It’s dead. That was twelve-year-old Julian Horowitz’s first thought when he spotted the kitten in the white-blanketed woods when he was walking home from school. The kitten was vividly orange and bright white colored, reminding Julian of a Creamsicle ice cream bar. It (Julian didn’t know whether the kitten was male or female) was partially covered by a sheet of snow, and the kitten wasn’t moving, making Julian almost positive the kitten was dead. Julian slowly reached out his hand to the kitten’s fur. What he felt allayed him. The kitten was still breathing, although taking very shallow breaths. He peered closely at the kitten as he rhythmically petted its fur. He noticed that the kitten was female. She was definitely unconscious. “Don’t worry, kitty, you’ll be fine,” murmured Julian. He paused, trying to think of a name for the woebegone creature. “Yeah, don’t worry, Creamsicle, I’ll take care of you.” Julian scooped Creamsicle up and into his coat. Suddenly, Creamsicle shuddered, seeming to regain consciousness for a moment and causing Julian to nearly drop her in surprise. Fortunately, he didn’t, and he tucked Creamsicle tighter into his coat. He shivered himself. It was freezing outside. Even though he was layered in a T-shirt, a long-sleeved turtleneck, two thick sweaters, and a big, heavy winter coat, Julian could still feel the cold. He wondered how Creamsicle felt, with only a velvety covering of fur protecting her from the winter chill. Julian slowly reached out his hand to the kitten’s fur Julian and Creamsicle walked this way for about half an hour, or rather, Julian walked with Creamsicle inside his coat, until they reached Julian’s doorstep. Mrs. Horowitz, who had seen her son hunched over something while ambling slowly up the path to the house, threw open the door immediately. When she saw what Julian was holding, her face transformed to the color of milk. “Julian Horowitz, you drop that . . . that thing this instant!” she shrieked. “That thing is sick with something awful, just look at it closely!” It was true. Creamsicle was now shivering and throwing herself about violently. All of a sudden, the shivering stopped, and Creamsicle fell limply into Julian’s arms. Relief flowed over him as he, once again, noticed that the kitten was still breathing. He thought she regained consciousness for a second. Julian’s mother had obviously detected hints of emotion from her son, for she again began to speak. “Julian, don’t you dare get attached to that kitten,” she said, leaning over to have a look at Creamsicle before continuing. “She’s going to die soon, don’t pretend that you don’t know it, and the last thing I need is you weeping and moping because some stupid kitten that you befriended is dead.” “You’re wrong,” Julian whispered hoarsely. “She’s not going to die, She’s Not Going To Die, SHE’S NOT GOING TO DIE!” He, too, was shrieking, and he added, “Take her to the veterinarian, you’ll see that you’re wrong.” “Oh lord, Julian, how could you? You couldn’t have known this cat for more than an hour, and you are already purely in love with her!” Mrs. Horowitz began to mutter something about pet lovers in the family. “You know what, since you will not believe me, I will take this kitten, now, to the vet for you. If I can’t, maybe the vet can convince you that this animal will die.” Turning deaf ears to his mom, Julian carried Creamsicle into the family’s eight-year-old Toyota. Mrs. Horowitz followed him. Julian had never before been to the local veterinarian’s office because his family had never owned a pet. His mom seemed to hate all animals, his dad, though an animal lover like Julian, had never suggested the family get a pet, and Julian’s seventeen-year-old brother Justin didn’t care one way or the other. So it was a shock for Julian to see his mother zoom across town as if she knew the way to the local veterinarian’s office perfectly, as though she had been to the vet hundreds of times. He wondered when his mom had been to the vet, and why. Now that he wasn’t talking to his mom, Julian began to speak softly to the unconscious Creamsicle. Creamsicle looked terrible. She had taken on a glazed expression and looked almost frozen. Her breath was coming out in shallow gasps. Her body was not functioning properly. Julian, after looking at her, bit his lip and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, Mrs. Horowitz pulled to a stop next to the vet’s office. She, for some reason, looked worse than Julian felt. She was pale and looked like she was going to begin to cry. The receptionist led Julian, Mrs. Horowitz, and Creamsicle into the vet’s office ahead of the other people waiting. “Hello, Mrs. Horowitz,” said the veterinarian, whose name was Dr. Jakes. “I haven’t seen you in about fifteen years. How are Tiger and Buster?” Who the heck are Tiger and Buster? thought Julian questioningly, and how does this guy know who my mom is? “So, what brings you here today?” asked Dr. Jakes. “I found this kitten; she’s sick,” answered Julian shyly. Dr. Jakes picked up Creamsicle gingerly and looked at her carefully. After only a few minutes of poking and prodding, Dr. Jakes announced, “This kitten has hypothermia.” Julian didn’t hear a reaction from his mother, so he didn’t know if hypothermia was some terrible disease or not. So he asked, “What kind of disease is hypothermia?” “Well,” Dr. Jakes began to explain, “hypothermia isn’t really a disease. It’s what can happen to a warm-blooded animal if he or she is left out in freezing temperatures for too long without protection.” As he was saying this, Dr. Jakes placed Creamsicle in a blanket he had gotten from a cabinet, and put the kitten and the blanket down next to a radiator in the corner of the room, then spoke again. “Hypothermia can make your body stop functioning the
Girl in Blue
Girl in Blue by Ann Rinaldi; Scholastic Press: New York, 2001; $15.95 Girl in Blue was one of the most fascinating and suspenseful books I have ever read. I could hardly put it down! Girl in Blue is a story about a sixteen-year-old girl, named Sarah Louisa Wheelock, who disguises herself as a teenage boy and runs away to serve in the Union army during the American Civil War. Ann Rinaldi captivates you with her story and her characters. Although there are no illustrations in the book, I feel there really is no need for them. She paints a vivid picture of each of the characters, in appearance, actions, and personalities. For example, Sarah was described as a sweet, quiet girl, who was always there for anyone who needed her. But she was also described as the one in the family who always supplied them with fresh venison for dinner. She loved hunting in the woods, carrying her father’s rifle, which she had named Fanny. Throughout the book, her character traits were displayed through the different experiences and problems she had. When she served in the army, she was brave, and although it was very difficult to keep disguised who she was, she kept going and pretended to be Private Neddy Compton. She was very gifted in medicine and doctoring. She knew many remedies to cure diseases that even the so-called doctors in the army had not been taught. Rinaldi described Sarah’s experiences in this book so well, and realistically, I felt like I was truly a part of the story. For example, at one point in the book, Sarah crosses the borders, into the Rebel territory. She is stopped and searched, and the suspense in the book was captivating. Sarah was carrying some very important letters to deliver, and if they were discovered, it could mean death for her and many others. When Sarah received word that her father had died, and she was grieving, I felt like I had known him as well and was sad too. My