Conflict

So here are my final pieces before I post my synopsis and the beginning of chapter one. The first one is a conflict between Stacy and her mom when she is around fifteen years old, the second is between Stacy and her brother Hunter when she is a senior and he's a sophomore in high school. The only thing I can say is that I have a hard time with dialogue so both may seen a little choppy so just bear with me!

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(Stacy and her Mom)

“Finally, Friday oh how I’ve waited for you anxiously.” Stacy murmured while stripping her book bag and charcoal pea coat off along with the purple gloves and scarf. “I thought you had left me…no Dear John letter or nothing.”

“Stace, you are way weird sis.” Hunter’s wet boots thunked down by the door. His hair was wet from refusing to carry an umbrella earlier that morning.

Stacy rolled her eyes and scrunched up her face. “Whateva bro . Like you’re one to talk…coloring and scribbling away like its this new fad, people have been doing it for ages Hunt—” The house was hushed. Mom normally had Josh Groban or something or the kind playing softly in the background, it wasn’t on now.

Hunter stepped in front of Stacy. Did he notice the change in the house? “Mom, got any snackage? Kind of starved here being a growing boy and all.” He joked.

“Kitchen counter, there’s some peanut butter and crackers.” Stacy and Hunter’s mom’s voice called down from upstairs. “Stacy,” her voice is strained, “can you come up here for a bit?

Stacy starts up the stairs. Does she know? I only just told Rosalyn. Do you know? Stacy muses to a picture of her mom from her early years. Stacy moves past the picture, the carpet latches onto her checkered socks as she turns to the left towards her room. The door is open but Stacy closes it when she gets inside. If she knows Hunter doesn’t need to know. Stacy’s hand stays on the handle for a moment deciding if she really should close the outside off to her.

No. Not anymore. These things happen and I’m not doing it again. Nothing to worry about.

Stacy turns from the door to see her mom standing by the window; she was gray like the stormy sky outside, it’s the oldest I’ve seen her. Mom straightened up. Stacy noted as she shuffled towards her bed, throwing the comforter aside to sit on the sheets, they were cool to her hand. It was shaking. How long had she been here then? Her heart lurched forward. Were there any other secrets hiding under the piles of dirty socks and t-shirts that Stacy didn’t know about?

“Rosalyn called me today.” Stacy’s mom started. Her voice was tight, pulling on the rubber band of dread that wrapped around Stacy. “Mentioned that I should talk to you, there are some things that I should know now about the party you sneaked off to two weeks ago.” She knows!

“How’d you find out?” Stacy’s voice is small. I wish I was small; we wouldn’t be having this talk then. Rosalyn wouldn’t have ratted me out. Her brows drew down, changing her soft face into a hard plain. The poor sheets didn’t deserve such rage.

The silence was growing heavy, almost gaining a voice of its own. Just spit it out. Somebody. Anybody.

I can feel her eyes on me. Stacy looks up, she’s not mad…maybe? They just stare. I wish she would say something, anything. This quiet and watching is killing me. Stacy pulls at the threads harder. One gives.

Crash. “SORRY!” Hunter called out from downstairs. It sounded like he had dropped a glass and something else. At least it broke the silence.

“Stacy, please! Just tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Stacy’s voice clips. That was harsher then I meant it to be. Mom doesn’t deserve this. It’s not her fault that I’m hiding. Stacy looks up at her mother, Stacy’s words had hurt her, her sharp features are taunt. Stacy can see her mom worrying the inside of her cheek, Stacy does the same.

“Stacy,” Mom tries again. “Rosalyn said that something was wrong. That you aren’t ok. Pleas Stacy,” Stacy looks up, her bottom lip loosens and her eyes tear a little. She’s always so caring. “I want to know what I can do to help, you need to tell me.”

Stacy looks down again, picking away more at the comforter. I can’t look at her. “Please just drop it.” Stacy’s voice stops. Maybe I should tell her. It was sort of an accident, she’ll understand.

“Stacy,” Mom says. Another approach, soft and gentle. She doesn’t want to scare me off. I’m already scared. What if there are consequences? What if something happens, I’m not ready for any of this? Mom comes and sits by Stacy, taking away one of the hands tearing away at the blanket. “You’re making me worry dear. Honey, just tell me what’s wrong.”

She’s too caring. A tear slips, Stacy lets it roll down. Her hands itch, Stacy stops messing the comforter. Now…tell her now! “I told you, nothing’s wrong.” I’m a coward, Stacy thinks. I’m a liar.

