The Art of Secrets (16 page)

A bit later, at separate tables in the faculty lunchroom,

Wendy Pinch & Ariel Ames

lead similar conversations in different directions.

WENDY:

Naturally I wasn't thrilled to hear my aunt had dropped dead, but I'm grateful for the opportunity she left me. I'm retiring at the end of the year. And that means no more grading, no more going over basic game rules with little turds who never want to move a muscle. No more driving the unreliable school vans to basketball tournaments in snowstorms.

ARIEL:

The week after the auction, the only laugh I had was when I read an essay from one of my students on
The Great Gatsby
. Kendra Spoon did a creative comparison of Jay Gatsby and Harold from
Harold and the Purple Crayon
—her two “favorite” visionary dreamers. She made connections between Harold's pies and Gatsby's lovely shirts, between Harold's apples that will never turn red, because they're drawn in purple, and the unreachable green light at the end of Daisy's dock. Brilliant! Seriously, love that girl.

WENDY:

Only problem is, I hate to leave under what only can be described as a dark cloud. People are still looking at me funny, even though I didn't profit from this Harvey Dooley business in any way. All I got was a stain on the gym floor where that guy's mess got dumped. My souvenir, I guess.

ARIEL:

I'm furious about what happened. Kendra and her brother worked so hard to organize that event. We all pitched in. For the first time, I felt proud to be part of the Highsmith team. And while the universe seemed to reward this effort by giving us a big-ticket item like the Darger album, someone else decided to intervene and ruin everything. It all seems so mean, so personal.

WENDY:

Tell you the truth, my heart broke a little bit when I saw the kids at the auction—Saba Khan coming with her family, the Spoon kids standing with their proud mama—and knowing how this cuckoo crime would affect all of them.

ARIEL:

The weirdest part was the quiet, didn't you think? The week after the auction? The kids were in shock. It was like the entire community had suffered this punch in the stomach. Before break, some kid even
spray-painted
the school seal in the central corridor! I mean, that isn't normal behavior.

WENDY:

My gut tells me this was motivated by race.
Th
is was a hate crime, see? It's the only way I can figure it. Someone hated the thought of the Khans getting
rich
just because some jackass torched their apartment. It didn't seem fair that these relative newcomers could be so lucky. Why else would a person steal the art, rip it to shreds, then burn it?
Th
at kind of anger is a little scary, don't you think?

ARIEL:

The poor Spoons! Someone resented those kids so much, they didn't want to see this auction succeed. I've seen it happen before. When someone does something particularly well, or thinks outside the box, or goes the extra mile, it can make other people feel bad about themselves. It's true.

WENDY:

I'm not talking about ordinary jealousy. We pretend to be this diverse nation of tolerance, the great Melting Pot. But deep down, a lot of people mistrust a neighbor who doesn't “fit in” or look the same. It's not a melting pot so much as a scummy hotel Jacuzzi, where no one wants to get too close to the other guy, because who knows where the heck
he's
been? You know what I'm saying.

ARIEL:

Can I be honest? When I first got here, I was so excited. My brain was spinning with ideas, like a tornado. But every time I made a suggestion at an English team meeting, I got shot down. Over and over, they said, “We can't do that.” Or, “That won't work here.” Big discovery: Nobody likes it when someone
new
offers fresh ideas for improving the system. That's what happened to the Spoons. The “new kids” had the idea, so
the idea could not succeed.
It might have been different if it was a legacy family that led the effort—the grandson or granddaughter of one of those grim, dumb faces hanging on the wall in the main lobby.

WENDY:

You think Saba Khan has it easy here at Highsmith? She's this friendly, good-looking, intelligent girl. A real ace on the tennis court, too. Saba makes an honest effort to connect with people. But when I see her—standing at her locker, or moving through the cafeteria line—usually she's alone. She comes alive at tennis matches, but I never see the girl at extracurricular events. Not at dances or basketball games, nothing.

