There are still woefully few books starring a bisexual protagonist, especially in the YA market. I waited until school started, smuggled it out of the house in my backpack, and abandoned it in a kindergartner’s cubby.I guess it's important to start by noting that this book was revolutionary at the time it was written. Like the ever-shrinking empty spaces in our house. I glued and glued, making up the design as I went.īut when I looked at it when I was done, all I could think is that I’d made a way to perpetuate the cycle, the empty space inside the bowl calling out to be filled with more things. Of course there was a piece of wood to use for a base. I wouldn’t do it, but I watched her and the other kids, and it finally gave me the idea for what to do. I was going to leave, but you had to stay once you chose an activity. What was the point of a box of sticks with no popsicles? The computers and the swings were full, so I went with some lady who said we were going to do art.įirst thing, she got out a huge box of popsicle sticks - at least, that’s what the box said, but it was clear that no popsicles had ever been attached to them.Īt least my sticks had served one useful purpose. One day when she had to work Mom took me to the Boys and Girls club. Once I dreamed they all came to life like the brooms in that story. I had more and more of them, clustered in a jar on my dresser. I threw them on my floor and tried to use the patterns they made for divination, but I couldn’t make up my mind about what they meant. They were bookmarks until they cracked the spine on a library book. They were drumsticks until there were too many and Mom said it was too loud when I played. I needed to turn them into something that made sense to me, but I didn’t know what. I took the sticks into my room and stared at them. Our house was already swelling up with things we might need, things we couldn’t possibly throw away, things Mom couldn’t believe were just sitting out on the curb. Mom fished them out, rinsed them off, and said, “They’re perfectly good.” “For what?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. The first time I ate one, or two, actually, since they were the kind you can break in half to share, but I didn’t, I did what anyone would do: tossed the sticks into the trash. They looked like fluorescent jaundice on a stick, but they tasted sharply sour-sweet, and I loved them.

The summer when I was nine, Mom bought boxes and boxes of popsicles on sale, lemon-lime, some discontinued brand.

Empress of the world by sara ryan