I have always been an early bird. I love to wake around 5:45 AM every morning, even on weekends. Mom says my early-birdness comes from Nanna Mary, but I’m not sure about that. I felt so alive this morning, energy climbed and slipped all throughout me, like a bird waiting to be let out of its cage. Normally I just end up standing by the window looking at the street lights, watching the different-colored cars pass with yawning drivers blinking at the rising sun. This morning was different for me. I crept downstairs, keeping myself on tiptoes and taking river steps (Momma’s name for big steps) until I reached the doorknob of the back door. I twisted it very slowly, sucking in my breath. I didn’t want anyone to hear me leave. The door opened and cool morning air hit me. I was only in my nightie and it grabbed me like an unknown stranger. I could almost taste the dew in the grass, and I could feel the flowers opening to the rising sun. I can feel a row of ants march across my leg, and I can hear the birds begin their song I slid my old sneakers on and started walking to my secret berry patch. Leaves brushed against my face, whispering to me playfully. The berry patch is my thinking spot. I first discovered it when I moved here from Florida. I think the berries represent me. When we moved here the berries were all tiny, hard, and green, innocent, not knowing what life had to offer, just like I was, stiff and tense from the move. As the months passed, the berries developed to become big, black and juicy, full of life, full of knowing. That’s how I felt, I had opened up and met friends. I was no longer hard and green, I was soft and juicy. I can feel a row of ants march across my leg, and I can hear the birds begin their song. The sun is up now; it’s dancing on my face. I know it’s time for me to get up and go to school. Mom is probably in the kitchen by now, cooking pancakes in her chewed-up moccasins, and my sister is probably skipping around her begging if she can help pour the batter into the pan. I start to walk home and as I look back I see a big black berry. I smile to myself and, of course, I pick it . . . Lia C, 13, author British Columbia, Canada Hannah Richman, 13, Kittanning, Pennsylvania
Catalina, My Friend
My earliest memory is of being trapped in a box. It was a large cardboard shoebox with a few holes punched into the side for air. Light glowed through the holes, but I couldn’t see through them; I could only feel myself sliding from side to side as the box was tossed around. I didn’t understand what was going on, and I was terrified. Then, I remember, the movement suddenly stopped. The lid of the box was lifted and I was bathed in blinding light. I blinked. I fluttered my almost featherless little wings. I squeaked pitifully. Then I saw her. I suppose for a human she was a little girl, but to me she was gigantic. Still, I wasn’t afraid. She looked so gentle. I stared into her deep brown eyes and squeaked again. Her face, a dark tan color, broke into a delighted smile. “A bird?” she said. “For me?” “Happy seventh birthday, Catalina,” said one of the huge people surrounding me. “This loro, this parrot, marks the one year we have been living in America.” “Como se llama?” the girl asked. “What is his name?” “We thought you could be naming it yourself. Is your bird,” said someone. “Mr. Allen, nice man next door, he gives him to you for free, because his big parrots is having too many little parrots. He says this is boy bird.” “Let’s put him in his cage,” said someone else. “He still is baby, Catalina, so you need to be feeding him special food with a spoon.” I suppose for a human she was a little girl, but to me she was gigantic Suddenly I felt myself being lifted out of the box. I felt warm hands cupped around me. At first I struggled, but Catalina’s hands were so gentle I soon nestled against them. “I will call him Paco,” she said. “Why Paco?” asked one of the others. Catalina shrugged. “I like the name Paco. Is good name for loro.” Another person, a large man, beamed at Catalina. “Now let us celebrate! Today is Catalina’s birthday, and one year since we have come here from Cuba!” Everybody cheered. Catalina stroked my head, and I knew I was safe with her. * * * Months passed. S00n I was an almost fully grown scarlet macaw, with glossy, bright red feathers; red, yellow, and blue wings that were strong for flying; an enormous sharp beak for cracking nuts and chewing wood; and a long tail of pointed red feathers. I would fly free around the house, singing along with the radio, inspecting the food in the kitchen, and chewing everything I could get my beak on. Catalina fed me and talked to me in a soft voice and cuddled me in her hands, so as I grew I learned to trust and love humans. This was a good thing, for there were many humans in the house. There was Mama, Catalina’s mother, who always had something delicious in the kitchen, though I was not always allowed to sample it. There was Papa, Catalina’s father, who bought me my food and toys. He played music on the radio that I enjoyed singing along with. Arturo was Catalina’s brother, sixteen years old; he was noisy and a little bit frightening to me. He also played music on the radio, but I didn’t like it as much as Papa’s music. Then there was Mariana, Catalina’s sister. She was nineteen years old and did not pay very much attention to me; she was usually in her room or with her boyfriend. But she was very beautiful, and I always wanted to chew her long black hair, or pull off her shiny gold earrings. Unfortunately, she didn’t let me do either. This was Catalina’s family, and everyone was mostly kind to me; but I always liked Catalina best of all. She was my mother, my sister, my best friend, and everything else to me. We did everything together. I thought we would be together forever. Then came hurricane season. We had had hurricane seasons