Spark a Story

by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  “People only stop cloning once the gene is overused and dies,” the official said, talking as if I didn’t already know.

  “Well, maybe it’s something genetic and it died off faster,” I said.

  “What about the others of the town? What happened to them?” the official asked.

  “I do not know,” I stated. The official sighed and turned, leaving the room. I knew he was talking to someone on the other side of the door.

  He came back a few minutes later with a smirk on his face. He walked over till he was just a couple of inches away from my face.

  “Sir, did you need something?” I questioned and leaned back in my chair as much as was physically possible without moving the chair.

  “Explain this,” he said and pulled out a piece of paper, shoving it in my face.

  “It’s a paper, sir,” I stated and looked up at him, confused.

  “What’s on it?” he snapped and brought it back so I could see the words.

  “A formula,” I replied.

  “What’s the formula do?” he snarled.

  “How should I know? I didn’t make it.”

  “You’re the smartest kid in the town and you don’t know what that is?” he questioned, on the verge of losing whatever calm was left.

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” I said slowly, unsure of how he wanted the question to be answered.

  “It’s evidence against you is what it is,” he snapped and turned, walking from the room again.

  He came back about thirty minutes later, he said something to another man in the doorway. The other man never came in, just nodded and closed the door. The official walked in, less angry than before.

  “You are under arrest,” he stated.

  “Why?” I asked, starting to stand up.

  “For the murder of Sophie White and the destruction of the cloning gene in this town,” he said and took a step forward.

  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said and backed up, putting the chair between the two of us.

  “Luke said you forced him to use his workers to make that formula and put it in the water supply.”

  “I didn’t do that! He did that willingly!” I yelled, backing up more.

  “I don’t believe you for a second, and your DNA is all over that paper. So you know that the formula could have temporarily shut down the genes,” the official said, his hand going to his waist. I followed his hand, my eyes glued to the weapon.

  “That doesn’t mean I ever used the formula!” I said, pushing myself, panicked, against the wall.

  “It explains what happened to the town. It leaves you responsible for five deaths,” the official said calmly, raising his gun.

  “Please don’t shoot,” I stated, my voice ten times quieter than it had just been.

  “I’m sorry, but the five people who died are telling me I should,” the official said with a smirk and pulled the trigger.

  I reacted too late and the bullet found home in my head. My body slumped forward, no longer focused on standing up but more on the injury. Everything was blurry and swimming in and out of focus. I saw the official come toward me, the smirk still on his face. I struggled to stand up and ignore the tunnel vision I had gained. This made the pain in my head worse. I fell back down with a cry. I saw the official’s mouth move as if he said something but I didn’t hear him. He raised his gun again and then, blackness.

  NIKI BORGHEI

  Silent Words

  MY MOTHER DRANK stories with her morning coffee, a warm broth of words mixed with the paragraphs, the commas, and the periods. They came in various flavors. Some were sweet, others bitter, but they were all appetizing when she read to my sister and me. We devoured the stories whole. The words poured out of her like a waterfall. Every day I’d run home from school, tremendously thirsty, and would drink from the abundance of stories she provided. Our family was dizzy with the love for words.

  I wondered how she did it. She had the power to lift emotions from the pages and implant them into the hearts of the audience. How had my mother mastered this art? If she told me that she was a magician, I may have believed her. Every story she read cast a spell on me.

  Why was it that I had not inherited her magical ability? Whenever I attempted to read aloud, it was as if sand were crawling through my throat. I tried to read until I thought I would cough up blood if I tried anymore. Still, no words ever dared to climb out.

  Most people assumed shyness was the cause of my silence. Concerned teachers often emailed my mother, asking why I never spoke in class. It was embarrassing, but my mother was never upset with me. She embraced the fact that I was different from others. My sister, on the other hand, wasn’t very fond of me. She forbid me from being near her outside of the house, worried that I would try to speak and have people laugh at us. It had happened before.

  The bell rang one afternoon, signaling the end of the school day. I was about to run home when I heard someone call my name. “Hey, Miriam! Come over here!”

  I turned around and recognized some of my classmates huddled together. They waved. I hesitated, not knowing why they were calling me.

  “Hello? What are you waiting for? Come on,” they yelled.

  I trudged toward them, feeling skeptical. Despite my attempt to keep my distance, they threw their arms over my shoulders and dragged me in closer. My heartbeat loudly protested in my chest.

  “So, Miriam, you’ve been awfully quiet the entire school year. Why don’t you talk to us a bit, huh?” someone said with a hint of sarcasm. I didn’t answer.

  “Aw, come on. Don’t be shy.” Another classmate roughly grabbed my arm and tried to pull me in closer. Startled, I tried to scream “Stop!” but instead a hideous croak came out. They erupted in laughter.

  “What was that?” they asked, cackling. Ashamed, I tried to pull away. They wouldn’t let me go.

  Suddenly I noticed my sister, Maria, a few feet away from me. Her eyes were wide open with shock. Relief washed over me when she began to walk toward us.

  “Hey,” one of them asked her, “do you know this girl?”

