Fish in a Tree (3 page)

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The back door swings open and my brother, Travis,
is there, smelling like grease. Looking like he rolled in it. And I instantly feel better.

“How’s my favorite little sister?”

“I’m your
only
little sister.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’d
still
be my favorite.” He smiles. “So, your favorite big brother had a silver dollar day today!”

I think of Grandpa and Dad, who always asked us if we were having a silver dollar day or a wooden nickel one.

Travis is doing that thing where he wiggles his fingers in the air and asks his daily question, “What are
these
?” He looks older—more like my dad, who’s been deployed since just before Thanksgiving last year. It was hard to feel thankful after he’d gone. Especially since Grandpa had died three months before that.

“The hands of a genius?” I say.

“Correcto-mundo!”

“Do you realize you come home every day and ask me to compliment you?”

“Not really,” he says, opening the fridge. “Just asking you to state the facts.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“
Exactly!
” he says, pointing at me. “Guess what? I finished restoring an old Coke machine today. Thing is like seventy years old.” He pops open a soda. “Those things are worth a bundle fixed up.” Then he holds up the can. “Look at this. Disappointing compared to those old green bottles.”

Travis must be happy. The happier he is, the more he goes on about things.

“
And,
” he says, “I picked up an old gumball machine. The kind that takes pennies. I’ll sell it for ten times what I paid for it.” His voice drops and he takes a sip. “I will have to throw some money and elbow grease at it first, though.”

He comes over like he’s going to mess up my hair, but I block his dirty hands. “No way!” I laugh. “Don’t touch me!”

“Aw, c’mon, Al. I’ve had a great day. And guess what? I almost have enough to buy those rolling tool cabinets. And someday my big neon sign.” He sweeps his hand through the air like he’s showing me a row of mountains. “
Nickerson Restoration.
My own place. My name—
our
name—is going to be in lights someday, Al.” But then his voice deflates. “I just have to get out of high school. We’re like oil and water, school and me. I wish Mom would let me quit.”

“She would kill you.”

“Yeah. So would Dad. And being dead won’t be good for my business.” He smiles. “Won’t be long, though. I’m learning a ton at the garage. The boss is letting me do all kinds of different stuff.”

I smile.

“I’m going to buy a car soon, too. A classic. And a V-6 at least.”

And then he’s off and I can still smell the grease after he’s gone.

I’m glad he had a silver dollar day.

• • •

When my mom finally gets home, I’ve already microwaved my dinner and I’m watching TV while I sketch pictures of a pet llama named Butch Cassidy. With a name like that, I give him a cowboy hat, a bandana, and a holster. But in the holster he carries an ear of corn.

When my mom comes in from work, she turns off the TV and I can feel it coming.

“So,” she begins. “When are we going to really talk about today?”

“On my ninety-fifth birthday.”

“Funny one.” She shifts her weight. “I’m trying to be patient, honey. I really am. But today was a
party.
How could you get into trouble at a
party
?”

“I don’t have to do anything. They all hate me,” I blurt out.

“I doubt that. But can’t you see why they’d be tired of your behavior? These shocking things you do and say to get laughs?”

She doesn’t get it. Being funny when you don’t mean to be is terrible. Having to laugh at yourself along with everyone else is humiliating.

“Oh, Ally . . . you’re too smart for this. School is too important to joke about. I don’t want you working long hours on your feet for a bunch of tips like me. I want more for you. And you’re so smart. Good at math. A gifted artist. Don’t you think it’s time to stop clowning around?”

“I’m not that smart. You say that, but I’m not.”

“Now, we know that isn’t true. You could stand to work a little harder, though.”

I’m so tired of this conversation. We’ve had it a hundred times, even though my third-grade teacher told her that I might just be slow, that my mom shouldn’t expect too much of me. My mom’s eyes got all wide and shiny when she heard that, and I felt sad and embarrassed for her having to be my mom.

But my mother’s never bought what that teacher said. I sometimes wish she would, but most times I’m grateful that she hasn’t.

