Sunlight reflected off the snow and streamed through the library’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Light pooled on the burgundy carpet. Comfortable clumps of book-lined shelves created nooks and corners for armchairs with footstools, reading lamps, and end tables. Our high-tech library back in California was a library from a different universe. Here, on ordinary days, as soon as I walked in the door I wanted to bury my nose in a book. Today, though, I wondered if I’d be able to sit at all, with Helen, Meredith, and Dad on their way out to the shack, Patch totally unprotected in her den, and God knows what was up with Andrew.
I checked the clock. Nine fifteen, and Dad wasn’t picking me up until one thirty. I took out my sketchbook. What would I draw if I opened to a blank page? The girl again, glaring at me because I’d broken my promise? Andrew frowning over the dishes? Or even worse, the girl’s dad visiting Patch’s den? Pips was right. I needed art books. I slung my backpack onto the floor and climbed onto one of three tall stools next to the catalog computers. The cursor flashed innocently, a silent question. What would you like to find, Sadie?
I wanted what I couldn’t have. Vivian. My ex-art teacher, ever present, yet completely missing from my life. Every once in a while, I’d turn a corner and wham—her face appeared in my mind. The disappointed expression on her face at the trial where I’d testified against her son, Peter. Her intense gaze when she asked me to speak to Peter first, listen to his story, before I turned him in for shooting Big Murphy outside of hunting season. Sometimes I envisioned her happier, the way she smiled over my sketchbook after I completed a drawing, or when she lifted freshly baked cookies from the oven.
The cursor’s question became louder with each blink. What did I want? What book could possibly make up for not having a teacher?
Vivian had shown me the painting Starry Night, and I’d liked the colors and the shapes, but mostly the feeling. Van Gogh. I typed his name, and the screen filled with titles.
Van Gogh and the Colors of the Night
Letters of Vincent Van Gogh
Van Gogh: Sunflowers and Swirly Stars
I scrolled back to the first title. Van Gogh and the Colors of the Night. Starry Night filled the cover. Sunflowers and landscapes in yellows and reds and greens on the other covers didn’t appeal to me. I wasn’t sure why, but the swirling blues and purples with the bright yellow starlight whispered of mystery.
I jotted the book’s reference number on a slip of paper and wandered up and down rows of shelves. There were at least fifty art books. I pulled a few down, The Art Book and 50 Artists You Should Know, and of course, the Van Gogh. I carried the pile to a nearby armchair.
Landscape after landscape filled The Art Book, including some of Van Gogh’s paintings of flowers. Most, including Van Gogh’s flowers, were too yellow, too finished. Creepy, lifeless eyes stared back at me from many of the portraits. I opened 50 Artists You Should Know. More paintings I didn’t love. I swallowed back guilt. Obviously someone smart thought these images were masterpieces. What was my problem? I flipped through the book again, more slowly now, trying to really look at the pictures. Picture after picture after picture. Frustrated, I closed the book and returned to Starry Night. The difference startled me. My eyes slipped along the curve of the blue toward the crescent moon and then tumbled from star to star down into the quiet town. Questions popped up, unexpected. Who slept here? What went on in the houses with lit windows? An idea flickered at the edge of my mind, but I couldn’t put it into words. I opened The Art Book again to one of the first images, The Nubian Giraffe.
In the picture, a giraffe stood near two Arab keepers and a gentleman in a suit. The giraffe’s head hovered above the three men who were deep in conversation. If I thought about it, I could list all sorts of questions about this painting. And yet, questions didn’t spring to mind naturally.
Was this the difference? Starry Night invited me to wonder, but many of the other pictures did not. Paintings—captured still moments — couldn’t help but feel finished. And yet, the way my eyes moved around Starry Night made me feel as though time could pass, as though my own ideas and thoughts about the scene mattered, making the picture more than just a picture.
