in math class. Aunt Elspeth, do you think it’s true that boys don’t like girls who are good in math?”
“Not boys who are worth caring about. Do you think Ethan doesn’t like you because you’re good in math?”
“No.” Ethan didn’t like her—or liked her even less than usual—because she wasn’t good in math, or had been acting as if she wasn’t. “I just meant, in general.”
“In general, I think boys—and girls—like people who have lots of talents and abilities, people who know who they are and who feel good about who they are.”
There was an awkward silence on the phone as Lizzie let this sink in.
“Any more roller-skating parties?” Aunt Elspeth asked then.
“No. But I went to a couple of football games. And there’s a dance tomorrow night.”
“You’re going, I take it.”
“I think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Lately”—Lizzie swallowed the lump in her throat—“I’m not sure about anything.”
“You know what?” Aunt Elspeth said softly. “I’m thirty years older than you are, and I’m not sure about anything, either. But I’ve figured out that it’s all right not to be sure.”
“It is?”
“So long as you don’t let that keep you from trying new things. Like roller-skating parties. And dances. All kinds of new things.”
And math teams? Lizzie knew that Aunt Elspeth would think she was crazy for hesitating about the math team. Aunt Elspeth wouldn’t need to consult Marcia or Alison before saying yes to the math team and to the dance. Aunt Elspeth said yes to everything. Yet she had said no to her marriage, to staying married to Uncle Will.
“And as you try things, you’ll figure out more about what you like and don’t like,” Aunt Elspeth went on, not seeming to mind the silence on Lizzie’s end of the phone. “And who you like and don’t like. Maybe you’ll make things up with Ethan. Maybe you won’t. But I have a feeling it’ll be okay, either way. That you’ll be okay, either way.”
Lizzie tried to hold on to Aunt Elspeth’s confidence, like a rope stretched taut across the abyss of seventh grade. “I’d better go,” she said, working to keep her voice from wobbling. “I have math homework due tomorrow.”
Lizzie sat holding the receiver for a long moment after she hung up the phone. And then, for no reason at all, she flung herself across the bed, facedown, and broke into a passion of stormy sobs, stifling them in her soggy pillow so no one would hear.
Thirteen
On Friday morning at breakfast, Lizzie’s mother was bubbling over with enthusiasm for Lizzie’s class trip to the university library.
“It’s been years since I’ve been to the rare books room, but, oh, what treasures they have! A pen owned by Walt Whitman, which he may have used to write Leaves of Grass. A whole entire Bible in miniature, two inches high. Gorgeous, gorgeous things.”
Lizzie wanted to be excited, too. Once upon a time she would have wept with joy at the thought of being in the same room as a famous poet’s actual pen. But that was before life had become so painful and complicated. Lizzie was supposed to tell Mr. Grotient that afternoon—that very afternoon—what she had decided about Mathletes. And if that weren’t bad enough, that evening—that very evening—was the dance.
Even her horoscope admitted that trouble lay ahead. Lizzie had noticed that the horoscope writer tended to accentuate the positive. The horoscope never said, “Today will be an unmitigated disaster for you in every way.” But for Friday, Lizzie’s horoscope said:
Both business affairs and affairs of the heart require delicacy today. Avoid a slip that could be costly for both your ambitions and your affections.
How was that for a horoscope, when you were sick with nervous dread already?
As Lizzie sat poring over the horoscope at the breakfast table, her father’s voice startled her. “You’re not still into astrology, are you, Lizzie?”
Defensively, Lizzie laid her arm over the astrology book, as if to cover up the evidence of her fascination with the stars. “It’s right an awful lot of the time.”
“And it’s wrong an awful lot of the time.”
Was that true? Lizzie only remembered the times the horoscope had pinpointed her problems with astonishing accuracy. “I think mine’s been right a lot more than it’s been wrong.”
“That’s because people pounce on the occasional coincidence and conveniently forget the rest. Look at it this way, Lizzie. There are six billion people in the world and twelve astrological signs. Assuming that birthdays are fairly evenly distributed throughout the year, that means that half a billion people—people in Colorado, in New Jersey, in France, in Pakistan, in Peru—all share the same sign. Could there possibly be advice that would fit the needs and circumstances of half a billion different people? Here, let me see that book.”
Reluctantly, Lizzie handed it to him.
