Fiction
The airport was almost empty, with only a few solitary people wandering about the terminal. The silence echoed throughout the building, surrounding us in a hushed stillness. Mom and I stood by the baggage claim and waited for her friend to come. "Mom," I whispered. "I do not want to do this." "Shush, Lena," she replied. "I've been promising Liza we'd visit for years now, ever since you were a baby." "I didn't want to come. I don't want to spend the summer in the middle of nowhere." "I've known Liza since grade school, you know. We're old friends. We always planned to live next door to one another, but then she moved with her husband when the war started . . ." I stopped listening. Mom didn't notice; she was completely wrapped up in memory. I was angry at her, anyhow, for dragging me to the middle of nowhere, to visit her friend and her friend's children in Kentucky for the summer of 1981. A whole summer lost! I always spent summers at home in our upper-class Manhattan neighborhood, with my friends. "Susan!" I looked up in surprise. A large, red-faced woman was rushing toward my mother with her arms outstretched and a huge smile on her face. "Liza!" Mom squealed, returning the hug. The woman who was my mother's best friend peered down at me. "I do declare, Susie!" she said. "This sure can't be the baby who you told me about, can it? Why, this girl is all but a young lady already!" Liza smiled at me. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. "Sure's gonna be hot out today," Liza said as we walked to her car, an ancient tan pickup truck. "Y'all is gonna be a mite hot in them skirts an' tights you're wearing. My kids're all in shorts by mid- April, yep." I looked down at my plaid skirt and white tights, noticing that I was already beginning to perspire. We drove along the road. It was already blistering hot outside, but the Kentucky countryside was beautiful, with rolling green hills and grassy farmland. We passed several crystal-clear streams and swimming holes. Liza's farm was on a hillside. She grew tomatoes and corn and pumpkins, but she didn't actually do the work herself. "I got me a few hired workers," she told Mom and me. The house was wooden, but painted yellow on the outside. Inside, it was slightly messy but comfortable. Liza looked around as we entered. "My kids are all over the place these days," she told Mom. "I've got four of them. My oldest, John, is at college. The others are Sam, Allison, and the littlest, Beth. Sam's sixteen, Beth's seven, and Allison is just about Lena's age." She didn't mention her husband. Just then a girl ran through the back door, dressed in cut-off shorts and a yellow T-shirt. She was barefoot, and her golden hair streamed out behind her back. She was out of breath from running, her cheeks pink, hazel eyes sparkling. Liza smiled at her. "There you are, Allison. I was just telling Susan and Lena about you, I was." She turned to me. "Lena, this is my daughter Allison." Allison sized me up, then smiled. "I'll show you your room," she said, leading me up the stairs. "You're in with me and Beth, and I guess your mom is on the couch." She opened the door to a room, with twin beds and a cot on the floor. The room wasn't painted, but there was a window looking out across the fields. "You can have the bed, I don't mind the cot," Allison told me. I put my suitcase on one of the beds. "Do you want to look around the farm?" she asked. I shrugged. "OK," I agreed. Allison showed me the barn. "We've got horses, two of them. One's brown, named Chocolate, and the other's dappled. A real show horse, but we keep her for a pet really. Her name's Moon Light. Beth named her that." Allison led me around the property, over the grassy hills and to the woods. The land was beautiful, fertile, not at all like the city. I fell in love with it at once. Allison pointed out her favorite trees, and the patterns of a spider web, raccoon tracks and hawks. The sun cast a golden glow, shining its light on the wildflowers and the land. I felt freer than I had ever felt in my life. Allison smiled and laughed and sang little tunes. "I love this place," she told me. "I already do, too," I said. And I meant it. Allison smiled. * * * The days passed quickly in Kentucky. Allison showed me the swimming hole and her secret paths through the woods. She taught me how to ride Moon Light, the dappled horse. Soon I had traded my stiff skirts for a pair of cutoffs and T-shirts. Allison showed me the land, showed me how to whittle fishhooks and to build a fire. And she showed me sunrises. I had seen sunrises before, of course, at home in New York. I watched them idly, usually half-asleep, listening to Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen. Dad hadn't come on the trip. He didn't like travel. Allison never mentioned her father, but she asked me an awful lot about mine. We would be walking along a path, and out of the blue she would say, "Does your father like flowers? Or is that just mothers?" And I was never sure if she was talking in general or about my parents in particular. One of the first mornings there, I awoke in the soft bed, with the red-and-blue quilt pulled over me. Someone was shuffling around the room, opening the bureau drawers and putting on clothes. It wasn't even light out yet, the sky a pale gray that let out a faint light. Allison was brushing her hair into a ponytail,
