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    Macy McMillan and the Rainbow Goddess


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      Reviews

      Praise for Shari Green’s

      Macy McMillan and the

      Rainbow Goddess

      “Clever, engaging, and accessible. Macy’s deafness is skillfully woven into the story, adding depth and complexity to her characterization and relationships with others.”

      —School Library Journal

      “Green’s story confronts life’s challenges with depth and realism, creating a narrative that is sparse yet impactful, with characters that are bursting with life.”

      —Booklist

      “A quick, accessible read, focusing on Macy’s realistic reluctance to share her mother and her gradual acceptance of the changes in her life.”

      —The Horn Book Magazine

      “A spare yet poignant narrative… Macy’s life lessons are realistic and illuminating; that she is deaf adds yet another dimension to an already powerful tale.”

      —Kirkus Reviews

      Full Title

      Copyright

      First published in Canada and the United States in 2017

      Text copyright © 2017 Shari Green.

      This edition copyright © 2017 Pajama Press Inc.

      This is a first edition.

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.

      www.pajamapress.ca info@pajamapress.ca

      The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

      Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

      Green, Shari, 1963-, author

      Macy McMillan and the rainbow goddess / Shari Green.

      ISBN 978-1-77278-033-8 (hardcover).--ISBN 978-1-77278-017-8 (softcover)

      I. Title.

      PS8613.R4283M33 2017 jC813’.6 C2016-906085-3

      Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)

      Names: Green, Shari, 1963-, author.

      Title: Macy McMillan and the Rainbow Goddess / by Shari Green.

      Description: Toronto, Ontario, Canada: Pajama Press, 2017. |Summary: “Deaf sixth-grader Macy expects disaster when she is sent to help her elderly neighbor Iris, who doesn’t know sign language, pack for a move to an assisted-living home. To her surprise, Iris soon becomes a firm friend who helps Macy face her own upcoming move, into the home of her mother’s soon-to-be husband and two young stepsisters” — Provided by publisher.

      Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-77278-017-8 (paperback) | 978-1-77278-033-8 (hardcover)

      Subjects: LCSH: Deaf children – Juvenile fiction. | Stepfamilies – Juvenile fiction.| BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Stepfamilies. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Themes / Special Needs.

      Classification: LCC PZ7.G744Mac |DDC [F] – dc23

      Illustration—Jacqueline Hudon-Verrelli

      Cover design—Rebecca Bender

      Interior design and typesetting—Rebecca Bender, and Martin Gould / martingould.com

      Manufactured by Friesens

      Printed in Canada

      Pajama Press Inc.

      181 Carlaw Ave., Suite 251, Toronto, Ontario Canada, M4M 2S1

      Distributed in Canada by UTP Distribution

      5201 Dufferin Street, Toronto, Ontario Canada, M3H 5T8

      Distributed in the U.S. by Ingram Publisher Services

      1 Ingram Blvd., La Vergne, TN 37086, USA

      Dedication

      For Jesse

      Chapter 1

      Our house on Pemberton Street

      with the red front door

      wildflower garden out back

      window seat just right for reading

      has a For Sale sign jammed

      in the front lawn.

      It’s the ugliest thing

      I’ve ever seen.

      I drop my school stuff

      in my room

      zip to the kitchen

      mix up some chocolate milk

      and gulp it down

      hoping to make my escape

      before Mom even knows

      I’m home.

      No

      such

      luck.

      From the corner of my eye

      I see her in the doorway

      waving

      to get my attention.

      I turn to face her.

      How was your day?

      she asks

      in sign language.

      I sign back

      tell her it was fine

      until I saw the For Sale sign again.

      That ruins my day

      every day.

      She rolls her eyes

      which doesn’t seem

      like a very mom thing

      to do.

      A moment later

      she pulls out her phone

      frowns at the screen

      uses her free hand to sign

      It’s work—one minute.

      I set my glass in the sink

      wait

      while Mom talks

      probably explaining computer stuff

      to a confused client.

      Sorry

      she says

      when the call’s done.

      After tucking the phone away

      she touches her thumb to her forehead

      then to her other thumb—remember—

      and already I know

      what she’s going to say.

      Remember

      to work on the centerpieces.

      I’m supposed to make centerpieces

      for the reception

      —a tea in the church hall

      after the wedding next month.

      I don’t get why anyone needs centerpieces

      to stare at while they drink tea

      after a bride

      who is my mother

      and a groom

      who is not my dad

      say I do.

      Besides, shaping ribbon

      candles

      fake flowers

      into something other than a mess

      is not my specialty.

      My skills are more

      bookish.

      I can hide out

      read past my bedtime

      get lost in a story

      like a pro.

      But the poppies are blooming

      I say

      with a long look

      out the kitchen window.

      Growing wildflowers

      is another of my specialties.

      I should be there

      to witness their grand opening.

      Mom glances outside

      to my corner of the backyard

      where fuzzy green stems hold buds

      round and ripe

      a few already open

      crimson petals fluttering

      in the breeze.

      Fine

      she says.

      Go. But don’t put off this job

      much longer. It’ll be June

      before you know it.

      I hug her quick

    &n
    bsp; turn to leave.

      She taps my shoulder.

      What now?

      You still need to pack too.

      Right.

      I’m thinking if I never pack my stuff

      I can’t move to a new house

      with a new stepfamily

      ever.

      Chapter 2

      Mr. Tanaka tells the class

      about our final project

      of sixth grade.

      I glance at him long enough

      to see his excitement

      —how much he thinks

      we’ll love this—

      but it’s still going to mean

      homework

      so I don’t expect we’ll love it

      as much as he does.

