ESTHER DAY

by John Green

When we realized how sick Esther was, Hank and I talked on the phone about setting up a perpetual holiday within nerdfighteria that would honor Esther in the way of her choosing, and that we would commit to celebrating as long as we made videos. I told Esther about it during her Make-A-Wish weekend: She could pick any cause or celebration, and then every year on her birthday, we would make a video about it. (I don’t remember at the time whether we’d agreed to call the holiday Esther Day, but we had by the first Esther Day: August 3, 2010.)

Esther devoted a lot of time and thought to her choice, and in the end she decided she wanted Esther Day to be a celebration of love—not romantic love, which already has its fair share of holidays—but the kinds of love that are underappreciated in our culture: the love between friends and family and colleagues. While many romantic couples say “I love you” to each other many times a day, these other kinds of love, Esther felt, too often go unacknowledged. That’s certainly the case with my brother and me: Before Esther Day, I don’t think I’d said “I love you” to Hank since I was about twelve. But now, every August 3rd, I gather my courage and tell my friends and family I love them. Even my brother.

I love my family. My family has supported me through my cancer and my crap and almost dying and everything and when I was, like, younger before I had cancer you know and I was all like little kid angsty, and I love them, and I love my sisters I love my brother I love my dad I love my mom I love my pets, they are included in the family category. I love my friends; my friends are amazing, the ones I’ve met online, the ones that I still have IRL, and this video makes me happy so I just re-watched it a lot and I just love, it’s so lovely, and thank you for saying that you love Hank, I know you love Hank, you don’t have to say you love Hank for me to know it, but I mean yeah, saying you love someone is a good thing, and I love you John.

—Esther video, response to the first Esther Day video,
August 2, 2010

THIS STAR WON’T GO OUT FOUNDATION

by Lori Earl

The day after Esther’s funeral, there was a knock on the front door of our home in Quincy. When I opened the door, standing there next to his bicycle was a young man, sweating profusely in the late summer’s heat. He said he was from nearby Braintree and asked, “Is this the place where I can give a tribute to Esther Earl?” When I said yes, he handed me an envelope. He said he had written a note and had a small donation that he wanted to contribute to Friends of Esther. His name was Jarid, and it touched my heart so much because it’s practical, local . . . I mean, on the Internet it’s huge and it’s across the world, but this was somebody from the next town over. I asked him, “Are you a nerdfighter?” And he said yeah and gave me the nerdfighter sign. And I just thought it was so amazing. I gave him a glass of water and a bracelet of Esther’s—he said he was going to wear it until it broke . . . As he rode off, I opened the envelope to discover a five-dollar bill along with this typed note:

“In my experience, in times of need, every bit helps. Although I don’t have much, I still would like to donate $5 to the Friends of Esther Fund. Esther was an inspiration to many. And no matter what adversity she was faced with, she always maintained a happy outlook on life. She never forgot to be awesome. She will be remembered forever.”

This was the start of the foundation our family began in Esther’s memory, named This Star Won’t Go Out, after our own Star. TSWGO is committed to helping relieve the financial hardship associated with expenses related to caring for a child with cancer. It also has the mandate to give monies toward “other projects Esther would have approved of.” A large portion of the donations have come through the purchase of the bracelets originally designed for Esther’s Make-A-Wish event, and distributed by DFTBA Records. In addition, dozens of individuals and groups of young people have held amazingly creative fundraisers for TSWGO—shaving their heads, selling art projects, walking around walls and running races, writing and performing songs sold online, rocking in chairs all night long, and so many more! One twenty-year-old in Germany even set up five thousand dominoes, that, when released, illuminated a beautiful picture of Esther. Two and a half years after it began, TSWGO had given away over $130,000 to help more than sixty different families, which, her friends and family agree, would have made Esther very happy.

Lori Earl, TSWGO event,
NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 2013

Following is a sampling of ORIGINAL FICTION Esther wrote between 2007 and 2010. These pieces are all unfinished, the seeds of new ideas. They are rough—first drafts—and in them it is possible to see how Esther was exploring, experimenting, and starting to find her voice as a young writer. Edited for length and basic grammar, these are otherwise unchanged, as Esther left them—in progress.

Anderaddon [fantasy]

April 10th-May 1st, 2007

OVER IN THE FAR WEST of Ander Forest is a huge rock shaped like a mountain. It is called Anderaddon, a kingdom known for many, many miles for its great strength, wisdom, kindness and mixed creatures. Anderaddon is the only known ville to the country of Topalville that has hedgehogs, porcupines, mice, the spare (vegetarian) cats, and its original inhabitants, ebitillies and ebitties. Ebitillies are young, fur covered things: cousins of hedgehogs and porcupines, they’re said to be, since they resemble them much, though are better mannered.

Ebitties are as well citizens of the same name though are much more similar to beavers. They have striped bodies, big teeth, a mighty, spotted tail, and are the strongest creatures next to badgers. Ebitties have ruled the kingdom of Anderaddon for more than 500 years.

