The farmhouse was small and old. Its ancient yellow paint was peeling from the clapboard walls. Its black roof was worn and was missing some shingles and sagged in the middle, as if an elephant had once slept there. “I know it’s not perfect but it just needs a few homey touches,” my mom said, getting out of the car behind me. “A lot of homey touches,” I said huffily, dropping my bags on the ground. “This is all we can afford to live in right now and I know it’s hard on you and I’m sorry.” We unpacked in silence and when we were finished I sat drinking a cup of juice sulkily at the kitchen table. “Why don’t you go find something to do?” mom said, putting a box of cereal in a cupboard. “Like what?” I said gloomily. “Go exploring.” “Fine,” I said angrily, getting up and heading for the door. “Janie?” “What?” “Don’t forget a sweater.” “Whatever!” I said, grabbing a sweater off a chair and shoving it over my head. Then I strutted out of the house, slamming the screen door behind me. I heaved at the barn doors and they slid open. The first thing I noticed was the smell. The stench of rotting hay and dust filled the air and I sneezed. The barn was also dark. “I know it’s not perfect but it just needs a few homey touches,” my mom said I fished my flashlight out of my pocket and turned it on. That is when I realized how big the barn was. It seemed to stretch a mile back. On one side four stalls clung to the wall and on the far side a ladder led up to a hayloft. I headed to the ladder and examined it closely for loose or missing rungs. Surprisingly, it was almost perfectly intact. I climbed up into the loft. Nothing was there, only a few moldy hay bales. I climbed down the ladder and started to investigate the stalls. They were all the same: same bins, same moldy hay covering the ground. Just as I was leaving the last stall, something shiny caught my eye. It was a doorknob. I tried it and it opened. I cast the beam of my flashlight into the opening and saw stairs leading down into the earth. “Mom, Mom!” I yelled, running back to the house, forgetting about my anger about the move for the moment. Mom came running out and looked relieved to see I was OK. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you!” I called. It was a long walk down the stairs and it was freezing by the time we reached the bottom and I was glad I had brought my sweater. A small room was at the bottom of the stairs and Mom said, “Wow, this is really old. People a long time ago might have lived down here during storms. That is probably what it’s for.” I had remembered my anger and was being quiet again. ” This can be our own secret place,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder and squeezing me close to her. In that moment, I felt my anger evaporate completely and it was replaced by guilt. I realized I had been very selfish and had only been thinking about myself. The move had been as hard for her as it had been for me. Then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I looked up and smiled at her. Shannon Halpin, 12Bow, Washington Min Joo Yi, 12Bellevue, Washington
Night in the Woods
Smoke rising Into the dark sky Crickets chirp And a twig snaps Warm air presses against me And a cold wind Blows behind my back The fire crackles And Mother laughs As my marshmallow Blows up in flames Then it is bedtime Crawl into the tent The air is cold But inside the sleeping bag It is warm The glow of the fire Shines through the tent As a stick cracks And I drift asleep Amanda Johnson,13Hanover, Pennsylvania
Summer of the Sea Turtles
The sun is setting over the ocean as I walk out onto the porch. Reflecting the last rays of the sun, the ocean sparkles a bright, brilliant orange. I leave my beach house and walk out onto the sand, which feels cool and slightly damp beneath my bare feet. I glance up at the beautiful soft sky, reminiscent of pink lemonade, which seems to stretch out in every direction. A faint breeze sweeps in off the ocean. It ruffles my hair and tickles my face. It’s the perfect night for a walk. As I stroll down the beach, I see thousands of footprints in the sand, left over from midday beachgoers. I have never understood why everyone flocks to the beach during the daytime, when the sky is so bright that it hurts your eyes and the hot sand burns the bottoms of your feet… when the beach is crowded, noisy and