Spotlight on Student Writing: January 2009

By Laura J.
7th Grade

What do you think it was like for the people of Europe during the Black Death?

“What do I think it was like for the people of Europe during the Black Death?” I say. “How should I know what it was like? This is stupid.” I close my notebook as hard as I can, which isn't actually very hard as the notebook is made out of paper. I also shut my History textbook with the same amount of force and it makes a huge difference, both with the effect of shutting hard and with my mood. I feel slightly better after hurting something. I even smile a little. Dumb homework.

I rise from my chair and stretch my arms above my head. Homework has always made me tight. All that information I had collected in class that day being transported to a piece of paper hours later is hard work, especially when I hadn't been paying much attention in class that day.

My hands freeze above my head. My eyes open wide. Would it work? Yes...I think it would!

I dodge the piles of dirty laundry and textbooks on my floor and open my closet door. I grab the little jewelery box on the top shelf. It's there so my sister wouldn't get it. So far it's worked.

Inside the jewelery box is a little silver doohickey that looks an awful lot like a PSP. I'm wishing I chose one with a more original design. I turn it on and the screen turns green. A flashing black line appears in the corner under the word “Date.” I type in “1340's.”

Before I do anything I snatch my iPod from the desk just in case and pocket my phone, even though there probably isn't any reception where I'm going. Just in case something happens.

My thumb hesitates above the “enter” button. Should I do it? I haven't tested it yet and I'm not sure it will work. Can I trust something I bought from a flea market? I'll have to try.

I press the button.

At first nothing happens. I stand there amid mounds of clothes, books, candy wrappers, and goodness knows what else awkwardly. Then it's gone. The room disappears and I close my eyes, expecting the worst. What if it doesn't work? Where will this thing take me? I probably should have asked mom before I tried this thing out. I wonder if she'll be mad at me if I never come back.

The smell hits me first. It smells like cow manure. Or is it horse manure? I can't be sure. Of course, this (hopefully) being the fourteenth century, it could be human manure. Then there's the smell of rotting meat. The smells of feces and rotting meat don't mix. I scrunch up my nose and gag. Maybe this is Hell.

I open my eyes. The sight that greets me is one of a busy, very busy, street. The ground is dirt, so I guess it's too early for cobblestones. The dirt is not only on the ground. It also hangs in the air like a thick blanket, distorting all the other images. By the side of the dirt road are street vendors and their carts. On the carts are hundreds of different things. There are vases and mugs, carpets and tapestries, boxes and bottles, and even a jar of... Are those leeches?

The vendors are shouting things. If this was modern time, the vendors would probably have a big banner advertising their product in huge colorful letters followed by several exclamation marks. They all hold up whatever they're selling, jars or jewelery or flowers, and hold them above their heads, waving them around like lunatics.

I see a crowed gathered around some vendors, people shouting out a price and the vendor trying to raise it up a bit. One dark haired man in dirty, torn clothes and a leathery tanned face shouts a price and the vendor hollers, “Sold!” He hands the man the vase, much to the dismay of the crowed. They don't let it get to them, though. The shouting and haggling for prices resumes and the dark haired man passes me with a grin on his face full of teeth.

I crinkle my nose at the sight of those teeth. The few he has are brown, with some yellow spots, and his gums are pretty much the same color. He still has both his front teeth but one of them is jutting to the side and the other is chipped, leaving quite a large gap between the two of them.

As he passes quite close to me I smell something that reminds me of the infamous morning breath added to the smell of one's breath before one brushes one's teeth. I think there's probably a little cat food mixed in with it, even if cat food hasn't been invented yet. It's revolting.

The man's breath distracts me from one very important thing. As soon as the man is sucked into the crowd around a different cart I notice a similar crowd forming around me. A little girl (or is it a boy? It's so hard to tell when they're covered in dirt) stands looking up at me with her dirt brown thumb in her round pink mouth. Two women in dull colored dresses and curly brown hair whisper in hushed voices in each other's ears.

I raise one eyebrow and prepare to demand what they're staring at when I suddenly remember this is the 14th century. I look down at my clothes. As soon as I got home that afternoon from school I had changed into my light-blue pajama pants with the red and green snowflakes and a white t-shirt with Rosie the Riveter and the “We Can Do It!” slogan. I was still wearing that.

