Ben rolled his eyes as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. His robe was too hot, and the sheet he was forced to wear on his head was too tight. As you can probably guess, Ben was in the Christmas play for his Sunday school. As a sixth-grader, he had been in it for the past seven years, and was absolutely sick of it! He was so ready to be in the youth group next year. “Shepherds, you are in the wrong spot—again,” the distant voice of the play director droned. “Ben! Get with them. As the eldest, you should be responsible in getting the others to the correct place. I’m ashamed of you!” Ben jolted out of his daze at his name, but he tuned the rest of the reprimand out. The director seemed to be waiting for him to apologize. When he made no effort to do so, she went on. Wh000000, Ben thought to himself, survived another one. This happened every practice. Old Mrs. Bruster, though he preferred calling her The Brute, would pick on him. “Don’t do that” and “Benjamin, get with it.” “Haven’t you been practicing?” It was all “Yadda, yadda, yadda!” He dreaded that two hours every Saturday. “Shepherds, you are in the wrong spot—again” Ben heard his cue, “So the shepherds left their flocks . . .” He and the other two kids in rags dragged their feet to the cardboard box to stare at the plastic baby doll. He never got that part. Poor shepherds would leave their sheep, with no one to watch them, to see a baby. Big whoop! To him, it would not be worth the risk. Ben glanced at the clock, relieved to see that it was almost time to go. * * * Ben marked the calendar. One week until Christmas, which meant five days till his birthday! He called some of his friends to make last-minute arrangements for his party on his birthday. After that, he helped his mom make the cake. Their next-door neighbor was a good friend of Ben’s, whom he often visited. That sunny afternoon he ran over to pay the old man a visit. Ben waited for a long time after knocking before the door creaked open. “Oh, hi, Ben. Come in out of the cold.” “Thank you, Mister Jack. I was concerned that you were hurt, when you didn’t answer,” Ben said gently. “Oh. I’m fine. It’s just the cold; it gets into my bones. Slows me down a little. Enough about me, how’s the play coming?” With a roll of his eyes, Ben made sure that his old friend was coming to see it. “Now don’t you roll your eyes. It is a very important happening and story. You know, without the shepherds, who would know what had happened.” It was more of a statement than question, so Ben just shrugged. “One day I’ll find a way to make you believe me.” Jack had no way of knowing how soon that would be. An hour later, Ben left the old man in happy spirits. When he got home, his mom wanted know how it went. “Just fine. We looked around his attic while he told me stories from the war.” He sampled the leftover frosting. Satisfied, he went outside to go sledding. * * * It was ten o’clock. Ben lay awake thinking about his birthday party the next day. He jumped at the sound of the phone. His mother’s muffled words, then steps, reached his ears. She stuck her head into his room. “Hey, buddy, you awake?” she whispered. He lay still, pretending to be sleeping. But curiosity finally overcame him. He turned toward her expectantly. She came closer and sat on the edge of his bed. “That was the hospital.” Ben sat up straight in the bed. “Jack slipped in his driveway a few hours ago. He has a broken rib and arm.” The boy was shocked into silence. His mother gently said, “And he wants you to visit him.” The first thing that went through Ben’s mind was his party. On the other hand, if ol’ Jack died in the hospital, he could never forgive himself. “It is important that I go, for Jack’s sake. Tomorrow I’ll call everyone to rearrange the party for after Christmas.” “I’m glad to hear you say that. Good night.” Ben lay awake a little while longer. Oh well, the hospital could be an adventure after all, he thought. * * * “Happy birthday, Ben!” came the frail voice of the shriveled lump in the hospital bed. Ben gulped at the form of his pal. “Come over here so I can get a look at my favorite boy.” He slid beside the bed and put a fake smile on. The smile quickly melted when Jack had a coughing spell for some time. A nurse rushed in to do whatever they do to stop coughs. Ben thought she stuffed a cork down Jack’s throat, but he couldn’t be sure. He and Jack talked and laughed, and coughed. They walked down to the cafeteria, just to do something other than sit. After resting and eating in the room they went to the gift shop. There, Jack bought Ben a birthday balloon, while Ben got Jack a get-well balloon. He also bought the old man a rubber-band gun to shoot at the balloon to pass the time. Back in the room they tried it out. They were having a great time when the nurse came in without knocking. She poked her head in just as her elderly patient pulled the trigger of the rubber-band gun. The two chums held their breath as the oblivious nurse was snapped in the forehead with the band. Her eyes flew open wide when she saw it coming; when it hit her she fell backwards on the floor. Ben and Jack crowded over her till her eyes fluttered open. “I will be right back to help you, sir,”
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Patches of Sky Blue
When my mother died the summer I graduated seventh grade, the first thing I did after silently returning home from her funeral with my father was dig through my trash bin in search of a previously ignored leaflet distributed by our local Parks and Recreation. I then signed myself up for every class, workshop and camp they had listed. If my father was mystified or annoyed by my actions, he kept it to himself. Perhaps he was so overwhelmed by his own grief that it didn’t strike him as odd at the time. I also plastered my bedroom walls with the activity schedules for each class until there wasn’t a square inch of wall that wasn’t completely covered. It became an obsession. I attended each class religiously, never missing a beat. It took me from sunup to sundown every day and gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I stayed up late into each night working on this or that small class project. The classes I took covered a whole range, from kayaking to keyboard to cheerleading to modeling. In art I painted pictures of daisies and smiling fairies. I wrote poems in a kind of singsong rhythm about balloons and happy cows. There was nothing I was doing that even hinted at my loss. Something would have to break me and my newly focussed life because it was all an act. I lived like an actor who can’t get out of character and leads a kind of half-life. No one seemed to understand me anymore, myself least of all. “Elle, you’ve never had trouble getting started. Why the exception today?” It happened in poetry class. I had been just about to hunker down for another three-hour session, and had a particularly sugary first line in mind when Mrs. Tucker, the instructor, made an announcement. “Today we’re going to have a special assignment, we’re going to write about some things that make us sad. Any examples?” She looked around cheerfully, her watery blue eyes slightly magnified by rectangular