Fiction
I had been water-coloring when my mom poked her head through the classroom door. She made eye contact with my teacher Diane, who nodded and told me to get my things even though it wasn't even lunchtime yet and I'd never been able to eat my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, which was a shame because I liked peanut butter a lot. I was leaving school early. "Why, Mommy?" "Because you are going to receive a very special phone call." Special. The word echoed. I didn't know what receive meant, but whatever it had to do with a phone call it was going to be special. "Is the phone call for me?" My mom looked at me sideways through the rearview mirror. "Yes, of course it's for you; you are the one receiving it." A special phone call, for me! "Who's calling, Mommy? Who's calling! Who am I to receive from?" I said the word carefully. My mom smiled a little. "Her name is Kiria Eleni" (KEEREE e-LAY-nee—the "r" is rolled). "Kiria Eleni . . ." I liked the way her name rolled around in my mouth; it was quickness, light, a feather. I liked it. Delicious!—I was getting picked up early so that I could receive a special phone call that was all for me from Kiria Eleni. "Who is she?" "She was Daddy's old nurse; When your grandmother, Yiayia (YI-ya) Theresa, got sick, she and your grandfather, Papou (pa-P00), wrote a letter to her village in Greece. The letter asked for a woman to come and take care of your daddy, who was only a baby then. And Kiria Eleni came." "Why does she want to talk to me." "Because you are the second Teresa." I beamed. The Second Teresa. Many people I know now hate being second in things because it makes them feel subordinate, but for me, being The Second Teresa was a heavenly privilege. She had died, and then years later when I was born they put a pinch of her memory into me. It was an honor. My dad had come home early and was waiting for me. As soon as I walked in the door, he pulled a chair out from under my little table, seated it in the middle of the room, and then seated me on top of that. "Now Teresa," he said, squatting down in order to look me in the face. "I want to tell you some things about Kiria Eleni. She doesn't live in this country and doesn't speak English; she will be talking to you from Greece, and she'll be speaking Greek to you. She is also very old." I frowned. "How can I talk with her if I don't know any Greek?" It was going to be a problem. The only words of Greek I knew were pisino and pisinake, which both roughly translated to butt. It was the slang that I had picked up from my dad, and I was a bit embarrassed about using it with people outside of my family. "Your papou will be on the line, too. He will translate for you." He turned to my mom and took a deep breath. "All right," he said, "let's call." He picked up the phone and dialed, then started talking in words that I couldn't understand. Then he talked in English a little, and then in gibberish again. I sat very still in my chair; the hard wood of the chair was beginning to hurt my pisino, but I was very good and sat still anyway. I watched my dad talk and talk as he was transferred from one place to the next, switching languages every so often as my mom paced back and forth. Then, my dad turned toward me and took the one, two, three long steps to where I had been waiting patiently. "Here you are," he said, handing me the phone. I took it gingerly and held it away from my ear a little, afraid of getting bombarded with a torrent of Greek that would make me feel stupid. "Er . . . hello?" It was only Papou. "Hi, dahlin'," he said. His loud Chicago voice was dampened by the stuffy connection. "How's my favorite granddaughter?" I was his only granddaughter, at the time. "I'm good." "How's school?" "Good. I did some water-coloring today." "That's great. And what grade are you in again? First?" I giggled. "Second, Papou, second!" "Second grade! Wow, dahlin'! You're becoming a young lady! So do you want to talk to Kiria Eleni now?" "Yeah. You in Greece?" "Yeah. It's beautiful, dahlin'—I'll take you when you're thirteen, I promise. I'll take you to Greek school so that you can learn Greek and then I'll take