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A Square in the Quilt
By Anna Barnwell
Genre: Fiction Level: Elementary 4-6
Year: 1998 Category: UAA/ADN Creative Writing Contest

My mom had once said that quilting was good for the soul. I had rolled my eyes and said, "What kind of a person quilts?" And she had looked at me with her clear blue eyes, not saying anything, just looking at me with love and understanding. I think that my favorite part about my mom was her clear blue eyes. And now, three years after my mom's death, here I am making a quilt and missing the color blue.

I was standing with some kids from my class on Friday morning not really listening to the gossip, not joining in. (Definitely not joining in. I talk so little that hardly anyone knows who I am. If someone were to say, "Hey, did you see that report Caroline wrote?" the others would probably think, "Who's Caroline?") Anyway, I was standing with these kids and half listening to them gossip when I first saw Maya Gutenas. She was just walking through the school gates, with long strides that said, "I am who I am, and I am special." Then I saw that she had on leather sandals, not the tennis shoes or Doc Martens we usually wore. She wore these really dorky glasses -- thin ovals with black rims that were camouflages with her straight, jet black hair. Now all of the kids were starting to laugh at the new girl. I decided to join in. "What planet is she from?" the class snot said. Just then the bell rang and we ran off. It was during running that I saw the new girl's eyes, magnified through her glasses -- clear blue eyes.

"Caroline, would you please read us Chapter 4 in our books, please, or are you too tired?" The class snickered.

"Oh, sorry, Ms. Macanoc. What page would that be?" I asked, coming out of my daydream nap.

"Fifty-six," a voice whispered in my ear. I turned around to see the new girl staring at me through her blue eyes.

"It really is peculiar," I thought. I started to wonder how she could have black hair and a dark face and blue eyes, when Ms. Macanoc said, "Caroline, we're waiting." I found page 56 and started to read aloud, my voice drowning out all other thought. . . .

Just as my voice had done yesterday while I was reading, my alarm clock buzzed out all of my dreams. I looked at the clock. Eight-thirty!! On a Saturday? Then I remembered that Dad had said we were going to pick apples at the orchard today, early. I threw on some jeans, a T-shirt, and put my quilt in a bag so I could work on it in the car.

My dad and I quickly ate and hopped in the car, me in the back so I could spread out my quilt. The funny thing about the quilt was that it didn't have an apparent pattern. Each square was totally different, all of the fabric pieces of my 13 years of life.

At the orchard Dad and I took our baskets and decided on meeting back at the car at noon. I walked out into the apple trees happy at the thought of being alone. At about 11, I heard a crunching of leaves behind me and saw the new girl, Maya, quickly catching up and walking that special way of hers.

"Hi!" she called out. She caught up and we talked about how great the weather was and then she asked where my parents were.

"Well, my dad is here somewhere, as for my mom, she's up there."

"Oh, I am sorry."

Maya didn't say it as if she didn't care, and it wasn't like she said it in an exaggerated way, like other people did. She just said it as if she understood me, as if she knew what I felt like.

We started talking about everything, some things being really silly and some really sophisticated. I knew I was going to be her friend, and she mine, and by noon I felt like I had grown 10 years older by just talking with Maya.

On the way home, Dad and I stopped at a bakery to grab some pastries for the rest of the hour drive. I told him through a full mouth all about Maya, especially about her blue eyes. When I finished he still had three-fourths of his pastry left and was staring ahead.

"Dad, are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, fine. Just thinking about your mom."

"Yeah, I do that too," I said.

I often thought about what life would be like if she hadn't gone to the store that one Saturday and hadn't gotten hit by the other car. I stared out the window watching the trees make way to houses. I looked over at Dad and I saw a tear drop from his eyes. I reached over and took his hand in mine and gave it a squeeze.

At school on Monday, I decided to talk with Maya before school rather than half listen to gossip. We sat on the swings and talked about how weird it was going to be to go to middle school the next year. A couple of times I saw my usual group point and laugh at me, but I didn't really care. It was their problem if they didn't choose to be friends with Maya and me, their loss, too. I looked at Maya and I saw she felt the same way.

For the first time in a long time, I raised my hand in math, shared my story in creative writing. I was feeling so confident until Joy and some other girls came over and started bugging me.

"Caroline, what's with your friend, Maya? She is so weird."

"Yeah, really."

"Bug off" I said, and walked away. Despite my recovery, I was upset. Is Maya that weird?

After I had finished my homework, I started on my quilt. I was working on a row of my mom's old clothes. I had always loved the way my mom dressed. No outfit was the same shade or pattern. It wasn't as if she was weird, just a parrot among crows. Maybe that is what Maya is, I thought, a parrot among crows, a unique square of bright color among a bunch of dull ones.

The next day Joy started bothering me again.

"Alien lover!"

"Hey," I said, "everyone is a different square in a quilt."

 
About the Author: Barnwell, 12, lives in Anchorage. She attended Bowman Elementary School the year of the contest.
 

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