Daddy had said today would be our special day together. We would have gone to the movies and had pizza, but no, he was off rescuing yet another animal from its abusive owners. Couldn’t he have waited until tomorrow? I walked outside and sat on the porch. I guess he couldn’t have waited. The poor animal was probably in terrible condition, judging by the rest of the animals Daddy and I had rescued. Daddy and I rescue abused pets and wildlife and bring them to our barn where we feed and heal them until they can be re-entered into their natural habitat or given new homes. Some of them have died, but most of them have survived. I always wonder what he’s going to bring back. Usually a dog or goat that had been treated terribly. The fall leaves were just turning and I listened to the wind rustling through them as I thought about the importance of rescuing animals. Sometimes I just wished Daddy had a normal job, like a lawyer or something. Suddenly a roaring noise interrupted my reverie and Daddy’s truck came hurtling into the yard with the horse trailer bouncing along behind. I jumped up and ran to the pickup as it slowed and Daddy jumped out. His hair stuck out at strange angles, and he seemed unusually flustered about it. I started to ask him about it, but he interrupted me. “Fern! Go get a halter and lead rope and some hay. Go! Quickly!” “Don’t bother chasing him. He can’t run very far” I ran, instantly recognizing the urgency in his voice. When I got to the barn I dashed into the tack room and grabbed Gypsy’s purple halter and the first lead I could find and gathered up some hay from Ben’s empty stall. “Fern! I have to get this horse out! Come on!” “I’m coming!” I called as I sprinted back to the trailer. Panting, I handed Daddy the halter and lead rope. “I don’t need the hay right now, but I’ll tell you when I do,” Daddy said as he climbed up into the battered green trailer. “I may need some help up here.” I started to climb up but he motioned me down. “No, in a second. Just wait.” I pulled down the ramp and looked inside. I could just make out the outline of a horse. “OK, hand me the hay now.” I leaned in and handed the hay to Daddy. I faintly heard him murmuring to the horse. Coaxingly, he patted the horse on the neck. It calmed slightly, and Daddy, taking advantage of the moment, showed it the hay. It whickered faintly and began to nibble. Gently, Daddy tugged on the lead rope. A big mistake. The horse shied and reared. It threw its head back, nearly banging it on the roof. “Watch out, Fern! He’ll bolt now! Move!” Daddy yelled to me as he flattened himself against the inside of the trailer. I jumped out of the way just as the horse came charging down the ramp. “Don’t bother chasing him. He can’t run very far. Watch.” Daddy had come down to stand next to me. But I was agape at the state the horse was in. He was barely discernable as a horse, covered in mud and caked dirt. A gaping wound on his hip slowly oozed blood. His emaciated body quivered as he slowed to a halt, chest heaving. His ribs showed through his hide. I couldn’t believe that someone would do something that horrible to an animal. “What’s his name?” I asked Daddy. “Who knows? You name him.” “Frizbee,” I murmured to myself. I walked slowly toward Frizbee. He swung his head around and watched me warily. I whispered to him and didn’t look him in the eye. The trick was to appear unthreatening. I walked up and slowly took hold of his lead rope. Wearily, he followed me to the barn. I led him into Ben’s stall and took off his halter. I filled the bucket on the wall with warm water from the tack room sink and grabbed a sponge and the grooming box from the shelf and returned to where Frizbee was, standing in the exact same place I left him in. This horse needed some serious help. I curried off the muck and treated the wicked cut on his hip and gave him a tetanus shot, just in case. I sponged off the sweat and blood and rubbed him down with a rag. I dragged out the extra horse blanket we had had ever since Splash died. I carefully placed it over him and buckled it. I softly patted him and went into the feed shed to make him some hot bran mash. When I came back, Daddy was standing by the stall, looking in. “Good job, honey,” he said, hugging me. I glowed with pride. As I fed Frizbee his mash, I knew that I had done something wonderful for him and that my whole life would be dedicated to helping animals regain the joy of life. Lyra Mulhern, 13Gainesville, Florida Stephanie Andriulli, 13Lockport, New York
Another Day
I can remember so clearly the day when my troubles began. I was thirteen years old, and it was the spring of 1665. It was unnaturally warm for Madrid, but I loved the sun. I was sitting outside near the garden, reading a wonderful book. In our flower beds, a bright array of color burst forth. Tulips, crocuses and irises all stretched their delicate petals toward the sun. “Señorita, your mother wishes to see you.” Our maid’s voice shattered my pleasant daydreams. “She sounds excited about something, she did not tell me what.” Relief spread through me. If it was my mother, there was nothing to fear. My mother, Catalina, was always gentle, calm and kind. Recently however, she had become ill, and now spent most of her time in bed. Her strength had left her, and although doctors examined her, none could find the cause of her weakness. Luckily, my older sister Isabel took after my mother in all respects. Throughout my mother’s illness, she gave me the hope and comfort I desperately needed. Isabel had injured her foot when she was small, and now walked with a limp. Although this meant that her chances of marriage were small, I was glad because it kept her close to me. Suddenly, I remembered I was supposed to see my mother. I raced inside the house, as our maid called after me, “Brush off your skirt, there is grass on it!” As I skidded around a corner, I almost collided with my father, who gave me a cold look and said haughtily, “My parents would have beat me if I were so careless.” Trembling, I tiptoed until I reached my mother’s bedroom. I was sitting outside near the garden, reading a wonderful book As soon as I opened the door, I saw my mother’s joyful face smiling at me. “Maria,” she said fondly, “come closer to me.” Happily, I walked over to her bedside. “I have good news, your father has told me he will be taking you to court soon.” She said this anxiously, waiting for my reaction. I felt uncomfortable, I had never been to court all my life, although my father went there often. “Will Isabel and you accompany me?” I asked. She shook her head sadly saying, “My child, I can hardly move from this bed; how could I get to court?” Her gentle, brown eyes pleaded with me to understand. I did not. I could understand if my mother did not come. She was ill, and court life would not suit her, but there was no reason that Isabel should not come. Oh well, I thought, I shall get it over with, and then return home to the part of my family that loves me. Instead of expressing these worries to my mother, I asked one simple question, “When do my father and I leave?” “Soon, Maria,” she