The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball

by Risa Green

  I click to allow the message, then open it.

  Dear tenth grade class,

  I’m writing to tell you two things. First of all, I would like to make it known that I did not steal any tests. I strongly believe that, in the next few days, my name will be cleared and I will be invited back to school. Second, I would like to sincerely apologize to my classmate, Lindsay Altman, for the mean and crude jokes that I have made at her expense over the last two years. I realize now that my actions were wrong, and I am truly sorry for any hurt that I have caused her. Lindsay is a very nice person, and she does not deserve the treatment that she received from me.

  I hope to see you all again soon.

  Sincerely,

  Megan Crowley

  So she bought it after all. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she just figured that she didn’t have anything to lose by trying. Either way, it worked. One down, one to go.

  I click on “write message,” and begin composing an email to Chris Bollmer. When I’m finished, I fill in the subject line:

  I know things too.

  I hold my breath as I hit the send button, then let it out, exhausted.

  Two down. Only one more thing to do.

  I pick up my phone and dial Jesse on his cell, my stomach doing different kinds of flips from the ones it usually does when Jesse is involved. It goes straight to voicemail.

  “This is Jesse. Wait for it…”

  I wait for it, but when the beep comes, I have no idea what to say. What could I possibly say? I hang up.

  I pull the covers up over my head, not even bothering to get undressed. It’s dark and warm and comfy, and I already know that tomorrow, it’s going to be very hard for me to get up. If I even sleep at all…

  Thirty

  Samantha and I both glance anxiously at Lindsay’s empty desk during homeroom the next morning.

  She and her mom arrived at school just before the first bell rang, and I saw them in the hallway outside the principal’s office, waiting for their appointment to start.

  Lindsay took me by the arm and pulled me in the opposite direction, wanting to know if I had fixed everything. But I didn’t know what to tell her. I hadn’t heard back from Chris Bollmer last night, and I hadn’t seen him yet this morning, so I didn’t (and still don’t) know if the second half of my plan worked or not. But I didn’t even have a chance to tell her that much, because the secretary called Lindsay and her mom in before I could open my mouth. She kept her eyes glued to me as she walked into the office, silently pleading with me to help her, and now. I just can’t get that picture of her out of my mind. The image of Lindsay’s panicked face will be seared on my brain for all of eternity.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Samantha says once homeroom is over and we get outside into the hallway.

  “Okay. Let me know as soon as you hear anything.”

  “I will. Did you talk to Jesse? Is everything okay?”

  I tell her about how I hung up on his cell phone last night, and she winces.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna say that that probably wasn’t the way to go on that one,” she murmurs.

  I hang my head. “I know. I’m such an idiot. I just didn’t know what to say. And now I have to do the presentation blind. I don’t even know what painting he picked for our third example…How am I going to talk about a painting for ten minutes when I don’t know anything about it?”

  Samantha raises her eyebrows. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re getting some help from our little round friend, or you would definitely be giving up your GPA title.”

  “I know, I know.” My mind starts racing again. “You should have seen Maya Franklin when I got detention in physics the other day. She was practically foaming at the mouth. But really, I’m worried. If we’re in control, does that mean the ball can’t pull this off? I mean, what could possibly happen that is going to make me suddenly know all about a random piece of art?”

  Samantha shrugs. “Osmosis?”

  ***

  When I walk into AP Art History, Jesse won’t even look at me. I brace myself as I march over to his desk to apologize.

  “Jesse, I’m so sorry. Please, you have to let me explain. I didn’t have a cell phone, and Lindsay disappeared and her mom called me and I had to go find her…” I let my sentence trail off as it becomes obvious that Jesse isn’t going to respond. He just sits there, quiet and withdrawn. After a few torturous seconds, he hands me a yellow folder without looking at me.

  “Here’s the work I did. Good luck.”

  I wish he would have yelled at me. I wish he would have called me horrible names. Anything would be better than this. I sit back down at my desk. I can’t believe I messed this up so badly.

