“Swim, Amelia, swim faster,” Star screamed. My hands and feet moved faster and faster towards the ship but the pressure of water was pulling me deeper into the sea. I looked at the ship as it moved farther. “Stop the ship, Jack, please,” I heard Star’s voice. “I can’t, the waves are moving it,” Jack yelled. “You can do this, Amelia; just a little faster.” I knew that it was my mother’s voice. I felt a hand grabbing on my ankle. I swam faster but the hand holding onto my ankle was very strong. I sank deeper and deeper in the salty water. I opened my eyes with horror. I looked around to see who had pulled me in the water. My eyes felt weak but I managed to see the person whose fingers were still around my ankle. I saw a faded image of my father. I screamed, I asked him why, but only bubbles came out of my mouth. “Because you shouldn’t be in that ship,” he said. Although only bubbles came out of his mouth I understood what he was saying. I closed my eyes and screamed once more. I opened my eyes; I was sitting on my bed. I was on the bed in the ship moving across the sea. Star, my sister, was sitting by my bed. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I think so,” I said. “You had a bad dream. You were screaming and you woke everyone on the ship,” she said. “Is Dad still angry?” I asked. “Swim, Amelia, swim fasten” Star screamed “About what?” Star asked. “About me coming with you, coming on the sea voyage,” I said. “I’m not sure. Is that what your dream was about?” Star asked. “Yes, he pulled me deep in the water and . . .” I sighed. “And what? It’s not that important, Amelia. It was just a dream, Dad isn’t that angry. You should go back to sleep.” She left the cabin. I lay on my bed. I tried to forget about the dream. I remembered how Dad had said that I shouldn’t go on the sea voyage; how he had said that it was too dangerous. I had told him that I wasn’t afraid and I wouldn’t change my mind. He had said that he wouldn’t forgive me if I did go on the sea voyage but I had only ignored him. Now I felt the ship’s movement. I wasn’t scared of the sea or the roaring waves. I didn’t feel lonely on the ship. I enjoyed walking on the deck of the ship and staring at the blue water. I only felt miserable when I closed my eyes and heard my father’s voice inside my head. * * * I stepped off of my bed, came out of the cabin and went to the deck. My cousin Jack was on watch that night. He saw me and walked towards me. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I couldn’t go to sleep. I can be on watch for you if you’re tired,” I said. “Nah, I’m OK. I like the sky tonight,” Jack said. “What’s so special about it tonight?” I asked. “Look at it,” was all he said. I stared at the sky It looked so beautiful, the stars were so clear. The moon’s reflection was visible in the water. I had never seen such a beautiful sky in the city which we lived in. I sat on the deck. I didn’t take my eyes off the clear sky Then I started to feel sleepy I rested my head on my lap and closed my eyes. I heard my father’s voice once more inside my head; he was saying that he wouldn’t forgive me. I was afraid and I felt guilty but I didn’t open my eyes. I just sat there with my eyes closed and repeated his words in my head. “Jack?” I opened my eyes now, fearing that I might have the dream again. “Yeah?” he said. “Did you ever have big disagreements with your dad?” I soon bit my lips after saying these words. Jack’s dad, my uncle, had died five years ago when Jack was ten years old and I was only eight years old. Since his mother had died two years before that, he lived with me and my family Asking the question I had asked made me feel terrible. I wanted to start a new conversation and make him forget about the question but it was too late. “Yes, I did. A lot of arguments.” He blinked and quickly looked away to hide his tears. “Oh . . .” I said this and stared at the sky, acting like I hadn’t seen the tears. I was giving him time to wipe his tears away. “But they were never worth it, the arguments I mean. I wish we had only talked about it. When I was angry at him I would talk to your father and he would tell me that the right way to deal with it was to talk about it with my dad. I never did talk about the arguments with him though, and he never talked about them with me. We would just forget about the arguments after a while and would put it aside, without knowing what the other person had been angry or upset about or why they had been upset.” Jack sighed and looked away from me once more. I stared at the sea this time; I didn’t want to start talking with him until I was sure he was ready. In the meantime I thought about my argument with my father. I thought about talking to him, telling him why I had come on this voyage. But then I thought that maybe the way Jack and his father had just put the argument aside was the right way Just then I noticed that it had been silent for a long time. I quickly glanced at
Starfish
