The Collected Works of Gretchen Oyster

by Cary Fagan

  Something else about my sister. Because she was so much more affected than me and George, she got a free pass, chore-wise. She didn’t have to set the table or take out the garbage or fold the laundry unless she felt like it.

  She never felt like it.

  Which takes us back to my getting home from the library. Dad called me down to set the table. So I set six places, even though one wouldn’t be used and I would have to put it all away again. That was Heather’s idea, and to be honest I found it a little creepy, but I didn’t say anything.

  And then Mom called the others for dinner. George came in carrying four small Space Wars action figures that he placed around his dinner plate so that they could shoot their lasers at one another while he ate.

  Heather showed up with her earbuds in. I could hear the music leaking out—it sounded like an orchestra of ants. Dad didn’t even ask her to take them out.

  “Pretty nice weather today,” I said. “Although I hear we’re going to get a tornado and an earthquake.”

  “Yes, very nice,” said Mom.

  3

  The Big One

  “All right, people, settle down,” said Ms. Gorham. “I’ve got an important announcement to make.”

  Let me set the stage for you. The date: second Monday in June. The place: Whirton Middle School. The exact place: eighth grade social studies class.

  The atmosphere: near mayhem.

  Just so you understand, Ms. Gorham could have run a disciplined, silent class if she had wanted to. But as she had told us on the first day, it was her belief that a certain amount of “chaos, confusion, and coincidence” made for a more creative learning environment.

  I don’t know how old Ms. Gorham is, but unlike a lot of teachers, she isn’t a living dinosaur. She only has a couple of gray hairs, and she wears cool black-framed glasses, and she is the only teacher in school to have a tattoo. It’s on her ankle, a word in Egyptian hieroglyphics, and some kids think that it means “love.” But others insist it means “peace,” “eagle,” or even “party time!”

  Today Ms. Gorham was trying to get us to be quiet. And because she often let us talk, we actually obeyed when she asked us not to. Ms. Gorham gave us her nicest smile, the one that made everybody feel good. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “there are only three weeks of school left this year. And that means it’s time. Do you know what it’s time for?”

  Everyone shouted: “The big one!”

  “That’s right. The big one, more formally known as the middle school final project. I guess some of you have heard about it from the older kids.”

  “We’ve all heard about it!” said Ricky Stackhouse. I looked over and saw that, sure enough, he had that beekeeping book on his desk.

  “All right,” Ms. Gorham said. “Then you know that every year I assign one last project to my eighth grade kids before they graduate and head off to high school. The project is important for your final grade but it’s much more than that. It’s a chance to explore something that really matters to you. It’s a chance to really get into a subject. To be creative. You can choose any topic you like. The only requisite is that you should be passionate about it.”

  Gavin Luo put up his hand. “Can I do video games?”

  Everyone knew that video games were all that Gavin cared about.

  “You certainly can. But I don’t want you to just tell us what your favorite games are or demonstrate how to play them. You need to research how they were first invented, or examine what makes people want to play them, or consider the question of whether they are a positive or negative influence on society. You need to go deep. Understand?”

  “Awesome,” Gavin said.

  Afrand Iqbal put up her hand. “How do we actually do our presentations, Ms. Gorham? I mean, do we just get up and talk?”

  “Any way you like. Sure, you can give a talk. And you can make posters or models. You can perform an experiment or create an animation on the computer. I want you to stretch here. Have some fun.”

  Kids started to whisper to one another. A few took out notebooks and began to write or draw. It seemed as if almost everyone already knew what they wanted to do their project on.

  As for me, I started to get a stomachache.

  I haven’t told you about my stomachaches. I get them when I’m nervous or anxious about something. They feel like somebody is tying my intestines into a knot and then pulling it even tighter for good measure. I’m thirteen now and I’ve been getting them since I was eight. Sometimes they’re so bad I can hardly stand up. My parents even took me to the doctor. The doctor sent me for a bunch of tests.

  There’s nothing wrong with me. At least nothing physical. “It’s important to understand,” Dr. Kloepper intoned, “that even pain that is generated by anxiety is still real pain.” He said that I’d probably grow out of them, although it seemed to me that they had gotten worse in the last few months. And I could feel one now.

  Ms. Gorham was giving the class time to think about their projects. I got up from my chair, finding it hard to stand straight because of the pain.

  “Ms. Gorham, I don’t feel too well.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “What can we do for you? Do you want to have a rest in the office for a bit?”

  “I think that would be a good idea.”

  “All right. And if you don’t feel better after a while, you should call home. I think somebody better walk with you. Zachary, can you take Hartley?”

  “No,” I said quickly, “that’s really not necessary.”

  Zack Mirani didn’t get up. Instead he looked down at the floor. Zack is my best friend.

  Correction. Zack used to be my best friend.

  “Okay,” he said. And without looking at me, he headed for the door.

  “Wait for Hartley, for goodness’ sake,” Ms. Gorham called.

