by Kim Tomsic
We come out at the end of the aisle and just like every day, my breath catches. The mountains are beautiful. If this were a normal December, the mountains would be covered in fluffy white snow. This year it’s weird, though. There’s not a single snowflake. Instead, full leafy trees hold on to every shade of fall, and the mountainside bursts with color.
“Another gorgeous autumn day,” Mr. Lehman says. “You think winter weather will come this year?”
I like how he wants to know my opinion, so I think for a moment. “I kind of wish it would stay like this a while longer. That way we can have extra time living in color before everything turns white.” Art teachers appreciate knowing when you think about stuff like that.
“That’s a nice wish.” He continues staring out the window. “It just might come true. Some consider Goldview’s strange weather to be magical.”
I smile, but I’m thinking if wishes were real, my daddy would still be around.
“Go on now. Have a seat.”
I take a few steps forward and nearly trip when I notice who’s at my table—Hudson, Steven, and Bailee are faces I expect to see, but Priscilla and Jada are there, too. Everyone’s talking and acting like it’s no big deal when it is a big deal. Hudson and Steven don’t choose anyone’s side in the feud—they are my friends and Priscilla’s friends. But I expect Priscilla to choose a side, as in, a side of the room where I am not going to sit.
I know why she’s cozied up in my zone, though. She’s currently crushing on Steven. I sigh. Sure, he’s interesting—he knows a ton about weather, his grandparents live in Honduras, and he has flown on an airplane three times. He’s also cute—he’s the only kid in sixth grade who doesn’t get pimples, and his glossy black hair is cut in the latest boy-band fashion—but seriously, it’s ridiculous that Priscilla will do anything for his attention, including sit where she’s not wanted.
Bailee gives me a what-do-we-do shrug.
“Go on,” Mr. Lehman says.
Instead of sulking toward them, I decide on a good attitude. Like I said—it’s Friday and art class, after all.
“Hey, guys.” I smile at Hudson and Steven.
“Hey,” they say. Steven peels off his hoodie. Underneath, he’s wearing his latest weather T-shirt. It says “What the hail.”
I pull out my chair and inspect it for booby traps. Once I see it’s all clear, I sit and check out the table, and now my smile stretches wide. Every student’s spot has a big white sheet of paper in front of it, and I’m not talking regular paper, but the heavy kind with texture.
“Whoa,” I say, feeling the paper’s grain.
“I know,” Hudson says. “Mr. Lehman’s letting us use the acrylic paints, too.”
In the center of each table sits a jar full of brushes, and next to that a bunch of tubes of paint. If a heart can glow and dance and sing, that’s what mine is doing right now. Hudson’s, too. We thumb through the colors—alizarin crimson, cadmium orange, burnt sienna, Hooker’s green, cobalt blue, dioxazine purple.
“Okay, people,” Mr. Lehman says, forcing my attention away from the paints. “It’s time for the Friday Flores Report.” He turns to Steven. “We’re ready for your weather forecast, Mr. Flores.”
“Gracias, Mr. Lehman.” Steven stands and fakes like his thumb is a microphone. “Coming to you live from Goldview’s scenic library, this is the Flores Phenom here to report,” he glances out the window, “another week of autumn.”
Half the students groan.
“Ugh,” Priscilla says. “I’m ready for ski season.”
“And snowball fights,” Hudson says.
“And holiday decorations,” Jada says. “Mr. Lehman, could we at least put up a menorah and Christmas tree in the library?”
“I’m sorry, as a member of the city council, I stand by our decision. No holiday decorations in town until the last leaf falls.”
“Why?” Steven says.
“It’s been that way for decades.”
“Yeah, but why?” Steven repeats.
“Ahhh, good question.” Mr. Lehman clears his throat. “Goldview doesn’t want to hurry in the holidays. In other towns, when Halloween ends, people rush to plaster up winter decorations without pausing for Thanksgiving. That’s why our town’s culture is focused on a longer season of gratitude. Some suspect all the goodwill and gratitude is why Goldview’s weather is so enchanted.” He winks at us. “To accomplish a longer season of thanksgiving, we decided not to allow any winter or holiday decorations until the final leaf falls.”
More groans.
