This is the second installation of a novella that we are publishing in three parts in the April, May, and June 2021 issues of Stone Soup. Chapter 10 It’s my first hip-hop class. After suggesting it to my parents, they reluctantly agreed to send me for a tryout class. “Swifty, I appreciate you wanting to try new things, but you’ve got to be dedicated. We have to spend our money wisely,” my mom says. I’m dressed in a thin, white, cotton T-shirt with black leggings. My feet are adorned in running shoes. A backpack sits on my shoulders, stuffed with snacks and bottles of water. I’m not taking any chances. I rewatched the news piece that inspired me, and the style of dance looks tiring—constantly moving with skilled flips and spins which look impossible. Or that could just be because I’ve never done it before. After following Google Maps, my dad and I have ended up outside a grey warehouse. A logo’s been sprayed onto one side with vivid purple paint. The words read “Macie’s Dance Studio.” There are two wide doors graffitied with bubble words and wacky illustrations. “See you in an hour.” My dad nods. He holds open the door for me, and I walk inside. There’s a small reception room, an island desk with graffiti on the sides, the table purple. A woman with a short ponytail and a baggy grey T-shirt notes dates on a small notepad and calls someone’s name. A young boy stands up from a red leather couch on the right side of the room. His mother’s flicking through a gossip magazine, the cover of it bold with provocative sentences featured in highlighted text. A coffee table with competition advertisements piled in the center stands proud, like it’s won first place at the Olympics. The walls are splattered with model-esque monochrome posters, dancers reaching up to the sky, mid-somersault, collaborating. At the back end of the room, there is a door that looks like it would belong in a school classroom leading to rows of studios lined up behind each other. Just then, a middle-aged woman storms through the door in sporty wear. She’s got mousey-brown hair loosely tied up into a bun, while her cheeks are flaming red. “Lyla!” she says irately. “Our best student has quit!” Lyla smiles. “Masie, I’ve got a class to take right now, and we have a new student we need to take care of, but I’ll help you later. Is Swifty here?” I shyly raise my hand. Lyla nods, and we both walk through the doors into the dance studio. When we make it inside, there are some other girls and a few boys warming up, chatting to each other calmly. Unlike the ballet class, which had very similar-looking people, there’s a mixture of different sizes and ethnicities, which is really cool to see. To start off, I have to do some stretches and simple moves, which Lyla teaches me. Next, she talks about the kinds of moves I’ll be doing in class, while the others work on a complicated dance they’ve been learning. “So, there are four key kinds of movements: up, down, bounce, and drop,” she says, gesturing as she does so. “First we’ll learn ‘up.’ This is where your body rocks upward, like this.” She shows me a movement. It’s strong but relaxed. I copy her. We continue to do the move until I’ve got it. Next, we move on to down, then bounce and drop. I don’t remember much else. The class is so fun that time passes like a racing car. By the end of it, I’m sweating a gushing river, but I feel great. “Swifty, you did awesome today!” Lyla exclaims. “With progress, you can be even better!” I can see my dad staring through the door. He catches my eyes and gives me a thumbs-up. “How was it?” he asks cheerfully as we walk back to the car. “Awesome,” I reply. “Awesome.” Chapter 11 It’s the day of the Milky’s ad audition. To be honest, I haven’t really thought much about it with all that’s been going on lately. My dad drives me over to the venue because my mum’s got a test to see how she and my brother are doing. The venue is a small theater around our neighborhood. The outside is painted a creamy color. We walk inside and I get a name tag and badge. A staff member guides us to the main theater, and we walk past rows and rows of empty front seats. My dad gives me a hug when we reach the end. “Good luck,” he whispers, then joins the other parents at the back of the theater. I make my way backstage. My hands are super cold, and my legs feel shaky. A middle-aged man calls out names and points to spots in the line, just like at the orchestral concerta. I turn out to be one of the first in the line, probably because my last name starts with “A.” Whenever I hear the words “baby” and “brother” put together, I immediately feel jealous and scared. What will life be like after my brother is born? Stella’s a bit further down. I can see her talking to someone who must be one of her acting friends. If only I had someone to talk to. I like being first to perform because you can get it over and done with quickly, but at the same time, you want to be toward the middle so you can see how everything works. Luckily, one of the judges comes backstage and gives us a quick talk on how the auditions will run. “It would be best if you memorized the words,” he says, “but we have a teleprompter going just in case.” Once he leaves, I nervously jump up and down on the spot. Come on, Swifty. You got this, my inner pep talker says. But I haven’t got this. Last night, I