Michael’s eyes, the biggest, bluest eyes imaginable, glazed over with absolute ecstasy as he beheld the sand-crusted sea treasure sprawling in his hand. The creature squirming on the toddler’s pink palm writhed and stretched, its legs curling as they reached towards the weak, cloud-strewn blue sky—slowly, painfully—until its motions became too much, and it lay still, defeated. Michael plopped himself down in the grainy white sand as I looked on. He prodded his find with a chubby little finger and at its twitching response positively squealed in delight. His giggles drew the gazes of other beachgoers, and they beamed at the child while some restrained their own teary-eyed kids. The parents with particularly difficult charges gave the twisting, screaming young people of whom they were in charge looks that clearly said, “Why don’t you stop whining and behave like that darling angel over there?” Indeed, Michael looked angelic, his white-blond hair falling in those stunning eyes of his, as he sat placidly on the beach with his discovery, while behind him green-blue, foam-crested waves gurgled and frothed blithely But the water was deceiving, I knew; it masqueraded as a little bit of relief from a scorching afternoon, when really it was a claimer of lives, shoving innocent beings into the rays of a haze-blurred sun, then receding with a mirthless chuckle. I took a step towards my brother, my footing uneven, and began to plan my argument. Michael knew me well enough to guess my intentions, and he scrambled to his feet with a cry of, “No! He’s mine.” The starfish were suddenly there, all around us: dozens of them. Hundreds “But Michael,” I reasoned in the voice I reserved especially for him, “Michael, if the starfish doesn’t go back in the water, he’ll die.” Michael’s glistening, round eyes narrowed in suspicion, as if he was unsure about trusting me. Michael understood the concept of death—to him, dead meant the caterpillars he collected back home when they stopped crawling up his arm and simply quit moving. Michael knew enough to figure out that if his little ocean dweller were to die, it would cease to be of any amusement. His mind made up, Michael flung the five-legged invertebrate back to the sea. It landed with a soft flump in the wet brown sand close to the water, and the next wave gobbled it back up to where it belonged. Michael shrieked in glee, possibly because this was one of the few times I was actually permitting him to throw something. He reached up and clutched my palm, his tiny pale hand appearing even paler in the grasp of my slender, browned fingers. “Come on, dister,” Michael urged me, once again failing to produce an adequate “s” sound at the beginning of his spoken word. He tugged at my arm and began to bound over the sand, spewing white clouds that wafted into nonexistence behind him. We ran the length of the Block Island beach until Michael’s short legs couldn’t support him anymore, after which I hoist- ed him onto my shoulders. He bounced around from his perch, crying, “Wook, wook!” whenever he saw something of interest—a seagull feeding its babies on the top of a scraggly, grass-topped dune, a lone sailboat dipping and diving on the horizon. Our destination was still obscured in the distance by the heat rising from the sand: a clump of black rocks cluttering the beach like dozing giants. Soon the ceaseless grumble of the ocean lulled both my brother and me into a sense of quiet tranquility, and we absorbed our surroundings silently, like insignificant sponges with pores to our minds and our hearts. Before we came to the rocks, it started to happen. The starfish were suddenly there, all around us, tumbling from the white-topped waves into our midst: dozens of them. Hundreds. Michael got down from my shoulders and took it all in, while his eyes—black ink blots in samplings of sky—saw in a way no adult had ever been able to see. What we saw was life, so much life that the beach pulsed and throbbed with it. But there was death, too. I scooped up a starfish at my feet; it was large, with lean, pimpled arms that had lost the will to move. Turning it over, I observed its underside, with the myriad, miniscule tentacles, oozing out to stick straight up in the air. They were waving and elongating, frantic. And I realized: the starfish was pleading, simply imploring for its release, and for me to let it live. I could almost see it, then—the faint line etched ever so carefully between being alive and . . . not being at all. I was suddenly and staggeringly filled with an overwhelming sense of power. Life was in my hand, and it was my choice whether I wanted to sustain it or toss it away I had a choice, and it may not have been one that affected things on a global scale, but it would affect me, who I was as an individual, and it would affect the little bit of living matter squirming in my hand. I had the choice, the freedom, to do what I wanted with something alive and real. So I took the starfish to a tide pool, where it glided in the misty water to plaster itself on the bottom of a rock festooned with algae. I got no thank-you, no acknowledgement at all; but I felt better inside, somehow more . . . alive . . . as if preserving a life had increased the intensity of my own. But maybe I was just over-thinking things. So, who really cared about the existence, or lack thereof, of a purple starfish among millions? That’s easy. The starfish cared. Michael bustled about the crowded beach, flinging creatures in the general direction of the water; I assisted him at a distance. Some were visibly gone, baked by the afternoon sun. And when I would come near
Me, Myself, and My Personality
