by Cary Fagan
I drank half the glass down, spilling a bit on my chin.
“You’re the first person who has ever said anything to me about my cards.”
“Maybe that’s because nobody knows who you are.”
“Good point.”
“Do you make very many copies?”
“It depends on how much money I’ve made from mowing people’s lawns. Usually I make ten or twenty.”
“And you just leave them around for people to find?”
“Kind of lame, I know. Probably they just get thrown out or whatever. But I like the idea of somebody finding one and going, hmm. You know what I mean?”
“I think I do.”
“So how old are you?” she asked. “What grade are you in?”
“Thirteen. I just finished eighth grade. Well, I didn’t exactly finish because I didn’t do my final project.”
“Ms. Gorham’s final project?”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m going to show your cards to my older brother.”
“Who?”
“You know, it’s a funny thing, but I just figured that out right now. I’m collecting them so that I can show them to Jackson. If he comes back.”
“You’re very confusing, do you know that? Where’s your brother?”
“He ran away.”
“Your brother is that Jackson? Jackson Staples? Everybody in high school knows about him.”
“Can I have some more water?” I asked.
She took the glass and filled it again. I managed not to spill this time. “I better get home. I’m sure you think I’m a freak or something, but you were nice anyway,” I said.
I got up, and this time Gretchen Oyster followed me to the door. She said, “Which card don’t you have?”
“Number 3.”
“Hold on.” She turned and ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. A minute or two later she came down again with a card in her hand. “I think I only made seven of these. This is the last copy.”
“Thanks a lot. I’ll look at it at home.”
“What’s your name?”
“Hartley Staples. But we don’t own the store.”
“Thanks, Hartley.”
“For what?”
“For liking them.”
“You’re welcome. By the way, who are Noreen, Layla, and Starr?”
She made a face. “You don’t want to know.”
“Are they after you?”
“Something like that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t even know.”
“Have you told somebody?”
“You,” she said, opening the door. “I’ve told you.”
I turned to her. “That’s a start. Now you have to tell somebody else.”
She looked at me as if she had a stomachache. I went outside but she didn’t follow. This time I had a lot of trouble getting onto Heather’s bike. But I finally managed and rode home carefully. I put the bike in the garage and then went into the house, past the family room where Heather and George were watching some cartoons, and up to my room.
As always, I put the card on my desk and turned on the lamp.
I thought it was a good one, and I was glad to have it.
24
A Little Delay
Officially it was the start of summer. Only I didn’t feel as if I had earned it—not yet, anyway. Biking home from Almond Avenue, even as I was thinking about Gretchen Oyster, I decided to delay my own summer.
Because I hadn’t yet done my final project.
I knew that it was too late, that the teachers had already given in their students’ final marks. In a couple of weeks report cards would be sent out to parents, and there would probably be my big, fat failing grade. I couldn’t change that, but I could change how I felt, and so I decided to write a paper to take the place of my final project. If nothing else, I would gain back my self-respect.
For two days, I worked at the desk in my room. My parents kept coming up to my door. “It’s summer, for goodness’ sake. What are you doing in there?”
Besides the book, Your Friend, the Tractor, I had found some information in the encyclopedia we had in our house. In Jackson’s room there was a book on the development of the automobile that had a chapter on other kinds of vehicles. I used the Internet for more recent developments.
The paper ended up being fourteen pages, longer than any essay I had ever written before. Plus I added five pages of my own drawings, from the first steam engines to the giant, high-traction machines of today. The last thing I wrote was the conclusion. Maybe I got a little carried away.
The tractor might not be a glamorous vehicle, like a Porsche or a jet airplane. But it gets the job done. It helps the farmer to put food on our table, the builder to prepare the land for a new house. It turns an ordinary driver into someone with the strength of a superhero. I say, let’s give a cheer for the hardest working machine around. Hip, hip hooray for the tractor!
I finished it at one o’clock in the afternoon on Monday. My parents were both at work but Heather was home to watch George. I slipped the essay into a big envelope, went out the door, and walked to Whirton Middle School.
I knew that teachers didn’t finish the school year on the same day as us. They had all kinds of paperwork to do and meetings to attend. I just had to hope that Ms. Gorham was still there.
As I got to the office, one of the secretaries was coming out the door with a cardboard box full of stuff. “Did you forget something, Hartley?” she asked.
“Kind of,” I answered. “Is Ms. Gorham still here?”
“I think she’s just packing up.”
My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. There were chairs piled here and there, mounds of paper garbage next to abandoned brooms. In one room a janitor on a ladder was taking down a burned-out fluorescent lightbulb.
I got to Ms. Gorham’s room and looked in, but I didn’t see anybody. Then I heard a rustling sound. Stepping inside, I saw her at the back, standing on her tiptoes in order to reach a poster. She was wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt, just like a regular person. She had a bandana tied around her hair.