“This is foolish Stacy.” Mom’s voice rises as she squeezes Stacy’s hand tighter. “I can tell something is the matter—”

“Nothing is the matter!” Stacy breaks through, shouting at her mother. There’s no need for this, Stacy thinks but she can’t help it. Its fight or flight and Stacy feels like she has been backed into a corner. Fight. Fight!

“Of course something is the matter. You wouldn’t be acting this way if everything was okay!” Mom yelled, feeding off of Stacy’s need to fight.

She has a point, Stacy thought. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her! TELL HER!

Stacy’s heart stuttered, it wasn’t suppose to be this hard she thought why isn’t my voice working? All the words Stacy wanted to share were stuck in her throat, it felt blocked, like it was filled with scratchy cotton.

“Stacy, honey, why won’t you just talk to me?” Mom asked. Her voice catches, it’s from the yelling. We never yell at each other. Mom slumps down against the headboard letting go of Stacy’s hand. Yelling won’t accomplish anything.

“I…I…mom. Just stop,” Stacy’s voice agonized. Couldn’t she see that I can’t tell her? Stacy keeps her eyes on her rumpled bedspread, picking at the edges again. I need to fix this. A few strands unravel from the worn comforter. All of it. Her hand stops.

“Mom,” it comes out quiet, small. I feel small, Stacy thinks; I wish I was small again. “It’s about…” Breathe in, breathe out. “That night Hunt and I sneaked out…we, uh, we,” more tears. Stop crying.

“Stacy its okay honey.” Mom wraps her arms around Stacy. I don’t deserve this. She always is here to understand, how far will it go until it breaks?

“There was this guy,” Stacy’s voice cracks. The words are hard to get past her throat. They want to stick to the walls and cling to the secret. No more secrets.

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(Stacy and Hunter)

The first round is over but Stacy feels the need to continue. This was about Hunter and his future. This was something that shouldn’t be thrown aside so easily like junk mail. Stacy felt the strong need to help Hunter see that he should move on with his idea of a life—his own hopes for his future.

Their dad had stormed outside a moment ago. Mom had followed after him. It was just her and Hunter in the living room now, the echoes of yelling still hanging in the air like dust.

Stacy snaps; something like this doesn’t make sense to her. “Grow a pair Hunt!” She starts in. “It’s about what you want not what he wants!”

Hunter sits on the edge of the sofa; his feet are turned in slightly towards one another. His hands clench, changing his powdery bronze knuckles into a papery white color.

“You’re too good to give up on this!” Stacy’s up, pacing across the cream carpet, leaving heavy size eight and a half footprints criss-crossing one another over the fibers. The flat screen wobbles on the entertainment stand a bit, swaying with the stomps. “You have so much talent…do you know how much I would give to do the things you do? Or even what Georgie could do?” Stacy’s eyes plead with Hunter. His head is down obscuring his dark cocoa eyes behind a heavy layer of charcoal lashes and curly ebony hair. “I’d give my right arm and left pinky toe!” Stacy says, half joking to try and lighten the mood a bit from the arguing that had been happening since they got home from school, that had been two hours ago.

Hunter glances up. His hands loosen a small fraction at the mention of Georgie’s name and Stacy’s half assed attempt at a joke.

“It’s just so unfair—dad—he has no right in making you give this up and—”

“Stace…” Hunter starts. His hands considerably looser now as they turn back to their bronzed complexion. He bounces one knee and worries his lower lip, some small bits of facial hair dusting the skin around his mouth. “I know but this is my choice…really.”

“You don’t know Hunt!” Stacy turns on him, tripping over the too long him of the forest green sweatpants she’s wearing.

"What don't I know Stace?" Hunter's voice throws out, his body language changing again into a harsh stance, his eyes flashing darker. "What right do you have in trying to tell me how to live my life? You--the person who takes what they want and leave everything behind?"

"Hunt!" Stacy starts.

"No, Stace you need to hear this. You can't keep playing around with people to get what you want." Hunter's voice is softer now a little nicer even with the sting that his words cause Stacy. "Just because I like sculpting doesn't mean it’s practical. Dad's right—"

"Wrong," Stacy starts. This is about Hunter now and not her issues, even with her feelings hurt. “Dad’s wrong. You can go places with this.” Her tone changes a bit. Doesn’t he see? Stacy sits on the faux suede tan couch, curling her right leg under her to sit closer to Hunter’s side. “Your art is fantastic.” Stacy pokes Hunter in his side. “You’re good kid.” Stacy gives Hunter a smile, hiding her teeth behind her lips.

