“I was thinking—don’t you think those stars resemble us?” “So I’m doing my science project on contraptions or robots,” Jess said smoothly. She was talking to Bailey, who was on the other end of the phone. “Yeah. Can I do it with you?” Jess stopped. Uh-oh, she thought, better tell her now. “Bailey, I’m really sorry, but… I totally forgot to ask you, and I’ve already chosen my teammates, Cassidy and Stewart. Can I make it up to you? Like having you over for dinner?” There was a pause on the other end. “No,” she said flatly, “just leave me alone. What was I thinking? Having a friend who lives with her grandma and on a farm? No way. Oh. And by the way, that was totally rude!” And Bailey hung up. Jess’s feelings were hurt as she walked into the kitchen. “Friends, isn’t it?” her grandmother asked, seeing her unhappy face as she chopped some onions. “Ah, yes. I remember when I was friends with Nora.” “Nora?” “Yes, my friend back in high school. If you want them back, you’ll either let them wait it out or apologize after a week or so and make it up with a present or something. You’re perfect—I bet you’ll fix things up.” “How? How am I perfect?” “Oh, let’s see—you’re wonderful in a gazillion ways, Jess. You’ve got the prettiest silky-black hair and creamy skin with dazzling blue eyes, the most splendid abilities at music, art, and cooking—sweetie, I can’t name them all!” “Was my mother like that?” Jess asked quietly after a few seconds. Her grandmother paused as she was pressing the dough of the wonton strips together and hugged Jess close to her. “Yes. Come with me.” They walked up the rickety old stairs and into the attic. There were dusty old trunks, some a rustic tan, some with gold bolting, and some only half-closed, like the eye of a person trying to get more sleep. “How come you never told me about this place, Grandma Fiona?” “I wanted to wait until the time was right,” she replied, bending over a dusty brown trunk with cobwebs creeping all over it. It creaked and groaned resentfully as she opened it, and to Jess’s surprise it was filled with notebooks. “Whose are these?” Jess asked, picking up a navy-blue one with a crimson bookmark. “Your mother’s,” the elderly woman replied, picking up one herself. “Some of them are written in Italian, but you know this is because our family immigrated from Italy.” “Yeah,” Jess said. She remembered how coming from one country to another was hard, especially since they had been very poor and they had barely any money when they arrived in America. “Look at these awhile, and dinner should be ready in a bit. By the way, we’re having wonton soup for dinner.” Jess carried up one of the journals to her room and opened it up to the first page. This journal was a light ivory color with a turquoise bookmark, the ribbonfish kind that all the journals had. An envelope was stuck in it, and Jess decided to read the entry first, then the note. Dear Diary, I was so upset today when Sally read the note that now lies in the hands of this journal. She mocked me afterwards and said I was “an immigrant flirting with another Italian.” How dare she? I guess that’s her way of life, being like that. But still. When I got back to the dorm, Francesca, my roommate, was still at her geography class, so I nestled down in the cozy featherbed with flannel sheets St. Claire’s college provides. Pretty soon, Francesca came in and plopped onto her bed. Apparently, Rebecca invited her to join her on her trip to Barbados or Jamaica or somewhere like that, but I’m working at the farm this summer for a bit of money. As soon as I finish college, I’m going back to Italy. Yours Truly, Assunta Jess stared at the entry for a while and then opened the letter. Dear Assunta, You are certainly one of a kind! When I read your last note, I cracked up with laughter. It is lovely here in Italy. The sun shines with great gusto, and the deep, rolling hills shimmer with life when the moon shines. Giovanni, my cousin, has opened a small shop on the corner of Main Street. It sells hand creams of all sorts, like violet or lemon or lavender—and they certainly are splendid! There are also things like watches, bolts of silks, and so much more. When you come back to Italy, we must pore over it! I miss you much, my love. Love Forever, Peppe Jess folded up the letter carefully and put it back in its envelope, smiling. She missed her parents, now that they were dead, but they felt so alive when she read the letter and the entry. “Dinner!” called Jess’s grandmother from the dining room. Over dinner, they talked about Bailey, and about what to do. “I have an idea,” put in Jess, through a mouthful of wonton strips, onions, and shrimp. Grandma Fiona liked to cook foods from all cultures. “What is it, dear?” “I could take Bailey out camping one night near the farm, you know, in the meadow. Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” Her grandmother looked thoughtful. “That’s a good idea. I could send you two with some food, some blankets and sleeping bags, a tent—Jess, you truly are perfect!” * * * TWO WEEKS LATER “Bailey?” Jess said into the phone, “Are you there?” “Yeah,” Bailey grumbled, “I’m here.” “Look. I’m really sorry for what I did, so to make up for it, do you want to come over for a sleepover in the meadow?” There was a hesitation on the other end. “Sure. I forgive you. I’ll come.” Jess realized she was holding her breath and let out a deep sigh of relief as Bailey said goodbye and hung up. * *
March/April 2013
My Chicken
