11
Roman Holiday
Saturday, November 22
I came to the Detroit Institute of Arts for the first time when I was about four. I thought it was the most amazing place in the whole wide world.
Going there made me feel grown-up and special. Nanny (that’s what I called my grandma Diane) brought me with her as a special treat. That was long before we knew she was ill, back when Grandpa was still with the Detroit Police Department.
Mom and Daddy had tried convincing Nanny that I would get bored. “She’s too young to appreciate most of it,” they said.
But Nanny disagreed. “Not my Brianna,” she told them. She always treated me like she believed I could do anything. It made it easy for me to believe it, too. Nanny and I took our time, going from room to room. We each had our favorites and we started coming back again and again.
Now, as I walked into the museum, Nanny’s rose-scented perfume hit me in the face. I knew it wasn’t really her, just the memory of it. Still, my chest tightened, squeezing all the air out of my heart.
I swallowed hard and did a slow turn. So much time had passed since she died and I stopped coming here.
That first time with her was magical, though. Entering each room felt like walking inside a gigantic storybook. The paintings looked like huge illustrations and I would make up stories for each one.
My favorite piece of art was by an artist that Nanny said was “a local success story.” Charles McGee, one of our own. I knew when she said that, she meant he was African American, like us. Nanny had light beige skin, and hair that was more red than brown. Cinnamon freckles sprinkled over her nose and cheeks, and her eyes were such a pale gray that they looked almost blue. But she was a “proud black woman from the South.” That was how she always said it. She took pride in bringing me to the museum, exposing me to art by all kinds of people, but especially the African American artists. She wanted to make sure I could rock the whole Black Pride thing when I grew up. Living in Detroit, you gotta represent.
When Nanny died, I was seven. Now, as I stood before the enormous painting by Mr. McGee, Noah’s Ark: Genesis, I shivered. The scene in the painting was shown with all kinds of materials, like rope and cloth, that made you just want to touch it. But I didn’t. Even as I reached out toward it, I knew I wasn’t going to lay a finger on it. Nanny would come back from her grave, smack my butt with her shoe, then go right on back to heaven.
I remembered how important the collage painting had been to me then. How I used to come to painting and drawing classes here with Nanny and pledged to grow up to be an artist one day. Nanny died a few years later, but until then, I’d been convinced. But at some point, I stopped coming.
Laughter floated up the gallery steps and my thoughts came back to the present. I had come up with an activity plan based on McGee’s artwork. I was going to have the kids re-create the painting. Then we would give away goofy, silly prizes.
“Right this way, Miss Justice,” said Mr. Prigg. He was the educational coordinator with the museum, tall with long legs, and a long, flat nose, and glasses with rectangular lenses. Mr. Prigg talked with the kind of accent that made you think of snooty people on TV shows.
I’d spent way too much time with Mr. Prigg over the past several days. Setting up the event meant lots of coordination and paperwork. Mr. G. and Principal Striker had practically signed their lives away, promising we wouldn’t ruin the museum.
I wouldn’t admit it to Mom and Daddy, but I felt lots of pressure to make sure that nothing went wrong. Mr. Prigg’s eyes darted from one piece of art to the next, occasionally flicking a gaze back to me. His expression was clear: “Kid, don’t mess up my museum!”
So I swallowed hard as we descended to the lower level, where the kids would actually be staying. We turned a corner and the light was cold and gray and felt as far from Charles McGee and the rest of the museum as possible. Chewing the inside of my lip, I told myself to get a grip.
“I’m so excited and so appreciative of the museum,” I said. He didn’t seem to care.
He pushed open the door to one of the rooms. Under normal circumstances, it was the area used for teaching classes. The walls separating the room from the next space folded and rolled away. Now the space was huge.
Mr. Prigg pasted a smile on his face that fell slightly in the corners. He wasn’t happy about this, at all. At least fifty kids between four and ten were ready to tromp through his museum.
“Oh, my goodness, Brianna!” Becks exclaimed, rushing past Mr. Prigg as he retreated. “You look so tiny. Doesn’t she look tiny. You’re tiny!” She was talking to me and anyone who’d look at her. I loved her to pieces, but Becks was getting stranger and stranger. But no question she’d worked really hard over the past few weeks—all of us had.
Still, whenever we were around each other, it was like she was eyeing me all weird. The way you’d look at someone you really didn’t like all that well.
Now she’d been making a big deal out of the fact that I’d lost weight while I was sick. Every time she saw me, she said something. What was that all about?
