Contents

Introduction

The Gift by Joyce Becker Lee

Pluto Still Feels Like a Planet to Me by Mary-Liz Shaw

Whale Boy by Natalie Haney Tilghman

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Christmas in the Desert by Jessica Senn

The Thing About Swing by Billy Lombardo

And Back Again by Jennifer Tharp

Pilgrimage by Suzanne Kamata

25 Miles to Athens by Chris Wiewiora

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Moving On by Patricia G. Penny

Carved Air by Grace Peterson

mental health by Maria Adelmann

A Day in July by Tony Lindsay

The Weight of Them by Maija Stromberg

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Safe by Tara Willis

Bennett Riley by Elizabeth Flynn Meaney

From the Desk of: Acknowledgments Copyright

Introduction
In the beginning, the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. Then a bunch of stuff happened, culminating, eventually, in the publication of a new magazine called Cicada (pronounced sih-KAY-duh, which sort of rhymes with potata, in case youre planning to write a lyric poem). Cicadas are not just messy little bugs that leave their shells all over the place. On hot summer nights they also make a lot of noise, keeping you awake with their song as the small hours roll slowly by. Cicada the magazine wants to keep its readers up at night, tooreading it, thinking about it, and sometimes sitting down to write so that they can join the chorus. Since its emergence in 1998, Cicada has published hundreds of stories, essays, and poems, many of them by teens just like you. As we move into our fifteenth year of publication, the editors are delighted to offer a selection of contemporary realistic fiction from the pages of Cicada. So sit back and enjoy. Then log on to www.cicadamag.com and share your creative voice!

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by Joyce Becker Lee My familys pretty much like any other. We have relatives we brag about (like my great-uncle Willard, who invented vitamin-enriched lip balm) and those we just love no matter what (like my uncle Leonard, who went into business as a landscaper with the unfortunate slogan No grass grows under our feet). However, we Sayers do have one unusual characteristic: we call it the Gift of Fate. Folks in my family can often tell the day theyre going to dieand sometimes others final days as well. Its been a recognized family talent as far back as Emmett Parkinson Sayer, who fought with Tennessees Overmountain Men in the Revolutionary War. On the eve of battle at Kings Mountain, he wrote to his wife that the next day would be his last and that she should sell the cows and go live with her parents. Of course, some might argue that he knew he was going into battle and could very well be killed, but, see, he didnt die in the fighting. Seems later that evening, he wandered off to pee and in the darkness stumbled into a trench and broke his neck. Anyway, thats the first documented incidence of the Gift. Many more followed, and as the pattern developed, the Gift became a recognized fact of Sayer-dom. Oh, sure, there were times the circumstances have been a little suspect. For example, when my great-great-great-grandfather Andrew Johnson Sayer (for whom I am named) declared his imminent demise one spring morning and was struck dead that very afternoon by a bolt of lightning, some might have questioned why he was in that tree sawing a branch during a rainstorm, but most just figured it was Fate made him do it. Then there was my mamas cousin Lemuel Sayer Townsend, who choked on a peach pit. Now, he hadnt told anyone he was going to die on that particular day, and there was some rumble about how maybe the Gift had weakened through a diluted lineage (we dont all marry

The Gift

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our cousins), but then his mama, my great-aunt Lucy, produced a letter she claimed Lem had written that very morning, saying it just hadnt been noticed in all the commotion, what with him dying and all. It said: Dearest MamaToday will be my last. It is painful for me to say good-bye, so I will simply say you have been the finest of mothers and I will be proud to meet you someday in Heaven. Please feed Barksdale [his dog]. Love, your son, Lemuel Jackson Sayer There, Lucy declared, in his very own hand, was proof Lem had known he was going to meet his maker that day. And there are other instances, each dutifully and completely recorded in the family Bible right next to the date of death. As the legend goes, the honoree may know when hell meet his maker, he just doesnt know how, keeping the Giftand the Gifteefrom assuming a Godlike aura. The McMahons, my daddys family, do not have the Gift, nor do they want it. Daddy has already told Mama he does not want to know her final when. He doesnt want folks thinking he treated her any differently because he knew she was closing. (Daddys in real estate.) Nor does he want her, if she gets the notion, telling him when to shine his shoes and aim them skyward, saying hed rather be surprised, thank you. My younger (by ten months) brother, Will, and I do not yet know if the Gift has passed on to us. Weve discussed it and decided wed rather be caught unawares so we dont have to chaw on it for any discernible length of time. But let me get to the meat of this particular story. See, Grandpa Sayer had moved in with us, lock, stock, and running shorts, more than seven years ago, after Grandma died. From the first, whenever Will and I said good night to Grandpa, hed give us each a hug and say,

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You boys are my legacy. Always make me proud. It made us want to be better than we were, like we could someday be men worthy of the name Sayer (even though technically we were McMahons). After Grandpa retired as a doctor two years ago, he continued to check on some of his old patients, including Kate and Remus Cantrell, who own the Chicken Shack down on Jefferson (a stop usually planned for around lunchtime). Then theres old Miss Jeanette Boudreau over in the Shady Lane Retirement Home, and Gunner Reeves, who shacks up with Miss Sadie Lowry in her neat little trailer behind the IGA. (Mama always said God would lay waste to Miss Sadies sinwagon with a tornado someday, andbut thats another story.) This particular Wednesday, it being the first day of summer vacation, my inamorata, Nan, and I were in the kitchen planning our summer: working when we had to, swimming in the backyard pool, driving down to Sparta to bowl, and seriously fooling around whenever possible. Mama runs a graphics business in Cookeville, two doors down from Daddys office, and in the summers theyve taken to popping home for lunch, supposedly for Wills cooking. We suspect its just to let us know that even though its summer vacation, we better toe the line. That day, Will was country-frying steak and green tomatoes when Grandpa came back from his rounds. He was on the porch, talking into his cell phone in his usual loud voice (hes a little deaf and tends to talk louder than he knows). Thats right, Saturday night is the dying time, he said. He might as well have been saying the dog needed a bath, the way it sounded, but I felt an icy hand squeeze my heart like a tube of fake cheese. I glanced around the kitchen and saw everyone else had a deer-in-theheadlights look. We heard the phone close with a snap, and Grandpa came in. He didnt seem to notice us all sitting there staring, and after a moment, he shook his head a little, as if to clear it. Im going for a run. Thats all he said to us, but his voice was low and sad-sounding. Mama went up to him and hugged him.

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Oh, Pa, she said. At first he didnt seem to understand, but then his face lit up with comprehension. Lily She interrupted him. Ill call the kin so they can all be here. He looked at her a moment, like his wheels were turning, then nodded and went up to change, leaving us all to digest the impact of his overheard proclamation. After a moment, Mama, always the most practical, being a Sayer and all, thanked Will for a delicious lunch (it had burned to inedible during our catatonic reaction), went into the bathroom, and ran the water hard for a good ten minutes, then came out with red-rimmed eyes and pulled out her address book. We can figure for the laying-out on Sunday so everyones here, she said, her voice sounding like it was full of peanut butter. The next two days felt all messed up, like one of those weird paintings of melting clocks. Will said it felt like he had a heavy sack on his back, and every time I looked at Grandpa, my throat filled with the words that were stuck, thick and hot as boiled-down jam ready to pour into jars. I wanted to say something, but whatstay with me, dont leave, never die? At first Grandpa avoided all the hubbub, but the second day I caught him watching Mama make her special chocolate funeral bundt cake. He nodded. Funeral cake, he said. Seems right. He swiped a fingerful of batter and smiled at her, which set her crying again. He looked on a minute, his face full of sad, then turned and went out. As we prepared, we never talked to him about the Grand Inevitable, and although he had a melancholy settled about him, he never said anything about it, either. Mama kept us so busy getting ready for the expected influx of family that we didnt talk much, but every so often, in passing, wed stop and look at each other, tears filling but not spilling, and then wed move on.

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Therell be time for crying later, Mama said. Every so often Daddy would touch her arm or give her a quick hug, which for Daddy said more than another man sinking to the floor and rending his garment. At night Id lie in bed and listen to the faucet running full force in my mothers bathroom while my own heart felt clogged as a drainful of hair. Whenever Grandpa was out, as he was more frequently now, I noticed his doctor bag was also missing. I thought about all the stuff he had in there for pain and I wondered if and how and where he was using it. Thinking about it while polishing a spoon, I rubbed so hard, I went right through the silver overlay to the dull metal beneath. On Friday afternoon, I caught Grandpa coming back from a run looking fit to go another fifty years. I tried to imagine that strong heart stilled, then shunted the idea to the back of my brain to be strangled by evasion. Grandpa, I said, hoping my words didnt quiver. Tell me its not the Gift. Andy, he replied. He cleared his throat and looked like he wanted to say something, but just then Mama came in. That was Aunt LuAnn on the phone. Imagine, she and Uncle Henry are going to drive all night from Charleston to be here. Andy, I need your help in the garage. Grandpa looked from Mama to me, then sighed. Yes, Andy, its the Gift. He tilted his head to indicate I should go, and that was that.

The family began arriving early Saturday morning. Aunt Lydia, being just over in Wilson County, was first with her clan, bringing in big batches of corn bread. Mmm, mmm, lookin fine, Lyddie, Grandpa said, appreciating the contents of her fancy glass pans. You know its my favorite. Aunt Lydia busted out in a bawl, and Grandpa patted her back and suggested she go lie down after her trip. He picked up his bag to go out again, and I tried to follow him, I dont know what forto talk, to hug himbut was stopped by Uncle Fred, who thrust a huge

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pot of navy beans at me with the order to rinse em, sort em, and soak em for later. The whole day was like that, relatives trotting in from all over and me being shoved and ordered about till I was dizzy. Uncle Henry Sayer and Aunt Dolly arrived from Charleston a bit disheveled, having driven their house-sized RV all night just to be on time to say good-bye. They brought their four kids, a watermelon, a cooler of fried chicken, and a big bucket of fresh sweet cherries, which Aunt Dolly explained were for the pies she intended to make, because she knew how Grandpa loved her pies. She settled right into the kitchen, pulling out pans and ingredients and making a lot more noise than was probably necessary. Then Aunt LuAnn arrived with Uncle Big Jack Kincaid in another major camper, toting a gallon bucket of potato salad and several jars of her state fair pickles. The men compared miles traveled, and Uncle Henry, who won, went out back to claim the hammock and sleep off the drive. And still they came, in SUVs and campers, whooping and calling out and reminding me of the Mongol hordes wed studied in Western Civ. The Memphis Sayers got in around eleven, and by afternoon we saw license plates from North Carolina, West Virginia, and Mississippi. Cousins I hadnt seen in a hawks age showed up, and we older kids swapped tales while the little ones splashed in the pool or ran around with the dogs, chasing Frisbees, squirrels, anything that moved. People filled every corner of the house and lawn, chatting, laughing, telling and retelling the old family stories. Lord, Nan whispered to me. Youd think your family never saw each other! We dont get together much, I admitted, washed in a powerful sadness over the reason for the current assemblage. As the day went on, the food for the wake piled up. Mama and Daddy sent me and Will around to the neighbors to borrow cots and blow-up beds for everyone, as theyd all be staying over for the funeral. (Our family doesnt believe in a long laying-out. As my great-grandma

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Sayer used to say, Just stick me in the ground, eat the funeral vittles, and get on with the living.) Our big house was nigh to busting, voices tumbling out onto the wide back lawn where kids ran on into the evening, swimming, catching fireflies, and rolling around with the dogs. We kept the local pizza delivery place busy and made an occasional run to the Chicken Shack; anyone passing by wouldve thought it was a party, not preparation for a final farewell. At last, unable to stand the crowd any longer, I slipped away, down to the little creek that trickles through the woods behind our yard, where I went whenever I was filled with teen angst. I considered how silly all those other pains had been when compared with the big empty feeling growing in my chest. I was only a little surprised to see Will already there; we often thought the same. He turned to see me coming, then whipped back, and I saw him quick wipe his arm across his face. I sat next to him, saying, Hey. Hey, he echoed. No more was needed, and we sat there watching the water burble along on its way to something bigger than wed ever considered before.

Thinking it was time Grandpa should be home, we picked up and went back to the house, which was now a veritable Sayer family convention. Grandpa was there all right, working the crowd, backslapping, swapping stories, swinging the little ones high above his lanky frame. I watched him, a heaviness filling me from tip to toe. I needed to talk to him alone, but I figured everyone else needed him, too, so I just watched, and caught Will doing the same. I caught the occasional mournful look or a tear brushed aside, yet they were few and quickly sequestered, replaced by a funny story or a hug. I would have thought this a sensible way to approach the unavoidable, except that it was Grandpa, and I couldnt make myself be sensible.

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Once my cousin Merle nudged me and said, He dont look much like hes in dyin mode, does he? You disputin the Gift? asked Merles brother, Jackson, and the two started whaling away at each other, rolling around like theyd done ever since they were little. I admired Jacksons defense of the Gift and wished I didnt have the sick feeling he was right. After all, Grandpa had declared it, so how could I dispute? About midafternoon, Grandpa went in for a nap, and a hush fell over the place. We all wondered if this was it, and I desperately wanted to run after him, to beg him to come back. But would that be right? He seemed pretty O.K. with the whole thing; could I deny him a dignified exit by my unchecked begging and wailing? When Grandpa emerged after an hour looking refreshed and more alive than ever, I felt a stirring of hope, until Will whispered, He did say Saturday night. I wouldve punched my brother for stealing my hope, had I not known he was hurting as bad as me. Look at him. Nan nudged me as we sat munching pizza in the deepening dusk. There he was, the nearly departed, sitting on the big porch swing with a group of little Sayer cousins grouped around, bugeyed at some fantastic story he was weaving. Id heard every one of those stories and I missed them already, even as I thought of the future missing-hims Id have. Wed all have those times of emptiness, I knew, whenever we stopped running long enough. As I walked through the amassed throng with similar noses and kindred eyes, I could almost feel the thread of our heritage in the familiar stories that wafted about, and a lit coal began to smolder in my gut. I wanted more stories from Grandpa, wanted them to go on and on. He should be there to set my children on his knee and tell them about Emmett Parkinson Sayer, and Cousin Lem, and all the other old stories that drew us together against the cold. That was what I wanted, and the fact that it was to be taken away from me just as I discovered it was an insult to me, and an affront to my lineage.

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I was stewing about the cruelty of the situation, when I noticed that Grandpa was nowhere around. I felt my panic rising as I feared that he would go without me saying something, anything, everything that needed to be said. I skirted the citronella candles and crossed the wide yard, scanning the crowd, and finally saw him way off to the side, in the willow shadows. The moon had risen full-blown, and in the pale light he looked prematurely apparitional, his white hair and shirt luminous. I took a deep breath to tamp down the fire within me, then sidled up to him and stood there, not speaking, not knowing what to say. Our whole family, he said, breaking the silence. Did you ever see such a crazy bunch? He shook his head and laughed. The fire inside me flared, and the words spilled out in a rush, true as rain. I dont want you to die. He looked surprised, then his forehead wrinkled up in thought. Andrew, at your age deaths just a concept, not a reality. You were really too young towell, appreciate your grandmas death. But youve got to realize that everybodys going to die. Ill die. So will your mama and your daddy and everyone here, though God willing not for a long time. I know, but And when its time, its time, and theres nothing we can do about it. But when youre gone, whos going to take me hunting? Wholl I run with? I want you to see me go to medical school, see me be a doctor like you. He looked pleased. You want to be a doctor? He was surprised! It hadnt occurred to me that I had never told him before, that I had just assumed he knew. I wondered what else I had taken for granted. Well, he said, sounding like he was talking around a mouthful of corn bread. Well, he repeated, softer. Listen, boy, I have to tell you He stopped and thought for a moment, then cleared his throat.

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Andrew, he said finally. I will see you, no matter what. Ill always be there with you. He draped an arm around my shoulders, and it surprised me that our eyes were level. After all, he said, I have to keep an eye on my legacy. The familiar words warmed and sent a shiver through me all at the same time. I nodded, not trusting my voice. Together, shoulder to shoulder, we made our way back to the family. It was way late by now, and everyone had arrived. Wed all chowed down, and the little ones were drooping on their daddies shoulders, reaching sleepy arms out to grab at fireflies or stars. At last, Grandpa stepped up on the porch and stretched. Well, its late. Guess Ill turn in, he said. The mood suddenly grew sober. Good night, Pa, Mama said, hugging him tenderly. I love you. There was a hush as one by one, the family walked by him, giving him a hug or a kiss or, in the case of Uncle Henry, a vigorous handshake and a shoulder pat. As I hugged him, he held me a moment longer. Ill be seeing you, he whispered, and I nodded mutely and moved over so Will and Nan could give him a hug. Then I watched him go in and I prayed, but nothing came back except an unspoken No. We bedded the littler kids down in the two RVs while the adults who hadnt scored a bed either by age or infirmity searched out soft spots to lay their various bones. Will and I, displaced from our rooms, joined Nan and the cousins on blow-up water rafts on the pool deck. We all lay in the dim glow of solar lights, mumbling now and again, our eyes heavy with sleep as the house lights winked out one by one. I stared a long time at my grandpas dark window and finally fell asleep cursing the Gift. I wished I didnt know about it now and I prayed I hadnt inherited the damn thing. I never wanted to know when I was going to die. In the light of morning, the tone was appropriately somber as everyone woke and gathered on the lawn, waiting for Ma to come down with the sad, certain news so the real purpose of the get-together

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could commence. Finally she came out the back door, looking sort of vague. We all stared at her, holding our collective breath. Hes gone, she said, her voice sounding kind of surprised. You could hear everyone exhale. Well, I guess wed better call, Aunt Lydia began, but Ma stopped her. No, I mean hes really gone! Hes not here! Everyone gawked at her like a big old herd of Holsteins chewing their cuds. You could see peoples minds working behind their vacant stares. Praise the Lord, hes risen! Bertha suddenly burst out in a fit of the rapture, but Daddy patted her shoulder. James is a good man, Bertha, but I hardly think Well, where in hell is he? asked Uncle Henry, effectively spanning the entire Kingdom. We drove four hundred miles for this! And I truly do appreciate it, Grandpas voice called out, followed by his actual, nondead being jogging around the corner of the house. Pa? My mother sat down hard on the porch step. Hey, he aint dead! shouted my little cousin Toby, as proud of his discovery as the kid who saw the Emperors nakedness. No shit, Sherlock. His older brother, Punk, smacked him across the head. Thought Id get in an early run, Grandpa said, as though it explained anything. Everyone stood in stunned silence, watching him sweat. Hey, Grandpa, Will said, a weird little grin creeping across his face. Glad you could make it for breakfast. But, Pa, you saidthe Gift, Aunt Lydia stuttered. I didnt say anything. You all figured on your own. But I must say, its sure nice to have everybody together. He looked right at me, as ashamed as a hound dog whod lost his rabbit, and mouthed one word: Sorry. There was a shocked silence. I felt a knife of white-hot anger creeping up from inside and slicing through the knot of sadness in my

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chest. He had known all along and hadnt told me, had allowed me, allowed all of us to suffer! What kind of twisted joke was that? I looked around at my family, gaping open-mouthed, a group of nonstop talkers suddenly shocked into silence. Then I saw my grandfather, still standing there, apparently prepared to be standing for years yet to come, and as I looked at him, alive, vibrant, the sweat of life darkening the front of his T-shirt, my anger fled, replaced by a joy Id never known before. I started to laugh. I couldnt help it and I couldnt stop. I dont know if it was the tension of the past few days, or just my goldurn happiness that Grandpa wasnt dead, but I laughed so hard, I had to sit down. Then Will joined me, and Nan, and suddenly everyone was laughing, and people started running up and hugging Grandpa and each other, and the air was filled with joy and life that vibrated up to the heavens where, I swear, even God was laughing at these damn fools he created. Well, we had ourselves a fine party that day, what with all the food everyone had brought. And there was Grandpa smiling and asking, How many people get to see their own wake? We all talked and ate and hugged and laughed, and it felt real good. Aunt Lydia fluttered around Grandpa, filling his plate with corn bread whenever it was empty, and Mama just walked around, kind of dazed. Henry and Dolly finally had to take off because, as Henry kept reminding us, they had four hundred miles to go, causing Daddy to suggest they get the award for most miles traveled. Before they left, though, Henry suggested we do it again in a month or twoat their house this timeand everyone promised we would, barring any unforeseen eventslike death. Finally everyone was gone, and the brightness of day was fading once more into blued shadows, leaving a fading pink-gold line poking holes through the trees. Will, Nan, and I were sitting on the edge of the pool dangling our feet in the warm water, while Grandpa, Daddy, and Mama were stretched out on lounge chairs, marinating in the weekends memories. We were laughing at some of the stories wed heard when the phone rang and Mama went in to answer it.

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Dyou think Grandpa really will know when hes going to die? Will said in a low voice. Or any of us? Depends. Do you believe in the Gift? I asked. I do, Nan piped up. But not necessarily the gift you mean. Imagineall those people dropped everything to come say good-bye. That someone can be so loved, thats the true gift. I stared at her. Thats one of the things I love about Nanshes so deep. That and her dimples. We were chawing on that thought when Mama came out, visibly shaken. That was Martha Hart, she said. Seems Miss Jeanette Boudreau died in her bed last night. She looked at Grandpa. She had her will and all her official papers laid out on her nightstand, along with directions for her funeral. Mamas voice softened. Martha said she had never seen such peace on a persons face. We all stared at Grandpa, who leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes and nodded, heaving a long, sad sigh that seemed to deflate his body. And as I looked at him, then at Mama and Daddy and Will, I felt a sudden surge of joy. I knew right then that the Gift was real, but that it didnt matter if I had inherited it or not. Either way, the Gift was just one more connection, a spider strand in a web that tied us all to whatever was before, and to whatever would be after.

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Pluto Still Feels Like a Planet to Me

by Mary-Liz Shaw When I was six and a half, I begged my mother to buy a book I saw at the mall. It was metallic orange with a gold sun on the front. No words. Just the pretty picture. When she handed it over, she told me I should write the truth in it. Thats when I saw all of the pages were blank. Here is what I wrote in fat, shaky letters: Hello. I am Nora. My mother is Carla. My grandmother is Sylvie. Carla hates Sylvie. I never wrote anything more in that book. I probably thought I was done. Truth told. The story as I knew it then ended there. Were seeing Sylvie for lunch in Chicago today. It will be the first time Ive seen my grandmother in seven years. I cant call her my grandmother, though. My grandmother doesnt like to be reminded that she is my grandmother. Not that Im awful or anything. Its just that my grandmother doesnt like to be reminded that shes anybodys grandmother. Mom told me to take some notes in the car, stuff that we will talk about with Sylvie. I do this a lot for her, keep notes. Mom says Im better at it, but sometimes I wonder if she just says that to sweet-talk me into doing her work. I came across my little orange book when I was hunting for paper. Why not use it? I thought. I just flipped the first page over. I know more of the story of Sylvie and Carla now, things Mom has told me in her sad moments, when she wasnt thinking. Sylvie wouldnt come home from Morocco to go to Mom and Dads wedding. When Mom was pregnant with me, Sylvie said she was crazy for having a baby with a man who probably wouldnt live to see the child grow up. Actually, that turned out to be true. Not the part about my mom being crazy, the part about my father. He had a heart defect. Daddy used to joke that he was like this old toy you buy at a yard sale: He still worked, just not as well as a brand-new model.

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At Daddys funeral, Sylvie tapped her finger on her shiny black purse and wouldnt look at us, not even once. That was the last time I saw her. As she eases our Saab onto the Kennedy Expressway, Mom reminds me for the 400th time not to call Sylvie Grandma. Sylvie didnt like to be called Mama either, Mom adds. I think she was telling me to call her Sylvie when I was still in the womb. I write down Sylvie = womb in my notebook. Then I cross it out. Sylvie travels all the time. Mom keeps in touch by e-mailing her a couple of times a year: Doing well. Carla. Still here. Car. Noras in 8th. C. Sylvie sends back bizarre replies from the Middle of Wherever: In Jakarta. Thinking of buying llama. S. I print out Sylvies messages and keep them in a folder in my locker. Mom doesnt know that I do this. A few months ago I secretly e-mailed Sylvie my new cell phone number. I had some lame idea that I could get her to come home and be a family with us. Dumb, I know. It didnt matter anyway, because Sylvie didnt respond. She knew better, I guess. But now things are different. Ive been offered a scholarship to an arts academy in Vermont, and Sylvie has to know because we need her help. Sometimes when I get bored, I sit at the piano and make up tunes. One day I plunked out this little jig and filled it in with some chords. Mom really liked it. She told me to write it out in notation. Then I made up longer pieces and soon I had a bunch of tunes. Next thing I know Moms recording me playing my tunes and sending off letters to people about my music. When Montpelier Academy offered me a four-year scholarship to attend high school there, I thought it was a big joke. People dont get whole scholarships for writing a few tunes, I said. They do if the tunes are good, Mom said. Im not really going to go, am I? I asked. Why the hell not? she asked right back. Its only one of the most prestigious schools in the country. So Im going. Except the scholarship wont pay for everything I need. Mom has to ask Sylvie for money. There is no one else to ask.

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Sweat beads slime down the sides of my head. The Saabs AC is shot. Mom points her chin at my notebook. Nora, write down Unseasonably Warm Summer. I look at my list of Topics of General Interest. This is something Mom started years ago to deal with Sylvie. The plan is to have a set of discussion points when conversation with Sylvie rolls to a stop. We cant have that, Mom says, because then Sylvie picks the topic. And its always stuff that no one but Sylvie wants to talk about. Like what? I asked. Republicans? Worse, Mom said. Like, why do I only call her when I want money? I rub my sweaty nose. Unseasonably Warm Summer. Check. Ive also got Whos Better, Mozart or Beethoven? And What Do You Think of the Downgrading of Pluto from Planet to Giant Ice Ball? We were talking about that in Mr. Elliots class. You know, what it means to be a planet and all that. I thought it was pretty interesting. Mom shrugs her shoulders. Well see. Which is what she says when she doesnt like something Ive said. My friend Kerry has lots to talk about with her grandmother. She taught Kerry how to fly-cast for brook trout. Now that I think of it, Kerry just talks about fishing with her grandmother, but it must be fascinating, because Kerry spends entire summers with her grandmother up at Rice Lake and never runs out of conversation. This traffic is unbelievable. Moms voice has that ticked-off tone it gets when shes telling telemarketers to shove it. Where are all these people going at eleven-thirty on a Thursday morning? Maybe we should put Chicago Traffic on our list, I joke as the car in front of us rocks to a stop. Mom brakes fast. The seatbelt yanks me backward, and my notebook slaps into the glove compartment. Idiot! For a split second I think she means me, but then she pounds on the horn.

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We have to meet Sylvie at noon at Michigan Avenue and Oak Street. Its three minutes to noon, and were still a block and a half away. Mom edges over to the curb. Go meet her while I park. No! Not without you. Dont be silly. You can entertain an old woman for a few minutes. I dont even remember what Sylvie looks like. Ive only seen her twice, not counting the funeral. Once was at Six Flags Great America when I was four. I ate a basket of steak fries with barbecue sauce. Sylvie drank from a thermos shed brought with her. She said the sauce looked deeee-licious. Just like that, with that long deeee in the front. The other time was about a month before Daddy died, at Sylvies penthouse in Oak Park. I ate carrot salad with raisins. Sylvie drank four glasses of something she said was iced tea. Then we went for a drive. We counted the oaks until Sylvie got too tired to drive anymore. She parked under a tree and napped sitting up. I cant see inside the windows of Caf Al Forno because the bright sun has turned them into mirrors. I see only myself, my yellow silk sundress sticky and wrinkled and riding up my legs, my hair springing out of its braids. I look like my old Cabbage Patch doll when it went through the wash. Inside, I blink to get the sunspots out of my eyes. Nora? Soft. Low-pitched. In my sun-blindness shes just a silhouette, a black paper cutout. But that voice. A second alto, at least. Maybe lower. She takes my hand at the same moment my eyes start to work again. Shes tall like Mom, but her face is round. Her hair is thick, wiry, reddishthats my hair!and streaked with gray. Should I hug her?

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Shes wearing this long, loose, pink thing with a sparkly trim, probably hand-woven with yaks eyelashes in Timbuktu or something. My grandmother, world traveler. Hello, Grandma. Im glad to see you again. Oh crud. I dropped the G-bomb! But she doesnt seem to notice. She studies me carefully. Her skin is leathery and tan, a mountain-climbers skin. Youre quite pretty, Nora. And please call me Sylvie. I should say something to make up for my blunder, but nothing is coming to me. There are the Topics of General Interest, but now that I see Sylvie up close, I wish Id thought of better ones. Somehow I dont think she cares about our Unseasonably Warm Summer. She points to a plate of bread slices covered with tomato and green specks. Ive ordered us an appetizer. Ive already had a bite or two, Im afraid. As proof, a bit of tomato sticks to her left incisor. Looked too good to wait. We sit. I pull at my gluey dress. Sylvie? Its Mom. I hadnt heard her come in, but here she is at the table, and looking amazing, actually. Her hair, which is jet-black and straightthe opposite of mineis rolled on top of her head in a neat, shiny bun. Her wraparound skirt isnt even rumpled from the car. How did she do that? Carla! Dont you look great! Here, try some of this bruschetta. Its not as good as one I had in Bostons North End last week, but its very tasty. As my grandmother fusses with her napkin, Mom flashes me a look. Are you O.K.? I open my eyes wide. Are you? Its good to see you again, Sylvie, Mom says. You look great, too. No I dont, Sylvie grunts. So what have you two been up to for the past what is it? Seven years?

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She puts it like a question, but it sounds to me like Sylvie knows exactly how long its been since shes seen us. And I think Mom hears it that way, too. Because her eyes land smack on my grandmother. Sylvie plows on: Nora looks like a young woman now. I dont suppose it occurred to you to send me a picture in all those years? She sucks her teeth, stuffs a huge piece of appetizer in her mouth, and mumbles, No. Typical. Mom is this close to telling Sylvie to shove it, I can tell. She doesnt respond right away, but shes breathing hard, preparing to strike. Then it comes. You just wouldve lost them, Sylvie, like you lost everything else. Husbands, daughters, weekends. A lot of lost weekends. All gone in a haze ofwhat was it you told Nora you were drinking that day? Oh yeah. Iced tea. She laughs, but there is no fun in the sound. Its all lost in a haze of iced tea, Sylvie. Now Sylvie does the knife eyes. So thats where Mom gets it. Carla, we are not going to go into all that again. Mom squints out the window at some dude trying to rescue his quarter before it drops down the sewer. Fine, she says. Lets just get lunch. Right on cue, my stomach growls. I hug myself to make it shut up. But it doesnt matter anyway, because neither of them looks at me. Sylvie slaps the table. We only drove four blocks, for Gods sake. Besides She leans forward as if to tell us a secret, I gave all that up long ago. Its over. Mom rolls her eyes. Like Ive never heard that one before. Mom and Sylvie are talking loud enough that the people at the next table are looking sideways at us. I pretend theres absolutely nothing wrong by studying the triangular specialty drinks menu hugging the salt and pepper. Theres a drink called Absolut Trouble. Mom doesnt think I know what she and Sylvie are talking about, but I do. Its alcohol abuse. Mrs. Spencer explained the whole thing in our Health Maintenance unit. We watched a movie about this idiot who drank, like, a whole case of beers with his friends and then

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hopped in a car and started running over people on the sidewalk. Then it showed this girl. She filled a thermos with alcohol, drank it at school, and then fell asleep in the bathroom with her head in the toilet. It was the thermos that did it. I remembered Sylvie sipping from her thermos at Six Flags. And then I remembered Sylvie sleeping in the car in Oak Park. I asked Mrs. Spencerin a general, Ive-got-thisfriend way. She told me my friend has an addiction and may have a tough time quitting. She told me I should try to forgive my friend. You always did overreact, Carla. Sylvie flings her napkin on top of her plate and turns to me. I remember the time your mother fell off Johnny Gilmores skateboard and got a scrape on her palm. Just a wee scrape. But she screamed to beat the band. I thought we were going to have to call in the National Guard to sandbag those tears. Ive never heard about Moms childhood. She doesnt talk about it. Oh, and that singing recital. There she was with the pink tiara on her head, and when the music starts, what does she do? She clams up, paralyzed with stage fright. Im in the audience flapping my elbows like an old crow, Sylvie swats her hands in the air, conductor-style, to get her to open her mouth. Nothing! Mom looks tight and cold, like a chunk of ice that refuses to melt. She scowls at the window, her fists stuffed high into her armpits. Carla just stood there sobbing like a leaky hose, poor dear, Sylvie says. Then she shrugs the memory away. All that over a silly afternoon recital. A waiter comes by with water. Mom wont look at us. Sylvie taps her nails on her glass. I am scared of who they are with each other. Mom is spinning one way, Sylvie another. I feel like if I dont do something, theyll collide and smash into a gazillion angry atoms. I have to talk. Now. But all I have are the Topics of General Interest, which are totally lame now that I think about it.

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Who do you like better, Sylvie, Beethoven or Mozart? Beethovens symphonies are the best, for sure, but I think Mozarts sonatas rock, especially Number 8 in A Minor. Sylvie looks at me like Ive just told her Ill be swimming home backwards. New topic, Nora. Think. Mom guzzles her water, slams the glass down. Sylvie watches with her mouth pinched so tight, its like her lips have collapsed into a black hole. Black hole outer space Pluto! I can talk about Pluto, the ice ball formerly known as a planet. Pluto, I suddenly remember, doesnt circle the Sun like the other planets. It has a weird, elliptical orbit, a ruined circle. What wrecked its circle? I turn once more to my grandmother. But Mom is there already. Sylvie, I called you because I need money. What a surprise, Sylvie deadpans. Noras been offered a scholarship to Montpelier. Sylvie squints at Mom, as if shes having trouble seeing her all the way across the table. Youre really going to send Nora to Montpelier? Im not sending her. She wants to go. Sylvie folds her hands on the table in front of her. Her breath eases out in a long, slow sigh. Carla, Ive told you many times, it wasnt my fault that you didnt get in. You failed your audition. Wait. What? Didnt get in where? Mom, what are you guys talking about? Mom stands up so fast, her chair wobbles. And how would you know? You were dr She looks at me, then changes her mind about what she was going to say. You fell asleep halfway through it. Sylvie stays seated. Her fingers are bony and full of blue veins that pulse through the leathery skin. You stiffened up straight as a polesame as always. Face it, Carla, you suffer from terrible stage fright.

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Mom lets out another joyless laugh. She flings on her shoulder bag so hard that it whomps her in the back. Right, Sylvie. Of course it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that during one of the most important moments of my life, my own mother was in the second row snoring like a frickin dinosaur! Sylvie gazes at my mother for a few seconds. I told you I was sorry a long time ago, Carla. But youve never considered that people can change. Not even yourself. As Mom drags me out of the caf, I keep my eyes on my grandmother. I can sense her collecting parts of me in the instant before the door closes. The smell of garlic and roasted pepper slips up my nose, and a picture of Sylvie sitting alone at the table burns my eyes. Then all I see is my mother and me in the sun-mirror windows of Al Forno. I rip my hand free. I want to go back with Sylvie. She wont answer, so I jump ahead to another part of the story. I know about the alcohol. And I dont care. She said she gave it up. Mom swings around to study me for a few seconds. Then she reaches across my shoulders to walk me toward our car. I squirm to a stop. Why did you even apply for me to go to Montpelier? Is that where you wanted to go? I hate the way my own voice sounds right nowhigh and off-key with panic. I try to tune down to the low vrurrr of Michigan Avenue traffic. Is this some weird, twisted thing where Im supposed to live the life you didnt get or something? The sun stings as I try to stare her down. She wont answer. She wont even look at me. Shes just scuffing at the pavement like a kid. You lied, I tell her. Her head snaps up. You didnt tell me, I try again. Thats like a lie. Her eyes freeze into a glare. She whirls around and power walks to the car, her clogs going thwok, thwok, thwok against her heels.

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When we reach the Saab, she does what shes done since I was old enough to climb into the car on my own: she holds open the door for me like a chauffeur. As I slide in, I glimpse a sparkle on my mothers cheek. Then I see that big tears are blurring her eyes. I teeter back up and clutch her. Hard. We cling to each other in the middle of Michigan Avenue.

Were back on the Kennedy. We havent tried talking to each other again yet. I have been thinking about Montpelier. Mom was like a crazy woman when the scholarship letter came. She jumped up and gave out this odd sound, like a squeal, she was so happy. She beamed gigantic smiles at me for days. I thought maybe it wasnt such a great idea for me to move so far away, but she brushed it off. Oh, youll be fine, she said. But it wasnt me I was worried about. Suddenly the Saab swerves across two lanes and lurches onto the shoulder of the expressway. The lane feels like its about six inches wide. Cars and trucks whip by us like gunfire. Mom, I dont think were allowed to stop here. I didnt lie to you. Its not safe O.K., maybe I shouldve said something about Montpelier. Three cars practically honk their horns right off at us. One guy flips the bird. Mom drops back against the seat and closes her eyes. It suddenly feels like weve been in this car for ten years. Do you know that day she was slumped over and she was leaning on this other kids father, snoring away. Lord. She sniffs hard, shakes her head. Then she woke up and was yelling at the top of her lungs about how for such a hoity-toity arts school, they sure as hell had lousy acoustics. I cant hear my daughter! I cant hear my daughter! Sing louder, honey! Mom coughs out a sorry-sounding chuckle. I couldnt go back there. I called them the next day and withdrew my application.

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A semi barrels down on our left, its horn going off like a tornado siren. Mom sits up at last, rams the Saab into gear, and noses back onto the road. As we pass over Oak Park, I trace my finger along a tear in the black leather of my seat. Im sorry. Mom grabs my hand but says nothing back. After a few minutes, she resettles her butt and grins. Guess what I heard on NPR the other day? She has such good tone. You can tell shes a good singer just by the way she talks. Theyve come up with a new term for what Pluto is. The Big Ass Ice Ball? Nora! But shes laughing. Theyre calling it a plutoid. Jeez. I know, doesnt that sound dumb? Mom giggles. Plutoid. Just saying it out loud makes me laugh. Pluto was such a great name for a planet. Maybe they felt like they wanted to hang onto it somehow, keep a piece of the old, great name. They should just let it go. Mr. Elliot says that if we dont keep adjusting the way we think about things, well get stuck and we wont be able to think anything new. Mom? She hums her favorite Aimee Mann song, about someone trapped in a life for the sake of momentum. Mom, I think Sylvies better now. She stops humming. Doesnt look at me. Will you let Sylvie visit me in Vermont? A strange buzz-buzz-buzz fills the car as a million baby pins poke into my hip. On the second round of buzzes and pinpricks, I realize that its my cell phone. Id shoved it into my dress pocket this morning. I did it out of habit; I didnt need it. No one ever calls me on it except Mom. Hello?

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The signal is weak. I hear a voice that sounds like its on the other side of Lake Michigan. My heart drums double time. Sylvie? The car swerves crazily for an instant before Mom recovers from the shock. Sylvie says nothing more, but I sense her there, waiting to speak. Mom shouts for Sylvies benefit, Ask her what she wants. There are pops and crackles, then my grandmothers voice like a distant ripple on the water. Nora, Im not trying to cause trouble between you and your mother. I turn toward the window. Whatever shes saying about me, Sylvie says, its probably true. Whatever shes saying, Nora, Mom shouts, dont believe her. I turn back to my mother. Ive got Sylvie on my phone and Carla in my eyes. Sylvie, I say at last. Did you know that theyre calling Pluto a plutoid now? In spite of herself, Mom cracks a half-smile at the word. The poor thing, Sylvie says. How embarrassing for it. Ill always think of Pluto as a planet. I snigger loudly. Moms eyebrows shoot right through the roof of the car. She wants me to explain it all, what with Sylvie calling me and making me laugh and everything. It is a lot to take in, I guess. But Mom can figure it out if she thinks about it. Pluto still feels like a planet to me, too, Sylvie. But it isnt a planet. It doesnt even orbit like a planet. We have to let go of what we thought it was. I peek over at Mom, who is still looking seriously confused. And then I speak up so they can both hear me. Its something different now. Its this new thinga plutoid. A brave, new plutoid! Mom collapses forward, laughing. Quit saying that! Im trying to drive here. My mothers soprano giggles quiver at the top of the scale,

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while through the phone I detect a new soundmy grandmother is laughing, too. She chuckles low and steady in her amazing alto. I can hear the perfect harmony.

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by Natalie Haney Tilghman Who do you need? Mrs. Kaye, the algebra teacher, asks Mr. Johnson, who is hanging from the doorway of James Turners algebra class as if about to do one of his famous pull-ups. In addition to running the Resource Room, Mr. Johnson also coaches Carl Sandburg High Schools junior varsity soccer team, and he always dresses in warm-up pants and sneakers. I need James Turner, replies Mr. Johnson. James is not looking at the unsolved equations that swim across the chalkboard. He is studying his binder where he keeps a picture of his adopted humpback whale, Salt, in the front pocket. Along with the photo, the New England Whale Conservatory sent an adoption certificate, an I Love Whales button, and an access code to a Web site where James can locate his humpback at any time, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Salt is forty feet long and named after the tiny white scars sprinkled on his flukes. From the picture, Salts eyes, the size of teacups, seem to lock with Jamess. Usually, this kind of stare would bother James, and he would avert his eyes to the floor, ceiling, or walls. But with Salt, its been different from the beginning. James can look into the whales unblinking eyes forever. Through those eyes, James sees brown kelp swaying in the current and the silver fish flashing like polished coins. He hears the booming silence of deep water where Salt and his tiny pod gather. Anyone else? Mrs. Kaye asks. James waits. Last year, in middle school, his best friend, Sam Pick, always got called out, too. Sam has trouble with reading and doesnt know words that everyone else learned back in sixth grade. But what most people dont know about Sam is that he can identify almost any species of spider, even from a picture, and he owns a tarantula named Sparky. Mr. Johnson fingers the whistle around his neck. Just James.

Whale Boy

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In the Resource Room, James will have to role-play with people like Bobby Canker, whose face is pocked with pimples. Mr. Johnson will probably ask questions about their summer vacations. Worse yet, James might have to mimic the facial expressions shown to him on flashcards: happy, sad, mad. James never has as much trouble understanding whales. Each night, he dives beneath the covers in his bed and listens to humpback songs on CD. Short clicks, ghostly cries, playful whistles, swooning ballads. Sometimes, he speaks back, opening his throat and releasing high-pitched sounds that float up from some deep place inside of him. As he walks toward the front of the classroom, James holds his breath. Given the right conditions, humpback whales can hold their breath for thirty-five minutes underwater. But unlike humans, their breathing is voluntary, so they have to remember to surface for air. James practices holding his breath in case he ever gets the chance to meet Salt. One minute and five seconds is his best time. As he hurries past Charlie Coxsons desk, James feels a rubber band hit his butt. Charlie Coxson snickers. This sort of thing has happened ever since James was paired with Charlie for a group project during the first week of school. James couldnt pass up the opportunity to tell Charlie, the captain of the junior varsity soccer team, about steps humans can take to ensure the survival of endangered species like the humpback whale. Charlie furrowed his brows in a way that either meant he was interested or annoyed by the information, James couldnt tell which. A few days later, Charlie handed James a brown paper bag addressed to Whale Boy. When James opened the bag, he found dog poop inside. Charlie, surrounded by some of his laughing teammates, slapped James roughly on the back. You know, you smell like shit, man, Charlie said, sniffing at his own underarms and wrinkling his nose in disgust. Use some deodorant. James cant understand why Charlie is so popular. Yet, in addition to being the highest scorer on the soccer team, Charlie is also one of the best artists in the school. The painting teacher loves to hang Charlies work in the hall. His style is supposed to be abstract or

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modern, but every painting just looks like a graying bruise to James. The paintings puzzle James, and right after the first batch was hung, he spent a lot of time lingering in the hallway, trying to understand them. Once he turned his head sideways and noticed that, from that angle, one of the bruises looked a lot like Salt with glasses. It made him laugh aloud. Unfortunately, Charlie Coxson was coming out of the Guidance Office at that exact moment. Hed had it in for James ever since.

