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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.”

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.

The lights were on backstage. They were a strange blue light, but not hard to see by. I worked my way around all of the chairs and music stands, microphones and instrument cases. The curtains were slightly parted in the middle; Joanne was onstage. She was my sister, older than me by a little more than a year. Her long fingers, the nails painted deep red, danced over the piano keys. The large, black, magnificent instrument was positioned exactly center stage; she was the main act, what everyone came to see. The rolling, plaintive melody leapt around the theater, but there was not a soul to hear it, except for me. My feet tapped the hollow stage as I made my way to her.

“That’s really nice, Jo,” I said.

“Thanks. Didn’t see you there.”

“I just came to see how you were doing.”

The spotlight on her grand piano was absolutely blinding. It filled my head with a fuzzy sensation, as if I had just fallen into a very confusing dream. The hundreds, probably thousands, of red velvet seats in the audience sparkled in the lights. They were intimidating enough without being full of people and their judgments. The stage terrified me. The lights, the people, and, of course, the fact that I had no stage-worthy talent to speak of. All of it was petrifying.

Joanne, however, had always had the dancing fingers and the lilting voice that allowed her to captivate people and gain the admiration of an entire crowd. As a young boy, I had looked up to her with such a fond adoration that I listened to her play and sing for hours and hours.

“Are you coming to see me tonight?” Joanne asked.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I answered with a wink.

“Good.” She smiled with her beautiful white smile. I wish I had the confidence of that smile. “Will you go up and turn the spotlight off? Just leave the house lights.”
“Yeah.” I hopped the distance from the stage to the floor of the theater. My shoes hit the luxurious red rug without a sound. Walking up the aisle, every seat I passed would soon be filled by a pompous young man with a showy woman on his arm and a one-hundred-dollar ticket to a night out to see the concert. There were shiny gold plates with seat numbers on them and gold lining on every seat. As soon as I passed through the door that said “Employees Only” on my way to the light and sound booth, the carpet became rough and gray. From the booth with its multitudes of switches and buttons, I could see Joanne still playing with her blue dress falling in waves around her knees. I switched off the spotlight and headed back down.
The spotlight no longer illuminated Joanne, but even in relative shadow, she glowed. I hoisted myself back on to the stage.

“Thanks, that light was making me sweat.”

“No problem,” I said, “But honestly, how are you not terrified by the prospect of hundreds of people watching you and judging you?”

“They’re not coming to judge, Tommy. They want to hear music and I know that I can give them that.”

“Yeah, I guess. I could never do it, though,” I said.

“Then, luckily, the task falls on me, not you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You want some lunch? I’ll go out and get you some,” I offered.
“Thanks. I’d like that.” Joanne smiled that beautiful smile again. I smiled back with my rather disorderly, not so winning smile.

As I exited through the backstage door, I could hear the melancholic melody again, floating off into the theater.

The sun outside was blinding. It took me several long seconds to be able to see anything, and that was just enough time for an empty taxi to pass me by. I cursed quietly, but quickly caught the next one. It was not a long ride to Victoria Street, but I tipped the cabbie a little extra. He had a nice sort of Scottish accent.
I bought some tomato and cheese sandwiches, but before returning to the theater, I sat along the Victoria Embankment to eat my own sandwich. The cheese had a sharp taste that made my mouth revolt for a moment. It was nice when I got used to it.

Barges and boats of all shapes and sizes floated up the river and I watched each until it was out of sight. It was a beautiful blue-skied day and an abundance of tourists were taking advantage of it. People with thick international accents and dozens of languages passed me by. Children ran around and pointed excitedly at all the sights. Their parents snapped pictures with expensive digital cameras.
My parents hated cameras. In general they hated anything that would capture memories: pictures, videos, journals. I’d only seen them use a camera once.
When Joanne was eight, she had taken her first piano lesson. It was a resounding success, and we all discovered her exceptional talent for the instrument. The school instrumental concert was her first performance. My father had knelt in the aisle with his video camera as my mother directed him. “Get closer! No! Zoom in! Stop shaking it so much!” Their quibbles were the majority of the video; only the beginning and end were truly of my sister’s beautiful piano playing.

Even at age eight, she had commanded the stage, and her fingers had sung so eloquently that several audience members rose to their feet. My parents received countless congratulations on their virtuoso child.

“Joanne played beautifully!”

“Oh, didn’t she? Just splendid!” They would reply.

“And what about little Thomas? Does he play too?”

“No. But Joanne, she really has never played much before! Picked it up just like that! Barely a full month of lessons,” they would gush.

“Thomas should learn violin! They could play together! A little family duet.”

“No, he’s not musical at all.” And they would tousle my hair roughly.

