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
Willow and Twig
Willow and Twig by Jean Little; Viking: New York, 2000; $15.99 Most people can relate to having an annoying little brother that is “Velcro-ed” to you wherever you go, or to counting on your grandma for love. But Willow doesn’t only need to count on her grandma for love, she and her brother, nicknamed Twig, need to count on her to survive! Willow and her four-year-old brother, whom everyone thinks is stupid because he can’t talk yet, are living with an elderly caretaker, Maisie, in a cramped one-room apartment. The children’s mother, a drug addict, is out in the world seemingly unaware that she has just broken yet another promise that means everything to her kids. This time, the kids know she is never coming back, never. In daycare or kindergarten, most kids worry that their parents won’t come to pick them up, but that usually never happens. Only Willow and Twig’s mom obviously has no idea how much coming back means to a kid. After about four months, Maisie dies. Willow and Twig are forced to turn to the police for help. After the threat of being sent off to two separate foster homes, Willow decides to call her long-lost grandma who supposedly never wants to see her again, or so her mother has told her. Until that telephone call, Grandma doesn’t even know Twig exists! Even though their grandma is happy to take them in, Willow is still scared that she will get angry at disruptive Twig and send them away. Once they seem to be settled in with blind Uncle Hum and kind Gram, other people come along who could spell trouble. Willow is at first happy to discover a neighbor her own age, until Sabrina Marr lies to her and runs off in a huff. And then Aunt Con, her grandmother’s wretched sister who absolutely hates children, decides to move in with them. At this point in the book, I didn’t know what would happen to Willow and Twig. Would Aunt Con convince Gram and Uncle Hum to get rid of them? Would Twig push too many buttons and get them both in trouble? Willow’s only hope now was to pray. Pray that Aunt Con would find love in her heart to let them stay. Pray that she and Twig would be loved. Pray that Sabrina would turn out to be nice. Pray. When I read this book I placed myself in Willow’s position and learned how other children might feel. How other children in our world struggle for food and water while we take it for granted. How others long to be loved, to have friends, to just sit down and laugh with their family members, while that is built into our daily lives. This book really made me think about what else is happening in the world while we sit down to play a game or to watch TV. Not everybody has the same privileges, and not everybody’s family looks the same. When you read this book you might get the same message I did, or you might have a different point of view. No matter what, though, I will bet you will find Willow and Twig to be a fascinating story about two children who overcome lots of obstacles and help to create a family they can count on to be safe and happy. Susanna Cai, 11Portland, Oregon
Because of Trust
Shannon took a deep breath and then opened the door. Tiny brass bells that hung on the inside tinkled merrily until she closed the door behind her and ran her hand swiftly through almost completely brown hair. She let her breath out, and then inhaled the smells of the Animal Rescue Thrift Store she was now standing inside. Another girl at the counter looked up from the cash register, and grinned. Halley was a full fifteen years older then Shannon, but they could talk together as if they were the exact same age. “Hi, Shannon!” she called. “Hi!” Shannon replied. There was a loud and throaty meow from near her sneakers, informing Shannon that Jenny was making her presence known. “I won’t forget you,” Shannon said, kneeling so that she could pet the pure white cat that had been in the shop for as long as she could remember. Jenny purred, rubbing her head up against Shannon’s shoe, rolling on the gray carpet. “Come to pick up a form?” Halley asked, carefully sorting the money into equal piles. Shannon’s mouth was suddenly dry, and she stood, ignoring Jenny’s pleas for more petting. “Yes.” She nodded. “Hold on,” Halley said. The front counter was always a mess of labels, pieces of paper, things on sale, and things that Halley needed to put price tags on. Halley rummaged around in a drawer for several minutes, and Shannon stood as if frozen in the same spot. “Ah! Got one!” she called. “Come to pick up a form?” Halley asked Shannon walked to the counter, and Halley passed over a piece of paper on the clipboard. Shannon took them and bit her lip. “Isn’t the kitten room open?” she asked. “I think I can let you in. There is a new batch of kittens that I just put flea ointment on, so I don’t want kids petting them too much. Go ahead.” Halley turned to help a customer. * * * Shannon slipped inside the kitty room and made sure the door was firmly closed behind her, and locked. If there were new kittens that meant that they wanted out of the room above all else. As she turned around, she realized that she had been right—live kittens bounded toward the door hopefully. One tabby, two Siamese and two sandy-colored. Shannon bent over . . . and they scattered, finding shelter under the metal file cabinets, cages, and cave made from just-washed blankets warm from the dryer. “Better get used to me,” Shannon said, looking around. “I may work here, you know.” No response from the kittens. They didn’t stick so much as a whisker out from their hiding places. Shannon sighed. Well, she wasn’t about to go crawling around after them now, scaring them half to death. She sat down in one of the rocking chairs and looked at the form. It was hard to understand the first time she read it, but then she read it again, and began to fill it out. The last question was the simplest for her. “Why do you think working in the kitty room would help? Why do you like kittens?” Shannon paused, and carefully wrote her answer. “Because these kittens don’t have any homes, they don’t have any mothers to go to. I know I couldn’t be a mother, but I’ve always loved kittens—I may never know why. It could be because of trust.” Surprised that she was done, she looked down at her lap. There