Ruby in the Sky

by Jeanne Zulick Ferruolo

  Ellen nodded. “She’s obviously a nut job.”

  “Well, my dad got a new law passed,” Dakota said. “If she doesn’t fix her house, she’s going to get arrested. We don’t need homeless people in Fortin.” She flipped her hair. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “What’s going on here? Is everyone done with their index cards?” Mr. Andrews moved next to Ahmad. Kids scurried back to their seats.

  I clicked through photos on NASA’s site, but thoughts of Abigail kept filling my head. I made a mental note to ask Ahmad if he’d met her at Rucki’s.

  It seemed like class would never end, but then Mr. Andrews finally stood at the front of the room pulling at his beard. “That’s it for today,” he said. “For homework, finish up with your research and be sure to check your school messenger accounts.”

  I never told Mr. Andrews we didn’t have Internet. Or a computer, even. I closed the laptop and brought it to the cart. When I returned, Ahmad stood by my desk. “Ruby, would you like to eat lunch with me?”

  I nodded. Even though I knew it would be hard to make myself go inside that noisy cafeteria, sitting with Ahmad would be a whole lot better than eating my lunch in the girls’ bathroom. It would also give me a chance to ask him if he knew Abigail. Maybe he knew something about this moon rock story.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, I stepped into the cafeteria. The smell of bleach and fried food made my stomach clench. I scanned the tables for Ahmad. But I only found Melanie sitting by herself. When she saw me, she stood and waved. I turned and walked out. If I sat with her, she’d probably ask about Mom.

  Mr. Andrews came out of the cafeteria carrying a tray. “Are you looking for Ahmad?” He smiled at me with his crinkly eyes. “Did he forget to tell you that he eats lunch in my room?” He glanced at his watch. “You’ll find him there.”

  I darted off. But when I got to Mr. Andrews’s room it was empty. I had started to leave when the giant supply closet door opened and Ahmad stepped out. He wasn’t wearing shoes. “Hello, Ruby,” he said.

  “What are you doing in Mr. Andrews’s supply closet?” I asked.

  “Praying,” he said.

  “In a closet?”

  Ahmad opened the door for me to look inside. It was a large space. Any supplies had been removed. The floor was so clean it sparkled. A beautiful red carpet with gold tassels was spread in the center.

  “Mr. Andrews cleaned it for me to use,” Ahmad said. “It is my private prayer room. I read verses of the Qur’an five times a day. Here I do my noontime prayer.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  Ahmad closed the door. “It is my religion. I am Muslim.” He moved to the front table and put his shoes on.

  I sat across from him.

  “At first Amu told me, Do not pray at school. You are not in Syria anymore. You are in Amreeka,” Ahmad said. “But this is my religion. I will not forget I am Muslim.” He looked me square in the eye. “Please do not speak about this to anyone,” he said. “Especially Dakota and Ellen. They are not kind about things that they do not understand.”

  I felt my blood boil. “Did they do something?”

  Ahmad removed hummus and pita bread from a paper bag. “One time, Amu called here to the school and the office sent his call to Mr. Andrews’s room.” Ahmad sighed. “I was not thinking and when I got on the phone, I spoke Arabic instead of English.”

  I peeled back the tinfoil from my pizza slice. “So?”

  Ahmad swallowed. “Dakota reported to the principal that I must be planning terrorism because she did not like that I was speaking Arabic. So the principal called me to his office to ask me what I was talking about on the phone.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Of course. I told him that Amu called to tell me he would be out when I got home from school. He called to make sure I had my key.” Ahmad shrugged. “The principal was very nice. He apologized.”

  I shook my head. “Dakota is the one who should apologize.”

  Ahmad took a sip from his water bottle. “Why does Dakota keep saying you will be a bird lady for the Wax Museum?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I live near this lady who likes to feed the birds. Her name is Abigail Jacobs, but the kids call her the Bird Lady. I guess Dakota and Ellen think I’m weird like her.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, I’m not going to be anyone for the Wax Museum. I’m not doing it.”

  “You are Michael Collins,” Ahmad said. “We are a team, yes?”

  I shrugged.

