Fish in a Tree (2 page)

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Leaning against the wall in the hallway, I stay quiet.
Some little kids walk by, reminding me that I’m in sixth grade—the highest grade in this school. But I feel like a baby.

“Ally? Do you have anything to say?” Mrs. Silver asks.

I’m afraid to open my mouth because sometimes things just come out that get me in more trouble.

Finally, she suggests we go to her office.

I sit in the principal’s office staring out the window, silent. I wonder what it would be like to be able to relax at school and not have to worry every second of every minute.

I wish I had my Sketchbook of Impossible Things. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not a waste of space. I like to watch the pictures in my head become real in my book. My recent favorite is a snowman that works in a furnace factory. And then I decide that the craziest, strangest, most unbelievable thing I could ever draw is me doing something right.

Mrs. Silver’s sigh brings me back to reality. “Between last year and this year, you’ve been here for less than five months, Ally, and you’ve been to visit me far too much. You need to make some changes,” she says.

I sit silent.

“It’s up to you.”

It’s not up to me. It’s
never
been up to me.

Mrs. Silver’s talking is like background noise. Like the radio in the car.

I don’t have any words to explain. It was a mistake. And I’m ashamed and I don’t feel like sharing that with her.

She takes a breath. “Did you think it would be funny?”

I shake my head.

“Did you want to hurt her?”

I look up quick. “No! I wouldn’t hurt her. I just . . .”

And I wonder what I’ve wondered before. Should I just tell her? It’s like my chair is over a trapdoor and there is a button to drop myself. I want to, but I’m afraid. I look up at her. Looking at me all disappointed. Again. And I think that there’s no use. They already think I’m a pain, so why add
dumb
to their list? It’s not like they can help, anyway. How can you cure dumb?

And so I look out the window again. Remind my mouth to keep shut.

I’ve learned from the seven different schools I’ve been to that it’s better to stay quiet. Never argue unless I really have to.

I realize that both of my hands have curled into tight fists and Mrs. Silver is looking at them.

She sits down in the chair next to me. “Ally, sometimes it seems that you just
want
to get into trouble.” She leans forward a bit. “
Do
you?”

I shake my head.

“C’mon, Ally. Tell me what’s going on. Let me help you.”

I look at her quick and then away. I mumble, “
No one
can help me.”

“That’s not true. Will you let me try?” She points at a poster on the wall. “Can you read that for me, please?” she says. “Out loud.”

The poster shows two hands reaching for each other.

Great. Probably some sappy saying about friends or sticking together or whatever. I don’t even have any friends.

“C’mon, Ally. Read it for me, please.”

The letters on the poster look like black beetles marching across the wall. I could probably figure most of them out, but I’d need a lot of time. And when I’m nervous, forget it. My brain goes blank like an Etch A Sketch turned upside down and shaken. Gray and empty.

“Well, what does it say?” she asks again.

“I don’t need to read it to you. I get it,” I say, trying to bluff. Staring her dead in the eyes. “Believe me. I know all about it already.”

“I don’t know about that, kiddo. I think you might need to work on it a bit.”

Now I wish I knew what the poster said. I don’t look at it, though. Then she’ll want to talk about it more.

The bell rings.

Mrs. Silver rakes her hair with her fingers. “Ally. I don’t know if you thought the card would be funny or you are upset that Mrs. Hall’s leaving or what. But it feels like you’ve crossed a line this time.”

I imagine myself crossing the finish line. My body breaking the bright red ribbon. The crowd cheering as confetti spins through the air. But I know this is not what she means.

“As of Monday, your new teacher will be Mr. Daniels. Let’s try to avoid any negative consequences, okay?”

I think about how me avoiding
consequences
would be like the rain avoiding the sky.

She waves me out, and as I stand, I look at that poster again. I wish I knew what it was I should learn, because I know that I should know a lot more than I do.

She sighs as I leave her office and I know she’s tired of me.

Even I’m tired of me.

• • •

As I run from the office, the hallways are filling with kids. I head back to my classroom to apologize to Mrs. Hall before the buses leave. I run up behind her, tap her on the shoulder.

