Of course, she would never be as good a surfer as Miranda Sydney Kalili flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and charged into an oncoming wave. It was a big one, and it swallowed Sydney whole. She felt the cool water engulf her body and sting her eyes, and she accidentally swallowed a mouthful of sea water. She tumbled onto the sandy shore and faced her sister, Miranda. Miranda shook her head. “Sydney, you know I can do better than that.” The sisters waited until a big wave arrived, and this time Miranda ran. Sydney watched her older sister as she jumped into the wave; her sister made it look effortless. Several seconds later, Miranda jogged back to where Sydney was and said, “Bet you can’t do that.” “But… but mine was good, too,” protested Sydney. She was sick of Miranda being better than her at almost everything. Miranda rolled her eyes. “Sydney, if you want to prove yourself, go ahead and do it.” She paused. “Hey, here comes a big one now!” Sydney ran into the wave, but her try was no good. She barely reached the wave before it crashed ashore, but it did knock her over. Sydney did somersaults on the sand and blinked back tears. Miranda was laughing like her sister’s failure was the funniest thing in the world. “Stop it!” cried Sydney. “It was a mistake!” Miranda shook her head. “Sydney, I have way more experience than you. I’ve been doing this since I was, like, four. I’ll always be better than you.” Sydney could not listen anymore. She ran to her house, which wasn’t that far from the beach. Her mom was cooking shrimp with her “special” sauce, which both the sisters knew was just a mixture of soy sauce, ketchup, coconut milk, and a little olive oil. * * * “Aloha, Sydney dear. What’s the rush?” asked Mom as she poured special sauce over the shrimp. Sydney didn’t answer. She ran into the room she and Miranda shared and lay down on her bed. She could hear the door opening, then closing, and she heard her sister’s footsteps. “Mom, is it OK if I enter this surf contest that they’re having tomorrow?” “Yes, Miranda, but…” Her mother was interrupted by Miranda. “Awesome!” Miranda exited, and Sydney came out of her room. Mom eyed her and said, “Sweetie, go play outside before the shrimp is done.” Sydney trudged outside to the shore. As usual, the beach was packed. It was summer vacation, and tourists from all around were visiting Hawaii. Sydney noticed that a large banner was up. It read, “Hibiscus Surfing Contest Tomorrow!” Hibiscus surfing competitions were not just any type of surfing competitions. They were Hibiscus surfing competitions. These competitions were held once a year, and there were many rules in order to enter. You had to be over twelve years old. You had to have been in at least two surfing competitions in your life. You had to have lived in Hawaii for at least four years. You had to own a surfboard… the list goes on and on. Miranda was fourteen years old. She had been in a total of eleven surfing competitions in her life. She, Sydney, and the rest of their family had been living in Hawaii forever—this was where Sydney’s ancestors had come from. And Miranda owned a beautiful surfboard—it was deep purple and had her name on it. Miranda had never been in a Hibiscus surfing competition before. Oke, the lifeguard, noticed Sydney strolling around and called out, “Sydney, Miranda just signed the Hibiscus papers! She will be in the competition! Kela’apopo.” “I heard,” sighed Sydney wearily. “And you’re not happy. Why are you not happy? Kaikua’ana will be in the surfing contest… I would be excited.” “Never mind, Oke,” said Sydney, “why I’m not happy about this.” She strutted away. Miranda was gone now, and Sydney supposed that her mother’s shrimp was done. Sadly, she walked back home. “Aloha and welcome to the seventy-third annual Hibiscus surfing competition! That’s right, friends, this special contest has been going on since 1938—and look how far we’ve come!” These happy words were said by a cheery announcer out of Sydney’s sight. Sydney looked at her sister, who was wearing a light blue water suit and nervously leaning on her personalized surfboard. The announcer continued talking, but Sydney didn’t listen. Before she knew it, Miranda and her surfboard were paddling to a large wave. She rode the wave beautifully. She kept her arms out for balance, not that she needed it. The whole crowd was in awe of her. Sydney turned away. Miranda was showing off again. Of course, she would never be as good a surfer as Miranda. Never. Tears burned her eyes. Just as she was prepared to run back home, she heard