Freedom, that’s what pushed out of me on that day “Can we please do it again? Please?” My mother looked at me, dumbfounded. “No way,” she replied. “When I saw you go upside down, I thought you were going to fall. You know how I feel about roller coasters.” “Oh, Mom, you are so cautious. Stop being so worried.” “Oh, all right,” my mother breathed. Ahhhhhhh. How I loved that steel carriage; the rushing wind that made me feel like a bird, the racketing of the cars along the tracks, and my screams of excitement, all came together at once. Freedom, that’s what pushed out of me on that day. My wild-jungle-like outrageous personality that jumps out of me when I am done with school work. That personality that was fighting, fighting to get out. Finally, it burst through, in a frenzy. This was me when I lurched upside-down. This was me when I run. This was me when I play. Now on that coaster, I was feeling that combination all over again. My heart was beating wildly. This was me. This daring, screaming, and full-of-energy boy. That day in the amusement park was one of my few days to show who I really am. When I walked back into school, a few weeks later, my serious mind fought back. My willingness to learn and my love for school fought back, my smarts and my skills, fought back, they teamed up, locked up my other personality, and threw away the key . . . That is until next summer! Ahhhhhhh. How I love . . . Simon Gonzalez, 11Brooklyn, New York Sofia deGraff-Ford, 13Duncan, British Columbia,Canada
Friendship
On a cool, fall afternoon a young girl ran home from school. She pushed her straight, brown hair out of her eyes as she neared her house. She could not wait to tell her parents the exciting news. “Mom! Mom!” The girl burst through the kitchen door. Her mother looked up from peeling potatoes for their dinner. “What is it, Carmen?” she asked. “Mom, I was accepted! I’m going to audition!” “Audition for what?” “There is going to be one student that is chosen to play a solo in front of the whole school and also the parents. All the other children will accompany the soloist in the orchestra. But we have to audition first. The audition will be held on Friday. Then our orchestra teacher, Mrs. Newton, will pick the child to play the solo. I don’t know who I am competing against, though.” Carmen’s eyes shone. She was so glad that she knew how to play the violin. Ever since she was very young, Carmen loved the music of the violin, so her parents encouraged her to play. They had signed her up with an exceptionally good professional violinist, who gave Carmen lessons. Working hard, Carmen established a good rapport with her private lesson teacher, as well as her school orchestra teacher. Carmen’s parents were able to help her practice because they both played the piano very well. So, in this way, at eleven years old, Carmen was considered a very accomplished musician for her age. “That sounded very nice,” Gabriella said. “I really liked it” “What are you playing for the audition, Carmen?” Her mother’s voice broke through her daydreams. “Oh!” Carmen came back to earth. “I am playing the Vivaldi Concerto in A minor.” “The whole thing?” Carmen’s mother looked shocked. “That’s a very long piece you are taking on Carmen! Are you sure?” “Mom, I’ve been practicing the concerto for four months. I have almost fully mastered the last movement. The concert is two weeks away from now! I’m sure if I practice, then I will be ready in time for the audition.” Her mother sighed. “All right. If you say so,” she replied. “Good luck!” That night, after supper, Carmen studied her reflection in the mirror in her room. She did not think much of her appearance. It had been the same since third grade. Carmen had short, straight, rather stringy brown hair. She was sort of skinny, and shorter than most of the kids in her class. Oh, how Carmen wished that she looked like Gabriella, the new girl in her class. Gabriella had long, curly, golden hair. She had quickly become the most popular girl in the class. Gabriella chose her friends very carefully Carmen was not one of them. Sometimes Carmen saw Gabriella looking at her. It was almost as if she wanted to talk to Carmen. But every time Carmen had tried to smile, talk, or be friendly, Gabriella acted as if Carmen were not even there. Every time Carmen tried to start a conversation, Gabriella would turn away and start talking to her other friends, girls like her, who only thought about themselves and how they looked. So, Carmen had long since given up trying to be friends with Gabriella. For the rest of the week, Carmen practiced and practiced. She thought that perfecting the piece would help her feel better about performing. Instead, the more she played the concerto, the more nervous Carmen got. Again and again she told herself that it would be OK if she was not chosen to be the soloist. It did not help her one little bit! She, Carmen, wanted to be the one on stage on the night of the concert. * * * At the end of the first week, Friday morning, Carmen woke up early. This was the morning that she had been waiting for: the morning of the school audition. Carmen would also learn who she was competing against and what they were playing. Her heart thudding nervously in her chest, and with butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach, Carmen got in the car after breakfast and her mother drove her to school. Her father worked on weekdays. As soon as her mother had kissed her goodbye and driven away, Carmen went straight