18 and going nowhere...fast

I hate being eighteen. It's like being in limbo-- you're not an adult but you're not a kid anymore. You're expected to start fending for yourself, while at the same time giving your parents an intolerable amount of control.
So you go to college and you get to decide when you eat, what you eat, if you go to class, if you do your homework, what clubs you join. But your parents are undoubtedly calling or emailing you-- giving you the third degree about everything, who your friends are, what their parents do, etc etc etc.
You get sick and you're not seven...you can't stay home from school, your mom isn't going to make chicken soup for you. But you want to go out with a guy and your parents flip. They are determined to still get in a word about how you live your life.
You're in a hot air balloon, still tied to the ground, but having taken off the ground nonetheless. You're not going anywhere, and for every little decision you get to make for yourself, your parents manage to retain control anyway. Sure, you're glad they care but for once you either want to relinquish control entirely or you want to have it all. You want to either have them make your decisions or you want to make them and learn from your own mistakes...not have them tell you you're making one and keep you from growing, learning and becoming.

You say you want a job. They tell you you're overcommitting. You say you want to go to church back home. They tell you you're not breaking free from your past. You say you're bored in your classes, not enough to do... they tell you to get a job. And suddenly you're confused. You're frustrated. You're like the cartoon animal running on the rug...running hard, trying hard, working so hard, but the rug is just scrunching up behind you, and you're going nowhere fast.

