Towering

my hair when she came, for old time’s sake. But this time, the brush caught on a knot. I clutched my head.
    “Ouch! You’re hurting me!”
    “I’m sorry, my dear Rachel, so sorry. I do not wish to harm you. I only . . . you must stay here a bit longer. Perhaps you do not trust me.”
    “Oh, no, Mama. I do trust you.” Up until this minute, I had. But why was she becoming so agitated when all I wanted was a few answers to my questions. If she intended to release me, I would need to know.
    “I only want what is best for you. I only . . .” She broke down, crying. “I can’t lose you, Rachel! I can’t. I have already lost so much.”
    Her face looked so old and sad that I began to weep too. I wept so easily lately, wept reading books, even books I knew very well.
    “I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t want to leave. I am happy here with my books and with . . . you. I just wondered . . .”
    “What, Rachel?” Her face was stormy. “What is it you wonder?”
    “It’s only that the books I have, I have read so many times. Not that Mr. Dickens and the Brontë sisters do not seem like old friends, but I thought, perhaps, there might be different books, newer books.”
    It is not what I wanted. I wanted what I had said I wanted, to know what year it was. To know who I was. To know where I was and when I would be released. In many ways, I could see I was becoming a young lady, old enough to marry and have children perhaps. In other ways, though, I was a child, a child who knew nothing and had everything kept from me, and I was sick of it. But I was also trapped, trapped and at her mercy. I couldn’t have what I wanted, so I would have to settle for newer books until I found a way.
    She paused in her brushing, and I heard her take a deep breath in, then out. “Oh, is that all? I can get you new books, all you want. How thoughtless of me not to realize that an intelligent young lady must have some occupation for her mind. What sort of books do you want?”
    I shrugged. I didn’t know what kind there were. “I want books . . . that show what it is like to be human,” I said, “because I am not sure I know. And if the author is alive, I would very much appreciate it.”
    “Very well,” Mama said. “Should we have dinner now?”
    I nodded. Our days were a routine pattern. She came to visit me in darkness. She brushed my hair. We ate dinner, played chess or cards. I sang to her and played the harp. I had taught myself to do both, and I practiced day and night, even if it was only to please her. She said my voice was beautiful. That used to be enough.
    But then, I stopped singing, stopped playing the harp when Mama wasn’t around to hear. What was the point, I reasoned, of singing when no one was there to hear? Who knew if my singing was even real and not a figment of my imagination? Who knew that I , my entire existence, was not a figment of my imagination?
    Then, she left, leaving my breakfast for the next day and taking with her my chamber pot, which I was old enough to be embarrassed by. That was all.
    Wasn’t there more to my life than that?
    “I brought ham, your favorite.” She smiled and nodded, inviting me to do the same. “I want you to be happy.”
    I smiled back at her. “Thank you, Mama. I am.”
    When she left, I began to sing again, and to play my harp. Even though no one was there.
    Strangely, I felt that someone could hear me.
    And, last night, when I was singing, I thought I heard a voice in my head.

Wyatt
    New Year’s Eve, the night was clear with so many stars it looked like the sky in the movie Titanic , when the ship had gone down, and they were waiting in the dark water to die. It was just as cold too. The idea of spending the two-degree night in what Josh called a three-season house (the three seasons being spring, summer, and fall) seemed a little crazy, but the idea of spending it alone, watching Times Square on TV, seemed worse.
    Last year, we’d gone into the city. This wasn’t a typical thing Long Island kids did, but Tyler had suggested it. One day, during winter break when we were bored, he’d said, “Hey, let’s go to Times Square tomorrow.”
    “I never want to do that, man,” I said. “I hear it’s suffocating there.”
    “Never’s a long time, MAN ,” he said. “You want to be one of those people who live in New York your whole life and never see the Statue of Liberty or the Macy’s parade or New Year’s in Times Square?”
    “Well, I’ve seen