I run my fingers across the shelves Waiting for one to catch my eye Row after row my fingers run Failure takes a step closer But there in the dusty corner Hidden by the screen of forget Lies the love of my life that will only last a couple of hours Bright red with gold lettering A hard skin protecting its insides No telling what it’s like But I have a good feeling Gently I pick my discovery up To me, it’s a block of gold My breath stirs the grime on top I back up slowly and sit on the carpeted floor Ready for an adventure, I lift the hard cover My eyes move from left to right As the personality of the book in my hands is revealed Connor Park, 12Mukilteo, Washington
Lost by Liberty
TODAY It’s an almost perfect day. The sun has just come out after a long lazy nap in the clouds. It’s the kind of day when elves and unicorns and faeries can be found. And if you climbed to the very top of the largest oak you’d see a rainbow. It’s the same kind of day that I first met Oliver. I was four, and I hardly remember anything from back then, but that day I clearly remember. I was helping out in my father’s printing shop. I watched in fascination how he set the letters on the press. It was then that Oliver came in. He couldn’t explain why he came by himself here, and he insisted that he wasn’t lost. Soon he went out, and when my father wasn’t looking, I ran out after him. It turned out we both loved exploring and magical creatures, and both of us wondered why the sky was blue. We were friends. Today, we should have been running through the woods, or seeing who could swing the highest and then jump. It’s a wonderful day for that. But we weren’t. THREE YEARS AGO I’d just turned nine. He was going on ten. I was up in that highest oak, he on the same branch. We were racing to get to the top first, and as usual, we tied. As usual, my dress got torn, although I had promised my mother to be more careful today. On the very last branch, where the leaves teased and tickled our arms, we sat down to take a rest. I took a newspaper out of my pocket, for lately I had taken a liking to the news. It had a stamp printed in the right corner. I started reading. “Taxation without representation is tyranny!” “Parliament Passes Stamp Act.” I waited for his response. He didn’t say anything. I continued reading. “We did not consent to this. Taxation without representation is tyranny!” I especially enjoyed the way the last sentence felt, how the letters bounced with energy on my tongue. Again there was silence. Then he spoke, slowly, a pause between each word. “I think… it’s… only natural that we should pay taxes. After all… we are subjects of King George.” This time I didn’t say anything. This was the opposite of what I was hearing at home. Since my father was a printer, the Stamp Act affected him very much. He had to pay a tax for every paper he printed. None of my family liked it. Why should we pay the Parliament if we couldn’t elect its members? But what worried me more was that this was the first time we didn’t agree on something. I didn’t like this painfully loud silence, so I suggested we look for gnome homes. Neither of us particularly wanted to do that (we were much too old, it was more like something my little sister would do), but it was better than silence, so we did it anyway. THE NEXT DAY We were walking to the woods just like any other day. It was cloudy, just like any other day. But it was different, different in a way that I didn’t want to think about. I took off my shoes and went into the creek. The water stung. I saw a tadpole, reached down to catch it, but I noticed Oliver wasn’t there. He was sitting on a cool gray rock behind me. I turned to him. “Would you like to catch tadpoles?” He looked at the water. His shoes were still on. “Well, I talked to my father about the Stamp Act.” “And?” “He said that anyone who opposes it is a traitor to Britain.” That my father, and even I, might be traitors wasn’t something I’d wanted to consider. But Oliver’s father is different from mine. His father is a governor, appointed by King George. He’d never approved of us being friends. I didn’t know what to say. Before, I always knew what to say to Oliver. He continued talking. “And… he says he knew something horrid would result from us… mingling. He says that we ought not to be friends anymore.” The water stung even more than before. I’d read books about friends being driven apart, but overnight? No, it couldn’t happen. Never. “Oliver, surely you wouldn’t listen to him?” I looked in his eyes. He seemed as confused as me. “I… have to go home,” he said, softly. AND THE DAY AFTER THAT Three o’clock. I quickly put down my books, said goodbye to my parents, and then ran out the door. It was only after I got to the hickory