The Secret Life of Engineers

My father was well into his eighties and dying before he told me certain things.

My mother, he told me, had had a nervous breakdown, sometime in 1966, about the time I was due to start junior high. One day she was fine, and the next day she woke up crying and cutting the bed sheets to ribbons with a pair of kitchen shears. The crying he could ignore, my father said, but the shears... Well, you never knew what those shears might be aimed at next. Let the Freudians among you think what you will. Have a field day.

"You never knew, did you?" my father said.

"No," I said. I couldn't have been more glum. To be unaware when one's own mother heads off to the loony bin? "Where was I?"

"Camp," he said. My confusion made him happy, of that I could tell. "Three weeks in the beautiful Mojave Desert."

The brochure had promised archaeology, geology, and desert survival skills, but the reality was tube tents, a desert wind that froze us each night, and high school and college-age counselors who lectured us about Marx and Lenin and Mao, then gave us hits off their joints. They turned a blind eye when we got into their stash of Boone's Farm and Ripple. We learned slogans, "Hell, no. We won't go," being among our favorites. I came home with tonsillitis, a hangover, and a revolutionary attitude.

"I came home from Japan," my father said, "when the neighbors started to complain. She was wandering the block in her nightgown. There were the bed sheets. The shears. She had pulled the stuffing out of the mattress. Your mother dropped you off at the YMCA parking lot, and then she went crackers. She didn't like to be alone."

My mother's dislike of solitude was directly related to my father's absences. Absences that, to my mind, were not that frequent or that long in duration, but seemed to my mother to be interminable. "I didn't get married," I remember her saying, "so your father would have a ride to the airport." While my father was gone, my mother bitterly counted the hours. When I was younger, we often spent the nights at my grandparents' house; she didn't sleep well since, without him in our wood frame house, every creak and groan was evidence of burglars and rapists, murderers and thieves. "One of these days," my mother often said, "he's going to come home to the sight of our bloody, dismembered corpses, and won't he feel bad then?" Frankly, I didn't think my father, who was guilty of terminal cheerfulness, was capable of feeling bad about anything, including the deaths of his family, either real or imaginary, whereas my mother was able to feel terrible about everything, including those events confined entirely to her own imagination, a psychic space that was diminished-if only slightly-when she was no longer alone.

My father, on the other hand, never minded being by himself. On several occasions during the three years that my mother was dying, we offered him our spare bedroom, but he declined each time. "Don't think I don't appreciate it," he told Ellen, "but the last thing you kids need is an old fart hanging around, clogging up the sofa, and stinking up the bathrooms."

Ellen and I looked at each other across the kitchen table, connected by our guilt since that was more or less the assessment we had each come to, the offer being made out of assumed obligation more than any true desire. Ellen felt that obligation more keenly, but she was also the more greatly relieved by my father's refusal. She loved my father, she insisted, but he was stubborn and insensitive and a pain in the ass, and if he were to live with us, she'd probably want to kill him about fourteen times a day.

"Don't worry about me," my father said. "I've got ten good years yet, twenty if I follow that dumb doctor's orders, and I don't intend to become a burden."

"All right, then," Ellen said. "I'm going to hold you to it. The moment you need help in the bathroom is the moment I hand you the Jonestown Kool-Aid."

My father, whose cancer would kill him in six more months, said: "And don't think I won't be grateful."

Copyright © 2007 by David Borofka

Debbie Harry Sings in French

(Henry Holt & Company Spring '08)

I picked up the two parts of the chain, with a strange feeling in my chest.

"Looking for something?" I knew it. I turned around. There was Brian, holding my bike up high, by the front tire. Donald stood close behind him.

"Oh, hi, Brian," I said, smooth as I could manage. "Where's the third stooge?"

"Shut up, faggot. You want this back?" I felt hot prickles beneath my skin.

"No, you can keep it." He blinked, not sure of a comeback. Finally, he hoisted it up with both hands and threw it. Maria and I both ducked. The bike flew over our heads and smashed down in the trees behind us.

"Brian!" Maria exclaimed. "Who do you think you are, the Incredible fucking Hulk?"

"If I'd known you liked hanging around with queers," Brian's chest heaved, "I never woulda wasted my time."

"But, Brian," she batted her eyes innocently. "Why do you think I hung around with you?"

"I don't know what the hell they did to you up there," he gritted his teeth at her. "But they sure didn't do you any favors."

"Why don't you and Donald go wrestle each other," she put her sunglasses back on, looking annoyed. She turned away, but Brian wasn't backing down, and for a second I thought he was going to hit her. A car horn blasted.

"Hey Brian! Come on, man, let's go!" We all looked up. It was Ben. He was driving a huge, beat-up Bronco with a rebel flag in the back window. The radio blasted Tupac. Ben kind of nodded at me. Acknowledging me, but nothing more. I squinted at him. I was glad we didn't have any dissections coming up.

"Later, faggot," Brian swaggered off towards the behemoth with Donald trotting closely behind him. The engine grunted and they took off. Maria gave them the finger, but it was futile. We went into the trees to retrieve my bike.

"Man," she sighed as we pulled it from a thorn bush. "He really messed it up." I stood the bike upright. The chain had come off, but it wasn't broken. The back tire rim was bent, though - there was no way I could go anywhere on it now.

"I don't know how I'm gonna get it home."

"Worry about that later," Maria said. "Come on. We'll take mine." I limped my bike over to the rack and tried to tie it up with the two broken chain pieces.

"Both of us? Where am I gonna ride, on the handlebars?"

"No. On the back," she led me to the farthest rack - there, chained up like an ordinary bike, was a blue Vespa motorscooter, like something out of Roman Holiday. "Cool, innit?"

"I'm downright speechless," I finally said.

"But the beat goes on. Here," she popped open a compartment under the seat and handed me a small, stylish black helmet. "Safety first." I strapped it on and climbed on behind her. She revved the engine until it hummed.

"Hold on to me tight," she commanded. "Don't worry about being fresh." I slipped my arms loosely around her waist, trying not to go too low or too high. She was warm, and smelled a little like lavender and cigarette smoke. We took off faster than I anticipated. Startled, I squeezed her, and she laughed.

"I told you to hold on!" She pulled out into traffic and we sped past the doctor's offices and fast food restaurants, past the retirement home and the hospital. Her hair whipped around my face as we buzzed along. It smelled like almonds. There was a cool smell in the air, too; the smell of the woods, of old trees.

Winter coming on, I guess.

Drinking People

The TV was on in the living room. Dave Letterman was debating with Paul Schaffer over whether a rubber chicken would float or not. My mother sat on the couch beneath the amber-colored lamp, going through an old shirt box full of papers, her reading glasses on. I sat down next to her and saw that she had a near-empty bottle of Jim Beam tucked into the crook of her arm.

"Geez, mom, have a drink."

She handed me the bottle.

"This is your father's. I've only had a couple sips." I felt the burn in my throat and handed it back to her. "I figured it would be the last -" she sighed and gazed at the bottle. "Oh, I don't know what I figured. I've been turning this house upside down for the past two days looking for a will -"

"You think he might've left you the fine china?" I snorted. My mother gave me a weary look.

"I thought he might've left some clue as to what he wanted done with his remains. But instead all I've found is a bunch of old stories he never finished and letters he never sent." She handed me a sheet of folded, yellowed hotel stationary from the shirt box. "Here, look at this."

"Did I ever tell you about how we met?"

"Yeah, sure." He came into her father's bakery in Shreveport and stole her away.

"Not the bakery story. The real story."

"I'm all ears."

Copyright © 2007 by Meagan Brothers

No Man's Land

Springtime in Halifax was not known for its warmth or sunshine. Neither was Barrett, Lyons and Goldstein.

Tess Lange allowed herself a one-minute break and gazed out her window on BLG's associate floor. Drizzle specked the glass, obscuring the line of cars snaking along Lower Water Street. Friday night rush hour was just beginning.

She turned back to her desk, forcing her eyes to focus on the separation agreement spread out in front of her. The fourth this week. The thirty-seventh since she joined BLG. She grimaced. The irony was not lost on her. She'd left Marshall and Assoc. because Madelyn Marshall had a preponderance of family law clients. Tess had assumed -- incorrectly -- that she'd seen the end of them when she'd packed her boxes and left four months ago. Instead, she'd done more separation agreements at BLG than she'd done during her eighteen month tenure with Madelyn.