stuffy I have always found the beach to be unfriendly and unwelcoming during the day. But in the evening, the beach is soothing and peaceful. In the evening, the beach is mine. I share it only with the pelicans and seagulls, who play tag on the gentle currents of evening wind. The water remains warm even though the sun has almost set and the air is cooler. I walk close to the water’s edge, letting the frothy waves wash over my feet. I am so lost in my thoughts, that at first I do not see the large brown mass lumbering out of the water just ahead. When I do glance up and see it, I quickly jump back in surprise. It takes a moment for me to realize that it is a turtle, a sea turtle, crawling clumsily out of water and onto land. I wonder why it would leave the water, where it moves so gracefully, for dry land where it must struggle to take every step. It drags itself determinedly across the beach, intent on some important mission all its own. I think of whales and how they sometimes beach themselves, and wonder if this turtle has a similar task in mind. I sit down on the sand to watch. When I do glance up and see it, I quickly jump back in surprise Once the turtle has chosen just the right spot, it turns around 36o degrees to make an impression in the sand. Then it begins to dig a small hole with its back feet, sending sand flying everywhere. Once it is done it seems to settle down into the hole and lies still. It happens so effortlessly that I miss the arrival of the first few eggs. By the time I realize that this turtle is nesting, there is already a small pile of ping-pong-sized, leathery white eggs on the sand. The turtle continues to lay eggs for several hours. Without thinking, I begin to count. One, two, three… I stop at 1oo, but the turtle does not. She lays a few dozen more eggs before she is finished. When she is done she fills her nest in with sand and then, without warning, she suddenly drops to the ground. Oomph! She does this several more times. By the third time she drops, I realize that she is using her hard smooth underbelly to pack down the sand over her eggs. Once she finishes this, she flings sand all over the nest and the surrounding beach. Apparently, this is to confuse unwanted visitors about the location of her nest. Once she is satisfied, she begins her long slow crawl back to the ocean. Of course, as she crawls, she leaves a very distinctive track which will lead others directly to her nest no matter how hard she tries to hide it. I decide to help her. Looking around, I choose landmarks that will enable me to find this spot again. Then, using the old sweatshirt I have tied around my waist, I sweep her tracks from the sand. Once I am finished, I check to make sure her nest is entirely hidden. Then I walk home along the beach, my mind still full of what I have just witnessed. Even though I was up half the night and am more tired than I could ever have imagined, I get up the next morning before my father leaves for work. He and my mom are surprised to see me, as I usually sleep in until at least nine o’clock in the summer. I eat a bowl of cereal with my parents and my dad asks, “What are you going to do today, Sport?” “I’m thinking of going to the beach,” I tell him. “What?” asks my dad. “I thought you hated the beach during the day.” I tell him that I am having second thoughts about that, and ask my mother if she will pack me a lunch. She looks surprised, but agrees to do it. I have a plan. I gather two beach towels, a picnic basket, a water bottle, and my sunglasses. I put on my swimming trunks. The picnic basket is the old-fashioned kind. It is a huge wicker affair that will hold all the rest of my gear. I grab my lunch and the sunscreen my mother insists on, then head out the door, letting it slam shut behind me. I stop at the garage on my way out and look up on the shelves lining the back wall. I see an old, faded box, strewn with large cobwebs and covered by thick dust. The writing on the side of the box says “Tyler’s Toys.” I open the box. Inside are things I haven’t seen in ages… a ball, a frisbee, an old pull toy, and two ancient stuffed animals named Fluffy and Sticky who slept with me every night until I was seven. Underneath all this, I find what I am looking for… a plastic pail and shovel which were once a cheerful red, now bleached a
Guess What, Rebecca Baits?