was a sandy-colored kitten sitting on it. When Shannon reached down, it hopped off. Shannon shrugged, and opened the kitty room door, then slipped out. Halley was standing there, and Shannon handed her the paper. “I know the director will let you in, even though you’re only eleven,” Halley said, putting the form on the director’s desk. “She’s seen how those kittens love you.” “Need any help?” Shannon looked at the messy desk quizzically. “No, thanks though. Isn’t it time for your dinner?” Shannon sped out the door, calling, “Thank you!” * * * “Was it accepted?” Shannon was excited, jumping up and down at the counter. Halley smiled. “Of course. I told the director you have experience with cats so you know what to do . . .” “When do I start?” “Nobody’s in there now” Halley said. “You won’t be getting paid, you know.” Shannon nodded. “Yes—I know.” * * * The kitty room hadn’t been cleaned in several days, so Shannon had her work cut out for her. The cleaning closet was full and cluttered. Shannon started dusting right away. Dust fell off the tops of the shelves and the file cabinet, cascaded down from the cages. Sneezing, Shannon dusted the rest and went to the dishes full of food. Except that was the problem. They were empty. It took her a good ten minutes to find the wet cat food. She dumped it into a new not-dusty bowl and set it on the tray. Time to wash the dishes. She opened the screen door, and closed it behind her, balancing dish soap in one hand, and a plastic box full of dishes in the other, and was nearly bowled over by a blur of gold fur. “Benny. Down!” Benny, a golden retriever, rolled in the dirt, and Shannon began to wash the dishes on the grass. She went inside again and dried them, put them on the correct shelf, and looked around. It didn’t look much better. She grimly clamped her mouth shut. She would make this place shine—or else. * * * TWO MONTHS LATER The director, a red-haired woman with glasses, looked into the room. “You did this?” Shannon nodded, embarrassed. Instead of scolding, Ms. Lanburn put her head to one side. “Very good. Excuse me—it is time for our meeting. There’s somebody coming in about ten minutes who I think you should meet.” “Who?” Shannon asked, tugging at one of her braids. “She wants to volunteer. I’m sorry but I really
Adrian
It was a beautiful afternoon in August; it was slightly breezy and there wasn’t a cloud in the baby-blue sky. School started in two weeks and the kids in my neighborhood were going all out, trying to squeeze all the fun they could into those last precious hours in the park. The kids in sixth grade were especially outrageous. You weren’t allowed to play in the park as soon as you entered middle school. It was an unwritten law set down by years of sun-streaked kids coming and going. This was my last summer. My friends and I woke up early each morning and came home late each night. Dusty, tan and happy, we’d crawl into our beds without bothering to change. It was softball that I was most interested in. Softball. We were obsessed. No matter how many times we’d been told to by well-meaning mothers, we wouldn’t change our interests to something more feminine, like makeup, or clothes. The mothers would sigh and shake their heads, hoping that we would come down to earth by the time middle school rolled around. There were five of us; me, Amy, Francine, Kath, and Becca. Amy was short with red hair and tons of freckles. She was short-tempered, but if you got on her good side, she was as kind as could be. Francine had long blond-brown hair that fell to the middle of her back. She was the quiet one among us, though compared to most people she was incredibly loud. Kath, or Kathleen, with brown hair cut close to her head, was the sports player among us. We all played softball, but she played every possible sport that she could. Becca, with black hair that was always pulled back into a ponytail, was the intellectual one. For some reason, she had been born with a gift for math, something that none of us understood. We were best friends, and we thought that we would never accept another person into our group. The ball met the bat and it flew farther than we’d ever in five years, hit a ball The softball field that we played on was old, so old that our grandparents remember playing on it. There had been several suggestions to tear it down and build a couple of soccer fields in its place. They had been solidly refused, not only by us, but also by more than half the adults in the town, people who had grown up with it there. There were no dugouts like the newer fields, but it didn’t matter to anyone. The grass was mostly brown with scattered bits of green mixed in; cigarette butts were more common than either color grass. The dirt that formed the diamond had not been replaced in a while, making the ground as hard as cement. All in all, the field was a waste of space, but it was perfect for our purposes. Today we were, like all other days, playing softball. It was windy and dirt was getting thrown up in our eyes. There were enough of us only to have one pitcher, one batter, a first baseman, a shortstop and an outfielder. This wasn’t enough, especially toward the end of the summer, when we’d had two and a half months to practice, but we worked through it all, adapting the rules to fit our purposes. We were years older than anyone else, most of the kids having already adjusted into the normal world according to their proud parents. We were labeled The Outcasts and spit on by kids three years younger than us. We didn’t mind the spitting or the names, but if a kid ticked us off, a bloody nose solved matters temporarily. Today Amy was pitching and I was supposed to be batting, when I saw a figure coming toward us. I turned to look, stunned. Nobody, absolutely nobody, ever came to see us. We were used to it. This was someone new. It had to have been, I thought. A ball whizzed by my head and I turned to glare accusingly at Amy. She shrugged, then laughed. “Served you right!” she called. I stuck out my tongue and turned back around, letting go of the bat. It slid to the ground with a soft tap. The figure was closer now and I could tell it was a girl. The rest of my friends saw what I was looking at and walked toward me. We gathered around home plate, all glaring at this newcomer. The