The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z. (5 page)

He picks up my backpack and holds it out, singing that song that starts with all the leaves being brown. It’s “California Dreamin’.” And it’s way off-key.

Zig holds out a hand to help me jump down, and I take my bag from him. It gets dark fast when the sun sinks behind the trees. “Ready?”

“Ready.” I start to rush down but change my mind and wait for him to walk alongside me the last half mile out of the woods. I can’t help but think about those claw marks on the beech tree. If a bear comes along, I’d like to have some protection. If nothing else, I bet Zig’s singing would scare it off.

CHAPTER 4

M
onday.

Ugh.

It’s a gray morning. A roll-over-and-snuggle-deeper-inthe-covers morning. I studied for the French quiz a little last night, so I can officially complain that my
jambes
—that means “legs”—are killing me from the bike ride.

Plus, I still don’t have all my leaves for today’s deadline.

I flop over, and Miranda, my stuffed panda, slips over the edge of the loft into the Garbage Pit. That’s what Mom calls the space under my bed that was supposed to be my study area. I turned it into an art studio instead, with a small table and plastic containers for my pencils, oil pastels, paints, and brushes. It’s awesome, but it’s messy and sometimes a little sticky down there when I’m in the middle of something, which is always. I hope Miranda didn’t land in wet paint.

My alarm goes off again. I lean up onto my elbow, peek over the edge of my loft, and pull back the orange curtains that Nonna made for me when I wanted to paint my walls orange and Mom said no. She said that would be silly and nobody has orange walls and how would we ever sell the house. I pointed out that we weren’t moving, but it didn’t matter. I got boring white walls and curtains the color of pumpkins to sort of make up for it.

I look out the window, hoping for lightning or a tornado or some other good reason not to run, but it looks fine. Cold and cloudy, but fine.

Bianca’s probably out training by now,
a voice in my head says.

Shut up
, I tell the voice.

But I climb down from my loft anyway.

Miranda’s okay. She landed in a pile of magazine clippings I’m saving for a new collage. They probably helped break her fall. I pick her up and toss her into the heap of stuffed animals balanced against the wall under the window. They have to stay all piled up there because they’re covering up splashes of paint from the Jackson Pollock splatter painting I tried to do. I was really careful. I put down garbage bags on the floor before I started splattering and everything. Who knew that paint on a twirling eggbeater would go so far? I’m sure Miranda will be happy to help hide the evidence.

I get dressed fast because once I get going, I’ll be glad I went out. Running always wakes me up. And I need those leaves anyway.

“Morning, Gee!” Ian’s at the table with a bowl of Cheerios. He’s trying to eat them out of an ice-cream scoop, and milk is dribbling down his chin. “Wanna hear a riddle?”

“No.” I open the fridge to grab my water bottle. No teeth in there today. But the book Nonna was reading last night is leaning against the milk.

“Okay, ready . . . Knock-knock . . .”

“Who’s there?” I sit down on the steps to tie my running shoes.

“Sarah.”

“Sarah who?” I zip my sweatshirt.

“Sarah doctor in the house? Because the way you look first thing in the morning is making me sick!”

He laughs so hard he almost chokes on his Cheerios and probably goes on laughing long after I slam the door.

I take a deep breath and jog down the driveway. The air feels like little needles pricking into my lungs, but it’s a good cold—a wake-up kind of cold—and when I exhale, my breath makes puffy white clouds in front of my face.

“Hi, Mrs. Warren!” I call across the street, where my neighbor has stepped out in her pajamas to get the newspaper. “I really like that tree in your front yard. Do you know what kind it is?”

“Why yes!” She looks up at it, pleased. “It’s a Japanese maple.” So is she, I decide. She’s ornamental and decorative in her pink flowered nightshirt and satin pajama pants. She takes her paper inside, and I dart up onto the lawn to snatch a leaf.

At the corner, I pass Mr. Webster, the old man whose heart surgeon told him last summer that he has to go for a walk every day to get some exercise.

“Morning, Miss Zales,” he says, and I wave and slow down a little. He’s an oak, like Zig.

But there’s no Zig yet today. Just old Mr.Webster.

“Mr. Webster, do you know what this tree is with the really huge leaves and the long pods?”

“Catalpa!” He shouts because he has trouble hearing and thinks everyone else does too. I grab one of the leaves that’s fallen in the road and keep running.

Catalpa, catalpa. Japanese maple and catalpa. I have the key to identify them later, but this way I’ll be sure.

I pull my hands inside my sleeves and look up at the streetlight. A few sparkly little snowflakes are starting to fall. October snow!

When I was younger, I used to hate it if we had snow before Halloween because Mom would make me wear a huge puffy coat over my costume. One year, a giant puke-green parka swallowed my princess dress. I love early snow now, though. Especially snow that happens when you least expect it and just sprinkles down for a little while. It feels like a secret.

Zig would love this. I wonder if he’s running late.

I turn the next corner. No Zig. But the snowflakes get bigger. They’re the huge, fluffy ones that fall slowly like little white parachutes. I open my mouth, hoping some will fall in, but they all seem to land on my cheeks instead. I figure out I have to aim better, so I start watching individual flakes, tracking them on the way down so I can be in the right place when they get to mouth level. Weaving back and forth and ducking once in a while, I manage to catch five flakes on my tongue. They taste like Christmas.

I look down in time to swerve so I don’t crash into Mr. Nelson and Mr. Collins walking their dogs. They’ve lived in the blue house on the corner as long as anyone can remember. They’re both amazing piano players, and if you walk by their house at night in the summertime when the windows are open, you can almost always hear music.

