Curriculum

 “Endless Months” is a poem by Amity Doyle, age 11. The poem walks the reader through each season of the year, starting in January and ending in December. Much of the poem is written in the second-person present, though occasionally the speaker also uses the first-person plural present tense.  The nature of the descriptions are varied. Sometimes the “you” of the poem is described doing specific things—delivering flowers to Grandma, or bundled up in the cold. At other times, the writer brings in vivid descriptions of the seasons. Sometimes, the writer plays with the words for the months themselves.  How does this poet play with poetic forms? Something really interesting about this poem is the fact that it both establishes a clear rule—each stanza is paired with the name of a month—but also doesn’t have much consistency between the stanzas stylistically. This is because in many parts, the poetic form (that is, the overall shape of the poem) mimics content (the things that the poem describes).  January is a couplet: January-cold winter air swoops through the chimney but can’t blow out the fire The first line is almost reminiscent of the wind it describes—long and twisting, eager to go down the chimney. The short second line is reminiscent of a flame—shorter than a chimney, but steadfast and present.  But March is structured very differently:  March makes birds get ready to sing It makes snow into grass It makes a hundred nests built for birds It makes winter to spring to summer to fall Here, we have an anaphoric repetition of “It makes.” Each line is consistent in length. March represents the space between winter and spring, and as such it’s a long, steady month. Things are changing each day, but it’s a consistent form of change. It’s organized, uniform. Other stanzas experiment with space in other ways. In June, the writer uses indentation to create the feeling of the breeze that the section describes: The swimming pool is filled with sunlight warming the warm air The breeze feels good, especially when you’re reading a book in the shade under a hickory tree By making the beginnings of the lines physically sway, the writer conjures that shady breeze and brings it physically into the space of the poem.  Discussion questions: What are some other moments in the poem where form responds to content?  April starts off with an instruction: “Sing this poem in the showers / and dance around with the flowers which you’re / delivering to Grandma.” Why do you think the writer chose this moment to tell the reader to do something?  In May, the writer plays with the name of the month by writing “May the look bloom from thou.” Are there other moments where the writer engages in wordplay in the poem?   Endless Months January January-cold winter air swoops through the chimney but can’t blow out the fire February Bundled up in your house you lay surrounded by your needs of warmth No one can cold you March March makes birds get ready to sing It makes snow into grass It makes a hundred nests built for birds It makes winter to spring to summer to fall April Sing this poem in the showers and dance around with the flowers which you’re delivering to Grandma May May the flowers start off May the luck bloom from thou May the warmth start on In May June The swimming pool is filled with sunlight warming the warm air The breeze feels good, especially when you’re reading a book in the shade under a hickory tree July July is the sweet sticky sound calling the birds and the humidity healing the trees with green August Hot, Hot, Hot, Hot August’s hot September The beginning of fall and the end of summer. Who could ask for more. October Put on your hat, your cloak, your robe, we plead; fall is in session November The harvest on the field looks up to the cold moon December The December rain pains down on the windowsills frozen as ice cackle cackle cackle! It seems to laugh No snow today, just frozen rain Pitter patter The rain spatters across the ground Frost evolves and multiplies itself by the minute As the atoms in the air turn to ice Amity Doyle, 11 Katonah, NY 

“Numbers” is a poem by Patrick Lusa, age 11. The poem is organized around the numbers 1 through 24. Most (but not all) of the poem’s lines start with a number, and the numbers are connected to the content of the lines. At the start of the poem, it is a (1) winter day at 2 in the morning. The people are asleep, the 4 owls are awake until their 5 a.m. bedtime. The day goes on until the number 12, which is just a period. Then, time passes quickly: 13 days later, it’s no longer winter. People go swimming, kids are in school, runners begin a race. Once again, we skip forward in time: 22 days later, it gets even hotter. Then, a few lines without numbers—and finally, we end just 24 hours from the midnight that came before the start of the poem.  How does this poet play with poetic forms? Patrick Lusa, the poet who wrote “Numbers,” has created a unique and interesting form. It almost resembles the phone book, or a schedule. The numbers help propel the piece along, and each one shapes it in a different way. You can tell that the numbers aren’t random: they were each carefully placed in the narrative. 4 owls are hooting before they go to sleep at 5 a.m. This is just about accurate for owls. The line where the owls fall asleep feels very short, and it contrasts to most of the other lines, which are quite long. In some ways, the “5 a.m.” line is as quiet as the dawn it describes—both nocturnal and diurnal creatures are asleep, and everything feels silent.  In poems that establish such a clear pattern, one of the best ways to hold the reader’s interest—and show them what parts to pay attention to the most—is to occasionally break the rhythm. That happens with the owl moment. The next startlingly short line comes just a few lines down: 10 in the morning, there are 11 people driving to lunch at 12. On previous lines, when a sentence ends, the poet uses a period at the end of the line. But here, the period takes on its own line. As readers, our ears perk up—this line is very different, and there must be a reason. We find out the reason on the next line: 13 days later, there is heat again. 14 people are swimming in the 15-mile lake. Whoa! When we started this poem, it was winter—and what’s more, each line only stood for an hour. But now that noon has passed, our whole way of orienting around time has shifted. Now, each line represents a day. This continues until line 22, when another rupture in the space-time continuum begins:  22 days later, the heat is getting stronger, On the 23rd, days are getting longer. The world seems to turn faster. The racers run faster. The light is still putting up a fight. 