“Pay It Forward”
By Catherine Ryan Hyde
For Middle School Students

Maybe someday I'll have kids of my own. I hope so. If I do, they'll probably ask what part I played in the movement that changed the world. And because I'm not the person I once was, I'll tell them the truth. My part was nothing. I did nothing. I was just the guy in the corner taking notes.

My name is Chris Chandler and I'm an investigative reporter. Or at least I was. Until I found out that actions have consequences, and not everything is under my control. Until I found out that I couldn't change the world at all, but a seemingly ordinary twelve-year-old boy could change the world completely-for the better, and forever-working with nothing but his own altruism, one good idea, and a couple of years. And a big sacrifice. And a splash of publicity. That's where I came in.

I can tell you how it all started. It started with a teacher who moved to Atascadero, California to teach social studies to junior high school students. A teacher nobody knew very well, because they couldn't get past his face. Because it was hard to look at his face.

It started with a boy who didn't seem all that remarkable on the outside, but who could see past his teacher's face. It started with an assignment that the teacher had given out a hundred times before, with no startling results. But that assignment in the hands of that boy caused a seed to be planted, and after that nothing in the world would ever be the same. Nor would anybody want it to be. And I can tell you what it became. In fact, I'll tell you a story that will help you understand how big it grew.

About a week ago my car stalled in the middle of a busy intersection, and it wouldn't start again no matter how many times I tried. I'd been expecting this. It was an old car. It was as good as gone.

A man came up behind me, a stranger.

"Let's get it off to the side of the road," he said. "Here. I'll help you push." When we got it-and ourselves-to safety he handed me the keys to his car. A nice silver Acura, barely two years old. "You can have mine," he said. "We'll trade."

He didn't give me the car as a loan. He gave it to me as a gift. He took my address, so he could send me the title. And he did send the title; it just arrived today.

"A great deal of generosity has come into my life lately," the note said, "so I felt I should take your old car and use it as a trade-in. I can well afford something new, so why not give as good as I've received?"

That's what the world has become. No, actually it's more. It's become even more. It's not just the kind of world in which a total stranger will give me his car as a gift. It's become the kind of world in which the day I received that gift was not dramatically different from all other days. Such generosity has become the way of things. It's become commonplace.

So, this much I understand well enough to relate: It started as an extra credit assignment for a social studies class and turned into a world where no one goes hungry, no one is cold, no one is without a job or a ride or a loan.

Reuben St. Clair was the teacher who started it all. He was closer to Trevor than anybody except maybe Trevor's mother, Arlene. So, after the fact, when it was my job to write books about the movement, I asked Reuben two important questions.

"What was it about Trevor that made him different?" I asked.

Reuben thought carefully and then said, "The thing about Trevor was that he was just like everybody else, except for the part of him that wasn't."

Then I asked, "When you first handed out that now-famous assignment, did you think that one of your students would actually change the world?"

And Reuben replied, "No, I thought they all would. But perhaps in smaller ways."

So now that you know how big it got in the long run, let's go back to an earlier part of the story. Trevor's mother decides she wants to know more about the project Trevor brought home from social studies class. She goes in to school to talk to his teacher, Mr. St. Clair. She doesn't know yet that he is an African-American Vietnam vet with a face badly scarred from the war.

First of all-though it wasn't the most important part-he was black. She did not feel so very different about black people-it wasn't that. It was more that she tried so hard to bend over backwards to show she wasn't like that. So he looked up, and she still had nothing to say. And not mostly over any racial issues, either, but more because she had never seen a man with only half a face. She moved through the room, toward his desk, feeling small, feeling like twenty-five years ago, when these desks were too big to fit her. And he was still waiting for something to be said.

Arlene asked, "What's Paying Forward?"
"Excuse me?"
"That expression. Paying Forward. What does it mean?"

"I give up. What does it mean?" He seemed mildly curious toward her, slightly amused, and as a result, miles above her, making her feel small and ignorant. He was a big man, and not only in physical stature, although that too.

"That's what you are supposed to tell me."

"I would love to, madam, if I knew. If you don't mind my asking, who are you?"

"Oh, did I forget to say that? Excuse me. Arlene McKinney." She reached her hand out and he shook it. Trying not to look at his face, she noticed that his left arm was deformed somehow, the wrong size, which gave her the shivers for just a second. "My boy is in your Social Studies class. Trevor."

Something came onto his face then, a positive recognition, which, being connected in some way to her boy, made her like this man better. "Trevor, yes. I like Trevor. I particularly like him. Very honest and direct."

