Author: Staff

by D. Kohl Glass

Janice Blackwell’s funeral was poorly attended. Up until one week prior, Janice Blackwell had been the most powerful woman in Eldritch. She was loud, stubborn, and heavily opinionated, with a proclivity for trying to solve other people’s problems. For the past twelve years, Janice Blackwell’s strawberries had been awarded “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tast” at the Fragaria Strawberry Festival held in Eldritch every April. This year the longest run in Fragaria Strawberry Festival history had ended, and power had shifted. Four days later, Janice Blackwell died.
The twelve-year queen of Eldritch was feared, obeyed, but most of all, she was hated. The only funeral attendees were her estranged daughter, Janice; her three assistant gardeners, Miguel and the two Jorges; her friend and sycophant, Sally Firth; Sheriff Stone; and the mayor, Charles Samuel Masters, although he was there only to officiate at the funeral of Eldritch’s most prominent citizen. There was also an older woman named Celeste Willets. Celeste stood apart from the funeral and listened to the ceremony from under the cemetery’s only tree. She did not feel comfortable standing among Janice Blackwell’s mourners since, after some twelve years of losing to Janice Blackwell, her strawberries had taken “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty” and sent Janice to her grave. It had been a very hard year for Celeste; her winning “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty” was the first thing that had gone right in a while, and she wanted to pay her respects to her fallen adversary. Celeste continued to stand under the cemetery’s only tree after the funeral was over and she was alone with Janice Blackwell’s grave. After a moment’s pause, she turned and quietly left the cemetery with the whispered parting, “A worthy opponent.”
The second Janice, or, as the town called her Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell, moved into her mother’s home shortly after the funeral. As part of her inheritance she took control of all her mother’s wealth and property as well as her twelve-year award-winning strawberry patch. The second Janice was so much like her mother that many in Eldritch hardly felt the gap between the going of the first and the coming of the second⸺except the second Janice had never taken “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty.” Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell often vowed publicly that she would regain the “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty” crown to avenge her mother’s death, which struck many of the Eldritch townspeople as odd since it was gossiped that she had hated her mother when she was alive. Nevertheless, the second Janice swore a strawberry vengeance on Celeste Willets.

Three days after the funeral, Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell knocked on Celeste Willet’s door. No one answered. She knocked again, then again, and then slowly peered into the front window. The house was nicely furnished in the quaint country style that was the standard in Eldritch, and Celeste was not home. She was going to try the door but decided to cut to the chase and go around the back to the strawberry patch. Upon circling the house, Janice saw something that struck her as odd. Celeste Willets had two strawberry patches: one that was nestled up close to the back door of the house, and another that stood a good distance away, sitting on the slope of a hill, surrounded by a small, white picket fence.
“Why would she be so harebrained as to have two?” she thought to herself.
From the house, the second Janice could see that the fenced in patch was far better tended that the one by the house, though the one by the house was still producing strawberries. Janice reached down and picked a strawberry. It was of average size and color⸺definitely not a possible contender for “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty.” She looked from the strawberry to the hillside patch. She put the strawberry in her pocket and started off for Celeste Willets’s fenced strawberry patch on the hill with a slump of frustration at the walk before her, for Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell, like her mother, enjoyed a pampered life and had not grown accustomed to the physical act of moving. After much labor on the small grass-lined path that connected the two patches, Janice heard someone speaking.
“What a glorious crop you brought this year. ‘Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty.’ As good as your word.”
Janice stopped and looked around; she saw no one, though she had clearly heard the voice. She moved closer to the patch.
“You’ve made me so happy.”
She looked around again but saw nothing. Reaching over the short picket fence, Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell picked a second strawberry. This one was brilliantly red and massive yet perfectly shaped. It was cool to the touch, and juice seemed to be condensing on its skin, which left a faint red smear on Janice’s fingers. It was perfect; it was “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty.”
Slowly, Celeste Willets rose up out of the patch. The second Janice quickly stashed the strawberry paragon into her pocket with the first strawberry. Celeste had not seen her yet; her back had been to Janice when she stood to stretch. She had a small garden spade in her hand and a bonnet on her head. When Celeste did see her she was not startled, but said, “Janice Blackwell, what an unexpected surprise. What brings you out to my garden?”
“I wanted to see this year’s patch and maybe pick up a few gardening tips.” Janice forced a smile.
“Oh, I’m not revealing anything to you; you inherited your mother’s ‘Second in County, Sweet ‘n Scrumptious’ strawberry patch. She may be gone, but right now those strawberries are the strongest contender against my patch.”
“You mean patches. I couldn’t help but notice that you have two. That must take a lot out of you⸺to work both of them.”
“Oh, I don’t compete with the patch down by the house. That was my old patch, and it never did well at festival. I just keep growing the berries to sell. This patch was a gift from my Harrison before he left, and I expect to give your mother’s record of consecutive awarding of the ‘Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty’ a run with it.”
“You’re not as young as you used to be and tending a prize-winning strawberry patch is a lot of hard work. My mother died in her strawberry patch.”
“Did she? I had heard that she was on the couch with her feet soaking in her Footcuzzi, eating chocolate cake,” Celeste said. “At least that is what Dr. Campbell said. I guess that goes to show you can’t trust gossip!”
“No, she was in her patch when it happened, just like she always knew she would be when she went.”
Celeste came closer to the fence now and looked at Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell. She looked sorry for what she was about to say and softened her voice. “Janice, I’m worried that you’re a little confused on the facts about your mother. It was less about strawberries and more about status with Janice. She hired Miguel and the two Jorges to work her garden⸺I don’t believe she ever went back out there except for newspaper photos.”
“How dare you suggest such a thing! You listen to me, Celeste Willets, your little victory will go down in Eldritch history as a fluke when I reclaim ‘Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty’ once again. Your name will be but a blemish in a sea of Janice Blackwells!”
Celeste became emotionless and in a cold, even voice said, “My Harrison gave me this patch before he left, and a sweeter man there never was. I have no reason to fear you or your mother’s patch. Good day to you⸺the berries need my attention.” With that, Celeste sank back into the patch and Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell walked down the hill much faster than when she came up, this time powered by both gravity and fury.

Sally Firth was tending her own strawberry patch when Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell rattled on her garden gate. Sally Firth’s strawberries had always done poorly at the Fragaria Strawberry Festival; so seven years ago she had given up growing the domestic breed of strawberry and began cultivating foreign and exotic strawberries. Since that time she had won “Best in County, Foreign ‘n Fancy” every year. Unfortunately, “Best in County, Foreign ‘n Fancy” was a title that meant nothing to the town of Eldritch, mainly because Sally Firth was the only one who entered that category.
“Sally Firth, it’s Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell,” the second Janice called. “It’s important.”
Sally Firth carefully pulled open the heavy gate. “Shhh! The
Fragaria Manchuria cannot be exposed to loud noise after six p.m.”
“I went up to Celeste Willets’s place this afternoon, and do you know what she said? She said that my mother didn’t work her own garden and died because she was power hungry!”
“Well, you know that she did entrust a lot of the work to Miguel and the two Jorges. In fact, most of the work.”
“Her assistants? They were just migrant workers when she hired them. It takes education and genius to be ‘Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty.'”
“I guess you’re right, but still I hire them out every other week ever since one of the Jorges saved my dying Manchurians. That’s the one that took ‘Best in Counry, Foreign ‘n Fancy’ this year,” Sally giggled in a way that made Janice stare at her in disgust.
“Did you know that Celeste Willets has two strawberry patches? She said her husband left one of them for her. How long has she been a widow?”
“Oh, her husband didn’t die, at least not for sure. He just left.”
“Where to?”
“Oh, no one knows. Celeste said that one morning he declared that he had some hunting to do and wasnt sure when he would be back. He hasnt been back since.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Going on a year this September.”
“I picked these two strawberries from Celeste Willets’ two patches.” The second Janice pulled the two strawberries out of her pocket and Sally Firth examined them.
“Oh my. You would think that the same area of land worked by the same gardener would grow similar berries.”
“But it wasn’t the same gardener.” Janice held up the large, perfect fruit. “This is Harrison Willets’s strawberry.”
“A man working a strawberry patch in Eldritch? Ha! Men only attend the Fragaria Strawberry Festival⸺they don’t compete.”

