OceanofPDF.com

2

http://oceanofpdf.com

TableofContentsThingsYouKeepinaBoxThingsThatGoMissingThingsYouHideTheSpeedRoundThingsThatKickThingsThatGetTangledThingsThatStainMom’sRulesforLifeinNewYorkCityThingsYouWishForThingsThatSneakUponYouThingsThatBounceThingsThatBurnTheWinner’sCircleThingsYouKeepSecretThingsThatSmellThingsYouDon’tForgetTheFirstNoteThingsonaSlantWhiteThingsTheSecondNoteThingsYouPushAwayThingsYouCountMessyThingsInvisibleThingsThingsYouHoldOnToSaltyThingsThingsYouPretendThingsThatCrackThingsLeftBehindTheThirdNoteThingsThatMakeNoSenseTheFirstProofThingsYouGiveAwayThingsThatGetStuckTied-UpThingsThingsThatTurnPinkThingsThatFallApart

3

ChristmasVacationTheSecondProofThingsinanElevatorThingsYouRealizeThingsYouBegForThingsThatTurnUpsideDownThingsThatAreSweetTheLastNoteDifficultThingsThingsThatHealThingsYouProtectThingsYouLineUpThe$20,000PyramidMagicThreadThingsThatOpenThingsThatBlowAwaySalandMiranda,MirandaandSalPartingGiftsAcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthor

4

ToSean,Jack,andEli,championsofinappropriatelaughter,fiercelove,

andextremelydeepquestions

5

Themostbeautifulexperiencewecanhave

isthemysterious.

—AlbertEinsteinTheWorld,AsISeeIt(1931)

6

ThingsYouKeepinaBox

SoMomgot thepostcard today.ItsaysCongratulations inbigcurly letters,andattheverytopistheaddressofStudioTV-15onWest58thStreet.Afterthreeyearsoftrying,shehasactuallymadeit.She’sgoingtobeacontestantonThe$20,000Pyramid,whichishostedbyDickClark.On the postcard there’s a list of things to bring. She needs some extra

clothesincaseshewinsandmakesittoanothershow,wheretheypretendit’sthenextdayeventhoughtheyreallytapefiveinoneafternoon.Barrettesareoptional,butsheshoulddefinitelybringsomewithher.Unlikeme,MomhasglossyredhairthatbouncesaroundandmightobstructAmerica’sviewofhersmallfreckledface.Andthenthere’sthedateshe’ssupposedtoshowup,scrawledinbluepen

onalineatthebottomofthecard:April27,1979.Justlikeyousaid.

Ichecktheboxundermybed,whichiswhereI’vekeptyournotesthesepastfewmonths.There it is, inyour tinyhandwriting:April27th:StudioTV-15,the words all jerky-looking, like you wrote them on the subway Your last“proof.”I still think about the letter you asked me to write. It nags at me, even

though you’re gone and there’s no one to give it to anymore. Sometimes Iworkonitinmyhead,tryingtomapoutthestoryyouaskedmetotell,abouteverything that happened this past fall andwinter. It’s all still there, like amovieIcanwatchwhenIwantto.Whichisnever.

7

ThingsThatGoMissing

MomhasswipedabigpapercalendarfromworkandScotch-tapedthemonthofApril to thekitchenwall.Sheuseda fatgreenmarker,alsoswiped fromwork, to draw a pyramid on April 27, with dollar signs and exclamationpoints all around it. She went out and bought a fancy egg timer that canaccuratelymeasure a halfminute. They don’t have fancy egg timers in thesupplyclosetatheroffice.April twenty-seventh is alsoRichard’sbirthday.Momwonders if that’s a

goodomen.Richard isMom’s boyfriend.He and I are going to helpMompractice every single night,which iswhy I’m sitting atmy desk instead ofwatching after-school TV, which is a birthright of every latchkey child.“Latchkey child” is a name for a kidwith keyswho hangs out alone afterschool until a grown-up gets home to make dinner. Mom hates thatexpression.Shesaysitremindsherofdungeons,andmusthavebeeninventedbysomeonestrictandawfulwithanunlimitedchild-carebudget.“ProbablysomeoneGerman,”shesays,glaringatRichard,whoisGermanbutnotstrictorawful.It’s possible. In Germany, Richard says, I would be one of the

Schlüsselkinder,whichmeans“keychildren.”“You’re lucky,” he tellsme. “Keys are power. Some of us have to come

knocking.” It’s true that he doesn’t have a key.Well, he has a key to hisapartment,butnottoours.Richard looks theway I picture guys on sailboats—tall, blond, and very

tucked-in,evenonweekends.OrmaybeIpictureguysonsailboatsthatwaybecauseRichardlovestosail.Hislegsareverylong,andtheydon’treallyfitunder our kitchen table, so he has to sit kind of sideways, with his kneespointing out toward the hall. He looks especially big next toMom, who’sshortandsotinyshehastobuyherbeltsinthekids’departmentandmakeanextraholeinherwatchbandsoitwon’tfalloffherarm.MomcallsRichardMr.Perfectbecauseofhowhelooksandhowheknows

everything.AndeverytimeshecallshimMr.Perfect,Richardtapshisrightknee.Hedoes thatbecausehis right leg is shorter thanhis leftone.Allhisright-footshoeshavetwo-inchplatformsnailedtothebottomsothathislegs

8

match.Inbarefeet,helimpsalittle.“Youshouldbegratefulforthatleg,”Momtellshim.“It’stheonlyreason

weletyoucomearound.”Richardhasbeen“comingaround”foralmosttwoyearsnow.

***

Wehaveexactly twenty-onedays togetMomready for thegameshow.Soinstead of watching television, I’m copying words for her practice sessiontonight.IwriteeachwordononeofthewhiteindexcardsMomswipedfromwork.WhenIhavesevenwords,Ibindthecardstogetherwitharubberbandshealsoswipedfromwork.IhearMomskeyinthedoorandflipovermywordpilessoshecan’tpeek.“Miranda?”She clompsdown thehall—she’s on a clogkick lately—and

sticksherheadinmyroom.“Areyoustarving?Ithoughtwe’dholddinnerforRichard.”“Icanwait.”The truth is I’ve justeatenanentirebagofCheezDoodles.

After-schooljunkfoodisanotherfundamentalrightofthelatchkeychild.I’msurethisistrueinGermany,too.“You’resureyou’renothungry?Wantmetocutupanappleforyou?”“What’sakindofGermanjunkfood?”Iaskher.“Wienercrispies?”Shestaresatme.“Ihavenoidea.Whydoyouask?”“Noreason.”“Doyouwanttheappleornot?”“No,andgetoutofhere—I’mdoingthewordsforlater.”“Great.” She smiles and reaches into her coat pocket. “Catch.” She lobs

somethingtowardme,andIgrabwhatturnsouttobeabundleofbrand-newmarkersinrainbowcolors,heldtogetherwithafatrubberband.Sheclompsbacktowardthekitchen.RichardandIfiguredoutawhileagothatthemorestuffMomswipesfrom

theofficesupplycloset,themoreshe’shatingwork.Ilookatthemarkersforasecondandthengetbacktomywordpiles.Momhastowinthismoney.

9

ThingsYouHide

Iwasnamedafteracriminal.Momsaysthat’sadramaticwayoflookingatthings,butsometimesthetruthisdramatic.“ThenameMiranda stands forpeople’s rights,” she said last fall,when I

wasupsetbecauseRobbieB.hadtoldmeduringgymthatIwasnamedafterakidnapper.I had leftmy keys at school andwaited two and a half hours at Belle’s

Market on Amsterdam Avenue for Mom to get home from work. I didn’tmind thewaiting somuch. I helpedBelle out around the store for awhile.AndIhadmybook,ofcourse.“Still reading that same book?” Belle asked, once I had settled into my

foldingchairnexttothecashregistertoread.“It’slookingprettybeat-up.”“I’mnotstillreadingit,”Itoldher.“I’mreadingitagain.”Ihadprobably

readitahundredtimes,whichwaswhyitlookedsobeat-up.“Okay,”Belle said, “so let’s hear something about this book.What’s the

first line?Inever judgeabookbythecover,”shesaid.“I judgebythefirstline.”Iknewthefirstlineofmybookwithoutevenlooking.“Itwasadarkand

stormynight,”Isaid.Shenodded.“Classic.Ilikethat.What’sthestoryabout?”Ithoughtforasecond.“It’saboutagirlnamedMeg—herdadismissing,

andshegoesonthistriptoanotherplanettosavehim.”“And?Doesshehaveaboyfriend?”“Sortof,”Isaid.“Butthat’snotreallythepoint.”“Howoldisshe?”“Twelve.”Thetruthisthatmybookdoesn’tsayhowoldMegis,butIam

twelve,soshefeelstwelvetome.WhenIfirstgotthebookIwaseleven,andshefelteleven.“Oh, twelve,”Bellesaid.“Plentyof timeforboyfriends, then.Whydon’t

youstartfromthebeginning?”“Startwhatfromthebeginning?”

10

“Thestory.Tellmethestory.Fromthebeginning.”So I started telling her the story of my book, not reading it to her, just

tellingheraboutit,startingwiththefirstscene,whereMegwakesupatnight,afraidofathunderstorm.Whileshe listened,Bellemademea turkeysandwichandgavemeabout

tenchewablevitaminCsbecauseshethoughtIsoundednasal.Whenshewenttothebathroom,Isneakedalittlebunchofgrapes,whichIlovebutcan’teverhave, because Mom doesn’t like the way the grape pickers are treated inCaliforniaandsherefusestobuythem.

***

Whenshefinallygotthere,MomhuggedBelleandtoldher,“Ioweyou,”likeIwas some repulsive burden instead of the personwho had very helpfullyunpacked threeboxesofgreenbananasandscoured the refrigeratedsectionforexpireddairyitems.ThenMomboughtaboxofstrawberries,eventhoughIknowshethinksBelle’sstrawberriesareoverpricedandnotverygood.ShecallsthemSSO’s,whichstandsfor“strawberry-shapedobjects.”

“WheredidRobbieB.get thedumb idea thatanyonewouldnameherowndaughterafteramurderer?”Momasked.Ourbuildingwasstillhalfablockaway, but her key was already in her hand. Mom doesn’t like to fumblearoundinfrontofthebuildinglookinglikeatargetformuggers.“Notamurderer,”Isaid.“Akidnapper.RobbieB.’sdadisaprosecutor.He

says theMirandawarningswerenamed for aguynamedMr.Mirandawhocommittedsomehorriblecrime.Isthattrue?”“Technically? Maybe. The Miranda warnings are essential, you know.

Peopleneedtoknowthattheyhavetherighttoremainsilentandtherighttoanattorney.Whatkindofjusticesystemwouldwehavewithout—”“‘Maybe’meaning‘yes’?”“—and then there’s Shakespeare. He invented the name Miranda, you

know,forTheTempest.”It made perfect sense now that I thought about it:Momwanted to be a

criminaldefenselawyer—shestartedlawschoolandalmostfinishedherfirstyear,butthenIwasbornandshehadtoquit.Nowshe’saparalegal,exceptsheworksatareallysmalllawofficewhereshehastobethereceptionistandthesecretarytoo.Richardisoneofthelawyers.Theydoalotoffreeworkforpoorpeople, sometimeseven for criminals.But Ineverdreamedshewould

11

namemeafterone.Mom unlocked the lobby door, which is iron and glass andmust weigh

three hundred pounds, and she pushed hard to swing it open, her heelsslippingonthetilefloor.Whenwewereinside,sheleanedagainsttheotherside of the door until she heard the click that means the lock has caught.When the door swings shut by itself, it usually doesn’t lock, which drivesMomnutsandisoneofthethingsthelandlordwon’tfix.“So?Washeakidnapperornot?”Ipunchedthebuttonfortheelevator.“Okay,youwin,”Momsaid.“Inamedyouafteramonster,Mira.I’msorry.

