Full Cicada Moon Read online

  for quiet. We listen,

  and hear a low howl sift through the trees.

  “Pattress!” I call, running toward the sound.

  It gets louder.

  Mama and I keep calling

  as we run through the woods

  toward it.

  We find Pattress—

  she’s lying near a tree

  on her side. She lifts her head when we come near

  and whimpers.

  Feathers surround her,

  and I know Rufus is dead.

  But Pattress is alive

  and when I touch her, she nuzzles my hand

  and tries to lick it.

  Blood oozes from her torn ear

  and ragged scratches on her side.

  “Get Mr. Dell,” Mama says. “I’ll stay here.”

  But I ask, “Can you?” I don’t want to talk to him.

  “I—can’t, Mimi. You know him better.”

  I don’t like Mr. Dell,

  and I don’t care if he doesn’t like me.

  But I love Pattress, so

  I pat her head. “You’ll be okay, girl,” I say,

  afraid she won’t be,

  and run back out of the woods

  to Mr. Dell’s steps.

  “Everything will be okay,” I tell myself,

  afraid I won’t be.

  Wheels

  I step up to the back door

  and bang on it,

  and bang

  again,

  but no one answers.

  What if he’s not home?

  What if he doesn’t want to answer the door?

  What if he tells me to go on home?

  Then I run to the garage

  and bang on that door

  and again.

  Finally it slides open,

  and Mr. Dell stands there, looking fierce.

  I push away my fear

  and say, “Pattress is hurt, she’s in the woods, and she can’t walk.”

  “Wait here,” he says gruffly.

  He goes deep into the garage

  and comes out pushing a wheelbarrow

  with a blanket in it. “Let’s go,” he says.

  I run back to the woods,

  and he follows.

  It is sad and sweet

  to see how tenderly Mr. Dell touches Pattress

  and talks to her. “Good girl,” he says.

  She whimpers back at him.

  “Something got your turkey,” he says. “Probably that coyote

  we’ve been hearing.”

  “And Pattress tried to get it,” I say.

  “She saved the rest of the turkeys,” Mama says.

  Mr. Dell says, “We have to get her on the blanket

  and lift her. Help me,

  please.”

  It’s the first thing he’s ever said to us

  nicely.

  Pattress’s paws hang over the edges

  and her head lolls. I steady her

  as we wheel her slowly to the garage.

  Then we slide her onto the seat in Mr. Dell’s pickup truck.

  I fold the edge over her so she’ll stay warm.

  I want to go to the vet with Pattress

  but not with Mr. Dell.

  Mama and I walk home together

  slowly.

  She’s looking at the ground

  and moving her lips,

  saying a prayer, I think.

  I don’t know who she’s praying for,

  but I say one for Pattress.

  Words

  There has been no word about Pattress,

  no words from Mr. Dell,

  though I’ve been hoping for some

  news—

  words like

  The vet said she’ll be okay,

  or

  She’s injured for life,

  or

  Thank you for finding her,

  or even

  It’s all your fault for having those turkeys.

  But Mama and I heard none of them

  while we searched for Rufus

  and picked up what was left of him—

  more feathers, a foot,

  and part of his beak—

  and buried him under a maple tree in the backyard.

  We’ve heard nothing tonight

  after dinner

  and dishes

  and homework at the kitchen table,

  until

  Gunshot—

  the exclamation point

  of a sentence with no words.

  It shakes the glasses in the drainer

  and rattles my chest.

  Papa swings open the back door

  and looks outside.

  That’s when we hear the words

  Mr. Dell shouts from the fence.

  “You won’t have to worry about that coyote

  getting any more of your turkeys.”

  Thanks to Mr. Dell, the turkeys will be safe.

  But I’m still worried about Pattress,

  and slip under Papa’s arm.

  “Is Pattress okay?” I call.

  Mr. Dell shoulders his rifle.

  “She’ll be fine,” he says,

  and nods

  so deeply that it could be a bow.

  Pardons

  Toshiro Mifune had been living in our house

  since last night, when

  Walter Cronkite showed President Nixon

  pardoning a turkey

  so it wouldn’t get eaten for Thanksgiving.

  Now my mama has returned, and says,

  “Mimi-chan, draw a big sign—

  Pardoned Turkeys—

  and put it in the front yard.”

  Then her eyes fill with tears for Rufus.