girl was tall, over five feet, an accomplishment in us since we’d all been born into short families. Her hair was dark brown, pulled back roughly from her face and tied in a ponytail. The baseball cap that was shoved on her head was dark blue. She was wearing a dark pink tank top, with light pink shorts. It was Francine who spoke first. “Nice outfit.” Amy spat rudely at the new girl’s feet. “I think the mall’s that way.” She gestured with a tip of her head. The new girl stared steadily at them with dark brown eyes, reminding me of a trapped deer. “My name’s Adrian. I came to play softball.” Her voice was quiet, but she sounded self-assured. For some reason, I wanted desperately to save this girl from the fate that she was accepting unknowingly. “OK, you can bat,” I said quickly. Francine looked at me strangely, but I shrugged. Francine shrugged too. “Why don’t you play catcher, then?” she suggested. I nodded mutely. We walked back to our positions. I crouched behind the plate. Adrian picked up the bat I’d dropped. She clamped her hands around it, squeezing hard until her fingers were striped red and white. Her fingernails were painted a light green, but it had started to chip away. Eventually, she shuffled up to the plate. Amy threw the ball perfectly. It was going to be very hard to hit, I thought. I doubted Adrian would even swing. Adrian
A Cedar Morning
The Crow woke me up. He is perched at the top of the old redwood, his raucous cries circling and drifting, jerking me from my dreams. Half of me wants to shake him for waking me; the other half wants to scatter extra birdseed around his redwood for letting me be a part of this dance of dawn. From the sleeping platform, I can see the pale gray sky, marred only by the occasional red-winged blackbird’s flight. Cedars and pines and redwoods fringe the sky. Trees grow taller, here in this magical place called the Cedars. Birds fly slower as if savoring the texture of the wind. The sun is hotter and higher here and I relish it. The Cedars is a haven for the weary birds, for the straggled plants, for the harassed, tired people, so rushed and choked from the city. Beside me, Oma and Opa wake up. “What a beautiful day!” Opa smiles. “The most wonderful day for our hike,” Oma says. “Shall we play the tree game?” she asks, smiling. “Yes.” I squeeze her hand. “What is that tree over there?” “A Jeffrey pine, I think.” “Good! Later, we’ll get some cones,” Oma praised. “If I had to smell one smell all my life, I would smell the vanilla scent of a Jeffrey pine,” I say. “Time for the countdown!” Opa warns. “If I had to smell one smell all my life, I would smell the vanilla scent of a Jeffrey pine” We all stare fixedly at the golden watch on Oma’s wrist, watching the silver hand wheedle seconds away. Soon, the eight o’clock Oh Joe bell will ring. I picture a roustabout, maybe Trevor, maybe Alex, or Justin, or even Kate, walk across the dirt at the low welcoming building we call the Grill. The Grill pulls you in, and holds you before letting you out, I think drowsily. The roustabout will tightly grip the metal rod, recoil at its chill and hold it poised over the huge metal triangle, muscles taut, tense, waiting. Exactly eight o’clock. The rhythm starts, ringing across the valleys and meadows of the Cedars. It echoes off trees, slams into boulders, shivers down streams, and slips into the earth until cabins shake. Bang der-de bang iti bang iti bang, BANG BANG, BANG! I tap the rhythm on my comforter. Nodding, Opa, Oma and I take a deep breath along with the thirty other Cedarites. We yell, “Ohhhhh Joeeeee!” I shiver with the rhythm, the beat, the shout. “Wow. We did it really well that time. I think the old cedar tree shook,” I laugh. “What’ll Jim think of that!” Opa grins. “Let’s go get dressed.” “Uh-huh. We’ve got to hurry” I shiver. “Of course we do! We want to leave by nine o’clock,” Oma says firmly. I leap out of bed. The cold slices through my brisk resolution like a knife. I want to dive back in the covers. “Brrr! It’s chilly! Come on, let’s go down to the outhouse.” Oma smiles. I smile back, and the smile warms me up, soft and buttery. I help Oma down the stairs, then grab my jeans, a torn T-shirt, and a dirty sweater. I pinch together my frayed shoelaces and gather my scattered hair into a high ponytail. I’m dressed. At the Cedars, how you look just fades away. All that remains is your personality. Oma, Opa and I hold hands and jog down the creaking boards and the chilled dirt to the main cabin. A cheery fire crackles in the old, dusty Benjamin Franldin stove, warding out demons of cold. The stove sits like a hunched tiger behind the stained wooden table and chairs. Beside it are the logs that Opa cut and Meggy, Luke, Char, Noah and I stacked behind the lattice, so the bears wouldn’t gnaw on them. The plastic bucket, sloshing, filled to the brim with water, sits lifeguard next to the stove. Today, the table has been pushed aside, and Meggy, Luke, Noah and Char have pulled up chairs, dangling their bug-bitten toes. I join them and play peek-a-boo with Sydney, tickling her frayed bit of blanket. Uncle Nick is talking to Ed. Helene is rocking Ana, with her pale cheeks dimpling. Aunt Ann is standing at the oven, scrambling eggs that sizzle and slide into a creamy paste in the pan. Opa is checking the first-aid kit. “Hot cocoa?” Oma asks. “It’s free for the taking.” “Me! Yes! Yeah! Please?” we clamor. Oma smiles as she stacks cups, and measures powdered milk. Aunt Ann is dishing out the scrambled eggs, and I toss pieces of toast at people. Oma places steaming mugs of cocoa in front of us. We eat our fill. Hot cocoa simmers. A log falls in the stove, crumbled to ashes. I feel full and satisfied. At eight-thirty the cold is swept away as suddenly as it came. The sun peeks from behind a cedar tree. The clear blue sky spreads, untroubled as our minds. I throw open the Dutch doors, and change quickly into my khaki shorts. Soon, all of us are sitting on the porch table, rubbing on sunscreen. Bug spray passes over us, its tart and toxic aroma tickling our noses. The smoke from the chimney piece falters, in the clear blue sky. “So I guess we’ll go up Parkinson’s,” Opa is saying. “Darn, darn, darn it,” I mutter. “What’s so bad about Parkinson’s?” Ed asks. “Parkinson’s,” I explain, “is vertical. Straight up. At least it’s shady. Like the devil, it only has one virtue.” “The devil has a virtue?” Ed questions. “Yeah. He lets us put the blame on him.” I slip a bottle of sunscreen into my backpack. “Oh look, guys! Here comes Carly! Hey girl!” The neighbor’s dog wriggles ecstatically under my hand, then deposits her gift at my feet, a spit-saturated tennis ball! I bend down, get a good grip on the ball, and throw it in a high arc. My neighbor, Mrs. Camerlynck, smiles,