ARIEL:

By any standard, what the Spoons accomplished is incredible. They helped to draw our attention to a family tragedy right in our community. They united the whole school and got the attention of the press. They brought out the best in all of us. And it all started in
my
classroom.

WENDY:

I'll give you that. Saba may stay home by her own choice. But imagine it from her view. Saba's been in this country her whole life, but is she
included
? Every day at school, by their distance and their polite silences, her peers tell her: Welcome to America, honey. You may never truly fit in here. I heard a rumor last month that Saba was hanging out with Steve Davinski. Impossible! First, Saba is traditional. Her parents are on the job, see? No way is Saba stepping out with a boy. But second, a couple like Saba and Steve Davinski could never exist at Highsmith.
Th
e division lines separating the social groups are darn near impossible to cross.

ARIEL:

Jean Delacroix. Yeah, that was unfortunate. And sure, I have regrets about it. I wish things had gone differently. I made a point to go and apologize. It was important to me to clear the air . . . Not right away, no. My schedule was crazy, and I was swamped with essays to read. Plus, Jean and I have different lunch schedules, and we never see each other ordinarily. In retrospect, I did commit a bit of a faux pas by waiting until there was another snowstorm, a real terror of a blizzard. I realized it would take me forever to get home on the bus when there was heavy, drifting snow like that.

That same day, during his study hall—his last study hall—

Javier Conejera, sophomore,

writes to his friend Jennifer in Oklahoma. He deliberately uses the computer workstation reserved for catalog searches.

Hola Jen,

For two weeks, I waited with dread for this day to arrive. Every day, I think my host parents will receive the angry telephone call from the principal, informing them of my foolish crime. Informing them of my punishment. This telephone call never came. Maybe the principal was on a holiday too.

Moreover, this morning before school, I went to my locker and discovered a surprise: The sacred seal is clean again! The floor surrounding the H shines under the hallway lights. There is no evidence of my mistake. For several seconds, I wondered if my action was only a wishful fantasy, a vivid daydream.

Then I opened my locker. The can of white aerosol paint was not where I put it. At the same time, a loud announcement in the hallway ordered me to the office of the principal.

I did not walk slowly. I felt no anxiety. At last, I was ready.

The principal met me in the reception area and led me back into her office. As soon as I sat in a big chair, I observed on her desk the aerosol paint. Of course.

The principal said, “Javier, during the break, we found this paint in your locker. I must ask you, did you put the paint on the floor?”

I said yes. Well, I am not a liar.

She looked at me, as if waiting for me to say more. I had nothing more to say. The principal leaned the body forward in the chair: “And why did you do this?”

The truth, Jen, I do not have the words to explain. How do I express the emotions that inspired me to do something so foolish? My action was not rational. It was personal. All I know, on that day I felt the anger. I felt the frustration. I felt no hope in this place.

The principal continued, “Javier, you covered up the school seal. This symbol is respected by every student in this school. We were required to hire professionals to come and clean the floor. This costs money. Do you have anything to say?” (No.) “Nothing?” I looked at her. Nothing. I had nothing to tell her, nothing she will understand.

Jen, do you remember in my village, the church tower? The bell rings for various reasons. Many tourists who visit the village hear the bell and believe it is marking a new hour, or calling them to Mass. But the locals know the padre sometimes rings the bell for no reason. The old man is completely senile. Sometimes a bell rings because a man wants to ring the bell.

The principal sat waiting for an answer, the same as the entire community of Highsmith waits, all the people waiting for the same thing. For answers that may never come.

She said, “Very well. This is a serious offense, which merits a severe punishment. You will have a detention every day after school between now and spring break. On Saturdays, you will work with our custodians to clean the building.”

There is a big calendar on her desk, the same as the calendar in the kitchen of my host family. I watch as the principal writes my name, over and over, on all the Saturdays. She wants me to see this—to make sure I understand what I have done and what I will do.