"Tess." A man's voice broke through her thoughts.

She glanced at the door in surprise. She hadn't heard anyone coming.

Her pulse jumped into her throat.

It was Randall Barrett. Himself.

She rose quickly, smoothing her skirt. "Hi, Randall." She gave him a brilliant smile, grateful she wore the new suit she'd bought with her last pay cheque. It had been a toss up between replacing her old articling clothes or the old kitchen piping, but the lure of the Jackie-O style suit had been too strong. When she heard the pipes groaning that night, she'd regretted her extravagance, but couldn't bring herself to take the sleek cream suit back and ask for a refund. She'd learned a long time ago that there were no returns in life.

Now, eyeing Randall's exquisitely tailored grey suit, she was glad she'd kept it. He, of all people, needed to see that Tess belonged in this office, that her name had a place on BLG letterhead. Because it didn't, not yet. Not for another two months.

And only if she cut it.

Carpe Diem

"You heard what I said, Alexandra." He threw me an exasperated look. "Why do you have to be so stubborn?"

"Why are you never willing to listen to me?"

His mouth tightened.

Good. My jab had hit home. "I have a plan that will get you -- and me -- off the hook for treason."

"Indeed." He raised an eyebrow. "Alexandra, I have racked my brain for a solution to this difficulty and have come up dry."

"So did I. But then it just dawned on me." I didn't dare tell him I was seething with jealousy over his book of Shakespearean sonnets when I had this revelation.

"Oh yes, you are an expert in the field of law." His biting tone cut me to the quick. "I had forgotten."

"You're damned right I am an expert." I jabbed my finger at him angrily. "I have almost as many years at the Bar as you!"

His jaw worked. "So you say."

The Erato was getting closer.

"You won't even listen to my plan?"

He sighed deeply. "Pray tell me what your plan involves."

Annoyed, I mimicked his tone. "It involves you marrying me."

A look of incredulity crossed Thomas's face. "Have you gone mad? How could that possibly be of benefit to either of us?"

I almost burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Me proposing to a man. Man calling me crazy. Me pleading my case: "Thomas, very simply it will benefit both of us because as husband and wife we cannot incriminate one another."

Comprehension dawned in Thomas's eyes.

Copyright © 2007 by Pamela Callow

Roaming Around the Country Without Grownups

Aunt Ella cut across two lanes of traffic without indicating and pulled into the exit lane for some podunk place called Creztown. She got off the exit ramp, drove into the parking lot of a McDonald's, and shut off the engine.

Then she went, all casual like it was no big deal, "This is where I get off, girls," and she opened her door and stepped out.

And I was like, "Aunt Ella!"

But she was already halfway across the parking lot -- she didn't even grab her purse from the backseat -- and she ran into the arms of this really tall dude. He had to be at least six foot six.

"Who is that guy?" I said.

"I dunno but he probably weighs less than you, miss skinny mini," Stacey said.

"Jumpin' frogs legs, Stace! At a time like this you're thinking about how much that dude weighs? If you keep obsessing over weight, I'm gonna check you into the same rehab clinic Ashley put Mary-Kate in." Anyway, Stacey was right. The dude was a total beanpole. He actually sort of looked like a ruler because he was so flat -- it was like he'd been run over by a station wagon holding a family of elephants. Even his nose and butt were flat.

And Aunt Ella, who's even shorter than us -- she claims she's five foot one but I'd say five feet tops -- and more than a little chunky but she does wear her weight well, was there in the McDonald's parking lot hugging Beanpole as if he was her long lost one true love!

Then I looked at Stacey, still sitting in the front passenger seat, and she turned back and looked at me and we so knew we were both thinking the exact same thing -- 'What the heck?!' And it had nothing to do with any sort of special twin connection and everything to do with our wacky aunt having totally outdone herself this time. We nodded at each other, got out of the car, and walked across the almost empty parking lot, over to Aunt Ella and Beanpole.

They were still hugging away like long lost loves who had been separated by a world war or something. Stacey and I looked at each other like 'Now what?'

Then I cleared my throat and it was like a hypnotist had snapped his fingers or something. Aunt Ella spun around to face us and she smiled this goofy smile -- it was so goofy, the moment Stacey saw it, she whispered, "God, Ti, Aunt Ella looks like a little kid who just learned the word 'fart'."

Aunt Ella, oblivious to the fact that Stacey had propelled me to the verge of giggles, said, "Girls, I'd like you to meet Harry Harnum, my one true love. Harry, these are my nieces, Tiana and Stacey."

So Beanpole shook our hands with his left hand (I always thought that you were supposed to shake hands with your right hand, but who knows). Anyway, Aunt Ella said, "Girls, Harry is the star trapeze artist with Harnum and Hailey's Circus. I'm going to spend the next eleven days on the road with him."

Then Aunt Ella handed the Jetta key over to Stacey, smiled all proud like she'd discovered the cure for cancer or something, and continued, "And you girls get to hit the open road with each other. That's my birthday gift to you -- independence."

I went, "Um, Aunt Ella, we're really happy for you that you've found true love with Beanp- um, I mean, Harry, but how exactly are we supposed to go on our road trip without you? Neither Stacey nor I has a driver's license. Hello? We just turned fourteen."

Aunt Ella waved her hand in the air dismissively and went, "License, schmicense! A driver's license is just a piece of plastic with an ugly picture on it." She winked at Stacey and said, "I know what an excellent driver you are."

Then she blew us both a kiss and she and Beanpole rode off into the sunset together. Well, okay, they walked over to a yellow and purple RV, and Beanpole opened the door and helped Aunt Ella in.

I yelled, "Our parents will kill us. And you!"

She turned and yelled back, "They'll never know! I'll meet you back in Ryerville on your way home. They'll think I've been with you the whole time. I'll contact you through the DP to finalize the details!" Then the door closed and we watched the RV pull out of the McDonald's parking lot.

Copyright © 2007 by Thushentha Devan

Midnight Confessions II

(Kensington 2007)

Once inside, Belle floated up the stairs ahead of her, dressed in a peignoir set that had once been green. Faye saw flashes of color in the folds as they fluttered behind Belle's otherwise monochrome beige. Being outside in the grey overcast light and with the faded grey wicker at her back, Faye hadn't noticed Belle's lack of color.

It wasn't like her to be beige. Something must be wrong. "Are you upset at the idea of my inviting Kim to the house?"

"No, of course not. I have a feeling Kim will be very entertaining."

"You will leave Kim alone," Faye said firmly to Belle, whose knowing smirk irritated the hell out of Faye. "She's not to be jazzed up in any way. While she's here, she'll be working, either helping get the new location ready or searching out new inventory. She's not a plaything." If they messed with Kim, Faye would lose her for sure.

Faye heard a deep sigh come from the wall beside her. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, spun toward the long-suffering sound. "I'm not joking, Lizzie. You leave her alone."

With Lizzie's penchant for practical jokes, Faye was afraid the spirits would go too far and she'd lose a great employee. Not to mention a friend.

There must be a state law against terrorizing the help. Just because she had no problem being surrounded by spirits didn't mean Kim would be okay with it.

"All right, I promise," agreed Lizzie from somewhere deep inside the wall. At least it sounded like she was inside the wall. It might have been the ceiling.

Now, all she had to do was make Annie and Felicity promise to leave Kim alone and she'd have an easier mind about Kim living here for the next few weeks.

"But the minute one of you pulls something on her, I lose my help and you'll be sorry," she threatened, loud enough for all of them to hear. What good threatening the dead did, she didn't know, but it was worth a shot.

The attic entrance was in the ceiling of a back hall corner.

Belle stood to the side while Faye tugged on an ancient rope. The stairs folded down from the ceiling with the groans and squeaks that were to be expected from hundred year old hinges. But, once the stairs got moving they opened easily enough and Faye climbed up, surprised by the sturdy feel underfoot. "What," she slanted a glance at Belle, "not coming with me?"

"I'll meet you there."

"You being afraid of heights seems a little weird. You can't exactly get hurt."

Belle blew her a raspberry.

As soon as Faye set foot on the attic floor Belle appeared seated on a trunk in the corner. Dust flew everywhere, but for all the years of neglect, it smelled clean enough. There were no obvious signs of animal or bird infestations.