  “You must do the Wax Museum, Ruby.”

  I needed to change the subject. “So, have you ever met her? Abigail Jacobs?”

  “Mrs. Abigail? Yes, she comes to Rucki’s sometimes before the store is open, for coffee and supplies. Amu gives her seeds for her pets.”

  “Some people say she murdered her family,” I said.

  Ahmad shook his head. “No. Not Mrs. Abigail. She is a very kind lady. I think, when people are different, some people want to tell stories to explain this difference.” Ahmad put his pita down. “Like the way Dakota did not like my Arabic. Instead of asking me what I had said, she made a judgment on her own. It makes no sense. The same happened to Amu when he first came here and people heard his accent. They didn’t know him but they treated him like he did something wrong by coming to America.” Ahmad shook his head. “So when I hear these stories about other people, I think I will wait and meet them myself. There is always more to the story. Like with your mother, yes?”

  Pizza stuck in my throat. I took a sip from my water bottle. I was not going to talk about my mother with Ahmad.

  “Did you hear Bryce say that Abigail has a rock from the moon in her house? Do you think that’s true?” I asked.

  Ahmad shrugged. “Stories. Who knows what’s true and what’s not?”

  I thought about what Dad had said that time we saw the moon rock at the museum. Would touching that rock be the same as touching the moon itself? The thought gave me a warm feeling. Right then I hoped that the moon rock story really was true.

  * * *

  When the last bell rang, I fell in among the piles of kids pushing their way outside. The steel-gray sky seemed to press back.

  That’s when I saw her.

  At the edge of the parking lot, looking like a shapeless creature in her patched coat and blizzard of scarves, was Abigail. Her hands fidgeted as she scanned the crowd. She looked like a kid who had lost her mother.

  As kids bumped past me, I heard, “Hey, isn’t that the Bird Lady?” “What is she doing here?” “Weird!”

  I hunched my shoulders as I climbed onto the bus, but my eyes remained fixed on Abigail.

  As the bus pulled away, Abigail’s gaze suddenly locked on to mine. I stared back, wanting to hide but unable to pull away. I watched her mouth curl into a smile as her hand raised in a small wave.

  “Stalker!” Dakota said. Ellen laughed.

  I stared down at my own hands, wondering why they didn’t wave back.

  “Wait until I tell my dad she was at school,” Dakota said.

  * * *

  After the bus dropped me off, I ran to the house. I leashed Bob and headed down the road. Snow was lightly falling. When we got to the pine tree, the bunny was there. I watched her eat a carrot top as Abigail came hiking down Specter Hill Road. Snow coated her scarves like glitter.

  “Why were you at my school?” I said when she got near.

  She laughed a nervous laugh. “Lillian liked it when I walked her home.” Her voice trailed off.

  Lillian again.

  She shook her head like she was trying to lose a thought, then slipped through the gate and started up her driveway. The smile I had seen at school was gone.

  Bob and I followed. “Well, I’m here now,” I said. “Do you want to snowshoe up to the Moon Bench?”

  Abigail kept walking. Her body was hunched and small.

  As we reached her camp, I made my way over to the seed can, but when I turned, Abigail had already duck
ed into her shed.

  “Abigail?” I called. But the only sound was the latch hooking.

  My insides fell. I stared hard at the door, wishing with all my might that it would swing open and Abigail would be there saying, How about that snowshoe? But the door stayed shut.

  I filled the feeders. When I finished, I sifted through the can until I found the ring of keys. I turned them over in my hand and scanned the door, then I dropped them inside the seed can and replaced its lid.

  “Come on, Bob,” I said. As we moved past Abigail’s shed, I paused. The wind whistled and I knew that quilt wasn’t doing much to keep it out. A piece of faded fabric flapped in the icy breeze.

  I wanted to tell Abigail I was sorry for not waving back. But at the same time, I wanted to kick the door and tell her to stop acting so weird. And I wanted to warn her.

  Bob barked as if to say, Come on! Let’s do something fun!

  I tucked the loose fabric in place. Then I hiked up Abigail’s driveway, feeling as frayed and useless as that shabby quilt.

