Fish in a Tree Read online

  ALSO BY LYNDA MULLALY HUNT

  One for the Murphys

  NANCY PAULSEN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  Copyright © 2015 by Lynda Mullaly Hunt.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-101-60132-7

  Fish and tree silhouettes used under license from Shutterstock.com.

  Title lettering by Kristin Logsdon.

  Version_1

  Contents

  ALSO BY LYNDA MULLALY HUNT

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1: In Trouble Again

  CHAPTER 2: Yellow Card

  CHAPTER 3: Never up to Me

  CHAPTER 4: Bird in a Cage

  CHAPTER 5: Silver Dollars and Wooden Nickels

  CHAPTER 6: Triple-Sided Coin

  CHAPTER 7: No Grandpas Here

  CHAPTER 8: Real Trouble

  CHAPTER 9: Bag Full of Nothing

  CHAPTER 10: Promises, Promises . . .

  CHAPTER 11: Scrambled Egg

  CHAPTER 12: What’s Your Problem, Albert?

  CHAPTER 13: Trouble with Flowers

  CHAPTER 14: Boxed In and Boxed Out

  CHAPTER 15: Ungreased Gears

  CHAPTER 16: What I’ve Got

  CHAPTER 17: Misfit Lunch

  CHAPTER 18: Truths and Untruths

  CHAPTER 19: Not-So-Sweet Secret

  CHAPTER 20: Is This a Good Thing?

  CHAPTER 21: Butterfly Wishes

  CHAPTER 22: No Way to Treat a Queen

  CHAPTER 23: Words That Breathe

  CHAPTER 24: Imaginary Hero

  CHAPTER 25: Celebration or Devastation?

  CHAPTER 26: Stalling

  CHAPTER 27: Half-Baked Afternoon

  CHAPTER 28: Deal of a Lifetime

  CHAPTER 29: Fish in a Tree

  CHAPTER 30: Miserable King

  CHAPTER 31: Lots of Ways Home

  CHAPTER 32: Screen Time

  CHAPTER 33: Possibilities

  CHAPTER 34: Birth of a Star

  CHAPTER 35: A Picture Is Worth a Gazillion Words

  CHAPTER 36: In the Game of Life . . .

  CHAPTER 37: A Chicken, a Wolf, and a Problem

  CHAPTER 38: Loser for President

  CHAPTER 39: To-Shay

  CHAPTER 40: Tears of Different Kinds

  CHAPTER 41: Not-So-Secret Letter

  CHAPTER 42: The Gifts of No Excuses, Scotch Tape, and Antibiotics

  CHAPTER 43: Set the World on Fire

  CHAPTER 44: Tales of a Sixth Grade Something

  CHAPTER 45: My Brother’s Question

  CHAPTER 46: Flying Tigers and Baby Elephants

  CHAPTER 47: Great Minds Don’t Think Alike

  CHAPTER 48: Oliver’s Idea of Lucky

  CHAPTER 49: I See the Light

  CHAPTER 50: A Hero’s Job

  CHAPTER 51: C-O-U-R-A-GEnius

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR

  For teachers . . .

  who see the child before the student,

  who remind us that we all have

  special gifts to offer the world,

  who foster the importance of standing out

  rather than fitting in.

  And for kids . . .

  who find their grit to conquer life’s challenges—

  no matter what those challenges may be.

  You are heroes.

  This book is for you.

  CHAPTER 1

  In Trouble Again

  It’s always there. Like the ground underneath my feet.

  “Well, Ally? Are you going to write or aren’t you?” Mrs. Hall asks.

  If my teacher were mean it would be easier.

  “C’mon,” she says. “I know you can do it.”

  “What if I told you that I was going to climb a tree using only my teeth? Would you say I could do it then?”

  Oliver laughs, throwing himself on his desk like it’s a fumbled football.

  Shay groans. “Ally, why can’t you just act normal for once?”

  Near her, Albert, a bulky kid who’s worn the same thing every day—a dark T-shirt that reads Flint—sits up straight. Like he’s waiting for a firecracker to go off.

  Mrs. Hall sighs. “C’mon, now. I’m only asking for one page describing yourself.”

  I can’t think of anything worse than having to describe myself. I’d rather write about something more positive. Like throwing up at your own birthday party.

  “It’s important,” she says. “It’s so your new teacher can get to know you.”

  I know that, and it’s exactly why I don’t want to do it. Teachers are like the machines that take quarters for bouncy balls. You know what you’re going to get. Yet, you don’t know, too.

  “And,” she says, “all that doodling of yours, Ally. If you weren’t drawing all the time, your work might be done. Please put it away.”

  Embarrassed, I slide my drawings underneath my blank writing assignment. I’ve been drawing pictures of myself being shot out of a cannon. It would be easier than school. Less painful.

  “C’mon,” she says, moving my lined paper toward me. “Just do your best.”

  Seven schools in seven years and they’re all the same. Whenever I do my best, they tell me I don’t try hard enough. Too messy. Careless spelling. Annoyed that the same word is spelled different ways on the same page. And the headaches. I always get headaches from looking at the brightness of dark letters on white pages for too long.