In a double period of biology class the next day, James and Sam Pick hover over their dissected frog, pinning its flayed skin to a board. Over the summer, Sam has changed. He doesnt wear glasses or the Got Arachnophobia? T-shirts from the zoo as he did in eighth grade. His shaggy brown hair has been clipped short, and now Sam sits with the soccer guys at lunch, because he made backup goalie on the junior varsity team. But the biggest change of all, of course, is that Sam doesnt go to the Resource Room anymore. So what are you going to do this weekend? Sam asks. James hasnt really thought about it. Probably study more about the eating habits of humpbacks in the Gulf of Maine. Salt is there right now. I think his diet probably consists of mostly eel, mackerel, krill, that sort of thing. If Im right, hes eating like two thousand pounds of copepods a day right now to bulk up for his trip down south. You really are still way into that whale stuff, huh? Sam pinches the frogs gray heart with his tweezers. Every day after school, James rushes home to track Salts location online. He types in the Web address, imagining himself next to Salt, gliding through icy waters or circus-colored reefs in a wet suit. Salts location always shows up as a pulsing red dot on the computer screen. Each day, the dot moves somewhere new, and over the course of the year, Salt usually swims some five thousand miles from the Gulf of Maine to the coast of Argentina and back. James memorizes the latitude and longitude of Salts location like its an address somewhere in

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Philadelphia, and secretly hopes that one day he can join Salt on his annual migration, traveling with the marine researchers and scientists. Salts behind his usual migration pattern. James thinks of how Salts dot has been stalled in the Gulf of Maine for days. He should be off the coast of Virginia by now. Its not a good sign. But Sam seems not to have heard him. His blue eyes flicker. Hey, James, did you check out that new reality show where guys dress up like superheroes and knock each other out? James pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. No, but I saw this awesome special on black widow spiders the other night. Reminded me of Sparky. Sparkys dead. Sam pokes at the frogs intestines. Jamess underarms are wet; he doesnt know what to say next. He reminds himself that people like to talk about themselves. Thats what Mr. Johnson always says. So did you get another tarantula? James asks. Nah, Sam says. Its not a big a deal or anything. Im not that into spiders anymore, anyway. And with soccer, I dont have time to do the feedings. The stink of formaldehyde sickens James, and he wonders what happened to all the facts about spiders that Sam used to know. Maybe Sam stores them in his brain, like books on a shelf, to be checked out at a later time. This is something Mr. Johnson is always advising James to do with his interest in whales when he talks to others. Youre not into spiders anymore, James repeats. Girls, man, girls, Sam says with a widening smile. He wears those clear-colored braces that you cant notice unless youre really close to the person. Im into girls. How bout you? James raises one eyebrow. Everything about girls makes him nervous: their flowery smell, their soundalike giggles, and especially their high-pitched chatter. Girls steal all of the words James wants to say before they leave his mouth. Just thinking about the time he had to partner with his neighbor, Sophia Lucca, in Italian class last year

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makes Jamess palms damp. The sweaters Sophia Lucca wears look soft. And her hair reminds James of the chocolate curls his mother shaves onto the top of her cakes. Im too busy. Jamess cheeks glow. Way too busy. With what, man? Sam dangles the frogs entrails too close to Jamess T-shirt. Your whale? Sam leans in closely. Hey, doesnt Sophia Lucca live across the street from you? James nods, frowning a little. Sophias clear across the room, but he doesnt want to speak about her when shes close enough so that he can see her black curls, the smooth curve of her cheek. James went to the wakehis first everfor Sophias father last year. At first, it had reminded James of the cocktail parties that his dad and mom liked to throwmen in suits, women in pearls, too many flowers, and talking, lots of talking. But at the front of the room, a coffin yawned open, and Mr. Lucca was laid out on its satin tongue. Nearby, Sophia, her white blouse damp with tears, stood next to Mrs. Lucca and her sister, Anna Maria. To see Sophia that wayface crumpled, eyes ringed with redfelt wrong, as if James had walked in on her getting dressed. Even now, months later, he still catches sight of her some afternoons, tucked into a corner of the Luccas porch swing, crying. Her fathers dead, James says abruptly. Well, shes still hot. Sam wiggles his eyebrows up and down, something he never did before. I wonder if shed like to get together after school. James feels as though something has pricked his heart. The stinging pain is new and wont go away. Maybe it is because in eighth grade, Sam used to invite James over on weekends to hang out in his tree house and feed Sparky the Tarantula. Sometimes, Sams mother even took them to the insect exhibit at the zoo, where the boys liked to look at the screaming cockroaches and the Australian walking sticks. James suddenly wishes that he tried out for soccer with Sam. Not that he would have made the cut. He was always chosen last for dodge ball in middle school, because he sometimes fell to the ground to avoid getting hit as the ball whizzed by.

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I dont think Sophia likes soccer players. James has never noticed her playing with a ball. What guido doesnt love soccer? Sam chuckles. James has never heard that term guido before, but hes pretty sure it isnt a word Sophias Italian grandmother would like. She came over to Jamess house once with a measuring cup to borrow olive oil. Sophias grandmother wore ropes of gold around her neck and wrists and smelled like licorice. After two cups of coffee with Jamess mom, she left, shaking her head and chuckling over a can of nonstick cooking spray Jamess mother had given her. So can you hook me up with her or what, man? Sams cheeks burn so pink then that he looks like Kimberly Troust, whose rouge is always three shades too dark. The last time Sam blushed like that was in eighth gradehe pronounced organism as orgasm when reading aloud in class. Sam wipes at his cheeks now as if that will erase the rogue blaze of color. By the way, nice threads. Most mornings, James just throws on whatever shirt isnt on his bedroom floor. He looks down and sees its the Bodacious Bugs shirt that he got at the zoo with Sam a year ago. An embarrassing yellow blobone that could easily be mistaken as pee stainscreams out from the bottom of the shirt. Thanks? James asks because he cant tell if Sam means to compliment him or rip on him. I remember when we saw those Australian walking sticks. Sams face softens with the memory. They were camouflaged so well that, like, even the entomologist couldnt find them. It really makes me wonder what happened to my shirt from the exhibit. Maybe I outgrew it or something. Hope unfolds in Jamess chest. Heres the Sam he knows. If you want, James offers, you can have mine. Sam points at his vintage Philadelphia Phillies jersey. In case you havent noticed, Im way into retro shirts now. Since his family is originally from New York and his dad is a Yankees fan, Sam hates the

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Phillies. Or he used to, anyway. So, have you started your project yet? Everyone in the class has to make a habitat diorama and write a report on the animal of their choosing. James spent hours cutting out pictures of humpbacks from Ranger Rick, Zoobooks, and National Geographic and pasting them into a wooden box he made. He then typed every whale fact he knew by heart into the report, things like (1) humpbacks are solitary creatures that spend most of their lives alone or in small groups, and (2) a humpbacks heart can weigh up to three times as much as a human being. That morning, on a whim, James also removed Salts picture from his binder to include it in his diorama. James thought if the other kids actually took the time to look at Salt, they might notice the unique spotted pattern on his flukes. James would tell them that, just like fingerprints, no two sets of whale flukes are the same. Actually, Ive got my project right here, James says. You want to see a picture of Salt? Sam snaps his gum and nods. James retrieves his diorama from the radiator. Sam used to like it when they watched Jamess Jacques Cousteau videos or pretended to be scuba divers in Jamess pool. Its a good sign that Sam seems interested in marine life again. A very good sign. James speaks to the picture. Salt, meet Sam. Sam, meet Salt. Hi, Salt. Sam smiles and puts his hand on Jamess shoulder. James, youre one weird dude. While they are dissecting the frog and talking, James forgets all about their in-class experiment. Steam puffs from the beaker, and without hesitating, Sam adds red chemicals from a test tube, calming the bubbling mixture. Mr. Williams strolls by and compliments the boys on a successful reaction. Look, people, he calls out to the class. Heres a couple of guys who have been paying attention. Most of the class quietly groans, and James notices Charlie Coxson shaking his head.

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I dont know what Im doing, Sam says loudly, rubbing at his cheeks, which are still the color of a girls. James is the brains of our operation. Well, good teamwork, anyway, Mr. Williams calls back, moving on to the next table. Sam pushes Jamess diorama away. I havent even started my project yet. All that research makes my frickin head hurt. James returns his diorama to the radiator, and for the rest of the class period, he pretends to read the next experiments instructions, but the clocks ticking taunts him. A whale song bobs like a jellyfish in his throat. While James holds his breath, he imagines diving deep to a place in the ocean where no one can find him, a place even the suns rays cant reach. Down there, the only light comes from the iridescent scales of fish.

Later in the day, Charlie comes into the Resource Room, and a shudder echoes through Jamess body before he realizes that Charlie isnt joining them. Hes there only to see Mr. Johnson. The soccer coach stops midlesson and draws Charlie to the back of the room, one arm around his shoulder. Mr. Johnson cocks Charlies head to one side and gently touches the bruise under his eye. Charlie pulls away and faces the back wall, just the way James does sometimes when the questions are too many and too frequent. James even recognizes the way Charlies shoulders slump and shake. Charlies tough, Sam told him last year before he became part of Charlies team. He lives alone with his dad in Blair Creek. Through Charlies military-style buzz, James makes out dark nicks here and there, scarring on Charlies scalp. James cant stop looking, not even when Charlie finally raises his head and turns toward Mr. Johnson, who offers him the Nike sports towel he carries in his back pocket. Charlie wipes his face, and his eyes meet Jamess. When Mr. Johnson lets James go back to class a few minutes later,

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Charlie is waiting for him in the empty hallway. He pushes James hard against the lockers. What were you looking at back there, huh?

After school, James continues to monitor Salts migration; every five minutes he refreshes the Web page that shows Salts location. The red dot lodges itself in the far right corner of the computer screen, the same place it has been for days. James tries talking to the dot, coaxing it to move south and then willing it to budge with his eyes. Nothing works. By dinnertime, Salts dot has not moved. James imagines that Salt could have been hit by a ships propeller, tangled in a fishing net, or attacked by a shark. In all likelihood, Salt might be anchored in the shadowy depths of the sea, so James dials the New England Whale Conservatorys number. As the phone rings, he cracks each knuckle on his hand. The tiny popping sounds give him some relief. Finally, a low voice answers. The New England Whale Conservatory. I have a marine mammal emergency, James shouts, probably louder than he should have. The man exhales noisily. Listen, son, is this some sort of prank call? Cause I dont have the time This is James Turner. His voice is shaking, and James suddenly realizes that he hasnt eaten all day. Hes been so worried that he forgot to have breakfast or lunch. My adopted whale, Saltwell, the online tracker has shown him in the same place for the last five days. Out in the Gulf of Maine. Im sure its nothing to worry about. It might be a technological glitch on our end. The system might be acting funny or something. But he usually migrates south now. At least he did last year. He made it all the way to Tierra del Fuego with his pod. So I think hes lost or needs help. Do you need the geographical coordinates? I have them here, longitude and latitude.

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You know that some humpbacks dont migrate every year, right? The young ones especially. It just takes some time for them to get into the routine. I know that, James says. But Salts almost six years old now. Might be a late bloomer, the man says. But Im only the receptionist. So Ill let the bigwigs here know you called. In the meantime, try not to worry too much. Why dont you go out and play for a while, son, think about something else? By the time you come in for supper, your whale might be back on track again. James plods out into his front yard in his thin T-shirt, even though its too cold to be outside with no jacket. Across the way, Sophia rocks back and forth on the Luccas porch swing with a blanket on her lap. Her eyes seem to be focused on something far away, but when James follows her gaze, he only sees the rest of the subdivision, row after row of cloned houses. James remembers Sams request then, but just as hes about to leave his yard to talk to Sophia, her grandmother comes out of the front door with a laundry basket full of clothes balanced on her hip. Since Sophias grandmothers lips are full of clothespins, she waves at him. James can feel Sophia watching him then, so he pretends to be interested in the spider crawling up the tree in front of him. The spider is climbing slowly across the ridges of the trees bark when, out of nowhere, a bird swoops down from a higher branch, beak open. In a blur of feathers, the spider vanishes.

In the middle of the night, James wakes and checks the tracking Web site again on the computer. The good news is that Salt has finally stirred. His red dot hovers closer to the Canadian coast in Georges Bank. The bad news is that Salt is heading in the wrong direction. Instead of navigating south toward the Carolinas, Salt is swimming toward the rocky New England shoreline. James wipes his palms on his pajamas and refreshes the page. He doesnt remember going back to bed that night, but when he finally wakes up again, it is midmorning on Saturday, the phones

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ringing, and his heart is racing. His parents must have gone out; the last voice-mail beep clicks as James races into the kitchen, hoping that the New England Whale Conservatory returned his call. There are six unheard messages. The first two messages are for Jamess mother, the next is a patient calling for his dad, and the fourth is a wrong number. James feels as if hes swallowed a bucket of sea urchins and their spiny bodies are rolling around in his stomach, so he sucks in a breath and holds it. The fifth recorded message seems promising: This message is for Mr. James Turner. Im Dr. Thomas Landry, a marine biologist, with the New England Whale Conservatory. We appreciate your support of humpback whales, given their endangered species status. James exhales, and the tight feeling in his chest loosens. The scientists got his message, and they are watching Salt. They care about Salt as much as James does. Your interest in marine-life conservation is greatly appreciated. Wed like to take this opportunity to remind you that your membership is about to expire. Please renew your adoption of Salt by calling our toll-free number today. James bangs his head on the table. How could the scientists not think a missing whale is a big deal? Better yet, how could the whole world not think a missing whale is a big deal? Maybe its easier for people to care about completely trivial stuff, like soccer and the retro Phillies shirts and girls, than about the impending extinction of an entire species. The last message starts then. Its Sam, but voices in the background make it hard to hear him. Hey, buddy, whats up? Just wanted to see hang out tomorrow after school. Meet me seventh period at my locker. Ive got show you. Later, man. James listens to the message again to make sure he heard right. It is true. Sam wants to hang out again. James imagines how theyll search Sams backyard for spiders, just like old times, peeling back layers of tree bark and parting clumps of grass until one of them discovers a wolf spider or even a black widow. After, they might go up to

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Sams room to research the scientific names of the specimens they caught. Maybe Sam will tell James that he quit the soccer team and hopes that James has some time on his hands to help out. With what? James might ask, his heart inflating in his chest. Sam will pull a tablecloth off a large tank, with a flick of his wrist, to reveal the surprisehis newest tarantula, Sparky II.

After seventh period on Monday, James approaches Sams locker. In his hand, James holds a temporary tattoo of a tarantula hed gotten from donating to the zoo and saved for Sam. James searches the sea of kids and sees Sam standing with the soccer guys. Charlie Coxson and his friends could be ganging up on Sam, who is the shortest boy in the ninth-grade class. James licks the sweat off his upper lip. The bruise under Charlies eye is turning the greens and browns of a rotten banana. Warily, James approaches the group by Sams locker. Sam? James says. Sam shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The name on Sams soccer jersey reads Lil Prick instead of Lil Pick. Someone added the makeshift r with black masking tape. Charlie shoves Sam forward. Tell him whats up, Prick. James grips the straps of his backpack to keep his hands from trembling. He thinks of Sams message and wonders if it was Charlies laughter that made Sams voice so hard to understand. I got something for you, James. Sam searches the soccer guys faces for approval. A couple of the kids bite their lips to keep from laughing. Among them is Roger Doyle, who bunked with James at Cub Scout camp years ago and used to be a bedwetter. People somehow forget about that, now that he hosts house parties so large and loud the police show up. James tells his legs to move, but theyve already grown roots. So he studies the tile floor, focusing on gum wrappers, a detention slip, and

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the crumpled page from a girls fashion magazine. His eyes finally rest on the profile of a whale he drew with a blue pen on his Converse sneaker. Hey, Whale Boy. Charlie claps his hands near Jamess face. Wake up and get with the program. Come on, Sam says. Just look here for a minute, James. James raises his eyes slowly until he sees it. Sam pushes Jamess half-smashed diorama toward him. Hearts are drawn around the whale-fluke photos with red lipstick. Some of the breaching humpbacks have penises. And Jamess only picture of Salt is gone. Jamess legs threaten to melt beneath him. He searches Sams face. Wheres Salt? Gone forever, Sam says. Something tugs the corners of Sams mouth down for a second. But then Roger shoves Sam, and they both snicker. The temporary tattoo James brought for Sam flutters to the ground. As some of the soccer boys thump Sam on the back and welcome him to the team, Sophia Lucca walks up to her locker and begins unloading her books. A sad song that sounds as if it were composed by the last humpback on earth buoys up in Jamess throat. James holds his breath, trying to pretend that he is floating alongside Salt. His face glows red, and he takes a sip of sweet air. The song waits on Jamess tongue, and even though James swallows several times to force it back down, the dirge overcomes him like a frothing ocean wave. He bellows out mournful notes. Even as the other guys hoot and pound their cleats on the tile, James continues to sing. His voice swells, crescendoing from a low moan to a high shriek. James sings until his voice overpowers the teams laughter and Sams chanting of Whale Boy. He sings until his voice is all he can hear. Charlie seems disappointed by Jamess performance. His eyes meet Jamess briefly before he starts back to the locker room, pulling

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Sams collar as if Jamess old friend were on a leash. The rest of the boys follow, imitating Jamess clicks and whistles. Only Sophia Lucca remains in the hallway. Her eyebrows fold in toward each other. Oh, James. From the way her eyes fill, he imagines, for a second, that she might join him, their voices braiding together into a melancholy duet.

At home, James drops his backpack in the foyer and half staggers toward the family computer. His fingers pelt the keyboard. The red dot showing Salts location remains 170 miles east of Cape Cod. Worry tangles his insides into knots, and he cracks his knuckles to keep his arms from flapping with all his nervous energy. If only James could fast-forward the next years of his life, so that hed be old enough to join the researchers and marine biologists on the migration trips. He would spot Salt lobtailing near the boat and he would sing, communicating all of his questions, secrets, ideas, and pain in a way he never could to other kids at school. Hed sing to help Salt find his way to safety. Maybe Salt would answer back, slapping his pectoral fin on the water or spouting from his blowhole. James is sure that he and Salt speak the same language, a secret code composed of long silences and few words. The mutual understanding between Salt and James would puzzle and amaze the other scientists, who have studied the songs for years and write lengthy papers in prestigious journals on the smallest and most insignificant discoveries.

James makes his way up to his bedroom, finding it hard to even lift his feet to climb the stairs. He thinks that this might be how it feels to be drowning and know that no one is coming to save you. In his bedroom, its dark, but James doesnt bother opening the blinds or flipping on the light. He turns on the CD player, surrounding himself with the company of singing whales. James imagines Salts last

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swimalgae blossoming around him and plankton riding the oceans currents like windblown pollen. A school of sequined fish darts in and out of the sea grass. Maybe Salt notices his lone shadow, dark against the sand, and tries to call out to his pod. More than likely, though, Salts echolocation is impaired. With his internal compass broken, Salt navigates toward shallow waters and the shore, his own air bubbles a little net around him, reveling in the way his silvery body creates its own wake.

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Christmas in the Desert

by Jessica Senn Christmas at my grandparents hasnt been fun since their friend who played Santa died. It happened five years ago, right after my tenth birthday. Dad told me Bill Weathers died, and I said, Who? and he said, Santa. The next year, my cousins from San Diego moved to Denver, and the year after that, my dad had an affair with my friends mom. (Im not supposed to know this, but my friend Rachel, whose mom it was, told me. Obviously.) So now just a few of us make the trek out to Palm SpringsAunt Lisa and my cousin Kyle from Irvine, and Dad, Ben, and me from L.A. Ben and I usually arrive early on the twenty-third and leave before the sun comes up on Christmas Day. Dad drives us back to Moms house, and we go straight into the living room to open presents, as if wed never left. Grandpa tries to make their house festive by threading bulky colored lights through the palm trees, but hes getting too old to reach the high branches and half of the bulbs are burnt out. The trees end up looking like neon signs with missing letters. Me ry Chris mas. This year Dad brought his girlfriend, Gwen. Shes not as pretty as Natalia, the dental hygienist he dated last year, but shes closer to Dads age and has shiny, blond hair that looks straight out of a Pantene commercial. Gwen teaches first grade, and she has that permanent smile that appeals to kids Bens age. But it doesnt work on me. She usually avoids me altogether, or scratches nervously at her arm while I talk to Dad. I could ignore Dads other girlfriends, but Gwens the first one hes brought to Christmas. Yesterday, on the drive out from L.A., she sat in the front seat humming along to the radio and smiling at Dad as if theyd be together forever. His family never liked my momthe first time she met my grandparents, she made the mistake of staying inside to read while everyone else played tennisso Im counting on everyone to be equally horrified by Gwen.

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Right now shes out golfing with my dad, Kyle, and Grandpa. I volunteered to stay home and watch Ben swim. It wasnt exactly a sacrifice. When I was in middle school, Dad signed me up for golf lessons, but I never learned to hold the club like a baby bird or whatever. Im much better at tanning. The trick is to lie completely still, until it feels like the sun is going to cook your skin through to the bone. When a breeze comes and washes the heat away, you have to start over. Im lying flat on my back on a chaise lounge while Ben swims in the pool next to me. He doesnt understand why I would rather lie here like a dead person than dive for quarters with him. Every few minutes, he deposits a dripping handful of coins on the concrete and asks me to toss them again. He likes the way I do it, all dramatically, using my legs to spring up and propel the coins in a tall arc over the water. I hear his wet hand slap the concrete and I sigh. I have a really good burn going across my stomachmoving would ruin it. I turn my head slowly to look at him. Hes wearing green, too-tight goggles that my grandma pulled from a box in the garage this morning. The elastics all faded and uneven, like it could snap at any moment. Can you throw them yourself this time? I say. My stomach is on fire, and I fantasize about the sharp line the suns leaving along the edge of my bikini. Ben pushes the pile of quarters around with his thumb and frowns. He keeps staring at me until I give in and walk over to him, burning my feet on the concrete. I stand in the puddle near the coins and scrape them off the ground with my nails. The midnight blue polish on my index finger is starting to chip. Ben bounces at the edge of the pool while I wind up for the toss. I fake him out a few times, jerking my arm up without letting go. This really drives him crazy, and he laughs this high-pitched, nervous laugh. Finally, I throw them, and more than half land in the deep end. That should keep him busy for at least six minutes. Hes a good swimmer, but I still feel panicky when he goes under for too long. I sit down on the edge of the pool to watch him.

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Ben is five and a half. Most people find our age difference weird, and some come right out and ask if he was a mistake. He probably was, but its still a rude thing to say and I deny it. My best friend, Kelly, thinks he must have been a desperate attempt to save my parents marriage, like baby Super glue. Kelly reads magazines like Psychology Today and has theories on just about everything. Like how I obsess over painting my nails because I cant control anything else in my life. Shes ridiculous. Ben pops up in the deep end and smiles at me. His wet hair is so light that its practically clear, and his ears stick out just like my moms. We have the same freakishly white skin, but my hair is dark, so Im more like a member of the Addams family than a California blonde. He bobs up and down like a performing seal. Is it time for cookies yet? he shouts. We always decorate cookies on Christmas Eve, and hes been waiting impatiently all week. I glance through the sliding glass door, but all I can see is my grandma peeling apples at the kitchen sink. I tell Ben to wait until Dad gets home. Ben retrieves the coins four more times before Dads voice echoes through the house, followed by the clink of golf clubs. I grab my towel off the chaise and wrap it loosely around my waist, hoping my cousin Kyle will come out and notice my flat stomach. Kyle is twenty and extremely hot, which I realize is a gross thing for me to say, but its also true. I stand casually with one hand on my hip and wait for Ben to resurface. Hes swimming along the bottom, a wiggly stripe of white with orange shorts. Ben comes up for air just as Kyle opens the sliding door behind me. Janie and Ben, he says, smirking. He knows I hate it when anyone other than Ben calls me Janie. Your dad wanted me to come get you. Ben pulls himself out of the pool and runs dripping into the house. Were making cookies, I say.

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Kyle nods and tugs at his yellow checkered shirt. I recognize it from photo albums and reach out to touch the stretchy fabric. Is that Grandpas? I forgot to bring anything with a collar. That was dumb. Everyone knows Grandma will hate you if you dont dress up for Christmas Eve dinner. Its the one night a year I wear a dress. Kyle stares at my chest. Oh my God, he says. Youre really burnt. I pull my sunglasses off and look down. My chest is bright red, especially across my sternum where cleavage should be. It will turn to tan. Kyle squints at me through his thick eyelashes. Seriously, that looks like its going to peel. I pull the towel up higher so it covers my shoulders and chest. I think Grandma has some aloe in her bathroom. Its probably from 1961, but still. Kyle laughs. Youre definitely getting the strong desert sun lecture. God, youre right. I ask him to get the aloe for me so no one notices my burn. He agrees, and I follow him inside, staring at his sweaty hair and wishing we werent cousins.

After rubbing expired aloe lotion all over myself and putting on a highnecked T-shirt, I head into the living room and find Ben building a LEGO truck with Dad. Ben kneels in front of the ancient coffee table in his bathing suit and a SpongeBob T-shirt, sorting pieces into piles, while Dad sits on the couch with the instruction book propped open on his belly. The whole house smells like prime rib. Looks like you got some sun, Dad says. He scoots over to make room for me on the couch, but I stay standing and peer into the

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kitchen. Theres a bowl of peeled apples by the sink, two crumpled dishtowels on the counter, and no baking materials in sight. Arent we doing cookies? Dad sets the instruction book down and takes off his glasses. I thought it would be fun for you guys to do cookies with Gwen. She went to the store with Aunt Lisa to get supplies. The muscles in my neck tense, and I glare at my father. But we always do cookies with you. Its tradition. Dad just shrugs and puts his glasses back on. It wouldnt kill you to get to know Gwen. Yes, I say. Yes, actually, it might. Dad ignores me, but Ben swivels around, his eyebrows tensed like little exclamation points. Gwens nice! he says. She got me the front-end loader. He holds up a tiny plastic wheel and grins. The front-end loaders a baby LEGO, I say. His mouth falls, and he looks to Dad, who assures him its for big kids and shoots me the look of death. Ben falls for every girlfriend as soon as they buy him something. LEGOs work best, although candy is also effective. He mistakes their bribes for love and then cries a few months later when Dad says they wont be coming over anymore. Youd think hed learn not to get attached, but just last week he insisted Dad and Gwen were getting married. He said hed heard them talking; I reminded him half of all marriages end in divorce. Kyle walks in and pokes my arm. His finger leaves an imprint on my sunburned skin, and I want him to touch me again. Instead, he heads for Ben, yelling, LEGOs! Ben tells him all about the front-end loader and points out the Ages 5 to 12 label on the box. I take a seat at the kitchen counter. Grandma and Grandpa are on their afternoon walk, so its just me and the three boys. I start picking through the holiday tin of nuts and dried fruit. Its the same one every yearthe chocolate-covered raisins are the best, followed by the apricots. Only Grandpa likes the pistachios. I count out ten raisins and eat them as slowly as possible, sucking off the chocolate until the raisin is slick on my tongue. The garage door squeals and grinds open. I

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hear Gwen and Aunt Lisa grabbing things from the car, and a minute later they enter the kitchen, laughing like sisters. Lisa squeezes Gwens hand and winks. Gwen sets two bags from Michaels Arts & Crafts on the counter in front of me. Whats in there? I point at the bags, and Gwen looks surprised that Im actually talking to her. She smiles. I dont tell her theres maroon lipstick on her teeth. I have a project for us. She looks past me to Ben, who is snapping two LEGOs together, his tongue hanging out. Ben, do you want to do a project with me and Janie? I shudder at the syrupy sound Janie makes coming out of her mouth. Ive told her to call me Jane at least twice. Ben looks confused for a second but then leaps up, yelling, Cookies! over and over. He climbs up on the stool next to me and breathes all over the pistachios. Gwen bites her bottom lip, and I realize how she gets so much lipstick on her teeth. Actually, I didnt get cookie stuff. We stare at her. Ben spreads his arms out and lets his chin fall to the counter. Lisa steps in to help. She fiddles with the cross on her necklace and says, It was my idea. Gwens confused glance at Lisa implies this isnt true. Lisa keeps talking. Grandma and Grandpa are trying to lose weight, so we thought it would be considerate to make something else. Lisa picks up one of the bags and dumps its contents onto the counter. Pine cones, pipe cleaners, Christmas-colored felt, and small, wooden balls fall out. Gwen scrambles to stop the balls as they roll along the grooves in the tile, but one falls off into Bens lap. He doesnt pick it up. Were making pine cone elves! Gwen says. Her smile is hugeshe has really big, square teethbut her eyes dart nervously from me to Ben. Excuse me? I say. Lisa picks up a pine cone and places a ball on top of it, as if this explains anything, and Gwen digs through the second Michaels bag. She pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and presses it flat on the

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counter. Its a computer printout from MarthaStewart.com with a photo of three little elves: pine cone bodies, green felt clothing, wooden heads, and pointy felt hats. Their limbs are made of pipe cleaners, and one of them has a cheeky grin drawn in Sharpie. Ben kneels on his chair to get a better look, and much to my dismay, the elves make him smile. Gwen takes this as a sign of encouragement, even though Im sitting there gritting my teeth and bouncing one of the elf heads up and down on the counter. We bought eight of everything, so we can all make one, she says. I laugh. Youre making Grandpa build an elf? He doesnt have to. If anybody doesnt want to participate, they are free to leave. She looks me in the eye, and I imagine this is the look she gives her students when theyre being bratsjaw clenched, eyes narrowed, lips in a flat smile. Its not a good look for her slightly saggy face. I start to push my stool back from the counter, but Kyle walks up and looks at the materials scattered across the blue tile. Arts and crafts time? He laughs, and I think finally someone is on my side. Ben betrayed me long ago and is now comparing pine cones to find the biggest one. Lisa holds up the printout so Kyle can see what these craft-store body parts amount to. Nice, he says. Im giving mine a goatee. I cant believe this. I dont want to give in to Gwens project, but the fact that Kyles there makes it more tempting than sitting alone in the guest room. I say Ill stay, but only to help Ben. Gwen smiles at me as if her evil teacher face had never happened. Lisa repacks the materials into the bags and suggests relocating to the patio table, even though its always covered with a film of dirt. Grandma and Grandpa get back from their walk as Ben, Kyle, and I are trickling outside. Theyre wearing matching gray sneakers and slouchy socks, and Grandpas shorts are too short. The skin above his knees drips like melting candle wax, and I wonder if Kyles legs will ever look like that. Grandma pulls off her visor and wipes her wide, flushed face.

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Where are all of you off to? she says. Gwen brought us an arts and crafts project, I say. Youre invited. Grandpa scratches his thigh, and Grandma smiles, looking a little confused. How thoughtful, she says. No cookies this year? Dont ask, I say. Ben jumps in to explain. Aunt Lisa said we cant make cookies because you dont want to be fat. Grandmas face gets even redder, and Grandpa cracks up as if this were the funniest thing hes ever heard. He walks over to Ben and pats him on the head before retreating to his office. Im not sure what a retired person does in his office, but Grandpa spends a lot of time there. Grandma asks what kind of project this is, and Kyle tells her, somehow keeping a straight face. That sounds like fun, Grandma says. Ill recruit Grandpahe can be such a stick-in-the-mud. We go outside, where Gwen has successfully craft-proofed the table with newspaper and sorted the materials into piles. Ben hops up onto a chair and tries to hand me a pine cone. I shake my head and tell him to put it back. Ben turns to Kyle. Janies a stick-in-the-mud. Kyle and Aunt Lisa laugh, and Ben glows from the attention. I hate that they think Im as stubborn as my 75-year-old grandpa. I take a seat between Ben and Kyle and pretend to laugh along with them. Gwen hustles around the pool with a hot glue gun in her hand. Its cord trails behind her as she looks for an outlet. By the barbecue, I say. She jerks her head up and smiles. Thank you. She squats down between the barbecue and the stucco wall to plug in the cord. The white elastic band of her underwear shows above her khakis, and when she stands up, she scrapes her arm against the wall. She rubs her skin quickly and pretends as if it didnt happen. I almost feel bad for her. Shes trying so hard, but I know that once Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa join us, theyll wonder who she thinks she is,

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trampling on our Christmas traditions. Especially now that shes propped the glue gun on the little shelf next to Grandpas grill and named it the glue station. Ben looks from the glue gun to me and shifts in his seat. Im not allowed to use those, he whispers. I tell him Ill help. He wipes his forehead and says, Phew! like Ive just extinguished a fire. Sometimes he gets really stressed out for a five-year-old. Theres a little pile of pipe cleaners and felt in front of Kyle, partially covering a list of movie show times. Youre actually doing this? I say. He shrugs. Why not? Grandma and Dad come out through the sliding door, followed by Grandpa. His cheeks form jowls around his mouth, and he looks skeptical. Gwen ushers them into seats around the table and starts explaining the project as if were her class of first graders. Kyles not listeninghes too busy drawing a giant eye on his wooden ballbut everyone else gives Gwen their full attention. Grandma even asks a clarifying question about how were supposed to attach the pipe cleaner legs. Dad leans back in his chair and watches Gwen with a little smile on his lips. Its the same way he looks at Ben during T-ball games, when Ben goes up to bat in his spotless white pants and wobbly helmet. Gwen wraps up her explanation by going over the finishing touchesa felt scarf will cleverly hide the glue between the head and the pine cone, and a tiny bell will go on the tip of the hat. Grandma is poised on the edge of her seat, eyeing the materials. When Gwen sits down, its a free-for-all, the adults diving for pine cones and announcing what color felt they plan to use. Luckily, Ben secured his pine cone earlierhe would have been trampled. As everyone starts cutting felt, one pine cone remains in the center of the table, rocking back and forth. I set Ben up with a Sharpie and tell him to draw a face on the ball. He tells me he knows what to do already and proceeds to draw loopy, mismatched eyeballs that look like backward sixes. He draws a

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triangle for the nose and a tiny U for the smile. I tell him it looks awesome. I know, he says. Kyle holds up his elf head. It has a single bloodshot eye, a crooked smile, and a pointy goatee. Ben squints at it. Why is your elf scary? Its a mutant elf, Kyle says. Oh, Ben says. Mine is a nice elf like the kind in Santas workshop. He holds his up, and Aunt Lisa leans over to take a look. I love it, she says. Im drawing mine the same way. Ben beams. Down the table, Gwen starts cracking up, and we turn to see whats going on. Dads pine cone is wrapped in green felt, and hes stuffed something in front to simulate his big stomach. Grandpa laughs and suggests he and Grandma do the same. Grandma smacks him on the shoulder and goes back to drawing eyelashes on her ball. I cant believe theyre actually having fun; its like Im the only one who realizes gluing felt to pine cones isnt part of our Christmas tradition. Weve been baking cookies for as long as I can remember. When Mom was here, she would force me to sing Christmas carols at the piano while the cookies baked. She played and I sang. I could barely hear my voice above the notes of the piano, and I constantly tugged at the lacy collar squeezing my neck, but now I kind of miss standing there over Moms shoulder. I decide to make an elf in her honor. Hopefully I can strike some sort of resemblance with a thick Sharpie on wood. When no ones looking, I reach over Bens doodling hand and grab the last pine cone. Lets go to the glue station! Dad says. He and Gwen get up. He guides her with a hand on her lower back, and she tucks her face into his neck. I snatch the Sharpie from Ben. He squeals and says he isnt donethe person hes drawing on the newspaper has no armsbut I promise to give it back in a minute. He watches as I draw eyes and lips on the ball. I try to replicate Moms thin eyebrows and slightly crooked

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nose, but the result looks like the Picasso hanging above my desk. Ben bursts into a cartoonish ha-ha-ha laugh and rolls around in his chair. It was supposed to look like Mom, I say. He pats me on the shoulder as if Im the most pitiful thing hes ever seen. When Gwen and Dad finish at the glue station, I take Ben over. I let him hold the gun and squirt a blob of glue onto his pine cone. He insists on attaching the head by himself, adjusting it until the eyes stare straight out. We attach the scarf, limbs, and hat, and he smiles proudly. For a second, Im jealous. It must be nice to get so much pleasure out of something as dumb as a fake elf. I ask him to help me glue, and we gradually assemble my pine cone Picasso. He waits for the glue to cool before grabbing both our elves and rushing over to Dad and Gwen. Gwen beckons him into her lap, and he hops up with a pine cone in each hand. She and Dad assure him that his elf is wonderful, and he sets it aside to show them mine. He calls mine very creative, which Ive said to him a hundred times when his artwork is particularly hideous. He points to the asymmetrical face. She wanted it to look like Mommy, he says, but it doesnt. Mommys pretty. I cringe and watch Gwens face for a reaction. She smiles, but it doesnt reach her eyes. Dad looks at me; the muscles at the back of his jaw twitch. I vow never to tell Ben anything again. He looks from Gwen to Dad, as if hes worried he did something wrong. Gwen wraps her arms around him. And what about yours? she says. Is it your dad? Ben shakes his head. Mine is named Giovanni. Gwen nods respectfully, as if Giovanni were the obvious choice. I think of Natalia, the pretty hygienist, and the way her body stiffened when Ben hugged her. Instead of holding him, she patted his back with rigid fingers, and he pulled away quickly. At least Gwen knows how to talk to Ben. She might actually love him, and he has a talent for soaking up any love that comes his way.

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I stare at Gwen until she looks up. Thanks for doing this. It was fun, I say. She smiles, and a web of wrinkles forms around her eyes. Youre welcome, Jane. I take my elf back from Ben and reach for the othersDads fat elf, Gwens perfect one, and Bens, with its crazy eyes and jack-o-lantern nose. Ill put them on the table, I say. They can be our centerpiece.

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The Thing About Swing

by Billy Lombardo Against the Sunday night sky the Suds-All-Night Laundromat was so bright it seemed proud of itself. A sleepy-eyed cartoon lady, painted on a glass panel of the building, poured a box of detergent into a washing machine. Suds spilled over the sides. Danny could see through the glass that the place was empty. He banged his basket through the double doors and heard the hum of two, maybe three, washing machines. Only one other person, he thought. Mustve slipped out for a minute. Past the island of washers the big folding table was empty. He walked to his left, bounced his laundry basket on the table, and set to work with a sportslike intensity. Danny no longer fumbled like a freshman through the calm and storm of laundering, the ninety-minute negotiation of turf and time; he had a system. He put his jacket at the edge of the table to reserve the space for folding his clothes. He carried his basket to the washers and selected three in a rowtwo for colors, one for whites. He poured in soap powder, slipped quarters into the coin slots, and pushed in the plates to start the machines. As the drums filled, he sorted and tossed clothes with the speed and confidence that comes from knowing what the hell youre doing. Whites, colors, colors, whites, colors...

Danny shut the lids of the washers and returned to the folding table. He sat down and looked at dryers #1 through #4 across the aisle. Boom, boom, boom, he muttered, and by this poetry he laid secret claim to dryers one, two, and three. He imagined his clothes rising and falling in ambient motion behind the glass doors and he moved his head in the circles he imagined. He leaned against the back of his chair and sighed deeply; this efficiency pleased him. An empty Laundromat, three open dryers right there in front of himwhy, hed be back on campus in record time. It

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was probably, what? Ten-twenty? Danny looked at the clock above the dryers, but he never registered the exact time, for the scope of his vision shifted just enough for him to see that he was no longer alone. To his right were the sandaled feet, the corduroyed legs, and one thinly sweatered shoulder of a girl. She sat in a chair along the north wall of windows. On one of his washers, Dannys laundry basket obstructed his view of her face. Probably left to get more quarters, Danny thought. Which was exactly the case. Just minutes before, as Danny walked toward the Laundromat, the girl had been picking through a mess of coins buried in the glove compartment of her car. She had seen him rest his tub of laundry on his hip in order to open the door. When she reentered the Suds-All-Night, she settled into her chair at the window and watched him move (with a kind of ease, she had thought) from machine to machine, slotting coins, pushing levers, sorting clothes. When he finally sat down after that initial rush, she had this to think as well: he was rather tall. The girl pulled a novel from her backpack and opened it to a page shed marked with a folded corner. She stretched her legs out, crossed them at her feet, and began to readwhich is why she didnt see Danny rise from his chair to open, slightly and possessively, the doors of the first three dryers across from him. Danny thought what he always thought when he opened the round doors of the dryers: Theyre like submarine doors. He returned to his chair and looked the girls way. She was reading a novel. He leaned forward to read its title but found the distance too great. It reminded him, though, that he had a novel of his own. He slid back in his chair and reached into the pocket of his jacket for Walker Percys Love in the Ruinsrequired reading for Philosophy 271. He flipped to his bookmarked page and, for the third time that day, read the first paragraph on page 104:

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Later, lust gave way to sorrow and I prayed, arms stretched out like a Mexican, tears streaming down my face. Dear God, I can see it now, why cant I see it other times, that it is you I love in the beauty of the world and in all the lovely girls and dear good friends, and it is pilgrims we are, wayfarers on a journey, and not pigs, nor angels. Why does the guy gotta be a Mexican? Danny thought. And just as he had begun to reflect upon this passage and its importance to what hed read so far, the final spin of a washing machine whistled and rumbled to a stop. The girl set her book on the chair next to her and paused. She seemed to be listening for something. Seconds later, another machine whirred to the end of its cycle. She rose from her seat then and walked to the washers. Pretty well dressed for laundry day, Danny thought. Her pants were a tightly ribbed tan corduroy; her sweater was thin and powder blue. She moved easily, slenderly, transferring the contents of the first washer as if she werent concerned about time. When she was done, she carried her basket in Dannys direction. Danny looked down at his book. He figured she was on her way past him, toward the second bank of dryers where she might find two or three that had clearly not been reserved, but she stopped instead at the dryers in front of him. She opened the door to #3 and tossed in her clothes. Two things came to Dannys mind then: Shes pretty tall, was the first of them, and the second was Shit, for she had stolen one of his dryers. And for the first time since entering the Suds-All-Night, his heart raced. The girl closed the door to dryer #3 then, not bothering to load it with quarters, and she returned to the washers for her second load. Danny watched her from the corner of his eye and considered Plan B. Assuming the girl had designs on dryers #3 and #4, he figured hed use #1 and #2, and maybe another dryer from the bank of machines farther down.

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When the girl returned to the dryers, though, she stopped in front of #1 and began to unload her basket. Something like a question mark wrinkled into Dannys brow. He set his novel on his lap and crossed his arms. Number 1? he thought. Why would she separate her dryers from each other like that? It made no sense. She shut the doors to dryers #1 and #3. Maybe shes never been to the Suds-All-Night before, Danny thought. Maybe shes never been to any Laundromat. Maybe the washing machine in her apartment just broke down and she had to come here to do her laundry, and maybe thats why she doesnt know what the hell shes doing. The possibility of her innocence settled Danny some, and against her skimpy logic, he soothed himself with the soundness of his own: he had a pocketful of quarters, there were plenty of dryers to go around, and hed secured the best folding space in the Laundromat. He reached to his left and double-patted the table. The girl clinked a quarter into dryer #3 and turned the knob to register it. She slipped in a second quarter. A third. A fourth. A fifth and a sixth. Seven minutes of drying time per quarter, Danny thought, and with each clink of another coin, the likelihood of her innocence slipped away. Forty-two minutes, he said to himself as she turned the knob to settle the sixth coin. Just about right. It didnt square well with inexpertise. Shed been here before. Similarly, she coined dryer #1, and when the sixth coin fell, the girl pivoted sharply, and as her sandaled feet stepped toward Danny, he knew, from the confidence in her stride, that she was about to claim possession of his table. He felt rise within him the dukes of his competitive heart. He looked up slowly as she came closer. His eyes were at her knees as the laundry basket left her fingertips. As the basket sailed through the air, his eyes were at the girls shoulders. And with every millisecond that passedwith every infinitesimal variation in the

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scope of his sight, he felt a stronger pounding in his head. His heart beat rapidly, and by the time his eyes had taken in the decorative button on the neck of her sweater, something rising within hima collection of adrenaline and a pressing desire to stand up and demand fair treatmenthad reached a point beyond which it didnt seem possible to rise without spilling over. But as the basket thudded on the table, Danny finally caught the eyes of the girl. For the first time, in fact, he had seen her, had seen her face. She looked into his eyes and she smiled. To his left, he heard the sibilant whisper of the basket as it slid to the wall, and the rigid spirit that had mounted within him was gone. Had vanished. Had been replaced by something pacific and soft and infinitely lighter. It was as if an inexplicable and excellent trade had been made. And so quickly had the swap occurredso heavy had the taken thing been and so light its replacementthat it left Danny, momentarily, under the soporific effect of its release. All he could do for what was only a secondthough it seemed like manywas look at her. He didnt fix on any single feature of the girl; didnt take note of the languid part in her hair, for example, or the blue of her eyes. But he could see the way the light rolled around her, the way shade moved in the hollows and along the lines of her neck. And he was intensely aware of the spaces at which one feature became another. He could see with a manifest clarity the indefinite points at which they met. And he felt as if an occurrence had taken place. As if the girl had occurred to him. And it was this occurrence, this thing uncertain and blue, that had played a part in the quieted thing he had become. The corners of her smile twitched upward then, as if kicked into some higher gear, and he felt a skip in his breath, and a shift in the cadence of his heart, and the convergence of this shift and skip made Danny feel as though the contents of his heart had been revealed, as though there were a word balloon above his head that held, just then, a line from page 104 of Love in the Ruins: It is you I love in the beauty of the world.

