Things Seen from Above

by Shelley Pearsall

  And air.

  I wasn’t a big fan of steep heights like this at all. When we finally reached the top, I had to literally force myself to turn around. Even then, I held on to one of the metal handrails with one hand for security.

  “Are you okay?” Veena asked, noticing my anxious expression.

  “Sure.” But I couldn’t really relax and look around until I was sitting down on the bleachers.

  As we waited for the pregame events to start, Veena practiced taking a few pictures with the camera. “Everything is so colorful,” she said excitedly.

  “Like India?” I teased.

  “Yes,” she nodded, eyes sparkling. “It is.”

  Which just goes to show you that home can be found anywhere.

  Below us, the stadium was a moving kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. You didn’t know where to look first. Homecoming convertibles in shades of candy-apple red and turquoise-blue waited to parade past the stands. Football players filled the field with shifting patterns of orange and black, and blue and silver, as they went through their warm-ups. Cheerleaders backflipped along the sidelines and tossed silver pom-poms into the air.

  Although I’d been to other Homecomings before, this one seemed different. Maybe it was the view from the top of the grandstand, but the whole scene seemed much more colorful and exciting than I remembered.

  I couldn’t help wondering if this was the way Joey saw the world all the time. Was it always this chaotic, confusing, colorful scene to him? And were there other ways of seeing it—ones that we hadn’t even discovered yet?

  I must have spoken the last question out loud, because Veena turned to me and suddenly said, “Yes.”

  “What?” I glanced at her.

  “You asked if there were other ways of seeing, and I was answering—yes, there are.” She lowered Mr. Mac’s camera. “In India, we believe in something called the third eye.” She tapped a spot between her eyes. “It is here. It is the mind’s eye—the invisible eye of intuition and intellect that looks inward.”

  Wow. I loved that idea. A third eye that looked inward.

  “That’s exactly how I see the world sometimes.”

  Veena smiled. “Everyone has one.”

  It made me think about other ways of seeing things that weren’t visible—like thoughts and feelings. Could we see with our heart for instance? Was there a heart’s eye?

  Suddenly, the stadium loudspeaker crackled. My heart skipped a few beats as I realized the field had mostly cleared.

  It was time.

  “Gooood evening, Marshallville! Welcome to tonight’s Homecoming game! Let’s hear it for our Marshallville Tigers team,” the announcer called out, and the crowd roared in response.

  As the sound rolled upward, I started to panic. I couldn’t see Joey or the art machine anywhere on the sideline. Where was he? Had it been too much for him already?

  Below us, the activities moved at a dizzying pace. Convertibles and floats rolled past the stands. There was the introduction of the Homecoming Court. The presentation of the King and Queen—a football player and a cheerleader (of course). The national anthem. The band routines.

  Veena took pictures of everything—although I was sure Mr. Mac didn’t really need photos of the Homecoming Court or the parade of convertibles from Marshallville Ford. But Veena was so excited, I didn’t want to ruin her happiness.

  And then—before I realized what was happening—the announcer was introducing Joey.

  “And now, folks, we have a big surprise for you tonight,” the voice boomed over the stadium. “I want you to turn your attention to the field and see what Marshallville Elementary’s most famous artist has in store for us tonight. You’ve seen him on TV. You’ve read about him in the newspaper. Everybody, put your hands together for fourth grader Joey Byrd and his fantastic Art Machine.”

  My heart leaped into my throat.

  I could see Joey on the sideline now. He stood motionless on the fifty-yard line marker. His small body was nearly swallowed up by the orange-and-black Tigers coat. As the crowd roared for him, I could see the coat sway a little, as if the sound itself might topple him like a house of cards.

  I clenched my hands together.

  Please, please stay vertical, I whispered.

  I saw Mr. Ulysses step out from the crowd on the sideline to squeeze Joey’s shoulder. He appeared to whisper something in his ear. Whatever he said seemed to work. After a slight hesitation, Joey entered the field, slowly pushing the gleaming chalk machine in front of him.

  From above, the orange tank was vivid against the emerald-green grass. The stadium lights glinted off the brass funnel. As Joey moved into the open field, a bright line of white chalk dust trailed behind him.

  An expectant hush fell over the crowd.

  I was sure most fans had already guessed what Joey Byrd was about to make (although I still had my own doubts). There was no question it would be a Marshallville Tiger. How good would it be? How long would it take? Those were the only real mysteries.

  What did appear on the field that legendary Homecoming night was a surprise to everyone. Even today, it is still a matter of much debate.

  Human beings can’t fly like eagles. Chalk tigers can’t roar. Except in dreams and movies. Still, Joey thought it might be possible. If the wings were big enough. If his tracing was perfect enough. If someone’s imagination was strong enough. Perhaps the magic could happen. Perhaps you could see a tiger, or an eagle—or something else entirely.

  It would all depend on where you looked from.

  From our vantage point at the top of the stands, we had a bird’s-eye view of everything Joey did. Aiming Mr. Mac’s camera at the field, Veena stood on tiptoe—as if that would somehow help her take better pictures.