I probably should have changed into something more appropriate before I came here. There's that dress my mom has buried in her closet...I bet that's ugly enough to fit in. Fortunately, I remembered to put on some shoes. Then unfortunately I'm wearing my “hibiscus” (in other words, pinkish-orange) colored Converse All-Stars high tops.

One very tall woman with very dark hair and a very dirty face dares to speak up. “What on earth possessed thou to dress in such a manner, young man?” she says.

Young man! Do I really look like a boy? Instead of voicing this, I say, “Oh, I just felt like something a little different today.”

“Dost thou know how ridiculous thou doth look?” a short man with what could have been blond hair but was now brown with dirt says.

I'm starting to think these people are going to accuse me of being a witch and burn me at the stake when the dark-haired man I saw earlier shoves his way to the front of the crowd. Some women shoot him nasty looks. He kneels down and looks curiously at my shoes. “Where did you get these?” he says. “They are pure genius! Different, certainly, but the style is very attractive.”

“I...uh...” I search desperately for an explanation. “I made them.”

“Teach me,” the man says, standing up.

I notice the collar of his shirt is wide. A hairy chest pokes out a little. I notice some dark-colored, though very faint, spots peeking out from the collar. It doesn't seem to be bothering him. It can't be too serious.

“Where dost thou live?” he says.

“Nowhere,” I say. I wish I was better at improvisation. “I'm...new.”

“My household has space,” the man says, again showing off his brown teeth. “I am but a humble cobbler and thine unique style doth intrigue me. Please, would thou be willing to share thy awe inspiring technique?”

I look around at the rest of the crowd. I suppose they hadn't noticed my shoes before and only grew interested when the man pointed them out. Their eyes are locked on my “hibiscus” colored shoes.

The household is small and dark inside. The only light is from a fire in the hearth on the far wall. A petite woman sits in a chair near the fire. Even in the dim light, which is made worse by the smoke from the fire, I can see the woman is not smiling.

“Thy brought a guest?” the woman says. Her voice is quiet but hard. “Dost thou not know of the plague?”

The man, who told me his name is Alexios, says, “I do not think this girl hast the plague, Irene. She, methinks, is a genius.”

“Thou think a genius repels the plague?”

“Nay,” Alexios says. “A genius doth not repel the plague. A genius knows how to prevent it.”

The woman named Irene looks at me expectantly. I realize I should probably say something. “Yeah,” I say. “I do know how to prevent, or at least control it. I haven't tried but all the text books at school all say the same thing and my teacher taught us that—.”

“Get on with it,” Irene says.

“Well your living conditions for one,” I say. I run my finger along the windowsill, scooping up at least a dozen dead flies. “Filthy. Though not much better than my bedroom, you should at least try to keep the flies under control.” I squat down and examine the place where the floor meets the wall. Here we are! A black hole comes into view beyond the thick smoke. “Mouse holes,” I say. “Or a rat hole, seeing how big it is. You do know how the plague is spread, right?”

I suppose by their blank looks they don't. “You see,” I say, “fleas get it from rats. You know fleas are attracted to dirty places and animals, right? Well, the dirtier you are, the more fleas you'll probably get. The fleas, who are carrying the plague they got from the rats, get on you and infect you. That's how you get the plague.

“It came from Asia originally, but the plague was spread along the silk road until it got here.”

Alexios punched the air. “Of course! 'Tis those bloody Asians' fault!”

“What?” I say. “No! No, it's not. They got the disease same as you. They're probably thinking it's the Indian's fault, even though it's not.”

Irene apparently has forgiven me for her husband bringing me home and is looking at me with wide, frightened eyes. “Thou means 'tis not spread through the air? I made the velvet curtains for nothing?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“How dost we control it?”

I pull back the heavy curtain and look out the window onto the busy streets. I ponder the question. “Well,” I say. “Since the plague is spread from Asia along the silk road...I say we should probably block off the silk road.”

I know what I'm doing. I have no idea how to make Converse All Stars and I think this is the best way to get out of it: distract them with the plague. I know it's wrong, helping them for my own benefit, but I don't know what else to do. If I don't help them and it's revealed I came from the future or something I would be accused of being a witch and I'd never get back home.

Alexios leads me to a stage in the middle of the town. As he pushes me up the stairs a few people close by turn and look. It's awkward on the stage, even if barely anyone is paying any attention...yet. It's kind of like wearing jeans and a tank-top to a Renaissance fair.

