Macy McMillan and the Rainbow Goddess Read online

ink faded away

  like it melted

  right into the paper

  leaving only

  a faint stain.

  I hold it over the RECYCLE box

  raise my eyebrows in question.

  Ms. Gillan clamps onto my forearm

  drawing it close so she can see

  the receipt in my hand.

  She peers intently

  releases my arm

  takes the paper

  and kisses it.

  Seriously.

  She kisses

  an old receipt.

  Then she starts talking

  eyes ablaze

  words words

  words words

  mouth moving faster

  than I can follow.

  I shake my head

  and the words

  stop.

  The light in Ms. Gillan’s eyes dims

  as she leans back

  into the chair cushion.

  She points to the sixth book

  still in my hand

  —Les Misérables.

  Is it even in English?

  I watch her lips form the word.

  “Keep,” she says

  which I’d already guessed.

  Chapter 4

  Olivia didn’t speak to me

  look at me

  acknowledge I exist.

  I sat with Julianne and Emma

  at lunch

  but whenever I signed to them

  they pasted on big smiles

  so fake

  nodding

  pretending they understood

  but I might as well have had a conversation

  with my sandwich.

  I’m glad they sat with me

  but it’s times like this

  I really miss Desi

  and my other friends

  at Braeside

  —kids I can really talk to.

  Now that school’s done

  for the day

  I should be researching

  my family tree project

  but I have to help Ms. Gillan

  who stopped

  trying to talk to me yesterday

  after the book-six incident

  like it was suddenly

  too much trouble

  not worth it

  and I’m feeling more and more

  like a dried-up

  all-alone-on-my-branch

  leaf.

  I ring the bell

  wait

  wait

  wait

  until Ms. Gillan opens the door

  wearing scarlet pants

  and an orange blouse

  as bright

  as her walls.

  She leans against the door frame

  catching her breath.

  When she’s ready

  I head for the living room

  but she stops me

  leads me down the hall

  to the kitchen

  slow as a fuzzy caterpillar

  making its way

  along the fence top.

  She points to a chair

  so I pull it out from the table

  sit down

  wonder

  what I’m in for.

  She sets a glass of lemonade

  on the table

  hands me a sheet of paper

  filled

  with handwriting.

  After giving me a nod

  Ms. Gillan pours another glass

  of lemonade

  sits across from me

  sips

  waits

  while I read.

  I’d left my favorite novel on the bus.

  I knew the ending well, of course, and yet

  I bought another copy in a shop,

  got chatting with the man who worked the till.

  He loved the book, it seemed, as much as I.

  “It’s closing time,” he said, neck blushing pink.

  Perhaps I’d like to get some tea with him—

  the small café next door? I said I would.

  We took a window seat and talked for hours

  of Jean Valjean, Cosette, a priest who dared

  to offer second chances—oh! such fun

  to speak of books, redemption, hope. The world

  went by on rainy streets outside. Next day

  I found my way back to the little shop.

  “He’s gone back east,” the owner said of him.

  “His father passed. He’ll have to help his mom.

  I don’t expect him back for quite some time

  —if ever.” Then I stepped outside and paused

  beneath the bookshop sign: A Storied Life—

  took in the lines and swirls of the words

  and stored away the memory of when

  I’d left my favorite novel on the bus.

  Was this the story

  with all the words words words?

  The sixth-book story

  from yesterday?

  I rush to the living room

  find the KEEP box

  grab Les Misérables and return

  to the kitchen.

  I tap a finger on the book cover

  then on the first line

  of Ms. Gillan’s story.

  I sign

  Favorite book?

  move my mouth

  in the shape of the words

  hoping

  she’ll understand.

  She smiles.

  “Yes. My favorite book.”

  And the man?

  I ask

  pointing at the handwritten words

  on the paper.

  “I never saw him again.”

  I find a pen

  write on the back

  of Ms. Gillan’s paper.

  We should find him!

  What an adventure

  that could be.

  But she’s shaking her head

  doesn’t want to search.

  She takes the pen

  from my hand.

  It was years ago. Decades.

  That story had the right ending

  even if it was a little sad.

  For just a moment

  Ms. Gillan reminds me

  of an autumn leaf

  just as alone

  as I am.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday after lunch

  I dress in my soccer uniform

  find Mom at her desk

  nibbling the end

  of a pen.

  She looks up from her day-planner

  eyes widen

  at the sight of me.

  You have a game today?

  I have a game

  every

  Saturday.

  A mix of guilt and panic flashes

  across her face.

  I’ve got a meeting

  with the florist.

  Maybe Alan can take you?

  Her expression says this is a question

  like, would I mind?

  only it’s not really a question

  because what other option

  is there?

  The game starts

  in a half hour.

  She grabs her phone

  while I go fill my water bottle.

  Even though I hate

  missing games

  I kind of hope Alan

  is busy.

  Nope.

  He and the twins

&
nbsp; will be right over.

  The drive to the field

  goes pretty much as I expected

  me in back, sandwiched

  between Bethany and Kaitlin

  curly ponytails bobbing

  both girls in constant motion

  —more than you’d think possible

  when strapped down

  by seatbelts—

  patting my arms

  to get my attention

  for a million questions

  I can’t decipher

  and Alan

  glancing at me in the rear-view mirror

  awkwardly signing parts of sentences

  with one hand

  while he drives with the other.

  It’s a relief

  to dash across the pitch

  meet up with my team

  even though my coach taps his wrist

  reminding me

  I’m almost late.

