ink faded away
like it melted
right into the paper
leaving only
a faint stain.
I hold it over the RECYCLE box
raise my eyebrows in question.
Ms. Gillan clamps onto my forearm
drawing it close so she can see
the receipt in my hand.
She peers intently
releases my arm
takes the paper
and kisses it.
Seriously.
She kisses
an old receipt.
Then she starts talking
eyes ablaze
words words
words words
mouth moving faster
than I can follow.
I shake my head
and the words
stop.
The light in Ms. Gillan’s eyes dims
as she leans back
into the chair cushion.
She points to the sixth book
still in my hand
—Les Misérables.
Is it even in English?
I watch her lips form the word.
“Keep,” she says
which I’d already guessed.
Chapter 4
Olivia didn’t speak to me
look at me
acknowledge I exist.
I sat with Julianne and Emma
at lunch
but whenever I signed to them
they pasted on big smiles
so fake
nodding
pretending they understood
but I might as well have had a conversation
with my sandwich.
I’m glad they sat with me
but it’s times like this
I really miss Desi
and my other friends
at Braeside
—kids I can really talk to.
Now that school’s done
for the day
I should be researching
my family tree project
but I have to help Ms. Gillan
who stopped
trying to talk to me yesterday
after the book-six incident
like it was suddenly
too much trouble
not worth it
and I’m feeling more and more
like a dried-up
all-alone-on-my-branch
leaf.
I ring the bell
wait
wait
wait
until Ms. Gillan opens the door
wearing scarlet pants
and an orange blouse
as bright
as her walls.
She leans against the door frame
catching her breath.
When she’s ready
I head for the living room
but she stops me
leads me down the hall
to the kitchen
slow as a fuzzy caterpillar
making its way
along the fence top.
She points to a chair
so I pull it out from the table
sit down
wonder
what I’m in for.
She sets a glass of lemonade
on the table
hands me a sheet of paper
filled
with handwriting.
After giving me a nod
Ms. Gillan pours another glass
of lemonade
sits across from me
sips
waits
while I read.
I’d left my favorite novel on the bus.
I knew the ending well, of course, and yet
I bought another copy in a shop,
got chatting with the man who worked the till.
He loved the book, it seemed, as much as I.
“It’s closing time,” he said, neck blushing pink.
Perhaps I’d like to get some tea with him—
the small café next door? I said I would.
We took a window seat and talked for hours
of Jean Valjean, Cosette, a priest who dared
to offer second chances—oh! such fun
to speak of books, redemption, hope. The world
went by on rainy streets outside. Next day
I found my way back to the little shop.
“He’s gone back east,” the owner said of him.
“His father passed. He’ll have to help his mom.
I don’t expect him back for quite some time
—if ever.” Then I stepped outside and paused
beneath the bookshop sign: A Storied Life—
took in the lines and swirls of the words
and stored away the memory of when
I’d left my favorite novel on the bus.
Was this the story
with all the words words words?
The sixth-book story
from yesterday?
I rush to the living room
find the KEEP box
grab Les Misérables and return
to the kitchen.
I tap a finger on the book cover
then on the first line
of Ms. Gillan’s story.
I sign
Favorite book?
move my mouth
in the shape of the words
hoping
she’ll understand.
She smiles.
“Yes. My favorite book.”
And the man?
I ask
pointing at the handwritten words
on the paper.
“I never saw him again.”
I find a pen
write on the back
of Ms. Gillan’s paper.
We should find him!
What an adventure
that could be.
But she’s shaking her head
doesn’t want to search.
She takes the pen
from my hand.
It was years ago. Decades.
That story had the right ending
even if it was a little sad.
For just a moment
Ms. Gillan reminds me
of an autumn leaf
just as alone
as I am.
Chapter 5
Saturday after lunch
I dress in my soccer uniform
find Mom at her desk
nibbling the end
of a pen.
She looks up from her day-planner
eyes widen
at the sight of me.
You have a game today?
I have a game
every
Saturday.
A mix of guilt and panic flashes
across her face.
I’ve got a meeting
with the florist.
Maybe Alan can take you?
Her expression says this is a question
like, would I mind?
only it’s not really a question
because what other option
is there?
The game starts
in a half hour.
She grabs her phone
while I go fill my water bottle.
Even though I hate
missing games
I kind of hope Alan
is busy.
Nope.
He and the twins
&
nbsp; will be right over.
The drive to the field
goes pretty much as I expected
me in back, sandwiched
between Bethany and Kaitlin
curly ponytails bobbing
both girls in constant motion
—more than you’d think possible
when strapped down
by seatbelts—
patting my arms
to get my attention
for a million questions
I can’t decipher
and Alan
glancing at me in the rear-view mirror
awkwardly signing parts of sentences
with one hand
while he drives with the other.
