1

The Magic Baseball

i stared at the glossy image. Six-year-old toothless me hold-

ing Mom’s hand as white waves broke on the shore behind

us. A strand of dark hair blew in Mom’s face, hiding what

might have been a small smile.

I turned as Mom appeared in the doorway. “Look at this.

I was so little.” I held up the picture, smiling.

When Mom’s eyes found the box I had opened, confusion

swept across her face. “Where did you find that? I thought

we’d unpacked everything.”

“It . . . was in here,” I said.

She stepped into the spare room of our new apartment.

We’d moved all over San Diego. From 4th Street to 10th Street

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Tortilla Sun

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The Magic Baseball

place to place, never finding a home. I bet he hated packing

too, unless it was for vacation.

Mom grabbed the box and marched down the hall. I

heard the closet door slam. Then she reappeared and leaned

against the doorframe. “We don’t need to unpack that one.

Just leave it alone. ”

“But . . .”

She put her palm up. “I said leave it alone.”

That night, I sat at my desk beneath the window to write

down some ideas for a story. “Because magic,” I whispered.

Did my dad write those words? And why was there a gap

between the words like something was missing?

The June moon hung low in the sky like it was attached

to some invisible string. Its brilliant yellow light filtered

through the palms outside, creating dancing shadows on the

bare white walls of my room.

I tapped a pen against my cheek and stared at a blank

index card. I had a whole stack of them with the beginnings

of my unfinished stories. Mrs. Barney, my fifth grade teacher,

had turned me on to them. She said small cards weren’t so

intimidating for “budding writers.” I’d asked her what bud-

ding meant; she just laughed and told me I was growing.

and from Mulberry Road to Elm Road. The last place we lived

was on Paradise Place. That had a nice ring to it. Now, we

were living at 1423 M Street. “M” for maybe this will finally

be home.

“I haven’t seen this in ages.” Her eyes danced as she

traced her long fingers over the photo. “I think you had just

lost that front tooth.” She chuckled at the memory.

A soft breeze crawled in through the window, tickling

my face. That’s when I caught sight of something else in

the box.

A baseball.

I took the baseball from the box and rotated it in my hand.

The words because and magic were written across the front.

“Whose is this?”

Mom looked up and yanked the ball from my grasp.

“Wait. I want to look at it. What do those words mean?”

I said.

“I . . . It’s nothing. Help me fold up this box.”

“Is it Dad’s?” I asked barely above a whisper.

Mom turned to me. “I said never mind, Izzy. It’s just an

old nothing.” But I knew it wasn’t a nothing. Dad died before

I was born and Mom never wanted to talk about him. But I

imagined we were just the same. That he hated moving from

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Tortilla Sun

11

The Magic Baseball

place to place, never finding a home. I bet he hated packing

too, unless it was for vacation.

Mom grabbed the box and marched down the hall. I

heard the closet door slam. Then she reappeared and leaned

against the doorframe. “We don’t need to unpack that one.

Just leave it alone. ”

“But . . .”

She put her palm up. “I said leave it alone.”

That night, I sat at my desk beneath the window to write

down some ideas for a story. “Because magic,” I whispered.

Did my dad write those words? And why was there a gap

between the words like something was missing?

The June moon hung low in the sky like it was attached

to some invisible string. Its brilliant yellow light filtered

through the palms outside, creating dancing shadows on the

bare white walls of my room.

I tapped a pen against my cheek and stared at a blank

index card. I had a whole stack of them with the beginnings

of my unfinished stories. Mrs. Barney, my fifth grade teacher,

had turned me on to them. She said small cards weren’t so

intimidating for “budding writers.” I’d asked her what bud-

ding meant; she just laughed and told me I was growing.

and from Mulberry Road to Elm Road. The last place we lived

was on Paradise Place. That had a nice ring to it. Now, we

were living at 1423 M Street. “M” for maybe this will finally

be home.

“I haven’t seen this in ages.” Her eyes danced as she

traced her long fingers over the photo. “I think you had just

lost that front tooth.” She chuckled at the memory.

A soft breeze crawled in through the window, tickling

my face. That’s when I caught sight of something else in

the box.

A baseball.

I took the baseball from the box and rotated it in my hand.

The words because and magic were written across the front.

“Whose is this?”

Mom looked up and yanked the ball from my grasp.

“Wait. I want to look at it. What do those words mean?”

I said.

“I . . . It’s nothing. Help me fold up this box.”

“Is it Dad’s?” I asked barely above a whisper.

Mom turned to me. “I said never mind, Izzy. It’s just an

old nothing.” But I knew it wasn’t a nothing. Dad died before

I was born and Mom never wanted to talk about him. But I

imagined we were just the same. That he hated moving from

12

Tortilla Sun

13

The Magic Baseball

calling this late? I quietly opened my door and pressed my

ear to the crack. Mom’s voice, coming from the living room,

was hushed.

“No I haven’t told her yet. I will.”

Silence.

“Maybe this will be good for her. I just worry . . . she is

bound to find the truth and—”

Mom sighed at this point, and I pictured her rubbing her

hand back and forth across her forehead. “I know. Maybe it’s

the best way. Do you think she’ll forgive me?”

Can’t talk about what? Forgive her for what?

