It's Only Temporary (7 page)

Had he looked her way? Probably not, Skye decided, surprised to find herself feeling a little disappointed. But things weren't all bad,
because after lunch she'd be going to her favorite class of all at Amelia Ear hart Middle School: art.

The thing about art wasn't so much the actual art you made, in Skye's opinion. It was more that when you were making that art, time stood still and you forgot about everything: about the fun Hana might be having without you back in Albuquerque; about how weird it still felt to be living with Gran in Sierra Madre; even about your messed-up family, especially Scott, whose rehab seemed to have stalled.

She was still Scott's keyboarding assignment, as he kept reminding her.

“Hey, Skye,” a helium voice belonging to Amanda Berrigan–the first school day's locker mix-up girl – said. “What's that?” Amanda tried to get a look at the carefully disguised sketchbook disappearing into Skye's book bag.

“English,” Skye said, deliberately vague, even though Amanda was in her art class, and Skye was starting to like her. “I was just finishing up an assignment.”

Amanda Berrigan was a little taller than Skye, and slightly plump, with red-blond hair that seemed to glow with its own light. In spite of her bouncy walk and squeaky voice, however, Amanda proudly claimed to have what she called a “dark inner life.”

But Amanda was pretty cool. She was even nice to
Maddy, who by now was something of a before-and-after-school fixture in Skye's life, and who the art kids, at least, were gradually coming to accept.

“Skye-ster,” another voice said. It was Pip Claymore, another art kid Skye had been privately calling
Pipe Cleaner
in her sketchbook, because he was so skinny.

“Got your maps all ready for Ms. O'Hare?” Amanda asked Pip and Skye. Ms. O'Hare's assignment had been to draw a detailed map – of anything at all. “I did a map of my dream life,” Amanda said in a hushed voice, not waiting for their answers. She tweaked her bright hair, and, as she closed her blue eyes, sparkly slashes of turquoise eye shadow caught the sunlight. “My dream life is very grim, so prepare yourselves,” she whispered.

“Well, of course it's grim,” Pip said, the corner of his mouth twisted up in an ironic smile. “Your
life
is grim, what with all the riding lessons and cell phones and makeup and fancy clothes and everything.”

“What did you do for the project, Pip?” Skye asked him, before Amanda could explode.

“I drew a map of my face,” Pip said, grimacing. “Including my freckles and zits. It's kind of a connect-the-dots thing. What about you?”

“I drew a map of Sierra Madre,” Skye said, suddenly thinking maybe that hadn't been such a great idea.

Kids surged around them, because first period was about to start. “Move it, art jerks,” Aaron Petterson called out as he shoved past them. He jabbed his black notebook into Pip's ribs, and his lima-bean eyes gleamed with malice.

“Jock itch,” Pip mumbled to the boy's back.

And just as if a reverse switch had been thrown, Aaron backed up. “What did you say to me?” he roared over the din of the kids around them. And then he used a word that made everyone turn and look.

Skye was shocked by Aaron's use of that ugly word, grounds for a quick march to the principal's office back home in Albuquerque, at the very least. Still, kids seemed
to say it all the time – without even thinking about it, like it was a kind of all-purpose insult. Which made the word meaningless and boring, in a weird way.

“What did you say?” Aaron asked again, challenging Pip.

“Nothing,” Pip mumbled, looking away.

“You better believe it,
nothing
,” Aaron said loudly, looking around for an audience. “Pipsqueak. Pansy.” No one but Pip, Amanda, and Skye was listening to him, though, so he stopped reciting his list of insults. “You better watch it,” he warned Pip, and then he was gone.

“I miss him already,” Amanda said sarcastically.

“See you in art, jerks,” Pip said to Amanda and Skye, laughing a little shakily as he echoed Aaron's intended insult.

“Yeah. See you, art jerks,” Skye said, smiling, and the sting somehow drained away from what Aaron had said as they claimed those words as their own.

“E
xcellent, people,” Ms. O'Hare said a few hours later as her art class surveyed the maps tacked up on the room's wide bulletin board. She fluffed her wavy bangs and smoothed the long ponytail that curled over one shoulder and surveyed her students' first independent project. “Just excellent.” She smiled, and her eyes shone.

