The Art of Secrets

by Jim Klise

  She closed her math book, then stretched, a biiiigg stretch—long arms out in front of her, clasping her hands, and she actually rolled her eyes a little, dude, as if she was rejecting any guilt about the matter. “I love sports, Steve. Did you go to any girls’ tennis matches this year?”

  I said no, and before I could even make up an excuse she leaned forward and interrupted me. “But don’t you like sports?”

  Okay, now I like girls who can tease, the ones who can give and take. I said something like, “Fair enough. How about a campus tour, then? I can give you a private tour, show you all the secret spots around here.”

  She was like, “Actually I’m a sophomore. If I didn’t know my way around by now, I’d have to be some kind of moron. Don’t you think?”

  I stared at her, not sure if I should agree or disagree. This girl was cagey.

  The wind picked up, and the leaves around us started to rattle and click. To me it sounded like a crowd cheering me on. I knew the passing bell would ring any minute.

  At this point, a lot of guys would have given up, waited for the game bell to ring. But here’s what I’ve found: When it comes to romance, just like in other areas, persistence pays off. If you don’t succeed with the first strategy, try an alternative one from your playbook, right? For example, try to notice something about her that nobody else does.

  My eyes took a quick physical survey, from the tip of her head to her pretty little hands resting on her notebook.

  I teased her about those hands—said they were the world’s tiniest hands.

  She smiled again, suddenly shy, pulling her hands against her stomach like she was hiding them from me. “They’re not so small.”

  “Here, let’s compare.” I held up my right hand, palm toward her. “C’mon.”

  She hesitated, but then she slowly lifted her left hand. She pressed it softly against mine and held it there. Her whole open hand, fingers and all, fit safely into my palm. Her eyes never left mine as we touched.

  Confident. I liked that.

  I said something like, “Look at that, no contest.” And the truth is, bro, I was already looking ahead to a win.

  On the afternoon of THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8, phones tucked between thighs,

  Steve Davinski, senior & Saba Khan, sophomore,

  discreetly exchange texts from opposite corners of the school.

  Steve:

  Observation: Being w/u makes lunches taste more delicious.

  Saba:

  Thanks 4 the smoothie. Tart & sweet.

  Saba:

  (Smoothie was pretty good too.)

  Steve:

  Aw *blushes* Yr the smoothie

  Saba:

  Tmw = my treat

  Steve:

  Ok, so . . . 3 weeks. When u gonna let me take u out for real? Saturday night?

  Steve:

  Uh . . . hello?

  Saba:

  Uh . . . my parents? Saturday night will never happen. Seriously I wish.

  Steve:

  Sunday? Daylight? Movie matinee? Lunch? Beverage? Pretzel? Peanut? . . .

  Saba:

  Is offer getting smaller? Better stop you @ peanut! For now, we are limited to hanging out after school—b4 your bball practice.

  Steve:

  I’ll take it!

  Saba:

  Peanut.

  On FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 9, during his lunch period,

  Javier Conejera, sophomore,

  returns to the library to write to his friend Jennifer in Oklahoma. This time, he correctly selects one of the regular workstations.

  I promise, amiga, I will not complain about my host family today, not their house that conserves heat like a closet, not their food that contains no spices, not their TV that never, never is quiet. I wonder what complaints you wrote to your friends about my family. I know—how Pimi barks at the moon so late every night. I miss mi Pimi.

  The truth is, all goes wind at the stern. I am grateful to be staying in the center of this city, not in the suburbs. I use the elevated train to go everywhere. I love the speed and the squeal of the trains, and seeing the neighborhoods passing by—so many apartment houses constructed of bricks, the color of wet sand—and in the center the skyscrapers shining under the sun like space rockets made of silver. Also, so many people! Even at my school, I admire the diversity, all the faces of the world in one classroom. I am fortunate to be here.

  The best part, I have discovered a friend! The more I learn about this girl Kendra, the more I think she is incredible. You are smiling, but she is more than only beautiful. She is smart. Kendra has made a website for the auction at school. I help her with it. Every day, I arrange the donated items under lights so she can photograph them. I hold the black bed sheet for the background, and she takes the photos with her phone and posts them online.

