Junior / Features – Page 2 – Philadelphia Stories

Prodigy

Falling. Falling into darkness. It won’t end. There is no end. I keep going. The wind makes my spine crawl. I feel my heart beating. It’s in my throat. I clench my fists. Force a smile on my face. When the bottom comes I want to be…

I jolt. This room, its full of light. I’m back. It was just a dream. But it felt so real. I could feel myself plummeting down.

Why is it so silent? Not a whisper being spoken nor a footstep placed. Mom should be home, its Sunday. Dad doesn’t go to work on Sundays until late. There will probably be a note on the kitchen counter written on thin paper with sharpie so it bled through onto the white granite. Mom always does that.

My room is hot, uncomfortably hot. The heat can’t be on, it’s August. I push open the glass window to let the fresh, windy breeze in. But there is none. Just heat.

On the counter, there’s no note. But there is a piece of paper. Scrawled across the paper are notes. Music notes. They aren’t in any pattern though. They just seem to stretch across the page, blown around and left there. As scattered as possible and still on the staff lines.

In the middle of the page there are five words written, barely legible. I know nobody with that handwriting. It reads: Someday soon you’ll understand.

I take it to the piano. Now that I look at it, it’s pretty simple. Only three notes. B, E, and G. Odd combination though. B, E, G. G, B, E. they slowly get softer. Since I started playing, I’ve known of that soft touch. My teacher told me about that talent when I was three. He called me a prodigy. At the time, I had no idea what he meant. A prodigy. It was an interesting word. I just loved to sit down and play. Just let out myself into the keys. That was about the time I refused to talk.

Now they are too soft. I’m not playing it that way. I pound it. nothing. I glide my finger over the key. Nothing. What is happening. The birds stop singing. I need to hear the music. I need it. It’s my air. It’s what I need to breathe. Is it the piano, or is it me. I’m still playing: Painted Glass, the first song I composed. I was four. Instead of getting that rush, feeling the connection, being one with the piano, I feel nothing.

My sight goes blurry. I’m sobbing. I scream. I need to hear something. Anything. My feet lift me. The faucet in the bathroom is on, but I hear no water. Nothing. I can’t hear the creak of the floorboard, I can’t hear the piano. I can’t hear. Looking up, I see a monster. Red face, blue eyes popping out of a head. Wet streaks down cheeks. Crooked teeth.

The piano calls me back. I pound. No song, just notes. Anything. I try the new piece again. B, E, G. B, E, G. Nothing. I hear nothing.

Music is how I speak. Now, I can’t hear what I say.

B, E, G. Someday soon, you’ll understand. B, E, G. Someday soon, you’ll understand.

I need to beg. That means I need to talk. I can’t beg if I don’t talk. But how will I know what to say? How will I know if I sound right? I need to beg to hear.

Who in their twisted mind would do this to me? Who gave me that music? I’m sobbing so hard I feel my body shake.

Wait. I run through the living room into the kitchen, rip all of the papers out of the drawers. I need that prescription, the one Doctor Clay gave me. This is his handwriting on the music. Its undeniable.

He found something. That test he did. He knew something was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell me. How could he? How could he not tell his own patient that she would lose her hearing? How could he do this to me? Is this really Dr. Clay’s way of getting me to talk? Anything else but this. Take away anything, but you take away my music, my hearing then you may as well take away my life.

Maria Dulin is a student at Villa Maria Academy and one of the winners of the first “Teens Take the Park” writing contest.

Oakey

I wrote my first story sitting under the oak tree as tall as the Empire State Building.

I might have been ten years old, but it’s hard to remember now, three years later. My memory is so fogged, I can’t even remember what the story was about. I have lost so many notebooks over the years, including the one that story was written in. I think it had a kitten on it like most of the school supplies my mom purchased. My handwriting probably was scrawled across the page, erratic. That’s how I was then. Jumping around, running, and playing.

But all that’s beside the point. The point is the oak tree.

For the past three years, I’ve been going to that oak tree almost every day. I discovered her by happenstance once while my family and I were taking a walk after dinner. At that first walk, maybe a few months before I started dropping by, I hated the oak tree. She was in a little clearing where the sun poked at her body, but even that didn’t enhance her figure. I had to squint to look at her, and that didn’t help either. She was too tall and too wide, too shady and too cool, and far, far, far too ugly and too plain. She needed some care, or a good pruning. If only some cared enough.

Some kind soul did care enough. One day in March when the weather began to turn lamb-like, we drove past the oak tree. Most of the dead limbs that had blackened with age and disease were gone, lying in a tied bundle beside the curb. Now the oak tree looked polished. I knew she had been there for years, but now she had a certain charm. Before, she was just scraggly. Now she was almost antique. A vintage tree. What a strange, novel idea.

I made it a point to make the walk up to the oak tree sometime that week. The time didn’t come until the weekend, though, and even then it had to be in the evening because of lack of time. The clouds were the color of orange sherbet and the consistency of cotton that day. They looked almost good enough to eat and shaded the meadow, making it just the right amount of cool. Breeze rippled the tall grass and the flaxen heads of wheat bent to reveal golden undersides. The way the blades moved in unison looked like a wave.

My legs ached climbing up the big hill to the tree. I had to see her, I had to. I wanted to try to wrap my arms around her solid trunk and itch my belly against the patterned circumference. I wanted to drink in the sweet, dull smell of buds burgeoning on the thick branches. I wanted to lose myself in the tree’s essence. Somehow the oak tree seemed much more appealing up close. She seemed like the only unique tree in the small, lime green, sunlit meadow because of her enormousness, hardiness, and branches that tended towards the ground. They looked like dozens of human arms with dark, peeling skin.

I was armed with a pen tucked in my hair like I’d seen journalists do and a notebook only. I planned to draw something, a landscape. Under a tree in a meadow would be the easiest place, I figured. It was submerged in nature and no one would be around. I could be alone.

At first, the tree loomed high above me like a skyscraper and I was afraid somewhere deep in my heart. When the fear passed, the tree looked like something more. She was not a skyscraper. She looked almost inviting, comfortable. I stayed under her canopy of skeletal branches for as long as I was allowed. I had to be home to do important things like homework, but I promised to visit old Oakey whenever I could. The moments of tranquility I’d experienced with her were an escape. I could go there and not be nagged or bothered by anyone or anything besides the repetitive songs of crickets. It felt good to get away for a little while in a place no one else knew about or could take. The tree was all mine.

