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a thin little smile

  and says

  You might enjoy being

  part of a team.

  And now I really want to slug her15

  because I have heard this before

  from other coaches

  who think that if you don’t

  want to be

  part of a team

  there is something wrong with you—

  perhaps you are a future

  ax murderer

  and so I know I have to find

  some little thing

  to let her win

  and so I say

  Yes, ma’am

  maybe I would enjoy being

  part of a team—

  someday.16

  And so, victorious,

  she says

  Well,17 you think about it

  and let me know when

  you’re ready.

  And I say

  Yes, ma’am

  I will.

  And she says

  Because, ya know,18

  you shouldn’t waste

  a gift.

  And I say

  Yes, ma’am.

  And when I get home

  I fling off my shoes

  and flee for the path

  and I run

  hard and fast

  on the soft spring ground

  so that I barely see Max

  zoom from out of the trees

  Hey, Annie!

  but I don’t answer

  because my chest is too tight

  and we run fast and faster

  and today I want to beat Max

  to the bench

  and I fly down the hill

  f-l-y over the creek

  zoom up the path.

  We are neck and neck

  and we are breathing hard

  and I soar over the grass

  thump-thump, thump-thump.

  I feel as if I am weightless

  and free

  as I lunge for the bench

  reaching it one slim second

  before

  Max

  and we hunch over

  huffing and puffing

  and he says

  That’s a little better pace, Annie

  and I slug him hard

  and turn and fly for home

  fast and faster and fastest

  and all the way

  I am apologizing

  to the air

  to the sky

  for not wanting

  to waste a gift

  but knowing

  that I am right

  and knowing

  that I do not like

  to be wrong

  which is probably

  a serious character flaw.

  A GIFT

  I am sorry

  for punching Max

  and so I take my lawn-mowing money

  and place it in an envelope

  and write Max’s name on it

  using my left hand

  to disguise my handwriting

  and I slip it in through

  the vents of his locker

  and hope that he will have enough

  to buy his shoes

  and be part of a team

  and win his race.

  PUMPKIN BABY

  We are calling the alien baby

  the pumpkin baby now

  partly because my mother

  looks as if she is carrying a pumpkin

  in there.

  Pumpkin baby is eight months old

  more than a foot long

  and weighs about five pounds.

  It can hiccup and suck its thumbs

  and open its eyes.

  Mom is practicing her breathing

  and Dad and I are coaching her.

  We have to say things like

  Relax your forehead

  relax your arms

  breathe in

  breathe out.

  We have seen the birthing videos

  which gave me nightmares

  because they show everything

  and it looks hard and painful

  for both the mother and the baby

  and a million things can go wrong

  but my mother says that

  a million things can go right, too

  and that a billion things

  have already gone right

  to enable our pumpkin baby

  to have eyes and ears and toes

  and heart and liver and lungs

  and

  heartbeat

  a-whoosh-a-whoosh-a-whoosh.

  And now I am not dreaming

  of baby mice or rabbits or horses.

  I dream of real babies.

  Last night I dreamed

  of a baby no bigger than my hand

  and I was watching it

  but I lost it

  and I was frantic

  searching everywhere

  until finally I found it

  behind the radiator

  where it had got too hot

  and the baby was

  melting

  melting

  melting.

  And I don’t understand

  why I can’t dream

  of perfect babies

  with all their fingers

  and all their toes

  and a perfect

  perfect

  sister.19

  TREASURE OF WORDS

  Now Mr. Welling is on a crusade

  about using the thesaurus

  to help us find synonyms

  because our vocabularies

  are needing some help

  he says.

  He is exceedingly big on the thesaurus.

  It’s a treasure of words

  he says.

  Thrilling! Sensational! Exhilarating!

  I try to use it

  but it stops my mind

  and I forget where I am going

  but Mr. Welling says

  to soar ahead and write the first draft

  fast

  as I usually do

  and then later go back and

  plumb

  the thesaurus

  for more thrilling

  sensational

  exhilarating

  words.

  I am endeavoring

  to do so

  but sometimes

  the consequences

  make me resonate

  rather abnormal

  but I did perceive

  some compelling

  revelations.

  I detected a quantity of synonyms

  for angry—

  now when I run into the girls’ track coach

  I can say that she makes me

  aggravated

  annoyed

  antagonized

  bitter

  displeased

  enraged

  exasperated

  furious

  heated

  hot

  incensed

  indignant

  infuriated

  irate

  irritated

  mad

  outraged

  passionate

  and

  raging.

  THE STRANGER

  Annie! Annie! Grandpa calls.

  He sounds frightened.

  I find him huddled in his blue chair

  his arms hugging his chest.

  What is it, Grandpa?

  What’s wrong?

  He points to the photo on the wall

  the one of him standing with the trophy.

  Who is that boy?

  Grandpa asks.

  He’s staring at me!

  Grandpa, that’s you.

  Grandpa looks at the photo

  suspiciously.

  Well, he says, he’s bothering me!

  Do you want me to take him away?

  I ask.

  Grandpa’s chin quivers.

  He nods.
r />   I remove the photo from the wall

  and take it to my room

  and then I return to Grandpa

  and say

  Is that better?

  He studies the blank space on the wall

  his chin still quivering.

  He looks small and frightened

  like a child.

  He nods slowly.

  He was bothering me so much

  Grandpa says.

  I sit on the bed beside Grandpa.

  Why? I ask. What was he doing?

  Grandpa seems a little braver

  now that the photo is gone.

  He leans toward me and whispers

  He wouldn’t stop staring at me!

  I do not like to see my grandpa like this.

  Always he was so busy

  so wise

  so comforting.

  Always he was the grandpa

  the one who knew everything

  the one who would laugh with me

  and run with me.