The Boy and His Grammaw
Laughing and smiling And sitting and hugging A dirty little boy and A graying woman are Sitting near a dingy trailer. Rough steps and an old bike Rusting before their eyes Yet their smiles Can dazzle even This blank scene . . . Timmy McWhirter, 12York, South Carolina
In a Moment It Was No More: 1963
“You’re lucky, Spencer. I wish I had a baby brother.” Ten-year-old Spencer Coleman smiled pridefully at his best friend, José Perez, and then down at his month-and-a-half-old brother, Johnny. “I’m glad that he’s a boy,”Spencer whispered. They had to be quiet, or else they’d wake the baby “Now he can’t turn out like Libby.” Liberty, Spencer’s sister, was nearly thirteen years old and as bossy as a mama hen. José grinned. “Two Libertys in your family would be a disaster.” He leaned closer to look at the sleeping baby. “Did you name him after the president?” Spencer nodded. “His real name’s John Kennedy Coleman,”he said. “But we call him Johnny for now.” “Neat.” José put his knee up on the crib ledge and reached in toward the baby. “José!” Spencer hissed. “Don’t touch him, you’ll . . .” Too late. Jose’s retreating hand brushed against Johnny’s forehead, and his eyes blinked open. Spencer grimaced. “He wasn’t supposed to wake up until 4:30.” Johnny’s face scrunched up, and he let out a loud yell. “Let’s get out of here.” The two boys dashed out of the room and down the back staircase, nearly falling over each other in their haste to get outside. “Spencer? José? What are you doing?” Mrs. Coleman was calling. “Um, we’re going to the park, Mom, we’ll be back soon!” Spencer shouted with his hand on the doorknob. He shoved the door open, and he and José tumbled out. The air smelled familial, like it always did just before winter arrived It was a cool, crisp afternoon in late November. Rotten pumpkins left over from Halloween were still out on everyone’s doorsteps, but the usual Thanksgiving decorations were starting to appear in windows, too. Spencer grabbed two baseball gloves from his garage and tossed one, along with a ball, to José. “Spencer, where are we going?” “To the park,” Spencer replied shortly. “Like I told Mom.” They turned out of the driveway and fell into silent step. The air smelled familiar, like it always did just before winter arrived. Spencer assumed it had something to do with decaying pumpkin. “Is anyone coming to your house for Thanksgiving this year?” he asked his friend. José laughed. “No way. Our apartment’s barely big enough to hold us. We’re going down to Abuelo’s house in Florida.” He smiled. “I bet it’s nice and warm there.” “Lucky you.” Spencer was staying in New York for Thanksgiving. He just hoped it didn’t snow. * * * Spencer put his head down on his desk. Paper-bag turkeys were stupid. They had made those things in kindergarten. Fifth-graders were ten and eleven years old, much too old, in Spencer’s opinion, to be pasting googly eyes on a brown bag. He wondered if José’s fourth-grade class was being put through the same torture. Mrs. Latham, their teacher, was going around the room praising the children’s pasting jobs. The setting reminded Spencer very much of Beverly Cleary’s Ramona book. Every time he looked down, those stupid wiggle-eyes stared back at him. He flicked the turkey to the far end of his desk with his index finger. Suddenly, the PA system turned on. Spencer sat up in his chair. Messages from the principal were always interesting. Sometimes they even meant getting out of school. There was the time last winter that the pipes froze. Then last month, the fire alarm went off, and there was actually a kitchen fire. “May I please request your attention. Could each teacher please turn the class radios to 1130 WNEW. Thank you.” There was a little radio sitting on the teacher’s desk. In the younger classrooms, the music stations often got turned on when the kids were working on a project. Sometimes, only on very special occasions, the principal would request that classes turn on their radios to a certain station. They had done that when Spencer was in third grade, at Kennedy’s inauguration. Spencer couldn’t remember if they had done it since. Mrs. Latham stopped praising Becky Halter’s fine googly-eye pasting job and stood up straight. “Whaddaya say, kids, should we turn on the radio?” Eager to get away from turkeys, the class nodded in unison. “Whaddaya say, kids, should we turn on the radio?” The teacher turned the knob so that the arrow pointed to 1130. Spencer pressed forward in his seat. Surprises were fun. “It looks like the shots were fired from the fifth- or sixth-floor window . . .” The first words alerted Spencer that something was very wrong. The usually calm and smooth voice of the newscaster was panicked and shocked. “. . . three shots, at the presidential car . . . Kennedy got hit, and maybe Governor Connelly, too . . .” Spencer heard the screams of police sirens and a buzz of human voices as he tried to piece together what he had heard. He slumped backwards in his seat when it hit him. Johnny isn’t named after anyone anymore. The words formed numbly in Spencer’s mind. He should have known, as soon as the newscaster shouted, “Three shots, at the presidential car.” He should have known. “Kennedy got hit.” Their President was dying. He had been shot, while riding in his car through the streets of Texas. Mrs. Latham slammed her hand on the knob and the radio turned off in a burst of static. Her face was pallid, and she could barely get out a whisper. “Class dismissed.” * * * “Mom! Mom!” Spencer yelled, bursting into the room. “Mom, are you here, Mom?” Johnny was crying. Mom came up the den stairs as fast as she could, with the baby cradled in her arms. “Your teacher called and told me you’d be home early.” Her face was almost as white as Mrs. Latham’s. “Liberty’s in the den.” Spencer was shaking as he followed Mom. This was scary. This was scarier than last year’s Cuban missile problem. At least the Soviets and Cubans were the enemies. An American, from Texas,
