Still a Work in Progress

by Jo Knowles

  “You can’t bring up Curly. What if a teacher finds out? They’ll expel her. You know she’s on probation.”

  “Curly’s on probation?” I ask. “Since when?”

  “Lily’s parents figured out she’s allergic and told the Tank if her symptoms get worse, they’ll have to get rid of the cat.”

  “She should really stop picking her up. She’s putting everything in jeopardy,” Sam says.

  This makes me feel a little less sorry for Lily, putting Curly at risk like that.

  Mrs. Phelps walks into the horseshoe and clears her throat before we can figure out what to do.

  “Good afternoon, friends,” she says. “Who did their homework?”

  We all move out of our clusters and push our chairs back to the horseshoe table.

  “Noah,” Mrs. Phelps says, walking over to me, “why don’t you tell me what you wrote for question one?”

  I quickly pull out my homework before she gets too close.

  “The nucleus contains the cell’s genetic information,” I say.

  “Good job.” She spins on her heel and walks over to the other end of the table, where Lily is sitting. “Lily, are you all right?”

  Lily looks up. When she does, there is a puffy red line running down her neck. She touches the scratch to try to cover it up.

  “What happened?” Mrs. Phelps asks, moving closer to inspect.

  Lily looks around desperately for help in making up an excuse.

  “Nuh-nothing,” she says. “I scratched myself somehow. I guess I need to file my nails.”

  “It looks like it hurts.”

  “I’m OK.” But she seems like she’s about to cry again.

  “Go see Ms. Cliff and get some first-aid cream and a bandage, please.”

  She says this in a way that sounds like she doesn’t want Lily to argue.

  Poor Lily gets up, her arms crossed at her chest, and rushes out of the room.

  I wonder where the pads went, and then immediately feel guilty.

  Mrs. Phelps eyes all of us suspiciously before going on with class. Curly is definitely walking on thin ice.

  The week before our winter break, everyone is in a festive mood. Ms. Cliff passes around Secret Santa forms during Community Meeting and tells us to fill them out. They’re to give whoever draws our name some ideas about what to get us. “And don’t be silly about it,” she says, all serious. “Thoughtful gifts do not need to cost money. They come from the heart.”

  Sam raises his hand and asks for suggestions.

  “Chocolate, homemade cookies, stickers, colorful pens, erasers, mittens, hats, or artwork make good gifts,” Ms. Cliff says. “World peace, money, weapons, alcohol or other drugs, any requests for physical interaction (a quick hug is OK) do not.”

  After her lecture about how we should leave a little gift every day leading up to our holiday celebration, Ms. Cliff gives us a few minutes to fill out our sheets.

  My sheet looks like this:

  Name: Noah

  Things I like: Candy

  Thinks I don’t like: Vegetables

  “Helpful,” Ryan says when he looks at my paper.

  I ignore him.

  Ms. Cliff collects all our forms, mixes them up in a bowl, and has us each draw one out.

  Mine looks like this:

  Name: Sadie Darrow

  Things I like: Bubble-gum-flavored lip gloss, salt-and-vinegar potato chips, bright-colored socks

  Things I don’t like: Candy

  Sadie and I have a total of zero things in common.

  “Who’d you get?” Ryan asks me and Sam after school. We’re sitting on the bottom step outside, waiting for our rides. It’s freezing out, and we’re all kind of shivering as we wait.

  “We’re not supposed to tell,” Sam says.

  “You can tell me,” Ryan says.

  “I can, but I’m not going to.”

  “Why? Did you get me?”

  “I can’t believe it.” Sam stands up, disgusted.

  “You got me? Really?”

  Sam shakes his head and walks up the steps. “I’m waiting inside.”

  “Nice work,” I tell Ryan.

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  I don’t have an answer.

  “So, who’d you get?” he asks me.

  “Have you learned nothing?”

  “What?” He really doesn’t see the point.

  “Sadie,” I say.

  “You’re so lucky. Figures you’d get a girl who already likes you.”