Ifyoudon’tlikeyourname,youarewelcometochangeit.”ThatwassoMom.Shedidn’tunderstand thatapersongetsattached toa

person’sname,thatsomethinglikethismightcomeasashock.Upstairs,shethrewhercoatonakitchenchair,filledthespaghettipotwith

water, and put it on to boil. She was wearing an orange turtleneck and adenimskirtwithpurpleandblackstripedtights.“Nice tights,” I snorted.Or I tried to snort, anyway. I’mnot exactly sure

how,thoughpeopleinbooksarealwaysdoingit.She leaned against the sink and flipped through the mail. “You already

hassledmeaboutthetightsthismorning,Mira.”“Oh.”ShewasusuallystillinbedwhenIleftforschool,soIdidn’tgetto

appreciateheroutfituntilshegothomefromwork.“Nicenailpolish,then.”Hernailswereelectricblue.Shemusthavedonethematherdeskthatday.She rolledher eyes. “Areyoumadaboutwaiting atBelle’s? Iwas super

busy—Icouldn’tjustleave.”“No.IlikeitatBelle’s.”Iwonderedwhethershe’ddonehernailsbefore,

after,orduringhersuperbusyafternoon.“YoucouldhavegonetoSal’s,youknow.”Salandhismom,Louisa,live

intheapartmentbelowours.Salusedtobemybestfriend.“IsaidIlikeitatBelle’s.”“Still.Ithinkweshouldhideakeyinthefirehose,forthenexttime.”Soafterdinnerwehidoursparekeyinsidethenozzleofthedusty,folded-

up fire hose in the stairwell. The hose is all cracked-looking and about ahundredyearsold,andMomalwayssaysthatifthere’sanactualfireitwillbeof no use whatsoever and we’ll have to jump out the window into theneighbor’sgarden.It’sagoodthingweliveonthesecondfloor.

12

You askedme tomention the key. If I ever do decide towrite your letter,whichIprobablywon’t,thisisthestoryIwouldtellyou.

13

TheSpeedRound

There are two parts to The $20,000 Pyramid. Mom calls the first part thespeed round because it’s all about speed. Contestants try to make theircelebritypartnersguesssevencommonwordsbygivingclues.Soifthefirstword is “fork,” a contestant might say, “You use this to put food in yourmouth—notaspoonbuta…”Ifhehasabrain,whichMomsayshemightnot,thecelebritypartnerwill

say“Fork!”andthenthere’llbeadingandthenextwordwillshowuponalittlehiddenscreen.Eachteamgetsthirtysecondsforsevenwords.Then the little screensswivelaround,and it’s thecelebrities’ turn togive

the clues and the contestants’ turn to guess. Another seven words, anotherthirty seconds. Then the screens swivel back, and the contestants give thecluesagain.There are a possible twenty-one points in the speed round, and a perfect

score earns a cash bonus of twenty-one hundred dollars. But the mostimportantthingisjusttobeattheotherteam,becausetheteamthatwinsthespeedroundgoestotheWinner’sCircle,andtheWinner’sCircleiswherethebigmoneyis.

***

Thereisn’talotoftimeforpracticetonightbecauseit’stenant-meetingnight.Onceamonth,theneighborssitinourlivingroomandcomplainwhileMomtakesnotes in shorthand.Mostpeopledon’tbother tocome. It’s always theoldfolks,whodon’tgetaskedtogomanyplacesandaremadthatthereisn’tmore heat. Sal’smom, Louisa, works in a nursing home, and she says oldpeoplecannevergetenoughheat.Afterthemeetings,duringwhichMr.Nunzihasusuallyburnedanewhole

inourcouchwithhiscigarette,Momalwayswritesalettertothelandlordandsendsacopytosomecityagencythat’ssupposedtocarewhetherwehavehotwater, if the lobby door locks, and that the elevator keeps getting stuckbetweenfloors.Butnothingeverchanges.

14

Ourdoorbellisgoingtostartringinganyminute.Momisrunningthroughafew speed rounds with Richard while I make lemonade from frozenconcentrateandopentheOreos.Louisaknocksher regularknockand I answer thedoorwith theplateof

cookies. She takes an Oreo and sighs. She’s wearing jeans with her whitenurse shoes,which shekicks off by the door. Shehates thesemeetings butcomes out of loyalty to Mom. And someone has to watch Mr. Nunzi’scigarettetomakesurehedoesn’taccidentallysetourapartmentonfire.“Lemonade?”Iask.IrefusetoplaywaitressduringMom’sget-togethers,

butI’llpourLouisaadrinkanytime.“Lemonadesoundslovely.”Shefollowsmetothekitchen.JustasIputtheglassinherhand,thedoorbellbuzzesforaboutaminute

straight.Why,why,whydotheyhavetoholdthebuttondownforever?“Oldpeople,”Louisasays,asifshecanreadmymind.“They’resousedto

being ignored.” She grabs twomore cookies and goes to answer the door.Louisadoesn’tnormallyeatwhatshecallsprocessedfoods,butshesaysshecouldnevergetthroughatenantmeetingwithoutOreos.Fifteen minutes later, Mom is sitting on the living room floor, writing

furiously as everyone takes turns saying that the elevator is dirty, there arecigarettebuttsonthestairs,andthedryerinthebasementmeltedsomebody’selastic-waistpants.Ileanagainstthewallinthehallwayandwatchherholduponefingerto

signalMrs.Bindocker to slowdown.OnceMrs.Bindocker gets going, notevenMom’sshorthandcankeepupwithher.

Momcriedthefirsttimeshesawourapartment.Thewholeplacewasfilthy,shesays.Thewoodfloorswere“practicallyblack,”thewindowswere“cakedwithdirt,”andthewallsweresmearedwithsomethingshe“didn’tevenwanttothinkabout.”Alwaysinthosesamewords.Iwastherethatday—inalittlebucket-seatbabycarrier. Itwascoldout, andshehadanewcoaton.Therewerenohangersintheclosets,andshedidn’twanttoputthecoatdownonthe dirty floor or drape it over one of the peeling, hissing radiators, so shecarried it while she went from room to room, telling herself it wasn’t soawful.Atthispointinthestory,Iusedtotrytothinkofsomeplaceshecouldhave

puthercoat,ifonlyshehadthoughtofit.“Whydidn’tyoudrapeitovertherodinthehallcloset?”I’dask.

15

“Dusty,”she’dsay.“Onthewindowsillinthekitchen?”“Dusty.”“Whataboutoverthetopofthebedroomdoor?”“Couldn’treach,”she’dsay,“anddusty.”WhatMomdidthatdayalmosttwelveyearsagowasputhercoatbackon,

pickupmybucketseat,andwalktoastore,wheresheboughtamop,somesoap,garbagebags,arollofstickyshelfpaper,sponges,abottleofwindowspray,andpapertowels.Backhome,shedumpedeverythingoutonthefloor.Thenshefoldedher

coat and slid it into the empty bag from the store. She hung the bag on adoorknobandcleanedtheapartmentallafternoon.Iknewenough,shesays,tosnuggledowninmybucketseatandtakeaverylongnap.ShemetLouisa,whodidn’thaveahusbandeither,inthelobbyonthatfirst

day. They were both taking garbage to the big cans out front. Louisa washoldingSal.Salhadbeencrying,butwhenhesawme,hestopped.Iknowall thisbecause Iused toask tohear thestoryoverandover: the

storyofthedayImetSal.

16

ThingsThatKick

LosingSalwaslikealonglistofbadthings,andsomewhereinthetophalfofthelistwasthefactthatIhadtowalkhomealonepastthecrazyguyonourcorner.Heshoweduparoundthebeginningoftheschoolyear,whenSalandIstill

walkedhome fromschool together.A fewkids calledhimQuack, short forQuackers,ortheycalledhimKickerbecauseheusedtodothesesuddenkicksinto the street, like he was trying to punt one of the cars speeding upAmsterdamAvenue.Sometimesheshookhisfistattheskyandyelledcrazystufflike“What’stheburnscale?Where’sthedome?”andthenhethrewhisheadbackandlaughedtheseloud,crazylaughs,soeveryonecouldseethathehad about thirty fillings in his teeth. And he was always on our corner,sometimessleepingwithhisheadunderthemailbox.

“Don’t call him Quack,” Mom said. “That’s an awful name for a humanbeing.”“Evenahumanbeingwho’squackers?”“Idon’tcare.It’sstillawful.”“Well,whatdoyoucallhim?”“Idon’tcallhimanything,” she said, “but I thinkofhimas the laughing

man.”

Back when I still walked home with Sal, it was easier to pretend that thelaughingmandidn’tscareme,becauseSalwaspretendingtoo.Hetriednottoshowit,buthefreakedwhenhesawthelaughingmanshakinghisfistattheskyandkickinghislegoutintotraffic.IcouldtellbythewaySal’sfacekindoffroze.Iknowallofhisexpressions.IusedtothinkofSalasbeingapartofme:SalandMiranda,Mirandaand

Sal.Iknewhewasn’treally,butthat’sthewayitfelt.Whenweweretoolittleforschool,SalandIwenttodaycaretogetherata

lady’sapartmentdowntheblock.ShehadpickedupsomecarpetsamplesatastoreonAmsterdamAvenueandwrittenthekids’namesonthebacks.After

17

lunch, she’d pass out these carpet squares and we’d pick our spots on theliving room floor for nap time. Sal and I always lined ours up to make arectangle.Onetime,whenSalhadafeverandLouisahadcalledinsicktoherjoband

kepthimhome, theday-care ladyhandedmemycarpetsquareatnap time,andthen,asecondlater,shegavemeSal’s,too.“Iknowhowitis,baby,”shesaid.AndthenIlayonherfloornotsleepingbecauseSalwasn’ttheretopress

hisfootagainstmine.

***

Whenhefirstshoweduponourcornerlastfall,thelaughingmanwasalwaysmumblingunderhisbreath.“Bookbag,pocketshoe,bookbag,pocketshoe.”He said it like a chant: bookbag, pocketshoe, bookbag, pocketshoe. And

sometimeshewouldbehittinghimselfon theheadwithhis fists.Saland Iusuallytriedtogetreallyinterestedinourconversationandactlikewedidn’tnotice.It’scrazythethingsapersoncanpretendnottonotice.

“Whydoyou thinkhesleeps like that,withhisheadunder themailbox?” IaskedRichard backwhen the laughingmanwas brand-new and Iwas stilltryingtofigurehimout.“I don’t know,” Richard said, looking up from the paper. “Maybe so

nobodystepsonhishead?”“Veryfunny.Andwhat’sa‘pocketshoe,’anyway?”“Pocketshoe,”hesaid,lookingserious.“Noun:Anextrashoeyoukeepin

your pocket. In case someone steals one of yourswhile you’re asleepwithyourheadunderthemailbox.”“Hahaha,”Isaid.“Oh,Mr. Perfect,”Mom said. “You and your amazing dictionary head!”

Shewasinoneofhergoodmoodsthatday.Richardtappedhisrightkneeandwentbacktohisnewspaper.

18

ThingsThatGetTangled

Lucky forMom, someof theoldpeopleat thenursinghomewhereLouisaworksliketowatchThe$20,000Pyramidatlunchtime.Louisatakesnotesoneveryshowandbrings themoverafterwork.Shegetsoffat four,soIhavetime to write out the day’s words on stolen index cards beforeMom getshome.Tonight,MomandRichardarepracticinginthelivingroom.I’msupposed

to be doing homework in my room, but instead I’m tying knots and I’mthinking.ItwasRichardwhotaughtmehowtotieknots.Helearnedbackwhenhe

sailedboatsasakid, andhe still carriespiecesof rope inhisbriefcase.Hesaysthatwhenhe’stryingtosolveaproblematwork,hetakesouttheropes,tiesthemintoknots,untiesthem,andthentiesthemagain.Itgetshimintherightframeofmind.TwoChristmasesago,whichwashisfirstChristmaswithus,Richardgave

memyownsetofropesandstartedshowingmeknots.NowIcanmakeeveryknotheknows,eventheclovehitch,whichIdidbackwardforafewmonthsbeforeIgotitright.SoIamtyinganduntyingknots,andseeingifithelpsmesolvemyproblem,whichisyou.Ihavenoideawhatyouexpectfromme.If you just wanted to know what happened that day this past winter, it

wouldbeeasy.Notfun,buteasy.Butthat’snotwhatyournotesays.Itsaystowritedownthestoryofwhathappenedandeverythingthatleduptoit.And,as Mom likes to say, that’s a whole different bucket of poop. Except shedoesn’tusetheword“poop.”Becauseevenifyouwerestillhere,evenifIdiddecidetowritetheletter,I

wouldn’tknowwhere tostart.Theday the laughingmanshoweduponourcorner?The dayMomandLouisamet in the lobby?The day I foundyourfirstnote?Thereisnoanswer.Butifsomeonesatonmylegsandforcedmetoname

thedaythewholetruestorybegan,I’dsayitwasthedaySalgotpunched.

19

20

ThingsThatStain

Ithappenedinthefall,whenSalandIstillwalkedhomefromschooltogethereverysingleday:oneblockfromWestEndAvenuetoBroadway,oneblockfromBroadwaytoAmsterdam,pastthelaughingmanonourcorner,andthenhalfablocktoourlobbydoor.That middle block between Broadway and Amsterdam is mostly a huge

garage,where the sidewalk is all slanted, andwehad tobe carefulwhen itwasicyorelsewe’dsliprightinfrontofthepackofboysalwayshangingoutthere.Ifwedidfall,they’dmakeareallybigdealoutofit,staggeringaroundlaughing,andsometimescallingusnamesthatmadeourheartsbeatfasttherestofthewayhome.

