Paper Things by Jennifer Richard Jacobson Read Free Book Online Page A

you, Arianna,” he says, “I’ll have an airplane with your name on it.”
    As I stand on the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for a break in the traffic, I place my hand in my empty pocket.
It’s OK,
I tell myself.
I’ll search for pennies for twice as long tomorrow.
    “Do you know him?” Carol asks as I pass through the door, but before I’ve had a chance to answer, she asks if I wouldn’t mind putting up a bulletin board in the front hall. She explains that she’d like me to staple up yellow construction paper with a lime-green wavy border all around the edges, and purple letters that say, WELCOME , SPRING ! The board is high, so I have to stand on a small step stool to reach. It’s actually kind of fun, and I feel like one of the teachers today instead of one of the kids.
    Carol goes back inside the classroom, and Fran pops out.
    “What do you think of these?” Fran says, carrying out some artwork the kids just finished. She’s holding pussy-willow pictures made from brown paint blown through a straw, with little pieces of cotton ball glued on.
    “Oh,” I say, climbing down from the stool and touching one of the little fuzzy balls with my finger. And then my eyes sting with tears the way they do at the most ridiculous times.
Think of spring sunshine, think of petting Amelia, think of anything but pussy willows.
But it doesn’t work. A tear rolls down my cheek.
    “My mom made these with me,” I explain to Fran, who is bending toward me, her eyes searching, trying to see into the secrets of me. But she doesn’t hug me the way Carol would.
    “Maybe you would like to come inside and make a picture, then,” she says.
    “That’s OK,” I say, sniffling and smiling to show that things really are OK. “Do you want me to put these on the board?”
    She nods. “But start with the drier ones,” she says. “Or else we’ll have brown paint and glue dripping all over your yellow paper.”
    I staple one of the pussy-willow pictures to the board and wonder what Mama would say about all the lying I seem to be doing lately. ’Cause the truth is, she never made pussy-willow pictures with me. Not ever. Janna did.
    Janna used to do all kinds of crafts with us. She would spread a plastic tablecloth on the dining-room table and line up all the art supplies. Then she’d instruct us, like a teacher, on what to do first, what to do second. I was always happy sitting in my chair, wearing one of her old shirts for a smock, following her instructions. “Now take a teaspoon of brown paint and place it on your blue paper near the center. Not that much, Gage. Less! Less!”
    I’d take my straw and gently blow the paint into a long, graceful stalk. Gage would blow too hard, causing the paint to run off the paper and onto the tablecloth.
    “Gage, stop it!” Janna would shout. “Go grab a sponge and clean up your mess.”
    “Why does everything always have to be
your
way?” he’d ask.
    “Because I’m the grown-up,” Janna would say.
    “Well, when I’m older, I’m only going to do the stuff
I
want to do,” Gage would invariably counter.
    “Not while you’re living under my roof,” Janna would say, and then Gage would stomp off, forgetting all about the sponge and leaving Janna to pick up his mess.
    After a while, Janna gave up craft time. Gage didn’t want to come to the table, and I didn’t want to do anything without Gage.
    I think about pussy willows. How little fuzzy pearls bloom from sturdy, straight sticks. How they burst open just when you’ve had way too much winter, promising spring.
    I look down at the artwork spread out on the floor. Some pictures look like pussy willows against a blue sky; some look like poodles rolling in a mud puddle.
    “Here, Ari.” It’s Omar. He’s standing in the hall next to Carol, holding out a newly painted pussy-willow picture. “I made this one for you.”
    It’s messy. The paint is streaming in unexpected directions, and the cotton balls are gloppy with