“Hey, Ben, do you wanna play basketball?” Nick asked There are some things in life that you never forget—no matter how much time passes, they just cling to your heart and mind like the stubby fingers of a kindergartner clutching his mother’s hand on the first day of school. Special moments, like the day when my parents showed Nick and me the place where they met, and we sat there under the big tree, as one happy family, or emotional events, like the time when my parents told us that they were getting a divorce— those are things that will stay with me forever. That day when I thought I had lost my brother was one of those things. It is still as clear in my mind as the moment it happened. I remember it started on a humid afternoon in August, during one of those days when the air is so heavy that you can barely move and the heat overwhelms your senses. The sun smothered us like a thick-soled boot extinguishing a coal that escaped from the fireplace. We could feel its merciless heat on our backs as Nick, my ten-year-old brother, and I sat on the front stoop, eating Popsicles. Our mother had ordered us out of the house after Nick spilled his drink all over the kitchen table. “Hey, Ben, do you wanna play basketball?” Nick asked. He was always playing basketball those days. “No. It’s too hot,” I replied. Nick grabbed a ball anyway and started dribbling around. “When will you be ready to play?” he pestered. “I don’t want to play at all, Nick. Stop bothering me.” “Bother! Bother! Bother!” “You’re such a baby! Why don’t you go ask your mommy to play with you? Oh, wait, I forgot, she doesn’t like you anymore because you ruined her tablecloth.” I was being a bully, but I was irritated and I knew what would get to him. “She still likes me! She’s my mom!” “OK, OK, you can think whatever you want.” I had him. He threw his basketball at me and ran inside. I waited for Mom to send him back out again, but she didn’t. She was probably finished cleaning up. Nick was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in. I shot him a look that let him know I had won and then headed upstairs. I was taking it too far, and I knew it, but I had to get the better of him. “Shut up, Ben,” he called after me, but I ignored him. When I was almost to the top of the stairs, I heard a sob escape his chest before he could stifle it. He hated when I teased him about being a baby. Ever since the divorce, he had been really close to Mom, and he still felt insecure. I shouldn’t have been so harsh with him. The thing about Nick is that he usually forgives you pretty quickly. I thought that by the next morning at the latest, he would have forgotten the whole incident. At first, I thought he had, but he wouldn’t speak to me and his eyes were red, as if he had been crying. Something was wrong, and I worried about him for most of the day. Maybe something was going on at school. Or, more likely, he was still sore about our argument from the previous afternoon. He was only ten, after all. I decided to apologize when I got a chance. The walk home from baseball practice was pretty long, and about halfway through, all that humidity built up into a thunderstorm, and before I knew it, rain began to pelt my face like bullets. I put my hands over my head and started to run. Thunder boomed, and I ran faster and faster. When I reached the front door, I knocked as hard as I could. I waited for the familiar sound of my mother’s pumps on the hardwood floor, hurrying to let me in, but heard nothing. I knocked again. “Mom?” A huge peel of thunder crashed from the angry skies, and it really began to come down. Where was she? I fished around my pockets for my key. I found it and unlocked the door, collapsing into the shelter of my warm home. I trudged upstairs, peeled off my sopping baseball pants, dried my hair, and felt a lot better. I would have been happy to settle in for the night, except for one thing. Where was Mom? And, come to think of it, where was Nick? I headed downstairs to phone the neighbors in case someone had seen them. When I reached the kitchen, however, something caught my eye. Lying on the table was a note written in my mother’s careful hand. Can’t find Nick. Went out to look for him. Stay here. I love you. —Mom When I finished reading it, two thoughts immediately invaded my mind like so many enthusiastic schoolchildren shooting their hands up to answer a question. My first thought was that I knew exactly what had happened to my brother. I don’t know how I knew, but I’d never been so sure of anything in my life: he had run away. My second thought was that there was no way that I was staying home. I had to find him. I ran outside and the ferocious rain that almost knocked me down nearly changed my mind. Squinting my eyes, I ran around back and grabbed my bike. The first place I thought to look was Nick’s friend Daniel’s house. Even if he hadn’t planned to go there, he might have taken shelter from the rain. I pedaled faster than I had ever before, and the rain stung my raw skin. I couldn’t see very clearly, but when I reached Daniel’s house, I recognized the dejected walk of my mother slogging down the front walkway. She must have had the same idea I had, but not had any luck. “Mom!