No bats, either. She hated bats. They flew so erratically.

From the central staircase opening, the attic went off in every direction. From here it was clear how large the house was because the entire floor area was open. Dormer windows were evenly spaced around each wall, including the additions that were built on later. There was an octagonal area that was obviously over the conservatory.

Each dormer wall had hooks on the walls. Some even had tiny closets built in.

"What went on up here, Belle? These sort of look like cubbies or partitioned areas."

"Staff slept up here if they didn't have homes to go to. Beds were tucked in under the windows and there was a stove by the stairs for heat in the winter. It wasn't unpleasant."

She took a closer look and saw curtain rings on poles stretched across the openings to each dormer. "How large a staff did you need?"

Belle shrugged. "Four or five live ins. More in the summer to tend the garden. We had a laundress, eventually some kitchen help, but mostly the cook's son, Henry, at first."

Four or five live ins. Willa was right. She was going to need more help than she thought. Even with modern equipment like a dishwasher, vacuum cleaner, and a washer and dryer, Perdition House was too big for one person to keep up. Especially one person with a business to run.

"Did Annie work in a cathouse in Butte when she ran away from home?" She might have suggestions for efficient use of Faye's time.

"Yes, and it wasn't anything like working here. She'll tell you that!" Belle chuckled and the green in her gown returned.

"You're feeling better."

"Why, yes." She cocked an eyebrow at Faye in query.

"You were beige. First time I've ever seen you so colorless. Is something worrying you?"

"Nothing for you to be concerned about. I may have a renegade in the ranks, that's all."

"Renegade?" She laughed, finding the idea funny in a weird way. "A renegade ghost. Ooooo, scary."

Belle frowned. "Until now your experiences have been pleasant, haven't they?"

"You mean things could get nasty?" The thought of a ghost going postal suddenly scared the bejeebers out of her.

Copyright © 2007 by Bonnie Edwards

To Buzz or Not to Buzz

The next morning I awoke with a powerful sense that this day would finally be prosperous. As I drove to work, the sun smiled on me from a clear sky. Well, except for that one oddly penis-shaped cloud.

The Starbucks near the mini-mall tempted me to cross the street and order a chai latte, but prosperity tea awaited me upstairs.

Samantha trotted up the stairs ahead of me. Women milled about on the landing, preparing to go into the Curves to have their chocolate sins exercised from their bodies. As I stuck my key in the lock, whispers surrounded me. I looked up. Three of the women had descended on me. "Can I help you?"

They rushed inside. I grabbed the canister of endurance tea on my way to the register. "How many weeks worth of the tea would you like?"

The women glanced at each other. A petite woman with red hair a few shades lighter than my own auburn stepped forward. She leaned forward as if she were about to reveal the secret to achieving non-stop orgasms by consuming minute amounts of luxurious dark chocolate. "We're not here for the tea."

"I can make you any kind of candle you need," I said. "What's your goal?"

The plump brunette shook her head. "We need the thing you gave Tania."

"How do you know Tania?" I asked.

"I'm her lawyer," the slim brunette said. "She told me about it."

"And she told us." The redhead turned in a circle, surveying my wares. "Where are they?"

"I don't have any."

"I told you we should have come earlier. She sold out already."

"She opened three minutes ago." The slim one set her briefcase on the counter. "Can we special order them?"

I hadn't even drunk the prosperity tea yet. Was this a sign of the day to come? "That was a special. Just for Tania. But there's a Hustler store further down Sunset. They have a good selection vibrators."

"It won't be the same." The redhead shook her head, her bun bouncing. "You charmed it. Tania said she had the best orgasm of her life. We'll pay double for the rush. Triple. Whatever it takes to get them here pronto."

The other two women nodded their agreement.

I couldn't resist all of them combined. Besides, it couldn't hurt to get a few more vibrators: for special cases related to saving my business. Just so long as this rule breaking didn't become a habit. "Leave me your numbers. I'll call you when they're ready, hopefully by tomorrow."

The redhead gripped my hand. "Thank you so much. You're saving my life."

I took their information and promised to call them as soon as possible.

At the sound of the door opening, the three women turned toward it. The temperature in the room shot up as Dave strolled inside. They looked at me with lust burning in their eyes. I waved to him.

The redhead leaned close to me. "Did your magic bring him?" she asked.

They stared at him as they skirted past. There was something about his toned frame and movie star blue eyes that made women walk into poles. True to form, one of the brunettes backed into the doorframe with an "oof."

I'd done the same thing when we met at the bookstore nine years ago. Some days I wished I hadn't called off our fling a week later when I met Jack and erroneously deemed him The One. Alas there was no use dwelling on the past. I'd been twenty-three. I'd been stupid. I'd learned my lesson.

Dave grinned at the three red-cheeked ladies. Like teenagers being noticed by the captain of the football team, they giggled as they hurried out of the store.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"Tania referred some friends."

"Great, new business. You need more of that."

"It's not exactly the kind of business I want." I crooked my finger at him to come closer and lowered my voice. "They wanted charmed sex toys."

Copyright © 2007 by Aryn Kennedy

Kimchi & Calamari

(Harper Collins, 2007)

Alone at last with Mom. I could ask what she knew about the day I was born. Seeing Yongsu and his parents got me wondering again. Plus, I still had to give Nash something to search with, since my talk with Dad was a bust.

"Can I ask you a few questions, Mom?"

She gave me a curious look. "Ask away," she said. "Do you know my birth parents' names, or where the adoption agency found me?" I folded the napkins in triangles, concentrating so I wouldn't have to look at Mom.

Mom started to say something, then paused. "I planned on sharing this with you at a special time. When you were, well, a bit older."

"Sharing what?" I asked.

"The information the adoption agency gave us. But it isn't much, Joseph."

"I really want to know whatever it is. Now," I pleaded.

She took a breath before she began. "They told us they found you in the south of Pusan, by the waterfront, in a police station parking lot. An old woman was walking back from the fish market in the afternoon when she heard crying. You were lying in a basket, wrapped in a blanket."

This sounded like the Baby Moses story. Had I floated down a river in Pusan, too?

"What was my birth mother's name?"

"They didn't give us names."

"What day did the old lady find me?"

"May seventh," Mom said, rubbing the top of my head with her fingertips.

"Well, since my birthday is May fifth, that meant my birth mother took care of me for two days. Maybe she felt torn and didn't want to give me up," I said, blurting out my thoughts.

Mom nodded. "Maybe," she said.

"Move, Frazer!" Sophie yelled from the family room. That old boxer loved to park himself in inconvenient places, like on top of the puzzle.

"What's got you thinking about all this, honey?" Mom asked.

Should I tell Mom about the essay? I wanted to, but she was practically crying already. I didn't want to make her feel she wasn't a good-enough mom. "I just met this new kid at school today, and he's Korean. That's all."

She nodded and started scooping mashed potatoes from the Styrofoam container onto the plates.

I kept imagining how it all happened in Pusan fourteen years ago. "Maybe it was a baby- snatching conspiracy and the lady who found me was in on it," I said. "She could have kidnapped me, realized she was going to get caught, and then dropped me at the police station with that story so they wouldn't suspect anything."

"I don't think so. The adoption agency told us that's just the way babies are left in Korea. Birth mothers pick spots where they know their babies will be safe and get discovered quickly."

Then Mom continued, as if trying to convince me she was right. "Unmarried Korean women can't keep their babies, Joseph. Having a child before marriage is taboo there, much worse than here. Mothers without husbands are outcasts. Sometimes they can't even find jobs or homes. I think your birth mother knew you both would have had a difficult life if she'd kept you."

"Why do Koreans make the mothers feel so bad? That's dumb," I said. "Besides, maybe my birth mother was married to my birth father and they just didn't have enough money to raise a kid. Or she could have gotten sick. Isn't that possible, too?"

Copyright © 2007 by Rose Kent

The Dust Prophet

"Did Doctor Taylor tell you about your condition?"

"Yes." She stood unnaturally still for a child. Stock still. And she had a way of turning her head slightly while still keeping her eyes on a person. "I'm going to have a baby."

"Yes. Well, we need to talk about that, don't we?" He found himself blinking to compensate for how seldom she did. "Esta, I need to know who did this to you. I know it might be frightening to talk about. But it needs to be said out loud. The person who did this to you did a bad thing. Who's been at you, child?"

