Fish in a Tree Read online

  She unties her apron as she stares. “Did you take your bath yet?”

  “No.” I sigh. The tiredness in her voice says there’s no use arguing. I trudge toward the hallway.

  “By the way, I don’t want to hear you say that people hate you,” she calls out. “How could anyone on earth possibly hate you?”

  I wish she could understand my world. But it would be like trying to explain to a whale what it’s like to live in the forest.

  CHAPTER 6

  Triple-Sided Coin

  Travis opens the door of the pawn shop in town and waves me in ahead of him. The bell on the door announces our arrival as it hits the glass. The dusty smell of the place triggers a bunch of memories. Good times. Together times. When Dad and Grandpa would take Travis and me out looking for coins. Numbers and money are something Travis and I can do well. So we took to it fast.

  Grandpa loved the dustiest stores best because they were the ones that would have uncracked rolls of coins in the backs of their safes. When the store owners would trade the old rolls for new bills, we’d open them at home to see what was inside. Sometimes we’d find a buffalo nickel, a Mercury dime, or an Indian head penny. It was like a little bit of Christmas. Being here makes me ache to go back in time.

  The man behind the counter doesn’t say hello. He rolls a toothpick back and forth in his mouth with his tongue. In one way it is completely impressive, and in another, the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Travis rests his fingertips on the glass counter, looking down into the case filled with coins.

  “You need something?” The man doesn’t talk the way Mom says you’re supposed to talk to customers.

  “I want to buy some coins,” Travis says.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Travis brushes his chin with his knuckle—something he does when he is nervous.

  The guy reaches up and takes the toothpick out of his mouth. He uses it to point at Travis. “Do you have money or are you all talk?”

  Travis does what Dad said never to do. He shows him his money. And not money like a regular person. A roll of money wrapped in an elastic band.

  The guy’s eyes widen. Then he asks, “Looking for something special?”

  “I want liberty coins. You got any?”

  He takes out several coins. One is a Mercury dime with a head that looks like it has wings for ears. “I remember those!” I say. “Like the one Daddy has in his wallet.”

  Travis turns them over in his hand. “Nice. You have anything more unusual?”

  The guy’s eyebrows jump. He reaches into a drawer. “This is unusual, but it’ll cost you big.”

  “I don’t mind paying for something special.”

  “Okay, then,” he says. “This one is special.” He puts a penny on the counter.

  Travis picks it up and his eyebrows bunch up. “This is smaller than other pennies.”

  The guy nods. “It is. A rare find.”

  Travis glances at me, and then he turns toward the guy. “How much?”

  “Well,” the guy says, “if you know anything about coins, you know that a coin with a flaw in it is far more valuable than a regular coin.”

  Something isn’t right with it and it’s worth more?

  “Like I said,” Travis says, “how much?”

  The guy tilts his head to the side. “Well, normally I’d ask for eighty, but I’ll charge you . . . say . . . seventy-five?”

  Travis smiles. Even I remember how Dad used to tell us never to smile when you get a number. Never. Even if it’s the best number in the world—and here he is smiling like he won the lottery. I try to look serious enough for the both of us.

  “Well, that’s really generous of you. Seventy-five bucks for a penny that’s been dipped in nitric acid.”

  The guy’s smile falls off of his face.

  “I bet the police would be interested in a little bit of fraud.”

  “Now, listen—”

  Travis interrupts. “Look, I wasn’t born yesterday. Stop messing with me.” Travis points at a coin in the case that has a walking woman wrapped in a sheet with the sun’s rays behind her. It is beautiful. “That 1933 Walking Liberty half dollar. How much for that one?”

  “Well, that one is in really fine condition. In fact . . .”

  “Just tell me how much,” Travis says, leaning in, palms on the glass.

  “Forty-five.”

  “Thirty-six and you throw in the Mercury dime for my little sister.”

  I look up quick. For me?

  Then I do the math. Yup. He is following Dad’s rule of offering 20 percent less than what they offer. But Travis threw in something extra.

  The guy squints. “Forty.”

  Travis nods. “Done.” He slaps the money on the glass case.

  Outside the store, Travis holds the dime toward me.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful! I love it so much. Thank you, Travis! You’re the best!”

  He looks a little sad staring at the coin. “You know, Grandpa was born in 1933. That’s why I chose these coins. They were both minted in that year.”

  I look down at my Mercury dime and its date, wishing people could last as long as coins.

  When we get into the car, Travis says, “Did you see how that guy in there took me for a fool? Trying to rip me off. Remember, Ally. When people have low expectations of you, you can sometimes use it to your advantage.” Then he looks me right in the eyes and points at my nose. “As long as you don’t have low expectations of yourself. You hear?”

  I nod again. But I think to myself that it’s hard not to these days.

  CHAPTER 7

  No Grandpas Here

  I sit on my bed, holding my copy of Alice in Wonderland. The shaky writing in the front of the book says, “For Ally—my wondrous girl! Love, Grandpa.” The colors of the book are all bright even though the book is old. Inside, the pages are soft and the writing is bigger than in books now. But I still can’t read it by myself. It’s like having a gift that’s locked in a glass box.