replied, “very soon.” The next few days passed in a blur. I had no free time; every day was spent “perfecting” me for court. Everything had to be a certain way, and nothing less would do. Seamstresses rushed in and out of our house day and night. I gasped at the fabrics they held in their arms. Silks, satins and velvets were only one-third of what I would wear. Throughout my life, I had worn simple gowns, generally made of wool. Their colors were muted, and were usually dark browns or grays. Suddenly, I was being presented with vivid, expensive gowns. When I wasn’t being fitted for new dresses, I was being tutored. I had been studying for many years; my parents believed that everyone should have a good education. However, my studying was much more rigorous then it had previously been. Geography, math, history, literature, all had to be perfected by the time I was at court. Although I thoroughly enjoyed my time with the tutors, I did not see what the point of this was. I was a girl, and as most people would have said, a woman’s job is in her house. In most people’s eyes, I was a worthless girl, whose only purpose was to marry and have as many children as possible. The days went by so quickly, I was surprised when I found myself arriving at court. I was shocked for the first few days. Everything was so different from my peaceful house. There was never any silence or tranquillity here, something was always happening. Elaborate dances took place in the evenings, and during the day, servants hurried down the hallways, trying desperately to get all their jobs done. Gradually, however, I began to sink into court life. I even enjoyed it. This process was helped by Edward. I met Edward a week after I arrived in court. For the first time since I had arrived, I was attending a dance. Although the seamstresses had made many gowns for me, I was wearing my best this evening. It was unlike any other dress I had ever seen. Its pale blue cloth was embroidered with silver thread, which was sewn gracefully into tiny stars bordering the hem. It was made of silk so light it seemed to float around me; I could barely feel it. My dark brown hair was caught up in a silver net, and on my feet I wore delicate blue slippers, which were trimmed with lace. I was laughing and having a wonderful time, when, by chance, I saw a young man standing at the edge of the room. Although I couldn’t understand how, he seemed different to me. Slowly, I crept across the room to where he was standing, and we began to talk. He was the son of an English ambassador, and had journeyed with his father to Spain. Although his father was busy most days, he was free to do what he liked. As I listened to his voice, I fell into a trance. He was so different from the Spanish men I had met.
Guts and a Few Strokes
Stroke. Stroke. Breathe left. Straight legs, follow through with the arms. These are usually my thoughts while swimming the hundred-meter freestyle. For those of you who don’t know, that’s two laps. I can do it in about a minute and twenty seconds, sometimes more, sometimes less. Oh, and my name is Sophia, been swimming for five years in that very pool, been on the team for three years. Had I been going more slowly and looking ahead, I would have noticed that the seemingly endless deep blue of the chlorinated water was lightening into white. I would have noticed that I could no longer see the stems of sunlight poking through the water like sprouts poking through the air. This time, all I noticed was the green line on the bottom of the pool which would mean I would do a flip turn and start on another length if I wasn’t on my last one. I knew what to expect. I felt the warm sunlit wall under my hand. Done! You know, when I’m underwater, I can’t hear or see the rest of the world. I’ve escaped to what I call Blueland. In Blueland, I don’t have a meet in two days, I’m not stressing over fraction homework, I’m not watching whatever I eat because I’m allergic to peanuts, I’m just floating in blue and relaxing. Everything fades away into the blue. But, unfortunately, I’m not in Blueland now and I wasn’t then. Coach Morris called us together. “Did you notice how Sophia’s arms came out of the water straight? That’s following through. Keep that in mind. Remember, not only do swimmers with correct strokes go faster, they also don’t get disqualified. That’s practice for today, so dry off and go home.” Every practice ended with “dry off and go home.” It signaled us to disperse, which we did. Always. “That’s practice for today, so dry off and go home” Later, while gossiping in the locker room, Maggie, whom we trusted to know the most about the pool (no one knew why), gave us startling news. “The pool’s getting a new manager and they might fire Coach Morris,” she said, amazingly calm. Out came a scream from all of us of, “What!” We were all in pure shock. The more I thought about it, the more I wished I didn’t know. Lo and behold, the next day at practice there was a young man with smooth blond hair and eerily blank green eyes. He, as we later found out, I don’t remember how, was the new coach, Coach Brown. I could barely hold back tears. Coach Morris had been the coach as long as I could remember, and now he was leaving, and some blondie was taking his place. This blondie better be good, I thought. If he’s not, he’s going down! “Now,” he smiled, revealing teeth that were so white and perfect they scared me. “It’s tryouts all over again. Now, Coach Morris would choose you if you had the potential to get good. I will choose you if you are good and have the potential to get better. A length of each, freestyle, backstroke, butterfly, breaststroke, no rest, go!” he shouted. It was a snap, except for backstroke, of course. Toward the middle, I pulled a muscle, and it hurt. Butterfly hurt more, but I could rest it after. I just endured, like I do far too often. Just before Coach Brown announced who made the team, something struck me as odd. He had decided right then. You’d think he’d need some time to think, but not Brown. Brown knew in an instant who the “better swimmers” were. My best friend Amy and I crossed our fingers. Here goes nothing! “Peter!” he read. What was going on? Peter couldn’t even manage to practice five days a week. “Harold!” he read. Coach Brown must be crazy. Harold bent his legs when he did the backstroke, every single time. Sheesh! “David!” he read. That I could understand. David had the best butterfly on the team. “Ian!” he read. By now I’d noticed the lack of girls. It went on like that, too. “Alfred!” “Craig!” “Joseph!” All boys! Even Shawna hadn’t made the team, and her backstroke was nearly perfect. Finally, Maggie called out, “What about the girls? It’s a boys and girls team in the Boys and Girls 8 through 12 Division, Coach Brown!” The last words sounded almost mocking. Hey, you guys, we oughta show Brown what we’re made of!” Coach Brown motioned for her to follow him, and, in turn, Maggie motioned us girls to follow her. We huddled in a corner like a football team. I glanced at the boys, who had moved to our spots on the bleachers, where we had been a minute ago. It