The Brilliant Fall of Gianna Z. by Kate Messner Page B
Authors: Kate Messner
still clean. Mom frowns at it.
“Why can’t you wear something where the people’s noses are in the right place?”
I look at Nonna for help. She raises her eyebrows and looks up at the ceiling. I grab my backpack and follow Mom and Ian to the car.
“Hold this, please. I’ll tell jokes on the way.” Ian hands me The Giant Book of Riddles while he gets buckled in. Ian is a spiny cocklebur plant—the kind with the seeds that grab you with those sharp little barbs and never give up. Thank God it’s only a ten-minute ride.
“Now,” Mom says, twisting around to look behind her as she backs out of the driveway, “I found your leaf collection planning worksheet in the Garbage Pit when I was picking up your room. You got glue all over it so it was stuck to your math quiz.”
“Did you sign the math quiz?”
“No. Why would I sign the math quiz?”
“I was supposed to have you sign it last week.”
“What did the boy ghost say to the girl ghost?” Ian starts laughing before I can guess.
“I don’t know, what?”
“You’re BOO-tiful.”
“I’ll sign it when we get home. It’s stacked on your desk now with your other school papers. I threw out those shredded-up magazines.”
“You threw out my collage stuff?”
“And what is all that paint splattered on the wall?”
“What wall?”
“The wall behind the mountain of stuffed animals.”
“Oh . . . they were sort of supposed to stay there.”
“Gianna, you need to take some responsibility. Life isn’t a big joke.”
“Okay, here’s one,” Ian says. “Why can’t you go hungry at the beach?”
“Ian, please.” Mom flips on her turn signal. “Gianna, that leaf collection planning worksheet—you’ve read it, right?”
“Because of all the sand which is there!” Ian laughs hysterically.
“I think I read it.”
“Get it? All the sand which is there?”
“Ian, please.” He closes his book and looks out the window.
“I collected leaves this morning,” I offer.
“How many?”
“Four more. I’m up to seventeen now.”
“How many brave guys named Ian does it take to change a lightbulb?” Ian asks.
“I don’t know, one?”
“Gianna, we’re having a conversation about your leaf project here. You’re way behind.”
“I have leaves. I just need to find a few more and get them all together.”
“Nope, that’s not the answer. Guess again.” Ian ignores Mom’s warning look in the mirror and reaches across the backseat to poke my arm. “Come on, Gee. How many brave guys named Ian does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“Ian, please.”
“None! Because brave guys like me aren’t afraid of the dark!”
I groan.
“Enough!” Mom’s glare is about to burn a hole in the rearview mirror.
“I made that one up, you know,” Ian says quietly, and opens his book again.
“So, Gianna, you know you need to have twenty-five leaves for Thursday?”
“Yes.”
“And you know they all have to be different kinds?”
“Yeah. Mom, for once, I’m on track with this. Let it go, would you?”
“And you know they all have to be identified with annotated note cards, sources, and information about geographic distribution of the species?”
Say what?
The shell-shocked look on my face tells Mom-in-the-mirror two things. One: I didn’t know that, thanks very much. And two: the leaves are not identified, much less annotated or notated or any other kind of tated. I always miss the fine print.
“Gianna.” She sighs and zips into a parking spot close to the door of Crafty Cats. “You really need to get yourself organized. It’s so easy to make lists and keep things sorted out.”
Easy for you , I think as the automatic doors slide open. The potpourri section is right by the door, so coming in here is like walking into a giant flower garden. Mom’s eyes are watering. She hates it, but I love it. I bought a big bag of potpourri once and used all the dried petals and buds to make a mosaic of a little girl in a garden.
“Why can’t you wear something where the people’s noses are in the right place?”
I look at Nonna for help. She raises her eyebrows and looks up at the ceiling. I grab my backpack and follow Mom and Ian to the car.
“Hold this, please. I’ll tell jokes on the way.” Ian hands me The Giant Book of Riddles while he gets buckled in. Ian is a spiny cocklebur plant—the kind with the seeds that grab you with those sharp little barbs and never give up. Thank God it’s only a ten-minute ride.
“Now,” Mom says, twisting around to look behind her as she backs out of the driveway, “I found your leaf collection planning worksheet in the Garbage Pit when I was picking up your room. You got glue all over it so it was stuck to your math quiz.”
“Did you sign the math quiz?”
“No. Why would I sign the math quiz?”
“I was supposed to have you sign it last week.”
“What did the boy ghost say to the girl ghost?” Ian starts laughing before I can guess.
“I don’t know, what?”
“You’re BOO-tiful.”
“I’ll sign it when we get home. It’s stacked on your desk now with your other school papers. I threw out those shredded-up magazines.”
“You threw out my collage stuff?”
“And what is all that paint splattered on the wall?”
“What wall?”
“The wall behind the mountain of stuffed animals.”
“Oh . . . they were sort of supposed to stay there.”
“Gianna, you need to take some responsibility. Life isn’t a big joke.”
“Okay, here’s one,” Ian says. “Why can’t you go hungry at the beach?”
“Ian, please.” Mom flips on her turn signal. “Gianna, that leaf collection planning worksheet—you’ve read it, right?”
“Because of all the sand which is there!” Ian laughs hysterically.
“I think I read it.”
“Get it? All the sand which is there?”
“Ian, please.” He closes his book and looks out the window.
“I collected leaves this morning,” I offer.
“How many?”
“Four more. I’m up to seventeen now.”
“How many brave guys named Ian does it take to change a lightbulb?” Ian asks.
“I don’t know, one?”
“Gianna, we’re having a conversation about your leaf project here. You’re way behind.”
“I have leaves. I just need to find a few more and get them all together.”
“Nope, that’s not the answer. Guess again.” Ian ignores Mom’s warning look in the mirror and reaches across the backseat to poke my arm. “Come on, Gee. How many brave guys named Ian does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“Ian, please.”
“None! Because brave guys like me aren’t afraid of the dark!”
I groan.
“Enough!” Mom’s glare is about to burn a hole in the rearview mirror.
“I made that one up, you know,” Ian says quietly, and opens his book again.
“So, Gianna, you know you need to have twenty-five leaves for Thursday?”
“Yes.”
“And you know they all have to be different kinds?”
“Yeah. Mom, for once, I’m on track with this. Let it go, would you?”
“And you know they all have to be identified with annotated note cards, sources, and information about geographic distribution of the species?”
Say what?
The shell-shocked look on my face tells Mom-in-the-mirror two things. One: I didn’t know that, thanks very much. And two: the leaves are not identified, much less annotated or notated or any other kind of tated. I always miss the fine print.
“Gianna.” She sighs and zips into a parking spot close to the door of Crafty Cats. “You really need to get yourself organized. It’s so easy to make lists and keep things sorted out.”
Easy for you , I think as the automatic doors slide open. The potpourri section is right by the door, so coming in here is like walking into a giant flower garden. Mom’s eyes are watering. She hates it, but I love it. I bought a big bag of potpourri once and used all the dried petals and buds to make a mosaic of a little girl in a garden.