I stared out into the pitch-black morning. It was about five AM and very quiet. There was a huge lump stuck in my throat and I tried as hard as I could not to let my tears spill out. A single tear rolled down my cheek anyway. We were passing the tennis courts and the park. My eyes wandered from each familiar sight to another, and my hands were trembling. I could hear the quiet sound of the highway and I could see some lights flickering on in some houses. We passed by my friend Jean’s house, the house I’ve played at for so many years, the house of one of my best friends. The house that we had so many parties at, the house that we had pretended was so many things. In my mind, I said a farewell to Jean, to Alanna, to Nancy, Cameron, Roxy, Sarah, and everybody else I knew. My family was moving from North Carolina to Texas. Moving away from the one place that I would ever call home. I knew that I would miss the cold mountains, the warm beach, all the camping trips, and my friends; I would miss everything in North Carolina. A couple years before, my dad was notified that, if he wanted to, he would be transferred to Galveston, Texas. I was eight and I didn’t mind much. A couple of years later, the choice was final. My father would move to Galveston first and find a new house for us. At the end of the school year, my mom, sister, and I would move to Texas, after selling our house. I felt like the world was crumbling down, right in front of me. Life was so unfair. North Carolina was my home, my everything. North Carolina was my home, my everything Months later, we moved. My head was spinning and I was freezing cold. Not because it was a cold night, it was summer and quite warm, but because the string connecting my home and me had been cut by a big greedy monster. We drove until we came to the very end of North Carolina and started heading into the next state. “Well, this is it, from this moment on, North Carolina will only be our past, and we’re moving on. Say goodbye,” my dad said quietly. Tears stung my eyes, and they spilled out all at once. I didn’t try to stop them. They just kept on pouring out. “Although my body is moving on, my heart and soul will always stay here, no matter what,” I said fiercely. My sister hugged me tight and we drove past the welcome sign. She murmured something and then laid her head down on the pillow beside her. We’ve been through so much together, and we’ve always made it through. This wasn’t going to be any different. I was pretty quiet the rest of the ride to Texas. My heart pounded loudly and my head ached in pain. My legs and arms were stiff and my eyes were forcing me to sleep, my mouth was drawn into a thin line, and I refused to accept that we were moving on. “No, I’m not moving on, where my heart stays is where the real me will always be, this is just my body here, that doesn’t mean anything,” I whispered to myself “And that’s that.” Caroline Lu, 10Friendswood, Texas Orli Hakanoglu, 10New York, New York
The Thief of Bubastis
Kysen ran stealthily and silently to the temple as the chilly night air whipped around him. His black hair and dark clothing let him blend into the night, and his blue eyes scanned the road ahead of him. The buildings of Bubastis were dark, the people sound asleep, dreaming of the festival just four days away. But Kysen could not think of the festival. He had to think about survival. It seemed to him like just yesterday when his father grew ill. The expert carpenter could no longer work, and they did not have enough money to support the two of them. Kysen had to steal for them to live. So far, he had been stealing little things: bracelets, scarabs, and even a small sculpture. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough. So tonight he was going for something that would sell for hundreds of deben, deben that would pay for a doctor. That item was the necklace of Bastet. I’m only twelve, Kysen thought to himself ruefully, and I’m stealing from the gods. * * * Maya’s eleventh birthday, about a full moon ago, was not a happy one. It was the day her mother died. Her father, Khay, was so depressed that he locked himself in his room for much of each day and prayed to Osiris, god of the dead. Even when Khay was not praying, he paid almost no attention to Maya and burst into tears all the time. “Bastet,” whispered Maya, kneeling “please make my father better . . .” Of course Maya was very sad, but not as sad as her father, who had been married for thirty years. So Maya decided that he needed help. One night, when Khay had been crying more than usual, Maya crept out of their large house and walked quickly to the temple of Bastet, which was nearby. Cats, which were sacred to Bastet, ran everywhere in the temple, and green candles, Bastet’s sacred color, flickered in their holders. Maya walked down a long hallway, with the cats rubbing against her legs. Ever since she was little, cats seemed to like her. That was what made her go to Bastet’s temple instead of praying to another god. Soon she saw the statue of Bastet. The god of happiness