a high-pitched shriek and everyone gasped. Sydney turned to where she expected to see Miranda, but her sister was gone. Her purple surfboard was floating on the surface of the water. Instantly, Sydney ran to the ocean. She wasn’t dressed for swimming (she had on a thin cotton tank top and a pair of shorts), but she ran into the water. She didn’t know how deep she was in the water. She didn’t know if people were watching her. All of her thoughts were mixed up in her head like soup. She knew just one thing. She needed to get to her sister. Waves came up and threatened to crash over her, but she swam through them using the trick that Miranda had taught her. Sydney had barely reached her sister’s surfboard when she felt strong, cool arms wrap around her. She squirmed around and saw that they were those of Oke, the lifeguard. Instead of trying to escape from Oke’s strong grip, she cried out, “Kokua! Help! Help!” “It’s OK, Sydney, you’re OK,” Oke said, trying to soothe her. “No, Miranda, Miranda! Help her! Not me, her!” But Sydney’s pleas
Sports
Katie’s League
“This is no place for a girl,” he said. “Go home and play with your dollies” I stood in my backyard, wearing the clothes that I hid from my mama. A T-shirt and jeans, with a baseball cap atop my head. Boy, would Mama scream if she saw me wearing this. But I hate itchy blouses, skirts that are impossible to run in, and dresses that are like both of those combined. I threw my baseball up and caught it in my mitt—both of which I didn’t bother to hide from Mama because she would find out I had them, anyway. My late daddy gave me my baseball. I miss him. He knew about my jeans and T-shirt, but he didn’t tell Mama. He kept all my secrets. I looked at the writing on the baseball, so lovingly and carefully written on. It read: For my Katie. Love you forever. Daddy, 1940 Those few words made this my most prized possession. I was winding up to throw the pitch, when I heard from a few feet away: “Hey Parker, you throw like a girl!” I whirled around to see Billy Archer. Billy Archer had his arms folded across his chest with, I noticed, his baseball mitt on. I didn’t panic when he saw me wearing my clothes I kept secret from Mama. He already knew, but he didn’t tell because he knew I could beat him up. I crossed my arms. “Is that supposed to be an insult?” I asked. “Does it sound like one?” Archer asked. “No,” I told him honestly. “Well, it is one, Parker. I’m heading to baseball tryouts. I would bring you along but they don’t let girls in the league!” Archer teased. “Shut up, Archer. You better get out of here before I give you a bloody nose,” I said. “Oh, all right… but what is that?!” Archer exclaimed, pointing at something behind me. “What?” I asked, turning around. As I turned, I made the foolish mistake of letting my hand with my baseball in it fall to my side. Archer grabbed the ball from my exposed hand. He looked at the inscription. “Aw… you miss your daddy?” he teased. My cheeks burned. “Give it back, you jerk,” I said. “No,” he said, “I’ll take it to the baseball tryouts.” He sprinted off. “Billy Archer, you get back here!” I hopped onto my bike and pedaled after him as fast as I could. He ran a long time, then finally arrived at the shabby baseball field. He ran in. I hopped off my bike and ran after him. I tackled him the minute I got the chance. “Billy Archer, you give me my baseball right now…” I looked up. All the boys trying out for the league were staring at us. The coach, who was in the dugout, watching the boys try out, looked at us. He walked over to us very slowly. It seemed like an hour passed before he got over to us. He took no notice of Archer. He said, “What is a girl”—he scoffed out the word girl, like girls were the most repulsive things he had ever heard of—“doing here?” The way he said girl made me want to spit on his over-shined shoes, but I controlled myself. I stood up with a hand on my hip. I lowered the brim of my baseball cap. “I, sir,” I said, “am here to try out for the baseball team.” While I was here, I figured, why not? The coach laughed as if it was a joke. “I’m serious.” I snapped. That was enough to stop him from laughing, but it couldn’t wipe the stupid grin from his face. “This is no place for a girl,” he said. “Go home and play with your dollies.” Now that crossed the line. I grabbed my ball out of Billy Archer’s limp hand, then stepped on the coach’s toe. Hard. As he reached for his toe, I walked away to my bike. “By the way, I hate dolls,” I informed him, “and this won’t be the last you’ll be hearing from me.” I mounted my bike and