glasses. She was the typical well-meaning but clueless teacher. She didn’t seem to see the irony in her merry expression as she repeated the assignment: “Write about something that makes you sad” . . . smile . . . something that makes you sad . . . She had started to pass out the papers when I asked numbly if I could be excused to go to the bathroom. She smiled. “Yes, you may.” I slipped out the door into the main hall of the YLC or youth learning center where the class was held. I didn’t go to the rest room, though. I just leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling. I had been there longer than I had thought because suddenly my teacher was there, bending over me, and looking anxious. “Elle, are you all right? I thought you were just going to the bathroom . . .” She looked at me as though expecting an answer; an answer to what? Did she think I knew every little thing about myself?!? Wait, I was being stupid. This was a simple question. The answer wasn’t simple but at least I could give the answer she was expecting to receive. “Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “Good.” She looked satisfied as I followed back to the classroom, noting how her walk resembled that of a duck’s. Ducks seemed like a good subject for a poem. Then I remembered. My assignment was to write a poem about something sad. Instead of writing, I drew a cartoon-like duck wearing a purple vest (not unlike the one she had on). Then I sketched a cartoon of the actual Mrs. Tucker. Mrs. Tucker wandered aimlessly around the room, every so often saying things like “Good job!” and “A nice beginning.” Even when she criticized, she beamed as though she were saying something nice. When she stopped by my desk, her smile flickered and she drew her penciled eyebrows together in a look that might have been annoyance if she hadn’t maintained a partial smile. “Elle, you’ve never had trouble getting started. Why the exception today?” How could I answer that? “Ummm,” she peered closer at me, “yes . . .” “It’s. . . hard,” I offered thickly. She relaxed her expression and sighed. “You should have said you were having trouble, I could have helped you sooner.” She got down on her knees so her face was level with mine. “Write down five things that make you sad,” she said. “I don’t know.” “I’m sure you can think of something; everyone is sad sometimes.” “Not me.” After I said this I realized both how childish it sounded and how utterly untrue it was, but I kept my mouth closed. “It’s not a bad thing. Everyone . . .” I cut her off. “I said nothing makes me sad, and I mean it, OK??” She suddenly became uncharacteristically crisp. “I don’t believe it. You were sad when you forgot to do your homework that one day. You said, ‘Mrs. Tucker, I’m very sad that I forgot my homework.’ You said it, I heard you! I rememb- . . .” Then it burst. All the fury and fear and grief and even guilt that had been silently smoldering inside me these past months burst. “Do you think that’s what real sadness is?!?” She looked taken aback. “Well, I . . .” “Do you??” My voice rose to a pitch. The other students started turning on me, looking annoyed, and alarmed and even . . . sad. Suddenly my pen flew to the paper and my hand started scribbling down words faster than my mind could take them in. I wrote about metal screeching against metal, muffled screaming, flashing red light reflected on water-drenched pavement, dark silhouettes being carried past on stretchers. Then there was fluorescent light shining on bare white walls. A naked light bulb, bathing everything in a blinding glow.
Woodpecker’s Way
CHAPTER ONE: HOLIDAY CHARACTER Braden was very lucky in many ways. His only bad luck was that he had a severe allergy to rabbits. Not many have traveled the world by boat and are at a wonderfully academic-filled private school, called Turnlamb Terrace. But this does not take place in school, or neither in town. Braden was also lucky as his grandparents had a 320-acre farm. With spreading hills, plains and valleys, and also numerous vegetable patches, it was a beautiful place to be. It was also natural with beautiful green grass and trees, and the only dirtiness was the cows’ pies. It was Braden’s favorite place in the world: 728 Whatten Road, Admaston County, Ontario—Admaston County was just outside of Renfrew. This place had a lot of activity. The activities ranged from hikes, milking cows, playing on the tractor, setting up a pretend farm business, helping Grandma prepare supper and much, much more. It was holiday, but it was active. At the age of ten, with no map (though he was planning to draw one out one day), Braden could only go on short hikes by himself. Grandma told him even though it was eight PM, and darkening (on August 10) that he could go on one hill where he always exuded happiness. It was very short—you had to turn around sooner or later. This fact allowed him to go on it alone quite frequently. He liked to be alone—he could think about the new school year of grade five—he had just turned ten in July. Braden was hoping desperately that either the snow or the woodpecker-rabbit would stop soon “Oh, yes, that hill’s perfectly fine for you—just stay out of mischief!” Grandma said in her valley voice. For the last part (“stay out of mischief . . .”) she had been joking, as Braden never got into mischief. “Can I have my midnight snack first?” Braden joked back to Grandma, as one, it was not midnight, and two, he never ate between meals. * * * CHAPTER TWO: JUST HIS BODY AND HIS EAGERNESS So he set off. It hadn’t rained too much this year, in 1989. This didn’t affect the grass, as I said it was as green as fresh cabbage, but it did affect the crop—especially the potatoes. Poor Grandpa had been out in the potato fields since two PM, and had only returned once for a drink, and once for a very brief supper. Grandma despised this. He was still off there, watering them, and he was also digging some up for Grandma’s own soup recipe. I can’t describe how convenient that McDonald farm is. Right in the middle (quite a far distance away) are all the crops, and to the sides are the hills. Braden’s hill to hike on was closest to the crop to the right side. Remembering all this himself, Braden began to gather speed. Luckily, he was not carrying anything, but he was tired from helping groom the horses all day. That didn’t stop him. He remembered his harder times, when he had had pneumonia for six months, and at some times had been unable to breathe. He still had a touch of that pneumonia, so was hoarse. He had reached his favorite hill and could see Grandpa in the distance. He did not bother yelling “hard work, is it?” as the poor man was hard of hearing. So he turned the opposite direction as he saw something gleaming in the distance. With this farm lacking technology, it couldn’t be a satellite dish with medallion edges, or anything of that sort. As Braden approached it he could see that it was some sort of rock. Even closer . . . he could tell that it was huge. He could also see many pecks and nibbles imprinted in it. Braden was very excited—and because of this he looked around for any piece of farm equipment he could find—a shovel, a rake—anything. Nothing could be seen. Not thinking