  At first, Joey seemed to be heading in the right direction—moving clockwise around the field making the wavy outline of the tiger’s furry head. Mr. Ulysses’s chalk machine seemed to be working perfectly. The lines unspooled behind Joey like bright strands of thread. And he seemed to be walking faster than usual—which was good, because I wasn’t sure how patient the crowd would be.

  I let myself relax a little. Everything was going perfectly so far.

  The stands on both sides of the field were so quiet that you could hear the sound of seagulls screeching in the parking lot.

  As Joey reached the opposite side of the field, the players on both football teams climbed up on their benches to get a better view. It seemed funny to see the big high school football players—some the size of small mountains—focused on a little kid in an orange-sleeved coat.

  As Joey turned toward us again, I expected the details of the tiger’s face to begin emerging at any moment. I waited for the fierce eyes and the diagonal whiskers and the stripes to appear….

  But they didn’t.

  That’s when I started to get worried.

  What was Joey doing?

  I whispered to Veena, “What in the world is he making?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the screen of the camera.

  A murmur grew among the crowd as people began to stand up, row by row, trying to get a better view—trying to decipher what they were seeing.

  Pretty soon everyone in the bleachers (including me) was standing. Next to us, the announcers in the broadcast booth leaned out their open window.

  Was the fourth grader making a wing or a paw? Was it a nose or a beak? Human or animal? Vegetable or mineral? No one was quite certain. Hands pointed. Voices grew louder. Phones balanced in midair, trying to capture a good picture.

  I could see Mr. Ulysses and Mr. Mac standing on the sidelines, arms folded, as if they weren’t sure what to do. At the top of the grandstand, we were just as helpless.

  Joey kept walking.

  His gaze never seemed to waver from the
field. He never looked around. A plastic grocery bag tumbled across the grass in front of him. He didn’t pause.

  As more time passed, the crowd grew more restless. Patience began to evaporate. My stomach knotted inside me. I could tell things were on the verge of falling apart.

  Then Joey moved to the center of the field and stopped. As everyone grew quiet again, he pushed the art machine off to one side of the fifty-yard line. Was he finished? Taking a break? Giving up? No one knew.

  The crowd on our side of the field began to chant, “Joey! Joey!” as if to encourage him to keep going. On the Kenston side, they picked it up too.

  Acknowledging nothing, Joey zipped up his Tigers coat and lay down flat on the fifty-yard line. Surrounded by the tangle of mysterious chalk lines he’d made, he spread out his arms and stared faceup at the sky.

  And at that moment, something strange happened in the stadium.

  I swear a crackle of energy spun through the air. My neck prickled and my arms broke out in goose bumps. I felt dizzy and warm for a second or two.

  At the same time, the tangle of chalk-white lines covering the field suddenly made sense. I don’t know how else to describe it, except to say that the lines became a tiger. Somehow. One minute they pictured nothing—and the next minute, a tiger the size of a football field seemed to stare (or blink?) up at the sky.

  Not everyone saw it—some people did, and some didn’t. A few people insisted the tiger was so real that they even heard it roar.

  I was one of them.

  “Wow! Look at that tiger!” I shouted to Veena.

  “Yes,” she replied, after a strange hesitation.

  On the opposite side of the field, the Kenston fans saw something entirely different. Later on, we’d hear stories of how a magnificent eagle appeared in front of them and stretched out its wings from end zone to end zone. Some fans said they felt a brief sensation of floating. Others insisted they saw and felt nothing at all.

  Of course, while all this was happening on the field—while everybody was trying to understand what they were seeing and not seeing—Joey Byrd and his art disappeared.

  At first, I didn’t realize Joey was gone.

  Like everyone else, I was fumbling with my phone. I was trying to hold the screen high enough to capture everything on the field, which wasn’t easy considering all of the people who were doing the same thing.

  But the chance to take a picture was gone in an instant.

  Almost as soon as Joey finished his design, a dazzling burst of fireworks exploded above the scoreboard to mark the start of the game. As the grandstand erupted in cheers, both teams leaped off their benches and galloped onto the field.

  In seconds, Joey’s creation vanished in a cloud of chalk dust beneath their feet.

  Only his Tigers coat remained untouched on the fifty-yard line—although it took me a few minutes to realize he wasn’t inside it any longer. Like I said—there were fireworks going off, and people cheering, and football players high-fiving one another.

  Once I realized Joey’s coat was there, but he wasn’t, I turned to Veena in panic. “Where’s Joey?” I shouted over the crowd noise.

  “What?” she said.

  I waved one arm at the field. “Look! His coat is still there, but he isn’t. Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know.” Veena stood on her tiptoes to survey the field. “I don’t see him either. Perhaps he just forgot his coat on the field by accident.” She pointed out Mr. Ulysses, who was pushing the art machine off the field. “Look. Mr. Ulysses is already down there. He’ll pick it up, I’m sure. Maybe Joey left with Mr. Mac or his parents already.”

  Minutes later, a referee retrieved the coat and brought it to the sideline where he handed it to a coach. Although I knew Veena was probably right about Joey leaving with his parents or Mr. Mac, I kept scanning the field for him until the game started—until it was clear he must have left.