before, living in Florida as we did. But this one was more severe than most. From what I understood, a huge hurricane was in South America and coming our way. Hurricane Andrew, it was called. Catalina’s mother was clearly nervous, frequently listening to the radio and saying things like, “I hope the hurricane is to be staying in Panama. We are having already enough of troubles.” Or, “Arturo, please keep inside the house today. The sky is too many clouds.” She would often glance out the window and then return to her work with a sigh of relief. I didn’t understand why she was so afraid, but I was beginning to get nervous, too. Then something else happened to make the tension in the house double: Mariana became pregnant. Of course everyone was happy that she would have a baby. It would be the first member of the family born in America. But there were some huge problems. Catalina’s family was definitely not rich; they had a hard enough time already with five people and a bird in the house. A baby would cost more money than Papa could earn as a cook in a local restaurant. There was talk of Mama, Mariana, and Arturo getting jobs. They considered selling some furniture, though there wasn’t much to sell. There was no room or money for a baby, and though Mama and Papa said we should move, everyone knew we did not have enough money. So with the hurricane and the baby, there was a lot of fear in the household. Then, one wet, cloudy, windy day, I heard the music on the radio stop with a long, shrill beeping sound, and a voice said, “Hurricane Andrew has taken a surprise turn to the west. Now predicted to pass through the Keys, up north to Fort Lauderdale. Do not attempt to leave your home for any reason until further notice. Repeat: Hurricane Andrew
When Mack Came Back
When Mack Came Back by Brad Strickland; Dial Books for Young Readers: New York, 2000; $15.99 I’ve always loved dogs, but I can never have one, because of my allergies. The book When Mack Came Back was appealing to me because I could understand how much the boy wanted a dog and what he felt like when he thought the dog would die. Whether you have a dog or not, you will enjoy this book! This book is about a family’s struggles during World War II. The older brother Ben has gone off to war and the youngest son, Maury, feels very alone. There is very little money, and people can barely buy what they need. The father doesn’t like Maury as much as he likes Ben because they are so different. For example, the father and Ben like hunting while Maury would rather read and go to school. I admire Maury because he is very good at school and he is so brave. He knew his father wouldn’t approve, but he made the choice to sell his bike to save his dog. He risked getting in trouble, because calling the vet was the right thing to do. Sometimes, whether people like it . or not, you have to do what you know is right. There are many exciting parts in this story that make it difficult to put down. One of these times was when Maury thought he would lose his dog due to illness. A vet came and cured the dog just when Maury thought he would die. The father still tried to get the dog out of the house by attempting to give the dog away. To my relief Mack and Maury got to stay together after all. I have had a similar experience. Once I had a pug, but my mother gave him away because of my asthma. I missed playing with Brooklyn very much. I feel lucky because my dad plays with me and is much nicer than Maury’s dad. I learned many things from When Mack Came Back. Unlike Maury’s father, you can like people even if they are different from you. For example, if there is a new kid who comes to your school who is different, you can still be friends. I also learned to do what’s right even if other people are against you. Maury makes some tough decisions but gets some great rewards . Austin Alvermann, 8Richboro, Pennsylvania
Christmas Miracle
Andrea pressed her nose against the frosted windowpane to get a better look outside. Not a drop of snow fell from the gray, overcast sky on this gloomy Christmas afternoon. Fidgety with anticipation, she wriggled in her seat. She could hear the adults in the parlor, talking and laughing away. She got up to go see if they were having more fun than she was, sitting by the window and waiting for the snow to come. She listened as they reminisced about old times long gone by. A girl of ten, she was curious about everything. She spoke up in a tiny voice from the back of the room, “Mommy, is it going to snow?” “Honey, it’s going to take a miracle for it to snow. They call for rain today,” her mother said from across the table. “Oh, I think it’ll snow,” her grandmother said. “I can think of bigger miracles.” “Like what?” Andrea asked. “Did you ever have a Christmas miracle?” Her grandmother stroked Andrea’s hair awhile before she began. “Well, when I was small, I lived in a tiny country house in a rural farming community in Minnesota. The weather was real bad in winter, but we managed. My father farmed the land we owned with the help of Uncle Jack and Uncle Jim. My mother worked as a seamstress. My older brother Sam was fifteen. At the time, I was about your age, nine or ten. “We had a small vegetable garden in the back of our tiny house and in the summertime Sam used to take me down to the farmers’ market in town. We would split the money we got for a few dozen cucumbers, carrots and potatoes. I had saved all of my money until Christmas, when I wanted to buy a special gift for my mother. “I had passed by Sherry’s Specialty Store and in the large store window saw the most beautiful watch for sale. It just so happened that my mother’s old watch had stopped ticking a couple of days ago and she needed a new one. So one cold day in late December, right before Christmas, while my parents were at work, I got out the $21.95 that I had saved from the summer, which I hid under the loose floorboard of our back porch, along with the key to my diary. I begged Sam to take me down to town. Reluctantly, he gave in and got his coat. I ran down to Sherry’s, Sam at my side and money in hand. “I opened the door to a brightly lit store and heard the cowbell attached to the door jingle. Jars filled to the top with candy lined the counter’s shelves. Yards of colorful ribbons and fabric dripped from their cubbyholes. Dress-up dolls with blinky eyes stared down at me. I resisted all of the temptations to snatch them up and then remembered why I was here. “That gleaming watch shined from under the counter. A single ray of light sparkled against its face as it slowly ticked away the time I had spent saving up for this glorious day. I put my hand on the warm glass counter and said, ‘I think I want this one, right here.’ The clerk unlocked the counter with a small gold key, lifted it out and showed it to me. Then placing it in a satin box, he tied a small bow around it and rang up the price on the register: $21.90 exactly. “I was beaming so hard that my jaw ached when I left the store. I held tight to my mother’s gift. I can still feel its rough crushed-velvet exterior rubbing against my sweaty palm. I looked up at the sky, which was gray and overcast, just like today . . .” “Did it snow?” an anxious Andrea interrupted her story. “Oh, yes, it snowed. I looked down and saw a single snowflake fall to the dusty soil. Then another and another until they were falling so quickly I could barely keep track of them. My feet were soon crunching through a thin layer of powdery light snow. Gusts of wind blew the snow up in my face as I marched on. Sam didn’t want to admit it, but we were in the middle of a full-fledged genuine blizzard. I clasped Sam’s hand as if my life depended on it, for his face was no longer visible through the thick layer of falling flakes. “We needed to find shelter, so I yelled to Sam above the roar of the wind. ‘What do we do now?’ “Just follow me, I know the way!’ he shouted back. Later on, he confided to me that he didn’t know where we were going, but after an hour of wandering, my faith in Sam withered. We trudged on endlessly through the rough weather. The clerk unlocked the counter with a small gold key, lifted it out and showed it to me “Soon, Sam grasped some sort of handle. He pulled it open with all of his strength, revealing a barn. Like most of the barns in the area, there were a few work animals and chickens. Nothing that different. With much struggle, Sam and I pushed against the wide doors, huge gusts of wind stinging our faces. A sudden click brought silence. I opened my eyes and saw that the big red doors were closed. I had never heard a more beautiful sound in my life than the click of those doors. I slid down into the hay, tired and cold. “Sam paced in front of the large barn doors. He tried to find some clue to where we were, but he only got frustrated without his compass. It all looked so familiar, but I was too exhausted to concentrate on anything. Finally, hungry and worn out, he nestled into the hay next to me. I closed my eyes and slept. “When I awoke, I didn’t know how long I had been asleep.
Every Nordic Night
The Nordic Express is a large freight boat that comes in extremely late every Thursday night, now, but when I was little it used to come in around six-thirty or seven o’clock every Friday night. Mom and I would usually just be finishing the supper dishes when we’d hear the great loud blast of the horn coming from the Nordic Express as it came to a stop beside the pebbly gray wharf of our tiny rock-covered island, Harrington Harbour. That’s when Dad and I would start getting ready. I would scurry around for my rubber boots, gloves and warm jacket, sometimes leaving the dishes. No matter how much I tried to hurry Dad was always ready before me, but he was patient and never complained. Then after lightly kissing Mom good-bye, I’d hurry off after Dad. He’d stroll along with me trotting along beside him, my rubber boots flapping as we headed for the wharf. Usually a fall-flavored wind nearly blew our feet from under us, but still we always continued on. If the gangplank wasn’t down, we’d go into the shed to keep out the ever blowing wind and wait and watch; Dad liked this; so did I. I liked holding his hand as he explained things about the boat to me For some reason when I was on the wharf I always held my dad’s hand. His skin was worn like leather and it looked like it had been stained brown; mine wasn’t quite so brown or worn, just evenly tanned. Even though he never said so, I knew Dad didn’t hold my hand because I might fall in the water; he trusted me not to go near the edge, and I didn’t hold his hand because I was scared. He knew this even though I didn’t say so. That’s the way we are; we don’t have to say everything, we just know. I liked holding his hand as he explained things about the boat to me. I liked looking into his deep sea-green eyes whenever he talked about boats; they shone like diamonds in the eerie darkness of the night. My dad loves boats, and so do I. Once the gangplank was down and the people got off, Dad and I would get on. I liked swaying back and forth as we walked up the shaky gangplank. As soon as we boarded we always headed straight for the vending machines. Dad always had a loonie or two in his pocket; he’d let me push the buttons and drop the money in too; he knew I liked it without me having to tell him. I’d get a bag of chips or a chocolate bar, then sometimes, while I was contentedly munching my little treat, we’d talk to Dad’s friends who worked on the boat, or rather he’d talk, I’d eat and listen. Then we’d head for home, with the wind lashing at our backs, just me and Dad. I love this memory of my childhood, and so does Dad. Naomi Rowsell, 12Harrington Harbour,Quebec, Canada
Rattlesnake!