“Is it against the rules?” asked Janice.
Sally Firth stopped in her amusement at the idea of an Eldritch man growing strawberries and thought for a second. “I don’t think a man has ever entered.”

Charles Samuel Masters was the president of the Fragaria Counry Board of Fragaria Festival Judges and the mayor of Eldritch. No man knew more on the subject of strawberries, both cultivation and culinary preparation, in the entire counry of Fragaria. However, although it was well known in Eldritch that Mayor Masters knew every aspect of what happens to a strawberry up until it passes his lips and absolutely nothing about it after, he had limited his interaction with strawberries exclusively to the latter, post-lip, portion of the process and had never physically ventured into his realm of expertise a day in his life. Janice Blackwell and Mayor Masters had never enjoyed contact in in all their years as fellow cttizens of Eldritch.
This fact struck many in Eldritch as ironic since Mayor Masters, along with the rest of the Fragaria Counry Board of Fragaria Festival Judges, had awarded Janice Blackwell “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty’ every year the previous twelve years of the festival. Regardless of
Charles Samuel Masters’s dislike of her mother and hands-off policy on strawberries⸺excluding of course the “dish, utensil, and beyond” segment⸺he was the next target of inquiry in Janice Blackwell’s daughter’s investigation.
This second Janice Blackwell had telephoned demanding that he come immediately, which happened to conflict with Mayor Masters’s habitual pre-dinner reclining time. The mayor, however, took his pre-dinner reclining time because he knew that an “immediately” from a Janice Blackwell was urgent only to the Janice saying it.
“Well, Mayor Masters, how does this town get along when one of its citizens has an emergency and receives this kind of promptness?”
The mayor stood rested on Janice Blackwell’s porch.
“Well, in true emergencies I do not often respond personally. A pressing matter came up that needed my attention. Perhaps I should call the proper authorities?”
Janice made a mental note that his pressing matter had pressed his wispy hair into a sea fan formation on one side of his head, which now waved in the evening breeze, and had left a red crease along one of his cheeks as well. “Don’t overwork yourself. Please come in.”
“It begins,” thought Mayor Masters, grimly foreseeing his golden years with this new Janice Blackwell.
Janice led him into the front room and sat down on a high-backed love seat. He sat opposite Sally Firth on a matching couch. The room was dominated by twelve identical wooden cutouts of a little old lady holding a giant strawberry tole painted with exquisite detail, which hung along the wall near the ceiling. “Best In County, Tart ‘n Tasty” and a year were written on each strawberry. Each tole represented a year of Janice Blackwell’s supremacy, and it was a sight that left both Mayor Masters and Sally Firth in awe. The space following the last tole had been cleared and the wallpaper was even cleaned, but it stood bare except for a small, framed, wallet-sized photo of Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell.
Janice spoke first. “As President of the Fragaria County Board of Fragaria Festival Judges, please tell me: are men allowed to enter strawberries in the Fragaria Strawberry Festival?”
The mayor and Sally were still gazing up at the twelve toles of power when Janice asked this question, and after a moment, Mayor Masters looked away and collected his thoughts. “As President of the Fragaria County Board of Fragaria Festival Judges, it is my honor to say there are no rules against men entering the festival.”
“Has a man ever entered his own strawberries in the festival?”
The mayor looked at her curiously when it dawned on him how bizarre Janice Blackwell’s questions were. “I’ve never heard of a man entering in festival.”
“Can you think of any reason why a man would keep a strawberry patch himself?”
The mayor put more thought into this. “I can’t think of one.” And that was the dead honest truth.
“This will come as a shock to you, but Celeste Willets’s ‘Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasties’ came from a patch actually tended by her husband.”
“Harrison Willets disappeared over six months ago. Patches are planted in the spring. He has been gone too long to work a patch.”
“Then how do you explain this?” Janice pulled the stolen specimen of strawberry perfection out of a bowl she had behind the love seat. The mayor’s eyes grew wide at the sight of it.
“Ah yes,” he said a little excitedly. “That is one of Celeste’s. I haven’t seen strawberries like this in many years.”
“She outright admitted that he left her that patch⸺the patch she took ‘Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty’ with!”
The mayor furrowed his brow. “I fail to see the problem with this. If there was a rule against entering strawberries from a patch that has been inherited, you would be left out in the cold right next to Celeste Willets. If you could even prove that hers was inherited.”
“All I am saying, Mayor Masters, is that I strongly believe that a strawberry like this cannot be grown without some crookedness. There is something just not right about it!”
“You have to be joking. It is just a straw⸺” Janice Blackwell and Sally Firth stared at him aghast, and the mayor realized the severity of what he had been about to say. “Quite right,” he continued a little more softly and deliberately. “This would be the first time foul play entered the Fragaria Strawberry Festival, at least as far we have detected. I am just struggling to see what one could do to a strawberry patch that would constitute foul play.”
“Genetically altered seeds.” Janice Blackwell’s voice was cold and even, as if she spoke the purest, most despicable truth. Mayor Masters jerked up his head. Mayor Masters was a lifetime subscriber to Strawberry Quarter: A Journal of Science, Cultivation, and Culture, which for the previous two years had run a series of articles following the efforts of Richard Glack, Ph.D., in creating the Genetically Enhanced Super-Strawberry. This series had consumed Mayor Masters’ mind, until the most recent issue of SQ had exposed Richard Glack as a charlatan and his experiments as a hoax.
“No such thing,” Mayor Masters said painfully.
“Well, what then? Super dirt?”
The mayor paused. ‘Actually, the only thing one could really alter is the fertilizer, and there are thousands of different ways to fertilize a strawberry patch.”
At nine the next evening, Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell pulled up into Sally Firth’s driveway and honked once. Sally came out the side gate with a shovel and some plastic bags.
“Shhhhh! Please, you must be quiet, or my berries won’t color right!”
“Just get in.”
Sally loaded the shovel into the back, and they drove off. The drive was a quiet one, with the task at hand weighing heavily on their minds. The plan was simple. They would collect soil samples from various levels of Celeste Willets’s “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty’ patch. They would then take the soil samples to Jack Harris, Eldritch’s resident fertilizer specialist, for analysis. Later they were to convene at the Fragaria County Sheriff’s Office to decide if they should employ Sheriff Stone in an emergency stripping of the “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty’ title.
Janice Blackwell turned off her lights and rolled to a stop on the small country road just outside Celeste Willets’s winding driveway. Celeste’s house was dark. Sally pulled out the shovel and plastic bags, and they started off for the strawberry patch on the hill. Janice had a flashlight, which she left off until they had circumvented Celeste’s house and approached the patch from the back side. Both women were huffing by the time they reached the small picket fence, but the pumping adrenaline drove them right to the task. Sally collected the first dirt sample by scraping some topsoil into a plastic bag. She then looked to Janice Blackwell for instructions.
“Start digging!” hissed Janice.
Sally reluctantly positioned the shovel and started digging.
After three shovelfuls, she stopped. “This is good enough. Let’s just get two. I don’t feel right about this any more.”
“Give me the shovel!” Janice snatched the shovel away from Sally and started digging furiously. She stopped to take the second sample and then continued digging nosily. She seemed to be getting angrier and angrier. She stopped and took the third sample and again began digging.
“Janice, we only need three! Let’s go.”
“I’m getting four! There is no way she’s going to get away with whatever she’s doing!” Janice, who was now sweating prorusely, continued her digging frenzy.
“Please, Janice, she’s going to hear us! You’re scaring me.”
Just then the shovel hit something and stopped with a thud.
Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell scooped out the dirt and pointed the flashlight into the hole.
“Janice, what is it?” Sally asked. Janice just stood there, looking down. “Janice, what is it!?”
“I knew it.” With that, the second Janice dropped the flashlight, burst out of the patch, letting the gate close loudly behind her, and disappeared down the hill.
Sally was petrified. “Janice?” she whispered into the dark.
“Janice?” She was almost in tears. The flashlight, still on, lay in the dirt next to the hole. Slowly, Sally got up the courage to move from the spot she had been rooted to and pick up the flashlight. “Janice?” she whispered one more time. She had almost convinced herself to run down the hill, but it was not knowing that made her most afraid, and looking into the hole would solve some of that.
Slowly, very, very slowly, she directed the beam of the flashlight down and let it rest inside the hole. Then, very shakily, she looked in. A decayed skeletal face stared back up at her through dirt filled sockets. Sally Firth screamed louder than she had ever screamed before. She spun toward the road just in time to see Janice’s headlights come on and then speed away. She screamed again, and Celeste Willets’s back porch lights came on. Celeste was standing just outside the light like a ghost. Sally screamed a third time and fled towards the mountains, weeping.