They never meant to dismiss me; they loved me as any parents should. It was not their fault that now I was unable to make real headway in any talent or profession. I was dabbling in lighting, set design, and various backstage arts, but none did I find captivating or have any particular knack for. So my parents never pulled out a camera and pointed it at me. And that was fine.

I didn’t have such a keen dislike of capturing memories. I never had owned a camera of any worth or quality, but my phone was full of the faces of my few friends and moments worth remembering. Joanne was in most of the photos.

Victoria Embankment was so lively and bustling that I pulled my phone from my pocket and took several pictures of the beautiful sky and the happy children. The river twinkled in the noon sun and everyone was reveling in the joy of the day.
The phone rang as I took a picture of a passing barge.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Joanne.”

“Hi. Sorry I’m taking so long, I just stopped by Victoria Embankment for a second. I’ll be back in a second,” I said, stuffing the end of my sandwich in a nearby bin and looking around for a taxi.

“No, it’s fine. My cello player just bailed on me, said she can’t come on Friday. I phoned my agent, but he’s on vacation in Thailand or some place like that. He said to go to the Royal Academy of Music.”

“You don’t know a cello player that could fill in?”

“Several orchestras are touring in France and Spain right now and they’ve got all the good cellists.”

“I’ll have you a cellist, Jo. I promise.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, I trust you. See you soon. And forget about lunch; this is more important.”

“Right. Bye,” I said, and hung up. I flagged a taxi in seconds flat and jumped in.

“Royal Academy of Music, please,” I called up to the cabbie. London traffic was bad today, and the plethora of tourists crossing the street slowed our route considerably. The cab got caught behind two double-decker buses, which moved slowly with constant stops.

We finally were able to exit the Victoria Embankment area and enter a less tourist-infested area. The Royal Academy of Music was not far then. As soon as we pulled up at the tall brick building I tossed the cabbie several pounds and ran in.
The front desk was occupied by an elderly woman with a tight bun and thin spectacles perched on her pointed nose. She eyed me severely as I entered in my jeans and dirty, ripped coat. She wore an immaculately cleaned and pressed black dress with a silver necklace.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“I need to speak to a cellist, please,” I said, out of breath from sprinting in from the cab.

“Do you have a lesson or an appointment with one?”

“No, I don’t. But it’s important.”

“If you’re not in the schedule, it’s unlikely that time can be made for you.”

“It will only be a minute.”

“I apologize for any inconvenience, but it can’t be accommodated.”

“I’m Joanne Davies’ brother,” I said, pulling my classical music trump card.

“Oh, really? Is she here?” The receptionist asked, peering interestedly at the door to see if Joanne would enter suddenly.

“No, but she needs a cellist, and she sent me to find one,” I said.

“I’m sure it is an honor for any cellist to play with Miss Davies. I’ll ask around,” she said, and stood. Her heels clicked, echoing on the hardwood floor as she made her way through the opulent halls. I followed her closely and she poked her head into several doors before opening one and admitting me.

“This is Miss Annabel Baker. She is one of our most accomplished cellists and has instructed some of our best students in recent years.”

Miss Annabel Baker sat behind a dark mahogany desk, its curling clawed feet clinging to the floor. Many music scores were scattered around her desk and she was wildly marking them up with a red pen. A beautiful cello stood on a stand by her desk and the bow still in her hand showed that it had been recently played.

“Miss Annabel, this is Joanne Davies’ brother . . . ”

“Thomas,” I said.

My breath caught when she looked up. She was very young for such a musician and really quite beautiful, and her wildly intense eyes pierced me suddenly.

“Nice to meet you,” she said and, stacking together some of her scores, stood to shake my hand.

“Mr. Davies is here to -” the woman said, but was interrupted.

“I’m sure he can tell me himself,” Miss Annabel Baker snapped, and ushered the receptionist out of her office.

Shutting the door with a definitive slam, Miss Baker offered me a seat. The chair was deep and cushiony and made me feel uncomfortably pampered. She reseated herself in her simple, straight-backed chair.

“So why are you here?”

“Well, as you heard, I’m Joanne Davies’s sister.”

“Yes, yes,” Miss Baker said impatiently.

“She has a concert on Friday night and her cellist bailed on her. She needs a substitute,” I explained.

“And you want me. I’m flattered.”

“Well, if you can do it. I mean, you’d have to prepare the pieces quickly. But you musicians are always very good at that so it shouldn’t be a problem,” I said.

“No, it shouldn’t.”

“Good.”

“So what time is it?” Miss Baker asked, pulling out a pen and a notebook.

“The call time is at five-thirty on Friday. At the Apollo.”

“Great. What pieces?”

I took a pen and wrote down the pieces that Joanne had put on the program.
They were mostly Brahms, and some Chopin, and Miss Baker smiled approvingly when she saw them.

