They say guilt is a staggering burden, but I think change is the heaviest load of all. All my life I had faced it head on, and I’m surprised that I was older when I finally decided that all of the wandering wasn’t fair. I still remember driving into the tiny, midwestern town in Iowa. The sky looked troubled and angry, and I recall that it looked formidable and opposing. It was November, and I was sure that the bleak landscape would soon be covered with a blanket of sparkling, white snow. I sat with my brother Rob in the back of the old VW van. We were both sullen and cross, angry with our parents for dragging us to yet another town. We glared at them from the back seat as they bubbled over at every little thing like ecstatic children at a birthday party. “Look at that adorable little house!” “It’s so darling!” “And all the little shops! Oh, how exciting!” I had heard it many times before as we entered a new place when roaming about the country on my parents’ vagabond trip. Our vagabond trip. They called themselves wanderers, but I referred to them as middle-aged hippies. This was the thirty-second town I had lived in throughout my life. I was thirteen, adaptable and, most importantly, accepting. Too accepting. Inside I was sick of the traveling and the wandering. I wanted a place of my own. I still remember driving into the tiny, midwestern town in Iowa My parents loved the traveling. They had been real hippies back in the sixties. They had attended rowdy rallies, smoked one or two joints in the hope of reaching an astounding level of intellect and insight, and had tramped around Woodstock in baggy bell-bottoms. They had married at twenty, gone to college, earned degrees in philosophy, and hopped in the old van. Thus began their life on the road. I was born at their sixteenth stop, in a tiny little town in Vermont in a red barn filled with fragrant hay. It was October, and my mother says that the trees were all boasting their brilliant fall colors of red, orange, yellow and brown, creating a dazzling sight visible through the open door. She says that I was born with my eyes wide open, as if the vibrant colors shocked me into silence. That’s why I’m so observant, she says, because I was born gaping at the world in awe and wonder. My mother was born in a New England state too, New York. She was born in the Catskill Mountains where the air is crisp and fresh. I went there once to visit my grandparents, and spent most of the time running through the little town of Cooperstown, marveling at the clear air and the abundant wildlife of squirrels, deer and countless others. I’ve never lived in a house; the van was always home to us. We slept and ate in the back of the van where my father took out the seats and nailed in a soft couch, an old wooden table, two cots, a refrigerator and a stove. I never knew what I was missing out on until I went over to a friend’s house when we were camped out in Alabama. It wasn’t a Georgian mansion or a Victorian painted lady, just a normal, suburban house. But it made my heart ache to see each person’s room, the tiled bathroom, the orderly kitchen. The privacy of a house made me want one desperately. I saw plenty of other houses. I saw cheap duplexes in Newark, enormous mansions in Beverly Hills, unoriginal ranches in Nebraska and Wyoming, beach houses in North Carolina and Maryland, even long houses in Washington State. I wanted all of them. As we drove past charming bungalows and farmhouses I grew miserable. I knew that I would forever envy the people who lived in them, and would always be jealous of those that lived here simply because they had a home. I hadn’t wanted to leave our last home in Wisconsin. It was in the northern part of the state, a place called Boulder Junction. There were thick forests of tall, straight pines that stood like a regiment of dignified soldiers. There was a main street of prim shops and little houses. The school was small, the people were friendly, and finally I was accepted as an individual. I had friends, I had good grades, and, for once, was content with who I was. And then my parents announced that we would move again. “We haven’t been to Iowa yet,” they explained. “We ought to experience the sights and sounds of the Hawkeye State!” But Rob was on many of the athletic teams, and I was on the honor roll and the student council. We cried and sulked for three days until Mom and Dad pulled us into the van and started up the engine. “Look at those little buildings!” “Aren’t they precious!” “This is such a darling town, don’t you think?” Mom turned and smiled her bubbly smile at us. We just stared back. Mom’s smile faded and she turned back to the window to gawk at something else. We stopped at a dumpy little place for Chinese take-out for dinner. I squinted at the menu. Though we had always taken out Chinese, McDonald’s or Pizza Hut for meals, I had never become familiar with the exotic names on the Chinese menus. I pointed at a dish and held it out for the waiter to see. “I don’t know how to pronounce this name,” I told him apologetically. He mumbled something, scribbled onto his pad, and shuffled into the kitchen to get the food. We walked back to the van with our little white cartons of chow mein, dumplings, beef and broccoli, or whatever we had decided upon. “This is good!” Dad exclaimed after tasting his chop suey. “We’ll have to come here more often.” I sighed. I had heard
Multiple Choice
Multiple Choice by Janet Tashjian; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 1999; $16.95 “I wish my brain were a toaster.” That’s how Monica Devon feels about the way she obsesses over everything— from the amount of beans in a beanbag to the word she spelled incorrectly in a spelling bee three years ago. Multiple Choice, by Janet Tashjian, is the story of Monica Devon, a fourteen-year-old girl whose one wish is to stop obsessing. Although she has always been a perfectionist, her condition seems to be getting worse. Since Monica has had a passion for word games and anagrams for most of her life, she creates a game, Multiple Choice, with Scrabble tiles. It’s supposed to help her become more spontaneous by making decisions for her, and for a while, it does. Monica feels as if she can do anything without having to worry because she can’t go against Multiple Choice’s solutions. However, when one of the game’s decisions results in a young boy getting hurt, Monica knows she