Janice burst into the Fragaria County Sheriff’s Office, where the mayor was sitting at Sheriff Stone’s desk. Sheriff Stone was sitting at a small table cleaning a gun. Mayor Masters was closing the large red Fragaria Strawberry Festival rule book just as she burst in. She had a wild look in her eye.
“Well, I hate to say it, but I just read this book cover to cover, and there is no rule about using unorthodox fertilizer or inheriting patches,” said the mayor, oblivious to Janice’s frantic manner.
“Is there any rule against murder?” she said, out of breath.
Both the mayor and the sheriff looked up at her. “I believe what was once Harrison Willets is buried about a foot deep in Celeste Willets’ ‘Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty’ strawberry patch. That’s right, murder most foul.”
Mayor Masters and Sheriff Stone looked at each other, and then Sheriff Stone quietly put his gun back together, stood up, and said, “Looks like I better go out to Celeste Willets’s house and ask her some questions. I can tell it is going to be one of those nights. Literally.”

When Sheriff Stone pulled into the Willets’s drive, all the lights were on in the house. He got out, walked up the gravel drive, and knocked on the door, which was never answered. After a few more sessions of knocking, he circled the house and walked up the hill to the second strawberry patch. Celeste was there, filling the hole that Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell had dug.
“Celeste,” the sheriff said. Celeste stopped her work, and he could see that she had been crying. “Celeste, Janice Blackwell, the daughter, claims to have seen a body buried in your strawberry patch. Literally. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Celeste’s response was immediate.
“She says it is the body of your husband, Harrison. Now I don’t see how she could possibly know⸺”
“It is my husband, Sheriff,” Celeste almost looked proud as she stood like a sentinel pillar above her patch, surrounded by the dark and her strawberries. Sheriff Stone reached under his hat and scratched his head as he tried to sort things out.
“Well this is killing me, Celeste Willets. Literally. But I gotta take you down to the station.”
“That’s fine, Sheriff.” Celeste picked up the small spade she was using to fill in the hole and a few other tools and started down the hill with Sheriff Stone.
“Could you do me a favor, Sheriff?” she asked as they walked.
“Yes, ma’am, what is it?”
“Could you send someone to look for Sally Firth? She ran off through that field over there after Janice left her. I can hear her screams every so often on the wind.”

The next morning Sheriff Stone and part-time Deputy Silus Marc exhumed Harrison Willets from this years’ Fragaria Strawberry Festival’s “Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty” strawberry patch. It was a lengthy process in which the men took great care not to harm any more of the patch than was necessary. Harrison Willets’s body was taken to the only morgue in the county, Jarkins Family Morgue, where the county coroner, Ed Baker Senior, performed an autopsy. Celeste Willets quietly waited in the jail cell of the Fragaria County Sheriff’s Office, saying only, “It will all turn out in the end.”
The next morning, Mayor Masters and Sheriff Stone visited Celeste Willets in her cell.
“Celeste,” began Mayor Masters, “we have a positive ID on the corpse. It is your husband, Harrison.”
“I wasn’t aware that his identity was in question,” Celeste said sweetly.
“We needed to be sure.” Sheriff Stone looked uncomfortable. “We are trying not to jump to any conclusions. You know your rights, but we would like to maybe hear your story, just so we can get a clear picture. Literally.”
“Please don’t be so nervous, Sheriff, I’m glad to answer any questions that you or the mayor might have.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the mayor asked the first question.
“How did your husband end up in your strawberry patch, Celeste?”
“I buried him there.”
“Did you kill him before burying him?” asked Sheriff Stone.
“No.” There was another moment of silence, then Mayor Masters spoke again.
“Did you bury him alive?”
“Heavens no, Mayor,” laughed Celeste. “He was dead when I buried him. If you can call simply filling up the hole burying.”
The mayor and the sheriff looked at one another thoughtfully.
“I loved my husband,” Celeste said. “I miss him fiercely. The only thing I have left of him is that patch. He left me that patch, and it was one of the most beautiful acts a husband has ever done for his wife.”
“So you didn’t kill him?” asked Mayor Masters.
“No, Mayor, I tell you I didn’t kill him. I would give my ‘Best in County, Tart ‘n Tasty’ title and all the strawberry patches in the world to have him back. But that can’t be. However, Harrison gave me the next best thing⸺the best strawberries in Eldritch.”
“So what exactly did happen?” asked Sheriff Stone hesitantly.

“I’ll tell you.” Celeste Willets then told them the story of her Harrison. The story had begun the previous summer. Celeste Willets had lost to Janice Blackwell for the twelfth year in a row and she had come home sad and defeated. Harrison had not attended the festival that year because he had just retired from the mine and was suffering from cancer. He was a meek man, one who did not trouble others with his problems, so he kept his illness a secret from all but Celeste. Harrison got up out of his chair with great effort, took Celeste in his arms, and suggested that she try a new location for next year’s patch. They walked out in the back, past Celeste’s strawberry patch, all the way up on top of the hill behind their house, and chose the spot. For the next two weeks, Harrison, despite his condition, cleared the area and built a small white picket fence around it. When the work was done, Harrison told Celeste that he was going to go hunting as a break. This worried Celeste because he was deteriorating faster than ever. That night he didn’t come home. The next morning Celeste climbed the hill to see if she could see Harrison coming home, but instead found him dead, lying in a shallow grave that he had dug himself, in the middle of the fenced-in square of dirt. In his hands was an amendment to his last will and testament instructing Celeste to fill the hole and plant the new patch over him. In exchange, he promised to give her the best strawberries in Eldritch.
As Celeste Willets finished her story, she had tears in her eyes. She looked up at the mayor and the sheriff. “A better man there never was. Even in death he was beautiful. When I’m in that patch working, I’m with Harrison again. Within that little picket fence, I have the same feeling I’d get when he’d bring wild flowers back to me from the fields, or when he’d sing to me when I was scared of the howling night winds outside: things he did that told me that he thought about me and cared for me. In the patch I have all that back again. I have him again.”
Mayor Masters and Sheriff Stone stood silent. The phone was ringing. Part-time Deputy Silus Marc answered the phone, spoke for a moment, and then told the sheriff that he was wanted.
“Well, Celeste,” Sheriff Stone started slowly. “You’ve given us a lot to think about. With a little time I hope we can sort this out.” The two men excused themselves and left Celeste’s cell.
“That was one of the most touching stories I have ever heard about a strawberry patch. Literally,” Sheriff Stone said as they slowly walked up to the front so he could get the phone. The man on the phone was county coroner Ed Baker Senior reporting that the autopsy was completed and requesting that the sheriff and the mayor come right over to Jarkins Family Morgue.
In a small gathering held right over the draped form of Harrison Willets’s body, Ed Baker Senior admitted that he did not know the time of death, but he said that he did know the cause. It wasn’t murder, but cancer. And in Harrison’s shirt pocket, he
had found an amendment to his last will and testament carefully preserved in a Ziploc bag. That was enough for Mayor Masters and Sheriff Stone, and they were about to return to the jail to release Celeste Willets when Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell called Jarkins Family Morgue for the fifth time that day. Mayor Masters told her the whole story and said that they were planning on releasing Celeste as soon as they got back to the Fragaria County Sheriff’s Office. The second Janice was furious and would not allow the mayor to get off the phone until he promised that he would try to find some charges to bring against Celeste Willets.
“All right, Janice, we’ll look into it and see if we can find something,” said the mayor, and he hung up, defeated.