great-grandmother died recently, and that was really sad. She had been a wonderful great-grandmother to me and my three brothers. She would always send us a card with money in it for our birthdays and at Christmas. Whenever she was able, she would come visit us, or come to our plays or piano recitals. In a way, I can relate to Sarah, when she found out her father had died. There was one character in the book named Rose Greenhow. Sarah was assigned to work as a maid for her, after Sarah had been discovered to be a girl. Mrs. Greenhow was suspected of being a Rebel spy, and Sarah was given the job to find out whether or not that was true through her duties as her maid. Rose Greenhow was the most stuck-up person I have ever read about! She was always cranky and grumpy, even though her every want and need were catered to immediately. Sarah must have been in an awful position living with her! I know I would hate having to constantly be wondering if anyone knew who I was, or where I was from, like Sarah, and having to watch my back around every street corner. At one point in the book, Sarah went home to visit her family. She was still disguised as a boy, dressed in the Union Army’s uniform. Her mother did not recognize her, but her brother Ben did. She and Ben had always been close. Sarah really struggled with wanting to tell her mother that she wasn’t Private Neddy Compton, but that she was her daughter, Sarah Wheelock. I can’t imagine being away from my family for more than a year, and then going back home to all the familiar smells, sights, and places, and still not be able to reveal who I really was. Sarah must have felt awful. This was a wonderful and exciting book. I could read it several times. Girl in Blue revealed the hardships of the war in the times of slavery and showed what people had to endure. I came away feeling like I had made a new friend in Sarah Wheelock. I love the Civil War, and this book made it even more exciting. Sarah Bollenbach, 13Coatesville, Pennsylvania
Trapped Heart
The icy air caressed Jeff’s cheek, hissing softly through the gray-brown stubble that decorated his weather-beaten face. His faded leather boots smashed the freshly fallen snow, leaving a heavy imprint on each perfectly formed flake. The bluish glow of morning shone on the dewy leaves of the spruce trees, peppering the ground with glowing rays that danced to and fro. Jeff smiled as his trapline came into view. A plump snowshoe rabbit was struggling valiantly between the steel teeth, emitting plaintive squeals of distress. Lifting his rifle to his shoulder in one fluid, effortless motion, Jeff pulled the trigger and ended the rabbit’s pain forever. The shot echoed hollowly through the surrounding mountains, a mournful cry that pierced the heart of every animal that could hear it. The second trap was untouched, but had a telltale circle of paw prints rimming its rusted structure. Jeff bent over and studied the clearly defined tracks, cursing under his breath. Lynx. A chill scurried up his spine. A lynx was an unmerciful killer, a thief to be reckoned with. The next trap was sprung, but only a tuft of fur remained between the metal jaws. And another ring of identical prints decorated the surrounding area. Jeff carefully reset the trap, smearing deer fat onto his callused fingers so as not to leave man-scent. The next one had a bare skeleton attached, with a bloody trail that writhed away into the bushes. And the next was no better. A half-eaten carcass of a marten lay frozen in the snow, its pelt shredded and the upper half of its body scattered around the site in bloody bits. It was a baby lynx; a perfect miniature of its mother Jeff groaned in anguish. That’s ten dollars lost already, he thought with a sigh. What am I gonna do? A chilly wind whipped through his hair, burning his eyes until they turned red and began to run. He continued along the trapline doggedly, watching as the damaged pelts materialized before him. His finger played with the trigger hungrily, eager to kill something, anything, to pay for this destruction. He returned home with a meager allotment of pelts, all worth under two dollars. His cheeks were flushed under the shadow of his growing beard, and his dark eyes glinted with rage. He would catch that lynx. He had to catch that lynx. And when it was caught, he would kill it. Jeff licked his cracked, bleeding lips with anticipation. Everything was ready. The traps were set and baited, and Jeff had slathered on a layer of lard to mask his scent. The sun, cold and pale, was setting over the mountains like a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on its cone. The bitter Alaskan wind tossed flakes of fresh snow about in a raging tempest, clouding the air with stinging drops that clung to anything and everything with their sticky tentacles. Jeff pulled his rifle down from its regal throne on the shelf, cleaning it gently with a soft chamois rag. People often said that this was his best friend, his companion, the love of his life. And perhaps they were right. An old, hardhearted hermit that caught animals for a living couldn’t possibly care for something of flesh and blood. It seemed only right for him to dote on his steel destroyer, an object that existed only to wound and take away life. But there had always been a hole in their relationship—an emptiness that Jeff could not explain or even try to understand. His rifle was a part of him; but a dead thing of metal could not fill the void that existed deep inside his hardened and seldom-used heart. But right now the lynx consumed his thoughts. It would be on the prowl tonight, hungry for an easy meal that took little effort to kill. Jeff buttoned up the collar on his weathered, fur-lined jacket and stepped outside. The snowladen wind slapped his bare face viciously, sending icy tingles down his stiff spine. But nothing could keep him inside tonight. Darkness settled in on the frozen Alaskan wilderness. The local screech owl began to hoot, its glowing green eyes roving the ground for a mouse or two to satisfy his rumbling stomach. Jeff hid himself in the frosty brush in front of the trapline, wetting his finger to make sure the wind wasn’t blowing his lard-covered scent straight down to the traps. The minutes ticked by. A small mink crept silently out of the brush on the opposite side and pressed his nose to the ground. The strong, alluring odor of meat soon led him into the mouth of the third trap, which closed with a SNAP! around his back leg. Jeff fought off the urge to kill the writhing, squealing animal. He knew that the noise would soon lead the lynx straight to him. All he had to do was wait. Time crept by like a weary snail. Each minute seemed an hour, each hour seemed a day. A fine dusting of snow had settled over Jeff’s immobile form, melting into his coat and sending shivers down his back. He clenched his jaw to stop the chattering of his stained teeth and clung ever tighter to his long-barreled shotgun. The mink screamed and twisted against the cruel steel teeth of the trap, but only succeeded in tearing his flesh even more. A crimson trickle of blood pooled under the metal vise, its warm scent reverberating in the cold night. A twig snapped. Jeff cocked his rifle and tucked it into his shoulder, his fingers trembling with excitement. Two green, almond-shaped eyes glittered from behind a spruce tree, cautiously roving the area. Jeff held his breath. There was his enemy, the unmerciful thief. The sleek, cat-like creature stepped into the clearing, her pointed, black-tipped ears twitching nervously. Jeff found a bead, aiming for her snowy breast. The lynx bent her regal head and sniffed the mink, her ivory teeth shimmering in the moonlight.
