“J.B., can I come in?” Mom watched me uncertainly from the door of my bedroom.

“Yeah.”

“I swear, your voice has dropped two octaves since last week.”

“Gee. I sure hope the girls still like my singing,” I replied in a monotone, flinging a basketball at the wall and catching the rebound on the tips of my fingers.

“Can we talk?”

“What about?”

“Gramp.”

“I don’t want to.”

“C’mon J.B. Don’t do this. I can’t bear seeing you this way.”

“Get used to it, Mom. I’m not changing.”

“The presents. What did he give-”

“That’s between Gramp and me.” Even as I said it, I glanced hastily over at my dresser where the two items sat. I’d thought- Shelley might take them.

The basketball banged against the wall, and one of my old trophies fell to the floor with a clatter and broke into hundreds of tiny pieces before my eyes.

“J.B., I asked a fair question,” she responded gently, dragging her fingers through my shoulder-length brown hair.

“And I gave you a fair answer.” I drew away from her touch, but when she persisted, I let her pull me in.

“I just want to help you. We’re all suffering, you know, but I know it’s hurting you the most. I can see it.”

“I’m not hurt and you don’t see anything. Just shut up about him already.”

She pulled me into a hug and dipped her head over me. Her long red hair draped over my face but I didn’t pull away. I felt safe. “You have to go to school today,” she murmured.

“What?” I pulled back as if stung.

“You’ve skipped six days of just plain living since your visit. You‘ve gone dormant up here in your room. It’s going to take a lot to catch-”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“You have to, Jordan Berkley. I’m not going to let you throw away your life like this. You have five minutes to get in the car.”

“I hate you,” I growled softly, clenching my teeth.

“Go ahead. You will be in school today.”

“Fine.”

The car ride was long and quiet, except for my brother, Luke, who chattered the whole way. Finally we were pulling into the school parking lot. The honking and jerking and smell of gasoline soothed me and I relaxed, dashing across the road with my empty backpack slung across one shoulder and my brother at my heels.

“J.B.! Over here!” Two identical boys leaned against the low railing next to the front door. Cocking his head, my best friend, Saylor Hanson, spoke first. “Hey man. You’ve been gone super long. The teachers are about ready to sing hallelujah.”

“Shut up with it, Saylor. You’ll chase him off,” Cayden admonished playfully, shooting me a crooked grin. “It’s great to have you back.”

“Not for long, the rotten sourpuss,” Luke said, sailing by. “He’s been sitting around moping the past week and hitting his stupid basketball against my wall.”

“Poor little brother,” Saylor sympathized.

“Shut up Saylor.”

“Glad to have you back, J.B. Shut ups and all.”

“Let’s go,” Cayden said as the bell began to ring. “Only fifteen sweet more minutes until first period officially starts,” he added, voice becoming fainter with each word. “And I have got to get settled.”

“C’mon Cay, you don’t even bring a pencil to class. You’ve gotta quit this unpleasant habit.”

“Why don’t you start, Saylor? I’m beginning to fear for your life,” Cayden cocked his head, “you know brother, you keep doing this, and you’ll be abducted by aliens. There’s no room for the studious sort in this world. You’ll have to move to Mars.”

“Don’t you ever stop with science fiction stuff?” I groaned; Cayden’s favorite pastime is doing anything involving anything Star Wars, real or not.

“No.” He waved and hurried inside to meet up with some other guys.

“Ready, J.B.?”

“No. Let’s go.”

“So, where’ve you been?” Saylor asked, jogging to keep pace with me as I walked briskly down the slush-coated halls following a group of gangly seventh-grade boys with their pants hanging off their thighs.

“Move it.” I shoved one particular outsider away from the pack and into the wall to make room for me.

“What’s wrong with you?” He shot daggers at me, picking himself up and blending once more with the suddenly welcoming gang.

“Good question.”

“J.B., what’s wrong?”

“He died.” I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes; a glassy film encircled them and the lower lids bulged and became pockets for the grief. I bit my lower lip and kept my teeth clenched firmly on it; the blood began to spew into my mouth and trickle down my suddenly parched throat and I licked my lip.

“What? Who died?”

“My grandpa. He died. He’s gone forever.” A tear broke free and dribbled down my cheek and clung to my chin before taking the death-defying leap down. It landed on my jacket and I watched it with a false pretense of fascination.

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” Saylor asked quietly. I turned to face him. He’s shorter than I am by a couple of inches. I looked down on his face and I studied his caring, bright eyes, intensely waiting for my reply. I could see the questioning in the whirlpools of marble-like blueberry and sky blues and in the way his cheeks rose up on his face like small hills.

“No. There’s nothing you can do,” I spat in his face. Suddenly I was angry. I had been a dormant volcano with people keeping their safe distance but still in awe. Now I felt the boiling, destructive torrents of lava come streaming out as I stared down at Saylor in such agonized torment that he couldn’t bare to look any longer. “I’m sorry, Saylor,” I murmured quietly. I sat down on the outward-jutting, bench-like wooden block pushed up against the wall. My mouth opened as though to speak and my forehead crinkled. The tears began to spew out like water from a dam. “I didn’t mean to. It just sort of spilled out,” I said between gasps for breath, “I swear I didn’t mean it. I just can’t-”

“Hey, J.B. It’s okay. It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry. I’m such a jerk.”

“No. No, you’re not. You’re just grieving. It’s okay. It’s all right.”

“Thanks. God, I’m such a jerk.” I ran my hands through my hair. “My makeup is all smeared.”

“Glad you don’t wear any then.”

“Who says I don’t?”

For a second Saylor looked horrified. “You do?” He cried incredulously. Unwillingly, I cracked a grin.

“No. The makeup is Luke’s. But don’t tell anyone. He’ll skin you.”

“He can’t get near me.”

“Don’t bet on it, Saylor. I’ve got scars from that devil.”

“Who says I’m betting? And Luke isn’t a devil, he’s a cute kid.”
“You can say that ‘cause you don’t live with him.”
“C’mon, let’s go. Right about now, Cayden’s chowing donuts in the boys’ room. And to think, he freaks when we’re late for our piano lessons.”

“That kid’s crazy.”

“Who isn’t?”

We reached our homeroom door. “You know what my grandpa would say to that?”

Saylor watched me warily, no doubt waiting for another breakdown. “What?”

“He’d say ‘You’ve found one of the unanswerable questions, Saylor.’”

“How do you know that?”

“He said that when I asked him something about girls.”

“Figure. Okay, get this, J.B. You know how everyone’s always coming up to me to tell me that Sarah Kemble likes me?”

“Sure.”

“So, yesterday I go up to her after English and I’m like, ‘Yo, Sarah, that’s a pretty nice haircut you’ve got there’ and then I go ‘hey you want to go grab a shake with me after school?’ and she says ‘lay off’ all snobby. What went wrong man?”

“You dope. She didn’t get a haircut.”

“I swear she did.”

“Well you swear wrong.”

“Figure. I can never get a date. And you’ve got Shelley going on what? Ten years?”

“Twenty-nine days.”

Saylor shrugged. “Same difference.”



“Saylor Hanson, tardy. Jordan Berkley, tar- J.B.! It’s great to have you back.”

“You’re too hyper, Ms. Linden. It’s giving me a bad feeling. I have to go to the nurse,” I told her calmly, without a trace of a smile as I entered the classroom.

“But, Jordan, you just got to the room.”

“And I just told you that I have to go to the nurse.” Saylor slipped into his seat stifling a grin. The rest of the class wasn’t so fortunate in keeping their pleasure discreet. And just like that, I had Ms. Linden in a bad mood.

“Sorry, Ma’am, but I can’t take any of your ‘sweetie pies’ and ‘honeys’ and ‘dears’ today. All right?” I nodded in a stately manner.

“Take your seat, J.B.”

“I will Ms. Linden. And thank you for your change in tone.” I smiled, picked up the nearest chair, and left the room.

I spent the rest of the period out in the hall silently challenging any peer who walked by with a carved maple leaf bathroom pass. When Avery Dickens came out of the room with a drinking fountain pass, I scooted my chair over in front of the fountain to block her path.

“Please move over, J.B.,” she said calmly.

“No.”

“J.B.” she wheedled, “please?”

“No. Don’t you know the code?”

“What? Like banana?”

“No. The code. I’ll do you a favor and tell you. Ready? Here it is: help no one. Accept help from no one. Discourage everyone. Be nice to no one. Be polite to no one. Get the picture?”

“Yeah. I get it. J.B., if you ever want to talk about anything that’s bothering you, I’ll listen.”

“What? Are you a therapist or something? I have a girlfriend, Dickens, and to me what you just said sounds like giving permission to cheat on her. Michelle Laney is the one person in this whole ‘reaking world to whom the code does not apply.”

“J.B., I have a boyfriend,” she answered softly, looking startled at my outburst.

“So you’re cheating on him,” I declared loudly, eyes flashing in anger.

“No,” she whimpered in horror, “I’m speaking as a friend to a friend.”

“I have four friends, Dickens, and one of them just died.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked it.

“I’m not. Get lost,” I responded sharply through gritted teeth.

She bowed her head in defeat and started off down the hall, dragging her feet. I opened Cayden’s conveniently nearby locker, grabbed an empty plastic bottle, filled it with water, and crept up behind Avery’s unsuspecting figure. Silently, I unscrewed the cap, stood over her, and tipped the bottle slowly. The second that the first drop was released, I dumped the contents out onto her head. Icy cold water streamed in thick rivets down her scalp, pooling in the top of her too-big, too-revealing t-shirt until the whole thing was just one soggy rag clinging to her skin. Avery’s face burned red. “Why did you do that J.B.?” Her eyes were red and wet. But that wasn’t all. It wasn’t just a color or texture. It was something indescribable. But it symbolized hurt. The fiercest, most humiliated hurt.

“Lighten up,” I said looking at her indifferently. Then, before I could shed any tears myself, I turned the corner and strode off without emotion. “I don’t care,” I said, willing myself to believe it. “I don’t care,” I repeated louder. “I don’t care.” I was yelling, but it worked. I didn’t care. About anything.

Avery didn’t come back by the time first period finished and I resigned to go to science class.

“You’re lucky you have the nerve,” Saylor muttered under his breath, “Linden breathed fire. We didn’t do anything important at all.”

“Good. I promised Mom I wouldn’t miss anything important.”

“I bet you did.”

“It’s great to have you back, Mr. Berkley,” Ms. Lamont said as I reached her classroom.

“No it isn’t, Ms. Lamont. Honestly. It isn’t.”

“Whatever you say,” she replied, smiling brightly. Ms. Lamont gets through the school year by convincing herself that she isn’t at school. It works well for everyone.

“Class,” she said clapping her hands, “today, we’re going to make submarines to discover firsthand the joy of buoyant force.”

“Oh goody,” someone called sarcastically.

Another anonymous student added, “When’s the wedding, Ms. Lamont?”

“First, you’ll take the plastic syringe at your spot and cut it, so there’s the larger tube area, and maybe an inch or so of the smaller tube. Then come over to one of the fish tanks and dip it in. You want to fill it with enough water that it just flinks. You want almost the entire syringe to be beneath the water and only like three millimeters above. Yes? Good. Then take one of the water bottles here, fill it with water, color it with food coloring however you want it, put the submarine in, and screw on the cap.”

“Ms. Lamont?” Shelley said, “how exactly does this provide us with a firsthand experience of buoyant force?”

“Good question, Miss Laney. You will then squeeze the bottle around the middle like-”

“The Heimlich maneuver!” Cayden shouted.

“-like so, and the sub will sink down to the bottom of the bottle. Release the pressure, and it rises. Okay, go.” She clapped her hands again, and we were off.

I finished constructing my submarine and was about to drop it into my puke-colored water, but then grabbed the sub back and cut one clean slit in the plastic before dumping it in. Shelley came over to watch and gaped as it sank.

“Oh, J.B., I’m so sorry. What happened? It was perfect. I can’t figure it out. Is it the water?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Not really.”

“You can have mine.”

“You keep it,” I said, smiling at her. “I love you, Shelley. So generous. Giving away your submarine in that beautiful pink water.”

She rolled her eyes. “You should wear pink, J.B. It’s just a color. And besides, you’d look good in it.”

“As good as I look in puke?”

“Definitely.”

I couldn’t really tell her why I’d cut that slit. I couldn’t really figure it out. I guess it had something to do with Grandpa really. I watched my sunken sub from the corner of the room, apart from all the action. Why had I cut it? It’s my heart really, I decided. It represents my heart. So full of life even in a sea of puke, a world that was cold and unfair and just so mean. I had floated in that life. I’d bloomed. I wasn’t pure. The water was tainted with just a touch of color, but I still blossomed even in that environment. And then Gramp died. He was my glue really. He and Cayden and Saylor and Shelley. The second one of them failed, I sank. I broke.

“When you help someone, you’re giving them a chance to hurt you,” I whispered. “Why is that? Why is it that the people you love the most can hurt you the best?”

“You’ve found an unanswerable question, J.B.” I hadn’t even heard Saylor come up beside me.

“It’s not unanswerable. Nothing is really. We just haven’t found the answers.”

“That’s probably true.”

“I know it’s true. We’re all stupid. All of us. We’re just stupid. Too blind, too dumb to see the answers that are right in front of our faces.”

“You know your grandpa, J.B.?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think he died.”

“Yeah he did, Saylor. And your saying that doesn’t help anything.”

“Well yeah, I know he died. But he’s not gone, J.B. You know what I think? I think that when you die, your soul goes to Heaven you know, you live there, and you look over people there, but you don’t realize that your soul isn’t the only thing that goes from your body. I think your heart goes too. Not your real one, I mean, but your symbolic one. But instead of going to Heaven, your heart gets ripped up, and a piece of it goes to everyone you love, and it just sort of attaches to them, but the leftover pieces just kind of float. You know? And they just walk around the streets and they help everyone, and the more good things you do for people while you’re alive, the more pieces you get.”

“That’s a stupid idea.”

“I know,” he agreed soberly. “But that’s what I think. And you know, you really don’t ever die; that’s why Jesus was born. That’s what Christmas is for.”

“Do you believe in Christmas?”

“Yes. I really do.”

“I don’t know if I do, Saylor.” I sounded forlorn even to myself. “I want to. I do. I celebrate Christmas, but I just I don’t know if my heart’s really in it.”

“Well, start out small. Just take the idea. That we’re going to be saved from death. We’ll never die. Just start small, J.B.”

“This is stupid. What are we doing? It’s science.”

“Well, it was science. Let’s go. Time for English,” Saylor announced.

I tossed my submarine as we left.

“Boys, let’s go,” Coach Halter’s burly voice ricocheted against the boxed-in locker room. I finished unbuckling my leather belt, tore off my blue jeans, and hurriedly pulled on my black basketball shorts having already tossed on my blood-red jersey. I gave each armpit a quick swipe of Christmas tree deodorant, tightened the laces on my shoes, and made it out of the room with the last person at my heels.

“Oh Tyler, unlucky,” Halter said with a sympathetic groan. “You almost got out before the disappearing act. Two laps. Go.” He watched Tyler start out and turned to me. “Lucky break, disappearing act. I would’ve made you run three. It’s nice seeing you back though, J.B.”

“For you maybe.”

“That’s the way you want it then.”

“Who says I want anything the way it is?”

“Not me.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “What’s up, Pal? You seem down.”

“Yeah, well, death in the family can do that to you.”

“Oh? Who hit the dust? Excuse my language,” he added quickly.

“My grandpa.”

“A fav?”

“Something like that.”

“Tough break, man.”

“I hear there’s a lot of those.”

“Affirmed.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“I’m sorry you do. I wish no one had to.” He smiled sadly. “Okay men. Two laps. That’s two more for you, Tyler.”

I grimaced as we started out; the six day vacation had had its toll on me. My breathing came roughly between sharp gasps and my side ached. I was scrunched up on one side, grabbing my skin to relieve the pain. And where I was once the fastest player, easily lapping the other guys on our long runs, I now brought up the tail of the pack, following in my teammates’ dust. It was a new perspective.

Saylor slowed down to keep pace with me.

“What’re you doing after practice today, Sail?”

“Aw, well, Mom has her volunteer work at Douglas again and Cay went last time, so it’s my turn to help her out.”

“Can I come with you?”

“I don’t see why not. But J.B., I didn’t think you dug volunteer work.”

“I don’t. I just don’t want to go home.”

“So go hang out with Shelley,” Saylor suggested, running backwards.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No. But last time you tried to go, you just had such an awful experience.”

