The Art of Secrets
Read The Art of Secrets Online
Authors: Jim Klise
The Art
of Secrets
James Klise
ALGONQUIN 2014
At last, here's one just for Kate.
According to Intuit: The Center for Intuitive and Outsider Art, in Chicago, Illinois, “outsider art” can be defined as the “work of artists who demonstrate little influence from the mainstream art world and who instead are motivated by their unique personal visions.”
CONTENTS
Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal
Wendy Pinch, Department of Physical Education
Steve Davinski, senior & Saba Khan, sophomore
Ariel Ames, Department of English
Jean Delacroix, Department of Art
Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal
Wendy Pinch, Department of Physical Education
Ariel Ames, Department of English
Jean Delacroix, Department of Art
The City of Chicago Fire Department
Steve Davinski, senior & Saba Khan, sophomore
Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal
Jean Delacroix, Department of Art
Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal
An Unnamed College Admissions Counselor
Louise Denison, International Fine Art Authentication & Appraisals
ACT 1
Apartment fire leaves four homeless
Fire and police crews responded to a fire that gutted a two-bedroom apartment in West Rogers Park yesterday. The three-story brick building was evacuated and no injuries were reported.
According to the Chicago Fire Department, the fire began in a first-floor unit at 6313 N. Artesian around 4:00 p.m. By 6:00 p.m., the fire was extinguished, although some smoke was still visible from the street. Smoke damage affected the units above, and the building owner reported substantial basement flooding.
Fire Department spokesperson Harry Manning said, “This was a small fire that did a lot of damage to one unit quickly.” Officials are investigating the cause of the blaze.
The building is located just one block south of Devon Avenue, an area that is home to a diverse immigrant community from India and the Middle East. Onlookers gathered to watch the fire crews at work, and some reported knowing the displaced family, a couple with two children, who had occupied the rental unit for over a decade.
“It's only a tragedy,” said one woman passing the scene. “Some are born under a bad star.”
Another neighbor added quickly, “But this is a friendly block. We will look after this family and see they are cared for.”
Chicago Tribune
, October 2
On the evening of MONDAY, OCTOBER 29,
Saba Khan, sophomore,
endeavors to record a few burdensome thoughts before turning out the light.
Today at school, when the social worker asked what was “top of mind,” I answered sleep. Still having a little trouble getting my stressed-out brain to shut down at night. I asked the SW if I could get a prescriptionâsomething temporary, only a few nights a week, to help to guarantee some zzz's. I know these drugs exist. I've seen the TV ads with the glow-in-the-dark bug that flies around your bedroom at night + lands on your cheek while you dream.
The SW said, “I totally get it. I have something for you.” She swiveled around + rooted through a drawer in the cabinet behind her desk.
Sweet sleep at last, I thought. Yes. Bring it.
Glancing past the SW, my eyes settled on a delicate saint figurine that stands on her bookshelf. It's pretty, white glass. The lady stoops forward slightly, her eyes looking up to heaven. Or maybe she's looking up at the poster of the cartoon squirrel dangling by its tail from a tree branch. Underneath the squirrel, the words say, “Hang in there, baby! Forget about the nuts for now!”
The SW turned around + handed me . . . this notebook. She said, “You're a strong writer, yes? So if you're still having trouble sleeping, write down what's on your mind. Whatever's stressing you out. Write it all down, then put it away. You'll sleep better knowing it's all in the notebook rather than in your head.”
When I asked her if she'd read it, she was like, “No, the writing is for you, a place where you can store any worries until you feel rested + ready to deal with them. The important thing is, you seem to be doing fine, all things considered.”
That “all things” amused me. How impressive, I thought, that she has considered all the things.
OK . . . so I asked the SW for a magical, ethereal, glow-in-the-dark bug + she gave me this ordinary spiral-bound notebook. She hadn't said the word “journal,” which was genius, because I refuse to journal. I'm no Anne Frank. Anne Frank did not have a laptop or the Internetâbut then, ugh, neither do I anymore. This notebook is not what I wanted, but it is 10 o'clock already + there's a long night ahead + I'm desperate.
So here goes.
First of all, people at school need to review some simple facts. Everybody saw us in the park, at the tennis courts. The coaches saw us. My teammates saw us. Witnesses have provided statements on our behalf. Can a person be in 2 places at once?
