It has been three years since she, my one and only best friend, left, and I am dying to see her. She had lived down the street and I had known her forever. I have vivid memories of her room: clothes strewn all over, hanging on chairs, underneath her bed, and piled on her desk. Play horses with broken legs and unruly manes were stationed in miniature barns, on her dresser, and on her comforter. The sun would glow through the lacy curtains onto her bed, which was usually not made. The two dressers, which were placed against the wall, were piled high with papers, toys, and other odds and ends. She would always have to clean it before she played with me, so if I wanted to start playing soon, I’d help her stuff all her things underneath her bed, then we would take everything back out to find what we wanted to play with. Or we would take out a game like Monopoly and litter the floor again. If I didn’t help her, I’d end up waiting for a call back all day, and finally, at 5:00 PM, I’d find out she finally finished, but by then it was too late. These memories have plagued my thoughts over and over. All I think about is Hannah and her family in England. I sometimes start to imagine what her huge house looks like, what her yard looks like, and especially about her. I wonder if she keeps her room clean now, if she still yells at her siblings when they barge unexpectedly into her room, or if she still lingers while doing her work. Maybe she has improved her spelling since writing the word “mountain” six times repeatedly incorrectly, and spelled differently each time! Maybe . . . oh well, it is not worth thinking about if I can’t go and see her. Believe me, I’ve been there! We would take out a game of Monopoly and litter the floor again It started a year after she left. I greatly missed her, and could never stop thinking about her, especially when I received lengthy letters from her, or when she wrote me via the Internet to tell me how she was doing. She had tried to describe her house, but it was too big and elaborate to explain. I started to long to see her again. I begged (on my hands and knees of course) my parents to let me go, but I was “too young,” “it is too dangerous,” “it is such a long journey,” “it’s too expensive.” All of these and more were the excuses I received until I had had enough. Yelling at my parents, I screamed, “It’s my best friend. I haven’t seen her in so long and you expect me to do that without a fight? Without an argument until I win?!?!” My parents responded, “We have told you why. Maybe she can visit.” “But you don’t understand,” I whined, “this is my best friend. I have seen her almost every day since I was four, but now that record has been broken because she moved and I can’t even visit.” “Well, you’ll never visit with that attitude. Go to your room and cool down.” And I reluctantly trudged up to my room. Later, once I’d been in my room for a while, I heard a soft knock on the door. I called, “Come in.” In walked my solemn-faced dad. He walked over to my bed and sat down next to me; then he waited for me to start. I said, “Hi.” He answered, “Hi. Would you like to talk about this long trip you have been dreaming of for months?” “I guess so,” I answered reluctantly (what else could I say?). “I really want to see Hannah. I haven’t seen her for so long, and I only get to talk to her on the phone once in a while, and when we do get to talk, it’s about worthless things, since we don’t know what to talk about.” “I understand,” was the surprising answer. “I really want to go there too. Maybe we can plan a trip there for the whole family. While we’re there, we could also see Darby and Brittany (our cousins who also live in England).” “Really?” I started to get excited now. A trip on the plane with my whole family would be much better than flying by myself like I had planned. “Yes, I think we could try that. We just have to wait until the right time to ask your mom. Until then, we’ll just hint every once in a while. Sound good?” “Sounds very good. Just hint, got it!” And ever since, I’ve been waiting for the right time. Of course I still miss Hannah a whole bunch, but I am content to wait until the perfect time . . . Kristen Martin, 12Herndon, Virginia Hannah LeVasseur, 12West Chester. Pennsylvania
Friendship
Yellow Rose