Hunter breathes out a laugh and a small smile peaks out from the corners of his mouth pushing a dimple into his left check. “You and Georgie think so.” He leans back, abandoning his rigid posture all the fight out of him for now.

There’s a crash outside. Dad’s in the shed. Him and mom are probably fighting about Hunter’s art again.

“I wish it was easier, ya know?” Hunter stares out the window that looks out over the backyard, the shed can’t be seen from here. “Not just for me but for everyone. Kids who want to do their own thing and not their parents’ dreams.”

“Yeah,” Stacy mumbles absentmindedly, leaning backwards as well. She brushes his shoulder with hers, the sleeves of their cotton t-shirts catch a little.

“Hey,” Hunter says to Stacy, catching her attention with the tone of voice he decided to use.

His eyes are softer again but his brows are drawn downward, casting worry across his face. Stacy gnaws on her bottom lip, the chap stick coming off as her teeth pull along it. “Yeah?” Stacy’s voice is small, hushed after the fight and what is about to come.

“I didn’t mean what I said before,” Hunter places his hand, palm up, on Stacy’s leg next to him. “I know it’s not easy on you now with David and everyth—”

“Don’t,” Stacy starts. “But thanks anyways…” Stacy places her hand in Hunter’s, the colors varying shades of coffee, his with a dash of creamer, a caramel tone, and hers as blonde as you can get it, more cream then coffee. She snuggles into the couch more, placing her head on Hunter’s shoulder. Another crash is heard outside.

Setting: School (Art Wing)

So here's the follow up mirror to setting. I know the last one had a lot of errors hopefully this one isn't as bad :P I may not be updating as fast now, finals are coming up (what?!? o.O) haha, hope you enjoy. Happy Reading!

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It’s weird that the art wing of Hartford Public has the left over classes thrown in here too. There’s European History with Mr. Causey and Spanish with Senoria Stark (who isn’t really Hispanic but insists that her students call her by “Senora”) and Agriculture with Miss Bangerhimer (what an awful name). The only classes in the art wing that make since are the art classes. Theater, band, art, sculpting, and choir thrive in this hallway. There’s always noise thumping down the hall that spills out towards the cafeteria. Some teachers are surprised that anyone ever got anything done, especially in the unfortunate classes that teach practical things and not frivolous tricks like how to draw or act or sing. None of those things are practical.

Hunter and Georgie live in this wing. If Stacy and Rosalyn need either one of them this is the first place to look. They’re always doing something, Hunter wildling away on his latest sculpture and Georgie shuffling between after school sketching and the theater and choral department. It’s the only way Hunter has been able to reconnect with Georgie after middle school—their love for art allows him to redeem himself from being the jerk he had been in their past.

Sometimes Stacy and Rosalyn would be witness to Hunter and Georgie’s flirting. The way they become so involved with painting and each other was intense. Stacy always thinks of the scene from "Benny and Joon" where Joon and Sam finger-paint with oils, mixing the colors along the canvas and their hands, only going as far as touching one another’s fingers. But even with such a simple and un-provocative gesture the chemistry would rise to almost an uncomfortable level for outside viewers. Stacy and Rosalyn would feel intrusive sometimes during late afternoons in the art wing with the two younger teens because of the intimate connection they share for the other but refuse to admit.

When you first enter the wing there’s paint splashed against the wall from an angry student teacher (that’s what Hunter says), the mauve blemish seeps onto the floor leading away from it is the trail of an angry left shoe. The right must have not stepped into the pigment. The school board wanted to repaint the hall to have it back in the uniform white and blue of Hartford Public High School but the art students got a petition together and persuaded the board to leave it as is. Art is expression and emotion; you shouldn’t try to keep it silent. The students won and have been adding their own mark on the splash. Theater and music students have written their musings in black sharpie each using the language that they have learned over the years. Other colors join it and rough sketches bleed across the colors of blues, greens, and yellows. It seems to have been a rule not to add any colors similar to the original stain. It’s as if the hazy pink is the statement that others build off of and don’t want to remove from the original. It’s the art wings own torch, always kept lit.

Stacy likes coming down here, to see all the different people. She isn’t talented like the students that thrive and grow here but she loves the way they view life. Knee-jerk reactions and impulsive decisions. The art wing makes Rosalyn’s skin crawl; she likes an order to everything and the art wing, even with the thrown away classes meeting here, is far from that. Rosalyn is always a bundle of nerves down this wing. There are too many people being too impulsive, she can handle Stacy and Georgie just fine but sometimes it’s too much when surrounded by the spontaneous.

