Swish, Swish . . . The repetitive motion of the windshield wipers flicks the tapping droplets to the side. The fog flushes out everything as if someone poured the foam from a soda over San Francisco. Only the tops of the Golden Gate’s 746-foot towers protrude out of the milky sky. Going over the bridge, I see a man. The man is barely visible through the misty window and the thick fog, but visible enough to see him slip on the concrete glazed by the shimmering water. * * * There he was. The radio was on. President Roosevelt was talking to the nation. He loved fireside chats and therefore paid close attention. It was our lunch break, and we were all sitting on one of the big icy-cold beams. The loudspeaker was perched above us. He stopped eating and concentrated on the fuzzy radio transmission. Once Roosevelt said “the New Deal,” he kept eating. Our boss blew the horn and said, “Lunch is over.” We packed up our lunches and put back on our helmets. My brother and I picked up our tool belts, strapped them around our waists, and went back to work. His gentle face didn’t fit the ominous structure looming above us. With one hand he grasped the metal ladder and started to ascend the structure that would one day span from San Francisco to Marin. His weary posture struggled to climb toward the cries of seagulls above. After listening to “The Shadow” all night, his tired body could barely make it. However, he maintained his high spirits and flashed me a smile. His weary posture struggled to climb toward the cries of seagulls above As I looked down, I was thankful to see the safety nets protecting us from the darkened water below. The criss-crossing ropes had saved many of my friends, so I knew I had little to fear. But as my courageous brother reached for a dangling cable, his foot slipped on the steady hold, and he fell forward into those loving nets. I gasped as I saw my brother fall through the chilled wind, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight to follow. After he hit the net, he began to struggle to his feet. But before he could stand upright, a snap echoed through the hills, and I saw my brother plunge into the murderous blue below. My eyes clung to the spot where he had landed on the concrete waters, until the fog swallowed the ripples of my heart. * * * As I finish crossing the bridge, I notice a strip of sunlight piercing through the rainy sky. I look back through my misty windshield and the man is gone. Was he the key to my buried memory? Now the stranger is gone too. Or was he just a reminder? I focus on something, but only the gray looks back. Max Strebel, 13San Francisco, California
Family
The Locket of Lost Love
Melissa’s hand recklessly fumbled in her backpack, reaching past crumpled papers and all the dried-out gel pens. “Hurry up,” the bus driver impatiently snapped, as she stared at the long line of kids. “I haven’t got all day!” “I’m looking for it,” Melissa mumbled, now furiously tossing her notebooks out. Her bus pass was missing, and this meant a lengthy two-mile walk home. “You know I come on the bus every day” she tried, but wasn’t successful. The doors of the bus closed in a hurry She sighed, yet as she put everything back into her midnight backpack, something caught her eye. A shiny gold chain was sticking out of the front pocket, revealing itself daintily. Melissa’s shaking hands reached out to touch its thick, smooth texture. She gingerly pulled it out, glaring nervously at the heart locket in the middle. The paint had chipped off, now just showing the cheap material it was made of. “Mama,” she whispered. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Mellie, happy birthday to you,” the crowd chanted. Presents, presents were everywhere. Some wrapped in bright red, others in huge bows and clown party bags. And the balloons, they were all the colors of the rainbow, dazzling beauties covering the entire ceiling, each with a huge 4 on it. “Mellie?” Melissa jerked, startled by the sound of her name. It was Chloe, with a concerned look on her face. “Whatcha doing here; it’s almost four o’clock!” Melissa opened her mouth to tell the bus pass incident to her friend, but stopped. She saw Chloe curiously looking at the locket in her hand. “You can put it on,” that gentle soothing voice said “It’s nothing,” Melissa anxiously said as she put the necklace in her pocket. “Anyway, I have to get home.” A brisk autumn breeze hit her face as she got up. “See ya tomorrow! Are ya coming to ballet today and . . .” Chloe’s words were drowned out by Melissa’s flashback. Breathing in as much as possible, and then letting it all out, just blowing away the flames on the candles. How much fun that was. Of course, nothing could beat opening presents, so the sweet sound of “Present time!” rang through the air. They then all formed a circle, and each delightful box was passed around. Clowns, yes, clowns. Clowns were on this certain bag, filled with glittery tissue paper. Inside, though, was the best treat. A locket. Melissa continued on walking. A grin slowly formed on her face, as the memory became more and more real. How she longed to go back there, to her fourth birthday party, the time when no one seemed to have a care in the world. Now her heart ached. “Mama,” she whispered, once again. A girl, with curly light brown hair and a surprised smile, and a thirty-year-old woman, with a straw hat and warm, soft eyes, were stored inside the locket. “You can put it on,” that gentle soothing voice said. “Like this.” Then an outburst of giggles exploded through the air. It jumped around the room until each person was absolutely hysterical. The smile faded, and turned into a frown. Just what was so funny? “Oh, Mellie, dear, you look exactly like your mother when she was a little girl, identical, I must say. Your bright, happy face, and beautiful eyes,” an elderly man kindly explained. Melissa, for the second time that day, dug inside her backpack. Finally she found a small pocket mirror and gazed at her reflection. Is that you, Mama? Am I looking at you? Suddenly, her eyes swelled up and tears began to drop, one by one. She just couldn’t help herself. And with a painful resentment, she opened the heart locket. Yes, there it was, a girl, with curly light brown hair and a surprised smile, and a thirty-year-old woman, with a straw hat and warm, soft eyes. Before she knew it, Melissa was on Marshwood Boulevard, and just a few yards from her house. There would be Dad, trying to cook the quickest dinner, while watching ESPN at the same time. He probably would barely hear her walk in and start her homework. * * * The smell of grease awaited Melissa as she stepped inside. “Hey, Mellie. Decided I would order Chinese, OK?” Dad