rode home. Then I took off my baseball cap and changed into a dress before Mama got home from work at five. She’s a saleswoman at Big Al’s Convenience Store, two blocks from here. It makes a meager salary, but at least we’re still eating three meals a day and keeping all our old luxuries, that’s what Mama says. Mama has blond hair frayed with stress, and blue eyes that aren’t as happy as they used to be when Daddy was alive. “Hi, honey,” said Mama, bending over to kiss me as she walked in. I stood up. “Hi, Mama,” I said, “how was work today?” Mama hesitated, then slowly said, “It was all right.” But I know Mama too well. “Mrs. Archer came to shop today, didn’t she?” I asked. “Yes,” Mama admitted. Mrs. Archer thinks that she is the best person in the world, except maybe her son, Billy. “She came and talked about how her son was going to do great at baseball tryouts, and how she would come to every one of his games because, apparently, she had decided that he had already made it onto the baseball team,” Mama said. “I’m sorry,” I said, “Mrs. Archer’s just… just…” I tried to think of the right insult to describe Mrs. Archer, but I decided that no words could express what she was like. “Just horrible, terrible, and self-centered!” Mama raged. Mama was usually calm, but if one thing could make her mad, it was Jane Archer. “Exactly,” I said, “but the good news is that she probably won’t come to shop again for at least a week.” Mama smiled. “You’re right,” she said, giving me a hug. “Where would I be without you?” The next day, after school, I walked down to the baseball field and looked at the team list for the
An Indescribable Feeling
The finest time to go fishing is at dusk. A hazy fog is settling over the lake, and the sun sits perched just above the crown of the tree line, casting a multitude of soft colors. I prepare myself, sliding slowly into the canoe, balancing myself and making sure not to fall into the crisp dusk waters. Row after row, my paddle breaks the water’s surface and pushes me along. I look to the rear and a long line of small waves glide off the canoe like a halo on an angel. I look to the left and then the right, and all is quiet on the lake. Far off in the woods I can hear twigs being broken under the pressure of another animal’s weight. I look back to the water and spy a tree that has fallen weak and into the water, marking my fishing spot. Foot by foot I steady the canoe closer to the shore. I can see the weed beds through the clear water now, and I know I’m in my territory. I stop for a second and let my head fall back as I admire the beautiful sky. The stars are timidly peeking out from behind the clouds. Soon enough their bodies will glow with light, but not now. I turn my head back to my main intentions: fishing. I slowly reach for my pole, lying parallel on the canoe, and I gently raise the lure to my eye’s level. The knot seems good. I unhook the taut bait for the pole. I hold the pole lower now towards the reel and lift it slowly over my head. I look behind me and the bait dangles on the thin fishing string perpendicular to the pole. I take a deep breath. The finest time to go fishing is at dusk I gently toss my bait towards the shore just before the weed line. I have a popper which floats delicately on the surface of the water until, with a swift pull of my reel, it pops, imitating a frog. I slowly jig the lure closer to the boat. Back to the boat and nothing, but fishing takes patience. Cast. Nothing. Cast. Nothing. Again and again this pattern repeats. This cast is different though, it floats in the air and then lands precisely where I want it, right above the weeds. I start to jig the bait in… nothing bites. I take a breath of frustration. I watch the line calmly sit on the lake, and BAM! The once calm line becomes taut with a gentle pull and there is no doubt that a fish is on. All the patience has now paid off, and there is an almost bubbly feeling deep inside me. Panic sets in. Set the hook, my mind screams. I jerk my pole up and the fish is on. The whole world is spinning now as I reel in the fish. The fish is near the boat and just as tired as I am. One last battle to go. Instinct sets in and my hand plunges into the ice-cold water. I can feel the fish struggling with all its might as my hand wraps around it. I lift the fish and take control of the battle. One final surge and the fish is out of the water. It’s a keeper. This is my favorite feeling in the world. Nothing, absolutely nothing, surpasses this feeling. Ben Hayes, 13Fox Point, Wisconsin Soyi Sarkar, 13Short Hills, New Jersey