  “Right.”

  “You know I am,” he says bitterly.

  “Who’d you get?” I ask, ignoring him.

  “Max. Can you believe it?” He hands me Max’s description.

  Name: Max Fitzsimmons

  Things I like: Firecrackers, beef jerky, nunchucks

  Things I don’t like: Secret Santas

  “Everyone’s a comedian,” I say.

  I hand him Sadie’s form.

  He reads her list carefully, as if he wants to memorize it. “You have it so easy! You’re so lucky. I think I hate you.”

  “Easy? I don’t know how to buy lip gloss!”

  “And firecrackers are an easy purchase?”

  “Just draw him pictures of everything on his list and throw in some gum,” I suggest.

  “Noah, you’re a genius.”

  I nod proudly.

  Mr. Lewis pulls up to get me and Harper. Emma is already in the front seat, Stu in the back. For some reason, whenever Mr. Lewis drives, he always goes to the high school first, unlike my mom, who takes turns. This means I will be squished in the back between Harper and Stu.

  “Window!” I yell, even though I know it’s hopeless. Harper has already jumped down the steps and is running toward the car.

  Ryan smiles as he stares at Emma through the passenger window. “Can I come over? Please?”

  “What are you gonna do, ride on the roof?” I ask. “There’s no room.”

  “I could share the front seat with Emma.”

  “Don’t make me hurt you.”

  “Wouldn’t you prefer to have her go out with someone nice like me instead of some high-school jerk who doesn’t appreciate the real Emma?”

  “Do you even know the real Emma?”

  He doesn’t answer, and I realize I just made him feel really uncomfortable. Good.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say, disgusted.

  “See you.”

  “Who’d you get for Secret Santa?” Harper asks me as soon as we pull out of the parking lot.

  “I’m not telling,” I say.

  Emma turns to face us and reaches back to give me a punch. “I can’t believe they still do that. What about the kids who don’t celebrate Christmas?”

  “It’s Santa. It’s not religious,” Stu says.

  “He’s Saint Nicholas,” Emma points out.

  “But that doesn’t have to do with Christ or anything. Does it?”

  “Who cares?” Harper says. “It’s just for fun.”

  Emma turns back to face front. “Some people are so insensitive,” she says to the windshield.

  When we get home, she heads straight upstairs and closes her bedroom door. Her music thrums through the walls that separate our bedrooms. I turn up my own music to drown hers out. The next thing I know, she’s pounding on my door, then swinging it open without even waiting for me to tell her it’s OK to come in.

  The Captain gets up and rushes over to her excitedly, but she ignores him and stomps over to my bureau and turns off my music.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s too loud,” she says.

  “Maybe yours is too loud.”

  “At least mine is good.”

  “What’s your problem?” I ask. “Ever since Thanksgiving, you’ve been all moody.”

  She holds up her fist at me like she’s threatening to hit me. She has such dry skin that her knuckles are scabby and gross-looking.

  “I thought you were a pacifist
,” I say. “And also, ever heard of lotion? Your hands are gross.”

  She quickly pulls the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. “Shut up.”

  “Emma,” I say, feeling a horrible panic in my stomach, “why are your hands like that?”

  “It’s not what you think. They’re just dry. God.”

  “Emma . . .” I say again. My insides feel like they are tightening into a fist, like they do whenever I’m really scared.

  “It’s dry skin!” she screams at me, and storms back out of the room.

  “She’s insane,” I tell the Captain.

  He licks my sock and rolls over so I’ll rub his belly.

  “You’d never know you’re her dog,” I say to him. But he just thumps his tail without a care. This is the real Emma. The problem is, I don’t even know what that means.

  Later, when it’s time for bed, Emma stands in my doorway to say good night, just like always. “I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier,” she says.

  “It’s all right,” I say. I can tell she really means it. She looks sad, and it makes me feel scared again.

  “Are you really OK?” I ask.

  She nods, but just barely.

