The Heart and Mind of Frances Pauley

by April Stevens

  Figgrotten had a poster of Lucy up in her room. Christinia had gone insane when Figgrotten had taped it to her wall back when she was in second grade. “You can’t have a picture of some skeleton on your wall! What if someone sees it? That is just plain creepy and weird!”

  “It’s not just some skeleton,” she’d told Christinia, who definitely was not listening. “She’s the oldest person ever. It’s not creepy at all. She’s a relative of ours.”

  And that was how she viewed it. She viewed the laid-out bones lovingly, almost as if this was a friend of hers. Lucy. What a wonderful name for this little person. Figgrotten would lie in her bed and gaze at the poster.

  There were several hundred pieces of her bones they found when they discovered her. Several hundred!

  * * *

  —

  In the afternoons, after she got off the school bus, Figgrotten would walk straight into the kitchen with her jacket and backpack on, grab a handful of cookies or a granola bar, then go straight out the back door and up onto the rocks. The Pauleys’ house didn’t have much of a real yard. It was backed right into a kind of cliff of steep jagged rocks. Figgrotten’s rock room was about halfway up on a nice big ledge; then behind that the rocks went up farther, and at the top there were the towering pine trees and the woods. To get up to her room, she climbed the natural steps that zigzagged her right up to the ledge. Then, if she wanted to go up even farther, there were more steps, but these were the ones that made her mom nervous, so she didn’t venture up there too often.

  She had a routine once she got up to her rock room. First she’d sit down and close her eyes for a few seconds and listen. It was almost better than seeing. If she just listened, she could quickly figure out where the birds were: She could hear their wings fluttering in the branches up above her. Or hear them chattering. And she could hear if there was any animal hopping around in the woods.

  After she opened her eyes, when the weather was warmer, she would look around at her feet for bugs, and if she saw one, she would follow it for a while. But often she had to stop in the middle of her bug tracking, pull out her math, and get to work.

  Sometimes while she was doing her work she’d glance down at the house. She could see into the kitchen, where her mom often stood making dinner. She could see the light on through the tiny basement window and she’d know her dad was down there in his office, where he worked on people’s taxes. But worst of all, she could see into Christinia’s bedroom window from a certain angle and sometimes she could see her sister in there. Once, unfortunately, she’d even seen her in her bra, standing sideways and looking in the mirror.

  So that afternoon in early January when she happened to glance through Christinia’s window and saw her sister lying facedown on her bed sobbing, it made her wish she wasn’t quite so observant. But once she saw Christinia, she found she couldn’t forget it. She craned her neck and leaned down farther for a better view and now saw that Christinia’s shoulders were heaving up and down.

  Figgrotten looked away. She whistled a bit under her breath and went back to her math pages, but after another minute or two she found that she was looking again. Christinia hadn’t moved. She was still lying there, her face planted into her pillow. Figgrotten went back to her work but her mind was fumbly. What would make Christinia cry like that? Of course, had Christinia known Figgrotten had seen her, she would have ripped Figgrotten’s eyeballs clean out of her head. Figgrotten pulled her hat down and leaned harder into her work, using her mind like the beam of a flashlight and directing it only on the fraction at hand, trying hard to block out all her questions, not to mention the ache of sadness in her chest for her sister.

  Figgrotten sat in the front seat of the school bus every single day on her way to school and on her way home. Not only did she get a nice blast of cold air each time the door was opened, but, more importantly, Alvin Turkson was the bus driver and Figgrotten was seated directly behind him.

  Alvin was different from any other grown-up, and at times she didn’t even view him as one. He was just her friend. The only person who Figgrotten felt really understood her. The truth was, he was like that with all the kids, respectful of their true natures. Even the worst ones, who sat in the last seat and burped loudly and threw wadded-up pieces of paper into the backs of other kids’ heads, even those he never became angry with. Sometimes he would tell someone they had beans in their jeans, but that was about it.

  Alvin was about a hundred years old and smaller than most of the eighth graders, and ever since she had known him he had worn the same black Greek fisherman’s hat, which had a worn-down look to it. But the thing that set him apart more than anything was that he was curious about everything. He wanted to know what Figgrotten had eaten for breakfast. He wanted to know what kind of music Christinia liked to play on her guitar. He wanted to know what birds Figgrotten could hear up in what he called her “rock world.”

  “Now, don’t forget all those warblers in the springtime,” he would tell her. “Once you start being able to identify the warbler calls, well, then you’re a serious birder.”

  The morning after Figgrotten spied her sister crying in her room, Alvin, who seemed to have sharp instincts about what went on with people, said to Christinia when she climbed onto the bus behind Figgrotten, “Now, Miss Christinia, each day you get taller and prettier.”

  Figgrotten, who had plopped into the seat behind Alvin, turned and saw her sister straighten up a little as she set off down the aisle.

  “And you, Miss Pauley,” Alvin said, looking at Figgrotten in the rearview mirror, “what thoughts are filling your mind today?”

  “Um, not all that much. Mostly thoughts about crows,” Figgrotten said, sliding forward and talking over his shoulder.