Looking at books was nothing like going to Vivian’s house. Vivian would ask me questions, give me an assignment. What was my assignment now? Vivian would tell me to look carefully. To draw what I saw. Would drawing Starry Night teach me something?
I slid my colored pencils out of my bag, set the Van Gogh book on the end table, and tried to draw there in my sketchbook. My pencils rolled off the little table, and my elbows bumped into the armrests. After struggling for a few minutes, I packed everything up and headed for the larger table at the back of the library.
I rounded the last shelf and stopped. The last person I expected sat at the end of the long table. Frankie.
Chapter 6
Illusion
Not the Frankie who had left two weeks ago, though. At first, I couldn’t pinpoint the exact difference. Her white blond hair was pulled back in her usual ponytail, but she clearly had a new, layered haircut. Strands fell around her chin, framing her face, which was different, too. Her eyebrows were thinner, more arched. Her eyelashes were darker, and small crystals sparkled like stars in her newly pierced ears. Her fingernails weren’t cherry red with chipped edges. Instead of being painted, now they shone. Frankie had always been pretty, but now she looked … … what was the word? Finished? Like a sketch that had been detailed into a final drawing.
Strangest of all, her expression was wrong. When she looked up at me, the edge of her mouth tilted up slightly before she returned to her drawing. No sharp insult. No fierce glare. What did that odd expression — could you call it a smile—mean? And why, after being gone for so long, was she sitting in the library with her math book?
I had two options: sit down and draw or leave. For reasons I couldn’t understand, leaving seemed wrong. Mean, somehow. Not that Frankie had wanted me anywhere near before. But something about her drooping shoulders made me feel that walking away would be cruel.
So I sat down, took out my pencils, and tried to draw.
But I couldn’t. Not with Frankie at the end of the table — probably watching and dreaming up more insults about me existing on the planet. After three false starts, I finally sketched the shape of the swirls in the sky, the curve of the moon. Every once in a while, I looked up at Frankie. She kept her eyes down, black ink covering her page. Her image wasn’t really a drawing, more a random collection of lines. I’d never seen Frankie draw. I’d never seen Frankie without a group of friends nearby.
I shouldn’t stare.
I forced my attention back to my drawing, to the big, blue-black shape in Starry Night — the mountain or bush or what was it? I sketched the outline and started shading it in.
“Do you understand this order of operations thing?”
Frankie had turned to a fresh page in her notebook and written an equation at the top. I blinked at her, hearing her words repeat two or three times in my mind before I comprehended what she had asked. She had not insulted me. She had asked me a question. About math.
“I’m interrupting you.” She waved her hand in the air, as though she was batting her question away, out of the space between us.
I turned back to my drawing. What should I do? I was no math whiz myself. But I had finally, after hours of struggling, figured out the order of operations. Frankie made an x through her first attempt and wrote the equation again. I slid down the bench until I sat across from her.
After watching Frankie write and erase numbers for a while, I finally gathered the courage to say, “The part that confused me was doing the multiplication and division first, and then the addition and subtraction.”
“You don’t have to help me, Sadie.”
There. The sharp tone I expected from Frankie. But still, no sarcasm, no evil glare. And really, did I wish the torture of learning the order of operations on anyone—even Frankie?
“I do
n’t mind.”
She looked up and smiled that tiny almost smile again.
“Truly?”
She tore a page out of her notebook and passed it over. I wrote the equation.
“First do everything in the parenthesis. You already had that. And then any multiplication or division, left to right. Last, do the addition or subtraction.” I handed the page back.
Instead of looking at the numbers, she studied me. “What are you drawing?”
I shrugged. “Starry Night. Van Gogh.”
“Do you still take art lessons?”
At first I wondered how she knew these things, but then I remembered my presentation at school, in October, with all my drawings. I must have said something then. I wouldn’t have thought Frankie would remember anything about me, unless it was fuel for a new insult.
“No.”
“I think Vivian Harris should come back to our classroom. To do more art with us, I mean. All we ever do is math and science and English and social studies. And PE. Running. My favorite.” Her sarcasm was back.
