Hope Is a Ferris Wheel (3 page)

COVERT
. Hidden, like a secret, or a spy. If I were a
spy, I would want to be covert and not attract attention to myself, but I guess I'm not cut out to be a spy, because I already attracted attention to myself with my layered blue haircut. Most fifth-graders don't have layered cuts or blue hair, but they are also not spies.

HYSTERICAL
. This is my favorite. It means funny but also crazy. On the first day of school I heard some kids talking about Mrs. Feinstein, who's this fourth-grade teacher (you probably know her, Mr. Savage) who worked in a canning factory in college, and one day—
FWOOMP
!—off went her pinkie, because it was too close to one of the cutters. Now she keeps it in a jar in her desk, everyone says, and sometimes she takes it out and waves it around at her students when they aren't paying attention, and she says, “
SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON'T PAY ATTENTION
?” Which is funny when you hear it from fourth-graders but probably not so funny when you're sitting in the front row of Mrs. Feinstein's class.

LANKY
. I made a memory booster for this word. We had memory boosters at my old school, where you take each letter of the word and make it mean something different. So for LANKY it's Long As Nine Knobby Yardsticks. I know the Knobby part doesn't make sense, but I was thinking knobby like knees, because lanky people
are usually skinny-legged, and their knees stick out, like Denny's (you know him, Mr. Savage, because he sits right in front of me). Do you ever notice how far out of his desk his legs stick? I have noticed.

NEUTRAL
. I asked my sister what this meant, and she said Switzerland, which makes no sense. Then she said it's when you don't pick a side, and sometimes that can be worse than picking the wrong side. Like in our home lately, there is my mom's side and my sister's side. I try to not be on any side, but secretly I'm always on my sister's side. Things aren't always her fault like Mom says.

POVERTY
. I think people associate this with trailer parks, because they think, “Those people are too poor to afford a real house.” I guess that's pretty much the meat of it, but I think there's a difference between when my mom says why we live in a trailer park and when everyone else says why we live in a trailer park.

RELUCTANT
. When you are reluctant, it means you don't want to do something. I didn't want to leave Oregon, especially because in California you have to pay sales tax on everything. You wouldn't think eight percent is that big a deal, but it makes a pretty big difference when you buy something for $3.99, and you only have four dollars, and—surprise!—sales tax.

VEXATION
. No one uses this word, ever, Mr. Savage.
I know what it means, but I'm never going to use it, because it's a pretty old word. I'm just telling you for your own good that no one ever says vexation unless they are about a hundred years old.

S
o, I did not turn in my vocabulary sentences. Everyone else did, but I didn't, because I got the directions a hundred percent wrong.

We were supposed to use the word in a sentence.
We were supposed to
use the word
in
a
sentence
. Not a thousand sentences, the way I did. And most of my sentences didn't even use the words!

I almost turned the homework in before I realized my mistake, but luckily Mr. Savage collected all the papers alphabetically (like our seating) and started with the fourth-graders before moving on to the fifth-graders. There are only eight fourth-graders, and they usually have different homework assignments, but we all have the
same vocabulary words. I've never been in a class with two grades in it, but Pepperwood has a bunch of them.

Meg Anderson was first, so I had time to look over Denny's shoulder to check out what he'd written, and I noticed that, first of all, he'd numbered all his sentences, and, second of all, each sentence was just that, one sentence, and third, the vocabulary words were underlined, and fourth, he had only used one sheet of paper instead of four.

I bet even the teachers at Sarah Borne wouldn't have accepted my homework. They would have laughed and laughed and marked it with a big red check-minus. (Winter says the teachers can't give out grades there.)

By the time Mr. Savage got to me, I had already crumpled up my four vocabulary pages and shoved them deep into my desk. I told him I'd left my paper at home, and he said, “Okay, just bring it next time, then.” After he walked away, a drop of sweat slithered its way down the back of my neck, and I was glad that at least some parts of my hair were long enough to hide it.

When recess started, I snuck over to the trash can by the door and threw my sentences away. Denny Libra glared at me the whole time and didn't stop until I left the room.

I was so upset, I could only think of one word to describe how I felt.

Vexation.

O
n Thursday night Mom made macaroni bake, the best thing she cooks. It's macaroni and cheese, plus sliced-up hot dogs and bell peppers, with bread crumbs baked on top. We used the nice plates, and Gloria lit a candle and set it on the built-in table, and we all sat down to eat.

Winter shuffled the noodles around on her plate, not saying anything, as usual, until she uncovered a bit of hot dog. Then she pushed her plate away, folded her arms, and said, “I'm a vegetarian.”

Gloria dropped her fork. This was the first time Winter had spoken in front of Mom for nearly a month. Only Mom was unsurprised and kept eating like nothing weird
was going on. All she said was, “Eat your food, Winter.”