“Yeah.” I remembered that. It had been back a couple years when Gramp wasn’t sick yet. He did volunteer work at the hospital all the time, just hanging out with patients, making sure their last few days were worth living, pleasant, meaningful. He talked sports with the men, cooking, and family stuff with the women, and the rare cases of children were treated to games and movies. He had such a great time there that I decided I wanted to try it out, back when I wasn’t mean to everyone and the Code didn’t exist.

Gramp was in the living room, watching an episode of The Suite Life of Zack and Cody, his all-time favorite show even though it was geared toward kids, finishing a bowl of Lucky Charms, and tying his shoes at the same time when I came flying in, shoelaces undone, fall jacket unbuttoned and flapping at my back, and my hair short and neat. “Gramp, can I come with you?”

“Of course, Jordan. That would make my day.”

“Oh thank you, Gramp. Can I drive?” I asked with eye-sparkling enthusiasm.

He couldn’t deny me. “Of course, Jordan. I’ll teach you.” Suddenly Gramp was young, a teenager, thrilled at the idea of driving. We switched places in that moment, and I was the experienced elderly man trying to find joy through a kids’ TV show, and he was the enthused young grandson excited at a chance to drive with the person he loved more than life. And then we switched back, and I was still beaming dumbly at Gramp, but something had changed, and that smile didn’t mean anything anymore. It was just plastered to me, and for one invisible second, I was scared. I couldn’t breathe and that smile was still there. I was just too happy to realize what it was. But now that I think back on it, I’m sure it was some kind of premonition.

Because we never made it to the volunteer work. He let me drive. He was teaching me and it was all right because we used the back lanes and there was no traffic. Only one lazy river streaming past. It was beautiful and blue with rich, healthy, unpolluted grass growing at its side, and a yellow ball in the sky sending out rays of light, and it was easy to believe anything. Even the existence of a baby savior in Bethlehem.

But that stone wall came up so fast. It was on Gramp’s side and when I hit it, scraping the metal shell of vehicle against the unmoving stone, it was Gramp who took the full blow, and it was Gramp who received a severe hit to the head, and it was Gramp who arrived at the hospital strapped into an ambulance bed while I rode alongside. And so it was Gramp who underwent surgery and recovery.

In those two seconds before we hit, I had my first real prayer. I was terrified so I turned to the only source I thought I could depend on. And when we hit that bubble of hope burst and I couldn’t believe anything anymore.

I still did the volunteer work just to have something to do, and that was the first time I can remember ever being rude. She was a little girl dressed in a pink nightgown, holding a teddy bear with a big pink bowtie, and she was bald. She had cancer. After we had played tic-tac-toe too many times to count, I was tired and I had a headache and I was terrified that I had killed Gramp and she opened her mouth, “Can you get me some water,” and she sounded so pitiful and I knew she wasn’t.

“No, I’m not going to freaking get you your stupid glass of water. Get out of bed and get it yourself. Don’t act helpless.” She burst into tears, she was only about five, and I ran out of the room bawling. I ran home, all the way, by myself. And then everything changed. Because it was just easier to keep spinning my web than to cut the thread and drop to the unknown and start over. It was just easier to swear and be rude, and to look different, than to apologize to that little girl.

Even if I did still believe in Jesus, I didn’t believe he could have anything to do with me now that I had done that. How could I be saved if I had almost killed someone?

“Hey, J.B., snap out of it.” I pulled myself from the very depths of my dark memories, cobwebbed from neglect, to find myself running alone; the two laps were over and everyone else had stopped and were sprawled out across the bleachers and the wooden floor panels. “J.B., I’m worried. What was that?” Halter asked, gripping my shoulder.

“I don’t know, sir, I just swallowed myself.” I was breathing heavily and a sheen of sweat ran down the front of my jersey. I felt perspiration sliding down my face too.

“Okay. All right. I want you to take a break, okay?”

“I’m all right, Coach. It was just a moment. It won’t happen again.” I was sincere and he saw that.

“All right. Okay.” He bit his lip thoughtfully, no doubt trying to decide whether to let me continue. “Okay.”

“Thanks Coach.” I started to jog away.

“J.B.,” he called.

“What?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral as my entire body screamed in protest.

“I won’t punish you if you take a break.”

“All right, Coach. I’m fine.”

“J.B.?” someone asked cautiously from behind me.

“Yeah?” I tossed my sweat-soaked jersey into a plastic bag and tied it before throwing on my button-up shirt, fall jacket, and black and red choir sweatshirt. I then tucked the bag into my backpack to take home for laundering before turning.

“Do you still want to do the volunteer stuff?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah I do, Saylor.”

“We gotta go then.”

“Oh right. Okay, I’m ready.”

I followed Saylor out of the gym and through the maze of school hallways, never quite catching up to him to walk alongside, but never more than two steps behind as I attempted to look at ease with everything. That pretense couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

My soul was in turmoil. I could feel it like a fist closing around my windpipes, constantly taunting and reminding me of all my flaws and all the reasons why I couldn’t believe in Jesus and why I couldn’t believe that he could save me. I’m going to die and go to hell, I realized. I don’t deserve Heaven. I didn’t really. An almost-murderer, a constant sinner. I didn’t deserve the glory.

I could feel it coming, another memory, like the last.
I had just cussed out some kid in my class who’d moved away since then. We were the last people in the classroom. I spat on the ground at his feet, and instead of throwing a punch or swearing back, Jason looked at me and I saw sympathy.

“I’m sorry I can’t do anything for you, Jordan.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve sinned badly. It’s going to take a lot of praying to get back in God’s good graces,” he answered quietly.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My cousin is an angel. You’re going to go to hell for that. He taught me that. So I never swear. I’d help if I could. But I don’t want to end up where you’re going.”

Somehow, that never helped me. He had kind of sinned too in a twisted sort of way. Gramp always said that if you didn’t ever sin, you weren’t living the way you were supposed to. “Jesus came to forgive us our sins which implies that it isn’t all right, but we’ll be forgiven. We’ll get another chance.” He believed that with all his heart. I always thought I did too.

“J.B., you’re doing it again.”

“Sorry Saylor,” I answered automatically, realizing suddenly that we were outside. Snow was falling thick and fast. Heavy fat drops of rain sliced down through the air amidst the flakes and the result was a churning liquid mess of white slush that slipped over our tennis shoes and drenched our socks, freezing our toes solid. “It’s beautiful.” I turned my face to the sky and opened my mouth. The cold drink soothed my hungry stomach and cleansed my face, washing away my tears, mixing them up until there was no difference and my grief might never have existed. “This is great,” I added in delight. I found a clear patch of blacktop glazed with moisture and slid across it down the small drop until my ride ended with a plunge into a thickly condensed snow pile.

“J.B., you are so weird.”

“I know, and it’s great.”

Mrs. Hanson waved to us from her cherry-colored Toyota which the Hansons had hand-painted to save money. Together Saylor and I skated across the parking lot. Saylor had fed off my sudden change of spirit, and we had picked up a pair of sticks lying haphazardly on the edge of the property and begun to play hockey with a chunk of ice.

“J.B., this is a pleasant surprise. Saylor and Cay told me you’ve been missing in action for the past week. Early vacation?” she asked with an exaggerated wink.

“Something like that.” Saylor offered me the front seat; I declined and opened the car door to the backseat instead.

“Well it’s great to have you joining us on our mission of good faith to give some worse-off folks some hope and happiness for the Christmas season. Saylor, Cayden has piano today, so I’m going to drop the two of you off- it’s great that J.B. chose today to join us- and go pick up Cay for his lesson. I’ll just stay there and get some work done until Cay is finished, and then I’ll come join you boys. Maybe we’ll go out for pizza afterwards,” she finished, giving me another wink, “If it’s all right with J.B. and Mrs. Berkley.”

“Yes and yes,” I replied, answering for Mom. “10:00 curfew is it for me. Besides, Mom doesn’t even get home until 7:00.” It never used to be that way. Before the divorce, she and Dad always made a point of getting home no later than 5:30 so we could eat as a family: Mom, Dad, Luke, and me. And then they separated- that’s the term Mom uses to describe it- so that Dad could go and elope with some younger girl who was barely twenty. Half a year ago, Mom got a notice that Dad was in prison for doing something or other, and his girl had run off with some other guy. That was the last straw for me.

That was when I devised the Code. I made it for Luke and myself, but he didn’t have the same idea of how to get over problems. He started going out of his way to be nice to everyone, except me. But he was never nice to me. Just brotherly. I created the Code to make sure I wouldn’t get hurt ever again. But it never worked.

“Great. That’s perfect then. Oh, will Luke be all right?”

“You know, this will be perfect. He’s twelve, it’s high time he learned to take care of himself.”

“Then we’re on.”

Douglas Hospital loomed before us. Saylor jumped out of the car and opened my door like a chauffeur. “We’re here,” he announced, drawing out ‘here’ longer than was necessary.

“I can see that, Sail.”

“He can see that, Sail,” Mrs. Hanson added, “just in case you didn’t hear J.B.”

“Ha ha, Mom. Don’t deny it. You just wish you were J.B. instead of a regular old mother.”

“Hush now, Saylor,” Mrs. Hanson said sharply, pretending to be offended. “You can’t give away my secret that easily.”

“Whatever,” Saylor rolled his eyes, “let’s go, J.B. Get away from this crazy lady.”

“I’m coming.”

Together we hurried through the ever-thickening snow toward the gleaming lobby. Slipping and sliding, we finally reached the front door and pulled it open. Saylor made a beeline to the fire and I followed having no idea what other options I had. A few minutes later, Saylor made a small gesture to me and mouthed “Here we go.” I turned to see what Saylor had seen and spotted Jessica walking straight toward us.

“Oh, ‘uck, Saylor, hide me.”

“What’s up, man?”

“I can’t let that lady see my face.”

“What are you talking about?” Saylor began to twist and turn, trying to see me as I frantically stayed behind him. We must have been a sight, dancing across the room. And then Jessica walked straight past us and a friendly-looking man with salt n’ pepper hair materialized in front of us. “Saylor? That you? Or is it Cayden?”

“Saylor,” Saylor said. “Mom had to run an errand but this is my partner in crime, J. A. Berkley otherwise known as Jab.”

“It’s nice to meet you Jab-” Unseen by the man, I shot daggers at Saylor who shrugged apologetically. “-I’m Saylor’s uncle, Peter Anthony. You can call me Dr. Tony.”

“Actually, I’m gonna call you D.T.”

“Okay,” he agreed looking slightly dazed, “D.T. it is then, Jab. So, today we’re going to be bathing some men and when Olivia gets here, she’ll bathe women.”

“Bathing? Uh…”

“It’s not real bathing in a bathtub, J.B. There’s this cream stuff, almost like marshmallows that aren’t sticky, I guess, that you just rub on the skin and it kind of just fades away. It’s fantastic. But it’s a private corporation product and they only sell to hospitals. It makes sense though: hospital patients can’t really bathe themselves and regular people can, and besides, this stuff is really expensive. Douglas only bathes people with it during the Christmas season, right Tony?”

“You’ve got it, Saylor. It just brings a little hope and holiday spirit to those without it, Jab.”

“You sound like a commercial, D.T.” I told him, rashly speaking the first thing that came to mind.

“Maybe I’m practicing,” he shot back at me with an eye-crinkling smile. “You know, Jab, you’re so rude, I shouldn’t like you, but I can’t help it.” He shook his head in confusion and chewed the inside of his cheek. “There’s something about you.”

“Well, I wear deodorant. Maybe that’s what you smell, D.T. It’s okay you don’t recognize it. It is a new scent after all. Besides, I’m still trying to decide whether you wear any.”

“J.B.,” Saylor groaned.

“What?”

“Let’s just get to work, boys. Okay? Follow me.” D.T. took the initiative and I was perfectly content to let him keep the lead. “Saylor, you take Mr. Matthews here. He’s very nice. Talk to him about football-”

“Ugh, no basketball?”

“Saylor,” he answered warningly. Saylor slouched visibly. “Football. He has a problem with his left foot- don’t touch it. All right?”

“Yeah,” Saylor nodded meekly.

“Good. Get started. The cream’s on the counter. Jab, this way.” I followed D.T. up the second flight of stairs, bouncing along like some kind of mutant puppy, trying to catch up but never quite making it. I trailed him all the way to the room. Gramp’s room.

“Jab?” D.T. asked softly, looking over his shoulder. I stood rock-still in the center of the labyrinth-like maze of corridors, biting my lip. His eyes pierced me like darts and I felt the blows on my goose-bump covered skin. I gulped and let my long hair hang down over my eyes as though it could protect me. It was the idea of the thing. That old law that every little kid follows with diligent obedience: if I can’t see you, you can’t see me. It’s not fair otherwise. “Jab, is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Okay then. David Oakley was just admitted to this room a week ago when the last resident passed away. He’s very near death, as is his wife Matilda.”

“Maddy?” I asked with a start.

“Yes. They had two kids together. Charles died in the Iraqi war and their daughter has a very young child. It’s a hard time for her. I’m not sure that David will wake up at all, he’s been sleeping a lot these past few days.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“We’re not sure. Despite all the evidence pointing one way, nothing adds up into one solid disease. Our general hypothesis is that somehow some worm got into his digestive tract. We can’t be sure, but something is eating away at him from the inside out. Jab, don’t get attached.”

“I won’t D.T. I’m attached to three living people in this world and two of them are your nephews.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Jab.”

“I’m not sorry to say it. I have a hard enough time as it is. Don’t be sorry for me. I can handle myself.”

“I can see that. I’ll be down the hall if you need me.”

“I won’t.”



“Mr. Oakley?” He was asleep just as D.T. had predicted. Out cold and snoring. He was bald and had a too-small nose and a too-big mouth containing, through the slit between his lips, two extraordinary buck-teeth the size of nickels.
“This is insane.” I grabbed the thick bottle and made to dump a portion of the cream into my open palm, and then thought better of it. Two minutes later I finally found the box of rubber gloves stuffed into the back corner of an alcove cupboard. I snapped the gloves on and proceeded to lather his legs, feet, and arms in cream before debating silently whether to lather his chest and stomach. I decided against it, reasoning that he could file a sexual abuse complaint against me if he ever woke up.
“So long Oatberry,” I murmured, calling him by the newly-concocted name I had discovered during the cleaning. And then I had a sudden idea. “You’re as good as dead, Mr. Oatberry. So here’s the deal, I washed you up, made you all nice and clean for your reunion or I guess just union with Jesus and God and all the heavenly angels, so it’s your turn to do a favor for me. Say hi to my grandpa. Tell him I miss him and I’m sorry I’m so rotten and I’m never going to see him again. And,” I added on the spur of the moment, “ tell him I haven’t gotten rid of the stuff yet, but I will. I swear. I’ll get rid of it like he told me. I miss him so bad, Mr. Oakley. Tell me something else, are there any ‘reaking privacy-destroying recording bugs in this stupid death room?” He didn’t answer, but I didn’t expect him to. For good measure I kicked the balls and threw the bottle of cream at the spots I couldn’t reach. But nothing shaped like a ladybug fell from the ceiling and I really didn’t want to be with Mr. Oakley when, if, he woke up.

I never actually went out for pizza with the Hansons. The second I got out of that room with Mr. Oakley, some demon came and possessed me and I didn’t want to do anything with the human civilization ever again. I ran home again, the second time in a week.

Luke was home doing his homework. He ignored me, but I hadn’t expected any different after my behavior in the past week. I knew Mom and Luke were grieving just as much as I was. But I didn’t care. As long as I felt awful, no one else could. I didn’t have the capacity to give empathy to others when I needed it all for myself.

I shot baskets outside in a t-shirt and shorts. Each prick of snow killed me; my nerves were working overtime. It felt fantastic. I was finally getting what I deserved. And by the time Mom got home, I was in bed. I didn’t sleep more than an hour consecutively and I was exhausted by the crack of dawn when I forced myself to rise. Saturday passed and then Sunday had arrived. I woke around 6:30 to the phone ringing.

Two hours later I finished showering. I was just toweling off when someone gave a sharp knock on the flimsy bathroom door, nearly knocking it off its frame. “What?”

“J.B. man, we gotta go. We’re going to be late.”

“So?” When Dad left, Mom stopped going to church, but Gramp and Luke and I still continued. But when Gramp died, I didn’t want to anymore.

“Look, just because Gramp isn’t here,” he began, “it doesn’t mean church can’t be meaningful.”

“It never was, Luke.”

“I saw you having fun.”

“Yeah, when Gramp and I played tic-tac-toe during the service and gave each other random prizes. That’s about all the meaning I got out of it.”

“Well, you have to go today because we’re preparing for the Christmas pageant.”

