Darren Milar sighed as he walked into the schoolyard. All around him kids were laughing, running, and playing. The sound of tetherball chains as they clinked against their metal poles rang out as Darren passed. When kids started school again, they were sometimes nervous, excited, or a little sad. But that was nothing compared to what Darren felt. Ever since kindergarten, Darren had been the outcast. The nerd, if you had to put it that way. Other kids had had loads of friends, and turned against him. Darren had only one friend, Ian, and Ian was just as nerdy as Darren, without the glasses and braces. The start of school meant Darren was back to rude notes on his locker, people laughing at him in the corridors, and Ian telling him to ignore them. But he couldn’t ignore them, and already Darren knew, the second he walked into the schoolyard, that he was off to the start of another terrible year. And so it was, another terrible first day back. In the corridors, even kids younger than him, sixth-graders, laughed at him. As usual, in classes, teachers told him that he had extraordinary talent, while people sniggered and pointed behind the teacher’s back. Ian is never laughed at, thought Darren, looking around at Ian. He was sitting, working in his math book. How does he do it? thought Darren desperately. * * * Later that night in bed, Darren lay propped up on pillows, looking at the stars. He had heard that there would be shooting stars tonight. He was thinking of a wish, and it wasn’t hard. He closed his eyes and whispered, “I wish I was popular at school.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “I wish I was popular at school” But when he opened his eyes, nothing had happened. His wish hadn’t come true. * * * The next day at school Darren had totally forgotten about his wish. He and Ian were talking when suddenly, a hush fell over the blacktop. That was not normal, even the tetherball chains weren’t clinking. Darren and Ian stopped talking and looked up. Standing in front of them was the prettiest girl Darren had ever seen. She had long red hair that reached nearly to her waist, and eyes as green as jade. A few freckles were scattered across her nose. She could have been a model if she hadn’t had the ugliest scowl on her face, if her faded jeans weren’t torn at the knees, and if her Good Charlotte shirt was still black, instead of a smoky gray. Darren was paralyzed. He didn’t know whether she was an angel or a devil. Fortunately, he was spared the moment of trying to speak because the girl asked him, “You go here?” “Y- yes,” he stammered. “Good. Then you’ll be able to tell me where the principal’s office is.” She looked at him like a tiger examining its prey. “D- down the hall, f- fifth door past the water fountain.” He thought he must look like an idiot, stammering next to her speaking confidently. She didn’t even thank him, just walked away, leaving him and the rest of the school staring after her, her sandals clip-clopping loudly on the dead-silent playground. When the bell rang ten minutes later, the school was still frozen in awe at the girl’s entrance. Darren was suddenly the center of attention for once, and people kept asking him about the girl, because he had seen her best. Then, in history, Darren finally got to learn about her. “Class, we have a new student today” said Ms. Kent, after the class had settled down. “She has been on vacation in Mexico, up until yesterday. Dear, would you like to come and introduce yourself?” The girl walked up to the front of the class. “My name is Claire Guerrerro,” she growled. “I like punk rock bands. My favorite color is black, and I play the guitar. Any questions? Good.” She walked back to her seat. “Well then,” the teacher replied, “I’m sure you’ll all be very nice to Claire. Now please open your book to page 102 …” But barely anyone was listening. Claire opened her book and didn’t look at anyone. Darren had a bad feeling in his stomach, and gulped. Just one more person to pick on me. Soon Claire did become the most popular kid in school, but she chose her friends carefully, and they were almost all boys. If Darren thought this was bad, the worst was yet to come. Two weeks after Claire arrived, Darren came to school and looked around at their usual table. It was empty. This was odd, because Ian was usually dropped off by his older brother Alec pretty early. Darren sat down, and looked around for Ian. He found him quickly, but his heart sank. Claire’s group, which was usually prowling around and scaring sixth-graders, was now sitting down at a far-removed table. They were talking to (Darren shut his eyes tight) . . . Ian. Darren couldn’t believe it. Claire had taken his best friend from him. Now Ethan Lowell was talking to Ian, who pointed at Darren. The whole group looked over and laughed. Zach Parker said something, and the group cracked up again. Darren felt like crying. He tried to sit with them at lunch, but Ethan Lowell said, “Sorry, no room here, but there’s a spot for you at the nerd table.” Ian looked uncomfortable, and shifted in his seat. Marilyn Fisher said, “Don’t worry, Darren. I’m sure you’ll find a place to sit.” He didn’t realize she’d put a KICK ME sign on his back. * * * The days passed, and Darren became more and more miserable. He tried sitting with his sisters, but they talked about fashion and other girly stuff. He tried as hard as he could to be friends with Claire, and he was practically down on bended knee. One day as he sat on the