Let the record show: My whole family was at the park on the afternoon of October 1, watching me completely destroy my opponent from Fenwick, a bony white girl with a weak grip + no sense of play. It definitely helped that I was rocking the new shorter haircut, the ends curling just past my shoulders, so that when I wore the yellow/red sweatband across my forehead, the girls laughed + said, “Look outâyo, it's Wonder Woman!” I loved it. I grabbed my racket + owned that court. As everyone knows, Day 1 after a new haircut is the most powerful day.
Just like everyone knows that while I, Wonder Woman, kicked that Fenwick girl's butt on the center court,
way
across
town
a fire destroyed everything in our apartment. I saw the pictures afterward. Our kitchen furniture looked
scary
âblack + lumpy, like chicken wings that have been left on a grill for too long.
We lost everything, 15 years of stuff. Photographs sent from Pakistan + the jewelry Ammi brought in a cardboard suitcase when she + Papa first came to this country.
15 years of my family's history, destroyed in under 2 hours.
4 weeks later, people are still looking at us funny. Nobody comes straight out + asks the blaming questions: How could you let that happen? How irresponsible can you people be? Orâwho did you piss off? Nobody asks, but the accusations are plain on their faces. Sometimes I think people want to hold victims responsible for the bad things that happen to them.
Cartoon squirrel is right. Forget about the nuts for now!
[She puts the notebook on the floor next to the bed and turns out the light.]
[Forty minutes later, she turns the light on again and opens the notebook.]
Also: The newspaper described all of usâthe whole neighborhoodâas “immigrants.” We are Americans! I was born at Swedish Covenant Hospital on Foster Avenue. So was Salman. He's only 6 + already he wants to be a U.S. Marine. Ammi + Papa did the paperwork, passed the citizen tests + took the oath. They probably know more about the U.S. Constitution than most parents at school. Papa splits Bulls season tickets with some guys at the factory, so he gets to see 5 Bulls games every winter. He's obsessed! Meanwhile, Ammi loves other American games: Clue, Yahtzee, Pictionary, Pit. It was like a sickness with the mothers in our old building, this bizarre fever for playing box games meant for kids.
I admit, I do feel
more
American than them, if that even makes sense. Maybe because Salman + I are citizens by birth, we're less traditional. They still dress like they did before they came here. I never wear the salwar kameez unless it's a holiday or we have visitors from Pakistan. On school days, it's fine with Ammi that I leave my dupattas at home in a drawerâin general, headscarves are not my personal choiceâbut I like having the option. When I take off my worthless school uniform, I dress the same as my friendsâjeans, T-shirts, stretchy tops, even sweatshirts when it gets cold.
But I'm a good person. I work hard. I pray when I'm supposed to. I fast when the calendar says to. I try to be thoughtful, generous + respectful. My guess is, Ammi + Papa are as proud of me as they are of Salman.
Sometimes, like any of my friends, I have to negotiate. Last year, when I decided to join the tennis team, Papa pitched a fit. He didn't like the idea of me going out in shorts, exposing my legs to the eyes of strangers. “You are 14,” he told me at the time, “not a little girl anymore.” Ammi convinced him to let me play. “It is good to be strong,” she reasoned at supper. Later she whispered to me, “Plus, when you win at something, it puts color in your cheek.”
Papa finally agreed, but only under the condition that I wear sweatpants when I play. He never liked the team T-shirts. “Too revealing,” he said. He always says that. Too revealing.
“Why is the T-shirt too revealing?” I asked him. “What do we have to protect? My sacred elbows?”
He smiled. “No,” he said. “Not your lovely elbows.”
“Scaly ugly elbows!” teased Salman from the sofa.
I was super annoyed at both of them. “What then? What is there to protect?”
Papa took off his wire-rimmed glasses, as he does whenever he wants us to stare into his big dark eyes + really listen to him. There are times when Papa looks at me + he seems to see more than just me. “Your innocence,” he answered finally, “as well as the innocence of others.”
I fully acknowledge that Ammi + Papa have taken huge risks + sacrificed everything for us. + sure, when I play tennis, I wear a loose T-shirt to please them. But I'm not the same as them. Sometimes I don't want to negotiate. The fact is, I'm not the innocent kid they think I am.
If only they knew.
In a way, the fire might have been the best thing that ever happened to me. But maybe even writing that is t.o.o. r.e.v.e.a.l.i.n.g.