twice, he put his hands down into a little crevice and pulled. He pulled on the rock, but something from beneath pulled him down into some kind of hole. * * * CHAPTER THREE: NEVER BEEN THERE; NEVER DONE THAT Braden had expected it all to be pitch-dark—due to soil. However, it was as clear as day—bright, too. It was some different land—just a valley. It was snowing, but woodpeckers could be seen off in the distance. Some of them were carrying wands in their teeth; and some were using them. For example, a tree could have come to life, if the woodpecker that pointed its wand at the tree hadn’t been half asleep. Braden was astonished. He realized that it wasn’t just ordinary snow falling—the snowflakes didn’t have any pattern (they were square) and some were black. So he climbed down to feel the unique snow. As happy as he was when he set off hiking—and he was very impressed with himself to have found the land—he was very sad and hurting now, as when the black snow touched him, it seemed to have burnt a hole in his skin. So his spirits dropped very quickly—as if it were a thermometer showing a drop of temperature from 30 degrees Celsius to minus-30 degrees Celsius. He could not seem to get back up to his homeland—there were too many woodpeckers in the way. The ones that weren’t in the way were pecking away noisily and annoyingly. He tried to stay closer to the white snowflakes, but when one touched him, he realized it was bitter ice. Black “snow” must have been hot embers, and white “snow” must have been ice. To make it even worse, some woodpeckers were swooping at him; and there was one in the lead—it wasn’t a woodpecker. * * * CHAPTER FOUR: NEVER SEEN THAT; NEVER HEARD THAT Or rather . . . wasn’t just a woodpecker. It had two sides for faces—on the right and left side. At
Finding an American Voice
Dong-suk followed his uncle, carefully keeping his pace slow enough for his haal-mu-hee, his grandma. His mother was close behind. The group moved along with hurried steps, adding to the bustle of the sidewalks of Seoul. His hand was gripped tightly around his grandmother’s and he shouldered a backpack. Although his feet were quick to stay in line behind his uncle, his thoughts were slow. He was going to America to be with his father, who had left a year before. He could not wait to see his father, but he was afraid his father would not be proud of him. As he thought, his free hand closed around the black stone in his pocket. He hugged her, begging her not to cry, using all his courage to reassure her The stone had been given to him the night before. There had been a specially cooked meal and his grandmother had told her stories and sang songs. She had driven away all his doubts about America. After dinner, while he was in bed, Grandmother had come in and given him a tiny pebble, her lucky dol, or stone. Dong-suk remembered the way she had smiled, showing her famous dimple on her cheek. Then she had spread out her small, delicate hands, wrapping him in a hug. * * * Abbie banged the front door open and stepped inside without taking off her rollerblades. “Abbie May Kessler, what have I told you about roller-blades in the house?” said her mother as she passed by. Abbie smiled, ducking her head so her mom wouldn’t see. She threw off the rollerblades and then hopped on up to her bedroom as her mom yelled, “And you’d better get started on those book reports of yours. If you haven’t gotten them finished by July, you won’t be going to Gram’s house with us.” Abbie sighed; why had her mom chosen to give her three extra book reports when the school had already given her one! She liked reading and writing, but not when it was four four-page book reports on four different people. * * * They were on the subway for a pretty long time; the airport was a good distance away from where they lived. Dong-suk went over his limited vocabulary of the new language in his mind, trying to pronounce the unfamiliar words exactly right. He hoped that his English would be good enough for America. He glanced up and felt his heart skip a beat. There it was. The bee-hang-gi. Dong-suk pressed his nose against the window and let his eyes dance from one of the huge aircrafts to another. He watched one of the huge birds take off right before his eyes. Airplane, he thought, cleverly using an English word instead of Korean. He smiled at the thought of using an English word; it made him feel important; it made him feel American. Dong-suk’s flight number boomed over the intercom system and he bravely stood up, hoping that his legs would not collapse. He walked with his uncle, grandmother, and mother over to the gate. His grandmother set the little suitcase she had been carrying down and kissed him on the forehead. His mother’s eyes were glossy and red. He hugged her, begging her not to cry, using all his courage to reassure her. Then he faced his uncle. He looked up, staring at his uncle’s face. The soldier, he thought; his uncle had always reminded him of a soldier. He sniffled, but did not cry under his uncle’s stern eye. * * * When the plane had landed, Dong-suk was greeted by his father and a strange man with brown, wavy hair who was tall and skinny. Dong-suk was surprised, even baffled a little. He was expecting to only be met by his father, but he was curious about this man, so it didn’t bother him much. He was so glad to see his father, glad that that long waiting was over. His father looked happy as they hugged and Dong-suk couldn’t stop smiling. He tried to stay awake for the car ride; he wanted to see every little bit of America he could. The signs fascinated him. They were so colorful and he could make out most of the letters. He was content. Slowly, though, his seat felt more and more comfortable and his eyes more and more heavy. * * * Abbie rushed downstairs when she heard the car door slam. She opened the door and flung herself outside. “Hi, Daddy,” she called into the darkness. “Hey, Abbie, honey. Could you come over here and help me?” he answered back from the driveway. When Abbie got there, she was surprised to see two other figures next to the car, one she recognized a little, and one around her own size. She grabbed some bags from the trunk of the car and headed in, toward the steps. She put the luggage down near the door. Her mom was standing there. “Who are those for?” she asked. Abbie shrugged. A few moments later, her father stood there in the doorway, with two people at his side. “I would like you to meet Dong-suk,” he said, looking at the younger person. The other one was Mr. Lee; Abby recognized him. He had started working for her dad when he had arrived in America, last fall. “They will be staying for dinner, since Dong-suk hasn’t eaten anything in a long time and it’s much too late to go out to a restaurant.” Abbie looked at the boy, studying his tan skin and almond-shaped eyes; the boy stared back at her, his expression unreadable. There was a moment’s silence and then his father explained that Dong-suk had come to America to be with him, and that he did not know very much English. Abbie felt a little squeamish as the boy watched her. It wasn’t that she was prejudiced, she hated people like that, but well, this was a different feeling.