What kind of tree is friendly and musical? I’ll have to check with Zig later.

“Hey, Mr. Nelson, do you know what kind of tree this is?” I jog up and point at a tree with feathery leaves. The dogs lunge forward and growl. They’re Pomeranians—like fluffy white rats, only louder. They pull at their leashes and snarl like pit bulls every day when I run by, and every time, Mr. Nelson gasps in surprise.

“Care Bear! Snuggles! What’s gotten into you?” he says as he pulls the dogs away from me and looks up at his tree. “It’s a Kentucky coffee tree. Isn’t it a beauty?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“No, it’s not.” Mr. Collins squints up at the tree and frowns. “That’s a honey locust.”

“No, James, that’s a Kentucky coffee tree. I remember that nice realtor lady, Bertha Jane Hemingway, telling us about it when she sold us the house.”

“Well, Bertha Jane Hemingway lied, because that’s not a Kentucky coffee tree.”

“It most certainly is. And Bertha Jane would absolutely flip her wig if she heard you say that.”

“That she lied? Or that it’s not a coffee tree?”

“Well, both, probably.”

“Well, she better get flipping, because it’s a honey locust, and she lied if she told you anything else. Come on, Care Bear.” He takes the leash and walks off down the sidewalk.

“Honestly . . .” Mr. Nelson pulls a few leaves from the tree and hands them to me. “Kentucky coffee tree,” he whispers. “Write it down.”

I nod and wave as he and Snuggles run to catch up. I’ll double-check it in my book later.

Now it’s snowing really hard—hard enough that my sweatshirt gets coated with a feathery layer of white that I have to brush off every few minutes. It’s so quiet, except for my sneakers thumping dark prints into the new snow. I tip my head up to watch the big flakes drift in the streetlights. This was worth getting up for.

I look down again and there’s Zig. Hopping off his bike with his newspaper bag about five houses up ahead. He jogs up and leaves the folded paper between the storm door and the screen, where Mrs. Donaldson likes it. He jumps back on his bike and coasts past me with a big smile.

I lift a quick hand to wave and keep running. We don’t say anything, not even hello. It’s an unspoken rule we have. We both love mornings because of the quiet. Maybe we’ll talk about the secret snow later, and maybe not. But I like knowing Zig saw it, too.

When I turn the corner for home, the snow starts to let up a little, and I spot another runner up ahead about half a block. Her pink running shorts barely cover her
derriere,
as Madame Wilder would say.

My legs must have their own brains because they decide all by themselves to speed up. A lot. Until I’m running right alongside her.

“Morning, Bianca!” I shout so she can’t help but hear me even through the iPod buds stuck in her ears.

She startles, and it breaks her stride, so I put on a new burst of speed and push past her. “See ya!” I call over my shoulder and run right past my house and around the corner again. Even though I really need to get showered to be on time for school. Even though another lap around the block will make me late. Even though that little stunt with Bianca will cost me later when she’s surrounded by her fan club in the cafeteria.

Sometimes running feels too good to stop.

I only do one more lap, though. I turn the corner and slow to a jog to cool down. Up ahead, I can see the blur of Bianca’s pink shorts as she crosses the street. It looks like she’s sped up, which is weird since she ought to be at the end of her run, too.

But then I see why.

Care Bear is loose. He’s chasing Bianca, snapping at her heels like he thinks he’s a Doberman.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

CHAPTER 5

I
shower as fast as I can, and I’m ready on time, but now I can’t find my backpack.

“Nonna, have you seen my backpack?”

“The red one?”

“No, that was, like, in third grade when I had a red one. It’s blue—dark blue with those silver moons on it. You know . . .”

“I always liked that red one.” She puts her tea in the microwave to heat it up and opens the oven door to peek in. “Not in here,” she says.

I check the hall closet.

“Dad, will you help me look?”

“Where did you last see it?” Dad asks, looking up from his casket catalog. This makes me want to kill him, so I have to stop looking and tell him so.

“If I knew where I last saw it, don’t you think I’d be there right now looking for it instead of running around the house at random?”

“Did you take it on your hike?” Dad flips to a page of mahogany caskets and sips coffee from his travel mug like he has all the time in the world.

“Actually, yes!” I forgive him for the where-did-you-last-see-it routine when I remember I left it in the garage with my bike. It’s there, hanging from the handlebars, so I grab it and head outside for the van. Except the van’s gone.

“Mom had an early meeting, so it’s you and me.” Dad tilts his head toward the hearse. “Besides, I have to pick up Mr. Disilvio at ten.”

“Dad! Not again!”

“Come on.” Dad opens the door for me. I slide into the passenger seat and turn on the radio. The digital clock says 7:48. Nine minutes to get to school. Two for my locker, and one to navigate through the crowd to homeroom and listen to Bianca’s new cadaver jokes. I might make it.

I unzip my backpack to start shoving in binders and find the bag of leaves from the hike. I add the new ones I got this morning and put the bag on the seat behind me so the leaves don’t get crushed while I organize my binders.

“How’s the leaf collection coming now?” Dad eyes my leaf bag in the rearview mirror.

“Pretty good.” I pull an orange from the bottom of my bag. It’s soft and leaking some kind of sticky syrup. I toss that in back, too. “Zig and I got a bunch of leaves on our hike, and I just need to do some research on them this week so I can put the whole thing together.”