2nd Place - Anthony Chiocchi - Miniatures

MINIATURES 

“Happy Birthday, Edward.” Dad placed a large, paper shopping bag on the table. We’d  been meeting at the same coffee shop every month since the divorce. Well, every month he  could be bothered to remember.  

“Thanks.” I tried to sound grateful. 

“How old are you now? Thirteen?” 

“Fourteen,” I answered, genuinely surprised that he had only been off by a single year. I  pulled a worn and tattered box from the shopping bag. The dated images and distorted shape, suggested that the box had sat in a dank basement for the better part of a decade. “A model  sailboat?” I hadn’t intended it as a question but having never, in fourteen years, shown any interest in sailing, or boats, or models, I was a bit caught off guard. 

“Yeah,” my father replied a bit too pridefully. “You’ll be working with your hands  someday just like your old man; maybe even down at the docks.” Dad worked as a  longshoreman.  

“Thanks, pop.” 

“How are things with you and your mom, then?” He asked.  

“Things are great,” I parroted, as my mother had instructed. Things were not, in fact,  “great”.  

“That’s good,” he replied, as a matter of form, and we continued in that manner,  perfunctorily ticking down the list: school, work, family, friends, and of course, girls.  “No one special,” I replied as I always did, waiting for the moment to pass.  “Well, you’re in high school now. They’ll be beating down your door soon enough.” I  waited for it. “Just like your old man,” he added with a conspiratorial smile and hearty laugh, morphing quickly into a hacking cough.  

I laughed politely as dad signaled for the check, indicating the end of our meeting. 

I took the long way home past the fancy shops and expensive houses. Mom and I  rented a modest three rooms in the basement of a split-level home in a poor suburb, forty-five  minutes outside of town. Mr. Rose, our kindly landlord, lived above us. He had the hots for  mom. I was sure of it. But whenever I brought it up, mom would say things like, “The romance  part of my days is over, Edward, you’re the man of my life now.” I couldn’t help but question  her taste in men. “I married the wrong kind, Eddie, and that’s all there is to it,” Mom had once  confided. “They don’t lead with the boozing and the women. No, you don’t find those things out until much later. But I found out, alright, and I got us away from all that. And we don’t  have it so bad, do we? Just feel lucky I figured it all out when I did! If I had waited much longer  there could’ve been ANOTHER little mouth to feed, and how would we have managed then?”  And so, we lived simply. Mom, and me; the “little mouth to feed” that had put an end to the romance in her life.  

In the eerie glow of the street lamps, the wrought iron gate and brick façade of St.  Elizabeth’s looked more like a cemetery than a school; a place to dump useless bodies. 

“This is a great opportunity Mr. Rose has given us,” mom had campaigned. As an  employee of St. Elizabeth’s, Mr. Rose had the power to fudge my documents to make it look as  though I lived within the matriculation zone.  

“Won’t we get in trouble?” I had asked, trying desperately to wriggle free from my  mother’s machinations.  

“He says people do it all the time! You just need to know the right people! And Edward,  for once in our pathetic existences, we know the right people!”  

The transition to St Elizabeth’s had been rough. I didn’t mind being friendless; I was  used to that. Being, however, for the first time, in such close proximity with affluent, well educated kids, made me starkly aware of my poverty by the close juxtaposition and filled me with shame for circumstances beyond my control.  

As I continued past the school, the sudden sound of mirth commanded my attention. A  foursome approached, laughing and gesturing so boisterously that they seemed oblivious to the  world around them. Shrinking into myself, I Instinctively tried to take up less space. One of the four I recognized straight away from the halls of St. Elizabeth’s. Andrew was tall, confident, and  outgoing. His small features were framed by golden hair. It was difficult not to notice him. The  other three, all girls, were unfamiliar to me. I stepped demurely to the side as we passed each other; head down, holding my breath and clutching my father’s gift to my chest like a shield.  My face grew warm and red with self-conscious panic. Once safely through the gauntlet, though, I was able to release my breath with relief. It was then I heard Andrew’s voice.  