was portrayed as a large, black cat. It had golden earrings, a scarab carved on its chest, and a beautiful silver necklace hanging from its neck. “Bastet,” whispered Maya, kneeling, “please make my father better . . .” Her prayer was interrupted by a chorus of hisses. Maya whirled around and saw a boy, little older than her, kicking away the cats. “Who are you?” she called to him suspiciously. She didn’t like the fact that he was wearing all black clothing. The boy had been so preoccupied with the cats that he hadn’t noticed her at first. He froze and turned to Maya, his blue eyes full of surprise. Kysen realized that she could report him to the priest and he could be killed. Without thinking, his mind a flood of panic, Kysen leapt at the girl and knocked her to the stone floor. She blacked out. Then the young thief wrenched the necklace off the statue and ran into the black night faster than he ever had. * * * Sunlight streamed through the temple doors and with it came Pure One Rahotep, the priest of Bubastis. He saw the unconscious girl on the floor and the bare neck of the statue. “Bring water,” he commanded a servant, and walked through the cats to Maya. The servant returned with a bowl full of water. “Here you are, sir,” he said. Rahotep took the bowl and dumped the water over Maya’s head unceremoniously. Her eyes flickered open, and she mumbled, “Where am I?” “In the temple of Bastet where you stole her necklace last night, you fool!” he answered harshly. This shook Maya fully awake, and she stood up. Then she remembered what had happened the night before. “But it wasn’t me! It must have been that boy. He came in and knocked me out,” Maya argued. “You have no proof of that,” said Rahotep, “and no one but you was here this morning. Therefore, you must have stolen the necklace. And stealing from the gods can only be punished by execution. “But there is an alternative. If you can return Bastet’s necklace to me before sunset tonight, I will spare you. I’ll bet you hid it somewhere. Oh, and don’t try to escape: soldiers are posted at every gate.” Then he and his servant turned and left. Maya collapsed into tears: the boy was long gone, and she was going to die at sunset. * * * The work of a thief was never over. Kysen had done the hardest part, but he still had to find a foreign merchant who would buy the necklace (if the merchant was from Bubastis, he would recognize it), get a good price for it, and pay a doctor to help his father. Most importantly, the soldiers could not capture him. That would mean both he and his father, who would never get a doctor, would die. People were everywhere in the marketplace of Bubastis. They were trading, shouting, laughing, and thieving. Hiding the necklace under his cloak, Kysen hurried through the crowd to the stalls of the merchants. They called their wares into the crowd, claiming that they had the lowest prices in all of Egypt. Most of them Kysen recognized; they were the local merchants. But there were some others, too, from Cairo and other Egyptian cities. Kysen read the signs: Food, Fabric, Toys. None of those merchants would buy Bastet’s necklace. Finally, Kysen came to a merchant who had no customers. His sign read: Jewelry, Riches, and Other Oddities. Kysen eagerly stepped forward. “Hello there, son!” cried the merchant cheerily. “I’m Osorkon. Who are you?” “Kysen,” answered Kysen, but instantly regretted it. If Osorkon recognized the necklace, he could tell 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
A Parting Gift
“Melly!” My best friend Aisha catches my arm. “What’s up, Aisha?” I ask, because her big brown eyes tell me that something is up, and it’s not good. “Will you walk with me?” What she means is can I walk with her around the dirt track that surrounds the soccer field, one of the play structures, and the tire swing, at our school. “Sure.” After we’ve taken about ten steps, I turn to her. “What’s wrong?” “It’s Rahim.” Now she’s got my attention. She rarely talks to me about family affairs. Except when she has crying spells because of her second oldest brother. He got in a car crash when he was thirteen and didn’t make it. Rahim, her oldest brother, still can’t get over Hassan’s death. He punches walls in the house, and gets into trouble with the police. She and her family also have trouble because they are from Pakistan, and it is very hard to be a Pakistani in our city because many people have been suspicious of them since 9/11. “I’m listening,” I say. She pulls me over to the side of the track and we sit down in the shade of a pine tree. “Rahim . . . he . . . he . . . he’s in jail.” I don’t know what to say. I want to say that I know what she’s going through or that she’s going to be OK. But I don’t know what she’s going through, and I don’t want to lie to my best friend. Because the truth is I don’t know if she’s going to be OK. Sitting there, I wonder how I got myself into this. I wonder why I am the one stuck in this position of being Aisha’s best friend. But suddenly I snap back into reality and realize that