Alexios cups his hands around his mouth and shouts so loud even I, who's standing behind him, has to cover my ears. “Hear ye! O fellow townsfolk, pray lend me thy ears.”

Now more people are turning and watching. People start to gather around. My face gets warmer and probably a great deal more red. “I have great news concerning the terrible plague!” He points to me. “This young girl here,” he says, “has great knowledge of the plague.”

With that he stepped away, and I was left facing a huge crowd of people, expecting me to save their lives. I realize now it's no easy feat to stand in front of a hundred people. I feel sort of naked. I'm trying to imagine them in their underwear.

I don't know where to start. I look around for inspiration. I point to the countless dirty rags, broken pots, and discarded food on the ground. “See all that?” I say. “Pick that up.” When no one moves, I add, “Don't you realize this is what is spreading the plague? Fleas, who are carrying the plague they got from the rats, are attracted to disgusting things, such as that garbage down there. The less fleas, the less of you will get the plague. Now pick that up.”

Several people rush to scoop up the garbage in their arms. “Now where do we put it?” one of them says.

“Someone get a couple of those barrels,” I say, pointing at the empty barrels with the word “wine” on the side lying amongst the garbage. “Put it in there. When you get the chance, cross out 'wine' and write 'garbage.' On the other ones you can write 'compost' and 'recycling' and paint those green and blue, but that's not our highest priority right now.”

The people who picked up the garbage dump it in the improvised trash cans.

Someone shouts from the crowd, “How doth thou know this?”

“Hey,” I say. “Don't question a genius.”

“What can we do?”

Ah, the question I've been waiting for. “Well,” I say, “the best thing I can think of is to block off the silk road.”

That causes some chatter. Suddenly the street goes from dead silent to school cafeteria. “Block off the silk road?” I hear some people say. “How?”

I hold my hands up making gestures in the air. “We could build a wall. Not a super strong wall. Just something that would prevent people and animals with the plague from getting through.”

“'Tis a good idea!” someone says. “The plague shall not harm us through the wall!”
I smile triumphantly. This is turning out really well. Perhaps I may be able to save these people after all.

I supervise the building of the wall. Dozens of very bulky looking men lift logs and set them on top of each other. The cement-like paste in between the bottom logs is already starting to harden. We're up to ten logs and it's already more than twice the height of the tallest person here.

Irene approaches me. Her pale face seems to be glowing in the sun and I suppose she doesn't get out much. “Is thou certain this is the correct solution?” she says. “How shall we receive our goods?”

“You have farmers, right?” I say. “You have craftspeople , right? That's all you really need isn't it?”

She turns her pale eyes to the wall. Alexios is in the process of setting a large log on top of the one below it, perched on a ladder along with other men. I guess it isn't common for women to help with the heavy lifting work yet. Not for a few centuries. “The goods from Asia?” she says.

“Aren't those luxuries?” I say. “I'm sure you can do without those.”

She lowers her eyes sadly and leaves. I wonder what's wrong with her. Doesn't she trust me?

Alexios soon replaces her in front of me and points behind him at the wall. “Is the wall tall enough?” he says. “No man could climb over. It is a fortress.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That looks good.”

Is it true what Irene said? Will the town suffer more because of lack of resources?

As soon as Alexios leaves the tall, black haired woman comes up to me. Since seeing her for the first time the first day I got here I learned her name was Hermia, like the character in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. But since Shakespeare won't even be born for another couple centuries I don't suppose her parents can be sued for copyright.

“We thank thou,” Hermia says. “This is certainly the most wonderful thing that has befallen our town in years.” Her usually stern face is sporting a wide grin and her dark eyes twinkle. Her cheeks were still smeared with dirt and, like everyone else, she still smelled of sweat and dirty laundry.

“Thanks,” I say. “Glad to be of service.”

Nope, no more doubts. This was definitely the right thing to do.

“It is all those disgusting Jews' fault,” a man says to his friends one evening. “If only they would all leave.”

If only the Jews would leave? What?

“Hey!” I say. “Hey, hey. What do you mean 'if only the Jews would leave'? Not cool.”

All five men in their dirty clothes and long faces turn toward me. “Oh,” one says, the one with red hair and big brown teeth. “It's you.”

“Jews are the cause of the plague,” the one to his right says. “Everybody knows that.”