24 hours after midnight. On line 23, we first notice the change: 23 doesn’t begin the line, but rather appears a few words in. Then, the writer decides to do away with the organizing principle altogether. For three lines, the “light puts up a fight”—time itself stretches out. The poem clings to the hours and days, perhaps now summer hours and summer days, and will not let them pass. We get lost in a moment that seems to exist outside of time. When the poem finally pulls us back in, the numbers are no longer days but hours once again. We’re also left in a wonderful place of uncertainty, unsure whether a day passed or a season.  Discussion questions: Why do you think the writer chose a running race as one of the central images of the poem? What do you think the relationship might be between running a race and the passage of time? What were some moments in the poem where the writer built a number into a sentence in a way that surprised you? What made those moments surprising? Numbers 1 winter day at 2 in the morning there are 3 people sleeping as 4 owls are hooting before they go to sleep at 5 a.m. 6 in the morning and the owls have stopped hooting, 7 birds are chirping as they search for food. 8 dogs are barking, 9 cats are hissing as they fight at 10 in the morning, there are 11 people driving to lunch at 12. 13 days later, there is heat again. 14 people are swimming in the 15-mile lake. 16 cars are driving to exit 17, taking people to work. 18 days have passed now 19 people are in school getting bored to death. 20 people are running the 21-mile race. 22 days later, the heat is getting stronger, On the 23rd, days are getting longer. The world seems to turn faster. The racers run faster. The light is still putting up a fight. 24 hours after midnight.   Patrick Lusa, 11 Stafford Springs, CT

“This is the Song the World Needs Now” is a poem by Nova Macknik-Conde, age 8. The poem is composed of nine lines. The poem is written in a combination of Spanish and English. Each line begins with either “Esta es la canción,” which translates to “This is the song,” or “Una canción,” which translates to “a song.” Generally, each line also ends on a Spanish word, but it doesn’t always. In many of the lines, the middle words are in English. The song sounds like esperanza (hope), teaches fuerza (force), makes you feel felicidad (happy).  How does this writer play with poetic forms?  Though this poem is not a sonnet or a haiku, it still follows many formal “rules” that help keep it more organized. These rules aren’t hard and fast, but rather are more like habits the poem follows. By choosing to adhere to these organizing principles, the writer creates a poem that almost feels like the song it is describing.  This is written in a style called “monostitch,” which means that each line forms its own stanza and no two lines are close together. Each monostitch line starts with a capital letter indicating the beginning of a sentence, but there is generally not punctuation at the end of the lines, except the second-to-last line, which ends with an ellipsis ( . . . ). Together, these factors help create a floaty feeling, like listening to soft music.  Another musical aspect of the poem is the poet’s use of something called slant rhyme. A direct rhyme occurs when the vowels and consonants of the final syllable of two words match. Esperanza and fuerza in the poem are a good example of a direct rhyme—both end with “za.” A slant rhyme occurs when the final syllables of two words almost line up, and sound like they line up. Take, for example, “felicidad” and “salud.” They both end with a d, but besides that, the final syllables have different vowels and consonants. Slant rhymes can produce a musical effect that is more subtle than a direct rhyme.  Another technique the writer employs here, to great effect, is called “anaphora.” An anaphora is a repeated word or phrase. In the case of this poem, the writer repeats “canción” near the start of each line. But she also repeats other words and structures: Una canción that makes you feel felicidad Una canción that smells like salud Una canción that holds you like amabilidad Una canción that makes you move like agua These lines translate to “The song that makes you feel happy / the song that smells like health / the song that holds you like kindness / the song that makes you move like water.” Not only does each line repeat the words “canción” and “that,” but they also repeat their very structure: each is a simile comparing the song to something else. In poems, we often learn a lot from the moments where the writer breaks the pattern. Four of this poem’s nine lines do something a little bit different than the rest. At the start of the poem, the writer makes a direct statement:  Esta es la canción the world needs now This is the song the world needs now. It’s not a song like anything. It doesn’t smell like anything or look like anything or hold you like anything. Rather, in this moment the song is just the song, and we talk about it as a whole.  Another unique line comes toward the middle:  Una canción that teaches fuerza A song that teaches strength. Once again, the song isn’t like anything—instead, it’s something active, and it’s teaching us something.  The second-to-last line is a repetition of the first line, “Esta es la canción the world needs now.” The repetition reminds us of the repeated phrases throughout the rest of the poem, and helps build a sort of music. Finally, we end on a softer line:  Una canción que consuela A song that comforts.  Discussion questions: Throughout the poem, the poet describes a song. But the song itself is not so clear to us. What do you think is the song the poet is describing? Or is it any song at all? Why do you think the writer chose to switch between English and Spanish in this poem? How does it affect your experience of reading it?   This is the Song the World Needs Now Esta es la canción the world needs now Una canción that sounds like esperanza Una canción that teaches fuerza Una canción that makes you feel felicidad Una canción that smells like salud Una canción that holds you like amabilidad Una canción that makes you move like agua Esta es la canción the world needs now. . . Una canción que consuela Nova Macknik-Conde, 8 Brooklyn, NY

