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
Hermione and Leafy
“What should we play?” the little girl asked of her older cousin. The redhead stood and began walking up and down the bricks, using her arms for balance as if she were a tightrope walker at the circus. She furrowed her brow in concentration. “Sisters,” she said finally. The little girl beamed with pleasure. She was happy just to be at her hero-worshipped cousin’s house on this beautiful day when she did not have to go to school, this beautiful day with the purple wisteria trees in bloom. “Orphan sisters,” the redhead continued. “Our parents were explorers and they took us with them to go explore the jungle and they died out there, see? So now we’re two orphan sisters wandering around alone in the jungle. Trying to survive and find our way home.” She plopped down on the front steps with a self-satisfied smile. “My name’s gonna be Hermione; what about yours?” The little girl spotted a small green leaf in the driveway. “Leafy” she said. “Emma, that isn’t a real name. Why don’t you just be . . . Crookshanks or something?” “My name is Leafy.” “Ohhh, fine.” The redhead heaved a great sigh. Five-year-olds. “How old do you wanna be?” “Seven!” with an adoring gaze at her cousin. The redhead scrunched up her face, trying to think up the biggest age imaginable. “I’m thirteen,” she said decidedly. “Shh! You have to be very quiet. There are tigers” So that was that. Hermione stood, brushing off the back of her floral-print jeans, only suddenly the pattern was camouflage. So was her formerly pink hoodie. She ran through the grass with her body doubled over, beckoning for Leafy to follow. Despite their camouflage clothing and the green and black paint they had smeared under their eyelids, they were still fairly easy for predators to spot. And here in the very heart of the jungle, predators were everywhere. “What are we. . .” Leafy began. But Hermione said, “Shh! You have to be very quiet. There are tigers.” Leafy shivered with excitement. “Taahgers!” They stopped and ducked down in the tangled underbrush to rest and conspire. “It’ll be night soon,” Hermione whispered, flinching as a brightly colored bird flew uncomfortably low over her head. “We’d better build a fire to keep us warm and keep the wolves and stuff away, or we’ll be goners for sure. The matches Mom and Dad brought got wet in the swamp, but we can rub two sticks together. The trick is gathering the firewood without getting eaten.” The front door swung open just then, and a woman in jeans and a sweatshirt stuck her head out. “Alice, Emma, you guys hungry? I can make grilled cheese sandwiches.” “Yes, please,” said Alice. They could discover the previously overlooked sandwiches in their backpacks when the fire was built. “Me too!” added Emma. The woman went back inside. Hermione said, “Now, what we need is some strategy” but she stopped as she noticed her real-life sister reading on the front porch of the house. “Beth, you wanna play?” she offered. The girl, thirteen, looked up with a start. She had forgotten about the world outside of her book. “Oh, no thanks, sweetie.” The seven-year-old rolled her eyes, amazed at how anybody would want to read when nobody was making them; but before she could meditate on the mystery any longer, a sleek black panther leaped down at them from a tree overhead. “Watch out!” she shrieked to Leafy and, grabbing her hand, the two of them ran as fast as their small legs could carry them. Bethany Johnsen, 13Lindale, Texas Rachel Stanley, 13Seal Beach, California
Powerful Words
Powerful Words by Wade Hudson; Scholastic Inc.: New York, 2004; $19.95 This is a collection of poetry, rap, historical speeches, stories and biographies on the struggles and triumphs of African Americans. This book intrigued me because it was the ideas and thoughts from the eighteenth century to the edge of the twenty-first century. I could read the book part by part. I like rap music so I read the section about hip-hop star Lauryn Hill first. She expresses her feelings with music. I read the lyrics of a song about a person wondering where his life is going, “And I made up my mind to define my own destiny.” But she is not the first to express her feelings. Benjamin Banneker, an inventor, surveyor and astronomer, wrote a letter to Thomas Jefferson. It said, “We are a race of beings who have long laboured under the abuse and censure of the world, that we have long been considered rather as brutish than human and scarcely capable of mental endowments. The color of the skin is in no way connected with strength of the mind or intellectual powers.” Mr. Banneker died in 1806. Then I read about the first black newspaper, Freedom’s Journal. Publisher John Russwurm wrote, “We wish to plead our own cause. Too long have others spoken for us.” It lasted two years. By the Civil War, there were twenty-four African-American