Samples

And finally I twist my heart round again,
so that the bad is on the outside and the good is on the inside,
and keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would so like to be,
and could be, if there weren't any other people living in the world.
- Anne Frank

Chapter One

   After climbing Heartbreak Hill with Dad so many times, I thought I’d be ready for eighth grade. All the way up, he yelled. “Atta girl, Annie, you can do it. Get tough.”
   He put twenty pounds of rocks in my pack to get me in shape for softball and soccer, but I really wanted to be tough enough to face Jessica Johnson.
   She stole my best friend, talked behind my back, and made my life miserable.
   So when she rode past on her bike the week before school started, I knew she was up to something. She hardly ever appeared on my street; and when she smiled, it meant trouble.
   “Hi, Anne Marie. Like my hair?”
   Instead of her regular hair, Jessica had dozens of long, kinky braids that zigzagged like lightning bolts when she shook her head.
   “Your Mom do it?” I asked.
   “You’re kidding, right? She’s white! Black and Blue did it. Cost a hundred bucks.” She stared at my hair as she fingered one of her fake braids. “What’d you do with yours?”
   My hands formed fists as I waited through another smile. Then she dropped her bomb.
   “I hear your dad’s going back to Iraq!”
   The moment seemed to freeze frame as her words struck like shrapnel.
   “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look all freaked out.”
   I couldn’t answer.
    Another smile. Another wound, neatly placed.
   “Bought your school clothes yet?” she asked. “Carly and I are so totally ready for eighth grade. We got identical animal print puffer jackets.”
   I’d been dumped. I hadn’t seen my best friend, all summer.
   “I’ve gotta go,” I said.
   “Whatever.”
   She took off down the street, her new weaves whipping the air.
   I raced into the house. Only Charley the cat was home, and he darted out of my way.
   I slammed through the kitchen, opening cupboards until I found Mom’s stash of bottles under the sink. Obviously, she’d prepared herself for another deployment.
   I paced the house until I heard Dad’s truck pull into the driveway. Then I ran outside.
   “Thanks for letting me be the last to know!”
   “Glad to see you, too!” he said.
   “You could have told me.”
   “What’s the big deal?”
   Right away, he started packing. I sat on his half filled duffel to watch him put maps and cammies into his ruck. Canvas bags fit into other canvas bags. He buckled, snapped, tied. He tucked in nail clippers and sunscreen and antibacterial solution. A warrior must be organized going to war. It could mean life or death.
   He packed toilet paper for the straddle trench, a book about the Spartans, a bar of soap, trail mix. The stencil on his ruck read: Gunnery Sergeant Alexander Hayden.
    Everyone called him Gunny.
   “What about Mom?” I asked.
   “She’ll be fine.”
    “How do you know?”
   When Dad got deployed, the pause button on life got stuck. Mom and I didn’t act normal. We hung around as he got ready. I didn’t have the right words, and Mom treated him like a guest in the house. She put out clean towels, changed the sheets, and made meatloaf with scalloped potatoes.
   “I guess I’ll quit soccer,” I said.
   “Why?”
   “I’m no good.”
   He put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, Annie, somebody has to fight this war.”
   “Why you?”
   “Not my call.”
   It was his second tour in Iraq. He called it the “sandbox.”. He’d get sand in his eyes. His nose would peel. His lips would get parched.
   “But eighth grade’s starting.”
   He pulled me to my feet, gave me a bear hug, and I wanted to be five again.
   “I knew you’d be upset. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
   “I still can’t catch fly balls.”
   “You luck will change.”
   He thought a minute, then tugged on his ring, twisting it to get it past his knuckle.
   “Here, take my lucky ring.”
   He held it out, but I didn’t take it. I shook my head. The ring had come from his father and his father before him, all soldiers. Without his ring, anything could happen.
   “No, you keep it.”
   He shrugged, then slid the ring back on his finger.
    I felt as if I’d let him down.
   “You promised you’d teach me to shoot a gun,” I said.
   “Later.”
   “You said I did pretty good at paint ball.”
   “Tell you what...I’ll survive the war, and you try to survive eighth grade. Deal?”
   Mom came into the room carrying a glass of wine, tripped, and almost fell into Dad.
   He reached out to steady her. “You already hittin’ the booze, babe?”
   She kissed him on the mouth. “Just wine.”
   With his arm around Mom, he looked at me. “Call Carly. I’m takin’ my girls out.”
   “Forget Carly,” I said.
   “You two still on the outs?”
   Mom wrapped her arms around Dad, making him look at her.
   “Anne Marie thinks girls are ganging up on her.”
   “It’s true. Everyone’s against me.”
   He took a sip of Mom’s wine, then did his best imitation of a little girl voice. “Ohhh!
Everyone’s against me. What am I gonna do?”
   His teasing made me feel five instead of thirteen.
   “You don’t understand!”
   He laughed. Mom pulled him close and kissed him again. He tickled her, and they started acting silly. I felt invisible.