into the big assembly room in the school building, where the concert and audition were going to take place. Carmen took her violin carefully out of its case. She tuned it to the baby grand piano. The piano had a wonderful, ringing tone to it, and Carmen could not help but set down her violin in its case, sit down on the piano bench, and play a sonatina. Her mother and father had also taught her to play the piano. Knowing that she was very early, Carmen kept playing. Suddenly, the door behind Carmen opened. Startled, Carmen stopped playing and whirled around on the piano bench. Gabriella was standing there. To Carmen’s immense surprise, Gabriella gave Carmen a small smile. It was so small that Carmen could hardly see it, but it was still there, and it was still a small, but unmistakable smile. “That sounded very nice,” Gabriella said. “I really liked it. Do you think you could play it again?” Carmen felt so surprised that the girl she had tried so hard to be friends with, the girl who had always acted as if she were not there, was finally being nice to her. She immediately sat back down on the piano bench to play it again, when two very popular and not very nice girls came in. They both rushed over to Gabriella. “Gabby, we’ve been waiting and waiting for you,” one of the girls complained. “Where’ve you been? And what are you doing with her?” the second girl said rudely, pointing at Carmen. Without another glance at Carmen, Gabriella stalked out of the room. Carmen was almost in tears. Just when she had a perfect chance of becoming friends with Gabriella,
The Garden
The latch creaks gently as I push open the gate. In front of me, a small potting shed covered with wild roses blocks my view. But I already know by heart what lies beyond. And sure enough, as I walk around the corner of the shed, the sight of a familiar garden greets my eyes. But it isn’t just any garden, it’s my garden. Even though anyone can come here, it has always seemed to belong just to me. It has been my sanctuary in times of sadness and my inspiration in times of joy. But most of all, it has always been somewhere where time seems to melt away: where there are no math papers due, no people to be polite to, no mothers to get into fights with. Everywhere I look, a perfect tapestry of color and shape greets my eyes. Here, perfect rays of sunlight reach down long fingers to gently caress the silvery leaves of a grove of aspen trees. There, a vibrant butterfly gently alights on the lip of a delicate blue-and-gold flower, slowly fanning its wings, anticipating its first sip of nectar. I breathe in deeply, inhaling the mingled scents of rose and hibiscus. Slowly, I can feel the anger coiled tightly around my heart loosen its grip. The memory of my most recent fight with my mother starts to fade. Everywhere I look, a perfect tapestry of color and shape greets my eyes For the past few years, our fights have become more and more frequent. Sometimes I feel like just flinging open the front door and running away. Usually I resort only to slamming the door. This time was just one time too many, that’s all. I couldn’t face her anymore. I had finally opened that door and left. At first, my intention was to leave and never return. But now I wasn’t so sure. The garden was having its usual effect on me: putting the jumbled thoughts in my head back into place, sorting out the tangled knot of anger and confusion I felt inside. No matter, I thought. I won’t let myself think about that right now. As I venture deeper and deeper into this garden of miracles, I come to a small bridge adorned with horsetails on either side. Instantly I am transported back in time to when I was six. My Mama and I walk hand-in-hand over this very bridge. “Wait, Mama!” I say, bending over. “I want to see the fishies!” Mama lies down on the rough wooden planks next to me, and we both spend the next ten minutes immersed in the activities of the fish. When we sit up again, slightly stiff and sore, Mama reaches out and pulls a horsetail toward her. “Look!” she says with as much excitement as if she were the one being shown this small miracle for the first time. Gently, she pries the sections apart and lays them on the wet ground next to her. “Now, watch!” Carefully, she picks up each piece and fits them together again. I can feel my eyes bugging out of my head! After a few minutes of labor, she holds up the horsetail exactly as it had been before she picked it. “Ta da!” she exclaims proudly. As my memory fades, I can feel my eyes start to swim with unshed tears. Even though sometimes I feel as though I hate her, I know that inside I will always really love her. Even though sometimes I want to slap her, I know that inside she will always be that same Mama who showed me the horsetails, all those years ago; and that I will always be the same little girl who clung to her hand and exclaimed over the fishies’ activities. For better or worse, she is my Mama, and I love her. Emma Agnew,13Topanga, California Lara Gechijian,13Lincoln, Massachusetts
Homesick