  I flip through the folder, trying to calm myself down.

  You have to focus, I tell myself. You need to relax. Jesse typed up note cards on Prometheus Bound and The City, more or less paraphrasing the discussions we had about them at the museum. I anxiously turn to the next page, looking for the third piece. When I see what it is, my heart almost stops. For a second, I feel light-headed, like I’m going to faint.

  I can’t believe this. The piece he picked is Camo-Outgrowth, my aunt Kiki’s favorite poster. The one with the globes covered in camouflage that hung above her dining room table. The one that we used to talk about every time I went to her house.

  So that’s how the ball is going to pull this off.

  “Jesse, Erin, are you ready?” Mr. Wallace asks.

  We both say that we are, and we stand stiffly in the front of the room, not making eye contact with each other.

  “Tell me, Erin, which three pieces did you pick?” Mr. Wallace asks. I rattle off the names and artists of each piece, and Mr. Wallace nods. “Very interesting,” he says, making notes on a pad in front of him. “All right then, go ahead, please. Tell us how spirituality is represented in each of them.”

  I pause so that Jesse can take the lead with Prometheus Bound, since that was, after all, his choice. He looks nervous, and he stammers a bit as he reads from his note cards without even looking up. I can see the sweat forming on his brow. What’s happening to him? I wonder. Is this because of me? He’s mumbling and his words are all over the place, so I jump in and try to rescue him.

  “I think the point Jesse is trying to make is that Prometheus is spirituality. In stealing the fire from the gods, Prometheus came to represent the triumph of the human spirit over those who would try to oppress it.” Mr. Wallace smiles appreciatively, and I move on to discuss my interpretation of The City. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Jesse’s hands are trembling.

  “The third piece we’ve chosen is Thomas Hirschhorn’s Camo-Outgrowth,” I reiterate. “Jesse, do you want to start on that one?”

  Jesse shuffles through his folder, trying to compose himself. “Yes, um, thanks. Like Erin said, we chose Camo-Outgrowth, which is, um, a modern, uh, sculpture about how we as a, um, society, are obsessed with, uh, war.”

  Mr. Wallace looks confused. I glance at the note cards Jesse outlined last night. They’re so detailed and so carefully outlined, but he’s obviously frazzled by the whole situation. I feel horrible. This is all my fault. When he pauses, I jump back in.

  “I also think that this piece is a comment on society’s fascination with war in the twentieth century. The repetitiveness of the globes symbolizes how pervasive war has become. The camouflage, I think, can also be interpreted as just how oppressive war can be on the human spirit, causing it to go into hiding, in a way. If you really think about it, when taken as a whole, the three pieces we chose come full circle. Prometheus represents the triumph of the human spirit over the gods who would oppress it; The City shows how spirituality can be lost in the machine age; and Camo-Outgrowth says that war can turn men into machines if they’re not careful, allowing the oppressor to ultimately win.” I exhale, exhausted. Talk ab
out channeling my aunt Kiki. I don’t even know where that stuff came from.

  Mr. Wallace stares at me, and the whole class bursts into spontaneous applause. Well, the whole class except for Maya Franklin, who is scowling to herself. (Ha!)

  “Very well done,” Mr. Wallace mutters. “You—”

  The bell rings, cutting him off.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll hear from Emily and Phoebe,” he continues in a hurry. “And don’t forget, applications for the Italy trip are due in my office by tomorrow afternoon at 5:00 p.m.!” he shouts, trying to make himself heard over the din of everyone packing up their things. “Erin, Jesse, please stay for a moment after class, would you?”

  When everyone has gone, Mr. Wallace motions for us to sit down with him at the table in the front of the room.

  “I have to say, I was very impressed with the pieces that you two chose. They were original and unexpected. But I was disappointed in the overall presentation. It seems clear to me, Jesse, that you were unprepared, and it was quite obvious that Erin did the majority of the work. I’m afraid I’m going to have to factor that into your grades.”