   I stomped out of their room and into my own. Even though I slammed the door, no one came to scold me.
   I heard them talking late into the night, laughing even. I wanted to laugh, too, but the door to
their room was closed. They stayed up most of the night watching war movies to get Dad into a killing, kick-butt, gung-ho frame of mind. They did it every time he was deployed. Bombs dropped, buildings blew up, and people screamed. Dad shouted “Hoo-rah!” and “Semper Fi” a couple of times in my dreams.
   Charley’s loud purring woke me. I threw back my comforter and rushed into the hall. Dad’s ruck, duffle, everything he’d set by the front door was gone.
   On the kitchen table, shoved halfway under the pepper mill, was an index card. I recognized his handwriting. He printed in thin black marker.
   Goodbye Annie. Didn’t want to wake you. Remember you’re a warrior’s daughter and you’re tougher than you think. Give it your best shot. Love you. Dad
   Love you! Dad never got mushy, not even with Mom. I put the note in my jewelry box with all my valuable things.
   After that, Mom and I rattled around the house trying to avoid each other.
   “I’ve gotta go shopping,” I said.
   “What for?”
   “Clothes.”
   She finally went to the ATM for some fast cash to go with my babysitting money. She dropped me off at the mall for the day, and I hoped I wouldn’t run into Jessica. I spent all the money on shirts and jeans.
   On the first day of school, I hauled my bookbag past the Support Our Troops sign to eighth grade homeroom. The minute I got to the quad, I noticed the new kids. Just the way they stood around, striking poses, hips thrown out, belly rings sparkling, I knew they were transfers from the other side of base by the back gate. One girl stood in the shadows by herself. Her stringy hair streaked pink, she looked as if she’d just crawled out of the lost and found box.
   Then I saw Carly, my best friend since first grade. Her hair was longer and slightly bleached after the summer. She stood with Preppies dressed in designer jeans and triple layered tops so new the fold creases showed.
   My clothes weren’t nearly as good, but I took a deep breath and headed straight for her.
   Before I could open my mouth, Jessica laughed.
   “What’s so funny?”
   “Oh, Anne Marie, that outfit’s so totally last year!”
   As if invited, the transfer standing alone came over and pointed at the picture on the front of my shirt. “Monet’s bridge, right? Okay, listen, I saw the real one...in case you’re interested.”
   I examined the buckle of my studded belt as if it might be something important and the girl stepped back.
   Jessica watched. “Who’s your new friend?”she asked.
   The door to homeroom suddenly opened and, to my amazement, Mrs. Spencer, my old first grade teacher, stepped out. “Good morning, students. I’m your language arts teacher this year.” She jangled her keys in front of our faces to prove it official.
   A fake rose bloomed on her sweater and a yellow ribbon decorated her sleeve in support of
the troops. She shaded her eyes against the September sun, squinting past the nuclear power plant
toward the sea, took a deep breath, and zeroed in on me. “Hello. How are you?”
   I plunged through the door, expecting the same boring classroom from seventh grade, but everything had changed. Bookcases stood against every wall, and books lined all the shelves. The front of the room resembled a little stage. A tiny red and gold USMC flag stood alongside a bonsai plant on Mrs. Spencer’s desk. A half dozen animal print cushions were stacked in a corner near a little fountain almost hidden by ferns where water trickled over volcanic rocks.
   Atop one bookcase, I spied the Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls Mrs. Spencer gave
me to hold when I fell off the first grade slide, the very day Carly enrolled.
     Being new to middle school, Mrs. Spencer allowed us to sit anywhere. Jessica, Carly, and the rest of the Preppies found seats up front on one side of the room. The transfers grabbed places
on the opposite side. Boys climbed into rows in back.
   I found myself stuck in a double side row near the open door with all the unwanted people. I felt like a loser magnet and wondered if unpopularity might be catching.
   A boy dressed all in black and wearing silver chains entered the room. He had ballpoint tattoos on his arms and gelled black hair in Statue of Liberty spikes four inches high. On his wrists were woven leather bands, and a permanent dark shadow on his upper lip made him seem too old for eighth grade. Heavy silver crosses dangled from chains around his neck, and a big loopy chain swung at his side. He had so many chains, he clanked as he walked.
   “Tony Sanchez?” Mrs. Spencer checked his late slip with the stack of cards in her hands.
   Jessica gazed at Tony as he slid into the seat next to me. I knew right away what she was
thinking. She wanted him for herself.
   Tony pulled an art pad from his bookbag and began sketching a really cool falcon.
   Mrs. Spencer checked the enrollment cards against her attendance sheet.
   “Let’s see...Jessica Johnson?”
   Swanlike, Jessica straightened and swiveled around to see if Tony noticed. Then she smiled and raised her hand.
   Mrs. Spencer called roll. Dawna Browne. Carly Lopez. Waylon Jones. Leticia Hawkins.
   Finally, she got to me.
   “Anne Marie Hayden?”
   She peered over her rimless glasses and I lifted a hand.
