“Carmen!” Dad’s voice rang, crisp with excitement. “Come look what came in today!” Half-heartedly, I swung off the couch and walked heavily to the door. I groaned as I stepped out of the air-conditioning into the stifling summer heat. I jogged to the corral where Dad stood and leaned on the fence next to him. I followed to where his finger pointed and saw what all the commotion was about. It was a huge black stallion, sides lathered in sweat. He stood silently in a corner of the paddock. Other than the occasional flick of his tail to ward off pesky flies, he was still. There was nothing to do but run forever, racing the shadow of the hawk to the end of eternity “Isn’t he a beauty,” Dad sighed, leaning over the fence rail. I nodded and leaned forward too, holding out my palm. “C’mere boy, lemme get a good look at you,” I called. He whipped his head toward me, eyes wide and alert. He started a quick trot toward me. “Carmen, NO!!” shouted Dad, yanking me to the ground. Terrified, I watched as the horse let into a wild gallop and smashed into the fence. He reared, hooves flailing, and cantered back to his corner, where he resumed whisking flies. But his image was stuck in my mind. The fire in his eyes! His nostrils had been flared so wide that I could almost picture smoke coming out of them like some sort of dragon-horse. That got me thinking. Dragon-horse . . . Horse-dragon .. . “Draco,” I whispered, hoisting myself up. “What?” Dad asked. “Draco,” I said louder. “His name’s Draco.” Dad chuckled and said, “Well, it’s time I got your Draco into his stall.” He swung a halter over his shoulder and headed slowly toward Draco, murmuring soft words. Finally, he got close enough to place a hand on his quivering side. Suddenly, Draco reared, sending Dad sprawling on the ground. He galloped madly around the pasture as Dad escaped. “Th-that horse,” he gasped, “is a live one!” Later that night, I came out to the pasture with some carrots and a halter. There was Draco, silently brooding in his corner. I leapt deftly over the fence and stood still. He regarded me warily, but lost interest as I stood still. I put the carrots in my palm and held them out to him. As we stood in the fading orange sunset, my mind began to wander. Before I knew it, I felt warm breath on my fingertips. Draco had come for the carrots. As he crunched, I slowly placed a hand on his forelock. He brought his eyes up to meet mine, and instantly I felt a trust form between us. Carefully, I slid the halter over his head and led him to the stalls. He stomped his foot on the wooden floor, shuffled through the hay, and gave a defeated sigh. I patted his side and whispered, “Spirit, boy, spirit.” * * * “I don’t know how you do it, Carmen!” Dad shook his head in wonder as I rode Draco bareback around the paddock. I had spent a lot of time with the horse and he had learned very quickly. I had a feeling that perhaps he had belonged to one of our neighbors, and was a runaway. As it became clear that I could handle him in the paddock, I decided to run him outside on the prairie. I chose a strong bridle and led him out, but his confusion was clear when I began to trot him toward the open prairie. But with every step away I could feel his mind clearing and his muscles coiled to readiness. Once we were out from the ranch, I let the reins go slack. He stopped completely for a moment before he realized what I was doing. How he flew! And for once, I saw the world through Draco’s eyes. The wind rippled the Indian grass, looking like the waves of an ocean. The sweet scent of the prairie rose wafted on a light breeze. And there was nothing to do but run forever, racing the shadow of the hawk to the end of eternity. I leaned eagerly against his neck, wind whipping my face, and forgot everything . . . Suddenly, a picture of the ranch flashed across my mind. We were far from home, now. I pulled the reins, but he strained forward. As I struggled to pull back, he fought for his head. In a last effort, I called softly, “Draco, we have to go home.” I gulped. “Well, my home, anyway. I can see it’s not yours, and never will be.” He slowed to a trot, then a walk. I turned him slowly toward the ranch. A change came over him the next day. His eyes had a glazed-over look; their old fire was gone. He barely acknowledged me, just kept his eyes on the window opened to the prairie. * * * A black horse, not my Draco any longer, stood silhouetted against the sun The next day, he Stopped eating. Worriedly; Dad called the vet, but I knew he wouldn’t find anything wrong. Draco was dying of a broken spirit. I went to talk to Dad. “No, no, absolutely not!” Dad said. “But Dad!!” I cried. “Carmen, no! It is simply out of the question! Those horses are income for you, me and your mother! We are not letting him go!” I turned around to the door, tears in my eyes, when he said, “Carmen, wait.” I turned halfway. “I forbid you to go into Draco’s stall until after he’s sold.” I turned to stare, not believing what I heard. “I hate you!” I screamed. “I hate you, I hate you!” I tore down the hallway, slamming and locking my door. A few seconds later, Dad was pounding on it, yelling, “Carmen, open the door this instant! Carmen!” I ignored him, turned my stereo on full
Swinging
She’s not the type that jumps off swings But clings to the rusty chains and Drags her feet in the wood chips to stop, Squealing when I tease her by Twisting close on my swing I watch her dismount and Step gingerly away: I pump my legs and lean Backwards way way Way back so far my long hair sweeps The ground and I look Behind me and the world’s upside down Down down, or am I upside down Then swinging up-up-up again and swooping Downwards almost crashing To earth but I don’t, I just swing up-up-up Again and I can see nothing but The sky above me and the chains Go slack and I am weightless for one Lifting second, not sitting in the swing but on Sky then forwards backwards Forwards it’s all the same, just Glorious movement, twirling and Tumbling around and a Round, side side over–watch The poles!–and Circling again and again. dizzy dizzy dizzy then I Realize the only thing preventing me From flying is the chains so I JUMP, leaving the unimportant Swing behind in one soft blurred instant, Jumping off swing and into sky, Just sky and soaring Off into air, only air Around me, lifting me up-up-up And I wonder, is this flying? Nothingness becomes Everything around me air is All I am Touching Then ground is here, under me, And I am running, one foot then The next, helpless to stop, can’t Stop, just running. I Stagger, head still, but World spinning. She tells me I’m Crazy, but I know better, She is the crazy one-not jumping off swings Denying herself that air-feeling The instant when you lift off The swing and just lift, rise- You haven’t fallen yet, you’re Going up-up-up and being Dizzy doesn’t matter You are all Air And sun in your eyes and Life becomes nothing but Simple happiness. Nicole Guenther, 12Vancouver, Washington