She cocked her head a few degrees but remained silent.

"Esta, we need to know the father of your child."

"It's between me and God," she said.

"Alright. We can discuss it later if you'd rather. But I'd like to talk with you about what you told Doctor Taylor. About Jenny."

"What about it?" she replied.

"No one knows better than I how it feels to want to give comfort to those who are suffering and yet be unable to. I have spent much of my adult life and all of the last two months striving to grant the tiniest measure of comfort in the face of terrible loss. But it is wrong to create falsities, even with the purest of motives -- to ease another's pain."

"I wouldn't do that," she said.

"I must assume that you were school friends with Jenny Taylor and that she told you about the dress and how she wanted to wear her hair."

"I've only ever had one friend, Reverend," Esta said, "Miss Margaret Goode."

Thomas heard the door to the office opening and conversation between Doctor Taylor and a woman.

Thomas continued, "Then you must have heard this information from Margaret Goode. Perhaps you've stored this memory without even being aware where it came from."

"I know where it came from," she said.

"Where?" Thomas heard himself say. Doctor Taylor pulled back the curtain and entered the room with Priscilla in tow. The woman was in wretched shape with large dark circles around the eyes and a frantic expression.

"The Lord showed it to me when he lifted me up," Esta said.

"What is this?" Priscilla said.

"I told you, Prissy," Doc said. "This is the girl who was found on the church. She says she saw Jenny with God in heaven."

"Doctor Taylor, I'm not sure it's wise to involve Priscilla with this," Thomas interjected. "Let me talk with the girl alone."

"My Jenny?" Priscilla said choking on sobs.

"Yes," Esta said.

"Esta, stop it this instant," Brother Thomas pleaded. "You can't toy with people this way! Tell the doctor that you made this up, or that it was just a dream!"

"Tell her about the dress and her hair," Doc Taylor said. "She was wearing the green dress you made and her hair was in plaits, Priscilla. It was our Jenny! In Heaven with God!"

"But how could you know this? How could you see into Heaven?" Priscilla pressed.

"Exactly," Brother Thomas added.

Esta had been waiting patiently to be asked. She looked at Mrs. Taylor and Doctor Taylor only as she relayed the story of what happened to her on that day.

"It was blowing hard outside. Miss Merrell was poised to hit me with the ruler for not paying attention in class when my cousin, Doris, looked out the window and yelled, 'It's a twister!' Then the roof peeled away."

Esta closed her eyes now and a slight smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "And I heard a loud voice say 'Talitha Kumi'." And then I was pulled upward and all the sounds of crashing and screaming and blowing fell silent. And I saw a shining light, bright like the sun, only gentler. It drew me into itself. That's when I saw Jenny seated at the feet of the father. Then the voice said, 'be blessed,' and touched me here," Esta said pointing to the middle of her chest.

Esta opened her eyes again. "And then I could hear the wind again and I was moving backward, but I didn't want to. And then it went dark. When I woke up, I was on the church roof."

"Praise God! Praise God!" Priscilla exclaimed. Doctor Taylor embraced his wife as she bawled unabashedly.

"It's a miracle!" he said.

"My girl! My baby! I was so worried, what with her not bein' baptized!"

Priscilla tore herself from her husband and ran to Esta pulling the child tight to her chest. "Thank you! Bless you, child."

Brother Thomas pulled Esta from the woman's grasp, "Doctor Taylor, I would ask you to kindly take your wife back upstairs. She's had a tremendous shock and needs to lie down." He shot Esta an angry glance as he ushered the two parents toward the office door.

Upon returning, he ripped the curtain back and glared angrily at her. "What are you up to, Esta Macphee, with this cockamamie story? You and I both know that nothing like that happened. You were simply lucky to be thrown clear of the awful death the other children shared and now you would mock the very God who mercifully spared your pitiful life! Surely, he will not allow you to go unpunished for this sin!"

"I thought you didn't believe in luck Pastor," Esta retorted.

"You will speak of this matter no more, young lady. You've got yourself in a delicate condition which requires your full attention. And I won't have you distracting good God-fearing people from their rightfully- earned grieving. Now let's get you home. We've got some news to share with your parents." He took her by the arm and marched her swiftly to the car.

The ride back to the Macphee farm felt far different than the ride to the doctor's office. Brother Thomas sensed that there had been a shifting of sorts -- the same feeling he often had when he presided over a wedding or a funeral. It was the uncertainty of stepping from one age, to the next. That the occasion of the telling of Esta's outlandish story, to an even greater extent than the school tragedy itself, marked a new focus in his work on earth, and a new season for the community of Harmony.

As he parked the car in the Macphee yard and shut off the ignition, Esta spoke. "Brother Thomas, remember when I came to you and asked you about my spiritual gift?"

He gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead trying to will the child to be shocked into silence once more. Forever more. But it didn't work.

"I think I know now what mine is."

Copyright © 2007 by Shannon Landrum

The Sloth's Eye

The Halloween decorations were gone from the hallways but the pumpkins were still in the exhibits, most of them now looking gnawed-on to various degrees. Which just made them even better as far as I was concerned. I was admiring my jack o'lantern with the fennec fox ears when I heard footsteps, brisk confident steps that covered the ground like the whole planet was her private domain.

"I love your Halloween pumpkins," Allison said. What was she doing here at this hour? Who knew. She could be anywhere at any time. "I adore the Halloween event. What could be better than combining trick or treating and a trip to the zoo?"

"Yeah," I nodded. I had to agree. Candy and animals, did it get any better than that?

"I thought when I came through last night that you are all doing such a nice job, but this building needs some attention. You haven't had anything new in a long time, and the collection is a lot less diverse than when I was the curator here. Maybe you could give me some advice about what we could do."

Somehow, under the magic touch of her attention, I didn't think of how strange it was for the zoo director to be asking advice from someone as lowly as me.

"A wombat," I said dreamily, almost to myself. I knew we'd never get a wombat. I'd had this conversation with Larry, our curator, dozens of times. A wombat was a lousy exhibit. It would sleep all day and take up a lot of space with nothing interesting for visitors to see. A big snoozing mound of fur that might as well be a stuffed animal. Not worth the time or effort or real estate.

But I loved wombats. I longed for a wombat the way other women longed for babies, as far as I could tell about how other women felt. I had clearly somehow imprinted on the wrong species as a newborn. I had no idea what it felt like to want a baby. But, oh, how I imagined a sweet little round wombat pup in my arms.

"A wombat!" Allison exclaimed, jolting me out of my marsupial reverie. "What a splendid idea. We don't have anything quite like that. Since we don't have an Australia building anymore, Small Mammals would be just the place."

I was startled. I looked at her dumbly for a minute, waiting for her to laugh at her joke. But she didn't.

"Um, " I said, "But... won't it sleep all day?"

"I'm sure we can figure out a way to deal with that. We can make sure its den is visible to the public. That way you'll always see something even if it's asleep. After all, that's better than an animal that's hiding all day when it's awake, isn't it?"

"Where will we put it? Where can we get one?" I surreptitiously pinched myself. Surely this was some kind of crazed zookeeper fantasy dream, where the director swoops down and gives you the animal you've always longed to work with. I was sure that in a minute I'd wake up and go into work and tell people about it, and I'd find out that everyone had had this dream, like we'd all had the dreams of our animals getting out, or those moments where we woke up in the middle of the night, positive we'd left some shift door in the wrong position.

"Details, details," Allison said. I seemed to be awfully good at dreaming that particular cadence she had, that tone that assured you that everything would always go her way. "Don't worry, that's why I have a staff. If we want a wombat we'll have a wombat. Do you know which species you want?"

I'd never thought about it. The idea had never gotten anywhere near close enough to reality for it to matter. "I don't know. Can I go and do some research?"

"Of course. Just email me when you decide. I'll come by again soon and we can talk about what renovations we need to do to house it."

I gazed off toward the pygmy marmoset exhibit in a daze. The plant wall needed watering and tons of that mossy stuff had fallen down and needed to be replaced. I decided that I wasn't dreaming after all, because in my dream Small Mammal House, the plant wall in that exhibit waters and re-mosses itself, instead of me having to crawl in there and hit my head and get soaking wet and covered in moss.

Copyright © 2007 by Linda Lombardi

Touch Me

(Kensington 2007)

"You have a right to be mad," Adonis told her. "Your mom cheated you of things a kid should have."

