Lacey and the African Grandmothers by Sue Farrell Holler Page B

had burst into yellow, orange, and red flowers. I quickly counted them. Sixteen. Sixteen flowers in one pot! I leapt over the railing of the steps and spun to the side of the church, anxious to see if the other pots had as many blooms. My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t believe what I saw.
    Dirt and smashed pots and battered plants were strewn around everywhere. It looked as if someone had stomped on the plants and crushed them into the sidewalk. Branches were broken off the tree, too. Splinters of clear and colored glass sparkled on the ground – the middle window of the church was shattered, and beneath it was a smear of dirt and fragments of a flowerpot. Bad words were written on the wall of the church with black spray paint. Two of the basement windows had been kicked in.
    â€œWho could do this? Who would do this?” I gasped. My hands made fists, and I wanted to hit something. I wanted to punch whoever had done this – punch them hard, right in the face, where it would hurt most. I wanted to beat up whoever had been so horribly mean to my plants and to me. I felt attacked, betrayed. I felt as if I didn’t matter – no matter what I did or how hard I worked, someone would be there to destroy everything.
    Then, looking at my poor plants, I felt tears in my eyes. I lifted a lifeless plant from the grass beneath the tree. Its red flower drooped sadly, as wilted and dead as a wildflower picked from the prairie. Frost hadn’t killed my plants. Some wicked person had. Why would anyone do such a thing?
    I shifted my glasses to wipe away the angry tears that were making everything blurry. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and cradled the wilted plant in my hands as gently as if it were a baby bird. Maybe, if it had some water, it would come back to life.
    Just then, Lila came up behind me, carrying a garbage can and a broom. “Oh Lacey,” she said. “I can’t believe someone would do this. I am so sorry. I knew it was possible, but I didn’t really think it would happen.” The dead flowers brought tears to her eyes, too. She reached for me and tried to put her arms around me like a mother, but I shrugged off her touch.
    â€œI told you this would happen! I told you someone would wreck them. Now all my work was for nothing!” I didn’t care that my words might hurt Lila. I wanted someone else to feel my pain, too. Instead of putting the plant in water, I clenched it in my fist and ran away.
    â€œNo, Lacey. Wait! We can repair the damage,” I heard Lila call.
    I ran blindly toward my school, then past it, and past the cemetery. I ran until I was panting and my left side felt as if it had a knife in it. I ran until there was nowhere left to run. I was at the edge of Gleichen, near the water tower, when I spotted the life-sized carving of a buffalo hidden partly by the spruce trees in the park. I felt drawn to the statue with its feet planted solidly on the ground. Its head was bent down and turned slightly, as if it was getting ready to charge an enemy. I knew how that buffalo felt; I wanted to charge, too.
    I put my hand out to stroke the curly hair of its forehead. It was as cold and hard as the person who had ruined my flowers. “Why do people do these things?” I cried out loud to the sky. “I don’t understand!” I stomped my feet and beat my arms up and down. “Why? Why? Why?”
    Maybe Kelvin was right. Maybe it was true that nothing would ever change for our people. Maybe he wasn’t poisoning Angel with his thoughts of failure – maybe he was right. Just plain right. Maybe changing things was hopeless. I wished I had lived a long time ago when things were simpler, when families were always together, and the only thing to worry about was how to hunt buffalo.
    I let the tears drip down my cheeks as I slid down beside the buffalo’s strong forelegs. My sadness shook me until I was tired and weak from the crying. I stayed