Rebecca knew a lot more about life than most children do. Rebecca, being the eldest of three children, had a lot of experience with young kids. She was kind and accepted the challenges that everyone must face now and then. What she did not know was that something huge was coming, something that would change four children’s friendships forever. Fred Lipto adjusted his Harry Potter glasses before finishing the last (and hardest) problem on his ninth-grade algebra test. Fred was in fourth grade. He was a math wiz with freckles, and a good sense of humor. He was Rebecca’s best friend and had known her since kindergarten. He was also the co-author of Stonehedge, a book he and Sarah (a girl who I will mention later) are currently writing. Fred’s pen name is Flying Duck. Sarah Hinkle flexed her fingers and sharpened a fresh, number 2 pencil before looking down in her notebook to do a final edit of the story she had been working on for months. Sarah was an author, a lover of books, a critic, and a lover of comfortable shoes. She treasured green eyes, black hair, black cats, and Harry Potter movies (as well as the books). She was Rebecca’s good friend and never missed a chance to cheer people up with her lively ways and sharp mind. She played the violin, as well as the piano, and her two favorite quotes were, “Great minds think alike” (she said that to Fred a lot) and “Winners are losers and losers are winners” (she said that to George a lot). For your information, George is the fourth friend. Sarah’s pen name is Keylock Sniders. “George Wiles, put that video game down and do something useful!” hollered George’s mother. “Good luck,” they all said, “and goodbye” George Wiles reluctantly put down his control and turned off the X-Box he had gotten for Christmas. He had been at the height of the game where Mario was about to get out of the Yube, get back his star charts, and enter the secret chamber! He walked outside and helped his sister, Madison, haul the disgusting garbage cans out of the garage and onto the sidewalk. His neighbor, Robert Mettla, was doing the same thing. When he went back inside, he recaptured the moments in school that day. The class had loved the new (and improved) “Ember Tyke and Breezy Baby” story that he wrote. Ah, life was perfect for George, or so he thought. Wham! The door slammed as a tired Mr. Decker walked in. He settled himself in a chair and his wife brought him a steaming plate of macaroni and cheese, and, of course, a mug of boiling, hot coffee. As he stirred his dinner around in his bowl, he thought about his fourth-grade class, especially Rebecca Baits. She was a good student, a little on the shy side perhaps, but precise and clever. Three blocks away, Fred had put down his algebra book and was now nestled snugly in his favorite chair, eating rice and chicken. Two blocks away, Sarah was settling down to some steak and cucumbers after just submitting her latest story to Stone Soup magazine. At 36 Joseph Drive, George was scraping the last piece of pizza onto his dish. It was obviously pepperoni pizza, George’s favorite. On Baits Lane, Rebecca and her family were eating pasta, Rebecca’s favorite food. Her mother cleared her throat. “I’ve already told your siblings about this,” she began. “You are not going to like what I have to say. Guess what, Rebecca Baits? We’re moving.” Rebecca didn’t tell her friends immediately that in four short months she would have to move from Norwell, the only home she had ever known. A battle raged in her mind between enjoying her life and spending a carefree four months with her friends or giving her friends the time to get used to the idea that she was moving. She finally decided to tell them. Even though Fred was her closest friend, she told Sarah first. She had always been able to share a lot of things with Sarah, for she was a girl too. Sarah took it calmly but you could see the worry in her hazelnut eyes, and when she got home she destroyed her newest story (an act that her mother said was a disgrace). Sarah promised to let Rebecca break the news to Fred and George and swore she wouldn’t tell anyone else at school. Next, Rebecca told Fred. He jumped up and down and said he’d cut off his left arm if Rebecca moved. When he got home, he tried to snap his flute in half George’s turn! George went home and chucked his Play Station 2 out the window he was so mad. All of them were terribly angry but didn’t tell their parents anything. Rebecca pleaded with her parents, but they said they had to move because of their jobs. “Where are we moving to?” Rebecca questioned, but the answer was always the same. “We don’t know yet.” Rebecca was discouraged. Her friends tried to cheer her up but it was no use. She had known George since third