I’m spinning, spinning, spinning, my eyes closed. My hair brushes against the soft mossy grass and the sounds of traffic are distant, but I’m aware of them. Two arms—are they mine?—are holding onto the tire swing comfortably, not gripping but giving me a feeling that if I fall I’m not falling too far. It doesn’t feel like my eyes are closed. It feels like they’re not there at all. The feeling is bliss. “Maggie!” someone calls. I am outraged at them temporarily. How dare they yell out my name and interrupt that nice dizzy feeling? My toes, connected to my ankles, connected to my calves, connected to my knees hooked through the tire, touch the grass to stop me. I sit up, no longer leaning backwards like I love to do. The tire spins faster. I’m way too dizzy to listen to the voice calling my name again. When I open my eyes the dizziness fades, and I’m sad that the feeling is gone. My mother stands in front of me with her hands on her hips, angry. “Maggie!” At the end of my name her voice slides straight up into another octave. I can’t help but giggle, even though that is the very last thing I should do. “I talked to you about this tire swing. The rope’s wearing through—can’t you see it, Maggie?” She holds a piece of rope up to my eyes. “It’s fading. Just in time, too. You’re thirteen, Maggie, a little old for a tire swing.” I’m way too dizzy to listen to the voice calling my name again Since I turned thirteen, my mother has considered me too old for everything. She wants me to cut my hair, dark brown and long enough for me to sit on it. But Heather isn’t too old for anything. Heather wanted the tire swing in the first place, and she can go on it “because she’s lighter than you.” Heather is “about to outgrow” a tire swing, so she has to “enjoy it while she can.” My mother’s words have gained the ability to drive me insane. I have nothing against Heather. It’s perfectly fair; I can go with my friends wherever I want as long as I tell my mother where I’m going and when I’ll get home, and I can do that spur-of-the-moment without planning anything three days ahead of time. And Heather can go on the tire swing, read the comic strips, and eat raw cookie dough. And she is my sister. I’m the only person allowed to call her Copper for her red hair. Heather is hiding up in the tree, but my mother doesn’t know. It seems like the best secret in the world. I sigh, lean back, and pretend to just be annoyed when in fact I am winking at Heather. “Maggie! Can’t you just get off the tire swing?” “Sure, Ma. It just takes a while.” I pretend to be struggling to lift my feet up, struggling to emerge from the tire that’s making my mother crazy. Ma gets bored watching me and walks inside. I smile smugly, bend over backwards, and flip myself out. If Ma saw she’d have a cow. Heather starts laughing, and so do I. We giggle over Ma, standing in front of the plants, oblivious to our mischief. Ma turns around. I stand in front of the tire and strike a Miss America pose. Ta-da! My mother scowls and walks inside. I scramble up the tree silently and sit next to Heather on the top branch. “Yo, Copper.” “Yo, Mags. We’re running out of berries.” “Let’s go to the farm, then.” “That’s the thing. Tyler’s been mad at me since I picked that deformed blackberry, the one he thought National Enquirer would pay him twenty dollars for. If I go back there he’ll throw a fit.” I smile. “Tyler’s on vacation in Co-sta Ri-ca, remember?” I stretch out the name of the place where he is, the way Tyler says it. “Oh, yeah.” Heather shimmies across the branches to the tire swing branch and climbs expertly down the rope. I’m right behind her. We stand on either side of the tire swing and jump off simultaneously. I tap Ma on the shoulder, say, “We’re riding our bikes to the farm for the afternoon,” and rush to the garage, where Heather is wheeling out her ancient and very cool aqua-colored bike. That thing is a work of art. After strapping on our identical helmets we start pedaling to the farm. Heather is way faster than me on her bike, but I was riding around while she was at Girl Scouts last week and for maybe the fifth time ever I got to the farm before her. Old Tyler’s a little