Hope Is a Ferris Wheel (9 page)

I
'm starting a sentence boycott. This time didn't count, because I needed to know the words for the club, and besides, I just threw them in the trash as usual. I had to stop myself from giggling several times when Mr. Savage was standing next to the trash can, because it was so funny that they were right under his beard and he didn't even know it. Genny thought it was funny, too, when I told her at lunchtime.

Then she asked why I was throwing my sentences away.

So I told her, “I'm boycotting sentences. I've been doing them the whole time. I've just never turned them in.”

Denny coughed and said he was going to get some milk, grabbing Genny's quarters on his way. Genny asked
if she could join the boycott, but I don't want her getting detention, so I told her I had it covered. But it was nice of her to offer, I thought, considering no one else had. They'd all turned in their sentences this week, and now that Mr. Savage was giving me detention every time I didn't turn mine in, I didn't think anyone was going to try and get out of doing them again.

Since Genny couldn't boycott sentences, she decided to boycott her organic chocolate pudding and gave it to me, and when Denny came back and saw me spooning the pudding into my mouth, he scowled.

“You're supposed to eat that,” he told Genny.

“It's basically milk, which I already have.” And she took one of the milk cartons Denny had brought back. “Mom won't care.”

Denny glared at me like it was all my fault. I tried telling him Genny had given it to me, but my mouth was full of organic chocolate pudding. Which I don't think tastes that much different from regular chocolate pudding anyway.

After school Genny and I went to see Miss Fergusson again so we could hang a flyer up in her room. I asked if she had anyone else in mind for the club besides the student she'd mentioned, and she said, “Yes, I also know a sixth-grader who's planning on joining. He's even named after a famous poet.”

“There's a boy named Emily?” I asked.

“Different poet,” Miss Fergusson told me.

Denny was waiting outside, and for once he didn't yank Genny's arm and drag her away from me. Instead, he walked behind us with his hands jammed in his pockets while Genny and I worked out all our club details.

“That's five members so far that we know about,” Genny said. “We're gonna need a sign-in sheet. We could elect a treasurer!”

“Do treasurers do anything?” I asked.

“I don't think so.”

“Okay, that can be Denny's job.”

By the time we got to the front entrance, we had next Monday planned out. Surprisingly, Genny is full of good ideas. Just as I was about to ask her if she was still going to take the minutes, she gasped, pointed to the street, and said, “Denny, look! It's Winter!”

And it was. Winter's pickup was parked at the curb, with Winter inside. The giant pair of sunglasses sat on top of her head, keeping strands of curls out of her eyes. When she saw me, she waved, stepped out of the truck, and straightened out her skirt. Her high heels clicked against the pavement as she jogged over to me.

“Hey, Star. I figured I'd pick you up today.”

“I thought you got out after me,” I said, but I only
thought that because I never actually saw Winter until way after coming home from school.

“We had early dismissal,” she told me. Then she looked a little to my right, and her eyebrows jumped up her forehead. “Oh. Hi, Genny.”

Genny's mouth, Gloria would have said, was like a manhole without a cover, and her gaze darted between Winter and me and back again. “You know her?” she said, I think to both of us.

“We're sisters!” I told Genny, and then I realized what
she'd
said. “
You
know her?”

Genny turned and yelled, “Denny! Did you know that Star and Winter are sisters?”

Denny glared down at his own shoes.

“Mom wants to know when you're coming over again,” Genny said to Winter, and this time I had the manhole mouth. “And Allie won't say. Saturday would be best, 'cause we're having quiche. And it won't have any meat in it.”

With one quick motion, Winter pulled the sunglasses over her eyes. “Um. We'll see.”

“Okay. Denny! Come
on
!” Genny turned and ran over to her brother, grabbing his arm and dragging him down the block. Which was weird, but not as weird as both of them knowing who Winter was. I heard Genny's voice even as
she got farther away. “Let's go tell Allie! He's probably home now! They got early dismissal!”

After they were out of earshot, Winter said, “You didn't tell me you knew the Libras. Well, come on, let's go.”

Winter let me get into the truck first so I wouldn't have to walk in the street. Then, after she got in and had started the engine and was moving along with traffic, I said, “How do
you
know them?”

Emily Dickinson could have written a poem about the sigh Winter gave me, including words like
regret, sadness,
and
willow tree
. (Emily Dickinson always puts in plants or animals.) When she finally finished her sigh, she said, “I kind of went out with their brother Allie. Over the summer.”

I reviewed all the things I knew about Genny and Denny's brother: he went to Sarah Borne, he wore eyeliner, and he had a lip ring. Denny doesn't seem to like him. Oh, and he's their half brother, not their full brother. “What does he look like?” I asked. “Is he cute?” Denny looked like a long, skinny rat.

“Uh, kind of,” Winter said. “Like, in a pathetic way. We broke up a while back, but I guess he hasn't told his family yet. They always freaked me out. Like, they're a little too happy, you know?”

I thought of Genny and nodded, but then I thought of
Denny and said, “I don't think Denny knows how to be happy.”

