When Clara was six, a feeling washed over her that she would never forget.
It was a moment of epiphany for the young girl, the moment when she realized that every person she passed on the street had their own life, with their own problems to deal with. They were so much more than two-dimensional characters of her imagination; they were people, real people, with real lives, real families, and real problems.
It wasnt until she was much older that she learned this phenomena is known as sonder. The experience and the word would come to define her young life.
As she grew into an observant and compassionate young woman, she too dealt with love, loss, heartbreak, and sorrow. But in taking the time to look beyond the surface, she also learned that the world is not as lonely as it once seemed.
When Clara was six, a feeling washed over her that she would never forget.
It was a moment of epiphany for the young girl, the moment when she realized that every person she passed on the street had their own life, with their own problems to deal with. They were so much more than two-dimensional characters of her imagination; they were people, real people, with real lives, real families, and real problems.
It wasnt until she was much older that she learned this phenomena is known as sonder. The experience and the word would come to define her young life.
As she grew into an observant and compassionate young woman, she too dealt with love, loss, heartbreak, and sorrow. But in taking the time to look beyond the surface, she also learned that the world is not as lonely as it once seemed.
eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
When Clara was six, a feeling washed over her that she would never forget.
It was a moment of epiphany for the young girl, the moment when she realized that every person she passed on the street had their own life, with their own problems to deal with. They were so much more than two-dimensional characters of her imagination; they were people, real people, with real lives, real families, and real problems.
It wasnt until she was much older that she learned this phenomena is known as sonder. The experience and the word would come to define her young life.
As she grew into an observant and compassionate young woman, she too dealt with love, loss, heartbreak, and sorrow. But in taking the time to look beyond the surface, she also learned that the world is not as lonely as it once seemed.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781491760048 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 02/03/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 110 |
| File size: | 148 KB |
| Age Range: | 13 - 17 Years |
About the Author
Emily Neiman aspires to be a director and writer. The twenty-year-old is a film student who plans to blend her creative and intellectual interests professionally. Emily also hopes to one day understand the complexities of human emotion—or at least experience it. She currently resides in Ontario, Canada.
Read an Excerpt
Sonder
Clara's Story
By Emily Neiman
iUniverse
Copyright © 2015 Emily NeimanAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-6003-1
CHAPTER 1
The first feeling I ever had of sonder was when I was about six years old – which is odd because six-year-olds don't have "feelings". Well, they do, but basically only two of them: happiness and discontent. I, however, was "mature" for my age. My best friend then was named Andrew, and he was the boy I played trucks with in the sandpit during recess. He had brown curly hair and deep-set dimples. His eyes were a bright blue, and freckles crowded the bridge of his nose. He had a small scar under his right eye. Andrew's shoulders were broad for a six-year-old, but he wasn't very tall. I was taller than he was, which was odd because I was considered short for my age.
Andrew had a truck that he always played with. It had a blue body and green plough at the front. The back left wheel had broken off, so he had replaced it with a Lego wheel. Of course, with the Lego wheel, the truck wobbled as he pushed it on the asphalt, but Andrew didn't care too much about that. What six-year-old would? I always saw Andrew as the boy who had the wobbly truck. Nothing else. After he lost his front tooth, I would sometimes refer to him as the boy who whistled through his teeth, but that was later on. I never saw Andrew as another person. I knew he was human; I knew that if he fell, he hurt himself, or if he cut himself, he bled, but I never thought he had a life other than playing with me during recess. That was his role in my life, and at the age of six, all that mattered to me was my life.
That was until one bright January afternoon, while we sat bundled in our snowsuits – his blue and mine green – and he asked if I wanted to come over to his house.
"Clara, wanna come over after school?"
I remember I looked at him quizzically, trying to figure out what he meant by his house. Andrew didn't have a house. Why would he need a house? That's when the feeling washed over me that not everyone in the world was there to be play a background character in my life. And let me tell you, it was quite the realization for a six-year-old. I'm sure I didn't use those exact words, seeing as my vocabulary skills weren't that advanced, but that feeling of knowing that someone else had a life of his own made a powerful presence, sinking deep into my heart and making a home, staying there.
