Free The Secret Hum of a Daisy by Tracy Holczer Page B

way I could stay focused on Mama’s treasure-hunt clues.
    Mrs. Snickels wanted our self-portrait sketches finished, so when I got into third period a little early, I took out my portrait right away and went to work. I was coming to love art, as much as I could love anything anymore. The smell of paint and the mess of Mrs. Snickels’s desk were comforting, and I could feel Mama in the quiet way everyone worked. It was almost like being with her. Almost.
    Just as the final bell rang, Jo slammed into the room, blowing away my peaceful thoughts, with Beth and Ginger following close behind. Ginger was all in black today, making me think even more about mimes. Jo dropped her backpack on the floor beside her stool, and Beth and Ginger sat at their own table, murmuring to each other. Beth’s T-shirt read, A TIDY ROOM IS A HAPPY ROOM .
    After much whispering, Beth came over and put a pink-fingernailed hand on Jo’s shoulder. Beth’s hair was neatly French braided, and I wondered if her mother had done it for her. “Listen, Jo, things will definitely be okay in the end, and if it isn’t okay, it isn’t the end.”
    â€œWhatever, Beth.”
    â€œDon’t ‘whatever’ me. I’m just trying to be helpful.”
    â€œDon’t you ever think that maybe I don’t want your help? Maybe I just want to, I don’t know, figure it out myself. In fact, why don’t you make me a label that says LEAVE ME ALONE and I’ll stick it to my forehead.”
    Beth’s perfectly glossed lips formed a tiny round O, like the idea of being alone had never occurred to her in the entirety of her life. “You don’t mean that.”
    Jo looked straight at her and said in a low, serious voice, “You guys have no idea what this has been like.”
    â€œThis isn’t just happening to you, Jo. Did you ever think of that?”
    Beth stormed away, her long, billowy scarf trailing behind her.
    â€œAt least I’m not a walking self-help poster,” Jo said.
    Beth and Ginger went back to whispering until Mrs. Snickels came and stood over their shoulders. Eventually, they quieted down and took out their work.
    I figured it was none of my business, so I kept drawing.
    Jo sniffed. “In case you were wondering what all the drama is about, Max just threw a fit because he couldn’t find his red suitcase. He accused his best friend of hiding it and they got in a huge fight. He was inconsolable and Mom had to come pick him up. Then they found the suitcase in the stupid coat closet, but she took him home anyway.”
    I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to say anything. But after her third dramatic sigh, I gave up on my sketch for the time being. “He must have had a good reason. People don’t usually blame their best friends for stuff unless there’s a reason for it.”
    â€œI guess you’re going to find out how weird we are sooner or later.” Jo put her head in her hands and talked down at the table. “Max wraps himself in bandages, like a mummy. He insists he isn’t going to stop until we give him an entombment party, and his friends are teasing him. There, I said it.”
    I remembered his bandaged hands on the first day of school and seeing him and Jo talking to Grandma at the pasture fence before that. Talk about commitment.
    â€œThat’s pretty brave,” I said.
    â€œHmph.”
    Mama had always told me it was a good deed to help when I could, to share my worldly perspective, having met so many people along the way. “Don’t let any part of yourself go to waste, Gracie May,” she’d say. I supposed it wouldn’t hurt.
    â€œI’ve seen boys do weirder things,” I offered.
    â€œYou could not possibly have seen anything weirder than an eight-year-old boy who wraps himself in gauze bandages—which he pays for out of his own allowance, I should add—and insists he will keep doing it until we