Emily Kinney's Blog, page 8

And you didn’t say a word . . .

I just don’t know anymore, man. What I would like to know is what’s wrong with you. What glitch occurred in your brain when you were born? What event struck you so hard in life that it made you what you are now? Not Who, but What. What’s wrong with you, dude? Because I’m done thinking that it’s me. That I’m the problem. That something is the matter with me. It’s not. Never was. I’m not perfect, heck to the no. But I’m still great. Very great. A person worth pursuing. A person worth fighting for. Someone you should be dying to talk on the phone with, or be always sending little messages to just because you can’t help it. Dang it, dude! I wanted to give you everything!

I was offering you my heart, on a big freakin’ silver platter, all served up and ready for you to devour or cherish or something, freakin’ SOMETHING, but no. You didn’t take it. You didn’t want it. Crap, dude, I don’t think you even glanced at it. While I was groping and crawling around in darkness and confusion and despair, you were off having a jolly time, totally unaware and determined to stay that way. Screw the fact that we’ve been friends since we were five! Screw all those years of feelings and getting close, being willing to try, but nothing ever actually happening. Hell, right? It’s just me. “It’s just Emily, she’ll be all right. So what if I lead her on? So what if I evoke feeling within her that she’s never felt with anyone else nor ever will? She’ll be okay. She’s a real down girl. A real tough little weirdo. She’ll muddle through one way or another. I needn’t worry about her at all. So therefore I can do whatever I want to her without concerning myself about the consequences. Because, as long as I play my cards right, none of it will ever get back to me. I won’t ever have to rue what I’ve done. All I have to do is exploit her soft and forgiving heart. Lucky me that she has one of those, otherwise all this cruel meddling would never work! Ha! Well, it’ll be fun while it lasts, and after I’ve had my gluttonous fill, I’ll move on and find a different woman to treat right. Emily’s not the scum of Skid Row or anything, but like hell she’ll be the one I’m going to treat right!”

That’s how it is, isn’t it, you little scumbag? The whole world revolves around you and your desires. And me? Weeeeeell, I’m just sort of here, right? Nothing to bat an eyelash over. “Hey, Emily fell over! She’s splayed out across the floor.” “That’s okay. Just step over her.”

Is that it? Is that how you and everyone else sees me? I would love for you to shove some evidence in my face that speaks to the contrary. Shoot, dude! I wanted it all with you! I wanted the dang house, the dang wedding, the dang sex, the dang freakin’ growing old together and holding each other when we cried. (That is, when I cried, since, of course, you aren’t a cryer, are you? Not one dang tear ever dribbled down your face, has it? What’s it like? Must be nice. Hope you’re eternally grateful that you don’t know what it’s like to cry. To cry when you don’t want to but have no power stop yourself. To cry until you fall asleep and you wake up with your eyes stiff and crusty. To cry until your throat is raw and you feel empty. Lucky you’ve never known these things, dude. Real lucky.)

. . . . I was going to continue on ranting, and considering how torn up my heart is, I have every right to and you deserve it, but we just had an earthquake and, let’s say, the Bigger Picture just got a whole lot bigger.

So, I think I’m just going to tie things up here. It’s not even like you’ll ever see this anyway. So . . . yeah, I told you I was in love with you and you never said a word. I realized my own worth and that you don’t deserve me, so I am now free but still in love, so not entirely free I guess. You are tactless, thoughtless, a jerk, and all kinds of other, more profane words. I wish things had worked out between us, or that we even might have a possibility in the future, but apparently not. Because you essentially said No. “No thank you. I might have implied, or even down right stated that I want you, but I lied. I want something else. Someone who is not you. Someone who, if I listed my criteria right, could never be you. I might have said sorry at one point, but I didn’t really mean it. I don’t really care. It was hilarious that you thought I did, though. Thanks, kid. You gave me a good laugh.”

Well, you know what, Joel? Efffffffff you! You never chased, you never pursued, you never stepped up or called or told me what was going on so that I was in a constant state of confusion. You never kept me informed about how you felt or tried to make plans with me, or even tossed me a cookie. All you ever freakin’ tossed me was crumbs, and I gladly gobbled them up like the idiot I used to be. Well, why don’t we try to change things now? How about I become the ultra-awesome, desirable, yet untouchable one? How about you salivate after me while I continuously brush YOU off, for a change? This sounds like a good idea to me, because I am dang sick of all this freakin’ pain.

You’re a moron, Joel. You really are. You could have had all of the purest, most profound, most potent love that the world has ever known, and you said No. Whoa! Wait a minute! Uh-uh! You didn’t say no, did you? You didn’t say a word.

It Then Led Her Elsewhere.

There wasn’t any noise or movement or any other logical explanation that night for Kirsta waking up. She was a sound sleeper and far from the habit of waking randomly during Earth’s dark hours. Her bed was soft, adorned with sumptuous, one-hundred-percent cotton peacock patterned sheets, with matching down throw pillows that she claimed to her mother she had to have.

“Some things were meant to be in sets,” Kirsta had explained to her. “Like drums, or flatware.”

So, discomfort wasn’t to blame. Later, when she had the time to look back and wonder, Kirsta could not actually recall the reason why she woke up, unprompted. But she did.

Her eyelids slid back unceremoniously, revealing enormous, dilated pupils surrounded by clover green rings. A misshapen lump sat directly in her line of vision, and when she slammed her lethargic arm down on it, it proved to be a pillow. Not one of the throws, but a respectable pillow just the same. Groaning and rubbing her porcelain forehead, Kirsta rolled onto her back, annoyed at being awake. Reaching out blindly, her hand found her tiny, cheapest-they-had alarm clock and brought it to her face. 12:07.

“Ullllgg!” she grumbled, flinging it back with revolt. Twelve oh seven at night was a time for insomniacs and those saucy individuals who liked late shows. Not for her. Not when there was school and baton and her complexion to think about.

Unable to determine what had roused her, Kirsta, in turn, rolled her eyes and then her body, snuggling back down into the luscious blue and green sheets. But, before she could shut her eyes once more, a flicker alerted them to the far wall of her room. There, floating as inconspicuously as a fly in someone’s lemonade, was an oval-ish sort of light.

Kirsta blinked. It was still there. She squinted. It didn’t disappear.

“What the . . . ?” she whispered, slowly propping herself up on one elbow. Chestnut hair, straight and silky with tending, fell like drapery over her shoulders and down her back. One of her favorite assets, her collar bones, stuck out as she hunched closer to the edge of the bed, her brows wrinkling in confusion.

The light remained where it was. It did not waver. However, it did seem to glow.

How long she stared at it, reassuring herself that she was really awake and that it was really there, Kirsta did not know. Not too long, though, because her arm started to ache from holding her up.

Shoving aside the blanket, Kirsta lowered her bare, bird-boned feet to the floor, her gaze never leaving the light. Standing up slowly, as if she were afraid she’d spook it, she tentatively walked towards it. It didn’t move. Stretching an arm, she brushed the spot with her fingers, but felt only wall. Sheetrock and interior paint. The glowing oval did light up her hand, though, making the typically pale skin a warm yellow, almost honey like.

Still frowning, only now with curiosity, Kirsta looked behind her to see where the light might be coming from, and saw her window. Her window overlooked the edge of a woods. She used to play there when she was younger, and full of free-spirited emotions and musings, but those were days long past. It had been quite some time since it had even touched her thoughts.

Quickly, yet being careful not to make any noise and alert her fellow house-dwellers, Kirsta glided to the window, her eyes darting back and forth between it and the light on her wall. Looking past the glass and into the inkiness of the night, Kirsta’s breath froze in her throat. There, in the midst of the bark and tree trunks, was another light. Well, probably the same one, only travelling through the foliage, its source somewhere amid the trees.

Kirsta stared, mesmerized. What was it? Not a flashlight. It would have jiggled or something by now. Not a camp fire. Not a lantern. Surely, there wasn’t anything that could make it shine so far and strong, especially with so many obstacles in the way. What on Earth was it?

Curiosity and a long-buried sense of adventure now overrode Kirsta’s reasoning. She could have gone back to bed, yes, but the light still would have been there on her wall, teasing her, haunting her. She couldn’t stare at a mystery all night. She’d go crazy.

Thoughts of tomorrow and what the consequences might be for sneaking out evaporated from her mind, a rush of adrenaline washing away her weariness. Tiptoeing to her bureau, she pulled out some socks and a bra, since wandering through the woods at night just screamed bra to her. After all, she really wasn’t a kid anymore. Slipping on a pair of sneakers and a zip up hoodie, she crept to the door, double checking that the glowing, golden light was still hovering there. It was.

Getting out of the house proved to be easier than she had anticipated. Being so far on the outskirts of town did occasionally have its advantages. Such as, her father hadn’t invested in the pricey, automated alarm system that all the other fathers had. A dead bolt was good enough for him, particularly since he was a man who considered the best kind of security to be an oak baseball bat. This almost crossed Kirsta’s mind as she slid back the dead bolt, but only almost.  Thankfully, everyone was sound asleep. Once on the outside, the night air surprisingly warm and inviting, Kirsta eased the front door shut again and took off around the house.

Scurrying up to the woods, she eagerly looked around for the light, and saw it. Gaze locked on it, Kirsta took slow, measured steps towards the treeline, suddenly well aware of what she was doing, and perhaps maybe she should try for a little caution. Not that anything too unsavory lived in this wood, the worst just an occasional groundhog. But, still.

It almost felt like the woods swallowed her when she entered, but after a quick look over her shoulder at her house, sitting there in the dark, familiar, welcoming, always going to be there if she wanted to go back, Kirsta shook off the feeling and began walking.

She followed the light through brush and dips in the ground and all kinds of trees. Birches and maples and pines, all looming way up over her head, and yet not intimidating at all. Kirsta didn’t feel scared. The trees seemed friendly, almost as if they were happy to see her. It was so warm out, the air alive with the sound of crickets and peepers, that Kirsta couldn’t help but feel perfectly safe. And besides, the light kept her company.

For a while she journeyed, huffing just a little as she trundled through undergrowth and gradually becoming aware that she, Kirsta Sevaan, was roving through a forest in the middle of the night, instead of being tucked in bed, resting up for the next day. Further more, she was chasing after a light that probably was just some nut trying to contact the aliens. What exactly was she thinking?

However, before her common sense could return and force her to go back the way she had come, something else caught her eye. Up ahead, the trees came to an abrupt halt, because there was a clearing. The light was also getting brighter. Larger.

Her mental chalkboard wiped once more, Kirsta headed for the clearing, green eyes wide. As she emerged from the cover of the treetops, her mouth bobbed in awe. There, in the middle of the carpet of soft, long grass, was a tent.

Of course, ‘tent’ might be too commonplace a word for it. ‘Tent’ is typically used to describe the canvas-walled lean-to things people camp in, or the huge, hold-a-city striped forts erected at the circus. Kirsta didn’t know who had put this one up, but they were certainly not camping or from the circus. It was small and circular, its plush sides purple, orange, and blue swirls, as was its pointed roof. Gold, tassel-ly trimming hung all around where the walls and roof met, with various object dangling from thin chains every yard or so. And then, crowning it like the star on a Christmas tree, was the source of Kirsta’s excursion: A vibrant, dewy, raindrop-shaped lantern that sat atop the point on a rod. As she approached, Kirsta could make out ornate designs adorning the lantern, which might have been the size of a street light.

Of all the explanations Kirsta had conjured in her head, this didn’t even come close. As stunned as she was, somehow she managed to keep walking, though her footsteps were much smaller now. She circled around the mysterious, incredibly out-of-place tent, giving it wide berth. The oxygen around her was quiet now; all the insect life and swifty sounds made by the breezes through the leaves had died away.

The intricate lantern up above illuminated the tent enough for Kirsta to make out and appreciate the details in its fabric, as well as its ornaments. Baffled, not just at its majestic appearance, but at the fact it was standing there at all, Kirsta paused just to gape at it. Who had put it there? And why there, of all places? In the center of a nondescript forest that was only still around because developers hadn’t taken notice of it yet. Just what was so important about here? And of course, the final, most crucial question: What was inside?

Both caution and curiosity burning within her intensely, Kirsta continued surveying the tent at a distance, until she finally arrived at the opening; the mouth, as it’s been called by some. It’s door was nothing more than a flap of the luxurious fabric, and it been drawn back and tied with a coil of satin. Though the unguarded entrance radiated – nay, insisted welcome, the inside of the tent was pitch black, and Kirsta couldn’t see anything. It might not have been her brains that were getting her places in life, but she still knew better than to go barging into a strange, unlit confined space.

Disappointment dousing the wonder and mystique, Kirsta prepared to turn away. She had followed the light and found its source, precisely what she had set out to do. Now what else was there? She couldn’t go in; so, there was no going on, only going back. And she would have gone back, too. . . .

But just as she began to avert her gaze, a sound broke the pocket of stillness surrounding the tent.

“Ki – irst – ahh.”

It was a voice.

“Kir – irst- ahhhhhh.”

It was coming from in the tent.

Kirsta froze, all of her, except for her heart, which beat with an intense iciness. She knew she hadn’t imagined it, the same way you know you didn’t imagine five ice cubes falling into your glass instead of three.

“Kirsta. Come in, dear. Don’t linger on the doorstep, where the wind blows fiercest.”

The voice, unlike other disembodied voices Kirsta had experience with, such as in horror films or ghosts on a haunt, didn’t sound eerie or threatening. It was clear and solid, without a hint of malice. In fact, it almost sounded pleasant. However, something about it was off. Almost as if the person speaking were . . . very weak.

Facing a paramount moment of indecision for the second time that night, Kirsta, against the advice of speaker, did take the liberty of lingering before the door, frightened and unsure. The bizarre quality of this excursion was increasing dramatically, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. Whatever was inside that tent, whoever it was that wished her to enter, she didn’t know if she could handle finding out the what and who. But . . . could she possibly walk away now? When the tent knew her name?

She didn’t. Again, she fought her flight mode and stepped forward.

Walking into the tent felt akin to walking through foamed milk. Kirsta had taken a large step, because she couldn’t see where she was going and wanted to first feel around for anything that might trip her. Instead, she passed over the threshold in one fell swoop, the blackness of the door way feeling like the above mentioned foam milk, and suddenly found herself in a tiny, brightly illuminated room.

However, she had no time to marvel at how this difference was accomplished, or at the various mysterious looking objects that littered the area, matching the mysterious-ness of the exterior. As soon as her eyes readjusted to the light, they fell upon the middle of the tarp floor, and the man laying there. He almost gave her a heart attack, which, based on his appearance, was a possibility he had just recently suffered as well.