Of Basketball and the Valley of the Stoops
I spent the first twelve years of my life in Brooklyn, New York, in the area below Park Slope. It was a nice neighborhood, with the brownstone houses lining the streets, dotting the sloping hills. Trees grew abundantly along the sidewalks, in tiny patches of grass in front of each house. It was a happy suburban neighborhood where children laughed and sang, playing basketball in the school playgrounds. Momma (fondly) called it the Valley of the Stoops, because everywhere you went on the wide, slanting streets you would find people lounging on the stoops (our name for the steps in front of a building), people of every age and color; laughing, joking, selling old knick-knacks. Dad (not so fondly) called it the Cage because to him that’s exactly what Brooklyn was. He hated the neighborhood, the houses, he may even have hated us, his family. Dad hated anything that tied him down. Everyone knew everybody else; my family was part of a laughing, caring community in the large Brooklyn neighborhood. * * * “Kaila!” Melissa called. “Kaila, they just put the list up.” I screeched to a halt in front of the door to my Spanish class. I had been running; the bell was about to ring. “Really?” I said excitedly. “Did you see it yet?” Melissa, my best friend since kindergarten, shook her head, eyes sparkling in excitement. “No, but Denise saw it.” “Did she make it?” I asked. The three of us had been waiting for the list to be put up ever since we’d tried out for the girls’ basketball team. Melissa shrugged. “I dunno, but she looked angry. I bet she didn’t.” The bell rang. Melissa started to run to the school bulletin board. “I can’t wait all through Spanish to find out,” she told me as we ran. The list was there, with ten names typed on it, showing the names of the new girls’ basketball team. I scanned it and found my name, the sixth on the list. “Yesss!” I cried, pumping my fist in the air. Melissa smiled politely. “Good for you!” she said. Her name wasn’t there. * * * The first game was held only a week afterward, but we were a good enough team. We were playing against Bay Ridge Middle School, who had won the last three championships according to Coach. The game started out fine. Sarah, an eighth-grader, scored three points and got a couple of steals. We were ahead by seven points by the end of the first half. In the second half we started to slip. I scored once and put us ahead by nine points in the beginning, but Bay Ridge tightened their defense and managed to cut our lead to two points. Coach called time-out with a minute and sixteen seconds to go. She gave us a pep-talk and switched a few players. I was still in the game. We scored twice more, but Bay Ridge cut the lead to a single point and scored with 8.3 seconds to the end of the game. I took the ball and passed it to Sarah, who shot a long three-pointer. The buzzer sounded as the ball hit the rim and bounced off. Bay Ridge had won. * * * Momma sat at the kitchen table, eyes snapping, head bent over the potatoes she was skinning. I stood uncertainly in the doorway, the rain from my umbrella dripping onto the floor. The house was warm and unusually quiet; my younger brother, Louis, was seven and ordinarily made a lot of noise. And Momma had been fighting with Dad an awful lot lately, so the noise level in our house had increased. “Didya win your basketball game?” Momma raised her head and looked at me. I shook my head. “No, they beat us.” “By how much?” “A point.” I put away my umbrella and raincoat, coming to sit next to Momma. I picked up a potato and a knife and started to scrape away the skin. “Momma, where is everyone? It’s so quiet.” Momma looked up sharply. “Louis is up in his room,” she said. The cold November rain pattered in rhythm on the roof and windows. It was late, maybe seven or so in the evening. Dad should have been home an hour ago. I wondered where he was, but I didn’t dare ask Momma. She cleared her throat to fill the silence. “Rain hasn’t let up,” she observed. I nodded, finishing the last potato. I stood uncertainly in the doorway, the rain from my umbrella dripping onto the floor “Need any more help?” I asked Momma. “No, go on upstairs. Do your homework or something.” I went upstairs, but I didn’t go to my room. “Louis?” I said, poking my head into his room. He was sitting on the floor, quietly filling in a worksheet. He looked up at me. “Did Momma stop crying?” I was surprised. “She was crying?” I asked. “Yeah, when Daddy came home. He made her cry. He yelled at her and told me to go to my room and get out of his way.” “Dad came home?” Louis nodded, returning to his worksheet. I went downstairs. “Momma? Louis says Dad came home before. Where is he?” Her head whipped around, eyes flashing. “Kaila, if I knew I would have told you when you came home. I don’t know where your father’s got himself to, but when he comes home . . . !” She sucked in her breath and made a violent gesture with her fist. I gave a small smile, knowing Momma had never and would never hurt a soul in her life, and went to my room. * * * My life at home did not improve over the next month or so. In fact, the only high point in my life at all became basketball. Even when Momma and Dad yelled until three in the morning, it made me feel better when I did well in practice
Woodpecker’s Way
CHAPTER ONE: HOLIDAY CHARACTER Braden was very lucky in many ways. His only bad luck was that he had a severe allergy to rabbits. Not many have traveled the world by boat and are at a wonderfully academic-filled private school, called Turnlamb Terrace. But this does not take place in school, or neither in town. Braden was also lucky as his grandparents had a 320-acre farm. With spreading hills, plains and valleys, and also numerous vegetable patches, it was a beautiful place to be. It was also natural with beautiful green grass and trees, and the only dirtiness was the cows’ pies. It was Braden’s favorite place in the world: 728 Whatten Road, Admaston County, Ontario—Admaston County was just outside of Renfrew. This place had a lot of activity. The activities ranged from hikes, milking cows, playing on the tractor, setting up a pretend farm business, helping Grandma prepare supper and much, much more. It was holiday, but it was active. At the age of ten, with no map (though he was planning to draw one out one day), Braden could only go on short hikes by himself. Grandma told him even though it was eight PM, and darkening (on August 10) that he could go on one hill where he always exuded happiness. It was very short—you had to turn around sooner or later. This fact allowed him to go on it alone quite frequently. He liked to be alone—he could think about the new school year of grade five—he had just turned ten in July. Braden was hoping desperately that either the snow or the woodpecker-rabbit would stop soon “Oh, yes, that hill’s perfectly fine for you—just stay out of mischief!” Grandma said in her valley voice. For the last part (“stay out of mischief . . .”) she had been joking, as Braden never got into mischief. “Can