What if it wasn’t like this? I thought for the trillionth time in my life. No, probably more than a trillion. Maybe the google-plexth time? Windsnap was such a bad school I didn’t even know what came after trillion. I was pretty sure that it wasn’t google-plex though. I sat on the steps leading up to the trailer I lived in and tossed a big chunk of gravel against the chain-link fence that was our backyard. I sighed and grabbed my rusty old beach bike from where it was leaning against the dented metal of the trailer and swung my leg over the seat. “Going out, Gram,” I yelled to my grandma. I saw her wave her hand through the screen window from where she was chopping up vegetables. I started pedaling along the gravel around our trailer, the dirt road that led from each row of trailers, and then out of the trailer park and down the beach road. Living in a trailer park probably would be cool if you were some rich kid on summer vacation staying there for three days. Heck, a week. But not when you’ve lived there for ten years straight with no trips to break it up. And not when you’re living on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where a hurricane could sneak up and obliterate your life. My grandma, my little sister, Tally, and I don’t have a car either. If there was a big hurricane, there would be nothing for us to do. Sure, they would evacuate everyone, but we didn’t have a car. And all of us on one bicycle was not happening. My bike is my prized possession. I found it when I was seven, six years ago. It looked as though someone had just dropped it in front of one of the spiffy beach houses along the shore and thrown a sign that said “Free” in sharpie on top of it. It was really big for me then, but I wheeled it all the way back to the trailer and showed it to Gram. Living in a trailer park probably would be cool if you were some rich kid on summer vacation “That’s real nice, Gale,” she’d said to me. “That’s an ugly bike for an ugly big brother,” Tally had laughed. So that was that. The bike had stayed with me, and by now it was too small. My gangly legs bent almost up to my chest when I pedaled, and I had to lean down to hold onto the handlebars. It worked though, and that was what mattered. Whenever the other teenagers on vacation stared at me, I just pretended not to notice. I must have been a sight, my white-blond hair streaming behind me, my torn-up too-small shorts and my T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. As I rode by all the fancy beach houses, I thought it again: It didn’t always used to be like this. Come on. Why was I even thinking this still after all these years? Because you don’t want to forget. That was true. I had a great memory. Even a few years after I moved to the trailer park I could still remember my life before I was three… My parents, cool clothes, our colossal house a few feet away from the ocean with shutters for the windows (no hurricane problems!), and a nice car. My parents had left for a drive one night and never came back. I had outgrown my cool clothes. The house was sold when Tally and I moved in with Gram for money. The car was totaled along with Mom and Dad. But for a while now, the memories had been getting blurry. Fuzzy around the edges. I was beginning to forget Life Before Trailer. What my room had been like, the clothes I had worn, the school I went to… even what my parents had been like. Tally didn’t remember at all. She had only been a year old when our lives had changed. Sometimes I envied her, sometimes I pitied her for not remembering. I tried to tell her stories, and I asked Gram to tell too, but she didn’t like to. She missed Mom and Dad as much as we did. There was nothing to do about it, though. I could still remember a lot, and that would have to be enough. I screeched to a halt in front of the path leading to the beach. I picked up my bike and carried it across the sand before I set it down where I kicked off my flip-flops. Sand was bad for the chain, and it wasn’t like I could snap my fingers and a brand new bike would appear. I sat down in the sand and watched the families playing in the surf. I liked to watch them and pretend I was one of them. Get handed a towel by my mom, get swung around in the water by my dad… I missed my old life, true, but I had gotten used to it just being Gram and Tally along for the ride with me. I loved them, and we got along. I went to school, had a bike, the trailer park had a pool, granted the bottom paint was peeling and the tiles around it were loose, and I lived right by the beach. But there was just something… like I didn’t belong here. If you don’t feel like you belong, then tough luck, I thought. Where else is there to belong to? This thought brought me back to the story about my name. I had always hated my name, Gale. Everyone at school had laughed when I’d told it to them. “Isn’t Gale a girl’s name?” I remember someone jeering when I was five. Girly Gale had been my nickname throughout grade school. One afternoon after being bullied all day I came home to the trailer and shouted to Gram, “Why did I have to be named
November/December 2009
A New Brother
There he was Such a tiny person I looked at him Sleeping peacefully Suddenly his eyes open Brand new brown eyes Staring at me Blinking and adjusting his eyes to a new experience Light His mind consuming New thoughts New faces New world New everything He is a new person Ryan Sparks, 12Kansas City, Missouri
Where the Heart Is