  Yesterday I had the inspiration to use white aerosol paint to make some old items look new and shiny—candlesticks, small tables, picture frames, a cage for birds. When Kendra saw, she said, “You are an artist!” I felt the heat appear on the face. I argued that I am not an artist, but she uses the items I painted as proof and tells me, “You have the eye for design. Also, I believe the artists are curious about the world—and here you are, very far from home. These things are all I need to know that you are an artist for certain.”

  In my life, no one tells me this before. It is true, I am curious about the world. When Kendra gives me this compliment, I feel as if the heart turns into pieces from the happiness.

  Today she and I walked the hallways and asked more teachers for the donations. Kendra has a talent that is unique: She can persuade all the people to give. For example, she persuaded the teacher of dance to give free classes of yoga. She persuaded the dean of the school to give his motorcycle! To every person she meets, she asks, “Well, what do you have?” The rule of Kendra is: Every person can help. And each person follows this rule, like magic.

  I want to ask her to spend a Saturday with me, so we can explore the city together. But she is more than busy, and I am shy with her. Of course, I am always shy around las chicas. Around all the people, even in this friendly city.

  Instead, I asked Kendra about her friend Saba. I know this girl, too, but I do not speak with her. She is not extra friendly. She wears the long hair so that it hides the face. Moreover, after the famous fire, every person at the school knows who this girl is, and they stare all the time with eyes that are very curious, as if Saba is the thing on fire, not only her apartment.

  Today Kendra told me, “Well, at first I feared that Saba would decline my idea.” I fear, also, that Kendra will decline my idea of being together away from the school.

  Kendra said, “Saba is predictable. I know her very well. Of all the students in this school, she is the most predictable girl! Her lunches are the same, she studies in the one place day after day. With tennis, her strategy never changes. At the practices, we all know how to beat her. She only wins when she plays the girls from the other schools, because they do not know yet how she plays.”

  I asked, But why would Saba respond no? And Kendra answered, “She does not like the attention. She never likes the attention.”

  One week after the fire, Kendra went to Saba and told her the people wanted to help her. As Kendra predicted, Saba said no. Saba did not like this idea of a big event to raise money. For Saba, this event sounded awkward to the extreme. Her family did not want the charity from the strangers. They have support that is very strong from their mosque. Also, the father of Saba is very sensitive. He feels that the family suffered alone and they will heal alone.

  But Jen, my new friend Kendra knows the magic to persuade people. Therefore, we are having the auction.

  “The event will be very good,” I told Kendra. “No matter big or small, this event will give good things to Saba and her family.”

  But Kendra said, “Javier, let us not make small plans. That is not the way to think. If our plans are small, this reduces our ability to surprise the wor
ld with how powerful we can be. Yes?”

  At last I was ready to speak to Kendra with the heart in the hand . . . However, before I could ask her for a date, we passed the young teacher of English, who had no donation next to her name in Kendra’s notebook.

  Our conversation was over—Ay de mí, just like this one. The bell rings and now I go to class.

  The Spring Break will be here in four months only. I am saving the money from my paychecks to buy the ticket soon!

  With love from your amigo in Chicago, whose happy fingers are sticky from white paint.

  After school that same Friday, the sky is dark by 4:30 and

  Ariel Ames, Department of English,

  carrying a zebra-striped water bottle and a milk crate full of essays, gets a ride home from Jean Delacroix, the art teacher.

  Jean, I’ll say it again: I’m going to buy a car just as soon as I make a dent on my college loans. Or a bike, at least. I totally should start exercising more. I spend most weekends trapped on my sofa, grading essays. If I don’t watch out, I’m going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe, which, hello, I cannot afford anytime soon. Say, can we crank up the air in here? I’m, like, dying from carrying this milk crate. Thanks.

  Hey, with all the Khan talk around school, you must feel like you’re in the spotlight, too. Kind of exciting, I’ll bet.

