Shoelaces

Chapter 1
I helped Miss. Gibson unpack all of her markers yesterday. There were over 20 boxes full of them. 40 packs in each box. Some of the boxes had rainbow markers, some had bright ones, some had striped, and even some had erasable ones. It took me about 20 minutes to unpack all of them. But I used up another 10 talking to Miss. Gibson.

“What are we doing with all of these markers?” I asked “Usually, when we draw something, we only need about 10 packs of markers to share with the rest of the school. Why do we need so many?”

“Everyone will get there own pack of markers and bring them home. Were learning about the differences between all of us. Everyone of us will buy a pillowcase and draw some stuff about themselves on it. Then, after the project is complete, we will exchange pillowcases for a day. Someone will learn about someone else and so on.” Miss. Gibson said. I never really thought of doing anything like this. It sounded weird but when you think about it, its really not.

“That’s cool. Where did you get this idea from?” I asked

“My father used to be an art teacher. He would make up all sorts of cool ideas. Like making a collage of paper cups or making pictures out of paperclips. He was one of a kind. But the one project that inspired me the most was the Shoelace Collage. Every person gets a white shoe and colors it. They put all sorts of words and pictures on it to describe themselves. And after the project was complete, my dad would of put it up on a wall, so everyone could see it. But that unfortunately never happened. My dad – Never mind you wouldn’t want to know.” Miss. Gibson said while washing the art tables with Windex. I could see her eyes filling up.

“No. Its all right. You can tell me.” I said. Miss. Gibson put down the bottle of Windex.
“My dad left my house the night before the project was due. He got into a fight with my mother and he left. He never said goodbye. I still feel that empty hole inside of my heart. Anyways, it doesn’t matter now. What matters now is that we get to cleaning up the boxes and throwing the rest if the trash away.” Miss. Gibson said. She turned around, picked up an empty box, and left without saying anything.

I felt really bad. But I was determined more the ever to clean the room up as fast as I could. I took all of the boxes and piled them neatly out side of the room. I used the Windex and wiped all the tables clean. I swept up all the dirt and dust from the floor and I scrubbed the chalkboard. When miss. Gibson walked back
into the room, a smile reaching from ear to ear lit up her face.


“Thank you Tamie.” She said.

I wanted to stay after school that day because I like miss. Gibson. She has been my favorite art teacher for 2 years. I could tell her everything . I told her about the time I tripped down the stairs last year, and I told her all the guys that I have liked. I told her the things I wouldn’t tell my parents. She has been there every step of the way for me since sixth to eighth grade. She helped me get over the fear of rope climbing and helped me prepare for an art contest last year. I love
her like a sister. Or even an other mother. She has been there for me more then anyone else has.

So sadly…. That was yesterday. And today, things have changed.



Early this morning I got a phone call from school. A phone call that changed my life forever.

“Hello?” I asked

“Hi. This is Mrs. Rose your team leader. Miss. Gibson cant do the mural after school today. ” She sounded kind of sad to me. It sounded like she wanted to say more, but couldn’t.

“Oh. That’s all right. Is she sick? I can just go by her house and pick up the directions there”

“Um… No Tamie that’s not a good idea” Mrs. Rose said.

“Oh. Well whatever the case, Ill just do it some other time after school” I said. Something was wrong.

“Um. Miss. Gibson isn’t doing the mural anymore. Um… she – she” Mrs. Rose was about ready to cry. I was about to my self. This didn’t sound good

“WHAT DID SHE DO! WHAT HAPPENED!” I blurted out

“ She- She- she’s dead!”
After that, all the other words Miss. Rose faded in my mind. Except two. She’s dead. She’s dead. She’s dead.

How could someone I just talked to only 14 hours ago be dead?
Tonight I cried. I cried until my eyes could not produce any more tears. How was I going to feel better? How was I going to deal with it all?