Every day was a holiday, or so it seemed. You didn’t need decorated trees, fireworks, cakes and candles, or paper hats to celebrate special days, Marty thought. Marty loved her lazy Sunday mornings perched on a high stool in her galley kitchen, eating stacks of buckwheat pancakes dripping in amber syrup, lovingly cooked just the way she liked ’em, crispy brown on the outside and fluffy golden yellow on the inside. Her dad had promised that Sundays were their own special days together and no one would ever interfere. She loved her dad for that and for the myriad of special days he had devoted to her. She savored every one of them. She loved regular Friday-night barbecues on the geranium-lined terrace just as much as the sailing vacations on Martha’s Vineyard that only came each windswept August along with the humidity. Of all her favorite days, her most favorite ones weren’t vacation holidays at all, but ordinary afternoons figure skating at the Frog Pond across from their Beacon Hill brownstone on late wintry afternoons, just as the sun was sinking. The magenta-and- plum sky, reflecting in the shimmering raspberry-blue ice, mixed together like oil pastels to create magical vistas. With the row of cupolas standing guard on the hill, just beyond the iron fence surrounding the Common, the Boston skyline was right out of a medieval fairy-tale picture book. She had become a princess, and her dad her knight in shining armor. With him protecting her heart she felt safe in a world that had slung more than a few arrows at her. Her dad had promised that Sundays were their own special days together Until Jessica arrived. After Mom died, it had been just the two of them. That was nine years ago. She had been almost four years old, then. Dad always said no one could take Mom’s place and Marty knew deep down that she could believe him; he was trustworthy. No one could possibly ever take Mom’s place. Marty still had fuzzy memories of her broad cheerful smile, and floral scent, her sparkly eyes and the polonaises she loved playing on the baby grand. There were signs of her everywhere in the apartment. Dad kept their wedding photo on display on the Steinway in the great room and a bottle of her favorite gardenia scent on his dresser. But Jessica now seemed like a constant interloper. She just showed up one day and never left, sort of like Marmalade, the orangey-red striped tabby who arrived on their doorstep in a blizzard and adopted the modest-sized family on the spot. She had unabashedly come knocking at the door in need of a cozy home and constant scratching behind her ear, and Marty had been overly eager to pamper her. Now she owned the place. Jessica in a similar way had wedged herself in. Jessica had been sent over by her dad’s publisher. He was an experienced writer and she a young aspiring editor who wanted to throw herself into her work—and Marty’s world, brimming with rainbows. * * * Marty looked down at the carefully scripted aqua “J” intertwined with “S” for Sinclair on the back of the envelope that held the engraved wedding invitation. It sat royally now on the mahogany sideboard biding its time. Sinclair Roberts. Ever since she could remember, she envisioned that one day she would grow up and leave the nest first, not the other way around. Marty Roberts. Although everyone mistook her for a boy, with her short cropped fiery red hair, and a uniform of cutoffs and perennial rocker T-shirts, she thought she would be the one to break up the pair eventually as she sped off to an all-girls’ college or maybe even—marriage to her own Prince Charming. Never in her wildest fantasies did she think her dad would be the one to break up the duo. But Jessica had other plans and dreams for herself, which selfishly included Dad. Marty gasped for air. Suddenly, she felt all her memories and her future slipping out from under her like quicksand. Her happiest days were behind her for certain. “Honey, come in here.” It was Dad, chirping from the living room with all the brightness of a spring robin. “We need you!” I wonder, Marty pondered skeptically. When Marty entered the large sunlit brick front room with the sheer muslin curtains, Dad and Jessie were hand-in-hand on their favorite spots on the couch. Marmalade was spread out across Dad’s lap, licking one paw, enjoying a mid-morning bath. Why was it Marmalade had no trouble staking her rightful claim to him, when she had so much difficulty? Marty smiled at the placid feline, which resembled a carefree dust rag in an indulgent pose. She wasn’t going to be displaced from her castle—by anyone. Marmalade purred contentedly. “Marty, which of these party favors do you like best?” Jessica pointed to a glossy brochure, one of several opened before the blissful couple. “Your dad likes these miniature porcelain swans filled with pastel butter mints. But they seem so old-fashioned to me. I need your help. I like these Belgian-chocolate swans in colorful tinfoil.” Both looked hideous to Marty. Marty searched for a diplomatic answer. She would prefer neither. She would prefer that Jessica go away and that there would be no wedding, but that wasn’t a choice the pair of entangled arms and hearts had given her. Marty could see why her dad liked Jessica. She wasn’t a stunning beauty. She was more the “girl next door.” Pretty and nice enough. Jessica continued to carry on a dialogue to fill the void. “Are you OK with the wedding, Marty? Do you want us to wait until you graduate from eighth grade next summer? We can wait, you know. I realize it’s just been you and your dad for some time. If you need more time to get used to the idea, we can give you all the time you need.” Her