Wiping dust off his glasses, Docknel the king slowly raised himself from his chair, onto his two, frail old legs. Two young ebitilly servants, Pobby and Fandiliny, rushed to help him up, but the old ebitty pushed them aside. The finishing of his scrolls was definitely making him feel quite strong- as though he was young again. He smiled to himself, letting out an audible chuckle. Pobby heard it and wondered clearly what the old man was thinking about.

“Sire,” asked he, hoping to sound more sure of himself than he was, “’tis only a truly drole thing that thee laughs at. Might’nt thee share what ’tis?”

“Why certainly, young fellow,” said Docknel, inwardly smiling at the young one’s nervousness. “I was thinking of the thought of being young again, trying to remember what I looked like, running around in the old days. . . Though all I saw was a young lad running around with spectacles and a wooden cane, scoffing people!”

Pobby chuckled appreciatively to this-but Fandiliny hadn’t heard any which part. She was wondering with might what was written in the five scrolls Docknel held.

“King sire,” Fandiliny said, with the not even the faintest sign of hesitation, “’tis impolite if one was t’be a’askin’ thee what ’tis in thy scrolls?”

Pobby nudged her, nodding up and down. “Aye m’gel, ’tis the most impolite askin’ one did ever hear! The king’s business is his own!”

The three slowly descend the stairs, taking care not to go too fast for Docknel, for, if they did, Docknel was sure to get lost because of his bad eyes. The king didn’t feel the need to tell them he knew the way around his kingdom by his other senses as well as sight. He figured it would be rude, and, if people knew this, not many of the younger ones would go with him down the stairs, and he liked the company of them. “But!” Fandiliny was not going to give up that quickly! Besides, her curiosity wouldn’t let her. “S-sire, one loves the scrolls thou hast written of stories thou hast learned over the seasons and histories thou hast heard . . . Mightn’t thy scrolls be something similar to this?”

Hiding a smile, Docknel shook his head, sighing, “Thou hast read all of them? Ma’am, you’ll learn of my scrolls maybe a little later. Right now we must talk of something else. Are you two looking forward to the festival this evening?”

Their eyes shone with happiness, both speaking of what they loved that was happening in a few short minutes.

“Oh, aye! ’tis what one hast always wanted!”

“Aye, one’s mother explained we will be havin’ pudden . . .”

“And cinnamon cake . . .”

“And Honey Suckle cider- and- and sweets!”

“Flower-Jammed-Jammy-Jam!”

“Strawberry pie, garlic tea!!!”

“Brewed dandelion seeds . . . !”

“Wait,” Docknel stopped on the top stair, looking at Pobby with a puzzled expression. “Did you just say garlic tea?”

Pobby blushed, said a quiet “aye,” and all three burst out laughing.

Choobly was trying to make an announcement, but only one listened. The party was over, the little ones in bed, the wine all gone, little food left (few people did not stuff their faces), and the ones still able-bodied were chattering away in talk. So the king decided to take matters into his own hands. “HELLO!!!” he boomed.

All that could be seen from the font of the lawn where stood Docknel, were eyes, turned him in astonishment.

“Right, um, Choobly would like your attention, if you please . . .” The only ebitilly gave a smile and a wave of gratitude to Docknel, and announced in his fine, bubbly matter what he had to say.

“Well, now that one hast fin’ly gots thy attenchun, justa’wants toa’make cert’un thou art a’havin’a fun time?” A crowd of cheers were his answer, and a couple of hats and bonnets were seen in the air as well.

“’tis all thou wants to say?” one asked, after the cheering died down.

“Shut thy trap, young’un! Nay, ’tis not all one has need of a’sayin’! Just was a’wonderin’ . . .” Choobly shook his head, and continued from where he had left off. “Ah, yes, right . . . one would like to a’have the plea’chur of a’sayin’, that any of thee whoa’wishes to come up to a’perform cans’t.”

The early moon glowed off peoples smiles, and, after a bit of arguing about who would go, a young lad introduced himself as Macklen, and was up singing a favorite in his family.

Me, d’tis me, who can see

thy b’eetiful eyes.

Aye, ’tis thou, only thou,

who knows when one a’lies.

’tis beautiful

Bugly ugly- ’tis B!

EEW- ’tis E!

Achh- ’tis A!

Ughhh- ’tis U!

Tachaww- ’tis T!

Icky!- ’tis I!

Fartsy- ’tis F!

U- though already know!!!

And Lowly yuck- ’tis L!!

’Tis how me spells,

thy b’eetiful feathurs!!!

The crowd cheered, and finally after singing to the request two more times, Macklen the young bowed, and sat. Another young one went up, but this time it was a young hedgehog. Her ears were not as pointy as others, though she was quite short and not as stout as others. She had golden brown skin, and sky blue eyes. She started, in a sweet but raspy voice.

“’Ello, people!” she smiled. “I oi is called Jennily, and I oi is the daughter of ’ee Carnilly, daughter of Jenniliny. I oi is to perfoi’m the poem oi found stuck ’twixt two rocks near the orchard gates, entitled . . . well, it’s untitled, and oi also has reason to believe it’s ’ee bit of a riddle . . .”

