It can’t get much better than this Snow blindfolded the ground, warning it not to peek. Spring was here, but the green landscape was still under construction, a curtain of whiteness hiding it. Navy paint poured itself into the sky, filling it up as night came. A white moon floated on top of the ocean of blue dye. Freezing light radiated from it. I let my head fall to the pillow, eyes slipping closed. My book crawled out of my fingers as I fell asleep. Click-click-click-click-click. My eyelids crept apart, and I turned my attention to the perfect scene outside my bedroom window. The sky had melted into a bright blue, and patches of warm green grass showed. Smiling, I tried to fall back asleep, but just as I looked down I shrieked. A silhouette of a strange creature was next to me, shaking violently. I tore away the covers and raced to the light switch. Bitter yellow flooded the room. A wind-up rabbit hopped cheerfully across my pillow. Easter! I forgot all about it. Snickers came from my closet, and I yanked open the doors to find my little sister, Chloe, crouched there. I gave her my best Really? look and pointed to the bunny hopping around on my bed. She smiled and nodded. “Not funny,” I said, even though she made me laugh inside. She sat there with a tiny grin on her face, not getting my hint. “Go get dressed,” I added, and giggled as I slipped the door closed behind her. She skipped away and I went over to retrieve her wind-up toy. I twisted the handle and let it do its little dance. Chloe popped her head back in my room to squeal “Happy Easter!” and grab her rabbit toy from my palm. I fell into my fluffy beanbag and thought about what a great day it was going to be. A scavenger hunt with clues in eggs that all led up to a grand prize at the end, a happy sister who I got to find it with, the sickly sweet candy that would make us happy but later regretful of eating so much. Chloe stuck her head in my room again. “Come on, Rachel!” I met Chloe in the garage where she was getting onto her bike with pink streamers. Her Easter basket was taped to her handlebars. I had a backpack on my shoulders because I thought it was a pain to carry around a basket everywhere. Our scavenger hunts went all over the neighborhood. Usually our mom left the big prize back at home, so we would always wind up there again. “Mom gave me the first clue! Can I read it?” Chloe looked hopefully at me for approval. I nodded. “Cold, dark, black, and empty, visited by those seeking information.” Chloe scrunched up her nose. “What?!” I knew it was the mailbox, but I liked to let her guess it on her own. “Well, what place…?” I started, but her eyes shot open and she interrupted me. “Mailbox!” she shouted, and I smiled as I took off after her. We shot down the long bumpy driveway, bouncing up and down on our seats. Chloe was an expert rider for an eight-year-old. She didn’t even wobble. Smoothly, she skidded to a stop and opened up the mailbox, pulling out a lime-green egg. She opened the egg by pinching it at the seam so it cracked apart. Our clue fluttered to the ground. She picked it up and started to read. All the while I was staring into the blue sky, dotted with puddles of white paint. The first pink flower was shoving dirt out of its way as it reached for the surface. Then I looked at Chloe, her face grinning eagerly. And I thought, It can’t get much better than this. Cammie Keel, 13Boulder, Colorado Claire Nilsson, 12Greenville, South Carolina
Family
Yosemite Grasslands
“Isn’t this beautiful?” “It’s your turn, Quasar.” I was shaken out of my self-induced funk by the lively sound of my mom’s voice. “Huh?” “Come on,” said my dad. “Is the correct definition of cupidity a) unconditional and unbiased love, b) a type of Italian sausage, or c) greed?” “Uh… A,” I mumbled. “Nope,” said Dad. “It’s greed. Your mom wins the Dictionary Game again.” “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not really in the mood.” “But Quasar,” said Mom, “it’s Family Fun Friday. You’re really missing out on all the fun! Do you want to play Scrabble instead?” “Do you think we could maybe… watch a movie?” I suggested tentatively. “That’s a great idea, Quasar,” said Dad. “There’s a Nova on string theory at nine!” “Ugh, never mind,” I said. “I’m going to go read.” “Good idea,” said my mom. “Here’s that O. Henry book of short stories. ‘While the Auto Waits’ is a great one.” “Forget it,” I mumbled. “I’m off to bed.” Forget self-induced funk, this is seriously parent-induced. I’ve heard all of their rationales about how lucky I am not to have annoying siblings to deal with, but a sibling is also a partner in life. The solitude can be peaceful and relaxing, but sometimes I gaze out the window and wish I had someone to share the burden of overly intellectual parents. While lying alone, sleepless