      I turn my focus to Ms. Eklund

      my interpreter

      who signs everything

      Mr. Tanaka says.

      Ms. Eklund fingerspells

      g-e-n-e-a-l-o-g-y

      says it means where we came from

      or rather

      who we came from

      ancestors

      family history

      family tree

      as if we’re all leaves

      on a big old maple.

      We have to trace our roots

      make a chart or poster

      present our work clearly

      and thoughtfully.

      We can include stories

      from different generations

      some photographs

      if we have them.

      I’ve got a feeling

      my project

      will be bare

      a family tree

      with only a few leaves clinging

      to the branches.

      Besides Mom and me

      there’s Uncle Caleb

      in Saskatoon

      and my Gran and Grampa

      in Detroit.

      That’s it

      for family.

      Do you even know

      your dad’s name?

      Olivia asks me at recess

      while a bunch of us sixth-graders

      kill time

      at the edge

      of the school playground.

      How on earth

      are you going to create

      a decent project?

      Olivia’s been my best friend

      since I came to Hamilton Elementary

      in second grade

      transferring

      from Braeside, the School

      for the Deaf.

      She lives only a block

      from me

      and of all the kids in my class

      she knows the most sign language.

      But sometimes

      she says something dumb

      —like asking if I know

      my father’s name—

      and the other kids

      laugh.

      I know

      I shouldn’t let it bug me

      tug me

      tie me

      in angry knots

      but controlling my temper

      is not

      one of my specialties.

      My hand snaps closed

      at my mouth, signing

      Shut up!

      And before I can think

      I add

      I hate you!

      and my stupid foot

      jabs into the pebbly dirt

      beside the playground

      sprays tiny stones

      at her shins.

      My stomach clenches.

      I want to undo the last minute

      dust off her shoes

      her shins

      smooth the ground

      take back the words

      my hands hurled.

      Olivia’s face flames pink

      eyes fill

      and she turns away.

      After recess

      Mr. Tanaka appears at my desk.

      He may not know

      much sign language

      but somehow he knows

      to give me detention.

      By the time

      I’m allowed to leave class

      Olivia

      is long gone.

      Chapter 3

      I spoke to Ms. Gillan this morning

      says Mom.

      She could really use a hand

      packing up her books

      before she moves.

      Ms. Gillan lives next door.

      There’s a For Sale sign

      in her lawn too

      but somehow

      it doesn’t look as nasty

      as the one in ours.

      Mom says

      I told her

      you’d be glad to help.

      Me?

      I haven’t even packed

      my own books yet.

      Mom’s face says she’s fully aware

      of my lack of packing

      and not exactly happy

      about it.

      If you’re not

      getting your own things in order

      she says

      you may as well

      help with hers.

      This is worse than detention.

      I barely know Ms. Gillan.

      She’s old

      and crabby

      and she doesn’t sign.

      I’ll pack my things, I promise!

      Yes, you will.

      But you’ll also help Ms. Gillan.

      Now go.

      She’s expecting you.

      I wilt like a daisy

      snapped off by the stem

      and left

      in the afternoon heat.

      Mom’s expression softens.

      It’s only a few boxes of books

      she says.

      It shouldn’t take long.

      I trudge back outside

      cross the lawn

      to Ms. Gillan’s house

      reach up to flick a maple leaf

      on the branch above me

      as I pass.

      I ring the buzzer

      and wait.

      Ms. Gillan opens the door

      peers down at me

      pale blue eyes set deep

      in her lined face.

      Her white hair protrudes

      in wispy waves

      reminding me

      of a dandelion gone to seed.

      After she lets me in

      I follow her

      to the living room

      stop

      stare.

      Two walls are orange

      bright

      bold

      nasturtium orange.

      The other two walls

      are completely hidden

      by towering

      shelves

      of books:

      shelves and shelves and shelves and

      shelves and shelves and shelves and

      shelves and shelves and shelves and

      shelves and shelves and shelves and

      shelves and shelves and shelves and

      shelves and shelves and shelves and

      shelves.

      A few boxes of books?

      I’m going to be here

      forever.

      I realize Ms. Gillan

      has been talking.

      I shake my head

      shrug a little

      hope she’ll try again

      with fewer words.

      She does.

      She points to a pile of cardboard

      beside a floral recliner

      —flattened boxes.

     
    When she hands me a roll of wide tape

      I understand.

      I bend

      fold

      unfold

      try again

      until the cardboard becomes

      a box shape.

      I tear off a strip of tape

      that stickstoitself

      in a crumpled mess

      cut another strip

      manage to tape closed

      the bottom

      of the box.

      I’m taping up the third box

      when my nose wrinkles

      at the stink

      of permanent marker.

      Ms. Gillan is writing on box number one

      in thick black letters

      K E E P

      She picks up the second box

      writes

      D O N A T E

      waits for me to hand her

      box number three

      writes

      R E C Y C L E

      I glance at the two walls of shelves

      wonder how many more boxes

      I’ll need to make.

      When I look back at Ms. Gillan

      she’s breathing hard

      like she just ran laps

      in gym class

      but there was only bending

      writing

      and the stink

      of marker.

      She sinks into an armchair.

      Now I know

      why she can’t pack

      her own books.

      I bring a stack from the first shelf

      set it on the floor

      near the boxes

      hold up one book after another

      for Ms. Gillan’s directions.

      keep

      donate

      donate

      donate

      keep

      A slip of paper falls

      from book number six.

      I reach for it—a receipt

     


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