by Shari Green
Reviews
Praise for Shari Green’s
Macy McMillan and the
Rainbow Goddess
“Clever, engaging, and accessible. Macy’s deafness is skillfully woven into the story, adding depth and complexity to her characterization and relationships with others.”
—School Library Journal
“Green’s story confronts life’s challenges with depth and realism, creating a narrative that is sparse yet impactful, with characters that are bursting with life.”
—Booklist
“A quick, accessible read, focusing on Macy’s realistic reluctance to share her mother and her gradual acceptance of the changes in her life.”
—The Horn Book Magazine
“A spare yet poignant narrative… Macy’s life lessons are realistic and illuminating; that she is deaf adds yet another dimension to an already powerful tale.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Full Title
Copyright
First published in Canada and the United States in 2017
Text copyright © 2017 Shari Green.
This edition copyright © 2017 Pajama Press Inc.
This is a first edition.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.
www.pajamapress.ca [email protected]
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Green, Shari, 1963-, author
Macy McMillan and the rainbow goddess / Shari Green.
ISBN 978-1-77278-033-8 (hardcover).--ISBN 978-1-77278-017-8 (softcover)
I. Title.
PS8613.R4283M33 2017 jC813’.6 C2016-906085-3
Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)
Names: Green, Shari, 1963-, author.
Title: Macy McMillan and the Rainbow Goddess / by Shari Green.
Description: Toronto, Ontario, Canada: Pajama Press, 2017. |Summary: “Deaf sixth-grader Macy expects disaster when she is sent to help her elderly neighbor Iris, who doesn’t know sign language, pack for a move to an assisted-living home. To her surprise, Iris soon becomes a firm friend who helps Macy face her own upcoming move, into the home of her mother’s soon-to-be husband and two young stepsisters” — Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-77278-017-8 (paperback) | 978-1-77278-033-8 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Deaf children – Juvenile fiction. | Stepfamilies – Juvenile fiction.| BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Stepfamilies. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Themes / Special Needs.
Classification: LCC PZ7.G744Mac |DDC [F] – dc23
Illustration—Jacqueline Hudon-Verrelli
Cover design—Rebecca Bender
Interior design and typesetting—Rebecca Bender, and Martin Gould / martingould.com
Manufactured by Friesens
Printed in Canada
Pajama Press Inc.
181 Carlaw Ave., Suite 251, Toronto, Ontario Canada, M4M 2S1
Distributed in Canada by UTP Distribution
5201 Dufferin Street, Toronto, Ontario Canada, M3H 5T8
Distributed in the U.S. by Ingram Publisher Services
1 Ingram Blvd., La Vergne, TN 37086, USA
Dedication
For Jesse
Chapter 1
Our house on Pemberton Street
with the red front door
wildflower garden out back
window seat just right for reading
has a For Sale sign jammed
in the front lawn.
It’s the ugliest thing
I’ve ever seen.
I drop my school stuff
in my room
zip to the kitchen
mix up some chocolate milk
and gulp it down
hoping to make my escape
before Mom even knows
I’m home.
No
such
luck.
From the corner of my eye
I see her in the doorway
waving
to get my attention.
I turn to face her.
How was your day?
she asks
in sign language.
I sign back
tell her it was fine
until I saw the For Sale sign again.
That ruins my day
every day.
She rolls her eyes
which doesn’t seem
like a very mom thing
to do.
A moment later
she pulls out her phone
frowns at the screen
uses her free hand to sign
It’s work—one minute.
I set my glass in the sink
wait
while Mom talks
probably explaining computer stuff
to a confused client.
Sorry
she says
when the call’s done.
After tucking the phone away
she touches her thumb to her forehead
then to her other thumb—remember—
and already I know
what she’s going to say.
Remember
to work on the centerpieces.
I’m supposed to make centerpieces
for the reception
—a tea in the church hall
after the wedding next month.
I don’t get why anyone needs centerpieces
to stare at while they drink tea
after a bride
who is my mother
and a groom
who is not my dad
say I do.
Besides, shaping ribbon
candles
fake flowers
into something other than a mess
is not my specialty.
My skills are more
bookish.
I can hide out
read past my bedtime
get lost in a story
like a pro.
But the poppies are blooming
I say
with a long look
out the kitchen window.
Growing wildflowers
is another of my specialties.
I should be there
to witness their grand opening.
Mom glances outside
to my corner of the backyard
where fuzzy green stems hold buds
round and ripe
a few already open
crimson petals fluttering
in the breeze.
Fine
she says.
Go. But don’t put off this job
much longer. It’ll be June
before you know it.
I hug her quick
&n
bsp; turn to leave.
She taps my shoulder.
What now?
You still need to pack too.
Right.
I’m thinking if I never pack my stuff
I can’t move to a new house
with a new stepfamily
ever.
Chapter 2
Mr. Tanaka tells the class
about our final project
of sixth grade.