Short story

This is just a short story I wrote called "Give It A Chance". It is not connected to the novel at all, but I figured I would post it. I'll probably post others in the near future- short stories, that is. This one, and probably many of the ones to follow, were written my junior year of high school. Enjoy. (and just a note, this one is a little... I don't know. The ending is happy and not really any sort of resolution, at the same time...I hate the ending when I read it-- not because I don't like the idea, but because it seems too----- easy, I guess. But a large part of that is that it is a short story, so the characters get fairly developed and their problems are fleshed out and hopefully mostly resolved in a few pages. That's kinda the idea I guess...Oh and another warning, it is six pages, single-spaced on Word...)
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I folded my arms across my chest, and put my head back against the seat. My earphones blared, drowning out the world around me. The overly perky flight attendant bounced my way. “Do you need anything sweetheart?” Her southern drawl was beginning to annoy me.
“No, thank you,” I said politely, hoping my fake smile would make her leave me alone. Instead, she sat down in the vacant seat next to me.
“Will this be your first time in the States?” She was trying to make me feel comfortable, but I just wanted her to leave me alone. In fact, I wanted everyone to leave me alone.
“No,” I said quietly, “My mom and dad and I moved to Germany when I was two. We’ve lived there ever since. But occasionally we did vacation in California or New York.” I kept my voice monotone, trying not to convey any noticeable intonation that this subject often brought me to tears.
She must have realized it was a sensitive subject because she patted my shoulder, smiled her plastic smile, and skipped away. Her bleached-blonde ponytail swung happily behind her. The plane was crowded and I was tired. Too many people were talking. Too many people were shifting in their seats.
I missed home. Germany was home, not the United States. My dad was in the army and was stationed in Germany. We’d lived there for the past thirteen years. I had grown up going to German schools, speaking German outside of my house, and doing everything the German way.
And I was supposed to continue doing the German-thing forever. In fact, when I turned eighteen in three years, I was going to apply for German citizenship and spend the rest of my life in Germany. My dad would retire from the military and he and my mother would live happily in a small cottage in the German hillsides, while I would marry and live with my husband and children in a German city. At least, that was the plan. Plans are only the dreams we eat from day to day, not something that can fulfill us or sustain us for a lifetime. My plans lasted only until my mother was killed in a motorbike accident. She had gone out to the store to get milk. We were out of it. She was crossing the street when a motorbike took a sharp turn, going way too fast, and slammed into her. She was thrown twelve yards down the road where she landed and died on impact.
It didn’t take two months for my father to realize that he couldn’t hold down a job, raise a child, put meals on the table and clean the house. So he called my sister, Chase.
My parents had always told me growing up that my sister was a real good kid when she was little. She was fifteen years older than I was, and when we moved to Germany, she started her freshman year of college at the University of Virginia. My parents said that when she went off to college, she “found Jesus,” and turned her back on our atheist ways. Chase stopped writing letters to my parents when they criticized her church-going, God-loving ways. But she never stopped writing to me. She would always write and tell me that Jesus loved me, or she would quote some Bible verse and then dissect it for me. I resented the way she made Mom and Dad feel, but I really didn’t know her. She never came to visit. Other than the letters and a small crumpled picture I had of her in my desk in our house in Germany, I only ever got one Christmas present from her. Usually it was a designer jacket or a pair of stylish American jeans. I hadn’t even heard her voice since I was two, when we moved to Germany. I didn’t want to give Chase a chance to be a part of my life after what she did to my parents. And I certainly didn’t plan on giving America a chance. But it wasn’t like I had much of a choice.
So here I was, on a plane, leaving the only country I had ever called home, to go live with my sister who had “found Jesus” in another country, where I was sure I wouldn’t fit in. And to be sure, I didn’t want anything to do with her religious journey.
The flight attendant was coming my way again, this time bearing drinks. “Want some Coke?” She offered.
I nodded and thanked her as I took the cup. “It’ll be a while longer,” she told me. “You sure you don’t want a pillow or something?”
“Actually,” I said, hoping this would get her off my back, “A pillow would be really nice.”
“Great,” she said, pleased she could serve someone. “I’ll be right back.” And with that, she turned and pranced away.
I rolled my eyes, hoping that all Americans weren’t this perky and outgoing. When she returned with the pillow, I thanked her, “Danker.” She smiled quizzically, and I blushed at my habit of using German. “It’s German for thank you,” I told her. She nodded and smiled broader.
I settled my head against the pillow and allowed the dull roar of the engine to lull me to sleep. In five hours I would begin my new life, but I didn’t want to give this new life a chance.
I awoke to the jolt of the wheels as they were released from their compartments beneath the plane. I had been dreaming of my mother, of the days when I was four and she and I would spend the entire day together. Swallowing hard, and forcing back the tears, I gathered my personal CD-player and my book and placed them in my carry-on bag. The plane hit the runway full force, and the breaks squealed as we pulled into the terminal.
The crackly voice of the captain came over the intercom, “Ladies and gentlemen, let my staff and me be the first to welcome you to America. Local time is four o’clock in the afternoon. Current weather conditions are partly cloudy with a fifty-percent chance of rain. If you were vacationing away from America, welcome home. If this is a vacation for you, enjoy your stay. It has been a pleasure to be your captain on this flight. And we hope that in the future you will choose International Airways for all your flying needs.” It took me a minute to register the unfamiliar English that I had used only when I was at home with my parents.
Taking my time, I put on my coat and picked up my bag. I was in no rush to meet this sister of mine who had abandoned our family for God. I sauntered slowly down the aisles and into the tunnel that led to the terminal.
As I slowly approached the bright lights of the building, I became aware that I hadn’t seen a recent picture of my sister in years. The one I had was of her at fifteen, when I was born. Any one of the thirty people staring at me could easily be my sister.
But suddenly, I saw her. There was no doubt. And tears sprang to my eyes. Chase looked exactly like my mother. She approached me cautiously and I her. It was as though we were both animals in a cage, being checked up and down before moving cautiously closer. She opened her arms and my body’s decision to fall into her embrace shocked me, but all the shock and anger and longing I had felt for the past thirteen years melted instantly. I had my doubts, to be sure, but it felt like my mom was here with me once again. She let go and held me at arms length, looking me up and down, smiling. I looked into her eyes, the green ones mom had, but that I was not fortunate enough to have inherited. Her strait, layered brown hair that mirrored the hair in the photos I had seen of mom when she was in her twenties.
She took my bag with her right hand, and placed her left arm around my shoulder. Walking together, as though we had known each other for years, we headed into our new lives together.
My dad was shipping my belongings the next week, so my sister immediately announced that we were going shopping. “The mall,” she told me. “You guys have those in Germany, right?”
The utter stupidity of the question made me laugh out loud. “Of course. German teenagers are just like American teenagers,” I told her with confidence as I settled into the passenger seat of her red Honda. Too bad I couldn't detect saracasm yet...Then I added, quietly, “At least I hope they are.” Suddenly the realization that I was beginning a new life hit me. I wouldn’t have my parents; I would be living with my sister, who was in all respects a stranger to me; I would start an English-speaking school where I knew no one.
“I’m sure they are,” my sister said, reassuringly. She turned on her blinker, and headed out of the airport parking lot. “We’re gonna try the Old Post Office Pavilion, first,” she told me. I shrugged. It wasn’t as though I had any better suggestions. “What kinds of food do you like to eat? Pizza? Italian? Chinese?” I shrugged again; I was too busy watching out my window to care. I had heard about these places and read about them in books we had at our house—the Washington Monument, the Capitol Building—but they weren’t nearly as incredible in text as they were in person. I must have been gaping, because suddenly, my sister shook me from my thoughts. “Rachel? Are you hearing anything I’m saying?”
“Oh, uh, sorry,” I stuttered. “I was just looking at all those statues. They’re a lot cooler in real life than in the books.”
She smiled. That’s a good sign, I thought. “Yeah, I forget sometimes that not everyone has lived here as long as I have. You were born here, you know.”
I shook my head. “I don’t remember anything before Germany. Did I live here until we moved there?”
She nodded. “The year you guys left, I went off to college at the University of Virginia, and I missed being in D.C. so much. As soon as I finished school, I found a job and moved back into the city.”
I realized that we were slowing and preparing to park. I looked around and realized that all I saw were condos and apartments. I didn’t see a mall. “Wh-where are we?” I asked her, bewildered.
“We’re at my, I mean, our house. I’ll make us soup and sandwiches since it’s so cold, and then we’ll head out to the mall on foot. Traffic’s too congested to try to drive there ourselves. Okay?” I didn’t want to give the cramped apartment a chance. I was used to our beautiful 3-bedroom cottage in the German countryside. I didn’t want to give the city a chance to grow on me, but I realized it already was.
“Okay,” I said. She hit the power lock button and our doors unlocked instantly. She grabbed my single piece of luggage and we headed inside. She opened the door, took off her shoes and walked inside. I followed suit, glad to be out of the frigid weather.
She must have read my thoughts. “I promise, D.C. isn’t always this cold and soggy,” she smiled.
“I don’t mind,” I lied. I missed the rolling hills of Germany, with the lush grass and healthy trees that covered them. I missed the quaint villages and small, cozy shops that lined the cobblestone roads in the country. D.C. wasn’t exactly my definition of quaint. But it would have to do.
Chase and I spent the next days getting new clothes for me. By Sunday, I was decked out in all the latest fall fashions—skirts, sweaters, jeans that flared at the bottom. She woke me up early Sunday morning, when the sun had just begun to peek out from behind the horizon. Groggily, I rubbed my eyes.
“What?” I groaned.
“It’s time to get up, Rachel.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked her. “It’s only seven thirty.”
“I know. But by the time you’re ready to go, it’ll be close to nine. We have to be at church by nine thirty.”
What!?! No way was I going to any church. I didn’t believe in God. Any decent, loving God wouldn’t let my mother die. End of discussion. I wasn’t going. I wasn’t going to give church a chance.
“C’mon!” She said too cheerily, just like the flight attendant on the plane from Germany. She threw the covers back so that I shivered helplessly on top of the sheets. Then my sister went crazy on me. She started prancing around my room clapping her hands and singing, “Rise and shine and give God your glory, glory. Rise and shine and give God your glory, glory. RISE AND SHINE AND,” then she clapped really hard, “GIVE GOD YOUR GLORY, children of the Lord.” I moaned, but knowing I had no other choice, I rolled out of bed.
Chase was right, amazingly. By the time I had eaten breakfast, showered, and put on my new plaid miniskirt and my cream-colored sweater, it was past time for us to be leaving. She herded me into the taxi, under the comfort of her massive grey umbrella. Would it rain forever in D.C.?
We walked into the warm church building, and were greeted by people who knew my sister by name. “Good morning, Chase,” they said, one after the other. “And who is this lovely young lady?”
“This is my sister Rachel,” Chase said politely. “She’s moved here from Germany.” They all ooed and ahhed at the fact that I had lived abroad. But I didn’t want to talk about Germany, because Germany meant memories and memories meant Mom. And I didn’t want to think about Mom.
Seeing that this entire situation was more than a little uncomfortable for me, Chase ushered me to a seat on the left-hand side of the auditorium. This wasn’t your classic, run-of-the-mill church. There were no pews, only chairs in rows of about twenty. Instead of hymnals, there were two giant projection screens where the words were put up by PowerPoint programs. The pulpit was more of a modern stage with bright lights and risers for the choir. When we sang, we didn’t sing slow, boring hymns, but instead we sang contemporary music, and there wasn’t an organ to accompany us. Our music came from a piano, a guitar and an electric guitar, as well as some African-looking drums. And the preacher! He kept comparing situations in the Bible to college basketball or politics.
When the service was over, I realized that I had actually enjoyed it and was intrigued by it all. I quickly shoved those thoughts from my head. I could never like church because Mom didn’t and I wouldn’t displease her, ever.
On the ride back to Chase’s apartment, in the taxi, she asked me about church. “It was really modern,” was all I would tell her. Chase sat back and left me alone.
When we got back, Chase fixed homemade chili for lunch, and I changed out of my church clothes and into jeans. “I am going to a congregational meeting at the church tonight,” Chase told me over lunch.
“Okay, well I’ll just stay here, then.”
“Actually,” Chase said, and paused. “I was hoping you would consider going to the youth program tonight at the church.”
“The youth program? As in, more God stuff?”
“Yeah,” she said, as though I hadn’t blurted out the ‘God stuff’ comment. “It’ll be a good way to make friends.”
“Um, Chase, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t like God. I haven’t ever and I won’t ever. So you can stop trying to convert me.”
“Rachel, I’m not trying to convert you. I found so much happiness and peace when I gave my life to Christ. I just wanted you to experience that too. It has helped me through a lot of hard times in the past, and it helped me get through Mom’s death too.”
“What are you talking about? Mom hated God. And she was mad at you for loving God. I might have given Him a chance before Mom died, but not now. If God is as good as your church says He is, why did He let Mom die? Answer that.”
“Rachel, I don’t have answers for why God does the things He does. I know losing our mom hurts you; it hurts me too. It doesn’t seem fair. But Rachel, you have to move on and let the happiness back into your life. Shutting me, God, and everyone out isn’t what she would want you to do.” I swallowed, willing the tears to stay encapsulated in my eyes, not to show themselves in front of my sister.
“I know,” I said softly. “It’s just that all my life I was happy and care-free. I was okay without God in my life. I had two wonderful parents, a great house, friends, everything I could possibly need. And then one night, my life fell apart. Mom was killed and then I lost Dad too. And suddenly, I’ve switched not only homes and schools, but entire countries. I don’t have any friends. It’s hard to believe that there’s someone up there who is in control of it all. It’s hard to imagine that there’s a master plan, greater than you and I can imagine. It’s even harder to imagine that part of the master plan would be so painful and so scary.” The tears were flowing now and I didn’t bother to wipe them away.
“I know, Rachel. It feels like the world came crashing down. But if you love God and give your life to Him, it doesn’t mean that you ever have to stop loving Mom and Dad or turn your back on them.” I looked at my sister for a long time, studying her face. All the pictures I had ever seen of her from her childhood were of a little girl who looked empty. Did I look that way too?
“Rachel,” she started again. “I know how you feel, because I was there too. You feel that void inside your heart. Mine came when Mom and Dad stopped speaking to me; yours is there because you lost two very important people in your life. I can’t bring Mom back and I can’t replace her, but you and I, we can start over again together.” I continued to stare at her. I wanted so much to buy whatever she was selling to me right then, because it sounded so good. But I had my doubts. “Rachel, God’s got big plans for you. These are the bumps in the road when your legs get a little wobbly, and you need to hold His hand.”
I was sobbing now. I was crying for Mom; I was crying for Dad; I was crying for me, because I was scared. “It’s okay, Rachel. I’m not going to give up on you, and I know God won’t either. The world is really scary and it’s full of sorrow and pain, but there’s something greater waiting for you on the other side, a place where there’s no more pain, where the sun is always shining.” Not like D.C., I thought.
“Chase, I can’t.”
“Why? People will always let you down because they’re not perfect, but God, He’s forever and ever. And He’s not going to decide one day that He doesn’t want you anymore and send you away. You just gotta give it a chance. Please.” I wiped the tears off each cheek, and sniffed. I looked into my sister’s reassuring eyes.
I was still afraid. I was still unsure and sad, but I suddenly felt more hope than I had experienced since Mom died. I decided that I could give this new life a chance.

