Full Cicada Moon by Marilyn Hilton Page B

handwriting anywhere.
    â€œFrom Stacey?”
    Timothy nods.
    â€œWhere did you see her?”
    â€œI took her homework to her today.”
    â€œSo, you told her
    what I said yesterday?”
    â€œDon’t worry—I didn’t have to.
    She told me to wait while she wrote this.”
    I tear open the envelope
    and read:
    Dear Mimi,
    How are you? I am fine,
    and I like having another vacation.
    I miss you,
    but we’ll see each other again soon.
    I’m glad we went to shop
    and I’m glad we didn’t back down
    to Mr. Sperangium
    (oops, did I write that?).
    And I would do it all over again.
    Pinkie promise??
    Love,
    Stacey
    â€œThank you, Timothy.
    That was nice of you.”
    â€œShe’s your friend,” he says,
    and I say, “So are you.”

Bad News
    It’s not a baking day,
    but Timothy is rapping on the back door
    like he’s late for his lesson.
    Papa pulls it open and Timothy tumbles in,
    face flushed—but not because he’s embarrassed or cold
    or happy. His eyes are red, too.
    He falls into Papa
    and hangs on, shuddering.
    â€œMy b-bro-ther.”
    â€œWesley?” I ask.
    Timothy nods violently on Papa’s shoulder.
    â€œWhat about Wesley, son?” Papa asks,
    eases Timothy away
    gently
    and bends to him to see his face.
    â€œHe’s m-missing. His s-squad was att-k’d.”
    Timothy gulps a breath. “May-be       he’s         d-dead,”
    he sobs, and plunges his head into Papa’s shoulder.
    I go to him and smooth his hair
    like he’s Baby Cake trying to fall asleep,
    and Papa pats his back
    until Timothy breaks away and runs his hand under his nose.
    I hand him a napkin.
    â€œHow did you hear?” Papa asks.
    â€œMy mom (
gulp, gulp
) called.
    She’s coming to get me.
    I have to go back with her.”
    â€œOh,” I say,
    but my heart feels so much more
    for Timothy,
    for Wesley,
    for their mom,
    and me.
    â€œFor how long?”
    Timothy shakes his head. “I don’t know,”
    and then I feel bad for asking.
    How could he know?
    Now we hear Mr. Dell outside. “Timothy!”
    â€œDo you want me to go with you?” Papa asks.
    Timothy blows his nose again and shakes his head,
    and I open the door.
    Maybe I won’t see him again for a long time
    or forever.
    Papa squeezes his shoulder and says to call us
    for anything he needs—
    and to tell his uncle the same thing.
    I wish Mama was here, because she’d give him food
    for the trip.
    â€œTimothy!” his uncle calls. The growl
    is gone from his voice, and all I hear is worry.
    The turkeys gobble in the coop like a laugh track
    but nothing is funny.
    â€œComing,” Timothy says,
    and turns to me. “If we don’t leave till tomorrow,
    meet me outside tonight?”
    I feel like crying as I nod yes. It will be the
    Full Hunter’s Moon.
    Timothy closes the door and walks across our yard
    to Mr. Dell, who’s standing on his side of the fence.
    I watch him
    watching Timothy come closer and stop.
    Their bodies tell the story—
    Timothy’s hands answer a phone call,
    Mr. Dell grows still, then folds his arms over his chest
    and shakes his head.
    Timothy drops his arms.
    â€”I press my nose to the door—
    Mr. Dell looks at our house,
    then at the fence between him and Timothy,
    and steps over it            to his nephew.
    He rests his hand on the back of Timothy’s neck
    gently
    and guides him back to their house.

The Way We Say Good-bye: One
    When Mama and I left Berkeley,
    Auntie Sachi and Uncle Kiyoshi and Shelley and Sharon
    walked us to the taxi parked at the curb
    and helped the driver put our suitcases in the trunk
    and opened the doors for us
    and closed them after we settled in our seats
    and stood nearby.
    The taxi driver checked his map
    and fixed his mirrors
    and called in to say he was taking us to the bus station.
    All