you here. Boy, it's beautiful . . . all right, dahlin', I'm putting her on." He said something in what I assumed was Greek, and then someone else got on. The voice was cracked and shriveled in an eerie way. I had seen plenty of wrinkled faces, but I'd never heard a wrinkled voice before because most of the old people I knew then were in surprisingly good shape. It was a stomach-jerking first. "0 ya, mumble jumble-o . . ." the words were like quick fingers on a piano key. She sprinted to the finish line of her sentence. A rustling, and the phone was transferred to Papou. "She said hello." "Well. I say hello back." Greek. She got the phone again. "Bla bla bla . . ." I listened intently, but she didn't say anything about pisinos so I didn't catch a word. "She asked if your father has been teaching you any Greek." "No. The only words I know are pisino and pisinake." Papou gave out his laugh, a wry-dry guffaw that rumbles down from deep inside. He told this to Kiria Eleni, and she in turn cackled hysterically. "Yada yada yada . . ." This had to be the most surreal experience of my life. "She said that's just
Fiction
"Look!" A little brown head bobbed out from under the dock; the feet under it propelled it around the reeds and out of sight. "What was that thing?" asked Ted, almost falling into the water trying to find it. "A muskrat, kids. You can use that in your essay when we get back to school," said Miss Cole. Ann Dover looked out at the ripples shimmering and glistening with the reflected sun. She sighed, her breath sending a gray smoke-like puff over the lake. The gently swaying cattails rustled and Ann caught a whiff of the dusty incense they gave off, tickling her pink, cold nose. "OK, class, you may start taking notes now." Ann stared into the water. The bottom was covered with long, stringy algae, which she assumed was making the almost-faint stench. It looked cold and lonely, but Ann knew it was full of life. "Full of life," she wrote. As Ann looked back at the warm biological station, she noticed something by the bank. It was a big pile of what looked like algae, but it was more clumpy, like individual things. She started to examine it, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw her teacher looking disapprovingly at her, and quickly started writing. "OK, kids, pack up. It's snack time!" Ann heard people hiss, "Yesssss!" under their breath. Everyone got up and formed a line. As they trudged back up the dock, stomping their feet to warm them, Ann heard Bob whisper to Jeff, "Finally. It smelled like dead fish over there." Dead fish. That was what the pile was. But how did all those fish die? Ann thought. Best not to think about that now, she decided. All she was thinking about was having a nice snack in the warm biological station. * * * Ann was relieved when the class stepped in front of big doors leading to a warm, cozy habitat. Everyone wanted to get in, and there was a scramble as the doors of the biological station opened. Along the wall were all sorts of stuffed marsh birds, displays of life cycles, and glass cases of rock samples marked with little labels. Off to one side, there was a little shelf. In it were eleven or twelve species of fish. Fish. Ann caught up with her class and seated herself against the wall. After unzipping her backpack, she took out a fruit rollup. Dead fish. True, it was still cold from the winter that had passed, but they should have been hibernating, or whatever fish do. She would have to look around the lake again. Sitting up, she saw a little plate that said "Men's Room—205. Women's Room—128." The women's room was downstairs! She could ask to use the bathroom, and then slip out the door that led to the lake. Getting up, she walked over to her teacher. "Miss Cole, may I use the bathroom?" Ann held her breath. "Hurry back. We'll be working on the trail next." Rushing downstairs, Ann started searching for the lake door. She had only seen it from the dock, and it wasn't a main door. "Hi!" Ann glanced up. Looking down at her was a kind-faced woman in a scientist's white lab coat. Her name tag read Biologist Mason. "May I help you?" she asked. Ann thought quickly. "Could you show me to the bathroom?" she asked, hoping her face didn't give her away. "Right down the hall, and through the third door on the left," the woman answered. Ann thanked her, and started to the bathroom. "Do you like the lake?" she heard Biologist Mason call after her. Ann turned around and nodded, trying to make it look like she was in a hurry. "Come with your family sometime, and I'll show you around. My name's Jennifer." With that, finally, the biologist turned and retreated into a lab. Ann stood a moment, thinking. Then, she realized how little time she had. Stepping down the last of the