There’s an explosion of glass. A siren of dogs. Coffee streaks down the stainless steel door of the fridge, all over the treehouse plans, and onto the floor.
Both parents come running.
“Sadie!” Mom screams. “What is going on?”
“Don’t come in here! There’s broken glass.”
Mom stops at the edge of the crime scene. Dad gets a dustpan and broom.
“I was trying to get the coffeepot away from Sam,” Sadie explains.
“What was he doing with it?”
“Pouring himself a second cup.”
“What?! Since when are you drinking coffee?”
“I have a lot of things due tomorrow.”
“You’re eleven years old! You need sleep!”
“But Mom,” I say, “if I get it all done by tomorrow, they won’t take off points. If they don’t take off points, I might be able to get As in three out of four classes. If I can get As in three out of four classes—and keep it up next semester—I might make honor roll. If I make honor roll five out of six semesters in middle school, they’ll let me start taking AP classes right away in ninth grade. Miss Lopez told us that in high school you get extra GPA points for AP classes, which means I’ll have a head start on other kids when I apply to college.”
I look at Mom’s face. It’s perfectly still, except for the tears falling down her cheeks.
“I told you there should be no more homework in this home,” Dad says cheerfully, sweeping up the glass.
That’s when the phone rings.
“I’ll get it,” Sadie says. She tiptoes over to the telephone and answers. “Mr. Kalman,” she says. “I’m glad you’re up.”
Sadie lights our way with the flashlight app on her cell phone. When we get to Mr. Kalman’s front porch, I see the newspaper I picked up yesterday afternoon still sitting there.
The candle in the window, near the end of its wax, is flickering.
The door opens, and Mr. Kalman stands there wearing his fur slippers and plaid robe.
“Do you know what I caught Sam doing?” Sadie says.
“Poisoning the dogs, I hope.”
“Drinking coffee. At three thirty in the morning.”
“I could use a cup right now.”
He turns and heads inside. We follow him in.
When we go past the candle, I ask him, “What’s with the candle, Mr. Kalman?”
“It’s for my wife, Miriam. Yesterday was her Yahrzeit.”
“Is that like a birthday?”
“It’s the opposite of a birthday, Sam. We light a candle on the anniversary of the person’s death. A person we loved.”
“Do you know why my eleven-year-old brother was drinking coffee at three thirty in the morning?”
Mr. Kalman shakes his head.
“Homework.”
Mr. Kalman looks at the candle. He shakes his head again and says, “They’re supposed to burn for twenty-four hours. I lit hers twenty-eight hours ago. She does that to me every year. Refuses to burn out.”
“Maybe she’s trying to tell you something,” Sadie says.
“What, that I ought to go over there and blow out the candle?”
“That you ought to keep on burning too.” She looks right at Mr. Kalman and says, “Don’t we have one last appeal, to the US Supreme Court?”
“It’s not so simple, Sadie. We’ve made our best arguments before two federal courts. Four justices shot us down.”
“So you’re giving up?”
Mr. Kalman looks away. “I told you I wouldn’t be able to see it through.”
“Mr. Kalman, if Oliver Brown in Brown v. Board of Education had given up, black and white students might still be going to segregated schools. If Miranda had given up, people could be arrested without being told their rights. If Jim Obergefell had given up, people couldn’t marry the person they love. If we give up, nothing will change for this generation of kids. Nothing will change for Sam.”
Mr. Kalman just stands there, looking at the candle.
“And Goliath wins,” I say.
A saying pops out of Sadie’s mouth. “You can’t tear down a wall if you don’t take a swing.”
Mr. Kalman looks at her. “What’s that?”
“One of Bernice’s advice pills.”
“Who’s Bernice?”
“Our mom’s parenting teacher,” I explain. “She’s always handing out little sayings.”
“Tell me another.”
“You can’t prepare the path for the child, so prepare the child for the path.”
He thinks about that one, tilts his head, then nods as if he agrees.
“Another.”
“Failure is the greenhouse of success,” Sadie says.
“Sleep or weep,” I say.
“A consequence builds character.”
“Follow through and you won’t have to follow up.”
Mr. Kalman looks at me. He looks at Sadie. He looks over at Mrs. Kalman’s candle. Twenty-eight hours and still dancing.
“You can’t tear down a wall if . . . ?”
“You don’t take a swing,” a voice says from across the room.
We all turn around and see Mom standing in the doorway.
She and Mr. Kalman exchange a long look. It’s like they’re having a whole conversation with just their eyes. Finally, he says, “Who wants to take a field trip?”
“Where to, Mr. Kalman?” I ask.
“Our nation’s capital.”
“We all do,” Mom says.
Would you trade her to another team? I wouldn’t.
18
One of Us Flies First Class
Sunday afternoon, Sean and Sadie have just finished a marathon study session, and his Uber is out front. Sadie walks him onto the porch, which happens to be right next to the window of our front bathroom, where I happen to be through no fault of my own.
As Alistair says, it’s the final step of a great meal.
The window is open. For ventilation purposes only.
“First we go to Washington,” I hear Sadie say. “Then Mr. Kalman asks the court for a mandatory injunction against homework. At the same time he files our appeal of the Ninth Circuit Court’s decision. Then we organize a huge march. We need you, Sean, every step of the way.”
“I don’t know, Sadie,” Sean says. “We’ve got midterms coming up. You’ve got your Common App essay deadline. I mean, the Supreme Court—it’s kind of a long shot.”
I wait for my big sister, captain of the debate team and winner of all those speaker points, to say something. But she’s as mute as me in front of authority figures.
I wait some more. Not
