by Suzy Becker
“Nora’s okay,” I say.
Mrs. S. announces, “Mrs. Hallberg and I are passing out poster board and markers.”
“Okay,” Heather says. “Fall Fun Day. Maybe we have some fall leaves having some fun!”
“Maybe,” I say. Kind of obvious, but I guess it doesn’t have to be the World’s Best Idea. This isn’t a contest or anything; we just need to come up with a poster.
“Great! You’re such a good artist, you can draw it … since I thought of the idea and everything,” Heather says. Translation: You do the work. I’ll go hang out with my friends.
After we finish our posters, Mrs. Staughton has yet another new idea for closing circle. “How about we face the Guide to our left and say, ’Guide’s name, I’m so glad you came to Guides today because blank.” She looks at us.
“I’ll start,” I say.
Mrs. Staughton adds, “Compliments fill our wells.”
Heather turns and says, “Allie, I’m so glad you came to Guides today because you had an orthodontist appointment and I didn’t get to eat lunch with you.”
Allie says to Brooke, “… because Heather doesn’t have to be president anymore.” She didn’t mean it like I would have.
Brooke says to Nora, “… because you made me laugh really hard. Again!”
Nora has Mrs. Hallberg and everyone is wondering whether she will pass. “I’m so glad—”
Mrs. Staughton interrupts to correct her: “Mrs. Hallberg, I’m so glad …”
Nora keeps going: “You came today because I love vegetables.”
Brooke does a cover-up cough-laugh. Mrs. Hallberg smiles and takes her turn.
On our way out of the cafetorium, I ask Brooke, “How is it being president?”
“More like secretary or something. Doing attendance, copying stuff, taking notes.”
“You were in charge of cleanup. Mrs. S. didn’t even set her alarm.”
Brooke shrugged. “You know, though,” she says, “I think the Nora Project is totally working out.” It’s true. We high-five. When I think about it, Nora didn’t even seem like a project today.
My mom and Fern are waiting in front of the school. We honk as we drive by the Kleins’ car and my mom says, “I keep meaning to tell Mrs. Klein I can bring Nora home. No sense in both of us driving.”
“Mom, I think Nora’s going to come to my party,” I say. “I don’t know if we’re what you would call friends exactly, but we had an excellent time in band today—I mean, band was boring, but Nora, Brooke, and I had fun. And I sat with her on the bus this morning.”
“Kate, that’s terrific,” my mom says.
“Congratchlations!” Fern says. And I tickle her.
“Anything going on with you and your sister?” my mom asks, and she doesn’t mean Fern, who’s now trying to tickle me. “As Dad said, the tension’s so thick you could cut it with a baby fork.”
“She didn’t tell you?” I say.
“I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing,” my mom says.
As we walk into the kitchen, my dad is waving the oven mitt over a sheet full of smoky taco shells. “Forgot to take the paper out.… How was everyone else’s day?”
Robin is setting the table. “Thanks for not telling, Rob,” I say.
“Special leniency for first-time offenders,” she says. Whatever that means. “Just don’t do it again.”
There is no “Hi, Kate!” from Nora this morning. She is reading on the bus, the one place I have never seen her read before.
It is possible she did not hear my “Hi, Nora!” So I try again from my seat. “What are you reading?”
Nothing.
At lunch, Brooke says, “Well, we knew she was weird already. Not that it changes anything.”
Nora says nothing on the way home, either. And another grand total of nothing on Friday.
My dad is waiting for me in the driveway. “Can I interest you in a trip to the hardware store?”
I spin around. “Are you talking to me?”
“I had an excellent idea for your haunted house. If I put it together over the weekend, I can show Nora on Monday.”
“Oh, that won’t be happening,” I say.
“She has other plans?”
“I doubt it, but it’s hard to know. She stopped speaking to me again.”
“What did you do this time? Sneeze?”
“I have no clue.”
“Sorry to hear that, Champ. Did you ask her why she stopped talking?”
“I don’t think answering questions is part of her not-talking plan.”
“Right. Silly question. It’s just that sometimes people do things to get you to pay extra attention. So nothing happened between you two.…”
“Dad, this really was not my day.”
“Oh. Well, that happens sometimes—there’s been a mix-up. Probably some kid in Topeka, Kansas, who got your day by mistake is saying the same thing to her dad at this very minute.”
“Dad!”
He pulls my head to his chest.
“What else?” he asks.
“I don’t know why Mrs. Block made me Columbus. I thought she liked me. Brooke and everybody else get to be indigenous people who celebrate their own cultures, the ones they think I wiped out. And they all like their new identities. I am the only one who can’t wait to be my regular self when class is over.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Block thought you could handle it,” my dad says. “There must be other people who are on your—I mean, Columbus’s side.”
“Peter Buttrick doesn’t count. He’s the president of an Italian American foundation and wants to make Columbus Day some kind of Italian American celebration. Thomas Bergen is Franklin Roosevelt, who made the stupid holiday official. The king and queen of Spain are completely out of it. Eliza is this Ann Rand person who — I really like Eliza, but I do not want Ann Rand on my side.”
