A Paper Son by Jason Buchholz Page B

something she can use as a surface. Within arm’s reach is an old metal bucket, forgotten beneath the leaning bamboo handles. Rose pulls the bucket into her lap and settles the paper against it. There is already a curve to the paper, from the rolled bundle, and the sheet clings to the side of the bucket as though the two were made for each other.
    It is the first time in weeks she’s had a pencil in her hand, and with its tip poised over the clean white sheet, she finds herself stymied. Back home she might have casually filled the page with drawings of flowers or dolphins or practice signatures, or written a note for her mom or her brother, as she’s done a thousand times before. But now paper is a rare and precious thing—there were only a few sheets in the bundle and she doesn’t know when or how she’ll get more. She sits there with the bucket on her lap for some time, the pencil poised, as images and ideas compete in her head. Finally she touches the tip to the very corner of the sheet and begins to write, in English, in the smallest script she can manage. There is a slight roughness to the bucket’s metal, and she can feel it pulling the bits of gray from the tip of the pencil. It is a magical feeling. It was after school one day when Dad first came home from the store and told us we were moving to China, she writes. She continues, describing the days before the voyage, and the voyage itself, and the house where she is learning to disappear.
    Just when it is getting too dark for her to write, she hears her brother’s little voice, calling for her. He doesn’t sound like he is far away. Leaving the paper curled against the bucket, Rose crawls back out of the fortress toward the door. Still on her knees, she pushes the door open and peeks out. Henry is peering around the corner of the main house, his brow wrinkled. He sees her right away and a wide smile breaks across his face. He runs to her and plunges into the shed.
    â€œWhat are you doing in here?” he asks, looking past her, waiting for the shed’s contents to take shape in the gloom.
    â€œDown here,” she says, and leads him back into the shelter of bamboo handles. He sits against the wall, his little hands on his knees, taking in the details of their new hiding place, his eyes bright and a smile growing on his face.
    â€œI like it here,” he whispers.
    â€œMe too,” Rose says.
    â€œIt smells good.”
    Rose nods.
    â€œDoes Mom know about it?” Henry asks.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat about Mae?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œThe others?”
    She shakes her head.
    He beams. “So it’s just yours?”
    â€œMine and yours,” she says.
    They are quiet for a minute. Henry spies the bucket and the sheet of paper. “What are you writing?” he asks.
    â€œOur story,” she says. “The story of how we came here.”
    â€œTo the shed?”
    â€œTo China.”
    Henry nods. “There’s more paper at school,” he says. “I can get some if you need it.”
    Rose smiles. “Then I won’t have to write so small,” she says. Henry crawls over and peers at the sheet, one side of which is already covered in his sister’s tiny handwriting. “Do you want me to read it to you?” she asks him.
    Henry’s face lights up, and Rose smiles. She remembers how much Henry loved their collection of books back in California. He would sit with them on the floor for hours. Rose pulls the sheet from the bucket and settles herself against the wall with her legs folded and her brother pressed closely to her side. It is too dark for her to make out the words now, though, so she begins to recite from memory. She tells him as much as she can remember before they hear their mother’s voice calling for them. Rose retrieves the little bundle of supplies, slips the sheet back into it, and ties the cords. “We’ll come back