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. * *
Forgotten Words
It was a sultry day in August. Sofia lay on her bed, her eyes closed. She heard Isabela, her sister, playing with her cousins downstairs. Cousin Diego’s radio drowned out baby Ana’s wailing. Quietly, Sofia tiptoed out of the room. She darted down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, unnoticed. Out on the lawn, Sofia ran as fast as she could. The wind rippled through her black curtain of hair as she ran. Sofia ran down the noisy street, past the clear brook, and into the woods. As Sofia threw herself onto the pine-needle-covered ground, she felt the quietness of the woods settle around her. This was Sofia’s quiet place, her thinking spot. It was her secret place to escape the noise and chaos of her home. This was where Sofia came when she felt angry or confused. Sofia thought in the quiet shade of the tall trees. She felt protected. Tilting her head back, Sofia gazed up at the bright sky through the pines. Why had she done this, why? Why had she forgotten her Spanish? Sofia longed for the days when the melodic language flowed freely off her tongue. The days when she communicated in Spanish with ease with her grandma, easily switching languages back and forth with her parents. Sofia still remembered her classmates’ harsh words . . . “Spanish is the poor people’s talk.” Her face burning, Sofia vowed to herself never to speak a word of Spanish again. That was back in Iowa, where her parents had worked in a factory from dawn to dusk. Why had she done this, why? Why had she forgotten her Spanish? Then one night, the phone rang. It was Sofia’s Uncle Manuel, who lived in Minnesota. Tio Manuel had urged Sofia’s Papi to move north, where there were better jobs with better pay. So the family had moved. Now Sofia’s family lived in a small house in a suburb of Minneapolis with Tio Manuel’s family, Sofia’s aunts, and her grandma. Papi and Mama both had full-time jobs. Sofia would be entering the seventh grade in the fall, Enrique kindergarten, and little Isabela pre-school. Sofia’s life was so different in the United States than it had been in Mexico City, where her family had lived until she was four. Although Sofia hadn’t been back to Mexico since, she was determined to return. She missed her friends and family in Mexico. Sofia stood up. Shaking off the dirt, she began making her way home, slowly but steadily Sofia knew she would never change her ways to be popular again. She knew that her mistake would make her stronger than before, more ready to face new challenges. Sofia would never be the same. Easing the back door open, Sofia knew she would relearn her Spanish. Whatever it would take, she could do it. Natalia M. Thompson, 11Madison, Wisconsin Natalie Chin, 11Bellevue, Washington
Morning Walk
The acorn woodpecker’s Thump on the tree And the owl’s hidden hoot Fill my ears as I walk Through forest on a Sun-filled morning Canadian geese calls Sound like laughter As they fly into the Lake with a splash And swim peacefully One after the other Manzanita trees and bushes Are a deep red-brown Covered in lichen and moss. Storing the sun in their veins, Green leaves are lit from inside Towering oak trees Stand in silence, moss Like an old man’s beard Hanging from aged branches. Poison oak climbs the trunks, “Leaves of three, let it be” Everything is part of everything And I am the tree, soil and sun. Breathing in, I inhale The life around me, Breathing out, I reach to meet myself To live in this moment Is to be grateful For what I have and love and am Mark Roberts, 13 Windsor, California Mark wrote this poem when he was 11
A Shaken Garden
Glynis Hyatt walked blindly down the street. Fragments of shrapnel crunched under her shoes. Glass mixed, making mosaics with the rubble on the ground. The smell of smoke littered the air, thick and foul-smelling. The reality of war had hit at full blast, and many people were still in shock. The surprise bombings had caused so much trauma and heartbreak. Glynis kept walking down the street and around the corner. In plain view was the hospital and Glynis quickened her pace. It had all happened so fast. It was 7:30 AM, and she was getting ready to go to her shift as a telephone operator. She had just started working this summer after graduating from high school. She quickly put on a starched dress, and sat down to breakfast. She looked out her window and saw a clear blue sky. It’s going to be a wonderful day, she thought. Soon