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
Triss
Triss by Brian Jacques; Philomel Books: New York, 2002; $23.99 A book of adventures. Comic and distinct personalities. Several story lines that wittily intertwine together, make the book Triss by Brian Jacques an intriguing read. Triss is a squirrel slave at Riftgard, a kingdom of evil rats. Triss and two of her friends escape from Riftgard and Kurda, an evil princess who rules it. Kurda’s efforts to capture them are what drive the story plot onward. While they are playing cat and mouse, Scarum, a hare from a mountain who is looking for adventure, and Kurda show that they have the most recognizable individual personalities. Kurda is good at insulting others and does it often. She will make a mistake and blame it on someone else. She missed a tossed turnip moving during her sword practice and is it her fault? Oh no. Kurda’s accent makes her seem all the more evil. Kurda’s eyes blazed with anger at her mistake. “Stupid oaf! Ven I say trow {throw}, you trow dem proper. Trow high, vot do you tink I am? You t’ick {thick} mud brain bungle paws!” Scarum is my favorite for he gives you the most sense of “I know what he would do here.” Like most hares, where food is, Scarum is. He tells others that he is everything good there is to be, like a fearsome shark slayer sometimes and at other times he’s the son of a very wealthy family. “Wot wot’s” and “I think I’ll jolly well do that” and his growing appetite make him irresistible to laugh at. Even though Triss is one of the main characters, she does not show as much personality as the others. This novel is like our lives, just much smaller. It has similar concepts such as gravity, animals, and sun/moon, unlike Lord of the Rings where there is magic, huge evil creatures created, and different landforms. It’s simply the squirrels’ and otters’ perspective on their lives with normal problems such as big animals and predators and how they overcome them. They live in a great, huge, safe Redwall abbey with mostly peaceful creatures in it. This is essentially our world but in much earlier times, like King Arthur’s and Camelot’s day. Now we have large societies and countries, but it used to be tribes, roving bands, castles, and some empires fighting each other with bows, arrows, and swords and that is just this. Brian Jacques explored many ideas involving determination with each key character at various points in the story. At the beginning, Triss and her friends were captured and, in jail, did they get out after slaving at those bars? They could have figured they were going to a better place and just died. However, through persistence, they succeeded in escaping. Kurda showed fierce determination to recapture her slaves by bringing her best rats to capture. She did not care what happened to her rats. She was brave by doing what her father was petrified of. This novel is excellent, just like all his others in the Redwall series, but the personalities the author creates in this one just pull you in and make you a part of Redwall’s legend. Andrew Glick, 11Pekin, Illinois
Playing Periwinkle
I remember the first time we played Periwinkle. I was ten and my sister Lou was eleven. We were just under a year apart, eleven months exactly. It was her birthday and her party had just ended, leaving just the two of us and a pile of presents. I picked one up, a funny little stuffed pig, and leaned it over by Lou. “It’s Pig’s birthday, too!” I giggled. Lou rolled her eyes in an attempt to look mature but ended up laughing with me. After living together for our entire lives, we were both pretty good at figuring out what the other one was thinking. I glanced at the table set up for the party then at the pig, then at Lou. “Sounds fun, right?” I asked her. She knew what I meant, and we raced through the house, picking up every stuffed animal we could carry and dumping them on the table. “Now the pig can have a party right Lou?” I said. She surveyed the heap. “Sure,” she told me with all the authority of being one year older, “but not here. They need a house of their own. Like, oh, somewhere in the woods.” So we picked up the animals once again, and started walking through the woods near our house in search of a suitable spot for a party. Finally, Lou paused under a big tree. “This looks like a good spot.” It didn’t seem any different from any of the other spots under any of the other trees that we had passed, but I didn’t want to argue with Lou on her birthday. We laughed as we arranged the animals around an imaginary table, moving their little arms to eat invisible cake. Suddenly, Lou looked up. “What time is it, Jen?” she asked me. We laughed as we arranged the animals around an imaginary table I looked at my watch. “Six-forty-five.”We both knew what that meant. We were forty-five minutes late for supper, and Mom was not going to be happy with us. Lou took off through the trees, and I followed. * * * A we were lying in our bunk beds that night, almost asleep, I thought of something. “Lou!” “I’m tired, Jen. Go back to sleep.””No, listen! We left all the animals out there! I don’t want to leave them out all night; what if it rains?” “Well, what do you want to do about it—go back and get them?” Lou said sarcastically. “Now?” I asked incredulously “Lou, it’s the middle of the night.” She