has gone too far. One aspect I particularly liked about Multiple Choice was the creative way in which the author explained Monica’s feelings. At the beginning of many chapters were word games or anagrams which set the tone for the events to come, such as I’M THE WORLD (I’m on top of the world!). These titles, as well as Monica’s general sense of humor, “. . . and the whole point of this stupid game is to liberate me. Liberate me straight into a padded room is more like it,” result in a lighthearted tone even as Monica’s problems develop. Reading this book made me realize that obsession can be as much of a disorder as anorexia. Although everyone worries about problems they face throughout the day, some people spend so much time analyzing that they become depressed, constantly thinking about mistakes that were made years ago. Small problems that might be viewed as meaningless become monstrous ones that must be tackled, no matter how insignificant they may appear. Monica, for instance, tries to scoop beans from one beanbag to another to try to equal out their sizes. Although Monica Devon is a fictitious character, there is a little of her in all of us. There have been times in the past year when I became obsessed over my schoolwork and other things. For example, once our social studies class was assigned a report on a country in South America. I wanted to do a perfect job on the report, so I collected pages of research. By working nearly constantly on the report and staying up late on the last night, I felt that my paper would be pretty good. When I printed the report out, however, I wasn’t satisfied. I then printed out as many pictures of the country as I could find to try and make the report longer. When everyone else handed in five- and six-page reports, I might as well have made a whole book—I had twenty-one pages of text and nine of pictures! While my experiences have never been as dramatic as Monica’s, I can understand why she felt compelled to try and break out of her usual perfectionism—even if that meant hurting her family and friends. Overall, I think Multiple Choice should be a top pick for kids, particularly ones who like realistic fiction. Janet Tashjian is a talented author who makes the characters in this story seem lifelike and the many anagrams Monica includes with her humor, such as Maybe the letters in Lynn’s name saved her—that since Lynn can’t be rearranged into something else, she’s destined to live a simple, easy life without complications. I, on the other hand, have IN COMA to deal with, among other things. are both amusing and give readers a sense of her desperation. The undertones of Monica’s disorder are balanced by this story’s lighthearted feel, which come together nicely at the end of the book, along with Monica’s realization about who she is inside. Readers will find themselves, as I did, both sympathizing with Monica and feeling angry with her as she unknowingly loses control of her life. All of these elements mixed together make this story an excellent read for kids and adults alike. Lauren Porter, 12Berlin, Connecticut
Flaming Sunset
ONE The chilly wind blew up spirals of dry leaves, but the sun still shone merrily. The faded blue paint was peeling off the porch on the old farmhouse. A short, red-haired girl lay on the porch with her chin propped in her hands. Stretched out on the steps was another girl, with brown hair. They were both five, but there the resemblance ended. Sarah was over a head taller than Elizabeth. Her short, light brown hair blew around her head in the breeze. Her eyes were also brown, the color of chocolate. Elizabeth, the redhead, had energetic, dancing, bright green eyes that mirrored her personality. Both had their attention fixed on the toy horse Sarah was holding. It was bright orange, with a blue mane and tail. “His name’s Flaming Sunset,” Sarah explained. “I just got him.” Elizabeth nodded. The two girls were extremely close friends, tied together by their love of horses. Sarah had recently moved into the house next to Elizabeth’s. They were already inseparable, spending their afternoons wandering about the farm down the road from their houses. Their favorite place was, of course, the horse barn. As soon as they had finished admiring Sarah’s new toy, they set off to feed carrots to the horses, with Elizabeth’s large black dog trailing at their heels. TWO The stars intently watched the scene below from their perch in the velvet-blue night sky. At Fairweather Horse Farm a small crowd had gathered around one stall. Inside stood a small bay horse. The dim light from the dusty bulb overhead was enough to show that his coat was flaming red. His silky black mane streamed from his arched neck, and his black tail billowed out behind him like a cloak. The star on his face seemed to shine brighter than the electric lights. His feet rustled in the thick straw as he inched forward to inspect his visitors. Holding the opened door in one hand with a carrot outstretched in the other was a smiling, red-haired ten-year-old girl. Holding the opened door in one hand with a carrot outstretched in the other was a smiling, red-haired girl “Wow, Elizabeth, he’s really pretty.” “What’s his name?” “How old is he?” “Where’d you get him?” “Can I pet him?” “Yeah, me too?” Questions poured down on Elizabeth. Suddenly the horse reached forward and took the carrot from her hand. He was starting to relax. “OK, you can come in,” she agreed. As half of her Pony Club rushed into the stall, Elizabeth noticed that Sarah was hanging back. Elizabeth felt a sharp stab of guilt. She hadn’t talked about a thing in school except Surprise, that horse that lived up to his name on her tenth birthday. She hadn’t had any time for her friend. “Hey, Sarah!” she called. “I have another carrot in my pocket. Want to give it to him?” Sarah opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. Finally she nodded her head weakly, gave a shaky smile, and headed into the stall. THREE “And now on course is number 17, Elizabeth Green.” As she entered the ring Elizabeth could feel the crowd’s eyes on her. However, there was one pair whose expression she was unaware of. The owner of those eyes looked upon Elizabeth as a rival who would threaten her quest for the ’96 Regional Pony Club Jumper Cup. The owner of those eyes realized that Elizabeth would likely win. The owner of those eyes used to be Elizabeth’s best friend. They belonged to Sarah. Sarah sat on top of her chunky gray gelding looking outwardly calm, while her boyfriend Pete dusted one of her boots and her friend Margaret the other. Margaret was wearing a belly-short tank top, bell-bottom jeans, two-inch platform sandals, and an unhappy expression. “It’s too dusty here, Sarah,” she whined. Sarah ignored her and turned to Pete, who had begun talking. “I don’t know, Sarah, she looks pretty good,” he warned. “In this class looks don’t count, it’s speed.” “I understand that, but look how fast she’s going.” Elizabeth was dashing through the ring on the jumper she had trained herself: the little bay Surprise. Though he was barely larger than a pony, he soared over the jump as though he was winged. This horse and rider would probably win. “Why don’t you go check your course?” Pete suggested. “I know my course,” Sarah replied through clenched teeth. “Well, now it’s your turn to go in,” he said. When she exited the ring again Sarah’s scowl was larger than before. She knew that she had lost the Cup. Since she had finished her course Elizabeth’s Pony Club friends had been helping her cool out her horse, and a friend from school brought her a soda. The ringmaster’s voice suddenly sounded out: “Would the following contestants please enter the ring in the order your number is called. 17, 163, 84, 22.” Sarah tried not to hear the excited cries coming from Elizabeth and her friends. She tried not to see the tricolor ribbon pinned on Surprise’s bridle, or the gleaming silver trophy Elizabeth held. As she exited the ring she stuffed the yellow third-place ribbon in her pocket, embarrassed to be seen with it. Right then and there she vowed to never be friends with Elizabeth again. “Nice job,” Pete congratulated. Sarah ignored him and whiny Margaret too. She wanted to be alone. FOUR Elizabeth sat on her tack box looking at her collection of trophies. Finally her gaze rested on her first Pony Club Jumper Cup. She remembered how excited she had felt when her number was called. She then turned her eyes toward Surprise. He was three years older than he had been when they won that Cup, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. His coat still glistened, his neck still arched, and his ears still pricked just as much as they had that afternoon. Surprise was all tacked up and ready.
A Crimson Glimmer
The air was cool, and leaves had departed from their shaky branches. Early October had come. Ansadore, the old chestnut mare, was rolling in the browning grass. She snorted, rolled over, and stood up. Not to say standing up didn’t take much effort, though. She was, indeed, very old and it took more than a mere push to rise to her feet. After the grunts of weariness, however, she did manage it and was standing on her sleek legs. Mary, tired after school, was just walking up the hill to the paddocks. Her light brown hair had been placed neatly into two braids that morning but was now in an absolute wreck, looking somewhat like a dead rat sitting atop her head. Her blue-green eyes were shielded off by round, silver-rimmed glasses which she ripped off so suddenly that they scraped her forehead. She hated the glasses. She was certain she could see perfectly fine without them, but her mother had insisted, and she never argued with her mother. It was nothing more than a quick blur, a glimmer of an intense crimson color She sighed dramatically as she approached Ansadore. “Oh, Any,” she called to the horse by nickname. “I hate it here! I want to move, run away! I want to ride you across the country and back, then fly to London, Rome, Paris!” She collapsed, caught up in her own drama. The horse stared back at her with large, understanding eyes. Mary stood up again. “I’m gonna go for a ride,” she said. She crawled under the wooden fence, dropped her book bag, and put her hands on Ansadore’s back. She pushed up and swung a leg over the horse’s back. Once on and balanced, she tapped the horse’s belly with her sneakers. The well-trained horse immediately took the signal and began trotting down the hill. Near the bottom, something flew up in front of them. It was nothing more than a quick blur, a glimmer of an intense crimson color. Ansadore spooked. She reared, whinnying, something she hadn’t done for over ten years. Mary slowly slid off the horse’s back and into the dirt, while Ansadore took off up the hill. Mary, shaking her head in discomfort, caught another glimpse of the crimson glimmer. It was far above her head for a moment, then swooped down into a shrub. Mary leaned forward to get a better glance. There, on a branch, was the object that had caused so much confusion. It was beautiful, Mary had thought. It was the crimson glimmer. It was . . . a butterfly. Chappell Sargent, 10Charlestown, Massachusetts Lainey Guddat, 11Kent, Washington
I, Too, Sing America
I, Too, Sing America by Catherine Clinton; Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 1998; $20 This is a collection of African-American poetry that is tragic and triumphant. You will learn a lot about history from these poems. I am an eighthgrader studying American history at Farb Middle School. This book helped me understand the issue of slavery from the point of view of people who were slaves, and made me think about racism and discrimination in America in a way that I didn’t think about from reading my textbook from school. This book is a mixture of poets’ biographies, the history of the time when they were alive, and their writings. It begins in the 1700s and continues through today. There are poems about Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X. Other poems describe Indian attacks and the American Revolution. Famous African-Americans such as Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, and W. E. B. Du Bois are included in this book. Also, I learned about poets that I never heard of before I read this book. The illustrations are strong, beautiful drawings by Stephen Alcorn. When I saw the cover of this book, I wanted to have it because it was so beautiful. The book cover, people dancing on books and reaching for stars, captures the hope that many of the poems make you feel inside as you read them. My favorite poem is written by Langston Hughes, titled “Merry-Go-Round, Colored Child at Carnival.” It stuck in my head because I remember when I went to Seaport Village in San Diego and my mother let my brother, my sister and me ride the carousel. We sat on the beautiful horses, going up and down, and laughing as the carousel went around. I didn’t laugh when I read the poem about a colored child who wanted to know where was the section for colored people to ride. This poem is a history lesson about Jim Crow laws, which made separate things for Caucasian people and colored people such as drinking fountains, bathrooms, schools and restaurants. The child asks, “Where’s the horse for a kid that’s black?” He says he knows where the back of the bus is but he wonders where the back of the carousel is. My brother, sister and I would have been the children watching the Caucasian children laugh and wondered why we couldn’t get on if we had been alive when the author had lived. What I didn’t like about the book is that I didn’t understand all the poetry. I will try to read those poems when I am older. What I like best about this book is that it has poetry by people I have seen on TV like Maya Angelou, and people like Lucy Terry, who was a slave in the 1700s, and a section telling about the poet. These poems are like a history lesson that grabs your heart and doesn’t let go. I like history, but reading my middle school textbook is a little bit boring. You won’t let go of this book, I, Too Sing America, until you have read every poem in it. Jessica Arguilez Bans, 13San Diego, California
On the Beach
Sally walked slowly across the long stretch of brown sand, tripping over small pebbles blocking her path. She scurried down to the rocks, dirtyblond hair flying as she went. Casually, she brushed back her hair with a quick flick of her hand. She spied a blue blob among the rocks. She loved looking for long-lost tennis balls, Superballs and dog toys. She scampered hurriedly to the resting place of the blue blob. To her great disappointment, a Pepsi cup stuck out. She ignored it and darted between the rocks, peering between, in and around the rocks and crevices. Suddenly, a bright green ball caught her eye. “Fleepo!” she called, whistling for her brown mutt. The dog, long tongue, floppy ears and huge brown eyes, greeted her with a yap loud enough for the whole world to hear. She summoned her dog over to the green ball. Easily reached, she freed the ball from its nook between two large rocks. Sally grinned and threw the ball in the air. Fleepo sped across the rocks to catch the wild green blur. She snapped it up in her mouth and returned it to her owner. Sally threw the ball far out toward the water and watched as the small puppy dipped in to retrieve it. The pup, now covered in mud and water, dropped the ball proudly at Sally’s feet, ignoring the other dogs sniffing at her. Sally petted each new dog and let the ball fly. Each dog sailed down to the water and splashed up water almost reaching Sally. She laughed as they clambered over each other and waited until they returned the ball. As the ball took another trip through the air, Sally smiled and thought, Only dogs can make me happy that fast. He noticed his sister testing the water and sank under, planning his attack Jordan watched as a light brown lizard crawled carefully around the rocks. He grimaced as his loud brother stomped his way over to him. “Hi, Jordan.” His small brother collapsed into a heap of a large T-shirt and skinny legs. Jordan sensed a sadness in his brother’s tone of voice and turned. Sure enough, a glittering tear dripped down his brother’s face. Jordan patted his brother gently on his head. “What’s wrong, Parker?” His brother let both eyes roll down to his shoes and mumbled, “It’s Pete’s Sake. He’s gone.” “What happened?!” Jordan’s mind supplied thoughts of drowned dogs and paws sticking up in the air. He grimaced for a second time and stared at his brother. “I lost ‘im.” Jordan smiled to himself. You could not lose a dog in this park. All the dogs stuck together in here, either darting between rocks or soaring through the air to catch a ball. Jordan took his brother’s small hand and led him up the rocks. He peeked around the hills, pointed out good hiding spots of most of the dogs, and headed across the bridge. Still clutching his brother’s hand, Parker scanned the small hills around i8 the park. Sure enough, Pete’s Sake was romping around with two other dogs on a hill. Parker grabbed Jordan around the waist. “Oh, Jordan! Thanks so much! I was major worried!” Jordan smiled and led his brother back to the rocks. He showed him the former resting place of the lizard and continued searching for more. He didn’t even mind his brother’s pounding feet; suddenly lizards and noise didn’t seem that important anymore. On a sudden instinct, he grabbed Parker’s hand and took in his brother’s deep smile. Jordan just grinned back and didn’t let on the deep thought going on in his head. Only Parker can make me happy that fast, he thought, and skipped over three rocks to catch an escaping lizard. Solemnly, Rita crawled down to the rocks and pulled off her shoes. A glint of bright metallic light suddenly caught her interest, but she brushed it away from her mind like a piece of lint. She wiggled her toes slowly, disgusted at the dirt clodding her big toe. She scraped it off with a stick and watched the waves float in the sea. She heard her cousins discussing her bad mood and planted herself deeper into her foul feeling of disgust. The metallic glint caught her eye again and this time, to avoid and surprise her cousins, she got up to examine it. As she grew closer, a shiny seashell came into her view. Handling the shell like a cracked egg, she brought it close to her glowing eyes. Since it was abandoned by its previous owner, Rita claimed it and tucked it into a make- shift bag, giving her bandana to the cause. Suddenly, it seemed like the whole beach was shining. She collected shell after shell, passing brother, uncle and cousins on her way without even a mean glance. Finally when her bag was full, she carefully placed them into her basket, now unloaded of its earlier package of picnic food. She unwrapped the bandana and quickly skipped back to the damp sand of the bank of the ocean. Before she knew it, Rita was letting water tickle her toes as she reached for a large, shimmering red shell. Without full notice, she had rolled up her shorts and was thigh-deep in ocean water. She laughed as the water tickled her legs. Forgetting all about her foul mood, she gleefully showed her now interested brother about the shells. Soon, speckles of children could be seen, each slowly picking up fragile shells and placing them in bandana-bags. Rita delicately placed another shell in her bag and smiled, thinking, Only seashells could make me happy this fast. She helped her cousin carry up his bag without noting her kindness and climbed back down to the ocean of shells below her. Todd flicked an ant off his toe and rolled his eyes. His sister was flirting with two boys and he was disgusted. Finally, too bored for anything else, he left the
Einstein: Visionary Scientist
Einstein: Visionary Scientist by John B. Severance; Clarion Books: New York, 1999; $15 To most kids, Einstein: Visionary Scientist would seem like “a book about some dead guy whose ideas I don’t understand.” At first, I was too busy thinking about writing this review to have any opinion on this book. Once I was into the book, I forgot about the review and enjoyed the story immensely. I was surprised to discover that Albert was a slow learner, and that he had a ferocious temper. This was something I could relate to. When I was in elementary school I lagged behind the others in my class. My frustration lead me to have a bad temper. However, my temper was pint-sized compared to Albert’s tantrums. Once, he just missed his sister Maja with a bowling ball. Another time, he hit his sister with the handle of a garden hoe. Even on my worst days, I never threw a bowling ball. Something I didn’t know was that Albert took violin lessons. I took violin lessons too, but I never had a lesson like Albert’s. On his first lesson he threw a chair at his teacher. That nasty disposition again! Two other things about Albert’s education surprised me. One, he was a dreamy student. He was oblivious to the world around him and was lost in his own scientific thoughts. I also am like that sometimes, I get lost in my own world. The other was that he flunked all of his subjects except math and physics. I was amazed because I thought that smart people were good in everything. Albert’s principal once said, “It doesn’t matter how we teach him, he’ll never amount to anything anyway.” He was obviously wrong! Another way that Albert and I are alike: we both like to write papers on our ideas. Years later when he was at the peak of his popularity, he would tour all over, and speak of his theories he had written about. I found it interesting that he was booed at some lectures; I guess there were people who just didn’t understand his ideas. I don’t totally agree with Albert’s pacifist views. I enjoy studying about war and the armed forces. I think the reason for this difference is that he was a Jew during Hitler’s reign over Europe, whereas I have never been that close to war and have always known freedom. The author, John B. Severance, did a remarkable job of making Einstein’s difficult ideas understandable. If you had to do a school project on a famous scientist, this would be an excellent reference book to use. It demonstrates that although this is a book about the smartest guy in the world, you, too, can understand Albert Einstein. This is a really great book that I’d recommend to anyone, especially if you’ve ever been misunderstood or not liked. It shows you that even if you are picked on or put down, as long as you keep trying you will never be a failure. Who knows, you might be the next smartest person in history. Casey Pelletier, 13Telford, Pennsylvania
A Winner
“Once upon a time—no, no, that’s not right . . .” Laura chewed on her thumbnail and pouted. “Gosh, I just can’t seem to get this right!” Finally, she threw down her pencil, crumpled up the paper and jammed it into the plastic trash can in the corner of her room. Smacking her forehead with a sweaty palm, Laura threw herself on her bed and punched her pillow. “How am I supposed to become the world’s greatest novelist, let alone the winner of this writing contest, if I can’t even start the dumb story?!” she questioned her tattered teddy bear, Henry. In exasperation, Laura rolled onto the floor and stared up at the chipped ceiling of her room. Smothered in the sticky embrace of the stiff quiet in her room, Laura’s mind filled with cloudy memories of the past. Tiptoeing in, they seemed to fill in the chinks of her brain connecting her to the world, and she was lost to reality. Images of a pleasant, smiling face and bubbling laughter flickered in Laura’s mind, as if she was watching her past on a movie screen. That’s when she saw it—the face. Like a dangerous beast, it haunted her dreams, serving as a token of what she had lost. Choking on a sob, Laura clung to her teddy bear. Blinking, she returned to the present. Slowly rising to her feet, she quietly padded over to her night table, and tugged open the wooden drawer hesitantly. Rummaging inside for what seemed like hours, but was only a matter of mere minutes, Laura’s shaking fingers clasped what she was hunting for—the photograph. Revealing the picture, she stroked the figure lovingly. “Dad,” she whispered. “Dad . . .” Revealing the picture, she stroked the figure lovingly. Dad,” she whispered. Dad . . . ” Suddenly, her mother’s voice bit into the haziness surrounding Laura. “Laur, hon? Laura! It’s lunchtime! C’mon, sweetie, I have to leave soon! Laura, lunch!” Sensing the impatience in her mother’s summoning, Laura quickly stuck the picture back into the drawer and scampered down the steps. Sliding into a seat at the kitchen table, Laura drummed her fingers on the table as she inhaled the delicious smell of the grilled cheese baking in the toaster. Quickly gobbling up every last morsel of the sandwich, Laura listened to her mom tell her of the appointment that she had to run off to and that “she hoped Laura wouldn’t mind if she had to fix herself some dinner and she would be back early tomorrow morning.” “You know, there’s canned soup in the cupboard, honey,” Mrs. Hanley called from the front hall as she shouldered her purse and flipped up her sunglasses. “Be a love and take out the trash, will you sweetie? Oh, and don’t forget you do have homework to do even though it’s Saturday. Laurie — don’t spend too much time on that writing contest thing, you know just as well as I do that you have plenty of more important things to be spending your time on. Well, I’ll try and call when I get there, OK? Bye, sweetie!” Sighing, Laura cleared her place and rinsed off the dishes, after watching her mother’s beat-up station wagon rumble