Believe (8 page)

FIFTEEN

First hour, school resembled a hectic press conference.

“How is he?”

“What was it like?”

“When do you think they're going to release him?”

Abe was a good guy. Unlike me, he had lots of friends outside the tripod. These people might stand a little too close, but their questions weren't inappropriate. Miriam thought it was a lot of fun being the center of attention. She answered every single question. She said, “I feel like a movie star. Everyone wants to talk to me.”

Second hour, Miriam was still smiling, but I was tired. The questions began to cross the line.

“Did you think he was dead?”

“Did you do CPR?”

“What was the first thing he said when he woke up?”

“I heard you were going to be on
Late Night
tonight.”

I had a hard time keeping my temper and paranoia in check. “It was scary. No, I didn't have to. When he woke up, I
was in the parking lot. Are you serious? I wish. I would kill to be on
Late Night.
”

Dan looked like he wanted to hit someone. “You must be ready to scream. These people keep asking me to give you the retrospective to sign. It's really annoying.”

“Tell me about it.” I didn't care how selfish people found me, how much they thought the retrospective with my signature would be worth. Once you signed one, you had to sign them all. Once you gave in, you could never go back.

He walked me down the hall. “I don't know how you deal with it.”

The cover of the retrospective was taped to my locker, complete with long curly-cue mustache. Dan let me know that some of Samantha's friends had accused me of orchestrating the entire thing. “I explained that you didn't, but they think you can't stand it when people talk about anyone but you.” It wasn't a whole lot different from a cable-news cycle. From story to commentary to, hopefully, something new—right here at school.

By the time I got to the art room for my critique, I was wiped. My charming had completely run dry. I wished people would ask me questions with simple, straightforward answers, like what's your favorite color? What do you want to be when you grow up? Do you like cats or dogs?

Ms. Browning closed the door behind me. “How's Abe?” she asked, reaching out to hold my hands. “I've been so concerned.”

I let her touch me. “Actually, he's doing really great. He's going to make a full recovery.” A question with an answer. What a relief.

We sat in the center of the room, surrounded by empty easels and half-finished portraits. “That's great to hear. He's a lucky kid.” Ms. Browning loved a kid with a great joie de vivre. “Do you want to table this for tomorrow?”

“No,” I said. “Let's do this now. I lugged everything in. I can't wait to hear what you think.” She was one of the few people I trusted; I could be completely honest with her.

I spread out my sketches on the tables and hung up the finished pieces on easels. I've had three years' worth of classes in this room, from general design to painting to jewelry to independent study. I knew what Ms. Browning liked; I knew what she hated.

“Let's see what you've got.” She stopped at each sketch. She paused a few times. But mostly, she said nothing.

At least I thought I knew.

Then we examined my finished work. Three dresses. One pair of pants. A jacket. And a wool coat. She didn't ask about the brown dress, even though she knew I'd been trying to finish it.

“So?”

“So.” She looked at me with the kind of earnestness that preceded bad news. “You've made a good start.” My portfolio looked “fine.” But there was no rush to show it off.

In the world of art, “fine” was a death sentence. Rushing off was what I thought we were after.

I started to gather up the sketches. “I'm disappointed. I thought you'd be more enthusiastic.”

She stopped me, told me not to be hasty. “Maybe I'm being a bit harsh, but I think—if you really want to wow them—you have to show more. You just can't underestimate the competition for these slots.” She showed me a few examples
of sketches that just missed the mark, as well as a few places where my sewing looked sloppy, where the lines didn't look right. “Your work is solid. When you take your time, you have good construction skills. But what I don't see here is anything innovative or different or …” she paused, “
authentic
. I don't see anything that I would definitively say comes from you.” For about the fiftieth time, she gave me the “great artists” speech. She thought that the masters responded to the world they lived in, and there was no sense of my world in this work. “You have such a unique point of view. Give yourself time. Put more of yourself—your heart—your emotion—in this work. Challenge yourself to take some risks. Show me what you can do.”

I thought I did all that. I said, “This is what I can do.” And “I thought you said that visiting in the spring would be best.”

She told me to pack everything up. “Why don't you take some time and come back when you have something new?” She walked me to the door. “Trust me, Janine. There is no rush showing this off.”

At lunch, I replayed the whole thing with Dan. “She basically canned every single piece.”

He put one hand on my thigh, well past the critical radius.

I pushed it off.

He put it back on and squeezed a tiny bit too tight. “No need to be snippy.” With his free hand, he motioned to a brown paper bag on his tray. When I opened the top, steam escaped. It smelled like french-fry oil. He smiled, so I could see his dimples. “I got these for you.”

Tater tots. My favorite. Perfect for victories. Essential in defeat. Now I felt bad. I popped two in my mouth, but they were so hot I had to spit them onto the tray.

Dan slid his hand down to my knee. A safe place. “You can't tell me Ms. Browning didn't eat up that brown dress. That thing was a total
do
.”

Out of the periphery of my eye, I watched Samantha and Miriam walk into the cafeteria. They stopped to talk to the local Young Life advisors, who always hung out at the cafeteria during lunch. They seemed nice enough, but naturally, I stayed as far away from them as I could. They made me really uncomfortable. Too smiley. Too friendly. Officially, they were educational assistants, but every Tuesday night they held a prayer meeting at their home.

Everyone was invited.