was hot that day, really hot, and so humid I could barely breathe. The sun went behind one of those rare perfect cotton-candy-marshmallow-fluff white clouds, leaving us a lot cooler. Coach Brown began. “The boys and girls division includes girls. No one much likes to watch girls do things meant for boys, like swim in races. That’s because no matter how hard you girls try, you’ll just never have the same natural athletic ability boys have. If you must swim, try synchronized water-ballet. That is for girls. Boys are just better at real sports; as much as we try to cover it up, deep in our hearts, we know it’s true. Now scat! The pool’s for team practice only right now. Toodle-oo!” And he waved us off like mice. Everything boiled inside me. I could have punched him; no, I could have killed him right then. Normally, I’m a rather quiet kid, but something just popped. It was almost like I’d filled a balloon with screams, adding some whenever I got mad, and then this was the final one. I felt like my balloon had popped, and now all those screams fell out of my mouth. “YOU JERK! YOU
The Montana Summer
CHAPTER ONE This was supposed to be the best summer of twelve-year-old Bryan Carmanne’s life. His dad’s best friend, Bryan called him Uncle Scott, was a manager for the New York Yankees. Bryan was invited to be a ball boy for the team for the whole summer! He would even get to travel with the team to some of the “away” games. “I know it’s your dream to be in the major leagues someday,” Uncle Scott told him when he broke the great news to Bryan. “This will give you a taste of what it is really like to see the big guys in action. I already worked out all of the details with your mom and dad. What do you say? Do you think you can give up your whole summer for the team?” “Oh, I know it will be hard, but I think that Bryan could make the sacrifice for the summer,” his dad said, laughing. “Do you really mean it, Dad? Can I do it? Uncle Scott, will I get to meet my all-time favorite player, Derek Jeter? Do you think I can get his autograph?” Bryan said excitedly. “Not only will you get to meet Derek, but you’ll also work with him and the rest of the team all summer,” answered Uncle Scott. For as long as Bryan could remember, he dreamed of playing in the major leagues. It started when his dad gave him his first baseball glove. He was only three years old, but he and Dad practiced throwing and catching every chance they got. By the time he joined the local baseball team, the coaches all told him he was a natural. Now, he was the star hitter for the Bronx Blasters. His batting average was the best on the team, at .396. His idol was Derek Jeter, the shortstop for the New York Yankees. Once at a Yankees game Bryan caught a home-run ball hit by Derek. Now he had the chance to actually meet and work with him. This was going to be the best summer ever! Whenever Bryan was batting, he always had a feeling of excitement burst right through him “Thanks, Dad, thanks, Uncle Scott. You’re the best!” cried Bryan, jumping up and down. For the next few days, Bryan was ecstatic. Until this morning, that is. It all started when his mom called him into the living room for a “conference.” Bryan could sense he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. She wasn’t smiling, and she wouldn’t look Bryan in the eye. She had a serious expression on her face. His dad was there too, which was a bad sign. “Bryan, there has been a little change of plan for your summer vacation,” said his mom. “The museum has asked Dad and me to go to Egypt for the summer to research that new dinosaur graveyard. We can’t pass up this wonderful chance to continue our research on dinosaurs.” “Son, we can’t take you with us. The excavation site is too dangerous, and we won’t have time to spend with you anyway,” Dad added. “How would you like to spend the summer with Grandma Mildred and Grandpa Chuck in Montana?” “What are you talking about? You know I already have plans with Uncle Scott and the Yankees for the summer,” said Bryan. “Dad and I have to take this research job. We’ll be in Egypt for ten weeks. You can’t come with us because it’s too dangerous,” Mom repeated. “The ranch in Montana will be a lot of fun.” “You call this a little change in plans? How could you do this to me?” Bryan yelled angrily. “Why can’t I just stay with Uncle Scott for the summer?” “Bryan, that’s out of the question. Uncle Scott will be traveling with the team. How could he keep an eye on you? Our arrangement for the summer was for you to work at the Yankees’ home games,” answered Mom, patiently. “You are treating me like a baby! I don’t have a say in anything around here. This is so unfair. I haven’t seen my grandparents since I was two years old. Why do I have to stay with them?” Bryan shouted. “Grandma Mildred and Grandpa Chuck are getting old. They might not be with us much longer. They really want to see you, and get to know you. With all the traveling Mom and I do, we haven’t made time to spend with them. This is a perfect solution to our summer-plan problem,” explained Dad. “You can spend the summer together, and when Mom and I get back from Egypt, we’ll meet you at the ranch and we’ll all be together for a few days.” “Well, I hate this ‘perfect solution.’ I don’t see anything perfect about it. I’ll be stuck in the middle of nowhere with two old strangers. They probably have never even heard of the New York Yankees. This stinks!” Bryan stormed up to his room and slammed his door. “I feel terrible about this,” said Bryan’s mom. “It really is the best way, honey,” replied Bryan’s dad. “I just hope Mom and Dad know what they are in for.” Bryan plopped down on his bed. He stared at his prized possession, the home-run ball hit by Jeter. He looked at Derek’s smiling face on the poster on the wall. Bryan felt like crying, but instead, he punched his pillow. He would never get Derek to autograph that ball now. Spend the summer with his rickety old grandparents whom he barely knew, and give up the Yankees? Were his parents nuts? CHAPTER TWO Bryan woke up on Saturday morning feeling awful. He tossed and turned all night, thinking about how his summer was ruined. He had never felt this angry. His parents were traitors. Around mid-morning he decided to leave the safety of his room and go downstairs for breakfast. “Good morning, Bryan, how did you sleep?” asked Bryan’s dad. “What
Hungry