  Mrs. Hall clears her throat.

  The rest of the class is getting tired of me again. Chairs slide. Loud sighs. Maybe they think I can’t hear their words: Freak. Dumb. Loser.

  I wish she’d just go hang by Albert, the walking Google page who’d get a better grade than me if he just blew his nose into the paper.

  The back of my neck heats up.

  I don’t get it. She always lets me slide. It must be because these are for the new teacher and she can’t have one missing.

  I stare at her big stomach. “So, did you decide what you’re going to name the baby?” I ask. Last week we got her talking about baby names for a full half hour of social studies.

  “C’mon, Ally. No more stalling.”

  I don’t answer.

  “I mean it,” she says, and I know she does.

  I watch a mind movie of her taking a stick and drawing a line in the dirt between us under a bright blue sky. She’s dressed as a sheriff and I’m wearing black-and-white prisoner stripes. My mind does this all the time—shows me these movies that seem so real that they carry me away inside of them. They are a relief from my real life.

  I steel up inside, willing myself to do something I don’t really want to do. To escape this teacher who’s
holding on and won’t let go.

  I pick up my pencil and her body relaxes, probably relieved that I’ve given in.

  But, instead, knowing she loves clean desks and things just so, I grip my pencil with a hard fist. And scribble all over my desk.

  “Ally!” She steps forward quick. “Why would you do that?”

  The circular scribbles are big on top and small on the bottom. It looks like a tornado and I wonder if I meant to draw a picture of my insides. I look back up at her. “It was there when I sat down.”

  The laughter starts—but they’re not laughing because they think I’m funny.

  “I can tell that you’re upset, Ally,” Mrs. Hall says.

  I am not hiding that as well as I need to.

  “She’s such a freak,” Shay says in one of those loud whispers that everyone is meant to hear.

  Oliver is drumming on his desk now.

  I fold my arms and stare up at her.

  “That’s it,” Mrs. Hall finally says. “To the office. Now.”

  I wanted this but now I am having second thoughts.

  “Ally.”

  “Huh?”

  Everyone laughs again. She puts up her hand. “Anyone else who makes a sound gives up their recess.” The room is quiet.

  “Ally. I said to the office.”

  I can’t go see our principal, Mrs. Silver, again. I go to the office so much, I wonder when they’ll hang up a banner that says WELCOME, ALLY NICKERSON!

  “I’m sorry,” I say, actually meaning it. “I’ll do it. I promise.”

  She sighs. “Okay, Ally, but if that pencil stops moving, you’re going.”

  She moves me to the reading table next to a Thanksgiving bulletin board about being grateful. Meanwhile, she sprays my desk with cleaner. Glancing at me like she’d like to spray me with cleaner. Scrub off the dumb.

  I squint a bit, hoping the lights will hurt my head less. And then I try to hold my pencil the way I’m supposed to instead of the weird way my hand wants to.

  I write with one hand and shield my paper with the other. I know I better keep the pencil moving, so I write the word “Why?” over and over from the top of the page to the very bottom.

  One, because I know how to spell it right and two, because I’m hoping someone will finally give me an answer.

  CHAPTER 2

  Yellow Card

  For Mrs. Hall’s baby shower, Jessica shows up with such a big bunch of flowers from her father’s florist shop that you’d swear she ripped a bush out of the ground and wrapped the bottom in foil.

  Whatever. I don’t care. I found a bright card with yellow roses at the store. And a picture of flowers won’t dry up in a week. I feel like it’s my way of saying I’m sorry for being such a pain all the time.

  Max gives his present to Mrs. Hall. He leans back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head as she opens it. He’s given her diapers. I think he hoped to get a reaction from her and seems disappointed when she’s happy.

  Max likes attention. He also likes parties. Just about every day, he asks Mrs. Hall for a party, and today, he’s finally getting one.

  When Mrs. Hall slides my card out of the envelope, she doesn’t read it out loud like all the others. She hesitates, and I know that she must really love it. And I feel proud, which isn’t something I feel very much.

  Mrs. Silver leans over to look. I figure I might finally get a compliment for once, but instead, her eyebrows bunch up and she motions me toward the door.

  Shay has gotten up to look. She laughs and says, “The world gets dumber every time Ally Nickerson speaks.”

  “Shay. Sit down,” Mrs. Hall says, but it’s too late. You can’t make people unhear something. I should be used to this, but it still takes a piece out of me every time.

  As Shay and Jessica laugh, I remember how we dressed up as our favorite book characters for Halloween last week. I came as Alice in Wonderland, from the book my grandpa read to me a ton of times. Shay and her shadow, Jessica, called me Alice in Blunderland all day.

  Keisha steps up to Shay and says, “Why don’t you mind your own business for once?”

  I like Keisha. She isn’t afraid. And I’m afraid of so much.

  Shay turns, looking like she’s ready to swat a fly. “Like it’s your business?” she asks her.