I look back on that event now, and I realize how shallow I was. I get these flashes of events and I suffer from post-embarrassment. Every time I recall how I only thought of Andrew as a boy who played trucks with me at recess, I cringe horribly.
After school that day, and after I had informed Jane (my caretaker) of my arrangements, Andrew and I trotted off to his house. It wasn't far, so he could walk to school. This was exciting for me, seeing as I was made to take the school bus. I think back and wonder what possessed his parents to allow two six-year-olds to walk home together alone without supervision. But we can't dwell on the past.
The walk wasn't long; it was only a couple of blocks from school. And there were a ton of other students meandering along the sidewalk with us. Andrew and I walked in silence, not really sure what to talk about. I mean, what were we supposed to discuss at age six? I vaguely remember us maybe discussing cookies and arguing because he liked soft and chewy and I liked hard and crunchy. But anyway, I remember that I was not wearing gloves, and I felt every bit of the cold January winds biting at my fingertips. I opened my mouth to complain about the cold, but before I could, I felt the softness of wool slip into my hand. I looked at Andrew, but he kept looking ahead, not even glancing my way. His hand had slipped into mine and his fingers clasped over my own. My brain spun and I was confused as to why he was holding my hand. Of course – knee-jerk reaction – I pulled my hand away and shoved it in my jacket pocket. Why had he held my hand? It was the weirdest thing he could ever have done. Why would a boy want to hold my hand? I turned to him to question his actions, but he kept looking straight ahead, his face stoic as it had been, as if nothing had happened.
Andrew lived in a red-brick semi with a glossy black door. In the spring his mother would have her garden planted so nicely, with rose bushes and a lilac tree right beside the walkway. However, with a new layer of snow glistening in the sun, there wasn't that much life to the garden. Andrew ambled up the steps and stuck his face against the window beside the door. It ran the length, but his face just reached over the second pane. He tapped quietly on the glass, waiting for an answer. I stood behind him, trying to look over his shoulder, but the hood of his snowsuit was too puffy to see around. He knocked gently on the door. Thumping resonated from the inside as his older brother came down the stairs. Andrew's brother opened the door and walked away. He carried himself back upstairs without even acknowledging our presence
My snowsuit squeaked as the fabric rubbed together while I ambled into the house. Warmth surrounded us instantly, and my nose ran. I wiped it with the back of my hand; when you're six you don't care. The sound of zippers and huffs and puffs shook the quietness that floated around us. Finally, after the tiresome task of getting out of the puffiest snowsuits ever to be worn by six-year-olds, we ran to the kitchen for hot chocolate. Andrew had hardwood floors in his house, and his mom kept them super shiny. My stocking feet slid across the smooth floor, and suddenly I was a speed racer, wind in my face and the frictionless floor beneath me. I crash-landed in the back of Andrew's dad's leather chair and fell to the ground. I flailed around on my back, laughing and gasping for air. Andrew stood over me, laughing. He put his hand out, but I ignored it, getting up by myself.
Andrew found the stool his mother kept in the back closet and used it to reach for the kettle. He grasped onto the edge of the counter and used it to pull himself upon to the stool. Once steady on the stool, Andrew swung his leg up onto the counter and dragged himself onto the surface. Once up, he turned around and smiled at me from his high altitude. "I'm gonna, gonna get the hot chocolate." His chubby hands reached out for the can.
After a good two minutes of wrestling with the hot-chocolate can, our chubby hands having a hard time of it to open the lid, we finally had our hot chocolate. Steam danced off the top, wafting and disappearing into the air. I picked up the mug, slowly tipping it towards my mouth. The first sip was always scary. Of course the chocolate was too hot, and the moment it touched my mouth, my head snapped back. Andrew let out a giggle, his eyes peeking over his mug. We stood together in the kitchen, our heads not even coming close to reaching over the countertop, both nursing our mugs of hot cocoa.