It was summer and our family was eating dinner. We were eating food I didn’t like. For dinner we had liver, broccoli and beans. I was hungry but I didn’t feel like eating liver or broccoli. My mom noticed I wasn’t eating and asked, “Dear, why aren’t you eating?” “Mom, I don’t like liver or broccoli,” I answered quietly. My mom had a disappointed look on her face. I was staring at a piece of broccoli when all of a sudden I was back in the past in Berlin. It was a sad, cloudy and cold day in Berlin. The houses there were old and falling down; there were hardly any trees, but when you saw one it would have no branches on it or it would be decaying. Most restaurants and stores were out of business. There was trash littered everywhere and there were people lying on the ground. Their faces were pale and one man I saw was shivering. I felt sorry for these people because I had a home when some didn’t. In one corner I saw a crowd of children by a garbage can. They were arguing over a piece of apple core that had been eaten already. I heard a boy say, “I get to have it because I’m older!” I started walking around the city. Everything looked so sad and so poor. I went into a dark alley when I saw a girl who was about eight years old. She was a small skinny girl; she had blond curls, her clothes were torn and she wasn’t wearing any shoes. She was eating an old fishbone that had a littie chunk of meat left on it. When she saw me she quickly put the fishbone behind her. Then I started going down slowly to the ground and I stopped at Vietnam “Please don’t take it from me. I’m really hungry,” she answered quietly. “Don’t worry,” I quickly replied, “I’m not hungry. How long have you been hungry?” “I’m not sure,” she said timidly, “but I know I’ve been hungry for a long time.” I asked, “Where are your parents?” Her face all of a sudden saddened, then she started to cry. “They died two months ago because of starvation,” she said between sobs. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry,” I replied. “Where do you sleep at night?” “Oh, I sleep at my house. Do you want to come and see?” she said in a shy voice. But before I could say anything she grabbed my hand and started leading me to her house. I followed her through two alleys and then we were there. It was old and the paint was peeling off, a window was broken, the front steps creaked under my weight when I stepped on it. When we were in the house I saw there was one bedroom, and a small kitchen and living room. The kitchen had a few pots and pans and the stove was wrecked. In the living room there was a small dinner table and three chairs. She took me to her room. She had slept there before with her parents on the same bed. There was a drawer where they kept their clothes, a night table, a chair, a picture of her parents. Then she said, “Sometimes I’m afraid to go to sleep at night but I hug the picture of my parents to comfort me. Once I dreamed of my mom as an angel and she came to take me to heaven, then I woke up. I wasn’t in heaven, I was in my room, and my mom would be gone.” My heart reached out to her. “I think I better be going,” I answered sadly. “Bye,” she replied. “Hope I meet you again soon.” I went to the door and when I got out I was lifted up and started flying at a great speed. I flew past cities and towns. I saw millions of people that looked like tiny little dolls. I just kept on flying and flying. When I was flying past China, I saw so many interesting scenes. Then I started going down slowly to the ground and I stopped at Vietnam. It was a hot day. Vietnam didn’t look as bad as Berlin in the past. There were a lot of straw houses and some brick houses that only the rich could afford. Palm trees were everywhere and there were boats that were loaded with food to sell, and there were stands that sold things like clothes and more food! I started to walk along the dirt roads. I passed an old bridge and saw three boys and two girls. One girl was sleeping on the bare floor. Then a boy quickly ran and grabbed a piece of bread off the ground and ran back under the bridge. “Hey, I got some food!” he excitedly told the others. He started to split the bread and he got the biggest piece. “Why do you get a bigger piece than us?” one of the other boys said. “Cause I got the bread!” he shouted. They started arguing, then fighting. Here sometimes, they would fight for their food, but I could eat as much as I wanted. I had learned my lesson. I started running. I ran up a hill and then I closed my eyes. I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but did I smell broccoli? When I opened my eyes I was back at home! “You fell asleep in the middle of dinner!” my dad said disapprovingly. Whew, I thought, it was only a dream! I started gulping down my food. My parents looked happy now. A little bird flaps its wings, Looking for its nest. The streets look so sad, Flying through the rain. This little bird has no nest, Young orphans have no home. Both are suffering, Both keep wandering. Tran Nguyen, 13Victoria, British Columbia,CanadaTran wrote this story when she was 10 Martin Taylor, 12Portola Valley, California
Bleed Blue
Tall buildings scrape the sky, a murky river gently runs, carrying with it logs and leaves. A graceful arch frames this quiet city. Cars drive down the streets; few people walk on such a hot and humid night, so muggy your knuckles begin to swell. Inside this city a substantial building stands, a building that is so cold you must wear a jacket inside. That’s not why people go there, however. It’s for something much better than that . . . hockey. “Dad! Look at that guy! He has blue oozing out of his head!” “Wow, that’s a great look!” my dad says in his best sarcastic tone as we walk around outside of the Saavis Center, home of the St. Louis Blues. We are the only ones to be seen wearing Avalanche merchandise; everyone else is wearing things that say something like, “St. Louis Blues! Do you bleed blue?” I was wearing my Avalanche jersey that said in big letters, “DRURY 28.” My dad was wearing a sweater with the Avalanche logo. “People are nuts in this town! They all have blue oozing out from somewhere!” I said as I watched people move around and into the stadium. People sit and stare at me in my jersey, hat and pom-poms sticking out from my head. I don’t mind, I like the attention. My dad and I slowly make our way into the cold and crowded building. All over people stare at us, most likely thinking we are some idiots that moved from Denver to St. Louis and are still loyal to our old team! They are not even close! My dad and I have never had a very good relationship; he is always at work and never home. When he does get home it is at one or two in the morning and I am fast asleep. Even if I was awake, he never says much, and when he does it’s, “Hi, how was your day? That’s good. You should be in bed.” That’s it. I barely knew him and he barely knew me, or so I thought. It was Mother’s Day when my dad brought up the idea; he made it sound like it could never happen, but I knew it could! He said that we should drive all the way from Denver to St. Louis and get tickets to see the Avalanche play the Blues during the Stanley Cup playoffs. This took me by surprise; how did he know I loved hockey? Why was he suddenly after twelve years wanting to spend time with me? He said that getting the tickets was the only thing stopping us . . . oh, and my mom. I would have to convince Mom that it was OK if I missed four days of school, and that it was OK that Dad and I be gone for that long. I knew I could convince Mom, the only problem was the tickets. We started with the woman who works for my dad (her family is in St. Louis). She called her parents and they said they would get back to us. We waited all day and had still gotten no answer. Both of us knew that if we got tickets we would have to