  CHAPTER

  9

  The next day, Mr. Andrews stood behind his desk rummaging through a bag. I saw him take out a baseball. When the second bell rang, he clasped his hands. “Good morning, good morning. Take your seats.” He adjusted his glasses. “If you checked your school messenger accounts,” he said, “you know that we are practicing Wax Museum performances today.”

  Kids groaned as Mr. Andrews moved the table to make space at the front of the room. I was too stunned. Of course I hadn’t checked my school messenger account. We had no computer. We barely had a TV.

  I stared at my desk. No way was I talking.

  “Who wants to go first?”

  I heard the rustle of arms being raised. Hopefully there’d be enough volunteers to get through the class.

  “Dakota?”

  Figures.

  I peeked through my bangs. Dakota had placed a sparkling tiara on her head.

  At the front of the room, she said, “I’m wearing this today, but I have a special gown for the Wax Museum.”

  Mr. Andrews crossed his arms. “I’m sure it will be terrific.”

  Dakota struck a pose with her hands on her hips. Her giant round eyes popped open. When nothing happened, she dropped her arms and turned toward Mr. Andrews. “Since we don’t have a spotlight here, can you say go?”

  Mr. Andrews gave a little sigh. “Go, Dakota.”

  Dakota sprang to life, making a swinging gesture with her arm. “My name is Lady Diana. I was born on July 1, 1961. When I was twenty years old, I married Charles, Prince of Wales, who is in line to be King of England.” She made a sweeping motion. “I had two sons, William and Harry. I died tragically in a car accident in Paris on August 31, 1997, when the paparazzi were chasing me. I am beloved by all of England.” Dakota curtsied. A few kids clapped as she glided toward her seat, beaming.

  Mr. Andrews stood. “That’s a fine start, Dakota. But you know you are going to have to dig a lot deeper than that, right? Okay, constructive comments?”

  Of course Ellen’s hand was first. “You looked like a real princess up there!” she said.

  “Okay,” Mr. Andrews said. “Anyone with a suggestion of where Dakota can improve? Ahmad?”

  “Dakota has told the part we already know about Princess Diana,” Ahmad said. “Maybe she can also speak about how it felt being the princess.”

  Dakota rolled her eyes. “Duh, she loved being a princess, Ahmad.”

  “Maybe, but it would be good to know something about her being in the light all the time. No one likes to be in the light all the time,” Ahmad said.

  “That is an excellent point, Ahmad,” Mr. Andrews said. “Princess Diana was a very private person, yet was under intense scrutiny as a member of the royal family. Perhaps you can delve into those feelings, Dakota. How did she feel being thrust into the spotlight?”

  When Mr. Andrews looked away, Dakota stuck her tongue out at Ahmad.

  “I want you to dig deep into your characters. Anyone can learn statistics or rote facts, but you need to bring them to life. What did Princess Diana care about? What was her greatest failure? What brought her joy?”

  Mr. Andrews walked over to his desk and picked up the baseball I had seen earlier. “I want you to think of your character like a baseball.” He held up the ball for all of us to see. “I’ve already cut the outside,” he said. He peeled away the ball’s leather skin, then held it up again to show white string wrapped tightly into the shape of a ball.

  “I’ll bet everyone’s played with a baseball,” he said. “But did you ever wonder what was on the inside?” Mr. Andrews peeled away the layer of white string as if he was peeling an orange, then held up what was left. It looked like a ball of gray yarn. He pulled a piece of the yarn, then continued pulling and pulling.

  “You’re killing it!” Trevor said, covering his eyes.

  But Mr. Andrews kept unraveling the ball until the yarn lay in a large gray mound at his feet. “With each layer, there are new discoveries.” He held up a small red ball. “This is called the pill.” He threw the pill on the ground and it bounced back into his hand. Some kids laughed. “But we’re not done yet.” He grabbed a pair of scissors and, using the sharp edge, peeled open the pill. He held up a tiny cork ball. “Did any of you expect to find this inside a baseball?” Most kids shook their heads.

  “This is what I want you to look for in your characters,” he said. “I want you to keep peeling away their layers until you find their cork-ball center.” He set the tiny cork ball on the front table.