she heard planes, which she pushed aside since the air station was under construction. Suddenly, Glynis heard loud explosions all around her. Screams seemed to arise from nowhere, and rubble flew everywhere. The windows bent inward and shattered, shooting glass all over. She crawled under the table to avoid being hurt. Glynis stared at the swirling chaos around her. The pungent smell of gas from the bombs filled her nostrils. The screams continued and became more violent among the deathly roar. Then it all seemed to stop; the world became silent. Glynis crawled out from under the table and stood up shakily. She walked silently through the glass on her wood floor. Her door was off its hinges and lying in splinters on the floor. Glynis walked straight out of the house and onto the once-beautiful lawn. The little town was almost unrecognizable, with shrapnel and objects that had not been tied securely to the ground. Roof tiles and aluminum siding from all over the neighborhood littered the streets and yard. Glynis Hyatt walked over to the area where the fence that had separated her garden from others had stood and looked at her precious Eden. Her beautiful gardens of lush gorgeous plants, gone. All her ravishing ginger plants, with their huddled petals, had withered and left the petals ripped and twisted. Her vividly colored gladiolus had lost all their color and they seemed to look blankly at her from their position on the dark ground. The ti plant’s bright red petals had been ripped, and were strewn amongst the other flowers as if they were bleeding. She stood and looked at what was left of her flowers and then gazed toward her neighbor’s house. Kenny Eldrich had lived on Oahu for 45 years and knew everything in Hawaiian history. Standing on his back porch, he stood gazing out at the destroyed houses. One thing that made Kenny different from other Polynesians was that he did not have the traditional dark hair and eyes. His hair was blond and he had green eyes. Ever since Glynis had emigrated to Hawaii with her older brother, Kenny was there for her, like the father she left back in Japan. Standing on his back porch, he seemed so alone and devastated to see his little town torn apart. It seemed to have torn him apart as well. Glynis broke the silence. “What happened?” Kenny spoke in a faraway voice, “They finally got us, we’ve been bombed.” Glynis’s world seemed to fall apart. Piece by piece her world was shattering. “Where did they bomb us?” she asked tearfully. “The dock. Oklahoma, Raleigh, the heart of our military.” Kenny spoke in a faraway voice, “They finally got us, we’ve been bombed” Glynis felt as if she had been slapped. “The dock” rang in her ears, painful and loud. Tolby, her brother. Tolby working on the Oklahoma. The Oklahoma’s bombed, gone. Glynis screamed painfully and started running in the direction of the dock. Kenny, still standing on the porch, watched her run, silent tears streaming down his face. Glynis cried as she ran, her feet pounding hard against thrown pieces of wood. Her heart seemed to beat louder until she heard it in her ears. Out of breath from all her screaming and crying, she collapsed on the street. Tears mixed with sweat and her nose was running. Glynis felt ready to throw up, not only from exhaustion but from worrying for her brother as well. In her mind, she kept seeing Tolby’s body being tossed among the waves, his beautiful hazel eyes open toward the sky, never to find rest among the eternally rolling waves. Although Glynis’s mind kept telling her Tolby was dead, something in her heart told her she had to be wrong. She scrambled up to her feet, and instead of feeling distraught she was fresh with determination: she had to find her brother. As she got closer to the dock, the destruction became more obvious. Along the roadside, a car had stopped. Both the car and the men inside were destroyed. In the front was an American shipyard worker. It was clear to see that he was dead. The driver’s head was pressed against the top of the steering wheel. His dark hair was bloodily plastered to his forehead. The passengers seemed dipped in red and were staring upward. The reason for his death was unmistakable: his car had been peppered by shrapnel, and was still smoking. She continued running, trying not to be disrespectful to the dead by staring. At last, Glynis arrived at what was left of the dock. The smoke dyed the air a deep gray and it was difficult to see through the billowing pillars. Even though much of her vision was impaired, the outline of the capsized Oklahoma was distinct, as well as other ships. Glynis ran wildly around the dock, hoping to see anyone that resembled her brother, but she saw no one, only the bodies that rolled on the waves. Glynis almost broke down again, but something told her to pull together and