Speaking Up
Sometimes think that “if only” must be the two most depressing words in the English language. How many times have you said to yourself, “If only I’d studied harder” or “If only I’d been there five minutes earlier.” If only I’d had the courage to speak up last fall, I wouldn’t be regretting it now. Marion transferred from out of province into our class last September. She had straight dark hair stopping abruptly at chin-length and one of those porcelain complexions you see in magazines, although she never wore any makeup. Despite her naturally good looks, the better-dressed girls in our class didn’t view her as a serious contender in the fashion stakes as she always wore the same uniform of well-pressed jeans, flat shoes and a cardigan. Marion sat opposite me in the next row and I could see by her marks that she was no slouch when it came to hitting the books. She kept pretty much to herself, although I would occasionally exchange remarks with her while we were waiting for the next class to start. I learned that her family had emigrated from Korea a few years back. Disliking the big city where they had initially settled, they opted to move to our small midwestern town and open a family business. I was intrigued with her story and once asked her to come over after school, but she replied that she had to work every day directly after school. I thought maybe she was shy or didn’t like me, so I left it at that. “So, Marion, tell us. Does your father work in a grocery store or is it a Chinese laundry?” The trouble all started the first morning I wore my new jacket to school. Earlier in the summer, my mom had said that I would need a new winter jacket for school. Unfortunately, my mom’s budget for clothes usually means the bargain basement at the local department store. I knew that the name-brand jackets that some of the kids wore were priced beyond our means, but I thought perhaps I could do better than bargain basement this time. I had done odd jobs all summer and saved every dime. Armed with the cash to hopefully pay the difference, I finally convinced my mom to take me to the local ski shop where there was a sale. My mom was dubious about getting a real bargain in a specialty shop, but at last she agreed. Finally, the red quilted jacket that I’d coveted for weeks in the store window was paid for and safely in my clutches. As we left the store, my mom must have sensed some of my exuberance because she smiled at me and said, “Well, you certainly look nice in it.” Then she sighed a little, her brow furrowing up anxiously and said, “Don’t misunderstand me. You know that I want you to have nice things, but don’t forget it’s what’s inside you that counts, not the packaging.” “Sure, Mom,” I said absently, thinking only of wearing my fashionable apparel to school the next day. My new jacket elicited a few surprised stares from the “in” crowd at school the next morning. Even Steve, who sits ahead of me in class, turned around before math and said, “Hey, nice jacket. So, do you ski or what?” I felt myself flushing. Steve had actually spoken to me! With his streaky blond hair and confident manner, Steve positively exuded cool, or so most of the class thought. Marion looked at me from across the aisle. “I like your jacket,” she said quietly. “I think it’s a pretty color.” Steve was still half-turned in his seat, listening. He stared at Marion as if he was seeing her for the first time and then said loudly with a sly grin, “So, Marion, tell us. Does your father work in a grocery store or is it a Chinese laundry?” I was stunned. I could feel my face turning hot in disbelief while the rest of the class sat waiting expectantly. Marion looked straight back at Steve and then said with a quiet dignity, “My father owns a convenience store. My sister and I help out there after school.” Our math teacher came in just then, so no one had a chance to say anything else. I couldn’t concentrate on the lesson. How could Steve have said something so intentionally, well, racist? I glanced over at Marion, but she was suddenly absorbed in her math book and didn’t look up. After morning classes, I didn’t know what to do. I followed Marion to her locker and began awkwardly, “Listen Marion, I’m really sorry about what Steve said. He had no right to talk to you like that.” Marion looked at me the same way she’d looked at Steve and said calmly, “Maybe you should have told Steve that.” She pulled out her lunch bag from her locker and headed down the hall, without so much as a backwards glance. I got through afternoon school somehow and went straight home. Mom asked cheerfully, “So how was school? Was the new jacket a big hit?” “Sure,” I muttered, but she must have noticed that I was somewhat subdued because she looked at me in a questioning way. Then she asked, “What’s the matter? Did something happen at school today?” I put my books down on the kitchen counter and tried to explain what had happened. Mom listened while I concluded rather lamely about not speaking up on behalf of Marion because I was afraid of being picked on as well, but my argument sounded weak even to me. All my life I had loathed people who tried to put down other people or laughed at their expense. Now I felt like I belonged in that company. I didn’t sleep very well that night. Long before dawn I was awake for good, staring at the darkness and trying to find a way through the maze of trouble that
The Ballad of Sir Dinadan