tree, where I met Oliver once he came back from his tutor’s house, that I remembered. Oh, I remembered. But I waited anyway. What was the worst that could happen? Sure enough, I saw him coming down the road. He didn’t look at me. “Oliver!” I yelled out. Nothing. “Oliver!” “I’ll never be friends with a traitor!” Down the road he went. Soon he disappeared from sight. I could only see the emptiness, his shadow lingering long after he had left. Two days ago, I disliked the Stamp Act. Now I hated it. One tax and two friends driven apart? I raced away, all alone. ONE AND A HALF YEARS LATER I was at the harbor with my father. I wasn’t entirely sure why we were there. Earlier, that’s where my father would pick up shipments of ink and paper. But now we were boycotting English goods, instead making our own printing supplies, so why…? Looking back, it seems too odd of a coincidence. I stood there, looking at the ocean, thinking of England on the other side. The breeze observed me for a while. It saw I was far too happy and decided to show me some sadness. So it crept up and blew my newspaper, and I ran for it. It blew off into the harbor, and
The Pet War
The Pet War, by Allan Woodrow; Scholastic Press: New York, 2015; $4.99 When I read books I always set my expectations low, and also, I reluctantly admit I literally sometimes judge a book by its cover. The cover of The Pet War is a cartoonish picture of a dog staring down a cat, and that’s how I was drawn in. The plot starts out when the protagonist, Otto, an eleven-year-old boy, is watching a family move away with their dog that he really loved. You get a touch of his personality—likeable but also frustrating. He bargains with his mother back and forth about responsibility, when Lexi, his cat-loving sister, pipes up about getting a cat. They argue fiercely, but finally his mom settles on an agreement that whoever raises five-hundred dollars first to pay for the pet will get theirs. And the war begins. When they go to their divorced dad’s house, they both kiss up to him to try to get him to agree to get either a dog or a cat, and after they do many chores, he does. One particularly sad symbol of how the “war” was affecting the family was when they traveled to their dad’s house again and didn’t do anything with him. He is pleading, desperate to spend some quality time with them because he misses them, but they are too busy trying to beat each other to do something with him. As the war gets more intense, their rivalry becomes hate, with too serious name-calling, stealing, insults, and even bullying each other through talking. Otto steals twenty dollars from his sister and rips apart one of her posters, feeling guilty but then justifying it through thinking that Lexi was an enemy of his “country” in the war. Their mom starts to notice, but it is too late, the competition has escalated too far and they have both turned ruthless against each other, ripping everyone and everything out of their lives other than the competition. Finally, he decides that it has gone too far and gives his sister all his money, confessing his crime. This reminds me of when my stepbrother and I were in an Easter egg hunt, and, after much taunting, I finally snapped and threw my brother’s candy, shouting insults. I think at that point it wasn’t about how many eggs we had retrieved; chocolate really didn’t matter to me then. What mattered to me was getting back at my brother. The real source of it all, the competition, had escalated into something personal. I finally realized this upon reading this book, and that has had a huge impact on me now. They do get a cat, but they realize the burden that has been lifted off their shoulders. Otto really does learn how to be responsible and gets along better with his sister. I really liked this book and thought it would be about whether cats are better, or dogs, which was the initial reason I got it, but it really is deeper than that. It is about learning lessons and how family is the most important thing. I recommend this book to pet lovers, but also to anybody who wants to have a sad but also happy, humorous but deep, relatable story. I really loved this book, and I enjoy telling all my friends. Dyllan Han, 11Milpitas, California
Yellow Rose
