Morality

It was a freezing cold winter day in China. My family and I were visiting my beloved paternal grandmother who lives in ZhengZhou, a city in China. And this time we were celebrating the Chinese New Year with her. It was said that eating oranges during the special occasion is meant for good luck. Being superstitious, my father and I went to the market to buy a few before the big day. The market in China is different. It’s usually a street with small booths. These booths sell fresh vegetables, fruits and even meat. People who have farms in the countryside always come to the market to sell their goods. When my father and I arrived, the market was crowded with people, and of course, oranges. We looked around in the crowd of people and stopped at the sight of a small booth. This small booth was quite different; it was just a big piece of cloth on the ground with a few fresh-looking oranges. But I wondered why there were no customers. Unable to stop my curiosity, I persuaded my father to take a look at the oranges. We walked toward the booth and saw a young girl sitting on a stool, reading next to the booth. Her mind seemed to have whirled into the story, because she didn’t even notice us when we walked toward her. My father cleared his throat and asked, “How much are the oranges?” My father cleared his throat and asked, “How much are the oranges?” The girl heard him and jumped up as though her stool had just been electrified. “Oh . . . ah . . . what?” the girl stammered. “How much are the oranges?” my father repeated patiently. “Oh . . . three for one yuan,” the girl answered politely. “They are not totally ripe . . . a bit sour,” she added, when my father was examining the oranges carefully. After a while he looked up and said, “I don’t mind if they are sour . . . I’ll buy twenty of them.” Both the girl and I looked at him with surprise; I never thought my father could be so generous. Then the girl put the oranges in a bag and gave them to him. My father carelessly stuffed some money into her hand and we walked out of the busy street. “Why did you buy so many oranges from her?” I asked my father as we walked toward the bus stop. “Well, she was so truthful and even told me that her own oranges are sour; besides, she really enjoys studying. And look at her book, it’s so old; maybe she can use the money she earned to buy some books!” I nodded my head vigorously after hearing my father’s words. Just then, I felt somebody tugging my arm; I turned and recognized the person as the girl whom we bought the oranges from. “Ran . . . ran all the . . . way here, never . . . thought you walked so fast . . . here’s . . . your change . . .” she panted, and stuffed the money in my hand. “Got to go and . . . look after my booth, bye!” Before I could mutter a thanks, she had already turned a corner and was out of sight. I stared at the coins in my hand; although it was only a few coins, the girl and her act of honesty will be etched in my memory forever . . . Zhang He, 11Singapore Natalie Chin, 9Bellevue, Washington

I had never had anyone my age who lived on my street. All of my friends lived at least ten minutes away. I had always envied those who could call up their friends whenever they were bored and say, “Hey, want to get together?” My mom told many fond stories of her adventures with neighborhood kids when she was little. When Jessica moved into the house across the street, I was thrilled. I had all of these great notions about what we could do together and how much fun it would be to have a friend living so close. For a while, it seemed as perfect as I’d pictured it, then, well, let’s just say that Jessica had a hidden personality that wasn’t nice at all. *          *          * I never really saw Jessica move in. Mom said there was a moving truck, but I didn’t see it. After a few days, I saw a girl come out of the house and walk down the driveway to the mailbox. I happened to be sitting on my porch, so I went to say hello. Secretly, I had been waiting to catch a glimpse of someone since I’d learned a new family had moved in. This girl, obviously close to my age, was what I’d hoped for. “Hi,” I greeted the girl. She had very light, almost white, blond hair and piercing blue eyes. She was wearing short jean cutoffs and a T-shirt. “I’m Beth—I live across the street.” The girl looked a little suspicious, then smiled. “I’m Jessica.” “Where did you move here from?” I asked, trying to strike up a conversation. Jessica seemed to jump at the question, then replied, “California.” “Really?” I was impressed. “How do you like the house? The garden in front is so pretty . . .” Jessica looked at the garden as if that was the first time she’d noticed it. “Oh—sure, it’s OK.” We talked for a little bit longer, or I talked and Jessica sort of put in a couple words now and then. I invited her over, but she declined, saying she had unpacking to do. It was a couple weeks before she finally came over. I thought she would be just like having one of my other friends over, but she proved me wrong. “This is my cat, Fluffy,” I told her, as we sat with lemonade in my bedroom. “I named him when I was three—Fluffy, because of his long fur.” I cuddled Fluffy and he purred affectionately. “Why are you hugging a cat?” Jessica asked, as if there was something disgusting about Fluffy. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Is it wrong to hug a cat?” Jessica pushed back her blond hair and shrugged. “It’s just strange.” She changed the subject. “Let’s go outside.” “OK.” We picked up our lemonade glasses, Jessica’s still had some left, and walked down the hall. Mom and Dad’s door to their room stood open, letting in air. “Oh darn it!” I turned to see Jessica’s glass on the floor, the pink lemonade on the rug. “I’m so sorry, I . . .” “It’s all right, Jessica,” I assured her quickly. “I’ll get a towel.” So I ran downstairs, returning with a sponge and a towel. It seemed like an honest mistake at the time, but it wasn’t. That night Mom and Dad were going to a wedding. It was a fancy one and Mom wanted to wear her diamond ring. She only wore it on holidays and special occasions because it was her great-grandmother’s. “Beth, have you seen my diamond ring?” Mom came into my room. “It’s not in my jewelry box, and I know I didn’t take it out. In fact, I remember seeing it this morning.” I shook my head. “No, I haven’t seen it since you wore it at Christmas.” “That’s what I thought.” After my parents were gone, and my grandma was washing the dinner dishes, I went into my parents’ room to see if I could find the ring. It was nowhere in Mom’s jewelry box, or on the floor, or behind the dresser. I knew Mom would never take the ring out unless she was planning on wearing it right away. Where could it be? No one had been at our house since that morning—except Jessica. *          *          * Jessica and I spent a large amount of time together in the next few weeks. I put the ring incident out of my mind—Jessica would never have stolen it! We went swimming, played games, and roller-bladed. I hardly ever saw Jessica’s family. She said that her stepdad worked all day and her mom was “around.” She mentioned an older sister, but I’d never seen her. I’d never been in Jessica’s house, either. Jessica never wanted to go to her house, only mine. I didn’t really care. My best friend Cathy came home from vacation in early July—she’d been gone since the beginning of June. I was happy to see her again and sure that she and Jessica would like each other. I invited them both over. Cathy was two years younger. That made no difference to me. She had been my friend forever. She was always smiling, plus very funny, but serious when the time was right to be. I thought Jessica was funny, too, and was eager for them to meet. The afternoon went well. Jessica and Cathy seemed to like one another, although Jessica was a little quiet toward Cathy. Once, when we were playing Monopoly, Cathy gave Jessica, who was banker, an extra $100 when she was buying a piece of property. Jessica gave it back to her, joking sarcastically, “Now what grade are you going into?” “Sixth.” Cathy smiled. . . . the game continued, but Jessica seemed to treat Cathy differently As if totally surprised, Jessica looked at her. “Sixth? I’m going into eighth.” She sounded smug. Then the game continued, but Jessica seemed to treat Cathy differently, counting to make sure that