Leaving my dear country made me sad, made me miss all that was worth remembering the food like foutou the food like attieke the food like aloko. Leaving my African country made me mourn, made me long for the people like the Baoule the people like the Senefou the people like the Dan. Leaving Cote d’Ivoire made me sour, made me cry for the places like Grand Bassam the places like my grandfather’s village —N’Gattadolikro the places like Abidjan. Leaving Papa resting in his grave made me dispirited, made me despairing. I miss him Listening to Louis Armstrong, reading the poetry of Leopold Senghor, calling me his cherie. Soujourner Salil Ahebee, 10Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Sour Memories
Today I go into candy shops and see little bottles of liquid Warhead sour substances and Warhead sour spray. But I can never find what I am really looking for: sour, sweat-producing, face-pinching, tongue-twisting, and eye-watering, irresistible, Warhead sucking candies. I know it sounds weird making so much fuss over something so little as a sucking candy, but it is more than a sour sucking candy to me, it is a memory to me, one memory that has been wrapped, packed and sent from Japan. It all started way back in second grade. Fraser and I met each other the year before but that year in second grade was the year of the Warhead! If you did not know any better, you would say Fraser and I were twins. He is slightly taller than me, but he has brown hair, and blue eyes, two of the many features we share. In fact, I, one of the two “twins,” had mistaken him for me. I was walking into my second-grade classroom when I saw a picture of me on the floor. I thought it was Fraser’s and ran to give it to him. This is how much we look alike. Fraser was a really nice kid. He was a bright and clever kid. He always came up with ideas that everybody agreed on. Even though he was Australian, he did not have an accent. He was someone who was ready to do anything, anytime, anywhere, even if it meant his life. But the thing I liked most about Fraser was that he always had a smile on. He was also daring. He was not afraid of anything. But we always helped each other. Fraser and I were a team. “Let’s see who could hold the sour the longest,” he said with a sinister grin Anyway, he would come to lunch with a goldmine of Warheads. Black cherry, green apple, yellow lemon, every Warhead flavor. He would tell me which he thought was the most sour. He would put more than one in his mouth at a time and tell me which were the best combinations. While he did that he would make funny faces trying to fight off the sour. He would imitate the face on each wrapper on the Warheads (except for the head exploding). He was like a librarian. “Hi,” you would say to him. “What could I do for you?” he might reply. “I am looking for something sweet and sour.” “Hold on.” He would reach into the goldmine and pull out a green apple. “Here you go.” “Thanks.” You would take the Warheads and leave with sour explosions in your mouth. One day while we were in the second grade we were at Fraser’s house when he got up and said, “I’ll be right back.” When he returned, he laid out five black-cherry Warheads (the most sour) on a paper napkin in front of me. He did the same for himself “Let’s see who could hold the sour the longest,” he said with a sinister grin. “Whoever spits their Warheads onto the paper napkin first loses.” “You’re on,” I said, confident of my victory. “On your marks,” he said, “get set, go.” We stuffed the candy in our mouths. Immediately my face scrunched up from the explosion. But Fraser was sitting calmly with that sinister grin again. Can newcomer Michael Madans beat Warhead master Fraser Stead? I thought. Nope. I stared at the Warheads that were just in my mouth and now on the paper towel. Then I just laughed. Once Fraser finished off his Warheads he started to laugh too. And we just laughed and laughed. This was more than just a sucking candy, it was one of the things that made our friendship stronger. Halloween of 2003 was the last time I saw Fraser. We were only in the fourth grade when he moved back to Australia, where he was first born. And that was also the last time I had a Warhead for a long time. It is Warheads that keep our friendship as strong as it is. It was devastating. I just stood there doing nothing, no matter what my heart said. “I guess this is it,” I said. “Yeah,” he said. “Bye.” “Bye,” I replied. I was ready to do something outrageous. But I didn’t. It felt like being strapped to a brick wall. After all these years of happiness, laughter and Warheads, we were going to be separated on Halloween, which is supposed to be a holiday of joy “It was really nice knowing you, bud,” I said. “I am going to miss you. See ya.” And that was it. But little did I know, I did not just say goodbye to my friend, I also said goodbye to the memory of a huge friendship. So that was it. No more Fraser. No more Warheads. I wonder what my life without Fraser would be like without Warheads. Would we remember each other? Would we still be friends? Many things could happen if it was not for that piece of candy. So here I was a fifth-grader, almost sixth, walking down the street. It has almost been a year since I last saw Fraser and the last time I had a Warhead. I think to myself, if I could just taste the sourness, and the sweetness of the memory, my spirit would rise. I wonder if Fraser has Warheads in Australia? Does he remember Warheads and all the memories? I walk into the nearest candy store and think, I wonder if they got more blue raspberry sour spray I reach in and pull out a package of WARHEAD SOUR SUCKING CANDIES. I really do not think when I see it. I just grab it. It is not a bag of candy to me. It is the key to my happiest memories, Fraser. I give the cashier the exact change and run out the door. I open the package and look at