Arlene tried for a little sarcastic laugh, but it came out a snort, a pig sound, and she could feel her face turn red because of it. "Yeah, he's all of that alright. Only you say it like it's a good thing."

"It is, I think. Now what's this about Paying Forward? I'm supposed to know something about that?"

"It has something to do with an assignment you gave out. That's what Trevor said. He said it was a project for your Social Studies class."

"Ah, yes. The Assignment." He moved to the blackboard, and she swung out of his way, as though there were a big wind around him that kept her from getting too close. "I'll write it out for you, exactly as I did for the class. It's very simple." And he did.

THINK OF AN IDEA FOR WORLD CHANGE, AND PUT IT INTO ACTION

He set his chalk down, and turned back. "That's all it is. This Paying Forward must be Trevor's own idea."

"That's all it is? That's all? You just want them to change the world. That's all. Well, I'm glad you didn't give them anything hard."

"Mrs. McKinney-"
"Miss McKinney, I am on my own. Now you listen here. Trevor is twelve years old. And you want him to change the world. I never heard such bull."

"First of all, it's a voluntary assignment. For extra credit. If a student finds the idea overwhelming, he or she need not participate. Second of all, what I want is for the students to re-examine their role in the world, and think of ways one person can make a difference. It's a very healthy exercise."

"So is climbing Mount Everest, but that might be too much for the poor little guy, too."

So later, because Mr. St. Clair knew that Trevor's mother was a little bit mad, it seemed odd to him when Trevor delivered a message that was supposed to be from Arlene.

"I want to talk to you ," Trevor said, turning and stopping in front of Reuben's desk. He jammed his hands deep into his pockets and waited until the last of the other students had gone. Little sweeps of his eyes and a slight rocking on his heels revealed something, but Reuben wasn't sure he could properly decipher it. A little nervousness, maybe.

Finally, convinced that they were alone, Trevor said, "My mom wants to know if you'll come to dinner tomorrow night."

"She said that?"
"Yeah. She said that."

And that little place in Reuben, the one he could never properly train, jumped up to meet her kindness, despite his warnings. Maybe she didn't dislike him as much as he thought. But even Reuben's heart could sense when something didn't fit.

"Why does she want me to come to dinner?"

"I dunno. Why not? Maybe she wants to talk about my project."

"Couldn't we have a little private parent-teacher conference here at school?"

"Oh. Here at school. Well. I asked her. But she said, you know. She works so hard and all. Two jobs. She just said it would be nice if you could come over."

"I guess that would be okay. What time?"

"Uh. I'll have to ask her. I'll let you know tomorrow."

Reuben had been right. She was still a little mad, and there was something suspicious about that invitation. Reuben found this out when she came to see him again the next day.

A beam of morning sun slanting through the window caught Arlene and made her brighter than anything else in the room, glowing on a strip of bare midriff below her lacy tank top. Untanned, vulnerable skin, like a china doll. And she was pretty, but not the kind that made him hurt.

"Why did you tell my boy we had to meet at my house?"

"I didn't. I didn't say we had to meet at all."

"You didn't? Trevor told me to make chicken fajitas because you were coming for dinner. Because you wanted to talk to me about his project."

"Really?" Interesting. "He told me that you invited me over for dinner, and he thought it was because you wanted to talk to me about his project."

"But why not here at school?"

"He said you work two jobs, and it would be easier if I came to the house."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"I'm only telling you what he said."

"Oh. Okay. Why's he trying to get you over, then?"

It would be a risk to say it, but Reuben guessed that he probably would anyway. "Yesterday morning he asked me if I was married. And then he asked me if I'd like to be."

"So?"

"I'm just speculating."

"He was probably just curious. I'm telling you that kid don't never know when to keep shut."

"I just thought..."

"What?"

"I just thought he might be trying to fix us up."

"Us? You must be joking."

"I realize we're the world's most unlikely couple, but, after all, he is just a boy."

"Trevor would never do such a thing. He knows his daddy is gonna come home."

"Just speculating."

"I know you don't like me."

He was surprised to hear her say it, especially as he admired her. "What makes you think that?"

She made that noise again, that rude little snort. "You just said we're the most unlikely couple in the world. What does that mean, if you're not looking down on me?"

Reuben thought, It means I assumed you were looking down on me. It means I knew you were thinking it, so I had to say it. But Reuben couldn't bring himself to give those answers, so she went on.

