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Category: First Chapters
Peek Inside Tangerines: Read or Listen to the First Three Chapters
1. The Forest Between Us
My name’s Gilly, but you won’t see it again in this diary. I don’t like writing it down or saying it out loud unless I have to. Here’s why: two days before I was born, Mom told Dad she wanted to name me Gilly. Dad had another name in mind. They argued and didn’t speak for those two days. Mom got so upset, she went into labor early—two months early. And that’s how I ended up with her name choice.
Mom says I’m making it up (I do make up lots of stories, to be fair) and that her being sad and me being born early aren’t connected. But I don’t buy it. I also think Dad, who lives on the other side of the forest, about a night’s walk from our house, still doesn’t like my name.
Mom won’t tell me what name Dad wanted to give me, not even a hint. I could promise to water every single flower in our garden for a hundred hearts on Orti (that’s our tangerine tree), and she’d still keep it a secret.
Because she doesn’t tell me, and because I think about Dad every day—pretty much the whole time it takes the sun to drop from the sky—I came up with another name for myself. It’s not really a secret, but no one else knows it. It’s the kind of sweet name I bet Dad would’ve picked for me.
One day, I’ll see Dad again. I’ll tell him the new name I came up with, and he’ll smile. The argument he had with Mom will be over, and everything in our forest will feel right again. I hope that day comes soon.
And sometimes I wonder—what if the new name I came up with is the exact same one Dad had in mind all these years? Wouldn’t that be the most incredible surprise?
I need to tell you more about me and my life. You already know my name, that I have a few secrets, and that we have a special tangerine tree in our backyard covered in little hearts I carved myself. You also know my family can switch from super happy to super sad in no time. But there’s a lot more to my story than that, and I capture it all in my diary.
I write in it every day (it’s just a plain notebook with drawings of animals and plants I’ve doodled on the cover). I don’t write too much, though, because I’m convinced my pencils have tiny souls, and they need breaks, or else they snap—kind of like some people I know. So, between entries, I draw animals or flowers or sometimes just leave a little blank space.
One day, when the time feels right and Orti drops all its tangerines, I’m going to turn my diary into a real book. I’ll edit and proofread it (two fancy words Mom taught me—she likes to write too) and split the entries into short chapters, about 683 words each. I’ll pick 683 because it’s my lucky number. Once, I tried counting all the tangerines on Orti’s branches, but a squirrel came to sit with me. We ended up playing a staring game, trying not to laugh. I won, but I completely lost track of my count. After that, we both decided to call it 683.
I think the book will need about fifty chapters, because real books always have chapters, and I want my notebook diaries to feel like a real book more than anything. I don’t know who will read it—maybe kids my age, their parents, or even grandparents. And if they have any witches in their family, I really hope they’ll read it too!
When I turn my diary into a book, I’ll make sure this very page goes right at the beginning, where it belongs—even though I’m writing it long after most of the notebook is filled. That’s part of what Mom calls the magic of editing. But enough about that for now. I think my pencil needs a break for today.
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2. The Wednesday Ritual
Once, when we had tangerines, I’d peel them and drop the peels along the path, just in case I got lost. Someone could always follow the trail and find me.
Orange is my favorite color.
Once, when we had sweaters, I wasn’t cold.
Every night before bed, I say my prayers. I’ve written more than ten of them in my notebook. Mom helped a little, but I came up with the words myself and memorized each one.
Mom says I shouldn’t say “once when” for things that will come back, like tangerines or sweaters. But I think it fits. Just because something’s supposed to return doesn’t mean it feels like it will. Like rain—it used to fall all the time. Now, there is no rain. Mom says it’ll be back, but for now, it feels like another “once when” to me.
Mom and her friends trust nature, but I’m not so sure. I trust Orti, of course, and the river—it’s just a short, easy barefoot walk from our house. I trust the ants and most of the birds, too. But I don’t trust thunder or those heavy clouds, especially the ones that creep in at night when you can’t even see them.
Mom’s friends have funny names: Odelia, Mississippi, and Eternity. I have no idea who named Mississippi. Once, when I got lost, she was the one who found me and brought me back home. I remember Mom telling her she didn’t know what to do with a girl who’s always getting lost.
Now, there isn’t a single tangerine anywhere around here.