newspapers. One of my favorites was a story by Toni Morrison. The story is about an old, wise, blind woman who teaches a lesson about mockery and power. Mrs. Morrison’s biography informs the reader that she was presented a National Humanities Medal by President Bill Clinton and is the first African-American woman to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. Her story was very different from Mary McLeod Bethune’s story. I never heard of this brilliant woman who started a public school for African Americans. Five little girls started in 1904. By 1923, it became Bethune-Cookman College and she was president. Many African-American children received educations because of her. I wish this had been the experience for Native Americans who instead were sent to government boarding schools where they could not speak their native language and were given Christian names. I would recommend this book to everybody who has a different culture and can compare their experiences. As a Native American, I learned about how we had some of the same experiences and different ones too. We share a history of discrimination, but we have succeeded in keeping our culture alive—our foods, music and traditions. That’s what makes all of our cultures different but very interesting. I sit with my mother and sister when they sing and play the pow-wow drum and I connect with my heritage. In the same way, African Americans connect with their culture with the gospel music composed by Thomas A. Dorsey, the son of a minister. He wrote, “Precious Lord, take my hand, Lead me on, let me stand, I am tired, I am weak, I am worn; Thru the storm, thru the night, lead me on to the light.” Read this book! The powerful words will teach you how many African Americans struggled and achieved great things, making America better for all of us. Celia Arguilez Smith, 11San Diego, California
Brutal Deluge
I looked through the small window of my new room, watching heavy streams of water galloping through the streets. Fortunately for me, our house was located high on a hill. My parents had run down to try to help the other villagers. Flood season had come. All I could do was stare, and watch in amazement and horror. Waves and waves of powerful water were streaming down the mountains, tearing everything. It was terrible. I lifted my head, seeing the great Deer Mountain. The Deer was tall, elegant, and dangerous—especially now. What had once been the beautiful white snow of the peak of the Deer’s horn was now gone, and the watery wrath of the Deer was upon us. All I could do was stare, and watch in amazement and horror I did not know why the great Deer was doing this. Perhaps it was because spring had interrupted his peaceful winter sleep. I closed my eyes, hoping that the Deer would find it in his heart to cease. If the Deer would not forgive us, or whatever the cause, our little settlement would soon become a watery grave. My head turned away from the window, eyes red with fright. I walked over to my small bed and lay down. However, I could still hear the splashes outside and the occasional scream. The Deer was especially angry. What a pity. I heard a knock on the door. I didn’t budge. To me, the tap! tap! sounded like the galloping Deer, calling to me. Calling me outside, to its wave of terror. I did not open the door. I would be brave. But, I noticed the cease of splattering and yelling. There was hope. Was it possible that the invisible bear had come, and defeated the Deer? I found the small portion of courage remaining in my heart, and opened the door. It was my father, and he was smiling. Steven Lu, 12Anaheim, California Ashley Burke, 11Cedar Park, Texas
My Last Summer’s Night
“Mommy! Mommy! Look what I found!” Trish squealed as she entered the living room, dragging behind her what appeared to be a giant book. I set down the magazine I had been flipping through; there was something familiar about that book, but I couldn’t quite place my finger on it. “What do you have there?” I asked. “It’s a photo album.” Trish plopped down next to me on the couch. “And look, it has your name on it.” Sure enough, there was my name scribbled on the cover. “Oh my, I used to keep this when I was just a few years older than you. I haven’t seen this in years,” I murmured wonderingly, running my fingers over the worn and creased edges. As I opened to the first page, deeply buried memories came flooding back. “Who’s that?” Trish asked, pointing to a middle-aged woman smiling up at us. “That’s my mother, your grandmother, way back when I was a kid.” “That’s Grandma?” Trish said doubtfully. “Yep.” “And who’s that?” “That’s my old dog, Suki.” Next, Trish pointed to a trio of young girls. Their arms were linked together and they wore huge smiles from ear to ear. “Is that you?” Trish asked, pointing to the middle girl. “Mommy! Mommy! Look what I found!” “Yes it is. And those two girls are Clara and Megan. We