ThedaySalgotpunched,therewasnoiceonthegroundbecauseitwasonlyOctober.Iwascarryingthebigoak-tagMysteriesofScienceposterI’dmadeatschool.Ihaddrawnbigbubblelettersforthetitle,whichwasWhyDoWeYawn?Therearealotofinterestingtheoriesaboutyawning.Somepeoplethinkit

startedasawayofshowingofftheteethtoscarepredatorsaway,orasawaytostretchfacialmuscles,or tosignal to therestof the tribe that it’s time tosleep.Myown theory,which I includedonmyposter, is that yawning is asemipolite way of telling someone that they’re boring everyone to death.Eitherthatorit’saslow-motionsneeze.Butnooneknowsforsure,whichiswhyit’samysteryofscience.

ThedaySalgotpunched,theboysbythegaragewerehangingout,asusual.Thedaybefore, therehadbeena fight,withoneof themslamminganotheroneupagainstaparkedcarandhittinghim.Thekidgettinghithadbothhishandsuplikehewassaying“Enough!,”buteverytimehetriedtogetoffthehoodofthatcar,theotherkidpushedhimdownandhithimagain.Theotherboyswere all jumping around andyelling andSal and I had crossed to theother side of the street so that we wouldn’t get accidentally slammed bysomebody.OnthedaySalgotpunched,theboyswerebeingregular,sowestayedon

21

ourusualside.Butjustaswestartedpastthegarage,someonemovedawayfromthegroup.HetookabigsteptowardmeandSalandblockedourwaysothatwehadtostop.Ilookedupandsawanot-too-biggishkidinagreenarmycoat.HemadeafistthatcameuplikeawaveandhitSalrightinthestomach.Hard.Saldoubledoverandgurgledlikehewasgoingtothrowup.Andthenthekidwhackedhimacrosstheface.“Sal!”Iyelled.IglancedoveratBelle’sMarketonAmsterdam,butnoone

wasoutfront.Salwasbentoverandfrozen.Thekidjuststoodthereforafewsecondswithhisheadtiltedtooneside.Itseemedcrazy,butitactuallylookedlikehewasreadingmyMysteriesofScienceposter.ThenheturnedawayandstartedstrollingtowardBroadwaylikenothinghadhappened.

“Sal!”Ileanedovertoseehisface,whichlookedokaybuthadonecheekallred.“Walk,”Isaid.“We’realmosthome.”Sal’s feet started tomove. It tookmea fewsteps to realize that theboys

weren’tlaughingorwhistlingorcallingusnames.Theyhadn’tmadeasound.Ilookedbackandsawthemstandingthere,staringafterthekidinthegreenarmycoat,whowasstillwalkingintheotherdirection.“Hey!”oneof themyelleddowntheblockafterhim.“What thehellwas

that?”Butthekiddidn’tlookback.Salwasmoving slowly.He squeezed the arms of the blue satinYankees

jacketLouisagothimforhisbirthday,andtearsweredroppingdownhisface,andIalmostcriedbutdidn’t.Itwasmyjobtogethimhome,andwestillhadtogetbythelaughingman.Hewasonourcorner,marchingaroundinacircleanddoingsomesalutes.

Sal was crying harder and walking in a hunch. Some blood had starteddrippingoutofhisnose,andhewipeditwiththeblueandwhitestripedcuffofhisjacket.Hegaggedalot.Itsoundedlikehereallymightthrowup.Whenhesawus,thelaughingmandroppedhisarmstohissidesandstood

upstraight.HeremindedmeofthebigwoodennutcrackerLouisaputsoutonherkitchentableatChristmastime.“Smartkid!”hesaid.Hetookasteptowardus,anditwasenoughtomake

Saltakeoffrunningforhome.Iranafterhim,tryingtoholdontomyposterandgetmykeysoutofmyjeans.WhenIhadgottenusintothelobby,Salwentstraighttohisapartmentand

closedthedooronme.Iknockedforawhile,butLouisawasn’thomefromworkyetandhewouldn’tletmein.

22

IfI’mnotwrong,thisisthebeginningofthestoryyouwantedmetotell.AndIdidn’tknowityet,butitwasalsotheendofmyfriendshipwithSal.

23

Mom’sRulesforLifeinNewYorkCity

1. Alwayshaveyourkeyoutbeforeyoureachthefrontdoor.2. Ifastranger ishangingout in frontof thebuilding,don’tevergo in—

justkeepwalkingaroundtheblockuntilhe’sgone.3. Lookahead.If there’ssomeoneactingstrangedowntheblock, looking

drunk or dangerous, cross to the other side of the street, but don’t beobviousaboutit.Makeitlooklikeyouwereplanningtocrossthestreetallalong.

4. Nevershowyourmoneyonthestreet.

Ihavemyowntrick.IfI’mafraidofsomeoneonthestreet,I’ll turntohim(it’salwaysaboy)andsay,“Excuseme,doyouhappentoknowwhattimeitis?”Thisismywayofsayingtotheperson,“Iseeyouasafriend,andthereisnoneedtohurtmeortakemystuff.Also,Idon’tevenhaveawatchandIamprobablynotworthmugging.”So far, it’s worked like gangbusters, as Richard would say. And I’ve

discoveredthatmostpeopleI’mafraidofareactuallyveryfriendly.

24

ThingsYouWishFor

“Miranda?”Mom calls from the kitchen. “We need you to keep time.Thisegg-timertickingisdrivingmecrazy.”SoIwatchthesecondhandofthekitchenclockwhileRichardfeedsMom

clues.ThenMomgivestheclueswhileRichardguesses.“CanIplay?”Iaskafteraboutfiverounds.“Sure.Richard,youkeep time for awhile.”Momstretchesandpeelsoff

herpurplesweatshirt.Asitgoesoverherhead,herhairfallsfreeofthecollarandbouncesdownaroundhershoulders.Asusual, thismakesmecursemynonexistentdad,whomustbetoblameformyhair,whichisstraight,brown,and justkindof there. Iblame this stupid flatbrownhaironmy father,butotherwiseIdon’tholdanygrudgesagainsthim.In my book, Meg is looking for her father. When she finally gets to

Camazotz,whichisaplanetsomewhereneartheBigDipperwherehe’sbeingheldprisoner,thisevilmanwithredeyesasksherwhyshewantshim,andshesays, “Didn’t you ever have a father yourself? You don’t want him for areason.Youwanthimbecausehe’syourfather.”SoI figure it’sbecauseIneverhada father that Idon’twantonenowA

personcan’tmisssomethingsheneverhad.

Richardislookingatthekitchenclock,waitingforthesecondhandtogettothetwelve.“Okay,getready—go!”Ilookdownatthefirstcard.“Um,thisissomethingyouspreadontoast,”I

say.“Butter!”Momyells.Nextcard.“Youdrinkamilkshakewiththis,yousuckthroughit.”“Astraw!”Momyells.Next.“It’sleatheranditholdsyourpantsup!”“Abelt!”“It’ssweet—youdrinkitinwinter,afteryougosledding!”“Hotchocolate!”

25

It’sgoodtoplay,tothinkofnothingbutthenextwordandtohaveMomthinkofnothingbut thenextwordsoutofmymouth.Weflythroughthepackofsevenwords.“You’re good at this,” Mom says when we finish with five seconds to

spare.I’msmiling.“Ireallythinkyou’regoingtowin,”Itellher.“Don’tgetyourhopesup,”shewarns.“This is just thespeedround.The

speedroundistheeasypart.”

***

Thetruthisthatourhopesarealreadyup.OurwishlistisstucktothefridgewithamagnetMomstolefromwork:

26

TriptoChinaGoodcamerafortriptoChinaWall-to-wallcarpetingforMiranda’sroomNewTV

AndRichardhasscribbledSailboatatthebottom,thoughit’shardtoimaginewherewewouldparkit.That’stheofficiallist,anyway.RichardandIhaveourownsecretplanfor

themoney,ifMomwinsit.

27

ThingsThatSneakUponYou

ThedaySalgotpunched,backinOctober,LouisacameupstairsafterdinnertohaveaconferencewithMominherbedroom.TheydecidedthatSalneededamentalhealthday,whichmeanthewasallowed toskipschoolandwatchTVthenextday.So the following afternoon I walked home alone. I was doing a lot of

talkinginmyheadsothatIwouldbedeepinconversationwithmyselfbythetime I got to the laughingman. Iwas almost to thegaragewhen I realizedsomeonewaswalkingrightbehindme.Iglancedbackandsawthekidwhopunched Sal. He wasmaybe two feet away, wearing the same green armyjackethehadwornthedaybefore.Iwasabouttopanic.IalwaysknowwhenI’mabouttopanicbecausemy

kneesandneckbothstarttotingle.Andthen,beforeIhadreallydecidedwhattodo,Iturnedaroundtofacehim.“Excuseme,doyouhappentoknowwhattimeit is?”Myvoicesounded

almostnormal.Thatwasgood.“Let’ssee….”HeturnedhisheadandlookedbacktowardBroadwaylike

maybetherewasagiantclockhoveringintheairrightbehindus.“It’sthree-sixteen.”InoddedlikeIcouldseetheinvisibleclocktoo.“Thanks.”Hedidn’tlook

likehewasabouttohitme,butstill,myheartwaspounding.Hepointed.“Seethatbigbrownbuilding?Yesterdaythesunstartedtogo

behind it at three-twelve.Now it’s abouthalfwaygone.”Heglancedatme.“Plus,it’sonedaylater,andit’sOctober,sothedaysaregettingshorter.”Istaredathim.Helookeddownathishand,whichheldakey.Hepushed

theotherhandintohispantspocket.“Idon’thaveawatch,”hesaid.“Oh,”Isaid.“Meneither.”Henodded,andIwasn’tafraidanymore.Butassoonasthefearwasgone,

I filled upwith guilt. “Look at you,”my brain said, “chattingwith the kidwhopunchedSal!”Mybrainhasawayoftalkingtomelikethat.“I’vegottogo,”Isaid,andIdidn’tletmyselfglancebackuntilIgottothe

28

corner.When I did, the kid who punched Sal was gone. That was when Irealizedthathemustliveintheapartmentoverthegarage,theonewithdeadplantsonthefireescapeandbedsheetshangingoverthewindows.I’d forgottenall about the laughingman.His legswerestickingout from

underthemailbox,andIwascarefulnottowakehim.

29

ThingsThatBounce

Afterhegotpunched,Sal startedplayingbasketball in thealleybehindourbuilding.Ourlivingroomwindowsfacethatway,andIheardhimdribblinghis ball back there from about three-thirty to five every day There was arusted-outmetalhoopwithnonetthatmadeaclangingsoundwheneverhehitit.SalandLouisa’sapartmentismostlythesameasours.Wehavethesame

rectangular bedrooms, the same pull-chain light in the hallway, the sameweird-shapedkitchenwith the sameunpredictableovens, theirs right belowours.There are differences. Their kitchen floor is yellow and orange linoleum

squaresinsteadofthewhitewithgoldflakesthatwehave,andSal’sbedisupagainstadifferentwallinthebedroom.Butwehavethesamebathroomfloor—thesewhite hexagonal tiles. If I look at them long enough, I can see allkindsofpatternsinthosehexagons:lines,arrows,evenflowers.Theykindofshift intothesedifferentpictures.It’s thesortof thingapersonwouldnevertrytoexplaintoanyoneelse,butonce,whenwewerelittle,ItoldSalaboutit,and thenwewent into his bathroom to stare at the floor together. Sal andMiranda,MirandaandSal.

Salplayedbasketballmoreandmoreandtalkedtomelessandless.Iaskedhimfourhundredtimeswhetherhewasokay,orifhewasmadatme,orwhatwas wrong, and three hundred and ninety-nine times he answered “Yes,”“No,”and“Nothing.”Then,thelasttimeIasked,hetoldme,whilestandinginourlobbyandlookingathisfeet,thathedidn’twanttohavelunchorwalkhometogetherforawhile.“Doyouevenwanttobefriendsatall?”Iaskedhim.Heglaredathisfeetandsaidno,heguessedhedidn’tforawhile.