“No,” I say. “Not everybody knows that. I don't know that. How could the Jews have been the cause of the plague? They haven't done anything wrong. You might as well say the Buddhists or Muslims or even atheists were the cause of the plague.”

“Indeed?” the blond haired man missing his eye teeth says. “How doth thou know?”

I hold my chin high and say, “I happen to be a Jue myself.”

The only noise heard is the beating of a bird's wings in the distance and the crackle of a fire. I start thinking I probably shouldn't have said that. They might mistake my last name for the religion and beat me up or something. That wouldn't be good. I still have to save this town!

“You're a Jew?” the first man says.

“Well,” I say. “Not the Jew you think. It's my last name. Even so, you nor anyone else has any right to go and blame this whole epidemic on the Jews.”

They look down at me. I'm not used to looking up at people. They must be six feet tall. Normally I'm the one looking down at people. I try not to slouch.

“It's not the Jews' fault?”

“No.”

The crackling of the fire seems to be the loudest thing around again. I wait for their answer, my heart pounding.

“Then who do we blame?”

That was certainly not the answer I expected. I have to carefully word my reply. If I say anything that might lead them to target another innocent group it would be all my fault. I think.

“No one,” I finally say.

I open the dry wood cupboard in Irene's kitchen. A strange musty smell wafts out. I cough, holding a hand up to my nose and try to wave the dust away. What's up with that? I don't think the food should be in a cupboard as dusty as this.

I peer inside. Usually there's a box of dried apricots or preserved cherries and maybe a jar of nuts. Today there's nothing...nothing but the spiders in the corners and the cobwebs hanging from the top. What happened here? Where's all the food?

I hear Irene come in. “Sure is dreary in the kitchen, isn't it?” I say.

“Yes,” Irene says.

“Where did everything go?”

“I do not know,” Irene says. “I stopped by the usual vendor yesterday and he said he was all out.”

I frown. So that's where it went. There's no more food to be sold. “All out? How can that be?”

“We don't grow apricots here,” Irene says. “They are usually delivered from elsewhere. They are delivered along the Silk Road.”

I feel a little twinge in my stomach. “Oh.”

“I broke my best jar the other day as well,” Irene says. “The vendor was out of jars of that style. I had to get one that was far too big.”

With the way her voice is particularly cold today, Irene is probably trying to tell me something. She never was too keen on blocking off the Silk Road. I decide not to say anything. I try to shut the cupboard as quietly as possible. Can this be because of the wall? I don't feel hungry anymore.

Was this wall really the best idea? The Silk Road is pretty important to these people's culture and well-being. Without the road their lives would be so much different. I suppose it will be okay though. They have farms and craftspeople. They could make the things they need.

I roll over on my hard mattress. What if it doesn't work? That would be catastrophic. If it doesn't work and more people die they're going to be mad...really mad. But it's too late to turn back now.

After that...what then? Am I just going to leave these guys and go back home? Before now I was helping them just because I was getting something out of it. It was a homework assignment. Now...Well, I think I've gotten to know these guys better. I don't think they're going to accuse me of being a witch.

The wall is probably the best idea. It's not like their whole lives depend on it.

Ten days later the town is a mess. Not visibly. The streets are somewhat cleaner and the worst smell is coming from the garbage cans on the corner. However, the streets are practically empty and the street vendors' carts are lacking most of the goods. A single vase stands lonely on a disregarded cart.

“What's going on?” I say to Alexios one morning.

“I do not know,” he says. “The streets have never been this empty. One might think the town was dead.”

“It's not though, right? I mean...we shut the plague out.”

“Nay,” Alexios says. “Methinks thy did the opposite. Thou shut the plague in.”

I can't help but notice the rapidly darkening spots on Alexios' chest. I swear they're starting to swell.

Alexios breaks down into a fit of coughing. When he collects himself again he says, “The goods too. The craftspeople have not the supplies they need to create their crafts. We are worse off even, now.”

My Converse All-Stars are starting to pinch my toes and I realize I haven't done what Alexios had originally wanted me to do: teach him how to make them. I don't know how to make them! I bough them at a store! I can't say that though. I don't think there are any Shoe Pavilions in the middle ages. I probably shouldn't bring that up.

Alexios sneezes twice, and then again. “Are you okay?” I say. “Is something wrong?”

“Nay,” Alexios says, turning away. “I am fine.”