  We come up with a plan:

  Anyone who wants a turkey

  has to sign a paper

  promising they’ll keep it as a pet

  and let it die in its sleep

  after a good, long life.

  I tell Mama, “Rufus would be happy to know

  he saved all the other turkeys

  from Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Mama wipes her eyes,

  and I make the sign and type the promise

  on nine pieces of paper—one for each turkey.

  Pattress will be okay, and now

  the turkeys are pardoned.

  I run to the coop and tell them

  they have something to be thankful for.

  Homework

  Stacey and I are doing homework together

  in her bedroom. It’s the first time I’ve been to her house

  since she invited me in May.

  Her house is smaller than mine,

  but they have a garden in the backyard.

  In the middle sits a silver ball on a pedestal

  that reflects things almost all the way around.

  She calls it a gazing globe,

  and when I go home tonight

  I’ll ask Mama if we can have one,

  so we can see the moon and the stars

  without looking up.

  I’m propped on Stacey’s big bed,

  and Tinkerbell, her cat, is stretched out beside me.

  Her purring sands the air.

  Stacey looks up from her history book

  and puts her head in her hand. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

  “Oh,” I say, marking my place with my finger. “I’m not going.”

  She lifts her head. “Why not? Oh . . . ,” she says,

  remembering what happened last spring.

 
“I’ll stay with you the whole time. I promise, Mimi.

  So, will you go?”

  “Why do you want me to so bad?”

  “Because dances are fun . . .

  and . . .” She looks at her book.

  “What?”

  “Well, do you like Victor? I mean, like him.”

  “No, but you do.”

  She waits for me to say “That’s dumb” or “That’s great.”

  Instead I ask, “Did you tell your mom?”

  “No—never!” she says.

  Then she sits next to me on the bed.

  “I’m sorry, Mimi. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  I know what way she meant,

  but I don’t want to talk about it with her.

  She and Timothy are the only people

  who don’t make a big deal

  or act funny around me,

  and I don’t want that to change.

  But she talks about it anyway:

  “You know Mother. I mean, look how long

  it took for her to invite you over.

  She never invited my Black friends back home.

  I’m so sorry about that.

  I don’t care if Victor is Black. I don’t care

  if he’s dorky. Actually,

  I like that about him.”

  “That he’s Black or he’s dorky?” I ask,

  stroking Tinkerbell. “Or maybe you like him

  because your mother won’t?”

  She pets Tinkerbell, then says, “No, I’m sure

  that’s not why. He’s just interesting and smart and nice.”

  “And cute?”

  Stacey giggles and covers her mouth. “Yeah,”

  she says, and falls onto the bed.

  “So, do you like me because I’m Black and Japanese?”

  “Wha-at?” Her face tells me I’m so wrong. “Of course not,

  Mimi. I like you because you’re brave

  and dorky.”

  And we both laugh.

  “So, why do you like me?” she asks.

  “Because . . . you don’t care

  what people think,

  except when your big toe is showing.”

  “Oh, that!” she says, and giggles. “That was a disgrace.

  And then we caught the cooties.”

  “Cooties are stupid.”

  Then Stacey rolls over and says, “I was wondering if . . .

  you would pretend to be at the dance with Victor

  if anyone asks.”

  “Do I have to hang around him

  and dance with him?”

  “No, I want to do that. But, like, if my mother asks.”

  “Okay,” I say, “but I don’t think you have to worry.”

  “There’s something else . . . ,” she says. “Do you think your mother

  would make me a dress?”

  “I’m sure she would, but you have so many cute ones.”

  “Your mom makes beautiful dresses,” she says.

  “And I want to look beautiful. If you want,

  you can wear one of mine to the dance.”

  “Like from Bonwit Teller?” I ask.

  “From anywhere!”

  Then, we forget about our homework

  and talk about the dance—how we’ll switch dresses

  and become each other.

  But we don’t talk anymore about why

  she wants to keep her crush on Victor a secret.

  Thanksgiving

  Mama wanted to keep Shirley and Bobo,

  but the other seven pardoned turkeys

  went to good homes before Thanksgiving Day.

  On Thanksgiving morning, she packs vegetables

  and mashed potatoes, a pumpkin pie,

  and a cooked chicken (because it was already roasted at the store)

  in a cardboard box.

  “Take this to Mr. Dell,” she tells Papa.

  “He is all alone.”

