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AUTHOR'S EXPLANATION
This is the strangest story I've ever heard.
SINCE I WRITE BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE I OFTEN visit schools. It's good to get out of my writing room and into the world where my readers live. Besides, I like kids.
During these visits it's not unusual for grown-ups as well as kids to tell me stories about their lives, stories they think will make good books. Even if I don't get ideas to write about, at least I have a chance to meet some interesting people.
One day, on just such an occasion, in Providence, Rhode Island, a teacher took me aside.
"I have a boy who's very anxious to meet you," she said. She acted as if it were a secret.
"I hope you can fit him into the schedule," I said politely. Inwardly, I groaned. The day was already too full.
"He insists on a private meeting."
"I'm really not sure . . ."
"He's read all your books."
"All?" I said doubtfully.
"All," she insisted. "He's got it into his head that you're the only one who can understand him."
I have to admit I was flattered. And curious. I murmured a "Well, maybe . . ."
The teacher gave my arm a squeeze. "Wonderful," she said. "You could take part of your lunchtime . . ." Off she ran before I could tell her I'd rather have all my lunch.
It was not to be. Halfway through my meal I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Avi?" It was the teacher, with a boy in tow. "This is Kenny Huldorf," she said. "Kenny, this is Avi."
There was nothing unusual about Kenny Huldorf, not at first sight. He was on the small side perhaps, butthere was every indication that he was about to double his size any moment. His hair was short and light. A few childlike freckles splashed his cheeks. And he must have been pulled from gym, because his face was red and his shirt untucked.
"Hello, Kenny," I said and held out my hand. He took it and gave it a tentative shake. There was a stare too. It's a look I've seen many times, and I can never tell if it's awe or disappointment.
"I've got a quiet room for your talk," the teacher informed us.
Reluctantly, I got up. In moments we were closeted in a small room, and before I could say a word she was gone, the door firmly closed.
Feeling trapped, but knowing there was nothing I could do about it, I motioned Kenny to one of the two chairs.
He sat down. I sat down. We looked at each other. The truth is, I think neither of us felt the other was very promising, though he was the nervous one. From his pocket he drew out a key chain and started to fiddle with it. I decided it was up to me to begin. "I understand you wanted to speak to me," I offered.
"I've read all your books," he got out, still playing with the chain.
"Hope you enjoyed them."
He nodded, then said, "Did you do all that stuff in your books?"
"Hardly any," I told him. "Writing is mostly imagination, emotion, things you've noticed or heard about rather than things you've done.... Why don't you put that chain away? It's distracting."
A frightened look came into his eyes. But it passed quickly and he seemed to take hold of himself. Then he said, "What about memory?"
"Memory?"
"You know, in your books, was any of that stuff. . . things that happened before?"
"I just said, almost none of it._
He looked at me searchingly. _No, what I mean is, is any of it part of someone else's memory?_
I gazed at him, baffled and more and more uncomfortable. All I could manage was a change of subject. _What was it about my books that caught your interest?"
"They made me feel you'd understand some thing that happened to me."
"Oh?"
He shrugged, indicating frustration. "I've tried to tell people. But they don't want to hear."
"Why not?"
"Too weird."
I sat there, wishing I had never offered to listen. But I could see no way out without hurting his feelings. _Okay,_ I said, settling back into the hard wood chair, "try me."
"Really?"
"That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Yeah . . ."
I glanced at my watch. "Kenny," I said, _if you don't start, we're going to run out of time. Now put your chain away and tell me what's on your mind."
With that he took a deep breath, shoved the key chain into his pocket, and began.
IT WAS, AS I SAID, THE STRANGEST STORY I_VE EVER, heard. Not only did I listen then, but I spent the afternoon after school listening. And the evening. What's more, I stayed over at a local hotel a second day to check out what he'd told me at least those aspects that were possible to check.
When I was done I offered to write it all down as a book. With what I took to be great relief, Kenny Huldorf agreed.
This is it. His story. My writing. I think it's true.
Copyright ) 1988 by Avi
Something Upstairs . Copyright © by John Avi. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