The Waterless Sea: Book Two in the Chanters of Tremaris Trilogy
The Waterless Sea: Book Two in the Chanters of Tremaris Trilogy, by Kate Constable; Arthur A. Levine Books: New York, 2005; $16.95 Before I even begin writing this review, let me tell you, the glorious reader, about my two beliefs concerning fantasy novels. First, there is such a thing as sappy fantasy In fact, there are so many sappy fantasy novels that it could be called a genre unto itself Sappy fantasy can usually be recognized only by a true fantasy connoisseur, such as myself; however, there are a few defining marks: 1) the main characters of sappy fantasy novels are always beautiful or handsome; 2) elements (such as orcs, goblins, elves, the “Gift,” etc.) are stolen from other true fantasy novels and are entwined into the literature. My second belief is that you can always tell how good a fantasy novel will be by reading the first paragraph. If the book starts out by describing (a) the sunrise/the sunset, (b) a woman who is not the main character, or (c) clothing, 99 percent of the time, the book will be a sappy fantasy story The Waterless Sea fits none of these requirements. Unlike books such as Eragon (and now, Eldest) or the Alanna series, which perch precariously upon the brink of the cliff which leads down into the cavern of sappy fantasy, The Waterless Sea sits far removed in a secluded hamlet in the realm of true fantasy—a realm which is steadily shrinking. Kate Constable’s characters are bold and daring, yet not without weakness. One of the book’s main characters, Darrow, is deathly afraid of the responsibilities of leadership, mainly to try and prove to himself that he is not who his former-friend-now-archenemy, Samis, claims he is—a man hungry for power, a cohort in Samis’s quest to conquer the land of Tremaris. Yet the character who intrigues me the most is not Darrow, for all of his quiet strength. I am most interested instead by Calwyn, a young girl who grew up on a sheltered mountainside, yet who always dreamed of adventure. In this way, both Calwyn and I are alike. My home is an idyllic place—quiet, peaceful, and really very boring. I dream of traveling and going beyond just what I can see by taking the bus or walking out my front door. Just like Calwyn is, however, I fear that I will be disappointed by what I fmd there, wherever “there” may be. Calwyn dreams of the world as an exhilarating adventure abounding with opportunity and hope. What she finds is a sullen, twisted, reproduction of the world that existed in her imagination—where she is hated and despised for her ability to sing the ancient magic instead of loved and respected, where women are downtrodden and meek instead of considered men’s equals, where the rulers are corrupt and greedy while the poor starve in the grimy coastal towns. I fear that something like the disappointment that Calwyn went through will also happen to me . . . instead of the lush jungles that I imagined I will find burning stumps of trees; instead of soaring towers and turrets of ancient castles, I’ll find swarming tourists and graffiti. Perhaps I am too naive in my assumption that everything beautiful will stay as it is . . . but at least to protect the dreams of children we should be making more of an effort to make that which is beautiful also permanent. I recommend this book to readers aged nine to twelve. Also be sure to read The Waterless Sea’s prequel, The Singer of All Songs. Katherine Long,13Bellevue, Washington
First in Flight
“They’re crazy!” shouted my father, bursting through the door and coming in for dinner. Mother, careworn and ever patient, calmly laid the bowls for supper. “Now, Jim,” she said practically, filling our bowls with warm soup. That was what she always said when Father got excited. “I mean it Mabel!” he said, lifting his arms into the air. “If those men think they can get away with making a machine that can fly, well, I just think they’re craz- . . .” “If the Good Lord had intended us to fly, we would have wings,” agreed Mother. “Supper’s ready.” * * * The next morning at breakfast, I gulped down my food. “Papa?” I asked, downing a spoonful of porridge. “Yes, son?” said my father, busy doing something else. “Papa,” I said, “tell me about the men who are making that flying machine.” Papa grumbled disapprovingly. “The fools. They’ve come here to Kitty Hawk to play with gliders and try to make the silly things fly without wind. Like birds. Ridiculous.” “What are their names, Papa?” “Wilbur and Orville Wright. A pair of daydreamers.” “Maybe they’ll be famous someday, Papa.” “Famous?” roared Father. “Famous? The whole business will amount to nothing! Nothing, I tell you!” Mama, clearing the table, mildly interjected, “Now, Jim. You said the same thing about the horseless carriage.” ‘Are you making the flying machine?” “And what became of it?” Father broke in, waving his hat. “An automobile, like Uncle Bill’s,” I said dreamily. “A cloud of smelly black smoke with a steering wheel, that’s what! Anyway, I am off to work. Good day!” He violently slammed the door. Mother gave me a reproachful glance. “He’s right, Ben,” she said. “Now you got him all excited. He’s never been the same since