December 2022

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