  “Okay, who’s next?” he asked.

  I wondered what someone would find if they peeled away my layers. I didn’t like that idea. Mom would be easy. She always said what she felt. Then I thought about Abigail and how her scarves were like her layers of yarn. Most people didn’t even know what she looked like under there. They sure didn’t know who she was.

  “Ruby?” Mr. Andrews said.

  I jumped. Everyone was staring at me.

  “Ruby? Come on up.”

  What?

  “You’re next. Let’s hear about Michael Collins.”

  What? I tried to swallow but the prickly pit in my throat had grown three sizes bigger.

  Someone dropped a pencil. Kids whispered. I heard Dakota muffle her snort-laugh. Suddenly, Mr. Andrews was leaning over me. “Ruby, what’s the matter? Come on, it’s just practice.”

  The whispering got louder. I wished there was a trapdoor beneath me.

  Ahmad turned around in his chair. “Please, may I go, Mr. Andrews?” he said.

  Mr. Andrews looked at Ahmad, then shrugged. “Fine. Go ahead, Ahmad.”

  At the front of the room, Ahmad put his hand up to his forehead as if he was searching for something. Kids laughed.

  Mr. Andrews sighed loudly. “Go, Ahmad,” he said.

  “I am the American hero Neil Armstrong. I am a very famous astronaut and the first man to walk on the moon. My friend is there, Mr. Michael Collins.” Ahmad pointed at me.

  I sank deeper, if that was possible.

  “He was a good sport and let me and Buzz Aldrin take the lunar module, the Eagle, to the moon while he went to the far side that we can never see from Earth. After we came home, NASA made me a big celebrity. But I did not like being in parades. I escaped to my farm in Ohio. Some people say it’s because I saw an alien, but really it was because I liked being an astronaut, not a celebrity.”

  Ahmad took a deep bow. Kids clapped.

  “Okay. Who thinks Ahmad got to the cork center of Neil Armstrong? Bryce?”

  “I think he did. He talked about his feelings and how people thought one thing about Neil Armstrong, but really it was something else. I felt like he was a real person up there.”

  “I liked that, too.” Mr. Andrews stared at the ceiling and pulled at his beard. “It’s also interesting how when people don’t act the way we expect them to, we make up stories to explain their actions, and those stories are ra
rely true.” He returned his gaze to the class. “Another comment? Dakota?”

  “I didn’t feel like we got to know anything about Neil Armstrong. That was stuff about why he didn’t like to be in parades. What’s that got to do with him being the first man on the moon?”

  “Valid point, Dakota. More hard facts about the Apollo 11 mission would strengthen your presentation, Ahmad.” Mr. Andrews crossed his arms. “You also need to consider the source of your information. Just because someone prints an article or writes a book doesn’t mean everything in it is true. Although there were rumors that Neil Armstrong had become reclusive, and some speculated about the reasons for this, others have pointed out that he simply preferred a quiet life on his farm.” Mr. Andrews lifted a book from his desk and handed it to Ahmad. “I meant to give this to you earlier. Neil Armstrong authorized this biography. It should help you separate fact from fiction.”

  “Thank you,” Ahmad said as he carried the book to his desk. As Ahmad took his seat, he tried to make eye contact with me. I looked down.

  “Okay, Melanie, how about you?” Mr. Andrews said.

  As Melanie moved past my desk, her orange coat brushed against me. I wouldn’t look up. “My name is Sonia Sotomayor,” she said. “I am the first Hispanic and third woman appointed to the United States Supreme Court.” As Melanie continued, I couldn’t help but listen. She seemed different standing there pretending to be an important judge. She seemed really happy.

  After a bunch of other kids went, Mr. Andrews said, “That’s all the time we have today. Thank you to our volunteers, and I think what we can glean from today is we need more research. If you have too much emotion, get more facts. If you have only facts, find out why your person did what they did. Always make sure your sources are reliable.” He lifted the tiny cork-ball center of the baseball and showed it to the class again. “Don’t forget, you are looking for this. It might be small, it might be buried deep, but it is the heart of your subject.”