Alia Waking
Alia Waking by Laura Williams McCaffrey; Clarion Books: New York, 2003; $15 Your lifelong dream dangles before your eyes. You reach for it and almost grasp it, but alas, you still have to watch the baby for your mother and scrub the floors. If there’s extra time in between chores, you might find an opportunity to sneak off for a bit and chase that fantasy. Not that it’s likely you’ll get anywhere at that rate. This scenario is true for Alia Cateson in Alia Waking. For all her life, Alia has wanted to become a warrior, a keenten. However, her mother needs help with the chores at home, and Alia has to spend almost all her time mending clothes and doing other household duties. She’ll be thirteen soon, and that’s the age when keentens choose girls to join them. If she isn’t chosen, she might have to spend the rest of her life cooking and cleaning. War has plagued Alia’s world for years. Her kingdom, Tram, is at war with a neighboring land called Beech. All of Trant despise Beechians, and when Alia and her friend Kay find two Beechian children in the woods, they’re immediately thought of as spies. The Beechians are locked up, and everyone assumes they’ll be executed. I thought it was horrible that the villagers all thought it would be OK to kill children. Prejudice is an issue in Alia Waking. The Beechian children found in the woods are supposed to be spies simply because of where they come from. I think this is very similar to some of the issues happening right now. Since the September II terrorist attacks, Arab Americans are being discriminated against because of the way they look. Peer pressure also comes up in this book. Alia wants to help the Beechian prisoners when they’re ill, but Kay disagrees. The boy has a hurt foot, so Alia wants to bring him rags to wrap it up. It’s wintertime and the prison is cold. Kay says, “Would they have done the same for your brothers?” Alia’s elder brothers died fighting Beechians in the war. But Alia brings rags and gets a healer for the sick girl, anyway. Kay becomes extremely angry with her and hangs out with another girl instead of with Alia. The two whisper together and play games Alia and Kay once did. Alia knows she did the right thing, but can she make Kay understand? And if Kay refuses, can Alia let her best friend go? I think Alia was really strong to stand up to her best friend, and I admire her courage throughout the book. I found it annoying that all the housework is left to the women and girls in Alia Waking. I know real life was like this for a long time, but it was still frustrating that Alia had trouble following her dream because of a huge workload, while her brothers did whatever they wanted. Reading this book makes me appreciate how lucky I am that chores are spread out in my family and that whether you’re a boy or a girl, you still have an equal amount of work to do. This book is filled with values, from acceptance of people regardless of race to standing up to peer pressure. All the conflict Alia experiences really pulled me into the book; I wanted to know how it ended. If you’re looking for a good read, try Alia Waking. Holly Kuestner, 13Bothell, Washington
The Color of Honor
CHAPTER ONE Byron Jones parked his beat-up, old, black Chevy in the driveway and stared at the house in front of him. All of his hopes and dreams lay before him in this green house with the pale yellow shutters. “This is what I have been working for,” he said to himself, “my own office, my own home.” It was the summer of 1960. Byron was a family doctor. He had been working at a big Philadelphia hospital, when word came that a new doctor was needed in rural Ambler, about twenty-five miles outside the city Old Dr. Carter was tired and sick. He decided to retire and go live with his daughter. The hospital recommended Byron as his replacement and he jumped at the chance. Now, he was finally here, ready to start his own practice. He got out of the car and stretched. He let his eyes wander around the pretty front yard. Neat rows of purple pansies sprouted in a flowerbed near the big, wooden porch. Bright red geraniums bloomed in a pot at the wide front door. There was another