An ode to a desk It’s heavy, old, and has scribbles all over its body. But it is mine, and I love it. My desk has been with me for at least three years. It used to be my dad’s, but then my parents gave it to me. When I got my desk, it was pretty clean, but it didn’t stay that way. It has paint smudges on top and underneath. My little brother even drew on it. But the important part was the creative adventures I had with it. Unlike humans, my desk won’t get mad if I don’t do something correctly or if I mess it up (but my mom and dad might). It will keep silent so I can move on. Once I even tried to draw a mini mural of a mermaid and narwhal on it, but it’s not there anymore. I remember that around the color pencil case on my desk, there was a rectangular-ish outline of paint. When my dad saw it, he washed away the smudges on the desk. I was very sad when he did. If you look at the bottom of my desk, you will see lots of marks because I used to wipe the things on my hands (like dirty paint) under the table. But setting the messes aside, it has changed a lot. There used to be folders, but now there is a mess box my dad gave me for my stuff. There used to be a corkboard hanging next to my desk, now there isn’t. Yet some things haven’t changed so much. For example, my pencil cases haven’t really moved. They have, of course, been stored into boxes, but the boxes got plopped right back onto my desk. Head in the Clouds My desk itself has moved, though, from the living room to the moving truck to one of the smaller rooms in the new house, and finally to its resting place in my room. Although my desk appears to be a mess, what’s more important are the things I do there. Sometimes my desk is my art studio, with my paintbrushes and paints and papers. In fact, I did most of my paintings on my desk. Other times, I make jewelry on my desk. I make the necklaces and bracelets my friends and I wear now. Or, my desk is a crafting table, with my journals and notebooks and all the materials I make things with. As you see, my desk has been my companion for a while. Though in the beginning, I wanted to keep the mess as I was too lazy to clean it up, now I am the one to clean it up. I’ve realized that even if I do clean things sometimes now that I’m older and getting more like my dad, my creativity will never be washed away. Not by water, not by rain, not by coffee. Messes are my way to express myself. Besides, even if I do clean it, a few days later it’ll be messy again!

The narrator is subsumed with fear and worry as a mysterious pain fills his stomach The afternoon sun shined hard on the tall NYC buildings, making them look like gold, as my mom and I walked home. My hand reached out for the door; the peeling black paint fell gently on my fingers as my hand closed around the knob. My mom and I went in and walked the unbearable four-flight walk up to our apartment. My mom took out her keys and wedged them in the lock. It opened. I rushed in, relieved to be free from the sun’s heat. My footsteps echoed as I entered my house. My dad was standing near the kitchen counter, busy chopping up some garlic. My dad wore a dark blue T-shirt with stripes and worn-out jeans. He had a smile on his face, like always, and his stubble was freshly shaved. “Guess what? My team won three-one in soccer,” I rushed to tell my dad. Then I sat down on the brand-new gray couch, took out my iPad, and began to play. I played for about a half hour until my little sister, Zora, walked through the door wearing a blue dress with butterflies, her wavy dark brown hair falling just beneath her shoulders. She was in preschool and really sweet— to everyone except me. There was happiness radiating off her every movement. I tried to say hi, but she had already walked away, her hair trailing like a big bar of chocolate. I got up and got a cup of water, suddenly feeling hot. My head began to hurt and my stomach got little flashes of pain. It felt like the world was spinning and I was in the center of a vortex. The change stunned me. Why is this happening? What is going on? I thought. Confusion and worry swirled through my head, and though I did not know it at the time, I would feel that way for a long time to come. The pain in my head and stomach grew, becoming almost unbearable in just a matter of minutes. It will all be fine. This will be a fine day. I am just tired, I told myself. But it did not seem likely. Every minute, the pain got worse. It was hard to believe it was a coincidence. I felt like my stomach was about to burst. I took a deep breath to calm myself down. The aroma from my dad’s cooking drifted in the air. The whiff of sizzling bacon spread through the house, making it smell like barbecue. Not exactly soothing for my rumbling stomach. I stood up and went to my mom, who was in her room watching a show. “Can I go lie down?” “Sure, but are you okay, honey?” my mom asked. Worry spread over her face as fast as a race car. “I’m fine, Mommy,” I managed, though I wasn’t sure if this was true. “Goodnight, love you,” she said. I went to my bed and lay down. My head was hurting and my stomach aching. I slowly fell asleep, hoping that all I needed was rest. When I woke up, my mom was crouching by my bed, a pained look on her face. My mom was always worried about me and my siblings. Whenever we got even a little bit sick, she agonized, and this was no different. “Did you sleep well, Mish?” she asked. “Yep.” “It is dinner soon, honey, so you should go to the kitchen. You don’t look that good—your eyes are glassy and you look pale. Are you sure you don’t want me to call the doctor and ask for an appointment tomorrow?” “Yes, Mommy,” I said, with a tinge of annoyance in my voice. I stood up and went to the living room. I took a deep breath and sat back down. I was ready to relax, but then I realized I was starving. Now that I was sick, it seemed like I could only see the problems bearing down on me. I looked out the window. A velvety darkness was descending like a blanket over my house. My dad was still busy cooking. Cooking was, and still is, one of my dad’s favorite hobbies, and he loved to do it. He always made these really extravagant meals that took a really long time and that made my mom annoyed because we rarely ate until after our technical bedtime. Once my mom took over cooking, we would eat much earlier, but my dad did not approve of my mom’s cooking. “Too