“The Christmas pageant?”

“Yeah! We get our parts.”

That decided it. “I’m not going.”

“Fine.”

I finished dressing, wondering how Luke was planning to get there. Up until Gramp had been admitted, he drove. Then Luke biked every week. But it was snowing hard; there was no way he could manage with his bike. At the last second I realized what he was planning to do.

I barreled out the garage door and raced to the end of the car where I planted myself firmly in its path.

“Get out of the way,” Luke hissed.

“I’m not going to let you drive.”

“No, J.B., get out of the way. I can’t stop it.”

“The brakes,” I shouted, leaping from the path of the car. I watched the thick black tires squealing as they churned over the snow where I had been only seconds before.

“I’m trying,” Luke screamed in genuine terror.

Unbidden an image came into my mind making me smile stupidly at the memory. It was a rainy day, four or five years before and I had gone over to the Hansons’ place to watch a video with Cayden and Saylor. Saylor met me grimly at the door.

“Hey Sail,” I said genially, craning my neck to see over him and into the house; back then, Saylor was still the taller of us.

“Hi Jordan,” he replied glumly.

“What’s wrong Saylor?”

“Cayden got to choose the movie. I wanted Cars, but Cayden chose Star Wars.” I couldn’t remember whether we had seen A New Hope or The Empire Strikes Back but it was the one where Yoda trains Luke. Luke claims that there is no possible way that he can lift his ship out of the lake just by using the force. But Yoda urges him so he promises to try. Yoda retorts that there is no such thing as try. You either do or do not. There is no try.

“J.B.” Luke cried in hysterical alarm. I turned and realized in horror that during my reverie Luke had slipped farther; he now sat in the middle of the road, rolling ever so slightly, but rolling.

“Hang on, Luke. I’m coming.” I ran faster than I had ever run in my life. With every hard-fought breath, the panic increased ten-fold. My brother, my life-long friend was in mortal danger. Luke could die.

He was ten feet from the stop sign when I reached him. I gestured for Luke to slide into the passenger seat, and he did so without complaint. We rolled for a couple more feet with me hanging off the side, before I managed to untangle myself and pull open the door. I hung limply before wrestling into the interior and stamping on the brake. “We’re okay, Luke. We’re all right,” I murmured gazing straight ahead and taking control of the gears. I chanced a glance at my brother; he was hunched into a tight ball on the far corner of seat. His body was shaking and he was sobbing, silently. Warily.

“God, Luke. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot,” I paused watching for his reaction. There was none. “I know I’m just about the worst brother you could get, Luke. I’m so sorry. I’m no good. I’m no good for anything,” I said between tears. My face streamed with tears and the whole world was blurry. “God, Luke. I hate myself. So much.”

He lifted his face a millimeter. “No,” he said bluntly. “No,” he repeated with even more force, shaking his head. “Don’t you believe that for a second, Jordan Berkley. It’s me. I didn’t help you when Dad left. I knew you were in more pain than I could ever be. And I didn’t do anything about it. I didn’t help you. I’m sorry J.B.”

“If I wasn’t who I am, I’d pull over and hug you, Luke. But I don’t like soap operas.” I sounded young and ignorant.

“I don’t like soap operas either.” Luke stumbled over the words and sounded even younger than I had.

“Good. That’s settled then. I guess I have to do the Christmas pageant now.”

“You won’t be sorry. Maybe you’ll feel better.”

“Cut it out, Luke.”

“Just trying to help,” he said with a small grin.

Our youth director, Missy Maxwell, doesn’t just have the movie star name but she’s got the looks too with her perfect golden locks that curl in just the right places and frame an oval face without a trace of acne or makeup. She doesn’t need makeup; her eyes are a creamy chocolate hidden by long, long lashes. They’re the kind of eyes that draw you in and remind you of a warm, fireplace-lit coffee shop in the middle of nowhere with all the potential writers hogging whole tables with laptops and notebooks and sketches and a single mug of coffee gone cold with neglect. Her lips are a full rich color of red apple skins. She turned as we walked in.

“Oh, what a lovely surprise, J.B. And it’s nice to see you looking so happy, Luke. You’ve hardly missed a thing, we’re just getting started.” We hurried up the center aisle and filed into a pew to sit beside the other middle-schoolers: Jamie, Derek, Mike, Sam, Wally, Noelle, Madeline, Kate, and Lucy.

“Yo J.B. I saw you at school Friday. Nice act in first period,” Mike said holding up his hand to me. I ignored it.

“Yeah. I guess,” I drawled indifferently.

“Okay kids,” Missy called, “here’s the deal. I’ll give out the parts, we’ll do a quick read-through of the script, and then we’ll dole out the costumes before we disperse. So,:

Kate will be Mary. Congratulations Kate.

Joseph will be played by our very own Wally.

Jamie and Derek, shepherds.

Noelle, an angel.

Madeline as well.

Luke, you’re king Herod.

Lucy and Mike, Elizabeth and Zachariah.

Sam and J.B. are our wise men.

The high-schoolers will switch off as the narrators and the young kids already have animal parts. So, let’s get started.”

“Missy?”


“Yes, J.B.?”

“I don’t like my part.” Beside me, I felt rather than heard Luke’s groan.

“What?”

“Yeah. I don’t like it. The wise people don’t matter. They’re just a bunch of rich men who look at stars and decide that one particular star is important and then they’re dumb enough to go chase after it, and look what happens. They just waste their lives to go on a wild goose chase, and look what happens. They end up in Herod’s clutches and it takes a visit from angels to tell them that they’re being idiots and endangering the savior. Who would want to play that part?”

“I see, J.B. Well it’s really the symbolism of the thing.”

“So you’re telling me I’m just a symbol in the pageant. Like a sign. Oh yeah, that makes me feel great.”

“That’s not what I meant, J.-”

“Look, Missy,” Sam interrupted impatiently, “don’t try to argue, er, discuss anything with J.B. He’ll always win, and you won’t get anywhere. Let’s just get on with it.”

“For once you sound sane, Sam.”

“Can’t you just act normal for one hour?” Luke begged me; I kept my eyes well trained from his and watched as a blush began to creep onto his face. “Please, J.B.,” he begged. “Just once?”

“Shut up.” It was the easiest thing to say. I couldn’t admit that what he asked of me was something I couldn’t do. I had changed too much. I couldn’t control myself.

“Okay. We ca- we can talk later,” he muttered. For once we were both all to aware of the eyes trained on us. It was uncomfortable. Very much so.



I wandered into the living room seemingly without a purpose although there was one very clear thought taking shape in my mind that I had to share. I found him at the table diligently working on his homework.

“I don’t think it works.”

“What? Oh, J.B. Hey, I didn’t see you come in. Hey, you want to help me with my science? I really don’t get this genetics stuff.”

“Genetics? That was easy. But seriously, Luke. I don’t think it works.”

“What’s that?”

“Church. Every single week the same people come and for that one hour they all stand together and fill that room with praise. But then they leave and their lives just go back to the way they were and they don’t give the service a second thought. It’s like stepping from one world to the next. In one you’re a perfect Christian, and in the next, you just blend in with everyone else. It’s the building. In the bible, it’s all about the church, but I think the church is more a word to describe a group of people than a building. But when you have that building, no one takes Christianity any farther.”

“Oh, but we do, J.B. When you’re kind and loving to everyone, you’re being a Christian. You don’t have to sing and pray everywhere you go. You just have to spread the love. And, your wise men? I think we’re all sort of wise men.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We just are. I can feel it.” He put his pencil down and looked at me carefully.

“Maybe,” I muttered, unconvinced.

“Wanna help me with my homework?” Luke asked sweetly.

Luke got a battery-operated marble circuit for his eighth Christmas. It was one of those things with the automatic elevator and then the slides and whirls. Sunday night I turned it on and watched for hours as the marbles spun along their track. They didn’t increase speed and they didn’t slow down. I envy those marbles. Sure, the first time they ever run it, maybe they’d be nervous if they could think, but they can’t think, so they just ran down that track. But after that, they’d always know what came next. That would be such a different life if humans could always know what’s coming next in their route of life and just keep repeating it. It’d be boring. But it would safe. No one would ever get hurt again. Marbles are lucky.

Gramp used to say that’s what makes humans different from all other animals: we can think. In some ways, our species leads the easiest lives, and in others, we’ve got it roughest. I think thinking is one of those gray areas. Sometimes it makes and sometimes it breaks.

Monday morning came too quickly. I woke up early and scribbled out some fake answers to my math worksheet even though it took longer to make sure that my answers were wrong than if I had actually just done the work. I did the same with science and English.

Then I darted into the kitchen to grab a piece of fruit for the walk to school. Automatically, I reached for the last plum on the cooling rack as I scrambled for a can of Coke. I picked up the plum, and stopped. I had eaten the first of the two plums yesterday before bed. Normally I wouldn’t have twice about eating both, but something stopped me. I juggled the fruit for a minute, debating whether to take it. And then I placed it back on the rack, picked up a Clementine, and tossed on my winter coat.



“Which state is farther North? Texas or Maine?” Mrs. Linden quizzed me.

“Texas,” I replied, yawning tiredly.

“J.B., you’ve got to stop this.”

“Stop what?” I yawned again.

“J.B., you are one of the most intelligent students in this class and I know from personal experience that you are very proficient in geography having graded your class assignments myself. And I’ve heard that you were the class geography bee winner last year. You’ve gotten all four of your questions wrong so far, J.B. You’ve lost. And I know you know all the answers. Which state is farther North? There is a map in front of your face.”

“So?”


“J.B., please put in some effort.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“You haven’t felt like it for a month.”

“So?”

“J.B. you’re throwing away so much. You could have a very successful life ahead of you, but you just keep chipping away at the pile of gold and if you keep this up, you aren’t going to have a future.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yet.”

“Shut up.”

“Catherine, which state borders the Atlantic Ocean? North Carolina or Ohio?”

“North Carolina.”

“Very good. Ben, which state…” I dozed off, slumped into my seat. It was true. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to face it. I was throwing away my life. No one needed to tell me that.



“You’re losing it, J.B.” I frowned at my favorite teacher, Ms. Heath, the choir director. It was 3:34, a minute past school release, but I was still stuck in the choir room, completely alone but for the concerned-looking woman before me.

“How’re Jake and Joey?” I asked, looking pointedly away from her and gazing instead at the silver-framed photograph of her twin toddlers.

“They’re doing great and if I thought you meant that question, I’d feel flattered. But that was an excuse, J.B. You can cuss me out all you want, but everyone’s noticed. What’s up? Why are you so downright rude?”

“I don’t know,” I replied monotonously, rolling my eyes skyward.

“I think you do. You just don’t want to tell me. Because, if you do, it’ll be real. It will be out there where anyone can grab it and pull you down, blackmail you. You’re scared, J.B.” It wasn’t a question. “So don’t tell me. But you have to change. And unless you shape up by tomorrow, I’m taking back your solo in the concert tomorrow night. It kills me, J.B. I know how hard you’ve been working. I know how bad you want this. But it goes to someone else if you aren’t polite by tomorrow.” I knew I must have looked weary, beaten. She placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this.” She patted me and stood up, moving around the piano. “Please, J.B. You’re the best for that solo. Don’t blow it.”

“I think I already have. How do I change?” I wasn’t talking to Ms. Heath. I think I was talking to God. Trying to.

“J.B.?” she called from her office. “Basketball game.”

“Oh, right.” I slung my backpack across my right shoulder, pushed open the door with my opposite shoulder, and strode out into the hall and down to the gymnasium.

“There’s Mr. Berkley,” Coach said with a jolly laugh. “What’d I tell you, Gentlemen. I knew he’d show.”

“Hey, Mr. C.”

“Get dressed, Berk, and take two laps. You have five minutes,” he drawled slowly.

“I can do it in four.”

“You’re on. You make it in four, you’re a starter. Over that and you get an extra lap.”

Saylor grinned. “Way to go, J.B.!”

“That’s a lap for you, Mr. Hanson. You can wait and run with J.B.”

I dashed into the locker room, failed to go farther than the doorway, and proceeded to strip in full view of everyone but Coach to much enthusiastic laughter, resulting in laps for everyone.

“You suck, J.B.,” Ernest called running past. Unseen by anyone else, he shot up his middle finger.

“Thanks,” I replied, twisting out of my jeans.

I ran the laps in record time, much to Coach’s immense appreciation. “Okay, gang. This is it. Last game before Christmas break. We’re playing the Yellow Sky Panthers. Now they’re good, guys. I won’t hide it. Last time we faced them, we lost. So, let’s make this simple. And let’s win.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!”

“Take another lap, Andrew.”

“Someone’s in a bad mood.”

“Two laps.” Andrew stuck out his tongue.

“Here’s the deal. I want Ryan, Ernest, and… let’s try Colin, up front. Ernest, you’ll take center. Garrett, and J.B., take the back. Saylor, subbing for Ernest, Mike and Andrew will go for Ryan and Colin, and Josh and Brendan, you’ll take out Garrett and J.B.”

“Okay,” Ernest said coolly; he’s had center since last year.

“And here they are boys,” Halter said suddenly, looking over our heads. We turned as one being to watch. One of the far gym doors was oh so slowly creaking open. The minute it was wide enough, a parade of feet began to march through the slim entrance and to the far corner where they congregated together. I looked away from the hypnotizing trail of snow-coated boots, and changed my attentions to the people themselves. Two thirds of the players had medium-length sandy hair and were thin as poles. The other third consisted of a couple brown-haired kids, and one rather obese player, who was the most frightening of all of them with excessive flab drooping off his frame; he looked about to topple over from the weight of his extra skin. It was a very sick image, he looked quite as though he had at one time rivaled Santa Claus, but then had lost a lot of fat, and the skin hadn’t gone with it.

The ref barreled in behind the boys, and promptly skidded on the tracks of melting snow before finally falling face first and slamming his skull into the bleachers just below a terrified huddle of girls in which Shelley was hidden away. The ref stood up angrily and the girls clambered up to a higher level, trampling each other in their haste.

“Welcome to the final match before our holiday break,” a bass voice boomed out over the dimmed gymnasium. A spotlight traveled along the span of the room until it finally found the source of the voice and illuminated the smallest kid in eighth grade. Nick Shepherd looked extremely vulnerable alone under the vibrant gleam of light which threw half his figure into shadows and contrasted the other accordingly. Nick cleared his throat awkwardly and began to speak once more. “Thanks for coming out on this fine 40 degree winter day,” a pleasant chatter circulated the gym, but silenced as Nick cleared his throat once more. “Today we are the lucky spectators of a sure to be fierce basketball game between the Yellow Sky Panthers,” a wave of applause swelled from a small reserved section of the bleachers, “and our very own Tiger Lane Lions!” At the latter pronunciation a cheer rose up from all those who had not applauded for the first team, which was, of course, the majority of the spectators.

Even mixed in with the crowd, I heard Luke’s whoops, so like Gramp’s, ringing clear through the chaos. “All right, J.B.! That’s my brother. That one! Number 30!” I heard him shout to the kid beside him.

The ref blew his whistle and we darted off to our starting positions. “No dirty play all right kids,” he said, and it was a statement, not a question. I saw the kid opposite Ernest grin at him and rub his head behind the ref’s back, and I could only imagine that Ernest would be doing the same.

“And Ernest’s got the first basket of the game! A beautiful two-pointer,” Nick cheered.

Play resumed and it was the most intense battle I could ever remember playing. We dashed along the court, skidding, slipping, bouncing the ball; the noise was fantastic.

“Ernest Dudley with a three-pointer!”

“Yellow Sky’s George Hamlet takes a three-pointer,” Nick shouted amidst a roar of groaning.

“Saylor Hanson has a beautiful pass from Ryan Davidson…he puts it in! A two-pointer for the Lions!”

“Panthers with another two-pointer.”

“Ernest with a two-pointer…”

Ernest raised his hands in victory and let a small grin escape before sculpting his face into one impressive emotion of utmost concentration as he clapped his hands and turned back to face Yellow Sky. One of the guys tossed a quick chest ball to his teammate who received it with an oomph, dropping it, and immediately proceeding to take off down the court in a fast dribble. Ernest took off to challenge him and the rest of us dropped back to mark the remaining players. The kid attempted a through-the-legs dribble which Ernest allowed to take place with an amused smile at the kid’s show of talent. In three seconds flat, the ball was in Ernest’s possession, and he hadn’t even turned around. He can be intimidating or he can promote confidence in his opponents. Either way it’s our win and their loss.