“Okay, people, moving on. Before we begin our project, which I am calling ‘The Forever Fall,’” he pauses and waves his arms toward the windows, “stop and appreciate the view. Rather than seeing everything, choose a focal point to paint. Also, I’d like to go over the rules of using paint in the library. First rule, there’s no walking from table to table. Second rule—”
I tune out and gaze toward the window again. The sun shines on ten thousand vibrant and competing colors. A breeze makes the leaves dance. They sway, but not one comes loose. On the far left, I notice a copse of aspen trees with stark white bark and pear-yellow leaves. That’s what I’ll paint.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lehman,” Steven says. “Can we paint a tall staircase and do a different kind of forever fall?”
Priscilla giggles in such an annoying way that I forget my happy attitude for a second and roll my eyes.
“It’s your project to create as you choose,” Mr. Lehman says.
Steven picks up a brush.
“Hold on a moment.” Mr. Lehman takes his phone from his pocket and clicks some buttons. “Yes, here it is. Before we begin, I have a special announcement.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “There is a company called Noodler, located right in Denver.” The way he says “Noodler” it’s like we’ve never used the internet. Noodler is only the biggest search engine company in the world.
“They sent a notice announcing they’re sponsoring a nationwide contest, and they’ve selected our school and five others around the Denver metro area to compete for a chance to represent Colorado. We hope to see a Goldview K–8 student come out on top.”
Jada crosses her fingers and whispers, “I hope it’s an acting competition.”
Priscilla shoots her hand in the air. “Is it a math contest? You know I’m the best mathematician in Goldview.”
Mr. Lehman smiles even though Priscilla is super-irritating. “It’s not a math contest,” he says, “but it’s just as good. Several of you excel in the arts. Doodle for Noodler is a contest with a prize for the most creative artist.”
I sit up. I’m pretty certain he’s talking to me, because I am Goldview K–8’s best artist. Well, Hudson and I are.
Hudson shoots his hand in the air and waits to be called on, because he has manners.
“Yes, Hudson.”
“What’s the prize?”
“Great question.” Mr. Lehman adjusts his glasses. “I’ll tell you about the contest first, and then we’ll discuss the riches.”
“Riches! Alrighty!” I clap my hands. “What is Doodle for Noodler?” Oh, shoot, I forgot to raise my hand.
Mr. Lehman doesn’t get mad. His eyes do their extra-crinkly smile thingy. “Noodler challenges students to artistically draw the Noodler logo in a way that represents a theme. For example, one year the theme was ‘Coming Home’ and the winner drew a girl running to the arms of a father who was returning from war.”
“Huh,” Steven says. “Do you have another example?”
“Sure.” Mr. Lehman clicks some buttons on his phone. “Another year, the theme was ‘If I Could Travel In Time.’ A sixth-grade winner drew futuristic buildings that formed the Noodler logo.”
“Mr. Lehman,” I say, “what’s this year’s—”
“Ah-hem.” Priscilla fake-clears her throat and sandpaper-whispers, “You weren’t called on, Weed.”
I roll my eyes. Godzilla calls me Weed regularly, thinking it’s soooooooo
o clever, since sage grows in a garden and weeds grow in a garden. “Neither were you, Godzilla.”
“Girls,” Mr. Lehman says.
“Sorry.” I swallow. “What is Noodler’s theme this year?”
“This year’s theme is ‘Family.’”
Excited chatter breaks out.
Bailee nudges me. “I bet you win this, Sage.”
“Should be easy for you to draw,” Godzilla whispers. “All you have to do is sketch a set of prison bars.”
Her words kick me in the stomach.
Jada elbows Priscilla. I think it’s to egg her on, but she whispers, “Can’t you call a truce on your shared birthday?”
At least nobody else at my table is watching Priscilla dad-shame me. Hudson is listening to Mr. Lehman and holding his hand in the air.
“You must maintain a B average,” Mr. Lehman says, “and be in good standing with Goldview K–8 to participate. That means good grades and no detentions.” He looks at Hudson’s raised hand. “Yes, Hudson. What’s your question?”
“Sorry to ask again, but what about the reward? What’s the prize?”
A hush falls over the classroom.