Outfitted in an overly big, flowwy navy robe, the man was extremely skinny, knobbly, and wrinkled. Every inch of his coffee brown skin sagged with age, great black pools beneath his eyes, and a scraggly white beard hugged his chin. He was bald, though a floppy, elaborate beret lay about a foot away, too far for him to reach. Truthfully, he looked as though someone had pushed him over onto his back and he hadn’t the strength to get back up, so he simply had been lying there, for a while it seemed like.

If Kirsta’s reaction to this stranger’s existence was total shock, his was the polar opposite. When his sunken, blood-shot eyes alighted on her, standing in pajamas and sneakers, considerably paler than usual, a delighted smile split his face.

“Ah,” he gasped, stretching a claw-like hand in her direction. “You made it. I am ever so grateful. There’s not much time left.”

Kirsta, wrapped up as she was in the world of high school baton-ning and the mall, had never seen a dying man before. Yet, there could be no mistake. Right away, she knew this man, whoever he was, was not long for this planet.

“Please,” he wheezed, gesturing for her to draw near. “Please.”

It might have been pity, it might have been fascination, or it might have been out of obligation, but for some reason Kirsta found herself edging closer. And closer. She knelt beside him, suddenly a thousand questions popping into her brain, washing away her astonishment.

“Who are you?” she inquired, a tremble in her voice. “How do you know who I am? Why are you here? Did you want me to come here? Did – ?”

He raised his aged palm for patience, a cough guttering deep in his throat.

“Peace,” he whispered. “I know you must be confused. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry about so many, many things, and that you will stay confused for some time joins them. For there is no time for a proper explanation. How I wish there were, but there isn’t.”

Pausing, he hacked miserably and then took her hand. “Kirsta,” he moaned. “I don’t believe that fate is an unavoidable thing. I believe that it tries to chase you down and bang you over the head, but if you are clever enough you can, in fact, evade it.”

Briefly, is watery blue eyes met hers and he smiled sadly. “Ah, but, my dear, you never were very clever, were you?”

With a hand that shook viciously, he reached into the right pocket of his robe and pulled something out. Turning over her hand, so that her palm faced up, he lifted his other hand, quavering, and placed an object in hers, curling her fingers around it. Drawing back with an exhausted gasp, he lay back down on the ground, his face drained of all color. Weakly, he regarded her with tranquil eyes and a slight, final shake of his head.

“Such cruelty to be thrust into a position of ignorance,” he whispered. “May it not last long. I leave you all that you see, though what will help you most is what you now hold. Humorous, isn’t it, that the purpose and the plan be one and the same?”

“What?” Kirsta managed to choke out, her heart hammering. “I – I don’t under- understand . . .”

But already the man was staring beyond her, his chest falling still and the windows to his soul glazing over dully. The man, whoever he had been, why-ever he had stopped, was gone now.

Stunned, Kirsta could feel her own breath hitching, her own eyes smarting for the loss of a human she didn’t know and now never would. Wiping away a straying tear, she looked down and unfurled her hand to see what she had been given.

There, hard and cold against her taut, white skin was a glass vial about six inches long, an ornate pewter stopper at one end, shaped like a face swallowing a flower, a star, and a bird.

The Story-Artisan’s Creed

For all those who daydream and are not

caged by reality. Together

we rise above the mundane and stale, and

combine forces to

eradicate monotony and mediocrity. United

are we who search for

beyond, stand for creativity, and reject

conformity. Empowered by

inspiration, we march forth, hand in hand, an

army of originals.

Nothing can detain us, for we are driven by

love, bred for

imagination, and fueled by whimsy.

I Lost My Head the Day I Opened My Heart.

I lost my head when I opened my heart. All the reasons to reverse it continuously get countered by reasons not to. Now it boils down to which reasons are more potent. They may be matched in number, but in strength?

How do you kick someone out of your heart? Especially when they didn’t even fight to be there, but you invited them in without their knowledge? How do you expel someone who has made you so extremely happy? . . . By remembering that they have made you equally miserable.

But, for so long, I have always loved someone. Ever since I was twelve, I have been in love. Ten years with one person . . . and then they were replaced by another. One that, based on all gathered evidence, I was going to fall in love with eventually anyways. And so how can I blame myself . . . or defend myself? Yes, I know exactly where I could have stopped it. When I could have. And at the time I knew this fact with astounding clarity. I knew I was falling in love, I knew it wasn’t a good thing, and I knew it wasn’t a part of my plan. But, I let it occur anyway. I did. I made a foolish decision. I didn’t block my heart. I didn’t reinforce the shields or bar the windows. I didn’t take precautions. I didn’t harden the soft and yearning flesh of my heart, like I should have, like I’ve done for so long. Because, once upon a time ago, I used to be smart.

Oh my, but did I used to be smart. I fought against intruders, I logicked my way out of emotions and over-imaginative hoping. At least, whenever I did allow my mind to wander to all the possibilities and might-be-if-we-did-this’s, I always remembered to provide a rational unhappy ending. Some event to ensure that the outcome would be cancelling, would devastate and demolish. All before anything came anywhere near my heart. Because, it was already inhabited by one person, and I was determined that it remain that way.

As silly and unprecedented as it may seem, I am an incurable romantic. I love Love, and all that it stands for and all that it can do. What we are capable of when we are caught in it. Maybe it’s because I fell in love at such a young age. I still understood that love, the real thing, is not transitory or superficial. It is long-suffering and pierces deep. You can’t rip it out by will or trample it to death. Real Love is a surviving thing. And, boy, did I love.

A very, very unknown fact about me is that I am one of history’s greatest lovers. I am capable of loving at a level of profundity and sincerity that most mere mortals don’t even know exist. No one can love like I can when it’s true and I let myself. But I alone hold this information. I, alone in this room, with only a kitten for company, know just how much love I am capable of giving and at what strength. Perhaps it is because nobody else knows about it that not a soul wants it.

But . . . that helps no one. Particularly not me. I am lost right now. I am moseying aimlessly, uncertain as to where I’m headed and none too enthralled with arriving there. Right now, the question that is burning brightest in my mind and spirit, the one that refuses to go away, the most pressing matter at hand is, Who am I if I’m not a person in love with another person?

Where does that leave me? For so long, long enough for it to ingrain itself into the fabric of my being, into my identity, I have been in love. But, now I love someone who has effectively flipped the middle finger at my love and said, No thank you. And so I must give up on him. I should have long ago. This won’t be the first time I’ve had to quell my feelings; to extinguish the flame that he refuses to let stay cold and dead. But it will be the worse. The other times I wasn’t in love. My heart wasn’t speeding along full-throttle, turned inside out, slashed up while simultaneously sewing itself back together. Meanwhile, my head is shaking itself, grimly wondering just how long that dang heart can keep it up, when it will ever learn. Is your heart separate from you? Can the heart make decisions on its own, without your say so? Where are you when you don’t want to listen to your head, but at the same instant want your heart to quit? Where am I?

How can I be me if I don’t love someone? The person currently inhabiting my raw and battered heart replaced the person from before. He truly seems to have been gently, almost thoughtlessly, removed. Not even removed, but faded out. Like a forgotten piece of furniture that has been there so long that it now blends in with the walls and soon you forget it’s there entirely. And when you do remember it’s there, it’s a little hard to make out, and you no longer know what your feelings are.

So, the resident for ten long, beautiful years is gone, and the current rent-free personage doesn’t want to be there. What do I do?

The answer should be simple. I should fight for me. But who am I? I know, I have always known, that I am More. I know that I am constructed of More, and that I can offer More. I am well aware that this quality makes me singular, but it still feels so far away from the core of me. The core. The fabric. My DNA. What’s that?

How can I force myself to fall out of love when Love doens’t work like that? And even if I find a way, what will become of me afterwards? What will I be? Just a shell? Just a hollow, rattling, rocking-in-the-wind shell? . . . Would that be so bad compared to how it is now? When someone has rejected love from one of the greatest lovers in history, doesn’t that make him a moron? And is it really all that wise to be in love with a moron? Logic says, No. Reason says, No. Rationality says, No. Self-respect says, No. Pride says, No.

But . . . Love consists of none of those things. Love is foolish. Love is ridiculous. Love is preposterous. . . . Yes, yes. . . . But love is also wonderful. It is capable of so much more than all those other things combined. If allowed to, that is. If not . . . admittedly, love tends to get in your way.

It is right now for me. And so, it seems, the best solution is to realign my heart with my head again. To patch up that poor, festering organ and put it to rights once more. Maybe . . . maybe it will be good for it to be empty for a little while. That, at least, is all I can hope for.

Dear Alex,

Dear Alex,
You don’t know me.
This isn’t a letter from a loved one, friend, or even an acquaintance. I am a no one, a nothing to you. Before reading this, in your world, I did not exist. Even though, you have seen me.
We have met, and yet we haven’t. We hang, suspended, in that weird vacuum between “interacting” and “meeting”. We have spoken, without talking. You have handled my money, touched my purchases, and have wished me a good day seventy-four times. And each time I reply with, “You, too”, when I really want to say more.
I don’t know how you got the job at Morning Son’s Market, but I know when you started working there. It was in December. I remember because I was hauling a turkey in one arm. There was still two weeks until Christmas, so I was the only kook in the place lugging around a ten pound bird, and the aisles were next to empty. It was around two in the afternoon, which is when I get out of work. As I was walking towards the line of checkouts, I scanned the the cashiers, looking for a familiar face. Instead, I saw yours.
It’s not hard to tell when someone is new. They stand awkwardly, as if their shoes are very uncomfortable, and their eyes dart around, trying to memorize a thousand new sights. You were twitching in anticipation behind the register, and fingering different buttons. I wish I could say that when I first saw you, my heart leapt. But, that would be lying. And, though it sounds super romantic, I don’t want to lie to you. Truthfully, the first time I saw you, my reaction was to think that you looked so much younger than the other cashiers. I thought, “He could be my age.” I still don’t know if you are.
So, I went in your line. I set down my dinner with a huff, and said, Hey. Briskly; not caring to start a conversation. You said Hey back. I remember thinking you had a deep voice. But, that was all. I didn’t really see you then. It struck me that you were young and had a deep guy voice. However, I was in too much of a hurry, and didn’t get a chance to look at you.
Not that day, anyway.
It was okay, though, because I go to Morning Son’s market all the time. I always seem to need something. Plus, I just like food. So, I had many chances to encounter you. And I started to recognize your face, because I finally let myself look. Brown eyes, shaggy brown hair, a ring between your nostrils. These details are what first broke through. They didn’t mean much to me right away. I just saw them; recorded them in my mind. But, over time, I began to See more. Your lips became soft and plump, your hands large and chapped; dark circles beneath your eyes, your navy work shirt was a little baggy. And I finally found your nametag.
Alex.
I soon caught myself staring over at you when I was in another cashier’s line. Some days, I slowed down in my car to watch you laugh with other employees on break outside. I did; I do, and I don’t really know why. . . . . It might have been because you chuckled.
I wonder if you remember this. A few months ago, I was buying a bag of cat food. It was the cheapest I could find without resorting to the store-brand, which my spoiled, princess of a cat won’t eat. Even still, when you rung it up with the tax, I let out a loud groan, forgetting you could hear me. And you chuckled. Probably, because you also forgot that I could hear you. Because, when I glanced up, after freezing in embarrassment, you were looking down, examining your hands, smiling.
Why did you have to chuckle, Alex? It couldn’t have been that funny. But you did. And ever since then, you lodged yourself in my mind. At least, you started in the back, like a stranger sneaking into a party and loitering by the walls where the crowd can’t see anything. Yet, you were still in. And, slowly, you crept forward. Day by day, visit after visit, until you occupied the front part of my mind, usually reserved for three things of immense importance. Up until you, it had been: 1. Work, 2. My looks, and 3. The future. Now, however, it is as follows: 1. My looks, 2. You, 3. Now.
Now has become very crucial to me. Because Now is where you are. I think about you so much. I wonder about you, too. Because, I know so little. It’s gnawed at me, this ignorance. It’s kept me wide awake at night, tempting my imagination to fill in the blanks. But . . . it doesn’t help to. I’ve slowly discovered that I want the truth; the truth about you. Your real-life-details. It struck me one night, lying awake, your face burning in my mind, that I want More.
And, Alex, this scared me so bad.
I don’t know why, either. You didn’t used to be scary. I used to go through your line without batting an eye, and now I make excuses to go shopping just to see you. But I don’t know what to say to you. I used to relish in the tiny, polite, cashier-customer conversations we had; they gave me glimpses of you. However, they soon weren’t enough. Soon, I wanted to talk to you longer than ten seconds. The problem was I didn’t know how.
The very thought of saying more made claws sink into my stomach. My throat swelled up, my tongue dried out, and my heart scurried into a corner of my chest. So, I didn’t say More. But, Alex, I didn’t stop wanting to.
For almost three months now, I’ve fought with myself. Again and again I go through your line, just to see your face, your brown eyes, so tired some days, so alive others, looking up into mine. All day, I think up little things to say to make you smile. Alex, your smile thrills me. And every single time you cash me out, I yearn, ache, to unleash the words that I’ve kept pent up for so long. They clash and clang around inside me all the time, driving me crazy. I pace in my room and mumble to myself at work, wishing I could speak them, wanting to have the guts. But, over and over, I didn’t. I let you wish me a good day, and I returned it again and again, not letting it go further. Why not? Because, Alex, I was scared.
I was scared that my words of More would have no power. I was frightened that you did not see me the same way I saw you. Maybe you don’t. But . . . I am writing this letter because I am asking if whether or not you could.
Yes, a letter. It’s amazing I can even muster this. Honestly, it might have been worse. I could have never mentioned it at all. I could have bottled it up, me and what I feel, forever. I know it’s ridiculous. We’re strangers, really, and how can you feel so much for a stranger? I don’t know, Alex, but I do. All I can say is we all start out as strangers. We don’t have to stay that way.
Please understand that I’m shaking while I write this. I know that a letter might look like a version of cowardice, but it’s actually my way of being brave. Lately, I’ve been under the conviction that I must start being brave. In general. At work, at home, in life. And that includes doing something about you. So I’m writing you a letter, to say More. To say that I always lean in slightly to smell your cologne, and that I want to reach out and touch the wispy part of your hair, and that my heart hurts on the days you look so tired you might fall over. That your laugh makes my tummy flip, and I love that you wear Converse too, and that I have imagined us going on a date over a thousand times.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a highest hope, and now I do. I’m so terrified of what you’re going to think when you read this. I’m sorry that this was all I could do. Yet, at the same time, it will be a miracle if I can force myself to deliver it. It will be even more of a miracle if you actually read it; and if you actually respond. Maybe that’s what I’m most scared of, Alex; you saying More in return.
But . . . please do.
Signed,
The girl with the fish purse you like so much.
P.S.,
My name is Emmy.



Emily Kinney

The Island of Lote chapter five: Simon

MILO FELT A cool, wet sensation patter onto her face and arms. It felt good because her skin was unusually hot. More came, droplets of cool, moist heaven peppering her cheeks and forehead, and running down her nose. She moaned softly.

The pain in her head had gone down to a dull ache, and she no longer felt sick to her stomach. She twitched her shoulders and her feet, checking to make sure she still could. She slowly opened her eyes, bright sunshine blinding her for a moment. After cringing and blinking a few times, her vision started to refocus, and she dis - covered that she was lying under a palm tree on a beach.

Sunlight was sifting through the long, narrow leaves up above her, and white sand lay beneath her, spreading out in all directions. However, she was far more startled by something else. Leaning over her, using a wet cloth to squeeze water onto her, was a boy.

He had straight, dirty-blonde hair, tousled from wind and hanging down an inch past his ears. His skin was a light, golden tan, undoubtedly the result of a life spent on an island, sand granules flecking his hands. He was wearing a pair of swimming shorts and a button down T-shirt, completely unbuttoned, firm abdominal muscles visible. His eyes, easy to inspect because they were less than three inches away from hers, were light brown. By his looks, he was a dream boy, a hot boy; the type of boy you can't help but gape at from afar, but would never dare approach.

Milo noticed this as she opened her eyes and he came into focus. But before she thought about any of that, she first thought, and expressed aloud, "Aaaaaahhhh!?!"

The boy, whoever he was, gave a shout of surprise and jumped backwards, toppling over onto the sand. They both sat frozen for a second, breathing heavily and staring at each other. He then smiled at her. Milo tried to move her head and was rewarded with a stab of pain.

"Ow," she groaned and hesitantly reached up to feel her head.

There was a cloth wrapped tightly around it. She ran her fingers over her face her face. All the blood had been washed off. Using her eyes, not wanting to disturb her cranium, she looked around her.

Her backpack, covered in a powdery layer of dried sea salt, was lying next to her. To the left of her was the suitcase that had knocked her out. Squinting, she could see other suitcases lining the shore, all having washed up the night before. Examining the one beside her the best she could at a distance, she gave a gasp of surprise. It was hers.

"Whoa!" she mumbled. "Weird!"

She then angled her gaze towards the boy, who hadn't budged and was still smiling at her.

"Nice teeth!" Bob the Conscience remarked.

"Bob!" Milo cried, flicking her eyes about until she remembered he was in her mind. "Where the heck were you last night?! Huh? I could have died!"

"I was with you last night," Bob the Conscience replied calmly.

"You just didn't recognize me because we weren't arguing. I made sure you got out of there safely. I guided you, just like in my job description. I pulled my act together."

"Oh," she said, guilt nudging her uncomfortably. "Right. Sorry. Thanks."

"Uh-huh," Bob the Conscience agreed. "So, who's the piece of beef?" he asked, changing the subject.

Milo, assuming he had meant the boy, admitted, "I don't know."

"Try talking to him."

"Kay?" she said nervously. "Um, hi!" she said to him.

The boy stopped smiling and looked perplexed.

"Hi!" Milo said a bit louder. "HELLO!"

She vigorously waved a hand back and forth. The boy, apparently understanding, smiled and waved back. He stood up quickly, walked over, and plonked himself down next to her, much closer than she would have thought necessary.

"Where am I?" she asked, trying to scoot a few inches away.

The boy once again frowned in confusion.

"WHERE - AM - I?!" Milo repeated slowly and clearly.

The boy's expression didn't change, though he stared at her intensely, so Milo decided to try gesturing. She rotated her arms, which were plenty sore from last night, in a wide arch, pointing all around her. She then shrugged and shook her head, immediately wincing afterwards.

The boy seemed to comprehend and said, "Blatih sa twra ito!"

Milo stared blankly at him.

"Pardon?" she said.

"Creee?" he responded.

"DO," she shouted, as if volume would alter his translation, "you speak English?!"

The boy didn't seem to grasp what she had asked. Milo made a talking motion with one of her hands, pointed to her tongue and then at him. It seemed to dawn on the boy what she meant, and he shook his head.

"Great!" Milo muttered, briefly looking away towards the ocean, it shimmering turquoise under the sun. She turned back to him. "None at all?"

The boy figured it'd be best to shake his head again.

"Oh, great!" Milo sighed. She again tried gesturing to everything around them, hoping he would say a word she recognized.

"Ito!" the boy said helpfully.

"Ito?" Milo repeated. She pointed at him and said, "Ito?"

"Pra, pra, pra!" he laughed, shaking his head. He poked a finger at his chest and said, "Simon!"

"Simon?" Milo repeated, pointing directly at him.

He nodded, grinning and crossing his legs comfortably.

"Huh!" she said. Inspired, she indicated to herself. "Milo!"

"Milo?" he echoed, giving it a slight trill. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Milo?"

She nodded encouragingly, eyeing the position of his hand.

Grinning broadly, he touched a hand to his collar bone. "Simon!"

He squeezed her shoulder. "Milo!"

"Yep!" she confirmed, pleased.

She nodded, for his benefit, and grinned. He grinned back, letting her go. Still, Milo didn't feel all that confident, so she decided to test. She pointed insistently to something behind the boy. He twisted around to look.

When his back was to her, Milo called out, "Simon!" His head whipped around and he stared at her questioningly. She did this several times before she felt satisfied. Suddenly he pointed past her.

"What?" she said, shifting around to look.

"Milo!"

She turned around. "Yeah?" she asked then saw his face.

He was no longer smiling, his arms crossed. Obviously, just because he couldn't speak English, didn't mean he was stupid.

"Oh," she whispered contritely. "Oh, sorry!" Not knowing what sort of gesture could mean "sorry", Milo gave him a tiny, sincere smile.

His grin returned instantly, and he mumbled something incoherent, yet cordial sounding. He stood, putting up one hand to tell her to stay there, not that Milo felt like wandering. He went over to a basket that Milo hadn't noticed earlier. He pulled out a bowl-shaped object and brought it over to her. Falling onto his knees, he showed it to her.

Milo peered in and saw some type of mush that looked like it had been mixed with corn and pepper. He scooped some out with his fingers and brought it to her mouth. She looked at it and then smelled it. It didn't smell too bad, rather fishy, but Milo wasn't about to eat it off his fingers.

She scraped some of the mush off with her own fingers and put it in her mouth. It was actually quite tasty. It reminded her faintly of tuna.

"Mmmm!" she told him, hoping that meant the same thing in any language.

The boy called Simon offered her what remained on his fingers and in the bowl. She accepted the bowl, but passed on the rest. Shrugging, he ate the leftovers on his fingers. Milo didn't realize it until then, but she was starving.

Simon watched her intently while she ate, a type of gleam appearing in his eyes. Briefly he got out a sort of container from his basket and offered it to her. Milo cautiously took a sip from it and was relieved to discover it held fresh water. She guzzled it, not caring if he was watching her. She hadn't drunk anything since last night, when she had swallowed all that ocean water. When the container was empty, she handed back to Simon, who put it away.

Milo was thoroughly enjoying herself. It had been a long time since she had gotten along with anyone close to her age, even though they couldn't verbally communicate, a fact she chose to ignore. While she ate, using one hand to ladle the mush to her mouth, she used the other to open her backpack to see if anything was damaged. Nothing seemed to be. Her clothes were still soggy, but everything else seemed fine.

"Thank Heaven for plastic bags!" Milo whispered, lightly touching her headphones.

She realized her hair was in her face, and felt around in her pack for another scrunchie. Finding one, she tried to pull her hair back, but the other hand was holding the bowl. Before she could set it down on the sand, Simon lean forward, took her hair and drew it back for her. With nimble one-handed dexterity, she put the scrunchie in, and he withdrew his hands.

"Thanks," she muttered, certain her embarrassment was written all over her face.

He smiled kindly at her and abruptly exploded into a frenzy of gibbering in his language. He gestured so fast that Milo couldn't catch a thing he was trying to tell her. Finally he stopped and stared at her expectantly. She stared back.

"What?" she asked, smiling and shaking her head.

He sighed and slowly said something in his language, enunciating each syllable. But of course Milo couldn't understand. She shrugged apologetically. Simon attempted several more times to relay what was on his mind, with no better results. Finally he stood up, turned away from her, and slowly began to walk, with one of his arms erect, like he was holding someone up. After he walked a ways, he turned around and walked back in the same fashion. Once he got back, he looked at her inquiringly, his head tilted to one side.

"Can I walk?" Milo thought. "I don't know. Maybe."

She tried moving one of her legs. It worked perfectly. She tried the other, and it jerked obediently.

"Yep," she said to Simon. She nodded.

Simon's eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he hesitantly nodded back.

"Uh-huh!" Milo said, nodding faster and giving him a friendly grin.

Simon smiled hugely and laughed softly. The more Milo nodded, the happier he looked. The nodding continued, Milo not sure what else to do, until Simon suddenly let out a cry of joy. He jumped into the air, obviously unable to contain the delight that had overcome him. He flailed his arms and danced up and down the beach, kicking up sand and shouting unintelligibly. The whole time, Milo kept on smiling and nodding her head dumbly. She had no idea what was going on.

At last he stopped and rushed over to her. He bent down and hugged her.

"Uh!" she stuttered. "Um. Thanks. I guess."

Simon straightened up and grabbed one of her hands to pull her up.

"Whoa! Wait!" Milo cried.

She pushed against the ground with her other hand, first putting down the dish. Simon let her go when she was standing upright, leaning against the tree. He then took the bowl back to the basket and picked it up, along with her suitcase. Milo noticed that the basket looked similar to a reed basket she had seen in Hawaii. She had gone there with her parents when she was ten to see if they should live there. It didn't work out though, because while they were on a tour, her mother got bit by a snake and had to be rushed to the hospital. Her mother had had a bias against Hawaii ever since.

Milo was wobbly on her legs at first, and they were incredibly sore, but at least she could stand. She zipped up her backpack and slung it onto her shoulder. Simon grabbed her hand once more, first putting the basket under his other arm, and began to pull her towards the forest. The forest was a harsh entanglement of brush, vines, and trees, but eventually they came to a path. The path wound on and on, Milo not even noticing Simon's hand in hers because she was too busy gawking at everything around her. She saw gigantic leaves, vibrant flowers growing on bark, and different nationalities of ants running drills along tree trunks.

The further they went, occasionally having to pause so that Milo could rest, the more beaten down and worn the path became. Suddenly there was a sharp turn to the left. More turns came after it, and the trees became less dense.

They eventually came to a clearing, the sun creating one enormous patch of yellow on the brown ground, and when Milo looked to the left, she could see the beach. Not the one they had just left, however. This was a different, bigger beach that looked like it ran for miles, with rocks poking out of the water and bunches of boys scattered about.

The only other thing in the clearing, besides a few tropical trees dispersed here and there, was a house. Well, not really a house. It resembled a bungalow, only it was much larger. It was built out of a type of wood that, to Milo, looked like bamboo.

"Only it's not bamboo," she mused. "Bamboo isn't as big as that. It's not as wide or dark. That wood is very dark and not shiny. Bamboo always seems to look shiny, not dull like that."

Simon was leading her up to this house. He halted them when they were directly in front of the door, took her backpack from her, and disappeared inside.

"Hey!" she called out.

But he was back in a moment. He didn't have her luggage with him, but he did have something clutched in his hand.

After a few silent moments of them just staring at each other, Milo asked, "So! Whatcha got there?"

She indicated to his clenched fist. Simon, his mouth twitching, inhaled deeply several times before opening his hand to show her. In the center of his palm lay a small, round object topped by a sparkling dot. It was a diamond ring.

"Oh, cool!" Milo commented, taking a closer look at it. She had a keen interest in jewelry, or moreover all things shiny (cd's, silver tea sets, chef's knives, etc.). The only rings she could ever afford to buy were made out of glass, and tended to chip. This ring, however, looked real.

Simon grinned and shoved his hand towards her.

"For . . . me?" she said, dodging out of the way to avoid getting hit.

She pointed from it to herself, and Simon nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh, no! No, no, no!" she chuckled, taking a step backwards. "I can't take that from you. It looks way too expensive."

Simon of course didn't understand what she had said, and tried to put the ring on one of her fingers. Milo pulled her hand away each time, finally stuffing it into a very stiff pocket. But Simon, apparently not one to give up easily, pulled it out again by her wrist. Therefore Milo made a fist, not sure what else she could do, besides run away, which she doubted her legs could handle.

Simon tried to gently unfurl the fist, but she held firm, still shaking her head. However, he was obviously stronger than her, and as his coaxing became more insistent, Milo had to surrender. He opened her hand just wide enough to drop the ring inside, and quickly forced it closed again. Milo continued to shake her head, now trying to get him to take it back. Simon began to look confused and upset. He babbled something in his language, tapping one of her fingers.

"Oh, dear," Milo thought. She wanted to keep things friendly.

"Oh, well. If it makes him happy," she thought, though she didn't feel at all comfortable about taking it. But, hey! Who wouldn't want a diamond ring?

"Are you sure about wearing that?" Bob the Conscience asked.

"I wouldn't," she answered. "I don't know where he got it. It might be a family heirloom or something. But he seems to really want me to have it, and I don't want him to get mad. Why? Are you sensing something bad about it?"

"No, not really. It just sort of looks like an engagement ring or something."

Milo laughed. "Yeah! Sure! Riiight!"

Oh! If only she had listened!

She slid the ring onto the finger that Simon had tapped, and he resumed his smiling.

"There you go!" she told him, flourishing the hand in front of his face.

Suddenly he reached out and hugged her again, murmuring softly.

"Okay!" Milo squeaked. "Okay!" She gave him a hasty pat on the back.

He abruptly put an arm around her shoulders and led her inside the hut. She quickly shrugged him off, though, for she was begin - ning to feel a little uneasy about the way he was staying so close to her.