Cheering was once again enveloping the room, people laughing with joy at the thought of riddles. It was a favorite among Anderaddon. She nodded once there was silence and read from a piece of parchment she pulled out of her apron pocket.

“Oi am unknown to those

who are pure of heart.

But if ya found this,

here’s something to start:

Me first has no shape,

nor ’tis living,

There’s something to catch,

come, just dive in!

Without it we couldn’t make pie,

and we would surely die.

Please look thoroughly-

No one good knows of this

as oi have toild,

Now this story,

’tis in your hands to save and unfoild.”

There was silence for about two minutes as people pondered, but people slowly began to clap. No one could shake off the thought as the next though person played a song: what did it mean?

Over to the Southwest of Anderaddon, on a small Island called Killer’s Isle, stood a castle. The creatures in this castle were nasty sea-parrots, sea-rats, sea-weasels, and sea-lizards ruled by their king, BladeSlip. BladeSlip was an evil, gigantic parrot who was as slippery as an eel when it came to trusting him. The last king, Jockle, was a ruthless sea-rat, and his favorite out of the boat’s captain’s was BladeSlip, at that time called BladeThrow. When Jockle was sitting down at a festive dinner celebrating the plunder his captains had brought him that day, BladeThrow “happened” to let his blade “slip” on the king’s front paw. Jockle cursed him and challenged him to a duel. BladeThrow, knowing the king was older than he and wounded, accepted gladly. Jockle was now just another carcass in the sea, come from Killer’s Isle.

“’Hoi!”

“Ey, id’et, y’just soiled my new silk robe!”

“Oh sh’op, me a’int too sure Dog Killa ova there rip’t me robe . . . He thinks it ’az ya!”

Mayhem was everywhere in the hall, people hitting each other, wine all over the place. The newly appointed king had given the captain’s robes of velvet and silk, along with casks of wine to the crews. It was his way of “showing” them he was one to be trusted. And they all did.

BladeSlip stood up at the front of the two long, wide tables filled with food. He cleared his throat to get attention but they ignored him. He loudly asked for attention. No one seemed to notice.

THWACK!

A yelp of pain issued from a sea-lizard standing on the table. BladeSlip had thrown his dagger and it stood, sharp edge down, in the lizard’s long tail. The whole hall stared at their king whilst the lizard nursed his wound. A weasel stood holding the blade of BladeSlip, staring in weasel disgust at the purple blood on the metal part.

“You! Weasel! Give me my blade!”

BladeSlip was enraged. He had asked them to look and listen, but they had ignored him. He knew he had to do something to gain respect, and the only way to be respected, was to be feared.

The weasel scurried quickly to BladeSlip, too quickly, in fact. He tripped over an empty bottle of beer, and the ones around him laughed heartily. Though they quickly stopped to the icy glare of King BladeSlip, eyes twitching fiercely.

“You . . .” he started, spitting everywhere, “are . . . you are imbeciles! All of you! An’ me? Well, oi am the only person with sense in this here kingdom! Might I remind you who the king is? ME! I AM THE KING! When oi say listen, I truly mean listen!”

Silence was the only sound for two minutes. BladeSlip knew by this time he had their full attention, and they obviously respected him more (the lizard’s tale had completely fallen off). He didn’t want them to hate him, though, so he began, in a different manner.

Clapping a nearby parrot on the back, he began, laughing:

“Aye, people sometimes have to blow their steam off, eh? How ‘bout filling your goblet of wine?” The fellow people were startled by this sudden mood change, though they dared not question the mighty feared BladeSlip.

“Ah, my darling, have you come to join me?”

It was a glorious morning in Topal Land. The birds were singing, the sun was up, and Loolane was on a terrace, over-looking all of his ville. It was a routine of Docknel’s wife, though rarely did he ever come to visit with her. He only came when they had to talk of important matters.

“Oh, Loolane . . .”

Loolane was worried at the stress in her husband’s voice. Rarely did he see her, and she wondered aloud what it was this time.

“What should bring you to come up here this particularly wonderful morn? Surely nothing to ruin our good moods?”

“Nay, nothing like that . . . Just, well, I couldn’t sleep last night, and when I finally did some young ebitillies came in and woke me. I . . .”

She waited a moment to see if her husband would pick up where he left off, though when he didn’t she inquired, “Why shouldn’t you sleep?”

“Oh . . .” Docknel hesitated. “Eh, I’m not really sure, actually. I had that poem the young hogmaid recited . . . though for what reason I can’t say.”

“Oh yes! Many people have talked of this poem, though I was already inside, tucking young ’uns in bed when there was entertainment. Mayhaps you remember it? I have to say I love these poems young ’uns recite dearly!”

“Nay, marm, I don’t remember, though if you don’t mind I have to go speak to . . . What’s her name? Jennily; yes, thanks!”