swung her legs over the side of the top bunk and jumped off. “I was kidding, but I guess we could. It’s now or never, if it rains.” That was true. “OK, wait for me.” We tiptoed barefoot into the kitchen. Lou rummaged around in the drawers, looking for a strong flashlight, then we slid on our shoes and slipped out the door. The forest path looked eerie in the dark. I had second thoughts about our plan, but once Lou made up her mind to do something, there was no stopping her, so we continued until we reached the tree. Looking at the animals reminded me of how much fun we were having. We had never really finished Pig’s party so I turned to Lou. “Do you think we could maybe play a little, while we’re out here?” She stared at me like I was crazy. “What if Mom and Dad find out?” “We’d be in enough trouble already” I pointed out. She shrugged, always willing for an adventure. “Sounds fine to me!” We sat down in the dark. It wasn’t really so scary after all, I noticed. Once we propped up the flashlight in between us, it lit up the surrounding woods well enough so we could be sure that nothing was hiding out there, and the house was pretty close by. We played for almost an hour when Lou decided that we had better start back, but both of us were sad to leave. That was probably what made Lou say, “Jen? Let’s try to come out here again tomorrow night.” And it was what made me say, “Yes.” “This is almost like a little world,” Lou said thoughtfully. “Maybe we’d better name it.” I thought for a while. “I don’t know. Do you have any ideas?” “I’m thinking.” We eventually decided on Periwinkle, because as Lou said, “Periwinkle is such a pretty color, but I don’t see it very often. When I see it, I think of thousands of possibilities.” * * * Two years later, we were still playing Periwinkle. Sometimes during the day, I was embarrassed to think of what some of the kids at school would say about such a “baby” game. But the nighttime always made it seem special, even magical, and I couldn’t even think of ending the game. We never really talked about it, but I think Lou felt the same way. We had improved the game since that first night on Lou’s birthday. Lou and I made popsicle-stick furniture for the stuffed animals, and walls to separate different rooms. Sometimes the Periwinkle characters would go to school, sometimes they would play, and sometimes they would even go on vacation and take a trip somewhere. We made different cardboard buildings for everywhere they went. One hot August night, Lou and I appeared at our tree to find nothing. Everything was gone. We couldn’t think of anything to do but stare in shock. Who or what could have done this? Dog tracks covered the muddy ground. I turned to show Lou and see what she was thinking, but she was not there. She was already running back toward the house, fists clenched. I sighed, blinking away a tear as I looked at the mess, then I followed her. Back in our bedroom, Lou was still angry. I was upset too, but I wanted to try to calm her down. “Listen. It’s not the end of the
Oreo
The barn was dark, but a warm and welcoming darkness. The hay piled up for the horses smelled sweet and soft. The barn door was slightly ajar, just enough for a small bedraggled traveler. The horses snorted in their sleep, but the hay was inviting and the traveler was soon asleep, breathing in the fresh-cut smell. * * * Molly was homesick. She had been at camp for two days, and really missed her parents. She decided to go to the farm, where she could play with the kittens and wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. When the first-period bell rang, she walked down the road to the farm, absorbed in self-pity. Outside the barn was a kitten. Molly bent down to pet her and went inside. There were a few people in the barn, holding kittens. Molly spotted a small black-and-white kitten, who wasn’t being held. She scooped him up and looked into blue-gray eyes like her own. She petted the kitten’s black ears and he shut his eyes in contentment. She had made a friend. A week later, Molly had made lots of friends in her cabin, but still visited the kitten a lot. He was christened Oreo. She had completely fallen in love with him. Eventually, she called her parents. “Mom, can I pleeeeeease have this kitten?” On the other end of the phone, her mom sighed. “Maybe.” Soon, maybe turned to yes, and Molly was very happy. Camp would end soon, and Molly would spend the rest of her summer in Nova Scotia. At the end of the summer, when she came back from her summer house, they would pick Oreo up. She was prepared to wait as long as it took to get Oreo. A small black-and-white kitten woke up in his bed of hay Camp ended, and Molly hugged Oreo, telling him to wait for her. In their summer house in Nova Scotia, Molly patiently waited for the summer to be over. One night, a week from getting Oreo, she had a dream. Oreo had run away from camp. He had forgotten that she was going to adopt him, so he ran away. In her dream, Molly chased after him for a long time. Finally, he remembered who she was, and he stopped. She caught up, and he jumped into her arms. The following day, a phone call came from camp. “Hi, Molly. Are you still getting this cat?” “Oreo? Yep.” “Well, I have some very sad news. Oreo ran away. He’s been away for two weeks, but we couldn’t find your phone number.” “Oreo?” Molly said, her voice faint. “Th- the black-and-white male? Are you sure?” “Yes. Can I talk to a parent?” Numbly, Molly handed the phone to her dad and collapsed onto the couch. * * * A small black-and-white kitten woke up in his bed of hay. He was quite big now, and catching mice. He had just vaguely remembered someone, a girl, who had loved him so much . . . He felt a shadow of remorse at leaving her, but it was soon swallowed up by kitten dreams and thoughts, and he had forgotten it in the morning. Molly Ostertag, 12Milan, New York Evan Mistur, 13Troy, New York