in the dark, I long for a companion to talk to, someone to think of quirky nicknames with that aren’t related in any way to something scientific, someone to reassure me when I’m scared, instead of my father launching into a monotonous explanation about the physical impossibilities of the boogeyman. So while I nod along to my mother’s rendition of an Eagles’ song from her youth, my heart is aching for a kindred spirit. Luckily for me, my entire grade is about to embark on the long-anticipated trip to Yosemite. For those precious two days, I will have sisters. * * * As I walked towards the bus, sleeping bag in hand, my parents waved goodbye. “We’ll tape all the Novas for you,” said my mom. “We won’t play Scrabble until you’re back!” my dad called. “And if you get bored,” my mom reassured me, “you can read The Grapes of Wrath. I packed it for you.” “Yeah, right,” I muttered, and stuffed the book in the trash before we boarded the bus. By the time we arrived in Yosemite though, my wide grin had slowly morphed into a grimace of disgust. Sitting in the overcrowded bus, I had closed my eyes and attempted to block out all surrounding stimuli, but alas, no such luck. My life for those two hours was a mix of shouts, farts, and the occasional sob of homesickness. I had gritted my teeth together, though not too hard because it erodes enamel, and waited, like a last-minute stowaway on an overcrowded ship to America, for us to reach our idyllic destination. To my horror, the famous, lush green grasses of Yosemite were brittle, bleached by the sun’s harsh rays. Near our campsite, it was a dry savanna, much different from the green, semi-coniferous forest advertised in the glossy brochures I had read before coming. I would have to file a complaint for false advertising. We were then herded out of the bus like flocks of sheep to our respective cabins and left alone to “get organized.” Still determined to have a good time, I was about to ask my cabinmates to join me in a game of Guess That Historical Figure, but they were too busy fighting over the largest bed in the room. “I call dibs,” said Gretchen triumphantly, waving her hand above her head like she had won an Olympic gold medal instead of a sagging, decrepit mattress with rusted springs and chipped paint. “That’s not fair,” snapped Allie. “The big one should go to whoever shares a bed, and I’m not sharing.” “Well then, I’m not either,” sniffed Gretchen. Still clinging to my earlier optimism, I chirped to Niota, “Well, I guess we can share.” During the afternoon meeting, the camp leader smiled disingenuously at us, gushing about how overjoyed she was to be introducing us to this “beautiful wonder of nature,” while covertly wiping her hands on her olive-green jacket after accidentally touching a child’s hand. Despite her discomfort with us, she was right. As we had ventured more deeply into Yosemite to the community center, I marveled at the juxtaposition of the evergreens’ prickly needles against the impressive granite mountains and brilliantly blue sky, pondering how such images and textures had inspired poetry and art. “Anyone want to play a game or tell a ghost story?” I asked shyly after we were all bundled up in our beds with the same bored, oh-my-god-how-am-I-gonna-survive-here-for-another-day expressions. “No,” said Allie, and everyone turned over and went to sleep. The next day I woke up freezing. “Why is it so cold?” I asked, shivering. “Because someone,” said Gretchen, glaring at Allie, “forgot to turn on the heater.” “Well, at least I don’t snore,” retorted Allie. I groaned. This was going to be a really long day. On the hike, I paused to admire a gorgeous flower, its pale pink petals sprinkled with specks of golden pollen. “Isn’t this beautiful?” I said to Niota. “Eww!” she shouted, face scrunched up into a disgusted expression. “I’m allergic,” she said, then sneezed dramatically. “Do you know what this is called?” I inquired of our hiking leader. “Look, kid,” Jay said, “I’m just here because I want a car, and this is the only job I’m qualified for. So shut up and walk.” I stared at him indignantly. Apparently, I was the only one appreciating Yosemite’s stunning flora. At lunch, we chewed eagerly on our cheese sandwiches and carrot sticks. Perhaps regretting his previous surliness, Jay brought brownies to us but then resumed playing Angry Birds on his iPhone. Afterwards we trekked up another trail, enjoying the chirps
My Mother’s Little Girl
