by Jen Bryant
I would talk to you about
if you were here.
This is exactly the kind of thing that I would never tell
Tiffany. She doesn’t think like that.
I would tell her, and she would laugh and say:
“Georgia, you are strange. Who cares
what some Amish guy thinks?”
Actually, there’s a part of me that would like to be
more like Tiffany—someone who’s too busy to think
too much. But another part of me believes
there must be a reason that some of us notice,
that some of us wonder,
why Amish guys should have to plow
beneath roller coaster billboards.
“Artists notice things that other people don’t.
They’re very observant,” Miss B. told our class the other day.
Michael Stitt said: “Isn’t that just another way
of saying they’re weird?”…which Miss B. ignored.
(But he might be right.)
I guess if you’re an artist, you have to learn
to keep your mouth shut around people who don’t see things
the way you do.
Well, keeping my mouth shut has never been hard.
It would just be nice, once in a while, to tell somebody
something curious like that
and have them understand.
43.
Sometimes when I try, I can look at Daddy
like he’s any other guy, not like he’s
my father, and I can see why
you fell for him.
Like on Saturday…The checkout lady at the Acme in Delaware
starting flirting with him right in front of me!
I could tell Daddy was annoyed, but that didn’t
stop her. I glared when she sent me to produce
to check the price of Idaho potatoes.
When I walked back toward our line, I saw
a tall, tanned man with strong arms
and soft gray eyes—a big shyness about him.
Momma, in case you’re wondering, your husband is
still pretty handsome, but these days he’s not
putting that fact to very much use.
Maybe he wouldn’t be so sad if he had
a little female company.
But when that time comes, he’d better not choose
that batty-eyed, smooth-talking, air-brained Acme lady.
No way. Sad is one thing…desperate
is another.
44.
After lunch, Tiffany came over to my table.
It’s been a while since she’s done that.
Close up, I could see her eyes had
dark circles (she was wearing makeup to try and hide them,
but I could still tell).
She asked about Blake, about Ella, about
my drawing. I asked about
lacrosse (the school team),
tournaments (with her club team),
swimming (her summer team’s already practicing),
religious classes.
She said: “Good, all goin’ good…”
like it was a tape she played
whenever someone asked.
Then she said I looked pretty tired,
and I told her I’d stayed up late
to finish a sketch.
“Here,” she said, “try one,”
and offered me these yellow capsules—
“They help me keep awake. They work pretty good, too.”
I looked around quick to see
if anyone was watching (they weren’t).
I couldn’t believe she would be so stupid.
It explained why she looked like
a zombie, though.
The bell rang and Jess Bettis, one of Tiffany’s basketball friends,
came by to say hi, and then Michael Stitt
plowed into us as we were leaving, and I didn’t have to
do anything about those pills. She slipped
them back into her pocket, and we all
walked our separate ways in the hall,
and for the first time ever, I was actually glad to be
heading to history.
45.
Living History Day at school. Everyone in the whole
seventh grade had to dress up
like a famous person from the nineteenth century.
Last week, we picked names from a hat and I got
Annie Oakley. But I lost the handout Mr. Hendershot gave us
explaining how to get a good grade, so I
remembered as much as I could and guessed at the rest.
I remembered I needed a costume and I should look up stuff
about my person and give a short report
(I forgot the time line and bibliography parts).
Tiffany loaned me her brother’s old
holsters and toy pistols—they’re plastic, but even so,
our principal, Mr. Nardo, had to inspect them in homeroom—
and Mr. Fitz let me borrow his Western hat, a pair of chaps,
and his daughter’s snakeskin boots
in exchange for two hours of grooming.
Michael Stitt and Adam McVey spent half the day
slipping the pistols from my holsters and the other half
knocking off my hat.
“Michael likes you,” Marianne whispered in math.
Michael Stitt? He is kind of cute…
and he’s smart…and I think he does like art class
(but he won’t admit it).
But I can think of better ways
to get my attention than stealing my guns
and plowing into me at lunch. Maybe
I could sketch him….
Anyway, it was Living History Day, and I don’t like
history much—too many wars and acts and treaties—
but I did kind of like Annie Oakley. Did you know
that her father died when she was five,
and she started hunting (with a real gun)
to feed her mother and her brothers and sisters?