Persistence
Jessica Morgan was ten years old and was already sure she was no good at anything. Her parents were eminent historians who studied the Civil War. They each had written numerous books and articles on the subject of Civil War history. Everyone Jessica knew seemed to admire them, including Jessica herself. To Jessica, her parents appeared to have limitless confidence and skill. She, on the other hand, had never felt successful or competent at anything she tried. Sometimes, Jessica wondered how she could be so different from her parents. One hot summer afternoon as Jessica sat reading, the telephone on the wall beside her rang loudly. She picked it up on the second ring, placing a bookmark in her book. “Hello?” “Jessica, it’s Cassie.” “Oh, hi.” Ten-year-old Cassie Parker had been Jessica’s closest friend for six years. The girls chatted for a few minutes, and then Cassie said, “You know my brother’s old kayak? Well, we’re getting rid of it.” “That beat-up one with the wooden paddle? Why?” Jessica was surprised. She knew he loved that old kayak. She herself had seen him using it. “My brother Aaron got a brand-new kayak for his eighth birthday. Now my parents are dying to get the old one out of the garage. I thought because you live right on the creek and you don’t have a kayak, maybe you’d like it.” Jessica hesitated. She didn’t know the first thing about kayaking. What should she do? Suddenly, she heard herself say, “Sure, I’ll take it. My parents have always said I could have a kayak if I wanted one, but I’ve never had the chance to get one.” “Now you’ve got a great chance. So, you want it?” “Yes, I do!” Jessica’s heart leapt. She was really getting the kayak! “OK.” Even if she couldn’t see Cassie’s face, Jessica was almost positive her best friend was smiling by her pleased tone. “I’ll bring it over Saturday morning at ten. Is that OK?” “Yeah, sure! Bye.” “Bye.” Jessica’s heart leapt. She was really getting the kayak! Jessica hung up the phone again and considered opening her book, but she was too excited to read. Tomorrow she would have her very own kayak. Visions filled her mind—visions of herself moving silently, gracefully through the marsh creeks behind her house, cutting the water smoothly. Visions of racing Cassie time and time again, propelling herself swiftly past Cassie’s red kayak, winning dozens of races. Then the dreams were abruptly cut short. What if she was horrible at kayaking . . . just like everything else she’d ever tried? The visions changed to pictures of herself floundering in the water, having tipped over her kayak, of herself running into the banks of the creeks and getting stuck in the mud. Jessica knew she was rarely any good at anything, and, now that she thought about it, was positive that she would be as bad at kayaking as she was at video games and tennis and soccer and everything else she tried to do. All her friends were good at something. Cassie was a straight-A student, Ginny was the best pitcher on the local baseball team, and Lila was always talking about her most recent experiences climbing mountains. They had never been mean to Jessica when she failed to do something as well as they had done it, but she nevertheless felt embarrassed every time they looked at her, smiling kindly, and said, “Come on, Jess, you know you can do it. Just try really hard.” Jessica’s mind drifted back to last April, when she and her friend Lila had gone to their hometown’s annual spring festival. There, among all the usual attractions, was something new—a climbing wall. “Hey, let’s give it a try!” Lila had said enthusiastically, stepping forward. Jessica had had a sinking feeling, but she had agreed because she didn’t want to appear as though she were afraid to try. As the girls neared the wall, Lila confidently stepped up to the more challenging side, while Jessica uneasily approached the easier one. They were given harnesses to put on, and began climbing. The movements felt unnatural to Jessica. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t seem to find any handholds. It seemed that she stayed in one spot forever, awkwardly attempting to move upward. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen Lila, scrambling steadily higher. As Jessica tentatively pulled herself up another notch, she heard a sound that made her heart sink. It was the ring of the bell from the top of the climbing wall. That meant Lila had already reached the top and was on her way back down. Jessica, convinced she couldn’t make it any further, gave up and headed toward the ground. Even now, the memory of that day made her cringe. She was still thinking about that day, and about how she would probably have a similar experience with kayaking, when she went downstairs for supper that night. Only Jessica’s mother, Elizabeth, was at the dinner table—presumably her father, James, was still working hard in his study. “Hello, Jessica,” said her mother, putting a plate of spaghetti in front of Jessica as she sat down. “Hi. Cassie called. They’re giving away Aaron’s old kayak.” “Oh? Why?” “Aaron got a new one for his birthday Well, anyway, Cassie called me to offer the kayak to me. If it’s OK, she’s bringing it over tomorrow.” Her mom smiled. “I hope you’ll like it.” The rest of dinner passed in silence—they were both hungry, and felt no need to talk. After eating, Jessica read her book and watched television awhile, and then went to bed, apprehensive about the next morning. * * * Jessica woke abruptly at the insistent ring of the alarm on the clock radio sitting on her nightstand, which read eight o’clock. She got out of bed, showered, and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and by that time it was eight-thirty. Only an hour and a
Night Lives
When the sky was full of diamonds, We went dancing on the cobblestone streets. The world was filled with laughter and music and whispering couples. The spicy food, The sweet chocolate, And the strong aroma of coffee. The lights on the water. We sat under the massive stone archways, lit with light. We turned around and around beneath the statues of the gods of a past world. We ran over bridges, And cast stones at the wavering reflections of ourselves. We slept on a doorstep. In front of us, the city was alive with color and people. Above us, The sky was full of diamonds And the moon. Natalie Fine, 12Denver, Colorado
Penalty Kick
Overtime. Golden Goal. As I place the ball in a circle, I think about where I should place the shot. top left bottom left top right bottom right I wait for the whistle my team is silent but the crowd is roaring pressure is on nerves rush through me suddenly the crowd silences the whistle blows I sprint toward the ball the crowd stands my shot swift quick hard and low right the keeper dives for the ball I turn my head don’t even watch I know I won the game. Hudson Jetton, 12Hoover, Alabama
Where in the World
Where in the World by Simon French; Peachtree Publishers: Atlanta, 2003; $14.95 Have you ever not wanted to do something, but been forced to do it anyway? Ari, a boy with an extraordinary gift for music, certainly was in Where in the World when Mr. Lee, his music teacher, tried to make him play the violin at an end-of-the-year recital. As I read I thought about how much like me Ari was. I was nervous the first time I played a piano in front of people I didn’t know because I was afraid that I would make a mistake and look foolish. Since I got a lot of encouragement from my parents, grandparents and music teacher I got up the courage to try even though I was still scared. As soon as I began to play I forgot that I even had an audience until they started to applaud at the end. Now I look forward to concerts. A similar situation happened to Ari too. Ari enjoyed playing the violin for fun and for his parents’ enjoyment but he didn’t want to play at the end-of-the-year recital because he was embarrassed about playing the violin. He was afraid that other children would tease him. One day while his friend, Thomas, was over, Ari’s grandfather called on the telephone and asked to hear Ari play the violin. After he was done Thomas asked Ari whether he would play some more songs for him because he thought they sounded beautiful. Ari thought Thomas was teasing him and he put the violin away. Several weeks later Ari’s stepfather, Jamie, asked Ari whether he would consider playing the violin for his mother’s birthday at the café his parents owned. Ari’s mother and Jamie always played music to entertain the customers after dinner. Ari said that he would consider it. He didn’t know what to do but finally he made up his mind to play at the café because he loved his mother so much and wanted to make her proud. When he did he discovered that he liked playing in front of other people. He and the audience appreciated each other. That was the turning point where he realized that he could play at the recital without any fears. The author, Simon French, can make you feel sad, happy, or even disappointed for Ari. One point where I particularly noticed this was when Ari’s grandfather died. Even though none of my grandparents have died I can’t imagine life without any of them. After his grandfather died Ari said that he never wanted to play a violin again. This was probably due to the fact that his grandfather had taught him to play the violin. His parents told him how much talent he had and encouraged him to develop that talent and not let it go to waste. He realized that his grandfather would want him to continue playing. Mr. Lee was hired to teach Ari. As I read I realized that it’s impossible to go through life always getting your way. Sooner or later someone will make you do something you don’t want to. New experiences can be scary but can lead to exciting new opportunities. I strongly recommend this book. It is impossible not to like Ari and sympathize with the difficult situations that he has to overcome. Whether the reader is a musician or not all of us have to face trying new situations as we grow. Bill T. Hallahan, 10Nashua, New Hampshire