My name is Yellow Rose. My dad says my mama loved that name, because it reminded her of sunshine and cheerful gardens. I love it too, but Dad says you simply can’t go around saying, “Good day, Yellow Rose,” or “How are you, Yellow Rose,” or “What do you want for breakfast, Yellow Rose,” so everybody calls me just Rose. My mama wouldn’t like that at all. She’d say, “That’s my baby’s name, and we’re going to sing it from the hilltops, no matter what people say,” but Mama isn’t here anymore. One day she was just gone. I was only three. I came to Dad in paint-stained overalls and lopsided pigtails, clutching Little Rose. I sat straight on his lap and said, “Where’s Mama?” I traced patterns on my dad’s jeans. The fabric was rough but also soft under my tiny fingertips. I traced bunnies, castles, and crowns—all the things that made me think of Mama’s warm smile. I hugged Little Rose. Mama made her for me with a needle and thread. She was soft like a pillow and wore a yellow dress with buttons down the front. Finally, the silence was too much for me. I turned around in his lap, ready to shout, but I stopped dead at the look in his eyes. It was so intense, my heart started to swell like a balloon ready to pop. “Daddy?” I asked in an unsure voice. “Where’s Mama?” My dad refocused his distant eyes on me. They swirled with so many emotions, it made my head swim. “Answer me, Daddy,” I demanded. “Daddy?” I asked in an unsure voice. “Where’s Mama?” “She’s with the angels, hon.” He laughed delicately. I let out a sigh of relief. I believed in magic back then. “The angels will take care of Mama. They’ll fetch her chamomile tea with two extra sugar cubes, just like she likes. They’ll let her nap on the clouds and maybe they’ll give her a pet to bring home to me!” My dad smiled at me. He knew my dream was to have a dog. “Mama will stay up there, but the angels told me to tell you that when you look for her, look here.” He patted his chest right where his heart pumped away. Then he slid me off his lap and went into his bedroom, closing the door with a loud creak. For a moment, it was just me and the summer sounds—the birds chirping, the leaves rustling, the faint sound of a barking dog. I got up and walked to the freezer. I opened the heavy drawer and pulled out a tangerine popsicle. I took a lick. Instead of tasting big, salty tears, I tasted its tangy sweetness. I was too young to realize Mama was dead. * * * EIGHT YEARS LATER Our car pulls into the driveway. When I get out, I sigh. I’m happy to be home. I had missed the faded blue paint that was chipping from age and the flower pots that decorated the front porch. The wind chimes tinkle their welcome. We have just gotten back from my grandmother’s house. It isn’t like our house, which makes me think of ocean cliffs. Her house is dull brown, without a speck of personality and nothing but spotless pieces of Victorian furniture. “How does it feel to be home, Rose?” Dad asks, holding out my backpack. I look at him. Dad and I aren’t close. We barely talk, and our conversations are always awkward. “Fine,” I say after a long pause. My dad nods. Then we just stand there, letting the wind tousle our hair. The breeze is heavy with moisture. I inhale and taste the coming rain. “Go inside, Rose,” Dad says, tossing me the house key. The key flies past me, so I turn around to retrieve it. Before I pick it up, I see a girl waving at me from across the street. She’s barefoot, and her hair is long, red, and rippling in the wind. I see her parents stacking boxes in their open garage. The “For Sale” sign I had gotten used to is missing. “Hey!” the girl shouts at me. My fingers snatch the house key, and I run inside, before she can cross the street. I slam the front door and kick off my shoes. The floor is icy as I cross to my bedroom. Just before I make my retreat, I see my father outside the window. He’s staring at the door I just ran through, looking sad. I feel a pang of guilt. He must think I ran from him, even though I was really running from the redheaded girl. My eyes travel to her. She’s staring at my house, slightly confused. Her blue eyes are glimmering. They stand out in the gloom, like two sapphires. Now, I feel so guilty that I want to run outside and apologize. I could shout it to the world, and maybe a piece of sunshine would appear from behind the clouds. My thought is trampled by my dad’s high-heel-loving, auburn-haired girlfriend, running across the lawn to him on her cloud of bliss. She throws her arms around his neck, and I watch him laugh soundlessly through the glass. I bite my cheek before slamming my bedroom door so hard the windows rattle. I definitely don’t feel guilty anymore. * * * The next day, my dad’s girlfriend comes into my bedroom, carrying a cheap, plastic tray with steaming pancakes on top. I glance up from my magazine, then down at the tray. The pancakes look slightly crisp, and they are covered in some kind of berry sauce. My mouth waters. “Hello, Rose,” Susan says, putting the tray down on my bed. I just stare at her, refusing to speak. I can tell she is nervous, because her hands shake as she twirls them through her hair. Finally, after I unsuccessfully will her to leave by boring my eyes into hers, she sits
3:30 A.M.