greasy,” he said. I started to feel a little better, but the grumbling of my stomach brought me back to my pain. Why is this happening? I was fine just a few hours ago, I thought in worry. The pain was changing so suddenly, and I didn’t know what to do. I put a blanket over me, even though I wasn’t hot. “Googoogaga!” my one-year-old brother said. Luka was so cute in his little overalls, his toothless smile revealing some of the mashed peas stuck to his lips. “Luka!” I said. I really liked my little brother. The only thing was, he kept on doing what my sister told him to do, and back then Zora did not like me. I began to feel a bit warmer. I was getting hungry and increasingly impatient waiting for dinner, wondering when the hour would come. But these thoughts didn’t distract me for long. Soon the pain made me squirm like a cat chasing yarn. I didn’t feel better, and I doubted I ever would. I sat on the couch for a little while longer until . . . “Dinner!” my dad shouted in a booming voice, echoing around my house like a megaphone. I stood up and walked to the hexagon-shaped table. My grandpa was an artist, and he had made this table all by himself. The food smelled delicious, and it quenched my hunger just

The narrator finally has enough money to buy the tea set she’s coveted—but at what cost? I should have felt excited, but I didn’t. My mom slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. I knew that if I did, all of my bottled-up guilt would come pouring out. “Y’all excited?” she asked me and my brothers. “Yeah!” my four-year-old brother, Thor, replied. “Ma-ma,” my youngest brother, Scott, said in broken-up syllables. He was newly one and had just begun to learn how to speak and toddle around. “Mm-hm,” I said. My eyes fell to my lap when she looked at me. I fidgeted in my seat. “I still can’t believe you saved up your money this quickly,” she said to me. I couldn’t help thinking I didn’t. Throughout the car drive, my palms grew sweaty and clammy. I was caught between crying and bursting into nervous giggles. The two-minute drive felt like two hours. I couldn’t speak for fear of letting my secret out. When we arrived at the toy store, Thor was wiggling in his seat and screaming “I’m gonna get the best toy before you!” Scott was completely oblivious to where we were and why we were there. He rocked back and forth in his car seat, sucking his thumb. My mom patiently unbuckled his seatbelt and then moved on to her own. “I’ll wait for you at the checkout counter, okay?” my mom said. “You go get that tea set while I watch Scott.” I nodded, careful to avoid her eyes. I walked into the store, turned the corner, and stopped. I had seen the tea set so many times, but I hadn’t had the money for it until now. I walked up to it and double-checked the price tag, even though I had memorized what it said the moment I first saw it. Twenty-one dollars and ninety-nine cents. Twenty-one dollars and ninety-nine cents I hadn’t had until a couple of days ago. All at once, waves of guilt and remorse crashed inside me, and their blow was harder than anything I had ever felt before. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I remembered how stealing the money felt. I remembered cautiously reaching my hand to the back of the drawer, my fingers clenching around the thin paper. I remembered the guilt I felt as I counted out ten dollars. I remembered peeking around the corner to make sure the coast was clear. I remembered how the guilt consumed me as I slipped the money into my wallet. Didn’t I pay all that money? And for what? The tea set was mine. I had paid for it. Hadn’t I? I looked again at the tea set. It was complete with pink-and-white cups, saucers, a teapot, and even a sugar bowl, all in a small wicker basket, perfect for carrying anywhere. How could a six-year-old girl like me not want it? But then again, how could a six-year-old girl like me stand knowing what she had done to get it? I gritted my teeth and picked the tea set up, excitement, fear, and guilt burning like a raging fire in my stomach. I told myself to put it back, but I couldn’t. My greedy, excited body turned toward the cash register, and my stubborn feet started to walk. My guilty hands put it on the checkout counter. Everything was in slow motion as my mother counted out twenty-two dollars and the cashier put them into the cash register. “Boys, time to go!” my mom called over her shoulder. Everything sped back into regular time. I walked in disbelief back to our car. I had gotten away with it. I had actually done what I had never dreamed of doing. The tea set was mine. The twenty-one dollars and ninety-nine cents had been paid. The funny thing was, I didn’t seem to want the tea set anymore. I shook my head. Don’t be silly, I told myself. The tea set is yours! You still want it, don’t you? Didn’t you save all that money for this tea set, and now you don’t want it? That one question rang in my head. Didn’t I pay all that money? And for what? The tea set was mine. I had paid for it. Hadn’t I? No. I hadn’t. That tea set was not mine, and only I knew it. All the way home, the secret bubbled up inside me, up and up. Every time it bubbled up, it was harder for me to push it back down again. When we reached home, I picked up the bag the tea set was in. The plastic felt cold and unforgiving against my warm and sweaty palms. I tightened my grip and told my feet to move. My guilt propelled them forward, making me move faster than usual. I needed to get somewhere where I could hide alone, just me and my guilt. I wanted to stuff the tea set under my bed and never see it again. But that would seem suspicious. Usually when we got new toys, we played with them nonstop until bedtime. What would my mom think if she saw me not playing with it? What would she do then? What would I do then? On the Other Side of the Wall Once I got inside, I sat down on one of the kitchen stools. The cold metal pressed against my thighs, sending chills through my body. My hands gripped the sides of the stool, and I rocked back and forth. My eyes were glued to the tea set sitting on the island. I pushed down tears and forced myself to keep breathing. I tried my hardest to breathe normally. My mom walked past me into the office. I peeked around the corner and saw her open a drawer. The same drawer I had “borrowed” ten dollars from a week ago. She pulled out a pack of bills,