He gave her a kiss and rushed as fast as he could down the stairs. After five minutes he was in the great dining hall, asking if anyone knew where Jennily was. Many different replies were his answer from a group of porcupines.

“Aye, king sir, tha gel went thaddaway!”

“Nay, nay, Jennilimmigally nots—’er name was in that thur kitchen a ‘snatchin’ food.”

“Hoi, thou art all wrong! Tha gel? She went ta tha archard, with tha other yun’ ‘ogmaids.”

“Nay! Jennily is not there! She—”

A young churchmouse interrupted, giggling loudly. “Scuze me, but tha miz Jennily is in her bed, hiding from questions people have about the riddle! Heehee, youze is ah wrong! Heehee!”

A few of the porcupines tutted, horrified at the rudeness of the mouse.

“Thanks for all your help!” Docknel said to the group.

“But since she is her friend—”

“Ey! Best frenn’!”

Docknel sniffed. “Since she is Jennily’s best friend—,” the young mouse looked triumphant, “—I think shu’d know where she is more than you. But thanks!”

The porcupines nodded and walked away, scoffing

him.

“Imagine! The nerve . . .”

Docknel was in the hallway in front of young Jennily’s room. He knocked, though it seemed they were busy with something else.

“Sir, if’n you don’t mind, I think I’ll go in an’ tell ’em someone’s at the door, ok?”

“Aye, that works for me,” he replied, smiling.

“He heard the hogmaid’s mother, Carnilly, drop something she was holding, probably due to the fact that the king was in her doorway.

“Oh, ’ee deerie . . .” she mumbled, rushing around straightening things. “In ’ee door? Let the poor man in!”

The young mouse opened the door, rolling her eyes.

“Sire, come in, please,” said she, adding under her breath, “though watch out for the Marm, she will mayhaps try cleaning you . . .”

He hid a smile, and walked in. Docknel moved a pile of books from a chair, and set a quite flustered Mrs. Carnilly onto the seat.

The old woman smiled, two dimples showing in her rosy, fat, pink cheeks. She straightened her apron and issued her daughter over, motioning for Docknel to sit in chair behind him.

“Soire, oi is quoite certain you is wantin’ to see ’ee daughter about’ee riddle?”

He shuffled his large tail and smiled, embarrassed. “Aye, marm, but if she is not in a mood to talk about it, then please excuse me . . .”

“Nay, Soire,” Jennily said, grinning. “Oi is quoite honored to be visited in ’ee gurtly b’izzy schedule . . . Mayhap ’ee wants to look at ’ee riddle?”

The king nodded, glad she wanted to visit now, for he had a strange energy that was sure to go away by the next day.

Jennily took out a large book of poems and opened it to the middle, where a piece of parchment lay. She handed it to Docknel and he read it, twice. They sat silent for a while.

“Soire?” asked Jennily, awkward at breaking the silence. “Does ’ee unnerstann it?”

He sighed. “Parts, ma’am, though I think we should consult with some others in the open air. I mean, if you and your mother approve . . .”

They both ayed, and so Docknel, Jennily and Rolly the church mouse were off to the orchard.

Esther Earl
Lime Notebook

Winter 2007

MY HEART WAS POUNDING. My head throbbing, and my side seemed to be hurting more than usual. I stared at the X-ray as my stomach butterflies flew around and my eyes welled with tears. I was nervous. Anxious. Scared.

“But what does this mean?” my mom asked the X-ray guy, her disbelief obvious by her raised eyebrow expression.

“It means there is liquid in her lungs, so her lungs are not properly expanding. We’ll give a copy to you to take to your doctor, and he or she will tell you where to go from there.”

Questions engulfed my thoughts, but I was too shocked and embarrassed to say anything. Is it a lot of fluid? Is it serious? Ever seen it before? Who knows? I sure didn’t . . .

“Esther, he’s asking you something.” I snapped back to reality, focusing my available attention on the guy.

“Are you going to be able to walk to the doctor?”

I’ve lived with this stuff in my lungs for 3 months and he wants to know if I can walk a block away?

“Yeah, I think so,” I answered, my voice a bit unstable.

“Good. The secretary will give you the copy of the X-ray, and then you go give it to your doctor. Ok? Please take a seat in the waiting room.”

After pointing us where to go, we walked in and sat down. My mom thought her thoughts, and I thought mine.

Isn’t it amazing how you can think a sore rib to be a pulled muscle, when it turns out it’s actually liquid in the lungs? My parents thought that’s all it was, a sore muscle. Well, it’ll probably just be pneumonia or tuberculosis—hopefully not, though.

I could see my mom’s eyes glaze over . . . she was thinking of something. Probably about living situations. At the moment we were living on a street near Cours Mirabeau.

[Note: The story now continues with the fictional “Carly” as protagonist. It is a continuation of the previous story and was written at the same time. These events as Esther wrote them are true—they really happened to her—including her quirky rendering of the French accent.]

Carly’s parents walked back in the room; her dad’s face was serious and her mom’s face was blotchy, her eyes swollen. Just because she was crying doesn’t mean it’s bad news, she cried a lot, they might’ve been happy tears . . .