Jamila Westmoreland raised her hand and waggled her long brown fingers to attract Ms. O'Hare's attention. “Are we going to vote on them, to see which one is the best?” she asked when Ms. O'Hare called on her.

Ms. O'Hare looked momentarily
confused. “Vote on them?” she asked. “This is not a contest, Jamila. This is art.”

Jamila – and a few other kids – looked disappointed.

“But I do have an announcement to make,” Ms. O'Hare said, as if that might cheer up her more competitive students. “I've been asked to start an after-school art activities group, to take care of all the art chores the school evidently thought we'd be doing in this class.”

It was Ms. O'Hare's first year here, too, Skye had learned.

Matteo Molina's arm shot up. “What kind of art chores?” he asked when Ms. O'Hare called his name. He sounded a little suspicious. “Like cleaning out brushes and stuff?”

“No,” Ms. O'Hare said, shaking her head. “More like making posters and banners, and working on the special newspaper for Homecoming, complete with the famous insert of the football players, and so on. It'll be mostly lettering, some cut-and-paste, and a little computer work, of course, but there should be some creativity involved. It'll be fun,” she promised – sounding unconvinced herself.

But it did sound like fun, at least to Skye. It would be something to do after school, anyway.

“So, how many of you can I count on for, say, at least once a week? Or twice weekly, when we get closer to Homecoming?” Ms. O'Hare asked, clearly not expecting anyone to volunteer.

“Do we get extra credit?” a voice asked from the rear of the class.

“No,” Ms. O'Hare said, shaking her head. “Just my undying gratitude. And it might help preserve the
real
art class someday, if I can prove we're actually useful to the school.”

“Well, I can't do it, except for Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Jamila announced to the class. “Because of track.”

“And I have gymnastics Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” Matteo said.

“How about Tuesdays?” Ms. O'Hare said, an expression of hope mingled with surprise on her face. “And then maybe we can add Thursdays later on, if it becomes necessary. I should be able to get you all out of here by four thirty or so. May I see a show of hands, please?”

Skye slowly raised her hand, worrying a little about Maddy as she did so. It could prove to be a long walk home for her neighbor, if she had to go alone.

Amanda's hand went up, too, as did Pip's, Jamila's, and Matteo's.

“That's five,” Ms. O'Hare said, sounding pleased. “Why, that's excellent, people. Any questions?” she asked.

Kids sneaked glances at the clock – the bell was about to ring – and shook their heads.

“All right, then,” Ms. O'Hare said, looking greatly relieved. “Please report for duty tomorrow afternoon at
three, and we'll see what's on the agenda.”

“Ms. O'Hare?” Skye asked after most of the art kids had bolted from class. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, Skye,” Ms. O'Hare said, looking up from stuffing her notebook into what looked like a gingham-lined feedbag. “What's up? Terrific map, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Skye said, blushing a little. “Um, I was just wondering if a girl who doesn't take art could be in art activities on Tuesday afternoons, too. Until I go back home to Albuquerque, that is,” she added. “See, this girl–Maddy – lives on my grandmother's street, and we always walk home together.”

“Until you go back home to Albuquerque?” Ms. O'Hare asked, instantly focusing on the wrong thing, in Skye's opinion. “But you're living here now, aren't you?”

“Not really,” Skye said. “I mean, I'm here,” she tried to explain, her eyes on the floor, “but I'm not really
here
,
if you know what I mean. It's only temporary. Just until my big brother gets better.”

“There's no such thing as ‘only temporary,' Skye,” Ms. O'Hare said quietly. “Unless you consider
everything
to be temporary, I suppose. Each moment in life is important, you know.”

Oh, great, Skye thought. Just what she needed, a philosopher. “Excuse me, but I'm going to be late to my next class,” she said, wishing she had never asked Ms. O'Hare about Maddy.

“Sorry,” Ms. O'Hare said, scrabbling in the feedbag once more. “I'll write you a note. And of course your friend can join us after school. The more the merrier!”