Pennies for Tarnished Wishes
(Scholastic Regional Honorable Mention 2014)
“I wish I had enough money to buy a new backpack.” As the words fell half-heartedly from his soft-spoken lips, he dropped a penny into the wishing well—the homemade clay pot that served as a centerpiece on the Lawrence family dinner table. He heard a small clink as it hit the bottom, but he knew it might as well have fallen to the center of the earth. It was never coming back. He would never get a new backpack, nor should he even think of having the money to pay for one. Besides, his was perfectly intact (despite a few holes the size of quarters and the small rips from the bullies who so frequently tried to knock him down on his way home from school). Each night, both parents and their child would cast out their most extravagant desires, throwing what little spare change they had into the “well” at the center of the table. Twelve year-old Gifford never fully understood the purpose of such a symbolic measure—if they were struggling so, then why did they simply throw their money away? It was just loose change, but even that mattered to them. He would never wish to subvert the family tradition, though, so he sat quietly, biting his tongue as he waited to devour the modest meal on his plate, knowing full well he would still leave the table hungry.
This dinner ritual at the Lawrence household was a strange, unorthodox process that no outsider would understand, but that is exactly what Gifford cherished about it. He may not have had fancy entrees or gold-rimmed china like a multitude of his classmates, but what he did have was a family that no one could match. They were a quirky, enthusiastic group who never lived their lives based on what the neighbors or the relatives or the social elites were doing. They had very little in the way of material possessions, but they had a mine of precious minerals in each other. Gifford looked down at his food, the portions suddenly seeming to increase, then looked up at his family. As his gaze rested first on his mom’s face and then on his dad’s, he suddenly knew what he really wished for. He wished to keep them forever. Of course, a larger table with somewhat more satisfying provisions would be nice, but the people who sat there were the only sustenance each needed. He would never throw this wish into the well, never trivialize how much he valued the presence of the only people he truly needed. This wish was real, one that was actually plausible, one that he hoped he would never have to discard. Pipedreams of a sleek backpack and new shoes and a bigger house could all sink to their certain deaths, but his family belonged to him.
***
It was a cool, crisp day at the beginning of October. Smiles and laughter were omnipresent throughout the bleachers, and the breeze seemed to carry waves of genuine happiness as it brushed through the branches of the birch trees that lined the soccer field. Gifford ran with full force as he dodged his way through any oncoming aggressors who tried to threaten him. The right defender made a fatal mistake as he misjudged which way Gifford would step, and Gifford knew that this was his chance. He charged with the relentless spirit of an incensed combatant off to war, and within seconds, he heard a deafening uproar from the crowd. Just as he glanced up at the scoreboard, the “home” count changed from 8 to 9, and the “visitor” remained 0. He couldn’t believe his eyes. With just one second left in the game, he had scored. The outcome was no matter; after all, he had simply been sent in as a last-minute walk-on because the opposing team was putting up such a futile fight. However, to Gifford, the clumsy, awkward “weird kid,” scoring his first goal was monumental.
At the sound of the whistle signaling the end of the battle, he dashed immediately to the bleachers to greet his family. He knew that they were proud of him even when he warmed the bench, but he couldn't wait to share this triumph with them. He searched through every row and every section of the stands, jumping to the tips of his toes trying to spot his father’s trademark safari hat, but he saw nothing except backwards baseball caps and loose split-ends blowing in the wind. His eyes moved to the parking lot, yet his family’s wooden-sided station wagon was missing in action. His stomach already sinking to his worn-out, off-brand cleats, he trudged back to the field with worries and anxieties buzzing about his mind like incessant, menacing bees in a hive much too small to contain their ferocity.
When he lifted his head and focused back on the real world, he found his Uncle Bruce standing beside the bleachers. Eyes unaccustomed to tears shone wetly, and his face reflected confusion and a terrifying sense of finality. Gifford did not need any words—he knew it could only mean one thing. He fell to his knees. His family hadn’t been there to see him score his goal, nor would they ever. Five miles down the road, hundreds of sparkling orange pennies sat at the bottom of what was now simply a pot. The old wishing well stood intact, but unbeknownst to Gifford, its edges had been secretly rotted and the water had longed to break the walls and flood the surface. Now it exposed the invisible, sharp-edged crack that existed down the center of the Lawrence family dinner table.
***
Four days later, Gifford tripped over the threshold as he opened an unfamiliar wooden front door, falling face-first into a new life and a strange house that was supposed to be his new home. With him he carried a small brown bag full of items more worthless than a mound of oxidizing coins at the bottom of a fountain, and his heart fluttered with discontent. His aunt and uncle seemed to pounce on him, quickly lifting him up from the tile and greeting him with what felt like a false, lackluster sympathy that he wanted from no one. Their embrace was warm, but he shivered all the same. After what seemed like an eternity, they loosened their grip and freed him to climb the unwelcoming stairs to a series of rooms he had no desire to enter. As he opened the door and glanced at what would be his new bed, he felt the tears welling up inside him.
