The space pods zoomed above Cassiopeia Jaiden Starwing as she stood on the moving sidewalk on her way home from Academy. Cassie ignored the zooming noise as everyone else did, but her mind did not focus on the obvious. Cassie always acted mellow—she was the youngest of seven children, and the only girl, and she was used to lying low while her brothers got into trouble. But today Cassie was bubbling inside. Tomorrow was her thirteenth birthday, but, like everyone on the planet Earth, she celebrated a day before with her family members. Today was her special day—her day to shine. Cassie grinned as the sidewalk approached her home. It was common knowledge throughout the galaxy that the people on Earth had some of the richest homes anywhere—Earth was a base station to the other planets and jobs there were well paying and important. Cassie’s home was no exception—it was a huge house, with floor upon floor of circular living space. Cassie’s father owned the fastest growing rocket ship company in the galaxy, and was always busy. Cassie’s mother used to work for the Intergalactal Peace Council and retired soon after her second son, Forrest, was born. Now Oriana Starwing was one of the most admired economics teachers on Earth, and was known as far away as Neptune. The space pods zoomed above Cassiopeia as she stood on the moving sidewalk Cassie entered her home, expecting to be greeted by her family at the door, the way her brothers’ celebrations began, but things were not as she suspected. In fact, they were the opposite. Her mother rushed around, collecting papers and briefcases, her pretty blond hair pulled off her face, exposing her Martian features, a skinny pointy nose and a heart-shaped face. Her father, unusually harried, barked instructions into the videophone in the living room. Cassie could see he was talking to his secretary, the chubby one, and an immigrant from Venus. Something about his wife going away . . . needing a housekeeper . . . “Cassie, star beam, how was your day?” Draco Starwing said quickly as he pounded the TERMINATE button on the videophone. “How was that event . . . what was it? A debate on who discovered Mercury first . . . or was it a Moon Ball championship?” “The debate was two weeks ago. I lost. Yumi plays Moon Ball. His championship is in two weeks. He’ll probably lose too . . .” “Oh, that’s fab!” exclaimed Draco, having not heard a word Cassie had said. “Now, Cass, I gotta tell ya something. Your mom got a grant to go get her hands dirty and learn about the third-world areas in Saturn . . . so she’ll be going away for a month or so. And I’ll be at a forum on Jupiter for the next two weeks, so that means you’ll be here with your darling bros, won’t that be fun?” Cassie felt her face grow hot. She hated her life sometimes—her parents never home, her brothers endlessly annoying her, and now her own birthday was ignored. She stalked away from her father and headed up the curving DNA-like stairs. Right before she reached the second level, she swung around on her heels. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Cassie asked quietly, her face twisted into a sarcastic smile. “Cass, whadaya mean? We’ve got it all set up, a student from Neptune is studying here and she’ll live with you guys for a month to take care of you. The school knows, the government knows, your brothers know. Your grandmother knows. What’s missing?” “A happy birthday.” And with that, Cassie dashed up to the seventh story. The next day, in the wee hours of the morning, Cassie heard the vr-vrooming noise of her parents’ space pods zooming away, one to the right, one to the left. Throughout the night they had tried to come in and apologize, but Cassie would pretend to be asleep. Finally, an hour before they left, Cassie’s mother simply came in and placed a parcel on Cassie’s Holovision. Cassie woke up at exactly nine o’clock. It was the first day of Daybreak, the three days of freedom that came after every eight days of work and school. She turned off her floating bed as she hobbled to her mirror, her back sore. Cassie stared at her reflection. She had fallen asleep in her academy uniform. All I see is a short girl in a purple-and-white outfit. Long, stringy dark hair. My father’s big green eyes, my mother’s broad smile. No one even knows my name. Ha, but maybe that will all change, now that I’m thirteen—if they even remember. She moped into the shower and emerged eight minutes later. She changed into one of her comfiest outfits—a silver shirt with fleecy black pants. Now she was prepared to meet the housekeeper. “Oooh, wet hair, did wittle baby Cryeoweepa have a bad night?” Pisces, her fourteen-year-old brother on his way to the kitchen, ambushed Cassie. Only a year older than she, Pisces was Cassie’s biggest annoyance. Her other brothers had a more seldom and subdued teasing style, but Pisces did not pick up on the trend. “Heavens, Cass, you’re what? Thirteen now? And you still act like a baby. Mom and Dad just forgot. Oh, yeah, by the way, they couldn’t find a good present at such short notice, so Dad got you a Starwing Rockets shirt. Have a great one.” And with that, Pisces was on the run again, toward the kitchen. “Oooh, you must be . . . uh . . . Kwasseo- no. . . no . . . Caspian? Ugh, I’ve taken Earthen for several years and still I cannot pronounce the simplest of names. But, no worries, I am Daviana, your housekeeper. I go to school in Neptune where I study Earth, but I wanted to come here and learn about an average family on Earth. At the University of Neptune, all they teach is history

