The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z. (20 page)

CHAPTER 25

B
y the time Zig knocks on the door half an hour later, my bedroom carpet looks like a forest floor. The leaves cover almost every square inch. Zig has to tiptoe across the room. He finally finds a leafless patch next to my desk where he can stand.

“Should I ask?” He looks around at the leaves, newly liberated from their tidy binder, and bends down to pick one up.

“Don’t touch that!”

“Sorry.”

“It’s just that they’re all in the order I want them. I know it sort of looks like a big disaster in here, but I know what I’m doing now.”

Zig squints at me like I’m speaking another language.

Ian’s head pops into the doorway. He’s wearing a football helmet.

“Hey, do you know what time it is?”

“It’s . . . uh . . .” Zig starts to push up his sleeve.

“It’s
time
to finish your leaf collection!” Ian laughs, and ducks out of the room.

“That wasn’t a very good one!” I shout after him.

“Okay, how’s this . . . ? Do you know what time your leaf collection will be done?” He pops back in.

“I give up. Tell us what time and then you have to leave so I can finish.”

“At
tree
o’clock!” I grab the roll of tape and throw it at him, but it just bounces off the helmet. He planned ahead.

“Here.” I sigh. “Hold this.” I hand Zig a sycamore leaf with a long string tied onto the stem. I attach the other end of the string to a hoop I made from an unraveled wire hanger and hand it to Zig. He’s still looking at me like I’m nuts.

“You had it done. In the binder. I thought you turned it in.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t my binder. It was Mom’s.”

His eyes get big. “She
did
your project?”

I nod. “It was a long night after you left. Anyway, I’m redoing it. I have to finish and get this to school by five thirty. Help me, and I’ll fill you in.”

Zig should win a prize for best leaf-collection buddy and best listener. He nods, ties strings, asks questions, and holds seeds while I bring him up to date. By the time I finish the story, the project—my project this time—is almost done.

“There.” I climb up on my chair and hold the wire hoop up to the ceiling.

Leaves of every shape and size and color hang down at three different levels. The bottom tier has deciduous leaves— the ones that fall every autumn so new ones can grow in the spring. The middle tier is evergreens, leaves like Nonna that hang in there, season after season. And the top tier is unique. There’s just one real leaf—the sugar maple. That’s me, I’ve decided. All around it, I’ve hung the cutouts of my leaf sketches—the ones I did in colored pencil. They came so close, almost capturing these colors of nature, but not quite. On the back of each leaf, I’ve glued a note card where I’ve written in calligraphy pen the common and scientific names of the tree, where it grows, and how it’s used. And one last index card for my signature.

Gianna Z.

Now it’s a work of art.

I blow a gentle breeze at the mobile and watch. The birch leaf, the color of brushed gold, twirls in a quick circle. Next to it, that prickly Norway spruce hangs a little lower; its dark needles catch the sunlight through my window, and they shine.

“It’s perfect.” Zig smiles. “It’s you.”

I stop blowing, and the leaves dangle from their strings. I wish they’d keep moving like they do outside, dipping and twirling in the wind.

“Zig!” He’s right next to me, and I say it so loud he jumps and bangs his elbow into my dresser. “Do you have your electrical stuff in your backpack?”

“Yeah, it’s behind the door there.” He rubs his elbow.

“What would it take to make this whole thing spin around?”

A smile spreads across his face. “A few wires, a nine-volt battery, and a small motor, which I have right in here.” He rummages in his backpack until he’s found them. “And an electronic genius.” He grins. “Just give me a minute.”

“Cool.” I watch as he starts stripping the ends of the wires. “Do you really think it’ll work? I mean, where are you going to attach it? Are they all going to spin? Because really, I want the whole thing to spin.”

Zig bites his lower lip and holds the battery up to the light as he attaches a wire.

“Are you going to wrap that around there or do you need a piece of tape or something?” I ask him. “I don’t think that looks like it’s going to stay, do you? I could get you some tape. I’m thinking that if we taped it, we might be able to attach it up here, and—”

“Gee!” This time, I jump.

“What?”

“Shhh! I can’t concentrate.”

“I’m just trying to help, because what I really want is for this part here . . .” I point to the deciduous leaves, and Zig grabs my hand. Another little zap of electricity. My hand tingles. I shut up.

“Trust me.” He pulls my hand away from the mobile but doesn’t let go. His hand is warm. Not sweaty or anything. Just nice and warm. From the battery maybe.

“Close your eyes,” he says. I do. My heart beats like it’s going to thump right out of my chest and keep thumping across my desk. And it thumps even faster when I remember that this is exactly how kisses always start in movies, with the whole closed eyes thing. Is he going to kiss me? I’m not ready for this. I wish I’d put on some Chapstick. I’m thinking about opening my eyes for a peek, when he drops my hand, and I hear him rummaging through his bag again.

“Can I open them?”

“When I’m done. I just need to find the right apparatus.”

This is not a kissing kind of conversation. And there’s an awful lot going on. Scratchy wire sounds, rustling leaves, ripping noises, and finally a whirring sound like I heard at the dentist last time I had to get a tooth filled. Definitely not kissing sounds. I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed.

“Okay,” Zig says. “Open ’em.”

I open my eyes and laugh out loud. My leaf collection is wired up like some kind of crazy nature merry-go-round. Zig has reshaped the hanger, duct-taped a battery to it, and wired the battery to a small motor mounted in the middle of the mobile. The whole thing is set up to twirl around in circles when you turn it on.

“You do the honors.” He points to a little black toggle switch on the motor.

I flip the switch and my leaf collection springs to life. The sycamore dances with the cedar, and the white oak waltzes with the willow. It’s poetry in motion. A whirling dervish. And so totally me.

My door opens and Mom walks in.

“Gianna, do you have homework tonight, because—” My cyclone of a leaf collection stops her cold. Zig reaches over and turns it off, but I flip it back on. We might as well have this conversation now.

“What happened to your binder?” Her eyes follow the leaves in little circles.

“Here.” I hold it up, empty. “I love that you stayed up all night to help me, Mom, and it was beautiful. It was all you, though.” I gesture toward the mobile. “This one’s me.”

Mom bites her lip, watching my eastern hemlock get tangled up in the red oak. She doesn’t say anything, though. Nonna walks into the room, looks at my leaf mobile for a minute, and smiles.

“Well done.” She looks at the twirling leaves, squints at 184 The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z. the gadget that’s set them in motion, and nods in Zig’s direction. “He’s a keeper, this one.” My face gets all warm.

Nonna puts her hand on Mom’s elbow and leads her out of the room. She closes the door, but I can hear her voice in the hall.

“Come on, Angela, let’s go have a cookie.”

Zig high-fives me, and I start gathering the leaf crumbs littered all over my floor. I bend to pick up a beech leaf and smile. Nonna may be slipping away, but she’s still right about so many things.

My leaf mobile is still twirling and twirling, and some more leaves are twisted together. Zig reaches over to free them.

“The sugar maple’s gotten all tangled up with the red oak.” Zig brushes his hair from his eyes and grins.

Maybe Nonna will even be right about us.

Zig points to the clock.

5:15.

“Don’t you have someplace to be with that leaf mobile?”

I nod and reach for my running shoes. “You coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Cross-country and soccer practices are both wrapping up when Zig and I come flying down the sidewalk.

“Looks like you’ve started your workout already!” Coach Napper says. “Is it done?”

I nod. It’s better than done. It’s brilliant. I hold it up to show her, and she grins.

“We’re winding down, but you can do a few miles on your own after you get home. Soccer’s done, too. You just caught her.” She points toward the soccer field where Mrs. Loring is collecting the practice balls into a big mesh bag. “She stopped by at the beginning of practice to tell me your project wasn’t in. I told her you’d be back. She’s expecting you.”

