Today, Miss Pearl had handed out markers and smudgy pastels. She did not order the kids to draw any particular thing. She said they should “express” themselves. Miss Pearl said “express” as if every kid had something waiting to seep out of her, like farts or breast milk. But Lucy didn’t think she had anything trying to get out of her. And if she did, it wouldn’t come out in a drawing. It’d use a trapdoor or something.
Now Lucy sat marooned at the art room’s back table with the only third grader even less popular than she was: “Big Rachel” Klemper. Rachel seemed resigned to her outcast status. When they’d taken their seats together, she had not even bothered to nod hello to Lucy. Instead, the bushy-haired girl—Rachel kept her huge mass of thick black hair tied back in a low ponytail—hunched over her paper and began drawing. Restless, Lucy raised her hand. Miss Pearl rushed over, saying, “Yes, sweet Lucy, how may I be of service?” Miss Pearl had a stagy way of talking that made most of the kids laugh. Lucy recognized this as a trick designed to “put her at ease.” But Lucy did not want to be at ease. She did not belong there.
Lucy explained, “I don’t know what to draw.”
Miss Pearl nodded sympathetically. “Some days, inspiration sleeps in.” Lucy frowned at her paper, not sure what to do with this “insight.” After an awkward silence, Miss Pearl offered, “Maybe you could try a landscape. It’s hard to do detail work with pastels, but they’re terrific for landscapes.”
Lucy nodded and smiled. She knew she had to reassure teachers like Miss Pearl. They were very needy.
Miss Pearl added, “You don’t have to get this one perfect, Lucy.”
Lucy stiffened. Her mother had warned her that anybody who tells you not to be perfect has a secret agenda. Either they pity you or they want you to let your guard down so they can get you. Lucy didn’t think Miss Pearl wanted to “get” her. But pity was worse. Lucy hunched over her paper and got to work. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Miss Pearl touch Rachel’s shoulder before heading back to the front of the classroom. Big Rachel probably got that whole “don’t be hard on yourself” speech from teachers all the time.
Lucy huddled over her paper and began to draw a blue waterfall. She worked on getting the lines perfect so the water would look like it was actually flowing. It went well until it went horribly wrong. Lucy got that sinking feeling like when she tried to pour milk out of a full gallon jug. At first, it lands in the glass like it’s supposed to, but then it’s suddenly all over the counter. Lucy sat back and frowned, her face reddening in frustration.
Beside her, Rachel whispered, “Waterfall, right?” Rachel didn’t make eye contact with Lucy. Still working on her own paper, Rachel spoke out of the corner of her mouth as if they were in a spy movie.
Lucy nodded. Then realizing Rachel could not hear a nod, she said, “Yes.”
Still keeping her eyes on her own work, Rachel said, “Didn’t come out right, did it?”
Lucy rubbed the sides of her temples like the lady in the headache commercial. “No.”
“Try turning it into a girl’s hair.”
Lucy spat back in a whisper, “But it’s blue. Hair can’t be blue.”
“It can for the right girl.” Still no eye contact from Rachel, but Lucy saw a smile flicker on her face.
Lucy studied the botched waterfall for a moment. It would make good hair for the left side of some edgy girl’s head. Lucy quickly drew a matching waterfall for the right side, then a face, then the eyes. The first eye came out fine, but the pastel color on the second eye got all runny. Lucy’s sweaty hand had smeared it. She started fuming again.
Rachel glanced at Lucy’s paper, whispering, “You can fix that.”
“How? People don’t have runny eyes.”
“People with allergies do,” said Rachel.
“So I’m drawing a Claritin commercial?”
Rachel smiled, then shook her head. Putting her hand to her mouth as if she were about to cough, she whispered, “Change the blotchy eye into an eye patch, like she’s a pirate.”
Lucy did as Rachel suggested, and it worked. Then Lucy filled in the rest of the girl’s face. As she worked on the mouth, Rachel told her, “Don’t do a smile. She’s not a Girl Scout.”
“What do I do?”
“Make a sneer. She’s got to be fierce.” Rachel turned and modeled her best sneer. Lucy mirrored her, and the two girls giggled, then turned back to their work.
Miss Pearl announced, “Five minutes!”
