Ally looked down at herself and realized she was the only one wearing pajamas Of course she was going to go. Ally Paulson invited to Mallory Freshman’s birthday bash? It was outrageous. Ally brushed her dirty-blond bangs out of her eyes as she dialed the number Mallory had given her on her phone to RSVP to Mallory’s party. It was just a dream come true. Ally had come from being an unknown nothing to being one of Mallory Freshman’s friends! Mallory Freshman—the most popular girl in the whole school! “I’ll be there!” Ally squealed, finding that was all she could say to the answering machine. She was too nervous to leave a long, thoughtful message. Ally plopped down on her bed, overwhelmed with excitement. She was actually going to be hanging out with the popular crowd! Brrrring!! Brrrring!!!! Ally’s pink polka-dotted, old-fashioned-style telephone rang on her side table. She picked up the phone and merrily squealed, “Hello?” “Ally.” It was Rachel, Ally’s best friend since preschool. She was a really nice person but too dorky to be seen around. “Movie night at the church this Saturday, you in?” Ally wanted to say yes; the church always chose good movies for them to watch, but Saturday would be Mallory’s birthday bash. She had to reject the offer. “Sorry, Rachel, but I already have something planned.” “What?” Rachel asked curiously, always having to be a part of everyone’s business. “Mallory Freshman’s birthday bash.” Ally answered in the most arrogant way she could, as though she’d been invited to dine with the Queen of England. “Mallory Freshman?!” Rachel exclaimed. “Holy smokes!” “Yeah,” Ally replied in an I’m-too-cool-for-you kind of way. She could just imagine Rachel’s jaw dropping, her almond-colored eyes large in surprise. “Well,” Rachel chirped happily, “maybe I’ll be invited next time and we can carpool!” Ally didn’t know what possessed her to be so mean all of a sudden, but all she could think of to reply to that was, “Don’t expect to be invited to a party like this anytime soon.” With that, Ally Paulson, newest popular girl, hung up on her nerdy friend. * * * Friday night, the night before the party, Ally got an instant message from Ruby, one of Mallory’s best friends. It said, “Ally, Mallory told me to inform you to wear pajamas on Saturday. There’s going to be a pajama contest and she didn’t want you to feel left out,” followed by a smiley face. Ally received the message after Ruby had logged out, so she just made a mental note to find some pajamas for Saturday. * * * Finally, Saturday night came. Ally wore her pink polka-dotted button-up silk PJs with matching shorts and a pink robe. She even managed to dig out an old pair of bunny slippers. She thought she might be going too far, but she knew that she’d win the contest now! * * * When Ally arrived at the door to Mallory’s house, she could feel the base from the party music and hear screaming kids. Her heart pounded nervously to the beat of the music. Whatever it takes to fit in with the right people, Ally told herself. When Ally was just about to walk in, she could hear a few girls whisper, “She’s here!” When she opened the door, the room fell quiet except for the loud rap music coming from the basement. Everyone stayed silent for a few more seconds and then began bursting out in laughter, Mallory Freshman among all of them. Ally looked down at herself and realized, right then and there, she was the only one wearing pajamas. She felt her face grow hot and red and then ran out the front door before everyone could see her cry. She remembered her father saying, “Don’t let the bad guys see you sweat.” In this case, she didn’t want the bad guys to see her cry. Ally ran up and down the curb and then finally sat down in a nice place about a quarter of a mile away from the party. She could feel a sharp pain in her stomach, replacing her tingling excitement she felt earlier, and began wishing she could just sprout wings and take off somewhere else—somewhere other than where she was. “Ally!” She heard Mallory’s voice from about 200 feet up the block. “Ally!” Mallory drew closer and closer, accelerating and then slowing down as she neared Ally. Ally hid her tear-stained face in her pajama pants, not letting the bad guy see her cry. “Ally.” Mallory sat down beside the sad, blond-haired girl in the pink PJs. “It was all Ruby’s idea. Seriously. And we all thought it was a joke and you’d laugh about it like us.” “Stop making excuses for yourself,” Ally spat back, fighting back her tears, turning her head away to insure their eyes wouldn’t meet. “Al-ly!” Mallory whined, emphasizing the “ly.” “You’re making me feel like the bad guy here!” “Well then,” Ally looked up and wiped her face with her sleeve, daring herself to look into the eyes of Mallory, “you feel like what you are.” With that, Ally took off down the curb, far enough away to call her mom and be driven home without Mallory trying to come back to make more excuses for herself. Mallory stood there watching. Ally dared not look back, but she could feel Mallory’s ice-blue eyes piercing into the back of her head. “I’m so sorry, Al,” Ally’s mother told her as they rode out of Clear Meadow estates, leaving Mallory’s house far behind them. Mrs. Paulson looked back at Ally through the rearview mirror. Ally didn’t know what to say, so she just kept looking out the window. Then Ally’s mother struck an idea like a miner finding a jackpot of diamonds. “Why don’t you go to the church movie with Rachel?” Ally thought that was a great idea, but Rachel wouldn’t want to see her. She just grunted, “Yeah, I
January/February 2011
Those Less Fortunate
