pictured the world. I pictured the world millions of years ago, with crazy clouds of gas everywhere, and volcanoes, and the continents bumping into each other and then drifting apart. Okay. Now life begins. It starts in the water, with tiny things, microscopic, and then some get bigger. And one day something crawls out of the water onto land. There are animals, then humans, looking almost all alike. There are tiny differences in color, the shape of the face, the tone of the skin. But basically they are the same. They create shelters, grow food, experiment. They talk; they write things down.
Now fast-forward. The earth is still making loops around the sun. There are humans all over the place, driving in cars and flying in airplanes. And then one day one human tells another human that he doesn’t want to walk to school with her anymore.
“Does it really matter?” I asked myself.
It did.
I tried again. I pictured the world, all pretty blue-green and floating out in space, creatures and forests and deserts and cities. I brought North America into focus, the United States, the East Coast, New York City. Kids are walking down the street toward school. One kid has green suede boots. One has a charge account at Gold’s. One has keys in her pocket.
“Does it really matter?” I asked myself.
It did.
I got up, turned on the television, and tried to think about nothing for a change.
The Second Proof
Mom didn’t have to work on Christmas Eve day. We got a tree and strung popcorn for it, and she had some friends from work over. Richard made some eggnog from a German recipe his grandmother gave him, and they all ended up singing a lot while I wrapped presents in my room. I had bought Mom a pair of earrings, a bottle of purple nail polish with glitter in it, and some striped tights, even though I thought, and I still think, that striped tights look dumb. I got Richard an erasable pen from Gold’s.
On Christmas morning, we opened presents first thing after Mom made coffee, like always. I got some good stuff: a beaded bracelet, a portable radio, a fancy journal to write in with clouds on the cover, a sweater, and a tin of these really crispy ginger cookies I love from a bakery near Mom and Richard’s office.
We were just about to move on to pancakes when Richard handed me a hard, rectangular package that had to be a book.
“Let me guess,” I said. “A book?” I wondered if it would be the kind with a spunky girl on the cover.
“Very funny. Open it.”
It was a book. Actually, it was my book. But this was a hardcover one, with a different picture on the front. I read the title out loud: “A Wrinkle in Time.” And then I smiled at Richard.
“It’s a first edition,” Richard said.
“Richard!” Mom burst out. “You shouldn’t have.” This made me guess that first editions are expensive.
“Read what’s inside,” he said. “I had the author sign it for you.”
I opened the front cover. The writing was big and swoopy beautiful. Nothing like yours.
Miranda,
Tesser well.
Madeleine L’Engle
Christmas Day: Tesser well . Your second proof.
It wasn’t a game, I realized. Holding that book in my hands, I finally believed that whoever wrote me those notes actually knew about things before they happened. Somehow.
As soon as Richard and Mom went to make the pancakes, I ran to my room and took all your notes out of the box under my bed.
I am coming to save your friend’s life, and my own .
Coming from where? I asked myself. Coming from when? I was beginning to believe that someone I cared about was in real danger, but I still didn’t know who it was, and I still didn’t know how to help.
I looked at the second note: I know you have shared my first note. I ask you not to share the others. Please. I do not ask this for myself .
That was the worst part: I was alone.
Things in an Elevator
New Year’s Day was weirdly warm and sunny Sal’s basketball was going strong by about nine in the morning. I sneaked
Now fast-forward. The earth is still making loops around the sun. There are humans all over the place, driving in cars and flying in airplanes. And then one day one human tells another human that he doesn’t want to walk to school with her anymore.
“Does it really matter?” I asked myself.
It did.
I tried again. I pictured the world, all pretty blue-green and floating out in space, creatures and forests and deserts and cities. I brought North America into focus, the United States, the East Coast, New York City. Kids are walking down the street toward school. One kid has green suede boots. One has a charge account at Gold’s. One has keys in her pocket.
“Does it really matter?” I asked myself.
It did.
I got up, turned on the television, and tried to think about nothing for a change.
The Second Proof
Mom didn’t have to work on Christmas Eve day. We got a tree and strung popcorn for it, and she had some friends from work over. Richard made some eggnog from a German recipe his grandmother gave him, and they all ended up singing a lot while I wrapped presents in my room. I had bought Mom a pair of earrings, a bottle of purple nail polish with glitter in it, and some striped tights, even though I thought, and I still think, that striped tights look dumb. I got Richard an erasable pen from Gold’s.
On Christmas morning, we opened presents first thing after Mom made coffee, like always. I got some good stuff: a beaded bracelet, a portable radio, a fancy journal to write in with clouds on the cover, a sweater, and a tin of these really crispy ginger cookies I love from a bakery near Mom and Richard’s office.
We were just about to move on to pancakes when Richard handed me a hard, rectangular package that had to be a book.
“Let me guess,” I said. “A book?” I wondered if it would be the kind with a spunky girl on the cover.
“Very funny. Open it.”
It was a book. Actually, it was my book. But this was a hardcover one, with a different picture on the front. I read the title out loud: “A Wrinkle in Time.” And then I smiled at Richard.
“It’s a first edition,” Richard said.
“Richard!” Mom burst out. “You shouldn’t have.” This made me guess that first editions are expensive.
“Read what’s inside,” he said. “I had the author sign it for you.”
I opened the front cover. The writing was big and swoopy beautiful. Nothing like yours.
Miranda,
Tesser well.
Madeleine L’Engle
Christmas Day: Tesser well . Your second proof.
It wasn’t a game, I realized. Holding that book in my hands, I finally believed that whoever wrote me those notes actually knew about things before they happened. Somehow.
As soon as Richard and Mom went to make the pancakes, I ran to my room and took all your notes out of the box under my bed.
I am coming to save your friend’s life, and my own .
Coming from where? I asked myself. Coming from when? I was beginning to believe that someone I cared about was in real danger, but I still didn’t know who it was, and I still didn’t know how to help.
I looked at the second note: I know you have shared my first note. I ask you not to share the others. Please. I do not ask this for myself .
That was the worst part: I was alone.
Things in an Elevator
New Year’s Day was weirdly warm and sunny Sal’s basketball was going strong by about nine in the morning. I sneaked
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