When it rained or was too cold to see the tree, I dreamt about her and wrote about her. I dreamt that someday I would climb high into her branches like a sparrow and sit there feeding off of the tree’s energy and spirit. All trees have a spirit, but the oak tree’s was special in some way. She was content to be alive, thriving, and growing. The oak tree was a kindred spirit.

Oakey grew more old and gnarled over the three years I visited her. She was starting to lean over like a giant sunflower and her trunk broke out in knobs. I tried to soothe her but I could tell she was aging with alarming alacrity and soon her spirit would be sapped away and carried along her roots. It worried me more than the math test tomorrow.

Exactly three years to the day I started visiting Oakey, I woke up and felt her crying. It wasn’t the kind of awakening where you roll over and think, I can sleep in five more minutes, no. It was panic. I tore myself out of bed and didn’t bother to get dressed. My fingers fumbled to tie my sneakers in the laundry room. I knew they would get me there the fastest. Oakey’s cries grew louder and more frantic as I started running for her. I cried out and screamed, “Oakey! Hold on, I’m coming.” She didn’t hear me. She was too upset.

I reached the fence that blocked off the clearing from the road and saw several faded orange trucks lined up on the street. A few men were leaning on an enormous machine that looked like a cement turner. They wore reflective neon lime vests, sunglasses, and hardhats. I clambered over the split rail fence and over the hill that was so steep you had to walk on your toes or else your calves would burn like fire. The grass was still slick from dew and I slipped a few times getting to Oakey, but I made it over the hill.

A crew of workmen with chainsaw, pulleys, and masks were taking down my tree. They had already cut a sliver out of her left side to make it fall right. The sight churned a muddy panic in my stomach. I was rooted to the spot, much like a tree. I watched as Oakey was taken down, unable to do anything besides. Here was my only private spot that was all mine being robbed away by mean men in ugly vests. I wanted to scream and protest but my tongue was a worm on dry gravel. The chainsaws growled as the men started them and shrieked like firecrackers when they hit Oakey. I couldn’t hear her crying anymore. She was already dead, murdered. The men lassoed high onto her crown to pull her onto the ground and the last string holding her together snapped.

She fell like a great ship.

Celeste Flahaven is a student at Villa Maria Academy and one of the winners of the first “Teens Take the Park” writing contest.

Goodbye

“William, you’re running late!” his mother yelled up the stairs.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Will said, opening his eyes and peeling himself off his bed. He still hadn’t packed; he’d just put off the inevitable.

He strode over to his closet and tried to calm his nerves. Will wrenched open the door, prepared for the usual mountain of junk that came flying out. He winced as his trombone smacked his shins. His mom would be in for a surprise when she came to clean out his stuff. Will pushed the thought aside as he dug through a pile of clothes. Eventually, he found what he was looking for.

He pulled his half-zipped suitcase out from under an old skateboard. God, what was that stench? Will began haphazardly stuffing clothes into his suitcase, not bothering to fold them. He’d lived in Westmouth, South Carolina his entire life. Never once had he left the small town. But now, he was leaving, once and for all. Will couldn’t necessarily say this was how he had expected to leave, and he hadn’t slept a wink the previous night, dreading his departure.

He’d gotten the phone call early one morning. In fact, it had awakened him from a pleasant dream about an eagle in flight, swooping through the air before him. At first, he’d had to pinch himself to be sure he wasn’t still dreaming. The voice on the other end of the phone just didn’t seem real. Will remembered sliding down onto the floor, his back against the wall, the phone clutched to his ear by his white-knuckled hand. That was the phone call that had changed his life forever.

Will slammed his suitcase shut and surveyed his room one last time. The walls were painted black, and the ceiling was covered with glow-in-the-dark stars. A few beat-up paperbacks sat on his bookshelf. His Star Wars alarm clock barely illuminated the room with the faint glow it was emitting. At last, Will’s eyes rested on the only photograph in the room. It was a bit battered, but Will didn’t mind. The picture displayed three grinning faces: his 5-year-old sister, Lily, his 17-year-old brother, Mark, and himself. It had been taken a few weeks ago, before Will knew he would be leaving.

Will gingerly picked up the photo, as if it was in danger of disintegrating in his hand, and pocketed it. His head snapped up when he heard the floor creak outside his door. Mark stood there, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Are you ready? Mom’s having a panic attack,” he said, surveying Will’s nearly empty room.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Will said, avoiding his brother’s gaze.

“Well, come on, then,” Mark muttered, crossing the room in three strides and grabbing Will’s suitcase.

“What do you have in here?” Mark demanded as the two brothers stomped down the stairs. “It feels like two dead bodies and a hand.”

Will felt a lump rising in his throat, prohibiting him from forming words. The lump seemed to double in size when he reached the kitchen, where his mother and Lily were sitting. He fought to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over as his little sister streaked across the room into his arms. Almost immediately, he felt his shirt grow moist from Lily’s tears.

“Please don’t go, Will,” she pleaded, her red, puffy eyes meeting his.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, disentangling himself from her monkey-like grip and planting a kiss on the top of her head. Taking hold of his bag, Sergeant William Mercier, of the U.S. Air Force, walked through the door for the last time.

Olivia McCloskey is one of the winners of the first “Teens Take the Park” writing contest.

Richer Writing-Personification

We all know that animals can’t talk, right? Or can they? Have you ever found yourself having a conversation with your cat or dog, or another type of pet that you might own? In a way, your pet does talk to you, either through a look, a bark, a meow or whatever noise your particular pet may be able to make. I believe that any people think their animals communicate with them without actually saying words. But what if animals could speak? What would they say? These are questions that have fired the imagination of writers for almost as long as there have been writers. Writer who have animals talk in their books and stories are using a literary technique called personification.

When I think of talking animals, two particular works come to mind: The Redwall books by Brian Jaques and Martha Speaks by Susan Meddaugh. I find the Redwall books interesting because, not only do the animals speak, they also have human characteristics. Some are good, some are bad.

Some are nice and some are mean, just like people. In the Martha books, I especially love the idea that Martha gains the ability to speak by eating alphabet soup. Children’s literature is filled with books and stories which use personification as a literary technique. But what about adult literature?

One of my favorite examples of personification in adult literature is a book called La Jument Vert, or The Green Pony. It was written by Marcel Ayme, a humorous French writer. The entire book is told from the point of view of a painting of a green pony that hangs on the wall in the living room of a French farmhouse. The pony tells us all about the family who lives in the farmhouse. Most of it is pretty embarrassing because the family doesn’t know the pony is watching them, and many of their family secrets are revealed. This particular novel also goes to show you that when using the technique of personification, it is not only animals that can tell a story. A painting can be the protagonist (or main character) of the story and give the main point of view. A tree could tell a story, or a rock, or even a cloud. When I was a kid I once wrote a story told from the point of view of a pair of sneakers. They had gotten separated in the locker room after gym class, and, alas, they despaired of ever finding each other again! I think it all worked out in the end, but really, I wrote it so long ago I can’t actually remember.