The Ballad of Sir Dinadan by Gerald Morris; Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 2003; $15 “What do you want to be when you grow up?” All of us children have been plagued by that awful question time and time again. Either we dutifully dole out a rehearsed answer, or we smile, saying we haven’t decided quite yet. But what if we really didn’t have a choice? What if our future had been chosen for us, before we were born, and we couldn’t change it, no matter what happened? I’m sure most children today would hate to be in a situation like that. However, this was not uncommon in the times of kings and knights, as is so wonderfully portrayed by Gerald Morris in his book, The Ballad of Sir Dinadan. Dinadan loves to play the rebec, an ancient stringed instrument, and to make up ballads about great knightly deeds. Unfortunately, a minstrel’s life is not for him. Because of his family stature, Dinadan is expected to become a great knight of the Round Table, like his famous brother, Sir Tristram. Dinadan is very upset about this. He would much rather sing about knightly deeds than perform any of his own! But he has no say in the matter, and at age eighteen, Dinadan is knighted and sent out into the world to make a name for himself in King Arthur’s court. Right away, he runs into adventure. From fighting duels to saving damsels in distress, Dinadan is always in a predicament, and the reader is constantly enthralled by his many adventures. I loved the way Gerald Morris did not make all of the knights into flawless heroes, like other King Arthur stories I have read. Each of the knights had good and bad personality traits and some were very funny in their stupidity. For example, in some other books, the characters of Sir Kai and Sir Bedivere are very noble and knightly, but they don’t have very much personality. However, in this book, Bedivere is a kind person who couldn’t hurt a fly, and will go far out of his way to help the most horrible people. His opposite and his best friend, Kai, is pessimistic and sarcastic. I loved reading about the hilarious pair that they made together. In my history class, I read the love story of Tristram and Iseult. I thought it was very boring, and when I found out that it was in this book, I was unexcited. However, when I read the book, I was pleasantly surprised. The story was much more realistic and funnier than in my history textbook. In fact, one of my favorite characters in this entire book was Dinadan’s brother, Tristram. He is a famed knight throughout the land, but when Dinadan meets him, he turns out to be a bumbling idiot who is extremely irritating and talkative. One of my favorite things about this book was the music. I am a very musical person; I play several instruments, and I sing in a choir. I would love to be able to write music, but I’m a terrible composer. Thus, I was all the more impressed with all the wonderful (and often funny!) ballads that Dinadan made up on his quests. I wish I could make up such great songs like that! This book truly gave me a lot of respect for the minstrels of King Arthur’s day. Nikki Friedman, 13Piedmont, California
Grandpa’s Locket
“So, Grandpa, how’s life been treating you?” my older brother asked cheerfully. My grandpa just shot back an icy look, looking at him for a long time without a blink. “OK,” my brother whispered, raising his eyebrows. “So, Dad,” my mom said with a fake smile, “are you planning to go on vacation or something? All you do is roam around your house in Wisconsin. That’s no fun.” We were in a nice, Italian restaurant in Hollywood, trying to get Grandpa to at least move. Grandpa is hard to explain. He doesn’t like to do really anything, except scratch the back of my dog, Storm, who doesn’t even like Grandpa scratching him. He always wears a checkered shirt with gray suspenders and a brown hat that covers his bald head. Once again Grandpa just stared at my mom with that same look. She moved to the back of the velvet chair, deciding not to talk again. “Hello, what would you like today from our fine cuisine?” the waiter said as he came in his nice shirt and silk vest. “You have pancakes?” Grandpa muttered. “No, sir, but we have scrumptious past-. . .” But Grandpa interrupted him and stood up, walking away from the table grumbling, “What kind of restaurant is this?” We drove away from the restaurant into the dark freeway in silence. I flicked my auburn hair away from my eyes as the heater of the car grumbled, warming the cold night. “Grandpa just ruins everything,” I said to myself. “What did you say?” my mom asked, turning around from the front, with her silver glasses rim on her nose. “Come on, just think about it,” I said with annoyance in my voice. “I’m supposed to be at Emma’s party, Kyle’s supposed to be at a football game, you’re supposed to be at a meeting. We blew off all those events to see Grandpa walk away from a restaurant.” “Your grandfather will always be your grandfather, and when he’s in town we’ll do anything that he wants, even if it includes missing some pleasurable events.” “God, I wish Grandpa hadn’t come. I just wish he’d stay on the farm, he doesn’t like us anyways,” my brother, Kyle, said as he rubbed his blue eyes from sleepiness. “Yeah, why does Grandpa always have to bother us? I wish he’d just disappear,” I said as I pulled the ribbon on my blue dress. I was changing from the dress into my pink pajamas when I heard my mom and brother talking softly. “Why do they always have little conversations without me?” I said to myself. I walked into the kitchen where they were talking. Mom and Kyle were still in their evening outfits, sitting on the short, wooden stools. “What are you guys talking about?” I asked, giving a yawn. “I don’t have to stand Grandpa anymore!” Kyle shouted with a huge smile on his face. “Kyle, that’s not the way to say it,” Mom said while reading a letter. “What are you reading, Mom?” I asked as I looked over her shoulder, seeing a long letter with the word “Congratulations!” printed on the top. “I got accepted into the honor football team in New York! It’s for a month! We even get to go on first class of the airplane! I’m leaving in two days, if Mom lets me,” Kyle said, standing up from the stool. “Well, it’s summer break. I guess you . . .” “Yes!” Kyle shouted. “Thank you, Mom!” My mom gave a sigh and looked at me as he skipped into the room. He stopped to look at me and gave a smirk and muttered, “Good luck with old man grump.” Kyle had left, “generously” giving Grandpa all to me. “Mom, let me leave too! You got to!” I begged. “For the tenth time, no!” I growled at her and slammed my door as I went into my room. I saw an envelope on my bed. I quickly opened it, hoping it would be a letter that would send me away from Los Angeles. It wasn’t, but it was an invitation to Derek’s birthday. It was tomorrow. Gosh, I thought, they should tell us sooner. What if we have plans or something? I opened the little clip and saw a picture. It was Grandpa