  Jesse’s mouth drops open and his face flushes a bright red.

  “Mr. Wallace,” I try to explain, but before I have a chance to say anything, Jesse picks up his bag and races out of the room.

  “Jesse, wait!” I yell. I try to run after him, but I’m stopped by a throng of seniors entering the classroom for next period. I finally push my way through them and into the hallway, but I’m too late.

  He’s gone.

  I slide down the wall outside of the classroom—and just like my Mom, the tears come. I never wanted it to be like this. I replay yesterday afternoon in my head like it’s a scene in a movie—riding in Samantha’s car, taking out the ball, asking it the completely wrong question. I shouldn’t have asked if I would get an A minus on the presentation. I should have asked if we would get an A minus on the presentation. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  I don’t know what to do. If I tell Mr. Wallace the truth now, I’ll never get to go on the trip. But if I don’t tell him, then Jesse won’t get to go either. I put my head in my hands, trying to think of an answer or solution. But this time, none appears.

  ***

  Luckily, today is a Wednesday. On Wednesdays, my last two periods of the day are free periods. Well, technically, seventh period is a free period, and sixth period is an optional physics study hall/review. But today, I’m opting to go home instead.

  My mom has put Kiki’s ashes on top of the mantle, and I take the black lacquer box and carefully put it inside my backpack. The ball is still inside it from yesterday too, and I shove my sweatshirt in between them so that they won’t bang against each other, and then head out into the backyard.

  There’s a huge oak tree in the far corner of our property. When I was a kid I used to go there all the time: sometimes to think, sometimes to read a book, sometimes to play, sometimes just to get out of the sun on a hot summer afternoon. I haven’t been there in years, but for some reason it’s the only place where I want to be right now.

  I take out the box and place it gently on the ground next to me, and then I take out the ball and turn it over in my hands as I lie back against the thick base of the tree trunk. It’s cool and breezy and calm, just like I remember it.

  Essays are due for the Italy trip tomorrow. I’ve heard that the Committee of Tenth Grade Teachers is going to meet after school to go through them. And still, I don’t know what I’m going to write about.

  I stare at the ball. I can’t believe I didn’t get to ask it for the only thing I really wanted. I shake it halfheartedly.

  “If I tell Mr. Wallace the truth, will I get picked to go on the Italy trip?” I whisper. I watch as the octagonal dipyramid spins through the pink liquid, finally settling on an answer.

  Your future is obscured. You must ask again.

  Right.

  I put the ball down and pick up the box with my aunt Kiki inside. It’s so weird to think that she’s actually in there. Now I understand why my mom wanted the ashes so badly: it’s so much easier to feel close to her when she’s right there with you.

  “What should I do, Aunt Kiki?” I say to the box.

  I run my index finger over the mother-of-pearl design and, out of nowhere, a monarch butterfly lands on my leg.

  “Whoa,” I say out loud.

  The butterfly flutters its black and orange wings, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I’m not a flower. It flies up a few feet and I watch as it flits around above me in the tree leaves. I’m just about to close my eyes as it flies back down, landing on my arm. It’s maybe two feet from my face, and I watch it as it watches me with its unblinking eyes. It seems like its staring at me, waiting for me to do or say something.

  My heart pounds. “Aunt Kiki…Is that you?”

  At the sound of my voice, the butterfly flies up and away, and I watch it until it’s gone so far that I can’t see it anymore. I look at the black box and laugh at myself. I can’t believe I just talked to a butterfly. And I really can’t believe I thought that a butterfly might be my aunt Kiki reincarnated. The old me would never even have considered something like that. Not for a second.

  The old me, I think.

  Right.

  Does that mean that there’s a new me?

  Suddenly, I have an idea. I open up my backpack and take out a notebook and a pen, and the words begin to pour out of me, like they’re writing themselves.