“Eddie!!!” Andrew shouted out gleefully. I froze. How did he even know my name? I  turned slowly to face the group. The three girls were merrily ushering Andrew down the street.  His face was turned in my direction. As our eyes met, he raised his hand high above his head giving me an emphatic wave. Apprehensively, I returned the gesture with as much of a smile as  I could muster through my fear and suspicion. As I turned back to continue on my way, I heard  Andrew’s effervescent voice again. “Nice boat!” he called out, followed by a cacophony of  cackles. I didn’t turn around that time. I just kept walking.  

Mom took the box from me, incredulously reading the cover aloud. “White model glue?  Curved nose tweezers? Danish oil? What on earth is Danish oil?” Looking up at me with false  sympathy, she apologized, “I’m sorry Eddie, but this kit is useless to you. We don’t have any of  those things and you well know we can’t afford to buy them.” Her ephemeral compassion melted quickly into resentment toward my father. “I don’t know what that man is thinking.  And look at this box. It probably fell off the back of a truck and he snatched it up on his way  down here. I’m sorry Eddie,” she repeated, “but there’s just no way you’ll be able to put this  together.” The only thing I was interested in piecing together at that moment was how and  why Andrew had known my name. “He wasn’t always like this,” mom continued as I wandered  into my room, preparing for bed. “He was from a decent family. They always had nice things  and your father was thoughtful and kind…” I closed my bedroom door behind me. I had heard  this story dozens of times and att this point, the recitation was more for her benefit than mine.  

The next morning, anxious anticipation replaced my usual funereal stride. “Friend or  foe,” I wondered. Andrew’s impromptu greeting and enthusiastic smile had suggested sincerity  but the dubious comment about the boat and ensuing laughter conjured up images, dangerous 

and familiar. I was no stranger to the convoluted ways in which kids could be cruel. Erring on  the side of caution, I walked the halls of St. Elizabeth’s that morning, head down, using only my  periphery and intuition to anticipate any encounters. I was determined to avoid Andrew at all  costs.  

“Andrew!” I exclaimed a bit too loudly, my mutinous tongue foiling my plans. We had  nearly collided as I left my history class.  

“And Eddie, right? I mean it IS Eddie, yeah?” he smiled skeptically.  

“Yeah. Eddie,” I managed, more reserved. We started down the hall together. “Oh good!” Andrew said with relief. “I thought so, but when I called out last night you  seemed a bit confused. My sister even called me an idiot, saying I’d probably gotten your name  wrong!’” Andrew laughed heartily.  

“No, it’s Eddie,” I assured him, “You just caught me by surprise is all.” 

“No worries. My sisters and I were coming back from a campus happy hour over at the  university and I may have had one too many at that point.” 

I had never known any kids who drank alcohol. “No worries,” I said, awkwardly  adopting his vernacular. Gripped by fear, I could think of nothing more to say. “So, you like miniatures?” Andrew asked after a while. 

“Miniatures?” I asked, confused. 

“Yeah, crafting? Model building…?” 

My mind raced to contextualize his question. “Oh, the sailboat!” I said, finally finding  my voice.  

“Yeah, the sailboat!” Andrew smiled, mimicking without mocking. “Gosh, did YOU have  one too many last night?”  

I laughed off the question attempting to create an air of mystery that might be more  alluring than the truth. “Just a gift from my dad.” 

“Did you get started on it already? Looked like a fun one. Intricate.” 

“No,” I stammered. “I didn’t have…glue…or…D-D-Danish…” I felt my face reddening as I  tried to recall the requirements on the box. 

“Oh, I’ve got all that stuff and more,“ Andrew interrupted, breezing past my verbal  ineptitude. “This is me,” he said, pointing to the gymnasium. “Gym class,“ he added with a  scowl.  

“OK. See ya. Thanks,” I turned abruptly, wondering what I was thanking him for.  “Wait!” Andrew called after me. “Bring the kit to school tomorrow and I can take a look and see what you need. You can even come by my place after school and we can get started on  it together,” he offered. “…if you want…,” he added with a twinge of vulnerability and self doubt.  

“Sounds good,” I affected an air of coolness. “I’ll ask my mom!” And I blew it.  

At first, mom vetoed the idea outright. “Why are you drawing attention to yourself?” she demanded? “You should be trying to fly under the radar, not fraternizing with strangers!  No one can know we live out of district! Besides, it’s about time you started looking for work after school, not playing with toys!”  