leave day after tomorrow in order to make it to the first game. By night we had heard nothing and Dad had given up, but I had not, and would not. I went to school the next morning as if nothing had happened, and halfway through the day I got a message saying to call my dad. I did, and the first thing he said was “Wanna go to St. Louis?” Tears filled my eyes, I would finally get to know my dad. The air was filled with all kinds of noises as we fought our way to our seats with bags of popcorn and Pepsis, and after we sat down we paid more attention to our surroundings. Next to me was a couple who looked shocked, and I smiled at them just to get a glare back. I get it, I thought, they just don’t understand that we are not crazy fans that are there to torment them! One and a half minutes into the game and we have three goals! Bourque, Messier and Tanguay. Boom, boom, boom! Everyone is sitting there with this look on their faces that says to the goalie, “How could you do this?!” We are standing tall, the only ones in the stadium cheering and yelling! The people next to us stand up and leave! While we celebrate! Together. We are standing tall, the only ones in the stadium cheering and yelling! The rest of the first period goes by and most of the second, when the lady who is sitting in front of us leaves and returns with a small bag that she hands to us. I open it to find a puck that says St. Louis Blues. “I wanted you to have something to remember this trip by,” she says. Later at the middle of the third period the score is 3-3, and we have come to know everyone around us. The man behind us comes up the stairs with his sixth or seventh beer; he sits down and soon cracks up at his friend’s joke. I feel a cool liquid dripping down my back, everyone gasps, and he says over and over again that it was not on purpose. The liquid is beer. My dad immediately perks up, “You bum! What are you doing pouring beer on my daughter? You don’t ever do that again! I’m very tempted to call security on you!” He actually stood up for me. At the end of the game it’s still 3-3. The tense overtime begins. Everyone’s hearts are racing, pounding, beating, and throbbing inside their chests. This is it. One goal and the game’s over. Seconds go by, then minutes; each team has equally good chances but no pucks go in.
Love
Rebecca loved that dog. If anything happened to it, I think she’d probably convince her mother to sue the vet. She’d say they didn’t give her dog enough care or that they messed up the last time she took her dog for a checkup. I’m sorry to say that I hated my cousin Rebecca’s dog. I never told her this, but it’s true. From the moment I walked in the door the first time Aunt Jess, Rebecca’s mom, asked me to babysit Rebecca, that dog and I have hated each other. I hated the way it stared at you with a kind of smirk on its face. I hated the way Rebecca let its hair grow in front of its eyes, so that you could never tell if it was looking at you or not. The dog’s name was Lawyer, named after the job Rebecca’s father used to have before he and her mother got divorced. Aunt Jess complained that he was never home enough, but Rebecca and I didn’t blame her. As he became more successful, though, we began to see less and less of him. He was always rushing from one case to another, one court to the next. After Rebecca’s parents got divorced, her father went away to college to get a degree in Library Science, and became a librarian at a library in New York. He didn’t want to stay in California because he didn’t want to have to face Rebecca or her mom, or worse, the dog. It would remind him of his past job and past family, and Rebecca’s father just wasn’t strong enough to face his own problems. “I have news about my dad! He’s coming back!” said Rebecca, excitedly Rebecca asked me to come with her to walk Lawyer one day, and I accepted, not wanting to hurt her feelings. I could tell that Lawyer was uncomfortable with me around from the second he saw me. He growled and kept casting glances at me over his shoulder. Somehow Rebecca didn’t notice. “I have news about my dad! He’s coming back!” said Rebecca, excitedly, the moment we started out down her driveway. Her blue eyes glittered in the sun as the wind ruffled through her chestnut-brown hair, which she inherited from her father. Her blue windbreaker really brought out the blue in her eyes. “Really? When did he and your mother decide on this?” I asked, surprised. “Well, I kind of figured it out myself. He sent me a letter for my birthday and at the bottom he said he missed me! Isn’t that great? And so now he’s coming back for me and Lawyer, and my mom is gonna love him again! Isn’t that great, Alice?” I cringed. “Did he specifically say that he was coming back?” I asked her. “Oh, Alice, you don’t understand anything!” she said, laughing. “He’s not supposed to say that he’s coming back. It’s supposed to be a surprise!” “I see,” I said painfully. “And where is he going to stay? I didn’t know your mother forgave him.” “She didn’t have to. He got another job, Alice. He stopped being a lawyer a long time ago. He’s a library guy now,” said Rebecca, eyes twinkling. “Rebecca, what if he doesn’t come back? What if he just misses you but doesn’t want to face you or your mom?” Or your dog, I thought to myself. Rebecca’s expression changed to a serious one. “Alice, you’re not being funny anymore. Stop teasing, because Lawyer and I don’t want to hear it,” she said to me, with a warning tone in her voice. “I’m not teasing! But honestly, just because he misses you doesn’t mean he will come back. It’s only natural for him to miss a daughter like you, but he may not come back. Do you understand what I’m saying, Becca?” I said to her. “No, I don’t. He’s my dad, and he’s coming back because he loves me. You’re the one who doesn’t understand!” she shouted. With that, she tugged on Lawyer’s leash, turned around, and sprinted home with the dog at her heels. She tripped over her untied shoelaces, but luckily she didn’t fall. Slowly I began walking to my house, which was only two blocks away. When I got home, I called my mom at work and asked her what we needed from the grocery store. She got pretty annoyed at me for bothering her, because as soon as I called I realized that the list was right next to the phone. I grabbed the list and left. As I was walking to the store, I stopped by Rebecca’s house. If there’s one good thing about living in a small town, it’s that everything is real close to everything else. Aunt Jess told me that Rebecca was not in the mood for visitors, so I just followed her into the kitchen. “Do you know what’s up with Becca, hon?” she asked me. She turned on the tap for the sink and started scrubbing away at a pan. I sat down at the table and traced my finger over the hand-stitched tablecloth. It’s about two hundred years old, passed down to the oldest daughter in each generation since my great-great-great-grandparents came to America from Ireland. “Well, she thinks Uncle George is coming back,” I said. Aunt Jess’s hand slammed down on the counter at the mention of his name. “What?” she whispered. She spun around and faced me. “See, Uncle George sent Rebecca a birthday card and said that he missed her, and now she thinks that he’s coming back for her,” I said, not daring to look at Aunt Jess in the eyes. She turned off the water and sunk into a chair, holding her forehead in her hands. I think I saw a tear roll down her face, but I wasn’t sure. “She doesn’t deserve this,” Aunt Jess said softly. “Rebecca deserves two parents in the same house, not one. I wish he’d come