Chapter 7

A Hearty Dose of Popcorn
(and of Reality!)


I loved my job at the movie theater. The smell of popcorn became unbearable at times, and some of the other employees required more patience than I often felt I could muster, but the time and sweat I poured into my first real job was more than worth it. I got paid six dollars an hour. Sure, six bucks an hour wasn’t much more than minimum wage, but it was a start. Besides, in the present economy, I was lucky to have a job at sixteen years old.
I had four managers. The first two aren’t really worth mentioning. Their interactions with me were minimal, or not desirable. The other two, Mike and Josh, were partners in crime. Not real crime, but more like partners in goofing off. Mike didn’t talk much, but he was all around really nice. He and Josh were really good at kicking people out when they tried to sneak in. They also had a knack for keeping us on our toes at all times. "Your lids are facing up. They should be facing down. Fix it or I’ll right you up." Not that we ever took them seriously, but there was certainly an air of respect that lingered when Josh and Mike were around. Maybe it was because they treated us like equals instead of just bossing us around. Or maybe it was their sarcasm and goofiness that drew us to them.
Mike liked the arcade games in the lobby, and when the other managers weren’t around, we would all watch and see how many levels he could beat. Or we would put twenty squirts of butter into a batch of popcorn, when you were only supposed to put three squirts per batch. Mike didn’t care. He found the neon, fluffy kernels that came out just as amusing as we did.
Josh liked music and airplanes. He could play any instrument you put in front of him. He wanted his pilots license, and he loved to tell stories.
Josh and I were an interesting match whenever we had to work in the same room, which was all the time. I had been exposed to the "real world" so little, that Josh had to clue me in on most of what was said by the other employees.
I remember one night, George and I were working until 1:30am, and Josh was the manager on duty, along with a police officer to help keep people from sneaking in. No one wanted concessions so late, and we were all sitting around talking. Josh said something about a pimp.
"Josh," I said, "What’s a pimp?" You’d think I had asked the funniest question ever. Josh and the officer were falling all over themselves laughing. George was trying desperately to stifle his own laughter.
"You can’t be serious," Josh said simply.
"Uhhh. . ." I stuttered for an appropriate response. Of course I was serious.
"You’re serious," Josh looked shocked. "And you’re how old???" A pause. "Don’t answer that," he told me. Looking at the officer, Josh sighed. "How do I explain this to her?"
The officer just shrugged, and chuckled some more. "A pimp," Josh began, "is a, well, it’s a sales manager for whores."
"Oh, okay." I was satisfied now that I had been clued in. Still a little in the dark, I pretended to fully understand everything that was ever said from then on, just to ensure that Josh would not have to find some weird way to explain things again.
That was one of many hilarious and interesting events that happened when Josh and I were working the same shift. He always kept me on top of my game, making sure my stock was always full, if not overflowing, and that I always left my money bag inside my drawer, and out of sight. He made sure that I always got lots of grief if I had an oatmeal bar for dinner, and that I was always doing everything possible to become a better employee, no matter how much he had to nag me.
As much bossing around as he did, he also did a lot of goofing off, when he could. We used the Carmike stamp in the office to decorate the desk, and he let me do cartwheels in the lobby late at night, when no one was around. Whenever I answered a question in a stupid or obvious way, he would roll his eyes and say, "Thank you, Captain Obvious."
Then I would make muscles with my arms, and say, "Captain Obvious strikes again, dum dee dum dum dum." We did other stupid things too, like when I would say, "Josh, do you have your tickets?"
"What tickets?" he asked the first time of many.
"TO THE GUN SHOW!" I would scream, making muscles with my arms, and trying to look tough, despite the ribbon in my hair. It was funny the first time, and maybe the next five, but even though the hilarity of it wore off, I had earned myself a nickname. Guns. Not only did Josh call me that, but all the other managers did as well.
Each day, I came to work with a can-do attitude, or at least I tried. I had to deal with some of the rudest people I had ever met in my life, but I learned from it, though it sometimes wore me down. Josh always told me not to let them get to me. I did my best, until one day. . .
The fluffy yellow kernels came barreling out of the popper at full speed. I picked up the popcorn scoop, and filled a large bag. After pouring the so-called butter (it’s actually oil) onto it, and setting it carefully on the table, I filled an icee for the customer, and then a medium Sprite. Lids, then I took the money. Their total was $12.50. That’s a lot to pay for snacks at a movie theater, but hey, what did I care?
The next customer stepped forward. "Hi. Would you like to try our popcorn combo? It’s two medium drinks and a large popcorn for eleven dollars." I’ve said this line so many times, it had become second nature. I looked into the eyes of the young mother standing before me, a child about a year old balanced on one hip, and she’s holding the hand of a second child, about three. One of her eyes is a little swollen and slightly purple.
"No, thanks," she responded quietly, looking nervously around. What’s her story, I began to wonder. "Um," she hesitated, still checking her surroundings. Her children looked anxious too, but my job is not psychology. I just sell concessions at a movie theater. She was very petite, wearing a khaki skirt, and a striped tank top. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled hastily back in a ponytail. Her kids, both boys, were cute with blue eyes. Their blonde hair about halfway combed, and their bangs pushed out of their eyes. They were dressed alike in jean overalls and red t-shirts.
Suddenly, a grungy man walked brusquely up and stood next to the three-year-old. He was somewhat older than the young woman, but definitely her husband. Dressed in faded jeans with holes and a white t-shirt covered in stains, he seemed out-of-place in the theater, and especially out-of-place next to the young woman. His facial hair was unkempt, and his hands were rough and calloused. His stomach hung over his belt, and I smelled alcohol and tobacco resonating off of him. Not someone I would want to get in a brawl with.
"Can’t you make up your god-damned mind?" He asked her, slightly slurring his words, and jerking the three-year-old’s hand out of his mother’s. Embarrassed, she fumbled for a response of some sort.
"Um, I g-guess I’ll have a medium popcorn, and two kiddie combos," the woman said quietly.
"Kiddie combos?" the man roared. "Those kids don’t need no fucking kiddie combos. They just ate dinner, dammit." The one-year-old’s lip began to tremble, and suddenly I didn’t like the position I was in. I shifted uneasily behind my register, unsure of what to say or do. I looked around to see where my managers were. Unable to spot any of them, I became slightly more uneasy. I hesitated, but I didn’t have to wait long. "Just give us a damn large popcorn and a large Coke." I rung up the items, and hurried to prepare them as quickly as possible. I had seen enough, and I wanted to help the next customer in line.
"$9.45 is your total, sir. Would you like any candy with that?" I asked with as much politeness as I could muster.
"No!" he spat. "Just hurry it up, would ya? We’re in a fucking hurry, here." He tossed his debit card in my general direction, and I hesitated before swiping it.
"There’s a ninety-nine cents service charge," I said as calmly as I could, not making eye contact with this brute of a man. I glanced quickly down at the name on the card. Gregory Whitefield.
"What!?" he roared. "You think I’m fucking crazy? I spend ten dollars on this shit and you want me to pay another damn dollar of my hard earned money to use my fucking debit card?" And with that, he snatched the debit card out of my hand. He shoved his wife away from the counter, and drug the whimpering three-year-old behind them.
I was a little shaken by the entire ordeal, but I bounced back soon enough. The rest of the night went smoothly. My customers were in good humor because Harry Potter had just come out, and that always revs people up. As I was wiping down the counters, about to go upstairs and count my money, I looked up and saw the foursome exiting. The baby was asleep, in his mother’s arms, but for the first time I noticed a large bruise on the woman’s upper arm. She glanced at me helplessly as they neared the door, and I realized she was stuck where she was forever. She was going to live like this forever, with no way out, no hope. I silently thanked God then and there for all the blessings I didn’t realize I had.
My prayer of thanks was short lived, when my manager Josh yelled for me to come upstairs with him and "count out." Counting out is when the manager counts my profit for the night.
I followed him silently up the stairs, my mind still reeling from what I had witnessed, and that was in public. I was afraid to let my mind wander as far as what went on inside their house. "Long night?" Josh asked over his shoulder.