I have my midnight snack first?” Braden joked back to Grandma, as one, it was not midnight, and two, he never ate between meals. * * * CHAPTER TWO: JUST HIS BODY AND HIS EAGERNESS So he set off. It hadn’t rained too much this year, in 1989. This didn’t affect the grass, as I said it was as green as fresh cabbage, but it did affect the crop—especially the potatoes. Poor Grandpa had been out in the potato fields since two PM, and had only returned once for a drink, and once for a very brief supper. Grandma despised this. He was still off there, watering them, and he was also digging some up for Grandma’s own soup recipe. I can’t describe how convenient that McDonald farm is. Right in the middle (quite a far distance away) are all the crops, and to the sides are the hills. Braden’s hill to hike on was closest to the crop to the right side. Remembering all this himself, Braden began to gather speed. Luckily, he was not carrying anything, but he was tired from helping groom the horses all day. That didn’t stop him. He remembered his harder times, when he had had pneumonia for six months, and at some times had been unable to breathe. He still had a touch of that pneumonia, so was hoarse. He had reached his favorite hill and could see Grandpa in the distance. He did not bother yelling “hard work, is it?” as the poor man was hard of hearing. So he turned the opposite direction as he saw something gleaming in the distance. With this farm lacking technology, it couldn’t be a satellite dish with medallion edges, or anything of that sort. As Braden approached it he could see that it was some sort of rock. Even closer . . . he could tell that it was huge. He could also see many pecks and nibbles imprinted in it. Braden was very excited—and because of this he looked around for any piece of farm equipment he could find—a shovel, a rake—anything. Nothing could be seen. Not thinking twice, he put his hands down into a little crevice and pulled. He pulled on the rock, but something from beneath pulled him down into some kind of hole. * * * CHAPTER THREE: NEVER BEEN THERE; NEVER DONE THAT Braden had expected it all to be pitch-dark—due to soil. However, it was as clear as day—bright, too. It was some different land—just a valley. It was snowing, but woodpeckers could be seen off in the distance. Some of them were carrying wands in their teeth; and some were using them. For example, a tree could have come to life, if the woodpecker that pointed its wand at the tree hadn’t been half asleep. Braden was astonished. He realized that it wasn’t just ordinary snow falling—the snowflakes didn’t have any pattern (they were square) and some were black. So he climbed down to feel the unique snow. As happy as he was when he set off hiking—and he was very impressed with himself to have found the land—he was very sad and hurting now, as when the black snow touched him, it seemed to have burnt a hole in his skin. So his spirits dropped very quickly—as if it were a thermometer showing a drop of temperature from 30 degrees Celsius to minus-30 degrees Celsius. He could not seem to get back up to his homeland—there were too many woodpeckers in the way. The ones that weren’t in the way were pecking away noisily and annoyingly. He tried to stay closer to the white snowflakes, but when one touched him, he realized it was bitter ice. Black “snow” must have been hot embers, and white “snow” must have been ice. To make it even worse, some woodpeckers were swooping at him; and there was one in the lead—it wasn’t a woodpecker. * * * CHAPTER FOUR: NEVER SEEN THAT; NEVER HEARD THAT Or rather . . . wasn’t just a woodpecker. It had two sides for faces—on the right and left side. At
Sunrise
My eyes opened. Sitting up, I glanced at my clock on my nightstand, and read the green, fluorescent letters: 4:42 AM, three minutes before my alarm was due to go off. I stretched out my arm and turned off my alarm. Scrambling out of bed, I changed from my pajamas into a tank top and shorts. I yanked a brush through my frizzy brown hair, and stuffed it up into a ponytail. I left my room and tiptoed down the hallway, trying hard not to make any noise. Creeping down the stairs, I forgot about the step that always creaked, and as it did, I winced. I hated how small sounds were always magnified in the quiet. I stayed where I was for a moment, and, holding my breath and crossing my fingers, I listened for stirrings from my family. When they didn’t come, I let my breath go, and uncrossed my fingers, relieved. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t bother with breakfast, as I wasn’t really hungry yet. I pulled my sandals on, and walked out the screen door into our backyard, and then began trudging up the back pasture to the top of the hill. The date was June 21, the summer solstice, the day with the longest sunlight hours of the year. I had gotten up early to watch the sunrise. I know it sounds a little weird, but it’s a tradition of mine. I’ve always done it, as long as I can remember. The sunrise has always been special to me, put in the same category as the unicorns the six-year-old me believed in. My older brother Ian used to come watch them with me, but now, at sixteen, he thinks it’s dumb, and immature. Last night when I made the mistake of asking him if he wanted to accompany me, he just came up with an excuse in his wannabe manly way. “Can’t, Beth, I gotta sleep well. I have a big all-star baseball game this weekend, and Coach will be really mad if I’m tired.” I felt as if there was nothing in the world but the sunrise and me “Now Beth, dear,” added my mother, who had been listening, “don’t you think you are getting a tad old for that? I mean, you are thirteen years old.” Folding his Wall Street Journal, my father agreed. “Yes, Beth, you should call up one of your friends. Maybe they could pry your nose from that notebook of yours.” In response, I nodded to show I had understood. My parents seemed satisfied, and went on to more interesting conversation. So often I feel like an alien in my own family, traded with their real daughter at birth. I mean, with the exception of me, my family is the typical American family. My father is a lawyer in a successful firm, my mother is a homemaker, and my brother the star of every sports team he plays on. The only reason we live in Vermont instead of New York City is that Mother needs to take care of her failing parents, who were prescribed “good, healthy air” along with many pills by the doctor. I am the misfit of the family. I am quiet, studious, prefer the company of the characters in my books and stories to the flighty ditzy girls at my school, and am nearly always writing. My parents don’t understand my writing. They think it is a little, silly hobby of mine, and hope I will outgrow it and become what they think of as “a normal girl.” But I am far more serious about writing than they know. I want to be an author, and win the Pulitzer Prize. I know this is a big dream, but I also know it is what I desperately want to do. If only my writing came out on paper as it was in my mind. I