I was lucky, I guess, that this was the same week Julia decided to punishAnnemarieforsomething.Thegirlsatschoolhadbeenhurtingeachother’sfeelingsforyearsbefore

30

SalleftmeandIwasforcedtoreallynoticethem.Ihadwatchedthemtradebest friends, startwars, cry, tradeback,make treaties, squealandgrabeachother’s arms in this fake-excitedway, et cetera, et cetera. I had seenwhichones torturedAliceEvans,who, even thoughwe’d started sixthgrade, stillwaitedtoolongtopeeandneverwantedtosayoutloudthatshehadtogo.ThesegirlswouldwaituntilAlicewasprettyfargone,jigglingonefootandthentheother,andthentheywouldstartaskingherquestions.“Alice,”they’dsay, “did you do today’s page in the math workbook yet? Where it says‘multiply to check your answer’? How did you do that?” And she’ddesperatelyhoparoundwhileshowingthem.Iknewthewaythegirlsallpairedup,andJuliaandAnnemariehadbeen

pairedupforalongtime.JuliaIhated.AnnemarieIhadneverthoughtaboutmuch.My first memory of Julia is from second grade, when we made self-

portraits in art. She complained there was no “café au lait”-coloredconstructionpaper forher skin,or“sixty-percent-cacao-chocolate”color forhereyes.Irememberstaringatherwhilethesewordscameoutofhermouth,andthinking,Yourskinislightbrown.Youreyesaredarkbrown.Whydon’tyoujustusebrown,youidiot?JayStringerdidn’tcomplainaboutthepaper,andneitherdidanyoftheothertenkidsusingbrown.Ididn’tcomplainaboutthestupidhot-pinkcolorI’dbeengiven.Didmyskinlookhot-pinktoher?ButIsoonfoundoutthatJuliawasn’tliketherestofus.Shetooktripsall

overtheworldwithherparents.Shewoulddisappearfromschoolandshowuptwoweekslaterwithsatinribbonsworkedintoherbraids,orwithanewgreenvelvetscoop-neckdress,orwearingthreegoldringsononefinger.Shelearnedaboutsixty-percent-cacaochocolate,shesaid, inSwitzerland,whereherparentshadboughtheralotofit,alongwithalittlesilverwatchshewasalwaysshovinginpeople’sfaces.

***

Istilldon’tknowwhatAnnemariedidwrong,butduringsilentreadingperiodthat Tuesday, Julia told her that, as punishment, she wasn’t going to havelunch with Annemarie for “the remainder of the week.” Julia was big onannouncing things in a loud voice so that everyone could hear. So onWednesday,IaskedAnnemarieifshewantedtogoouttolunchwithmeandshesaidyes.

Insixthgrade,kidswithanymoney,evenjustalittle,gooutforlunchunless

31

something is going on and theywon’t let us, like the firstweek of school,whentherewasamanrunningdownBroadwaystarknakedandweallhadtoeatintheschoolcafeteriawhilethepolicetriedtocatchhim.Mostlykidsgo to thepizzaplace, or toMcDonald’s, or, everyonce in a

while, to the sandwich place, which has a real name but which we calledJimmy’sbecausetherewasneveranyoneworkingthereexceptoneguycalledJimmy.Pizzaisthebestdeal—adollarfiftywillbuytwoslices,acanofsoda,and

acherryBlowPopfromthecandybucketnexttotheregister.Thatfirstdaytogether,AnnemarieandIgotluckyandfoundtwostoolsnexttoeachotheratthecounterundertheflagofItaly.IfounditslightlygrosstoeatpizzawithAnnemariebecauseshepeeledthe

cheeseoffherslicelikeascabandateit,leavingeverythingelseonherplate.But she laughedatmy jokes (which Imostly stole fromRichard,who is

badattellingjokesbutknowsalotofthem),andsheinvitedmeovertoherhouse after school,whichmore thanmade up for it. I would be spared anafternoon of listening to Sal’s basketball. And the laughing man might beasleepunderhismailboxbythetimeIwalkedhome.

32

ThingsThatBurn

Annemarie’sapartmentdidn’t involvekeys.Insteadshehadadoormanwhoslappedherfiveandadadwhoopenedthedoorupstairs.“Didyourdadtakethedayoff?”Iwhispered.“No,” Annemarie said, “he works from home. He illustrates medical

journals.”“Isyourmomheretoo?”Sheshookherhead.“She’satwork.”Annemarie’s bedroomwas about the same size as mine, but it had nice

curtainsandthewallswerecompletelycoveredwithallkindsofpicturesandphotographs, which I couldn’t stop looking at. There must have been ahundredofthem.“We’veknowneachotherfora longtime,”Annemariesaid,sittingdown

onherbed,whichhadsomekindofAsianbedspreadandaboutfiftypillowsonit.“Who?”Sheblushed.“Oh—IthoughtyouwerelookingatthepicturesofJulia.”That’swhen I noticed that her roomwas coveredwith pictures of Julia.

Maybenotcovered,exactly,buttherewerealotofthem—thetwooftheminpajamas, or in the park, or standing together all dressed up outside sometheater.“Knock,knock!”Annemarie’sdadcame inwith these tiny sausagesona

plate.“I’mondeadline,”hesaidtome.“WhenI’mondeadline,Icook.Doyoulikemustard?Try thedippingsauce. I’llberightbackwithsomeapplecider.”Hewasbackinthirtysecondswithaglassofciderforme,buthehanded

Annemariewhatlookedlikeplainwater.Shedidn’tseemtonotice.Annemarie’s rugwas spongyand soft, almost likeanotherbed, and I lay

down on it.Mustard alwaysmakesmy lips burn, but I didn’t care. It wasworthit.

33

34

TheWinner’sCircle

Momisgettingverygoodatthespeedround.Shealmostalwaysgetssevenwords in thirty secondsnow,nomatterwho is giving the clues andwho isguessing.The second part of The $20,000 Pyramid is called the Winner’s Circle

becauseyouhavetowinthespeedroundtogetthere.IntheWinner’sCircle,the celebrity partner gives the clues and the contestant has to guess—notwords, but categories. So if the celebrity says “tulip, daisy, rose,” thecontestantwouldsay“typesofflowers.”That’s an easy one. Some of the categories are harder to figure out, like

“thingsyourecite”(poetry,thePledgeofAllegiance)or“thingsyousqueeze”(atubeoftoothpaste,someone’shand).The lastcategory isalways incrediblyhard toguess—maybe“thingsyou

prolong” or “things that are warped.” The last category is what standsbetweenthecontestantsandthebigmoney,andMomsaysitdoesn’thelpthatsomeofthesecelebritypartnersareasdumbasabagofhair.IfMomwinsherfirstspeedroundandcorrectlyguessesallthecategories

intheWinner’sCircle,she’llwintenthousanddollars.Ifshewinsasecondspeedround,theWinner’sCircleisworthfifteenthousanddollars.Andifshewinsa third time,she’llgofor twentythousanddollars.That’swhatImeanbybigmoney.Duringthespeedround,youcanpointorgestureallyouwant.Iftheword

is“nose,”youcanpoint toyournose.But the ruleschange in theWinner’sCircle.Nohandmovementsofanykindareallowed,whichiswhyI’mtyingRichard’sarmstomydeskchair.I’musingtheclovehitch.“You’ve got it reversed again,” Richard says, watching me. “That end

shouldgothroughtheloop….That’sit—right!”Momislookingatuslikewe’recrazy.“Isthisreallynecessary?”“Shehastopractice,”hetellsher.“Forwhenyouwinthesailboat.”Momrollshereyes.I getmy cards ready—I’vewritten everything out in fat block letters so

Richardcanread themfromadistance. I’mgoing tohold themuponeata

35

timebehindMom’shead,whereRichardcanseethem.Intherealshow,theyhavethesebigpanelsthatspinaroundbehindthecontestant’sheadtorevealthenextcategory,butobviouslywedon’thavethatkindoftechnology.Louisa’s lunchtime notes are good—she’s even written down what Dick

Clark says at the beginning of everyWinner’s Circle. He always uses thesamewords:“Hereisyourfirstsubject….Go.”Weset theegg timer foroneminute.Momhas toguess thenamesofsix

categoriesbeforeitgoesoff.“Hereisyourfirstsubject,”Isay,tryingtosoundlikeDickClark.“Go.”IholdupthefirstcardsoRichardcanseeit.The card says “things you climb.” Richard nods and starts givingMom

clues.“Ajunglegym,amountain…”“Highthings?”Momguesses.Richardshakeshishead.“Um…stairs…”“Thingsthatgoup!”sheyells.Heshakeshisheadagain.“…aladder…”“Thingsyouclimb!”“Ding!”Isay,andholdupthenextcard.“Okay,”Richardsays.“Paris,cheese,wine…”“Fancythings!”Momyells.“Romanticthings!”…fries…“Frenchthings!”“Ding!”Nextcard.“Apillow,”Richardsays.“Akitten.”“Softthings?”“…acottonball…”“Puffythings—fluffythings!”“Ding!”Nextcard.“Ababycarriage,ashoppingcart…”“Thingsthatcarrythings?”Momguesses.“Thingswithwheels?”Richardshakeshishead,thinks,andsays,“Abutton.”“Thingsyoupush!”“Ding!”Theeggtimergoesoff.Wealllookateachother—Momhasonlyguessed

36

fourofthesixcategories.Noonesaysanything.“It’sokay,”Momsaysfinally.“Westillhavetwomoreweeks.”

37

ThingsYouKeepSecret

It was awhile before I realized that the kidwho punched Salwent to ourschool.Wewereworking on our projects forMainStreet,which is a scalemodelof a cityblock thatwe’reconstructing in thebackofourclassroom.Mr.Tompkin’sclassstudiesbuildingseveryyear.Momsayshe’safrustratedarchitect.“Whyishefrustrated?”Iasked.“It’s complicated.” She said it had to do with the war. “Teachers didn’t

havetogofightinVietnam.Soalotofyoungmenwhodidn’twanttofightbecameteachers.”Insteadofwhattheyreallywantedtobe,shemeant.

JayStringer,whoisatwelve-year-oldgeniusandtheheadoftheMainStreetPlanningBoard,hadalreadybuiltanentirecardboardbuilding,completewithfireescapesandawatertower,andhe’djuststartedtwophoneboothsthathesaidwouldhavetinydoorsthatfoldedopenandclosed.Annemariewasbusywithherpebblesandherextra-strengthglue,working

onastonewallfortheparkthatJayStringerhadapprovedtheweekbefore.JuliawasmakingatinfoilUFOthatshesaidwouldflyupanddownthestreetonaninvisiblewire.TheUFOhadn’tbeenapprovedyet,butJuliawasgoingaheadwithitanyway.ShehadwrittenProposalPendingonapieceofpaperandtapedittotheendofashoeboxfulloffoilandfishingline.AliceEvanswas trying tomake fire hydrants out of clay,which so far just looked likepatheticlumps.Havingtopeesobadlyallthetimemusthavemadeithardforhertoconcentrate.Iworkedonthediagramsformyplaygroundproposal.Myslidelookedtoo

steep,andthentooflat,andthentoomessy,becauseIhaderasedsomuch.Iwouldhavetoaskforanothersheetofgraphpaper,whichalwaysmadeJayStringersighandrollhiseyes,becausehebroughtitfromhome.Theclassroomphonerang,andafterheansweredit,Mr.Tompkinaskedif

anyonewantedtogobeanofficemonitorforawhile.Iraisedmyhand.Theschool secretary usually gives office monitors a few Bit-O-Honeys orHershey’sKisses.

38

I grabbedmy book and rode the banisters down to the first floor, where IfoundWheelieatherdeskinthemainoffice.She’scalledthesecretary,butasfarasIcan tellshebasicallyruns theschool.Andshe tries todo itwithoutgettingoutofherdeskchair,whichhaswheels,whichiswhyeveryonecallsherWheelie. She rolls herself around the office all day by pushing off thefloorwithherfeet.It’slikepinballinslowmotion.“Thedentistneedsarunner,”shesaidtome,kickingherselfovertoadesk,

whereshepickedupasheetofpaper.It’s weird to go to a school for almost seven years and then one day

discover that there’s a dentist’s office inside it. But that is exactly whathappened.Wheeliestoodup,andIfollowedheroutoftheofficeandaroundthe corner to a short dead-end hallway I had never thought about before.There was one open door, and on the other side of it was a real dentist’soffice.Wewalked intoawaitingarea, and Icould see intoanother roomwitha

regulardentist’schair.Ithadalittlewhitesinkattached,andoneofthosebigsilverlightsoverit.Thewallswerecoveredwithpostersabouteatingapplesandplaqueandbrushingyourteeth.Wheeliecalledout“Bruce?”andaguywithashortgraybeardpoppedhis

head into thewaitingroom.Hewaswearingoneof thosegreendoctor topsandhegavemeabigperfectsmile.“Heythere.Areyoumyfirstappointment?”“No,thisisMiranda,”Wheeliesaid.“She’syourrunner.Ihavethepatient

listrighthere.”Andshehandedmethepieceofpaper.Isawabunchofnamesandclassroomnumbers.“Theygotothedentistat

school?”Isaid.“That’ssoweird.”Wheelie snatched back the paper and said, “There are ninety-eight sixth

gradersinthisschool.Eighty-nineofthemareinattendancetoday,soifyoucan’tdothispolitely,youcangostraightbacktoyourclassroomandI’llfindanotheroneforthejob.”IfeltmyfacegohotandactuallythoughtImightcry.SometimeswhenI’m

caughtoffguardIcryatalmostnothing.The dentist put a hand onmy shoulder and smiled again.Hewas like a

professional smiler,whichmakes sense for a dentist, I guess. “My servicesdon’tcostanything,Miranda.Somefamiliesdon’thave themoneytopayadentist.Ortheycouldreallyusethemoneyforsomethingelse.”“Oh.” Iwas thinking I shouldn’t letmymother findoutabout this.She’s

39

alwayscomplainingabouthowhealthcareshouldbefreeforeveryone.Ibetshewouldhavemesignedupforthedentistatschoolinnotime.ThedentistlookedatWheelie,andsheforcedalittlesmileandhandedme

the list again. Then she fished awarmBit-O-Honey out of her pocket andgaveittomerightthereinfrontofthedentist,eventhoughLouisahadoncetoldme thatyoumightaswellwhackyourown teethwithawrenchaseatBit-O-Honeys.