"Yeah, something like that." I responded, not wanting to tell him about what I had seen. He would give me his "life sucks" speech, and tell me not to worry about it, that I can’t fight everyone else’s battles for them, that I needed to focus on my own battles. Typical Josh. More or less, a get-over-it and move on rant.
Once inside the office, I shook those thoughts from my head and focused on counting my money, and filling out the stock inventory sheet. Math seemed unimportant compared to the lives of the lady and her boys. Handing my money to Josh, he counted it, and recounted it. Two times total. He looked at the computer screen and told me that I broke even. The stock sheet was three dollars off, so I was free to go.
"You okay?" he asked, looking concerned. This is the problem with my normally peppy personality. You calm down and people think you’re depressed. I gave him a weak smile and told him I was just tired. "Well, if you need to talk, I’m here."
"Talk to you?" I almost laughed at the idea. Josh isn’t exactly your touchy-feely, easy-to-talk-to manager. 
"Yeah," he said. "When I take off my tie, I become a normal guy. I’ve done it for other employees. There’s Manager Josh, and Normal Josh."
"Well, thanks. I might take you up on that." I smiled. "Have a good night."
"You too," he said, getting up to put the money in the safe.
I headed for the door, and as I reached out for the doorknob, I spun on my heels. "Josh, do you have a second now?"
"Sure thing," he said. "But I have a feeling this will take more than a second," he grinned knowingly. Sitting down in front of him, I sighed, and for the first time I realized that I was scared for these people’s lives.
I quickly relayed the events of the evening, about the woman, the kids and the grungy man, with a beer belly and a dirty t-shirt, careful to leave out the bruise portion of the story. "How old are you?" he asked. I was a little taken aback, but I told him I was sixteen. "You’re biggest problems in life right now should be school and homework, and what color eye shadow to wear. You can’t worry yourself with the woes of the world, and the problems that exist in every society." I had known his response would be similar to this one, but it felt good to tell someone how scared I was. But still, his answer wasn’t satisfactory.
"But— " I started. He didn’t let me finish.
"You’re job isn’t to fix everyone’s problems. Just make sure you turn out to be the best person you can be, and remember that you can’t make anyone else’s life perfect."
I nodded. I knew he was right, but it was hard to accept. I’m not sure what I wanted him to do about it. More than listen and lecture, though. I guess I wanted him to go protect the lady and her boys, or go beat up that guy, give him a taste of his own medicine. Do something. Anything. But instead, he kept talking to me.
"Keep your chin up, kid. Things’ll look brighter in the morning." I doubted that, but I was too dumbfounded to argue. This was a completely different side to Josh than I had ever seen. The usually sarcastic and pessimistic manager was being optimistic and caring. Shocker.
"Thanks, Josh." I got up quietly, and for the second time that night said to him, "Have a good night."
"You too." He searched my eyes for a minute, sensing there was more I wasn’t telling. Unable to read my face, he went back to his crossword puzzle. I hesitated before leaving. It was after midnight, but something told me I needed to finish the story. The bruise changed things from a grumpy husband to a possible battered wife situation. I sat back down and looked at Josh. He looked up, not the least bit surprised, and said, "I figured you left something out."
I just stared at him. "C’mon spit it out," he told me.
"Josh, she had a bruise. One on her shoulder. And one of her eyes was purple and swollen." He stared disbelievingly at me. "Really. I’m worried. It’s beyond just gruffness. There’s something wrong there." The words sounded much worse than they had before I had said them.
Quietly, almost inaudibly, Josh responded. "I’ll call Social Services tomorrow and have them send someone to investigate. It’s not your fault, and you did the right thing by telling. I can’t promise they’ll do anything, but maybe it’ll help you to know that someone else is taking care of it."
I wasn’t buying it, and he could tell. He continued, "Okay, how about this? You can be here when I call. Tomorrow, I come in at three. You’ll be here on your shift. We’ll call, okay?"
I nodded, and hoarsely whispered, "Okay."
"Wait."
Startled, I looked at him, confused. "What?" I asked, unable to imagine what he could possibly need from me.
"You don’t have his name do you? We can’t do anything without—"
I cut him off. "Josh," I said quietly, "I got his name. He was going to use his debit card."
Stunned, it was his turn to stare now. "Okay, good. Write it down here," he instructed me, sliding a scrap of paper and a pen in my direction. I carefully lettered out the man’s name G-R-E-G-O-R-Y W-H-I-T-E-F-I-E-L-D, using my neatest penmanship. Josh watched every move my hand made with perfect attention. When I had finished he looked up. "Now go home and get some sleep, kid. You’ve had a long day." We said our good nights for a third time, and I silently got up and left the room.
I headed downstairs, where I finished cleaning. I clocked out, and took off my vest. Josh’s words played again and again in my mind. Things’ll look brighter in the morning. I knew that by 3PM tomorrow, things would be looking a lot brighter for one family, at least.
You’re job isn’t to fix everyone’s problems. . .you can’t make anyone else’s life perfect. I sighed and got into my mom’s van, more determined than ever to make a difference, no matter what Josh said. My battles could wait a little while. Other people didn’t have as much time.
The next day, right on schedule, Josh walked into the theater, clocked in, and glanced over at me. Nodding his head slightly towards the stairwell, I knew the time had come. He spoke quickly with the other manager, and he too nodded at me. I followed Josh up the stairs, just as I did every night when I counted my money. But today was different. I had no money, but I was about to do something much more important.
We reached the office, and Josh unlocked the heavy, wooden door. I clenched my teeth, trying to calm my nerves. I sat in the chair at the front of the desk, and Josh sat in the office chair behind the desk. "You ready?" He asked. Not that I could have said no, or backed down at this point. I had come to far, and now I had a responsibility to this woman and her children to help in any way I could. Josh picked up the phone book, and riffled through the pages. He found the number he was looking for, and picked up the phone. The phone on the other end rang three times before a lady answered. "Hello," Josh said into the receiver. "This is Josh Minton from Carmike Cinemas." He hesitated. "Yes, one of my employees reported a potential spouse-abuse situation yesterday." A pause. "No, she did not witness the actual abuse, just a very gruff man, who pushed his wife and kids around, and the woman had a swollen, purple eye. As they were leaving, my employee saw a bruise on the woman’s upper arm." I couldn’t hear what was said on the other end of the line. "Yes, we have his name. Gregory Whitefield. Yes, thank you." Another pause. "Uh-huh. Goodbye."
He looked at me. "They’ve had complaints from neighbors twice this year, after they heard yelling and violent sounds coming from the house. Someone’s going to go over there and check it out."
"Thanks, Josh. I feel better now," I lied. For some reason I couldn’t understand though, I didn’t feel any better. I guess I thought there would be this huge weight lifted off my shoulders. Instead, the load only seemed to increase. I got up to leave, unsure of what to do now, other than go back downstairs and wait on customers.
"Hang tough," was all Josh said. But something inside of me knew that I wouldn’t be the one who needed to hang tough. This woman and her children needed to hang tough. In fact they were probably going to deal with a lot in the next few days, and I worried for them. I let Josh’s words from last night resonate inside me. You can’t worry yourself with the woes of the world, and the problems that exist in every society. With that in mind, I went downstairs to continue selling concessions.
After that ordeal, I trusted Josh a lot. It was like we had this mutual understanding that I could talk to him if I ever needed to, and he would always be there to listen. We began to talk about how hard life could be, and how it really never got much better. The hurting just changed forms. He explained it like this. "When you’re listening to your car radio, and the volume knob is halfway turned, slowly, your perception of the volume changes, and the music gets ‘lower’. What do you do?"
"Turn it up?" I ventured, unsure of what he was getting at.
"No, you have to listen harder. Pay more attention," he explained. "That’s how life is. Things always suck about medium, but if something good happens, then your perception becomes that life should suck less. You’ve gotta put more effort into enjoying life and moving on when bad stuff happens. Understand?"
I nodded. It made perfect sense to me. Josh dropped out of college, but he became a definite role model for me. I looked up to him, and his attitude towards life. He was a good guy, and I liked working for him.
And then all of a sudden, for three days, Josh didn’t come to work. I watched out the glass windows every day, from behind the concession counter, for his yellow, beat up Saturn. It never pulled into the parking lot. Finally one of the other managers told me that Josh had been transferred to a theater in Virginia. He was gone for good.