reached the top of the hill, and pulled myself out of my thoughts. In the west, the sky was still dark with night, a deep navy blue. Overhead that blue was blending with almost purple shades, which in turn were mixing with reds and pinks. In the east, I could see the glimmering pinks and yellows of the sun beginning to rise. My watch said 5:19. According to Internet data, the sunrise had begun. Sitting down, not minding the dew on the grass, I just watched. The blue and purple, once overhead, were slowly moving backward, opening up the sky to a whole palette of new colors. Oranges, coral-like pinks, reds, and yellows were streaked and blended in the whole sky in front of me. They were colors so amazing that I was sure there had never been a sunrise as beautiful as this. There was an upward shaft of sunlight, so intense at the bottom it dazzled my eyes. Surrounding it was a sea of pinks and reds and yellows, which seemed to ripple as a real ocean does. I had never known there to be so many different colors! I felt as if there was nothing in the world but the sunrise and me. It was then, as the sun burst from the horizon, so magnificent and regal, a ball of yellow fire, that I heard the voice. “Your dream,” it said, “follow your dream. You can make it. Keep on trying. Don’t give up hope!” I was dazed. Who is this voice? Who, or what, was speaking to me? “Don’t give up hope!” the voice said again. And then I knew who was speaking. It was the birds, and the crickets, the trees, and the grass, the wind, the clouds, the sun, and the colors of the sunrise. But mostly me. It was I who wanted my dream to come true and I who would have to work for it. “I’ll get there,” I replied. “I’ll do the work; I’ll make my dream come true.” Emily Blackmer, 12Hopkinton, New Hampshire Anjali Thakkar, 12San Jose, California
Sunrise
My eyes opened. Sitting up, I glanced at my clock on my nightstand, and read the green, fluorescent letters: 4:42 AM, three minutes before my alarm was due to go off. I stretched out my arm and turned off my alarm. Scrambling out of bed, I changed from my pajamas into a tank top and shorts. I yanked a brush through my frizzy brown hair, and stuffed it up into a ponytail. I left my room and tiptoed down the hallway, trying hard not to make any noise. Creeping down the stairs, I forgot about the step that always creaked, and as it did, I winced. I hated how small sounds were always magnified in the quiet. I stayed where I was for a moment, and, holding my breath and crossing my fingers, I listened for stirrings from my family. When they didn’t come, I let my breath go, and uncrossed my fingers, relieved. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t bother with breakfast, as I wasn’t really hungry yet. I pulled my sandals on, and walked out the screen door into our backyard, and then began trudging up the back pasture to the top of the hill. The date was June 21, the summer solstice, the day with the longest sunlight hours of the year. I had gotten up early to watch the sunrise. I know it sounds a little weird, but it’s a tradition of mine. I’ve always done it, as long as I can remember. The sunrise has always been special to me, put in the same category as the unicorns the six-year-old me believed in. My older brother Ian used to come watch them with me, but now, at sixteen, he thinks it’s dumb, and immature. Last night when I made the mistake of asking him if he wanted to accompany me, he just came up with an excuse in his wannabe manly way. “Can’t, Beth, I gotta sleep well. I have a big all-star baseball game this weekend, and Coach will be really mad if I’m tired.” I felt as if there was nothing in the world but the sunrise and me “Now Beth, dear,” added my mother, who had been listening, “don’t you think you are getting a tad old for that? I mean, you are thirteen years old.” Folding his Wall Street Journal, my father agreed. “Yes, Beth, you should call up one of your friends. Maybe they could pry your nose from that notebook of yours.” In response, I nodded to show I had understood. My parents seemed satisfied, and went on to more interesting conversation. So often I feel like an alien in my own family, traded with their real daughter at birth. I mean, with the exception of me, my family is the typical American family. My father is a lawyer in a successful firm, my mother is a homemaker, and my brother the star of every sports team he plays on. The only reason we live in Vermont instead of New York City is that Mother needs to take care of her failing parents, who were prescribed “good, healthy air” along with many pills by the doctor. I am the misfit of the family. I am quiet, studious, prefer the company of the characters in my books and stories to the flighty ditzy girls at my school, and am nearly always writing. My parents don’t understand my writing. They think it is a little, silly hobby of mine, and hope I will outgrow it and become what they think of as “a normal girl.” But I am far more serious about writing than they know. I want to be an author, and win the Pulitzer Prize. I know this is a big dream, but I also know it is what I desperately want to do. If only my writing came out on paper as it was in my mind. I reached the top of the hill, and pulled myself out of my thoughts. In the west, the sky was still dark with night, a deep navy blue. Overhead that blue was blending with almost purple shades, which in turn were mixing with reds and pinks. In the east, I could see the glimmering pinks and yellows of the sun beginning to rise. My watch said 5:19. According to Internet data, the sunrise had begun. Sitting down, not minding the dew on the grass, I just watched. The blue and purple, once overhead, were slowly moving backward, opening up the sky to a whole palette of new colors. Oranges, coral-like pinks, reds, and yellows were streaked and blended in the whole sky in front of me. They were colors so amazing that I was sure there had never been a sunrise as beautiful as this. There was an upward shaft of sunlight, so intense at the bottom it dazzled my eyes. Surrounding it was a sea of pinks and reds and yellows, which seemed to ripple as a real ocean does. I had never known there to be so many different colors! I felt as if there was nothing in the world but the sunrise and me. It was then, as the sun burst from the horizon, so magnificent and regal, a ball of yellow fire, that I heard the voice. “Your dream,” it said, “follow your dream. You can make it. Keep on trying. Don’t give up hope!” I was dazed. Who is this voice? Who, or what, was speaking to me? “Don’t give up hope!” the voice said again. And then I knew who was speaking. It was the birds, and the crickets, the trees, and the grass, the wind, the clouds, the sun, and the colors of the sunrise. But mostly me. It was I who wanted my dream to come true and I who would have to work for it. “I’ll get there,” I replied. “I’ll do the work; I’ll make my dream come true.” Emily Blackmer, 12Hopkinton, New Hampshire Anjali Thakkar, 12San Jose, California
Friday Night at Miss Farida’s Piano Lesson
