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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13

Family


By

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


By

Wordless

She ponders what to guess, finger tapping her chin. “Bear with glasses? Harry Potter?” I cannot speak today. Instead, I must act out every word in charades or write it down on a pad of paper. I carry the pad of paper around with me, scraps of my life written down in faint pencil. “I already had breakfast,” says one. Another: “Daddy’s at the grocery store.” And, written heavily in big letters at the top of the page, “I have a sore throat.” I meander upstairs and turn towards the chair in the corner of the family room, thinking of the old National Geographic magazines stashed on top of the guidebooks piled behind the plump flower-patterned chair. Cassandra, my older sister, is camped out on the red couch, computer open on her lap, homework spread around her in a private whirlwind. Homework. On a Saturday. I nod to her as I pass, silently hoping to never have this much homework in high school. “Hi, Grace,” she responds. Then, seeing my mopey expression, “What’s wrong?” I hold up my pad of paper so that she can clearly see the bold letters at the top of the page. “Oh. Sorry,” Cassandra says. “Hurt a lot?” I nod vigorously and make my way over to the chair. I sink into it and grab a National Geographic magazine at random from behind me, fingers gently brushing against the spines of the guidebooks. I sink into the chair and begin to read, skimming lazily. I finish one magazine, then another. I’m aware of the time passing, aware that perhaps Daddy should be home by now. I reach over and tap Cassandra’s foot. She looks up, her fingers pausing in their incessant typing. “Yes, Grace?” she says irritably. I stand on tiptoes, fingers pointing toward the sky as I look down at Cassandra, my brow furrowed. She hands me my pad of paper, and I wave it away. I want to communicate by charades; I need to see if I can do it. “Bear?” Cassandra guesses. I shake my head no, then run to Daddy’s desk and grab his glasses. Shoving them on my head, I run back to Cassandra. She ponders what to guess, finger tapping her chin. “Bear with glasses? Harry Potter?” I roll my eyes, then resume my pose. I’m getting a headache from the glasses now, but Cassandra has to guess my pose first. I point violently to the glasses, nearly jabbing myself in the eye. “Glasses… Daddy’s glasses…” Cassandra guesses halfheartedly. I nod vigorously. “Daddy’s glasses!” Cassandra yells. I hold up one finger to indicate that I only want the first word. “Daddy!” Cassandra guesses. I nod and tear off the glasses, relieved, then tap my wrist. I’m giggling now, helpless laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. “Watch,” Cassandra says. I shake my head, still giggling, and tap my wrist more urgently. “Time?” she guesses. I nod, giggling, and point to Daddy’s glasses, now lying sideways on the coffee table, then to my wrist. “Daddy… time…” Cassandra says slowly, more unsure. I nod encouragingly, smiling now. Cassandra pauses, and then her eyes light up. “What time will Daddy come home?” I nod and start to giggle again, and soon Cassandra joins in. “I don’t know,” she hiccups. We roar with laughter and fall to the floor, still laughing. I smile at Cassandra as I realize the only language we need is a wordless language of love. Grace Euphrat Weston, 12San Francisco, California Emma T. Capps, 13San Carlos, California