Without warning, the darkness descended upon him in a fishnet of misfortune, trapping him from the world outside and the voices he so longed to hear. What could he possibly do? Give up? No, I was raised better than that. Fall apart? Easy to do, but hardly satisfying. Go on? It seemed impossible. Everywhere he turned and with every glance he took, he could see nothing but darkness, emptiness, and bad omens. The silence screamed at him. Get out. You’ve got to get out of here. He clapped his shaking hands over his ears to try and deafen the sound, but it was no use—the voices were inside of him. Run. You’ll never be free until you run. He threw his bag down and began pacing across the room, thinking that the faster he walked, the more distanced the voices would become. But they only grew in intensity. They love you, but you will never be yourself here. Leave. And so he did. With a quick flick of the doorknob and a disregard for the few items he possessed, Gifford Lawrence took flight above the staircase and sprinted out the door.
***
He was halfway across the state before the tears stopped. He slowly unclenched his weary fists and looked at the shining sliver of copper in his hand, the only money he had left after paying for a one-way train ticket to anywhere free of memories and pain. As the light from the sun entered the window beside him and reflected off the polished piece of metal in his hand, he felt nothing but a deeply ingrained yearning for something he knew could never be. He had only one penny to his name, and even so he wished he could rid himself of it. He desperately longed to dispose of his one last wish into the well that was no more—he knew for the first time that the smiles and the sanguine voices he loved so dearly were gone for good.
***
As he stepped off the train and onto the platform, Gifford realized that he had nowhere to go. Now that he had reached what he had thought was his final destination, he understood that in reality, he didn’t have one. It was the middle of night and the terminal was empty. His impulsive decisiveness weighed on him like an anvil, and for the first time in days, his mind stopped and so did he. He looked in both directions and all he saw was an empty hallway with an even emptier sense of security and optimism. He had nothing. He had no siblings, no cousins, no family friends. He was alone. He had deserted the only two people to whom he could cling without so much as a second thought. Having no idea what to do and no drive to do it, he sat down on a bench as hard and cold as his emotions. What could a twelve-year-old do to rescue himself alone in a big city? He was trapped. The hours passed and he could think of nothing—nothing but a growing guilt and a new hatred for circumstances. On that dreary platform in that dreary terminal in a newly dreary life, Gifford decided to let everything go. He could rot on that bench for all he cared—no one would notice and it would be of no cost to the world at large.
He had almost given up enough to drift into sleep when he heard a stern, eerily calm voice say, “Is your name Gifford Lawrence?”
He thought it must have been a joke. If no one in the halls of his school or the streets of his neighborhood even cared what his name was, how did a police officer in a city he had never even been to know it? And more importantly, why did he care? After what felt like countless minutes of staring in disbelief, Gifford finally mustered up the courage to answer, “Yes. That’s me. Why?”
“There are some people who have flown a long way to see you to safety. Follow me.”
Flown?! Gifford had never even seen an airplane except the ones in the sky above the interstate as he passed the exit for the airport, so how could he believe that anyone would fly to see that he was safe? Devoid of any other option, he gathered what little courage he had left and followed the stranger down a series of equally dull hallways to a place he began to think did not exist at all. When he saw the lights of the ticket desk and heard the striking of the grand clock in the lobby of the train station, his heart began to beat out of control. Where am I going? Who could possibly be here for me? Surely no one cares enough to…Nothing could have prepared him for what awaited him on the other side of the tunnel that led to the main lobby. When he turned the corner and saw the relief on their faces, he froze. How could this be?
One moment he had been determined to start a new life beyond the starkly white and windowless room that had confined him since the end of his soccer game and the end of his hope, but now Gifford immediately wished its walls would shrink. He looked at the faces of his aunt and uncle—certainly not those of his parents, but warm and welcoming all the same—and the tears returned. One by one, his loose wishes trickled down his face and out of his body and mind for good. Through a vision blurred by recent memories of arms that would never again embrace him, he looked at the two people standing in front of him and saw nothing but love.
Gifford’s mind raced with images of the soccer field, his initial reactions to what he thought was an unwelcoming home, and the wells and wells of tears. What he originally perceived as their cold and stark nature was simply the spirit of his aunt and uncle struggling to reconcile their unthinkable grief. He realized that all along, his discomfort and resentment had been due to his own misconceptions, not their display of affection. With the abrupt crash of a car, they had graciously taken him into their home, and he had left them. He had discarded his belongings on the floor along with any intention to return, and yet they had followed him. They knew his thoughts and they knew where he was going; even more so, they knew him.