  Both Saba Khan and Kendra Spoon are in my American Lit class. Did I tell you that? Sophomore honors. My favorite period of the day, and those two fit right in.

  You don’t know Saba? She’s not like most kids. No money and no connections, I mean. You can tell her scholarship is based on her entrance test scores and absolutely nothing else. Without that financial help, her parents never could have afforded the tuition.

  I don’t understand all the negative talk. Why would Mr. Khan—or anyone in that family—want to torch their place? Or, as the story goes, have someone else do it for them? Or cover up for someone else? It’s pretty clear that the Khans are victims here . . . the target of some sick arsonist. Maybe even a stupid kid. That whole situation gives me nightmares. I’m telling you, the first thing I did after hearing about that fire was get some insurance for myself.

  But the Khans didn’t have insurance. It’s not like an insurance company wrote them a check. They lost everything. Period. There’s no financial motive. They’re living in donated housing. And I mean, that family never could have predicted the students would organize this massive event to help them out. That’s just luck. Kindness and luck.

  And Kendra Spoon . . . You know her brother, right? Didn’t you tell me he’s in AP Art with you?

  The funny thing is, I knew Kendra was special from the very beginning. I had a sense about her. It was something she said in class during the first week of school.

  Well, every September, we read “The Lottery,” by Shirley Jackson. Have you read it? One of the most famous short stories ever written. Okay, well—Jean, you should read it. I don’t mean to go all English teacher on you and everything, but like this weekend you should read it. It’s fantastic.

  Every year, I read this story aloud from start to finish. It’s most powerful that way. And it gets students talking. The kids are just blown away by the ending, because it’s so shocking.

  Spoiler alert: At the end of the story, someone gets killed. This is not a lottery anyone wants to win, you understand? And afterward, every year, the students talk about how unfair it is that a member of this town has to die. It doesn’t make sense. It seems ridiculous, and you feel horrified for the character who dies. The students say things like, “She should have run away.” Or, “Her husband should have protected her.” I’ve been teaching this story for a few years now, and the conversation always goes the same way. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair,” you know? Except for this year.

  We read the story, and as usual, students were shocked, and they felt bad for the person who dies at the end.

  Then Kendra Spoon raised her hand. She said, “Everything you guys are saying is true. But the thing is, this woman is not a victim. If her name hadn’t been selected, somebody else’s would have. And in that case, our little victim would have been part of the mob. She would have participated. I can’t feel too sorry for her.”

  Well, that shut everybody up, including me. It was the first time a student of mine ever made this point. And it’s such a good one! It showed me that Kendra’s an independent thinker, you know?

  And, of course, in October, when the Khans lost their home, Kendra was the one who spoke up. Jean, I’m telling you, I saw it happen. Saba had been absent for a couple of days, and Kendra said, “Hey, guys, this could have happened to any of us. We need to help them.” She was adamant about it. She said that if we worked hard as a community, we could even see to it that Saba’s family ended up better off than before the fire. Isn’t that something? My feeling is, Kendra didn’t look at Saba as a loner or an outsider, or even as a victim. She looked at Saba and saw herself.

  So no kidding, Jean, it all started in my class, which is pretty cool, if I do say so myself.

  On the evening of TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, the crumbs of leftover snacks fall carelessly upon the open notebook of

  Saba Khan, sophomore.

  Ammi sometimes teases me that my friends are imaginary. Sure, she’s met some of the girls at tennis + she always asks about my lunch posse: Beti, who only eats dried fruit + whose dad travels so much for work + Danielle, with her expensive sushi packs, who wants to become a dermatologist + Kendra, the newest member, who eats anything + takes perfect notes in class + who Ammi knows about more than anyone, obviously, because Kendra is helping to lead the fundraiser. But the lunch reports aren’t enough for Ammi. She complains: “You never bring your girlfriends to meet us!” It would be different if I still went to a neighborhood school. Kids travel from all over the city to get to Highsmith. My friends live too far away.

