Free The Blackberry Bush by David Housholder Page A

will come in handy.
    Opa and I go to Hope Lutheran Church on Melrose every Sunday morning. I’m mentioning that because I’m riding by it now on my bike—almost home. Papa drives us there on Sundays and picks us up but never comes in with us.
    He’s missing the best part of the week, as far as I’m concerned. I love my Sunday school class, because I get to help out with the little kids. There’s nothing like feeling the arms of a happy two-year-old flung around your neck, or getting kissed on the cheek by a four-year-old who’s just eaten a graham cracker. It doesn’t get any better than that. I wish everybody was like them…loving with no strings. If I could pick anybody to be like and to hang out with when I grow up, it would be those little kids.
    When it’s time for worship, lots of studio musicians volunteer to lead worship, and the gospel soloist who leads the service (it’s like an amazing concert in which you participate) is spellbinding. She sings out of a place inside her that isn’t awkward. Opa says that’s called having “soul.” Someday I’m going to find that place inside me.
    When she sings, my breathing changes and I sometimes have to wipe my eyes. That’s when Opa, who always notices such things, pulls me closer with his arm that’s often around my shoulder when we sit together.
    When this happened last week, he whispered into my ear, “She is so beautiful. Like you.”
    The simple, modern, white room with a very high ceiling is so different than church back in Germany. At Hope Lutheran we sit in a semicircle, 150 of us, in chairs. Zara might come with us sometime, but she would have to keep it a secret from her Muslim parents. Opa says there are fun adventure secrets and bad secrets. I’m not sure what he means by that.
    Zara’s home smells like curry. She says ours smells like butter. I’m sometimes so afraid to use the word friend out loud with her, because that might ruin everything. When something goes well for me, I start wondering when it’s going to unravel. Her mom doesn’t speak English at all. She points at me and talks really loud and fast to Zara in Urdu. It makes me feel even more nervous than I usually am. I have no clue what would make her mom happy.
    This past Saturday, Zara and I were riding our bikes past all the Orthodox Jews strung out along the sidewalks heading back from synagogues. I’m not sure what “an American” really is, but it sometimes feels like none of them have homes in our neighborhood. Everyone here in the Melrose District seems to have a foot in another country. Zara lives around the corner from our house with her big brother and parents. The family owns a gas station east of our district near the Hollywood Freeway.
    There’s our white house up ahead on the right. Stucco. The tops of the outside walls have fake castle turrets. The driveway on the narrow lot goes up the left side of the home, along the fence, and into the back by the garage and the back porch where I always put my bike.

~ B EHIND THE S TORY ~
    Angelo
     
    K ati walks through the open back door into the kitchen. There are raised voices.
    More raised voices.
    A slap.
    Kati bursts back out the door, sobbing uncontrollably. She fumbles with her bike—it takes two tries to get her kickstand up—and races down the driveway, making a hard right turn on the sidewalk toward Zara’s house.
    She won’t return home until late tonight.

    K ATI ISN ’ T THE ONLY ONE who’s dealing with some issues. Her friend Zara has more than her share—even ones Kati doesn’t know about…at least not yet. Right now Zara is writing in her journal, stopping every now and then to chew on the cap of her pen. I can’t help it. I peek over her shoulder....

2003
Melrose District
Los Angeles, California
    Zara’s Diary
    D EAR D IARY ,
    This year I made my first real American friend. Well, she’s actually German, but whatever.
    Her name is Kati.
    I’ve been here since I was a little girl, and she just