It’s a relief
to dash across the pitch
meet up with my team
even though my coach taps his wrist
reminding me
I’m almost late.
I’m the second-worst player
on our team
because I get distracted
by buttercups
blooming
on the field
in danger of being trampled
by multitudes of cleats.
I’m paying attention today, though
when Olivia searches
for someone to pass to.
I’m open
but Olivia kicks the ball
to Jennifer Blister.
Jennifer
is the first-worst player
Last game
she scored on our own team.
Twice.
She receives the ball
turns
boots it hard.
One thing you have to admit
about Jennifer:
she’s got a powerful
kick.
The ball flies through the air
shooting off
toward the sidelines
and right
toward
Bethany and Kaitlin.
Bethany ducks.
Kaitlin
is too late
flings up her arms
to protect herself.
The ball
hits Kaitlin hard
before dropping to the ground
beside her.
Bethany grabs the ball
marches
onto the field
throws it
at Jennifer’s feet.
She’s hollering something
her tiny six-year-old self
giving Jennifer Blister
what-for.
Kaitlin’s finger is bent weird
disgusting
not at all the shape
it’s meant to be.
We have to go to the hospital
and I have to miss
the rest
of my game.
All of us pile
into Alan’s car.
Kaitlin leans against me
head on my shoulder
sniffy nose probably smearing
on my soccer jersey.
Ugh.
She’s cradling her wrecked hand
in her lap
tears glistening
on her face.
I put my arm around her
pat her shoulder
because I don’t know what else
to do.
Alan parks at the hospital
leads us inside
white walls
tile floor
the smell of disinfectant
hanging
in the halls.
After forever
Kaitlin’s finger is X-rayed
splinted
taped to the next not-broken finger.
She holds up her hand
proud
a hard-won souvenir
of her adventure.
Next stop: ice cream.
Alan buys sundaes for us
and we slide onto the plastic benches
of a booth.
The twins lift their bowls
tap their soft-serve twists together
—cheers!—
in serious danger
of losing the whole lot
in their laps.
They laugh
make a mess
never
stop
moving
and Alan does nothing
about it.
Just grins.
Chapter 6
I slip up to my room
slide a book from the shelf
jot a note
and stick it
on the cover
My favorite book.
It’s about a mouse
a princess
and soup.
Then I head to Ms. Gillan’s house.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea
but maybe
it is.
Maybe she’s not as crabby
as I thought.
She might just be
lonely.
And I know
she likes books.
When I get there
I hand her the book.
She reads my note
flips the book over
peers
at the back cover.
“Soup?” she says.
I shrug
smile
wait.
When she looks up again
You can borrow it
if you want.
But I don’t think
she understands
my signing.
She walks slowly
to the living room
reaches for a pocket-size notebook
leaf-green cover
a pen
tucked in its spiral binding.
She presses it into my hand
and waits.
I take the pen
open the notebook
fresh clean pages
write
Would you like to borrow
my favorite book?
She lights up.
“Yes, please,” she says
and then her mind
seems to wander
lost
in a daydream.
I do that too
when I have a good book
in hand.
I reach out tentatively
touch her arm.
She turns her attention to me.
Ms. Gillan? You okay?
She taps her chest
with her index finger
then slowly
deliberately
shapes her hand
—fingerspelling
i-r-i-s
then she says
“Call me Iris.”
I jot in the notebook
How did you learn
to fingerspell?
She nods toward a desk
at the back of the room
a computer
sitting front and center.
She Googled it?
That’s actually kind of
cool.
I write again
So…Iris?
Like the flower?
I make the sign for flower
fingertips together
touch the sides of my nose.
Her mouth drops open
eyes pop
wide.
“Certainly not!” she says.
Okaaay.
Not
like the flower.
She strides to the shelves
surprising me
with her speed.
She searches
for just a moment
pulls out a paperback
with black and gold cover.
She flips through
stops
stabs a finger
at the page
and shoves the book
toward me.
I peer at the spot
she indicated.
Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow.
She’s named after a goddess?
Wow. I suppose
if I’d been named after a goddess
I’d be proud of that.
But I was named after one of my mother’s
wild friends
(back in the days
when she had wild friends).
Wild Friend Macy won the coin toss
in the hospital delivery room.
If the dime had landed heads
rather than tails
I’d be named after Wild Friend Duckie
instead.
I’m not sure the kids at school
would ever
let me live that down.
Iris presses the book into my hands
so I take it
sink cross-legged onto the carpet
and read about a rainbow goddess
a messenger for the gods
traveling
by rainbow.
When I hold out the book
to give it back
she says, “Donate.”
It seems like an important book
to her
but maybe
she thinks someone else
needs to read it.
Into the box
it goes.
I retrieve the notebook
ask what might be
a cheeky question
but
I honestly want to know
what she’ll say.