however it started I am Aisha’s best friend, and I am proud of it. I also remember that there is a girl who is crying a billion rivers, and who is secretly counting on me to console her. So I don’t say anything. I just scoot close to her and hug her. I hug her for a long time and hold her in my arms. After we’ve taken about ten steps, I turn to her “What’s wrong?” “How long?” “They’re not sure. Maybe five years, possibly two.” “When do they decide?” “Tonight.” * * * Ring, ring, ring! Pick up, pick up, I think to myself. “Hello?” It’s Aisha. “What happened?” I ask, too loudly. “Shh. My parents are here.” “Sorry.” “I think it’s OK. Everyone is acting happy.” I want to tell her to ask instead of just waiting until someone tells her, but knowing her and her family, I figure that it is some Pakistani thing. So instead I say, “Good.” “Listen, I have to go. I’ll see you at school.” “OK, bye.” “Luvs.” As I set down the phone thoughts are racing through my head. How can she be completely in tears this morning, and totally calm right now. I mean, I would be ecstatic. It could be because of the whole fact that I am not supposed to know about this and her parents are right there, but still! The next day I run up to her right as her car pulls up to the school. There is Rahim in the front seat. Aisha puts her finger up to her mouth, telling me to be quiet, but a huge grin is on her face. I say hello to Rahim and he waves at me but I can sense sorrow in his smile. Aisha and I walk to our classroom and as we walk she fills me in on the details. She says that he got released from jail last night but the police are still checking his case. Then she pulls me over to the side of the path. “Melly, there is something I didn’t tell you yesterday that is really troubling me, but you can’t tell anyone else.” I promise and she continues. “My parents . . . They’re the ones that turned Rahim in.” “What?!” I practically scream. Aisha puts a hand over my mouth. “Sorry.” “It’s OK. . . It is kind of surprising.” “Were you there?” “They always send me to my room during the fights but I can hear the yelling from miles away.” “What do they fight about?” Tears start to prick Aisha’s eyes. “OK, we won’t talk about this right now.” “Yeah,” she says and puts her head on my shoulder. We walk to class and I wonder what I would ever do without Aisha. Talking about her family problems eases mine. I think about how every time I’m sad I run to her and gush everything but how she is so much stronger. She hardly ever cries but her problems are so much bigger than mine. I sigh and put my books in my locker. The phone is ringing. I look at the clock and see that it is one AM on Monday, two weeks before school gets out. “You rang?” I say in my most sleepy voice. “Melly!” As I had guessed it’s Aisha. “What?!” I yell grumpily. “We’re moving.” “It is too early in the morning for jokes.” “This is not a joke! We are moving in June, after school gets out.” “No. No. NO!” “We are moving to Singapore.” “This is not happening.” “Rahim is already on the plane.” “Aisha! You can’t do this to me!” “I don’t want to but I have to! You know how much danger Rahim is in. The police drive past our house every ten minutes, they will soon have a tap on our phone line, and they stalk me to the grocery store!” “You can stay with me!” “I wish!” “I mean it.” “Melly, I love you! I always will! You will always be with me! I’ll come back! I have to go! See you at school.” “Don’t leave me!” “Bye.” I lie
A Second Beginning
It was a dark, cloudy evening when Father told us the news. Our family was gathered around the worn dinner table in the small kitchen of our farmhouse. My father was sitting in his usual seat at the head of the table, his callused hands clasped together and his elbows resting on the faded tablecloth. He looked from me to my eleven-year-old brother, James, and finally to my mother. Her eyes looked sad as she met his nervous gaze. They had been strangely quiet all through dinner. As eleven- and thirteen-year-old children, my brother and I rarely spoke at the table unless we were spoken to. Mother took a deep breath. “Jack,” she said quietly. “What’s done is done. We must tell the children.” She sighed and brushed a strand of blond hair out of her brown eyes. Father nodded. His face was lined with sorrow, which startled me. He was a strong man. Everything about him seemed sturdy. He stood six feet tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, with sunburned skin from years of working in the cornfields of our farm in upstate New York. It was usually hard to tell his inner emotions because he never let them show. “Times are tough all over,” Father said slowly and reluctantly. “These past few years have been hard on all the farmers around here.” I knew this was true. Although my parents didn’t talk to my brother and me about it, we had overheard our parents talking. Our crops had been doing badly for the past two years, and we had been able to sell very little of our harvest. I knew my father had had to borrow money from the bank in town just to