The sun beat down mercilessly on my sweaty neck. My shoulders ached. I was tired and my mouth was as dry as the Sahara. Bases were loaded. Three balls, two strikes, pressure on. I adjusted my baseball cap as I stepped carefully onto the dusty mound, fingering the ball in my right hand. Change-up, I thought. I stepped back in my windup. The ball shot out of my hand, bouncing right before the plate. The batter didn’t swing. “Ball four!” The batter set his bat down by the fence and took a base, advancing his teammates. I watched helplessly as the third-base runner happily jogged home. My team groaned. Coach called time out and jogged over to where I stood, defeated on the mound. I knew at once I was being replaced. I had just walked a batter home, but what I got instead surprised me. “You’re doing good, son, keep it up,” Coach said, slapping me hard on the back. “It’s so hot,” I complained in reply, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead. Coach knelt so we were face to face and stared at me with his wise, chocolatey-brown eyes. “It’s baseball.” With that, he headed back to the shade of the dugout, nodding to the umpire to begin the game again. “Play ball!” “Don’t worry,” I said, acting as his coach. “Try again.” The batter stepped up to the plate, ready to jump out of the way of a bad pitch. I felt the ball in my sweaty palm. It’s baseball. I pulled my arm back like a slingshot and launched the ball. Whack! It slammed into the catcher’s leather mitt. The batter flinched but didn’t swing. “Strike!” * * * Thwack! My younger brother, in a third attempt to hit the ball, knocked over the black rubber tee it rested on instead. “Darn it!” he exclaimed in frustration. “Don’t worry,” I said, acting as his coach. “Try again.” He mumbled something under his breath but did as he was told. Dull gray light crept through the thick fog that hung over the field. Crisp, early morning air stung my lungs and a soft breeze rustled my sandy hair. A crow danced around on the deserted bleachers, looking for scraps. Me and my younger brother, Julian, had been at the field since seven a.m., almost two hours. Julian was new to baseball and hadn’t adapted to the hard work and discipline it takes to become a quality player. That, and he’s eight years old. Finally, he successfully hit the ball off the tee and it landed at my feet with a thud. I picked it up out of the dust and nodded with approval. “Not bad. Do it again.” Julian crossed his arms over his maroon Harvard hoodie and groaned in protest, “This is so hard!” He stretched out the words as if they were silly putty. I looked him up and down, remembering Coach’s words. “No,” I said knowingly. “It’s baseball.” Ruby DeFrank, 10Richmond, California Brayson Brown, 11Hartford, Wisconsin
Anne of Green Gables
Anne of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery; Simon & Schuster: New York, 2014; $7.99 Few books copy the whimsy of childhood. Picasso said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” L. M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables is a remedy to that lack of adolescent joy. To me this book also represents perseverance, to survive through the bad times to get to the good. When I was going into third grade, my family moved to a new school district. At eight, I was incredibly shy and self-conscious. Even when I went to my first school I had few close friends. To me the move was the end of the world. How was I going to make new friends? Would the teachers be nice? As I walked into the classroom on the first day of school, I was terrified. What could make it worse? I already knew what the teacher was teaching. Instead of going to recess, I took tests to measure my skills in math, language arts, and science. The school district decided that I would skip a grade. For the first week everything was perfect. I received tons of attention, but soon everything changed. Being so shy made me hate to answer in class, people would ask me to do their homework, and teachers thought I had to get a perfect on every test. In that school year, I had lots of difficulties, and one of the things that helped me get through the year was Anne of Green Gables. Anne was orphaned as a baby. Until age eleven she moved from house to house, working as a maid and caregiver. She helped me believe that my situation wasn’t that bad. If she could still be so happy and intelligent, even though she had no parents, then how could I be angry over being teased? How could I complain over a bad grade on a test, when Anne didn’t get to go to school until she was eleven? To me, Anne is stronger than any other character in this book. Even though life gave her a terrible deck of cards, she made the best of it. Anne of Green Gables was first published in 1908. At that time, women were expected to stay in the home and raise children. Anne proves that girls can be anything they believe they can be. Even though Anne didn’t start her education until eleven, she soon rose to the top of her class. She went to a junior college to get her license in teaching. Because of her hard work, Anne received her license in one year and won a full-ride scholarship to a university. Anne is an inspiration to me. That she could achieve so much, yet with so little to work with. Now I have read Anne of Green Gables for the second time, and it still makes me smile. This novel will make you have empathy. No, it’s not an action novel, full of violence and guns, but is a story of how hard growing up is. This book is more than paper and ink. It is a symbol of childhood that I hold close to my heart. Autumn Shelton, 13Lamar, Missouri
The Dragon