For now I’m just happy to be home Shira felt a thumping on her bedroom floor. She got up from her desk and ran into the living room. Sure enough, Dad was home. Shira watched him lug his bulky cello case through the door and over to the corner by the piano where it was stored. Her father taught cello at a nearby university and had an hour’s drive to work. He always got home later than the family wished. Now he went over to the kitchen doorway where her mother was wiping her soapy hands on a towel. Shira saw her mom say something to her dad, and then he hugged her. Seeing his daughter, Dad walked back into the living room and did the same to Shira. “How’s my little songbird?” Shira read his smiling lips. Shira. The name meant song, which was ironic for a girl who had been deaf since she was seven years old. The last sound she remembered as she lay in the hospital bed was her mother saying, “It’s getting worse.” That night had been a sleepless one. When morning came, Shira was frightened when she watched her mother greet her but could not hear what she was saying. She’d watched her brother, Nolan, go off to school in the days that followed, disappointed that she had to stay home to be taught by her mother, who was struggling to learn signs herself. These days, however, Shira didn’t regret staying home since Maxwell Junior High kept Nolan on an undesirably busy schedule. There were better things to be doing than sitting in a class at seven-thirty am—like sleeping! A few hours of extra rest, though, could hardly make up for the discouragement she felt in being so different and difficult to talk with. She was grateful for the group of faithful friends who saw past the speech barrier, but at times it could be frustrating when others were afraid to talk to her. She also longed to hear again the warm tones of her father’s cello. She cherished the memories of when he used to take it out and play for her after suppers long ago. In those days she’d had a cello of her own, and many a happy lesson she had spent scratching blissfully away as he patiently instructed her. Now she turned to him and asked, “How was teaching today, Dad?” “Not too bad,” she read his lips in answer. “Only, the kids are so worn out from their lessons with Mrs. Etterson. Their technique is so stiff and they have a hard time playing relaxed. I’ve tried talking to her about it, but she seems to be set in her ways.” Mrs. Etterson was the other cello teacher at the school. Her lessons were always unpleasant and her practice requirements always unrealistic and unhealthy. Shira had gone to school with her dad several times and admired the way he not only demonstrated passages with skill but encouraged the students to experiment and figure things out for themselves. Mrs. Etterson did not. With her, everything was “my way or the highway.” “I’m sorry about that. You should really talk to the board. They need a different teacher.” “You’re probably right, but for now I’m just happy to be home. Howdy, Nolan!” Nolan came down the stairs, having just emerged from the shower after a vigorous basketball practice. His short, towel-dried hair stood up in wet spikes on his head. “Hey, Dad,” Shira read his reply. Dad went on with something like “How was practice,” to which Nolan, looking very tired, gave a short answer and plopped down on the old, overstuffed couch. After a while in which Dad read the paper, Nolan did homework, and Shira doodled a picture of their old collie dog, Whetford, who was curled up in front of her rocking chair, Mom called them in for dinner. There was a steaming pot of broccoli with a basket of warmly buttered rolls, and Nolan devoured a heaping portion of mashed potatoes. Staring at her forkful of broccoli, Shira remembered the family dinners of long before, which had been full of chatter. Nolan had been a talkative little six-year-old then, and Mom and Dad used to laugh at the disappointed faces their little ones made when there was broccoli on their plates. Laugh. How long ago that memory was. Sure, she still saw Dad’s eyes squint and twinkle and his whole frame shake at times, and Mom throw her head back at one of Nolan’s jokes, but even those soundless occasions were getting much rarer. Nolan frequently came to the table looking tired and sat in a silent stare through most of the meal. Dad appeared similar, though he sometimes tried to liven things up with a joke. Shira sighed and looked around the table. Even with Dad’s busy teaching schedule and Nolan’s long school days, she was thankful that they could all be together at the end of the day. Her friend Amy, though she lived in a bigger house in a nicer neighborhood, was less fortunate in this respect because her father was frequently away for weeks at a time with his consulting job. Shira sighed once more and popped the bite of broccoli in her mouth. After dinner they all sat down in the living room, and Nolan turned on a football game. Even though football had never really interested her, Shira was secretly glad that they were watching a game because her family never watched with the sound on or, if they did, hardly paid attention to the commentary. In this way Shira didn’t feel left out. She was curled up on the couch, coloring in the drawing of Whetford, when her mom leaned over from her magazine in the rocking chair. “That’s a very good drawing,” she signed. “It’s just like his soft little doggie eyes are looking at me.” “Thanks. Really?” replied Shira. “I was just doodling.” * *
Song of the Trotter
Dark clouds gather, looming huge and gray, Rain cold-needles my face, The wind whips me into exhilaration. A rumbling starts down the track. Thunder? No, not thunder. It’s flint-and-steel hooves, striking out a lightning rhythm. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Heads high, ears back— The rain stings them, too. Yet I see them charge undaunted, For they know the storm is theirs. The track is a dance floor, With the wind for music. They know the steps. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Flecked with sweat and rain, Hot and cold. The voice of the whip drives them on. They stretch out, bodies glistening. My heartbeat joins with theirs, As they speed straight under the wire, Singing the song of the harness horse. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Mary Woods, 12Frankfort, Illinois
