Kristin Quisgard August 17, 2011 Packet 1 Creative Thesis Draft 1 Advisor: Sharon Darrow

Table of Contents
Short Stories
Cinderella Shoes 2 The Yo-yo 10 Baby Rats 18 Too Human 28

Poetry
The Bike 40 Surrender 48

Picture Books
The Picnic 51 Lost and Found 52 Oh Henry! 54 My Grandma is an Artist 56 Summer Night 59 Everyones Got an Angle 61 The Frog Pond 64 The Stallion and The Milky Way 70 The Knight and the Windmill 72

Cinderella Slippers Blossom thought she pretty much had things figured out since that day two months ago. As usual, she darted ahead of Granny as they made their weekly trek to the convenience store. And as usual, every couple of blocks, Granny would sit down on someones steps to catch her breath and daub at her neck with her hanky. Then shed comment on the weather or the flowers growing in a nearby garden while Blossom pretended to listen, balanced on a stone wall or swinging from the branch of a tree until Granny felt rested. And once they got to the convenience store, Blossom knew that Granny would buy her something special like a butterfly net or a gigantic Peppermint Patty. And for a while, she would forget that she hadnt seen her mother since that Saturday two months ago, when shed dropped her off at Grannys house and promised to come back the next day. But, this day turned out way different than Blossom expected it to. From the moment Blossoms spotted them hanging on a clip between the fly swatters and the turkey basters, she wanted the pink plastic shoes with the two inch heels, tiny patterned ventilation holes across the toes, and t-straps covered with rhinestones. She hurried across the store, studied the cardboard tag, remembered the scene in the movie her mother had once taken her to see, when Cinderella, the prince kneeling before her, extended a tiny pointed foot from under waves of ruffled tulle. She thought about the moment when Cinderella slipped her tiny toes into the glass slipper, everyone smiling and happy, the prince leaning in to kiss her fingers. She had to have the slippers. Blossom stood on tiptoe, reached up and tugged them free from the clip. The shoes, nestled toe to heel in a clear cellophane bag, felt light in her hands. The plastic, so much like

glass, sparkled even in the grey hue of the fluorescent tube lighting of the convenience store. They were practically on fire right there in her hands. She could see herself parade up and down the sidewalk in front of Grannys house, the glint of sunlight on the fake diamonds, her, two inches taller and feeling oh so happy, too. Blossom, more eager than ever to slide her toes into the slippers just like Cinderella, maybe even wear them on the walk home looked around for Granny. She saw her at the register poking around in her big tapestry bag that smelled like gumdrops and mothballs. The eggs, milk, tomatoes and bread glided along on the conveyor belt toward the cashier. Finally Granny found her money purse. Blossom hurried over to Granny and held the shoes up to her. Granny, will you buy me these shoes? Granny took the slippers, turned them over, and studied the tag. She wedged her brows together, looked at Blossom, and handed them back. Theyre too small. Get a ball instead? Oh. ButbuI dont want a ball, Blossom said, her breath catching in her throat. Look Granny! Balanced on one leg, Blossom lifted her right foot and held the Cinderella slippers against the sole of her sneaker. See? Granny? Theyll fit! No, Granny said, her lips round in the shape of an o. The word, so finite, so unexpected, hovered there in the mixed-up smells of vegetables, powdered detergents, and deli meats. Blossom shuddered; her gaze rested on the slippersthe only pair in the convenience store. She gritted her teeth. She looked into Grannys eyes. If you dont buy me the shoes, she said, Ill never speak to you again.

Blossom didnt know where the words came from or how they made their way past her lips and into the air where they swirled mean and reckless. The cashier raised her eyebrows. The woman in line behind Granny gasped and covered her gaping mouth with her hand. Blossom tried to catch her breath, tried to shake off the churning, tumbling feeling in her stomach, felt her skin all blotchy and hot. She could feel her dream slip away on a technicality; the shoes couldnt possibly be too small. She stood there stiff like a statue, jaw set, arms wrapped tight around the slippers. And Granny, whod never before said no to Blossom, whose face was red and blotchy too, took the shoes from her clenched fingers and placed them on the counter. She dug around in her bag again and then handed the cashier five dollars and thirty-two cents. I will see you outside, Granny said with stern in her voice, her outstretched finger quivering. Blossom grabbed the slippers. She scuttled to the door, used her elbows and sneakered foot to pry it open. Once outside, she sat down on the step, pushed out of her mind what shed just said to Granny, pushed out of her mind what her mother had said to her. She kicked off her shoes and socks. Her toes, free from the earth-bound canvas sneakers, tingled and wiggled while her mind raced with the intoxicating promise of pink plastic and fake gems flashing in the sunlight. Careful not to tear the tag, she pulled the slippers one at a time from the cellophane bag. Blossom bent over, arched her foot and pointed her toes. She tried to ease one glittering slipper on, but somehow it got hung up on her baby toe. She squeezed her toes

together with one hand, twisted the slipper back and forth with the other and tried to jam her toes into it, but it was no use. The gladness left her replaced suddenly by the image of an ugly step-sister trying desperately to fit her big foot into a tiny glass slipper. She pushed that thought right out of her head too and continued working the slipper back and forth. It did not fit. Blossom glanced at the door of the convenience store, then back at the slipper dangling off her foot. If she didnt buckle the straps, if she balanced her heels on the backs just so, she could wear them. Yes, that could work. Blossom stuffed her socks into her sneakers, knotted the laces together, and slung them over her shoulder. She grabbed the tag with the picture of Cinderella on it. With the toe-scrunching slippers barely on her feet she stood up slowly, ankles wobbly, arms outstretched just as Granny came out of the convenience store. Blossom looked up at Granny. See, Granny? They fit! Granny squinted at Blossoms feet. Hmmmm, she said snapping her tapestry bag shut. Theyre perfect, Granny. I knew theyd be perfect. Indeed, Granny said. Then she turned and headed down the street without even glancing back. With her toes clenched together to keep the slippers from falling off, Blossom clipclopped along the pebbly concrete, took two steps for every one of Grannys. Blossom watched her flashing feet. The shoes sparkled oh so pretty in the sunlight. The heels tapped oh so satisfying on the sidewalk, and the view from two inches tallerjust glorious.

Blossom and Granny walked. They walked past the dry cleaners and the hardware store, up the hill past the drug store and the clothing store, past the gas station and the public park, and finally, past the little houses on Evesham Avenue where Granny lived. It wasnt long before Blossom wanted to sit down on someones step and daub a hanky at her own neck, but Granny kept on walking, kept hurrying on ahead without looking back, without saying a word. Blossom hobbled along, her toes rubbed raw, her heels sore. The straps dragged on the ground, sneakers bounced against her arm. She looked again at the tag, all creased and crumpled in her fist, Cinderella all bent and wrinkled just like Blossoms toes. Did the glass slippers hurt Cinderellas feet? Was that part of the story no one was ever told? Because suddenly, the idea of wearing a shoe made out of glass seemed ridiculous. The idea of wearing pink plastic shoes seemed ridiculous too. But on she trudged, her feet slapping against the hard pavement. On she trudged far behind Granny who moved along at a brisk pace, kept her eyes straight ahead. Then Blossom saw Charlotte and Emily. The twins lived next door to Granny and occasionally waved to Blossom from their yard. They laughed and ran barefooted through the grass while Blossom limped and stumbled along. Thats when it hit her. She was Blossom, whose mother had never come back for her. Blossom, who was wearing plastic shoes from the convenience storeplastic shoes that didnt fit and pinched her toes and made her mean and not happy at all. When Charlotte and Lindsay caught sight of her, they ran to the brick wall and sat down their legs swinging back and forth, eyes big as saucers, fingers pointing at Blossoms slippers. Blossom followed their gaze, looked down at the pink plastic shoes. Her feet ached,

forced into shoes that didnt fit, werent good for running around in the grass or playing catch. Granny was right; she should have gotten a ball. Wow, said Charlotte. I love your shoes. Me too, Emily said. I wish I had shoes like that. Can I try them on? Charlotte asked. Well, I dont know, Blossom said aware now that the glitter of rhinestones, the height of the heels, and the pink of the plastic affected Charlotte and Emily just as surely as it affected her. She remembered the image on the tag, pointed her left foot ever so slightly, just enough to catch the rays of the sun. Please? Charlotte said. Blossom took a deep breath. You can play with the ball, Charlotte said. The plump red ball balanced in Emilys hands looked like a high bouncer, good for throwing and kicking. Good for playing with on a summers day, good for forgetting about broken promises. I guess it would be okay, Blossom said. She quickly took off the slippers and spread her toes on the warm cement sidewalk. Charlotte grabbed the plastic shoes and sat back down on the edge of the brick wall. Blossom watched. The shoes glittered. Charlotte grinned as she slipped her toes into the shoes. Blossoms heart fluttered. Charlotte licked her lips as she wrapped a strap around her ankle and buckled it.

