Piccadilly Dreams

I walked through the aisle of a stable called Danbury Farms. It had once been well known to everybody in this county who jumped, a place where young jumpers dreamed of riding. However, the farm had fallen on hard times. The manager had moved to England to be with his girlfriend, and the farm had collapsed. As a result, the owners of the farm, Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Jones, were selling all of their top-flight jumpers dirt cheap, and my mom had agreed to buy me one. My mom, who was calling me over to look at another horse, interrupted my thoughts. “Jessica, dear, come and look at this Arabian mare, Silvershadow.” I started to turn toward her, but another stall caught my eye. It looked empty at first glance, but when I walked over to have a second look, I saw that a little colt, his coat a fiery chestnut, almost red, occupied it. I read the stall plate. “Piccadilly Dreams,” I said to him, “Quite a big name for such a little fellow, isn’t it?” Despite being a year old, according to the birth date on the stall plate, he was rather small. He stretched his neck a little so he could put his head over the stall door, and I put my hand on his forehead, covering the small, white, lopsided circle that was there. Looking into his liquid brown eyes, I knew that this was my horse, my partner. “Excuse me,” I said to a passing groom, “could you tell me about this little guy?” “Sure,” he answered, putting down the water bucket he was carrying. “He’s half thoroughbred, half Arab, bred and born right here on Danbury Farms. His dad was that massive stallion we sold to Whiteberry Stables, remember him?” Looking into his liquid brown eyes, I knew that this was my horse, my partner I nodded. I remembered seeing him unloaded while I was doing my job as a groom there. He was a fiery red terror. Whiteberry was just down the road from my house, and the owner, Lydia Carpenter, taught me to ride in exchange for work. “His mom,” the groom continued, “was that pretty girl over there.” He pointed to Silvershadow, the mare my mom had wanted me to see, and I looked at her in a new light. She was dusky black, with the dished face that was typical of Arabians, strong hindquarters, and an intelligent look in her large brown eyes. She would be a good jumper, I thought. “May I go into his stall?” I asked. “Sure,” the groom said again. “He got his dad’s color, but his mom’s temper, thank goodness, or he’d have been a holy terror.” I opened the stall door carefully, so I didn’t scare him, then let him sniff my hand. After he could recognize me by smell, I crouched down and ran my hands over his legs, checking for straightness. Good. They were straight. Sloping shoulders? Check. Strong hindquarters? Check. Good attitude? Check. He had all the things he needed to be a champion jumper. I stood up again, and looked right into my mom’s face. “Mom,” I said. “This is my horse.” “No,” she answered. “He’s too young, untrained, and you won’t be able to ride him for a long time. No. I’m sorry but this is the way it’s meant to be. There will be other horses.” I wish my mom wasn’t so superstitious. Sometimes, when she thinks something’s “meant to be,” there’s no way to change her mind. There was nothing I could do. I walked away slowly, every step taking me further away from my horse. All the way back home, I sat in stony silence. I was sorry to make such a big deal of it, but she was wrong. As soon as the car stopped, I ran into the garage and grabbed my bike. I got on it and biked swiftly to the end of the road, to Whiteberry. Lydia was waiting for me. As soon as I had stopped, I said, “Lydia, I found the perfect horse, but my mom won’t let me buy him!” While I was saying that, she said, “Jessica, I found the perfect horse for you!” I stopped talking. “You go first,” I said. “OK. You know that barn across town, Danbury?” I nodded but didn’t say anything. “Well, they just closed down and are selling all their horses real cheap. You know that massive terror of a stallion I bought, Piccadilly’s Devil? He was from there. “Anyways, I went up there again to look at a mare of theirs, and I found out she had a colt! He’s one year old, which is a bit young, but I can help you train him. He’s also actually the son of my stallion! Isn’t that cool? Now, what did you say?” I stared at her. “Well,” I said, “I found the same colt, but my mom won’t let me buy him. I’m sure he’s the horse for me!” While Lydia was speaking, my face had flushed with excitement that she thought Piccadilly was a good horse for me, too, and I had had to resist the urge to jump up and down. I needed a breather. “Wait a sec,” I said, “I gotta run to the bathroom.” When I got to the bathroom, I splashed my face with cold water, glad that Lydia had forked out the extra money for running water. In despair—I wasn’t going to get to buy my horse, after all— I stared at the pictures of Lydia jumping her horses. A spark of an idea formed in my mind. The question was, would it work? I ran back to where Lydia was standing. “I have an idea,” I told her. “What?” she asked. I told her my idea. “Yes!” she said. “Go for it!” I biked home in the gathering darkness. When I got to the house, I went to bed, falling asleep instantly. *          *          *