Doubts flew around, but somehow, sitting in her hospital bed with a tube coming out her side, she held onto a string of hope.

“Carly,” a male doctor walked into the room, sullen faced, followed by Dr. Janie, and an unknown female doctor.

Dr. Janie put her hand on Carly’s bed, a weak smile feebly on her face. By this, Carly could feel the tension in the room, hear the thick silence in the five, quiet seconds no one spoke.

“Carly.” Dr. Janie said, her French accent playing along, “We ’ave to tell you some’sing important, some’sing ‘ard to say. You ‘ave ‘ad trouble bree’sing for a while, and we learn ’sat is because you ‘ad fluide in your lungs. Well, we ’sink it is because of pneumonia, but we learn it is because you ’ave tumor in your neck. And so on ’sursday we will send you to ’ospital in Aix en Provence because it is special in child cancer. We will talk to the doctors in Aix about your case, and ’sey are very nice, and ’sey will take good care of you. D’accord? On parles plus demain, mais je dois vais à un autre place. You are very special, Carly. Et on touts t’aime! Plus tarde!”

[Exact date unknown]

My dearest Sophie Amelia Bush,

How are you, precious? Does Suxburry find you agreeable? I dearly wish I could visit you, but we are just moved in to Delham cottage, and I cannot imagine being settled for at least 3 weeks, and by that time you shalt be gone. Love and kisses!

I am yours,

Esther G. Earl. etc. etc.

[Exact date unknown]

Dear Jane,

I sit here, at my desk, wishing dearly you were here, for it is pointless and boring each day. I practice my French each day, and Madame Dupont says if I continue at this excelling rate, I shall be in France, with you soon! Oh! I dearly wish to visit you soon! How is Patrique?— well, I hope?

We all miss you, especially mama! Jane, she runs around wishing you were here to ‘see her get old’!

Ha, I laugh heartily when I think of that story you told about the mama getting old.

I have to help with supper. Des, bisous!

Love

Catherine Lilly Maffy

Your sister

[Exact date unknown]

Maria, Ma belle,

La France, c’est magnifique, je elit, c’est parfait.

Patrique continu à faire toret son traivaille, at je suis à la maison, sans rien a fay –Et ba! Catherine à m’euire hier, et ce dit que vous sont en ai ennui. Pluff! Moi, j’ai beaucoup d’ennir aussi.

Dit à mama que je t’aime, et je reviens depuis un moment!

Sincerement,

Jane Louise Maffy’, la soeur

[Exact date unknown]

Dear Diary,

June 16, 1662

Today I sat thinking. What would I do if I lived in a later time? Well, first of all there’d be machines that had their own brains, and they’d do whatever I asked them to. Second of all, I’d clear out the poor populations, and people wouldn’t die, unless they were wanting to. Then, I don’t know, for I am too tired to think.

Yours,

Marie Therise Muffiline

[Winter 2007 -Exact date unknown]

A RING FROM THE BELL on the desk made my heart jump, and I quickly ran to help the next person. My eyes focused on the girl at the counter, her eyebrows arched to the top of her forehead, an annoyed pout on her face. She looked me directly in the eyes, and exhaled impatiently.

“Aren’t you going to ask how you can help me, or are you just going to stand there ogling me?”

I opened my mouth to ask “how to help” her, but all I managed to get out was a cleared throat. My mind was processing the fact that the prettiest girl seemed the most rude, which would result in me uncontrollably asking her why that was unless I kept my words inside my throat.

“Dude, what’s wrong! Is there even service here?” the girl basically screamed, her hands, ironically, on her hips.

“Umm, why do the prettiest girls always seem to be the most . . .” I stopped myself, grabbed a piece of gum from my pocket and quickly stuffed it in my mouth. “Mmm, gum! Want a piece . . . ?”

Her eyebrows furrowed and she noticeably grimaced, “Can I see your manager?” she asked quickly.

“Oh . . . actually I’m—I’m the manager . . .” I mumbled, trying to remove my eyes from her twitching, hair nostrils protruding. I found myself having the urge to reach into the work locker of Mandy—my co-worker—and take her tweezers, then leap across the counter and rip all the hairs out of the girl’s nose. Though I stopped myself, realizing that Mandy had taken her locker keys home, and that might also seem strange. My thoughts were kicked out my nose, however, as I sneezed loudly, causing Brat to stop midsentence.

“You,” Brat started again, since it seemed she’d been speaking earlier, “are the manager of Vidvine?”

Feeling hurt at her tone of impossibleness, I nodded and began to ask, kindly, what she wanted. But, hahaha, she interrupted me.

“You cannot be the manager. You are probably as old as me—maybe younger. So, I need . . .”

“Umm,” I said, dramatically placing my hands on my hips, moving my head quickly.

“I’m seventeen, I’m graduated from high school, and my dad owns this store—so I’m co-manager.”

Brat raised her eyebrows, and rolled her eyes. “Fine. What is the cost of this bag of chips, and do I know you?”