Miss Farida loves vanilla-smelling candles which flicker against the sleeping couch. I place my sandals beside the spill of shoes and slippers strewn across the plastic mat in the hallway to her room. I see the Sesame Street stickers propped near the electric piano, tangled in a hoop of dreaming dust, and the pedals, wrapped in a layer of fine metal. Miss Farida takes my stack of weary books that whimper as she turns to “Stepping Stones.” My delicate hands look like tiny mice skittering across the keys. I play to a beat from the metronome fast as a hummingbird’s heartbeat, slow as a whale’s. Miss Farida takes a pencil from her hair and writes in my notebook. “Tonight you will write a song about New Year’s.” I pick up my denim bag and dump my books into it. Already, I begin to hear the notes of endless possibilities for my composition: The orchestra of 10,000 fuchsia fireworks exploding in the air, the symphony of sparklers, the dropping ball of melody, the score of the night, filled with new beginnings. Tae Kathleen Keller, 8Waipahu, Hawaii
Jenny
The new girl stood over by the jungle gym, not climbing or talking to the other girls, but just standing there, peering into a brown lunch bag. She pulled something out of it, but I couldn’t see what it was from the distance. Matt, a skinny boy with round glasses, was talking about a scary show he had watched on television. “I wasn’t scared,” Matt boasted. “I thought it was stupid.” We all looked in awe at Matt, and told him of our own bravery stories. Still, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the new girl. She was now examining the object taken from the bag earlier. The new girl had come to our class at the beginning of the week, and Miss Emily, our kindergarten teacher, had introduced her, but I couldn’t remember her name. My curiosity got the better of me, and I walked over to the girl. I was too shy to say anything, however, so we just stood there, looking at each other. Finally, the new girl held out her hand, holding out the thing she had taken from her lunch bag, offering it to me. It was a pear. A red one. “Thanks,” I said, softly. I took the pear from her, and the girl giggled. “I’m Jenny.” “I’m Jason,” I said, and a little pear juice dribbled down my chin. I took the pear from her, and the girl giggled. I’m Jenny” “That’s funny,” said Jenny, giggling again. “Our names both start with ‘juh’.” Then, both of us broke into unexplainable fits of laughter, and whenever one of us began to calm down, the other one would continue to giggle. This would result in even more laughter, making it harder for either of us to stop. “Class!” Miss Emily called from outside the school door. “Time to come back inside!” Jenny and I swallowed our laughter, and separated into our groups, me with the boys, and Jenny with the girls. However, even in our different groups, we smiled at each other before naptime. * * * “I’m going to Jenny’s! I’m going to Jenny’s!” Thank goodness my seatbelt was tightly fastened; I was practically bouncing off the walls of my family’s minivan. My mother, up in the front seat, was begging me to keep calm. “We’re almost there,” she told me. But I didn’t listen, because I was going over to Jenny’s house. “I have lots of fun stuff to do,” Jenny had told me earlier that week. “Legos, roller skates, and . . .” Jenny’s eyes grew wide “. . . Barbies.” I had frowned. “Barbies? I don’t like Barbies. They’re for girls.” Jenny shrugged, not seeming hurt in the least. “That’s OK. There’s my dog, Max, and . . .” Our van pulled up in front of a nice, brick house with a colorful flower garden in the front. It was a small house, but it fit so well with my imagination’s former version of the house. On the porch, in the front of the house, there was a porch swing and on the swing sat a young girl. “Jenny!” I ran out to greet my friend. “Hi, Jason!” Jenny smiled, then waved at my mom, who was walking up the walk. A friendly-looking woman came out of the front door of the house, and smiled at me. “Hello, Jason. I’m Mrs. Weber, Jenny’s mom.” “Hi,” I said, growing shy. Our mothers began talking to each other about very motherly things, so Jenny took my hand and led me inside. “You can meet Max now.” We played all afternoon. We played with Legos, built castles in her sandbox, and played hide-and-seek. Once we got exhausted from playing, we went back to the kitchen, where our mothers were now talking at the counter. Jenny’s mom smiled at us when we walked in. “My cookies are almost out of the oven.” Jenny squealed with delight. “Mom makes the best cookies!” The timer rang, and Jenny and I greedily ate the chewy chocolate-chip cookies. “Mmmm!” I exclaimed. There were several more visits at Jenny’s, and I enjoyed every second I spent there. Then the inevitable teasing began. “Hey, Jason, is Jenny your girlfriend?” the boys would say. “Stay away from Jason, he’s got cooties, too!” That’s when I stopped playing with Jenny. Without me, Jenny was friendless. She had given me her friendship, and had trusted me, but, even in kindergarten, I had my reputation to look after. I often saw Jenny sitting on a swing, alone, swaying a little, but not attempting to go over the top of the swing set, like she used to. Sometimes our eyes would meet, and when that happened, I would quickly look away. * * * I was skateboarding to school that day. It was my first day of the eighth grade, and I had spiked my hair just for the occasion. One girl I passed obviously didn’t care how she looked on the first day of school. She was wearing an ugly brown sweater, and her long, brown hair was wet. I snickered as she tripped over her untied shoelaces. At lunch, after I was reunited with my old friends, our conversations got off the subject of how we spent our summer vacations, but on the other people in the school. “Who’s that?” I asked, motioning toward the girl I had seen on my way to school. Alex turned around to look at her. She was eating a sandwich at an empty table. “That’s Jennifer Weber,” he said. “Her dad gets transferred a lot. She was here, back in the old days.” Alex chuckled. “She’s really weird and depressed and stuff,” Matt said. They kept talking about Jennifer’s abnormality, but my mind was elsewhere. Jennifer Weber. Jennifer Weber. Jenny Weber. Jenny. A picture of a red pear and chocolate-chip cookie came into my mind. Then an image of a little girl, sitting alone on a swing. This image stayed a long time in
Star of David
