The hot sun beat down on us like we were grilled-cheese sandwiches. As I bent down to pick up an empty bag of chips, I fell on the dried-up dirt and a drop of sweat fell to the ground. The thirsty ground sucked it up and I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Mrs. Porter standing beside me, sneering. “Getting tired, Bailey?” she asked. With aching muscles I got up off the ground and wiped the dust from my sunburnt knees. “No, ma’am,” I said triumphantly. As she walked away I stuck out my tongue and hoped that it would rain. Here we were along the highway, Stacy, Michael, and I, doing our ten hours of community service that were required before our field trip to Hillside Meadows. I thought about how terrible it had been when Mrs. Porter had announced that the class was going to have to work for our trip. Of course, the three of us hadn’t done it yet, so Mrs. Porter had taken charge, postponing our much-anticipated field trip and making the three of us do it all in one day. I watched Michael’s dirt-streaked pants as they shifted slowly around on the other side of the highway. The community service was bad enough, but my fellow workers weren’t exactly the cream of the crop. Michael was rude and seemed never to wear clean clothes. He was one of the worst people to spend a hot Saturday with. Stacy wasn’t as bad, but she always wore about twenty bracelets on each arm so you were stuck with the annoying sound of clacking all day long. “Getting tired, Bailey?” I looked down at the cracked Arizona dirt and sighed. I stuck my pole into an old plastic bag and then threw it into a torn trash bag. Mrs. Porter wasn’t the worst teacher around, she really tried to make class fun, but when it came to the three of us she seemed to have a grudge. I wasn’t a bad kid, or at least that’s what Momma said. “One of these days, you’ll open up and all your wonderful abilities will spill out onto your worksheets and textbooks, and the school will know exactly what Bailey McDowel is truly made of,” she used to say; and I believed it. But that was before Dad had gotten sick, and after that Momma only said, “You can do better.” After that, I stopped believing in both my ability and Daddy getting better. I angrily punched a milk carton, blocking the stressful thoughts from my head, and threw it in the bag with all the strength I could muster. “Only an hour left,” Mrs. Porter announced happily from where she was resting on a beat-up lawn chair. I heard jingling from across the road as Stacy threw her arms up in celebration. The hour passed slowly, and soon I saw Momma’s tired face from the bus as we pulled into the school parking lot. Momma didn’t smile much anymore, and that made it harder for me. She always seemed filled to the brim with sadness. Daddy had pulled me into his bedroom one day about a month after he was diagnosed with his cancer, and he pulled me right onto the bed so my head was resting on his, and he whispered, “Baby, don’t you let your Momma’s spirits get down, and trust me when I say that she’ll get a sad sickness worse than my own disease if you do.” Then he had patted my hand and I had promised him I’d take care of Momma. So when I saw her, I thought of my promise to Daddy and I put on a cheerful face just for her as I walked to our Cadillac across the dusty parking lot. “How was your day, Momma?” I said with a smile as I climbed into the front seat. “Oh good, honey, just fine. Your daddy just had his treatment today, so be careful to be quiet when we get home, he’s taking a nap,” she replied with a meager smile. I racked my brain for something more to say, but soon the quiet hum of the car seemed to make a canyon of silence between us, and I kept my mouth shut. I was glad to be home, and glad to see Daddy sleeping with a peaceful smile as I walked down the hall. Our house was made of weathered brown boards and there was a garden in the back. Momma loved to garden, but lately it was overgrown. I didn’t mind, though. Gracie, my best friend, and I enjoyed the wild roses that lay tangled on the granite stepping stones. I often snipped stems to put in a vase in the kitchen or on Daddy’s bedside table to cheer him up. Sunday passed in a blur, filled with the quiet thumps of feet tiptoeing down the hall past Daddy’s room where he lay asleep. Monday morning, I woke up feeling tired, but I had a little excitement built up for our field trip today, and I had big plans. I had resolved to myself on Sunday that, no matter what, I would make Momma laugh or smile again this week, and keep my promise to Daddy. I ate some toast and orange juice, gave Daddy’s white head a kiss, and hopped on the bus with promises for the coming day. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked, more of a statement than a question When we arrived at the school, Mrs. Porter fussed about, straightening our collared shirts and swaying skirts. She then lined us up accordingly to get on the bus that would take us the hour ride to the well-known Hillside Meadows. Stacy was there, with a smiling face and four blue bracelets, and so was Michael, with what seemed to be a clean shirt. I gave them a smile and stepped into the noisy bus, ready for the crowded ride. The bus
Illness
Climbing Higher
