Fish in a Tree (5 page)

P
r
o
m
i
s
e
s
,
P
r
o
m
i
s
e
s 
.
 
.
 .

“All right, Fantasticos!” Mr. Daniels says, rubbing
his hands together like a mad scientist. “First thing I’m going to do today is book talk. I will do that a lot this year—tell you all about some of my favorite stories.”

When Mr. Daniels talks about books, it reminds me of Max or Oliver. Like he’s ready to launch a giant party. I like hearing about the story. But asking me to read them would be like asking a lobster to play tennis.

And then it gets worse.

He holds up a pile of notebooks. “I have a surprise. I have a brand-new writing journal for each of you, which you will write in every day.”

Oh no. I’d rather eat grass.

“But here’s the thing. I will sometimes give you a topic but not very often. And I will never ever—even if an evil sorcerer threatens to turn all my correcting pens to clear ink—correct your work.”

Huh?

“They will never be graded. They will never be corrected. And most days, I won’t tell you what to write about. You may write about your life, sports, the country of Bulgaria, your favorite kind of soap, books you like, books you don’t like.
Anything.
”

Wow. I wonder if he’s delirious. No correcting? Anything we want? This is too good to be true; I know something is coming.

“There are only a couple of rules.”

Ah.
There
they are. The
rules.

“You must put pencil to paper and do
something.
And I will often answer with a sentence or two.”

“Write back?” Oliver asks. “Can we grade
you
?”

Mr. Daniels laughs. “We’re not going to grade at all, Oliver. This is about communication. Self-expression. Not measurements.”

“Can we ask you questions?” Max asks.

“Sure!” he says, passing out the notebooks. Mine is yellow. A little too nice a color for a writing thing.

“Can I write about football?” Max asks.

“Anything you want.”

“This is going to be great!” Oliver yells. “I’m going to ask for answers to the tests. And for extra recesses. And unlimited ketchup in the cafeteria.”

“Well,” Mr. Daniels begins, “as I said, you can
ask
whatever you want.” He smiles at Oliver. “So, open up those notebooks now and add your first entry. And make it . . .
you.
This journal is yours, so an introduction to you may be a good thing—no matter how you choose to express that.”

Keisha begins writing while Albert stares at the blank page. The room is filled with the sounds of pencils scratching.

Suki is rubbing one of her blocks with her thumb. I wonder if she’s thinking about her grandfather.

I see a mind movie of me walking through a forest of alphabet blocks stacked on top of each other. They sway like trees in the wind and I worry that they will come crashing down on me.

I think about drawing that, but decide to color a big three-dimensional cube with dark black sides. He said we could do anything. I want to see if he means it.

• • •

The next day Mr. Daniels holds my journal, opened to the page where I drew the black cube.

I figured he wouldn’t let that go.

He holds his palm facing me and says, “I know. I know I said I’d never correct you and I’m not going to. I’m just wondering if you would mind telling me what this means. Do you like the color black, or does it mean something? Either way, it’s okay.”

I think of the kinds of things that might make him mad and remember how he said a person can be too good at the wrong things. Maybe I don’t want to get in trouble this time.

“It’s a picture of a dark room.”

“Oh. Why would you draw a picture of a dark room?” He looks serious now.

“It was supposed to be something about us.”

“Why would a dark room have something to do with you, Ally?” His voice is soft. Really soft.

I swallow hard. “Because in a dark room, no one could see me.”

He stares down at my black cube. Then he clears his throat before looking back up. “Okay. Thank you for being honest, Ally.”

I’m so relieved he isn’t mad.

“Ally?” He pauses. “Can you tell me why you don’t want to be seen?”

“I think it would be easier to be invisible.”

“Why?”

I shrug. I want to give him an answer, but I have both too many words and not enough.

He nods slowly. “Well,” he says. “I’m glad you’re not invisible, Ally. Because this class wouldn’t be the same without you.”

I don’t believe him, but it makes me happy he said it.

I realize looking at him that, all this time, I haven’t been looking teachers in the face. I’ve been staring into their stomachs while I sit at my desk and they tell me the things that are wrong with me.

But now, on top of all those other big wishes that I carry around, I have one more. I want to impress Mr. Daniels. With every tiny little piece of myself, I just want him to like me.

S
c
r
a
m
b
l
e
d
E
g
g

When we come into the classroom, Mr. Daniels
makes an announcement. “Attention, Fantasticos! We have brand-new fantastico seats. So, find yours and settle in.”

Jessica is sitting next to Suki and staring at Shay like their separation is a great injustice.

It turns out that I’m sitting in the front row next to Keisha—the girl who can bake and write at the same time while I can’t do either.

We don’t speak all morning, and I can’t stop worrying that she doesn’t like me. When she finally glances at me, I blurt out, “I don’t mind being your friend.”

Keisha looks annoyed. “
You
don’t have to do
me
any favors.”

“No,” I say, trying to undo what I didn’t mean to say. “I just mean . . .” And then I stop because I don’t know what I meant and I’m nervous and embarrassed and that is never good when I’m trying to say something. Every word is another shovelful of dirt from the hole I’ve dug for myself. So I figure my best bet is to shut my mouth.