  I’m feeling heavy, but I always do on Sunday nights. The thought of another week of school does that. It’s like knowing I have to pull a tire through a keyhole the next day.

  But I’ll have a new teacher. A Mr. Daniels sounds like a grandfatherly type with pockets full of lollipops, which could be nice. I’m hoping he’ll spend a lot of time straightening his bow tie and telling us about the good ol’ days and not giving us much work.

  But when I show up, I find that Mr. Daniels is no grandfather. He’s younger than Mrs. Hall. He wears a dark jacket and a tie with colored circles on it. When I get closer, I realize they’re planets.

  Most of the kids are gathered around him. I throw my stuff in the closet and walk over. He says, “My very excellent mother just served us nachos,” and claims it is an easy way to memorize the planets in order from the sun.

  Albert, whose hair reminds me of a bird’s nest, stands nearby. “I feel bad for Pluto.”

  I look over and my eyes are pulled to the bruises on his arms.

  “Pluto was a planet all those years and then someone just decided it wasn’t anymore? Too small. Too far away. Orbit not just right.”

  “I don’t really think Pluto cares, Albert,” I mumble.

  He sits in his chair and says, “Well, I do.”

  I feel bad for him and want to ask him about the marks. He is big and clunky but not fat. The kind of size where others would usually leave him alone.

  I pull out my chair and sit down. Okay, I tell myself. I’m going to do better. I’m going to work harder. That’s all I need to do. I’m going to really concentrate this time. Even though I know I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work.

  Reading for me is like when I drop something and my fingers scramble to catch it and just when I think I’ve got it, I don’t
. If trying to read helped, I’d be a genius.

  Mr. Daniels is in front of me. I hold my breath and lean back. He holds out his hand. “I’m Mr. Daniels. Nice to meet you,” he says.

  Shay leans toward Jessica. “I guess he doesn’t know who he’s talking to.” As usual, most of her friends laugh.

  “Hey,” Mr. Daniels says, turning to her. “That isn’t cool. We don’t do that in here.” Which wipes the smile off Shay’s face. Then he turns back to me. “What’s your name?”

  “Ally Nickerson,” I answer, so softly that even I can barely hear myself.

  “Well, are you going to shake my hand, Ally Nickerson?” he asks. “I don’t bite on Mondays.”

  Great. Just what I need. A funny guy for a teacher. I take his hand, but only for a second. My mind is already spinning off. Wondering what terrible things Mrs. Silver has told him. The plans they’ve made for me. I see myself wrapped in rope and lying on the train tracks just like in Grandpa’s old black-and-white silent movies.

  “Okay, Fantasticos! Take your seats!” he calls. “Time to set the world on fire!”

  Everyone scrambles to their seats, but I’m still lying on the imaginary train tracks. All tied up and watching the engine come around the corner.

  CHAPTER 8

  Real Trouble

  The first day with Mr. Daniels starts out okay because we have math in the morning and Mr. Daniels does this thing he calls the bus driver. He says, “You’re the bus driver.” And then he tells us how many people get on and off and we have to add and subtract the numbers in our head. No paper. No pencils. Just math.

  When I was younger, I loved math. Everything about math. But in school, math now has letters. Like what does x equal? There are also long stories with characters, and although the story is supposed to end with some number, all the words block my path to getting there.

  But the day turns into a wooden nickel day at snack time, when Mr. Daniels calls me up to his desk. He holds the assignment that I did for Mrs. Hall where we had to describe ourselves, the one with “Why?” written over and over on it. My stomach flops over.

  “So, I’m wondering what this means, exactly. Can you tell me?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  “I’m wondering if you can write just one paragraph for me. Something about you. I’d like to learn something about you.”

  I stay quiet. With teachers, if you stay quiet long enough, they start doing the talking for you. Filling in the answers and then you just have to nod. So I wait.

  But he waits, too.

  Finally, he says, “C’mon, now. Can you write that paragraph for me?”

  I feel heavy. “No,” I say.

  He doesn’t want to know about the real me. It’ll be like people in scary movies who think they want to know what’s in the basement, but when they find out, they’re always sorry.

  “Ally? Did you say no?” he asks, without being mad.

  I turn myself to stone.

  He takes a deep breath and leans forward. “So, is it writing you don’t like?”

  I think about saying no, except it could cause me trouble later. Like the chess games in Grandpa’s Alice in Wonderland book. You have to be super sure before you make a move final. But I figure Mr. Daniels probably already knows this about me, so I nod.

  “What do you like, then?”

  “Buffalo wings,” I say.

  He laughs a little. “What do you like about school?”

  “Leaving.”

  He waits for me to say more.

  “I like math. And art. I like to draw.”

  “Oh, well, that’s cool. Do you draw a lot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, do you find the writing difficult or do you just not like it?”

  “It’s easy,” I lie. “It’s just boring.”

  “Well, maybe we can do some things to make it less boring for you. To excite you about writing. It’s a great way to explore. Be creative. Ask questions.”

  I point at my paper. “I asked lots of questions there.”

  “Yes.” He laughs. “I guess you did.”