Flight to Freedom
Flight to Freedom by Ana Veciana-Suarez; Orchard Books: New York, 2002; $16.95 Flight to Freedom by Ana Veciana-Suarez is amazing right from the start. It is definitely a page-turner and will keep you reading for hours. When I first received the book, I wasn’t sure I would enjoy reading it. I had second thoughts about reviewing it because I usually don’t like journal-style writing. I started on page one and in a flash I changed my mind. This book is a daily journal belonging to a young lady named Yara Garcia. This book takes you through the easy, rough, happy and sad times of Yara that take place while she and her family are going through the process of exile. This “almost thirteen years old” girl tells us about her home life in Cuba and her days in La Escuela al Campo, a communist training camp. She tells us about her flight to America, her new life in America, and the different feelings and obstacles she faces every day of her new world. This story felt so realistic to me because my dad and his family went through the same thing. They came from Cuba to America in 1961. My dad was only eighteen months old and doesn’t remember much, but my aunts do and they share their stories. My feelings toward this book are natural. At some points I was laughing, celebrating or being proud of Yara’s actions, but at other times I was crying, scared, or upset. For example, when she talked about how her abuelo said, “I may never live to see my home country again,” I was sad, feeling upset for him. I couldn’t even imagine not being able to see my hometown or country again. Another example is when her abuelo died of a heart attack. I was crying very much because my abuelo from Cuba also died of a heart attack. I was scared thinking that it must mean something, but I just let it go. Nightmares that night? Oh yes!! When I hear about the cruelness of Fidel Castro and the horrible times the Cuban people went through, I think how lucky I am to live in a free country. I am able to do, say, and act in whichever way I want. I feel sorry for the Cubans and hope that one day Castro will come to his senses and let them live freely! I love this book and not only will I recommend it to my friends and family, I will read it over and over again! Joelle Waksman, 11Cooper City, Florida
Virginia Lee Burton: A Life in Art
Virginia Lee Burton: A Life in Art by Barbara Elleman; Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 2002; $20 I can still remember when my dad read Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel to me. In fact, my dad remembers when his mother read Mike Mulligan to him. Did you ever wonder what was the story behind the acknowledgment to Dickie Birkenbush at the bottom of a page in Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel? Have you ever wondered if there was a real Mike? I did and found the answers in the book Virginia Lee Burton: A Life in Art. If you are curious, read the book to find the answers in the first chapter. Virginia Lee Burton: A Life in Art is Burton’s biography that describes her creativity and lifestyle. Energetic and amiable, Virginia kept busy from dawn to dusk, raising sheep, vegetables and two children on her New England farm. Abandoned by her mother as a teenager, she found emotional strength from her artwork, as well as her skill as a dancer. Burton created a home environment that promoted her artistic fervor, surrounding herself with artistic things and people. Her husband was, in fact, a well-known sculptor. Numerous photos that depict her life in art fill this book. I particularly like the one of her dancing on the giant granite picnic table in her backyard. In another photo, Virginia and her sons stand in front of the boys’ bedroom wall that shows hilly tracks and trains painted by their mother. The back cover shows an eye-catching picture of her uniquely decorated barn studio, only steps away from her house. I admire Virginia because of her ability in handling the emotional stress of her mother’s abandonment. Despite the negative impact that this must have had on her, she created a happy life for herself and her family. Interviews with her sons, who never recalled any visible signs of distress from this sad event, proved her successful efforts. While I still have my mother, I want to follow Virginia’s example of not dwelling on negative aspects of her life, but living in the present and improving her future. It must have taken a lot of courage to remain positive without letting her inward feelings affect her outwardly. I probably could not do this, because, if I have a problem, I go to my mom. Without her, I would have a hard time coping. Although Virginia was emotionally stronger than me, we are similar in several ways. Like me, her perfectionism made her constantly fix her work. If I’m doing a project and don’t like something about it, I mess with the mistake until it looks right. Sometimes, I end up making it worse. Virginia loved drawing, always sketching down ideas. When she took art and designing lessons, she had a long commute by rail, ferryboat and cable car. During those long hours, she sketched her unwary fellow passengers. I also enjoy sketching my friends and other people I meet. If I don’t have anyone to sketch, I draw people and animals from my imagination. Virginia read her stories to her children to test if they were interesting enough for them. I’m always testing my funny stories on my younger brother to see whether he will laugh. The hard part for me is writing the stories down on paper. It’s fun to read a biography about a person with whom I found much in common. Vivienne Clark, 10 Albuquerque, New Mexico
Music from the Heart