grade, Sarah since second, and Fred since kindergarten. Rebecca had faced many challenges before but this was the worst. She didn’t know what she was going to do. Sure she was going to make new friends, but not like these. She would miss everyone in her class, especially her teachers, Mrs. Williamson and Mr. Decker. When she found out the day they were moving to Alabama, Rebecca immediately told her friends. On the day of the move, right before she got into the car, each of her three friends gave her a parcel. “Good luck,” they all said, “and goodbye.” Rebecca hopped into the car, and was driven away. In the parcels she found from Fred a little book that said “My Secrets” and a note that said, “In case you forget all the secrets
Underground Man
Underground Man, by Milton Meltzer; Harcourt Children’s Books: New York, 2006; $17 Milton Meltzer’s Underground Man is a fictional but historically accurate account of life during the Civil War. Josh, a teenager, leaves his farm home to start a life of his own away from his parents. During his travels, he meets a runaway slave. Josh hears of the horrible conditions and the brutal treatment of slaves by their owners. After learning about this, Josh is inspired to become an abolitionist working to rescue blacks from slavery It is surprising that the hero in this book, Josh, is Caucasian. I learned many things about the brutal treatment of slaves and how horrible life was for them. I also learned many things about how abolitionists were detested and unpopular by the people of the southern states. Some specific things that Josh does to free slaves is buying them at auctions and then letting them free. He even puts himself in danger by helping slaves run away from their plantations and owners in the night. I had many reactions during the story One reaction was that I appreciated Josh’s will and determination to try and help prove that all humans should be treated equally. Josh experiences many things that I could relate to and you will probably too. Josh is confused about what he wants to do with his life. He begins to have disputes with his father over decisions that he makes for Josh. For example, Josh’s father secretly signs Josh up for a hat-making apprenticeship when he does not want to do this. One similar experience that I encountered just like Josh is when I have had my parents make me do things against my will. For example, when I wanted to quit an instrument but they made me keep on playing it. One interesting thing that I never knew was that abolitionists used signs. Josh uses many secret signs and simple objects to signal the people he will help. For example, he uses a blue handkerchief and a bent spoon to signify that help is on the way I can relate to this because even today in the army ordinary-looking things can signify operations and actions. Josh encounters important choices and decisions in this story I thought it was exciting to experience the many life-endangering adventures and quests that Josh encounters until he is captured by guards when he is helping a runaway slave to safety Thrown into jail with a long sentence hovering over his head a difficult choice must be made by him to continue his beliefs or quit them. As he thinks over his rights and wrongs surprisingly he has his jail sentence shortened. With the choice of a lifetime Josh must decide to accept his fate as an abolitionist or to stop believing in what is right. I was astonished to find out that this story is based on the true life of Calvin Fairbanks. He spent twelve years in jail for what he believed was right. I appreciate and am in awe of the determination and righteousness of this amazing man. Mason Grande, 10Glastonbury, Connecticut
The Time Magicians
Sunlight beamed onto Gareth Then’s face, forcing him awake. It was the morning after Gareth had arrived at his Uncle Turif’s cabin on the island of Belmopan. The cabin was in a clearing of the isolated Zel Forest, and Turif lived there alone. Gareth was there against his wishes. Dinner the night before had been a silent, simple meal of meat and greens, and his uncle had turned out to be cold and grouchy. But that wasn’t the worst of it: Gareth had seen Turif do Time Magic. As he lay in the chair that had been his bed, Gareth thought back to the day before, when Turif had used his Magic to speed up a tree in Time, causing it to age and then die in a minute. Gareth shuddered. Time Magic was believed to be evil. Gareth’s father, Seramon, always said that Turif was the black sheep of the family With cold eyes, Seramon would tell of the day he had found Turif practicing Time Magic, playing with Time itself. “Bad stuff, Time Magic is,” said Seramon. “Normal magic’s fine and all; it’s OK. Time Magic, though, well you want to