"You think I'm too stupid to see the way you look down on me? Well, I may not have your education, and I may not talk good like you, but that don't mean I'm stupid."

"I never said you were stupid."

"You didn't have to."

"I never thought it either. I think you're being overly sensitive."

"What do you know about what I'm feeling?"

"When it comes to oversensitivity, I'm something of an expert. Anyway, none of this was my idea, and if you don't want me in your house I won't come."

"Uh, no, truth is." Reuben knew from the pause, from the strain in her face, that if she ever finished this sentence she'd tell him something difficult. Something that was hard for her to say to anyone, but particularly to him. "Truth is, I'm not doing so good talking to him about this. I could use the help. Six o'clock?"

So Reuben went to Trevor and Arlene's house.

Reuben remembers: "She answered the door looking distressingly nice. She was wearing this blousy, cottony dress in a flower print, as if she took dinner guests rather seriously. I stepped into her living room, holding flowers that I couldn't bring myself to give her. Frozen. Every part of me frozen. For the longest time neither of us could seem to talk about anything. "And then Trevor showed up, thank God."

***

As soon as Arlene cleared the dinner dishes from the table, Trevor ran to his room and got his calculator. He'd put off explaining his project, all through dinner, because, he said, it was too hard to explain without a calculator.

"This all started with something Daddy taught me."

Arlene's ears perked up at that, and she pulled her chair around, as if to watch the calculator over his shoulder.

"Remember that riddle he used to do? Remember that, Mom?"

"Well, I don't know, honey. He knew a lot of riddles."

"Remember that one about working for thirty days?"

"No, Trevor, I don't think I do."

"Remember, he said if you were going to work for somebody for thirty days, and you had a choice: you could take a hundred dollars a day, or you could take a dollar the first day, and then it would be doubled every day. I said I'd take a hundred dollars a day. But he said I'd lose out. So I worked it out on my calculator. A hundred dollars a day for thirty days is three thousand dollars. But if you double that dollar every day, you'd make over five hundred million on your last day. Not to mention everything between. That's how I thought of my idea for Mr. St. Clair's class. You see, I do something real good for three people. And then when they ask how they can pay it back, I say they have to Pay It Forward. To three more people. Each. So nine people get helped. Then those people have to do twenty-seven." He turned on the calculator, punched in a few numbers. "Then it sort of spreads out, see. To eighty-one. Then two hundred forty-three. Then seven hundred twenty-nine. Then two thousand, one hundred eighty-seven. See how big it gets?"

"But, honey. There's just one little problem with that."

"What, Mom?"

"I'm sure Mr. St. Clair will explain it to you."

Reuben jumped at the mention of his name. "I will?"

"Yes. Tell him what's wrong with the plan."

She fixed him with a look that burned in silence.

Reuben thought, I'm sorry, Miss McKinney, if you want your son to believe that people are basically selfish and unresponsive, you'll have to tell him so yourself. Reuben smiled tightly and shook his head, saying nothing.

"Well, Trevor," she said. "I think it's a good project. Tell us some more about it."

So Trevor explained, with the help of his calculator, how big this thing could become. Somewhere around the sixteenth level, at which he'd involved forty-three million, forty-six thousand, seven hundred twenty-one people, the calculator proved smaller than Trevor's optimism. But he was convinced that in just a few more levels the numbers would be larger than the population of the world. "Then you know what happens? Then everybody gets helped more than once. And then it gets bigger even faster."

"What do you think, Mr. St. Clair?" Arlene clearly wanted something from him, but he wasn't sure from minute to minute what that something might be.

"I think it's a noble idea, Trevor. A big effort. Big efforts lead to good grades."

Now Trevor's big effort already had three big ideas. Three people he was going to help to get started. Reuben was one-he'd been right about that. Trevor really was trying to fix him up with Arlene. Another was Jerry, a homeless man who had some problems with drugs.

He spent the night in a dumpster, behind the auto parts store, not two blocks from the place he planned to be at nine a.m. Even in his sleep, there was hopefulness. Something he'd been missing for awhile.

When he'd first read it, it had made him feel so good. So he read it again.

It was in his shirt pocket, folded. The newsprint smeared by the sweat of his hands. Rumpled. But he could read it just the same.

FREE MONEY AND OTHER HELP FOR SOMEONE DOWN ON LUCK. COME TO CORNER TRAFFIC WAY AND EL CAMINO REAL. SATURDAY MORNING 9:00.

