Things Seen from Above

by Shelley Pearsall

  At halftime, a lot of the girls decided to walk around the stadium and see the floats up close. Veena went with Rochelle and Rachel, but I decided to stay and save our seats.

  Right after they left, I felt a soft bump on my arm. I turned around thinking maybe it was Julie, since I hadn’t spotted her in the stands yet—

  Noah Langley stood right behind me. Oh my gosh.

  “Hey,” he said in a rush, his face scarlet-red. “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go and get some nachos with me or something?”

  My insides felt like a whole stadium of dazzling fireworks.

  “Sure,” I said, doing my best to sound calm and normal. “That would be fun.”

  I didn’t mention a word about saving seats. It didn’t matter anyway. There were plenty of sixth graders around.

  Of course, it took forever to get to the concession area with all the crowds. Noah stayed in front of me, and I just concentrated on not slamming into him by accident—or losing sight of his orange shirt among a million other ones.

  When the crowd finally thinned out, he stopped and leaned on a railing, waiting for me to catch up. “Wow, I can’t believe you didn’t get, like, lost,” he said.

  “Human GPS,” I answered, and then winced inside because maybe that was a dumb thing to say.

  Surprisingly, Noah laughed at my lame joke and then pointed toward the long concession lines snaking in front of the stadium gates. “Popcorn or nachos?”

  Since I wasn’t a huge fan of chemical-orange cheese, I said popcorn.

  “Okay,” he agreed.

  As we stood together in the popcorn line, it was kind of awkward coming up with things to say at first. We started talking about the crowd and which sixth graders we’d seen so far—and then we got to the pregame show.

  “What did you think of Joey’s tiger?” I asked.

  Noah described how unbelievable it looked from where he sat. “It reminded me of one of those Etch A Sketch things. At first the lines didn’t look like anything.”

  “I know,” I agreed.

  “But Joey kept pushing that bizarre machine around, and little by little, you could see things you recognized. Then he lay down on the field and the tiger kind of appeared around him somehow. And then all the fireworks went off. It was so, so cool. I don’t know how he did it, but it was really amazing.”

  Noah pulled out his phone. “Here—I’ll show you some pictures I took of it.” He flipped through a few blurry pictures that mostly showed the backs of people’s heads in the stands and some vague white lines on the field. “I guess nothing came out very good,” he said, squinting at his phone. “I think it must have been the lighting. Or I’m a really, really bad photographer.” Noah grinned and shook his head.

  For the first time, I noticed that he had braces. (Which just goes to show you that I don’t notice everything.)

  “Did you get any good pictures?” he asked.

  I showed him the pathetic ones on my phone, which were just as blurry.

  In fact, it wasn’t just our pictures that were bad.

  Turns out, no one captured the precise moment when Joey finished his design—not even the local newspaper photographer, or Veena, who took about a million pictures for Mr. Mac with our school’s camera.

  Every single photo of Joey’s artwork that night was too dark or too blurry. Or it was obscured by hands or heads. Or it didn’t look like anything recognizable—just white scribbles on the grass.

  Opinions would vary about why this was the case. Was it the slope of the grandstand? Or the artificial lights? Or the flash from the fireworks? Or the chalk being too light? Or the field being too dark?

  Later on, I would come to the conclusion that maybe Joey’s Homecoming creation wasn’t supposed to be saved on film. Maybe it was supposed to be a rare moment, a fleeting gift. Like a sunset. Or a rainbow. Or a shooting star. You had to see it for yourself with your own eyes—and even then, you would always wish you had a picture to prove what you saw. But there was no proof.

  You just had to be there.

  Noah Langley and I spent nearly all of halftime waiting in the popcorn line.

  I didn’t really mind.

  As the line crept toward the front, we talked about a lot more stuff: sixth grade, sports, a language arts assignment we had for the weekend, and what flavor to get on the popcorn. (Barbecue.) Noah checked his phone and texted a few times, which made me a little nervous. Was he texting about us?

  Being me, I had to ask him. “What are you texting about?”

  Noah blushed a little and shoved his phone into his pocket. “Actually, I’m texting my dad back because he wants to know where I’m sitting.” He rolled his eyes. “I told my parents to leave me alone, but they never listen.”

  I laughed. “Mine are like that too.”

  By the time we finally got our popcorn, the third quarter was already underway. Instead of fighting our way back to the seats, Noah suggested watching the game along the end zone fence while we shared the popcorn.

  I said, “Sure.”

  Although the view was great from that end of the field, we ended up talking to each other more than watching the game. I have no idea how many times our team scored, or who scored, or anything.

  What I did notice was how everything seemed super-bright and kind of sparkly—me, Noah, the stadium, the neon-green field stretching away to infinity—even the red stripes on the popcorn bucket.

  We talked about everything. I found out Noah collected vinyl records and old license plates. “I’ve got every U.S. license plate, and ones from France, England, and Germany,” he told me. “And I’m getting a really cool one from Italy for my birthday this year.”

  I told him how I liked researching and reading about virtually anything.