  4

  Former Best Friend

  So about Zack Mirani.

  We’d become friends in second grade, when we were seven years old, after having a tremendous fight. The fight was over the class mouse.

  The mouse was white and black and its name, voted on by the class, was Mickey. Six-year-olds aren’t very original. Anyway, every year one lucky kid got to take Mickey home for the Christmas holidays. Some kids couldn’t because they were going away, some kids couldn’t because they had a cat, some kids couldn’t get permission from their parents, and some kids—mind-boggling though it was to me—just didn’t care about Mickey.

  Zack and I both cared. We thought he was the cutest thing on earth, with his tiny ears and whiskers and his twitchy nose. We used to watch together while Mickey sat on his hind legs and held a pumpkin seed in his delicate little hands. We both loved to fill Mickey’s water bottle and even to clean the poopy newspaper from the bottom of the cage. And both Zack and I had permission.

  We got so heated about it that we started to fight. Zack took a swipe at me and, being so little, twirled himself around and fell over. I tried to kick Zack and landed on my butt. The teacher gave us a good talking-to. Then she sat us both down and held a conference like it was the United Nations trying to prevent a war between two countries. A compromise was reached. I could have Mickey for half the holiday and Zack could have him for the other half. And each of us could visit Mickey at the other person’s house.

  And that’s what we did. And while we were at each other’s houses visiting Mickey, we started to play together. We built cities out of blocks. We teeter-tottered in Zack’s backyard. We made snowmen in my backyard. We ran around in circles the way little kids do, we laughed at our own jokes, we ate snacks, we ran around some more.

  We became best friends.

  And we stayed that way, year after year, even as we got older. We hung out together at lunch, after school, and on the weekends. We had dinner at each other’s houses. Zack came with us to Nia
gara Falls and I went camping with Zack’s family.

  And then my brother Jackson ran away.

  At first, Zack’s family was super supportive. They knocked on doors handing out flyers. They brought over baked lasagna. And then they stopped. I was so caught up in our family drama that I didn’t notice. But then I went back to school. At lunchtime Zack was nowhere to be seen. At recess he hung out with a couple of other boys and turned his back if I tried to approach. When I phoned his house, Zack’s younger sister giggled and told me that Zack wasn’t home. “Did I do good?” she said to somebody and hung up.

  I didn’t know what to think. I needed somebody to help me take a break from worrying about Jackson, to ride bikes or just watch dumb YouTube videos. I thought about asking him why when I saw him in Ms. Gorham’s class, but he always ran out as soon as the bell went.

  So I called his house again. Only this time I got his mom.

  “Hi, Ms. Mirani. Is Zack in?”

  “Is that Hartley Staples?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Hi, Hartley, how are you all doing?”

  “We’re okay.”

  “That’s good. Listen, Hartley. We think that this is a good time for your family to be together. Without outsiders around.”

  “Zack isn’t an outsider.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do?”

  Ms. Mirani sighed. “All right, let me try to be clearer. Zack is a special boy. And he needs to surround himself with positive influences, especially if he’s going to attend medical school.”

  “But we’re only in eighth grade.”

  “You’d be surprised how quickly time goes by. You’ll be applying for university in no time. Tell me, Hartley, have you ever read the self-help book Say No to the Negative by Ignatz J. Kupps, Ph.D.? It has sold three million copies. Professor Kupps says that in order to succeed you have to cut out all the negative influences in your life. You have to be ruthless about it. And let’s face it, losing a child—”

  “We didn’t lose Jackson, he ran away.”

  “Let’s not nitpick. No matter what, it’s a very negative thing. Zack just can’t be around that kind of energy.”

  “Is that what he thinks?”

  “Of course he wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings. But Zachary understands the power of the positive. He even has a signed copy of the book. Don’t think for a moment we don’t wish you and your family the best, Hartley. You’ll be foremost in our positive thoughts. Take care of yourself, you hear?”

  “Maybe if I could just talk to Zack—”

  Click.

  I waited for them to drop by as a family, but they never did. I tried again to talk to Zack at school, but he ran—I mean, literally ran—the other way. There was Zack Mirani quickly walking past me in the hall with his eyes averted. Zack Mirani passing the soccer ball to anyone but his former best friend. Zack Mirani reading in the school library, looking up at me, and then getting up to leave.

  And now here he was, leading me to the office because I had an embarrassing, shameful, stupid stomachache. He was walking too fast, so that it hurt even more as I tried to keep up. When we reached the office, he opened the door and let me pass. When I turned to say thanks, he was already walking away.

  In the office, the secretaries were nice to me as always. They remembered Jackson from when he went to middle school. One of them got me a can of club soda, saying it would settle my stomach, and it did help after I embarrassed myself even more by belching loudly. They gave me a mindless job stuffing envelopes with the school newsletter to occupy my mind.