How about you? Have you ever written a story using personification? If you haven’t, you might want to give it a try. It can be a wonderful way to make your writing richer. If your pet were to tell a story, what story would it tell? How about the computer in your house? If it could report on what it sees every day, what would that tory be? Give it a try. Until next time, I wish you richer writing.

Teresa Sari FitzPatrick is a writer and board member of Philadelphia Stories, Jr.

A Thin Sheet of Glass

A bone-chilling gust of wind swept over my cheeks as the door to the store jingled. I looked up from the cash register as a short, thin, and rather ashen-looking woman stepped onto the threshold of the Wawa. She wore a long, dark, down winter jacket, with a purple little scarf fastened up to her nose. Her dirty blonde hair fell in waves over her shoulders. I placed a handful of change into the hands of a customer, closed the register with my hip and chimed, as was customary:

“Hello! Welcome to Wawa!” The lady looked up and noticed me. She smiled, or, more accurately, grimaced, a little distractedly. Outside, a Chevrolet Camaro hummed in the parking lot – smoke furling out of its exhaust pipes and emitting loud, earsplitting music whose bass made the floor tremor and the windows rattle. She walked over to the coffee and began pouring herself a regular. She cast an anxious look out the window, standing on her toes in an effort to see over the shelves. The coffee flowed over the brim of her cup, splashing onto the counter. She let out a bit of a yelp as the hot, brown liquid stained her fingers. She glanced over at me, but I pretended not to have noticed. She mopped it up with a handful of napkins. Then she added sugar – and lots of it. She tried on every lid until she found the right size. She then approached the cashier counter, teetering unstably on her heels. The unmistakable smell of smoke wafted from off her jacket

“Will this be all?” I asked as she placed her coffee on the counter and pulled out her credit card.

“Yes…yes this will be all, Miss,” She cast an anxious glance out the window again. The car window was now open, with a trail of smoke curling out of it. A hand appeared as the source was dropped, smoking, onto the pavement. The lady snapped her attention back to me and stammered:

“On second thought, some nicotine patches please,” she directed my attention to brand. I rung her up and handed her the bag.

“Have a nice day.”

“Th-thanks,” she stammered. As she shuffled to the door, the driver-side door of the Camaro popped open. A tall, stocky, and rather scruffy middle-aged man stepped out impatiently. As she walked out the door, the man approached her angrily. As the hydraulic door began to shut, only the first few of the man’s words managed to reach my ears;

“What the hell took you so long, woman? I have things to do and places to be!” The doors clicked shut, muting his lips – yet they continued to talk vehemently. Through the one-way glass of the windowpanes, I saw the woman cower, shaking like a leaf in a storm, anticipating the gust of wind that would separate her from her branch. It was the woman, now, who was talking. Based on her lips, I could tell she was talking, or, more likely stammering, very quickly. I stood still at the register – the store completely unoccupied. The manager had gone to the back room to take account of the stock, and the lanky deli boy had stepped out to take a quick, five-minute break.

I turned back toward the window, aware that they could not see me watching their quarrel. The lady reached into the little plastic bag, still trembling. She pulled out the nicotine patches, thrusted them at the man, and looked anxiously up into his eyes. In a flash of fury, the man knocked the box out of the woman’s hands. They landed in a puddle next to his car that still vibrated with loud music. She recoiled, anticipating an aftershock. It came fast and relentlessly to her cheek. I dug my nails into the counter, looking frantically around the store for anybody who could help. What could I do? I recalled Benjamin Franklin’s famous advice: “Those who in quarrels interpose, often must wipe a bloody nose.” I looked again at the people outside. The man’s face had turned beet-red, and the woman had begun to whimper and cry, her cheek stained pink. She turned and looked straight at me through the window. While she could not see me, she managed to find my eyes. My nails dug deeper into the counter. I knew what I should do, but I was also aware of what I could do. The man was still yelling mercilessly as I disappeared into the back room to get the manager.

When I returned with him, the Camaro was gone, along with the man and the woman. The manager looked at me and shrugged. He returned back to the storage room. Yet I remained standing, motionless in the middle of a vacant Wawa, wondering why I hadn’t tried to do something sooner, why I had not stepped in, and how things might have been different, were it not for the thin sheet of glass that had separated me from the couple.

Madeline Bowne has won two C-Span awards for her documentary videos. In 2011, she won 3rd place for her Math Education in the Crossroads. In 2012, she won 2nd place for her documentary on the 19th Amendment. She also won 3rd place in the WHYY Youth Media Awards for her video Perfect Child. Her first poem, “Waiting for Autumn,” was published in the Philadelphia Inquirer when she was in 4th grade. She created her school newspaper for Clearview Middle School in Mullica Hill, and then moved to Cherry Hill and joined the newspaper staff. A pianist and clarinetist, she made All South Jersey band for 2012. An Honors student, she plans to attend Cherry Hill East in the fall.

Six-Word Memoirs

The following six-word memoirs were written by young people ages 6-15 during Tree House Books’ Tree Shade Summer Project, Conversations in the Garden: What’s Your Story. Campers wrote their own stories, expressed their story through different art projects, and interviewed longtime members of the North Central Philadelphia community. Tree House Books’ mission is to grow and sustain a community of readers, writers, and thinkers in North Central Philadelphia.”

Greg, age 10
That gold trophy will be mine.

Kurtis, age 15
In the footsteps of a leader.

Victoria, age 15
Tree House guides my future.

Nia, age 12
To me, it’s cheer or die.

Trinetta, age 10
I like Tree House Books projects.

Musadeq, age 14
I’m the next Tree House JSM.

Najwan, age 12
I am creative and love art.

Marisol, age 6:
I like doing better and better

Tatyana, age 9
My mom helps keep me safe.

Sameer, age 8
I would play in a tree.

Haley, age 9
Reading is a path to intelligence.

Hamzah, age 8
I love to tell people stories.

Meadow, age 8
I love Tree House Books.

Morgan, age 9
I love to ride my bike.

Kaseem, age 7
I like my scooter and water ice.

Laila, age 8
I love my brothers and sisters.

Nadira, age 9
I’m glad to be a sister.

Jamirah, age 7
Jumping on my street is fun.

Sinyae, age 8
I love to be a reader.

Milah, age 8
My mom is a vegetarian person.