The Trials and Tribulations of Switfy Appledoe is a novella by Arianna Kralicek, age 12. The story is written from the first-person perspective of Zendaya “Swifty” Appledoe and is divided into many chapters. In the first chapter, we open on Swifty rehearsing for an upcoming advertisement audition in front of her parents, who applaud. Swifty informs readers that she wants to be a famous actress when she gets older.  The narrative is interrupted by the Candyland theme song—it must be an ad break. Swifty knows the words because she auditioned for this role and didn’t get it. Suddenly, she hears a familiar voice in the ad. On TV is a girl in a fairy outfit holding a wand. It is Stella Chichester-Clark, Swifty’s nemesis. Swifty begins to scream. She punches the table and flings her audition papers in the air. Her parents hug her. We learn that our protagonist is very jealous of Stella, who seems to be good at everything.  What makes the characters in this story strong? Swifty Appledoe is an extremely striking protagonist, and her voice is loud and clear from the start of the story. Part of what makes Swifty so compelling as a protagonist is that the narrative feels steeped in the character’s personality: It’s Saturday night, and my parents are sitting on our squishy velvet sofa, watching me rehearse for the big advertisement audition coming up in a month-and-a-half’s time. It’s important that an actress is very prepared because, as they say, the show must go on. “The show must go on” is a famous theater cliché, and by repeating it here, we get a sense that Swifty is very theatrical in a general sense, and maybe a bit goofy. As the scene continues, we learn more about Swifty’s dreams and temperament. You see, when I grow older I want to become a famous actress. I want to go to the Oscars and win incredible awards, go to the Met Gala and wear a spontaneous-but-stunning outfit, pose and give daring looks to the press as they photograph me, live in a massive— I can suddenly hear the familiar sound of the Candyland theme song. Obviously an ad break. There is so much going on in this passage. First, we get a sense for Swifty’s lofty ambitions. We can tell that this advertising thing isn’t just a hobby for her—she means business. This is part of her plan. We also learn that there are certain values that Swifty holds dear. We learn about these values through the adjectives she put in the passage above: spontaneous, stunning, daring. These are things she thinks it’s important for a person to be.  Finally, we get a clear sense for Swifty and her parents through the scene where she breaks down over the Candyland advertisement.  Then, without thinking, I slam my right hand down onto the coffee table. A sickening crack from the clipboard startles me, but I continue. I swipe at all my audition papers and they soar into the air, fluttering to the carpeted floor. “Zendaya Appledoe! Stop right there!” my mother gasps in anger. I stamp, stamp, stamp at the papers, tearing a few pages into shreds. I don’t care what happens to them. My life is over once again. I slump to the floor. My breathing is ragged and sharp. It feels like I’m sucking in spears. Strong arms hold me close. I sob into my dad’s shirt. My mum comes over and joins the hug. A lot becomes clear here very quickly. First, Swifty has an outsized reaction to her jealousy and starts to destroy her audition papers. This tells us that this character is not always very good at managing difficult emotions. We also learn that this is not the first time Swifty has felt the world is going to end. By writing, “My life is over once again,” it’s evident that this is not the first time this has happened. Finally, we learn that Swifty’s parents are more bark than bite. Her mother goes quickly from scolding her in anger to hugging her and comforting her. Perhaps Swifty’s parents enable this sort of attitude and behavior. But as much as this scene does not cast Swifty in the most mature light, we also learn how serious this is for her. That simile, “It feels like I’m sucking in spears,” is so striking. It’s clear that, dramatically as she may be acting, Swifty’s sorrow and insecurity is very genuine.  Discussion questions: How does this chapter set us up for the rest of the story? What is your first impression of Swifty as a character? How about Swifty’s parents? In what ways do you predict these characters may grow over the course of the narrative? How does the writer incorporate specific details into the narrative to help bring the characters to life?  What is your sense of Stella as a character based solely on Swifty’s descriptions in Chapter One? Do you expect your impression of Stella to change as the story progresses? Why or why not? Do you think Swifty is going to be a reliable narrator?   The Trials and Tribulations of Swifty Appledoe (Part One) “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” —Oscar Wilde Chapter 1 “And that’s exactly why you should try Milky’s chocolate ice cream!” I conclude, bowing as my excited audience showers me in a standing ovation. It’s Saturday night, and my parents are sitting on our squishy velvet sofa, watching me rehearse for the big advertisement audition coming up in a month-and-a-half’s time. It’s important that an actress is very prepared because, as they say, the show must go on. The TV is blaring softly behind me, showering me in a spotlight effect and bathing the living room in a cool glow. If I look down, I can see the glassy surface of the coffee table covered in a sea of audition papers, a lone clipboard floating at the surface. You see, when I grow older I

“Get Myself a Rocking Chair” is a novel by Nora Heiskell, age 12. Told from the first-person perspective of Katrina, the story is written in the past tense. The first chapter opens on lyrics to “Church Street Blues,” which is audible through the air above the town. We learn that the person singing and playing guitar is Peter McCumber, an odd man who spoke to no one. The townspeople all distrusted him, except Katrina’s father. We learn some more backstory about Katrina. Her mother died when she was four, and she lives with her father and their cook, Helen, in a small cottage. Helen has raised Katrina since her mother died.  When Katrina gets home from listening to the music, she changes out of her preferred overalls and into a dress, even though she does not like to wear dresses. Her mother’s mother is coming for a visit. We learn that Grandmother is very strict and has some old-fashioned ideas about what girls should and shouldn’t do. During dinner, Grandmother criticizes everything and everyone. Then, she goes to bed. Katrina, her father, and Helen sit and watch the sunset. The chapter ends like it began—with some more lyrics to “Church Street Blues.” What makes the characters in this story strong? This is only the first chapter, but already it is clear that this story is full of strong, distinct characters. The characters make themselves known to the reader right away. First, there is Katrina, whose narrative voice we follow throughout the story. The writer provides some degree of exposition about Katrina’s backstory. But much of what we learn about her comes from her preparations for Grandmother’s visit—the things she does, and the things she considers. It is through these details that we get our first glimpses into who Katrina is as a character.  