Ghost Girl: A Blue Ridge Mountain Story, by Delia Ray; Clarion Books: New York, 2016; $6.99 “I stopped cold, then turned around real slow. ‘What did you say?’ I asked. A big grin spread out over Dewey’s wide face. ‘I said, the Hoovers say they’re gonna build us a school.’ Set in 1930, Ghost Girl takes place on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains in West Virginia. The main character, Miss April Sloane, is an eleven-year-old girl dubbed ghost girl because of her white skin and hair, who lives an almost ordinary life after her brother dies in a freak accident. But when President Hoover and his family move into a vacation home in the mountains and invite Miss Christine Vest, a kind, smart young lady, to teach twenty-two uneducated kids in the new school, everything turns topsy-turvy. In this fast-paced novel based on real letters and newspaper clippings about the school, author Delia Ray guides us through April Sloane’s ups and downs, her hardships and successes, and her realization of who she really is.Even though April’s life is very different from mine, I was transported to her world in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a world with no formal education and not much money. I felt like I was with April and her dad, doing chores and telling stories. I was enchanted by the author’s descriptions of the brisk cool mountain air, the dewy morning grass, and the towering maple trees. The creation of the president’s Mountain School starts out looking like it is going to give kids a chance to thrive and be educated, but it turns out to be much more complicated.From the beginning, April’s mom does not want her to go to school so her daughter can stay home to do more chores. I think the mom is still grieving for her son and wants to keep April, her last child, safe and to herself. When April comes home from school every day, overflowing with love for her new teacher, April’s mom pushes her away.The jealousy leads to discord, not only with her teacher, but also between mother and daughter. This year, I am going to school for the first time after homeschooling for six years. Like April, I am super excited, but it means that I won’t be able to spend as much time with my family, and I will not have the control that I used to have over my schedule. Now, of course, it will be very different from April’s experience because my family supports me, and no matter what happens out there they will be there for me (or at least I hope so!). But, as in Ghost Girl, there will be many challenges in going to school for the first time. I really liked this book because it opened up a whole new way of living and a different place and time than I had ever read. I would recommend this book to anyone in need of a good story. Sarah Day Cymrot, 12Washington, DC
The Boy on the Wooden Box
The Boy on the Wooden Box, by Leon Leyson; Atheneum Books for Young Readers: New York, 2015; $8.99 Leon Leyson’s memoir of his experiences of Nazi Germany is a testament to the power of family and the amazing ability of kindness and good even in the darkest of times. Born Leib Lejzon, the author chronicles his family’s experience during World War II and the Holocaust. He and his siblings grew up in rural Poland and moved to Krakow to join their working father in 1938. But by the fall of next year, the German army invaded, and set in motion a cycle of misery, starvation, and death that would last Leib and his Jewish family six dark years. Leyson’s writing is simple but touching and gives us a window into what it was like to live through the Holocaust. It’s insane to think about how it would feel to be beaten, starved, and hated just because of which God/gods you placed your faith in. And Leyson’s physical pain was just the beginning, as he had to go through the murders of several family members. What if one day you learned that the people you loved the most in the world were dead, and you would never see them again? How is it possible to go on living, when a part of who you are is crushed like that? But somehow, Leon and some of his family did survive. It’s amazing how Leon and a lot of his close family endured the Holocaust. It was all through the help of Oskar Schindler, a German businessman who rescued Jews from certain death to work in his factory. His story was adapted into a critically acclaimed movie, Schindler’s List, by Steven Spielberg. Oskar Schindler was an amazing man. Disguised as a Nazi, he used bribes and extravagant parties to coerce high-ranking Nazis into letting him save Jews. Leon and his family were on Schindler’s List, and it saved their lives. Leyson describes Schindler as “the hero, disguised as a monster himself, who would save my life.” I won’t tell you all of what happened, but I can tell you that the book can make you cry with matter-of-fact lines, and tells you that it’s possible to outlast even the worst experiences and build a new life for yourself. Leon went through the Krakow ghetto, two brutal concentration camps, and still somehow survived his ordeal. I have read history books about World War II and the Holocaust before, but hearing someone tell a real, human story is something much different, and is so much more enlightening than any history book could be. This book spoke to me even though I don’t share the author’s faith. It really made me stop and think about how valuable my family is, and how lucky I am to have comforts like a warm bed, enough food, and a roof above my head. These are things that we should really stop and think about, and when someone like Leon Leyson shares his story with us, it puts it into perspective. It’s easy to take these comforts for granted, and walking a mile in Leon Leyson’s shoes is important. Even though the story is very sad and touching to read, it is ultimately uplifting and teaches us that even in the worst of times, we can still find goodness and bravery, even in unlikely places. Dash Barnett, 13Seattle, Washington