Shaeef, age 8
Tree House Books helps me succeed.

Celina, age 14
I believe in making a difference.

The Old Man and the Fish

The old man sat at the table across from his wife, his head slowly drooping beneath his hunching shoulders. It was his birthday, and she’d decided to take him out to one of his favorite restaurants to celebrate. She’d scurried around all morning—confirming reservations, inviting friends, calling family and enforcing a dress code that “should have been taken care of by the restaurant anyway.” She wore the highest heels her old knees could bare, resurrected every corner of her makeup table, and sported a “sexy” black dress which, as the salesman had put it, made her look twenty years younger; a comment she so loved to regurgitate to the amusement of her family.

Smiles swelled around the old man- nearly too many to bear. He never did care for his wife’s side of the family; or his side for that matter. Noise swelled his ears as lively conversations unfolded in front of him. He let his head fall heavily into his outstretched hands- to rest for just a moment. But the restaurant skidded quickly as, in a flash, every head at the table turned and beamed toward a young waiter emerging, cake in hand, from the kitchen. The room grew quiet as every pair of eyes surfaced from conversation, intrigued by the glorious candles slowly swaying before the old man.

He picked his up head from his feet, allowing his eyes to focus steadily through the window of his glasses. The pixels of surrounding faces slowly came into focus- his wife’s overwhelming lipstick; the waiter anxiously watching; the others diners looking on, as if granting approval for him to continue. And amidst all this roaring silence he found time to turn his head slowly toward the fish tank in the center of the room…

His heavy eyes pierced the thick glass, floated amidst the bubbles and grime of a thriving underwater city. Glorious colors of fish flew by in a highway current before disappearing into the blanket of blue. Crabs slowly groped the sandy bottom, carefully avoiding the silhouetted impressions of dozing starfish. And soon one particular fish caught his eye: one small speckled flesh floating anxiously amidst the hue of coral. Its fins danced in a slow quiver, as if struggling to remain in place, to resist the powerful tug of the tanks current. It seemed coldly alone, almost scared—eyes darting amidst the dark blue, prone for a sudden surge of movement.

And suddenly the old man was out of his chair and rapping at the glass. The fish’s eyes remained fixed toward the pulse of water amidst the thriving rush of bodies, and so the old man rapped harder, a slow rasp emerging from his throat to sooth this speck of life. Again the fish stared, retreating further into the safety of the coral.

And before the old man knew what was happening, the glass caved in- water rushed over the broken shards, tinged white by the crystal, and quickly flooded the restaurant floor. Diners screamed and jumped to avoid the monsoon of water, but the old man didn’t care- he quickly searched the flopping bodies, looking for a speckled fish.

And then he found it: a sodden lump of flesh, glistening like dew beneath the heat of the restaurant’s lights. He stooped to pick it up- felt the dwindling lump of life shudder in a futile struggle to breathe—to live. And he slowly brought the dying fish to his eyes and stared. Just…stared. And in those eyes the old man saw a cracking pair of spectacles; saw a drooping brow and withered frown; a wrinkled face, heavy with the weight of sorrow. And for just a moment, the old man saw what he had become. Saw himself, truly, for the first time in his life, as the fish’s tensed muscles relaxed, the face slowly fading in its glazing eyes.

Jacob Golden is 17 years old and goes to Jenkintown High School. He likes writing and playing football and soccer.

The Friendship Bracelet

The cool October air smacked into Katherine’s pale, freckled face like a swatter on a fly. She zipped up her jacket and slipped her hands in the pockets.

I didn’t know it was gonna be this cold! She thought as she turned the corner.

Her thoughts about the weather quickly faded as her gaze went straight ahead toward Fingleberry Park. But it wasn’t the yellowish-brownish tree leaves that caught her attention, nor the little boys and girls laughing and nudging each other while eating the Skittles they knew they weren’t supposed to be eating before dinner: No, she was looking farther to the right, just a couple feet next to the giant oak tree, which looked centuries old.

The shaggy blond hair, the tall, broad shouldered physique. Kevin Roberts. He was chatting with two of the guys from the football team. Those big, brown eyes twinkled whenever he smiled. Oh, that smile! Those straight, pearly whites and those smooth lips. At least that’s how Katherine imagined his lips to feel.

Katherine has had a crush on Kevin since they were both twelve years old and got to sit next to each other during the seventh grade class trip to the Smithsonian Museum, where they both talked and joked around the entire time.

That was three years ago and the last time she had a complete conversation with him. I mean, it’s not like Kevin forgot about her existence, it was just that he had school and football to think about. At least that’s what Katherine made herself believe.

Before Katherine knew it, she was standing at the corner of Boar Street looking straight ahead at Kevin. Not moving, just staring, admiring his distant presence, not caring about how numbly cold her hands were becoming. Lost in her thoughts when she finally snapped to reality and noticed he wasn’t talking with the guys anymore, but looking at her!

Oh my god! She frantically thought; what do I do? What do I do? Katherine thought desperately.

The panic in her mind made her knees buckle and before she knew it, she turned the corner and was pacing faster, faster towards her street. Her head down, her pale cheeks now a reddish color.

I’m so stupid! She scolded herself as she unlocked her front door.

The smell of chicken potpie swirled around Katherine’s nose.

She furiously unzipped her jacket, dropped her book bag, whirled her jacket off and walked towards her kitchen; passing the old family portraits of great-auntie Suzie and Grandpa Joseph.

“Kathy? That you?” Marie’s high-pitched voice called from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Katherine answered as she walked in the kitchen and slumped down at the table.

Marie was Katherine’s stepmother. She had been her stepmother for a little over seven years now. Katherine still couldn’t believe how fast time flew. It had only been a year after her mother—her real mother—passed away that her father met Marie. A Macy’s store clerk from Idaho.

Katherine still remembered the first time she met Marie:

Her shouldered-length, brown curls bounced all over the place as her father guided her through their front door. The dark blue eye shadow she had on reminded Katherine of the Halloween makeup her mom would put on her. Her short legs were covered by long, flared jeans topped with a red turtleneck and matching boots (she didn’t look much different now).

Marie’s eyes lit up as she saw Katherine’s tiny, eight-year-old self shyly walking towards them, dragging her stuffed bunny behind her.

“Hey there!” Marie had said in, what Katherine at the time thought was the funniest baby voice she’d ever heard.

Katherine and Marie have hit it off since then. But there were times when she questioned what her father truly saw in Marie. I mean, her father was this tall, serious-faced, work-comes-first kind of man and Marie was a happy-go-lucky, “you’ve got to live life to the fullest” type gal. It’s not that they didn’t love each other; it was just that they were the complete opposite. But Katherine could only think of “Opposites Attract” as an answer.