I glance at him long enough
to see his excitement
—how much he thinks
we’ll love this—
but it’s still going to mean
homework
so I don’t expect we’ll love it
as much as he does.
I turn my focus to Ms. Eklund
my interpreter
who signs everything
Mr. Tanaka says.
Ms. Eklund fingerspells
g-e-n-e-a-l-o-g-y
says it means where we came from
or rather
who we came from
ancestors
family history
family tree
as if we’re all leaves
on a big old maple.
We have to trace our roots
make a chart or poster
present our work clearly
and thoughtfully.
We can include stories
from different generations
some photographs
if we have them.
I’ve got a feeling
my project
will be bare
a family tree
with only a few leaves clinging
to the branches.
Besides Mom and me
there’s Uncle Caleb
in Saskatoon
and my Gran and Grampa
in Detroit.
That’s it
for family.
Do you even know
your dad’s name?
Olivia asks me at recess
while a bunch of us sixth-graders
kill time
at the edge
of the school playground.
How on earth
are you going to create
a decent project?
Olivia’s been my best friend
since I came to Hamilton Elementary
in second grade
transferring
from Braeside, the School
for the Deaf.
She lives only a block
from me
and of all the kids in my class
she knows the most sign language.
But sometimes
she says something dumb
—like asking if I know
my father’s name—
and the other kids
laugh.
I know
I shouldn’t let it bug me
tug me
tie me
in angry knots
but controlling my temper
is not
one of my specialties.
My hand snaps closed
at my mouth, signing
Shut up!
And before I can think
I add
I hate you!
and my stupid foot
jabs into the pebbly dirt
beside the playground
sprays tiny stones
at her shins.
My stomach clenches.
I want to undo the last minute
dust off her shoes
her shins
smooth the ground
take back the words
my hands hurled.
Olivia’s face flames pink
eyes fill
and she turns away.
After recess
Mr. Tanaka appears at my desk.
He may not know
much sign language
but somehow he knows
to give me detention.
By the time
I’m allowed to leave class
Olivia
is long gone.
Chapter 3
I spoke to Ms. Gillan this morning
says Mom.
She could really use a hand
packing up her books
before she moves.
Ms. Gillan lives next door.
There’s a For Sale sign
in her lawn too
but somehow
it doesn’t look as nasty
as the one in ours.
Mom says
I told her
you’d be glad to help.
Me?
I haven’t even packed
my own books yet.
Mom’s face says she’s fully aware
of my lack of packing
and not exactly happy
about it.
If you’re not
getting your own things in order
she says
you may as well
help with hers.
This is worse than detention.
I barely know Ms. Gillan.
She’s old
and crabby
and she doesn’t sign.
I’ll pack my things, I promise!
Yes, you will.
But you’ll also help Ms. Gillan.
Now go.
She’s expecting you.
I wilt like a daisy
snapped off by the stem
and left
in the afternoon heat.
Mom’s expression softens.
It’s only a few boxes of books
she says.
It shouldn’t take long.
I trudge back outside
cross the lawn
to Ms. Gillan’s house
reach up to flick a maple leaf
on the branch above me
as I pass.
I ring the buzzer
and wait.
Ms. Gillan opens the door
peers down at me
pale blue eyes set deep
in her lined face.
Her white hair protrudes
in wispy waves
reminding me
of a dandelion gone to seed.
After she lets me in
I follow her
to the living room
stop
stare.
Two walls are orange
bright
bold
nasturtium orange.
The other two walls
are completely hidden
by towering
shelves
of books:
shelves and shelves and shelves and
shelves and shelves and shelves and
shelves and shelves and shelves and
shelves and shelves and shelves and
shelves and shelves and shelves and
shelves and shelves and shelves and
shelves.
A few boxes of books?
I’m going to be here
forever.
I realize Ms. Gillan
has been talking.
I shake my head
shrug a little
hope she’ll try again
with fewer words.
She does.
She points to a pile of cardboard
beside a floral recliner
—flattened boxes.
When she hands me a roll of wide tape
I understand.
I bend
fold
unfold
try again
until the cardboard becomes
a box shape.
I tear off a strip of tape
that stickstoitself
in a crumpled mess
cut another strip
manage to tape closed
the bottom
of the box.
I’m taping up the third box
when my nose wrinkles
at the stink
of permanent marker.
Ms. Gillan is writing on box number one
in thick black letters
K E E P
She picks up the second box
writes
D O N A T E
waits for me to hand her
box number three
writes
R E C Y C L E
I glance at the two walls of shelves
wonder how many more boxes
I’ll need to make.
When I look back at Ms. Gillan
she’s breathing hard
like she just ran laps
in gym class
but there was only bending
writing
and the stink
of marker.
She sinks into an armchair.
Now I know
why she can’t pack
her own books.
I bring a stack from the first shelf
set it on the floor
near the boxes
hold up one book after another
for Ms. Gillan’s directions.
keep
donate
donate
donate
keep
A slip of paper falls
from book number six.
I reach for it—a receipt