Tears of frustration stung my eyes. “So, I’m not allowed to have friends?” I demanded angrily before sinking into despair. “Please, mom!” I pleaded earnestly, “I’ll be really careful and 

I’ll start looking for something in town this week! I promise!” Softened by my emotional plea  or perhaps just losing interest in a seemingly trivial argument, mom acquiesced. By the end of  the week, true to my word, I had secured a part-time position filing documents at the law  offices of Cromwell and Cromwell.  

Andrew and I spent several afternoons a week together in the rec room of his family’s  palatial home. “This kit is the real deal,” he informed me upon opening the box. “All wood with  canvas sails. Most of them nowadays are cheap, poorly cut plastic that barely snap together.  They come out alright in the end, but they’re flimsy and fall apart easily.” I was intimidated by  his breadth of knowledge. “Measure twice and cut once,” he instructed pedantically.  Patience and accuracy early on will lay the foundation for sturdy results.” 

While I endeavored to reveal very little about myself during these meetings, Andrew  spoke about himself rather candidly. The middle child of five, he had four sisters; two older and  two younger. His father owned a prominent architecture firm in the city and his mother  volunteered at a hospital out of town. “I spend a lot of my time at home hanging out with my  sisters,” Andrew revealed one afternoon. “THAT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE ALWAYS GROUNDED!” his  youngest sister shouted from the next room. “My friends at school all play sports,” he  continued, ignoring the quip. “They have practices after school and travel games on the  weekends. The only sport I ever cared for was frisbee. I’m actually pretty good, but St.  Elizabeth’s doesn’t have a team!” Between the heady effect of Andrew’s words and the way I  frequently found myself transfixed by his small, elegant features, I knew I was developing my  first ever crush and searched greedily for signs of reciprocation. I worked no more quickly than  was absolutely necessary on the sailboat, intent on protracting the process and continuing these blissful afternoons.  

Afternoons spent at Cromwell’s were comparatively less exciting though not completely  devoid of reward. Cromwell the senior took an immediate liking to me. “Edward’s efficiency  has made me realize just how much all the other youngsters slack off,” he had told my mother  on one of her rare visits to town. “I’m going to give him an extra dollar an hour. He’s certainly earned it.” So proud was my mother, that despite her edict that I was to relinquish the entirety  of my pay to help with household expenses, she allowed me to keep the extra dollar for myself.  The sum only amounted to about fifteen dollars a week, but I had never before been in  possession of my own money and while I had no intentions on squandering it, I fantasized  frequently about the ways I might spend it. Filing was mind numbingly rote but occasionally  Mr. Cromwell would ask me to assist with document review requiring me to read through stacks of papers, searching for key words, phrases or numbers. Vicious letters between loved  ones filled with lascivious accusations of betrayal would accompany disputed wills and  suspicious bank transactions giving me a glimpse into a world that felt more like one of my  mother’s soap operas than it did real life. I found myself taking great interest in some of the  more exciting cases. Mr. Cromwell would entertain all of my questions about the legality of  various aspects and encourage my input. Mom’s trips into town became more frequent. She  claimed to be concerned about me walking home alone in the evenings, but the truth of the  matter was that dressing up, visiting the office, and interacting with professionals, validated her  in a way she hadn’t experienced in a very long time; possibly ever. “Your son has a certain 

instinct for this kind of work,” I overheard Mr. Cromwell telling her on one such occasion. “He  would make a fine paralegal once he gets his diploma.” Mom took me out for ice-cream that  evening.  

The canvas sail was too small for the frame and I couldn’t get it to fit. Assuming I had  made some grave error, I immediately began pulling at the fabric with all of my might, trying to  slide it over the dowels before Andrew could notice the issue.  

“NO!” Andrew exclaimed, taking notice of my intense efforts. 

“But it won’t fit,” I explained, loosening my death grip. “Did they give us the wrong  size,” I asked, “or did I just mess it up?” I looked down. 

Andrew reached out his hand and placed his index finger under my chin. “You didn’t  mess anything up,” he said gently, lifting my head with his finger. His gaze met mine. “We  make a great team. These kits have imperfections, sometimes you just need a work around.”  

