FACT OR FICTION:
You Can Know Where You Are and Still Be Lost
Answer: Take it from me.
I’m Cal, and I’ve been lost
since Mom died three years ago.
Oh, I could show you exactly
where this town is on a map,
lead you through the maze
of its streets, though I’ve only
lived here fourteen months,
three weeks and
two days.
I’m safe for now.
But I don’t know
how long that will last.
I’m afraid
if I start to believe
I belong here,
everything
will change
again.
It’s like off in the distance
I can see something
that could be home,
but every time I start
in that direction
it’s farther away.
And no matter how hard
I try to reach it,
I only get closer
to nowhere.
Definition of Hannah Lincoln:
Wait a second.
You want me to define me?
Let me think.
Okay, here goes.
I’m Hannah Lincoln.
Dad says we’re not related
to the dead president
and I believe him.
I don’t look anything like
Honest Abe.
He was tall and skinny.
I’m short and built muscly like
a gymnast, because I am one.
He had dark hair.
Mine’s red, with highlights,
like the color of a new penny.
He had a beard.
Um, no. Not even
a hint of hair on my chin.
But I am like President Lincoln
in a good way. One time,
my dad told me I was
Honest as the day is long.
When I said I didn’t know
what that meant, he said,
Trustworthy, twenty-four
hours every day.
I asked because I need to
understand what stuff means
and how things work.
If I don’t get what someone
says, I’ll make them explain.
If I don’t know the definition
of a word, I’ll look it up.
If I don’t get the hang of a gymnastics
move, I’ll practice until I nail it.
That’s important because
I’ve got a giant dream.
Which doesn’t make me
a dreamer. I’m a doer.
Focused.
Dedicated.
Not afraid to work hard.
My coach would tell you
I’m all of those things,
and that they’re exactly what
it will take to qualify
for the Olympics one day.
Well, those, plus tons
of help from my family.
I used to count on that.
My parents were my support
system. Totally solid.
We were a great team.
But, like, three years ago,
just before I turned nine,
Mom’s sister got leukemia
and died. And everything
started to fall apart.
Definition of Status Quo:
The Way Things Are [Were]
Three years ago,
this was the way
things were.
We lived
(still do)
in a nice house
in a sweet neighborhood
in a small San Diego suburb.
Dad was
(still is)
a computer whiz,
building systems
all around Southern California.
He had dinner with us
pretty much every night.
Mom was
(still is)
the person who made
me love dance.
She worked at a studio,
teaching jazz and ballet
to help pay for my own lessons.
I went
(still do)
to a grade school just around
the corner from home.
I’d taken dance for five years
and been in gymnastics for four.
My parents came to every recital,
cheered for me at every meet.
They sat close. Held hands.
I was okay being an only child.
Today, this
is our status quo.
Mom quit her job
to take care of Aunt Caryn
when she got sick and needed
a bone marrow transplant.
She never went back
to work. I wish she would.
I think she was happier.
I know Dad was.
He has to work twice
as hard now. He travels
around the country, showing
other people how to build
computer systems.
We eat too many dinners
without him.
But when he’s home,
he and Mom argue a lot.
Mostly about money and bills.
I hate when they yell.
I’m in Mrs. Peabody’s sixth-
grade class, at the same school
I’ve gone to since kindergarten.
I still do dance and gymnastics.
Mom drives me to every recital
and meet. Dad misses some.
When he’s there, they sit