It's Only Temporary (18 page)

That, in a weird way, she was trying to make Sierra Madre seem more real?

None of it sounded very plausible, even if all of it was the truth.

“You ruined a souvenir of a very special day in those boys' lives,” Ms. O'Hare said. “Also, you abused both your
talent and the trust I placed in you all to do a professional job on this paper. And now, we have to figure out a way of making things right for those four boys. First, an apology is in order.”

“We're sorry,” the art kids mumbled in unison.

“Don't apologize to
me
, for heaven's sake,” Ms. O'Hare said, shaking her head in exasperation. “Apologize to the boys you wronged! And here they are now.”

And, to the horror of Skye and all the other art activities kids, Aaron Petterson, Danko Marshall, Cord Driscoll, and Kee Williams came slinking into the room, accompanied by their football coach. Kee looked briefly at Skye and gave her a secret smile so small that his mouth barely moved, and Danko glanced at her once, then blushed and looked away.

And for the first time in weeks, Skye wished again that she were invisible – just so she could stare deep into Danko's eyes and search for the artist who was hiding somewhere inside.

She wanted to know what he'd been trying to say.

“A
pologize to these nice young men,” Ms. O'Hare instructed her wayward little flock.

“We're sorry,” most of the art kids chorused, fingers crossed behind one or two backs.

Pip, however, had something else to say. “They aren't nice, and we only did what we did because we had to,” he said loudly, his voice shaking a little.

“Why did you have to?” Ms. O'Hare asked, frowning.

“Because those boys kept calling Pip against-the-law names, that's why,” Amanda said, stepping forward, her voice squeaking more than ever. “Like ‘
pansy
' and –” She whispered the bad words to Ms. O'Hare. “Especially Aaron and Cord! And Melissa and Taylor. And they aren't so nice to me, either.”

“They're mean,” Matteo and Jamila confirmed, heads nodding.

“And I know it's not a good thing to tattle,” Maddy said, after raising her hand, “but sometimes Aaron and Cord bump into me on purpose, and they call me ‘
retard
.' And those two girls do it, also.”

Skye knew how much courage it had taken Maddy to speak up, and she gave her friend's cold hand a warm squeeze.

Coach turned to face his players. “Is any of this true?” he asked quietly.

“No,” a sullen Aaron replied.

“They're lying,” Cord said.

“
All
of them?” Coach asked, folding his big arms across his chest.

“They aren't lying,” Kee said, stepping forward. “I guess we should apologize or something. All of us.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Danko mumbled.

“At the very least,” Coach said. “This sounds pretty serious, if you ask me.”

And they didn't know the worst of it, Skye thought, remembering when Pip had been shoved and kicked around just before Halloween. But that was their secret, she and Pip had decided.

“It sounds
very
serious,” a troubled-looking Ms. O'Hare
replied. “You kids should have spoken up earlier,” she added, turning to her students.

“But it didn't happen in class,” Skye tried to explain. “And Melissa and Taylor aren't even here. They'll never get in trouble, no matter what! They're not the type.”

“We'll take care of them later, if this information is accurate,” Ms. O'Hare assured her students. “But you must speak up to an adult when bad things happen.”

“Okay,” everyone mumbled with varying degrees of sincerity.

“Aaron and Cord, apologize to these young artists,” Coach said.

Cord's eyes narrowed, but he didn't dare disobey. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

“Me, too,” Aaron said, looking away.

“Say it, Aaron,” Coach told him. “And look them in the eyes like a man.”

“I
apologize
,” Aaron said, almost spitting out the words.

“I'll take care of some of this on the playing field,” Coach said, glaring at all four of his players. “Some extra push-ups and laps will help remind the team how athletes should behave, and I'm sure the
guys will be grateful to Aaron and Cord for the reminder. But the entire school should talk more about this – this
bullying
problem after Thanksgiving break, so I think Ms. O'Hare and I will take it to the principal, and we'll talk about doing some school-wide sensitivity training.”

Horrified, all the kids tried to stifle their groans.

“I agree,” Ms. O'Hare said, nodding her head. “And for the art activities kids' part, making things right is important, so my students are all going to chip in to reprint the inserts for the four of you
this very week
on the best paper money can buy,” Ms. O'Hare told the football players. “So they can sign them for all the other students, as planned, and so they'll be able to show them to their grandchildren someday.”

Skye almost lost it at that point, thinking of any of those boys being somebody's grandfather, but she stared at the ground and stifled her nervous giggles.

“So, will that do it, Coach?” Ms. O'Hare asked the football coach, who had just stolen a glance at his watch.

“I believe so,” he said, nodding solemnly. “But do you
have the original drawings handy? Because a couple of the boys wanted to keep theirs.”

“
Really?
” Ms. O'Hare asked, astonished.

“Really,” the coach confirmed. “And I'd love it if whoever did them would draw a nice one of me, too, after we get back from break. If it's not too much trouble, that is. I'd love to frame it and give it to Mrs. Coach for Christmas.”

Mrs. Coach!
Skye was delighted, hearing him call his wife that, and when she looked up, to her astonishment, Danko was grinning, too – but he wiped the smile off his face almost instantly, and he resumed his habitual blank, sullen stare.

The art activities kids all looked at Skye. “Sure,” she said, croaking out the word. “I'll be happy to draw a picture of you, Mr., um, Coach. And the originals are right over there,” she added, pointing to the teetering pile of papers left over from the Homecoming newspaper project. “I'll just go get them.”

“And then we can all go home,” Ms. O'Hare said. “Because I, for one, am in absolute
shreds
.”

“N
eed to stop?” the Albuquerque airline representative asked, pausing by a restroom.

“No thanks,” Skye told her, embarrassed both by the question and by having to be accompanied at all, though it was the rule until she was fifteen. “I'm fine.”

“Okay, but stick close,” the woman called out, clacking across the brown tiled floor again with leggy strides. “I don't want to lose you in this crowd.”

“You won't,” Skye shouted, hurrying to keep up. The Albuquerque International Sunport was jammed today with people – edgy parents, scared or excited little kids –intent upon their holiday travels, and Skye was momentarily homesick for Gran, and Sierra Madre.

“I hope someone's waiting,” the woman said, sounding irritated in advance over the possibility of some
glitch. “Because they'll have to sign off on you.”

“Someone will be there,” Skye promised, hoping it was true. The woman was making her sound like an unwanted parcel, which Skye hoped she was not.