I picked out the blue dress Father got me for my birthday. It was very lovely, but I hated dresses, and I wore overalls almost every day. But I knew that Father would appreciate it if I dressed nicely tonight because Grandmother was coming. We learn a lot here right away about Katrina. We learn that she hates dresses and prefers overalls. We learn that she is close enough to her father for him to buy her a birthday gift. On the other hand, the relationship doesn’t seem perfect—after all, why didn’t her father know she hated dresses and get her something she would have liked more? Finally, we learn that Katrina is willing to make compromises to make her father happy. All of this just from one small moment of description! Then there is Grandmother. Her character feels strikingly realistic, and also somewhat terrifying. A lot of what we learn about Grandmother comes from other people’s reactions to her. For example, we discover why Katrina wears a dress for her grandmother’s visit: Anyway, Grandmother did not approve of girls wearing pants, so every time she came, I donned a dress and stuffed my overalls to the back of my closet, in case she happened to peek in. Not only does this passage reveal a belief held by Grandmother, it also reflects that Grandmother is the sort of person who might go snooping in other people’s closets and criticize what she finds there. Finally, it tells us that Grandmother probably doesn’t know Katrina all that well.  Similarly, we learn a lot about Katrina’s dad’s relationship to Grandmother: I stepped away from Father to see Grandmother standing beside him. She was very short, not much taller than me, but Father once said that was a good thing, because if she were any taller, she would be too intimidating to even talk to. This moment helps us understand, as readers, something that wasn’t clear earlier—perhaps Katrina’s dad makes her wear the dress not because he misunderstands his daughter but because he is frightened of his mother-in-law.  Discussion questions: In this chapter, the writer introduces us to characters who will remain important to the plot throughout the story. First impressions matter. How do you think the writer hopes to portray the characters in this chapter? How do you predict that the characters in this story might change over time? Do you envision Grandmother becoming kinder? Will Katrina’s dad develop more of a backbone? How will Helen’s role in the story change? Get Myself a Rocking Chair Chapter One  Lord I been hangin’ out of town in that low-down rain Watchin’ good-time Charlie, friend, is drivin’ me insane Down on shady Charlotte Street,  the green lights look red Wish I was back home on the farm, in my feather bed The soft music of the guitar floated through the still air. Smoke from a chimney could be seen above the rooftops of town. Peter McCumber was an odd man. He spoke to no one, but he sang and played his guitar as if he was all alone in his own world. Nobody could remember the last time Peter McCumber had gone to church, let alone to visit somebody. The townspeople all kept their distance, as if he were ill or crazy or something. My father was the only person that would speak to him. I was interested in the old man; there were not many elderly people in Emerald Hills, where we lived. The only other one was Mrs. Gaffney, the milliner. But, like everyone else, I kept my distance. Our town, Emerald Hills, consisted of two neighborhoods. I lived at the very edge of the smaller neighborhood, closer to the part of town where all the shops were. My house was a tiny one-story cottage with whitewashed boards and sky-blue trim around the windows. I lived with my father and our cook, Helen. My mother died when I was only four, and I hardly remembered her. Helen came shortly after Mother died, and she had raised me for most of my life. I opened the kitchen door, and a wave of delicious scents hit me. Helen hardly ever made

“Coconut Pudding” is a short story by Tristan Hui, age 12, written from the first-person perspective of Thu. Thu lives in rural Vietnam with his older brother, Bao; his parents; and his grandma. He is proud to be his grandma’s favorite. Early in the story, Thu’s grandma tells him she is ready to die. But then, Thu’s mother, who he calls Má, has a baby, Minh. Grandma loves Minh so much she decides to live a little longer.  We flash forward in time. Now Minh is a bit older and can talk and walk. She is a sickly child, and one day she develops a fever. The doctor says it’s just a cold, but it doesn’t go away. Still, Thu refuses to share his coconut pudding with her. After Minh is sick for three weeks, Thu’s grandma starts to cry, and begs Thu to take her to the hospital in the nearby city. Thu agrees, and the two take a long journey—a boat ride, a long bus ride, and a walk. Finally, they get to the hospital, where they’re told Minh has the flu. The night they get home, though, their Grandma dies. Thu is incredibly sad and doesn’t want to leave his hammock. But then he hears a peddler outside selling coconut pudding. He buys some for Minh and himself and, for the first time ever, they hug.  What makes the characters in this story strong? Though there are many characters in this story, the one we get to know the best is the protagonist, Thu. Throughout the story, Thu develops a lot as a character. This change is part of what makes him such a strong, compelling protagonist.  At the outset of the story, the first thing we learn about Thu is that he’s had to compete for the attention of the adults in his life—and that this competition is ongoing.  I used to be Grandma’s favorite. She told me it was because when I was born, she was the first to hold me. “No one can replace you, Thu,” she would say, taking me onto her lap and stroking my dark hair. “No one.” Bao, my older brother, was Grandpa’s favorite. Grandpa’s life had been centered around him, and sometimes it seemed like I was Grandma’s only cháu trai, her only grandson. I loved it. This passage opens the story, and it tells us a lot right away. One of the most notable parts of the opening is the subtle way we learn that all is not right in Thu’s world. Thu used to be Grandma’s favorite—but it is implied this is no longer true. With the arrival of Minh, we learn the source of that “used to.” Grandma tells Thu that she is ready to die. But soon after: But in July, Má found out that she was pregnant. I would have a little sister.  