Ways to Make Sunshine: Chapters 1–10

Dad is always telling me our people come from royalty, that my ancestors lived in Africa and were kings and queens and inventors and hard workers. Mom tells me their strength is running through my veins.

I am trying really hard not to cry but I can’t help it. I must look so pitiful sitting here in front of melting vanilla ice cream with tears streaming down my face.

Dad looks at us through the rearview mirror. “If you’re going to bicker, you’ll have to stop playing.”

I stand on one of the big rocks trying to get even closer to the clouds and Ray holds me up. “Be careful,” he says. “You might fall.” Even though I am not wavering at all.

This new house is not new at all.
The front yard has not-that-green grass, like no one ever took care of it, and the screen door creaks every time it’s opened. The not-so-soft carpet is tan and bland like food with no seasoning.

Mom says I’ll make a good chef one day because I am always experimenting and thinking up unique concoctions.

I reach and reach and use my fingertips to inch the canister to the edge. Then I take it down, walk over to my bed, and open it.
Two seashells.
A postcard addressed to no one.
A white handkerchief embroidered with purple flowers.

“You promise?” a voice says. It’s louder than a whisper but still soft and quiet.
I scream and pull the covers over my head. Then I hear loud laughter, and Ray’s voice repeating what I said, mimicking me like a parakeet: I promise to put them back. I promise.

He over-exaggerates every time he doesn’t like something, spitting it out and running to get water to make the taste disappear from his tongue. His tongue that does not like spicy or too sweet, or tangy or tart.

Amanda touches everything gently, like sacred keepsakes. She picks up the hairpins, takes one, and sweeps a handful of her curly hair back, pushing it tightly in place.

Amanda touches everything gently, like sacred keepsakes. She picks up the hairpins, takes one, and sweeps a handful of her curly hair back, pushing it tightly in place.

I didn’t think twice about Ray being all paranoid about these things being possessed with the spirit of whoever they belonged to.

Every Easter (and Christmas, too) all us kids who attend Sunday school recite speeches in front of the whole congregation.

Every Easter (and Christmas, too) all us kids who attend Sunday school recite speeches in front of the whole congregation.

This time I will speak so loud, I won’t even need the microphone. I will do so well, I will get a standing ovation.

Grandma is a brown woman, tall like the sunflowers that rise in the community garden down the street. Nothing about her is small, or quiet, or timid.

The choir sings their first selection and then Deacon LeRoy calls Luke up to the front of the sanctuary to play his piano solo.

“Well, ah, well, amen—that young man has a gift, doesn’t he? Son, I hope you use your gift for good. Not to be mischievous.” Deacon LeRoy clears his throat. “Now, um, let’s see. Next we have Bobby Manning coming to recite his speech.”

Then Bobby blurts out, “Christ rose on this day!” And we all start laughing, even the adults.

“It’s okay, baby, take your time,” Ms. Howard says. She is the Sunday school teacher and the woman who puts on all special programs for Easter and Christmas and Youth Revival. “It’s okay, just take your time,” she says again.