“Today?” I nearly shriek. “But we’re not ready.”
“Sure we are,” Krysta says. “I wouldn’t have us do it if we weren’t.”
“I think it’ll be fun,” Yuli says. Of course she’s not nervous. Yuli might be shy normally, but the minute she starts dancing, she turns into a different person. I wish I knew how she did it.
“The other kids are going to be so jealous of us,” Eileen says with a giggle.
The rest of the morning, my body is too hot and too cold at the same time. Practicing at recess when the other kids in our class are distracted is one thing. But getting up in the front of everyone and performing, that’s another. It’s exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid all these years. There won’t be anywhere to hide.
Soon it’s after lunch, and Miss Patel calls our group up to the front of the room. “We have a little treat for you all,” she says. “These girls have been working hard on a dance routine during recess, and they want to show it to you.”
We get in line in front of the class, and my chest is so tight, it might burst. The music starts, and we move as one. We dip, we spin, we twirl. It’s exactly as we practiced. And when it’s over, the other kids applaud for what feels like forever.
When the clapping finally dies down, I’m breathing more heavily than the other girls, but this time it’s from excitement. We did it. We really did it!
After we go back to our seats, the other kids flash me big smiles. “Wow,” Anton whispers. “That was awesome, Mira.”
It’s the first time he’s ever said a word to me. For the rest of the day, classmates I’ve barely spoken to before talk to me. They include me. They treat me like I’m one of them.
At the end of the day, Miss Patel calls our group up to her desk to ask if we’d like to do our dance in front of the entire school at the Amber Centennial assembly in a couple of weeks. I don’t even think twice before saying yes.
* * *
The next day, I finally dare to bring an egg salad sandwich for lunch again instead of the turkey wrap I’ve been packing every morning. I’m almost too scared to take it out of my bag, but when Krysta does her daily food inspection, there’s no hiding what I’ve brought.
“Ew. Egg salad?” she says. “I thought we agreed that was gross.”
“No, you agreed,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “But good news. It’s my lunch, which means you don’t have to eat it.”
I hear Yuli suck in a breath beside me as Eileen almost chokes on her juice.
Krysta stares at me for a little too long. Then, amazingly, she laughs and says, “As long as you keep it on your side of the table!” She moves on to critiquing Eileen’s “stinky” tuna sandwich. And just like that, I can eat my sandwich in peace.
16
What’s a better word for ‘big’?” Krysta asks me, glancing up from her writing journal.
I lean back in her desk chair, the newest page in my journal still sitting empty in front of me. I thought my writer’s block was only affecting my poetry, but now all of our language arts assignments are turning into a struggle. No matter what I do, the words just aren’t coming.
“ ‘Large’?” I ask.
Krysta snorts. “More interesting than that. Come on, Mira. You’re the one who uses humongous words in your poems all the time.” Her face lights up. “Oh, ‘humongous’! That’s perfect!” She leans over her notebook again. “Wait, how do you spell that?”
I rattle off the letters, surprised at how easily they come to me. Miss Patel has been taking off less and less credit for spelling and grammar problems in my writing, but her last comment in my journal still haunts me. Where is your usual spark, Mira?
I don’t know where it went. Ever since I started using Amber, I’ve gotten better at everything. Everything but writing.
I force myself to start scribbling something about how excited and nervous I am to dance during the Amber Centennial assembly. Miss Patel always says to write what feels true. But even though I am excited and nervous, every word I put on the page falls flat.
When I’m done with my entry, I slap the journal shut, not bothering to reread it.
“Every word doesn’t have to be perfect, you know,” Krysta says, putting her journal away too.
I laugh. “Really? You’re giving me advice on how to stop trying to be perfect?”
“Well, your parents let you get away with it. Mine don’t. It’s not even an option.” She slides off her bed. “Come on. Let’s go outside. I want to show you something.”
I follow her downstairs, and we weave through the house until we get to the backyard. Krysta grabs a softball bat and a few balls from the other shed—the one that isn’t hiding a secret well.
“I thought you quit playing softball last year,” I say. “Wasn’t your mom afraid that your pitching arm would get too muscular and you’d look lopsided?”
Krysta lets out a strange laugh. “Something like that.” She hands me the bat. “I still hit the ball around when I need to let off some steam. Usually I get our gardener to play with me. Here. I’ll throw. You hit.”
“No way. I don’t want you to break my nose!”
“I’ll go easy on you. I promise.”
I reluctantly hold up the bat and give it a few practice swings. Then I try to get into the stance our gym teacher showed us, even though that’s never helped me actually hit the ball. Surprisingly, Krysta sticks to her word and throws the ball so gently that it lands at my feet. I swing and miss, of course.
“Try again.” She grabs another ball and throws it, harder this time but a little off-center.
I swing and—clunk! The edge of the bat just barely makes contact. The ball bounces behind me on the grass.
“Better!” Krysta says. She throws another and another. The balls sometimes go wildly to one side, as if Krysta’s trying to trip me up. But each time, I manage to graze the ball with the bat.
