by L. E. DeLano
“Who hates Goodnight Moon?” Devon asks incredulously.
“I know, right?”
I advance to the next slide, one featuring the first page of the book. “Though the language of the book is simplistic, and the book relies heavily on colorful illustrations, the message behind the words and pictures is what makes it worth preserving. You may argue that it might lose something in a purely spoken format, but I disagree.”
The next slide comes up, a picture of a child in bed. “Goodnight Moon has evolved from a simple bedtime story to something much more important: a bedtime ritual.”
Next slide—this one is a picture of monks handwriting a manuscript. “Like all rituals, the symbolic language is what carries it forward, repeated down to descendent after descendent. I’m willing to bet many of you in this room know most or some of the story by heart. There’s a reason for that.
“Goodnight Moon is a story about all the things that surround you. The young bunny first acknowledges everything in the room—alive or inanimate, as if taking stock of all the things that make up their life. The kittens are playmates. The old woman is a parental figure. The listing of all the inanimate objects in the room give us a good sense that the child is well cared for.
“There’s a bowl full of mush, so the child is fed, mittens and socks, so the child is clothed. There is a red balloon, and a little house, so we know the child has toys. There’s a comb and brush, so we know the child is groomed. There are pictures on the walls, so we know the family values art and culture. And last, by giving an inventory of everything in the room that we can see, we know there are no monsters here. The child is safe.”
I move on to the next slide, one of the illustrations from the book, when the light is turned off in the room and the moon shines in through the window.
“Finally, we say goodnight to everything we’ve just acknowledged. Goodnight to mittens and kittens, to the mush and the brush, and to the little old woman who’s whispering hush.”
There is a long shhh sound as several of the kids in class say that last line with me.
“See what I mean?” I tell them. “It’s iconic. And not just because it’s a soothing story that can lull your child to sleep. For the record,” I say, turning to Mrs. Linza. “That alone should recommend it for preservation. Future parents will thank me.”
Mrs. Linza gives a little chuckle and nods her head in acknowledgment. I go on, advancing to my next slide, a picture of a beautiful night sky, full of stars.
“Most importantly, Goodnight Moon is a putting away of the things that make up your life on this day. By acknowledging each thing and saying goodnight to it, we put this day in perspective and look forward to tomorrow.
“We say goodnight to the stars, to the air, to the noises everywhere. We are putting this day to rest, and affirming that tomorrow is brand-new and full of possibilities. No matter how out-of-control your life seems today, you can put everything in order at bedtime, and start fresh on a new day. Rest is important. But so are endings. You can’t have a new beginning without one.”
My eyes meet Devon’s, and we hold there a moment before I go on.
“In conclusion,” I say, moving to my final slide, a picture of a mother reading Goodnight Moon to her child. “Goodnight Moon should be preserved, not just for its iconic place in modern literature, but for the contribution of ritual and symbolism it so richly imparts. Thank you.”
Everyone claps, and Devon gives me a giant grin and a thumbs up. Mrs. Linza smiles and applauds with the class, so I think I nailed it.
“There was a reason I was scheduled last,” I say to the class. And now, with Mrs. Linza’s permission—” She nods. “I’d like to welcome a special guest to the class.”
I walk over to the door and open it, and there’s an audible gasp when Maya walks in.
We stand at the front of the class together, and Mrs. Linza makes her way to the front to stand with us.
“Blue has asked Maya Rodriguez to join us today,” she says to the class, “so the two of them can tell you about a new club that’s being formed here at Audubon. Girls?”
She gestures with her hand and then walks to the back to lean against the corner of her desk.
I clear my throat nervously and look at Maya. She gives me a nod. I clear my throat again and speak.
“You all know Maya’s story, and mine. You know how it is with us,” I say. “Or, how it was with us. But you don’t really know her story, and you don’t really know mine. We all pass each other in the hall every day. We post about each other on social media. We talk about each other in the cafeteria, in the bathrooms, and at practice. But there’s a lot we don’t know about each other. Things we don’t always tell.”
My eyes stray to Devon and he gives me an encouraging smile. I’m about to go on, but Maya takes over.
“Like she said,” Maya points her chin at me. “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other. And sometimes, you need to talk. Or you need someone to listen. We think it would be great if Audubon had a way to help people with that.”
“The new club is called Audubon Right Now,” I say. “Because when you need help, you need it right now. And it should be available to you. We have a few different ways you can access the help you need.
“First, we have a support group that will meet once a week. For the first half of each session, we’ll go over stress and coping techniques, including some fun stuff to help ease the tension. The second half of the session will be students talking to each other. It can be something as simple as venting about a bad day or can be as personal as you want it to be. Everything talked about behind those doors stays behind those doors. If there’s even a hint of you sharing something from the group on social media or gossiping about in the halls, you’re out of the group and facing disciplinary action.”