Ernest darted back down the court, making up the lost ground, and sent a bounce pass in Colin’s general direction before the opposition could get in position to challenge him for possession. Colin dribbled a few more steps before sending a sudden back pass to Garrett who was keeping pace a few meters behind and was completely open. Garrett swerved around a frustrated and therefore blindly aggressive player as easily as walking around a pole, set up a clean shot, and threw a perfect all-net three-pointer.

“Garrett Pike!” was all Nick could muster before he was overwhelmed by the fans. I could see, vaguely, from the corner of my eye, as I flopped down on the bench, having just been substituted out by Andrew, Luke and Cayden stomping and whistling and whooping Garrett’s name over and over, and I felt a pang of something I had been careful to stay clear of for years. I felt jealous. I felt a need to have everyone clapping for me. I dumped a full bottle of ice water on my head and stood like a drunk just feeling the ice down my back. Because when you have something like cold to think about, there’s no room for anything else.

The game was racing by faster than I could keep up. By the last three minutes, I was more than ready to be done. We held on to a good 11 point lead and still kept the pressure high. I hadn’t scored; I’m not a scorer, and it’s disappointing, but I’ve found my real talent in singing. Basketball is just for exercise.

“And that’s it folks. 37, 25, Tiger Lane Lions!” Nick cried excitedly. “Thanks for coming out. Have a great last day of school and a nice break too, now that I think of it. See you later alligator, er, lionater!”

“Don’t do it, Nick,” I murmured as I passed.

“What? Oh, hey J.B. Nice game.”

“Don’t try to crack jokes.”

“Yes sir.”

“I mean it. You aren’t funny.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, glaring at me as he packed up his equipment.

“J.B.!” I turned, and there was Shelley, leaping from the bleachers and waving frantically. “Hey, J.B.? Can we talk outside?”

“Yeah, sure. Need help getting down?”

“No, I can manage,” she responded leaping to the floor. “C’mon.”

“Here, you must be freezing, J.B.,” she admonished, taking off her own coat and throwing it over my bare shoulders.

“Shelley, you shouldn’t have given me this. Now you’re going to be cold,” I admonished her back as I slipped my arms into the warm fabric and snuggled into her coat. It smelt of her sweet perfume and was as soft as her lotion-slathered hands. “And besides, it’s 40 degrees out. Don’t you listen to Nick?”
She giggled.
“Freezing is 32 degrees, Shelley. Really, you disappoint me.”

She gave me an enticing smile and tilted her head. “Then give it back.” She held out her hands.

“No. You gave it to me. And besides, you’re wearing a jacket.”

“Oh, big deal.”

“So, nice talk, but I’m sure a coat wasn’t what you had in mind.”

“So sure are you,“ she teased. “Well, you guessed right. Any idea what day it is, J.B.?”

“Not really. But, uh, hang on a second.” I visited Gramp on the 14th and then I stayed home six more days, went to school on Friday, had the weekend. “December 21st,” I told Shelley proudly.

“So tell me, J.B., what’s Friday?”

“December 25th?”

“Yeah, duh. I mean what is it?”

“A day of the week? 24 hours?”

“You’re kidding. It’s Christmas, J.B.”

“Oh, yeah, that. Right. Yeah, I know that, I just thought it was a trick question.”

“Okay,” she said, gulping a breath of air, “well, judging from our this conversation, I doubt you’ve gotten anything for me, but I got you a Christmas present.”

“Wow, thanks, Shelley. But you’re wrong,” I added quickly, “I do have a present for you. But I didn’t realize you were going to give me one tonight,” I said, my cheerful mood darkening, “or I’d have brought it.” I really didn’t have a present for her. But admitting that, well it was a death wish.

“That’s all right,” she replied, and her expression was much lighter as she regarded me mischievously. “You didn’t have to get me anything, Jordan, I love you without needing anything in return. You’re enough. But you know, I’ll be at the concert tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “I totally forgot about that.”

“Nervous?”

“No. I’m not nervous of anything.”

“Anything?”

“Well maybe that’s a little too exaggerated. There may be one or two things.”

“Always so gallant,” she said. She was still smiling. “Open it,” she said, gesturing toward the package I cradled in my arms.

“Okay, okay.” I tore off the wrapping. “All right, Shelley,” I cried, dropping the gift and hugging her.

“Hey, hey, J.B. You’re suffocating me.”

“Sorry. But a whole pound of chocolate? You’re the best.”

“There’s more. I hid it just in case anyone came by and thought you weren’t manly.”

“Really?” I tucked the candy bar under my arm and peeled off the wrapping beneath it. “A Nintendo D.S. game? You are so cool, Shelley.”

“Why thank you. You want a ride home?” she asked, watching me scan the parking lot.

“What? Oh, no, thank you. My mom actually came to this game,” I told her, biting my lip as I craned my neck to look.

“Really? That’s fantastic, J.B. I’m so happy for you.” She sounded genuinely pleased. Shelley understood everything so perfectly.

“I see them. Thanks again, Shelley. Half a day of school, the concert, and we are home free,” I said jubilantly, whirling her in an exuberant hug.

“Hey, J.B. Suffocating…”

“Sorry. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” she called to my back as I trudged off between the lanes of car light-lit, snow-cleared shining pathways between vehicles. I skated up to our own car, pulled open the passenger door, dumped my school things beneath the dashboard, and slid into my seat, pronouncing “Hey Mom. Thanks for coming. I’m starved.”

“I can imagine. You played very well tonight, J.B. So what say you? Pizza or Chinese?”

“Pizza,” Luke begged.

“Fine,” I agreed good-naturedly, “pizza.”

“No,” Luke cried in horror. “You’ve changed, J.B.! You always pick what I don’t want so I said what I didn’t want, and the one time I do that is the one time you’re actually civil!”

“I take it you want Chinese,” I said, gathering the gist of his explanation. “Fine with me.”

“Chinese it is then,” Mom said, flipping on the windshield wipers to clear a patch of glass from the snow that was just beginning to fall. She switched on 103.3 Hits, and within seconds a weather forecast filled the interior of the car. “We can expect an extremely quick drop in temperature overnight; the approximated temperature average ranges from sixteen to twenty-five degrees. A snow storm is expected for 11:00 tomorrow so drive carefully. Temperature highs for tomorrow are between fifteen and twenty degrees-”

“How miserable is that, guys?” Mom said, sighing. “We’re going to be hard-pressed to get to that concert of yours tomorrow night, J. We’ll have to leave early.”

I didn’t reply; there was no need for me to speak. It wasn’t a question and she definitely didn’t expect an answer; she was humming along to the song on the radio “We all wanna change the world…” the guy sang softly to the swish of the windshield wipers.

Hmmm, I thought, we all want to change the world. How true was that? We do. Every single person on this harsh world living their own harsh lives dreams of changing the world. Eliminating hunger, doing something great, something remarkable, something people will remember. Everyone wants to change the world. But what no one ever seems to realize except the protagonist in fictional novels is that everyone has already changed the world. The second you’re born. The second you’re conceived. You’ve changed the world. Just by existing.

“Hey dreamy boy, we’re here,” Mom whispered. “J.B.?”

“Snap out of it, brother. Get out,” someone else added and this voice wasn’t quiet. This voice screamed into my ears and made my eardrums erupt in pain.

“God, Luke,” I muttered inaudibly, rubbing my head where it had hit the car ceiling.

“It’s your fault for falling asleep,” he said unemotionally.

“You’re going to be a great dad, Luke, punishing your kids for sleeping.”

“You’re not my kid are you? When I have my own offspring, I’ll be nicer.”

“You’d better.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“What are you on about, Luke?”

“Look, J.B.,” he muttered, suddenly subdued. He scuffed the toys of his tennis shoes into the parking lot’s liquidy slush. “I knew you were oblivious but I didn’t know it was this bad. Everyone’s sick of your behavior. They’d tell you themselves, but everyone’s terrified you’ll retaliate. J.B. you’re alienating yourself.”

“When you aren’t attached, you can’t be broken,” I explained indifferently, still massaging my forehead gingerly.

“When you aren’t attached, you aren’t living,” he retorted sharply, angrily.

“What the ‘el do you mean by that, Luke Berkley?”

“It’s like betting, J.B. You take a risk, you put some trust into someone and sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. But you can’t win without a risk.”

“You can’t lose either.”

“That’s not the point. Half of life is being attached. Caring about something or someone enough to risk your life, your happiness, everything, for that one person. That’s what it means to live, J.B. You aren’t living. You’re just a robot. You don’t care.”

“I do care, Luke.”

“Yeah, about Saylor and Cayden and Shelley.”

“No. I care about everyone.”

“Prove it then.”

“I will. You’ll see.”

“Luke, J.B., let’s go,” Mom approached us from the entrance where she had been waiting. “Or are you two not hungry?”


“Starving, Mom,” Luke and I responded simultaneously.

“Good,” she said.

We slid into our bench and our oriental waiter, Tai Hmong, bowed quickly, set out three glasses of water, and hurried away. I flipped indecisively through my menu.

“These noodles sound fantastic,” Mom breathed. “That’s my choice, I believe. What are you two leaning toward?”

“Shrimp all the way,” Luke responded eagerly. “They have the best sweet and sour sauce here.”

“What about you?” Mom asked me.

“I’ll try the lemon chicken.”


“That sounds great, J.”

“We’ll see.” We sat in an awkward silence for a minute before Mom started, breaking the unease. “I’ve just remembered. I know it’s a bit late, boys, but you haven’t written any Christmas wish lists yet, and I am at a loss of what to get you. Here,” she fumbled in her purse, “I have a pad of paper here somewhere.”

“What?” Luke asked with a grin, “you want us to write to Santa Claus?”

Mom ceased rustling through her things, “You want to write to Santa, Lukey?”

“No, Mom. I’m not stupid. Everyone knows Santa doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, Luke. I used to long for the day when you’d say that. You know, because then you’d be all grown up. But I guess I never really wanted to hear it. You are growing up,” she sighed wistfully. “Well, here they are,” she said wistfully, producing her pad of post-it notes. “I suppose you’re too old for children’s menus so you can complete them before dinner even.”

I took my sheet and sat staring at the snow-white page. What did I want?

“I’ll be back, guys. I just have to use the restroom,” Mom said, standing suddenly. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I chanced a glance at Luke’s list as Mom left:

Luke’s Wish list
1. World peace (Its okay. You don’t have to get this Mom.)
2. Lots of money to donate to charity.
3. A new game for my D.S.
4. A new soccer ball.
5. My brother back.
6. Happiness.
7. An iPod.


“Are you stupid, Luke?” I exclaimed. “Mom can’t get you all of that. She can’t get you world peace or happiness.”

“That’s true. But it isn’t a list of things for Mom to buy. It’s just my wish list.”

“Well what about number five.”

“That’s about you. I want you back, J.B. I just want to have the same brother I remember.” I looked back at my brother. His eyes were welling up and a few tears had escaped. “I don’t know you anymore. I just want Jordan back.” He looked at me, earnestly, pleadingly. Begging.

“I’m going to the bathroom too,” I told him, hurrying away from the table. I didn’t go to the restroom; I came back into the lobby area, stole a seat in a far corner, looked down at my own blank page, and began to write:


Jordan Berkley’s Wish list
1) New games for my D.S.
2) A Wii
3) A basketball hoop for the driveway
4) Internet access for my computer
5) A television set
6) Chocolate truffles
7) to believe in Christmas
8)to grant my brother’s wish


I scratched out the last two wishes; they were for myself only.



“Here.” I thrust the list into Mom’s hand.

“Thank you, J.B.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Can you call me Jordan again?”

“Of course, Jordan.”

“Hi Ms. Linden,” I crowed buoyantly, leaping into my first period seat well before the bell.

“J.B.?” she responded, looking up in surprise from where she had been sitting, working intently on some sort of grading at her desk. “J.B.,” she repeated warmly. “It’s good to see you looking so happy today. I daresay you’ll be staying through class?” she added cautiously.

“Yeah, I will, Ms. Linden. But I have something to ask you.”

“Of course, go ahead.”

“Can you call me Jordan?”

“Jordan? Yes, of course I will.”

“Thanks, Ms. Linden.” I gave her a nice sort of half-smile.

“It’s my pleasure. I was wondering, Jordan, whether you might like to go over our most recent unit; I wouldn’t ask, you’re one of the smartest in the class, but you did such a terrible job on the homework-”

“Ms. Linden? Thanks for the offer, but I blew that homework on purpose. I’ll redo it if you want, but I had a harder time getting wrong answers than right,” I admitted sheepishly.

“As long as you’re sure.” She looked delighted at the news.

“Absolutely.”

The bell rang five minutes later and Saylor bounced into the room. “Saylor Hanson, tardy,” Ms. Linden called, but she continued to watch the door as though expecting someone else. Me. “Saylor, that’s a D.T. after school-”

“Lady, I was looking for J.B. He’s gone missing.”

“If you mean Jordan, he’s right where he should be, Saylor, in his seat.”

“Jordan? J.B. hasn’t been Jordan since, like, uh,”

“ Fifth grade,” I supplied helpfully.

“Yeah. Fifth grade,” he said, scratching his head in confusion. “What’s up?”

“Take your seat, Saylor.” He knew better than to try to pull what I had. No one finds humor in a repeat of something that was genuinely funny the first time. He sat down.

All day long the classes sped by at record speeds, and in each one I welcomed my teachers and requested that they return to calling me by my birth name.

Finally, finally, last period arrived and I trudged down the main hallway past floods of kids streaming from classrooms and restrooms all along the length of the route, until I reached the thick choir door situated in the dead center of one wall. Surrounded by waves of kids, I pulled open the door and heard a particularly oblivious sixth-grader slam into the sudden barrier on the other side and speak fluent cussing for another few meters.

Neither Saylor nor Cayden took part in a chorus, feeling that singing was too feminine; Cayden didn’t take any music at school as he was a very dedicated pianist, and Saylor played the drums. And to be entirely honest, many of the other guys of Tiger Lane felt the same about the vocal music option.

There were only sixteen of us making up the seventh and eighth grade guys choir. The sixth grade boys had to endure a year of singing with the sixth grade girls before they could be promoted to an all guys class.

I hurried into the room, grabbed my music folder and sat down beside Jared and Neil as the rest of our class swarmed in to the room. Ms. Heath smiled encouragingly at me and gave a quick thumbs up. “Thanks,” she mouthed. I looked away. I wanted to change but I didn’t want to start getting attached like I knew I’d have to.

“Guys, listen up!” she called, suddenly businesslike. “Our concert is tonight-”

Neil broke out into whooping cheers and the rest of us followed, minus myself.

“-so we really have to work hard to make sure we’ve got everything perfect. You know how this runs, let’s make sure it runs smoothly. We’ll start with “Jingle Bell Rock.” Does everyone have their bell necklaces?” she asked, turning to Kent, our resident artist.

“Yup,” he replied swiftly.

“Excellent,” she responded. “So, let’s run through the piece quickly before we go on.” She made her way over to the piano, sat down, and struck up the first few chords as we hurriedly stood up.

“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock. Jingle bell…” we sang harmoniously for the first verse.

“Tenors,” she called, followed by “basses,” a short time later. The second verse too went smoothly. “Perfect, guys. Make sure to really annunciate and project your sound. The audience came to hear you, not the guy behind them talking on his cell phone. Make sure they do hear you. Otherwise that rehearsal was fantastic!” More cheering filled the room. Ms. Heath waited it out calmly. “Then we have “Stand by Me.” You’ve got that down well. We won’t run through that now,” she proclaimed to collective groans. “And then we’ll spotlight J.B. during “Amazing Grace.” Let’s run through that quickly. J.B.” She gestured for me to step down from the risers and out to the imaginary microphone that would be set up at the front of the stage. “You all right?” she whispered as I came down.

“Yeah.” I cleared my throat, tapped the “mike” to muffled laughter and turned toward the piano. Ms. Heath played the introduction and then I opened my mouth as the choir began to hum softly: “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.” I stepped back and listened as the choir repeated what I had just sung, and then…the bell rang.

“Okay, guys. 5:29 be in the choir room at the high school ready for warm-ups,” Ms. Heath called as we began to file out. I waited until the others had dispersed before approaching Ms. Heath.

“Ms. Heath?”

“Yes, J.B.?”

“My name is Jordan. Jordan Berkley.” I hadn’t been planning to say it that way at all. At first I was stunned. And horrified. But a wide smile spread across Ms. Heath’s face.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jordan Berkley. I’m sure we’ll have a very nice year,” she told me, sticking out her hand. I took it.

“Thank you, Ms. Heath. I know we will.”

“See you later, Jordan.”

“See you later.”

“Jordan, are you almost ready? The car’s leaving in five minutes,” Mom called up the stairs.