Dad taught me how to peel tangerines. Every time I peel one, I think of him—how tall he is and the warmth of his hands. He showed me the right way when we lived in a different place, a strange mix of desert and oasis. He moved here first, and then we followed. That’s when Mom’s new friends—Mississippi, Odelia, and Eternity—started visiting.
Mississippi has a thin, buzzy voice. When she talks about her trips around the country, she gets so excited, like they’re the most important adventures anyone’s ever had. I don’t know why, but once I start thinking about Mississippi, it’s hard to stop.
Mississippi has one black tooth and a lot of white ones. She’s short and beautiful. Once, when I got lost in the woods, she found me and brought me home. After Dad left us—one Thursday, just as the sun was setting—she started living with him.
I was standing on the porch when Dad came to kiss me. He hugged me, and we both cried. I clung to his sleeve, not wanting to let go. A moment later, Mom came out and hugged me too. That evening, Dad left.
What I remember most is him being sick for a long time—probably because he had to leave us. Mom kept telling him he was getting worse. So eventually, he went.
When I’m sick, I have to stay in bed.
Now Dad lives with Mississippi on the other side of the forest. Mississippi and Mom are still friends.
Orti is our tangerine tree. I’ve given names to all the trees around our house, and I remember every one of them. Since the day Dad left, I’ve gone out to the yard every day and carved a heart into Orti’s trunk. If you ever see a tree covered in tiny hearts all the way up to where its leaves begin to drape, you’ll know that’s my Orti.
Orti is as tall as six or seven yanakas stacked on top of each other, but it’s still not the tallest fruit tree in our yard.
But I didn’t explain what yanakas are. I’ll try to do it later, because yanakas always love getting more attention than just a passing mention.
Sometimes Mississippi comes over from the other side of the forest and brings photos. She and Mom never talk about Dad. Every time she visits, always on a Wednesday, she squeaks about everything—places she’s been, things she’s seen—but never about him.
Odelia and Eternity show up too, either right before or right after Mississippi, but it’s always on the same day.
When Mom’s friends visit, they play cards. They start as soon as the sun sets—Mississippi says it’s too warm to play before that—and one time, they kept going until the sun came up.
Mom usually wins, which makes sense to me—she’s my mom, after all. Odelia and Eternity don’t mind losing, but Mississippi? Not a chance. When she loses, she gets so mad she flings all her cards into the air. When that happens, the game has to pause until she calms down.
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3. The Lost Family
Our forest has rabbits, snakes, little monkeys, and lots and lots of yanakas. I can’t really explain what kind of animal the yanaka is, but there are many of them in our forest. Since I didn’t know its real name and Mom said she had never seen one, I gave it a name myself.
I’m not scared of the yanakas, but I don’t get too close to them either.
I like the color green, but I really like orange more. You can trust me on these two colors because I usually don’t lie, and I almost never lie to people I don’t know.
The people I know are my dad, my mom, Mississippi, Odelia, Eternity, the gardener (I won’t write his name—he’s half-shy, half absolutely not, and might prefer to stay a mystery), and Oggy. Oggy is easily one of the most interesting people I know.
Oggy and I are the same age. He lives nearby, in a house that isn’t bigger or smaller than ours, but it has more blue colors and more windows.
When Mississippi first saw Oggy, she said out loud that she always dreamed of having such a sweet child.
If you leave my house and turn right, you’ll get to the salt lake. If you go straight, you’ll end up in the middle of the forest. But if you turn left, you’ll probably get lost, so bring tangerines just in case.
I asked Mom where the rest of our family is (besides Dad). Like, where are my grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins? Mom said we used to be a huge family, the biggest one, but they all left, and now it’s just me and her. I think she was joking, but her jokes are sometimes a little sad. I think what she really meant is that she wishes she knew where everyone went.
I love my mom.
“Brelli” is a word Oggy taught me. It means super excellent, like really, really good. Oggy makes up words that are better than the regular ones, and because we’re best friends, he says I can use his magic words too. So when Mom or Mississippi or Eternity or Odelia says something, I can answer back with one of Oggy’s special words, and it makes whatever I say feel even stronger.
I don’t think magic is real, but I totally believe in Oggy.
Oggy doesn’t really think the prayers I write in my notebook work, but when I pray, he still sits next to me and listens anyway.
One time, Oggy showed me how he could juggle three tangerines. I couldn’t stop watching, and he said it wasn’t magic at all, just practice.