Isetoutwithmylist.“Don’tgetthekidsallatonce,”thedentistcalledafterme.“Bringthemintwos.”Idecidedtogetthelittlekidsfirst.Iknockedontheirclassroomdoorsand

theirteacherscamehurryingtoseemynote,andthekidswerehandedovertome.Iwalked the twokindergartners to thedentist’soffice, readmybookinthewaitingroomforawhile,andthenwentbackforasecondgraderandafourthgrader. Itwasa lotof climbingupanddownstairs.Not inamillionyearscouldIimagineWheeliedoingthis.When I got back to the dentist with my second drop, one of the

kindergartners was already waiting to go back to class. She had this bigsmiley-toothstickeronhershirt.Ibroughtherbacktoherclassroomandthenwentforthelastkidonmylist,asixthgraderlikeme:MarcusHeilbroner,inclass6-506.I’dneverheardofhim.I knocked on the littlewindow in the classroomdoor,wavingmypaper.

Theteacher,Mr.Anderson,cameover,andIshowedhimmylist.“Marcus,”hecalled,andaboystoodup.Itwas theboywhohitSal.He’dgotten a very short haircut, but hewas

definitelythesameperson.Mybrainstartedyellingatme:“It’sthekidwhohitSal!Hegoestoyourschool?ThekidwhohitSalgoestoyourschool?”Andmeanwhile, thekidhadwalkedover towhere Iwas standingwithMr.Anderson.“Dentist appointment,” Mr. Anderson whispered. Marcus nodded, went

backtohisdesk,pickedupabook,andthenwalkedrightpastmeandoutthedoor.Ifollowedafewstepsbehindhim.Heknewtheway.

***

“Welcome back, Marcus,” the dentist called from the exam room. “Nicehaircut.”

40

The fourth graderwas in the big chair, spitting into the littlewhite sink.The other two kids were all stickered up and waiting to go back to class.Marcussatdownheavilyandopenedhisbook,whichwascalledConceptsinMathematics.Mr.Tompkin acted like everyone in our classwas part of onebig happy

mathgroup,butitdidn’ttakemuchtofigureouttherewasasystem:redmathbooksforgeniuskidslikeJayStringer,orangeonesforkidslikemewhodidokay,andyellowonesforkidswholefttheroomtwiceaweektomeetwithMs.Dudley, who did “math support.”Marcus’s bookwas different—thick,withahardcoverandsmalltype.SoIguessedthateventhoughitwasblue—evenfartherdowntherainbowthanyellow—itwasatleasttheequivalentofared.“Youlikemath,huh?”Isaid.Helookedup,andIgotthestrongfeelinghedidn’tknowhehadeverseen

mebefore, thathedidn’trememberpunchingSalor talkingtomeaboutthesun.“Yeah,”hesaidslowly,likeImightbestupidorsomething.“Ilikemath.”

Andhewentbacktoreading.I delivered the twowaiting kids back to their classes. One of themwas

holdingashinypapercardshapedlikeanapplethatsaidsheneededafollow-upvisit.Therewasalineforhermomtosign.“Cavity,”Ithoughtgrimly.When I got back to the dentist’s office, the fourth graderwas still in the

chairandMarcuswasstillreadinghismathbook.Thatwasfinewithme—IgrabbedmybookfromthetablewhereI’dleftitandsettledbacktoread.“Somepeoplethinkit’spossible,youknow,”Marcusmumbled.“What?”He pointed at my book. “Time travel. Some people think it’s possible.

Exceptthoseladieslied,atthebeginningofthebook.”“What?”“Thoseladiesinthebook—Mrs.What,Mrs.Where,andMrs.Who.”“Mrs.Whatsit,Mrs.Who,andMrs.Which,”Icorrectedhim.Heshrugged.“Whatdoyoumean, they lied?Theynever lied.” Iwasgettingannoyed.

ThetruthisthatIhatetothinkaboutotherpeoplereadingmybook.It’slikewatchingsomeonego through theboxofprivatestuff that Ikeepundermybed.

41

“Don’tyouremember?”Heleanedforwardinhischair.“They’retravelingthroughtime,right?Allovertheuniverse,right?Andtheypromisethatgirlthatthey’llhaveherbackhomefiveminutesbeforesheleft.Buttheydon’t.”“Howdoyouknowtheydon’tgetherhomefiveminutesbeforesheleft?I

mean,there’snoclockoranything.Theyleaveatnightandtheygetbackthesame night. Maybe they left at eight-thirty and got home at eight-twenty-five.”Helaughed.“Youdon’tneedaclock.Think.Atthebeginningofthebook,

thatgirlwalksthroughthevegetablegarden—”“Meg.”“Huh?”“Youkeepsaying‘thatgirl.’HernameisMeg.”“—so she walks to the far side of the vegetable garden and sits on this

stonewall, right? So, she can see the garden fromwhere she’s sitting andtalkingwith that boy right? And then those ladies show up and take themaway.”“HisnameisCalvin.Andsowhatiftheycanseethegarden?”“Sothegardeniswheretheyappearwhentheygetbackhomeattheendof

thebook.Remember?Theylandinthebroccoli.Soiftheyhadgottenhomefiveminutesbeforetheyleft,likethoseladiespromisedtheywould,thentheywouldhaveseenthemselvesgetback.Beforetheyleft.”Iputmybookdownandshookmyhead.“Thinkaboutit.Theyhadn’teven

leftyet.Howcouldtheyhavegottenbackalready?Theydidn’tevenknowforsurewhethertheywouldgetback.”“Itdoesn’tmatterwhethertheyknewit.That’sgotnothingtodowithit.”

He leaned back and shoved his hands in his pockets. “If they land in thebroccoliateight-twenty-five, theyshouldbe in thebroccoliateight-twenty-five.Period.”“Thatmakesno sense,” I said. “What if theycouldn’tdo it—saveMeg’s

fatherandgetbackinonepiece?”“Thentheywouldn’thavelandedinthebroccoliatall.Buttheydiddoit,

right?”“Yes,but—theendcan’thappenbeforethemiddle!”Hesmiled.“Whycan’tit?”“Idon’tknow—it’scommonsense!”“Commonsense!HaveyoureadRelativity?Youknow—byEinstein?”

42

Iglaredathim.“Einsteinsayscommonsenseisjusthabitofthought.It’showwe’reused

tothinkingaboutthings,butalotofthetimeitjustgetsintheway.”“Inthewayofwhat?”“In thewayofwhat’s true. Imean, it used to be common sense that the

worldwas flat and the sun revolved around it.But at somepoint, someonehadtorejectthatassumption,oratleastquestionit.”“Well,obviouslysomebodydid.”“Well,duh.Copernicusdid!Look,all I’msaying is thatat theendof the

book,theydon’tgetbackfiveminutesbeforetheyleft.Ortheywouldhaveseenthemselvesgetback—beforetheyleft.”Igaveup.“Itwasdarkinthegarden,”Isaid.“Maybetheyjustcouldn’tsee

themselvesfromwheretheyweresitting.”“Ithoughtofthat,”hesaid.“Buttheywouldhaveheardalltheyelling,and

thedog—”“MyGod,whatdoesitmatter?It’sastory—someonemadeitup!Youdo

realizethat,don’tyou?”Heshrugged.“Thestoryismadeup.Buttimetravelispossible.Intheory.

I’vereadsomearticlesaboutit.”“Wow.Youreallydolikemath,don’tyou?”Hesmiledagain.Withhissupershorthair,hisheadlookedlikeaperfectly

roundballwhenhesmiled.“Thisismorelikephysics.”“Fine.Youreallylikephysics,don’tyou?”“Yeah.” He picked up my book from the table and flipped through it.

“Actually, Ihadalmost thissameconversationwithmyteacher rightafter Ireadthis.Shedidn’tunderstandmeatfirsteither.”“She?Mr.Andersonisahe.Youreallydon’tnoticemuchaboutpeople,do

you?”“NotMr.Anderson.Thiswasinsecondgrade.Iwroteabookreportabout

it.”“Insecondgrade?”Heputthebookdown.“Yeah.BackinDetroit,whereweusedtolive,till

lastyear.ButIdon’ttalkaboutthiskindofstuffanymore.Usually.”“Whynot?”Heshotmealook.“Peopledon’twanttothinkaboutit.”

43

“Icanseewhy,”Isaid.“Itmakesmyheadhurt.”“Still,youdidbetterthanmostpeople.You’reaprettysmartkid.”Irolledmyeyes.“Gee,thanks.”

***

“Okay,Marcus,”thedentistchirpedfromtheotherroom.“You’reup!”IwatchedMarcusslip into thebigchairandbegin toreadhismathbook

again,holding it upwithonehandwhile thedentistworked from theotherside.Thefourthgraderwaitedformebythedoorwithhisstickeron.“Miranda,youcangoonbacktoyourclass,”thedentistcalled.“Marcusis

goingtobehereawhile.Hecanwalkhimselfupstairswhenwe’rethrough.”SoIpickedupmybookandhikedbackupthestairswiththefourthgrader.

Aswe starteddown thehallway tohis classroom,he stopped, and Iwaitedwhilehepeeledthestickeroffhisshirt,foldedit,andstuckitinhispocket.

44

ThingsThatSmell

Fora long time,Colinwas just this shortkidwhoseemed toendup inmyclasseveryyear.Inthirdgrade,heandIspentaboutaweekconvincingAliceEvansthatvelourwasakindofanimalfur,andsherefusedtowearitfortherestoftheyear.Butasidefromthat,wehadneverhungouttogether.I’dseenhimwithhisskateboardintheparkafewtimes,andhealwaysletmehaveaturnonit,butthatwasall.Andthensuddenlyhewaseverywhere.Hecamedownstairswithmeand

Annemarie at lunch, or yelled “Hold up” andwalked toBroadwaywith usafterschooltogetdrinksatJimmy’ssandwichshop.ItwasColinwhohad the idea toaskJimmyfora job. I’mprettysurehe

was kidding.Colinwas always sayingweird stuff to people thatmade youpartlyproudtoknowhimandpartlywishyouweren’tstandingnexttohim.Attention-seeking,iswhatMomwouldcallhim.“Hey,” Colin said to Jimmy after school one day in the beginning of

November, when we were paying for our Cokes. “You’re always alone inhere.Howabouttalkingtotheowneraboutgivingusjobs?”“I’mtheowner,”Jimmysaid.“Andwho’s‘us’?”It was me, Annemarie, and Colin standing there. “Us,” Colin said. “We

couldworkafterschool.”Jimmygrabbedapicklechunkoutof thesetup tray,whichIdidn’tknow

the name of yet, and tossed it into hismouth. “I don’t need help that late.WhataboutwhenIopenup?”“Wehave lunch at ten-forty-five,”Colin said.A stupidly early lunch.At

ourschool,theolderyouget,thestupideryourlunchperiod.Jimmynodded.“Thatworks.”