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Danny had no history of recalling quotes from novels, but this one came to him with such clarity that he put his finger to his lips for fear he might say the words aloud. The girl walked to the snack machine that separated the banks of dryers, and as Danny considered her unhurried movement about the place, he thought of how rushed he must have appeared as he went about his own laundering; how blindly he had kept to his system; how not seeing was the risk of reckless motion. Immediately and intensely then, he felt a prodigals remorse. As though it were possible hed wasted as much as a life. Perhaps this very girl had crossed his path on some sunny day as he walked across campus. Or perhaps theyd stood in the same line at the grocery store, and he hadnt even looked her way. And how much else of life had he missed? How much had slipped by without his attention? In the window of the snack machine the girl watched the reflection of Danny as he returned to his book. She thought again, mostly because of the stretch and bend of his legs and how easily his torso cleared the back of the chair, that he really was quite tall. And it was thenwhen the lines and the slouch of him convinced her of his heightthat she allowed a thought to surface that shed held off since reentering the Suds-All-Night. It seemed to her that he might make a good swing dance partner. Since the day shed learned she could fulfill her final P.E. requirement with swing dance, shed secretly been measuring potential partners. Recently, though, she had begun to despair that no one was tall anymore. She had considered taking her chances with a random pairing, but decided against it; it was just her luck to be coupled with someone who came to her shoulders. And nothing against short guys, but this was her thing about swing: she longed to be swung. Without buying a snack, she turned away from the reflection in the vending machine, and as she passed him on her way to her seat, she smiled again. There were many thoughts between Dannys recent reflection on missed things and this moment of her passingit would have been

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impossible to chart them, for the girls smile washed away his blue regret. But at the precise moment of this smile of hers, hed been thinking of a winter day when he was ten years old. His father had taken him to his first Chicago Bears game. Near the end of the third quarter, a player had thrown a football into the stands in celebration of a touchdown reception. The ball appeared to be headed toward the outstretched hands of any number of fans, but it slipped every grasp, hit the side of a mans neck, knocked someones beer over, and finally landed on Dannys lap. His father had put his hand on top of the ball to mark it as having completed its journey, and Danny looked up into his fathers smiling eyes and back at the ball, and back at his father again. As they drove home from the stadium, Danny remembered that his father kept looking down at the ball on the car seat between them and shaking his head. You lucky son of a gun, he said. Who comes home from a football game with a game football? The answer to which rhetorical question, of course, was Danny, who had, since his early boyhood, a sort of sports-arena luck. In his room back home, in addition to that football, he had three hockey pucks and six major-league baseballs displayed like trophiesall effortlessly acquired. And though it was a fortune entirely bound by the geography of sport, Danny was altogether unaware of its parameters; which is to say, he simply felt lucky. As he sat in the Laundromat, Danny couldnt say how he had come to recall this day with his father at the Bears game, but he was certain of this: the girl had smiled at him. She had given him something, like a promise, or a truth he had not known before the smile. Something he could touch. And as the girl passed him, she wondered if it was enough for swing that the boy was tall. She remembered the first time shed seen a couple swing. She was at a party on campus somewhere and it was loud and the place was packed and without any warning the music stopped and it was quiet for a second and then a new song came on. A couple she had seen

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sitting on a couch got up and started to swing. They had only a tiny space in the living room, so they kept the dance small until people began to step back. And as the living room opened up for them, their swing grew. And the easy, happy, beauty of itthe way they moved, the way they touched hands, the way they smiled at each other, the way they held each other at the hips, the way they let each other go and spun away to do their own thing, the way they looked at each other and then looked away, the way they knew exactly where the other one was all the time, the precise timing of it, the way they swungit all left her with a thrill so strong that it saddened her. For she thought she might live her life and never be danced around a floor like that. And it seemed to the girl, as she walked past the smiling boy, that tall was maybe not enough. That you needed something more. She returned to her seat at the window, and Danny returned to his Love in the Ruins. He had barely reached the end of that same paragraph, though, when he heard the first of his own washers complete its cycle. Thats me, he thought. He set his book on the chair next to him and walked toward his washers. He looked ahead to where the girl sat. Her left elbow rested at her hip, and in that hand she held her novel. The index finger of her right hand lay bent across her lips, and the soft of her thumb touched just under her chin. And this thought swirled in Dannys head: How much time have we left here? He opened the lid of the machine that had stopped, and as he began to peel his whites from the drum, his thoughts of the girl were interrupted by a brief reflection on the phenomenon of centrifugal force as applied to the laundering process. The wet clothes spin away from the center, he reflected, and are forced against the circular wall of the machine. He hadnt the language for thinking of this physical force with any great depth, though he did know the word centripetalwhich suggested a spinning toward the center. But this, he reflected further, if it were an actual force at all, didnt seem to be a Laundromat phenomenon.

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He transferred his laundry from the washing machine to his ropehandled tub, and as he did so, he looked toward the girl again. She wore the colors of sand and sky. At her waistwhere these colors meta sliver of her was the color of skin. And from this sliver he followed the sand of her to her feet, and the sky of her to her face, and in that moment she made perfect sense to him. Everything seemed to flow from the core of her. Every line and curve, every color and shape, seemed connected to some inner, impalpable thing; as if living spokes flowed from the hub of her to become eyes and skin and lips and things. And at this consideration of the idea of lips, the memory of a girl Danny knew from the fourth grade came to him. Her name was Rene, and she must have gone to school with Danny for only a year or so, for he had no other memory of her than this. They were on a field trip at a childrens theater, and the play was just about to begin. Rene was excited about the play; her right leg was crossed over her lap, and she rocked her foot so that on every upswing, her shoe tapped against Danny. He wondered if she knew her shoe was hitting his leg. Rene shifted in her seat. She wanted to say something to Danny. She uncrossed her legs and tapped him on the wrist. She leaned toward him to whisper then, but his right ear, the ear on her side, was bandaged; hed been hit with a rock while playing at a construction site. Danny was about to shift almost completely around in order to offer his left ear to her whisper, but Rene put her fingers to his cheek to stop him from turning. It seemed to Danny as though she were grown up, the easy way she put her fingertips to his face. And he was thrilled to be next to her. Rene brought her own face closer to his then, so that when she began again to whisper this thing to him, it was nearly into his lips that she whispered it. She held his face in her hand and she whispered into his lips as though she believed he could hear her best this way. But so aware was Danny of how close her lips were to his own, that even as the words left her mouth, he could not recall what they were; he had only his eyes to help him make sense of the sounds she made.

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He could only look into her lips, and at the skin of her cheeks, could only see the tiniest curved lines form at the corners of her mouth as she whispered. And at the moment of the whispering, he thought, This is what before a kiss must feel like. And as he grew, on those occasions when someone asked him to tell the story of his first kiss, this is the story that came to mind, though never the story he told.

After pouring his clothes into the dryer and loading the slot with quarters, Danny had barely returned to his seat when another of his washers clicked to a stop. He walked to the machines and set his basket on the one to his left so that, as he transferred his clothes, he might look in the girls direction. She appeared to be reading, but as they each seemed legitimately occupied with some separate thinghe with the transfer of clothes, and she with her readingthey secretly alternated glances at each other. As Danny leaned into the machine, the girl decided that there was more to him than height. There was definitely a kind of grace to him, and a precision as welltraits she thought might have some value in swing. Danny completed the transfer of clothes and peered into the machine to make certain it was empty. A sock was stuck against the side of the washer. He peeled it off, tossed it into his basket, and headed toward dryer #4. He decided then that when the time came to dry his final basket of clothes, he wouldnt use a third dryer after all. Hed distribute his final basket among dryers #2 and #4 instead. It would take longer for the clothes to dry that way, but it seemed there was no longer reason to hurry. Something clinked against the glass door of one of the girls dryers as he approached them. A buckle from her overalls, perhaps. He opened the door to dryer #4 and emptied his tub of laundry into it. He twisted the knob to register the quarters, and it was then that his final washer stopped and completed the shift of sound from the north end

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to the center of the Laundromat, where that bank of dryers in front of him was now at full throttle. As Danny reached his washer, the girl set her book on her lap and slid back in her chair. She looked up and caught Dannys eye again. Each of them felt the contact was justified because of the change in the sound of the place. Each of them smiled. And as Danny began emptying his final load from the drum of the washer, the image of the girls smile remained before him. He blinked twice, and her smiling face returned. It was like looking into the sun and then looking away, he thought, how the image remained. Yes. She had something like the sun within her. He felt, in factdespite the great brightness of the Suds-All-Nightthat if she opened the door and walked out just then, it was possible that she might take the light with her, and there would remain scarcely enough by which to read. And if she left just then, it was possible as well that the night might reverse itself and day prevail outside. And however fantastic this notion of the reversal of night, he knew that if she left just then, it would only be dark for him. He reached into the washer and pulled at a pair of jeans. They were twisted around a sweatshirt. Like twist ties, he thought. After he untangled them, only a pair of boxers remained. As he removed them from the wall of the machine, he felt the subtle tug of the material from dozens of tiny drain holes. He lifted his basket, and as he walked toward the dryers, he felt as though he were walking from silence into sound. And as he walked into itwith his back to the girlhe called upon her image again, and like something known, it registered in his mind exactly, and it worried him to recall her so clearly. These were things about the girl that Danny could not have known. Shed mistakenly been called Rain once and she secretly loved the name. And because he could not make out small letters from across a room, he did not know she was reading a book called Love in the Time of Cholera; rereading it, actually, mostly because of a quote she

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remembered. She never recalled the line exactly as it was written, but shed thought of it nearly every day since shed read it two years before. Already lost in the mists of death, she moved the pieces without love. Though it was a line of great sadness, she had a breathing faith in the truth of it, and in the thing it implied. This also he could not have known: when she was a child in the autumn of her sixth-grade year, she came upon an injured pigeon on her way to school. She approached it slowly, making warbling, throaty, soothing sounds, and it surprised her that she could produce a sound so like the coo of a pigeon. She came within inches of the bird, which didnt scurry away as she thought it might. It didnt flinch at the reach of her arm; it seemed, rather, to expect carriage and tending. She set it delicately into her jacket pocket so that it faced forward, and she wondered if in the history of the world a pigeon had ever been in a girls pocket. She brushed the nape of the birds neck with her thumb as she walked to school, and for many years after, she recalled the feel of it in her pocketthe soft of it. And often it was that she would find herself touching the skin under her own chin, or other such soft things, with her thumb. It is fair to say that Rain had a crush on the world. On pencils with dark, gritty lead. On Chicago Septembers and magnets. On an old Italian woman she passed in the street once; she wanted to touch her face. And on mornings. Some nights she got so excited about waking up the next day that it wasnt until morning that she finally fell asleep. And Rain was never far from a broken heart because of these things she loved, but it was worth the crush of them. There were many things about the girl that Danny could not have known, but if hed had the ability to see into what kind of woman a little girl might become, he might have known this: that the clothes in dryers #1 and #3 belonged to a woman named Rene. But Danny hadnt such a capacity. He carried his final tub of clothes to the silver machines that had been tumbling for several minutes on the strength of his quarters, and as he approached the seat next to his, he glanced at his novel, pages

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104 and 105 lying open to the chair. The bend of the paperback reminded him of a childs drawing of birds. Little ms in the sky. Danny stood at dryer #3 with his final basket of wet laundry resting on his hip, his fingers at the handle of the door, and he glanced at the girl who sat at the window. Again he recalled that day at the childrens theater. He wished he would just have put his fingers to Renes cheeks that day. What would she have done if he had kissed her whispering lips? He stared at the slow-motion spin and tumble of the clothes in dryer #3, and his lips nearly took the shape of a kiss. And it was this momentary change in the contour of his lips, along with the tinny clink of a buckle against metal, that urged him to open the door to dryer #3. The drum of the machine barely stopped turning as he quickly dumped the last of his clothes into it. He shut the door and felt the pull of the magnetic lock, felt the tug and click of the door as it snapped shut. He pressed the button to restart the dryer and looked at the girl as she read at the window, and it was only thenas the rumble of the machine returnedthat he realized the dryer into which he had just transferred his clothes was not his dryer at all, but hers. He reached out his right hand and touched the thick window of the dryer door, felt the warmth of the machine, the faint thump of the girls sweater against the glass. And there seemed to be a slower motion to the tumble of clothes, a turn in the music of that machine. The click of an unfamiliar buckle muffled by the arm of a sweatshirt on this revolution, and by the leg of a pair of jeans on that. And while he stood there with his eyes closed and listened to the dryerwhile he felt the warmth of the glass door at his fingersacross the Laundromat a girl named Rene looked at him. She couldnt be sure, but it seemed as though the boy had just closed the door of her dryer. And if it was her dryer door that he had just closed, it also seemed that he might have emptied his basket of laundry into it. Rene smiled at that possibility.

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She set her novel on the seat next to her and rose. The tall boy stared into #3, and two things became clear as Rene came closer: first, that the look on his face was unquestionably the look of a boy who had mistakenly dumped his wet clothes into the working dryer of a stranger; and second, that there was something familiar about him. There was a certainty about his face. Maybe she had taken a class with him, had met him on campus somewhere. Maybe he worked in the bookstore or the caf. What did not occur to her, though, was that a girl could not forget the face of a boy into whose lips she once had whispered. Rene was three steps away from Danny when she saw, through the glass door of dryer #3, someone elses clothes tumbling with hers. Was it possible, she wondered, for a boy to accidentally ask a girl to dance? And she smiled, because this is what she felt hed done. She stopped when she reached him, and Danny spoke first. I, uh, dumped my clothes into yours, he said. Yes, I thought you might have, she said. It seemed to Danny that she was holding back a smile. It was an accident, he said. Well, its a funny way to meet a girl, she said. She was smiling. Curved lines appeared at the corners of her mouth. It seemed to Danny as if they were perfect parentheses around her lips. My name is Danny, he said. Rene, she said. Im sorry? Danny said. Its O.K., she said. No, what I mean is that Im not sure I heard your name right, he said. Oh, she said. Rene. And Danny smiled. He smiled because he could see then what had become of a little girla girl he would have kissed if hed been given the chance to go back in time. He smiled then because he felt lucky, as if he had a seat just behind the glass at a Blackhawks game, and on the

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ice two players had attacked a puck at exactly the same time and with such perfect force and such perfect angle that the puck left the arena and was flipping toward Danny in slow motion. Why are you smiling? Rene said. And as she said this, she could not help smiling herself. Why are you smiling? Danny returned. Well, I was just thinking well have to sort our clothes, she said. And I think thats funny. To sort clothes with someone youve never met. Now, why were you smiling? I was thinking almost the same thing, he said. I was just thinking how funny it was to sort clothes with someone I havent seen since the fourth grade. And Rene smiled again, and she wrinkled her eyes. She smiled because she had been remembered, and she wrinkled her eyes because she wondered at the exact memory. You can wait here with me while they dry, if youd like, Danny said. With his hand, he pointed toward the seat next to his, and Rene, still smiling, sat down. Danny picked up his book and put it on the table. When he looked back at her, she was looking at him. Fourth grade, Rene said. St. Johns. I went to a school called St. Johns that year. Yes, Danny said. So did I. They were quiet for a moment as they looked ahead at dryer #3, at the sluggish tumbling of their clothes behind the glass dooreach of them comforted at the sight of something familiar, each of them giddy at the sight of something not. And then a sleeve of Renes orange sweater brushed against the glass, and as the rest of the clothes danced behind it, the arm of the orange sweater seemed to linger there for a longer time than either Danny or Rene had expected it to. Rene thought it was like a wave, like her sweater was waving at them as they sat there. And Danny thought so, too. He felt like the sweater was saying hello, in a way. And Danny thought he had to say something in order to keep himself from waving back at the sweater.

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And Rene thought that if Danny hadnt said something just then, she might have waved back, too. I almost kissed you once, Danny said. Yes, Rene said. You almost did.

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And Back Again

by Jennifer Tharp Mark stared at the CD in his lap as rain pattered on the windshield. The disk was slightly scratched, the bottom surface resembling a puddle of motor oil, all colors in the dull light coming through the windows. Hey, Mark. Do you have the stopwatch and the notebook? Yeah. Think youll be able to see to write? My cars overhead light is broken. Brought a flashlight. So very resourceful. Get in. Mark took a breath and closed his eyes as he slid the CD into the waiting slot. It hung out of the mouth of the stereo, as though something were blocking its way. He looked at it for a moment, surprised, then realized what was wrong. Cursing silently, he turned the key and started the car. The stereo swallowed the CD with a little mechanical buzz, followed by a whir as the disk started to spin. In another moment, an acoustic guitar sounded softly from the speakers. Mark turned up the volume, then pulled out of the parking space. I think something acoustic for this part. O.K. Sad acoustic or upbeat acoustic? Thoughtful acoustic. You think that my road is thoughtful? Its the trees. I call it as I see it. Whatever you say, Andy. They had set out that day knowing they were doing something silly yet important. The paradox appealed to them. Andy would drive from Marks house to his house. Mark would write down landmarks and times in minutes and seconds. The perfect mix CDthat was what they were making. A CD that would suit every mile from Marks house to Andys house. It was stupid and fun, yet anticipation had somehow

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made it solemn. Mark had waited nervously in the foyer of his apartment building, holding his supplies, until he saw Andy pull in next to the soccer field. They had met halfway between the front door and the car. That had been months ago. A droning male voice blended with the acoustic guitar as Mark turned out of the parking lot and onto the street. There were specific time limits. There were landmarks. You had to drive the speed limit or the songs would not match the scenery at the right times. Houses passed with words; cross streets passed with verses. It was very precise, the CD. They had spent days on it. The voice swept through the car in short, melodic bursts. Mark tried not to thinkonly, then, what was the point of playing the CD? He reached for the eject button, but his hand stopped halfway to it. The song had reminded him. They were thirteen. Andy was curled up in a chair pushed back from a desk in study hall. His knees were pulled up to his chest, and his head was resting on them. Eyes closed, his face looked blissful between bulky headphones that stuck out a few inches past his ears, the music so loud that anyone around him could hear it. Mark had approached with caution, new and shy, and touched Andy on the shoulder. Andy, blond, tall, skinny, had whipped his upper body around in surprise, but then smiled and taken one side of his headphones off, leaving them skewed over his head. Mark had asked, What are you listening to? Andy had replied with the name of some obscure band. Mark commented that it sounded like someone being beaten to death. Thus began their friendship. Remembering, Mark almost laughed. Andy was a music snob, and he somehow turned Mark into one, too. He always said if you listen to something enough with the right person, no matter how bad you start out thinking it is, youll grow to like it. Andy called it the Flaming Lips Factor. Mark turned onto a new road, and a new song began. This road needs something instrumental. What, like Beethoven?

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No, ass. Like something from a soundtrack. You know that song in Vanilla Sky when Tom Cruise and that other guy are in the elevator? That was a horrible movie. Whatever, youll like the song. In the beginning, the whole idea had come from movie soundtracks. Andy mused that he wished he could accompany every minute of his life with music. He said it would make things easier to deal with if he had music to express exactly how he felt. When Mark had bought him an iPod for Christmas one year, Andy filled it with strange playlists for every situation: Rain on a Sunday, Rain on a Weekday, Anger, Tension, Inspiration, Hollowness, Joy. There were dozens of categories. Mark laughed, but Andy was completely serious. And he was right. When Mark moved half an hour away and Andy said, Lets make a CD for the drive from your house to mine, Mark had been skeptical about how effective it would be. It was effective, though. It was perfect. Mark nosed the car up to a stoplight just as a new song began to play. He turned out onto the highway. This road needs techno. I think youre getting the hang of it! A tense, pulsing beat poured from the speakers, and Mark turned it up higher. The music called for speed, for switching lanes to pass slow cars, for reveling in the total lack of stoplights. It reminded him of being chased. There was a night once when they were fifteen (and, of course, idiots). Theyd snuck out of their houses and walked down the road to an empty field next to an abandoned farm. There were rumors that the single tree standing in the field had begun to scream whenever someone touched it. It was too much for two fifteen-yearolds to bear; they ignored the fence and the No Trespassing signs and made their way slowly across the field, alert to the possibility that the neighbors would see them. When they reached the tree, Andy urged Mark to touch it. Mark stared at the black, twisted trunk and refused.

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The thing looked evil. Andy sighed dramatically and reached out his hand to touch the bark. That was when the police arrived. A cruiser pulled up next to the gate and flashed its lights once, then blared its siren for a moment. Andy and Mark, tense from the anticipation of a screaming tree, leaped into the air and turned to see two policemen climbing out of the car. Andy looked at Mark with huge eyes and said in a panicked voice, Run, its the fuzz! (Andy later admitted that this moment was the highlight of his life, because he got to say, Its the fuzz, in total seriousness.) They ran. They jumped the far side of the fence away from the cops and plunged into the woods, leaping fallen trees and the creek in single bounds, feeling empowered and alive and completely invincible. The police didnt catch them, and their parents didnt catch them, and they never told anyone about The Screaming Tree Incident, but in their minds they were invincible forever because of it. The song lost intensity and slowed as Mark moved into a turning lane. As he turned, the song changed. This part needs something sort of sweet, but sad. Why sad? This is where we grew up. Yeah, but you arent here anymore. Mark had moved away from Andy a year ago. There was an unfortunate amount of moping and fighting involved, but it certainly didnt stop them from seeing each other. Mark remembered the night that his first girlfriend dumped him. On the phone. He locked himself in his room and turned off the lights and stared at his ceiling, the way you do when you are a teenager, melodramatic and self-important and cringe-worthy. He ignored his cell phone when it rang every ten minutes, even though he knew it was Andy. He had nearly fallen asleep when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He sat up in bed, terrified, knowing it was midnight and his parents werent home. He groped in the dark next to his bed for his emergency baseball batintended, he liked to joke, for the inevitable zombie apocalypseand closed his fingers around the handle just as

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his door opened. He jerked the bat up, ready to bludgeon the ax murderer, then lowered it in shock when he saw Andys face peering through the dark. He was carrying a plate of pancakes. He announced, Look, I made you breakup pancakes! Mark choked on a laugh in his car, thinking about the expression on Andys face when he saw the bat in the air. Then he stopped. His breath caught in his throat. The song changed. This is going to be the last song. It needs to be epic but fun. Thats what your road is, huh? And mines just thoughtful? Man, my whole life is epic and fun. This song has to make you think of me and get you all excited that youre going to see me soon. You are not a humble man, Andy. This is very true. A wall of noise, a waltzing sort of marching snare beat. All Mark could think about was the last time he had seen Andy. It was New Years Eve, and it was freezing cold, but there were going to be fireworks, so they were on the roof while everyone was inside waiting for the ball to drop. They didnt care about that; they liked the fireworks display better. It was loud and intense and close when they watched from Andys roof, because his neighbor was the one who set them off. It was illegal, but the police never cared. Each year at 11:59 when their families were counting down together, Mark and Andy would hold their breath, and at One! they would leap up, and the fireworks would soar and explode directly over their heads, and they would scream a wish for the new year into the noise. This year, Mark hadnt heard Andys wish. The song began to wane as Mark neared Andys house. The street was choked with cars, some of them familiar, most of them not. As he drove past the house, the song ended with the final tak of a snare. A small whir, and the CD ended, too. He pulled past the row of cars on the shoulder and parked at the curb, half a block away from Andys. He turned the car off and sat for a moment, willing himself to open the door and step out. He couldnt make his legs work, or his arms. His limbs were suddenly useless. He did not want to get out. But he had to.

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He opened the door and, one foot at a time, stepped out onto the asphalt. He stood. He closed the door and locked the car. His hands shook as he tried to fit the key into the slot, scratching the metal around it as if he were a drunk. Terrified, he turned and made his way toward the house. When he rang the bell, Andys mother opened the front door. She greeted him with a tiny, faltering smile. She was wearing a black dress Mark had never seen. He slipped by her with a small nod and continued inside. Hands touched his back as he passed groups of people in hallways and rooms, all of them wearing black, all of them holding drinks or little plates of food. Marks stomach heaved at the sight of people eating. He entered a room and heard a womans voice saying, a patch of black ice, they said. So tragic for such a young man, and so soon after Christmas, and he hurried back out again, pushing past more black torsos and black arms, trying to get away from the press of people, the lowered voices, the sobbing from somewhere in the house. A hand caught his arm at the base of the stairs, and Andys mother once more swam into view. She said softly, Mark, I think that Andy had something he wanted to give you for your birthday. Its in his room. You can go up and get it, if you like. Mark stared at her. She looked back at him; he thought she was trying very hard not to cry. He murmured his thanks, and she disappeared into the crowd, wiping at her eyes with the palms of her hands. Mark put a hand on the railing. He did not want to go to Andys room. Everything in Andys room was going to hurt him. But then he was climbing the stairs, nearing the top, and standing in Andys doorway with his hand on the light switch. The walls were covered in band and movie posters. He stepped inside. The room still smelled like Andybut it would. It had only been three days. He spent a few seconds with his eyes closed, breathing, feeling his face tighten and get hot, the prick of tears behind his eyes. That smell would fade, and he would never have it again. He would never hear his friends voice on the phone or at his bedroom door. He would never feel Andys hand on his shoulder. He opened his

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eyes, and tears slipped out from beneath. His gaze fell on Andys desk, and on a little package. It had Marks name on it. He walked over to it, picking it up. It felt light. He opened it. It was a CD. The cover read And Back Again. Mark opened the case. On the inside part of the cover was a note. Mark, I know that we meant to do this one together, too, but I figured that you might like it as a gift. So, surprise! This is the companion CD to the one that we made. This one goes from my house to your house. Its a different route, so follow the map. You know Ill always make that trip, no matter what. Happy Birthday! Andy Mark stared down at the CD. Andy had drawn on ita childish map in permanent marker, taking a long, scenic route from Andys house to Marks. Mark gripped the plastic case tightly in his hand, holding back something between a sob and a laugh. He imagined the two of them driving, windows down, volume up so loud that the music vibrated through them until they could feel every note in their chests. He could imagine all of it so easily, because even if the passenger seat was empty, Andy had made a path home for him. Maybe, given time, he would be able to follow it.

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by Suzanne Kamata Mom comes into my room while Im studying for finals and drops a folder on top of my chemistry book. Its long and narrow, and there are clouds printed all over it. Its an airplane ticket. At first, my heartbeat speeds up, but then I look inside and see that were going to Paris. Paris? I say. Why not Japan? She gets this look on her face, the one she gets when Im not politically correct, like when I call myself a cripple. I cant let it go, though. I could finally meet Dad. I bet Dador Otosan; see, Ive been studying up for the trip to Japan that I will eventually take with or without Momis really a nice guy. Hed have to be, to put up with someone like her. Ive lived with this woman for almost sixteen years and I can tell you it hasnt been all chocolates and roses. The only problem is, my father doesnt know I exist. Mom says his parents wouldnt permit him to marry her, because she was a foreigner. They broke up, and she came back to the States. And then she discovered she was pregnant. You should have told them, I always say. They might have changed their minds if they knew a grandchild was on the way. But Mom just goes all dark and gloomy and shakes her head. Youre better off here, where people dont carry on about bloodlines. Still, I think she should have given my father a chance to decide on his own whether or not he wanted to meet me. This trip isnt about your dad, she says now. Its about us. I feel like we havent had a chance to talk much lately. So how about it? No Internet, no cell phones, just you and me in France? Im not sure how Im going to make it through this summer with her. Ive been thinking about spending a year abroad as an exchange

Pilgrimage

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student somewhere, just to get away from her, but she says what we need is more time together. Yeah, right. She buys me this new pink Samsonite suitcase. Ive started packing. I throw in some T-shirts and some long skirts that hide my leg braces. She hates those skirts. She thinks I shouldnt be shy about letting people see my braces, that if my handicap makes others uncomfortable thats their problem, but Im tired of being conspicuous.

Paris? Youre so lucky! Whitney says when I tell her about the trip. Whitney is my best friend. Shes about the only girl I know who even comes close to understanding me. Like me, shes a freak. She has to wear a back brace so her spine wont go all curvy. We dont get invited to parties. We dont go to basketball games and we have trouble finding clothes that look good on us. Neither one of us has ever been out with a boy, and we both live with our single moms. Except hers is divorced and shows houses, and mine is a sculptor. If you ask around in the right circles, youll figure out that my mom is pretty famous. Were going to Paris because shes been invited to show her sculptures at a trendy gallery there. The title of her show is Beautiful Bodies. All her works are of bodies, but theyre not the types that most people think of as being beautiful. One of her most controversial pieces is a marble torso with a mans head and stumps where the legs and arms should be. If you get her talking about it, Mom will say theres a man in Japan who was born without arms or legs, and yet hes become very successful. He went to college, learned to drive a car, and even played basketball. He wrote a book about his life that turned out to be a bestseller, and now Japanese people think hes really cute. Thats all well and good, but what gets some viewers excited about this piece is, well, the penis. People say, why couldnt it be draped with some cloth, or kind of smoothed over like a Ken doll? But Mom says, Just because he has no arms or legs doesnt make him less of a man.

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So you see, on the one hand, my mother is very open about things that others dont want to think about, but when it comes to my father, shes as tight as a clam. So Ive decided the only way Im going to go on this trip is if shell promise to talk about him. I think Im old enough to know about the past. Im pretty sure I can handle the truth. So what do you want me to bring back for you? I ask Whitney. Were sitting in the cafeteria after lunch. Just about everyone else has cleared out, but were still there. Its not like we have anyplace better to go to. Whitney turns red. Shes extremely fair, so it doesnt take mucha blast of cold air, a laughing spell, an impure thoughtto make her change color. Well, she says, taking a deep breath, what I really want is some water from the fountain at Lourdes. Youre kidding, right? I say. Ive been raised agnostic, and Whitney is Jewish. Lourdes is a Catholic thing. She shrugs. Ive been doing some research on the Internet. I read about this guy who was all shot up by a machine gun in World War I. He had all kinds of problemsepilepsy, paralysisand he had to have someone lift him in and out of his wheelchair. He decided he would go to Lourdes on some church trip, even though his doctor said the traveling would probably kill him. Then he went into the grotto and bathed in the water and he was completely cured. He woke up the next morning and jumped out of bed. Dont believe everything you read on the Internet, I tell her. This guy, John Traynor, he had a hole in his head from the shrapnel, and it disappeared at Lourdes! I roll my eyes. You know what I read in the newspaper today? Miss Wheelchair had her crown taken away because someone saw her standing. Here everyone thought she was Super Crip, and yet she can actually walk around. O.K., so it sounds dumb to you, but thats what I want. Water from the grotto. In all honesty, Ive done my own reading up on possible cures. I like to read about stem cell research and the various operations people

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like me have, but I dont expect to ever get a new set of legs, or a brain that works better. I lean across the table and give Whitney a little hug, and I say, Ill see what I can do.

When I get home from school, I find Mom at the kitchen table. Shes sitting there with a stack of books and our portable CD player. A female voice says, Voulez-vous une chambre? Whats this? I ask, going over for a better look. I was thinking you could learn a few phrases, she says. Itll make you feel more independent. I have my doubts. It took me years to pronounce English properly. Because of the way my brain works, I had some trouble with language. Pretty much everyone understands me now, but when I get nervous I stutter. At school, we study foreign languages. Im taking Japanese as an elective, for obvious reasons. Its pretty easy to pronounce, because the same phonetic sounds appear in English. But French. It sounds like the words are scraping at the back of your throat. You should at least be able to order by yourself when we go out to eat. Un Big Mac, sil vous plat, I say, with my best fake French accent. Mom frowns. Seriously. Have a seat. Ive made some flashcards. Mom already knows French. She was an exchange student in Avignon in college, and later studied art history at the Sorbonne. One of her big influences, Isamu Noguchi, whos American-Japanese like me, lived in Paris for a while. Ive heard her speak French before, with her friends on the phone or whatever, and she sounds like a native to me. I figure Ill let her do all the talking once we get over there. Nevertheless, I sit down at the table and have a look at the flashcards. Shes drawn pictures of food on one side, with their names in French on the other. Steak and French fries, I say, picking up the first card.

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Steak frites, Mom says, and I try to repeat it. Yum. Ice cream. I pretend to lick the next card. Mom shakes her head. La glace.

The following Friday night is the end-of-the-year dance. Everybody gets really dressed up. The boys wear jackets and ties, and the girls wear shiny gowns. Of course this is all hearsay. Ive never been. Neither has Whitney, and we werent invited this year, either. Why dont you go stag? Mom asked me. If you want to go, that is. You and Whitney can dance together. No way. I dont want to go, I told her. Next thing, shed be fixing me up with a date. Ive got plans anyway. My plans are to spend the night at Whitneys house. I have Mom drop me off after dinner with my little overnight bag. Whitney greets me at the door. She waves a DVD in my face. I rented a movie, she says. My moms making popcorn. I follow her to her room and drop my bag on the floor. Let me see, I say, reaching out for the movie. She hands it over. The Song of Bernadette. Have you ever seen it? No. Whats it about? She sighs, as if she cant believe how uncultured I am. Lourdes. I read the back of the case. Bernadette Soubirous is a sickly fourteen-year-old girl who sees a vision of a beautiful lady and never suffers from her illness again. I would have picked a different kind of movie: Romantic comedy. Horror. Something by Hayao Miyazaki. But hey, Im just visiting. Whitney has a TV and a DVD player in her room. She slides the movie into the machine. We shove her mountain of stuffed animals aside and get all comfy on her bed. Jennifer Jones is the star of this flick. I saw her before in some old movie where she played Gregory Pecks sexy half-breed girlfriend. But

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here, shes sort of slow and sweet. She does a lot of coughing in the beginning. Shes got asthma. When Whitneys mom comes in with the popcorn, Bernadette is going to collect wood at some old dumpsite. Its here she has her vision. Of course, no one else can see the beautiful lady in white that she speaks of. No one believes her. But she stops coughing, and suddenly good things start to happen to her desperately poor family. Listen to that music, I say as the violins start up. So melodramatic! Sh! Whitneys eyes are glued to the screen. Shes so intent, shes not even eating the popcorn. I grab a handful and stuff it into my mouth. The story is interesting enough, but I find some things hard to believe. Sure, the emperors son got better after he was doused with water from the spring at Lourdes, but maybe it was just a coincidence and the virus had already run its course. I feel sorry for Bernadette when she gets shipped off to the convent, and even sorrier when she dies. A few tears slip down my cheeks. Whitney, on the other hand, is sobbing. I hold the Kleenex box while she plucks tissue after tissue and presses them to her eyes. Maybe you could put some flowers on her grave for me, too, she says, hiccuping. Do you think you could do that? Yeah, sure, I say. You can count on me.

We get to board first because Im a gimp. Mom hates it when I call myself that, but no matter how nice you try to make it sound, the truth is I have a serious limp. While were sitting in the waiting area no one notices my legs. I catch the middle-aged woman across from us staring at our faces. Maybe shes trying to figure out why an Asian chick like me is traveling with an Aryan in tie-dye. Mom made that dress herself, by the way. She took a class in indigo-dyeing while she was living in Tokushima.

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For as long as I can remember, people have been asking if Im adopted. They think Mom is some kind of saint for taking on a reject like me. But then she says, Misaki is my biological child, and the look turns to pity. I personally think its none of their business and I dont know why she doesnt say that. Why are you always so open with strangers, but you wont tell me anything about my father? Ive asked this a million times, and she always answers, Some things are better left unsaid.

On the flight I read manga, watch a movie, and eat chicken. And then, were in Paris. After we get settled in, Mom says, Lets go to a caf. Neither one of us has slept on the plane, but I dont feel exhausted. Im actually pretty wired. We go out onto the street, and it smells like no place Ive ever been. Theres tobacco mixed with perfume and sweat and bread. We sniff our way past la boulangerie, past la ptisserie with its window full of delicate pastries, past the newsstand and le tabac, to a veritable French caf. An impossibly thin woman dressed all in black, except for the red scarf around her neck, is sitting at an outside table. A black poodle sits at her feet, its leash twined around her chair leg. Mom and I go in and grab a table by the window. Im surprised to see another dog insidea silky blond Labrador. I check its owner, but he doesnt seem to be blind or deaf or otherwise disabled. The guy is sitting there reading Le Monde, sipping from a tiny white cup. A waiter comes over. He winks at me over my mothers head. He looks like hes just a couple of years older than me. Bonjour, les jolies dames. O.K., I understand that. Hes saying that were pretty. Hes pretty cute himself. Hes got super short brown hair and sideburns that kind of curl around his face. And huge brown eyes with eyelashes like a giraffe. I just love French waiters, Mom whispers to me across the table. Then she orders. Un caf. They both turn to me.

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Um, a Coke, please. From everything Ive read, French people are always responding to Americans in English. Why bother trying? But Mom is frowning and the waiter isnt moving, so I give it a shot. Un Coca-Cola, sil vous plat. Bien. The waiter nods and slips away. My mother smiles.

The following evening, we are invited to dinner with the gallery owner. To get to her apartment, we have to take a taxi and then an elevator that looks like a cage. It makes a ratchety sound as we go up, and for a second, Id rather be dragging my lame body up four flights of stairs than risk my life in that ancient box. But then the thing stops, and were still in one piece. The door opens. We get off. Mom pushes the light switch. Suddenly, a row of doors is brightly illuminated. The gallery owner lives at the end of the hall. I hobble along just behind Mom. Were almost there, when the light goes off. Its called a minuterie, Mom says. The lights only stay on for about a minute. It saves electricity. Hm. I grumble a little and wait for her to go back and press the light switch again. It takes me so long to move, if I lived here Id be in the dark half the time. Finally, were there. Mom presses the bell. The door opens almost immediately, and we are welcomed by a bony woman with long, straight black hair. Shes so pale, I doubt she ever goes outside. She kisses Mom on each cheek, then takes a long look at me. Ah, she says. La Muse! and she does the same kiss-kiss thing to me. Strictly speaking, Mom has only modeled one of her works after me. Its an early clay sculpture called En Pointe. If you didnt know better, you might think it was of a ballet dancer on tippy toes. The right arm is arched overhead, and the girl (me) looks like shes about to spin around. But the left hand is the giveaway. Its curled like a claw, close to the chest.

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When I became old enough to refuse, I was no longer a subject for her art. Now she does Siamese twins, amputees, figures in wheelchairs. Still, I am trying to be gracious here, so I nod a littleyeah, yeah, la Muse, cest moithen I lurch into the most beautiful apartment Ive ever seen in my life. The ceilings are high enough for palm trees, and the walls are covered with pleated burgundy fabric. Of course paintings are everywhere. Its dark and elegant, and there are about a million vases all around. They look old and Chinese and are probably worth more than our house. Im worried that I will suddenly lose control of my arm or legs and knock them to the floor. Uh, I think Id better sit down, I say to no one in particular. Mom is brushing cheeks with the other people in the room. I make my way to a velvet sofa and sit down in the middle. Itll take some work to get up again without an armrest to grab onto, but at least Im out of range of the breakables. I try to be invisible and make out what everyone is saying. The incredibly cute guy with brown sideburns down to his chin is some sort of artist. I admire him for a minute, till another guy, this one with platinum-dyed hair on his head, puts his arm around Sideburns waist. Oh, well. Its not like Id have a chance with him even if he wasnt gay. Guys dont look at me, not once theyve seen the arm. The woman with the chandelier earrings is the editor for a fashion magazine. Apparently shes sending someone over to interview Mom in a couple of days. The bald guy waving a cigarette around is a writer. Theres nobody here my age, and no one is speaking English. But Im O.K. as long as no one remembers me and starts raving about what a great inspiration I am. Everyone pretty much ignores me until its time to sit at the table. Mom is seated way at the other end. She flutters her fingers at me and shrugs. She seems really happy.

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A woman dressed in a maid uniform brings out the first course. It looks like some sort of meat loaf. Quest-ce que cest? I ask under my breath, practicing one of the few phrases Ive learned. Its been awhile since anyone has noticed me, so I almost forget that Im not invisible. Im a little surprised when the artist guy on my left answers. Its pt, he says. Made from goose liver. Oh, you speak English, I say. Un petit peu. His smile is like a laser beam. I feel myself blush. Im trying to think of something clever to say, and then I get all nervous and my arm flails and knocks over his wine glass. The crystal tinkles against my plate, and a big red splotch blossoms on the white damask tablecloth. Its probably an heirloom. Definitely dry clean only. I glance up at Mom, and her mouth is an o. Im sorry, I say, sinking down in my seat. And then I summon up the only other French phrase I seem to remember: Je suis dsole. Im thinking Ill be needing to say this one a lot. Our hostess forces a smile and rings a little bell. The maid rushes in once again. The mess is cleaned up, and we get on with our dinner. I am careful not to draw attention to myself for the rest of the meal.

Mom has some spare time the next afternoon, so we decide to do a little sightseeing. Moms an artist, so you can probably guess our first stopthe Louvre. This used to be somebodys house, you know, she says as we stand in line to buy tickets. I look up at the high ceilings and try to imagine this place filled with furniture. Instead, its stocked up with some of the most famous paintings and sculptures in the world. The first one I recognize is the Venus de Milo. She kinda looks like your work, I say. Yeah, well, she originally had an arm. It broke off.

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Winged Victory of Samothrace is missing a head. That must be worse than not having an arm, huh? Mom tells me how the sculptures were painted at one time. Shes my own personal tour guide. We brave the hordes and take a look at the Mona Lisa, which is surprisingly tiny for such a famous portrait, and then its on to the Muse dOrsay. I like Monets water lilies. I like it that he had a Japanese garden. It makes me feel as if we have something in common. He was going blind, you know. Thats why his paintings are so blurry. He saw the world differently, and yet his vision made things beautiful. We study his blossoms for a while, then move on to Degass ballerinas. I dont like the ballerinas so much. They remind me of all the things I will never be able to do. But Mom says, Degas was going blind, too. Can you imagine? Eyesight is one of the most important tools for a visual artist. Just like legs are important for dancing. Well, maybe I could dance if I tried. Some sort of spastic break dance. Or just using my arms. How about this guy? I ask in the next gallery. ToulouseLautrec. His painting is of a woman in blue, backed by vivid green plants. Well, he could see all right, but he was, uh, vertically challenged. You mean he was a midget. Mom frowns. He had a congenital calcium deficiency. He broke his legs, and they never healed properly. If all these artists hadnt been disabled, I wonder if theyd ever have been famous. Maybe they felt they had to prove something. But what about Mom? I know shes trying to make me feel better about myself through her art, but is she also trying to make herself seem special? Why dont you ever sculpt normal people? I ask her now.

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She pauses and gives me a long look. You think youre not normal? You know what I mean, I mumble. Then, Oh, forget it. I guess this isnt a good time to bring up Lourdes.