Chapter 5

5, 6, 7, 8

     "Kick, ball change. Pivot turn, pivot turn, rock, rock, rock," I said over the music to my five-year-old jazz class. This was my first year teaching dance, but I knew I would do this forever if I could. We had picked out costumes earlier in class, fuzzy, yellow shirts, and black, stretch capris, with lace-up black jazz shoes. The girls were getting more and more excited about the recital, even though it was still five months away. "Walking On Sunshine" wasn’t my first choice for music, but it suited the girls well, and I readily agreed.
     Dance should always be fun, and that was what I tried to make it for them. Dance is really the only thing I could ever say I was even half-way good at. And I was barely able to claim that. I had been in dance classes since age three, and it had become an integral part of my daily life, an activity that I couldn’t seem to live without.
     When ninth grade ended, my dance studio changed owners, which turned out to be a lot harder than any of us originally thought. Ms. Bates had founded the studio, and with the help of her family, had run the studio day-to-day and had put on every recital, and pulled-off the long drives to competitions. When the studio changed hands, a lot of business was lost, because people didn’t want anyone in charge, except Ms. Bates. Jackie was nice enough though, but she wasn’t as good with the little kids. That’s where I came in.
     Monday night, I taught three to five-year-olds in a combination class of jazz, tap and ballet. Then I taught a beginning level hip-hop class for six to eight-year-olds. Then I took a Broadway Production Class. Tuesday, I taught a beginning level jazz class for five to eight-year-olds, and then took Jazz II, Hip-hop II and Broadway Production. Wednesday night, I took Tap II, Clogging II and Lyrical/Modern. Needless to say, dance was my life. With each class came a greater anticipation and excitement of the far-off recital and the nearing competition season. Everything was going along smoothly until one rainy February night.
     I was riding in my mom’s van to the dance studio, when I noticed something wasn’t quite right. All the lights in the studio were off. Puzzled, I got out of the car, and headed for the door.  Someone should have opened the studio at least an hour ago, I thought. I found parents and dancers outside the studio, huddled under the awning, trying to keep dry. I called Ms. Jackie’s cell phone twice, and her house once. No answer. I did leave a message. "Hi, Ms. Jackie. It’s Maria. It’s about 5pm and I’m at the studio. The door is locked and I didn’t bring my key tonight. My cell number is 555-8482. Call me when you get this." Though I was worried and confused, I put on a smile, and apologized to the parents for the inconvenience.
     After ten minutes of cold rain, we climbed into our respective cars and left. I worried all night and all the next day, especially after I received no phone call, nor did anyone else from the studio.
The next day, Tuesday, I went back, determined to teach my classes, with or without Ms. Jackie at the studio. I got my key and rushed to unlock the door, after having found the studio dark and empty again. "Ms. Maria!" Isabelle shouted from behind me. I turned around and grinned.
     "Hi, Isabelle." She rushed to give me a hug. I always knew how much I loved this job. I couldn’t have asked for anything more. I had kids looking up to and adoring me, and I got to share my passion for dance with kids who believed in their dreams of dancing on Broadway. And you know what? I believed in them. And they knew that.
I pulled my key chain from my purse, and selected the studio key. Something was wrong again. The key didn’t fit into the deadbolt as it had just a week earlier when I had received a new key.       
      By now, the other five girls in the class were gathering, along with their parents. My heart was racing now. What’s going on here? I wondered. The girls looked at me, and finally Hannah broke the unbearable silence.
     "Where’s Ms. Jackie?" I cringed. I looked around at the parents, and the girls. What do I tell them? That I don’t know? I work here. I’m supposed to have all the answers.
     "Last night, I came here, and Ms. Jackie wasn’t here then either. My key doesn’t fit the lock like it did a week ago. I don’t know where Ms. Jackie is."
     "So can we just have dance class out here?" Isabelle asked hopefully, motioning towards the sidewalk where we stood. I smiled. They didn’t understand. Maybe it was better that they didn’t comprehend what was going on here.
     "I don’t know, sweetie," I told her. But the girls had already lost interest. They were running around playing tag. I looked nervously at the parents.
     Terry spoke up. "Have you called her?" I just nodded. We all seemed to shift uncomfortably, all unsure of what to do now.
Suddenly a lady who worked at the florist next door came out. "Are y’all with the dance studio?"
     "Yes," I told her. "I work for Ms. Jackie. Do you know what’s going on?"
     "I don’t know any details, honey. All I knows is that the landlord changed the locks. You guys can’t use the studio. Ms. Jackie didn’t pay the rent for many months," she said with little emotion, obviously unaware of how much a part of my life this studio was and had been for many years.
     A lump began to rise in my throat. Terry asked, "Are you sure?"
     "Yes," the lady replied. "I’m sorry, y’all." Sorry? I wanted to scream at her! You’re sorry? You think sorry is going to make this all okay for us? These parents have paid lots of money for these classes, the costumes, the recital, the competitions, everything. I’ve put so much work and love into this studio. My heart and soul were in it. These kids! They trusted us, loved us. And you’re sorry that they can’t dance here anymore? . . .Wait, I told myself. This isn’t her fault. She knows nothing.
     My eyes started filling with tears. No, you can’t cry in front of the girls, I told myself. Be strong for them. They can’t see you like this. Don’t let them know what’s wrong. I looked helplessly at the mothers standing around me. One put her arms around me. "It’s okay. Shhhhh. It’s not your fault. It’s all going to work out. It’s okay." No, it’s not, I wanted to tell her. It’s not because Ms. Jackie deserted us. Don’t you see? Isabelle came running back up to us.
     "Does Ms. Jackie have the flu? Is that why we can’t have dance class today?" Innocence. It is the most beautiful thing. I nodded. We all departed, after exchanging phone numbers. If anyone heard anything, we would call the others. I left the shopping center where my dance studio had been that night, vowing never to dance again.
     The one thing I loved had been snatched from my grasp, just like that. It was there. Then it was gone. I was left with nothing. Nothing. Not even an explanation from Ms. Jackie.
     I didn’t eat anything that night. I just lay in bed and cried myself to sleep. I went through the motions of life the next day, but my heart just wasn’t there. There was this massive void within me that I worried could never be filled again.
     I cried every night for two weeks, mostly because I had to continue reliving the pain for three nights after that fateful Tuesday night. I had to go to the studio each day, and wait around until kids showed up. I had to explain to the parents why the dance studio was closed. I had to tell them they would probably never see their money again, and that there was no way we knew of to contact Ms. Jackie. Most of the time, the parents were calm, but sad. A few times I got yelled at, but I couldn’t yell back. I was too sad. Too lost to think about anything else. My life was crumbling as the love of my life was taken from me.
     I did end up joining a dance team started by Ms. Bates after the whole dance studio thing went on. We worked really hard, had lots of fun and got along well for the most part. We won a national championship in Washington D.C. just two months after we started rehearsing. It was the silver lining on a very, very dark event.
     We never got an explanation from Ms. Jackie, but seven months later, we read in the newspaper that she was arrested for drug possession. It’s funny that the people you come to trust and respect the most are often the ones who let you down the farthest. I’m lucky. It’s the kids I worry about. They cannot comprehend what it means that Ms. Jackie took their money, that was meant for their recital, to buy drugs. I can, but they can’t. They just have to accept that they can’t dance there anymore. I’m not sure "Walking On Sunshine" was appropriate any longer. We certainly weren’t.

Chapter 4

That’s The Clay,
Uh-huh, Uh-huh, I Like Him!