keep the farm going. He was a proud man and hated to do it, but he had had no choice. “Times are tough all oven” Father said slowly and reluctantly “We’ve lost the farm,” he finally said. He looked down and shook his head. James froze with shock. I was thunderstruck, clutching the edge of the old wooden table to keep from falling out of my chair. James and I were both born in the little farmhouse. It was all we had ever known. There was a long silence. We all expected Father to continue, but he seemed unable to. My mother, sensing this, said softly, “We owed the bank more money than we could repay. We held on as long as we could.” She paused. “The bank is taking the farm.” “Where will we go?” James asked fearfully, his voice shaking. I looked at Father, wondering what would become of us. “West Virginia,” Father replied quietly. “We’re going to West Virginia. There was a man in town last week from a coal mine down there. He says they have jobs, and the coal company will pay for our train tickets and give us a house when we get there. Your mother and I have discussed it, and we think it’s best. There’s always a job open there, and if I do good work, I’ll be well paid.” He paused and looked at each of us. “We leave on a train next Wednesday.” No one said anything for a long time. I turned and looked at James. His dark green eyes were full of a sadness deeper even than mine, and he looked as though he might cry I restrained myself from reaching out to grab his hand, though I wanted to badly. But I knew that he didn’t like me touching him, now that he was eleven and “growing up” as he put it. Mother cleared her throat. “It’s getting late,” she said briskly. “James, Anna, you should be in bed.” James and I silently got up from the table and cleared and washed the dishes, as we did every night. Then we went upstairs. We stood at the top of the stairs, not knowing what to say. James whispered, “Anna, I don’t want to move.” I replied, “Neither do I. But there’s nothing we can do about it. At least we’ll all be together.” Later, as I pulled my thin blanket tight around me, I tried to imagine what West Virginia would be like. It was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep. * * * The days until we left passed quickly. Everything was a blur. A man from the bank came, and there was an auction to sell off the farm equipment and what little furniture we had. Father stood outside, stony-faced, watching as things were carted away. James, Mother, and I remained inside, unable to watch. We busied ourselves, packing the few things we would be taking with us into trunks. Sadly, we bid our few neighbors farewell. It seemed that only a few minutes had passed from the moment of Father’s announcement that we were moving to the time that we were boarding a crowded train to West Virginia. I had never been on a train before, and for the first time in days I was looking forward to something. The journey was to last five days, Father told us, for the train would make frequent stops along the way to pick up passengers. My excitement soon wore off, for the train was stiflingly hot and crowded, and it moved sluggishly. I tried to begin a conversation with James not five minutes from the start of the journey, but it was difficult to hear each other or concentrate on what we were saying. There was so much noise, and so many people who couldn’t seem to keep from treading on my feet. As we neared New York City, James and I stared in awe through the grimy window at the bustling city We had never seen such big buildings before, or so many people. As we disembarked from the train to get some air and something to eat, Mother seemed nervous and cautioned us to stay close. We bought some sandwiches from a street cart and sat
The Tide of Happiness
I was pulled up, Only to be sucked back down. The sea lurched and charged! My hand reached to clasp my father’s. Instead I dove With a new strength, Fooling the incoming wave. As I surfaced, Gasping, laughing, My father’s hand met my own, And together we ducked, The sand churning beneath our feet, While happiness knocked me over. Mira Bernstein Kaufman, 11Woodbridge, Connecticut
The Sea Lion Waltz
The beach was still, the sand untouched. The only sounds were the wind and the breaking of the waves on the shore. Ally doubted that she, Olivia, and Jake were allowed there, as it was a private beach, but chose to ignore that piece of information. They continued along the path, finally reaching the sand. Ally reached down and took off her sandals, burrowing her toes deep into the cool sand. Olivia copied her, and lastly Jake, hesitantly. “I’m not sure we’re allowed here, Ally. The sign says this is private property,” Jake said, looking at a nearby sign. “Besides, there’s no lifeguard. Maybe we should just go back. We could walk by the stores.” He stopped walking and looked back at the path they had taken. “Come on.” The beach was still, the sand untouched Olivia glared at Jake. “No, it’s fine. There’s nobody here to mind if we just walk along the water. It’s really not that big