At 3:30 A.M. I gradually rise from my ocean of sleep Away from the trenches of unconsciousness Where lantern-fish dreams lurk. Tick, tick, tick The dutiful second hand is making itself dizzy again. Whirr… The fish tank motor sounds throughout the night. It is dark Yet I can see outlines of posters on my wall. My long-haired cat Is curled tightly At the end of the bed. My pillow is squashed Sheets wrap around me All other blankets Tossed unceremoniously To the floor. My throat is sandpaper dry There is a tug at my stomach. Milk. I need milk. Toes land among carpet fuzz Then lift slowly I stumble through the hallway. The kitchen blacker than my bedroom Outside puddles shudder with raindrops The cat has slipped past me She peers out with interest. I flip the switch And harsh light glares Into my pupils. I can’t see the rain any longer The windows are dark squares. I pour milk, and down the glass Leaving it on the counter. I flee the frozen tiles And climb into bed. Sonja Skye Wooley, 12Berkeley, California
Speak
You never truly know what you have, until you try to live without it. Until something you love is taken, you don’t know how fortunate you are. You take everyday things for granted, like listening to the wind swirl around the branches of a giant oak or hearing the night owls call farewell to each other in the mist of the evenings. Sometimes I want the sounds. Since birth, all I have heard is silence. It makes me sad, not to be able to hear the waves crash against the sand or the strum of talented fingers on a guitar. All I hear is silence. Complete and utter silence. It has always been my dream to listen. Often I stare out of my window and watch the world, wondering about the sounds. I watch the birds, seeing their mouths open, but hearing nothing. What does their song sound like? I’ve seen the wind skip across the lake, creating hundreds of miniature tidal waves. What does this sound like? Once I watched a young woman hurrying home from the crowds. In her hands she held a bouquet of flowers, all different shades of color and beautifully bright. She stepped onto the curb and in her hurry dropped a daisy. It fluttered to the ground gently, lost and abandoned. Had anyone heard the flower fall? I will never know. With the gift of voice comes the great form of verbal communication: talking, singing, shouting. Without it I am left with hands. By age four I had mastered the amazing language of signing. My parents and siblings could talk to me, but few of my friends understood my strange motions. Often I stare out of my window and watch the world, wondering about the sounds My name is Naomi. I live a completely normal life, except for the fact that I am deaf. I’ve never been able to hear, I was born this way. I’d gotten used to signing and was happy. Even so, something was missing; a void in my existence that had never been filled. When we first moved to Minnesota, I was terrified. A new home, a new school—who wouldn’t be a little nervous? Headed to a new state hundreds of miles away, I had left my friends and old city behind. But in the wake of my fear was a sense of thrilling excitement that I didn’t recognize. * * * The doors of the giant school building opened and closed behind me, letting hundreds of students inside. The aroma of fresh paint and the crisp winter breeze filled my nose as I took in all the sights. There were so many more children here than where I used to go to school, and I could feel my face growing hot as I entered and stared. Watching everyone talking, I tried to smile and seem confident, though in reality, I was terrified. Chin held out, trying to ignore the flapping butterflies in my stomach and avoiding glances, I quickly walked to my first class. Little did I know that when I entered those doors, my life would change instantly. I had no idea that a hidden talent was deep inside me, for never had I been given a chance like this before. Forcing a smile, I looked at the small sign posted on the classroom door: Room 103, Music. Taking a deep breath, I entered. Immediately I fell in love. The room was so bright, with posters of every possible shape and color scattered across the walls in no particular order. Instruments lined the shelves, smooth and clean. Kids laughed and talked to each other as they prepared for the lesson, but patiently and silently, I sat alone. As I set my bag down, something caught my eye. There, in the very corner, was a grand piano. It was old and dusty, but the black and white keys mesmerized me. I held my breath as another student sat at its bench and pressed the keys. Right then I felt completely alone and desolate, a longing to hear the beautiful music filling me. The clear morning sunlight flashed through the tinted windows. It felt warm against my arms and face, almost helping me relax. The sunlight had always comforted me, giving me warmth, providing me with a sense of safety. Finally the teacher arrived. She was a young, beautiful brunette, with a sort of kindness filling her eyes. The students shuffled to take seats and I smiled at her. She grinned back and started to say something to me. I shrugged my shoulders, signing to her that I was deaf. A wave of realization swept over her, and she nodded quickly and continued to unpack. This action alone surprised me. Usually, my past teachers would smile sadly at me or give me an unspoken apology for my inability