Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Andromeda Project

That night, Lark brought the diorama down to the kitchen and presented it to their mother, who oohed and aahed and texted a picture to their father, who would see it right when he woke up.

Lark never mentioned that it was an astronomy assignment, and Iris did not either.

Lark’s diorama may not have been the assignment, but it was probably the best not-doing of an assignment in elementary-school history. Lark had made the background so it looked like a dark white-capped sea disappearing into a stormy horizon, and the purple squid bath toy looked like it was rising out of the waves toward the town, with one of its tentacles rising toward the chained Lego Moana/Andromeda. Behind her rose the town, with the silhouettes of the huddled queen and king on the backdrop. As for Andromeda herself, she was wearing a red toga over her Lego outfit, and her thin arms were pinned against the gray craggy clay rock face by a pink duct-tape chain. Still, she wore her Lego smile, as if she were just off working in the cupcake bakery, about to go save some dragon eggs with Lego Ella and Lego Azari Firedancer. The effect was impressive: here the sea monster menaces the people of Aethiopia, its long purple tentacle reaching out toward the chained princess; here in the distance the people who have condemned their princess to this terrible fate are huddled in fear; but Andromeda still smiles confidently, sagely, as if she knows something. As if she has a plan.

In Greek mythology, Perseus rescues the princess on his way to defeating the Gorgon. In Lark mythology, that sort of escape would not be nearly enough. Andromeda would have a secret plan that would topple the whole monarchy, perhaps the gods themselves, and by the end the sea monster and Andromeda would be peacefully ruling the kingdom together, land and sea.

And Iris could not help but wonder, would Lark tell the whole classroom that?

No, probably not. She knew better. Just like Iris knew not to start talking about presidential assassination attempts in front of her classmates, Lark knew not to stand in front of a classroom and explain that the murdered wives of Henry VIII became vengeful ghosts and haunted him until he went mad and repented all his sins, or that the dinosaurs all escaped to a secret planet and lived there with Amelia Earhart. You learn these things, over time.

Or had she learned?

Lark was going to stand up in front of the class to give an oral report on Greek myths when she was supposed to do astronomy, and maybe she hadn’t learned. School wasn’t about being creative. It was about doing what you were told. Most kids learn that by fifth grade, but Lark had not. The best way to get by with someone like Tommy Whedon was to try not to draw attention to yourself at all.

And Lark was about to draw a lot of attention to herself.

It was Crow Girl all over again: Lark wanting the world to be one way, when really it was something else altogether.

And maybe that was why Iris’s crow nightmare was so vivid that night. She awoke with the image of the gossipy, swarming crows overtaking her sister, and she could not go back to sleep. What if the project went wrong? What if Mr. Hunt asked her what it had to do with astronomy? What if Lark froze, and the kids laughed at her? And Iris wasn’t there to help her?

Well, Iris would have to help her now. So she got up and padded down the stairs.

The diorama was sitting on the kitchen table where Lark had left it. She’d put the lid back on so she could take it to school without anyone seeing what was inside. Lark liked to unveil things.

Iris took off the lid and studied the project. No, it wouldn’t take much to make it work for the assignment—just talking more about the constellations themselves. Maybe she could even add a few details about constellations in general, and how they got named.

So Iris sat down at her mom’s computer and made some notes—Andromeda was named a constellation by the astronomer Ptolemy in the second century, along with nearby Cassiopeia and Cepheus and Perseus (the hero who eventually rescued Andromeda) and the sea monster itself, called Cetus—and then printed up pictures of the constellations with illustrations of the figures drawn over them. Iris would not try to draw those herself—they would be all wrong.

But she could draw the stars. That way Lark could just point to them if Mr. Hunt asked. She could gather her thoughts, show the stars, maybe then refer to Iris’s notes.

Then it would be fine.

So Iris took a gold Sharpie and carefully drew in dots for the Andromeda constellation, as well as Perseus and Cetus. She didn’t have Lark’s artistry, and some of the proportions might not have been quite right, but she did the best she could. Then she folded up her notes and printouts and tucked them in an envelope.

And then Iris was able to sleep.

Of course, Lark overslept the next day, and the morning was too full of Lark-getting-ready chaos for Iris to give her the envelope full of notes, and when Lark finally came downstairs (dressed like herself again in an Alice in Wonderland T-shirt, puffy skirt, and purple-and-black leggings), Iris suddenly couldn’t find the words.

It had seemed so simple last night: She’d just do a little extra work and have it there if Lark needed it. And of course Lark would be delighted—who doesn’t want to have a backup plan?

In the bright light of day she remembered that Lark did not particularly love a backup plan.

So Iris slid the envelope in her own backpack. She’d wait until the time was right.

But the time wasn’t right in the car, with Lark chatting happily away. Iris kept one eye on the diorama, which Lark hadn’t opened yet, and another out the window. It seemed like there were crows everywhere this morning.

It will be fine, Iris reassured herself. It’s just extra facts. Extra facts never hurt anyone. It will be fine.

And Iris kept telling herself that as Lark walked into school carrying her diorama as if it were made of fairy dust and wishes, and when they entered the fifth-grade wing they found Oliver, Jin, and Mira waiting for them.

“Hi,” Iris said, glancing around.

Oliver gaped. “Wow,” he said. “You’re identical!” He looked as if none of the dictionaries in the world could have prepared him for this moment.

“Don’t stare, Oliver,” Mira said.

“Find your chill, Oliver,” Jin said. “Hi, Lark.”

“This is . . . my pod,” Iris said. Casually, she rested her hands on the ledge in front of her and tapped out, I’ll explain later.

“Okay!” Lark said cheerfully, wrapping her hands around the box. Weirdo, she tapped.

“We were waiting for you,” Oliver said. “We thought we’d walk you to class.”