I was wearing old shoes, brown like the dust my feet tramped through. The wind was sighing around my ears, a soft symphony echoing off the lonesome Joshua trees that dotted the cracked earth. Their thick limbs out, they were awkward creatures trying desperately to catch the little moisture that the air held. Their spiny leaves stuck out for protection, daring anyone to try and take the water stored beneath their thick skin. Their roots had burst through the earth, so parched they had shriveled, opening their vaults to the heat; giving up. I heard a magpie squawking, feathers flashing silver in the three o’clock sun, its black beak combing the ground, watching with small, dark, beady eyes for anything unlucky enough to cross its path. Looking down, I saw car tracks, slender valleys in the earth. People were here, I thought. Perhaps my relentless search was not in vain. I kept tramping on, down the lonely road. A deep scar, a reminder that even in nature’s domain human civilization still holds its iron fist tight. I felt a bead of thirst boiling up in my throat, threatening to overtake me. A cactus came within my view, a small, young one. I broke one of the limbs off and peeled off the outer skin, supple; it had not yet learned how harsh life can be. I had thought that it would be so easy when they said, “Get to the other side.” I had been so naive, thinking I could do the unthinkable, cross this small desert alone. I had already walked through five twilights, and the desert still cascaded on in front of me. A roiling carpet going on and on into infinity. She said hello to me, her musical voice echoing across the vast, empty, rocky plain Darkness started to come with unexpected swiftness. It climbed up the ladder of the sky, took hold of the sun, and swallowed it. I heard rustling beside me, animals were coming out. The foxes emerged with ears almost twice the size of their heads, rusty brown fur swaying with each step, fine, like the things you might find in high-end boutiques. I heard an owl hoot in the distance, far away, coming in for the kill. I found an old hollow in a burnt-out tree, struck years ago. It looked like twisted dreams, aged, gone sour. I saw something skittering over a rock in front of me in the waning sun. A gecko, brown with spikes upon its back. Even small insignificant creatures needed to protect themselves. I had heard about them on the television when I was little, on a show about the Wild West. I cringed under my blanket in my mother’s bed whenever I saw them, scared that they would gobble me whole. I now saw that they fit inside one of my worn-out shoes. Settling down to sleep, the sand filling in the spaces between my toes, coating my sweaty feet, I dreamt odd snippets of dreams. They always ended right before they were done. I woke up more tired than when I had first laid down on the sand in which I was drowning. I looked out and saw that the splatter-painted sunset of the night before had disappeared, and a softly blended sunrise had taken its place. The red and orange swirled together so that it looked as if the whole world was cracking open, coming out of its shell and being set free. I felt the cool morning dew settling on my skin, I knew this moisture would not last for long. Soon the sun would drink every last drop that we mortal animals so desperately held in our clutches and leave us with only the memory of the beads of dampness. I started to walk again, the red rocks building up beside me, enclosing me in a natural box. Cliffs spiraled out of nowhere, rough, like something that a three-year-old would make out of a lump of clay. I kept on walking, sweat dripping into my eyes. Heat was rolling over me, one excruciatingly slow wave at a time. I felt my whole body growing heavy, but I dragged myself on, that driving fear inside of me, pushing me onwards, fear of being forgotten, dying out here where nobody would care that I was gone. I felt the callouses on my feet rubbing against my shoes, restless jolts of pain, sharp reminders with each step as to how little resilience I had left. I had run out of water this morning. My thoughts started to blur together. My steps were faltering, I felt I could no longer go on when I looked down and saw that the car tire tracks had grown fresher, more defined. I was getting closer to habitation. Maybe my journey was almost over and help was at hand. A dark silhouette rose upon the horizon, a misshapen blot steadily getting closer every step I took. The blotch took on the form of a house. I saw it with a peculiar clarity—all its details are etched in my mind even now. It was the kind of house you would see in an old western film, the whitewash on the porch faded from the beating sun. It had withered away, like so much else in this barren land. There were old wooden columns supporting a cracked, pale gray roof. A few of the shingles had been lost, fallen away. They had left empty sockets, eyes, staring up at the ever-cloudless sky. The house itself was made of sandstone, frayed away in some places. The air had warped the crumbly red rock, carving it into the faint shape of a smile echoed in the curved treads of the rocking chair that rested on the porch. Its soft wood slowly bumped, swaying in an invisible breeze. The old, loose fabric, printed with a faded pattern of running horses, was coming up off of the cushion. Billowing, it trapped air inside. The door
Rain
I like to think That when it rains, the thunder encloses our small city In a soft gray blanket. We are cut off from the complications and distractions Of the outside world And all there is Has been And ever will be Is the white noise of rain. I like to think That when it drip-drops down from the leaves Showing us the simple beauties Of ripples in puddles And quiet crackles of bright yellow, It wraps us up tight in that blanket. It rocks us to sleep, Content in the misty gray fog And the pitter-patter of rain, The low rumbles of thunder and the golden lightning. Celie Kreilkamp, 12Bloomington, Indiana
Home