of a deal.” She linked her arm through Ally’s and began to walk. Ally pulled on her brother’s arm. “Come on. It’ll be fine. If someone comes, we’ll just leave. OK?” She pulled on Jake’s sleeve and gave a pleading smile, silently apologizing for Olivia. Jake and Olivia never had gotten along, but ever since Ally and Jake’s parents had split up, they seemed to be in an everlasting argument. Their father was moving to New York for a new job, and Jake was going with him. But their mother was staying in California, and Ally had been given a choice whether to stay or not. Olivia and Jake both constantly told her their opinions on what to do, often ending with them screaming at each other. Ally was tired of it all, and wished they would stop. “Fine. Let’s just go. I mean, why would it matter if we got in trouble,” Jake said, turning to Olivia. “You don’t care about messing up people’s lives, as long as you get to have fun, first. Let’s just go, and if we get punished, hey, so what? Why would I care? It doesn’t matter.” Olivia opened her mouth to reply, but Ally answered first. “Jake, leave it. We’ve been over this so many times, it’s getting old. Let’s just walk and talk about something, it doesn’t matter what.” She kicked some sand up, and felt the wind throw it back at her. “Let’s walk to the rocks up there, and then we can come back.” Olivia and Jake both nodded, but Ally could tell that her friend was at the beginnings of anger. They had been friends forever, and Ally could detect when Olivia was mad. For the last three months, she had been in a constant state of the beginnings of mad, especially when near Jake. Ally felt more sand hit her leg, this time from Olivia. A wave crashed on the sand, sending foam rushing to their feet. Ally sighed. “I love how quiet it is here. It would be so nice to own a house here, and be able to sit on the sand whenever you wanted. You could hear the ocean all the time, instead of all the busy cars and things. And you could just stare out at the ocean, all day long.” “Mm,” said Olivia, looking happily at the ocean. “It is nice.” She smiled, then looked sideways at Ally, her eyebrows raised. In a tone of mock condescension, she added, “It would be so horrible not to be near the water at all, and be surrounded by tall, ugly buildings. I’m not sure I could handle it, it would be so depressing. But,” she shrugged, “I guess some people like it. I feel so sorry for them.” She sighed, shaking her head, an expression supposed to look like sad confusion on her face. “But,” said Jake pointedly, as he reached down to brush sand off his pants, “they get to be near technology, resources, and lots of interesting people. I bet they feel bad for people who have nothing but sand and water nearby. But, hey, who knows,” he sighed. Olivia stiffened, and Ally struggled to find a way to stop, or at least delay, the fight. “Let’s just sit down for a little. We can go on later, and we don’t have to be back for a while. Let’s just sit, and look at the water. Just for a bit.” She sat, and the others followed reluctantly, one on each side. The water barely touched their toes as they leaned back on the sand, feet extended. The fog was so thick that Ally could only see a short distance out until everything became a swirly gray. She loved this weather, and even though Olivia was in a bad mood, Ally knew she loved it, too. When they had been younger, maybe seven or eight years old, they had come to a beach like this with Ally’s parents, and Olivia had been incredibly upset when they weren’t allowed in the water. “No,” Ally’s mother had said, smiling slightly. “It’s too cold. Maybe in a month we’ll come back and then it will be warmer. No one swims now, see? Look how few people there are!” But Olivia had stamped her foot, saying, “But I want to swim now! I can handle it! I’m like a polar bear. Or a fat sea lion. Right, Ally? We’re tough. We’re sea lions.” And with that, she had marched around, starting to howl, trying to sound like a sea lion. “Ow ow! Owwwwwwww!” “No!” Ally had replied, happily. “They arf! Like this: Arf arf arf! Aruf! Aruuuf!” “They do both!” Olivia had said, laughing. “Ow! Arf! Owrufl!” And for the next hour, they had galloped around the beach pretending to be sea lions, dancing sea lions, sleepy sea lions lying on each other, and angry sea lions, charging the sand. They danced around doing different ballroom steps, always owrufing. Everything disappeared for them as they raced gracefully
Run, Boy, Run