His mind was too overwhelmed to comprehend their words and his tears were too heavy to allow him to see their faces, but he took a step forward and embraced his aunt and uncle, his makeshift saviors. He could feel a bond that had never before existed but was already too strong to ever be broken. He looked into their eyes—a new sort of wishing well—and smiled an effortless smile that radiated through the station and cemented all its cracks. Gifford took the one leftover penny from his pocket and placed it into his uncle’s hand as they walked away from their troubles and back into the terminal.
This dinner ritual at the Lawrence household was a strange, unorthodox process that no outsider would understand, but that is exactly what Gifford cherished about it. He may not have had fancy entrees or gold-rimmed china like a multitude of his classmates, but what he did have was a family that no one could match. They were a quirky, enthusiastic group who never lived their lives based on what the neighbors or the relatives or the social elites were doing. They had very little in the way of material possessions, but they had a mine of precious minerals in each other. Gifford looked down at his food, the portions suddenly seeming to increase, then looked up at his family. As his gaze rested first on his mom’s face and then on his dad’s, he suddenly knew what he really wished for. He wished to keep them forever. Of course, a larger table with somewhat more satisfying provisions would be nice, but the people who sat there were the only sustenance each needed. He would never throw this wish into the well, never trivialize how much he valued the presence of the only people he truly needed. This wish was real, one that was actually plausible, one that he hoped he would never have to discard. Pipedreams of a sleek backpack and new shoes and a bigger house could all sink to their certain deaths, but his family belonged to him.
***
It was a cool, crisp day at the beginning of October. Smiles and laughter were omnipresent throughout the bleachers, and the breeze seemed to carry waves of genuine happiness as it brushed through the branches of the birch trees that lined the soccer field. Gifford ran with full force as he dodged his way through any oncoming aggressors who tried to threaten him. The right defender made a fatal mistake as he misjudged which way Gifford would step, and Gifford knew that this was his chance. He charged with the relentless spirit of an incensed combatant off to war, and within seconds, he heard a deafening uproar from the crowd. Just as he glanced up at the scoreboard, the “home” count changed from 8 to 9, and the “visitor” remained 0. He couldn’t believe his eyes. With just one second left in the game, he had scored. The outcome was no matter; after all, he had simply been sent in as a last-minute walk-on because the opposing team was putting up such a futile fight. However, to Gifford, the clumsy, awkward “weird kid,” scoring his first goal was monumental.
At the sound of the whistle signaling the end of the battle, he dashed immediately to the bleachers to greet his family. He knew that they were proud of him even when he warmed the bench, but he couldn't wait to share this triumph with them. He searched through every row and every section of the stands, jumping to the tips of his toes trying to spot his father’s trademark safari hat, but he saw nothing except backwards baseball caps and loose split-ends blowing in the wind. His eyes moved to the parking lot, yet his family’s wooden-sided station wagon was missing in action. His stomach already sinking to his worn-out, off-brand cleats, he trudged back to the field with worries and anxieties buzzing about his mind like incessant, menacing bees in a hive much too small to contain their ferocity.
When he lifted his head and focused back on the real world, he found his Uncle Bruce standing beside the bleachers. Eyes unaccustomed to tears shone wetly, and his face reflected confusion and a terrifying sense of finality. Gifford did not need any words—he knew it could only mean one thing. He fell to his knees. His family hadn’t been there to see him score his goal, nor would they ever. Five miles down the road, hundreds of sparkling orange pennies sat at the bottom of what was now simply a pot. The old wishing well stood intact, but unbeknownst to Gifford, its edges had been secretly rotted and the water had longed to break the walls and flood the surface. Now it exposed the invisible, sharp-edged crack that existed down the center of the Lawrence family dinner table.
***
Four days later, Gifford tripped over the threshold as he opened an unfamiliar wooden front door, falling face-first into a new life and a strange house that was supposed to be his new home. With him he carried a small brown bag full of items more worthless than a mound of oxidizing coins at the bottom of a fountain, and his heart fluttered with discontent. His aunt and uncle seemed to pounce on him, quickly lifting him up from the tile and greeting him with what felt like a false, lackluster sympathy that he wanted from no one. Their embrace was warm, but he shivered all the same. After what seemed like an eternity, they loosened their grip and freed him to climb the unwelcoming stairs to a series of rooms he had no desire to enter. As he opened the door and glanced at what would be his new bed, he felt the tears welling up inside him.
