“I was thinking—don’t you think those stars resemble us?” “So I’m doing my science project on contraptions or robots,” Jess said smoothly. She was talking to Bailey, who was on the other end of the phone. “Yeah. Can I do it with you?” Jess stopped. Uh-oh, she thought, better tell her now. “Bailey, I’m really sorry, but… I totally forgot to ask you, and I’ve already chosen my teammates, Cassidy and Stewart. Can I make it up to you? Like having you over for dinner?” There was a pause on the other end. “No,” she said flatly, “just leave me alone. What was I thinking? Having a friend who lives with her grandma and on a farm? No way. Oh. And by the way, that was totally rude!” And Bailey hung up. Jess’s feelings were hurt as she walked into the kitchen. “Friends, isn’t it?” her grandmother asked, seeing her unhappy face as she chopped some onions. “Ah, yes. I remember when I was friends with Nora.” “Nora?” “Yes, my friend back in high school. If you want them back, you’ll either let them wait it out or apologize after a week or so and make it up with a present or something. You’re perfect—I bet you’ll fix things up.” “How? How am I perfect?” “Oh, let’s see—you’re wonderful in a gazillion ways, Jess. You’ve got the prettiest silky-black hair and creamy skin with dazzling blue eyes, the most splendid abilities at music, art, and cooking—sweetie, I can’t name them all!” “Was my mother like that?” Jess asked quietly after a few seconds. Her grandmother paused as she was pressing the dough of the wonton strips together and hugged Jess close to her. “Yes. Come with me.” They walked up the rickety old stairs and into the attic. There were dusty old trunks, some a rustic tan, some with gold bolting, and some only half-closed, like the eye of a person trying to get more sleep. “How come you never told me about this place, Grandma Fiona?” “I wanted to wait until the time was right,” she replied, bending over a dusty brown trunk with cobwebs creeping all over it. It creaked and groaned resentfully as she opened it, and to Jess’s surprise it was filled with notebooks. “Whose are these?” Jess asked, picking up a navy-blue one with a crimson bookmark. “Your mother’s,” the elderly woman replied, picking up one herself. “Some of them are written in Italian, but you know this is because our family immigrated from Italy.” “Yeah,” Jess said. She remembered how coming from one country to another was hard, especially since they had been very poor and they had barely any money when they arrived in America. “Look at these awhile, and dinner should be ready in a bit. By the way, we’re having wonton soup for dinner.” Jess carried up one of the journals to her room and opened it up to the first page. This journal was a light ivory color with a turquoise bookmark, the ribbonfish kind that all the journals had. An envelope was stuck in it, and Jess decided to read the entry first, then the note. Dear Diary, I was so upset today when Sally read the note that now lies in the hands of this journal. She mocked me afterwards and said I was “an immigrant flirting with another Italian.” How dare she? I guess that’s her way of life, being like that. But still. When I got back to the dorm, Francesca, my roommate, was still at her geography class, so I nestled down in the cozy featherbed with flannel sheets St. Claire’s college provides. Pretty soon, Francesca came in and plopped onto her bed. Apparently, Rebecca invited her to join her on her trip to Barbados or Jamaica or somewhere like that, but I’m working at the farm this summer for a bit of money. As soon as I finish college, I’m going back to Italy. Yours Truly, Assunta Jess stared at the entry for a while and then opened the letter. Dear Assunta, You are certainly one of a kind! When I read your last note, I cracked up with laughter. It is lovely here in Italy. The sun shines with great gusto, and the deep, rolling hills shimmer with life when the moon shines. Giovanni, my cousin, has opened a small shop on the corner of Main Street. It sells hand creams of all sorts, like violet or lemon or lavender—and they certainly are splendid! There are also things like watches, bolts of silks, and so much more. When you come back to Italy, we must pore over it! I miss you much, my love. Love Forever, Peppe Jess folded up the letter carefully and put it back in its envelope, smiling. She missed her parents, now that they were dead, but they felt so alive when she read the letter and the entry. “Dinner!” called Jess’s grandmother from the dining room. Over dinner, they talked about Bailey, and about what to do. “I have an idea,” put in Jess, through a mouthful of wonton strips, onions, and shrimp. Grandma Fiona liked to cook foods from all cultures. “What is it, dear?” “I could take Bailey out camping one night near the farm, you know, in the meadow. Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” Her grandmother looked thoughtful. “That’s a good idea. I could send you two with some food, some blankets and sleeping bags, a tent—Jess, you truly are perfect!” * * * TWO WEEKS LATER “Bailey?” Jess said into the phone, “Are you there?” “Yeah,” Bailey grumbled, “I’m here.” “Look. I’m really sorry for what I did, so to make up for it, do you want to come over for a sleepover in the meadow?” There was a hesitation on the other end. “Sure. I forgive you. I’ll come.” Jess realized she was holding her breath and let out a deep sigh of relief as Bailey said goodbye and hung up. * *