The house looked larger on the inside than on the outside. It had dirt floors, packed down hard. The door led into a walkway, a hall extending straight ahead, and on the left was what looked like a sitting room, filled with furniture made from the same wood as the house. To the right of the front door was a kitchen.

Simon walked into the kitchen, not bothering to show Milo the rest of the house. He took a sharp looking knife off one of the counters, which were also made from the strange wood. Milo, who had followed him into the kitchen, now started to rethink her decision. But the only thing Simon did with the knife was cut away the bandages on her head.

He did this so swiftly, the knife just a blur, that Milo's stomach lurched. He unwound the cloth carefully and examined the wound underneath. It seemed to meet his satisfaction, for he did not apply another bandage. Throwing the bloody cloth away in a wooden barrel, which appeared to be the trash can, he turned and headed the door.

Milo, who would have preferred to stay and explore the house, reluctantly followed. It was most definitely his house, and she didn't think it would be polite to wander through it without his company.

Once outside, he again tried to hold her hand. She clasped both her hands securely behind her back and marched straight ahead. Though this puzzled the boy, he decided not to start another argument.

This was wise, considering that Milo was a woman, and you simply can't mess around with women's feelings. Nothing can be more frightening than an angry female, and may no man forget it! Women are warriors of a different breed, and Milo was one of the toughest specimens. Simon could sense this in a small way; if she did not want to hold his hand, then she wouldn't. That was that. No debate. No pushing his luck.

Simon took the lead, striding towards the heart of the island. The ground was becoming as hard as regular cement. The trees were becoming fewer and fewer, and the hot sun beamed down on the two teens. Every now and then they would pass a house, built in the same fashion as Simon's, some smaller, some larger. As they walked on, the trees began to reappear. Very tall, wide trees with broad, green leaves that provided shade. Encircling the bases of those trees were flower beds, where tropical flora had been transplanted.

They trudged onward a short distance until they reached what undeniably had to be their destination. Passing several decorated trees, Milo gasped in amazement. It was a town! An entire town, constructed entirely from that strange type of wood. There were many houses, some sporting porches, several shops, one very large building with a huge doorway, a school house, and a church that she identified by the large cross on its roof. There was another big building, on the far side of town, with a second story and many windows. Milo couldn't tell what it was used for.

All these places were widely spread out from each other. Way off in the outskirts, Milo thought she could see what appeared to be a large, black house. Palm trees speckled the streets, towering over everything. These trees also had flower gardens planted around the bases, and some even had benches nailed around their trunks.

But what most astounded Milo was the abundance of people milling about. They were dressed almost exactly the same as people at home, only more modestly, with no offensive or statementmaking clothing. But since it was a tropical island, they were mostly dressed in colorful island attire. Such as what Simon was wearing.

Simon led Milo down the streets, pausing now and then to let her gape in through a window or at a passing person. Nobody was paying them much attention. Simon would occasionally receive a warm greeting, but Milo mostly got bemused stares.

They eventually reached a small store with a window cut into the wall. Attached to the window was a sill, and on the sill was a bell. Not the type of bell found in the lobby of 711 Shady Ally, that you slap and it would ding, but more like an old-fashioned school bell. Simon leaned his elbows on the sill and rang it. Like the bell at 711 Shady Ally, it also had a woman hurrying to answer the call. In complete contrast to Miz Ricca, this woman was a plump little thing, with a pleasant smile and a full bun of brown hair.

She began to gibber happily with Simon, who was very glad to see her. Reaching through the window, they embraced lightly. Milo quietly stood next to him, wondering why Simon had brought her over to meet this particular lady and if they were talking about her. She figured they were, because Simon put his hand on her shoulder while he spoke. As he jabbered away, the woman grew more and more excited. Her gaze kept flicking from Milo and to Simon, her smile growing larger and more animated.

When Simon finished talking, he pointed to the ring on Milo's finger, and the woman clapped her hands together, gleefully bouncing on her toes. She then did something that Milo had not expected at all. The woman spoke English.

"Aw! Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!" she chirped in a rich Irish accent.

"You speak English?" Milo said, astonished.

"Oh yes, dear!" the woman laughed. "I can understand your surprise. I'm sure you think that everyone on the island speaks Galo."

"Galo?" Milo repeated breathlessly, bewildered.

"Yes, that's the name of the language." "Oh!" Milo exclaimed, looking behind her at all the sun soaked houses. "So, are they, like, Galonians? And is this the island of Gal?"

"Oh, no," the lady chuckled, waving the question away. "This island has no name. The people here are just people. They came up with the language many ages ago, and they are allowed to name it. So they named it Galo, just because they wanted to."

"Ah," Milo remarked, wondering why the language deserved a name, but nothing else did.

The woman extended her hand, and Milo politely shook it.

"I am Mrs. Lanslo, dear," she said, introducing herself.

"Hello," Milo said. "My name is -"

"Oh, I know already! Simon here told me. Milo. What a beautiful name! I adore it!"

Milo had to smile. This was not usually what she heard.

"But what is your last?" Mrs. Lanslo asked.

"Last what?" Milo said.

"Name, dear," Mrs. Lanslo clarified. "Simon said he doesn't know it."

"Oh! Right, um, Hestler."

Mrs. Lanslo nodded genially, and, turning to Simon, began to speak to him in the language Galo.

Milo heard her say Hestler, and assumed she was bringing him up to speed. Simon looked pleased, and Mrs. Lanslo again addressed Milo.

"Ah, yes!" she twittered joyfully. "Milo, Simon has told me everything! Absolutely everything! And I am so happy!"

"Did he?" she said nervously. "I didn't know there was that much to tell." What was going on?

"Oh, of course there is! And there's sooo much to tell you, as I am sure you have many questions."

"Yeah, I do," she admitted. "First off, we weren't properly introduced. Who exactly is this?"

She nodded to Simon.

Mrs. Lanslo laughed heartily, a hand flying to her chest, and said, "This is Simon Swallow."

"Simon Swallow," Milo repeated, so as not to forget.

Simon, upon hearing his name said twice, gibbered inquiringly to Mrs. Lanslo. She explained what was going on, and he, grinning, offered his hand to Milo. She shook it and afterwards practically had to yank hers out of his grasp.

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Lanslo continued proudly. "A fine boy he is. Understanding and kind. Responsible and polite. Charming and law-abiding. All the girls swoon over him, which makes it a mystery why he has been looking so long for a wife."

"A wife?" Milo gasped, unbelieving. "How old is he?"

"Sixteen, dear. But on this island, when a boy is over fifteen, he can marry any girl over thirteen."

Milo was speechless, her jaw lax and dropping. To her very Western Hemisphere state of mind, this was the most outlandish thing she had ever heard of. "Really?" she stammered.

"Yes," Mrs. Lanslo confirmed carelessly, as if it were a common, reputable practice. "It is an island law. There are many laws here, especially about marriage, and they are always enforced, no matter what."

Milo looked startled.

"But don't worry, dear! The laws are quite reasonable, and as long as you obey them, you have nothing to worry about. All the boys here over fifteen are trying to get married. If a boy is still single when he turns twenty-two, a wife is chosen for him; if he wants to marry, that is. Simon has always wanted to marry, and has been looking for the right bride for some time now. And finally - Oh, I am so happy! - he has found one. Simon is friends with everyone here, and we all will be very happy to see him marry at last!"

"Who is it?" Milo asked Simon.

Even though those laws gave her the creeps, she felt she should at least be happy for him. But instead of translating, Mrs. Lanslo looked confused. She said to her, "Why, dear, it's you." Milo stood, staring transfixed at them, until she began to laugh.

"Yeah! Sure! Riiiight!" She repeated exactly what she had said to Bob the Conscience.

Sometimes the strongest, most provoking words in the world are words of silence, and those very words were being spoken by Mrs. Lanslo and Simon. They said nothing to her. Right to her face. They stared at her, and their looks brought on the horrid truth. The more Milo absorbed these stares of verification, the more she began to lose it.

Slowly she began to shake her head and to utter words such as: "Nuh. Unna. Nuha." She then looked down at the ring on her hand and screamed. Milo wasn't a person to scream at any old thing. When she was on the plane she had a good reason to scream. Sheer terror was coursing through her veins during that time, and this one moment seemed almost worse.

When she finally cut off her screams she looked, panic stricken, at Mrs. Lanslo.

"No!" she cried desperately.

"I don't understand, dear," Mrs. Lanslo said, concerned. "Why are you so upset?"

"Why?!" Milo repeated, breathing hard, her limbs trembling. "Why? Be-because! That's why! I don't want to get married! I mean, come on! Married? Are you kidding?"

Mrs. Lanslo, in a tone that implied that she was far from kidding, asked, "If you don't want this, then why did you say yes?"

"Yes?" Milo cried, hitting her forehead with her palm. "I didn't know he was proposing to me! I don't even think he did!"

"Think hard," Mrs. Lanslo said gently.

Suddenly a gesture on the beach flew to Milo's mind, and she gasped in horror. She whirled on the spot and glared at Simon, who knew what was going on thanks to Mrs. Lanslo translating for him.

"You!" she accused under her breath. "You didn't!"

"I'm afraid he did, dear," Mrs. Lanslo interjected. Milo faced her desperately, her brow wrinkled and breaking out in a sweat that wasn't just from the heat.

"Well . . . oh, come on! I didn't know what he was saying! It could have meant anything! I didn't know what I was saying yes to! So . . . technically, I'm not engaged!"

As she thought this over, a small smile of relief curled up on her lips.

"But you have on the ring," Mrs. Lanslo observed, after telling Simon all this. Milo looked back at the ring with new fear.

"Oh. Yeah," she said, without much else to say. She glanced up at the two other people and saw the concerned expressions they had. "Um," Milo mumbled, realizing that she didn't have much of an excuse. "Well. Okay! I don't know why I put on the stupid ring! But I still don't have to marry him!"

With that, she wrenched off the ring and threw it at Simon's feet. He gasped and hurriedly scooped it up. He tried to give it back to her, but she wouldn't take it, instead crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at him. Finally, he said something to Mrs. Lanslo, who stood in shock at what Milo had done.

"He says," she breathed heavily, "that you have to wear it, and that he wants you to."

"I don't care what he wants!" Milo exploded aggressively. "I don't have to be engaged if I don't want to!"

"Actually, dear," Mrs. Lanslo whispered. "You do." Milo turned her mutinous glare on the little woman. "What?" she snapped.

"It's one of our laws," she explained patiently. "Once you are engaged, you have to get married. There's no breaking it. Once the girl says yes and puts the ring on, that's that. The deal is sealed."

"B-b-but I didn't know what he was saying!" Milo cried, after finding her voice.

"That would be an arguable case, dear, if you hadn't put on the ring."

Milo, now tapping her fingers on the window sill in an agitated manner, tried to figure this out.

"So," she choked out, "since I put on the ring, I can't get out of it?"

"Yes," Mrs. Lanslo said, nodding sagely. "That's right."

Milo stood gasping, at a loss for words. That is, until she found some.

"I'll just refuse then!" she declared, pounding a fist onto the wood. "You can't force me to marry!"

"Well . . . yes, we can," Mrs. Lanslo said softly. Milo, her complexion getting more ashen by the minute, said weakly, "What?"

"We can," Mrs. Lanslo repeated, "and we have, and we will. Unless, of course, you do it willingly, dear."

"Never!!!" she shouted, out of control.

At this point, there was a yell for attention behind her, which sounded more like a grunt. Simon and Mrs. Lanslo instantly stiffened with respect. Milo swiveled around to see who was behind her.

There was a group of old - excuse me - older men with pinched faces and impressive beards. They were all wearing long, black and grey robes, and were holding many books. One man especially, whose robe was extra dark and held one exceptionally thick book.

The man in front stepped forward and began to talk to Mrs. Lanslo in a gruff voice. Mrs. Lanslo promptly answered in Galo. She spoke very fast and pointed from Simon to Milo, then from Milo to Simon. The man, whose garb was slightly fancier than the rest, became very angry, the impressive mustache over his impressive beard bristling dangerously. He spoke severely to Simon, who answered him quietly, his gaze reverently downcast. Milo was terrified. Who were these men?

A crowd was beginning to form around the scene, people gibbering to each other out of the corners of their mouths. The man spoke sternly to Mrs. Lanslo, and Mrs. Lanslo spoke to Milo.

"This," she said seriously, indicating to man, "is the President, or Mayor, of the island. Mayor Em-I. He works in the library with these other gentlemen. They make sure everyone abides by the laws."

"I can't see a library," Milo whispered, trying not to look at the mayor. Mrs. Lanslo pointed to a small building on the other side of town. "That doesn't seem big enough to be a library."

"The library's underground," Mrs. Lanslo said dismissively. "Listen, please. Mayor Em-I wants to, first of all, welcome you to our island."

Milo glanced at him dubiously, wondering if this man had ever welcomed anyone to anywhere in his life.

"And second of all," Mrs. Lanslo continued, "to let you know that even though you've just arrived, you still have to obey our laws. He doesn't want you to cause trouble right now, because they are about to investigate a plane that crashed here last night."

"That's my plane," Milo muttered.

"Is there anyone else with you?"

"No, everyone else escaped without me," she mumbled bitterly.

"Oh. Well, the Mayor wants me to read you a few of the other laws, and let you know that you will obey them. No matter what."

More incoherent jabbering ensued between the officials and Mrs. Lanslo, before she added submissively, "This island has been functioning beautifully for generations, and you will not be a disruption."

"Well, we'll see about that!"Milo replied with new vigor, obliged to disrupt no matter where she was. "I'll be rescued anyway."

Mrs. Lanslo began to laugh, holding on to her middle, and relayed to the others what Milo had said. Everyone immediately laughed hard along with her. Milo looked around with wide, troubled eyes. Apparently, this was a humorous topic.

"My dear," Mrs. Lanslo exclaimed, after she got control of herself and caught her breath. "No one knows this island exists! Nobody has ever been rescued from here. I myself crashed here five years ago and haven't been found yet. Now, listen."

The man with the very thick book came forward, flipped to a certain page, and held it open for her.

"'Laws on marriage,'" Mrs. Lanslo read aloud, slipping on a pair of spectacles that were hanging about her neck. "'Once an engagement has been finalized by the female voluntarily donning the traditional ring, said engagement may not be canceled by either party. All fiancees must dwell in the same abode. All engaged couples shall be thrown a wedding, all villagers invited. All married individuals must sleep in the same bed. All those married in their teenage years shall adopt one child and raise it.'"