Everything changed. When Grandma heard that, she vowed to live until that baby was born. And sure enough, when the baby is born, Grandma loves her “with all her heart.” No longer the only favorite, Thu’s responsibilities increase. Though he never says outright that he is frustrated with his sister, we can feel it in how he treats her: On the way home, I stop at the floating market and buy a bowl of noodle soup for us to share, and a little plate of coconut pudding from an old man wearing a blue shirt, just for me. Minh reaches for my full hands, but I lift the plate out of her reach. “Not for you.” “Thu . . . ” she whines. “No.” She sighs dramatically, and I glare down at her. She sighs again, and I pop the last pudding scoop into my mouth. Ha. Even when his sister is sick, Thu resents her and wants to keep the things he loves the most in life for himself. We begin to wonder whether coconut pudding is really a stand-in for something else that Thu values that he feels his sister is taking away—like their grandma.  When Minh gets sick, Thu agrees to take her to the hospital, but not because her well-being is at the top of his mind: Yesterday, Minh’s fever spiked. She refused to drink water, and about halfway through the night, Grandma started to cry. She begged me to bring Minh to the hospital in Battambang. I agreed. It’s a chance to regain my place, to be Grandma’s favorite again. Maybe she’ll find the will to live longer. The journey is harrowing, but we can tell throughout it that, in spite of himself, Thu wants to care for his younger sister. He fights hard to get her to the hospital, to get her examined, and to get her home. But we don’t really see the impact all of this has on their relationship until the end of the story, when Grandma dies. In the final scene, Thu hears the familiar sounds of the peddler selling coconut pudding. And he feels a surprising emotion: guilt. In the final scene, the two siblings share coconut pudding together.  “Careful,” I laugh. “Don’t choke!” She beams up at me, cup empty, face covered in pudding. “Thank you!” She wraps her arms around my leg and squeezes. A hug. I don’t think Minh’s ever hugged me before. It’s nice. I crouch down, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. I hug her back. Once again, the character development here is subtle. We don’t hear it directly—rather, we sense it through the ways in which Thu acts. With his grandma gone, there isn’t anyone to force Thu to be a good big brother—he does it of his own accord.  Discussion questions: What are moments in the story where we learn something about a character through their actions instead of their words? At what point in the story do you sense a change in how Thu thinks about Minh? Does it just come at the end, or can you find clues earlier on?

“Locked Out of Kindergarten” is a personal narrative written in the first person past tense by Kateri Escober Doran, age 12. The story opens in a kindergarten classroom at dance time. The students are rocking out to “If You’re Happy and You Know It” and having an absolute ball. Mid dance party, our protagonist, Kate, has to use the bathroom and goes to ask the teacher. Unfortunately, the teacher assigns her the worst possible bathroom buddy: Chloe, who, at age six, is the oldest student in the class and intimidates Kate. Chloe also controls a coveted commodity in the classroom: a heart-shaped stencil that she always gets to first at art time and always gives to a different classmate—but never Kate.  Anyway, Kate and Chloe go to the bathroom, and Kate reflects on how perhaps Chloe is just older than her and at a different place in the “ladder of life.” When they get back to the classroom, they find it locked. Because it is dance time, the teacher cannot hear them knocking. Chloe reveals that she is too afraid to try to go find another teacher because she may have to pass the preschool classroom, where a boy who is mean to her is. So Kate goes it alone, but in the end she panics too and runs back to Chloe. The two of them bond over their shared fear of the hallway, and then decide to try to go to the principal’s office together as allies. But then the principal finds them and lets them back in. Back in class, Kate sees Chloe sitting alone and goes up to join her. Chloe tries to give Kate the heart stencil, and Kate suggests they share it. In the end, they both fill in the heart stencil together.  What makes the characters in this story strong? When writing about kindergarteners, it is so easy to write one-dimensional characters! This is because when people are very young, they often communicate and think in ways that don’t come across as well with dialogue. But in this narrative, the writer is able to effectively craft three-dimensional, realistic characters. I think this is achieved through Kate’s internal monologue.  Throughout the piece, Kate’s narrative voice is a hilarious constant: punchy, insightful, and very precocious for a kindergartener. “All right,” said Ms. Winnie. She scanned the group of my still-dancing classmates shouting, “Hooray!” whenever the song told them to do so. She stood there for what seemed to me like a very long time, her gaze flicking over each of her students, considering them individually, for the sole purpose of selecting them to be my bathroom buddy. There’s almost a deadpan and sarcastic nature to the descriptions at times. Aside from the internal monologue, the story is full of dialogue between Kate and Chloe that tells us all kinds of things about them. But because our protagonists are so young, a lot of what we learn about them comes from their actions or their mannerisms.  In the case of Kate, we learn a lot about her from her thoughts. She says early on in the story that she sees life as a ladder. “I was afraid of heights; I didn’t think I would ever be able to leave the bottom step if I couldn’t make it up to the next one.” This theme of the ladder recurs throughout the story. Kate’s fear of getting older is clear as she walks down the hallway past the second-grade classroom on her way to the principal’s office.  