that time with Uncle Bill . . . Ah! What am I doing? Children, you get along and do your chores. Frannie, scrub the dishes. Carolyn, you can help with lunch. Ben . . .” I was out the door like a shot, racing to the sand dunes of Kitty Hawk. I wanted to see the men who were going to fly. My arms and legs pumped faster and faster. Perhaps they had figured out how to fly already I just had to get there in time. Finally, I reached the barren windswept wastes of Kitty Hawk. Off to one side was Kill Devil Hill, a mountain of sand towering above me. To the other were two tents, which I had never seen before. Faintly, I detected dark objects moving around inside the tents. I crept closer and closer, my bare feet soundless on the sand. The black objects left the tent and became men, carrying something large. What were they doing now? They were letting it go . . . the breeze caught it up . . . it was flying! Gliding, rather. I moved closer. And closer. Even closer. It was like some kind of magnetic attraction. I continued to gravitate toward the kite until I was standing next to the man flying it. Startled at finding myself there, I gasped and hopped back. The man looked down at me with a cheerful smile. He had a small, black mustache and was dressed quite neatly “Hello,” he said, “I’m Orville Wright.” My mouth went dry “Ben Thompson.” “This is Wilbur, my brother.” A thin man leaned out from behind the first Mr. Wright and smiled, doffing his cap. “Are you . . . ?” I started. “Are you the craz- . . . I mean . . . are you making the flying machine?” Orville nodded. “We’re trying. Still in the experimentation stage. Want a try?” He handed me the kite, gently steadying my hand. There was a fair breeze that day, blowing in from the ocean. “You want to make this fly?” I asked. Orville nodded. “We’ll have to find a way to make it fly without wind . . .” Throughout the next hour, I learned almost as much on the subject of flight as the brothers knew. Then, Amelia, my big sister, came and called me home to lunch. “You better hurry,” she said in her prim, superior way. I waved to Orville as I trotted down the road, trying to catch up with Amelia. She was daintily stepping along, avoiding muddy patches and stopping briefly at puddles as if she expected me to be Sir Walter Raleigh and sweep off some velvet cloak for her to walk on. “Ooh! What will Mama say when I tell her you were flying kites instead of doing your chores?” she said as I panted alongside her. “Amelia!” I pleaded. “Won’t you catch it!” she gloated. I pulled her hair. * * * “What’s wrong with Ben?” asked 1VIama that evening as I stood motionless with a broom in one hand. I awoke with a start from my reverie and started sweeping again. I couldn’t seem to keep my mind off the Wright brothers. One thing was certain: I was going back tomorrow. * * * I kept visiting the Wright brothers all summer, and soon took to calling them by their first names. They didn’t seem to mind that much. One night, after dinner, I ran down to Kitty Hawk to see them. Orville played his mandolin, and Wilbur, his harmonica. We spent the evening singing, laughing, and talking about the long journey that lay before us on the road to flight. I liked the way that Orville said us, not just himself and his brother. It felt nice to be appreciated and part of a group doing something important. Wilbur and Orville, although several years apart, made a great team. Yet there were so many differences between them. Wilbur, the elder of the two, was solemn and quiet. Orville took his job seriously, but he was merrier and more outgoing than his brother. Wilbur was also the frailer of the two. Although both brothers became my friends, I was more
Haven
Soft, quiet, a blanket of books, Turn left, left again, up the stairs, Feet finding the usual route. Passing comrades, enclosed in words, To the end of the row, near the window, The chair, my haven, Of books. I don’t notice when it grows dark, Outside, I don’t look up from the knights, And dragons, and swords, and horses. The problems in this world are easier, To face than the ones in Mine. Misha Kydd,12Jericho, Vermont
Roaring Regret
Someone’s trust can take years to gain, but only seconds to lose. Revving the motor of my best friend’s dirt bike always gave me a thrill. Yet, nothing could compare to the feeling of zooming down the back roads by my beach house on a warm, summer day. As I switched gears from first to second, I glanced at an old woman giving me a cryptic stare. I saw her shake her head as if to say this was not safe, which only enticed me to go faster. I shifted to third gear and sped past her garden. I did not care about her opinion, for at that moment, going thirty miles per hour, I was the king of the world. The warm wind whipped through my hair while my shirttail flapped furiously in the breeze. Little toddlers venturing to the beach gazed at me in awe. Nothing could bring me down on that day . . . except for a small strip of gravel on the side of the road. My head was up in the clouds so I failed to notice the sliver of sand and pebbles ahead. I plummeted down quickly from Cloud Nine, however, when I flew through the dusty air and onto the hard pavement. I heard my friend stop his bike short, dismount, and rush towards me. Wanting to look cool in front of my fourteen- year-old friend, I stood up, brushed myself off, and forced a smile. He