Mr. Lehman smiles big-time. “The winner will receive a ten-thousand-dollar college scholarship, be interviewed by the local press and possibly national news outlets, receive tickets to the Mimi Glosser concert, and have their art displayed on Noodler’s worldwide homepage for a full week.”
Priscilla slaps a hand to her heart. “I could be famous!”
I snort.
“What?” Priscilla snaps at me.
“You’re not even the third- or fourth-best artist in our school,” I say.
“Somebody will be famous,” Steven says.
And then it hits me. Famous.
FAMOUS!
The word sinks into my brain and grows and doubles.
Suddenly, I’m holding my breath, because I don’t want anyone to see how badly I want this. Sure, a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship would be nice, but more important, I could be famous instead of infamous!
I could change my reputation in Goldview, and not be known just because everyone believes my daddy is bad. If I win, my reputation would be all my own—World-Famous Artist! Me winning could alter the reputation of the Sassafras family and finally make my life perfect!
Chapter 4
Bailee and I walk to English class, me tugging down my purple T-shirt to hide my pickle-stained butt and whispering about my fame theory. When we arrive at room 12, it smells like a sugar-sweet bakery—mmm-mm. Sitting on Mrs. Rimmels’s desk is the Friday donut.
I smile at my favorite teacher.
Her hair is in a soft gray bun and she’s wearing a bright floral dress with side pockets for the Kleenex she carries. She’s also wearing a “Be Kind” button pinned to her crocheted collar. “Happy birthday, Miss Sage Sassafras.”
Her words feel like a hug, and I give her my warmest smile. “Thank you.”
Bailee and I head to our seats, me eyeballing that donut.
Mrs. Rimmels’s homemade donuts are legendary—delicious pillows of sweetened bread covered in a glaze of sugar crystals, and as if that’s not enough, the insides are filled with creamy milk chocolate. Mmmmm.
Every Thursday night, Mrs. Rimmels makes her donuts, and then on Fridays, she brings them to school. She gives one to the principal; one to the school secretary; one to the school nurse; one to Mrs. Downy, who is Goldview’s janitor; one to Mr. Melvin, our bus driver; and one to each teacher, which leaves the one on her desk. Mrs. Rimmels saves that donut as the prize for the student who contributed the most to the week’s classroom discussion.
Sometimes my stomach growls loud enough to be heard across state borders. Today’s growl probably reaches California.
Bailee leans toward me. “Holy magenta, Sage. Is that you?”
“Yep.” I take a sip from my water bottle. “And that better be my donut.” I don’t say this because I’m hungry or braggy, but because I deserve it. I’m pretty sure I aced the quiz we took yesterday, and bigger than that, Mrs. Rimmels loooooved what I said about The Outsiders. That’s the novel our class is reading. I compared the book’s main character, Ponyboy, to the character Aladdin and said they are both judged like they’re bad people and nothing more than street rats. But it turns out they’re good and smart and way more than their circumstances.
“I hope you win,” Bailee says, snagging a Clorox wipe from her backpack and scrubbing down her desktop with it. She takes out her composition notebook, The Outsiders, and a blue pen. I imagine this will be how she’ll set up in court one day, minus the novel.
Mrs. Rimmels greets more students. I open my notebook and doodle the Noodler logo. I put a party hat on the N and then I’m drawing each O into a five-layer cake when Godzilla walks in.
“Listen,” I say to Bailee, nodding toward my swamp-green enemy.
Sure enough, Mrs. Rimmels says, “Happy birthday, Miss Priscilla Petty.”
“See,” I whisper.
Bailee scrunches her eyebrows.
“Come on. It’s so obvious the way Mrs. Rimmels said ‘Priscilla,’ it’s like she’s talking about cornmeal or cement. When she said my name, it was all Cocoa Puffs and Jacuzzi-sounding. You heard it, right?”
“Yep.” Bailee bites her lower lip. She always bites her lower lip when she fibs, but I smile anyhow.
Students continue filing in, and I add frosting to my doodle.
“I’ll bet you read a whole chapter ahead,” Bay says, opening her book.
“Well, yeah.” I say this cocky, but in a way that she knows I’m kidding. I don’t tell her I actually finished the book, because that would be real bragging.