“Mrs. Block has you studying Ayn Rand?”
“Ann Rand says Europeans are better than Indians, as if it’s a proven fact, and they don’t deserve a parade.”
“Oooh. Sounds worse than being Columbus,” my dad says. “C’mon, how ’bout the hardware store and some frozen yogurt?”
“Deal.”
My dad is driving home with his elbow out the window. We have managed not to talk about Nora or my day for the entire time.
The car seems extra quiet. “I’ve been thinking about Nora,” my dad says, smoothing his hair. “You’re going to have to find another way to communicate. Of course, I’m a big fan of writing, but I’m sure there are other ways.”
Call me uncreative, but I couldn’t think of another way.
I spend too much of Sunday lying on my bottom bunk bed trying to write the perfect note to Nora. The one that would make us be friends, or whatever we were, again.
I tiptoe to Robin’s room for the first time since I gave the horse back, which isn’t even a week but it feels like a year. I am standing there forever, so eventually I tap her door extremely lightly and she jumps. “Kate, don’t do that!”
I say “Sorry,” even though it’s not really my fault. “Would you please read this?”
“Do you want my honest opinion? It’s good, but I think you should copy it over so she can’t see all the stuff you erased. Are you going to mail it to her?”
“I was planning to drop it on her lap on the bus.”
“What if she doesn’t answer? I could talk to Lexi, see if she knows anything,” Robin offers.
“Thanks, but I doubt it.” I start to leave.
“Hey, have you seen my eraser collection?”
“I didn’t take it!”
She holds a box out. “I meant have you ever seen it? I found it in my desk the other day; I don’t think it’s been opened since I was in sixth grade. Want it?”
“Thanks,” I say, and open the box.
“Sorry about Nora,” she says.
“I don’t get a hello this morning?” Gene says.
“Sorry. Morning, Gene.
”
Then I say, “Hi, Nora!” Just in case something has changed over the weekend. She doesn’t look up. I sit in the seat behind her and silently unzip the front pocket of my pack. Then I stand and drop my note.
At our lockers, I recite the note to Brooke. “You’re sure she has it?” Brooke asks. “She didn’t leave it on the bus?” I’m not sure of anything, but there’s not much I can do about it.
“Can we talk about something else?” I ask, and shut my locker.
“Wait, don’t shut it!” Brooke says. “I have something that will cheer you up.”
She reaches into her locker and hands me a rolled-up piece of paper.
I turn my back to the locker so no one else can see. “How did you get this?” I whisper.
“He left it at my house a couple of Fridays ago. He didn’t want to take it home. His mother frames all of his self-portraits.”
“And you’re just giving it to me now?”
“I was going to wait until your birthday.”
I roll it up and put it in my locker. “You know, I don’t think Mrs. Petty ever gave me mine.”
“Today’s an F day. Ask her for it.”
I am seriously considering it until the actual time comes. Mrs. Petty sets a personal attendance record of nine minutes and thirty-nine seconds, which gives us more time for our new lesson. “Today we are discussing negative space. Who can define the term ‘negative space’?”
There are teachers who make you want to answer their questions. Mrs. Petty is not one of them. She answers herself. “Negative space is the space between and around things.” She sets a vase on the table and we all gather for another demonstration. She takes five minutes to make sure no one is touching each other or the table.
Mrs. Petty begins drawing from the outside edges of her hot-dog paper. We have all gotten the idea after about thirty seconds, but we are in a zombie trance and we cannot move until she finishes her vaahze.
By the time we get back to our seats, we have exactly ten minutes for our drawings. I begin at the outside edges of my hot-dog paper. But when Mrs. Petty announces that we have five minutes left, I draw the vase in the middle of the paper and began scribbling madly to color the rest in.
“Pencils down, everybody!” You can hear the pencils hitting the tables. “Pencil down, Kate!” I let my pencil fall on the paper. “Now, who finished their drawings?”
I was so close, I would have raised my hand if anyone else did. “That’s right, nobody, because this is a new process. It takes longer for your brain.” She held up Thomas’s (“a wonderful beginning”), and Eliza is “on her way.” Then she comes to mine. “Do you mind, Kate?” I don’t, but my elbows do. They make it hard for her to slide my paper out. “Now, did anybody else do this? This is the way we are used to drawing, by outlining the positive space.”
“Mrs. Petty, I was actually outlining the inside edge of the negative space.”
“Kate, I’m very pleased you did it this way so the others could understand the difference. You’ll have plenty of time to redo it correctly next class.”
Mrs. Block surveys the class to see how close we are to a consensus. The celebration is four days away.
The six of us who voted for Columbus Day are sitting in the back of the room. It looks like we are winning. But now that Mrs. Block has written all the other suggestions on the whiteboard, anybody can see they are all different names for the same thing.
It’s impossible not to overhear Brookoberta using her Spanish accent, “Día de la RRRRaza—day of the rrrrace-ah.”
“If they take this holiday away,” Thomas Bergen-Roosevelt says, “I will protest.” Ferdinand, Isabella, Eliza, and Peter agree.