A tiny ripple spread from the center of the pond as a small stone struck the surface. The delicate lily pads drifted and then settled as the water calmed. A dark shape swam beneath the water, then emerged, the spotted toad settling serenely on top of a dark green leaf floating like a boat. It collapsed under the toad’s weight, reminding Firoz of how fragile life could be. The air hummed all around the small boy sitting on the rocky shore, insects continually moving and eating all around the beautiful pond. Flowers waved in the wind, their bulbous heads drooping down to the path in the wind. Leaves fell from the trees, some landing atop the pond, stirring the water, then settling it, looking like the leaf had always been there. Out of the thick swath of trees that surrounded the pond, a small, trembling head poked itself out. The baby deer looked around once, then emerged on its thin legs. Firoz watched, wondering if it was alone like he was. It wasn’t. Soon after, a larger deer came from behind and nuzzled its spotted coat, leading it away from the pond, and away from Firoz. Firoz felt a small twinge of disappointment. Being alone all of the time wasn’t the most fun thing in the entire world. All he wanted was a family, and when he finally got one, he wanted a friend. But nobody wanted to be friends with a small boy from India. Nobody at all. So Firoz sat by the pond, all alone. Firoz watched, wondering if it was alone like he was He had been sitting there, it seemed, ever since his family had died. A breeze blew hard through the thick trees, whistling like a badly played flute. It ruffled Firoz’s navy-blue shorts and white shirt, billowing it out like a kite. He wrapped his arms around his body, rocking in the cold. India had never been cold, and Minnesota was close to freezing. One more reason it wasn’t at all like his real home. He should be in school, the fancy private school that his foster parents had paid so much for. Alton Prep was the most miserable part of Firoz’s life. Almost all of the kids there were pampered and viewed Firoz as someone not to be associated with. He wished he could go to a public school. Maybe he could fit in there. Maybe at a regular school, where nobody was spoiled, he wouldn’t be bullied and hung upside down until his face turned gray. Maybe at a regular school, somebody would like him and not wonder why he had a patch over one eye, where a shard of glass had pierced deep, deep into it. His eye wasn’t the only thing that had broken since the death of his family. His heart had too. His heart had broken from the teasing and the moving, the memories of his lost family and India. And so Firoz sat by the pond, as he had every day since he had wandered into the forest, angry and tired of being teased. He thought of his troubles, so many there were that when a girl emerged from the swath of trees, just as the baby deer had done, Firoz didn’t look up. He didn’t look up until she sat right beside him and spoke. “I guess you weren’t prepared for the weather today, huh?” Firoz’s soulful brown eye glanced up from the pebbly shore of the pond. Sitting next to him there was a blond-haired girl. Her wavy blond hair was waving in the wind, and she stared intently at him. “You don’t have a jacket on, you know, and it’s about thirty degrees out,” she said, then looked down at her own shirt. “But I’m not wearing one either, to be fair.” He blinked and moved slightly away from her. He recognized the logo she wore on her shirt. It was the same one he wore on his uniform. The blond-haired girl was from Alton Prep, the same private school he went to. She was probably one of the people who cheered and laughed while he was thrust down a toilet or garbage can. The girl tilted her head and smiled brilliantly. “Hey, no need to move away,” she called, looking at Firoz with a glimmer in her eyes. She smiled again. Firoz blinked once. It seemed like ages since anybody had talked to him, and manners seemed to have drifted out of him like a spirit soaring to the clouds. She reached out a hand, and her elbow sank into the muddy pebbles lining the pond’s banks. “Sorry if I startled you. I’m Viv.” Viv looked into Firoz’s wide-spread eye. “And before you ask, it’s not short for Vivian.” She grinned. “It’s short for Vivace.” “Vivace?” Firoz asked, his voice small and tentative. “Really?” Viv shrugged. “I’m told that my mum loved music.” Firoz’s mother had loved music too. She had named her only daughter Vina. “My sister’s name was Vina.” Viv looked at him, and Firoz searched his head for the English word. The wind howled through the trees once more, and he remembered. “My sister’s name was flute.” “Vina,” Viv closed her eyes and tilted her pale face to the light gray sky, “that’s beautiful.” “She died,” said Firoz. His one remaining eye blinked, trying to hold back tears. Viv moved closer to Firoz. “My mother died too.” The two children stayed silent for several long seconds before Firoz extended his hand tentatively. “Firoz,” he said. Viv clasped it, and the two shook hands. It may have been decided without words, but they both knew. They knew that they would be friends. * * * It wasn’t long before winter settled its icy hold on the forest. Ice had spread across the once always-moving pond, icy blue tendrils reaching across like a blue spiderweb over the surface. The rocks by the bank were frozen into the dirt, and the grass
The Scholarship of Dreams
Ever since I was little, I knew that my future lay in nursing. One day when I was six, we visited my mama at her hospital. The sights, the sounds, and the smells all reached out to me. I told my papa on the way home that I wanted to be a nurse, and he chuckled softly. “Not too fast, pequeña, my little one. Don’t grow up too fast.” My parents immigrated to the United States from Mexico before I was born. I am the eldest of four children. When I was two, my brother Pedro was born, followed by Jose. Last but not least was my little sister, Gabrielle. Our life was always happy, even though we were not the richest of families. We always had food in the pantry, always could afford new clothes. My abuelita, or grandmother, came to live with us when I was seven. That was the happiest time of my childhood. But that all changed when I turned eight. The hospital Mama worked at had to cut staff wages in half, and then half again. Papa lost his variety store and had to find work at a tiny auto-furnishing shop. We were forced to sell our big house in Phoenix, Arizona, and move to a tiny two-bedroom house in southern California. One bedroom went to Mama and Papa, and one went to Abuelita, though she highly objected. Papa stretched the budget to the limit and added another tiny bedroom and a small shed in the back. Gabrielle and I share the bedroom (we sleep in the same bed), and the boys sleep in the shed. Often we could only afford to have two meals a day, and they were always scanty. I grew thin. Maybe it was a good thing, too, because all my clothes were getting too small; we couldn’t get new ones. There were no summer camps, no sports teams, no movie nights for us. We simply could not pay for it. Mrs. Brewster was a