  “And writing advice columns, right?” he joked. Then his face reddened as he said, “Sorry for my lame letter. I hope you didn’t think it was weird.”

  “No, it was cute,” I said. “But I didn’t know it was from you until Jacob said it.”

  Noah rolled his eyes and grinned. “He’s such an idiot.”

  Then there was this long silence until Noah noticed that it was almost the end of the third quarter.

  “We should probably go back to our seats to watch the end of the game,” he said.

  “Yeah, we’re almost out of popcorn,” I agreed, shaking the bucket, which was almost empty. I couldn’t believe how much we’d eaten.

  Then Noah mumbled really fast, “Maybe, if you want, we could sit together or something at the next home game. I think there are two games left.”

  All of a sudden I panicked. Did I want to sit with Noah Langley? Did that mean he liked me? Did I want everyone to know he liked me? Did I like him?

  An answer blurted out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Actually, it was fun just standing around here talking and eating popcorn. Maybe we could do something like that again at the next game?”

  I don’t know if it was my imagination or not, but I thought Noah looked relieved.

  “Yeah, okay, that sounds good.” He smiled. “I’ll take some pictures of my collection to show you next time.”

  “I think my dad has an old license plate from Ontario in the garage,” I added. “He used to have a fishing cabin there. I’ll see if I can bring it to school for you.”

  “That would be great. Maybe I’ll start a Canadian collection next.” Noah grinned. The stadium lights glinted off his braces. They had tiny green wires, I noticed. For some reason, this made me like him even more.

  “Thanks—this was really fun,” I said, hoping that’s what I was supposed to say.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Then we went back to our seats.

  Although Noah kind of ignored me after that, he did look in my direction once before he left at the end of the ga
me with Tanner and his friends. (At least I think he looked in my direction.)

  Honestly, it was one of the best nights of my life—well, up to that point in my life anyway. Everything that happened seemed so magical and almost unreal when I thought about it later. Joey’s tiger. Watching the game with the sixth graders. Eating popcorn with Noah.

  And the game went down in the history books of Marshallville, Michigan, as the largest Homecoming win. Ever.

  Unbelievably, the final score was 50–0, just as Mr. Ulysses had predicted.

  Not all birds migrate, but many do. Scientists believe some birds carry an invisible compass inside them—bits of magnetic dust and instinct that tell them when it’s time to go. Some migrate in daylight. Others travel under the cover of darkness.

  Like birds, Joey’s parents moved around a lot.

  Sometimes they moved to protect Joey from problems at school or with other kids. Sometimes they moved to get a change of scenery or a fresh start. Sometimes they moved just because they were the kind of people who liked to be left alone.

  After the game on Friday, Joey and his family started packing. They didn’t have much. They always traveled light.

  On Saturday afternoon, they left Marshallville and started driving south.

  Monday morning. Everybody wanted to congratulate Joey for the game.

  Before the school day started, the star quarterback of the Tigers football team drove over from the high school to drop off Joey’s forgotten coat, along with an autographed game ball from the team.

  As kids drifted in from the buses and the car line, Joey’s locker stopped traffic. It was completely covered with colorful streamers and balloons and signs. Apparently, the decorations were the work of the high school cheerleaders.

  During morning announcements, Ms. Getzhammer gave a short speech about how proud Marshallville Elementary was of Joey Byrd. “His lucky tiger won the game for us,” she said. Even though that was probably a slight exaggeration, cheers echoed down the halls.

  Despite all the praise that was waiting to be showered on him, Joey never showed up for school that day.

  When he didn’t appear at recess—when nobody in a familiar red jacket slipped through the glass doors—I had the feeling that I’d been right after all. I’d sensed Joey wasn’t coming back when he walked away from us before the pregame show. Maybe it was my intuition—my mind’s eye, as Veena would say. The empty coat Joey had left on the fifty-yard line only added to that belief.

  Of course, the bracelet girls pestered me with questions. Was Joey sick? Was he on vacation? Was he too famous to come to school now?

  They decided to draw a giant picture on the playground to show Joey how much they missed him. It was kind of ironic, considering how badly they had once treated him.

  The girls spent about ten minutes arguing about what to make:

  “How about a tiger?”

  “No, that’s too hard and ours would look dumb compared to his.”

  “How about a crying emoji?”

  “Why?”

  “Because everybody misses him.”

  “What if he doesn’t get what it means?”

  “How about a crying emoji and the words ‘We miss you, Joey’?”

  “Okay.”

  After dividing up the different parts of the design, the fourth-grade girls made a lopsided face with a big teardrop between the Buddy Bench and the swing sets.

  I think they expected that Joey would magically appear when they finished it.

  He didn’t.

  In fact, nothing changed that day. Or the next one.

  I think everyone (except me) believed that Joey would show up eventually. After all, his name was plastered all over Marshallville. Tickets for the two remaining home games sold out in less than twenty-four hours. Everyone wanted to see what Joey would do at the next game and how outrageous the score would be.

  But I kept wondering what would happen if Joey did come back. Would people expect something even better? Would the tiger be as surprising, as special, the second time around? What if our team lost? Would Joey be blamed?

