“Great job, guys!” Gabby smiled. “You made a pie!” I heard a loud bang! Followed by a “No, darn it!” I rolled my eyes, knowing Max was in the kitchen again. Clumsy, fumbling, so not-a-chef-and-never-will-be, Max. I peeked around the corner of the door frame, only to see him and his cat, Rufus, covered in flour. Rufus was not happy and bounded away, shaking flour on the floor. Gabby, Mati, and Arian stood nearby. By some miracle they had all missed the flour explosion (unlike poor Rufus), but none of them looked happy. “Really,” we all said in unison. “Really, Max?” He looked around at all of us, wearing a look that said that he knew he was an idiot, but also that we were being too judgmental. Well, duh. Gabby grabbed an apron off the oven handle and threw it to me. “C’mon let’s show them how it’s done!” she said fiercely and grabbed the now half-empty flour sack. Max explained, “Make it good, guys; this is for Mom and Dad’s anniversary.” I threw an apron in his face. “Surely you didn’t think we were doing this?” I said, emphasizing the “we.” “No,” Gabby agreed. “We’re teaching you!” she said, pointing at the three boys. Mati and Arian stepped forward, interestedly. * * * An hour later, the pie crust was rolled, four times because all three boys screwed up and their crusts fell apart. The apples had been drenched in cinnamon and sprinkled with sugar, and Arian had successfully bandaged his fingers after an apple-coring incident. Now we were ready to pinch the crusts. “OK,” I said, “now take a fork and press the tines into the edges to crimp it.” Max looked at me like I had three eyes on each ear. I rolled my eyes again. “Crimp means to make the pretty ruffle pattern that you see on pies’ edges,” I said. Bored (and slightly amused), I looked at Gabby, who was teaching Mati to poke ventilation holes in the crust. He looked happy, and I thought that was good because Gabby could be very aggressive. We both could. We were tomboys. That’s why we were here, teaching descendants of monkeys to make apple pies, instead of at the nail salon getting Sugar-and-Spice purple polish. And personally, I was glad. I turned back to Max and Arian and they were crimping away. “Very nice,” I said, clearly impressed. “Great!” They went on crimping until the whole pie was done. Then Mati, who was immensely enjoying poking ventilation holes in things, came over and did just that. The five of us looked at the pie. “Great job, guys!” Gabby smiled. “You made a pie!” The three boys smiled big cheese-eating grins. Gabby and I stood there, basking in their pride, but after a while we got so bored that I stepped in and took the pie. They didn’t notice. I popped the pie in the oven. They didn’t notice. Gabby shot a foam dart at Max’s nose. That he noticed. He smiled mischievously and shot her back. Then it turned awesome. An all-out foam dart war took over the entire house, and we only stopped when the oven timer pealed. * * * We all ran back to the kitchen, red-faced and full of adrenaline. Max dropped his gun in his haste and it landed with a loud clatter on the tile floor. Mati followed suit. Arian kept his gun in hand until he reached the counter, where he slammed it down as Gabby took the pie from the oven. Our pie came out golden-brown and flaky. It looked beautiful; better than any pie I ever made by myself. Gabby smiled at the pie, and as she was looking at it an orange dart whistled past her ear and hit the pie in the dead center. “My ventilation,” Mati screamed, a little too loudly. Gabby gripped him by the shoulders and said through her teeth, “We slaved over this pie for three hours, and all you care about is your ventilation?” Mati cringed under her gaze, but I saw a smile play on his face at her touch. I, too, smiled a little bit. “So let’s slap on the whipped cream!” Arian demanded. “We can’t yet; it’ll melt because the pie is still too hot,” Gabby said. “All right then, well, let’s decorate!” I exclaimed. “Your parents will be home soon, Max, let’s make this place nice!” So we did. We raided the wrapping paper and ribbons, created an arch of silver and red bows over the door, and draped gold streamers around everything. By the time we were done, everything was colored in bright metallic shades. Just in time, too. As I added the last bow to the arch, the door clicked open, and everyone but Max ran to hide. “Hi, honey!” I heard Max’s mom say from my place behind the bar. “What’s this?” She noticed the decorations. “It’s… something for you and Dad!” Max replied. From the tone in his voice I could tell it was taking all of his willpower not to tell. As he led his parents upstairs to more decorations, I remembered. The dart! The dart is still lodged in the pie! I thought. We have to get the dart out of the pie! I crept slowly from my hiding spot, every floorboard groaning under me. I was thankful to reach carpet, but the relief didn’t last long. Max was leading his parents back downstairs! I ran to the pie without any notion of the sounds I made. Quickly as I could, I dislodged the dart, but it left a gaping hole in the middle! The whipped cream! I thought, the whipped cream. But then Max and his mom and dad came into the kitchen. I had just enough time to snatch the pie and cream can off the counter and crouch, pie in hand, on the cold tile. Max saw me and stifled a gasp. Quickly diverting his parents,