  “Emma —” I start, but she interrupts.

  “Sleep tight,” she says. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  “Nighty-night, bite-bite-bite,” I mumble, because our childhood saying seems kind of embarrassing now.

  “Chomp!” she whispers, then disappears down the hall.

  The next day, I arrive at school with an upset stomach because I somehow completely forgot about Secret Santas and I don’t have anything to give Sadie. I should have asked Emma if she had any unused lip gloss I could buy off her, but given her mood, I didn’t bother.

  Ryan and Sam come running over to me as soon as I get inside.

  “Wait until you see your locker!” Sam yells, beaming.

  Ryan has a you-know-what-eating grin on his face.

  “How embarrassing is it?” I ask.

  “It’s not!” Sam says. But nothing embarrasses Sam.

  “Well?” I ask Ryan.

  “It’s hard to say,” he tells me. “You’ll have to be the judge.”

  “Terrific.”

  We walk to my locker, which has a crowd of people standing around it. They step out of the way when they see me, revealing that my entire locker door is covered in Snoopy wrapping paper and a giant red bow. I glance up and down the hall at all the other lockers to see if anyone else got a wrapped door. No one did.

  “Someone must really like you,” Lily says, all baby talk.

  I roll my eyes and hope that even though my cheeks feel like they are on fire, I’m not actually blushing.

  “Do you think there’s a present inside?” Sam asks.

  “Open it!” Harper says.

  “Yeah, open it!” someone else yells. Everyone starts chanting, “Open it! Open it!”

  I know they won’t stop until I do, so I slowly lift the handle and swing open the door.

  There’s nothing inside.

  “Well, that’s disappointing,” Ryan says.

  “Still cool,” Sam says. “No one else got a wrapped-up door.”

  I wish his door was the one that got wrapped.

  “What did you guys get?” I ask, to change the subject.

  “Bag of Hershey’s Kisses,” Sam says.

  Ryan holds up a gift bag that looks kind of wrinkled and reused. “Homemade chocolate-chip cookies. Want one?”

  I reach in for a cookie and take a bite. Stale. I glance at Sam. “Useless,” I tell him.

  “What?” he asks innocently.

  “Never mind. Hey, help me find a gift, quick. I forgot to bring something.”

  “You can have my cookies,” Ryan says.

  “Hey!” Sam yells, all offended.

  “C’mon,” I tell Ryan. “Let’s look in the Community Room.”

  “Why don’t you just get something from Ms. Cliff’s emergency bag?”

  “Because then Sadie will know I forgot.”

  “How?”

  “All the gifts in that bag are lame. She’ll know.”

  We scour the Community Room for anything that could be a present, but there’s nothing. I wish I had time to make something in the art room.

  “I found something!” Ryan says. He runs over to the counter where the microwave and toaster are. I follow. There’s a bowl beside the microwave filled with fruit. Ryan holds up a banana that is mostly brown and gross.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “Hmm. How about this?” He holds up a tiny piece of fruit that looks like an orange.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “It’s a clementine! They’re really good. Here.” He hands it over.

  It’s kind of squishy, like it’s been sitting there for a while.

  “It seems kinda old. What if it’s rotten inside?”

  “You’re making it very hard to help you,” he tells me.

  “Fine.” I turn the clementine over in my hands. “I’ve got it!” I get a Sharpie out of my bag and make a face on the peel. I work really hard at it, using the grooves in the fruit to make dimples and other facial features.

  “Wow,” Ryan says. “You’re really good! Is that . . . supposed to be Sadie?”

  I make a few final touches and hold it out to him for closer inspection.

  “You’re a real artist, Noah! The real deal!”

  I smile.

  “It’s so good, I bet she won’t even be offended that all you got her was an inedible piece of fruit.”

  I ignore that. “Will you put it in her locker for me?” Ms. Cliff doesn’t allow locks on lockers, because she believes in community trust or something like that.

  “You got it.”

  He puts the fruit in his bag, and we go back to our lockers.