Annie got so good at shooting that she started
selling furs to traders
and made enough money to go to the city
and join a Wild West show. She married the owner,
and the two of them traveled all over the country, even
to London so Annie could sharpshoot for the queen.
“Well done!” Mr. Hendershot said after my presentation.
I got points off for “lack of eye contact”
(I get too nervous if I look at the class,
so I stare down at my notes),
but he gave me five extra points for “superior details”
and one more for “putting up with difficult props.”
We did a play for the parents,
and even some aunts and uncles came. Afterward, I felt
worn-out, and my stomach started to hurt, so I
got a pass to the nurse.
Mrs. Reed was expecting me (this always happens
when the parents are invited—I know Daddy can’t
afford to give up a day’s pay, but it’d be nice if someday
he came, too, like the other parents do).
She had my fruit-flavored Rolaids all ready
and cleared the papers off the couch
and set the goldfish bowl right where I could see it.
“Stay as long as you want,” she said.
I lay down and thought about Daddy
pounding nails somewhere
and Tiffany looking like a zombie, trying to give me pills
that remind me of the kind I’ve seen Mrs. Reed
give to kids who have a special prescription for them,
to help them concentrate. I tried not to worry about it.
I tried to watch the fish.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Reed went back to her desk
&nb
sp; to fill out a form for who visits the nurse,
how often, and why,
that she probably has to send to Guidance,
which probably keeps me
on that stupid “At Risk” list.
46.
Miss B. showed us slides of paintings by
Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin.
Most of us had seen Van Gogh’s Starry Night and those
famous purple irises. They put them on
calendars and mouse pads and even on T-shirts
you can buy in Wal-Mart.
But I’ve never seen Gauguin’s stuff before.
“He was a successful businessman in Paris,” Miss B. told us.
“But he also loved to paint. He had a midlife crisis,
left his wife and five kids, and sailed all the way
to Tahiti to live like a primitive.”
(She glanced at Michael when she said that.)
Lots of beach scenes with coconuts, palm trees,
and canoes. Half-dressed women with long black hair
and brown skin. (Miss B. kept one hand on Michael’s shoulder
as she flipped through the slides. He shut up this time.)
I liked the bright colors Gauguin used,
and the way you felt like you were in a dream.
Both men had their share of troubles, it seems.
Van Gogh sold only one painting his whole life.
He had seizures (he cut off his ear during one of them),
and later, he just got up from his easel and shot himself
in the middle of a field.
Gauguin had a rough time, too. He caught a bad sickness
called syphilis and died in Tahiti, penniless.
Michael asked why two such
talented guys ended up like that (a good question, I thought).
“Each artist is unique,” Miss B. said. “They each lead
a different kind of life. Georgia O’Keeffe, for instance,
had lots of friends, lived to be ninety-eight,
and was pretty rich when she died….
But artists are often way ahead of their time,
and it can be lonely when no one understands you.”
I wondered if N. C. Wyeth studied Van Gogh
or Gauguin. He probably did. Maybe that’s why
he encouraged all his kids to be creative—
he wanted one of them, at least one,
to understand.
47.
I must have looked tired again this morning
(I stayed up past midnight working on my drawings).
On the bus, Tiffany offered me two of those
yellow capsules, and when I said “No thanks,”
she took them both herself.
I know she’s taking those
so she doesn’t fall behind in school,
so she can play all her sports and finish CCD,
so she doesn’t disappoint
her parents,
her coaches,
her teachers,
or the Sisters.
But how come I am the only one who notices
how bad she needs a rest?
And what kind of friend am I to stand by
and do nothing?
Anyway, my drawings are almost done. Tonight
I can do something fun, and tomorrow I’m sleeping late.
I asked Tiffany if she wanted to watch a movie with me,
but she has to play lacrosse
in a “select” tournament at Penn State.
She leaves right after school for the five-hour ride
and stays over for two nights.
When I said “Good luck,” she just
stared through the window with a blank face
like she hadn’t heard, like she was watching a movie she’d seen
a hundred times.
48.