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

A Day with My Dog

I picked up the soggy, slobbered-on tennis ball and threw it yet again. I watched Sunset gleefully pursue it yet again. It was part of our special bond, this pointless game of fetch. Both of us knew our parts in this tireless ritual of throwing and retrieving. Sunset did not want to give up the ball without a struggle. I had to grasp it while she held it tightly in her jaws, and we played tug-of-war. I yanked it back and forth and her head followed. She then released the ball for a moment’s time to catch her breath; I snatched it from her teeth and threw it again. At last we collapsed on the grass, exhausted. I began stroking her mane of golden fur that surrounded her golden retriever head that moved rhythmically with each pant. She snuggled her body closer to mine and rolled over to expose her soft white underbelly. It was flaked with mud. In fact, her fur was matted with dirt. I knew I would have to do something about it, but that would be later. It was part of our special bond, this pointless game of fetch She awaited her belly-scratching with eager anticipation. I responded to her invitation by running my fingernails along the sleek lines of her torso. She rolled her head to the side and closed her eyes in pure contentment. She would gladly have welcomed my continuing in this way till eternity. Disappointment was inevitable. At last, I got up and beckoned to her. She waited a little longer, hoping I would return, but finally she knew her duty and reluctantly followed. I picked up the garden hose as casually as possible, but Sunset was not so easily fooled. When I turned on the water, aiming the nozzle toward the flower bed to make her think I was innocently watering the flowers, Sunset tried to make a run for it. I was too quick for her. Dropping the garden hose, I leaped upon her. She crouched down, curling her sixty-pound body into a remarkably small, furry ball. While lying across her, I stretched my arm out as far as it would go and just barely reached the hose. It took four towels to dry her off. I vigorously rubbed her down with each towel. The sweet fragrance of the soap could not cover up the distinctive odor of damp dog. Sunset rose to her feet, shook herself thoroughly, and with an effort at restoring her pride, gracefully pranced over to a sun-drenched spot on the lawn. She lay down. I sprawled myself out beside her. We both looked into the distance and watched the puffy white clouds drift by. I knew that if I ever had a choice, that would be the day I would relive. Zack Bell, 13Woodbridge, Connecticut Sheri Park, 12Redwood City, California

The Lone Wolf

Alexis Jamison looked thoughtfully at the young gray wolf anxiously pacing the enclosure. “You’ve got green eyes. That’s odd. Did you know that most gray wolves have gold eyes, or yellow even?” The wolf whined fearfully, a pup’s apprehensive sound, and Alex looked helplessly at it. “I can’t do anything yet,” she continued bitterly. “You’re going to be released, don’t you know that? What’s your name, anyway?” She looked at the piece of paper tacked lopsidedly to the fence, her father’s practically illegible handwriting spelling out the words: Lupus. Gray wolf. Approximately two years old. “Lupus, is that your name then?” Alex said interestedly. “Good name for a gray wolf.” Lupus whined again. “Oh, Lupus,” she murmured, her voice breaking. She jumped to her feet, put a hand against the fence briefly, then tore herself away and strode toward her house, trying hard to keep from turning back to Lupus. “Lupus, is that your name then? Good name for a gray wolf” The cool Alaskan air bit at Alex as she walked across the field of dying grass. She was used to wolves; there were plenty here at the gray wolf release center her father had begun four years ago. She had come here every summer since her parents split up when she was six. Alex had learned everything there was to know about endangered gray wolves from her father, and was already able to help him with his work. She didn’t usually let herself get attached to any of the wolves, knowing they were eventually going to be released and she’d never see them again, but she was curiously interested in Lupus. *          *          * Back at the enclosure, Lupus lay down wearily at nightfall after a day’s worth of restless pacing. He was a lone wolf, and would probably never start a pack of his own again. Before a yearling had challenged him, he’d been the alpha male of his pack, but the yearling had won the fight and now Lupus was a social outcast, hunting and living alone. He howled mournfully. Today, however, Lupus had finally become interested in a human when the young girl had spoken to him. He didn’t know her language, but he had understood her tone. She sounded as though she hadn’t wanted to go from him. No human had ever spoken like that to him; they had used falsely calm, sweet voices instead, as if he were a shy little cub that needed protection. This human had talked to him like the tough, former alpha he was. He somehow sensed that this girl was like him, alone and perhaps afraid. His head rested on his forepaws, and his green eyes closed gently. *          *          * Alex woke early the next morning. It was pleasantly silent in the house, and she lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about how lucky she was that it was summer vacation, when she didn’t have to go to school and endure the insults and jeers from Kara and her group. Her former friends. Some friends they were, to ditch her the moment she’d shown signs of not being “cool” anymore. One particular memory stuck out with uncomfortable clarity in her mind . . . It had all started on a warm day in November, when a new girl, Lori, had joined Alex’s class at school. Alex and her best friend, Kara, befriended Lori, and at first, everyone seemed happy. Lori hung out with Kara and Alex and their whole group of friends. But little by little, Alex began to notice changes. Kara and Lori became closer and began doing things without including Alex. Kara never called or e-mailed Alex anymore. One day, Alex overheard Kara and Lori talking. “Why should we hang out with her? All she ever talks about are her parents being divorced and how she’s going to go to Alaska to see her dad and her precious wolves,” Kara was saying to Lori. Alex knew they were talking about her. She was stunned. She had thought they were friends. Alex swung herself out of bed, fiercely driving back the memories that made a burning pain erupt somewhere around her throat. “Forget,” she commanded herself sternly. But she knew that would be impossible, to forget everything. She had a sudden, deep desire to see Lupus. Alex had felt so drawn to him yesterday. Seeing him alone in his enclosure, while all the other wolves were with their mates or in packs, had reminded Alex of her own loneliness. After a quick shower, Alex got dressed in a dark flannel shirt, faded jeans, and brown ankle boots—it was cold at the wolf release center where she was staying, even in summer. Her father would most likely already be outside, studying the big gray wolf, Gregoryi, and his mate, Baileyi. Alex shoved an energy bar into her jeans pocket and sprinted to Lupus’s enclosure. She sat down firmly on the dirt sprinkled with dying grass a short distance from his pen and rapped gently on the chain-link fence with the heel of her hand. *          *          * Lupus woke with a start at the rattling noise. Clumsy prey? He hadn’t hunted anything since that young man with the overlong hair had found him, lying sick amongst the dark trees, and brought him to this place. Little did he know the young man was Alex’s father. His eyes opened hopefully and he instinctively half-rose at a second jangle, but when he saw it was only Alex, he lay down sadly once again. Alex warily put a finger through the chain-link fence, and he lunged fiercely for it. She leapt backward, scolding him. “Don’t bite me, I’m your friend,” she said indignantly. “I won’t hurt you.” Lupus shuffled backward to the farthest corner of his pen, barking warningly. Alex grinned shyly. “I know you’re scared. That leap at me was all show, wasn’t it? You’re trying to be a great, frightening wolf, to scare me off.”

