It had been almost a year since that fateful day last June when Lucy Livingstone’s baby boy had died at the age of ten days. Catriona Livingstone, her twelve-year-old daughter, was accompanying Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone to the cemetery to visit her brother on what would have been his first birthday. The day was cloudy, with a hint of rain in the air, quite unlike the lovely June day when Ty, her brother, had been born. Catriona was somber as they drove through the dreary streets to the graveyard, but inside she was concentrating on her hope that after this day her mother would be less grieved and her father less tense. She didn’t know why she expected this; probably because it had been almost a year since their son’s death and she thought it time to get on with life, and stop dwelling on the past. Catriona, too, had suffered for days after the loss of him, as had her parents, for she’d welcomed her new sibling into the world graciously; she even decorated his future room and attended a baby-sitter’s course to learn how to care for babies. But now she was ready to move on, eager to hear her mother laugh again and her father crack silly jokes once more. Today, in the car, she felt she’d burst if things didn’t change soon. She decided to go sit down awhile, somewhere she could think things out “We turn here,” said Mrs. Livingstone stiffly to her husband, who was driving. He nodded dismally, and flicked on the signal. Catriona began to idly drum her fingers in time to it, but one stern look from her mother silenced her. In a moment the car had turned into the parking lot, and the three of them got out, Catriona hurriedly—she was tired of sitting in the gloomy atmosphere of the car. Mrs. Livingstone set off at a brisk pace, and Mr. Livingstone and Catriona followed, the silence unbroken except for the sound of their feet on the grass and the wind in the trees. Ty’s grave was a small one, hidden behind a neatly tended wild rose bush. Mrs. Livingstone knelt down when they reached it, her fingers trembling as she touched the cold stone. Catriona peered over her shoulder to read the inscription. Tynan Philip Livingstone, son of Lucy and Bradley Livingstone. Born June 8th, woo, died June 8th, 2000. Rest in Peace. Under the headstone bearing these words, her baby brother’s body lay, imprisoned by the chilled earth. Catriona’s heart ached for something she could do to bring him back again. She wanted to complete the family, add the missing piece. But he was gone, and no one could ever restore his life. Mr. Livingstone, Mrs. Livingstone and Catriona remained silent for a few moments, their thoughts as bleak as the gray sky. Finally Mr. Livingstone murmured, “He would have been a good boy, I’m sure of it.” Catriona sighed and straightened up. She decided to go sit down awhile, somewhere she could think things out. In a soft voice, she excused herself, and hurried over to a neighboring spruce tree. Its branches formed a low canopy, so she crept under it to seek shelter for her thoughts. Her feelings had been mixed and twisted together since her brother had died. First of all, she had been swallowed in sadness, her own and that of the people around her. Next, her feelings had been regret and longing, and reluctance to accept the fact that he was gone—never to return. Further, still, into the following year, she had felt neglected, and bitter over the fact that her parents were rather guiltlessly ignoring her. And, finally, she had become impatient and rebellious, angry that her parents couldn’t—or wouldn’t—get over their lost infant. Lately, Catriona had been enduring a detestable combination of each, unable to pick apart her complex thoughts. One day one feeling would overcome her, the following day, a next. Now, as she sat in the protective security within the dark spruce’s greenery, she pondered this as the gentle lull of the tree’s slight swaying coincided with her parents’ hushed conversing. What to do? Catriona’s thoughts were being interloped by the realization of the truth; her parents weren’t likely to come home any differently than they had arrived, she had seen it in her mother’s eyes as she fingered the headstone. Should she speak to them about her feelings and demand change? Or should she continue to bear the burden of emotional loneliness? She couldn’t decide. She would have to simply practice the virtue of patience. And, she thought ruefully, I might as well begin now . . . who knows how long I have to wait. * * * When Catriona arrived home that day she went off to attend a dress rehearsal for a concert she was in. She played the violin, or rather the fiddle, as it was called in the Celtic fiddling group in which she was involved. The concert was on one of the main stages in town, and Catriona was both apprehensive and excited about it. At the rehearsal, however, as her fingers flew over the strings and she drew quick, light bows, as her foot kept the beat by tapping the floor, she forgot about the stress which barred her way. She forgot her muddled feelings, she forgot how her hopes for a new beginning had just been dashed, and how her mother had rushed to her room and wept uncontrollably when they’d returned home. All she focused on was the optimistic laughter soaring from the fiddles, and the joy that music brought her. During the last tune, a slow and mournful melody, Duana, Catriona’s talented instructor, stopped the group. “Excellent. As long as you play from your heart and blend together as one, this will be superb.” She beamed reassuringly at Catriona, one of the youngest (many were adults). “I believe we are behind time, so I’ll let you scatter.
Music Sown with Love
Julia arose at the early hour of four o’clock AM, fighting already bubbling nerves, and being careful not to wake her parents in the next room or her two younger siblings. She didn’t want anyone to know about her endeavors, should they fail. And she didn’t want to hurt her parents by going behind their backs. Due to their financial state, her parents planned for Julia to attend the community college while living at home. That being exactly what she didn’t want to do, she had applied to more prominent schools and had finally won an audition space—hopefully she could earn acceptance and a scholarship. Near silent, she dressed in comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt, French-braided her hair out of her face and began packing her car up, that being a general term. Julia referred to her car as the junkmobile, but it would get her where she needed to go—four hours away. She loaded her business suit, which she would wear for her audition, her bag of application materials and references, and made one last trip to the house. Gingerly, she lifted up her most prized possession, her grandmother’s cello. The case, earned by baby-sitting three mischievous monsters all summer, was new, but the instrument inside was not. Handled carefully for two generations, the relentless playing had rounded its tone, making it full, gorgeous. It was the one and only advantage she had on the harrowed road to her dreams. She breezed through the pieces, eyes shut, feeling the music wash over her and the room Like a crook, she stole out of the house, noiselessly locking the door behind her. As if handling fine china, she placed her inheritance in the back seat of the car and hopped into the driver’s seat, praying for a quiet start-up—the car was as unpredictable as a green filly. Thankfully, her prayer was answered; she would be miles away when her family read the note of explanation. The car puttered down the street, rolling over discarded belongings and refuse. The street cleaners never came to this part of the town. Yards on her right and left were furnished with the odd patch of crabgrass, and more prominently beige, dusty dirt oases. On her right, a rusted Red Flyer wagon lay overturned, with a mud-encrusted bucket lying beside it. On the left, the shutters of the house had fallen off and had been converted into makeshift skateboard ramps. Several dogs were chained outside, tongues lolling out of their mouths, panting. Coated in burrs and other muck they had found to roll in, they were badly in need of a grooming. Car pulling into traffic at the end of the street, Julia thought back to her own small home. Although her parents didn’t have an abundance of money, their house stood out like a diamond among coal. The yard was intact, with a coating of plush green grass, and the house shone with a fresh coat of paint. There were several neat flower beds, and when something needed to be repaired, it was, when the money could be found. Reflecting on her past resentment of her family’s financial state, she realized that she could have had it much worse. Yes, she had worked extremely hard, but cello lessons cost money and to get the scholarships you had to be educated. Although they had lived close to poverty ever since the family business went bankrupt, she still had a roof, food, and loving family and friends. For the first time in her life she was thankful, truly thankful for all that she had. It was as if the years of resentment, hidden hatred, and cynicism had worn off. Her body felt ten pounds lighter. She breezed down the road with this newfound appreciation for her life, and before she could recap the journey, she found herself looking at the map for the university’s local town. She navigated through the manicured campus, dorm rooms, classrooms, and libraries until finally she approached the performing arts hall and offices. Checking her car, and paying the nominal parking fee with a few tattered bills, she maneuvered skillfully into a spot. Carefully opening the door and stretching taut legs, she slowly stood and removed her suit. She would change before checking in; first impressions counted here and she wanted hers to be one of maturity and preparedness. Self-assured, she entered a side door, located a rest room and changed into her suit, a present from her aunt, her only confidant. The navy blue did wonders for her, brought out a gleam of sunshine in her mane, and a sparkle in her sapphire eyes. Displaying a true smile, not one of the manufactured ones she was accustomed to wearing, she boldly exited the rest room and went back to retrieve her cello, stashing the travel clothes in the back Seat. Lifting her instrument, the music bag, and the paperwork, she began to think over the music notes she would soon have to execute with utmost precision and conviction of her true love for music. Then, more timidly, she entered the main doors and approached the desk. Facing a pickle-faced secretary dressed crisply in a linen suit, she heard her manicured nails tapping on the keyboard. Frames perched on her delicate nose; she glanced up through them and queried in a nasal voice, “Yes? What can I do for you?” as if her purpose at the building was not clear. After all, she was carrying a cello case. Curling short ragged nails into a fist, she fought the nervous waiver out of her voice. “I’m here for the eleven o’clock audition spot,” she proclaimed boldly, a little louder than necessary. “Oh, you must be Julia Montgomery. They will be expecting you shortly. I’ll have Robert take you to your warm-up room and from there an attendant will come for you when it is your turn.” She then beckoned to Robert, a lively-looking boy with tightly wound obsidian curls and dancing emerald
Precious Time
John McCarty was warming up his arm. “Whip it in there!” yelled his friend, Stuart Johnson. He and Stuart played for the Rockets. The Rockets were the best baseball team in the league, all because of John, their pitcher. Or at least that’s what Stuart thought! John was great at baseball, but he also loved school and got A’s in almost every subject. He loved history the most. Stuart, on the other hand, hated school and especially hated history. The one thing the boys had in common was that they both loved baseball! They both rocked at it too! John was the pitcher for the Rockets and could pitch 60 mph. Stuart played shortstop and was the fastest runner on the team. They were both drafted to the Rockets last year when they were only ten years old. Before they joined the team, the Rockets were in last place. The Rockets easily picked up the two friends in the first draft. As soon as John and Stuart joined the team, the whole team seemed to burst with skill. The Rockets started winning again. Last season they were undefeated all the way to the championship, which they ended up losing to the Devils. Today, John was going to pitch the whole game for the Rockets’ second championship attempt. John was warming up his arm with Stuart. They played catch until Mrs. McCarty came. “Are you sure your parents know we’re taking you to the game?” questioned Mrs. McCarty. “I’m sure,” replied Stuart. “They said they would be late to the game.” The one thing the boys had in common was that they both loved baseball! “OK then, pile in boys,” said Mrs. McCarty. Stuart felt energetic and excitedly ran to the car. John felt like running, but he didn’t want to tire himself out before the game. As John walked to the car, he noticed a sparkle on the ground. He bent down to study it when he heard his mom calling him from the car. “C’mon, John, or else you’re going to be late to the big game!” “One minute,” John yelled back. John looked back down at the ground. He could barely make out the shape of a ball as big as his palm. He dug at it with his fingers until he pulled it out of the dirt. The bottom side of the sphere was clean and shiny like a crystal. He would have examined it more if his mom didn’t grow impatient. “John! Now!” He couldn’t wait any longer without getting in trouble, so he stuffed the ball into his pocket and walked to the car. Soon they were en route to Callahan Park, named after the city’s founder. As they turned at an intersection, all that was on John’s mind was the game. John didn’t give a second thought to the mysterious, shiny sphere. John was so caught up in thinking of the game that he never saw the car speeding toward them from the opposite direction. Mrs. McCarty had reached for the Chapstick she had dropped on the floor and didn’t see the car. When John looked up and saw the speeding car, he knew something bad was going to happen. Before he could tell his mom to watch out, the car impacted Stuart’s side of the car with enormous force. Stuart was thrown forward and then backward. John heard a crack and then everything went black. When John woke up, he was still in the car, trapped in his seat. When he looked over at his friend, he was shocked. He saw his friend hunched over, but the thing that scared him the most was that Stuart’s neck was in a weird position. John saw that Stuart wasn’t breathing. He is just holding his breath, John thought hopefully. But five minutes passed and Stuart still hadn’t taken a breath. John had been feeling an uncomfortable sensation by his right pocket. When he reached down, he felt the sphere bulging into his leg. He carefully took it out and rubbed off some of the dirt. He had noticed an inscription on the sphere before he got in the car, but he hadn’t had time to examine it. He could barely make out the inscription, “Precious Time.” As John kept rubbing the sphere, he noticed it started to glow. The ball jumped out of his hands and started spinning, making a kind of a force field around him that lifted him up out of his seat and out of the car. After the force field stopped, a screen popped up in front of him. It had “year, month, day, and time,” with blanks after each word. Right next to all of that there was a button that said GO. A thought came to John. Could this be a time machine? Could he bring Stuart back to life? John quickly typed the information on the keyboard. “There!” exclaimed John, “I’m all finished!” He wasn’t too sure about hitting the GO button. He thought of Stuart and knew that helping his friend was all that was important. John pushed the button. Nothing happened! He tried it again. Then he realized that he had typed in the present time and not the time of the accident. He looked at his watch and noticed that the second hand wasn’t moving. He estimated the time of the crash and typed in the information. Then he hit GO. At first, nothing happened. Then suddenly, he saw everything go into rewind. He saw his car go backwards and go back around the corner. Then it stopped and he was teleported to his car. The car went forward around the corner and approached the intersection. His mom dropped her Chapstick. “Stop!” yelled John, and his mom slammed on the brakes just in time to stop from being hit by the car. “That was close,” said Mrs. McCarty as she breathed a sigh of relief. John reached into his pocket and noticed the sphere
Emily’s Mustang
Emily shaded her green eyes from the hot Nevada sun. A tiny breeze blew a loose strand of her dusty brown hair and relieved the humidity that made the air hang thick and heavy. Her mother’s horse, Sweetie, shifted impatiently beneath her. Emily reassured her with a pat, but her mind was in the craggy mountains that loomed high and forbidding above horse and girl. She strained her eyes, searching for a cloud of dust kicked up by a figure on a lone horse. Finally she saw movement. A mustang, running wild and unkempt in the hills. Behind it was a small herd, all shabby and scarred. All of a sudden, they broke into a gallop. The stallion screamed his shrill emergency call. Was it a bobcat that so upset the herd? But then she saw a man who was waving a long lariat atop a bay quarter horse. Only then did she relax. She watched, enthralled, at the scene going on far above. Man and horse closed in on a handsome mare, coat gleaming in the sunlight. The horse received small signals from his rider that were only seen by the experienced eye. After lassoing a few mustangs, the pair rode down the steep cliff toward Emily. The man grinned with pride at the fine mare he had caught. “She ought to fetch a fair price,” her father determined. He worked for the Bureau of Land Management, capturing mustangs to sell at silent auctions to qualifying owners-to-be. “Yeah. Ain’t she gorgeous,” Emily replied. “Mom’s looking for you.” Finally she saw movement. A mustang running wild and unkempt in the hills “All right. Let’s go down to the house together.” The smiling Sarah Jenners came to the door to greet them in her apron, flour coating her arms up to her elbows. Nevertheless, she hugged her husband and daughter, speckling their clothes with whiteness. Joshua and Emily flicked the flour off onto the dry ground. Sarah looked at the mustangs Joshua had caught with a dreamy look in her eyes. “They’re so beautiful,” she told them. “That one isn’t so pretty—look, he’s got scars all over him. He’s a sorry sight, all right,” Joshua commented. “Oh, no—he’s the most beautiful of all.” Emily couldn’t say she agreed with this, but she decided not to press further. During supper, Joshua described his capture. “I was chasing the herd, and a pretty little mare caught my eye. I brought Wild Thing close to her to try to corner her, and just for a second I was distracted by a rearing horse. When I looked back toward the mare, she was gone.” “Maybe she went off in a hidden crevice,” Emily suggested. “You’re probably right,” her father agreed. “There are plenty of hiding places in the mountains.” He pushed his plate aside and rose from the table. “Well, I’d best get a good night’s sleep—I have a hard trek tomorrow.” Emily remembered that her father was going to the next county to sell some cattle, and wouldn’t be back until after dark. Joshua said good-night to his wife and daughter before getting ready for an early bedtime. “I wonder what happened to that mare Dad talked about,” Emily said to her mother when they were clearing the table. “Oh, I don’t know. The mustangs have secrets humans will never know,” answered Sarah. But Emily wanted to know. The question nagged at her even as she fell asleep. Emily was riding a horse through the mountains. She didn’t know whether it was Sweetie or Wild Thing or some other horse. She was searching for something exciting, but this was unknown to her also. Suddenly, a gleaming palomino mare stepped out of the shadows. She seemed to be glowing with some inner light and stood out like a beacon in contrast with the black night. Emily knew this was what she was searching for. She sat looking in awe at the magnificent creature looking back at her with large, wild eyes. They both remained motionless, as though frozen. Then, wisps of fog abruptly started to curl around the mare, shrouding her from Emily’s view. “No, no!” she cried out, reaching her arms desperately toward the mustang. A wail of disappointment tore from her throat. She woke up with her pillow damp from tears. Emily dressed like a zombie, eyes staring into space, thinking about the palomino mare. She pulled on her jeans and headed outside to saddle Sweetie. After scrawling a short note that said “Gone riding, back for breakfast,” she headed for the mountains. For the first two hours, Emily saw no sign of life except for the occasional jackrabbit springing across the path and the hawks soaring high in the sky. It was eight o’clock, and she knew her mother was up by now and preparing breakfast, but Emily had no thought of turning back—not until she saw the mustang mare. Another half-hour passed. Now her mother was probably getting a little worried. Emily continued to ride deeper into the mountains. Here was a low canyon, surrounded by mountains on all sides, except for the narrow space between. A brook bubbled across it. Emily’s heart leapt. This spot was the perfect home for a herd of mustangs! She directed Sweetie to the brook and gave her a long drink of the cool, refreshing water. Looking down into the water, she gasped. Behind her, she could see the reflection of a palomino horse! Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned her head so she could glimpse the mare. Nervously, the mustang sidestepped, wary of this human drinking at her brook. The sunlight made her smooth golden coat shine, and her mane and tail were long from years of growing. The mare stared at her with her big, deep brown eyes. Looking at her under the clear blue sky, for one shining moment, Emily thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world. Suddenly, Emily heard the shrill neigh of a mustang break the
A Lesson for Life
Billy stood on the porch of the cabin enjoying the cool, fresh air. He loved the way everything was quiet and still before the rest of the world woke up. Then he remembered—he was at camp in North Carolina, 800 miles away from his parents in Florida. Billy shivered. Suddenly, the air seemed too cold and the quietness too quiet. At home it wasn’t like that. Home. That magical word. No, stop thinking about that! Billy rubbed his eye where a tear tried to come out. Finally, he gave up and started bawling like a baby. The rest of his cabin woke up and started saying, “Crybaby crybaby, crybaby Billy’s a crybaby, crybaby, crybaby . . .” Aah! Billy sat straight up in bed. Where was he? Oh, now he remembered, safe at home in his bed. He groped around the nightstand for the thick glasses that he needed to wear. He got out of bed and opened the window. Ahh, the wonderful balmy breezes that Florida was known for. It had just been a nightmare. He wasn’t in North Carolina and he wasn’t going to camp. He was going to spend this summer like the previous summers: at home with his family doing nothing. Billy smiled, went over to his closet, and pulled out a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt, tucking the shirt in just so. He then went and stood in front of the mirror, examining his face carefully. If only my glasses weren’t so thick and my hair so shaggy, Billy thought. If I didn’t have glasses then I wouldn’t look like a nerd, and my brown eyes are actually quite nice. Then if I get my hair cut like the other boys I could be a model. Well, not quite a model, but . . . He loved the way everything was quiet and still before the rest of the world woke up Billy’s fancies were cut short by an ear-piercing yell. “Billy! Oh, Billy my boy! Breakfast is ready!” Billy followed his nose down the stairs and into the kitchen where his mother had cooked her famous “start of the summer” breakfast. Billy smiled happily and started wolfing down her delicious pancakes and sausages. Yes, this would be a great summer. Maybe he would even make a few friends. But the next instant this feeling of happiness was shattered by the words that came out of his mother’s mouth. In that same false, happy voice she announced, “Oh, and your father and I decided you’re going to sleep-away camp this summer.” Billy choked on his sausage. “What?! What do you mean? You can’t send me to camp! I . . . we . . . I thought . . . ohhh!” Billy stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to his room. Well, he thought, maybe Brian will understand the way I feel. So he called his best and only friend, Brian. “Hello?” answered a husky voice, unmistakably Brian’s. “Hey!” replied Billy “If you want me to play with you today I can’t because I’m going to camp in two days and I have to pack.” “Well, actually, that was what I was calling to talk to you about. You see . . .” “Wait!” Brian interrupted. “If you’re calling to convince me not to go, well, you can’t. Just because you don’t want to go doesn’t mean that I don’t want to go.” With that, he slammed down the phone. While Billy was still trying to let the phone call sink in, his mother came in. “Billy, let me explain about our decision.” “You don’t have to explain, I can tell that I’m a pain to you guys and you want to get rid of me!” snapped Billy, and, with that accusation, Billy stormed out of the room. He grabbed his baseball, bat, and glove and ran outside to the baseball field down the street from his house. Once there, he started sobbing like a maniac, throwing the ball up and swinging the bat wildly, not caring that everyone was stopping to stare at him. The only thing that Billy accomplished from this was a bump on the left side of his head where the ball hit him. When it grew late, Billy walked back to his house and into his room, slamming the door for the second time that day. There was a tray of food on his bedside table which he gobbled down hungrily, while opening the note that was also on the table. It said: Dear Billy, Your mother told me about your reaction to camp, and I just want to get a few things straight. The reason we are sending you to camp is because we’re running low on money and need to work extra hours. We can’t be at home at all this summer to see you or take care of you. Because camp starts in three days, your mother will help you pack tomorrow. Your camp is in Raleigh, North Carolina, and it is called Golden Eagle. You should have a lot of fun there. You need to grow up sooner or later, and this is the best time to do it. You will not only be helping us out, but also yourself Thanks so much. Now eat your dinner and get to bed, because you’re going to need all of your energy to pack. Love, Dad Well, it was pretty nice of Dad to do all that for me, thought Billy as he got ready for bed. But still . . . Billy couldn’t finish his train of thought because he burst into tears. He cried himself to sleep. The next few days went by in a blur of tears and packing. Finally, the fateful day arrived and after a long drive it was time for Billy to say goodbye to his parents. “Take care now. Have fun. Don’t forget to write us,” his parents said. All Billy could do was nod
The Mystery of Cats
Cleaning yourself as if the world is just fine Of course you don’t know about September 11 or the war You don’t know about the terrorists or do you Is that mangy dog down the street the terrorist you fear What does someone of your small stature think of the world Do you look at the humans around you and think you’re much smarter because you can hunt smell a rat and see in the dark Maybe you think all we can do is open a can How would you manage all these wars between countries Would you talk out your problems or use a more violent approach Grady enters the room and I watch the hair on your back rise You don’t move He doesn’t move This could be a showdown But no The moment passes and you resume your cleaning I breathe a sigh of relief What would the world be like if ruled by a cat say, like you, Stripes Would everyone be ordered to bathe for hours on end You look up at me with clear eyes and I’m curious to know Do you actually reason or do you just look smart You know I’ve always suspected you have the ability to think and also the ability to pretend to think I see a smile flitting across your face You get up and go outside Even though that dog could still be there you show no fear Marley Powell, 12Los Angeles, California
Doing the Tango
In my house, we celebrate everything. Even the smallest things. Good grades on a test. Learning that we are going On vacation. Even a surprise present. The reward is “doing the tango.” The dogs want to join in And scramble to find a toy A bone, a partner to celebrate The joyful dance. Learning to do the tango Was a hard job in itself. When I was young, The turn and the switch Of hands Was the most challenging. Now it comes naturally The greatest part of all Is seeing the joy On my mother’s face When she knows There is good news, Meaning We get to dance the tango. John Roberts, 13Windsor, California
Belle Teal
Belle Teal by Ann M. Martin; Scholastic Press: New York, 2001; $15.95 Do you ever act differently around African Americans than you do around white people? Belle Teal did not think anyone would ever do such a thing, until segregation was reduced and, once more, schools began to integrate at Coker Creek. Belle Teal tells of the cruelty to people just because of their skin color. Before I read this book I knew that people were often singled out, but I never realized that they would actually get hurt, or sent to jail, just because of their race. In Belle Teal many kids, and even parents, were extremely mean to the new kids at Coker Creek Elementary. When one of her friends started to taunt the new kids, Belle Teal got very upset. Her friend’s father became the real problem, though. He is racist and prejudiced toward the children. His extreme racism finally came to a head when he began spreading lies and rumors. When Belle Teal found out that the stories were untrue, she became especially angry and decided she needed to do something to help. This story was about the struggle between right and wrong. Belle Teal really made me think about how much it hurts people when you tease them or get them in trouble for something they didn’t do. I have always thought and wondered, why do people treat their peers differently because of their race or religion? They are humans too. In school you learn about the segregation laws and how life was in the 1950s, but Belle Teal truly makes you visualize how things were. I personally thought that this was a great book. In my opinion, it teaches you more about life in the 1950s than a teacher can explain to you. I would definitely read this book; it will make you see how African Americans really did feel in the past, and even, sometimes, in the present. Hannah Lentz, 11Richmond, Virginia
Someday
Someday by Jackie French Koller; Orchard Books: New York, 2002; $16.95 Ever thought about your “someday”? You know, someday you’ll go off to college, someday you’ll get a job, someday the house, the family—someday, someday, someday. Someday the town you’ve loved and grown up in will be washed away to nothing more than a reservoir for a big city, is not your normal “someday.” It will no longer be on a map; only a sad distant memory for the people who once lived there. I’m almost positive that that thought hasn’t entered your mind. For Cecelia Wheeler, though, it was a fact, but one that was always off in the distant future. Yes, it would come true, but it was too far away to think about now. Unfortunately for Cecelia, someday, sadly, came too soon. In this creative and detailed story, fourteen-year-old Cecelia Wheeler (affectionately known as Celie) is falling apart as she watches her town collapse. Everything she knows (including her family) is changing. Worst of all, she might have to move to Chicago, a city too far away for words to describe from her precious town of Enfield, Massachusetts. More importantly, Chicago was too far away from her best friend, Chubby Miller. During the last few days of Enfield, a strange, handsome and wealthy young man waltzes into Celie and her mother’s lives. It seems as if nothing could go right. When there was a sliver of hope that things might go right, it just crumbles again. Someday is the story of the surprises, the misery, and the triumphs of the people during the last few days of Enfield—and all the towns in the Swift River Valley. While I was reading this book, I thought about my own somedays. I remembered that years ago, I loved to go to my grandpa’s house very much. He had so many stories, so many memories of the way things were. I was immersed in my family’s history. I had always known my grandpa was old, and I knew that someday he would die, but when it happened, it all seemed so sudden. It was as if we were just in the living room of his house, sitting at his feet and listening to his stories and all of a sudden the stories ended; I just wasn’t ready. Then, I remembered that last year, I had to make the decision about which middle school I would attend. As most of you know, middle school is a big step from elementary. For me, it was an even bigger step. I decided not to attend the school where all my friends were going, but a school where anyone who attended was immediately labeled a snob. I knew no one where I was going, and I had to basically start all over again. There were new teachers, new kids, new rules and a whole new environment. I knew that someday this would happen, but once again I just wasn’t ready. My someday came and now I enjoy my new school. I also enjoy my friends—old and new. One of the things I really loved about this book was how the story about the town wasn’t the only story going on. Celie and her family had to deal with everything from love to hate, joy to sorrow, laughter to tears. Read the book and think about your somedays. Maybe you’ll get the same message I did, or maybe it will be something totally different for you. I know this much is true: when your somedays become today, you can remember yesterday with the hope for a brighter tomorrow. Allena G. Berry, 12Racine, Wisconsin
Bubbe’s Mezuzah
Mon, when is Bubbe coming?” I asked impatiently. “Soon,” she replied for the seventeenth time. It was a family tradition for my grandma to come over every Saturday to light the havdalah candle, a symbol that the Jewish Sabbath has ended, with our family. I was sitting on the steps of the porch when I heard the steady tap . . . tap . . . tap of her cane. “Bubbe!!!” I exclaimed. “Hello, sweetheart!” said Bubbe, while embracing me. Clutching her cane with one hand, she carefully raised her other hand, which was shaking, to the mezuzah on the door and then lowered it to her wrinkled lips. I could tell it hurt her to stretch that far. I asked her why she wasted so much effort just to kiss the mezuzah. She just chuckled and said that that was a long story. “I’ll tell you when I sit down, darling.” I helped Bubbe inside and then we both plopped down onto the couch. I would climb a tree and jump into the snow as if I was jumping into a lake “Well, I wasn’t always old,” Bubbe began. “In fact, I was once a first-grader like you! Where I lived there were cold winters like you couldn’t imagine! There was one winter that was much colder than the others were. School was canceled, but we couldn’t even play outside in the snow because it was blocking the door! I think the temperature outside must have been minus twenty degrees! I wanted to play in the snow so badly. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore! I went out the back door and walked outside.” “But Bubbe, didn’t you know that you weren’t supposed to do that?” I interrupted. “Of course I knew! But did I listen? No! So anyway, outside I played a game where I would climb a tree and jump into the snow as if I was jumping into a lake. I walked deeper and deeper into the woods near our house until I found the perfect tree. I played the tree game for hours. “Eventually, I started to get dizzy, cold, and tired. I looked around and realized that I was deeper in the woods than I thought. From then on, what happened was a blur. I vaguely remember my feet becoming numb in the ice-cold snow. I started to cry for my mother. “I stumbled along until I made it to a small clearing where there was just one house. Dizziness was overwhelming me. I was just six years old, but I knew what would happen to me if I didn’t get inside soon. Finally, I crawled onto the porch of the house and knocked on the door. When no one answered, I fell against the door knowing my situation was hopeless. But then . . . something caught my attention. On the doorpost was one of those things that my mom and dad always kissed whenever they walked outside. “Without thinking, I slowly raised my hand to the mezuzah. I remember seeing my life pass through my eyes and thinking about how much I would miss my family. To me, it seemed like all hope was lost. I lowered my hand to my lips and then fainted.” “Oh Bubbe, please don’t tell me the rest of the story! It’s too sad!” “Don’t worry, sweetie! After all, I’m here with you now, right? When I woke up I was in the hospital. I heard someone shouting that I was awake. The doctors told my parents that it was a miracle that I was still alive. I opened my eyes and saw four people in the room, two of whom were my mother and father. I could tell that the tall man in white was the doctor, but who was the last one? “He was a young boy who looked about my age with curly brown hair. He told me that he had found me on the stairs of his side porch, an exit he almost never used. For some unknown reason he did that day. The doctors talked about good timing and good medicine and so on. . . but I knew that it was really the mezuzah! My deepest desire was granted because of the thing on the door that I had kissed! By the way, that boy eventually became my best friend and your Zadie!” Bubbe looked at me for a response to the story, but I had fallen fast asleep with a smile on my face and an all-new appreciation for my Bubbe and the mezuzah. Luria Rittenberg, 12Jacksonville, Florida
The School Story
The School Story by Andrew Clements; Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers: New York, 2001; $16 Have you ever wondered how children get their books published? I know I have. Well, this whole book is an example of how one girl, Natalie, gets the story she wrote made into a real book (and a bestseller). Natalie is twelve years old, but she is still an amazing author. Her best friend is Zoe, and it was all Zoe’s idea for the book to be published. Zoe is one of my favorite characters in this book. She is brave, smart, funny, and a great friend. She and Natalie are very different, but they help each other out. Without Zoe, Natalie would never have had the courage to try and publish her book, or have figured out how to. Zoe and Natalie’s relationship, as you will find out, is a big part of the book. One of the reasons I liked this book so much was that I could relate to how Natalie feels about her work. I really like to write, but I don’t like to let many other people see my creations. I’m sort of shy, and I would never have had the courage to send my work to a publisher. But the way Natalie gets her story published (with Zoe’s help) is something I never could have dreamed of doing. It’s all very clever and well thought out, and it involves a lot of courage. If it were me doing that, I would probably have chickened out in the first part of the process. I also think that it was very interesting how Zoe planned the whole thing out. It made this the kind of book you didn’t want to put down until you figured out what was going to happen to Natalie and Zoe next. Another reason I liked this book so much was that, through what was happening to Natalie, you learned a lot about the publishing process too. It helps that Natalie’s mom is a publisher, and so, as she explains things more clearly to Natalie, it’s like she’s explaining things more clearly to you. I think it was smart of Andrew Clements to make her mom do this, because it really helps young kids understand what happens after they send their work out. But the parts in this book that were the most touching to me were all the parts when Natalie thought about her dad. Natalie’s father died a few years before this book was set, so he only appears in memories. The way she thinks of him and remembers him is so sweet to me. My dad is still alive, but it makes me think about how I feel about him, and how much I love him. When I read the part in Natalie’s story about the dad it made me cry because I knew that Natalie was really writing her story for her father. It was amazing to me how Andrew Clements can make you laugh, cry, and learn about publishing in a 196-page book. One of the only things I didn’t like about this book was that it never gave a copy of The Cheater, Natalie’s book. It sounded very good and I really wanted to read it, even though it was made up. Other than that, I really liked this book, and it is even one of my favorites now. From the illustrations to the exciting style of writing, this book is a true inspiration to all young writers, and I would suggest it to anyone who loves to write. Jill Giornelli, 9Atlanta, Georgia
Himalayan Adventure
The whiteout was incredible, one of the most amazing things Jack Graham had ever seen. Unfortunately, one thing he hadn’t seen lately was the rest of his team. He knew he had to keep going . . . otherwise he would freeze in this stark, hostile, white world. The shrieking wind bit his face and blew ice crystals into his beard and goggles, giving him the appearance of a snowman. He checked his oxygen. Just six minutes’ worth left. Jack struggled to stand against the snow and ice and wind. He shook out his beard and stumbled into the field of colorlessness. Was that ice he heard cracking? He took a step, felt the ground give way, and fell. He screamed as he plummeted and was silenced as his shout was replaced by the cracking of bone on hard ice. Jack awoke to the sound of voices above. He tried to yell, “I’m down here, in this pit,” but the sharp pain in his chest caused it to come out, “Oohwhuph.” He could hardly breathe and his chest, arm, and head hurt, and were all throbbing. He slowly got to his feet. At least his legs hadn’t been hurt. He took a deep breath and looked around. He saw a blue, icy cave with glistening walls and sunlight at the top of a wide, vertical shaft. If only I was back in Arizona, he thought. He could feel the cool pillows and sheets of his bed back home. What I would give for some chicken noodle soup. He longed for the beautiful sunsets and dry warmth from the afternoon sun. Snapping back into reality, he headed for a patch of ice with the most light coming through it and pounded on it with his good arm. The tiny crack where he hit the wall brought fresh air into the cave. He grabbed as much of his climbing gear as he could and, remembering his ice ax, chopped a hole big enough to climb through, and slowly, with great pain, he passed through. He was greeted by the harsh winds of the north face of the mountain, the only one never climbed by man. He staggered onto a ledge, and began a slow and agonizing descent. After several minutes, his head began to spin, and he tottered and teetered perilously near to the three-thousand-foot drop-off next to him. He slipped and blacked out. Leaping into the air with a loud yell, he flew, eating up the distance When Jack woke up, he was lying in a rock-walled cave, with an insulated blanket draped over him, and the smell of something sweet wafting through the thin air. He looked around at decades’ worth of used climbing gear. Bottles, stoves, parkas, goggles—a treasure trove of all things mountaineering. A hulking, gargantuan figure stood over a fire, boiling tea. Its hair was shaggy like a mammoth’s, and it had no visible eyes or mouth. The beast turned toward him, and he recognized it from pictures he’d seen, and stories he’d heard. It was the abominable snowman himself—the yeti. He was in awe, afraid and curious and realizing that the yeti had rescued him from certain death. Just then he noticed a strange, hard object around his arm and a bandage around his head. He touched the gauzy substance and felt warm blood in a circular area on it. I must have taken a nasty spill, he thought. The great mass of hair hobbled over to him, bringing a cup of sweet liquid, and the man drank. Sleep came quickly, and for the third time his eyelids fluttered open and the huge beast was gone. He stood up, put on long underwear, insulated snow pants, two parkas, and his boots. He grabbed his ice ax, gave himself fresh oxygen, and left. Jack fumbled and stumbled down from the cave ledge. He paused for a second, looking down at the white valley below. How am I ever gonna get down there? he wondered. It’s hopeless. Upon reaching a larger ledge, he promptly hit his arm on a rock and howled, his voice echoing through the valley below. When at last the noise died down, he heard a rumbling from the peak above. “Avalanche!” he yelled as he ran. The torrent of snow swept him off his feet and he tumbled, twisted, and was whipped around by the wave. As the avalanche slowed, it came nearer and nearer to a patch of yellow rocks. The stones became larger and larger until the avalanche stopped and Jack was close enough to realize that they were the tents of his team. There was just one obstacle left. As he approached the edge of the gorge, he could see that no ladders were still bridging the twenty-foot gap. He would have to descend, and ascend again on the other side. He hammered a spike into the permafrost. He tied a rope onto the spike, and clipped himself onto it. Slowly and cautiously he lowered himself into the dark abyss of the canyon. Finally his feet hit solid ice. Turning, he saw another gap, but couldn’t see the end in the dim light. He couldn’t take his chances going down further; he didn’t have enough rope. The only way to cross was to jump. He first took off as much gear as he could. Then he unclipped his rope, took a deep breath, and broke into a full run for the edge of the drop. Leaping into the air with a loud yell, he flew, eating up the distance. He felt himself slowing, and looked down. The blackness was still there. He stretched his legs out in front of him as far as he could, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he began to fall. In one last effort to save himself, he reached his hands out as far as he could, until they ached, and, by the fingertips of both hands, caught a ledge. He pulled