mean, cantankerous, bossy old lady Another reason I hated our new home was our next-door neighbor. Mrs. Brewster was a mean, cantankerous, bossy old lady. She couldn’t stand it when we would accidentally run across her lawn, or a stray bouncy ball found its way into her petunias. She’d wave her walker at us, yelling croakily. In time, I learned to avoid her and taught my siblings the same. That was how I grew up. * * * Now I am a senior in high school. I am getting ready to go to college. I knew my major: Nursing! It had always been my dream. I knew that I was going to go to Cal State Long Beach. Everything was ready. Everything was set. Except… Money. I had worked as hard as I could all my years of high school, raising money so I could go to college. I had earned scholarships. I had received money from more fortunate relatives. But every time Papa and I went through the list we always came up short. “De nuevo, Mariana,” Papa said beseechingly. My head lay on my arms, which were resting on the kitchen table. “Let’s do it again.” “What’s the use, Papa?” I asked. “We know the list, we’ve gone through it a million times…” “Maybe we missed something,” Papa interrupted. “One more time? Por favor?” I sighed but pulled the notebook that contained all my college notes toward me. Papa read the long column of writing. “Money from babysitting. Scholarship. Donation from Tio and Tia Rodriguez. Money from organizing crafts at school. Another scholarship. Money from Abuelo and Abuela. All that adds up to…” He frowned thoughtfully. “What, Papa?” I asked, my voice cracking as I waited for the verdict that would, I thought, change my life forever. He spread his hands out in defeat. “Lo siento, Mariana. I’m sorry. We just do not have enough.” My heart split in two as my dreams were crushed. I couldn’t go to college. I couldn’t become a nurse. Tears blurring my eyes, I leapt up from the table and fled to my room. Gabrielle looked up from her book, concern on her face. “What’s wrong, Mariana?” “Leave me alone!” I screamed, throwing myself on the bed and letting the tears run fast and hard. * * * Breakfast the next morning was a sorry affair. I wouldn’t speak to anyone, and Papa kept sending me apologetic looks. As if his apologies would help anything. Thirteen-year-old Jose looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “Mama, what’s heritage?” “Heritage is a kind of balloon that when you sit on it, it farts.” Pedro cracked up at his own joke. Mama shot him a warning look before answering, “It’s like your ancestry. Who your family was.” “What are you reading?” Papa wanted to know. Reciting from the newspaper, Jose said, “If you are of Mexican heritage or descent, you are immediately eligible to win a $20,000 scholarship to the college of your choice—hey!” I had grabbed the newspaper from him. Feverishly reading the article, I nearly fainted. “Read it, Mariana,” Papa commanded. “If you are of Mexican heritage or descent, you are immediately eligible to win a $20,000 scholarship to the college of your choice. Write a short historical fiction story and submit it at the Los Angeles La Plaza de Cultura y Artes, a Mexican-American museum and cultural center. Entries must be submitted before April 20.” I looked up and saw Papa staring at me, surprise and delight showing on his face. “This is the answer!” I cried. “I have to win this contest. If I did this I could go to college!” “Then what are you waiting for?!” Mama cried. “You have barely twenty-four hours. Go write!” I locked myself in my room, much to Gabrielle’s anger. Time ticked past as I feverishly scribbled on a paper, writing ideas and crossing them out. My pencil went from sharp to nearly flat. There: my first draft was
Waiting
The wind whispered through the long grass, blowing it gently into a lullaby of soft sounds. The grass rustled and the lake stirred as the setting sun dripped down the sky and below the stretch of trees that marked the horizon. The stains it left were stunning. Pinks and oranges smeared across the sky. They dripped lazily down the great sky, leaving behind a vast carpet of deep blue, intense and enveloping. As a myriad of stars became visible and bewitching with their bright twinkles, a little girl walked down the pathway to the dock. She pulled her hair back from her face and let the wind lift up the ends of it and toss it playfully. She was a very small girl, about five years old or so, with long red hair and freckles dotting her face. She had green eyes that shone like the tops of lighthouses, beckoning and beaming with a welcoming glow. Only today her eyes had lost their glow and the color in them had been washed away by tears. She sat on the edge of the dock and dipped her toes through the clear water. She looked up at the sky and watched the last rosy finger of the sunset disappear under the tall pine trees. She sighed heavily. It figured. Things were always disappearing before she got to them. Like the horse that she had wanted to ride at Holiday Acres, up the highway. Her mother had finally consented to the idea, and, grinning, the little girl had skipped up to the stables. The rustic smell of horses had filled her nose, tickling it with this new aroma of hay and wet hair. She rushed up to the large horse that stood tall above her, grinding hay between his strong jaws. He was handsome, brown dotted with white spots along his rump, as though some careless artist had waved a paintbrush over him, leaving him speckled. Then a young woman, flushed with heat and excitement, grabbed the horse’s halter and led him out of the ring. The little girl watched and saw another little girl, rosy with excitement and delight at her first horse ride, get lifted up and patted gently on the back; she was settled into the saddle. The horse tossed its head haughtily, though one could tell it was really his pleasure to be trotting off into the wooded trails with the little girl on his back, bobbing up and down and shrieking happily with each bump. The little girl sat on the dock and dipped her toes into the water. She slowly kicked them back and forth, back and forth, gently easing them into the warm lake as she contemplated it all. The other little girl probably wanted to ride the horse as much as she did, if not more, and was probably