“Good choices. I know all of this pretty well already,” Miss Baker said.
“Good. So, I’ll give you my number and you can call me if you need anything else.

Joanne has several practice times for the ensemble to meet in the afternoons. I think there’s one today at four o’ clock.”

“Okay, I can make it,” Miss Baker said, checking her schedule in a little black leather book. She handed me a pen and paper to put down my number and I offered her my hand to write her number on. Her fingers brushed me and then pressed the pen deep into my skin. She smiled and it reminded me of Joanne; the confidence brimming in her and pouring out in her smile.

“Thank you for doing this, Miss Baker,” I said.

“Any time. I’m very excited to play with your sister. And my name is Annabel. You can call me that.”

“Okay, Annabel.” She showed me out of her office and shook my hand fiercely before showing me to the door. Her grip was firm and when she turned to go back to her office, I watched her dark brown hair swish back and forth as her heels clicked back down the hallway.

Exiting into the sunlight, the number written on my hand glistening, I programmed it into my phone and snapped a photo of The Royal Academy of Music. Flagging another taxi, I made my way back through the tourist laden streets to the Apollo, where Joanne still sat at the piano. Brahms flew from her instrument. I stood concealed in the swishing black curtain for a while, just watching. When I made my way out on to the open expanse of the stage, Joanne stopped playing.

“Hey,” I said, and extended the sandwich that I had bought for her and had been carrying since sitting on the Victoria Embankment.

“Did you find someone?” she asked, taking the sandwich from me.

“Yeah. You’ll like her. She’s good.”

“You heard her play?”

“No,” I admitted, “but she seems good and is well respected. She’s from the Royal Academy of Music.”

“Who?”

“Annabel Baker,” I said.

“Oh, I’ve heard of her! That’s wonderful!” Joanne looked well pleased with my choice of cellist, although the receptionist at the Academy had truly made the choice. Joanne gave me all of the cello music and, sending me out to get it photocopied, went back to her intent practicing.

I made it back to the Apollo at exactly four o’ clock. My legs were tired from an hour or so of walking the streets of London in search of a photocopier. I had bought some coffee for Joanne and her ensemble of musicians and was carefully balancing them in a tray on my hand as I reentered the theater. Joanne was talking to her violist and harpist and pointing at numerous sheets of music as I entered. She barely looked up, her hand flying around the music and marking it up. I offered them all coffee. They said a quiet and distracted ‘thank you’ and went back to their conversation.

I sat in the front row of the Apollo Theatre, the plush red chair enveloping me, balancing the remaining coffee on my knee and clutching Annabel’s copy of the cello music to my chest. I could almost imagine her playing on that stage right now, her bow flying back and force in a passionate frenzy. Notes would billow from the instrument and with a final flourish, she would stand and bow to the impressed audience: just me.

After a couple minutes, the real Annabel Baker entered and unpacked her cello. I leapt up, almost spilling the coffee on the luxurious seats of the Apollo, and climbed on to the stage. She smiled and waved to me as I made my way across the stage to her.

“Coffee?” I offered the final cup to her.

“No, thanks, I don’t drink coffee. You can have it,” she said.

“Okay, you sure?” And when she nodded emphatically, I took a sip. “And here’s your music.”

“Do you work for your sister?” Annabel asked as she took the music gently from my hands and slipped it under her arm.

“Not really. I just help out,” I explained.

“What do you do then?”

“Well, uh, nothing right now. I’ve done lighting for some of my sister’s concerts. I did some stage managing for a theater company a while back.”

“So, you like backstage work? You’re the behind-the-scenes man?” Annabel
“I guess. I don’t love it, but it’s been good to me,” I said.

Annabel looked as if she had a hundred more question for me, but Joanne came over and introduced herself. Annabel and Joanne greeted each other very amiably, and the rehearsal began quickly.

I went up to the light booth and flicked on the stage lights. From my little booth, I couldn’t hear the beautiful music that flowed from the four instruments, but it seemed that I could almost see it. Joanne glistened in the spotlight and her piano shone. Light beamed off of every string of Annabel’s cello, and her hair caught the spotlight. A luminous halo seemed to form around her. I pulled out my phone and captured the pure angelic aura of the illuminated musician.

When I stepped again on to the floor of the theater, the music was immense and filled the whole room with its roiling notes. I sat again in the first row of the theater and watched the musicians play with such fiery intensity that it seemed to shake the walls. Notes cascaded around me and then resolved to a deafening, beautiful silence. The musicians sat poised to begin the next movement.