He couldn't get the feeling back, though. And maybe because he didn't feel it anymore, maybe that's why he'd come to this, why he'd sunk so low.

But he set off just the same. But before he even got to the corner he saw he was late. Later than he thought. There were seventeen people already there.

They were almost all men, he noticed, waiting; the one exception was a woman with no front teeth. Some looked better than he did, some worse. He had that thought, then doubted it. Doubted his own perception of how he looked. It had been awhile since he'd looked in a mirror.

And then it hit him.

I'm looking in a mirror right now.

A boy twelve, thirteen years old rode up on a bike, an old beach cruiser. The kid looked at the crowd. The crowd looked at him. Then he said, "Holy cow. Are you all here for the ad?"

A few people nodded.

"Holy cow." He said it again. Shook his head. "I only wanted one guy."

Then this big bald guy walked up. Said, "You did that ad?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Well, that's it, then." And almost everybody left. Jerry could hear them grumbling, "Shoulda knowed it was all a gag, real funny, kid."

The kid just stood there awhile. Kind of relieved, Jerry thought, because now there were only a few left. Jerry walked up to the kid. Nice. Humble, not like to scare him. "So, is it a joke?"

"No, it's for real. I got a paper route, and I make thirty-five dollars a week, and I want to give it to somebody. Who'll, like, get a job and not need it after a while. Just to get 'em started, you know? Like food and something better to wear, and some bus fare. Or whatever."

And somebody behind Jerry, some voice over his shoulder said, "Yeah, but which somebody?"

Yeah. That was the problem.

The kid thought this over for a bit. Then he said he had some paper in his bookbag, and he asked everybody to write out why they thought it should be them.

And when he said that, six people left.

Kid said, "I wonder what happened to them?"

And the lady with no front teeth, she said, "What makes you think everybody can write?"

It was clear from the look on the kid's face that he never would have thought of that.

Here's what Jerry wrote:

Why I think I deserve the money, by Jerry Busconi:

Well, for starters, I will not say I deserve it better than anybody. Because, who is to say? I am not a perfect person, and maybe somebody else will say they are. And you are a smart kid. I bet you are. And you will know they are handing you a line. I am being honest. I know you said you wanted somebody down on his luck. But you know what? It is all bull. Luck has nothing to do with this. Look at all these people who showed up today. We are a bunch of bums. They will say it is bad luck. But I won't sell you a line, kid. We did this to ourselves.

I lost some stuff because of my problems. A car, even though it was not a very good one. And my apartment. And then I went to jail, and they did not hold my job for when I got out.

But I got lots of things I can do. I got skills. I have worked in wrecking yards, and in body shops, and I have even worked as a mechanic. I am a good mechanic. It's not that I'm not. But, used to, you could go in kind of scruffy and dirty. For a mechanics job no one would mind.

But now times is hard, and guys show up for the same job. Dressed good, and some even got a state license. So they say, fill out this form. Which I can do. Cause as you see, I can read and write pretty good. But then they say, put down your number. We'll call you if you get the job. But the dumpster where I been staying ain't got a phone. So I say, I'm just getting settled in. And they say, put your address, then. We'll send you a postcard.

And they know, then. That you are on the street. And I guess they figure you got problems, stuff they don't know nothing about.

And, well, I guess I do. Like I said.

But if I had a chance at a job now, I would not screw it up like I have done before. It would be different this time.

These other people, look at them. They have got used to their situation. They expect to sleep on the street. And I guess that is okay with them.

But it is not okay with me. I don't think I quite sunk that low. Anyway, not yet.

So if you go with me, you won't be sorry. I guess that's all I got to say.

Also, thank you. I never knowed no kid who gave money away. I had a job at your age, and I spent the money on me. You must be a good kid.

I guess that's all now. Thanks for your time.

When Jerry looked up, everybody else, except the kid, had gone

So Trevor chooses Jerry to help. Trouble is, Arlene's not very happy having him around the house.

He'd gone into the garage. Rolled out an old oriental rug in a corner. Against a wall. Barely got his eyes closed. She came in, flipped on the lights. Made him blink.

"It's only me, ma'am. Jerry. Just takin' a quick break. Just a nap. Then I'll get some more work done on your truck."

"I know you been living here, in my garage."

"No, ma'am. Just a quick nap."

"Then where are you staying?"

"Down at the shop where I work. They let me sleep on the couch in the waiting room."

"Get up, I'll drive you down there."