Humans interrupt a peaceful day in the forest The forest had always been peaceful. The forest was where you would stand still and feel the earth beneath your feet. It was where you would inhale the sweet forest air that was full of the invigorating scent of tree bark and green leaves and fresh earth. The forest had that unmistakable feel of authenticity: it made you feel alive. It was where you would hear the gentle cooing of birds from their perches in the trees, where you would hear the crackle of leaves and the occasional sound of a single leaf softly falling from its branch. You would hear the mellifluous echo of the flowing river as the water coursed smoothly down, making small white waves. You would see fluffy little rabbits hopping to and fro, and you would see busy squirrels scampering up the sturdy trunks of leafy oaks. You would see birds with wings outstretched circling high above the topmost branches of tall pines. You would see wood ducks splashing through the river and turtles basking on the rocks beside it. And if you went deeper in, you would see the small circular pond, sheltered by slender white birches, reflecting its surroundings in the clear, unbroken mirror of its water. You might even glimpse the antlers of a stag. Or you might see a bushy red tail just before its owner scrambled off into the depths of the woods . . . *          *          * A thirsty fox makes his way toward the pond for a drink of water. The soft flutter of wings as a wood thrush hurriedly takes flight reaches his ears, and he looks up, flicking his tail. Seeing the rustling of bushes as two rabbits scamper out of his way, he pauses a moment, then turns and resumes his way. (Swish, crackle, flutter) Loping through the tangled undergrowth that carpets the floor of the forest, the fox reaches the pond, where he crouches and drinks thirstily. The water shifts and ripples, creating a distorted image of the fox. A moment later, he tenses and leaps up, ears twitching upright, alert black eyes soundlessly darting back and forth among the trees. (Crack, scrape, snap) Human footsteps: crushing leaves, snapping twigs. Human voices: shrill laughter, giggling, whispering. (Thud, whiz—) The fox throws himself to one side just as a smooth stone cuts sharply through the air in a high arc. It passes directly above the spot the fox has just vacated and splashes, hissing and singing, into the center of the smooth, glass-like surface of the pond. The surface shatters and the stone disappears. The fox, as silent and unmoving as the trees, gazes fixedly into the dense woods. (Ripples . . .) The human forms saunter away, leaving behind them harsh, echoing laughter that rings mockingly in his ears. Their dark shadows are momentarily reflected in his eyes, and the eyes darken, growing blacker than ever, before he turns away. Karen Susanto, 13Rancho Palos Verdes, CA Grace Gorzelany, 10Glen Ridge, NJ

A five-year-old boy desperate for food unknowingly makes a terrible mistake Sammy walked along the road. He was kicking a rock. It helped him forget about being hungry, but if this worked, he’d have food. Once, he had tried to eat the grass. Jack told him that the grass had been green before the great and just rebellion. Sammy didn’t believe him. The grass had always been blue. He squinted. The outline of the Justice Outpost could barely be seen against the mountains. He walked on. An hour later, he came upon the outpost. Sleek metal and glass—it looked a bit strange, a remnant of kinder times, times that, according to Jack, were filled with wondrous machines that flew in the sky or let you talk to someone across the world, which, back then, everyone believed was round. He opened the door. Inside, the room was painted blue and yellow, and plush chairs lined one wall. Sammy shuffled over the fluffy green carpet up to the reception desk where a young woman sat painting her nails. When she saw Sammy, she smiled. Her teeth were beautiful, straight and white. “Excu’ me, ma’am, but at the Edu-House they told me that you give sweeties here,” Sammy half-whispered, hoping for a yes, or a nod, or another smile. The receptionist smiled kindly. “Well, honey, you just have to fill out this form,” she said with a voice slipping into Sammy’s ears, a voice that snared him with the phrase “Trust me.” “Sure! Thank you. Thanks.” The receptionist pulled a sheet of paper from the shelf, along with a stubby pencil, its eraser worn away. She handed both to Sammy with an encouraging nod. Sammy read poorly. His teacher told him that for a five-year-old, he read pretty well, and when he grew up, had a chance at a job in the big city. But the form had so many words he just didn’t understand. He wrote his name where it was asked for, then proceeded to the next section: a checklist asking him to fill out who he was turning in. “What’s ‘turning in’?” he asked the receptionist, but she just waved him away. “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” He checked “parents” because that was the only thing he understood on the checklist part. The last part was a list of crimes to circle. Murder. That was bad. Espionage. He knew it was wrong. He came to treason. What that meant, he didn’t know, but it didn’t sound bad. He circled it. When he gave the form to the receptionist, she told him something strange: “Thank you for helping the good, just, and heavenly rebellion by rooting out dangerous traitors,” before giving him his reward: a sugar-smacker. Sammy was a bit disappointed with its small size. But he had to thank the receptionist anyway. When he was doing that, Sammy noticed that some of the screws in the receptionist’s neck were rusted. He walked out of the outpost, smelling the sugar-smacker, passing it from hand to pocket and back again. He could almost taste the cold sweetness but resisted the urge to rip apart its wax-paper wrapping. I’ll show it to my friends first, Sammy decided. Then I’ll tell my mom how great this day was. He could just imagine the expressions on his parents’ faces and how proud they would be of him. He loved his parents. They were the ones who took care of him and helped him with his schoolwork. His dad always cracked the best jokes. Sammy wanted to hurry home now, but he couldn’t. There was once a time—he could just dimly remember—when he could. He remembered a strangely dressed woman telling him that he had the Hungers. She said something about poisoning, radiation, and about a necessary evil. Worried, Sammy looked up at the clouds. Green. That wasn’t so bad. If it rained, the rain would only burn him slightly.