I stared at her, my stomach lurching from annoyance. “First of all, you were this pissed over a bag of CHIPS? Second, if I know you, it’s from Drama class.” In my head, I laughed at this joke, but I kept my annoyed face on for fun.

2009- Fiction about bullying

“Prologue”

WHO STARTED THE THING that says boys don’t cry? My dad once noted that he had “never cried in my whole life.” But, can I just ask, if a boy is absolutely devastated about something, is he just supposed to hang his head and sit quietly? What am I supposed to do—not cry? Well, I just have to say that if that’s the case, its gonna be hard.

Me and Tom are great friends, you know, always have been. He may be only in 2nd grade, but he likes sports and some other stuff that I enjoy, so we get along good. Some people, like Rufus E. Copan, tease me for playing with a boy that’s three grades below me. Rufus E. is a big football built boy who enjoys terrorizing little kids and kissing up to the teachers. Although his dad, Mr. Copan, owns a big law firm and their family donates a lot of money to the school so everyone—that’s a teacher—loves Rufus E. I mean, I don’t really care that he teases me, but it’s annoying since it makes other kids do the same.

Take today, for instance: at recess, me and Tom went near to the pile of sand that’s near the swings, the one we always go to. Anyway, we were minding our own business, building a sand town and smashing it with our giant feet, when Rufus E. and his “friends” came over.

At first, we tried to ignore them, but they’re idiots who don’t leave us be. They pushed all our tall buildings over and called us babies. I had a good comeback where I could say, “Yeah, I’m a baby because I find playing with younger kids fun, and you’re not a baby because you pretend to be all tough and you tease people for more self confidence, right?” Rufus E. would then go, “Why you . . . !” but I’d punch him before he got to me. Instead of this brilliant plan, I stuttered while the bell rang and we, quickly, ran to our class lines, shouting goodbyes.

DOPP! The sound that could be heard was a soft thud, almost like a rotten apple, falling from a tree, in a dark, scary forest where no one could hear it’s terrified . . .

“Rufus!”

Oh man! I was again awakened by the loud voice of my mom, calling from the bottom of the stairs. (Every time that dream comes, I’m interrupted, I couldn’t help but noting.) I quickly jumped up from my cozy-yet-smelly dung bed, threw on my slippers, and ran down the stairs. The bright morning sun half blinded me.

“There you are, silly!” Mom said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “I was worried you would never wake up, the day’s almost over!”

“Mom,” I couldn’t help debating, “you do realize it’s only 1 hour past breakfast . . .” She looked down at me, her gaze not scorning, but curious.

“I know, honey, but if you sleep away the day, what will happen at night?”

Straining for a comeback, I plopped in my usual breakfast chair and half-heartedly gnawed away at my XXX, all the while thinking of why I slept so late. Sure, lots of people slept late, but I was normally up before even Mom, so why was today different?

Day after day, week after week, it was becoming a routine. For 2 straight months I had slept in every morning until 1 hour after breakfast, when Mom would call me and I’d, grudgingly scooch down the stairs. At neoschool I could barely pay attention, lunch was when I ate and doodled, hardly even thinking, at play-time I sat down, opened a book and pretended to read. When I got home, I’d take a bath, eat supper, then go to bed . . . Then all over again it’d start. Every now and again a jump in the pattern would reveal itself—a walk to Kiko Lake, a visit to the money tree—but other than that, I was very, well, zombie-like. Mom was worried.

“Rufus,” she’d constantly say, “are you eating your vegetables . . . ?”

Ce n’est pas Vrai Tu M’adores

[2010- Fiction, romantic]

AS I SAT THERE, watching her babble gleefully about the shoes she found, I couldn’t help but wonder what her hair would feel like if I ran it through my fingers.

“So, would you?”

“Oh,” I started, my brain trying to remember where I was. “Sorry? I was, um, thinking about . . . supper.”

She looked at me, her eyebrows raised, then laughed, her smile wide. “Well, supper is quite important, right?” she asked, only continuing once I’d smiled. “Anyway, I was saying that on Friday I’m going to see a movie with Renée and Lily. I wanted to know if you want to come . . .”

“Like a double date?” I joked, winking hugely while secretly hoping she would say yes. Who cared if Lily and Renée were both straight?

Looking taken aback, she quickly stated, “No. No, no. Like a ‘hang out.’”

I forced a smile, though it must have looked like I was in pain for she asked if I was all right.

“Yep, I’m good, thanks!” I said, smiling. “So, let’s talk you. How’ve you been?”

“Haven’t we been talking about me?” She gave a grin, her pink lipsticked lips raising beautifully. “I guess you can’t get enough of me, eh?”

As I was about to sarcastically respond, our food came. Usually when we go out, the waiter mixes up our order, giving me Kaitlyn’s food, and Kaitlyn mine. This time was no different. “As I was saying,” I continued, greedily grabbing à-la-fat-and-cholesterol Kaity had given me, pushing her salad away from her dramatic pursed lips (she often teased me as being a “meat-eater,” disgusted by healthy foods), “How’s work? I haven’t seen much of you lately . . .”