Getting into her car, her in the driver's seat, the dome light on as he got in beside her, he saw her face clear. Looking at her, he thought, you and me, we're not so very different and maybe you know it. But he knew better than to say it out loud.

They drove in silence down The Camino, a ghost town at this hour.

Jerry said, "I know you don't like me."

"It's not that."

"What, then?"

"Look, Jerry, I'm trying to raise that boy on my own. No help from nobody. I can't watch him all the time."

"I don't mean no harm to your son."

"You don't mean none."

She pulled up in front of the Quicky Lube & Tune.

It was cold out there. He didn't want to get out.

"Thanks for the ride, ma'am."

"I don't have anything against you personally. I don't."

"Right. Whatever."

He stepped out of the warm car. Into the wind. A minute later she was behind him.

"Look, Jerry. In a different world, who knows. We could have been friends even. It's just that-"

"Pleased to hear you say that, ma'am. The way you been acting, I'da thought only one of us is people."

"I never meant that."

"Never meant it."

She turned to go back to the car. He turned to watch her go. So they both saw it. Like a long streak, starting at the top of the sky. Drifting down, but fast. Lighting up the night like lightning. A ball of fire with a tail.

"Holy cow," she said. "Did you see that? What was that, a comet?"

"Meteor maybe, I don't know. When I was a kid, we used to call that a falling star. I used to think if you saw one, you'd get your wish. You know, like all your dreams'd come true?"

She turned back to look at him. All softness in her face. Maybe it had never occurred to her that bums used to be kids. Or wanted their dreams to come true, like everybody.

"Well, good luck."

"Ma'am?"

"What?"

"I get my first paycheck today. And I'll go get a cheap room. Be out of your hair. Your boy won't be sorry he made the effort. I don't think you will either. I'll do just what I'm supposed to do. Pass it along, you know."

"Will you explain to me about that? How that Paying Forward thing goes?"

He kind of blinked. "Didn't he tell you?"

"Yeah, but I'd kinda like to hear what it means for you."

Jerry remembers, "So, I explained Paying Forward to her. I got me a stick. Sketched it out in the dirt. In the dark. I drew them three circles. And explained them. Like the kid explained them to me. 'See, this one. That's me.' I said that. 'These other two, I don't know. Two other somebodies, I guess. That he's gonna help. See, the trick is, it's something big. A big help. Like you wouldn't do for just anybody. Maybe your mother or your sister. But not nobody else. He does that for me. I got to do it for three others. Other two, they got to do for three others. Those nine others, they got to do it for three others. Each. That makes twenty-seven.'

"Now, I ain't so good with math. But that kid, he worked it out. It gets real big, real fast. Like you can't believe how fast. Up in the thousands in no time.

"So, I'm on my knees there. Drawing all these circles in the dirt. Counting by threes. Running out of dirt. You can't believe how fast. And you know, it happened again. And we both saw it. A big comet, or whatever. Did I mention about that first comet we saw? I guess I did. So we see another comet. Falling star. Falling, shooting, I don't know. But I ain't never seen two, all in one night. It was kind of spooky.

"We're looking at these circles, thinking this whole thing could be great. Except it won't be. Because, well we all know it won't. Because people, they are no good. They won't really Pay It Forward. They will take your help but that's all.

"I know we were both thinking that. And then the sky lit up again. That big comet. The second one, I mean. I ain't sayin' there was a third. Maybe I made it sound that way. But two, anyway. That's a lot. Spooky.

"You know, it's a big world out there. Bigger than we think. After awhile it was all the same stuff we was saying. Over and over. But I liked it anyway. After awhile she went home. But after that, the night was, like...different. Like...not so...you know...cold. Or something

And then the third person was an old woman Trevor knew from his paper route. She had arthritis and couldn't do her own gardening anymore, so Trevor did it for her-for free.

Lately Mrs. Greenberg had begun to dream of waking up, stretching and flexing through the pain in her arthritic joints, easing to the window to discover that, as if by magic, the garden was once again whole. And now, in the dusk of a cool spring evening, the garden was whole. Trimmed, the grass mowed, beds laid with fresh cedar chips, freshly raked, bags of leaves and trimmings bundled at the curb, soon to be trash-day history.

Not an unexplained miracle, exactly, because she'd watched the neighbor boy do it all, day after day. Barely a head taller than he, she'd stood at his side and shown him the junctions at which rose bushes begged to be trimmed, and the aphids to be sprayed, and the weeds that had to come out, and the ground cover meant to be cut back, watered, encouraged to flourish.