  I sat on the bench, and as I worked, I tried to think of a subject for my final project. I used to be interested in all kinds of things. Two years ago I’d become obsessed with the Galapagos Islands. After that it was 1980s pop music. Most recently it was graphic novels. The Whirton Public Library didn’t have any, unless you counted the Illustrated Classics version of Moby Dick, so my parents let me order some online. But then Jackson ran away and I didn’t care about graphic novels anymore.

  I stuffed the last envelope and, since I was feeling better, there wasn’t much choice but to go to my next class. I ate lunch by myself while watching some girls playing field hockey and then got through history, math, and French. When the last bell rang, I went to my locker to get my backpack.

  On the other side of the hall, Zack was getting his. He turned his head and caught sight of me and then started rooting around inside his locker, as if he couldn’t find something. He slammed his locker shut, locked it, yelled “Hey!” and sprinted down the hall. I watched him until he slowed down and just started walking. I guess he had caught up with his invisible friend.

  I locked my own locker and headed down the hall. As I was passing Ms. Gorham’s class, I heard her call out.

  “Hartley? Can you come in here a minute?”

  Looking in, I saw her sorting papers at her desk.

  “Hi, Ms. Gorham,” I said, coming up.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, thanks.”

  “That’s good. Be sure and tell your parents about it. I didn’t have a chance to ask if you’re excited about the final project.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Do you know your subject yet?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She stopped shuffling her papers. “No?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. But these days I’m just not interested in that much.”

  I felt myself blushing. She knew perfectly well what I meant by “these days.” I meant since my brother ran away. I knew that it was wrong to use him this way but I was doing it anyway.

  I waited for Ms. Gorham to give me her understanding look and then tell me I didn’t have to do the final project.

  “I know it’s a tough time, Hartley,” she said. “I really do. But I think it would do you good to keep up with the other kids. And to concentrate on something else for a little while.”

  What? She wasn’t letting me off the hook?

  “Let’s explore a little,” she said. “There must be something you’re interested in. What about, say, cooking?”

  “I can make a peanut butter and jam sandwich. It usually comes out pretty gooey.”

  “Something else, then. Do you have an aquarium?”

  “Sure.”

  “See!”

  “It’s down in the basement. My last fish died two years ago.”

  “Well, what about travel? Is there some place you’d really like to visit?”

  “Maybe Brazil. That’s in Germany, right?”

  “Now you’re pulling my leg.”

  “I’m not, Ms. Gorham.”

  Actually, I was.

  “I can see that you’re worried, Hartley. And that you’re having trouble focusing on a subject. But that’s all the more reason this project will be good for you. Why don’t you think some more and we’ll talk again in a couple of days?”

  “Okay,” I said doubtfully.

  Ms. Gorham wagged a finger. “I know there’s a subject just waiting for you, Hartley Staples. I know it.”

  5

  The Excitement of Grocery Shopping

  Before Jackson ran away, my parents were big on chores. Chores, they believed, could turn any selfish, lazy, or merely bored child into a hardworking, dedicated, intelligent contributor to society.

  Also, it meant that they didn’t have to do everything.

  The person who had been worst at getting his chores done was Jackson. All of us grumbled, but Jackson actually refused to do a lot of his chores. Sometimes I think that Jackson ran away because he didn’t like to take out the garbage.

  One of mine was to walk George to school every day. Whirton Elementary and Whirton Middle School were actually in the same building, only with different entrances. I didn’t mind
walking George that much, unless it was a day when I didn’t feel like talking, because George never shut up. Or a day when I was in a hurry, because George seemed incapable of walking fast. He had to examine every snail and ant, pat every dog, pick up stones, hop up and down—anything but just move forward in a straight line.

  I picked George up at his entrance as usual and we started walking home.

  “Look,” he said. “I made a house out of Popsicle sticks. Isn’t it great?”

  He held it up for me to see. It was made log-cabin style, the sticks piled up to make walls and a roof. Glue had oozed out everywhere.

  “Nice, George.”

  “I wish I could become really small and live inside it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “If I was really small, a blueberry would be like a watermelon!”

  “I guess so.”

  “Hey,” George said. “I know where Jackson is!”

  This wasn’t the first time George had made this claim. Once he had told me that Jackson had gone to visit Santa Claus, and another time he was going to star in the next Space Wars movie.

  “Okay, where is he?”

  “He’s living in my little house. I can see him through the window. See?”

  He held up his masterpiece for me to look in. “There he is, all right,” I said. “Hi, Jackson.”

  George seemed very happy at the idea and began skipping, which had the advantage of getting us home faster. Heather was already there (the door was unlocked and I didn’t have to use my key), but I knew better than to even try and talk to her. George went straight to the TV, since he was allowed an hour after school, and I went to my room to think about the final project.

  I came up with…nothing.

  When I heard Mom and Dad come in from work, I was glad for an excuse to go down to the kitchen. George was already having a snack of celery and peanut butter while Heather was mixing some of her gray protein powder in a glass.