I stared into his eyes, almost unable to speak. “Well then, what now?” I managed,  certain that the heat engulfing my face was burning Andrew’s finger.  

“Well,” Andrew began, removing his hand and smiling broadly, “If we try to force it,  we’ll either rip the canvas or buckle the frame.” He thought for a moment. “But if we soak it in  water and vinegar overnight,” he said, struck with inspiration, “we can pin it down on a flat  surface and let it dry in the sun. It may just expand enough to fit!” 

“Do you really think that will work?” I asked, skeptically but hopeful. 

“It’s worth a shot!” He replied. “Let’s soak it now, and we can pin it tomorrow afternoon!” 

“I have to work tomorrow,” I stated plainly.  

Accustomed to getting his way, Andrew’s disappointment was palpable. He had always  tread lightly when it came to matters of money, having correctly sensed it a fraught topic, but  consumed now by his disappointment, he forgot his restraint. “What’s with all this work  anyway?” he blurted out crassly. “You planning a fancy vacation or something?” Immediately  after the words left his mouth, he clocked his privilege and attempted to mitigate his tone. “Or  do you have to help pay your way through college?” he added quickly with a sensitivity that was  both a day late and a dollar short.  

I would have been annoyed by his callousness if I hadn’t been so embarrassed but  fatigued by weeks of surreptitious concealment, I felt compelled to lay my cards on the table. I  confessed to Andrew how I had lied about my address to gain admission to St. Elizabeth’s and  detailed the dire reality of my financial situation. I explained how I had to pitch in at home to  help make ends meet and how college, unfortunately, just wasn’t a part of my future. Mom  had made that clear. Even if we could afford it, she wasn’t going to put up with me  “freeloading at home while she worked her ass off to support me”. There it was; my horrible  secret. My eyes, moist with tears, darted around the room, looking anywhere that wasn’t  Andrew.  

For once, it was Andrew’s turn to be embarrassed. “I’m glad you told me all this, Eddie.  And I’m sorry for prying,” he apologized after a lengthy silence. He was sympathetic without  being condescending. “You don’t have to be self-conscious with me. Certainly not about things  like money. It’s taken me a while, but I know how lucky I am, and I don’t take it for granted. I also know that not everyone has had the same advantages as me. It’s OK.” I looked at 

Andrew’s face, brimming with regret and concern, and much to my surprise, I believed him. It  was OK. I…was OK. “What’s not OK,” he continued, “is all this crap about not going to college. You’re easily one of the smartest kids in your class,“ he argued. “Why even bother going  through all this nonsense to attend St. Elizabeth’s if you’re not gonna at least try?” “We can’t afford it,” I answered, defeated. 

“Bull!” Andrew yelled. “From the way you tell it, you’re practically destitute,” he  continued, dropping any pretense of tact. “You could probably get a full ride on government aid  alone. And whatever the government didn’t provide you could make up in scholarships.” “Mom would never allow it,” I countered. 

“How could she stop you?” Andrew challenged. 

“She’d kick me out. She expects me to work full time to help pay off our debts.”  “Her debts,” he corrected me.  

“I owe her!” I raised my voice, reflexively protecting my mother. 

“SHE OWES YOU!” Andrew thundered. “And you owe yourself,” he added softly. 

As I walked home from Andrew’s that evening, I felt invigorated by our argument.  Never had anybody been so completely in my corner; not my mother, not my father; maybe not even myself. Andrew’s support was ardent and devoid of self-interest. It was foreign and  seductive and gave me the courage to dream just a little beyond the scope of what I had  theretofore imagined my life to be. Maybe Andrew was right, maybe if I told mom about the  financial aid and the scholarships she might reconsider. 

Passing the window of “Goodman’s Athletic Apparel”, an item, placed there as if by  divine providence, seized my attention. With instantaneous certainty, I marched into the store  and spent the little money I had saved on a limited edition, ultimate frisbee, adorned in the  center with a picture of a sailboat, framed by the words “sail away”.  

“You’ve got an extra bounce in your step today,” mom noted during dinner. “Good day  at the office? Get another raise?” 

