Meeting (Chapter 13, Story 1)

To Hilda, Saturday seemed to take forever to arrive, but when it did, she put on a red and black gingham dress, baked a pie for her son and his bride, and instructed her husband, Will, to get into the car to leave. Hilda had lived in Scottsdale for a very long time, and knew her way around very well, but the address her son had given her was unfamiliar, so she consulted a map of Scottsdale kept in her glove compartment. "Oh my," she gasped suddenly. "What?" Will gave her a puzzled glance. "It's just that this address is..." Hilda didn't finish her sentence. It seemed that the street her son lived on was the same street she had had to drive down on her way to the police station, the street with the drinking woman and children playing in the busy street. "Never mind," she mumbled absentmindedly, "I'm probably all mixed up." But to Hilda's dismay, she was not at all mixed up. The very same ugly brown apartments that she had hurried past just a few days ago loomed before her as she search for a place to park. "Now, Will," she said, getting out of the car, "I don't really know what to expect, so be polite and try to remember that this is your son we are dealing with." Will just glanced at her and kept walking. Hilda and Will soon found the apartment. The doorbell was broken, so Hilda rapped loudly on the door. No one answered. She knocked again, but still no one came. "Maybe he forgot, Dear," Will suggested, turning to leave. "No, Will is too smart to forget," Hilda replied, and, just as she was reaching to knock a third time, to door swung open. James stood in the threshold, an embarrassed grin on his face. "Sorry, Mom. I couldn't hear you." He stepped aside to allow Hilda and Will into the apartment. It was dark and musty inside, with a distinct scent of beer, cigarette smoke, and window cleaner. There was a lone couch in the middle of the room, and a hallway with a single door on either side of it. "Well, James, this is interesting," Hilda said slowly. "Yeah, It's not much, but it works. Would you two like to sit down?" Hilda eyed the couch, which appeared to have a strange gray film covering it. Will cleared his throat and, grabbing his wife's arm, sat on the couch, pulling Hilda with him. James pulled up a wooden bar stool and smiled. "So, Dad, how are you?" "Fine, Son, and you?" "I'm okay. Thanks for asking." Will nodded. James glanced at Hilda and winced at the dismayed look she was trying to disguise. "The house doesn't usually look like this, Mom. Karen just didn't have time to...you know, clean up." "Certainly," Hilda mumbled. "James, Darling, why does is smell like someone has been smoking?" she asked. "What? Oh, it's the neighbors. The guy next door must smoke five packs a day, at least. Smells up the whole floor. It's terrible." "Uh huh," Hilda grunted. "Then why is there a pack of cigarettes on the floor over there?" "What?" James jumped up, grabbed the cigarettes, and tossed them into an empty flower pot. "Well, the guy comes over sometimes. He always brings those things in here, even though I tell him not to." "Well," Hilda said, sniffing, "you ought to tell him again. He shouldn't be smoking around your wife, especially in her condition." At this, Hilda smiled. "Where is your wife by the way, James?" The color quickly drained from James' face. "Wife? Karen? She's not here right now. In fact, maybe this isn't a very good time. Maybe you both should come by another day, after we've had time to straighten up." James jumped up to lead his parents to the door. Hilda glared at him. A strained silent choked the air for what seemed likes hours. Suddenly, a high-pitched, nasally voice broke the silence. "Jack? Can I come out yet?" "Who is that?" Hilda demanded. One of the hall doors opened and a thin, pale woman with rollers in her hair and a cigarette hanging from her cracking lips appeared. "Oh, dear Lord," Hilda whispered, grabbing Will's hand. It was none other than the old drinking woman she'd seen when she was driving to the police station. James had gone very pale, and he glanced nervously from his mother to the woman who had entered the room. "Well, mother, this is Karen. "What?" Hilda yelped. "Her? You married her?" "Well, yes, Mom, she's really great, really." "How old is she? And why is she calling you Jack?" Hilda stared hard at the woman, appalled by her rough appearance. She guessed that Karen was at least forty, probably ten or twenty years beyond that. "She's twenty-five, Mom. Only two years older than me."

FLYGIRL Review

Flygirl by Sherri L. Smith

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
This book is set in the United States during World War II and is about an African American girl named Ida Mae who must, in order to participate in the Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASP) and serve her country, pretend to be white.

Ida Mae's struggles and triumphs made this book very interesting. Having to decide who she really was inside and who she wanted to become shaped Ida Mae's character, while challenging the reader to think about who they really want to be as well.


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Married (Chapter 12, Story 1)