Coming into the Light
(for Cameron) Looking down at the Little wrinkled face and The mop of black hair in my arms, I felt excited, holding a baby For the first time. Peeking through tired eyes, he tried To behold the newness of life, But was too sleepy from the Hard work of being born. Seeing his small hands and The little scratch on his face I smiled down at him, And he smiled back in his sleep. I wanted to tell him about What he was in for, All of the adventures and Surprises of the world. He was two days old, Squirming in my arms, And I thought about new life And how it moves from one boy to another. Mark Roberts, 11Windsor, California
Tides
Tides by V. M. Caldwell; Milkweed Editions: Minneapolis, 2001; $16.95 People of all ages will love V. M. Caldwell’s Tides, a touching, well-written story. The author includes characters of different ages and personalities, making it enjoyable for a vast expanse of readers. Children who have lost a parent or are experiencing a difficult childhood will especially like the book because it gives hope that things can work out. Tides is about an orphan, Elizabeth, who has recently been adopted by the Sheridan family. Every year the Sheridans go to the ocean to visit their grandmother and cousins. Elizabeth has always wanted to see the ocean, and she looks forward to the trip all year. But when she arrives, she discovers that she is terrified of the water. At the same time, the oldest Sheridan cousin, Adam, is angry and disturbed. Earlier in the year his two best friends were killed while driving home, drunk, from a party. He has never really recovered from the shock of the tragic accident. He treats his grandmother and parents disrespectfully and is cruel to his siblings. The Sheridans’ struggles with these two central problems result in their growth as a family. I have had an experience very similar to Elizabeth’s: ever since I was little, I wanted to learn to swim. Most of my friends could swim, and I envied them very much. I always imagined myself diving into crystal-clear, cool water, swimming with dolphins, and finding mermaid cities. But when I finally went to Lake Michigan, I hated it. The water was freezing and I got cramps. The pebbles hurt my feet, and I couldn’t stand the smell of fish. When I felt seaweed swirl around my leg, I thought it was a fish, coming to eat me. I was so scared that I ran all the way back to the beach and wouldn’t go back into the water for a long time. Most terrifying of all were the waves. I was afraid they would knock me over and that I wouldn’t be able to get back up again. Elizabeth, too, was frightened of the waves, and the seaweed-fish smells made her nauseous. Throughout the entire story, the author helps you relate to all the characters by revealing their feelings and emotions. She writes wonderful dialogue that gives no doubt as to what they are feeling. For example, when Adam comes home because he has learned that his cousin was injured, his sister Molly is openly hostile to him. The description of Molly’s face and tone as well as the dialogue make it obvious that Molly thinks Adam deserted the family and doesn’t deserve to be called a Sheridan any longer. One thing I especially liked about Tides was that the situations in the story were very believable. Often the events in a story are possible, but not probable. In Tides, the characters handle their problems in ways that people might handle their problems in reality. For example, Adam decides to “solve” his problems with the family by leaving home. This is something that happens to many disturbed teens. Adam gets a job close by home for a while but in the fall decides to sign up for conservation work in a national park, instead of going to college as he had originally planned. Despite all the conflicts the author weaves into her plot, everyone’s problems are resolved in a heart-warming, believable way. My favorite message from Tides is that a truly loving family can never be separated. The Sheridans live through many heart-wrenching situations that few families would live through without being permanently damaged. My own family has lived through an extremely difficult situation, but we are still here. Now that everything is over, I can see how we were there for each other the entire time, giving hope and support—just like the Sheridans. Nell Elliott, 12Evanston, Illinois
Real Family
The light glinted playfully across my face, awakening me from my slumber. I reluctantly got up from my warm, furry haven curled up beside my mother with all of my siblings around me. I stretched luxuriously, and winced as I remembered yet again how hard the floor of that cave was. Cautiously, I tried to crawl over Hashim, who had odd brown stripes across his forehead, and Malishkim, with the white paws, without waking either of them up. I warily crept up the natural stone stairs that circled their way around the inside of the cavern and peered into the shallow freshwater lake in the room at its zenith. The reflection that looked back up at me didn’t look anything like the faces of my family. My face was tanned from the sun, but it was still starkly naked and pink. Everyone else in my pride had rich, deep golden fur over their entire bodies, and the papuas, or fathers, in our pride even had a long brown fringe of fur around their faces. My hind legs were much, much longer than theirs, and I had peculiar miniature extensions with tough plates at the ends of them coming out of my paws. The reflection that looked back up at me didn’t look anything like the faces of my family I splashed awkwardly into the water, transforming my reflection into a plethora of tiny ripples. I liked it that way. I couldn’t see that I was different. I began to wash. It wasn’t always like this. My moshi (mother) found me under a bush in a mirage when I was very young, crying louder than she had ever heard her own young yell. I was a hideous, Crimson, wrinkled tiny thing covered with a strange-colored fur that wasn’t plush at all. But Moshi felt an unusual sense of compassion for me, and she had finished her hunting for that day already anyway, so she gently placed me on her back and took me to her pride. When all of the papuas in our pride came home, not everyone thought that I should be welcome. However, my moshi and papua insisted, so they brought me along with them from shelter to shelter. The others had to listen to them because they were the leaders of our pride. “Lalashim? Are you up there?” My moshi’s melodious voice awakened me from my daydream. I quickly licked my paws and ran them through the long, red fur that only grew on top of my head. I stretched and finally ran silently