“Is he the one with the staring problem?” Winter lifted up her sunglasses and did such a perfect impression of Denny's glare that we both burst out laughing, and the truck swerved a little too close to the sidewalk. Luckily we were on the street near Treasure Trailers, so there weren't any other cars around. Winter pulled up to the entrance and said, “I'm not driving on that gravel, so I'll let you out here.”

“Okay.” I'd forgotten that Winter was just giving me a ride home. I guess I assumed she'd come back to the trailer with me. Maybe because I had so much to tell her about the Emily Dickinson Club, and my sentence boycott, and detention, and, and, and. “Where are you going?”

“Work,” she said. “Those pretzels won't make themselves.” Leaning across the cab, she kissed me on the side of the forehead and added, “We get paid Friday, but I won't have enough for our Dad visit for another two weeks. Plus, I gotta find a place that'll cash checks and not charge too much.”

I gave her two thumbs up and jimmied open the creaky door so I could jump out. Maybe I should have been disappointed that we wouldn't be seeing Dad until the end of the month, but it was nice to have a little more time. By
this
Friday, all I'd have is two week's worth of detention.

But by the end of the month, I'd have myself an actual club and actual friends.

And Dad would want to hear all about it.

D
etention was the same as last week, with less punching. Even though I sat on the opposite side of the room this time, I was still positive that Eddie would be over at any second, fists flying like a couple of windmills.

But Eddie just sat there reading his book. He was the quietest kid in detention, but no one would sit by him. Probably because of the punching.

My new seat was awful, and I regretted moving, because now I was closer than ever to the other detention junkies. They all side-eyed me, and then side-mouthed to one another, probably about me, while Miss Fergusson was engrossed in her grading. I guess it wasn't that bad—all
I had to do was make sure I was the last to leave and pretend not to hear the girl who said my hair was the color of toilet cleaner. None of these delinquents know midnight blue when they see it.

Outside, the front entrance was as busy as ever. Eddie sat on the steps, completely absorbed in his thousand-page book, so I thought I'd be able to sneak by without being noticed or squinted at. But that was a big bust, because his mohawked friend was sitting right next to him, asking Eddie over and over again what he was reading. When Eddie didn't answer, he asked if it was a kissing book. And when Eddie still didn't answer, he made kissing sounds until Eddie shoved him off the steps. He stayed sprawled out on the ground like that was exactly where he wanted to be, and my covert escape plan was ruined, because I had to step right over him to leave.

“Hey,” he said to me. “Nice mullet.”

Layered cut
, I thought but didn't say, because even though I was sure Eddie wouldn't hit me without a reason, I wasn't so sure about his friend.

I
spent the whole weekend at the library, except for the times when the library was closed. I spent those hours either in Gloria's car or in Gloria's trailer or in our trailer. Not a whole lot of time in Gloria's trailer, because every time I open the door and the microwave turns on by itself, my heart jerks.

In the library, I must have skimmed every book about Emily Dickinson they had. I knew a lot about her already, from my vocabulary sentences and the books Miss Fergusson had lent me. But I still learned a few cool things, like how she had a sister (a sister!) and how she'd had her heart smashed to bits when some guy wouldn't marry her.

Everything I read just proved that Emily Dickinson and
Winter were almost the same person. Winter's heart may not be smashed, but I can tell she's carrying a big sadness inside her. The other night, after Mom had fallen asleep, Winter told me she hasn't been turning in all of her homework. “I thought I'd be able to do it at work,” she said, “but people are always wanting pretzels.” I pointed out to her that Emily Dickinson had dropped out of school completely, and she was still a great writer.

“Yeah,” Winter said, but the word was heavy with sadness. I hoped that seeing Dad would make that sadness go away.

On Monday, as soon as the last bell rang, Genny and I raced to Miss Fergusson's room, while Denny lagged behind. We said hi to Miss Fergusson, and she told us to go ahead and push some desks together. The couch looked so comfortable, but I guess only three or four people would be able to sit on it at one time, not an entire club. So Genny pushed five desks together, and then I squeezed a few more desks between them in case even more people showed up.

And then we waited.

Denny shuffled in, found a desk, crossed his arms, turned his glare on, and sat.

We waited some more.

Genny tapped her pencil against the paper she had out
to record the minutes. The clock was being slow on purpose, I think, and I ended up arranging and rearranging and straightening all my papers a hundred times. Just as I was about to ask Miss Fergusson where her so-called promised club members had gone off to, the door to her room squeaked open, and two pairs of feet scraped against the floor.

It was Eddie and, behind him, his mohawked buddy. Heading right for our cluster of desks, pointing at me and saying, “Poetry Club?”

I glanced behind me, to make sure he wasn't talking to someone else. “Um, Emily Dickinson Club,” I told him.

“Yup,” he said, instead of “Whoops” or “Oh, sorry, wrong room.” He tossed his backpack onto the nearest chair, where it thudded, as if the bottom was lined with cement.

“Good job being on time, boys,” Miss Fergusson said.

“Thanks!” said the boy with the mohawk. “And I would like to say, Fergie, that you look radiant today.”

“Flattery didn't get you far last year, Langston. Just take a seat.”

“You got it!” And Langston, the boy with the mohawk, sat right next to me, as if there were no other available chairs anywhere in the room. “Hey, I know you,” he said, fixing his sunken eyes on me. “You're Mullet Girl.”