"Oh! Excuse me, sir!" Hilda exclaimed, seeing the large form looming in front of her was a human being. "Mom?" "I'm sorry?" Hilda looked up into the man's face and realized that he was none other than her own son, James. "James!" She enveloped him in a hug. "Oh, James! Your father and I have been so, so worried about you! Where have you been?" "In jail, obviously," the policeman behind the desk muttered. James scowled at him. "Come on, James. This place makes me feel ill. Let's talk outside." Rain was pouring from a dismal gray sky outside the station. Hilda pulled a small umbrella from her handbag and attempted to cover herself and her son with it. She wasn't tall enough to shield her son from the rain, so he held the umbrella instead. "James, why were you in jail? Do you still live here in Scottsdale? Do you still work at the Institute? Why have you been ignoring your father and I for so long?" Hilda wiped at the tears that had begun to leak from her eyes. "I'm sorry, Mom. I really am. Things just got a little crazy and it was best for me to leave you and Dad out of the whole mess." "But, son, maybe we could have helped you!" "No," James replied, shaking his head. "There was nothing you two could do. Nothing anyone could do, actually." "Well, I suppose all that matters now is that I've found you again. You can come home with me and we'll have a nice big supper, with all your favorite foods. Your father will be so happy to see you. He's missed you so much." "No, Mom, I can't do that." "Why not?" "Because I have my own home now." Hilda studied her son's face. He had lines around his eyes and on his forehead. His skin had a grayness to it she didn't remember, and his hair stood up in greasy spikes all over his head, as if he hadn't washed it in a while. "Of course, son. How silly of me. You're an independent young man now. You would have your own home." "Yes. And there's something else." James hesitated. "I'm...married." Hilda blinked. "I'm sorry, you're what?" "Married, Mom, I'm married." "Well when did this happen? How could you get married without informing your father and I?" "It wasn't really planned. It was sort of a crazy, spur of the moment thing. Nobody knew." "Well I suppose there's no use in crying over spilled milk. What's her name?" "Karen. She's great, Mom. Really great. I think you'd like her." Hilda tried to smile and patted her son's arm. "Of course I will son. When can I meet her?" "Well I...I don't know, Mom." "What do you mean you don't know? How about Saturday?" "Mom, Karen isn't really much for company these days because she's...pregnant. "James, you're expecting a child? My grandchild?" "Yeah." Hilda sniffed. She hated not knowing the latest news, and the fact that her son had managed to get married to the woman who was carrying her grandchild upset her. "Well, if that's the case, I most definitely have to meet her. And see your house. I won't take no for an answer, James! Where do you live?" James sighed, knowing there was no way to persuade his mother once she had set her mind to something. He scribbled his address on the back of a receipt. "Thank you. I will be there at five o' clock on Saturday. And I will bring your father." After exchanging a quick hug and a final goodbye, the two parted.

MODEL: A MEMOIR Review

Model: A Memoir by Cheryl Diamond

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
This book is a memoir written by model and author Cheryl Diamond. The book takes you to the streets of New York, where teenage Cheryl fights to make a name for herself within the harsh and unforgiving modeling world. Cheryl experiences triumphs, setbacks, laughs, and tears as she grows and matures into a not-so-typical New York Model.

I liked this book because Cheryl's experiences are so intriguing. Her writing style makes you feel as if you are right there experiencing Manhattan right alongside her. This is definitely a recommended read!


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Jail (Chapter 11, Story 1)

About five years later, James' mother received a perplexing call from the local police station. "Your son has requested to see you, Mrs. Jones," the officer informed her curtly. Mrs. Jones promptly picked up her keys, got into her car, and drove toward the police station. She had no idea what James could have done to deserve being locked up. He had always been a good, obedient son, always telling the truth and rarely getting into trouble. For reasons she couldn't explain, sometimes Mrs. Jones secretly wished that James would do something mischievous just once, but James remained an angelic child until the day he left home. Mrs. Jones turned onto a side street called Dylan Avenue. It was not a busy street, but there was enough traffic to make Mrs. Jones wonder why the mothers of the dozens of children playing in the street didn't make them play in a safer spot. The street was lined with ugly, dirty brownstone apartments, and the sidewalks were littered with cola cans and fast food wrappers. The smell of cigarette smoke and body odor seeped into Mrs. Jones' car. She shuddered when she glimpsed a haggard old woman laughing loudly and lifting a bottle to her lips. As she turned onto a quieter street, Mrs. Jones prayed that her son would never end up living in a place like that. Within a few minutes, Mrs. Jones had arrived at the police station. She had never been inside one before, and she wasn't sure how she should go about tracking down her son. A tall, muscular policewoman approached Mrs. Jones where she stood in the middle of the small parking lot. "Excuse me, can I help you?" the policewoman asked. "Yes, please, my name is Hilda Jones, and I am trying to find my son, James Jones. I was called a little while ago by a policeman who told me James wanted to see me." "Okay, Mrs. Jones, follow me." The policewoman led Hilda into a dismal, gray building. There was a policeman sitting behind a large green desk, and his eyes were glued to a computer monitor. "Ask him about your son," the policeman said. "Alright." Mrs. Jones approached the man behind the desk and cleared her throat to get his attention. "What?" he snapped. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir, but I was called about my son and--" "Name?" "Pardon me?" The policeman sighed. "What is your son's name, lady?" "Oh, his name is James. James Jones." "Sorry, lady, but your son's not here." "Excuse me?" Hilda said nervously, tightening her grip on her keys. "He was released yesterday," the policeman said. "But sir, I was called not even an hour ago, and I was told he was here." "Well somebody made a mistake, because he's not here." "Well where is he?" Hilda asked. "How should I know? Home, maybe." "Can you tell me where that is?" "Where what is?" "His home. Where does he live?" "You're his mother and you don't know?" The policeman raised an eyebrow. "We've been out of contact for the past few years. Would you please tell me where he lives?" "I'm not supposed to do that." The policeman looked back at his computer. Hilda transitioned her keys to her left hand, wondering if he was finished speaking to her. "Sir?" The policeman looked up, seeming to have forgotten her existence. "What now, lady?" "It's very, very important that I find my son." "I'm sorry lady, but even if I could give you that information, I don't have it." "You mean to tell me that you lock people up without asking for their address?" The policeman shrugged. Hilda felt as though she might cry. "Oh dear," she said, her voice cracking. The policeman looked at her for a moment, shook his head, and looked back at his computer. Hilda had been looking forward to seeing her son, and now all chances of that were gone. She opened the door, stepped out of the police station, and crashed into something tall and wet.