The warmness of the oven door opening surrounded Katherine. Marie grabbed the chicken potpie with some mittens and closed the oven door with her foot, gently placing the potpie on the table where Katherine was at.

“And for the finishing touch…” Marie placed a tiny leaf of cilantro on the top of the potpie and clapped her hands together.

“…TA-DAAA!” She finished as she looked at Katherine, waiting for a response.

“Nice,” Katherine uninterestedly said.

Marie’s shoulders dropped and her happy face expression turned to this sarcastic “you’ve gotta be kidding me” look.

“Oh come on! You’ve got to find a better word than nice! I mean look at this,” she extended her hands out to the chicken pot pie; “It’s a masterpiece! Or do you think it’s awful?” Marie yelped.

“No, no, no, no, no! I didn’t mean it like that! I meant to say it looks…awesome!” Katherine quickly replied.

“Thank you,” Marie’s smile appeared again.

Marie quit her Macy’s job after she married Katherine’s dad and joined some “Generous Women of America” club that involved helping and serving the senior citizens in their neighborhood.

“Mrs. Peters is gonna love this!” Marie whispered to herself.

“Has Alyssa called?” Katherine said interrupting her stepmother’s thoughts.

“Oh, uh, yeah. She said to tell you to call her when you get back from the library.” Marie adjusted the cilantro leaf on the potpie.

“K,” Katherine answered as she leaped from the table and ran out of the kitchen towards the stairs.

“Pick up your jacket and hang it up! You know how your dad gets!”

But Marie’s yelling was no use. Katherine was already upstairs.

She pushed open her bedroom door and threw herself on her bed, making the scattered clothes on the bed fall to the carpeted floor.

She dialed Alyssa’s number. As she waited for someone to answer, she played with the bracelet on her left wrist. Tiny holes and dirty spots were visible on the faded, dark pink leather bracelet. Obvious signs of years of being worn. Alyssa had made it and gave it to Katherine, and Katherine made one similar to hers and gave it to Alyssa, which she wore on the same wrist, when they first met.

It was the first day of first grade and Katherine was wishing her mom were there to sit with her during lunch. She was a half-inch shorter than the other kids so she was an instant target to pointing fingers and teasing.

“Leave me alone!” Katherine would squeal. But with no avail. Until another little girl, about an inch taller with long blond hair stepped in and shut those bullies up quicker than you can snap your fingers. They made each other those bracelets that same day during art class. After that, no one, including their parents, could keep the girls apart. They were best friends, always and forever. But they were like Marie and Katherine’s dad: opposites. That’s probably one of the reasons they were so close. One was quiet and kept to herself while the other was loud and outgoing. But they made it work.

“Hello?” a woman on the end answered.

“Hey Ms. Marccero.”

“Hey Kathy! How’s everything?”

“Everything’s fine. Is Alyssa home?”

“Yeah. Let me get her.”

“K, Thanks.”

“Lyssa! Katherine’s on the phone!” Katherine heard Ms. Marccero yell.

Katherine always liked Alyssa’s mom. She, at times, reminded Katherine of her mother.

After some phone rumbling, Alyssa came on the phone.

“Hey, hey!” Alyssa said.

“Hey.”

“So, how was your studying?”

“You know how studying is: boring!”

“You see, that’s why I don’t study”

“Trust me, I know!” Katherine chuckled.

Alyssa giggled.

“So what theme are you planning on doing for your birthday party?” Alyssa asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well you better know soon!”

“Whoa! What’s the rush? It’s like a month away! Plus, I don’t want a big party. I just want a cake, and some presents, and—“

“Kathy. Your birthday party needs to be awesome! It has to be the best party anyone in this tiny town has ever been to!” Alyssa exclaimed.

“Well why don’t we close all the stores and call November 27^th “Katherine Day”!” Katherine sarcastically joked.

“You know…that’s not a bad idea! I can totally have my mom talk to the sheriff!” Alyssa joked back.

“Shut up, Lyssa!”

The girls laughed.

After two hours of talking and laughing, the girls said their goodbyes and hung up.

The next morning started the same as any other day for Katherine: she got up; slipped on whatever jeans and blouse she could find, quickly combed her hair and ran downstairs to the kitchen where Marie and her father were.

“Morning, Daddy.” Katherine said to her already dressed, newspaper-reading father.

“Morning, Kathy.” He said from behind his newspaper.

“Kathy, your bagel’s in the toaster oven.” Marie said as she emerged from behind the ‘fridge door.

“Thanks.”

“Stock markets are down,” Katherine’s dad blurted out.

“That’s good, honey,” Marie said as she patted her husband’s head.

Katherine smiled as she took a bite from her bagel.

After saying goodbye to them, Katherine made her way to school.

South Valley High School was like any usual high school: annoying teachers, the cliques and groups, and in South Valley High’s case: the worst football team in the state!

Katherine never understood why anyone ever went to their stupid games and pep rallies because no matter how much support, the South Valley High Jaguars sucked! There was no nicer way to put it. They hadn’t been to the Championships since 1981. They lost almost every game they played. But the town still thought they had a chance. How many times has Katherine heard that before!? She felt sorry for Kevin, having to play for such an awful team.

“Sup.” Alyssa said as she walked up to Katherine at her locker.

“Hey!” Katherine said.

“UGH! I’m so happy its Friday! Last day of the week means no homework, no nasty school lunches, and more importantly: no Ms. Stuart!”

Katherine giggled.

Ms. Stuart was Alyssa’s Biology teacher. And her worst nightmare!

“Can you believe she’s assigning our partners for that dumb project? Ugh!” Alyssa gently slammed the back of her head on a locker.

“Don’t worry; maybe she’ll have sympathy for you,” Katherine soothed.

“I doubt it.”

The first period bell cut the girls’ conversation short.

“I’ll see ya at lunch.” Katherine waved to her friend.

“k,” Alyssa answered and they both walked away.

After getting her lunch, Katherine tiredly slumped down at the nearest table. She couldn’t wait to go home. She was swamped with work the whole weekend. She had to study for a French test, had a two-page essay due for History, and a research paper for Science.

“Just three more hours…three more hours,” Katherine sighed.

Just as she was about to take a bite from her apple, Alyssa suddenly appeared and slammed her food tray on the table, startling Katherine.

“Oh my gosh! You are not going to believe who Stuart partnered me with!” Alyssa furiously said as she sat down.

“Well hello to you, too,” Katherine replied.

“Guess—just guess!”