Ann's body stiffened. "I'm being unfair. She tried her best."

"Maybe so." Touch firm but gentle, he stroked her chest, breasts, rib cage, trying to give her the warmth her mother seemed incapable of. "Doesn't mean you don't have a right to be pissed. Children should be nourished with hugs and kisses, praise and love."

"I wish . . ." She sighed and her muscles loosened. "I was going to say, I wish I had a different mother. But that's not true, I love her. I just wish she'd been different."

"Is it too late? Could she change?"

Her eyes were squeezed shut. "I w-wish. But she's set in her ways." She sniffed. "D-damn, I never cry. Tears are a waste of time."

But they were welling from under her closed lids. "That last voice sounded like your mom's," he said gently.

She sniffed again. "It was." A tear spilled over.

"I don't agree with her." He caught the tear with his finger and brought it to his mouth. "Tears help you let pain out, where it doesn't have so much power."

She opened tear-glazed eyes. "That your mom talking?"

"Yeah." Definitely not his macho dad.

As tears tracked down her temples into her hair, he said, "Your mom may not be super affectionate, but you know she wanted you. She could have had an abortion or given you up for adoption, but she kept you. Loved you."

"I guess. But it puts so much pressure on me, being the only person she's got. Pressure to live up to her expectations."

She was still meeting his gaze and he looked deeply into her damp hazel eyes, feeling the hurt inside her. He took her by the shoulders. "Those expectations are hers; she owns them. She's the one who let rejection hurt her so badly she never lets anyone into her life. Focuses on her career, rather than risking her heart. You can be braver, you don't have be the same as her. Figure out what you want, and tell her."

"What if she says I'm wrong?" The tears were sliding freely now.

"Then tell her again." He lay down beside her and gathered her into his arms, felt the dampness of her cheek against his shoulder. For a while, he just hugged her close as she cried.

Then, when the tears eased, he said, "Tell her you love her, you respect her, but you have to find your own path. And if she loves you, she should try to understand and respect you back."

She sniffed. "Is that what you told your father?"

Crap. "Uh, maybe not quite like that. More like, I didn't want to be a tile layer so I wasn't going to do it."

"Which he'd take as rejection of everything he's worked for."

"Shit." He'd never thought of it that way, but once she'd said it, it was obvious. "I guess you're right."

"I know if I'd ever said I didn't want to be a lawyer, that's how Mother would have felt. But it was okay, she made it so fascinating, there was never anything else I wanted anyhow."

"And now?"

She eased away, wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands, sat up. "I want friends, too. A life away from the office, maybe one day a family of my own." A little smile. "Perhaps a puppy or kitten."

He sat up too, caught and held her gaze. "Those are all good things. Normal things. She's the one with the warped life, Ann. That's sad, and you don't have to be like her."

She nodded slowly. "Adonis, what's the thing you've most wanted from your dad?"

He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, then opened them again so she could see into his heart. "For him to say he's proud of me, like he does with my sisters."

"Me too, with Mother. Every time she compliments me, there's some damn qualification. Or, what I've done is good but she wants more from me." She sighed. "And I've been trying. Now you, you deliberately chose another path. Neither way has worked out for us."

"Nope."

"So, what's the worst case scenario?" she said thoughtfully. "They never say those magic words. But we know they love us. Right?"

"Yeah." He managed a small smile. "That's not such a bad thing to settle for."

"Some wise man once told me, conflict's inherent in the parent-child relationship."

His own words. The smile grew. "That was pretty smart. So, I should tell Dad I respect him and what he's accomplished, but his way isn't mine, and I wish he'd respect me too."

"And if he's still on your case, remember conflict's normal, and he loves you."

God, she was beautiful, even all swollen and tear-stained. Beautiful and smart and brave. And sexy. Opening up the way they'd both done was even better than sexual foreplay. He felt so close to her, and he wanted to get closer. Until they merged. Body and soul.

It was so cool she'd finally got into the gazing into each other's eyes thing. He could see the moment she read his thoughts. The green flecks in her eyes sparkled. Her lips curved. "You haven't finished my massage."

"Later." He leaned in for a kiss.

She avoided his mouth, her smile widening. "Hey, aren't we doing hours of foreplay, before sex?"

"We've done hours. Now it's time for sex." He stripped off the silk boxers and leaned in again.

Copyright © 2007 by Susan Lyons

The Queen of Crime TV

We were on verdict watch, and the clock was ticking.

It had been almost seven hours since the jury disappeared into the deliberation room and I was beginning to wonder if they were ever coming out. The courtroom, which normally held no more than thirty people, was now packed, and it was difficult to breathe. Reporters lined the walls, their pens and cell phones poised for action. Spectators jammed themselves into the ten rows of narrow wooden benches, elbow to elbow and thigh to thigh. Cameras hovered near the front of the room, their lights at the ready. The warm air was heavy and still. Suddenly there was a loud thud from overhead and everyone looked up. Then, as if God had taken mercy on us, the air conditioner came on full blast. We drank in the cool air for a few moments, then went back to discussing, in hushed and urgent tones, our predictions, all the while keeping one eye on the clock above the judge's bench. The jury had been out for six hours, forty-one minutes and counting. At trials like these everyone was an expert with an opinion to share. Most people, I'd gathered, believed the jury would hand down a guilty verdict, but as the saying goes, it ain't over till the fat lady sings.

I had a press pass and as an associate producer should have been standing with our camera crew on the sidelines, but somehow I got a much coveted front row seat. Not only did I have a bird's eye view of the defendant's table, I could see the clock above the judge's bench perfectly. Right now it was 4:26. Court ended at 4:30 and the jury had been deliberating since this morning. If what I knew about juries was any indication, that meant they'd want to announce their verdict today so they wouldn't have to come back tomorrow (so much for idealized justice). Apparently everyone else knew this too because by 4:27 the air was so electric with anticipation you could almost hear it crackling. At 4:28 cameramen rose to assume their positions, reporters flipped to clean sheets in their notebooks and the lights seem to glow a little brighter. I brought my hand up to my forehead and realized, despite the air conditioning, that it was damp. I was glad I'd showered that morning.

The only person in the room who seemed to care less about the verdict was the bailiff, who, at exactly 4:30, set down her Detroit Sentinel, stood and slowly crossed the room. As we watched her the murmurs died down and we sucked in one collective breath. "All rise," she sang. We rose, and Judge Swanson entered through a door behind the bench, black robe flowing, already motioning with his hands for us to have a seat. This was good, as I could see better when we were seated. Like I said, I had a clear view of the defendant, Jason Allan Jerickson, aka world famous rap star and Grammy winner Jack Attack. And it wasn't just the back of his head either, it was the whole left side of his face, which was uncharacteristically clean-shaven, probably a recommendation from his publicist or his attorneys or both. I figured his lawyers had also dressed him for the occasion, because instead of his trademark white track suit, gold chains and black skull cap, he wore a charcoal gray three-piece, complete with white shirt and navy blue tie. The only thing that gave away his status as the country's hottest rapper was his hair, still shaved close to his head and bleached blonde. As I watched him whisper something to his lead lawyer it occurred to me that he epitomized the true irony of the hip-hop world: while his latest album, Attack You Back was hovering at Number One on the Billboard charts, he was standing trial here in Detroit for attempted murder. For the past two weeks the Detroit D.A.'s office had been zealously trying to prove that Jack Attack had pointed a gun in the face of a rival rapper and threatened to kill him. It was a stretch to charge Jack with attempted murder-you had to prove that he intended to kill the other rapper, and proving intent was never easy-- but as this wasn't Jack's first foray into the criminal justice system the prosecutors wanted to smack him as hard as they could, and the results could be devastating. If Jack lost this trial, he could face life in prison.

The jury took their seats except for the forewoman, a squat lady in her early forties. She stood at the helm of the jury box and unfolded a white piece of paper. I noticed that her hands were trembling and that she did not look at the defense table but kept her gaze glued to the paper. This is it, I thought, the big moment, and even though it wasn't my ass on the line, my heart started to pound.

Copyright © 2007 by Elizabeth Lardaro Martinez

Improper Etiquette

(NAL 2007)

A large presence appeared behind her right shoulder, heralded by a whiff of really fabulous aftershave. Pheromones, she told herself stubbornly. That's all.