gasped as he pointed toward my arm. Suddenly I felt a flash of pain travel up my arm. I stared in disbelief at the blood dripping onto the bike from the dirty gash in my left arm. Gravel was jammed under the flesh of my palm, and my hip and legs were badly scraped. Holding in my tears of agony, I slowly drove back to my house and said I’d call him after I got cleaned up. After he drove around the corner, I sprinted through the front door and screamed for my mom. At that moment I was the king of the world To be honest, I had never told her that I was riding this motorized vehicle. So, when she questioned me, I simply told her I had fallen off my bike. She took me down to the ocean and carefully washed off my scrapes and cleaned the gravel out of my hand. The salt stung my open wounds. When she had finished, I limped over to my friend’s house. I was feeling terrible, not just because of my injuries, but because I felt guilty. My mother had recited over and over how dangerous dirt bikes were and that I was never to ride them. The thrill of the ride clouded my judgment, and I did not heed her warnings. Later that evening, we all went out to dinner. My sister had been with my dad in town during the day and was unaware of my injuries. So, when I was scooping up my lobster ravioli she noticed the cuts on my arm. She questioned me about the cuts and my mom replied that I fell off my bike. She misunderstood and thought my mom had said dirt bike so she blurted, “You fell off the dirt bike! Aha! Jesse said that thing was extremely safe!” My dad chimed in with, “How did you fall? You looked like you were great at riding it when I saw you!” My mom glared at me. Watching my mom’s face, realizing that she had been misled, was sheer agony. Her words, “I see you conveniently neglected to tell me the whole story,” felt like daggers in my heart. Suddenly, as I looked at her face, I realized that trust was a very fragile thing. Her eyes clearly told me that I had lost her trust. I always knew she would forgive me, but I still regret hurting her because of my need for speed. Michael Scognamiglio, 13 Saddle River, New Jersey Zachary Meyer, 10Shelby Township, Michigan
The Truth About Sparrows
The Truth About Sparrows, by Marian Hale; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 2oo4; $16.95 The truth about sparrows takes you right back into the Great Depression. From the minute you open the book, all of Sadie Wynn’s burdens will be yours. From the very beginning: having to give up a home, the only home you’ve known all your life. Sadie has to deal with it all. The Wynns have to leave their wonderful farm in Missouri to go to Texas. On the way, they meet a girl, Dollie, and her family Dollie becomes Sadie’s friend throughout the story But to be true to Dollie, Sadie will have to let go of someone from the past: Wilma. Wilma is Sadie’s best friend back in Missouri. As you read the book, you discover what Sadie discovers: that even if you trust your friends so much, they could still dump you. I’ve had some experiences like that, including when a friend and I had too many play dates and always got annoyed at each other. Now we’re friends again. But even though Wilma promises to, she never writes to Sadie. Sadie sends her three letters and doesn’t hear back. Sadie thinks at one point, “Wilma could be anywhere. But mostly, she was gone.” In my favorite part of the story it’s Halloween night and Sadie and some friends tell ghost stories. The book really comes alive, like a personal experience. I’ve spent time making up funny stories with friends and it sure is a lot of fun. Sadie tells a story about Wilma’s brother who heard and even felt a ghost. I enjoyed that scene a lot. I guess you’re wondering why this book has its name. One day, a man comes by a tent the Wynns are living in. He asks if they’ll give him something to eat, and Sadie’s mama obliges. The next day, Sadie is mad and looks for a place to be alone. She startles a sparrow who flies to another perch. Then Sadie is startled by a movement in a cardboard box. She moves closer and sees that it’s the man her mother fed the day before. From then on she calls him Mr. Sparrow. I studied sparrows in first grade. They’re the sweetest, most ordinary birds. Perhaps that sweetness and ordinariness is the truth about sparrows, and the truth about the man whose life is so hard he lives in a box. There is a lot of talk about poverty in the book. Sadie overhears a conversation between a boy and his dad that really stayed with me. The dad describes ” . . . kids sleeping in the cold under Hoover blankets and scouring the dumps for food.” “What’s a Hoover blanket, Papa?” “A newspaper, son. Just a newspaper.” This book taught me a lot of history Hoover was a man who was President during part of the Depression. This is what I saw when I traveled to India. Poverty. India is filled with it. “Too many people and not enough jobs,” is another line from the book. Whenever you stop at a red light in Mumbai, kids will come to your car, trying to sell you something. Elderly men will ask you for money The Depression did that to people, too. This story will make you brood even after the last page is read. It has something to offer to everybody History, friendship, and the real preciousness of life. I recommend this book to everybody who reads this review! Julia Worcester,10Bronx, New York
