Bursting Bubbles (6 page)

“You could take my car if you want. I don’t really need it today.”

Her mother usually doesn’t like anyone using her things. Especially her car. Marigold’s sister, Rose, once borrowed it without permission and backed it into a wall, an event that sent her mother to bed for a week. She is in a really good mood if she’s offering her the car. Marigold darts little glances around the room, looking for flowers. And then she notices the pin her mother’s wearing, a silver angel holding a diamond that Marigold’s never seen before. Eveline Liotta loves both angels and diamonds. It must be a peace offering.

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine, Mom.” And here is something else Marigold hasn’t told her mother. Marigold has shied away from driving since May, when she hit a pigeon. Even Marigold couldn’t find anything positive about that, especially not from the pigeon’s point of view. She felt so guilty (even though it was really the pigeon who hit her) that she thought she might have nightmares about it for the rest of her life. “And anyway, you might need it after all.”

“Might need what?”

They both look up as Marigold’s father strides into the room, wearing his usual suit and tie, his briefcase in one hand. He’s in a good mood, too.

“How are my girls this morning?” He kisses first one, then the other, but puts up a hand when his wife jumps up to get him a plate. “Sorry, darling, I’d love to hang out with you two, but there’s no time. Forgot I have an early meeting. Just coffee to go.” He fills his insulated mug and kisses them both goodbye.

As the front door shuts behind him Marigold’s mother picks up her own mug. “Well, call me if you change your mind about the ride, honey. I’m having lunch with Meg and Jessica, but other than that I have no plans.”

Marigold says that she will.

Over lunch Asher tries to commiserate with Marigold about her first day at her new service placement. “It’s like we’re in a battle and you’re the first one over the hill,” says Asher. “I don’t start mine till Saturday.” An event he’s looking forward to about as much as his own funeral.

Marigold pretends to look almost puzzled by his sympathy. “It really doesn’t bother me, Ash.” By now, she’s almost managed to convince herself that this is true. “Actually, I’m kind of looking forward to it.” Instead of sinking into a Slough of Despond because Dr Kilpatiky is as immune to reason as a charging rhino, Marigold is trying to think of the tutoring as a new and exciting learning experience for her as well as her student. “It’s not my first choice. We all know that. I’d much rather hang out with books than challenged children. But what can you do? It’s what I got. I figure I have to make the best of it or I’ll just make it worse.” She doesn’t see the look Claudelia gives Asher, or the look that Will gives Georgiana. “And, you know, it could be super interesting.” She beams over her sandwich like the sun over a hill. “It’s important to step outside your comfort zone now and then. I think it’ll help me grow as a person.”

If anyone else talked like a self-help book, the girls would roll their eyes and the boys would groan or pretend to throw up. But they don’t; they all look at their lunches and nod. Except for Georgiana (who also didn’t see the look Will gave her).

“Yeah, but I don’t want to make the best of it,” says Georgiana. “I want it to be good to begin with.”

Marigold smiles. Sadly but wisely. “Only life isn’t like that, George. You have to think of everything as an opportunity. You can’t always get what you want.”

“I don’t see why not,” says Georgiana.

“Me neither,” says Asher.

Patience shuffles beside sadness and wisdom in Marigold’s smile. “I think because sometimes what you want isn’t really what you should have. Things always work out for the best.”

“No, they don’t,” says Georgiana.

“Maybe they do if you have a good lawyer,” says Asher.

Byron gives Marigold a ride to Half Hollow.

“Shoot, man,” laughs Byron. “The only time I’ve been out this way was when I was going somewhere else and I got lost.”

Marigold has never gone anywhere that would take her out this way, no matter how lost she was. “It’s kind of like a treasure hunt, isn’t it?” she says gamely. “We don’t really know what we’ll find when we get there. It’ll be a surprise.”

This is only true up to a point. The closer they get to the town the more what they can expect to find when they get there becomes fairly obvious. With every yard they travel, the smaller and older and more run-down the houses are; the more rusting cars and busted appliances decorate the porches and lawns; the more people stare at the late-model, candy-red sports car as if it’s an alien spaceship. Until, eventually, the lush lawns and sprawling homes of Shell Harbour are so far away they really might be on a different planet. And not necessarily a friendly one.