The Journey Begins
STORIES OF THE UNICORNS BOOK ONE When God created the earth, he asked Adam in the Garden of Eden to name the animals. When Adam picked the unicorn to name first, God reached down and touched the unicorn’s horn. This is a sign that unicorns are blessed above all other creatures. —Nancy Hathaway, Unicorn Shelly looked longingly at the big jugs of water being sold in the shops scattered along the dusty street. “Hey, hey, hey, girlie! Get off’ the road! You’re blocking it with your over-large body!” The voice laughed heartily Shelly sighed. They were the rich boys and newspaper boys. Their favorite activity was to tease Shelly They were trying to provoke her to come and hit them. Then Shelly would be arrested and severely punished by the government. Shelly flicked her long, red, wavy hair out of her face. It fell far past her waist, and many folks thought it greatly needed cutting. Her big, green eyes swept the street floor, searching constantly for dropped or forgotten coins. The nine-year-old girl pushed her small body through the crowds. She desperately wished it was Christmas, her birthday It was the only day of the year when she allowed herself to buy a feast. The boys were partly right about her. Shelly was a beggar girl and was extremely scarce of money. The stream opened into a little pool. Curiously, it was silvery The cold evening wind blew her dress and hair. Shelly could see her wispy clouds of breath and decided to head back to her alleyway. When she at last reached her beloved alley, Shelly immediately curled up in her few blankets. One of them had been hers ever since she could remember. It was silvery blue with a single unicorn embroidered in the middle. The thick blanket felt a thousand times better than silk. Shelly wouldn’t, couldn’t ever part with it. Shelly wrapped herself in that special possession and the other thin brown sheets she owned. Her box stood overhead, weather-beaten and dirty. It was so large, Shelly was sure it once held a bed frame. An eventful sleep took over Shelly. First she dreamed she was walking in a field of unicorns. The earth turned blacker than black and colder than cold. A black-hooded figure loomed toward Shelly through the magnificently never-ending darkness. Shelly backed away and tripped over her own unsteady feet. The figure of darkness (at least that’s what Shelly thought it was) gracefully curved its body downward toward Shelly’s face. At that precise moment, the dreaming girl woke up, breathing hard and sweating. “It was just a dream,” she told herself firmly, “just an old dream. It’s not hurting anyone, and it’s not real.” Shelly tried to sound confident, but her voice trembled slightly. “Big sign of madness, talking to your own head,” stated a newspaper boy by the name of Frederick Afintger, who was passing. He smirked. Shelly ignored him. Dawn was Shelly’s favorite time of day. Most people were still snug in bed. No one shot insults at her, she was free of owners of stalls and shops shouting at her to get away from their selling areas. Shelly was sick of that. Now the girl grabbed the last of her bread loaf and headed for the stream. It was warm, especially for this time of day Shelly finally reached the cold, playful stream that flowed around the edge of the enchanted place, Magic Forest. The beggar girl took a long, refreshing drink from the creek. When Shelly finished munching on her bread loaf, she waded into the water. The deepest place reached up to her knees. Shelly stared absentmindedly at the horizon. The sun was still determined to climb over the mountain. The sun had almost accomplished that goal, which it repeated every morning. Shelly marched back to the bank and dried herself off. Suddenly, she glimpsed a flash of white in the trees. Shelly started. Then she saw it again, further this time. “Hello?” Shelly called out. “Anybody there?” No answer. Shelly entered the Magic Forest and sprinted toward the white. She ran until she could run no more. A stitch had arisen in Shelly’s side and her breathing was fast and hard. She had arrived in a clearing. A small, lush apple tree stood in the corner, its fruits swaying slightly in the breeze. The very same creek Shelly had earlier waded in flowed before her. The stream opened into a little pool. Curiously, it was silvery. It must come from here and go around the wood, Shelly thought to herself. Shelly sighed heavily for no particular reason and headed for the apple tree. She heard a hiss and tripped over a tree root, or she thought it was a tree root. Fangs sank into her leg and poison shot through her body. Hooves pounding like thunder, and everything went black. Everything was blurry and Shelly could hear a faint neighing sound. With difficulty, she sat up and slowly looked around. There, trotting along the path toward her, was a unicorn! He had a long, flowing, milky-white mane, tail, and forelock. His eyes were like crystals, glowing in the bright sunlight. His hooves were cloven like a goat, and the fur was silky. It was beautifully white. He came over to her. Shelly didn’t know how to feel. The unicorn started to speak in a strange language. Oddly, Shelly could understand it. “Hello, my name is Magic Star. What is your name?” the unicorn asked. Shelly replied shakily, “My name is Shelly. I am an orphan.” For a moment, Shelly thought she saw an excited look on Magic Star’s face. But when she blinked, it was once again replaced by a curious expression. “What happened to me? Are you really a unicorn? Why are you here? Where are we? Was that a snake? If it was, did you kill it? Do you live here? Is this forest dangerous? Why is that pool silvery…?” It all came
From Terror to Triumph