were the best of friends up until high school.” “What happened at high school?” “Oh, nothing. We were just districted for different schools and after that we kind of drifted apart . . . we were such good friends . . .” As my voice trailed off, my mind drifted back to that last summer’s night I had spent with those two . . . * * * Night had already set in when we stumbled out of the movie theater, doubled over with laughter. “Did you see that guy?” Megan squealed in between giggles. “He was such an idiot!” I agreed. “What are you talking about?” Clara cried indignantly, wearing an expression of mock disbelief. Then she leaped forward and brandished an invisible sword, mimicking the character perfectly. “Art thou thy dragon I musteth slay?” “Musteth?” I inquired. “Whatever.” And we all fell over in another wave of laughter. I lifted my jacket sleeve and wiped away mirthful tears. “When’s your dad getting here?” I finally managed to ask once we had settled down a bit. Clara glanced at her watch. “We still have about ten more minutes.” “Any of you have some money left?” Both Clara and Megan shook their heads solemnly. “Sorry, spent mine on that last bag of popcorn,” Clara said. I sighed deeply and sank down onto one of the steps leading to the theater entrance. “Well, what do we do now?” We all stared down at the ground, the same thought passing through our minds, but no one wanting to speak it aloud. Finally, Clara whispered out the painful words, “You know, school starts up tomorrow I guess we won’t see each other for a while.” I bit my lower lip and nodded. “It sucks we all have to go to separate high schools,” Megan muttered, sadness and rage blended deep within her tone. “Sure does,” I said. Thinking back, I tried to recall just how long ago we all had met. Was it second grade? Maybe. But ever since that fateful day many, many years ago, the three of us had been inseparable. It seemed a rather cruel punishment to split us apart this late in our friendship. “But it’s not like we can’t still be friends,” I added, my voice brimming with hope. “I’ll call you both right when I get home tomorrow.” “Yeah, I guess,” Clara sighed. No one spoke for a long while. I glanced from one sad face to the next, not sure of what to do or say. Our silence was only broken when the theater door swung open behind us, and two people strode out. Megan quickly shielded her face with her hand and whispered through gritted teeth, “Look away! Look away!” Almost instinctively, I turned to see who it was. Clara grabbed my arm and tried to yank me back, but not before I had caught a glimpse of them. The two most irritating people, Shauna and Zack, were walking hand in hand down the theater steps. I waited a few moments, making sure they were far enough away, then turned to my friends and raised an eyebrow. We watched as they walked off, slowly being swallowed by the night. Once again alone, we were consumed by another fit of hysteria. “We were the best of friends up until high school” I was clutching my stomach, giggling like crazy, when Clara’s dad pulled up in his old wreck of a truck. Most of the paint had chipped off, revealing a thick layer of rust, and the engine made a mysterious clunking noise at spontaneous moments throughout the ride. We didn’t give it a second thought. Rising from our seats, we piled into the dilapidated truck. “So how was it, gals?” Clara’s dad asked as I pulled the door shut and strapped myself in. For some odd reason he always emphasized the last word of every sentence. But we were used to it by now. “Not worth the time,” Clara said. We both agreed. “Ah, well. So are you gals ready for school tomorrow? First day of high school, that’s a big deal. Shame you’re all going to different places.” “Yeah . . . a shame,” Megan said. Then, we all grew quiet, each staring out their own window into the dark, moonlit night. Regret hung heavily in the air, nearly choking me. Why did it have to be this way? Why did we have to be split up now? Clara finally ended the mesmerizing silence. “You won’t believe what I saw this morning . . .” And the spell was broken, our words slurring together in our haste to
Where Time Forgot
“Sophia, honey, where are you going?” My mother’s voice rises above the creak of the screen door. “Outside,” I call back. The door slams behind me as I step out into the purpling spring evening. I smile. How could “outside” describe where I’m going? Stepping off the edge of lawn, I run through the woods. Moss is thick and damp beneath my feet. Weeds grip onto my legs, friendly greeting hands. Trees rustle, in infinite patience. The sultry air fogs my glasses, and leaves drops of dew dazzling a spider web. I walk across Jordan Creek, hopping from ancient rock to ancient rock. Water sighs its way down the waterfall, and then sings into a small pool, hidden by softly curling ferns. The water shines with a light from beneath its