want?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know what kind there were. “I want books . . . that show what it is like to be human,” I said, “because I am not sure I know. And if the author is alive, I would very much appreciate it.”
“Very well,” Mama said. “Should we have dinner now?”
I nodded. Our days were a routine pattern. She came to visit me in darkness. She brushed my hair. We ate dinner, played chess or cards. I sang to her and played the harp. I had taught myself to do both, and I practiced day and night, even if it was only to please her. She said my voice was beautiful. That used to be enough.
But then, I stopped singing, stopped playing the harp when Mama wasn’t around to hear. What was the point, I reasoned, of singing when no one was there to hear? Who knew if my singing was even real and not a figment of my imagination? Who knew that I , my entire existence, was not a figment of my imagination?
Then, she left, leaving my breakfast for the next day and taking with her my chamber pot, which I was old enough to be embarrassed by. That was all.
Wasn’t there more to my life than that?
“I brought ham, your favorite.” She smiled and nodded, inviting me to do the same. “I want you to be happy.”
I smiled back at her. “Thank you, Mama. I am.”
When she left, I began to sing again, and to play my harp. Even though no one was there.
Strangely, I felt that someone could hear me.
And, last night, when I was singing, I thought I heard a voice in my head.
Wyatt
New Year’s Eve, the night was clear with so many stars it looked like the sky in the movie Titanic , when the ship had gone down, and they were waiting in the dark water to die. It was just as cold too. The idea of spending the two-degree night in what Josh called a three-season house (the three seasons being spring, summer, and fall) seemed a little crazy, but the idea of spending it alone, watching Times Square on TV, seemed worse.
Last year, we’d gone into the city. This wasn’t a typical thing Long Island kids did, but Tyler had suggested it. One day, during winter break when we were bored, he’d said, “Hey, let’s go to Times Square tomorrow.”
“I never want to do that, man,” I said. “I hear it’s suffocating there.”
“Never’s a long time, MAN ,” he said. “You want to be one of those people who live in New York your whole life and never see the Statue of Liberty or the Macy’s parade or New Year’s in Times Square?”
“Well, I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty,” I said, “on any one of five field trips with five different teachers who thought I needed to learn—yet again—about how they dewormed the immigrants at Ellis Island. As far as Times Square, if it means getting felt up by street people in twenty-degree weather, I’d seriously rather eat glass.”
“Not me,” Tyler said. “It’s on my bucket list.”
I shrugged. “You’ve got time.”
But he just kept pushing, pushing, pushing, and finally, when he said his sister, Nikki, would go with us, I gave in.
In fact, it hadn’t been cold. Far from it. Millions of pressing bodies had taken care of that. But everything else had pretty much come true. We were shoulder to shoulder with sweaty strangers, no bathrooms, no food. People who got there after us tried to shove in front.
“Really,” a nasal-voiced woman said, “we’re meeting friends.”
“Yeah?” Tyler said. “Call them on your cell phone and have them raise their hands.”
The woman called Tyler a word I don’t even say.
“Happy New Year,” I told her.
Tyler and I were tall, so at least we could see and stuff, but his sister, Nikki, was smaller. “I can’t even breathe,” she said.
“Like that’s important.” Tyler rolled his eyes.
But I said, “Are you okay? You want me to put you on my shoulders?”
“I can’t ask you to do that. There’s still an hour until midnight.” Around us, people were gyrating to music we couldn’t hear over the talking.
I shrugged. I didn’t know what kind there were. “I want books . . . that show what it is like to be human,” I said, “because I am not sure I know. And if the author is alive, I would very much appreciate it.”
“Very well,” Mama said. “Should we have dinner now?”
I nodded. Our days were a routine pattern. She came to visit me in darkness. She brushed my hair. We ate dinner, played chess or cards. I sang to her and played the harp. I had taught myself to do both, and I practiced day and night, even if it was only to please her. She said my voice was beautiful. That used to be enough.
But then, I stopped singing, stopped playing the harp when Mama wasn’t around to hear. What was the point, I reasoned, of singing when no one was there to hear? Who knew if my singing was even real and not a figment of my imagination? Who knew that I , my entire existence, was not a figment of my imagination?
Then, she left, leaving my breakfast for the next day and taking with her my chamber pot, which I was old enough to be embarrassed by. That was all.
Wasn’t there more to my life than that?
“I brought ham, your favorite.” She smiled and nodded, inviting me to do the same. “I want you to be happy.”
I smiled back at her. “Thank you, Mama. I am.”
When she left, I began to sing again, and to play my harp. Even though no one was there.
Strangely, I felt that someone could hear me.
And, last night, when I was singing, I thought I heard a voice in my head.
Wyatt
New Year’s Eve, the night was clear with so many stars it looked like the sky in the movie Titanic , when the ship had gone down, and they were waiting in the dark water to die. It was just as cold too. The idea of spending the two-degree night in what Josh called a three-season house (the three seasons being spring, summer, and fall) seemed a little crazy, but the idea of spending it alone, watching Times Square on TV, seemed worse.
Last year, we’d gone into the city. This wasn’t a typical thing Long Island kids did, but Tyler had suggested it. One day, during winter break when we were bored, he’d said, “Hey, let’s go to Times Square tomorrow.”
“I never want to do that, man,” I said. “I hear it’s suffocating there.”
“Never’s a long time, MAN ,” he said. “You want to be one of those people who live in New York your whole life and never see the Statue of Liberty or the Macy’s parade or New Year’s in Times Square?”
“Well, I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty,” I said, “on any one of five field trips with five different teachers who thought I needed to learn—yet again—about how they dewormed the immigrants at Ellis Island. As far as Times Square, if it means getting felt up by street people in twenty-degree weather, I’d seriously rather eat glass.”
“Not me,” Tyler said. “It’s on my bucket list.”
I shrugged. “You’ve got time.”
But he just kept pushing, pushing, pushing, and finally, when he said his sister, Nikki, would go with us, I gave in.
In fact, it hadn’t been cold. Far from it. Millions of pressing bodies had taken care of that. But everything else had pretty much come true. We were shoulder to shoulder with sweaty strangers, no bathrooms, no food. People who got there after us tried to shove in front.
“Really,” a nasal-voiced woman said, “we’re meeting friends.”
“Yeah?” Tyler said. “Call them on your cell phone and have them raise their hands.”
The woman called Tyler a word I don’t even say.
“Happy New Year,” I told her.
Tyler and I were tall, so at least we could see and stuff, but his sister, Nikki, was smaller. “I can’t even breathe,” she said.
“Like that’s important.” Tyler rolled his eyes.
But I said, “Are you okay? You want me to put you on my shoulders?”
“I can’t ask you to do that. There’s still an hour until midnight.” Around us, people were gyrating to music we couldn’t hear over the talking.
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