stairs, she looked right. There was a lab. She looked left. There was a big door propped open by an oar. Ann pushed open the door and stepped out onto a dirt path. A little to the right stood the dock. Ann ran out to where the fish were. It hadn't changed from a few minutes ago. There was nothing she could see to cause the fishes' death. Crushed, Ann turned around; she was face-to-face with Jeff Schiller, one of her seventh-grade classmates. Ann stared at him. Then, knowing they would both get in trouble if they were late, they started walking back. "You're going to tell on me, aren't you," Ann said without looking at him. "No, I was coming out for the same reason. To see about the fish." Seeing Ann didn't trust him, he added, "We can find out together." "OK," Ann said. "But not now, we'll be late. I'll talk to you at break." She immediately regretted it, but there was no time to take it back. Jeff followed her as they ran up the stairs, clanging on the metal, making an echo loud enough for the world to hear. * * * "Rinnnnnnng!" Back at school, break time had finally crept its way up to pounce on Ann. She looked around, but in the mass of kids, she lost sight of Jeff by the door. Slowly, she slipped her essay paper (titled "Wingra Marsh") in a blue folder and, putting her pencil back in her desk, got to her feet. Other girls have crushes on boys, but not me, she thought, staring at the door. What will people think when they see me talking to Jeff—the most popular boy at Henry James Middle School? She took a deep breath and started outside. "Ann." Ann jumped. She had forgotten about Miss Cole correcting papers at her desk. "May I see your essay, please?" "Oh," Ann said, taking the folder out again. She brought it up to Miss Cole's
Fiction
I look once more out the rolled-down window of our faded blue Chevrolet and gaze out at our little yellow summer house, rapidly shrinking as we roll away. The trim white shutters are pulled tight, awaiting next year when we return and the house will brim with life and energy once again. I see our dark auburn porch sitting peacefully on the sand. A warm breeze blows, tinkling the silver chimes that hang from its roof. The little windowbox my mom uses during the summer has nothing left but a little dirt and maybe a couple of dead spiders. Stretching below and past the porch is pure white sand. It leads to sparkling aqua-blue waters that reflect the sun and almost blind me in their brightness. I remember this morning when I took a last swim in the cool, turquoise waters. The sunrise was beautiful, pale pink, lavender, and apricot, but the water held a chill which I hadn't felt all summer. I look down at my patched denim cutoffs. They have been worn so many times that they are almost white, but they hold a faint sea-smell that I love. Those shorts bring back memories of all the past summers we have spent on Richolette Beach. I remember the sunny day a few years ago when a bunch of neighbors and our whole family teamed up to push a beached whale back to sea. I recall that notable time when Dad first taught me how to sail a boat. I remember watching my first falling star on Grandma's knees late one night, catching my first fish, and learning the miracle of life one week as I watched hundreds of baby sea turtles, just hatched, crawl to the sea for the first time. Mom reprimanded me this morning, saying that it will be cold back in San Francisco and I should at least wear pants, but I insisted that since it was the last day of summer, I was going to wear my summer shorts. The last day of summer. I guess I can't deny any longer that fall is really coming. The leaves of the oaks and maples we drive by remind me of colorful nasturtiums and flickering flames with their brilliant reds, oranges and yellows. I look back longingly at my lovely days of getting up early for a refreshing morning swim, sunbathing idly on the soft, warm sand, and hunting for interesting shells for my collection. I remember watching the sun set over the ocean and then dropping into bed, exhausted but exhilarated, to fall asleep to the peaceful sounds of waves lapping playfully on the sand, and crickets chirping soothing lullabies. Realization creeps over me that starting tomorrow I will again be forced to stick to a strict schedule of homework, teachers and classes. I shudder slightly as a cool wind sweeps through the car window, which I close. Forcing thoughts of school to the back of my mind, I lean back cozily against the warm seat and close my eyes. My mind wanders freely, and again I start daydreaming of past days at the little house on Richolette Beach. For I know that summer will come again, and I will once more lie on the sand, idly watching the gentle waves. I know that once more, I can be in paradise.
