In the same way that I used to look for pennies, I’m now looking for planes, and I find them. An airplane in the gutter is folded from a letter. One next to a trash can is folded from a restaurant place mat. It’s as if I’m on a treasure hunt and I can’t stop looking! Wedged up against a building is yet another tiny plane, which has been folded from a dollar bill. For a moment, I’m tempted to take this plane, but I don’t. I don’t want to stop the wish from coming true.
All these wishes cast upon the wind.
They remind me of my deepest, most precious wish. Maybe I should ask Reggie to help me fold a plane from a Carter application. But I no sooner think of the possibility than I decide against it.
Here’s why: wishing for one thing will wipe out lots of other possibilities. For example, if two months ago I had wished that Sasha and I would be best friends always, I never would have become friends with Daniel, and she never would have befriended Keisha. If I had wished to be patrol leader, I might never have worked so hard to reinstate the Eastland traditions. If I had wished that Gage and I got an apartment, I might be sitting home alone at nights while he went on dates with Chloe and worrying what would happen if he was late or if I locked myself out. And I would definitely be holding Gage back from having his own life, and myself from getting to be a kid. So I’m done wishing for something specific.
Instead, I’ll wait to see what happens next.
Everyone said that we would get our letters from Carter on Saturday. Mademoiselle Barbary said so, Marianna said so, Janna said so. So imagine my surprise when I get home on Friday and there is the letter on the counter.
Even though I can tell that Janna wants me to open it right away, I don’t. It’s an important moment, and whether I’m accepted or not, Gage should be here with me, too.
I call Gage, and he promises to hurry over right after work. In the meantime, Daniel calls to say he’s been accepted.
“I didn’t even know you applied!” I say.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I wasn’t going to, but something changed my mind.”
Before I can ask him if it was something or someone who changed his mind, he tells me that Keisha posted her acceptance online. I haven’t heard from Sasha, and it’s making me nervous.
When Gage finally arrives, I am practically jumping out of my skin. I open the letter and read:
Dear Ms. Hazard,
It is with great pleasure that we offer you a place at Carter Middle School for the next three years. . . .
Janna cries. I do, too.
I got into Carter. Despite the dip in my grades and the detention on my record. Despite telling the application people about my and Gage’s time being homeless. Despite not wishing for it on Reggie’s plane. Despite it all — or maybe, really, because of it all — I’ve been accepted.
We have a delicious dinner that Janna cooked, knowing that we’d either be celebrating or in need of consoling, and then Gage says that he has a present for me.
“How come?” I ask, realizing that it’s the second present I’ve been given lately for no reason at all.
“I thought congratulations might be in order.” He hands me a wrapped cardboard box, which is so light it feels almost empty. I break the curly ribbon, tear open the paper, and open the box.
Inside is a lone L.L. Bean catalog. I start to frown, wondering why he’s giving me a new catalog for my Paper Things when I’ve told him that I no longer play with them. But then I realize that this isn’t a new catalog. It’s one I’ve seen before — almost four years ago.
I open the cover and flip through the pages slowly, my hands shaking. And there he is: Miles, running through the sprinkler! I keep flipping. And there’s Natalie in her yellow dress, holding her toad! Untouched!
I lunge at Gage and give him the biggest hug ever.
“I couldn’t stand it that those girls destroyed your Paper Things,” he says. “I wish I could replace all of them, but I figured these two were the most important ones.”
“I can’t believe you found the same catalog!” Janna says.
“It wasn’t easy,” says Gage. “But I found a woman through craigslist who had boxes and boxes of catalogs in her garage. You would have been in heaven!” Gage tells me, smiling. “She was going to recycle them, but she never did. If you’re interested, I bet she’d be willing to give you more.”
I think about his offer, but like wishing on Carter, rebuilding my Paper Things collection just doesn’t feel right. That folder represents a me that no longer exists. I’m not embarrassed of her, but at the same time, I no longer want to be her. I’ve moved on.
Still, I tuck this catalog away, grateful to have Miles and Natalie safe together.
Later that night, after Gage has left to go out on a date with Chloe, Janna gives me the scrapbook she’s been making in my honor.
“You’re old enough to choose what to include,” she says.
And immediately, I think of the objects that I’ll paste inside: Natalie and Miles; a penny or two; my ode to seat cushions; a pipe cleaner left over from Crazy Hat Day; and the script from my Louisa May Alcott presentation.
And my Carter acceptance letter, of course.
Having a last name that’s neither at the beginning nor the end of the alphabet is cool. At school, whenever we do things in alphabetical order, enough kids go before me that I can prepare, but I don’t have to wait my turn forever. So when my name is called at graduation, I am ready:
“Arianna Jane Hazard, daughter of Nicholas and Georgia Hazard and Janna Delaney; sister of Gage Hazard.”