keep clear of that. Messing with Time, you never can tell what’s going to happen.” Luckily for Seramon, Turif was one of the few Time Magicians left in the known world, if not the only one. Then, everything stopped. Except for Turif and Gareth, the world was frozen Gareth stretched, and listened for any telltale sound that Turif was awake. He heard nothing, and tiptoed across the hall into the kitchen to find something to eat; he decided upon a juicy red apple. He bit into it as he tiptoed back across the kitchen—colliding with the scowling Turif. “Stealing now, are we?” said Turif dryly, stepping past Gareth and into the kitchen. He grabbed a loaf of bread for himself. “I- I… Gareth stood there, looking at the apple. “I wasn’t trying to steal, U- Uncle. I was just… hungry.” Turif snorted, munching on the bread. “Well, that apple’s your breakfast, boy,” said Turif. He walked outside into the clearing, calling, “Follow me.” Turif sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, and motioned for Gareth to do the same. “Boy,” he said, taking a deep breath, “you have potential.” “What?” Turif sighed. “Has your father told you nothing?” he muttered. The boy blinked. “You’re a Time Magician. Well, not a Time Magician in full,” frowned Turif, considering. “Wait,” said Gareth. “I’m…” he coughed, “I’m a Time Magician?” “Are you listening, boy?” hissed Turif “You have the potential to become one! And I’m going to make sure that that potential is fulfilled.” “I- I don’t understand.” Turif stood up and began to pace in irritation. “With my help, you can become a Time Magician,” he said slowly and with a calm that threatened to break at any second. “Then you and I will be the only two Time Magicians in the world.” “Well, do I have to be one?” asked Gareth, not fully comprehending the situation. Turif roared with irritation. He swung his hand in the air, causing the fleeting sound of a stream. Then, everything stopped. Except for Turif and Gareth, the world was frozen. Butterflies were suspended in the air. The wind ceased to blow, and the birds were silent and held unnaturally still. “That,” said Turif quietly, “is what you will do when I finish with you.” Gareth understood. Still, he was divided. Part of him wanted to accept Turif’s offer, wanted the power of Time Magic. The other heard the echo of his father’s voice: “Bad stuff, Time Magic is… ” As the clearing around him came back into motion, Gareth worried that Seramon was right. Turif was interfering with Time itself, and although it was amazing, it was also terrible. “Sorry” replied Gareth, “but I can’t be a Time Magician.” Turif stared at him. “I’m not asking you if you want to,” he said, anger edging his voice again. “You will be a Time Magician: When I die, the art of Time Magic will die with me if you aren’t. And I’m not about to let that happen.” Without waiting for a response from Gareth, he stood. “Your lessons will begin now.” Gareth began to argue, but Turif’s glare made him decide to cooperate, for now. “First, you must learn about The River of Time,” Turif said. “It is everywhere, always there, always flowing. Normally, The River flows at a certain speed, and everything is drawn along with it. All Time Magic really does is manipulate it. “What a Time Magician needs to do is change The River’s speed. If you can make it go faster, Time goes faster. And vice versa. You can also make it stop flowing. The only thing you cannot do to The River is reverse it. You cannot go back to the past. “People around the Magician, even those who are not Magicians themselves, hear The River flow when Time Magic is used.” “That’s what I heard yesterday when you sped up the tree!” exclaimed Gareth, excited despite himself Turif nodded, and continued. “You never change all of the river. That would take enough power to kill a Magician. What you have to do is manipulate parts of it. For instance, when I stopped Time just now, Time outside of the clearing didn’t stop moving. And we weren’t frozen in place. “Time Magic can also have disastrous results. For instance, if I had let Time escape my control it could have frozen the entire forest. Time Magic can be very dangerous. “And now it’s time for you to try feeling The River.” Gareth admitted that Time Magic sounded amazing, but he remembered what Seramon had said. He would pretend to go along, and maybe Turif would forget the whole thing. “Sit still,” said Turif “Close your eyes. Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t even think. Try to feel The River flowing around you.” Gareth did as he
A Hidden Love