Walking through the old, silent house was like walking through one of the photo albums in the big wooden chest in Liesa’s room. It pulsed with the heartbeat of memories as time stood perfectly still. Liesa’s thoughts echoed in her mind as the cool, dark house danced with shadows from the sun flitting through the trees outside the windows. It looked so… empty. Liesa had been told weeks ago that this ancient house would be vacant soon, that it was eventually going to be demolished because of its age. Back then, the effects of the move hadn’t quite sunk in. But now they had. Gone. The word was a common thread tying all the rooms together. Each one complained of its own losses. The television used to be here, reminded the living room—and the coffee table used to rest there. The old rolltop desk, always full of uncharted jungles of junk, had made the big indent on the carpet. How much bigger the room felt without it! Liesa continued tracing an invisible map in her head. Here—by the door. This was where the lamp stand had been situated. She remembered how often their dog would knock it over as he bounded, barking, across the room to the window seat to watch Liesa’s little sisters and brothers come home from school, day after day. Liesa smiled at the memory. Moving like a shadow through the familiar rooms, Liesa touched each familiar object—a small nail hole, a crack on the wall that resembled the state of Idaho—trying to absorb every part of this finely detailed scene. Liesa saw the confusion in Chloe’s eyes as the elderly cat viewed what had once been her home In the kitchen, Liesa was greeted by an empty floor where the table used to be, the table around which she had sat with various people over the years—quiet grandmas bent over their latest crossword puzzles and knitting projects, loud groups of school friends, little siblings conversing over breakfast or struggling with homework alone into the afternoon. In this house, everything had its place, Liesa realized. Take one thing away and the jigsaw puzzle is incomplete forever. The china cabinet, the coat rack, the comfy bright blue sofa; everything seemed to have a meaning. They all seemed to fit perfectly together to create a gentle rhythm, like the steady beat of a song or the carefully chosen words of a poem, all jumbled together to form a perfect verse that didn’t have to rhyme. Without each other, something would be missing forever. Liesa could hear the dull hum of the truck outside. She had to go soon. The faint voices of her family drifted inside, sounding happy and eager to be off. Nobody seemed to miss this house. Nobody seemed to care except Liesa. True, it was an old-fashioned, well worn home, but that was why she liked it. It had so much more character; so much more meaning… it almost seemed to be like a living person—different, one of a kind. As Liesa reached the base of the rickety stairs, she turned away. She couldn’t go up. She couldn’t go and see the room she spent the first half of her life in, not when it was going to be demolished soon. It was time for something new—a new room, a new home. The sounds of the happy commotion outside grew louder, gently beckoning Liesa to leave the silent solitude of the hollow, empty home. Just a few more minutes, she silently begged, looking out across the backyard. Where were the little maple tree saplings her father had planted when they had moved in, years ago? Where were the tiny shoots, the bare fields? They had all grown since then. Before her mind’s eye, she saw in a moment every soccer game, sunset picnic, every sunlit afternoon spent underneath the old oak tree. She remembered every game with her brothers and sisters that had led them beyond the short stone wall into the ocean-like fields of grain beyond. Liesa sighed, turning away. Just then, something in the doorway caught her attention. The little white-and-brown-spotted cat stood staring at Liesa, its wise, green eyes piercing Liesa’s thoughts. “Chloe,” Liesa breathed, the sound of the name echoing through the bare room. Immediately a warm sense of familiarity washed over her. Chloe had been there since Liesa was little and had watched Liesa grow up and leave childhood behind. The wise old cat had been there through good and bad times, always offering a gentle purr or an affectionate rub to those who needed it. Liesa saw the confusion in Chloe’s eyes as the elderly cat viewed what had once been her home. Where was her cat bed, her warm hearth rug, or the comfy armchair on which so many winter days had been spent napping? “Oh, Chloe.” Liesa knelt and buried her face in Chloe’s warm, sweet fur. The scent was a familiar one, one that seemed to linger in the back of Liesa’s memory. Tears, laughter, storms, sunny afternoons— Chloe had silently observed them all, never saying anything, never being noticed. Liesa carried Chloe outside onto the sunlit porch. Setting her down, she locked the front door, sealing off her old memories and beginning a new journey to a place she’d call home. Chloe looked confusedly at the tightly closed door as Liesa started down the porch steps, then scratched lightly on its rough wood. Liesa shook her head, trying to pry the cat off of the doorstep, but it was clear that Chloe was reluctant to leave the beloved place where she had been born. “Come on,” Liesa said softly, trying to coax her away. She tried to sound reassuring, but how could she comfort Chloe if, deep down, she really felt exactly the same way? “Liesa, everything’s ready. Got the house key?” Liesa heard her mother call from the trunk of the blue minivan. “Got it,” she replied, holding up the key before shoving it