I’m getting a funny feeling, Momma.
Like that time last November when Daddy
had already left for work, but the roads were still
pretty icy and our school had a
two-hour delay. It was cold, all right, but it was sunny
and not too windy, and I had nothing to do,
so I took Blake for a walk.
After a few minutes or so, though,
I got this strange notion to run
home. I whistled to Blake to come back, and when
we got close to the trailer again,
he started barking like a maniac.
Inside, I saw why: Daddy had left the little space heater on,
and a stack of bills had fallen from the kitchen table
and landed right in front of it.
Little strings of smoke had started to rise, so I
yanked the cord out quick
and tossed the papers into the sink.
At dinner I told Daddy what happened.
“Good thing you turned back when you did,” he said,
“or we’d be homeless.”
Now I have that same funny feeling
whenever I’m with Tiffany—like I should run home
and put out some fire—but there is no fire,
just Tiffany acting okay sometimes but at other times
real tired and spaced out
or else super hyper—and Momma,
now I know why…but I
have no clue what to do.
49.
I’ve been looking at those pencil sketches I did
when I went to work with Daddy—the one of the stonemason
with the big, sad eyes, and the one of Benny with his
long arms and thin fingers. So far, they are
my best sketches of humans.
So…I’m going to touch up one and leave it in pencil,
and redo the second one in charcoal, and if they
come out all right, I’ll spray the second one with fixative
so it doesn’t smudge
and put them both in my portfolio.
What would those men say
if they knew
these drawings might someday
get me into college, or maybe art school?
Then again, when all this is done,
maybe I’ll just have a nice bunch of drawings
that ten judges in Harrisburg will look at
and send back.
50.
Daddy left
early again this morning. Tiffany called to tell me
her father was taking her to school
’cause she had to bring her solar system project
and it would get wrecked on the bus,
and did I want a ride?
Perfect. I didn’t know how I was going to get
my portfolio in to Miss B.
without getting it creased or smashed
on the bus, and now I didn’t
have to worry.
I skipped homeroom, went straight to the art room,
and put the folder on Miss B.’s desk.
I was leaving when she walked in carrying
a chocolate doughnut. She offered me half and said:
“I’ll give you a pass. Why don’t you stick around
and show me what you have?”
We sat at one of the long painting tables
just like when we first talked about
the grant.
I pulled all five of my samples—
one by one—from the folder,
and laid them out.
Miss B. began at the left and moved slowly
toward the right, looking at them—one by one—
and then she came back to where she started
and did the very same thing all over again,
but this time she read the titles out loud:
“Portrait of My Father, still life, pen-and-ink.
Ella Laughing, animal portrait, charcoal.
Benny, human figure, charcoal.
The Stonemason, portrait, pencil.
> Anybody Home?, animal portrait, pencil.”
(That last one was Tiffany’s idea. I didn’t have
a good title for my picture of Blake’s face
in the gopher hole, so I let her make one up.)
I couldn’t tell what she was thinking
until she stopped chewing,
wiped her mouth with a napkin,
and said with a grin: “These are very, very good….
But why do you look so sad?”
“I feel awful,” I said. “I lost your rabbit’s foot in our fields
while I was running my dog.
But I will buy you another, the same size and color,
at Wal-Mart the next time I get paid.”
She pointed to her desk. “Open the drawer on the left.”
Lined up inside, I counted
fourteen rabbit’s feet—all sizes and colors.
“I don’t need another,” she said.
“And from what I see in this folder,
you don’t either.”
51.
After history, I saw Tiffany in the hall. She looked strange—
her eyes were dull and her
skin was real pale.
“Georgia, I don’t feel so good,” she said.
I said: “Go see Mrs. Reed. Lie down on her couch, watch the fish
until you can go home.”
Mr. Hendershot yelled at us to get to class,
so I didn’t see her after that.
I couldn’t concentrate in science. I decided
to talk to Tiffany about those pills.
And if she wouldn’t listen, and if she still
looked tired and sick, I’d tell someone—maybe Miss B.—
that she needed help.
But I never had to tell.
Tiffany didn’t go see Mrs. Reed.
Instead, she went to gym class,