“Hey! Does anybody want some chips?” “All right, girls. You did a good job in practice today, although I would like a little less talking between laps. . Now, don’t forget that we have a big meet this Saturday, so I’d like you all to get a good night’s rest before then. Be at the Westwood indoor pool on Main Street at nine-thirty, and the meet will start at eleven. We need lots of time to warm up and practice before it starts. I posted a list of who will be swimming what, so be sure to check it on your way out. See you tomorrow at nine-thirty.” Coach finished his speech and began packing up all the swim boards and weights. Becca rushed to her feet. “Thanks, Coach!” she called on her way to the locker room. A rush of girls followed her, chatting and giggling. The locker room was warm, damp, and smelled of chlorine. Becca quickly walked across the checkered wet floor, aiming for her locker, but slid a little and grazed Alicia’s arm. “Sorry,” she said. Alicia responded halfheartedly, “That’s all right.” Alicia’s eyes looked dull and lifeless, and her body hung on its thin frame. She must have been sick, Becca concluded. After sliding towards, and luckily reaching, her own locker, Becca began digging through her bag. She found a bag of potato chips sitting there, only slightly squished. “Hey!” she exclaimed loudly. “Does anybody want some chips?” “No thanks,” Silver said, looking at her scornfully. Quieter, Silver spoke to Kayla. “All I’ve had today was a cup of tea, and that’s how I’m going to keep it.” Kayla nodded and whispered something back that Becca couldn’t quite pick up. “Oh, OK.” Becca turned, a little confused and hurt, and put the chips back in her bag, to be discovered again another day. As the girls changed back into their clothing, Becca thought about what Silver had said. Instinctively, she thought back to her waffle for breakfast and her bowl of mac and cheese for lunch. A feeling of self-consciousness and regret seeped through her veins, a feeling she had been experiencing when she happened to catch a sentence or phrase spoken from the girls who usually stood in the corner of the locker room. She hugged her arms around her damp body, trying to hide herself from the rest of the girls in the locker room. She hated this feeling that pulsed through her body and made her heart beat quickly. She hated this feeling of… Becca gulped, unwilling to admit it, even just to herself. Becca packed her swim bag, changed back into her original clothes, and left the locker room without another word, for her thoughts were enough to keep her occupied all the way home, and for many days to come. * * * The sidewalk was a gray streak that seemed to go on forever. The sky was just as gray, and the leaves hung on the trees. Becca walked slowly down the sidewalk, her thoughts as gray as the world around her. “All I’ve had today is a cup of tea,” kept ringing through her mind. Did those girls have eating problems? The thought had occurred to her before, but she always pushed it to the back of her mind. Eating disorders were dangerous, even Becca knew that. Becca had heard of kids and teenagers being hospitalized for long periods of time, sometimes even dying. It was too awful. What if Ashley and Silver and… “Becky!” Becca looked around, startled. She had been too focused on her thoughts to pay attention to the world around her. Her friend Katelyn from the swim team hopped down the sidewalk, awkwardly trying to run with her giant swim bag draped over her shoulder. Becca snapped out of her thoughts, dug deep inside her, and plastered a fake grin on her face. It was the best she could do. “Hey, Becca! What’s up?” “Oh, nothing much. Where are you going?” “I’m just going to my friend Jennifer’s house. She lives pretty close to you.” Katelyn switched her bag from one shoulder to the other. “So what stroke and length are you doing?” Stroke and length? Becca frowned and crumpled her brow, sifting through her thoughts and memories. Stroke and length? “Ohhhh,” she realized, her brow unfolding. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “I completely forgot to check the sheet!” “Oh,” Katelyn said sympathetically. “Well, I guess you’ll find out at nine-thirty on Saturday. I’m doing the 100-meter butterfly.” “The 100-meter butterfly?” Becca was impressed, very impressed. That was the hardest stroke. “Wow, impressive.” “Yeah,” Katelyn shrugged. “To be honest with you, I’m a little nervous about it.” “I’m sure you’ll do fine. You’re a great swimmer.” Katelyn smiled. “Thanks, Becky. I’ll see you soon, OK? Jennifer’s house is right here.” Becca waved goodbye, then continued her walk. Her damp hair swung in its ponytail as she walked with renewed confidence down the sidewalk. Katelyn always had a way of cheering her up, whether she realized it or not. However, her confidence lasted barely a minute, for as the sun peeked out from behind a cloud it glared off a billboard, right into Becca’s eyes. Blinking, Becca looked at the billboard. A model was posed on it, and her eyes seemed to sear through Becca. Her glare seemed mocking, as she was dressed in a bikini, showing off her tan legs, which were about as thin as Becca’s wrists. Her long hair flowed under the words, “Try the newest Super Diet from Michelle Miracle! You’ll look better than ever in that new swimsuit!” * * * “Becky!” Becca trudged through her front gate. “Hi Susie,” she said dispiritedly. Susie, a ball full of energy and Becca’s six-year-old sister, bounced around Becca, grabbed her hand, and gleefully shouted, “Can you play with me?” Becca looked at the front door longingly, desperate to sink into her bed, plug her headphones into her iPod, and tune out the rest
Mouse