I can’t believe it. Has my coordination really gotten so much better? I find myself wishing my gym teacher were here to witness this.
“Okay. Now, do you see those trees?” Krysta asks, pointing to the edge of the Perezes’ property. “Swing as hard as you can and aim for those.”
We both know there’s no chance I can hit it that far, but Krysta is right. I do feel better now. Every time I swing the bat, my frustration with myself about my writing stings a little less.
Krysta winds up. I bite my lip in concentration, steady my hands, and—CRACK!
The ball smashes against my bat and sails toward the trees, just like Krysta wanted. But it doesn’t simply go into them. It sails over them, clearing the top branches as if it’s sprouted wings.
Krysta’s mouth hangs open as she stares at the spot where the ball disappeared. She turns back to me. “H-how did you do that? I’ve never hit it that far.” She doesn’t sound mad or even jealous. She just sounds in awe. In awe of me.
“I don’t know,” I say. Even with Amber in my body, I shouldn’t be better at this than Krysta is. I shouldn’t be better than her at anything.
But I do know one thing. I can’t wait to feel this way again.
17
When I get to school on Wednesday, all the kids are milling out on the steps, talking over one another.
“What’s wrong?” I ask Yuli.
“You didn’t hear?” Her eyes are wide and unblinking. “They’re cutting our Amber rations.”
“You mean at school?”
“No, the whole town,” Eileen cuts in. “Mayor Perez announced it on TV last night. Half the Amber for everyone, starting today.”
My stomach sinks into my knees. I remember my parents’ hushed conversation in the kitchen this morning. I thought it was another whispered fight, but maybe it was about this. Why didn’t they tell me?
“For how long?” I ask, gripping the straps of my backpack as if they might keep me from falling over.
“Until the Amber comes back, I guess.” Yuli shakes her head. “People can pay for extra, but my mom said i
t’s so expensive that she’d have to get another job to afford it.”
“My parents said we might move again,” Eileen says. “Some towns barely have any rationing at all.”
But Yuli is still shaking her head. “My mom said it’s only a matter of time before everywhere gets like this. The more reservoirs that dry up, the more people will get scared.”
“All that dried-up reservoir stuff is just talk!” Eileen scoffs. “Besides, the government can drill more wells. It’s not a big deal.”
“They can’t dig up the whole country looking for Amber,” Yuli says. “My mom says it would hurt the environment.”
“So we plant more trees. Also not a big deal,” Eileen says.
As the two of them head off to class, spouting more things their parents said, my chest aches with the unfairness of this whole situation. After years of waiting, I’ve finally been given magic, only to have it taken away? It’s only been a couple of weeks, and already I can’t imagine life without it.
All the kids look as worried as I feel. No, not all, I realize. Krysta and a few others are hanging back, listening more than talking. I picture the scene in Krysta’s gleaming house this morning: her dad assuring her that the rations won’t affect their special little family, and her mom flashing a knowing smile at the secret well in their shed.
I think of the older people in suits, arguing with Mayor Perez in Krysta’s yard. Are they the ones who made this happen? They wanted the mayor to take action. Maybe the extra rationing was what they meant.
“It’s not fair,” I mutter.
“What?” Daniel asks, appearing beside me. I guess he’s back at school now.
I realize that I said the words out loud. Now that I’ve started, I go ahead and say the rest of it. “People like Krysta don’t have to worry about Amber because they’ll always have some, no matter how small the rations are.”
“People like Krysta?” Daniel asks. “Because she’s rich?”
“No. Because she has a well and can get Amber anytime she wants,” I blurt out.
Daniel’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Aren’t those against the law?”
“I guess.” I’ve already said far too much. “Where have you been?” I ask, changing the subject. “We need to work on our wildflower project.” I did a bunch over the weekend, but I can’t do the whole assignment on my own.
“I found the rest of my ten last night,” he says. “They’re already drying. Don’t worry.”
“But we need to glue them down and identify the parts and pick our top flowers and—”
“We’ll be okay,” he insists.
We might be okay, but what if it’s not enough to get an A?
I don’t get a chance to say that, though, because I realize that I’m standing around talking to Daniel where anyone might see. So I tell him we’ll talk later and hurry away.
When Miss Patel starts our lessons, no one can focus on the math problems on the board.
“Will we feel different with only half the Amber?” Anton asks.
“Not at first,” Miss Patel says. “It takes a few days for it to completely make its way out of your system. By the end of the week, you might feel a bit sluggish, but you’re all young and healthy. You’ll get used to it in no time.” She laughs. “Us older folks, though, won’t have it as easy.”
I think of Tata’s aching back. Will our neighbors all be stooped over after working in their gardens this weekend?
“But we’ll be okay, won’t we?” Anton asks. “We’ll still be us?”
“Of course,” Miss Patel says, but I can tell by the looks on my classmates’ faces that they’re not sure they believe her.
18
That night, the protests start. Not like the tiny gatherings in front of the town hall, but big groups milling through the streets, holding up signs and shouting angry chants.
“People are afraid,” Tata says as we watch the coverage on the local news. “They’ve had Amber for so long that they don’t know how to live without it.”