Mrs. Lanslo, finished reading, lowered her spectacles. The keeper of the volume shut it gingerly and returned to his group. A silence had fallen as the laws were read, even though most of the gathered people probably couldn't understand a bit of English.

"What was that last part?" Milo managed to say, her throat starting to close up. The horror of the laws was biting into her, making her shrivel and shrink as each one was read off.

"You can adopt a child," Mrs. Lanslo said. "Simon will explain it to you later. It's sort of a package deal."

Package deal.

Milo remembered her parents once referring to the apartment building as a package deal. She wasn't in the mood for another one. Mayor Em-I spoke.

"He says," Mrs. Lanslo interpreted dutifully, "that these laws were made by our ancestors, and you will obey them."

Simon tried to give Milo back the engagement ring, but Milo just shook her head. Mostly in disbelief, but she was also saying no. No, no, no. Three no's in a row. No, she didn't want the ring. No, she didn't want to get married. And, no, she wasn't about to follow any unreasonable, unfair, cockamamie laws written up ages ago by a bunch of meddling lunatics.

Mayor Em-I saw only one No, but it was one No too many for him.With a shout, he leapt forward with surprising spryness, pulled a dagger out of his robe and deftly aimed it at Milo's throat. There was a collective intake of breath from everybody, especially Simon, who looked like he wanted to knock the dagger away, but didn't dare.

Milo was too frightened to move. She couldn't even properly see the dagger, but she could feel coldness emanating from its blade. Terrified, her thoughts erased, she let her hand hang limply in the air. Mayor Em-I grunted something sharply, and Simon tentatively came forward to put the ring on her finger. She began to sense that they weren't kidding.

"You never listen to me!" said Bob the Conscience.
The Island of Lote

The Island of Lote chapter four: The Airplane Ride

FOUR DAYS LATER, the Hestlers traveled to the airport. Milo already had a passport, procured years ago to make moving easier, and her ticket had arrived surprisingly quickly. Her backpack and suitcase were crammed with new clothes, her mother having insisted that just because she was going to the outback didn't mean she couldn't look nice. "You are also going to want extra if any get torn or dirty," she had said.

She also had suggested, Milo agreeing wholeheartedly, that they put her radio/headphones, batteries, pens, diary, and cookbook in sealable plastic bags. "It will make it easier if security wants to search your bags," she had said. "Not to mention, you don't want anything to get damaged. I know how much you love all those things, though I'm fairly certain you'll be too busy chasing wallabies to need any of them." Milo strongly disagreed and said that was irrelevant; those objects went with her everywhere, period.

At the airport, her parents waited off to the side while her passport got scrutinized. Once it met the approval of the security personal's shrewd eyes, she was allowed to check her suitcase. Milo had made sure beforehand that her backpack was the right size to carry onto the airplane. She wanted to keep it safe with her until after the trip. Nothing must be lost, or end up in another state.

Before heading down the boarding bridge to the plane, her parents came over to say goodbye.

"I can't believe you're leaving already," her mother said, pulling Milo's scrunchie out of her hair. "I'm going to miss you. We'll be eating out a lot."

"Aw, Mom," Milo groaned, reaching for her scrunchie. "Come on! Just for today?"

"Please, Milo?" her mother asked, holding it behind her back and giving her daughter a hopeful smile. "You look so sweet with your hair down."

"I know," she said. "That's why I want it up. I believe in honest appearances."

"Oh, fine!" her mother said in exasperation, tossing the scrunchie back. "But I give you fair warning. Hot Australian boys are looking for shy, sweet girls."

"Uh-huh?" Milo said, sweeping her hair up into a ponytail. "I'll keep that one in mind, Mom," she lied. "See you later."

"Goodbye, dear," her mother said, giving her a hug and kissing her cheek.

"Bye, hon," her father said, doing the same.

"I'll see you guys in a month," Milo said, other people filing past her into the tunnel.

"Okay and don't forget, you're a Hestler," her father said proudly, beaming at her.

"Um . . . alright. Why?" she asked.

"Well . . . I don't know, hon. Just don't. It wouldn't be fair to us if you did. So don't."

"Right!" Milo mumbled, rolling her eyes at his cryptic words.

"I've always admired your father's satisfying way of answering questions," Bob the Conscience remarked. Milo snickered.

As she entered the grey wormhole, walking to the plane door, her parents called after her. Their voices echoed throughout the terminal, causing several heads to turn.

"Goodbye!"

"Bye, hon!"

"We love you!"

"We what?"

"We love her, Earnest!"

"Oh! Yes! Of course we do! We do!"

"Don't forget us!"

"If you can help it!"

"Keep out of trouble!"

"Keep out of wombat holes!"

"Don't stare at your counselor's butt!"

And just as the door was closing, her father bellowed, "And if he looks at yours slug him!"

"Oy!" Milo moaned, her face burning.

A nearby flight attendant gave her a wan smile, but tactfully didn't say anything.

Milo determinedly tried to forget what her parents had just shouted all over the airport, and found her seat. She didn't put her backpack in the overhead. Instead, she sat down and hugged it tightly, attempting to leech out some comfort from it.

"We're really doing it," she whispered excitedly, glancing out the window at the grey stretch of runway. "We're by ourselves on a plane, going to camp. It's really happening."

"Are you talking to me or your backpack?" Bob the Conscience inquired.

"I don't even know," Milo admitted.

The instructions for such-and-such things came while the plane roared and started to move, but she didn't pay much attention. She had been on airplanes plenty of times before. She knew everything there was to know. While the flight attendants showed everyone how to buckle the seatbelts, Milo gazed up at the white tufts of clouds in the vibrant blue sky, knowing they were about to get significantly larger.

The rest of what happened was regular. The plane sped up and took off, momentarily pressing the passengers to the back of their seats. Milo worked her jaw in circles to get her hearing back once they leveled out. The seatbelt sign eventually turned off, and people began the perpetual shuffling back and forth to the bathroom.

Milo spent the rest of the morning listening to her radio and writing in her diary. When they served lunch, she ate an egg salad sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes. She then recorded the recipe in her cookbook, deciding that the bread had been some sort of sourdough. She had recently come up with a title for her cookbook, writing on the cover in big swirly letters: Milo's Cookbook of Plagiary. This is actually a very appropriate title, if you mull it over. Milo adored it.

At two o'clock the plane hit an unusual amount of air pockets, sending drinks, food, items, and people's stomachs everywhere. As the plane was being cleaned, the flight attendants apologizing profusely, several important looking men dashed by Milo's seat and entered the cockpit. The plane didn't settle down for a while, outside or in. When the turbulence finally stopped, they were able to fully clean up. All the spraying and wiping was for naught, though, because there came suddenly a horrid bump. This was followed by an enormous bang.

Everybody inside the plane, all ordinary folks and high strung, flew into a terrified frenzy. Milo, curled up into a ball on her seat, stared unblinkingly at all the yelling, pointing, and pushing. At last the captain himself had to emerge and calm the passengers down.

He composedly explained to them that it was only a small problem and there was nothing to worry about. This seemed to be accepted willingly enough, and everyone sat back down. But even so, Milo felt uneasy. She put all her things away in the bags, making sure each one was sealed. She then hugged her backpack for an hour, telling herself that everything was fine. Another hour later, she was fast asleep.

It's a funny thing, sleep. Deprived of it, you are cranky, tired, and forgetful. Therefore, people ought to get plenty of it. But sleep has one unfortunate stipulation: You must close your eyes, removing yourself from reality, in order to slowly fall into the cycle of sleep that makes you dream. And when you dream, you are in another world, even though you are still in this world, and are oblivious to what is going on around you.

It is therefore good to have an alarm clock, or a reliable mother, to wake you up in the morning. If you didn't, you wouldn't know that morning had come at all, and might miss the bus and have to walk to school. So, even though sleep is usually beneficial and on our side, sometimes it isn't.

It certainly wasn't on Milo's side while she was on the plane. It prevented her from participating in a very important event, thereby putting her life in danger. Nobody bothered to be a reliable mother and wake her up. She what woke her was a loud, blaring alarm. It had been going off for some time, but she had been sleeping deeply, in a very involved dream, and didn't hear it until then. She also woke up because the plane happened to be shifting and rocking violently.

Blearily, she sat up in her seat and looked around, everything dark and blurry at first. Nobody else was with her. Adrenaline shot through her, immediately making her wide awake and alert. Clutching her seat's headrest, she stood up and looked behind her, then in front of her.

The plane was completely empty except for her. Masks were dangling from strings from the ceiling, bopping and dancing wildly as the plane shook. Luggage had been thrown aside and abandoned in the aisle, the arms of seats broken and swinging limply. Milo stared around frantically in confusion, sweat erupting all over her face and neck. A red light was flashing languidly, illuminating the space in an unnerving scarlet glow before fading to darkness. It revealed vacated cushions, rows and rows of them, not a soul to be seen.

Normally any other human being would have panicked, and Milo wasn't looking to be different. She panicked, but only for about two minutes, because when a plane is twisting violently in the air, people have to concentrate on balance more than panicking.

Milo steadied herself and grabbed one of the masks, trying to calm down. She held it to her nose and mouth, taking huge breaths. The jerking and downward, falling motion prevented her from inhaling too long, however. She pushed the mask away, slung on her backpack, and shakily walked into the center aisle.

"Hello?!" she called out, just in case someone was hiding.

There was no answer.

"Hellooo??!" she yelled, taking a wide stance to keep from falling over. "Is aaanybodyyy here?!!"

Once again, no answer came.

"Please!!" she cried miserably.

She looked around frantically, squinting in the meager, red light. She was entirely, one hundred percent alone.

"Oh!" she groaned, clutching her stomach as the plane lurched horribly.

She began to make her way to the back, though the floor was slanting. She caught a glimpse out a window then quickly looked away, gulping. An engine had exploded, and fire was leisurely engulfing the aircraft.

Milo whimpered for a second, then screamed and started to run. She didn't stop until she got to the end of the plane. To her surprise, all the classified, locked doors were flown open, and there was a huge emergency exit open in the back. Night air rushed in at her, chilling her to the bone. She had no idea how long ago she had fallen asleep. She had no idea what time it was. She didn't care. Inching towards the hole, making sure not to get too close, Milo peered out. Stars were sailing by, the moon full and off to the right. It was too dark to see what was below her, though.

The room she was in had been fortified with different supplies for escape, such as instant inflatable rafts, thousands of parachutes, maps, transmitters, first-aid kits and food kits. All the rafts were gone, as well as the kits and transmitters, but there was one more parachute left. Milo crawled over to it and unhooked it from the wall. She shifted her backpack so that it was on her front, and then fastened the parachute to her back.

Suddenly there was an enormous explosion on the left side of the plane that Milo deciphered as the other engine blowing up. It told her that she'd better move it. She clasped her backpack, screwed her eyelids shut, ran, and took a daring leap.

Air whizzed past her, filling her ears with a hollow roar, but she still was able to make out a furious grinding sound. Looking up, she could see underneath the plane and that one of the compartments had broken open.

Suitcases came spilling out, dropping as fast as Milo. A familiar one, perhaps inexplicably able to sense its owner's presence, collided with her head. Blood trickled down her face, getting in her eyes and blinding her slightly. A searing pain raced across her forehead, making her gasp.

Remembering suddenly that she had to open her parachute, she groped behind her for the string that released it. She gripped it and tugged, but it nothing happened. She pulled harder. Still nothing. She yanked with whatever strength she had left and finally heard a click. Cloth came billowing out. The parachute snapped open and caught air, stopping Milo with a jerk.

Her legs swinging loosely below her, she tried to catch her breath, the parachute straps digging into her armpits. At least she was no longer plummeting towards the ground, which was still shrouded in darkness. Yet, she didn't seem to be drifting either. Milo peered upward through the blood and night, trying to figure out why she was still falling rather fast. Her vision hazy, she could just make out a squarish lump amid the stars. She made a strangled noise when she realized that it was the suitcase that had crashed into her head. It was tangled up in the strings of the parachute.

This didn't help her situation very much, but it also didn't hinder it completely. At least she was slowing down a little bit. A good thing too, for a few moments later her legs hit water. Coldness enveloped her as she went under, her body smarting from the impact. Instinctively she began to kick, searching for the surface. Her head suddenly met air, and she pushed hair out of her face.

As she spat water out of her mouth, she noticed it was sicken - ingly salty. The ocean. She was in the ocean! Salty water splashed into her mouth and seeped into her injury, making her wince. But she didn't have time to fuss about it. The parachute, once her savior, was now filling with water, dragging her down. She detached the belt quickly, letting it slide off her shoulders and sink into the briny depths. Her head was throbbing, making everything pulse blurrily. She worked her arms and legs back and forth, treading water and snorting it out of her nose.

The suitcase floated up, bumping into her fingers. She lunged for it, gripping its handle. She flung her backpack upon it, and floated for a minute, pulling herself together. Gingerly, she touched her forehead, igniting pain. Milo sobbed and whipped her hand away. Tilting her face towards the sky, she saw the plane, all ablaze, barreling downward. She looked to where it was headed and, to her absolute shock and relief, saw an island.

From where she floated, it didn't look extremely big, but at the same time exactly tiny. She couldn't make out any details, but it was solid land and that's what mattered.

As the throbbing increased and her vision got fuzzier, she began to kick her way towards it. Already exhausted and sore, she began to pant. She checked her course every now and then, and soon saw the plane crash down on the other side of the island, creating a mushroom shaped explosion. It surged into the sky and was followed by a deafening boom.

Breathing raspily and heavily, Milo tried to increase her speed. Not only did her head hurt, but her stomach and jaw too. She wished she could throw-up; maybe she had swallowed too much sea juice, or maybe it was panic. But she couldn't stop. In the back of her mind, Milo didn't doubt that she was about to fall unconscious, and she wanted to be on dry land when that occurred.

More blood oozed from her head into her eyes, clogging her nose with a metallic stench. She tried to blink it away, but only suc - ceeded in making it worse. The only good thing in the whole messy ordeal was that the tide was pushing at her, making it easier to move. For what seemed like hours, she kicked away in the water, which had numbed her long ago. On all sides of her, suit cases bobbed and floated aimlessly, headed in the same direction. Now and then she had to pause to push one aside. Nothing was going to get in her way. The island was her goal. Nothing else mattered to her at that moment except getting to that island.

She mumbled dumbly to herself, "Must keep going. Must keep going. Gotta get there! Just gotta."