“Ms. Gorham?”
She half-turned around. “Hartley? One second.”
She finished pulling down the poster and then came toward me as she rolled it up. “There always seems to be one more thing to take down,” she said. “But what are you doing here? You should be out in the sunshine.”
I said, solemnly, “I’m sorry that I disappointed you.”
“Oh, Hartley.”
“I know it isn’t your fault that you had to fail me and keep me in middle school. And I know it’s too late to change my mark, but I wanted to do the final project anyway. So I wrote an essay for you.”
I held out the envelope. She took it from me and pulled out the essay. “This looks interesting,” she said. “Why don’t you wait while I look it over? I can give you something to read.”
“Okay,” I said.
Ms. Gorham went to her desk and took a paperback from a box of stuff. She handed it to me. It was a slim book called Animal Farm.
I sat down at my old desk, which wasn’t my desk anymore, and opened the book. It started like this: “Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes.” I couldn’t remember ever reading a book that started with somebody being drunk. Also, I didn’t know what pop-holes were.
But I kept reading. Mr. Jones went to bed and then there was a description of a big pig named Major. Some other animals too. It got interesting pretty fast, so that I didn’t notice the time going by and only looked up when Ms. Gorham tapped me on the shoulder.
“This is a fine essay, Hartley.”
“It is?”
“Informed, well-written, serious. And I
loved the ending. I’ve circled a couple of grammatical errors, but that’s all. I’m just so impressed that you did this on the first days of your holiday.”
“Thanks for reading it,” I said. Ms. Gorham took a pen out of her pocket, put the essay down on my desk, and wrote A+ on the first page. Then she handed it back to me.
“Of course you didn’t fail, Hartley. You did good work all year. I wouldn’t hold you back for missing one assignment. You’re going to high school next year whether you want to or not.”
“I am?”
Ms. Gorham gave me her best smile ever.
“Have a really great summer, Hartley.”
25
Tall
So I was going to graduate middle school after all. I didn’t have to repeat eighth grade. A flood of relief poured over me. I tucked the envelope with my first A+ (even if it didn’t count) under my arm and started to walk home again.
But then, being me, Hartley Staples, I couldn’t just be glad about it. Not even for one day. Because I had to start worrying about high school. In September I would have to enter that enormous building with a zillion other kids. I’d get lost every five minutes and have all new teachers, and some of them were bound to be a lot more strict than Ms. Gorham.
I was also going to have to make new friends, especially since I didn’t have Zack Mirani to rely on anymore. Maybe one day Zack and I would be friends again. It didn’t seem impossible, even if I couldn’t see how we might get there. But I was starting to think that one friend wasn’t enough and that a person needed more. Backups, you might say, just in case one of them pulled a Zack Mirani on you.
I shook myself, trying to get all these thoughts out of my head. After all, it really was the summer now. I didn’t have to think about school for two months. I could actually enjoy myself. Not that my family was really big on enjoyment these days, but I know my parents were trying. I guess that I’d have to find a way to help them.
Our house came into view. Even though it was still early afternoon, the car was in the driveway. That was strange—my parents should have both been at work. They weren’t taking any holiday time yet.
I got to the door and when I opened it I could hear voices in the living room. Somebody was talking. Mom and Dad were sitting on the sofa, facing a visitor who sat in the armchair. The visitor had long hair, but even before he turned around, I knew that it was Jackson.
George was sitting on the rug beside him. I just stood there, not knowing what to do. My parents looked up at me but it was a moment before Mom said anything.
“Hartley. There you are.”
Jackson turned around. He looked different somehow, maybe just older. He gave me a big grin.
“Hey, Hartley! Look how tall you are. Come here, buddy.”
But I couldn’t move. I tried to say something but I couldn’t even talk.
I started to cry. I guess now it was my turn.
Jackson came over and put his arms around me. “That’s okay, Hartley,” he said, “that’s okay.”
It took me another few minutes before I could speak. I said something really obvious. I said, “You’re home.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you going to stay?”
“I hope so. I want to.”
Mom and Dad both smiled. “It’s going to be okay, Hartley,” Dad said.
“Where’s Heather?” I asked.
“Oh, Heather,” Jackson said in an embarrassed way. “She took one look at me and ran upstairs and locked herself in her room.”
“Why?”
“Emotions are complicated, I guess.”
I said, “I got an A+ on my final project.” It was a stupid thing to mention, under the circumstances.
“In Ms. Gorham’s class?” asked Jackson. “Way to go, Hartley. Quite the brainiac, you are.”
“Maybe you should go upstairs and knock on Heather’s door,” I said. “She probably wants to see you.”
