Still Life with Tornado(25)

When I was done weaving, instead of clipping off the extra wires that acted as warp spokes, I turned them to the sky and made them into shapes and curlicues and other things and spread them out so it looked like you were wearing the sun on your head. I spent the final weekend sewing a lining into the headpiece. Stitch by stitch, I knew this was the coolest thing I’d ever made. My hands were a mess—fingers red with old burns and pricks and a few tiny blood blisters from pinching myself with wire snippers. As I sewed the black felt and padded it out with stuffing, I felt tired—like an artist should feel after pouring her soul into a piece. I felt quiet, at peace, and not like the chattering art club every day in class. I polished the wire when I was done, and I put it in a box to take to school for the day we would unveil our final projects.

All the other students still just had their curvy Plexiglas projects. Carmen’s tornado was the best of the lot. She even cut some thin strips of Plexiglas and bent them to represent wind.

They got As.

I got an A+.

Miss Smith was wowed. She said she wanted my headpiece in the annual art show. She said, “This is really awesome, Sarah! This could win!” I remember feeling humble because artists should be humble. I looked at my hands. I picked at the scabs on my fingers.

I could see the art club seniors getting all worked up over it—feeling sorry for themselves and feeling like their projects were better—but mine was original.

Either way, the headpiece never made it to the art show.

That was how they showed me my place.

? ? ?

I wonder how the world showed Alleged Earl his place was in the alcove. I don’t think anybody should have to sleep on the street. I don’t think anybody should have to dig in the trash for food. It seems wrong in every possible situation. If he’s poor, someone should help him. If he’s mentally ill, someone should help him. What kind of place do we live in where so many people have to live on the street?

Doesn’t make any sense except that people have to show other people their place. And Alleged Earl’s place is in the alcove. And my place is not-in-school.

We both have original headpieces, but he makes a new one every other day and I only made one, which was stolen.

It’s a long story.

“Skipping school again?” ten-year-old Sarah asks.

I didn’t even see her coming because I was so busy looking at Alleged Earl.

“I guess,” I say.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she says.

I get up off the concrete and walk with her.

“Something happened at school,” she says. “That’s why you won’t go back.”

“Nah. I just don’t feel like it.”

“Something happened. Stop clamming up.”

“I’m not clamming up,” I say.

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” ten-year-old Sarah says. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s happened before.”

I think about this. She’s right. I’m sure a disappearing art project has happened before. It is not at all original. Maybe had something happened to me that was original I’d feel better about it.

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“Do you remember Julia?” she asks.

“I know a few Julias in school.”

“No. The one from the restaurant. The little girl.”

I remember Julia. I don’t think I’ll ever forget Julia. “Yes,” I say.

I was six. We were at our favorite Mexican restaurant for Día de los Muertos. We ordered dinner and, like always, right after we ordered Mom took me and Bruce to the bathroom. Bruce complained because he was fifteen and didn’t think he should be told to go to the bathroom anymore. Mom and I went into the ladies’ room and found only one stall open. The other stall had a roughly written OUT OF ORDER sign.

Mom said, “Just come in here with me and we’ll take turns.” We went into the stall and I got to pee first. While I was peeing, the ladies’ room door opened and a woman came in and started yelling at her kid. She was so mean, my pee stopped. She said, “Come here.” The kid made a little moan. “You can’t act like that at a restaurant!” Slap. “I told you to be good tonight!” Slap. “You need to behave, Julia!” Slap. At the third slap the little girl wailed. And when she did, I noticed she was really little. I was six and I didn’t wail like that. The woman said, “Are you ready to go back out? Stop crying! Are you ready?” The girl quieted down and huffed a few times. She finally said yes, and that was when Mom and I knew that the kid didn’t even really talk yet. She was probably, like, two years old.

Mom was frozen, a lump of toilet paper in one hand that she was handing to me, and her other hand on the door. By the time the ladies’ room door slammed shut, only about fifteen to twenty seconds had passed. I was able to finish peeing, but everything in the bathroom was different.

The fluorescent lights were flickering. I hadn’t noticed that before. I could hear one of the taps had been left running. Mom sat down to pee and even though we had a rule of turning our backs when we shared stalls, she said, “Look at me.”

Since she was sitting on a toilet, her eyes were at the same level as mine. She was crying a little. Tears were on her cheeks. Her face looked old. It looked tired. It looked scared. She just stared at me for what felt like a whole minute with this face. With those tears. I didn’t know what to say.