Fish in a Tree

  “Do you lick the spoon when you’re done?” Oliver asks. “I like to lick the spoon, but my mom says too much sugar isn’t good for me, so she doesn’t bake much because—”

  “Oliver,” Mr. Daniels says, pulling on his own ear. Oliver stops right away.

  Then Mr. Daniels looks at the cupcake. “Wow, Keisha. That is pretty impressive!”

  “I’m going to call my baking business ‘Hidden Messages’—the batter way to send a note.”

  “That’s fantastic, Keisha,” Mr. Daniels says. “The possibilities are infinite.”

  Albert raises his hand and Mr. Daniels points to him. “The possibilities are not, in fact, infinite, as she would eventually run out of appropriate letter combinations, and the number of letters to be used in each cake would be limited as well. Also, you imply that the possibilities are all positive when it is probable that the possibilities would be equal in positive and negative outcomes.”

  “Actually, you’re correct, Albert,” Mr. Daniels says. “But I am an optimist. What can I say?”

  “So you agree that the possibilities aren’t endless?”

  “Well, I agree from a mathematical standpoint, Albert, but not from a human one. I believe that the things we put numbers on are not necessarily the things that count the most. You can’t measure the stuff that makes us human. Like Keisha’s creativity or how hard she’ll work.” Mr. Daniels shrugs. “Just my opinion.”

  “Well, it seems that the part that can be measured is most important,” Albert says. “Because that’s what can be proven.”

  “Well, my fine young fellow, I think we’ll have to agree to disagree,” Mr. Daniels says, walking by Albert and patting his shoulder.

  Then Mr. Daniels calls on Suki. She pulls out tiny paper bags and begins to pass them out to everyone.

  “I bring two foods to share. One is hone-senbei, my grandfather favorite. Other is wasabi peas. They are maybe spicy. Food in America tastes . . .” She turns to Mr. Daniels. “What is correct word?”

  All of a sudden Max jumps up and runs to the sink, followed by Keisha and Jessica. “Too hot!” Max yells. The three push each other a bit, trying to scoop water into their mouths.

  “Ah yes,” Suki continues. “Bland is correct word. Food here is bland.” She seems to think that the three kids at the sink are both funny and odd.

  I think how hard it would be to move to a different country and have to learn another language. I can’t even handle one.

  Mr. Daniels laughs, holding the little bumpy, bright green pea between his fingers. “They don’t look that hot.”

  Most people in the class are too chicken to eat it now, pushing it away. Suki looks a little hurt.

  Albert puts one in his mouth. He eats it but looks like he’s in pain. His eyes even water. He says with a gasp, “I like it, Suki. Thank you.”

  That Albert is nice.

  Oliver pops his in his mouth but has no reaction.

  “Oliver?” Mr. Daniels asks. “You don’t think it’s hot?”

  “Naw! I’m the only one in my family that can finish a fireball without taking it out of my mouth. My mother says I must have no taste buds at all, and my dad says—”

  Mr. Daniels pulls on his earlobe again and says, “Thanks, Oliver.”

  Oliver’s mouth is open. Ready to keep going. But he says, “Thanks, Mr. Daniels.” Do they have some signal or something?

  Suki continues. “These foods mean much to me because I share them with Grandfather. Many things about Japan I miss, but Grandfather I most miss. Also, I miss wood carving with him. He make me wooden blocks and I carve gift for him and send.”

  So that’s why she has those blocks.

  “I eat these foods because they remind me of Japan. And my grandfather.”

  I feel sad for her.

  “What are the crackers made of?” asks Albert.

  Suki turns to him. “They are made of shrimp and fish bones.”

  It isn’t just Oliver who goes wild over that one. Most everyone says “Yuck,” and Suki looks up at Mr. Daniels, who turns to the class. “Now, now. Quiet down.”

  “Shrimp and fish bones?” Shay asks. “We prefer lobster in our family.”

  Albert raises his hand. “I would just like to point out that lobster is a very expensive meal now, but in the olden days, it was served only to peasants and slaves, who revolted and demanded that they only be served lobster twice a week. And”—he swallows—“I think fish bones would have some excellent nutritional properties.”

  Suki smiles for a second before she scurries back to her seat. Mr. Daniels gives Albert a solid nod.

  Next, it’s my turn. What I ended up bringing in means something to me, but now I’m not sure the class would be nice about it. I decide to play it safe and say I forgot.

  I can tell Mr. Daniels is disappointed. “Well then, do you have a pet you can tell us about?” he asks.

  “No. My mom is allergic.” This reminds me of my dad crawling around the living room on all fours, pretending to be the puppy I begged for.

  Oliver starts to bark like a dog.

  Mr. Daniels says, “Too much of that, Oliver, and we’ll have to give you dog biscuits. Better be careful.”

  Mr. Daniels squints at me. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can show us? Because I have a feeling there’s something.”

  I slide my hand down into my pocket and clutch my 1943 steel penny. The object I brought in for sharing today.

  He watches my hand and I realize I’ve given myself away. So I stand and I take out the penny.

  “My dad is in the army and he’s deployed right now. On the day my dad left, he gave Travis and me these pennies.” I look up at Mr. Daniels. “That’s my big brother.”

  He nods.

  “In 1943, pennies looked weird because they were silver in color like quarters. They were made of steel instead of copper because the government needed copper to make ammunition during World War Two. Then in 1944, pennies went back to the usual red copper color. Anyway, I think it’s cool.”

  “I do, too,” Mr. Daniels says. “And I think it’s even more cool that you told us about it.”

  As I walk back to my seat, I think of how when Dad left, he said that when we look at the steel pennies, we need to remember that we are unique, too. And also, that things will go back to normal for us—that he’ll be home before we know it.

  I really miss him.

  Mr. Daniels gives Oliver a thumbs-up, and I think how cool it is that they have the ear-pulling signal. That way he doesn’t always have to tell Oliver that he’s doing something wrong in front of everyone. I know what that feels like and I’m happy that Mr. Daniels cares so much. Most teachers seem to like their students to be all the same—perfect and quiet. Mr. Daniels actually seems to like that we’re different.

  CHAPTER 10

  Promises, Promises . . .

  “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.

  CHAPTER 11

  Scrambled Egg

  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 ove
r 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.”