Winter pushed her plate farther across the table, knocking over the saltshaker. “I don't eat meat anymore. I find it vile.”

“Well, that would have been nice to know an hour ago, when I was cooking it,” Mom said. “And I don't recall anyone putting in a request for fancy tofu dogs when we still had money on the food card.”

“I don't eat meat,” Winter said again, and she crossed her arms.

Gloria grimaced, which she is very good at. Usually it's funny to see a frown stretch across her face, but this time no one laughed. “Well, then,” she said to Mom, picking up her plate, “see you tomorrow, Carly.” And she left.

Once the door closed, Mom said to Winter, “Fine. But I'm not going to see good food wasted in this house.” She started picking out all the hot dog slices with her fingers and putting them on my plate, and even though I like hot dogs, my stomach cramped. I wondered why Winter hadn't told me anything about being a vegetarian.

Once Mom was finished, Winter took a bite of the macaroni noodles, letting some of the cheese drip off first. “Ugh. I can still taste the meat.”

“Well, next time, Winter, I will know that I have to read your mind before I start dinner,” Mom said, her eyes narrowing
and shrinking to the size of raisins. “Besides, hot dogs aren't even real meat.”

I almost choked on the hot dog I had just swallowed.

“I'm gonna eat some cottage cheese,” Winter said, scooting past me. A few seconds later I heard her say, from the fridge, “Great. It's expired.”

“It just expired yesterday,” Mom said. “And it's not even really expired—that's just a best-by date. You'll be fine. I can't count the number of times I've fed you girls ‘expired' cheese.”

I almost choked on the macaroni I'd just swallowed.

Winter came back to the table juggling the tub of cottage cheese, a spoon, and a package of English muffins. I scooted over so she wouldn't have to climb over me, but that meant Winter and Mom were now sitting right across from each other. Aside from the crinkling of plastic coming from Winter opening up the muffins, and the clatter of Mom's fork against her plate, the trailer was silent.

“Um,” I said, wanting to change the subject, and Mom and Winter both looked at me. “What does Dad do?”

Mom's eyes shrank even more. Talking about Dad is pretty much forbidden in the trailer. Or in front of Mom at all. Or even in front of Gloria, who will run and tell Mom instantly that her daughters are starting to get curious about their bloodline. “Don't call him
Dad
. If you have to
call him anything, call him your … your genetic donor.”

“What does our genetic donor do?” I asked, which made Winter snort.

Across the table, Mom's shoulders hunched and she shrank into herself. The angrier she is, the smaller she gets. “He doesn't
do
anything, Star. He isn't fit to be a father.”

“I mean, what's his job?” I asked as Mom shrank down still farther in her seat. I'd probably gone too far now, but I'd been wondering about Dad even more since Winter told me about the line on the birthday card. “Where does he work?”

Winter jumped right in. “What's his favorite hobby? How much money does he make? How old is he?” We already knew the answer to the last one because Gloria let it slip once, but Mom had reached her shrinking limit. She grabbed all the food and plates from the table and threw them in the sink.

“Go to bed, both of you. If I hear one more word about
that man
, you'll both be grounded. GO!”

Winter left, her combat boots stomping along the linoleum. I got our toothbrushes and changed into my pajamas, and the whole time Mom hunched over the sink, staring at the dishes full of food. I wanted to tell her I was sorry for bringing up Dad, but I didn't want her getting any smaller than she already was.

Winter didn't answer when I said good night, which made it hard to fall asleep, knowing she was mad, too.

After a while, I heard Mom's footsteps creak across the trailer to her own bedroom. I stayed awake long after her light turned off, and long after her breathing slowed to a heavy wheeze. From the way Winter's mattress shifted above me, I knew I wasn't the only one awake.

B
efore the bell rang on Friday, Mr. Savage made an announcement to everyone. “Star is starting a club,” he said, holding his arm out to me. I stood up and waved a little bit. “It meets after school on Wednesdays, in this room,” he went on. “Star, why don't you tell everyone about your club? What's it called?”

I cleared my throat and said, “It's called the Trailer Park Club.”

Someone coughed. It was one of the fourth-graders, I'm sure, because the eight of them sit in their own cluster by the door. I knew I should have run the name by Winter before announcing it.

Mr. Savage had his eyebrows halfway up his forehead.
“The Trailer Park Club?” he asked, and I could tell that he was embarrassed just to say it.

“Yes,” I said, “but even if you don't live in a trailer park, you can still come.”

Behind me, someone snorted. Well, maybe I wouldn't let them join at all. I sat back down and heard people whispering all around. Pretending not to notice, I pulled out a piece of paper and started working on a flyer, with 3-D block letters that Winter had taught me how to make. I only got to
TRA
before the bell rang, since block letters are sort of time-consuming.