Lucy rushed to fill in the pirate girl’s neck and torso. She drew a skirt so she wouldn’t have to draw the legs. Lucy was terrible at drawing legs, hands too. The hands she drew always came out tiny or like giant oven mitts. She started to work on the hands when she heard Rachel again. “Do hooks. Hands take too much time.”
Lucy nodded. She drew a gratifyingly sharp hook. It was perfect. Lucy started on the second hook, then paused. As if reading Lucy’s mind, Rachel said, “Maybe do something else for the other hand. Something funny. Like a hook holding a sign—a ‘STOP’ sign or ‘NO DOGS ALLOWED.’”
Lucy grinned. “How about ‘NO TALKING IN THE LIBRARY’?”
Rachel giggled and gave her two thumbs-up. So Lucy drew the ‘NO TALKING IN THE LIBRARY’ sign. Then she sat back and studied her work. She loved it. The pirate girl’s mean expression and menacing hook worked beautifully with the library sign.
Beside her, Rachel said, “That is awesome. What’s her backstory?”
Lucy said, “She used to be a librarian in a small town. But she got mad ’cause the kids in the library wouldn’t be quiet.”
“They pushed her too far,” said Rachel.
Lucy nodded. “Yes, so she turned to crime on the high seas. Yarrr!”
“I love it.”
“I know, right?” Lucy glowed with accomplishment. As she studied her handiwork, she decided maybe she wasn’t so terrible at art after all. Maybe she was brilliant at it. Maybe her art talents had been roiling under the surface for years, just waiting to spew out. Maybe . . .
But then she saw Rachel’s paper. It showed an orangutan crouching on the jungle floor next to a little girl. Lucy recognized the ape as an orangutan because of its reddish hair, long arms, and those puffy cheek pads that make orangutan faces look like catcher’s mitts. The little girl beside it was sitting with her eyes closed, her face jutting forward expectantly. She was smiling, as though waiting for the go-ahead to open her eyes and unwrap a present. Only there was no present. Instead, the orangutan was reaching out and touching the girl’s closed eyelid. The gentleness of the ape’s expression and the girl’s obvious delight made it plain that this touch was welcome. Miss Pearl’s pastels made all the colors pop—the green of the jungle, the orange brown of the orangutan’s hair, the pink of the girl’s cheeks. And Rachel had used markers to draw in the finer details—the orangutan’s dark, soulful eyes, the lines of its extended hand, the girl’s eyelashes.
Lucy studied the drawing. “Why’s the orangutan touching her eye?”
“It’s how orangutans say hello to friends. It’s how they show they trust each other.”
Lucy could feel Rachel watching her, waiting for her reaction. Lucy said—in a hushed voice—“It’s the most beautiful drawing in human history.” Then Lucy frowned, not because she wasn’t happy for Rachel. She was happy for Rachel, but she was also unhappy because she knew she could never make a drawing like that.
Rachel muttered an embarrassed thanks.
Lucy said, “I won’t let you touch my eye. Because that’s gross. But can we sit together at lunch?”
Rachel grinned. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
Now Lucy grinned too. Her mother had always told her that she was lonely ’cause she was “best” at everything. But Mrs. Wong had also promised that—someday—Lucy would be friends with “other best people.” Rachel looked like “best people” to Lucy.
23
KEEPING UP APPEARANCES—JUST BARELY
Maggie sang along with Beyoncé
as she parked in her usual spot, the one marked “RESERVED FOR PRINCIPAL.” As she emerged from her car, Starbucks cup in hand, Danny called out from across the empty lot, “Good morning, Principal Mayfield!” He shout-sang this, as if he were one of a giant crowd of children greeting her.
Maggie called back, “Morning!”
Danny rushed across the lot, slowed down only by his matching coffee cup. As soon as he got within striking distance, he kissed her on the lips. Maggie drew back quickly, scolding through clenched teeth, “Daniel . . .”
He laughed. “There’s nobody here yet.”
She looked around nervously. “Still, we’ve talked about this.”
Danny pretended to look pained. Like an affronted soap opera character, he said, “I know, I’m just not used to being”—he pivoted here to look straight into camera no. 2—“someone’s dirty secret.”
Working hard to hold on to her indignation, Maggie asked, “Don’t make jokes. How do you think the PTA moms would react if they found out I’m seeing you?”