He frowned at the page. “What’s your sign? Aries? ‘Avoid a slip that could be costly for both your ambitions and your affections.’ If the slip occurs, you’ll say, ah
a, my horoscope foretold it. If the slip doesn’t occur, you’ll say, aha, I managed to avoid it. Either way, the horoscope comes out looking as if it matches the truth, when in reality you’re twisting the truth to make it fit.”
Lizzie had to admit that what he said made sense. But seventh grade was so hard, and getting harder by the minute. She needed to feel that somehow the stars were on her side.
“I think Lizzie knows that,” her mother said gently. “Horoscopes are fun to read, but Lizzie’s always been someone who follows her own star.”
Did her mother say it because she thought it was true, or because she wished it were true?
As her parents dropped her off in front of school, her mother gave Lizzie her usual goodbye kiss. “Have a wonderful day, my sweet Elizabeth,” she said. As Lizzie reached for the door handle, she added, “Follow your star.”
* * *
Lizzie’s class was the only one going to the university that morning; other classes were going on other days, since the rare books room limited the size of tour groups visiting its collection. Instead of a school bus, they rode the public bus that ran by West Creek Middle School.
The bus was already crowded with people going to work, so most of the students, including Lizzie, had to stand. Lizzie was wedged in between Marcia and Ethan. Too short to reach the overhead strap, Lizzie tried to hold on to the back of the seat next to her without touching the head of the heavyset, bald man sitting there.
At the first traffic light, the bus lurched to a stop. Lizzie lost her grip on the bald man’s seat and was thrown forward against Ethan. As if by instinct, Ethan reached out a hand to steady her. For the briefest of instants, his hand touched hers.
“I’m sorry,” Lizzie said. She was sorry for falling against him, obviously, but also for PAL math, for embarrassing him with her crush for so many months now, for everything.
“That’s okay,” Ethan said. Lizzie knew he wasn’t replying to her full apology. Still, he had been willing to defend her against Alex yesterday in family living. He had been willing to reach out his hand.
For an instant—
our hands touched—
Eternity—
was not this much.
The lines came unbidden into Lizzie’s brain, dashes and all, like a fragment from Emily Dickinson, Lizzie’s favorite poet. Lizzie didn’t bother changing back into her white Emily Dickinson dresses after school anymore. She was used to jeans. They felt comfortable now. But she still loved Emily Dickinson’s poetry as much as ever.
“No horsing around back there!” the driver called out, as if it was their fault that he had stopped the bus too suddenly and thrown the standees—others as well as Lizzie—off balance.
For answer, Alex gave a loud neigh. Lizzie laughed. It felt like the first time she had laughed in days.
At the university, Ms. Singpurwalla shepherded them through a stiff wind to a small, somewhat sheltered courtyard. “This is the university’s Shakespeare garden.” Ms. Singpurwalla gestured toward a flower bed next to a sandstone wall. “They’ve planted many of the flowers and herbs mentioned in various Shakespeare plays. There are a number from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Little engraved signs hung next to some of the plants. Lizzie read to herself from one of them: “I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows.” Next to her, Tom leaned over for a closer look, too.
“There’s the thyme.” Ms. Singpurwalla pointed to a small plant.
“Wow!” Alex exclaimed too loudly, with evident sarcasm. “Actual thyme, like you can buy in a little jar at King Soopers!”
Lizzie ignored him. She thought it was wonderful to see the thyme bush growing in this magical little garden, and to imagine Titania, the fairy queen, lying in a bed of flowers, sleeping.
“Here’s another quote from the play,” Ms. Singpurwalla went on. Smiling, she read, “‘Eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.’ See: onion, garlic.”
“Hah!” Alex breathed out loudly, right into Marcia’s face. “How’s that for sweet breath?” Marcia squealed and pushed him away. Lizzie was glad to see Alex paying attention to Marcia again. But then he turned to Lizzie. “Hah!” His actually not-so-sweet breath came full in her face.
“Alex,” Ms. Singpurwalla said in a warning tone.
The wind came up again, and Ms. Singpurwalla hurried them into the university’s massive stone library. Then she led them into the ground-floor reference room, where a librarian was waiting to give them a short tour of the library. He pointed out a large oil portrait of a stout, distinguished-looking man, after whom the library had been named.
“Hey, buddy,” Alex greeted the portrait. “If you didn’t hang out in the library so much, you wouldn’t be so fat.”
Ms. Singpurwalla shushed him, but not before some kids laughed.
As the librarian began to explain how to use the university’s online catalogue, Alex made another comment, in a low voice, to Lizzie and Marcia: “Over there, by the elevator. Look at that guy with the beard!”