Fiction
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. 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 and government issues." All this was said very fast in a very heavy
Fiction
I roll down the car window. It's hot. The engine murmurs steadily. I can feel my stomach flipping as we near Fullor. The basketball courts loom ahead, all empty but one. The two-door Toyota stops. Amy jumps out quickly. I take my time, slowly stepping out onto the scorched cracked blacktop. I can feel the heat through my black sandals. We wave good-bye, and I force a smile. Inside I am whimpering. Amy jogs over in her running shoes, short brown hair tied back. A blue sweatshirt casually blends into relatively baggy jeans. I wobble after her, my shoes slowing me down. I had curled my hair the night before. It lay like a doll's. Big hoops dangle from my ears, giving way to a silver choker necklace. It was all planned out the night before. The clothes. I wanted to make a good first impression. Tight jeans match with my tank. It reads "Princess." We stop in front of the coach. He frowns at me, observing my ensemble. I can feel my face turn red. I didn't know they would all be boys. Sixteen boys. Sixteen pairs of eyes. Sixteen smirks. We need to run a warm-up lap around the bare field. The boys gradually pass me. Sympathetically, Amy matches my slow pace. I stare longingly in the direction of home, but am forced to turn a corner and head for the sneering crowd instead. A ball rolls out toward me, slowly. I pick it up. What am I doing here? Who am I trying to fool? Being on a team seemed like a great idea two weeks ago when I applied. But now, as I look around me . . . I just don't belong . . . I close my eyes, in hope that I can just wake up from this bad dream . . . They open, looking down. I hold in my hands a basketball. I drop it, watching it roll away. Slowly, I turn to run. We both slip on the gravel. The boys make no attempt to muffle a loud laugh. I know they're laughing at me. Amy goes to Felton Junior High. Fullor and Felton are like brothers. The two schools end in the same high school. They accept Amy as one of them. I am the outsider at Remdon Private Middle School. I arrive last, panting loudly. Everybody stares at me, annoyed. I held back the group. Coach says something about an all-star team. "The judges will choose the two best players . . . It's in your hands . . . Only those who really want it . . ." I am not listening. A boy with mousy brown hair and large front teeth whispers something to his friend. Distinctly I can make out the words "pathetic" and "blondie." They snicker, causing the coach to clear his throat loudly in their direction. I stare down at my feet. The private whimpers inside of me are threatening to reveal themselves to the world. The only pathetic blond here is me. WEEK TWO I feel my forehead. It seems fine. I stand still and close my eyes, searching every inch of my body for any sign of pain or illness. If I concentrate really hard, I can almost feel some pressure in my head . . . It's useless. Unfortunately, it seems I'm in perfect health, and basketball practice starts in fifteen minutes. WEEK THREE I don't know if it is the boys' taunts or really just my lack of ability that is causing me to miss. Every shot. Insults are murmured constantly in my direction, loud enough for me to hear, yet concealed from the coach. Things like "princess" and "loser." I don't dare tell him, for fear of what the rest might do to me. It doesn't make the situation any easier to accept, that apart from Amy, I am the oldest. No matter how much older I am than the boys, I'm still too young to have a nervous breakdown, but I fear it is edging close. Sobs echo throughout the inside of my head. My life is turning into a living nightmare. Amy gave up trying to convince me to ignore them. Ignore them? How can I just ignore them? Easy for her to say; feet don't stick out in attempts to trip her as she walks by. Every little mistake of hers is forgotten automatically. Mine are as good as posted for public viewing. WEEK FOUR Shoot . . . miss. Shoot . . . miss. Shoot . . . miss. WEEK FIVE The boy with the big teeth goes by: C.J. Every now and then I make a shot. Nobody notices. WEEK SIX C.J. says he'll give me a dollar for every shot I make. He coughs when I'm about to shoot and makes attempts to trip me when Coach isn't looking. So why don't I just leave? I thought about it. It's too late. If I go now, C.J. will think he defeated me. I feel like Hamlet. To leave or not to leave . . . I'm not the quiet accepting type. I'm proud. Perhaps too proud. I shout back the first insults that come into my head. C.J. and his followers can top anything I say. I don't care what the coach thinks, either. I don't think he even notices anything is wrong. He's far too ignorant and absorbed in his own little world. C.J. says something about my school. I throw the ball so hard at him, he falls over backward. Coach sees this as an accident. With their "chief" gone for the day, the boys don't seem to find any pleasure in making my life miserable. Only a fraction continue to taunt me. Today I made my first three-pointer. WEEK SEVEN I am wearing sports pants today. My hair is tied in a ponytail and I have no jewelry. I am not the last
