by Shari Green
Do you ever deliver messages
from the gods?
I keep a straight face
waiting for her answer
even though the idea of Iris
riding a rainbow
passing notes
from Zeus or Hera
makes a giggle rise up
inside me.
A hint of a smile
appears on her face.
Not a laughter-coming smile
but the kind you get
when you’re remembering heart things
like quiet times
with your mom
or the moment you knew
a certain someone
was going to be your friend.
Iris takes the pen
and we write notes
back and forth.
I used to, yes.
But I’m rather past that now.
What sort of messages
did you send?
Important ones.
I sent them
through cookies.
As I read her reply
my eyebrows shoot up
but Iris closes the notebook
tucks it beside her
on the chair
points
at a book-lined wall.
We’ve hardly made a dent
in the sorting
and packing.
I tape together a new box
before gesturing at one wall of books
then the other
letting my expression ask
why she has
so very many books.
“I love books,” she says.
That’s obvious enough.
But still
hasn’t she heard
of libraries?
Once again
she flips to a fresh page
in the notebook.
If you love something
you should love it extravagantly.
My gaze flicks to the painted walls
her shirt
the cushion on the couch.
I write back
So if you love the color orange?
She reads it and laughs
head tipped back
mouth open
like I’ve said the funniest thing.
“Then love it extravagantly,”
she says, facing me
so I can see her speak.
On a fresh page
I write
And if you love books?
If you love books
read a great many books.
If you love to sing
sing loudly
and often.
Whatever you do
do it with all your heart.
I think about my garden
about collecting seeds
nurturing plants
discovering the flowers
that love my yard best
spending my free time nestled
between daisies and fireweed
and I understand
about Iris
having so many books.
What I don’t understand
is what’s so bad
about being named
after a flower.
Chapter 7
Ms. Eklund interprets
as Mr. Tanaka reminds us
of our project
says that by now
we should have a good start.
I don’t even have
an idea.
I glance around the class
hoping for a glimpse
a hint of how others
are tackling the project
but kids are pushing back chairs
moving away
from their desks.
I’ve missed something
whip around
to Ms. Eklund.
Time for gym
she says.
Outside.
For gym class
we’re doing track.
After leading us on a warm-up run
around the block
—which we didn’t need
because it’s crazy hot out here—
Mr. Tanaka lets us pick
sprints
or endurance.
When it’s time for the 100 meter
I line up on the track.
Olivia and I find ourselves
right next to each other
without even planning it.
It’s natural to be together
side by side
peas in a pod
peanutbutterjelly
but
Olivia moves
so there are two other kids
between us.
Mr. Tanaka lifts a whistle
to his mouth
raises his hand
in the air
so he can signal me at the same moment
he blows the whistle.
His hand comes down
and we all run
shooting off down the track
squinting
in the sunshine.
Usually I’m pretty fast.
Today
I come in last.
Olivia walks off the track
without a glance
in my direction.
How is she supposed to forgive me
if she won’t look
if she can’t see me saying
I’m sorry?
Chapter 8
I step out the back door
cross the yard to my garden
pull a few weeds
and wave away a bumble bee
that seems to think
I’m a flower.
It finds the poppies
then weaves
toward the fireweed.
I almost wish
it would come back
keep me company
because this afternoon
even being with a bee
might feel better
than being alone.
A d e e p b r e a t h
fills my nose
my lungs
my whole self
with the sweetness
of wild roses.
It makes an ache
grow in my chest.
I collect the bits of chickweed
I’ve gathered
drop them
in the compost heap
brush off my hands
and head inside.
In the living room
I log on to the computer
message Desi
to see if she can video chat.
Her reply pops up
right away.
Sorry—leaving for swim club.
Maybe tomorrow?
Lately it seems
she has less time for me
and I have less time
for her.
Desi’s parents still see my mom
every week
—support group
for signing practice.
Lots of parents don’t bother
but Mom
has been going faithfully
ever since I lost my hearing
way back
when I was four.
Who knew meningitis
would change our lives
so much?
I log off
check the clock
glad to
discover it’s time
to pack books
for Iris.
Chapter 9
Iris greets me at the door
dressed in an orange tee shirt
pink pants
lavender apron
colors that work great
for gardens
and sunsets
so why not
for a rainbow goddess?
Her kitchen is warm
the air heavy
with the scent of sugar
giving me the feeling I’ve stepped
into a gingerbread house.
Iris holds out a plate
of enormous ginger cookies
each one nearly as big
as my face.
I remember what she wrote
in the notebook
about being all in
and I imagine her saying
if you’re going to bake cookies
bake enormous cookies
bake excellent cookies
bake the very best cookies
you can bake.