A low growl vibrated out of his snarling jaws. Drool trickled over the cruelly glinting teeth and onto the cracked concrete sidewalk where he stood in a threatening stance. His brown eyes, which portrayed nothing but pure hatred, pierced the small toddler’s who stood stiff with fear in front of him. The little girl, four years old at the time, was frozen in a trance, too afraid to run, or even tremble. A scream was caught in the back of her throat that would not escape. A lower growl from her assailer at last set it free. “Mommy!” the girl shrieked. The dog pounced with a sickening half-growl and half-yelp, and all Asa remembered was hitting the concrete with the dog’s hot breath on her neck. * * * “My favorite animal has to be dogs.” “Hmm?” Asa was jerked out of that nightmarish recollection as she realized her friend Jenny was talking to her. “Hello?” Jenny joked. “Anybody home in there?” “Sorry” Asa replied, shifting her crystal-blue backpack to her left shoulder. “I was just thinking.” “About what?” Asa shrugged. Not many people knew about the incident of her and the aggressive dog, even though it had been all over the news when it had happened. Asa rubbed her throat gently, running her finger along the familiar five-inch-long scar that ran along the side of her neck, curving into the middle of her throat. Jenny, like most people who knew Asa, had in the past asked where she got the scar, but Asa always replied evasively, “In an accident.” So far, she hadn’t met anyone who had pushed to know the full story. “Wanna hold him?” jenny offered, nuzzling the small black-and-white Great Dane “Well, you have to see my neighbor’s new puppies,” Jenny went on with her dialogue. “There are three of them, two boys and a girl, and they are just the cutest things in this world.” “What?” Asa interrupted, totally lost in the conversation. “Weren’t you listening to me previously?” Jenny chided playfully. “I was talking about Ella’s three puppies.” Asa shuddered slightly at the thought of the huge Great Dane. “Ella’s Mrs. Lander’s dog, right?” “Yup, and the puppies look just like her.” Jenny gave a little skip. “They’re just not as big.” Yet, thought Asa. Ella was a sweet, gentle giant, but her size intimidated Asa immensely. And the thought of three more giants like her… Asa shuddered again. “Are you all right?” Jenny queried, looking into her friend’s face. “You look pale.” “Oh no, I’m fine.” Asa straightened and smiled, but it was rather strained and unnatural. Jenny looked unconvinced, but she didn’t pressure Asa into telling. “So, do you want to come see Ella’s pups with me?” Jenny continued. “Mrs. Lander is letting me come over today, and…” “No!” Asa almost shouted, with a slight tremble in her voice. Jenny’s mouth fell open. Asa blushed and shuffled her feet more quickly. She was almost home. Just around this corner here… “I better go, Asa,” Jenny murmured with a half-confused, half-apologetic glance. “See you.” “Bye, Jenny,” Asa sighed with a slight wave of her hand. When her friend had left her, Asa dashed down the sidewalk to her house, as if a mad dog was right at her heels. The door slammed behind her as she jumped through it and skidded into the kitchen, taking a deep breath as she came to a halt. The smell of homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies greeted her like a warm hug, snug and assuring. Asa dropped her backpack and kicked off her new dress shoes that were required for the school’s dress code. Asa followed the delicious smell to the oven, where the oven light illuminated two pans of yummy goodness. BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEP! Asa jumped as the timer blared its warning, and the clatter of footsteps was heard on the stairs. Asa’s eighteen-year-old sister, Ann, hurried into the kitchen, snatched an oven mitt, opened the oven door, took out pan number one, set it on the counter, and said, “Hi, Asa,” all in one whirl of activity. After Ann took out the second pan, she asked, “Could you get out the cooling racks, Ace?” Asa rummaged through a cluttered cabinet and found the racks. She set them on the counter. “Ann?” “Yes?” Ann thrust a spatula underneath one lightly toasted cookie, and then let it slide off onto a rack with a helping shake. “Do you think that people should follow all that advice about facing their fears?” Ann crossed her arms and leaned against the counter thinking. All fear affects your life, Asa” “Well, I guess,” Ann replied. “I mean, people can’t just live in fear all their lives.” “But what if the fear is something minor?” Asa touched her scar briefly. “Something that won’t affect your life very much?” Ann crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, thinking. “All fear affects your life, Asa.” She peered knowingly into Asa’s face. “Are you thinking of dogs?” Asa nodded, taking a warm cookie and gazing at it steadily. “I just—well, I hate being afraid,” Asa admitted, breaking the cookie in two and watching the crumbs bounce on the tiled floor and skitter under cabinets. “It’s like I’m a wimp, or something. I know most dogs won’t hurt me, but I don’t believe it.” Ann leaned over and pulled Asa to her side, her shiny black curls touching Asa’s light brown forehead. “Did something happen at school that scared you, Ace?” Asa shook her head. “All that happened was Jenny invited me to go see three puppies, and I freaked out.” Asa sighed. “I think puppies are adorable, but they scare me to death.” Ann’s brown eyes shone with under- standing. “So what are you going to do about it?” “What?” “Are you going to be afraid, or are you going to face your fear?” Asa was silent, fidgeting with the broken cookie in her hands. At last she looked up. “I think I need the
My Dad’s Birthday I’ll Never Forget
The entire day during school all I could think about was going to Atlantic Grill My dad’s zebra hair was black with a few specks of white. It was his forty-first birthday. It seems that as each year passes, his hair gets more and more white. We were planning to celebrate his birthday with a special family dinner. We were going to a restaurant called Atlantic Grill. It was May 28, 2004, and the entire day during school all I could think about was going to Atlantic Grill with my parents and my brother. It is one of my favorite restaurants and I love their food. They make a homemade chocolate-chip cookie that is the best in the world! Dad came home from work a little early that day at 5:30. Then we were off on the dirty, gray sidewalks of New York City. It was a nice spring evening. The sun was peeking out from behind a building as it was lowering for sunset. It was warm outside, getting ready for summer. For once the streets were a little quieter than usual, but there sure were a ton of cars. Everybody was in cars because I noticed that there was major traffic on York Avenue. On the walk there I asked my mom, “What are you going to get for dinner?” “A salad,” she replied. “Dad, what are you going to get?” I asked. “The sushi, of course,” my dad responded. “What are you going to have, Danny?” my dad questioned. “I am going to get the grilled cheese. You know how I love Atlantic Grill’s grilled cheese. It is even better than yours, Mom,” I replied. When we got to the restaurant, I glanced around. The restaurant was packed with people at the tables and at the bar. We were hoping to sit outside because it was so noisy inside and it was a beautiful