Just then, the mayor of Berkeley, California, walks up and asks to speak with us. “I am proud to say my city held one of the very first Columbus Day celebrations. I am also proud to say we were one of the very first to celebrate Indigenous People’s Day. As a leader”—she looks directly at Thomas—“I am here to tell you that you can officially change your mind.”
Brookoberta comes over next. “Día de la Roots-a. A day where we celebrate your—our roots. You are Spanish; you celebrate your Spanish-ness. Peter, you are Italian American; you celebrate your Italian-American-ness. You are Creestobal Colon—” She makes a snake hiss and leaves.
“You know, I think I could celebrate Roots Day,” Peter says, and he joins the other side of the room. Thomas, Ferdinand, and Isabella are looking like they could, too, but the five-minute bell rings.
“Okay, kiddos—5B,” Mrs. Block catches herself. “Time to clean up and pack up.” She turns the lights off.
“Think she’ll have an answer?” Brooke asks on our way out to the bus.
“She’s not going to give us an answer; we’re supposed to be building consensus. Stss-stss?! Did you really have to? You knew what kind of a day I was having,” I say.
“I was talking about Nora, not Mrs. B. And I didn’t have to, but it was fun. Sorry.”
“Never mind,” I say. “It’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Gene?” Nora isn’t on the bus yet. “Did you find any letters on the bus?”
“Let’s see, I have an E-X-I-T.… You expecting a love letter?” He smiles.
“She’s looking for this,” Nora says, dangling the envelope in front of her. I reach for it and she pulls it away.
“Are we talking? Because if we’re talking, my dad wants you to come over today. He really wants to show you some pulley system he made for the haunted house.”
We’re not talking. How original.
Ferdinand, Isabella, and Roosevelt deserted on Wednesday.
Brookoberta is impressed. “Implore?! Did you memorize that speech?” she asks before we get to the music room.
“I could almost go for your Roots Day,” I say, “but I don’t think we’ll get Eliza.”
We are five minutes late to band and the door is locked. Nora sees us, but we have to knock.
“Take your seats quickly,” Mr. Bryant says. Nora has taken the first seat. I sit beside her. I don’t say anything the whole time.
When Brooke and I get to Guides, Nora is sitting in the far corner of the cafetorium again. As president of the month, Brooke delegates Nora-duty to Mrs. Hallberg. I am liking the idea of my February short-month presidency better and better all the time.
Brooke reads the announcements, and after we say our promise, she turns the meeting over to Mrs. Staughton. “Girls, I couldn’t resist this special Columbus Day activity, which dovetails so nicely with our new concept of ‘voyages.’ We still have two weeks to pull together the loose ends for our Fall Fun Day. Let’s give today’s meeting to Columbus. When I say Columbus, what do you think of? Maybe I should say ‘who’?”
Elsa, who is not in Mrs. Block’s class, says, “The Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María.”
“The Niña, the PintOH, and the Santa María, the three boats that made the epic voyage to America. Today, we are going to create our own epic voyages, using our imaginations and all of our materials. Think about a destination—someplace you’ve always wanted to go. It can be real or maybe it’s someplace that only exists up here.” She points to her head.
Mrs. Hallberg gives us each an epic-sized piece of white poster board. “I also have black, in case anyone is thinking about heading into outer space,” Mrs. Staughton says, like she is reading my mind.
“If you’re having trouble getting started,” she says, eyeballing my epically blank white poster board, “perhaps the materials will provide some inspiration!” She takes a silk flower off the table and puts it behind her ear.
At 4:40, Mrs. Staughton’s alarm goes off. “Ten more minutes, girls! And then we’ll each share a few words about our voyages.”
I don’t have a voyage. I have a hot glue fest.
“Mine is actually the voyage itself—all the discoveries you make along the way, which can be more important than the destination,” I explain.
“What a won
derful project to end on,” Mrs. Staughton says as we form our closing circle.
“I don’t think we can fit that in my mom’s car,” Brooke says when we’re in the hall.
“That’s okay, I think it’ll fit right in here.” I put my voyage in the trash. Brooke looks at hers and tosses it in, too.
The next morning there is an envelope on the seat behind Nora.
I lean forward and say “Sorry” loudly. So I am sure she heard it over the bus noise and everything.
I take out a spiral notebook and start writing back.
When I’m done, I fold up the note and put it in my pocket.
Brooke and I each got a school star at the assembly.
When Mr. Lovejoy calls Mrs. Petty to the podium to present some art awards, Brooke and I start a game of dots and boxes. “Look up!” Brooke says. (It’s not a trick.) My self-portrait is filling the whole screen; my head, for example, is about forty times the size of Mrs. Petty’s.
“The Suburban Times Weekly has awarded the Gold Key Award for best self-portrait to Katherine Geller.” She looks as surprised as I feel.
In class, Mrs. B officially congratulates me and everyone who earned a school star. “In other news,” she says, “we reached consensus. Who would like to give the update?” Then she adds, “Let’s use our student-identities.”
“We came up with the idea of Discovery Day. Each of us will celebrate a discovery,” Ronan explains.