crazy but he’s got the greatest berry patch you ever saw. He doesn’t put pesticides out there or anything, but at the beginning of each summer he plants a new kind of berry, waters it, and lets it grow wild. He lets everyone come over and pick the berries. We use a key Tyler gave us and walk right on into his kitchen. It looks like it hasn’t been changed since 1932. There’s no microwave, and a very rusty sink, with a stove plopped right in the middle where you might put a cute little table. There are some straw-woven baskets in the cupboard that we put our berries in. They’ve got red checkered pieces of fabric in them so the juice won’t seep through. I love the farm; it’s like going back in time. I run out the door and listen to the comforting slam behind me. Heather is already picking strawberries, huge juicy ripe ones. I can just imagine what they taste like. “Yo, Copper,” I whisper to Heather. She jumps. “I didn’t know you were right there.” “I don’t want you to get all the strawberries before I do. Have you eaten any yet?” “Nope.” I’m not surprised. Heather thinks that if you
Family
Ray of Light
I hiked up the rocky trail that led to the place I knew so well. Tiny drops of rain fell from the dark sky. A cool mist lingered over the ground. The boughs of the elms that had grown over the path brushed my face. Normally, we would have cut the branches back, but now that my grandpa was gone it seemed as though nothing should be disturbed; as if by changing the things around him we would be doing something wrong. Nothing had really been the same again since my grandpa had died. A lot of my friends wondered why my grandpa was so important to me. But they had dads, so for them it was different. My dad had died of cancer when I was two. I don’t remember him. After that, my grandpa had been like a father to me. We did everything together. We went swimming, fishing and to Saturday night movies. But the place I liked best was where I was going now. Our farm was the most awesome place ever. We called it “our” farm because, as he said, it was my farm too. It wasn’t a real farm at all. We had farmers for neighbors, but our farm was a piece of wilderness. It was acres of bush and forests, with our cabin, gardens and yard at one edge. We had built trails all over the place, but since the only way we could possibly maintain them was to walk them regularly, and since my grandpa wasn’t here anymore, that didn’t happen. I turned the bend in the path and a beautiful sight met my eyes This was my first time up here for a while. My mom had been bugging me for months to come up. I was afraid it would evoke painful memories. Memories of hot summer days when we would cool off in the swimming hole, laughing and talking. Memories of planting my grandpa’s massive flower gardens. He had bed after bed of hollyhocks, peonies, delphiniums, lilies, phlox, hostas, lilacs, rhododendrons, asters, daisies and probably every type of flower that would grow in our climate. Memories of hiking our trails, cooking in our kitchen and most of all, just being with him. But finally I decided to go. I was half right. The whole place screamed “Grandpa!” at me. Every step along that trail I took I remembered something else about him. I was fondly thinking of him, and then I remembered that he would never be able to enjoy the pastimes that he loved so much again. These bittersweet thoughts filled my head as I crunched my way past the cranberry bushes, the pond and finally the big hill we used to ski down. It was a very steep climb up to the top. As I was reaching the top I realized the rain had stopped. I turned the bend in the path and a beautiful sight met my eyes. A single magnolia tree grew in the clearing, ahead. It was now in full flower, its lovely pink blossoms beautifully unfurled and shining in the ray of light that had pierced the darkness. The storm clouds of sorrow were rolled away and a beautiful rainbow was let down from the heavens. It shined brightly and I could feel my grandpa telling me everything would be all right. And now, I was quite sure he was right. Cameron Mckeich, 11Newmarket, Ontario, Canada Aaron Michael Phillips, 12Phayao, Thailand
Bingo!