evening. Inside, there were TVs, paintings, phones ringing, people talking and music playing. There was the smell of smoke because the fresh food had just been put on the grill. Luckily, there was one open table outside for the four of us. The hostess sat us at the table and brought us menus. When the waitress raced over I anxiously asked, “Can I have a grilled cheese with french fries on the side?” “Sure, munchkin,” she replied because I was only six at the time. “What are you going to have tonight, ma’am?” she asked my mom with a little bit of a Southern accent. “I will have a Greek salad please,” my mom replied. “What about you?” she questioned as she turned to my dad. “I will have the sushi platter with a California roll,” my dad said. “What will the little one be having tonight?” she asked, motioning to my brother Dylan. “A New York strip steak,” my dad responded before my mom could answer. My brother was three years old and has had autism ever since he was born. His brain has trouble making sense of the world. Autism causes Dylan to experience life differently than other kids who can play around with their friends and talk about sports. He can’t talk because he has autism. He is trying to learn to talk and his teachers are working with him at school. He usually communicates using pictures and by shaking his head. Whenever we go to restaurants my parents will usually talk for him and tell the waitress or waiter what my brother Dylan wants to eat. Sometimes I get frustrated that Dylan can’t talk and because he is different. But I love him so much and keep hoping that he will get better and talk soon. I searched in my mom’s purse for her BlackBerry. I liked to play a game on it called Brick Breaker where there is a ball and a platform that you have to move around to get the ball to hit the bricks. Her purse was so unorganized with lots of papers shoved in and some of her belongings were creeping out. I smelled the fresh leather because the purse was brand new. When I rubbed my hand to the left it was smooth to the touch but to the right it was rough and bumpy. I liked the feel of rough and then smooth. It felt as if I was petting a cat or dog when it was smooth, but when it was rough it kind of felt like a papier-mache project I once made. I would always look through my mom’s purse for her BlackBerry when I was bored or waiting at a restaurant for our food to arrive. After what felt like an hour our food came. I saw the orange melted cheese and the steam coming from the french fries. There was a smoky smell filling the air and whetting my appetite. The smoke had a blast of heat. When I took my first bite it was hot, delicious and soaked in spicy ketchup. Then I turned my attention to Dylan. I saw his tan face, gray shirt, silver fork, and white napkin with red ketchup stains. I could smell his fruity shampoo that he used in the shower. I was staring at my brother’s steak. It looked like heaven. It was so juicy that it was dripping into his mouth like a leaky faucet. I could smell how good it tasted. I leaned over and put my fork right into his steak because I craved a taste of it. When I put a gigantic piece of steak in my mouth it was so juicy and delicious that I felt I was in a whole new world. I got so addicted to this great taste that I kept stuffing more of the steak in my mouth. Then all of a sudden my brother started crying hysterically. I realized he had every right to be upset. I had just eaten almost a third of his dinner right in front of
Tear Drop’s Legacy
“May I go to him, sir?” The captain of the ship Sea Horse sat back in his chair and drank a long drain of his coffee. They were almost to Spain, their destination, and the only mishap had been the thunderstorm a day ago. He contemplated this fact, and had just decided that this had been the most uneventful voyage yet, when he heard the distress call. One of his sailors burst into the cabin. “Captain! A strange disturbance around the ship the Horn of Plenty, sir! Permission to reply to the signal.” The captain scratched his beard. “Permission granted. Make a large circle around the disturbance, and come abreast of them on the Horn of Plenty’s starboard side.” The night watchman aboard the Horn of Plenty had been watching the disturbance, a black stallion, ever since he had escaped during the storm a day before. He had named the beautiful horse Tear Drop and had prayed for him every time the waves hurled him up and pulled him under. The stallion was promised to a wealthy businessman in England, as were all the other horses aboard. The man was starting a business and wanted expensive purebred horses. The watchman said Tear Drop’s name over and over, talking to him, calming him. The big horse seemed to sense the desperation in the watchman’s voice, for he slowed his frantic paddling and stared into the man’s eyes. The large ship rocked suddenly, and the watchman slowly abandoned his post to direct the Sea Horse to Tear Drop. As the large ship crawled slowly forward, Tear Drop started to panic. The watchman rushed to the railing and began to talk to him. Almost immediately, he became still. The crew aboard the Sea Horse readied their equipment and were trying to find a man to go out, when the night watchman timidly spoke up. “Captain, sir?” “Yes, David?” the captain asked absently, his eyes fixed on Tear Drop. “May I go to him, sir?” The captain turned. “You’re volunteering? The horse could kill you, you know.” The watchman nodded. “Yes sir.” The captain turned to the Sea Horse’s crew. “Well, put him in, then!” David was quivering with excitement as the crew from the Sea Horse readied the equipment for him to take to Tear Drop. When it was time, he launched himself into the waves. Treading water, he moved gradually closer to the big horse. Uneasy, Tear Drop swam away. The sailor tried again to get closer, calling his name over and over. Tear Drop again swam away. David slowly pursued him, but he was quickly tiring. When he felt he could swim no longer with the equipment strapped to his back, he turned around to signal to the Sea Horse. Directly in front of him, he saw nothing but open water. He looked up, startled. Both ships were quite a distance away, too far for him to swim to. Suddenly, the ocean felt very big and violent, the waves enormous, the pack on his back like lead. A large wave tossed David high, then pulled him under. As he came back up, he found himself yelling Tear Drop’s name. Tear Drop was treading water, watching the wave-battered man. Another wave sucked David under and, when he resurfaced, Tear