My name is Yellow Rose. My dad says my mama loved that name, because it reminded her of sunshine and cheerful gardens. I love it too, but Dad says you simply can’t go around saying, “Good day, Yellow Rose,” or “How are you, Yellow Rose,” or “What do you want for breakfast, Yellow Rose,” so everybody calls me just Rose. My mama wouldn’t like that at all. She’d say, “That’s my baby’s name, and we’re going to sing it from the hilltops, no matter what people say,” but Mama isn’t here anymore. One day she was just gone. I was only three. I came to Dad in paint-stained overalls and lopsided pigtails, clutching Little Rose. I sat straight on his lap and said, “Where’s Mama?” I traced patterns on my dad’s jeans. The fabric was rough but also soft under my tiny fingertips. I traced bunnies, castles, and crowns—all the things that made me think of Mama’s warm smile. I hugged Little Rose. Mama made her for me with a needle and thread. She was soft like a pillow and wore a yellow dress with buttons down the front. Finally, the silence was too much for me. I turned around in his lap, ready to shout, but I stopped dead at the look in his eyes. It was so intense, my heart started to swell like a balloon ready to pop. “Daddy?” I asked in an unsure voice. “Where’s Mama?” My dad refocused his distant eyes on me. They swirled with so many emotions, it made my head swim. “Answer me, Daddy,” I demanded. “Daddy?” I asked in an unsure voice. “Where’s Mama?” “She’s with the angels, hon.” He laughed delicately. I let out a sigh of relief. I believed in magic back then. “The angels will take care of Mama. They’ll fetch her chamomile tea with two extra sugar cubes, just like she likes. They’ll let her nap on the clouds and maybe they’ll give her a pet to bring home to me!” My dad smiled at me. He knew my dream was to have a dog. “Mama will stay up there, but the angels told me to tell you that when you look for her, look here.” He patted his chest right where his heart pumped away. Then he slid me off his lap and went into his bedroom, closing the door with a loud creak. For a moment, it was just me and the summer sounds—the birds chirping, the leaves rustling, the faint sound of a barking dog. I got up and walked to the freezer. I opened the heavy drawer and pulled out a tangerine popsicle. I took a lick. Instead of tasting big, salty tears, I tasted its tangy sweetness. I was too young to realize Mama was dead. * * * EIGHT YEARS LATER Our car pulls into the driveway. When I get out, I sigh. I’m happy to be home. I had missed the faded blue paint that was chipping from age and the flower pots that decorated the front porch. The wind chimes tinkle their welcome. We have just gotten back from my grandmother’s house. It isn’t like our house, which makes me think of ocean cliffs. Her house is dull brown, without a speck of personality and nothing but spotless pieces of Victorian furniture. “How does it feel to be home, Rose?” Dad asks, holding out my backpack. I look at him. Dad and I aren’t close. We barely talk, and our conversations are always awkward. “Fine,” I say after a long pause. My dad nods. Then we just stand there, letting the wind tousle our hair. The breeze is heavy with moisture. I inhale and taste the coming rain. “Go inside, Rose,” Dad says, tossing me the house key. The key flies past me, so I turn around to retrieve it. Before I pick it up, I see a girl waving at me from across the street. She’s barefoot, and her hair is long, red, and rippling in the wind. I see her parents stacking boxes in their open garage. The “For Sale” sign I had gotten used to is missing. “Hey!” the girl shouts at me. My fingers snatch the house key, and I run inside, before she can cross the street. I slam the front door and kick off my shoes. The floor is icy as I cross to my bedroom. Just before I make my retreat, I see my father outside the window. He’s staring at the door I just ran through, looking sad. I feel a pang of guilt. He must think I ran from him, even though I was really running from the redheaded girl. My eyes travel to her. She’s staring at my house, slightly confused. Her blue eyes are glimmering. They stand out in the gloom, like two sapphires. Now, I feel so guilty that I want to run outside and apologize. I could shout it to the world, and maybe a piece of sunshine would appear from behind the clouds. My thought is trampled by my dad’s high-heel-loving, auburn-haired girlfriend, running across the lawn to him on her cloud of bliss. She throws her arms around his neck, and I watch him laugh soundlessly through the glass. I bite my cheek before slamming my bedroom door so hard the windows rattle. I definitely don’t feel guilty anymore. * * * The next day, my dad’s girlfriend comes into my bedroom, carrying a cheap, plastic tray with steaming pancakes on top. I glance up from my magazine, then down at the tray. The pancakes look slightly crisp, and they are covered in some kind of berry sauce. My mouth waters. “Hello, Rose,” Susan says, putting the tray down on my bed. I just stare at her, refusing to speak. I can tell she is nervous, because her hands shake as she twirls them through her hair. Finally, after I unsuccessfully will her to leave by boring my eyes into hers, she sits
Rescue