Of course, I prepared for this moment. I expected this. From my pocket, I take the money that I had been saving to come see you. $300. I put it on the desk, in the middle of the calendar. “To help pay for the extra cleaning,” I say. This is the only thing I say. I do not argue about the detentions or the Saturdays with the custodians, because—well, why? I get up and leave her office without giving another word.

After, on the door of my locker, I find a face drawn with a black Sharpie—a face with eyes that are angry—the glare of a student who knows I put the paint on the sacred H. Or one who still believes I destroyed the paintings by Henry Darger. Or both. For many weeks, this crime prevented me from finding my place here. And now I am responsible too.

Jen, this is the last email I will send from Chicago. Tonight I will fill my suitcases again. On Wednesday I will go back to O'Hare Airport so that I may return to my country before the school term begins there. When I called my mother to tell her, she argued with me. She did not want to change the ticket, because of the expense. She said it is normal to be homesick. Then she heard the tears in my voice and she understood. She said, “Come home.”

One feels sadness when a dream dies, and also relief.

Today is the day for quitting. At lunch, I saw my friend Kendra sitting at a table with her many friends. Although Kendra has been a student at Highsmith for the same time as me, she is accepted now, even popular. I waited for friendships to come to me, but she did not wait. She worked with strength and made intelligent choices to reach this goal.

I wanted to say good-bye. We stepped away from the table so we could talk in private. I told her my plan to go, and she nodded without speaking, not with surprise, not with disappointment, as if she understood.

I told her I would not be able to provide the tutoring in Spanish as I promised before the auction. “Don't worry,” she said. She frowned and rubbed the forehead, as if embarrassed. “The weird thing was, no one bid on it.”

“No one?” I said, and then smiled very fast to show this news does not hurt my feelings. Not too much.

“So I bid on it!” she said, her voice cheerful again. “I mean, I was excited to buy it. I need the help.”

“I am very sorry, then,” I said, and this was true. “At least, I can promise to give you the tutoring when you come to visit me in España someday.”

“Definitely,” she said, as she hugged me good-bye.

Kendra and I never went to the tapas café, even though she said we would do that, too. “Definitely.” Maybe we would have gone if I remained in Chicago for a full second term. It was friendly to say we would go.

On Saturday, when I informed my host family that I will be returning to España so soon, they pretended the disappointment. Mrs. Davinski said, “But, Savior, you're going to miss so much. Baseball season hasn't even started. Wrigley Field!”

I will miss some things. I will miss the adventure of living in a strange city. I will miss the pride I found in surviving each day, the satisfaction of getting from one place to another place without getting lost, and the exhilaration of using a foreign language to communicate. I will miss Kendra, who always offered to help, and quiet Nancy who shared her cigarettes and never judged me. I will even miss my host family. They have given me a lifetime of excellent stories to tell. So then, no regrets.

Except one! Amiga, I am not able to visit you over the Spring Break now. This disappoints me too. But I know you understand. And I will make it there someday—definitely.

With love from your friend, who is going home at last.

On the evenings between JANUARY 10 and JANUARY 14,

Saba Khan, sophomore,

adds what she can to her own written chronicle of these turns of events.

This high-rise still doesn't feel like home. The whole year can pass by + this temporary condo will always feel foreign to me: sleeping in someone else's bed, brushing my teeth in front of some other girl's mirror.

I seek out signs that things will be normal again: My hair finally has grown back to the length it was before the Fenwick match. The weird, pitying hellos from strangers have dwindled off. + today at lunch, when I offered to treat for nachos, the girls sat back with their arms folded + they
let
me pay. “Extra peppers!” Beti called. I wanted to hug her.

For a few weeks after the auction, my family adopted a strategy: Do nothing. “For now, babies, we put this drama out of our minds,” Ammi said. At her urging, we began playing games again, the ordinary kind with cards + dice, the ones that clearly determine a winner. The check from the auctioneer sat on the dining room table until after New Year's, tucked in a silver napkin holder that came with this place. At some point, the check disappeared—deposited into the bank account, more money than the account has ever seen.