 
The chilly wind rushed at me, as I climbed out of my mom’s warm van. Bundled up in two pairs of pants, and two shirts, along with a sweatshirt, and a jacket, and some gloves, I knew I was in for a very long, cold night. But a night that would be more than worth it, one that I would never forget.
My sister Anna, and her friend Claire, and I were sleeping outside of a local radio station, because Clay Aiken was supposed to come in for an interview in the morning. Claire’s mom and another lady were staying with us, out in the cold, but my mom wisely chose to sleep inside our warm three-bedroom house. Tomorrow was my sixteenth birthday, and meeting Clay would be the greatest birthday wish ever!
We all lay down under the mountain of blankets, but the hard concrete was still uncomfortable, despite our attempts to create a mattress of sorts. We sat up, determined to make this work, and occupied ourselves by singing Clay songs at the top of our lungs. The security guard, eating donuts inside the heated building was not amused, but what did we care?
Brody, one of the late-night DJs, came out. "You guys are nuts!" he told us with resounding confidence.
"It’s my sixteenth birthday tomorrow," I told him, happily, ignoring his "nuts" remark.
"Well, the wind’s blown your hair a little out of sorts, so I would fix it before the news crew gets here," he said calmly.
"There’s a news crew coming?" Claire screamed.
"Yep, I called at least two stations, though there are probably more coming."
"Oh my god," Claire was getting excited. Actually we all were. We started screaming and jumping around. Brody just stood there and laughed. This was going to be a great night.
The news cameras came, and after the initial interview, things seemed to pick up. We were on various news stations, and did at least three interviews. "Is Clay that awesome that you guys would stay out here all night just to meet him?" one reporter asked.
"We’re Clay-zy for Clay!" my sister told him.
"It’s totally worth it. Even if all we get to do is see him up close, it’s more than worth it. Besides," I told them, "tomorrow is my sixteenth birthday. What better way to spend my birthday than getting to see Clay!"
Sure, we couldn’t feel our fingers, or our toes, and our ears and cheeks were flushed, but we hardly noticed, as the night wore on. At 12:01am, I announced at the top of my lungs that it was my birthday, that I was now officially 16 years old. We screamed a very loud version of "Happy Birthday To You," and then settled down and tried to get some sleep.
It was about 2am when Claire’s mom woke us up. "The temperature has dropped and the wind is picking up. You guys have to go sleep in the car." Groggily, we piled the blankets into our arms and sauntered towards the white station wagon. After folding down the back seat, we attempted to sleep all lying across the folded back seat and truck. Didn’t work very well.
Sleepy and cold, we awoke 2 hours later, and sat up, sipping coffee and trying to stay warm next to the garden lamps the radio station had set up. We each took turns going inside the building, where the heat wrapped around our bodies, to use the bathroom. Each person took a long time, longer than usual, just to enjoy the warmth that had become so unfamiliar to us in the last seven hours.
About 5am, other Clay fans started arriving, having heard the rumors that Clay would be here today. But we were first in line. First, before everyone else. Brody had come in to sit in during the interview, and when he saw us alive, he grinned. "So you survived the night, huh?" he laughed. If our lips hadn’t gone numb an hour ago, we probably would have laughed too.
As we found out later, Clay used a back entrance to come in the station. Disappointed, we all huddled in the crowded lobby, glad to be out of the bitter cold. All the other fans were jumping up and down, saying how they had been here since 5am, and they were so excited to see Clay. Claire, Anna and I just rolled our eyes. "Shows how much they know!" laughed Claire. Brody came down stairs, from where Bob had been interviewing Clay. "You guys," he whispered, out of earshot of the other fans, "Clay will be exiting around back. His bodyguard said that a few people can see him, but not a lot." He looked directly at me, "You guys deserve to see him, and I think it’s fair that you get to, especially on your sixteenth birthday." He looked around at the others. "I’ll distract them, and when I ask if they want me to take a picture of them, you guys leave and go straight around back. Run fast, and Clay will be there." Brody smiled, and I realized this was a sincere gesture.
"Thanks," I said, but he shrugged it off. He headed over and started talking with the others. I couldn’t here what they were saying at first, but then I heard Brody’s voice above everyone else’s.
"You guys want me to take a picture of you, so you can have it to remember this day by?" I looked at Claire, her mom, and my sister. We vacated the building as though it were on fire, but casually enough so as not to draw attention to ourselves. Sprinting around to the back, suddenly it didn’t matter whether or not we could feel our toes. Our legs were working just fine, and they certainly didn’t let us down that day. Jerome, Clay’s very tall bodyguard, met us around back. "How many of you are there?"
Claire’s mom counted. "There’s me, my friend, my daughter Claire, and her two friends Anna and Maria."
"Okay," Jerome said. He opened the door to the building, "He’s right around the corner," he told us. Sure enough, as we rounded the corner, there was Clay Aiken, in flesh and bone.
My knees went weak and my heart started pounding. There was a reporter and a camera guy next to him. He noticed that we had entered the room, and I caught my breath.
"Hi," he said in his lovely southern accent.
"Hi," I said. Claire and Anna followed suit. I smiled, even though I could hardly breathe.
"It’s her birthday," Claire blurted out, motioning in my direction.
"Oh really?" he asked, smiling. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen," I said, smiling right back.
"What’s your name?"
"Maria," I told him, and I felt myself begin to blush.
"Happy birthday Maria." Oh my gosh. Clay Aiken just said "Happy birthday" to me. Oh my gosh. My heart soared. I was snapped from my thoughts when I heard Claire’s mother’s voice.
"Can I get a picture of these three with you?" She was waving her camera around, and smiling broadly.
"Sure," Clay answered, obviously well-adjusted to having his picture taken with fans.
Claire and I got on each side of him, and he put his arms around each of us. My sister crouched just in front of us. I could no longer feel the effects of a night outside in the cold. My entire body glowed with the warmth of having Clay Aiken put one arm around me. I felt like the luckiest person on earth.
He had said goodbye, and hugged each of us. Yes, Clay Aiken hugged me. I thought my heart would melt. I watched him walk away. I watched as he opened the heavy double doors. And I watched as he climbed into his unmarked car, not a limo, just a car. I watched as the car sped off. I watched until the car rounded a curve and sped out of sight. I turned around, and faced the others. Sighing, content, I reflected on how memorable this experience was.
The news lady ran up to me, shoving a microphone in my face and barricading me with seemingly insignificant questions. "How do you feel?" "How long have you been a Clay fan?" "Is this the best sixteenth birthday present ever?" I politely answered all of her inquiries, though my mind and heart were elsewhere. My heart had flown away in the unmarked car with Clay. I was floating high above in a sea of clouds, in a world where only happiness can be felt. Wow. It was 8:30am on my sixteenth birthday, and already I felt as though my life were complete. I am never, ever going to wash this sweatshirt again, I decided then and there. 