“That’s a good idea. Want to come with me?”
“I’ll come!” said George.
“I think she probably wants to see you by yourself.”
“You’ve gotten pretty mature, I see. Okay, I’ll go up. Thanks for the advice.”
“You’re welcome. Hey, Jackson?”
“Uh-huh?” he said, getting up. I wanted to ask him about why he had left, and where he had been, and a million other things. But maybe it wasn’t the right time.
“Never mind,” I said.
He patted me on the head, like he used to do when I was little. Mom and Dad and George and I all watched as Jackson went up the stairs. We heard him knock softly on the door.
We heard the door open.
26
Bedside
The next few days felt almost as strange as the days after Jackson ran away. I kept asking myself questions. Would he still be here at dinner? Was he actually going to sleep in his room? Would he be around the next afternoon, in the evening, in the morning?
And he was. I still didn’t ask him where he had been all these months or what he’d been doing. Maybe my parents or Heather did, during the times they spent alone with him, but I’m not sure. When we were together, Jackson and I talked about ordinary things, like how the sports teams we liked were doing. I didn’t really care that much about sports teams, but I kept up so that I could talk to Jackson and I had followed them even while he was away. Sports teams are pretty useful as a subject of conversation.
We also spent time as a family, especially in the kitchen. Jackson missed Mom’s roast chicken, Dad’s stir-fry, and just about every other dish we had at home. “This is the best hamburger I’ve ever had,” Jackson would say. “This is the best tuna fish sandwich in the world.” We made popcorn and watched dumb comedies on TV that made us laugh. We went to the store to pick up ice cream and ate big bowls of it in the backyard. When George got his bowl, he said, “I’m in ice cream heaven.”
One night when I was reading Animal Farm in bed, my parents came in to talk. They said that all of us kids were being really great and also that it was natural for everything to feel weird for a while. My dad said that they weren’t taking anything for granted, pretending that everything was all right now. Instead, they were going to make sure that they had help dealing with the problems that made Jackson want to leave. He had agreed to see a therapist, and also the family doctor for a full checkup to make sure he was in good health.
Mom said that there might be times when Jackson being home wasn’t going to be as easy as it was right now. If that was true for me, then I should come and talk about it with them. She hoped I wouldn’t mind if every so often they asked me how things were going, just to check in. And by the way, they were all going to go back to the family therapist for a little while, and if I wanted to talk to the therapist by myself that was all right too.
Both of them wanted me to know that Jackson had to get a lot of attention right now but that this family was about all of us. It was about me and George and Heather too. And if there was anything that I needed, anything that I was worried or unhappy about, I should let them know. It was okay to be worried or unhappy sometimes, of course, but still I could always talk to them.
“Don’t worry,” I said to them. “I’m not going to run away.”
“I know,” Mom said and hugged me.
Dad hugged me too.
Then they went out and I finished reading Animal Farm. It’s a very good book.
27
Wishful Thinking
I’ll be honest with you, the idea of giving Jackson the metal box of cards seemed to make more sense to me before he came home. I had this idea that he would love them and that they would be even more meaningful to him than they were to me, and that somehow they would help him to stay with us.
But now that he was back, all of that seemed like wishful thinking or plain du
mb. Just because I liked them didn’t mean he would. Or that they would mean something special. In my room, every time I picked up the box and thought of giving them to him, I felt myself getting all awkward and embarrassed. For all I knew, he would just laugh, as if he thought I was making some kind of joke.
And there was another thing. Maybe there was a part of me that didn’t want to give them up.
But overall, I still wanted to give them to Jackson. It wasn’t up to me to decide what he should think of them. Just do it, I told myself.
Only I couldn’t just shove the box at him. Or do it only a few days after he got home. So I waited. I waited for over two weeks. It was Sunday and in the morning we went to Leaning Bear to hike. This time Jackson didn’t run ahead like he used to, but stayed with everyone. At least he stayed until the last bit, when he couldn’t stop himself from sprinting up to the top. He didn’t try to go any farther than the rope, which I could see was a relief to my parents.
We came home again and had lunch. My parents went to take a nap, while George set up his Space Wars figures in the living room and Heather rode her bike to Jen’s house.
I knocked on Jackson’s door.
“Come in.”
He was lying on his bed with his hands under his head. “Hey, Hartley, what’s up?”
I had the metal box in my hands but didn’t know what to say, so I just held it out. I guess, in the end, I really did just shove it at him.
“What’s this?”
“Some cards. I didn’t make them, somebody else did. But I collected them. I thought you might want them.”
He took the box from me and I walked out of his room, along the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door. It had become warm and humid, real summer weather. A black-and-orange cat I’d never seen before was stretched out on our walkway, looking at me. I crouched down to pat it and the cat started to purr.