In the summer of 1996, I was lounging in the moss of my grassy backyard. The perimeter of the yard was bordered by a leafy hedge, which led to a huge pine forest. Our pine forest covered about fifty square acres, and housed giant evergreens. In the corner of the yard was a log pile, with half-rotted logs jumbled in a heap. Next to the decaying mass of wood was a green garden, which belonged to my mother. She had planted many bright yellow marigolds, light green cucumbers, and ripe, red tomatoes. This was a perfect feast for a mouse, which we had an abundance of. Even though I was only seven, I knew there were some snakes living in either the pine forest or the log pile. I loved reptiles, and I often scoured the woodlands for them. That day I had decided to search near the rotting logs, which were home to a family of mice. Snakes love to devour mice, by first biting, strangling, or poisoning them, then swallowing them whole. I crawled on my hands and knees, peering through the tall, yellow grass. I was as quiet as an owl, looking for any sign of movement. Very suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fast-moving ripple in the dead grass. As I turned to face it, I could then see the brown, slithering snake. I should have gotten up and left, for my father had told me never to approach a wild animal. But I stayed, held there by curiosity. Little did I realize that the agitated snake would think I was threatening it by my action I studied the snake for a while, staring at it in awe. I watched the snake intently, wondering what type of snake it was. The thought that it was a rattlesnake crossed my mind. I shook the thought off, saying to myself, “There are no rattlesnakes here.” But I was wrong. The sun reflected off the snake’s brown scales, which were shimmering like diamonds. The small, beady eyes of the snake stared up at me. Its tongue was as red as blood and it flicked in and out, smelling the air, sensing my presence. The snake backed up, I leaned over to get a closer look, and . . . I heard the sound of an angered timber rattlesnake. The shaking noise of the snake’s rattlelike tail bore into my head. My heart froze. The rattlesnake rose up into its curved striking position, and again, the crimson red tongue shot in and out of sight. “Nice snake,” I mumbled to the venomous terror. The snake hissed and I felt a shiver run down my spine. I sat there, transfixed at the sight of the beautiful, but dangerous, creature. I then realized I had to leave the yard, and run into my house. I was sitting on my knees, so when I rose to get up I put my hand on the ground for support. Little did I realize that the agitated snake would think I was threatening it by my action. That was a costly mistake. FOOP! The snake shot out of its poised stance and sunk its fangs into the muscles of my hand. The strike was as fast as lightning. The rattlesnake’s mouth was wide open, and for a few seconds I could see its fangs glisten in the sunlight. At first, I felt excruciating pain in my hand. Then the world started to dance around my head. I felt like I was on an out-of-control roller-coaster. “Help!” I screamed feebly. Even though it was a pitiful attempt to attract attention, I saw my mother coming to the window. Flashing lights illuminated the sky, and then the earth went black. Two days later I awoke, with a doctor standing over me. I was in the hospital, but I had recovered, all except for the puncture wound the snake had inflicted on my hand. The doctor had explained to me that normally people do not become unconscious when bitten. I had had a severe allergic reaction to the venom. Later that day, my brother told me that the flashing lights I had seen were on the ambulance that my father had called, which had come screaming to my house. In the afternoon I returned home. I have never seen another rattlesnake in our woods, and hopefully, I won’t encounter any more of them. Ben Guarino, 11Colchester, Connecticut Garrett Landon, 12Santa Cruz, California
The Vagabond
I press my face against the glass, the froth of scarlet fury still bubbling in my throat. The rumbling of the floor beneath me rattles my legs, and I clutch my sports bag protectively to my chest. My mind churns with the rhythm of the engine, and I kick nervously at the bars beneath the seat in front of me. Trying to calm the violence in my mind, I check my watch. The hands inform me that it is 1:53AM, though I know that the stupid timepiece is fast by about six minutes. Either way, it has been about six hours since I began this mad quest. Even now, I am unsure of my precise destination, though I have a stable idea. The bus driver is eyeing me with increasing suspicion in the mirror. I try to keep my eyes off him, for my eyes are always the stool pigeons to my guilt. A man who has recently left the seat nearby has forgotten his newspaper, I realize. My boredom gets the better of me, and I reach across the aisle and seize it. The front page is chock-full of woe, and I absentmindedly lose myself in the tale of a young man murdered by a gang in a shopping mall. Only half of me is interested; the other half is still dwelling on my own sad events, all now past. An angry sort of depression befalls me whenever the last month crosses my mind, and I try to fight the thoughts away. With the sound of steam being released from a valve, the