Chapter 2

I rolled over; the illuminating red numbers on my alarm clock read 1:03 AM. Swimmer’s ear had plagued the last precious days of my summer vacation. It was Friday night, or rather, Saturday morning, and school started Monday. The pain in my right ear was growing worse by the minute, and I was not sure how much longer I could bare the throbbing ache that kept me up that night. I sighed and bit my lip, trying to concentrate on anything but the pain. I began to count backwards from one thousand in Spanish, a task that usually helped me sleep, but tonight, it failed miserably. Reluctantly, but with no other option as the pain steadily increased, I climbed out of bed. I felt my way helplessly through the darkness upstairs to my dad’s room. I felt along the walls, gliding my left hand along their smooth surface, while keeping my right hand over my ear, as though I thought it would ease the pain. "Dad," I whispered, close to tears now because of how much worse my ear felt than it had only minutes before. "I can’t sleep. My ear really, really hurts. I already took pain reliever, but its not helping."
"What time is it?" was his groggy response.
"About one in the morning," I said, wondering if he had any idea what kind of pain this was.
"Can’t you wait till eight when urgent care opens?" he said, pleadingly.
"But daddy," I said using my little girl voice, "it really hurts. I mean, it really hurts, really bad. Please do something," I pleaded with him. He climbed out of bed and followed me back downstairs, through the darkness, and into my bedroom.
By this time, I was whimpering helplessly, as though I thought that the sound would make the pain cease. Surprise, surprise, it did not! After ten agonizing minutes of my father trying to calm me down, and me trying to convince him of how much it hurt, he gave up and said, "Do you need to go to the emergency room? I hate to take you because I think you can wait until eight, but if you really need to go, we can. Just remember that we’ll probably have to wait for a few hours after we get there because an ear ache certainly isn’t at the top of the priority list in a hospital." I nodded, and we woke my sister up. We dressed, and put on jackets because even though it was August, the night air was crisp.
Four hours (and a dose of morpheme) later, I was back in bed, and on my way to being asleep. The emergency room doctor had put a "wick," which is a sponge-type material, into my ear, to hold open the canal. That way, the eardrops would definitely reach the infection. I needed sleep. I was starting high school on Monday, and now, I would be starting a new school with a piece of white sponge sticking out of my right ear!
Earlier that day, I had been taken off the waiting list and offered a spot at a small school. I was originally supposed to attend a big magnet school, with a student population of nearly three thousand.
The opportunity to attend a school with fewer than five hundred students was well received on my end. There was just one problem. All my friends were going to the big school, except for one friend. , she was accepted also and after about two hours of deliberation, weighing and re-weighing the pros and cons, we both decided that this school would be a good place for us to spend our high school years.
Now, as I dozed off, dreaming of my first year of high school, all my worries and fears of high school and of being away from my circle of friends slowly disappeared with the approach of sleep. It was Saturday; I was going to be at a much smaller school for the next four years; my ear was feeling better, and I was finally able to get some rest.
The sun slowly crept through the blinds that hung on my windows. I rolled over, trying to get in a position where my ability to snooze for a while was not dictated by the rising sun. I groaned and squirmed impatiently in my bed. Why couldn’t the sun wait for me to be ready to wake up? Why did it have to get up so early? I put my pillow over my face, trying desperately to hold it in a position where it covered my eyes so I could rest, but not my nose and mouth, so I could still breathe.
Suddenly, something leapt onto my stomach. "Ow!" I screamed in pain. As if an ear infection was not enough, and a trip to the emergency room early this morning, but now some massive blob was jumping onto my stomach. I took the pillow away from my face and slammed it down on the head of the culprit— my little sister. "Goodness, Anna, can’t you let me sleep?"
"No," she giggled. I wondered what was so funny about the pain I was in and how tired I was. "You can’t stay in bed all day," she said whining, pleading with me to drag myself out of bed and play Polly Pockets with her.
"It’s not all day," I protested. "It’s," I rolled over and looked at my digital clock so I could be sure I had the precise time, "seven fifty four in the morning. It is also my second to last day of summer. And in case you forgot, we all spent the night in the emergency room!"
"Because of you," she said coldly. "You really should get up and play with me, you know, or I’ll. . ."
"Or you’ll what?" I said, unafraid of anything my thirteen-year-old sister would threaten.
"Or . . . I won’t ever speak to you again," she responded defiantly.
"Oh and how long will that last? Just until you need to borrow money or something?"
"I hate you," she told me.
"Don’t hate me," I told her. "You shouldn’t hate anybody," I told her in my ‘sister-knows-best’ voice. She rolled her eyes, and looked at me again. "It’s true," I said simply.
"Whatever," she responded, shrugging my words off.
"But, since I am already wide awake," I told her in my best imitation of an adult, "and since I love you so much—”
She cut me off, "Yeah right," she said sarcastically.
"It’s true," I protested, "and if you’d let me finish, I was going to say that I am going to get up and play with you now."
"HOORAY!" She screamed, and began marching around my room, shouting and waving her hands around. I groaned and rolled out of bed, ready for a fun-filled day of entertaining thirteen-year-old Anna.
I rolled my eyes and watched her march out of my room. I closed the door behind her and smiled to myself. As annoying as she can be, I thought, I love her to death, and life would be so boring without her. I snatched a pair of nylon shorts and a long t-shirt, my typical middle-school-tom-boyish attire, and carried them to the bathroom I shared with Anna. I closed the bathroom door and began brushing my teeth before I took my shower.
Suddenly, the door swung open and hit the adjoining wall with a tremendous thud. Anna stood there, grinning, leaning against the doorway, with a hand on her hip. Rolling her eyes, she said to me, "This had better not be one of you long showers," placing great emphasis on the word long, drawing it out into three syllables. With the toothbrush in my mouth, I managed to grunt out, "Give me enough privacy to take the shower, please." She grinned and stepped out of the doorway, grabbing the doorknob and closing it quietly behind her.
After my shower, my sister and I played Monopoly and Clue, and then lay on my bed, listening to music. My ear began to ache as the morpheme the hospital prescribed wore off. I put eardrops in my ear, and lay on my side on the couch reading while the drops soaked in.
The shrill ring of the phone brought me out of the world created by my book. My sister ran to answer it. "Hello," she said into the receiver. "Oh hi, mommy.. . . . . . . Yes, we are fine. We went to the emergency room last night. Maria’s ear canal collapsed!" I could hear the sound of my mother’s muffled voice on the other end of the phone. "No, she’s fine . . . No, she can’t talk to you . . . . . . . . . . Why? Because she is lying down on the couch letting the ear drops soak in." There was a long pause, and then my sister said, "You’re coming at ten thirty tomorrow to pick us up?. . . .Yes, I will tell Maria to call you. . . . . . . Okay, Mom. . . .Uh-huh.. . . . Okay. I love you too. Bye."
My sister stood over me, and she reached down, and knocked on my head as though it was a door. "Can you hear me, sister dear?" I rolled my eyes and laughed.
"Yes," I said a bit too loudly, mostly because I could not hear my own voice well enough to judge its volume.
"Mom wants you to call her, okay?" Without waiting for an answer, she raced upstairs to find our father. Within seventy seconds she returned, and said, "Dad wants to know when you will be ready to go out to lunch."
"Soon. Tell him soon," I said. "I think the drops are almost completely soaked in. But I want to make sure so my ear doesn’t get more infected."
"Okay. Well, I am going to go finish getting ready. Need anything?"
"No thanks," I told her, smiling to myself. My sister, however wild and crazy, has a good heart and cares for other people a lot. I sighed, wishing the drops would hurry up. My legs were starting to cramp. My thoughts turned then to high school. In fewer than forty-eight hours, I would be entering the "four best years of your life" as countless adults had told me. As many of them had also reminded me, these were also "the four most important years" of my life.
So much of me could not wait to start, and yet a part of me hung back, unsure of how prepared I was for this. Would I be smart enough for the teachers not to hate me? Would I be cool enough for my peers to like me?
High school was a huge step, something I had really looked forward to, and yet something that I had also dreaded. Now, it was right around the corner. Another step and I would be totally immersed in the life of a student whose every move was watched by colleges . . . . . . . A huge question lingered. Was I ready?

Chapter 1

I rolled over in bed, unable to sleep. Whether it was the storm outside our Washington D.C. home, or the snoring of my husband sleeping next to me, I did not know, but I crawled out of bed, anyway. After all, another revision of my speech for tomorrow couldn’t hurt.
Tomorrow was inauguration day; I would become the first female United States President. My digital clock’s red numbers read 2:14am. I rubbed my eyes, and shuffled slowly through the darkened bedroom my husband and I shared. I grappled for the wall as I felt my way down the hall, towards the bedrooms of my children. At the age of 36, I was happily married, with four children. Madison, age eight, and Clara, age 6 were sleeping soundly in the lavender room they shared. I smiled when I noticed that Clara had gotten down from the top bunk she usually slept on to sleep next to her sister on the bottom bunk. The storm must have scared her, I thought. They were great sisters, even if they had no biological connection at all. My husband and I had adopted Madison about seven and a half years ago from Russia, but regardless of blood connections, our family was close and happy together. I continued to move down the hall to the nursery, where my two year old son, Caleb slept, thumb in mouth. Caleb, too, had been adopted, but he was adopted from Chile.
The shrill cry of Margaret sliced through my thoughts. I rushed into the nursery to quiet her before she woke Caleb up. As I lifted her in my arms, Caleb stirred, but rolled over and fell back asleep. Whimpering, Margaret, relaxed a little in my arms. At seven months old, Tracy was the latest addition to our household. We had adopted her right here in D.C., just two weeks after she was born.
I carried her downstairs and warmed a bottle in the microwave. Gently rocking her in my arms, while the microwave droned on in the dim light of the kitchen, her whimpering quieted and she looked up at me. Her blue eyes shone even in the dark night with the rain pelting down on the roof. She reached up and brushed my cheek with her little hand. Beep, beep, beep, beep. I opened the microwave door, trying to make as little noise as possible, and carried Tracy over to the rocking chair in the rec-room. Settling down into the chair, I propped her up in the crook of my left arm. Gently wedging the nipple of the bottle into her small mouth, I handed the bottle to her and let her feed herself. As she sucked contentedly on the bottle, I reached over to the coffee table and picked up one of the many copies of my speech. I had read and reread this at least a thousand times in the last week, but I was too nervous to do anything else.
This was a big step for our country, because finally after repeated tries in past elections, a woman would finally make it to the White House as someone other than First Lady, and the first person to take the step was me. Me. I grew up determined to make a difference; I just never thought that I would make such an impact in the way the political system in our country was viewed. I sighed. Just as my medical career had soared through the clouds, I got appointed to the cabinet for the president, as the Secretary of Health and Human Services. As Secretary of this department, I had made many strides in medical research. The citizens of more than one state encouraged me to run for president. “You care about the common person,” they had told me. “And besides, it’s about time we get someone in there who wasn’t a lawyer or a judge or a legislator.” At the time, I had laughed, but my laughter soon turned into hard work, and then turned to stress-filled days, and finally to triumph.
Margaret finished her bottle, and closed her eyes. Her breathing became deep and her entire body relaxed in my arms. I focused my attention back on my speech. I reached over, trying not to wake the baby by moving around, and picked up a red pen. I began circling, crossing out, and rewriting bits and pieces of my speech. I worked at it for nearly two hours before standing up to un-cramp my legs, and carrying Margaret gently back to the nursery. Laying her in the crib, I watched her sleep for a minute. The lives of my entire family were about to change. You can’t worry about that too much. Jonathan stuck by you through it all, like he promised to, and the kids can adapt. You have got a chance to change the world, and your family is included in that. What more do you want? I smiled. I was so blessed. I walked quietly back downstairs, where I washed out the bottle, and put my speech away. Tip-toeing back to my bedroom, I wasn’t twenty feet away before I heard Jonathan snoring. I shook my head and laughed silently to myself. I crawled back in bed next to my husband. Sighing, I pulled the covers up around my chin. I closed my eyes, wondering, Am I ready for this?

