Calli Be Gold (8 page)

“Like art projects, you mean?”

He nods in a jerky sort of way.

“Why not?” I ask.

“I’m not good at that.”

“So.” I rest my chin on my hand and tap my cheek. “You’re not good at reading, and you’re not good at making stuff.”

“Yeah.” His hands are shaking a bit and he starts wringing them again, like he did the day I asked to be his peer helper.

“Well.” I try jabbing him lightly with my elbow, like I’m joking. “There must be something you’re good at.”

“There isn’t,” Noah Zullo says, and in one quick motion, he darts under his desk.

“Noah?” I peek under the desk. I guess he didn’t think my joke was funny.

“I don’t need a peer helper,” he croaks, and wraps his arms around his knees. “Leave me alone.”

I pull myself back up and glance around the room. No
one seems to realize that Noah is under his desk and I am now sitting by myself. We never even got a book. Claire has a very serious look on her face while she is listening to her peer, a small boy with a buttoned-up blue shirt like Dad wears to work. Wanda and her peer, a girl with a frizzy ponytail, are whispering to each other. Tanya is turning the pages of a book while Ashley is snuggled next to her. The two of them are wearing matching pink headbands.

“Is everything all right?”

I look up to see Mrs. Bezner standing over me. She bends down and spots Noah, who scoots backward so he’s even farther underneath the desk.

Mrs. Bezner gives me a kind smile. “Noah’s been having some trouble adjusting,” she confides in a low voice. “Do you think you’ll be able to work with him?”

I feel a small hand wrap itself around my ankle. Not angrily or tightly, just sort of like it’s looking for something to hold on to.

Mrs. Bezner is waiting for my answer and that little hand is not letting go.

“Everything’s fine,” I tell her as I duck under the desk too. I poke my head out. “Noah and I decided that it would be more fun and private to work under his desk today.”

Mrs. Bezner nods. “I don’t have a problem with creative learning,” she says as she walks away.

Noah lets go of my ankle as another pair of feet
approaches. These feet are wearing socks with butterflies on them. Mrs. Lamont. I point to the socks, then pinch my nose together with my thumb and forefinger and wave my hand in front of my face.

Noah laughs.

I let go of my nose and turn to him. “Did you just laugh?”

“No.”

“I swear I heard you laugh just now.”

“It’s bad to swear,” Noah says.

“Swear, swear, swear!”

As a second laugh erupts from Noah, my heart feels all full and bursting and good.

I’m about to tell Noah about Mrs. Lamont and her insect socks but he stops laughing and a shadow crosses his face. He turns away from me and pulls at a thread that dangles from the front of his sweater. He gives the thread a fierce tug, rips it off, and winds it tightly around his finger. The tip of his finger starts to turn red.

The two of us sit in silence as he wraps and unwraps the thread. I glance around in the dim space under the desk and spot a chewed-up pencil on the floor behind Noah. Pairs of shoes scurry past and bits of conversation drift down from above. Then Mrs. Lamont announces, “Five more minutes, everyone.”

I let out a sigh. “We never read a book like we were supposed to today, did we?”

Noah unwinds the thread, sticks it back on the front
of his sweater, and puts his arms around his knees again. “I don’t care,” he mumbles. “I don’t care about reading books, or peer helpers, because they’re dumb and stupid.”

“Why?”

“Just because.”

I want to reach out and smooth down his spiky, messy hair, but instead, I ease myself out from under the desk and join the rest of my class.

As the fifth graders file out of the room, Wanda and Claire turn to me.

“Mine is just the cutest little girl you ever saw,” Wanda says.

“I feel so important,” Claire confides. “So … mature.”

Tanya is taking long strides with her long legs, and I hear her brag that if there is a peer helper award at the end of this program, she and Ashley will surely receive it, because they’re “so connected.”

I’m even more quiet than usual. I don’t feel mature or connected or anything except worried.

really do love that I’m a walker. Walking home gives me time to think, even if it’s only for a few minutes. Besides when I’m sleeping, this is just about the only part of the day that I’m by myself. I’m nervous about next year, when I’ll take the bus to junior high. The bus always seems so crowded and noisy and crazy. Kind of like my family. I doubt I’ll be able to get much thinking done on the bus.

What I think about on my way home is Noah. I wonder why he is the way he is and if this peer helper thing is going to work out. With what happened today, I don’t know how it possibly can. Should I talk to Mrs. Lamont before the next PHP time? Or maybe I should talk to Mrs. Bezner. I have an awful feeling that this is going to
turn out like my attempts at gymnastics and ballet and violin.

My backpack is heavy today, and I shift it to the other shoulder. If I did talk to Mrs. Lamont or Mrs. Bezner, what would I say, anyway? After all, I asked to be paired with Noah. I could have been with a normal second grader. Why did I say I knew Noah?