“I didn’t work today,” I corrected her, “I was at Andrew’s.” Mom scowled. “You know,” I began apprehensively, “Andrew was telling me that if we can’t afford college, there are ways  to get assistance…” 

“Oh, was Andrew telling you that?” she interrupted, instantly irate. “Did Andrew by any  chance also happen to tell you how to feed and clothe two people on a shitty waitressing salary or how to have enough left over at the end of the month for rent and bills?” She demanded. 

My heart pounded in my chest. Mom wasn’t quick to anger, but when she got there, I  always made a hasty retreat. But maybe Andrew was right, maybe I did owe it to myself to  stand my ground. Rattled, but determined, I continued. “You see, there  is…government…money and, help…with scholarships…” I nervously struggled to remember Andrew’s words, but could not articulate the point. “I just think if we considered…” 

“This is EXACTLY why I didn’t want you getting involved with these people.” She cut me off angrily. “I rigged the game to send you to St. Elizabeth’s and now what? You’ve forgotten  who you are? You think you’re one of them?” 

“Well, why DID you send me there?” I questioned her defiantly. “I thought it was for a  better future, BUT YOU WON’T EVEN LET ME HAVE THAT!” I began to sob. I had never yelled 

so viciously at my mother before and I instantly felt like an ingrate. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” I  heard myself repeating through my whimpers. 

“Oh baby. Don’t you see?” her condescension disguised as compassion, “you’re better  future is already happening. You just don’t recognize it yet. You’ve got this job in town; at a  law office, no less! And Mr. Cromwell thinks it could lead to more when you graduate! Baby,  you couldn’t have done that going to school here. Lawyers aren’t hiring kids from the slums to  handle their important papers. This is a real future; not working on the docks like your father.  St. Elizabeth’s did that for you. I did that for you.” 

War weary, but not defeated, I made one final entreaty. “What if I could get it all paid  for myself?” 

“You just don’t listen,” she snapped, plumb out of patience. “Go ahead and get it all  settled, but you also better figure out how you’re gonna manage food, clothes, books,  electricity, phone, water, and all the other luxuries that you so thoughtlessly consume around here. And rent for that matter. I’m not going to have you laying around here on my dime while you throw away what little money you have on garbage.” She swung the back of her hand  against the Goodman’s bag propelling it off the table and onto the floor. “Wake up and smell  reality, kid!” she muttered sardonically, rising from the table and leaving me alone in my  misery.  

“What’s in the bag?” Andrew repeatedly demanded as we left the gates of St.  Elizabeth’s.  

“Just wait till we get to your house!” I swatted at his hand as he attempted to snatch the  bag from my grasp. He became more playfully puckish each time I resisted. “But I wanna see now!” he pressed, sliding his arm around my waist under the pretense  of grabbing the package. Our relationship had become increasingly flirtatious with frequently  fabricated excuses for physical touch. I was encouraged but still unsure.  

The canvas sail was drying near the window of his rec room. “It soaked overnight and  it’s been pinned to that board for almost two days,” Andrew reported. “It’s so taught I was  scared it might tear, but so far so good. Go ahead, unpin it,” Andrew instructed. It’ll retract a  little bit but all we needed was half an inch and I think we got it.”  

I carefully unpinned the small piece of fabric and laid it over the wooden sail frame. “It  fits!” I shouted with excitement, amazed by Andrew’s ingenuity.  

“Dah!” Andrew joined in my zeal. “Quick, glue it down before it changes its mind,” he  quipped. “One or two more days and she’ll be finished,” he announced with a just perceptible  air of sorrow. Andrew looked once again at the Goodman’s bag, arching his eyebrow  suggestively.  

 My hands shook as I handed him the bag. I had considered wrapping it in old  newspapers the way mom did during the holidays, but already running the risk of ridicule, I  thought a more casual approach might save me from some humiliation should the gesture be  ill-received. “It’s no big deal,” I affected an air of nonchalance. “I saw it in the window and thought of you.” I added, with more vulnerability.  