said. “Hmmm . . . is that the Bulls game you have on?” “Nah. It just finished.” Melissa just nodded and started to head upstairs, when her father’s voice stopped her. “What’s in your hand?” he asked, maybe a little louder than he meant. He was staring right into Melissa’s teary eyes, and sensed that something was wrong. “If it is a teacher’s note or something you better just come out and say it ’cause . . .” “No, Dad.” And Melissa opened her hand. “Bye, honey,” that amazing voice said. She stepped out into the lawn and walked down the gravel driveway. “Bye, Mama.” But little did anyone know how true that farewell was. The woman floated into her Volvo and took off. Down the paved street, past the deep wooded area and soon out of sight. A phone call came much later, followed by many others. The house soon became lonely, as everyone, looking quite ghostly, left. What is a hospital? What has happened? And where is Mama? “Is that what I think it is?” Dad exclaimed, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he really was. “She is gone.” Melissa choked on the words, not even believing it herself. She just shook her head. “No, that is where you are wrong.” He took the locket from her hand and opened it up. “She is right here. In the locket of lost love.” Jessica Blanton, 12Old Greenwich, Connecticut Lydia Trottmann, 12Fort Collins, Colorado
Finders, Keepers
I found the box today. It was on the dust-covered shelf in the new room. While I was searching for one of my many misplaced books, I picked up this plain-looking plastic box to set it out of the way. To my astonishment I discovered it was quite heavy. Placing it on my knee, I tugged the lid off and peeked curiously inside. What could it have contained? There they were. Beautiful oddities of every pastel shade were piled onto one another. Curling, twisted, spiky, flat, ruffled, scalloped, and every kind of seashell imaginable was in that mundane box. I ran my fingers along the tops of them. The shells had been my sister’s. She must have left them behind. They brought back a memory to me. * * * One Easter, long before my sister left, our parents decided to go out to a camp called Turkey Hill, so we loaded up the car and drove out. It must have taken us about five hours of driving. We went on and on, until I’m sure every part of me had become numb from sitting so long. Some other people went too. We planned to enjoy the Easter celebrations together. I recall one of my friends going with her parents. Anyway, when we were on the way to the camp in our hideous minivan, my sister and I sketched funny little pictures into a tiny Lisa Frank notebook I had brought. We drew a multitude of things, little cars, planes, and animals. We eventually arrived. Streaked with orange and tinged with shades of brown, the shell was a symphony of colors We pulled onto a long dirt driveway that led to the cabins. As our tires dug in and out of the potholes, a billowing cloud of thick dust rose behind the minivan. All along the road were majestic pine trees that cast shadows over the ferns. We parked in front of the main office building, which was painted brown with peeling biscuit trim around the door and the windows. I was delighted to see a swing set and jungle gym to the left of the coffee-colored building. When we explored the camp later that day, we encountered winding hiking paths that led through fields of bent yellow grass. After walking a distance there was the lake. It reflected a twisted willow tree with long whips of leaves just beginning to unfurl. Pond skimmers zipped across the water causing tiny ripples. It was serene. Our few days at Turkey Hill went much like this: It rained. We played in the mud. It rained more. We went on hikes and consequently caked our shoes with mud. My sister and I had to remove our shoes every time we wished to enter our rooms. A row of twenty-six dilapidated shoes was set outside across the porches of the cabins our group had rented. Somewhere in the middle of these days, between sitting with my sister in the swings behind the cabins, and when we walked around the lake, I found a giant seashell. Strangely, instead of being by the shore of the murky lake, the conch shell was in the grass outside the cabins. I didn’t think about that, but went immediately and showed it around like the proud five-year-old I was. The shell was a creamy shade of pale pink. Its inside was smooth, shiny, and the surface felt like blown glass. The outside of it had once been rough and pointed, but years of enduring the conditions of the ocean floor had rubbed it flat. Streaked with orange and tinged with shades of brown, the shell was a symphony of colors. “It’s mine!” I cried. Two children who had been staying in one of the other cabins demanded to have the seashell that I had found. “We brought it from California!” They squealed like pigs. My parents forced me to give it back to the other kids. I was furious. It wasn’t fair, I thought to myself Why should I have to give it back? They were the ones who had left it in the grass. It was just like the cliche, “Finders, keepers, losers, weepers.” They had lost it and I had found it. It was mine! I gave it back. I glared at them the whole time. I gritted my teeth to keep myself from calling them baboons. Afterwards my sister promised to help me look for another shell around the lake. We searched for a lengthy period of time, but all we discovered were the fragments of clamshells. The rest of the days at Turkey Hill passed gloomily as I thought about the perfect seashell I had found and lost to the reptilian children of cabin six. “‘You can pick any one of these you want, but only one” The day came for us to drive home, and the weather was rainy. Thick cumulus clouds blanketed the sky with insipid gray. Torrents of water cascaded over the car windows. On the front window the squealing windshield wipers kept the water off the window. I sat again with my sister beside me in the back seat of our tan minivan. Another five hours dwindled away before we were home again. When we reached our house she said, “You can pick any one of these you want, but only one.” My sister slid the plain white plastic box from its place on a shelf in her closet and let me choose a shell. I dumped them out onto the carpet and pawed through all of them. They had black frills and purple underbellies. Their undersides shone with iridescence. The small ones resembled barnacles, while another was so white and smooth it felt unnatural. In the end, I did not take one of the huge monstrosities. Instead, I chose a small, curling nautilus with bright stripes running up each of its curves. Although its size was not gigantic and its colors were not bright, it was beautiful. * *