It smells of spit and primer all the time, the spit students could do without but the primer gives off different kinds of highs. There’s creation here—people’s ideas are allowed to run amuck down the hall and in-between the classrooms. Creatures inhabit the theater students changing life while notes and melody charge out of the mouths of the choral and band kids while the others capture it in their own type of firefly jar.

It’s quiet now as Stacy walks by the mauve badge of honor surrounded by the markings that pay homage. There are no flutes piping or potter wheels turning. There is a boy standing at the end of the hall, his back is turned as he rummages through his locker by the band room. Theses are the lockers that all of the band students use, some are bigger then others so the students instruments can fit in alongside their books and lunches. His is the biggest because he plays the tuba. Stacy never noticed his appearance before. When they had met both were kind of been past the point of coherent thoughts. He is broad on top, odd for needing a tuba to wrap around oneself during marching season. His right arm reaches into his locker pulling out a cumbersome case. It flexes under the weight, strong arms.

A Spanish book falls out on the ground. The noise being the only thing heard in the hallway. He bends down and notices Stacy. He stops. They stare. “Hi,” Stacy says. Small and timid. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

Setting and Description Assignment: Character's Room

The next assignment...setting!! So here it is. I'll actually slow the roll a smidge up here and post the mirror later this week since I have a bit more time to spread things out! Happy reading :)

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Stacy’s room was always a mess. That’s what her mom and Rosalyn thought anyways. Stacy thought it was just an elaborate way of organizing things. She knew where everything was. The clean clothes were on the side of her bed she didn’t use while the dirty were on the floor (accept for the path that leads from the door to her unmade bed). What bit of the carpet you could see Stacy cleaned it, or actually Hunter did for ten bucks when Stacy had the cash. It wasn’t that hard to do Hunter always thought, you’re in then you’re out but it was easy money.

Her homework and other important things, like Stacy’s Vogue magazines and the Entertainment Weekly with the cast of Harry Potter interviews inside, were layered on top of each other and covered the surface of the faux wood top of her desk. The papers thrown across the surface rushed down into the chair positioned in front of the desk. Stacy still needed to change the light bulb for her desk lamp, it had gone out last month. Her shoes were thrown in the mouth of her closet, mismatching and integrating with one another, her left gym sneaker being the only one not present. It was poking out from under her bed and some clothes as if exiled from Shoe Mountain that lived in the recess of her closet.

There was a shelf up top of the empty close rack in the closet where one box lived. Her box of keepsakes that Stacy had squirreled away when her mother insisted on donating some items when Stacy was thirteen. Gert lives up there. His green fur is flattened from the loved he received before Stacy put him away next to school pictures and an old diary from when she was ten. Next to the box were her old yearbooks ranging from elementary school when Stacy had crossed Jordan’s face out with a black sharpie because he tried to kiss her during recess to the fake sentimental notes from high school students that really had no intention on calling the Stacy over the summer break.

Some of Stacy’s dresser drawers were open to relive nothing but one sock, whose partner had long been taken hostage by the dryer, and an old, ratty t-shirt that she had snatched from her dad’s drawer one day when she had needed to paint the house with Hunter. Everything else had already escaped or been thrown out in haste to find something to wear when Stacy felt that there wasn’t anything at all.

But her room was warm and a sanctuary for Stacy when she felt the world around her was moving too fast. The colors rose in the east their strength in hue welcoming and inviting to new hopes and dreams. Her accomplishments hung in the west, the wall covered in captured memories and posters. This wall stood beside her bed being a constant reminder of who she was and that was good enough, people loved her for who she was, the faces full of white teeth and the edges filled with laughter was a constant reminder.
Her favorite pictures were near her head so when she rolled over she was awoken by their faces. There was one from the night Rosalyn, Georgie, and Stacy were playing in the backyard in mud puddles after the rain when they were younger, if Stacy looked real close she could make out tiny lights from the fireflies that decided to join them that night dancing around their streaked faces. Next to this one was one taken last month when Rosalyn finally got her braces removed. All three girls were latched onto one another grinning so big that Stacy would smile looking at it—Rosalyn’s teeth were finally straightened. There were more of Stacy with Rosalyn and Georgie and some of her family but one that stuck out was of her and grandparents, all four of them trying to hug her and Hunter’s small forms. It was the only picture she had where all four were still alive and together with her and her brother. Only Stacy’s nanny was still alive but was struggling with her failing age and body.