A Bird’s Prophecy
The kingdom of Raja Bhaskarendra was administered by governors, who had many powers in their own provinces. The office of the governor passed from father to son, as did the crown of the king himself. One of these governors was Raja Dhaval. His son Venky was the pride and joy of his life. One fateful day, Dhaval came across Venky as he sat under a tree, looking up at its branches and uttering strange sounds that did not belong to any human language. As the governor approached, there was a flap and flutter of wings and several birds flew away. “Oh Father, you have frightened them away!” Venky said reproachfully. “They were telling me about the great ocean—that blue expanse under the sun, all day long.” “But how can you know that, son?” Dhaval asked. “The birds do not speak our language.” “Yet I understand them,” Venky said. “I can talk to them as if I was one of them.” As the years went by, Venky’s powers did not lessen. He grew into a youth blessed with wisdom and courage as well as a supernatural power—the ability to talk to the birds. All the people declared Venky a worthy heir to follow in his father’s footsteps. But one black day, something happened to turn the old chief’s anger against his son and cause him to leave the land of his birth in sorrow. While Venky was waiting on his father at the table one evening, Dhaval pointed at the birds seated on the windowsill, chattering animatedly. “Tell me, my son,” he asked, “what are those birds saying? I have never known them to be so noisy before.” He spoke to the little birds circling the terrace Venky lowered his eyes. “If I answer your question, Father, you may get angry.” Naturally, this reply only made the governor all the more curious. He persisted and at last, Venky told him, “They are saying that one day, our positions will be changed. It will be you who will be waiting upon me at this very same table.” As soon as the governor heard these words, he was filled with wrath, for what could such a prophecy mean but that one day, his son would rise against him? “Traitor!” cried the old man. “Would you betray your own father? Leave my home and never let me see you again!” And in spite of his protestations of loyalty and devotion to his father, Venky was forced to say goodbye to the home he had known all his life. He left as a poor man with nothing but the clothes on his back. He managed to get taken as a new member on a ship bound for Sri Lanka. Over there, Venky continued his journey on foot across the countryside with a heart ready for adventure. Before long, he entered into the grounds of the king of those areas. As he drew near the gateway, he heard the sound of sawing. An army of woodcutters was felling the trees that stood in the palace courtyard. But that wasn’t all. To Venky’s astonishment, he saw that the sky around the palace was full of birds whose shrill cries fell ceaselessly upon his ears, forcing him to shield them with his hands. A royal servant nodded to him. “Ah stranger, you may well try to shut your ears, but it’s useless. Not only outside but also inside the palace, we are assailed with this incessant noise. It’s enough to drive a man out of his mind. The king is at his wits’ end to know how to get rid of this plague.” At once Venky realized how he might be able to help the royal household in their time of trouble. He asked for an audience with the king. A valet led the way through the long galleries where sparrows beat their wings against the paneled walls and across the terrace where the ladies of the court vainly tried to converse with each other above the never-ending racket. The king was on the terrace as well, his chin gripped in one bejeweled hand, in an attitude of deep despair. “Excuse me, your Majesty,” Venky began. “I think I may be able to rid you of this feathered curse that has fallen on your palace.” At once, the king’s face brightened and a gleam of hope flashed in his eyes. “If what you say is true,” he declared, “your reward will be great. But how will you accomplish this?” Venky told the king about his ability to speak with the birds in their own tongue. “There must be some reason, Sire, why the birds are waging their shrill warfare with you.” He spoke to the little birds circling the terrace, uttering the strange sounds his father first heard under the tree. At once, the birds flew to his shoulder with excited chattering. The king could not understand any of it, but Venky understood perfectly “Why Sire, it’s really quite simple,” he said. “The birds are furious because you have ordered your woodcutters to chop down the trees in which they build their nests. If you stop this destruction, they promise they will plague you no more.” At once the king issued orders to stop the cutting. And no sooner had the last ax been laid to rest than from every nook and cranny of the palace, a huge flock of birds rose and soared out to rebuild their nests among the trees. From that day, not even one little bird ever troubled the king. True to his word, the king rewarded Venky with gold and a ship fully equipped and manned. Venky set sail in this ship and wherever he went, he gained wealth and wisdom. Yet he never forgot his old home and after ten years, he returned to his home shores. His rich ship with its golden prow anchored in his father’s province. Venky’s clansmen gaped at the magnificence of the ship and wondered which