“Better lock your door,” advises Byron.

By the time they reach Half Hollow, even Marigold is feeling about as upbeat as one of those Irish ballads where the hero accidentally murders the only woman he will ever love and then throws himself in the river. Nor does their first glimpse of the town itself make either of them feel any better. When the nation was growing and industry was booming, Half Hollow was a thriving mill town where people came for jobs and a decent life. But now that the country’s streets are paved not with gold but potholes and burger boxes, the mill is derelict and half the stores on Main Street are empty. Now it’s a town that people leave. If they can.

The elementary school is at the top of a steep hill behind Main Street. It was built at the turn of the twentieth century, and the years have been no kinder to it than they’ve been to the rest of Half Hollow. In most towns, it would have been torn down decades ago and replaced with something modern, or turned into the local historical museum. But not in Half Hollow. Half Hollow has no money for new schools, and no one interested in visiting a museum about its history.

Byron pulls up in front of the dingy, brick building and peers dubiously through the windshield. “Man, it looks like something out of a horror movie.”

“It makes me think of
Oliver Twist
,” says Marigold.

He looks over at her. “You want me to wait for you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Marigold would love for him to wait for her. She’d like it even better if he’d go in with her, and hold her hand. “You can’t sit here for an hour and a half. People will think you’re up to no good.”

“You really think so?” If you ask Byron, this is the kind of place where everyone looks like they’re up to no good. And probably are. What difference could one more sketchy-looking person make? He stares out at the road as if expecting the ground to suddenly open up and release an attack of ghouls. “But how will you get home if I don’t wait?”

“No problem. I checked and there’s a bus from Main Street. It’ll get me home in no time.” At least she hopes so.

Byron is still looking dubious. “A bus? You sure?” Why would there be a bus between Half Hollow and Shell Harbour? It’s like having a bus between Beverly Hills and Last Ditch, Arkansas. “I really don’t mind waiting. I have my phone. I have stuff to do.”

“Don’t be silly. The building isn’t empty, Byron. There are people inside. I’ll be fine.” Marigold gets out of the car, waves cheerfully and marches up the concrete steps. The reinforced door is locked. She rings the bell, smiling at the camera on the security system. “Hello!” she chirps into the speaker. “I’m Marigold Liotta? I’m here for the volunteer programme.” Someone buzzes her in.

The woman in charge of the tutoring is barely five feet tall and bone-thin with a cloud of grey hair and eyes like black stars. But, although she has the body of a child, she has the presence of a brigadier general. One in the middle of a war.

“Bonnie Kupferberg,” she says, pumping Marigold’s hand. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to meet you.” She winks. “I’ve heard all about you from your Mrs Mahoney.”

“Mrs Mahoney?”

“Don’t look so shocked. This is a very demanding job you’ve volunteered for.”

“Oh well, I didn’t exact—”

“Enthusiasm only gets you so far in this game. I had to make sure you’d be up to it.” She shakes her head; it’s like watching the sky shift. “Many aren’t, believe me. But Mrs Mahoney says you are. She says you’re one of the best students in your class. And not just academically. She had nothing but good things to say.”

“Oh well, I—”

“She says you’re positive, intelligent, responsible, persevering and highly motivated.”

“Oh, well I—”

“I tell you that’s bang on the head of the nail of what we need here. A lot of the kids who come to us are about as motivated as mashed potatoes. They need a strong role model. Someone who doesn’t just yack at them. Someone who can be an example to them. Can inspire them.”

Having failed with her attempts at modesty, Marigold changes tack. “Oh, really?” she says. “I thought the kids here came because they wanted to. You know, because they need a little help.”

“Oh, they need help, all right. But that doesn’t mean that they want it or are going to ask for it. That’s the last thing they’re going to do.” Bonnie Kupferberg’s laugh rolls down the corridor like bricks. “One or two do. Because they’re failing everything or they’re going to be suspended if they don’t shape up, so they cut a deal. And one or two come because they have nowhere else to go till their mothers can pick them up. But mainly these kids have to be dragooned into coming.”

“Dragooned?”

“Practically shanghaied, really. We use every threat, bribe and form of coercion we can come up with.”