But the silence gets too long and too loud, so I try to think of something to say. I always knew what to say to my grandpa and he always knew what to say to me. I wish he were here to whisper in my ear. And then I think of Alice and how she argued with Humpty Dumpty about using the right words. I turn to Keisha and blurt out, “Do you like eggs?”

“
Eggs
?” she asks.

Oh no. She thinks I’m a barrel full of crazy, but I keep going because sometimes my tongue goes on without my say-so. “Yeah. I love eggs. Scrambled eggs. Fried eggs. Poached on toast, and boiled eggs. I love peeling the shell off of a boiled egg, don’t you? I even like egg salad, which my brother won’t eat even if someone holds him down . . .”

Her eyebrows scrunch up, reminding me of angry caterpillars. “That’s incredibly interesting.” Then she searches inside her desk for something. I know this move. It’s a polite way of ignoring me. People do it a lot.

Finally, I just put my head down. Grandpa used to say that Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole was just like real life. I didn’t used to understand what he meant, but I do now.

• • •

There can’t be any place on the planet scarier than a school cafeteria. I hold my tray so tight, my fingers hurt.

I hear, “Hey, Ally!” It’s Shay. She is standing with Jessica and a few others.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Do you want to sit with us for lunch?”

Of course I don’t want to sit with them. But I am getting tired of sitting alone. And having everyone else
see
me sit alone.

Besides that, Shay, Jessica, and some other girls all have these woven friendship bracelets. And I have never had the kinds of friends who have matching bracelets, but I have always wanted them. It’s like the bracelet tells the world that the person wearing it has someone who cares about them. Not like a family member that
has
to care, but someone who just likes you.

I want to feel a part of something. Anything, I guess.

Shay is overly happy that I’ve said yes.

I sit down after glancing at the seat to make sure I won’t be sitting in a pool of glue. Shay motions to me to sit next to her. She and Jessica smile that smile that on the outside seems fine but your gut tells you to be careful of. There are a few other girls. Max is there with one other boy.

Jessica points at Albert and they start laughing. I look over and don’t see anything funny. “Can you believe it?” Shay asks. “How pathetic is that? Hey, Albert,” she calls, “is that supposed to be a fashion statement?”

I still don’t get it. He’s wearing his usual Flint shirt and jeans. Why are they so worked up now?

Shay hits me on the side of the arm and points down at his feet.

The backs of his sneakers have been cut out.

Shay calls him over and he comes. I don’t know why everyone does what she says. Even me. Today, anyway.

“What’s the matter?” she asks him. “Don’t you have any money for shoes?”

“Quite the contrary,” Albert begins. “But given the choice of buying new sneakers that I will outgrow in three months or a chemistry set that I can use for an undefined amount of time, this seemed the clear choice. They’re in fine shape except for being just a bit short.”

“Did you hear that?” Shay asks. “He chopped the back of his shoes off. Like slippers.”

Jessica adds, “Next, he’ll be wearing a robe.”

Shay turns to her. “I think robes would be cool. We should wear them tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that
would
be cool!” Jessica says.

Shay laughs, but I don’t think Jessica knows Shay isn’t laughing because of the robes. I think Shay said something dumb to see if Jessica would go along. Sometimes I think Jessica would follow Shay out of an airplane without a parachute.

Then Shay turns to me. “Well, Ally,” she asks, “what do
you
think of wearing robes tomorrow?”

I’d like to tell her it’s dumb, but I say, “Not my thing.”

“Is that so? Well, what do you think of Albert and his slippers?”

I feel like I’m in one of those old detective movies that Grandpa loved. In a cramped, small room under a bright light, being asked a question I don’t want to answer.

The thought to stick up for him goes through my head, but that doesn’t seem like the right answer for Shay.

“They’re pretty dopey,” I say. “What a weirdo, huh?”

I’ve made Shay happy.

I feel terrible.

And I know that I am going to feel even worse when the shade comes down over Albert’s face. When he looks sad.

But that never comes. He just stands there eating Doritos and studying us like we are lab mice. “I think it curious that you worry about what I have on my feet when three of you are wearing red shirts. Not a wise color. Red is the color of stop lights and signs, bad wounds, warning lights, and the most severe of sunburns. It represents red alerts and high fevers. Red numbers show a loss in accounting. Red represents danger.”

I think of all of the red marks that cover my papers from teachers. How I hate to get them back.

Jessica laughs loudest. “What a weirdo, Albert!”

“Furthermore,” he says, “any crew member of
Star Trek
’s starship
Enterprise
who wears a red shirt never appears in another episode. Frankly, I think you’ve made poor choices.”

They all burst into loud laughter. “Albert!” Max says. “It’s only a TV show, dude. And not a very good one, either.”

Albert’s arm stops dead on the way to his mouth with another Dorito. “Not a very
good
one?”

“Albert,” Shay says, leaning forward a bit, “you go right ahead and ignore what you look like. But it’s the rest of us who suffer;
we
have to look at you.”

“Actually,” he says, “I don’t take my appearance lightly. I take
you
lightly.”

