The Secret Hum of a Daisy by Tracy Holczer

She told me twice that her mother owned an inspirational T-shirt business and that she helped with the slogans, which she showed me. Her T-shirt read IT TAKES A VILLAGE . She liked lists. They were written all over her notebook and binder.
Seven Things I Hate about Mornings
and
Fifty-Three Things That Make Me Happy to Be Me.
She drew hearts in every other square inch of space, of which there wasn’t much.
    There was spit-wad Stubbie, and Archer Lee Hamilton, whose name tag actually read ARCHER LEE HAMILTON like he was practicing to be president or something.
    Jo sat alone at a tall table, fidgeting with the settings on a movie camera, and patted the seat next to her. Stubbie nudged Archer as I walked past, and Archer gave me a cheesy grin he might have meant to be something else. Maybe a flirty grin? A welcoming smile? Like how you sit down to draw a duck, only it ends up looking more like a caterpillar, and so you just go with it.
    My brain was overloaded, the new names and classroom numbers floating around like bits of confetti. Even though there were only eighteen names and six classes, they tacked themselves to long lists of other names and classes from other schools so that I kept forgetting where I was. I sat next to Jo and out of habit, I reached for my notebook so I could write down words and relieve some first-day-of-school pressure. Then I remembered why I couldn’t do that and bit my nails instead.
    â€œMrs. Snickels asked me to fill you in on the final project,” Jo said. “It’s due at the end of the year, so you have about eight more weeks. There isn’t much of a theme; she just wants you to choose something you love or feel passionate about. Her only rule is that the passion has to come through in the project somehow. You can use any medium—photography, art, collage. Last year, someone did a series of photos of a garden as it bloomed. I’m doing a documentary. Just make sure you check with Mrs. Snickels to see if your project is okay.”
    That all sounded manageable, only I didn’t plan on being there in June.
    â€œHere.” She slid a small stack of stapled pages toward me. She whispered, “I’ve known most everyone since kindergarten, some before. I figured I’d write down some basic information to fill you in.”
    The first page said
Things to Know
at the top. I couldn’t decide if it was sweet or creepy. “Thanks.”
    â€œDon’t mention it.”
    There were eighteen wooden box frames along one side of the wall with names underneath. Each frame held an object of some kind: an engraved stone that said PEACE (Beth), a Playbill from the musical
Wicked
(Ginger), a Barbie-sized director’s chair (Jo). In the bottom corner was an empty frame with my name beneath it.
    â€œWhat goes in the box?” I asked Jo.
    â€œWhatever you feel like sharing.”
    â€œWhat if you don’t feel like sharing anything?”
    â€œIt happens. Stubbie protested just before Thanksgiving. He said he was exerting his right to privacy under the Constitution. Mrs. Snickels said it was a perfect example of how nothing can mean something in art.”
    Mrs. Snickels tinkled a bell to get our attention. “We’re going to start something new today. Self-portraits.”
    She dug through the piles of paper on her desk and came up with a drawing she clipped to the whiteboard. It was a pencil-sketched self-portrait of half her face. She had drawn her short black hair, funny dark-rimmed glasses, and a crooked smile. I liked it. She didn’t make herself look like something she wasn’t.
    She picked up a bag from her desk and handed out mirrors.
    â€œThe self-portrait should take up only half the page—which half is up to you. The other half is a surprise that we will finish in a few weeks.
    â€œTry and keep in mind that some of it will come from the mirror, but some of it should come in the form of expression so that the inside of