The Last Red Flag

I started out the window, looking onto the surging crowds with sadness and fear. I had always known the revolution might happen—as if my brother, Anton, would ever let us forget. He was always out on the streets, socializing with the revolutionaries, showing me the small red flags he brought home. It seemed he enjoyed upsetting Mama—telling her that since we had a family of aristocrats, we may be targets for the revolutionaries. After we came to stay with Aunt Evelina for a while, he told us to always be ready to leave. Well, he had before they sent him off to the war. But revolutions were for France, not my beloved Russia. Oh, how far we had come from the carefree days when we skated down the frozen creek back at home. As I stuck my head out the window, I closed my eyes and listened to all the sounds around me. Suddenly, I heard a strange, muffled noise. I realized it was Mama standing out on her balcony, silent tears running down her face, continuing even when Papa came out and put his arm around her. I could hear their voices, even over the roar of the throng. “Oh, Igor,” Mama cried, “why can’t the war just stop? Sometimes, I wonder what the tsar is really up to. Much as I love him, I cannot see how the war is doing any good for us. How could he send so many innocent men to their deaths? We all know that sending peasants with barely any training won’t help us win the war. And it breaks the hearts of so many families. All I want is for the madness to end and for Anton to return.” I stared out the window, looking on to the surging crowds with sadness and fear At this, I gasped. Mama had never spoken out against the tsar! Things like that were for Anton and his university friends, back from before the war . . . “Anitchka, hush, it will be all right,” my father soothed. “You know that we were forced into this. Do not worry. The tsar will soon sort this all out. And you and Anya are working in the hospital, nursing the soldiers, are you not? I’m sure that soon, one of them will have news of Anton.” But I could see his brow was creased, and I could hear the worry in his voice, a voice I knew well. “I certainly hope so,” Mama said tearfully. Papa began to say something, but I did not wish to hear more. When Papa was worried, things were not good. My strong Papa always knew how to solve our problems. *          *          * I longed to go back to our estate in the country. It wasn’t as grand or nearly as big as Aunt Evelina’s mansion here in Moscow, but it was wonderful. The workers were always good to us, because Papa gave them freedom and never let the supervisors beat them. Papa’s methods were often looked upon with scorn by our neighbors, but he didn’t care. And best of all, we were slightly isolated from the world, and we didn’t have to hear so much terrible news. It took days for letters to get from the city to our house. I used to hate this part of our life—I barely ever got to hear from my friends in the city but now I realized how lucky we were. We had a simple lifestyle there. When we were little, Anton and I would explore the forest. I remember when we found the shell of a robin’s egg. It was the lightest of blues, with a few faint cracks running through it . . . All of a sudden, Mama came into the room and interrupted my thoughts. “Come, Anya, it is time for us to work in the hospital. Are you sure you want to go today?” Mama asked me the same question every day. As if I didn’t feel my best when I was working, helping the soldiers. I disliked sitting around doing embroidery like Aunt Evelina always encouraged me to do. “Ladies don’t need to do work,” she would always say, “that’s what men are for.” It angered me so. Women certainly weren’t useless, like Aunt Evelina thought. Her talk was what sparked me into working at the hospital. *          *          * Mama and I walked out the door and wove our way through the crowd. We had been careful to put on the cloaks belonging to the maids and servants of the house. We knew that the swarming protesters must not see our nice things. Soon, we had reached the hospital. When I first started working, I had gotten frequent nightmares—seeing the once healthy men the way they were was almost a living nightmare. They were extremely thin, their heads were shaved, their beards ragged. But now I had gotten over it. I passed my time re-bandaging the wounds and telling stories of my childhood in the countryside, and it pained me and comforted me to see the happiness in their eyes as I talked about the smell of fresh buckwheat and the many flowers popping up in the springtime. I realized that these men were born to appreciate the wild, raw beauty of the Russian wilderness, and if I were given a choice, I would certainly fight to protect it. I would leave each bed with its occupant promising to tell me of any news about Anton. I knew we were lucky to have Papa still here—he had lost an arm in a war in Manchuria when I was four and wasn’t eligible—but I knew that the tsar was getting desperate, and if we weren’t lucky, he would soon be drafted. By the time we got home, the sky was already darkening. When we arrived at the door, Mama quickly put her cloaked arm around me and pushed me inside. Aunt Evelina rushed to greet us. “Anitchka!