Blossom winced. Charlotte shouted, They fit perfectly! Blossom shrugged. Hey, Charlotte said. Wanna trade? Trade? Yeah, Emily said tossing Blossom the ball. You get the ball. We get the shoes. They didnt really fit you. Did they? Blossom curled her toes and clenched her fingers together. She saw Granny turn into her yard. She looked back at the slippers. No, she said. I think Im going to keep them even if they dont really fit. Okay, Emily said. Wanna play catch later? Yeah, Blossom said, tossing her the ball. Later. See ya later. Charlotte handed her the slippers. Blossom ran after Granny and followed her into the house. She went up to her room, tossed the slippers and her sneakers on the rug and fell back against her pillow. Flecks of rainbow colors caught her eye as they danced across the rough plaster ceiling. Blossom sat up and wondered where they came from. She looked all around her room, her gaze finally settling on the slippers sparkling in a pool of sunlight, sparkling just like they had in the store. Blossom stared at the slippers, thought about their fairy tale promise and her mother, thought about Granny and her real life promise. Blossom ran downstairs and found Granny sitting at the kitchen table shelling peas. She watched Grannys nimble, patient fingers release each pea from its pod. Like perfect little green marbles they bounced and pinged and rolled around in the metal bowl. Blossom

wrapped her arms around Grannys neck; Granny who knew how much she wanted the slippers, Granny who knew they wouldnt fit and got them for her anyway. Granny, can I help? Granny nodded with knowing in her eyes, and Blossom got to work glad for the way the day turned out.

The Yo-Yo

The August sun was so hot it nearly sparked off the chain link fence surrounding the sandlot. Paloma, leaned against it and kicked at bits of broken glass glittering hot and sharp in the dirt. She watched Diego, feet firmly planted on the flattened cardboard box marking home-plate, him swinging wildly at nothing, until smack. The ball sprung off the stick and flew high and wide. Paloma squinted, traced with her finger its path across the sky. She heard the team cheering as the ball soared higher than the buildings, higher than the rattling elevated subway they played under. She watched Diego dart out for first base, round second, then skid right past her onto third turning the air gauzy and brown. She ran over to him at third base and tugged on his tee-shirt. Diego, she hollered, I wanna play too. Dont bother me Paloma. Im about to score a run? Then, keeping one restless eye on the pitcher and the other on her, he poked her shoulder and said, Go on. Youre in the way kid! Smack. The next batter-up hit the ball. Diego was off again, feet flying, arms pumping. Paloma stared after her brother. His words rattled around inside her head like marbles in a tin can while the noiseall that cheeringand the dust rose up around her. She turned and squeezed through the hole in the chain link fence and escaped onto the dirt path. The shortcut led to the sidewalk under the elevated subway where a train rumbled overhead, its brakes wailing against the iron tracks. Paloma stomped along. Youre in the way, kid. She traipsed through throngs of afternoon shoppers. Youre in the way, kid. Her

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feet smacked the sidewalk in time to the rhythm of, No Im not. No Im not. Then she shouted it real loud just to make it true. When Paloma stepped in front of the mechanical doors of the Nothing Ever Costs More Than a Dollar Store, they swung open. She whisked right through. A gust of cold air hit her sweaty neck and arms. Shivering, she wished she could take some of the cold air back to their fourth-floor walk-up. It was hot, hot, hot in that tiny apartment. Most days, about this time, while Mom was at work and Diego played with his Game Boy, Paloma would sit on the arm of the couch in front of the old box fan and have an afternoon bowl of Capn Crunch. And after that, shed fill the big iron bathtub with cool water, dress her Barbie doll in a bathing suit made with scraps of ribbon and safety pins, and pretend they were swimming in a pool somewhere. Standing there in the dollar store, the first thing Paloma noticed was the check-out lady. With bright blue fingernails, hair the color of margarine, and sparkling glasses she looked just like a gigantic Barbie doll. She even tied her hair up with a pink polka-dot ribbon that matched her ruffled shirt. When she spotted Paloma, she drew her chin back and dropped her glasses down until they rested on the tip of her nose. She looked Paloma over. Welcome to the Nothing Ever Costs More Than a Dollar Store, she said, like she said the same thing over and over, hour after hour, day after day, like she didnt mean a word of it. Paloma hesitated a moment. Ththanks, she muttered. But she didnt mean it either.

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The smell of new plastic hovered in the cool air, filled Palomas nostrils, made her nose wrinkle up. Her eyes scanned the shelves as she started down the first aisle stepping on the blue tiles, avoiding the white ones, pausing on one foot here and there to look in the plastic bins. She examined fake red roses as big as her fist with dew drops already on them; Mom liked roses, even fake ones. She fingered miniature sewing kits, rolls of Christmas wrapping paper, food storage containers, and packages of party plates. She made her way past bin after bin of dollar store stuff on her way to the toy aisle. There, she tried out a few balls and rummaged through assortments of plastic cars and pop-beads, tiny rubber dolls with the same color hair as the cashier, and colorful Hanukah dreidels stamped made in China. She tried out a bird whistle, first wiping off the mouth piece with the edge of her shirt. But it was the contents in the next bin over that really caught her eye. The sign taped to it read, YO-YOS 50 Paloma stood before the assortment not knowing which one to try first. They looked like giant Skittles: red, blue, green, yellow. She ran her fingers over them: shiny like glass, smooth and cool to the touch. She chose a red one, held it in the palm of her hand, slipped one finger through the loop in the string the way shed seen Diego do, stood poised and ready. Holding the yo-yo at arms length palm facing up, she let it roll over the tips of her fingers, the string twitching, the wooden spool spinning wild. She couldnt get it to return to her hand so she put it back in the bin unwound and took a yellow one. Paloma glanced at the two older girls at the far end of the aisle trying out jump ropes and at a red-faced toddler pulling a quacking duck with flapping plastic wings. No one paid her any mind.

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Slipping her finger through the loop, she released the yellow yo-yo, this time with a determined flick of her wrist. She watched the yo-yo race down the string, pop at the end, twirl and tumble and linger there. These are so broken, she muttered picking up a blue one next. Again the yo-yo failed to return to her waiting hand as did the six others she tried. She put them all back into the bin, strings tangled and knotted, and was about to look for something else to play with when she spotted it. The rainbow colored yo-yo was barely visible in the bottom of the bin, but she reached in and retrieved it in a flash. Her fingers twitched. She turned it over and over, marveled at the golden butterflies painted on its sides and the string wound neat and tight around its axle. She held the swirling wooden spool, hand prepared for the launch, knuckles thrumming with excitement. The yo-yo glided down the string. It pulsed and spun and then as if by magic, returned to her waiting fingers. It smacked against her palm friendly and obedient. She tried it again and again, lightly palming it when it returned to her before releasing it again and again. Each time it worked. Each time it felt like a home run for her, something she could do really well, maybe even better than Diego. She wanted it. She wanted to play with it at the baseball lot so Diego could see. She wanted to learn how to do tricks with it like walk the dog and rock the baby. She wanted to take it everywhereeven play with it at school. No, Mrs. Gershum, her new teacher wouldnt like that.

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Paloma slipped the yo-yo into the pocket of her shorts. It fit perfectly. Her teacher would never even know she had it with her. It would be her secret weapon against boredom and math and being Diegos little sister. All she had to do was think about it hidden there, and how, right after spelling, she would hurry to the playground and perform all the tricks she taught herself. A circle of onlookers would gather around her, cheer her on, their eyes wide with amazement. Diego wouldnt be the only one getting the attention. Reaching into the pocket of her shorts, Paloma pulled out two quarters, two weeks allowancejust enough to buy the yo-yoand hurried over to the cashier. She put the yo-yo on the counter and laid her money next to it. The cashier smiled a plastic smile, her red lips drawn back so far her gums showed. You need two more quarters. This yo-yo costs one dollar. Palomas face clouded. It costs a dollar? she repeated. But the sign says yo-yos cost fifty-cents. Paloma waited for the woman to admit shed made a mistake, waited for her to see the wrong in what shed just said. Not this one. Do you have two more quarters or not? she said. Paloma shook her head. Look hon, just go get a different yo-yo? The other ones are pretty too, the cashier said pressing the quarters hard into Palomas palm. And then, Now, go on. Youre in the way, kid. And here, make sure you put this back where it was. Next! Paloma wandered back to the toy aisle stepping on the white tiles willy-nilly. She starred at the tangled web of strings, the jumble of would-not-work-no-matter-what yo-yos. Shed tried almost all of them already--none of them were like the rainbow yo-yo.