For the next hour, they played, discussed the tiny details of the music, and not once did any of them look at me. I had found long ago the passion with which Joanne and her friends played, and when they were doing so, they thought of little else. I did not clap at the end of pieces so as not to distract them. But finally, when the last piece on the program had been played immaculately, I saw Annabel look down from her haloed position on the stage and smile at me. I smiled back and gave her a thumbs up.

I ascended the stage again and praised Joanne and Annabel on their playing.
Their smiles told me that they appreciated it, even though they already knew how wonderful they were.

“You hardly even needed to practice those pieces,” I told Annabel.

“I knew them all pretty well. I teach most of them to my students regularly,” she said bashfully.

“Well, they sounded great.”

“So,” Annabel said as she began to pack her cello up again, “I was going to ask you, if you don’t love your work, do you have something that you love?”

“I’ve never been really great at anything. So I guess I haven’t found my passion yet.”

“You can be passionate about something you’re not great at. That means you can only get better. Do you think I was amazing the instant I picked up a cello?” Annabel asked.

“That’s all very inspiring, but I don’t have the natural talent for anything that I’m sure you have for cello,” I assured her.

“Well, you’re a good brother, I think.”

“I hope so.”

Annabel turned and zipped up her cello case and organized her music into a black folder before turning to me.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she questioned.

“Tomorrow at four again.”

“Okay, I’ll see you then.” Annabel turned and her dark hair and long black cloak swished out of the stage door into the street beyond. I watched until the door snapped shut, encasing me in backstage darkness.

On the night of the concert, I ironed my shirt and chose a matching suit. I wore a yellow tie that took me several attempts to get right, and even then it was just passable. My hair resisted combing, but I combed it anyway, and in my mirror was someone who looked as if they belonged in the Apollo Theater to hear Joanne Davies and her ensemble play. The man in my mirror might even be able to tell Annabel Baker that she was beautiful without turning red.

I took a taxi to the Apollo and entered through the stage door forty-five minutes before the curtain opened. The backstage lights were off and I blundered through rows of music stands that clipped my elbows painfully before pulling the curtain aside. The musicians were sitting quietly together each studying their music. They then began to play together as beautifully as ever. Joanne saw me come up behind the group and waved them all to a halt. The music discordantly ceased and Joanne stood to talk to me. She waved the three others to go on practicing. I stood, slumping with my hands deep in my pockets, as Joanne approached me, pristinely dressed in a shimmering black dress with a ruby necklace that matched her blood red nails.

You’re dressed up,” she said simply.

“Shouldn’t I be?” I asked.

“Of course, it’s just not your usual look.”

“I know.”

“Well, I just wanted to say that Annabel’s great. She’s got all the music spot on and has been really professional about the short notice of the concert,” Joanne said.

“Yeah, she’s great. I’m glad you like her,” I responded, smiling.

“Well, I just wanted to thank you. I’ll get back to practicing. You can take a seat in the audience if you want. I got you a seat in the fifth row.”

“Thanks, Jo,” I said, and made my way down to my seat, waving to Annabel as I descended the stairs. She smiled and waved back.

I had a perfect view from my seat. I could see every musician perfectly and Annabel
most of all. She was gazing at me as I took my seat, and our eyes met for just a second until the ensemble returned to rehearsing. I felt as if my suit and combed hair should give me confidence, but instead I felt incredibly out of place in this fancy theater among such distinguished musicians. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of Annabel with her bow flying through the air, singing beautiful pure notes. I took the picture discreetly, holding my phone casually to my chest and with a click Annabel was immortalized.

Fifteen minutes later, the ensemble finished practicing; people would soon be filing down the red-carpeted aisles to take their seats. Annabel descended the steps and sat beside me.

“Did we sound good?”

“Great. But you should go backstage. The audience will be here soon,” I advised.

“Not for a couple of minutes.”

“I guess.”

“So, do you enjoy photography?” she asked. I blushed dramatically. I was so sure my photographing had been nonchalant.

“Sometimes I do.”

“Can I see the photo you took?”

“It’s not really very good,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not very good.”

“Well maybe you can show me later? I bet you’re better than you think,” she said and got up to leave as a few lone audience members arrived in the back of the theater.

“What are you doing after the concert?” I asked quickly, fearing that I would become overcome with fear if I waited to long.

“Nothing. Going home I suppose,” Annabel replied.

“You wanna get dinner?”

“I think it will be past dinner time.”

“Oh, yeah of course. You’re right,” I said turning away from her sheepishly.
“But who cares about that kind of thing? I’d love to.” I felt immediately inflated. Annabel Baker actually wanted to have dinner with me.

“Great,” I said and she ran off backstage.

The theater began to fill. The aisles bustled with talkative people. It was all of London’s well-dressed, elite, music appreciators. They stood upright and talked in unaffected accents and had neatly shined shoes. I almost looked like them. But my hair felt extremely uncombed and I could feel every crease in my pants that I had forgotten to iron. The air felt heavy around me; the opulent crowd seemed to wall me in. I slouched down in my seat, and stared deep into the curtains of the stage, which Annabel stood behind.