She bends over to look me dead in the eyes. “I know that moving as much as we have has been hard for you. And I know I work all the time and can’t keep tabs on your schoolwork. It has made it hard for you to keep up with some subjects, and I understand that. I really do. But you’re going to have to make more effort, Ally. Things worth having are worth working for.”

“I’ll do better,” I tell her. I used to say this and mean it. Now it feels like I’m just making up one of my stories.

Her smile is sad. “Okay, then.” She kisses the top of my head.

“Can I turn the TV back on now?”

She unties her apron as she stares. “Did you take your bath yet?”

“No.” I sigh. The tiredness in her voice says there’s no use arguing. I trudge toward the hallway.

“By the way, I don’t want to hear you say that people hate you,” she calls out. “How could anyone on earth possibly hate
you
?”

I wish she could understand my world. But it would be like trying to explain to a whale what it’s like to live in the forest.

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Travis opens the door of the pawn shop in town
and waves me in ahead of him. The bell on the door announces our arrival as it hits the glass. The dusty smell of the place triggers a bunch of memories. Good times. Together times. When Dad and Grandpa would take Travis and me out looking for coins. Numbers and money are something Travis and I can do well. So we took to it fast.

Grandpa loved the dustiest stores best because they were the ones that would have uncracked rolls of coins in the backs of their safes. When the store owners would trade the old rolls for new bills, we’d open them at home to see what was inside. Sometimes we’d find a buffalo nickel, a Mercury dime, or an Indian head penny. It was like a little bit of Christmas. Being here makes me ache to go back in time.

The man behind the counter doesn’t say hello. He rolls a toothpick back and forth in his mouth with his tongue. In one way it is completely impressive, and in another, the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.

Travis rests his fingertips on the glass counter, looking down into the case filled with coins.

“You need something?” The man doesn’t talk the way Mom says you’re supposed to talk to customers.

“I want to buy some coins,” Travis says.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Travis brushes his chin with his knuckle—something he does when he is nervous.

The guy reaches up and takes the toothpick out of his mouth. He uses it to point at Travis. “Do you have money or are you all talk?”

Travis does what Dad said never to do. He shows him his money. And not money like a regular person. A roll of money wrapped in an elastic band.

The guy’s eyes widen. Then he asks, “Looking for something special?”

“I want liberty coins. You got any?”

He takes out several coins. One is a Mercury dime with a head that looks like it has wings for ears. “I remember those!” I say. “Like the one Daddy has in his wallet.”

Travis turns them over in his hand. “Nice. You have anything more unusual?”

The guy’s eyebrows jump. He reaches into a drawer. “This is unusual, but it’ll cost you big.”

“I don’t mind paying for something special.”

“Okay, then,” he says. “This one is special.” He puts a penny on the counter.

Travis picks it up and his eyebrows bunch up. “This is smaller than other pennies.”

The guy nods. “It is. A rare find.”

Travis glances at me, and then he turns toward the guy. “How much?”

“Well,” the guy says, “if you know anything about coins, you know that a coin with a flaw in it is far more valuable than a regular coin.”

Something isn’t right with it and it’s worth
more
?

“Like I said,” Travis says, “how much?”

The guy tilts his head to the side. “Well, normally I’d ask for eighty, but I’ll charge you . . . say . . . seventy-five?”

Travis smiles. Even I remember how Dad used to tell us never to smile when you get a number. Never. Even if it’s the best number in the world—and here he is smiling like he won the lottery. I try to look serious enough for the both of us.

“Well, that’s really generous of you. Seventy-five bucks for a penny that’s been dipped in nitric acid.”

The guy’s smile falls off of his face.

“I bet the police would be interested in a little bit of fraud.”

“Now, listen—”

Travis interrupts. “Look, I wasn’t born yesterday. Stop messing with me.” Travis points at a coin in the case that has a walking woman wrapped in a sheet with the sun’s rays behind her. It is beautiful. “That 1933 Walking Liberty half dollar. How much for that one?”

“Well, that one is in really fine condition. In fact . . .”

“Just tell me how much,” Travis says, leaning in, palms on the glass.

“Forty-five.”