I don't remember much of our drinking experience. All I remember is one of us made a joke about a fart, and that resulted in Andrew's mug landing on the floor, the handle broken off and a brown liquid puddle between us. Andrew gave a slight gasp and stared at the puddle as if willing it to disappear. It didn't.
Footsteps creaked through the house, and seconds later Andrew's brother was standing in the kitchen. He yelled, "What the hell did you do?"
Andrew stood frozen, his eyes wide and watery. My heart hurt in that moment. I realize now, looking back, how badly I wanted to help Andrew. I wanted to yell at his brother and tell him it wasn't that big of a deal that the mug had fallen. But I was six. I didn't understand what was happening.
In the middle of Andrew's brother's tirade, the back door opened and Andrew's mum and dad came into the house. I saw their faces, a mix between wonderment and exhaustion. I don't remember much about his parents, but I do remember that his mother always had her hair in a tight bun, wisps of grey floating through the dark brown, and his father always had on a tie. It didn't matter what day it was, his father wore a tie. His father yelled at us to stop whatever we were doing. Andrew's face turned red and his eyes glistened. He stood up straighter and balled his fists. His lower lip quivered, but he quickly stopped, making only a small sniffing noise.
"What's going on!" his father bellowed. His hand reached for the knot of his tie and tugged at it as if he were being strangled. Andrew's brother told how we had broken the mug and gotten hot chocolate everywhere and how it was entirely our fault and he had nothing to do with it. Andrew's father gave us a look that made my spine straighten and my veins run cold. Andrew slowly walked over to the couch, not breaking eye contact with his father. I followed him. We crawled onto the couch and sat there beside each other. His father began to yell. He asked how we could be so clumsy, how we could have let something like this happen. I wanted to yell back and scream and cry and laugh all at once. His father finally was able to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt. His frame slightly relaxed, but only for a split second.
"John, they're only kids," Andrew's mother interjected.
Andrew's father stood in front of us, his hands placed on his knees; he was slightly crouching so he was in direct eye contact with us. "Kids who are complete klutzes and who break everything they touch!"
"John! Stop that!" Andrew's mum yelled.
Andrew's dad's face contorted into an emotion I had never seen before. It was anger, but it had an underlying sense of hatred mixed in. But it was not hate towards us. It was self-hatred. "Mary! Shut up! I will deal with this!" His face red, Andrew's dad stood up to his full height, which was really tall. Andrew's mum yelled back, and soon we were forgotten on the couch while his parents went at each other. Words were tossed around as if they meant nothing, as if they were just sounds that didn't have impact. Words I didn't even know were spewed from venomous mouths, but I could tell from reactions how bad these words were. Andrew's brother had disappeared from amongst the chaos, to his room I presumed.
The yelling continued, and it was horrifying. I sat and watched, my eyes the size of Frisbees. I chanced a glance at Andrew, who sat perfectly still, staring straight ahead. His eyes were bloodshot, and tears ran down his face. They raced each other to his chin, where they collected and fell onto his shirt. His shoulders didn't heave, his nose didn't run, and he didn't even make soft sobbing noises. He was just silent. So I reached between us and sought out his tiny, pudgy hand. And I held it.
CHAPTER 2Andrew was nine when he moved in with Jane and me. He came to school one day with his arm broken and an area surrounding his eye the colour of a ripe eggplant with flecks of yellow scattered around the edges. He kept his eyes downcast and didn't talk much that day.
"Andrew, what happened to your arm?"
"I tripped down the stairs."
I asked him if he wanted to play trucks with me at recess, as we'd been doing since we were six. Andrew said that he didn't have his truck with the Lego wheel anymore. His father said that boys his age didn't play with toys and trucks.
I went home that day, slung my backpack on the stairs, and kicked off my shoes right in front of the door, even though I knew not to. "How was your day?" Jane asked me from the kitchen. I made my way to a bar stool and got up on it as gracefully as a short nine-year-old could.
I placed my chin in my chubby hand, with my elbow resting on the counter. "Andrew needs to come live with us," I informed Jane.
Jane stopped mixing the cookie batter and looked at me. Her red hair was pulled tightly into a bun that sat high on her head, so as to not drop any loose hair into the cooking. "Why's that?"