Family
How to Survive a Line Drive
“Let’s do this, Dani,” Sam shouted, eyes twinkling with delight Ever wish you were smaller than a grain of sand? Ever wish you could become invisible? Ever wish you could rewind your day? Well, that’s what I wished on my eleventh birthday. “Happy birthday to Dani, happy birthday to you,” they sang as I blew out my candles and made a wish. Then I heard my mother and brother singing, “Skip around the room, we won’t stop ’til you skip around the room.” How embarrassing, I thought to myself. But instead of skipping around and making a complete fool of myself, I simply asked, “Mom, can I get the biggest slice of cake?” The cake looked so good. It was from Buttercup Bakery and was called a Hummingbird Cake. I think it is a cross between carrot and banana cake with some nuts and amazing frosting. I was very excited to have this cake because I hadn’t had it in so long. I had been away at sleep-away camp for four weeks, and let’s just say the food there is not really memorable in a good kind of way. “Dani, will you play baseball with me?” Sam (a pesky seven-year-old boy) pleaded with me, tugging at my sleeve. I was thinking about my favorite cake and then I heard this little kid. Sam loved to play baseball and really looked up to me. To Sam I was a cool, sporty big kid. I, well, I did not look at him the same way at all. I was turning eleven and he was just seven. That can be a pretty big four-year difference. Not to mention that I have been hesitant playing with him since he hit my face with a basketball. Sure, he didn’t intend to hit me. It was an accident, but I’m the type of person who can forgive but not forget. Sam really seemed to like me though. Every time I wanted to do something, Sam wanted to do it, too. I worried that he would never play a game unless I said it was important to me, and that if I said no to baseball, Sam would stop playing baseball. Maybe I was making too much of it, but I felt like if I said no, I would crush a little part of him and I didn’t want to do that. It’s my birthday though! I thought to myself. I should make myself happy today, not him, said the voice inside my head. The choice was clear, me or Sam? I was thinking. I mean, it was classic villain against hero, The Joker against Batman. Which one did I want to be? Flash forward. Could I deal with crushing Sam? Nope. Rewind. Batman it was. “Dani… Dani.” Sam’s loud but tiny voice snapped me out of my conscience games. “Dani, will you play baseball with me,” Sam asked in the sweetest, most innocent voice. “Please…” He gave me the puppy-dog eyes, too. I mean, that’s not fair! I always fall for that. It’s my kryptonite. Don’t do it, I thought. Say no. No, no, NO, I thought. “Yeah, sure, Sam, let’s go play.” * * * “Batter up,” I cried, mounting the high pile of sand also known as the pitcher’s mound. “Let’s do this, Dani,” Sam shouted, eyes twinkling with delight, “we all know who’s going to win here.” He was relaxed around me, but he was always trying to impress me. “Right,” I said, winding my arm up like a windmill. Sam was clearly happy, but he certainly wasn’t smiling. Instead, there was a thin red line, pursed tightly together with a tiny curve upward at the end. I sighed. I was really doing this. Besides, Sam had his game face on. There was no going back now. Whoosh! My pitch flew right past his head. I was being a little harsh. Well, I thought, if I’m doing this, I’m not just going to let him win. No. I never just “phone it in.” I always give it my best. “Ugghh.” Sam kicked home plate in disgust. “Go again, Dani,” he growled. Whoosh! He missed and kicked poor home plate again. Whoosh! Oh, boy. I’m glad I’m not home plate. I would be in shambles. Gone was the little boy who loved me. Here, instead, was the competitive boy who kicks—no, destroys— things. “Um, let’s switch it up, Sam,” I suggested nervously. Without a word, we switched places. I’d like to say it was a cloudy, rainy day, but it wasn’t. It was a beautiful, sunny day. It was my birthday. “Batter up,” Sam shouted. “I didn’t get a run so you won’t either!” “Let’s do this,” I replied. Whoosh! I heard the ball whistling towards me. Crack! I heard the connection of my bat and the ball. I felt my arm surging in the air. I heard Sam cry out, but it wasn’t like before. When I looked over, as I was running towards first base, I saw him lying on the ground, in agony. Just like that, I became the villain. * * * “Sam, are you OK?” I shouted as I turned and immediately started sprinting toward the pitcher’s mound. I, of course, feared the worst. What did I do? How would I get though this? “Owww,” Sam groaned as he lay on the ground, with one hand pressed against his eye. “Sam, are you OK, kiddo?” I kept repeating. “It hurts, Dani,” he wailed. “I’m really sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to,” I said, feeling so bad. I felt my face go a deep shade of pink. “It’ll be OK,” Sam said, removing his hand to reveal a bright red welt that would surely bruise terribly. “Can we keep playing?” he asked. It was so funny and confusing I almost laughed. He was OK… and he forgave me! Sam wanted to play again. Sam, with his flat, dark brown hair and warm affable eyes, wanted to play again. I
All You Need Is Love