By the time I was thirteen, it seemed like I was too old to admit my love of animals. I’d hidden my true feelings about the subject for so long it just didn’t seem right to change them so late. When I was five, a dog had scared me badly, and for a short time I had been afraid of animals. Ever since then, my parents had been way too over-protective about keeping me away from animals, and I had gone along with the flow instead of speaking up that I wasn’t frightened anymore. Now I was too nervous to tell my parents—I figured they wouldn’t believe me and just think that I was saying it to make them feel better. But, then I met Cinnamon… It all started one day in early August. School was going to start again in a few weeks and I was over at my friend Millaina’s house. “I’m sure that the violet dress will work fine, Millie. The color brings out your blue eyes and if you wear the little flower brooch, it’ll be perfect,” I said. “Are you sure, Kirsten?” she asked me, looking at the dresses scattered across her bed. “Yes. The green one is too bright and the pink washes you out. The rest all have their own problems. You’ll look wonderful at the wedding—I promise. Can we go downstairs now?” I was getting hungry and Millie’s mom always had muffins or cookies baking. I laughed and scooped up the naughty kitty “Sure, but only for a minute, I signed up to help out at the animal shelter at 3:oo PM and it’s already 2:4o PM. You can come with if you want, but you don’t like animals—right?” Hopping up from her bed, Millaina headed towards the stairs. “I’ll come and see what it’s like, a kitten or two won’t hurt me,” I smiled, thinking how awesome it was that I could finally be by an animal without Mom or Dad standing there to make sure I wasn’t injured by “vicious” puppies and “terrifying” kittens. Maybe, just maybe, by helping Millie out at the shelter, I could slowly show my parents that I loved animals. After grabbing an oatmeal-raisin cookie, I followed Millie out the door and we jumped onto our bikes. The animal shelter was only a mile and a half down the road, so we didn’t have to rush. We didn’t talk on the way there, but I was thinking about telling my parents. I decided to keep it a secret for now and maybe have Millie come over, then have her talk about the animal shelter and… My thoughts were interrupted as Millie came to a screeching halt in front of the animal shelter. Wiping the sweat from my brow—it was 94 degrees—I took my purple helmet off and hung it on my handlebars. Millie and I both leaned our bikes against the shaded wall and walked into the shelter. On the floor in a corner was a little beagle puppy, it was frisking around like a madman. “Where to first?” I asked. “I normally feed the dogs first and then the cats. But, since you’re here, I can feed the dogs while you feed the cats. Things will get done faster,” she said, heading towards a door marked “Food and Supplies.” I followed her and looked around in the small closet. Grabbing a bag of Andersons’ Cat Food, I followed Millie back out the door. “The cat room’s that way—the door says ‘Office,’ but it’s not one. Each house of three kittens gets a scoop of food and single kittens get half a scoop. Full-grown cats are all single-caged and get a full scoop.” Millie headed left and I went right— to the cat room. The door swung open easily as I pushed it with my shoulder—there was cat food in my hands. There were about thirty felines in the room, most of them kittens. As I set the bag down on the floor, I felt something rub against my sandal. Looking down I saw a dark brown kitten with bright blue eyes staring at me. I laughed and scooped up the naughty kitty. Glancing around the room, I saw that one of the cage doors had swung open. Above the door was the name Cinnamon, along with a piece of paper that said: Cinnamon is a female tabby She is often escaping from her cage. No special care necessary —Marie I figured Marie was a volunteer and gently placed Cinnamon back into her cage. She mewed at me and I laughed. Latching the cage shut, I grabbed the food and, starting at the beginning of the row, fed all of the gorgeous animals. Cinnamon had the last cage and I took an extra minute to stroke her. Poor Cinnamon, I thought, I wonder who could have deserted you. She looked up and purred at me and I smiled down at her. During the next few weeks, I helped out at the shelter many times. Each time, I cuddled Cinnamon a bit longer and stroked her a little more tenderly I was growing to love that darling kitten. * * * Once I had Millaina tell my parents that I was working at the shelter with her, I planned on adopting Cinnamon. I was sure my parents wouldn’t care and was looking forward to the date I planned to have Millie come over for dinner—in two weeks. But then it happened, the plan was ruined and my secret was out. It was two days before the planned dinner and Millie and I were both working at the shelter. We were the only ones there and about to close up when a man wearing a big camera around his neck and holding a large pad of paper in his hand came rushing in the door. “Excuse me ladies, can I speak to Mr. McLonvul?” he asked politely Mr. McLonvul was the owner of the shelter. “Sorry,” Millie
