我家门前的那条路是一条单车道的乡间小路。每天早上，每天早上，父母上班以后，我会等着女邮差把车停在我们的信箱跟前。有时候，我会在大口玻璃瓶的瓶盖里放上够买几张邮票的零钱，再把它放在信箱里面。我讨厌为这样的交易去麻烦女邮差，这会延长她的工作时间。但我喜欢让她知道我们家里也有人寄信到外面的世界。我喜欢赤足走向我家的信箱，在沾着露水的草地上留下脚印。我想像着，足底湿漉漉的感觉使我成了一个诗人。除了艾米莉·狄金森的一些作品外，我其实从不读诗。但是我想，懂得这类东西的人一定会赤足踏着晨露走向他们的信箱。
我们用芭比娃娃和旁边小花园里紫色的小野花来筹办我们的婚礼游戏。我们是科学家，尝试牛奶、橙汁和漱口水的混合物。我们吃光一把又一把甜中带苦的巧克力片，把勺子上的花生酱舔得干干净净。糖果吃完了，我们就从药箱里偷拿有甜味的弗林斯通复合维生素。我们成了用卡夫通心面和干酪烹制午餐的专家，并尽职尽责地每天给正在上班的妈妈打3个电话汇报我们的最新情况。但是，我们告诫自己：不要打太多电话，不要说得太大声，也不要在电话里过多地诉苦，要不然他们就会生气，妈妈就会被解雇，美好的夏日也就完结了。
远离大人们窥视的目光，我们按自己选择的方式安排着生活。我们找出了爸爸的《花花公子》杂志，让邻家的男孩们付费观看。我们给全县各地的人打神秘电话，对他们说他们赢得了一辆新车。“什么样的？”他们会问。而我们总是回答：“红的。”我们穿上妈妈班级舞会时穿的旧礼服，配上手套和帽子，伴着在爸爸的唱机上找到的麦考尔的《护卫队》歌唱。
我们到屋后的树林里远足，从带刺的铁丝篱墙下爬过，穿过缠绕纠结的灌木丛。热气和湿气透过树叶的罅隙扑上我们绯红的脸颊。每次我们总是会意外地遇到溪流，于是我们就在其中涉水而行。我们走过被丢弃在远离大路的林中的轿车和汽车部件。我们会一直走到树林边上，结果意外走进一个奶牛场。我们会倚坐在门上休息，或者摊开四肢躺在露出地面的又大又平的石灰岩上。这些岩石标志着“屋后树林”的尽头。
有一天，田纳西河沿岸出现了暴风雨。这样的暴风雨让天变得阴沉，也驱走了湿气。刚开始，一切宁静又安详。空气中蕴含着电流，乍起的风把夏日的清爽吹得豁然大开。我们敞开所有的门窗，把收音机调到两个镇子之外的古典音乐台，加重低音并把音量开得大大的。我们让风吹进来，让它肆意搅动着我们的夏日。我们让似曾相熟的音乐在屋子里轰鸣，我们则在一边随 着音乐飞快地旋转。
在风中、在音乐里、在客厅里，我们飞旋。飞旋着，想像自己是诗人、是舞者、是科学家、是春天里的新娘。我们飞旋着，想像要是能让一切——雷声、暴风雨、狂风以至整个世界——旋入田纳西河畔的那座房子，我们就能永远活在我们的夏日之梦里。那时，我们还是小女孩。
Eleven
What they dont understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when youre eleven，youre also ten，and nine，and eight，and seven，and six，and five，and four，and three，and two，and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven，but you dont. You open your eyes and everythings just like yesterday，only its today. And you dont feel eleven at all. You feel like you re still ten. And youre-underneathunderneath adv.在下面 prep.在……的下面 the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid，and thats the part of you thats still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your Mamas lap because youre scared，and thats the part of you thats five. And maybe one day when youre all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if youre three，and thats okay. Thats what I tell Mama when shes sad and needs to cry. Maybe shes feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wood dolls that fit one inside the other，each year inside the next one. Thats how being eleven years old is.
You dont feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days，weeks，even sometimes even months before you say eleven when they ask you. And you dont feel smart eleven，not until youre almost twelve. Thats the way it is.
Only today I wish I didnt have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin BandAid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two Id have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I wouldve known how to tell her it wasnt mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
“Whose is this？” Mrs. Price says，and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. “Whose？ Its been sitting in the coatroom for a month.”
“Not mine？” says everybody. “Not me.”
“It has to belong to somebody，” Mrs. Price keeps saying，but nobody can remember. Its an ugly sweater with red plasticplastic n.塑胶，可塑体，塑料制品，整形adj.塑胶的，塑造的，有可塑性的，造形的，(外科)整形的 buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. Its maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldnt say so. Maybe because Im skinnyskinny adj.皮的，似皮的，膜状的，小的，maybe she doesnt like me，that stupid Sylvia Salar says，“I think it belongs to Rachel.” An ugly sweater like that，all raggedy and old，but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk，but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
“Thats not，I dont，youre not...Not mine，” I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.
“Of course its yours，” Mrs. Price says. “I remember you wearing it once.”
Because shes older and the teacher，shes right and Im not.
Not mine，not mine，not mine. But Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirtytwo，and math problem number four. I dont know why but all of a sudden Im feeling sick inside，like the part of me thats three wants to come out of my eyes，only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven，eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight，and when papa comes home everybody will sing “Happy birthday，happy birthday to you.”
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes，the red sweaters still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine，not mine，not mine.
In my head Im thinking how long till lunchtime，how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence，or leave it hanging on a parting meter，or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody，“Now，Rachel，thats enough，” because she sees Ive shoved the red sweater to the tippytip corner of my desk and its hanging all over the edge like a waterfall，but I dont care.
“Rachel，” Mrs. Price says. She says it like shes getting mad. “You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.”
“But its not-”“Now！” Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasnt eleven，because all the years inside of me-ten，nine，eight，seven，six，five，four，three，two，and one-are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese，and then the other arm through the other and stands there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does，all itchy and full of germs that arent even mine.