The Taming of the Drew (2 page)

“That’s why you’re going to grab me the newspaper camera.”

Tio's head popped back up, “Mr. Chang would have a duck! It's school property — and it’s already too late for me to sign it out overnight, even if I had a good reason. And you don’t even know how to use it.”

“It's the only way,” I said. “With a lens as big as a thermos, I won’t
have
to get close.”

“Listen to me,” Tio insisted, grabbing my shoulder as I turned to walk away. “This is the Dog we're talking about. The Top Dog of University. USA/Today's Top 100? The guy every football team in America is recruiting. He could squish me with his pinkie.”

I licked my thumb and started lining up the corners of the twenties. “Yep. That’s him,” I said, and pretended I wasn’t shaking inside.

***

The Greenbacks crew lay propped at the base of my scraggly circle of redwoods. Okay, so the redwoods are not really
mine
. But I can’t help thinking of them that way. I found them the first week of freshman year, after a particularly brutal morning. You know what I mean. Everyone’s had one of those days. In the movies, that’s when you see someone eating a thin white-bread sandwich at lunch, sitting in a toilet stall.
 

But I didn’t end up hiding in the toilet — I found the trees. They’re in the fat part of a little Y-shaped bit of land that borders Old Lady Hathaway’s house at the farthest corner of our campus, where the Academy field (which no one uses except for theatrical re-enactment day (we don’t do sports) meets the University field (where grass is pounded by athletes until nothing is left clinging to the packed earth but tough white dental-flossy strands). Sure, the trees are looking a little sickly-brown, and they seem to be dropping too many needles. But they're still beautiful. They stand in a perfect circle surrounding a flat-topped stump that's so big it looks like King Arthur’s table or something. The living trees around that stump are just babies, even though they’re so tall you have to flop your head back to see the tiny circle of pale blue sky way above. See, if you cut a mature redwood, sometimes baby trees will grow out of the roots of the original tree in a perfect hands-joined-together, ring-around-the-roses circle. It’s called a fairy ring.
 

No, I’m serious, that’s the actual name for it. Is that cool, or what?

When I found my trees, I lay on my back on the broad stump with my feet dangling down and an arm behind my head, watching the clouds try to sneak past me in the circle up above while I chewed my lunch. A breeze stroked my hair and all the high school sounds were far away and tiny, like they couldn’t really compete with something as important and majestic as the trees. I picked up a twig and the rest of the day, if someone slammed my shoulder in the crowded hall, or I dropped my stack of books or I couldn’t get my locker open, I’d pause, reach in my pocket and let the tiny finger-like leaves brush against my hand. Even my hair smelled like a forest.

Right now every one of the magical trees had a person lying at its base.
 

“Guys,” I said, “heads up. I landed a big money-maker.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see Tio behind me, pantomiming a circle-around-the-ear cuckoo symbol and pointing at me.
 

People started to snicker at that, so I took out the twenties and slapped them on the stump. “Think this is crazy?”

Silence. Helena spoke first. “Tell me you didn’t sell any of your body parts.”

“That’s like, all my lunch money so far this year…” Gonzo said.

I said, “Gonzo’s right. Think about it. Every single one of us has given up our lunch money all year. Each week one of us has to drag food in for the whole gang.”

Gonzo glared at Phoebe, “And some people bring in nothing but a pile of stupid bananas and a big jar of peanut butter.”

“Hey,” said Phoebe, “no one forced you to make grilled artichokes and butternut ravioli. I don’t even like artichokes.”

Gonzo looked like he was a balloon, filling up with air, ready to pop. “That’s why I made you — only
you
— a pesto panini.”
 

I tried to get us back on topic before what passed for a food-fight broke out in our group (other people throw bread — we argue about arugula). I could hear the football game noise drifting from our high school stadium. This afternoon football game was my one, best chance to get a photo of the Dog, but I needed their help. Surely eight weird, quirky brains, working all together, could think of a way for me to do this. But the game was more than half over already. I flapped my hands, trying to get their attention.
 