pot of geraniums at the bottom of the porch steps and one at the side yard. “Doc Carter must have dabbled in gardening,” again Byron talked to himself. It all looked so homey. His mama would love it. He thought about her and about his sixteen-year-old brother, Keats. Mama loved poetry and had named her boys after her favorite poets, Lord Byron and John Keats. Byron leaned back against the car and let his thoughts wander back to the family he loved so much. Byron hung the sign where Doc Carter’s sign used to be. It fit perfectly Byron had grown up dirt poor. Most of his clothes were hand-me-downs and a couple of sizes too big. They came from the oldest boy of the rich white folks his mama kept house for. Byron never had his own bike, or even a wagon. But his mama made sure that their tiny apartment was always filled with books. He read the classics, like Moby-Dick. He read history books, and even the poetry books that his mama loved so much. When he was eleven years old, he read a book about George Washington Carver, a black scientist who was the son of slaves. From that time on, Byron knew he could make something of himself. His love of reading certainly didn’t come from his father. For as long as Byron could remember, his father had drifted in and out of his life, like the ocean tide. Byron resented his comings and goings. He always upset Mama and disappointed Keats, who worshipped him. He was loud and rude and mean. He only came for money and a hot meal, and then he was gone again. Three years ago, Mama got a letter postmarked from Florida, telling them their father was dead. That’s all Byron knew. His mama had cried and burned the letter, and they never talked about him again. Byron didn’t care, but Keats was hit hard. After that, Keats started getting in trouble. He skipped school and hung around with a bad group of boys. Byron had just finished medical school, and started his hospital training. He had no time to help out. Keats would probably be in some sort of reform school, if it weren’t for Dr. Harrison Peabody III. Dr. Harrison Peabody III was the man his mama worked for. He was a kind man and had already helped Byron get into the Jefferson Medical College, where he himself had gone to school. When he found out Keats was in trouble, he helped get him into a better school outside the city. Now his little brother was actually talking about becoming a doctor, like Byron. Finally, things seemed to be looking up for the Jones family. CHAPTER TWO Byron was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t see the two little girls standing on the sidewalk at the bottom of the driveway. Two sets of the same bright blue eyes stared right at him. The bigger girl stepped forward. “Hi, mister. What are you doing in Dr. Carter’s yard? You’re not stealing anything, are you?” Byron laughed. “That’s not likely since this is my place now. I’m Dr. Byron Jones. I’m the new doctor, who is replacing Dr. Carter. How do you do?” The girls’ eyes grew bigger. “You look way too young to be a doctor. Doc Carter had gray hair, and lots of wrinkles. Even his ears were wrinkled! My name is Lucy. I’m six. This is my little sister, Carol. She’s three. Say hi, Carol.” Lucy stopped to take a breath. Carol continued to stare with her thumb in her mouth. She had blond curls and a big blue bow in her hair, the exact color of her eyes. Lucy was about a head taller, and had the same blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her two front teeth were missing, and Byron thought she looked adorable when she smiled. “Do you give lollipops?” little Carol asked. “Dr. Carter always gave me a lollipop after my checkup.” Before Byron could answer, an angry-looking woman came running down the sidewalk. “I thought I told you girls to stay in the yard. You forgot our rule again, too. No talking to strangers.” She emphasized the word “strangers,” and gave Byron a nasty look. Byron stepped forward and held out his hand. “I hope we won’t be strangers for long,” Byron said, smiling. “I’m the town’s new family doctor, Byron Jones. I’m happy to meet you,” he added. The woman looked at Byron’s outstretched hand as if it would bite her. “We already have a doctor in the next town, mister. When Dr. Carter left, we started to see Dr. Potter in Horsham. We don’t need your kind in this neighborhood,” she sneered. “Let’s go, girls. Never come back here again,” she ordered as she dragged the little girls away. Byron
Rider’s Paradise