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Paloma took a sweeping glance of the store. One aisle over the mother of the little boy was busy chasing him, duck quacking, wings flapping, him shrieking, her all red in the face now. The two older girls were at the register paying for their jump ropes; the cashier counted out change; her lips moved the whole time. Youre in the way, kid. Paloma paced back and forth, fingers gripping the yo-yo hard. Youre in the way, kid. She took a breath and held it, slipped the rainbow colored yo-yo into her pocket. Her mind raced. What if someone saw? Her heart thumped. Youll get caught! And the yo-yo, that spun weightless through the air moments before, suddenly felt heavy, heavy like a brick, big like a watermelon. The Barbie doll cashier would be able to see it bulging in her pocket. She would stop her before she got through the door. Paloma took one tiny step toward the mechanical doors, then another and another. She could feel the Barbie doll cashier watching her; see her drumming her blue fingertips on the counter, hear her long curling nails making impatient tappity-tap noises. Any moment now Paloma expected her to clamp those long blue talons around her windpipe and hold her there until the police arrived. There would be flashing lights and sirens! Paloma, stomach taut, skin hot and prickly stood waiting for the door to swing open and set her free. Hey kid, the cashier said splitting the air with two little words. Paloma froze. Holding her arms straight down at her sides, she turned to face the cashier. Their eyes met. Paloma decided she looked guilty like there was sign sticking to her forehead that said thief. She pressed her hand against her pocket to stop the yo-yo from

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coming to life, from jumping out and rolling around on the floor where everyone would see it. Thanks for shopping at the Nothing Ever Costs More Than a Dollar Store. Come back soon! the cashier said, her face moving in pieces, her mouth opening and closing like a puppets. The doors swung open and Paloma stepped through, the flutter of guilt replaced by relief. She had the yo-yo, the most perfect yo-yo stashed in her pocket. She couldnt wait to take it out, practice those moves, show off for Diego. She skipped all the way home. Later that day, before Mom got home from work and while Diego was busy playing with his Game Boy, she skipped her afternoon swim in the bathtub, ignored her Barbie doll sitting on the shelf. She had something better to do. She closed the door to her room and took the yo-yo out of her pocket; traced with her finger the pattern of swirling colors. She slipped her finger through the loop. She let the yoyo slip off the flat of her palm. It whirled toward the floor, butterfly sides twisting and turning before beginning to rise in a long slow bounce. But it refused to return to her hand. Paloma rewound it, then sent the spool careening down the string again where it stopped all stubborn and mean. She tried again and again and again. Paloma, Moms home, Diego hollered from the living room. Coming, Paloma said aware that her voice sounded odd. Paloma? Mom called from the hallway. Hurriedly, she balled up the string and tossed the yo-yo under her bed to the darkest, farthest corner where no one ever looked and no one ever cleaned, where it would be

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forgotten, swallowed up by cob-webs and shadows, and dirty socks, and old headless Barbie dolls.

Baby Rats

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Em, I dont know what to do with you anymore! Mom said wielding a long slender paintbrush in her hand and daubing absentmindedly at a figure in the painting. I never know what you are up to. Youreyoure just so different from your sister. She clenched her teeth, plunged the paint brush into a jar filled with turpentine, and wiped her hands on the edge of her shirt. Her eyes met Emilys. Emily just stood there; she didnt need to ask how she was different. She knew she wasnt anything like her sister Charlotte. Charlotte always did what she was told. Charlotte, the good twin. Emily shifted from one foot to the other, looked at Charlotte out of the corner of her eye. She stood there, arms folded across her chest, pony-tail bobbing in agreement with everything Mom was saying. Em? Youd better be listening Em, thats what Mom called her. Never, ever Emily which had more syllables than Charlotte. When Mom said Charlotte her face smiled like she was laughing. But when she said Em, her mouth shut tight, lips pursed like she was in pain, like she just got stung by a bee. Em, why cant you just try to be more like your? Oh no. Here it comes again, the why cant you be more like your sister talk. The words spilled out of Moms mouth. They just tumbled out one over the other, got so tangled up in Emilys mind she had to look away, concentrate instead on the stuffed squirrel that sat on the shelf. It perched there atop the branch-like pedestal, its little claws drawn up to its mouth as if about to eat; its glass eyes hypnotic and liquid. Emily reached out to touch its dusty fur. She drew her fingers between the squirrels tiny ears barely touching its dusty fur,

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half expecting it to jump up and run away. But it didnt. It couldnt. It was stuck there too, only it couldnt hear what Mom was saying. Lucky squirrel. You know Em, youre getting too old to run wild in the A flash of movement lured Emilys attention away from the squirrel and what Mom was saying. She caught her reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror on the opposite wall, stared at the girl with the too big ears and cropped brown hair she cut herself. Yep. Just took a pair of scissors to it last week when she decided she wanted short hair, tom-boy hair. Thats what Charlotte called her ever since they stopped playing in the woods together, a tom-boy: tree climber, acrobat, catcher of crawfish, and now, rescuer of baby rats. Yeah, this being different talk was about the baby rats and Mom telling her was too old to run wild in the woods anymore. Emily knew it was coming as soon as Charlotte found out about them, knew it was going to be a big deal just like cutting her hair was. Emily found the baby rats in the soft grasses just off the path in the woods, heard them squealing for their mother. Their cries, so like the sounds that drifted in her open window on summer nights when, from way back in the yard where the trees grew close together and the moon cast slender shafts of light through the leaves, she could hear the shriek of baby rabbits. Their cries pierced the night air, silenced the crickets and June bugs while some stray cat or clever raccoon, with hungry babies of its own to feed, killed them and carried their limp bodies off. And Emily, poised by the window, cheek pressed against the screen, eyes strained against nights blinding darkness, knew she couldnt save the baby rabbits, knew she wouldnt ever forget that sound. But she could save the baby rats. On bended knees, Emily had pushed the grasses aside and stared at them. She felt drawn to them the way she felt drawn to the stuffed squirrel. They were as tiny as her

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fingers, soft and pink with skin so transparent she could almost see their hearts beating. Emily cupped her hands and scooped them up, all of them at once, without even waking them, and carried them home. Six little baby rats that needed tending. Six little baby rats that needed a home. Six little baby rats without a mother, without protection from hungry stray cats and still-alive squirrels. Em? Em? Are you listening to me? her mother said. Yes, Emily said even though it wasnt true. She was really thinking about how, when she got back from the woods, she sneaked up the stairs so Charlotte wouldnt see her, and how once in her room, arranged a nest in her sock drawer. She carefully placed the baby rats, one at a time, into the soft cotton bed she made, filled a bottle cap with water, and tore up little bits of leaves. She watched them crawl blindly over each other, their eyes shut tight but visible through translucent lids. She listened to their muffled cries, studied their tiny claws and soft ears, wondered how she would keep them alive until they were old enough to eat on their own. Wondered how she would keep them a secret. She hadnt heard Charlotte come into her bedroom, didnt realize she was standing right behind her until she heard her say, What are you doing? Emily whirled around, stood with her back against the open drawer, arms extended behind her resting on the dresser. Charlotte tried to peer over Emilys left shoulder, then her right. Emily mirrored her moves to block her view. But, Charlotte anticipated Emilys next move, and when Emily moved left, Charlotte moved right getting a clear view of the baby rats. Her eyes widened. Her voice screeched. Oooh, can I hold one?

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Charlotte! Charlotte, what are you doing in here? Did I say you could come in my room? I wanted to see what you were doing, she said. Where did they come from? From under the big old tree in the woods. Well, youve seen. Now go, Emily said. You dont have to be so mean, Charlotte said. Im telling Mom! Emily heard her stomp down the hallway, knew it would only be a matter of minutes until she heard Mom hollering, her voice racing after her like a swarm of angry bees. Maybe, she should have let Charlotte hold one of the baby rats. Just for a minute. Emily! The sound of Moms voice split the air, forced Emily back to the present. I dont think youve heard a word Ive said to you, Mom snapped. You take those rodents back to the woods where they belong. Put all those socks in the hamper. Theyre full of germs. And for heavens sake, wash your hands! But Mom, Emily said. Emily, dont argue with me all the time. Moments later, Emily, stood in her room, an empty shoebox in her hands. She looked at the baby rats nestled together like a pile of fat little worms. She uncurled one quivering finger and reached out to touch the sleeping babies, to feel their skin warm and smooth. You probably dont even know youre rats, she whispered. Tearing up a sheet of paper towel into little bits, Emily covered the bottom of the shoe box. As she picked the baby rats up they squirmed in her hands with amazing strength; they squealed loud, their tiny pink mouths open wide, their heads wobbling back and forth, legs flailing about. They found each other again in the bottom of the box and nestled

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together to stay warm. Charlotte and I must have been like that before we were born, all small and pink. Emily put on her sweater, picked up the box, and headed back to the woods to leave the baby rats where she found them that morning. She held the box in both hands, careful not to jostle it, careful to keep her steps even and smooth, but inside, she felt like she swallowed a rock. She thought about how she could scramble out onto the roof of the house and not get caught, or climb to the top of any tree and get back down again, or beat up any boy in the neighborhood who picked a fight with her. But now her stomach churned and flip-flopped. She shivered, felt the damp spring air all around her, saw the sky darken and turn gray. How will the babies stay warm tonight? What if the mother never comes back? Maybe she was killed in a trap. And then. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe it would be better to be like Charlotte. There were just too many maybes to think about. At the end of Evesham Avenue, Emily turned off onto the dirt road and followed the familiar narrow path into the woods. She usually took this path to the stream to catch frogs and snakes. Now, she had other business to attend to, the business of leaving the little rats all alone. Finally, she found the spot under the old pine tree where she first heard their cries, the tree she and Charlotte used to climb together. Pushing the tall grasses aside, she nestled the box between its shambling roots. Gathering twigs and leaves, she covered the top of the box just enough to make it blend in. Your babies are back, she called out. Theyre back and theyre hungry. They need their momma real bad. And, Im really, really sorry I took them. She turned and walked away, didnt even look back, just put one foot in front of the other and left.