That evening Sheriff Stone knocked on the Blackwell residence door. Sally Firth answered, and it was visibly evident that she had not been able to find shelter the previous night. “How are you feeling, Sally? I heard you spent a rough night out in the fields. Literally.” When part-time Deputy Silus Marc had found Sally, she was so mentally disheveled that she kept running and screaming and wouldn’t get in the car. In the end, he had to physically place her in the cruiser.
“Yes,” she said sweetly, “but I’m all together now. Please come in.”
She led him to the front room and he sat looking uu at Janice Blackwell’s twelve toles of triumph. Janice entered and urgently asked, “Is Celeste Willets still in jail?”
“No,” said Sheriff Stone, “But let me explain . . .”

“I knew it!” exploded Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice
Blackwell. “I knew you would do nothing! This town lost any spine
it ever had the day my mother died!”
“Quiet!” shouted the sheriff, standing up abruptly. The second Janice Blackwell sat fuming but silent.
“There are no charges we can bring against Celeste Willets, because she hasn’t done anything wrong. Let me tell you something: there may be laws in other counties about how and where a person can be buried, but Fragaria hasn’t caught up to those places yet. In Fragaria you can be buried in any fashion on any property that you have legal control of. There are, however, laws protecting last will and testaments. Literally. Harrison Willets’s last will and testament states that he wanted to be buried in that strawberry patch on the hill behind Celeste’s house. So that is where we are putting him tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t believe this.” Janice Blackwell’s daughter Janice Blackwell growled through her teeth.
“However,” the sheriff continued, “there has been a crime committed. Right now I have both you and Sally for trespassing. ”
Both women sat up in their seats. The sheriff continued, “But since the mayor knew about it and Celeste Willets is unwilling to press charges, this will have to go unprosecuted. Literally. The mayor and I, after some consideration on your character, Janice, tried to convince Celeste that it would be in her best interest to file a restraining order against you, but again she was unwilling. So, let me say this. I better not hear of or see either of you near Celeste Willets ever again, or there will be prosecution. Literally.”
With that Sheriff Stone stood up and left the Blackwell house. Both women stayed seated in their chairs, completely shocked. Finally, Sally Firth broke the silence with, “Well, I never!”

Celeste watched as Sheriff Stone and part-time Deputy Silas Marc unloaded Harrison Willets’s body from the back of the sheriff’s truck and laid it in the hole from which he had been exhumed. While Celeste was in the county jailhouse, Miguel and the two Jorges had come and tended her strawberry patches. They had cleaned up and squared off the edges of the hole, so, despite its shallowness, it did resemble a grave. With Harrison in the grave, the sheriff and deputy took off their hats.
“It seems that something should be said right now.” Sheriff Stone spoke reverently.
“There’s no need for that, Sheriff,” said Celeste. “He’s said so much in death I don’t think anyone can improve on it.”
The two men put their hats back on, filled the hole, and quietly left. The entire time they were putting Harrison Willets back into the ground Celeste stood outside of the little white picket fence. She watched the men leave and did not move until their truck was out of sight and most of the dust it had kicked up along the country road had settled. She walked to the gate, paused, and looked down the road again at the corner where the truck disappeared. Now, finally alone, she entered the gate and began tending her patch.

by Jessica Christensen

There isn’t one inch of my body in repose. Rocks jut through my sleeping bag, and the wind barrels through the canyon, whipping over the edge of the cliff. The August wind carries the crisp air of November. It seems to take me away with it, layer by layer, and I think of Thompson’s onion-peeling metaphor for getting to know someone, peeling and revealing to the very inner core. I remember walking fast the night last May when he peeled close to my center; I remember wishing he would follow. If he had come to where I sat alone and barefoot in that parking lot, breathing only calm understanding and no words, I would have given him all that was untold, all that was dark inside me, heavy to carry and explain, all that was programmed and unwanted in my genes that seemed to push others away. But he didn’t follow, and I walked home more slowly, my feet black from the asphalt. I had walked fast too many times before. Thinking of it now, my legs feel restless and tired at the same time.
I keep my head tucked tight inside my sleeping bag and continue shifting my body, trying to decided if it’s more comfortable to have a rock in a hard spot⸺my hip⸺or in a soft spot⸺my thigh. My jeans twist in one direction and the sleeping bag in the other. Everyone is still talking, but I keep breathing my own warm breath in my slick bag, the wind now only a hush outside. The wind carries to me snatches of their words, a laugh, and memories of our spring hike up Angels’ Landing. The moon was bright that night and the closeness became dangerous. When I realized Thompson was staying, staying forever if I let him, I wanted and needed to tell him everything, but was afraid he would turn away. I remember him looking up at me, the red rock behind him, and knowing the blue behind his Oakley shades was deep and his shoulders were strong. But I turned to say something to Laura and pretended not to see. Now I hear Rand saying this trip will be much tougher than our first “adventure” together.
I lie in my bag, each muscle contracted against the rocks and the wind, pulled tight in, listening. I am cold and hard, one with the cliff. I hear Brent and Rand laughing about the “ice queen” that Brent had obsessed over. Dave is spouting random comments and Scottie makes some sick remark. I don’t hear Thompson’s voice.
Thompson’s voice, the sound of promise and entreaty had followed me to London after the initial trip. “I’m staying to work all summer so there’s no rush. Don’t feel like you have to make a decision right now. I’m here for as long as you need me to be. I’ll wait as long as it takes.” I had tried to bury it in my cathartic journal and in my wanderings. But I couldn’t lose it in Trafalgar Square or mute it in the green of Kew Gardens. It spoke louder there, swirling in my inner ear and making me dizzy. Every wing and rain spoke his cool blue calm. “I just want you to be happy.”
But I don’t hear him now. Now that I have a heavy parcel in my chest to heave off, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask anything or offer anything. He doesn’t even laugh when Candice and Jana reminisce about playing “Truth or Dare” and “Skeletons in the Closet” at slumber parties. “Truth” is more risky that “dare.” Run down the street without your shirt on or open Pandora’s Box. Some doors are hard to open and some lids are better with a safety seal.
The chatting continues all night. Thompson is silent. Maybe he is holding his breath too. Everyone is rendered an insomniac by the wind, the roughness of the cliff, and the nearness of the trail down. I’m impatient to go down⸺down to where it is shady and clear, no walls and open air where thoughts can be breathed out into words that can be caught or let float away without danger.
I count the minutes until dawn and when the sun hints its arrival, it is enough. We roll up our bags with Orion faintly visible. We stretch and I wish I could stretch over to where Thompson is.

