Broken seashells

It was the summer in mid-July at the Jersey shore. My four-year-old son Will and I just loved heading off to the beach just before dinner when the rest of the vacationers seemed to be leaving for the day. The sun was still hot then and shining brightly.

Bucket in hand, we’d hit the sand and start our adventure. Will would run so quickly to the edge of the water and be soaked before I got there, laughing as the waves crashed and nearly knocked him down. We usually walked along the edge of the water, looking for seashells to fill our red sandcastle-shaped bucket. Some days, the bucket was full, and other days just a few shells made it into the bucket.

On this particular day, there didn’t seem to be too many shells washed up on the shore. Will began picking up whatever shells he saw lying in the sand. After a while, I peered into the bucket and saw nothing but broken shells. “Will, all of these shells are broken and no good. You need to find shells like this,” I explained, as I held up a perfectly shaped clamshell. Will gave me a puzzled look and continued on his way, gathering whatever shells he came across and dropping them into the bucket.

I continued my search for some time, and then stopped to watch him drop more broken shells into the bucket. Again, I stopped, but this time I asked in a stricter voice, “Will, why do you insist on filling our bucket with shells that are broken?” He looked up at me through his glasses with his big blue eyes and replied, “Mom, there are way more shells on the beach that are broken than perfect ones that you are searching for. We’ll get the bucket filled faster with the broken ones.” True, I thought, but who wants a bucketful of broken shells? Will stared at me as if he knew what I was thinking. “Mom, these shells are broken, but they are still beautiful,” he explained.

He began pulling the shells from the bucket and commenting on their uniqueness.

Back home, I decided to preserve the moment of realization with Will.

I chewed on my pencil as I walked back and forth across my bedroom. What was I going to do? It was bad enough that I was the new kid. But now I was sure to get laughed at by my classmates. How could my first homework be such a disaster?

“My name is Anna, and this summer I...” I stopped. How could I stand in front of my class and say that I’d spent the entire summer handling something that most people don’t even like to talk about? Poop (粪便). I’d spent three months shoveling (铲), collecting, and analyzing cow poop on my grandparents’ farm. I tried to think of a different adventure I could share. Maybe I could say I’d spent the summer on the Weather Control Team preventing floods.

“Time for dinner,” my mom called.

I walked slowly down the stairs and slid into my chair.

“You’ve been in your room since you came home from school,” Mom said. “What are you working on?”

I sighed. “I have to tell the class what I did this summer.”

My younger brother, Seymour, began to laugh uncontrollably. “No one will want to sit next to you after they hear you were covered in cow poop all summer!”

“OK, that’s enough, Seymour,” Dad said.

“Anna,” said Mom, putting green beans in a bowl, “be proud of the work we did this summer. Our planet would be in sad shape without scientists like your grandfather.”

It’s true that my grandfather does important work. He developed an easy way to use poop as a source of fuel. Using the poop is now easy, economical, and environmentally safe.

“I know, Mom,” I said, staring at my meatloaf. “But it’s not exactly something people want to hear about before lunch.”

That night I dreamed about more splendid adventures: cave diving in Mexico, hiking through the Amazon rainforest . . .

At school the next day, I bent over my desk, listening to each kid speak. My palms were sweaty, and the knot (结) in my stomach grew tighter.

“And that was my journey to Mount Everest,” Ember Adams said, finishing her report. She bowed and look her seat.

It was an unusually hot day. Exhausted after football practice, I headed for the bus stop to wait for Bus 112 which would take me home. I was beginning to drift off to sleep when I saw the bus arriving. The sun was in my eyes and that was probably the reason why I got onto Bus 113

I was glad to get a seat. Within minutes, I was sting against the window, fast asleep. When I opened my eyes, it was dark outside. I was the only passenger left on the bus. I could not recognize the part of town we were passing through. I pressed the bell and the bus stopped. I planned to hop across the road and catch a bus going the opposite direction. However, I found myself on a quiet street with a row of shops that were all closed. I kicked myself for not asking the driver for directions.

As I was wondering what to do, a motorcycle came down the road. The rider looked at me as he passed and then stopped a short distance away. I went to him and asked him how to get back to the City Square. He smiled and nodded. He patted the back seat and said that he would send me home. Without a second thought, I climbed up behind the rider. He turned the motorcycle around and headed in the direction I wanted. We travelled for about 15 minutes and the surroundings still looked unfamiliar to me. The rider made a few turns and I knew I was hopelessly lost. I asked him where we were going, He did not answer but increased his speed. Alarm bells started to ring in my head.

I tapped the man, shoulder and told him to stop. He leaned forward and went at high speed now. Then he slowed down to turn into a dark and narrow road that led into an oil palm plantation. I had had enough.