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putting bad things out of my mind. That’s why I’m an optimist.
    I lay down on Bruce’s bed and held him until he fell back asleep. The good thing about his nightmares is that he never has more than one a night. It’s as if he just needs to be reassured that the end of the world isn’t coming yet.
    I guess I fell asleep holding Bruce because soon my mother was gently shaking me and whispering, “Come on, Steph … let’s go back to bed.”
    She walked me down the hall to my room. “He had a nightmare,” I said, groggily.
    Mom tucked me into bed and kissed both my cheeks.

    The next morning, when I came into the kitchen, Bruce was sitting at the table, writing a letter.
    I poured myself a glass of orange juice. “Who are you writing to today?” I asked.
    â€œThe President,” Bruce said.
    â€œOh, the President.” I set out a bowl for my cereal.
    â€œYou should write, too,” Bruce said. “If everybody writes to the President he’ll have to listen. Here …” Bruce shoved a piece of notebook paper at me.
    â€œNot while I’m eating,” I said. I finished my cereal, rinsed the bowl, then brought the box of doughnuts to the table. Mom is a doughnut addict but since we moved she’s buying only the plain or the whole wheat kind. No artificial flavors or colors, no preservatives. Mom will eat only one a day now, at the most two, because she’s trying to lose weight. I miss glazed doughnuts. I miss chocolate and jelly filled too.
    â€œMom is going to kill you,” Bruce said.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œPolishing off three doughnuts.”
    Three? I counted the ones left in the box. He was right. Sometimes when I’m eating I forget to keep track.
    I washed my doughnuts down with another glass of juice and then I started my letter.
    Dear Mr. President,
    I really think you should do more to make sure we never have a nuclear war. War is stupid, as you know. My brother, who is ten, hasnightmares about it. Probably other kids do, too. I have mainly good dreams. My friend, Rachel, says I am an optimist. Even so, I don’t want to die and neither do any of my friends. Why can’t you arrange more meetings with other countries and try harder to get along. Make some treaties. Make them for one hundred years so we don’t have to worry for a long time. You could also get rid of all the nuclear weapons in the world and then maybe Bruce, my brother, could get a decent night’s sleep.
    Yours truly,
Stephanie B. Hirsch
    I like using my middle initial for formal occasions. The
B
stands for Behrens. That’s my mother’s maiden name.
    I shoved my letter across the table, at Bruce. He read it. “This is about dreams,” he said.
    â€œNo, it’s not,” I told him. “It’s about nuclear war.”
    â€œBut there’s a lot in it about dreams.”
    â€œSo … what’s wrong with that? If
you
didn’t have bad dreams about nuclear war we wouldn’t be writing to the President, would we?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Bruce said. “And you didn’t make paragraphs, either.”
    â€œI didn’t make paragraphs on purpose,” I said. That wasn’t true but I wasn’t going to admit itto Bruce. “I think it’s an outstanding letter,” I said. “I think the part about the hundred year treaties is really brilliant.”
    â€œIn a hundred years we’ll be dead,” Bruce said, sounding gloomy.
    â€œSo will everybody.”
    â€œNo … people who aren’t born yet won’t be.”
    â€œThat doesn’t count,” I said. “Everybody we know will be dead in a hundred years.”
    â€œI don’t like to think about being dead,” Bruce said.
    â€œWho does?” I passed him the doughnut box. “Here,” I said, “have one … it’ll make you feel better.”
    â€œI