Maybe Miriam was just telling them to go visit Abe.

As Dan talked on and on about the amazing brown dress, they fluttered from table to table, handing out pieces of green paper that I was sure were flyers. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. “It no longer exists,” I said, looking away from them back to Dan. “I wrecked it.”

He spit a big wad of tater tot debris across his tray. “Sorry.”

“Ew.”

He cleaned up the mess. “You did not.”

I shrugged. “You were the one who told me that I could do better.”

“But I didn't tell you to
destroy
it.” He acted like it was the greatest thing I ever made. “Do you want that picture I took? I think I still have it. If you want to, you could remake it.”

I didn't think Ms. Browning even paused at the sketch. “I think I'd rather make something else.”

He pumped his fist like a jock. “Like the dress you dedicated to your mom?”

I dipped a carrot into ranch dressing and chomped down on the inside of my mouth. “Don't get too excited.” I tasted blood. “It's just an idea. I don't know how I'm going to pull it off.”

He said, “I know you'll figure it out.”

I wasn't so confident. Making a dress to honor my parents would say something about me—something personal and private and scary. And right now, I wasn't sure how to do that.

All I knew was, I didn't want to talk about it in front of Samantha.

“I hope we're not interrupting,” she said, snatching the tater tots right off my tray. She popped one in her mouth and sat down opposite Dan. I couldn't help noticing her lip color was now neutral.

Miriam sat down across from me. “What a day. I am so frustrated.”

Three things happened (There was no need to ask. Samantha explained everything in excruciating detail even with her mouth full.)

One: The tree was officially, definitely still alive. I thought this was good news, but according to some botanist that Samantha had magically spoken to, it needed a lot of help, so it wasn't.

Two: Mounting a protest was not something even Samantha Strahan could plan in an hour. She needed a boost. Some momentum. If Roxanne was out of the picture, she asked
me while winking at Dan, “Whom can we contact?” (Yes. She actually used the word
whom
.)

Three: The farm was still roped off, so they couldn't get in and do anything. “It's a conspiracy,” she insisted in a very serious, dramatic voice, “to keep us away.”

I said, “The tree
was
hit by lightning.”

Miriam glared at me. “It doesn't really matter where we meet. We have to talk. In privacy. So, we're going to my house after school. Can you come?”

I looked at Dan. He looked at me. We didn't have plans. Neither of us was very good at coming up with a lie when we needed one.

He said, “We'll try.”

“Excellent.” Samantha took another tot. I ate two more carrots, then jogged back to the line to buy an extra-large bag of potato chips. And a chocolate bar. And one of those pre-made strawberry banana smoothies—the cafeteria ladies' favorite healthy choice. Of course, the seeds got stuck between my teeth.

I didn't want to go. It wasn't just Samantha and the way she picked her teeth when she thought no one was looking. I wasn't sure I agreed with them. I definitely didn't want to protest. I thought they should let the tree live or die and then go from there.

Miriam wouldn't understand that. “Don't you think we should go visit Abe?” I asked.

I was pretty sure there was nothing I could say that wouldn't annoy Miriam. “We're going to visit him.” She pulled out her phone. “Why don't you learn to check your messages? He's been texting us every hour on the hour.”

She handed me hers, so I could see what I'd missed. Big news! Able to walk across the room with one crutch. And Can you bring me some ice cream? And You are not going to believe who just visited me!

“So, who was it?” I asked, fingers crossed that it wasn't anyone bigger than Roxanne.

She couldn't remember the guy's name. “Some player from the Eagles. He gave Abe a photo and a signed football and tickets to a game.” She rolled her eyes. “You would think it was the greatest thing that ever happened to him.”

“It is pretty cool,” Dan said. He liked the Eagles. And the Phillies. But not the 76ers. He explained this to me once, but now I couldn't remember why.

“Actually, it's totally not cool,” Samantha said. “He didn't mention the farm. Not even once. Some friend he is! Doesn't he understand that his kind of fame is
always
short-lived?”

As she ranted about Abe, Roxanne, the board of supervisors, and the stupidity of people who were not her, I reached for my hamsa and wished for her to stop talking, so I could get out of this chair and out of this room. Dan squeezed my thigh. He was either thinking the same thing or he was just frisky.

When my phone vibrated, Samantha finally shut up. I looked at the number. “I don't know who this is,” I said.

“It could be Roxanne,” she said, practically jumping over the table.

I cursed my phone. The vibration mode was supposed to be silent, but it was loud enough to hear over the noise in the room. “I doubt it,” I said. I picked up my backpack and got up to leave.

Miriam half-waved. “Don't forget about the meeting.”

Samantha practically shouted, “Remember, we need you. Roxanne is our only hope. If you hear from her, don't forget …”

I walked to class, trying to convince myself that the worst was over. This story was dying—that was clear. Because if it had had legs, Roxanne and a whole bunch of other reporters would've shown up by now. Photographers would be peeking in the windows. My phone would be ringing off the hook—and it wouldn't be just Abe telling me to call him. One thing I was sure of: if nothing else happened, by the time Abe was released, no one would remember why he wasn't in school. There would be no new story. No rumors. No more questions. Tomorrow might be an ordinary day.

I sighed. It would be so nice to be completely anonymous.

As I got through my classes and nothing else happened, I relaxed. Maybe I'd worried for nothing. Maybe I wasn't that important after all.