“Me?” Lark said.

“Yeah, you’re our pod sister!”

Oliver, Jin, and Mira all grinned, and Iris wanted suddenly to build a diorama for them all. They had planned this—the pod. They had planned to meet Iris and Lark outside the fifth-grade wing and welcome them with open pod arms, so Lark wouldn’t have to walk to class alone after the whole vomit episode.

It was so nice. Like, really nice, not the kind of nice that old ladies in grocery stores and annoyed preschool teachers wanted you to be. Iris did not know what to do.

“What’s that?” Oliver asked, pointing at the box.

Lark grinned. “It’s a diorama. I have a presentation. It’s Andromeda.” She said it like it was no big deal, like Lark gave presentations all the time, with or without Greek mythology dioramas.

“Like the myth?” Oliver said.

Lark nodded happily.

“Neat. I made a Gorgon head out of Legos once,” Oliver said.

“They should have Lego Greek myth sets,” Jin said.

Lark’s jaw dropped, like this was the best idea she’d ever heard. “They should! Can you imagine Athena coming out of Zeus’s head?”

Mira shook her head ruefully. “You get to make dioramas? We never get to make dioramas.”

Cool pod, Lark tapped.

I know, Iris tapped back, the undercurrent between them crackling just as it was supposed to.

But something was wrong. Iris had something to tell her and she could not just tap it out. She reached into her backpack and put her hands on the envelope.

“Can we see?” Oliver asked.

“The bell’s about to ring,” Iris said, squeezing the envelope.

“Just a peek!” Jin said.

As Iris’s heart went into her stomach, Lark grinned and said, “Okay!” She lifted off the top of the box and displayed her creation for them, and as the whole pod made appreciative noises, her smile only got bigger.

She did not look inside. Maybe the stars would just disappear by presentation time. Maybe Iris had drawn them in magical disappearing Sharpie. Maybe Iris herself could disappear.

“I wish we did Greek myth projects,” Jin said.

“Why are there stars during the day?” Oliver asked.

The bell rang then, and so Lark put the top back on, looking at Oliver like he was very random indeed. Mira yelped something about them being late and Iris motioned them on.

“I’ll catch up,” she said, grabbing Lark’s arm.

“I can’t be late,” Lark whispered, shoulders slumping, eyes widening.

Iris breathed in. “Here,” she said, handing over the envelope. “I made you this. It’s just facts about constellations and some printouts with the pictures of all the Perseus constellations and stuff about Ptolemy and—”

Lark’s face went from confusion to slow comprehension to something that looked very much like hurt. Iris’s words shriveled in her mouth; she could feel herself shriveling with them.

Then red spread across Lark’s face, just as it had the first day of school. Mr. Hunt leaned out of the classroom and called for Lark, but for a moment she just stared at Iris as if she could not quite understand what she was seeing. Then she grabbed the envelope, turned, and stalked into the classroom.

Iris skulked to her seat and spent the morning feeling shame bubble inside her like a lava pit. Please, she thought, please let it be okay. Please.

Then, about halfway through math, Iris’s hand flew to her chest. She looked up and saw Mr. Hunt lurking in the doorway.

That burning inside her changed, suddenly, in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t shame anymore, but it was still bright red and hot and poisonous. She stood up before Ms. Shonubi even had a chance to call her name.

“Iris,” he said when they were standing in the hallway, hands folded and pressed against his chin, “there’s a . . . I was wondering if you could . . .”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Your sister is in the nurse’s office. I was wondering if you might go talk to her.”

“What happened?” This was his fault. If he hadn’t made Lark feel horrible, if he’d understood Lark like Mr. Anderson had, none of this would have happened.

“I’m afraid she got up to give a presentation and got very . . . flustered. Some of her classmates—there may have been some reaction to the incident on Monday. . . . There was some teasing and she was very upset and ran out of the room.”

Iris felt the heat rise in her cheeks, in her chest, in her fingertips. Hot tears burned in her eyes. Hot words rose up in her throat and burst out of her mouth. “You’re an ogre!” she yelled.

Heat rises. Iris knew this. And so her words floated up in the air to the ceiling and then just hung there where Iris and Mr. Hunt could stare at them. He gaped at the words, and then back at her, as if maybe she was the ogre.

Iris turned and ran.

Lark was in Ms. Baptiste’s office on the cot with a Barnhill Elementary blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was white with deep red splotches, and her eyes were swollen and red.

“You drew on my project,” Lark said.

Iris’s throat burned. She could not speak.

“You drew stars on my project,” Lark repeated. “You didn’t even draw them well. You’re terrible at drawing.”

“I’m sorry,” Iris breathed. Her tears were burning her face.

“And your envelope? Your little facts? Your printouts? You think I can’t look up stuff on the internet?”

“No, I—”

“I can, you know. I can look up stuff and write it down. And I can draw, too. I could have made these drawings.” Lark pulled a piece of paper out of her backpack and crumpled it up, then threw it at Iris.

“I know.”

“I could have drawn the stars on if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to do it my way. Why doesn’t anyone let me do things my way?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“But you did. You thought my way was stupid, so you thought you’d save me from myself, is that right?”

It was. It was exactly right. Iris was crumpling like paper.

“So all morning all I could see was you handing me that envelope. And I just wanted to go home. I should have gone home. But I didn’t—I couldn’t. And then it was time and I took the lid off and I saw what you’d done. You didn’t even tell me. You just left me to discover it! And Mr. Hunt kept calling me up and then people started laughing. And someone started making puking noises, and people laughed harder, and I’m holding this stupid stupid thing and—”

“Lark—”

Lark looked up at her. “If you don’t believe in me”—and now the tears were spilling out of her eyes again, spilling everywhere. She did not finish the thought.