aching to for a while, just as she had. And suddenly, it didn’t matter, missing out on the horseback ride, for another little girl’s terrible want and longing had been fulfilled. The little girl sat back and thought some more. She was usually not very thoughtful; she was often too playful to think too much. But now, as the sun’s light sank out of view and the stars crept into the night sky, she thought about everything. Why was it that things disappeared before she got to them? Why did the sun set at night? Why were the stars scattered about the sky? Why did we have to wait until morning for the sun to smile again? She rushed up to the large horse that stood tall above her, grinding hay between his strong jaws And suddenly, all her thoughts were about waiting. Waiting for all the stars to twinkle, waiting for the pearly disk of the moon, waiting for the sun to rise up once more. Waiting for her mother to come home from her business trip in Milwaukee. Waiting for her chance to do something that usually disappeared before she reached it. Why did they have to wait? She thought hard about it, and unconsciously her mouth twisted into a little pout of concentration. Why did they have to wait? Waiting was not a thing, or an action, it was a state of being, she decided. A dangerous state of being. It was a time when people could become enveloped in self-pity, shrivel into a ball of nothingness. It was a time when doubt and deception could easily take control of the minds of people who were scared and alone because they were waiting, just waiting, for someone to come, or someone to go, or someone to stop and give them a hand because they needed one . . . And suddenly it wasn’t fair, all this waiting. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t tolerable, it wasn’t fun and it wasn’t safe. Maybe it would be better not to be waiting at all, so you wouldn’t have to feel the pangs that were thrust into you when you wanted something badly. Maybe it would be better not to be alive at all. This thought struck wonder and fright into her. But if she were just a canoe she could see water, fish and flowers. She could see ospreys and eagles, the three islands in Lake Katherine, the trees, the water lilies. The boathouse, the dock, the hydro-bike and the water-skiers. And she wouldn’t have to wait. But canoes had to wait too. Canoes had to wait for a chance to skim the surface of the lake. Canoes had to wait for passengers. Canoes had to wait for good weather. Did canoes feel tired and heavy when waiting so long? Did canoes feel sad about people forgetting about them? Did canoes feel as though things disappeared before they got to them? Almost desperately, she searched her mind for things that didn’t have to wait. Trees? No, a tree waited for rain so its roots could suck up water like giant straws. It waited for children
Clara Schumann: Piano Virtuoso
Clara Schumann: Piano Virtuoso by Susanna Reich; Clarion Books: New York, 1999; $18 As her tender, pale fingers grasped the ivory keys of the grand piano, she could feel herself shaking with nervousness. If you are a musician, or have another talent which requires you to perform in public, then you have probably experienced the anxiety that Clara Schumann goes through. The anecdote that I have written above is something that I made up. Although I had never met Clara in person or gone to a movie with her, this book gave me a pretty good idea of the person she was, and the things she did. Almost every day, I hear my mother telling me to practice, and to get my projects done. I’ve heard a lot of people say that “practice makes perfect.” This saying seems a little misleading. Do they mean that after a lot of practice you’ll be perfect? If so, what happens after that? Do you still have to practice? Well, after I read just the first few chapters of Clara’s biography, I realized that Clara was a very dedicated person to practice at least five hours every day! Although she wasn’t perfect, she made fewer and fewer mistakes every day! Now I’ll know to listen more carefully when my mother tells me that it’s time to practice! There are many morals that anyone can take home from this book. One example of that is believing in yourself and other people. Would you believe in a selfish man who has lost his wife because of his terrible greed for money? Well, I don’t think I would even trust him with a rusted penny! Clara, on the other hand, had such a man for a father, and trusted him to help her with her piano career. She took in compliments with a warm smile, and brushed back her tears when her father disapproved of her performance. Another one of the morals is Clara’s dedication. If I had the choice of going outside to play, or practice my piano, I would definitely go with choice number one. Which sounds more interesting: the G-major three-octave scale, or a three-on-three game of basketball? If Clara were here, she would definitely choose anything that has to do with music. Not even once did Clara complain that her brothers didn’t have to play an instrument, but that she did. She loved the chance to weep with the low keys when she was sad, and to laugh with the high keys when she was happy. I could relate with Clara in this situation, also. Sometimes, when I am bored or angry, I’ll sit down at the piano and just play. It helps me to forget my anger and it gives me something to do. Clara’s strength to pull herself and her family through the hard times in her life is a good lesson for anyone. Although she did not have the perfect childhood, she was raised in a decent way. Clara married her musician friend, Robert Schumann, who was a very hardworking, dedicated man. She had eight kids of her own and made sure that they had a good childhood. Clara had to face many tragic incidents in her life, such as the death of two children, her husband being sent to a mental hospital, and eventually becoming a widow at age thirty-six. But this didn’t stand in the way of her piano playing. Through all this pain and agony, I don’t think anyone could ever go back to playing an instrument that once brought them joy. But Clara still continued on her tours in order to raise money for her family’s needs. Although Clara’s children aren’t talked about much, I wonder what they were thinking at this point in their lives. Their father had died, their mother was almost always gone, and two of their siblings had passed away. I bet Clara’s children were as brave and strong as she was. I definitely enjoyed reading this book, especially because I feel that Clara and I have so much in common. For instance, we both have two younger brothers, play piano, and like to compose music. While reading this book I could almost feel Clara’s stage fright as she stepped on the stage of the Gewandhaus (a historic hall in Germany) and the pleasure she got out of playing on a beautiful grand piano. After reading this book I strongly feel that Clara’s great accomplishments and beliefs should make her one of the greatest role models for all young girls aspiring to be great musicians. Sindhuja Krishnamoorthi, 12Manhattan, Kansas