“He’s back again?!” exclaimed Kaitlin, dropping her backpack on the floor. “What did the owners complain of this time?” Steve, the thirty-year-old manager of the animal shelter, replied, “Oh, the usual. He barks too much, bites, growls, and they simply can’t put up with him.” “Poor little Bullet,” she sympathized, going over to the sign-in desk. “This is the fifth time he’s been here. Wasn’t his mother an Australian shepherd?” “Yep. We still don’t know what his dad was. He’s cute though. Anyway, today you get a fun job. You get to clean all of the cages!” “Whoopee! What fun I’ll have,” Kaitlin said sarcastically. She turned and got a bunch of plastic bags, a pile of the last week’s newspaper, and rubber gloves from a closet on her right. Over her back she called to Steve as she left the front office. “See you around!” “Oh, Kaitlin! Wait!” he exclaimed, apparently remembering something. Kaitlin backtracked at his call to listen to what he had to say “There’s a girl coming today and she’s going to be working here from now on. Her name’s Gabriella; be nice!” “Don’t worry! Of course I’ll be nice. I mean, she’s going to have to put up with you and that’s always really . . .” she ducked as Steve threw a pencil at her. “Begone, rascal!” he said good-naturedly. Laughing, Kaitlin left, and went to her job. “He’s back again?” exclaimed Kaitlin I wonder what the new girl will be like, she thought. It had been years since anyone except for Steve and Kaitlin had worked at the shelter. As she started the first cage, she glanced down the dark row and toward the big black dog she and Steve had been talking about earlier. After being found when he was seven weeks old in a gutter, he had come to the shelter, and had had four owners since. Now he was a year old, with a bad reputation. Still, Kaitlin believed that he could be trained if someone just found the secret trick to getting him calmed down. A cat pulling on her long, red braid brought her back down to earth. “OK, OK, I’ll feed you,” she told the cat. “Just let me finish cleaning the cages first.” Forty-five minutes later she was done, and she went to the storage room for food for all of the animals. There, she found Steve giving a girl of about fifteen a tour of the building. She was a tall, skinny, Hispanic girl, with long black hair that hung below her waist. Steve grinned as Kaitlin walked in the storage room. “Here she is!” he exclaimed. “Gabriella, this is Kaitlin, who will be working with you. She’ll show you how everything runs here in more detail. We have a lot of fun here, and are really happy for you to join us! You can help Kaitlin feed the animals now, and later you can walk the dogs together. So long!” As he walked out the door of the storage room, he tripped over a bag of birdseed and knocked into a shelf, toppling a bag of dog food and causing it to rip open. Soon it was raining dog food. Kaitlin burst into laughter instantly. Steve looked hilarious lying on the ground with a confused expression on his face, and dog food in his dark brown hair. Gabriella was trying her best not to laugh out of respect for her new employer, but finally gave up and laughed hysterically. Bright red, Steve got up and went to get a broom, mumbling about how he should have hired a boy. In bed that night, as she did every night, Kaitlin tried to think of a way to convince her parents to let her get a dog. They were convinced that she wasn’t ready for the responsibility, because she had play rehearsal three days a week after school, and spent almost all of her other time at the shelter. “You can’t have a pet. You’re only thirteen, and you’re too busy.” Really, it was ridiculous that she couldn’t have a pet because her dad owned the shelter. Not that he cared about it at all; he had inherited it. Every month he would send Steve the money to pay for food, supplies, the vet bill and, of course, to pay him. It had been Kaitlin’s dad’s idea to hire someone else because he and her mother thought that Kaitlin spent too much time at the shelter. The very idea, Kaitlin thought, was absurd. Of course, her parents also worried about her because she didn’t have many friends. That was even more nonsense. She had Steve, all the animals at the shelter, and her teachers. But by the time she got to bed at night, she had always made out a pretty sorry case for herself. * * * The next day, as Kaitlin was doing her homework in the auditorium during rehearsal, a girl walked up to her. At first, she was so startled someone had even noticed her that she didn’t realize who it was. It was Gabriella. “Oh! Uh . . . hi!” she finally managed to say. “Are you in the play? I don’t remember seeing you here before.” “No, I’m not in the play,” was Gabriella’s reply. “My younger sister, Maria, is. She’s in seventh grade.” “Oh, I see,” Kaitlin said. She tried to think of what to say next. I know I’m not very good at talking to people I don’t know, she thought. What do I say? Is she trying to be my friend? “I was just wondering if you could tell Mr. Riley that I won’t be at work this evening because I have a dentist appointment. I’m really sorry, but I just found out, and my mom couldn’t change it.” Gabriella waited a moment and then asked cautiously, “Do you think he’ll mind?” Mr. Riley? Who’s Mr. Riley? Kaitlin wondered. Oh! She means Steve! Aloud she said,
The Great Chessboard
A Story of the Civil War It was early dawn on July 1, 1863. The cool breeze crept through the hills. Sunlight swarmed over the long and copious lines of tents. Not a soul stirred. It was, without a doubt, a sight for the human eye to behold. A lone shadow sat upon a tree stump, a few yards from the line of quiet tents from which he had come, staring off into the hills, awake, yet still dreaming. It’s all like a dream, the figure thought lullingly. All like a glorious dream. But the dream turned him to reality which may if it chooses come as a complete and disappointing surprise to many. Why must there be reality? Why cannot everything be one, wonderful, everlasting dream? A bugle sounded four notes, a pause, and two more: reveille, the wake-up call. Corporal Benjamin Ryan of the 3rd Minnesota Volunteers of the Union Army rose from the stump and trudged down toward the camp. Alas, Ryan thought, the dream must end someday, and we must face the harsh truth of reality. Men of his regiment began to rise from their tents and the calm sleeping ground was soon filled with noise and hustle. Ryan walked amongst the men, himself already dressed and ready for any order. Another hour or so, he