Kate DiCamillo: The Tiger Rising

Then she saw his carvings, the little wooden village of odd things that he had made. He had them all on a TV dinner tray beside his bed.

“Oh,” she said — her voice sounded different, lighter — “where did you get those?”

She went and bent over the tray and studied the carvings, the blue jay and the pine tree and the Kentucky Star sign and the one that he was particularly proud of, his father’s right foot, life-size and accurate right down to the little toe. She picked them up one by one and then placed them back down carefully.

“Where did you get them?” she asked again.

“I made ’em,” said Rob.

She did not doubt him, as some people would. Instead, she said, “Michelangelo — the man who painted the Sistine ceiling — he sculpted, too. You’re a sculptor,” she said. “You’re an artist.”

“Naw,” said Rob. He shook his head. He felt a hot wave of embarrassment and joy roll over him. It lit his rash on fire. He bent and rubbed his hands down his legs, trying to calm them. When he straightened back up, he saw that Sistine had picked up the carving of her. He had left it lying on his bed, intending to work on it again in the evening.

He held his breath as she stared at the piece of wood. It looked so much like her, with her skinny legs and small eyes and defiant stance, that he was certain she would be angry. But once again she surprised him.

“Oh,” she said, her voice full of wonder, “it’s perfect. It’s like looking in a little wooden mirror.” She stared at it a minute more and then carefully laid it back on his bed.

“Give me some clothes,” she said, “and we’ll go see the tiger.”

He gave her a pair of pants and a T-shirt, and left the room and went outside to wait for her.

It was still raining, but not hard. He looked at the falling Kentucky Star. He thought for a minute about one of the not-wishes he had buried deepest: a friend. He stared at the star and felt the hope and need and fear course through him in a hot neon arc. He shook his head.

“Naw,” he said to the Kentucky Star. “Naw.”

And then he sighed and stuck his legs out into the rain, hoping to cool them off, hoping to get some small amount of relief.

They walked together through the scrub. The rain had stopped, but the whole world was wet. The pines and the palmettos and the sad clusters of dead orange trees all dripped water.

“This is where my mother grew up,” Sistine said, swinging her arms wide as she walked. “Right here in Lister. And she said that she always told herself that if she ever made it out of here, she wasn’t going to come back. But now she’s back because my father had an affair with his secretary, whose name is Bridgette and who can’t type, which is a really bad thing for a secretary not to be able to do. And my mother left him when she found out. He’s coming down here to get me. Soon. Next week, probably. I’m going to live with him. I’m not staying here, that’s for sure.”

Rob felt a familiar loneliness rise up and drape its arm over his shoulder. She wasn’t staying. There was no point in wishing; the suitcase needed to stay closed. He stared at Sistine’s shiny shoes and willed his sadness to go away.

“Ain’t you worried about messing up your shoes?” he asked her.

“No,” she said, “I hate these shoes. I hate every piece of clothing that my mother makes me wear. Does your mother live with you?”

Rob shook his head. “Naw,” he said.

“Where is she?”

Rob shrugged his shoulders.

“My mother’s going to open up a store downtown. It’s going to be an art store. She’s going to bring some culture to the area. She could sell some of your wood sculptures.”

“They ain’t sculptures,” Rob protested. “They’re just whittling. That’s all. And we got to be quiet because Beauchamp don’t want people walking around on his land.”

“Is this his land?” Sistine asked.

“Everything’s his,” said Rob. “The motel and these woods.”

“He can’t own everything,” Sistine argued. “Besides,” she said, “I don’t care. He can catch us. He can put us in jail for trespassing. I don’t care.”

“If we’re in jail, we won’t get to see the tiger,” said Rob.

“Where’s your mother?” Sistine demanded suddenly. She stopped walking and stared at him.

“Shhh,” said Rob. “You got to be quiet.” He kept walking.

“I do not have to be quiet,” Sistine called after him. “I want to know where your mother is.”

He turned around and looked at her. Her hands were on her hips. Her black eyes were narrowed.

“I don’t want to see your stupid tiger!” she shouted. “I don’t care about it. You don’t know how to talk to people. I told you about my father and my mother and Bridgette, and you didn’t say anything. You won’t even tell me about your mother.” Keeping her hands on her hips, she turned around and started marching back in the direction of the Kentucky Star. “Keep your stupid secrets!” she shouted. “Keep your stupid tiger, too. I don’t care.”

Rob watched her. Because she was wearing his jeans and his shirt, it was like looking into a fun-house mirror. It was like watching himself walk away. He shrugged and bent to scratch his legs. He told himself that he didn’t care. He told himself that she was leaving soon, anyway.

But when he looked up and saw her getting smaller and smaller, it reminded him of his dream. He remembered Sistine riding into the woods on the back of the tiger. And suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of watching her disappear again.

“Wait up!” he shouted. “Wait up!” And he started to run toward her.

Sistine turned and stopped. She waited for him with her hands on her hips.

“Well?” she said when he got close to her.

“She’s dead,” he told her. The words came out in short, ragged gasps. “My mama’s dead.”

“Okay,” said Sistine. She gave a quick, professional nod of her head. She stepped toward him. And Rob turned. And together they walked back in the other direction, toward the tiger.

The cage was made out of rusted chainlink fence; there was a wood board that served as a roof, and there was a chainlink door that was locked tight with three padlocks. Inside the cage, the tiger was still pacing back and forth, just as he had been the last time Rob saw him, as if he had never stopped pacing, or as if Rob had never gone away.

“Oh,” said Sistine in the same voice that she had used when she saw Rob’s carvings. “He’s beautiful.”

“Don’t get too close,” Rob ordered. “He might not like it if you stand too close.”

But the tiger ignored them. He concentrated on pacing. He was so enormous and bright that it was hard to look directly at him.

“It’s just like the poem says,” Sistine breathed.

“What?” said Rob.

“That poem. The one that goes, ‘Tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forests of the night.’ That poem. It’s just like that. He burns bright.”

“Oh,” said Rob. He nodded. He liked the fierce and beautiful way the words sounded. Just as he was getting ready to ask Sistine to say them again, she whirled around and faced him.

“What’s he doing way out here?” she demanded.

Rob shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “He’s Beauchamp’s, I guess.”

“Beauchamp’s what?” said Sistine. “His pet?”

“I don’t know,” said Rob. “I just like looking at him. Maybe Beauchamp does, too. Maybe he just likes to come out here and look at him.”

“That’s selfish,” said Sistine.

Rob shrugged.

“This isn’t right, for this tiger to be in a cage. It’s not right.”