holding me as a baby The phone rang. “I got it!” my mom shouted. I slumped down on my pastel yellow bed and continued to read the invitation. I heard Mom answer the phone with a friendly “Hello,” but then she immediately dropped her voice down. I let go of the invitation and walked toward the living room. “OK, I’m coming as soon as I can,” I heard her say. “Where?” I asked. I saw her wringing the telephone wire on her finger with a worried look on her face. She nodded and hung up the phone. “Get your jacket,” my mom said quickly. “We need to go somewhere.” My mom drove to the hospital nearby. The red ambulance siren was ringing and I saw a few men carry out an injured man. “Oh my God, something really bad happened,” I said to myself as I thought who could’ve got injured. I ran in with my mom as her blond hair flew ahead of mine. We jerked to a stop in front of the emergency room, and saw a nurse with a white gown and a tight bun. “Excuse me, I’m a relative of Steven Jonas,” my mom said to the nurse. “Follow me,” she said. We walked in and I saw Grandpa in numerous numbers of tubes. I screamed and the nurse quickly led me out of the room. “What happened?” I asked the nurse. “Your grandpa had a surprise heart attack,” she said in a calm voice. How could she sound so relaxed? I sunk down into a chair behind me and started crying. Emotions spilled out for a person I thought I hated. Someone I had wished
The 54th Rider
Sandra looks out into the crowd. Her face is firm, her lips set in a straight line. This is it—the moment she’s been waiting for for nearly ten years. She pulls her hat brim down over her eyes and pulls on her gloves, worn from the hard labor back when she helped her father on the ranch. She pats the pockets on her old jeans and straightens her favorite blue shirt. Then she turns and walks to the pen where the bulls are kept. She climbs on the bull—with help from the rodeo clowns—and begins to tighten the rope around her hand. She looks up and as she does so, sees her brother-in-law, Roger, wave at her from the crowd. She doesn’t smile, just nods, and lets her mind wander to the day this all began. * * * It had been a splendid day; the sun was up and shining down on the red dust that carpeted the ranch and everything on it. She had risen early, wanting to get her chores done so she could have some time to herself. Sandra had breathed in the deep smell of desert, soaking in the lovely hues of the place everyone called wasteland. Her home had never been that to her—it wasn’t the middle of nowhere at all. On the contrary, it was right smack in the middle of Mother Nature and all her other children. Sandra knew she’d never leave—Arizona was much too beautiful to ever leave behind. Sandra knew shed never leave—Arizona was much too beautiful to ever leave behind Sandra talked to the horses as she shoveled out their beds of hay and stocked their trough with oats. Her favorite was an amber mare brought in from the wild a few years ago. She had taken to Sandra and Sandra had eventually given her a name—Dawn. “An’ how you doin’, Ms. Dawn?” Sandra had asked, giving her a loving pet on the nose. Dawn whinnied in reply. “Yes, I reckoned you’d say that,” Sandra replied, looking out the window of the barn. “It sure is a lovely day.” Sandra had been twelve then, just barely blooming into a young lady. She loved flowers and kittens, horses and little children, too. But there was one thing in her life she lived for—bull riding. Technically, it wasn’t bull riding yet—Sandra had barely been a year at riding calves. But someday she would graduate to bulls—if her sister didn’t stop her first. Sandra had just finished her chores and was taking out her favorite calf—Little Yellow Jacket—when her father and Roger appeared at the corral. Sandra didn’t mind them—they often came out to the corral to talk about something or another. Sandra seated herself on Little Yellow Jacket and bent down to whisper to him. “Give me your worst, Little Jacket; I’ve ridden you every time.” With that, she gave his hindquarters a jab with her spurs and they set off in a whirlwind of dust and kicks. Sandra held her hand high, trying her best to stay on. Most calves went into a wave motion when spurred, so that all the rider had to do to stay on was to move with them. Little Yellow Jacket was different—he’d twist and jump, curving his body into impossible angles and jerking to the sides when Sandra least expected it. Somewhere in all the melee, Sandra heard Roger say to her father, “Whoa! She’s good! You teach her?” She heard her father reply, “No, she did that all by herself. She is awfully good, isn’t she?” Sandra could hear her sister, Diane, her elder by ten years, yell from the house, “Oh, you boys! Don’t encourage her!” Diane had been the girly-girl, the one who loved cooking and wanted to stay inside all day. Sandra had never been like that—she had always loved the smell of the wind in the evening and the color of the Arizonan dust on her black boots. After awhile, Sandra was finally bucked from Little Yellow Jacket’s back. She got up slowly as her dad led the calf away. She dusted the red from her pants and turned to go back to the house. On the way there, Roger stopped her. “You’re good,” he said. “So you say,” she answered. She was tired and her throat was aching for a glass of water. “Would you like to go to the Championships one day?” he asked. “Yeah, one day.” She turned to go back inside when Roger called out to her. “You could, you know!” She slowly pivoted on her heel. “What are you saying? That I could go to the Championships?” He smiled, a bit gap-toothed, his face sweating beneath his rusty orange hair. “That’s what I said.” “But no woman has ever made it to the Championships.” “How would you like to be the first?” Sandra was silent for a moment. “You really think I could?” Roger’s smiled widened. “Sure do.” “How? I don’t even have a trainer.” “Sure you do.” Sandra looked around, as though expecting to see a trainer magically appear from behind the crates stacked against the stables. “Where?” “Well right here!” Sandra almost giggled. “A funny-looking man like you being my trainer?” “Yes,” Roger nodded. “I don’t think Diane ever told you this—I think she might be embarrassed by it, don’t know why—but I used to be a bull rider.” Sandra cocked her head. “Really?” “Yes, I almost made it to the Championships, but,” he shook his head, “I got out on the qualification rides. I got paired up with a really old bull—I reckon he had been all ridden-out years before.” “Ah.” Sandra scuffed the dirt with the heel of her boot. She understood. Riders were not only judged on their ability to ride, but also by how healthy and hard-bucking their bull was. “Could we start tomorrow then?” “What?” Roger looked slightly bewildered. “Tomorrow. Could we start training tomorrow?” “Sure.” Roger and Sandra walked into the house together, discussing her