“Maybe you should lie down,” I say. “Get some rest, drink some water, take some acetaminophen.”

He ignores me and retreats into the shadows of his own room.

Is it possible Alexios has got the plague? It can't be. It's hard to believe someone I actually know has got the Bubonic Plague. After all, the Bubonic Plague isn't very common in the twenty-first century. But those black spots on his chest are worrying me.

What have I done?

I climb up the stairs to the stage again. The few people in the streets turn and look. They don't look very happy. I spot Hermia's dark hair among the sparse crowd and see her buying from the only street vendor around. Unlike when I first got here, he's quiet and silently gives her what she bought. No words are exchanged except a dull “thank you.”

Hermia looks up at me. Her brow is furrowed and her cheeks are starting to look bony. My stomach tightens up. I ignore it and direct my attention to the job at hand. I cup my hands around my mouth like I saw Alexios do and try to shout just as loud, but with my tight stomach I'm not much competition for the giant-lunged Alexios.

“People!” I shout. “Listen up!” Now everyone in the streets are looking at me and people are even starting to come out of their houses. “Everyone,” I say, but quieter this time. With so few people they can probably hear me if I just talk. “I made a huge mistake.”

“I shall say you did!” I hear someone shout from the gathering audience.

“Look,” I say. “It was a mistake to block off the silk road. I didn't realize how much this town depended on the supplies transported on that route.” I take a deep breath and shout at the top of my lungs, “We have to take down the wall. Now.”
My last words echo around the square. People poke their curious heads out windows and others start coming from up the streets. I now realize what a small town this was. Either that, or I have a louder voice than I thought. “Building a wall separating you from your necessities wasn't a solution. It won't control the plague! It will just shut it in and leave you isolated from the rest of the world.”

“What should we do?” someone says from the audience.

“I have various ideas,” I say. “First, clean this place up some more. You've all done a good job with the garbage cans and all that, but you could do much, much better. This place still smells even worse than down town San Francisco.” Their faces stare blankly up at me. I overhear one person ask another what a San Francisco is.

“Second,” I say, “clean up yourselves. You all smell like sweat and dirt, no offense.” Several people in the crowd raise their arms and sniff their armpits. I could almost swear their faces turned green. “Third, clean up your clothes. If you keep wearing the same things over and over again without washing them you'll smell like the sweat and dirt on your clothes. It's disgusting. In my time, people wash themselves everyday.

“Fourth, stop blaming other people. Jews are not the cause of the plague and neither are lepers. The positions of the planets don't have anything whatsoever to do with the plague either, so don't go blaming that. Laying the blame on them is not going to get you anywhere.

“Lastly, for goodness sake brush your teeth. It may not have much of an impact on the plague, but when I smell your breath I think I die a little on the inside.”

From their faces I don't think the townspeople got the joke. Even so, they're staring up at me admiringly and probably realizing they smell worse than they think. Some are even rushing home to wash up.

I watch them scurry away. A woman grabs her husband by his sleeve, holding her nose, and a father picks up his child. Scanning the quickly departing crowd I realize Alexios isn't there. My smile fades and I jump off the stage, not even bothering to use the steps. I start to run, pushing aside anyone who doesn't move fast enough to get out of my way. I turn the corner around the spice shop and race down the street. Looking up at the buildings I notice this is the wrong street.

I turn around and run the other way. I pass a pair of young men with damp hair and clean smelling clothes who shout after me, “I thank thee! I feel cleaner already!”

Not even pausing to acknowledge their compliment I round another corner and spot the familiar dusty house. I burst through the doors. Irene is there. She's just shutting the door to Alexios' room. Her face is looking paler.

“Irene!” I say. “How is Alexios?”

She looks at me with wide eyes. “How did thou receive word so fast?” she says. “How doth thou know of Alexios' condition? He has been not out of his bed since last eve.”

“No,” I say, “I saw him briefly this morning. Is he okay?”

“He lives,” Irene says. “But he is not well.”

That's all I needed to hear. I push past Irene and burst into Alexios' room. It's even darker and smokier than the rest of the house. A still figure lies silently in the bed. As I get closer I see it's Alexios. His tanned face is thin and his eyes are closed. His mouth is open, though, and I catch a whiff of something familiar.

“Mint?” I say, softly.

He smiles slightly. “I saw what thy doth to thy teeth every morn. It must be why thy teeth are so white.”