I take one
from the plate
bite into sugar-sprinkled goodness.
A hint of crunch on the outside
disappearing into a chewy middle
of spicy sweetness
possibly the best
cookie
ever.
Delicious
I say
signing with my non-cookie hand.
Iris smiles
reaches into her apron pocket
pulls out the notebook
and pen.
If you bake them
with extravagant love in your heart
they turn out
just a wee bit magical.
Magic?
“They send messages,” Iris says.
She wasn’t kidding
about sending messages
in cookies?
I turn over the cookie in my hand
look for a slip of paper
like you’d find in fortune cookies.
Iris touches my arm
extends the notebook
so I can read
what she’s added.
That’s my job, isn’t it?
Passing on messages from the gods?
I set down my cookie
take the notebook
write
I thought you didn’t do that
anymore.
It’s been a while.
She lifts a small metal box from the counter
flips back the hinged lid.
The box is stuffed
with recipe cards.
Iris riffles through them
pulls out a card
stained
with a greasy splotch.
It’s the recipe
for chocolate chunk cookies.
She sets the card on the counter
writes in the notebook
Chocolate chunk cookies say
“You’ll be okay.”
Another card
Oatmeal cookies say
“You’re strong enough…you can do this.”
A third card
Peanut butter cookies send joy
and laughter.
And finally the recipe
for sugar & spice cookies
—the ones on the plate.
These ones whisper
“You are loved, you belong.”
It’s the most important message
of all.
I take the pen from her hand
ask if those are messages
from the gods.
I don’t know
but if they aren’t
they should be.
I nod
but I still don’t understand
how a cookie
can send a message.
But then, after I finish the last bite
of the enormous
sugar & spice cookie
head for the living room
kneel on the worn carpet
hold up book after book
for Iris to decide about
I notice something.
I’m comfortable here
with this old lady
who doesn’t even sign
who wears something orange
every single day
and thinks the gods
send their messages
through her.
Maybe they do.
Something prickles
at my nose
making it twitch.
I lift my chin
sniff the air.
Iris’s brow furrows
then her eyes widen
hand slaps over her mouth
other hand pointing pointing pointing
frantic
and I know
what the smell is.
I run to the kitchen
find a potholder
yank open the oven.
Smoke billows out
stinging my eyes.
I wave it away
pull out the pan
of six
extra-large
blackened
cookies.
After turning off the oven
opening the window that faces my house
to air the place out
I find Iris in the doorway
hands over her ears.
It’s just the cookies
I say
but she must not understand
because she’s shaking
a look of confusion on her face
that is not at all
like her usual self.
When she doesn’t move from the doorway
I walk through the haze
put my hand on her arm
tell her again
it’s okay.
Behind her
the hallway fills with light.
The front door is open
my mom hurrying
toward us.
She glances side to side
like she’s looking for something.
Then she’s in the kitchen.
She grabs a dishtowel
waves it under the smoke detector.
Iris uncovers her ears
sinks onto a kitchen chair
eyes downcast
hands trembling
in her lap.
My mom talks to her
calms her
gives her a hug.
Later at home, I ask Mom
why Iris was so upset.
It was partly the smoke alarm
Mom says.
It’s very loud.
I could hear it
from the backyard.
And partly what else?
I ask.
What did she tell you?
Mom hesitates.
She said, I could’ve started a fire
could’ve burned down
the house.
She said, I can’t even bake
anymore.
Chapter 10
We’re painting “still life” in art
a bowl of apples
a vase of flowers.
I’m not a fan
of art class.
The best thing about it
is sharing my workspace
with Olivia.
Today Olivia shares a table
with Montana
wh
ich sounds like she’s sharing
with an entire state
but it’s just this one girl.
Montana’s mostly nice
but today it seems she’s in cahoots
with Olivia
working together
to leave me out.
They cup a hand around their mouth
when they talk
so I can’t guess
what they’re saying.
They link arms
march to the supply cupboard
as a team.
I feel myself getting riled up
heated up
ready
to burst
but that would only make Olivia glad
she’s with Montana
instead of me.
I study the scuffed floor tiles
until they’re finished
at the cupboard
then steal across the room
grab paints and paper
for myself
zip to my table
bend over my work
begging the time to go quickly.
I don’t even look up
to consider the apples
or the vase
on Ms. Kovalchuk’s desk
—just draw my still life
from memory
trying to create sunflowers
like the ones by Van Gogh
in a poster on the wall.
My flowers don’t look like his
or like the ones standing tall
by our back fence
but drawing them eases out
a little of my anger.
Art’s weird that way.
I sneak a glance
at Olivia
just as she sneaks a glance
at me.
She looks away
after a moment
but the moment is long enough