“Just putting on the finishing touches.” I was sprawled lazily across my bed, black pants loose around my needle-thin legs, black dress shoes on but untied, and navy dress shirt unbuttoned and rumbled, silvery tie hung haphazardly around my neck. I slowly peeled over another page of the teenage magazine I was reading. Ah, life was good.

“Jordan Berkley, I am leaving in two minutes,” Mom called again. “Luke’s already in the car and it’s your concert.”

“I know and I told you Mom, I’m just finishing,” I responded, leaping hastily off the bed. Hurriedly, I ran a brush through my long, long hair, straightened my tie, tucked in my shirt, grabbed a package from my dresser, and sped down the steps, chewing a piece of sugar-free gum to freshen my breath. Leaping onto the landing, I nearly ran into Mom coming from the opposite direction.

“There you are, Jordan. You look nice,” she said, examining me carefully. “Except for your hair,” she added, sizing me up. “Really, Jordan. I’d have thought you’d have the sense to do something about it; it’s so long.”

“When girls wear their hair this length it’s considered short.”

“Yes, well you aren’t a girl, J. Get in the car.”

We pulled out of the driveway with Mom turned half around just to see out of the window; the snow was building.

“Really. When you see one of those little white flakes by itself, you wonder how on Earth it could possibly be dangerous. And then you add a couple more and it’s a real danger zone,” she murmured, straightening the car out on the road.

“Be careful, Mom,” Luke warned, “it’s really slippery, especially on Michigan Avenue where the bus stop is. Regan Hastings has the best balance of everyone and even he fell over today.”

“Really? I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ages later, we pulled into the enclosed parking lot encircled by the looming high school itself. The front lobby shone enticingly with warm, liquid light that spilled out over the hills and valleys of piled up snow. A van pulled up to the entrance and momentarily eclipsed the light. I watched a swarm of girls get out, all of them dressed in too-short skirts and dresses and wearing high-heels and sandals. The van moved on and another car pulled up; a couple boys got out and trudged up to the school. Even just the front walk was in full chaos what with kids coming and going importantly, and parents trying to keep up with younger children, all of them taking different routes, and heading toward separate destinations.

“It’s mad,” Luke breathed. I looked into the backseat. His face was plastered to the cool window, and his eyes were practically spinning as they attempted to keep up with everything. He looked young. So young.

“Lukey, stay with me, okay?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Well, go on, Jordan.”

I placed my hand on the door handle. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” she replied obediently. I dashed off, following the pull of the crowd.

“Shelley,” I called, seeking her out. She turned at the sound of her name, and, noticing me, drew away from the main crowd to wait. “Hey, Shelley.”

“Hey, Jordan. I told you I’d come.”

“You did.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I have to go warm up, but I have your present. It’s in the car.”

“You’re so sweet. Tell you what. I’m going to my grandparents’ after this. Why don’t you get a ride over?”

“Sounds cool.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you there. Good luck, Jordan.”

“Thanks. For coming. For everything.”

“Don’t thank me. Go sing Jordan,” she replied, waving me on.

“All right, I will.”

Warm ups began and ended before I knew it, and suddenly we were filing in to a darkened auditorium; the subject of whispers and pointing. We took our reserved seats by choir and a minute later the sixth-graders were on stage, ready to begin.

The evening sped by, full of merry singing and clapping. And then the eighth grade girls were leaving the stage and Ms. Heath was beckoning us on. “While our young men get situated up here, I’d like to take this time to thank each and every one of you for making it out here to celebrate the fine musical talents of our young singers, even with a fierce storm brewing. I hope you’ve enjoyed your evening with us, but before you take full advantage of this wonderful snowy break from school, let us all welcome our last choir of the evening: the seventh and eighth grade guys of Tiger Lane Middle School.” The cheers were uproarious, filling the auditorium with more sound than we could ever hope to produce, but I shrugged it off. Don’t get attached to anyone.

Ms. Heath turned to us with a happy gleam in her eye and smiled. Warm and jubilant and happy. And then she turned to the hired pianist and the first few chords of “Jingle Bell Rock,” filled the auditorium, ringing loud and clear into every nook and cranny, and jumping down the ears of all the audience, as they leaned forward in attentive expectation as we opened our mouths to sing. And sing we did.

I was shaking from some kind of invisible butterflies that must have been mutants that you didn’t know were there until they sprung up just when you thought you were free. My voice wobbled and suddenly I was terrified of singing. Terrified of the idea that my voice alone would soon echo in the cavernous space. It’s what you want,” I told myself resolutely. You want to stand alone. You want to be praised alone.

Even “Stand by Me,” which had the girls giggling and clapping so hard their hands stung didn’t affect me in the least. Because it was time.

Ms. Heath nodded to me before turning to the microphone herself. “This last piece of the evening is, I daresay, well known by nearly all of us here. It is “Amazing Grace,” by John Newton, a slave-trader. And it is my pleasure to announce that our very own Jordan Berkley will be the lead solo in this song. Let’s give it up for the seventh and eighth grade guys,” she finished to loud cheers as I made my way forward.

The pianist began with a few soft notes and right on cue the humming began, but to me it was as if all was silent and I was just singing. I began cautiously, with a whining sort of “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that,” but gradually my voice became full and powerful, “saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.” I stepped back from the mike while the choir echoed the verse and then I began again with the next verse. And then as the choir repeated it, I broke out into a river of ooo’s that came sweeping in, sped up, slowed down, and always glided, never skipping notes. I sounded good, but I didn’t mean a single word. They seemed ripped from my mouth, not spoken in the awe-inspiring praise they were meant to be sung in. I finished with a much quieter, “I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.”

There was an eerie silence in which I debated whether to stand and smile or run flat off the stage and never come back. Then one pair of hands began to smack together like a pair of cymbals, and soon others joined until the cheers resounded of the walls. And then the choir began to clap and Ms. Heath. For me. I smiled, and for the first time in a long time, I experienced honest happiness, without the shadow of falsity or the looming prospects of gloom.

“Jordan Berkley,” Ms. Heath shouted without the mic because I still held it in my slack hand. “Jordan Berkley.”

The after-math euphoria was loud and raucous. Happy kids and proud parents congregated in the entrance hall, clogging any means of exit, so that in order to leave, one had to push his way through in quite a rude manner. I was quite sure I elbowed one too many women in the wrong place in my endeavor of escape. There was quite a bit of head-rubbing on the audience’s part as they saw me pass beside them and having nothing to actually say to me, did the first thing they thought of doing to show their appreciation for my singing. It may not be my imagination in proclaiming that I supposed most of the people following the guideline above found it entirely suitable that I hadn’t cut my hair, or done anything else to straighten it out. They may have felt it uncalled for to be the one to mess it up.

“Jordan!” someone called, and even though I couldn’t see the source of the call, I knew it belonged to Luke. I made my way over to my family and waited as they each congratulated me, before finally suggesting that we leave.

“Hey, Mom? Can you drop me off at the Faris Estates over by the hospital? Shelley’s headed to her grandparents’ place to spend the night and I have a present for her.”

“Of course, Jordan.”

We made slow time leaving the packed parking lot. Not only was the snow quickening its descent and increasing in quantity, but many other families had also taken early leave, despite the misguiding evidence that the packed exit provided. It took until Joshinghihzel Heights before the party of cars in front of us turned left and we turned right.

Joshinghihzel is a very long street, home to many of the more prosperous citizens of the area what with large front verandahs and fruit trees, large yards and swimming pools out back, shaded from view by groves of maples and oaks. It’s only a short route from there to Faris which is quite the opposite. Faris Estates is a shorter, wider lane consisting of some widespread apartments for the elderly which more often than not are shabby at best and practically unlivable at worst. The illusion that the trip is quite long is produced because of the numerous side streets sprouting off from Joshinghihzel and the rather steep hill halfway down the street. There’s also the fact that Joshinghihzel Heights is directly between Faris Estates and Douglas Hospital, making it quite busy in the months of the year most apt to produce illnesses.

Just before the bend, a truck pulled out ahead of us, causing Mom to stamp her foot on the brakes in order to prevent an accident. The truck, upon comfortably settling into position, began to plunge into very high speeds, increasing by the second. It climbed the hill in record time.

Mom frowned. “What kind of lunatic drives that way in this weather?” she fumed angrily. “Excuse my language,” she added as an afterthought.

“Don’t worry about it, Mom. I, we, hear worse than that all the time at school,” Luke responded immediately, stifling an exhausted yawn.

“Well I still shouldn’t,” she muttered. But then her anger took over again. “You’re going to get someone killed. How on Earth can be you be so stupid?” she screamed.

“Mom,” I grinned, “jets of steam are rising from your ears.”

“Shut up, Jordan.”

I fell back in angry silence. The truck tore off down the hill and I swear I could hear the wind whistling past the frame on both sides, crying out eerily. We reached the top of the hill and began to coast down. Before I could register what was happening, a loud bang filled the air and the black sky was suddenly ripped apart by a towering orange blaze. Fire. Just as Mom had predicted, the risk-taking driver ahead of us had indeed crashed into another vehicle. “He deserves it,” Mom said, swerving to drive past.

My mouth was dry as I screamed, “Stop the car. Mom, stop the car.” She was still driving. “Stop it. Mom, stop the car. There’s a little girl.” She continued to drive, and, unwilling to take it any longer, I tore open my door, jumped out, began to slam the door shut, grabbed my present instead, slammed the door, tucked the present into my shirt, and bolted across the street to the fire praying, yes praying, to God that Mom would have the sense to call 911.

The man who had driven the truck had already left his vehicle, and I watched in silence as he ripped the front car door off its hinges and pulled a young woman from the seat. He then set about checking her over; he had obviously not seen the child.

I barreled around the back of the car, relieved to discover that the majority of the flames were rising from the truck. I tugged at the handle but it didn’t budge. The girl cowered in her car seat and I felt like screaming at her. “Why don’t you help me here?” But I didn’t. Instead, I gestured for her to lean away. She did. I then backed away a couple of paces, scouting out the home in front of which the crash had taken place, searching frantically. I spotted a small garden sculpture made of solid stone. It would have to do. I dashed back to the car and plunged the rock through the window, just missing the child by an inch. After that, I had only to pull my dress sleeve over my fingers, reach through the shattered window, and unlock the door. I felt the flames licking my skin as I reached in and unbuckled the restraining belts. Ever so gently, I lifted the fragile figure from the car and staggered onto the house’s front yard, before giving in to the creeping black haze and falling backward, smothering the blaze and rendering myself unconscious, the little girl still wrapped into a tight embrace against my chest.

“He’s coming around,” someone said softly. I stirred sleepily, opened my eyes, and blinked a few times until the blurry picture faded to reveal the same view in sharper focus. The first thing I saw was the window. It revealed snow-covered, post-card perfect homes all in perfect symmetry with plumes of smoke rising lazily from ash-darkened chimneys that dispersed into the cold wind carrying drifts of snow across the sky. The streets between houses were clean of snow but for a light film; however, large banks of the stuff had been pushed against the sides of the streets. A man retrieving his morning newspaper from the stoop stood in his plaid pajamas nursing a cup of coffee and shaking his fist; enraged by the extra shoveling the plows had employed him with. I sleepily looked around the room I was in. It certainly wasn’t my bedroom; and I highly doubted it was any room in our house or that of any relations or friends. One look around at the white-washed walls, tiled flooring, bland white sheets and pillows, and the countertop laden with scientific-looking materials and I knew I was at the hospital. Beside me was my gift for Shelley.

In a flash, the memory of the night before swam into my mind, overwhelming me. “There, there. Take it easy,” a nurse told me soothingly from her post by the doorway.

“Jessica?”

“Hey J.B…. or should I call you the inspector’s kid?”

“Jessica, the people in the crash. Are they okay?”

“We don’t know.” She looked worried. “The little girl suffered a few burns, but other than that she’s all right. Just a little emotionally struck. Her uncle died before she could meet him and her grandparents just passed away. Now with her mother…it would be traumatic for anyone.”

“Maddy…Jessica, is she an Oakley? Are they the Oakleys?”

“Yes. The little girl is Rachael Williamson, but her mother is Cathleen Oakley.”

“Ms. Oakley, is she okay?”

“No. She’s alive, but she’s suffered some major burns. It will be miracle enough if she survives them. On top of that, she hit her head badly and she has some broken bones.”

“What’s the probability?”

“We don’t know. All we can do is our best, J.B. That’s all anyone can do, and you’re a real hero for your actions last night. We all thank you.”

“But Jessica, I’m not done. Where are they? I have to see them. I have to go to them.”

“Hold it, kid. You’re not going anywhere. You have to rest. You got some pretty nice burns yourself last night.”

“But I’m fine. I’ll come back and rest if you want; it won’t take long. But I have to see them,” I cried plaintively.

“If you get caught, I’ll be fired.”

“I won’t. Please?”

“Fine. Rachael is three doors down the hall, same side, on your right. Cathleen is in the opposite direction, six rooms down, across the hall. I doubt you’ll be allowed in for long if at all, J.B.”

“It’s worth a try,” I insisted.

“Go.”

I went to Rachael’s room first. The nurse just leaving the room turned to me. “She just woke but she’s incredibly bored. Have you come to visit?”

“For a bit.”

“Go ahead then,” she answered, waving me on.

“Rachael?”

The little girl rolled over in her bed. Her cheeks were streaked with tears; evidently she had been told about her mother. “Hi.”

“Do you remember me?” I asked gently, coming to sit on the edge of her bed.

“Yeah. You saved me.”

“I did. And I have something for you.” I unwrapped Shelley’s present and took out one of the two items inside it. “Here.” She took the teddy bear from me with her tiny little hands. I pried my eyes away from them to watch her reaction. As she cuddled that toy, her face lit up with joy and it was a thing to behold that this same toy I had dismissed with disgust could give her such happiness even in her current position.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I think you’re an angel.”

“What?”

“I think you’re an angel. Why else would you do that? I saw your car driving away. But then you came and saved me. You must be an angel. Because you could have died.”

“I’m not an angel.”

“You must be,” she persisted stubbornly.

“No. I told you I’m not. I’m a wise man.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. I’m a wise man,” I repeated and it sounded right and I knew it was. “I’m a wise man.” I patted her on the leg and stood up. “I’ll see you later.”

“Hey, person,” she called as I walked away.

“Yeah?”

“His name is Wise Man.”

“That’s a good name, Rachael.”



“Hello?” I knocked on Ms. Oakley’s door and was surprised to hear a feeble reply.

“Come in.” I entered quietly, holding the half-empty present awkwardly in my arms. I wasn’t supposed to get attached. I shouldn’t be doing this. But for some reason I was.

“Ms. Oakley?”

“They told me you saved my daughter.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“I have something for you.”

“You do?” I figured she wasn’t strong enough to open the gift so I did the honors for her.

“It’s a necklace,” I said, and then Gramp was there, repeating what he had said to me so many days ago. And then they were spilling out of my mouth: “It’s a family heirloom that’s been passed down for generations. It’s worth thousands of dollars, and it doesn’t have to be sold, but if it is, Ms. Oakley, it could buy at least a car. And, something else.” I took out my wallet, smiled at her, and pulled out every bill I owned. “Here’s 67 more dollars for you.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”

“You must be an angel sent from God. I can’t think of any other explanation, but-”

“I’m a wise man.”

“A wise man?”

“Yeah. Like in the Christmas story. Ms. Oakley, I hope you get better,” I said earnestly. “I really hope you get better. If there’s anything I can do…”

“You’ve done enough,” she told me gently. “You’ve done more than you needed to. And I thank you, …”

“Jordan. Jordan Berkley.”

“I thank you, Jordan. I’ll remember you forever.”

“Ms. Oakley?”

“Yes?” Even her strength to say that one small word was dwindling.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Jordan. Thank you so much.”

“Jordan?” Mom stood uncertainly in the doorway to my bedroom.

“Yeah?” I tossed a basketball at the wall and caught the rebound on the tips of my fingers.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” I responded, moving over to make room for her on my bed.

“Can we talk?”

“What about?”

“Two days ago.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you will.”

“Yeah,” I affirmed. “I will.”

“I didn’t appreciate that, Jordan, when you left the car against my permission, and while it was still running.”

“Mom, I was trying to-”

“I know what you were doing, Jordan. I came in to thank you. For changing. You did the right thing. You saved a little girl’s life even though it meant endangering your own. You’re a star. You’re a hero.”

“What are you getting at?”

“The hospital called.”

“And?”

“Rachael is free to be released today. Cathleen is still being looked after, but she’s expected to make a pretty strong recovery if not complete.”