I didn’t think Jimmy was serious, but Colin said we should show up atlunchtimethenextday,justincase.Anditturnedouthewasserious.Thethreeofusworkedduringlunchfor

therestofthatweek.Wewashedalotofgreasyplastictrays,weighedpilesofsliced meat (which is as gross as it sounds), stacked up sodas in the

45

refrigeratedcase,cuttomatoes,anddidwhateverelseJimmysaidtodo.I guess it’s obvious that Jimmy was kind of weird, because no normal

personwouldhavegiven forty-minute-a-day jobs to three sixthgraders.Onourfirstday,JimmyspentaboutfiveentireminutespointingtoaplasticbankshapedlikeFredFlintstonethathehaduponashelfinthebackroom.“Nevertouchthebank,”hesaid.“Never.”WhenIpointedJimmy’sweirdnessouttoAnnemarie,shesaid,“Yeah,but

he’snice-weird,notcreepy-weird.”“Youthink?”Isaid.“Whataboutthecreepycartoonbank?”Sheshrugged.“Mydadcollectsstufflikethattoo.Lotsofpeopledo.”ItturnedoutthatJimmydidn’tintendtopayusanymoney.Instead,helet

useachpickasodafromtherefrigeratorandmakeasandwichfromthestuffin the setup tray on the counter. The setup tray was just lettuce, tomato,onions,Americancheese,Swisscheese,andpickles.Theotherfood—slicedturkey,ham,roastbeef,andsalami,abigtuboftunasalad,andmeatballsinaplug-inpot—wasoff-limits.Everyday,wetookourcheesesandwichesbacktoschoolandatethemat

ourdesksduringsilentreadingperiod.Isatnext toAliceEvans,whonevercomplainedaboutanything,andAnnemariesatnexttoJayStringer,whowasoblivioustotheworldwhenhewasreading,butColinsatnexttoJulia.“Mr. Tompkin!” Julia said on the Friday of our first week at Jimmy’s.

“Colin is eating his lunch at his desk again. And I despise the smell ofpickles.”Mr.Tompkin lookedup over the top of his book, adjusted his toothpick,

andsaid,“Trybreathingthroughyourmouth.”

46

ThingsYouDon’tForget

OurapartmentdoorwasunlockedwhenIgothomefromschoolthatFriday,which was strange. More than strange, actually—it had never happenedbefore.ButIfiguredMomhadprobablyjustforgottentolockitwhensheleftforwork thatmorning. It sounds stupid now that I say it, but that’swhat Ithought.OnceIwasinside,though,IhadthissuddenfearthatIwasn’taloneinthe

apartment.IdroppedmyknapsackinthehallandrandowntoSal’s.Hecametothedoorbutopeneditjustenoughtosqueezehisbodyintothecrack.“Mydoorwasunlocked,”Isaid.“Doesn’tthatseemweird?”“Yeah,”he said. “Maybeyou forgot to lock it?”He stayed therewedged

intothedoorway.Definitelynotinvitingmein.“Yeah, probably.” I could hear the television behind him, blaring a

commercial.“Okay.”Helookedupattheceilingbehindme.Ifeltlikeanidiot.“Okay.Seeyoulater.”Iwentbackupstairs,mademyselfabowlofCheerioswithaninchofsugar

ontop,andturnedonthetelevision.Momwalkedinaroundsix.“Youforgottolockthedoorthismorning,”Isaid.“What?No,Ididn’t.”“Well,itwasn’tlockedwhenIgothometoday.”“Itwasn’t?”Shestartedwalkingfromroomtoroom,openingdrawersand

closetdoors,andIfollowedher.“Itcan’tbe,”shesaid.“Iwouldneverforgettolockthedoor.”Nothingseemedoutofplace.Shegottothekitchenandstopped.“IguessI

don’t specifically remember locking it, but I know I would never not lockit….”She filled the spaghetti pot with water, and we talked about other stuff

whilesheset the tableandIpeeledsomecarrots,buteveryonce inawhileshewould interrupt herself to say, “Howcould I have forgotten to lock thedoor?”

47

Wewerehalfwaythroughdinnerwhenshesuddenlystoodupandwalkedoutoftheapartment.“Mom?”I found her standing in the stairwell, peering into the nozzle of the fire

hose.“Iknewit,”shesaid.“Iwouldneverforgettolockthedoor.Never.”Thekeywasgone.Wesearchedeveryroomalloveragainbutcouldn’tfind

asinglethingmissing.“Itmakesnosense,”Momsaid,standingoverherjewelryboxandstaring

downat thegoldbracelets thathadbelonged tohermother. “Whysteal thekey,unlockthedoor,andnottakeanything?”

ThatwasFridayafternoon.IfoundyourfirstnoteMondaymorning.

48

TheFirstNote

Yourfirstnotewaswrittenintinywordsonalittlesquareofstiffpaperthatfeltlikeithadoncegottenwet.IwaspackingmyknapsackforschoolwhenInoticed it sticking out of my library book—which was about a village ofsquirrels,ormaybeitwasmice.Ihadnotbotheredtoreadit.

49

M,Thisishard.HarderthanIexpected,evenwithyourhelp.ButIhavebeenpracticing,andmy

preparationsgowell.Iamcomingtosaveyourfriend’slife,andmyown.Iasktwofavors.First,youmustwritemealetter.Second,pleaseremembertomentionthelocationofyourhousekey.Thetripisadifficultone.IwillnotbemyselfwhenIreachyou.

Iwasfreaked.Momwasfreaked.Shetookthemorningoffandhadthelockschanged, even though she said that “M” could be anyone, that this hadnothingtodowithourmissingkey,andthatthenotecouldhavebeenstuckinthatbookbyanyone,yearsagoprobably,andwe’dneverknowwhy.“Isn’t itweird, though?” I said. “Our keywas just stolen on Friday, and

nowonMondaywefindanoteaskingwhereourkeyis?”“Itisweird,”Momsaid.Sheputherhandsonherhips.“Butifyouthink

aboutit,onethingreallycan’thaveanythingtodowiththeother.Someonewiththekeywouldn’thavetoaskwherethekeyis.Itmakesnosense.”

Shewasright,ofcourse.Itwasbackward.Butsomewhereinmyheadatinybellstartedringing.Ididn’tevennoticeitatfirst.

50

ThingsonaSlant

Oursecondweek,Jimmysaidwecouldstartservingcustomers.“ButfirstyouhavetolearntheV-cut,”hetoldus.“Veryimportant.”Except

he said “Velly important,” stretched his eyelids backwith two fingers, andbowed down low—it was the classic fake-Chinese act. I had never seen agrown-updoitbefore.IfMomhadbeenthere,shewouldhavewhackedhimontheheadwithaplastictray.“TheV-what?”Colinsaid.TheV-cutwasJimmy’sspecialwayofcuttingthesandwichrolls.“Always

aforty-five-degreeangle,”hesaid.Hewasveryseriousaboutit,sawingdownonesideoftherollandthencarefullyslidingtheknifeoutandinsertingitintheotherside.Thetopof thebreadwassupposedto liftoff inaperfect“V,”whichwas

whyJimmycalled itaV-cut.Hegaveuseacha rollandwatchedwhilewetriedit.Annemarie’swasperfect.Colin’swaspassable.Minewasadisaster.WhenIliftedthetopoff,flapsofbreadgutswerehangingdown,andJimmysaiditlooked“unappealing.”“Youcanuse that foryourownsandwich,”hesaid,makinga faceatmy

shreddedroll.“Tryagaintomorrow.”SoAnnemarie andColin got to put on aprons, stand behind the counter,

andhelpcustomerswhileIcountedthebreadorder in thebackandwent totheA&P for napkins.Annemarie said later that Jimmy should talk, thathelooked“unappealing”inhisstretched-outwhiteT-shirtwithyellowunderarmstains.Thatmademefeelalittlebetter,butnotmuch.As soon as Colin got his apron on, Jimmy started calling him

“lady”—“Hey, lady, get some more mayo on there.” “Hey, lady, pass methosetrays.”Colinjustlaughed,whichishowColinis.Everydaythatweek,IcutmyrollassoonasIgottothestore,andevery

dayJimmyshookhisheadno.ColinandAnnemarieworkedtogetherbehindthecounter—Jimmyhadstartedcallingthemthecountercoupleandmakingdisgustingkissingnoisesatthemwhenhewalkedby,whichmadeAnnemarieturnred,whileColinjustsmiledlikeagoofball.

51

Jimmy said that while I practicedmyV-cut I could be in charge of hotchocolate.HeusedthoseSwissMissinstanthotchocolatepacketswhereyoujustaddwater.Butnooneeverordered it.AndIdon’t thinkhereallyevenlooked at my rolls after the first couple of days. Anyway, they were onlygettingworse.

52

WhiteThings

The first time I brought Annemarie home to our apartment after school, Iwishedfortwothings.First,Iwishedthattheboyswouldn’tbeinfrontofthegarage. They’d just recently started saying things to me, different things,some of which included the words “sweet” and “baby.” Mom said thishappened to girls after a certain age, and thatwhat the boyswantedwas areaction,anykindofreaction.“Don’tlaugh,don’tcallthemjerks,don’ttakeoffrunning,”shesaid.“Do

nothing.Actasifthey’reinvisible.”Mysecondwishwasthatthelaughingmanwouldbegone,orasleep,orat

leastdistractedbysomeoneorsomethingelsewhenwewalkedby.WegottoBroadway.“Wanttostopforasoda?”Isaid.Annemarieshrugged.“Nothanks.”WestartedtowardAmsterdam.ItriedtofollowAnnemarie’sconversation

butmostly just squinted to see down the block.By somemiracle, the boysweren’t out in front of the garage. I offered up a silent thank you to theuniverse.Andthenwestartedacrossthestreettomycorner.“Angel!”thelaughingmancalledout.HewaslookingrightatAnnemarie,

and I couldn’t help thinking that, depending on your idea of heaven,Annemariemight appear to be something like an angel.Her coatwas purewhite andwent all theway down to her toes, even though itwas only themiddleofNovemberandreallynotallthatcold.Howherdadkeptthatcoatsocleanisstillamysterytome.“Angel!”Ilaughed.IwastryingtoshowAnnemariehowabsolutelydownrightfunny

itwastohaveaweirdhomelessguyhereonmycorner.Myveryownweirdhomelessguy!“Ha.‘Angel,’”Isaid.“That’sanewone.”“Angel!”hecalledoutagain.Andnowhewaspointingather.“Ishepointingatme?”Annemarieasked,slowingdown.“No,”Isaid,steeringherasfarfromthelaughingmanasIcouldwithout

pushingherintocrosstowntraffic.

53

Upstairs,aweirdthinghappened.Afterlivingtherealmosteverydayofmylife,Isawourapartmentasifitwerethefirsttime.Inoticedallsortsofthingsthatwereusuallyinvisibletome:thestuffingcomingoutofthesofaintwoplaces,theburnsfromMr.Nunzi’scigarettes,thebigflakesofpainthangingoff theceiling,and theblackspotnext to the radiatorwheredrippingwaterhadstainedthewoodfloor.“Excuseme,”Isaid.“I’llberightback.”In thebathroom, I staredat thewhite tilehexagonson the floorand saw

nothing but the crud in between them. I hidMoms twenty-year-old jar ofVaseline in themedicinecabinet that’sbeenpaintedsomany times itwon’tcloseanymore.“I like your room,” Annemarie called to me when I came out of the

bathroom.Iturnedslowlyandlookedintomyroom,wonderingwhathorrorIwould see in it. But it actually looked okay: no curtains or carpeting, butnormalstuff,anormalroomwithafriendsittingonthebed,whichhadjustonepillow.Isteppedinandclosedthedoorbehindme.When Mom got home, we walked Annemarie back to her building.

Luckily,thelaughingmanwasunderhismailboxbythattime.IwantedMomtobesurprisedwhenAnnemarie’sdoormancalledmeMissMiranda,butshejustsmiledathim.I could tell thatAnnemarie’s dadwas charmed byMom—people always

likeher.Heofferedussomekindofpowdered-sugardoughballshehadinthekitchen,andMomatetwoofthemwhileIsaidnothankyou,thatIhadn’thadmydinneryet,whichmadeMomlaughandcoughuppowderedsugar,whichmadeAnnemarie’sdadlaugh.IlookedatthesugaronthefrontofherT-shirtand thought that if she had the slightest idea what she looked like, shewouldn’tbelaughingatall.

54

TheSecondNote

ThesandwichrollsaredeliveredtoJimmy’sstoreearlyinthemorning,beforehegetsthere.IstillseethetallpaperbagleaningagainsthislockeddooronmywaytoschooleverydayIhaven’tputonefootinsideJimmy’splacesinceDecember, but I look for that bagout of habit, andwhen I see it, I alwaysthinkIcansmellthebreadinside,whichIknowisjustamemory.Last November, I counted Jimmy’s bread delivery at lunch every day,

pullingtherollsoutbytwosanddroppingthemintothepreviousday’semptybagasIwent.Irememberfindingyoursecondnoteabouthalfwaydown,onaMonday.Sameweirdtinyhandwriting,samecrispypaper.Butthisonestartedwith

myname.