The Shopping Incident
“OK, girls,” Mom said. “I’ll be shopping around.” “Good-bye, Mother,” I said impatiently, a little too eager to go browsing with Lauren. I had just turned twelve three days ago, and Mom said I’d be allowed to shop without adult supervision with her in the mall, just at a different store—as long as I was shopping with a friend. When Mom turned away to leave, I grinned at Lauren, who smiled back. “Where should we go first?” I asked. Lauren shrugged. “You decide.” “You’re the guest.” Somehow we chose a boutique, and Lauren picked out one of those cheap fuzzy things that you wrap around your neck called boas. “What do you think my mom will say?” “I think she’ll say . . . ahhh!” I joked, and Lauren laughed. We trudged into another store. I went over to look at the hairsprays while Lauren sampled everything. I noticed she was looking intently at some lipstick. Carefully she picked it up and winked at me, then dropped it into her purse. I sucked in my breath. “Dare me?” Lauren asked, a mischievous look on her face. “No,” I said firmly. “Let’s go, Lauren.” Just then, a saleswoman came up from behind us. “Can I help you girls?” she asked, sounding suspicious as her tiny gray eyes darted from me to Lauren. “Can I help you girls?” she asked, sounding suspicious Lauren put on her sweetest smile that fools teachers for about three weeks. “No, thank you. Do you have any purple nail polish?” The saleswoman blinked. “No, we just ran out. But can I recommend the mauve? It’s a bit like the purple.” “I’ll take it!” Lauren declared, picking up a shiny glass of the stuff. “Are you going to get anything, Amy?” I bit my lip. “No.” The saleswoman glared at me. “Can I get you anything else?” she inquired politely, addressing Lauren, who was counting her change. Lauren looked up. “No thanks.” Then, as we walked out, I saw her drop the lipstick back into the correct place when the saleswoman’s back was turned. When we got out, I stared fiercely at Lauren. “People like that get in trouble! You shouldn’t do stuff like that.” Lauren gave me a dirty look. “I didn’t get caught, did I? And I didn’t even steal anything. I was just joking. You’re like your mother. ‘No shopping by yourself at the mall unsupervised until you’re older, honey,'” she mimicked, laughing. I curled my hands into fists, but Lauren just grinned. “Oh, gosh, Amy, lighten up. You’re such a sissy sometimes! Come on, let’s go find your mom.” I didn’t mention the incident to Mom, and luckily she was busy fussing over my younger sister Rachel, who was throwing a tantrum over the dress Mom bought her. I was afraid that if I told Mom about Lauren, she’d never let me go places with her again, and Lauren was my best friend. When Rachel finally agreed to stop bawling over the dress if Mom would get her new shoes, Mom came into my room, and I buried my nose in a book so she wouldn’t see my worried look. “Is something wrong, honey?” Mom asked. “No. How’d you know—I mean, no, nothing’s wrong. I’m perfectly fine.” I gazed up at my mother and smiled shakily. “Well, for one thing, you’re reading a book,” Mom said, “which doesn’t happen very often on a Saturday night.” I shrugged. “I decided to change my lifestyle,” I said, which made Mom laugh. “That’s a good one,” Mom told me, smiling. “I have such a witty family!” Then she strode off, ready to scold my sister for kicking the wall, which Rachel was doing right then. I sighed, trying to figure out what to do about Lauren. I knew Lauren would get in trouble if I told someone, especially her mom, but if I didn’t, what if she really did steal something, not just fake it? * * * At school, that Monday, I saw Lauren but didn’t go over to her like usual. I didn’t want her to mention Saturday, and I was still confused. Instead of suffering through an uncomfortable five minutes before the bell with Lauren, I tried desperately to follow the conversation going on with the Mitchell twins. Fawn and Andrea always hang out together because they don’t have any friends, but they’re always nice to everyone. They’re a little strange, but I like to think of them as unique, and they really listen when you talk so you don’t feel like you’re talking to air. In line, though, Lauren teased me, “So you’re taking the Mitchell twins over me, huh, Amy?” With a sigh, I turned around from the sneers and Lauren, wishing I were anywhere but there. “Sorry, Amy,” Lauren said quickly when she saw my offended look. “I was just joking.” Ha, ha, I thought. Joke? I wanted to remind her that I had other friends besides her, but she’d already turned away. I didn’t have to hang out with her every second. I tried to avoid Lauren during recess by playing games she didn’t like, such as kickball. But Lauren played anyway, so I quit and headed for the girls’ room. Lauren followed. “Are you mad at me?” she asked. I didn’t answer. “Look, I didn’t mean to make you mad, if you are mad at me,” Lauren added. I smiled. This was the Lauren I knew. This was the Lauren I was best friends with. “It’s OK,” I said. “I guess I have been kind of a baby.” Lauren nodded her agreement, and before I could say anything, she grabbed my arm. “C’mon,” she said, “let’s go finish that kickball game!” * * * Mom took Rachel and me to the mall again next Sunday to return Rachel’s dress and get me some slacks and a wool sweater for winter. “Can I walk around again?” I asked. Mom hesitated. “Without Lauren?” “I’ll go with her!” Rachel piped up.