She was surely standing tall with her cello poised by her side, her long slender finger gripping the bow, her dark hair cascading its way down her back, shimmering and glowing. Her eyes would be filled with her fiery passion for music, and when she played, the audience would be stunned into immediate admiration.
The house lights dimmed and the spotlights that I had been turning on and off all week came on, worked by some unknown hand up in the light booth. The curtain parted to reveal Joanne’s regal grand piano and three chairs and music stands. After a welcome from the Apollo Theatre management, the musicians took the stage. The harpist entered, followed by the violist, and then Annabel. The audience clapped civilly for them; I clapped perhaps a little louder. Maybe Annabel could hear me clapping, but her eyes turned to me for a second as she took her bow and seated herself. Joanne entered last, the star of the show.

The audience went wild, in the most urbane way possible. Joanne Davies was known. The sophisticated and worldly members of London’s populace held her in high esteem. So did I.

All the musicians were seated. Their music was laid out on their stands, and they were poised, ready to play. The audience seemed to hold its breath; silence and stillness pervaded the theater for several long moments, and then the music began.
The audience was captivated. I had seen them play every piece before, but I was in awe of the power that radiated from the stage. Annabel had never looked more beautiful to me, and my ears hung on to each note from the cello until every other instrument faded away. Everything around Annabel seemed to be fuzzy and unimportant.

The first half of the concert slipped by without my noticing. Every time a piece ended, I clapped loudly. Not loud enough to be noticed, but more enthusiastically than my refined neighbors in the audience.

During intermission, I ran out of the theater and about two blocks to a flower stand. Pulling a pound from my wallet, I bought one long-stemmed red rose and carried in gently back to the theater. I rested it in my lap for the whole second half of the concert, stroking the petals and carefully touching the sharp thorns.

When the concert ended, everyone stood and applauded for several long minutes and many shouts of ‘Encore!’ I clapped delicately with the rose still in hand. When the audience began to move from their seats out of the doors at the back of the theater, I pushed through the crowd towards the stage, and scaling it quickly, I ran towards the curtain to go backstage. Enveloped in the folds of the curtain, I could see beautiful Annabel untightening her bow and laying her cello in its case. Joanne was talking quietly with her and they laughed together.

“So you are going to go out with Thomas?” Joanne was saying. Yes, she was. She had said she’d love to. With a glowing smile.

“Yeah, we’re going out right now.”

“He’s a good brother . . .” Joanne trailed off.

“He seems to be.”

“He’s never had a really serious girlfriend, if you’re wondering,” Joanne said.

“I’m not his girlfriend yet,” Annabel said, carefully putting her music back into its folder.

“Do you want to be?”

“I don’t know, Joanne. I haven’t even gone on a date with him.”

“Right, okay.” I didn’t want to step out from the deep shadow of the curtain. The rose bit my hand with its thorns.

“He’s not really you’re type, I think,” Joanne said.

“How do you know?” Annabel sounded a little annoyed.

“You know, he’s not a musician, or much of anything really. He’s really sweet, but you’re accomplished and I think he might be intimidated by that.”

I wasn’t intimidated. Annabel was passionate about her music and it was part of what made her attractive.

Annabel nodded slowly. “So? Do you not want me to go out with him?”

“He’s different than you. I just thought you’d go for someone more . . . professional. More put together. I’m not trying to make you cancel the date, I just don’t see it working out. And I don’t want Tommy to get hurt.”

“Well, it’s certainly not my intention to hurt him,” Annabel said steadily. It wasn’t Joanne’s business. I felt a sudden urge to step from behind the curtain and present Annabel with the rose, but the thorns pressed into my finger and I could not bring myself to do it.

“He gets hurt pretty easily. So if you think that it couldn’t work out at all, don’t even start.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Seriously, I’m trying to give you advice.”

“And I’m listening, Joanne.”

“Thomas isn’t strong. He’s never really been able to make decisions for himself, or even live his own life, so if you lead him on, it’s all on you.”

The soft curtain pressed against my face like a gentle hand. The air weighed a ton and was warm and humid. It slipped into my throat in a forced way. My suit seemed foolishly big on me, and I missed my ripped jacket that always felt like my own skin. I buried the head of the rose in my pocket. I could feel the fragile petals warp and snap in my fist and far away I could hear a cello case close up, each latch clicking like a camera.

“No you’re a big fat liar!” yelled Lily.

“Yeah, ok. You’re so believable” responded her brother Josh.

“Josh go upstairs and Lily come to me now!” yelled Lily’s mom.