Swissh! Ed was playing basketball on the slab, a super-smooth playground on the campus of Country Day, his school. In the coolness of the evening the asphalt felt oddly warm beneath Ed’s bare feet. He was playing with his best friend Dave, and he had just scored a two-pointer while Dave was blocking him. “In your eye!” Ed screamed. Just as Ed noticed it was getting dark, his mom yelled, “Come on up, boys, dinner is starting, and we have to eat before bingo.” Ed felt free of school rules as he walked over to his shoes that he had kicked aside earlier, and thought about Mr. Gonzalez as he put them back on. Mr. Gonzalez was the headmaster and had an uncanny way of getting Ed into trouble when he had the chance. Like that time when he had yelled at the boys for swinging on the swings loudly during a school play. Geez, some people . . . The boys raced up to the Pavilion and, as always, Dave, who was six months older, won. They bought bingo cards, ate their spaghetti dinner like wolves, threw a couple of croutons and got ready to play by clearing their cards. The Pavilion, a hilltop pentagonal building, looked like an anthill. People were walking every which way, babies were screaming, not to mention girls. The corrugated galvanized roof reflected the sounds so that it sounded as if all the four-year-olds in the universe were reciting the alphabet in their own different languages. The microphone was now being adjusted by the announcer and it made a noise that made Ed’s ears beg for mercy. People were walking every which way, babies were screaming, not to mention girls Ed played the first few rounds but did not win. These rounds were regular bingo (five in a row) and had boring prizes, such as sea-life books and an art kit. After those, both the rounds and the prizes got more interesting. Twenty-five dollar gift certificates, a blow-up soccer goal and thirty dollars worth of food at a good Chinese restaurant. Dave won a prize from one of these rounds, a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to a place in town that he had never heard of before, Royal Poinciana. He was worried that he would not like his prize, but he was reassured by Ed’s mom. “It’s a cool place Dave, kind of like Lamuria.” Ed’s head was a kaleidoscope of emotions. One part of his mind was happy for his best friend, but the other half was almost jealous that the winner had not been him. This also made him determined to win another game. After a few more empty-handed rounds and the same kind of prizes, Ed was ready to play for the big prize, the air-hockey table. Ed’s hands started to sweat and he felt like he had eaten some live guinea pigs that were currently hopping about in his stomach. By the time the final round started, Ed was mumbling things like “guinea pig” and “flying monkeys” to comfort himself. A sudden hair-raising creeaagch indicated the starting of the final round. “This round will be blackout bingo for the air-hockey table.” Straining, the announcer lifted up the hockey table to show the prize. The first number called was B-12. That was good because Ed had that one on both cards. The numbers kept streaming out of the announcer’s mouth. On occasion, the announcer would say something like “hill . . .” and a few of the girls would hopefully scream numbers like 25 or 27 but the announcer would prove them wrong with an I-21. You could feel the tension in the air. As the game progressed the crowd would exclaim “YES!” or “NO!” depending on if they had the number called on their cards. Ed had only two left, O-64 and B-14. The next number called was Oooo . . . “64” a girl cried, “65” another called out. Ed’s hopes skyrocketed. “Oooo . . . 70,” called the announcer. The crowd was a sea of “YES!” and “NO!” The next number, Beeeeee . . . “4! 14! 5!” cried the crowd in hopes to convince the caller. “Beeeee . . . 14,” called the announcer. The sounds from the crowd, “Yes!” “Joy,” Ed added. “NO!” from the back and then from the left front corner the dreaded sound came—”BINGO!” Then there were several “No’s” and imitation crying. Ed’s head dropped. He had lost to an old lady. What was she going to do with the hockey table that he had wanted? Ed left the building and went to the car. He felt terrible; he had lost by one square, just one! The world was closing in on him as they drove Dave home. Ed just couldn’t get it off his mind. One square left! Thinking about it made him feel as sick as that time he drank Listerine. Even though Ed knew it would make him feel worse, he snuggled up into the seat, and when Dave said good-bye he pretended he was asleep. Finally the family arrived home. Ed forgot to brush his teeth and went directly to bed. His stomach ached. He hoped he’d feel better in the morning. Simon Hatfield, 12St. Croix, U.S.Virgin Islands Jackson A. Harris, 9Tampa, Florida