to hear their words. It made me wonder why this woman was different, why she hadn’t acted like the others. Immediately I liked her. Once the class had quieted she began to speak. I studied her lips, trying to understand what she was saying. It seemed like she was taking each student one by one, talking to them for a few minutes, then giving them an instrument to play. Children eagerly stepped up and picked up an instrument, then awkwardly tried to play a few notes. They would all cringe at the noise, and the teacher would laugh, then show them a short tune. Panic flooded me as I watched her turn and motion for me to step forward. Cautiously I stood up, my face turning a deep, violet red as the children looked at me. I hated attention, preferring the spotlight to be on someone else. “I am Ms. Germain,” the woman politely smiled and mouthed slowly. “Have you ever played an instrument before?” I shook my head, trying to ignore the seemingly hundreds of eyes that bore into my skin. The room suddenly felt stiff and uncomfortable, so I
We Will Not Be Silent
We Will Not Be Silent, by Russell Freedman; Clarion Books: New York, 2016; $17.99 “They could have chosen to throw bombs.” Not often in history are peaceful attempts to disrupt political regimes successful. However, Russell Freedman’s We Will Not Be Silent captures one of the past’s greatest peaceful movements, which proved that the pen—or, in Hans and Sophie Scholl’s case, the mimeograph—is mightier than the sword. During the 1930s, Germany was moving toward a dictatorship and world war. The Scholl siblings—Hans and younger sister Sophie—were typical young Germans. However, not long after joining the Hitler Youth movement, they grew extremely opposed to Hitler’s beliefs. Also, they were not afraid to take risks for their beliefs. Their participation in a banned youth group landed them in jail in 1937 as mere teenagers. After arriving to university, they took their opposition to a new level and created the White Rose leaflets—anonymous letters targeting Hitler and the Nazis. They were mimeographed in secret and called on Germans to act against the growing Nazi tyranny. Hans Scholl delivered the first set of leaflets in 1942 with a friend. As his sister Sophie and a few others joined the movement, the leaflets gained popularity, yet also drew the attention of the dreaded Gestapo secret police. From then on, they had a huge target on their backs. The book tells a powerful historical story but also speaks to children and young adults today. Here is an example we have probably all encountered—someone says something mean to you, or hits you, and your instinct is to do the equivalent in response. It is always tempting to fight fire with fire. The Nazis used violence to harm and it might have been appealing to use violence to fight back. However, the Scholls resisted that urge and used the power of their words to resist. They stayed true to their beliefs, which, as the leaflets summarized, promoted peace, instead of creating even more bloodshed. To this day, the Scholls set an example to young people around the world, demonstrating that peaceful activism can be effective. The Scholls’ bravery at a young age is also an important inspiration about not accepting limits. Have you ever felt as if you can never make a difference or cannot have certain opinions simply because of a certain trait you possess? Because you are young, or a certain gender, or from a certain background? We all do, at times. Despite the fact that they were only students, the Scholl siblings became some of Germany’s most effective Hitler opponents in an age where even educated adults were afraid to speak up. They created an extremely influential operation to express their political viewpoints. And they pursued their beliefs despite the limitations they encountered—Hans rebelled against the Hitler Youth and Sophie pursued her studies, even though girls were only a slim ten percent of the student body. They stood up for their opinions and rights, with a big risk to themselves, and inspire all of us to do the same. If you are looking for an amazing read, full of historical and inspiring information and intriguing pictures, We Will Not Be Silent is the perfect book for you! I highly recommend this fantastic story. It is truly an inspirational tale of courage and independence, and it speaks to all of us. Ariel Kirman, 12New York, New York
Freedom to Fly
An eleven-year-old girl woke up on a patch of sunlit sand. Her small elfish ears picked up the sound of crashing waves and the rustling of bushes and the dense canopy of intertwining branches and leaves to her right. Her green eyes opened slowly, first slits, and then wide open and darting quickly over her surroundings. The girl propped herself up onto her elbows, which sank into the squishy beach sand. Her waist-length, light red hair whipped around her face. The girl slowly stood up and gazed at the sun sinking down below the horizon and the waves crashing inches from her soaked sneakers. To the girl’s surprise, a girl that seemed a little younger than her and a boy that seemed her age were quickly approaching her. Before the girl could think to hide, the boy had spotted her and was pointing her out to his friend. As they approached, the frightened girl heard their voices. The younger girl said to the boy, “Who is she, Mathew?” The boy, Mathew, responded, “Liri, shush. She