Dreams
When you remember The long night that passed by you There may be a hint of a scene A recollection of a moment Warped and disfigured Wonderful or horrifying Only playing out in your mind This clue may be short It may continue to a story A twisted stream of events Where nothing ever gets done Or you might wake up Believing it still to be one instant after you fell asleep And yet time ticks by Your tossing and turning the only keeper of it Your dreams the only memories of the night Malin Moeller, 11Washington, DC
Firework City
The car rounded a bend, and there was the city, stretched out before us I took a seat in the metal rocking chair outside my grandparents’ loft, gently swaying back and forth. Through the metal bars of the railing, I saw the grand old church below, small yellow lights illuminating the stained-glass windows. A light breeze blew; stars twinkled high above; the church parking lot was empty and silent, save for the single, glossy bulk of a black car lurking in the shadows. But all around there was noise—the booming explosion of fireworks bursting through the cracks in the wall, echoing in my ears like the distant rumble of thunder in a summer storm. I sighed, staring at the horizon where a dark cloud of smoke pulsated from the light of the fireworks I could not see. It seemed as though we weren’t going to have a true Fourth of July this year. “Liam, time to go,” Dad called, and I stood up, casting one last wistful glance at the disappointingly blank skyline. We bid a quick farewell to my grandparents, wishing them a happy Fourth, and then trooped down the staircase to the ground floor. No one spoke. Everyone seemed to understand that we had missed the celebration. As we were getting in the car, my younger sister Amy asked aloud, “Where are the fireworks?” “You see those buildings?” Mom said. “If they weren’t there, we might be able to see them. They’re over by the freeway.” The car pulled out into the street, and we started home. “I’m going to take the 210 home,” Dad said. “We might be able to see the fireworks from there.” The car turned onto a small side street, which opened up into a bigger avenue. Dad spun the wheel, and we turned right. “I see them!” Amy shouted. “I see the fireworks!” My heart leaped. Half hidden by trees, great bursts of color ballooned in the night’s sky. Fireworks. The light in front of us turned green, and the car turned onto the freeway. From here, the fireworks were even more visible. It was wonderful. “Look at that,” Mom said, pointing to the shoulder. There, a line of cars had stopped, and I could see the faint silhouettes of people getting out to watch the fireworks show. “Dangerous,” Dad said. I craned my neck to see the last of the fireworks as we rounded a bend. A beautiful green spark shot like a rocket into the air, exploding into a shower of red, white, and blue rain. “Look!” Amy squealed. “More fireworks!” She pointed out the front window to where a red firework was bursting. “And there’s another one,” Mom said, turning to the left, where a group of blue sparks ascended into the sky, bursting into a fountain of color. “How many shows do you think there are?” I asked aloud, chuckling. This was amazing. We kept going, listening to the pop of firecrackers going off, and the distant boom of the fireworks. All around us, fireworks burst from unseen corners. It was amazing and beautiful. And then suddenly, as we left the suburbs and ascended into the foothills, the fireworks stopped. The distant booms and rumbles and pops faded into the distance, and it seemed as though that was the end. But it was only the beginning. We drove in silence for a few minutes. Amy nodded off to sleep, her soft head leaning against my shoulder. In the front seat, Mom and Dad conversed in low tones, and I sat still, eyes half closed, remembering the beauty of the fireworks we had just seen. The car rounded a bend, and there was the city, stretched out before us. I could see each major street, lined with the ever-changing glow of car lights and street lights. It was magnificent, almost as wonderful as the fireworks. And then in the brightness of the city, a single flash of red ballooned in the darkness, like a flower unfurling its petals on the first day of spring. It took me a minute to recognize what it was. And then I realized it was a firework. I shook Amy awake. “Look at this!” I whispered excitedly, pointing out the window to where a green chrysanthemum of color was bursting over the city. Her eyes widened when she realized what it was, suddenly wide awake. “Fireworks!” she squealed, hugging me fiercely but never tearing her eyes from the scene unfolding. Even though, from this distance, they were barely the size of the toenail on Amy’s littlest toe, they couldn’t have pleased her more. They were like precious sparkling jewels, glimmering dazzlingly in the light. Or maybe they were the sparks from a wizard’s wand as he fought off dark magicians with spells and trickery. The faraway fireworks show was fantastic, and fantastical. As we exited the freeway, I craned my neck to see one last green firework exploding in the sky. Only three hundred and sixty-five days from now there was a city of fireworks to be explored once more. I smiled. I couldn’t wait for next year. Jem Burch, 13Van Nuys, California Thomas Buchanan, 13Newalla, Oklahoma