Family
A Special Kind of Family
Our car trundled along a dusty gravel road one day in the middle of July. I stared out the window at the clouds of dry dirt that billowed from beneath our tires, picturing what our car must look like from the outside. Aside from the layer of dust covering it, our big red Subaru looked completely normal. With two kids in the back seat and a trunk filled with towels, bags, and blow-up water toys, our car was the image of an ideal family headed off for a fun summer day. I sighed. I wonder what it would be like to have a normal family. How different would life be if Aaron were an average ten-year-old boy? I pondered. I knew that if anyone looked past our car and surveyed the people within, they would not find an ideal family. They would see that my younger brother has autism. They would see that, at age ten, he can’t do certain simple things like dress himself, read, or talk in full sentences. And they would see how much Aaron’s special needs keep our family from being perfectly normal. After a few more miles, our car crunched to a stop in a dusty parking lot, and my train of thought was interrupted as I climbed out of the hot back seat. I was relieved to be back at the lake that my family travels to every summer for a day of swimming. It looked just as I remembered it, a small green lake nestled into a wooded hillside. I inhaled the spicy scents of sagebrush and pine, wafting from the central Oregon vegetation. As I exhaled, glad to be back in this beautiful setting, thoughts of my family’s imperfections were momentarily wiped from my mind. Emerging from the car behind me, Aaron let out a joyful yell, exclaiming “Oh! Oh yes!!!” He then picked up a nearby stick and attempted to hit a pinecone with it, pretending to play baseball. He associates baseball with happiness and does not hesitate to grab a makeshift ball and bat whenever he is pleased. Embarrassed with his behavior, I grabbed my towel and ran down to the rocky lakeshore. I immediately plunged into the chilly water, frolicking around and shouting that everyone should hurry up. It was a sweltering day, and the lake was dotted with other swimmers, many in the vicinity staring at Aaron, who was still playing “baseball.” Upon reaching the point where ripples of water lapped up against the pebbly ground, my dad plodded slowly in, punctuating each step with a loud “Ow!” as the icy water made contact with his skin. Aaron tried to run right in but forgot to take off his shoes, shirt, and glasses. After my mom removed them, he proceeded with painstaking care until, with an enormous splash, he lost his footing and fell chest-deep in water. Finally my mom, who has a notoriously low tolerance for cold water, screwed up her courage and dove under. We took off swimming—Aaron swims with a peculiar dog paddle—until we reached the very heart of the lake, where huge white driftwood logs floated and provided nature’s best toy. I pulled myself up onto one, noticing how pale and eerie my feet looked as they kicked a few feet below the surface. Aaron struggled for a moment to pull himself up on the log, the difficulty of this simple action reminding me how much his disability affects his coordination. I took pity on him and helped hoist him up. I had just spent the last hour completely enjoying my family just the way we are Exhausted from his efforts, Aaron collapsed on the log and pushed his sopping brown hair out of his eyes. Suddenly remembering last year, he exclaimed, “Jump!” Upon his command, I sprang off the slippery wood and dove into the water, causing the log to rock and create a sea of ripples. Following my example, my mom jumped off, and my dad helped Aaron to fall off the log in an uncoordinated dive. After dozens of crazy, log-rocking, water-spraying jumps, many involving disastrous attempts at cannonball contests and synchronized diving, we finally took a rest. My mom stretched out on the sunlit log, and my dad sat next to her. We were all lost in the moment, a whirl of happiness and fun that warmed us as much as the late afternoon sun did. Aaron, perched a few feet down the log, patted the wet patch of wood beside him, smiling proudly as though he offered the coziest chair in the world. “Sit! Come sit!” he invited me. I climbed closer to him, and together we sat. My feet dangled in the cool green water and I listened contentedly to the buzzing of millions of pine needles tingling in the forest. My nose took in the wilderness-like, sunny smell of the set- ting. We were just a family sitting on a log in the middle of a lake. My family. And in a dawn of realization, it occurred to me that I had just spent the last hour completely enjoying my family just the way we are. Anyone looking on wouldn’t think about how strange and different Aaron is. They would have seen how happy we were, they would have been caught up in the joy and fun we had been radiating. It seemed to me in that moment that nothing, not even perfection, could match the happiness, spontaneity, and love that makes my family unique. Overcome by my new thoughts, I scooted even closer to my brother, and together we gazed at our reflections in the green lake. The image of our smiling faces was bent a little by the water, but the imperfection made us look all the better. Emily Boring, 13Salem, Oregon Hannah Phillips, 12Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Sisters
