Paper Things (26 page)

Amid the excitement, though, something gives me pause. What exactly did Mr. Chandler mean when he said “all
eligible
fifth-graders”?

As I leave school, Sasha is standing outside the doors. Her time as patrol leader is up and she is back to being one of the walkers. I can’t help but hope that she’s waiting for me.

She is.

As surprised as I am that she’s waiting for me, I’m even more surprised that she’s alone, with no Linnie or Keisha in sight.

“Hey,” I say, feeling oddly shy around my former best friend.

“Hey,” she says, falling into step next to me. We walk together in silence for a ways. I feel like she wants to say something to me, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it could be.

“So . . . Fiona overheard you talking to that reporter this morning,” Sasha says.

My stomach drops. I didn’t remember there being anyone else except Daniel in the hallway when I was being interviewed — but then again, I hadn’t really been able to see anything but the camera.

“And . . . ?” I ask finally, unable to stand the silence.

“And,”
Sasha says, as we meander toward Head Start together, “she says you told the reporter that you were
homeless.
”

My skin prickles with shame, but I hold my chin up and look Sasha in the eyes. “I did. Because I was.”

Sasha stops and stares at me, challenging me with her eyes.

“What happened? Did Janna lose her condo? And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Gage and I moved out of Janna’s place for a while. They needed a break from each other, and I went with Gage. But it was harder being on our own than we’d realized it would be.”

Sasha puts her hands on her hips. “You still haven’t said why you didn’t tell me. Did you think I’d be mean about it? That I wouldn’t understand?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe.” I think about reminding her of the time she and Linnie and Keisha whisper-talked about how greasy my hair looked and how I smelled, but I decide not to. “But mostly I didn’t want you to feel bad for me — again. I’m so tired of being
poor Ari.
”

We continue walking without saying anything. “You know, I get how you were feeling,” Sasha says at last. “I got sick and tired of being
Ari’s shadow.
”

“My shadow?”

“You’ve always been the better student, the teachers’ favorite. So, when your grades started slipping and I got the leadership role but you didn’t, I thought maybe it was my turn to be the one in the spotlight.”

“And you thought I was ignoring you? That I was angry because you’d started to get some recognition?”

“Something like that.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Sasha,” I say. “That’s no way to treat a best friend.”

I wonder if Sasha is going to correct me, to tell me that she’s my
former
best friend, but instead she says, “If we all get into Carter, do you think you could learn to be friends with Keisha, too?”

I think about how cool Keisha was this morning, getting kids to wear their hats and speaking eloquently to the news reporter. “Sure,” I say. “But I doubt I’ll get in to Carter. I haven’t even sent in my application yet — and I’ve just announced to a reporter that I was homeless for six weeks!”

Sasha screws up her face at that. “They can’t deny you a spot because you were homeless. That’s, like, unconstitutional or something. And applications aren’t due till tomorrow. There’s still time.”

We part ways at the Laundromat, just like always. As I watch Sasha head home, I realize that she’s right. It’s not too late — not for Carter, and maybe not for us.

At Head Start I show the kids my crazy hat, and of course they want to make hats, too. Since Fran and Carol weren’t prepared to make hats today, Fran persuades the kids to make crowns instead. She helps them cut a jagged strip from construction paper that the kids can decorate with pom-poms and glitter. Then she staples the crowns to fit their heads. By the end of the afternoon, all the children have crowns, and their cheeks and noses are sparkling with glitter.

I’m just about to leave for the day, when Carol asks if perhaps I’d like to come to Head Start in the mornings during the summer. I hadn’t thought of working past graduation, but it occurs to me that Janna might want to keep on working as a nurse, and coming to Head Start would give me something to do while she’s at work. I tell her I’ll check with Janna.

Gage picks me up today, just like old times. Janna’s working this evening; Gage and I are going to Flatbread for pizza. As soon as we’ve walked out the door, he tells me that he’s going to have a room all his own at the stability house that West told him about, and that the people who run it have already helped him set up a savings account.

While listening to Gage’s ideas for the future, I hear Fran call good-bye. I turn to wave, and I see her — not behind us, not walking to the bus stop as usual, but pedaling away on a bike. I can’t wait to hear how that happened!

That night, I work on the application for Carter Middle School. Fortunately the blanks for address and name of guardian are now easy to fill in. For one of the questions, I write about my experience working with the kids at Head Start and about coming up with the idea for Reggie’s paper wishplanes. I don’t know if these are the sorts of things that will impress the Carter people, but they’re my truth.

I stare at the last question, the one that basically asks you to describe what sets you apart from your peers, what makes you special — what makes you Carter material.