Family
Lillian
Everybody seems so happy except for me I wake up to the sound of my little brother, Carson, screaming. I plug my ears with my pillow, trying to block out the noise, but it doesn’t help. “No, Daddy, no!” Carson laughs. Laughs. That’s something I’d sure like to do. You see, ever since Carson was born, my parents really haven’t paid attention to me. All they care about is whether Carson is crying or not, or whether my older brother, Parker, is happy. As for me… well… it just doesn’t seem like anybody cares. The next thing I hear is Parker yelling, “Hey, Mom! Do you know where my cell phone charger went? I can’t seem to find it! And I know I didn’t take it out of my room!” Well if it’s in your room, then of course you can’t find it, I think to myself. Parker’s room looks just like a normal thirteen-year-old boy’s room would look: dirty clothes scattered all over the floor, bed unmade, light always on whether the room is being used or not. “Oh, you can’t find it?” my mom replies, with an edge of concern to her voice. “Here, let me help you find it.” Wow, if I ever lost my cell phone charger, I don’t think my mom would help me look for it. She’d just tell me that I better find it or I don’t get my phone. I rest my head on my pillow, getting angrier and more depressed every second that goes by. Why don’t my parents care about me? Ever since Carson was born, I’ve never heard them say, “Hey, Lillian, how was your day?” or “Lillian, are you feeling all right?” or “Here, let me help you.” I wish Carson didn’t exist. He’s only four, so I know he might get a little bit out of control, but this is way out of control. Carson breaks just about everything he touches, he yells and screams, and he takes up just about all of my parents’ time. They use the rest of their leftover energy on Parker. Now Parker. Parker’s usually pretty nice to me, but if you were looking at him through my perspective, it would probably just seem like he’s trying to take all the attention that I’m supposed to get. “Lillian?” my mom pokes her head into my room, pulling her dark, auburn hair behind her ear. “Can you come downstairs? It’s time for breakfast.” “Yeah, one minute,” I mumble. My mom leaves, without even smiling or saying good morning or anything. I want to run up to her and beg and plead for her to wrap her arms around me, to tell me that she loves me. But that seems so far away from where I am right now. The thought makes me mad. Suddenly, I feel like I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t bear it any longer. I am going to change things today. I am going to make a difference in this family. And I won’t rest until I reach my goal. * * * Breakfast seems worse than it usually is, even though nothing is abnormal, on a typical Saturday at my house. Everybody seems so happy except for me. I feel so out of place. I take a few bites of toast and then dump the rest in the garbage. “Hey, Lillian?” my mom says, and I turn around to see a surprising look of concern and possibly anxiety in her deep brown eyes. “You not hungry today?” “Well,” I sigh, my stomach churning for some odd reason. This was my chance to talk to my mom—and my dad—and tell her how I really felt inside. But I don’t want to say it in front of everybody. I take a deep breath anyway and say, “Well, I just… I just wanted to talk to you and Dad for a few minutes.” “OK,” she replies, sounding suddenly cheerful. A spark of hope lights up in my head. “Just let me finish my breakfast here, and then meet us in the living room.” “OK,” I say excitedly, and try to walk into the living room and sit on the couch, but it’s hard. I can’t believe it! My parents are actually going to listen to me! It’s hard to believe that just a few minutes ago I was so angry and depressed. Now, I feel energetic and happy, and I feel like I am actually going to make a difference in my life. I smile to myself. My mom and dad walk in a few minutes later. They each take a seat in a chair. “So,” my mom says, “what would you like to say to us, honey?” “Well,” I begin, thinking how I should word my feeling of rejection to them. “Ever since Carson was born, I have kind of felt you don’t care about me.” I pause, and my mom nods, taking in the information. She nods at me to go on. “It seems like you only care about Carson and Parker, and when Parker lost his charger and you offered to help him find it, it just made me mad because if I lost my charger, I knew you wouldn’t help me look for it.” My parents both nod thoughtfully. I even think I see tears welling up in my mother’s eyes. It feels good to say all this to them, it really does. They’re listening to me, I know they are. And best of all, I know they care. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry you felt that way,” my mom says, and sniffles a little. A tear falls down her pale cheek. I want to cry, too, but I can’t seem to do it. “I wish you would have told us a long time ago, though.” “Yeah,” my dad chimes in for the first time, and part of me wonders why he hadn’t said anything the whole time, while another part of me is just happy