  Maria remained quiet, a look of hesitation wandered through her eyes. The words that escaped her lips hurt more than the unknown hands digging through my shoulders. “No,” she whispered, “I don’t know her.”

  She watched as they continued to laugh and shove me. I gave her a menacing glare. She seemed like she wanted to say she was sorry, but her desire to be loved by her peers prevented her from doing so.

  When they let me go, I ran home crying. Maria chased after me, screaming, “I’m sorry, Miriam! I’m sorry!” Forgiveness was unimaginable.

  My mother was furious when she found out. I heard her pacing back and forth in the room next to mine all night. I hated myself for causing her distress. All I wanted was to make her proud, but all I gave her was worry. I despised myself for being such a terrible daughter.

  The next morning, my mother announced that I wouldn’t be attending that school anymore. Maria walked to school by herself, as she always did, leaving my mother and me alone together.

  Why, Mom? I signed, letting my fingers speak for me.

  “I think this new school would be better for you, Miriam. I’ve heard a lot of nice things about it, and they have more resources that could help you,” she replied.

  They’re all the same. No matter how many times I switch schools, people will treat me like an outsider.

  “That’s not true, Miriam. There are many kind and understanding people in the world.”

  Where are they? Even my own sister won’t help me when I am in need!

  Tears trickled down my face. My mother hugged me.

  “I’m here for you,” she said. “Just try this new school, okay? If it doesn’t work out, we can try something else.”

  My mother drove me to my new school the following day. It was a bit farther away, but I enjoyed the early-morning scenery that nature displayed through the car window. The tall trees were glowing under the ra
diant sun, and the birds flew by us gracefully. I felt calm until the car paused in front of a voluminous white building. Dozens of students were wandering around. My mother clasped my hand and gave it a light squeeze.

  “Be strong, Miriam. Text me if you need anything,” she offered.

  I nodded and climbed out of the car. I took a deep breath and waved goodbye to my mother, pretending I couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

  The halls were slightly less crowded than the ones at my previous school, but they were overflowing with sound. It was easy to disappear in the loud conversations and gossip.

  “Are you the new student?” A woman suddenly appeared, causing me to jump.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she apologized. “I’m Ms. Park, the English teacher. Nice to meet you. Miriam, right?”

  I nodded, pretending that I was distracted by the posters on the walls.

  “Are you interested in our writing contest?” she asked.

  I looked up, noticing the huge black-and-white words scrawled on one of the posters.

  “All students can submit a story. It can be anything you’d like. You should try it! Just submit it to me before the end of next week,” Ms. Park explained.

  The thought of entering intrigued me. It was my chance to speak my mind without actually speaking.

  “Let me know if you have any questions, okay?” She smiled as she walked away.

  The school day ended quickly. No one forced me to talk, and I was able to respond to the questions I received by nodding my head. I prayed that I could be silent for the rest of the school year without seeming suspicious, but I knew that wouldn’t be the case.

  My mother drove me home. The ride was silent until we reached a red light.

  She looked at me nervously. “How was school, Miriam?”

  It was fine.

  She smiled. “I’m so glad. What did you do today? Any news?”

  I might enter a writing contest.

  Her smile expanded, lighting up her entire face. “Really? That’s great! You should definitely do it!”

  The light turned green, and the silence resumed once again. I contemplated what I would write about. There were many stories growing in my head. I was eager to nurture them until they bloomed.

  At home, I sat by my desk with a blank sheet of paper in front of me. I closed my eyes and searched for the stories hidden within me. My mother’s delicate voice crept through my mind. Her stories were like honey, so scrumptious that anyone who listened begged for more. I searched my mind for a story as sweet as honey, and let it flow through my pen and drip onto the paper. My mother always told me that satisfying stories came from the heart.

  Then, suddenly, I had it. What story could be closer to my heart than my own?

  After a week of intense writing, I had my heart written on paper. I handed it to Ms. Park with a huge smile on my face.

  “Is this your entry for the writing contest?” Ms. Park asked. I nodded.

  She grinned. “Great. I’ll give this back to you at the awards ceremony tomorrow. It will be in the yard after school. Will you be there?” I nodded again.

  “Awesome. See you then!”

  I daydreamed about the contest the entire day. My mother noticed my exhilaration when she picked me up from school.

  “What are you so excited about?”

  I entered the writing contest.

  “That’s fantastic! When will the results be revealed?”

  There will be an awards ceremony tomorrow after school.

  “Can I come?”

  Sure.

  “How about Maria?”

  I paused. The laughter of the bullies replayed in my head.

  “Miriam?”

  I don’t think she wants to come.

  “Why not?”

  I’ll only embarrass her.

  “Honey, that’s not true.”

  It’s true, Mom.

  “Nonsense. She will be there.” There was no point in arguing with her. My mother was a woman of words.

  On the day of the ceremony, crowds of students gathered in front of a stage. I struggled to find Ms. Park.

  “Miriam!” someone yelled.

  I turned around and saw Ms. Park running toward me.

  “There you are. Here is your story.” She handed it to me. “You’ll be reading it aloud in ten minutes. Get on the stage. Good luck!” She left before I could protest.

  My voice betrayed me once again. How was I supposed to tell her that I couldn’t read aloud?