The Pony
Kristiena was with her pony, Buttercup, a beautiful golden mare. She was riding her bareback through the meadows, holding onto her pretty black mane. She saw butterflies dancing, rabbits peeking out of their holes to watch the girl and her magnificent horse… “Kristiena! Earth to Kristiena! What is eighty-five divided by five?” Kristiena’s teacher, Mr. Howard, demanded. Kristiena blushed. “Um… nineteen?” she guessed. As the other kids laughed, she felt her face redden more. Mr. Howard ignored them. Looking straight at her, he said, “If you were paying attention, you would have known that Jackson correctly answered seventeen. Please stay after class.” Looking away, he asked the entire class, “Now, what is one hundred twenty-seven divided by eight? Don’t let the remainder trick you!” After school was dismissed, Kristiena slowly made her way up to Mr. Howard’s desk. He looked at her sternly. “Kristiena, you have been such a good student all year, and now, all of a sudden, I’ve caught you in la-la land five classes in a row. Is there anything going on?” Kristiena shook her head. “No, sir. I’m just… finding it harder to pay attention in class. It will stop soon, I promise.” “I hope it will. If I catch you again, I’m afraid I will have to call your parents, and nobody wants that.” “Yes, sir. You won’t have to, sir.” And with a nod of approval from Mr. Howard, Kristiena quickly walked out into the hallway to walk home. It was a gray day, and there was a bitter wind. Just for once, she wished that her parents didn’t have to work so late and could come pick her up from school, or at least pay bus fees. What was more beautiful than the clearing itself was what was in it Once she was home, Kristiena grabbed an orange and sat down to do her homework. Or at least, she thought she was going to do her homework. But her mind drifted back to the meadows and her dream ride with Buttercup. The truth was, ever since Kristiena had seen the pony in the barn and saw the sign that said, “For Sale: One Mare Named Buttercup,” she knew she had to have that dear pony. She had nagged her parents countless times about it, but each time their answer was the same: “We don’t have enough money to spare.” And Kristiena knew it was true. But she couldn’t stop hoping. So, naturally, with the mixture of hope and sadness, what else could she do but daydream? Kristiena had been daydreaming there for a while when her mom walked in. “Honey, I’m home! Is your homework done?” Kristiena jumped. “Huh? Oh. Um, not really…” Her mom’s face fell. “Oh, honey, I know you want that pony, but you’ve got to stop focusing so much on it. I heard from a kid in your class you had to stay after school because you were daydreaming— for the fifth time in a row!” Kristiena was embarrassed and, truth be told, rather upset. She loved her mom and wanted to keep her happy; for her mom to be upset because of her was one of the worst things that could happen to Kristiena. “Mom, I’m really trying harder… it will stop, and soon, it’s just that I really want her…” She trailed off, realizing she was only making her mom feel worse. “Kristiena, baby, I know you wish that you were in a rich family, and you could have that pony, but you were born to this family… and I’m trying so hard… I’m sorry…” And her voice broke. Then Kristiena saw her mom do something she had never known mothers to do. Kristiena’s mother was crying. “No, Mom, I didn’t mean it like that… I didn’t mean that I wanted to be rich… Mom, it’s different, I just wish that… Mom…” Kristiena tried in vain to make her mother feel better, but her attempts were unsuccessful. “Mom, I don’t want to be in a different family, you’re the best mom ever… you and Dad are the best family for sure,” Kristiena tried. “But you hardly ever see us,” said her mother, still crying and hugging herself. Feeling terrible as she watched her mother cry, Kristiena did the one thing that seemed right: She snuggled into her mother’s arms and cried with her. * * * The next morning, Kristiena woke up. She felt sore, stiff. The vague memories of the night replayed in her mind: Her mom had struggled over to the couch with her when she was almost cried out and Kristiena was almost asleep. Then, her dad came home and snuggled next to them. Kristiena was asleep and just barely woke up to see him come in, then fell asleep to the background murmur of her parents’ voices. After a while, Dad had carried Kristiena upstairs to bed and they kissed her goodnight. It was only after the replay that Kristiena looked at her clock. It