The day Gu Zewei was born, we got the first notice. We had a month to choose a child to give away. “I will come to take her when you have decided,” the official who delivered the notice said. She said “when you have decided,” but her words implied that she was sure we would choose the girl, not the boy, to give away. Zewei’s name, which means “Rare Treasure,” caused a great deal of confusion in the adoption department, because it is usually a boy’s name. No one thought of girls as rare treasures. After the official left, Zemin took Zewei’s hand and looked at her with a mixture of envy and love, as I watched them and thought. The only other choice besides giving one of the children up was leaving the country. However, after how much we were fined for having Zewei, we would have no money left. During the next two weeks, my husband and I cared for the baby and looked for solutions constantly. We hardly ever spoke, except to ask each other to hold Zewei or change the blankets on her bed. So far, she had been much more quiet than Zemin when he was her age, and the house’s silence, combined with her simple, calm stare, hurt me more than any cacophony or uproar. At the end of the second week, there was a loud knock on the door. It was the official again. Would we be able to leave these familiar sights and sounds we had grown up with? “If I were you,” she said, “I would just give her up now. There is no point in getting more attached to her.” “How do you know that we will choose to give her? Do you just assume we will give the girl?” I asked. “The boy is your first and he is a boy.” “I did not say I wanted to give him either.” “Just make a decision,” said the official, and slammed the door. I needed to get out. The stillness in the house clashed too strongly with the inner tempest and indecision in my mind. I went out on the clattering, crowded Shanghai street—so crowded. I blamed the crowd for the indecision. If it hadn’t been for overpopulation, the government wouldn’t have had to make the one-child law. What became of the children who were given away? Most went to other countries, so Zewei or Zemin would leave China even if we did give one away, except separated from the family. And the rest of us would still be here. We did not know if it would be better somewhere else, but at least most other countries didn’t have the one-child law. However, there still was the money problem. As I dodged rickshaws and bicycles, and the shouts of fruit- and umbrella-sellers rang in my ears, I wondered, even if we had enough money, would we be able to leave these familiar sights and sounds we had grown up with? When I returned to the house, my husband greeted me at the door. “The baby has been hungry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He nodded. “I’ll go back to her now.” He nodded again. I broke out, “We have hardly spoken for two weeks, and now the official came again, telling us we just have two weeks left and now you won’t speak at all. You always just let things happen.” “The baby is hungry.” I stomped off to Zewei’s bed, then remembered to tiptoe, for fear of waking her. The official came at the third week again, and we were still undecided. In the meantime, Zewei learned how to work both hands and kick her feet, discovering a world which might not end up being hers. During the fourth week, I was so tired I fell asleep as soon as I lay down in bed. One night I had a dream in which I was gazing out across the sea to the other side, which was almost hidden in mist, causing its shape and outline to be unclear. Zemin and Zewei crawled toward it, making hardly any progress, and occasionally being tossed back by the high, dagger-like waves. I found myself hoping they would make it and wanting to go myself. Then a tidal wave came and washed me toward them . . . That morning was exactly a month from Zewei’s birthday. We would have to choose soon. I got up and started to make breakfast. Shortly after, my husband got up. I gave him a futile, inquisitive glance. He shrugged. We sat through the day, waiting. At five o’clock sharp, the official came for the last time. She was in a bad mood when we opened the door for her. She didn’t come in. “Why don’t you have her ready?” she asked. “We haven’t decided.” “You have to. All the other families give them right when they’re born. This is ridiculous.” I sat down on the porch steps and didn’t say anything. My husband said, “They’re more yours than mine, really. You decide.” Just like him to lay the decision on someone else. I sat there for a long time, almost peaceful, lost in the importance of the moment. I should be crying, I thought. I should protest. But I felt outside my body, my tumultuous mind floating far above. And then in an equally external voice, I spoke. “We’re going to leave the country. I don’t care where we go, or how much it costs, if they don’t have the one-child law. We’re going to leave China.” *          *          * After many delays and uncertainties, Zewei, Zemin, my husband and I stood on the deck of a ship taking us to another continent. Between us, we only had a few yuans. The horizon was cloudy, but I looked that way eagerly. Then I looked back at my children’s faces. Justine Koo Drennan, 12San Mateo, CaliforniaJustine’s Chinese name is Gu Zewei. She learned about the one-child law