off into the distance. Typical mother, she thought disgustedly. Nonetheless, she did as she had been instructed to and emptied the trash out into the bin at the back of the house. Back inside her cozy room, Laura kicked off her tennis shoes and plucked the clothespin off her nose, pulling up the broken blinds on her window. Once again sitting silently at her desk, Laura stared solemnly at the picture of her dad that she had placed gingerly down in front of herself. Studying the man’s unique features, she decided she had a lot in common with her dad—the same wispy chestnut hair and twinkling green eyes. In fact, looking closer, Laura could see she and her father had the same smile, creasing at the corners and slightly lopsided. Laura could remember that smile from a long time ago—at her third birthday party when her father had dressed up like a clown and performed silly tricks; and at the beach when she was eight, when together they had built a tall, stately sand castle, crowned with a small stick and soiled piece of fish netting. Chuckling to herself, Laura recalled the time that her father had spilled an entire orange soda on his jeans on purpose to match Laura’s own when she had wet her pants. Smiling sadly at the picture, Laura felt that hole in her heart, that missing piece in the puzzle. True, it was a corner piece, hard to accommodate without. But, nevertheless, as Laura’s father had taught her, everything is possible. How many times had he said, time and again, no one’s a winner without making the effort? And Laura wanted so much to be her father’s daughter—to be the winner that she knew he had in his heart. Sharing the same secret passion, Laura and her father had always thought alike and acted alike. Now he was merely a whisper on the wind. But now Laura realized that it was up to her to carry on that special passion and bring out the real winner inside her that was bottled up. These selfish tears she had cried from time to time were the cork that kept her true self inside. And now, she was ready to unplug the cork. Filled with new inspiration and soaring spirits, Laura picked up her pencil and a clean stack of paper, and wrote. And wrote. And wrote. In fact, she set up her flashlight and was still busy scribbling well into the night. At last, when the first golden purple streaks of the sunrise were painted across the sky’s easel, Laura set down her pencil once again and sat back into her pillows to read what she had written. What her hand had written, with a mind of
Enchantment of the Wolves
The farm looked old and dull, but in my thoughts everything, even the quiet farm, was eerie. I had the dream again; the same dream I had every full moon, the only dream I ever had. The gentle eyes of my mother looked down at me. All I could see were the soft, green eyes. I could feel the warmth and fear of my mother, fear that was for me. “Terry!” called my father. “Breakfast!” He was actually my adoptive father. He found me in the woods and took care of me. He knew that adopting me would be a bad idea. He had no experience whatsoever with raising a child, and the only person who could help him would be his younger brother. He spent weeks searching for my family, but found no one. He could give me up to an orphanage or adopt me himself. I suppose he felt responsible for me, or maybe it was sheer pity, but he took me in and I was brought up living on a farm with him and my uncle, Dude. He is really my Uncle Ben, but “Uncle Ben” makes rice, and Dude was a childhood nickname. I suppose I liked Dude all right, but he was gone so much that I didn’t really get to spend much time with him. “Coming!” I yelled. I ran hard and fast, I was good at that. Dude says my mother and father were probably great athletes. Besides, today my father was making waffles for breakfast. * * * It sat down and pulled the straw out of my tangled hair. I had slept in the barn with the animals again. I felt at peace with them. My father could tell I had been sleeping there, but I suppose, against his better judgement, he let me be. My father and I did not talk much. It wasn’t that we didn’t like each other, it’s just that we didn’t “click.” Neither of us was a very good conversationalist, so silence filled the gaps in our relationship. But it wasn’t a comfortable silence. It wasn’t awkward either. There was simply nothing there; no words, no thoughts, no feelings. I had lived twelve years with someone I barely knew. His tired face was that of a stranger that looked different every time I saw it. I did not miss my father when we were apart, and I did not notice when we were together. I was never angry with him, nor was I happy. He was simply there, nameless, my provider, but don’t get me wrong. I was grateful to him. Only sometimes I wondered if his choice to adopt me was a smart one. Did I really belong here? Could things really go on like this? “Did you finish all of your homework?” my father asked, breaking the silence. “Yep,” I answered. “What are you doing in school today?” he continued quietly. “Nothing.” “Hmmm. Do you like your new math class?” “No, not really.” We both went back to poking at our waffles. It was a typical breakfast conversation. I thought of saying more; telling him how I despised math class and how I learned more walking home through the peaceful woods, tasting the fresh air, than I ever could at school, but I decided that I would sound silly and thought better of it. Many long, silent moments passed before the next conversation began. “I got another one this morning.” This time it was Dude speaking. My father nodded. “Two more chickens are gone.” “Suppose I’ll go down to the market an’ get some more.” He looked tired and distressed. I knew what they were talking about. I hated it. Our chickens were disappearing. My father decided it was wolves, but we never actually saw them take the chickens. Although with so many wolves running around Stoneland, Wyoming, what else could it have been? I had my own ideas. When I proved that the Hoster boys from next door were taking the chickens, no more innocent wolves would die. I couldn’t be absolutely sure they were taking them, but whenever they came over they snooped around, and day by day their chicken flock seemed to grow larger and ours smaller. I stared blankly out the window as a beautiful full-grown wolf stepped into our yard Off in my own world, I stared blankly out the window, but my thoughts