was ten o’clock! She was late to school for sure. Rushing to get dressed, she suddenly came to a conclusion: Her parents must have let her sleep in! Just the same, Kristiena did her morning routine. When she was done, she went downstairs. Her parents were usually long gone by now, so when she smelled coffee brewing, Kristiena was surprised. “Mom? Dad?” she called out as she walked into the kitchen. Her mom stood by the coffee maker as she waited for it to brew, and she smiled at Kristiena when she walked into the kitchen. “Hey, baby girl,” her mom said, rather wearily. “Come take a walk in the backyard with me. I want to talk with you.” Kristiena followed her mom out the back door into their rather large backyard. She and her mother just walked for a few minutes before her mother spoke. “Kristiena,” she began, “I want you to know that, although we’re away a lot, and you don’t usually see us very
Roller Coaster
Sweet like ice cream in the summer. There for two minutes then gone. But always with me. They possess me and my heart but always love me. They stand by me wherever I go. If I choose to go to the moon they will be there listening to the silence with me. Waiting outside, waiting for me to come out. I rush down the stairs like a puppy when it’s time for a walk. We see each other and smile, thinking what could be better than this? Now walking I feel like a leaf drifting in the wind. Laughing so hard I can’t even breathe. Then I stop, keep a straight face for five seconds, then laugh again. On a roller coaster that’s me and my life. With loops and twists. Roller coaster… an adventure. Fun. Scary. I come home and hear silence. I see the light from the lamp in my room. I turn it off and fall in bed. I stare at a wall thinking and listening to the silence. Taking in the darkness of the room. Brooklyn Jeffcoat, 12Seattle, Washington
Maple and Marmalade
A loud knock sounded on Violet’s dressing-room door. “Places for Act One!” Violet leapt up from her dressing-table stool, her breath quickening. A little shiver of nervous excitement ran down her spine as she peered into the mirror one last time, checking anxiously to see that her microphone was in place. She didn’t look quite like herself; the reflection staring back at her from inside the frame of lights was not the image of a thirteen-year-old girl but that of a young Civil-War-era woman. What with the stage makeup, full hoop skirt, and her normally loose hair gathered into a stately bun, she scarcely recognized herself. Violet slipped her hand into the hidden pocket in her costume and groped about, closing her fingers around a pebble- like object. It was a small piece of wood, its surface was smooth and soft; the bark had been whittled away. She drew it out of her pocket and gazed at it wistfully, slipping into a reverie. She could remember vividly the day she had received it from her best friend, Thomas. It was an October afternoon; they were sitting on a hill beneath a maple tree, and the ground was carpeted with crimson leaves. It was a favorite spot of theirs, and that day they had both rushed to meet each other there, almost bursting with bottled-up excitement. “I have a secret to tell you!” Violet had gasped, grasping his hand. “I have one, too. An important one. But you tell first,” he insisted. She couldn’t imagine life without him As they settled down on the ground, Thomas pulled his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket, picked up a stick that lay nearby, and began to whittle. Violet smiled as she watched him absentmindedly work away; it was a hobby of his. He was always carving at something during their conversations. The end result was never more than a naked, pointed twig, but Violet found the habit endearing. “Tell away,” he said, looking at her expectantly. Violet leaned forward on her elbows and said in hushed excitement, “You know how I auditioned for the musical Little Women? The cast list came out today. I got my first lead role ever! I’m playing Marmee!” Thomas snickered. “Who on earth is Marmalade?” Violet slapped his knee reproachfully. “Not Marmalade! Marmee! How can you not know who she is? She is the most inspiring character in the history of literature!” Thomas raised his eyebrows, smiling his signature lopsided grin. “She’s the matriarch of the March family in Little Women,” Violet continued to gush enthusiastically, her eyes locked on Thomas’s hands as they continued to shave off slender ribbons of bark, revealing the smooth, creamy wood inside. “When her husband goes away to fight in the Civil War, she’s left to take care of the family herself. She’s so encouraging to me; she’s so strong and good and wise. She is always doing little things for others and guiding those around her. I want to be like her. And I get to play her!” Violet clasped her hands and lapsed into blissful silence. Thomas chuckled at her enthrallment, shaping the twig into a point, like a pencil. “Well then, good for you! I always knew you could do it!” Violet smiled, feeling warm and content inside. “What about you?” she asked Thomas. “You said you had news for me, too.” Thomas cleared his throat a trifle nervously. “Uh, I’m moving.” Violet stopped. “What?” Thomas fixated his gaze on his whittling, somewhat flustered, as he continued to carve