down the steps. All of the moshis in our pride were looking up at me expectantly from the foot of the stairwell. The sun was showing its full, round, orange face, a small hoofka above the horizon, so it was time to go hunting. The papuas and cubs were still sleeping, as they would until they saw it fit to rouse themselves. We all slunk out of the cave into the bright, warm morning. I loved waking up early to go hunting with the females. Everyone walked along in a comfortable silence until we caught the scent of an antelope, Zebra, or other hefty animal. The giraffes we left alone, though. There was an old legend saying that if anyone tried to sink their teeth into their supple flesh, they would move their powerful legs and kick us to join our ancestors in the heavens. Then, we would creep up as close as possible to the animal, and when we were sure that we were at the most advantageous spot, we would run simultaneously up to prey and trap it until one of us could clamp our jaws on their neck, the fatal spot. There would be a small struggle, but eventually the animal would succumb to death and hang limply in our mouths. Finally, we would eat until we were full to bursting and bring what was left home. This was where my job would come up. Two summers ago, I discovered that the sticklike objects protruding from my paws could curl around a kill and make carrying the meat much simpler. Since my legs couldn’t move swiftly enough to trap our meal, my teeth weren’t sharp enough to cut its throat, and my nose was too feeble to smell the animal, I insisted to the other hunters that my task would be to carry the kill back home. That day, we were all chattering cheerfully on the way back. It had been a good hunt; we had brought home three zebras and two antelope. Suddenly, my moshi stopped in her tracks, her muzzle raised high and twitching. “Humans! Upwind from here!” she exclaimed. We all swiftly turned our heads upwind. As one, we skulked from bush to bush, out of sight of the humans, until we could see them. It was rare that people ever came here to the savannah because the climate was so harsh. Being that we were all very curious creatures, when they did come, we always went, unnoticed, to check them out. We never attacked them unless we were particularly desperate for food or they were disrespecting our space. As we all crouched under a patch of dry grass, we inspected them painstakingly. These particular ones looked very strange. Most of the humans who came here were very dark. Moshi says that they are the native humans of this land. But these, these humans had oddly pink skin, so light they were almost white! There were two of them; one of them had long, red-gold hair and sparkling blue eyes, and the other had short, deep brown hair and greenish eyes that looked rather like the deepest part of the hidden pool in our cave. And yet . . . they looked vaguely familiar, like a memory from a dream. One of our youngest moshis, Ganua, blurted out precisely why I remembered them. “Why, they look like you, Lalashim! Especially the one with the orange hair!” I
Little Mango Tree
Jiraporn looked up. Mother was approaching, shaking her head. “Bad news, Little Mango Tree. I talked to Bouchar. He says we lose the house unless we pay the remaining mortgage in one month.” “But so much money!” Jiraporn protested, hugging herself. “We can’t harvest enough rice to pay that, let alone feed ourselves and the spirits.” Mother nodded dismally, and sat down next to Jiraporn. Gently, she pried the knife and half-peeled, slightly ripe mango from her daughter’s fingers. “I don’t like to see you with a knife, Jiraporn. You might cut yourself.” Jiraporn’s soft, dark eyes restlessly watched her mother’s hands wield the knife, sliding the dull, silvery blade across the scarlet-gold fruit in a peeling motion. “But Mother, I must help somehow. You let Vichai work the plow.” “Well, he is much older than you,” Mother stated primly. Vichai was seventeen, three years older than Jiraporn. She paused a moment in her peeling, then stood abruptly and strode away across the smooth dirt. “Go work on your math homework, dear,” she added over her shoulder. Jiraporn’s eyes grew moist and shiny, and she clenched her fingers in her loose black hair. Yes, she could go do her algebra while her whole family starved and lost their house and rice field. She tilted back her head and looked up into the shady branches of the kiwi tree. “But I would rather die than be idle and useless,” she murmured to their rustling, sunlit leaves. A cicada chirped nearby, and a large cricket alighted on her navy blue skirt to rub its silken wings. “Next,” Jiraporn confided to the cricket, “she’ll be locking me inside.” Jiraporn’s eyes grew moist and shiny, and she clenched her fingers in her loose black hair Sighing, Jiraporn stood up, brushed off her clothes, and hopped onto her brother Vichai’s bicycle. Pedaling with her feet, she gripped the handlebars and steered it over the dirt in front of her house to the narrow path that led to the market. The wheels spun slowly, bumping over loose stones and gravel, jostling Jiraporn from side to side. Yet she was relaxed and confident. It was not the first time she had taken her brother’s bike while he was away in the fields. And she had pinned a note to a banana tree so her mother wouldn’t worry any more than she always did. “Jiraporn!” Visit exclaimed when she pulled up beside his stand and got off her bike. He grinned. “Off on your own again?” Jiraporn shrugged. “I need help, I guess. What are you selling today?” she asked suddenly, avoiding the subject. “Scallops?” “Nah, carp. Got the best here in all of Thailand.” He gestured to the wooden bins of fish. “You must really be distracted to mistake carp for scallops.” “So I’m blind,” she said carelessly. “Just one more thing to worry about.” There was a brief silence and a man walked by, selling cotton and banana bunches. At last she said heavily, “The truth is, Visit, Bouchar is taking our house away if we don’t pay by next month. We promised two months ago to pay, but we just don’t have that much money.” Visit’s wrinkled face was grim. “Nasty landlord. How much?” She told him. “I need a plan. A good one. I do all this schoolwork that’s supposed to make me smart since Mother won’t let me work, and now I have a chance to put it to use and I can’t think!” Jiraporn buried her face in the white cotton sleeve of her blouse. Visit sighed and patted her back. “Maybe I can cheer you up. It’s not much, but . . .” he wrapped two fish in some greasy brown paper. “Take this home to your mother. By the way, that Anna Kuankaew came by the other day.” Jiraporn nodded absently, stuffing the fish into a wicker basket nailed to the bike’s handlebars. Anna Kuankaew was a rich lady who had come by once, wanting to buy their mango tree, but Jiraporn wasn’t really interested. “Thank you!” she said with sincerity, pedaling off. “Wish I could help!” Visit called after her. “It’s outrageous!” exclaimed Mother in anguish when Jiraporn slipped quietly into the kitchen. Mother set a dish of steamed rice and prawns on the table and