“The second way lets you reach out to us anonymously,” Maya says. “On the school website, under Audubon Right Now, you’ll find a submission form. You won’t need to put in your name. Just tell us you need help in the subject box, and when you hit submit, it will reply with a generated ID number.”
“The IT department here at Audubon will create a mailbox with your unique ID at Audubon-Academy-dot-info,” I tell them. “You’ll receive a follow-up email to your student account with a link to access the alternate mailbox. Once you’re set up, a peer counselor will respond to your new email address. No student will ever know who you are, unless you choose to identify yourself. Mrs. Ramsey will be working with all of us, training us to be peer counselors. We’re looking for volunteers if any of you are interested.”
“It’ll look great on a college application,” Maya adds. “And if you need more help than we can give, we can refer you to outside sources for professional counseling online or on the phone at no cost to you, thanks to a generous grant from the Alumni Association.”
My mom really stepped up to the plate, and used every connection in her arsenal to land that one for me. And it’s going to help a lot. Maya gives the club flyers to Mrs. Linza, who starts passing them out.
“When it feels like everything’s going wrong,” I say, “talking can really make a difference.”
Maya looks at me. “It definitely can,” she agrees. “And it helps to remember that everybody’s got their story. And they’re all valid.”
I smile at her, and look back out at the class. “If you want to share your story, we’re here to listen. And to help.”
“Right now,” Maya says.
“Right now,” I affirm.
“Girls, thank you.” Mrs. Linza comes back up to the front. “You’ve put a lot of work into this, and it shows. I hope you all take a moment today to check out the Audubon Right Now page on the school website.”
Maya gives the class a wave and I walk her to the door.
“Good job,” I whisper.
“You too,” she whi
spers back. “See you at lunch.”
Have I mentioned that we’re going to eat lunch together today so we can work on some items for our first meeting? If this presentation didn’t set the whole school buzzing, that certainly will. They’ll all be talking. To tell you the truth, we both think it’s funny.
I close the door behind Maya, and sit back down at my desk. When I look over at Devon, the warmth blazing out of his eyes is enough to knock me backwards. I want this class to be over. I want this day to be over. I want to be in a little green room, with mittens and kittens and Devon. I want to be holding him—and more. As if he can read my thoughts, he winks at me.
“Anticipation,” he mouths.
And I smile, sinking down in my chair.
33
If is such a big word for two letters. If can stall your life, if you let it. You can freeze in place, replaying if over and over and wishing for a different outcome. You can twist yourself in knots worrying about if before you face it. You can retreat from your life like a bunch of Macedonians facing Sparta all because of two little letters.
Or you can talk. And listen. And reconnect. And decide to forgive yourself for every way you think you failed somebody—or failed yourself.
I was always waiting on when.
When school is over, when Maya’s gone, when my parents can’t tell me what to do anymore, when everybody forgets this bad thing, it’ll get better. But life isn’t about when. Life is about if. And if can be scary. Sure, sometimes if ends up badly, but it’s also kind of freeing.
When you realize that—when you let it all go—if becomes a beautiful possibility. If is the beginning of an adventure, or a new friendship, or maybe a quirky romance.
My name is Blue, like the sky. The endless, open sky.
I love it.
Acknowledgements
First, I want to thank Stephanie Anderson of Alt19 Creative (alt19creative.com) for her outstanding cover and interior design. You captured this book—and Blue Mancini—so perfectly.
Next, I’d like to thank my editor, Lina Matthews, for her eagle eyes and sharp grasp of narrative. You really helped me find the voice of this piece, and I am forever grateful for your time.
I’d also like to thank Terezia Barna and Zakiya Larry for their solid advice on marketing and publicity. This has been an endeavor, and I’ve learned so much.
A great big thank you to all my friends and family who broke into frenzied applause at each book announcement, who buy my books and review my books and talk about my books to others. I adore you.
There isn’t a thank you big enough for the doctors, nurses, physical therapists and support staff at the University of Kansas hospital for saving my life and showing me how to cope with a life-altering brain injury. I never would have had a “next book” if not for all of you.
And a final thank you to my children, who unfailingly support me, make me laugh harder than anybody, and occasionally call me on my bullshit. You are the very best of my life, and always will be.
About the Author
L.E. DeLano comes equipped with a “useless” Theatre degree that has opened doors for her in numerous ways. Though mostly raised in New Mexico, she now lives in Pennsylvania with two hilarious kids and two ridiculous cats.
Her debut novel, TRAVELER was selected as a Keystone to Reading Secondary Book Award finalist for school year 2018–19 by the Keystone State Reading Association (KSRA) and voted one of The 20 Most Beautiful Books in the World for 2017 by MTV UK.
Website: LEDeLano.com
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