bus wails to a halt, and the doors are drawn open. I look over the edge of the seat, wondering which other nighthawks might require the bus at two o’clock. An aged man ambles up the steps, coughing into his hands before paying the toll. The next and only other newcomer is a girl about my age. She is African-American, with a long wool coat and a knapsack slung haphazardly over her shoulder. The older man, probably her grandfather, sits in the seat across from mine, and the girl follows. When they notice I am watching them, my eyes flick back to the newspaper. A sudden shudder and a moan beneath my feet tells me the bus has started up again. I sigh, folding up the paper. None of the stories can hold my attention. Remembering I have missed supper and have not eaten for thirteen hours, I withdraw a wallet from my pocket. It is not mine, but my mother’s. She does not know yet that I have it, or that I have her ATM code numbers memorized and could easily refill my supply. I count out five dollars; that should be enough to get me a few slices of pizza and a soda from Pizza Palace. Replacing the wallet and slipping the money into my jacket sleeve, I wait for the bus to approach a cluster of restaurants. “Are you done with that?” The voice startles me, and I look up. The girl across the aisle is looking at me. “The newspaper, I mean,” she adds. “Oh. Well, in that case, yes.” I lift the newspaper and hold it out across the aisle, and the girl takes it, thanks me, and flips through it to the film reviews. I hear her tell her grandfather that the new Spielberg movie sounds good, but the words make no sense to me. My brow is knit, and I have my head leaned against the window again. A crushing headache has overtaken me. About ten minutes later, a neon sign catches my eye, marking the Pizza Palace nearby. I hook my fingers on the stop line and pull. A small bell rings toward the front of the bus, and the driver pulls over. I collect my belongings, make my way up the aisle, and thank the driver as I exit. I have to bite my lip to hide my wince. The icy look on the driver’s face as he nods to me is all too familiar; I recognize it as the look in my parents’ eyes whenever they set their gaze on one another. It is 2:11 AM now. As I approach the Pizza Palace, I shudder in the cold of the night. I chose a bitter time to make this endeavor. Snow is falling, and I estimate that it is below zero outside. Around the outdoor vents, the snow is gray and slushy, but it is immaculate where I am standing. Reverting to a childish habit, I put out my tongue and catch a feather of crystal ice. The very air smells of snow, and there is a certain surreal aura about the wind as it whips the flakes around like debris in a cyclone. The blast of heat as I open the door to the restaurant is a shock after the chill I suffered outdoors. Like the bus, it is sparsely populated on the inside. I head up to the counter, ordering three slices of pepperoni pizza and a Coca-Cola. The cashier takes my money and her companion hands me my food, which I carry to the table farthest from the counter before seating myself. I barely taste my meal, but at least it does not disagree with me. The waiter gives me an odd look, but I ignore him. I head up to the counter, ordering three slices of pepperoni pizza and a Coca-Cola Reaching into my duffel, I extract a novel. This, I quickly discover, holds me about as well as the newspaper did. Nonetheless, I pretend to read it in hopes of masking my true thoughts to the two people at the counter. My true thoughts, I know, are nothing to share. The fiasco repeats itself in my mind, making me shiver. The sound of a fist upon the table . . . angry voices, inescapable even in the farthest-off corners of the house . . . those five words from my
The Bus Ride
It was Wednesday afternoon. I sat waiting anxiously at my desk. It was almost time to leave school. That meant it was almost time to go on the bus. I hated the bus. Big sixth-graders sat in the back. They always bullied us third-graders. Butterflies began forming in my stomach as I quickly jogged to my locker. Today, I was late. It was my turn to clean the chalkboard. I grabbed my books out of my locker and shoved them into my bag. The halls were deserted except for a few kids hurrying to the door. As I walked out into the warm May sunshine, my fear ceased for a moment as I enjoyed the beautiful afternoon; but it left as soon as it came when I spotted the bus. When I climbed the big, black steps onto the bus, I prayed that there would be an empty seat left up front; but there wasn’t. Every single seat was filled with two people. I walked toward the back hoping to find an empty seat. The kids around me were happily talking; I wished I could be one of them. Why, why wasn’t there an empty seat? It wasn’t fair. Suddenly I spotted an empty seat. The only problem was, it was right smack in the middle of the sixth-graders. I tried to look around me for another place to sit, but there was none. The bus started moving so I had to sit down. The radio was playing “Bye, Bye, Bye” by ‘N Sync. All of the sixth-grade girls around me started singing, while the boys were groaning. Happily, I sat back in my seat. None of them had noticed me yet. She gave me a big hug and said, “You can stop crying now, it will be OK” As we were getting off the highway, the boy sitting