By

Mung Bean Noodles and French Bread

“Here,” my mom shouted in Mandarin over the bubbling of the cooking pot. She lifted her hand and motioned me over. “Hold on to the handle,” she grunted, nodding to the handle of the slowly revolving pot as she stirred with a pair of chopsticks. I chuckled. “I’m guessing that the bottom of the pot isn’t flat?” Mom lifted the pot up ever so slightly and glanced at the convex surface. A stray drop of boiling water dripped from the spatula onto the glass cooktop and sizzled dry. “Affrmative.” I gingerly held the handle while Mom scurried over to the counter and brought back a bowl of fine white powder. I sniffed, and smiled. The evanescent fragrance of mung bean wafted out soothingly. Mom now held the bowl, poised at the cooking pot edge. The boiling water purred below the bowl’s lip. “Ready?” Mom inquired, half teasing, half serious. “Yawp,” I rolled my eyes, but still instinctively blinked as I heard the first dusty sounds of powder sliding on powder, then the wet “plop” of collision between powder and hot water. The burning spray of water that I always half expected never came. Humming one of my piano pieces, Mom went about stirring the cloudy mixture, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she worked. There was a certain comfort in watching the apron-clad figure prepare one of our family’s favorite dishes, accompanied by a Chopin waltz. I thought of the distances love for our family could go “Ouch,” she suddenly gasped. The chopsticks stopped their revolution around the pot’s inside and clattered to a halt on the pot’s rim. Her stirring hand flew up to her mouth, and she quickly sucked on the tiny burn that had been caused by the pop of a bubble of hot mung bean water. “Lemme see,” I clamored, tugging childishly at Mom’s tightly clutched hand. She reluctantly pulled away her hand to reveal a small, teardrop-shaped burn that blushed a rosy pink. Mom carefully extricated her hand. “It’s OK,” she reassured. “It’s not the first time.” I knew that she was in a rush—Dad was coming home from a business meeting in Paris in half an hour, and everything had to be perfect. Still, I thought I could see her wince as she grasped the chopsticks again. Hoping to be helpful, I wandered over to the dish rack and plucked out a large, long-handled bamboo spoon. “Mom, use…” I started. She shook her head automatically. “Stay away from the stove—it’s really hot now, so if the bubble pops, you’re going to get a burn twice as bad as this little blemish,” she nodded at her hand. By now, the cloudy white water had thickened to a paste in the pot. There was the thick thlop! of boiling air bubbles as the sweet-smelling concoction simmered and burped like some sort of Yellowstone mud pot. Mom had, by now, turned off the stove and was rinsing her hands in cold water at the sink. She exhaled slowly and grimaced. It was then that I noticed the odd speckling of pinkish burns along the back of her hands. “Your hands really got burned,” I exclaimed stupidly. She gave me a sideways glare. “Thanks for stating the fact,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “My hands feel much better already.” Mom checked the clock. Twenty minutes, and Dad would be back home. She pressed the surface of the cooling mung bean paste with her hand. I half expected her fingers to sink into the agonizingly hot starch, but her knuckles merely brushed the translucent surface. The paste quivered slightly, like Jell-O, but held firm. Lifting the pot up slowly, Mom pried the block of paste out with a pair of chopsticks and let the pot-shaped block relax into a plastic bowl. As usual, I was amazed. The bottom of the pot looked as if nobody had used it in the first place, and the curved surface of the paste block was flawlessly smooth. Mom smiled at her handiwork. “Beautiful,” she finally decided. I contented myself with sitting at one of the bar stools by the counter, listening to the muffled tapping of Mom’s knife slicing easily through the soft gel and meeting the solidity of the cutting board. I half dozed, listening to the soft tap-tap of the knife, the rustle of the tree leaves outside, and the sound of a car motor. My eyes shot open. A car motor? I raced through the living room to a front window, where the already raised blinds revealed the sight of a large, black Lincoln Town Car that squatted in the driveway. “Mo-om!” I screamed. “Dad’s home!” “Greet him for me. I’ve got to season this stuff,” she scowled at the bowl of mung bean starch noodles that she’d cut the block into. Slipping on a pair of sandals, I pelted outside, to where the cab driver was helping Dad unload. Dad stopped and smiled. “Bonjour, mademoiselle?” he laughed and gave me a hug. Once the bags had been put in the shoe room and the taxi driver paid, I turned to Dad. “So, how’s Paris?” “Beautiful place. It’s old, but the atmosphere’s fantastic,” he responded. “You and your mom would love it there.” “How was the food?” I spat out the question that I’d been dying to ask for a week. Dad brightened. “Wonderfully light. Of course, it doesn’t compare to your mother’s cooking. Speaking of which…” He grinned impishly and raised his eyebrows. I stood by, watching, as Mom and Dad hugged and smiled, with Dad rushing back to his suitcase for the gifts he’d brought us. Besides a snow globe and key chain, he set another oblong package down by two bags of French chocolate. “Here, hon. I got something for you that I hope you’ll like. Open it!” It was a command. I opened the package’s carefully folded waxed-paper wrapping and smiled. Dad had brought me a real French baguette. My mind automatically snapped