The Magical Imperfect

Earthquake Drill
The alarm
is a wave that knocks us out of our chairs. Pencils fly, papers float in the air, chairs squeak as we dive under our desks. But nobody is scared. It’s only a drill.
We are getting used to them. There were a few small quakes over the summer, so school makes us do drills once a week. But I don’t like how loud it gets, the alarm’s bell sound winding up and down and up again. We wait until we’re told it’s time to go outside.
When we get to the field, Jordan and the other boys argue about the World Series. Jordan used to be my best friend until our parents got in an argument that broke everything into pieces, so it’s different now. He spends his time with Martin.
Martin thinks the A’s and the Giants are going to be in it. A’s in ’89, he says. No one steals
bases like Rickey Henderson. If I wanted to speak up, I would tell him no way. Candy Maldonado is too good in the outfield. Dad and I always root for the Giants!
Speak
When we come back to class, we have to finish our quiz by reciting five helping verbs. Except I don’t have to; I have a note that says it’s okay for me to write things down. I don’t like to speak in front of people. Some teachers say I won’t. But it’s not that. I don’t like to talk.
My father says
it’s because my mom had to go. The doctor he takes me to agrees with him and thinks it may be “selective mutism.” But I don’t have anyone I want to talk to right now.
I’d rather spend time on Main Street with my grandfather in his jewelry shop, where he fixes broken things and makes them whole again.
Sometimes I watch my father build houses. He can hammer a nail in with one swing. Not me. I’m kind of small, and a little round, and I can draw a tree faster than I can hammer a nail, so I stick to that.