Kaity looked at me with her bottom lip turned over, a smile playing in her eyes. She reached over and patted my non-hamburger filled hand, awwing, unaware of the tingling she left on me as she pulled away. “Poor baby, have we been missing Kaity-Waity?” she teased, giggling.

“Ha, ha,” I responded, frowning. “You still haven’t answered me . . .”

She stopped, taking on a mock serious expression and answering me—finally. “Well, to be honest to goodness, work sucks. I’d been trying to get that promotion, but it’s already filled by some huge boobs, big butt, blonde psychochick.”

Kaitlyn was an assistant’s assistant (who knew?) at the “chicest”—I guess the other then chicest are wrong!—magazine in New York, The Burglar’s Purse. Funny enough, it has nothing, nothing at all, to do with Burglar’s but everything to do with purses and the like. It was about fashion, and her assistant had run off with the Editor’s assistant. She was trying to get one of those jobs (the editor’s assistant or her post-employer’s), but, apparently, she wasn’t qualified. I don’t understand what qualifications you have to have to have to choose an aluminum foil pant suit for the number two “must have,” like in issue 3, volume 7 of The Burglar’s Purse, that Kaity forced me to read. It was torture, I remember.

“Your boss is a guy?” I asked, remembering none of this.

“I wish,” she laughed, “but, nope. She is a lady, but I guess playboy bunnies are getting educations now-a-days.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get the job,” I said, meaning it, and also feeling awkward talking about boobiful girls with Kaity. “You deserve it—after all, they can get a job as a stripper slash bunny and you ca-”

Before I could finish Kaity leaned over and whacked me on the head, her eyebrows raised and her mouth half open, half smiling.

“For the record,” she stated, “telling a girl she could be a playgirl or something like that isn’t much of a compliment.” I stared at her, wondering what she had just done. Okay, I thought slowly, she just hit me, right? And, and she . . .

“Um?” My thoughts were, as normal, interrupted by Kaity, her voice lost in hilarity and scorn for my comment, “Hey, Jude, you alright?”

If I had a penny for every time someone thought I was ill when I’d think things over, why, I’d be rich! A millionaire, even. Oh yeah . . . Kaity was asking me something.

“Hmm? Kaity, you, above anyone, should know I go off sometimes! And no,” I cut her off, as she was saying something, “I’m not going to the doctor.”

Silence. Chew, chew. Cleared throat.

This had happened when I’d told other people, but not Kaity. I’ve done this “and no, blahblah” before, but Kaity’d always laughed or something. Crap . . .

“Jude?”

I looked up from dipping my side french fries in ketchup.

“Yes, babe?”

“Jude, I’m . . . well, I’m,” she stalled, as though her speech was temporarily disabled. “I- I’m . . . seeing someone.”

“Um. Okay.” That was hard to get out, huh?

“He’s really great,” she quickly said, doing her nervous thing, “and nice. He’s my boss’s nephew’s step brother’s father’s second wife’s brother.”

I gaped. “Wow.”

“Yep, yep, yep. And my boss’s niece came to one of our conferences, and she wants to be an auditor, I mean editor.” Here she breathed and smiled at her own stupidity. “And she introduced me to a picture of this second wife’s brother. Anyway, she came in again about a week later, and introduced me to the body of this dude, and turns out he works for The Work of Art!” she finished enthusiastically, waiting for my response.

I hid, as best as I could, my confusion, and instead stood up and ran over to hug her, forcing her up and shouting girlish like squeals. Wait, why was I excited?

“So he offered you a job!” I said, not wanting to hurt her feelings more as to find out if he did.

“What?” she stopped, and sat back down, her face confused. “Who? The picture boy?”

“Yeah—him! You went out with him and he offered you a job, right? That’s why you’re excited?” By this time I was, too, seated, and was embarrassed by the silence. “I mean, he’s an Editor. That must mean something. . . .”

“Umm,” she mumbled, coming out of her thoughts, “yeah, it does. Mean something, I mean. I mean,” she seemed alert now, sipping her beer. “Editors have a say in who goes and who stays. But, Jude, that’s not why I’m dating him.”

I stared. I’ve only know Kaity to use men—not actually just date them. Hmm, maybe she’s changed, after all. I looked at her for a second—her beautiful green eyes, her luscious red lips, sipping soda, her many freckles that she, unlike some girls, tried to get more of, her long brown hair, curly and tousled. She was more beautiful than the Mona Lisa, more wanted than the Eiffel Tower, more mesmerizing than Spain’s spring ocean . . . the ideal perfection. And yet I was her friend; the one she shared secrets with, the one she joked with and the only one she’d let see her without makeup on.

After a pause she continued, “I’m dating him because, well, I really like him.”

Did I mention I’m the one she talks to about her men? Yech. Joy, I know.

“He’s—he’s nice, and kind, sexy, funny, hott and, after that date . . .”

