My Name Is Not Easy by Edwardson, Dahl (the reading list TXT) 📗

same time. Me sitting in the middle of an endless forest looking for a tree!

“You’re not used to this kind of woods, are you?”

I shake my head.

“Me neither,” she says. “We have bigger trees where I come from, but not so many. It’s a bit intimidating, isn’t it?”

I nod because even though I never heard that word before, I can tell what it means by the way she says it. Intimidating is the way these trees close in around a person, like they might try and choke you.

“It feels like this wilderness goes on forever,” she says. I don’t say anything because it seems like she’s talking more to herself than to me. And anyhow, it feels good sitting right next to her, feeling warm and not having to worry about intimidating things.

“Th

e garden is right over there,” she says softly, pointing back the way she came. “See? You weren’t really lost.”

Off in the distance, I can hear the sound of a door banging shut and a hint of kids’ voices.

“We just made a batch of cookies. Would you like one?”

I nod.

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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y

“What’s your name, dear?”

I sure like the way she says that word— dear.

“Cecilia Snow,” I tell her. “But people that know me always call me Chickie.”

“Well, I’m Sister Mary Kate,” she says, standing up, “and it’s almost time for dinner, Chickie, so you and I had better hurry up inside.”

And so we do.

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Never Cry

SEPTEMBER 6, 1960

LUKE

—

Sacred Heart School is gray and shadowy, crouching in the trees like a big, blocky animal. I don’t like the look of those trees, either, especially not in the dark. Th

ey’re black and

grasping, and they make strange fl apping noises, like something mean’s leaning over you, trying to suck the wind right out of you.

How could a person even breathe here? Back home, it doesn’t get dark so early in the day this time of year, either, which make this place seem really wrong. Me and Bunna and Isaac are just standing here in front of the school, staring.

Th

is place doesn’t look anything at all like those schools in Life magazine.

I can feel Mom’s voice, whispering deep down inside—

Take care of your brothers—and right now all I want to do is grab my brothers and run. Bunna is staring into the tree-fi lled darkness with wide eyes.

“You think there’s evil spirits in there?” Bunna whispers, 17

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M Y N A M E I S N O T E A S Y

watching the branches swing back and forth in the wind and ducking his head like he’s afraid one might reach out and try grab him.

“Naw,” I say. “Th

ere ain’t.” But I duck my head, too, for

just a second.

When we look up, we both see him at the same time: a skinny, old priest. With his black clothes and clawlike hands, he looks like a big, bald-headed raven.

“Bet that’s where them preachers live,” I whisper, nodding at those trees.

And suddenly that old guy looks really funny—both me and Bunna see it at the same time. Like he’s pretending to be the kind of thing that would actually live in the middle of all those big black trees. Th

e kind of thing that is scary and funny,

both at the same time. Like at puuqtaluk, the costume contest back home, where old people dress up goofy to try and scare us and make us laugh, putting their parkas on inside out and dragging their arms across the fl oor like monsters learning to dance.

Th

e priest’s nose is mashed up weird against his cheek, too, like he’s got a nylon stocking on his face, and now I see he’s wearing a black dress. I look at Bunna and he looks at me, and we both start giggling. And every time we look at each other, we laugh harder. Just like at puuqtaluk. Even Isaac’s laughing now, peeking out from under Bunna’s arm.

I don’t think Isaac even knows what’s so funny. All he knows is we’re laughing and sometimes, especially when you’re scared, it’s just good to laugh.

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N E V E R C R Y / L u k e

Th

en that old priest speaks. “How old is your brother?”

he asks, looking right at Isaac, Isaac who isn’t even seven yet.

It feels like everyone and everything has stopped breathing, even the trees.

“Six,” Bunna squeaks before I can stop him.

“I see,” says the priest.

I don’t like the sound of those words, because the way he says it means that whatever it is he sees, it’s something bad, something that makes him herd us into the school, away from the other kids, like we’re sick or something.

“Sit over there,” the priest says, waving at a bench by the wall. We sit, like rocks in the river, watching kids moving past us, staring. Th

e priest swoops off into a room across the

hall, and a door shuts behind him with a snap. We sit on a hard bench, waiting. It feels like we wait forever. Finally, an old lady in a long white dress opens the door, and the priest sweeps past her without a word, throwing shadows up and down the hall.

“Your little brother is too young for Sacred Heart School,”

the lady tells us. “Th

ey shouldn’t have sent him.” Her voice

sounds soft and weak, like a scrawny seagull way up