Macy McMillan and the Rainbow Goddess Read online

  Reviews

  Praise for Shari Green’s

  Macy McMillan and the

  Rainbow Goddess

  “Clever, engaging, and accessible. Macy’s deafness is skillfully woven into the story, adding depth and complexity to her characterization and relationships with others.”

  —School Library Journal

  “Green’s story confronts life’s challenges with depth and realism, creating a narrative that is sparse yet impactful, with characters that are bursting with life.”

  —Booklist

  “A quick, accessible read, focusing on Macy’s realistic reluctance to share her mother and her gradual acceptance of the changes in her life.”

  —The Horn Book Magazine

  “A spare yet poignant narrative… Macy’s life lessons are realistic and illuminating; that she is deaf adds yet another dimension to an already powerful tale.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Full Title

  Copyright

  First published in Canada and the United States in 2017

  Text copyright © 2017 Shari Green.

  This edition copyright © 2017 Pajama Press Inc.

  This is a first edition.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.

  www.pajamapress.ca [email protected]

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Green, Shari, 1963-, author

  Macy McMillan and the rainbow goddess / Shari Green.

  ISBN 978-1-77278-033-8 (hardcover).--ISBN 978-1-77278-017-8 (softcover)

  I. Title.

  PS8613.R4283M33 2017 jC813’.6 C2016-906085-3

  Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)

  Names: Green, Shari, 1963-, author.

  Title: Macy McMillan and the Rainbow Goddess / by Shari Green.

  Description: Toronto, Ontario, Canada: Pajama Press, 2017. |Summary: “Deaf sixth-grader Macy expects disaster when she is sent to help her elderly neighbor Iris, who doesn’t know sign language, pack for a move to an assisted-living home. To her surprise, Iris soon becomes a firm friend who helps Macy face her own upcoming move, into the home of her mother’s soon-to-be husband and two young stepsisters” — Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-77278-017-8 (paperback) | 978-1-77278-033-8 (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Deaf children – Juvenile fiction. | Stepfamilies – Juvenile fiction.| BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Stepfamilies. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Themes / Special Needs.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.G744Mac |DDC [F] – dc23

  Illustration—Jacqueline Hudon-Verrelli

  Cover design—Rebecca Bender

  Interior design and typesetting—Rebecca Bender, and Martin Gould / martingould.com

  Manufactured by Friesens

  Printed in Canada

  Pajama Press Inc.

  181 Carlaw Ave., Suite 251, Toronto, Ontario Canada, M4M 2S1

  Distributed in Canada by UTP Distribution

  5201 Dufferin Street, Toronto, Ontario Canada, M3H 5T8

  Distributed in the U.S. by Ingram Publisher Services

  1 Ingram Blvd., La Vergne, TN 37086, USA

  Dedication

  For Jesse

  Chapter 1

  Our house on Pemberton Street

  with the red front door

  wildflower garden out back

  window seat just right for reading

  has a For Sale sign jammed

  in the front lawn.

  It’s the ugliest thing

  I’ve ever seen.

  I drop my school stuff

  in my room

  zip to the kitchen

  mix up some chocolate milk

  and gulp it down

  hoping to make my escape

  before Mom even knows

  I’m home.

  No

  such

  luck.

  From the corner of my eye

  I see her in the doorway

  waving

  to get my attention.

  I turn to face her.

  How was your day?

  she asks

  in sign language.

  I sign back

  tell her it was fine

  until I saw the For Sale sign again.

  That ruins my day

  every day.

  She rolls her eyes

  which doesn’t seem

  like a very mom thing

  to do.

  A moment later

  she pulls out her phone

  frowns at the screen

  uses her free hand to sign

  It’s work—one minute.

  I set my glass in the sink

  wait

  while Mom talks

  probably explaining computer stuff

  to a confused client.

  Sorry

  she says

  when the call’s done.

  After tucking the phone away

  she touches her thumb to her forehead

  then to her other thumb—remember—

  and already I know

  what she’s going to say.

  Remember

  to work on the centerpieces.

  I’m supposed to make centerpieces

  for the reception

  —a tea in the church hall

  after the wedding next month.

  I don’t get why anyone needs centerpieces

  to stare at while they drink tea

  after a bride

  who is my mother

  and a groom

  who is not my dad

  say I do.

  Besides, shaping ribbon

  candles

  fake flowers

  into something other than a mess

  is not my specialty.

  My skills are more

  bookish.

  I can hide out

  read past my bedtime

  get lost in a story

  like a pro.

  But the poppies are blooming

  I say

  with a long look

  out the kitchen window.

  Growing wildflowers

  is another of my specialties.

  I should be there

  to witness their grand opening.

  Mom glances outside

  to my corner of the backyard

  where fuzzy green stems hold buds

  round and ripe

  a few already open

  crimson petals fluttering

  in the breeze.

  Fine

  she says.

  Go. But don’t put off this job

  much longer. It’ll be June

  before you know it.

  I hug her quick

&n
bsp; turn to leave.

  She taps my shoulder.

  What now?

  You still need to pack too.

  Right.

  I’m thinking if I never pack my stuff

  I can’t move to a new house

  with a new stepfamily

  ever.

  Chapter 2

  Mr. Tanaka tells the class

  about our final project

  of sixth grade.

  I glance at him long enough

  to see his excitement

  —how much he thinks

  we’ll love this—

  but it’s still going to mean

  homework

  so I don’t expect we’ll love it

  as much as he does.

  I turn my focus to Ms. Eklund

  my interpreter

  who signs everything

  Mr. Tanaka says.

  Ms. Eklund fingerspells

  g-e-n-e-a-l-o-g-y

  says it means where we came from

  or rather

  who we came from

  ancestors

  family history

  family tree

  as if we’re all leaves

  on a big old maple.

  We have to trace our roots

  make a chart or poster

  present our work clearly

  and thoughtfully.

  We can include stories

  from different generations

  some photographs

  if we have them.

  I’ve got a feeling

  my project

  will be bare

  a family tree

  with only a few leaves clinging

  to the branches.

  Besides Mom and me

  there’s Uncle Caleb

  in Saskatoon

  and my Gran and Grampa

  in Detroit.

  That’s it

  for family.

  Do you even know

  your dad’s name?

  Olivia asks me at recess

  while a bunch of us sixth-graders

  kill time

  at the edge

  of the school playground.

  How on earth

  are you going to create

  a decent project?

  Olivia’s been my best friend

  since I came to Hamilton Elementary

  in second grade

  transferring

  from Braeside, the School

  for the Deaf.

  She lives only a block

  from me

  and of all the kids in my class

  she knows the most sign language.

  But sometimes

  she says something dumb

  —like asking if I know

  my father’s name—

  and the other kids

  laugh.

  I know

  I shouldn’t let it bug me

  tug me

  tie me

  in angry knots

  but controlling my temper

  is not

  one of my specialties.

  My hand snaps closed

  at my mouth, signing

  Shut up!

  And before I can think

  I add

  I hate you!

  and my stupid foot

  jabs into the pebbly dirt

  beside the playground

  sprays tiny stones

  at her shins.

  My stomach clenches.

  I want to undo the last minute

  dust off her shoes

  her shins

  smooth the ground

  take back the words

  my hands hurled.

  Olivia’s face flames pink

  eyes fill

  and she turns away.

  After recess

  Mr. Tanaka appears at my desk.

  He may not know

  much sign language

  but somehow he knows

  to give me detention.

  By the time

  I’m allowed to leave class

  Olivia

  is long gone.

  Chapter 3

  I spoke to Ms. Gillan this morning

  says Mom.

  She could really use a hand

  packing up her books

  before she moves.

  Ms. Gillan lives next door.

  There’s a For Sale sign

  in her lawn too

  but somehow

  it doesn’t look as nasty

  as the one in ours.

  Mom says

  I told her

  you’d be glad to help.

  Me?

  I haven’t even packed

  my own books yet.

  Mom’s face says she’s fully aware

  of my lack of packing

  and not exactly happy

  about it.

  If you’re not

  getting your own things in order

  she says

  you may as well

  help with hers.

  This is worse than detention.

  I barely know Ms. Gillan.

  She’s old

  and crabby

  and she doesn’t sign.

  I’ll pack my things, I promise!

  Yes, you will.

  But you’ll also help Ms. Gillan.

  Now go.

  She’s expecting you.

  I wilt like a daisy

  snapped off by the stem

  and left

  in the afternoon heat.

  Mom’s expression softens.

  It’s only a few boxes of books

  she says.

  It shouldn’t take long.

  I trudge back outside

  cross the lawn

  to Ms. Gillan’s house

  reach up to flick a maple leaf

  on the branch above me

  as I pass.

  I ring the buzzer

  and wait.

  Ms. Gillan opens the door

  peers down at me

  pale blue eyes set deep

  in her lined face.

  Her white hair protrudes

  in wispy waves

  reminding me

  of a dandelion gone to seed.

  After she lets me in

  I follow her

  to the living room

  stop

  stare.

  Two walls are orange

  bright

  bold

  nasturtium orange.

  The other two walls

  are completely hidden

  by towering

  shelves

  of books:

  shelves and shelves and shelves and

  shelves and shelves and shelves and

  shelves and shelves and shelves and

  shelves and shelves and shelves and

  shelves and shelves and shelves and

  shelves and shelves and shelves and

  shelves.

  A few boxes of books?

  I’m going to be here

  forever.

  I realize Ms. Gillan

  has been talking.

  I shake my head

  shrug a little

  hope she’ll try again

  with fewer words.

  She does.

  She points to a pile of cardboard

  beside a floral recliner

  —flattened boxes.

 
When she hands me a roll of wide tape

  I understand.

  I bend

  fold

  unfold

  try again

  until the cardboard becomes

  a box shape.

  I tear off a strip of tape

  that stickstoitself

  in a crumpled mess

  cut another strip

  manage to tape closed

  the bottom

  of the box.

  I’m taping up the third box

  when my nose wrinkles

  at the stink

  of permanent marker.

  Ms. Gillan is writing on box number one

  in thick black letters

  K E E P

  She picks up the second box

  writes

  D O N A T E

  waits for me to hand her

  box number three

  writes

  R E C Y C L E

  I glance at the two walls of shelves

  wonder how many more boxes

  I’ll need to make.

  When I look back at Ms. Gillan

  she’s breathing hard

  like she just ran laps

  in gym class

  but there was only bending

  writing

  and the stink

  of marker.

  She sinks into an armchair.

  Now I know

  why she can’t pack

  her own books.

  I bring a stack from the first shelf

  set it on the floor

  near the boxes

  hold up one book after another

  for Ms. Gillan’s directions.

  keep

  donate

  donate

  donate

  keep

  A slip of paper falls

  from book number six.

  I reach for it—a receipt