“Thank God,” I sighed in relief. “But Mom, what about Rachael?”

“I volunteered to take care of her until Ms. Oakley is released.”

“Are you serious?” I’d forgotten about the basketball in my surprise; I was rewarded with a sharp slap on the head.

“If you can change that completely in a couple of days, I can take an extra child. And one more thing, Jordan. Ms. Maxwell called. I brought the phone. Call her back, okay?”


“Okay.”

She kissed my forehead. “Thanks.”

I flopped back on to my bed and dialed Ms. Maxwell’s number. “Hello?”

“Ms. Maxwell? This is Jordan. Mom said you called, so-”

“Jordan? I was at your concert a couple nights ago with my sister whose daughter is in a choir and I heard you sing. I just wanted to tell you how fantastic you were, Jordan, and-”

“Thanks Ms. Maxwell.”

“-and I was wondering if you might be willing to sing “Amazing Grace” again at our Christmas pageant tonight?”

I paused a minute, stunned. “I’d love to, Ms. Maxwell. I, I’m speechless. I, I thought I sang well at my concert, but now that I really understand the meaning of that song, I think I can sing it ten times better at the pageant.”

“Thank you so much, Jordan.”

“No, Ms. Maxwell. Thank you.”

I hung up and dialed a new number. “Hello, this is the Laney residence. Michelle speaking.”

“Shelley.”

“Jordan?”

“Hey, Shelley. I’m super sorry about everything-”

“Jordan? Don’t worry. I heard all about it. You’re a hero. My dad is a reporter, you know, and if you don’t mind, he’d like to meet with you sometime today to get your story.”

“Sure, that’s great. Shelley, how about coming out to the zoo today with my friend and me and your dad can meet us for lunch?”

“That sounds great. When do you want me to come over?”

“How about an hour?”

“Great. See you in an hour.”

“See you.”

“Mom?” I yelled down the stairs.

“Yes, Jordan?”

“Are you ready to pick up Rachael?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yup.”

“Okay, then let’s go.” I heard her grab her keys from the rack by the door and a second later, I heard the squeal of the garage door sliding open.

We rushed out into the bright sunlight and down Michigan Avenue for a short distance, before turning on to Rushmore Ridge, then Tag Street which led straight to Joshinghihzel. A short time later, Mom pulled in to the hospital parking lot.

“Hurry up, Jordan. I’ll stay here.”

I slammed the door, thought to tidy my jacket, visible as I had my coat slung haphazardly open against my shoulders, and dashed in to the hospital.

Rachael and Jessica were sitting together on a plush red couch apart from everyone else. Jessica looked up and gave me a wry smile that overflowed with exhaustion. “Happy Christmas eve, J.B.,” she said as I reached them.

“Same to you. Hey, Rachael.”

“Ray, honey, this is Jordan Berkley. His family is going to take care of you until your mom can again.”

“Hi, wise man,” she said to me, softly.

“Well,” I stuttered, shuffling awkwardly, “Are you ready?”

“Yup.” She slid off the couch.

“Can I take your things?” She handed me a plastic shopping bag. Glancing inside, I saw a tightly wrapped packet of money, a half-eaten bag of chips, a water bottle, a ring of keys, and her teddy bear. “Is this it?” I looked over at Jessica inquiringly.

She nodded. “We were hoping you could stop by her home and pick some things up for her.”

“Sure. Of course. All right, well, if you’re ready?”

“Yeah.” She came over to me, and on an impulse, I grabbed her hand and I held it. I barely knew her and I was holding her hand.

“C’mon.” I towed her along behind me as I walked.

“I’m coming. You’re going too fast.”

“Here.” I let go of her hand, bent down, and picked her up. “Now you don’t have an excuse.” She smiled, and I returned it.

“Welcome to the family, Rachael,” Mom said turning around in her chair to beam at Rachael as I strapped her in to the car seat that had until that very morning resided on the top shelf of a dank, rusting garage wall since Luke had been a toddler.

I sat in the back with Rachael and as she didn’t seem to have anything to say, I leaned forward to speak to Mom as she drove. “Where’s Luke?”

“At his friend’s,” she responded immediately.

“How come?”

“Josh invited him over.”

“Well why isn’t he here with us? This is important.”

“Why don’t you take part in everything that’s important to Luke?”

“Well, I have things to do-”

“Exactly. This is important to you so you are here. Luke cares. He really does. And when he comes home, he’ll be more than willing to do absolutely anything she wants, and I’m not just saying that. He will. But this is your thing, Jordan. Not his.”

Rachael watched us interestedly with wide, thoughtful eyes. “But Mom, this isn’t just some soccer game. This is a family addition for a week or two weeks or whatever. He should be here.”

“Jordan, that’s enough. We’ve broken our backs to help you out and this is how you repay your brother.”

“Sorry, Mom. Hey, Rachael, do you like the zoo?”

“Yeah!” she acknowledged with delight.

“What’s your favorite animal?”

“The lions!” My favorite animal had always been the giraffe. They were so majestic, but above all else, they were tall, towering over the meager humans before them. I had always longed to be a giraffe; they couldn’t be surprised. Giraffes could always see what was coming before it reached them. I wished humans could do the same.

“That’s fantastic. I’m sure we’ll see-”

“You know why?”

“Why?”

“They can’t get hurt. At all.” My heart sank. How could I correct her when all my heart begged for it to be true? I wished so badly that it was possible. That there was some creature out there that couldn’t be beaten.

“Nothing is invincible.” I remembered another passing moment that had seemed so unremarkable, as I said those words. But this wasn’t a memory about Gramp. It was about Dad. I must have been eight or nine, just old enough to begin to comprehend the advanced subjects that Dad discussed with me. I don’t think there’s anyone who really likes death. There are people who are ready, and people who aren’t afraid, but I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who’s liked death. But Dad was at completely the other end of the spectrum.

My memory took place on a lazy summer evening in late August. The sun was still hanging in the sky, gradually sinking, but it wouldn’t disappear for another couple of hours. Luke and I were desperately clinging to the last few days of freedom, cramming to fit in everything we had hoped and bragged that we would do. But on this particular day, all our adventures had been postponed, because it was Luke’s birthday.

Mom had washed off our little-used picnic table for the occasion and thrown on a linen tablecloth, and the centerpiece consisted of a small crystal vase containing a bouquet of red, white, and purple flowers from Mom’s own garden. The plates and silverware, however, were dreadfully discordant with the atmosphere. They were paper and plastic which Mom defended with, “ Well, who’s going to clean up afterwards? Not me.” And as neither Luke nor myself were terribly eager to do any washing, and Dad most certainly wouldn’t when he returned home from work, the plates and plastic utensils were dolled out accordingly.

Mom had bustled about in the kitchen all day preparing for supper. Crispy hash browns, caramel-coated apple slices, vegetable and chicken kabobs, warm bread rolls, and stuffed omelets. But, after a quick prayer due to our ravenous appetites, Mom dashed away to the kitchen and came back with a single peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the birthday boy.

After a hearty meal, we indulged in creamy, homemade shakes as we watched the lightning bugs come out. Mom went in to lie down having eaten too much, and Luke went off to play in the yard leaving me alone with Dad. I started to stack the dirty plates to throw out and when I picked up Dad’s, a spider, big and black, scurried up onto the center. Without a second thought, I took up a nearby cup, and, using the underside, smacked the spider dead. It took a moment for me to realize that Dad had stopped picking up and was staring at the stack in my hands, frozen.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he warned. “Put those down. Come with me.” He led me, shaking with fright, to the back deck where he pulled out a pair of chairs and commanded me to sit as he did the same. “Jordan,” he began once we were nicely settled, “do you know the story of Adam and Eve?”

I was eager to please. “Yeah. God put them down in a garden, but then Eve ate an apple, and then she made Adam eat an apple so they knew they were naked and hid from God because he was mad.”

“None of that matters,” he said, dismissing my efforts carelessly. “God put Adam down in the garden, and then he put down animals with him. Adam named each and every animal, and while they were not equal to himself, they too had lives to live. The Native Americans who lived here when the explorers came are said to have only killed in necessity so that they could have food and tools. Jordan, you will never be called a murderer for squashing a spider, that term is used only about humans, but you are ending a life. You are murdering and that is not good. If God thought it important enough to create spiders, then we must live with the spiders, and not against them. Do you understand?”

I nodded timidly.

“Good.” He came over and hugged me. And then, ponderously, he spoke again. “Have you ever wondered, Jordan, whether we are like ants? When you lie and watch an ant hole and see how oblivious the ants are to you and your own life, have you ever thought that maybe we are the ants, and there are creatures billions of times larger than ourselves, peering down at us? Maybe the sky we see isn’t the sky at all but merely the pant leg of a single watchful creature. It’s freaky, isn’t it?” I had nodded, picturing it as he spoke. “It’s karma. If we crush an ant, maybe the creature above us will crush us. Remember that. Nothing is invincible, Jordan.”

In my reflections afterwards, I found myself wondering if he had not been too extreme. But I always followed his word, reminding myself often unconsciously not to kill. When he left, killing became my weapon against him. Every insect I saw died, as though I thought killing would affect Dad directly, stab him in the chest wherever he was, bring him to his knees.

Rachael shrugged off my comment just as I had known she would. “I wish I was a lion. And then I’d never get hurt.” I didn’t push the subject.

Shelley was punctual in her arrival. Rachael jumped up from the couch and dashed into the hall to answer the door and I flicked off the television and followed lazily.

I could hear the girls’ conversation as I stood outside the hallway for a few seconds.

“Hi, I’m Michelle Laney. You can call me Shelley. You must be Rachael Williamson. It’s so good to meet you.”

“It’s good to meet you.”

“So… can I see Wise Man?”

“He’s coming. He was following me.” I could practically see Rachael’s brow furrow in confusion and had to stifle a laugh.

“Actually, I meant your teddy bear. I can see the wise guy any old time I want to.” Rachael’s giggle mingled with her laugh.

“Hey,” I barked, attempting to appear offended. I poked Wise Man around the doorway, careful to keep my hand hidden. “I mean, hey,” I began again, speaking in as high a voice as possible on ‘hey.’ It’s good to meet you, Shelley. I am the one and only Wise Man.”

I heard her laughter. “You sound great in a falsetto, Wise guy, err, Wise Man.”

“I’m sorry I can’t shake your hand,” I continued, “due to my stunted growth syndrome, it is absolutely prohibited and for good reason.”

“Well that can be fixed,” Shelley responded. Suddenly she was in front of me, flinging her arms around me and laughing all the while. “Handshakes are overrated anyway,” she mumbled. I lifted Wise Man and threw him to Rachael for safe-keeping before wrapping my arms around Shelley while Rachael stood and laughed. When Shelley finally pulled back, she stepped away and scanned me. “Oh my God, Jordan, your hair,” she gasped, throwing her hand to her mouth. “I knew something was different, but, oh my, what happened? It’s so short. It’s so, it’s unbrushable, it’s only down to the top of your neck, it’s amazing.”

“Thanks. Apparently the left side caught fire while I was playing the hero. Mom figured it would look too weird to be bald on one side of my head and a girl on the other, so they cut it while I was unconscious. My theory is that Mom was so sick of it she just used the fire as an excuse.”

“Either way it’s adorable.”

“I’m not going to thank you again.”

“So don’t. Let‘s get out of here. Where‘s your mom?”

“I dunno. Rachael, what did you do with her?” I asked, turning to her.

She shook her head, looking stricken. “I didn’t do anything!”

“I’m joking, Ray. Lighten up.”

“Give her a break, Jordan. She’s four years old.”

“I’m five years old,” she pronounced proudly.

“Look what you did, Shelley. She’s five. Get it right.”

“I’m going to choose not to reply.”

“You just did,” I pointed out. Rachael was laughing so hard her face was as red as a tomato and her breath came in gasps. “Ray, you’re about to explode.” I made the sounds I imagined to be connected with an explosion, and then, suddenly, I was face-first on the ground, Shelley having decked me while I was engrossed in entertaining Rachael. But that wasn’t enough for Shelley. No, she had to jump on me which only invited Rachael to do the same. “Uncle, uncle,” I shrieked.

“Jordan,” Mom called, “Jordan, you don’t have any uncles. What are y-” she appeared on the upstairs landing.

“Mom, they’re popping my personal bubble,” I whined. She disappeared. “Mom?” Suddenly, there was an extra weight on my back; Mom had joined the party.

“You know, girls, if you can hold him another minute, I’ll fetch some cookies from the pantry…”

“Mom, how could you?”

“Oh, it doesn’t take much work,” she responded offhandedly.

“Aah,” I groaned, this time in genuine agony. “Shelley, you just snapped my spine, I swear.” Rachael was the only person still laughing, but it sounded forced. “Seriously, please…” My voice dropped off.

“Okay, Ray. It’s time to get off,” Shelley said.

“Anyone still up for the zoo?” Mom asked, reentering the hallway.

“Yeah!”

I listened to Shelley and Rachael talking during the long ride, as my back was still recuperating and I felt no inclination to join the conversation and discuss the new features of present-day, high-tech Barbie dolls, which now for some reason have been granted the title bratz. As far as I know, action figures are still action figures and not idiots or dummies, and for that I am unnaturally thankful considering that my day-to-day has absolutely no space for incorporating that sort of toy.

Herman Shultzer Zoo is about the most high-tech zoo on the planet if it can even be categorized as such. It’s completely indoors, almost like a mall really, but with nothing to buy. It’s basically the shape of a square. You come through the front entrance and then you get to this really wide lobby-like area with about seven corridors jutting off from it all in the same direction and equally spaced. You choose a corridor, walk down it and study the animals, and when you’re sick of one hall, you can come back to the beginning, go to the end, or there are two hallways in the center of the building crisscrossing through the longer ones.

“Pick you up in a few hours,” Mom called, driving off.

“Sure.” I waved her on and we hurried into the building with a few other families. Because of the indoor convenience that most other zoos tend to lack, Herman Shultzer’s best months are the ones when you can go outside in five sweaters and a coat and still be cold. This is with the boots and other essential winter gear.

There was a huge holdup just inside the doors. It sucks but there’s a five dollar charge to everyone who can see, hear, smell, and comprehend that they are seeing, hearing, and smelling the animals. It’s the only way they can keep the place running smoothly. There’s a sign by the ticket booth that reads: IT’S FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE TOO. And it’s not lying. It’s just not saying exactly what it means and is easy to take the wrong way.

For instance, the guy ahead of us was evidently a newcomer. Upon digesting the contents of the sign, he turned to the person manning the booth and bellowed, “What the hell-” Shelley snapped her hands over Rachael’s ears, “-do you mean to get across to me with that?” He spat on the floor at the base of the sign.

“Sir, it means what it says. There is really no explanation.” She was obviously of Spanish or Portuguese descent and not just because of her caramel skin and dark hair but because of the characteristic accent with which she spoke her words.

“Yeah, well, I’m asking you to clarify. Is that too much to handle?”

“No, sir, I-”

“I’m warning you I don’t believe a word you say,” he growled, leaning closer. Shelley spun Rachael away from the scene to look at some picture showcases while I held our place in line.

“Then why would I say anything?”

“Because I told you to.”

“But you aren’t my boss. Ricky is my boss.”

“Is that right? That’s a coincidence. My name is Ricky.” He grabbed a packet of post-it notes from the countertop, grabbed a pen from the holder and, as I saw from looking over his shoulder, wrote in untidy penmanship:

My name is Ricky.
I am your boss.


“There, see?”

“I do see. I’m wearing contacts.”

“No, do you see the stupid paper?”

“Yes.”

“Now tell me,” he murmured softly, “what does the sign mean?”

“You are paying your five dollars for my paycheck, but then you are getting to see the animals, are you not, and having a warm building to stay in in winter, are you not?”

“And that is for my convenience?”

“Yes it is,” she responded adamantly.

“No, it isn’t, you fool.” I watched in alarm as he slid a pocketknife from his back pocket and flicked it on; the blade glinted silvery and sharp. Sharp enough to burn my eyes. Sharp enough to be as thin as a hair on the knife side. He held it loosely behind his back but I wasn’t lulled into a false sense of security. I myself had had cause to handle a pocketknife as casually as the display before me on multiple occasions. You can hold a knife loosely and ready at the same time.

“Hey, man,” I said quickly. He turned around. “Don’t do it. What have you got to win? It’s a zoo. They’re asking five dollars.”

“Why are you so keen on giving your opinion?” he snarled. He’d been drinking; I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Because I’ve been in your position an-”

“You’re a kid. You don’t look like you could handle stealing.”