doesn’t look dangerous.” Liri looked slightly doubtful and hung back a bit, keeping her distance from the strange girl. “What’s your name?” asked Mathew gently. “I don’t know… I don’t remember much.” The girl started to panic. “I don’t remember anything!” “It’s OK, we will call you Freedom,” said Mathew, eyeing the girl’s wild and free hair. Freedom nodded her head slowly. The girl started to panic. “I don’t remember anything!” Liri stepped forward, “You can join our group, if you like. We are free, with no one to tell us what to do. We come and go as we like. Our leader and helper is Indigo. She will know how to help you. Will you come with us?” Freedom followed Liri and Mathew, leaving her footprints in a trail behind her as she journeyed deeper into the forest. Soon, Freedom began to see some huts and living structures, overflowing with about two dozen more children, laughing and frolicking. Liri and Mathew approached an older girl who looked to be fourteen with long, dark brown braids running down her back. Mathew explained to the older girl, “Indigo, this is Freedom. She doesn’t remember who she is or where she is from, but she wants to join our group of roamers.” Indigo thoroughly scrutinized the new girl’s face and then simply said in a melodious voice, “What would you like to learn here, Freedom? You can choose anything, but only one thing you can learn. Then you must teach.” Freedom thought for one moment and then her emerald eyes lit up with pure excitement and childlike wonder, “I want to fly.” Liri and Mathew looked at each other, confused. Indigo stood expressionless, but then broke into a wide grin, “Then that you must, and will, learn, so then you can teach us how to fly.” Over the next few weeks, Freedom studied the birds that soared through the forest. Their composure, wing structure, wing motion, and anything else she could think of that had to do with flying. After several attempts, which ended in pitying glances exchanged between Liri and Mathew, a great deal of frustration, and six broken sets of paper wings, Freedom wondered if she needed a different approach to flying. She sat thinking at the bottom of trees where birds zoomed by overhead, and often voiced out loud her questions to the feathered flyers. “How do I fly? What’s missing? What’s wrong?” One evening, Mathew came to inquire about how she was doing. Freedom said miserably, “It’s not working. I know that I should try a different angle, but I don’t know which one.” Mathew slid down on the tree trunk next to Freedom. “You’ll find a way. I know you will. I believe in you, Freedom.” He squeezed her hand firmly and reassuringly. Freedom smiled slightly, but her smile was quickly replaced with delighted shock as she looked down and saw she was floating two feet off the ground! “I just needed to believe in myself!” Freedom exclaimed. “That was the key the whole time!” She steadily rose higher and higher until Mathew was craning his neck to keep her in sight. “Try it! It’s fun!” she yelled. Mathew joined her in the air and she began to propel herself forward through the great blue sky. With Mathew alongside her, every limb in Freedom’s body tingled with elation and energy as the wind ruffled her red hair and Mathew’s short, caramel-colored hair. Then Mathew was speaking in a different but achingly familiar voice, “Penny, wake up! Penny! Wake up!” With a sudden jolt from her brain and her body, waking up suddenly, she remembered who she was. She was Penny Dylan. She had been sleeping, and it had all been a dream. Her little brother, Hunter, gazed down at her. “I can’t believe you were sleep-talking again! You know that my big soccer match is tomorrow morning! What was so important, Penny?!” He looked slightly amused but still very angry. She sighed as she lay back down on her bed, “Oh, Hunter, I had the most wonderful dream. I was flying. I was free.” Allie Aguila, 11Miami Springs, Florida Valentina von Wiederhold, 12Nyack, New York
My Deepest Desires
I want to be one with the earth I want to sink my feet into the soft dirt and feel no difference between myself and the world around me. I want to slip into the cool river water and float as if I am made of it. I want to climb the tallest trees and daringly sway in the breeze. I want to look into a wolf’s eyes and feel no fear at all. I want to be one with the earth. Isabel Taylor, 13Royal, Arkansas
The Boy Fictionalist
For all my life, I had hated writing. In fact, I had loathed it. When we were at school, our class would have to do writing exercises every day. My teacher, Ms. Sanders, would write a seemingly random topic on our whiteboard every morning. Before the end of class, each and every one of us had to write at least ten sentences about it. I remember doing this day after day, and I found it tedious and time-consuming but also quite pointless. Although I didn’t like it, I would write my ten sentences anyway. This continued for the first couple months of the school year, and after a while, it wasn’t so bad. One day, I came into my classroom. There was change in the air, and I realized what it was very quickly. Rather than “Current Canadian Holidays” or “Early Wind Instruments,” there was something unusual written on the whiteboard. It said, in large lettering, “Free Writing—write whatever you want.” I wasn’t going to waste any time. I expeditiously began writing