Maggie's Chopsticks, written by Alan Wu, illustrated by Isabel Mellonfon, published by Kids Can Press. My name is Maggie. These are my new Chopsticks. Grandmother tells me, I hold my Chopsticks the wrong way. Do it like me, she grunts. Click, click, clicketing her two wooden sticks, with ends burnt black and old like her. She scrabbles for food from the center of the table, shoveling rice from bowl to mouth. I am Maggie, mother-schooled, watching with her eagle eye at how I hold my Chopsticks. I'm not as swift as her. Quickly, sharply, she snatches up shrimp, making them flip, flop, back, and forth, and pops them into her mouth like candy. That's not how you're supposed to hold Chopsticks, brother laughs loudly. His breath smelling of chasu bao and jasmine tea, his grip strong and sure. Boulder than the rest of us, he plucks the last hog out from the table, leaving me hungry for more. My Chopsticks are awkward and gangly, like the boys at sister's high school who always blush when she flits by, dashing off to ballet class. Be graceful like this, she instructs, crossing her Chopsticks back and forth, back and forth, like legs dancing. What should I do, I ask my cat, purring perfectly in my lap? Mew-mew yawns, licks his paws, and goes back to sleep. The kitchen-god whose picture hangs on the wall just stares back at me in silence. Ancient ancestors, with your alters burning incense sticks, oranges, Chinese pairs, and cups of wine, what can you tell me about my Chopsticks, I ask? But even they have nothing to say. So I keep trying. I hold my Chopsticks behind my back, like a magician getting ready to wow an audience. But as hard as I try, I just can't do this magic trick. I practice under the table so no one can see. Two twirling batons spinning in secret, and ow! Pinching my fingers. I circle the Chopsticks above the fish tank, skimming the water. The fish flee from the wooden fingers, reaching through their sky of blue. I try the Chopsticks in my left hand. I hold them closer to the top. Then I hold them near the bottom. But people still tell me it just isn't right. And no, not like that. But Father says, Maggie, you shouldn't worry what other people think. Everyone is different. Everyone is unique. I handle my Chopsticks lightly, like a butterfly emerging from a long winter's sleep. I am unsure, but ready to fly. You hold your Chopsticks perfectly, Father Whispers. I smile, fingers fluttering, like wings.