55

Miranda:Your lettermust tell a story—a true story.Youcannotbeginnow,asmostof ithasnotyet

takenplace.Andevenafterward, there isnohurry.Butdonotwait so long thatyourmemoryfades.Irequireasmuchdetailasyoucanprovide.Thetripisadifficultone,andImustaskmyfavorswhilemymindissound.

Apostscript:Iknowyouhavesharedmyfirstnote.Iaskyounottosharetheothers.Please.Idonotaskthisformyself.

Ireadthenoteoverandover.ButIhavetotellyouthatIhadnoideawhatanyofitmeant,untillater.AndIhavetotellyousomethingelse,too:Iwasscared.Youscaredthehelloutofme.

“You counting those rolls or memorizing them?” Jimmy was behind thecounter,runningahunkofhambackandforthintheelectricslicerreallyfast,thewayhelikedto.I stuffed the note inmypocket and started countingbread again, but I’d

lostmyplaceandIhadtostartallover.A fewminutes later, a delivery truck pulled up in front of the store and

Jimmywentouttotalktothedriver.“Hey,”ColinsaidassoonasthedoorhadclosedbehindJimmy,“let’sfind

outwhat’sintheFredFlintstonebank.”“Noway,”Annemariesaid.“You’recrazy.”“You’re the lookout,” I toldher, followingColin into theback room.He

hadthebankinhishandsalready.Heshookit,butitmadealmostnonoise.“Youguys,”Annemariesaid.“Don’t.”“We’rejust lookingatit!”Icalledback.“Hurry,”IsaidtoColin.Hewas

tryingtogettherubberstopperoutofthebottomofthebank.“Letmetry,”Iwhispered.“No,”hesaid,“I’vegotit.”Andthestopperwasinhishand.Webumpedforeheadstryingtoseeintotheholeatthesametime,andthen

leftourheadspressedtogether,whichwassomethingIhadn’texpectedtodo.Icouldn’tquiteseeColin’sfacefromthisperspective,butIfelthimsmile.“Cool,”hesaid.“It’sfulloftwo-dollarbills!”Hewasright.Thebankwaspracticallystuffedwithtwo-dollarbills,folded

intolittletriangleshapes,withthe“2’s”showingonthesides.“You guys, he’s coming.” Annemarie sounded panicked. We pulled our

headsapartandColinshovedtherubberstopperbackin.Iwasoutfrontby

56

thetimeJimmyheldthedooropenforthedeliveryguy,whohadastackofsodasloadedontoahandtruck.“Hey,lady!”Jimmycalled.“Ineedyou.Thisisman’swork.”“Sorry.” Colin came strolling out of the back in his apron. “Bathroom

break.”Annemarie smiled at me while Colin and Jimmywere busy loading the

sodaintothebigrefrigeratedcasebythedoor.“You’renuts,”shesaid.“Youknowthat,right?”IcouldstillfeelthespotwhereColin’sheadhadpressedupagainstmine.

“Iknow.Itwaskindofstupid.”WewalkedbacktoschoolwithColinbetweenus.Hewaszigzaggingand

bumpinghisshouldersagainstours,saying,“Boing!Fivepoints.Boing!Tenpoints,”whilewebothlaughedlikeidiots.

57

ThingsYouPushAway

“Ready?”RichardasksMom.Wearepracticingevenmorenow.Hesitsinachairoppositeher.I’mthetimekeeper.Momcloseshereyes,andIknowthatsheisliftingacornerofherveil.Shenods,andwebegin.Momsayseachofushasaveilbetweenourselvesandtherestoftheworld,

likeabridewearsonherweddingday,exceptthiskindofveilisinvisible.Wewalkaroundhappilywiththeseinvisibleveilshangingdownoverourfaces.Theworldiskindofblurry,andwelikeitthatway.Butsometimesourveilsarepushedawayforafewmoments,likethere’sa

windblowingitfromourfaces.Andwhentheveillifts,wecanseetheworldasitreallyis,justforthosefewsecondsbeforeitsettlesdownagain.Weseeall thebeauty, andcruelty, andsadness, and love.Butmostlywearehappynotto.Somepeoplelearntolifttheveilthemselves.Thentheydon’thavetodependonthewindanymore.Shedoesn’tmeanthatit’sarealveil.Anditisn’taboutmagic,orsomeidea

thatmaybeGodislookingrightatyou,oranangelissittingnexttoyou,oranything like that. Mom doesn’t think in those ways. It’s just her way ofsayingthatmostofthetime,peoplegetdistractedbylittlestuffandignorethebigstuff.ToplayintheWinner’sCircle,Momhastogetherselfinacertainframeofmind.She says it’s sortof like liftingone little cornerofherveil,enoughtoseemorethanusualbutnotsomuchthatshegetstotallydistractedbylife,death,andthebeautyofitall.Shehastoopenhermind,shesays,sothatwhen thecluesstartcoming,shecansee the thread that joins them.Ofcourse,ifhercelebrityisasdumbasabagofhair,it’shopeless.

I’ve thought a lot about those veils. I wonder if, every once in a while,someone is bornwithout one.Someonewho sees thebig stuff all the time.Likemaybeyou.

58

ThingsYouCount

Right before Thanksgiving, Colin and Annemarie were behind the counterweighingaslimyheapofslicedturkeyintoquarter-poundpilesseparatedbypiecesofwaxedpaper.Jimmysaidtheyshoulddoawholeweek’sworth.“Won’titgobad?”Annemarieasked.“Nah.Stuff’sfullofpreservatives.”Colinlickedhislipsandsaid,“Yum,yum.Chemicalturkey.”“Shutit,”Jimmysaid.Foronce,Iwashappytobecountingtherolls.Nowthathehadus,Jimmyseemedtohavenothingtodo.Hesatononeof

thestoolsboltedtothefloorinfrontofthebigfrontwindowandwatchedmewith his arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked under his yellow-stainedarmpits.HehadalreadyrejectedmyV-cutfortheday—itwaswaitingfor me on a tray behind Annemarie, getting dry as usual. Luckily, Jimmydidn’tlimitouruseofmayonnaise.“Lookie,”Jimmysaid,pointinghischin toward thewindow.“Theregoes

oneofyourlittlefriends.”Ontheothersideofthestreet,Juliawaswalkingalone,wearingherorange

suedeknapsackandanorangesuedeheadbandthatmatched.Matchingsuedeknapsacks and headbands were probably all the rage in Switzerland, Ithought.“YoumeanSwissMiss?” I grabbed two rolls and dropped them into the

bagatmyfeet.“She’snotmyfriend.Notevenclose.”Hesmiledslowly.“SwissMiss.That’sagoodone.”Hestaredoutsidefor

anotherminuteandthenstoodup.“You’refunny,youknowthat?”Ishrugged,stillcounting,buthappy.AcomplimentfromJimmywasarare

thing.When I finished, I folded the topof thebagand lugged it to its spotbehind the counter. Jimmy had disappeared into the back. Annemarie wasgigglingatsomethingColinhadsaid.Ever since our foreheads had touched, looking at Colin made me feel

strange.Butgood-strange,notcreepy-strange.

59

“Eighty!”IcalledouttoJimmy.Rightonthenose.“Betterlucknexttime!”heyelledback.Colinlookedatmeandgrinned,causingmystomachtosortoffloatinside

mybody.“He’sdyingfor thebreadorder tocomeupshort,youknow.Youshouldthrowarollinthetrashoneday,justtomakehimhappy.”“Don’t listen to him,Miranda,”Annemarie said. “He’s just trying to get

youintroubleagain.”But while she was talking to me, she was looking at Colin, and her

expressionwasfunny,asifherstomachmightbefloatingtoo.

60

MessyThings

Annemarieand I stopped in the fourth-floorbathroombeforegoingback toclassafter lunch.Shesaidshewantedtowashherhandsagainafterall thatturkey.“Todaywasfun,”shesaid,lookingatherselfinthemirrorandcombingher

hairwithherfingers.“Iwishwegotmorethanfortyminutesforlunch.”“Ihatecountingbread,”Isaid.“It’sboring.”Shelaughed.“Atleastyourhandsdon’tsmelllikechemicalturkey.”At leastyouget togoofaroundbehind thecounterwithColin, I thought.

I’malwaysrunning to thestore,cleaningupsomegunk,orstuck talking toMr.YellowStains.“Let’sgo,”Isaid.“I’mstarving.”Juliawasstandingrightoutsideourclassroom,almostasifshewaswaiting

forus.“Oh, no!” She sighed deeply and pointed at Annemarie’s arm. “Oh,

Annemarie,yourturquoisesweater.It’syourfavorite.Pooryou!”AndMomthoughtIwasdramatic.Annemarie looked down at the hem of her sweater, which had some

mustardonit.Ihadnoideaitwasherfavorite.“It’llcomeout,”Annemariesaid.“Mydadwillgetitout.”Julia leaned against the wall and adjusted her headband. “What I don’t

understand iswhyyou’reworkingatall. It’snot likeyouneed themoney.”Hereshestoppedtoglanceatme.“Andnooffense,butthatplaceiskindofdisgusting.Isawaroachthereonce.”“Ilikeitthere,”Annemariesaid.“It’sactuallyprettyfun.”“Thatguywhoworksthereisgross.”“He’s not gross!” I said. “And he doesn’t”—Imade air quotes—“‘work

there.’Heownsthestore.”“Wedon’tgetpaid,”Annemariesaidsoftly.“It’sjustthesandwiches.”“Andsodas,”Isaid,wavingmySprite.

61

“Right,” Julia said, talking just to Annemarie, as if I didn’t exist. “Likeyou’resupposedtobeeatingsandwichesanddrinkingsoda.”Annemarie’sfacefoldedupalittle.“It’sfine.”“Fine,”Juliasaid.“Forgetit.”Mr. Tompkin came to the door. “Why aren’t you three inside? Silent

readingperiodstartedfiveminutesago.”AswewalkedinbehindJulia,IwhisperedtoAnnemarie,“Nowonderyou

don’twanttobefriendswithheranymore.She’ssorudetoyou.”For a secondAnnemariedidn’t say anything.Then shemumbled, “Yeah,

sometimes,”andweseparatedtogotoourdesks.Mr.Tompkinhadleftabookonmydesk.Hewasalwaystryingtogetme

toreadsomethingnew.Thisonehadapictureofaspunky-lookinggirlonthecover,andsomebuildingsbehindher.Ipushedthespunkygirlaside,pulledmybookoutofmydesk,andopeneditrandomlytoseewhereIwouldland.MegwasontheplanetCamazotzwherealltheselittleboysareinfrontof

their matching houses, bouncing their matching balls. All the balls hit thegroundatexactlythesamemoment,everytime.Thenalltheboysturnatthesamesecondandgobackintotheiridenticalhouses.Exceptforthisoneboy.He’soutsideallalone,andhisball rolls into thestreet,and thenhismothercomesoutlookingallnervousandcarrieshimintothehouse.IwasthinkingabouthowmuchMr.Tompkinwouldhatetheideaofaplace

where all the houses look exactly the samewhen something stungmehardbehindtheear.IjerkedmyheadupandsawJulialaughingsilentlyoverherbook.Ilookeddownonthefloorandsawtherubberbandshehadshotatme.Atmyhead.I’d thoughtwewere just irritatingeachother,but Iwaswrong.Thiswas

war.

62

InvisibleThings

ThenexttimeIsawMarcus,Iwasabsolutelysurehewouldrememberme.Iwas in themainoffice,becauseMr.Tompkinhadsentmedown topickupsomemimeographs.“Whyyoukidsneeddiagramsofthewatersystemisbeyondme,”Wheelie

saidasshehandedthemtomefromherchair.“They’re for Main Street,” I told her. “We’re trying to make working

hydrants.”“Well,thatmaybethesilliestthingI’veeverheard,”shesaid,wavingme

away.

I love thesmellofnewcopies.MomsaysIhaveanattraction todangeroussmells,hermainexamplebeingthefactthatIlovetostandinawarmcloudofdry-cleanerexhaustandtakedeepbreaths.Thereissomethingveryfood-but-not-food about the smell of dry-cleaner exhaust. She always pulls meawayandsaysthatshe’ssureintenyearswe’llfindoutthatitcauseshorriblediseases.I was walking back toward the stairs, quietly inhaling the smell of the

thirty-twofreshlycopieddiagramsoftheNewYorkCitywatersystem,whenMarcuscameoutofthestairwellreadingabook.“Hey,”Isaid,buthewalkedrightbyme,pastthemainoffice,andaround

thecornertowherethedentist’sofficeis.Backinclass,Ipassedout thediagramslikeMr.Tompkinaskedmeto.I

accidentallyrippedJulia’sbeforeIgaveittoher,andaccidentallycrumpleditalittletoo.AliceEvanswassquirminginherchairlikeshewasdoingahuladance.Irolledmyeyes.Nowondershewastheonlysixthgraderwhohadtobringanextrasetofclothestoschool.