Andrew thrust his hand into the bag with a devilish grin, but as he produced the frisbee, his mischievous smirk contorted first into surprise and then gratitude. “Thank you, Eddie,” he 

said genuinely. “I know what this must have cost you.” Shifting his weight, he moved toward  me but balked. His eyes searched mine for reassurance and then with an expression that said,  “oh, what the hell?”, he leaned in and embraced me tightly, his warm breath caressing my  neck. “Thank you,” he repeated. “It’s perfect.”  

I held Andrew’s embrace, determined not to be the first to break it.  

“Do you play?” he finally asked, stepping back and holding up the gift. 

“Never have,” I answered. “But it’s just like the thing where you throw and catch it,  right?” I asked jocularly.  

Andrew laughed. “Well, that’s the basics, yeah, but you play in teams, sort of like  football.” He paused. “I’ve actually been meaning to ask you,” he started, then paused again.  “I’m going up to the lakes next Saturday. Mom chaperones a trip that the hospital arranges for  some of the younger, long-term patients. My sisters and I usually take the train up to meet her.  I could teach you frisbee and, well, the model will be done by then, and it’s a working model, Eddie. We could try sailing it on the lake if you want. It’ll be a really fun day.” 

I was gobsmacked. If I had ever ridden a train, it was long before my recollection and  while I had heard of the lakes, it was only in the context of a place where wealthy people might  take a mini vacation, not somewhere I could just go off to on a whim. The invitation was as  attractive as it was impossible.  

“I’m not sure I could afford the ticket,” I stated plainly, free from shame. 

“The tickets on me,” Andrew countered.  

“I wouldn’t have anything to wear.” It’s not like I could show up in my school uniform, and my ripped, dirty “play clothes” would make me look like a pauper amongst Andrew’s family. 

“You’ll borrow something from me.” Andrew would not be deterred.  

“But my mother…” I began. Ever since our argument earlier that week, mom had been  cold but cordial. My many apologies had been acknowledged but not necessarily accepted and  we had been moving around the small apartment like polite strangers for days. I detailed the  broad brushstrokes to Andrew. “So basically,” I summarized, “college is off the table and now  it’s just the worst time for me to be asking for permission to run off for a day of leisure.” 

“First of all, nothing’s off the table,” Andrew rebuked. “You’ve still got a couple of  years. She may change her mind.” 

“She won’t,” I assured him.  

“Well, screw that anyway, Eddie,” he replied passionately. “Keep your grades up and  apply for aid and to the right schools, and when the time comes, you’ll figure the rest out. She  can’t stop you from doing any of that.” 

“She’ll kick me out,” I responded flatly. 

“Then she kicks you out,” he said, matter-of-factly.  

“Where will I live?” I challenged. “HOW will I live? 

“You’ll get a grant for student housing. You’ll enter a work study program, you’ll take  out loans, you’ll work at Cromwell’s at nights and on the evenings, heck, you’ll get a place with  me and pay what you can.” He rattled off solutions like a guy who had never faced problems.  “You have no idea what’s available out there for a smart kid like you, Eddie. Just promise me  you’ll pursue it! No one can stop you from applying and you’ll at least have a complete picture  of your options for when the time comes to make a fully informed decision.” I was paralyzed 

by Andrew’s intensity, uncertain why this was so important to him. “Promise me,” he  demanded. 

“I promise,” I responded, holding his gaze, certain that a promise to Andrew was one I  would feel compelled to keep. “Now, about Saturday…” I changed the subject. “Oh, that one’s easy,” Andrew said lightly. “Just don’t tell her about the lake.” “You mean, like…lie?” I nearly whispered.  

Andrew chuckled at my naivete. “Just tell her you’re coming to my place like normal but  that we’re getting together bright and early so we can finish the model and that you’ll be home  by supper. Easy.” I had never lied to my mother before and the ease with which Andrew  entertained the idea concerned me. “Or you can just ask her outright,” he added, sensing my  hesitation. “But I think we both know how that’ll go.” 

I spent the following week agonizing over how to deal with mom. Not only did I have  moral objections to lying, but I seriously questioned my ability to do so successfully. How could  I look her in the eye? She’d see right through me. I’d certainly stammer, or squeak. On the  other hand, telling the truth seemed a sure obstruction to the thing I wanted most. By Friday  evening, a mere twelve hours before the trip, I still hadn’t made a decision. I couldn’t lie to my  mother’s face, but I simply couldn’t tell her the truth. So, I did neither. 