With curious eyes The inquisitive bird Struts slowly towards its new discovery. What could it be, That strange creature, with fur; and nose placed so queerly? It just jumped down from my lap, And is now rounding the coop. Its tail twists all around, Like a long, coily snake. But it’s fuzzy, not smooth, And has long hairs on its face. The fowl now stretches its feathered neck, Blinking as she cautiously reaches. And quick as a wink, My young chicken’s beak Is through the wire— And pecks the cat’s left ear. Abigail D’Agosta, 12Waxahachie, Texas
Remembering
INTRODUCTION The important people in my story are my grandparents. They have greatly impacted my life. My grandfather and I were very close and he taught me many things. He loved writing, music, and trains, the same as I do. He died November 8, 2011, on my brother’s birthday. One of the last times I spent with him was when we went to a train station. That place is very important to me. I found, after he died, a story that was one of his many pieces of writing. It was a story about a soldier leaving out of that train station. I believe my grandfather took the train to heaven. * * * TRAIN STATION Wind rushed out as I walked into the station. It was relieving. I looked around to gather my surroundings. There was an endless supply overhead of stained-glass windows. The vibrant colors changed the mood of the place depending on the changes in the sky. The floor was marble, untouched, unharmed. People were rushing from place to place. Even when people were waiting and sitting, their thoughts took up their eyes. Everyone seemed to be blind to the marvelous surroundings, blind to the fact that they were at Union Station. People made mindless chatter. Most of their questions were rhetorical too. They were always just trying to be polite. My grandma and papa told me many things There was a smoke-filled room just left of the entrance. It was locked and vacant. But I pictured how it probably used to be with men in their suits walking out with a trail of smoke to follow them. I looked back at my grandmother and grandfather. I let out a smile. My grandma and papa told me many things. Papa pointed to the chairs and told me, “At least one famous person has sat in all of those chairs, and many people had their weddings here.” I turned to the right and saw a big woven wall, more like a separator. I peered through the cracks to see many people with dresses and suits on. There was a camera crew. It was a celebration. Papa told me a lot of times they will rent a part of the station for movies and commercials. I kept walking till I was on the other side. The back led to a garden. There were lilies, bottlebrush, honeysuckle, and many other flowers. The colors made me incapable of frowning. I saw a fountain with clear water bursting at the top of the highest tier. It sent refreshing droplets up in the air. I closed my eyes and thought about how I will remember this forever. * * * OLVERA STREET Olvera Street is a famous Mexican street in California across from the train station. I got to see it with my grandparents that same day that I visited the station. Smells filled the air, so I was soon breathing in tortillas and beans. Singers were singing on the street with their Spanish guitars. Many signs hung overhead. To my left, flamenco dancers, with bright colored dresses, tapped their feet on stage. The men swung the women high up in the air while the women held the corners of their dresses. After a while of watching, we decided to eat. We saw a big restaurant that had a Spanish name. When we sat down, we had an immediate conversation. Grandpa told me that my great-great-grandfather worked on a railroad track in China. Later, he moved to Mexico where he owned a restaurant. He got married there. I loved hearing about my heritage. That time I spent at Olvera Street and Union Station, I will remember forever. * * * GRANDFATHER’S DEATH I am sitting in my living room. All my senses are amplified. The air conditioning turns on. I can see the dust on the back of my piano. The stillness, quietness of the room, and of myself, make me realize and notice things that I usually don’t. I begin thinking about how great it’s going to be when I see my grandfather again. I have learned a song for him. But now, I only hear one sound, silence… sometimes the prettiest sound. It is like that right now as I write this. Whenever I sang with the radio, Grandpa always used to say, “Your mama taught you to harmonize.” I’m thinking about those memories that will never be lost. Scott, my stepdad, walks in and carefully sits down next to me, trying not to disturb me in my thoughts. He hands me a phone and my mom is on the line. Her voice is shaky. She talks, but it is hard to pay attention, until she says, “He isn’t going to make it.” All I can think about is the horror of losing him. I had thought about it a lot, but never thought it would be so soon. He is leaving when I need him the most. All I can say to her is, “When can I see him?” She replies, “I don’t want you to remember him this way.” I just want to see my grandpa. Anger takes over for my sadness. But then she tells me that I can go to California where he is. For the next week I act fine. The drive feels longer than usual. When I get to my grandma’s, as usual she has food waiting for us. When I see my mom, it seems that stress takes over for her grief. She hugs me. I had missed her. Sometimes when she puts me to bed, I tell her, “Don’t leave.” She hugs me and says, “I’m not going anywhere.” The next day, I go to the hospital early. The place is huge, not welcoming, and it smells like rubber gloves. For two days, I can’t see him. The third day, they take every tube off of him and he is ready to pass on. So, I go into the room and my
