Alligator Bayou - Donna Jo Napoli [0]
For Young Adults
Beast
Bound
The Bravest Thing
Breath
Changing Tunes
Crazy Jack
Daughter of Venice
Fire in the Hills
For the Love of Venice
Gracie, the Pixie of the Puddle
The Great God Pan
Hush: An Irish Princess’ Tale
Jimmy, the Pickpocket of the Palace
The King of Mulberry Street
The Magic Circle
Mogo, the Third Warthog
North
On Guard
The Prince of the Pond: Otherwise Known as De Fawg Pin
Shark Shock
Shelley Shock
Sirena
The Smile
Soccer Shock
Song of the Magdalene
Spinners (with Richard Tchen)
Stones in Water
Three Days
Trouble on the Tracks
Ugly
When the Water Closes Over My Head
Zel
For Younger Readers
The Hero of Barletta
Angelwings (a series of sixteen books)
The Wishing Club: A Story About Fractions
Sly the Sleuth Mysteries (with Robert Furrow)
For Maurice Eldridge
one
The night is so dark, I can barely see my hands. It’s eerie. As if Cirone and I are made of nothing but air.
That’s how I used to feel back in Sicily when I’d walk in the caves near Cefalù. I was nothing, till the bats sensed me and came flapping out in a leathery clutter—thwhoosh—then my arms would wake and wave all crazy as they passed by and away into the sea breeze.
But this flat meadow couldn’t be more different from those hillside caves; this sleepy Louisiana town couldn’t be more different from busy Cefalù; and I feel like a whole new person. I was a scaredy-cat boy when they pushed me onto the ship last autumn to come here. But now I work like a man. And I’m important at work, because I can speak English with the customers.
Still, some of the old me remains. Right now I’m jittery at being out late without permission from my uncles. It was my cousin Cirone’s idea. It’s always his idea. We all go to bed early every night except Saturday, but he’s got energy to spare. He begs me to sneak out.
The grass is high here behind the lettuce field, but soft. It crushes underfoot, silent.
I follow close behind Cirone. He knows lots about this place. He’s been in America longer than me. He came with his big brother, Rosario, when he was only four. He’s thirteen; I’m fourteen; I edge in front of him now.
The slaughterhouse sits on the outskirts of town, at the edge of the woods. The place is lit up and we can smell the rot and hear the men inside singing as they work. Cirone heads that way.
“Shhh,” Cirone says, even though we weren’t talking. “They hear Sicilian and they’ll chase us off.”
I don’t get why people here don’t like Sicilian. Our family supplies this town, Tallulah, with the best fruits and vegetables. You’d think the sound of Sicilian would make their mouths water. Instead, we hold our tongues–or speak English if we can–in the presence of town people.
But not everyone minds hearing Sicilian.
That’s how I met Patricia. I smile. She overheard Cirone and me as we unloaded crates, and she asked what we were speaking. She said Sicilian was pretty, like music. And she walked off singing. We’ve talked a half-dozen times since then. Always at the vegetable stand. I hear her voice in my head all the time. I’ll be working, and there she is, in my mind, looking over my shoulder, saying something sweet.
I miss hearing Sicilian in the streets—jokes, arguments, announcements, everything that makes up life. Here the six of us are like mice on a raft in the middle of the sea. Oh, there are two more Sicilians in Milliken’s Bend, five miles away—Beppe and his son, Salvatore. To find more, though, you have to travel down south to New Orleans, over 250 miles. Thousands live there.
I watch Cirone’s shadow move farther ahead of me, out of whisper range. But here in the dark it’s better to hush anyway.
In the woods now, we wind through pines. These trees are gigantic compared to the trees back home. They crowd out the sky so I can hardly see the stars.
In an instant Cirone is running, and I am, too. We dash for the open grass. No one’s chasing us, but it feels like they are.
“Calo, stop!” Cirone grabs me by the arm and pulls me to a halt.
A giant cat comes out of the woods.