Tangerines make everything feel extra special.
Sometimes strangers come to our house. I just hide behind Mom or pretend I’m super busy so I don’t have to talk to them.
If I lie to people I don’t know, it makes my stomach and throat feel weird, like a knot. But I can lie to Odelia and Eternity and not feel anything, probably because they’re always so busy with their own stuff and never really notice what I say. Even when I told them they were super nice and that I loved having them over, or that their shoes were amazing, or that I rode an old yanaka, they didn’t even notice I was making it all up.
I think if I ever catch a yanaka, I’ll tell it my secret name, and maybe it will take me somewhere amazing, like where everyone is waiting for me. Maybe even to the house where my dad lives.
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Read the First Chapter of Leo and The Magic Guitar of the Ozarks
Chapter 1: A Slice of Something More
Leo sat alone beneath the sagging “Happy 13th Birthday, Leo!” banner. His legs swung off the edge of the old, worn-out sofa, tapping softly against the frayed cushions as if trying to drum up some excitement. A car rumbled outside, and Leo’s heart leapt, just for a moment, before it sank again when the car kept going. He tugged at a loose thread on the cushion, as if unraveling it might somehow untangle the rest of the day. It wasn’t that he needed a big crowd or a pile of gifts—he just wanted something to feel different. He sighed, wishing for something he couldn’t quite name, a slice of something more that might make today feel like it mattered.
The clock above the TV ticked past 3:30 PM. Emily, Marcus, even Sarah had all said they’d come. Maybe they were just running late, Leo thought, trying to ignore the doubt creeping in. He could still picture their smiles when he handed out the invitations—they wouldn’t forget. Not really. He kept his eyes fixed on the front door, listening for any sound that might signal their arrival: footsteps on the porch, the cheerful chatter of friends finally coming through.
The scent of pandebonos floated from the kitchen, sweet and comforting, but it couldn’t unknot the twisty feeling inside him. The ceiling fan hummed quietly, making the blue and green balloons sway in gentle agreement, as if they, too, were waiting, patient and unhurried, for something worth the wait.
“Think anyone else is coming?” Shane’s voice broke through Leo’s thoughts. He was sprawled out on the rug, his nose buried in a comic book, but Leo knew Shane wasn’t as absorbed as he looked. Shane always noticed things—like the way Leo’s eyes kept drifting to the door.
“Maybe they’re stuck in traffic or something.” He said. He tried to believe it, but his stomach felt heavy, like it knew better.
Shane looked up, squinting at Leo’s face. “Well, if they don’t show, more pandebonos for us,” he said, grinning.
Leo gave a small, crooked smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
Shane leaned forward, holding the comic up so Leo could see. His excitement was unmistakable, his eyes bright as he pointed to the illustration. “Hey, look! My dad drew this one. See how the cape looks like it’s really blowing in the wind? He’s got this style that makes everything feel alive.”
Leo glanced at the page, grateful for the distraction. The cape did seem alive, almost like you could feel the rush of air just looking at it. “That’s amazing,” he said, and he meant it.
Shane kept talking, explaining how his dad did the inking, but Leo’s gaze drifted back to the door. His stomach twisted as he counted again—three out of seven classmates had come, and two had already left. Maybe a weekday party was a bad idea. Maybe people had better things to do, or maybe they just didn’t want to be here. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, but the disappointment settled deep inside him, sharp and heavy, refusing to let go.
From the kitchen came the clang of pots and pans, followed by his mother’s voice calling, “It’ll be ready soon, mi amor!”
“Okay, Mamá,” Leo answered. He glanced toward the kitchen door, his heart giving a little squeeze at the sound of her voice. She was trying so hard to make today feel special, even though things hadn’t been easy since she lost her job at the diner.
Restless, Leo stood and walked over to the window, pushing back the curtain to peek outside. The street was quiet, bathed in late-afternoon sunlight. No cars pulling up. No friends rushing to the door. Only Frantic, the old neighborhood cat, lounged on their front steps. The cat blinked lazily up at him, as if to say that waiting was a fine way to spend the day, that sometimes the world moved slowly on purpose—like a gentle breeze, nudging everything into a kind of patient stillness.
“Maybe they forgot,” Leo mumbled.
“Huh?” Shane looked up. “You say something?”