“Did she say if she’d count it on time?”

“Well.” Coach smiles. “She was going to dock you a letter grade, but I told her that technically she’d said it was due at the end of the school day, and since
her
school day doesn’t end until soccer practice is over, then technically . . .”

“Technically, you are the greatest coach in the universe. Thanks!”

Zig shuffles over to the school steps to wait, and I run to Mrs. Loring. I have to keep slowing down so my leaves don’t get tangled.

“Gianna Z. . . . the last unchecked box on my leaf-collection chart. You made it.” She smiles, ties the bag of soccer balls shut, flings it over her shoulder, and nods toward the storage shed. “Walk with me.”

I have to take three steps to every one of hers because my legs are so much shorter. “Thanks,” I say. “I really needed the extra time to make sure my project was . . . mine.”

She opens the shed door, tosses the balls inside, slams it shut, and reaches for my leaf project. “Let’s see.”

The wind dies down, so the leaves hang just like they’re supposed to. “White oak, paper birch, American beech . . .” She lifts each leaf gently so she can read the card that hangs below it. “Very nice work,” she says finally. “And my gosh—is that a black walnut leaf? That tree is quite rare. Where did you ever get your hands on one?”

“In a neighbor’s yard,” I mumble.

“What a lovely neighbor for sharing it with you,” she says.

I imagine Mr. Randolph screaming from his doorway. “Yep,” I say. She really doesn’t need to know.

“Well, you did it, Gianna,” she says as we approach the school steps where the rest of the cross-country team is stretching. “When I go in, I’ll tell Coach Napper her star runner is available for sectionals.”

“Thank you!”

“You did the work. And you’ve certainly earned the right to run. Your times this season have been incredible.”

She says it loud enough for the whole team to hear. Including Ellen, who puts down the clipboard with her water bottle petition so she can clap for me. Including Bianca, who looks like she might scream. I take a closer look at her. Her hair is still flawless, and she’s wearing her glittery shirt, but she doesn’t look perfect to me anymore. I guess it’s hard to be pretty when you’re about to explode.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Mrs. Loring,” I say. I can’t wait to tell Zig.

“Gianna?”

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted to tell you, I love the way your leaf collection captures your personal style, too.” She holds it up and the leaves flutter a little in the wind.

“Style? Hmph!” The snort from the steps only could have come from one person. I walk right up to her. So close that I can read her shirt word for word.
It’s not how you play the
game; it’s how you look when you play the game.

“Too bad about sectionals,” I say. “And I guess you’ll need a new shirt.”

“What?” she spits.

“Turns out it’s really
all
about how you play the game.”

Bianca drops her water bottle and stares at me.

“Hey!” Ellen snaps. “Pick that up.
Now
.”

I think Bianca is in shock. She picks it up.

Mrs. Loring is still on the top step, holding my leaf project. I reach up, flip the switch Zig installed, and walk away to meet him while the leaves spin and twirl behind me.

CHAPTER 26

M
om and Nonna are having tea at the kitchen table when we get back. Tea and cookies, and judging by the crumbs on her sweater, Mom’s been holding her own in the cookie department. She’s writing while she eats.

“Then sort of mix the butter with a fork until it’s nice and creamy.” Nonna makes whisking motions with her right hand.

“Mix butter until creamy,” Mom mumbles, writing.

“With a fork.”

“I just wrote mix until creamy.”

“Well, you’ll need to add ‘with a fork.’ It has to be with a fork.”

“Honestly, Mom, I can’t see how—”

Mom stops talking and adds “with a fork.” It’s amazing how the right look from your mother shuts you up instantly, even when you’re forty-three years old.

Mom looks up at me. “Well?”

I smile big-time. “I’m going to sectionals.”

“That’s my girl!” Nonna says.

“I missed practice, so I need to go for a run after Zig goes home. He helped me all afternoon.” I look over at him. “And completely saved me.”