Josh stomped upstairs and Lily stomped to her parents’ room. She sat on the bed and prepared herself for a big, long lecture. Instead what she got was a “Come here.”

Lily responded by saying, “I don’t get what you can show me that has to do anything with siblings being that you don’t have any.”

“Just come look at this,” said Lily’s mom. “This was your Aunt Paige. She died a year before you were born. She was my older sister.”
Lily just stood there, shocked taking deep, deep breaths to calm herself down so that she didn’t freak out. “I’m so sorry mom.”

“It’s ok. In fact, you sort of look like Paige. You keep the picture.” Lily then took the picture upstairs into her room and put it on her dresser on an angle so that the picture frame wouldn’t fall off of her dresser.

The next morning Lily ran downstairs to catch a quick breakfast before her bus came. The grocery store was out of her favorite cereal, so her mom bought her brother’s favorite instead which was one of her least favorites. She instead chugged a bottle of water and had a multi-grain bar. She said her final goodbyes to her mom, since her mom was leaving the state for a business trip. About thirty seconds later, her school bus came.

On the bus she had to deal with fifth, sixth and eighth graders of which some she did know and others she didn’t. Lily was in seventh grade when this happened. There were only two other seventh graders on the bus besides herself. The fifth, sixth and eighth graders always trampled the seventh graders because a large percentage of them were very short. Lily was one of the shortest in her grade and wore pink clothing a lot so sometimes strangers thought she was younger then she was.

When Lily got to school, all she could think about was how she had an aunt and she didn’t even know about it. Jessica, one of Lily’s friends, threw a paper ball with the answers to the worksheet on it because she could tell that Lily was zoned out, and she saw that she didn’t have the answers on her sheet yet. Lily wrote them down fast enough so that when her teacher came around to see if everyone had done their work, Lily’s was done. At the end of class Lily’s friend, said “You owe me now.” And Lily just stood there thinking how could I pay her back?
[INSERT IMAGE]

The First Clue

When Lily first got home, at the time she was still curious about her aunt, so she immediately ran upstairs into her room and looked at the photo of her Aunt Paige. She held the photo in her hand just staring at it. All of a sudden it slipped out of her hand. At the edge of the back of the frame, she saw a little white piece of paper sticking out. She undid the back of the frame and unfolded the paper. She saw writing on it and read it. It said:

Whoever is reading this, you are about to go on a marvelous journey to find where you can see me again. The first clue is at Maddie’s old house. The one that got burned down.

Have fun! -Paige Heifmen

Madeline, or Maddie for short, was Lily’s mom’s name. She had no idea how she would be able to do this task; she was only 12 and couldn’t drive herself everywhere. Then she got it. She would trick her gullible dad to drive her everywhere she needed to go and say it was weekend homework to take notes for a scavenger hunt. She went downstairs and told her dad about it, holding the note in her hand. Her dad of course, said yes, and Lily got in the car to start her journey.
She gave her dad her mom’s old address from when she was in college. The car ride was quiet until Lily’s dad asked.

“Can you teach me some teen slang?” and Lily just hit her head hard.

Then her dad asked, “If I was trying to be a cool dad, should I introduce myself by saying: I’m the Eric-nator, who are you?”

Lily responded, “No. You’ll look stupid and unprofessional if you do that.”

“Then what should I do Lily-nator?”

“Just say: Hi! I’m Lily’s dad. Who are you? It’s that simple!”

“Really? That’s what teens consider cool dads?”

“Yep. Just as simple as that” and at that very moment, the navigation said, “You have reached your destination.”

  The Second Clue
Lily got out of the car to find an empty space in between college dorms. Her mom’s college dorm really did get burned down. From far away, Lily saw something that looked like a little rock, but as she approached it, she realized that it was a locket. [INSERT IMAGE 2]

She opened the pretty blue locket, and realized it was about the same color as her friend Jessica’s eyes. She had come up with an item to give Jessica back for her I owe you. Lily then opened the locket and saw another paper with a clue on it. She stuck the first clue in her pocket and read the second. It said:

Very well. Good job. You have successfully passed the first task. Now are you up for the second task? Well, go to my daughter, Mackenzie’s house. When you get there, ask her: “Where was your favorite place to go when you were younger?” Once you get the answer, go to that place. You will find another clue there if you look for it very hard. -Paige Heifmen

She called her cousin Mackenzie asking for her address. You might be wondering, why didn’t she just ask her on the phone? Well sometimes when on an adventure with clues, you have to follow what each one says.  Also if you were wondering, she thought that Mackenzie’s mom was Mackenzie’s stepmom.