As the island got closer, her legs got stiff and lazy, until at last she couldn't even move them. Suddenly the water changed climates. It was gradually growing warmer, but that didn't reinvigorate Milo any; she was still too tired to kick. Her consciousness was slowly ebbing away, the lapping sound of the water getting fainter and fainter.

She laid her head down on the suitcase, letting the tide carry her the rest of the way. The shore was growing closer. It looked very foggy and red and was still far off, but she could see it.

"I'll get there," she thought weakly.

She had to. Just had to. She would. She had to. Had - to. Just . . . had . . . to. Just - had . . . to. Just . . . had - to. Just had . . .
The Island of Lote

The Island of Lote chapter three: The Summer Camp

HAVE YOU EVER heard of the most-of-the-time-true theory that after a good night's rest everybody is in a better mood, and they take back things they said and punishments they inflicted? This theory did not come to pass for Milo and her parents. When Milo awoke the next day, she was hardly in a better mood; her head and lip still hurt, and she was freezing because it had been an unusually cold night.

Her parents were also not in a better mood because, instead of going to bed and forgetting the fight, they had started a fresh one with each other. This fight had lasted half the night, and therefore they were exhausted and grouchy in the morning, their personal dispute still lingering in their minds.

Since not one of them was in a better mood, nobody took back anything they said, and so Milo remained grounded. Grounded of course means the same thing in an apartment building as it does in a house: She had to go to school, (not that she wanted to), she couldn't go to the mall, (not that she ever intended to), and she had to come straight home to sit dejectedly on the couch with no television, radio, or books.

None of it truly bothered Milo, besides the injustice, but she was now nervous about using the elevators, since they had proved to be an exceptionally dangerous mode of transportation. The danger itself had gotten worse, because Milo's parents had forced her to apologize to her rotund and conspicuously unblemished fellow skirmishers; in front of their parents, no less.

She recited her lines in front many crossed arms and narrowed eyes, the kids smirking menacingly at her from behind their parents. Milo, with sinking spirits, knew that they were thinking that if they ever did it again, they wouldn't get in trouble. All they would have to do was claim that Milo had offended them into passionate retaliation.

Their parents, all roughly the same shape as a tri-athlete and apparently unfamiliar with the hostile side of their children, were nothing short of enraged at Milo. They believed everything her parents described to them; or felt compelled to believe it, much in the way all parents feel they must put faith in their offspring instead of visible evidence. Therefore Milo, standing before them bruised and swollen, was found guilty of all accusations.

This was how the parents of the elevator terrors came to have an unfair and unwarranted grudge against Milo. They, along with their kids, glared at her whenever she happened to be nearby. To avoid this, and any more future beatings, Milo made the decision to take the stairs back and forth between her apartment and school. It was only eight floors, which wasn't nearly as bad as what she was avoiding.

An entire week of sneaking around in a stairwell sounds tiring, but Milo actually benefited from it. Because she was grounded, she also couldn't go to the restaurant floor; therefore, her father, annoyed but left with no choice, bought an oven and installed it. Otherwise she would have starved. Its presence made Milo a little happy, until her parents told her to prepare a special dinner for her adversaries and their parents, as a further apology.

Milo was furious, but powerless and a night of pure tension, but delicious food, at the dinner table occurred. The kids, apparently not only violent but scheming too, were even more convinced to gang up on Milo again. Why not? They wouldn't get in trouble and also get a lovely meal out of it. Milo was therefore reduced to peeking around corners and tiptoeing down hallways if alone or, whenever possible, always standing close to some version of an adult. She was receiving plenty of sidelong glances, but right then she valued her health more than her pride.

The entire week dragged by with excruciating slowness, Milo becoming increasingly frazzled by the day. To boost her morale, she began to pretend that she was the last golden, scarlet-spotted leopard in the rainforest, evading ruthless poachers. This lasted until a few snide comments from Bob the Conscience put an end to it.

After the week went by, her parents, never exactly ones to dwell on anything, had completely forgotten their fight with Milo, and were in terrific moods; partly because they were both having a very good week at work. Milo's mother had been promoted to a higher rank, even though she had only started there a short time ago. And her father, whose company was stationed practically everywhere, had received a large raise.

They both were happy and jolly when they came home for dinner. They chatted cheerfully to each other, not noticing that Milo wasn't making a sound and was just picking at her food. This lasted for a couple of days after the "Week of Horror", until they realized she looked thinner than usual.

"What's the matter, hon?" her father finally asked during one meal. "You aren't eating very much."

"Not very hungry," she replied tonelessly, not looking at him.

"You haven't been very hungry for a few days," her mother pointed out. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

Milo wearily lifted her head to look at her parent's kind, inviting faces. Her shoulders sagged.

Yes. Sure there were things she wanted to tell them. She wanted to tell them about the way she journeyed to and from school each day; slinking around and hiding until she was in a teacher's sight. She wanted to share how she stayed home on weekends, doing nothing and going crazy. She didn't dare venture out of the apartment in general; too risky. She longed, rather sulkily, to tell them about how she had lice all through the "Week of Horror", and how she had to secretly go to the school nurse for a bottle of medicated shampoo.

There were also the recurring nightmares she had of tinsel turning into a monster and decorating her room; the fact that word of no punishments and lovely dinners had spread to most of the kids in the building; the stairs were exhausting her; the way kids and adults looked at her when she walked by; she hadn't had any peace too long a time; and the only way she got any fresh air was when she went to bed at night, only end up with a cold in the morning.

"No peace," Milo thought sullenly. "No place where I can think."

"No," Milo said to her parents, sighing. "There's nothing."

"Are you sure?" her mother pressed.

Milo faced her, shaking her head.

"No, not really," she said. "It's nothing. Really. I'm just a little . . . overwhelmed. I guess it's the whole moving experience. . . . I just wish I could go somewhere to think all this out. Somewhere away from here."

"Is that all?" her father asked in surprise, reaching for a special bottle of wine. From the dark splotches under her eyes, he had expected more. "Well, hon, if you can find a place, you can certainly go there. My goodness, you scared me! I thought it was something else. Like a boy or something."

He saw her shocked face and giggled mischievously.

"Sorry, hon, but it's been on my mind lately. Why don't you have a boyfriend? A pretty girl like you should have no problem getting one."

"I'll have one when I get one!" Milo said through gritted teeth. This was a rather delicate subject for her. She had her own theories about boyfriends and love and so on, and she was determined that nobody was going mess with them. So much in her life was indefinite, she wanted to keep at least one thing consistent.

"It is unusual. That fact," her mother said thoughtfully, taking a sip of wine, acting as if she hadn't heard her. "You know, Milo, there's a women at work who has a boy about your age. If you like, we could hook you two up."

"No!" Milo snapped, jabbing a piece of steak as she did so. "I am too young for dating. At fifteen I can start dating. I only just turned fourteen. I got another whole year to go."

"But don't you want to date, Milo?"

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "Of course I do. But not right now, and I want to do it my way. And my way is that I find my own boyfriend; someone that I really like and trust. You know I have my principles about stuff like that. I'm always going to live by them and nobody is going to make me do otherwise!"

That ended the discussion, though Milo, of course, was wrong about that last part. But she was contentedly unaware of this as she lay in bed, trying to think of a place where she could go for a while to clear her head. When she said her prayers, she asked God for a place to go. She didn't care where. Anywhere, really, as long as it was far away. Just a place where she could hear her own thoughts and have maybe even have a little fun.

An answer to her prayers came a few days after school ended. She was walking tentatively through the lobby when, for the first time, she noticed a bulletin board next to the doors. She hadn't seen it before because Miz Ricca had tried to cover it with tinsel. However, all the people who had put up flyers and have-you-seen papers got angry at her, and so she had to remove her special design.

Tacked to the bulletin board that particular day were flyers for a summer camp in Australia, called "Camp Outback". There was a kangaroo in the center of the paper, wearing a khaki vest and giving a cool stare. Milo took a close look at one of those flyers, grabbed it, and dashed into an elevator, scattering all manner of tinsel in her wake.

She rarely saw the lobby these days, not wanting to risk getting trapped in the elevator with any unsavory humans, and the stairs were too long. She was only down there that day because her mother had taken her to the hospital, the only service the building didn't provide. It was only a check-up, since she was very worried about Milo's health. Her appetite hadn't improved yet, and, honestly, Milo could only get so thin before she started to frighten anyone who laid eyes on her. The doctor finding her perfectly healthy, if not underweight, her mother had dropped her off at 711 before going off to work.

Milo, now giddily pressing the down button, prayed that nobody would be on the elevator with her. Once again, God came through for her, and she made it to her apartment safely. It happened to also be her father's day off, so when Milo charged into B-1107 she had a parent to show the flyer to.

"Dad! Dad!" Milo shouted into the kitchen.

"In the living room, hon!" came a voice from another room. Milo redirected herself to the living room and found her father sitting on the couch, browsing through business papers.

"Dad, look at this!" Milo said excitedly, thrusting the flyer in front of his face.

After backing up to see properly, he read, "'Camp Outback: The camp where kids get to have fun, make friends, see amazing sights, and learn the art of boomerang hunting, all in Australia's breathtaking outback. If you are interested in signing up your child, then just call the toll free number below: 1-800-Outback.'"

When he finished reading, he glanced blankly up at Milo.

"Yeah, what about it?" he asked, confused.

"What about it?" Milo repeated. She tapped a finger frantically on the kangaroo. "This is where I can go. The place we were talking about. You said if I found a place then I could go. I did. This place!

This is the place! Where's the phone?"

"Whoa!" her father said, holding up his hands. "Slow down, hon! Breathe. Look, I know I said that, but I think before we do anything we should discuss it with your mom."

"Why? Can't you just call?"

"No. We have to talk about it first. You don't go running off to Australia on a whim."

"But -"

"No buts!"

Milo groaned. "Fine," she muttered.

She stuffed the flyer into one of numerous jean pockets and went into her room. She spent the rest of the day in solitude, listening to her radio and telling her diary about the summer camp. When her mother finally came home, Milo immediately whipped out the flyer to show her. Her mother said that they would discuss it after dinner. Again Milo had to wait in the agony of patience while they ate. She could barely swallow her throat was so tight with anticipation.

Afterwards, her mother took a good look at the advertisement, sighed and said, "Oh. I don't know, Milo. It seems sooooo far away from home. So far away from us."

"Exactly!" Milo said, grinning.

"Milo."

"Sorry."

"Well . . . I know that we said you could go if you found a place."

"And I found a place,"Milo said genially, pointing to the phonenumber on the page.

Both her parents had to smile.

"Are you sure you want to do this, hon?" her father asked. "Summer camps are a lot of fun. I know I enjoyed going when I was a kid. But you've never been to one before. You get pretty homesick first time around."

"Look," Milo huffed, rolling her eyes. "I've wanted to go to one for a long time, but we were either moving, or settling in, or we couldn't afford it. Well, this time none of that is holding us back. Not to mention, I would have to be in the Arctic, starving to death, and riddled with frost-bite to ever be homesick for this place!"

Her parents were taken aback a bit by that remark, both of them blissfully well-adjusted to 711, but did agree to call and sign her up.

Milo whooped for joy and danced her way to her room singing, "Joy to the World". Once there, she pulled out her suitcase from her closet. She had hoped a short time ago she wouldn't have to use it for a while, but now she kissed it and gave her backpack a hug. She sorted through her clothes and packed the lucky chosen while belting out, "Hallelujah". She tucked her little radio, headphones, diary, and cookbook into her backpack while crooning, "You're a Lucky Fellow, Mister Smith".

The next morning, she jigged her way to the elevator and rode uninterrupted down to the Wal-Mart. There, she bought four packages of Pilot Point Precise Grip Pens, her favorite type of pen, three pens per package. She also bought five packages of triple a batteries, that being the type her radio used; eight batteries per package. She wiped out most of her money that way, neither item cheap, but she didn't care. Milo considered this camp to be like a vacation, the outback a refuge, and every cent was worth it. She also bought the strongest sunscreen they had.

As she returned to the elevator, bag in hand, and pressed the button, Bob the Conscience suddenly yelled out, "Wait!"

"What!" Milo shrieked in surprise as the doors closed.

"I don't think we should take the elevator this time," he said.

"Why not?" Milo demanded.

"I dunno," Bob the Conscience admitted. "It's just a feeling. A really bad feeling."

Bob, who was a conscience and is supposed to be usually right, was right. For a few moments later the elevator halted at the eleventh floor and opened to reveal the very five kids who had ganged up on Milo the first time, along with three others. Milo stood frozen in fear, her thought process shutting down.

"Well, look who it is!" the lead boy laughed.

The rest began to laugh along with him. A deep, mocking, maniacal laugh. They sneered at poor, scrawny Milo, all alone in the elevator, and took a step forward. In that moment, as each foot landed, Milo made a life changing decision. A decision which would allow her to go to camp, instead of getting into more trouble and thus anchored to 711 Shady Ally. If she hadn't made this decision, there would not be a story to write down. Milo made the decision to run.

She bent her head low, clasped her bag to her chest, and broke into a sudden sprint. Surprising the delinquencies, she managed to worm her small body through the gaps between the bellies before they could grab her. Once past, she made a break for the exit at the end of the corridor that lead to the stairs.

"Hey, you! Get back here!" they yelled after her. "Come on guys! Let's get her!"

They began to chase after her, shouting nasty threats as they ran. Milo had gone through the door and was already in the stairwell, sunshine weakly pouring in through the grimy windows, but the gang closing in. Swallowing hard, she started to climb.

The stairs didn't seem to prove much of an obstacle for her pursuers. At least not for four floors. At five they were panting. At six they were gasping. At seven they were gulping down air. At eight they were moving so slow that they barely moved. They clung to the molting railing and leaned up against the cold concrete walls.

"Just one more floor to go!" Milo whispered encouragingly to herself.

She wasn't exhausted at all. She had been climbing for weeks.

At the forty-sixth floor, she paused to look over the railing at the gasping, furious gang and shouted gaily to them, "Bon Voyage! I'll be seeing you in a month!"

And with that, she sauntered through the doorway into the hallway, headed for B-1107, singing, "This is My Once-a-Year-Day".
The Island of Lote

The Island of Lote chapter two: Adjusting

HAVE YOU EVER heard of the saying, "Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back"? That saying is merely implying that sometimes when people, or cats, become so curious that they stick their human nose, or kitty nose, into something they shouldn't, and end up getting in trouble. However, they can get out of that trouble by having whoever they are in trouble with change their minds. That last part does not happen very often, though, and the "cats" usually stay "killed". This is why people usually just say, "Curiosity killed the cat." We have long forgotten about the part, "But satisfaction brought it back."