Next, we take a cab to the Eiffel Tower. We have to wait in a long line to go up it. Theres a Japanese tour group in front of us. They all have patches stuck to their shirts, identifying them as a group. Their leader waves a small flag. I try to eavesdrop and pick out a few Japanese words. I wonder if any of them know my father. Its a crazy idea, but its possible. Finally, when its our turn, we crowd onto an elevator and go up to the second floor. To get all the way to the top, you have to climb the stairs. So much for accessibility. Oh, well. We go out onto the observation deck. From there, we can see the city spread below. I take a couple of pictures, and then we go back down. Where to next? Mom asks. Im a little thirsty. How about a caf? Mom nods slowly and gets a faraway look in her eye. O.K. I know just the place. And although there are half a dozen cafs within view, she packs us into another cab and we fly down the streets to another neighborhood. I recognize the name of the caf right away. It looks familiar, too, from books and paintings. Les Deux Magots. This is where Hemingway used to hang out. Ill have to send my English teacher a postcard. Its pretty early in the day, but Mom orders a glass of wine. I go for my usual Coke. Were sitting there sipping, ogling all the tourists with their cameras and guidebooks, when Mom drops her first bombshell of the trip. This is where I met your father. What? Id always thought theyd met in Japan. She told me shed gone to Shikoku to visit the places that had inspired Isamu

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Noguchi. Now Im thinking there is more to her story. Maybe theres another version entirely. He thought I was French, Mom says. She smiles. Its a good memory, I think. What was he doing in Paris? She shrugs. Traveling. Backpacking around Europe. This caf was listed in his guidebook. So was it love at first sight? It must have been, I think, for her to follow him back to Japan. Her eyes cloud over, and she shakes her head. I think it was this city that made us think we were in love. I think we were in love with Paris. I look around. A couple is making out at the table next to us, their coffee going cold. Couples stroll along the sidewalk, arm and arm, or holding hands. I feel a pang, like a jackknife is being dragged over my heart. Paris is for lovers, not for someone like me.

The following day is interview day. Moms got people from Le Figaro and Elle coming to talk to her. Also, the Herald Tribune and a couple of other newspapers. But first, we have breakfast in our hotel roomcoffee for her, hot chocolate for me, and a basket of buttery croissants for the two of us. After the interviews, how about I take you shopping? Do you feel up to it? To tell the truth, shoppings not my favorite thing. It takes an eternity for me to try on clothes, and then there are the crowds and the little kids staring. But hey, were in Paris. Fashion City, right? And its two days before my birthday, so Mom will probably buy me anything I want. Sure, I say. I take a big bite of bread and watch the flakes flutter to my plate.

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I figure Ill write some postcards and look at magazines while Im waiting for her to finish up. Ill just stay out of the way, and no one will notice me. The first reporter arrives the second Mom downs the last of her coffee. Good luck, I say and retreat to my corner. Mom opens the door and gets all hostessy. She hustles everyone into chairsthe writer, the translator, and the photographer, and they get to it. I manage to pretty much ignore the whole conversation. By noon shes finished three interviews and still has a couple to go. This is all taking longer than I expected. Anyone else would be tired, but Mom is glowing from the attention. I guess fame is a big high. Ive flipped through some French magazines and found styles Id like to copy, but now it looks like we wont even get to go shopping. Plus, Im starting to get really hungry and Im sick of room service. This next interview is for a fashion magazine. The interviewer is as beautiful as a modelthin with perfect skin and a sleek black bob. Shes wearing a sort of fencing jacket, which must be the latest thing, and a pair of tight red leather pants. The very thought of trying to work my body into those clothes makes me tired. Bonjour! The woman kisses Mom as if theyre long-lost friends. She acts like shes in party mode. She looks around the room till she spots me. Bonjour! You must be la Muse! My hackles go up, but I nod and force a smile. Hello. Mom gives me a look for answering in English, but this woman isnt fazed at all. Turns out shes fluent. Oh, you must be so proud of your maman. Shes a genius, isnt she? Tell me, what do you think about this show? Suddenly, I cant stand it anymore. I hate that self-satisfied look on my mothers face, the fawning journalists, and I hate that Mom has dragged me to this place where the lights dont even stay on. I remember something I read in a review of her work. To be perfectly honest, I

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think its wrong for her to appropriate the experiences of the disabled for her art. I think she should find her own subject. There is gasping all around. I almost immediately regret what came out of my mouth, and yet I cant bring myself to apologize. Not yet. So with as much dignity as I can dredge up, I grab my backpack and the manga Im reading and limp toward the door. Bye, I say to Mom. Her mouth still hangs open. Im going to get something to eat.

Once I get to the street, Im not sure what to do. Then I spot that caf across the streetour cafand I decide to pop in for some steak frites. That same cute waiter is there. Hes unloading lunch at another table when I walk in the door. He nods at me and smiles. And people say the French are snobs. It takes me a minute to get settled, and then hes there, at my side. Bonjour, mademoiselle. What will you have today? Oh. Y-you s-speak English! He laughs. Yes. I spent last summer in New York City with my cousin. I love your country. Thanks. I say. Yours is pretty nice, too. By the way, Im Herv, he says. Misaki. And Ill have the, uh, steak frites. I know that my pronunciation is totally American, but he nods and heads for the kitchen. A woman at a table near the window is staring at me. I suddenly feel naked, sitting here alone without my mom. I open my manga and try to concentrate on the story. Its about a fisherman who becomes immortal after eating the flesh of a mermaid. Its pretty cool. I take a deep breath and dive into the pages. My mind is in this other world, this Japanese world of sea and women who cant walk on land, when Herv comes up behind me. Ah, you like the manga, he says, setting the plate of crisp fries and steak in front of me. So do I.

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Really? What have you read lately? He rattles off a long list. Impressive. I almost blurt out my dream of becoming a manga artist, but then I dont. He might ask to have a look at my work, and Im not ready to show anyone. Plus, Herv, with his signature sideburns, is in the sketch I made last night. How embarrassing would it be for him to see that? So you read in French, right? I ask. Yes, but Im studying Japanese. Id like to read the originals. Hey, me too. An older guy back in the kitchen calls out something to Herv. Oui, Papa, Herv replies over his shoulder. Ill be right there. Then he rolls his eyes at me. I smile back. Parents. They can be so exasperating. Have you been sightseeing? Maybe I can show you around after I finish my shift. I get off in an hour. Hasnt he seen my arm? Hasnt he seen me limping? Well, I-I dont know. My mom is kind of protective. Thinking of my mother makes me angry again. Ill be sixteen in a couple of days. I should be able to do things by myself once in a while. I dont need to stand by and help my mother get sympathy for her work. And besides, this guy is a native. He probably knows a lot of cool places that arent in the guidebooks. Actually, I would love to see Paris with you, I say. But keep in mind that Im not too good with stairs. He laughs again, flashing beautiful white teeth. Daccord. And then hes off to the kitchen. When he comes out, its to wait on a young couple near the door. I know hes working, but I feel disappointed when he doesnt bother to stop back by my table to chat. I eat as slowly as possible. Im not really all that hungry anymore, after that scene with my mother, but I want to sit here and watch him, and eating gives me something to do. Plus, the food is actually pretty good. I stretch out the time a little bit more with a cup of coffee. I take

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tiny sips, pacing myself, so that by the time I get to the bottom the brew has gone cold. And then the door whooshes open, and theres Mom, her hair all wild, her lipstick smeared. Here you are! She rushes at me, traps me in a hug. Im sorry about what I said, I blurt out. I didnt mean it. No, no. Its good that you said it. Im sorry for making you feel bad. You dont make me feel bad. I was just hungry. It made me grouchy. Mom sits down in the chair next to mine and looks at the dirty plate on the table. So youve eaten, she says. I nod. You ordered in French? Mais oui. She smiles. Shes about to reach over and ruffle my hair when Herv appears, a cup of coffee on his tray. For you, madame. He bows slightly. Like I said, Mom says with a wink. French waiters. She dumps a little cream into her coffee and dips the spoon in. Hey, Mom, this is Herv, I say. Hes going to take me on a tour of Paris. She stops stirring. Pardon? Herv bows again. Oui. If its O.K. with you, madame. Her forehead is wrinkled. Its taking some time to process this, I can tell. A boy, a cute boy, wants to take me out. Well, you know, my daughter Its O.K., Herv says quickly. We wont be climbing any stairs. Mom bites her lip. I can sense the war going on inside her. Should she practice what she preaches and let me live my own, full life? Or should she protect me? After all, shes seen me fall down many times. Shes heard the cruel taunts at the playground: Spaz! Retard! Shes even endured my crushes and my broken hearts. Maybe we could all go someplace together? Mom says.

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Herv raises his eyebrows. I frown. Hes really nice, Mom, I say under my breath. Hes not an ax murderer. How do you know that? Mom whispers. You just met him! To Herv, she says, Do you have a cell phone? A number where I can reach you? He writes down his name and address and telephone number. Im worried Mom is going to ask for references next, but she seems calmed by the information. The opening is at eight, she reminds me. Youll want to rest up before then, wont you? I feel my face go beet red. Why does she have to treat me like an invalid? Ill be fine, I say, gritting my teeth. She shrugs. O.K., then. She leans forward and whispers, Invite him along, if you like. Im not sure I want Herv to see me in the same room as all those broken bodies. For now, I just want to enjoy being treated normally. We hang out until Herv is finished working, then Mom makes herself scarce. Herv leads me to his scooter. You can ride on the back? Yes? I nod. Where do you want to go? How about someplace not too touristy? Take me to your favorite places. He gets all serious for a moment, then nods. Daccord. On y va. I put on the helmet he offers me, and then he helps me straddle the seat. I prop my feet on the running board and wrap my arms around his waist, grabbing my weak arm with my right hand. Ready? Oui! I shout. The engine revs. I have never been on a scooter before. It feels dangerous and free all at once. The wind puffs out my shirt and whips my hair. We fly past gray stone buildings and an old woman in heels walking her Pomeranian. We zip by bakeries and tobacco stands and bookstores and a girl

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covered by a veil. Finally, Herv pulls over in front of a music store. I can hear exotic music floating out into the street. Rai, Herv says. North African pop. Cool. I follow him into the store, which is dark and cramped. Young people, some of them with dreadlocks or funky braids, hunker over the bins of CDs, looking for treasure. Do you know French music? Herv asks. Not at all, I say. Pick something out for me. He smiles, and I go all gooey. O.K. Something special for mademoiselle. After the music store, Im tempted to ask him to take me to an Internet caf. Im dying to tell Whitney about this incredible guy and the bubbles that rise in my blood when he looks at me, but Id promised Mom no Internet. Next we go to a park and settle on a bench. A little girl jumps rope nearby. This is where I come to think, Herv says. What do you think about? I ask him. Many things. The work I will do one day, the countries I will visit I take a big breath. Can I ask you something? Oui. Why arent you freaked out by me? Most boys are. Freaked out? You know, my hand I hide it in the folds of my skirt. Herv shrugs. No one is perfect, he says. My aunt has MS for many years. Her body changed, but we remember what a good heart she has. When I see you, first time, I think, you are very beautiful. Merci, I say in my tiniest voice. Hey, would you like to go to my mothers show tonight?

Here in Paris, Moms exhibition is called Le Corps Exquis. Frankly, the title creeps me out. It reminds me of that game, Exquisite Corpse,

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where one person draws a head, then folds the paper over, and the next draws the torso without looking at the head, and so on, until you unfold the paper and youve got a freak that makes everybody laugh. Im wondering if the allusion is intentional, and maybe theres some committee member with a sick sense of humor, when Herv shows up at the gallery entrance with a rose. Hes wearing a black linen sports coat over faded jeans. I catch a whiff of cologne when he bends forward to do the kiss-kiss thing. Then he leans back, eyes me up and down, and says, You look great! Th-this ol thing? I say, grabbing at my black taffeta skirt. Actually, its brand new. Mom picked it up while I was off with Herv. She left the price tag on, in case she had to take it back. I did a quick conversion into dollars and got an idea of how guilty she felt. She bought herself a black skirt, too, so weve got this motherdaughter thing going. She looks fabulous in hers, there across the room, surrounded by admirers. Hey, Ive seen that guy on TV, Herv says, indicating a man with long dark hair and a white shirt unbuttoned halfway. Hes an actor? I say. No, hes a famous philosopher. Hes married to an actress, though. Huh. I just hope Mom doesnt drag me over to meet him. Im doing my best to be incognito here. I dont feel like being called la Muse and I dont want anyone to associate me with these statues. So do you wanna look at the art? Or just go get a drink somewhere? He laughs. It cant be that bad. Then he takes my hand and tugs me into the room. Lets have a look. Herv goes from sculpture to sculpture, not saying a word. He stands for a long time before each one. Sometimes he squeezes my hand. When weve gone through the whole show, we grab a couple of drinks and step out onto the veranda. A slight breeze whispers over my bare shoulders. Your mother is very talented, he says. You should be proud of her.

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I am, I guess, I say. But sometimes its like she tries too hard to understand how I feel. Do you know what I mean? Uh, not exactly. Herv laughs again. So how do you feel right now? Is it O.K. if I try to understand? I smile into the dark. I want to say that I feel like Im waltzing through a dream, like Im a princess in a fairy tale, like I might float away with happiness if Herv werent holding my hand. I feel happy to be with you, I say without a single stutter. Herv puts his finger on my chin and tips my face up. Then he ducks down and kisses me. He tastes like the cola weve been drinking. For the rest of my life, I think, I will drink Coke and remember this kiss.

Happy birthday! Mom throws open the curtains and bounces on the bed. The light is blinding. I burrow under the covers. So what do you want to do, birthday girl? Oh, I dont know. How about we go see a movie? I noticed cinema marquees all up and down the Champs Elyses. All right! A movie it is! Mom is all chirpy, but it seems false. Shes always a little weird on my birthday. Sometimes I even catch her crying. I tell myself its because she cant stand to see her baby girl growing up so fast, but maybe shes remembering the shock she felt when the doctor told her I would never be normal. I was a micro-preemie, born fourteen weeks too early, barely viable. My lungs hadnt fully developed yet, so I had to have a breathing tube jabbed down my throat almost as soon as I was born. Except, I guess it should have been sooner, because I didnt get enough oxygen at first, and part of my brain died. Mom always says it was a miracle I survived. The doctors gave me a 30-percent chance of making it through the first night. After that, the odds went up little by little. The baby in the incubator next to mine was almost four pounds, two and half more than me, but he died. I got

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stronger. I made it out of the NICU, out of the hospital, and now Im in Paris on my sixteenth birthday. Mom has already ordered breakfast. This morning there is a basket of pain au chocolat, my favorite. Theres a rose in a vase next to my plate. Mom opens our copy of Time Out Paris to the movie listings and hands it to me. It seems that just about every movie ever made is showing at one place or another. The French sure love their films. Frida is playing: something for both of us. An artist and a gimp. Actually, Im a big fan of Frida Kahlo. My favorite painting of hers isnt one where shes broken or in a wheelchair, though. I like the ones where shes got a monkey on her shoulder. My Left Foot is in revival, too. I scan for The Song of Bernadette, but I cant find it. How about Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason? Itll make us laugh. And its a chick flick, so we can bond. Oh, that sounds fun! Theres that perky tone again. I wonder how long shell be able to keep it up.

Later, after the movie, we go out to dinner. In the restaurant, Mom picks up the salt shaker and puts it back down. She drums her fingers on the table, bites at a hangnail. She looks like someone who really needs a cigarette. She asks the waiter for a bottle of wine and two glasses. She watches as he fills her glass. He hesitates a moment, watching for her nod, before filling mine. Hey, Im underage, I say. Mom shrugs. The French dont care. She raises her glass. Happy birthday, baby. I look around the restaurant. There is no one else here my age. There are no parents letting children sip from their goblets. No one seems to be watching us, either. I clink my glass with hers and take a small sip. It tastes sour, with a hint of cork. Id rather have a Coke.

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It must be good, though, because Mom downs half a glass in just a couple of gulps. By the time the bread arrives, shes stopped fidgeting. She starts to talk. I know it seems uncharacteristic of me, but sometimes people behave differently when theyre abroad. She sighs. It gives you a sense of freedom, dont you think? I swirl the purple liquid in my glass without drinking. I think about riding on the back of Hervs Vespa, how I probably wouldnt have even been able to look him in the eye back at school. Theres no way I would have kissed him at home. I wouldnt even have considered the possibility. Your father and I fell in love here. We were foreigners, both free in a way we wouldnt have been at home. Things were different when we went to Japan. I sit back, my food growing cold on my plate. I dont say anything, knowing how hard it is for her to reveal even this much. We came back here for our honeymoon, she says, but it was never quite the same again. Whoa, I say. You told me his parents wouldnt let you get married, that he was the oldest son and he had to obey. Are you telling me you got hitched anyway? She nods slowly, watching me. We eloped. We thought just being in love would be enough. His parents disowned him for marrying me, a gaijin, but he said it didnt matter as long as we had each other. But of course it did. To both of us. Here, she swallows the rest of her wine. The waiter comes over and refills her glass. After hes gone, she continues. Your father said they would soften up when the grandchildren came along. He was right, at first. They brought gifts as soon as they heard I was pregnant. But then I know what comes next. I figure Ill spare her this much. I read on the Internet that Japanese people used to believe babies were born disabled because of bad blood. Like maybe they thought you committed some big sin or something.

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She nods. Your grandmother said I had brought shame upon the family. She said I should put you in an institution. Your father was too grief-stricken to disagree with her. So you split up, I say. Suddenly I feel dizzy as if Im the one whos been guzzling Bordeaux. I havent really eaten anything, but I feel the urge to throw up. Control, control, I tell myself. Yet, I want to overturn this table. So youve been lying to me all these years? Some diners look over. I have raised my voice. My mother is crying. We are making a scene in an expensive restaurant in Paris. I am so sorry, she says. I thought it would hurt you to know the truth. To know that I was not born out of wedlock. To know how my foreign mother and I were shunned by my grandparents. To know how my father rejected me, while my mother uses me to try to make her life more meaningful. I want to go back to the hotel, I say. Im not hungry anymore. What I really want to do is go home. Alone. But I know thats not possible. Shes the one with the credit card. Mom dabs at her eyes and nose with her cloth napkin. O.K. She digs around in her purse and fishes out some crumpled euros, tosses them on the table. I get up and limp to the door. I let her guide me to the curb and wait for her to flag down a taxi. We dont say a word all the way back. I cant even look at her. All I can think is, if I had been born perfect, then Id still have a family. And then I remember Lourdes. Its a long shot, but Whitneys rightmiracles happen. Just a few weeks ago, I heard about a guy who was in a coma for nineteen years. He got knocked out in a car accident. Then, one day, he suddenly woke up and started talking to his mother. Maybe something like that could happen for me. Maybe I could bring my family together again. Or maybe not. But I promised Whitney Id get her some of that water, and I figure Mom owes me big time.

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She seems to be thinking the same thing. I watch as she goes to the mini-bar in our hotel room and pours herself a drink. Look, I know there is no way I can make this up to you, but Well, there is one thing, I say. This is the first time Ive spoken in half an hour. She looks up, surprised. What? Her voice is as soft as a feather. I take a deep breath and spit it out. You can take me to Lourdes. I really want to go there. She gulps then, and I realize that shes crying. I love you the way you are, she says. Ive tried to help you love yourself. All of my art, all of my life has been about that. I guess Ive failed. Her mascara is running down her face like mud. Her nose is red. I feel a little bit sorry for her, but then I remember her betrayal. Her lies. So are you going to take me, or do I have to go by myself? I imagine riding along the highway on the back of Hervs Vespa. I can almost feel the wind in my hair, brushing against my bare arms. Mom turns to the window, looks out at the city lights. Ill take you, she says. Well leave first thing tomorrow.

I set the alarm. I want to make sure we wake up early. I want to get to Lourdes as soon as possible. Ill go ask the concierge if he can book us a room for tomorrow, Mom says. I grunt, my head turned away. I just want her to leave. After I listen to the door open and close, I breathe a sigh of relief. Night has fallen on Paris. Im suddenly exhausted. My body is tired from our wanderings, but its more than that. Its as if my mind is so overwhelmed by the news of my parents marriage that it wants to shut down for a while. I change into my pajamas and crawl under the covers. But I cant sleep. I lie there listening to cars honking along the boulevard, laughter from a group passing under the window, someone thumping around in the room next to ours. I close my eyes and try to

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imagine a deserted beach with gently lapping waves, but what I get is a picture of my father. Does he ever think about me? Has he ever tried to find us? Or has he married someone else, someone Japanese with black hair? Maybe he has another family, with perfect children. I imagine my Japanese grandparents showering them with gifts, while my mother and I are forgotten, a dirty secret from long ago. It seems like I spend all night thinking about my father, but then the alarm goes off, and it feels like Im swimming, swimming to the surface, and I open my eyes to the dawn. Mom is already awake and dressed. Shes sitting in the armchair, with the guidebook open on her lap. Reading up on Bernadette Soubirous, no doubt. Good morning, she says. I haul myself out of bed and pull on a pair of jeans. So what times the train? In another hour. I notice a small bag by the door. Well be leaving most of our stuff in this hotel room. I shuck off my pajama top and pull on a T-shirt. We go downstairs for croissants and caf au lait, and then its off to the Gare de Lyon. While Moms paying for our tickets, I buy a bar of chocolate and Paris Match. Its not like I can read the magazine or anything, but I can look at the pictures: Princess Caroline de Monaco in a ball gown. Johnny Depp with his French singer. Quai 3, Mom says. I follow her to the train, onto the car, down the corridor. We slip into an empty compartment. I quickly flip open my magazine, but I can feel Moms eyes on me. I know she wants to talk. Part of me wants to ignore her for the rest of the trip, but there is so much I want to know. She is the only one who can tell me these things. The train starts to pull away from the station. O.K., I say, tossing the magazine on the seat beside me. Do you have any pictures of him? She draws in a big breath. Yes.

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I watch as she reaches into her purse and takes out her wallet. Why didnt it ever occur to me to ransack her bag before? Ive looked in drawers. Ive looked in closets. Ive done countless searches on the Internet, trying to find out about my father. She pulls a small square from behind her credit card and holds it out to me with two hands. I take it from her, careful not to touch the photograph. I try not to even breathe on it, but then I let out a little gasp. I look so much like himsame eyes, same chin, same wide forehead. Does my father have a picture of me? Mom nods and looks out the window. The city is fading away. She dabs at the corner of her eye with her finger. I have sent letters and photos for all these years, but he never writes back. Im about to say more, but then the train slows to a stop and passengers get on. A trio of backpackers crowd into our compartment. My questions will have to wait.

Minutes tick by. As we get closer to our destination, more and more passengers board with canes or wheelchairs. I see a mother carrying a child with leg braces, and a blind man boards with his dog. Some get on with nurses or nuns. Finally, the Pyrenees mountains loom into view. This is Bernadettes territory. My heart steps up a beat. When the train pulls into Lourdes, were already standing at the door, ready to get off. Mom carries a bag holding clothes for both of us. She gives me a hand in stepping off the train, then we flag down a cab. Mom tells the driver the name of the hotel the concierge in Paris booked for us, and were off. I look out the window, trying to find something familiar, something from the movie. I try to imagine Bernadette walking down these cobblestone streets, her mother buying meat at that butchers shop, she and her sisters running over that hill. I try to blot out the hordes of tourists, the advertisements pasted to every wall featuring

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Our Lady of Lourdes, the plastic bottles of holy water sitting in shop windows. This is it, the driver says, stopping in front of a two-story brick building. Mom hands him a few euros, and we check into the hotel. The concierge says that this place is within walking distance of the grotto, Mom tells me. Great, I say. Lets go. Somehow Im expecting a garbage dump and a cold stream, but its not like that at all. The site is dominated by a huge cathedral. Of course, this wasnt in the film. It hadnt been built yet. Everyone was still thinking that Bernadettes vision was a hoax. The people gathered here obviously believe that she was telling the truth. Mom and I fall in behind a long procession of pilgrims in white. Many hold candles. They are chanting. I dont understand the words, but they raise goose bumps on my arms. Mom touches me and guides me forward. I glance at her face. She looks scared. Itll be O.K., Mom, I say. She forces a smile. We shuffle along, inhaling incense, our bodies buoyed by faith. Then the line stops. Up ahead, there is wailing. A woman has fallen to her knees. All I can see are her hands, reaching for heaven. Some guys that look like orderlies rush up with a stretcher. I think theyre going to take her off to some waiting ambulance, but they dont. Instead, they carry her alongside the column of pilgrims. I hear someone crying behind me. We begin moving again. Down near the grotto, there are rows of chairs. I motion for Mom to wait for me, and then I move down to the cave, to the place where Bernadette was cured. When I step up to the railing, my heart starts to bang. I feel my knees begin to buckle and I hold myself upright with my arms until I can control my legs again. All of my senses are suddenly acute. I can hear every bird in every tree. The world is bright; the mountains are haloed. Its just adrenaline, I tell myself. But fear grabs me by the

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throat. What if I do experience a miracle? What then? Im old enough to know that everything has a price. You dont get something for nothing in this world. Bernadette may have been graced with a vision, but she was sent to a convent. She died there, away from her family, from tuberculosis. I saw a movie on cable once about this Japanese woman with a brain-damaged daughter. She believed that if she made the tour of eighty-eight temples in Shikoku, her girl would be able to walk. Even when she was grown, the mother pushed her child from temple to temple in this wicker buggy, picking fruit along the way to earn money for food. Finally, at the last temple, the daughter got out of the buggy, stood up on her own, took one step, and fell down dead. I take a deep breath. My heart starts to slow down. I dont want a miracle that badly. I want to live. I want to ride on the back of Hervs Vespa and feel the wind in my hair and his fingers on my face. I want to fall deeply in love, even if it hurts. I want to sprawl on Whitneys bed and watch more movies and talk about our dreams of the future, and I want to draw and travel and even learn to dance. And maybe Mom is right about my dad. If he cant accept me, his own flesh and blood, limp and claw and all, maybe hes not worth getting to know. I curl the fingers of my left hand around the railing and peer into the grotto. I try to conjure the lady in white. Some people said she was a fairy. Bernadette never actually said she was the Virgin, but thats what the villagers wanted to believe. I dont see a fairy or anything else. All I see is stone. I heave a sigh of relief and then I start to walk away. Thats when I hear the voice. Forgive, a woman whispers. My skin goes all prickly. I veer back toward the cave, but nothing is there. Just stone, as before. Forgive, the voice says again, a little louder this time. I turn to see an elderly woman, her eyes squeezed shut. O.K., so shes not talking to me. Shes thinking about her own problems. Once again, relief

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whooshes through me, but this time its mixed with something else. I think of my mother and all the gifts she has given me on this tripthe story about my father, this moment at the shrine, even the kiss from Herv. I hurry as fast as I can to find her. When I do, I am as surprised as Ive ever been. Shes behind the rows of chairs, kneeling. Her head is bowed, and her hands are folded together. The sight of my mother praying is about as much of a miracle as anything. Mom, I say. Lets go. She opens her eyes. They are rimmed with red. There are a few streaks on her face. Im sorry, Misaki. Im so sorry about everything. Its O.K., Mom. I forgive you. I hold out my hand to help her up. Instead, she opens her palm to me, offering a square of folded paper. Whats this? I ask, plucking it from her hand. Its your fathers address. Do with it what you like. I hold it for a moment without reading it, and then I put it in my pocket. Ive decided that Im not going to make any more sculptures of disabled people, she says. Ill find something else. You dont have to, I say, but I can tell shes already made up her mind.

A few weeks later, were on the plane, on our way back to the U.S. The flight attendant comes down the aisle, pushing her meal cart. Beef or chicken? she asks. She has a French accent. Chicken, Mom says absent-mindedly. I glance over at her sketch pad. Shes been drawing women draped with veils. They look suspiciously like the Lady in White on the label of the bottle of water tucked into my luggage somewhere along with Hervs e-mail address. Hm. Is that going to be her next phase? On my foldout table, there is an open notebook. I have started some manga drawings of my own. In the first panel, a little girl with

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leg braces holds hands with her mother. In the next, shes standing by herself for the very first time. Thats as far as Ive gotten. The rest will have to wait, at least until Ive finished my meal. I look up at the flight attendant and smile. Du buf, sil vous plat.

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25 Miles to Athens
by Chris Wiewiora I step into the shower and turn the dial counterclockwise, letting the water melt away my stiffness. Im not fully awake until I drink coffee, but the soon-to-be steam room helps. All my memories of this city thaw. The Field Museum is my StairMaster. Thousands of times, I go up and down the steps. I run so often beside the sea wall, which protects us Chicagoans from Lake Michigan, that I know each crack in the cement pathway. I lap under the rectangular loop of the El tracks countless times before I head back to my apartment, only to collapse into bed from exhaustion. Year after year I entered races with one goal in mind: to run the Chicago Marathon, and not only beat the record, but break the twohour mark. During college, I holed up in my studio apartment. My schedule intensifiedrun, school, run, work, run, study, and then pass out, only to repeat it all the next day. I trained at this level until I pushed my average mile time to below five minutes per. After graduation, my schedule opened up. With no more classes, I used the additional time to train harder. Today, I race. I step out of the shower directly into my kitchen. Ten short steps take me from my front door to my north window. The apartment is simple and cozy. I am content. This morning I spoon honey-laced oatmeal into my mouth. At my single-chaired table, I open the newspaper. I sip my black coffee and flip through the pages. Nothing interests me, until I turn to the sports section. The article on the front page proclaims Mabu Zamba as the potential record-breaker and winner of todays marathon. A half-page picture shows him in a race last month, running in front of all the others with his arms outstretched and hands clenched in triumph.

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Zamba, a native of Kenya, is among the elite African runners who have been winning almost every single marathon. They train in intense heat, with no shoes, at several thousand feet above sea level. When they cross the pond to the States, they excel in the cooler climate and lower altitude. I toss the paper aside. Its time for me to stretch my body into limberness. I go through each muscle group. My focus is mainly on my lower extremities. My arms pull against themselves. They strain to touch the ground with my knuckles. My legs elongate. From my duffel bag, I pull out a shirt, shorts, and shoes. I wear a simple white T-shirt. Everyone else wears special blends of nylon and polyester. All synthetics feel like Saran Wrap. They trap body heat and force perspiration to slide down inside the apparel. I prefer to breathe through cotton fibers. Gallons of sweat pour through my mesh shorts. They fall at my thigh, and even after many washings, theyre still a bright red, in homage to this running of the bulls. I dont have any sponsors. I only know some guys at the local running store, who give me a big discount. They stop by the coffee shop where I work, and I waive their tab. Sometimes I give them a pound of beans. The barter is enough of a break to allow me to continue running without worry over the expense of it all. The one logo I display is a check that runs from my toe to heel. It signifies the goddess of victory. Everyone might think I run for her, but I run for myself. From a drawstring bag I pull my shoes for the race. I am hardly able to feel their weight. They are specially designed to last only one hundred kilometers. Ive worn them just enough to break them in. Supposedly, the idea for the design came from the mayfly, a small insect with a one-day life span. Whats the most important thing to get out of a final twenty-four hours? The only thing Ive got: speed. I lock my door and walk down the quiet hall. This building is host to many artists who rent the small rooms as studios for their music,

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art, or writing. Its a place of peace and harmony. I creep forward so as to not disturb the early morning silence. My sneakers squeak a little and break the stillness. I press the button by the wooden paneled doors before me. The buzzer rings down below. Normally, I would take the winding stairs to the ground floor, but I call up the elevator. The Polish elevator operator, one of the last in the city, sits on his stool and throws the lever upward. I see him through the glass. He shoots up halfway past my floor, then readjusts and comes down. He evens out the elevator cage, lines it up with the landing. Hello, Josef. Good morning, he says. I no thought you take elevator in mornings? Today Im in a race. Again? Thomas, it is every day you run. I know, I know. Could you hold my keys for me? Of course, never must you ask. I do it. Josef might be the only one in the building who knows my name. I dont think hell ever understand why I run. I figure its the same sort of contentment he finds as he sits in an elevator all day. Its what he does, and this is what I do. I step outside onto the street with my essentials, ready to face the Windy City. I grip my water bottle and jog off. As I approach Grant Park, I see a throng of runners massed together. Lake Michigan is the eastward backdrop for the group. About half an hour before the start and Im limber. Others jump up and down in anticipation. I sit on the curb and wait, feeling the spray of Buckingham Fountain from the south. I remember hydration is key. So I tip my water bottle. The cool water squirts out of the spout and pours into my mouth. My tongue laps down the aftertaste of the acidic coffee. Any remains of the mushy oatmeal from breakfast wash down my throat. The weight sloshes to my guts and stays there.

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Everyone signs in. I get my numbers and put them on my shirt. Im not with the elite up front. Instead, Im with those who love to run, those who arent paid but run because they possess an inner flame. Behind us are the commoners who clog the race with no hope to compete, only complete a marathon. All too soon the officials call for everyone to get into position. They herd us like a flock of sheep. Hoots and hollers are bleyings and bleatings. The race begins. The gate opens, and everyone floods out onto the field. I am in the cluster but not part of it. I race forward. I cut in front of a lot of people who pace themselves. Im sure many of them believe Im a rabbit who tries with a fast head start to place a bigger spread between myself and everyone else. I weed through the crowd of runners. I pass those who are weak, those who keep a steady tempo and only wish to finish. Their goal is so minute. My aim is for the record. The position I strive for is behind the elite. Their unique outfits glare like highlighted words on a page. I catch up with this group at a high cost to my own energy, energy Id rather keep in reserve. As I turn my back on Navy Pier, the cushion between the commoners and the elite widens. The visible space between the supreme and the others grows, too. I dont hold myself to be of their kind, either of them. I run against them both. The herd drives northward toward the ritzy part of town aptly named the Gold Coast. Here townhouses line the streets. The residents wake up in the morning and jog a few miles. They think of themselves as runners. We stomp on along the shore of Lake Michigan. This will be the last time I see it, until Im at the end. I look out over the water. The chop shimmers, dips, and then churns. A breeze from the lake chills my sweat-covered arms. Back down south, the track goes right around Lincoln Park. At the hub is the public zoo. Something inside the caged animals is still wild;

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they will always be untameable. I am feral, I think for a moment, and then smile a little before making a move toward the main herd. I position myself like a wolf among the pack. None of them pays much attention to me. Their focus is on the race ahead, not behind. My focus is on the bald-headed African who directs us. I think of tomorrows potential front-page picture of him across the finish with another triumphant win. Zamba is mine. Onward, I make my way into the tight-packed group of about a dozen. These are the superiors. They run to win the money, the prizes, and the adoration. They run for everything except for running itself. Shaped as a flying V, their leader is still Zamba. I let him have his limelight. He can hold onto his spot, for now. Everyone who tries to overtake Zamba lacks the power to do so. Each attempts and fails. I pass the failures. Heel, midfoot, ball of foot, and toe. Each and every cycle of motion sends intense pain through my body. Sensation feels like the crunch of flesh on glass. Shards rip and tear my muscles. Drop, drop. The endorphins, which flooded me from before, now drip. I absorb every ounce of liquid like a morphine shot to cover the pain. The endorphins start to wear off, and my body begins to wear out. This threshold is The Wall. The shock waves reverberate through my whole skeleton, jarring each and every bone. My mind is at the brink of utter fear. Each mile before the twenty-mile mark blends together. Step, step. To give up would be easy. Slow down, veer off, and sit. Just stop. Thats it, all over. If only I would let myself. I cant. Takeoff to liftoff. I continue on the path. My thighs clench inward as if to flex my muscles to a finer definition and in fact pinch my nerves, which sends more pain to register in my brain. My mind takes over, employing reason against my body. I have done this before. I can do it again. All I have to do is run. I have to run. Run. They yell at us, Just three more miles. Three more.

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Theres actually three and a tenth left. Most people have probably run this distance only if they were on cross-country, before they let their waistlines expand and sat on the sidelines to cheer us on. I want to tell them, If its so easy, you do it. I save my breath. Its Mabu Zamba and me. I dont think he knows who I am. Confusion spurs him on. What if a nobody beats him? I steal a glance at Zamba in exchange for a second of my time. He is determined. Beads of sweat dot the dome of his shaved, brownskinned head; they slide down and then flick away as they slip off the surface. Hes smooth, but Im frictionless. For the last few miles, Ive been neck and neck with him, and hes burned off all his excess. At this point I fly by him. I hear him pick up speed, but its impossible for him to overtake me. Then I hear nothing. This is the last part, the one-tenththe dash. I sprint in a tunnel vision of speed. Toned arms bend at my biceps. I pump back and forth to push on. My half-clenched hands lock their knuckles. As I sprint, I send them straight, more aerodynamic. My shoulders point forward, intersect my spine, and make a perpendicular T. The checkered crossing is before me. My legs lunge over it, carried by my momentum. A big clock reads off the time. Elation flows through me with the streams of blood to replenish my cells. My body quakes with happiness and fatigue. A man rushes up and shakes my hand. Then another person pats me on the back. News reporters cluster around; they reel off questions and flash bulbs. Everybody wants to know who I am and what I think. I did it alone, and Zamba is dead. I sit down on the curb. I feel the spray of Buckingham Fountain. It rejoices like the champagne uncorked all around me by people I dont know, people who celebrate my victory. The crowd compresses around me. Microphones record my gulping breaths. I stare at the ground, blinking away the ghosting blue dots from the cameras flashes. The rest of the pack stomps across the finish. While everyone turns to focus on them, I get up and let the sidelines absorb me. I tear

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off my numbers and hand them to a volunteer. I shuffle back to my apartment. I climb the few steps in front of the building. Inside, I go up to the two doors with glass panes. Next to them, I press the button. It rings. Josef comes down the shaft. This time, he lines up level with the ground. Thomas, how was the race? says Josef. Good, good, I say. Let me take you up to floor? Yeah. Here is keys, says Josef. Thank you, I say and walk off the platform. O.K., Josef says as the gate closes. At the end of the hallway, I place my key in the lock and turn it counterclockwise. Inside my apartment, I pull off my sweaty clothes and throw them into my square hamper. I manage to pull on a clean pair of boxers before I fall onto my mattress, nursing an energy drink.

This morning, I step into the shower and let the water melt away my stiffness. This morning, I am fully awake. My memories of yesterdays race thaw. As I smell the coffee wafting through the air, I think of myself brewed like the grounds hit by hot water. After I pour my cup of java, I set the mug down on the counter. I pick up the newspaper and unravel the pages. The front-page headline glares: 1:59:33. My cheeks turn upward, and I smile. I toss the paper aside. I pull on my shoes. These arent special ones, but my normal runners. I lace them up. A quick sip finishes my coffee, and I put the cup in the sink. My muscles burn as they stretch against the strain. With my keys in hand, I head down the hallway. I dont even try to be silent in the cavern. Echoes squeak off the walls. At the end of the mosaic-tiled corridor, I reach the elevator. I dont let myself have the luxury; I take the stairs. The wooden steps creak as I descend.

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In the lobby, I see Josef at the same moment he sees me. In his hand is todays paper. Thomas, you are the winner! Yeah, I say. Congradulation! Thanks, I say. Where are you going? For a run, I say and toss him my keys. Thomas, it is always you run, Josef says as he catches my keys. I know, I say, shrugging my shoulders. I push open the lobbys glass door. Im lunging over my footsteps from yesterday with my ordinary shoes, leaving my handprint smudged on the pane.

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by Patricia G. Penny Olivia, the woman I live with, is over by the stove smiling at me, looking like someone from a Norman Rockwell painting. Her short gray hair is done in one of those granny perms, the kind all older women seem to go for, and shes wearing a purple sweatshirt with flowers on the front. So old ladyish. Shes holding out a loaf of raisin bread. Have some more toast, Carrie. How about some cereal, Carrie. Or some eggs. She knows I am dreading today. I guess she thinks stuffing me with food will make it better. Ive been placed in this house with her for four months already, and she still acts as though shes glad to have me here, which is highly unlikely given that in my entire fourteen years no one, not my mother or any of the foster parents Ive had, ever seemed to connect with me too well. Turning down Olivias offer for more breakfast, I take a long swig of juice before standing and carrying my empty plate and glass over to the sink. Thats part of the house rules here, washing the breakfast dishes and making my own bed. I also have to clean my room; vacuum, dust, and tidy up my stuff, which sounds like Im a friggin maid, though to be honest I dont mind the cleaning because I like things to be neat. My social worker says that staying neat and organized is my way of taking control of life. He went to school for years just to learn that kind of crap. Social Services brought my two sisters and me into care when I was eight, right after the cops found us in that dumpy downtown apartment by ourselves. Our mother had said she was going out to meet a friend for an hour or two, but shed been gone over three days before my school or a neighbor or someone figured it out and called the police. Id managed O.K. on my own, feeding Jazz and Cheyanne, changing Jazzs diapers and putting her down for naps. She wasnt even two at the time, and Cheyanne was just four, babies really, but I was

Moving On

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used to taking care of them. My mother had some problems, and still does, so even if she meant well and loved us like she said she did, taking care of us just never seemed to be something she could handle. She was always caught up in booze and drugs, either doing them or thinking about doing them or worrying about where shed get the money to do them again, so when the cops came and sat me down with a social worker and told me my mother had been arrested, I hardly even blinked. I mean, after three days on our own, it had crossed my mind that she might actually be dead. The social worker asked me about my extended family, like aunts and uncles and grandparents, but Mom had never mentioned any to me. I guess we must have some somewhere, but they probably gave up on our mother a long time ago. I can understand that. She wasnt one for keeping up relationships with anyone for very long. Anyway, there wasnt much option but to send us kids off to homes with strangers. The Liskards, Dan and Lisa, took us all in that first night. They gave Jazz and Cheyanne a room with frilly bedspreads and lots of stuffed animals and a bathroom across the hall. I was supposed to sleep in the family room on a foldout couch, but they found me in the morning on the floor between the girls beds. Jazz could barely talk at the time, but she started calling Mrs. Liskard Mommy after about a week, which pissed me off because it seemed pretty quick for her to write off our own mom as a lost cause. Now I can see that I was wrong. Not even two years old and Jazz knew more than I did. Cheyanne took longer to fit in. Shes always been more cautious and shy, a little more serious. Still, it was only a month or so before she seemed happy there, what with the decent meals and all those toys and the Liskards own kids to play with. Everyone really connected with the girls, probably because they were still young and real cute and so much easier to love than me, a sallow-looking kid with a chip on her shoulder. Anyway, after a few weeks the Liskards said they were sorry that they couldnt keep three children, and I would have to go to another

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family. I had done something they didnt like, acted out in a socially unacceptable manner, and they werent experienced enough in fostering to take on the challenges I presented. I got sent to the Redmonds, Archie and Myrna, who lived a few miles away, but I didnt like how old Archie looked at meit reminded me of some of the guys my mother used to bring home. So I was moved to the Underhills and then, when they transferred out of town two years later, to Olivias. Fourteen years old and I still feel like I dont belong anywhere. At least I get to see my sisters almost every Saturday. They look real good, healthy and clean all the time, and the Liskards love them and would probably adopt them if it werent for our mother still talking up a story with the social workers, making out like she wants to get it together someday, quit the booze and drugs and maybe take us back. I think its all crap. Were in foster care for good. As I finish drying the dishes, Olivia drums up some fake enthusiasm and asks if Im ready to go. Barry, my social worker, has arranged for a supervised visit with my mom at the library at ten oclock. Its Olivias responsibility, part of her job as a foster parent, to drive me there. My own private chauffeur. I shrug and tell her sure, acting like its nothing, this upcoming visit with my mother, but inside I have a hollow feeling like I havent eaten for a long time, like something is chewing up my insides. Im never ready for these visits. Olivia comes over and squeezes my shoulders quickly, and I flinch. I dont like to be touched, and especially not hugged, not by anyone except Jazz or Cheyanne. Olivia learned that the hard way, the first time she tried to hold me and I pushed her away. My counselor says itll come in time, but I doubt it. I know this isnt how youd like to be spending your morning, Olivia clucks at me, but it wont take long. Just an hour or two with your mom and then youll be out of there. At least you get to see the girls, right? I know theyll be happy to see you! Shes like a cheerleader, trying to juice me up. Olivia has been fostering one kid or another for almost twenty years, so shes practically a pro at this business. Shes wiping off the countertops, killing time,

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waiting for me, and I dont say anything, just hang the wet dishtowel neatly over the oven door handle next to her. Its the same every time they line these visits up. My mother tells my child welfare worker that she really wants to see us. She sets a date and a time and a place, and the worker arranges for all of us to be there with a supervisor. Thats to make sure were O.K., just in case one of us gets upset or in case Mom goes off the deep end and decides to take us away somewhere. Like she ever would. Despite what she says about cleaning up her act, I dont really think she cares enough to want to take us away. Sometimes she doesnt care enough to even show up. I tell Olivia that I have to brush my teeth before we go, and she answers good-naturedly, joking about how its the first time shes never had to nag me about brushing. She picks up the dishtowel, then turns and flicks it at my butt as I walk past to go upstairs. She probably thinks thats funny. I arch my hips forward, and it barely touches me. I dont miss a beat. In the small bathroom, I stare at myself as I brush. The girl looking back at me from the mirror over the sink is so average that shes as good as invisible. Best thing about her is that shes dressed well in decent jeans and a fairly new Wind River hoodie, courtesy of a monthly clothing allowance. I spit into the sink and run the water hard for a moment to wash the toothpaste away. There are paper towels hanging beside the vanity. I tear one off and wipe the sink. I come back downstairs and enter the kitchen as Olivia is putting on her jacket. She tells me Ill need to wear a coat, too, but I tell her Im fine. I tie the laces on my track shoes and straighten. She is looking at me with a question on her face. Im fine, I repeat. I go out to the garage and climb in on the passenger side of the car as she locks the back door of the house. A moment later, she slides behind the wheel, turns the key in the ignition, then looks across at me and pats my hand. I look out the window, and we back down the driveway in silence. Her car is a Dodge Spirit, probably over ten years old. There is a rattle in the engine, and the fan belt squeals on rainy days.