I let out a big sigh and kick a rock. The rock tumbles ahead of me and lands on someone’s lawn. Another thing about walking: you notice things you wouldn’t otherwise. As I continue down the sidewalk, I see that pretty much all the leaves are off the trees now, and there are paper bags stuffed with them in front of almost every house. Somehow this doesn’t seem right. Am I the only person in Southbrook who likes fall leaves better when they’re scattered on the grass? I guess people want their yards to be clean and neat now that it’s November. Everyone has started saying, “Winter’s just around the corner,” as if there’s a big snowstorm lurking on the next block.

When the wind kicks up, I’m secretly glad Mom insisted I take my warmer jacket this morning. Some houses still have their Halloween decorations up. There are a couple of houses in our neighborhood that have the skeletons and pumpkins out until practically the winter, and Mom calls those houses leavers—people who just leave stuff outside all the time, like they’ve forgotten about it. Mom can’t stand that.

When I reach my house (our decorations are neatly packed away until next year), I shut the door behind me. “I’m home!” I call out.

Mom answers cheerfully from the kitchen, where she’s sticking yellow Post-its on the Calendar. Calli-color Post-its. I drop my backpack.

“How was school?” she says brightly.

“What are you doing?” The yellow Post-its all say
Calli—Improv—4 to 5 p.m.

She whirls around. “Guess what? I signed you up for the improv class today.”

“You did?”

“Dad and I talked it over last night, Calli, and we were concerned that if we let you think about it too long, you’d never do it. We really want you to give this a try.” She grins at me. “Like Dad said, this might be it! You know, your passion! Your talent!”

“But, Mom, I told Dad I would consider it.… I thought it was my decision.”

She shrugs. “Look, honey. It’s just four classes. We’d like you to give it a chance and then see what you think. The first one is next week.”

Wanda always says she can tell my feelings just by looking at my face, and I know right now my face is showing a whole collection of emotions: exasperation and frustration and surprise and worry. Mom must know this about me too, because when she glances over, she suddenly gets angry.

“Now you listen to me, Calli Gold,” she says, pointing at me. “You don’t know how lucky you kids are. I never had any of these privileges growing up. Your dad certainly did, but I didn’t have the chance to ice-skate or take dance classes or play a sport. My parents couldn’t afford any of that.”

I know what’s coming next. The piano story.

“I showed some natural talent at the piano when I was your age, but my parents couldn’t pay for lessons.” Her voice cracks. “What might I have been? A concert pianist? A composer? Who knows? I never had the opportunity to find out.”

She sighs. “All Dad and I want is for our children to realize their full potential. If you have a talent, it shouldn’t stay hidden inside you.”

“Okay, Mom.” I hang my head, the most thankless child on earth. “I’ll try the improv class.”

“Great.” She dabs at her nose. “That’s the spirit.”

I attempt a smile.

She finishes putting up the Post-its. “I think you’re going to like it. You’re going to have a lot of fun with this, I just know.”

“Yeah,” I answer weakly.

“So, tell me about your day,” she says while shuffling through the mail.

“Well, we started this new program today. We’re going to be peer helpers to one of the second-grade classes.”

“How nice,” she mumbles as she tears open an envelope.

I open my mouth, then close it. How can I begin to explain about choosing Noah and how he hid under his desk while all the other peer helpers read books together?

“So.” She looks up. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.” I’d been planning to dig into the bag of jelly beans in the pantry (I only like the reds) but I don’t feel like it anymore. “I think I’ll go upstairs for a while.”

“Okay,” she replies. “Maybe you’ll tell me more about that new helper program later?”

I shrug “It was only the first day.”

I head toward the stairs. Just four classes. I can get through that, can’t I?

In the upstairs hall, I pass by Alex’s room, with his shiny basketball trophies, then Becca’s, with her medals hanging by their colored ribbons, and walk into my mismatched bedroom. I close the door, shuffle through my underwear drawer until I find the improv brochure, then read the part about bringing out my inner muse. Muse … what did that word mean again? I look it up once more. A Greek goddess … a source of inspiration … Neither of those things sounds very much like me.

But then, below those meanings, I see another listing. I must have missed it before.
Muse: to ponder, consider, or deliberate at length.

To think.

I gasp and stare at the dictionary. Maybe this
is
it. Maybe Mom and Dad are right. I love to think! I was just thinking about thinking when I was walking home!

Is that what improv is all about, really? Thinking?

For some reason, I remember that baby chick in the museum, the one huddled in its feathers, the one I wanted to comfort. Why was the chick so reluctant to join the others? Was it missing out on all the fun?

Am I?

I examine the improv people in their black turtlenecks, then pull my black shirt off the hanger. “Looks like I’m going to be wearing you,” I say.

I hold up the shirt and look at myself in the mirror. What if acting really is my talent, my passion … and I’m the scared baby chick, not wanting to try something new and fun?

I pull the shirt over the one I’m wearing. “I’m a Gold, too,” I say softly. Then I repeat, louder, “I’m a Gold, I’m a Gold, I’m a G …” The last one comes out as a Gulp but I swallow that right back down and put the brochure on my dresser, next to the family picture.

I take a deep breath. “Okay, muse. Whatever you are, I’m ready.”