OUR MAGICAL ISLAND “Hey, Cam,” MaCall whispered, nudging me in the side to wake up. “What?” I asked groggily, peeling one eye open. “What time is it?” “Midnight,” MaCall grinned. I groaned. “I got some M&Ms from the vending machine at gymnastics. Do you want to share them with me on a magical island?” MaCall asked excitedly. “Huh?” I moaned. “A magical island—the roof!” MaCall whispered, her green eyes lighting up. “Now go get these jeans and tennis shoes on—I don’t want you to get hurt in case you fall off!” MaCall urged, thrusting clothes at me. Yawning, I pulled them on. “Put this belt on too,” MaCall commanded, handing me a pink sparkly belt. “I’m also wearing one. We’ll attach another one between us so we can be like mountain climbers,” MaCall explained, hurriedly tying my belt while she double-knotted hers. “Uh… shouldn’t we tie mine tighter?” I asked, looking doubtfully at my mountain-climbing getup. “Don’t worry about it. You’re lighter than I am,” MaCall sniffed, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder. “Wait. Let me just make sure Mom and Dad are asleep. You stay here.” MaCall, I don’t feel like I’m on a magical island” MaCall tiptoed over to our parents’ room and placed her ear to the door as I sat there fuming. MaCall thinks she’s stealthier than I am, but the truth is, she’s downright noisy. Every time we sneak downstairs to “get a glass of water,” (i.e., eat ice cream and watch our favorite latenight TV show), she either creaks every stair or topples down the whole flight with a giant BANG that would wake the dead. Well I guess the last thing is kind of my fault. I kind of advised her that the faster you move, the quieter you go, but now I see it depends on who’s going. “Definitely snoring,” MaCall announced cheerfully, beckoning for me to follow her. “Well Cam, are you ready?” she asked, quietly opening her bedroom window. (It’s the only one in the house with a removable screen.) “Yes,” I snorted with all the pride an eight-year-old could muster. “Yo. Don’t snort at me like that. I’m thirteen years old. You’re lucky I’m bringing you on this adventure!” MaCall whispered, looking all offended. MaCall pushed me out the window and onto the wood-shingled roof that slanted below it. “Ouch, MaCall!” I screeched, trying to pry the splinter out of my hand. “Now stay there, I’m coming out!” MaCall announced. Two seconds later, she had plopped down beside me. “Whoops!” she cried as she almost slipped on a loose shingle. “If Dad knew about this, he would be so mad!” MaCall said, calmly ripping open her bag of M&Ms and pouring them into her mouth. “Oh yeah. Here,” she said, handing me one brown M&M. “Oh gee, thanks,” I said, crunching down my one M&M. “You’re welcome!” MaCall said cheerfully, silently enjoying her bag of M&Ms. To tell you the truth, I was getting a bit bored. “Do you have any more candy?” I asked hopefully. “I’m not a vending machine,” MaCall said dryly. “MaCall, can we go back now?” I asked hopefully. “No.” A car’s headlights suddenly shone against our house. “Duck!” MaCall screeched, diving to hide her head between her arms. Personally, I don’t think it helped much. I looked at my sister and sighed. “MaCall, I don’t feel like I’m on a magical island. I feel like I’m watching you eat M&Ms,” I moaned, watching her scarf down the last one. “What? You mean you’re not at this very moment burying your toes in hot sizzling sand as the sun sinks into the sea?” MaCall whispered, closing her eyes and sprawling back on the splintery shingles with a contented sigh. “No.” “Well then… use your imagination!” MaCall screeched, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Do you think Mom and Dad heard that?” “Yes,” I whispered, closing my eyes and grinning. “Even a deaf person would.” “Huh. Then maybe we should go back now,” MaCall said hurriedly, scrambling to her feet. “Wouldn’t want to get grounded for the next 300 years.” MaCall reached out a hand to me and looked at me with mischief in her bright green eyes. I reached out my hand to clasp hers, and at that moment, I knew she was my sister. * * * MY SISTER THE SPY “Hey, Cam, guess what?” MaCall giggled. “What?” I groaned, knowing this meant trouble. “I made us these files for our ‘agency,’” MaCall chirped, slapping down a manila folder with a mysterious number 52 on it. “Did you steal these from Dad’s office?” I asked, looking at them suspiciously. “Yeah, well that is not the topic,” MaCall said breezily. “The topic is that we are starting our own spy agency.” “Oh.” “Aren’t you excited?” MaCall breathed, her eyes practically popping out of her head. “Uh, the thing is, MaCall… whenever we do something together, I usually get in trouble.” MaCall looked offended. “Name five times that happened.” “Well, there was that one time that you convinced me to eat candy on the roof with you because it was a magical island and then dad found the wrappers when he was hanging the Christmas lights.” “Umm—that’s one,” MaCall shrugged in disgust. “And then there was the time you hid your stray cat in my closet and Dad thought it was my cat.” “Well…” MaCall hemmed. “…after which Dad made us knock on every door in the neighborhood to ask if they had lost a cat—which was really embarrassing.” “That was last year,” MaCall said, rolling her eyes. “And then you’re always making me play Naiads… ” I began. “I object to the word ‘always,’” MaCall interrupted. “Dad yelled at us for three hours for that!” “It’s not every day you can pretend you’re a water nymph and steal your little brothers’ souls,” MaCall said smugly. “Also, just recently you gave me five dollars to buy you a drink and a