She swallowed hard.

Duke brushed a strand of hair from her cheek with a careless gesture. "Nice to see you again, Caitlyn."

She bit her lip, gathering up her things and stuffing them into a briefcase. The room was emptying, and she had to grab somebody quickly and beg for information.

But Duke was effectively blocking her exit. He propped a hip on the conference table, bringing their eyes level. Her knees trembled. She told herself it was because she had skipped breakfast.

She took a deep breath. "You'll have to excuse me," she said, her voice cool. "I have to run."

"The mayor wants us to start today."

She looked directly at him for the first time. The mischief in his long-lashed eyes was not at all reassuring. "I'm aware of the time table," she said primly.

His large thigh, covered respectably in dark suit fabric, was practically touching her hip, so she inched away from the table.

He picked up her BlackBerry, and it was all she could do not to snatch it back. "I really am in a hurry," she said with as much politeness as she could muster.

He cocked his head. "Don't you think we should program some dates into this little electronic thingy of yours?" He poked at a button and the screen went blank.

"Give me that," she hissed. "And no. I'm all booked up in the date department. Thanks anyway."

Now the devilment spread across his face and his straight white teeth flashed in a grin of blinding proportions. "Well, Miss Caitlyn... you may be willing to offend the mayor, but I'm not. Turn this thing back on and let's get down to business."

Her mouth gaped. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He brushed her lips with a fingertip. "Tut. Tut. Such language from a lady. I know your mama wouldn't approve."

Temper threatened to blow the top of her head sky high. Her pale skin blotched with color when she got angry, and she knew from experience that it wasn't a good look on her. But God, he made her mad.

She pursed her lips. "My vocabulary is none of your concern. I'm out of here."

She grabbed up her things and scooted around him, but he was not so easily defeated. He caught hold of the end of the pretty braided raffia belt she wore and reeled her back in, tucking her firmly between his thighs. It would have been a highly inappropriate position had the room not been empty. Even so, she deemed it insulting.

She narrowed her eyes. "Swear to God, Duke Yancey. I'll knock the crap out of you with my purse if you don't let me go right this instant.

Copyright © 2007 by Janice Maynard

Into the Wissahickon

Dan was half-heartedly working through a sheet of math problems on Eben's living room floor. He had lost his pencil and was using one of Eben's pens and kept making mistakes that he had to scribble out. Dan's empty stomach gave off a groan that started low and then rose, like the slow creak to the door of a haunted house. He and Jessie had gotten home from school hours ago and they'd already finished the box of Frosted Flakes. They had ridden the sugar buzz and crashed again, and now they were even hungrier. Millie still hadn't called. It was almost seven o'clock at night.

"Where's Mommy?" Jessie asked. "Gorilla's sick of Frosted Flakes."

"Everyone's sick of Frosted Flakes." Dan sighed.

In his easy chair, Eben looked up from the sports section of the newspaper. "There's instant macaroni in the kitchen. I could make it."

"That's okay, Uncle Eben." Dan shook his head at Jessie. The offer was phony; their uncle never cooked. Dan blinked at the math sheet, his eyes fatigued by the poor lighting. He stood and flipped on the lamp switch. The bulb was grey, dead. The dishwasher didn't work either. It leaked brown water and dishes still had hard bits of food stuck to them. Things broke and no one fixed them. He was sick of it.

"Maybe she had car trouble again," Eben suggested. "That car looks like it's stuck together with spit and scotch tape."

Dan suddenly imagined the Gremlin skidding into an intersection and getting crushed by a garbage truck-a scene from an episode of the Incredible Hulk he had watched. Ever since his father had returned to Chicago, Dan imagined Millie dying in different ways: shot by a drug dealer, caught in a fire, diagnosed with brain cancer. He pictured himself comforting her as she lay in a hospital bed. He pictured her like the wounded soldiers in M*A*S*H-lots of tubes draining fluid from her arms, a nurse tapping air bubbles from a syringe, Millie murmuring but making no sense. An awful feeling ran through Dan when these images appeared, as if he was wishing for her to get hurt. But trying to banish the images from his head made them stick harder, like the tiny burrs that clung to his shoelaces after he walked through the Wissahickon.

"Maybe she's buying pizza," Jessie said.

"Or maybe she robbed a bank and had to take the long way home." Dan tried to picture Millie speeding away on a motorcycle, popping a wheelie, a bag of cash strapped to her back and a few hundred dollar bills fluttering out. But then, the bike crashed and exploded into flames as his imagination got the better of him.

"Dan, can you make me a peanut butter and jelly?" Jessie asked.

He knew they had tossed the empty jar of peanut butter yesterday. But, feeling sorry for his sister, Dan went to the kitchen and filled a pot with water and lit the stove. He had seen Millie make macaroni plenty of times. All you had to do was boil the noodles and dump cheese powder on top.

Twenty minutes later, they ate macaroni with cherry Kool-Aid and Wonder Bread toast in front of the news, watching a story about factories closing in Pittsburgh. The newslady interviewed a guy who got fired and was trying to sell his lawnmower, his vacuum cleaner and some old shirts in a yard sale. It made Dan think of the bills that Millie wasn't paying. The news anchor talked about the bad economy and inflation and it seemed like everyone everywhere was broke.

"What's inflation?" Jessie asked.

"It's the banks stealing money right out of your pocket," Eben said. "Dan, this macaroni's not half bad. But you could stir the cheese in better next time."

They were finished eating by the time Millie walked through the door. "How's my family doing?" she exclaimed, kissing Jessie on the head.

"Christ on a bike! We were about to call missing persons is how we're doing!" Eben barked. "It's past dark. Ever hear of the phone?"

"I'm sorry Eben. I stopped at Wade's club downtown and lost track of time. He was dying to show me the renovations. They redid the whole place, it's going to be amazing. I forgot that his father was into real estate, he has so many projects going on. Anyway, I might pick up some weekend shifts at the ticket office. He says you can make good money and you get to hear the music too. Well, let me tell you, I tried a payphone outside but the line was dead. Can someone explain why half the phones in Philly don't work? And when they do work, you don't have a quarter on you." She clapped her hands. "Let's get take-out. Aren't you kids starved? I'm about ready to eat my purse."

"We had macaroni," Jessie said, the cheese powder crusted all over her chin.

"Good for you, Jessie-girl." Millie picked up a piece of blackened toast and nibbled the edge. "Forget take-out then." She kicked off her shoes and put her feet on the table. Inside her pantyhose, her feet looked like flippers and had a locker-room odor. "Jessie, come here and give Mommy a foot rub. I love these new heels but they're hell on my arches."

"Well, you shouldn't come home late," Dan said. "It's bullshit."

"Easy there." Eben pursed his lips.

"Someone's testy tonight. What happened?" Millie belched and didn't cover her mouth in time. Her breath smelled like beer. "How was school?"

"I can't figure out my stupid math homework. The directions don't make any sense." Dan shoved his textbook under the couch, thinking about the kid Shawn who called him a faggot practically every day, how everything was so unfair.

"I never met a math problem I couldn't beat," she said. "I love math. We'll blow through the problems in no time. I got a full ride to college for math, you know."

"You told us that a million times." Dan carried the macaroni pot to the kitchen. Millie tried to tousle his hair as he passed, but he jerked his head away. She didn't seem to care that he had cursed or shoved his book-and so, he would do something worse. In the kitchen, the pot dropping into the porcelain sink from a two-foot height made a satisfying crash.

Copyright © 2008 by Peter Reese

Funny Things Happen to Dewey Farrder

Chapter 7: Lucky Pencil

"Please take out a sharpened number two pencil."

Ugh. A sharpened number two pencil could only mean one thing.

"Today's test," Mr. Speling began, "is a test to test how well you do on tests."

I already knew how I would do: a C. I always got C's on tests. Maybe with a plus, maybe with a minus, but still a C. It could be worse, I suppose.

It was worse: the point of the only pencil I had left in my desk broke halfway through bubbling in my name. I tried to sharpen it, but it was already so short from taking so many tests that it got stuck in the pencil sharpener. I banged on the side of the sharpener to loosen it, but the tin cover fell off and all the pencil shavings sprinkled to the floor.

Mr. Speling shot me a dirty look, and I hurried back to my seat. Now what? Mr. Speling did not believe in loaning out materials. And I doubt he would believe that a squirrel had taken my other pencil.