Priscilla fluffs her hair. She’s still talking and hogging Mrs. Rimmels like she’s the only one who matters. “Do you like my new headband?”
Ugh. Her voice grates on my nerves.
Mrs. Rimmels gives a nod. “It’s very pretty.”
I’d never admit it out loud, but the gold headband is pretty and looks nice with Priscilla’s blond hair.
“It was the first gift I opened today.” Priscilla is practically shouting even though she’s standing close enough for Mrs. Rimmels’s hearing aids to work. “Given to me at my birthday breakfast. Mother and Daddy had it sitting right next to my yogurt parfait, along with a pair of tickets to the Mimi Glosser concert at the Pepsi Center in January.”
I don’t usually let jealousy slip in, but its green slime creeps up on me now, not because of the concert or the headband, but because she got to have breakfast with her mom and dad. My daddy, well . . . he’s not home. And my momma had to go in early for her job at the Snowy Soda factory like she does every morning, plus tonight, she’ll come home late.
At least Momma remembered it was my birthday. She left a note for me on the back of a past-due Xcel Energy bill that said “Happy birthday, Sage!” She drew pink hearts around my name and also wrote, “I can’t skip class after work tonight since I have a test, but we’ll celebrate as soon as I get home. Please pick up a cake mix after school. Any kind you’d like!” Beside the note sat a tower of quarters, which means the cake mix is coming out of our laundromat budget.
Godzilla is still yammering at Mrs. Rimmels, saying something about her fancy new sandals.
I look down. The sandals are strappy and tan and she can still wear them with this oddly warm weather, and . . . and . . . huh? Something on the mushroom-gray carpet moves by Priscilla’s pink-painted toes.
I lean forward and can’t believe my eyes. It’s a cricket! Right by her foot! It’s like the universe and the curse are suddenly on my side—everyone knows Priscilla hates crickets!
“. . . plus I’ll open my real gifts at my party this weekend,” she says.
Jada sees the cricket, too. She touches Priscilla’s arm.
Here goes! I sit up, waiting to see Priscilla lose it over a little bug. Waiting to see her embarrass herself and then feel stupid. If I had a cell phone, I’d record this.
Maybe somebody will record it! And post it! And it’ll go viral!
“Um.” Jada can’t seem to think of how to tell her, and settles on pointing.
“Huh?” Priscilla says, until, “Ohh!” Her voice rings high and she hops back. “OH!” She clutches Jada’s arm and panic rises in her face.
Yes! Let’s get this karma-show on the road!
But before the full freak out has a chance to unfold, Ryan scoops up the cricket in his bare hands and cups them closed.
“Okay if I run this outside?” he asks Mrs. Rimmels.
“Thank you, Ryan. Wash your hands before you come back.”
And that’s it. Priscilla takes a breath and picks up blabbering where she left off.
The bell rings, and Mrs. Rimmels continues listening to Priscilla’s nonstop chatter.
I sigh and return to doodling. My Noodler birthday sketch is coming out pretty decent. I work my pencil to turn the L into a candle and think how Priscilla probably has twelve candles at her house. At my apartment, there are stubs of candles—four blue, three purple, and four yellow. I don’t mind that they are pre-used and short, or that they still have bits of hardened cake on the bottom. But there are only eleven. Anyone knows you can’t turn twelve with just eleven candles. It makes me wonder if Minerva’s What’s-it Shoppe sells candles on the cheap.
In the Contrarium Curse, Priscilla inherited the responsible momma who has pockets of money and probably never forgets to buy birthday candles or groceries. At least my momma got kindness in the exchange. Babies stop crying when my momma holds them, and lost dogs run to her when she whistles. Lost dogs look at Priscilla Petty’s momma like she’s the dog catcher. My momma would’ve carried that cricket outside, too. I can guarantee you Mrs. Petty is a bug stomper.
I try to interrupt. “We’re having German chocolate cake for my birthday.” Priscilla doesn’t zip it, so I make my voice louder. “With Cherry Garcia ice cream.” My eye twitches because the Cherry Garcia part is a lie. Six dollars won’t buy a cake mix, candles, and ice cream.