An Autumn Storm
Fog wisping through the Douglas firs Rain dripping from the wind-whipped boughs Crisp and cold fresh autumn air The smell of spruce and dampened earth. An ocean vista filled with fog Like a misty edge of the world Only the ceaseless distant roar Betrays the presence of the waves. Fog increases the distances Close Sitka spruce seem faraway The trees merge into soft pale mist Gray rain pours from an ashen sky. A forest on the ocean cliffs Blown with wild wind and lashing rain The stark truth of towering trees The beauty of an autumn storm. Rosemary Engelfried, 13Hillsboro, Oregon
Thank You for Thursdays
“Aunt Carol, what’s that?” I asked as I carefully examined her plate. It was a stormy evening outside, but inside Ponzio’s it felt warm and fuzzy. She whispered into my soft ear, “Chicken pot pie.” It was magical, it was sensational, it was as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. She spooned me a lump of what looked at the time like a mountain of broth. I embraced the smell that tickled my nose and plummeted down into my stomach, like a rapid waterfall splashing down onto the drenched, mossy rock. “I will never forget that moment,” I confide to my father. We sit famished at the Ponzio’s counter drinking our waters with lemon, trying to watch the time fly by. It’s noisy and crowded at Ponzio’s tonight. I slump, and I slouch, waiting for my chicken pot pie to arrive. I watch Rachel, my sister, who deliberately slurps her soup. As I wait, I focus on the water drops on my glass as they glide down like droplets on a raincoat. All of a sudden, my nose perks up. I notice someone walking swiftly with a pie. I slowly rise back into my seat, placing my folded napkin onto my lap. I freeze. My chicken pot pie has arrived! My chicken pot pie has arrived! As I clench my spoon in midair, the scent hugs my nose, and it draws me closer to heaven. As I close my eyes, I dream of warmness, and kindness, and everything around me seems to float around, closing their eyes too. I devour my first bite. Suddenly, I’m lapping up the creamy broth. I cut up the carrots and smash them into my face. I’m swooning; and I feel tingly all over. Then my dad stands up; he catches my eye and signals it’s time to depart. From the outside I appear full and cheerful. But inside, I cry. I don’t want to leave this pool of luscious ingredients! My father takes my hesitant hand, and we start for the car. As we start pulling away, I thank my dad for the delicious dinner. He smiles, but continues to drive. I press both hands to the window, looking at the midnight sky, licking off the excess crust on my left cheek. And as I take my last glimpse of the sky, I see my Aunt Carol, motioning for me to come back next Thursday. Marine Rosenthal, 12Haddonfield, New Jersey Alicia Zanoni, 11Waterford, Michigan
Days of Jubilee
Days of Jubilee by Patricia C. and Fredrick L. McKissack; Scholastic Press: New York, 2003; $18.95 The Declaration of Independence says that all men are created equal, with certain unalienable rights, which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. At one point in American history, that wasn’t true for millions of African-Americans in bondage throughout America. Scattered throughout the book were first-person narratives, which I greatly enjoyed reading. These stories about slaves and others were mixed with interesting facts about the Civil War. I also liked reading from the slaves’ perspective, and their stories touched my heart. James Forten, a free African-American, was the very first story and it was also the best, in my opinion. I felt his courage inside of me, as he stood listening to the first reading of the Declaration of Independence. He stayed to listen to the reading even though he was bullied by white men. James was overjoyed when he concluded that in this new country, people of color would be free. James eagerly joined the Revolutionary Army to help fight for freedom. I had his hope inside of me, as he believed that now, in this new world, his fellow brethren would have their freedom. And although the book didn’t mention it, I also felt his pain. I knew he would have later, when he learned that his fellow black men would stay in bondage for many more years. I admire him because he stood up for himself and his race. Many years later, Abraham Lincoln also joined the fight for the abolition of slavery. He was the main force behind the emancipation of slaves, but he didn’t start out that way. I was surprised, and almost shocked, to learn that the Great Emancipator had doubts about abolishing slavery at the beginning of the Civil War. Now I see that he changed as the war went on; he made the war not just a fight for reuniting the Union, but also a fight for abolishing slavery. Abraham Lincoln was a great, brave leader, and he’s my hero. Another leader at that time was General William Tecumseh Sherman. I believe General Sherman was a great man, and he shared many traits with Lincoln. Sherman treated the slaves fairly, giving them jobs with the army if they wanted. The newly freed