“Thirty-six and you throw in the Mercury dime for my little sister.”

I look up quick. For me?

Then I do the math. Yup. He is following Dad’s rule of offering 20 percent less than what they offer. But Travis threw in something extra.

The guy squints. “Forty.”

Travis nods. “Done.” He slaps the money on the glass case.

Outside the store, Travis holds the dime toward me.

“Oh, it’s beautiful! I love it so much. Thank you, Travis! You’re the best!”

He looks a little sad staring at the coin. “You know, Grandpa was born in 1933. That’s why I chose these coins. They were both minted in that year.”

I look down at my Mercury dime and its date, wishing people could last as long as coins.

When we get into the car, Travis says, “Did you see how that guy in there took me for a fool? Trying to rip me off. Remember, Ally. When people have low expectations of you, you can sometimes use it to your advantage.” Then he looks me right in the eyes and points at my nose. “As long as
you
don’t have low expectations of yourself. You hear?”

I nod again. But I think to myself that it’s hard not to these days.

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I sit on my bed, holding my copy of
Alice in Wonderland.
The shaky writing in the front of the book says, “For Ally—my wondrous girl! Love, Grandpa.” The colors of the book are all bright even though the book is old. Inside, the pages are soft and the writing is bigger than in books now. But I still can’t read it by myself. It’s like having a gift that’s locked in a glass box.

I’m feeling heavy, but I always do on Sunday nights. The thought of another week of school does that. It’s like knowing I have to pull a tire through a keyhole the next day.

But I’ll have a new teacher. A
Mr. Daniels
sounds like a grandfatherly type with pockets full of lollipops, which could be nice. I’m hoping he’ll spend a lot of time straightening his bow tie and telling us about the good ol’ days and not giving us much work.

But when I show up, I find that Mr. Daniels is no grandfather. He’s younger than Mrs. Hall. He wears a dark jacket and a tie with colored circles on it. When I get closer, I realize they’re planets.

Most of the kids are gathered around him. I throw my stuff in the closet and walk over. He says, “My very excellent mother just served us nachos,” and claims it is an easy way to memorize the planets in order from the sun.

Albert, whose hair reminds me of a bird’s nest, stands nearby. “I feel bad for Pluto.”

I look over and my eyes are pulled to the bruises on his arms.

“Pluto was a planet all those years and then someone just decided it wasn’t anymore? Too small. Too far away. Orbit not just right.”

“I don’t really think Pluto cares, Albert,” I mumble.

He sits in his chair and says, “Well,
I
do.”

I feel bad for him and want to ask him about the marks. He is big and clunky but not fat. The kind of size where others would usually leave him alone.

I pull out my chair and sit down. Okay, I tell myself. I’m going to do better. I’m going to work harder. That’s all I need to do. I’m going to really concentrate this time. Even though I know I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work.

Reading for me is like when I drop something and my fingers scramble to catch it and just when I think I’ve got it, I don’t. If
trying
to read helped, I’d be a genius.

Mr. Daniels is in front of me. I hold my breath and lean back. He holds out his hand. “I’m Mr. Daniels. Nice to meet you,” he says.

Shay leans toward Jessica. “I guess he doesn’t know who he’s talking to.” As usual, most of her friends laugh.

“Hey,” Mr. Daniels says, turning to her. “That isn’t cool. We don’t do that in here.” Which wipes the smile off Shay’s face. Then he turns back to me. “What’s your name?”

“Ally Nickerson,” I answer, so softly that even I can barely hear myself.

“Well, are you going to shake my hand, Ally Nickerson?” he asks. “I don’t bite on Mondays.”

Great. Just what I need. A funny guy for a teacher. I take his hand, but only for a second. My mind is already spinning off. Wondering what terrible things Mrs. Silver has told him. The plans they’ve made for me. I see myself wrapped in rope and lying on the train tracks just like in Grandpa’s old black-and-white silent movies.

“Okay, Fantasticos! Take your seats!” he calls. “Time to set the world on fire!”

Everyone scrambles to their seats, but I’m still lying on the imaginary train tracks. All tied up and watching the engine come around the corner.