The one thing that was neat in the whole room was the bookcase that sat at the foot of her bed. The books lined up in order, alphabetized by the author’s last name. Their heights varied, moving over the literature landscape with valleys and mountains that grew in the confines of the oak shelves. A lone figure swam along the dusty levels of Stacy’s bookcase. It was the dolphin trinket box that Stacy’s nanny had given her when she came back from a visit to Greece. The light would reflect off of the aqua incrusted top keeping a pair of earrings safe in the depths of its stomach. A few scented candles were rooted in front of her Narnia Series and Jane Austen Collection. They lived here when Stacy didn’t transplant them to other areas of her room, burning them while exploring a new world through the eyes of heroes and heroines or just to get rid of the odor that she thought came from the piles of dirty clothes and shoes.

Stacy would sometimes clean, organizing everything so it was neat and tidy. Her clothes folded and put away properly, color coded, her shoes lined up in neat rows along the bottom of her closet allowing easy access in snatching a pair up in a hurry, and her desk would have papers stacked and pens put away instead of it being a large mess of recyclable materials. This would only last a week, then the drawers and closet would reject the order and explode the articles that were neat out into the open

Voice and Age: Adulthood Assignment

Here is the "mirror" assignment with Stacy at forty years old receiving a gift of sorts. The next two will pop up over the weekend/beginning of the week. Happy reading!!

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My blood pounds, fueling heat through my veins. I still feel cold—shocked, my fingers are numb, and the can of Lysol spray and sponge fall from their tips. This could not be happening. This can’t be here, not with my baby girl.

I can barley look at it. The plastic instrument sprouting up from among the empty toilet paper rolls, loose hair, and used q-tips. I could be over thinking this. It could be an applicator to a new brand of tampons. I almost allowed myself to believe it. The fumes from the disinfectant can I was using to scrub the shower allowed me to for a moment. My fingers shook as I reached out towards the nightmare that was in the wastebasket there was a roaring in my ears.

The front doors open, the screen one closing with a swish and click. I hear Rachel drop her bag down by the door with a thump; she was only a child—still going to high school, my hand stopped. Maggie’s nails click click click along the hardwood floor her tail thumping on the wall as she makes her way to great Rachel. I can hear Rachel mumble to the old Irish Retriever. “Mom, I’m going to Ben’s, just wanted to drop off my book bag and grab a snack.”

The screen door opens again as Rachel calls out to her ride outside, the front door closing with a whap while Maggie cries a little. She misses Rachel. She always does when Rachel is gone for too long. Maggie’s whimpers remind me that Rachel is growing up. My eyes shift back towards the waste basket. I have to know. To make sure she is still my little girl, still growing and not grown.

There’s the plus sign. Positive.

My heart jumps up to my throat, suffocating me, making me nauseas. I lean my head against the enamel, the coolness from the water fixated in the bowl doing nothing in easing the heat that’s rushing through my body, up my face. I’m having a hot flash.

“Rachel,” I call out. No...not her. “Rachel!” My voice is hysterical; I can't seem to calm down. I rush out of the bathroom that she shares with her little sister Kate.

“Mom? Are you ok?” Rachel calls out from the bottom of the stairs.
I rush down; the Pregnacy Test clinched in my fingers. Rachel is in the doorway to the kitchen, a bag of popped popcorn in her hands and Maggie circling around Rachel's feet trying to get a popped kernel or two.

She's so young, my little girl. “Rachel, is there something you should tell me?” I ask, looking pointedly at the bag of Act II Popcorn in my daughter's hands.
Rachel opens the bag, steam rising up and one last kernel popped. “Umm…well I got my history paper back. The one on the Crusades and stuff. Mrs. Tarantino gave me a—”
“Anything else?” How can she ignore the situation like this? “Anything that you have that’s been weighing you down?”

“Nooo…” Rachel chokes out through a mouthful of crunchy and soggy, buttery popcorn. “Not bat I can bink of.”

“Rachel, honey. Come with me please.” I say, it’s taking all of my calm to not rip into this situation. I thought we had raised her better then this. Smarter then this. What if it’s Bens? I stop short of sitting in the chair at the kitchen table. The light oak wood accents in the kitchen don’t warm me like they use to, like I had intended them to when dad had remodeled for me as a birthday gift three years ago.