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By the time Emily crawled into her bed that night, the rain fell with a sudden fury. It fell on the roof outside her bedroom window and on the garden below. And Emily knew that it was falling on the baby rats. The mother would probably never come back to take care of them. They would be all alone in the dark, all wet and cold, and it was all because of her. Emily couldnt stand it. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table, the green digital numbers ghosting 11:38 pm. She scrambled out of bed and fumbled around in the dark for her tennis shoes. What if Im too late? She pulled one shoe out from under the bed, located the other next to the dresser. What if an owl already got them? She found her sweatshirt hanging on the doorknob. What if I get caught? In a flash, she pulled the sweatshirt over her head and slipped her shoes on without untying them. What if I dont? She cracked her door open and stepped into the dark hallway. Hearing nothing, she rose up on tip-toe, felt her way along the wall in the hallway careful not to bump into paintings, careful not to breathe too loud. If she could just get past the bedrooms and down the stairs, if she kept her feet close to the railing and stepped over the fourth step from the top without making it creak, no one would hear her. Once downstairs, shed get the flashlight from the junk drawer and slip out the kitchen door. She could get to the woods, find the baby rats, and be back in a flash. No one would ever know. First step. Breathe. Second step. Listen. Third step. Freeze. Emily turned around, expected to see her mother, or worse, Charlotte standing there, but nothing.

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Stop it! Youre just imagining things. Grasping the railing, Emily stretched her right leg over the fourth step, found the fifth one with the tip of her shoe and lowered herself onto it without making a sounda trick she taught Charlotte years ago when she led midnight trips to the kitchen. Once downstairs, Emily rummaged around in the junk drawer, shifted screwdrivers, clothes pins, and pencils as quietly as possible, resisted the urge to turn on a light. Where is that flashlight? I know it was in here. Emily checked under the kitchen sink. Nothing. She felt her way to the back door. Mom had one of those tiny flashlights on her key ring. At least it gave off a small beam of light. Emily grabbed the keys and slipped out the back door. The midnight mist shrouded neighbors houses in a ghostly quiet. Emily took off running down the street, the way barely lit by the dim light of the street lamps, rain pelting her face. Three blocks later, she veered off the sidewalk and followed the dirt road. Its really dark out here, she muttered, the sound of her voice nearly drowned out by the wind. I didnt think it would be this dark. Emily followed the path, walked a dozen feet into the woods, then twenty more. She directed the narrow beam from the flashlight into the trees, used the sound of her own voice to break the silence again. Wheres that tree? she said, her eyes straining to see where she was going, wet branches brushing against her face. Snap! Emily stopped in her tracks. She looked all around, cocked her head to listen. Thud! Emily caught her breath, stood still in the darkness, ears ringing, heart thudding painfully. Crash! Just yards ahead something moved, went flailing through the trees. She shone the flashlight in the direction of the sound. Something caught her eye. No. It caught more

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than that. It sent tingles up her spine, caused every bone in her body to vibrate. Emily saw the shadow of a figure coming toward her. She braced herself, opened her mouth to scream. Emily? Charlotte? What are you doing out here? Charlotte, hands clenched, eyes down said, Wellwhen I saw the baby rats, I just wanted to hold one, but you got so mad. I started thinking about how much fun we used to have out here, and I felt bad about getting you in trouble. And Ive been looking all around for the baby rats but the battery in this dumb flashlight died. And I got lost. Charlotte said. Oh, you took the flashlight. Yep. Okay, come on. The tree is somewhere over there. All I have is this little flashlight, but its better than nothing. Emily led the way through the woods and when they found the tree, she handed the flashlight to Charlotte and knelt down in the wet brush. The branches, heavy with rain, rested on the ground. Emily pushed them aside. Bring the light closer, Charlotte. Shine it here. But nothing. No sign of the shoe box. No sign of the baby rats. What? I know this is the tree. I know it is. Give me the light Charlotte. Emily pushed the soaked grasses aside, held the light a little closer, saw a corner of the shoe box. I found it, she whispered tugging at it. The side, soaked through with rain, ripped off in her hand. Impatient now, Emily pushed the wet grasses away from the box and shone the flashlight into it. She sat back on her heels and stared. It was empty. Theyre gone, Charlotte. Theyre gone.

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Shh. What was that? Charlotte asked What was what? Listen. Swish. Rustle. Oh. Emily what was that? Charlotte said again. Not sure, Emily said holding the branches aside with one hand and shining the light around the base of the tree with the other. There, nestled between its crooked roots, curled up on a dry bed of grasses and leaves were the six baby rats. The mother rat, her fur soaked, her tail swishing, her eyes flashing hunched over them. Emily watched her, couldnt take her eyes off her; couldnt believe how fierce she was. Couldnt believe how much she loved her babies. She came back, Charlotte cried. Emily released the grasses, and they fell back over the nest. She gently lowered the branches of the pine tree and pointed the flashlight away from the rats. Emily stood and motioned to Charlotte. Without saying a word, they crept out of the woods, the rain falling softer now. By the time they got back to the road, Charlotte broke the silence. Hey Emily? she whispered. What? I really like your hair short. Oh. Thanks. How do you think Id look with short hair? Charlotte said. Good. Youd look good.

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Do you really think so? Yeah. Well, what do you think Mom will say? She always said she wished we were more alike, Emily said. Charlotte giggled. Emily smiled and raised her face to midnight sky. She stuck her tongue out to catch a few raindrops. Then she took a deep breath and grabbed Charlottes hand. They raced back home splashing and laughing all the way.

Too Human

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Diego fixed his eyes on the small television screen. The boy in the commercial hit the buttons on the controller. Flashes of light and explosions of sound kept Diegos attention riveted. His fingers itched to reach into the set and snatch the controller out of the boys hands. He wanted to mash all those buttons with the skill hed perfected playing the arcade machine at the pizzeria until his quarters ran out. You too will find adventure, the announcer promised, his voice rising and falling in perfect sync with the span of the cameras eye. Get the X-Box this Christmas. Enter another world. When the commercial ended, Diego turned off the TV and picked up a marker from the clothes littered floor. He paced back and forth in his tiny half-room separated from his sisters by a makeshift wall. He tossed a marker into the air over and over and caught it each time with perfect precision. On the other side of the room, he could hear Paloma talk in weird voices to her Barbie doll, knew she was dressing and undressing it using scraps of fabric and straight pins salvaged from Moms sewing basket. He could think of dozens of reasons why it would be better for her to give up playing with her doll and play video games instead, but mostly, it would be easier to convince Mom to get them a game system if they both wanted it. Diego stepped onto Palomas side of the room. Whacha doin? he asked balanced next to her bed on one foot, the other drawn up under him like a pink plastic flamingo. Paloma looked at him, lips pursed, eyes narrowed. What do you care? she quipped. Suddenly, her foot shot out from under her and bashed him in the knee. Diego stumbled backwards. A small whimper escaped his lips. Whuddya do that for? he said.

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Stay out of my room or Ill tell mom when she gets home, Paloma said, busy again with a piece of blue flowered fabric. Diego shrugged and wandered over to the kitchen window. He looked down on the Brooklyn street four stories below. A string of stark white light bulbs slung between store fronts and telephone poles, brightened the dreary scene and announced the arrival of the first shipment of Christmas trees. Diego searched the sidewalk, watched weary commuters slog home in the heavy rain, wondered why Mom was late. He slunk into a chair, legs splayed, eyes closed. He thought about the X-Box, pictured what it would be like to explore every pathway, every corridor and dark corner in the game. He opened his eyes and looked around the living room, tried to ignore the worn carpet, his mothers pillow and blanket still spread out on the secondhand couch she bought when theyd moved in last summer. Shed said it was temporary when he told her he hated it. Shed said it was just until they could get back on their feet. Diego scratched behind his ear and breathed deeply. Christmas was just a few weeks away. If he could convince Mom to get the X-Box for him, at least he could pretend he was in another world. Everything else wouldnt seem so bad. Yeah right. Christmas was coming and so was the December rent bill. He knew this because his mother always sat at the kitchen table on payday and divvyed up her money into envelopes labeled electric bill, rent bill, gas bill, and food. This is what she'd done the night before, brows pleated, brown eyes tired and glassy. There were no envelopes labeled toys, doll clothes, or game console. Still, Diego figured, there must be a way to get the game system for Christmas. When he heard the sound of his mothers key in the lock, he jumped up and sprinted to the door to greet her. Normally he didnt bother, but tonight was different.