Laura
Slam! The beige metal door of the locker slammed shut. The friendly round face of my best friend Annie, framed with blond curls, peeked out at me. “OK, Francie, finished changing my books!” A large grin formed on her face. “We can go play Laura now.” “Hurry up! Katie and Emilia are already out there!” I pranced ahead of my slim friend, my chin-length brown hair blowing in the nipping November breeze. Katie was my twin. We were both twelve, with dirt-brown hair and hazel eyes. When people first met us, they always thought we were lying when we said we were fraternal. But most of our friends never knew how people could mistake us for identical, since they said we looked “nothing alike.” The other girl, Emilia, was a tall, also blond comrade we’d known since first grade. We hadn’t become best friends until fifth grade, when Emilia’s former best friend Jenny dumped her to join the “popular” group, a sad fate many of our peers had chosen to follow. Annie and I walked across the cold blacktop, where many of the popular boys were playing basketball, a sport I’d never really liked because of the fact all the populars loved it. The popular girls stood huddled in a corner, giggling and pointing at a certain boy. I could see Jenny, wearing a revealing Bebe tank top. I turned around and wrinkled my nose at Annie. “God, they are s0000 disgusting,” I remarked under my breath. “OK, Francie, finished changing my books! We can go play Laura now” “I know,” Annie whispered back. “They were making eyebrow signals to the boys all during math. Mr. Cosden had to ask them three times to stop talking. If I were him, I’d send all of them to the principal’s office.” “Forget the principal’s office! I’d send them to a different planet!” We both burst into laughter. Then we arrived at Laura’s cabin. “Laura” was a game we had played since fourth grade. It was supposed to be a depiction of the famous pioneer girl Laura Ingalls Wilder’s life, although this one wasn’t exactly historically accurate. I was the gruff but lovable Pa, Laura’s beloved father. In this version, though, I was always trying to find a reason for Laura (a.k.a. Annie) to go to the corner. In fourth grade, Laura’s house had been nothing but a crude circle of grass clippings. In fifth grade, our house was behind a huge pine tree trunk and was a little more realistic, but we still had to use lots of imagination. But, now that we were in sixth grade and technically in middle school, we had claimed a small plot of land for ourselves behind the basketball courts. It had four cedars planted in it, with a rarely used sand pit on the right that was used for long jump in P.E., and an old, abandoned part of yellow machinery on the left that we used as a toilet (in the game, I mean.) We’d never really found out what its former purpose was. In the back left-hand corner of the fence was a tall bush. The space behind this bush was used by us as the stables, where the many horses were kept. The rest of our rooms had dead pine branch wall outlines. The rooms consisted of a kitchen, pantry, corner (where Laura was sent for punishment), parlor, a horse exercise station (the sand pit), and many bedrooms. Emilia played different parts. She was all of our horses, Carrie (the younger sister of Laura), and Jack (the family dog). I was just Pa and Annie was just Laura. My sister was both Ma and Bessie, the old heifer who would never let Pa milk her. As we approached Emilia and Katie, we saw they were talking with Adam, the boy I “liked.” I hated to use that word. I mean, he wasn’t necessarily cute, but he was cute in my eyes because of my “admiration of his good personality,” the words I preferred to replace “like” with. I gulped and gratefully grabbed one of our pine brooms when Annie offered it to me. Then I concentrated feverishly on clearing debris off the hard, dusty floor. “Hey, Pa and Laura, aren’t you even going to say hello to Uncle Adam?” Emilia’s questioning voice rang in my ear. “Uncle Adam” was the nickname that my twin and two friends called Adam whenever he visited our cabin. Annie and Emilia would ask embarrassing questions to him, such as “Uncle Adam, where do babies come from?” for no other reason than to see him blush. I looked up at him. His green eyes were hidden behind his solar changing glasses. Right now, the lenses had acquired a dark color because of the strong sunlight peeping through the pine boughs. His shiny black hair was slightly tousled from the wind. My palms grew sweaty and I took a deep breath. Better stay in character, I thought. “Adam!” My voice was thick with a pioneerish accent. I swaggered over to him and slapped him hard on the back. “Fancy you comin’ all the way up here from Virginie just to see yer sister ‘n’ nieces. Ma, bake this man some a yer corn dodgers.” Katie bustled off while she called in a singsong voice to Annie and Emilia. They busied themselves with imaginary batter and ovens while I took Adam aside. “Best get outta here soon, Adam, or Ma’ll never let you go. You know women. Always jabberin’ on ’bout this, that, or the other thing.” I whispered comments loudly in his ear. “Uhh . . . yeah,” he replied, somewhat bewildered and mystified about the stretches of our imaginations. I could tell his own imagination was somewhat rusty from disuse. “Corn dodgers’re on the table!” Katie called to us. We walked into the kitchen. Katie, Emilia, Annie, and I all sat down on the floor and bit into the air in our hands, pretending they were
The Bullet