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Its going to have to do for a while, Olivia has said more than once. We both know its a piece of junk. She pushes a button on the radio, and we hear the end of Crocodile Rock. Olivia keeps the station on golden oldies and always sings along with these feeble songs, usually getting the words wrong. It might be annoying to anyone else, but it keeps her from talking to me, so its all good. We stop at a traffic light, and I look out my side window as a cruiser pulls up and idles beside us. The cop glances across, giving me the once-over. I almost wish I had done something wrong so that he could arrest me and save me from going to another one of these visitations with my mother. The library parking lot is full, so Olivia pulls into the wheelchair space in front and keeps her engine running. Her smile is bright, but her eyes look worried. There you go! she is saying, her voice as chipper as if she is leaving me at the gates of Disney World. She says shell be back at eleven-thirty and we can go for lunch somewhere. I know I should get out of the car, but I just sit there, not reaching for the door handle. Her voice loses its rah-rah tone as she asks if Ill be all right. Im fine. Carrie? Im fine, I say again, as if by rote. How often does she need to hear it? I climb out of the car and know she is watching me as I walk up the concrete steps toward the huge glass doors. Theres a sign on the door listing the days and times the library is open. I pull on the heavy brass handle, and the clear door swings out. The air from a heating duct inside hits me as though a pillow has been pressed over my face. It is oppressively warm, stifling compared to the cool October wind that tries to slip in with me. A few brown leaves swirl past into the vestibule and settle in a corner. I pass through the second set of doors and see the child welfare worker who is assigned to supervise the visits with my mother. Betty Duncan is tiny and old, someone most people would walk right past and not see, but she has this huge personality that bursts from her

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through big hand gestures and exaggerated expressions. Shes kind of corny, but Ive got no problem with her. She sees me walking toward her and gives me one of those huge open-mouthed grins like Im the best thing thats happened to her all day. She crosses the room to meet me by the checkout desk and shakes my hand energetically with both of hers. She has a pretty good grip for someone even older than Olivia. Carrie! You look great! How have you been doing? Its one of those rhetorical questions that doesnt really need an answer. I mean, I dont think she wants to hear anything negative. Then again, it isnt as if I have anything negative or positive to discuss. Nothing bad, nothing goodI feel nothing most of the time. Life is all bullshit. Nothing matters; nothing is real except my sisters. I tell her Im good and then look around the lower level of the library and ask if anyone else is here yet. Theyre just arriving now, she answers, nodding toward the glass doors. I turn and see Jazz and Cheyanne coming up the last of the steps. Jazz is running, trying to take two steps at a time. Cheyanne is more controlled, walking with care but peering forward to try and catch sight of me through the glass. Mrs. Liskard is with them; I can see her saying something to Jazz so that she stops running and straightens her skirt. Mrs. Liskard grasps the handle of the inside door, and as she pulls it open, Jazz comes flying through. Carrie! Jazz is yelling, but in a loud whisper reserved for the library. She is seven and a half now, although shell tell you shes almost eight if you ask her. Jazz is like every picture you ever saw of a fairy princess, all glowing and rosy with yellow hair in natural curls that bounce when she moves. She is almost always happy, and Ive seen how that can enthrall people. Anyone who ever walks into a room and sees Jazz is drawn right to her, like a bee to honey. She can actually make people feel good, as though her laughter and her sparkle rub right off on them. And then theyll turn and see Cheyanne. At ten, shes every bit as pretty as Jazz, maybe even more so, but its a kind of adult beauty, like someone has taught her too much too soon and shes having to carry

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that around with her until she can grow into it. She has huge brown eyes, and they never miss a thing. Cheyanne is an observer. Ive seen people turn away in embarrassment while she sits there quietly, just watching their movements and listening to everything they say. She isnt trying to be rude; shes just not like other kids. She is standing behind Jazz now, letting her sister monopolize my attention, patiently waiting her turn. I pick Jazz up and squeeze her, as she demands no less. Her cheeks are cold from the outside air. Mrs. Liskard must have walked them here from her house on Rogers Street. Jazz is telling me about some kittens they are going to see later today. Mrs. Liskard is going to let them choose one to keep, and she is so excited about it that shes trembling. I nod and say Really? and Wow! as I look across her shoulder and smile at Cheyanne. She smiles back, a slow knowing look that acknowledges I am trapped in the moment by the incomparable Jazz, and she understands. We are of a like mind, Cheyanne and me. Mrs. Liskard greets me warmly, though I think she always feels slightly guilty that the girls and I were separated. I smile to reassure her that I dont hold anything against her. Its just the way it is. Jazz gives her a quick hug and then turns away to ask Betty if she can go upstairs to the childrens section. She wants to look for the next book in a series she has been devouring. Seven years old and she can read better than I could when I was ten. Betty says sure, that she will go up with her, and Jazz skips off ahead with a squeal of excitement. Poor Betty has to hustle to keep up. I wait there in the lobby while Cheyanne holds Mrs. Liskard for a moment. It is more than a hug. Its like she is drawing strength from the woman. When Mrs. Liskard finally turns and heads back out the doors toward the sidewalk, I put my arm over Cheyannes shoulder and spin her around to walk with me toward the carpeted ramp to the kids section. I give her a hip bump, and she sticks her foot out in front of mine and pretends to trip me, grabbing my neck in a fake wrestling hold. A librarian walks past us and without slowing her pace says, No

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roughhousing, please. My sister lets go of me, and I am sorry that the mood is broken. Since when are rules more important than family connections? We walk up the ramp like adults, which is sad, because the way I see it, Cheyanne acts like a grownup way too much. Jazz is sitting on the floor beside one of the bookcases marked Young Readers. She has her legs stretched out in front of her, her skirt smoothed down across her knees to stay neat. Cheyanne and I go over to the lounge chairs, which are arranged in groupings like small living rooms. Betty is already there, smiling at us and moving some magazines so we can sit down. These chairs are really meant for parents to sit in and read to their kids, or watch them choosing their books or something, but we have used this room a couple of times before as a place to meet our mother. The library is central, and she can walk here in no time from her two-room apartment over Giorgios Pizza. I think the girls like having the visits here as well; if things are awkward or if they dont know what to talk about, then they can always get up and find something to read. Jazz talked our mother into reading part of a Judy Blume book to her the last time we were here. That was great. Filled nearly an hour and had me almost convinced that my mother could act like a normal parent. Betty asks me whats new at school, and I try to think of something interesting to tell her, but there is nothing. Truly. Nothing, I mumble. No boyfriends yet? Im surprised, she gushes. Look at you! Youre getting to be so pretty! I wonder if she uses that line on every kid she supervises. Im sure she isnt really seeing me. Either that or she needs a new pair of glasses. I dont bother to respond. Even if I had a boyfriend, why would I tell Betty about it? And you, Cheyanne? She looks at my sister and puts her hand on Cheyannes forearm as it rests on the leather arm of the library chair. Are you doing anything interesting at school? Playing sports maybe? She looks hopeful, probably desperate for Cheyanne to have something to say that will pass the time.

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Ive been tutoring a new boy in my class. Carlos. Cheyanne pulls her arm out from under Bettys hand and clasps her hands on her knee. I am surprised to hear about the tutoring. Ive never thought of her as outgoing enough to do something like that. It bothers me a little to think that I may be losing touch with who she really is. Good for you! Betty says, patting Cheyannes knee several times. His English isnt all that good, so I help him by explaining what words mean, or showing him how to do the math questions. Its nothing special. I mean, anyone could do it. Her voice trails off like she has run out of things to say, but I look at her face, and even though she is trying to hide it, she is obviously pleased with herself for helping this Carlos guy. I dont think just anyone could do it, Cheyanne. I bet they asked you to help that boy because youre such a good student, isnt that right? Betty is looking at my sister like shes proud of her, and Cheyanne nods and blushes a little in response. She has always been a good student, and even though she doesnt speak out much in class, she soaks in every word like a big sponge and remembers everything about the solar system, the Spanish Armada, or whatever other stuff got taught that year. I see Betty looking at her watch. I look down at mine, the one Olivia bought me for my birthday. Its 10:13. My mother is late. In a matter-of-fact tone, I announce that shes not going to come. Betty doesnt answer, probably because she knows I might be right. Cheyanne looks concerned, like shes worrying about a possible accident or a terrible illness, though shes old enough and smart enough to know that its more likely just a hangover. Shes fine, Annie, I say. Its just another visit shes forgotten, thats all. She stands up. I may as well find some books to take home, then, she says flatly. Her expression is one of resignation. Whats the difference, I figure she is saying. These visits arent so great anyway. She walks over to the wall where they keep the books for older kids, and I see her picking up a Harry Potter.

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Jazz watches her sister go by and returns her book to the shelf, careful to place it alphabetically, exactly where she found it. She stands and walks the few steps over to where I sit with Betty. Is she late again? she demands to know as she clambers onto my knee. I tell her its only been a few minutes and then ask if shed like to watch a movie. The kids section has a room in the corner with a bigscreen TV and a DVD player. Most of the movies are really old, like The Shaggy Dog and Shrek, but Jazz seems to like movies more when she has seen them a dozen times. She leaps off my knee and grabs my hand, which I take as a yes. Theyve got The Princess Diaries! she says. Do you want to watch it with me, Carrie? Her face is animated, her huge smile showing the whitest of teeth in various stages of growth. For some reason, those uneven incisors make her look vulnerable to me. I put my hands on her shoulders and steer her toward the corner, telling her she should be an actress when she grows up. When she is settled on a cushion in the video room, I find the movie, slide it into the machine, and wait. In about two minutes I will be able to leave, and she wont even know Im gone. For now, I sit down and watch the opening scenes with her. Its peaceful in here with the lights off, even with the opening credits rolling and the music playing. Jazz lies down on her stomach and rests her chin on her hands, a smile playing across her lips. It couldnt be more than five minutes later when I hear my mothers familiar voice in the main room, grating and angry. Jazz doesnt hear her; she is mesmerized by the movie. I stand slowly and slip out the door, pulling it closed behind me. My mother is standing in front of the seating area arguing animatedly with Betty. There is a creepy guy with her, skinny and hardened, someone that Olivia would describe as bad news. His jeans are tight and have slits across the tops of the knees like theyve been slashed with a knife. He isnt wearing a sweater or jacket, despite the October temperatures, just a rumpled and grubby T-shirt thats seen better

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days. His arms have tattoos pretty much all the way from his lean biceps to the wrists. His hair hasnt seen a comb since forever. My mother isnt much better. Sometimes she can clean up pretty good and put on a show for the workers, making out like shes just about back on her feet. Not today. Today shes wearing black Lycra pants, the kind that fit like a leotard, and she mustve pulled them off inside out last time cause thats how she put them on todayinside out. Theres a tag sticking out on her rear end like a tiny white tail. Its not my problem, but for some reason Im embarrassed by that tag. It may as well be the American flag waving back there given how obvious it looks. For a woman with such skinny legs, my mother carries a lot of weight. Her body is like a rectangle, wide shouldered and with boxy hips the same width. Shes wearing an old T-shirt, a souvenir of St. Lucia. I know she has bought it at the thrift shop, because shes never been on a Caribbean island in her life. She wears a waist-length denim vest over it, and her hair hangs in a stringy mass over the collar. My eyes drop down to her feet, and Im not surprised to see that she is wearing open sandals, even though its nowhere near warm enough outside. I can tell from the way shes talking that shes not herself. NoI take that backshe is herself. Shes either drunk or stoned. I can hear Betty talking to her firmly but quietly. Not appropriate, she is saying. Not with this gentleman (can you believe she used the word gentleman to refer to the tattooed wonder standing a couple of feet away with a big ugly smirk on his face?) and, she went on, not in your condition. My mother practically steps on Bettys feet, she comes into her face so fast, asking what condition, what condition, like we cant see she is out of control. I notice the childrens librarian is on the phone now as she watches Betty and my mother from across the room. I know security will be here soon. From my post outside the video room I look for Cheyanne and see she is flattened against the bookcase in the far

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corner, trying to be invisible. I catch her eye and then gesture to her to cut around the outside of the room and slip down the ramp to the main floor. I can hear the movie in the video room behind me and assume that Jazz hasnt moved. Shell be fine there until either Betty or the cops get rid of my mother and her companion. I edge quietly along the wall of bookcases and follow Cheyanne downstairs. Do you think shell be O.K.? Cheyanne whispers to me when we get back to the main floor. For a moment I think she is worrying about poor elderly Betty, who is taking on an opponent worthy of the WWF. But then I see the worry in her eyes, and I know she is concerned not for Betty, but for our mother. Shell be fine, I answer. She just needs to go home and sleep it off. Even I know this isnt true. No amount of sleep will fix the problems our mother has. I can see my sisters eyes are misty. Sometimes I wish she wasnt my mother, Cheyanne says quietly, and then blushes with shame. Its funny. Not funny ha-ha, but odd, you know, the contradiction of emotion that Cheyanne is feeling. I went through that years ago and I know exactly how it worksthe worry, the anger, the guilt. Its like theres a piece of sandpaper that just keeps rubbing and rubbing at you, eating away bits of your heart every time until it feels like theres nothing left to be scratched. I mean, we should hate her, what with her never taking care of us when we were little and not caring enough about us now to stop using the drugs. But we dont hate her. In fact, Ive been sandpapered so much that I just dont care about her at all. And even Cheyanne isnt crying or yelling or kicking the reference shelves. Shes just stating a fact, and I have to agree with her. I wish she wasnt my mother, too. I can hear them moving toward the ramp, so I grab Cheyannes arm and pull her over behind the magazine racks where we wont be seen. The last thing I want is to have our mother make a big fuss right here in the main lounge near the checkout desks. We duck down like a couple of thieves, and I feel bad for making Cheyanne hide from her own mother.

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Theres a space between the House Beautiful and Time magazines, and I can see through to the lounge on the other side. My mother is stomping down the ramp, and its as though shes wishing she had Bettys head under her foot with every pounding step. The greasy guy is following her, his skinny legs moving like theyre held on by elastic bands. Hes still got that smirk on his face, like the whole argument had been a show worthy of admission but he had snuck in for free. The women who work at the front desk are watching them like hawks to make sure they both leave without doing something violent like smashing the display cases in the lobby. The head librarian is pulling a face as though she smells something really bad. My mother sees her and gives her the finger. I cant help it; I laugh out loud, then clamp a hand over my mouth and hold my breath until I can get myself under control. Betty is standing at the bottom of the ramp watching them leave. Shes not big, but she sure is tough. I dont know who else could have convinced those two to get out. My mother pulls the door open and charges outside, letting go of the door before her friend can get through. He gets caught for a moment and, when the door swings shut behind him, he slaps his hand on the glass as though its a kind of payback. As they stand in the cold, my mother is still yelling, but at him now. They go down the steps and out of sight. I move back from the magazine rack and tell Cheyanne that the coast is clear, then we step out and head toward Betty. She smiles at us grimly. I think shes feeling bad, like its her fault we had to see that whole scene. Well, ladies, she says wryly. I think we can safely assume this is the last time well be meeting your mother in the public library! I snort and mutter, How about its the last time we have to meet with her, period? Betty hears me, and her eyes fill with sympathy. I dont need sympathy. I just need to stop playing these stupid games. A half-hour later, Mrs. Liskard comes to pick up the girls. They hug me more quickly than I would like and then rush off eagerly to choose their new kitten. I stand at the top of the steps outside the

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library, staring after them, and as Cheyanne turns to give me a final wave, I am suddenly overcome by an aching loneliness. Dropping to sit on the edge of the steps, I hug my knees and rock, my hoodie barely warm enough against the rising winds, just as Olivia had warned. My cheeks are tingling from the cold, and when I put my hands up, I am surprised to find that I am crying. I wipe at the tears angrily, ashamed of my weakness. When Olivias old Dodge Spirit finally pulls up in front of the library, I trot down the steps and climb in without saying a word. She looks at me quizzically but knows not to ask about my streaked face. Were more than halfway to the restaurant before I tell her what has happened. She doesnt say much, but I can tell that she is upset that I am upset. Its a quiet support. Olivia really does care. As we turn into the restaurant parking lot, she impulsively reaches across the console and takes my hand, and even though she is squeezing it a little too tightly, I dont pull away.

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by Grace Peterson My mother insisted. I was making the six-hour drive up to Red Lake Indian Reservation to pay a last, and first, visit to my great-grandmother Winifred Johnson. She was the only surviving link to my own Anishanaabe heritage. My mother, who was decidedly white, had been adamant. Alex, she is your dads grandmother! She has to be in her late nineties and shell probably die any day now. She is living history. My mother, swiping dirty-blond hair from her pale eyes, was pushing my Indian-ness upon me. When I was ten, my mother took me to a powwow at the local high-school gym. I was entranced by the heavy drumbeats, the swirling shimmering fringes, the beaded moccasins skimming the floor, and the chorus of rising and falling chants. My mother nudged me. Get out there and dance; youre half Indian. I had felt uncomfortable then, as though I didnt belong, but I wanted to. I remember I was suddenly conscious of how heavy my hands felt hanging down and how loosely my scuffed Nike Air Jordans shoelaces were tied. But now I was driving up Highway 1 in the little tan Toyota, scanning the radio airwaves for a good rock station and rehearsing my mothers instructions in my head. She had said, Winnie is very, very old. You must treat old people exactly how they wish to be treated, because they are a flesh-andblood representation of a century. Think about that! My mother was a historian. Bring her some Dove chocolates and a box of frozen White Castle hamburgers. This is how you, her great-grandson, will make a good impression. Ask her questions about herself. But never disturb her while she is watching Deal or No Deal. That is how you keep her happy.

Carved Air

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Damn. My mother even made me bring a hand-held tape recorder that I am to flick on any time Winnie says something I think might have historical or personal value, to document it. She said doc-ument, enunciating every syllable.

The sun was burning down to the horizon when I finally pulled off the empty roads into a gravel driveway. There squatted a tiny, white-siding, prefab house with neat green shutters and brightly lit windows. Behind the house tall pines crowded into each other, dark and ominous in the fading light. I turned the key in the ignition, and the car engine jolted to a halt. Silence, except for the wind rushing through the tops of the pines. The cool evening air felt refreshing compared to the stale, crummy air in my car. Suddenly the screen door of the little house screeched open, and a hunchbacked old lady shambled out. She wore a faded calico housedress, a swirling fern print, and black loafers. Hi-i-i! she cackled in pleasure. Beindigain!1 My throat went dry, and I realized that my mother had never told me if Winnie spoke English or not. Her brown face crinkled into a thousand creases around her glinting black eyes, and she tossed back her head and bubbled over with laughter. She beckoned me with flamboyant hand motions. Come in, white boy! she said in perfect English. Relief flooded over me, and I managed to stammer a greeting in return. She must have been at least a hundred and ten. Her cheeks sagged, and the skin under her chin was slack. She was a tiny creature with frail-looking, feathery bones, so light that I thought she must hover, her knobby fingers trembling at her sides. I was cloaked in her arms; she was squeezing me hard, and my nose filled with her scent: sweet baby powder, cigarette smoke, musk, and onions on her breath. Her arms felt like pincers around me, too strong for someone so old. She was altogether too alive for someone so old.

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When I laid my gifts on the kitchen table, her eyes flared with delight. Youre so thoughtful, child! Whats your name again? Im Alex. It was abrupt. There was too much empty space around my name. My mother would tell me names of the Ojibwa people: Bazongwewidamook, Quietly Walking Noise; Netaawigiind, Be Born Again; Gwanannaish, Eagle Flying in the Wind. Alex, Alex, she repeated, tasting it, rolling it thoughtfully around her mouth. I found myself waiting, needing to hear her approval. Alex, she stated at last. Sit. You are hungry. I obeyed and sank my aching limbs into a chair. The television set blared, and the little refrigerator hummed when she opened it. Egg salad. Eat. While I devoured the egg salad, she gazed at me hungrily, plying me with questions about my mother, my home, my school. And I was supposed to be the one asking the questions! You look like your mother, she told me. Your nose. Your eyes. Your mouth. But you have your fathers jawbone. Bold and striking. Your father was a handsome man. We fell silent; she brooded. She produced a pack of Marlboros and lit a cigarette studiously, carefully, as if performing a ritual. The tip glowed between her fingers. The man from whom I got my striking jawbone was killed by a drunk driver fifteen years ago. I didnt even remember what he looked like, except from old photos. Winnie put on a ratty gray sweater, and I followed her out the back door, down a narrow path through the pine trees, until suddenly the lake opened up before us, a perfectly smooth sheen of dark water. She spread out a gnarled hand and made a sweeping motion in the air. Ive lived here on these shores my whole life. The lake held its breath. H-how old are you?

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She chuckled softly to herself. Hey now! is that a fair question? Im old. Didnt your mother ever tell you its rude to ask a woman her age? Even in the shroud of dusk, I felt a rush of shame. I Its nothing, hush. Do you see the stars? Look up! The black sky spread out above us, constellations draping the awesome expanse like a starry net. The stars themselves hung in thick clusters, blinking with hard brilliance. The sheer wonder of it tingled featherlike down my spine. Never forget to thank the One who made all this beauty, Alex. She was standing close to me, close enough for me to feel her body warmth, but her voice was lilting on some remote path. God? A question. Enyan,2 she said with a nod, slipping back into Ojibwa for a moment. You need to be thankful. I decided to be bold. My mothers cynicism crept into me. But how can I be thankful to something or someone I dont even know? What does God look like? She paused, sucked her lips in, and then replied matter-of-factly, God looks like carved air. Like? And she started laughing, her mirth rasping in her throat. She snatched my elbow. Come, white boy. Youre so young. You still think you own the right to know.

She yanked out her hairpins and her hair tumbled down. She handed me a blue comb and commanded me: Brush. Her hair was long and skinny, pure silver limping down her back. She gazed into the mirror with glazed eyes. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers, and a little paper cup of apple juice sat on the dresser top. My fingers were awkward, unused to doing delicate things. I ran the plastic comb through fine silver, starting at the nape of her neck all

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the way past her waist where it dwindled into nothing. She was beautiful, blue smoke wreathing her reflection in the dim mirror. She began to speak, moving her lips slowly. Girls like it when you brush their hair. Youll stay married long if you remember that. I guessed that my mother would want me to press the red button on my tape recorder right now, but somehow that seemed sacrilegious. Youre good, Alex. Your hands are gentle. You learn well. Some people, its like teaching a bear to dance! She licked her parchment lips and smiled. Like your grandfather Raymond Johnson. Did your mother ever tell you how you got the name Johnson? I dont think so. That wasnt always our name? Oh no. Long ago the white men decided that we needed proper last names. I remember, the white man at the store told us we needed a last name. So a name was picked from a hat. That is why you are a Johnson. Then I am not a Johnson. Not really! The comb picked up speed. Yes. Yes. Yes, you are. She didnt bother to explain herself, but her voice frayed.

Next day, a thunderstorm blew across the lake. She put a sack of tobacco on her porch for good luck and protection. The rain fell in torrents, in great sheets. She told me to fetch her deck of cards; she would beat me. A smirk crept across her face as she skillfully cut the deck. The thunder rumbled heavy and low in the air. Above the sky they were rolling dice. Gambling. We didnt gamble in our game, but if we had, I would have lost all my money. She was so shrewd I swear she saw right through my fan of cards. Her eyes darted about underneath their thick folds of skin. I licked my finger and drew a card from the neatly stacked deck. Beads of sweat crowned my forehead. The air was thick, clinging to my skin. Our game was intense. Winnie was competitive, like me.

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I had sort of hoped she might bequeath me a special parting gift, like a family relic, when it came time for me to return to the Cities. Instead, she handed me a pound of smoked whitefish wrapped carefully in butcher paper. She stood, framed in her screen door, watching me back out the driveway. She waved and disappeared.

My breath was potent with the musky, smoky taste of the fish. My mother hugged me in welcome. What the heck is that smell? She wrinkled her nose. Smoked whitefish. Grandma Winnie gave me a pound of it. You ate a pound of smoked fish on the way home? She was incredulous. So, you come home with an empty tape and smelly breath, huh.

Two months later my mother was crying at the kitchen table when I got home from school. She held a letter postmarked Red Lake. Winifred Johnson was dead. Cause of death, a stroke. She had nothing to bestow in her will. But I knew that what she had to give could not be written in a will or stored in a tape recorder. It was as indefinable as carved air and smoked fish on ones breath.

1 2

Beindigain! means Come on in! [return to text] Enyan means yes. [return to text]

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mental health
by Maria Adelmann Only the janitors could know how and when exactly Clayton arrived at school. He seemed to be there always, like a ghost. Had he been sitting at brown locker number 4210, on that clean towel, all night? It seemed so. He was pale like a ghost; he had his daily rituals, his rhythmic motions. He talked so rarely that his voice seemed to have disappeared. He had his own myths, his own gossip. He was someone who would be looked for in old library yearbooks by future students of James Valley High. Although Clay had an unlucky locker (the kind near unused classrooms and the old woodworking shops in the back of the school), he still occasionally drew curious students into the empty hall. In that case, perhaps there was no mystery at all to Claytons early arrival. If there is one thing most high-school students cant be convinced of, even for a glance at the schools very own living ghost, its waking up early. So perhaps Clayton was there to avoid the stares. After all, he did leave for his rst class just as soon as the rush of early students graced the hallways. Or maybe it wasnt the gawking after all; maybe he just wanted to get his work done. Clayton was organized. Each morning he had a new clean towel to sit on and a fresh pair of latex gloves over his hands. In his book bag, amongst pens and pencils and notebooks, Clayton kept his cleaning supplies: paper towels in a plastic bag, extra gloves, dish soap, Windex, and more. Every morning he worked intently to clean his textbooks and locker and anything that he might touch in the day. If his gloves began to look even remotely soiled, he would quickly clean the shelf of his locker, fold his towel (not touching the clean surface, which he would still need to sit on), and then walk to the boys bathroom with his box of extra gloves. Luckily for Clayton, the bathrooms by the unlucky lockers were not used until third period, before the rst lunch interval when students could spare the time to visit their lockers

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and release morning coffee from their bladders. Because of this, he almost always had the bathroom to himself. When he arrived in his sanctuary, the hand-washing would commence. After about ve minutes, Clayton could usually convince himself to stop, but there were times when he missed his morning classes because of the ritual. When this occurred, he wanted to cry, because he knew the bathroom itself was dirty and he desperately wanted to be clean. To take a shower. To crawl beneath his skin and let the germs out.

When Meg arrived at her locker, number 4209, at 6:30 a.m., Clayton would already be scrubbing his math book with a sponge or his pencils with a toothbrush. Meg was possibly the second student in school, an hour and a half before it ofcially began, because her father dropped her off on his way to work. Meg despised the bus. She had never really t in with the slimy high-school crowd, or with much of any crowd for that matter. Perhaps Clayton understood this, and perhaps this is why he barely flinched when she came walking down the hall each morning. In sharp contrast to her frantically cleaning peer, Megs arrival was messy. She walked down the hall as tall as she could in her short skirts and high shoes, her long hair tangling behind her. Every day, no matter the weather, Meg wore a fake-fur, laced coat she had bought for three dollars at the Salvation Army. She carried her backpack as well as her trumpet and her purse; the trio, in combination with her frequently clammy hands, could make things awkward. She tripped down the hall until she dropped her belongings at the door of her locker. As Meg cluttered her locker and nished the previous nights homework, she would chatter away to the silent Clayton. Meg would speak to him as if the two were best friends: My father was such an asshole this morning, or God, that dimwit James tripped me in the hall yesterday, and my knee is killing me. She was always honest: You know, Clayton, its people like us who are going to do something interesting with our lives. Sometimes she would insert

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sentences into her monologues to make sure Clay was listening: This school is so freaking dirty, I dont know how you can stand it. There was a lunch-lady hair in my mac and cheese yesterday. After this statement, Meg would stare at Clayton; he would not look up or speak, but scrub harder. He was listening. If Meg was not in the mood for homework in the morning, she would enjoy her favorite hobby. Sitting on the floor a foot or two away from Clayton, Meg would take out a small pile of crumpled magazines, her scissors, and a ragged folder. Then she would start hunting for additions to her collection of mental health articles. After carefully cutting out a substantial amount, she would place them in her folder to take home and post in her bedroom, which was becoming wallpapered with mental health information. Meg wasnt quite sure what drew her to the articles, but she used their information in almost every aspect of her life. In school, they became the slant in all her papers: Hitlers Blind Spot, King Lears Mental Anguish, and Chemical Reactions That Equal Crazy. At home, Meg would lie on her bed flipping through page after page to nd the next specimen. At rst, Meg had used her mothers magazines, which continued to arrive at the house even though the lady had already packed her suitcase and left for good. When Redbook and Womans Day ceased to arrive, Meg stole back issues of magazines from the school library and issues from the doctors ofce to feed her habit. Occasionally, she even took a copy from an unsuspecting neighbors mailbox.

This evening, as Meg lay on her bed, she was not cutting out articles but doing math homework, much to her own dismay. Meg loathed math. Because of this, she hoped her father would come home. It was almost 7:00 p.m.; if he did, she could stop her homework to eat dinner and see how his day had been, not that listening to scal-number crap was her bag of tea, either. But anything was better than the number crap she was staring at in her notebook now.

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Meg made a game out of it. If she quit, the math homework would win, and math would rule the world. She had to save the world. As problem number twenty-ve became scribble after scribble, Meg wondered if falling asleep meant the math homework won. I make up the rules, she decided and let her eyes do the rest. In the darkness of sleep, Meg arrived at the school library, where Clayton was reading a book, carefully turning the pages with his gloved ngers. Meg held out her hand to him. Clayton, let me show you my favorite section in the stacks. Clayton would not take her hand, but followed Meg. When she stopped, a big smile crawled across her face. Its the mental health section, she whispered. Together they stood alongside the shelves, reading the spines. Suddenly Meg caged Clayton with her arms, his back to the mental health books. He had no other choice but to keep his face toward hers. Its all right, Meg said and leaned in for her kiss. She kissed him hard, and he kissed back. With a little dance of the tongue, their mouths parted. He stared at her. The depth of his eyes turned to darkness, and darkness turned into light. When Meg opened her eyes, she sat up quickly, ripping the page of math homework that had stuck to her face as she slept. It looked an awful lot as if the math homework had won.

Meg walked into school lacking homework and nourishment. The previous night had not resulted in dinner as she had hoped, since her father hadnt arrived home until after 9:00, when it was apparently too late to go out even for fast food and too late to develop a recipe from the resources at hand: condiments. On top of this, it was raining. Meg had to run in her high heels from the car to the school, which resulted in quite an unfortunate slip into quite an unfortunately placed puddle of browning rainwater. She stood up quickly from the mess, but she was already wet. Meg refrained from wiping her muddy hand on her shirt, which had remained dry, and walked toward her locker, dripping with every step.

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The drips grew louder in her ears, louder than drips should be, really. They banged to the floor like drums; each thump made her grip her hand tighter. No dinner. Drip. No mom. Drip. Dad late. Drip. Homework not done. Drip. No friends. Drip. No midnight phone conversations. Drip. Or movie plans. Drip. Or anything. Drip. A stroke of mean graced Meg as she glanced from her hand to Clayton and back again. She disregarded her dream of the previous night and arrived with quickening steps at locker 4210. She looked at Clayton once more. Clean, silent Clayton. She wiped her hand vertically across his sparkling brown locker. Clayton glanced up slowly. When he saw the wet, the dirty wet, tears began to form in his eyes. This girl who talked to him constantly each morning was not his friend. He had no friends. He had dirt. His chest began to tighten. Oh, Im so sorry, said Meg with a deliberate lack of sincerity. I thought that was my locker. Whoops. Clay stared up at her with thunderstorm eyes. Meg felt the front move within her, too. Dont give me that! she shouted suddenly, unprepared for her own outburst. Dont you give me that! You think its easy for me? Im weird, too, you know. At least I try, though. Jesus, at least I do that. She stomped off down the hall, still wearing her wet coat. Clay was left to absorb the situation. He sat on the ground for a full minute, not sure what to do. Then he stood up slowly, sponge in hand, and attempted to clean off Megs outburst, but he couldnt do it. He grabbed his towel and backpack and ran to the bathroom, discarding the sponge on his way. At the sink, Clayton began by washing the latex gloves, still on his hands, for a full ve minutes. He then removed the gloves and washed his bare hands as thoroughly as he could. At rst, he was intent only on the task itself: the water, the soap, the rubbing, the germs, the anger. But after about an hour, Clay began to glance up at the person in the mirror before him. His target-board eyes started with an outside circle of speckled red; then, accenting the rim of his eye, a light, bluegreen bruise that had formed from constant washing. His white eye was an outstanding background for the bulls-eyea blue storm,

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something out of one of Conrads rivers. Clayton only noticed he had been crying when he saw it in his reflection. The tears touched his cheeks, which were speckled with brown freckles. He was undeniably clean (though Clayton could not notice this). From his brown hair to his white, white shoesa walking Clearasil or Tide ad. He was handsome enough for an ad, but not now, not with glowing eyes and burning red hands.

Three hours later, Claytons hands were raw and bleeding. This made Clayton want to wash off the blood, too. So his hands moved faster and faster until bar after bar of soap disappeared from his backpack. Then the bell rang to signify the termination of period three. Dan, a highschool senior who was intent on unloading his caf latte in the toilet, sauntered down the hall and entered the bathroom, but completed a quick about-face as soon as he noticed Clayton. He ran to the ofce. Uh, theres a boy. Clayton, I guess. Hes, uh, kind of outta control with his hand-washing thing, I think, Dan said to the new secretary. What? she responded. His hands are all bleeding and stuff. But, maam, I really have to take a piss, so if you can just go up to the bathroom by the woodworking shops, I think maybe somebody ought to stop him. By this time, one of the older secretaries was running around fetching the principal and the school guidance counselor and any other ofcial she could nd. Together, a crew of four marched down the hall in a little procession of ofcialness.

In a high school, rumors and truths take off in seconds. Sometimes they get far; other times they stay in a whispered circle. Today the truths were buzzing, perhaps more than the rumors, because some things just dont need a fancy dress to be spectacular on their own.

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The school ofcials had tried to convince Clayton, using psychology and principal-logic, but nothing worked. Eventually, one of the suited men attempted to pull Clayton away from the sink. Clayton kicked and whispered urgently, But I cant get clean! The principal tried to coax him, but Clayton kicked again, though he was not a violent boy. In the struggle for survival, desperation explodes into action. Clayton felt his survival was at stake. When the four ofcials worked together, they defeated the lone boy. On the bathroom floor, a person at each limb, Clayton breathed a heavy, animal breath and stopped thrashing suddenly. He accepted his defeat.

By sixth period Meg had grown depressed by the rumors and truths. Her bad day had transformed, in a most ugly manner, into Claytons very, very bad day, and it was all her fault. She tried to forget about it for now, to act calmly. In the girls bathroom before class, Meg heard two pink-nail-polished girls with glittery hair and butterfly clips talking excitedly about the news of the day. I heard hes, like, so crazy and he kicked the principal, said the one washing her hands to the one flushing the toilet and exiting the stall. Have you seen him? added girl number one. He just sits at his locker all day, scrubbing everything. Its insane! Its, like, the most psycho thing ever. Meg tried to ignore the conversation as she washed her hands. I guess youre right, said the second girl. I heard he was bleeding all over the bathroom. Eww! She jumped back for a second. Imagine, we could be standing in his blood! Oh my god, thats so gross. They should, like, rid this school of all psychos. It would make everything a lot easier for us. God, I know, responded the second girl. Meg went for a paper towel but stopped, unable to resist adding to the conversation. First of all, were in the girls bathroom. So you probably arent standing in his blood. Second of all, you guys are so

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pathetic. If you knew anything, youd know Claytonhis name is Clayton, by the wayprobably has obsessive-compulsive disorder, not to be confused with obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, which is on axis II according to the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Anyway, OCD involves recurrent thoughts and repetitive behaviors, and the disorder affects more than 2 percent of the population, which, if you cant do the math, and you probably cant, is millions and millions of people in this country alone. Also, the disorder can manifest itself in so many ways, like obsessive checking or counting or washing or whatever. You can look it up in the DSM if you dont believe me. Anyway, its not like some random thing that just this kid does. So maybe you should get a little more information before you start talking about my friend like that. And it can be cured. So I think hes better off than youunfortunately theres no cure yet for stupidity. The girls stared. Then the rst girl got that mean look on her face and said, Yeah, they should really get rid of all the psychos in this school. Maybe the rst one to leave should be you. Shut up, said Meg as she turned to exit the bathroom before she got herself into trouble. I cant even believe youre friends with Psycho-Boy. Well, it doesnt matter. Youll never see him again. Hes gonna be in a mental institution for the rest of his life. At this, Meg felt the anger of the day boil over. She twirled back around and punched the girl right in the nose so hard that there was a crack, and then blood started to drip down her face. The girl stared with glazed-over eyes, then screamed so loudly that a passing teacher rushed into the bathroom just in time to see Megs guilty hand.

Clayton and Meg both arrived back at school seven days later. By this time, the rumors and truths had been mashed through the current of the high-school hallways so many times that everyone was sure

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Clayton had been sent to a mental institution and Meg had been suspended from school for the rest of the year. So when they both returned on the same day, the stares were harder and the whispers were louder than they might have been otherwise. Claytons hands were lightly bandaged, and atop the bandages was a pair of latex gloves. Megs right hand was still slightly bruised. Clayton had been put in the custody of his parents, which really meant his father. Claytons father was a lawyer who would ght to the death for Claytons right to stay in public school. This was not done for the sake of Clayton or his health, but for the sake of Claytons father, who wanted to believe that his son was normal. He was the kind of father who would refuse to make his son better because, by god, his son was perfectly ne the way he was, and it was simply that nobody understood Claytons higher level of thinking. So, Clayton remained a regular part of public school. When Meg walked down the hall seven days after her punch, she was relieved to see Clayton inspecting the outside of his locker. She, too, thought he might have been sent away. Im sorry. You know I am, right? said Meg as soon as she got close enough to Clayton. He nodded his head yes slightly, which was more response than she had ever received from him before. The two sat down, he on his towel with cleaning supplies, and she on the floor with her scissors and articles. After some silence, Meg began, My dad was so pissed off. I was suspended, you know. I punched a girl because she said some mean stuff about me, and about you, too, I guess. Im glad were friends. At least, I think were friends, but who knows since you never really say anything. But I wouldntve punched her if I didnt think so. Meg cut out an article about obsessive-compulsive disorder and skimmed over it. She looked at Claytonstared at him. He felt her eyes, but did not look up. Kiss me, she said. He turned his head slowly toward her and just looked. Will you kiss me? Meg repeated.

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Clayton took a breath. He shyly opened his mouth, not sure it would work, and whispered in a quivering voice, Im sorry too dirty. Meg leaned back against her locker. O.K., she said. All right. Clayton scrubbed his textbook harder than ever before.

Meg woke up early the next morning and collected her things. She wondered if Clayton collected his things like this each morning. Meg didnt eat breakfast. She just sat at the kitchen table waiting for her dad to bring her to school. For a second, she almost decided to eliminate some of the new contents of her backpack. Perhaps she would take those obsessive-compulsive disorder articles out of the Manila envelope and tape them on her wall again. Perhaps the stuff from under the bathroom sink belonged back under the bathroom sink. But then she decided against it. She tapped her foot on the linoleum floor, on the car floor, but when she got into school, she felt like herself again, walking tall down the hall in her high shoes and her short skirt and her three-dollar coat. She put her things away as usual and sat next to Clayton with her articles and her scissors and her Manila envelope. Then she took out a bottle of water and a packaged bar of soap. Slowly she opened the box, making sure to maintain the Im-opening-a-box-now sound effects. Clayton glanced at her. Then she opened the fresh bottle of water and took a big swig, swishing it in her mouth. She spit it all on the floor, away from Clayton, with a loud splat. Clayton could not help but watch. She took the bar of soap and slid it in and out of her mouth, around her lips, again and again, not even grimacing. Then she put the soap back in the box, took another swig of water, and spat it on the floor again. She took the envelope in her hand and asked, Will you kiss me? Clayton stared at her. He took a breath and nodded. Meg crawled up to him carefully, handed him the Manila envelope, and placed her lips gently on his, leaning into the kiss until it was

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full and beautiful and complete. Clayton did not squirm. He did not move. He simply let the kiss come to him, and let it go. Meg crawled back to her articles, a whole mental illness subtracted from them, and Clayton continued to scrub his pencil with a toothbrush. In his eyes, a storm was faintly beginning to end. Thank you, he said softly. No, said Meg, adding another article to her folder, thank you.

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A Day in July
by Tony Lindsay Its just too dang hot. Im the only kid on the block out here in this blazing noonday sun. Mama said a person could catch sunstroke in the noonday sun, but that didnt stop Mr. Jones from having his only boy child out here in this heat. He doesnt care if I get sunstroke; he just wants his grass cut when he says cut it. I should have cut it last night after dinner like Mama said, but Tyrese had set up the game with those dudes from Eighty-seventh Street. I had to hoop for the nine deuce; we blew them busters off the basketball court, thirty-two to twelve. They wasnt ready for the boys from Ninety-second Street. If I had cut the grass day before yesterday when Daddy first told me to do it, I wouldnt have got to see Lisa and Yvonne in their bikinis at the park pool. Man, those sisters are built! They have body for real: especially Yvonne. Shes in the same class as I am but she only kicks it with college boys or dudes with jobs; but dang she is fine. Hardly any of the dudes in the park pool were swimming; we were all looking at those two sisters. Man, I wonder what it feels like to have a girlfriend as pretty as Yvonne. I bet a dude would play in her wavy black hair all day. I know I would. I felt it one time; we were playing Twister at her birthday party, and she fell on top of me. I couldnt even see because her hair covered my face, but I remember it smelled like strawberries and was soft. Mama says their family has such pretty hair because their grandfather was a full-blooded Indian, but they dont have a light complexion like Indians. Yvonne is a pretty brown, the same color as a Snickers bar. Dang, I better pay attention to what Im doing. I almost ran over some of Mamas flowers; now, that would have been the end of me.

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This self-propelled lawn mower Daddy built really isnt that bad; it moves along kind of peppy and it mulches up the grass so I wont have to rake. He built it because he said Ill be going off to school next year, and there is no telling if Ill be coming home for the summers; so in case I dont come home and he has to cut the grass, he doesnt want to be pushing hard. But it was O.K. for me to push all the years I been cutting the lawn. Daddys a trip. Looking down the block, I dont see another soul out. The mailman aint even coming; aint nobody out in this blazing sun but me. My khaki shorts and white T-shirt feel hot on my skin, like my mama just ironed them. I want to go inside and sit right in front of the air conditioner; but no, I cant do that because Mr. Jones wants his lawn cut. The backyard aint gonna take me no time. Ill zip through it right after I knock out this strip of grass in the gangway; since our neighbor Mrs. Nicholas planted flowers on her half, I can do the space between our houses in a single passing. Im pushing the mower real slow because it sounds louder between the houses, and if Daddy is trying to sleep, he will appreciate the reverberating sound about as much as I appreciate being out in this heat. I stand for a minute just letting the motor roar between the houses, before I go through the gate into the backyard. Who is this parked in the alley behind our house? That looks like Yvonnes brother Richards Blazer. Daddy has told him a couple times about parking behind our house; people park in the alley and drink beer and then leave their empty cans and bottles. Daddy doesnt want trash behind our house, and neither do I, especially since Im the one that cleans up back there. Richard lives right down the block; he can park behind his own garage. I cut the mower off and walk to the Blazer. Its not Richard, its Yvonne, and shes sitting behind the steering wheel crying. Oh man, nobody as beautiful as her should have to cry like that; whatever is wrong I want to fix. I tap on her rolled-up window; she has the air on. When she sees me, she tries to wipe her face clear of tears.