“Mine too.”
I was smiling at Frankie. Frankie, who had hated me before she even met me because of my dad’s job. Frankie, whose dad, at this very moment, was plotting to shoot Patch as she slept in her den, and in a flash all my worries flooded back. I checked the clock. Noon. Dad, Helen, and Meredith were probably with the family in the woods right now, unless they had already left.
I slid back to my seat and quickly packed up my pencils and notebook. “I’ll see you around.”
“See ya.” Frankie went back to her math.
At the main desk, I checked out the Van Gogh, and the librarian convinced me to borrow a book she’d just bought, Masters of Deception. Its pages revealed illusion after optical illusion, arches that turned out to be boats on a sea, a photograph of a heap of bottles and shakers that cast the shadow of a woman with an umbrella.
I stood and flipped through the astonishing images, but even they couldn’t hold my attention. Dad wouldn’t be here for another hour and a half, but my legs were jumpy and I had to get some fresh air. After I packed up my bag and bundled up, I went outside. Even in my coat, hat, and boots, the fifteen-degree air wouldn’t allow me to take the walk I needed so badly. But after my awkward conversation with Frankie, I couldn’t go back into the library. Time for hot chocolate at Black Bear Java.
Chapter 7
Traditions
On Monday morning, Frankie’s desk was empty. The old radiator clanked and spewed hot, dusty air into the classroom. Bright light shone through the paned windows, but still I felt shut in, itchy. Andrew and I hadn’t talked since Friday’s phone conversation. The little girl’s face haunted my thoughts. Why did she want me to promise not to tell anyone about her if her family hadn’t done anything wrong? If I could just hike to the cabin, convince the girl to keep Patch’s den a secret. How much does she really know?
Ruth shot me a silent question, looking meaningfully at Frankie’s empty desk — Where is she? I shrugged. Who knew?
Ms. Murphy was more flustered than ever. Her hair frizzed out of her messy bun, and her glasses hung lopsided on their beaded chain. She flipped through one file after another, taking out one paper here, another there. She made me feel nervous just looking at her. I stacked and restacked my textbooks.
“See the rock on her finger?” Abby whispered to Erin, loud enough for the class to hear.
Abby and Erin each shared an earphone from their iPod, like they did every morning. The music was so loud I could hear it three rows over.
For the first time that year, the class fell dead silent, all eyes front. Ms. Murphy looked down at her hand.
“Welcome back from the long weekend.” She cleared her throat. “As Abby and Erin have noticed, I had a surprise over Thanksgiving break.”
Ms. Murphy held up her hand to show off the sapphire on her ring finger, and then smiled, a very shy, strange smile for a teacher. “I’m engaged.”
Everyone started talking, and a few boys wolf-whistled. Ms. Murphy’s smile didn’t fade. Finally, she held up both hands for quiet.
“Okay. It’s out in the open and over. That’s enough. We’re starting a new project today with partners, and I need your attention.”
Chairs scraped across the scratched linoleum as students stood and scrambled toward the partner of their choice. The door banged open, interrupting the process, and Frankie walked in, her face stony. She looked way different. Though she tried to disguise her haircut with loads of gel and a ponytail, no one could miss the pierced ears or designer jeans — even with rips in the knees.
“Look who decided to show up,” Ty said. He had to make his presence known, having just returned from a prolonged suspension. He smirked at his cronies, Mario, Dmitri, and Nick. “Miss New York fashion herself.”
I caught Ruth’s eye. She looked surprised, too. Frankie flushed. Ty’s harsh tone towards Frankie was quite different than his usual flirty sappiness. And what did he mean about New York? Nicole and Tess, Frankie’s friends, both stared at their fingernails. Frankie didn’t have an ounce of Saturday’s sadness. Now, her perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted, daring anyone and everyone. She held Ty’s gaze for a long moment. Ms. Murphy watched their exchange, but didn’t give the traditional tardy speech.