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Hey, Mom! Need any help? Well, what a nice surprise, she said. Here. Could you take these bags and put the food away? Ill get dinner in a few minutes. Were having chicken. Just let me get my wet shoes off and have a cup of tea. Wheres your sister? No prob, Mom. Palomas in her room. Did you get your homework done? All done. Want me to start the tea water? he offered. Sure Baby thathanks, she said and kicked off her shoes. Through the plastic bag, Diego could feel the cold of the gallon milk container, just enough to last for four days if they were careful. He put it in the refrigerator along with the eggs, and the hot dogs. He put the package of chicken and two onions on the table. On the shelf over the sink, he shoved a box of cereal, two cans of peas, and his favorite, one package of Oreo cookies. Two a daythey could each have two cookies a day. Moments later Diego watched his mother sip her tea, plotted his next move. A faint smile spread across her face. This could be it. His plan should work. Diego tapped his foot against the chair leg and juggled the onions, their papery skin crackling in his palms. Their pungent smell would soon fill the air bringing tears to his mothers eyes. Onions always did that. Diego took a quick breath, watched his mother finger the envelopes stuffed in the small box on the kitchen table, saw the lines across her forehead deepen. Maybe this wasnt such a good time to ask. Dinner will be ready soon, Mom said as she grabbed the onions midair. Tell your sister to wash up. Diego tiptoed down the hallway and stood unnoticed in the bedroom door.

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Boo, he blurted. Stupid, she said. I knew you were there. Hey Pal? he started. I told you not to call me Pal. My name is Paloma! Yeah, yeah. Paalloommaaa, he continued. How bout we ask Mom if we can get the X-Box for Christmas. If both of us want it, shell probably say yes. Paloma shook her head, braids flapping back and forth against her cheeks. Come on. Think about it! We can play all those cool games. No! I want a Barbie house. Mom promised I could get a Barbie house, Paloma said eyes focused on the doll, thumb pressed against the head of a pin. Diego flicked the marker again; it clattered to the floor and rolled under her bed. He dropped to his knees, felt around for it, and pricked his finger on a pin. Ahh, he yelled. Dont you feel sorry for me now? Just a little? he said holding up his wounded finger. No. Come on Paloma, Diego said. He picked up another marker from her dresser. Do you know how much a Barbie doll house costs? Its a lot! Besides, youre almost ten. How much longer are you going to want to play with dumb dolls? The game system will be fun forever, he sputtered, heart pounding so loud he could feel it rock his chest. He licked his wounded finger and smacked his lips. Paloma looked at him now. Nooo, she mouthed, eyes wide, lips puckered up like a guppy. And youre almost eleven. How much longer are you going to play video games? Like forever. Come on, he said. And then. You can keep it on your side of the room.

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Paloma swiveled her gaze away from the doll. You promise? Diego popped the marker cap off and on, off and on. He had a vivid picture of Paloma, game controller clenched tight in her hands, mouth all twisted up, eyes wild, fingers on buttons. He thought again about how he had to share a room with her, watch her everyday after school, and live in this creepy place. At least if he had the X-Box, he would feel better. He looked at Paloma. Really, he said. Lets ask Mom at dinner. No backsies, Paloma said. Diego flopped down on his bed. He could already see himself in the aisle at the toy store. He knew the exact spot on the shelf where the game system would be. He practiced the conversation he planned to have with his mother, chose carefully the words he wanted to say, repeated them a few times in his head. Maybe he should offer to wash the dishes. Yeah, that would be a nice touch. Dinner, Mom called. Yummy, Paloma called back.

The smell of fried onions and chicken made the kitchen feel warm and cozy in spite of the storm outside. The three of them sat down at the table, their faces reflected in the rain spattered windowjust Diego, his sister, and mother sitting at the tiny table, in the tiny kitchen, in the tiny apartment. Okay guys, eat, Mom insisted. All this rain is making me hungry. By the way, its going to keep this up all week long. Im sorry you two will be stuck in the apartment after school, but theres not much I can do about it. Diego, Ill be working late. I want you to keep an eye on your sister.

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Oh yeah, right! Paloma said, Dont you think that should be the other way around? Paloma, be nice, Mom said. Diego didnt even listen to the rest of the conversation. He heard his cue, the perfect opportunity to ask Mom about the game system. Shed said she was sorry, maybe even guilty. Guilty feeling parents always come through. The moment had come. This should be easy. He made his move. Hey Momwe do get kinda bored with nothing to do. Souhm I was wonderingI mean, we were wondering if we could get the X-Box for Christmas. As soon as the words leapt off his tongue Diego clenched his jaw. Mom pushed the last few peas around on her plate. She looked at Diego, held him there in the steady beam of her gaze, and wadded her napkin up in her fist. Diego, you know we cant afford that. Ive put aside $20.00 for each of you for Christmas. Well have to make do this year. Goody, Paloma shouted. I betcha I can buy six Barbie outfits with that much money. I want the bathing suit, the bathrobe, the riding jacket Ill bet you do, Mom interrupted. Her mouth smiled but her eyes didnt. She looked at Diego again. What about you Diego? What do you want? All I want is the X-Box. Mom, cant you use a credit card or something? Diego. Thats just not possible.

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Diegos ears felt like they were on fire and his stomach churned. Tears pushed at the backs of his eyes; he didnt dare blink, afraid that if he started crying and he might never stop, never stop crying about the bad stuff. Never mind, he yelled, anger washing over him like a crashing wave. Just get me socks and underwear. He stormed into his room and slammed the door. He didnt bother to say goodnight. All night long Diego tossed and turned. He dreamed that an army of shambling, rotting zombies were chasing him around the tiny apartment. There was no where for him to go. He didnt have the controller to fight them off. No matter what he did, he couldnt get away from them. They fired little pins at him and hit him in the backs of his legs while Paloma jumped up and down on her bed and cheered the zombies on.

The next morning Diego wandered into the kitchen for breakfast. A bowl had been set out for him, but the thought of those little zombie-colored corn flakes, all soggy and mushy, made his stomach churn and rumble. Paloma poured milk into her cereal bowl and spilled some on the table as usual. Paloma, whats the matter with you? He took the gallon container from her hands. Here. Let me help, Diego said. Wheres Mom? She had to leave for work. Youre supposed to take me to school and pick me up and microwave leftovers for dinner. Mom said you have to, or else. Or else, what? I dont know. She never finishes that part. Palomas spoon scraped the bottom of her cereal bowl and milk dribbled down her chin onto her shirt. Here. Diego handed her a napkin. Lets get going. Well be late for school.

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All day long, Diego sulked. He ignored Kenny when he invited him to shoot baskets at recess. He didnt talk to Paloma at all on the way home. He just kicked twigs along the sidewalk, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, eyes staring at his shoes laces dragging along on the wet sidewalk like fat worms. He didnt care. He didnt talk to Paloma during dinner; he didnt even tease her about playing with dolls. He was already in bed by the time his mother came home from work much later than usual. He heard her kick off her shoes. Followed with his ears, her path into the tiny kitchen, knew from the click of the igniter on the gas stove that shed make a cup of tea. Diego rolled over toward the wall and pulled the blanket up over his ears. She would come into their room to check on them next. Diego practiced his pretending-to-be-asleep-breathing: noisy breath in, noisy breath out. A few minutes later, he felt his mothers hand on his shoulder. Diego, she whispered. The sound of his name floated above his head, hovered there, and settled across his shoulders like a warm blanket. The words, Im sorry, pushed at the backs of his teeth. He fought to keep his breathing steady and slow, fought the urge to wrap his arms around his mothers neck. Instead, he stayed silent. He stayed angry. Mom moved to Palomas side of the room. Paloma, time to go to sleep, he heard his mother whisper. Put the book away. Its late. Then she turned off the light and shut the door. Diego closed his eyes. The elevated subway rumbled a block away. The old building trembled; the windows rattled. Hey! Paloma said pounding on his head seconds later. Diego turned over and saw her standing there in the shadows holding a doll. Why you so mean to Mom?

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Because! Why are you happy all the time? Its so annoying, Diego said. Go away.

The next day Diego made breakfast; he took Paloma to school in the morning, brought her home in the afternoon and made dinner. Sitting at the kitchen table, he helped Paloma with her homework, and he did his homework. Diego? What do you want? Wanna play dolls? No. Wanna play school? No. No? Paloma said, her voice falling to a whisper. Diego looked at Paloma. Scraps of fabric, worn out dolls with scraggly hair, it didnt take much to make her happy. He thought about the X-Box and how he was never going to get one if Paloma complained to Mom. Okay, okay, maybe we could do something, Diego said looking around the apartment. Hey, do you want to play Too Human? How do you play that? Diego chewed on his fingernail. Wellfirst of all, we have to build a mountain so the monster Grendel cant reach us. Yeah. A mountain! Okay, help me. Diego said.

