The pomegranate tree

By Olivia Murphy-Major

Hannah Moore liked to heat up her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She did it

shamelessly, standing tall with her big poof of blonde hair, nearly waltzing over to the

microwave. I think she just liked to use the microwave because the teachers did. None of us

other kids did that. Turkey and mayo sandwiches, little carrots with ranch, pudding cups—what did we have to microwave?

Hannah’s PB&J was always accompanied by a note from her mother, folded into a neat

little square of paper. I know this because I watched her from the other side of the lunchroom. Some days I sat closer so I could see her read the note and guess what it said. Let’s say Hannah unfolded the note, skimmed it with her bug-eyes and made a face that said awww! Maybe she put a hand to her chest. Dearest Hannah, I imagined. You are the apple of my eye. PB&J made with extra love. Or, Hannah, Darling! Waffles with that fake syrup you like for dinner tonight. Kisses, Mommy. Every day, I watched her. Smiling, ear to ear. Waiting by the buzz of the microwave. Twirling pieces of her hair like yellow cotton candy. Switching her weight from one gangly leg to the other.

One day I waited for Mom to pick me up. On my way out of the main building, I put one

quarter and a nickel in the pencil machine. That gets you three pencils. I studied them, rolled

them around in my palms. Then I looked away up into the sky to try and forget what they looked

like so I could look back again and be freshly amazed. One with penguins (no one had that one).

Another with palm trees. One with peppermint stripes. I sat on the stone wall facing the street

and kicked my heels, watching the shadows of the loquat tree leaves flicker on the sidewalk.

Moving, stretching, dancing up and down my legs. Clack clack clack. The music teacher’s shoes,

black and pointed on the cement. I kept my head down, tucked my precious pencils under my

leg. Then her feet were there, fat little feet turned toward me, standing in the shimmering pond of

shadows.

Mrs. Clark was old but not old enough that you felt sorry for her. Old in the worst

way—anything she said to be funny was pitiful, anything she did to make herself pretty (blush

on her cheeks, a new hairstyle) was even sadder. Mean, I know, but it was true. She was one of

those teachers who wasn’t strict because she was afraid, and that made me dislike her more. She

had a cough like nothing you’ve ever heard. She rasped and wheezed like an old cat. She would

be playing the piano, the kids lined up in rows singing a canon of Jesus loves me, yes I know,

because the bible tells me so (except me, I never sang, just moved my mouth the right way), and

she’d suddenly stop playing, start coughing, hunched over so I could only see the top of her head

above the piano. Then the kids got confused, the alto and soprano voices crashing together, some

dropping off, another surging up, just for fun, yelling, and still—all Mrs. Clark could do was

cough into her sheet music.

My mother was not going to pick me up. I lifted myself off the wall, grabbed my pencils,

watched as my navy Mary-Janes and Mrs. Clark’s shiny black shoes fell into step together.

Every now and then she burst into a coughing fit and we had to stop. The third time we stopped

was beside Hannah Moore’s house—it was tall and quiet with blue chipped paint. Her bike

leaned against the porch lattice. The hose sputtered water into the grass, and a hissing sound came

from the faucet. I looked up into the windows, hoping she would be there, framed by the white

window panes. I waited for her to walk by. For a light to flicker on. Mrs. Clark had stopped

coughing but stood and waited beside me. I looked once more at the windows, then at the

pomegranate tree crouched in the side yard. The branches sprawled outward as if it was bracing

itself, trying to balance. I was close enough that I could see the fruit that had fallen. Something

had eaten through the waxy pink exterior of one of the pomegranates, and I saw white pith

stained red with the juice of the seeds, some of which shone, unbroken by animal teeth.