put her hands on her hips. Jiraporn stood, still and solemn, for a moment before going to place the parcel of fish on the table. “Explain yourself,” Mother commanded angrily. “How dare you ride a bike, you could have been overturned and died!” Calmly, Jiraporn said, “Visit gave us some fish.” “Take it back,” snapped Mother. “I’ll not be accepting charity.” “It’s not charity, Mother,” put in Vichai from the corner, sitting down cautiously on a low stool, “it’s a gift.” Shaking her head, Mother sighed and placed a pitcher of coconut milk and some sliced mango beside the prawns and rice. Seating herself, Jiraporn poured coconut milk into her cup and put food on her plate. They ate glumly, in silence, except for one point when Mother, wiping her mouth on her apron, muttered, “If your father was alive everything would be fine.” Lying on her mat that night, staring at the filmy gray mosquito netting that floated beneath the dimly burning lantern, Jiraporn wondered sleepily what it was like to make a difference. The next morning was hot, and Jiraporn opened the door to let some fresh air in as she cooked a simple noodle soup with mushrooms. Mother entered with an armful of bananas. “Sorry about yesterday, Little Mango Tree. I ‘spect it’s on account of that money.” She dabbed at red eyes and sniffed. “‘Fraid I cried a great deal last night.” Dropping her spoon, Jiraporn bent over and comforted her mother, hugging her. At least that was one thing she could do. As she drew back, Mother set the bananas down and started making tea. After a moment, Jiraporn begged, “Please let me harvest rice, Mother.” Mother
Patches of Sky Blue
When my mother died the summer I graduated seventh grade, the first thing I did after silently returning home from her funeral with my father was dig through my trash bin in search of a previously ignored leaflet distributed by our local Parks and Recreation. I then signed myself up for every class, workshop and camp they had listed. If my father was mystified or annoyed by my actions, he kept it to himself. Perhaps he was so overwhelmed by his own grief that it didn’t strike him as odd at the time. I also plastered my bedroom walls with the activity schedules for each class until there wasn’t a square inch of wall that wasn’t completely covered. It became an obsession. I attended each class religiously, never missing a beat. It took me from sunup to sundown every day and gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I stayed up late into each night working on this or that small class project. The classes I took covered a whole range, from kayaking to keyboard to cheerleading to modeling. In art I painted pictures of daisies and smiling fairies. I wrote poems in a kind of singsong rhythm about balloons and happy cows. There was nothing I was doing that even hinted at my loss. Something would have to break me and my newly focussed life because it was all an act. I lived like an actor who can’t get out of character and leads a kind of half-life. No one seemed to understand me anymore, myself least of all. “Elle, you’ve never had trouble getting started. Why the exception today?” It happened in poetry class. I had been just about to hunker down for another three-hour session, and had a particularly sugary first line in mind when Mrs. Tucker, the instructor, made an announcement. “Today we’re going to have a special assignment, we’re going to write about some things that make us sad. Any examples?” She looked around cheerfully, her watery blue eyes slightly magnified by rectangular glasses. She was the typical well-meaning but clueless teacher. She didn’t seem to see the irony in her merry expression as she repeated the assignment: “Write about something that makes you sad” . . . smile . . . something that makes you sad . . . She had started to pass out the papers when I asked numbly if I could be excused to go to the bathroom. She smiled. “Yes, you may.” I slipped out the door into the main hall of the YLC or youth learning center where the class was held. I didn’t go to the rest room, though. I just leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling. I had been there longer than I had thought because suddenly my teacher was there, bending over me, and looking anxious. “Elle, are you all right? I thought you were just going to the bathroom . . .” She looked at me as though expecting an answer; an answer to what? Did she think I knew every little thing about myself?!? Wait, I was being stupid. This was a simple question. The answer wasn’t simple but at least I could give the answer she was expecting to receive. “Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “Good.” She looked satisfied as I followed back to the classroom, noting how her walk resembled that of a duck’s. Ducks seemed like a good subject for a poem. Then I remembered. My assignment was to write a poem about something sad. Instead of writing, I drew a cartoon-like duck wearing a purple vest (not unlike the one she had on). Then I sketched a cartoon of the actual Mrs. Tucker. Mrs. Tucker wandered aimlessly around the room, every so often saying things like “Good job!” and “A nice beginning.” Even when she criticized, she beamed as though she were saying something nice. When she stopped by my desk, her smile flickered and she drew her penciled eyebrows together in a look that might have been annoyance if she hadn’t maintained a partial smile. “Elle, you’ve never had trouble getting started. Why the exception today?” How could I answer that? “Ummm,” she peered closer at me, “yes . . .” “It’s. . . hard,” I offered thickly. She relaxed her expression and sighed. “You should have said you were having trouble, I could have helped you sooner.” She got down on her knees so her face was level with mine. “Write down five things that make you sad,” she said. “I don’t know.” “I’m sure you can think of something; everyone is sad sometimes.” “Not me.” After I said this I realized both how childish it sounded and how utterly untrue it was, but I kept my mouth closed. “It’s not a bad thing. Everyone . . .” I cut her off. “I said nothing makes me sad, and I mean it, OK??” She suddenly became uncharacteristically crisp. “I don’t believe it. You were sad when you forgot to do your homework that one day. You said, ‘Mrs. Tucker, I’m very sad that I forgot my homework.’ You said it, I heard you! I rememb- . . .” Then it burst. All the fury and fear and grief and even guilt that had been silently smoldering inside me these past months burst. “Do you think that’s what real sadness is?!?” She looked taken aback. “Well, I . . .” “Do you??” My voice rose to a pitch. The other students started turning on me, looking annoyed, and alarmed and even . . . sad. Suddenly my pen flew to the paper and my hand started scribbling down words faster than my mind could take them in. I wrote about metal screeching against metal, muffled screaming, flashing red light reflected on water-drenched pavement, dark silhouettes being carried past on stretchers. Then there was fluorescent light shining on bare white walls. A naked light bulb, bathing everything in a blinding glow.