  I analyzed the crowd. Everyone was expecting me to appear onstage. My mother was standing next to Maria. She waved at me.

  “Students, if you are participating in the contest, please get onstage now,” Ms. Park announced. I had no choice.

  My body shook as the students read their stories one by one. I envied their beautiful voices. The more time passed, the tighter the hands of fear clutched my heart and lungs. I contemplated how I could escape this situation. Maybe I could pretend I was sick or . . .

  “Miriam, it’s your turn.” Too late.

  I stumbled to the microphone. A myriad of eyes stared at me, expecting me to use the voice I did not have. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, placing my paper on the floor in front of me. I lifted my hands. There was only one thing I could do.

  My mother drank stories with her morning coffee, I explained using sign language. The crowd began to whisper, but I continued.

  A warm broth of words mixed with the paragraphs, the commas, and the periods.

  “My mother drank stories with her morning coffee, a warm broth of words mixed with the paragraphs, the commas, and the periods.” I looked down and saw Ms. Park with the crowd. She was speaking into the microphone.

  Go on, she signed.

  They came in various flavors. Some were sweet, others bitter, but they were all appetizing when she read to my sister and me.

  “They came in various flavors. Some were sweet, others bitter, but they were all appetizing when she read to my sister and me.” Ms. Park smiled.

  When I finished the story, everyone cheered. My mother brushed the tears away from her face as my sister screamed, “That’s my sister! That’s my sister!”

  I exited the stage. Ms. Park was waiting there for me. She enveloped me in her arms.

  How do you know sign language? I asked.

  I’m deaf, Ms. Park responded, leaving me astonished.

  Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

  Ms. Park let out a tiny laugh. She put her hand on my shoulder.

  How else could I teach you to believe in yourself?

  She handed me a certificate for first place. Have you learned your lesson, Miriam?

  I nodded. Yes.

  CARLO DI BERNARDO

  The Sickle

  AS I TURNED the corner, facing into Carlo’s bedroom, the first thing I saw was the untidy empty bed. I sensed something was wrong, because he was out of his bed so early, and immediately I noticed the glimmer of dark red on the sheets. Stepping in, past the covers on the floor, I peered over his pillow, completely soaked in blood with plucked-out feathers. My mind raced, heart sank, and I froze. When I found him he was in the bathroom, looking at his face in horror and shock, as the entire right side was drenched in burgundy dried blood.

  “I was out with friends last night but I came home around eleven fifteen and everything was normal. I went to bed around midnight, if I remember correctly,” Carlo told me in an agitated manner. My thoughts went back to last night, remembering that I had come home at around 1:00 a.m. His door was closed, lights were off, and the house was dead silent. Had it already happened by then? What happened in his room from twelve to one? What the hell happened?! On Monday, at school, everyone asked Carlo this same question upon looking at his swollen and stitched face. Truth is, everyone in the family, including Carlo, was mulling over the same thing. He later confessed to me that every time someone asked that question he felt his stomach turn, knowing that all he could say was,
“I don’t know.”

  Saturday afternoon, in the surgeon’s office, Carlo’s face was cleaned up of all the blood. A couple of hours before, Carlo had told me, “Okay, it’s a little weird but everyone is actually overreacting . . . it’s just a cut, I probably just rubbed against the windowsill while sleeping.” So he thought, but what he referred to as a cut started dead center between his eyes, right above his nose, reaping its way down to the bottom of his right cheek. “One centimeter deep,” the surgeon told him as he pulled away from his forehead. “That’s not rubbing against something. Whatever it was, it made it all the way to your skull,” he said minutes before Carlo was given twenty-one stitches. I remember Carlo’s trembling body when he was told that the cut would be visible on his face forever—all I was thinking was how the cut resembled the exact shape of a sickle. Not only that, what struck me the most was that the shape of the cut followed the flow of a hand motion . . . This was no accident.

  On Friday, the day it happened, Carlo had neglected all the spooky correlations and myths regarding that day. He had never conceived to be scared by such seemingly foolish superstitions. Because it hadn’t been just any Friday. “Carlo, it was midnight . . . on Friday the 13th,” Joey told Carlo to explain the ominous mystery.

  Carlo told his dad on Sunday night, “I slept perfectly, not waking up once between midnight and seven thirty. The first time I felt any pain was when I was given stitches.” On Saturday morning, I looked around his room, but there was virtually nothing sharp enough to make such an incision. “The last time I dealt with a scar so deep was when my patient got stabbed by one of their family members with a kitchen knife.” From the surgeon’s seemingly relaxed voice, I presumed this incident was accidental. The sharpest object I found in Carlo’s room was a bluntly sharpened Ticonderoga pencil. I snooped around more and discovered that although his balcony door was closed, it was unusually unlocked. Nevertheless, nothing on his balcony was sharp enough to cut him and we know for sure he did not jump off the balcony. “Maybe someone came in from outside,” speculated another of Carlo’s classmates, and that did seem viable. At first it seemed absurd to Carlo, but the more he thought of it the more probable it felt. If the cut was so deep, someone must have done it to him . . . but who? and why?