of stuff that is muddling my mind drains away, until for the first time in hours I feel in control. I let my thoughts drift away from school, drift to Gwen and to what I've learned about her.
The Korean War started at the end of June in 1950. Ted looked it up for me in the encyclopedia. So now I know the time that I go to when I lean past the curtains. I know when Gwen lived, this girl who pulls me through time to the year she was my age.
And I've done my math. Uncle Abe would have been about five then, which fits since he must be about fifty now, or maybe a little older.
For I'm sure that is who that boy is, Gwen's little brother. He has Uncle Abe's way of talking, words going just a bit uphill and down. The house that the two of them live in is the house that I'm living in now. And the tree where I first saw Gwen hanging by her knees still stands, only it's much, much bigger now. So big I can't put my arms halfway around it, and the ground under it is gnarled with pushed-up roots.
What I don't know is who Gwen is. I mean, I realize she must be a great-aunt of mine, a sister of my great-uncles Abe and Gabriel, and of my grandmother, whose name was Margaret. I just don't know where Gwen
fits.
I haven't heard Emma or the uncles mention her. No one has said, "Is Gwen coming for Christmas?" or "Is Gwen's gift in the mail yet?" And you'd think they would. I've always imagined that's what real families do.
Maybe she's dead like my grandmother?
Sooner or later, I'll ask.
But not yet. For now, I like the mystery of her, like the mystery of seeing her in another time. For now, I like having one thing that is all mine, privately mine, that no one else knows about.
"Mandy." Hannah's voice breaks into my thoughts. "Are you sleeping or daydreaming? You look like you're miles away."
"Sorry," I say. I keep my voice light. "I guess I did drift pretty far off."
When I get home Thursday I go to my room, eager to leave my own world and be lost again in Gwen's. I lean out my window into the breeze, lean out and wait to hear the calling.
The breeze doesn't change, and I stay with just myself, alone.
Instead of seeing Gwen, I think of my mom and me, years ago. I remember how one morning she sent me off to one of the jillion different grade schools I went to.
"Knock 'em dead, kid," she said, even though I'd been at that particular school long enough for us both to know I wasn't going to.
She pinned a plastic Christmas tree pin on my coat. It was just the kind that kids would laugh at, but I waited until I was down the street to put it in my pocket.
I remember the hurt of that morning.
A girl named Aimee and I were picked to stay in during recess and make paper chains to decorate the room. Aimee cut red and green strips while I pasted circle through circle, as fast as I could. Soon the smell of wet paste was all around and a chain of colored paper bunched and rustled on the floor.
We started giggling, and then Aimee draped a piece of chain across the bust of a Roman emperor. I roped more of it around my waist, and Aimee tore off enough to make a necklace for herself. We were having fun, and I was sure she liked me.
Then a couple of boys looked in the window at us. Aimee must not have wanted them thinking we were friends, because she took the chain from around her neck and went back to cutting paper strips, and she didn't say another word.
Saturday comes. Hannah telephones even before I'm out of bed. She wants to know if I want to go to a football game. "It's a play-off," she says. "The whole school will be there."
"So what do I do at a football game?" I ask.
"Walk around. Talk. See people."
"Like I could."
Hannah says, "Knock it off, Mandy. That's sick."
I'm learning Hannah does not put up with my sounding sorry for myself.
"I'll think about it."
"Mandy, the game starts at one."
"OK, OK. I'll go."
"I'll pick you up," she says. "I got my license last month."
"That's when you turned sixteen?" I ask.
"Yeah."
I hang up
The Korean War started at the end of June in 1950. Ted looked it up for me in the encyclopedia. So now I know the time that I go to when I lean past the curtains. I know when Gwen lived, this girl who pulls me through time to the year she was my age.
And I've done my math. Uncle Abe would have been about five then, which fits since he must be about fifty now, or maybe a little older.
For I'm sure that is who that boy is, Gwen's little brother. He has Uncle Abe's way of talking, words going just a bit uphill and down. The house that the two of them live in is the house that I'm living in now. And the tree where I first saw Gwen hanging by her knees still stands, only it's much, much bigger now. So big I can't put my arms halfway around it, and the ground under it is gnarled with pushed-up roots.
What I don't know is who Gwen is. I mean, I realize she must be a great-aunt of mine, a sister of my great-uncles Abe and Gabriel, and of my grandmother, whose name was Margaret. I just don't know where Gwen
fits.
I haven't heard Emma or the uncles mention her. No one has said, "Is Gwen coming for Christmas?" or "Is Gwen's gift in the mail yet?" And you'd think they would. I've always imagined that's what real families do.
Maybe she's dead like my grandmother?
Sooner or later, I'll ask.
But not yet. For now, I like the mystery of her, like the mystery of seeing her in another time. For now, I like having one thing that is all mine, privately mine, that no one else knows about.
"Mandy." Hannah's voice breaks into my thoughts. "Are you sleeping or daydreaming? You look like you're miles away."
"Sorry," I say. I keep my voice light. "I guess I did drift pretty far off."
When I get home Thursday I go to my room, eager to leave my own world and be lost again in Gwen's. I lean out my window into the breeze, lean out and wait to hear the calling.
The breeze doesn't change, and I stay with just myself, alone.
Instead of seeing Gwen, I think of my mom and me, years ago. I remember how one morning she sent me off to one of the jillion different grade schools I went to.
"Knock 'em dead, kid," she said, even though I'd been at that particular school long enough for us both to know I wasn't going to.
She pinned a plastic Christmas tree pin on my coat. It was just the kind that kids would laugh at, but I waited until I was down the street to put it in my pocket.
I remember the hurt of that morning.
A girl named Aimee and I were picked to stay in during recess and make paper chains to decorate the room. Aimee cut red and green strips while I pasted circle through circle, as fast as I could. Soon the smell of wet paste was all around and a chain of colored paper bunched and rustled on the floor.
We started giggling, and then Aimee draped a piece of chain across the bust of a Roman emperor. I roped more of it around my waist, and Aimee tore off enough to make a necklace for herself. We were having fun, and I was sure she liked me.
Then a couple of boys looked in the window at us. Aimee must not have wanted them thinking we were friends, because she took the chain from around her neck and went back to cutting paper strips, and she didn't say another word.
Saturday comes. Hannah telephones even before I'm out of bed. She wants to know if I want to go to a football game. "It's a play-off," she says. "The whole school will be there."
"So what do I do at a football game?" I ask.
"Walk around. Talk. See people."
"Like I could."
Hannah says, "Knock it off, Mandy. That's sick."
I'm learning Hannah does not put up with my sounding sorry for myself.
"I'll think about it."
"Mandy, the game starts at one."
"OK, OK. I'll go."
"I'll pick you up," she says. "I got my license last month."
"That's when you turned sixteen?" I ask.
"Yeah."
I hang up
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