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Great. Meanwhile, people like me had done exactly what the ribbon said. Horrible. They’d given me a ribbon that said Horrible Mention .
    I don’t remember leaving, but I do remember walking home. Micah knew I was upset but I kept shaking my head when he asked why. Finally, when the feelings became too overwhelming, I thrust the ribbon toward him.
    “See!” I cried. “I did horrible. That’s what the ribbon says.”
    “Your ribbon doesn’t say that.”
    “Look at it!”
    He stared at the word, trying to sound it out like I had, then slowly looked up at me as if he were about to cry, too. “That’s not very nice,” he mumbled.
    Oh . . . no . . . I was right . I realized I’d been holding on to a ray of hope that somehow I’d read it wrong. That I’d made a mistake. But I hadn’t, and I felt the dam holding back my emotions begin to burst.
    “I tried my hardest . . . I really tried . . .” I blubbered, and all at once I began to cry. My shoulders shuddered violently, and Micah put his arms around me, pulling me close.
    “I know. And your rocket wasn’t horrible.”
    “But they said it was.”
    “Who cares about them. I think your rocket was one of the best.”
    “No you don’t.”
    “Yes I do. You did a great job with it. I’m proud of your rocket. And I’m not going back to Cub Scouts ever again. Not if they’d do something like that.”
    I don’t know whether his words made me feel better or worse; all I knew was that I needed him.
    By then I wanted to forget all about it, but Micah wouldn’t let it go.
    “I can’t believe they said you were horrible,” he kept murmuring in disbelief, and every time he said it, my shoulders slumped even more.
    When we finally reached home, we found my mom cooking in the kitchen. She turned toward us.
    “Hey guys! How’d you do?”
    For a long moment, neither of us answered. Micah offered his ribbon, holding it low, almost as if embarrassed. “I got second place,” he said.
    My mom took his ribbon and held it up. “Wow! Congratulations! Second, huh?”
    “I almost won,” he said.
    “Well, second place is great. How’d you do, Nick?”
    I shrugged without answering, trying to hold back the tears.
    Her face softened. “You didn’t get a ribbon?”
    I nodded.
    “You did get a ribbon?”
    I nodded again. “It doesn’t matter though.”
    “Sure it matters. Can I see it?”
    I shook my head.
    “Why not, sweeetie?”
    “Because,” I finally said, beginning to break down. “It says I did horrible!” The tears started flowing, and I squeezed my eyes tight, trying to stop them.
    “It doesn’t say that,” my mom said.
    “Oh yeah, it does,” Micah said. “It says he did horrible.”
    I began crying even harder and my mom put her arms around me.
    “Can I see it?”
    Perhaps it was the security I felt in my mom’s arms, but I finally summomed the will to reach into my pocket and pull out the wrinkled ribbon. My mom glanced at it for a moment before using her finger to turn my chin toward her.
    “It doesn’t say horrible,” she said, “it says honorable. That’s a good thing, sweetie. It’s saying they’re proud of the job you did. You did an honorable job.”
    At first, I wasn’t sure I heard her right. And a moment later, when she sounded out the word for me, I even felt a little better. Still, part of me wished I’d never received a ribbon at all.
    In 1971, a series of earthquakes convulsed Los Angeles. The first one struck in the middle of the night, and I remember waking up and feeling the bed shake violently, as if someone were attempting to toss me out of it.
    Dana woke up about the same time and started screaming. I could hear the rumbling and crackling of the walls, saw toys toppling over. The ground was vibrating, looking almost like liquid, and though I didn’t know what was happening, I knew it wasn’t a good thing, and I suspected we were in danger. Micah understood this as well, and jumped out of bed to grab my sister and