But I need to crack my back and rub the cold out of my arms. I strap on my pack. The sun is not yet over the rim of the canyon, but Thompson has his Oakleys on already. I cant tell where his eyes are as I brush past him to the trailhead, legs primed to go.
The trail down to the Indian reservation campsite of Havasupai is eight miles long, the first mile all steep switchbacks. Rand had suggested the trip as a challenge and reminded all of us girls multiple times that it would be “rough.” The pack I borrowed from my brother-in-law is heavy and old, too big for me, and the metal frame rubs on the outsides of my shoulder blades and sags on my lower back with its bulk. We all start together, but by the bottom of the switchbacks I am ahead and taking long strides. The thought of those shades hiding blue propels me forward, and I cannot slow down.
The dust is four inches thick on the trail and powdery. It coats us to our knees as we kick it up in small clouds, muting everything to beige. I remember sitting alone in the locker room at lunchtime, hiding when someone came in, ashamed of my aloneness and inability to “be me,” needing to stay up with the pack at practice, proud of broken-in, thrashed training shoes. I look at the dust on my shoes and am glad that mine are hard to distinguish from the ground. My feet consume the path ahead with each step, pounding each painful memory into the dust, memories of the time when only the moon understood and I just couldn’t pull out of it alone.
All this sweat in the cool morning makes me feel feverish. The need to fast-forward mounts and wills me around the next bend, then faster to the next boulder where the trail dips under an overhanging willow and disappears to the left. Looking back, I cannot see Thompson’s Oakleys glinting in the sun.
Bethany is breathing heavily and coming up from behind.
“Hey, speedy. You okay?”
“Yeah, I just wanna get there.”
She takes a double step to keep up and lowers her voice.
“I thought you two were talking again.”
“We are.”
“How did you leave things before?”
“It’s complicated. I didn’t really explain myself as usual. I mean, he told me not to throw what we had away and I told him not to wait for an uncertainty.”

“But he’s not going to Thailand to visit his brother?” she says.
“No. He sold his ticket.”
“And he came hiking in Arizona in hundred degree weather in the middle of August instead.”
“Yeah.”
Bethany is silent for a moment.
“I know you know this, but he’s strong enough to lean on.”
We don’t say anything for a few steps, and the hipbelt on the front of my pack is digging into me. “And if he goes away?”
She hesitates for a second. “Nothing would really be different, would it?”
I don’t answer. It would be different. It would be to miss the nearness, to strain and look without the possibility of hearing or seeing. Bethany stays up with me the whole way.
The rest of the trail is a dry, sandy river bottom that winds past giant boulders and water-carved red rock overhangs. There is a numbness where my pack’s weight presses on my collarbone, seeming to cut off circulation to my head. I shove my left thumb under the strap to relieve some tension and concentrate on my breathing. The sun is high when we reach the shack where we pay the wrinkled brown man. Brent pours water over his head and calls me “iron woman” and “the rest-free wonder.” Rand the ringleader reminds us that we have to carry all our trash out with us, can’t light fires, and should take advantage of the natural spring to fill up our water bottles before hiking out.

The campground is a series of cleared spaces under tall shade trees where the canyon walls draw close. The boys set up tents in a rough circle, and the girls spread a tarp in the middle where the canopy of leaves opens on sky. The air here is warm and dry, the breeze soothing on my skin. After a few minutes of repose and the rough, sweet tang of beef jerky, we leave our packs and head for the falls.
I leave my shoes behind, but have no sandals to wear. I don’t think of the white heat of the sand. Like I didn’t think of the black rough of the night I told Thompson I was only giving fifty percent and he needed someone willing to give herself whole. Like I didn’t think I’d like sitting in his passenger seat and listening to Van Halen⸺or that I’d miss it either.

Havasupai attracts many visitors because of its waterfalls. There are three giant ones within a few miles and even more if one is willing to hack a path in the brush or climb beyond the easily accessible falls. We head to the first one, and I am proud of the toughness of my feet as we climb over rough rock, down into the cliff’s edge⸺where we can see down fifty feet to the pool turned turquoise by lime. The pounding of the white falls prevents me from asking how we get down, and Dave pulls my hand toward a dark opening in the bleached rock. It is a cave-like tunnel, rough-hewn steps twisting down to the left. I see the light at the other opening and the outline of a metal rod with a chain attached. The remainder of the descent requires us to lower ourselves from metal pegs connected by heavy link chains to where we drop the last ten feet to the rocky beach.
The water is warm and mist rises where the falls churn the river. The walls, formed by hardened mineral flows, rise in petrified dripping masses around us, shading us from the sun. While floating in the pools of liquid aquamarine, we hear a call from Thompson and John, farther along the trail on the far side of the water, to follow them to some larger falls a few miles away. I think of my feet now, but it’s too late, and I don’t want to hike back alone. We join the pack, a bushwhacking war party, cutting our way through the green tangle where it obscures the white sand path.
My tough pads are feeling the wear of rough rock river crossings, and I find myself walking on the spiny brush at the edge of the trail to avoid the scalding sand. The sound of the last falls fades, and no sound comes to us from the canyon ahead. I let my breath out fast and hard when Dave says he can’t take the burning on his bare feet, and I volunteer to go back with him.

The stair cave is cool and dark when we reach it. I want to stay, but we keep on until we reach the shaded, soft path to the camp. I lie on my bag when we get back, smooth under my stomach, no rocks to disturb me, and write my fever out, my fingers scraped and raw from the return ascent, and the burn on the balls of my feet pounding with my heart.

The others return triumphantly reporting the “undiscovered and gigantic” waterfall they have found. They play Rook and Nertz until dusk. With the dusk comes quiet and the smell of ramen noodles from Scottie’s portable stove. I am content with the gritty cleanness of granola bars and fruit leather. Laura offers free ear cleanings, hygiene in the sticks, her ziplock of cotton swabs raised above her head in invitation. She commences work with Brent, her first hesitant customer, his blond afro glowing around him like a halo in the near twilight. His thin face breaks into a ghoulish, Jack-the-Pumpkin-King grin when I look at him, and Scottie says he could use some “backrub lovin’.” John seconds the motion with a half-raised forearm from his face-plant position on the far end of the tarp. A few groans all around and no one moves. Thompson is silent and his head twitches slightly from his book as I step toward him and then over him to start on John.
John hands me a wooden massage roller and is soon rubbed into sleepy delirium. I stop and listen to the night sounds. The stars in the moonless canopy are bright and pulsating. It is fully dark now and Thompson lies on his stomach, reading with his Oakleys on. John is breathing heavily and my hands have stopped. The silence stretches, someone shouts “Nertz!” from the picnic table, and Laura sends another clean-eared boy back into the game.
Thompson hasn’t turned a page: his breath seems caught it his ribcage. I let the wooden roller on the tarp, staring at his back. It isn’t moving and I can barely make out his white t-shirt in the dark. I imagine his heart still in its place, no longer pumping, the blood slowing, and I have to put my palm on his back, on the left side, my thumb gripping the edge of his scapula. He lets out his breath and the faint rhythm comes to me from inside. My rehearsed lines run the trails of my brain, coming out of my fingers, not yet vocally clothed. As I work out his weariness with the thoughts on my hands, my fever ebbs and the ache in my feet dulls. They are tired from walking so fast. Here, where it is open and smooth, where the trail does not cut down or burn like coal or cast up clouds of dust, I let him catch up with me. When the last knot is eased, he shuts his book and moves to his tent, pausing to touch my head in one smoothing motion from brow to crown, his breathing even. Tomorrow we will speak; I think myself to sleep.
During the day, Thompson is at the upper falls, jumping cliffs with John. I chase streams with Jana and Laura. All day, a song plays on repeat in my head: “I wanna hold you close, I wanna push you away. . . .” I have to sing something else out loud to get rid of it. At night, it is Nertz and Rook again. When the yelling is too much, Candice and I make ourselves absent and wash our hair in the river. My head is cool with the tight coil of hair piled on it, and Jana pats a spot on the tarp for me between her and Thompson. Her red hair reminds me of Glenda the good witch, and she seems to wink at me in the dim light as I lay myself down.
“We’re talking about books. I just asked Thompson what his favorite book is,” Jana says.
“I read Nibley mostly. I like the substance. I like to know
things, to understand,” he says.
I turn toward the sound of his voice. “I never knew that.”
He turns his face to me in the dark. I cannot see it, but I can feel it. “What?” He didn’t hear my whisper.
“I never knew you read Nibley.”
“That was probably about my second layer. Maybe you weren’t listening.” It is quiet and he thinks I don’t hear, but I hear. I hear his voice and the implication that we’ve arrived beyond the second layer, deep enough to breathe liquid, but I’m still holding my breath.
My knot of hair feels tight and is pulling at my temples. The warm night air is smoothing the coolness out of my hair. Jana is called as referee and goes to the table to calm the debate. A sudden blast of wind from down the canyon blows over me, and I nearly miss the quiet words from Thompson.
“How is your brother?”
This layer is safe; it’s been exposed before, so I can show it.
“Not so good. My mother is worried.”
“Are you okay? I remember it was hard for you before.”
Before. The night last winter when he asked if I wanted to talk about it and he listened. I duck. “They don’t really mention it anymore, but it’s always there, y’know?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s there, right below the surface of everything, ready to explode. I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel there’s anything I can do.”
“Sometimes there isn’t anything to do but wait. Time is a healer. He needs that. I told you about me, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. Is that what helped you?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m not saying it’s the answer to his situation because mine was different, but he’s not the only one to ever struggle like that. He just needs love right now. Love and time.”
“Yeah.”
“We all do sometimes,” he says.
“I know.”
“He’ll come around.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
His eyes are still fixed on the darkness near my face, but I do not turn to him. I cannot see him clearly, not clear like the night my brother’s band played and I first met her. I broke down and told Thompson all about their hasty Las Vegas wedding to fix the problem coming in nine months and showing in just a few. When I thought the silence would stretch heavy and long with hesitancy, he said he’d stay as long as I needed him. He’d stay until I was okay and the shaky breathing was regular again. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You can’t expect so much on your first encounter with her. Give yourself some time and things will even out.” The light in his blue eyes had penetrated me. He’d seen me⸺not all, but that part riddled and swaying with fear⸺and he’d stayed. He’d stayed as long as I needed him, until I was okay.