“If she asks, take it slow.” Mom paused for a long minute

then whispered something into the phone I didn’t catch

because a car horn honked right outside my window. The

last thing I heard was, “Thanks, Mama.”

Nana? Why was she talking to Nana? She hardly ever

talked to her. All of a sudden the night felt heavy.

I glanced back at my story card and imagined Gypsy

sneaking into the orchard to unbury the ball while her

mother slept. I told myself if I could get the ball without

waking Mom, it would be a sign that it was meant to be

mine. And if I didn’t, it would stay locked away.

Finally after half an hour, I heard Mom close her bed-

room door.

But what did me being tall have to do with writing? I doodled

little hearts on the card while I thought about a new story.

One day, a girl named Sara . . . No, not Sara. Something more

interesting.

Pushing my long dark hair from my face, I grazed my

silver hoop earring and stared at the empty moving boxes on

the floor. Gypsy. Yes, a girl named Gypsy.

I scribbled the beginning of the story.

One day Gypsy opened a secret box. Inside she found a ball.

And . . . And what? With my pen in hand, I leaned back and

spun my swivel chair in slow circles. “That’s it!” I said.

And it was magic. It . . .

I scratched out the word it and wrote:

But her mother said the ball was worthless and buried it.

“Where would she bury it,” I whispered. “Maybe in the

backyard?” No, Gypsy lived somewhere amazing, like a castle.

Her mother buried it in an orchard outside the castle walls. But

why would her mother bury the ball? What was she hiding?

Frustrated, I laid my head on the desk. I was good at start-

ing a story. It was the finishing that was hard. Like trying to

finish a puzzle without all the pieces.

When the phone rang, I snapped upright. Mom answered

before the second ring like she was expecting the call. I

tiptoed toward the closed bedroom door. Who could be

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Tortilla Sun

13

The Magic Baseball

calling this late? I quietly opened my door and pressed my

ear to the crack. Mom’s voice, coming from the living room,

was hushed.

“No I haven’t told her yet. I will.”

Silence.

“Maybe this will be good for her. I just worry . . . she is

bound to find the truth and—”

Mom sighed at this point, and I pictured her rubbing her

hand back and forth across her forehead. “I know. Maybe it’s

the best way. Do you think she’ll forgive me?”

Can’t talk about what? Forgive her for what?

“If she asks, take it slow.” Mom paused for a long minute

then whispered something into the phone I didn’t catch

because a car horn honked right outside my window. The

last thing I heard was, “Thanks, Mama.”

Nana? Why was she talking to Nana? She hardly ever

talked to her. All of a sudden the night felt heavy.

I glanced back at my story card and imagined Gypsy

sneaking into the orchard to unbury the ball while her

mother slept. I told myself if I could get the ball without

waking Mom, it would be a sign that it was meant to be

mine. And if I didn’t, it would stay locked away.

Finally after half an hour, I heard Mom close her bed-

room door.

But what did me being tall have to do with writing? I doodled

little hearts on the card while I thought about a new story.

One day, a girl named Sara . . . No, not Sara. Something more

interesting.

Pushing my long dark hair from my face, I grazed my

silver hoop earring and stared at the empty moving boxes on

the floor. Gypsy. Yes, a girl named Gypsy.

I scribbled the beginning of the story.

One day Gypsy opened a secret box. Inside she found a ball.

And . . . And what? With my pen in hand, I leaned back and

spun my swivel chair in slow circles. “That’s it!” I said.

And it was magic. It . . .

I scratched out the word it and wrote:

But her mother said the ball was worthless and buried it.

“Where would she bury it,” I whispered. “Maybe in the

backyard?” No, Gypsy lived somewhere amazing, like a castle.

Her mother buried it in an orchard outside the castle walls. But

why would her mother bury the ball? What was she hiding?

Frustrated, I laid my head on the desk. I was good at start-

ing a story. It was the finishing that was hard. Like trying to

finish a puzzle without all the pieces.

When the phone rang, I snapped upright. Mom answered

before the second ring like she was expecting the call. I

tiptoed toward the closed bedroom door. Who could be

14

Tortilla Sun

2

One Wish

clang cla-clang, clang clang. The next morning, I found Mom

in the kitchen with a chisel and hammer, chipping away at the

kitchen counter. Little flecks of white flew through the air like

ceramic snow, landing softly on her olive-colored cheeks.

I ducked as a piece of tile flew at me. “Hey!”

She turned toward me with a look of surprise. “Morning,

Izzy. I didn’t see you standing there.”

“Wha . . . what are you doing?” I asked.

She stepped back and surveyed the half-demolished

counter the way someone stands back to study a newly

hung photo graph. Wiping her cheek with the back of her

hand she said, “There was this”—she searched the mess on

I inched toward my bedroom door and slowly pressed it

open. I could hear the low hum of distant traffic as I stood

waiting in my doorway. I counted to one hundred slowly,

achingly, then crept into the hall.

The wind outside pushed against the walls, making them

creak and groan. I opened the closet door directly across

from Mom’s bedroom and quietly climbed onto the bottom

shelf to reach the box at the top. Reaching my arm inside,

I pushed through stacks of paper until my fingers brushed

the long, bumpy stitches of the baseball.