My alarm went off at six o’clock and I silenced it immediately. Having worked until after  midnight, mom wouldn’t be up for hours. I washed up quietly, got dressed and placed a single  sheet of loose-leaf paper on the kitchen table before slipping out the front door. 

Mom, forgot to mention…spending the day with Andrew. Will be home by supper.  Chores are done and house is clean. See you tonight. 

She wouldn’t be happy but I could apologize later and whatever the consequences,  something told me, today would be worth it.  

The train pulled into the station just before ten. “It’s a five-minute walk from here,” Andrew pointed across a field. “Just across the meadow and down that path.” His sisters ran  ahead, light-hearted and eager, while Andrew and I sauntered somewhat slowly behind,  carefully carrying our pride and joy; the completed model. Andrew’s clothing, a size too large,  hung loosely from my slim frame. Though oversized, the fine garments helped mollify my “imposter syndrome” and gave me an odd sense of unencumbered freedom.  

The dirt path wound down a small embankment, opening up to an idyllic clearing.  Billowing, old trees dotted a canvas of lush pillowy grass. The lake, replete with lily pads and  swans, greeted the shore with a flourish of tall reeds creating a watercolor palette of rich blues  and greens.  

There was a park in my neighborhood. A flat, somewhat expansive, fence-enclosed  patch of land peppered with dried, dying grass which stuck up from the dusty earth.  Dilapidated, rust-covered playground equipment longed for the touch of a child while the  presence of nearby cars and trucks was advertised through sight, sound, and smell. That was all 

I had ever known of the great outdoors. As I drank in the surrounding splendor of the lake, I  was struck not only by the bucolic beauty of the environment, but also by the sheer vastness of  the world and the abject limits to my life’s experiences. I thought of mom with a twinge of  guilt.  

“Come on!” Andrew beckoned, snapping me back to reality. He grabbed me by the  arm, enthusiastically leading me through small groups of frolicking children and their  outnumbered caretakers. We dropped our stuff with Andrew’s mother at a large, shade covered table, brimming with snacks and drinks. “So glad you could make it, Eddie!” Andrew’s  mother greeted me warmly just as a frenzied Andrew pulled me away. “Grab the boat and  follow me!” he instructed, ushering me hastily to the shore.  

We stood at the shoreline, hands grasping the product of our labor, looking out at the  lake. We had done a fine job for a couple of kids. As Andrew had promised, working slowly and  methodically from the beginning had provided us with seamless joints, smoothly sanded  surfaces and an overall professional look. “Do you think it will actually float?” I asked nervously. 

“It ought to,” Andrew replied, confidently.  

“What if it sinks or gets carried out too far?” I had grown somewhat attached to the  wooden catalyst for mine and Andrew’s friendship. 

“It might just,” Andrew conceded. “But hopefully the flow of the current would bring it  back to shore” he mused optimistically. “You know, we don’t have to sail it,” he offered. “It  could just serve as an impressive mantelpiece.” 

There was a part of me that longed to keep the boat exactly as it was; pristine and  frozen in time, like a polaroid; pure, static and eternal. But a newly developing part of me, only  just finding its voice, knew it was time to test the boat’s potential. “No. Let’s do it,” I finally  said, self-assured and confident.  

Andrew knelt down placing the sailboat just where the lake met the coast. It sat  hesitantly on the earth as water lapped the hull. “Well, give it a push,” he encouraged me. I  knelt down beside him and gave the boat a delicate nudge. Standing up, we contemplated the  vessel in silence. At first, it idled lazily near the shore, bobbing up and down with uncertainty, but after a moment, a small gust of wind caught the sail, propelling it forward and causing it to  dance fervidly across the surface of the lake. We continued to watch together, fearful that the  small craft might suddenly capsize but elated by its grace. Transfixed by the aquatic ballet, I  stood there wondering what might become of our miniature when I felt Andrew’s hand timidly  grip mine, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the boat. Without thought or fear, I returned his  grasp, squeezing his hand affectionately as I joined him in looking out toward the horizon.