a short story that I called “The Ghost Child.” As I sat at my desk and commenced work, a boy named Robert walked up behind me. Robert was fairly tall for his age with a pasted-on smirk, jet-black hair, and constant bad breath. “The Ghost Child,” he said mockingly, leaning over my shoulder. “That has to be the stupidest name I’ve ever seen. Out of all the kids in this room with cutesy titles like ‘Little Dead Hiding Wood’ or ‘Jack and the Leanwalk,’ yours is the worst.” While I don’t want to call anyone the meanest kid, Robert was pretty mean and quite annoying. “Mom, I wrote this, and I thought you might want to read it” I rolled my eyes, the best tactic for getting him to leave me alone. “Robert, please just do your writing.” “Ha!” he scoffed. “Let me get right on that, Griffin Boy. What should mine be called? Hmm… How about ‘Peter Griffin Writes Hit Story!’ But I’m sure my lowly writing could never compete with ‘The Ghost Kid,’ could it?” I rolled my eyes again. “Very funny. And it’s ‘The Ghost Child.’” I resumed writing my story as Robert walked off to find someone else to put down. For the rest of the week, Ms. Sanders would write the same thing on the whiteboard: “Free Writing—write whatever you want.” Working in the mornings, after completing lessons, and sometimes at home, I was able to finish writing “The Ghost Child” over the course of the week. Creating that story, I was opened to a better and more enjoyable side of writing—fiction. I decided to show my newly written story to my mother, Anna Griffin. She has curly brown hair and beautiful green eyes. She is a fantastic singer, would eat key lime pie every day if she could, and loves the color yellow. She’s also the sweetest, most encouraging mother in the entire world. Once I finished perfecting the details of my story, I went downstairs and walked into our living room where my mom was sitting on a red chair, using her computer. “Mom,” I said. She looked up from her computer. “I wrote this, and I thought you might want to read it.” I held out the papers that made up my story. “Of course I would, honey,” she replied as she took the papers. I watched as she adroitly scanned the page. When she finished reading, a smile emerged on her face. “Wow!” she exclaimed. “This is really good! When did you write it?” “I started about a week ago at school, and I just finished.” “At school?” She looked taken aback. “I thought you didn’t like the writing that you did at school.” “That was before,” I said, “back when all we wrote about were Prehistoric Amphibians and Civil War Leaders.” “And that’s not what you write about anymore?” “That’s right. One day I walked into the classroom, and Ms. Sanders had written: ‘Free Writing—write whatever you want.’ I think she might do that for a while because that’s what she’s written this whole week.” “Well, that’s fantastic! Promise me you’ll write another story soon. I really like ‘The Ghost Child.’ It’s hard to believe that a ten-year-old wrote it!” “I’ll write another story soon, Mom,” I replied. “I promise.” “Great!” My mother leaned over her computer and kissed me on the forehead. “I love you, Peter. More than you’ll ever imagine.” * * * Over the next few months, I was able to write five original short stories. My mom would always love them no matter what and encourage me to write more and more. The only conversation I recall from that time period occurred when I was feeling discouraged about my writing. “Mom,” I said, “it’s not any good.” “Of course it is, Peter,” she replied. “It has to be good. It was written by you, after all.” “OK, whatever,” I said, handing her the sheets of paper. She took them and began reading. As she finished, I anticipated her telling me that my story was great and I was kidding myself to think that it wasn’t. That didn’t happen. “Peter, you see only the bad things in your writing. You may think that it’s bad now, but when you’re my age, you’ll see how good it truly is.” “When I’m your age,” I said, “that story will be somewhere underneath a golf course. There’s no way I’ll still have it for that long.” “Then let me word that differently. Your children will surely write stories, and sometimes they will only see the bad things. At that point, you’ll be my age, and you will see the good things.” That actually made a lot of sense. “I guess I see what you mean.” “Hopefully, you can see the good things about your story now. Just try looking as hard as you can.” I began to notice some small details, little snippets of writing that were
Adopted
We walked home together. We talked about schoolwork, and then you said, “You are adopted. I’m sorry.” Sometimes you commented on the dirt on my clothes as we walked out of school. But this felt different, like we were at a party and all of a sudden the music stopped and everyone stared at me. The words take me back: You’re adopted. I’m sorry? What did you say? These words make me feel like I should hide in a box and never come out. I am utterly quiet while my hands clench into fists. You shattered the moment, the laughing, the talking, everything. And you know it. I am like a rope held together by trust and care. That rope has been severed— A rope made of tiny threads that wear out if you use it too much— by you. And you can say “I’m sorry” because you do not know what it is like To feel the shadow of hurtful words. To feel small Because you cast the shadow. Now think Deep Deep Deep Could you say that now? Would you say that now? All those times you were mean this is just hurtful. Zoe Savishinsky, 12Seattle, Washington