In the Knights’ Absence
Kythia awoke to the sound of trumpets announcing her father’s departure. She grunted and sat up abruptly, stretching stiff muscles. She had wished to speak with her father, Sir Farlan, before he and his knights left the castle to assist their fellow countrymen in battle. Kythia knew that if more troops weren’t sent to help Queen Jocunda all of their kingdom of Naranth would be overrun by the power-hungry Rylions. Still, she wished her father had had time to plead her cause to her mother, Lady Amaria. Amaria wanted a daughter who would embroider tapestries, regally order servants to do her bidding, and wear elaborate gowns of silk and brocade. Kythia herself wanted to be a hero, someone portrayed in tapestries. She wanted to wear mail and carry a sword, and save all of Naranth. All Sir Farlan wanted was for his family to be content, and therefore it was always easy to enlist his help in halting Amaria’s next lecture. Kythia stood at the battlements, clutching a bow expertly in one hand Kythia sighed; now there was no prolonging the inevitable tirade. Her mother had caught her on her palfrey, tilting (or trying to) at a quintain. The poor horse was bewildered and jumped at the slightest sound. Amaria had let out such an unladylike war cry as to spook the horse, meant only for pleasure, into throwing its passenger, and the glint in the noble lady’s eyes threatened hell to pay. Kythia stood, wincing as her sore limbs stretched, and limped to the five-foot-tall mirror that had been her thirteenth birthday present. She tossed her waist-length hair, admiring the way the auburn tresses caught the light, then, grimacing, reached for the forest-green gown that supposedly brought out the color of her already striking hazel eyes. Although the dress was stunning, she knew she’d look better in armor. * * * That morning (after the lecture at breakfast) Kythia endured dancing lessons, then embroidery—two of her most hated activities. Nothing was worse than what came after the three-course midday meal, though: fittings. She was making her appearance at court in April, as did every other fifteen-year-old of high blood. The only pleasant part of this trip would be meeting with Queen Jocunda. The Queen was everything Kythia wished to be. She was a warrior, yet could be a proper, beautiful lady when she wished. She was a superb horsewoman and the heroine of every ballad. Meeting her would be wondrous. Kythia was suddenly brought back to reality as the beautiful aqua-colored gown, her mother’s choice, was draped over her slim shoulders. She sighed and resigned herself to an eternity of measurements and servants’ gossip. “Did you hear that there’s a chance of the Rylions attacking near here?” “Oh, that’s not true. You know that Sir Farlan would never let them past him.” “Word has it that battle was just a diversion, and their real motive is to take this castle and the lands around it.” Kythia had heard this theory several times, and had yet to believe it. It would be exciting, though—trumpets blaring, banners waving just beyond the window. Oh, glory maybe Queen Jocunda would even lead the rescue . . . That was odd. Kythia was sure she had just heard trumpets, even war cries. She shook her head, trying to clear it of what was obviously her imagination. Then her mother, Amaria, dashed into the room and cried that, yes, there was a Rylion attack and the knights were gone, fighting miles away! This time, the gossip was correct. That was when panic broke loose. Serving women shrieked and ran about. Villagers had already begun to enter the castle, the safest place around. Kythia maneuvered through it all, trying to reach the battlements. Her heart hammered; her hair flew out of place as she, still in her fine gown, scrambled to where she could help defend her people and her home. She couldn’t let her mother and servants die or be captured. As she ran, she issued orders for vats of hot oil, bows and arrows, and as many spears as they had. She grabbed a boy about her age and gave him a message to take as quickly as possible to the nearest estate: “We’re under attack, and the men are gone. Please, help.” * * * Kythia stood at the battlements, clutching a bow expertly in one hand and felling the enemy below as fast as she could fire. She’d secretly learned archery as a child, and was a fair shot. The most stalwart of the servants, men and women, assisted her, and the rest were huddled with Amaria in the most protected rooms. Load. Fire. Watch her victim fall. Load. Fire. Kythia worked herself into a rhythm. She shut her mind to the screams of those she killed in self-defense, although she knew they would haunt her dreams. A pain-filled shriek forced her to look beside her. One of the gossips that had been fitting her dress had fallen, struck by a deadly arrow. Blood spurted from her, showering the cold stone wall. Kythia took a moment to kneel beside her servant and gently close the eyes of the old woman. Kythia’s dress was ripped and hanging off one shoulder, the height of impropriety. Her hair was loose and tangled and tinted with soot. Her face was streaked with sweat, blood, and dirt. Yet Kythia was beautiful, wild and willful, standing in the battlements and crying out against all who defied her. She grinned; Lady Amaria would swoon with shock to see her daughter like this. * * * After it was all over Kythia sat in her spacious apartments and thought about the entire incident. They had won; serving women and one noble girl had held their own against a troop from the greatest army in the realm until proper warriors could be summoned. Perhaps an angel was with her, watching over her; perhaps it was just pure luck. Anyhow, she