Friendship
Finding Keeper
“A loss, no matter the size, hurts” It was late October on the verge of November and the sky had lost all of its brightness, taking on the stark, ink-black tone of night. On and on it stretched, broken only by occasional clusters of stars. It was cold, too. A cold that seeped all the way to the bone, turned exposed skin to marble. Overhead, the stars, unaffected by the cold, winked down at you, and you could almost hear their laughter. The car came to a gentle stop, and my father turned and looked at me. Bracing myself, I leaped into the cold and dashed to the front of the school. The light inside was a beacon, calling me to its warmth. I pulled open the doors and hurried through them. In the center of the atrium stood a woman. She spotted me, her face spreading into a wide grin. Her layered auburn hair stretched just beyond her shoulders, framing her face and jade-green eyes. Her shirt hung in folds around her and read Hayden Co-op. She wore frayed jeans. “Hi,” she greeted me, “I’m Maggie. Are you here for GT?” I nodded. “Great! I think we’re waiting on just a couple people now,” Maggie told me. She waved me over and ushered me into the gymnasium, where metal chairs were arranged in a circle right in front of the stage. Some were filled, the others empty. Everyone there went to my school. We weren’t all in the same grade, but I had seen most of them around. “All right, here we go… You just sit down, get settled in, OK?” Maggie said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She hurried back out. I smiled and said hi as I looked around for an empty chair. I took a seat beside a girl who was in my grade. Keeper. I didn’t know her well. We hung out with different people, didn’t have classes together, that sort of thing. Keeper looked about as glad to be there as I did: lips pursed into a thin white line, widened eyes, and fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the chair. Her recently washed hair was damp. There were many small braids starting at the scalp and continuing to the back of her head, held in place with clips. She wore a gray shirt under a sweater and a vibrant red skirt with tights. Her feet, in Converse, moved up and down, nervously. Her face and eyes were blotchy, as if she had rubbed them after crying. She was like a mouse, with her shoulders hunched up to her ears, cowering against her chair. Soon, Maggie came back in with a couple more kids, who reluctantly edged their way toward the chairs, and the meeting began. “Welcome,” Maggie said from the stage, “to Grieving Together, or GT.” She wrote the words out at the top of a large piece of paper clipped to an easel. “I know,” she continued, “that you have lost a loved one. A loss, no matter the size, hurts. It’s natural to be feeling this, but none of us want to go through that alone. In this group, you can talk about your experiences with others, and my hope is that this will help lessen your pain. “Every meeting, we will have a focus word. Today, that word is ‘who.’ Who are you missing? You are going to team up with a partner, and when I say go, person one, you are going to tell person two anything and everything about who you’re missing. Don’t leave out any detail, big or small. Got that? Ready! Person one, go!” Keeper and I were together. Right away, I began talking about my Aunt Kay. How her house was my second home, how she would call just to hear the sound of my voice, how she did such nice things nobody else thought to do, and how she smelled of fresh-baked bread. Then I grabbed a piece of paper and sketched a drawing of her. I was putting on the finishing touches just as Maggie called, “Time! Person two, you’re up!” I handed the paper to Keeper, sat back, and looked at her, ready. But Keeper just stared at the ground, and swallowed. Then she whispered, “Be right back,” and slipped out of her chair. I watched as she went up and spoke with Maggie. Maggie put her arm around Keeper and said something in her ear. Keeper nodded. I thought she would come back and tell me about who she was missing, but she didn’t. Keeper stayed with Maggie for the rest of the evening. Afterwards, when I was waiting for my dad to pick me up, I pressed my face up against the cold glass of the front doors of the school, watching. I saw Keeper and her father pulling away. And, not for the first time that night, I wondered who Keeper was missing. The weeks came and went, and at each meeting, we covered a new word—“when,” “how,” along those lines, sharing more about who we were grieving for each time. But still, Keeper had yet to open up. Even so, I came to look forward to GT. I got to know some of the other kids, and I felt it was helping me. Our fifth meeting was near the end of November. We were just starting our session on the word “reaction,” and Keeper seemed to be having a particularly hard time. She kept sniffing and swallowing. Her eyes welled with tears frequently, and each time she blinked them away, they reappeared. I was trying to think of what I should do when all at once the lights went out. There were some cries and yells as the gym plunged into darkness. “Stay calm!” Maggie’s voice broke through the noise. “I’m going to find the switch. It must have been bumped.” We all listened to her shuffle her way across the room and feel the
