The tricky part was the people. Chester and the others had decided that the backdrops for the video should be filled with people: People playing, people climbing ropes, people looking through binoculars and building fires.
“Of course,” Marisol had said, not wanting to disappoint the group. “I can do that.”
But the truth was, when she drew people, they had these stubby little limbs and faces, like sea turtles standing on their hind legs. Marisol sighed and stepped back from her work in progress as her grandmother cracked open her door. “Excuse me, Madame Artiste? I am taking your cousins for ice cream. Are you coming?”
“No, thanks. I really need to finish this.”
“Well, it’s incredible so far, my darling. I love the little sea turtles.”
When her grandmother closed the door, Marisol put down her brush and picked up her phone. There was another girl in the eighth grade whose artwork she had admired, but Marisol barely knew her. The idea of calling a person she barely knew, out of the blue, made Marisol so nervous that the roof of her mouth got all dry, like it was coated with the dust from the bottom of a jar of peanuts.
But this was important. This was Taproot Valley.
Lisa Deckter was out walking her dog when her phone started vibrating her in pocket.
She froze. Henry tugged at the leash.
The phone vibrated again.
It’s her, thought Lisa, feeling the chill of a cool autumn breeze as it snuck under the collar of her jean jacket. It’s Pamela. She knows.
The phone vibrated. Lisa remained still. I should just answer it. Just get this over with. Admit the whole thing.
Henry barked, straining toward an inviting pile of red and orange leaves at the other end of the park. The phone vibrated again, and finally Lisa dipped her hand into her pocket, took a deep breath, and looked at the display.
Oh. Phew.
It was a number she didn’t recognize. She flipped the phone open, allowed Henry to lead her to the leaves. “Oh, hey, it’s Marisol Pierce,” said the voice on the other end. “Um, can I ask you—are you good at drawing people?”
A few weeks earlier, Braxton Lashey had been simultaneously doing the dishes and buying movie tickets over the phone when the cell phone slipped out from under his ear and fell in the garbage disposal.
He fished it out, but now some of the buttons didn’t work anymore, and the autofill function was kind of out of control. So when Braxton texted his buddy Ellis Walters, at about four thirty on Saturday afternoon—right as Marisol Pierce was hanging up with Lisa Deckter—to say can you help me find a place to rent a bear suit, Ellis got a text that said can your hemispheric placebo bear fruit?
Ellis texted back that makes no sense.
Braxton started to type a reply, then opted to just call. “Yo. Chester’s making this video to save Taproot Valley, and I need to dress in a bear suit and fall down a flight of stairs.”
“Oh,” said Ellis. “That still makes no sense.”
Nevertheless, half an hour later, in a costume shop owned by a friend of Ellis’s mom from church, the two boys were intently debating which kind of bear would be funniest.
“I’m thinking grizzly,” said Braxton.
“No, man, panda,” countered Ellis. “You gotta go panda.”
It was the same all over town. Everyone on the Save Taproot Valley team, everyone Chester had gathered at the picnic benches on Wednesday afternoon, was way too psyched to keep it to themselves.
“Hey, Tucker, you’ve got a digital video camera, right?” said Todd.
“Ezra? It’s Rory. What rhymes with fire ants?”
“Shelly! Can you come to my room for a second?” yelled Suzie. “I have a question about site hosting.”
“Um, Reenie? It’s Natasha. I need someone really smart to help me figure out these dances. You’re, like, a genius, right?”
Only one person, of all the many people invited that day to help out, declined the invitation.
“Victor? Hey! It’s Carmine. Dude, so, Lindsey heard from Lisa, who got a call from Marisol Pierce, about this crazy video project that Chester is organizing. The Save Taproot Valley project? Have you heard about this?”
“Yes. I have,” Victor replied coolly. He was in his room, working on the flood plain he and Bethesda were building for Mr. Darlington’s class, carefully placing doomed LEGO people in their rickety wooden seaside huts.
“Well, so, we’re all gonna meet after school this week to make the movie. Are you in?”
“No. I’m busy.”
“But I didn’t even tell you what day yet.”
Victor Glebe hung up the phone and got back to work on his diorama.
Chapter 23
Week of a Thousand Quizzes
Cruising down Hallway C on Monday morning, Ida Finkleman hummed brightly to herself from the overture to the 1786 opera The Marriage of Figaro, her hands conducting an invisible orchestra. For all her newfound love of rock and roll, Mozart would always be her heart’s darling, and the Figaro overture her favorite melody to hum when she found herself in a cheery mood.
It was a new week, and Ms. Finkleman had a feeling that everything at Mary Todd Lincoln was returning, ever so slowly, to normal. She looked forward to a nice, calm week, during which she would focus entirely on her educational responsibilities, with no special projects or awkward student conversations to distract her. She pushed open the door of the Band and Chorus room, singing a snatch of Figaro’s delightful opening duet, expecting to find her classroom as she had left it on Friday afternoon: blinds drawn, instruments in their cases, three rows of music stands arranged on the risers.
What she saw instead was this: Todd Spolin in the back of the room, making a heavy metal face and straddling an electric guitar like a witch on a broomstick; Natasha Belinsky guiding Marisol Pierce and Pamela Preston through some sort of complicated three-step dance; Kevin McKelvey at the piano and Rory Daas on the piano, scribbling in a notebook; and Chester Hu circulating among them all with a clipboard, making notes and grinning. Oh, and there was Braxton Lashey, standing on the top riser, balancing precariously on one foot, wearing the body, but not the head, of a bear costume.
A nice, calm week, Ms. Finkleman thought, shaking her head. Everything back to normal. Right.
“Excuse me?” she said, cupping her hands together and speaking loudly over Kevin’s piano playing. “Anyone?”
Kevin stopped and pushed back the bench. “Oh, hi. Good morning. Hello. We’re using your room to work on this sort of project-type thing.” Ms. Finkleman crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow, and Kevin hastily added, “It was Chester’s idea.”
Chester Hu approached sheepishly. “We’re just working out a few details. Hope you don’t mind.”
Don’t ask, said the little voice in Ms. Finkleman’s head as the other kids filed out, Braxton lugging his bear head awkwardly under one arm. For the love of mike, don’t ask.
But she couldn’t help herself. “The details of what, Chester?”
Speaking quickly, bouncing on his toes, Chester explained the whole project to Ms. Finkleman—the song, the video, the website, the fund-raising campaign. As he spoke, Ms. Finkleman smiled more and more, deeply impressed by the enterprising spirit and creativity on display. “And this was your idea, Chester?”
“Oh, you know,” said Chester, shrugging and looking away, embarrassed. “Kind of a group effort.”
Chester left—but any hope Ms. Finkleman might have had that the rest of her day would be relatively normal was dispelled a few minutes later.