thought, and we’ll be on the move again. He could feel it. Within the men, in the sky, in the rising sun, everywhere. He could picture it in his mind: row upon row of trudging, tired men in blue uniforms, kicking up dust, their heads low, muskets hunched over their shoulders. It was not a nice sight. They knew they were losing the war. He picked it up and looked closely at the tall, muscular figure of his father The American Civil War had been raging for over two years now; who could know how much longer it would last? Every passing day brought more death, more sorrow, more mourning. Corporal Ryan was in the Union army, the army of the northern states. The Confederate army had control of the southern states. With General Robert Edward Lee as their commander, the Confederates, or the Rebs, seemed invincible, and time and time again they had reminded the Union army of that. The army of the North had gone through many commanders, the latest being Joe Hooker, but President Abraham Lincoln resigned him from command after the Union disaster at Chancellorsville, and thus Hooker was replaced by General George Meade. Meade was known by his officers as the “snapping turtle,” for his aggressive reputation. Ryan wished that General John Reynolds, the commander of his corps, was in charge of the army; he’d win the war over a day or two if they’d picked him first. Ryan knew that General Reynolds had in fact been offered a commission for Major General, and had turned it down. It was his choice, but Ryan still thought he was the best man in the army. But there were other things to think of now. The rest of the men in the regiment lined up for a brisk breakfast. Ryan found that he wasn’t hungry; he went to his tent. After he ducked in, he sat down on the grass. He ran his fingers through the fresh green, then through his hair. He looked around at his belongings. A canteen, some rations, a diary he’d written in every day since he’d enlisted, his bedroll, a quilt his mother had made for him when he was very young, an oil lamp, paper for letters, his musket, ammunition, a baseball, and, carefully laid on the quilt, a photograph of himself, his mother, his younger sister, his father, and his auntie. His most prized possession: all he had left of his family. He picked it up and looked closely at the tall, muscular figure of his father. He would have been proud, Ryan thought, if he saw me now, in the army. He was a lieutenant during 1812, and would tell a younger Ryan of his many different engagements. Ryan lived for the excitement of his father’s stories of war all the while his father was alive . . . and now, his father dead, himself finally enlisted, Ryan found what a nightmare war was. Ryan thought hard to remember the day the nightmare began. * * * “Thank you, Reverend,” Ryan had said. “I’m sorry my mother couldn’t be present for the memorial, she . . . is not herself.” Ryan had nodded to Reverend Mitchell and strode away from the sanctuary of the deceased. It had been a dull, cloudy day in January. No snow fell. No person walked the lonely Minnesota streets except Ryan, who was not certain what to think. He refused to face reality: he refused to face the fact that his father was dead. But he knew it was true. That was reality. The harsh, harsh reality. Ryan came to his home. He slowly walked up the front steps, and entered the door. His sister was in her room; he could hear her crying. She hadn’t stopped for three days. Ryan went to his room and looked out the window. His mother was out there, tearing up grass and dirt and showering herself with it, screaming, sobbing, cursing the Lord for her husband’s death. Ryan knelt beside the bed and prayed silently for his mother and his father’s spirit. He rose, looked to the ceiling, and cried, “Why?” He ran out of the house, into the deserted road, seeking solitude, seeking peace with himself. He could not find any peace within him. He was flushed with emotions. He was in rage, in despair, in mourning . . . where to go? What to do? To whom must he turn? Unanswered questions. Too many unanswered questions. He just stood in the center of the road, helpless, for about an hour, and then, suddenly, he knew what to do. Where to go. He went
Shatterglass
Shatterglass by Tamora Pierce; Scholastic Press: New York, 2003; $16.95 Shatterglass, a fantasy novel by Tamora Pierce, touches ingeniously close to the real world. Pierce is able to weave a tale which, although fiction, is startlingly believable. The last volume in The Circle Opens quartet, Shatterglass follows the life of Tris, a young ambient mage of unimaginable power, and Kethlun Warder, a glassmaker who just wants to live a normal life but can’t. Together they encounter two major crimes in the city of Tharios—one that takes away all rights of the prathmuni and the other, a murder. Who are the prathmuni? They are the “untouchables” of Tharios, uncomfortably similar to the Untouchables of India. In this book we are able to see the extremes of the mistreatment of people in India in a totally different world. When Tris asks a prathmuni girl why they are discriminated against, the girl explains, “We handle the bodies of the dead. We skin and tan animal hides. We make shoes. We take out the night soil. But mostly, we handle the dead, which means we defile whatever we touch . . .” This is similar to the Hindu law that says that working with animal skins makes one unclean, as does work that involves physical contact with blood, excrement, and the dead, all things which the Untouchables of India do. Shatterglass touched me because it shoved the issues of human injustice right into my face. When I first read about the prathmuni I thought, This is insane! I am so thankful that I don’t live in a world like that! And yet, only a day after I had read about the prathmuni, I happened to read an article in National Geographic that spoke of the injustice of Untouchables occurring in my world! As I read on I realized that Shatterglass had many messages that reflected reality. For example: Kethlun Warder. Keth is a glassmaker of about twenty years who just wants to be normal—but can’t. After being hit by lightning, he finds that his previous ease at glassmaking is gone and a mysterious power has taken its place. It is Tris’s job to help Kethlun accept the fact that he is not like everyone else and that being different is OK, even good. Almost everyone deals with