Fiction
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. "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.
Poem
I love to go to the library walk through stacks and rows of books, picking whatever I like, the books pull me in. I can go on any adventure. I can sit and read all day, worming through them, reading out the whole shelf I am at home and somewhere else at the same time. One morning, I saw spinning planes thud into tragedy, crumbling around the whole of America; everybody listened, hushed. We sipped up the sadness. Hurt. I know I am safe in my house with people I love. I hear the rushing water of the sighing waterfall. Mom clicks away on her computer. I can see my little sister sit silently, waiting for Dad. I grab my book so I can disappear into a world of happily ever after. I see ash and broken brick. I am worried. There are people under there, too. My heart drops. I would not want to be there. I do not want a war. I think about other kids my age in different countries. They must be scared. The war might come to them. I am lucky to live in America.
Poem
The late August sun warms the carpet in my room. I sit listening to the sounds below me. Mom and Grandma cooking food in the kitchen. Dad putting the finishing touches on the cake Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends ringing the doorbell My brother running to the door with hellos Loud laughter sounds throughout the house Squeals of delight from baby Maddy's discoveries "Come down Craig, you're being rude," yells Mom. It's my birthday, I'm not being rude. I'm thanking God for the best thing in the world. The best thing in the world is this moment in my life.
Book Reviews
The Land by Mildred D. Taylor; Phyllis Fogelman Books: New York, 2001; $17.99 "Can't figure how you can be so crazy 'bout them white brothers of yours neither, when once y'all grown, they'll be the boss and you'll be jus' another nigger." One of the factors that made The Land so interesting was a unique conflict. Paul-Edward grew up with a black mother and a white father during the post—Civil War era. There was still a good deal of hate between the two races in the South. Though slavery was illegal, blacks were still treated like dirt. As Paul-Edward was growing up, he was the proverbial "man without a country." Blacks didn't like him because he had white skin and whites didn't like him because they just knew that down deep he was a black. As I said earlier, this presented a very unique conflict. Another reason that The Land was so good was that it played my emotions better than Yo-Yo Ma can play the cello. When Paul was trying to win the horse race, my blood pressure rose higher. When Paul was missing his dad because of running away on the train, the next time I saw my dad I hugged him tighter. When Paul was running from the whites, I pulled my bed covers a little closer. The two main characters are Mitchell, a black who starts out hating Paul-Edward, but eventually—through a deal with him—becomes his best friend. Mitchell isn't afraid of anything, and has a great sense of humor. The other main character, of course, is Paul himself. He is very intellectual, has a healthy amount of worries, and doesn't understand why whites hate blacks. These characters' clashing personalities give the book pizzazz and bring two, usually opposite, views of each situation into the mix, making it a lot more fun to read. Most people would say this book is simply preaching against racism, but the moral goes deeper than color. The Land is not just simply about blacks vs. whites, but it tells a story of how through friendship, love, and determination a man beat the odds and made his dream a reality. It doesn't matter if it's a black who wants to own land in a white man's country, or a boy who wants to become president when he grows up, the moral is that nice guys don't necessarily finish last. The Land is fast-paced, a quick read, and very well written. I normally do not even enjoy historical fiction, but this was one of the best books I have read in a while.