  Grandpa looks around the room

  as if checking to see if anyone is listening

  and then he says

  Go ask him why he was staring at me.

  And because my grandpa is so serious

  I leave the room and go into mine

  and I say, aloud

  Why were you staring at my grandpa?

  and I listen for the photo’s response

  and return to Grandpa and say

  He was staring at you because

  he likes you.

  Pff! Grandpa spurts

  but a grin has appeared on his face

  and he seems flattered and boyish.

  I say

  Do you want me to bring him back?

  Grandpa thinks a minute

  considering

  and then he says

  No. Not right now.

  Maybe he can come back tomorrow.

  SHOES

  Thump-thump, thump-thump

  running up the path

  in the balmy air

  full of flowery smells

  and zinging bees.

  Hey, Annie-banany!

  You going to cut my grass today?

  Yes, Mrs. Cobber-obber

  I’ll be there later

  and she salutes me

  as I think about starting over

  saving money

  for the pencils and paper

  or maybe the chalky pastels.

  Hey, Annie!

  Hey, Max!

  He stumbles, trips

  regains his stride.

  Hey, you got your shoes!

  I say

  staring down at the new white

  enormous shoes.

  Yeah! he says

  his chin jutting out as if

  it is leading him along the trail.

  He stumbles, trips, scowls.

  Not used to them yet

  he says.

  Big race Friday.

  Gotta beat these things into shape by then.

  L-e-a-p over the creek

  up the hill

  proud of my secret gift to Max20

  feeling good running free.

  You going to be there?

  he asks.

  I stumble, trip

  surprised by his question

  by the intensity in his voice

  as if it matters to him

  that I be at the race.

  Where? I say

  composing myself as best I can.

  The race?

  Of course the race!

  You going to watch me win?

  I don’t want to think about it.

  I don’t want to see him in the herd

  and what if he doesn’t win?

  He reaches out, taps my arm.

  You’d better be there, Annie.

  Yeah, I say, feeling

  confused

  baffled

  bewildered

  disarranged

  discomposed

  disoriented

  embarrassed

  flustered

  mortified

  muddled

  and

  perplexed.21

  PRESENTS

  On Grandpa’s birthday I give him

  a booklet I’ve made:

  twenty drawings of Grandpa.

  Some are small, pieces of the whole:

  an eye

  a hand

  a foot

  a mouth.

  Some are large, the parts assembled:

  asleep on the bed

  sitting in the blue chair

  eating my apple.

  And one, my favorite, at the end:

  Grandpa as a boy

  running

  on a path through the woods.

  Grandpa smiles at each drawing

  touching them

  lingering over them

  and when he is finished

  he hugs me to him

  and says

  You’ve been spying on me!

  He says he has a present

  for me, too.

  He wants me to know where it is

  and what it is

  but I am not to open it

  until he kicks the bucket.

  I cannot bear to hear him joke

  about kicking the bucket

  and maybe he senses this

  because he says

  You know I would stay here forever

  if I could, don’t you?

  He asks me to open a drawer

  in his desk

  and to find a narrow yellow box.

  That’s for you

  he says

  for … later.

  There are letters inside.

  Thirteen, he says.

  One written the day you were born

  and one written on each of your birthdays.

  The envelopes are a rainbow of colors:

  yellow, blue, pink, violet

  and around each is a white ribbon.

  I want to open them now

  I want to read every one

  but I know he doesn’t want me to—

  not now.

  I pull a quilt up to his chin

  and kiss his forehead

  and feel as if I should hold him

  but I don’t know how to do it.

  THE RACE

  After school, I decide I’ll go to the race

  then I decide I won’t

  then I will

  then I won’t.

  I slip to the track

  stand off to the side.

  The herds are all there

  bouncing

  stretching

  pacing

  jogging.

  Boys will go first

  then the girls.

  I wish Max didn’t want this so much

  and I feel odd—

  as if in order to wish him well

  I have to hope that others do badly—

  and I find myself not wanting

  to be a part of this.

  The air is steamy

  heavy with expectation.

  A grasshopper leaps across my foot

  and seconds later

  another grasshopper follows.

  I spot Max in his herd

  in his own world

  stretching

  bouncing

  shaking his hands loose

  rolling his head from side to side.

  I pace around the field

  as the first group sets off:

  starter horn

  whistles

  cheers.

  Can’t bear to see the winner

  and the losers.

  Pace pace pace

  until

  Max’s herd is up

  horn blares

  Max flies away

  pumping hard

  finding his stride.

  Round the bend now

  he’s starting to relax

  looking good
/>   head up

  chin out

  arms close in

  and then he stumbles, trips

  and I freeze

  like a statue on the grass

  mouth open

  hand stretched toward Max

  as if I could push him

  to the finish line.

  And in my frozen moment

  Max has kicked off his shoes

  and I think, Yay, Max!

  He’s pumping his arms

  in the middle of his herd

  but he’s lost ground.

  Hey, Annie, Annie, Annie!

  It’s Mrs. Cobber-obber.

  Annie, Annie, Annie

  come quick!

  Your mama’s baby’s coming!

  For a moment, I am frozen again

  unable to move

  watching Max overtake one runner

  and another

  and another

  and I see the winner

  cross the finish line

  and it is not Max.

  I wonder how he feels

  and want to see his face

  but Mrs. Cobber is pulling at my sleeve

  and off I go with her—

  the baby is coming!

  FLURRY

  Dad is carrying Mom’s suitcase to the car

  trying to look calm.

  Mom is in the kitchen

  leaning against the counter

  pff, pff, pff

  breathing hard.

  Pff, pff, pff

  Oh, Annie, I’m glad