in front of me turned around. He had one green eye and one blue. His blond hair hung over his eyes as if to hide them. “Hey, what are you doing back here? The back of the bus is for sixth-graders only.” At first, I didn’t know what to say. Then, I realized I should just tell the truth. “I had to stay after school and clean the chalkboard, which made me late, and there was nowhere else to sit by the time I got here.” “So, you’re a teacher’s pet? I don’t like teachers’ pets; in fact, I hate teachers’ pets!” I wished that someone would help me, that the bus driver would hear what was going on; but he didn’t. By now, everybody in the back of the bus was quiet, waiting for the boy’s next move. Or perhaps, they simply did not want to get involved. “I like your little baby overalls and your pink flowered shirt. Who picked them out for you? Your mommy? I bet you wish she was here right now, don’t you, don’t you?” That was the last straw. I had been so nervous for so long that I started to cry. Tears were streaming down my face that reminded me of a warm spring rain. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to stop and fight back but I couldn’t. Just when I thought I couldn’t cry anymore, a tall blond-haired, blue-eyed girl wearing practically the same outfit as me sat down next to me. She gave me a big hug and said, “You can stop crying now, it will be OK.” She turned to the boy and said, “Stop picking on innocent little girls. She told you why she sat back here; I’m sure she would have sat up front if she could have. As for her outfit, I’m wearing practically the same thing and I don’t look like a baby, do I?” The boy just sat there stunned. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. People around us started cheering for this mysterious girl sitting next to me. The boy slumped down into his seat. The rest of the bus ride home the girl (named Hannah) and I became quick friends. When I got off the bus that afternoon I was on top of the world. Christine Nichols, 13Concord, New Hampshire Jill Cooley, 13Burlington, Massachusetts
Tiger Prey
The thick, tall grass sways as the tired wind barely strokes it. Its soft movement quietly brushes against the face of the sleeping antelope. She breathes softly in and out, farther away from the herd than any of the others and one of the smallest members, too. In the middle of a large clearing, she lies there. Passing predators would take advantage of a weak sleeping animal like her. The wind blows northward, in the face of the poor sleeping creature. No one and nothing except for the wind and the darkness of night see him, the dark, ghostly, almost invisible figure that is moving silently through the tall grass. Slinking steadily and stealthily closer and closer, the nocturnal hunter is north of the small antelope. From the scent she gives him, the experienced predator attains a better position to attack. He is only a few yards north of the sleeper, when suddenly, the wind shifts directly south, carrying his scent with it! In the dark, he despairs, flattening himself down in the thick grass. Awakening, she smells him and stands cautiously, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Terrified for her life, she flexibly spies in every direction, but he has ducked out of sight. No one and nothing except for the wind and the darkness of night see him Immediately, she darts away to wake and warn the herd! Waiting long for this moment, he leaps from the tall grass in a flash of lightning followed by a roar of thunder as he pounces upon the now sprinting, panting antelope! The roar wakes the herd, and they instantly scatter in fear while the predator pulls its prey to the ground with his huge paws and claws. With the rupture of her jugular, the antelope dies instantly and the whole night is silent again, except for the diminishing whisper of a hundred antelope hooves in the distance. With Tiger’s first kill in days he rests and eats. * * * Tiger continues his meal of antelope, after a short swim in his favorite pool to clean himself from the bloody kill. Sitting there under his tree in the thick grass, tearing slowly and getting his fill for quite a while, he basks in the afternoon sun. After hiding the rest of his kill in the dirt and grass for a later meal, Tiger then sleeps in his lazy way, proud of his unbeatable strength. He is a cautious and vigilant tiger, not about to allow anything to get his hard-fought-for food. After his small nap, the wanderer goes on a walk, marking the trail behind (as always) so he can get back very easily and finish the antelope later on. Tiger walks up to a short, lonely tree about a mile through his regular stroll. About to scratch a personal mark in its side, he is reaching out his claws when BANG! BANG! Startled, Tiger jumps from the tree trunk and dives into the grass for cover. He has no idea what the loud sound is or what it is coming from. Tiger only knows that whatever made those sounds is far away, and he thinks that it would take a long time to reach him, especially if he heads back to his kill. Then the strange barking beast would go away rather than do battle with Tiger. He is a strong and experienced tiger. Being a predator, he is not afraid, for tigers are incapable of complete fear. He is merely concerned as he warily heads back toward his food. When he arrives at his domicile, Tiger