Jubilee (7 page)

O
n Wednesday, Ms. Quirk said, “I have the best news. Mrs. Ames loves the idea of studying wildlife. She'd be happy if we had an assembly later this fall, to let everyone know what we've been up to. We'll talk about it soon.”

An assembly! In front of everyone! That was very scary.

I looked out the window at Dog snoozing on his blanket and smiled. But then I glanced across the classroom at Sophie's empty desk. Of course she didn't want to be my partner.

Ms. Quirk tapped a packet of papers on her desk and grinned at us. “I learned a lot from your weekend homework; the secret lives of animals, birds, and even”—she held up a yellow paper—“a turtle.”

She began to read. It was my paper!

I looked out the window, my hands trembling a little. Mrs. Leahy never read our compositions aloud.

Maybe no one was paying attention. But then everyone was laughing, even Ms. Quirk.

I couldn't help looking up. It was a good laugh. She was showing everyone my turtle cartoon.

The door opened and Sophie came in, her face red, her hair escaping from a braid. She sat at her desk, and I watched her from the corner of my eye. She twisted her ankles one way and the other.

Was she worried about Travis?

I thought of his calling me No-Talk Girl. All his talking. His earnest face. His missing tooth. How he wanted to be my friend.

If Travis were my brother, I wouldn't be sitting here twisting my ankles.

Ms. Quirk looked serious. “I've been thinking. I'm going to change some of the partners.” She waved my paper. “I think this turtle person should work with another turtle person. And two others wanted to work on squirrels.”

Sophie sat up and smiled.

Ms. Quirk turned to her desk to read another change or two.

I stood up quietly, circled the room, and opened the door, holding the knob tightly so a burst of wind wouldn't give me away.

I glanced back to see Mason mouthing something at me.

I hesitated.

“Trouble,” he ended.

I figured out the rest:
You're going to get in trouble.

I peered into the hall. It wouldn't be good if Mrs. Ames was blowing down the hall like the wind. I did see her legs, like large scissors, but they were going the opposite way.

Still, I'd have to walk in her direction to get to Travis's kindergarten.

Instead, halfway down the hall, I went out the door, into the schoolyard. Dog looked up from under the maple tree, but I motioned him to stay, and took a few deep breaths of the late-summer air.

The fourth grade was having early recess, playing volleyball. One of the balls bounced near me. “Hey, kid, get that!” someone yelled, so I kicked it to him.

I ducked under Mrs. Leahy's window and hurried around the side of the building.

Mrs. Benham had pasted red and yellow cardboard leaves on some of the kindergarten windowpanes. I could almost hide behind them as I peered inside.

I saw feet under the tables. Girls' sandals, boys' sneakers. Knobby knees with round brown scabs. Travis's knees. I ducked under a maple leaf so I could see his face. His blue eyes were swimming with tears and his cheeks were wet.

If only I could go inside! If only I could speak! I'd say,
Hold on, Travis. You can do this. Be brave.

He looked up. I gave him a big wave and a huge smile.

He still cried.

I made a face, scrunching up my nose.

He wiped his cheeks.

I made a different face.

He began to smile.

There.

I ran inside again and stopped at the girls' room, a good reason for being out of the classroom.

When I opened Ms. Quirk's door, I could tell that no one even noticed I'd been gone.

No one but Mason.

He held up his partner note.

It said
Judith.

And mine would say
Mason.

I
t was my afternoon with Mr. Kaufmann. I peered in the door window to see if anyone else was there. But he was alone, working at his computer, chewing at his bristly mustache.

This office was a great place. On the wall was a picture of a magician with a white rabbit, and on the table was a bowl of grapes. He'd told me he'd hung the picture when he first came to the school a hundred years ago.

I went inside. He looked up and held out his hands, front, and then back. I had to smile.

“Hello, Ms. Judith.” He rolled his chair forward, lightly touching my ear. “What do you know? Here's a quarter.” He held it up for me to see.

Sometimes it was a dime, sometimes a folded dollar. I never could figure out how he did it, but it made me laugh.

I liked the sound of my laugh, and he liked it too. “It's like a stream that bubbles up,” he'd said once. “I think your voice will sound just like that. And I will hear it someday.”

Maybe.

He'd known what I was thinking. “I am right. Magicians always are.”

I was laughing again. I could almost picture a shiny top hat on top of his bushy hair. When I first met him, he'd told me he was the school psychologist, but he wasn't crazy about that title.

That reminded me of the doctor I'd seen a while back. He wore glasses that kept slipping down his nose as he played games with me, and was almost as much fun as Mr. Kaufmann. “You have selective mutism,” he'd said. “You can certainly speak, but right now you're afraid to do that.”

Selective mutism: a terrible title.

Today Mr. Kaufmann and I spent time leafing through my cartoon pad. It was his turn to laugh. He certainly didn't sound like a bubbling stream; it was more like a truck going uphill, sputtering all the way.

“So what's new?” he asked afterward.

I turned to a clean page.
I have a dog.

He nodded. “That's the best.”

I wrote again:
Someone said that nobody wants me.

He didn't say anything for a moment. He shook his head. Then he turned the page over. “All right, Ms. Judith. Make a list of everyone who does want you.”

I began to write: Aunt Cora, of course, and Gideon. Dog. And Travis. Ah, and Ms. Quirk.

Could I add Mason's name? I wasn't sure. But why not?

“A decent list, to be sure,” Mr. Kaufmann said.

Then he reminded me of our
take it easy
plan. Amazing—the name of Gideon's boat. But Mr. Kaufmann wouldn't know that.

He took a breath loud enough for me to hear; he raised his shoulders and lowered them a few times. “Ah, so relaxing.” He popped a grape into his mouth and pushed the bowl toward me. “Every time I feel worried, that's what I do.” He grinned. “Too bad I don't always have the grapes.”

I could see it, a cartoon.