on the chickens came to an abrupt halt as a beautiful full-grown wolf stepped into our yard. It was far away from the chickens, but close enough. Even though the wolf wasn’t after them, it was in danger simply by being here. I had to get to it before my father did. I tore across the yard, each step faster than I could count. As I neared the wolf I did not slow. For my own safety I should have stopped. I did not. I knew the wolf wouldn’t hurt me. I could feel it in a place deeper and more spiritual than my heart, and somehow, somehow, I knew she felt the same. The part when I actually, physically tackled the wolf was a blur of forgotten memory. All I knew, or rather felt, was me running with the wolf, for the wolf, to a place I knew by heart and yet had never seen. The feel of my legs straining to push my body through the force of the eager wind felt natural, completely natural. When my heart finally stopped urging me forward with the force of a thousand fists, I found myself at the entrance of a cave. Unsure of what to do next, I glanced over at the wolf. Taking sure and gentle steps, she proceeded inside. I followed, a bit bewildered. There must have been fifteen . . . no, twenty wolves! The soft gray texture of their fur made me want to reach out and touch them but I kept my distance. They were all peaceful and quiet,
Nicely Johnson and Caylan
As I recall, it was early in the morning, around seven or eight, when I first arrived at summer camp. The beautiful summer breeze whisked through my nose, giving me a vague sense of freedom. How I had longed to leave school and have this feeling tingle my senses. This had marked my third year at summer camp, and I was ecstatic to meet my friends again. I walked across the new green grass leading to the main campus. Directly in front of me, I would say about twenty-five yards, a red-haired boy paced back and forth. He looked at his feet, as if he had just discovered them. I came closer, and noticed his pale white skin. I had never seen anyone like him before. Now, I was several feet from him, but he managed to still keep his head faced to the ground. “Hello. I’m Daniel Lyons, it’s very nice to meet you.” I held my hand out for a handshake, making him slowly lift his head up. “I am Cay . . . Cayla . . . Caylan . . . I am Caylan.” “Hi, Caylan, it’s very nice to meet you.” I was puzzled by the way he talked. As he spoke, he would change the position of his head and hands. As I walked away, I got a quick glance at the back of his white T-shirt. “Johnson School for Special Students.” I began to formulate why he was different from the rest of us. It gave me a drooping feeling of sadness, but I kept walking. “Hey Dan! What have you been doin’ with that Caylan kid?” I would say a week or so had passed by when Gary, the head of the drama section of the camp, informed us that we were going to put on the production “Guys and Dolls,” and auditions were to be held that afternoon. I thought I did fairly well, because I earned the part of Nicely Johnson. I would perform the song “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat.” I walked down the cobblestone path leading to the boys’ bunk. Caylan walked over to me. “I hear that . . . that you are Nicely . . . Nicely Johnson. That song you sing. I know the words. Can you . . . you take me out on stage with . . . with you? OK then. Bye.” He began to walk away. “Wait, Caylan! Umm . . . I dunno if you can do tha- . . . I’ll talk to Gary.” He smiled at me. * * * “You’re it, Caylan!” I ran away from him laughing. He was laughing more than I was, and I don’t think I’d ever seen him so happy. He reached for me, and missed. I kept running, until he had finally caught me. I now chased him around, until we were both tired. We sat down, breathing heavily. “So, did you . . . did you talk to Gary?” “No, I didn’t, Caylan; I guess I will now.” * * * “No! Are you outta your mind?!” Gary’s face turned a dark shade of red. “But he doesn’t understand! He may be thirteen years old, but he’s really just a young child; he can’t take your refusal!” “No, and that’s final!” I walked away, my tail between my legs. Caylan walked up to me. I stared at him darkly. He understood, and walked away. I kept walking a different direction. I smashed into the water, still amazed on the height I gained on the diving board jump. I opened my eyes as a girl swam under my feet. It was Jenna, one of my good friends. She and I surfaced. “Hey Dan! What have you been doin’ with that Caylan kid? You don’t hang out with us much any more. And why the heck won’t he come in the water?” “He hates water, it scares him. He really likes to stand on the edge and look in. I dunno why.” I looked at him still standing on the edge smiling. Krist came up behind him, ready to push him in. I sprung from the water, and rushed Krist, pushing him and me into the water. “Don’t push him in! You know he hates water!” “I’m just playin’. What’s wrong with you?!” He swam down under the water and swam away. Caylan smiled and kept gazing into the water. Jenna swam back up to me, a frown spread on her face. She shook her head and swam away. I walked down to the boys’ bunk dribbling a basketball. I looked in and there Caylan was. He hummed the tune to my song from the play. He danced to himself, the exact movements I do in the number. He knew as if choreographed by my rehearsals. It was amazing, a flawless mirror of myself! I smiled as he finished, and clapped loudly. He swung around and began to laugh; he bowed and walked past me. Two weeks had passed since then, and Caylan and I went our separate ways. We talked now and then, but not as much as we used to. I had focused more on my other friends. Now I walked with Jenna and Krist. We were talking, and mid-sentence, Krist was interrupted by a magnificently huge boom. We were showered with water as the sky turned darker. More booms followed, preceding more rain. Jenna, Krist and I ran to our bunks, where roll was called. “Dan.” “Here.” “Krist.” “Here.” “Caylan . . . Caylan!?” Oh no. A feeling of dread shot through my stomach. I ran outside, barefoot, running through the mud. Rain pattered painfully now on my back. I ran to the pavilion. Empty. I proceeded running to the music shed, a great distance away. No one was there either. I ran past the tennis courts, where a white flash glared in my eyes. Caylan was sitting in the corner of the court. “CAYLAN! Let’s go! C’mon!