the issues of wanting to be someone he or she is not and having to accept reality. And then the murder mystery. (That is the great thing about Shatterglass. It has at least three major plots occurring and intertwining all at the same time—and the book makes perfect sense!) Obviously I have never been involved with murder, so I can’t relate directly to it, but the mystery made the story that much deeper, that much more believable, that much better. After murdering the victims, the assassin would take the bodies and place them in public areas where everyone would notice them, in order to make the point that the caste system was wrong. In this way the murderer ridicules the government, but that does not mean that this method of drawing attention to the issue is the right one to use. The killer’s method of displaying the corpses brings further into view the insanity of the treatment of the prathmuni. It also shows how wrong murder really is; Pierce shows that no victims are anonymous losses. Hayley Merrill, 13Waterford, Connecticut
Where the Cotton Bolls Grow
My father was the first in his rural hometown to ever go to college. In China the colleges are scarce. College entrance exams were created to wipe out the majority of the people who wanted to advance from high school. In my father’s time, not all the high-school graduates took the exams, and out of those who did, only three percent made it to college. It was the accomplishment of this feat that led him to meet my mother and eventually move to the United States. Ten years later, our family took our first plane trip back to China. I was twelve the summer we rode on a silver bird over mountains and seas to fly to my father’s homeland. We transferred to a seven-hour bus which bobbed over miles and miles of blue and green expanse with fishermen laying sheets of plastic on the sides of the road to dry their newly harvested crayfish. Bus changed to pickup truck when an uncle that I had never seen enthusiastically picked us up in the only automobile in the village, a large clumsy machine with a roar that mixed with that of the wind until I could not tell which was which. Stretch upon stretch of green dotted with red and purple and white caught my eye. Beautiful flowers lay upon artistically stretched leaves that were waist-high. “They grow flowers here?” I shrieked. I caught the hint of the word “cotton” screamed back at me. My mom used to be obsessed with the movie Gone with the Wind when I was little, and the only cotton fields I had ever seen were the black-and-white ones in the movie. Seeing the fields of bright color, I had not realized that it was cotton. Stretch upon stretch of green dotted with red and purple and white caught my eye When the engine of the pickup finally stopped roaring, there was a shabby courtyard to the right of us. In contrast to the bright shades of green in the fields, everything in the village living areas was a brown, as if all color had been washed out and worn away. A group of no less than thirty people of all ages stood outside the wooden double doors that were chipped at the edges from fifty years of use. From the youngest at age eight to my grandma with sixty-some years behind her, they all seemed to be staring at me, eyes squinting from the sun. My family. Something about the scene intimidated me into getting off on the other side of the pickup truck. The arrival of visitors from outside the country that no one had seen for ten years was a rare event; at night a crowd of farmers carrying stools flooded into my grandparents’ courtyard and seated themselves there, all looking as if waiting for me to do something. They did not revert to normal conversation until I told a few jokes in English and sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” for them, and it was not until after I had fallen asleep on my bed—a clay block covered with a layer of woven bamboo—that they picked up their stools and left. I begged my dad to take me to the cotton fields the next day. I wanted to get a closer look at the tiny flowers and lush greenery so I could come to a conjecture about whether picking cotton was anything like Gone with the Wind had portrayed it. I studied the farmer closest to us. He was bent over, a large straw hat covering a sun-browned face. His shabby clothes were wet, droplets of water and sweat collecting on his shirt and his pants. A large tank of battered metal weighed upon his back. In one hand was a hose connected to the tank that he used to spray pesticide onto the plants below. As I watched, he squirted the pesticide. A wave of pungent scent nearly choked me and my dad when the toxic fumes hit us. Clouds of sickly yellow misted the air. The farmer treaded into the cloud to reach the next stretch of cotton plants, and was hit by the spray. It clung to his clothes, sticky little droplets that covered all parts of his body. I realized with a jolt that what I had thought was water on his clothes was really pesticide. My dad waved to the worker, and greeted him loudly. The farmer turned around, eyes squinted in thought. It was apparent that he did not recognize my father. “Qing!” My dad called out the farmer’s name. To my shock, I recognized it as a popular name that parents in villages named their little girls, “hard-worker.” The farmer’s face lighted in sudden recognition, and I realized that it indeed was a woman. She had apparently grown up with my dad and had all but forgotten him. My dad explained that he had moved to America after college and flew back with my mother and me for a visit. She had not known my dad at first sight, but she did seem to know what America was. Her eyes lit up, and she pointed to an empty can of pesticide on the ground. “That’s from America,” she said. I went over and inspected the can. The Monsanto Company, St. Louis, had produced it. “Say,” Qing asked me, watching me read the words on the can, “do they grow cotton in America too?” I shook my head, expecting her to start denouncing American farmers for not growing something as precious as cotton that she had grown all her life. Instead, she got a misty look in her eyes. “America must be such a wonderful place. Don’t have to grow cotton.” She made a dramatic sweep with one hand, indicating the field. “The bugs have gotten worse and worse. Why, just a coupla years ago, Chinese pesticides work. Now only imported ones do. And sometimes even imported ones ain’t strong enough. You gotta spray ’em