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She rolls down the window and asks, What do you want, Bo? Shes got attitude in her question; the blast of cool air from the window being rolled down didnt soothe me of the edge in her words. Instantly her tone reminds me of the status that separates us; shes a cool, popular, and attractive girl, and Im just me. Normally I would walk away from this much attitude, but she is crying, so I say, I thought you might have needed some help or something. I do need help, but you cant help me, unless you have three hundred and twenty-five dollars. I dont understand people who challenge when they need assistance; why be confrontational and snappy when in need of help? I have seventeen hundred and twelve dollars in the bank, but she doesnt need to know that, and if I had seventeen million, I doubt I would give her a nickel with her attitude. The rational part of me is telling me to walk away, but I say, No, I dont have any money. But whats wrong? She hikes her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the problem is behind her. I look in the backseat and see nothing. I dont see anything, Yvonne. Not inside the truck, stupid. Outside by the bumper. Now, I really dont like being called stupid, but I ignore the insult because seconds ago she was crying and perhaps shes not thinking right. If one of my own sisters had called me stupid, whatever the problem was, they would have had to deal with itwithout my help. But Yvonne is not one of my sisters. Yvonne is the dime piece from down the block. I walk to the back of the truck. Her problem is a busted taillight assembly on the drivers side. I start grinning because this I can help with. I walk up to her open window and ask, You went up there to the new car dealership, didnt you? Yeah, so. Girl, they prices are jacked way up. I can get that fixed for fifty, maybe sixty dollars at the most.

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She opens the door and leaps out the truck. For real? Shes not smiling; shes looking hard at me, as if she trying to figure out if Im lying. With her being out of the truck, I notice the baby-blue terry-cloth short-shorts she has on and her matching blue tie halter-top. Her outfit could be a swimsuit. Im trying my best not to stare at her thighs and stuff, but I cant help myself. Dang, shes built and shes gorgeous. Bo! she blurts out. Making me jump a little. Huh? Can you fix it? I look into her questioning and hopeful face and say, Yeah, we can go to the junkyard and get the taillight assembly, and Ill put it on for you. You think we could have it done before Richard gets off work? What time does he get off? Two. I look down at my Timex; its twelve-thirty. I could probably do it if I dont finish cutting the grass first. Yeah, I think we can make it. Let me put the lawn mower up and get some tools. Ohwee! Shes screaming and doing a little dance like she won a prize or something. She stops. If you can get this done, Bo, Ill owe you big time. She rises up on her tiptoes and kisses me on the cheek. This truck is as good as fixed. When I go into the garage to put the mower up, all I see is my daddys toolbox. Mine is in the basement, and if I go in the house to get mine, Daddy might see me, and if he sees me, hell ask if I finished the grass, which I havent. I try not to lie to my parents because my lies usually come back, and when that happens, my parents tend to be disappointed in me, which leads to me getting grounded. Its best that I dont go in the house, but Daddy hates for other people to use his tools, especially me, because he says I dont respect them. Bo!

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Yvonne is calling me from outside the garage. I grab Daddys toolbox and head out.

Bo, Im too upset to drive. Do you think you could drive to where we have to go? All I have is a learners permit. There is supposed to be an adult in the car when I drive, but I get behind the drivers wheel and pull off with no hesitation. There is no way Im telling Yvonne all I have is a permit; shes smiling now, and I dont want anything to change her mood. I like her much better happy. Are you sure about the price, because all I have is a hundred dollars. That will be more than enough. How did the taillight break? She pops her pretty full lips, pushes her dangling black wavy hair out of her eyes, and says, Richard told me not to take his truck, and I was so busy trying to sneak out before my mother saw me that I didnt see the garbage can that was left in the middle of the driveway. I backed right into it and cracked the light. I didnt even get to go where I was sneaking off to. And where was that? Now you getting all into my business, Bo. You know better than that. Because shes smiling while she is talking, however she says whatever she says really dont matter to me. I happy to be with her. I saw you and your sister at the pool day before yesterday, I say while making the turn onto Ninety-second Street. Yeah I saw you and your little crew, too; yall didnt even get in the water, just stood around looking at females. Naw it wasnt like that! Fo real we just cant swim. None of your boys can swim? Nope. So why come to a pool, unless you came to look at the females. Huh?

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Yeah, thats what I thought. Aint nothing wrong with looking at girls, Bo; we go up there to get looked at, at least I do, but its a way to do it. Huh? I see how you look at me. I like it, and so do most attractive women. I want all eyes on me. A man looking is a compliment. But staring to the point that you start daydreaming is a bit much. And thats what you and your crew do. Yall gape! And thats offensive. Huh? Never mind. Dont you talk to your sisters about girls? Nope. I make the left onto Racine. Im headed to Eighty-seventh Street. They would start tripping and making fun of me. I have five sisters, and all are close to my age: two older, three younger, and the only thing they tell me about girls is the same thing my mother tells me, Stay away from the fast ones. And the way Yvonne is dressed today, she looks like a fast one, but Im not staying away. I am trying not to gape. Bo, you seventeen now, aint cha? Yeah. And none of your five sisters help you with girls? Ive never asked them. Dont they tell you what girls like you and who thinks youre cute? Nope. They dont? Nope. Well, Bo, its a lot of girls up at school and around here that think youre cute. I dont know why Yvonne is playing with me like this; I know what I look like. Im tall and thin, not skinny, but I aint buffed up either and I wear glasses; theyre not thick, but I need them. I got two pair of all-white gym shoes, two pair of boots, and a bunch of college T-shirts and pullover jerseys and three pair of jeans. My hair is cut close to my scalp. I am not fly.

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Im going through high school to get to college; my daddy told me to look at it like that when I was a freshman. My plan is to be a mechanical engineer and design motors. My daddy says Im a natural, and with the proper schooling I will go far, and I believe him. When I was twelve, he told me I would win first place at the science fair if I built a small steam engine and entered it. The engine I built powered a small-scaled elevator up a yardstick; it won first place, and Daddy framed the ribbon and hung it over the mantel in the living room. I believe what my daddy tells me. You like girls, dont you, Bo? Yeah, a whole lot. I look at her when I say this. If I was braver, I would tell her I like her the most out of all the girls on earth, but Im not brave like that, so I only look at the side of her face while shes looking out the front windshield. I look down at her full breast in that baby-blue halter and force myself to look away because I am driving and this is not the time to daydream. I have always liked girls, but its just here lately that they been on my mind so strong. Over this summer I was supposed to be preparing myself for calculus. I got an A in pre-cal, so the school placed me in honors calculus. I got the book they used last year in the honors class and figured that over the summer I would go through it, but every time I sit down to study, I start thinking about girls and Im not talking about for minutes. Ill sit for hours and mostly I think about Yvonne. I dont want to spend so much time thinking about girls, but I do. Its like right now, I should be at home cutting the grass but instead Im driving this girl down Eighty-seventh Street and wondering who are the girls in my neighborhood that think Im cute. Well, if you like girls, why dont you get yourself a girlfriend? You know we have prom this year, and Im certain you dont want to be stuck without a prom date. A girlfriend, a prom date, what is she talking about? Where am I supposed to get either one of those? Prom is a long ways off, Yvonne. And thank God.

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I speed up a little; talking about prom and girls with Yvonne is starting to make me sweat and itch under my arms, and when I look over there at herwith her thighs and stuff looking like they aresomething else is starting to happen: the same thing that happened when she fell on me at her party. Man, that was embarrassing; I didnt even feel myself getting like that. When we stood up from the Twister mat, everybody saw it, including her mother who was bringing down the birthday cake. When her mother saw me in that state, she ended the party right then and there. That was over a year ago, and Yvonnes mother still shakes her head when she sees me. Prom night will be here before you know it, Bo. Why do boys put the important things off? Here you are going into your senior year and you have neither girlfriend or prom date; youre going to look very silly standing by yourself in the prom photo. She sucks her teeth at me and looks out the passenger window. If it were one of my sisters sitting next to me, I would guess that she was upset, but I am not sure if this is how Yvonne acts when she is angry. To be safe, I decide not to say anything until we get to the junkyard on Sixty-second and State Street.

This is a dirty place; you might want to stay in the truck, I say, pulling into the yards driveway. Ill be getting out, she states. I grab my daddys toolbox and run around to her side to open her door. My mother told me ladies appreciate having doors held for them. Why, thank you, Boris; I had no idea you are such a gentleman. Man, getting the vertical view of her standing there in that babyblue outfit has a brother staring for real. Yall need some help? I turn around and see Mr. Jackson, the owner of the yard. The salvage yard is a dirty place, and people that work there get dirty. Mr. Jackson approaches us with his worn overalls and work

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shirt covered in oil and grime. My daddy and me buy what he likes to call tinkering parts from this yard. My daddy likes to tinker with engines and gas mixtures; he blows up at least six engines a year. Whats up, youngster; I told your daddy last week I wasnt gonna have nothing for him till the end of the month. Thats O.K. Im not here for Daddy. My girl here needs a drivers side taillight for a 91 Chevy Blazer. Mr. Jackson focuses his whole attention on Yvonne. Your girl? When you get a girl? I thought you spent all your time hitting the books and working on engines with your pops when you get a girl? Mr. Jackson, who my daddy told me was older than black pepper, is standing right in front of us and looking hard at Yvonne. You know he aint got no time for foolishness, he says to Yvonne. We all got plans for this boy. Hes going to school to be a mechanical engineer; hes going to design the worlds best gas engine. He aint got no time for foolishness. You get on back in the truck. A junkyard aint no place for a halfdressed woman. Anything might scratch you, and then youll have to go get a lockjaw shot. And Ill have to pay for it. Get on back in the truck! he barks. Yvonne is looking very hard at an old, gruff, and dark-skinned Mr. Jackson. I can tell she wants to snap; like most kids our age, she despises being told what to do. I quickly say, It is dangerous, Yvonne, and dirty; it will be better for you in the truck. She sucks her teeth again and switches her mean-and-about-tosnap look from Mr. Jackson to me. I can see this place is NASTY; I was getting back in the truck anyway. I open the passenger door for her, but she walks around to the drivers side and gets in. She starts the truck and cuts the air conditioner back on; she doesnt look at Mr. Jackson or me. Pretty girl. She has long hair like my wife use to have. A pretty woman is good for you; shes got kind of a snippy attitude thats good, too. He turns and walks towards the bottom of the yard. Come back

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here to the north end; I got two Blazers back there. Bo I might be wrong, but that looks like your daddys toolbox in your hand? Huh? Yeah, O.K. a pretty girl and your daddys toolbox. Boy, I bet my hind teeth you about to get into some trouble. Where are your tools? In the basement at home. Mm-mm. Yeap, you about to get in deep. Whats that pretty girls name? Yvonne. You know, I married the prettiest woman I ever seen and aint regretted it once. Jackson, who is way shorter than me, pats me on my back. Yo daddy married a pretty girl, too, and he was only a year older than you when he did it. I was at the wedding. Yeap, got himself a job at the plant and got married, but that aint our plan for you: you going to college. Understand? He pats me harder on the back, almost causing me to stumble. Mr. Jackson, sir, she just a friend who lives down the block. Whatever. We walk along a graveled path, speckled with tire bits, rusty bolts, and pieces of scrap metal. The sun is hot on the back of our necks. That red one over there, he points to two Blazers against the fence, she still got taillights on her; pull what you need, then come see me in the office. Im getting out of this heat.

Its hotter out here than it was cutting the grass. The sun is bouncing off these metal hoods and windshields. Im wrung wet with sweat and I have taken out only four screws. After I get the whole assembly out, I remove the rubber molding from the housing; I dont know if her brothers truck needs the molding, but I take it because Mr. Jackson wont charge me too much for it. With the whole assembly in my hand, I walk to the office. Mr. Jackson is standing outside his trailer office on the steps. Where your daddys toolbox?

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Dang! I run the assembly to Mr. Jackson and sprint back to the Blazers just in time to see him going through a hole in the chain-link fence with my daddys toolbox under his arm. Hey! Stop or Ill shoot, I lie. He doesnt stop; matter of fact, he lowers his head and digs into a full run. Aint no way he is getting away! I got to catch him. I go through the same hole he went through. Hes maybe twenty yards ahead of me, but hes carrying at least fifty pounds of tools. Im gaining. He looks back over his shoulder and sees me chasing him. Im less than ten yards away. Dont shoot! he yells but doesnt stop running. Im within five yards. Stop! He looks back at me and screams, Yo, mama! He drops the toolbox and sprints away. When I get to the toolbox, I collapse atop it. Im two blocks down from the salvage yard on State Street. Thank God, Mr. Jackson and Yvonne pull up. I would have had to crawl back, thats how tired I am. You all right, youngster? Mr. Jackson says through the passenger window. Yes, sir, I say, breathless, climbing into the trucks backseat with my daddys heavy toolbox in tow. You sho took out after him. I guess you was thinking about your daddy beating your butt and you wasnt going to have that, was you? Boy, you the fastest kid I seen running in thirty years. That thief has been stealing out of this yard for ages; he use to be a high-school track star. I never seen nobody catch him once he got through the fence; boy, you now gave me something to talk about for a long time. Not to my daddy, I hope. Im so tired I didnt even notice he and Yvonne are laughing; both their eyes have watered up from laughing so hard. Well, Im glad you both found that funny.

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Naw, naw, dont get it wrong, son; it was knowing why you was chasing him down that made it funny. Boy, you wasnt gonna take that butt whipping at home, was you? Not if I could help it, sir. Well, you helped it, boy; you helped it good. When we get back to the yard, Jackson gets out of the truck and goes over to the office steps and brings us the assembly; he tosses it in the front passenger seat. I cant move from the backseat. I would give it to you on the house, but business is business; give me thirty dollars for it. Yvonne quickly opens her purse and pulls out three ten-dollar bills. Yall get on home now and put your daddys tools up. He slams the truck door, and Yvonne pulls off. We dont ride a block before she ask, You can still fix it, cant you? Oh yeah, just pull up behind my garage. She is looking at me in her rearview mirror. Shes looking at me kind of funny, sort of serious like. Shes making my underarms itch and tingle; I look away. Can you cut the air conditioner up to max? I ask. Sure, Boris, I can do that. I want to talk to her, but I dont know what to say. Hey, so who are you going to prom with? I ask. Me? Yeah, you. I sit up straight to get a look at her because her tone is so different; she sounds sweeter. The jury is still out on that one, Bo. The guy I want to go with acts like he doesnt have a clue. Who is it; maybe I can drop him a hint. Nope, hints dont work with this guy; Im going to have to be direct.

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What lucky fool didnt know that Yvonne liked him? Dang, some dudes have all the luck. For some reason Im pissed off; all I want to do is get the truck fixed and go back to cutting the grass. When she pulls behind my garage, I hop out and go to work. It doesnt take me fifteen minutes. The only thing that slows me down is a couple of the wires; some of Richards are frayed. I trim and connect those with no problem. Brake light, turning signal, and backlight are all working. I walk up to the front and ask, Do you want to keep the old assembly? No, I dont want Richard to know it was ever broken. Well, Im done. I toss the old assembly in the black plastic garbage can outside my gate. That fast? she says, getting out the truck. It doesnt take long when you know what you doing. Thats one of my daddys sayings. I have been waiting to use it. Yvonne steps up right in front of me, real close. I look down into her face. Her Snickers brown skin is so smooth; the hair of her eyebrows is just as wavy as the thick hair that hangs from her head. So what do I owe you? she whispers. Huh? I said Boris! Dang, its Daddy, and hes coming out of the garage storming. I just got off the phone with Jackson, and he says you been struck by Cupid and have turned stupid! Where are my darn tools oh, hey there, young lady. Daddy stops his fussing when he sees Yvonne standing behind me. My daddy shaves his head and all the hair from his face, so to me his expressions really show how he feels. I can tell what hes thinking about most times; right now the wrinkles in his forehead mean hes trying to remember where he has seen Yvonne before.

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He snaps the fingers on his left hand, points to Yvonne, and says, Youre one of Mildreds girls, aint cha? He walks from the yard to the alley. Yes, sir, she answers, not stepping from behind me. Mmm. Daddy looks at me with no signs of kindness in his face. He has on his house shoes, the gray sweat shorts he sleeps in, and his tan work shirt. He must have been sleeping when Mr. Jackson called. He put on his work shirt to come outside and check on me. My daddy works nights at the Ford plant. Get my tools out the alley and put them back in the garage. You can finish the grass this evening; your mama thinks its too hot for you to be out here. Hes still looking at me, stern; he reaches in his work shirt pocket and pulls out a bill. Here, take this twenty and go buy your pretty girlfriend some ice cream; you dont want her to melt, do you? Huh? He ignores my audible and turns to Yvonne. Tell your mama I said hello, young lady. Now he is smiling, but Im certain the smile is for Yvonnes benefit. Im still in trouble. Daddy doesnt play about his tools, but I got the twenty in my hand, so ice cream it will be: every condemned man gets a last meal, and most dont get to share it with a girl as nice-looking as Yvonne. I go to get his toolbox from the other side of the truck, and when I move, he gets a whole look at Yvonne. Girl! You better get on home first and put on the rest of your clothes. Lord have mercy! He turns and heads for the house.

When I come out of the garage, Yvonne is sitting in the passenger seat, and the truck is running. Shes looking at me kinda funny again. I look behind me to see if her gaze is for someone else; she smilesno, shes grinning. I guess she really wants to go get some ice cream. Man, its gonna be just me and her getting some ice cream. Just me and Yvonne, and shes happy about it. Now, aint that something.

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182/266

The Weight of Them

by Maija Stromberg I climbed the steep stairs to the attic, where my mother liked to work. Loolie and Beth, my ball and chain, followed. In fact, Loolie had hooked her ngers into the back of my belt, and Beth was a couple of stairs behind. I turned around. Let go, I said. Let go. Youre hurting me. I took Loolies wrist, and she let go suddenly and lost her balance so that I had to grab her and the railing to keep us from falling down the stairs. For a second I held all Loolies weight. Stand up, I hissed. Beth watched with her hand over her mouth. Dont scream, Beth. Dont scream, I said. The fan was on, so I couldnt tell if my mother was typing. If she wasnt, then she was asleep, and I didnt want to fool with that. She was two months pregnant and almost always angry or sleeping. Loolie and Beth, who were six and seven and always followed me around anyway, had become my after-school job. My parents told me theyd put my wages in my college fund. When we reached the top of the stairs, I saw that my mother was typing, probably a paper for a student at the U. She did this when she and Dad worried about money, and they were denitely worried. She cried for three days before my father told us that there would be another baby in the family. Shes crying because were having a baby? Loolie asked. I suppose so, my father had said. Shes crying because shes so happy, Beth said, and my father mumbled his agreement. My sisters pushed past me and ran up behind my mother. Dont touch my hands. Dont knock me, she said. Everybody quiet until I nish this chapter. Three minutes. Keep an eye on them, Fran. They began hitting each other with little American flags they had picked up off the floor. I leaned on the railing and stared into the spin of the big floor fan that stood near the window. Fran! Separate the girls. Get the flags, my mother said.

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Loolie jabbed Beth, and Beth started to cry, and then I made it worse by yanking the flags out of their hands. I wanted to stick them in their eyes. Mommy! Beth screamed. Everybody sit! my mother shouted. She sounded mad enough that we all sat, Loolie and Beth on top of each other, and for a minute they were still while she typed. O.K., my mother said, and my sisters jumped up. Hows the baby? Can we feel the baby? they asked. The babys the size of a walnut, I said. The babys ne, she said. My mother moved over to the ironing board. My father worked at a bank, and his shirts had to look great. I iron a lot, she said. Iron or type. Have you girls noticed that? Promise me youll never learn to type, she said. Or iron. O.K., we said. She told us that every day. I could see her swearing under her breath at a crease she had ironed into the front of a blue shirt. There was something I wanted to talk about. Miss Courtney says Ill have to get a new piano teacher since shes moving, and she suggested Mrs. Dewey, I ventured. What, Frannie? my mother asked. Maybe Im a prodigy, I said, as a joke, because I knew that you couldnt be a prodigy at fourteen if youd never been one before. She didnt even smile. A prodigy of what? What are you talking about? She buttoned a dress shirt around the neck of a hanger. Piano. Im going to practice more and become a late-blooming prodigy, I said. My mother was only half listening, and each fussy little thing she did to a shirt made me want to yell and wave my hands. Oh, Frannie, I dont think so. You two look out the window and tell me if you see your father coming, she said to Loolie and Beth. Why not? I asked, forgetting that it was supposed to be a joke. She sighed. Either you are one or you arent, and I think wed know by now. We like you just the way you are, and although you arent a prodigy, you play beautifully. She handed me several pressed

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shirts on hangers. Take these down to the hall closet, will you? You two stay here, she said to my sisters. You have to be very good to take lessons from Mrs. Dewey, Frannie. Im not sure shes right for you. You need to practice, though, so after you put those away, you should do that. When youre done, please come and get Loolie and Beth. I have to nish this paper by tomorrow. I didnt get to go to music camp last year, either. Music camp was too expensive and you know that, and please dont bring it up again. Im ready to take lessons from Mrs. Dewey, I said. My mother mumbled something as I turned and felt my way down the steep stairs, holding the shirts up so they wouldnt drag. Miss Courtney had asked Mrs. Dewey to come and talk to her students about playing with an orchestra. After that day I often heard other students talk about Mrs. Dewey and I saw her picture in the paper with the orchestra. She was much older than my teachers at school or my mothers friends. She was tall and white-haired and she wore makeup and tailored clothes: pleated pants and jackets in gray and white and black. I felt like I knew herI felt a bond with hereven before we met. I knew that if I became her student, she would feel it, too.

Why not? my father said at dinner, reaching across the table for the celery. I dont see why she shouldnt. Dan, Im just not sure shes good enough. From what I hear, Mrs. Dewey is a very serious teacher. Mom, Frannie is good, Loolie said. One vote for me. Frannie hates the piano. I heard her say it, Beth said. One vote against. And you know how she does it, my mother said. She takes students on trial for six months and then she boots them out if she doesnt think theyre good enough. Mary, I dont think theres a problem. Fran plays the piano all the time, it seems to me, he said. She wont know unless she tries.

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Fran, youll have to arrange that with, he took a bite of mashed potatoes, with your current teacher. When I told Miss Courtney that my parents had agreed to lessons with Mrs. Dewey, she said, Ive already spoken to her about you, wheezing a little. She was a very big, asthmatic woman. She wrapped her soft pink hands around mine; together they made a little mound topped off by her sparkling engagement ring. Shes agreed to take you on my recommendation. Shes a wonderful, wonderful teacher. She sighed. Wonderful.

Mrs. Dewey didnt live far from our house, so I rode my bike to my rst lesson. I planned that I would say, Its nice to see you again, since I had already met her at Miss Courtneys house. But as I got off my bike, she opened the front door and said, Could you move your bicycle out of the driveway, please? I really would prefer that my students not ride bikes, but I suppose I cant prevent them. Mrs. Dewey met me out on the walkway. This is a plum tree, she said quietly. I nodded as she motioned to the tree. Sometimes I get delicious plums from it. Oh, I love plums, I told her. But my sisters hate them. They hate all fruit except raspberries. The front wheel of my bike twisted somehow, and instead of correcting it, I dragged the bike to the edge of the walkway. Unfortunately, there are never a large quantity, Mrs. Dewey said, looking rst at the bike and then at the tree. She didnt seem to have noticed that I had said anything, and then I thought that maybe I wasnt supposed to have said anything, or maybe she didnt want to know what my sisters liked or didnt like, and furthermore, I should have straightened out my tire before I moved the bike. Mrs. Dewey led the way up the wide brick steps, her hand gliding along the black wrought-iron railing. As we moved toward the house, I began to wonder if and when Mrs. Dewey would speak again. In the silence, I felt the fear that comes before a thing starts, before the whistle

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for the hundred-yard dash, or waiting naked in the doctors ofce. I felt my eyes bugged out and my head pulled forward like a chickens. I was afraid that I would spit when I talked and I was beginning to doubt our bond. The piano room was to the left of the wide entryway. Mrs. Dewey ushered me in and indicated the piano bench with a wave of a long, slender hand. She spoke in careful sentences, each word pronounced neatly and quietly. Fran. Is it Fran or Frances? Its Frances, but everybody calls me Fran. Frances, I trust that you will be a conscientious student. When you study with me, you must be. No one had ever used the word study before in regard to my music lessons. No one had seriously discussed music with me. I sat down on the low, padded piano bench. My knees felt uncomfortably close to my chest. You will need to adjust that. Your legs must be very long, she said. There are knobs on the side. I twisted the knobs, and the bench dropped. Im afraid youre going the wrong way, Mrs. Dewey said. Yeah. I laughed nervously and twisted the other direction. Please play something of your own choice, Mrs. Dewey said as soon as I had settled. I played a simple Chopin nocturne that I knew inside out. There was silence. I didnt dare look directly at her, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see her turn her head slowly, away from me and back again. Chopin is so sentimental, isnt he? she said in the direction of a murky painting that I eventually recognized as an abstract cello. That was quite nice. You have some ability, she said. However, you mentioned on the phone that you began playing ve years ago. It would have been helpful if you had begun playing when you were seven or even eight, rather than waiting until you were nine. My smile stuck. Mrs. Deweys ngers were settled near the upturned corners of her mouth.

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We didnt get a piano until I was nine, I told her as politely as I could. Nonetheless, Mrs. Dewey said with a xed smile, more to herself than to me. But then, no doubt youll be able to make up for that. Then, Im also concerned about the weakness of your left hand, technically speaking. Youll need to work on that. The weakness of my left hand. This was new and unexpected. What to do with the offending hand? I crossed my arms, but then she said, Did you bring a notebook? and I had to uncross them to get it for her. I used my right hand. Here it is, I said. My mother had chosen it, and I noticed then, for the rst time, that it was hot pink. I rode home the long way, thinking that I must have misunderstood her somehow. Miss Courtney had never said anything about my left hand being weak. I looked down at the hand as I bumped off a curb. It valiantly gripped the handlebar; it looked all right, but Mrs. Dewey had made it clear that technically it was years behind. And what were Mrs. Deweys exact words at the end of the lesson? Im sure well enjoy our time together or Im sure well get along. There was something in Mrs. Deweys assurance that implied its opposite.

Loolie and Beth were out jumping rope in the driveway. Do you want to jump rope with us? they asked. No, Ive got to practice. Youre always practicing, Beth said, and Loolie agreed. Youre supposed to be taking care of us. Its your job. You can take care of yourselves. No, we cant! Beth yelled. Well drink poison! Well get hit by cars! I have to practice. Youre stupid! Loolie shouted.

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How was the lesson? my mother called from the kitchen when I came in. I could smell French toast. My mother ate it every night while she cooked for the rest of us. She said it kept her from throwing up. Great, Mom. It was great, I told her. Whats wrong? Youre mad about something. Dont buy me anything pink, O.K.? She nodded. Ill write that down, she said. Could you set the table, Fran? And the girls need to wash their hands. Beth will only wash hers if you talk about germs. I know. Loolie! I yelled. Beth! Youre going to have to go out and get them. You know that, Fran. Go out there and get them and dont let the door slam. I washed their hands in the hose water, and then Loolie grabbed the hose and sprayed Beth, who screamed and cried and went running inside, and when I walked in, my mother said, Fran, for crying out loud. Get her some dry clothes. Youre supposed to be taking care of them. It was all so predictable that I almost laughed. But then my father walked in, carryingno kiddingthree sh that someone brought him at work, and he was smiling. He thought the sh were funny, and my mother took one look at them, and I could just see her body start to heave. It seemed to come up from the floor and into her legs, up her thighs. She covered her mouth, grabbed at the back door, pulled it open, and threw up on the three concrete steps that led to the big crumbling patio that my father intended to x. My father had to hose it off, and the French toast burned while he did that. I kept thinking, I have to practice the piano or Mrs. Dewey wont be impressed, and shell kick me out. But I couldnt practice that night because my mom put the girls to bed early, and then she went to bed, too. My dad went off to the library to study for one of his M.B.A. classes. If your mother wakes up, tell her Ill be late, he said. Nobody told me to go to bed because I was old enough to go without being told. Still, a reminder would have been all right. I looked for potato chips, but there werent any. I found some Chips Ahoy! in the broken castle cookie jar, faking like they were

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homemade. I ate those while I looked for Little Women, which I always read when I was sad, but I couldnt nd it. So I read a story in a religious magazine that we got from my great-aunt about how a dog had alerted its owners to someone outside the house, and they called the police and the guy turned out to be an escaped convict from a local prison. The owners knew that God was working through the dog. I was scared to go up the dark stairway after that. I felt along the walls up to the landing where the light switch was, but it was burned out, so I had to make my way to my room in the dark, and in the dark, it didnt matter that I was fourteen. Fourteen was not enough. I wished we had a dog that would come and sleep with me, the way that Beth slept with Loolie, and if the dog was in touch with God, even better. I lay in bed and flexed my left hand, then practiced silent scales until I fell asleep.

During the course of the next few lessons, Mrs. Dewey talked about tonics and harmonic sevenths and contrapuntal music. I didnt say a word for fear that she might ask a question, which would force me to admit that I didnt remember what these words meant. You do know what tonic means? Mrs. Dewey asked. I held my breath and nodded, but when I didnt offer a denition, she said, I see. Well. If you dont know the meaning of a musical term, you should make an effort to learn it, and tonic is the most basic of terms. I really dont see how you could have missed that. Before suppertime, I sat at the piano with my music in front of me. I had looked up tonic, and in addition to all the other denitions having to do with illness and carbonated water, it said, the rst note of the diatonic scale, which didnt help very much, but I memorized it, anyway. I started out playing only the left hand without looking at the keyboard. There was a jump from a chord an octave and a half below middle C to a descending arpeggio that began on the D just above it. Over and over, I missed it; my thumb landed half on the D and half on the E, and it sounded awful.

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Why do you keep playing the same thing over and over? Loolie yelled from the kitchen. I ignored her. Youre playing the same thing over and over! And it sounds bad, she yelled again. Both girls came running in and stood behind me. Why dont you look where your hand is going? Beth asked when I repeated the same mistake. They were trying to lean over me to see the keyboard. Get out of here, I said to them. Im trying to practice! I yelled to my mother. Loolie and Beth are bugging me! Then my mother came in, with some kind of brown sauce spattered all over the front of her pale maternity blouse and a head of dripping lettuce in one hand. Ohhh, I should not have yelled, I thought. She spotted two half-drunk glasses of milk the girls had broughtagainst the ruleinto the living room and she picked them both up, with her free hand, by putting her thumb in one glass and her ngers in the other. The glasses clinked together. Fran, she said quietly, right now, youre going to have to cope with the girls yourself. And she went back to the kitchen.

One day, not long after the New Year, Mrs. Dewey said, You should have your own idea of how the piece should sound. Sing the melody for me. I hated to sing. I was a terrible singer. I cant sing, I told her. You dont have to sing well, but the piece is very melodic. To make it sing, you must sing it. I cant, I said. Regardless, she said. I knew I had an awful voice. My friends had told me. I cant, I said. Anyway, Ive got to go. Were out of time. I have a dental appointment, I lied. Well work on it next week, Mrs. Dewey said. Please practice singing at home in addition to the left-hand work. She turned away

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for a moment, and then she said, I dont think that youre making the progress you should be making. I was unprepared. I blushedI could feel the heat of itand I was unable to answer her. As you know, I expect much more from my students than most teachers do. We arent just ddling around here, she said. Then she smiled at her little joke. O.K., Ill try harder. See you next week, I said and looked past her.

Late that afternoon, my mother went with Loolie and Beth to the Leskis house for dinner. They had two little girls, too. You can come if you like, she said. But you dont have to. I chose to stay home to practice and do my homework. In the past, the decision to practice would have left me feeling virtuous and relaxed. But this time, I approached the piano anxiously; I had to force myself to sing. I played the melody rst with my right hand, but then stopped. Mrs. Dewey had told me to take every opportunity to use my left hand, so I switched and let my right hand sit in my lap. When I began to sing, my uneven voice embarrassed me, and I quickly lost my place. I switched back to my right hand and was able then to keep the melody going while I tried again to sing, but all the while, I was remembering how she said I should be able to do everything with my left that I could do with my right, and that made it difcult to concentrate. I knew that I was hardly even matching pitch as I sang, and just as I was reaching a note that was too high for my voice, my father appeared in the doorway. I jumped. He looked at me, puzzled. Where is everyone? Leskis, I said. Oh, thats right, he said and knocked himself in a clownish way on his forehead. My father did things like that when he felt

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uncomfortable. Well, he hesitated. Dont let me interrupt you, he said. Ill be on my way. I could not go back to the singing. I played the melody as beautifully as I could while I imagined that I, with an improved voice, was singing. I did the exercises Mrs. Dewey had assigned for my left hand. When I was nished, I made a sandwich and took it up to my room, not wanting to see any member of my family when they all came back.

That spring there were two things I heard a lot. Looking at my mother getting bigger all the time, women just had to talk about the baby. Youll be helping your mom with diapers sooooon, they would singsong. Bet you cant wait to see the bayyybeee. The second thing I heard was how lucky I was to be taking lessons from Mrs. Dewey. Our town was small enough that anyone who was interested knew who she was, and some students came from out of town to study with her. Ive heard shes very good, people said and looked at me admiringly. You must be talented, one of my teachers at school told me, and the very idea made me nervous. You dont know about my left hand, I thought. You dont know that I cant sing and that I should have started sooner. It must be wonderful to study with her, a neighbor from down the street said. Everyone used the word wonderful. The word wonderful began to feel cold.

I have never gotten a clear idea about whether Mrs. Dewey really would send inadequate students away at the end of six months, but the spring recital still seemed like reckoning day, and I thought that if I played perfectly, Mrs. Dewey might change her mind about me. I had tried all the tricks: role-playing the walk up the aisle to the piano bench, making fake mistakes and forcing myself to continue, imagining the audience naked. Nothing was any help when it came to sitting in a church pew, listening to everyone else and waiting for my

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turn. I glanced down the program and saw that Bert Rasmusson would play last. His position indicated that Mrs. Dewey considered him to be her best student. I knew that he was very good. I remembered something Mrs. Dewey had said about Bert. His lesson was right before mine, and she had worried aloud one day, as she watched him ride his bike down the street, I only hope he doesnt injure his hands. As I tried to warm them, I wished I had managed to injure my own hands. I wedged them under my arms, sat on them, rubbed them on my thighs. A good wrist sprain would have done the trick, a broken pinkie nger, or a third-degree burn. But Im wasting my time, I thought. I should be preparing myself, concentrating. As the girl before me played, I studied my music, knowing that the sight of it was useless. I turned and saw my mother, very pregnant, with Loolie and Beth, lined up in the last row. My sisters waved and giggled. Youre setting such a good example for Loolie and Beth, my mother had said that morning. After an hour of waiting, it was my turn. I began to play, already doomed. It was a Mendelssohn Song Without Words, a piece that I loved and had played countless times without the music, but in the opening measures, something went wrongjust a single note at rst; my left hand missed it. It was not even a mistake I had made before. It threw me. In a second it would come up again, and when it did, I held my breath, not knowing what my left hand would do or why this note that had never given me trouble before had suddenly become a wild card. Then there it was, that soundthe wrong note again; I winced, but had to go on playing. It would be terrible to stop. Maybe I was past it. I could still recover. I played a few good measures and then I thought, Where is the melody? Are they hearing it as clearly as if I were singing it? And my left hand slipped and missed a chord. I lost track of familiar landmarks, and my hands played on without my awareness, until I realized suddenly that I did not know what came next. The connection from brain to hand had been cut, by fear maybe or embarrassment or both. The notes swarmed up in my head, indistinguishable, and I had to stop. I began again, and the same thing

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happened. Three times. Each time I made less headway into the piece. After the third try, I saw that I couldnt continue without the music that I had left at my seat, and at that point I must have ended on a wrong note. It must have been a lot of wrong notes, and I must have released them into the air because I seemed to be sitting in a buzz of dissonance. I glanced at Mrs. Dewey, and whatever it was that might have helped me wasnt there. She stared back at me with a calm, composed expression. I realized I would have to get up and get my music. I would have to stand up in silence and walk out to my seat, and people would not know what I was doing. They would think that I was giving up. I looked at the group watching me and waiting. It was impossible to make out individual faces, not because it was dark or they were far away, but because it was too embarrassing to see them. I got up and mumbled something about my music, and I walked the whole way to my seat a little bent over and just beginning to reach so that everyone would know that I wasnt nished. I looked to the back and saw Loolie and Beth wearing their matching plaid pants with red cardigans. Their mouths were hanging open, and my mother, I think she was trying to look brave and give me courage, but she was just so pregnant, so big and uncomfortable, she looked like she might burst. When I got back to the piano with my music, I played well. The applause was too hearty. Thank God she nished!

Mrs. Dewey, Mrs. Rasmusson, my mother, and I found ourselves standing in a circle after the recital. Bert played beautifully, my mother said. Mrs. Rasmusson smiled, but it was Mrs. Dewey who said, He always does. Fran, Mrs. Rasmusson said, I enjoyed your playing so much. Youre very musical. Frances needs to work on her ability to concentrate, and that left hand, dont you, Frances? A little more effort and maturity, Mrs.

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Dewey whispered to me, and then she touched me. It was the only time she had ever intentionally touched me. Two ngers on my left arm. I remember the brush of her silver silk dress and the light pressure of her thin, cold ngers. At the next lesson, she said that it wasnt really true that she terminated study with anyone at the end of six months. Thats an exaggeration. But, Frances, if you want to stay with me, you are going to have to be very committed. The left hand has not especially improved, and I dont always nd you cooperative. Also, as you get older, its going to take more time. If you can commit to that, and if you could make a bigger effort to comply with my suggestions for your approach to the music, if your attitude could be a little more flexible, then you would be welcome to stay. I felt as if something had flattened me from the inside. I knew I wasnt welcome to stay. She was kicking me out. I would not cry in front of her. I would not. I despised her. I said something under my breath on the way out. I thought she couldnt hear.

When I got home, I ran up to my room and shut myself in and cried into my pillow the way I had done when I was Beths age. In a couple of minutes, I heard the phone ring downstairs. My mother answered, but I couldnt quite hear what she was saying. I got up and went to the landing. Oh! she said with an edge in her voice. She hung up, and I winced. Fran! I didnt answer. Fran! She was coming up. Damn it, Fran. O.K., Im coming. Im coming. We met at the top of the stairs, where Loolie and Beth had piled all of their Barbies, naked except for the occasional shoe. She sat down next to me. That was Mrs. Dewey. She said that you told her to go to hell. My mother was panting from the stairs she had climbed. I didnt say it to her. I just said it.

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There was a long pause, and then my mother sighed. Fran, I am too damn tired to deal with this. Let me just say that was inappropriate and rude. Well, rude anyway. She heaved herself up. Now I have to go make dinner. She stopped and straightened her big shirt over the baby to come, and then she turned around and said, No TV for a week. Mom? Maybe that was the rst time she really looked at me that day because then she said, I think Ill sit back down for a second. O.K.? O.K, I said. For a minute she just sat next to me, then she put her arm around me, and I felt the softness of her denim shirt against my cheek. Dont cry, sweetheart. It doesnt matter. I dont think she treated you very well, Fran. Forget what I said about the TV. I wanted I hated to say it. The closer I came to saying it, the more I cried. I picked up a Barbie I was half sitting on and knocked her blond head against the floor. You can still play. You can take lessons from someone else. I know. Its not that, I said. I wantedI dont know She took the Barbie out of my hand. What did you want? Its so stupid, I said. I wanted her to like me. I wanted her to think I was fantastic. She nodded. I know, sweetheart. Beth and Loolie came running up the stairs. After a moment of consultation, they pressed their matching Ken dolls against my cheek. Ken loves you. Smooch. Smooch. Smooch. I need to make dinner, my mother said, but she looked like standing up was beyond her. All right, then, she said. Ill need help. Fran, give me a hand. I stood up, took her hand, and pulled. Then Loolie and Beth must have slid in and pushed from behindbut too hard. Whoa! my mother said, and she tried to right herself, but she just kept moving toward me. Sorry! Sorrrry! my mother gasped and the girls squealed, and I thought, Everybody is going to land on top of

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me, and I started to laugh as my mother grabbed me, and I felt the weight of her, and the size of her, and I think I let out some kind of bleat as we all hit the floor with me on the bottom and my mother and the girls piled on top. Loolie, Bethoff! my mother yelled sharply. Mommy! one of the girls squeaked. Are you O.K.? Im all right. The babys ne, she said, straining to move herself off me. I just need to gure out how to get up. I cant move, I said, until you do. It was hard to breathe. O.K. O.K., we can do this. Its just that I have this enormous baby, my mother said. I knowits kind ofpressedinto my chestand its Roll me off, girls! my mother ordered. From the left side. Gently! O.K.! they yelled and they rolled her off onto the floor. Are you O.K., Fran? My mother turned her head toward me. We were lying shoulder to shoulder. Im ne. I think Ill have some bruises, but I can get up ne. That baby, I said as I got up, its big. I know. Fran, you take my hands. And each of you be ready just in case, she said to the girls. Here we go, she said. I held her hands and pulled, and there was a moment, midway up, where I held most of her weight, and then she was up, with the girls guarding her middle. Good job. Girls, let me go and well see about dinner, she said.

The babys ne. The doctor said the fall may have nudged the baby along, but she was just about due, anyway, my father was saying the next day on the way to the hospital. Moms a little loopy, my father said as we got near. And be careful around her middle. Hug her from the shoulders up, he ordered. My mother had had a C-section, which my father did his best to explain to the girls in the car on the way. When we got there, my mother was trying to get Margaret to nurse, but she wasnt interested yet. We all wanted to hold her.

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Does your middle hurt? Loolie asked. Beth looked worried. It hurts some, but that doesnt really seem so important, she said, looking sleepily at the girls and the baby and then at me. Lets let Fran hold her rst. Beth and Loolie stood on either side of me and leaned in to look at Margarets small, new face, and suddenly I remembered the feel of Mrs. Deweys touch, how detached and cold it seemed. But it was Beths warm hand on my arm now. She opened her eyes, Loolie whispered, and they both leaned in closer as Margaret yawned and curled her hand around the nger that I offered. My turn, Loolie said. My father scooped up Margaret. Loolie, youre next. Then Beth. Lets look at her hands, see if shes going to play the piano like Fran. He gave me a look. Im sorry we fell on you, my mother said. When youd already had such a hard day. It must have hurt. Its O.K., I said. I thought about the weight of them, all on top of me, all at once. How there had been someones hand on my ear, my mothers hair in my mouth, an elbow, or maybe it was a knee, in my stomach, the weight of the baby against my chest. Each elbow and hand and knee and leg and body, how they had fallen on me, where they had landed, how it had feltI had memorized every bit of it. As if it were a piece of music.

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by Tara Willis At the age of four, Nadia had run into a moving car. In the alley behind her apartment building, wild vines with clusters of red berries wrapped themselves parasitically around the chain-mesh gates. That day, she was deep in an enchanted forest gathering food for the winter. Her pink T-shirt was already stained with berry juice, but her bucket wasnt full yet, and the vines across the alley grew untouched and shininghoards of tiny red lollipops in the sun. She remembered she wasnt allowed to cross the street alone and turned to look at her daddy sitting on the steps talking to a neighbor. She picked up her bucket and carefully aligned the toes of her light-up Velcro sneakers with a long crack in the cement. She imagined it was the edge of a big river, with slimy steppingstones making a path across it. The berries swayed invitingly on the other side, heavy with ripeness. She licked her lips, imagined her family eating a warm berry pie, and hopped out into the alley. The white sports car knocked her the rest of the way. In middle school, when she would tell the story to impress her friends, Nadia convinced herself that she could remember flying through the air and landing on the other side of the alley. Her invented recollections of the incident were always vivid, and always out of body, as if she were floating above her four-year-old self. She had a small fascination for the inexplicable that had started when she first heard the story of Bloody Mary in a darkened girls bathroom in third grade. Shed heard stories about a white light at the end of a tunnel, and people who watched themselves die from above before being sent back into their bodies by some unknown power. That night after the doctor reassured her parents that she was only a little bruised, Nadia watched the streetlights dance in the distance as a young man handed her father two fish filet sandwiches through the drive-up window.