I was passing by the second-grade classroom. I wondered what the second-graders were doing in there. I had heard that the students sat at desks in rows, that they never had time to play except at recess, that they spent most of the day sitting down, that everyone was expected to know how to read, to hold a pencil correctly, to color within the lines. I had heard their world was full of expectations. . . . They emerged from [Mrs. Holloway’s] classroom as part of things, moving up the next step on the ladder that was life. Here, we get a real sense for Kate’s fears about the future through her imagination of what second grade must be like. It helps us understand her feelings toward Chloe, who is older than her. The fear eventually overwhelms Kate: The AC was roaring, freezing me from the inside out. The cacophony rose in a deafening crescendo. It was bright noise, blinding noise, noise of every color. The hall was closing in on me. Kate runs away, back to Chloe. Here, descriptions allow us to extrapolate insights that the protagonist may not have had—like that she was afraid. Discussion questions: What are some moments in the story where we learn something about a character through their actions rather than their words? How does the writer use humor to build a strong narrative voice? Locked Out of Kindergarten “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!” Clap, clap! “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!” Clap, clap! We were dancing on the mat in the kindergarten classroom. Music was blasting from our teacher’s magical silver box, which was sitting in the corner on a little plastic chair. Our teacher, Ms. Winnie, stood facing us while we danced, swaying to the music and clapping her hands along with us. Clap, clap! I loved dancing time. Other than playtime, it was my favorite time of day. “If you’re happy and you know it, stomp your feet!” Stomp, stomp! I turned around to see how my friends were getting along. Ella, instead of stomping her feet, was hopping on one, her waist-length, jet-black hair flapping around her shoulders. Ava, the resident drama queen and aspiring secret agent, spun around and twirled, her light-brown pigtails flopping behind her. We had all pretty much forgotten what movement we were supposed to be making at this point, and we probably didn’t care. I watched as

“The Cookie Jar,” by Isabelle Chapman, follows the story of eleven-year-old Elsie in close third-person narration. It’s the spring of 2020, the beginning of the pandemic, and Elsie and her family are quarantined in their house. Elsie’s passion in life, recently, has become a cookie jar. Before quarantine, she brought it with her everywhere but hid it in her duffle bag so her friends wouldn’t make fun of her. Staying home with her family all the time, she is able to embrace her passion for the cookie jar fully. She loves it, values it, and feels extremely protective of it. One day, Elsie’s family finally gets the masks they ordered months prior. They decide to go to the beach to celebrate, though Elsie is a bit nervous that this isn’t a good idea with the virus around. Elsie insists on bringing her cookie jar, and her mother eventually agrees. The beach is weirdly empty, and Elsie’ sister convinces her to go into the water. Elsie loses her cookie jar in the water and starts to cry. She feels guilty, ashamed, and sad. At the end of the story, her mother agrees to get her another cookie jar but says it can’t leave the kitchen. Elsie eagerly agrees. Finally, she is able to enjoy the day at the beach, knowing she will have a new cookie jar soon. What makes the characters in this story strong? One way to write strong, convincing characters is to give them unique attributes. Most people have idiosyncrasies galore, and our passions are often more odd and complex than “sports” or “movies.” But it can be easy to forget this when writing characters—we focus on plot at the expense of those details that help bring someone to life. In “The Cookie Jar,” Isabella Chapman expertly crafts a truly unusual protagonist whose unlikely love of a cookie jar—not cookies, but their container—immediately makes her feel just strange enough to be completely authentic.  It seemed to Elsie that the more accessible something was, the less enticing it subsequently became. To her luck, though, it never seemed that way with her cookie jar. She found that she contained the capacity to stare at it for hours upon hours, doing nothing other than pondering its unique existence and inherent kindness (in spite of being an inanimate object). Sometimes, she felt herself choking up when she thought about how it just held all kinds of cookies, no matter their size, quality, or type. . . . The thought made Elsie feel especially grateful for her beautiful, non-judgmental jar. In the story, the writer often uses humor to tell us more complicated truths about characters. The passage above, for example, gives us a hilarious window into Elsie’s love for the cookie jar, but it also tells us something more: Elsie values kindness, and dislikes judgemental qualities, in cookie jars but also perhaps in people. Throughout the story, Elsie’s relationship to the cookie jar helps us learn about her social relationships: Of course, she couldn’t show it to her friends. First of all, they wouldn’t understand. And second of all, even beyond the realm of being unable to comprehend her immense attachment to this jar of porcelain, they would make fun of her for it. As we see above, Elsie is very concerned about the judgment of her friends—so concerned that she lugs around a cookie jar in secret for years, covering it with other objects in her bag. Perhaps the nonjudgemental-ness she admires in the cookie jar is a quality she wishes she could find in those around her. Like Elsie, her siblings also have unique attributes that both make the story more fun to read and point to deeper truths about them or the world they live in. Elsie’s brother, Tom, for example, believes that the coronavirus is a hoax designed by an army of shapeshifting reptiles, a belief that might seem absurd or even funny on the surface, until the reader remembers that many people really do believe this. Just like Elsie loving a cookie jar, Tom’s strange beliefs aren’t just wacky and unique for the sake of writing a wacky, unique character—rather, they point to difficult truths. Finally, I can’t forget Elsie’s younger sister, Marsha, who spends much of the story trying to convince everyone to let her make cookies with dead crabs. At one point, she interrupts Elsie, who is deep in contemplation over how different the beach feels during the pandemic: Unfortunately, she was interrupted from her deep thought process by Marsha, who seemed to be holding up a seashell of some sorts in one hand and a dead crab in the other. “Pay attention! I’ll ask you again: which seashell would you prefer to have in the cookies? Tom thinks I should use the beige one,” she said, pointing to the actual seashell, “which makes me think I should probably use the blue.” She tapped the dead crab. “What do you think, Elsie?” Part of what’s striking about this moment—besides the idea of crab chocolate chip cookies—is that Marsha, even through her strange and gross idea, seems to recognize that her sister is sad and wants to help. This is one moment of many that suggests that maybe Marsha’s whimsical nature isn’t just for fun—maybe she is trying to use humor as a tool to reach her siblings who are struggling. The moment with the crabs could have happened at any point in the story. But by letting us learn more about a character during a moment of tension and stress, the writer successfully uses unique characters to develop a nuanced plot.  