blacks called him the Deliverer, somebody like Moses who came to set the people free. The book was very well written, so well that as I read, I could envision myself celebrating among the freed slaves. I loved reading about the different days they called their Jubilee, such as Juneteenth and Eightamay. I felt their joy, hope, and happiness. I could imagine their delight, and feel their pride as they walked away from their former masters, free once and for all. As I read on, I also felt a sadness welling up inside of me, as I read about that fateful night at Ford’s Theatre, where Abraham Lincoln was shot and killed. My heart mourned with all of the people. I felt the loss that happened so many years ago, and yet was recreated in my head, allowing Lincoln to live and die once again. Days of Jubilee is a very good book. It teaches about a different time, different people, and different lifestyles. It opens you up into a whole new world. Laura Krull, 12Bend, Oregon
The Lone Straw Hat
The water. It used to be tranquil. A calm, yet dynamic giant, nourishing the life within. Sometimes its surface churned, purging the muddy banks of debris and stirring up the sediment on the bottom. Other times it was as still as a hot day in August. At these times the mud would settle to the bottom, and the turtles would come to bask on the rocks. The children would run to its edge and catch newts and water bugs. Soon their parents would follow and give the nod, confirming that it was time to play in the refreshing water. Cries of joy would fill the air as everyone was assured that life was good. This is what I used to see when I looked through the long, tangled branches to our pond. Three-quarters of an acre in area with a small island slightly off center, our pond was a special place where we would all congregate on warm summer days in June, July, August, and sometimes September. The adults would walk down the rough path with cool drinks in their hands and hearty laughs in their throats, followed by the bare and pattering feet of the children. My two sisters, my brother, and I sometimes spent hours in the pond area, frolicking in the sunshine. Often my five cousins processed to the water’s edge, where we children would begin stripping down to our bathing suits. The adults would make their way for the lawn chairs on the dock from which they kept a watchful eye on all that was happening. I turned to look at where David had been and saw only his small hat in the murky water The first rule at our house was “No matter what, no children may play by the pond without an adult.” We followed this rule faithfully but didn’t let it spoil our fun. With the adults present, we had races, swam laps, practiced our dives and flips, made sandcastles, and pretended we were mermaids. Sometimes we used the pond for a learning opportunity. Papa would make us aware of the feeding patterns of fish or tell us of the life cycle of the newts at the water’s edge. Mama would clear up our uncertainties about sea monsters and whether or not sharks might be lurking in the muddy waters of the deep end of the pond. In the winter we bundled up like Eskimos and tramped down the slippery path to the pond to try out our ice-skating skills. Occasionally there was a bump or a bruise, but no one let that bother them; there were always a loving mother and some hot chocolate. All we had to do was call. My memories of the pond were nothing but joyous, and I relished every moment of my time there. But on that morning in June, the water transformed before my eyes when I looked at it and saw the lone, straw hat floating at the dock’s edge. It was small, hand sewn, with a simple black band encircling the base. The brim? Three-and-a-half inches wide. Carefully cared for, it must have been his Sunday hat. The ripples of water that it made widened quickly, mirroring my fear. Earlier that morning our Amish friends, the Peacheys, arrived at our home in a big fifteen-passenger van. We had been planning to get together for months. They came on Ascension Day, celebrated by Christians for Jesus’ ascent into heaven. For the Amish, this is the only holiday of the year. After lunch and socializing we decided to show the Peacheys our new house. Although it was still being built, it was approaching completion. As we were a big group of people, we went in two carloads. The first group was made up of the men and the older children. As soon as we got to the house, my dad and Mr. Peachey went into the house. Amos wanted a tour. But we children retreated to the sandy beach. There we began building sandcastles and splashing, ankle deep, in the water. It was too cold to go in any deeper. “This is probably David’s first time in a pond,” said Sarah, the oldest Peachey child, referring to her younger brother. I replied, “Really? How old is he?” “Six,” came the response. Modest not only in dress but also in speech, Sarah did not elaborate. Just six years of age, I thought. This meant he had just started school. He only had one year of English under his belt. No wonder he didn’t respond when I called, “Let’s go rinse off our feet at the dock and then head up to the house.” Once at the dock, David sat down next to me as we all began kicking in the water. Laughter filled the air. But it all stopped when, after just a few minutes (or was