Danny flicked up his collar like a smarmy 1980s star. “They’d be crazy jealous.”
“Really?”
Danny smirked. “No woman can resist Danny Z.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “So Danny Z likes to talk about himself in the third person now?”
“Yes, Danny Z does.” Then he smiled at her, falling out of character. He leaned in for another kiss.
Maggie forced herself to step back. “The PTA moms would not be jealous. They’d be livid . . . and okay, some of them might get a little jealous. But ‘livid’ would be the headline.”
“Not livid!” Danny put his hands to his face in mock horror.
Maggie’s shoulders sank. “You don’t take my job very seriously, do you?”
“I do take it seriously. I take everything about this situation seriously.” Suddenly, his big brown eyes were full of earnestness, and Maggie felt a hitch in her chest. She wanted to dance from foot to foot and squeal, “You mean us, right? You’re serious about us!” But she controlled herself. She looked at him evenly and said, “Good. That’s, um, very . . .” She flailed, wishing for the gazillionth time that God would use cue cards. “You know, I’m not the only one who should care about appearances. It should be a real worry for you too.”
Danny frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Maggie pressed, “What would your investors think if they find out we’re, um, together?”
Danny wiggled his eyebrows. “They’d think I’m a lucky bastard.”
“No, really, what would they think?” Maggie’s voice cracked slightly. She knew Danny’s investors’ opinions governed his psyche more than those of any parent.
He eyed her shrewdly, as if sizing her up, then said, “They’d approve. You gotta remember, Maggie. I work in Silicon Valley, not down here. Now, in San Diego, dating a bimbo is a prestige move, but not in Silicon Valley. Tech CEOs like to partner up with women of substance.”
“They do?” asked Maggie.
“Yes, ma’am. Mark Zuckerberg married a doctor. Bill Gates’s wife was a project manager at Microsoft, and now she practically runs the Gates Foundation. Steve Jobs’s wife went to Wharton. All of them, heavy hitters.”
“Whoa, are you telling me I’m not qualified to date you?”
“Are you kidding? You graduated from Columbia University, and you run a school on your own. Résumé-wise, you kick ass.”
Maggie drew back. “Wait, how’d you know I went to Columbia?”
Danny shrugged. “I googled you.”
Maggie frowned, feeling both flattered and obscurely spied on. “I’m not sure I like being googled.”
“Why not?”
Maggie wrinkled her nose. “I dunno. The stuff on the web is all résumé stuff. I want to make sure you like me for the right reasons.”
Danny grinned. “Trust me, I like you for all the wrong reasons.” She was about to object, but he disarmed her by reaching out and pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then he let his hand linger on her face.
Maggie felt something lurch inside her again. “You’re going to get me in big trouble, mister.” She leaned in to kiss him, but then jumped back at the sound of a car pulling into the lot.
It was Jeannie Pacer’s car—a battered blue Subaru with a bumper sticker that read: “FEELING CAT-TASTIC!” Jeannie parked in one of the designated teacher spots, less than a hundred yards from where Maggie stood. As Jeannie got out of her car, Maggie said loudly to Danny, “I’m not sure the district will go along with you on that. I’ll have to check with Arlene.”
Danny grinned wolfishly down at Maggie, and—for a millisecond—she worried he wouldn’t play along. But then he said in his best, overloud businessman-doing-business voice, “Thank you, I would appreciate that.” At the sound of Jeannie’s approaching footsteps, he pivoted, saying, “Why, hello there. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
Jeannie said primly, “It’ll do.” Jeannie was one of the few teachers Danny had not managed to win over.
She stopped just a few feet away from the noncouple couple. And Maggie said, “Morning, Jeannie. Is there something I can do for you?”
Jeannie said to Maggie, “I was hoping we could talk—alone.” She eyed Danny as she said this.
“Certainly,” said Maggie. “Mr. Zelinsky and I were just wrapping things up.”
Danny nodded. “Good day, ladies.” He turned and started walking toward Edutek HQ.
Jeannie said, “We need to talk about Connor. Mr. Baran’s great, but I don’t think we can Jazzercise our way out of this one. It’s been two weeks, and the boy still can’t . . .” Maggie watched over Jeannie’s shoulder as Danny strode away. Her fear of getting caught had evaporated only to be replaced with a dreamy, distracted horniness.