I try to ignore the fact that his voice is weak and strained. In the dim light I can barely see his features, but I can see he's shirtless and his chest is covered in swollen black lumps.

“How do you feel?” I say.

“Ghastly.”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not having anything that could cure this.”

He laughs, or at least tries to. “It is all...cool. You are probably messing up our future as well.”

The casual words coming out of Alexios' mouth sound strange. I am about to ask where he learned to talk like that until I remember I've been living with him and his wife for almost two weeks.

“We're going to take down the wall,” I say, hoping it might be some consolation. “I've persuaded people to clean themselves up a bit and some have already taken their first baths in months.” I look at the ceiling, putting a hand to my chin. “I should probably have brought some shampoo.”

“Some what?”

“Never mind.”

Alexios' eyes are still closed but a small smile is playing on his lips. “I shall never understand the future.”

I smile too. It was quite a cavalier remark for someone who is dying of the Bubonic Plague. I give a sigh, but try not to show it too much. I sit in silence at his bedside. I know it wasn't my fault he got the plague. After all, he had the plague before I met him. But I can't help feeling terrible about it.

I push my knees to stand up. “I have to go,” I say. “The wall has to be taken down and I need to teach some people how to brush their teeth.”

“Then go,” Alexios says. “I thank thee for thy help. Thou has definitely lowered the death toll in this town by a good number.”

“No problem,” I say. “Get well soon.”

“I shall try,” Alexios says.

My stomach tying itself in a knot again and my heart pounding with unimaginable guilt, I close the door quietly behind me.

“This is called 'toothpaste,'” I say, holding up my tube. I had brought it with me, knowing I wouldn't stay for only a day if I wanted to know what it was like in the middle ages. “It has something called 'fluoride' in it that is good for your teeth. Don't swallow it, though.”

I walk Hermia and her son through the steps. After about three tries persuading them to put the paste in their mouths, they do. When the improvised brush (a stick and horse hair we washed very thoroughly) comes out of their mouths it's covered in brownish gunk that doesn't smell too great.

I smile weakly and tell them how to wash it out. I think I've gotten used to it now. Hermia and her son aren't the first I taught. There was John, the basket-maker who lived a block from Alexios and Irene, and Clea the weaver's wife who is actually a very fast learner and got the concept after only the second try.

Hermia smiles at me. Already most of the gunk has come off her teeth and into the wash tub and her teeth are looking slightly less brown. I know they'll never be as white as all those people you see in dental commercials, but it's getting there.

I try to smile back but I can't help but notice her face is still bony and her rolled up sleeve is revealing some dark spots. They're still very faint, like Alexios' when I first met him in the street that first day. If it goes on like Alexios' did she'll be stuck in bed within the next week or so.

As I leave her house I stop by the wall. It's almost gone now. Only a few people are working on it right now. The logs are in a pile out of the way and the great winding road stretches out over the horizon, bordered by looming rocks. The sun is high overhead and the sparse trees create sufficient shade for travelers.

I wonder how many people traveled that long road to get here, only to find it ending in a high wall?

I know how it felt. I, too, am feeling that way right now. The travelers of the Silk Road came from China, India, other European countries. I came from that one question: What do you think it was like for the people of Europe during the Black Death? It's hard to believe those fourteen words lead me and the people of this town to this. Is this where it ends? Alexios bed-ridden with the plague, Hermia doomed, Irene...heaven knows what it's like for Irene. With Alexios unable to do anything she's going to have to take care of him, get the things she needs for herself and the household, and keep the money coming...somehow. Did I really cause all this? Not all of it, I'm sure. I can't imagine how much damage the wall must have caused.

I think I know the answer to that question now.

The streets are cleaner now. The Silk Road is up and running. I took a walk this morning and people seemed happier. They didn't smell nearly as bad. Even their brown teeth are the color of milk chocolate now, instead of dark. Garbage is finding its way into the barrels now, instead of being left on the streets. People have also set up barrels in their homes. The people whose plague infected bodies had been left on the street before are now properly buried in the field to the east of the village. Things are looking pretty good.

It's time for me to go home.

I know I'm going to miss everybody, but I also know that I can't do any more for these people. Their fate is now in their own hands. I taught them how to clean up, stay healthy, and most importantly brush their teeth. The impact of the plague should be less here in this town. I can't say anything for the other towns though. It would take years to do all of that. I don't have that kind of time.