The Third Clue

Lily got in the car again, and told her dad the new address. It was only five minutes away from her mom’s old house. When they got there, Mackenzie was waiting at the door. “So, what do you want?” she asked. “I want to know where was your favorite place to go when you were little?” responded Lily.

“Oh that’s easy” said Mackenzie, “the little playground two blocks away. My favorite part was the sand box.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, just asking, what do you need this for?”

“Ummm… school stuff” responded Lily.

“Ok. See you later little cousin.”

“See you later big cousin.”

The Fourth Clue

Lily ran down two blocks, running like she never ran before. When she got to the playground, she immediately went to the sandbox. She thought that the clue would be there because of the information Mackenzie told her. She was right, for there in the sand bucket in the sandbox, there was a piece of paper inside. She pulled it out of the sand bucket and there was another clue. [INSERT IMAGE 3]

The clue said:

Well done! This is the last clue. Come to the curvy yellow slide. Then you will find where you can see me. -Paige Heifmen

Lily then climbed up the ladder on the playground and ran to the curvy yellow slide. She just stood there, waiting patiently for something to happen. She then felt the green bar, which was connected to the top of the slide, and a figure popped up out of nowhere. “Woah!” she said. She saw a human like figure that was bleach white. “Hi Lily! It’s nice to finally meet you in person. I’ve been watching you for a long time.”

“You look exactly like me, but you’re a ghost” said Lily.

“That’s because I’m your Aunt Paige” said the ghost.

“Are you really?”

“Yes. I’m really your Aunt Paige.”

“How can I see you? How can I do this?”

“You can do this because you went on the journey to find me; where you can see me. I have to go now, but remember only you can see me, for you were the first one to go on this journey.”

“Well, I’ll see you when I see you then, aunt.”

“And I’ll see you when I see you niece.” Lily hugged her Aunt Paige and said goodbye.

[INSERT IMAGE 4]

He walked alone, amidst the snow.  His grimy bare feet dragged behind, tinged with the sorrow of a deep blue. It was more than just despair now; it was hatred of what had become of his life. It could have been different. The future could have flourished, beckoning to him with open arms. His life could have had meaning, but his hope had been crushed long ago.

He attempted to stare into the window of his past home. At the story he could’ve portrayed. But his pages were blank. None cared of his beginning, or ending. He was met only by a disheveled reflection, as he peered into the window. A greasy unwashed beard hid his face from the world, and a porous hat shielded the rest. Year old paper-thin clothes hid the tarnished skin beneath, caused by years of hatred, regret, sorrow, and resentment. Resentment to the world that turned its back on him, resentment for the one mistake the cost him his job, his house, and his life, and resentment for himself.

Again he tried to look through the window, at the life taken so easily from his grasp. Inside was a family, huddled together in a soft blanket, drinking steaming hot chocolate next to a blazing hearth. Flames licked the top of the fireplace, dancing with jubilation. Frozen with grief, he continued to stand, petrified by the complete and utter realization that his life would never change. As his unmovable bare feet collapsed under him, he fell towards his own blanket, one without color. His life story came to his mind, but it was not a tale worth recalling. His crust-covered eyes lay open, as he turned on his back. He wanted his last memory, unlike so many others to be a radiant one. Flecks of white fell against a blackened sky. His mind and eyes laid a daze, as the last of his breathe floated from a lifeless body.

Boom! The electrical discharge in the air is quite interesting.  Dark, pale clouds hover and threaten any object in its way by giving it a shock of death. The blinding white light is faster than the speed of wind. Crack! The earsplitting noise is as loud as an ambulance in New York City. Lights are blinking on and off. Puddles of regret are the tears of babies crying over the roaring monster. Panic arises for pedestrians crossing the street, hurrying to get home. Rain pouring heavily, and beating down hard on everything in its path. The dark and ominous sky lurks above high, making sure everything is frightened by its presence. Children are huddled up in their blankets against the blazing fire to avoid the devil of the night. Boom! Grenades of hail are being thrown at innocent bystanders with anger. As the strength of the monster weakens, the only thing left of the treacherous night is what caused this massacre. Thunder has struck.

Last fall, students at the Ethel M. Burke School in Bellmawr, NJ, spent the day brainstorming and writing creative stories for PS, Jr. Here are writing samples from some participants.

“KABOOM! CRASH!” A spaceship crashed into my best friend’s backyard.  “Hi, my name is Alexis,” the alien said to my best friend, Stephany.  She told her she was from the planet Neptune and because of some trouble with her space craft, she fell from outer space and landed in this mysterious place.

Once the alien shook off the impact from the crash, Stephany told her she had crash landed in a place called New Jersey.   Stephany told the alien not to worry about anything.  She instructed her to leave her mangled space craft in her back yard and decided it would be fun to hangout with an alien.

