JoJo: Who Could Tell?

Who Could Tell?


In the little world of Whoville there are many different Whos with unique personalities and stories. The Mayor was the head of the town, thus explaining his title. For that Mayor had ninety-six daughters and one son named JoJo. He among the other ninety-six girls was the oldest. Despite him being the eldest of the girls, he was the smallest Who in Whoville and perhaps the quietest. He would never be caught with his vocals vibrating with words, for he kept bottled up in his life, not sparing a sound. He may be the most silent Who of them all. He felt enclosed with his father and felt that if he said a thing, he could make their whole world fall. For that little Who thought he could let his old man down for a everything he said. So he kept to himself, no who knowing what he could possibly be feeling. Was he really silenced because of his dad? Or was it the feeling everyone around him was too crazy to understand him? The questions could roll on, but then we wouldn't get to the story, now would we?

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JoJo had the same routine everyday. His massive family would sit together at breakfast, lunch and dinner, the rows of chairs sliding down another step after each twelve seconds. His father and mother could only spend twelve seconds with them a day before they had to go to school or just because their parents didn't have the time . . . even on the weekends. After that it was whoever got to them first. But JoJo never enjoyed sitting in front of his father face to face. There was no point. It was only twelve seconds that they could remain in their presence. No point at all.

Although JoJo thought it was absurd to do this every morning he could put no stop to it. The chairs kept sliding down the twists and turns of the table full of green eggs and ham. His sisters all seemed to enjoy visiting their parents.

JoJo kept the chair turned away from the table unwilling to glance at his mother and father. But as soon as his chair stopped in front of their table, an outstretched hand kinked the oversized chair around to their being there. His father had done so everyday until he would get at least one word out of his only son. But everyday he failed and it seemed that he always would.

The small Who's face was crinkled over into a effortless mope that he had used everyday. It always seemed that his brilliant smile was turned upside down. No one had seen his beautiful grin in almost a year.

JoJo was tempted to kick his foot against the table to turn himself around from his father's immense, luminosity toothed smile. But because the Who was so small his foot couldn't possibly reach the table in front of him.

"So, JoJo . . . uh . . . what's shaking? What's happening?" His father's voice lowered playfully. "What's the word?" His father's smile had crumpled up into a small circle as if he were drinking through a straw. The Mayor's extending hand outstretched into an upside down peace sign at a small angle.

That's new. The little who pivoted his chair to the right just as the little bell of the portable clock rang into a weak jingle after humming over ninety-six times.

"Aw, JoJo!" The Mayor wailed and his arms seemed to reach out to grab him. His reaching was useless just as the last chair had sprung forward into him. He regained himself and set after his son.

Sally sat fluently as she knew her husband wouldn't be able to catch him. JoJo always seemed to disappear after breakfast. It also seemed to happen in the dead of night too. JoJo would be absent from his miniature bed. He had either entered into the gardens of the backyard, the swerving rooftops of the house, or even someplace his parents had not found him before. And that place was just where he was.

The little who escaped through the nearest window, grabbed a nearby scarf,  shimmied down the bark of a tree's base and onto the chilly, hard ground below. As all of his sisters had been dismissed from the dinner table and into their beds, he was lurking through the now darkened roads of the omitted day. The air around Whoville seemed to change and camouflage itself at night. It had a different rhythm of breeze that flowed through the wisps of his inky, charcoaled hair. The chilly airflow drifted over his hands and uncovered neck causing him to quiver.

He covered up his exposed neck from the night with the black and gray scarf. The itchy wool tickled him, yet he showed no weaknesses of laughing. Even when he was alone he wouldn't chuckle or smile to himself. Maybe a smirk when he was mocking his father, but he would never stretch it past that.

The dirt trail he wandered off on led to an abandoned star gazing tower. His thinly covered furred feet kicked along some stones and pebbles from his view as he moseyed up to what seemed like a cherry-picker machine. Though you couldn't even say it was that, you could just say it was an old, yet sturdy bucket.

Stepping up the narrow platform, he sprang into the metallic carrier and grabbed a livid umbrella that matched his fur. It expanded outward as the fragile, metal frame of it bent into a straightened form outwards.

The wind caught up with the umbrella and willingly led him forward towards the tower. He ascended upward as he let the minute pebble from his other hand plop onto the colossal suspending boulder coming towards him. His feet found the cool grass of the halfway mark as he lunged out of the pallid transporter. Making his way to a unusual contraption, he sat himself on a unicycle. Grabbing onto two straps to his side, his feet pedaled backwards until he could no more. With a swift pull of a lever he was pulled downwards and was catapulted up to the awaiting stairs overhead. He came to a complete stop in midair and his feet were placed on the chilly stone steps in front of him.

The deserted building loomed over him as he pushed open the door of the entrance. Inside were the things he had been working on for a little over two months. Musical instruments emerged from the walls and every corner and level of the laboratory. He had picked up useless things from the house that no one used and brought them here to tinker with.

So far he made horns and strummed together strings to make harps. Upon the floor of the observatory were colossal drums that were waiting to be beat into a steady rhythm. But because it was night he didn't want anyone to know he was up there. At night he worked and through the day he played. For in the day, all of the townspeople of Whoville came out of their houses and made bundles of noise. For the minimum hours he had at night he worked endlessly until it was time to go back to the house.

Sneaking out through the door and climbing down the step to the bucket, he leaped in and came back to the safe ground of the dark eerie roads. The lights of the oddly shaped houses were off signaling that everyone was inside sleeping, awaiting for the next cheery day. He ambled around the house and back up the tree to the living room. The unlit hallways bounded on and the portraits of the former Mayors sneered at him as he moped on down to his room. He would never be like them or his father. He never would or could and he knew it.

He reached his bedroom which was the only room that contained one person unlike his sisters. They all shared a room together, everyone crammed in and beds stacked up to the ceiling. At least he didn't have to share a bedroom.

JoJo leaned against the door frame and thought about everything as he always did.

Would it be better if I was like dad? But how could he be anything like him? It didn't seem possible. His dad was a nice guy, he could give him that, but his father was a bit</b> crazy.

His small body slid down the doorframe. Knees bumping against his chest, he wrapped his lanky arms around them.

Why do I have to be the next Mayor? Why can't I be what I want to be?