Mrs. Boardman, my English teacher,

wants us to read all kinds of books,

not just our favorite genres or authors.

“Reading should be like

dining at a buffet,” she says.

“You have a lot to choose from:

fiction, poetry, graphic novels, and more.

There are books galore!

Eat them all up!”

After we read,

we’re supposed to write about

the books in our journals.

A teacher who talks about

books, food, and writing?

Trifecta.

“I know which book I’m reading,”

I tell Mrs. Boardman after class.

“Song for a Whale.

It’s about a whale whose song

can’t be heard by those around him.”

I know what it’s like

not to be heard.

Unfortunately, Marissa overhears me.

“It figures you’d want to read about

a big old whale.”

Her eyes shoot a harpoon, and

she claps for herself five times.

She claps whenever she completes a task.

Always five short, rapid claps.

Her habit must be quite awkward

in the bathroom.

“Whales are

unique,

beautiful,

and powerful,” Mrs. Boardman says.

“If you bothered to learn more about them,

you’d know that.”

I give five quick claps.

COMFORTER

Mrs. Boardman asks me to stay after class.

“Your last assignment.”

She hands me back the poem I wrote.

“It’s wonderful.

I’d love to hear you read it.”

“Memories wrap around me

when I’m wrapped up in my quilt.

Memories of watching Bobeshi

weave squares cut from old clothes

into a celebration of Hofstein ancestry.

“Each tells a tale.

Baby pajamas.

Lace and satin wedding gown.

Striped cotton jacket with a gold star.

“My hands glide over the faded fabric

worn velvety smooth over the years.

Years of hiding under it after school and then

when muffling my cries after Bobeshi moved away.

“Memories warm me more than the fabric

as I snuggle beneath it,

feeling Bobeshi’s love living on

as the quilt,

holding and comforting me.”

Mrs. Boardman finger-snaps.

“Your first reading.

You’re officially a poet.”

BREAK AWAY

School break.

Two words that spark

joy

in the hearts of students everywhere.

Family trip.

Two words that spark

fights

in the car, the plane, the hotel—everywhere.

Dad booked a fall foliage tour.

Two flights and countless hours

just to see dying leaves

in New Hampshire and Vermont.

I’ll never understand grown-ups.

And then he throws in a surprise.

To tick an item off his bucket list,

we’re going to Niagara Falls, too.

A long road trip.

To top it off,

there’s no pool.

Even if there were,

I’d just as soon

tie bloody fish around my waist

and dive into an ocean of sharks

than swim with strangers.

SAY CHEESE

The universe should warn you

when something horrible

is about to happen,

give you a chance to

take a deep breath

before your breath

gets taken away.

While my family fights over

what to do next,

I watch the water thunder over

Horseshoe Falls in New York.