by Sigmund Brouwer

I heard the news halfway home from school from gray- haired Mr. Chambers as he watered his rose bushes. My sister, Jamie, was back.

That’s the kind of town we live in. News travels fast. I knew exactly what I wanted to do: run home and scream in her face. That was only the beginning of what she deserved.

I was only three blocks from home, which is about half the distance from one end of our town to the other. Jamie always called our town boring. I call it steady and safe.

As I walked, I ignored the cool afternoon breeze against my face. Thoughts of how good it’d feel to tell my sister what I really thought of her filled my mind. Sure I was six years younger, but I had justice on my side.

Face to Face

As I got closer to my house, I smelled a barbecue. Only a week past Easter, it was too early in the season for a barbecue, even though we were having a spell of good weather. Even stranger, I saw the grill set up in my back yard. Dad stood by the fence laughing with some neighbors. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my dad laughing — which alone was a good enough reason for giving my sister a piece of my mind.

I dropped my backpack on the front porch instead of hanging it up in my usual responsible way.

“I’m home,” I called as I walked in. Music — an old Michael W. Smith CD — played so loud I had to shout.

Mom stepped into the hallway from the kitchen. Her hands were covered with flour.

“Kayla,” she said, “Jamie is back!”

“I know,” I said. “Mr. Chambers told me.”

“She’s in her bedroom,” she said. “Don’t you two spend all evening up there. Chicken will be ready in about half an hour, and we want you both down for the celebration.”

She held up her hands, showing me the flour dust up to her wrists. “I’m just getting ready to put a cherry pie in the oven. Jamie’s favorite. Make sure you’re washed up, OK?”

“Sure.”

I marched up the stairs. Jamie’s bedroom door was closed — like it had been for the last year. Only tonight she sat on the other side of it, instead of breaking my parents’ hearts from somewhere in California.

I almost pushed open her door right then but decided I needed something from my bedroom. My diary. I grabbed it off my nightstand, spun around and headed back to Jamie’s room.

Tongue Tirade

“Hey,” Jamie said as I opened her door. “It’s good to see you, Kayla. Real good.”

For a second, I couldn’t get any words out of my mouth. She seemed half the size she’d been before leaving town. Her eyes had shrunk into her head. The gray skin of her face gripped her cheekbones. Her hair was dull and greasy.

My second surprise was the brand-new sweater she wore — my sweater. The one Dad promised me for getting all A’s on my report card.

“Give me a hug,” Jamie said. “It’s good to be home.”

I folded my arms across my chest and tried to stare a hole through her.

“Funny,” I said. “I’ve never heard any of your songs on the radio. You’re not even close to being a pop star.”

“Long story,” she said. “Real long. Let me tell you, it was a lesson about dreams. I mean —”

“Long story?” I flipped open my diary. “Let me read you a long story. I’m the one who had to watch Mom and Dad suffer. I’ve been keeping a diary, so I’d be able to tell you all about it when you got back.”

I scanned my handwriting. “Let’s see. April 15, 2004. No goodbye from Jamie. No word on where she went. Mom has spent three days crying on the couch. Dad still hasn’t gotten things figured out with the banker. The lawyer says nothing could have been done to stop Jamie from taking her trust money once she turned 18.”

“Kayla, listen —”

“No,” I said. “You listen to me.”

I flipped ahead. “May 2. Our first postcard from Jamie. Santa Monica. She’s living in a beach house overlooking the ocean. The neighbors say a month in a beach house costs the same as a semester of college. Mom says Grandpa would be rolling over in his grave to discover what’s happened to the money from the sale of his ranch.”

“I know it was stupid,” Jamie said. “But I had all these songs in my head. A town like this isn’t the place to —”

“June 14,” I read louder from another page. “A call from the police in Hollywood. Would we post bail for Jamie Heppner of no fixed address? June 15. Dad flies out to Los Angeles. June 16. Dad flies back. No Jamie. Mom cries constantly.”

“I just needed a few more months,” Jamie said. “I thought my big break was about to come. Dad wanted to take me away. I had to find a way to ditch him, and my friends wanted to party.”

“August 23,” I said through tight lips. “Collect call from Jamie at 4 in the morning from Los Angeles General Hospital. Dad flies out again. Flies home again. No Jamie. She ran from the hospital, leaving Dad to pay the bill.”

Final Blow

I snapped my diary shut.

“Then nothing more from you. Mom and Dad thought you were dead. I won’t even tell you about the gossip around town or how I had to do extra work around the house because Mom was depressed or how Dad borrowed from my college fund to pay for your hospital bill. And I bet you don’t even care.”

Jamie looked at the floor.

“On top of all that, now you’re wearing my new sweater.”

“My clothes were pretty ripped up,” Jamie said without bringing her eyes up to meet mine. “It took five days on a bus to get here. I didn’t have any money for food, let alone clothes. Dad said he’d buy you a new sweater tomorrow.”

“I hate you,” I screamed at her with tears in my eyes. “You’ve ruined our lives. I wish you had never come home.”

She stood. “I don’t deserve to be here. I ran out of money. My friends left me. All their promises to get my songs on the radio were just an excuse to spend my money. Finally, all I wanted was to be with my family again, even if I had to live in the doghouse out back.”

She sighed. “It’s been a long haul since Easter Sunday.”

“Easter?” I said. “Mom cried then, too. She kept praying for you to call so she’d know you were alive.”

Wooden Cross

“Before you decide you don’t want me in your life,” Jamie said, “let me show you one thing. The thing that brought me home.”

She reached under the sweater and pulled a thin silver chain over her head. She opened her hand to reveal a small wooden cross.

“You gave this to me when you were 9,” she said. “You might not even remember. You made it in Sunday school during a lesson on forgiveness. You gave it to me because I had broken one of your dolls, and you wanted me to know it was all right.”

I remembered it. I had made it back when I adored my older sister.

“This cross was all I had left in California,” she said. “I was digging food out of garbage cans. I woke up Easter Sunday in an alley. The cross was digging into my neck. It made me think of church again, so I went to a downtown mission and listened to a bearded preacher tell me Jesus had died to save me from my sins. Because of Jesus, I could go home to heaven no matter what I’d done.”

Jamie put her hand on my shoulder. “His forgiveness was my only hope, Kayla. And a person can’t earn forgiveness. Only give or accept.”

With her other hand, Jamie gently pulled my hand away from my chest. She closed my fingers around the small wooden cross. “I came home, hoping you, Mom and Dad might give me something I don’t deserve. . . .”

Jamie stepped away. She opened the door and closed it behind her, leaving me alone in her bedroom. Staring at the wall. Thinking about the Cross.

	Q: What did one lightbulb say to the other one? A: “Watt are you doing?” Charles R., 10, Georgia Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe