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
Finding an American Voice
Dong-suk followed his uncle, carefully keeping his pace slow enough for his haal-mu-hee, his grandma. His mother was close behind. The group moved along with hurried steps, adding to the bustle of the sidewalks of Seoul. His hand was gripped tightly around his grandmother’s and he shouldered a backpack. Although his feet were quick to stay in line behind his uncle, his thoughts were slow. He was going to America to be with his father, who had left a year before. He could not wait to see his father, but he was afraid his father would not be proud of him. As he thought, his free hand closed around the black stone in his pocket. He hugged her, begging her not to cry, using all his courage to reassure her The stone had been given to him the night before. There had been a specially cooked meal and his grandmother had told her stories and sang songs. She had driven away all his doubts about America. After dinner, while he was in bed, Grandmother had come in and given him a tiny pebble, her lucky dol, or stone. Dong-suk remembered the way she had smiled, showing her famous dimple on her cheek. Then she had spread out her small, delicate hands, wrapping him in a hug. * * * Abbie banged the front door open and stepped inside without taking off her rollerblades. “Abbie May Kessler, what have I told you about roller-blades in the house?” said her mother as she passed by. Abbie smiled, ducking her head so her mom wouldn’t see. She threw off the rollerblades and then hopped on up to her bedroom as her mom yelled, “And you’d better get started on those book reports of yours. If you haven’t gotten them finished by July, you won’t be going to Gram’s house with us.” Abbie sighed; why had her mom chosen to give her three extra book reports when the school had already given her one! She liked reading and writing, but not when it was four four-page book reports on four different people. * * * They were on the subway for a pretty long time; the airport was a good distance away from where they lived. Dong-suk went over his limited vocabulary of the new language in his mind, trying to pronounce the unfamiliar words exactly right. He hoped that his English would be good enough for America. He glanced up and felt his heart skip a beat. There it was. The bee-hang-gi. Dong-suk pressed his nose against the window and let his eyes dance from one of the huge aircrafts to another. He watched one of the huge birds take off right before his eyes. Airplane, he thought, cleverly using an English word instead of Korean. He smiled at the thought of using an English word; it made him feel important; it made him feel American. Dong-suk’s flight number boomed over the intercom system and he bravely stood up, hoping that his legs would not collapse. He walked with his uncle, grandmother, and mother over to the gate. His grandmother set the little suitcase she had been carrying down and kissed him on the forehead. His mother’s eyes were glossy and red. He hugged her, begging her not to cry, using all his courage to reassure her. Then he faced his uncle. He looked up, staring at his uncle’s face. The soldier, he thought; his uncle had always reminded him of a soldier. He sniffled, but did not cry under his uncle’s stern eye. * * * When the plane had landed, Dong-suk was greeted by his father and a strange man with brown, wavy hair who was tall and skinny. Dong-suk was surprised, even baffled a little. He was expecting to only be met by his father, but he was curious about this man, so it didn’t bother him much. He was so glad to see his father, glad that that long waiting was over. His father looked happy as they hugged and Dong-suk couldn’t stop smiling. He tried to stay awake for the car ride; he wanted to see every little bit of America he could. The signs fascinated him. They were so colorful and he could make out most of the letters. He was content. Slowly, though, his seat felt more and more comfortable and his eyes more and more heavy. * * * Abbie rushed downstairs when she heard the car door slam. She opened the door and flung herself outside. “Hi, Daddy,” she called into the darkness. “Hey, Abbie, honey. Could you come over here and help me?” he answered back from the driveway. When Abbie got there, she was surprised to see two other figures next to the car, one she recognized a little, and one around her own size. She grabbed some bags from the trunk of the car and headed in, toward the steps. She put the luggage down near the door. Her mom was standing there. “Who are those for?” she asked. Abbie shrugged. A few moments later, her father stood there in the doorway, with two people at his side. “I would like you to meet Dong-suk,” he said, looking at the younger person. The other one was Mr. Lee; Abby recognized him. He had started working for her dad when he had arrived in America, last fall. “They will be staying for dinner, since Dong-suk hasn’t eaten anything in a long time and it’s much too late to go out to a restaurant.” Abbie looked at the boy, studying his tan skin and almond-shaped eyes; the boy stared back at her, his expression unreadable. There was a moment’s silence and then his father explained that Dong-suk had come to America to be with him, and that he did not know very much English. Abbie felt a little squeamish as the boy watched her. It wasn’t that she was prejudiced, she hated people like that, but well, this was a different feeling.
Canoeing
It was early in the morning with a nip in the air when my dad and I went canoeing. We were on Boot Lake at Half Moon Trail Resort, going canoeing to see the beaver and any other morning animals. When we were walking down to the canoe everything was calm. I felt peaceful. Fog was rising off the lake, some birds chirped, and everything was still. It was very pretty out. “Look,” my dad whispered We got to the lake and pushed the canoe into the water. Then we climbed in. We sat for a moment. Then my dad whispered, “Paddle silently.” It felt as silent as a classroom during a test. I watched the calm water turn into ripples as I pushed it away with my paddle. I still felt calm and relaxed gliding over to the beaver dam. “Look,” my dad whispered. I looked up in the sky. Spiraling over the trees was a hawk searching for something to eat. Then a loon called out, breaking the silence. The loon was a few feet away. All of a sudden the canoe slowed to a stop. I looked over at the shore. There was a pile of sticks. “The dam,” I exclaimed. My dad held a finger to his lips and pointed to the water. A beaver was swimming toward the dam. I held my breath and watched. SLAP! The beaver suddenly slapped his tail, warning us. Then it sped off into the dam. I let out my breath slowly, feeling safe and calm. The sun was starting to peek over the horizon when under my breath I said, “Wow.” Heather Goff, 9 Eagan, Minnesota Ksenia Vlasov, 11Katonah, New York
A Greater Goode
A Greater Goode by Amy Schor Ferris; Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 2002; $15 Author Amy Schor Ferris’s latest story, A Greater Goode, is a touching novel about Addie Goode, a twelve-year-old, and her experience of friendships and the role that those friendships play in her growing up. The story is written from Addie’s point of view, and she tells about her own experiences, throwing in her own thoughts as she goes along. It is well written with good plots throughout the story and, indeed, is a page-turner. As soon as I opened the book to the prologue and read the first sentence, I was a captive of the book, entrapped in its pages with my eyes glued to the words. I remember it was a Monday, when I started the book. It was in Dr. McDonald’s office. That day I was going to have maxillofacial surgery and I was reading The Vile Village by Lemony Snicket. I was at an awfully boring part, so I got A Greater Goode out of my bag and started reading. When the assistant called my name, I got up with the book in my face, and when we were in the operating room, she said, “Let me take your book, I don’t think you’ll be having time to read.” I screamed, “No no no no no no no no no no!!!!!!!!” At home Mom said, “Dinner’s ready.” I was so involved in the book that I barely even heard her so I didn’t say anything. “Dinner’s ready!” I ignored her. “Let’s eat. Dinner’s ready!!!!” “Just a minute . . .” I muttered without looking up. It was like that for a while until Mom threatened to take the book away and I finally agreed to eat. At night I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep without finding out how the book ended, so I read and read until I closed the book and was satisfied. Just like Addie, I have had one of those weekends where everything is happening in “one full swoop,” as her housekeeper Jessie would say. Whether it’s that you have a piano concert, your best friend is moving away, a major history report is due, and you need to get a new bathing suit, or something that’s a lot more complicated like, in Addie’s case, I’ve always had a good friend to help me get through it all. But I have never really had a best friend for long because a lot of my friends tend to move away. At the moment, I’m the type of kid where I’m friends with everyone, not real good friends, just friends, and a lot of people think that’s great, but I wish that I had a best friend that I could tell everything to like Addie and her best friend Luke. When Addie and Luke saw the creepy guy being hateful toward Rachel and then slapping her in the old abandoned church, Addie and Luke ran away. But when Addie asked Jessie what she would do if she saw something bad happening, she replied, “If I saw something bad happening, I’m not the type to turn my back. If I saw someone being hateful, I’d put my two cents in. I think sometimes walking away from evil is just as evil.” Walking away from evil is just as evil. This is the one phrase in the entire book that inspired me most. Unlike Addie, I’m not the type that can stand up to people that easily and I am the type to just walk away from things. After hearing what Jessie said, I was glad that Addie decided to do something about what she saw. Judging by other experiences that she lived through, I can tell that Addie is a very kind and courageous person who can easily stand up for herself and others. At the same time that I was glad, I was also jealous of her and the ability she had to speak her mind. I would like for Addie to be my friend and have her teach me how to overcome my fears and be like her. I recommend this engaging novel for anyone who has been through tough times and knows that life brings lots of hard and complicated situations. If you’re looking for a good book on friendship, this is the book for you. A Greater Goode is a story that touches the heart, reminding us all that life is not perfect, and, nevertheless, friends will always be there for you when you need them. Martina McLarty, 12El Cerrito, California
A Sour Note
PART ONE: A SOUR NOTE The air was hot and still, like a warm fuzzy blanket that dulled the senses, making everyone pleasantly sleepy. Even bees veered off their straight course and hummed in lazy loops. The air was thick with pollen; but that was not why Sandy sniffled. She ran up her apartment steps by twos up to the fourth floor. She slammed against her door, sobbing, and grabbed her key out of her black backpack. She fumbled in the lock, her eyes blurry. Sandy burst into her house, throwing her backpack onto the ground. Tears coursed down her cheeks in an ever-steady torrent of water. Running into her room, she created eddies of swirling dust. She was sobbing, trying to catch her breath through her clogged nose. Coughing and hacking, Sandy hurled herself upon the bed. “Why?! Why?! Why?!” With each “why” the sadness crescendoed to anger. Turning over onto her back, she winced as the ponytail holder dug into her head. Yelling her fury, she ripped the holder out of her short red hair and fell back again on her green comforter. Her breathing slowed. She sniffed, but was calmer now. In a small voice she again asked herself, “Why?” Her orange tabby, Fireball, uncurled, stretched, and showed his teeth in a large yawn. He walked onto Sandy, purring sentiments. “I didn’t do it, Fireball. Why would he say that I did it?” “Oof,” Sandy grunted weakly. She raised up a hand and started stroking the furry friend. Purring contentedly, he padded in a few circles and settled down on her stomach. He always knows when I need comfort the most, Sandy thought fuzzily. Maybe it’s instinct. Talking to her cat, Sandy sighed, “I didn’t do it, Fireball. Why would he say that I did it? I barely even know Colin. I would have never done that to anything, much less the band instruments. Mr. Foley knows how much I love the band. Doesn’t he?” Her eyes moistened slightly. Memories of what she had seen flipped through her head like a slide show. A broken window, the glass shards askew. Trombones bent in half with their bells crumpled. Cases everywhere, open with instruments spilling out like so many marbles. Tubas with dents the size of saucers in their delicate brass: ruined, out of commission. Mr. Foley’s face as he looked at the accused. In that look Sandy remembered sadness and anger, but most of all, disappointment. Sandy’s pale face sported freckles and scared green eyes that glistened with tears. Those eyes widened in a sudden realization. “And they’re going to make Mom pay! She can’t afford it! She can’t even afford a car much less so many instruments!” Her eyes looked downward. Almost instinctively, she petted Fireball with ferocity. “We can’t afford it.” Sandy jumped up with resolution in her eyes, shoving the cat off. “And gosh darn it! We’re not going to have to try and afford it! I’m going to prove my innocence! I have three days to prove my innocence and by all that’s good and holy I’ll do it if it’s the last thing I do!” Sandy strode over to her computer. Fireball crossly flicked an ear at Sandy, then loped over to a window seat. He jumped up and settled in the cushions. Unnoticing, Sandy flumped down in her computer chair and pressed a button. The screen began to glow, beep, click and whir. Sandy glared at the computer impatiently; if it made any more noises it would moo. She swirled around in her chair so she faced her cat, who washed himself contentedly. Sandy started explaining her ideas and thoughts to her cat. The words came out, bubbling over like an eager spring. “Mom will be back in five days, and it’ll take, hmm, about three days for the suspension papers to process through. So I have only three days to prove my innocence. Less, actually. About two days. I have to prove my innocence! It’s my only hope! I need a list of suspects: people in the band who don’t play tuba, baritone sax, French horn, trombones, or tenor sax, considering those were the instruments that were destroyed.” Her brows knit furiously. “What happened that night? Lessee. PTA meeting at the MPR. Nope, too early. When Mr. Foley announced the incident he said it would have been between ten PM and five AM, when the janitors weren’t there.” She gnawed her lip. Then her eyes widened. “The football game at the high school! Duh! She slapped her forehead. Hearing the first couple of notes of the Jaws theme song, she spun her chair around. Grabbing the mouse, she guided her shark cursor over the Jaws desktop to the Word icon. She double-clicked with familiar ease. The computer chugged and clicked as it opened the word-processing program. (She knew almost everyone in the band. That gave her the knowledge needed to make a decent suspect list.) Being a percussionist also gave her a pretty good view of the classroom and anyone who was yelled or glared at, since she was in the back. Sandy started typing the names of the band members who had older brothers or sisters in the high school. As a second thought Sandy typed the names of those people’s friends who may have gone with them. By the time the document was ready to be printed she had about twenty kids’ names typed in front of her eyes. Clicking the print button, Sandy noticed the time: 9:45—time to get ready for bed. * * * PART TWO: TUNING THE NOTE It was yet another beautiful summer day as Sandy trudged up her apartment steps. She flipped open her mailbox and took out the letter inside. Junk. She sighed and let one shoulder of her backpack slide off. With a little twist, Sandy swung the backpack to her front and opened the smaller pocket. She wiggled her hand in it, feeling for her key. Triumphantly, she
Sable
The full moon shone lazily through the drifting night clouds, casting barely any light on the boarded warehouses slumping along the empty streets. Through the dank alleys, an ebony shadow slipped unperturbed, defining the true meaning of discreet. For the skinny, jet-black cat, this was high hunting time. Any vermin she saw or heard she would instantly pounce on, swallowing the little creature in one satisfied gulp. Her amazing cat senses were on in full power, alert to the max. Even the faintest rustling would point her directly to her dinner. Suddenly, she stopped, waiting. An anxious mouse darted out of the rank-smelling garbage can, skittering into the deserted street. The cat silently followed, slinking along the ground, haunches poised and ready. She anticipated the pounce, right when that mouse stopped for just one second . . . SKREEECH! A roaring blow sent the regal cat flying through the air, and plummeting with a hard thump onto the cold, unwelcoming sidewalk. A searing pain instantly spread through her leg, and up her thigh, causing the stranded cat to cry out. Panicking, she tried to stand, but her useless leg slipped right from under her, settling in an unnatural position away from her body. Once again, she tried to flee; once again, she failed. A slamming car door echoed throughout the otherwise silent neighborhood. Heavy boots tromped over to where the woeful cat lay. The tip of one of the boots kicked the cat over on her side, none too gently. The ebony cat continued to lie there, scared and hurting. Two saffron, panther-like eyes stared solemnly back at Marda A voice sluggishly slurred with alcohol called back to a shadow in the car, “Jist anotha cat.” “Whatever. Let’s drive.” The boots receded, and the car door slammed once again. Squealing tires raced at an intense speed around the corner . . . gone. The cat was deserted; alone and forgotten. * * * Marda Adam wanted a cat. But as she stared through the glass panels of the animal shelter, none of them clicked. The kittens were adorable, batting their tiny paws against the walls of the encasement, staring up at you with their round, charming eyes. The adult felines were beautiful, grooming their furs, lying regally draped over their beds. But none of them were right. “Ma’am, may I help you?” Marda stuffed the car keys that she had been fiddling with back into her worn purse. She nervously tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear. “Um, yes. Actually, I’m looking for a cat.” The volunteer gestured around her to all the cats in the room. Marda gave a strained smile. “No, well, you see . . . they just aren’t . . . right.” The volunteer brushed a stray cat hair off her blouse, which was decorated with smiling cartoonish felines. In a bubbly, experienced voice, she said, “Yes, of course. I can help you if you can tell me what kind of cat you want. Like, what kind you could cope with. For instance, would you prefer a hyper one or a calm one?” “Well, it’s for my son . . .” “Ah, is he very active, or does he like to sit on the couch and read?” Marda glanced anxiously down, then up. The lady looked on patiently. “He, uh, likes to . . . read.” The lady bowed her head. “Then I guess that would conclude that a calmer cat would probably be your best bet.” Marda nodded. “This way?” The volunteer turned, expecting Marda to follow. Marda obeyed. Down the smooth-tiled hallway there lay a door marked Special Needs. The volunteer pushed on the door, holding it open. Marda didn’t know what to expect. Special Needs? This ought to be interesting, she thought sarcastically. She had had enough special needs in the recent months to last a lifetime. She braced herself for what was to come. As the door swooshed shut behind her, Marda’s eyes darted around the room. Pairs of wide, unblinking cat eyes stared down at the newcomers from rows of permanently stacked pens. The worn cat beds vividly adorned with solid, bright colors made a meager attempt to lighten up the room. The volunteer brushed past Marda, beckoning her over to a cage. “This here is Bella. She’s a sweetie, aren’t you honey?” she cooed, pushing her fingers through the bars to stroke the gleaming white fur of the cat. Marda stooped down to look closer. “I don’t see what’s wrong with her,” she remarked bluntly. “She’s blind.” “Oh.” It was then that Marda noticed the glassy, almost colorless eyes. The volunteer straightened up, pointing to the cage on top of Bella, that held a large, tawny tabby. “And this big guy is Julius. He has heart complications.” And so it went. Two rows of cats with special needs went by, until Marda noticed a small kitty, nestled snugly into its worn bed. “What about this little guy?” Marda asked, stooping down for the umpteenth time. At the sound of her voice, the cat’s regal head was lifted quickly from its resting position. Two saffron, panther-like eyes stared solemnly back at Marda, contrasting with the feline’s rich, black fur. “That little guy is actually a girl,” the volunteer took her place beside Marda, “named Ebony. Or Ebb, as we like to call her. We think she had an owner sometime in her life because she’s so calm.” “I see.” “We had to have her left hind leg amputated, and we recently learned she tests positive for FIV. She’s had a hard time being adopted. I’ve seen people love a cat, and decide to take it home, only to change their minds when they hear the kitty has FIV.” “FIV . . . what exactly is that?” “Feline Immunodeficiency Virus. Kitty AIDS. There is a good-sized possibility she could live a long, healthy life though. Why, my friend has a kitty who’s practically twenty, and has FIV!” “I see,”
Forget Me Not
For most of my life, I have not had any pets. My brother and I are allergic to anything with fur. Then one spring, we found our first praying mantis, which changed our lives forever. For several more summers, we enjoyed playing with these unique creatures. One particular summer, a new batch of baby praying mantises was expected. Soon we found they had hatched. One praying mantis caught my eye. She was a female and was very large for a praying mantis. We liked her right away and named her Forget Me Not. I named her this because we will never forget her and this name was also the name of a flower. Although we loved all our praying mantises, Forget Me Not was our favorite. She grew so used to us that she would climb all over us. She was the tamest of all our praying mantises, and she and I formed a special bond. Melissa holding Forget Me Not Forget Me Not would climb willingly onto me. She was as light as a feather. Her prickly claws would stick to me when she walked on me. When she was on me, I could forget all my worries and troubles because I was in a world of my own. She was as green as a meadow, and as brown as a tree trunk. She would stare comfortingly in my eyes. It was like she was trying to tell me everything was going to be OK. Soon it grew to be mating time, and Forget Me Not mated. At the same time, it grew cold out. A few days later, we took Forget Me Not in the house, because we were hoping she would live longer. Amazingly, Forget Me Not laid her first egg case on September 11, which gave my family hope after this tragic day. We played with and cuddled Forget Me Not. Through our gentle hands inside the warm house, she laid three silky egg cases. Then she grew to be very weak. She could barely walk or lift her prickly claws. We saw pain in her sweet eyes. We played with her and loved her. With tears in our eyes, we realized there was nothing we could do for our beloved pet, except to love her. Soon she died in our caring arms. Even though we could not prolong our dear pet’s life, and we could not change Mother Nature, we will always remember Forget Me Not. Next year, we will have her children to raise. We knew from the first moment we saw Forget Me Not that she was special. She was so gentle, patient and loving. Forget Me Not will never be forgotten. She will always have a special place in our hearts. Melissa Merte, 10Wappingers Falls, New York
Camellia the Bald
Camellia the Bald by E. W. Zrudlo; Coastal Carolina Press: Wilmington, North Carolina, 2001; $9.95 If someone asks Jon o’Gates a question, he usually talks too much and tends to digress, which means he gives unnecessary information and gets off the subject a lot. Jon o’Gates is a character in a fascinating book called Camellia the Bald. I can relate to Jon o’Gates because sometimes at school, when I’m asked a question, I’ll give an answer and then tell a story about something I did or experienced that has little to do with the question. Once in fifth grade, my class was discussing a book and soon, because of me, the whole class was itching to tell their own dog stories because I told mine. Jon o’Gates also likes to wander off, daydream, and frolic about before doing what he’s supposed to be doing. He puts off until tomorrow what he could be doing today. So do I. My second-grade teacher once said that she wanted to “light a fire under me.” Sometimes when I’m stuck on a homework assignment, I’ll inch off my chair and go into the living room to play piano or watch TV. Well, back to the book. I have two questions for you. What would you do if you were sent away to live with your aunt, a real-live witch, and while exploring her house found an entrance to another world by climbing through a plain old mailbox? Would you be happy, scared, excited? Well, that’s what happened to young Susan Camellia Cardiff, the main character in Camellia the Bald. She found herself lost in a place she didn’t know existed. To make matters worse, she was supposedly the new queen and, therefore, it was her job to slay Glydfen—the almighty, merciless, firebreathing dragon who flew around terrorizing everyone and everything in sight. The land Susan discovered was called Ebal. Ebal was a “queendom,” not a kingdom. It was called this because only women could rule. Most adventure stories have one hero. This one had three. They were Susan, Jon o’Gates, and Piotr. Susan was a brave, understanding girl. At home, her family thought that her mother was going crazy. She would scream and hit Susan for no reason. Susan went to her aunt’s house to get away from home, and almost forgot all her pain and suffering. In Ebal, she went on a dangerous and daring adventure to the Old One. Jon o’Gates went with her as a guide. Together they ventured through dark forests, murky lakes, and even broken stars. With every step of the way, the hikers discovered more about themselves. By working together and trusting one another, they restored peace to Ebal. That reminds me of my soccer team. Have you ever heard the expression, “There’s no I in team”? It’s true. You can’t win a game alone. It’s a team effort. You have to trust the defense to shield the goal, the goalie to stop any shots, and the offense to communicate, dribble up the field, and score some goals. But I’m digressing again. Jon o’Gates was my favorite character. Not only does he give too much information that is unnecessary and off topic like me, but he is always willing to help and is a loyal friend. He could cheer Camellia up when she was scared or sad. If it weren’t for his calmness and quick thinking around the man-eating dragon, he and Susan wouldn’t have survived their long and frightening adventure. Piotr was a gruff old man who spent his life cooped up at home studying an old book about the rules and traditions of Ebal called The Histories. Piotr helps the two travelers on their long journey and gives them numerous tips that later come in handy. In the end, Susan and Jon teach Piotr how to have fun again, and enjoy life once more. Their adventure reminds me of when I moved to my new house from another town. At first, it was scary. Eventually, I relaxed and started to have fun exploring and leaping in and out of all our new rooms. Then I met new people, saw new places, and discovered new opportunities all waiting for me to arrive. There, I did it again. I started off talking about a great adventure with a dragon, and ended up talking about moving. How did I do that? Jessica Sashihara, 10Martinsville, New Jersey
The Clown Who Found a Frown
Mikon smoothed on the creamy white paint. It was cool to the touch, and felt like powder on his cheeks when it dried. Giving a smile in the mirror, he squirted red paint onto his palette. Ever so carefully he picked up his brush and began to paint a thin line around his mouth, nose and eyes. Gently he pulled a yellow lipstick out of his pocket and smoothed it onto his lips. He picked up a red wig, a jacket with a large star on the back and a pair of blue shoes, that squeaked when you stepped on the toe. There came a purr from behind him. He turned to face the direction from which the noise came. There on the floor, his tail swishing like a flag on a March day, was Kipper, Mikon’s better half. Kipper was an Asian leopard. He was called that because he was born and raised in captivity in Asia, and then sent to a zoo in New York. Kipper had been part of Mikon’s act for three years now. At the zoo they were going to put him down because he had a highly contagious virus that seemed fatal, but Mikon saved him. He bought him off. Yeah, he was still making payments on him, but he was worth it. Mikon was able to train him and make him part of the act in New York, and he’d been a shadow ever since. Mikon squatted down and fondled his ears. He gave a “thank-you” purr and jumped onto his front paws to do a headstand. Mikon clapped and whispered in his ear, “Now do the trick just like we rehearsed it; don’t ad lib, ‘K?” There on the floor, his tail swishing like a flag on a March day, was Kipper Kipper understood. He turned, squatted and pounced toward the wall. Standing up for the whole world to behold his skill, Kipper displayed a mouse he had just caught, and prowled out the big orange curtain separating Mikon’s dressing room from the big top. “Blech!” Mikon gagged. “That’ll definitely have them rolling in the aisles.” Opening day at a circus was never easy. New town, new faces, new funny bones to tickle. Every one was different. You get used to one town, then you’re leaving to go and get used to another one. The circus was a never-ending cycle. To Mikon, the only thing he enjoyed more than rehearsing a routine with Kipper was performing a routine with Kipper, making children laugh. To make children laugh was his lot in life. Mikon snapped out of his daydream and slipped a flower into his coat lapel. Slipping out of the orange curtain he signaled the ringleader that he was ready. He waved to Kipper on the other side of the ring. He pawed at the ground to gesture a reply. Mikon heard over the loudspeaker, “And now the amazing Zonko the Clown, and his confoundingly cute, hairball of a partner, Kipper the Asian Leopard.” At the sound of this the crowd’s laughter immediately died down and the roar and applause increased tenfold. He felt invigoratingly happy, and proud to be a clown. Mikon made a mad dash for his juggling rings. It was time to start the show. The sound of the crowd increased another tenfold as Mikon rolled out on his little unicycle, and began juggling his gray pins. He watched the other door intently, any moment now Kipper would roll out. He was right, because out he rolled. The crowd whooped and hollered. Kipper was coming closer. At that moment, something dreadfully horrible happened. The ball that Kipper was rolling on popped, sending him soaring into the air. He collided with the gate of the tiger’s cage. The lock ruptured open and the tigers began to escape. The crowd screamed and began to flood out all of the exits. Five minutes later they were pillaging hot-dog vendors and looting the ice-cream stand. Mikon spotted a group of them hemming Kipper in. They were surrounding him. Mikon grabbed a hefty club, belonging to the strong man, and began to beat the tigers away from Kipper. One of the tigers came around back of Mikon and brought his claws down on Mikon’s shoulder. Mikon gave a yelp of pain, which equally matched the ones coming from Kipper’s direction. It was too late. The screams coming from inside the circle of tigers were horrific. Yowling probably could have been heard all over the town. In the end, Kipper’s lifeless body lay limp on the floor of the big top. Mikon was crushed. Literally. His broken body and spirit were ordered bedridden by the circus doctor. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t sleep, could- n’t eat. He was hopeless. The circus manager, Ronan, had to do something about it. He was losing money, and losing it fast. Without Zonko, the whole show was a laughing stock. Ronan figured it was time to give Zonko a break. “But Ronan, I can get better, I’ve just gone through a rough patch, I’ll get better,” he repeated the second time. “I know, Micki,” he called him this, often, “but the circus is really suffering with you not on stage. It’ll be better if you go home to the farm and relax.” “Relax?” Mikon questioned amiably, trying to keep his composure, “On a farm??” “Look Micki, it’s almost Christmas and . . .” Ronan paused, thinking of a sweet way to seal the deal, “. . . if you want I’ll keep your space hot, until you get better.” Keeping a space hot meant that if and when Mikon felt better and wanted to come back, his old billing and stage name would be waiting. “But . . .” “No buts, kid; now go and get your stuff ready. Hank’ll help you pack. Have a holly, jolly Christmas or whatever.” Ronan turned around and went to sit at his desk and began to mumble to himself. “Oh yeah,
Canoeing
It was early in the morning with a nip in the air when my dad and I went canoeing. We were on Boot Lake at Half Moon Trail Resort, going canoeing to see the beaver and any other morning animals. When we were walking down to the canoe everything was calm. I felt peaceful. Fog was rising off the lake, some birds chirped, and everything was still. It was very pretty out. “Look,” my dad whispered We got to the lake and pushed the canoe into the water. Then we climbed in. We sat for a moment. Then my dad whispered, “Paddle silently.” It felt as silent as a classroom during a test. I watched the calm water turn into ripples as I pushed it away with my paddle. I still felt calm and relaxed gliding over to the beaver dam. “Look,” my dad whispered. I looked up in the sky. Spiraling over the trees was a hawk searching for something to eat. Then a loon called out, breaking the silence. The loon was a few feet away. All of a sudden the canoe slowed to a stop. I looked over at the shore. There was a pile of sticks. “The dam,” I exclaimed. My dad held a finger to his lips and pointed to the water. A beaver was swimming toward the dam. I held my breath and watched. SLAP! The beaver suddenly slapped his tail, warning us. Then it sped off into the dam. I let out my breath slowly, feeling safe and calm. The sun was starting to peek over the horizon when under my breath I said, “Wow.” Heather Goff, 9 Eagan, Minnesota Ksenia Vlasov, 11Katonah, New York
Snowmen
Winter is the grain of sand in an hourglass falling from one end into the other, but not at either. Winter is the dark god dressed in black coming to clasp his tight, choking hands on a blade of grass or a maple leaf. Winter, in Michigan, is snow. And thus it snowed. Blinding whiteness stretched as far as the eye could see. Sunlight reflected off the many facets of these crystals of ice, each snowflake like a work of art. Indeed, it seemed like a winter wonderland, the realm of every child’s dreams. I sat cross-legged next to the porch window that provided a view of the landscape around me. I had long since become used to snow such as this, but it never failed to take my breath away. I heard my mother groan as she saw the driveway covered in two feet of snow. By now, all the roads from here to Kalamazoo would be completely submerged under the same whiteness. It would not be a fun day for driving. She sat there quietly, the annoyance on her face suddenly turning to a mixture of regret and serenity. Her eyes looked at everything yet saw nothing, as if drifting off to a world of her own or remembering long-lost memories. “I wonder if there are snowmen out there today,” she mused. “What?” I asked. What on earth was she talking about? Of course there were snowmen. All little kids built snowmen. But it was uncharacteristic of my mother to care about things like that. Indeed, it seemed like a winter wonderland, the realm of every child’s dreams “Snowmen,” she replied quietly. She seemed to go into a trance. “I remember the first time I met the snowmen . . .” I raised my eyebrows. She met snowmen? This was something that I wanted to hear. “Go on,” I coaxed, interested. “You met snowmen, and then . . .” I gestured for her to continue. It turned out that she was more than eager to tell her story. Sipping a cup of hot chocolate, she began. “It was a winter just like this one. As far as the eye could see, there was only snow. Miles and miles of endless whiteness that engulfed everything. The traffic on the roads was so terrible that it practically drove me nuts. Back then, your father went on business trips often. One day, a phone call came from the airport. It was your father calling for me to pick him up. “There had been a blizzard, and everyone had been locked up in their houses for practically a week. Since then, it had been snowing continuously. Though the snow-plowers worked twenty-four hours a day, the road conditions were far from good. The worst part was that I could not see clearly. The wind howled and brought whirling snowflakes onto the windshield, hitting the glass at fifty miles an hour. Though I knew that there were a couple of cars in front and behind me, it was as if I was separated from them and in my own little realm of nightmares. “Suddenly, the car stopped moving. The engine was still wheezing, but the vehicle just would not budge. It had just gotten stuck on a slope, wheels unable to move through two feet of snow. I felt a terrible frustration well up inside of me. I had to get to the airport soon! How was I supposed to do that when I couldn’t even drive? “I heard a sound. Looking, I saw someone knocking on my window. It was a couple dressed in heavy overcoats and wrapped in scarves. They had obviously been out in the snow for a long time, for they were covered in white. Moving clumsily due to their heavy clothing, they truly seemed to be snowmen. “The woman who had knocked smiled warmly. Her husband, a middle-aged man with black-framed glasses, asked if I needed help. I nodded fervently. + “The two went to the rear of the car and began to push with all their might. Despite the harsh weather, they did not pause. In a matter of minutes, my car was functioning again. I wanted to thank them, but they were nowhere to be seen. “Remembering your father waiting for me at the airport, I rushed to the center of the city. Once there, I excitedly blurted the whole story to him. I also expressed the fact that I was eternally grateful, but that I regretted not being able to tell them thanks. When he heard this, he smiled. ‘I know exactly how to thank them,’ he said. “The next Saturday, we walked up to a snowy mountain slope through which a single narrow road winded. It was freezing cold, but the warmth in our hearts was enough to keep us sustained for a lifetime. “By and by, a car drove by and got stuck in the snow. I knocked on the window and asked the woman inside if she needed help. She nodded. We went to the back of the car and pushed her out of snow. “Once she had left, I turned excitedly to your father. ‘She was one of the snowmen,’ I told him, proud of my discovery. “He looked skeptical. ‘How would you know that?’ he asked. “Because of her warm smile,’ I replied. Seeing that there was another car that needed help, he did not reply. “He had glasses; he was a snowman too!’ he exclaimed, teasing. I did not find it a bit funny. “That day, we helped many people get across the rough path so they could go to where others needed them. And I knew that this was the best way of all I could repay the snowmen that rescued me.” My mother stopped talking, the story having ended. An hour had gone by since she started, and the main roads were miraculously cleared of snow. “Did you ever find the original snowmen?” I asked, curious. “No,
No Mercy
In school, kids are always hearing horror stories about teachers, principals, custodians, and lunch ladies, but what about bus drivers? Back in 1999 Edd Phoenix lived three days he would never forget. School had only been in session two months when Edd’s regular bus driver, Mr. Huffler, announced one Monday afternoon that he would be out of town the next three days. “Who is the sub?” Manty Totem, a friend of Edd’s, blurted. “I believe it will be Mr. Mercer,” remarked Mr. Huffler. The children gasped, their mouths as wide as moon craters, their eyes as big as oranges. “Oh, no! Not No Mercy Mercer!” they shouted. “I know you have heard dreadful rumors about Mr. Mercer, but you can’t always believe what you hear,” said Mr. Huffier. “He’s actually a very pleasant man. Just remember: be on your best behavior.” Tuesday morning, as Edd crawled out of his water bed, his first thought was, Is No Mercy Mercer really as mean as they say? While Edd showered, dressed, and ate breakfast, No Mercy Mercer kept flashing on and off like a lightbulb in his mind. On his way out the door to catch the bus, his mom reminded Edd, “Did you feed Friskus?” Immediately, he dropped his backpack by the front door, dashed to the garage, and scooped Friskus a bowl of Kitty Chow. Then Edd sprinted toward the bus stop. The bus was already waiting at the end of the street. Behind the wheel sat a man who resembled an army sergeant. You could tell by his bulging biceps that he lifted weights. His gray hair was buzzed all the way down to the scalp. Instead of a uniform, he wore a sleeveless muscle shirt and blue jeans. Covering his eyes was a pair of aviator sunglasses, like the ones Tom Cruise wore in the movie Top Gun. Mr. Mercer was large and in charge. The bus was already waiting at the end of the street As the doors to the bus opened, No Mercy Mercer looked him square in the eye and growled, “About time, son. Don’t keep me waiting tomorrow.” After being lectured for the ten-second delay, Edd quickly sat down next to Manty, who was tightly grasping a Hot Wheels car in his right hand. “Manty, don’t get any wise ideas. I think we just need to lay low.” “He’ll never know who threw it,” snickered Manty. Just as the bus was coming to a stop in front of the school, another boy encouraged Manty to throw the car. “Yeah, I think I should too,” Manty chuckled. “That will make that scrawny old No Mercy Mercer regret the day he ever subbed on this bus.” Manty swiveled around in his seat to grin at Edd. Edd was staring upward. “He’s behind me, isn’t he?” murmured Manty. “Yep. He sure is,” Edd whispered. Manty spun in the direction of the six-foot bus driver to find that Edd wasn’t joking. Taking the metal car out of Manty’s hand, Mr. Mercer said, “Not a good idea, son. If I have any more trouble out of you, you’ll be visiting the principal’s office.” Manty looked like he wanted to dig a burrow and hide. Edd could see that Manty’s heart was almost pounding out of his chest. His heart was running like a generator. Even though Mr. Mercer wasn’t talking to Edd, he was still scared stiff and shaking like a leaf. Finally they reached school. Edd was never happier to enter a school building in his entire life. All day long all he could think of was boarding the bus of doom that afternoon. Of course, the school day went by quicker than a blink of an eye. Ring, ring, ring—there was the horrible sound of the bell, telling him it was time to venture to the bus and No Mercy Mercer. “After this morning’s incident, this is a no-talk afternoon!” the sub demanded loudly. All of the children were petrified and quiet as mice. Edd decided that for the next two days he would be sick. The next morning Edd’s mom went into his bedroom to wake him up. He rolled over and whimpered, “I don’t feel so good.” She walked over to his bed and felt his forehead. “Well, honey, you don’t feel hot, but let’s take your temperature to be safe,” she said. When the thermometer read 98.6 degrees, she urged, “You don’t have a fever. What’s wrong? Has something happened at school?” Hesitating a few seconds, Edd answered, “No.” “Edd, I know when something’s wrong. Usually you can’t wait to go to school,” said his mom. “What happened?” “It’s our totally horrible bus driver!” he admitted. “Mr Huffier? You love Mr. Huffier!” Edd’s mom exclaimed. “No, not Mr. Huffier,” said Edd, “the substitute for the next couple of days!” Edd’s mom bent over and listened to his story. Then she replied, “Edd, you need to go to school. You’re not sick. He’s probably not as bad as you say. You just need to get to know him. Remember, you can’t always judge a book by its cover.” Reluctantly, Edd crawled out of bed and dressed, dreading to face a duplicate of the previous day. He rushed eating his sausage and biscuit, and left ten minutes early. When the bus doors opened, Mr. Mercer commented, “Thanks for being on time today, son.” Edd nodded, then searched for a seat. Noticing that Manty had a grin plastered from ear to ear, Edd chose an empty seat. Whatever Manty was up to, he didn’t want any part of it. Five minutes down the road, Manty was standing in his seat. Edd dropped his head and sputtered, “When is he ever going to learn?” No Mercy Mercer stared into the visor mirror and ordered Manty to sit back down. Manty obeyed, but just as the bus was merging back into traffic, Manty changed over to Edd’s seat. Edd shook his head and moaned, “Why me?” SCREEEECH!!! The
