Hope Is a Ferris Wheel (16 page)

G
enny sat next to me at lunch, planting her organic pudding in the empty slot on my lunch tray. “It's too bad you were sick yesterday,” Genny said. “The lady from the art museum came in and showed us how to draw bats.”

It would have been nice to know how to draw a bat, but otherwise I didn't feel that I'd missed very much. Genny asked what I was going to be for Halloween, which was on Friday. I took an extra big bite of pudding so I wouldn't have to say that I had kind of forgotten.

“I want to be a bird warrior woman,” Genny told me, “but we don't have enough feathers. Or enough glue. And
Mom says I can't glue feathers on my head.” It didn't seem to bother her that much. Nothing ever bothered Genny. It must be nice, I thought, right as Genny said, “I wonder what Eddie will dress up as.”

“You can ask him after school,” I said as Denny sat down, sliding a chocolate milk into Genny's waiting hand.

“It's Tuesday,” he said, and he gave me his most serious glare.

“Miss Fergusson said we could use her room today, since I was gone yesterday.” I couldn't help smiling as Denny ripped the top off his milk. “It was Eddie's idea.”

“We have to go home,” Denny said. “We don't live in a trailer park, so our parents actually want us to come home after school.”

I was building up a couple of choice words when Genny spoke up. “We just have to text Mom, that's all. Text her after school.”

But there was no way Denny was going to do that, so I suggested that Genny text her mom herself. “I can't,” she told me. “I don't have a phone anymore. I kept losing it. Denny's the responsible one.” It sounded like a compliment, but Denny shook his head, scowling.

I should have asked in my letter if Dad has a cell phone. Not that I could text him, since I don't have one, but at
least then I could call sometimes. I made a mental note to put it in my next letter. And another mental note to find out how long it takes for mail to go from California to Oregon.

T
he rest of the day dragged on and on, and Mr. Savage, who was in some kind of beard-scratching frenzy, made us read about the
Mayflower
straight from our history books. When I was learning about the Oregon Trail back in Oregon, everyone in class got to play a game in the computer lab. But we only have one computer in Mr. Savage's class, and it's brand-brand-new and doesn't have any games on it. Also, no one ever made a game about the
Mayflower
, and if they did, it would probably be really boring.

When the bell finally rang, and we finally got to Miss Fergusson's room, and everyone but the five of us had
finally cleared out, we moved our desks together in their usual circle and sat down.

No one said a word. They were all waiting for me. Eddie with his arms crossed, Langston with his feet on the desk, Denny with a mile-long glare, and Genny with her pencil poised and ready to take minutes. Even Miss Fergusson, at her desk, was looking up at me from her grade book.

I reached into my backpack and felt around for at least ten seconds before I remembered that I had ripped all the pages out of my club notebook. “Oh,” I said. “I don't have any poems with me.”

From her desk, Miss Fergusson called out, “You want me to print you some?”

“Uh, no,” I decided. “Today … Eddie's gonna take over.”

Langston started laughing, then stopped when Eddie shoved him out of his chair. “You want me to lead?” Eddie asked. “What poem are we doing?”

“You get to decide,” I told him. “It's your choice.”

“
Any
poem?”

“Any poem.” I figured that'd shut him up for a while.

He thought for a moment before rushing over to Miss Fergusson. After a few clicks of her mouse and some quick typing, her printer began spitting out a page, which Eddie
then grabbed and brought back to the group.

“Here,” he said, slapping the sheet of paper onto Denny's desk. “Do something for a change.”

Denny scowled, but his fear of being punched must have won out, because he began to read.

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

“Wing-ed,” Eddie corrected. “It has to be two syllables, otherwise it won't sound right.”

Denny continued.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

It was beautiful and short and reminded me of Emily Dickinson, except not as old-fashioned.

“I think this poem is a better version of Emily Dickinson's poem about hope,” Eddie told us.

“And,” Genny said, scribbling in the minutes, “they're both about birds.”

I didn't say anything. I wasn't going to argue that Emily Dickinson's version was still better, because I didn't think I had to.

“That's true,” Eddie said. “And also, Emily Dickinson said hope
perches,
but in this poem, dreams can
fly.
”

“Who wrote it?” Genny asked. Her pencil hovered above her paper, ready to write down the name.

“Langston Hughes,” Eddie told us.

Heavenly Donuts. There was no way. I turned to Langston and said, “You wrote that?” He smiled at me until Eddie informed us all, through a fit of laughter, that Langston couldn't write a grocery list. Langston Hughes was some other guy, a famous poet who was, like Emily Dickinson, dead.

“Oh.” I remembered. “So
you're
the one named after the famous poet.”

“Someday people will say that he was named after me,” Langston insisted.

This time both Denny and Eddie rolled their eyes.

We talked a bit more, mostly about the difference between dreams and hope, which we eventually agreed were basically the same thing. Because, as we had to remind Langston, the dreams mentioned in the poems
were not the dreams you have when you go to sleep. “We should do what we did before,” Eddie said, “when we said what hope was. But this time we can replace it with
dreams
. We'll see if they're still the same.”

“Metaphors,” Miss Fergusson called out from her desk. Her head was still buried in her grade book, but her voice carried across the room. “When you compare one thing to another thing by saying they're the same, even though they actually aren't, that's a metaphor. That's what you were doing last week.”

