A busy morning opens a window onto Carlita’s family life “¡Ven aquí, Carlita! ¡No puedes ir a la escuela así! Tu cabello es un desastre!” Come here, Carlita! You can not go to school like that! Your hair is a mess! I walk into the room and sit down so Mamá can reach my hair, wishing that she spoke English. Then I wouldn’t be so embarrassed at school. Then no one would tell me to go back to Mexico. My family’s from Cuba, not Mexico, and I wasn’t even born there. I was born here, unlike most of the kids at school, but that doesn’t really matter. Don’t be like them, my big brother said. Don’t fall to their level. You’re better than them, Carlita. And make that known. He used to stick up for me. We used to be two peas in a pod, me and him, him and me. Forever, he said. But after he got into trouble, that hasn’t been true. I haven’t seen him at all since he was arrested. Mamá says that’s for the best, that he is el diablo who won’t come back. But I’d be willing to forgive him. I’d forgive him if he came back. “¡Terminé! Ve a comer tu desayuno.” Finished! Go eat your breakfast! I walk away from Mamá toward the kitchen, where huevos rancheros awaits me on our small counter with two stools, the third tucked away in a closet somewhere. Lifting my hand up to touch my long black hair, I feel the twists and turns of a trenza francesa, a French braid, and think how life is like that, twisting and turning until it throws you off the fraying black hairband at the end. Alina Samarasan, 12Brookline, MA Sage Millen, 11Vancouver, Canada

To save her life, Thu must take his younger sister on a long journey from rural Vietnam to the city I used to be Grandma’s favorite. She told me it was because when I was born, she was the first to hold me. “No one can replace you, Thu,” she would say, taking me onto her lap and stroking my dark hair. “No one.” Bao, my older brother, was Grandpa’s favorite. Grandpa’s life had been centered around him, and sometimes it seemed like I was Grandma’s only cháu trai, her only grandson. I loved it. One humid June day, the gentle waves rocked our house as I docked the sampan boat and skipped inside. “I’m home from school!” “Good!” Grandma was sitting in the rocking chair, repairing a fishing net. “Thu, come here.” I was 12 and almost as tall as she was, but Grandma let me onto her lap. I leaned into her, expecting her to stroke my hair and tell me how no one could replace me. But instead, she took my hands and looked me in the eye. “I’m getting older, Thu. My daughter has two sons and my son has a daughter who lives in America. My husband has long passed, and I’ve done everything I need to do.” She smiled sadly, her Khmer accent slightly lilting the Vietnamese words. I knew almost immediately what she meant. She was ready to die. “Oh.” She laughed then patted my hair, a shouting peddler outside breaking the silence between us. A gull cawed, and Má called us to dinner. The moment was lost, and we never spoke about it again. But in July, Má found out that she was pregnant. I would have a little sister. Everything changed. When Grandma heard that, she vowed to live until that baby was born. As Má’s belly grew, so did our responsibilities. I ran errands at the floating market instead of playing katrak behind school with Xuân. Grandma mended old baby clothes instead of my favorite shirts, the ones she’d promised to patch. Bao went fishing alone or helped Cha with his paperwork. Cha worked extra hours at the sales company, and I took Má to Dr. Accola’s office nearly every week, missing school most Fridays. Minh was born on a bright February morning, nothing like anyone had expected. And not necessarily in a good way. She was a sickly child from the start. Her limbs were thin, and she didn’t drink enough milk. I didn’t think she would live, and even Dr. Accola was skeptical. But Grandma loved Minh with all her heart, and I guess that was enough. *          *          * Now Minh can talk and walk, though she’s not steady on her feet. Grandma still loves her, but I think she lost most of her steam after Minh learned to talk. Even she has realized how old she is by now. On Monday, I stay home from school. Minh has a fever, and Má is peddling vegetables in the south, so I take her to Dr. Accola’s office across the village. “She just has a cold. Check back with me in two weeks.” Dr. Accola flies around the dim, one-room office like an agitated bird, trying to get everything done at once. She’s had a busy week. I can tell by the way she’s acting. “Okay.” On the way home, I stop at the floating market and buy a bowl of noodle soup for us to share, and a little plate of coconut pudding from an old man wearing a blue shirt, just for me. Minh reaches for my full hands, but I lift the plate out of her reach. “Not for you.” “Thu . . . ” she whines. “No.” She sighs dramatically, and I glare down at her. She sighs again, and I pop the last pudding scoop into my mouth. Ha. As soon as we start for home, Minh falls asleep. I groan, taking off my krama and using it to tie her to my back. She snores loudly. Rowing home is slower, carrying an inconvenient, 22-pound bundle like a backpack, but eventually, I get there, dumping Minh into Cha’s hammock. I’m done caring for her for today. *          *          * It’s been three weeks, but Minh hasn’t recovered. Dr. Accola was visiting family in Laos last week, and as far as I know, she hasn’t returned. Yesterday, Minh’s fever spiked. She refused to drink water, and about halfway through the night, Grandma started to cry. She begged me to bring Minh to the hospital in Battambang. I agreed. It’s a chance to regain my place, to be Grandma’s favorite again. Maybe she’ll find the will to live longer. Today, I slip out of the house in the dark, Minh tied to my back. Lunch and a snack lies in a wicker basket at my feet, my pockets heavy with riels that Grandma took from her purse to give me early this morning. I can’t help but be a little jealous that she would spend her savings on my sister instead of me, although I know that’s not really fair. Bao drew me a map, highlighting the route I should travel. Everyone is pitching in to help. My wooden paddle traces patterns in the dark, still water, as the world slowly wakes up. I wave to Xuân as we leave, the sun just barely peeking over the horizon. Minh shifts against my back, sweat dripping into my eyes as the heat becomes uncomfortable. By the time the docks come into view, the sun is high in the sky and I’m sweltering. I’ve been rowing for many, many hours, and my arms ache terribly. I sigh. Minh’s hot forehead presses against my neck as I tie our boat to a tree beside the dock, just out of view. Má would kill me if it got stolen. I grab my