When she turns and looks at me, her face goes sad before straightening out. I stand there thinking how sorry I am. Hoping she doesn’t think I’d wish anything bad on her baby.

But I can’t find the words. My mind does the Etch A Sketch thing. Blank.

“What is it, Ally?” she finally asks. She puts her hands on her big belly like she needs to protect it.

I turn and run out of the room. Down the hall and out the front door. The buses are pulling away without me. But that’s the way it should be, I guess. I deserve to walk.

All that long way. And all by myself.

B
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C
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When I finally get to Park Road, I head into A. C.
Petersen Farms, which is a weird name for a restaurant. They have pictures of cows inside and outside but it’s on a busy street with tons of stores. I wonder if there is a restaurant somewhere in the middle of nowhere named Crowded City.

My mom is waiting. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron.

“I missed the bus and had to walk.”

She shakes her head. “Sit yourself right down there and start that homework of yours,” she says, nodding toward the end of the counter. The same place I always sit. A place where she can keep an eye on me, she says.

“Anything you want to tell me?” She seems tired.

“They called you, didn’t they?” I ask.

“Yes. I don’t know why you would do such a thing, Ally.” She sounds sad instead of mad. Which is worse, I think.

There is a tray full of glass sundae dishes filled with brightly colored ice cream. Strawberry, pistachio, black raspberry. Pink, green, and purple. I like the colors next to each other and wonder what kind of impossible things I can draw about ice cream. Maybe melting rivers of it. And a man with a cone-shaped head sitting in a banana split dish rowing with a spoon.

“
Ally!
Are you
lis
tening?”

“Oh. Sorry,” I mumble, pushing off the floor with my foot to spin on the padded stool.

“I just don’t know what to say anymore.”

My mom’s boss looks at her over his glasses.

She drops to a whisper. “Just do your homework. We’ll talk at home. And please—no spinning on that stool.”

“I’m sorry. I am. I really thought Mrs. Hall would like that card.”

“How could
that
be?” she says as she picks up the tray of ice cream and moves away.

I pull out a book and open it, but the letters squiggle and dance. How are other people able to read letters that move?

So instead I stare at the steaming liquid dripping into a coffeepot and start thinking of steaming volcanoes. And dinosaurs standing around drinking coffee, staring up at the giant meteor soaring through the air, commenting on how pretty it is. And I think about how lucky they were that they never had to go to school. I grab a napkin and begin a drawing of them for the Sketchbook of Impossible Things.

Soon, my mom’s brown and white checkered apron is in front of me.

I look up. “I swear it. I didn’t know it was a sym . . . a sym . . . a card for dead people.”

“It’s a sympathy card,” she says. “And it’s for the people that miss the person that has died. Not for the dead.”

“Well, don’t you think the dead person deserves a card more than anyone?”

And she laughs. She leans her elbow on the counter and lifts her other arm to put her hand on my face. It’s warm and I’m so relieved that she isn’t that mad at me. “You’re funny. You know that?”

Then she pulls over the napkin with the dinosaurs holding coffee cups. “What’s this?”

“Just an idea I have for the Sketchbook of Impossible Things.”

She stares at it. “Aw, your grandpa knew you were talented, and he’d be so proud of how hard you’re working on your art. And he would love that you named your sketchbook after
Alice in Wonderland.
He had such fun sharing that book with you.” She looks up at me. “Just like he shared it with me when I was young.”

Alice in Wonderland
—a book about living in a world where nothing makes sense made
perfect
sense to me.

“I miss Grandpa,” I say. Three words that hold sadness like a tree holds leaves.

“Me too, sweetheart.”

“I miss how he’d move from place to place with us whenever Dad got stationed somewhere new or deployed. It’s weird to think he doesn’t know that we’ve moved again.”

She taps the end of my nose. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I think he knows.”

Just then, voices I recognize come through the glass doors. It’s Shay and Jessica.

When I turn around, Shay says, “Well,
look
who’s here. It’s Ally Nickerson.”