“I knew that,” Eddie called back to her. “Anyway, I said hope was a rock,” he told us. “And I still think that applies to dreams. And the more I've thought about it, the less stupid it sounds.”

It was Denny's turn next, but he just said, “Pass.”

Langston said he'd forgotten what he'd said about hope in the first place, but after Genny reminded him that he'd talked about a dirty window, he chewed on his fingernail and thought. “Dreams are different,” he said, finally. “Dreams can be clean windows. You can see through them better, but the glass is still in the way.”

Genny made us wait while she wrote hers down:

Dreams. Alive, but dead.

They can't breathe or blink, I think.

They live in your head.

Another haiku?

“So, Star. Do you think dreams can be a Ferris wheel?” Genny asked.

I wasn't sure. “I think dreams are different,” I said. I thought about it for a minute, and that's when I got it. “Dreams are a letter,” I said. “You fill it with all your thoughts and feelings and wishes. But then you have to send it away, and you're not sure when it will get where it's going or if you'll get anything back at all. But you have to send it to find out.”

Eddie was looking smug over at his desk, but I thought my answer was the best.

Once Genny finished up with the minutes, we ended the meeting and moved the desks back into their regular formation before heading outside. It was colder now, so we all stood around putting on our jackets. “That was fun,” Genny said. “No offense, Star, but sometimes Emily Dickinson makes me sleepy.”

I tried my best to not look as offended as I felt.

Eddie told me he had a whole bunch of new poem ideas to share for our meeting next week, too. He was practically grinning, and he looked like a completely different person. A person who had never punched anyone in his life. “No Robert Frost,” he was saying. “We're gonna stay away from that fool for as long as we can.”

What was he talking about? “This is the Emily Dickinson Club,” I reminded everyone.

“Well, today it was more like the Langston Hughes Club,” Genny said, reading from the minutes.

“It's the Emily Dickinson Club,” I said again. “We can't go changing it now. Besides, if we did, then Eddie would have to run it.” I didn't know nearly as much about poetry as Eddie did, but I was pretty sure I knew more than he did about Emily Dickinson.

“What if we take turns?” Eddie asked, stepping closer to me. Still grinning, like he wasn't trying to take over the club.

I looked over at Genny to see what she thought and caught her adding to the minutes. “Don't put this in,” I told her.

“It seems important,” she said.

“It's not important, because Eddie is not in charge, so he doesn't get to make any decisions,” I said. I turned back to Eddie and found that his smile had vanished.

“You're so stubborn,” he said, pushing past me. “C'mon, Langston.” And the two of them stalked off. Well, only Eddie stalked. Langston strolled along beside him.

“Whatever,” Denny said, when Langston and Eddie were out of sight. “This club would suck no matter what it was about.”

“Denny!” Surprisingly, Genny's face turned bright red. “Don't be such a crab!”

“It's the truth,” Denny said, glaring right at me. “Why do you think nobody wants to be in your stupid club? It's not because of Emily Dickinson. It's because of
you
. No one likes
you
.” Then he turned to go. “Come on, Genny. This club's over.”

I'd already known that Denny hated me. And I guess I'd known that no one else in class really liked me either, since they hadn't stopped calling me Star Trashy. But it still hurt to hear it said out loud.

“I like the club,” Genny said.

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “I mean, he's right. It's not like we'll ever get anyone else to join. This club is just a waste of time.” I sighed, trying to keep myself from crying. “Plus, now Eddie hates me, too.” If only I hadn't sent my letter to Dad already. Maybe he could have told me what to do.

Genny was seething next to me. Denny's words had nested in my throat, but they'd just made Genny mad. “He's wrong. Okay, Star? You'll see. Don't worry. ” She ran after her brother.

I wanted to believe her, but Denny was right.

Nobody liked Star Trashy.

Star Mackie

October 30

Week 7 Vocabulary Sentences

Why am I still doing these?

1. I am
desperate
to talk to Winter, or anyone else even, but preferably Winter, because she's the best at telling me that things will get better and how to make sure that they do.

2. I would even accept a Winter
doppelganger
. (And a Mr. Savage
doppelganger
, as long as he did not assign weird words.)

3. Plus, it'd be nice to know that Winter is okay. I can't even
fathom
what she's thinking—partly because she won't tell me, and partly because it's too hard to imagine.

4. It kind of sucks when you have no one else to talk to. It also sucks when half your club mates hate you, and it's not like you can
induce
anyone else to join your club, because they don't like you either.

5. Especially when they're all too busy
jeering
at you. And after a while, it's too easy to think that they're right.

6. Mostly I just want a letter from Dad to arrive, because I feel like I'm standing at the
margin
of hope, and the longer the letter takes, the closer I get to the very edge.

7. Or like I'm on a Ferris wheel that won't stop turning, and there's this
ominous
feeling, like if I don't get off soon, it'll be too late.

8. I wish hope was more like a
rampart
, something I could build up to protect myself when bad things happen. That would be a lot more useful than something that just perches there, waiting, or spins, sometimes without stopping.

9. The waiting is the worst part. I'd feel
substantially
better if there was no waiting at all. I'd even feel
substantially
better if I had anyone to talk to, but I think that, even if I did, they wouldn't understand.

10. So I guess the reason I'm still doing these sentences, even though I'm not very
zealous
about them, is because I have no one to talk to but myself. And that's better than nothing.