“Everyone take a seat. You will not choose your own partners. Write your name and toss it in the basket.” Groans filled the room, Frankie and Ty forgotten, and Ms. Murphy ignored our grumbling as she collected our assorted slips of paper. When that was done, she started the picking process, row by row, Abby first.
Abby drew Ty’s name and her cheeks flamed. The back-row boys made kissing sounds. Unfortunately for Abby, everyone knew she had a crush on Ty. I watched Frankie for signs of irritation, but other than one raised eyebrow, Frankie didn’t flinch. Nicole drew Tess. Ruth got Mario. Then me. I opened my slip. Not possible. Frankie.
“Since it’s December, we’ll combine our survey of world religions with the study of holiday traditions. Each group will fully research their topic, write a paper, and make a presentation to the class.”
More grumbling.
“Our purpose in this project is to explore how religion affects culture. Pair up.”
Ms. Murphy passed out envelopes as we dragged our desks next to our partners. I carried my books to the desk next to Frankie’s. Obviously, she had no intention of moving.
“You want to open the envelope?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Whatever. You do it.”
I was so unsure with Frankie. Had our talk at the library changed things between us? I waited until Ms. Murphy distributed all the other packets.
“I said open it,” Frankie said.
I sighed, ripped it open, and took out our assignment. “St. Lucia Day, Sweden.” Never heard of it.
Ms. Murphy glanced at our assignment and placed a thick packet on my desk. Back at the board, she said, “Both partners are responsible for equal amounts of research. Your packet’s first page lists the research categories. Divide the categories between you and your partner, label your topics with your name, and turn the page in before you leave for PE.”
Perfect. Now Frankie and I had to have a discussion.
Frankie dug her pen into her desktop. “I’ll do food, activities, and cultural importance of the tradition. And the overview of current Sweden. You do the religious stuff. You’re all churchy with Ruth, aren’t you?”
Was I? I rolled the word around in my mind. Churchy. A word that wrinkles your nose and feels like it should be hidden in your most private drawer. Before I met Ruth, before I visited her youth group, before I found myself looking for answers in an empty church on a stormy night, I would have cringed to hear anyone describe me this way. But now, the word bothered me for different reasons. After I curled up in that quiet sanctuary, when the warmth of something unimaginable and yet undeniably real wrapped around me, I could no longer doubt that God existed, and more importantly, that he cared. Churchy
was such a small word, the absolute wrong word. My experience had nothing to do with buildings, whatever churchy was.
But I didn’t feel like arguing with Frankie. I wrote her name next to the topics she’d chosen and my name next to the others. I pried the staple off the packet, ripping my fingernail in the process, but freed the cover sheet and took it up to Ms. Murphy.
“You and Frankie decided quickly.” Ms. Murphy squinted at me over the top of her glasses. “Will you two work together all right?”
Translation: Frankie frequently insults you and has hated you since she moved here until she unexpectedly disappeared for two weeks, had some kind of makeover that she’s trying to hide, and now she doesn’t seem to be talking to anyone, including her friends, so please make this work, Sadie.
“Sure. No problem.” I said. I smiled and returned to my desk.
I flipped through Masters of Deception, silently rehearsing what I might say to the girl in the woods. Would seeing me again make her more angry?
Finally the bell rang. Ruth was deep in argument with Mario. I walked to PE without her, but she barreled into me by my locker.
“Mario hates me, Sadie. And he won’t do anything. He wrote his name down for food. Food. He refuses to do anything else. Ms. Murphy finally told us to give her our choices tomorrow. We got Hanukkah.”
I told her about Frankie as we swiveled our padlocks and opened our lockers. Stale gym clothes smell wafted out. I fished out my gym shirt. “Gross. I need to wash these clothes. How can I sweat when it’s like ten degrees outside?”
“Weather says that it actually will be ten degrees. An arctic chill is on the way.”
Flickering Hope Page 3