But miracles can and do have middlemen, she decided, and then she noticed that her iced tea tasted sweeter than usual that night, though made to the same proportions, and that the cold glass did not ache her arthritis the way it usually did.

And as if to dampen this perfect balance just the moment she'd discovered it, her son, Richard, came up the walk for his bimonthly visit.

Even on a cool spring night he wore those sleeveless muscle tees-unflattering to his hairy shoulders-and sunglasses despite the fading light.

At forty-two, Richard was not a willing man, nor was he serious, unless anxious counts, and not particularly cheerful or helpful. And she had no more money to lend him, and would not if she could.

He stood on her porch step, a cigarette tucked high in the crook of his first two fingers.

"Hi, Mom."

"So? What do you think?"

"About what?"

"The garden."

He spun on the heels of his two-tone leather boots, and flipped his dark glasses up to the top of his thin hairline. "You paid somebody. I told you I'd do it."

"I didn't pay."

"You did it yourself? Come on. You can't even make a fist."

"The neighbor boy did it for free."

"Very funny."

"He did."

"It must've taken hours."

"He's been working for days. You haven't been around."

"I told you I'd do it."

"Yes. You told me. But you didn't do it."

He walked inside and flipped on the t.v. to a M.A.S.H. rerun, and though she called after him to extinguish his cigarette, he failed to hear her, or pretended not to.

***

At first Trevor had just come by to talk, and that was good enough, and Mrs. Greenberg had never expected more. She always offered him a glass of cherry Kool-Aid, which she bought specially for him, and he'd sit at her kitchen table and talk to her. About school mostly, and football, and then a special project he had thought up for his Social Studies class, and how he needed more people he could help, and she said she had some gardening to be done, though she couldn't afford to pay much.

He said she wasn't to pay anything at all to him, and what she paid to others needn't be money, unless that was what she had plenty of. And then he drew some circles for her on a piece of paper, with her name in one, and told her about Paying Forward.

It was a foggy Saturday morning when he came by, six o'clock sharp as promised, and they stood in the mist in the front yard.

"How is the project going so far?" she said, because she could see it was important to him, a subject he liked to talk a lot about.

His brow furrowed, and he said, "Not so good, Mrs. Greenberg. Not so good." He said, "Do you think that maybe people won't really Pay It Forward? That maybe they'll just say they will, or even sort of mean to, but maybe something'll go wrong, or maybe they'll just never get around to it?"

"I can only in truth speak for myself, Trevor, and say that I really will get around to it, and take it every bit as seriously as I know you do."

He worked all weekend, after-school and after-paper-route days on the garden, and said next week he would come around and paint her fence and window boxes and porch railing with two fresh coats of white. She could still remember his smile.

***

It was late dusk on The Camino. Mrs. Greenberg pulled her little grocery cart over the sidewalk cracks. She always took the same route to the same store, being comforted by sameness.

Terri was working as a checker that evening, and Matt as a bagger, two of her favorite people in the world. No more than twenty, either one of them, but quick with a smile for an older woman, no condescension, always thinking to ask about her day, her arthritis, and still listening when she gave the answer.

Terri and Matt, that's two, who probably could be counted on to pass it along, and maybe that nice lady at the North County Animal Shelter for Cats would make a fitting third. Richard would have a cow, but maybe tough love was just what he needed.

Matt said, "Nice to see you so happy tonight, Mrs. Greenberg." And he loaded her little cart carefully, so it would balance just right.

It would be nice to see Matt and Terri happy, though by design she would not be around to see it. Young people needed a little nest egg, for college maybe, though it would not be enough for tuition, maybe books and clothes, or whatever they might choose to spend it for, because she felt they could both be trusted.

And that nice lady at the cat shelter, she would put it right back into spaying and neutering and other vet costs. No doubting her priorities.

Yes, she thought, back out in the crisp, clean-smelling night. It's right. She'd make the calls first thing in the morning.

So now maybe it seems like those three little things couldn't add up to changing the world, but you'd be surprised. At first Trevor thought it wasn't working at all, but things were happening out there, things he couldn't see. People were paying it forward whether he knew it or not. And soon Pay It Forward became a movement that surprised even Trevor.

The most important thing I can add from my own observations is this: Knowing it started from unremarkable circumstances should be a comfort to us all. Because it proves that you don't need much to change the entire world for the better. You can start with the most ordinary ingredients. You can start with the world you've got.

Copyright (c) 1999 by Catherine Ryan Hyde. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.