You . . . and Your Dad

Traveling the interstate routes With no sense of direction Following no road map Traveling only by the lay of the land Going on only because Of the love of the land You and your dad You, a curly-haired toddler Without even the knowledge To put the right shoes on the right feet Listening to Willie Nelson in a trance You Your dad Feeling the love, but not really understanding it Your bottle in one hand The other, clutching the seat belt Anticipating the next fork in the road You, a rosy-cheeked kid Not knowing anything but Willie Nelson’s voice and The indescribable landscape Not knowing That later on in life you wish you would be able to relive That single moment A thousand times Only the hazy memory Sticking to you like the apple juice leaking from the bottle Stuck to your lively little fingers at one time You and your dad On the interstate routes. Katie Ferman, 11Three Lakes, Wisconsin

Ode to Marbles

I love the sound of marbles scattered on the worn wooden floor, like children running away in a game of hide-and-seek. I love the sight of white marbles, blue marbles, green marbles, black, new marbles, old marbles, iridescent marbles, with glass-ribboned swirls, dancing round and round. I love the feel of marbles, cool, smooth, rolling freely in my palm, like smooth-sided stars that light up the worn world. Max Mendelsohn,12Weston, Massachusetts

Finding Sophie

Finding Sophie by Irene N. Watts; Tundra Books: New York, 2002; $6.95 Before I read Finding Sophie I had read several books about Jewish children who went into hiding during World War II, or who were in concentration camps. I was very excited to read this book because it was about something new to me: children who were on the Kindertransport and what happened to them. I learned that the Kindertransport was a special train. It brought children, who were Jewish and living in Germany, to England. England was a much safer country during the war. I liked the main character instantly! Her name is Sophie Mandel. She is 14 years old for most of the story—the same age as my sister. Sophie is brave and full of spirit. She is an amazing artist, also. Her life was so different from the way my life has been. Can you imagine being separated from your parents when you are only seven years old, and not knowing if you’ll ever see them again? This is what happened to Sophie after she left her parents in Germany. She was sent on the Kindertransport to England to live with her mother’s friend, Aunt Em. Sophie was lucky because Aunt Em loved her so much and she loved her back. She had a good life with Aunt Em, even though life wasn’t easy during that time. You have to concentrate when you are reading Finding Sophie because the story moves back and forth in time. Sometimes Sophie would think back to special times she had had with her mother and father. They called her Zoffie in German. The saddest part in the story for me was, as Sophie got older some of the memories of her parents began to fade. Sophie has guilty feelings because she wants to stay in England forever with her Aunt Em and her new friends, Mandy and Nigel. One of my favorite parts of the book was when Sophie had a reunion with a girl named Marianne, who had looked after her on the Kindertransport like a mother. They had to deal with being far away from their families, and with losing a close family member. This gave them a special bond. I won’t spoil the ending for you and tell you what happens, but I was happy for Sophie the way things turned out. Part of the reason I enjoyed the book so much is because the author, Irene Watts, told the story in such a real way. I thought it was fascinating that she was a passenger on the Kindertransport when she was a child, just like Sophie. If you are interested in learning about children’s experiences during the Holocaust, you will enjoy reading this book. Allison Goldberg, 11Suffern, New York