Celeste sets out to find a bank robber—but ends up solving a mystery about her mother instead Eighteen-thousand dollars were stolen from the Bridgeham Regional Bank on Nov. 2. Eyewitnesses say the robber was a man wearing all black, carrying a gun. “He had a slight figure and he ran very quickly,” said one woman who had witnessed the event. This is the third armed robbery this week. Witness reports from each of the robberies confirm it was the same person. —Page 1 of The Bridgeham Times “Maman,” I said, looking up from the newspaper. “Did you hear about the robbery?” “What is it, the third one you’ve told me about this week?” my mother asked, washing dishes at the sink. “Yeah. And all of the eyewitness reports agree that it’s the same person!” “Celeste, eat your oatmeal,” she said. “It’s getting cold.” I ignored her. “But isn’t that weird? I mean, this isn’t the kind of place you’d expect to hear about three armed robberies in one week by the same person.” “What do you mean?” she asked, turning around. “No place on Earth is safe from people doing horrible things. People kill, steal, cheat, lie. You name it.” She turned back around. “Now eat your oatmeal. You’ll be late for school.” At dinner, I brought up the robberies again. “It’s just—that’s so many!” I said intently, once again ignoring the food in front of me. Maman gave me a weary glance. The dark circles under her eyes were as prominent as always. “Why are you so fascinated by the horrible things people do?” “Because it’s a mystery. Isn’t it exciting? That person could rob the restaurant! We’d be in the news!” “That is not exciting. And it’s not worth pursuing. Just because you’ve read about every mystery book the library has does not mean that you’re going to be able to solve this case, if that’s what you’re aiming for.” “That’s not what I was saying,” I said indignantly, although I had had that same fantasy for all of math class. I’d just have to pursue it when Maman wasn’t looking. There was a long silence before Maman said, “You should write Aunt Marjorie.” Aunt Marjorie was Maman’s younger sister with a passion for poetry, and in my opinion, quite possibly a mental disorder. She had dropped out of school to become a poet, and now she lived by herself in the middle of nowhere. Maman always used her as the reason why I should work hard in school. (“You don’t want to end up like Aunt Marjorie.”) But as far as I could remember, Maman sent her a letter every day because Aunt Marjorie didn’t own a telephone. And on Sundays she sent her money and a box of food because she knew Aunt Marjorie couldn’t support herself. She didn’t want to publish her poems (“It ruins the intimacy”). But to be honest, I doubted she would be able to publish them even if she tried. “But she never responds when you write her,” I said. “She never responds to me.” Maman stared at her plate. “But she might respond to you.” “What would I write about?” I asked. “I don’t know. Whatever you want. Write about school or something. She needs human contact. She’s probably started talking to the squirrels.” She sighed. After dinner, I wrote Aunt Marjorie a long letter telling her all about the robberies and how I’d compiled all the information I knew about the robber. He was male, blond, tall, skinny, and fast. I had even devoted a notebook to it, and I carried it with me everywhere in case I saw a clue or had a sudden realization. I told her about how I wanted to solve them. I knew that my secret was safe with her. She hadn’t seen another human in person for years. I mailed it the next morning. Writing to Aunt Marjorie made me think about Maman’s childhood in France. Maman’s father had left, and her mother was sick for a long time before she died when Maman was eighteen. Maman had taken care of Aunt Marjorie, her little sister, for most of her childhood: cooking, cleaning, and fussing over everything while Aunt Marjorie played outside or wrote poetry. I suspected this was why Maman was so worried about her all the time. She had programmed herself to. I wondered why she would have let Aunt Marjorie drop out of school. That didn’t seem like something Maman would do. Maybe she had been too busy to care. *         *          * Constantly worrying made Maman far too practical and cheap. She insisted on hand-washing all of the laundry because there was no washing machine in our apartment and the laundromat was “too expensive.” I couldn’t understand why she would be so intent on making her life harder all the time. And for what? Saving a few dollars? The way I saw it, Maman had never been happy. Naturally, I decided that her constant worrying had done this to her. I had resolved to never live like her. I was going to become a famous detective or, at the very least, star in a detective show. I’d be rich, and I’d hire people to do everything for me. Then I’d have Maman come live in my mansion so that she could understand how life was meant to be lived: to the fullest. *         *          * One night while I tried to sleep, Maman’s question played over and over in my head. Why was I so fascinated by the robberies? I got out of bed and looked out my window at the city lights twinkling. The lights never stopped, like they were constantly worrying or working, too busy to take a break. As I crawled back into bed, I realized that if I solved the mysteries, I’d give people a reason to stop worrying. The