  “That’s right. It’s not my business, but it’s as much yours . . . as it is mine,” Keisha replies.

  Shay lets out a small gasp. “Stop talking to me.”

  “Stop being mean,” Keisha replies, leaning forward.

  Max folds his arms and leans forward across his desk. “Yes. There’s going to be a fight,” he says.

  “There’s isn’t going to be a fight,” Mrs. Hall says.

  Suki is holding one of her small wooden blocks. She has a collection of them that she keeps in a box and I’ve seen her take one out when she gets nervous. She’s nervous now.

  Shay glares at Keisha. Keisha is new this year and I’m surprised she’s said something.

  Everyone is all riled up and I don’t even know how this all happened.

  While Mrs. Hall tells them both to cool off and points out to Max that it’s foolish to root for a fight, Mrs. Silver waves me toward the door. What the heck is going on?

  Once we’re out in the hallway, I can tell by Mrs. Silver’s face that it’s going to be another one of those times when I’ll have to say I’m sorry or explain why I’ve done something. The thing is, I have no idea why I’m even in trouble this time.

  I stuff my hands in my pockets to keep them from doing something I’ll regret. I wish I could put my mouth in there, too.

  “I just don’t get it, Ally,” she says. “You’ve done other things that have been inappropriate, but this is just . . . well . . . different. It’s not like you.”

  It figures; I do something nice and she says it isn’t like me. And I can’t understand how buying a card is bad.

  “Ally,” Mrs. Silver says. “If you’re looking for attention, this isn’t the way to do it.”

  She has that wrong. I need attention like a fish needs a snorkel.

  The door swings all the way open, hitting the lockers, and Oliver springs from the room. “Ally,” he says. “I think you gave her that card to tell her you’re sorry she has to leave us to go have some dumb baby. She’s probably really sad. I feel sorry for her, too.”

  What is he talking about?

  “Oliver?” Mrs. Silver asks. “Is there a reason you’re out here?”

  “Yeah! I was going to . . . um . . . I was . . . going to go to the boys’ room. Yeah. That’s it.” And off he runs.

  “Can I just go now?” I blurt out, feeling like the job of just standing here is something I can’t do for another second.

  She shakes her head a bit as she speaks. “I just don’t get it. Why in the world would you give a pregnant woman a sympathy card?”

  Sympathy card? I think. And I think some more. And then I remember. My mom sends those to people when someone they love dies. My stomach churns, wondering what Mrs. Hall must have thought.

  “You do know what a sympathy card is, Ally, don’t you?”

  I should deny that I know, but I nod because I don’t want to have to hear Mrs. Silver explain it. And besides, she’ll think I’m even dumber than I am. If that’s possible.

  “Then why would you do such a thing?”

  I stand tall, but everything inside shrinks. The thing is, I feel real bad. I mean, I felt terrible when the neighbor’s dog died, never mind if a baby had died. I just didn’t know it was a sad card like that. All I could see were beautiful yellow flowers. And all I could imagine was how happy I was going to make her.

  But there are piles of reasons I can’t tell the absolute truth.

  Not to her.

  Not to anyone.

 
No matter how many times I have prayed and worked and hoped, reading for me is still like trying to make sense of a can of alphabet soup that’s been dumped on a plate. I just don’t know how other people do it.

  CHAPTER 3

  Never up to Me

  Leaning against the wall in the hallway, I stay quiet. Some little kids walk by, reminding me that I’m in sixth grade—the highest grade in this school. But I feel like a baby.

  “Ally? Do you have anything to say?” Mrs. Silver asks.

  I’m afraid to open my mouth because sometimes things just come out that get me in more trouble.

  Finally, she suggests we go to her office.

  I sit in the principal’s office staring out the window, silent. I wonder what it would be like to be able to relax at school and not have to worry every second of every minute.

  I wish I had my Sketchbook of Impossible Things. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not a waste of space. I like to watch the pictures in my head become real in my book. My recent favorite is a snowman that works in a furnace factory. And then I decide that the craziest, strangest, most unbelievable thing I could ever draw is me doing something right.

  Mrs. Silver’s sigh brings me back to reality. “Between last year and this year, you’ve been here for less than five months, Ally, and you’ve been to visit me far too much. You need to make some changes,” she says.

  I sit silent.

  “It’s up to you.”

  It’s not up to me. It’s never been up to me.

  Mrs. Silver’s talking is like background noise. Like the radio in the car.

  I don’t have any words to explain. It was a mistake. And I’m ashamed and I don’t feel like sharing that with her.

  She takes a breath. “Did you think it would be funny?”

  I shake my head.

  “Did you want to hurt her?”

  I look up quick. “No! I wouldn’t hurt her. I just . . .”

  And I wonder what I’ve wondered before. Should I just tell her? It’s like my chair is over a trapdoor and there is a button to drop myself. I want to, but I’m afraid. I look up at her. Looking at me all disappointed. Again. And I think that there’s no use. They already think I’m a pain, so why add dumb to their list? It’s not like they can help, anyway. How can you cure dumb?