The Healer’s Apprentice
Murmurs and whispers buzzed through the darkened hall. No one had any idea why the elders had called a meet, but that did not hinder them from thinking up reasons. Some believed that it was merely a routine meeting to discuss the upcoming harvest celebration, though they could not explain why it was conducted in such secrecy. Others stoutly maintained that the worst had happened; someone outside the Arborus clan had learned the sacred healing-knowledge and they were called to meeting to discuss how to react to the threat. A group of girls near the front of the hall were particularly talkative, whispering and giggling loudly among themselves. One of the girls participated little in the conversation, but listened and smiled at the exuberance of her friends. She was one of the few not targeted in the girls’ good-natured teasing; for a reason no one could explain, Keris was off limits. Though she was well-liked to an extent, the girls seemed to understand that she was somewhat different; Keris had always been on the edges of the girls’ activities. But she assumed a wistful expression when no one was looking, for Keris was desperately uncomfortable with her position on the outskirts, though she knew she didn’t belong in the inner group. An elder stepped onto the speaking platform at the front, and even the girls’ lively chatter died down as everyone hushed in expectation. It was Elder Larch, the spokeswoman for the elders and in charge of mediating disputes among the clan. She stepped to the front of the platform and spoke, her voice reaching to every corner of the hall. Taking a deep breath, she recited what she knew must be her part of the apprentice’s oath “Friends,” she began with a small smile, “we know all of you are wondering why the elders have called you here today. Many of you will have noted that Elder Oak has been in failing health for the past several months. He feels his ailment has begun to interfere with his duties as healer.” A murmur of polite dissent rippled through the hall, but many of the clan secretly agreed with the elder. How could someone flawed in body be entrusted with the most sacred knowledge of the entire clan? “Therefore,” continued Elder Larch, raising her voice above the murmurs, “he has decided to take an apprentice, one to whom he can pass on his knowledge, and who will take over his duties when he leaves us. This meet was called so that he may announce his choice for apprentice.” Now the murmur was more excited, as everyone wondered aloud who the apprentice would be. All but Keris. She sat stiffly in her chair, a look of realization slowly spreading over her face and leaving her eyes wide in an almost terrified expression. She knew that when apprentices were called, the elders almost always chose young people on the outside of their social group. This way, they would be willing to leave their age group and devote their lives to learning their calling. Keris knew that she fit the requirement, but she was sure the elders did not know that part of her wanted, and wanted desperately, to fit in and be accepted, even while the other part knew that she would never truly be a part of her peer group. With a sense of inevitability, Keris watched Elder Oak step shakily into the speaking area. She was probably the only one in the hall not surprised at all when he announced formally, “Keris Noltera, I, Elder Oak, call you to bind yourself to the learning of the healing knowledge, to be my apprentice and acolyte from this day until the day I leave the clan forever.” Then he smiled kindly and, looking at her for the first time, added, “Now, my dear, you must come up here and say your part of the oath.” Numbly, hardly noticing the gasps and congratulations of her friends, Keris stood up and walked to the front of the hall. Her heart had dropped out. She felt nothing but a vague sadness, and for her, that was hardly unusual. She ascended the stairs at the side of the platform and joined the elder. He motioned for her to turn and face the crowd. As she did so, words flew into her mind. She gasped and looked incredulously at the frail elder, hardly believing he could be capable of such power. But he merely nodded and smiled, gently urging her to go ahead. Taking a deep breath, she recited what she knew must be her part of the apprentice’s oath. “I, Keris Noltera, do accept the call of Elder Oak and agree to bind myself to the learning of the healing-knowledge, to be his apprentice and acolyte until the day he leaves the clan forever.” After she finished speaking, she felt a connection begin between herself and the elder. This strange presence in her mind filled her with curiosity, but she was pulled back from exploring it by Elder Oak, who stepped to the front of the stage and announced, “Tonight, there will be a celebration in honor of my new apprentice.” Masked by the murmur of anticipation, the elder told Keris, “You will have the rest of the day, including the celebration, to say your good-byes and move your belongings out of your family’s home. I will take you to your new lodgings after the celebration. You know where I live, don’t you?” Keris nodded. Though she had never come close enough to see the old man’s dwelling, everyone in the clan knew where it was, several miles into the dense forest to the west of the clan’s village. Even after the healer moved off, Keris could hardly believe the ceremony was over; it had happened so quickly. In a few minutes her very destiny with the clan had been determined, and her childhood ended. No longer would she live with her family, or even
If I Could Choose . . .
If I could choose to be any place in the world, I would choose Malaysia where my grandma lives; Where you can smell the hot, humid air, And see the palm trees sway in the breeze. If I could choose to be any place in the world, I would choose Australia where my granduncle lives; Where the wind makes sand fly And where all the animals are unique. If I could choose to be any place in the world, I would choose Singapore, where my cousins live; Where everybody is welcoming to visitors, And they all have wonderful things to say. If I could choose to be any place in the world, I wouldn’t care where it was. Whether it was hot and dry, Whether it was cold and wet, I would choose to be any place in the world, As long as I could be with my family. Jennifer Chin, 11Bellevue, Washington