Turns out that I had to fill out a form that told the announcer at graduation what to say. I chose to list all of these names. I see Gage grinning when they read his name, and I know he’s pleased that I put him on the list. I walk to the podium, accept my certificate that says I have successfully completed six years of schooling at Eastland Elementary School, and turn to have my picture taken — by the school photographer and by Janna. I now have another photo to put in my scrapbook.
Once the ceremony is over, Janna elbows her way up to Mr. Chandler, I think to give him a piece of her mind for how he treated me during the traditions campaign. But Mr. Chandler breaks into a grin when he sees her, and I overhear him congratulating her on my acceptance to Carter Middle School. “You must be so proud of Arianna!” he says. “We certainly are!”
Janna looks completely flabbergasted, like the wind’s been knocked out of her sails. But soon she’s grinning, too, and laughing. I turn away, blushing in embarrassment. But it’s a good kind of embarrassment — the best kind.
I worry that Sasha has overheard this conversation, but she’s left my side and is talking with Linnie’s family. Sasha was wait-listed, which seems so unfair. I told her that I really hoped she would get into Carter and that maybe she should ask Reggie for a plane.
“Actually, I’m not that bummed,” Sasha insisted. “I know my mom really wanted me to go to Carter — and I wanted to be with you and Keisha — but I think I can be one of the stars at Wilson.”
“Sasha, you’re already a star,” I told her.
I’m standing in the hall outside the auditorium with Gage and Chloe when Daniel grabs my hand. “Come with me,” he says.
I let myself be tugged away.
“What is it?”
“You’ve got a promise to keep,” he says.
“What promise?”
It isn’t until we get to the gym doors that I understand. “Now?” I say. “In our caps and gowns?” But I’m laughing, because it’s even better in our caps and gowns.
He pulls me inside.
The gym is dimly lit and every sound echoes. I spot a big pile of blue mats tucked into a corner, but the bleachers have all been folded up against the walls.
“Looks like we have no way of getting up there,” I say, surprised at how disappointed this makes me feel.
“Oh, no,” Daniel says. “You’re not getting out of it that easy!”
He leads me to one
end of the folded bleachers and shows me how to climb them like a ladder. I place my hands where he placed his and pull myself up.
For some reason, the top of the bleachers feels higher with them folded than it does when they’re open. I sit down carefully and scoot on my bottom until I’m at the edge, with my legs dangling above the mats.
Daniel, still standing, holds out his hand.
“I don’t think I can do it,” I say, feeling suddenly nervous.
“Of course you can. Think of everything you accomplished this year.”
He’s right. It’s been one heck of a year — and if I survived all that, then I can definitely survive this.
I take a deep breath, reach up, and let him lift me to a standing position.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
“Ready?” he says.
“Ready,” I say.
We hold hands and jump.
I wish I were a cleverer author — one who could write an original and adroit acknowledgments page. But I know my limits; I know what I require. To achieve that end, I’d have to first ponder my thoughts aloud, no doubt boring the ears off my loving husband and grown kids, who are used to my random questions and muddled musings . . . but still.
I’d have to run the page past my dear friend and trusted reader Jane Kurtz. She’d praise the good bits, and gently point out all the dull, implausible, unearned parts. We’d have lively conversations about building the reader’s appetite and the nature of voice. But one reader, no matter how skilled, is never enough.
So I’d likely turn to the participants in Pam Houston’s summer workshop at Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, who’d generously share their first impressions and keep me from skimming over the hard emotions a writer must experience in order to tell an honest story. Pam would remind me to stay grounded in the physical, to record exactly what I see, to trust that the deeper meanings will emerge.
And I would just be getting started. None too soon, I’d turn to my insightful editor, Kaylan Adair, who would painstakingly tease from me all the underdeveloped ideas, vague scenes, and lost threads. She’d make brilliant suggestions — suggestions that come not only from her literary expertise, but her understanding of the human heart. She’s extraordinary.
Enough already? Not likely! Kaylan would work with a team: editorial director Liz Bicknell, copyeditor Pamela Marshall, copy chief Hannah Mahoney, managing editor Katie Ring, designer Heather McGee, production controller Angie Dombroski, e-book editor Andrea Tompa, and in-house champion Susan Batcheller. Without their help I could not punctuate this sentence, let alone create art.
That’s what I would do. I’d seek help from the very people who shaped Paper Things, who were incredibly generous with their time, their talent, and their support. Who were, in a word, amazing.
But never mind. I won’t wish for cleverness. Instead I’m casting my own wishplane with the desire that all who participated in the making of this book know how very grateful I am.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Richard Jacobson
Cover photograph copyright © 2015 by Catherine Macbride/Trevillion Images
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2015
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2014944677
ISBN 978-0-7636-6323-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7636-7045-0 (electronic)
Candlewick Press
99 Dover Street
Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
Jennifer Richard Jacobson, Paper Things
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