6
At the end of our language arts lesson the next day, Miss Patel asks me to stay behind while the other kids go to lunch. I can see the looks they flash my way as they pack up their things. They’re wondering if I’m in trouble. I’m wondering the same thing.
Krysta gives me a little finger wave from across the room before she goes out into the hallway, our secret Good luck sign, but it makes me feel better only for a second.
I’ve worked so hard not to be noticed, but I must have failed somehow.
My legs quake as I go up to Miss Patel’s desk. On the way, I pass Mister Whiskers, who’s just had his eleventh birthday. Even though it’s illegal to give Amber to animals, Krysta claims that kids have been sneaking some to Mister Whiskers. That’s why he’s lived twice as long as a regular guinea pig. As I glance into his cage now, it makes me sad to think that he’s been locked up in there for longer than I’ve been alive.
“Mira, have a seat,” Miss Patel says, pointing at the small chair she always keeps at the end of her desk. Then she shuffles through some papers, and I realize they’re the creative writing exercises about spring that we did last week. “Ah, here it is.”
She plucks mine out of the stack. There’s green writing at the top, but I can’t make out what it says.
“Let me ask you something, Mira,” she says. “Do you enjoy writing?”
I swallow. “Y-yes.”
“I can tell. The entries in your writing journal are always so imaginative.”
“Thank you,” I say softly, since I think she means it as a compliment.
She scans through my story, as if looking for something. “There were some interesting phrases here. And the bit about lace curtains was…” She shakes her head, as if she can’t find the words.
My memories of our apartment back home are more feelings than anything else, but I remember that our upstairs neighbor had pink lace curtains in her windows to keep out the flies. In the spring, the lace would dance in the breeze like rose-colored waves. Now I wonder if I shouldn’t have included that detail in my story.
“I know it wasn’t as good as everyone else’s, but the words were all mine,” I finally blurt out.
Miss Patel laughs, and her long earrings jingle like tiny bells. “Of course they were yours! Why would I ever doubt that?” Then she looks at me curiously. “Have other people accused you of doing that?”
She doesn’t say “cheating,” but I know it’s what she means.
I nod, looking down at my hands, the shame burning along with the memory. “Last year, Mr. Meadows said my book report was too good not to be copied.”
Miss Patel closes her eyes for a moment, as if my words have stung her. Then she opens them again and looks at me. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Mira. You are a talented writer. With or without Amber. Don’t let anyone make you doubt that.”
Me. Talented? It seems impossible. But if Miss Patel is saying it, maybe it’s true.
“A local children’s magazine is having a writing contest. They are going to publish the winner’s entry in the next issue,” she says. “I think you should submit your story.
“A contest? But I won’t win.”
“You never know,” she says. “Either way, I think it would be eye-opening for people to read your work and discover that you’ve only been in this country for a few years.”
“You mean, to find out that I’m not like them.”
“Of course you are,” Miss Patel says. “Amber doesn’t change who a person is.”
It sounds as though she really believes that. Clearly she’s never had to live a day in her life without magic.
“Will you let me send the story in?” Miss Patel asks. “The deadline is next week. It can’t hurt, can it?”
“I guess not,” I admit. And the idea of my story being published in an actual magazine is too amazing to ignore. “Okay.”
She smiles. “Good. And, Mira, I thought you’d like to know that you’ll be getting an A− on this assignment.”
“An A−?” Not an A+. Not even an A.
“I’m afraid there were some spelling and grammar errors that I couldn’t ignore. But your voice and your imagery were so lovely that they made up for most of the points I had to deduct.” Her smile fades when she sees what must be a look of disappointment on my face. “I thought you’d be excited. This is the highest grade you’ve gotten all year.”
“I know,” I say. And I should be excited. It’s the highest grade I’ve gotten in my entire life. But it seems that even my absolute best will still never be perfect.
When I get to lunch, I’m surprised to find Yuli sitting at our table. Now that she’s in our dance group, I guess Krysta’s giving her a chance to prove she can be one of us.
The other girls are almost done eating. I plop down into the empty chair next to Krysta and pull out my purple lunch bag, identical to the ones Krysta and Eileen have. Yuli’s is green, but if she keeps sitting with us, I’m sure it won’t be for long.
“What did Miss Patel want?” Krysta asks. “Are you in trouble?”
Eileen gasps. “You’re in trouble?”
“No, nothing like that,” I say. And then, because the news is so fresh, I can’t help blurting out, “You know that story I showed you, the one about spring?” Krysta nods. “Well, Miss Patel asked if she could enter it in a contest.”
“A contest?” Krysta repeats, her voice suddenly too high. The overly bright smile on her face tells me I’ve made a mistake. “Congrats!”
“Wow,” Eileen says, but she doesn’t congratulate me. Instead her eyes are on Krysta. Because if anyone should be asked to enter a contest, it’s her. Those are the rules. How could I have forgotten that, even for a second?
“I won’t win or anything,” I rush to say. “I bet she asked me out of pity, because, you know…”
Krysta smiles. “Well, we’ll keep our fingers crossed for you,” she says, doing a Good luck finger wiggle again, but it looks forced this time. Then she glances at the other girls. “Won’t we?”
“Totally!” Eileen says while Yuli only nods, her eyes wide. Why can’t I be more like Yuli? She’s so quiet that she never has to worry about saying the wrong thing.
I mutter, “Thanks,” and then focus on unpacking my lunch, hoping the bell will ring soon.
“Egg salad again?” Krysta asks, eyeing my sandwich over her turkey wrap. “I don’t know how you can eat that every day. The smell makes me gag.”
This is news to me. Krysta was the one who insisted that we all bring egg salad every day last year. Tata got so tired of hard-boiling eggs that he had me start making my own lunch. Across the table, I see Yuli tucking the rest of her sandwich back into her bag. She probably has egg salad too.
My stomach grumbles, but I put my sandwich away, untouched, and open my carrot sticks instead, hoping those will pass muster.
Krysta laughs suddenly, and I freeze midchew. “Remember when you brought that dog food sandwich for lunch one time, Mira?” she asks.
I nearly spit out my bite of carrot. It’s been ages since she brought that up. I was hoping she’d forgotten. But of course, Krysta never forgets. This is the side of her I can’t stand, the one that lashes out like a cornered snake.
“What?” Eileen shrieks. “I don’t remember that!”
“It was before you moved here,” Krysta says. She turns back to me. “What was that thing you were eating again?”
“Liverwurst,” I say softly. “It’s like a paste made out of liver.”
The truth is, Tata still eats it all the time, but I haven’t been able to look at the stuff since that day in second grade when Krysta sent me fleeing to the bathroom during lunch.
“Whatever it was, it looked—and smelled—like something a dog would eat. And you had tomatoes on it,” Krysta says with a piercing laugh. “Dog food and tomato sandwich! Is that what people eat where you’re from?”
Eileen howls with laughter while Yuli stretches her pink lips into a stiff smile.
I want to say, No. No, they don’t eat dog food. No, I don’t eat dog food. But I only stare at my purple lunch bag, the one I bought because Krysta told me to. My appetite is gone.