Safe

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Pay close attention to everything around you, O.K.? her father said. You never know whats going to hurt you. Nadia thought of the zooming car and rubbed a finger against the Band-Aid on her cheek. She thought hard about what her father had said, but she was sleepy and she could smell the sandwiches through the warm paper bag on her lap.

By the time she was eight, a small spare room in the apartment had become her playground. Nadia had opened and closed a museum with only one exhibit, and a restaurant that had one table and only two dishes on the menu, each containing peach ice cream. Her parents visited both institutions, grinning at a poster she had made and gulping down endless peach ice-cream shakes. She liked to stage bizarre and innovative Happenings in the empty room, improvising dramatic performances of poetry and movement with her giant stuffed bunny, Felix. When she turned eleven, Nadia walked straight into one of the clear glass double doors of her school. The other door was propped open, but she hadnt noticed either of them. She was Anne of Green Gables, walking across the ridgepole of the kitchen roof as she edged along the crack between the tile panels on the lobby floor. They both looked see-through, she told her dad when he picked her up after school. So the doors just disappeared on you? And then one of them reappeared. Like magic! Nadia scrunched up her nose and rubbed it. Well, that explains it! Her father started the car. Just pay attention to everything around you, Nadia, he said, laughing. She laughed, too, and looked out the car window, imagining that the bare trees along the street were overflowing with cherry blossoms.

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By fourteen shed had a boyfriend for two and a half weeks and considered herself very experienced. He rode a green bike and wore collared shirts, and she tried not to let him kiss her in the back of the movie theater, because she wanted to see the good parts. By the time her birthday came around that summer, Nadia had moved on. The year she was sixteen she wore black rhinestone chokers and silver eye shadow to school. Shed had two boyfriends and any number of crushes, and her parents let her stay out almost all night after the school dance, on the condition that she stay with her friends and call when she got a ride home. Be careful out there, her dad said as her drove her to the dance. Always be aware of everything around you. Nadia rolled her eyes. Ignorance is bliss, she said, checking her makeup

Nadias second boyfriend had blue eyes, like the color of the sky on a snowy day or the pale blue of the faded plastic cornflowers her mother kept on the window sill in the kitchen. He drove his older brothers red minivan when he picked her up, and Nadias father watched protectively from the balcony every time they left together. Whenever he said her name, he held the first a for far too long, and whenever he hugged her, his knees seemed to get in the way. The summer she turned seventeen, Nadia gave up on stuffed animals, blue-eyed boys, and lip gloss. She wore cotton skirts, a ring on each finger, and plastic barrettes in her hair. She drank iced vanilla-and-raspberry lattes with her friends at the outdoor tables of a small caf with a green-and-purple awning. At the age of seventeen, Nadia walked into another moving car. Her skirt was dotted with big bright cherries, and it clung to the backs of her legs from the heat when she got up from the wrought-iron patio chair in front of the caf. She smiled at a large woman with a small dog at the table next to her and walked to the curb. It was just after five, but traffic was slow on this street, and Nadia squinted at the

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sky. The light glazed everything with a soft gray-and-yellow glow. She imagined it was some tangible substance, sliding slowly over the parking meters and shop signs like a radiant and shadowy liquid. When the light changed to yellow, she stepped into the street. The black convertible honked, and she gasped with surprise. The bumper of the car nudged hard against her thigh, and she instinctively slammed her hands flat on the streamlined steel (whether to balance herself or to somehow stop its motion, she wasnt sure). Nadia looked up through the windshield, but the liquid light slipped down over it for a moment, and she stood bewildered. Sorry, Im sorry Nadia looked nervously over the windshield into the car. He was smiling, she realized with confusion. Head in the clouds? the boy said, pushing his sunglasses up. His eyes were brown and full, she noticed. A little bit, she said, laughing apologetically. The streetlight was changing, and she edged back onto the curb. I guess Ill have to try that one again, she told the boy. He grinned and pulled around the corner. Nadia smiled to herself as she waited for the next light.

Her latte down to the dregs, Nadia sat back in her chair as two of her friends held a heated debate about a play they had seen that weekend without her. The sun was slipping again, and the small, dirty flock of pigeons pecking jerkily at the sidewalk seemed to soften in the fading light. She thought about the dark-eyed boy in the black convertible; the way he had smiled and joked with her when she fell onto his car, instead of cursing or yelling for her to look where she was going. It was as if he saw the way she had moved through that moment. As if he understood how she floated sometimes. She rubbed her eyes and looked back to her friends. Nadia, what do you think? one of them asked. Nadia blinked. Of what? That guy, Nadia! Havent you been listening? Hes staring at us!

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Which g He was sitting a couple of tables away, sipping his Frappuccino calmly. It took her a moment to register his presence. Something giddy inside of her jumped and pushed out her breath all at once, and then she smiled. It was hard to tell where he was looking under the sunglasses, but the corners of his mouth seemed to twitch up slightly as she watched him. Dont stare like that! her friend whispered. Oh, cmon, you guys are being so middle school! Nadia said, not taking her eyes off the boy. She couldnt remember ever having had something like this happen. People she spoke to briefly on the street didnt usually just reappear suddenly. She wondered if he even remembered her. Maybe she had imagined his tiny hint of a smile. I think hes staring at you, Nadia, her other friend warned. What a creep! Nadia looked sharply away from the boy and glared at her friend. Hes not a creep! I know him. Ive seen him before, Nadia said defensively. Ohhh, so hes a stalker, not a creep. My mistake No, Im serious! Her friends looked at her dubiously. O.K., fine. Dont believe me. Nadia looked down into her latte for a moment. Some of the raspberry syrup had congealed in the bottom of the cup. She glanced over at the boy. He was somehow reading a book and sipping his Frappuccino all at once without seeming to move. Nadia looked at his dark hair, his brown T-shirt, and his wide hands propping up the book. She looked back at her friends. Watch this, she said and licked her lips, sucking in her breath. She walked over to him. The boy looked up and smiled. Whats your name? Nadia demanded. He put down his book: 1984 by George Orwell. Whats yours? he replied warily. She folded her arms. I asked first, Nadia said. Yeah, but I dont know you. I dont just give my name out to random people, he said.

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Neither do I, she said uncertainly, taking a small step back toward her table. Listen, he said quickly, why dont we both say our names at once, and then neither of usll have to go first. Nadia laughed and dropped her arms. O.K., sounds fair to me. On the count of three, then? On the count of three, he agreed. One, two, three

When he first saw her, Everett had liked her smile and the sunlight on her shoulders. Her skirt was wrinkled, and shed moved to cross the street with a childish elegance that made him smile. It seemed as if she were floating in front of the street behind her, as if in that instant she had somehow managed to detach from the immediate and suspend herself there. As soon as he had seen it and soaked it in, though, it was gone and she had slammed down onto the hood of his car. When Everett had seen her the second time, sitting in the caf, staring off into the street while the other two girls spoke animatedly across the table from her, he knew she was a daydreamer. He wanted more than anything to sit beside her, to witness her there, poised on the edge of the imaginary. He wanted to be there when she blinked, to have her look at him and smile and be happy with the world outside her daydreams. He sat down a few tables away and watched her float. The girls had noticed him, and he didnt blame them for it. She rarely wore makeup. Everett had noticed it the day he first met her, and every time after that. He liked looking at her and seeing her skinwithout any smooth foreign layers to hide or enhance the softness of her features. The uneven splattering of freckles across Nadias cheeks reminded him of wish pennies in a fountain. And there was something expectant in the way she took in everything around herself: the people they passed on the street, architecture, the cracks in the sidewalk, the taste and feel of everything. She wanted to believe in the world and she absorbed every detail intently. He felt it most

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when she looked at him. He could feel her watching him when they went out with friendsgoing over every inch of his face with her eyes.

Everett loved science fiction, peach ice cream, and sunsets, and his stillness made Nadia tremble with fascination. When they went to a movie together for the first time, she was afraid to interrupt his bubble of silence. In the theater they sat hunched forward in their seats, watching the screen and feeling the closeness of their elbows on the armrest between them. After the show they stood under the glow of a street lamp outside, and she stared at the cigarette butts and gum smashed into the ground. Everett put his ticket stub in his pocket, leaned against the lamppost, and told her she was beautiful.

As Nadia waited for Everetts small black convertible to pull up a few weeks later, her father came to the window and stood beside her. Hes a nice guy, Nadia, he said. I know, she said. She could feel her smile spread. Just Just be careful, she interrupted him, pay attention, and dont get hurt. Right, Dad? I know. I have to tell you at least, Nadia, he said. Sometimes . . . when you want something even good things they can hurt you. He shifted his weight and then turned to look at her. I know that, too. And youre right, Dad. Her smile didnt falter. I just know something about this, she took a deep breath, about the way he is She shook her head. When she looked up, Everetts car was waiting by the curb in front of the apartment. Ill see you later, Dad. She smiled up at her father and smoothed her skirt before running out the door.

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They parked on the seventh level of the garage. It was the top floor, and the cement sprawled out in the open air like an endless stretch of desert, disappearing under the cars and melting into the fog that hovered over the city. When they went into the theater, the sun sat on the brim of the horizon, inflaming the sky and the haze with the waning vividness of day. Now the movie was over and the sky had grown dark, but the fog was orange and soft from the thousands of street lamps that faded into the distance. It shimmered beneath the blackness above. They sat in the car, Everetts hands resting on the steering wheel. What should we do now? Nadia asked. The parking lot around them was emptying. I dont know. Everetts eyes reminded her of a cherry-wood desk she had seen once at an antique shop: hard and soft looking all at once. What do you want to do now? he said. Nadia rested her head against the car window and looked at him. Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip. What? he asked. I want She stopped, uncertain. I want so much She paused again and looked out at the hazy, endless horizon. But first She turned toward him and seemed to fall forward, as if headed again for the hood of his car. She landed with her hands on his shoulders, and her breath on his cheek was warm. She looked at him, so close she could see the orange of the sky behind her reflected in his pupils. She closed her eyes and sat still, feeling his skin on her cheek, the corners of their lips grazing each other. Come with me, she whispered. What do you mean? he asked. She pulled away and jumped out of the car. The cement was solid beneath her feet, and she skipped to the center of the parking lot. Everett followed her and leaned awkwardly against the tail of the car. Nadia looked through him, smiling up at the sky and all around herself at once. She put her arms out and began to spin. He watched her striped skirt whirling around her knees, a rainbow of grays in the orange light. He watched her shoulders and

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arms glowing with it, flailing out as the rings on her fingers twinkled like stars in a mad orbit around her. He watched her face and saw her eyes slipping to that other world as she whipped around until her features became a blur. The fog behind her became part of the wild twirl, at once sucked in by the force of her spin and enveloping herdevouring herin its glow. The orange bands of light that clung to the edges of the horizon wrapped around her: hazy spiral arms around the blazing center of a galaxy. At any moment Nadia would step out onto the vast uneven plain of fog and light that was the city. Everetts eyes widened. The horizon was so close to her, the street lamps a field of glowing pebbles beneath her feet, and for a moment the cement barrier blended into the sky. She was on the edge. Nadia! he yelled, running for her. A light flared up in the corner of his eye, and he turned to see a car creeping out of its spot down the row. There were so many cars around them, he realized. Nadia! He caught her up by the waist, and her momentum pressed her body hard against him. She blinked and looked up at him. For a moment, they were both still, caught in the silence left by the storm. With enough momentum I wouldnt have been surprised if youd flown right over the wall or something, he said breathlessly, trying to laugh. Her cheeks were flushed, and she smiled slightly. The rough surface of the cement partition pressed against the backs of her calves, and Everetts arm was tight around her. Youre so real, Everett, she said quietly. So substantial. Its different from the way I think sometimes, but its kind of beautiful. Only kind of, huh? he teased. Splendiferous, then. She laughed. But really. Youve just reminded me that I like it here, too. You mean instead of in the clouds? Something like that, she said. Down here on solid ground with the rest of us. He smiled back. She nodded and watched his hair move slightly in the breeze. How did you do that? Everett continued.

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Do what? Make the wall disappear and the light go wild What do you mean? She watched his face as he thought for a moment. It was as if you were getting soaked up or you were soaking it up I dont know, it was probably all in my head, but Ive just never seen anything like it. She turned to face the city, and he moved to stand beside her. I love looking at things and losing myself in them. She looked at him and put her arms around his neck. Its like discovering everything small that makes the world beautiful for the first time. She pulled him closer. I dont forget to pay attention. I pay too much attention, and theres just so much to see in everything. She stopped and studied him closely. I get wrapped up in things, I guess. And then you run into stuff, right? She laughed again. But its O.K. I mean, Ive never really hurt myself. I always snap back just in the nick of time. And anyway, she smirked, Ive got real people like you to remind me of the things around me. Youre a real person, too, you know, he replied. I know. He pressed his lips to her hair for a moment before looking down at her. She felt his eyes taking her in and imagined words welling up behind his dark pupils. She waited for them to spill out of his mouth. I just dont want you to get hurt, he said finally. I know that, too, she said slowly, settling back against the cement of the wall. She rested an elbow on the ledge and looked down over it. A car drove away, going in and out of shadow as it passed under street lamps. She was smiling, she realized suddenly. You know, Ive never said any of that stuff out loud before. I think saying it makes it different. More real? he asked.

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She felt her skin tingling softly, as if it were suddenly more sensitive to everything that touched ither skirt, the wall, his arm encircling her waist. One more beautiful bit of the real world, Nadia replied quietly. It was a comfortable tingling; she could feel herself at once aware of and settling into the air around her. She looked out over the city. Dont worry about me too much, Everett. I never go over the edge.

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by Elizabeth Flynn Meaney Bennett Riley didnt mind shooting baskets in air so cold it made the bones of his fingers ache. Living in Chicago, he was used to playing basketball wearing a heavy coat with a scarf wrapped twice around his throat and chest. Tonight, long after the other boys of South Daley High School had shoved their sweaty gym clothes into duffel bags with stuck zippers and headed for trains whose homeward steam would mingle with their frozen breaths, Bennett Riley remained at the badly chalked free throw line. The warped wood of the backboard required a certain, measured amount of force to accept the basketball; the lines on the board were worn away so that Bennett had to calculate the corner angles himself; the rim sagged, and all semblances of netting had been torn off in past games. Still, Bennett did not miss a shot. With intrinsic grace, he moved from the center of the free throw line, one foot, two feet to the right, and then shot from the right corner. He returned gently to the center and then eased left. It was his practiced routine, but each individual shot looked spontaneous and natural. Sure, he had spent bright mornings with his father and long afternoons with other boys playing basketball. But the subtle spin of the ball off Bennetts fingertips, the little lift in his jump, the smooth arc of the shot were elements, unlearned and irremovable, parts of him. It was like something he was born to do. Eventually, reluctantly, when the dark around him solidified so he could no longer see the white lines etched on the ball, Bennett realized he had to be home for dinner. He made one final shot, instinctively feeling the right place on the ball to hold; listening to, rather than watching, it slip through the iron rim. After retrieving the ball with one hand, he palmed it into his gym bag.

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Bennett was already wearing a gray sweatshirt and gray sweatpants, but he pulled a larger pair of navy-blue sweatpants over the first pair; in Chicago, in January, it was that cold. In the dark, he estimated how long it would take to run across the muddy lawn of the school to the front entrance. Then he turned to measure the fence behind the basket. It was easily two and a half times his height. Bennett filled his lungs with air, dashed toward the fence, found the right metal loops to curl his fingers around, and climbed. The descent down the other side was quick. Then he ran, flinging his arms, as if swimming through the heady cold, and gained impressive speed. Before opening the school doors, he breathed in deeply. His chest hurt only for a minute. He quieted his breaths, then walked in. The South Daley music room, like everything else about the school, was a charity case. The walls were whitewashed at the top and crumbling red brick at the bottom. Cheap stacks of aluminum shelving were supposed to hold the students instruments, but South Daley students could not afford musical instruments. The few cases in the shelves belonged to the school, nicked cases with peeling South Daley High School stickers. Bennett Riley played the piano. This was his mothers doing. Each of the four Riley children knew the ethics of contemporary journalism and how to recite the Catholic Mass in cathedral Latin, each one was well-trained in a sport, and each knew how to play the piano. Through eighth grade, Bennett had taken lessons twice a week at a private music school. He had planned to continue at South Daley, but his freshman year the budget didnt pass and the arts programs were cut heavily, so the high school lost its piano teacher. This year the budget had expanded, but Bennetts increased involvement in basketball left him with little time for lessons. And now the music room was where Bennett hid his backpack under the baby grand piano, the centerpiece of the music room and the only really nice thing in there. As Bennett reached down, he was grateful to feel the front nylon pocket, the cold zipper. Theft was common at South Daley. Bennett always double-checked the lock on his rusted

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locker. Freshman year, someone had stolen Bennetts brand-new basketball sneakers. Although they hadnt been expensive, Bennett rarely got new things and had since learned to keep his stuff close to his body. Bennett, though an athlete, was not much of a fighterso if his backpack had been stolen, he couldnt get it back. Relieved, Bennett placed his backpack next to his gym bag and sat on the piano bench. His fingers immediately found home on middle C of the pianos keyboard. He put his foot on the pedal, and the soft echo of the C lingered as Bennett ran the scale: thumb, index finger, middle finger, thumb tucked quickly under, and the other four fingers in a row. He used to run this C scale even more frequently than he shot free throws. The high C at the top of the octave reminded Bennett of a chord. When he closed his eyes, he heard it. A waltz by Johann Strauss. Bennetts own muscle memory amazed him. His left hand moved unconsciously; the fingers of his right hand found all the chords. If he didnt stop, if he didnt think about it, Bennett could still play this piece, which he hadnt practiced in two years. If he didnt think about itin this dark, hushed roomhe could just feel it. Then Bennett heard the janitors in the hallway. They broke the spell, and Bennett had forgotten again. But he was late for his train, anyway.

South Daleys basketball players wore white mesh uniforms that had been passed down for so many generations that Bennetts number, thirty-one, was barely visible on the back of his jersey. They played other Chicago public high schools on Monday and Thursday afternoons and on Saturday mornings. This Thursday, they faced off against the Black Hawks. Black Hawk High School was even less funded than South Daley. Although Black Hawk had some talented athletes, their plays were muddled, the team unfocused, and by halftime they were trailing Bennetts team by more than thirty points.

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South Daleys coach put in three freshmen to get experience, and Bennett rested for the first few minutes of the third quarter. He sat on the folding chair closest to the game. In case anything goes wrong, Coach joked. No one was really nervous about the freshmen facing the Black Hawks. Bennett, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, even relaxed enough to look across the court at the fold-up bleachers where his father sat with his little brother and one of his sisters. Bennett smiled at them with one side of his mouth, then grinned when his little brother waved frantically and pointed to his own, third-grade basketball jersey. Bennett assessed the crowd. None of the programs at South Daley were well supported. A few parents were here. A handful of students wandered in, mostly football players, pulling on their heavy, puffy winter coats after running laps around the building. Hey, Riley, said Jarrett Davis, the senior who had been chosen as basketball captain because he was so smart and a credit to South Daley. Are you gonna break Careys record? Bennett knew what he was referring to. Carey had graduated three years previously, but he still held South Daleys shooting record. Youre close, you know. Really close. Yeah. Ask Coach to put you in. Davis nudged Bennett. They had shifted their chairs closer to the court lines to avoid the bad leak that allowed melting snow through the South Daley gymnasium roof. No one else on the bench seemed to care. Bennett didnt want to ask, and he was grateful when, at time-out, Coach announced, Rileys going back in. O.K., Bennett? Bennett nodded. Taking his place on the court, he vowed to focus on defense. He promised to let the freshmen shoot. But defense was easy against the Black Hawks, and Bennett got bored. After he made his first lay-up, Bennett heard his sister shout, Go, Bennett!

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Bennett Riley made a few more baskets, then two showy threepoint shots. With the swish of the second, Bennett knew he had taken Careys place in South Daley history. But Coach simply smiled, and only Davis yelled, Hell yeah, Riley, from the bench. For everyone else, it was just another basket. The game ended. Bennett lifted his jersey to wipe his face and used his shorts to dry his damp palms. Then he shook hands with each of the Black Hawk players, murmuring, Good game, looking at the scuff marks on the floor. Bennett hurried back to the bench to pull his sweatshirt from his bag. He pulled it on and used his sweatpants to wipe down his legs. That was an incredible game, Bennett. Coach stuck out his right hand. Oh. Bennett looked at Coachs hand. Uh, thanks, and he shook it. Two men in sports jackets approached. One Bennett recognized as a reporter from the local newspaper who had watched his games since freshman year. He had published numerous sports write-ups that included Bennetts name. He even had Bennett write an Athletes Journal for the newspaper. No one on the South Daley team paid much attention to what was published about Bennett. Not even one of them was interested enough to accuse Bennett of getting extra attention because his dad, too, worked for the newspaper. Either way, it was not true. Mr. Riley. His reporter smiled broadly. That was really something! Those three-pointersyou could be playing for a college team. Oh. Bennett struggled with the stuck zipper on his gym bag. Uh, no. You do realize youre now South Daleys all-time leading scorer? his reporter prodded him. Bennett felt relieved as the zipper pulled through. UhI guess. This is Ed McCarron. Hes with the Sun-Times, the reporter told Bennett. Theyd like to do a feature about your achievements.

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Bennett looked over to where a few of his teammates were playfully shooting around. None of them looked at him. He hoped they wouldnt. Ive heard a lot about you, boy. Ed McCarron shook Bennetts hand, which Bennett hoped wasnt sweaty. Nothing compares until you see the stuff in person, I guess! Bennett bit his lip. So what is the secret of your success, Bennett Riley? Bennett realized he was being interviewed already. He hated sounding dumb in the newspaper. Oh, well, ya know, all everything comes together, I guess. All the elements. Orelle played really well today, and Berkeleys man-to-man No, no, McCarron laughed impatiently. Your success, Mr. Riley. Bennett Rileys success. Bennett smiled weakly. Oh, it just uh it just happens, I guess. I guess I just hope it keeps happening. Lame. But why were people always asking him things? Why not bother Berkeley? Berkeley loved to talk about crap like this. He could shoot his mouth off all afternoon. Is it true youre being recruited by private high schools? Bennett really didnt want to talk about this. He didnt want to jinx it. He put his gym bag on his shoulder. I dont know think any of them would want me. I guess youd have to ask my dad. I dont know. Well, McCarron smiled through his frustration, Im sure you must have a million emotions right now. Gratitude? Excitement? Pride? He threw out words hopefully. Oh, I guess. Bennett ducked his head and began walking toward his family on the other side of the gym. Gratitude and all. Bennett left the two reporters behind with nothing much to write about. Bennett hated talking about himself. The local news reporter knew that already and began filling in McCarrons notebook with facts. Bennett reached his dad, who gave him a warm embrace. And his brother, who had to jump to high-five him. And his little sister, who

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jumped, too, and snuggled into this comfortable place on Bennetts chest that no one else seemed to be able to find. And yes, yes, he was grateful.

The office was entirely mahogany and dark green; the bookshelves, wall paneling, and Dr. Connors desk were elaborately carved mahogany. The drapes, the chair cushions, and the uniform framed on the wall, as well as the ubiquitous inscription HCA, were dark green. Youll find that our unique program allows each Holy Cross student to develop his or her most outstanding talent, while also growing into a remarkably well-rounded scholar and member of the academic community, Dr. Connor was saying. The photographs on the walls were all black-and-white prints. Some dated back to 1900. In blazers or plaid skirts, Holy Cross students gathered around laboratory tables, stood proudly by maps or projects, and concentrated fiercely on examinations or questions in Chicagos Academic Bowl. In white-striped uniforms, they rowed crew on Lake Michigan, poised ready at the centerline to hike a football, and grouped eagerly around the basket to get a rebound. Quite simply its this: we admit only students who have particular gifts. For some, this is scientific research or mathematics; for others, poetry or dance; for a select few Dr. Connor looked fondly at Bennett. Athletics. Bennett couldnt stop staring at a framed picture on Dr. Connors desk. In well-made uniforms with Holy Cross across their chests, the ten players from the team three years ago posed beneath a banner that read National Catholic High School Basketball Champions. Bennett knew that Holy Crosss team had not performed as well in the past two years; they had been state champions again the year after nationals, but last year they had lost at the state level. Impressive, isnt it? Dr. Connor chuckled. Always been a basketball fan myself. Did you know, Mr. Riley, that Holy Cross men are

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on the starting college lineups at Duke, North Carolina, Louisville, Georgetown, and the University of Notre Dame? I heard that, Bennett said quietly. Those recruits went through very intense training, Dr. Connor informed him. Then his voice turned stern, and he asked, Mr. Riley, how do you plan to balance a Holy Cross education with the work that being an Academy athlete entails? Bennett had to force himself to speak more than he did with reporters. Well, Ive always been on the honor roll. And I know that Holy Cross is hardmore difficult than my old school, I mean. South Daley isnt academically anything. But I study every night after I shoot baskets. What about other extracurricular interests? Leadership roles? Student government? Volunteering? Bennett began to panic. Music? asked Dr. Connor. Bennett raised his eyebrows. Yes. Yes? Are you in the band? No, I I play the piano. Do you? Dr. Connor tilted his head. How did you become interested in that? My well, all of us, everyone in my family plays the piano. I used to go to a music school, but my games sort of got in the way. So now I just play. For me. We have excellent musical facilities here at the Academy, Dr. Connor said. Have you seen the inside of the school? Yeah. Bennett had been walked through the entire iron-gated campus; taken to classroom buildings that looked like Gothic cathedrals, the basketball arena with polished floors and evergreen banners on the wall that proclaimed state championship after state championship, national rank on top of national rank. Bennett thought of the dim gymnasium at South Daley with the construction tears in the cinder block

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walls and a single, sagging school sign. He imagined his family in the plush dark-green stadium seating of the Holy Cross gymnasium. Ive never seen a school like this, Bennett confessed. Mr. Riley. Dr. Connor removed a file from his top drawer. Do you realize how many times you have appeared in the newspaper in the past two years? Bennett looked down immediately and shook his head. Dr. Connor perused the file. Freshman Breathes New Life into South Daley. South Daley Freshman Shooting Record Broken by 14-Year-Old. Riley Teaches Defense and Offense. Riley, Riley, Riley interviews, Athletes Journals This is nothing but hard work, and a feeling I get. All South Daley shooting records and foul shot percentages broken by the middle of sophomore season Bennett felt his ears grow hot. These were the clippings his mother tucked away for safekeeping or sent to his grandparents in Wisconsin. He read them, sure, but many high-school athletes were written up in the newspaper. No one at South Daley ever mentioned that Riley got more press attention than his teammates. Ill send Coach OConnell to the South DaleyLakeside game next Saturday, Dr. Connor concluded. Big rivalry, isnt it? Lakeside is something. Bennett agreed. Lakeside was something. After the game, assuming you play the way you have played thus far, Dr. Connor said, Coach OConnell will announce your recruitment. I myself feel confident enough to announce it to my students tomorrow morning. Then he uttered words that Bennett had longed to hear for two years: Welcome to Holy Cross Academy. Dr. Connor stood up and shook Bennetts hand. Bennett felt himself pulled from the crumbling walls and the dirty aluminum shelves of South Daley High School, felt himself far from the torn sneakers on cold concrete and the frozen fingers in gloves cut up so his bare fingertips could feel the worn-down bumps on his secondhand basketball. He could feel the cool, dark green Holy Cross uniform against his skin

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and the pride with which he would hold himself in the next mahoganyframed photograph in Dr. Connors office. As Bennett turned toward the door, Dr. Connor stopped him. Mr. Riley? Bennett paused, watched Dr. Connor close his file. Holy Cross Academy, the headmaster said, has never seen a boy like you.

Bennett Riley was golden tonight. Bennett Riley was flawless. Bennett Riley was doing exactly what he was supposed to do. The game began at 7:00 p.m., and Bennett was at the school gymnasium by 5:55 to warm up. At a comfortable pace, he ran three laps around the gym. Bennett sensed the flexors in the backs of his knees as he kicked up his sneakers; the rhythmic sway of his biceps as he pumped his arms, the smoother muscles underneath rising and falling; the steady alignment of vertebrae in his spine as he held himself upright; the neat expansion of his rib cage with each breath as the air filled his lungs. He could feel his blood delivering oxygen to each of his organs, invigorating them with incomparable strength. He felt damn good. Around him, in the comparatively small space between the walls and his own center of balance, the gymnasium bleachers were filling with fans. Bennett felt the presence of his family and looked over to see his mother, father, little brother, and younger sisters. He smiled at them from his warm-up position in the lower right corner of the court. Tonight seats had been reserved for teachers, school administrators, and local politicians. This was an important game. It was an important game for Bennett. He could have looked through the stands for the Holy Cross coach, a ruddy-faced man in a tight-collared suit. He could have focused so much on finding the coach that he would distract himself from his warmup. Or he could have shown off on purpose, tripping up the teammate who played at

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defending him, dribbling around his legs before passing the ball, making shots with one arm, or backward. But Bennett Riley didnt see the need for that. He warmed up as usual. Theyre frickin huge. One of Bennetts teammates stopped dribbling when the other team, Lakeside High School, walked in wearing matching red jumpsuits. Theyre built like linebackers, another boy moaned, missing a left-handed lay-up. The coach just took the whole football team, someone volunteered, and taught them to play basketball. I hear they play like assholes. Like, fouls all the time. Several of Bennetts teammates looked at the Lakeside players with poorly concealed anxiety. Bennett, however, dribbled back beyond the centerline and made an impossible shot that arced across three-quarters of the gym. He ran back in so quickly the ball bounced only once before it was comfortably in his hands again. Bennetts teammates didnt notice. They were worried about their own elaborate lay-ups, their own overblown free throws. They wiped their sweaty palms repeatedly on their shorts. South Daleys players were especially nervous when forced to give Lakeside full court. They stood on the sidelines, watching. Lakesides players averaged about six-foot-four, and none of them were slim. They lacked Bennett Rileys grace and the smooth, giving coordination of his team, but each one was a hurricane force in his own right. For Lakeside, basketball was not a team sport but a triumph of the will. All set, Riley? Bennetts coach asked him. Yes, sir. Now, they look big, but theyre uh theyre clumsy, I promise. The coach looked directly into Bennetts eyes. Coach had known Bennett since grammar school and seemed to have forgotten that now; though Bennett was only sixteen years old, he was a well-built, and well-trained, six-foot-three-inches. Bennett simply nodded.

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So er what Im saying is, you shouldnt be worried. No, sir. Well, Riley, if youre ready Why dont you go check on Orelle? Hes sick in the locker room. Orelle, South Daleys center, was six-foot-five, but even local newspapers reported him as six-foot-three, because he slumped impossibly. Orelles father had been a record-breaking Division II point guard, and when he had seen how tall his son was, hed hoped Orelle would play basketball, too. Today Orelles father had brought a scout from his college to watch Orelle, a junior, play a tough rival. Right now, Orelle looked nothing like the basketball player his father wanted him to be. As Bennett walked into the locker room, he saw Orelle clinging to the toilet. A towel hung around his neck, and Orelle wiped his mouth with it as he turned around. Hi, Bennett said. Hey, Orelle responded miserably. He swallowed and asked, Is it starting? Weve got a few, Bennett lied. Relax a minute. Thanks. Orelle shifted back onto the dirty locker room floor. He exhaled and then asked, Did you see my father? Yeah. With the guy? I dont know. Man, Im scared. I know. I just I need this. Next year at exactly this time Ill be deciding where to go to school. Ill be recruited hopefully. Everyone knows how much I need this game. I know, Bennett repeated. He needed this game, too, but he didnt feel like Orelle. I need to play this, continued Orelle. But I feel so weak, I cant even stand up. I feel completely inept.

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He looked miserable, his face colorless. Bennett wanted to reach out, touch Orelles shoulder, and reassure him. But Bennett Rileys hands felt strong, and he did not want to lose that. The worst you can do is mess up, Bennett explained slowly. And if you mess up, youre not messed up, basketball is messed up. This game of basketball is messed up, or that play, or that basket. Im sick, Orelle said. Youre scared, said Bennett. I am. But Im here. And youll still be in one piece at the end of it. Now he offered his hand to Orelle to pull him off the ground. By jogging, they were at the sidelines when the whistle blew. Coach shook each of his players hands. Then Bennett, in an unusual move, shook Orelles hand. I know were gonna win, Bennett whispered.

It was Bennett Rileys game. He owned it. He held it between two strong palms, twirled it with one flawless fingertip, as he did the basketball. Midway through the first quarter, every single person breathing in that gymnasium knew it was Bennett Rileys game. South Daley had well-constructed plays, which they had gone over in practice. The objective of those plays was to keep the Lakeside players running. The basis of those plays was for Bennetts team to be running. Running and passing. Passing and running. Swirling, faking shots, then passing, and running to receive passes. I dont want any shots for show, Coach explained. They will just be blocked. Do you understand? Running and passing. The team nodded in unison. They understood. They would wear those big bastards out. But the first time Bennett got the ball, he did not hesitate. Even though he was deep in the three-point area, at an awkward angle to the basket, and guarded by two heavy Lakeside players, he twisted

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around in a fluid motion and, facing sideways, made a hook shot without the ball touching either basket or rim. It was breathtaking. The players on the bench were stunned. Coach was surprised, but reminded him from the sideline, Bennett, keep it running. The second time Bennett got the ball, it was almost an accident. Orelle was holding it when a Lakeside player twice his width pushed up on him and gripped the basketball with both chubby palms. The big Lakeside player tried to yank the ball away. But Orelle cringed and, perhaps endowed with sudden strength, or perhaps just nauseous, pulled the ball in closer to his stomach. The Lakeside player, frustrated, let go of the ball. He spit in Orelles weak, frightened face. Orelle was so startled and upset, he let the basketball slip from his hands. But Bennett was, inexplicably, positioned in the exact place where it fell. The basketball dropped into Bennetts hands, and he dropped it, just as easily, into the basket. It was a less impressive basket than the first, though still a basket, and it was the second time Bennett had ignored the called play. Run them, Riley, Coach shouted. Stop shooting! Riley was running enough for his taste. This was his game. He ran the Lakeside players back to their side of the court, waited a courteous minute, then swiftly stole the ball back, dribbled across the midcourt line, and made another shot. The Lakeside players followed him, but by the time they shoved their shoulders forcibly into his body, the ball was already on its second rebound bounce. Riley! Coach said. Pass to Orelle! Pass to Berkeley! Pass to someone, Riley! I dont want to take you out! Coach repeated that halfhearted threat, I dont want to take you out! after Bennetts next three-pointer. But when Bennett made four more three-pointers, consecutively, Coach shut his mouth. For those four baskets, Coach paced silently, his index finger pressed against his pursed lips. For the next five, he stood, his arms limp at his sides, his clipboard abandoned on the table, his mouth half openamazed by Bennett Riley.

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Lakeside was still a skilled and powerful team. They made a substantial amount of basketsin fact, just two fewer than South Daley. It seemed that every time Bennett made a basket, Lakeside made a basket. They had no particular star. They were just too physically large for Bennett to counter. Orelle blocked three shots, but when fouled, he was too frightened and too injured to make the shots. Bennett tried creative ways of blocking, but the ball seemed heavier when shot by Lakeside. Each time he took the ball back, Bennett Riley felt good. Even after two three-pointers had pulled Lakeside to a tie, Bennett was completely in control. He wasnt tired. His lungs were full and expansive, his legs warm and muscular, his heart strong, the source of the rhythm and flow that characterized his movements. As long as Bennett Riley was in this game, he knew it wouldnt be lost. Keep an eye on that freakin kid! Lakesides coach yelled, and dense as they were, all his players knew he was talking about Riley. Lakesides coach worked new plays around Bennett Riley, scratching furiously on a yellow legal pad. Block him, dammit! The Lakeside coach sent two, three, at one point even four athletes to surround Bennett Riley. Bennett taught himself to bob and weave like a boxer. He still made every shot. South Daley was up by one point during the last time-out. Bennetts coach beckoned his team together. The game clock and the shot clock were equal. Bennetts team had the ball. You know that were ahead, right? Bennett kept his eyes on his coach. Everyone elses eyes were on Bennett. Berkeley was shifting excitedly from foot to foot. Orelle was noticeably flushed, nodding at everything Coach said. Everyone felt the energy of the thing, except Bennett, who didnt tremble at the palpable power in the air. It radiated from him. Dont worry about anything but holding it, Coach said. Then he repeated, Dont worry about anything but holding it.

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Everyone nodded except Bennett. Bennetts eyes were fixed on the basket. He didnt care about defense. He didnt care if it was superfluous. He didnt care that they had already won, that his scholarship had been secured in the first six minutes of the game. He wanted to make another shot. When they ran the court again, Berkeley had the ball. He dribbled it up cautiously, checked and double-checked, then passed to Orelle, who looked frightened. Facing two Lakeside players, Orelle dribbled back toward Berkeley, then pushed a chest pass to Bennett. Hold it! Coach reminded Bennett from the sidelines, at fifteen seconds. Bennett looked from side to side, then bounced the ball forward and drove to the basket. He sprinted as fast as he could, sneakers pushing against the floor, his speed almost reckless. Calm down, Riley! Coach yelled. Eight seconds on the clock. Oh, Bennett felt young. Lean and young and healthy and weightless. Oh, Bennett felt strong. Strong calves and the hard backs of his thighs and the sweat running in the crevices of his abdomen. Oh, Bennett felt good, the ball going the way he wanted, running faster than ever before. God, Im good, Bennett thought somewhere in his head, which was pounding, throbbing. No one has ever been as good as me. Four seconds left. Bennett Riley felt the eyes of his mother, his father, his brother, his sisters. He felt the eyes of his coach and the Holy Cross coach and the newspaper reporters and the eyes of the crowd. Everyone was so impressed with him. Why wouldnt they be? Who in the world was any better than Bennett Riley? Riley! Riley! Riley! chanted the crowd. Three seconds left. He wanted that shot for his mother, his father, for Holy Cross. He pushed off the ground toward the basket as if atop a mountain, with everything below him, the entire world his. Cmon, South! Go, Riley! And then it happened.

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The largest of the Lakeside players caught up to Bennett. With a face as red as his uniform, number Forty-four came hurtling into the key like a Mack truck. Furious, out of breath, he didnt even try for the ball. He rammed straight into Bennett Riley. They crashed in midair, their combined momentum causing an enormous crack! heard everywhere in the gym, even above the yelling, the announcer, the whistle blowing. Forty-four sent Bennett Riley hurtling through the air two feet. Then, still moving forward from the impact, Bennett hit the gym floor and skidded forward until he lay sprawled ten feet from where he started, beyond the basket. The crowd moaned in unison. It was clear from the way no one cared about the score that something very bad had happened. Forty-four had crashed into him so fast that Bennett hadnt had time to put down his hands or arms to protect himself. His face had been against the floor the whole way. His left leg lay twisted and mangled underneath his body. It felt separate from him. The impact was so unexpected, Bennett felt like a planet shoved out of orbit. His left leg was cut completely open, resting at an odd angle. Both his calf and his thigh were scraped and bruised. The side of his face was skinned. There was blood on the floor. Oh, Jesus, Coach breathed, asking someone to call 911 before rushing to Bennetts side. Oh, God. There was blood on the floor and gasps in the crowd, and the players were standing apart from Bennett, scared to go near him. Forty-four had fallen on his knee and was limping toward the wrong sideline, red-faced and disheveled. There was blood on the floor and fear in the air, but all Bennett Riley knew was pain. Nothing can hurt this much, Bennett told himself. Nothing that hurts this much can be real. But even if the pain was a dream, it was his dream he had to live through, and he lay there with a vague notion that he was really, seriously injured; that his mother must be frightened; that there was

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warm, sticky blood around him; and that it was possible he would never play basketball again. The Lakeside coach stayed to talk to the officials and then went to accompany Bennetts coach to the emergency room. He sent his players home, in their red jumpsuits, with their parents. They had lost the game. And South Daley had won the game, and lost the beating heart and blood flow of their team when they lost Bennett Riley.

It was a messy injury. Everyone saw how messy it was when Bennett Riley was lifted onto a stretcher and taken in an ambulance to the South Side Hospital. He was taken to the emergency room and prepped for surgery. Bennetts mother rode in the ambulance, and Bennetts father drove with Bennetts three siblings. He arrived just after Bennett was given anesthesia, and Bennett was awake just long enough to hear this: Theres no risk in the surgery? He operates on athletes, and on children, all the time. Your son will be fine. From his mother: Hell be fine, Jack. From his brother: Dad, can Bennett still play basketball? A silence from both parents, the nurse, and the doctor. From his father (and Bennett could hear him swallow, could hear the sandpaper sound of his hand rubbing anxiously against his unshaven chin): I dont know yet. Bennett Riley, once beloved, young, and powerful, lay with his eyes closed. He heard that I dont know, that grave tone of voice. He knew that, if he hadnt been so sleepy, he would have cried.

It was a messy, crooked hacking of his leg. The bone had penetrated the skin like a jagged piece of glass. The line of his scar ran diagonally to the left.

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You probably slid along the gym floor with your knee at an angle so your thigh and your calf were scraped, too, the surgeon guessed. That would explain the bruise and the broken blood vessels on the underside of his knee. Bennett didnt notice them until he tried to stand for the first time after surgery and felt a throbbing pain there and in his calf, as well as in his knee. Your calf muscle was torn, too, the surgeon informed him. Although the skin on his calf was not broken, it was heavily bruised. Plus, the side of Bennetts face was raw from where it had scraped against the floor. These two factors made Bennett realize even more how destroyed he was. The first two days were a blur of medication-induced sleep and vague, forgettable visits, mostly from his family. Coach came in Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, twice bringing teammates, always telling Bennett practice was not the same without him. Bennett didnt want to hear about it. He knew they had a game on Monday. By Monday, Bennett, who had daily stood patiently at the foul shot line through three or four hundred free throws to get the angle of his wrist and the backspin he put on the ball right, was fidgeting. The nurse allowed him to take a wheelchair and explore the first floor of the South Side Hospital. Bennett had hoped to find a lounge equipped with cable television where he could watch the Chicago Bulls game on ESPN. Instead he found, at the end of the hall, a small room with cushioned couches and in one corner an upright piano. Bennett wheeled himself over and, with difficulty, slid onto the piano bench. He let his wheelchair collapse behind him. Moving in any way hurt Bennetts leg. Now, in pain and frustration, he slammed his fingers down on the piano. Though they sounded discordant, the notes he played were actually the beginning of something. A fierce piece, in a minor key, from a ballet, or something Bennett didnt remember the name of the piece, but his fingers knew how far up and down the keyboard to range, and they crept skillfully onto the small black sharp keys. He mastered the echoing bass of the

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left hand, but when it came to one upper-octave run, his right hand gave out. Dum, dum, da-da-da Bennett completed the entire slur except for one note, which sounded off. Dum, dum, da-da No, that isnt it. He tried shifting the whole run up a half step. Dum, dum, da No, no, no Bennett shifted it down a whole step. Even worse. Now he found himself forgetting the order of the notes. His ring finger began to ache from when he had broken it at freshman basketball tryouts. Then his left hand lost rhythm. Was his body completely what was that word Orelle had used? Inept? When the run didnt work again, Bennett Riley yelled out, Dammit! Then he heard the door open behind him and turned around, startled. Its a C sharp, the girl said. What? he asked. The girl was about his age, he supposed. She was substantially shorter than he was, but then again, most girls were. She had dark red hair and golden, brushed-looking skin. Bennett thought he had never in his life seen anyone who looked so clean. Its a C sharp. In the run. Thats a very difficult key to play Verdi in. I have no idea why you would choose it, she challenged him lightly, slipping into the room. How Was this girl a patient, too? For a wild moment he thought that everyone at the hospital was injured the way he was injured and he glanced down to see if her leg was in a cast. It wasnt. Then again, his own cast was covered by his warm-up pants. How do you know this song? Bennett finished.