The wind picks up in the night and I feel a drop on my cheek, followed by a low rumble from somewhere down the canyon. It is too hot to stay in my bag, and the air in my nostrils is musty with the coming wet. I am still, but the wind gives me the sensation of tossing. Another wet drop and I hear a rustling from one of the tents. I can hear the soft rush of feet on sand and see the haze of a white shirt move to the trail down to the falls. I curl up to stand and follow, barefoot.
Without the moon, it is hard to see the sand and I stop at the rocks. I sit down to go over the edge to the cave opening. I can hear the scrape of him inside and I enter the black. Thompson is sitting on the edge of the other opening, feet dangling over the lip of the cliff. He doesn’t turn as I sit down, lowering each leg slowly.
“Couldn’t sleep.” He looks across the canyon to the clear sky of stars above, unobscured by trees. “You can’t hear it, but you can see it.”
“What?”
“The sky. The night.” He pauses without breathing and turns to me. “You, too.”
“What?” Sleep is still clinging to my thoughts.
“I got your postcard from London about doors loosening and rooms needing air, about how savory an onion can be unpeeled and alone. I may not get all of Shakespeare’s lines, but I got yours. I see you walk; I see you fighting to be brave and tough, hiking barefoot without admitting it hurts. I see you.”
I can feel his blue eyes on my face. “I know.”
The water pours down hard and loud, and I can feel the cool spray from far below. I want to pour like that, rushing down so loud that he can hear it, that he can feel it and see it and taste it and know it⸺know all the inside and out. I want to let him hear it and see if it’s too much, see if he still wants to stay. I can feel the lines in my head, building, like the speed of the river as it comes to the drop.
I breathe deeply and watch the water as it spills over the cliff freefalling to the bottom. He remains with his shoulder turned to the stars and his face intent on mine. “You don’t have to. ”
“I do.”
I pour. I sit still and I pour it down fast and quiet, the dark and the struggle, the years of loathing myself for not being stronger, not fighting harder, the carrying of the constant weight, and the fever in my head; the night my eyes lingered on the knife rack and it seemed easy to stop the struggle of self against self the day I ran with the team down to the canyon trail, and a semi was coming opposite us, and I though how easy it would be to take two strides to the side in a stumble and end it; the fear of and need for help; the hours of clinical terms and soothing voices, little blue and white pills. I pour it all down for him to catch, to hold in his hands or let pass through. That night the stars spoke to me, and I knew that something bigger than me had a hand in it. I had to hold my grip and keep my pace.
My temples burned with the fear of admitting the need for medication and “talking it through,” relaxation breathing exercises, positive and constructive coping mechanisms, and cool, clinical tones. With the lifting comes ease and the cranial pressure lessens.
My breathing is shallow. The falls are quieter. How long have I been speaking? Thompson is facing me, and I have to count before I turn. The light of the stars is bright, and the white of the water catches it. A drop on his cheek reflects light as it comes down. He blinks and another follows the first salty trail. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t speak. His eyes are full of blue, fluid and deep, deep enough to draw from and still be bottomless. We don’t move, but stay as we are. We cannot hear it, but we can see it and feel it⸺the night and the sky and the enormity of the space where we have entered, whole and seen.
My face is warm now where his heart pumps under it. The falls cool my fever-abandoned head, and I know that tomorrow I can walk slowly up the trail with him⸺up and out.

by Benjamin Christensen

One of the Boys
Daddy, you mind I come in?
I no like interrupt when you writing, but I get one problem. I in love with my best friend.
No, Daddy, no worries, I not talking about one girl. You know I not like that⸺I like boys, no worry.
I talking about Kenny. You know, Kenny Thompson, the one my best friend since second grade? He real nice, and ho, the handsome! Even more handsome than you, Daddy. Nah, just joke. No one handsome as you. But Kenny come close. He hapa, just like you-get one haole father and one Hawaiian mother. He get the light brown eyes, and the wavy surfer blond hair; he not too light, and not too dark, but just right. Just like you, Daddy.
Lately, every time I see him, I like wrap his arms around me and stay like that forever. But no can.
Kenny no even think of me as one girl. “Faye, you good fun for hang out with, ’cause you just like one of the boys,” he tell me. Ho, I no like be one of the boys; I like be one girl! I like be his girl! But no can, Daddy. Kenny no like me like I like him.

Tita
I know what they all think of me. They think I one tita. When I was little, they call me tomboy. Now they call me tita. Different words, same difference.
I not one tita, though, Daddy. Just ’cause my best friend one boy, and I no like hang with girls. Just ’cause I good at sports, and I go beach with the boys for surf. Just ’cause I no like paint my face like one prostitute, and I no like dress like one neither, and I no giggle and act all girly-girly like, “Oh, Kenny, you can help me tie my shoes, ’cause I one girl and I too stupid to do ‘um myself?”
I one normal girl⸺I like talk story on the phone, I like read girl books, I like boys, I like all that stuff too.
Today in drama class, we was picking parts for our end-of-the-year play we going put on, and of course Kenny get picked for be the big manly hero. So then we need pick who going play the girlfriend, the damsel in distress. So I tell Miss Kawamura, “I like audition for the part.”
Then everybody laughing, and Keola Mooney yell out, “You no can be the damsel in distress, Faye. No one going believe that you never wen’ beat up the bad guy yourself!” And everyone laugh more. I so mad, I like punch him in the face, but I know Keola and Kenny friends so I hold back.
Of course, Kristal Mizoguchi wen’ get the part-the ditsy cheerleader. The only good thing is I going to be the wicked with and I going to put one spell on that little⸺
Oh, try wait, Daddy. I think I hear Tutu yelling at me. No wonder Mommy so grumpy, after that lady raise her all her life. I would be too.