That saying can be interpreted another way; that's the way it was for Milo. Each time that she let her curiosity overthrow her common sense, she felt a little bit of herself getting killed. Occasion ally she did find the satisfaction to bring back those little bits of herself, but it was never much satisfaction.

For instance, when she first stepped into her apartment, a tiny bit of her died when she saw that one of her bedroom windows had a hole in it, like some vengeful individual threw a rock through it. Oddly enough, nothing else in the apartment was harmed. Milo found a little satisfaction though; it was the beginning of June and very hot at night, so the hole in the window was appreciated rather than shunned.

When Milo finally worked up enough curiosity to walk into the school for her first day, a small part of her died when she saw that all the children in her class, and the whole school in fact, wore a snarl and XXL pants. Milo felt like a piece of angel hair spaghetti in a pot of killer meatballs, but she was somewhat satisfied to be back in school. All of the teachers were very nice, the total reverse of their irate pupils, and, also oddly enough, were just about as thin as Milo was.

The reason for this, Milo discovered, was that the entire twentyseventh floor was a gym. All of the grown-ups in the building visited it regularly and were extremely fit. But children under the age of twenty weren't allowed to go there, it apparently being a safe haven for the adult population, and even if they could Milo had a feeling that they wouldn't.

When Milo's curiosity got the better of her and she travelled to the fourteenth floor, where the restaurants were located, a little bit of her spluttered out when she saw almost every single kid in her class at B.K. She didn't dare go in, especially when a boy with sinister eyebrows close to the entrance growled at her. She did, however, find some satisfaction when she went to O.G. and saw that their prices were half of what they were outside.

And finally, she got soooo curious, and bored, that she went down to the basement. Once there, an itty-bitty chunk of her died when she saw nearly all the kids in the building hanging out at the miniature mall, which she quickly learned they did basically every day. The way they glared at her made her so uncomfortable that she couldn't bring herself to enter. But she achieved some satisfaction when she went into the Wal-Mart and saw that very few other kids were there. She was also delighted to find a grocery store attached to it.

She bought ingredients for one of her favorite pasta recipes, and went straight up to her apartment to make it. When she arrived, though, a little bit of her died harshly when she realized they had not installed the oven yet. Frustrated, she put her ingredients in the refrigerator, which thankfully had been install, and grabbed her diary and little radio, deciding to go up to the garden. But when she got into the elevator, she saw that there was no button to take her to the roof. Milo, on the verge of utter exasperation, abandoned the elevator and took the stairs, which were rusty and noticeably neglected.

"She was right when she said that nobody uses these anymore," Milo muttered, referring to Miz Ricca. Every couple of steps or so, she had to wipe flecks of rust and dust off her hand on her jeans.

After stepping out onto the roof, quite a bit of her died woefully as she took in the garden. It was extremely overgrown and a haphazard mess, as if nobody had gardened there in decades.

There were weeds everywhere; in the path, in the flower beds, which had perhaps once held pretty, vibrant flowers, and they took over the grass. The bushes and shrubs looked like someone had stopped pruning them a long time ago. Vines grew all over and constricted the two lovely fountains, which were both cracked and dirt encrusted. The leaves from years of roof top autumns had not been raked, making a thick carpet of matted crumbling, brown leaves and coarse weeds on the ground. A tree that had grown so old and rotted that it had fallen in a swoon had not been removed, or trimmed down, and vines and lichen had claimed it for their own.

Milo, who had always been a lover of nature and well-kept gardens, wanted to cry as she gazed around at everything. There were benches that had barely any paint left on them, the wood shrunken and splitting. Way off in a corner, there was a section of the garden that appeared big enough for a small game of soccer, but was at the second stage of becoming a swamp.

"Great!" Milo muttered dismally, sitting down on one of the benches.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" Bob the Conscience said, but he was too late. The bench creaked then cracked, sending Milo crashing through it.

"Ow!" she whined, groping for the iron arm of the bench.

"Thanks a lot, Bob!"

Despite a garden full of weeds, which was undoubtedly full of all kinds of insect life, and unstable benches, Milo found satisfaction in the fact that no one else was up there with her. She was at last completely alone. She found a moss covered rock under a tree and sat down. She slipped on her headphones, turned the radio on, and tuned into a good hip-hop station, since that was the music she liked best. She spent about two hours in the garden, scribbling ferociously in her diary. At about 4:45, she decided to go back.

As she stood up, she happened to brush off some moss from the rock and an engraving materialized. Curious, she took a closer look, scraping off more moss with her fingernails. It read:

"This garden is dedicated to the mayor of Shady Ally. Let us hope that when we get one, he will come here."

"Okay?"Milo said, confused. "That's nice, I guess. But . . . heck, if it's in this bad a condition, they probably never did get one!"

She straightened up and trudged back to door to the stairwell, but instead of going to B-1107, she rode the elevator down to the lobby. Once there, she carefully picked her way through the tinsel, finally making it to the desk. Miz Ricca being nowhere in sight, she located the bell and rang it three times. Miz Ricca came hurrying in from the hallway on the right side of the desk.

"Hello?" she said, puzzled, then put on her glasses. "Oh. Hi!" she exclaimed after seeing Milo. Milo gave a little wave.

"Good afternoon," Miz Ricca said cordially, her brow furrowing.

"I'm so sorry, but . . . who - I mean, what is your name . . .?"

"Milo," Milo said.

"Oh. Yes,"Miz Ricca said, chuckling pleasantly. "Of course, how could I have forgotten? Well, Mila, what can I do for you?"

"Actually it's MILO, trust me, and I was just wondering about the garden on the roof."

"Yes, what about it?" Miz Ricca asked, teetering towards a chair that didn't seem to have enough tinsel on it.

"Well,"Milo said slowly, watching her. "It seems a little, let's see, how shall I put it? Un-taken care of."

"You've been up there?" Miz Ricca cried, whisking around in alarm, her ankles almost giving way.

"Yes," Milo said, feeling uneasy. "Why? Is it off limits or something?"

"Oh. No," Miz Ricca admitted, patting gently at her hair, as if worried her sudden movement had disturbed it. "It's just that - well, the reason for it being so unruly is because we haven't really bothered to hire a gardener to keep it well groomed."

"Why not?" Milo asked, hoping she knew that they were talking about a garden and not a dog.

"Because, nobody goes up there," Miz Ricca said carelessly, flicking some tinsel off her sweater. "So it's not worth it. The new elevators don't even have a button that leads up there. I heard that it was once a very popular place in the building. You know; a place where the kids could go and get exercise. But then its splendor wore off, and people didn't care for it anymore. And besides, they were sick of paying the bills for it; so many other worthwhile things to have bills for. It was completely forgotten when the mall and restaurants came. But that's only what I heard."

"Oh," Milo said softly. She felt discouraged. "But it's okay if I go up there, right?"

"Hmm? Oh. Sure. But if I were you, I wouldn't. As you probably guessed, as Lobby Secretary I hear a lot of rumors, and one that I am always hearing is that the garden is full of lice!"

Milo's eyes widened. "Lice?" she croaked.

Miz Ricca nodded amiably. "Yep. Uh-huh. Just chock full."

Milo stiffened and began to walk backwards down the left hallway.

"Um, thanks, Miz Ricca," she said. Miz Ricca smiled and waved. "No problem, dear. Take care. See you later!"

"Yeah," Milo muttered, turning around. "Sure you will." She pressed the button for an elevator then checked to see that she was alone.

"Bob!" she hissed. "Bob! Answer me! I know you're there! You can't be anywhere else!" "Actually," Bob the Conscience whispered ruefully, "I was in the membrane preparing my dinner. Oh, Milo! I'm sorry. How was I supposed to know that it was a lice garden?"

"I don't know!" she hissed back. "You knew that bench was crap and you told me!"

"Well, that one was obvious!"

"And a weed-filled garden isn't?"

Bob the Conscience, for once in his life, was speechless. That's not a good thing for a conscience to be. Bob the Conscience was aware of that, so he spoke anyway.

"Okay! So I didn't see it. But you didn't either. I thought you had more sense than that."

"I do!" she shouted by accident. "I do," she hissed, glancing around hastily, seeing if anyone had heard. The elevator opened and she stepped in. "It's just that you are my conscience and now thanks to you lice may be partying all over me! Now look, boi! If you don't perk up and pull your act together, I'm going to find a new conscience!"

Bob the Conscience gasped in horror. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, yes I would! Get it?"

Bob the Conscience groaned. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," Milo said tartly, as the elevator stopped at a floor different from the one she had punched in. Somebody else had called it there, and as the doors parted she saw who. Five kids from her class stalked into the elevator and began their habitual glaring.

"Well," one of the boys said loudly as the doors closed. "Look who it is! Otis!"

Milo gulped. "That's Milo," she said, quaking.

The boy growled low in his throat. "Right," he said. "Milo, the little shrimp who decided to die!"

"Actually, no," Milo replied, her voice getting higher. "I don't. Not that it wasn't nice of you to offer!" she added quickly. "It's just that I would prefer not to die. Not that I believe that you would actually kill me!"

She chuckled weakly, clutching her diary to her chest, her eyes shifting from one face to another.

The boy leaned forward, leering, and said, "What makes you so sure?"

"She's such a snob!" a girl piped up. "Always eating at the Olive Garden alone and not talking to anyone in class!"

Milo wanted to explain why she was doing such things, but thought it better not to. Right then, accusing them of anything didn't seem like the best way to get out of the situation.

"Well," the boy said, grinning evilly. "We know what to do with snobs!"

"I told you, you should have taken the stairs," Bob the Conscience said grimly.

. . . . . .

"You could have called for help," Milo's mother said to her some time later back at B-1107.

"I was in an elevator!" Milo cried. She was sitting on a counter, holding an ice pack to her head, while at the same time nursing both a nose-bleed and split lip. Her parents hadn't exactly been thrilled to come home to find their daughter in such a battered state. This was far from the first time, and quite frankly they were getting quite tired of it.

"That's not the point, Milo!" her father said. He had a tone in his voice that was purposely not comforting her. He had taken a wide stance in front of her, arms crossed. "I am sick of you always getting into fights! It seems to happen everywhere we go!"

"Hey, it's not my fault this fight happened!" she said defensively.

"Why do you always do this?" her father asked, ignoring what she said. "Is it because you want attention? I always thought you liked to be alone; to be by yourself. Not that I think it's good for you to always be alone. I would prefer it if you were active in a group or something. You don't get into groups by picking fights. You only get into gangs that way and you certainly are not joining a gang! You also don't make friends this way. I thought you wanted to make friends?"

"I do!" Milo said, fuming. "I told you, this wasn't my fault! I didn't cause it! I don't go around picking fights. They come to me!"

"Nonsense!" her father said dismissively. He raised his chin and looked down his nose at her. "I don't believe you. You know what I heard from your teacher? That you don't 'interact' with the other students! Look, Milo, I am not raising a stuck-up child! For some reason I always thought that you were a shy, sweet little girl. My little girl. My little baby girl! Now what's a father to think when his little baby girl is always coming home with black eyes and broken bones?"

"First of all,"Milo said, wincing as she moved her lip. "I only got a black eye once, and I've never had any broken bones!"

"That's not the point," her father shouted at her, his temper flaring up. "The point is that instead of shaking hand, you use yours to make a fist."

"Second of all," Milo continued through her teeth, forcing herself to ignore him. "I was never your shy, sweet little girl. I am not shy or sweet, and you have never considered me your 'baby girl'. I've always been 'hon'! You never have been there to comfort me. It seems like you just blame me to make parenting easier for you!"

"That's enough, Milo!" her mother said sharply. "You have no right to talk to your father that way! I am very disappointed in you!"

"As am I!" her father agreed. "How dare you say such a thing? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! The utter ingratitude! We bring you to this wondrous place, supplied with everything you would ever need. Friends included, but for some reason you seem to think that every person on the planet is against you."

"No," Milo objected, shifting the ice pack on her forehead. "Only anyone who gives me the stink eye."

"Is that so? And exactly what evidence have you seen that proves that any child in this building is a bully?"

"Have you seen the kids in this building?!" Milo asked in astonishment.

"That's not nice, Milo!" her mother said. "Just because the chil - dren here are slightly obese, doesn't give you the right to talk so."

"Slightly?" Milo said dubiously, even though she had meant their irate attitudes.

"Milo!"

"Enough!" her father shouted. He ran his fingers through his hair, thoroughly worked up. "Milo, I am disgusted with you! And what's more, you are grounded for a week!"

"What?!" she cried, almost toppling off the counter. "That's not fair. . . . At all!"

"Provoking kids with cruel remarks is what's not fair. When you say things like that to them, of course they are going to release their hurt inappropriately."

"I didn't . . . I - I would never do something like that!"

"No? Then how come you came home absolutely injured?" her mother inquired smartly.

"Because!" Milo cried out desperately. "They're all bullies! They growl at me whenever I'm around them for Pete's sake! Like pit bulls! I don't know why they did this to me! Who knows? Maybe they're jealous of me or something. Jealous of how I look."

"Jealous of how you look?" her father said incredulously.

"Well, why not?" her mother asked, briefly siding with her daughter. "I can imagine why they would be. She is a lovely girl."

"That's not what I mean," Milo said, gingerly touching the bump on her lip.

"That still wouldn't be enough to provoke them," her father insisted skeptically.

"Why not?" Milo spat, though she didn't mean to and used her ice pack to wipe it off the counter top. "I always told you, Mom, that some day my looks would get me into trouble! And I guarantee you that this won't be the last time!"

Although Milo didn't actually know this, it was quite true.

"Unbelievable!" her father exclaimed, rubbing one temple and starting to pace. "The excuses you come up with! The ungratefulness! Everything you would want; everything you would need! One place! Nothing but trouble, always!"

"Not everything I need is here," Milo interjected, pointing to the empty corner in the kitchen.

"The oven isn't installed." Her father glanced at the desolate corner, then back at her.

"There are well priced restaurants on one of the floors. You don't need an oven," he stated.

"I need an oven," she insisted.

He rolled his eyes. "Fine!" he said. "If you need one that badly, then you can buy one at the mall in the basement."

"I don't have money for something like that!" Milo cried in protest, sliding off the counter onto her feet.

"Well," her father said, at last looking pleased. "Isn't that your problem?"

"For your needed information," Milo snarled, "cooking happens to be my most favorite thing in the world! But of course you wouldn't know that, because you continuously find short-cuts around parenting!"