  “Ah!” Alvin was wearing his bulky wool sweater, and he leaned over and pulled the door shut. He made his funny high-pitched laugh and threw the bus into gear and off they went.

  Between the roar of the bus and the fact that he was so old and hard of hearing, Figgrotten had to lean a little forward and shout when she spoke to him. “I’ve been reading about them, Alvin. They marry each other and stay together for life.”

  Alvin shook his head. “Now, is that so?”

  “And when one of them dies, they have a funeral and sit around the dead one and look at it, then they all fly away at once.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Alvin rubbed at his jaw with one hand while the other hand gripped the large steering wheel. “Crows do that, do they?”

  Figgrotten sat back in her seat and looked out the window. They were passing the tall pointy houses that lined the main street of Preston. A few slumpy people, looking cold and hunched up, were making their way along the sidewalks. Figgrotten wanted to turn around and look at Christinia in the back of the bus, but she knew she couldn’t have her sister see her do this. She was bothered by having seen Christinia crying and wanted to find out what was making her so miserable. If she waited long enough, she figured one of the wild kids would cause some ruckus back there and Figgrotten would have an excuse to turn around.

  “I once raised a crow,” Alvin said over his shoulder. “Found it as a baby out on our front porch one day. Screaming to beat the band. Named her Miriam. Though, to be honest, I never was sure if it was a girl or a boy. But she rode around for a couple of years on my shoulder.”

  “A couple of years! Really?” Figgrotten sat forward again. “What happened to her?”

  “She flew off when she was ready.”

  “Oh, I guess that was good.” Figgrotten sat back in her seat. Then she hollered, “But you must have been so sad when she flew away!”

  “Not too sad; she stayed around the place for years. She’d come down to the low branches for a visit every now and then.”

  Figgrotten smiled and looked out the window. She had on the thick brown wool coat she’d found at the thrift store in Mi
llington three winters earlier. The sleeves were too short now, up above her wrists and leaving a good two inches of bare skin down to her mittens. But it was one of several things Figgrotten refused to part with. She’d formed an attachment to it. She imagined herself wearing it until there was nothing left but several brown threads.

  She sat plucking cat hair off it now. She liked to hold Clark in her arms each morning before she left for school. He loved that, being cradled like a baby. But because of this, the brown coat was half white with cat fur.

  A minute later, when Alvin began slowing the bus down in an unexpected place, Figgrotten slid forward on her seat again and craned her neck to look. She could see that up ahead, standing on the sidewalk with a woman who had to be his mother, was a kid she’d never seen before.

  “We have a new passenger!” Alvin said loud enough for everyone on the bus to hear.

  Alvin pulled up and pushed open the door and everyone on the bus grew quiet. The boy’s mother, looking nervous, touched the boy’s shoulder and he stepped onto the bus.

  “This is—” she began to shout up to Alvin.

  “James! Yes, yes!” Alvin filled in for her. “Welcome, James. Climb aboard. I’m Alvin and you just call me Alvin.” Alvin stuck out his hand and James shook it, though he was clearly distracted by the daunting prospect of walking down the aisle for the first time.

  “For the first few rides, you have to sit up front,” Alvin told him, which was unquestionably a relief to the kid. This was Alvin’s rule for all new kids, instituted years ago, before Figgrotten had even started riding the bus. James took off his pack and sat down across the aisle from her. He was tall and thin with shaggy dark hair and glasses, and he had on a well-worn army jacket. He glanced over at Figgrotten, met her eye, and quickly looked away. Figgrotten figured that due to her hat and cat-hair-covered coat, she had given the poor kid his first scare. He then unzipped his backpack and withdrew a big book. He opened it up in his lap, then slumped forward and started reading. Huh, she thought as the bus pulled away from the curb. She rarely saw a kid reading a book like that.

  Soon the kids in the back grew louder, and sure enough, as Figgrotten had figured, after a minute or so someone made a loud howling noise in an attempt, obviously, to scare the new kid. Figgrotten decided to use this as an excuse and she turned around and looked back over all the faces. She had to look harder and longer than she would have liked before her eyes landed on Christinia, who was sitting alone, staring glumly out the window. She usually sat back there chatting with her friends Becky and Claire, but they were sitting together on the other side of the bus today. Figgrotten spun quickly back around, making sure Christinia didn’t see her.

  * * *

  —

  “Everyone.” Mr. Stanley was standing at the head of the room. “Everyone, quiet down. I want to introduce James Barren to you all. He will be a new member of our class.”

  James stood next to him, looking about as humiliated as a person could possibly look. Figgrotten had a better view of him there, displayed like that in the front of the class. Everything seemed to hang from him a bit: his dark brown hair and his jacket and even his jeans. He wore black-rimmed glasses that looked a bit big for him, and through them, Figgrotten saw his eyes quickly scanning the room.

  “James is going to sit here next to Jacob, and Jacob, you’re going to be James’s guide for today. You’re to show him everything. Where the gym is, where the restrooms are, where we go out for recess. You know, the ropes.”

  “What ropes?” Jacob said.