surface, dreamily glowing to an orchestra of crickets. My feet squish on mud. One by one my worries sink into the mud; I grind my heels into their ghoulish faces for revenge. And I smile. The ground shakes as deer leap through the forest. I watch them, their eyes constantly searching for something that never was, ears swiveling in anxious questions, tails held tense, stiffened with warnings and apologies and regrets. They lope out of sight, and I look ahead. I’m almost there. Almost. And then, finally, I’m there! The ground shakes as deer leap through the forest I relax into the constant tide of peace that splashes about my shoulders and sit cross-legged underneath a small maple tree. The clearing is small, surrounded by thick-leafed trees. It maintains seclusion from the world, a secret place that time passes by, but still I can feel waves of energy whistling through. High in the slender, supple branches of a wild apple tree, a squirrel sways in her nest of dead leaves. I close my eyes and suddenly I am that squirrel. I can feel the dead leaves damply frail against my fur; feel the heavily lazy wind raking over the branches, spilling into my nest. I chatter my annoyance at a curious magpie that comes too close, and swell with aching pride over the nestful of innocently pink, squalling babies beneath me. My eyes snap open. And I lose my thread of connection to the gray squirrel. I lie on my back, raise myself up by my elbows and gaze up at the dusk-thick sky. A robin flies ahead and in a moment of looking I am that robin. I can feel a twig roughly grooved in my beak, feel the sultry air straining against my wings. I chirp my joy for all to hear, and fester with impatience for the nest to follow the twig, the eggs to follow the nest, and the chicks to follow the eggs. A blade of grass twitches against my elbow. I become folded into it. I feel my roots soaking up nourishment from the thawing soil; feel crowded by a thousand other grasses. I feel chilled by the lowness and am stretching, stretching, growing, growing to reach the sun. I expand to my human size. Sighing, I stand up, and begin the journey home. Darkness is beginning to slash over the dusk, and Mom will be worried. But I smile, straighten my back; swing my arms in uneven rhythms. I am refreshed, rested, in all senses of those two words. I am ready to stare at the darkly ghoulish eyes of realities, and enter life again. Sophia Stid, 11Potomac, Maryland Melissa Moucka, 13Hinsdale, Illinois
Magical Moments
I climb to another branch in this Sequoia giant many times older than me. It has stood through day and night, through rain and wind and lightning, yet stands alone strong and tall. I see a view so stunning from my high perch way up here, the valley and the mountains, with mist pouring over the ridges shining silver with sunlight in the early morning sky. My family owns a tree farm and this tree is one of ours. We may fell many others and send them to the mill, but we’ll never cut this tree for it’s ancient and special. I watch an osprey soaring over our emerald forest, over a shaded streamlet and then, catching a thermal, the big osprey drifts away leaving me just a feather. I catch the feather floating and set it in my hair. I smile and write some more in my book of poetry that I keep here in this tree to hold magical moments. Jean Hope Sack, 12Eureka, California
My City
As the snow season ends, about two months late, I look out my window and see my beloved city. It is late at night, and still the bustle of the city sounds as alive as the day, more alive possibly. Streetlights shine in a line and light up the darkness. Buildings flicker on and off as the city that never sleeps settles and dims. I love my city. My mother loved her city. San Francisco was her home and she always dreamt of going back to it. More space, more nature, more family, where it is so beautiful with trees and gardens that fill the country with fragrant smells and colorful flowers. I suppose that she missed the silence that greeted her as she drifted off to sleep there. Each time we drove by a house for sale, she would have to pull over and check it out. There is beauty when you look out my bedroom window; you just have to find it I have to admit, it is nice to be there, so close to my family, more space, my own room! And recently, I am considering more the life in California, rather than in New York, where in my two-bedroom apartment, I can’t run outside to my backyard, or take my dog for a walk (a dog would not like living in my house). But this city is my home, and even though it might not be the most perfect place, with the best smells, or weather, I enjoy the presence of it. I like the busy streets, and the feeling that I get on a spring day walking down the sidewalk, the freedom engulfs me and I love it. Or so I thought. Now it doesn’t seem as big of a deal to me. My two opinions bicker and fight over