Free Still a Work in Progress by Jo Knowles

Normal parents would just put their foot down and say, “Too bad — you’ll eat what we tell you!” But not in our house. When it comes to food, my parents will do anything if it means Emma eats a healthy diet.
    So, my dad’s stuck with figuring out creative ways to make tofu taste like something other than sponge.
    I take a bite of tofu and try to swallow it as quickly as possible.
    “I think I really got it this time,” my dad says. He gives me a hopeful look.
    I swallow a huge swig of water. “Great sauce, Dad.”
    “Yeah,” Emma agrees, though I notice she hasn’t actually brought any of the food to her mouth.
    “You think?” he asks, all excited.
    She cuts a tofu cube with the edge of her fork and moves a piece away from the rest, forming a barbecue trail across her plate. Then she does the same with a piece of potato and broccoli. She does this all very slowly and methodically and then asks my dad something about a tofu press and whether he would like one.
    He beams and starts telling her how he can make his own using a heavy pot, and while he’s explaining it, he seems to forget all about waiting for her to actually try a bite.
    My mom keeps eyeing Emma’s plate. She’s always eyeing Emma’s plate. “Emma, you’ve haven’t tried anything yet,” she points out.
    “Yes, I have,” Emma says. “It’s delicious, Dad.”
    “You’re just moving your food around,” my mom says cautiously.
    My dad gives her a warning look.
    “I tried it,
Mom,
” Emma says. She deliberately picks up a piece of tofu with her fork and eats it.
    “Thank you,” my mom says.
    “Jem’s parents made him wear a horrible shirt for Picture Day,” I say, to change the subject. “It had epaulets. People didn’t make too much fun of him, though, because I think it was so over-the-top embarrassing, he passed humiliation and went straight to sympathy.”
    “It’s such a good school,” my mom says. “The kids are so kind to each other.”
    Emma snorts.
    “It is!” my mom insists.
    Emma drinks from her water glass. I wonder if she’s having
Lord of the Flies
list memories.
    “I don’t think I let the tofu marinate long enough,” my dad says.
    “It’s great, Dad, really,” Emma tells him. But I notice she hasn’t taken another bite.
    Later, when Emma pops her head into my room to say good night, I ask her if she’s OK.
    “Not you, too,” she says, all annoyed. “I’m fine. I just didn’t like what dad did with the tofu and didn’t want to say anything to hurt his feelings. Everyone needs to relax!”
    “You could have had something else,” I say.
    “Honestly, Noah, you are really annoying sometimes.”
    “Excuse me for caring,” I say.
    Instead of fighting back, she turns and leaves me in the dark. The Captain gets up and goes after her, but she slams her door before he can follow her into her room, so he comes back and settles on my floor again.
    “What’s her problem?” I ask him. But I’m not sure I really want to know.

On our last day using the potter’s wheel in art class, I turn the wheel and gently reach my fingers into the ball of soft clay, shaping it slowly and carefully. Like magic, the ridges of my bowl begin to rise up, and I ease my fingers to widen the ridge.
    Ms. Cliff watches intensely. “Thaaaaaat’s it,” she says. “Not too fast.”
    I press my thumbs deeper and the sides form upward, just the way I imagined. It’s as if I only have to picture the bowl in my head the way I want it to form, and somehow my hands make the clay grow into that shape. When I have the curves and form just right, I let the wheel spin down and slowly move my fingers away.
    “Beautiful,” Ms. Cliff says. “Just gorgeous, Noah. You have a real gift.”
    She helps me move the bowl to the next station and then wanders off to help Sadie, who’s waiting in line.
    “Nice bowl,” Ryan says. He’s holding his own bowl, cupped in his hands. One side has fallen in on itself. “I think I’ll give