For nearly as long as she could remember, Nancy had been intrigued by words.  Whether she first met them in school, library books, or conversations she eavesdropped on or participated in, each of them had always seemed to have a shape and flavor all its own. Some were round and smooth and, when Nancy heard them, floated or danced, while others thudded or plodded along as if they were wearing wooden shoes.
        All too often, though, she found it hard to understand the puzzled looks she saw whenever she tried to share her fascination with friends or classmates, or even her parents, enough to make her suspect it was a lost cause.  In fact, she often wondered whether the time had come for her to stop trying.
   
Her fifth-grade teacher, Ms. Jackson, was a seemingly miraculous exception.  “It’s so nice,” she told the class one day, “to have someone like Nancy, who loves words.  Some of the rest sit here looking as if you’re afraid of them.”  Her classmates responded with a what-else-is-new sneer for their teacher.
        Most of them had been in Nancy’s class since first grade and were sick and tired of hearing teachers hold her up as an inspiring example of an ideal pupil.  At that moment, they looked anything but inspired, and, far from the first time, Nancy wished they didn’t see her as the quintessential nerd.  If a fairy godmother had come along and offered to exchange her academic distinctions for good looks and popularity, Nancy would have been completely agreeable.
    
Ms. Jackson was summarizing the science lesson she’d presented earlier that week.  It was all about sunrise and sunset, nothing new to Nancy, who had read all about them on her own a few years before.  What was new to her, though, was the connection that Ms. Jackson clearly explained between that and Orient, the East, as rising, and Occident, the West, as falling.  Nancy had never read or heard that before.
        Later that day, she began wondering why sunrise is always in the East and sunset in the West, and what the world would be like if that arrangement were reversed.  Maybe, she soon decided, life would be easier or more exciting, though she couldn’t figure out why that would happen.  Maybe everyone in her class that she liked would like her, too, and want to be her friend.  Maybe Mommy and Daddy would smile more often, stop moaning about money worries, and no longer tell her, “You really shouldn’t ask so many questions,” or ask her, “What makes you think there’s a reason for everything anyway?”
    
Actually, Nancy couldn’t even remember ever thinking any such thing. She had to admit, though, that probably she’d feel a little better about not having the brother or, even more, the sister she’d wanted so badly if someone could have given her a reason. The same went for her being somewhat overweight, having to wear glasses since second grade, and never being at all happy with what she saw when she studied her reflection in her bedroom mirror.
    
The next day, when it was time for science, Ms. Jackson asked, “Who remembers where the sun rises and sets?”  Nancy’s hand was raised, although she hadn’t intended to offer an answer to such an easy question, but, as now, sometimes she suspected her hands were equipped with a will of their own, especially when she was in school.  “No, Nancy, not this time.  You always know the right answer. Someone else for a change?”
        Robert, who usually gave correct answers on his rare good days, raised his hand.  Ms. Jackson
  
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called on him, and he said rather woodenly, “The sun rises in the East and sets in the West,” and was rewarded with Ms. Jackson’s “very good,” as he no doubt fully expected.
        Nancy felt bored and fidgety.  Why, she wondered, did school have to be a place where almost everything got repeated far too many times and where there were so horribly few surprises?  Was there some invisible ogre who killed then gobbled up all the magic in the world?  Why couldn’t there be too much of it for that ever to happen?
    
This time she raised her hand very intentionally.  Ms. Jackson looked a bit surprised since she had already heard the desired answer.  “Yes, Nancy?” she asked with none of her usual enthusiasm.
        “Why does the sun have to rise in the Orient and set in the Occident?” Nancy heard herself ask.  “What would happen if it were the other way? Would the world be different?”
        A few of her classmates yawned.  Others snickered.  Ms. Jackson wiggled in her chair and suddenly looked very uncomfortable.  “I’m proud of you, Nancy,” she finally managed, “for remembering those two new words.  How many of the rest of you did?”
        A few classmates smirked and raised their hands.  Another few, or so it seemed to Nancy, looked as if either they had no idea of what two new words Ms. Jackson was referring to or, if they did, couldn’t have cared less.  How Nancy wished she could feel more welcome among them without being dishonest or acting as if she were someone else.
    
That night she had a dream that felt even more real and believable than her dreams usually felt.  In it—though she had absolutely no idea how she got there—she was exploring a fairy-tale world where colorful posters proclaimed: “Here the sun rises in the West and sets in the East,” and “This is the enchanted kingdom where there is at least one answer to every question anyone could ever ask.”  There were also a giant-sized sports arena—Nancy couldn’t tell whether baseball, football, or some other sport she’d never even heard of was played there, and a bevy of cheerleaders shouting, “Orient, Occident, go team, go!”  Nancy felt almost like Alice in Wonderland, about whom she had read at Ms. Jackson’s recommendation just a few months before.
        Her alarm clock’s clang and the prospect of another day with resentful classmates felt even more intrusive than usual, until she realized with relief that, even in school, she could imagine herself in a dream, perhaps even a continuation of her latest one.  It would be her delicious secret.
    
    
                       About the Author
     
        Long-time SIG member, Louise Jaffe-Gerber is Professor Emerita of English at Kingsborough College in Brooklyn, New York.  In addition to four poetry chapbooks, she has had many poems and several stories awarded prizes or honorable mentions in contests and/or published in anthologies and literary journals, including, she is proud to say, Calliope.
        Feminine Prerogatives, a collection of three novellas about female empowerment, was published in 2006 and dedicated to her long-awaited first grandchild, Tanya.  She has also had three Tanya-poems published.
        Louise has also served as consultant to a senior citizens’ creative writing group for the past eight years. This group has been a source of delight and inspiration for her.