“Bree!” Becks said, racing over and lifting me off the ground. She squeezed a little too tight.
Have I mentioned how much I hate being picked up like that?
I decided to ignore her, or at least try.
The closer it got to time for the kids to arrive, the faster my heart beat. Grandpa and one of his friends, also a retired Detroit policeman, were my security. Mom and one of her FBI buddies were also helping out.
Daddy was my on-site medic, in case anybody fell down or just needed a lollipop or someone to chase the monsters out of their sleeping bag. He came up and hugged me around my shoulders.
I hugged him back. “Dad, thank you so much. You and Mom didn’t have to give up going to the concert to help. You could have gone and had fun,” I said, still unable to believe that they’d given up a super-cool date night to help me.
He shrugged. “You know we wouldn’t miss this for the world. Now, take a deep breath, Baby Girl. From now until midnight, it’s about to get crazy!”
He was so right.
Our charges began arriving about fifteen minutes before six. Although forty-five kids had been registered early, by seven o’clock the number was up to seventy!
We decided to break the tours into two groups. I went on both and told the children we were doing a special project later, so they needed to pay attention. Back in the main room, we’d divided the space into sections based on age and activities. For the older kids, we had a dance competition and video games. The younger kids started off with a craft project.
“One of my favorite artists is a man named Charles McGee,” I told the kids. It was funny, seeing them listen to me like I was a grown-up. Liam especially—he looked at me like he was so proud. I… I hadn’t expected to feel choked up talking to the kids. Looking at their little faces, seeing them so excited about everything, it really did remind me of those visits back in the day with Nanny.
Later, after our tour, I asked, “Who remembers the big collage painting upstairs that Mr. McGee did?” Several hands shot up. I told the kids we were going to do our own collages. Becks helped me pass out materials. Across the room, I saw Lauren with the dance competition group. I knew she’d be great with them. Still, I wondered if she should have them lined up that way or if it would be better if she broke them into smaller groups.
Then I looked over and saw Sara with another group of eight-year-olds. They were doing crafts, too. We had about eight teachers and twenty-two sixth graders volunteering. Everybody knew what they were supposed to be doing. But I couldn’t help it. I almost gave myself whiplash, looking from one group to the other to try to figure out if everybody was doing everything right—you know? The way I’d written it down for them.
“Bree-Bree, can we start our college?” Liam asked.
“Collage,” I corrected. I knew I was making myself crazy.
“Bree-Bree?” Liam said again.
I was so distracted with everything going on elsewhere that I wasn’t really paying close attention to what I was doing. My clipboard was in my bag across the room. Maybe if I just went over it again and walked around and made sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to? Would that help me feel calmer?
Liam tugged on my sleeve. “Bree-Bree!”
For days I’d led meetings, sent out e-mails, updated everyone with every detail I could think of. Maybe now was the time to just let everyone do what they needed to do.
I drew a big breath and let it out long and slow. Was it time for me to trust my classmates for once?
“Here, Liam,” I said, passing him a bundle of pre-cut rope. “Would you help me pass this around?” His face lit up. Another kid tried to grab the rope and I thought for a second there’d be war—or at least, tug-o’-war. It was clear that Liam was proud of his assignment and eager to show what he could do.
Did the sixth-grade volunteers feel that way, too? And if they didn’t do everything perfectly, would that really be the end of the world?
Running my own cupcake empire was one thing, but being a leader for other people was really tough. I was chewing on the inside of my lip, listening to the blare of music coming from all four corners of the gigantic space, when Mr. G. came over and checked on us.
“I think it’s going really well,” he said.
Scanning the room, seeing all the different groups at play, I let out a huge sigh of relief.
I said, “Me, too.”
Sara came over and hugged me. “I’m having so much fun,” she said. Then she must have remembered that she was supposed to be cool and tough. So she switched back to her sassy-girl attitude.
She said, “Guuuuurl! I can’t wait ’til we go shopping on Black Friday. Looking around here at all these kids, I’ve been thinking about all of my money I’ve earned looking after my baby cousin. Put that with what I have in the bank and I’m gonna be rich!”
She bounced her shoulders up and down and waved her hands in the air. I felt so good, I waved my hands around, too.
Everything felt so great! Talking about holiday shopping with Sara while our other friends moved through the groups of kids laughing and having a good time. The four of us working together, just like we’d done last year during the class election.
Working so hard to make the fund-raiser a success had brought us closer, I was sure of it. We were going to be just like we used to be.