"ENOUGH!" both her parents yelled at once.

"Go to your room!" her mother shouted, face flushed from either shame or rage, or both.

"You mean my naturally air-conditioned room?!" Milo asked savagely.

"Yes!" her father snapped. "And you are still grounded for a week!"

Milo grabbed her ice pack, then stormed into her room and slammed the door. This is a very loud and rude gesture, but after all that had occurred, slamming her door made Milo feel quite good.

"Well, look on the bright side," Bob the Conscience said brightly.

"What bright side?" Milo moaned, flopping onto her bed, her head aching for two different reasons.

"You probably gave them all lice!"

And that made Milo feel very good.
The Island of Lote

The Island of Lote chapter one: The New Neighborhood.

THERE ARE TWO very different types of people in the world: Individuals and followers. Individuals are their own person, and are exactly who they want to be. Followers try to take on the image of the individuals, and do things exactly like them. Individuals don't follow the crowd, unlike the followers, but create their own image and don't care what people think of it. Some of the individuals and the followers are rather rebellious. Some choose to be that way, while others simply ended up that way, due to pressure. While most rebellions aren't very much appreciated, there are times when they can be quite useful. They can help keep people out of trouble, or help teach them to stand for what they believe in, which you don't see all that often.

One very good-rebellious person in the world was sitting on a car seat one warm afternoon, hugging her knees, and was staring out a window. This person was a fourteen year-old girl, named Milo Hestler. And she was distraught. At least her stomach was. Speaking of which, the distraught feeling in Milo Hestler's stomach increased to an almost unbearable amount as she gazed out the window of her parent's car. They were driving through a neighborhood called Shady Ally. Though it seemed to Milo that it was more like a city than a neighborhood, but her parents delclared it a neighborhood, so it remained that. She also didn't know why it wasn't spelled with an 'e'.

The reason it seemed more like a city was because there were no houses. The only living quarters in Shady Ally were apartment buildings. Dozens of them, all lined up next to each other on each side of the road. That road was the only road there, stretching leisurely onward, making it look more like an actual alleyway. Each apartment building was about thirty to fifty stories high, and they took up most of the sky view. The sun was rarely ever directly over head, but always more to the side, casting shadows from the buildings into the street. So in a way, it really was like a shady alleyway.Why the good people who inhabited the place wanted to use "ally" instead of "alley" was a mystery. An ally is supposed to be someone you trust and rely on. If your ally is shady, it probably isn't a wise idea to continue the relationship.

But that was a very small reason why Milo was feeling nervous. Like any kid moving into a new home, she was worried about adjusting and making friends. The first home she lived in had burned down when she was little, forcing her family to move. She had many friends and relations there and was heartbroken to leave them, especially when she moved into their new house and found that nobody wanted to be friends with her. She moved three times after that, and each time she never made any more friends. She also lost contact with her friends and relations from her first residence.

Continuously finding herself alone, Milo began to fear that she would never have another friend again. She was wrong about that, of course, but for the time being, she begrudgingly sat scrunched in the back seat of a 2002 Camry.

"We're here!" her mother's voice sang out as they braked in front of 711 Shady Ally.

"Ooooh! Goodie!" Milo snapped. "Let's hope we all don't puke with joy!"

Milo occasionally got creative with her words. Her father turned around in his seat and glared at her.

"Sorry!" she said, lowering her eyes. "It's just that, how do we know that this time we're actually 'here'?"

"Oh, Milo," her mother groaned, grinding the heel of her hand into her forehead. "Can't you just try to be a little happy? I mean, we've been driving around all day, all yesterday, and all of last week. We didn't drive all that way not to be 'here'."

It was Milo's turn to groan.

"Fine!" she mumbled. "I'm a little happy. At least we can get out of this car." She opened her door and got out.

"That's the spirit, hon!" her father said heartily, swinging his door all the way open.

Whenever Milo's father wasn't mad at her, he called her "hon".

"You'll see," he continued. "Things will be different here. You'll make plenty of friends and get used to living here like that." He snapped his fingers. "It'd be impossible not to. You don't even need to leave the building for anything! Your mom and I will have to leave for work of course, but you won't ever have any reason to go outside again, hon!"

Milo stopped in her steps, which were leading to the trunk of the car.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her stomach not settling any. Both her parents grinned at her.

"We wanted to surprise you," her mother said. "The building we are going to live in, 711, is one of the neighborhood buildings in Shady Ally."

"It's an entire system of living inside one place, hon," her father said. He pulled two suitcases out of the trunk and handed both of them to Milo's mother.

"It's huge!" she exclaimed, obviously sold on the idea long ago. "The building I mean. The idea of an entire neighborhood inside one place isn't very popular at the moment. I don't know why, it seems wonderfully convenient to me. But, as I was saying, the building is gigantic. It has everything you need inside it. First and foremost, a school -"

"A school!" Milo broke in, her eyebrows up. "Right in an apartment building?"

"Yes," her mother said. "Not only that, but also a Wal-Mart and a miniature mall. That's all in the basement. The school is the entire thirty-eighth floor. There are restaurants too, like Burger King and the Olive Garden!"

Milo scrunched up her nose. Despite the fact that she couldn't believe that all this was crammed into one building, she had to sneer at the thought of any restaurant. The family had been on the road for two weeks, eating nothing but fast food. Therefore, just the thought of Burger King made her want to throw-up. She didn't really mind the Olive Garden, but it was still a restaurant and restaurants weren't something that Milo approved of.

Milo preferred to make her own food. She had been interested in cooking ever since she first saw an oven. She kept a large notebook filled with recipes that she had copied from cookbooks. Every time she would find a recipe that she liked, she would copy on a blank page of the notebook, slowly compiling a complete cookbook.

She took this notebook everywhere with her, along with the two other most important things in her life. All three were in the backpack her mother handed to her. The other two were a diary, in which she was writing down her life, and her little radio and headphones.

Without these things, Milo figured she'd die or suffer from some sudden madness. She would write in her diary whenever something interesting in her life happened, such as her house burning down or moving three times. And she would listen to her radio often, in order to relax and momentarily forget about her troubles. She kept extra pens and batteries with her in case one or the other ran out or got lost just when she desperately needed them.

Turning away from the car, with her backpack on her shoulder and a suitcase in each hand, Milo stared up at the building in front of her. Tilting her head back, she could just make out the roof of the building, and much to her surprise, she saw the crowns of trees sticking up from it.

"Uh, Mom," Milo said. "What's that?" She pointed her left suit - case at the roof. Her mother peered upward.

"Oh, right!" she said absently. "There's a garden on the roof."

"Really?" Milo said, perking up. "That sounds cool. It's been a while since I've been able to be alone with nature. This place might not be that bad after all!"

"Not bad?" her father said, striding towards the doors, laden with luggage. "It's the most fantastic place in the world, hon! And the rent's not bad, either. What more could you ask for?"

"Friends?" Milo asked shyly. Her parents grinned at her. Her mother put her arm around her shoulder and guided her to the doors, her father holding one open with some difficulty.

"You'll see," her mother said confidently. "Things will be dif - ferent here."

Of course things weren't going to be, but Milo didn't know that. Almost smiling, she and her parents strolled into the lobby, which was decorated with tinsel.

Milo's mother walked up to the tinsel strewn desk and found the bell. Three rings brought a woman in from another room, tottering on heels far too high.

"Hello?" she said, looking around as if blind. She then reached into a skirt pocket and pulled out a pair of eye-glasses. She slid them on and jumped back in surprise, not helping her precarious balance.

"Oh! My! I mean, hello." She smiled broadly. Milo's mother smiled too.

"Hi there," she said. "We are the new tenants. You must be the Lobby Secretary?"

Personally, Milo had never heard of a "lobby secretary" before, but the woman immediately said, "Oh. Yes. I mean yes! Of course I am! I'm Miz Ricca, and you must be the . . ."

Not waiting for a reply, she made her wobbly way past them to the desk, where she began to flip through a registry book.

"Hestlers?" she finished, squinting at a spot on a page.

"That's right!" Milo's father replied robustly, grinning.

"Well, welcome to 711 Shady Ally!" Miz Ricca said, bringing out a set of keys and handing them to him. "Here are your keys, you can make as many copies as you want, and I look forward to getting to know each one of you!"

"Well, thank you!" Milo's mother said sweetly. "Let's start right now, shall we? I'm Sherrill-Jean Hestler, and this is my husband, Earnest, and our daughter, Milolantalita."

"Actually, it's just Milo," Milo piped up, not knowing where on Earth her mother had come up with "Milolantalita".

It most certainly was not on her birth certificate. She had heard the story often enough of how, at her birth, they had wanted to name her Mila, but her father's hand writing had caused the 'a' to look like an 'o', and it got recorded that way. Though they both claimed that they liked it better that way, Milo always had a feeling that her mother was rather miffed that her daughter had a boy's name.

Her mother nudged her hard and said, "Now tell us your name. Surely there's more to it than 'Miz Ricca'."

"Oh! No! I mean, no. I'm sorry, dear," Miz Ricca said apolo geti - cally, seemingly startled. "I'm not allowed to tell you or let you use my first name. It's a Lobby Secretary thing, and if I make an exception for you than I'll have to make an exception for everybody! And believe me, there's a fair number of young men in this place who would love to call me Reba! Now then, if you need anything I'll be here, and if you get lost, there are maps all over the building."

"Reba Ricca?" Milo muttered to herself.

"And if you have any questions," she added, "don't hesitate to ask."

"Yeah," Milo said, jumping at the opportunity. "Why is Shady Ally spelled without the 'e'?"

Miz Ricca's lips became a line. "What do you mean?" she said casually.

"I mean," Milo said clearly. "A - l - l - y spells al-i. Alley is spelled a - l - l - e - y."

"Oh," Miz Ricca said, looking away. "That. Well, it does read alley, only they thought it would look nicer without the 'e'. It's still the same thing."

"But," Milo insisted. "It says al-i. Not alley."

"Yes, it does."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does!"

"Thank you, Miz Ricca!" her father said abruptly, well aware of his daughter's legendary stubbornness, and wanting to actually reach their apartment some time that day. "You've been very helpful. By the way, I like what you have done with the lobby."

Miz Reba Ricca glanced around, distracted and pleased. "Really? You do? Well, thanks. It's one of my own designs."

Milo, deciding to let the issue go, took in her surroundings and couldn't quite see where the word "design" came in. Tinsel was strewn all over the carpeting, all over the furniture, and was glued onto the walls. Milo looked up and saw it dangling from the ceiling in great clusters. The only thing it didn't seem to be covering were the lights, which shone down on it all, making the room look very bright and glittery.

"I think it perks the room up a little," Miz Ricca said.

"A little?" Milo thought.

"The elevators are over there," Miz Ricca said, pointing to a hallway on the left side of the desk. "I can see that you have quite a lot of luggage, and elevators are always better than the stairs. Nobody in the building ever really uses the stairs, so we had to install extra elevators. We might have removed the stairs entirely, except for those pesky building codes. Escaping fire and such. I'd help you with your luggage, but I'm afraid of hurting my back. I've not much practice with large, heavy objects; the most I've carried around is papers, pens, keys, and tinsel."

"That's quite alright, Miz Ricca," Milo's father said, hoisting several bags onto his shoulders. "We'll manage to manage just fine!"

He began to lead the way to the elevators. Milo followed with her mother, but something inside of her told her that it'd be better for her health to take the stairs.

That thing inside her was her conscience, and she was so often arguing with it, that she had personified it and called it Bob the Conscience. That particular day, the argument inside Milo's head, went something like this:

"You know, it'd be better for your health if you took the stairs," Bob the Conscience said.

"I know, but our apartment is on the forty-sixth floor. It'd be too tiring to go all that way with all this luggage," Milo replied as she stepped into the elevator. Sometimes, Milo was so into the conversation that she spoke out loud. But she was careful not to when she was around other people.

"You can handle your luggage," Bob the Conscience retorted. "It'll just make it more challenging. Besides, after being cramped in that car all that time, your legs could use some stretching. It will make you feel energized and happier, too. You should take the stairs."

"No," Milo insisted. "By the time I got to the forty-sixth floor, my parents would have already moved in and started dinner. The elevator is faster; look, we're already on the thirty-sixth floor! And you wanted me to take the stairs! Ha!"

She heard Bob the Conscience sigh.

"Yes, Milo," he said, patiently. "It is faster, and it is useful, if we are on a schedule. But if you keep on riding elevators, you will start to get fat!"

Milo chuckled. "That would do me a world of good," she remarked. She looked into a mirror at herself, which was an easy thing to do because enormous ones lined the walls of the elevator.

She didn't like what she saw.

She could name the things she didn't like about herself from head to toe, starting with her hair. It was a rich, dark brown that hung down past her shoulders. But Milo thought it was too dark and, like all the girls of today, she wanted highlights but didn't have any.

Moving downward, her next complaint was her body. She was very skinny for her age and it showed. Two full weeks of eating fast food, without any exercise, hadn't made her an inch rounder. Milo's arms were spindly and long, and she didn't think she had much muscle on them. Nevertheless, whenever she needed to push bullies away, she always found the strength she needed.

Her legs didn't really matter much to her, but she still found them far too slender for her liking. Indeed, she often referred to them as "tooth picks". Not that anybody could tell, for she often wore baggy jean cargo pants.

Her face didn't contribute much because it was always sur - rounded by her hair. It was thin, but not pinched. Sure, it wasn't filled with chubby cheeks, but at least she didn't look like she was starving. That wasn't the reason it was normally hidden by hair. The reason was that Milo couldn't find a way to keep her hair at bay. Usually, she would have it up in a ponytail to keep it out of her face, but her mother hated that look, and would always tell her to let it down. Therefore, Milo usually couldn't quite see what was on either side of her.

"It gives you a shy look," her mother had told her when Milo tried to complain about it. She had tried to explain to her mother that the look didn't suit her, because she wasn't a shy person, but her mother wouldn't listen. Milo found that happened a lot.

"It would do me a world of good," Milo repeated softly.

"What's that, dear?" her mother asked.

"Nothing," Milo said quickly.

"No," her mother said. "I'm sure I heard -"

"Here's our floor!" Milo's father sang out as the elevator stopped with a ding. "Our new lives start the minute we walk out of this elevator, ladies."

Of course, for Milo that wasn't true, but she thought it was, as she followed her parents out into the hallway and up to a door that said "B-1107". She didn't know that it would merely be a push in to her real new life.
The Island of Lote