"'Cause his mum and dad aren't nice. And he needs help." Jane prodded a bit more, and finally I told her. I told her all about when I was six and how his parents had yelled at him and how scared I had been. I didn't tell her about me holding his hand, though. Then I told her about his cast and how it went all the way up to his shoulder, and how his eye was the colour of Jackson's eye when he'd gotten hit with the hockey puck two summers ago. Jane put the bowl down halfway through my story and listened intently, though with a blank expression.
I don't know who she spoke to or what strings she pulled, but the next day Jane told me that I wasn't going to school and that I was going to help Andrew get comfortable at his new house – our house!
I sat at the breakfast table, wearing my favourite green pyjamas with blue dinosaurs on them. I munched away at a bowl of cereal while Jackson sat in front of me, doing homework. Jane kissed me on the head and ruffled Jackson's hair before she left us to go pick up Andrew. Jane didn't want me going with her, even though I'd begged the night before.
"What time do you have to be at school?" Jackson asked me, without even looking up from his paper.
I slipped another spoonful of cereal into my mouth, the spoon not fully fitting. "I don't gotta go today."
Jackson looked up and said, "Oh yeah, my bad." He sat back in his chair and sighed, running a hand over his short black hair. Jackson and I didn't look alike at all. He was dark and "rugged", as I had heard Jane tell him. He had dark-brown eyes that looked like coal and a crooked smile that sat on a crooked jaw line. He had already been living at the house when I came to live with Jane. His parents were meth addicts.
I mimicked Jackson, sitting back in my chair and sighing, running my hand through my long dark-brown hair. I had dark-green eyes that were too big for my face and white skin that bruised easily. My ears stuck out the side of my head, and sometimes Jane and Jackson would call me Dumbo, but affectionately. My smile wasn't perfect, but it was far from crooked, and I had a chip out of my front tooth from a teacup incident the year before.
"You're a good kid, ya know," Jackson commented out of the blue. I smiled a toothy grin; some of my teeth were missing. It always felt good when Jackson complimented me. He was much older – well, actually, he was only sixteen, but to a nine-year-old that was an adult. I always felt proud when he thought of me as a good kid. It made me want to be a good kid.
"You too," I replied, as I usually would.
The front door opened and we both looked up. Andrew came walking in first, his red school bag slung over his shoulder and his head bowed. Jane followed behind him, her one hand lightly resting on his head and the other carrying a duffel bag. "Okay, Andrew, Clara is staying home from school with you today."
Andrew stood in the foyer, looking up at Jane with his dark-blue eyes. His brown curly hair was messy and flopping in his face. His eye was still a bit swollen, and the blue cast still sat on his arm, a temporary physical reminder of whatever had happened two nights ago. He didn't say anything to Jane. His eyes just watered and the tears ran down his cheeks, silently. I hopped off my chair and walked over to them. Jane crouched in front of Andrew and wiped his tears away with her thumb. "My mummy and daddy don't love me," he whispered. I was only nine, but I wrapped my arms around him so tightly he probably couldn't breathe. He just cried on my shoulder. And I let him.
Andrew felt better after Jane had made him a cup of hot chocolate. Jane called in sick to work so she could stay home with us. Andrew and I sat on the couch, side by side. Our legs touched as they stuck straight out from the couch. We watched cartoons for a couple of hours before we began to tire of them. "Do you want to see your new room, Andrew?" Jane asked from the kitchen. Her red hair was up in the tight bun on top of her head.
Andrew hopped off the couch and wandered over to Jane. "Okay," he said.
Andrew would be sleeping in the room across from mine. It was painted a light-green colour and had a really big bay window. There was a bed, a dresser, and a poster of a hockey player hanging over the bed. It used to be Christian's, but he didn't live with us anymore. It took a while for Jane and Andrew to come back downstairs, but once they did Andrew had a calmer demeanour about him. He told me he really liked the room and that it was much nicer than his room at home. He stumbled on the word home and grimaced after he said it.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Sonder by Emily Neiman. Copyright © 2015 Emily Neiman. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.