“I don’t know. Who?” Katherine sighed.

“Carla Myers!” Alyssa exclaimed.

“NO!” Katherine’s eyes widened.

“YES!”

“Are you serious?!”

“Serious as a heart attack!”

“Is that teacher crazy?”

“I guess so! I wanted to die when she said that witch’s name after mine!”

“What’re gonna do? Ask for another partner?”

“I can’t! I either work with Carla or get an F. My mom said I get one more F and she cancels our trip to Florida, and after this winter, I’m gonna need a tan!”

“When’s the project due?”

“Monday!”

“That sucks!”

“I know! I’m so mad right now! I mean, why couldn’t she have paired me with one of the emo weirdoes?”

“They’re not all weirdoes!” Katherine retorted.

Alyssa shot her a look.

“Yeah…they kinda are weird.” Katherine realized.

“That Carla Myers says one smart comment to me and I swear I’ll—“

Alyssa furiously stabbed her fork into the ‘mystery meat’ in front of her, causing Katherine to jump.

Carla Myers is the definition of mean, to the girls. They didn’t like Carla and Carla didn’t like them. But it wasn’t always like that. They were all best friends eight years ago. They even called each other the ‘Three Musketeers.’ But when Carla’s dad won a promotion at work, that meant more money, and more money meant a happy, spoiled Carla. And a happy, spoiled Carla with a daddy with money meant she was too good for two little girls with middle class parents. So they drifted apart until they were the two musketeers and the mean girl.

There wasn’t a time when the girls didn’t share some heated words with each other when they were together. Especially open minded Alyssa and smart-mouthed Carla.

“I have to go over her house to start the project.” Alyssa said.

“Why her house?”

“Because I don’t want that witch cursing up my house!”

Katherine snorted.

“Man I was really looking forward to us going to ‘Sally’s’ for some frozen yogurt to get my mind off all this homework.” Katherine pouted.

“MMMMM. Frozen yogurt in October’s the best! I really wish I could go,” Alyssa pouted her lips like a sad little girl who got her toy taken away, “how ‘bout I call you tonight to tell you how things with Carla went and we’ll go out for some fro-yo tomorrow? Sound good?” Alyssa suggested.

Katherine smiled.

“That sounds great!”

“Cool.”

As the girls laughed and talked, Alyssa noticed someone behind Katherine walking towards them.

“Bitch Alert.” Alyssa smirked.

“Alyssa!” Katherine loudly whispered as she saw whom she was referring to.

Carla’s long, wavy, auburn hair swished as she walked up to the girls’ table. Her French manicured hands holding tightly to her tray of food. Not even daddy’s money could get her a personal chef.

“Marccero. Smith.” She said while looking at both girls.

“Myers.” Alyssa slyly responded back.

Carla turned to Alyssa.

“Look, I hate this partner thing just as much as you—“

“You got that right.” Alyssa interrupted.

“So let’s get this over with so I can get my A+ and never have to speak to you again, okay?” Carla forced her glossed lips into a smirk.

“Sounds good to me, Myers.”

Carla rolled her eyes and walked away, her body swaying like she was walking a runway.

“So let’s get this over with so I can blah, blah, blah,” Alyssa held her hand like a puppet, mocking Carla, “Ugh! I swear Kathy, just one arrogant comment—just one—and I’ll—“

“Trust me I know what you’ll do.”

The girls giggled.

“You better be careful,” Katherine began, “she might get her Chihuahua to attack you!” Katherine grinned.

“Oh no! I’m gonna be so scared!” Alyssa pretended to be scared.

Katherine laughed.

“That was a good one, Kathy.”

After some more laughing and teasing, the girls said their goodbyes and headed to their last classes.

Once Katherine heard the dismissal bell, she quickly gathered her books and headed out the school doors.

See ya, South Valley High! Katherine happily thought.

Alyssa was already outside the school waiting for Katherine. Her last period class was on the first floor.

Lucky her!

“Finally! Come on, let’s get away from this place.” Alyssa linked arms with Katherine and they walked away.

“So…have you heard from your boyfriend, yet?” Alyssa teased.

She always knew Katherine liked Kevin. She offered to talk to Kevin, once, but Katherine begged her not to.

“Shut up.” Katherine rolled her eyes.

“You seriously need to get over that guy! He’s so stupid!”

“He is not!”

“He is too! He’s stupid for not noticing you!”

“I made a complete fool of myself in front of him yesterday.”

“Maybe that’s a sign that Kevin’s not the guy for you.”

“Whatever.” Katherine knew deep down, her friend was right. She just couldn’t admit it.

The girls stopped in front of Katherine’s house.

“Well, I’ll call you tonight.” Alyssa said as she hugged her friend and began to walk away.

“Okay. Have fun on your study date!” Katherine jokingly yelled.

“Get inside, Kathy.”

Katherine smiled and walked inside.

She wasted no time: she said hi to Marie and went straight to her room to begin her homework.

She was so focused on her studies, that when she finally took a break, it was 8:45 p.m.

Wow!

She remembered that Alyssa was supposed to call her once she left Carla’s house, about two hours ago.

Oh my gosh! What if she killed Carla?! Katherine thought.

Katherine shrugged her silly thoughts away and grabbed her phone and dialed Alyssa’s number.

“Hello?” Ms. Marccero answered.

“Hey Ms. M. Is Alyssa home yet?”

“No actually, she’s still studying with her partner.”

“Oh…okay then. Well, can you tell her to give me a call?”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

“Thanks, Ms. M.”

“You’re welcome, honey.”

That’s weird.

Katherine didn’t sleep well that night. Aside from still having the French alphabet in mind, she never remembered a time where Alyssa didn’t call her when she was supposed to.

The next morning Katherine called Alyssa’s house again. But her mom said she had gone to the library to do more research.

Library? Alyssa…at the library? Katherine knew she had lied to her mom.

Where was she?

Katherine couldn’t hold any longer: she grabbed her jacket and zoomed out her front door.

I’m getting some frozen yogurt. With or without her! Katherine thought.

Katherine entered the small, freshly painted white ice cream shop.

“Hey, Bill.” Katherine greeted the man behind the counter. His wrinkled face and tiny, green eyes lit up when he saw her approaching.

“Booger! HA HA! How you been?” Bill’s loud, scratchy voice boomed.

Katherine smiled.

Bill had known Katherine since she was three years old. Her mom would take her to get frozen yogurt every-other Saturday, even in January.

He called Katherine booger because when she was younger, she’d pick her nose a lot. Something he always found funny, while Katherine would look back at and feel disgusted.