It was the first day at my new school. I was excited and nervous. I am the first in my family ever to go to a Gymnasium (a German secondary school for grades 5 through 13, preparing for university entrance). Frau Heintz, the homeroom teacher for class 5b, was calling the roll. “Andreas Ludowsky?” “Here!” a thin boy with thick curly hair whom I didn’t know answered. His name began with an L. That meant my name would be coming soon. I began to think wildly, Please don’t call me, forget me, skip my name. But it didn’t help. Frau Heintz called, “Sieglinde Steinbrecher?” “Here,” I whispered barely audibly. But she hadn’t heard me. “I said Sieglinde Steinbrecher! Where is she?” This time I spoke a bit louder. “I’m here.” I couldn’t help sounding a bit whiny. Some other kids laughed. How I wished that I had a more modern name, like Daniela or Ann-Katrin. Why was I stuck with such an old-fashioned name? But at least the worst was over. The roll call had gone better this time than in elementary school, where everybody had repeated my name over and over again and had kept saying how stupid it was. I had just leaned back when I heard a voice behind me I knew only too well. Sabine von der Heide, my worst enemy. She’d been at my old school as well. “Hey, it’s Oma. Grandmother is in our class again!” she was saying to her best friend Birgit. “We’ll have some fun with her. In fact, we can start right now!” The next thing I knew, somebody had pulled the long braid hanging down my back. I turned around, even though I knew who had done it. Sabine sat there, with her fake, sweet, innocent smile. “Why, Grannie dear, how are you? What big teeth you have!” she said. Birgit could hardly contain herself with laughing. She looked like she was going to burst. I also thought I was going to burst with anger. I had to keep it in, but I couldn’t. I could feel my face getting hot, in a moment I would scream at that stupid girl, when . . . “We’ll have some fun with her. In fact, we can start right now!” “Sabine von der Heide? I repeat, Sabine von der Heide?” Frau Heintz was still calling the roll, and now it was Sabine’s turn. She hadn’t noticed it while she’d been annoying me. She raised her hand, looking very embarrassed at having missed her name. I couldn’t help grinning a little; it felt like I had paid her back. But I knew it was going to be a hard year. Just like all the other years since first grade. That was the first time I had ever been in a class with Sabine. Already then she had noticed I was a good teasing victim. That’s also when she had started calling me Oma. As we’d gotten older, Sabine had teased me about other things as well. I wore old-fashioned clothes, not Calvin Klein jeans or Gap clothes like her. She talked a lot about boys and pop stars. That didn’t interest me at all. I preferred reading books. I was sure that all the kids at this school were snobs who had parents that were doctors or professors and earned loads of money. My mother was a supermarket cashier who barely earned enough to raise her three daughters. And I was right about the hard year. Every day at recess Sabine, Birgit and their other friends would pull my hair and tease me. They stuck their feet out when I walked by their desks so I would trip. One time, Sabine grabbed my worn leather satchel and started throwing it across the room to Birgit. Moments later it was flying around the classroom. Even kids who usually left me alone were joining in the fun. I felt miserable. There was nothing I could do but wait till the teacher came. Or until they got tired of it. If I tried to snatch my bag back, they threw it around even more. Or they laughed at me during P.E., when I couldn’t run fast enough or wasn’t able to make a basket. At home, nobody really cared that I was unhappy. My mom was too busy taking care of my little sisters. And as for my father, well he’d left us when I was only six, just before my youngest sister was born. The one time I had asked my mother for help in first grade she’d answered, while she changed the baby’s diapers, “You can’t run to me every time a little thing goes wrong at school. You’re a smart girl! Stand up for yourself! Deal with it. The others will grow up sooner or later. Then they’ll leave you alone.” I’d hoped that would happen. For four long years I’d hoped. Sometimes I’d even wished something bad would happen to me, that I would break my leg, or get really sick, so that everyone who teased me would feel sorry. Or that I’d come to school and find that everyone was friendly and would apologize for the mean things they’d done. I’d really believed things would be better at my new school. But they weren’t. Nothing ever changed. And it looked like they never would. This was how I was feeling when Alison arrived. The weather had become cold and wet. Every morning I bundled up in my old thick brown coat and braved the wind. I think it was a Friday, because I remember thinking, as I battled the stormy weather, that very soon it would be the weekend, when I could stay home, relax and finish my library book, Robinson Crusoe. I could be alone on my island before Monday and the terrors of school began again. I reached school, and pushed open the heavy door. Thankfully, I stepped inside. At least in here it was warm and