Magical Words
You wouldn’t think that two girls who were so different could become friends You wouldn’t think that two girls who were so different could become friends, but somehow, Litzy and I did. I rubbed my eyes with sleepy fingers as I stared into the mirror. An eleven-year-old girl with dark eyes and wild, unkempt dark hair stared dauntlessly back. I took a deep breath and braced myself for the hurricane of T-shirts, arms, cereal boxes, and chaos below, which came with my six rowdy brothers. I let another yawn slip out and stealthily tiptoed onto the stairwell. The floorboards beneath the carpet announced my arrival with an insolent groan, as six boyish faces glanced up nonchalantly and then went plunging back into their cereal bowls. My nose tingled from the spicy aroma of burnt toast and coffee wafting in the air. As I galloped down the stairs, a bright red soccer jersey greeted me unpleasantly in the face. Ignacio grabbed it off and tugged it over his wild wig of hair inside out and backwards. He grunted and shrugged while he shouldered his soccer bag. As little Tomasito clung to my leg, I staggered and clumped over to the hectic breakfast table. My brothers haphazardly stuffed themselves with their breakfast, and I challenged Juanico to the last piece of toast and grabbed a bowl and beat Antonio to the last of the Cheerios. I plopped down into my disarrayed breakfast corner and hurriedly devoured my meal. Then I raced upstairs, threw my blue softball clothes on, raked a comb through my hair, tugged it back into a ponytail, and then raced back down again to snatch up my bag and hug my mom and dad. “Que tenga mucha prisa! .no?” * Antonio muttered, his head turned. “Well, I have to hurry if I don’t want to be late, don’t I?” I replied. “I guess,” the seven-year-old sighed back. Smiling and waving, I exited the house right after my mom called, “Have a great first practice, Ileana, sweetheart!” This isn’t right! my mind screamed at me as I missed the next five balls I jumped out the burgundy door, my cleats clattering noisily on the brick, and closed it behind me before Tomasito could catch me. I excitedly ran down the brick steps, my cleats singing clack, clack, clack. Then I paused and inhaled. The warm summer breeze greeted me like an old friend and buried me in its embrace. I shut my eyes and was enveloped in the hushing softness of the leaves rustling in the wind and the melodic symphony of the birds above. Another gust of wind brought the beautiful scent of Mother Nature blossoming into my nose. I reluctantly opened my eyes and slowly mounted my red bike (of course, another hand-me-down). Contented, I rode happily on, savoring the rare bit of placidness, listening to the soft whirr of the gears and the sweet, shrill calls of the robins. I meandered off the road onto a gravelly bike path leading up to Rushmoore Park and beamed at the feeling of intimacy and friendliness I felt as I parked my bike and locked it in. I lay my red helmet on the handlebar and crunched my way down the long, sloping hill to Field Three. I took a deep breath and strapped on my soft leather batting gloves. Somewhere inside I knew I was a born hitter—when I was little, I used to get angry and upset with my brothers, and I would step out in my backyard and beat on the dead trees with a baseball bat, letting the dam of anger break. It felt natural to me. I shook my shaggy ponytail, washing away the memory, and glanced down at some giggly blond girls wearing short shorts and tank tops, who were posing dramatically in a mirror while layering on lip gloss. A feeling of shame washed over me as I sighed and frowned. Growing up around six boys, I was a pure tomboy. I wore sleek gym shorts and hand-me-down T-shirts mostly every day at school, and I didn’t like silly, frivolous items such as lip gloss and tank tops. I quickly emptied my head as I heaved my bright red helmet and purple (I know, I know, not so boyish) bat out of my bag and crawled through the net into the batting cage. I smiled knowingly and plopped the twelve-inch balls into the bucket one by one. I stepped into my batting position and felt right at ease as I gracefully slung my bat through the air. The first ball rocketed by. The coach barked out an instruction. No, I said in my mind, this isn’t how I do it, and he’s wrong, but I grudgingly obeyed. The second one whizzed past me. This isn’t right! my mind screamed at me as I missed the next five balls. I could feel my cheeks burning and my eyes filling, and I blinked hard and felt the heat on my shoulders Footnotes * “You sure are in a hurry, aren’t you?” Elise Arancio, 11Tucker, Georgia