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Diego pushed the couch into the middle of the living room. Paloma took all of the cushions and turned them on end. Who am I supposed to be? Paloma asked Am I the queen? No, Diego said. You are a warrior just like me. You have to help fight off the monsters. Thats how you play Too Human. Oh, goody. We need shields. Ill get some lids from the kitchen. While Diego was in the kitchen, Paloma got two pieces of fabric and two safety pins from the sewing basket. When Diego came back from the kitchen, he handed her a lid from the soup pot and a wooden mixing spoon. These are your weapons. And this is your magic cape, she said to Diego handing him a piece of pink flowered material. PalomaI dont really need a Okay, thanks Paloma, he said draping the fabric across his shoulders and pinning it at the neck. Okay, lets turn off all the lights except the one in the kitchen. Then it will really look like another world in here. Paloma nodded putting on her purple cape. Diego and Paloma took turns jumping off the back of the couch. They chased imaginary monsters all over the apartment and eventually confronted Grendel. Diego swiftly removed his head with his mixing spoon. Hours later, when they returned from their adventure and Paloma was sound asleep in her bed, Diego pushed all the furniture back into place, folded the capes and put them back in the sewing box. Every night for a week, Diego and Paloma transformed the little apartment. Every night for a week, Diego pretended to be asleep when his mother got home.

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Late Friday night Diego was still in the kitchen when he heard his mothers key turn in the lock. He stood motionless in the dark, waited to slip down the hallway unnoticed, jump into his bed, bury his face in his pillow, and pretend to be asleep. Instead of coming to the kitchen though, she went right into the living room. Diego, breathing hard, tiptoed down the hallway. He peeked around the door frame, a strip of living room light cut across his bare toes. His mother, still in her winter coat, rested her head on the back of the couch. Her eyes were closed. She slipped one foot behind the other and kicked off her shoes. A tiny moan escaped from her lips. At her feet were two bags and a roll of wrapping paper. She yawned, sat up, and threw her coat off her shoulders. Diego watched her pull one Barbie outfit after another out of the bag. She looked at each of them and set them out on the floor. He waited for her to take socks and underwear out of the second bag, his Christmas present. Might as well be a bag of coal. Then his mother stood up and lifted the other bag onto the couch. Diego could see the outline of a box. He squinted, stretched his neck further around the door frame, watched his mother slide the bag off the box. Diego stifled a gasp. He turned and scurried into his room, sprang into bed and pulled the covers up to his ears. He wiggled his toes in circles under his blanket, thought about waking Paloma up to tell her but reconsidered. He couldnt wait until he could really play Too Human on his new X-Box. He wouldnt have to play any more make-believe games with Paloma or wear a silly fake cape and pretend a wooden spoon was a weapon.

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Diego batted at his pillow and flipped it over to the cool side. He turned toward the wall. He rolled over and faced the window. He curled up into a little ball. He stretched out straight until his feet touched the bottom rail of the bed. He sat straight up. He got what he wanted. He got the game system with the arcade-quality-joy-stick and the Power Base Converter. He wouldnt be getting socks and underwear for Christmas after all. But, for a whole clump of time, he just sat there in the pulsing glow of the lights from 21st Avenue and listened to night sounds. Then he threw off his blanket and hurried down the hall. Late that night after the gifts were wrapped and hidden away, Diegos mother tiptoed into the dark kitchen. In the middle of the kitchen table was her cup and saucer, a teabag and sugar packet, and two Oreo cookies. Diego and his mother fell asleep that night with matching smiles.

The Bike

From my view of the world high in the tree, I hear Dad turn off the engine see him climb out of the car. I inch along the highest branch straddling the rough bark limb, push myself out as far as I dare go until it bends under the weight of me.

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A thread of sunlight finds me there but he cant see me. Through the leaves I watch him. lift the lid of the trunk, and reach in, yank-pull yank-pull, face contorted, him grunting, until it appears, orange and black, rusted wheels spinning in the air. It is big and ugly like he was last night when he saw with his eagles eye, me tip the plate and let my food slide

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into the garbage. He saw the slab of too red beef lying there and the tiny green peas roll along the folds of dirty paper towels roll into empty tin cans with sharp jagged edges. Sharp and jagged Like the edges of him. I almost get away but he grabs me by the neck of my shirt

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jerks me back to the garbage can. He says, Eat. He says it with angry grey eyes. He says it with hands that hit so hard I think I will break in two. Now I watch him take hold of the handle bars guide the bike along the sidewalk. A playing card clipped to the front wheel flutters and flaps flutters and flaps against the rusted spokes. I hear him call my name. He calls it twice his voice uncurls on summer air and finds me in my hiding spot.

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Him: Come on down here. Me: Him: Now, son. I scramble down. Stare at the crease in his old khaki pants put there by my mother with a hot iron on a hot day. I feel the pressure of his hand on my shoulder. Him: Got you a bike for your birthday. Me: Him: Im going to teach you to ride it. Me: Him: Climb on. Me: I take hold of the handle bars swing one leg over the seat. my toes barely touch the ground. I will fail

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I will fall I will fail I know I will fall I know I will fall off this big ugly bike. He will be mad like always always always. Him: Now, pedal. Nice and easy. Me: I find the pedals under my feet press down down down. The old bike moves forward an inch wobbles quivers leans. I watch me fall elbows grinding against tiny pebbles heart kicking like a rabbit against his will.

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Him: Come on, son. Give it another try. His voice sounds like sorry. His eyes look like sorry. He holds onto the back of the bike to steady it. The breeze stirs the grass and the curtains in the kitchen window where I see Mom watching curlers piled high her mouth in the shape of an O. She waves a plate and dish towel at me. My hair flips back out of my eyes I see clearly now the route I will take across the lawn in front of the house all the way to the fence on the other side. The whole world says your move so

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I try again. The pedals turn the rusty wheels squeak, my face is hot and sweaty but nothing terrible happens. Dad: Okay, a little faster. Me: Okay, Dad. He plods along beside the bike beside me beside me besides me. The handlebars wobble and twist. my palms sweat my fingers hurt from holding on so tight to the bike to him. I am pumping pumping pumping. Dad is loping along I hear him breathing harder and then I dont hear him at all. I dont feel his hand

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steadying the orange and black bike that glides along without stopping without tipping without falling. I ride and ride on my new bike until the sky turns gold and dusk nudges away the warmth of the sun.

Surrender

I stare into the mirror at my reflection, at yet another betrayal in this my twelth
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year. This will never do my voice yammers, telling me everyone will notice me nudged from childhood, taken prisoner by the tiniest of breasts, that cannot be hidden, under my pink leotard or crossed arms. I cannot dance with elbows bent across this cage of ribs where betrayal rises unbidden. I know it is the hiding that makes me most visible.

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Still, I tear two squares of toilet paper from the roll in the girls bathroom, slip them one at a time under my leotard like bandaids, like two white flags of surrender because I am being taken prisoner, held against my will at the gates of another world.

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The Picnic There are Ants on Jacks plate A Bee stung his nose His Cup sprung a leak Dirt got on his clothes and in his Eyes and on his Face Gum stuck to his shoe His Hat blew away His Ice cream is melting Its a horrible day. Theres Jam on his hands His Kites in a tree He fell of f a Log And skinned his left knee and elbow and chin. Now his Moms angry She yells out Jacks Name Come Over here now Stop being a Pain. Jack sits down on the Quilt

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Turns it into a Raft Sails out on the Seas In his own sturdy craft Land ho Lets go There is Treasure to find The young Urchin cries out Violet Waves toss his ship And he shouts, come about! X marks the right spot Jack says with delight gold flowers grow tall in Yellow sunlight they dance and sway Jack dives in the water And scrambles ashore And picks his Mom flowers One hundred or more Zinnias for me? She says with a smile Its time to go home Weve been here awhile

Lost and Found Violet wished she could be just like Lucy. Lucy could read and spell and catch the ball. Everyone liked Lucy. The teacher did not look at her with sad in her eyes. Lucy had lots of stuff too. She had a doll that came from China and funny coins her father got on his trip to England. Thats across the ocean, Lucy said. Violet plucked at the lose threads on her sweater where the buttons used to be. She looked at Lucys shiny black shoes that went tap, tap, tap when she walked across the floor. She looked at Lucys fancy bracelet. It sparkled when she raised her hand. It glittered when she passed out the crayon boxes. Children, the teacher said in her happy, happy voice, It's time for spelling,

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Violet curled her arm around the paper and hunched her shoulders. Her pencil made scratching, tapping sounds. She couldn't remember which crooked letter came next. She erased. The paper tore. Violet didn't want to see the worry in the teacher's eyes. She kept her head down. There it was, Lucys perfect bracelet lying there on the floor right next to her desk. Violet dropped her pencil. She bent over and picked it up and the bracelet too. She tried to write the last spelling word. Just then, Lucy raised her hand and told the teacher she lost her bracelet. Lucy started to cry. My mother will be angry, she sobbed. The teacher asked everyone to look for the bracelet. She got an empty cardboard box and called it Lost and Found. Violet stayed in her seat while everyone looked. She squeezed the bracelet tighter and tighter. It pinched her fingers. Violet waited. Lucy cried. Everyone searched. Then Violet stood up and walked over to the Lost and Found box. She opened her hand and let the bracelet fall through her fingers. The teacher's eyes smiled. Lucy stopped crying. Thank you for finding my bracelet, she said. Do you want to play at recess? Violet asked Sure, Lucy said. Do you want to wear my bracelet?