discovers that his food is exposed and has been tampered with, half of it gone! He smells it and then jumps away. There is a different, new and strange smell. Almost a mixture of smells though. Tiger is more confused now than he ever has been in his life. Sparked by a newly found curiosity, Tiger searches, examines, observes, and finds only a few yards away, a puddle. Though not like the puddle of an occasional heavy rain. A crude, black, nauseating substance, the liquid is also somehow clear and shiny. Tiger nudges the puddle with his paw quickly and the black covers his paw. He then licks his paw once nervously and “GRR!” He begins growling and shaking because of the revolting taste. Immediately, he jogs to his watering hole to wash his mouth and paws vigorously. When Tiger returns to the cloudy puddle, he finds that its scent marks over a long distance in a line. Captivated, he follows the scent, at first ignoring its disgusting smell. Using his curiosity more than his experience, Tiger is growing in bewilderment. The sun slowly begins to set behind him as he walks, trudges and lumbers along. Along the trail, he sees more of the liquid and tries to stay away from it. But nothing will stop him, and he continues his journey. About to rest and nap until night for the first time on his trek, Tiger sees over a mile away, a large thing a little less than the size of an adult elephant. With round, black feet the shape of the full moon, it looks like an oddly shaped boulder. Getting closer, Tiger sees that on the top of the bizarre structure sit creatures, silhouetted in the setting sun. Animals like nothing he has seen before. They have heads, four legs each, and some other physical features like his. Except that they stand on their hind legs and hold long pointed objects that look like small branches. Tiger does not know what to make of all these new sights, sounds, and scents. What he may never know is that these strange things threaten his very existence. He does not know it, but he is becoming more the hunted than the hunter. Pace Ellsworth, 13Burke, Virginia Ayla Reynolds, 12Juneau, Alaska
Night Magic
When my spirit is low You’ll catch it And carry it on your back. You’ll fly through the gardens And into town. You’ll fly past the bright streetlights With my spirit holding on tight. You’ ll use your silent magic And light up one last time. Then you’ll fly into my backyard Up through my window As the summer breezes blow. You’ll gently drop my spirit over me. And with my spirit all lit up And shining bright I’ll sleep peacefully through the summer night With visions of lightning bugs in my mind. Sarah Dougherty, 11Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
Basketball Free-Throw
Taking the basketball from the referee in my raw, steamy hands, I felt the gym getting chillier when I stood still. This was the very first time so many people were depending on me—l wasn’t used to it. My face, blood-red after running and jumping for an exceptionally long time, had broken out into a cold sweat, as had the rest of my body. Funny; I had been scorching hot a few seconds before. With veins throbbing violently in my throat, my eyes darted down to the flaming orange ball that I held in my shaky hands. I wanted it to stay there perpetually, never to leave and try its luck making it into the hoop. I had never really paid attention to all the billions of tiny little bumps which coated it. Today, they were starting to make me feel especially dizzy. It seemed like an eternity for everyone to get lined up, but at last, they did. Anxiously, my gaze lifted up toward my teammates’ faces. Unmistakably written all over was a mixture of hope and belief. I was hypnotized by their eyes, waiting eagerly for the moment that would come soon. Too soon, if you ask me. I wasn’t sure I was ready. It was only one shot, and no more—no second chance. I gulped as these thoughts rushed through my head like an express train, one after another, moving so rapidly they seemed like a blur. My coach’s eyes were fixed on me, like a hawk watching its prey’s each and every move. Her clipboard in hand and whistle around her strong neck, she didn’t seem to be distracted by anything, as if in a trance. She bit her lip and appeared to be waiting with hopes rising in her heart. After our team had come this far, the least I could do was attempt to win us this game Instantly, all the moisture drained away from my throat as I caught a glimpse of my opponent; the girl who had been watching me all throughout the game like a bloodthirsty wolf. As hard as I tried, I could not tear my eyes away from her. Even though she wore a blinding white shirt like the others on her team, she stood out—at least to me. Her vicious sapphire eyes had sparks of ice dancing in them, and were as frosty as the expression on her face. A chill slithered over me, raising goosebumps on my legs and arms, and I shivered as I tried to gain control of my body again. The soft, whispery voices of the crowd above were echoing through my head. I began to feel dazed, and felt like pinching myself with my clammy hands to make sure that this wasn’t a dream. No, a feeling making me this apprehensive could only come in real life. The basketball now seemed ponderous in my weak hands, so I gripped it firmer to make sure it wouldn’t fall and cause a scene. At last, I knew