And with that he turns and is gone before she can pull out some other mean thing. And I wish I was more like Albert. Seeing him shuffle away in those sneakers makes me want to be better. I’m not perfect, but at least I’m not mean.

And then my heart sinks, because I realize that I just was.

I guess I did it because I was lonely. Now I know that there are worse things than being lonely.

W
h
a
t
’
s
Y
o
u
r
P
r
o
b
l
e
m
,
A
l
b
e
r
t
?

Light from the hallway pours into my room as my
mom opens the door. “Hey, honey.”

“Hey.”

“I came in to check on you. You seemed very quiet at dinner tonight. Something going on?”

“Mean kids at school.”

“Oh, Ally Bug. I’m sorry you had to put up with that. What happened?”

“Well . . . the kids who were mean?”

“Yeah?”

“I was kind of one of them.”

“Oh,” she says with a sigh. “I’m surprised by that, Ally. Tell me what happened.”

“Those girls that came into Petersen’s that time? Well, they asked me to have lunch with them. I sat at their table but then they started being mean to this kid named Albert about his clothes.” I look up into her eyes. “And I went along with it. I feel bad about it.”

My mom brushes my forehead with her fingertips. “You’re not a little girl anymore, Ally. So it’s not too soon to decide what kind of person you want to be. Of course,
I
know what kind of person you are. And I love you for it.” She kisses me on the forehead. “You made a mistake. Everyone does. Just do your best to make it right, that’s all. The words ‘I’m sorry’ are powerful ones.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll make it right with him.”

“That’s my girl,” she says, kissing my forehead one more time before leaving.

• • •

The next morning at school, I am wondering how I can make things right with Albert. I’m drawing a pigeon wedding in my sketchbook. I don’t know that Keisha is standing behind me.

“You drew that?”

I move my arm to cover it.

“Why would you cover it? If I could draw like that, I’d put a commercial on TV about it.”

“Thanks,” I mumble. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed, but I am.

Keisha sits in her chair as I stare at her head full of thin braids, thinking it must take three days to do all that—so beautiful. I just love it. Not like my boring hair that just hangs there. I reach out to touch her hair. She turns toward me all of a sudden. “What are you
doing
?”

“Oh . . . I . . . Sorry. There was a mosquito.” Sometimes I can’t believe the things I do. It’s like my arm has its own brain.

“Uh-huh,” Keisha says.

Just then, Albert walks in, and he looks upset. I want to be able to tell my mom that I made things right with him, so I go over.

“Albert? Are you okay?” I ask, wondering if he’ll tell me to strap myself to a rocket and light the fuse.

“I have a problem.”

“I’m sorry about the cafeteria thing,” I blurt out.

His eyebrows rise. “That didn’t bother me. No need to apologize.”

“It didn’t bother you at all to have a table full of people make fun of you? You’re kidding.”

“Why would I be kidding?”

Can it be that he really doesn’t care what people think of him?

We just stare at each other. If that didn’t bother him at all and this new problem really does, then it must be really bad. Maybe it has to do with the bruises he has all the time.

“Can I help?” I ask.

“No offense. But I don’t really think so.”

“Okay,” I mumble.

“It’s just a problem that I can’t get out of my head. I feel like I won’t be able to relax until I find an answer.”

“Do you want to talk about it? I know sometimes when I have a problem, I talk it out with my brother or mom. Even if I don’t find an answer, I feel better anyway.”

“Well . . .”

I wait.

“I’ve just been wondering . . . if an insect is flying inside a moving train car, is it traveling faster than the train itself? And if the insect flies in the opposite direction that the train is moving in, is it then traveling more slowly than the train? Obviously, if the fly is on the wall, it is moving at the same speed. As long as it isn’t walking. But the movement within movement is a puzzle to me.”

Oh.

He turns to me. A little intense. “You can see the problem here.” He doesn’t ask. He tells.

I know he doesn’t really think I can help. Who knows if I could possibly figure out the science part of what he’s talking about. But my mind shows me that insect in that train car.

It’s a dragonfly with brilliant greenish-blue wings and tiny goggles over its eyes.

The car is old with dark wood walls and dark green curtains. Like from Grandpa’s Westerns. And the people have old-fashioned clothes. I see them like they’re with me now. Some of the men are sleeping. One is waving the dragonfly off with a newspaper, not even noticing its tiny goggles. Ladies with the most beautiful dresses sit there, too.

And I see a girl who is with her mother, and her mother keeps asking the girl if she is enjoying the ride and the girl keeps saying yes, being sure to have a happy-sounding voice.

I don’t know everything about that girl, but I do know that she has a lot more to worry about than an insect on a train. She doesn’t fit in. She’s all dressed up in fancy clothes and has to pretend to be someone she’s not. She wants to muck around. Help build fences. She wants to ride a horse the real way—not sidesaddle like her mother insists.

When I come back from my mind movie, Albert has already walked away. But I don’t care. I can’t help thinking about the girl on the train and how she feels—like she wants to do so much but she’s held back, and it makes her feel heavy and angry. Like she’s dragging a concrete block around all of the time. I’d like to help her break free from that.