As if sensing Maggie’s eyes on him, Danny suddenly stopped and turned. He was a good two hundred yards away. He gave Maggie one of his devilish looks, and Maggie shook her head, her mind screaming, “Don’t do it!”
Back on Earth, Jeannie droned on, “I try to stay centered, but yoga can only do so much . . .”
With Jeannie’s back to him, Danny put one hand over his heart and used the other to reach out toward her melodramatically.
Maggie sucked in her cheeks and closed her eyes for a moment to keep from laughing. Jeannie continued, “Maggie, I know it’s not pleasant, but we’ve got to face this . . .” Maggie forced her eyes back open.
Now Danny was blowing kisses, pantomiming as hugely as he could. Maggie flared her nostrils and bit at her cheek, willing herself to stay serious. A small squeak escaped her lips. Jeannie touched her arm. “Are you all right?”
Maggie put her hand to her temples for a moment until she regained control of herself. Then, when she felt safe enough, she said, “Sorry. I’ve been fighting a cold. I didn’t want to sneeze on you. It’s a nasty bug. I was up all night with it.” She noted that—mercifully—Danny had finally disappeared from view.
Her monologue interrupted, Jeannie leaned back and studied Maggie. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But you do look worn-out.”
Maggie repressed a smile as the source of her fatigue pranced through her brain. “So, Connor’s sessions with Mr. Baran haven’t helped at all?”
“No, it’s been a complete bust.” Jeannie did not need to add “I told you so.” Her barely repressed smirk shouted that for her.
Maggie’s mind raced. Connor was scheduled to have his first therapy appointment in a few weeks. With Jeannie pushing for meds and Connor’s highly suggestible mom on board, Connor would be whisked away on the Ritalin dragon. Maggie didn’t think the boy belonged on meds, but what could she do?
It was all up to Mr. Baran now.
24
UNLOCKING CONNOR
Muscly, graying Joe Baran believed fervently in two things: the transformative power of sports and the wisdom of his wife, the Right Honorable Ella T. Baran of California’s Superior Court. At home, she was Ella. But when Mr. Baran qu
oted her to others—as he often did—she was always “the Judge.”
One chilly evening in late November, after Joe Baran’s usual seven-mile run, he’d paced across his living room rug, venting to the Judge about little Connor Bellman. The Judge—a prim, small-boned woman with large, owlish eyes—ignored the stack of legal briefs on her lap and listened intently to her husband. This was not hard for her to do. Joe Baran was an inveterate optimist. Seeing him in despair did not qualify as a treat, but it was a compelling break from his usual, scheduled programming of relentless positivity.
This was a crisis. Connor Bellman was testing Joe Baran’s faith. Joe Baran was one of sports’ high priests. He had borne witness to its many miracles. He’d seen sports teach spoiled little me-monkeys teamwork, reshape doughy kids’ bodies, and give semidelinquents legitimate goals. He’d even seen it make workaholic dads set down their iPhones and actually watch their children at play.
Mr. Baran thought sports could save anyone. Depressed? Do some laps and boost your happy-chemical endorphins. Lonely? Join a team and make instant friends. Restless like Connor? Wear that antsy-ness right out of the boy, and he’ll focus like a sumo wrestler at a buffet. The hard part—the part that required Mr. Baran’s unique expertise—was matching a kid to his or her particular sport. Not just any sport would do. Kids were like old-timey windup toys. They’d hum and come to life, but only if you used the right key.
But after weeks of one-on-one sessions every morning before school, Mr. Baran still hadn’t managed to find Connor’s key. Knowing the boy’s attention flickered like a strobe light, Mr. Baran had started Connor off on racket sports: tennis and Ping-Pong. Hitting the ball to and fro required relentless movement and concentration. No lulls—lulls invite daydreaming. But Connor didn’t need lulls to pull away his attention. Anything could do that: a brightly colored car, a low-flying bird, a silly sound he’d heard. Mr. Baran had lost two days to arm farts. Arm farts! Connor hadn’t made the arm farts himself. No, it was just the thought of arm farts that threw the boy into bouts of helpless giggling. Then giggling made Connor think of the Joker, then on to Batman, and then that episode where . . .
The Very Principled Maggie Mayfield Page 14