Without warning, the darkness descended upon him in a fishnet of misfortune, trapping him from the world outside and the voices he so longed to hear. What could he possibly do? Give up? No, I was raised better than that. Fall apart? Easy to do, but hardly satisfying. Go on? It seemed impossible. Everywhere he turned and with every glance he took, he could see nothing but darkness, emptiness, and bad omens. The silence screamed at him. Get out. You’ve got to get out of here. He clapped his shaking hands over his ears to try and deafen the sound, but it was no use—the voices were inside of him. Run. You’ll never be free until you run. He threw his bag down and began pacing across the room, thinking that the faster he walked, the more distanced the voices would become. But they only grew in intensity. They love you, but you will never be yourself here. Leave. And so he did. With a quick flick of the doorknob and a disregard for the few items he possessed, Gifford Lawrence took flight above the staircase and sprinted out the door.
***
He was halfway across the state before the tears stopped. He slowly unclenched his weary fists and looked at the shining sliver of copper in his hand, the only money he had left after paying for a one-way train ticket to anywhere free of memories and pain. As the light from the sun entered the window beside him and reflected off the polished piece of metal in his hand, he felt nothing but a deeply ingrained yearning for something he knew could never be. He had only one penny to his name, and even so he wished he could rid himself of it. He desperately longed to dispose of his one last wish into the well that was no more—he knew for the first time that the smiles and the sanguine voices he loved so dearly were gone for good.
***
As he stepped off the train and onto the platform, Gifford realized that he had nowhere to go. Now that he had reached what he had thought was his final destination, he understood that in reality, he didn’t have one. It was the middle of night and the terminal was empty. His impulsive decisiveness weighed on him like an anvil, and for the first time in days, his mind stopped and so did he. He looked in both directions and all he saw was an empty hallway with an even emptier sense of security and optimism. He had nothing. He had no siblings, no cousins, no family friends. He was alone. He had deserted the only two people to whom he could cling without so much as a second thought. Having no idea what to do and no drive to do it, he sat down on a bench as hard and cold as his emotions. What could a twelve-year-old do to rescue himself alone in a big city? He was trapped. The hours passed and he could think of nothing—nothing but a growing guilt and a new hatred for circumstances. On that dreary platform in that dreary terminal in a newly dreary life, Gifford decided to let everything go. He could rot on that bench for all he cared—no one would notice and it would be of no cost to the world at large.
He had almost given up enough to drift into sleep when he heard a stern, eerily calm voice say, “Is your name Gifford Lawrence?”
He thought it must have been a joke. If no one in the halls of his school or the streets of his neighborhood even cared what his name was, how did a police officer in a city he had never even been to know it? And more importantly, why did he care? After what felt like countless minutes of staring in disbelief, Gifford finally mustered up the courage to answer, “Yes. That’s me. Why?”
“There are some people who have flown a long way to see you to safety. Follow me.”
Flown?! Gifford had never even seen an airplane except the ones in the sky above the interstate as he passed the exit for the airport, so how could he believe that anyone would fly to see that he was safe? Devoid of any other option, he gathered what little courage he had left and followed the stranger down a series of equally dull hallways to a place he began to think did not exist at all. When he saw the lights of the ticket desk and heard the striking of the grand clock in the lobby of the train station, his heart began to beat out of control. Where am I going? Who could possibly be here for me? Surely no one cares enough to…Nothing could have prepared him for what awaited him on the other side of the tunnel that led to the main lobby. When he turned the corner and saw the relief on their faces, he froze. How could this be?
One moment he had been determined to start a new life beyond the starkly white and windowless room that had confined him since the end of his soccer game and the end of his hope, but now Gifford immediately wished its walls would shrink. He looked at the faces of his aunt and uncle—certainly not those of his parents, but warm and welcoming all the same—and the tears returned. One by one, his loose wishes trickled down his face and out of his body and mind for good. Through a vision blurred by recent memories of arms that would never again embrace him, he looked at the two people standing in front of him and saw nothing but love.
Gifford’s mind raced with images of the soccer field, his initial reactions to what he thought was an unwelcoming home, and the wells and wells of tears. What he originally perceived as their cold and stark nature was simply the spirit of his aunt and uncle struggling to reconcile their unthinkable grief. He realized that all along, his discomfort and resentment had been due to his own misconceptions, not their display of affection. With the abrupt crash of a car, they had graciously taken him into their home, and he had left them. He had discarded his belongings on the floor along with any intention to return, and yet they had followed him. They knew his thoughts and they knew where he was going; even more so, they knew him.
His mind was too overwhelmed to comprehend their words and his tears were too heavy to allow him to see their faces, but he took a step forward and embraced his aunt and uncle, his makeshift saviors. He could feel a bond that had never before existed but was already too strong to ever be broken. He looked into their eyes—a new sort of wishing well—and smiled an effortless smile that radiated through the station and cemented all its cracks. Gifford took the one leftover penny from his pocket and placed it into his uncle’s hand as they walked away from their troubles and back into the terminal.