Suddenly an image of my mother as a young girl flashed through my head My mother always wanted a little girl. One who would wear frilly pink dresses and bows and barrettes in her hair and would play with dolls and have tea parties with china and have perfect manners and would take ballet and would grow up to marry a fine young gentleman and then have some more lovely children. But she got me. At first, when it was announced that I was a girl, she cried with joy. She fitted me with lacy baby dresses and gave me all the dolls a girl would hope for and adorned me with hair accessories. But her happiness didn’t last long. I absolutely detested dresses, and I threw a humongous fit when I was forced to wear them. I yanked bows out of my hair and threw them across the room. Once I even swallowed a barrette. By the time we had gotten to the emergency room, it had already ended up in my dirty diaper. When she gave me dolls to play with, I pulled off their heads and stomped on them. When she tried to put the pink booties that Grandma had sent me on my feet, I screamed and tried to chew on them. More than ponies with manes that I could braid, I enjoyed my older brother’s action figures. I would pretend they were invading the dolls’ planet and taking it over. That was one of my favorite games. As I grew up, I didn’t become any less stubborn. My mother wanted to grow out my long brown hair so that she could put it in a French braid, but I hated it because it got in my eyes and interfered with sports, and it tangled easily. When my mother refused to let me cut it, I became angry, so I took a pair of flimsy stationery scissors and snipped it off myself. It was jagged and cut close to the neck, and I knew it looked awful, but I liked it because it was much more manageable. When my mother saw it she clutched her heart and whispered, “Oh, Angel, what have you done?” And that’s another thing that I hate: when my mother calls me Angel. My real name is Angelica, but I think that sounds terrible. If my mother had known what I would really be like when I was born, she would have named me something much more practical, but she didn’t know. So now I’m stuck with a name like Angelica. Whenever anyone asks what my name is, I tell them that I’m Angie. It’s not great, but heck knows it’s better than Angelica or Angel. On the day before school picture day, my mother went out and bought me a skirt without telling me. It was knee-length and billowed out when you spun around. It was made of brown fabric with pink roses all over it, and it had a little lace bow on the waist. I hated it upon sight, and I refused to wear it. My mother became very upset. When she’s mad, worried, or stressed, she straightens her dress over and over and over and fixes her bun again and again, even when there’s not a strand out of line. She did this when I wouldn’t wear the skirt. “But Angel, it looks so dear on you,” she said, hopelessly trying to explain to me why I should wear it. “And what’s so wrong with it? I think it’s perfectly charming.” She reached out to stroke my pixie cut, but I ducked away. “It’s ugly,” I told her. “I won’t wear it. And don’t call me Angel!” “Don’t be unreasonable,” my mother said. “You will wear it and that is that.” I knew enough not to argue with her, but I wasn’t going to be seen in school with that on either. So I went to school early on school picture day and slipped into the school. In the girls’ locker room, I changed into my gym clothes, something I knew my mother would never approve of. Sure enough, when the pictures arrived and she saw me dressed in sports shorts and a T-shirt, she totally freaked. She gave me a lecture on responsibility, though I have no idea what that has to do with changing clothes, and then sent me to my room. She always sends photos to Grandma and my aunts and uncles, but she couldn’t do it with those photos. So she arranged a photo shoot with a real photographer and made sure that this time I couldn’t weasel out of it. But I pretended to come down with a fever, and we had to postpone. My mother never got around to rescheduling the shoot. * * * Now it was an hour before my first middle-school dance, and I was picking out what to wear. Of course, my mother was by my side, criticizing my choices. I pulled out a pair of light capris from my dresser and held them up for inspection. My mother shook her head and said, “Oh, Angel, you really can’t think of wearing that, can you?” “Why not?” I asked flatly, not really wanting an answer. “Girls should look nice at dances,” my mother argued, taking a flowery, lacy skirt from the very darkest depths of my drawer where I kept all the clothes I swore never to wear. She smiled and shoved it into my arms. “This will look just lovely with your thin complexion.” Stung at the comment about my complexion, though I knew she was oblivious to its harm, and even more disgusted with her choice of clothes, I shoved it back. “No thanks, I’d rather have something more practical.” I put the capris on top of my dresser and then started looking for a shirt. After some browsing, I chose a dark green T-shirt with a picture of a palm tree on it. “But