  Today, however, something new: The role of hostess was played by . . . me! Ever since we moved, I’d been dying to bring the girls here. What’s the point of moving to a high-rise yuppie condo if you can’t show it off?

  The 4 of us came straight from school, along with Kendra’s perfect notes, which we all needed to copy. My 1st quarter notes were (ahem) lost in a fire, while Beti + Danielle can always use some help in this area. Forget about my Wonder Woman haircut; Kendra is the true superhero among us, saving all of the slackers in our lunch posse.

  Any deluxe tour of Park Place begins in the lobby, where the semi-cute uniformed guy whose pin says “Dom” keeps watch over everything + signs for packages. He’s got it pretty easy. 9 times out of 10, he’s holding a cup + saucer, sipping tea; 1 time out of 10, he’s cutting into an apple with a pocketknife. (Today: cup + saucer.) I greeted him boldly by name: “Hi, Dom!”—something I never do. He smiled, but raised one eyebrow as we passed. It’s always a bonus when a grown-up thinks you’re up to something.

  In the elevator, Kendra used her ladybug phone to take an arty selfie of the 4 of us staring up at the mirrored ceiling. She immediately texted it to all of us with the subject line, “Luxe livin, Saba style!” We stopped on 3 so I could show them the fitness center, all frosted glass + chrome, along with the tan middle-aged ladies who know each other + don’t worry much about dressing modestly when they exercise. They lift with their earrings on—swag!

  None of the girls asked the obvious question: “Um, can you afford this place?” They know it’s donated. (+ temporary. For how long, who knows?) Furnished corporate housing owned by the parents of a Highsmith kid I’ve never met. Generosity from strangers: yet another way everything changed after the fire.

  We rode up to 17 + took off our shoes. Our entryway floor is a rectangle of cold white granite, like a tiny skating rink made of milk. Usually I find Salman’s plastic Army men standing in rows, ready to play hockey, but not today. An excellent sign.

  In fact, everything was ready for us. Samosas, chips + dried fruit, all waiting on the coffee table. The second we entered,
Ammi came out of the kitchen the way a wave rushes onto a beach, like her excitement was lifting her off her feet. The woman is beyond proud of this place. When her friends call, she brags that the mother of the mayor himself lives in this same building. She even watches the 10 o’clock news now, just to see her new friend, “Hannah from down the hall,” delivering the latest gruesome reports.

  Today she welcomed my friends with the biggest smile I’ve seen on her in ages. Kendra had read online that it was polite to bring flowers when you visit a Pakistani home, so we’d stopped at Dominick’s so she could get a bunch of bright pink lilies. Super sweet.

  We were losing sunlight fast, so I opened the sliding door to the balcony. The view of the lake is the star attraction, but between our building + the water is Lincoln Park, nothing but golden trees + playing fields as far as you can see. My girls let out loud hoots of envious appreciation: success! The streetlamps lining the paths through the formal gardens had just turned on. The air was getting cold, but as usual, there was a steady parade of bikes, joggers + lots of dogs on leashes. (The yuppie dogs wear expensive puffy jackets—disturbingly like my own puffy jacket, as Salman never gets tired of telling me.)

  The best part? Free tennis courts down the block. Who knows if we’ll still be living here in the spring, but I invited the girls to come play with me anyway. Beti made me pinky-swear she’d be 1st. “Just as soon as it gets warm outside?” she asked, not letting go of my pinky. I promised.

  Kendra took 1000 photos with her ladybug, so many that I asked if she’d be coming back to rob the place. She laughed. “I gotta ask, was your old apartment like this?”

  “Like, completely the opposite.”

  When she turned + started taking pics of the park again, her smile was so huge, sincere, not jealous. Like she felt genuinely happy for me, which makes me like her even more.

  I never invited friends to the old apartment, even though I loved it there. I didn’t even mind sharing my bedroom with Salman. It was like my family’s unique fingerprint could be found on every inch of space: photographs + spicy food smells, Papa’s work shirts drying over the tub, Ammi’s words of warning coming constantly from the kitchen. Maybe because of all that, it always felt too intimate for guests to see, too private.