The smell of newly cut wafted in through open windows. A grain bucket clanged against a stall door like a dull church bell. A black, velvety nose pressed against the bars of a stall and sweet-smelling grain dribbled from whiskered lips. A bay horse came down the aisle, her hooves tapping a tune on the rough cement. Stalls stretched away on either side and the air was full of the smell of sweet grain and newly polished leather and saddle soap. Awards and ribbons were hung on stall doors and on a big golden palomino’s stall door a plaque read: Individual Gold in Eventing—2000 Olympics. Heads of every horse color imaginable stuck out of stalls, but a few of the stalls were empty. One beautiful chestnut had a mane that flowed like water over her beautiful head. The white star on her forehead shone like silver as she haughtily tossed her forelock out of her eyes and turned to munch on hay. A colt whinnied for its mother; its mother answered it with a soft, low, comforting nicker that would have calmed the wildest colt. In the corner of the grain room stood a green, shiny wheelbarrow with a pitchfork leaning against it. Grain buckets of all shapes and sizes were piled in a corner, each carefully labeled with the horse’s name. Mice scampered about and nibbled on spilled grain. A huge grain bin stood in the corner, its top padlocked against mice and horses. Several brightly colored new grain bags lay on top of it, waiting to be opened and dumped into the bin. There was a sink in the corner and in it grain scoops and dirty buckets were stacked in a towering pile. On the counter in the corner of the room there was a bag of mineral salt licks and next to that there was a bag of regular white salt licks. In another room saddles were stacked neatly on holders, and bridles of all shapes and sizes were hung on shiny metal hooks. Brushes and hoof picks were thrown in buckets and were sitting quietly on a dusty shelf. A leather crop lay on a wooden chair and a tack trunk stood quietly waiting to be opened. The floor was dirty and the now potbellied mice scampered around like naughty children. A soft, velvety nicker rang through the air, splitting the silence into a million pieces. Another soft, low nicker answered it and then there was silence again. They were like a rainbow after a storm; silent and perfect, yet beautiful The arena at the end of the barn was huge. Its long sides stretched away for what seemed like miles. At one end an observation deck stuck out obstinately like a poorly fitting hat, and at the other end there were two huge wooden doors that led into the barn. A tiny black pony and its equally tiny rider cantered around and around, now and then gracefully taking the big, green cross-rail jump in the middle of the arena. The pony’s hooves drummed on the soft, sandy footing: ded-der-dum-ded-der-dum. Swallows flew overhead, their wings whiffing and buzzing like bees in the air as their tiny feet fought for a foothold on the rafters. The sand on the floor created a musty but sweet-smelling aroma and the sun streamed through the clear panels on the roof. The doors from the barn swung open and a girl leading a big, chestnut pony stepped into the arena. The girl looked at the tiny black pony and then slowly mounted. She began to trot around the ring, but paused at the jump. She walked her pony up to it, showing it to her from every angle. Then she steered her pony away from it and urged her into a canter. The canter was slow and graceful, like flowing water. The girl turned toward the jump. Her soft hands and legs guided the pony carefully over the jump. They took the jump together in perfect unison. They were like a rainbow after a storm; silent and perfect, yet beautiful. There was a little door on the side of the arena that led out into the winter paddock and the lush, green fields out behind the barn. The fields stretched away for miles in either direction. Hay bales dotted the fields in the distance and beautiful horses grazed in the closer fields. Miles of board fence surrounded the fields. Beautiful, beautiful fields and horses! A chestnut colt romped in the far paddock, its sparkling mane and tail flying in the light spring breeze. A black mare rolled and shook off the dirt with a snort. A gelding pawed the air and whinnied to another horse in a neighboring paddock. In an outdoor arena a tall, blond girl lunged her beautiful bay thoroughbred. It was the beginning of another day at Pendragon Farm. Amy Cheetham, 11Monroe, Maine Elizabeth Wright, 13Las Vegas, Nevada