Run, Boy, Run by Uri Orley, translated by Hillel Halkin; Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 2003; $15 The minute I opened this book and read the inside book jacket, I couldn’t wait to turn to page one and immerse myself in another fantastic read—Run, Boy, Run. I even set down Gathering Blue so I could read the amazing true story of a boy who refused to give up, even when I know I would have. One of the reasons I decided to review a Holocaust book is because half my family and lots of my friends are Jewish. Some of my ancestors lived in Poland and Russia and migrated to America to escape the Nazis—some didn’t make it and were murdered by them. So when I settled down in my living room and opened the book, I just couldn’t put it down. I was pulled into the story of a boy once called Srulik, later called Jurek. The story begins in a ghetto with two brothers planning to go to the Polish side of the ghetto, only to have their plans foiled by German boys. Srulik describes the incident through the eyes of his eager, eight-year-old Jewish body. Then, as he goes on with his tale, I feel the fear and pain as he realizes his mother and father are gone, and when belonging to a gang dubs him Red, and I feel the terror as he gets out of scrapes that should have ended in his death, but thankfully did not. Srulik’s parents want him to have a good life. So when Srulik is escaping Nazis, and he meets his father, dying in a field, his father gives him the Polish name Jurek Staniak—and to blend in more promptly sacrifices his own life in exchange for his son’s. From the cruel people who either turned him in to the Germans or beat him viciously, Jurek learns, sometimes the hard way, not to trust everyone. But as in our own lives, there are always the good people, in Jurek’s case, people who taught him to pray like a Christian, or a German soldier who didn’t turn him in, but hid him and kept him safe. Jurek’s life at times reminds me of my own—good people, horrible people, instant friends, and a loyal dog. But something that is unusual to witness today occurs almost per chapter in this book—Jurek has such trust, faith, and optimism that he pulls through predicaments in which even the coolest under pressure would’ve melted. Uri Orley writes in a way that makes me forget that it’s a man speaking instead of the eight-year-old boy who it seemed to be. He tells the story with the fear and curiosity that Jurek must have been feeling during his amazing experiences. All in all, Orley writes in such a way that I firmly believe he could become any character he pleased. While reading, I kept feeling a connection to the story because of my Nazi-hunted ancestors, and also because of the nickname that Jurek and my grandfather share—Red. Jurek’s tale also makes me realize that no matter how hard things get, life goes on. Jurek is amazing at finding a light in the midst of darkness, and because of these elements which Uri Orley uses to portray the true story of a boy called Jurek, I stand up and applaud this amazing book, Run, Boy, Run. Sophie Silkes, 12Kinnelon, New Jersey
To Sleep
Because I climb a ladder to sleep, sometimes I feel it takes too long. On the bottom rung, I see the house, shadowed and cozy, dark and peaceful, already in another dream. On the second rung, I see the town, with each little house drowning in blankets, and rarely in silence, usually in snoring, with families sleeping despite it. But not me. On the next rung, I see the country, amazed at so many people driving, walking, running, thinking, climbing ladders to their own sleep. On the next rung, I see the world, and I realize I’m not alone in my tired efforts to fall asleep, but mostly, I see that almost everyone is snuggling with teddy bears, pillows, blankets, spouses—anything soft they can grab. I’m surprised at how fast they climbed their ladders. I reach for the next rung, but I get a mattress instead. I pull myself up, tuck myself in, close my eyes, and feel my bed drift back to the world, back to the country, back to the little town where people sleep, back to the house, and finally to sleep. Juliet B. Quaglia, 10Piermont, New York
Hellish Beauty
As the night breaks into dawn and the sky comes alive, the morning fog rolls through, dampening my uniform and freezing my skin. It billows and curls around the gnarled maple trees and obscures the leaf-strewn ground from my eyes. My dark, sad eyes. Eyes that have been tainted by war. This place would have been beautiful, had it not been for the hellish act that was to be committed here not long from now. May God forgive me. I pull off my cap and wipe my sweaty face on the sleeve of my tattered gray uniform. My legs ache from the long and miserable nights I have seen, but they continue to march mindlessly. I have no control. My worn and splintered musket rubs the skin on my shoulder raw; as it burdens me more with each step I take. Filthy flies follow us; my face is caked with dirt. My hair is long and unkempt, my hands, callused and rough. The steady sloshing of water in my canteen keeps me awake. The leaves are starting to take color as the sun begins to peak over the horizon. We must hurry. Men around me whistle sad tunes and stare at their feet. Being only fourteen years old, it was my choice to join this militia. I now wonder if I made a mistake. Our regiment leader raises his fist and points ahead through the now clearing fog. A thick gray smoke is curling up through the trees . . . a campfire. The enemy is near. I can hear them, just waking up and fixing breakfast. They are young, just like me. We are ordered to remain silent and ready our rifles, and I do both, wondering whose young life I am going to destroy as I stuff the lead bullet down the barrel and ready the gunpowder. A wave of nausea rolls over me. I don’t want to be here. They are young just like me We creep forward about forty yards and take up positions behind some large pines. The fog still protects us. From here, I can make out shadowy figures moving about the enemy camp. They are calm and unaware—none carries their weapons. I look over at the regiment leader and he raises his fist. I raise my weapon in the direction of the enemy. He holds up five fingers. I take aim. He proceeds to slowly drop each finger. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and fire. The loud cracks of gunfire explode around me and the shadowy silhouettes fall. Their cries of pain are unbearable and almost all of them are dead after the first barrage. I drop my rifle and once again, noise explodes around me. Those who remained alive in the camp drop and lie still. Dead men with their surprised eyes thrown wide open. I look down and nearly collapse. A boy, no older than I, lies sprawled on the cold ground, a bullet through his chest, as his open canteen slowly leaks its contents out onto the dirt. No one should have to die this young. I run over to the edge of their encampment and vomit. Taking a small sip from my canteen, I proceed back to my place in line and continue to march. I worry. We are planning a similar attack tomorrow, right here, within this hellish beauty. Zaki Moustafa, 13West Palm Beach, Florida Ben Wisniewski, 12Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Olive’s Ocean
Olive’s Ocean by Kevin Henkes; Greenwillow Books: New York, 2003; $15.99 Olive’s ocean should be sold with a complimentary bag of Kleenex. I could tell from the beginning that this wasn’t going to be The Boxcar Children. I must admit that I was really prepared for the worst. I’ve read soooo many books that are supposed to touch your heart and are just boring and predictable. This is not the case with Olive’s Ocean. You see, Kevin Henkes is a true writer. He’s not some sappy poetic writer wannabe. He has this way of writing that’s plain but still very powerful. I play the cello, and when I just play a note really in tune and whisk the bow across the string neatly, it sounds just as good as when I wiggle my fingers a lot and do all these fancy flourishes. This lachrymose writing has an elegant simplicity that really works. And I’m not talking about the Lily’s Purple Plastic Purse Kevin Henkes anymore. (Yes, it is the same author.) This new Kevin Henkes is more grim and sentimental. Just try to picture one of those perky and cute little mice having their classmate, Olive, being run over by a car, almost drowning on a vacation at their near-dead grandmother’s beachside house, and being horribly betrayed by their boyfriend. Since the grandmother will die soon, she and our red-haired protagonist, Martha, have talking sessions about each other every day, and through talking with Granny and reading dead Olive’s diary, Martha evolves into a writer. She writes this haunting yet beautiful poem that is even better if you haven’t read the book because it’s just a chaotic jumble of a bazillion thoughts plopped on a piece of paper. I love that. She even plans to write a book, but we’ll talk more about that later. At the beach, Martha finds love with the grandmother’s neighbor, Jimmy, who turns out to be a total creep. One thing that Kevin Henkes did take with him on the path to this tear-jerking read from a world of five-year-old mice, though, was his fabulous understanding of a kid’s brain. Only Henkes can capture the feeling of the last day of a trip. I certainly know that feeling, considering the millions of trips my overworked parents are always taking the family on. Haven’t we all experienced that sensation of “this is the last time I’ll sleep on this pillow, the last time I’ll walk through this door, the last glass of orange juice here . . . ?” I always feel like I have to do something special on the last day, but at the same time I want to remember what it was normally like here. I’ll never forget choosing the last-dinner restaurant. Whether to pick a new, exciting one, or the boring, humdrum one we went to every day. (Being the more boring, humdrum type, I always choose that second option.) But back to Olive’s Ocean, there’s only one thing that annoyed me. This is the type of book that you turn a lot of pages afterwards looking for more, and you yell obnoxiously to the poor book cover, “What? That’s it?” (scaring the cat off the sofa). I am still not at peace as I write this review. What happened to Martha’s book? Is Grandma dead yet? Did Martha keep writing? If you read this book, you won’t find out. Don’t worry though, it’s still worth your time. Olive’s Ocean is the type of book that makes you lean back and sigh. I felt so lucky to know that all my friends are with me, that my life is stable and good, and that I don’t know any boys named Jimmy Manning. Isabel Ortiz, 12Davis, California