  I’m the second-worst player

  on our team

  because I get distracted

  by buttercups

  blooming

  on the field

  in danger of being trampled

  by multitudes of cleats.

  I’m paying attention today, though

  when Olivia searches

  for someone to pass to.

  I’m open

  but Olivia kicks the ball

  to Jennifer Blister.

  Jennifer

  is the first-worst player

  on the team.

  Last game

  she scored on our own team.

  Twice.

  She receives the ball

  turns

  boots it hard.

  One thing you have to admit

  about Jennifer:

  she’s got a powerful

  kick.

  The ball flies through the air

  shooting off

  toward the sidelines

  and right

  toward

  Bethany and Kaitlin.

  Bethany ducks.

  Kaitlin

  is too late

  flings up her arms

  to protect herself.

  The ball

  hits Kaitlin hard

  before dropping to the ground

  beside her.

  Bethany grabs the ball

  marches

  onto the field

  throws it

  at Jennifer’s feet.

  She’s hollering something

  her tiny six-year-old self

  giving Jennifer Blister

  what-for.

  Kaitlin’s finger is bent weird

  disgusting

  not at all the shape

  it’s meant to be.

  We have to go to the hospital

  and I have to miss

  the rest

  of my game.

  All of us pile

  into Alan’s car.

  Kaitlin leans against me

  head on my shoulder

  sniffy nose probably smearing

  on my soccer jersey.

  Ugh.

  She’s cradling her wrecked hand

  in her lap

  tears glistening

  on her face.

  I put my arm around her

  pat her shoulder

  because I don’t know what else

  to do.

  Alan parks at the hospital

  leads us inside

  white walls

  tile floor

  the smell of disinfectant

  hanging

  in the halls.

  After forever

  Kaitlin’s finger is X-rayed

  splinted

  taped to the next not-broken finger.

  She holds up her hand

  proud

  a hard-won souvenir

  of her adventure.

  Next stop: ice cream.

  Alan buys sundaes for us

  and we slide onto the plastic benches

  of a booth.

  The twins lift their bowls

  tap their soft-serve twists together

  —cheers!—

  in serious danger

  of losing the whole lot

  in their laps.

  They laugh

  make a mess

  never

  stop

  moving

  and Alan does nothing

  about it.

  Just grins.

  Chapter 6

  I slip up to my room

  slide a book from the shelf

  jot a note

  and stick it

  on the cover

  My favorite book.

  It’s about a mouse

  a princess

  and soup.

  Then I head to Ms. Gillan’s house.

  Maybe this isn’t a good idea

  but maybe

  it is.

  Maybe she’s not as crabby

  as I thought.

  She might just be

  lonely.

  And I know

  she likes books.

  When I get there

  I hand her the book.

  She reads my note

  flips the book over

  peers

  at the back cover.

  “Soup?” she says.

  I shrug

  smile

  wait.

  When she looks up again

  I tell her

  You can borrow it

  if you want.

  But I don’t think

  she understands

  my signing.

  She walks slowly

  to the living room

  reaches for a pocket-size notebook

  leaf-green cover

  a pen

  tucked in its spiral binding.

  She presses it into my hand

  and waits.

  I take the pen

  open the notebook

  fresh clean pages

  write

  Would you like to borrow

  my favorite book?

  She lights up.

  “Yes, please,” she says

  and then her mind

  seems to wander

  lost

  in a daydream.

  I do that too

  when I have a good book

  in hand.

  I reach out tentatively

  touch her arm.

  She turns her attention to me.

  Ms. Gillan? You okay?

  She taps her chest

  with her index finger

  then slowly

  deliberately

  shapes her hand

  —fingerspelling

  i-r-i-s

  then she says

  “Call me Iris.”

  I jot in the notebook

  How did you learn

  to fingerspell?

  She nods toward a desk

  at the back of the room

  a computer

  sitting front and center.

  She Googled it?

  That’s actually kind of

  cool.

  I write again

  So…Iris?

  Like the flower?

  I make the sign for flower

  fingertips together

  touch the sides of my nose.

  Her mouth drops open

  eyes pop
wide.

  “Certainly not!” she says.

  Okaaay.

  Not

  like the flower.

  She strides to the shelves

  surprising me

  with her speed.

  She searches

  for just a moment

  pulls out a paperback

  with black and gold cover.

  She flips through

  stops

  stabs a finger

  at the page

  and shoves the book

  toward me.

  I peer at the spot

  she indicated.

  Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow.

  She’s named after a goddess?

  Wow. I suppose

  if I’d been named after a goddess

  I’d be proud of that.

  But I was named after one of my mother’s

  wild friends

  (back in the days

  when she had wild friends).

  Wild Friend Macy won the coin toss

  in the hospital delivery room.

  If the dime had landed heads

  rather than tails

  I’d be named after Wild Friend Duckie

  instead.

  I’m not sure the kids at school

  would ever

  let me live that down.

  Iris presses the book into my hands

  so I take it

  sink cross-legged onto the carpet

  and read about a rainbow goddess

  a messenger for the gods

  traveling

  by rainbow.

  When I hold out the book

  to give it back

  she says, “Donate.”

  It seems like an important book

  to her

  but maybe

  she thinks someone else

  needs to read it.

  Into the box

  it goes.

  I retrieve the notebook

  ask what might be

  a cheeky question

  but

  I honestly want to know

  what she’ll say.