magnet for lost puppies. What he meant was that she liked to be needed.
Lucy takes a seat in the crowded room where Mrs. Arnold has already begun an open dialogue. Lucy is lost and it shows. She searches the eyes of her classmates, native Miamians with years of Spanish under their belts, and finds that none of them are as puzzled as she. When the bell finally rings, she decides she’s had enough school for the day and saunters out of the bulky building. Finding the cell phone in her bag, she dials Ricky’s number en route to the bus stop.
Her brother answers on the first ring. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Hey,” she says.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sensing her mood across the miles. “And shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Spanish Heritage Day,” she quips. And then, “I miss you.”
Ricky knows his connection with his sister is strong, and he also knows that her call is prompted by more than the geography that separates them. “That bad?” he asks.
“ Mas o menos .”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Hearing his voice is always enough. Even with the traffic blaring on Dade Boulevard as she crosses the street, his words inch her closer to inner peace.
“I’m good,” she says, this time more convincing
“Have you made any friends?”
The mere mention of the word has her thinking of Levon. Friend. So many different interpretations. “Did Mom tell you about the new neighbors?”
“It’s terrible,” he says.
“The brother goes to my school. It’s awful.”
“Someone to fix,” he says. “That should keep you busy.”
“He could use some sprucing up.”
“Watch yourself, Lucy. The boy is in mourning. Not everybody finds your magic endearing.”
“He’s sweet.”
“Sweet like nice, or sweet like I’ve found my pulse again?”
Lucy doesn’t bite. “No, nothing like that. I hardly know him.”
“Then let me rephrase the question. Is there any chance you could like him?”
The question surprises her. He hadn’t asked about her interest in the opposite sex in a long time. Five months if anyone were to count.
“You should see the memorial they have here for the Holocaust,” she answers instead, approaching the somber sculpture on Meridian Avenue. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
She chews on her lip thinking about her neighbor missing his brother. After what she has survived, nothing rattles her more than death: the forever aloneness, the stark finality. She slows down her pace and takes in the tranquil beauty of the circular colonnade. “It wasn’t how I imagined getting to know our neighbors, with all those cars parked outside and people lining up the street in tears.”
“Are the dreams back?” he asks.
Lucy is quiet. They hadn’t returned, and the mention of them flusters her. Only her dear brother could bring out the feelings she had buried deep. She swallows and starts to preach, “Can’t dwell on the past. The future is full of possibility. No better present than the present. Rule #517.”
“Oh boy, new boy has no idea what he’s in for.”
This makes Lucy smile. It feels out of place as she passes through the open-air structure that memorializes six-million Jews. For her, the giant hand reaching out of the ground signifies hope. “When are you coming down?”
“Thanksgiving.”
“I can’t wait,” she says. “I love you, Ricky.”
“I love you more,” he replies.
It serves as a reminder of how troubling the Atlanta exodus had been for him. Loving her more was tied up fiercely in regret, having let her down with his absence on a day when she needed him most. Lucy never blamed him, but he blamed himself. When they hang up and Lucy sticks the phone in her back pocket, she is standing in front of the sculpture entitled The Beginning .
Two frightened children nestle within the safety of their mother’s arms. The
Lucy takes a seat in the crowded room where Mrs. Arnold has already begun an open dialogue. Lucy is lost and it shows. She searches the eyes of her classmates, native Miamians with years of Spanish under their belts, and finds that none of them are as puzzled as she. When the bell finally rings, she decides she’s had enough school for the day and saunters out of the bulky building. Finding the cell phone in her bag, she dials Ricky’s number en route to the bus stop.
Her brother answers on the first ring. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Hey,” she says.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sensing her mood across the miles. “And shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Spanish Heritage Day,” she quips. And then, “I miss you.”
Ricky knows his connection with his sister is strong, and he also knows that her call is prompted by more than the geography that separates them. “That bad?” he asks.
“ Mas o menos .”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Hearing his voice is always enough. Even with the traffic blaring on Dade Boulevard as she crosses the street, his words inch her closer to inner peace.
“I’m good,” she says, this time more convincing
“Have you made any friends?”
The mere mention of the word has her thinking of Levon. Friend. So many different interpretations. “Did Mom tell you about the new neighbors?”
“It’s terrible,” he says.
“The brother goes to my school. It’s awful.”
“Someone to fix,” he says. “That should keep you busy.”
“He could use some sprucing up.”
“Watch yourself, Lucy. The boy is in mourning. Not everybody finds your magic endearing.”
“He’s sweet.”
“Sweet like nice, or sweet like I’ve found my pulse again?”
Lucy doesn’t bite. “No, nothing like that. I hardly know him.”
“Then let me rephrase the question. Is there any chance you could like him?”
The question surprises her. He hadn’t asked about her interest in the opposite sex in a long time. Five months if anyone were to count.
“You should see the memorial they have here for the Holocaust,” she answers instead, approaching the somber sculpture on Meridian Avenue. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
She chews on her lip thinking about her neighbor missing his brother. After what she has survived, nothing rattles her more than death: the forever aloneness, the stark finality. She slows down her pace and takes in the tranquil beauty of the circular colonnade. “It wasn’t how I imagined getting to know our neighbors, with all those cars parked outside and people lining up the street in tears.”
“Are the dreams back?” he asks.
Lucy is quiet. They hadn’t returned, and the mention of them flusters her. Only her dear brother could bring out the feelings she had buried deep. She swallows and starts to preach, “Can’t dwell on the past. The future is full of possibility. No better present than the present. Rule #517.”
“Oh boy, new boy has no idea what he’s in for.”
This makes Lucy smile. It feels out of place as she passes through the open-air structure that memorializes six-million Jews. For her, the giant hand reaching out of the ground signifies hope. “When are you coming down?”
“Thanksgiving.”
“I can’t wait,” she says. “I love you, Ricky.”
“I love you more,” he replies.
It serves as a reminder of how troubling the Atlanta exodus had been for him. Loving her more was tied up fiercely in regret, having let her down with his absence on a day when she needed him most. Lucy never blamed him, but he blamed himself. When they hang up and Lucy sticks the phone in her back pocket, she is standing in front of the sculpture entitled The Beginning .
Two frightened children nestle within the safety of their mother’s arms. The
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