The Locket of Lost Love
Melissa’s hand recklessly fumbled in her backpack, reaching past crumpled papers and all the dried-out gel pens. “Hurry up,” the bus driver impatiently snapped, as she stared at the long line of kids. “I haven’t got all day!” “I’m looking for it,” Melissa mumbled, now furiously tossing her notebooks out. Her bus pass was missing, and this meant a lengthy two-mile walk home. “You know I come on the bus every day” she tried, but wasn’t successful. The doors of the bus closed in a hurry She sighed, yet as she put everything back into her midnight backpack, something caught her eye. A shiny gold chain was sticking out of the front pocket, revealing itself daintily. Melissa’s shaking hands reached out to touch its thick, smooth texture. She gingerly pulled it out, glaring nervously at the heart locket in the middle. The paint had chipped off, now just showing the cheap material it was made of. “Mama,” she whispered. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Mellie, happy birthday to you,” the crowd chanted. Presents, presents were everywhere. Some wrapped in bright red, others in huge bows and clown party bags. And the balloons, they were all the colors of the rainbow, dazzling beauties covering the entire ceiling, each with a huge 4 on it. “Mellie?” Melissa jerked, startled by the sound of her name. It was Chloe, with a concerned look on her face. “Whatcha doing here; it’s almost four o’clock!” Melissa opened her mouth to tell the bus pass incident to her friend, but stopped. She saw Chloe curiously looking at the locket in her hand. “You can put it on,” that gentle soothing voice said “It’s nothing,” Melissa anxiously said as she put the necklace in her pocket. “Anyway, I have to get home.” A brisk autumn breeze hit her face as she got up. “See ya tomorrow! Are ya coming to ballet today and . . .” Chloe’s words were drowned out by Melissa’s flashback. Breathing in as much as possible, and then letting it all out, just blowing away the flames on the candles. How much fun that was. Of course, nothing could beat opening presents, so the sweet sound of “Present time!” rang through the air. They then all formed a circle, and each delightful box was passed around. Clowns, yes, clowns. Clowns were on this certain bag, filled with glittery tissue paper. Inside, though, was the best treat. A locket. Melissa continued on walking. A grin slowly formed on her face, as the memory became more and more real. How she longed to go back there, to her fourth birthday party, the time when no one seemed to have a care in the world. Now her heart ached. “Mama,” she whispered, once again. A girl, with curly light brown hair and a surprised smile, and a thirty-year-old woman, with a straw hat and warm, soft eyes, were stored inside the locket. “You can put it on,” that gentle soothing voice said. “Like this.” Then an outburst of giggles exploded through the air. It jumped around the room until each person was absolutely hysterical. The smile faded, and turned into a frown. Just what was so funny? “Oh, Mellie, dear, you look exactly like your mother when she was a little girl, identical, I must say. Your bright, happy face, and beautiful eyes,” an elderly man kindly explained. Melissa, for the second time that day, dug inside her backpack. Finally she found a small pocket mirror and gazed at her reflection. Is that you, Mama? Am I looking at you? Suddenly, her eyes swelled up and tears began to drop, one by one. She just couldn’t help herself. And with a painful resentment, she opened the heart locket. Yes, there it was, a girl, with curly light brown hair and a surprised smile, and a thirty-year-old woman, with a straw hat and warm, soft eyes. Before she knew it, Melissa was on Marshwood Boulevard, and just a few yards from her house. There would be Dad, trying to cook the quickest dinner, while watching ESPN at the same time. He probably would barely hear her walk in and start her homework. * * * The smell of grease awaited Melissa as she stepped inside. “Hey, Mellie. Decided I would order Chinese, OK?” Dad said. “Hmmm . . . is that the Bulls game you have on?” “Nah. It just finished.” Melissa just nodded and started to head upstairs, when her father’s voice stopped her. “What’s in your hand?” he asked, maybe a little louder than he meant. He was staring right into Melissa’s teary eyes, and sensed that something was wrong. “If it is a teacher’s note or something you better just come out and say it ’cause . . .” “No, Dad.” And Melissa opened her hand. “Bye, honey,” that amazing voice said. She stepped out into the lawn and walked down the gravel driveway. “Bye, Mama.” But little did anyone know how true that farewell was. The woman floated into her Volvo and took off. Down the paved street, past the deep wooded area and soon out of sight. A phone call came much later, followed by many others. The house soon became lonely, as everyone, looking quite ghostly, left. What is a hospital? What has happened? And where is Mama? “Is that what I think it is?” Dad exclaimed, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he really was. “She is gone.” Melissa choked on the words, not even believing it herself. She just shook her head. “No, that is where you are wrong.” He took the locket from her hand and opened it up. “She is right here. In the locket of lost love.” Jessica Blanton, 12Old Greenwich, Connecticut Lydia Trottmann, 12Fort Collins, Colorado
A Lasso for Adagio
I look back on that night and wonder why I was so scared. Was it the noises—or the fact I was alone, surrounded by water, with nothing overhead but the glittering stars and the Cheshire moon? That day began just like any other Thursday. At school I almost fell asleep in math class, and by the time I got home, I was ready to go outside. Unfortunately, my mom made me finish my homework first. I had just finished my homework when I heard the announcer on the radio say, “It’s five-thirty and the temperature is sixty-three degrees.” “Yes!” I cried. Grabbing a jacket and telling my mom goodbye, I got on my bike and rode to Jim’s house. He usually finishes his chores and piano practice by five-thirty. Jim lives near the Cypress River. I found him behind his house, working on the model boat he planned to enter in the county’s annual model boat contest. “How is the boat coming?” “Fine,” Jim replied as he tangled his finger in a ball of string. “Do you want to go to the river—that is if you aren’t too wrapped up?” He rolled his eyes. “Sure. I’ll leave a note for my mom.” I raced him the two blocks to the river. Jim won, but he was out of breath. This section of the river has immense oaks, cypress and willow trees growing beside it. Sometimes when the wind blows hard it sounds as if they are whispering among themselves. “Hey, look at this relic,” he said. “Think it belongs to Captain Volger?” The pier creaked under our feet as we walked out to the edge and sat down. The breeze off the river felt good against my skin. I was watching an egret flying against the pink skyline, scanning for fish before dark, when I heard Jim mutter, “I wonder what that is.” He was staring at the reeds to the right of the pier. “What?” “That green thing in the reeds.” Jim went over to investigate. With a stick he knocked away the brown reeds to reveal an old wooden fishing boat about three feet wide and twelve feet long. Its once white color had faded to gray. The paint was peeling on the sides like sunburned skin. A frayed yellow rope tied to the bow led up to a cypress root. “Hey, look at this relic,” he said. “Think it belongs to Captain Volge?” “Do you think it belonged to the Captain?” Captain Volge was a one-eyed fisherman rumored to have been a pirate. One morning he went out on the river to check his nets and that night his boat washed ashore empty. His body was never found. I must have looked a little scared, because Jim looked up at me and laughed. “If it is and we mess with it, he’s liable to come looking for you.” Jim pulled the boat into the water. “Sure is rickety.” I decided to prove to Jim that I wasn’t scared. I got in and sat down on one of the three slats that served as seats. “Still seaworthy,” I declared. “Tell it to the captain.” “I ain’t scared of no ghost!” I stood up and began swinging an imaginary sword in the air. “You’d be heading for the hills leaving a cloud of dust behind you if you saw the captain,” Jim taunted. “Oh is that so?” Trying to execute a particularly daring sword thrust, I lost my footing and fell back into the boat. The shifting weight pushed the boat on out into the river. I sat up and grabbed the rope at the bow, hoping to pull myself in, but when I pulled on it there was no tension on the end. Jim was frowning at the boat, as if he was trying to think of a plan. I could see him, receding away from me. “Turn it around,” he called. “Try to paddle it back to shore.” I frantically searched around the boat for an oar, but all I saw was a frayed rope. “There’s nothing to paddle with!” “Jump in and swim!” I started to slip over the side—and then I remembered hearing about a swimmer who had been bitten on the foot by a sand shark down at Spivey’s Point, only a mile or so away. Shark sightings weren’t that uncommon in this section of the river, which was only a few miles from the Albemarle Sound. “What if there’s a shark?” Jim shouted something back but I couldn’t hear what it was. The boat was moving fast now in the current, and in the fading light I couldn’t make out the expression on his face. He ran along the bank, trying to keep me in sight, but after a while, I couldn’t see him anymore at all. The boat moved away from the bank, into the center of the wide river, and headed south toward the sound. It was dark, and the eerie cry of a screech owl sent a chill down my spine. I saw the ghost of Captain Volge, his blade shining in the light of the moon. At such times, my imagination can be my enemy, transforming driftwood carved by years of water into a ghost, and a jumping fish, scales shining in the moonlight, into a sword blade. Knowing it was my imagination didn’t help. I huddled up in my windbreaker, shivering in the wind that chilled my bones. I looked out at the river, shining like onyx in the moonlight, and wondered what was lurking beneath its depths. A shark? I couldn’t let myself get carried off to the sound. I’d read about boats overturning there and people drowning. I tried to pray, but the only thing I could think of was “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.” I felt OK until I got to the part about “if I should die before I wake.” Somehow that didn’t seem very comforting. I lay back in the
Girl of Kosovo
Girl of Kosovo by Alice Mead; Farrar, Straus and Giroux: New York, 2001; $16 When people thought the Holocaust was over, it wasn’t. For the Jews it may have been over in the 1940s, but for the Albanians it wasn’t over until 1999. Girl of Kosovo is a marvelous book. Beneath the cover unravels a story thick and chock-full of courage, hope and sadness, which I think is written so eloquently and precisely Throughout the book Zana Dugolli, an eleven-year-old girl, struggles to keep the hatred of the Serbians out of her heart. Zana is an Albanian girl growing up in the time of a holocaust against Albanians. Every day she faces the struggle to survive and is alert to any gunshots and bombs, which may crumble her life to itty-bitty pieces. Zana is an amazing character, who out of necessity has converted her heart into a rock. In an attack in her village her ankle is obliterated and shrapnel weaves its way through her hip. Zana is sent immediately to a hospital in Belgrade seven hours from her home and family. Although wishing she didn’t have to go, she finds the courage inside of her. This amazed me because I wouldn’t want to be alienated from my family during war. I have never been separated from my family for more than a couple of days, and if at all I was separated it was with trusted close friends. Zana was sent away with absolute strangers. This I thought was a wonderful example of spirit. I realized how fortunate I was living in the USA, where unprecedented medical treatment is taken for granted. It was so unfair that the nurses at the hospitals chastised and called innocent Zana a terrorist for being an Albanian. Zana tried to ignore them but somehow the obnoxious comments won her over, and filled her heart with even more sorrow. At several such points in the book tears filled my eyes. I realized the Albanians were treated like dirt and pebbles on the road. After reading about so much injustice, I wanted to make a difference. I decided I had to make children my age read this book, and experience the aftermath of war from the perspective of a girl their age. Especially during