it seconds?), I felt a splash on my leg. Oh, this certainly wasn’t the first; we had been splashing the whole time. But this splash was different; it wasn’t small and staccato like the rest; it was more like a small wall of water . . . followed by a silence. Instinctively, I turned to look at where David had been and saw only his small hat in the murky water. “Papa! David fell in the water!” My cry echoed from the hillside. Immediately my dad responded by bounding out of the house with Amos at his heels. As we watched Papa dive without hesitation from the bank into the water, Sarah and I gathered up the other children. I realized that I didn’t have any time to waste. I had to do something to help. Just then I saw Papa’s head emerge.”Call 911,” he said and then, catching a breath, he went back under. I was relieved to have some instructions, but I was also feeling frantic. This big task of calling for help was now on my shoulders. Running up to the porch, I saw Mama run
Water All Around
The sun rose as usual that morning, but no one saw it. There was no shortage of watchers; the two fishermen on Bell Island were up mending their nets, watching the horizon for the glow that would tell them it was time to set out, and the beady-eyed gulls were watching in their wary way from nests on shore and seats on the ocean’s broad back, and their favorite vantage point, the sky. The quiet old lady on Middle Island was awake, gazing at the eastern sky and dreaming of sunrises long ago when she bustled about making breakfast for her children, and wondering if any of them ever stopped to watch the sunrise, and the little girl in the little white house next door was just getting out of bed, not because she had to, but because she always woke up with the sun and there was really no reason to stay in bed. It was not the watchers that were missing, it was the sun. The little girl—she was not really so very little, but was more a little girl than anything else—was the only one to think it strange. The fishermen, when they had waited long enough, simply smiled at each other and started the motor of their boat, and the old woman too knew the Nova Scotia fog well. But to the girl, as she stepped out of the door into the misty dawn, it was like waking to a whole new world. The surrounding islands, near enough to swim to the day before, had vanished, replaced by swirling clouds of thick fog that wetted her skin and hair but without the striking feeling of rain. It was like being on a ship miles from anywhere, she thought. All she could see was water. Water and fog. She sat down in the grass then, tousle-haired and dreamy-eyed, hugging her knees and breathing in the mystery. The surrounding islands had vanished, replaced by swirling clouds of thick fog The fog had not lifted when the little girl’s mother called her name. It was their last day on the island and it was time to pack up and leave, to drive to the ferry and return to civilization. And the little girl remembered that she was not really a captain’s daughter on a three-masted schooner off the coast of Scotland, but was a little girl named Miranda who was starting algebra and Latin in the fall and was going to lead the poetry club. So she went inside and drank the hot chocolate her mother had made for her, and put her cup in a suitcase, and then remembered to say good morning, and wrung out her nightgown, which was very wet with sitting on the dew-soaked grass. When the packing, which should only be lived through once, was over, and the suitcases were all piled on the red motor boat, Miranda’s mother went to wake the baby. Miranda slipped out the door and set off on the path around the island to say goodbye to her friends. It was still at most two hours past sunrise, but she knew everyone would be awake, because where there are no electric lights or other such extravagances (as on any proper island), daylight hours are precious and no one wastes them in bed. So she said her goodbyes and returned to a wailing baby and distracted mother, and in time things fell into place, and they clambered into the boat and scrabbled perches amongst the luggage, and Mother pulled the cord on the outboard motor and as it stuttered to life they set off into the fog. Miranda’s mother knew the way from island to shore, and could steer straight despite the fog, but wind and tide conspired against them, and pushed the boat off course, so that a rock came up to starboard that they had not knowingly steered toward, and the trip which had been an adventure turned frightening. All they could see was water and fog. They could have been heading out to sea, or straight at a reef, or anywhere. The fog seemed menacing now, and the excitement was gone. The spray flung at them by the wind had turned cold, not cool, and the wind itself was harsher. Miranda took the tiller while her mother hunted frantically for the compass, but it was packed deep in some unknown bag. One arm around baby and the other hand on the tiller, Miranda could not reach up to brush her wind-tossed hair out of her eyes, so she shook her head, then suddenly released baby and felt her hair with her hand. She stared at the waves for a long moment, then cried over the growl of the motor, “The wind! It was coming from the north, from the mainland! Steer into the wind!” Mother