Fear and disbelief drip down the back of my neck. I am leaning against the wall, feeling cold, hard, merciless brick beneath my palm, hearing things—simple, life-giving things, such as breath and whispers and rustles of skirts—so loudly that I’m afraid my very listening will give me away. On my side, my Jewish charge, and I want to tell her to kneel, to get shorter, to do something other than stand there and look at me with those pleading eyes. To take off that necklace she wears, the little silver chain with the tarnished Star of David hanging limply from it. No time, I remember, and it amazes me that even my thoughts come in short spurts. My older brother Henk has practiced with me many times ever since he has taken it upon himself to open our home to the persecuted Jews. Many alarms I was sure were real turned out to be hoaxes, gentle deceptions, in benefit of my training. But this—no, this was no fraud. I had seen the tobacco-stained teeth out the window, the frilly mustaches. I had heard the front door slam and their feet ascend the stairway. Leah’s hand edges into mine and I feel like falling into tears, enraged toward the Germans, hateful of everything they hold dear to them. How can they curse Leah, such a simple, innocent soul? What demon is tearing my continent, my precious Europe, apart so? Have these people not known kindness, and do they not understand how to imitate mercy? Whispers in Yiddish. I can’t comprehend it. Funny, I think, that the soldier, the Jew, and I all speak different languages and come from different cultures, yet still live in mortal terror of the other. “Which one of you is the Jew? Or are you both Jews?” Boots are getting nearer. They’re in the living room, perhaps, with the unstylish masses of Victorian furniture and its quaint view of the winding creek outside our townhouse window. From there it is a short leap into the hallway, then the closet door—from there, us, hiding behind the furs. They don’t stop in the living room; steady, trim clicks are advancing down the hall. Leah’s hand grows a tighter grasp on mine, and my eyelids suddenly fall shut, staying tightly latched. I’m so still—my breath, my thoughts, my very heart has stopped—I’m afraid God might mistake me for dead. The door cracks. The light bulb, hanging from a dusty string from the ceiling, suddenly tosses a pool of light upon the floor. The door wafts shut again, and here we are, together: three different people from three very different beliefs. The hangers to our left start clacking and his shoe, with a forlorn stalk of a pants leg growing off of it, is right in front of me. I realize he smells of stale brandy, of restless wandering, of dust. I accidentally think of the shoe polish on the shelf right above our heads, that he might be able to use, but I scold myself for thinking that. Suddenly he yanks a coat away and is staring into my face, then Leah’s. We both stand there, silent for a moment, as I wash my eyes over his clean-shaven, dirt-smudged face. He doesn’t look like Hitler—he looks more like Henk, an honest man caught up in something bigger than his imagination would let him ponder. “Who are you?” he asks, voice rough. “I’m Leis, sir, and this is Leah,” I whisper. “And why ever are you here in this dusty closet?” As he speaks I see his teeth are darkened, a small scar meekly clinging to his lip. “You scared us, sir,” I managed. “We hid as soon as we could.” “Poor darlings. Come out—it’s cold in here,” he says, and he holds open the door for us as we uncertainly, defeatedly, trudge out to the hall. Suddenly I remember—Leah’s necklace—her Star of David! If the soldier found that, he would have proof, proof that she’s a Jew, proof of her country, her heritage, her ancient culture. I glance at her neck but she’s torn it off and thrown it on the floor—I look back at it in the closet, watching its glitter, praying the soldier doesn’t notice it sparkling there, like a trout in a silver spring. He’s gone on, though, to the other soldiers, to present us. “Which one of you is the Jew?” is our greeting, spouted from an older, fattened man. “Or are you both Jews?” “Jew?” I whisper faintly. “There are no Jews . . .” “Which one? There’s been reports of Jews hiding in this house! Which one of you is Jewish?” Our soldier interjects, “They’re children, Setzlich. Danish besides.” Here he glances, silencingly, at us. “It has been said the Danish don’t lie. Jews indeed.” “The Danish don’t lie,” mutters Setzlich, glaring at us both as his voice tumbles into a tumult of anger. “You idiot, Schmidt! The best lying in the business comes from the Danish—I swear, they’ve got the devil on their side!” His hand suddenly reached out and grasped my collar. “Girl,” he growled, “girl, how many rooms is this house?” “This is all,” I say, truthfully, and, distrusting me, he slowly lets go of my dress. “The living room, bathroom, and closet.”His eyes stay on me. “Search the cursed closet again, Schmidt,” Setzlich whispers, voice trembling with loathing. “Goderstadt already got the bathroom. See if there’s any more. Then we’ll see if the Danish don’t lie.” “Yes, sir,” says our soldier, and Leah and I exchange terrified looks. A search of the closet would mean the discovery of the Star of David twinkling on the floor, would mean our arrest, might even mean our deaths. My entire heart has suddenly twisted in torment—I can’t think, and can’t breathe. I hear him throwing a ruckus around in there—oh, why make it painful? Just expose us as liars, as protectors of the Jews, of God’s chosen people. He comes out then,
A Real American
A Real American by Richard Easton; Clarion Books: New York, 2002; $15 This is the heartfelt story of two young boys becoming friends under some very adverse conditions. Nathan McClelland is a Pennsylvania farm boy whose neighbors have moved out, sold out to the coal company. He is lonely, with all of his friends gone, and his wish of a friend comes true with Arturo Tozzi, a young miner boy in the first wave of immigrants, the only child of the lot. Arturo wishes to see Nathan’s animals, and have a friend in his new country. Nathan wishes to mold Arturo like his old and now gone friends Ben and Pete, and first tries to teach Arturo how to read. However, he acts too uppity, and Arturo shuns reading, wanting to be “a friend, not a student,” or inferior. When Nathan’s old friends, Ben and Pete, come back to visit, they accuse Arturo of being a foreigner, and Nathan tries to tell them that he is who he isn’t, a boy named Arthur who’s just like them. Arturo runs away, saying that he is who he is, Arturo Tozzi. Nathan, eating humble pie, decides to help Arturo, and assists in hindering troopers to convince Ernesto, Arturo’s firebrand brother, to give up the strike. In this act of faith, Nathan and Arturo’s friendship is restored, and they go on as friends. However, did Nathan and Arturo really resolve their friendship? If Arturo can’t read, he can’t communicate as well with Nathan as he could if he could read. The friendship is less powerful when Arturo and Nathan can’t communicate in ways other than a pidgin English. It’s like a Russian and an Egyptian trying to talk through Russian. The Egyptian can’t use a full mastery of Russian, so the two don’t know each other as well, and the bond is less potent. In the book, Nathan rebels against tradition to become friends with Arturo; his father expects him to stick only with the people and things he knows best. (Arturo’s father supports the friendship, for the good it could do his son.) In the book Rocket Boys, by Homer Hickam, Jr., a young boy defies his own West Virginia coal mining town’s tradition of becoming a high-school football star, and going on