away at the stick, which was rapidly decreasing in size. “It’s just been finalized. We’re moving to Oakbridge, two hours away. We leave in about a month.” Violet’s excitement faded away immediately. She didn’t say anything right away, but stared off into the distance, her chin cupped in her hands. She couldn’t imagine life without him. They had been best friends since kindergarten, and he had become like a brother to her. She had so many joyful memories of them together; she remembered him teaching her how to pretend to be shot by Billy the Kid and fall backward off of her tricycle when she was eight. She remembered giving him a lesson on baking snickerdoodles that included Thomas swiping cookies, just out of the oven, off the sheet when she wasn’t looking, and then complaining about his burnt fingers. She remembered how he had been in the audience for every musical she had been in, despite all of her small, unimportant roles, and how she would rush eagerly to the lobby afterwards, where she knew he would be waiting with endless praise and a somewhat painful slap on the shoulder. Violet breathed a shallow, shaky sigh. She had finally landed a lead role, something she had been working for and dreaming about for years, and he wouldn’t be there to see her. Thomas was quiet, too, as he used slow, deliberate strokes towards his thumb to round the edges of the piece of maple. It was hardly more than a pebble by now; the shavings lay in a heap on the grass. Thomas finished, slipping his knife away into his pocket, and examined his work keenly. It was like a wooden jelly bean, with a little dent in the middle. The surface was smooth and somewhat shiny. Thomas rubbed his thumb over it, smiled slightly as if satisfied, and turned it over in his hand, contemplating what to do with it. At a loss for words, he turned to Violet and held it out in his palm. “Want it?” Violet turned it over in her hand, smiling at it in a melancholy way. It was just a small token of their friendship, but it meant a lot to her. She slid it into her pocket, resolving to carry it with her wherever she went when Thomas had gone, like a talisman. * * * Now, as Violet hurried from her dressing room on opening night to take
Sprinklers
I didn’t mean to set off the school’s sprinkler system, it just happened. It was stupid to put my plastic lunch silverware into the cafe’s microwave, I admit. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone along with Delilah’s dare, but I guess it couldn’t have gotten any worse than it already was. Let’s start at the beginning of the story, where the dares got out of hand. It was a cold, windy night, right on the verge of being winter. The moon was out and bright, shining in my best friend’s bedroom window. We were sitting on her baby-blue shag carpet, playing a round of Dare. Dare was a game we played at every sleepover with one another, almost like our own tradition. On this night, however, the dares were more intricate, more dangerous. “Delilah, I dare you to go drink milk from the gallon!” I dared her. A scared look crossed her face, because she knew that if she drank from the gallon and was caught, she could get grounded for a week. “OK,” Delilah finally answered, “but watch my back, Alice.” I nodded and followed Delilah out of her room, into the upstairs hallway, which was decorated with pictures of Delilah and her two brothers, Ellison and Penn. They were older than Delilah, but they spent lots of time with her, unlike my brother. Sneaking down the hallway as quietly as we could, I tried to listen for any noises from downstairs, and there were none, thankfully. We snuck down Delilah’s carpet-covered steps and tiptoed into her big, modern kitchen. Quickly, with me standing guard by the kitchen entrance, Delilah opened the refrigerator door, took out the gallon of milk, and took a big gulp of it. Laughing, and waiting for Delilah to put away the milk, we rushed up to her bedroom and fell into a laughing lump on the floor. “How long should I put it in for?” I asked Delilah “I can’t believe you did that!” I giggled. “Me neither!” she laughed. “OK, time for your dare. You have to melt a plastic fork in the school’s microwave on Monday.” Delilah lost her smile, and she looked very serious. “Really? Doesn’t that seem kind of harsh?” I ask, suddenly uncertain. I nervously toyed with my long dark braid and didn’t look at Delilah. “Oh, come on! Don’t be a sissy!” Delilah groaned. Neither of us had ever not done a dare, so what I was doing was like breaking tradition. Staring at Delilah, I realized she really wanted me to do it, so I sighed and mumbled, “Fine, I’ll do it.” On Monday, I wasn’t ready to melt a plastic fork, but Delilah was. She was so excited, so ready, that it was like she was doing the dare. I would gladly let her do it, but I wasn’t about to break my streak. When it was lunchtime, after Delilah and I had gotten our lunches and had finished eating, we went over to the microwaves. “How long should I put it in for?” I asked Delilah. “Thirty minutes,” she answered right away. Slowly, I opened the microwave door and set the plastic fork on the glass plate in the microwave. I quickly closed the door to the microwave and glanced around to see if anyone had spotted me doing this. No one seemed to be