Leo let the curtain drop back into place. “Nah,” he said quickly, turning back to the sofa and flopping onto it. He stared at the ceiling, trying to push away the thoughts that wouldn’t leave him alone.
Shane gave him a sympathetic look. “Hey, remember last year? It was just you, me, and that huge water balloon fight. We still had a blast.”
Leo smiled a little at the memory. “Yeah, we turned the yard into a swamp.”
“And your mom got so mad at us for tracking mud into the house,” Shane said, laughing.
Leo’s smile grew, the tight feeling in his chest easing a little.
A loud clatter sounded from the kitchen—the unmistakable clang of a metal bowl hitting the floor, followed by his mom’s tired sigh.
“Everything okay, Mamá?” Leo called.
“Sí, todo bien!” she answered, though her voice sounded anything but convincing.
Shane grinned. “Sounds like an adventure in there.”
Leo chuckled. “She’s probably wrestling with the mixer again.”
The kitchen door swung open, and there was his mother, Maria, her cheeks flushed, a dusting of flour across her forehead. She smiled at him, her eyes full of a determined light. “Leo, mi vida! I have a surprise for you.”
She held out a small cake, simple but lovely, with white frosting and bright sprinkles. “I know we said we’d keep it small this year, but I couldn’t let your birthday go by without a real cake.”
Leo’s throat tightened at the sight of it. “Mamá, you didn’t have to…”
She shook her head, her smile soft. “Ay, mijo. It’s not much, but it’s made with all my love.”
Leo blinked fast, his eyes stinging. “Thank you,” he whispered.
She reached out and squeezed his shoulder, her touch warm and steady. “Anything for you, mi amor.”
Leo gazed at the cake, its simple frosting catching the light like freshly fallen snow. It wasn’t grand or elaborate, but it was made with a kind of love that made his chest ache—a love that was warm and steady. He thought about wishes and what he might ask. Maybe he didn’t need a room full of guests or a mountain of presents. Maybe what he had right here—a mother who cared enough to bake him a cake from scratch and a friend who stayed by his side—was enough. More than enough.
A low rumble of thunder rolled in from the distance, and Leo looked out the window. Dark clouds were gathering along the horizon.
“Looks like a storm’s coming,” Shane said, following Leo’s gaze.
His mother frowned, glancing out too. Leo watched her face, noticing the crease that formed between her eyebrows. She had enough to carry already, and now it seemed even the sky wanted to add to her burdens. “I hope it waits until after dinner. Ay, por favor, que no llueva,” she whispered, her voice soft, almost like a prayer, as if she believed her words could somehow charm the clouds away.
For a moment, silence settled in the room but then, the oven timer chimed from the kitchen, and her eyes widened. “The pandebonos! I need to get them before they turn negros como la noche!” She hurried back to the kitchen, but before she could disappear, the phone rang, loud and sudden, cutting through the quiet like a jarring note.
Shane grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Whoa, it’s like we’re in a superhero movie or something—all these crazy sounds happening at once. What’s next, the sound of an explosion or maybe aliens landing?”
Another flash of lightning and a crack of thunder hit close by, and Shane went pale for a second. He looked almost like he believed he could control it, like somehow his words had summoned the storm.
Maria glanced at the ringing phone, her brow furrowing slightly. “Who could be calling the landline?” she murmured, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped over to pick it up.
“Maybe it’s Aunt Francesca?” Leo suggested.
She picked up the receiver. “¿Hola?” Her face shifted—surprise, and then a wide smile that lit up her whole expression. “¡Javier! ¡Dios mío, es tan bueno escucharte!” She said, ‘It is so good to hear from you,’ her voice filled with joy.
Leo’s heart jumped at the name. Uncle Javier. He hadn’t seen him in years, not since Uncle Javier taught him to carve that little bear that still sat on his bookshelf.
Shane nudged him, eyes wide. “Is that him? The uncle you told me about? The one who’s been everywhere?”
Leo nodded, leaning in, trying to catch bits of the conversation. His mom’s voice flowed between Spanish and English, her words wrapping around him like a gentle breeze on a summer afternoon, calming and familiar. He caught pieces—cumpleaños, regalo, música. Birthday. Gift. Music. His pulse quickened.
Then she laughed—a bright, joyful sound. She turned to Leo, her eyes brimming with something wonderful. “He wants to talk to you, mi amor.”