The next morning, we all got up early and ate breakfast together. Cereal for the kids, and cranberry juice for me. I had been up since six that morning when I got up to go for a run. I had run cross country all through high school, and then in college; it was a part of my life that was drilled into my schedule and had become a way for me to relax. I wanted to take the run today, because it would be my last one without secret service around me. After a shower, I had gently awoken my children, and gotten their breakfast ready. Honey Bunches of Oats with Strawberries for Madison, and Cornflakes for Clara. Caleb smiled over his bowl of oatmeal, and Jonathan held Margaret as she fed herself from her bottle. I did the jumbles and the crossword puzzle as I drank my juice. “Gore and Capone (3)”. . . . .Hmmmmm. Three letters. A-L-S! I wrote it down, and continued with the next clue, anything to take my mind off of what would take place in a matter of hours. “Mommy,” Madison said to me, “Could we please be excused.”
“Yes you may,” I responded. Madison and Clara got up from the table, and raced upstairs.
Jonathan got up and began loading the dishwasher, while balancing Margaret in one hand. “Mommy, mommy!” Caleb got my attention. “Look at me,” he said, picking up a spoon, making airplane sounds as he “flew” the spoon of oatmeal into his mouth. I smiled. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad, after all, my family would be there.
“Honey,” I said to Jonathan.
“Hm,” he said, in a way that made me wonder if he was really listening.
“I am going to get the girls dressed. Can you watch Caleb while he finishes his oatmeal?”
“Sure thing,” he turned around as I brought my cup to him. He kissed me, and said, for the zillionth time, “I am so proud of you, and I will always, always, always love you.”
“Ditto,” I said, kissing him back. “Want me to take her?” I said indicating Margaret.
“Here,” he laughed, handing her to me. “I won’t complain if you want her,” and he laughed again. I remember falling in love with his laugh the first time we met. I carried Margaret up the stairs toward the girls’ bedroom. First, though, I went to the nursery for the infant seat. Placing Margaret in it, I then carried it into the girls’ bedroom. I set down the infant seat next to the bunk beds and crossed the room to the closet. I pushed my way to the back of the rack, where the dresses we bought for them were. After finding out I would be president, Jonathan and I went to store after store trying desperately to find something for the girls to wear. I had grown up a tomboy, and would have chosen my soccer uniform over a dress any day. And it turned out that I raised two girls to be the exact same way, without meaning to, of course. Jonathan and I had finally decided on sleeveless white dresses, with embroidered designs towards the bottom to the dress. With a sash in the back, and a lacy collar, and added with them a pair of white dress shoes, with brass buckles, they were perfect. We bought three, so that the three girls would match. It was Jonathan’s idea, and I agreed because I was tired of shopping. I pulled the dresses out of the closet, and handed them to my eager girls. They hurriedly put them on, and Madison rushed to the dresser to get out the lace socks we kept for special occasions. Handing a pair to her sister, and keeping the other one in her hands, she turned suddenly to me. Her brown eyes sparkled. “We’re going on an adventure, Mommy. All the people are going to want to meet us and we get to live in the biggest house in the world!” She was grinning from ear to ear. “I can’t wait!” Suddenly, her smile faded. “Can we take Bella and Helen and Pappy with us?” she asked, worry filling her eyes, as she realized that no one had said if our dogs and cat could come with us to our new house.
“Yes, Sweetheart, they are part of the family so they get to come too,” I told her, comfortingly, stroking her long, dark hair. “Okay, guys,” I said quickly, “finish getting ready while I dress Margaret.” The girls continued dressing, and put on their new shoes and got out their sweaters. We had also purchased the light sweaters after I got neurotic about the chilly morning air and its effect on the children. Jonathan had laughed at my worrying, but then after seeing that I truly was concerned, he paid for them too.
I hustled both girls down the hall toward the master bathroom. Carrying Margaret in one hand and hurrying the girls along with the other, we finally reached the bathroom. Madison sat down on the ocean-colored tile floor and I let her hold the baby. Keeping an eye on them, I focused a portion of my attention to fixing Clara’s red hair. I French-braided it and tied a ribbon at the end. Madison and Clara traded places, and I placed the baby in the arms of an eager six-year-old. I fixed Madison’s hair the same way. Then I picked Margaret up and put a small white bow in what little hair she had. All three girls sat quietly watching me put on my make-up and fix my hair. Their eyes were wide, and as I applied mascara to my eye lashes, Clara spoke up, “Mommy do you have to talk to a lot of people today?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do,” I told her. “People voted for me and they want me to tell them what I am going to do to make their lives better.”
“Oh,” she said, and I knew I had lost her interest. “Do we have to take lots of pictures today?” Clara hated pictures, while her brother and older sister thrived on them.
“Probably,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t like that answer. Jonathan came in the door at that moment, with Caleb, dressed in a white suit with brass buttons. His hair was lying flat on his head, and he was grinning like never before. “Hey sweetie,” I said to Caleb.
“Hi,” Jonathan responded, and laughed.
“Daddy,” Caleb said seriously, “Mommy talking to me, no you.” My husband and I laughed.
“C’mon Caleb and Clara, let’s go play with a puzzle,” Madison said to her siblings. She turned, to me, smiling, “Is that okay, Mommy?”
“Sure thing,” I said to her. As she ran out of the room, I handed the baby to my husband and we walked into our room together.
“We need to go in a few,” he said. Sighing, I smiled and took his hand. We went downstairs to pack the car with snacks and diapers, all the necessities.
The ride to the White House seemed especially long that day. It seemed like we got stopped at all the stop lights, and there was an insane amount of traffic on the road that day. Of course, there were police escorts all around us, trying to ward off any danger that lay between our house and the White House. The military was outside the White House, on the lawn, with cannons and guns. “Oh, no, Mommy. Look, those men have guns. Can we go home?” pleaded a very uncomfortable Clara.
“It’s okay, sweetie. Those men are good guys. The guns are to protect us. It’s kind of like when people carry guns in a parade back home in North Carolina, remember? Don’t worry. The guns are just there, and they probably won’t even use them.” I told her, attempting to comfort her.
“Okay, Mommy.” She leaned back against the car seat, and sighed. “As long as they’re good guys, then I won’t be scared.”

After being sworn in, I was ready to make my speech, but I was nervous. I had millions of people to serve, who had voted for ME, to represent their interests. I took a deep breath, stepped up to the podium, and exhaled. “Good morning. I grew up dreaming of one day standing before my country and becoming their leader, and I always hoped that one day I would be able to make a speech such as this one. We have a long four years ahead of us. Our economy is declining; the environment is in the worst state it has been in the past decade; and crime is up an astounding thirteen percent. I want to change all of that, but I am going to need your help. . .” as I continued my speech, my mind began to wander; my thoughts turned to the days of my childhood, and of the years I spent learning and growing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .