Heartwood Box

by Ann Aguirre

A building isn’t your home anyway; that’s wherever the people you love most are.

I’m already mad because it seems like this dream is about how poor people always get stuck fighting other people’s wars.

Doubt countries would go to war so quickly if their children had to go first as soldiers

He tries to copy my accent, but he draws out the vowels, and I want to punch him because that’s not cool.

“If you wanted more info, that wasn’t the way to make it happen. Bye, random stranger.”

I’m pretty messed up emotionally. None of that is Ottilie’s fault, so I’m trying not to take it out on her,

“Not really,” I finally respond. “Ah. Then you’re the kind of girl who does as she’s told. Docile.” Nobody wants that word applied to them as a descriptor, so now I’m low-key pissed, which is better than feeling sorry for myself. Two points to my great-aunt for levering me out of the pool of self-pity I’m wallowing in.

Their quirks got on my nerves, but now that they’re just words on a messenger app, I want to see their faces.

Even though I complain about being constantly uprooted by my parents, the truth is, I’m not completely sorry that we lived like we did. My folks are doing important work and a lot of news wouldn’t have gotten out, if not for them.

She tells a rambling story about fireworks and commemorative coins, and I never am sure what that has to do with Grandma Irene.

Apparently this is me a lot. Tip, ask questions. If you point out that I haven't said how it connects, I'll "oops!" and immediately tell you.

“You don’t have to keep me that informed.” The fact that she has a sense of humor will probably help us get along for the next nine or ten months.

“This shit is not funny,” I mutter. I’ve read stories about prankster ghosts, who take objects from the house and they’re either gone forever or the items reappear later in some weird place, like the freezer or a bathroom cupboard. But I don’t have time to play with Great-Uncle Archibald even if he’s bored and lonely. Maybe I should be scared, but right now, I’m just pissed.

“Where’s your work, Flores Harper?” He earns instant points for using both my last names, but I hesitate over my answer. Am I really gonna say this? Screw it, I was never gonna be popular anyway. “I’m, like, seventy percent sure a ghost stole it.”

Pretty soon everyone’s adding me, which is cool. But it sucks that I have to say, “I’m staying with my great-aunt, and she doesn’t have Wi-Fi, so I’m on limited data right now. Messages should be fine, but at home, I won’t be able to watch any videos you send.” I like them all more when they accept that without asking a lot of questions.

If we click, I’ll tell them about my life, but I hate giving personal details for no other reason than to satisfy the curiosity of strangers. Any info I divulge should come by choice.

Did Great-Aunt Ottilie do this? If she leaves food out, then eats it later and cleans up, I’m not sure she’s qualified to act as my legal guardian. My parents must not know anything about her vagaries … how would they?

“This place has the weirdest history. It was founded by German immigrants and in the twenties it took a dark turn. There used to be a Nazi youth training camp here. Streets were even named after Hitler and Goebbels.”

“Unsurprising. The place looks great on paper, if you don’t dig into it.”

Colorism and racism are problems in many of the countries where I’ve lived, but I’ve never lived anywhere with this kind of secret stain.

“Is this the part where you tell me you’re the Renfield for some pitiless antediluvian god and that I’ve just agreed to be its next meal by following you?”

“I think we have a super-small grill in the garage, the kind used for tailgate parties…” “What’s a tailgate party?” “How can you not know that?”

You went from zero to sixty on personal questions. I’m gonna pass on that answer until we know each other better. Understood. G’night. He sends, Night, along with a sleepy face. I really didn’t need to wonder about Logan’s secrets. It would be better if he were exactly as he seemed—a nice, slightly awkward boy with a clownish streak—but I don’t think that’s true anymore.

I’m scared too. Before last week, I never shot a gun, and they expect me to get on a ship and go kill men over there. I don’t know if I can kill a man, Araceli, even if they tell me he’s bad and he wants to steal our freedom. I’m even more scared that I can, and that I won’t recognize myself anymore if I do like I’m told.

Simply put, don’t worry about how this is happening. I read somewhere that belief is required for magic to exist. Once we start questioning how incredible things are possible, the wonder melts away, leaving us with mechanical explanations. I don’t want to question our connection out of existence. Just remember that I’m here for you.

hope you can be patient with me. I am not the man who left two years ago, but I love you still. Knowing that you’re waiting for me, taking care of Mother, it’s all that keeps me on the march some days.

flipping through the pages. My mouth drops open as I stare, unable to believe my eyes. I’m looking at the scene I dreamed. Obviously, the only difference is I’m not in the photo, but this train platform with the arriving soldiers? I saw this. And not just the vague idea of it. I recognize these faces because they were in my dream, down to the sad-eyed boy in ragged pants and suspenders. In this shot, he’s scared and wistful, and I am freaking out.

don’t want you to feel sorry for me. If I did, I’d dump my story, and I wouldn’t care if you told everyone because then I’d get head pats from everyone who heard how shitty my life is.”