Lizzie looked. It was her father. He was standing in front of the elevator, an open book in his hand, reading while he waited. As was his habit when reading, he twirled one finger in his beard.
“What planet do you think he’s on?” Alex continued.
Lizzie wanted to say, “Stop it. That’s my father.” But she couldn’t say it. She wished the elevator would arrive and whisk her father, book, beard, and all, away to some other part of the library, far away from the rare books room.
Lizzie’s father looked up from his book and glanced toward the tour group. He scanned them more closely, as if remembering that Lizzie’s class was going to be visiting the library today. Without thinking, like a prairie dog darting into its hole, Lizzie ducked behind Alex. She couldn’t bear for her father to call out to her, maybe even to come over and say hello, in front of Alex, in front of Marcia, in front of everybody. She made herself as small as she could. Finally she heard the sound of the elevator doors opening, then closing again. She was safe, for now.
Lizzie was ashamed of herself for being ashamed of her father. More than anything, she hoped her father hadn’t seen her hide behind Alex. And if he had, she hoped he didn’t know why she had done it. It was so easy for him, and for her mother, being different from other people. It wasn’t easy for Lizzie. But lately trying not to be different seemed harder still.
The librarian finished his reference room presentation and led the group up the winding staircase, past the second-floor periodicals room, to the third floor. “I’ll leave you now to enjoy your visit to our special collections,” he said.
The rare books lady was short, almost as short as Lizzie. She flung open the door as if she were welcoming them to a holiday party at her home. “I’m Maxine. Come in, come in! We’ve been waiting for you!”
The class filed inside and stood in an awkward knot near the door. Maxine was so genial and friendly that Lizzie half expected her to lead them to a brimming punch bowl and a table loaded with savory, steaming treats. Instead she pointed to a different kind of feast: a table loaded with books.
“We’re not going to start right away with our Shakespeare collection,” Maxine said. “First I want to show you some of our other treasures, appetizers, if you will.” So Maxine thought of this as a banquet, too.
“Item number one. A note written by Samuel Clemens to himself, reminding him to pick up his laundry. Who here knows who Samuel Clemens was?”
Lizzie waited to see if anyone else would answer. Tom did: “Mark Twain.”
“Yes. Now, why would we save something like this? Save it for over a hundred years? A scrap of paper with Mark Twain’s little memo on it?”
“Because it’s worth a lot of money?” somebody asked.
“It’s probably worth quite a bit, but that’s not why we save it. Why is it worth money, do you think? Why would people put such value on this?”
Alex could never resist that kind of question. Lizzie could see him trying
to come up with a funny response. Unable to help herself, she blurted out, “Just because it’s so ordinary. It makes him seem like a real person, the kind of person who has to pick up his laundry, and has to write himself a reminder to do it.”
Maxine smiled at Lizzie. “Exactly!” Lizzie had made a new friend.
Marcia giggled and whispered something to Alex. Maybe it wasn’t about Lizzie; maybe it was. Lizzie made her own mental memo: Don’t say anything else during the rare books tour. But, oh, she was tired of having to live her life according to what Marcia Faitak would think.
The next item was an old-time typewriter, sitting next to its case, which was covered with colorful luggage stickers from various transatlantic ocean liners. It had been owned by a famous lady novelist of her time, someone Lizzie had never heard of, who had traveled around the world several times with her typewriter, pounding out novel after novel as she went. Lizzie wished people still traveled by ship and wrote with typewriters. She wished people still wrote with fountain pens.
Maxine showed them the exquisite tiny Bible Lizzie’s mother had mentioned at breakfast, explaining that in the nineteenth century the Victorians had been fascinated with the making of miniature books. Even Marcia and Alex looked impressed.
“There’s really a Bible in there?” Marcia asked.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Maxine answered.
“What if you lost it?” Alex asked. “Like flushed it down the toilet by mistake, or something?”
“You’d have flushed away something worth forty thousand dollars, and a one-of-a-kind treasure,” Maxine answered calmly.
Alex looked subdued for a moment, but only for a moment. As Maxine turned to another treasure, Alex gave an enormous sneeze into his cupped hands. Then he pretended to wipe his hands on the Mark Twain note.
In a flash Maxine whirled around and descended upon him. “I’m sorry,” she said, all geniality abruptly vanishing. “We can’t permit this kind of treatment of our priceless collection. I’m going to have to ask you to leave the tour.”
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