“So? Don’t do-”

“Hey, folks, there’s a line,” someone called in annoyance. “Can you move your little conversation to the side so we can move on?” I heard titters of agreement at his request.

“Shut your trap and stay where you are,” the guy, Ricky, bellowed back. He faced me, “Kid, maybe you’re trying to help but stay out of it and we’ll all be better off.” He looked back at the woman.

“Ricky?” I reached in to my jeans pocket, feeling Shelley’s eyes on me, watching me in silent horror.

“What?” he snarled; flecks of spit hit my face like tiny, wet bullets.

“I have a cell phone and I’m not afraid to dial those three little numbers,” I warned calmly. “And if you kill me you’ll be too late. Because my girlfriend has a phone and you’d have to kill everyone here to get to her. You wouldn’t do that. It would be too chaotic and endanger you well beyond what you’re willing to risk.”

He stood sizing me up. “You insolent little child,” he sneered. “It’s only five dollars after all so why do you even care so much? I bet the police won’t.” But he turned and marched out the door.

“Why did you do that?” Shelley asked in awe, hugging me tightly.

“Because I almost did the same thing once. I had my knife out and I almost killed someone over one stupid little thing. And no one deserves to have to learn that lesson for themselves when they can help it.”

“You’re so brave,” Rachael whispered.

“Naw. I’m just stupid.”

“Maybe it’s the same thing,” Shelley said. “But you wouldn’t have done that would you have if this whole thing had been a week ago?”

“No. I’d probably have taken out my own knife and started a fight with the guy.”

“Thank you, sir,” the woman interrupted. “You can go in free of course.”

“Thank you yourself. Here then, donate that to the best charity you know,” I handed her a twenty. “And keep some for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.”



We rambled around the zoo, Rachael running on ahead and Shelley and myself following like two weary parents who have seen too much too soon. It wasn’t as fun as I had hoped it would be what with the dangerous encounter still lingering to the air around the two of us. Eventually the unease began to fade, until we were able to enjoy ourselves albeit cautiously.

At one point Shelley went on ahead, grabbed Rachael’s hand, and suggested that the two of them ditch me, much to Rachael’s delight. I allowed them to put thirty paces between us, just far enough that I could hear Rachael asking to visit the lions. The second they turned the corner, I took a detour back the way we had come, taking the long cut at a run, so that when the girls came out of their path, I was at their heels, waiting until it was right before shouting “boo” in Rachael’s ear. She jumped a mile and even Shelley started a bit.

“Oh, Jordan, don’t do that.”

“Hey, I just came to remind you we’re supposed to meet your dad.”

“Oh, right.”

We hurried unwaveringly down the corridor we were in until we reached the food court. There we stopped to catch our breath and then strode in a dignified manner into the packed cafeteria.

Mr. Laney sat alone at a small table in the midst of the chaos. He stood upon our arrival and welcomed us warmly. “J.B.! Your hair! Fantastic cut, J.B.! Absolutely stunning!”

“Thank you, Mr. Laney,” I said, feeling a bit bemused. Had these people all despised my long hair this much? Seriously?

“It‘s my pleasure entirely! Have a seat, J.B. and you, girls! You must be Rachael! Rachael with an extra a, I’ve heard, yes? Nice to meet you! Just swell! We have much to discuss, J.B.!” He said all this in a terrible hurry, blending the words and sentences into one confusing jumble, as though he was in quite a rush. I knew better as Mr. Laney talks this way on Saturday mornings while he watches cartoons in his pajamas.

“Jordan, actually,” I responded, pulling out the chair nearest him and sliding in to it.

“Ah, so you are tired of ‘J.B.’ already! Well that is all right then! Knew it would come! Knew it would come! Nothing wrong with a good hearty name like Jordan! Have a bite to eat! We have spinach pockets and orange slices, and the nachos will only be a good few minutes!”

“I’ve never heard such a description as hearty for the name Jordan, Mr. Laney. That’s an unusual preference of terms.” I obliged him in taking a spinach pocket.

“Indeed, I must suppose that you are correct, Jordan!”

“Why of course I am, Mr. Laney, aren’t I always, Shelley?”

“Of course,” she replied with a smile.

“I do rather indulge in the use of hearty a slight more than is natural, don‘t I Shelley dear?” Shelley obliged Mr. Laney with a nod. “But Jordan, we have so much to hear; I have been waiting impatiently for this meeting!”

“Have you?” I asked in utter surprise. Shelley laughed at the shock written across my face. I shot her a look and composed myself. “I- I mean, have you really?”

“Yes, yes, of course! A fire! A near-death experience, and so close to Christmas! I have been bombarded with requests for your story, Jordan, do not say I have not!”

“By whom, Mr. Laney, yourself?” Secretly I wondered whether anyone really was asking for my story. Other than the reporter himself.

“How dare you even suggest such an abominable lie as that,” he cried, taking false offense at the suggestion.

“So you’re willing to tell me that your readers are queuing up outside your home to tell you to get my story?”

“That is not exactly the truth of it,” he admitted slowly, “but in all honesty, one may use that as somewhat of an analogy-based explanation!”

I grabbed another spinach pocket and stuffed it in my mouth. “Mr. Laney, you’ve lost me.”

“And me,” Rachael chimed in taking the platter from me.

“Then let us start again, shall we? The main order of business to be attended during our companionable luncheon is that of getting your story for the record which I myself am rather inclined to venture to do in my current state as a reporter for the daily paper! I was also intending to interview the young child you rescued, Rachael Williamson, currently residing at our very table! I was also merely inviting you to share a lunch in warm company so that I might have the pleasure of not spending it in solitude as I so often find myself doing!”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Then, Mr. Laney-- thank you very much,” I said suddenly, interrupting myself to thank the woman who placed the main course on the table; nachos: a tray of Tostitos chips baked with refried beans and cheese and then slathered in salsa, “then, Mr. Laney,” I began again, “I am perfectly willing to play interviewee at present.”

“Excellent. Tell me, Jordan….”

Once the interview had finished, Shelley, Rachael, and I walked back the way we had come at a much slower pace, enjoying the animals in their captivity. Although I was terribly annoyed with the idea that I could find pleasure in such a scenario.

Mom gave us a ride home which we undertook in silence, lost in our own thoughts. “Well?” she asked, unable to bear the quiet any longer.

“The sunset is beautiful.”

“Is it?” She pulled over to the side of the road to look. I sat in awe, watching the rivers of purple swallow the fiery orange and lemonade yellow while the blue encircled them all, entwining, blending. The texture was so real and vivid it was as though the sunset really was a canvas painting of hues streaking across the white surface, guided by one miniscule fingertip.

The continuation of the drive after that remained silent, but was no longer forced but relaxing. I attempted to recreate the sunset in my mind without luck. There could be no comparison to the real thing. Like a photograph. A still image of a moment, captured, contained, but never real. It was like stealing a jewel. You could look at it and it would shine, but it would never be the way it could have been if it had been yours without the crime.

We pulled up at the house and Mom went back inside but our trio stayed back. At first we stood about stupidly. And then Rachael hit me with a condensed snowball and it echoed with a resounding thud on my winter coat. Suddenly we were just kids. I climbed onto a bank of snow and steadied myself with the branches of a tree that I couldn’t touch with my feet firmly on the ground but that were now at my chest, and Rachael whipped snowballs at me as I ducked and twirled and jumped. We were laughing and crying and it was so cold. Shelley joined in too, becoming an extra obstacle for Rachael to hit.

All too soon, Luke flung open his bedroom window. “Jordan, you’d better come in and get ready for the pageant.”

“I’d better go,” Shelley said, dusting herself off.

“Do you need a ride?”

“No. I can walk. It’s good exercise.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. See you, Rachael. Don’t kill him until I come back.”

“I won’t.”

“Wow, Ray, that’s comforting.” I hefted her over my shoulder. “You’d better come in too, you little sack of potatoes, or you’ll freeze.”

“I don’t like potatoes.”

“Well it’s a good thing we aren’t making you eat yourself.”

“Ew.”



“Jordan Berkley!”

“What?”

“It’s time to go. Luke and Rachael are in the car already.”

“Good for them, it’s bonding time.”

“Jordan…”

“I’m coming,” I muttered, swinging my legs off the bed. My wise man cloak was very, very simple. It was just a large purple sheet draped around my regular street clothes and kept in place with a length of gold twine. I carried a small golden pouch of “coins” against my waste. Very simple. Just the way I wanted it. Mom had begged them to give me some kind of turban to cover up the large red burn that skated from my left temple to nearly my jawbone. She thought it looked ugly. The skin was wrinkled and leathery. But Missy hadn’t been able to find a turban, which was cool with me.

I dashed out the door and ran downstairs.



Our celebration of the birth of Christ began in the customary way of the youth of the church reenacting the baby’s birth during the Christmas Pageant. The children did very well at singing their hymns. Although they rarely blended, all of them going off on irregular tangents and forming a rather unique harmony, every single child knew every word to every song and the concert finished with much laughter and appreciative applause. We too were very pleasing during the humorous play we presented. There was an unusual absence of stuttering and mind-blanking and we ran it perfectly.

Next, Pastor Harking stood and preached his thoughts and opinions on the birth of Christ, followed by hymn singing, an offering, and the candlelight music.

The candlelight music is by far the best part of the Christmas service. At this point, the pastor lights one single, small, hand-held candle by the flame from the Christ candle, central in the advent wreath beside the pulpit, and then he walks down to the first pew and administers the fire from his candle to the candle of the person sitting there. He turns to his neighbor and the flame is passed down row after row until the entire sanctuary is aglow with the light of hundreds of lit candles flickering eerily on the faces of the silent church-goers, pricking the blackness, making the dark bearable.

I watched my flame flickering, felt the warmth on my hand, as I breathed and the light tipped away from me. As I watched that candle, I remembered the crash and that fire, out of control, dangerous, and of my own actions. How is it that a person can surprise even himself? How is it that one person can live for three, four, five years with the same attitude, be faced with a crisis, and never have imagined themselves liable to do what they did? People are always wondering what they’d do. Sometimes their actions are more than they imagined, and sometimes the fantasies they entertain privately are far more gallant than their actual behaviors.

I looked at Rachael sitting beside me, two hands wrapped firmly around the base of her own candle. Her face was white and her eyes gazed unwaveringly at her flame. She was completely frozen.

“Are you scared?” I whispered softly, sensing the fear I knew must be residing beneath her skin, tormenting her.

“No. I’m thankful,” she whispered contentedly. “If there wasn’t a fire, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“If there wasn’t a fire, you’d be home with your mom,” I reminded her.

“But I wouldn’t have met you. I’m not afraid of fire. I’m not afraid of dying. I feel safe with God. But I’m happy you saved me. I know you don’t think so, but I still think you’re an angel. And I think God sent you.”

“No, I’m just me.”

“I love you, Jordan.”

“I love you too,” I whispered back, feeling the burn of the words I had never wanted to say, feeling the power weighing down on them. But somehow it felt strangely, surreally right. It was just normal. Because it was true. I did love her. I loved her a lot. And it wasn’t bad.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“Thank you for letting me save you, Rachael.”

The organ struck up the first notes of “Silent Night” and I heard the congregation sit up straighter in their pews and open their mouths. We sang as one body, “Silent Night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright…” Our voices mingled and blended as we sang our praise, quietly, contentedly, watching our flames flicker and burn. We sang three verses and hummed one at the end. Then the last note was played, the last “hmmm” faded away, and we sat in silence for what seemed hours. None of us wanted to break the beautiful spell that had been cast over us.

Eventually the lights turned back on and people began to blow out their candles and set them aside. I waited until the very last moment before killing mine.

Missy Maxwell stood in the front of the room where everyone could see her. In a loud voice, she annunciated with careful precision, “Thank you.” An ease settled on the room. “And now, friends, we have a special entertainment for the evening. Jordan Berkley will now present to you “Amazing Grace. Jordan,” she said holding the mike to me. In a trance I slid from my pew and walked up to where Missy stood.

The whispers resounded: “Jordan Berkley? He’s the boy with that terrible temper.” “J.B.? He didn’t even look at me when I complimented his shoes.” “Jordan?” “J.B.?” “Jordan Berkley?” “I didn’t know he was a singer. Did you, Martha?” “Amazing Grace of all things!” They came accusingly, bewilderingly. I knew now what Luke had been talking about.

“I’m pretty well-known,” I said into the mike without realizing I was speaking at all. Once I did there was nothing to do but go on. “I’m sorry. I apologize for all those things you’re whispering about me. I haven’t been the greatest person on this planet, and I don’t want to be, but recently I’ve discovered just how awful I’d become, and I want to apologize, but maybe it would be better if I just started singing.” There was some stifled laughter.

I looked to the pianist and she nodded and began to play. With new feeling I sang the words, experiencing them for the first time, tasting them, pouring my pain into them, seeking solace, and finding it. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,” I savored each word, living them, sending them sailing around the room “that saved a wretch like me,” I sang, throwing myself into it. Saved. A wretch. Me. I’m saved. I‘m saved! “I once was lost, but now am found.” “I,” I added an extra word, “was blind, but now I see. I see,” I repeated in amazement. “I see.” And now the second verse was beginning, “ ’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fear relieved. How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed.” Hour, first, believed. I wretch like me, saved the hour I first believed. “The hour I first believed,” I repeated with tears streaming down my face. Tears of the most extreme joy, powerful, overwhelming.

I sank to the steps as Pastor Harking rose, blessed everyone, patted my head, and began the trek to the far side of the sanctuary to greet the congregation on their way out.

“Luke,” I choked as my brother sat down beside me. “Luke, I’m saved.”

“I know, Jordan. You were always saved. It just took you forever to realize. Now, if I were mushy, I wrap my arms around you, and you know, it’s high time someone in our family becomes mushy,” he said, hugging me to him.

I tried to smile. “Luke, I love you.”

“I love you, Jordan. This is the best Christmas present I’ve ever had,” and now even he was teary-eyed.

“What’s that?” I managed to ask, still overcome with emotion.

“My brother is back.”

I hadn’t known I could cry harder.

I waited silently, tucked into bed. My head rested on a soft pillow and I was snuggled deep under a warm quilt, surrounded by stuffed animals, watching the snow falling and Rachael sleeping in turns.

I gazed at the flakes creeping past my window on their journey to somewhere else. They’d sink down to the yard in procession and some would cover the street. In a while, a plow would come and the man inside would yawn, drink something warm to heat his frozen toes, gaze out the cab window, sigh, and shovel the snow onto the curb. There it would sit, for days or weeks or months until the days became warmer and longer and it began to melt and become water that would run for days or weeks or months, down the streets, into crevices and pockets until it reached brooks or streams that would lead to rivers. And the water in the rivers would lead to more rivers and eventually to the oceans where they would lap lazily on beaches, polluted and unpolluted, inhabited and uninhabited, and wait to be evaporated and returned to the clouds where it would remain until it was time to be converted once more to snow or rain.

Rachael stirred sleepily and I warily looked over to where she slept on thick, bouncy pillows that had been carted from the living room couch to my room, placed in a row, and hidden beneath a sheet that kept the separate pieces together like glue. She had demanded, I recalled, that she be allowed to sleep in my room. She hadn’t wanted the guest room, or Mom’s, or Luke’s. Only me. I watched her another minute, but she didn’t wake.

At first I had pretended. This is for you, I had proclaimed, trying to telepathically send the message to the other little girl I had so offended. But after awhile I didn’t want to lie to myself any longer. I wasn’t taking care of Rachael for her, not really. I had regretted what I’d done to that little girl in the hospital room, but I wasn’t trying to feel better. No, this was for Rachael and this was for me. I had always wanted this. But I hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable. I hadn’t let myself care. But here and now I would do anything for that little girl on my floor. Anything.

I looked back at the night, but it no longer captured my attention. Restlessly, I turned over in bed and craned to look at the wall clock positioned inconveniently just above my head. 11:13.

The hallway light was on; Mom hadn’t gone to bed yet. She was probably still working.

She had always been an artist, switching from landscape paintings, to portrait paintings of myself and Luke, to regular kitchen appliances that became magical as soon as her brush began to recreate them, to just taking perfectly positioned photographs of the world, sunsets being her specialty. But what with the struggling economy, prosperous families with large sums of money to spare on wall art were hard to come by any more and she had been forced to resolve that depending singularly on her art wouldn’t be enough to raise two boys on her own. She had taken up sewing and could regularly be depended on to produce no less than a shirt or a pair of pants in a week that could be sold for a pretty price. Even this hadn’t been enough to help and she had taken a secretarial job at a small-town business during the weekdays, answering phones and taking messages, and worked as a cashier on Saturdays.