I tried to get Robin's attention. "Psst." I pointed to the pencil in her hand, and then held out my empty palm.

When Mr. Speling wasn't looking, she reached into her backpack and brought out a hot pink pencil that said A-B-C-D-E along the side in gold letters. It was the kind of pencil that was probably popular with Little Sister and her little friends.

Robin handed it across the aisle.

"Can't I use your other one?" I whispered as I pointed to the yellow pencil in her hand.

She nodded to the pink pencil. "But that one's lucky," she whispered back.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Humoring me again?"

"Maybe. But I'll tell you this: that pencil's only ever given me straight A's."

I thought for a moment. "Then why aren't you using it now?"

She held up the yellow one. "This one gives me straight A's, too."

The next day, Mr. Speling pulled me aside and handed me a test with a big A on the top. I took me a few moments to realize it was mine! My first Middle School A!

But Mr. Speling was not smiling. "Don't think I didn't see you talking to Miss Bailey during this exam. If I ever catch you cheating, you will both be penalized."

"But..."

"No buts! There are plenty of quizzes coming up, and a big unit test next week. I expect you to earn your scores this time. And don't think I won't know if you know something you don't."

Huh? But if he already knew how I was going to do, then why did I even need to bother?

Robin slid up next to me at lunch. "What were you talking to Mr. Speling about?"

"I got an A, but he didn't believe me."

"Did you cheat?"

"No! Of course not." I thought about the pencil. "Well, kind of. I used your lucky pencil."

She rolled her eyes. "Dewey, that pencil was only lucky for me because I studied."

"Yeah, but I didn't. So explain that."

"It's called the power of suggestion. You believe it, so it happens. That's all."

"Oh, yeah. Well what if I do it again?"

"Then Mr. Speling will probably have a heart attack."

"Good," I said under my breath.

"Dewey, that's horrible!"

"Well, so is he."

She popped a bubble. "What do you have against Mr. Speling, anyway?"

"Let's just say that until I met Vice Principal Jennifer, I thought Mr. Speling was the villain."

"Villain?" she said. "What villain?"

Oops. I hadn't really wanted to tell Robin about my destiny of becoming a hero and saving the school from some evil villain's plot until after I did it. But now that I'd brought it up, I figured I might as well spill the beans. She might laugh now, but I'd love to see her face when it finally happens.

Copyright © 2007 by Jonathan Roth

Double Stop

"Move over, Beethoven!" Casey Metzler gives me a shove.

Casey is the only girl on the Pewee team and she might as well be a boy, and not an especially nice one. If I had my stick I'd give her a poke, but we had to leave our sticks by the bench. What would Coach Matt say to that? No high sticking in the team photo!

The photographer is slipping all over the ice in Reeboks trying to get us lined up to fit in the viewfinder. It's not easy squishing eleven guys and Casey in their hockey gear into one scrapbook-ready masterpiece.

"What a dork!" Keenan says a little too loud.

Coach Doormatt glares. Keenan catches a blade and falls on his butt and everyone cracks up.

"Don't laugh, Beethoven!" Keenan punches my shoulder pad.

I rub my arm. "Hey, cool it! That's my bow arm."

Keenan rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

I guess his Mom doesn't nag him about his lazy word choices.

At the start of the season I would have winced at being called Beethoven, but I like it now. Beethoven was cool-whacked-but cool. In fact, he was a slob like me, left his dirty dishes all over his room, had a terminal case of bedhead like me, except mine is red. He probably even hated his little sister like me . . . if he had a sister. But more than anything he loved music, loved it like a madman, which is what got me into this whole hockey business in the first place.

Now you might ask, what does music have to do with hockey? Think about it for two seconds: A twelve-year-old guy who plays classical violin. That guy's got to salvage his reputation however he can.

I started violin lessons in first grade. It was my idea. I used to look up at my Dad's fiddle hanging on the wall and wish I could play like him. That was before Dad took off. He left when I was four. Just packed up his mandolin and fiddle and left. He lives in Wyoming now. Wyoming is kind of like Planet of the Apes, except with cowboy hats.

When I started violin I didn't know it was like signing on with the mafia. Now that I'm in sixth grade I have private lessons once a week with Mrs. Park, who's like the Yoda of violin, and I go to a Suzuki group class, a Suzuki orchestra and, starting this year, I play in the Whelan Youth Orchestra. And then there's practice. Every day, without exception. Mrs. Park says, "You should pick up your violin every day." Like it would feel neglected if I didn't.

Not that I could ever forget. Mom remembers for both of us. She's convinced I'm going to be rich and famous someday... if I practice until my fingernails fall off and stay away from hockey. She's always hated hockey. I don't mind practicing violin, though. I like the violin. It's like having a second voice. One that can say all the things my real voice can't.

Unfortunately, most of the boys at Walt Whitman Elementary do not share my opinion of the violin. The one time I brought my instrument to school for "Marvelous Me" in third grade every boy in class, including my best friend Riley, stuck their fingers in their ears and screeched like parrots until the teacher made them stop. A couple of girls clapped after I played. Casey Metzler was not one of them.

That's when everyone started calling me Beethoven, even though it would have made more sense to call me Paganini or Perlman or Vengerov. Beethoven was more of a piano guy.

Copyright © 2007 by Laurie Schneider

La Petite Four

Late the next morning, Emily was trying to determine how blood would pool around a decapitated body when the footman announced she had visitors. Priscilla, Daphne, and Ariadne were eager to hear what she'd learned, but she only agreed to tell them after they promised to pose for her battle scene.

She would have preferred to use the footmen. Unfortunately, the last time she'd asked, two had become so carried away that a Chinese vase had been damaged, and Warburton had asked her not to involve the staff again.

As it was, only Daphne could stand straight and valiant enough to do her any good as a model soldier. Ariadne made an excellent corpse. Priscilla insisted on playing a duchess watching from the edge of the battlefield. Emily pointed out that duchesses, or most dukes for that matter, seldom went to war, but Priscilla was adamant, so Emily let it go at that.

"So," she said as she studied the angle of Daphne's chin, "we know that Lord Robert Townsend has no money and likes the ladies all too well."

"Definitely not hero material," Ariadne said, raising her head into a patch of sunlight that turned her hair to gold.

Emily wanted to disagree, but she couldn't, so she merely ordered Ariadne to lie back down like a good corpse.

"It isn't enough," Priscilla said with a sigh. "A great many people find themselves with less money than they'd like. That doesn't make them criminals."

"But how is Lady Emily to know?" Ariadne asked.

"An excellent question," Emily replied. "Please forgive me, Ariadne, but I deviated from your plan. First thing this morning, I sent one of our footmen with a note asking if Lord Robert would come calling this afternoon. I thought perhaps I'd get him to take me to see the Parthenon Marbles."

Ariadne smiled. "An excellent strategy. Draw him out."

Copyright © 2007 by Regina Scott

Grope for Luna

I joined my first band when I was a junior in high school. We'd only been playing for a few months, but I felt like if we really worked hard, we could be famous. Not lame famous like U2 or Greenday, the kind of bands that played stadiums where no one under the age of thirty could afford tickets. Bands that tried to pretend that they were still in touch with their fans but really were so rich they couldn't remember what it was like to be a real person. No, we were going to be that cool kind of famous like the Pixies or Modest Mouse. Bands that didn't get much play on MTV except maybe late at night because they weren't commercial enough for the soulless marketing people to understand. That was the kind of band we were going to be.

We were called Tragedy of Reason. Or Tragedy of Wisdom. We hadn't decided yet. I liked "Reason" because it said how much it sucked to be the only thoughtful person in a crazy world. But our frontman, Joe, liked "Wisdom" because he said:

"It just sounds cooler!"

We rehearsed at the Parks and Rec building downtown. It was one of those large, stuffy rooms with no windows, low ceilings, brown mat carpet, and flickering florescent lights. It kind of smelled like somebody's basement. I had talked about the band name before rehearsal with Rick the bassist and TJ the drummer and we had all agreed that "Reason" made more sense. But they didn't say anything now because they were afraid to piss off Joe.