This past weekend, Ammi filled the teakettle + fried some bread with brown sugar. With these treats, she lured us all into the living room, where we piled onto the sofa, a family pile—even Salman, who usually is too hyper to relax. He picked up the remote control + pointed it at the TV. Suddenly the gas logs in the fireplace burst with flickering orange flames.

“Hey, we have already seen this program!” Papa said. This has become a dependable joke. “OK, let us talk about the future.”

We cuddled on the sofa, watching the fire + we made a plan. “Only a dummy quits a good job,” Papa said. Of course he'll keep working at the factory. The money from the auction will remain in the bank, minus a contribution for the poor.

At the end of this year, we'll use the auction money as a down payment on a condo. Nothing too big. Nothing with marble in the bathrooms or million-dollar views. Nothing we can't afford. We want to be back in the old neighborhood—closer to the Pakistani shops + our mosque.

I asked, “If there's any left, can we at least get . . . a new car?”

Papa said, “Do not think about what might be, or what might have been. Yes, we might have been rich—so what? It's done.”

“We might still be rich,” I said under my breath, thinking about insurance money.

Papa's voice was gentle but persuasive: “Time to forget about that. We are rich in a different way. + besides, those questions will drive us mad. Only God knows why someone took the art + destroyed it. Only God knows why the school administration did not keep it somewhere safe.”

I wanted to say, No—not
only
God knows. Someone else knows these things. That's what makes the situation so infuriating.

We are victims here. Why isn't he angry about that? Me, I'm getting used to the role. 1 week I'm hanging out with the most popular boy in school, feeling like Cinderella at the ball + the next week, old Prince Charmless turns back into an ordinary giant. Drops me without any reason, except that he's . . . “too busy”? His attitude took me by such extreme surprise that I literally didn't know what to say or how to feel. It's been 3 weeks + I still don't. It was beyond messed up. Now I wonder if “the creeping vine” + I ever had anything real at all . . .

My girls tell me to take it in stride. Kendra especially. She says: “You're Steve Davinski's ex. Saba stock is through the roof!”

Maybe that's true. I appreciate Kendra for trying to make me smile. But it doesn't change the way my heart feels.

Today I left an obscenely huge chocolate bar in Kendra's locker. My note said, “Here's a big sweet reward for being you.”

She'll never suspect, but it was an apology. For too long, I was annoyed at Kendra + her brother. I actually felt angry that they were
helping
. That wasn't fair. Without the Spoons, my family might be living in a shelter right now. True, helping might have come easily for them, but the Spoons made everything happen for us. Almost as if they understood how hard it is to come to your own aid. How overwhelming it feels when everything goes wrong. It can paralyze a person!

The funny thing is, Kendra + I are total opposites. I'm an introvert, she can talk to anyone. We come from completely different backgrounds. Still, we have this weird bond. Kendra seemed to see it first. From the very beginning of the tennis season, she latched on to me, even off the court. Since she was new, I figured she only needed a friend, any friend. But then, after the fire, Kendra was the 1st person who stepped up to say she would help. The girl changed my life.

Despite all that's happened, I feel hopeful. Because when the Spoons get a check from the insurance company, they will give us that money. They were willing to donate the art, so why wouldn't they donate the money?

$500,000. All those zeroes, like tiny windows into our future. I peer into them and see: Now we will stay in this tricked-out condo with this huge bedroom + the view of the park + tennis courts + it will be ours. We'll get a new car, with smooth leather seats + dependable heat. College costs, completely paid for, for both Salman + me. We'll take a trip to Pakistan to meet family I've only heard about in stories, like characters in a book.

+ when we step off the airplane in Islamabad + the cousins surround us, they will know right away, by the way we dress + our heavy bags filled with expensive gifts, that we truly are an American success story.