   She paused and smiled, remembering me. “You’re the one named after your two grandmothers. Isn’t that right, Anne Marie?”
   I looked at my desk, chewing a hangnail as I memorized the chipped edge. She waited a minute, then called another name.
   “Is Jill Baker here?”
   The pink haired girl who had been to Monet’s Bridge nodded, peeled herself off the back wall, and walked to a solitary place between the back window and Mrs. Spencer’s copy machine. The room fell silent as everyone watched.
   To my surprise, Mrs. Spencer gave out scented markers. Everyone got interested in making nameplates to put on our desks. Soon orange, lime, and grape flavors smothered the odor of Darla’s cherry flavored gum, Jessica’s cologne, and Waylon’s smelly sneakers.
   Tony set his falcon aside to design his name in three dimensional block letters. I couldn’t resist stealing glances at him, and I noticed Jessica kept looking at him, too. Every time she turned around, I stared back at her. She got madder by the minute.
   After awhile, I heard a droning sound and realized it was Mrs. Spencer reading poetry.
   In tight pants, tight skirts,
   stretched or squeezed,
   youth hurts.
   She perched on a tall stool below the American flag and in front of quotations she’d taped to the white board. She held an open book on her lap.
   Crammed in, bursting out,
   Flesh will sing
   And hide its doubt . . .
   She kept on reading, but could have been reading to herself since no one was really getting the poetry, if it was something we were supposed to get. After awhile, the commotion in the room subsided and I started to listen.
    Put off, or put on,
   Youth hurts. And then
   It’s gone.
   “Wonderful poem, don’t you think? It’s called The Young Ones, Flip Side, and it’s by James A. Emanuel.” She sighed. “Youth hurts. Something to think about.”
   She slid off the stool to announce she was starting the Sandstone Cliff Poets, some kind of club she’d thought up.
   “To become a founding member, you must write 100 poems.”
   “One hundred poems!”
   “That’s like a book!”
   “We never had to do poems last year!”
   “And not in sixth grade either.”
   She read another poem anyway. It was about love, and I wondered if Tony had ever kissed a girl. Jessica must have been wondering, too, because she turned around and smiled right at him even though he was too busy with his markers to notice.
   “Anne Marie, will you collect the nameplates so we can save them for tomorrow?”
   Mrs. Spencer looked right at me. The last thing I wanted to do was to walk around the room in front of the new transfers.
   “Anne Marie?”
   When I stood up, I felt 32 pairs of staring eyes. Right away, Darla Sutton knew I didn’t own a bra and Tony Sanchez knew I was tall with no butt. I slumped to make myself small as I went around the room snatching up the nameplates.
   Jill hadn’t finished the “J” in her name. She sat low in her scoop chair, her chin almost on the desktop, twisting a strand of hair and didn’t even look up when I yanked away her slice of
poster board.
   I shoved the stack at Mrs. Spencer even though her hands were full of pencils, poetry
books, and scented markers. As I went past Jessica, she stuck out a foot. I caught myself in time. The minute hand on the wall clock jumped, the unofficial signal for everyone to pack up.
   Then it was as if Jill suddenly woke up.
   “Wait! I’ve gotta say something!”
   Boys arose at once, bookbags over their shoulders.
   Mrs. Spencer held up a hand “One moment, class. Yes, Jill?”
   Jill jumped up, gulped air, and the words gushed out.
   “My best friend’s brother killed himself last year! He was an eighth grader, like us, in case anyone cares...which I doubt. And he was my boyfriend, and you oughta know about it because it’d be really, really dumb to do something like that, and people shouldn’t, not ever.”
   Transfers glanced over at Jill with disgust. Preppies looked at one another, eyes bright with rumor. As they snickered, boys punched each other with fists.
   Mrs. Spencer walked over to Jill.
   “Please don’t think no one cares,” she said.
   She started to say more, then seemed to remember the rest of the class. She glanced at the wall clock and nodded. Everyone rushed for the door, stepping on lunches and bookbags in an attempt to be first outside.
   Jessica had Carly by the arm.
   “Ohmigawd, can you actually believe that girl so totally freaked out?” she gasped loud enough for Jill to hear.
   I didn’t move fast enough. Suddenly I was alone with Jill and Mrs. Spencer.
   “Would you like to see the school counselor?” Mrs. Spencer asked.
    Jill shook her head, pink strands of hair falling into her eyes. It was really pathetic.
   I scrambled for my bookbag, but papers and books had spilled everywhere. It took me awhile to scoop everything up.
   As I rushed for the door, Mrs. Spencer snagged me.
   “Anne Marie, will you go along with Jill to next period? She’s new and it might be nice if she had some company.“
   “I’m kinda in a hurry.”
   “Please...if you don’t mind.”
   Jill looked over at me. I hesitated, then nodded.
   She followed me past the poetry sign and down the ramp. It was worse than carrying rocks up Heartbreak Hill. It took all my strength.
   As she stood with the Preppies, the quick sweep of Carly’s eyes told me all I needed to know.