This is where I come in. Stephany is my best friend, so, the two of us took the alien out shopping. We did tons of “girly” stuff.   We went to the mall, got manicures, and got a a sparkly up do. What a day!

After a long day doing many fun things, we went home.  To our surprise, in Stephany’s backyard, next to the mangled spaceship, was a shiny, bright spaceship with a girl standing beside it.

“Sfeultay!” the alien cried.  “Girls, this is my best friend from Neptune,” our alien friend said.

Sfeultay said as soon as the signal was sent to Neptune about the crash, she came here as fast as possible to get her best friend. The two aliens hugged.  Sfeultay thanked us for taking care of her best friend while she was in New Jersey. She told us she was lucky to find such great girls to take care of her. We certainly had a great time too!  —Francesca

Hi! I’m Harold the orange.  I love to tell  my stories to everyone.  I have  a special person that takes care of me.  But at the present time my owner is sick.  She has the flu, and I HATE the flu!  She has been eating chicken soup and taking medicine, but worst of all she is eating worms.  Apparently she was told that eating worms when you are sick is  good for you.  I really don’t get that.  Anyway, something really bad happened today, and it is way important that I tell you now!

So the terrible thing that happened started when my owner was watching TV.  She had her eyes glued to the TV, and we all felt safe.  That is until we saw her get up.  She walked in the kitchen, then walked to the cabinet … then grabbed a knife… “SLICE!” She cut my dear friend pear in half!

Then, just as she got ready to cut me, she turned a shade of green and “BOOM!” She hit the floor.

My owner had passed out!  I rolled myself over to the phone, and in my best Australian accent, I spoke to the 911 operator in a panic.

“ My sister passed out,” I said. I couldn’t let on that she was my owner, and I was really an orange.

The police, ambulance and firefighters arrived just in time.  They gave her a pill and 3, 2, 1, she woke up!  I was so happy!

So,you may be wondering how I wrote this and whether I eventually became a juicy snack.  When all the commotion was over and the emergency workers were gone, I poked myself with the eraser at the end of a pencil and rolled around to form the letters.

Once it was done, I sent it to President Obama.  Believe it or not, he decided to enter it in the Writing Hall of Fame.  No one would one to eat a world famous writing orange, and my life was saved.   —Braden Ryan

BING! BANG! BOOM! Where am I? Hi, my name is Haggy, and I’m an alien from planet Neptune.

Let me go back a little bit.  I decided I was going to go  for a ride in my spaceship . I opened the door to my bright, blue spaceship, and it closed quickly behind me.  I quickly went to my seat, got buckled up and turned on the gas.  I was ready to take off!  I flew through the sky doing all kinds of tricks ! Oh no – there were blinking lights and beeping noises. I forgot to fill my tank before I took my space adventure.  I was running out of gas! I saw a planet and it was getting closer. I thought better get over there before I completely ran out of fuel.  BEEP! BEEP! I dodged falling stars and moving space rocks.  “Don’t run out of gas! Don’t run out of gas! Let me land safe because I can’t take a crash landing!” I thought to myself.  AHHHH! Too late. There was not enough fuel and I was going down. CRAASSHHH! Ouch! That hurt!

Oh my gosh they’re right before my eyes.  Real humans!

“Is that an alien?” one human spoke to the other.

“Yes, I am Haggy,” I replied. That was enough to scare the humans to death. They quickly ran away screaming.  I knew I needed gas to return to Neptune, but my spaceship was in bad shape. I would need a tool to fix it.  Haggy was greeted warmly in the car, they did not mind aliens they got him the tools he needed .

Luckily, Haggy could fix his space ship himself it got it put together and was ready for lift off.  3,2,1 Haggy was never so happy to return to Neptune .  –Marcus

I’m Joseph the orange, apple is my best friend.  We live in the fruit basket with pear, passion fruit, grapefruit, mango, midget apple and though it sounds weird marshmallow.

You will never guess what happened in the kitchen.  Marshmallow got a pet unicorn.  The unicorn stabbed mango with its sharp point.  “curse you magical majestic creature!”.  It was awful, mango will be bruised for life. We kept mango and the unicorn separated, we did not want any more problems.

Like all magical mystical creatures the unicorn could not stay around for ever, one day he just got all fuzzy and disappeared.  Marshmallow was so upset.  He made up a song and snag it over and over, we did not know what was worse having the unicorn around or hearing the song “OHH unicorn how much I love you, love..love..love.. youuuu” We all felt really bad.

I’m not sure what it was, maybe a wish, but don’t you know that unicorn came back.   The look on marshmallows face was priceless but the silence was music to our ears.  Now , our t not normal kitchen  to most people with talking fruit and unicorns went back to our idea of normal minus a few more confrontations with mango and the unicorn.   — Joseph