“I hear that, but it’s frustrating when I have my own stuff going on and I don’t know what you want from me.”

It does not escape me that this town is probably way more dangerous than Venezuela. So much for sending me here to let me experience life as a typical American teen, huh, Ma? I can already hear Papi saying, “Let’s face it, peque, you were never going to be normal. You’ve always been exceptional.” Which is the kind of cheesy, morale-boosting stuff your parents are supposed to say for your self-esteem, but my father always says it with a straight face.

Now I see the reason for the clown persona. If you trip and drop stuff a lot in public, people won’t question your story about falling down steps or walking into doors.

“You’re kind of … thick for the team, aren’t you?” My brows shoot up. With a fake sweet smile, I respond in Spanish. The great part is I can cuss people like her out with equanimity, and she’s going to feel ignorant as hell. Plus, she won’t be able to repeat any of it to get me in trouble. Her pale face goes rosy and her mild disdain sharpens. “You’re in America. Speak English!” “People can speak whatever language they want in America. It’s a free country, right?” I smirk at her and give my hair a toss as I line up. Probably I shouldn’t have provoked her, but she didn’t need to say that.

We have an hour to smooth out the rough edges and learn to dance in synch with each other. Nobody mentioned that as being important, but I know it is. If you can’t stay in step with your squad, you won’t get picked, no matter how slick you move.

If your dad says he won’t do X unless you do Y, what are you supposed to do? Give up your dreams for the illusion of freedom?”

“It seems like there’s surprisingly little crime here,” I say then. “Reported crime,” Ottilie corrects. It feels like an important distinction, and I’m instantly alert. “What do you mean?”

“Guess I’m more like my mother and father than I realized. They’ve lived their whole lives going after people who had bad shit to hide. Dragged down a couple of corrupt regimes with their coverage too. I never wanted to make a job of it myself, but I can’t do nothing when I’m slapped with something this dirty.”

She busts out laughing, the first belly laugh I’ve ever heard from Kimala. Then she immediately looks guilty that we could’ve forgotten about Eunsoo, even for a second. That’s how those left behind live, tentatively and with tiny increments of joy, stolen like small trinkets.

Why is somebody like me going to war? I don’t even understand what it’s all about,

Poor Logan. Now I understand the tree house and why he built it alone. This also explains why he hasn’t told anyone about his bruises. Are you supposed to call the cops when it’s a cop inflicting the damage? I’ve also seen on the news how clannish law enforcement can be, how they close ranks to hide any implication of wrongdoing.

“Just stay focused during dance practice. And don’t start any talk. You’re new here, so you have no idea how hard it is to survive in this town.” Since she’s one of two Black families living here, she’s speaking truth, I’m sure. I nod soberly, aware of my passing privilege. I’m biracial, but racists wouldn’t hassle me at first glance.

At seven, I had no idea why he said that, and later, my dad had the shitty task of explaining colorism to a little kid. When I envision the reactions that make Marco feel like he needs to reassure small children, I want to go nuclear on the world.

“Fine. I’ll go with you, but if we get detained and executed, I expect you to entertain me for at least a hundred years in the afterlife.”

“Are you stupid or lacking in common sense?” “I hope it’s the second thing. Otherwise, my future looks bleak.”

“I’ve never talked about this with anyone before,” he says. “Listening without judgment is just one of the many services I provide.”

I rap on the front door, red for good luck. Pretty sure that’s from China, but the custom has spread all over the west too.

This is not a story you tell a guy you’re trying to impress. To his credit, Logan doesn’t seem repelled, which means he’s not shallow.

“It’s best to use your right foot for both. Otherwise you might panic and stomp on the wrong one at the worst possible time.”

It helps to know where the sheriff’s allegiances lie. Now I understand that we can’t ask him for help under any circumstances.

Jackson glances between us. “Normally I’d have a lot to say about you two rolling in together, but consider yourself mocked and let’s move on.”

“We’re not allowed to take much home, however. And we were working on different aspects of the same project. They keep the research quite compartmentalized, so our department doesn’t know what other teams are focused on.” “That’s not shady at all,” Derek mutters.