today’s times, when the news is primarily about the US going to war with Iraq and biological terrorism threats on us. When there was no spirit in the air and sadness was just down the road, hope was still not defeated. An example of hope is when a British doctor helps Zana’s injury heal, and when a Serb takes Zama to the hospital. Both these incidents surprised me because from Zana’s point of view the Serbs were horrible. Also, it made me think why would a British person want to help an injured girl. Just as every cloud has a silver lining I realized that all Serbs weren’t bad; some had a side covered in sweet honey. What I thought made this book such a mandatory read is that it helped me understand the politics in this world. With North Korea threatening to send out nuclear bombs and Osama Bin Laden supporting terrorism, this book sends a special message out to its readers. “Don’t let anyone fill your heart with hatred,” as the author quotes in the story. Also, do not tolerate injustice. Eesha Daye, 11Ardsley, New York
Finders, Keepers
I found the box today. It was on the dust-covered shelf in the new room. While I was searching for one of my many misplaced books, I picked up this plain-looking plastic box to set it out of the way. To my astonishment I discovered it was quite heavy. Placing it on my knee, I tugged the lid off and peeked curiously inside. What could it have contained? There they were. Beautiful oddities of every pastel shade were piled onto one another. Curling, twisted, spiky, flat, ruffled, scalloped, and every kind of seashell imaginable was in that mundane box. I ran my fingers along the tops of them. The shells had been my sister’s. She must have left them behind. They brought back a memory to me. * * * One Easter, long before my sister left, our parents decided to go out to a camp called Turkey Hill, so we loaded up the car and drove out. It must have taken us about five hours of driving. We went on and on, until I’m sure every part of me had become numb from sitting so long. Some other people went too. We planned to enjoy the Easter celebrations together. I recall one of my friends going with her parents. Anyway, when we were on the way to the camp in our hideous minivan, my sister and I sketched funny little pictures into a tiny Lisa Frank notebook I had brought. We drew a multitude of things, little cars, planes, and animals. We eventually arrived. Streaked with orange and tinged with shades of brown, the shell was a symphony of colors We pulled onto a long dirt driveway that led to the cabins. As our tires dug in and out of the potholes, a billowing cloud of thick dust rose behind the minivan. All along the road were majestic pine trees that cast shadows over the ferns. We parked in front of the main office building, which was painted brown with peeling biscuit trim around the door and the windows. I was delighted to see a swing set and jungle gym to the left of the coffee-colored building. When we explored the camp later that day, we encountered winding hiking paths that led through fields of bent yellow grass. After walking a distance there was the lake. It reflected a twisted willow tree with long whips of leaves just beginning to unfurl. Pond skimmers zipped across the water causing tiny ripples. It was serene. Our few days at Turkey Hill went much like this: It rained. We played in the mud. It rained more. We went on hikes and consequently caked our shoes with mud. My sister and I had to remove our shoes every time we wished to enter our rooms. A row of twenty-six dilapidated shoes was set outside across the porches of the cabins our group had rented. Somewhere in the middle of these days, between sitting with my sister in the swings behind the cabins, and when we walked around the lake, I found a giant seashell. Strangely, instead of being by the shore of the murky lake, the conch shell was in the grass outside the cabins. I didn’t think about that, but went immediately and showed it around like the proud five-year-old I was. The shell was a creamy shade of pale pink. Its inside was smooth, shiny, and the surface felt like blown glass. The outside of it had once been rough and pointed, but years of enduring the conditions of the ocean floor had rubbed it flat. Streaked with orange and tinged with shades of brown, the shell was a symphony of colors. “It’s mine!” I cried. Two children who had been staying in one of the other cabins demanded to have the seashell that I had found. “We brought it from California!” They squealed like pigs. My parents forced me to give it back to the other kids. I was furious. It wasn’t fair, I thought to myself Why should I have to give it back? They were the ones who had left it in the grass. It was just like the cliche, “Finders, keepers, losers, weepers.” They had lost it and I had found it. It was mine! I gave it back. I glared at them the whole time. I gritted my teeth to keep myself from calling them baboons. Afterwards my sister promised to help me look for another shell around the lake. We searched for a lengthy period of time, but all we discovered were the fragments of clamshells. The rest of the days at Turkey Hill passed gloomily as I thought about the perfect seashell I had found and lost to the reptilian children of cabin six. “‘You can pick any one of these you want, but only one” The day came for us to drive home, and the weather was rainy. Thick cumulus clouds blanketed the sky with insipid gray. Torrents of water cascaded over the car windows. On the front window the squealing windshield wipers kept the water off the window. I sat again with my sister beside me in the back seat of our tan minivan. Another five hours dwindled away before we were home again. When we reached our house she said, “You can pick any one of these you want, but only one.” My sister slid the plain white plastic box from its place on a shelf in her closet and let me choose a shell. I dumped them out onto the carpet and pawed through all of them. They had black frills and purple underbellies. Their undersides shone with iridescence. The small ones resembled barnacles, while another was so white and smooth it felt unnatural. In the end, I did not take one of the huge monstrosities. Instead, I chose a small, curling nautilus with bright stripes running up each of its curves. Although its size was not gigantic and its colors were not bright, it was beautiful. * *
