فصل 12

CHAPTER 12

What’s Your Problem, Albert?

Light from the hallway pours into my room as my mom opens the door. Hey, honey.

Hey.

I came in to check on you. You seemed very quiet at dinner tonight. Something going on?

Mean kids at school.

Oh, Ally Bug. I’m sorry you had to put up with that. What happened?

Well . . . the kids who were mean?

Yeah?

I was kind of one of them.

Oh, she says with a sigh. I’m surprised by that, Ally. Tell me what happened.

Those girls that came into Petersen’s that time? Well, they asked me to have lunch with them. I sat at their table but then they started being mean to this kid named Albert about his clothes. I look up into her eyes. And I went along with it. I feel bad about it.

My mom brushes my forehead with her fingertips. You’re not a little girl anymore, Ally. So it’s not too soon to decide what kind of person you want to be. Of course, I know what kind of person you are. And I love you for it. She kisses me on the forehead. You made a mistake. Everyone does. Just do your best to make it right, that’s all. The words ‘I’m sorry’ are powerful ones.

Yeah. Okay. I’ll make it right with him.

That’s my girl, she says, kissing my forehead one more time before leaving.

• • •

The next morning at school, I am wondering how I can make things right with Albert. I’m drawing a pigeon wedding in my sketchbook. I don’t know that Keisha is standing behind me.

You drew that?

I move my arm to cover it.

Why would you cover it? If I could draw like that, I’d put a commercial on TV about it.

Thanks, I mumble. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed, but I am.

Keisha sits in her chair as I stare at her head full of thin braids, thinking it must take three days to do all that—so beautiful. I just love it. Not like my boring hair that just hangs there. I reach out to touch her hair. She turns toward me all of a sudden. What are you doing?

Oh . . . I . . . Sorry. There was a mosquito. Sometimes I can’t believe the things I do. It’s like my arm has its own brain.

Uh-huh, Keisha says.

Just then, Albert walks in, and he looks upset. I want to be able to tell my mom that I made things right with him, so I go over.

Albert? Are you okay? I ask, wondering if he’ll tell me to strap myself to a rocket and light the fuse.

I have a problem.

I’m sorry about the cafeteria thing, I blurt out.

His eyebrows rise. That didn’t bother me. No need to apologize.

It didn’t bother you at all to have a table full of people make fun of you? You’re kidding.

Why would I be kidding?

Can it be that he really doesn’t care what people think of him?

We just stare at each other. If that didn’t bother him at all and this new problem really does, then it must be really bad. Maybe it has to do with the bruises he has all the time.

Can I help? I ask.

No offense. But I don’t really think so.

Okay, I mumble.

It’s just a problem that I can’t get out of my head. I feel like I won’t be able to relax until I find an answer.

Do you want to talk about it? I know sometimes when I have a problem, I talk it out with my brother or mom. Even if I don’t find an answer, I feel better anyway.

Well . . .

I wait.

I’ve just been wondering . . . if an insect is flying inside a moving train car, is it traveling faster than the train itself? And if the insect flies in the opposite direction that the train is moving in, is it then traveling more slowly than the train? Obviously, if the fly is on the wall, it is moving at the same speed. As long as it isn’t walking. But the movement within movement is a puzzle to me.

Oh.

He turns to me. A little intense. You can see the problem here. He doesn’t ask. He tells.

I know he doesn’t really think I can help. Who knows if I could possibly figure out the science part of what he’s talking about. But my mind shows me that insect in that train car.

It’s a dragonfly with brilliant greenish-blue wings and tiny goggles over its eyes.

The car is old with dark wood walls and dark green curtains. Like from Grandpa’s Westerns. And the people have old-fashioned clothes. I see them like they’re with me now. Some of the men are sleeping. One is waving the dragonfly off with a newspaper, not even noticing its tiny goggles. Ladies with the most beautiful dresses sit there, too.

And I see a girl who is with her mother, and her mother keeps asking the girl if she is enjoying the ride and the girl keeps saying yes, being sure to have a happy-sounding voice.

I don’t know everything about that girl, but I do know that she has a lot more to worry about than an insect on a train. She doesn’t fit in. She’s all dressed up in fancy clothes and has to pretend to be someone she’s not. She wants to muck around. Help build fences. She wants to ride a horse the real way—not sidesaddle like her mother insists.

When I come back from my mind movie, Albert has already walked away. But I don’t care. I can’t help thinking about the girl on the train and how she feels—like she wants to do so much but she’s held back, and it makes her feel heavy and angry. Like she’s dragging a concrete block around all of the time. I’d like to help her break free from that.