  “That’s an expression,” Figgrotten said gently, and everyone turned and looked at her. “Show someone the ropes means show them around.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Stanley said. “Now, how about we move on. Let’s talk today about the poem that I wrote up here on the board. Would anyone like to read this out loud?”

  Figgrotten kept her hand down. She would have liked to read it aloud. She was good at reading; plus, she really loved poetry. But she’d already burst out with one comment and now she needed to give it a rest.

  “Fiona,” Mr. Stanley said. “Could you do that for us?”

  Everyone turned to the back of the class and Fiona Peterson stood up. Fiona was one of the better students in the class but she was also one of the quietest, the kind of kid Figgrotten, when she was going over everyone in her grade, would completely forget about.

  “ ‘The Bird,’ ” Fiona began in a papery whisper that Figgrotten could barely hear. “ ‘Wings like piano keys fluttering upward through green trembling leaves…’ ”

  When she was done, she sat down quickly and slumped into her seat.

  “Well,” Mr. Stanley said, “how about the students who liked the poem raise their hands.”

  Figgrotten shot her hand up, then glanced around. Fiona’s hand was up, along with two other girls’ and James’s. Everyone else just sat there.

  “Okay, I would like to hear from the people who didn’t like the poem. Let’s start with Russell. Russell, what about the poem made you not like it?”

  Figgrotten saw Russell Gracey sink lower in his seat and shrug. “I don’t know. I just don’t like poems,” he said, and everyone giggled.

  “That’s okay.” Mr. Stanley smiled. “But you have to try a bit harder. What about this particular poem did you not like?”

  Russell scrunched his face up and did another big shrug. “Um, I guess I thought it was too kind of, I don’t know, too flowery or something.”

  “Aha!” Mr. Stanley said. “Wonderful, Russell. It was sort of flowery. So, maybe you don’t like poems that are flowery. I’m going to find you some poems that are the opposite of flowery and see if I can get you to like poetry.”

  This was an example of why Figgrotten liked Mr. Stanley. He allowed people to have opinions and he made room for those opinions. He didn’t squelch anyone the way her teacher Mrs. Garcia did last year. If someone didn’t give her the answer she was looking for, she would look around the room and say, “Anyone else?” which made no one ever want to risk putting their hand up.

  “Okay,” Mr. Stanley said. “Let’s talk about what we liked about this poem. How about you, James? What was it that you felt was good about it?”

  James sat up a little taller in his seat and without pausing to consider the question he quickly said, “I liked the piano because it made me think of the sound when you run your hand fast up the keys. So I sort of heard that sound while at the same time I was picturing the bird going up through the trees.”

  Now it was Figgrotten who sank a tiny bit in her seat. She watched a look of excitement go across Mr. Stanley’s face.

  “Oh, absolutely!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Good listening, James. I thought the same thing the first time I heard this poem.”

  She hadn’t really thought about the piano keys that much, but now suddenly she wished she had.

  * * *

  —

  That afternoon at recess Figgrotten asked Mr. Stanley if she could go to the library instead of outdoors. This was not easy for her, because, as always, she would have preferred to be outside.

  “I am studying crows,” Figgrotten told him. “So I was going to see if there are any books about them.” She wanted to know, for instance, how you could tell the difference between males and females. She might be able to tell Alvin the answer.

  Mr. Stanley, who was sitting at his desk, wrote Figgrotten a library pass and handed it to her.

  “Frances,” he said, looking up at her, “I was hoping that you might also look out for James a bit.”

  “Me?” Figgrotten said. “But I thought…”

  “Well, I just think you might be helpful to him at some point; he’s a good student too.”

  “Oh.”

  “He was languishing in the last school he was in. You know what that word
means, right?”

  “He was getting kind of droopy because he was sort of bored?” Figgrotten sure did know that feeling. She’d felt a bit that way in Mrs. Garcia’s class last year.

  “That’s right. I think he was a bit lonely as well.”

  Figgrotten shrugged her shoulders. “Okay.” Though she had zero idea how she could be of any kind of help to him. She already felt as if she wasn’t sure she liked him.

  * * *

  —

  She chose a cubicle in the library and put down her book bag. Then she went to the library’s computer and looked up online what books were available, first searching for books about crows. There were none, so she looked for general bird books. There were several she found and lugged back to the cubicle, but there was little about crows in any of them that she didn’t already know. A group of them was called a murder. She knew that. A murder of crows. There was always one crow who had the job of being lookout for the others. She knew that too. She sighed. She could have been outside in the fresh air.

  As she was heading out of the library a few minutes later, a group of eighth-grade girls passed her. They were all falling in toward each other, stumbling together in a fit of loud crazy laughter. Figgrotten stepped aside to let them go by, but none of them noticed her. They were too caught up in their joke. She knew all of them. These were Christinia’s friends. There was Jessica Frankenhart and Becky Moss and Claire Halberstam and Amber Lurie. But why wasn’t Christinia with them? Figgrotten felt mean suddenly. She wanted to stick her foot out and trip Becky, who was laughing the hardest. But she just stood there and made her eyes into two skinny slits and watched the group that was completely unaware that she even existed move off across the library.