  Dear Committee of Tenth Grade Teachers,

  I used to think that I was an open-minded person. I thought this because I didn’t discriminate against people based on their race, color, or religion. I didn’t shout people down because of their political views. I wasn’t offended by people who pierced or tattooed their bodies, or who dyed their hair purple. And yet, while I tolerated differences in others, I still always judged them. In my head, I categorized different people as weird or wrong or too popular for their own good, while I was normal and right. But I realize now that simply tolerating differences doesn’t make a person open-minded.

  In the last two weeks, I’ve met a lot of new people and have been exposed to a lot of new beliefs and ideas. At first I dismissed them, just as I always have. These people and their ideas seemed crazy and illogical. Most of all, they seemed strange. But over time, I began to see that maybe they weren’t. My mind started to open—for real—and I began to see that maybe I’m the one who is strange. In always being so fixed and rigid in my thinking, maybe I’m the one who is wrong. And it occurred to me that this is what art is all about: being open to the world around you, and being willing to try to understand things that don’t always make sense right away.

  A wise person once tried to convince me to view the world as being full of possibilities and opportunities, and twists and turns, instead of allowing it to be all laid out for me in little boxes. Now I see that she was right.

  To conclude, I believe I would be an excellent candidate for the Art History trip to Italy because I very much want to learn new things and to be influenced by new ideas and to take advantage of all of the possibilities and opportunities that the world has to offer. I hope that you will decide that I am worthy of such a privilege.

  Sincerely,

  Erin Channing

  “You see, I told you she would be here.”

  I look up, startled to hear Lindsay’s voice. She and Samantha are walking toward me. (Well, Lindsay is walking. Samantha is stopping and starting in a sort of limp-hobble because her three-inch heels keep sinking into the grass.)

  “What are you doing out here?” Samantha asks, semi-distracted. “It’s all dirty and there are, like, bugs and things.” She swats at the air around her face, and then smirks at my white jeans. “I’ll bet you anything you have grass stains on your butt.”

  “I wrote my essay,” I say proudly, holding up
my notebook. “I finally figured out what to write about.”

  Samantha rolls her eyes. “Um, that’s great. I’m really happy for you. But don’t you want to know if your best friend got kicked out of school today or not?”

  Oh my God.

  I was so wrapped up in my presentation and my fight with Jesse and my essay for the trip, I forgot all about Lindsay.

  “Of course! I’m so sorry! What happened? Tell me everything.”

  Lindsay plops down next to me on the grass, while Samantha takes off her sweater (it’s an old one, I notice) and carefully lays it down, gently lowering herself on top of it. Once she’s sitting, she kicks off her shoes, and her whole body seems to unstiffen at once.

  “Well, it was so crazy,” Lindsay begins. “My mom and I are in Mr. Baker’s office, sitting across from his desk, and he starts explaining that they’ve uncovered a cheating ring. And then he says that Megan Crowley was in charge of it, but they have evidence that I was helping her. And I swear to God, if I hadn’t been so scared I would have just burst out laughing at how clueless he is, to think that I would help Megan Crowley with anything. I mean, it’s like the teachers have no idea what goes on in that place every day. None.”

  “So what happened?”

  “So, I’m just about to lose it and start swearing on my mother’s life that I had nothing to do with it, when the secretary opens the door and says that she urgently needs to speak to Mr. Baker. So he goes outside to talk to her, and then a minute later he comes back in and his face is all red, and he apologizes. Like, ten times. He looks all sheepish and says there seems to have been a misunderstanding, and I should go back to class and forget this ever happened. And my mom and I are, like, what? But when we leave the office—mind you I’m shaking from head to toe and I can barely even walk—who do I see waiting outside Mr. Baker’s door?”

  “Chris Bollmer,” I answer.

  Lindsay and Samantha both look surprised.

  “How did you know that?” Lindsay asks. I smile and raise my eyebrows.