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Oh Henry! C C C C C Crash!
Henry What was that? Sorry Mommy. Its okay Henry. Just get me the broom.

S S S S S S Scratch, scribble, scribble

Oh Henry, what did I tell you about that? Huh? Henry? UmmI forget. I know Henry. Put the crayon back in the box and go get a sponge.

W W W W wriggle, wriggle Pitter, patter,

Henry! Thatsthats Henry, Stop!

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Why? Henry, put that worm down now.

Plop, wriggle, wriggle

Mom? What? Mom? I said what? Can I have some juice? Okay, but dont spill.

Glug, glug, splash

Mom, I Its okay Henry. I can clean it up Mommy. Thats a good boy, Henry. Mom? Yes, Henry? I have to pee. Okay, okay, Henry. Lets go quickly this time Mom? Stay here Mom. Henry, Ill be right in the kitchen. Hold on this time. Okay? Henry? Okay? Uh huh.

Splash
Mom? Im busy right now, Henry. Mom? Later Henry. Im busy right now. Mom? Yes, Henry?

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I need a hug.

Oh Henry!

My Grandmother is An Artist My brother and I like to go to Grandmas loft. She is an artist. She paints and sculpts in her studio in Chinatown in New York City. She always says, New York City is the center of the universe, and I wouldnt want to live any where else. People say my Grandma is eccentric. Eccentric means odd. I dont think Grandma is odd. I think Grandma is creative. When we go out for a walk, she takes her rolling cart. Grandma has a good eye. We find lots of stuff on the streets in New York City. We find wood and cardboard and and boxes of broken things.

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She puts the stuff in her cart and brings it back to her studio. She makes it into art with paint, and nails, and glue, and imagination. On Saturday mornings Grandma gives us art lessons. We stand at easels in front of tall, windows full of bright, light. Our canvasses are fresh and white. The brushes are clean. We have tubes of paint in all different colors. We are ready to be creative too. Outside we hear car horns blare. Dogs barking. We look out the windows. No boondoggling today. Lets get to work, work, work, She always it three times. I paint a dragon. My brother paints planets spinning in space. When our art lesson is over Grandma gets to work, work, work. My brother and I get to make anything we can imagine. We cut holes in cardboard boxes for our heads, arms, and legs and pretend we are turtles. Grandma sketches us in her artists notebook. Wonderful, she shouts. Then we sit in the boxes and read. Grandma sketches. Fabulous, she says. We make a cat elevator out of a box.

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The cat doesnt like it. Grandma doesnt like it either. She makes us take it down. We make a catapult out of wood and rubber bands. We launch beads into the air for the cat to chase. Grandma says, Clean those up. I dont want to step on them with my bare feet. We draw train tracks right on the floor with artists charcoal and pull each other around in cardboard box tied together with rope. We make boats to float in the bathtub, and swords to fight off monsters. At night, we make a tent out of sheets and a tablecloth. We camp out with flashlights and read books until we fall asleep in Grandmas artists studio.

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Summer Night Dusk nudged its way through the open windows as Lily carried the large pickle jar up the stairs. Through holes punched in the lid rose the sweet scent of blades of grass and warm summer air. Lily placed the jar on a nearby table. Ouma? Lily said, thrusting her head through the neck hole of her nightgown. Yes? Did I punch enough holes in the lid? Yes, she replied, as she turned back the old, worn quilt and fluffed the pillow. Lily quickly slipped between the cool sheets. Her grandmothers face, now a wedge of wrinkles, pressed against Lilys cheek to kiss her goodnight. Sweeping in the details of the room partially obscured by soft summer shadows, Lily finally allowed her eyes to rest on the twinkling jar. Ouma? Is there enough grass? There is more than enough.

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Are they sad because they dont have room to fly? Lily pulled herself up onto one elbow and looked into Oumas eyes as deep as the core of a flame. They will be alright for a little while, Ouma said finally. How long is a little while? Ouma thrust her hands into the oversized pockets of her red house dress. She looked like she was getting ready to say something important, but instead she just hummed, her voice satiny and low. Lilly lowered her gaze to the two muddy patches on the front of her grandmothers red dress. That morning they had carried the flower picking basket to the garden, knelt in the warmth of the earth and picked peppermint leaves to put in their iced tea. I had fun in the garden, Lilly said. And what about the rest of the day? Ouma inquired, plucking at the specks of dirt that dusted the front of her dress. How did that go? Smiling, Lily thought about how, after walking to the mailbox and back, theyd sat on the front porch drenched in sunlight and sweat and sipped iced tea with peppermint leaves. Lily listened to Oumas stories like it was the first time shed ever heard them. Later, shed played outside until constellations of yellow bug stars filled the evening sky. It was a good day for me, but not such a good day for them, Lily sighed, nodding towards the jar. Ouma nodded, too. I guess this is a little while, Lily said. Her grandmother nodded again.

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Standing at the open window, Lily and her grandmother set the yellow bugs free into the gathering twilight and lingered there as they turned into tiny stars and danced away on the wind.

Everybodys Got an Angle

Hey, what are you doing? said Tape Measure to Angle.

Today, Im being the horizon. Its very restful. I can just stretch out here, a straight 180 degrees, and I dont mean Fahrenheit. Yesterday I was extremely busy, but today Im resting. Besides, the sun needs me right now so it knows where to set. Now go away.

Well, I think youre just being kind of lazy, said Tape Measure.

Well, I think youre being kind of obtuse, said Angle sitting up slightly and resting on his elbows. What have you done lately that was more useful than helping the sun?

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I dont think I like being called obtuse. Besides, Iwell I I helped those builders over there measure boards so they could build that house. They couldnt have done it without me. I had to stretch all the way up to 144 inches today. Thats 12 feet you know. Thats much more important than just laying here all straight and flat even if you do have a fancy name for it and all, said Tape Measure.

Oh yeah, thats what you think. I helped build that house, too. Just look at those windows and doors. I helped with every one of them. When Im tired of being a straight angle, I just sit up perfectly tall and then, presto-chango, Im a 90 degree angle. A 90 degree angle is very useful indeed. Just look around and see how right I am.

You can do all that? said the Tape Measure feeling somewhat outdone. Thats really cool. I can do lots of things, too. I can be one foot or 12 inches, and I can be 2 feet or 24 inches, and I can be 3 feet or 36 inches. Three feet is so special that it has two names. Its also called a yard. And, you know what else Mr. Smarty Angle? Kids love me. They draw me on walls to see how tall theyre getting. Im probably on a wall in almost every house in the world, boasted Tape Measure.

Wow But you know what, Tape Measure? Kids like me, too. I can be kind of acute if you know what I mean. Kids love skateboarding, and they like to build ramps, and thats where I come in. Just put me at about a 25 degree angle, and Im all about fun and speed.

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Well Im good at sports too! Ever hear of the long jump or the 100 yard dash. It wouldnt be happening without me there to measure. And hey! What about football? said Tape Measure.

Football? I didnt know you were into football, Tape Measure. Me too! I always advise football players to throw that ball as hard as they can at a 45 degree angle. That way it goes the greatest number of yards. Thats me. Thats me! Im the yards in the football game, shouted Tape Measure. You know Angle, I think I remember seeing you on the roof of that house. Did you work up there the other day?

Of course I did, said Angle. How could the builders make a sloping roof without knowing the angle? Just check out the peak on that house over there.

Did you work on the steps, too?

Yeah, sure man. Did you?

I sure did, said Tape Measure.

It sounds like we have a lot in common, said Angle.

Hey. It sure does. Im sorry I called you lazy.

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Thats okay. Im more obtuse than youll ever be, Tape Measure.

The Frog Pond

Siobhan spent winter nights sitting with her grandmother in the firelight in the tiny cabin in Maine. The winds came in savage gusts rattling-fiercely the little house.

Still, her grandmother spoke softly-words tipping and tumbling into the warmth of the room.

The clickety-clack of the needles knitted yarn into knots, each knot a word

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in one of her long stories. Later, Siobhan and her grandmother always shared a pot of tea.

Siobhans grandmother taught her how to spin the wool theyd cut from the mountain sheep. The wheel turned steady as a cats purr, tick, tick, whir.