I wonder if the people at Carter will read about me in the newspaper, talking about my experiences being homeless. That sure sets me apart. Maybe Sasha’s right, and they can’t legally discriminate against me for something like that, but I still can’t really believe that a school like Carter would want to admit a student whose most noteworthy quality is that she didn’t have a home for a month and a half.

I push the application aside. Maybe in the morning I’ll have the answer to the final essay question. But I sure don’t have it now.

I come downstairs to breakfast, and Janna, coffee cup in hand, is hunched over something at the breakfast bar. Her facial expression goes from smiling to a moment of sadness and then back to pleasure again.

“What are you reading?” I ask. She gets up from her seat, motioning for me to sit down, to see for myself. It’s the morning newspaper, and on the front page is a picture of me in my crazy hat, and the headline:

H
OMELESS
G
IRL
P
ROVIDES
M
EANS FOR
O
THER
S
TUDENTS TO
U
PHOLD
V
ALUED
T
RADITIONS

My stomach drops. I lean back in the chair, waiting for her to yell at me for airing my private business in front of the whole world, for being disloyal to her and to Gage.

Instead, though, she clears her throat and reads the article aloud:

“Ask anyone who attended Eastland Elementary School in the past twenty years and they will happily tell you about the school’s April First tradition: Crazy Hat Day. This year, however, Mr. Chandler, the newly appointed principal at the elementary school, abolished the practice, along with many of the school’s other traditions, citing a need to focus on academic standards instead.

“Today, in a protest led by Keisha Cooper, students wore crazy hats to express the importance of these traditions and the role they play in building a learning community. This isn’t the first time students have indicated their dissatisfaction with the changes at Eastland. Earlier this month, Arianna Hazard (who is credited with having had the original idea of a civic protest) and Daniel Huber hung snowflakes throughout the halls to bring attention to the issue.

“At the onset of Crazy Hat Day, Ms. Hazard was found at a crafts table she set up to provide materials for students to make their own hats if needed. Many weeks of homelessness have made Arianna Hazard particularly sensitive to students who might be in need of extra support.

“ ‘One of the best things about the Eastland Elementary traditions is that they let everyone feel like part of the same community, just like Keisha said,’ explained Ms. Hazard. ‘And I wanted to make sure that everyone who wanted to be a part of Crazy Hat Day had that opportunity — whatever their lives are like or whatever group they belong to. We’re all Eastland Tigers, and this is our way of saying that.’

“Thanks to the efforts of students like Arianna Hazard, Daniel Huber, and Keisha Cooper, the voices of the students were heard. By the end of the day, the Port City School Board agreed to reinstate these long-standing traditions.”

Janna puts the paper down.

“I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush. “I know I shouldn’t have said anything, and maybe now you’ll get in trouble or Gage will, and I’ve blown my chance at getting into Carter, which is all Mama ever wanted for me, but —”

“Hush, Ari,” Janna interrupts. Then she leaves the room.

I stand in the kitchen, fighting back tears. What have I done?

Just then, Janna returns, carrying a scrapbook. One with my name on it! She takes the scissors from the utility drawer, picks up the newspaper, and cuts out the article.

She opens the scrapbook. As she flips through the pages, I catch glimpses of pictures — pictures of me, and of Gage, and of me and Gage. Pictures of Mama and of the three of us together. Pictures that I thought were lost for good. All this time, Janna had kept them safe in a scrapbook.

About halfway through the scrapbook, the pictures stop being familiar. And I realize that somehow, without our ever realizing it, Janna had been taking pictures of me and Gage, documenting our time here with her. There’re pictures of us leaving for school, pictures of us cleaning up after dinner, pictures of us laughing together in the living room. Just everyday moments caught on camera — and saved in a book.

Janna stops at a blank page near the back, takes a glue stick from her pocket, applies glue to the back of the article, and carefully pastes it in the book. Above it, with a black Sharpie, she writes:
Proud Moment.

“I know that you and Gage hold your mother’s wishes for you close to your hearts, and I support that,” Janna says slowly. “But you’ve got to understand that she would never want
any
of her wishes to cause suffering. Your mother wanted you and Gage to love and support each other always — no matter where each of you was living — and that’s what you’ll do.

“And your mother wanted you to go to Carter because she wanted you to shine. But, Arianna Hazard, you can shine wherever you are. That doesn’t come from the school. That comes from you.”

She points to the picture of me in my crazy hat. “See! Look at you, girl!”

Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. I stare at those words emblazoned above the article:
Proud Moment.
Janna isn’t ashamed of me, or of Gage. She’s proud of us. She’s always been proud of us. And she knew my mama better than anyone.

“Could you take me to Office Mart later?” I ask suddenly.

“What for?”

“I’d like to make a copy of the article for my Carter application.”

In the end, the people at Carter might not choose me, but at least they will have gotten to know me — the me that my experiences have helped me to become.