which place I should belong to. But I know that there are different kinds of beauty in the world. There is the natural beauty, that one can’t help but recognize, and there is the beauty that you grow to love and live with. The kind that settles in your heart, never to leave. Once you have seen a different place, once you have been a city girl, nothing will ever be the same. It’s like when you go to Japan, and when you get back, no sushi can satisfy you because you’ve had the very best. My loyal city is always there. Every night as I lie in bed, I watch my city move, and listen to my city’s honking sounds. The sounds ring like the anxious chattering in the schoolroom on a warm spring day. A home is a place that you love, that you go to after everywhere else, and it greets you with a sense of belonging that you can’t get anywhere else. There is beauty when you look out my bedroom window; you just have to find it. Maya Vilaplana, 11New York, New York Camille Wang Mai Dayis, 11Palo Alto, California
The Wanderer
The Wanderer by Sharon Creech; HarperCollins: New York, 20oo; $16.99 About a year ago, my friend recommended The Wanderer to the girls in my Mother-Daughter book club. When she described it to us, I knew right away that it would be the perfect book for me—that I just had to read it. A few months later, when I was on a trip to London for February vacation, we were browsing around Foyles bookstore, and I saw The Wanderer on a shelf. I added it to the stack of books accumulating in my arms and bought them all. The day after I got back, I sat down on the couch with The Wanderer. I was absorbed from the first page, and didn’t move until I finished. One of the reasons I found it so gripping was because of Sophie, the thirteen-year-old protagonist. Like all the main characters in Sharon Creech’s novels (I have read four others), Sophie was so vividly portrayed and well developed that I felt like I was her—soaring across the wide Atlantic with my uncles and cousins on a sailboat, answering the call of the ocean that had captivated me every year—forever optimistic about finally meeting my grandfather who was waiting for me in England. She also made me feel haunted by the shadow of her parents’ death creeping back into her memory and stepping in and out of her dreams. I enjoyed every minute of this imaginary voyage because I associate the ocean with adventure, freedom and peaceful consolation, all as endless as time, just as Sophie does. I remember when I went on a whale-watching boat last summer, looking forward to the moment when the thin line of land behind me would disappear below the horizon and I would be surrounded by the wide ocean, stretching away in every direction. I thought of how Sophie eagerly anticipated getting underway and onto the sea. The most emotionally effective part of the book for me was when Sophie finally met her grandfather, Bompie, and retold stories from his childhood to him as a means of comforting him when he was sick. She also told him the tale that she had pushed aside for so many years, of her parents’ death by drowning, only to have it painfully emerge from the fog of forgotten memories and into her consciousness. The way she told this story, mingling it with Bompie’s stories, provided insight into her feelings in the moment as she finally discovered the true nature of her own past. This is a wonderful book for anyone who enjoys a deep analysis into what it means to survive a tragedy that claims someone you love. Even though I have never lost a loved relative or friend, after reading this book I feel as if I know what it would be like because the character of Sophie was so sophisticated and convincingly written. This book changed my perspective on death and helped me understand what was previously so incomprehensible in the way only an outstanding book can do. Charlotte Kugler, 12Concord, Massachusetts
Muslim Girl
CHAPTER ONE: LEYLA “Wake up, Skylar!” hissed my older sister, Robin. “It’s already eight-fifteen!” My groggy eyes adjusted to the early morning light streaming through the window and I glanced at the clock. She was right. I had twenty minutes to get dressed, have breakfast, and brush my teeth and hair. I dragged myself out of bed. I was exhausted. I had stayed up till two o’clock reading a great book about the fall of the Romanov empire. And now I would have to pay the price. I sighed. Today was the first day of seventh grade. I wasn’t nervous. I’m never nervous on the first day of school. It’s always the same. The work’s easy, and I never make any friends. I don’t have any friends outside of school either. Unlike Robin. Robin is popular, and has more friends than you can count. Actually, she has fans. That’s all she wants really. Fans. The morning was a rush, and I just managed to catch the bus, but only by running as fast as I could to the bus stop. I was panting as the bus doors opened to admit me. I stepped inside and found a seat by the window in the second row I sleepily stared at the head in front of me. It took me a minute to realize what was different. The head in front of me was wearing a headscarf. It shocked me, but that wasn’t the only thing wrong. She was sitting in the first row. Kids here will tease you mercilessly if you sit in the front row. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never been able to quite understand the kids that go to Newberry Middle School. But I’ve got a basic idea. They aren’t motivated, and because of that, don’t try to live up to their full potential. Because I was different, I got teased a whole lot. But it didn’t faze me. Part of it was the fact that they may tease me, but I know that it is not bad to be a nerd or globally aware. I’m proud that I’m not like them. The girl turned around to look at me. Her eyes were big and brown, with long, dark lashes. The brown was almost black. Like a doe’s eyes, or coffee without cream. Her eyes were big and brown, with long dark lashes “Hi,” she said. It was almost a whisper. “Hi,” I squeaked back, but she had already turned around. A new girl. And she had promise. CHAPTER TWO Newberry Middle School had seven rooms: the sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-grade classrooms, the multipurpose room, the office, and the girls’ and boys’ bathrooms. I know it seems a little sad, but Newberry is a small town. A very small town. If you live here, your great-great-grandparents probably did too. It’s so small, the town sign says Newberry, Population: 514. So the seven rooms accommodate the ninety students just fine. Today, I trudged into Mrs. Park’s seventh-grade classroom. So did the Muslim girl. I looked around the room. I was sitting at a table in the back, next to Darcy. That was OK. The Muslim girl was sitting at a table across the room. Mrs. Park walked in, her purple heels tapping the floor as she closed her door and walked to her desk. “Welcome back, to another hopefully great year at Newberry Middle School.” Silence followed her words. “Now before we start, let me introduce you to Leyla Aghdashloo, who will be joining our class this year. Leyla, how about you come up and introduce yourself?” Leyla walked up to the front of the room and stared awkwardly at all of us. “Hi,” she said sheepishly. She took a deep breath and started over, this time sounding more confident. “Hi, I just moved here from San Francisco; I live with my mom and dad and three sisters who are fourteen, ten, and seven. I like to read, write, and act. I also love being out in nature.” She walked quickly back to her seat. “Thank you, Leyla, we are fabulously lucky to have you in our class this year,” said Mrs. Park, her smile wide and fake. “Now what did you all do this summer?” Hands shot up, including Leyla’s. “Let me introduce you to Leyla Aghdashloo, who will be joining our class this year” I put my head down on my desk and listened to the other kids talk. All I had done all summer was read. And sing in the bathroom when no one was home. I love to sing. I could spend my whole summer just singing. But I’m too scared to let anyone know I do. It means so much to me, I would die if just one person gave me the least bit of criticism. This is a big problem for me as my mom is a trained singer. She doesn’t sing professionally, but she knows a lot about it. She says her criticism is her way of saying I’m good, and she just wants to make me better. That if I wasn’t, she wouldn’t even bother. But I know this is not true because of Robin. Robin is tone deaf. She has no range. Her voice wavers when she sings. But she gets criticism. Lots and lots of it. So me, I resort to singing in the bathroom, until I have enough courage to come out of my shell. The teacher’s voice jerked me out of my thoughts. “Leyla, I’m sorry, but headscarves are not allowed in school.” Leyla didn’t move. “Leyla, please take off your headscarf.” Leyla sat as still as a stone, her eyes on Mrs. Park. “Leyla, if you do not take off your headscarf, then I will have to send you to the office.” Mrs. Park looked angry now. “Very well then,” and Leyla got up and walked right out. No one that I have ever seen has been sent to the office on the first
Company
Smoke blackens your face, Bold paintings line the creases in your skin, Twisting and turning in the crooks of your elbows. In the darkness you crouch, An animal with dark cheeks and sunken eyes, Next to the smoldering embers of your fire. I see you skulking half hidden in the shadows, The whites of your eyes made clear to me, In the reflecting shadows. I lie on my back and look up at the stars, Beside me I feel you creep from the woods and do the same, I understand. I feel your spirit tingling my skin, Open-mouthed I see the stars with the wonder of my ancestors, Beside the dust of your ancient bones. Maya Koretzky, 12Thornton, Pennsylvania