Drop was nowhere to be seen. A pang of fear twisted David’s heart. Then he felt a bump on his back. He spun around. Tear Drop faced him, nickering. David tentatively reached out to touch Tear Drop, then grabbed his mane and hauled himself up when another wave tugged at him. Tear Drop never flinched, seeming to know the importance of being still. When he was sure of himself, David waved his arm in a big sweeping motion, calling the ships to come closer. When he saw that they were underway, he wrapped his arms around Tear Drop’s neck and laid his head on his mane. Within a quarter hour, the ship was near enough to hoist Tear Drop aboard. David clambered after, so exhausted that the sailors had to carry him to his bunk. Almost before his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep sleep. The days passed quickly after that, one and then another, blending together in a flurry of activity. The one thing that stood out was the time spent between Tear Drop and David. David had saved Tear Drop’s life by sending the distress call, and Tear Drop had saved David from drowning. There was a special bond between the two of them, and if David wasn’t the one to feed him, Tear Drop wouldn’t eat. Some of the sailors grumbled, saying the stallion was picky. Others openly admired the bond between the two. Still others pretended not to notice, simply because they didn’t know what to think. Every morning, David was up earlier than needed, feeding, exercising, and caressing Tear Drop. One morning as he and Tear Drop were strolling around the top deck, the captain approached. “David.” “Yes, Captain, sir?” “We’re almost to England. I can feel it in my bones! Oh, to taste my Maria’s tea right now.” He inhaled deeply. “I expect you’ll be glad to see your family too, son. You married?” The mention of England distracted David, and it was a moment before he was able to speak. “Yes, sir. Got a wife, and a young boy.” He half smiled. “Mary and Nicholas. Sure will be nice to see them again. I wish they could meet this guy, though.” He patted Tear Drop’s withers, and Tear Drop nibbled his sleeve. The captain looked at the exchange, opened his mouth, and then shut it. Then he turned, and walked away. * * * A week later, they arrived in England. David convinced the captain to let him take Tear Drop to his new home. As he and ten other sailors walked down the paved walk, David could only wonder if he would ever see Tear Drop again. On the voyage, they
Sticks and Stones
I was that one M&M that you have only one of, among a million others, trying to blend in The blue car rolled down the dusty road, coming to an abrupt stop in an empty lot. I jumped out and twirled around to face the camp. The sweet smell of pine trees circled around my head and I inhaled. The head counselor came out to meet me and showed me to my bunk. As I approached the wooden cabin, my feet slowed, and I closed my eyes ever so slightly, listening to the sound of gravel beneath my black Converse. Later in the month I would bound up the stairs and slam the screen door, but right now I was quiet, tiptoeing up the creaky steps and slipping through the door. “Hi,” one of the counselors said, smiling. There were about ten people sitting in a circle on the floor. “Hi…” “What’s your name?” “Nisha,” I muttered, looking at the ground. Starting with the counselor to my right, everyone said their name, everyone with the same expression, like dolls in a department store, staring at you with fake smiles and stating their name in a perfunctory manner. They asked me what I was most looking forward to. I told them that I was looking forward to wearing the new pajamas I had gotten (the words printed on the T-shirt read Ice cream for breakfast, cupcakes for lunch), and they laughed. As the new kid, I was worried about making friends, but I was feeling confident. Within the first few days, I noticed two girls whispering to each other. I ignored it; I didn’t really care if they had secrets between them. Throughout the day, I saw them talking to other girls in our bunk, laughing and flipping their high ponytails in the air like a fish on land. Later that night, they walked up to another girl and continued to whisper something in her ear. She smiled, and said the much expected, “Oh my God, really?” “What? What’s so funny?” I asked, curiously. “Um, it’s nothing. You, like, you wouldn’t get it,” one of them said, rolling her eyes, and they walked away. “But you told everyone else,” I murmured under my breath after the girls were too far away to hear. It started out small, but soon people didn’t want to sit next to me, and many of the girls didn’t talk to me when they passed by me during the day, or when we were sitting in the bunk at night. Walking to activities, the other girls would sprint until they were far away from me, and then they would slow down. If I got too close, they would sprint again. I got used to hearing the quiet crackling sound of pebbles flying in every direction as feet hit the ground. While rehearsing for the upper-camp play, I asked one of the girls (who was playing Le Fou, Gaston’s sidekick, in Beauty and the Beast) if her character died in the end. I couldn’t quite remember, and I knew in some versions, Gaston did. She replied, “You should die in the end.” I looked away, and lightly tapped on the broken piano’s keys. At night, I lay under my sheets, curled into a ball against the cold, and wondered, What was wrong with me? I fingered the boards protecting me from the floor, and waited for sleep to take a wrong turn and fall through my window. I began to notice more and more how excluded I was. All seven girls hung out together and ran away when I would try to join, like trying to catch your shadow, or dance with your reflection. I wondered if I was exaggerating; was I really being excluded, or was I just not making myself heard? Was I even being excluded? I wondered if maybe it was something I’d done… Was I too talkative? Too quiet? Too hyper? Too calm? I was that one M&M that you have only one of, among a million others, trying to blend in. Towards the end of the month, the girls began to act a little more friendly to me, including me in conversations, but all the conversations were about another girl in our bunk, whom everyone had turned on. While I wanted to be included and thought of as a friend, I didn’t want to participate in the awful things they said about her. Every time one of the girls said something bad about the girl, Carly, it seemed to hang in the air for a second, twirl in circles around each of our heads, mocking us, and run away into the forest, never to be found or taken back. I didn’t want to be searching for it with the other girls, trying to hide it so the object of their bullying never found out. I wanted to ask, Why do you suddenly like me, now that you hate someone else? But I also wanted them to continue to like me. One day, as I was heading to my next activity, I suddenly was overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. I slowly climbed up the small hill and picked up a bow. I shot the arrow, and it landed in the woods. Feeling like I could never do anything right, I went to retrieve it. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I focused entirely on the bull’s-eye, and I raised my left arm. I straightened my right arm and pulled the string back as far as I could. This is it, I thought. I let the string go… and the arrow fell in front of the target. I picked it up. This is why no one likes you, I told myself. And I shot the arrow. It hit red. I smiled, for the first time that day. I realized that I was OK, that the world hadn’t ended. Once everyone forgave Carly, it was back to ignoring me. The last night
About Winning
We could tell each other anything there The day I abandoned my best friend was the day I lost myself. With her I was everything, and without her I was nothing. It was a rainy day, and I was lying on a fluffy pink mat in Ashley’s room. There she was, standing, legs crossed, but not enough to hide the trembling. There she was, long dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail, unwashed and uncombed. There she was, biting her nails. Ashley never bit her nails. I had a hard time believing this creature was my best friend. And yet here she was, reduced to a nervous wreck, awaiting my reaction to her unbelievable announcement, “I’m moving away.” My reaction was stalking out of that room without a backward glance. She did not try to stop me. It turned out I never entered that room again while Ashley lived out her few remaining months there. The very next day during lunch I made a beeline straight for Jennifer and Tiffany’s table. I avoided catching Ashley’s eye. Instead I focused on laughing to Tiffany’s incredibly stupid jokes. Ashley was much funnier. I called my mom on my cell after school. “Hello, Mom.” “Hi, June.” “Mom, can you drive me home?” “Honey, don’t you want to walk home with Ashley?” “Well… I want you to drive me to Tiffany’s house. She invited me over.” “Homework?” “None. Mom, I always finish my math. It’s easy.” I could hear a sigh on the other end. “Coming.” Then she hung up. So that’s how my life became—going over to Tiffany’s house and watching horror movies with her and Jennifer, eating junk food, and making Tiffany’s mother angry. It wasn’t ideal, but I thought I handled it really well, until the day Ashley moved away. That day I spent sitting on my bed, clutching a bowl in my lap in case I threw up. It was a good excuse for staying home. After all, I had thrown up more than once as a result of eating too much junk food at Tiffany’s. Though that day I don’t think my nausea was caused from an upset stomach. * * * At dinner a month later Dad mentioned he’d be coaching cross-country at school. I had already signed up and when I told him he was delighted. “But Dad,” I said, “I’m short. I won’t be very fast.” “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re very athletic. I’m sure you’ll have a medal in no time.” That’s when I knew I had to get first place. Otherwise no one would ever treat me like a thirteen-year-old girl again. No girl my age was as short as I was, although Ashley had been pretty close. My mom broke into my thoughts. “Pass the potatoes, dear,” she said. “And oh, that reminds me, a new family is moving next door. The Reeds. And, June,” she turned to me triumphantly, “they have a daughter your age!” I sunk into my chair. Great, I thought. A new girl. I will have to walk her to school and be her friend and listen to her sniveling. “What’s her name?” “Melissa.” I hated Melissa Reed. * * * It was the day before cross-country was to begin and I decided to go for a run. I pulled on black running capris and a neon-green T-shirt. I used an athletic headband to keep my hair out of my face, then tied my black ponytail with a hairband. Bronze skin, shoulder-length black hair, short but strong. That was me. I ran out the front door into the crisp, fall air, heading down the sidewalk. Suddenly I stopped short. There was a moving truck in the driveway of Ashley’s house. A door opened and a tall, slender girl with a dark brown ponytail came out. She turned and looked at me. Her eyes. They were cold, cold blue eyes. Under her gaze I felt vulnerable. Turning, I sprinted up the street, rounded a corner, and slowed into a jog. Her eyes were still there, imprinted in my mind. I couldn’t shake them away. Without meaning to, I took the route to the park Ashley and I always used to go to if we had anything serious to talk about. I crept underneath the willow tree next to the lake where we used to conceal ourselves. We could tell each other anything there. Ashley. I got up and ran away from that place. Tears blurred my vision. I tripped and fell on the pavement, lay there, sobbing. Ashley. Ashley. Why don’t you come back? I heard footsteps behind me and turned, still crying. For one stupidly hopeful moment I thought it was Ashley, but then the cold blue eyes made themselves known and hatred consumed me. “Go away!” I shouted. “Go away, go away, go away!” She stared at me with wide eyes, then sprinted away. I watched her fade into the blurry background of birdsong and swaying trees. Then I laid my head down on the hard pavement and knew no more. My mom came to get me later. She said nothing, only looked at me anxiously and wiped my tears with an old handkerchief. It was already wet, perhaps from her own tears. I was too sleepy, my face raw from crying and my head aching, to care. My last thought before I fell asleep was, cross-country tomorrow. I woke up. Cross-country today. I walked Melissa to school, sat with her in the classroom and at lunch, navigated her to her classes and to the bathroom, listened and answered her questions and was her all-out friend for an entire day. It was exhausting. I couldn’t look forward more to cross-country. No Melissa there. How wrong I was. I suppose through my haze of tears the day before I hadn’t noticed she was wearing running capris and tennis shoes just like me. But there she was, and quickly she sidled up to me. Groan. My dad whistled piercingly.