Addie didn’t—couldn’t—believe what she was hearing Addie was perched precariously on the edge of her ruffled bed. Her mother was seated next to her, chewing on her lower lip as she so often did when something was troubling her. “Addie,” her mother started, then stopped to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her red T-shirt. “Mom, w-what is it?” Addie’s stomach was in knots. She wondered if her cat, Pumpkin, had run away again. “It’s Grandma, Addie. She… she…” Cinnamon Taylor drew a shaky breath before continuing. “She passed away, darling.” Addie didn’t—couldn’t—believe what she was hearing. “What?” “Grandma had cancer, Addie. She didn’t want you to know, so she hid it from you. She lost her hair and had been terribly sick. Grandma knew this was coming, but she didn’t want to upset you. You understand, don’t you? I hope you’re not mad at me for not telling you.” Addie stared numbly at her mother, who was valiantly trying not to cry in front of her. For the first few seconds, Addie felt nothing. She wasn’t sad, or happy, or much of anything really. But, as Addie gazed into her mother’s puffy eyes, the weight of the situation pressed down upon her. “No! Why did Grandma have to die? She… she…” Addie couldn’t speak anymore. Tears were flooding from her eyes. Addie grabbed the handheld mirror from atop her dresser and flung it against the wall. It shattered into a million tiny fragments. Addie continued to storm about the room. Her mother just watched, stunned. Addie had always been a calm child, no matter what situation she was faced with. When Cinnamon and her husband had told her of their decision to divorce a few years ago, Addie had just numbly nodded. Cinnamon had never seen Addie rage the way she was now. “Why did she have to die?” Addie kicked the bed angrily, as if it was the bed’s fault her grandmother had passed away. Suddenly, Cinnamon came to her senses and grabbed her daughter’s arm. Addie allowed herself to be enveloped in a hug. “I know, I know,” Cinnamon whispered. “She meant a lot to me too.” With that, the fight went out of Addie and she collapsed, sobbing, on her bed. * * * Addie continued to mope for the next week or so. One dull summer afternoon, Addie was lying on her stomach in her bed. She tried to concentrate on the novel she was reading, but to no avail. Like a boomerang, all thoughts strayed back to Grandma. Grandma had been more than just a grandmother to Addie. When Dad had left to go live in the middle of nowhere, Grandma stepped in. She helped Cinnamon adjust to being a single parent and was always around to babysit Addie or do whatever was needed around the house. Addie and Grandma, who was Dad’s mom, became close friends immediately. It was terrible that Grandma would never be around to talk or laugh with Addie anymore. Cinnamon quietly knocked on the door, then let herself in. “Come on, Addie,” she said softly. “We need to go to the lawyer’s office. Mr. Mitchell’s reading the will today, you know.” Sighing in resignation, Addie dragged herself out of bed and stared in the mirror. She saw Grandma’s dark, thoughtful eyes staring back. Addie wrenched a comb through her black hair. Realizing it was futile to try to tame her hair now, Addie threw the comb back on the dresser and waited at the apartment door. The ride to Mr. Mitchell’s office was long and quiet. Addie stared glumly out the taxi window at all the people rushing to and fro. She chewed the watermelon gum in her mouth without even tasting it. “Here we are,” the driver proclaimed, coming to a stop in front of a tall, glass building. Addie got out of the cab, then looked up and down the building in amazement. This place was nice. Cinnamon purposefully strode into the cool, air-conditioned lobby with Addie at her heels. The lobby was absolutely gorgeous. Addie craned her neck in an attempt to see everything at once as her mother led her up to the reception desk. “We’re here to see Mr. Mitchell,” Cinnamon told the receptionist. “Fifteenth floor,” the woman said, without looking up. “It’s suite 1503.” After the elevator ride, the pair found the office and quietly let themselves in. There was an empty waiting room complete with a dormant television and large leather seats. Addie wished she could’ve stayed home. Just then an adjoining door opened and a well-dressed businessman stood before them. He extended his hand to Cinnamon. “Hello, Ms. Taylor. I’m glad you could make it.” He smiled down at Addie, as one would do if amused by a small child. Addie glared back. She didn’t like this man. He was glad Grandma had died, just so he could get business. When his back was turned, Addie stuck her tongue out at him. Mr. Mitchell led the pair into his office. There was a huge window behind his desk that allowed a fantastic view of New York City. Addie caught a glimpse of water in the distance. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. “Nice view, huh?” Mr. Mitchell was talking to her again. He was seated behind his desk in a large leather chair. She just shrugged at Mr. Mitchell though, to show she wasn’t impressed with his office. “Both of you have been mentioned in the late Andrea Evelyn Taylor’s will. Shall I begin?” Cinnamon nodded, and Addie stared at her sneakers. “For you, Miss Addie,” he said cheerfully The man droned on forever about legal stuff, and Addie automatically tuned him out. She quickly took an interest again, however, when she heard her name. “And to Addison Matilda…” At this, Addie winced. Nobody called her by her full name, plus Addie despised her middle name. She had been named after a character in one of Roald Dahl’s books.