This past week before Christmas she had taken a well-earned vacation from her jobs, although she continued to sew and paint while Luke and I were busy elsewhere.

I could tell she hadn’t gone to bed because the television still blared from her room, smothered somewhat but not entirely, and Mom was a real stickler for saving expenses; she would never leave the television on if she wasn’t right there watching. It was one of her more unattractive habits to say the least, that if she had a show on and left for a drink or to use the bathroom, the television was turned off as she exited the room, and back on as she returned.

So I was disposed to conclude that Mom was not yet asleep albeit close since she was in her bedroom.

By 11:30, both the hallway light and noise had been reduced to a mere memory; the house was dark and silent. Unwillingly, I slid out from under the warm covers and sat on the edge of my bed, feeling the chill of winter creep on to my skin, slide through, until it gnawed at my bones; it was agony to not crawl back in to bed. But it was a torture I would have to endure to accomplish my mission.

The stairs creaked; that was something I had never realized before. I was sure Mom would hear. I waited a good five minutes on the third stair but nothing happened and so I continued on.

If I had thought the house was cold, that was nothing to the front porch. As silently as was humanely possibly, I unlatched the front door, swung it open, pushed open the screen-door, frozen solid, with help from one bare foot, and danced on the porch, bathed in the light from a streetlamp. “Oh, aw, oh, that’s cold. Aw,” my feet bounced on the cement, cracking plates of ice with each gravity-provoked landing.

“Idiot. What’re you doing?” Luke asked from behind me.

“Shush. I’m getting Mom’s present-”

“What’s that? An amputated foot?”

“Shut up, Luke. No,” I said defensively, and then, “what’re you doing?”

“I was just putting Rachael’s present in her stocking and I heard a noise. I thought for a second it was a burglar, although I can’t imagine what we’d have that would be of any interest. But of course the second I heard your moaning, I knew it was just my idiot brother.”

“Thanks a lot. Go up to bed.”

“I want to see the present.”

“In the morning. Go away,” I whispered harshly.

“All right, all right, I’m going. See you.”

“Yeah.” I waited until he was gone before tiptoeing farther out on to the driveway. There in the shrubbery lining the side of the house, I saw the small blue bag. Mr. Laney had kept his promise. Smiling, I lifted the bag, stole back inside, and hurried to the fireplace where four stockings hung. I stopped still for a moment, recognizing a familiar stocking I hadn’t seen in a while: Dad’s. But of course, it was substituting as Rachael’s. He wasn’t back. He wasn’t coming back.

I hurried over to Mom’s stocking and emptied the bag’s contents into the dark hole.

I started to leave and stopped. “Merry Christmas, Dad,” I whispered. The words killed me, but the pain was ebbing. My life was beginning to flow again, the past with Dad was the past. The present without him was unknown, scary, sad. But I couldn’t stop the floor. I could pause it, but I couldn’t wish forever or I’d never really live. It hurt, it hurt so bad, but it was time to move on.

I went back to bed, and watched Rachael. She was my Jesus. She was my savior.

“Jordan, Jordan! Wake up! Oh, wake up!” Rachael pleaded childishly.

“Aah.” I groaned, yawned, and rolled over.

“Jordan! Santa Claus came!”

“Santa Claus?” I repeated uncomprehendingly.

“Yeah! Santa Claus! We have stockings!”

“Oh, stockings.” Apparently Rachael does it a little differently with her mother. Mom and Dad never connected Santa to stockings. They never actually explained him at all, really. The way our Christmas works is there is no tree and no presents lying under the tree. We hang our stockings up every year and Mom fills them with candy and small presents. Anything too big to fit into the stocking is wrapped and placed on the floor at the foot of the fireplace.

I sat up and looked over at the clock. 7:18. “Jeez, Ray, you’re an early bird today.” But I obliged and a minute later Rachael was pulling me into the living room. Luke was already nestled into a corner, chewing candy and digging excitedly through his stocking.

“Hey, Jordan, look what Santa brought,” he said with a wink.

“What did that big, fat man in the red suit bring in his shabby, unrealistic, big, fat bag of presents?”

“Socks and gum, Mike & Ikes and licorice and a new D.S. game, an iPod, a green one there, see? And the best of all, a big wad of money for charity. Fifty dollars, Jordan!” he crowed, spitting something green on me in his jubilation.

“’Uck, Luke,” I groaned, “all over my pajamas.”

“Sorry,” he replied, this time spitting something red; some of it landed in my mouth.

“No you aren’t,” I groaned again, gagging, and spitting the mystery substance into the trashcan.

“You have some on your nose,” Rachael said, watching my progress.

“Thank you, Rachael,” I replied pointedly.

“I said I was sorry, Jordan. Don’t hold a grudge, man.”

“Don’t do it again and I won’t.”

“All right,” he agreed. Instead of merely spitting particulars, he now accidentally dropped a whole mouthful of the chewed-up goop onto the floor.

“That’s what you get for chewing with your mouth open. Better clean it up before Mom gets down here,” I admonished, grabbing my own stocking and sitting down on the couch.

“Sure… Uh… I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” he added.

“Why?”

“Stand up.”

I stood and it took more effort than usual. I felt the seat of my pants and drew back in disgust, “Luke? What the ‘el is this?”

“They just came out with it, Jordan,” he said with an attempt at softening the blow.

“Luke?”

“It’s brand-new, dual twist, super-stick, long-lasting flavor licorice rolls, Jordan! Isn’t that great!” He beamed with fake energy.

“And this stuff is on my butt?”

“Yeah,” he winced.

“I’ll forgive you since it’s Christmas.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Turn Rachael around, will you?” Luke spun Rachael by the shoulders while I took off my pajama pants and tossed them into the laundry pile. Then I went through the clean clothes looking for something to wear. There- a pair of my sweatpants.

I sat down again to look at my own stocking. There were the annual pieces of candy: a raspberry blow-pop, three pieces of mixed flavor marzipan, and a couple peppermints. I also got my tray of homemade chocolate truffles. The card attached by ribbon told me that the left half contained raspberry jelly. Then there was the mandatory pair of socks, school colored this year. I even got my new D.S. game and, although it was a far cry from a basketball hoop, a thirty dollar gift card to Jacobson Sports Store.

I popped a peppermint into my mouth and experienced the sheer joy of feeling the flavor begin to drip down from the candy, trickle across my tongue, and spill down my throat. Delicious.

Then Luke and I turned together to watch Rachael go through her own stocking. She announced every present as she went. “Candy corn! Oh, yummy,” she ripped open the bag and, grabbing a handful, stuffed her mouth.

“Luke,” I grimaced unhappily. “Of all things, she had to pick up your manners.”

Oblivious, she continued, “Hershey kisses, skittles, and a giant candy cane!” It was giant, easily the length of her arm from the fingertip of the middle finger to her elbow, and as thick as a finger.

“What’s up with the mutant candy?”

“You just feel bad that you just got regular old stuff. It’s all right to be sad,” Luke comforted.

“Shut up. Go on, Ray.”

“Shut up. Go on, Ray,” Luke mimicked.

“And I got a bottle.”

“Nice, Jordan.” Luke rolled his eyes at my present.

“That’s not just any bottle, Rachael,” I explained defensively. “It’s a perfume bottle to remind you of the wise men with their frankincense and myrrh.”

“Oh,” she replied looking at the bottle with new appreciation.

Luke came over and wrapped his arms around Rachael. “Seriously, girl?” he asked. “If you want a perfume bottle, I’ll get you one that’s actually full of perfume, not an empty one like the wise man over there.” Rachael giggled.

“I like it, Luke.”

My brother rolled his eyes again. “What else?” he prodded.

“One more thing.” She pulled one last item from the limp stocking. “It’s an ornament.”

“It’s an-”

“Angel,” she interrupted. “Thank you, Luke.”

“It was no problem,” he said, attempting for a masculine air.

“You are failing miserably, Luke.”

“Thanks,” he answered grimly.

“Don’t thank m-”

“Look at our early birds.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Ms. Berkley.”

“Hey, Mom.” But then Luke continued, “open your stocking.”

“All right, all right,” she murmured drowsily. We watched in silence as she emptied her stocking. A paint set complete with 20 colors and five brushes tumbled out first, followed by homemade cookies from Luke and raisinettes from me. There was even a handmade card from Rachael:





Deer Ms. Burkly
Thank you for tayking kare of me.
Lov, Rachael


“Oh, Rachael, I love having you here,” Mom said, pulling Rachael on to her lap to hug her. “Thank you.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Looks like one more…It’s a newspaper.” She unraveled the paper curiously. “Oh my, Jordan…What kind of joke is this?” she asked suddenly.

“What?” I leaned over her shoulder to look.

Heavenly Hero Has Haircut

-arranged and written by Jasen Laney

-told by Jordan A. Berkley


“What kind of joke is this?” she repeated.

“A good one,” I laughed, tears springing in my eyes. Nice, Laney. Very nice.

“This is fantastic, Jordan. I’ll cherish this forever.”

“Thanks. I hope you enjoy it, honestly. But before you read it, I have a favor to ask of you. Do you mind if I borrow it? I have someone I need to go see.”

“Of course, Jordan, feel free and I’ll read it later.” I stood. “Are you leaving now?”

“Yeah.”

“If it’s okay, he means,” Luke clarified.

“Shut the ‘uck up.”

“Jordan,” Mom said warningly.

“What?” I asked, exasperated. “I’m defending myself.”

“Go run your errand.”

I opened the door and unfurled the newspaper. I began to walk as I read, and with every step, I heard the previous word ring in my head and burn in to my skull.



Heavenly Hero Has Haircut

-arranged and written by Jasen Samuel Laney

-told by Jordan Arizona Berkley


It was clever really, forming a truthful phrase in which each word began with H. Why H, I couldn’t tell you.


“I don’t know what I believe and I don’t know what to believe. Religion, Jesus, God, it’s all seemed like some fantasy, fictional, unrealistic. Like some kind of living Star Wars saga that half the world believes in. This has always been my take on the subject until a few days ago.

“It begins and ends with the Christmas story. Not the traditional Christmas story though, the one Matthew and Luke both agree on, the one casting Mary and Joseph as the lead roles. This Christmas story is Matthew’s alone: the story of the wise men. It begins traditionally with the holy spirit coming to Mary pronouncing the motherhood soon to fall upon her, and Joseph becoming wary of taking such a dishonest woman as his wife until being visited by angels in his dreams, waving away his doubts.

“And, like all other tales of Christ’s birth, a decree went out from Caesar Augustus declaring that he would have all his kingdom be counted and that in order to have this done, every man would take his family to his home town to be registered.

“So Joseph and his pregnant wife began the long trek from Nazareth to Bethlehem because he was a descendent of David.

“They arrived in Bethlehem, weary, in search of an inn to stay the night. However, due to the sudden increased population there was no room in any of the inns and Joseph was resigned to accept an offer of a barn in the back of one such inn, to spend the night.

“There, Mary gave birth to her firstborn son, Jesus Christ, and laid him in a manger to sleep.

“It is said then that during the time the young family spent in the inn afterward, they were visited by shepherds and wise men from the East who had followed the star that hung over the barn. Bowing, they offered gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the baby.

“Apart from their acquaintance with King Herod, little else is said regarding the wise men. But that is the story I will tell.

“How is it that these simple men came to witness the after-math of the birth of one of the most prominent, most famous people to ever walk this Earth? The wise men were different. And yet, each and every person on this Earth has the power to be the wise men. Who were they? What I know is this: the wise men were people who must have been very proficient in their study of stars. And one night they spotted a star that they had never laid eyes on before in their lives. Whether it shone differently or was a different size, I can’t say. But they saw it, and they were sure it meant something important. So important that they were willing to go against everything thought of them. They were willing to leave familiarity and all the people and things they knew best to go on a journey. And when they got to Jesus, they presented him with gold, frankincense, and myrrh. This was by no means all they had to give, but it was meaningful enough to a poor family with nothing to go by. They profited, and the family certainly must have. But it was the journey.

“How many people would be willing to leave everything to an uncertain fate to go off in search of a baby? I didn’t do this, and yet I was a wise man too.

“My behavior since losing my father was never great, and when I lost my grandfather it was the last straw. I lost it. I acted cruelly and without compassion. But then there was a car crash one day, and I went on my journey. I forgot about myself and went after the little girl trapped in back. I visited her and her mother in the hospital and gave them a teddy bear and a family heirloom worth a lot of money, both items I had received from my grandfather shortly before he died as he said “They aren‘t for you.” It was by no means all I had, but it was enough. And I profited far more than they believed. Because she saved me. I didn’t believe myself good enough for God and Jesus and salvation, and because of that, I stopped trying. I was a wise man. Wise and wealthy, but ignorant and dependent on familiarity. And then my star came in the form of a fire and my Jesus came in the form of a little girl. I don’t understand it. I can’t.

“And so I can only conclude from my own experiences, that maybe Jesus saving people isn’t how everyone believes it to be. Maybe the idea of saving is the term used to describe something that can’t be described. Maybe it just means you’ll always have a chance to start over. And that he’ll allow it but you have to decide to change. He’ll forgive you if you decide you deserve to be forgiven. And his whole life happened to prove that anything is possible, even starting over. And his death. It symbolized Jesus taking on all the wrongdoings of the world and bearing them so that we would not have to. We are expected to test the boundaries and we are expected to fail. But Christmas happened to give us new life. So it really isn’t just Jesus’ birthday. It’s ours. Christmas is a chance to begin again. Who says we can’t all be wise men?”


I finished reading. “God, Mr. Laney, I sound corny.” But it was all true and I had said everything written there in one way or another. I rolled it back up and continued walking. “You have reached your destination,” I murmured a short time later like one of those GPS things for your car that you can personalize between having Susie and Janet talk or whatever. I was here.

I tugged open the heavy double doors of Douglas Private Community Hospital and burst into the fire-lit lobby alongside a bone-chilling December wind. A collection of daily papers sat haphazardly on a cold metal stand near the doors. At the sudden draft, the topmost of the pile rose into the air and one particular newspaper flapped open and plastered itself to an old man’s wart-covered face as he reached to take a swig of coffee.

“Kids,” the secretary muttered, rolling her eyes as she studied me over a hideous pair of tortoise-shell spectacles perched on the tip of her unattractively long nose.

I didn’t bother replying,; I was already sprinting up the stairwell to the next floor. And then I dashed the second set up to the third.

The same dazed doctor was walking dazedly down the hall toward me. “Hullo, inspector’s kid. What’s up?” He still spoke contemporary language.

“Is there anyone in Oakley’s old room?”

“No. He passed on a few days ago and no one’s been brought there yet.”

“May I go in for a minute?”

“I’d swear you were the same boy,” he said frowning. “But you’re so different.”

“Different?”

“Nicer. Politer, I guess. Sure, go ahead. I take it you can find your own way. The door’s unlocked.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s no problem, kid.”

I walked slowly into the bare room as though I thought myself taking part in a funeral procession. It seemed too empty without an elderly old man in the neatly made bed. I sat down on the edge of it and stared around the place. And then on the spur of the moment, I grabbed my chair and sat down in it, facing the bed, and spread my legs, surprised to find myself wearing the same sweats.

I didn’t do anything for a full minute, as if I was waiting my turn to talk while he rambled. I looked down at myself and then at the bed. I started to speak, and stopped. That wasn’t Gramp. He wasn’t in bed. I looked at the ceiling instead. “I did it, Gramp. I gave away the stuff.” I heard our echoing in my head:

“This can’t be for me.”

“Oh, it’s not.”

“Well? Who’s it for? I don’t have a sister, and Mom’s not pregnant…”

“Oh you don’t need to know that.”

“Actually, yes I do. That’s the way the world works, Gramp. Through names. That’s why we all have one. Don’t you recall Oliver Berkley? Guess what, Gramp? That’s yours. So if someone had a teddy bear for you, they’d have to use your name.”

“I’m sorry, Jordan, I didn’t phrase that right. What I meant was you don’t need to know yet.”

“What kind of rubbish is-?”

“I don’t even know.”
And then

“I don’t believe this.”

“I’m not making you. But Jordan? I don’t want you to keep this stuff.”

“I gotta go, Gramp.”

“Yes. Go. I promise, you’ll know what to do.”

“I better.”


I meant to say more to him. On the way up the stairs, I recited potential paragraphs stuffed with unnecessary phrases ornamented with long words. But then I forgot it all. All except for one small greeting the meaning of which had been worn and weathered, and yet shone as pure as the gold the wise men of long ago had presented to baby Jesus. I broke the thick silence for the last time. “Merry Christmas, Gramp. Merry Christmas.”