nodded, and said something, but the wind carried away her words. Then Miranda remembered that she was steering, and swung the tiller around so that the little boat faced the wind. It blew her hair back for her but she freed her hand anyway to take off her salt-encrusted spectacles to rake the horizon with her eyes for any sign of land. Baby crept over to Mother, looking for a sheltering arm, and the three huddled down in the boat as the wind and spray hit them, and presently there came a shadow in the fog, and it grew clearer until it became a wooded promontory and a weathered dock, and presently the little girl found herself climbing up the ladder, and that her heart was no longer pounding, and that her cheeks were wet with something more than mist and spray. And she blinked her eyes as she pulled baby up with her cold hands, and she fumbled with her glasses one-handed as she hauled bag after bag up the hill to the car, and she finally had the glasses on when they drove away. And presently she came to
Guardians of Ga’Hoole, Book One: The Capture
Guardians of Ga’Hoole, Book One: The Capture by Kathryn Lasky; Scholastic Inc.: New York, 2003; $4.99 I was excited when I opened the book Guardians of Ga’Hoole, The Capture, by Kathryn Lasky. I could tell it would be a good book once I read the cover. Initially, it appealed to my love of animals and nature. Once I started reading it, however, I was so interested in the story that I was fascinated by this adventurous world of St. Aegolius Academy for Orphaned Owls, also known as St. Aggies. This book is about a young barn owl named Soren. He and his friends are captured and taken to an evil academy where they hypnotize young owls and force them to join their evil army bent on destroying all owl kingdoms. Soren and his friend Gylfie escape the hypnotism by telling stories of the Great Ga’Hoole Kingdom. It forces them to stay awake so they are unable to fall asleep during a full moon, also known as moon blinking. That’s just the beginning of their adventures, for they escape and meet up with two other owls, Twilight and Digger. Together, they are in search of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree, which they hope will be able to stop the evil academy of St. Aggies. The author was very clever, and made a map of the entire owl world. This map is illustrated on the inside cover of the book and includes at least ten different areas, such as Forest Kingdom of Tyto (where Soren is from), St. Aegolius Canyons, and the Island of the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. On the outer edges of the map, there is even an area called Beyond the Beyond. I enjoy reading maps, and this made the book very appealing to me. I had read that the author spent several years doing extensive research about owls, in order to write a nonfiction book. She decided in the end to write a fantasy about owls, but to include as much information as she could about their natural history. This is very obvious when you get to the end of the book and find a type of glossary naming all of the characters in the story, their origin, and the type of animal they are. It also includes the scientific name for each animal. I was surprised that there were so many different types of owls. Not only was it a learning experience, it made the book seem much more realistic. The story definitely drew me into its fantasy world. I felt at times as if I was Soren. Sometimes I felt eager, sometimes I felt scared, sometimes victorious. I didn’t want to put the book down even to eat or sleep. It was definitely a page-turner with a good-versus-evil theme, which is a characteristic found in most of my favorite stories. Guardians of Ga’Hoole, The Capture, by Kathryn Lasky, is definitely a book I would recommend to my friends. In fact, I can’t wait to read the next book in the series. Anthony Cali, 10Acworth, Georgia
Neverland
There might be no Neverland, No heaven, no after. Only cold Earth. There might be nothing— Yet isn’t that something? So pretend today will last forever. And fly now, soar, Gravity only exists If you believe in it. Fly with sunbeams Tangled in your glowing hair And fly with moonbeams Softening your face And fly on the back of Pegasus. Fly close to the sun, And don’t be burned, Fly to the moon, And leave your handprint Denting it for who knows how long. Bring me with you When you go, Lifting gently from This battered planet. We will skim the galaxies Like tadpoles in a puddle Or young eagles Weightless For the first time. We will fly past Where all the maps and pictures show To un-named universes Where we will orbit Other suns And we will Never Land. Nicole Guenther, 12Vancouver, Washington
The Shooting Star
