Red dashes are scribbled all over the top sheet. The number 70 is circled beside my name with a C–. Arrows point between numbers. Answers have been crossed out. Beside the third question, Ms. Finch wrote: Carry the x. Beside the fifth: You forgot to balance the equation.
Shame prickles along my skin like goose bumps. I stuff the stapled sheets deeper inside my book bag, wincing as the papers crumple.
I grab my phone. Let the book bag drop. Take a deep breath.
There are three unread messages. Two are from Eva. The other is from Mom. I remove the mitten on my right hand to swipe my thumb across the touch screen, unlocking texts.
Mom: Hi, sweetie! Don’t forget you have a PT appt this afternoon. I’ve prepped some snacks for you and Connor, so check the fridge if you’re hungry. Veggies and turkey sandwiches. Mrs. Baransky will be over soon to watch him until Jack comes home (he’s running late today, we both are, so much to do before our big trip!). Hope you had a great day at school. See you soon! Be safe walking home! Love you!
Eva: Just got here for the Jillana School audition. Wish me luck!
Eva: Also, Taylor says hi. ☺
I respond to Eva first by typing, Good luck at the audition. You’re going to be great. Give Taylor a hug from me.
And then I tell Mom, See you soon. Love you too.
The bus doors flap shut, and we start to rumble forward. We jostle over speed bumps. We sway through sharp turns. The inside of this bus is humid, and the windows are foggy, so I open mine about an inch, relishing the cold snap of fresh air. The sky is covered in gray cotton clouds. The pavement outside is stained with wet spots that look like inkblots. It’s starting to rain again. Tiny droplets splatter across the windows. The water streaks are short and thin as paper cuts.
I turn my phone over. Light up the screen, to see if Eva has said anything else about the audition. She hasn’t. She might be in the studio right now with a number pinned to her leotard, grinning through the barre warm-ups to impress the Jillana School representatives.
I should be there, too.
We bump over ridges and uneven slabs in the road. The engine roars as we accelerate around a bend.
3
Puddles
February 15
I rise and exit the bus.
I thank the bus driver on my way out, as I always do. When my feet hit the sidewalk, I feel a tingle in my right knee, but I ignore it and move faster. Raindrops pitter-patter along the sidewalk. Parked cars crowd the narrow street. A pink balloon is tied to someone’s mailbox, bobbing and tugging through the air.
I pull the edges of my beanie more firmly onto my forehead. Everything is gleaming and shivering from the drizzle. Dewdrops cling to the ends of bare skinny branches. Little waterfalls trickle through the sewer grates down the street.
When I first began taking ballet classes, we used to dance with colorful scarves. We’d spin around the studio with them clutched in our fists. We’d float them above our heads in port de bras. And at the end of each class, our teacher would gather them up and pile them in the center of the floor. She told us to pretend they were puddles. We had to jump over them, to avoid getting our ballet slippers wet. Then the piano music would start to play, and she’d clap to the beat for us as we would each skip, skip, skip, and leap across the imaginary puddle.
I wish I could go back in time. I miss how dancing made me feel. So creative and expressive. So quick and light on my feet.
I always had fun at my ballet school. There were never any bad days.
Until that final day, of course.
I trudge across the street. Cross our short front yard. Our neighbors might call our place Mr. and Mrs. Leith’s house, which would be both right and wrong. Mom and Jack are married, and Jack’s last name is Leith. But Mom kept her maiden name—Beaumont—through her two marriages. Each person in my family has a different surname: Angie Beaumont, Jack Leith, Maisie Cannon, and Connor Beaumont-Leith.
Our grass is overgrown and wet. Political lawn signs are anchored throughout the yard. Some of them are for candidates in local elections. Others are for causes: No human is illegal. Water is life. Protect Mother Earth. All of them are boldfaced, bold-colored. Streaked with raindrops.
I slog past them with my head bowed, the grass squishing beneath my feet.
4
The Richest Six-Year-Old Alive
February 15
The moment I open our front door, Connor jumps up and yells, “Maisie! Look! Guess what I’m doing.”
He is standing on the couch cushions with his hands locked behind his back. He’s home before me, because he’s had early dismissals all week for parent-teacher conferences. It isn’t even 4:00 p.m. yet, but he’s already in his Captain America pajama bottoms, and his short black hair is sticking up in all directions. His grin is full of mischief.
When Mom and Jack met with his teacher for their conference, she proudly reported that Connor is a confident and popular boy, with excellent skills in spelling and math. He’s at the top of his class. But then again, so was I, when all I had to do was add and subtract for numbers less than ten.
“What am I doing?”
“I have no idea, Con.”
“You’re supposed to guess.”
I remove my wet shoes by the door. Take off my mittens and matching pink hat. “You’re hiding something.”
Connor rolls his eyes. “Well, that much is obvious.” He flaps his elbows for emphasis.
“I don’t know. A toy?”
“No!”
I sigh and try to move past him, toward the dining room and kitchen. But he vaults from the couch to block my path, disturbing the cushions and sending throw pillows to the floor.
“You have to guess again.”
“I already did. I give up.”
“Just try, Maisie. One more time.”
“Candy.”
His brown eyes gleam. “Okay. But what kind?”
“Something you got for Valentine’s Day.”
“But what did I get for—?”
“Skittles? Butterfingers? M&M’s?”
“Almost. It’s a type of chocolate.”
“Hershey’s Kisses? Milky Way? Snickers?”
He can’t take the suspense anymore. He lunges for me and lifts his palms in one quick movement, cackling triumphantly as he crashes into me. His small hands are stuffed with chocolate coins wrapped in golden foil. I wonder how long he’s been waiting for this big reveal, how melted and sticky they must be right now.
“I’m rich!” he cries. “Look at all this money. I’m the richest six-year-old alive.”
I give him a courteous smile. “That’s great, Con. Now let me go. Please.”
He moves aside, then follows me into the kitchen. There’s a vase filled with camellia branches on the dining room table. They were Jack’s Valentine’s Day gift to our mother. He gathered them from the tree in our backyard. He claimed they were better than red roses from the grocery store, because those greenhouse-born flowers couldn’t survive in the winter. This camellia tree blooms every November and every February, he told me. That’s the type of flower your mother deserves.
Connor hovers behind me as I browse the pantry.
“Imagine how rich I’ll be after I find my treasure at the beach,” he says. He unwraps a coin and pops it into his mouth. “I can’t wait.”