looking at us, so I set the time to 30:00, then hit the start button. Delilah and I watched the plastic fork go round and round for a while, then we went back to our seats. We forgot about the fork for the rest of the lunch period, but it didn’t forget about us too quickly. In fifth hour, when I was drawing for art class, the intercoms crackled to life. It was the secretary, Mrs. Junebee. “Will all students and staff please evacuate the building. I repeat, will all students and staff please evacuate the building.” “You heard her. Everybody up and out the door,” Mr. Keisker, my art teacher, said. With a pounding heart, I stood up and followed the rest of my class out the classroom door. We went down the hallway and out the closest door to us that led outside. Conveniently, my art class stood next to Delilah’s gym class. “You think this has to do with the fork?” I asked Delilah. My face was pale, and my hands were shaking. “No. Maybe. I dunno,” Delilah answered. Mrs. Lusko, the female gym teacher, was doing roll call, and when she called Delilah’s name, she piped up with a “Here!” I turned away from Delilah, suddenly too scared to talk anymore. I felt cold, even though it was almost ninety degrees out. Mr. Keisker finished roll call for my class, then spoke into a walkie-talkie that had been attached to his belt. A little while later, the secretary came outside and told us it was OK to go in. We were at the back of the building, so when we went inside, we were surprised to see that firefighters were scattered everywhere on the arts floor. They were everywhere on every floor, I heard from one of the teachers. We finished the day, and after school Delilah called me. “So, did you hear what happened?” Delilah asked me, once I answered the phone. “That a sixth-grader is going to be expelled for blowing up her school?” I asked. “No! One of the ovens blew up in the cafe, and it took the microwave with it. I saw it on my way back to the gym. It had nothing to do with your fork, Alice!” Delilah laughed. I suddenly felt very relieved, but still kind of guilty. “Well, I’m going to eat dinner. Bye, Alice!” Delilah laughed. I didn’t get to say goodbye before Delilah hung up the phone. Tuesday morning, I went to the secretary and asked for Mr. Ervin, the school’s principal. “Sure, dear, right this way,” Mrs. Luvaskuah, or Mrs. Luva, said. She led
The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate
The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, by Jacqueline Kelly; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 2009; $17.99 Calpurnia Tate is the kind of eleven-year-old who is always asking questions—questions about nature and animals and insects, such as why do dogs need eyebrows, or can earthworms be trained? Such topics fascinate her. The only person who can answer them is her grandfather, who spends his time either in his laboratory, trying to make whisky out of pecans, or out in the quiet Texas woods of 1899, picking his way through the underbrush, examining plants and various toads. Unfortunately, Calpurnia finds his bushy eyebrows and scratchy voice imposing and so contents herself with writing the questions down in a notebook one of her six brothers had given her. One day, a question about grasshoppers nags at her so much that she simply has to confront her fears and ask her grandfather. Rather than answering her question, he simply tells her, “I suspect a smart young whip like you can figure it out. Come back and tell me when you have.” This is something I hear a lot from the teachers at my Montessori school—they encourage me to figure out the problem at hand for myself, instead of having one of them solve it. Calpurnia and her grandfather end up growing closer because of their shared love of science and nature. They go on walks together, and these are some of my favorite scenes in the book, the two of them tromping out into the woods that surround Calpurnia’s home, observing, taking notes on, and collecting samples of the lush green forest that surrounds them. I, for one, can understand why she was so in love with nature. Last summer, I went on a weeklong hiking trip in Michigan’s Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. There were so many beautiful sights, and I loved just leaving technology behind and being able to get a close look at the beautiful world surrounding me. In sharp contrast to her grandfather, Calpurnia’s mother wants her to stay inside and act like a lady, which means learning to sew and knit, neither of which she cares for. Even worse, she expects Calpurnia to be a debutante, basically an upper-class young lady who has reached the age of maturity and is ready to be introduced to society through debutante balls. Worst of all, it means you are ready to get married, something Calpurnia views as being stuffed into fancy dresses and put up for auction to the highest bidder. So when Calpurnia announces one night at the table that she wants to go to college to become a scientist, her mother is very unhappy. This book made me curious and had me asking questions of my own, like, How many types of trees are in the world? (about 100,000); and, How old is the oldest tree? (a bristlecone pine tree from California’s White Mountains is thought to be almost 5,000 years old). The author, Jacqueline Kelly, does a wonderful job of creating the characters and giving them each a unique personality. Calpurnia’s mother rules the house with an authoritative and firm grasp, daring all living under her roof to try and disobey her. Meanwhile, her youngest brother J.B.’s docility and cheerful outlook on the world manage to calm Calpurnia, especially after an exasperating lecture about ladyhood given by her mother. This book made me want to go explore outside. I would recommend this book to any scientist, as well as my fellow tree-huggers. June Hill, 13Fort Wayne, Indiana