I go back to the peeling yellow house again to collect my things. I grab my PSP shaped time machine from under my mattress. It's dusty now and I'm afraid the batteries might be dead. Fortunately, when I press the power the green screen flickers on and the black bar under “date” blinks on and off. I stow it in my pocket for now.

Now for the part I hate and will always hate: saying goodbye.

Irene I think has warmed up to me these past few days, especially after Alexios died. I actually got a smile or two out of her. Her cupboard is restocked with food and she seems happy enough. I don't expect a recent widow like her to be too happy.

In the square I say to her, “Thanks for letting me stay, Irene. You and Alexios.”

She smiles. That's three! “Thou is welcome. 'Twas nothing. I am sorry you have to leave. Thou could have done so much more.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I bet my teacher would give me a heck of a lot of extra credit for this.”

Hermia and her son are there too. Hermia looks a lot better now. Her face is less bony and the black spots on her arms have disappeared. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “I thank thee,” she says. “Methinks the people of this town shall live.”

“You're welcome,” I say. “You look better now.”

“My ailment has vanished.”

“I see that,” I say. “Hey, you know now that you survived the plague, studies show most of your descendants are going to be immune to AIDS?”

She frowns. “Aids?” she says. “What is aids?”

I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say. “I'll miss you.”

Alexios was the last victim of the plague in this town. I can't help thinking that if I had gotten here earlier I could have saved him too. I hadn't even taught him how to make my shoes. Not that I know, though. I just feel bad that I didn't do what he had taken me in to do in the first place. Instead I distracted them with the plague and probably outstayed my welcome, wolfing down all the raisins and dried apricots I found in those dusty cupboards. Maybe if I find the time I'll send Irene a jar of something nice. Maybe I'll send her a nice little tin of chocolates. Do they have chocolate in the middle ages? That's something I could look into.

I take out my time machine and type in “home.” According to the instructions, that should take me back to where I started. I look up one more time. “Bye,” I say. “Thanks for making me feel welcome. I'll miss you guys.”

Hermia waves and Irene smiles for the fourth time. I press “enter” and everything is gone.

I find myself back in my cluttered room, my feet swamped by laundry. The first thing I do is pick all that up and dump it in my laundry bin. I should probably follow the townspeople's example. No more dirty room for me. Even though I know I can't get the plague from a dirty bedroom, I can't take any chances.

I look around my bedroom and realize...I really missed being home.

The next thing I do is kiss my computer, hug (with some difficulty) my fish tank, run to across the house (drawing strange looks from my parents) to kiss my television, run up to the big window in my parents' bedroom, throw open the curtain and scream, “I love you, twenty-first century!” My toes savor the feel of the smooth, polished wood floor, my nose scoops up the smell of smoke, my taste buds embrace the rough pollution in the air, my eyes take in the view of the brown roofs, dappled with bird droppings, and smile. The little chihuahuas next door start yelping for me to shut up. I grin down at them and wave. I'm even glad to see them. Did people have chihuahuas in the middle ages?

My sister sits in the corner hunched over a laptop, fingers dancing away at the arrow keys to save her character's life from the evil, seven-eyed, tentacled monster. Her ears are concealed by a pair of black headphones. I reach down and squeeze her in my arms. “I'm back!” I say. “I'm back! As Dorothy says, there's no place like home!”

She shrugs me off angrily. “Look what you've done!” she says. “I just lost my last life! Now I have to start from the beginning of the level again. Stupid.”

“No place like home,” I sing. “No place like home, no place like home.”

I'm tempted to slide down the banister, and I would have even though my parents are there, but I've never been able to, and even in my extreme joy I realize I'd probably break my neck. My mom loads plates and bowls into the dishwasher. “Are you okay?” she says.

“Wonderful!” I say. “Couldn't be better!”

She turns back to her dishes. “You look like you've swallowed a whole jar of Prozac.”

I twirl in a circle. “Maybe I have,” I say. “Maybe I have.”

I sit down at my desk again. The paper is still there with that trouble-making question: What do you think it was like for the people of Europe during the Black Death? Picking up my pencil I start to write. I'll probably get a good grade for this homework. After living in the middle ages during the Black Death, I think I'm an expert by now.

The End

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Thursday, January 29, 2009

8th Grade Letters to Our New President

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

The Black Death