Welcome Home
Our car, rusted red paint and all, squeaks into the driveway. It lurches to a stop, shoving Mom and me forward in our seats. The boxes in the back shift, slamming against the sides of the trunk. I shut my door with a bang and stand, staring at the ugly brown house directly in front of me. The paint is peeling, the shutters look like they are falling apart, and the lawn is overgrown with weeds. My mom comes up behind me. “Do you want to go in?” she asks. I glare at her in response. She should know as well as I do that I do not want to go in. Nonetheless, Mom sticks her key into the hole and turns the doorknob. She pushes on the door, but it won’t budge. After considerable shoving, Mom manages to get the blue door open. “Welcome home, sweetie.” She gestures grandly. Frowning, I look around. There is tile on the floor, but I can tell it is the fake sticker kind. It doesn’t look real and besides, some of the pieces are peeling off. One wall has splotches of different colored paints on it, like someone was using it to figure out what color to paint something. A moth-eaten rug sits in the middle of the entryway. We move into the living room, which is just as bad. Two small windows let in a dirty, grimy light, doing nothing more than illuminating the dust that covers the floor. There is a fake-crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room, covered in cobwebs. “Welcome home, sweetie” After seeing the kitchen, my mother and I head upstairs. There are two bedrooms—one for me, one for her. Mom gets her own bathroom, but it’s tiny. As for me, I’ll have to use the one downstairs or borrow Mom’s. My mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “It needs a little work,” she says, “but once I get the diner off the ground, we can fix it up together.” I want to believe that we will. Mom heads back outside and walks over to the car, carefully pulling up the trunk door so as not to break it. “Come on, Lilly. Let’s start unloading.” * * * “So, Lilly, I hear that they’ll have a soccer team at your new school,” Mom offers. I don’t look up from my lo mein. I played on the soccer team at my old school, where Dad was the coach. I’m not going to join this one. That would be like betrayal. Besides, nothing at my new school is going to be like it was at my old school, anyway. But Mom doesn’t give up. “They also have an art club after school. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” I shrug. “I’m full,” I mumble, even though I’ve barely touched my takeout. I leave the kitchen and head for my room, which is in dismal condition. The movers haven’t come yet and probably won’t for a while, just because we couldn’t really afford to pay for good ones. So right now, my room is empty except for a sleeping bag and a pile of boxes in the corner. Sighing, I sit down on my sleeping bag. I think of my room at Dad’s house. He’s a radio DJ, so he plastered my walls with all sorts of album-cover posters and vintage records. There’s a phonograph in the corner on a really cool retro table. My bedspread is straight out of the 1970s, with records and boom boxes spinning across a red background. Above my bed is a light-up sign that flashes Lilly. I had been begging Dad for it since I could talk, and I finally got it last year when I turned eleven. And I have my own closet, unlike here. My room at Dad’s is my place, the place where I go when life gets too fast or too confusing. It’s a place where I can slow down and think. I walk over to the boxes and pull out Dad’s photo from the top of one. He’s smiling up from a sound booth at a party. His hair is tousled and sticking out at odd angles from underneath his baseball cap, which is on backwards. His T-shirt has a picture of a guitar on it. His tattoo, the one of the record that Mom always hated, sticks out from underneath the sleeve. I pick up the picture of Dad and put it next to my sleeping bag, because I don’t have a nightstand to put it on. Then I zipper myself in for the night. “Goodnight, Dad,” I whisper. * * * “Lilly!” my mom calls. I crawl out of my sleeping bag, sore from having slept on the floor. I throw on a sweatshirt and head downstairs. “Good morning, sunshine!” My mom smiles at me. “I made waffles for our first breakfast in the new house!” When I don’t say anything, Mom’s smile wavers the slightest bit. Nonetheless, she chirps, “My, my. Someone’s sleepy! Well, hon, you better wake up soon, because we’ve got a big day ahead of us!” We spend the day cleaning. When we’ve finished dusting and washing the inside of the house, Mom and I head outside, where we start working on the weeds that are abundant in the backyard. “So, Lilly. Are you looking forward to going to your new school tomorrow?” Mom asks, trying to make conversation. I pull harder at a weed, yanking it clean out of the ground. “It’s a very good school.” Mom smiles. “They’ve got a computer lab and a library, and they’re both really big. Can you believe that, honey?” I throw my weeds into a paper bag. “I’d love to go there if I were you. You’re really lucky.” Mom grins at me. I don’t look up at her. Instead, I focus all my attention on the spider crawling up the side of a weed, pretending to be utterly fascinated. “Are you nervous,