the time was right. I couldn’t stall any longer, no matter how much I wished to. This one shot was worth a thousand words to me . . . How much I always wanted to be the one actually helping my team, not just running around trying to catch the rebounds, which I never really succeeded in. Always, a longer arm would shoot up in front of me and grab it for her own. But now it was my turn. I felt the power that the others had, but not the courage. I gripped the glowing ball harder and let it go, waiting for it to hit the ground and bounce. BOOM!!! It made such a noise, it seemed like the world had awakened from the dead. I did it once more, and got into the shooting position, trying not to tremble. Suddenly, I realized something. The basket seemed smaller, farther away. My arms seemed to weaken, giving up on me. I wasn’t sure I could throw the ball that far. I began to wonder how all the other players had made it. What was the difference between them and me? They were all brave enough to at least try, my mind said, and if they were, so are you. I had to agree. After our team had come this far, the least I could do was attempt to win us this game. I did my best to balance myself on my insecure knees, and jump, throwing the glistening orange ball with all my might as far and as high as I could manage . . . Inci Atrek, 11Sunnyvale, California Fraser Poorman, 9Weston, Florida
Destiny
Destiny by Vicki Grove; G. P. Putnam’s Sons: New York, 2000; $16.99 D0 you believe in fate? Do you believe that our lives all have a certain destiny? Or do you believe in free will? These are the main questions that the book Destiny, by Vicki Grove, grapples with. The title, Destiny, doesn’t just refer to fate, though. The main character of this novel is named Destiny Louise Capperson. Destiny is a powerful name. In ancient Greek mythology, Zeus, the god of the sky, and Themis, goddess of justice and law, had children called the Destinies. The Destinies were three sisters “born from the just heavens” who measured and snipped the threads of life. However, that’s not what Destiny Capperson does. She has chores like hauling around half-rotten potatoes for local folks to buy. Destiny Capperson is an artistic girl born into a life of chaos. Virginia, her mother, is a high-school dropout who believes that she will win the lottery because a telephone psychic tells her that “something good, big and soon” is going to happen to the Cappersons in the form of “moola.” Jack, Destiny’s stepfather, is a bad-hearted and lazy bum who has resorted to harmful actions just to get money. Nathan, Ethelene, and Roberta are the younger siblings that complete Destiny’s family. When Nathan was younger, maybe five or six, he got his legs crunched in a car accident—or supposedly an accident. Jack had been driving his truck, with Nathan in it, and another car rammed into it. Nathan’s legs got smashed forward, and with the impact, were crushed. At least, that’s the story that Jack tells (but you can’t always believe Jack). Destiny tries to help out her family by getting a part-time job reading to a retired Latin teacher whose eyes are going bad. Mrs. Peck, the teacher, tells Destiny all about ancient Greek and Roman mythology. That’s where Destiny learns the true origin of her name, about goddesses who controlled the fates of people. Mrs. Peck gives Destiny a book about the ancient myths. When Destiny brings the book home, she finds a picture of Mrs. Peck inside that she uses for her bookmark. But when Nathan sees the photograph of Mrs. Peck, he immediately screeches, “That’s the bad lady! She was in the other car that crunched my legs!” That’s when Destiny’s world turns upside down. I love all of the ties to Greek and Roman mythology in this book because I adore reading the ancient myths myself. Destiny learns all about the gods and goddesses from Mrs. Peck, and I learned mythology from a Latin teacher, too! In my school, all of the students have to take a mythology test every year. We study and study for it, and our Latin teacher tells us all sorts of myths. Although Destiny doesn’t have to take a mythology test, Mrs. Peck does tell her the stories of the gods and goddesses. When Mrs. Peck tells Destiny that her namesakes were “born from the just heavens,” Destiny begins to feel as if she was born right out of the sky, too, instead of being the child of dreamy, scheming Virginia Capperson and some man that she doesn’t even know. Vicki Grove does a wonderful job of “painting” her characters. Take Virginia Capperson, for instance. Can’t you just see her in the following paragraph? My mother sank to a chair and buried both hands in her short blond hair. You could see the purple acrylic nails she bought herself for her twenty-ninth birthday last summer shining through. Vicki Grove also describes the people in her story through dialogue. Jack has the slang tone of an uneducated truck driver. Mrs. Peck uses perfect grammar, just as you would expect a teacher to do. Destiny talks like any normal kid, and Virginia always sounds as if life just hit her hard in the face and she still wants to ignore it. Vicki Grove makes it clear that each character has his or her own little world, and you find out more and more about each of the worlds as you read this great book. Consider it your fate to read Destiny. Adrienne Raphel, 11St. Johnsbury, Vermont