“I’ve been good. Swamped with homework—but still good.”

“Atta girl! Want the usual?”

“You know it!”

Katherine ate the same vanilla with warm caramel every time she went there.

After chatting with Bill for a bit, she thanked him and left the store.

As she crossed the street, a familiar laugh caught her attention. As she looked around she saw where it was coming from: the burger joint two stores over to her left.

She walked towards the sound.

The laugh, the long, blond hair.

It can’t be—NO!

What the heck was Alyssa doing here? What was she laughing about?

As Katherine walked up to her friend, her legs froze as she saw whom she was with: Carla Myers and Kevin Roberts.

Is this a nightmare?

“She has like the biggest crush on you!” Alyssa said to Kevin.

“That is so sad!” Carla managed to get out while laughing.

“I know!” Alyssa responded.

They all laughed. Once they saw Katherine standing behind Alyssa, Carla and Kevin went serious.

“What?” Alyssa said while wiping a tear from her eye.

When she turned around, her grin disappeared as she saw Katherine’s shocked face.

“Katherine! W-what ‘re doing here?” Alyssa stuttered.

Katherine dropped her frozen yogurt and quickly walked away.

“Kathy! Wait!” Alyssa ran after her.

“Leave me alone!” Katherine yelled back.

“It’s not what you think! I can explain!”

Katherine suddenly stopped and swirled around.

“Then explain!”

Alyssa couldn’t get any words to come out. Her mouth was open, but she said nothing.

“EXPLAIN!” Katherine yelled as her eyes watered.

“I’m sorry.” Alyssa quietly said.

“I can’t believe you.” Katherine yanked her bracelet off and threw it at Alyssa.

Alyssa gasped.

Katherine turned around and ran home, not caring to wipe the tears from her pale cheeks. She couldn’t believe her best friend, who she trusted with all her heart, betrayed her like that. How could she talk about her behind her back? And with the main two people Katherine had trouble with!

Katherine got home and didn’t bother finishing any of her assignments. How could she when her heart was broken? She just laid in bed the remainder of the day and cried it all out for Marie at night.

The next morning, Katherine quickly grabbed her books from her locker, sat at a different table with different people at lunch, and walked a different way home after school, just to avoid speaking to Alyssa. This went on for about a month.

As Katherine walked through the front door, she heard Marie on the phone.

“Wait, I think I heard her come in, hold on.” Marie held out the phone to Katherine and mouthed the name Alyssa.

Katherine frantically shook her head and mouthed the words No! No way!

Marie sighed and began talking into the phone again.

“I thought it was her but it was the uhm, TV, you know how my hearing’s a bit off sometimes,” Marie nervously laughed, Katherine forgot how bad of a liar Marie was, “yeah…okay…I’ll tell her…thanks Alyssa…bah-bye.”

Katherine heard Marie close the phone. She started walking up the stairs when she heard Marie call her name. Katherine rolled her eyes and made some lame excuse about reading some French book, knowing where the conversation was going to lead. But that didn’t stop Marie.

“Katherine. Get downstairs.” Marie firmly said. Katherine only heard this side of Marie when she was either really mad or upset.

“Yes?” Katherine sighed.

“Why are you ignoring her?” Marie said with her hands holding on to her waist.

“You already know.”

“You and Alyssa have been friends for a long time. You can’t just erase her from your life after something stupid she said.”

“It’s not what she said! Its how said it! She said it like I was just some random girl at the mall! Like I wasn’t her best friend!”

“Kathy, you can’t let that get to you. Think about it,” Marie said while sitting Katherine down at the kitchen table, “what do you think you’re getting out of this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you trying to teach her a lesson?”

“No, not really…”

“Give her a chance to explain. Everyone deserves a second chance. Okay?”

Katherine sighed and shot Marie a small smile.

As Katherine made her way downstairs, she tried not to step on any of the red and purple balloons scattered about. She became excited as she sniffed the aroma of sweet potato pie.

“SURPRISE!” Her father and Marie yelled as she entered the kitchen. There were even more purple and red balloons on the floor and colorful “Happy Birthday!” posters hanging on each wall including the refrigerator. Katherine couldn’t keep her excitement hidden any longer.

“This is awesome!” she said as she caught a glimpse of the medium-sized chocolate frosted cake with the lavender writing. HAPPY 16^thBIRTHDAY KATHY!

“Oh my gosh! Thanks you guys!” Katherine said as she hugged both her father and Marie.

“Now, come on! Let’s sing you happy birthday, now, so you have time to open all your presents,” Marie quickly said.

“Okay.”

While Katherine’s father placed a birthday cone on Katherine’s head, Marie lit up the number one and six she had glued together to make the number sixteen on the cake.

“Okay, you guys ready?” Marie asked.

“Yup!” Katherine and her father said at the same time.

“One, two, three! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Katherine! Happy birthday to you! YAAAAAAY!”

Katherine grinned as her father dipped his finger in the frosting and placed a smidge of it on Katherine’s nose.

“Happy birthday, sweetie.” He said as he hugged her.

“Who wants a piece of cake?” Marie asked as she grabbed a knife from a drawer.

“I do!” Katherine excitedly yelled.

“Cake? I want a piece of that pie!” Katherine’s dad replied.

As he went in to snag a piece of it, Marie slapped his hand.

“No pie until after she opens her presents!”

“Aw, come on!”

Katherine laughed. She loved seeing her father like this instead of his usual serious self.

Just as Marie went to cut a piece of cake, the doorbell rang.

“You expecting someone, Marie?” Her father asked.

“Nope,” Marie replied.

After some distant talking and the door closing, they heard some footsteps.

Who is that? Katherine asked herself.

“Someone else will be joining us.” Marie said as the mystery person walked in behind her.

Her long, blond hair swayed as she stood beside Marie.

“Alyssa! Long time no see!” Katherine’s dad hugged her.

“Hey, Mr. Smith.” Alyssa said.

Katherine stood there, not knowing what to do.

“Well, we’re gonna go…. check the front door,” Marie awkwardly said.

“Check the front door?” Marie’s father confusedly asked.

“Oh, just come!” Marie tugged at his sleeve, pulling him out of the kitchen.

Both girls stood in silence for a while.

“Happy Birthday,” Alyssa finally said, breaking the silence.

“Thanks.” Katherine replied.

“I brought you a present.” Alyssa handed her a small, wrapped box.

“Thanks.” Katherine gently ripped the paper off. When she opened the box, a smile formed across her face as she saw her friendship bracelet. “I’ve been looking for this. Thank y—“ she was cut short when she looked up and saw Alyssa’s watery eyes.