  “Did you find something?” Sam asks when he sees us. He says it in this sort of sarcastic way, like what could we have possibly found that would be better than his stale cookies.

  Ryan opens his bag and carefully shows Sam the Sadie-faced clementine so no one else can see. Then he sneaks over and puts it in her locker.

  “You’re giving her school fruit?” he asks. “Wow, Noah. That is really low. Fruit is bad enough. But school fruit. Sheesh.”

  “It’s art!” Ryan says.

  Sam shakes his head.

  “It’s better than stale cookies,” I say.

  “They weren’t stale!”

  The morning bell goes off, so we head to class. I keep looking for Sadie as we walk down the hall. I wonder if she’ll be able to tell I made a portrait of her, or if she’ll just think she got a gross piece of fruit. But mostly I think about how Ryan called it art . . . and me the real deal.

  In language arts, Mr. Marshall seems very excited to talk about our next book assignment, A Separate Peace. I’m so glad to be moving on from Lord of the Flies. He hands out copies to all of us and then notes our names and the number on our books on a sheet of paper. He reads the first chapter to us, and already I can tell this book is going to be about friendship gone wrong. These are the kinds of books I really don’t like. I never understand why the characters make such obvious, horrible mistakes. It seems so unrealistic. Also, I never understand why characters in books are so over-the-top jealous of one another. Enough to do really awful things. I can’t imagine that in real life. I can’t imagine being so jealous of someone, especially a so-called friend, that I would want something bad to happen. But it seems to be a pretty common theme.

  All day long I try to overhear Sadie talking about my gift, but she never seems to say a word. Maybe she hates it. Maybe she knows it was a last-minute gift. Maybe she’s offended. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.

  “Did you hear anything?” I finally ask Ryan.

  “What would I hear?”

  “You know, Sadie telling someone about her present.”

  “No. Maybe she threw it out. Maybe it smelled. It was pretty old.”
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  “It didn’t smell,” I say.

  Sam comes over and asks what’s up. “Oh, I saw it on the Tank’s desk,” he says.

  “What was it on the Tank’s desk for?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “It looked like he got it as a gift.”

  “What? Do you think she regifted it?”

  “That would be the lamest regift in history,” Ryan says. “No offense.”

  “Thanks a lot. It’s still better than stale cookies.”

  “They weren’t stale!” Sam yells.

  “There should be a rule about regifting,” I say.

  “Put it in the Complaint Box,” Ryan suggests.

  “It’s the Suggestion Box,” Sam corrects, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  “Never mind,” I say. “It doesn’t matter.” But for some reason, it does matter. But I don’t want to explore why with these two. I just can’t help wondering if maybe Ryan was wrong. Maybe I’m not a real artist after all.

  The last day of school before winter break, everyone walks around with winter break perma-grin. We bring our final Secret Santa gifts to Community Meeting, where we put them under a tiny fake tree on a table with a bunch of other December holiday decorations so it looks like we’re celebrating more than just Christmas.

  Curly has found a package with ribbons that she’s started to play with. She’s wearing a little Santa vest. It’s red with white trim. Someone got her a Santa hat with a beard made just for cats, but no one could get close enough to put it on her.

  “I guess we better start handing out these presents before Curly opens them all for us!” Ms. Cliff says.

  All the teachers put on Santa hats and hand out the gifts.

  I’m pretty sure Ms. Cliff got me, because every day I’ve been getting art supplies, like nice pencils and erasers and things like that. It would also explain the embarrassing Snoopy Christmas decorations on my locker door.

  Once we get our presents, we all tear into them at the same time. I’m not sure if I’m more excited to see what mine is or to see how Sadie reacts when she opens the gift I made for her.

  I keep glancing over, but there’s so much paper flying through the air and people in the way that I can’t see.

  I open my own present, which doesn’t say who it’s from on the outside like it’s supposed to. It’s a really nice sketchbook with thick white paper. I flip through the pages and find a card.