63

ThingsYouHoldOnTo

AccordingtoJimmy,there’satwo-dollarbill incirculationforeverytwelveone-dollarbills.“Butpeopleholdontothem,”hesaidwhileIwasputtingonmyjacketto

gotothestore.Thelightbulboverthesinkinthebackroomhadburnedout,andJimmydidn’thaveanyextras.“Peoplethinktwo-dollarbillsarespecial.That’swhyyoudon’tseethemaroundmuch.”Yeah, I thought. People like you! But I kept my face blank, because I

wasn’tsupposedtoknowwhatwasinhisFredFlintstonebank.“Theyhate’emoverattheA&P,though.Nospaceinacashregisterfora

two-dollarbill.Theygottapullout thetrayandstore themunderneath.Andtheyalwaysforgetthey’reinthere.That’swhyyouhavetoaskforthem.”“Okay,”Isaid.“I’llask.”

Annemariewasbehind thecounterwithherapronon, lookinghappy.Somekidsfromschoolhadcomein—payingcustomers—andshewaswritingtheirnamesinmayonnaiseontheirsandwichesbeforepressingherperfectV-topsdownontothem.Colinwasnexttoher,doingthesame.Annemariegesturedmeover.Inoticedthatshewaseitherverywarmorshewaswearingmakeup.“I’m going to ask Jimmy if we can have meatballs for lunch,” she

whispered.“Sinceit’sThanksgivingtomorrow”“Great,” I said, even though I didn’t find those meatballs any more

appealingthanmyusualcheesesandwich.Theyjustsatthereinthepot,dayafter day. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I told her. “If anyone orders hotchocolate,tellthemtowaitforme.”

Therewerenotwo-dollarbillsat theA&P,andwhenIgotbacktoJimmy’swiththelightbulbs,thekidsweregoneandJuliaherselfwasstandinginfrontof the sandwich counter. Annemarie and Colin had started making theirlunchesalready.Jimmyhadsaidno,Iguessed,tothemeatballs,becausetheywerepickingthroughthecheese.Julia, who was pretending I hadn’t just walked in, seemed to be in the

64

middleofalongspeechabouthowAmericancheesewasn’tevenrealcheese,strictlyspeaking.Isawherlongfingersgesturingtowardthenot-cheese,andIknewinstantly thatherV-cutwouldbeflawless, thatbyMondayshewouldbe behind that counter with Annemarie and Colin, and that her apron, thesamekindthatlookedgrayandbaggyoneveryoneelse,wouldsomehowbeperfect on her. Shewould have away of tucking it up to fit, some trick awaiterinParishadtaughther.Then Jimmy came out from the back room holding a stack of dripping

plastic trays. “You.” He pointed at Julia with an armful of trays. “Out. Ialreadytoldyouonce.”Julia snatched her hand back from the setup tray. Annemarie flushed.

“We’rejusttalking,”Annemariesaid.“There’snocustomersherenow.”“Actually,I’macustomer,”Juliasaid,crossingherarmsoverherchest.“I

cametobuyasandwich.Ihavemoney.”Shestuckoutoneprettybootsothatthegreenleathertippointedattheceiling.“Out,”Jimmysaid,practicallygrowling.“Now.”Aftersheleft,IpretendedalongwithAnnemariethatJimmywasalittlebit

crazy, but as we walked back to school with our cheese-and-lettucesandwiches, Icarriedanewwarmfeeling inside.Jimmycouldbeagrouch,buthesawrightthroughJulia,justlikeIdid.

65

SaltyThings

OntheFridayafterThanksgivingtherewasnoschool,butMomstillhadtogotowork.I’dbeentryinghardnottothinkaboutthem,butIspentagoodchunkofthatmorningworryingaboutyournotes.Iheldoneineachhandandreadthemoverandover.Thepartaboutwritingaletterwasn’ttooscary.Thescarypartswere“I’mcomingtosaveyourfriend’slife”and“Oh,bytheway,wheredoyoukeepyourkeys?”and“P.S.Don’tevertellanyoneaboutanyofthis.”Seeingmynamewrittenoutonthesecondnotewasalsoprettycreepy,because Iwas still trying to pretend the notesweren’t reallymeant forme.Andalsowhereyouwrote“Iwon’tbemyselfwhenIreachyou.”Ididn’tlikethatpartatall.Cometothinkofit,therewerealotofscaryparts.Afteralongtime,Iputthenotesawayandturnedonthetelevision.Ihad

beenwatchingTVfortwohourswhenIheardLouisa’sregularknock.“Potato-chip drop,” she said when I opened the door. She was in her

uniform,holdingupaplasticbag.Louisa is always bringingMom food from the nursing home where she

works. She doesn’t steal—it’s leftovers from lunch, mostly little bags ofpotato chips or animal cookies. The health department says that oncesomethinghasbeenservedonatray,ithastobethrownawayevenifnoonetouchedit.SoLouisatakesall thelittlebagshomeandgivesthemtoMom,who brings them to the pregnant-jailbird “parenting group” she runsdowntown.Onceamonth,Momtakesthesubwaydowntothisactualjailandtalksto

criminalpregnantwomenaboutwhat toexpectafter theyhave theirbabies.They all think she’s some kind of saint for bringing thempotato chips andanimal cookies. Mom says that jail is a hard place, and that it can makepeoplehard,too.“Itchangesthem,”shetoldmeonce.“Jailstopsthemfrombecomingwho

theymightgrowtobe.”“Isn’tthatthewholeidea?”Iasked.“It’ssupposedtostopthemfrombeing

criminals!”She shookher head. “That’s notwhat Imean.A lot of peoplemakebad

66

mistakes.Butbeinginjailcanmakethemfeellikeamistakeisalltheyare.Liketheyaren’tevenpeopleanymore.”Herbringing thechipsandcookies issupposed tohelpsomehow.It’snot

reallythecookies,shesays.It’sthefactthatsomeonebringsthem.ItooktheplasticbagfromLouisa.Shesmiledatme.“Youknowwhat?You’regettingtall.”Ileanedagainstthedoorway.“Youthink?”Shenodded.“Imissyou,Miranda.” Itwas the first timeeitherofushad

saidanythingaboutthefactthatIwasneveratherapartmentanymore.“Yeah.”Hersayingshemissedmemademefeelsortofhopelessforsomereason.

Whensheleft,IlayonthecouchwiththeTVoffandmyeyesclosed,andIlistened forSal’s basketball.Hearing itmademe feel better, for once.Thatsoundwaslikethelastthreadconnectingus.

Momdidn’ttalkmuchatdinnerthatnight.Shewasstillinherworkclothes,adenimskirtandaT-shirtwithapictureofacoffeecuponitandthewordsGetYourOwnunderneath.Richardhadbroughtstrawberriesoverfordessert.“Darnit.”Momthrewdownastrawberry.“SSO’sagain.”“Ibetthegrapesaredelicious.”Igaveherafakesmile.“Don’tstart,Miranda.Ihadalousyday.”“Youdid?”Richard’seyebrowswentup.“Ididn’tknowthat.”“Howwouldyouknow?”Momasked.“Youwereincourtallday.Itisn’t

much to you if the copier breaks, is it? Did anyone ask you to type threecopiesofasixteen-pagedocument?”Richardshrugged.“Butyou’redonenow.It’sover.Whyletitwreckyour

wholeevening?”“Oh,stuffit,Mr.Perfect!”Momstompedofftoherbedroomwithouteven

givinghimachancetotaphisrightknee.Richardlookedatme.“Whatdidthezerosaytotheeight?”Irolledmyeyes.“Nicebelt.”He’dbeentellingmethatoneforat leasta

year.

Later,Momstackedthedishesinthesink,turnedthefauceton,andwentto

67

change her clothes. I stood there and watched as the greasy saucepanoverflowedontotheplatesunderneath.Theoilywaterreflectedthelightandmadethewhole thinglooklikeasparklyfountain.SometimesIcanstareatsomethinglikethatforalongtime.Mom came back wearing sweatpants and started washing the dishes. I

openedmymathworkbookatthekitchentable.Aminutelater,Richardcameinandsaid,“Didn’tIleavethatextrapairofworkshoeshereafewmonthsago?Iknowtheywereinthecloset,butIcan’tfindthemanywhere.”Mom’sheadsnappedup.“Iknewit.Ijustknewit.”Wehadbeenrobbedafterall.

68

ThingsYouPretend

TheMonday after Thanksgiving we were stuck in the school cafeteria forlunch.Thenakedguywasback,runningdownBroadway,andtheywouldn’tletanykidsoutofthebuilding.“Kindofcoldouttoberunningaroundinyourbirthdaysuit!”Colincalled

overtousonhiswaytoatableofboys.Annemariegiggled.IcouldseeSaloverthere.He’dglancedtowardusonce,butactedlikehedidn’tseeme.Iwatchedtheboysforafewseconds,allofthemtryingtotalklouderthan

theotherones.Salwasdoingit,too—everyonceinawhileIcouldhearhisvoice on top, and it reminded me of this game we used to play on thecrosstownbusonourway to the citypool.Salwouldbeholdingon to thesilver bus pole, and Iwould grab the pole right above his hand.Thenhe’dmovehishandsoitwasrightabovemine,andI’dputmineontopofhis,untilwewereonourtiptoes,holdingontothepoleneartheverytop,andusuallysome grown-upwould say to stop fooling around, couldn’twe see the buswascrowdedandoneofuswasgoingtofallandknocksomebodyover.Annemarie picked at her food. The worst part of being stuck inside for

lunchwasthatwehadtogetschoollunch,whichwasgross.“Iwonder if Jimmywill count thebreadorderhimself,” I said. “Ibethe

won’t.Ithinkhejustlikestomakemedoit.”Shenodded.“Togiveyousomethingtodo.”“Gee,thanks.”Ithrewmymilkstrawather.“Hey!Ididn’tmean—”“Sureyoudidn’t!”Then her smile faded. She was still looking at me, but something had

changed,likeaswitchhadbeenflickedinsideher.Likeshewasstilltherebutwasdoingsomethingelseinherhead.“Annemarie?”“Don’t.”Juliawasstandingbehindmewithacartonofmilk inherhand.

BeforeIcouldsayanything,sheslidontothebenchnexttome,stilllookingrightatAnnemarie.“She’llbefineinaminute.”“What’swrongwithher?”

69

“Just wait.” Julia hadn’t even glanced at me. Her eyes never leftAnnemarie’sface.Annemariemoved her head a little. She put her arm down on the table,

blinked, and said, “What?” as if she hadmaybemissed something I’d justsaid.“Areyouokay?”Iasked.Juliahitmykneewithhersunderthetable.“Don’taskherquestions,”she

hissed.Annemarie noticed her just then. “Hi, Julia,” she said, and a smile came

overherface.Julia smiledback.“Hi.”Thenshe turned tome.“So,Miranda,how’s the

playgroundgoing?ForMainStreet,Imean.”ShewantedtotalkaboutMainStreet?Now?Her eyes held mine. “I heard your proposal was approved.

Congratulations.”Congratulations?“Uh,thanks.”“Willtherebeswings?Howareyougoingtomakethem?”ItwasdawningonmethatJuliawasshowingmesomething,teachingme

howtohelpAnnemarie.“Paperclips,”ItoldJulia.“I’musingpaperclipstomakethechainsforthe

swings,andI’mgoingtocutpiecesofrubbertirefortheseats.”Juliawasnodding.“Thatsoundsgreat,”shesaid.Icouldalmostimagineus

beingfriends,havingthisconversationforreal.“Whatelse?”sheasked.“What?”She looked annoyed. I wasn’t catching on fast enough. “For the

playground.Whatelse?”“Oh—well,seesaws.Definitelyseesaws.”ThenAnnemariespoke.“Youknow,balsawoodwouldbeperfect for the

seesaws—it’sreallyeasytocut.Ithinkmydadmightevenhavesome.”“Really?” I said.“Thatwouldbegreat.Wecouldpaint themorange, just

liketheonesinRiversidePark.”“Yes!” Annemarie said. “We can start them at my house—maybe even

todayifyouwant.”ShelookedatJulia.“Wanttocome?AndstartMiranda’sseesaws?”

70

Before Julia could answer, I said “There’s no rush. I just got the plansapproved.Wecanstartnextweek.Anyway,Annemarie,youwerecomingtomyhousetoday,remember?”IfeltJuliapullingaway.“Seeyouguys,”shesaid,andstoodup.“Bye!”Isaid.Annemarielookedupather.“Bye,Julia.”A