  This is how Mama will till the soil

  with Mr. Dell.

  “Come with me, Meems,” Papa says.

  I shake my head. I don’t want to see Mr. Dell.

  “It will be easier to carry the food

  in two boxes, so I need your help.”

  “Well, okay,” I say, “as long as I don’t have to talk to him.”

  We carry the boxes across the yard

  and over the fence to Mr. Dell’s back door,

  and knock

  and knock again.

  Just when I’m about to say “Let’s leave them here,”

  the door opens

  a crack

  and then wider.

  Mr. Dell doesn’t smile,

  but he doesn’t shut the door.

  “Emiko made dinner for you,” Papa says,

  and holds out his box.

  Chicken-smelling steam seeps through the flaps of my box,

  and then a miracle happens—

  Mr. Dell opens the storm door all the way

  and takes Papa’s box.

  I stack mine on top.

  Mr. Dell looks at us

  and says, “Thank you.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” Papa says.

  We walk side by side

  all the way home

  before we look at each other

  and smile.

  Winter Again

  Another Try

  I’m getting ready for another dance with Stacey,

  and it feels the same as last time.

  I wish Timothy was in Hillsborough

  because, even though Stacey promised to stay with me,

  I’m nervous

  and want to see my friend

  and laugh with him

  and maybe even dance together.

  Would he want to dance with me?

  Papa gave me another dime before I left,

  but I said I wouldn’t need it this time.

  He put it in my hand anyway

  and said, “You never know.”

  The dress Mama made for Stacey

  is emerald-green velvet

  with an empire waist and Juliet sleeves.

  “You’ll be the princess tonight,” I tell her,

  and she asks, “You think Victor will notice?”

  I shrug because I don’t know what boys think,

  and because a little part of me doesn’t want Victor to notice,

  because then I might lose a friend.

  I’m wearing one of Stacey’s dresses,

  an A-line style made of garnet-colored silk brocade.

  It shimmers in the light.

  Stacey says, “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

  We giggle. Secretly,

  I think the dress Mama made is prettier.

  This time, Stacey doesn’t have to help me

  put on blusher and eyeliner and shiny lips

  because I’ve been reading the Co-ed magazines

  in the home ec room. And I’m wearing

  the happy moon pendant

  from Timothy

  to give me courage tonight.

  “You ready, girls?” her mom says in the hall. “Time to go.”

  Her dad takes pictures

  and says we’ll knock the socks right off the boys,

  and her mom gives Stacey a bracelet to wear

  just for tonight.

  “All parents are the same,” I say,

  and we giggle again

  because it’s true

  and we’re both nervous.

  As her mom drives us to school,

  the streetlights seem to bow

  to the princess an
d the belle.

  Winter Magic

  This dance will be different, I tell myself,

  because I am older and wiser than last spring.

  This time, I don’t swallow giggles,

  and I don’t expect something brand new to happen.

  As soon as Stacey and I hang up our coats

  and go into the gym, she begins to dance

  to “Love Child,” and looks around for Victor,

  her eyes glittering.

  “Do you see him?” she asks.

  As I look,

  some girls and even some guys

  smile at me or wave, and I know

  this dance will be different.

  “Don’t worry,” Stacey shouts close to me

  over the music, “I won’t leave you,”

  and just then, Victor comes behind her,

  catches my eye,

  and taps her shoulder.

  She twirls around and looks surprised—

  but who else was she expecting?

  “Hi,” she says shyly.

  “You just get here?” he asks.

  We nod because yelling hurts our throats.

  The music switches to “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,”

  and the three of us start wobbling

  like a three-legged stool.

  It only takes a minute

  for the two of them to be dancing with each other

  and for me to be dancing with myself.

  Suddenly I’m thirsty,

  and point to the refreshment table.

  But on my way there, I get stopped

  by kids saying hi.

  And then,

  Michael from my homeroom asks me,

  “Wanna dance?”

  No one ever asked me that before,

  not even Papa or Auntie Sachi.

  The band is playing “I’m a Believer,”

  and I’m laughing, and Michael’s laughing

  because we’re doing different moves

  in opposite directions.

  Then Stacey and Victor come over,

  and we all dance together in a circle.

  The song ends

  and we’re puffing and sweating, and

  I don’t know what to say to Michael

  or what to do,

  so I say, “Excuse me,”

  and I head to the refreshment table.

  Someone taps my shoulder,