Marigold says nothing to that. She has an image of children in chains.

“But you understand that we do that because this is so important. If we lose these kids now, in elementary, chances are we’ll never get them back.”

Marigold’s laugh floats like dandelion fluff on a breeze. “I just thought I was helping with reading. I—”

“Oh you are, you are. That part’s pretty straightforward. Mrs Mahoney has given you the basics on what to do, right?”

“Oh, yes, she—”

“Just don’t get conned into actually doing the work. Show and explain, but don’t do it.” By now they are striding down the hallway, the short legs of Bonnie Kupferberg setting a pace with which a jaguar would have trouble keeping up. “But reading and maths are the keys to the kingdom, aren’t they? Without those skills what do you have?”

“Nothing?” guesses Marigold.

“That’s right. Bubkes. The giant zero.”

Marigold was prepared for this placement being boring and even depressing, but suddenly it’s sounding like the challenge of the century. “Well I hope I—”

“And Mrs Mahoney also says you are totally passionate about books. She says you love literature the way most teenagers love their iPads.”

“Oh, I do. I used to work at the—”

“That is fantastic. Seriously. Because these kids – these kids would rather watch cartoons in French with bad reception than read a book. They’d probably be happier shearing sheep.”

“Oh, I—” bleats Marigold.

“Here we are!” Bonnie stops in front of Room 21. “I’ve given you Sadie Hawkle to tutor. She’s nine, but she can’t read more than a picture book without help. And not always that.”

“Nine,” repeats Marigold.

Bonnie opens the door to a room where desks have been arranged side by side in twos. There are several students and tutors already at work. “And she’s very reluctant,” adds Bonnie. “She’s not going to make it easy for you.”

Marigold is wondering if there’s any chance that Byron is still waiting for her in front of the school. If she ran back outside would they be able to get away before Bonnie caught her and dragged her back?

“And one other thing before I introduce you,” says Bonnie. “She doesn’t always talk much.”

“Doesn’t talk?”

“Not always.”

Sadie Hawkle is a narrow child – narrow shoulders, narrow body, narrow face, even her hair seems particularly thin. As if she were made of leftovers and there weren’t quite enough. Only her eyes are large and round; the eyes of a dead fish. Everything she’s wearing – including the two plastic hair clips on either side of her head – looks worn and defeated. Her smile is so narrow it doesn’t exist.

“Sadie, this is your new tutor, Marigold.” Bonnie sounds as if she’s offering Sadie a box of candy. “Marigold’s been really looking forward to meeting you.”

Sadie looks as if she’s about to be force-fed.

Marigold smiles as if meeting Sadie is an event as major as the junior prom, minus the formal dress and the corsage. “Hello, Sadie. How’re you doing?”

Sadie stares back at her, looking worried and wary, as if she doesn’t know what the right answer to Marigold’s question is. If Marigold really were a box of candy, Sadie would probably throw her across the room.

“You going to say hello to Marigold?” prods Bonnie. She has the patience of a mountain.

Sadie continues to stare like a rabbit that has wandered out onto an eight-lane highway.

“Mrs Kupferberg says you need a little help with reading,” says Marigold. “Did you bring something with you that you want to read?”

Sadie doesn’t blink.

Because someone has to, Bonnie eventually answers for her. “I’m sure Sadie must have something she’s reading in class. If not, we have a shelf of books over there that she can choose from.”

“Well, Sadie?” Marigold’s voice bubbles with the false cheer of a game-show host. “Do you have a book to read, or should we go over to the shelf and pick one?”

Sadie just stares. Mrs Kupferberg isn’t the only one with some of the qualities of stone. Unless the child’s gone into catatonic shock.

Maybe she doesn’t speak English
, thinks Marigold.
Is that even possible? Wouldn’t Bonnie mention that if it were true? “Not only can’t Sadie read, Marigold, but she doesn’t even speak English!”

Bonnie reaches up and touches Marigold’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I have a million things to do. I’ll leave you two to it.”

“Thank you,” says Marigold, and so hard is she smiling, and so desperately is she trying to be positive, that for a second she actually means it.

There is a cheap, pink backpack hanging from Sadie’s chair.