They know my mom works here and have seen me here before. So I figure it isn’t a coincidence that they’re here.

“Ally,” Shay says. “You never came back to class. We were worried about you.”

What a joke
that
is. I turn back around while they whisper. Then Jessica asks, “Why don’t you come sit with us?” Her voice reminds me of a pin hidden inside a candy bar.

My mom motions with her head that I should follow them. “Go ahead, sweetheart. You can take a break.”

I give my mom the please-just-stop eyes while Shay mimics the word “sweetheart” in a baby voice.

I guess my mom didn’t hear, because she whispers, “New friends would be good, Ally. It wouldn’t hurt you to at least give them a chance.”

Someone comes to seat them, but Shay asks, “Can we just sit at the counter?”

Great.

Once they sit, there are two stools between them and me.

My mom leans in and whispers, “Why don’t you move down and sit with them? They’re reaching out, Ally.”

Reaching out with a bottle of poison.

I think back to one of our apartments where the landlords kept llamas in their field. I loved them, but Mom said they smelled. I whisper back, “It’s more likely that you’d buy me my own pet llama than me sit with them.”

She half smiles. “What shall we name the llama?”

I squint and shake my head.

She makes that exasperated sound. “So stubborn.”

Shay and Jessica stare at us like two cats watching birds in a cage.

My mom takes her pad out and walks over to them. “Hello, girls. What can I get you?”

Jessica orders strawberry ice cream, but when Shay orders chocolate, Jessica tells my mom, “Oh, that sounds good. I’ll have chocolate instead.” I roll my eyes. Typical Jessica.

As soon as my mom is gone, Shay asks, “So, Ally?”

I look over.

“Why would you give Mrs. Hall that card? That’s, like, really mean.”

Since there is no good answer to give, I stare at the page in my book. I’ll ignore them. I’ve taken their teasing before.

Jessica laughs. “Has your mother always been a
waitress
?”

“No,” I blurt out. “She used to be an
astronaut
.”

They break into laughter and, over near the kitchen, my mom smiles. She thinks I’m bonding with them.

“My father,” Jessica begins, “owns his own flower business, and he says—”

Shay interrupts. “Ally, maybe you can be a waitress when you grow up. But can you read the flavors of ice cream for me? I’m having trouble.” She points up at the slow-turning cube hanging from the ceiling that lists the flavors on each side. The movement makes it even harder to read.

I feel my face get hot. Oh
no.
Do they know I can’t read?

As they laugh, I remember how I had to read aloud last year when I first got here. I knew I shouldn’t have, but some stupid voice in my head sometimes says it will be different this time and I try. And I always fail. That day, I read that macaroni can swim up to twenty miles an hour. It was supposed to be a manatee. The class laughed, of course. But so did the teacher, so I tried to pretend I had done it on purpose.

I get up, walk behind them, around the corner and into the back room. I’m not supposed to be back there but it’s the only place they can’t follow me. I step behind the tall metal shelves with cans of pickles and ketchup and relish that are bigger than my head. Pushing my back hard against the wall, I see words on everything that surrounds me. Boxes and cans and giant plastic bottles.

Words. I can never get away from them.

I think back to second grade when my teacher wrote a whole lot of letters down and asked me what they said. I had no idea. But I was used to that.

“That spells your
name,
Ally. Ally Nickerson.”

Who knew a second grader could understand what being humiliated feels like.

Tears begin to come, but I swallow them because I know I’ll be found soon. I worry so much about them knowing my secret that my stomach feels like I’ve been kicked in the guts.

“Ally?” my mom asks as she comes around the corner. “Your friends have gone. What are you doing back here?”

I can’t tell her. Thinking I have friends makes her so happy.

“Honey?”

“I was checking the ingredients of ketchup.”

Her eyebrows bunch up. She knows something is up, but I walk past her before she asks another question. I walk back out into the restaurant with her following and sit next to Shay’s and Jessica’s matching empty dishes. It feels like they should mean something. Like maybe I’m an empty dish compared to everyone else.

But mostly those dishes make me feel like this year will be the worst year I’ve had so far. And that’s really saying something.