to work in the local mine. He decides to become a rocket scientist, under the heavy hindrance of his father, a head miner who doesn’t believe in rockets until the very end, when the boy wins the National Science Fair, like Nathan’s father who didn’t believe Arturo could be a good friend until he helped Nathan stop the strike. It was surprising that miners had to buy their own tools, blasting powder, and extra timber to hold up the mine. This may account for the destitution of conditions in the mine, with no protection from the poisonous gases inside, and not enough timber to support cave-ins, and the poverty of the miners themselves, living in company-built shacks, and with barely enough food bought with credit from the company store to feed a family. This penury is illustrated in Growing up in Coal Country, listed in the back of the book by the author as reference, which gives a detailed account of the day-to-day lives of Pennsylvania coal miners. But, if Nathan wasn’t lonely, if his friends Ben and Pete were still living right next door, and hadn’t sold, would there still have been a friendship? That’s doubtful, because the only reason Nathan agreed to be Arturo’s friend was because he was lonely for Ben and Pete. Likewise, if Arturo had been in the second wave of miners, when they brought their kids, and Nathan was lonely, then Arturo wouldn’t need Nathan, though Nathan would need him. It’s sad that the only beginning fuel for this friendship came through the needs of Nathan and Arturo for a friend. If one of their needs had been fulfilled, there wouldn’t have been a friendship. Trent Kim, 10Athens, Georgia
Running Away
The chilling night air swirled around James Henry as he stumbled blindly over the treacherous forest floor. Just above the treetops, the full moon hung low in the sky, swathed in a shawl of thick clouds. James hurried breathlessly through the dense undergrowth, ignoring the brambles that cruelly cut and scratched his skin. Tree branches snagged at him, like claws of demons, and spooky noises all around him seemed to be sounds of his pursuers. A sudden hooting of an owl sent him sprawling across a fallen tree trunk in fright and he rose in a panic, his sweating face a mask of terror. He lurched forward into the bushes once more and continued his desperate flight. His thoughts raced back to that fateful Wednesday afternoon. The day had been a blistering heat bath and the air was so thick you could barely breathe. While working in the fields, he had fainted from exhaustion. The overseer, who had a horrible temper, was already in a foul mood from the scorching weather. He threw himself upon James in a fury, and whipped him frenziedly until his back was thick with blood. James decided that night he would run away. He had had enough. Gathering his small bundle of pitiful belongings, he stole off just as dusk fell. At first all went well. By night, he traced his way using the North Star as his guide. By day he hid and slept. But then the nights turned cloudy, blocking the stars, and he lost his way. Then, this night, a group of slave-catchers had stumbled upon him while he was resting, and he just barely got away. But they were hot on his trail and it was only a matter of hours before they caught up with him. His thoughts raced back to that fateful Wednesday afternoon Suddenly, he stopped, chest heaving from exertion, heart pounding. He heard it. The sound of hoofbeats echoed in the distance, like drums heralding an execution. He paused an instant, stricken with fear, then broke into a run, his small bundle of possessions slapping against his back with every step. James did not have any memories of his father or mother. When he was just a little boy, the Wicomico plantation he was born on went broke, and he was sold off to Talbot County. He recalled having a brother, but hadn’t seen him since he was sold off. He was now, as best as he could calculate, some eighteen years of age, and until a few days ago had lived at the plantation of Mr. Stuart Henry. Mr. Henry’s plantation was enormous, and tobacco was the staple crop grown there. The field hands had to do backbreaking work from dawn to dusk each day, watering the precious tobacco leaves, tending to them, and worst of all, picking the horrid tobacco worms from off the undersides of the leaves. James had experienced this horror every day for as long as he could remember: the scorching sun pounding on his back, the lash of the overseer’s whip, and the constant humiliation of being a slave. He had also hated it for as long as he had known it, and he had always promised himself that one day he would get out; one day he would escape!!! Now here he was, running through the woods driven by sheer panic, branches stinging him as they slapped at his face. Suddenly, he saw the faint glow of a light about fifty feet ahead. He slowed down and approached it cautiously. He emerged at the edge of a clearing, and saw a house, with a lantern swinging on the gate. Swinging!!! He had just registered this when strong arms grabbed him from behind and he found himself looking into the face of a bearded, heavyset man. Paralyzed with terror, he opened his mouth, but then the man chuckled and said, “Heh heh, ain’t safe for someone like you to be out here this late!” They walked up to the house and the man ushered him in quickly. “Sarah!” he whispered hoarsely into the gloom, “I’ve got someone here who needs help.” Seconds later, a smiling, plump woman appeared and hurried James down the hall to a room on the right, while her husband left and went upstairs. “You’ll be safe in here,” she whispered, picking up a rug and opening a trap door. James looked down and saw that below the paneled floor there was a pit, about fifteen feet deep. He looked back at the woman and began, “I can’t tell you how much . . .” But she interrupted him, “Shhh, no time for this. Get in!” He lowered himself down, and just as the trap door closed, there was a knock on the door. James huddled in the darkness listening intently. After a short pause, he heard a shuffle of feet, and the sound of a door opening. “Yes, may I help you?” said the woman. “Yes ma’am,” a deep raspy voice replied, “we’re looking for a runaway. Would you mind us having a little look?” “Oh no, there’s no problem,” said the woman. More shuffling of feet sounded, accompanied by the sharp click-clack of boots on the wood floor. James heard them walk down the hall, pausing every so often as the man looked in a room. “. . . with the new Fugitive Slave Law, business is really good. I can even get away with returning slaves without a trial . . .” The man was nearing the room in which James was hidden. Suddenly, the man’s voice trailed off and the footsteps halted right outside the room. “Is anything the matter?” James heard the woman ask. “Oh, nothing . . . nothing,” mumbled the man. James’s palms began to sweat as he heard them enter the room and he shivered, despite the stuffiness of the pit. He crouched there for several terrible seconds. Without warning, the rug was swept off the floor. He heard