  On Wednesday morning, Veena stopped me in the hallway.

  She told me that she’d asked Mr. Ulysses and Mr. Mac if they knew where Joey was. Mr. Mac said he’d tried calling Joey’s house on Tuesday and nobody answered. He told Veena that maybe they’d had a family emergency or they went on a trip or something. Mr. Ulysses told Veena not to worry—that he was sure everything would work out fine.

  “He didn’t seem very concerned,” Veena said. Which we thought was odd.

  On Thursday, I reached into my Advice Box and I was surprised to find another drawing from Joey Byrd.

  Or so I thought.

  The drawing was on a piece of notebook paper folded into a precise square. I almost missed it. The box was packed with a bunch of other notes that I emptied out first—mostly crayon messages written by little kids asking where Joey was or how to find him.

  Then the square of paper fell at my feet.

  Picking it up from the hallway, I opened up the note and smoothed it out on my math textbook to read what it said. When I saw the spirals and squares, I immediately thought it had to be from Joey, even though it was more detailed than his old drawings. And it had writing on it.

  There was a large circle marked TREE in the center of the page. The upper corner of the page had a small spiral. In another corner, there was a sketch of something square with the words JOEY’S TOWER written next to it. Another part was labeled NEW SWINGS. A small rectangle said GARDEN, with a little row of sprouts.

  It took me a few seconds to realize it was a map of our school playground.

  Only, Joey hadn’t drawn it the way it was now—he’d imagined how he wanted it to be. He’d turned Marshallville’s tired, old rundown playground into a completely different place with new climbing equipment, new swings, a garden…

  I was so excited by the discovery that I tracked down Mr. Ulysses to show him the drawing during morning announcements. He was mopping the entrance hallway because it was a slushy day and there were puddles everywhere.

  “Look,” I said, waving the paper to get his attention. “Joey left another note for me.”

  Mr. Ulysses seemed confused. “What?”

  “I found a new drawing from Joey in my Advice Box today,” I explained as I handed the paper to him. “I think it’s his idea for a new playground for us.”

  Mr. Ulysses pulled a pair of bifocals from his shirt pocket and put them on. “Hmmm…,” he said as he studied the drawing. He turned the paper over to see the back of it. “So—except for the words JOEY’S TOWER on the front, his name isn’t written anywhere else on this page, right?”

  “No,” I said. I didn’t think it mattered.

  “Hmmm…” The janitor gazed upward as if he was thinking. I had the feeling he was trying to decide whether to tell me something or not. Finally, he said, “I’ve got to be honest with you, April—I don’t think this could be from Joey.”

  “Why not?”

  Mr. Ulysses hesitated a long time before answering slowly. “Well, because I happen to know that Joey and his family moved away last weekend. That’s why.” He pushed his mop through an invisible puddle of water on the floor.

  I exhaled slowly. So I’d been right.

  “I didn’t want to be the one to say anything because I felt it was up to Joey’s parents to let the school know,” Mr. Ulysses continued, looking guilty. “I thought they would call Ms. Getzhammer when they got to wherever they were headed and let everybody know. But I guess they haven’t given the school any word yet.”

  I tried not to sound hurt that the janitor hadn’t told us (Veena or me) what he knew. “So how did you find out?”

  “Joey told me right before the pregame show on Friday,” Mr. Ulysses explained. “I asked
him if he had any big plans for the weekend, and out of the clear blue sky he told me he was moving to Florida.”

  Florida.

  I suddenly remembered the waves Joey had done during Friday’s recess—how he’d covered the entire playground with swooping, curling lines. Had Joey been trying to give all of us a big hint then?

  Mr. Ulysses shook his head. “I was as shocked as you are by the news. I hardly knew what to say when Joey told me. I asked him if he was sad about leaving, and he said, ‘No, I move a lot. But I’ll miss your art machine and the two nice girls at recess who always talked to me.’ ”

  I squinted skeptically at Mr. Ulysses and he held up one hand. “That’s an exact quote. I swear.”

  Then there was a long silence.

  All my emotions seemed to be crashing into one another. Shock. Sadness. Guilt. Regret.

  “I feel like it’s my fault he had to leave,” I said finally.

  “What?” Mr. Ulysses gave me an incredulous look. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because I was one of the people who told everyone about him.” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “Maybe if I’d just shut up and never mentioned him or pointed him out to anyone, he could have kept doing his art on the playground and been perfectly happy here.”

  I knew this sounded a little self-pitying, but that’s how I felt at that moment.

  The janitor bumped his mop into my shoes. “Now, that’s just nonsense, April. You need to shape up and stop talking like that. Come over here and sit down with me so we can have a little chat.” He pointed at the old wooden benches along the side of the school lobby. Above them was a display case of school honors. (Not that I’m bragging—but my name was on a couple of the plaques.)

  “Okay, let’s sit down here.” Mr. Ulysses pushed the big box of Lost and Found items out of the way to make room for us. “First of all,” he said, turning to me, “I’m sure it was Joey’s parents who made the choice to leave, not him. But despite that—what if you finding Joey was the best thing that could have happened to him?”