Boom . . . I woke up and looked out the window. It seemed like a nice day but that soon melted away. There was an explosion, gunshots, more explosions, more gunshots. I knew the sound. I’d heard it before. Living in Africa you get used to these things. But never this loud, this close, and this long. I ran out and found my mom. She was trying to keep herself busy. “Stay away from the windows!” she said. “Why?” “Just do it.” I just knew from that tone I should stay away from everything. Pacing back and forth in the long hallway in the middle of our house, I felt caged in. I was in fifth grade. I can’t handle this. What was happening? More gunshots and explosions echoed off the hills. My mom hung up the phone and came into the hall. “Where is Dad?” I asked. “On the roof with Ann,” she replied. “They are trying to find out what is going on and to see where the firing is coming from.” My dad was the Regional Security Officer for the US Embassy in Freetown, Sierra Leone in West Africa. Ann Wright was the Charge d’Affairs. “We are going to have to run,” he commanded The phone was ringing off the hook. All our friends and neighbors from all over the city were panicking. What is going on? What should we do? Mom tried to help them as best she could. I kept pacing the hall. My brother came out from his room. My mom told him to stay calm and stay away from the windows. We sat there in a windowless hall for a couple of hours. Mom tried to entertain us with a game of “Clue.” It lasted about five minutes. Who could think of Miss Scarlet or Professor Plum at a time like this? Every now and then my dad would come in and use the phone to call Washington. At about ten AM he said, “We are moving to the other building on the compound.” We got dressed and went downstairs. The gunshots were louder than ever. “We are going to have to run,” he commanded. “One . . . two . . . three . . .” Off we ran. My dad had my little brother. We ran across the parking lot, down the stairs, past the pool, took a right, and went into the new building. Safe . . . for now. We went into the first apartment. There were two young children that lived there. Their mom and dad were officers at the embassy. They were so young they didn’t even know something was wrong. I wished I could be like them. Lunch was spaghetti—two pieces and I was full. I sat on the couch and watched CNN. It was about us. The update on the Sierra Leone crisis. The government was overthrown. Rebel military was in power. People were driven from their homes, looted, murdered. Fires were being set. Parts of the city were burning. What about my friends? What about my teachers? Just then I heard a deep, low, loud BOOM. I panicked and broke out in tears. Who wouldn’t? A bomb went off. The air shook. I knew it was close. My dad sprinted in and brought us all into a tiny hall. We just sat there, my mom, the other adults, the kids. “The rebels have blown out the gate to our compound,” he said. He locked, double-locked and triple-locked us in. He went back out the door and down the stairs. I prayed I would see him again. Twenty minutes later my dad came back and told us we were OK now. He had given them our car and money. . . I don’t know any more than that. He went right to the phone to talk to the State Department people in Washington. The memories were foggy after that. We were locked in waiting for help. There was a thunderstorm that night. I thought the thunder was more bombing. When would it end and how would we get out? They knew how scared I was and showed me all the stuff they had to keep us safe There were seven US Army Special Forces up in the jungle outside of Freetown working on an assignment. The next day they made it to our compound in their humvee and set up camp on top of my three-story building. They had enough weaponry there to support a small army. They knew how scared I was and showed me all the stuff they had to keep us safe. I felt better with them around. We were allowed to go back to our house to change our clothes. I walked quickly toward my house to get out of any harm and noticed some- thing that looked shiny not fifty feet away. I ran over to see what it was. Approaching it my mind was racing. What on earth could it be? (After a few days of intense pressure your mind starts to wander.) The moment I saw it I felt like my heart had stopped beating. I closed my eyes and pictured it lying there for a moment. The top was flattened but I still knew what it was. A bullet head. The little devil was lying there like it ruled the world. That same bullet could have been responsible for the instant death of anyone. My dad, mom, brother, friend, or even myself. I slowly bent down, picked it up, and walked over to the compound wall. Looking at it I slowly aimed and refired it into the air. Over the wall. Out of my life forever. On the other side of the wall I heard the slight “fink” as it hit the tin roof of our next-door neighbor’s house. For some reason I felt good about myself. I felt a sudden change. I fully understood the true hate in the world today. Jon Breed, 13Doha,
Seeing Lessons
Seeing Lessons by Spring Hermann; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 1998; $15.95 This book takes place in Andover and Boston, Massachusetts during the 1830s. Blind at birth, a ten-year-old girl, Abbie, and her sister Sophia, who is six, go to the first school in America for the blind. Dr. Howe, with a kind heart, took the challenge of turning his home into a school for the first six blind students. He did this without accepting anything in return. Most people these days wouldn’t have done what Dr. Howe did, and if someone did, he would probably demand payment. Later on, Colonel Perkins donated a mansion for the blind school. It was named Perkins School for the Blind and taught students to never give up. The book also had humorous parts. One of my favorites was when Dr. Howe blindfolded himself to see what it was like to be blind and to gain sympathy for the children. During the experience, he walked straight into a door in front of the students and the two teachers from France and Scotland! It was so funny it kept me laughing all night. In one part of this book Abbie becomes very jealous of Sophia. People started to say that Sophia was so “sweet to see” that she must have her picture painted to earn money for the school fair. To make matters worse, Abbie had to listen to Sophia’s never-ending bragging. Abbie also felt left out because all of the other students had a job except for her. Surprisingly, even though Sophia had been so mean, Abbie was still thoughtful toward Sophia. When Abbie was given a job at the fair, I was amazed that, after all of Sophia’s boasting, she asked Dr. Howe if Sophia could do the job with her. I recommend this book to everyone. It teaches lessons about life, like compassion, thoughtfulness, and to never give up. Ellen Baldwin, 9Floyd Knobs, Indiana