Roey looked sulkily into her bedroom mirror. She turned around, scrutinizing her nose from every angle, but whichever direction she faced her nose, slightly resembling a ski slope, looked the same to her. It wasn’t that Roey actively disliked the way she looked; just her nose. When you got down to it, she was actually quite pretty, and she knew it. Her flowing, fiery red hair could not match her personality better. Next came her favorite feature: her eyes. Dark brown, nearly black, and combined with her hair, they gave her an almost magical look. But, being human, she always saw the worst in herself and could only focus on her nose, her other features becoming unimportant and of no consolation. Roey sighed in frustration, feeling a little guilty. How could she be so shallow? She had much bigger problems to deal with than her looks. She made her way over to her bed. Out from under her white bed with pink trim, which she was about seven years too old for, she pulled a large book. It was thick and heavy, bound with leather. The pages inside were yellow with age, but being no expert, she could put no number on its years. The writing was not from a computer or a typewriter, but written by hand, with ink and quill, she imagined. There was no name, no one to take credit for all the work they had done. Strangest of all, though, Roey thought, was that there was no title. She had checked over and over through the whole book, but no miraculous change occurred. The cover was that of the type of book Roey would have expected to be engraved with gold letters, but that was not the case. The writing was not from a computer or a typewriter, but written by hand, with ink and quill Roey climbed into her bed and pulled the covers up. She opened the book and could hear the stiff binding crackle as a small trickle of dust came down on her. The discovery of the nameless book had been exciting. There was a minimal amount of books in Paristile. People referred to them as books, but in Roey’s mind they barely qualified. Pamphlets, a historic account of the formation of Paristile, a book of laws, dictionaries, and thesauruses—they weren’t books, though, merely resources. Roey’s definition of a book was something that made you think, made you question, made you wonder. None of these could even begin to make your mind work in the way that her new-found treasure did. Although she loved to read, this was a rare opportunity. It was usually herself and her writing she had to rely on for a bit of creativity. Roey had no idea how she could have overlooked the book so many times, but perhaps it had not always been there. Two nights ago, as she had been climbing into bed, she saw its unfamiliar spine mixed in with a pile of a few other so-called books on her bedside table. How it got there was beyond her. For some reason she decided not to tell her family. Mainly this was because she didn’t want to deal with the inevitable questions from her parents that would follow her vague explanation. “How old is it?” and “Where did it come from?” She felt strange answering questions on a topic she hardly knew anything about. But maybe the questions were what she longed for, what she wanted so desperately to hear. Her sister, Mouse, had been born with insatiable curiosity. You could see in her eyes the longing to explore the world around her the day she was born. Her name was actually Marguerite, but Roey had started calling her by the pet name she’d come up with years ago. When Marguerite was little she always wanted to know what was in cupboards or on counters, and so she would poke her head in like a mouse. Now the bedroom in which the seven-year-old should be sleeping was empty. Instead of her cozy bed, Mouse slept deeply in a hospital bed, with no certainty of waking again. Roey couldn’t bare to face her absence, and mentioning the book to her parents and not being immediately flooded by questions from Mouse would be too much. She would have to truly acknowledge the fact that her little sister may never come home. Roey could never forget a particular day, about two years ago. The memory of Mouse brought a smile to her face, in spite of everything. It had been Mouse’s fifth birthday. Roey could see pure delight on Mouse’s face as Mom brought in a beagle puppy She had never expected such an amazing surprise, and Roey, looking at the huge grin on the little girl’s face, was ecstatic seeing her sister so happy. Mouse had always been grateful for what she had, Roey knew. The littlest things, Mouse had always acknowledged, and it didn’t take much to earn her trust, her love, her gratitude. She had always admired how open Mouse was, never judgmental; Roey wished she could accept everyone that way. But Roey realized that all this happy memory meant now was that Mouse may never smile again. Roey had pushed these thoughts out of her head many times already, and once again attempted to shake them from her mind. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t an issue, everything would be fine; the book was here now, that was the important thing. Roey replaced her dreadful feelings with the words of the book-with-no-name as she began to read. She was able to make out most of the handwritten words without difficulty. As the setting was described, Roey painted a picture of it in her mind. It seemed no different from her own world of Paristile, with nothing particularly distinguishable from any other place. Roey must have dozed off at some point. As she was reading, she was engrossed in the words,