  He takes a deep breath. “Here’s the thing, Ally. I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve talked with both Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Silver. I know that you have spent a lot of time in the office in the past. You’re good at getting sent to the office, but you know, you can be too good at the wrong things.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I just want you to know that I’m going to try really hard not to send you to the office. If we have something to deal with, you and I will deal with it together.” He winks. “What happens in room 206 stays in room 206.”

  What?

  “So, we won’t involve Mrs. Silver anymore, okay? I think she has enough to do around here.”

  Oh no. Did he just take away my “Get Out of Jail Free” card?

  “Also,” he says, moving his head to look me in the eye, “I’m on your side, okay? I want to help you.”

  So he wants to help me, huh? He has no idea what he’s in for.

  CHAPTER 9

  Bag Full of Nothing

  Today, we’re each supposed to bring in something that represents us and tell the class about it. I thought of a few things I could bring, like a can full of dirt or a bag full of nothing.

  Mr. Daniels asks for volunteers to go first. Shock of the century when Shay raises her hand.

  She gets up there with a picture of her horse, Diamond. She goes on about how she loves him and goes riding several times a week but how it’s a lot of work to take care of him. She shows us her riding helmet and fancy riding jacket, too. I guess there really isn’t anything that she doesn’t have.

  Jessica brings a picture of Shay and talks about what good friends they are, which I think is funny since we’re supposed to talk about ourselves.

  Oliver bounces to the front of the room. His feet are never on the floor at the same time. He takes out a lightbulb. “I. Am. The giver of LIGHT!”

  “Really?” Mr. Daniels asks.

  “Well, my dad is. He sells lamps. And when I grow up I’m going to be a salesman, too. I’m going to sell hangers.”

  “Hangers?” Mr. Daniels asks.

  “Yeah! Because I was thinking that it should be something that everyone has, because you’d want to sell stuff that most people need, because if you sold stuff that nobody wanted, then you wouldn’t sell anything, right? And everybody needs hangers.”

  Mr. Daniels smiles and puts his hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Oliver, you are one clever boy. You know that?”

  I haven’t been in this school that long, but I’m going to guess that Oliver hasn’t heard that said much. He falls into his chair, which tips back, but he grabs his desk, rights himself, and cheers for his own victory.

  Albert gets up next. As always, he wears the shirt with Flint on it and his bruises. He reaches into a brown paper lunch bag and pulls out a jar of clear liquid.

  He clears his throat. “This is a mixture of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen molecules.”

  “Will it explode?” yells Oliver.

  Albert does not answer. Instead, he unscrews the metal lid and drinks whatever it is. I’m silently freaked out, but Oliver goes nuts. “He drank it! Did you see that? He drank molecules! Gross!”

  “It is merely water,” Albert reports.

  While Mr. Daniels speaks to Albert, Shay whispers to Jessica, “Water? Really? That’s all he’s got?”

  Shay has gotten even better at being mean. Ever since Mr. Daniels kept her in for recess for making fun of Oliver, she saves her comments for when Mr. Daniels is busy or talking to someone else.

  “This water was taken from a giant underground lake that goes on for miles and miles,” Albert announces. “It’s the same water that the dinosaurs walked through a hundred million years ago and the cavemen drank
. It’s the same water that polar bears swam in just last year and medieval knights guzzled after battle.”

  Oliver and most of the other boys stand, trying to get a better look.

  “That’s cool, Albert!” Max says. “Where did you get it?”

  Jessica and Shay smile and lean forward to look at Max. Shay calls out, “Yeah, Albert. Where did you get it?”

  “I got it from my kitchen faucet.”

  Huh?

  “The same water has been here and been reused since the Earth began. It is important to me because, as a scientist and historian, I know that we are but a blip on the Earth’s timeline. A grain of sand on an entire beach of time.”

  Kids are starting to groan. “Here goes the professor again,” Max says.

  “Yeah. Such a showoff,” Jessica says, turning to Max.

  “Now, knock that off,” Mr. Daniels says. “I think Albert’s idea is fascinating. How Earth has recycled its water over and over. Extraordinary, Albert!”

  Next, he calls on Keisha. She carries a small box and holds it like whatever is inside will break easily. When she takes out a cupcake, the boys argue about who’ll get to eat it.

  “This is a cupcake that I made. It isn’t from a box mix; it’s homemade.”

  “And why is it important to you?” Mr. Daniels asks.

  “I like to bake. I told my mom I want to start a business when I get older, and she said there’s no time like the present. So this is the first one I’ll show to anyone outside my family.”

  “My God,” Shay whispers. “She acts like she’s the first to make a cupcake. It’s not even decorated or anything.”

  “Shay. Please keep your comments constructive,” Mr. Daniels says.

  “Yes, it is plain on the outside,” Keisha says, half smiling at Shay, “but it’s the inside that matters.”

  Keisha takes a knife out of her box and cuts the cupcake in half and shows us the inside. “As you can see, it says ‘yum’ on the inside.”

  “How did you do that?” Suki asks, and I’m surprised to hear her talk. She hardly ever says anything.

  “I’ve been experimenting with making letters out of different kinds of dough. I stand the letters up in the cupcake batter and carefully cover them with more batter.”