“Listen to me! I don’t have much time here. I love you guys, I swear I do, and if any of you needed a kidney, I’d give you one of mine in a heartbeat. But you know what happens when we get together– we just talk all over each other. I need you to
focus
. We’re running out of time.”

Viola took a lollipop out of her mouth and said, “You’re selling your kidney? On eBay?”

She was serious. That was the problem with Viola. She was the world’s bestest, truest friend, without a mean bone in her body, but almost everyone, at some point, had the urge to strangle her. Only a tiny part of the real world ever seemed to get through to her brain, and the part that did was usually mixed up. She even looked otherworldly, with spiky elfish hair and a very long waist.
 

“Okay,” Helena said then, “Spell it out. What
have
you agreed to do?”

So I explained. When I got to the naked-from-the-waist-up-picture-of-the-Dog part, there was a collective gasp.

Robin and Alex were the only ones to weigh in with words: “Cool,” and “That’s hot.” Alex and Robin never went anywhere without the other and the two of them were having a black eyeliner week. Both head-bobbed their approval with half-lidded raccoon eyes. I turned to the rest of the group.

“Guys, please, please, trust me on this one. See the money there? Don’t you think that kind of money — for only a few minutes work — is worth a little risk?”

“That's not just risky, that's impossible,” said Gonzo. “How do you expect to get that close to some half-naked University guy you don't even know?”

“The only place I’ll get that kind of picture is in the locker room, after a football game.”

Another gasp.

Helena said, “But isn’t football season over?”

I said, “There’s nothing left — except for
today
— you can hear it. Today there’s a demonstration.”

“Does it have to be a
game
?” Helena asked. “Don’t they do off-season practice stuff?”

Gonzo said, “Kate’s right. At a practice, people would notice her. And she’s got no excuse for being there. But when it’s a game, there’s all kinds of confusion.”

Tio said, “But that’s not a
real
game — the band isn’t even doing a half-time show.”

Gonzo said, “A demonstration’s a kind of post-season game, for the recruiters. Some huge college B-team plays us. The college freshmen get a chance to play against a tough team. And recruiters like to see our high school guys take on some older players. It’d work for Kate — there’s usually lots of people in the stands — people like seeing a college team play against a tough underdog.”

Silence fell. We all stared at Gonzo. See, we in the Academy pod don’t do sports, not even spectator sports. Gonzo, pink color steaming up his neck from his collar, said, “What? Can’t I like puff pastry
and
football? I mean, it’s not like I understand the game or anything. I hear guys talk, that’s all.”

A distant thunderous cheer rumbled across the field.

“There’s no time!” I wailed.

Phoebe, glowering as usual, said, “You guys are always telling
me
to stop and think before I lose my temper and do something stupid. You ought to think this through. A game’s best, sure, but really, why can’t this wait? We could earn the money another way. Why does it have to be now?”

I sat up and looked around at them, not wanting to answer.

The breeze slowed to listen and the only sound was the scritch-scratch of branches twisting and fretting above us. Phoebe said, “There was a city planning committee meeting last night, wasn’t there?”

I nodded, my throat pinched tight with misery.
 

“Tell us,” Phoebe said, her hands balling into fists. “I promise I won’t go into smackdown mode.”

We all cared about the fairy circle. That’s how our group formed. I couldn’t keep the trees to myself. When I found someone crying in the far toilet stall of the girls’ changing room (Viola) I had to tell her about them. When I saw hallway crowds sneering at the couple that was too weird and different (Alex and Robin), I had to drag them both to the circle for lunch. That’s how it happened, one person after another. Until there were eight of us.

How could you keep such a treasure for yourself, when you knew other people desperately needed it too?

We were all in it together — we’d been doing everything we could to fundraise money to save the trees all year — ever since I saw the tiny paper stapled on a sidewalk tree in the neighborhood last fall. It was a mandatory notification sign about proposed construction on the school field.

“We don’t even have as much time as we thought. Now that the city’s given the okay, there’s less than four weeks left. If we don’t do something drastic, the trees’ll be cut and the school will be pouring concrete here in June. Which means I’ve got to get this shot.
Now
.”
 