Remembering
INTRODUCTION The important people in my story are my grandparents. They have greatly impacted my life. My grandfather and I were very close and he taught me many things. He loved writing, music, and trains, the same as I do. He died November 8, 2011, on my brother’s birthday. One of the last times I spent with him was when we went to a train station. That place is very important to me. I found, after he died, a story that was one of his many pieces of writing. It was a story about a soldier leaving out of that train station. I believe my grandfather took the train to heaven. * * * TRAIN STATION Wind rushed out as I walked into the station. It was relieving. I looked around to gather my surroundings. There was an endless supply overhead of stained-glass windows. The vibrant colors changed the mood of the place depending on the changes in the sky. The floor was marble, untouched, unharmed. People were rushing from place to place. Even when people were waiting and sitting, their thoughts took up their eyes. Everyone seemed to be blind to the marvelous surroundings, blind to the fact that they were at Union Station. People made mindless chatter. Most of their questions were rhetorical too. They were always just trying to be polite. My grandma and papa told me many things There was a smoke-filled room just left of the entrance. It was locked and vacant. But I pictured how it probably used to be with men in their suits walking out with a trail of smoke to follow them. I looked back at my grandmother and grandfather. I let out a smile. My grandma and papa told me many things. Papa pointed to the chairs and told me, “At least one famous person has sat in all of those chairs, and many people had their weddings here.” I turned to the right and saw a big woven wall, more like a separator. I peered through the cracks to see many people with dresses and suits on. There was a camera crew. It was a celebration. Papa told me a lot of times they will rent a part of the station for movies and commercials. I kept walking till I was on the other side. The back led to a garden. There were lilies, bottlebrush, honeysuckle, and many other flowers. The colors made me incapable of frowning. I saw a fountain with clear water bursting at the top of the highest tier. It sent refreshing droplets up in the air. I closed my eyes and thought about how I will remember this forever. * * * OLVERA STREET Olvera Street is a famous Mexican street in California across from the train station. I got to see it with my grandparents that same day that I visited the station. Smells filled the air, so I was soon breathing in tortillas and beans. Singers were singing on the street with their Spanish guitars. Many signs hung overhead. To my left, flamenco dancers, with bright colored dresses, tapped their feet on stage. The men swung the women high up in the air while the women held the corners of their dresses. After a while of watching, we decided to eat. We saw a big restaurant that had a Spanish name. When we sat down, we had an immediate conversation. Grandpa told me that my great-great-grandfather worked on a railroad track in China. Later, he moved to Mexico where he owned a restaurant. He got married there. I loved hearing about my heritage. That time I spent at Olvera Street and Union Station, I will remember forever. * * * GRANDFATHER’S DEATH I am sitting in my living room. All my senses are amplified. The air conditioning turns on. I can see the dust on the back of my piano. The stillness, quietness of the room, and of myself, make me realize and notice things that I usually don’t. I begin thinking about how great it’s going to be when I see my grandfather again. I have learned a song for him. But now, I only hear one sound, silence… sometimes the prettiest sound. It is like that right now as I write this. Whenever I sang with the radio, Grandpa always used to say, “Your mama taught you to harmonize.” I’m thinking about those memories that will never be lost. Scott, my stepdad, walks in and carefully sits down next to me, trying not to disturb me in my thoughts. He hands me a phone and my mom is on the line. Her voice is shaky. She talks, but it is hard to pay attention, until she says, “He isn’t going to make it.” All I can think about is the horror of losing him. I had thought about it a lot, but never thought it would be so soon. He is leaving when I need him the most. All I can say to her is, “When can I see him?” She replies, “I don’t want you to remember him this way.” I just want to see my grandpa. Anger takes over for my sadness. But then she tells me that I can go to California where he is. For the next week I act fine. The drive feels longer than usual. When I get to my grandma’s, as usual she has food waiting for us. When I see my mom, it seems that stress takes over for her grief. She hugs me. I had missed her. Sometimes when she puts me to bed, I tell her, “Don’t leave.” She hugs me and says, “I’m not going anywhere.” The next day, I go to the hospital early. The place is huge, not welcoming, and it smells like rubber gloves. For two days, I can’t see him. The third day, they take every tube off of him and he is ready to pass on. So, I go into the room and my