Darren Milar sighed as he walked into the schoolyard. All around him kids were laughing, running, and playing. The sound of tetherball chains as they clinked against their metal poles rang out as Darren passed. When kids started school again, they were sometimes nervous, excited, or a little sad. But that was nothing compared to what Darren felt. Ever since kindergarten, Darren had been the outcast. The nerd, if you had to put it that way. Other kids had had loads of friends, and turned against him. Darren had only one friend, Ian, and Ian was just as nerdy as Darren, without the glasses and braces. The start of school meant Darren was back to rude notes on his locker, people laughing at him in the corridors, and Ian telling him to ignore them. But he couldn’t ignore them, and already Darren knew, the second he walked into the schoolyard, that he was off to the start of another terrible year. And so it was, another terrible first day back. In the corridors, even kids younger than him, sixth-graders, laughed at him. As usual, in classes, teachers told him that he had extraordinary talent, while people sniggered and pointed behind the teacher’s back. Ian is never laughed at, thought Darren, looking around at Ian. He was sitting, working in his math book. How does he do it? thought Darren desperately. * * * Later that night in bed, Darren lay propped up on pillows, looking at the stars. He had heard that there would be shooting stars tonight. He was thinking of a wish, and it wasn’t hard. He closed his eyes and whispered, “I wish I was popular at school.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “I wish I was popular at school” But when he opened his eyes, nothing had happened. His wish hadn’t come true. * * * The next day at school Darren had totally forgotten about his wish. He and Ian were talking when suddenly, a hush fell over the blacktop. That was not normal, even the tetherball chains weren’t clinking. Darren and Ian stopped talking and looked up. Standing in front of them was the prettiest girl Darren had ever seen. She had long red hair that reached nearly to her waist, and eyes as green as jade. A few freckles were scattered across her nose. She could have been a model if she hadn’t had the ugliest scowl on her face, if her faded jeans weren’t torn at the knees, and if her Good Charlotte shirt was still black, instead of a smoky gray. Darren was paralyzed. He didn’t know whether she was an angel or a devil. Fortunately, he was spared the moment of trying to speak because the girl asked him, “You go here?” “Y- yes,” he stammered. “Good. Then you’ll be able to tell me where the principal’s office is.” She looked at him like a tiger examining its prey. “D- down the hall, f- fifth door past the water fountain.” He thought he must look like an idiot, stammering next to her speaking confidently. She didn’t even thank him, just walked away, leaving him and the rest of the school staring after her, her sandals clip-clopping loudly on the dead-silent playground. When the bell rang ten minutes later, the school was still frozen in awe at the girl’s entrance. Darren was suddenly the center of attention for once, and people kept asking him about the girl, because he had seen her best. Then, in history, Darren finally got to learn about her. “Class, we have a new student today” said Ms. Kent, after the class had settled down. “She has been on vacation in Mexico, up until yesterday. Dear, would you like to come and introduce yourself?” The girl walked up to the front of the class. “My name is Claire Guerrerro,” she growled. “I like punk rock bands. My favorite color is black, and I play the guitar. Any questions? Good.” She walked back to her seat. “Well then,” the teacher replied, “I’m sure you’ll all be very nice to Claire. Now please open your book to page 102 …” But barely anyone was listening. Claire opened her book and didn’t look at anyone. Darren had a bad feeling in his stomach, and gulped. Just one more person to pick on me. Soon Claire did become the most popular kid in school, but she chose her friends carefully, and they were almost all boys. If Darren thought this was bad, the worst was yet to come. Two weeks after Claire arrived, Darren came to school and looked around at their usual table. It was empty. This was odd, because Ian was usually dropped off by his older brother Alec pretty early. Darren sat down, and looked around for Ian. He found him quickly, but his heart sank. Claire’s group, which was usually prowling around and scaring sixth-graders, was now sitting down at a far-removed table. They were talking to (Darren shut his eyes tight) . . . Ian. Darren couldn’t believe it. Claire had taken his best friend from him. Now Ethan Lowell was talking to Ian, who pointed at Darren. The whole group looked over and laughed. Zach Parker said something, and the group cracked up again. Darren felt like crying. He tried to sit with them at lunch, but Ethan Lowell said, “Sorry, no room here, but there’s a spot for you at the nerd table.” Ian looked uncomfortable, and shifted in his seat. Marilyn Fisher said, “Don’t worry, Darren. I’m sure you’ll find a place to sit.” He didn’t realize she’d put a KICK ME sign on his back. * * * The days passed, and Darren became more and more miserable. He tried sitting with his sisters, but they talked about fashion and other girly stuff. He tried as hard as he could to be friends with Claire, and he was practically down on bended knee. One day as he sat on the
A Second Chance
