Nia's First Fourth

Starring Frankie Fifty Stars

Nia Flores wakes up for her very first Fourth of July in Grandpa Tomás's small town, carrying a shiny pinwheel and a parade program she plans to save all day. At the morning parade, she is sure she can make Frankie Fifty Stars wave, but the air is so still that her rushing and blowing only bend her pinwheel and leave her sticky with pie. As the day stretches from picnic to dusk, Nia slowly notices the small sounds, smells, and fluttering things around her, and she chooses to share her program-fans with the crowd instead of chasing the wind alone. When evening fanning stirs a true breeze and Frankie finally lifts a gentle hello beneath the first fireworks, Nia discovers that wonder can begin softly before the sky goes bang.

Nia woke to the buttery smell of pancakes and the squeak of Grandpa Tomás's porch swing. She hurried outside in her blue overalls, clutching a shiny pinwheel in one hand and a folded parade program in the other. "My first Fourth," she whispered, turning the pinwheel toward the sky. "I want to see every bit."

The parade began with tubas puffing and sneakers tapping the street. On the tall pole by the bandstand, Frankie Fifty Stars drooped without a breeze. Nia planted her fists on her hips. "Easy peasy. I know wind things," she said, and dashed along the curb with her pinwheel held high.

Her sneaker skidded on a squashed blueberry, and Nia bumped straight into Grandpa's hand. The parade program flopped open into a smear of pie, and one blade of her pinwheel crumpled with a sad little crunch. Nia stared at the sticky corner and the bent paper. "That was not the wind plan," she muttered.

By lunchtime, the town green smelled like corn on the cob and smoky barbecue. Grandpa Tomás pressed the pinwheel blade flat with his thumb, and Nia puffed at it until her cheeks ached. The pinwheel gave one lazy turn. Far off by the green, Frankie barely twitched. "Hmph," said Nia. "Even my best blowing is too small."

The hot afternoon settled over everything like a blanket from the oven. Nia lay back on the picnic quilt and listened instead of chasing. Lemon ice clinked in cups. A baby's sun hat gave a tiny flap. Grandpa fanned his neck with the sticky program, and Nia's eyes followed the cool paper swish.

When they climbed the hill for fireworks, the crowd was warm and shiny-faced. Nia unfolded her program all the way and began fanning the people nearest her, swish, swish, swish. Grandpa copied her. Then two more people joined in, and another, until the hill rustled like a hundred paper wings.

A breeze slipped over the hill at last. Nia's pinwheel spun so fast it hummed in her hand. Down by the green, Frankie Fifty Stars lifted and gave a gentle wave just as the first firework whooshed upward. Nia laughed so hard she had to grab Grandpa's sleeve.

Red stars, silver fizz, blue rings. The fireworks opened above Nia like giant flowers made of light, and the breeze kept touching her cheeks between each boom. She rested the bent-then-mended pinwheel on her knees and watched it flash with sky colors. Beside her, Grandpa's softened program whispered, swish, swish, in the dark.