  As our team completed its first couple of plays on the field, I have to admit I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on. I was still thinking about Joey and the tiger and the coat and everything that happened.

  Had a tiger really appeared on the field? Had it moved? Had it roared?

  “Joey’s drawing was pretty amazing, wasn’t it?” I shouted to Veena between plays.

  “What?” she said, leaning closer again to hear me over all the noise.

  “Joey’s tiger was amazing, wasn’t it?” I repeated.

  “Yes,” she nodded, her eyes wide and unblinking behind her aqua glasses. “I did not expect it to be like that.”

  Veena didn’t tell me what she had actually seen until a couple of days later. That’s when she admitted that she never saw the tiger. For Veena, the lines had been a breathtaking eagle—and for a few seconds, she’d felt as if she were flying. “The stadium looked like a glittering jewel box below me,” she told me. “I was so startled I almost dropped Mr. Mac’s camera.”

  Honestly, nobody had much time to talk about what they’d seen. Once the game got under way, it was so exciting, you had to pay attention. Our team scored its first touchdown on the opening drive and the stands went crazy with cheering and celebration. More fireworks burst above the scoreboard, and that’s when I knew I needed to find the sixth graders soon—before I missed everything and Noah had totally given up on me.

  But what should I do about Veena? That was the dilemma.

  I couldn’t just leave her at the top of the grandstand by herself. She was a fifth grader and she was from India and she’d never been to a football game in her life. But it also seemed rude to send her to sit with her parents. I wasn’t like Julie Vanderbrook. I couldn’t abandon people.

  I sighed. I would have to bring her with me. There was no other option. “Hey, I think I’m going to go and sit with some people from sixth grade,” I said to Veena. “I don’t know how many extra seats they’ll have saved, but you can come if you want to.”

  I’ll be honest—I really hoped Veena would say no.

  She didn’t.

  Instead, her whole face lit up. “Really? I would be honored to do that,” she said, pushing her dark hair behind her ears and smiling. “I don’t know any other sixth graders except you.”

  I held back another sigh. “We aren’t very exciting,” I said. “You’ll see.”

  The grandstand was a complete mob scene. I had no idea how Veena and I would ever stick together and find Section E. On the field, Marshallville kept making fantastic plays, so all the high schoolers kept standing up and cheering. Trying to find anyone—or hear anything—was almost impossible.

  Jacob had said Section E was in the upper bleachers behind the high school band. Of course, the band was at the opposite end of the big grandstand from us. It took forever to get there. We had to go down the bleacher steps and across the front of the grandstand.

  Once we reached the right side, I stopped to scan the upper bleachers. It was an endless wall of orange-and-black shirts. I couldn’t see a single face I recognized. It was hopeless.

  “I don’t think they’re even up there,” I shouted at Veena over the noise of the crowd. “I don’t see anyone I recognize.”

  “Well, we can just try going to the top and see if we find anyone,” she said.

  Honestly, if it had been up to me, I probably would have turned around and given up. So maybe there was an advantage to having Veena there for encouragement and moral support.

  I started climbing the concrete steps, but it was almost impossible to look for the sixth graders and concentrate on not tripping over any high schoolers’ feet at the same time.

  We had nearly reached the top when someone on my left shouted, “Hey, April and Veena!”

  I glanced in the direction of the voice.

  Rochelle was sitting on the end of a row waving wildly at us as if we were long-lost
friends. “Hey, you want to sit with us?” she shouted.

  I was about to reply No, but thanks anyway when I realized that she was surrounded by sixth graders. Rachel and a row of girls sat next to her. A bunch of sixth-grade boys, including Tanner and Jacob, were crammed, knee to knee, in the row behind them. I couldn’t see Noah at first, but I didn’t really have time to look because our team made another touchdown and the stands erupted with cheers.

  Except for one small space at the end of the bleacher, you couldn’t squeeze another body into the row.

  “Okay, thanks. We’ll take it,” I said to Rochelle, thinking how ironic it was that the girl who stole my markers in kindergarten was offering me a seat now. Was it a fair trade? A seat (six years later) for my stolen markers? I wasn’t sure.

  Veena and I sandwiched ourselves onto the end of the group. When the Tigers scored again and everybody leaped up to cheer, I turned around to see if I could locate Noah Langley somewhere in the boys’ row behind us, but I couldn’t find him.

  After that, I kind of gave up looking.

  I told myself that maybe he had chickened-out and skipped the game. Or maybe he couldn’t find a seat. Or possibly it had all been a joke.

  If that was true—well, I would show Noah and Jacob: I’d have a great time anyway.

  Which I did.

  I screamed and cheered until I was hoarse. And I did the wave. And I took a bunch of selfies with Veena and the two Rs and the other girls in our row. Rachel offered to write Go Tigers! on my face in black eyeliner, so I let her. All the sixth-grade girls had orange tiger paws and Go Tigers! written on their faces. Veena got a Go Tigers! too.

  By halftime, the score was 28–0 in favor of the Tigers. Which was crazy. Kenston had a bigger (and better) team than us, and we were totally crushing them. I started to wonder if Joey’s tiger was working its magic and we’d actually win 50–0 like Mr. Ulysses had predicted.