Discussion questions: Point out a moment where a character’s action reveals something deeper about them.  Of all objects, why do you think the writer chose to focus on a cookie jar? Would the story have been different if the object Elsie was obsessed with was, say, a watering can?  Do you think the mother is a believable character? Why or why not? The

“Friends” is a short story written in the close third-person perspective. It follows Naomi Keith, a twelve-year-old living in a small town in Florida. Every day, Naomi takes the same walk with her best (and only) friend, Oscar Hernandez, who she has known since preschool. They play the same people-watching game on each walk and always end up at the smoothie shack, where they each order a mango smoothie.  But one day, Oscar ditches Naomi mid-walk to go hang out with some boys who are skateboarding. Naomi is incensed—Oscar doesn’t even skateboard, and the two of them had decided long ago that these boys weren’t worth their time. But each day that week, Oscar skips their walks and hangs out with the skateboarding boys instead.  Without her daily walks with Oscar, Naomi begins to change up her routine. She starts walking a different route in the afternoons, and even changes her order at the smoothie shack to raspberry-lime. Even with her new routine, Naomi misses her friend. Finally, Oscar comes over and the two of them take a walk. They get into an argument, and Naomi storms off. Then her mother helps her work through her emotions. Naomi apologizes, and so does Oscar. The two of them come up with a compromise—they’ll hang out on set days. Naomi, meanwhile, begins to embrace change and even see the merit in these boys.  What makes the characters in this story strong? Reading “Friends,” you get a sense for who Naomi is right away—funny, compassionate, thoughtful, and stubborn. The specific details in Naomi’s dialogue are part of what helps make her such a convincing protagonist.  The story opens on a scene in which Naomi and Oscar are playing a game where they make up stories about people they see on their walk.  Naomi nudged Oscar and pointed discreetly at the woman walking on the other side of the street. “That woman . . . is actually a certified genius. She attends an elite top college that almost nobody knows about, and she’s one of five people there. She’s working on designing an app like FaceTime but you only have to move your lips and the device you’re using will read your lips and what you’re saying will appear as text on the other person’s screen.” Naomi paused for a breath. The author could have easily come up with a simpler game for Naomi and Oscar to play on their walks, like “I spy” or “animal vegetable mineral.” They could have even played a game that didn’t involve talking, like tag. But instead, the game the writer chose is unique—thus it feels a lot more specific, and a lot more memorable.  The choice of game also gives us a window into the characters right away. We gather that Naomi and Oscar are very creative and imaginative. From the ellipsis ( . . . ) at the beginning of the story, we learn that Naomi is good at thinking on her feet—she paused to think, which means she was probably working quickly to make her story up on the spot.  Finally, from the length of Naomi’s story, and the fact that she pauses for breath midway through, we learn that she is talkative. This helps us see the contrast in Naomi’s demeanor when she gets home and talks to her mom: She sighed in relief when she reached her house. “How was your walk?” her mother asked, wiping perspiration from her forehead. She had been cleaning out the attic for a garage sale, which was a taxing task. “Mmm,” Naomi mumbled, not wanting to talk about it. She shuffled up the stairs and into her room. We get the sense that Naomi’s mother was expecting a different kind of answer here—and having heard Naomi’s quick, effusive dialogue earlier on, we can tell that she’s not usually so quiet. The detail about Naomi’s mother preparing for a garage sale and wiping sweat off of her brow also gives us an immediate window into a new character and setting.  Discussion questions: In the story, Naomi considers Oscar to be “set in his ways.” When he stops taking walks with her, Naomi feels more able to forge new habits. But in parts of the story, it seems like maybe Naomi is the one who has trouble with change—after all, she is the one who is thrown off by her friend’s new routine. What are moments in the story where people make assumptions about one another? Are there moments in the story where one person criticizes another person for traits that they themselves might have?  Is Naomi a reliable protagonist? That is, do we believe everything she is telling us? Friends Naomi Keith’s feet slapped the cracked pavement of the sidewalk. She scoured the streets of Cedar Key, their small Florida town, looking for any interesting people. Her best friend, Oscar Hernandez, walked next to her. Suddenly, she spotted a middle-aged woman wearing wrinkled khaki long pants, even in ninety-degree June weather, and a puffy black jacket. She had a baseball cap pulled low and her phone was shoved near her face. She looked rather cross. A perfect suspect. Naomi nudged Oscar and pointed discreetly at the woman walking on the other side of the street. “That woman . . . is actually a certified genius. She attends an elite top college that almost nobody knows about, and she’s one of five people there. She’s working on designing an app like FaceTime but you only have to move your lips and the device you’re using will read your lips and what you’re saying will appear as text on the other person’s screen.” Naomi paused for a breath. “She looks mad because the app isn’t working right. Also, she has been working day and night on it and hasn’t been able to get much sleep. She hasn’t been able to change clothes, so that’s why her pants are wrinkled. Her face is close to the screen because . .

