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Authors: Naomi Kinsman
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the facts,’ — Frank Lloyd Wright. And, ‘Facts and truth really don’t have much to do with each other.’ — William Faulkner. What do you think Wright and Faulkner are saying?”
Frankie leaned back in her chair. “They’re saying that just because someone was playing with a lighter doesn’t mean they set a tree stump on fire.”
Ty smirked and added, “Just as an example.”
As usual, Ruth raised her hand. Sometimes she just didn’t know when to put her head down and stay out of things.
“I think Wright and Faulkner are saying certain things are bigger than facts. A mother is more than the dictionary can describe,” Ruth said.
Ms. Barton nodded. “Well put, Ruth. So class, your assignment is to one, choose a word that means somethingto you. Two, find examples of it in images, quotes, stories, poetry, music, and letters. Collect everything you can for two weeks. And three, create a presentation that includes a written report and a creative oral section. Your presentation must include at least one visual aid. You’ll get extra credit for creativity.”
“I call
cheese
,” said Rickey.
“Clearly,” Ms. Barton said, “you’ll want to choose a word that provides enough material. Words like
hope
and
dream
will take you further than a word like
cheese
. Monday, bring three words to propose. After I approve one of your words, you can begin your project.”
The bell rang and I gathered my things, wondering what word I should choose.
Trust
was the only word that came to mind. I used to think I knew all about trust, but Ruth had shown me I had much more to learn.
Chapter 13
Alive
W hen I got home from school on Monday, Mom had completely reorganized the kitchen and started on dinner. Chicken breasts defrosted on the counter while she chopped up broccoli.
“Should you slow down, Mom?” I asked. “You’ve been working non-stop since Saturday.”
“Are you offering to help?” She handed me a bag of chocolate chips. “Because the cookie dough in the refrigerator is begging for chocolate chips.”
“Mom …”
“Sadie …” Her voice was laced with warning.
I sighed and took the cookie dough out of the refrigerator. Just because Mom didn’t want me to worry didn’t mean I could automatically switch off my feelings.
“How was school today?” Mom doused the chicken withmarinara sauce, sprinkled the red mound with shaved parmesan cheese, shook various spices on top, and put the pan into the oven.
Ruth and I sat together at lunch and suffered through a strained conversation about the word study project, but all the topics that really mattered were off limits. I couldn’t see how we could continue being friends without really talking.
Mom still waited for an answer, so I said, “Umm … We started a word study project today. I have to find quotes and stories about the word
alive
.”
Ms. Barton had talked me out of my other choices, saying, “Choose a word that you believe in, Sadie, one that inspires you.”
Dad pulled up as Mom drained the broccoli, but he still hadn’t come inside when I finished setting the table. Something was odd.
I called out the front door, “Dinner’s ready.”
Dad came in with the tight smile he sometimes got when he was very mad but trying not to show it. More importantly, his eye was ringed with black and purple.
“Dad, what happened?”
“What?” Mom came out of the kitchen with the casserole dish of chicken. “Matthew, what happened to your eye?”
Dad sat at the table. “It’s dinner time. Let’s eat.”
Mom set the dish down and sat beside Dad. “Matthew, you look like you’ve been in a schoolyard brawl. Sadie and I can’t just eat and ignore your eye. Do you need ice?”
Dad took a sip of water and set his glass down very slowly.
I stood at the end of the table and tried not to look at Dad’s swollen eye. Black eyes were for punk kids, for mobsters and professional boxers, but not for Dad.
“Sadie, sit down.” Dad
Frankie leaned back in her chair. “They’re saying that just because someone was playing with a lighter doesn’t mean they set a tree stump on fire.”
Ty smirked and added, “Just as an example.”
As usual, Ruth raised her hand. Sometimes she just didn’t know when to put her head down and stay out of things.
“I think Wright and Faulkner are saying certain things are bigger than facts. A mother is more than the dictionary can describe,” Ruth said.
Ms. Barton nodded. “Well put, Ruth. So class, your assignment is to one, choose a word that means somethingto you. Two, find examples of it in images, quotes, stories, poetry, music, and letters. Collect everything you can for two weeks. And three, create a presentation that includes a written report and a creative oral section. Your presentation must include at least one visual aid. You’ll get extra credit for creativity.”
“I call
cheese
,” said Rickey.
“Clearly,” Ms. Barton said, “you’ll want to choose a word that provides enough material. Words like
hope
and
dream
will take you further than a word like
cheese
. Monday, bring three words to propose. After I approve one of your words, you can begin your project.”
The bell rang and I gathered my things, wondering what word I should choose.
Trust
was the only word that came to mind. I used to think I knew all about trust, but Ruth had shown me I had much more to learn.
Chapter 13
Alive
W hen I got home from school on Monday, Mom had completely reorganized the kitchen and started on dinner. Chicken breasts defrosted on the counter while she chopped up broccoli.
“Should you slow down, Mom?” I asked. “You’ve been working non-stop since Saturday.”
“Are you offering to help?” She handed me a bag of chocolate chips. “Because the cookie dough in the refrigerator is begging for chocolate chips.”
“Mom …”
“Sadie …” Her voice was laced with warning.
I sighed and took the cookie dough out of the refrigerator. Just because Mom didn’t want me to worry didn’t mean I could automatically switch off my feelings.
“How was school today?” Mom doused the chicken withmarinara sauce, sprinkled the red mound with shaved parmesan cheese, shook various spices on top, and put the pan into the oven.
Ruth and I sat together at lunch and suffered through a strained conversation about the word study project, but all the topics that really mattered were off limits. I couldn’t see how we could continue being friends without really talking.
Mom still waited for an answer, so I said, “Umm … We started a word study project today. I have to find quotes and stories about the word
alive
.”
Ms. Barton had talked me out of my other choices, saying, “Choose a word that you believe in, Sadie, one that inspires you.”
Dad pulled up as Mom drained the broccoli, but he still hadn’t come inside when I finished setting the table. Something was odd.
I called out the front door, “Dinner’s ready.”
Dad came in with the tight smile he sometimes got when he was very mad but trying not to show it. More importantly, his eye was ringed with black and purple.
“Dad, what happened?”
“What?” Mom came out of the kitchen with the casserole dish of chicken. “Matthew, what happened to your eye?”
Dad sat at the table. “It’s dinner time. Let’s eat.”
Mom set the dish down and sat beside Dad. “Matthew, you look like you’ve been in a schoolyard brawl. Sadie and I can’t just eat and ignore your eye. Do you need ice?”
Dad took a sip of water and set his glass down very slowly.
I stood at the end of the table and tried not to look at Dad’s swollen eye. Black eyes were for punk kids, for mobsters and professional boxers, but not for Dad.
“Sadie, sit down.” Dad
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