I must have mumbled something encouraging her to go on, after a long while of quiet. It was, “Mmph?” to be exact, when I was trying to say, “Are you sure he’s not a jerk like your other shags? And what is the pause for?” because she continued.

“Oh Jude!” she sighed, as if she were on cloud nine, “he’s great! On our first date we went to Le Diamonde—you know, the French restaurant on second? Anyway, I got there after him, and he was up on the roof! Turns out he knows the owners, and they set up a special place for us up top. We laughed and chatted and really got to know each other. He’s from Baltimore, and majored as a writer in college. Get this—he went to Harvard and Harvard Law!!”

I was emotionless. Outwardly, anyway. Inside I was fuming. This guy went to Harvard this and Harvard that while I barely graduated community this, and no that. This psycho majored as a writer, and was now editor of The Work of Art, while lil’ ol’ me majored as a lawyer and am now an owner of a not-known-stupid-icky-Italian restaurant, my salary being nothing (I well, am something, but nothing compared to Mr. Big Shots)! Mr. Stupid was dating Kaity. My Kaity! Well la-di-frickin’-da! I may have lost Kaity ten years ago, but that doesn’t mean I can’t win her back. Yeesh, I sound like a stupid sappy war novel.

“He wants to see me again,” she finished, obviously unaware of how I felt. “Isn’t that great?’

The last question was a bit rhetorical, but since I couldn’t think of anything to say, I responded politely, by saying “Mmhmm, that’s . . . great.”

She smiled one of those huge, “I-just-won-the-lottery-which-was-one-million-dollars” smiles, her face glowing, her features more noticeable than before. Like, not kidding.

“We’re going out Friday night,” she said cautiously, for what reason I don’t know.

There was a pause in which it hit me. Friday—that was when we, me and Kaity, were going bowling. We had been planning it for two weeks, since Kaity’s schedule’s so tight.

“Kait, that’s when we were going to, um, go out, wasn’t it?”

Her grin was fading along with her glow, and normally I would stop so she would get them back. But it was if I couldn’t. I was hurt. I’ve liked her for so, so long, and every time I come a hundredth of a chance of telling her, she ditches me. Not purposely, but still. Ditching is ditching, right?

“Jude . . . we can reschedule . . .”

“Kaity, don’t you ever want to spend time with me?” I tried to calm myself, but my voice was louder than normal. “Don’t you like spending time with me? We’ve been planning this for so long! Geez, Kait. Maybe in between shagging any guy you can find you could find time for me.”

I have a problem. Either I don’t say enough or I say too much. And right now, when it’s too late, I realized I said the wrong thing.

She looked almost angry, and sounded it, too.

“I don’t—I don’t—don’t . . .” she stopped, and went from clenched jaw to a forced smile. “Well, Jude, I have to go. Thanks for lunch.” She gathered her stuff and left, before I could realize what she just did.

I just realized I didn’t find out picture boy’s name. If I had, I might have been able to find him in Yellow Pages and beat him up.

I walked down the familiar street from my house to the subway, and all I could help but think was about, well, Kaity. And yesterday afternoon.

“Excuse me!”

I looked up from my thoughts just in time to see a man on a bicycle ride right where I would’ve been, had I not see him. But a girl with red hair did not seem to notice him, and the Bicycle Boy wasn’t going to go out of his way to avoid a collision. “Watch out!” I screamed, ready to jump in and push her out of the way if she didn’t hear me. Thankfully she looked up, saw me and then Bicycle Boy, and moved onto the street, where a passing mini-van came close to whacking her.

She walked right by me, her expression anything but stricken, and it seemed as though I was the only one in the world who had witnessed what Bicycle Boy had done. Rushing after her, I felt almost angry—furious even. I just saved her a trip to the hospital, if not her life (that’s a stretch, but hey)! I deserve a “thank you,” thanks very much!

“Ahem,” I coughed, not so conspicuously. She looked over at me, and I was startled to see bright green eyes looking straight into mine, with not even a hint of emotion.

She said, “Thanks for saving my life. It was, and will be, a great favor for my part.” She had stopped by this point, and I found it weird that she wasn’t more appreciative. “Thanks again,” she finished, shaking my hand, and then continued walking.

I was stunned. Again, she barely acknowledged me, and as she walked on her pale blue high boots, I felt like a toy she had played with, but when she got a new one, and put me in a yard sale. Running after her again, I felt I was a pull-a-long toy, now.

“Excuse me, miss, but are you alright?” Smooth, I know.

She looked at me suspiciously, her feet still moving.

“I’m . . . fine, thank you.” For the first time, she pulled a smile, and I was pleasantly surprised to see the way her red lips played with her pale skin. I looked down, again, at her boots, and this time noticed she was wearing red, tight pants. Whoa, they were really bright—no idea how I missed them before. Then I saw she had a tight, white tank-top on, (that looked very good on her, if you know what I mean . . .) with a black sweater, button-up type jacket, long, straight black hair falling on her shoulders.

Wow.

“Friends of Esther,”
SQUANTUM, MASSACHUSETTS, 2010