“Twenty Questions, Twenty Answers” is a short story told in the first-person point of view, from Jenny’s perspective, about two teenage sisters, Jenny and Ula, who are stuck in a car together with their parents. On their dad’s suggestion, the sisters decide to play Twenty Questions to pass the time. Ula chooses the object first, and as Jenny questions her sister, she is led down an associative path back into her memories from their childhood. As they near their destination, Jenny is sure she has finally lit upon the mysterious “mineral” object (not an animal, not a vegetable): the stone Ula put on a sparrow’s grave. Although Ula denies it just as they arrive, Jenny is positive she is right. What makes the characters in this story strong? Anna Shepherd does an excellent job of developing her characters, especially the dynamic between the two sisters, through telling dialogue and action. Let’s take a look at the opening sequence to see how she does this. Only ten minutes had gone by since the last rest stop, but to me it felt like an hour. My knee bounced. My leg jiggled. My fingers drummed out syncopated rhythms on the door handle. Through her endless fidgeting and her perception of time (“it felt like an hour”), we immediately see that Jenny is restless and fidgety—not just bored and restless, but likely one of these people who is unable to sit still.  “Jennifer,” said my older sister, Ula. “Stop tapping.” I gritted my teeth and began slapping the side of my thigh instead. “It’s Jenny.” “Jennifer, you’re still making noise.” “My name is Jenny!” As the two sisters begin to interact, we see the tension between them. Jenny’s restlessness is aggravating Ula, who asks her to stop tapping, and so, to get her revenge, Ula appears to purposefully call her “Jennifer,” knowing it will aggravate her sister back. The italics on the name “Jennifer” indicate that Ula is pointedly using her full name.  “Ula, Jenny, stop bickering,” said Mom in that stiff, controlled voice that meant she was trying very, very hard not to yell. “Especially you, Ula. You’re 15. You should know better.” Dad turned around in the passenger seat. “Girls, you’re stressing her out. Why don’t you play Twenty Questions?” Here, we begin not only to get a sense of Mom and Dad but also see, again, through their reactions, that this is likely a typical Jenny-Ula interaction: they bicker and provoke each other, and it exasperates the parents—especially given Ula’s age! This tells us that Ula is not very mature. In this section, I particularly love the characterization of mom’s voice: “that stiff, controlled voice that meant she was trying very, very hard not to yell.” It is so specific, and you know exactly what Shepherd is talking about!  “Yes,” I said instantly. Ula groaned, but I noticed the look of satisfaction in her brown eyes. “I’ll start,” she said in a practiced drawl. “Fine.” Returning to the sisters, we see Jenny’s youth and eagerness to interact with her sister reflected in the way she responds to their dad’s suggestion to play Twenty Questions: “‘Yes,’ I said instantly.” Ula, however, plays the disaffected teenager—groaning and replying in a “practiced draw.” But Jenny notices, from “the look of satisfaction in her brown eyes,” that she’s excited to play.  As the story develops, Shepherd continues to use dialogue and small reactions, like the ones noted above, in a smart way that reveals a lot about each character. The story also becomes more interior, moving between dialogue and Jenny’s internal thought process as she revisits the past, attempting to guess the object Ula has in mind.  Discussion questions Can you identify some other moments where we learn something new about a character through dialogue or reactions? How can Jenny’s guesses in Twenty Questions tell us more about her as a character?  The story ends on a moment of disagreement and uncertainty. Why do you think the writer chose to end the story there? What might this choice tell us about the relationships between the characters? Twenty Questions, Twenty Answers Only ten minutes had gone by since the last rest stop, but to me it felt like an hour. My knee bounced. My leg jiggled. My fingers drummed out syncopated rhythms on the door handle. “Jennifer,” said my older sister, Ula. “Stop tapping.” I gritted my teeth and began slapping the side of my thigh instead. “It’s Jenny.” “Jennifer, you’re still making noise.” “My name is Jenny!” “Ula, Jenny, stop bickering,” said Mom in that stiff, controlled voice that meant she was trying very, very hard not to yell. “Especially you, Ula. You’re 15. You should know better.” Dad turned around in the passenger seat. “Girls, you’re stressing her out. Why don’t you play Twenty Questions?” “Yes,” I said instantly. Ula groaned, but I noticed the look of satisfaction in her brown eyes. “I’ll start,” she said in a practiced drawl. “Fine.” The car fell silent while Ula thought of her object. I stared out the window at the wall of leafy green trees parading down the side of the road, bars of Mozart and Seitz and Boccherini running through my head. My own face—straight, thick black hair framing yellow-hazel eyes—looked dispassionately back at me. After a while, I switched to thinking about strange things that could happen as a result of insufficient AI attempts: A self-driving car is driving down a road. A tree falls across the road, and the car drives into it and explodes. However, right before it explodes, the car sends a record of what has happened to all the other self-driving cars. Instead of concluding that you should stop if a tree falls across the road, the cars all conclude that you should not drive near trees. I smiled at the image of cars inexplicably avoiding large swathes of forest. “All right,” Ula announced. “I’m ready.” Finally, I thought, turning from the window. My sister’s eyes were narrowed, as