Alex said, “But we raised a lot of money — right?”

I picked at the edge of my tee shirt. “You guys are great. We raised eighteen thousand dollars in seven months. Just us. That’s…that’s unheard-of.”

Helena, oblivious to the trembling emotion around the group, scalpeled right down to the heart of the problem. “But four hundred dollars for a picture isn’t going to do it, Kate. Not when we’re still eight thousand short of what the school’s offering old lady Hathaway for the fairy circle.”

I looked around the group and I could see the news hit them hard — how far behind we were, how little time we had, how much was at stake. Well I wasn’t going to let it happen. Not to my friends, not to the trees. I gritted my teeth and said, “First, see, I get this one shot of the Dog. And then I’ll do something else. Whatever it takes. That’s what we’re going to do.”

People seemed to steady. Glances went from one person to the other, weaving around the group like safety ropes, keeping everyone from losing it.

“So we need a plan for today. Ideas? Ideas?” Helena barked like a drum major calling out the formation.
 

Various suggestions filled the small circle of trees. “Drop Kate with a crane! Pretend you’re delivering pizza! Janitor- you could be a janitor!”

Voices dwindled without a usable idea. Oh God, this was never going to work.
 

Viola said loudly, into the silence, “You could be a band. And play a song.”
 

Helena said, to Viola, “Kate is already in the marching band. But the band’s not playing today. Kate can’t very well march out on the field by herself. And certainly not into the men's changing room.”

Viola said, “Why not?”

Into the shocked and embarrassed silence, the group turned awkward. Earbuds plugged into ears, and sweatshirt hoods pulled up and down over foreheads. Within moments, the circle of trees housed a group of teen-monks, heads bowed, eyes averted from Viola.

Viola smiled at me, the only person still making eye contact. “I’ve got a flute. And Tio said he can play the triangle. Or was that something else we were talking about in geometry class?”

I took a deep breath of the resin-filled air, the redwood smell sharp and tangy as tears in the back of my throat. It was like a hit of something soothing. Then, with my eyes closed, the floodgates of inspiration flung open.

“Yes! Yes! Viola! You did it — you’re brilliant!”

I grabbed her hands and we leaped, boinging off the ground, chests back, a half-smile on Viola’s face. “I did? What’d I do?”
 

I stopped and threw my arms around the nearest tree. The roughness of the bark against my cheek felt the way my dad’s beard used to feel — a comforting scratch with a piney aftershave smell. I couldn’t be near these trees without believing that the world could be better than it was, that everything was possible when I stood in their shelter. Just look at them — I wanted to shout at everyone I knew — they had sprung up a hundred years ago, from hidden roots of a destroyed tree, climbing up to the sky against all odds. They held hands underground and gave each other strength. They were living proof that nothing was truly over, not until there was no hope left.

My voice rose in excitement, “Guys, remember how the band lines up on both sides of the concrete exit ramp and plays the team off the field? That ramp is the back entrance to the locker room. I can slip down the ramp behind the players and no one’ll notice.”
 

Everyone on the Legacy football team belongs to University pod, and everyone in the marching band belongs to my pod, Academy. We Academy students talk for weeks about who won the half-time band smack-down show, and why, and if we’re having an overall winning band season or not. For most of the game, if you’re in the marching band, you sit there with your book open on your lap, unable to see anything because of the rows of towering furry band hats in front of you. You’re dependent on your band-mates to elbow you if the drum major gets a freakish urge to play something in addition to the predictable pre-game, half-time, and post-game routines.

Tio looked aghast. “That will never work with a packed stadium watching?”

I waved my hand at the objection, brushing it off like a buzzing gnat. “Everybody mills around at the end of a game. No one ever notices the band. Tio — grab me that zoom camera from the newspaper office. Viola — get your flute out of your locker and then go to the game. You’re going to meet me and Tio at the ramp. I’ll hit the band room for instruments for us, but Tio, just to warn you, I can’t carry my case
and
that whopping bass sax of yours.”