“I’m sorry, Kathy. I never meant to hurt you like that.” Alyssa sadly said.

“But why did you?” Katherine asked.

“Because I was stupid. I got sucked into Carla’s stupid lip gloss world.”

“Lip gloss world?” Katherine jokingly asked.

“You know what I mean, Katherine!”

Katherine ran up to her friend and hugged her.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“I forgive you.” Alyssa sniffed.

“I forgive you, too. But don’t ever do that to me again! Okay, Marccero?”

“Oh, so now we’re on a last name basis?”

The girls laughed.

Alyssa wiped her tears away as she helped Katherine put on her bracelet again.

“I’ll never take this off again.”

“You better not, Shorty!”

“Shut up, Lyssa!”

“Okay! Enough crying! Let’s get some cake!”

“Well, we better get to it before they do!”

The girls grinned and ran towards the cake, but not before Marie and Katherine’s dad suddenly appeared in the kitchen.

“Wait for us!” Marie yelled.

“Grab the cake and run!” Katherine quickly said to Alyssa as she tried to get around Marie and her dad.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Katherine’s dad said as he picked her up.

Katherine yelped.

Before they knew it, they were running around the kitchen throwing cake at each other and laughing hysterically.

And at that very moment, Katherine wasn’t worrying about having an enormous birthday party, how cute Kevin looked, or how much of a witch Carla was. She was thinking how great her birthday was going and how awesome it was that she was enjoying it with the four people she loved most: her dad, Marie, Alyssa, and her mom—who was grinning down at her from up above!

Danielle Perez found an interest in writing at an early age and especially enjoys creative writing, one of her strongest fields.

The Plane Failure

There was a boy named Nortin who was going on a trip to England. Nortin boarded the plane and then–whoosh—the plane flew up into the clouds. Nortin was very nervous about what could happen. Would the plane crash? Fall out of the sky? Anything could happen. Nortin was so scared, he fainted.

When he awoke, he was floating and then he saw an angel.

“Wow, where am I?” he asked the angel.

“Nortin, I must warn you,” said the angel. “When you wake, you will find yourself in the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Wait, what do you…”

It was too late. When Nortin woke up, he was floating in the Atlantic Ocean. He looked up and saw the plane flying right over him.

“Nooooo!” said Nortin in a stunned voice.

As he sank into the water, he died, and then he found himself in Heaven. He saw the angel again.

“Hi, Nortin,” said the angel.

“Why am I here?” asked Nortin.

“I chose you from all of the other passengers on the plane to bring you to heaven, just like I was chosen from a plane many years ago. The same thing happened to me that happened to you. That’s what makes us special.”

Eric-Ross McLaren is in fourth grade at Green Street Friends School in Philadelphia. He likes video games, Harry Potter, and writing stories.

Angel

I hate these months. They’re endless, and robed in a fierce white sheath that brings misery and pain to people like us. Most especially, they make it hard to sleep on the side of the road.

I can see my breath in a puff of something along the lines of white smoke as I hustle through the masses of people lining the streets. The shops seem to radiate warmth and happiness and holidays and light, but out here all I can feel is cold. The tips of my fingers, the ones that stick out of my cutoff gloves, are bright red and feel like they’ve turned to stone as I struggle to find a place to stay. Things couldn’t really get much worse, I think as snow starts to fall lightly.

This theory is, of course, challenged when I get back home and someone is missing. I count them like I always do, there’s Zero and Bella and Jet and Max and Rocky but…where is
Ghost?

Those aren’t their real names, of course. Ghost christened each of them as they joined our little band of lost children. I’m Angel.

But he’s gone. Ghost, my little brother, is nowhere to be found. In the dead of winter. In
New York City. We’ve never lost anyone before and I can tell the other kids are already worried.
“Don’t worry,” I say strongly, “We’ll find him.”

I grab Zero’s hand and squeeze it, giving them a little smile and then I separate them into groups. I take Jet and Max because they’re the youngest, and Zero, Bella and Rocky are more experienced on their own.

Through the streets of our darkening city we go, once again, but this time its stranger and more chilling. In the dark, the skyscrapers look like monsters, and the bare trees are like long arms, reaching for us, trying to steal my family.

“Ghost!” I call, checking all his usual hideouts, and feeling the stone in my chest sink more deeply, “Ghost, where are you?!”

Hopelessness settles in my stomach as I swallow a lump in my throat, and I sniffle.
Forgetting about the two little boys who are my responsibility, I sit right down on the blackened sidewalk and close my eyes.

I remember when he was born. I was three years old, but I remember his huge blue baby eyes staring right through mine. The rest of our normal lives, our lives with real names and parents and friends and houses, is just a collection of memories with my little brother starring in them all. A whirlpool of these sucks me into the past as I recall a skinned knee, a bike ride, my first breakup when I cried for days, his first crush and everything else we did together. And last of all, there’s the fire and then running forever until we’d left the flames behind. I’d left everything behind to protect him. I was going to protect him forever.

And I’d failed.

“Angel?” I glance up, already feeling guilty for breaking down and leaving two 8-year-olds alone, but what I see makes me stand up. The same eyes I looked at 11 years ago in a hospital in Manhattan.

I don’t know whether to slap him or hug him. For now I go with hug, and pull him close vowing to never ever let him out of my sight again and then I frown, “Where the heck have you been?”

“Got lost. Went home. No one there.”

“Yeah, Ghostie, it’s cause we were looking for you!” Bella says almost angrily. I hadn’t noticed that she and the other boys had appeared.

“I was fine. Always am.”

I let out an irritated sigh and grab his wrist, and Jet’s hand. “C’mon let’s go home.”

Home is the wall behind an apartment building, which radiates some heat. We’ve collected blankets and things, and created a sort of cocoon. Max collapses immediately onto the ground, curling into a ball. I sit down beside him, tucking blankets around him. The littlest get the most warmth, because I can’t bear the thought of waking up to find one of them blue. Bella scoots between us, and I feel Jet and Ghost cuddle up beside me on the other side as Zero and
Rocky sit on the edges.

Freezing cold stabs of pain still prick and poke at me, and probably worse at the others, but it’s different now because there’s a warm, fuzzy place right in my heart that flares when Ghost grabs onto my finger like a baby, and Bella rests her white-blonde head on my shoulder so she can pull Jet closer.

I laugh at the things they call us sometimes. Homeless. It’s true, we don’t have a roof over our heads, or full stomachs every minute. But we, every one of us, have a home. Our home is with each other.

Houseless, maybe. But never homeless.

Maeve Thomas is a student at Abington Junior High School in Abington, PA.