Out of that wool Siobhans grandmother knitted her a sweater and socksclickety-clackmittens thick enough to warm her hands on the sledding trailclickety-clackand a scarf long enough to wrap around her neck three times to tame the mountain winds. Brrrrrr.

And when Siobhan was very, very young, her grandmother made her a special blanket. It was knitted in squares the color of sweet raspberries that grew on the mountainside in summer, squares the color of the greatsighing evergreens, and sun-dappled woods in autumn.

One bitter November night, Siobhans grandmother gathered all the old wool sweaters they could spare.

She stared at the pile. Her hands perched steady on her strong wide hips.

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What are you doing? Siobhan asked.

This is good wool, Siobhan. Good wool like this can go back in the frog pond. It can be knitted again into something new.

Come child. Ill rip-it, and you can wind the wool into bundles for washing.

Rip-it. Rip-it! You sound like a frog Grandma, Siobhan laughed.

Grandmother sighed.

Theres a family living on the other side of the mountain, she said. They work hard, but with five children to take care of, there isnt much money left over. I want to make sweaters for all of them, by Christmas if possible.

I want to help! said Siobhan.

After dinner each night, Siobhan sat at her grandmothers feet.

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Her grandmother worked quicklyrip-it, rip-it. Siobhan wound the wool around and around until there were many bundles.

When all of the old sweaters had been unraveled, Siobhan counted the bundles. Grandmother said they would need twenty-nine. There were only twenty-one.

Oh dear, Grandmother said. This wont do, and there isnt enough time to spin more wool. One of the children will not get a sweater.

Siobhan wrapped her own sweater tighter around her appreciating the warmth.

Maybe we can find something else, Siobhan said.

Ive already looked child, her grandmother said frowning. Well have to make due.

Siobhan stood by the window and looked out at the shimmering snow.

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Grandma? she said, then paused to blow warm breath onto the glass. With her finger she traced a five pointed star.

Grandma, I know where we can get more wool.

There isnt another thing to spare, Siobhan.

Yes. There is. We can put the wool from my blanket in the frog pond. Ill help rip-it.

Her grandmother sighed. Yes, she said. That would make enough.

Siobhan took the blanket out of the trunk and held it for a moment.

Here, she said handing the blanket to her grandmother.

Grandmother cut the first knot and pulled on the yarn. Siobhan watched.

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The squares began to unravel. Siobhan took hold of the yarn as it fell to the floor in ripples of mountain colors. She wrapped it into bundles and thought about how warm the soft wool had kept her.

When they were finished, Siobhan counted the bundles again. This time there were thirty-two, more than enough.

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

By Christmas Eve morning, Siobhan and her grandmother wrapped five new sweaters in brown paper. They wrote each childs name with a green crayon.

There was one extra package. Here Siobhan, Grandmother said. There was enough wool from your old blanket to make a hat for you.

Siobhan and her grandmother bundled up for the long walk and set out to make a delivery.

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The Stallion and the Milky Way Mrs. Baker stood at the front of the classroom with a sharpened yellow pencil in each hand. Moon, come here please, she said. Moon didnt move. Come here, Moon, Mrs. Baker repeated. Moon stood and followed her behind the piano that jutted out into the room. In the secret-teacher-space behind it, Mrs. Baker used the points of the pencils to peck at strands of Moons hair. Moon, your hair is dirty. Mrs. Baker scolded. When you get home, you hop in the bathtub and wash it. Ill check again tomorrow.

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Moon was silent. She marched back to her seat. The other kids looked. They whispered. They laughed at the new girl. As soon as Moon got home, she ran into the sunlight, freed from school, freed from whispers. She ran like there was no Mrs. Baker, and no tomorrow, and no homelessness. The stallion was there waiting for her. He lifted his wings as she took told hold of his silver bridle and led him from behind the gas station to the open field. She spoke softly, but he was particularly restless this day. He pranced and tossed his silver mane. The stallion was strong and unafraid. Steady boy, she said, climbing onto his back. Sitting tall, Moon urged him forward. They cantered along. Faster and faster they raced into the woods far beyond the abandoned shack where she lived with her mother and little brother. They galloped along first jumping over fallen tree trunks, then soaring over the little school where Mrs. Baker was still sharpening pencils and finally over the glittering

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Milky Way. When they had worn themselves out, Moon guided the stallion home. She patted his broad neck and whispered to him. He snorted and promised to wait until she returned, until she needed him again. Moon found her mother hanging wash over an old jump rope shed tied between two trees. The hose was still running into the wash bucket. Where have you been? Just riding my bike, Moon said thinking about the flying stallion and the shimmering stars and tomorrow when she could ride him again.

The Knight and the Windmills

from The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote De La Mancha by Miguel Cervantes Saavedra retold by Kristin Quisgard Every night, the tall, thin man imagined monsters and giants traipsing about the land saw in his fitful dreams their sharp claws and snapping, drooling jaws. Saw the princess in distress and knew he had to rescue her. And so it was that Senor Quezada decided to read as many books as possible about being a knight-errant, a knight looking for adventure. He even sold most of his land to buy more books. He read about the Knight of the Blazing Sword who with a single backstroke, cut two colossal giants in half. He read books from sun-up until sun-down. All he did was

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read. (Children, he read so many books that his brains dried up. Has anyone ever told you this could happen? You try reading what he read, but be careful!)

The reason for the unreason to which my reason turns so weakens my reason that with reason I complain of thy beauty. Convinced by all of the reading hed done that he was truly a knight (After all children, you are what you think you are), he decided he needed a couple of things to complete his quest. He needed a horse and a name for the old nag. He called her Roziante. (Names are important. Think about your own name.) Before he could set off on his quest, though, he needed armor for protection in battle against the giants. After rummaging around in the attic, he found his grandfathers old, broken armor. Although dusty, misshapen, and moldy he cleaned and repaired the shield, the helmet without its visor, a sword and a lance. The-would-be-knight even hit himself in the head a few times to see if the helmet would do its job even though he had to tie it to his head with string to keep it on. Next, he needed a princess for whom to fight (Knights were never loveless you know). He chose a peasant to be his Princess in Distress and so named her Dulcinea of Toboso because it had as beautiful a sound as that of his horse. Finally, he needed an attendant and so chose Sancho Panza, an honest man, to be his squire. Things being thus ordered, he had want for just one more thing. Now that his horse and the princess had names of distinction, he needed a name befitting a brave knighta name worthy to be known the whole world over and remembered for all of eternity. After eight stressful days, he finally decided to call himself Don Quixote of La Mancha.

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Don Quixote was ready to take up his lance. (Thats a long wooden spear with a sharp metal head suitable for stabbing monsters.) Ready to defend the helpless and destroy the wicked, he mounted his steed (Thats a horse, guys) and set out on his quest. Sancho followed along on his tiny donkey. Don Quixote wanted to become so famous that the entire world would know who he wasthe entire world would honor him for his chivalry. (Chivalry means acting like a knight.) The knight and his squire traveled for many miles and had several ridiculous and rare adventures, as well as some that were dreadful and unimaginable. Presently, they came upon thirty or forty giants standing ready to do battle in the countryside. Good fortune is guiding our affairs. Look there my friend. I intend to do battle with those giants. We will grow rich when news of this victory travels to the four corners of the world, Don Quixote said. What giants are you talking about? Sancho inquired, puzzling over his masters comments. Those over there with the four long arms. Prepare to attack, Don Quixote yelled. Your grace. They are windmills not giants. What you call arms are sails that are turned by the wind to make the grindstone move, Sancho explained. You are not well-versed in matters of adventure. They most certainly are giants, and if you are afraid, stand aside whilst I bring them to their knees. With his call to battle, Don Quixote spurred his horse in the ribs. (The old nag moved as fast as she could under the weight of the knight, but it wasnt very fast.) Dedicating his victory to the Princess Dulcinea, the knight charged the enemy attacking the

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first beast he came to. He jabbed his lance into the canvas sail and heard the monster yelp in pain. Suddenly, a gust of wind got the windmill to turning. The lance shattered. The horse and the knight were thrust into the air and then dropped to the ground with such force that neither could move. Sancho shouted, I will save you! I will save you! He trotted over on his donkey as fast as he could. Master, didnt I tell you those were just windmills? They are not giants as you seem to believe. Sancho said kneeling at Don Quixotes side. Of course they are monsters. You do not see it because they are under the spell of my enemy, the wizard Feston. He has turned them into windmills to deprive me of this victory and to make me look foolish. Don Quixote stood up slowly and with Sanchos help mounted Roziante whose back was nearly broken in the fall. The knight sat crookedly in the saddle. Sancho mounted his donkey and followed his master down the path. Master. You should sit a little straighter in the saddle. Are you in pain? You know Sancho, the road to victory and honor is fraught with danger. A real knight-errant does not complain. Let us go on bravely to the next adventure, said Don Quixote.

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