Rock-Star Nightmare
Thump, thump, thump. My heart beat like an animal, slapping its tail on the ground. Wiggly worms crawled in my stomach. My mom called it “butterflies in your stomach.” I looked up to see a domed spiraling ceiling, the only window. I nibbled my fingers and desperately tried not to cry. “Tamari, you’ll have fun,” my mom said to me in a gentle voice. And right after she finished her sentence, a lady appeared from down the hall. I darted behind my mom’s pink dress as fast as an arrow and buried my head in it. I squeezed my eyes tightly, letting hot tears crawl down my pale cheeks. My mouth was held shut by my dry bony hands. Oh, why did my mom take me to rock-and-roll school for my birthday present? She knows I am shy! My teacher came click-clacking over in her high heels. The sound echoed across the empty huge, dim room. My teacher immediately saw me and exclaimed, “Well hello! You must be Tamari, right?” “Uh huh,’’ I whispered, wishing I could disappear. Wet sweat rolled down my messy brown hair. “We’ll go now,” my teacher, who had red cheeks and a big smile she couldn’t wipe off her face, told my mom. Mom, please don’t leave, I thought furiously. Then the teacher pulled me down the hall. Dim lights shone on the eerie cold quiet hallway. A discomforting smell of leather combined with sweat filled the hallway, as if hung by an invisible string. Rock-and-roll music sounded from each closed door. Suddenly a familiar girl’s voice called out, “Tamari! Over here!” My hands brushed against the white bumpy hallway, and the ceiling was low. The place looked like a prison. Please don’t cry. That will be embarrassing. I really wish Kamary, my best friend, was here. I hate this place, I thought. My legs felt like Jell-O as I wobbled nervously with my teacher, who held my hand, pulling me across the hallway. Our footsteps rang throughout the empty hall, as the red-and-white stone floor creaked. The sound of the air-conditioning system echoed through the halls. The hallway was an endless row of gray doors. My eyes started to leak out cold wet tears, like a broken pipe. Please, I want to go home. Please, I don’t want to stay. I hate my mom. I hate my teacher. I hate this place. But, worst of all, I hate being shy, I thought. “No need to cry. You’ll have fun,” my teacher assured me in her loud jolly voice. “N-no I-I won’t,” I stammered. “I-I I’m t-too shy.” My teacher bent down and whispered in my left ear, “You’ll have fun,” wrapping her warm hands around me. The rock-and- roll music got louder and louder. I walked slower and slower. I don’t like this. I want to leave, I thought. My heart beat with every step I took. A yummy smell of a flowery perfume took over the discomforting smell. Suddenly a familiar girl’s voice called out, “Tamari! Over here!” I quickly turned my head to see a blond curly-haired girl wearing a blue T-shirt and gray long pants which stretched down to her ankles. It was Kamary, my best friend! I raced over to her as fast as I could and wrapped my arms around her. My heart felt like it got filled with hot chocolate. My eyes filled with joyful tears as I tried not to cry, but it was hard. I could feel the smile growing on my face. Relief filled my forehead and my pale cheeks turned as red as an apple. My teacher smiled and walked over, with her hands on her hips. I could barely hear her say, “I told you.” Yes! She really came! I never knew she would come. Thanks, Mom, for bringing me to the awesome class, I thought. “This place is so nice,” I told her happily. “Yes,” she exclaimed, “with you around.” I felt like I was in a man’s best dream. Together, holding hands, we walked down the hallway to our classroom. It turned out to be all right. Rock-and-rolling is what makes me feel joyful, like a dreamy piece of dark chocolate that flows over your heart. Brian Qi, 10Lexington, Massachusetts Thomas Buchanan, 13Newalla, Oklahoma
Orchestra
Orchestra, our favorite subject of the day. We rush in the music room, eager to unpack our instruments, Grins creep across each musician’s face as we unpack Our beloved stringed noisemakers. We tune, we play, we make wonderful Music, did I mention… it’s my favorite subject of the day! The music brings joy to my ears as I listen to what could be mistaken For expert symphony players. The bows move up and down In harmony on the strings. The melody moves gently as the orchestra Plays as one. Each and every player adds a unique addition To the ensemble. Solana Ordonez, 11Mukilteo, Washington
A Broken Promise, A Mended Me