Book Reviews
Esperanza Rising by Pam Murioz Ryan; Scholastic Press: New York, 2000; $15.95 Did you know that esperanza means hope in Spanish? That word, and that word alone, is the perfect way to describe the young heroine of this novel, Esperanza Ortega. Esperanza Ortega is a pampered little rich girl in Aguascalientes, Mexico in 1930, who has all the food, clothes, and toys that any twelve-year-old child could want. She has many servants and she has her love for her mother, father, and grandmother. The novel starts by showing the theme of the book: when Esperanza was six years old, her father took her for a walk in El Rancho de Rosas, their home, and told her to lie down in the field, and she could feel the heart of the valley. When Esperanza did as he said, it turned out to be true, and she and her father shared this little secret. The day before Esperanza's thirteenth birthday, however, a horrible thing happens: her father is attacked and killed by bandits, who believe that they killed righteously, because Papa is rich and most likely scorns the poor, like them. When this dreadful news is delivered to Esperanza and her mother, they go into mourning, and Papa's older stepbrothers, Tio Marco and Tio Luis, come to supposedly help them through their time of need. The true purpose for their staying comes clear, though, when Tio Luis announces that he wishes to marry Mama. However, Mama turns his proposal down. But after the uncles burn their house to the ground, the family realizes that they must leave Mexico. Esperanza, Mama, and their former servants—Miguel, Alfonso, and Hortensia—take the train to California and begin to work as farm laborers. Esperanza is enraged, however, because she is not used to "being treated like horses" or living among poor people. Even after she befriends Miguel's younger cousin Isabel, she still scorns and fears the labor camp because there are the strikers in it who are trying to get better working conditions and will stop at nothing and no one to get what they want. I liked Esperanza Rising, but there was one big thing that I didn't like: Esperanza was so real a character that I felt a little bit queasy. I'm not very comfortable around realistic fiction books. I'm more the fantasy-novel type. I still don't like books that don't end "happily ever after." There were some things that Esperanza experienced that I have as well. When Esperanza was asked to sweep the porch and she didn't know how to even use a broom, I knew just how she felt, because I've had that feeling more than once. When I was little, I begged my mom to let me have a bike, so I could be "just like the big kids," and I never rode it, so I've never learned how to ride a bike. When my friends ask me to ride my bike with them, I always have to lie and say that it's "much closer to walk," and "oh, couldn't you walk, too?" It's very difficult when you can't do something that most other people can. But Esperanza learned how to use a broom, while I still have yet to learn how to ride a bike! Esperanza Rising is written so you could definitely feel what the characters were feeling. I very nearly almost laughed out loud at the part when Esperanza had to wash the babies' diapers and she didn't know how, so she was just dipping them into the washing basin with two fingers. Esperanza Rising is a vivid, well-written book. The author takes her time, and describes every scene and every character as though the whole novel revolved around them. And she shows how Esperanza changes: from a pampered, stuck-up girl, to an understanding young woman. And the whole story contains hope. Hope that the strikers will understand why Esperanza and her family and the other workers need their jobs and will not join them. Hope that Esperanza will one day become rich again. And hope that Abuelita, Esperanza's grandmother, will one day come and join Esperanza and Mama in the labor camp, because she was left behind at El Rancho de Rosas.