Cheerleaders
Last night I wen’ the Kaiser-Kahuku game with Kenny. Good fun. Even look like we get one chance first quarter. Second quarter different story. Our guys no cam compete with those big Kahuku guys. Still good fun, though.
Except these stupid titas from Kahuku was sitting right next to us and talking stink the whole time. “Ho, Gina,” one says to the other, “why we even bother come all the way down here? Waste time. All these spoiled rich Kaiser kids…. every last one of them haole or Japanee. Act like they own island when they not even Hawaiian.”
“Yeah,” the other one says, “we know we going win the game, anyway.”
What they know? Just ’cause I go Kaiser, no mean I rich. No mean I haole or Japanee. They don’t know I live in one beat-up old house on Aipo Street. (Sorry, Daddy, I know it not your fault-I know you try for sell more books so we can have one better life. I no care we poor. I just no like people think we rich when we not.) They don’t know I Chinee-Hawaiian, not Japanee. (Okay, maybe I part haole, but mostly Chinee-Hawaiian.) And why it matter so much if you Chinee or Japanee or Portagee or Hawaiian, anyway? All the same thing.
They make me so mad! I like bust their face, but instead I turn to Kenny so he can tell them off, ’cause he look more Hawaiian than I do, so they can see we get Hawaiians at Kaiser, too. So I tap his shoulder and ask, “Eh, Kenny, try tell those two girls for shut up. I sick of them acting all high maka maka just ’cause they⸺”
But he not even paying attention to me. He never even hear those girls talking, ’cause he staring at the cheerleaders the whole time, like one zombie. I know which one he staring at⸺he staring at that bimbo, Kristal Mizoguchi.
Why he gotta look at her for?

Daddy’s Girl
Every time I talk about you with Kenny-guys, Daddy, afterwards they always whispering and laughing and looking at me, like I don’t know they making fun of me. I know what they think⸺they think I one daddy’s girl, like I need for ask you about every little thing I do.
I no care, though. They can think what they like; I proud of you, Daddy. I proud you one writer. I proud you still give me hugs and kiss my forehead everyday, even though I sixteen years old. I lucky for have you, and I know it. Plenty kids no can talk with their parents like I talk with you. Heck, I no can even talk with Mommy like I talk with you. You the best, Daddy.
Let them think I one daddy’s girl. I no shame.

Shame
I so shame, Daddy. I never felt so shame before.
I decide if Kenny like cheerleaders so much, I going try out for the squad for next year. How hard can be, yeah? I mean, I been on track before; I done hurdles and high jump and all that. Same thing.
First we had for put on this little costume. I look like She-Hulk in that thing, Daddy, with my arm and shoulder muscles all popping out. All the other girls, they all cute and skinny, and I get man shoulders. I so ugly.
Then we had for do splits like that. No problem⸺I know how for stretch.
The whole time, Kristal Mizoguchi acting all cool ’cause she already on the squad and keep on giving me stink eye and then looking at her little friends and giggling. She make me sick.
After that, they teach us one dance routine, you know the kind they do on drill teams, and we had for show we can do ‘um. I no can dance, Daddy. I no more rhythm. Must be the haole part of me.
And every time I take one step, Kristal and her friends go “Boom! Boom!” like I Godzilla. I so shame.
The last part the worst. We had for run across the gym and do one flip. So I running, I flip over on my hands, and then⸺Whack! Flat on my back. My okole hurt so bad! And then, like I no shame enough already, while I getting up I hear one loud rip ’cause the back of my shirt wen’ rip right in half. Like I said, my shoulders too big for that uniform.
I so shame. For sure Kristal going tell Kenny all about it. Ever since we start practicing for the play, Kenny and Kristal all buddy-buddy. Make me sick.

Acting
I was right. Kristal wen’ tell Kenny the whole story, with me landing on my okole and everything. I thought he was going laugh at me, but instead he stay all mad, like he shame of me or something.
“Ho, Faye, why you wen’ try out for cheerleading?” he wen’ ask me today during lunch. “What you trying for prove?”
“What?” I tell him. “I no trying prove nothing, stupid. Maybe I try out ’cause I like be one cheerleader, you ever think of that?”
“Yeah, right. Since when you like be one cheerleader? Stop acting, Faye. Why you cannot just be yourself?”
‘Cause you no like me when I myself, I like say, but I never. Instead, I stand up and yell at his face, “You so bakatare, Kenny! Just mind you own business!”
I so mad, I wen’ leave the table without even finishing my lunch. The whole cafeteria all staring at me, so all I like do is get out of there quick as possible.
While I was leaving, Kristal wen’ sit down next to Kenny and I hear her ask him, “Ho, what’s her problem?”

Stink Eye
I dunno what Mommy’s problem is. Every time I come out of here after talking to you, she give me stink eye, like I doing something bad or something. She probably no like me bother you when you writing, since she know how hard you work in here. But you no care, ah, Daddy? You can spare a few minutes every day for spend some quality time with your daughter, yeah?

Magic Balls
I cannot wait for our play to start, Daddy. Going be so good. Hilarious, Daddy. I no even care anymore that stupid Kristal stay in the lead role as Kenny’s girlfriend. No matter.
Kenny the one wrote the play for us. Get this surfer guy named Kimo (Kenny going to play him), and this witch, Broomhilda (that’s me). She no like him, so she kidnap his girlfriend, Jenny (Kristal going be her). Anyways, for rescue his girlfriend, Kimo gots to collect these five magic balls⸺get one disco ball, one beach ball, one football, one crystal ball, and one gumball. Then when he get all five balls, he can trap the witch and get his girlfriend back.
Pretty cool, yeah? Kenny so good at writing. Almost as good as you, Daddy. Almost.

Sandy’s
Today, I wen’ with Kenny-guys to Sandy’s for surf. The waves so big, Daddy, you should have been there.
Kenny pretty good surfer, but the other guys only okay. I keep telling them one day you going come with us for show them how for surf for reals. So when you like come with us, Daddy? I know you like get away from that dusty typewriter sometime.

Hot
Today I wore my new dress for Kenny. I never wore one dress like this before, but I figure I need be more girly⸺can be one tomboy when you twelve, but not when you sixteen. So I wen’ buy this little red dress with matching sandals and purse and everything. I even put on makeup. Ho, I so shame, but I like impress Kenny, so no matter how shame I feel.
So I walk into first period and the guys is all whistling and staring, and Lonnie Williams yells out, “Ho, wow, I never knew Faye Nguyen had one hot sister!” He wen’ call me hot, Daddy! No one ever call me hot before.
Then, Keone Kaawa gets up from his chair and says to me, “Please, Ms. Nguyen, take my seat.”
“No,” says Johny Matsuo, “take mine.”
And like three other football players all stand up and offer me their seats. Yeah, they was joking around, but still…. Daddy, these the most popular guys in the whole school⸺usually, they no even notice I one girl.
Then, Kristal Mizoguchi wen’ open up her big mouth and ruin it all. “Wow, Faye, nice dress. Where you bought ‘um, the Big & Tall store?”
Everyone forget they was being nice to me just two seconds before, and now they all cracking up like that the funniest thing they ever heard. I so mad, I no can even think of what for say. I just stay there, staring at her, like one tree.
“Well,” she says, twirling her finger in her bleacher-orange hair, “now you ready for start working on Hotel Street tonight, yeah?”
Yeah, well, I no like steal your customers, so come show me which corner is yours, I should’ve said, but I never. I just stay there, smoke coming out of my ears, making fool in front of the whole class.
And the worst part is, Kenny never say one word in my defense. That ditz, Kristal, rubbing my face in the mud, and my supposed best friend⸺what he doing? He in la-la land, gazing off into space, like I no even exist. I dunno what his problem is. Lately, he act like he shame for be my friend. Jerk.

My Ex-Friend, Kenny Thompson
I no even like him no more. Today after school I wen’ talk to him about yesterday.
“I thought you was my friend, Kenny.”
He look like he going act like he don’t know what I talking about, but then he must’ve seen that I was serious. “Yeah, well I thought you was Faye Nguyen, but lately I cannot even tell who you are. Who you trying to impress, anyway?”
Him, but I not going tell him that. “You no even know what you talking about. I not trying to impress anyone. I just like try new things. You got a problem with that?”
“Yeah, right, Faye. I known you since we was kids. You never wore one dress in your life, even when your mom try put ‘um on you herself.”
“What? You no can accept that I can change? You not going to be my friend now, just ’cause I not the same tita girl you play baseball with when you was ten?”
“No, Faye, I not going to be your friend until you stop acting and be yourself.”
I no can believe him, Daddy! When I myself I not girly enough for him, and when I try be girly he tell me be myself. “Forget you, Kenny. I no going waste my time on you.”
And then I gots to walk home, ’cause he my ride. Guess I going be walking home a lot now.