She sits across from me, “Are you alright mom?” The snack now forgotten on the edge of the table, I move it as Maggie’s nose reaches up to try and take a sniff. She’s only fourteen and not done growing how can she house something inside of her that needs to sprout as well?

“I’m fine honey, are you?” I reach up and tug her caramel curls, they’re like baby curls.

“Mom. You’re starting to freak me out.” Rachel scoots her chair closer to mine. “Just say it. We can talk, I haven’t chang—”

I blurt it out. “Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

I watch Rachel closely, watching for any sudden changes or if she decides to bolt out to the car still waiting on her outside. Rachel’s tawny skin pales a little, the freckles along her nose and check bones jump out a bit. She opens her mouth, a look of confusion and hurt flash through her gray-green eyes. “I—I’m n-not!! I swear mom! It’s not mine.” Rachel says, sitting forward and looking me in the eyes. “I haven’t even, oh god! Mom you know I wouldn’t, I’m a virgin!”

My heartbeat returns to normal. Thank goodness I’m not going to be a grandmother yet. But then it catches again, “Who’s is it Rachel?”

Rachel’s back stiffens a smidge. Her voice is smaller but still as pleading, “I can’t tell you. Not right now. I promise I will when I can.”

“Rachel, this is serious. Whoever’s this is their parent needs to know.”

“I know—but I just can’t”

“Yes. You. Can. Rachel! I’m your mother and—”

A car horn shouts from outside. Rachel’s friends having a difficult time with waiting. “I can’t mom,” Rachel says in a rush, snatching the popcorn up and bolting out the door.

Maggie gets up from where she was laying down under the table to eat the spilled popcorn off the floor.

Voice and Age: Childhood Assignment

Our first assignment in YA fiction. I had to write Stacy receiving a present from her point of view as a five year old. I'll try and post the "mirror" to this one (its a similar assignment that's in our journal) soon and some more over the weekend. Happy reading!

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“When will Grandma get here?” I ask. Hunter is crying, again. I want to plug his mouth with a roll Mommy took out earlier. He’d look like a piggy with an apple in his mouth. Maybe an apple would be better…

“…Daddy should be at the airport now.” Mommy says. She has the potatoes under water “washing” them. But they always stay brown. And brown is dirty—like Daddy’s fingers and boots when he comes home.

Hunter screams. I didn’t do it!

Mommy calls me over. “Give Hunter his paci.”

“Here Hunter,” I stuff the icky wet paci back in his mouth. Gross! “No Hunter!” I cry, pulling Gert back towards me. Away from Hunter’s drool and safer by me. My Gert! Mine!

“Stacy, please.” Mommy says, the water is still running.

I squeeze Gert closer to my chest, my arms hurt and I shut my eyes. “No!” I feel funny, warm and mean. “Gert—my hippo.”

Something brushes past my arm. It tickles. “Goodness Stacy.”

I open my eye—everything is squinty. Then there she is. “Grandma!”

“Shhh…” Grandma whispers. Her finger on her lips, like the teacher in school when we get too loud. “Come with me Stacy.” She whispers. Her hand is smooth and stretches under her wedding rings. I like holding her hand, I can play with the rings and watch them sparkle. Grandma’s hands are always soft, like the blanket Mommy wraps me in when I’m not feeling well.

Grandma holds me close. She smells like Hunter after Mommy or Daddy change him. Fluffy. Her clothes are cool though, smooth, like her hands. I love Grandma. “What did you bring me?”

Grandma laughs softly, it feels like my tummy is growling. “Let me hug you Stacy-Bear.” Her arms wrap around me. My eyes close, they feel heavy. Sleepy.

Grandma hums a song to me. Its pretty. It moves up and down, softly. “Stacy,” she says. I can feel it in my fingers, Gert feels it in his toes. “would you like your gift now?”

My present?! I jerk up, clutching Gert to me again. Presents! “Yeah!” I squeal, bouncing up and down on her lap. “Presents!!”

Grandma sets me on the couch, “Wait here Stacey-Bear.” And she moves away. Her bags are by the door still, she picks up a small brown bag with a green ribbon on top. I like green. Gert is green. Apples are green. Mommy says that Hunter is green but I don’t know how—he’s Daddy’s color.

The bag is crackly under my hands. “Can I open it Grandma?” I ask, I want to rip it open. Gert can help, but he’s on the floor now.

Grandma’s hand is on my head, petting my hair. It’s tangled. “Of course Stacy.” My smile is big—hurting my cheeks. I can’t wait! The ribbon is tight. Grandma has to help me open it.