A leaf wonders why it must eventually fall Sometimes I look down at the forest floor below and I wonder what is out there. All my life, I have been sitting on the same branch, on the same tree, in the same forest. I have no idea of the world beyond. In my tree, I am part of a community, but in the outside world, all I am is a tiny leaf amongst millions of others. But soon, after staring at the darkness below, I feel a sense of dread slowly seep through me. It starts from the tip of my leaf and trickles down into my veins until I am forced to look away and hope that I never have to leave the warmth of my branch. But I know that that isn’t possible. It isn’t possible for any of us. As a society, us leaves don’t have many rules. We have to provide food to the rest of the tree, and we have to be welcoming to any bird, insect, or animal that chooses to rest on our branches. Other than that, we mostly have the freedom to do what we wish. However, the community has one rule that we all have to follow. It is called the Fall. Every one of us, at some point in our lives, has to fall. They leave it up to us to decide when we are ready, but this rule is nonnegotiable. When we were young leaves, we never took this rule seriously. It was something in the far-off future that we didn’t have to think about. We would spend our days filled with innocent delight, wishing we could fly with the birds and run with the animals, and our nights staring at the stars shimmering like silver dust in the dark sky. We would remain on our branches, never thinking that a day would come when we would have to leave them. But as we grew older and matured, we started to understand the importance of this rule and knew that someday we would have to leave. I have watched all the other leaves on my branch fall. Some dropped fast, gaining speed as they fell. For some, the wind took over and they were swept away. Some never even made it to the ground. But all of them were ready. I could see it in the color of their skin, the way the edges of their leaves curled up in apprehension. I could see it in the way their veins pulsed with energy. I’ve watched each one of them on their journey. I’ve observed the way they drop into the abyss of darkness, into a chasm of the unknown, almost fearlessly. I watched until they faded into tiny specks like paint on a canvas and disappeared into a whole new world. Each time, I felt a sense of loss. Loss of a friend to another community and loss of the opportunity to join them. The sun rises and sets each day, and the moon dances its way in and out each night, but somehow, I am never ready to fall. The sun rises and sets each day, and the moon dances its way in and out each night, but somehow, I am never ready to fall. The frosty cold of winter morphs into the pleasant warmth of spring. But I am not ready. The scorching heat seeps in as spring turns into summer. But I am still not ready. Even autumn passes and I am surrounded by other falling leaves. But I remain tethered to my branch, unable to move. I see younger leaves falling happily through the air, laughing with glee as they reach the ground. I see the older leaves jumping gracefully off the branch, gently fluttering toward the ground. But I continue to wait. I can feel the judging eyes of the other leaves in my community piercing through me, trying to cut me apart with their stares, wondering why I haven’t fallen yet. I have come close to being ready many a time. I have teetered toward the edge of the precipice. But something has always stopped me. Maybe it was fear. A fear that consumes me. It engulfs my body like a gigantic wave at sea and takes away the last pinch of courage I had. How can I jump without knowing what’s below? Some nights, while I stare at the moon shining like a light bulb in the midst of darkness, I wonder why the community even has this rule. Why are we being forced to fall? Soon the days seemed to merge into each other, forming a monotonous routine. I stopped waking up every day wondering whether today would be the day that I was finally ready. That littlest dash of hope that added the tiniest tinge of color into an otherwise grey sky began to fade as each day passed. I was ready to succumb to my unfortunate fate. I was ready to give up. And then, suddenly, I heard it. I heard the noise that changed my life. It was a garish, barbaric noise that made me tense in my branch. Suddenly I felt uneasy. The sound became clearer as I heard steps approaching. I dared not look in the direction, as if looking away would help me pretend it wasn’t there. Loud, harsh words in a strange language that was so different from the gentle whispering of the trees reverberated all around. It was as if the forest had become still. The birds had stopped their melodious tunes in warning. The squirrels scuttled away to hide. For a few moments, there was silence, like the calm before a storm. And then I heard the dreaded noise. The noise of an axe. I anxiously waited for the pulse until I realized it wasn’t my tree. A guilty sense of relief surged through me. The whole forest seemed to be waiting. However, nothing could prepare me for what happened next.