Friends
I still see Kenny a couple times a day in class, but that’s it. We hardly even talk anymore.
I wearing girl-clothes now. I figure, I wen’ spend buku bucks on all them dresses and skirts and cute outfits, I better wear ‘um. It’s not as bad as I always thought it would be. Plenty guys look at me all the time now. Being little bit girly not bad at all.
Kenny was wrong⸺I still myself. I still play sports, I still go surf, all that. I just like make myself pretty every morning. Nothing wrong with that.
Only problem is now I no more friends. All my friends the guys me and Kenny hang out with, but since me and Kenny no hang out, I no hang out with them either. I try making friends with this one girl, Kalani Perez, but we no get nothing in common. I dunno how for make friends⸺Kenny the one good at that.
I wish I could talk to him, ask him what for do. I miss him, Daddy. What you think I should do?

The Kiss
Before the play, I feeling bad ’cause you couldn’t be there, but now I glad you never came. I glad you never see the disaster I wen’ make.
Everything good going until the end part, when Kimo traps Broomhilda with the five magic balls and rescues Jenny. I supposed to be frozen, ’cause I trapped by the magic balls, and then Kimo and Jenny kiss. Only supposed to be one fake kiss, ’cause we not allowed kiss for real in school plays, but when Kristal putting her face up close to Kenny’s, I can tell she going kiss him for real. I can’t just watch her kiss him, Daddy.
I go crazy. Right there, in front of the whole school and everyone’s parents, I wen’ charge across the stage and right into Kristal. Only she and Kenny at the front of the stage, so when I push her she wen’ fly off the stage and down into the band. She wen’ land right on top the trombone player. Lucky he chubby, ’cause he wen’ cushion her fall.
“What are you doing, you witch?!” she yell up at me. (Not exactly in those words, but I no going repeat what she really say in front of you.)
Me and Kenny, we both in shock. But for once in my life, I no freeze up. I knew I gots to cover up, for save face. I no like ruin the whole play.
“You don’t want her, Kimo,” I say, making the lines up as I go and talking loud so the audience can hear. “I’m sorry I put a spell on her and forced you to find all those magic balls, but the truth is, I love you, Kimo. Kiss me, you fool.” And then I wrap my hands around his head, pull him in close, and kiss him. For real. I know he only let me ’cause he never knew what else for do, with the whole world watching, but still, not too bad for my first kiss.
At first, the audience kind of confused. But then someone decide the whole thing one big joke and start laughing. Slowly everyone wen’ join in. Laughter and applause come from everywhere, and then they close the curtains on us.
Kenny wen’ push me away, and for a second I think he going smile, but then his eyes turn angry. “I cannot believe you, Faye. I cannot believe you.” He wen’ stare into my eyes like he looking for something, then he spin around and stomp off the stage.
And that was that. I think I screwed up⸺big time.

Honest
“I sorry, Kenny. I so sorry.” I finally got one chance for talk to him today before water polo practice.
“I not the one you need to tell that to, Faye. Try tell Kristal you sorry. She the one you wen’ shove off the stage.”
“Oh, you poor little girlfriend. She never broke anything, so⸺”
“She not my girlfriend, Faye. You know she not.”
“Yeah? Could’ve fooled me!”
Kenny takes one deep breath and looks down at his stomach like he always do when he trying to keep from saying something he going regret later. “Faye,” he says slowly, still looking down, “this isn’t about me and Kristal. This about you and me.”
“There is no you and me,” I blurt out, “I no good enough for you!”
“Where you get this crap, Faye? You watching soap operas now, or what? What you want from me?” Now he looking me straight in the eyes.
I no can handle it anymore. My eyes getting all watery and get boogers dripping out my nose. I never cry like this before. “I want you feel for me like I feel for you. I want you be my boyfriend.” I so shame. I cannot even look at him.
Kenny wen’ put one hand on my shoulder and say something I never expect. “You no even know what you want, Faye. You no want me be you boyfriend, you want me be you father.”
“What?”
“Ever since since we was little, Faye, you always act like I you father⸺you like me protect you, tell you what for do, take care of you. You always trying to get my approval, whether you playing the sports I like, or dressing up like you think I like, or whatever.” He put his hand on my chin and lift my face to look at him. “I only sixteen; I cannot handle you depending on me like that. I sorry you no more one father, Faye, but I cannot be all that.”
I push his hand away from my face. “What you talking about? I no need you be my father. I get one father. You talking bubbles, Kenny.”
“Whatevers, Faye. You the one talking bubbles. You been talking bubbles ever since I knew you⸺you act like your father still alive.”
“Shut up! Just shut up!”
“And surprise, surprise, everything about this imaginary father you always talking about is just like me⸺he one writer, just like me; he one swimmer, just like me; he one surfer, just like me. He even hapa, just like me. How come you get one Vietnamese last name if your father half haole and half Hawaiian, Faye? How you explain that?”
I no can explain it. I like tell Kenny he wrong, but no can. “My daddy really was a writer” is all I can say.
“Faye, I love you. I love you since the second grade. And I no mean that like when one guy tell his girlfriend he love her one week and the next week he get new girlfriend. I mean it for real. I dunno if I even love you like one girlfriend, but I willing to talk about that, if you willing to be honest. Honest with me, and honest with yourself. Let me know when you ready for do that.”
He pulls me close to him and we hug. I like stay in his arms forever, but then he says goodbye and leave me there, alone outside the swimming pool.
I think I always knew what Kenny wen’ tell me. I always knew that I was talking to an empty chair in front of a dusty typewriter that no one even used for twelve years now. I knew you wasn’t real, Daddy, but I wanted so much for you to be real.
But I have to be honest with myself now. I no can pretend you real when I know you not. I just wanted to come talk with you one last time, Daddy, for tell you goodbye. Thanks for listening to me. I going miss you. I love you, Daddy.

by Erika Dahl Price

When he first saw her, he said, “Hello, pake wahini.” When he wrote her a poem, he said, “You are like a mountain⸺the farther away you are, the better you look.” When she gave birth to their first, he said, “Now that didn’t look so bad.” When the moment called for profanity, he said, “Equine escrete!” When he moved their family to a house with no plumbing, he said, “But the rent is free and I can fix it; just need a few tools.” When he handed her his dissertation to type, it said lots of things she didn’t understand. When the littlest clung to his leg, whimpering on the porch, and asked, “Is she ever coming back?” as she slammed the door and drove away, he said, “I hope so.” When she said she had felt alone for years, he said, “I’m so sorry, forgive me.” On Thursday mornings he winked at her and said, “I’ll be home for lunch.” When she set the meal, he said the prayer. When the sixteen-year-old daughter sassed her, he said, “You’d look pretty funny walking around with your buttocks between your shoulder blades. . . .” When the kids left home, he said, “Now we can go on that vacation.” When she begged to move out West, he said, “If it would make you happy.” When the stroke hit in the backyard, he said, “That was the strangest thing.” When he saw the loose screw, he said, “Will you bring me the whatchamacallit?” When she asked him if he remembered his address, he said, “Of course I remember. It’s the same as yours.” When he sat on the evening porch with her, he said, “I’m not the same as I used to be.” When she asked how he did it, he said, “I just took the bull by the hand. . .” When he bowed his head for the supper prayer, he said, “And we’re glad for all these good people. Please bless these good people. And we’re happy to have all these good people…” When the doctor said he had Alzheimer’s, he said, “Damn.” When he wanted a spoon, he said, “I need a fork.” When he soiled himself, he said, “Did I do something wrong?” When he wanted the television off, he said, “Um. Tsk. Huh. There. There!” When she asked him if he was hungry, he said, “Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum.” When she asked which kind he wanted, he shook his head, as if to say, “No. No, thank you.” When she hung his clothes in his new closet, he cried. When she visited him in the afternoons, she turned his face toward hers, cupped his soft, quiet hands like a bird, and spoke for the two of them.