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Its Verdi, the girl said simply. As she moved closer to Bennett, the air smelled sweet. Resting her palms on the couch closest to the piano, she leaned toward him. Verdi and I, she almost whispered, are very close. It took a full thirty seconds for a smile to curl up one side of Bennetts mouth. Then he said, Is this a sexual relationship? The girl drew back and crossed her arms over her chest as if offended, but Bennett knew she wasnt. Great geniuses often need no sexual inspiration whatsoever, she informed him haughtily. Look at Isaac Newton. He was entirely celibate. Maybe, Bennett suggested carefully, that was the fault of gravity. She thought about the remark before she smiled. Bennett was reminded of himself, calculating angles, adjusting his grip, and then just shooting the damn ball the way it felt right. She smiled widely once she decided to smile. Are you sick? she asked abruptly. Are you dying? Bennett was appalled by the question. He had never been sick in his life. Um, Bennett was still looking at her when he said, no. But he turned to face the piano after she said, Then you shouldnt be in the hospital. Bennett let his thumb strike middle C. The thought of explaining his injury, his surgery, and his uncertain future fatigued and embarrassed him. So he said, I just messed up my leg in a basketball game. She asked almost severely, So youre going to be O.K.? Bennett Riley thought of the world he had lost and swallowed hard. Yes. When he turned around to look at her, she was biting her lip. Bennett waited for her to say something. He hated to be the one to say something. Then he echoed her question, for simplicitys sake.

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Are you sick? No, she said. My father works here. Then, standing very straight, she announced, Im Isabella Rossing. Im Bennett Riley. They looked at each other for a full minute and a half, Isabella dark and shining, like wood, Bennett fluid, all the color of honeyskin and light brown hair and honeyed brown eyes. Then Isabella turned to leave. There was a time when Bennett would have risen and followed this girl out of the room, held the door open for her, leaned against the doorway to fill it with his well-proportioned body. There was a time when Bennett would have stood as she left the room, even just as a measure of politeness. Actually, this politeness was so drilled into him that he half stood to see her out. Breathlessly thanking God that her back was turned, he lowered himself to the piano bench just as quickly. What an idiot. He couldnt even stand. Before she opened the door with an easy movement of her body, a dancers movement, Isabella twisted her lower back so all he saw were her bright eyes and that dark hair. He wondered why she gave him that glowing smile. He wondered why she let her eyes linger. Then he remembered. She didnt realize he was broken.

Bennett saw Isabella twice over the next two days. Both times, she was in the shadow of an older man in a dark gray suit. Bennett, who had assumed Isabellas father was a doctor, was confused. On Friday afternoon, he asked one of the nurses, Who is that? Ah. The nurse smiled. Henry Rossing. Who? Henry Rossing founded this hospital, she explained. The building used to be the Chicago Victorian Museum. Mr. Rossings wife was

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a great supporter of the arts. She loved the museum, but it was seriously damaged by fire after she died, about fifteen years ago. Bennett winced. So Mr. Rossing took the destroyed building and turned it into something useful. A hospital for the South Side. Is he a doctor? Oh no, the nurse said quickly. A philanthropist. He paid for the whole thing. How did he pay for an entire hospital? He sold his investment firm. He started it when he was only in his twenties. It auctioned off for millions. Bennett, taken aback, asked, Was he rich to start with? Not very. Hes a very talented businessman. And thats his daughter? Bennett asked with care. Yes. The nurse smiled fondly. Shes studying opera. She goes to a Catholic institution for it, a beautiful school on the North Side. Whats the name of it? Bennett answered for her. Holy Cross Academy.

The next time Bennett saw Isabella Rossing, she was out of her fathers shadow. I didnt wake you, did I? she asked, after knocking on his door and entering his hospital room. Bennett shook his head. He had been reading the Arts section of the Sun-Times with his Chicago Bulls cap on backward. O.K., I have some questions for you, Isabella said. Bennett raised his eyebrows so high his cap slipped back. He adjusted it and said, Shoot. How long have you played the piano? Isabella asked. What? Bennett asked, then patted the blankets on his bed. Do you want to sit down um Isabella? Oh, Isabella said, I guess so.

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She sat down and then jumped up and looked behind her to make sure she hadnt jostled his knee. That meant she had some clue how hurt he was. Damn. Bennett felt like telling her, Dont worry about it! O.K. Isabella resumed her businesslike posture. Piano. How long? Um, ten years. Her eyes widened. Ten years? You were six when you started? So she knew how old he was. Like four, I guess. But I havent played much since high school, so, yeah I dont know, ten, eleven years. You could play the piano when you were four? Bennett nodded. But you couldnt read music. I could read music, he said. How could you read music before you could read? I just got the feel of it, I guess. Bennett shrugged. And where did you study? Isabella asked. Bennett gave the name of his music school, which was in his neighborhood, not a particularly good neighborhood, but a good music school. Classical music? Jazz music? Popular music? Classical, some jazz, Bennett replied. Isabella stood and faced him. Well, then, I have a proposition for you, she said. Bennett had a sudden desire to see Isabella in his torn-up Bulls hat. My father, Isabella explained carefully, puts money into things. He gave money to this hospital. And he gives awell, a lotof money to my school. Holy Cross. Where I go. Where you Would have been, Bennett finished quietly, looking away from her. Of course she knew about it. Dr. Connor had announced it to the student body. Also, perhaps, Isabella had heard of his many tours and meetings at Holy Cross.

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And so, Isabella brushed past Bennetts discomfort, if you still wanted to go to Holy Cross, as a music student my father would sponsor you. Bennett was startled. His image of Holy Cross had been centered on that gymnasium, strewn in basketball championship banners. Until, Isabella said, and dragged her eyes up to meet his, you could play basketball again. If I could play basketball again, Bennett spat. He was suddenly angry that Isabellas father had such power at Holy Cross. No wonder she had gotten in. Until, Isabella said firmly. Then he realized that she had some power of her own. At least over him. So it would be charity, Bennett remarked dully. Its an investment, Isabella said carefully. You could think of it that way. Because your dad thinks of it that way? Bennett could see busy Mr. Rossing crossing off Bennett Riley as another on his long list of causes, just another hand reaching out for the overflow from his Armani suit pockets. Her head tilted sideways. Because I think of it that way. You investing your future. Isabella reached out. Bennett felt her remove the Chicago Bulls hat from his head. You, investing you As she spoke, she placed Bennetts hat backward over her own long hair. In me.

Bennett had trouble getting up the steps of the El now. Before, he had always jumped up to the railroad platform two, three steps at a time. Now, leaning forward on his crutches to balance out the weight of his heavy backpack, Bennett found the staircase daunting.

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Perhaps you should go up the ramp, dear, a woman suggested, patting Bennetts shoulder. He had trouble getting on the train, too. He had to adjust his right crutch under his winter coat, holding the train door open with his left crutch. He still had trouble keeping weight off his left leg. His underarms were sore from where his coat chafed against his crutches, and most of all, he hated people looking at him. Although it was difficult to slide over, Bennett took the window seat so he wouldnt have to talk to anybody the three stops before Isabella got on the train. He watched the window until he saw her with a heavy coat over her short-skirted uniform, her collar up against the cold. Her cheeks were unusually bright as she slid into the seat next to him. Im getting used to you in the uniform, she said, smiling. Im getting used to it, too, Bennett lied. Keeping his gray trousers creased as he tugged them over his thick cast was nearly impossible. Knotting his tie required such balance he had to sit on his bed every morning to do it. So hows it going? Bennett raised his eyebrow at her. School, she clarified. Your first full week. Oh. Fine, Bennett replied. It seemed that everything had happened so quickly since he left the hospital and returned to the noisy, crowded Riley apartment. His parents had had a meeting with Mr. Rossing, and Bennett himself had had a meeting with Mr. Rossing. He had also visited Dr. Connor again, who smiled sadly at Bennett and issued him a Holy Cross uniform. Perhaps not the uniform you thought of wearing, Dr. Connor had said as Bennett left, but hopefully, in time Piano? Isabella interrupted his thoughts. Fine, Bennett repeated. He tilted his neck back against the seat. His whole spine ached from sitting so straight in the piano classes that constituted two hours of his nine-hour Holy Cross school day. Far behind the other students in technique, Bennett was given two private

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instructors who insisted he begin by improving his form. Daily, Bennett was physically uncomfortable, his back arched upward, his wrists perfectly still, only his fingers permitted to move. And all his fingers did was run scales. C major to C minor, scales, scales, scales. After an hour of this repetition, Bennett would become bored, involuntarily allowing his wrists to slack against the keyboard. Then one instructor bound his wrists with duct tape to keep them from flexing, while another tapped out an incessant rhythm with his pencil. Its not too hard? Isabella probed. No, Bennett reassured her quickly. Its fine. I know the teachers can be strict Theyre fine, Bennett cut her off. They probably were, too. It was just that Bennett was so behind. Every Holy Cross class was hard for him, musical or academic. The other students seemed so far advanced, so polished. And it hurt him every time he saw the basketball players, excused from class early, jog briskly across the frozen quad to the gymnasium in matching warm-up suits. That was who he was supposed to be at Holy Cross. Its not the easiest place, Isabella continued, especially if youre used to feeling like the best at what you do. Who said I felt that way? Bennett asked very quickly, startled. I, just thought you must have, Isabella explained with a quiet glow in her eyes. You were always in the newspaper. And when our school got you, God, you should have seen the fuss they made. There was an announcement before morning prayer. It was like, you and God. And now Bennett finished bitterly for her. Now Im the worst at what I do. No! Bennett Its my penance. He fixed his eyes firmly on the seat ahead of him. For what? She was astonished. You got hurt. I got punished. You didnt do anything!

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I was too full of myself. You werent! You never were! You didnt know it. No one knew it. Bennett turned to Isabella. No one knew I was thinking it, but that last game, that I never felt like I felt before that game. The Holy Cross thing, and everything, and I was always confident when I played basketball, but I was never cocky. Not until that last minute. Bennett! Isabella looked frightened. Bennett, youll play basketball again. You will. You arent punished. This is just another way things are supposed to happen. Maybe, she breathed deeply, there are other reasons you got hurt. The train whistled to a stop near the iron gates of Holy Cross and several other North Side schools, including, unfortunately for Bennett, Lakeside High School. You know, Bennett remarked, you dont have to take the El to school just for me. I mean, you used to walk. Its only a few blocks. If you like walking, its Her eyes were serious. Not that I mean, I like having you here, he finished lamely. I like riding with you. Isabella tucked her music books in the crook of her arm. Even if its just for one stop.

Bennett felt like the quietest student at Holy Cross Academy. He got the occasional friendly complaint from a fellow male classmate bored in Calculus I. He got nods and occasionally a giggle from one or more of Holy Crosss good-looking girls, but he felt overly conspicuous on crutches and tried to ignore that kind of attention. Bennett spent his spare time in the library with his head tucked over his textbooks, trying to catch up with his better-educated classmates and avoiding the cliques that made him feel uncomfortable: the math and science lab kids, the hard-core musicians, and especially the athletes. During study hall, in between classes, at lunchtime, Bennett was alone. Except when Isabella was thereas she was today, in his music practice room.

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Its 4:15, she informed him. You should have been gone a halfhour ago! Im really getting this Chopin piece, Bennett explained. I might be able to play it in the February exposition, they said. Very nice! Isabella let her soft hands glide over the curves of Bennetts practice piano. And, Ms. Rossing, why are you here so late? Opera isnt over, she said, until the fat lady sings. Well, that isnt you. Bennett smiled and put his hand on Isabellas waist, slid it down to the back of her hip so the tips of his fingers almost touched her spine. Isabella projected a satirically high note. Then she hit a more realistic one from her latest Wagner. It feels good, when you do it right, she said happily, moving Bennetts hand from the side of her waist to flat against the front of her abdomen. Bennett slid his hand down to the piano bench and slid over. Sit, he said. Isabella asked with wide eyes, Are you my accompanist now? Will you play anything I say? Oh, anything, he assured her with mock intensity, leaning his face close to hers. Will you do anything I say? she asked innocently, tilting her head up at his. Im not that kind of boy, Bennett answered. Isabella laughed out loud. She even threw her head back. Do you play anything? he asked. Dont you think I would be a good piano player? Businesslike, Isabella rolled up the sleeves of her dress shirt and arranged her fingers. The chord sounded horrible. Bennett laughed this time. All right, all right, I dont know how to play, Isabella admitted. Uh-oh, perfect little Isabella Rossing cant even hit a simple C chord? Bennett teased. Dont tell Daddy.

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Oh, Daddy knows, Isabella said. Our housekeeper and everyone knew. I hated the piano. Everyone knew after I set my hair on fire. Bennett stared blankly at her. In protest, Isabella clarified. I didnt want to play the piano. So I set my hair on fire. She put her mouth close to Bennetts ear: I was a very rebellious child. Bennett felt her breath hot on his neck. But I do remember one song! Isabella said. She began to play, choppily and with the occasional wrong note, a recognizable Billy Joel. What are you, a rip-off wedding singer? Bennett asked. Just the Way You Are. That song was so cheesy. So karaoke. So unlike Isabella. Bennett liked to see this side of her. She urged him to sing along. Bennett, whose mother listened to Billy Joel tapes when she mopped the kitchen floor, gave in grudgingly, rolling his eyes. Although although Oh my gosh, I forgot the words! Isabella made a pretend shocked face and clapped her hands on either side of her open mouth. Bennett spared her the trouble of remembering because he put his hands over hers and kissed her.

Three weeks later, Bennett was riding the same northbound train. Now it was almost dark at 5:00 p.m., and Bennett was still uncomfortable in his uniform. His instructor had told him, Many of our newer students come for extra lessons, in the afternoon or at night. Bennett doubted it. Even if Isabella had stayed late for an extra session today, he still doubted it. Bennett bet the reason he was coming for an extra lesson was that he sucked. Sucked, sucked, and sucked. He would probably mess up this scholarship, too. No, that wasnt right, Bennett admonished himself as the train jerked forward. He didnt suck. Even the harshest Holy Cross

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instructors believed he had talent. He was just so claustrophobic! Inside those music chambers, the echo was controlled, and Bennett was controlled. With the stiff bench beneath him, the metronome beside his ear, and the impossible intricacies of his new piece, Bennett had felt so frustrated today he could have screamed. Instead, he had excused himself to his instructor and taken a walk. The heels of his dress shoes startled him by tapping sternly against the marble back hallways of the music wing. He softened them when he heard Isabella singing. Beautiful posture, Isabella, her instructor was telling her. Good control, pull in, pull in the sternum, use your breath. Bennett watched from the thick, dark-green side curtains. On stage, Isabellas posture was controlled and her gestures were rehearsed, but the look in her eyes and the coquettish tilt of her head were very much her own. So that was what she did. Let herself run wild within her boundaries. Bennett had returned to his music chamber and played the Chopin piece, albeit slower than tempo, with focus and feeling. You see? His instructor looked grateful. Just a little bit of extra work, Bennett, and you can play like that all the time. Now Bennett, looking out the window, wondered if it was worth it. What would he do now? He couldnt play the piano forever. Though a cautious dreamer, Bennett had always had in the back of his head that he would play college basketball. For Duke. Or for Notre Dame. As they neared his stop, Bennett stood up and faced forward, stretching his right leg, which had been bearing much of his weight. He stretched his neck, too, rolling it back and then to the left, and when he looked up It was the Lakeside player. Number Forty-four. A thick-faced boy no older than Bennett with a head of shaved blond hair. The player who had destroyed Bennett with a single, heartless shove. Bennett had often seen basketball players from other teams back when he had been part of that world. But now? He hadnt expected to see any of them, even his own South Daley teammates. Not tonight.

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Not after a day of restriction and failure. Not while wearing gray slacks. Jesus Christ. Forty-four, wearing headphones, was completely unaware of Bennetts presence. Bennett could feel his face grow hot. He wanted to leave the crowded train as soon as possible, but he was forced to watch Forty-four leave the train ahead of him. Every step was easy, for Fortyfour. Bennett was surprised at his anger as Forty-four walked calmly off the train, minding his own business. What a big, dumb piece of shit. And he was the dumb piece of shit that was still walking, and playing basketball, and possibly taking Bennetts place at Duke or Notre Dame. Bennett found himself hurrying off the train on to the platform. Ahead of him, Forty-four looked around as if he didnt know where he was, although he probably took the same damn train every day. Just then Bennett saw a glimpse of bright red. Forty-four was still wearing his basketball uniform. The injustice of it! Bennett felt his veins flood with hot, pounding fury; found himself launching his body forward, hurried even by the pain in his leg. Bennett Riley, who was supposed to be learning to control every motion of his body, didnt even know what he was going to do until he did it. Bennett! Bennett! Bennett was on top of Forty-four, tackling him half to the ground by pushing on his neck and shoulders. People were all around them shouting, and Bennetts crutches were all around him, and his music books were all around him, too. Bennett was straddling Forty-fours back, slamming his shoulders and his head toward the ground, though they didnt quite reach, because Forty-four was strong and much larger than Bennett and he resisted with the upward force of his body. Finally, digging his knees into the boys spinal cord, Bennett managed to slam Forty-fours right shoulder against the ground at an angle so sharp that it crunched, shatteredthe sound Bennett wanted to hear.

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Bennett! God, Bennett! Bennett didnt realize it was Isabella until she was at the top step against the platform, her hair streaming over her coat, her face horrified. By that time, Forty-four had managed to shove Bennett off with his back and left shoulder. Isabella ran to his side. Bennett, Bennett, what did you do? Oh, God, Bennett! When she saw Bennett was not injured, she screamed, What the hell did you think you were doing? Then she stood up, turned, and ran back down the platform stairs. Bennett felt his cheekbone, and what he had thought was blood turned out to be Isabellas tears.

Bennetts actions were of the type that required many talks afterwards. Bennetts parents were disappointed, but mainly confused: A fight, Bennett! Youve never been in a fight. His mother shook her head sadly. Thankfully she was unaware that it hadnt been a fight, really, but rather a one-sided, vicious attack. By Bennett. The next talk was with Henry Rossing at his office building a few blocks from Holy Cross. In Mr. Rossings plush office, addressed by one of his three secretaries, Bennett was overwhelmed by how much power Mr. Rossings wealth gave him. How random that Mr. Rossing should change the course of Bennetts life. How arbitrary his money seemed, suddenly. A very small percentage of hardworking men earned money the way Henry Rossing earned money. Then again, you could say that a very small percentage of hardworking athletes shot baskets the way Bennett Riley had once shot baskets. Mr. Riley. Henry Rossing opened his door. As he went in, Bennett corrected him, Bennett now. As much as he disliked Mr. Rossing in this moment, Bennett couldnt help but like his office, which was more comfortable than Dr.

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Connors. There were pictures of Isabella as a child, one of them with her head thrown back, laughing hysterically at something. Bennett, Mr. Rossing commanded his attention. This meeting is, quite evidently, to discuss your scholarship and the continuance of your education at Holy Cross, in light of what happened on Friday. Bennett nodded. Holy Cross is completely intolerant of violence. Any act of violence, be it on or off our school grounds, is unacceptable for an Academy student. Mr. Rossing had both of his forearms on his desk. Bennett nodded. And you must understand, Mr.Bennettthat you were in a precarious position to begin with. You are a fine musician, Bennett. You really are. But you were not accepted as a Holy Cross musician in the first place. Bennett wondered if he meant what he said. It was so difficult, nowhe felt so lostthat he didnt even know if he had real talent or not. I made it my personal mission, Bennett, to take a basketball player and turn him into a musician. Disciplined, creative, passionate, artistic Mr. Rossing almost smiled, but sadly. Well, youre certainly passionate. So youre doing to me what you did to the hospital? Henry Rossing started. He had barely heard the sixteen-year-old boys voice before. Although young, Bennett was tall, well-built, and closer to his only daughter than any boy had been before. The teenager was, thus, a little intimidating. Excuse me? Bennett looked down at his hands, stretching his fingers as far apart from each other as possible. You know Im destroyed, Bennett explained softly, and youre making me into something useful again. He glanced up to see Henry Rossing lean back in his chair and study him. Then Mr. Rossing folded his glasses and said, If it were up to my daughter

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That caught Bennetts attention. You would lose my sponsorship. Bennett couldnt meet Mr. Rossings eyes. If it were up to the Board of Education, you would be expelled from Holy Cross. Expelled. Bennett pictured the iron gates padlocked and frosted over. But it is up to the foundation, Henry Rossing said. And while you are not expelled from Holy Cross, you are no longer eligible for a scholarship. Bennett stopped stretching his hand. It was of no use anymore. No more piano lessons. No more train rides with Isabella. Back to the South Side and the crumbling whitewashed charity walls; only this time, he would not have basketball. They stood up, shook hands like businessmen. Then Bennett cleared his throat, and before he turned to leave, he spoke. I uh know that its my fault, Bennett said quietly. But I dont want you thinking to think, that Im not grateful. Because I am. Really.

Bennett had his Isabella talk ten days later at Cavanaugh Park, six blocks from South Daley High School. The park was frozen, and he met Isabella under a tree that had lost most of its branches in the last snowstorm. Why did you call me? Isabella asked. Her hands were deep in her coat pockets. As soon as they met, she began walking, and he had to keep up with her on his crutches. I have to talk to you. Bennett could see his breath as he spoke. You talked to my father, Isabella said. You lost your scholarship. You cant go to Holy Cross anymore. Bennett, behind her, rolled his eyes. I know that, Isabella. She whipped around. And so do I. So can I go now?

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I want you to understand, Bennett blurted out. I dont know how to make you understand. Why didnt you just tell me you were unhappy? I wasnt unhappy! You were beyond unhappy. You were angry, Bennett. Do you know who that was? The kid who pushed you. In the game, Isabella answered softly. So how could I not be pissed at him? Isabella stood still now, and Bennett was glad to stop walking as she said, So be pissed. Dont break his shoulder. God, Bennett, you really hurt him! I hurt him! Bennett yelled in disbelief, gesturing to his left leg. I wish I had hurt him. You have no idea. Look at what he did to me! Because hes no better than that! Isabella cried. But youre better than that! You dont hit people, and you dont talk to me like that. Because youre rich? Bennett spat. Because Im your charity case? Well, I guess that means I can speak to you any way I want now. Look what youve done to yourself! Isabella focused her eyes on Bennetts. No, he did this, Bennett protested childishly. He didnt make you an asshole, Isabella said. He took away who I was. You played basketball. You were a million different things. Bullshit, Isabella. You liked me because I was a basketball player. Isabella was incredulous. I didnt even know you when you were a basketball player! You told me they talked about me at Holy Cross. Your fathers friends collected newspaper articles about me. Theres no way you hadnt heard of me, or seen me. Although she was a good seven inches shorter than Bennett, Isabella held her ground as she hissed, You told me that maybe you were being punished because you were arrogant. Now I completely agree.

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Well, its good you wont have to see me again, then, Bennett said, his face flushed. His cloudy breath replaced Isabellas in the air between them and, pissed as he was, he still felt the magnetic compulsion to lean closer to her. Isabella backed up. You returned your Holy Cross uniform? Yes. Isabella pulled herself even farther away. Perhaps she didnt feel the same physical draw to him. Then it is done, she said slowly. They stood, both breathing heavily, and Bennett squinted into the cold wind until Isabella spoke again. But you should know that, even now, when I think of you Bennett thought she would say something disparaging. He waited for it, flushed. But, instead, she said, Even now when I think of you, its me, looking back at you in the hospital. And youre trying to get up to see me out, but youre in so much pain that you cant even stand.

The next three weeks made February the coldest in Chicagos recent memory. Bennett woke up shivering, with chapped hands, and his routine of waking, school, study, home, and evenings reading to his sisters was unchanged. His brother came in to listen when he stopped shooting baskets. Bennett tried to block out the sound of the ball against the pavement. The rhythm of Bennetts life changed only once. He missed two days at South Daley to have x-rays taken and learn to walk without crutches. Bennett thought he would feel lighter when he got off crutches. But he didnt; he felt heavy. He had felt heavy since he yelled at Isabella. He led a heavy, dull life, spending hours in the library after school, doing the work he had missed during his hospital stay and his month and a half at Holy Cross. One day, bored with European History, Bennett stood up to peruse the library shelves around him. In the sports section, on the third shelf, he found a book he had taken out seven times in two years.

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Records in College Basketball. Bennett knew these page layouts by heart. He had memorized several important statistics. He began flipping through his favorite section, the blurbs about each college. Connecticut, Duke, Georgetown, Gonzaga, Notre Dame Then he shut the book quickly. That sense of lost possibilities made him sick inside.

The next afternoon, Bennett decided to eliminate all distractions and really concentrate on his work. He surrounded himself with a circle of textbooks. He was so intent that he didnt realize that Dr. Michael Connor of Holy Cross was standing two feet in front of him. Mr. Riley. Bennett felt he couldnt have been more surprised if the pope himself had walked into the South Daley High School library. He stood up out of politeness, although it took a minute. Mr. Rileysit down. Dr. Connor gestured to him, taking a seat himself. I asked a few of the teachers, and one of them said you might be studying in here. Suddenly Bennett was anxious, more anxious than he had been in his Holy Cross interview. He went over all of it in his head: his mother had returned his Holy Cross uniform; his father had shipped his textbooks back to the bookstore. Was he still in trouble? Even though he had left Holy Cross, it was possible that his act of what Henry Rossing had called inexcusable violence held further consequences. Was Dr. Connor here to punish him? Bennett couldnt be sure for another whole minute, because Dr. Connor spoke slowly. I came here to tell you, personally, that we would like you to be a Holy Cross student again. Bennett didnt even look up. I lost my scholarship.

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Dr. Connor ignored that. In his elegance, in the crumbling library, he continued, Further, we would like you to be a Holy Cross athlete againor for the first time, as it is. Bennett still didnt look up. I dont play basketball anymore. Dr. Connor rose. He dropped a Manila envelope on the table and said, Youll start observing practices for the play-offs next week. Bennett didnt realize what he was hearing. He was confused. Dr. Connor said, You wont be able to start training until October. And youll sit out the first three games of next season as behavioral suspension. Next season? If you transgress the Academys violence policy again, you will be expelled. Sign the fourth page and report to my office on Tuesday. Bennetts fingers trembled as he drew a stack of pages from the envelope. The first four pages were the extensive Holy Cross athletes contract and release of liabilities. These were the papers Bennett had never had the chance to sign. The last three were x-rays of Bennetts knee, with a doctors signature at the bottom of each page. Its going to be O.K. Thank you, Bennett murmured. Oh, God, thank you. Youre a complete man now, Riley, Dr. Connor said jovially. Riley knew now he was his own man. But that didnt make him, even in this overwhelmingly thankful moment, a completely complete man.

On Thursday night, Bennett Riley snuck quietly into Holy Cross Academys February musical exposition. The auditorium was dark and hushed, a space entirely closed in dark green curtains, but Bennett could see that there were no seats left. So he treaded softly down the left aisle and stood, on his bad leg, for two full hours, in the corner by the stage. Bennett hoped he wasnt too conspicuous. He looked bulky, especially in comparison with the Holy Cross audience. Wealthy people

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were narrow, Bennett had observedin their thin, pinstriped suits, with small, wire-rimmed glasses. Bennett felt heavy with his new-issue green basketball uniform beneath his white shirt and gray slacks, but he wanted to keep that Holy Cross nylon right against his skin. And now, with a piece from Richard Wagners opera Die Feen, the music headmaster announced on stage. He wore a tuxedo, and his face was bright with sweat. A talented young woman, who makes us very proud In a white lace dress, Isabella did not look nervous. As the music swelled, she controlled her breath and pitched notes that soared to the ceiling of the Holy Cross concert hall and then fell softly, like magic dust, on the audience. Bennett, even out of place in a cheap shirt, his basketball uniform, and the sneakers that looked awkward under his slacks, was enchanted. He felt, strangely enough, the way he had felt looking at the College Records book. He knew that there were possibilities here, even in a song sung in a language he didnt understand. That there were so many things he didnt want to lose.

As soon as the concert ended, Bennett hurried in the dark across the schoolyard to the gymnasium. By unbuttoning his shirt and removing his pants in the lobby, Bennett was five minutes early to practice. The Holy Cross gymnasium was vivid and real, the green banners around him seeming to pulsate, even with the seats empty. Bennetts new coach and team members, several of whom Bennett had met while he was being recruited, shook his hand and reintroduced themselves. They all asked about his leg. They were understanding. But Bennett wasnt pleased to sit on the bench, excluded from even the most routine drills, even the lightest stretching. Here, Riley, you can do this His coach would start to pull him off the bench, then realize that the drill or practice game required too much running, jumping, or simple standing. He didnt want to take a chance fitting Bennett in.

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So Bennett waited, awkwardly, on the side. He didnt get to do anything until all the other players had headed toward the locker room and water fountain. Bennett, Coach finally addressed him. Im going to leave you one of these large containers of basketballs. I want you to stay in one spot and work on shooting. But dont get rebounds. Dont move from this spot. Bennett nodded, eager to get his hands on a basketball. He hadnt even touched one since his accident. Im going to leave you in the gym, is that O.K.? Just get the hang of it again, no pressure, Coach said. Bennett nodded again. But, as he chose a comfortable spot in back and to the left of the free throw line, he was sorry the coach would not be there to see him shoot. Shooting was Bennett Rileys gift. Only ten minutes later, Bennett was thanking God that the Holy Cross coach had left and didnt have to see this. Shooting had been Bennett Rileys gift. The motion of his body had been so accustomed, so fluid, that Bennett had never realized all the details that went into it. Such as, for example, the fact that his long-range shots came entirely from the power of his legs. Now, in order to make baskets while standing still, it was imperative that Bennett have absolutely flawless technique. It just happens. I just hope it keeps on happening, Bennett had once told a reporter about his record-breaking shooting ability. Now Bennett wished, as the frustrated reporter had, that he had been more specific. Like a beginner, he had a hundred questions to ask. How far did he used to let the ball roll back against his wrist while getting ready to release? What angle was his elbow supposed to be at? He felt as uncomfortable as he had when his wrists were bound at the Holy Cross piano. How did they expect his body to remember everything at once? He didnt shoot very well. Maybe 50 percent. As a left-handed shooter, Bennett had kept more than half of his weight on his left knee. Now, just standing required him to counterbalance using his

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right leg. Both his knees ached, his left calf muscle was sore, and he grew fatigued more easily than he had in the past. He had missed his third shot in a row when the door opened. Hoping it wasnt the coach, Bennett turned and ended up facing Isabella. She stepped onto the court delicately, as if her heeled shoes would make prints on the gym floor. She didnt realize how strong a basketball court was. Even if you tried to scuff this floor, Bennett wanted to tell her, you couldnt. Bennett remembered having the opposite reaction to the music chamber on his first day at Holy Cross. He had shoved the door open with his crutch and hurried into the room, then stopped guiltily when he realized he had accidentally knocked the door into a music stand. His steps had echoed in the room and made even the wooden boards on the walls reverberate. Now Bennett stood, stirred by the sight of Isabella all dressed up, on his basketball court. Closer to him, she said softly, You came to my concert. She was still wearing the lace dress. You heard me sing my Wagner, she continued. Bennett turned around and shot the ball, wishing desperately to make it. Yup, he said. He didnt make it. Isabella ran up the court, her shoes making little tapping sounds, and turned around under the basket so she caught the ball on its second bounce. Dont you need a rebound person? she asked, almost desperately. Nope. This ball banked and went in. No? No rebounds yet. He held the next ball in his hands, then dribbled it in front of him. Im sick, remember? Isabella raised her eyebrows and nodded.

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Im an asshole, remember? I wouldnt say that. You did say that. I wouldnt say it again. She bounced one of the balls that had been lying beside her on the floor. You came to my concert! I did. How did you know when it was? Bennett almost laughed, sardonically. I was supposed to be in it, remember? He launched a shot that hit the backboard and then fell in. Involuntarily, he took a step backward. His legs both hurt now. You stood. You saw that? You stood. Through the whole thing. In the Left corner, they finished in unison. Bennett nodded his approval. I did. I didnt know you were coming back, until then. But I asked Sullivan, and he told me. Sullivan was Holy Crosss tallest forward. Yup. And youre going to play? Well see, Bennett said, but as he said it, he tried his first jump shot, which was a mistake. When he came down, he meant to land on his right leg, but he landed on both and collapsed almost immediately. Isabella ran to his side and caught his arms as he fell. By the time Bennett would have been on the floor, he was in Isabellas lap instead. I God, I messed up so badly, Bennett told her. Thats just one shot. No. You. I messed up with you. I was so pissed. Isabella ran her fingers softly through his hair. I was just so angry. It scared me. I scared me. I know. You scared me, too. Everyone who looked at me knew. That I couldnt play basketball. That I couldnt walk. Even strangers could see it.

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Did Isabellas dark eyes always shine like that? And then when youwhen Icouldnt see you anymore, I was pissed. Because I never told you how much youhow much it meant to me. Holy Cross, and music and everything. No, I knew. You didnt. No one did. I didnt say a damn thing. But I miss this. Here, feel this. Bennett propped himself on one elbow and took Isabellas forearm in both his hands. He spaced the fingers of his right hand evenly on Isabellas forearm. He tapped each of his fingers in turn, then slipped his thumb under his middle finger and tapped them again, farther up her arm, until he finished midway up her small bicep. You know what that is? Ticklish? Isabella smiled faintly. Thats my Chopin run. I was practicing. Even when I thought I couldnt play anymore. I still played. They were on the ground, Bennetts head against Isabellas shoulder, her legs curled under his legs. After his fingers stopped moving, Isabella pressed her forearm tighter into his side, almost protectively. Are you going to be O.K. if you play basketball? Isabella asked. You wont get hurt because of it? Well, its possible. The doctor said my knee could give out. Maybe in, like, a year or in sixteen years, Bennett admitted. But I guess well just see when we see. As her arm tightened on him again, Bennett bent his head and kissed Isabella softly, and then passionately, on the shining floor of the gymnasium, surrounded by those gleaming green banners, her fingers curled against his bicep. Then he had to get up and she had to help him get up, and although she looked small, she was surprisingly strong. Lets see it! Isabella clapped when they were on their feet again. Bennett raised his eyebrows.

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Lets see you shoot, Riley. She grinned playfully. I heard you were a natural. Bennett gritted his teeth. Not so natural anymore. He measured his legs shoulder-length apart, placed each finger carefully, mathematically, on the ball. He raised his arms. He focused on the rim until the very last second, and then he closed his eyes. And Bennett Riley did not see, but he heard, the perfect swish through the basket. And yes, yes he was grateful.

From the Desk of:

JOYCE BECKER LEE began life as a storyteller, regaling her family and friends with fanciful adventures before she could even write. She studied English and Theater in college, and has an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Northwestern University. Between degrees, she worked as a newspaper reporter and editor, a high-school English teacher and theater director, and an editor and writer of student writing textbooksall while raising her children. She has published more than a hundred magazine features, articles, stories, poems, and has also written radio commercials, novels, and childrens musicals. Her advice to budding fiction writers is to find something redeemable in your character, something that you love, to make your fiction real to your readers. MARY-LIZ SHAW is a longtime journalist who will receive her M.F.A. in childrens literature from Hollins University in the spring of 2012. She has just finished her first young adult novel. When writing Pluto Still Feels Like a Planet To Me, she was thinking of love lost and won among three strong women, where the youngest was the strongest of all. The title came to her when she was stuck in traffic, listening to an astronomer on NPR. She realizes now that this title takes up a lot of room in author bios. Mary-Liz lives outside Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with her husband and son. They have a couple of animals and approximately nine gazillion books, which isnt nearly enough of either, as far as she is concerned. NATALIE HANEY TILGHMAN received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Pacific Lutheran Universitys Rainier Writing Workshop. She won first prize for fiction in The Atlantic Monthly 2010 Student Writing Contest, and her work has appeared in Santa Clara Review, Crab Creek Review, South Loop Review, and Sudden Flash Youth, a young adult fiction anthology by Persea Books. Like James, she once adopted

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a humpback whale. You can, too, by visiting www.worldwildlife.org. Natalie loves yoga, shell collecting, and baking (and eating!) Italian cookies. Visit her at www.natalietilghman.com and drop her a line about writing, reading, or Chihuahuasshe has two! JESSICA SENN decided to become a writer in first grade, when her debut story, The Magic Boot, was published between two pieces of cardboard and praised by parents and teachers alike. Her passion for writing eventually led to an English degree from Stanford University and an M.F.A. in fiction writing from San Jos State University. She credits her ever-expanding blended family for inspiring Christmas in the Desert, which explores the alternately challenging and beautiful process of welcoming someone new into a family struggling to redefine itself. Jessica is currently working on her first novel and teaching fifth grade in Silicon Valley. BILLY LOMBARDO is the author of The Man with Two Arms, How to Hold a Woman, and The Logic of a Rose: Chicago Stories. His forthcoming YA novel, The Day of the Palindrome, will be published by Razorbill in 2013. Billy is the 2011 recipient of the Nelson Algren Award for the Short Story. He is the founder and managing editor of Polyphony H.S., a student-run international literary magazine for high-school writers and editors. He teaches at the Latin School of Chicago. Billy says he remembers the moment when The Thing About Swing really clicked: he was at his dining room table, accustomed to getting rejection slips on a daily basis, when a dozen or so pieces of the story suddenly came together. He remembers sitting there and laughing at the pure fun of it. JENNIFER THARP is a 21-year-old college student. And Back Again was born of Jenns vaguely obsessive need, as a teen, to create the perfect soundtrack for any given situation. She began to wonder how it might feel to hear that same soundtrack when the situation changed

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dramatically. One day, youre listening to these songs while driving to see a friend; the next day, youre driving to his wake. And Back Again wouldnt exist without Peter Woodworth, the greatest creative writing professor ever to hold a red pen. Jenn promised him that he would be in the acknowledgments of every book she ever wrote, and she figures that this is a good place to start. You can find more from Jenn at www.jennifertharp.wordpress.com. SUZANNE KAMATA was born and raised in Michigan, but traveled to Japan to teach English for a year after college and wound up staying. Now, she lives in Tokushima Prefecture, which is famous for its tasty seaweed, giant whirlpools, and mountain shaped like an eyebrow. Pilgrimage was inspired by her daughter, who has cerebral palsy, and by her love of Paris, which she has visited several times. The story won the SCBWI Magazine Merit Award for Fiction and is the basis of a novel-in-progress. Her story Peace on Earth is forthcoming in Tomo, an anthology of YA fiction to benefit teen survivors of the devastating earthquake and tsunami that struck northern Japan in March 2011. CHRIS WIEWIORA has run more than 5,000 miles. His personal record for a mile is a little over 5 minutes. 25 Miles to Athens was the first story he wrote and the first one he had published. He wrote 25 Miles to Athens because he wondered, What if there was a guy who just loved to runan ultimate unknown underdogwho entered the Chicago marathon, and then not only won, but broke the world record of running a marathon in under two hours? Now Chris lives in Ames, Iowa, where he is a first-year M.F.A. candidate at Iowa State Universitys Creative Writing and Environment program. His fiction has also appeared in A cappella Zoo and The Quotable as well as on You Must Be This Tall to Ride, SmokeLong Quarterly, and The Planet Formerly Known As Earth. You can find out more at www.chriswiewiora.com.

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PATRICIA G. PENNY is the author of the Not Just Proms and Parties series of books for teen girls. She loves writing about the feelings, fears, successes, and mistakes that teens experience, and her work at a childrens welfare agency helped her bring realism to Moving On. She and her husband travel extensivelyAlaska, New Zealand, Italy, England, Greece, and France are just a few of the places theyve visited. GRACE PETERSON is a recent college graduate of the University of Minnesota and is now pursuing her teaching license. She works at an urban middle school and is writing a young adult novel to fill a literary void she sees for her students. Even though shes an aspiring novelist, she is probably the most normal writer you will ever meet. She does not wear flowy scarfs, spout literary devices, or carry around an observation notebook. She loves football, shrimp fried rice, and The Real Housewives. Grace wrote Carved Air after the passing of her own great-grandmother. She wanted to pay a tribute to often overlooked wisdom. MARIA ADELMANN was in high school when mental health came to her late one night in a single sitting. Her only dilemma was the final scene: how would a messy girl find a way to kiss someone with extreme obsessive-compulsive disorder? She ended up writing a story about two amped-up versions of herselfthe quiet, compulsive person she was outside, and the spirited, expressive person she was inside. She had no idea that her story covered the two paths shed follow for the next several years: at Cornell, Maria majored in English and psychology, and at the University of Virginia, she received an M.F.A. in fiction writing and even taught a composition course on Abnormal Psychology. She continues to write and publish stories. TONY LINDSAY is the author of several novels, including One Dead Preacher, Street Possession, Chasin It, Urban Affair, One Dead

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Lawyer, More Boy Than Girl, and a short story collection titled Piece of the Hole. Hes a native of Chicago, with an M.F.A. from Chicago State University. MAIJA STROMBERG has warm memories of her piano teachers, but notes that recitals were nerve-racking. That recital feeling was the germ for The Weight of Them. In addition to the horror of performing, she wanted the story to explore the puzzling idea that sometimes we try so hard to meet expectations and earn acceptance, but our efforts fall short, while at other times, acceptance comes to us as a gift. Though she never would have imagined doing so when she was fourteen (or even when she wrote this story), Stromberg now teaches piano lessonsand loves it. Her stories have been published in several literary journals, and she is currently working on a novel. TARA WILLIS studied life, love, dance, English, and American Studies at Barnard College in New York City. Like Nadia in Safe, Tara relishes everything tangible while daydreaming in public spaces. Other interests include festive colors, definitions of beauty, and analyzing art and life, two things that she feels are indistinguishable. ELIZABETH FLYNN MEANEY began writing Bennett Riley for a high-school creative writing assignment, but had so much fun with it that it ended up being much too long to submit to her teacher. So she sent it to Cicada instead, where it became one of her first published pieces. Since then, she has published one novel for teens, Bloodthirsty, and written a second, The Boy Recession, which will be released in 2012. For more information about Flynn and her writing, visit www.flynnmeaney.com.

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Acknowledgments
The Gift from CICADA magazine, July/August 2011, text 2011 by Joyce Becker Lee, art 2011 by Carus Publishing Company. Pluto Still Feels Like a Planet to Me from CICADA magazine, November/December 2010, text 2010 by Mary-Liz Shaw, art 2010 by Carus Publishing Company, photos by Shutterstock. Whale Boy from CICADA magazine, July/August 2011, text 2011 by Natalie Haney Tilghman, art 2011 by Carus Publishing Company. Christmas in the Desert from CICADA magazine, November/December 2011, text 2011 by Jessica Hanley Senn, photo 2011 by Carus Publishing Company. The Thing About Swing from CICADA magazine, July/August 2004, text 2004 by Billy Lombardo, art 2011 by Carus Publishing Company. And Back Again from CICADA magazine, March/April 2011, text 2011 by Jennifer Tharp, art 2011 by Carus Publishing Company. Pilgrimage from CICADA magazine, September/October 2008, text 2008 by Suzanne Kamata, art 2008 by Eamonn Donnelly. 25 Miles to Athens from CICADA magazine, January/February 2010, text 2009 by Chris Wiewiora, art 2009 by Carus Publishing Company.

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Moving On from CICADA magazine, May/June 2009, text 2009 by Patricia G. Penny, art 2009 by Carus Publishing Company. Carved Air from CICADA magazine, January/February 2009, text 2008 by Grace Peterson, art 2008 by Carus Publishing Company. mental health from CICADA magazine, May/June 2005, text 2005 and art 2011 by Carus Publishing Company. A Day in July from CICADA magazine, July/August 2006, text 2006 and art 2011 by Carus Publishing Company. The Weight of Them from CICADA magazine, May/June 2006, text 2006 by Maija Stromberg, art 2011 by Carus Publishing Company. Safe from CICADA magazine, January/February 2007, text 2006 and art 2011 by Carus Publishing Company. Bennett Riley from CICADA magazine, September/October 2007, text 2007 by Elizabeth F.A. Meaney, art 2007 by Carus Publishing Company.

Anthology: Realistic Fiction from Cicada 2011 Carus Publishing Company All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. ISBN: 978-0-8126-2793-0 Designed by Pamela Bonesteel CICADA is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. The selections in this anthology were first published in Cicada magazine.

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