Twelve Impossible Things Before Breakfast by Jane Yolen Page A

then we can have a chapter of Tolkien tonight. I’ve managed to get most of my work done.” Mrs. Callanish nodded, but there was no warmth in her voice, as if reading to them were a duty she was still willing to perform—but not one she was happy doing.
    Brancy knew that Danny would be finished with his homework first. After all, how much homework does a kindergartner have, except maybe coloring? But she had at least an hour of math and social studies and a whole page of spelling words to memorize. Mr. Dooley, her English teacher, was a bear on spelling words. He had won a national spelling bee as a fourth grader and loved to tell them about it. Before her father had died, Brancy had been class champion—and Mr. Dooley’s pet. But she had gotten C’s on her last three spelling tests and had never made up the two she missed because of the funeral. Mr. Dooley didn’t even kid around with her anymore. Which is fine, Brancy thought. Just fine. Mr. Dooley is kind of joofy on the subject of spelling, anyway.
    Â 
    It turned out to be more like three hours of homework, though—one before the Tolkien, and two after—and Brancy was exhausted. Eighth grade was going to be real hard, she decided. The spelling words had been the worst ever: naiad, Gorgon, nemesis, daimonic, centaur, odyssey. They were studying the myths of ancient worlds. Brancy wished the ancient worlds had known how to spell with more regularity. Or had had fewer odd gods and monsters.
    â€œThough how anyone could really believe in this stuff..." she said, slamming the book shut. “It’s all too bizarre.”
    â€œBrancy,” came a whispery voice from the door connecting her bedroom with Danny’s.
    She looked up. Danny was standing there, holding on to his bear, Bronco.
    â€œHey, Mr. Brat, it’s way past ten. What are you doing up?”
    â€œI heard the Bolundeers outside. In the compost.” His chin trembled. “They’re scratching around. And whispering awful things about you and me and Mom. They want to come into the house. Listen.”
    She listened. All she could hear were crickets. “You know what Mom said. Volunteers”—she pronounced it again carefully—“are vegetables. And vegetables don’t make any noise. In fact, they are very very quiet.”
    â€œNot these ones,” Danny said. “These are Bolundeers. They want to hurt us. Brancy, I’m scared.”
    She started to say something sharp but his face was so pinched and white that she bit back the response. He hardly looked like a kindergartner anymore. In fact, he looked like a little old man. A little old dying man. “Do you want me to snuggle with you till you fall asleep?”
    He nodded, clutching Bronco so hard the little bear’s eyes almost popped out.
    â€œOK. I was getting tired of Gorgons and centaurs, anyway.”
    â€œWhat are those?”
    â€œFar worse than talking veggies, trust me.” She followed him back to his bed. Tacking in next to him, she said, “Why don’t I sing you something?” He nodded, and so she started with their father’s favorite lullaby, the one he always sang when they were sick and couldn’t fall asleep: “Dance to Your Daddy.” Only, unlike their father, she sang it on key.
    Danny dozed off at once, but Brancy could not sleep. The song only served to remind her that her father was no longer around. He had suffered horribly before finally dying, and God had been no help to him at all. Even though they had all prayed and his partner had had a mass said for him. It didn’t matter that her father had been strong and brave before he had gotten cancer. With medals from the city after having been injured in the line of duty. He hadn’t died when some man crazy with drugs had tried to kill him with a knife. Or later, when he had shielded two hostages with his own body while a would-be burglar had shot at them. It