Pickle Pizza (3 page)

Stacy was waiting outside when Eric arrived. She was holding a small box. Her unpainted eagle was inside.

Eric showed her the big book. The bird book.

“Wow,” she said. “This is great.”

They sat on the step looking at the book. Stacy turned the pages carefully. “What bright colors! And the pictures are so big.”

“Grandpa likes them that way.”

Stacy said softly, “I hope his eyes get better.”

“Me too,” Eric said. “Grandpa wears a magnifying glass when he repairs watches. But not when he's looking at this book.”

Stacy smiled. “He wears his field glasses for bird watching, too.”

Eric smiled back. “Watching birds is his favorite thing. But his eyes are getting weak.”

“Then your idea is perfect,” she said. “Sculptures are great to touch. Even if your grandpa loses his sight, he'll be able to
feel
your bird!”

Eric hadn't thought of that.

Soon it was time to leave for art class. Stacy's mom was a careful driver. But Eric wished she would zoom around the corners. To make the time pass, he studied the bird book.

At last, they arrived in front of a redbrick house. A white sign hung from the lamppost. It said:
Young Artists' Studio
.

Stacy's mom waved goodbye and pulled away from the curb. Eric followed Stacy up the stony walkway.

“This is where I come every Saturday,”
she said. They went inside. Rows of sketches, cartoons, and paintings decorated the walls. A dark-haired lady sat behind a wide desk.

Stacy went up to the desk. “This is my friend Eric,” she told the lady. “He's my guest today.”

“Welcome.” The desk lady smiled.

Stacy turned to Eric. “Eric, this is Miss Lana. She signs kids up for classes.”

Eric grinned. “I'd like to sign up sometime.”

“We'd love to have you,” Miss Lana said.

Stacy and Eric headed down the hall. In the sculpting studio, Eric counted ten kids at work.

“Follow me,” Stacy said. Her table was small and flat like all the others. A set of paints and some brushes were there.

Mr. Albert came over. “Nice to see you, Stacy,” her teacher said.

Stacy introduced Eric. “Eric's one of the Cul-de-sac Kids. It's a club.” She explained about the seven houses on their block. “We have nine kids on Blossom Hill Lane. Most of us are making something for Father's Day.”

Eric listened.

Stacy continued. “Eric wants to make a bird out of sculpey.” She didn't say it was for his grandpa. Maybe she didn't want to say that Eric's dad had died.

Eric looked at her.
Stacy's a good friend
, he thought.

The teacher scooted a table next to Stacy's. He found an extra chair. “There we are,” said Mr. Albert. “I will be glad to help you, Eric.”

“Thanks.” Eric showed him the bird book and the picture of a red robin. The teacher gave him some basic pointers.
Then he went to help another student.

Stacy got Eric started. She stuck her hands into his sculpey. Right into the middle of it. She worked it like bread dough. “There, that's how to begin. Now
you
try.”

Eric stared at the white clump. He picked it up. The sculpey felt cool in his hands. And a little hard.

Smasho!

He jammed it between his hands.

Stacy grinned. “That's it!”

Eric glanced at Stacy's eagle. What a beautiful sculpture—the smooth body and graceful wings.

He stared at his blob of nothing.

Flip-flop.

Eric's stomach lurched.

Beside him, Stacy began to paint. He watched her work. Then he looked down at his table.
Ee-e-yew
, he thought.
This
glob is supposed to be a Father's Day present?

Eric pulled his fingers out of the sculpey. They were shaking.
What am I doing here?

SIX

Eric's heart was pounding.

He got up and left the room. He stood in the hallway.

Stacy rushed out. “What's wrong, Eric?”

He stared at the floor. “I don't belong here.”

Stacy grabbed his arm. “You'll never know if you don't try.”

Eric knew she was right. “What if it turns out all yucky?” he asked.

Stacy said, “Just do your best. That's what counts.”

Eric agreed to try.

He went back into the classroom with Stacy. He walked past young artists. He saw their small statues. Dolphins, lions, a clown, and even a T-rex. This was work in progress.

Eric sat at his table and took a deep breath. He picked up the bird book and flipped through the pages. The red robin picture was on page 33.

With his finger, he traced the lines of its round shape. He was ready to form the body. Next came the tiny head, and wings.

Eric worked for two hours. Several times, Mr. Albert came to help and give advice. Stacy helped, too.

By the end of class, Eric's work in progress was only half finished. He frowned. “Tomorrow's Father's Day. I can't give
this mess to my grandpa.”

Stacy said, “Just tell him you're working on a top-secret project. When the sculpture's done, give it to him.”

Eric shook his head. “It might take weeks. I want something for
tomorrow
!”

“What's wrong with giving him the unfinished robin?” she asked.

“I just told you.” Eric put his robin glob in a box. “It isn't done.”

Stacy wiggled her nose. Off she went to clean up her work area.

Mr. Albert stopped by. Eric thanked him for his help.

“Perhaps you can join us,” Mr. Albert suggested.

“I'd like that,” Eric said. But he knew it was impossible. Besides, he wasn't an artist.

Eric went outside to wait for Stacy. He gripped his cardboard box. On top of it, he carried the bird book. Inside the
box was a blobby globby robin.

One after another, the young artists came with their sculptures. Eric tried not to stare.

If only my sculpture were finished!
he thought.
If only I could come to class like Stacy all the time.

Father's Day tomorrow—and no present. Eric felt sorry for his grandpa.

He felt sorry for himself, too.

SEVEN

Honk! Honk!

Eric and Stacy ran to get in the car.

“How was art class?” Stacy's mother asked.

Stacy glanced at Eric. “I finished painting my eagle.”

Eric slumped down in the backseat. The bird book lay on the seat beside him.

“What about you, Eric?” Stacy's mother asked.

“I . . . uh, it was nice.” Eric thought
about the class. Mr. Albert and Miss Lana. Stacy and the other kids. All of them had been very nice.

The NOT nice thing was in his box. The yucko bird sculpture!

Eric put the box on the floor—and stuck his tongue out at it.

Stacy and her mom were talking in the front seat. They were making Father's Day plans. They were planning how to gift wrap the eagle sculpture.

Eric slapped his hands over his ears. He didn't want to hear about Father's Day. He didn't want to hear about Stacy's eagle.

A lump choked Eric's throat. He missed his dad.

But he had a terrific grandpa. Eric wanted him to know how special he was. Very special.

Sometimes at night, Eric would tip-toe down the hall. He'd peek into Grandpa's room and listen. In the darkness, he could hear Grandpa talking to God. “Please bless Eric, my grandson,” Grandpa would say.

Those prayers made Eric feel good. And strong.

Stacy turned around in the front seat. Her eyes were kind.

Eric took his hands away from his ears.

“Are you OK?” Stacy asked.

Eric shrugged his shoulders.

Just then, Stacy's mom made a left turn. The box holding Eric's project slid toward the door. The unfinished bird rolled out. Eric kept his seat belt on. He stared at the bird.

When the car pulled into the driveway, Eric picked up his sculpture. Quickly, he scooped it into the box. He
climbed out of the car. “Thanks for taking me.”

“Remember what I told you,” Stacy said. “You can finish your sculpture later. Then give it to your grandpa.” Her voice was soft.

“I know,” Eric said. But more than anything he wanted something for tomorrow. Tomorrow was the day Grandpa deserved a special gift.

Eric closed the lid on the box and headed for home. Someday he would finish the sculpture. Maybe for Grandpa's birthday. Or Christmas.

But
today
he would think of something. Something to give Grandpa for Father's Day.

There was no time to waste!