Okay, okay. I was afraid to piss Joe off too. He was one of those guys who started shaving in junior high. He was almost two feet taller than Rick and me. He was about the same height as TJ, but TJ was a lanky, stooped hipster boy and Joe was a massive, pierced, steel-toe boot wearing, leather and all the crazy spikes metal dude. He just looked plain scary. And he wasn't one of those "Oh, once you get to know him, he's such a softie" kind of guys. No, once you got to know him you realized that deep down, he was even scarier.

The problem was that, even though I was scared of Joe, I had a hard time keeping my mouth shut.

Copyright © 2007 by Jon Skovron

The Raven Duke

She lifted her chin, assessing him coolly. "I need to know what manner of man you are."

Jared nodded slowly. "I see." He allowed his fingers to wander to his collar, buttoning his shirt firmly, and rolling down his sleeves. "This is a conversation best conducted fully clothed, Miss Gunn - don't you agree?"

"As are most," she answered, a sly smile creeping over her mouth.

"Perhaps," Jared agreed. "First, allow me to pour the tea water. The kettle is screaming like a banshee."

Jared used the moments it took to fill the teapot and place the cream and sugar on the table to gather his thoughts. What sort of questions would she ask him? Just what, exactly, did she want to know about him? He berated himself inwardly, cursing his passionate outbursts. This was the sort of thing that happened if you allowed anyone to break the barrier between logic and emotion. He preferred to keep people at a distance, to counteract their curiosity. He did not wish to be known, but his desire to know Abighael on a more personal level necessitated his divulging more of his private nature than he was comfortable with.

Was there a way to give the essence of truth without all of it tumbling out of him like spilled grain? He didn't know. It had been so long since he had been close to anyone, when he had had nothing to hide, and everything to lose. Now that he had lost everything, he conversely had everything to hide.

Jared sat down. He poured tea in a piping hot stream into their cups. Abighael kept her eyes lowered as she added a dollop of cream to her cup, stirring with great concentration.

He looked at her intently. "Abighael," he said in low tones. "Look at me."

She did so, raising her gaze to his with slow deliberation, as though she would like to do otherwise, but could not. Her gaze was riveted to his, a magnetic force she could not deny. Nor could Jared. His eyes were made to gaze into hers. He knew this without question or agreement. And he would rather tear them from his face than never gaze upon her again.

"What do you wish to know?"

She smiled, a dazzling, brilliant smile that brightened her face. "Don't you know?" she queried. "Why, everything, of course. But I will satisfy myself with whatever you are willing to tell me."

"What if I am willing to tell nothing?"

"Then that will have to be answer enough," Abighael replied gravely, though her eyes flickered, as if she did not believe her own words.

Jared nodded. "Then I will answer what you ask with as much candour as possible. Though if necessary, I will evade your questioning. You will never know the difference."

"So you admit you will lie to me?" Abighael raised her eyebrow imperiously.

Jared said nothing. He sipped his tea, his gaze unfaltering.

Copyright © 2009 by Morgan Swift

Knights of the Hill Country

(Knopf Books for Young Readers 2006)

"Hampton!" It was my buddy Blaine Keller barking at me. He strictly plays offense so he had his helmet off and his black hair was pasted to his forehead, the black slashes of war paint under his eyes starting to run some from the sweat. "Don't give your hand to the enemy like that. This is a battle, son. Don't ever give your hand to the enemy during a battle."

He meant business too. You could tell by the way the sparks flared up in his brown eyes. He wasn't faking. He was mad. I jogged back to the defensive huddle, feeling like I'd had the air half let out of me. Tell you what, Coach Huff and his assistants was some of the best coaches in Oklahoma-and I figured you might as well throw Texas in there too. Everything about them was polished and sharp as a new pair of scissors-their clothes, their hair, and their orders most of all. But they was always distant, up on another level looking down. Blaine was my best friend, my brother almost, and his words cut deeper than anyone else's.

He was right, I thought. That always was my shortcoming right there. Too much sympathy. It was like Blaine used to tell me, "Feeling sorry for folks never won no football games."

This wasn't any time to go weak neither. This was a time a guy needed insides about as tough and gnarled and hard as one of them old blackjack oaks on the hills outside of town. Me and the rest of the Kennisaw Knights had us eighteen yards and twenty-seven inches of battleground to defend. Three minutes and thirty-four seconds left in the game. First and ten. Kennisaw, 20 and the Wynette Titans, 17.

Every game this season, the pressure weighed down more and more. It was like carrying around a sack full of rocks, only every time you got to thinking you could lay it down, someone would throw another sack full of bigger rocks up on top of you. If we could keep it going, this would be Kennisaw's fifth undefeated season in a row. For thirty some years, no Knights team had strung together that many wins, and them old-time players from back then was still heroes around the hill country of eastern Oklahoma. More than just heroes, they was flat-out legends.

Now, people love their legends in the hill country. I don't just mean the ones that run up and down the green fields there in Biggins Stadium with its crown of golden lights neither. I'm talking about the old timey Wild West legends like the Doolins and the Daltons and Belle Starr, the queen of the outlaws. All them famous characters in the wax museum. And then you got your bull riders and bronc busters, your Five Civilized Tribes and your wildcat oil strikers. Prettyboy Floyd and Woody Guthrie, Will Rogers, Mickey Mantle and the original great football player, Jim Thorpe his self. Kennisaw's a dusty little old town, but even the smallest scrawny kid can feel big if he's got his self a legend to hold onto.

And believe you me, not a player on our team didn't think about what kind of legends we could end up being our own selves if we finished off this fifth straight season undefeated. Boy howdy. The Kennisaw Knights was the best damn football team in all the hill country, where Friday night high school football ranked next to God and country and, truth be known, sometimes come in first. It'd be one hell of a big sack of rocks to carry around if you let the Knights down.

The Spectacular Now

(Knopf Books for Young Readers 2008)

Okay, yes, maybe I do drink a little bit more than a little bit too much, but don't go getting the idea I'm an alcoholic. It's not some big addiction. It's just a hobby, a good old-fashioned way to have fun. Once, I said that exact thing to this uptight church girl at school, Jennifer Jorgenson, and she goes, "I don't have to drink alcohol to have fun." So I'm like, "I don't have to ride a roller coaster to have fun either, but I do."

That's the number one problem with these anti-drug-and-alcohol programs they shoehorn you into starting in grade school. No one will admit any of that stuff is fun, so there goes all their credibility flying right out the window. Every kid in school-except the Jennifer Jorgensons of the world-recognizes the whole scam is faker than a televangelist's wife with a boob job.

I've taken those questionnaires on the internet that are supposed to tell you if you're an alcoholic: Do you ever have a drink first thing in the morning to get your day going? Do people annoy you when they criticize how much you drink? Do you ever drink alone? That kind of thing.

First, sure, I drink in the mornings sometimes but not because I need to. It's just a good change of pace. I'm celebrating a new day, and if you can't do that, then you might as well be laid out with your arms across your chest studying the pattern on your coffin lid. Second, who's not going to get annoyed when someone starts nitpicking at them? I mean, you could just have one beer and your mother smells it on your breath and she and your stupid stepfather start in with the good-cop/bad-cop interrogation routine, except there's no good cop. What, are you supposed to enjoy that?

And third, why is drinking alone so bad anyway? It's not like I'm some derelict drinking cheap aftershave alone behind the bus depot. Say you get grounded and you're watching TV or playing on the computer in your room-a couple of drinks can keep you from going stir crazy. Or maybe your friends all have curfews on weeknights, so you go home and have three or four more beers sitting on your windowsill with your iPod before going to bed. What's wrong with that?

It's all in the attitude behind your drinking, see. If you're like, Woe is me, my girlfriend left me and God hath forsaken me, and guzzling down a fifth of Old Granddad until your neck turns to rubber and you can't lift your chin off your chest, then, yes, I'd say you're an alcoholic. But that's not me. I'm not drinking to forget anything or to cover anything up or to run away. What do I have to run away from?

No, everything I do when I'm drinking is about creativity, broadening my horizons. It's actually educational. When I'm drinking, it's like I see another dimension to the world. I understand my friends on a deeper level. Music reaches into me and opens me up from the inside out. Words and ideas that I never knew I had come flying out of me like exotic parakeets. When I watch TV, I make up the dialogue and it's better than anything the writers dreamed up. I'm compassionate and funny. I swell up with God's beauty and sense of humor.

The truth is I am God's own drunk.

Copyright © 2007 by Tim Tharp