The camera focuses on a SAVE OUR AMBER sign held high above the crowd, and I recognize the convenience store by school where Krysta and I sometimes stop to buy candy.
“Mama’s lab isn’t far from there,” I say. Recently she’s been working late more and more, because of the mysterious “breakthrough” in her research, but I wish that she were home with us now.
The news shows more protest signs: STOP THE RATIONING and GO HOME. I frown at the last one. Which “home” are they talking about?
“Don’t worry,” Tata tells me. “The police will make sure things stay peaceful.” He turns off the TV and pats my knee. “Now shouldn’t you be working on your wildflower project?”
I sigh. “I’ve collected all of my flowers and identified and labeled them. Now I have to wait for Daniel to finish his.”
“It’s nice to see you spending time with other kids,” Tata says. “That Krysta, she’s too…”
“Perfect?” I say with a laugh.
“I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” he says.
“What’s wrong with that? Besides, she only acts perfect.” If he could read a snippet of Krysta’s writing journal before I’ve helped her polish it up, he’d see what I mean.
“I just want you to be yourself instead of trying to be like everyone else,” Tata says softly. “And to stop slouching.”
I roll my eyes, forcing my shoulders back. “Of course I’m being myself!” I say, although something about that feels like a lie. Every time I sit down with my notebook, the words come out all wrong. Can I still be myself if I don’t feel like a writer?
The writer’s block is only temporary, I remind myself. It has to be.
* * *
I wake up in the morning to the sound of someone screaming. For a second I think it’s coming from the TV in the living room.
Then I open my eyes to the bright sunshine and hear Tata shouting. I run out of my room and find my parents standing at our open front door, staring at something in our yard. They hold on to each other as if they can’t stand up on their own.
“Mama? Tata? What’s happening?” I ask.
“Go back to your room,” Tata says.
But Mama shakes her head. “No, she needs to see.” She holds out her hand to me. “Come here.”
I walk over and stand beside them. Then I peer out onto our yellowed grass as Mama puts her arm around me. At first all I see is a cardboard sign, the kind people put on their lawns to advertise their house-painting company. When I look more closely, I see that it’s a different kind of sign. A FOR SALE sign.
“Our house is for sale?” I ask, not understanding.
“No,” Mama says. “No, it’s a prank.”
“It’s more than that,” Tata says. He leads me out onto the front steps and points to a broken basement window where someone must have thrown a rock. Then he points at our car, where words are spray-painted onto the passenger door. Red, angry words.
GO HOME.
I stare at them for an eternity. “But—but we are home,” I say. Then I remember one of the signs from last night’s protest, and it hits me. “Wait. The protestors, they’re angry at us?”
“They’re scared and are lashing out,” Mama says, coming up beside me.
“But we’re citizens now. The university asked you to come work here. They want us here!”
“Some people don’t know that,” Tata says. “All they see is that we’re not like them. They want someone to blame for what’s wrong.”
“But we don’t even use Amber!” Or, at least, we didn’t until a few weeks ago.
“I need to call work,” Mama says. “See if the others are all right.”
Suddenly I realize that we might not be the only ones waking up to angry words. I think of what Tata said last night about Krysta being too perfect. Krysta doesn’t have to worry about people wanting her out of town. She might be too perfect, but no matter how much I try to be like her, I’ll never be perfect enough.
<
br /> 19
When I get to school, everyone is talking about the protests and the attacks on people’s houses. “Hate crimes,” someone calls them, and the words send a chill through my body.
Krysta puts her arm around me. “Are you okay?”
I nod even though I’m not sure if I am.
“I can’t believe this would happen in Westbrook,” Eileen says.
“Whoever did it didn’t really mean it, right?” Yuli asks.
I shake my head. “It wasn’t just us,” I say. “Mama called the people she works with, and some of them had rotten fruit thrown at their doors or egg on their windows.”
“But why? I mean, you’re not that foreign,” Eileen says.
“If we were, would the attacks be okay?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Of course not. It just doesn’t make sense. I mean, I’ve heard my parents complaining about outsiders bringing our country down, but they obviously didn’t mean you!”
The other kids in my class hang back, as if they’re not sure how to act around me. I can’t help wondering if one of them could have put that horrible sign in front of our house.
Miss Patel must feel bad because she lets me feed Mister Whiskers his snack, even though it’s not anywhere close to my birthday. As he watches me with his big, round eyes, I can’t help thinking he looks as panicked and scared as I feel.
* * *
“Listen up!” Krysta says at recess. “We have two weeks until the assembly, and I think we need to make our dance more impressive.”
“More impressive?” I echo.
“It’s the Amber Centennial. We need to really wow everyone,” Krysta says. “Here’s what I’m thinking.” She starts demonstrating a few moves that are far more complicated than the ones we were doing before.
“Are you sure we can learn it in time?” Yuli asks softly. If she’s worried, then I should be terrified.
“We’ll be fine,” Krysta says. She sounds so certain that I allow myself to think it will be all right.
The Wonder of Wildflowers Page 6
