See the Music Hear the Light

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"Phoebe’s waiting for me on the afternoon bus when I get on. I almost don’t want to sit with her, because it’s too hard to see her sympathy. But I wouldn’t ever want to hurt her feelings, so I slowly go to our seat. She’s got her backpack on her lap, one hand in the outside pocket. I take a deep breath, because there’s only so much a little bald plastic doll can do to make a person feel better. 

 But her hands bring out something else—a stack of small, folded, flat, triangular things. Paper things. Blue, red, yellow, green, and white. 

 'I repurposed your homework,' she tells me, unfolding the yellow thing into a small paper horse with wings. 

 Origami! I can see through the color that the slightly-crinkly paper has lines and writing on it—my writing!

  'It’s called a Lungta,' Phoebe says and hands it to me. 'A wind horse.'

  I carefully turn it with my fingers, looking at it from all sides. 'How did you do it? How did you do five so fast?'"

Copyright © 2026 by Anne C. LeMieux

"There’s a question, in big, red letters above a brown map with many swirling red arrows on it, which to me looks like a baked potato squirted with lines of ketchup. 

 'CAN DNA HELP TRACE OUR ORIGINS?'

I read on to find out. And it jumps out at me from the page:

 'Genetically speaking all human beings are 99.9 percent identical. The 0.1 percent of genetic material, or DNA, that differs, accounts for people’s many variations.'

 So. There you have it. I’m part of the 0.1 percent, thanks to my genetic material. My so-called syndrome. I didn’t even know I had one until I was eight. It was a shocking discovery.

 It was right after my yearly checkup at the pediatric cardiology clinic at the Children’s Hospital. Mom stayed in the office talking to Dr. John, while I hung out in the waiting room and played video games. She was strangely silent when she came to fetch me, and she wasn’t in a hurry—she let me finish the level I was on. She was silent as we walked out to the parking garage, silent as we drove away from the hospital, silent on the highway heading back home, still silent as we got close to the Stonebridge Town Green. Then she spoke up.

 'So, Daniel, you know how you’ve had some health issues over the years?'

 'Yep,' I said.

 'Well…' she paused, doing a deep inhale followed by a long exhale. “There’s a reason for that. Dr. John told me today that you have something called Williams syndrome.” 

My mind went blank for a moment. All my thoughts ceased. Then a whole bunch of thoughts rushed in together like a mob of chattering monkeys. 

Syndrome? Syndrome like Buddy Wannabe-Incrediboy who grew up to be a supervillain instead of a superhero, then got beat up by Baby JackJack’s anger-monster superpower? That doesn’t sound very good… 

'Syndrome?' was what I said out loud."

Copyright © 2026 by Anne C. LeMieux

“'NOW FOLKS, GET READY TO ROCK OUT WITH SOME TEAM SPIRIT AS THE EAGLE MARCHING BAND PERFORMS A MEDLEY OF LED ZEPPELIN SONGS!'

 The drill formats aren’t too tricky—I don’t have to move around much. After the blimp, we form a mallet shape, for Thor’s hammer in 'Immigrant Song.' Then we rotate into a sun and a star for 'Kashmir,' staying in that formation while the trumpet soloist and the flutes come forward, and the flag squad forms into step-shapes for 'Stairway.' We finish up with our 'Fight Song,' then it’s pivot, assemble into our columns, and get off the field! 

 I am elated! I did it!! 

 There’s a thunderous rumble from the stands as spectators stomp the metal bleachers with their feet while we double-time march off the field as the teams pours on. I'm marching straight forward in my elation when my foot catches on the turf. My ankle rolls and my body starts to pitch forward. My arms automatically flail to steady myself, pushing the kid in front of me. Who happens to be Richie.

 He stops, turns, bats my arms away, and shoves me backwards into Mikey Toledo. I lose my balance, drop down on one knee, and my hat falls off. It happens so fast my mind can’t keep up with the happening. Kids march around me. I’m caught in a stampede. No one helps. 

 Then the rest of the band is in the end zone and I’m able to get up, grab my hat, and stumble off the field. Red-haired Brian is standing there. He looks at my stomped, bedraggled plume when I hand it to him. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t put it in the plume box with the others. "

Copyright © 2026 by Anne C. LeMieux