The bus shrinks in size as it trundles down the tree-lined street Every day, when I arrive home, I step off the bus after chatting loudly with my friends. The bus engine roars, and the passengers’ voices swell, and then the wheels begin to turn. And I watch over my shoulder as I walk up the drive. The bus shrinks in size as it trundles down the tree-lined street. And now, the only things heard are the faint sound of my shoes on the concrete or a squirrel pawing at the ground for an acorn. As I walk up the steps, I fish for the key in my bag, find it, and with a satisfying “click,” open the lock. Once inside my house, I kick off my shoes and put down my bag. I walk towards the kitchen, now dark and empty. With the flip of a switch, the room is flooded with light and the little blue tiles on the wall twinkle. I stand in the middle, surveying my surroundings. At this time, every day, I realize something. I realize that, though I am alone, and all is quiet and still, the world outside still goes on. I can stop and stare at the plastic carrot magnet on the fridge for an hour, seemingly going no where, pausing time and space, but no! Other things happen, the universe progresses, time continues… Ken across the street finishes mowing his lawn and the Mougin girls begin a game of baseball in their front yard. Three blocks away, the pizza place cashier rings up a mushroom slice as a gum ball zigzags through a maze into a child’s hand. Many, many miles away, a little blond pigtailed girl is celebrating her birthday, and an old woman holds her daughter’s hand in a sterile, white hospital ward. An airplane takes flight, another one lands, the president signs a document, and an audience erupts into applause. And yet, all the while, I stand in my quiet little blue-tiled kitchen, the silence enveloping me. And at that moment, I may not be adorned with diamond rings and bracelets, but I am the richest person in the world. Why? Because silence is golden. Aviva Leshaw, 13Teaneck, New Jersey Sarah Jessica Osburn, 12Lindley, New York
Sense-of-Place
Somersault
Our boogie boards went bump-bump-bump over the sand. The tide was high, and the waves were big. Just looking at them made me excited. There weren’t many people out today. Figures. It was two days until s-c-h-o-o-l started, the dry Santa Ana winds blowing in the hazy summer smog. My bathing suit was still sandy and damp from the day before, and oily black tar coated my bare feet. We kept walking. We had to get past the rocks that shredded our feet. The beach wasn’t sandy, or smooth. The stretch of coast was empty, and it was far from popular, being near an oil derrick and beat-up resort. This place was only full in the heat of early August when Malibu was too crowded. The beach had rhythm, personality: the happy loner that dallies; the dreamer that didn’t care what the little blond gang of Barbies thought. I could feel the hot sand through my worn black flip-flops. I started to sprint, eager. My blue Morey board, faded and battered, went bump-bump-bump in my wake. The string that attached to my wrist pulled down a slope to the hard sand, near the green, murky water. It wanted to be in the waves, just like me. I threw my towel down, kicked off my flip-flops. I ran down the beach, feet burning, dodging mounds of fly-ridden seaweed. “Claudia!” my brother called. “Wait!” But then he was sprinting too, his legs matching mine, beat for beat, push for push. We dashed into the waves, a ragged thrill of energy soaring through me. It rose beautifully behind me, forming a perfect crescent Shock. “Jeez, that’s cold!” I said. Bump-bump-bump! my boogie board replied, splashing over the water’s ripples. I waded farther in. Jack and I both gasped as the chilling water reached our necks. We sank in deeper after we’d caught a couple waves. I could just make out a new group of swells on the horizon. Three feet, easy. Good-sized. As they came closer, my Morey slipped out in front of me. Sure, I thought. “You gonna take it?” I asked Jack. “Yeah, think so.” He spun his board around, both of our backs to the wave. It rose beautifully behind me, forming a perfect crescent. I kicked out onto my stomach, and the wave jolted me forward. It all happened so fast: the wave went down with a crash, and my Morey shot out from under me like a man diving from a sinking ship. I was companionless. My stomach took a wrenching flip. Suddenly, covering my head (the one thing I learned from surfing lessons), I spun, some poor servant of the wave. I tried to force myself up, but white water held me hostage. Lungs bursting, I thrust myself upward. Air! I stood, dazed and battered. I felt as if I’d gone through spin cycles in the washing machine. But then my boogie board came floating towards me. Bump-bump-bump! it said. I stared at it for a moment, and then raced back into the waves. Claudia Ross, 12Studio City, California Brynna Ziegler, 12Boalsburg, Pennsylvania
Wisconsin
I enter the old room, and a wave of familiarity washes over me. Nothing ever changes about this room, and I love it. I toss my backpack down and flop onto the silky smooth comforter of my bed, allowing myself to be immersed in the feeling of joy that permeates the room. I lift myself off the bed and walk over to the big sage-green brass-bound trunk. I lift the lid and smile. The unmoving soap boxes sit nestled among each other. I pick up each box individually, handling it with utmost care. One, a small oval that smells like lavender. Another, shaped like a lemon, smells of a delightful citrus. My favorite, the soap bar shaped like the Mad Hatter, with a generic soapy scent. Below the first layer of soaps is a second layer of hotel soaps and many others. Some are shaped like carrots, animals, and rectangles. I close the trunk and sit down on the cream-colored chair, covered with a green floral pattern. The chair is next to a table with an assortment of antique tarnished-silver brushes and combs atop it; each with the owner’s initials engraved in loopy, old-fashioned handwriting. Sitting cozily in the chair I slip my feet out of my shoes and rub them along the bumpy carpet as I pull a book out of my bag to begin reading. I inhale, smelling the beach just down the road, and hear the ducks calling on the lake. Nothing ever changes about this room, and I love it I finish reading, stand up, and look at the white-painted wood bookshelf. I run my hands along its rough surface, looking at the never-changing wedding and new-baby announcements, in addition to the pictures. I pick up each item on the shelves and examine them closely. One of my favorite pictures is a bunch of teenage girls posing in white dresses. It is their faces that draw my gaze. I also glance over the writing and designs on the wedding and baby announcements. I kneel down to look at the dusty old books on the bottom shelf, their faded gold gilt writing beckons to me, asking me to turn the pages that have been still for so long. I do not resist the call. I look out at the sloping lawn and the tall trees that border it. I look at the very top of the lighthouse out on the point, and I feel like I am truly home. Madison Kwasny, 12Truckee, California Amanda Valdovinos, 13Damascus, Oregon
