Twelve Impossible Things Before Breakfast by Jane Yolen

Author:Jane Yolen [Yolen, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

It turned out to be more like three hours of homework, though—one before the Tolkien, and two after—and Brancy was exhausted. Eighth grade was going to be real hard, she decided. The spelling words had been the worst ever: naiad, Gorgon, nemesis, daimonic, centaur, odyssey. They were studying the myths of ancient worlds. Brancy wished the ancient worlds had known how to spell with more regularity. Or had had fewer odd gods and monsters.

“Though how anyone could really believe in this stuff..." she said, slamming the book shut. “It’s all too bizarre.”

“Brancy,” came a whispery voice from the door connecting her bedroom with Danny’s.

She looked up. Danny was standing there, holding on to his bear, Bronco.

“Hey, Mr. Brat, it’s way past ten. What are you doing up?”

“I heard the Bolundeers outside. In the compost.” His chin trembled. “They’re scratching around. And whispering awful things about you and me and Mom. They want to come into the house. Listen.”

She listened. All she could hear were crickets. “You know what Mom said. Volunteers”—she pronounced it again carefully—“are vegetables. And vegetables don’t make any noise. In fact, they are very very quiet.”

“Not these ones,” Danny said. “These are Bolundeers. They want to hurt us. Brancy, I’m scared.”

She started to say something sharp but his face was so pinched and white that she bit back the response. He hardly looked like a kindergartner anymore. In fact, he looked like a little old man. A little old dying man. “Do you want me to snuggle with you till you fall asleep?”

He nodded, clutching Bronco so hard the little bear’s eyes almost popped out.

“OK. I was getting tired of Gorgons and centaurs, anyway.”

“What are those?”

“Far worse than talking veggies, trust me.” She followed him back to his bed. Tacking in next to him, she said, “Why don’t I sing you something?” He nodded, and so she started with their father’s favorite lullaby, the one he always sang when they were sick and couldn’t fall asleep: “Dance to Your Daddy.” Only, unlike their father, she sang it on key.

Danny dozed off at once, but Brancy could not sleep. The song only served to remind her that her father was no longer around. He had suffered horribly before finally dying, and God had been no help to him at all. Even though they had all prayed and his partner had had a mass said for him. It didn’t matter that her father had been strong and brave before he had gotten cancer. With medals from the city after having been injured in the line of duty. He hadn’t died when some man crazy with drugs had tried to kill him with a knife. Or later, when he had shielded two hostages with his own body while a would-be burglar had shot at them. It was stupid lung cancer from his stupid smoking that had killed him. She tried to remember what her father had looked like, either before the cancer or after. But all that came to mind was what they had left of him, in a jar on a shelf in her mother’s den.

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