Strange, lucky, unique, divided, foreign, difficult… All are good descriptions of my life, but I couldn’t imagine myself living any other way. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t live in Mexico, if I wasn’t bilingual, if I didn’t clamp my mouth shut whenever my friends pleaded for me to speak English. My blond hair and blue eyes made me stand out in a crowd, but when people learned I could speak English, and for some reason it never took them that long to find out, all hope of being overlooked vanished. “Where are you from?” was the same question they would always ask me. “I was born in Guadalajara, but I live in Puerto Escondido,” I would say. It wasn’t a lie but I knew it wasn’t what they were looking for. They would look at each other and then back at me, a skeptical look in their eyes. “But where are your parents from?” they would prod, guessing the answer before I had to say it. “Well, they’re from the United States,” I always admitted reluctantly, more than anything because I knew exactly what they were going to say next. “Ah,” they would say, nodding to each other, “so you speak English?” “Yeah.” Inwardly, I would sigh. I’m not sure I really minded this treatment anymore. I’d learned to accept it and deal with it, mostly by pretending that it didn’t exist. When I went to school in first grade, I started to realize how different I was from other kids. My wispy blond hair, always escaping from its ponytail, stood out against the sea of perfectly combed dark hair, like a drop of yellow paint would against a perfectly painted black background. I got to leave school an entire hour early because everyone had agreed that English class would be a complete waste of time for me. Back then I did want to fit in. I wanted to have brown hair and dark eyes and not a single word of English vocabulary. I would have done anything for these things back then. “Where are you from?” was the same question they would always ask me I was so determined that I decided I would never speak English again with my friends. I turned a deaf ear to my friends’ pleadings. “Heather, please speak English.” I refused. “No.” I would not speak English, and someday I would dye my hair black. I’d be just like everyone else one day, I thought stubbornly. “ Se forman al fondo. Correle!” (Form a line at the back. Hurry!), the teacher yelled, spacing the final word into separate syllables for emphasis. New Year’s was a recent memory and very few kids had made it to class. There was a loud chorus of pat, pat, pat as the small group of nine hurried to the last row of blue and yellow foam squares that covered the Tae Kwon Do school’s floor, the usual commotion occurring as children shuffled to be next to friends. “Uno!” the teacher says, pointing at Angeles, a girl with short black hair who’s standing next to me in line. She repeats it. “Dos!” I say when it’s my turn. He continues until reaching the final girl who yells out, “Nueve!” “Ahora todos me lo van a decir en inglés” (Now everyone will say it in English), he says, picking up a stack of neon orange cones and placing them in a line across the room. He smiles when he sees my scowl. “One,” Angeles says, pronouncing with a Mexican accent so that it sounds more like wan. The entire class looked at me expectantly. Maria, a tall girl on my other side, with jet-black hair tied back in a high ponytail, was nodding at me as if for moral support. I looked around helplessly. I doubted it would matter if I said it with a Mexican accent as I did the rare times that I spoke in English with my friends. It took me little more than a fraction of a second to realize, no, I would not speak in English. I’d always listened well at Tae Kwon Do. It wasn’t just expected; it was taken for granted. Everyone did exactly what the teacher said, no exceptions, so it surprised me to find myself thinking, I don’t care. I won’t do it. “Dos!” I said after hardly any hesitation, looking stubbornly back at the staring eyes. The teacher rolled his eyes and the whole class cried in unison, “Heather!” “A ver, de nuevo” (Let’s see, again), the teacher said, pointing at Angeles. I made a pitiful face. Sometimes people would just give up once they realized they would be better off asking a rock to speak English, and then there were other times… “One,” Angeles said between laughs. “Dos,” I said. I wasn’t about to back down now. “Heather!” the kids around me grumbled. Now the teacher had joined in. “Engleesh,” Maria said in a Mexican accent. “One, two, three,” she continued, until I gave her an exasperated “Ay Maria!” “Pero es que yo no quiero hablar en inglés!” I said, making a face and throwing my hands up in the air. No way was I speaking English! “But Heather…” my friends pleaded in Spanish. “Your mom’s looking at you,” Angeles said in Spanish, pointing at my mom. I turned around. She was right. Mom was staring at me with a cross between bewilderment and laughter. “All this time and she hasn’t learned to speak English. You’re an embarrassment to your family,” Angeles continued with mock disapproval, shaking her head at me, and then laughed. I was laughing along with everyone else. Though many of them were staring too, as though they didn’t quite know what to make of me. For a second I imagined what they must be thinking now: Heather, the only girl in the class who really could speak English, and she was refusing to do so. “Heather,” the teacher finally said in Spanish, “if