Briiiiing! The fire alarm screeched. “Hurry Jared, this isn’t a drill!” my friend shouted. I excitedly dashed over to the supply closet and yanked on my fireproof suit. I followed my fellow volunteers into the shiny crimson truck just as the driver flipped on the earsplitting sirens. For the first time since I created the volunteer fire company in my community, I was going to actually fight a fire. I started the fire company two years ago, because of the complaints that the nearest fire department was too far away to save some homes in the community. To train the new volunteers, as well as myself, I enlisted some employees from the other fire department. We were finally ready to start fighting fires. I leapt out of the truck anxiously and ran up to the shivering, sleepy-looking family gathered near a tree. “Is everyone here?” I asked the woman next to me. She was holding a small baby, and she looked very anxious. “Yes, I think so,” the woman responded nervously. “My son isn’t here, but I saw him leave the house a few minutes ago. He is probably on the other side of the house waiting for us. Please, find him!” I dashed as quickly as I could to the other side. If the boy was somehow still in the house, it was important to get to him as fast as possible. He was nowhere to be found. I heard a loud shriek coming from above. I immediately looked up at the windows, and saw a small face on the second floor. The boy must have gone back in to find his family! I grabbed a ladder from the truck and leaned it against the wall before ascending to the window at record speed. The boy must have gone back in to find his family! There was no fire in the boy’s bedroom, but I could hear its cackling right outside the door. The smoke was snaking under the door and filling the room like an ominous black cloud. Memories suddenly flooded back, memories that defined who I had become. I remember waking up to the sound of my own coughing. When I opened my eyes, I understood why. My room was filled with a thick blanket of smoke that smothered my face and made me choke. I wiped the soot from my face and slid onto the floor. I had no idea where the fire was, but I knew what to do. I began to crawl out of my room. The smoke was thicker in the hallway. That meant I was going toward the fire, but I had no choice. Blinded by the smoke, I felt around the floor until my hand closed around the top step. I turned around and carefully descended backwards. By the time I reached the bottom, my head was spinning and my heart was doing a drum roll. I knew I did not have much time before I fainted. Now I knew where the fire was. I could hear its evil cackling as it swallowed up the only place I had ever called home. It ate through the carpet and devoured the coffee table. Tears began to cut little rivers in the soot on my face. They were tears of hatred toward the hungry fire, tears of fear and sadness. I desperately wriggled toward the door, but every inch seemed like a mile. I had only been awake for about ten minutes, but it felt like I had been stuck here for eternity I screamed for help, knowing I would never survive on my own. The fire nipped warningly at my right hand. I yelped in pain, and I hoped someone heard me. I was able to stay conscious just long enough to see my sister. She was covered in soot, coughing and wheezing from the smoke. I remember the way she looked at me. Her face showed sheer panic. Her eyes were wild with fear. It was not fear for herself; it was fear for my safety. She knew the firefighters would not get there soon enough, so she took matters into her own hands. I was unconscious by then, but I know that she managed to save my life, giving me a second chance to live. A sudden snapping noise, like the crack of a baseball bat hitting the ball, jerked me back to the present. I realized that the fire was slowly creeping its way into the room. It was my turn to be a hero like my sister. I saw the boy, crumpled in a corner, sobbing as if the voracious fire was devouring the floor in front of him. I ran over to him and grabbed him around the waist. Within seconds, we were carefully climbing out the open window and slowly descending the ladder to the boy’s relieved family. My foot touched the grass and I gently placed the exhausted boy in his mother’s arms. As the entire family was rushed to the hospital to be examined, I climbed wearily into the truck. The boy was uninjured, except for a small, mild burn on his right hand that he had probably gotten trying to leave his room. I thought of the small burn scar on my right hand and how it helped me realize what I needed to do with my second chance. The little boy’s scar would do the same for him. Natania Field, 13Haverford, Pennsylvania Evan Mistur, 13Troy, New York
My Trixie
Curled on the dining room table Furry cheek snuggled against the cloth Trixie purrs Tail twitching and ears cocked Waiting for the sound of cat food in the bowl I rub my face in her tummy Breathing in rich cat-smell As she rumbles, happy To be home After a trot around the neighborhood Mrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeew? She asks if I’ll pet her I oblige and stoke her back Telling her I love her That she’ll always be my kitty She stretches, mouth open And legs stiff Always trying to look less fat Tail curling, eyes open Then she settles back down And tucks her head on her paws Lying there on the green tablecloth Looking like a beached whale She sinks deeper in sleep Her whiskers droop And yellow eyes close And I rub my face in her fur again She’s still purring Even in sleep she’s my baby Paws tucked under her massive body Cold button nose a bright black She is my darling My sweetie My Trixie-Bixie. Emma Kilgore Hine, 13Austin, Texas