Mismatched
Paperwhites were sagging about the sink. You could smell fresh air on them if you got close enough. Their curtain, white and green, the only one on the kitchen window And through it, snow refused to budge. Odd to have flowers and snow even if they matched in color. Except the stems, of course, they stood out like the green bottle next to the clear glasses, like the chicken magnet among those little magnetic words that never spell what you want. Words like “bubble” but not “the” or “and.” Why would I need to write about bubbles? My toe rubbed against the polished maple rung of the tall kitchen stool silent rhythm to the dog’s tapping nails, parents mumbling, ever-present radio, NPR or a Cuban CD. A jumbled soundtrack to my moment of thinking nothing, forgetting to check the notes that came and went, muddling over the fridge; my tiny collage. Pierie Korostoff, 12Spring Mills, Pennsylvania
Isabelle
“Truly a form of art,” Isabelle Wilcox imagined a sophisticated British voice saying. “And now down the long wall at the extended trot!” (Here Isabelle pressed her spur into Kaptein’s side.) “Oh and such beauty! Never before has the world seen such an extended trot. Never before has the world seen such a …” But Isabelle never quite decided what the world had never seen because at that moment, Kaptein snorted and shied at something up on the hill. “What is it Kaptein?” Isabelle asked her horse. Kaptein shook his long chestnut mane and pranced with his head high in the air. “Kaptein!” Isabelle gathered up her reins with annoyance. She knew daydreaming on a horse, especially one that could get spooky and silly like Kaptein, was a guaranteed, tested-over-thousands- of-years formula for disaster. “Don’t you try those dumb saddlebred stunts on me, mister.” Kaptein finally responded to her squeezes on the reins and put his head down a bit. “That’s better.” Isabelle relaxed her fingers. Then she saw what her Arabian was spooking at. A small rider was trotting up on a fat pinto pony. Truly a form of art,” Isabelle Wilcox imagined a sophisticated British voice saying “Ugh.” It was Abbey and her pony, Rainbow Daughter. Named after some dumb horse in some lame TV show. In Isabelle’s opinion, horses should not have names that sounded like a kindergartner named it. But in this case, it was true; Abbey had named her pony when she was in senior kindergarten. “Hey Isabelle!!!” Abbey waved enthusiastically from atop her small mount. “Hi Abbey,” Isabelle said wearily Abbey didn’t seem to notice. “Guess what!” Abbey didn’t wait for an answer. “Ava said that since I have been doing so well on the trail, I can go with an older rider.” Isabelle knew what was coming next but she crossed her fingers in the pocket of her new vest anyway. “Do you want to go on a trail ride, Isabelle?” “Um, OK.” Isabelle bit her lip. She liked trail rides fine, but Abbey was so annoying. She was what her friend Will would have called uber-annoying. Uber. It was such an elastic word. “Isabelle, did you know I’m going to Sacramento for Thanksgiving? It’s true. Will you miss me? Cause I know you go on trail rides with Sammy but she isn’t a very good rider. I think anyway” “Sammy shows three in the pony jumper division, remember?” Isabelle said through clenched teeth. “Oh I know but she takes from Claire, you know. I don’t think she is a very good instructor at all, well you should know, Isabelle, she hated you when you used to ride Thomas…” “Abbey—shush up! She could be out here.” Isabelle was regretting her decision to ride with Abbey “Let’s long trot a serpentine when we get to the field, ‘K?” “All right,” Abbey said cheerfully “I just love long trotting—especially outside. It’s so fun! I can’t canter without Ava so we shouldn’t go too fast; I know Kaptein can get excitable…” And so the trail ride dragged on with Abbey chattering and Isabelle getting more fed up with her. Finally, it began to get dark and Isabelle suggested they go back to the barn. As they rode back, Isabelle did what she had been doing for the past couple of weeks. She thought about the long process and eventually final decision that had led her parents to move to Wisconsin. Her father had been offered a high-powered job in Wisconsin, one with more pay and respect. Her father didn’t always get along with his employers, but as a sought after medical research doctor, it was usually the hospital that was scrambling to meet his needs, not the other way around. However, if there was a way to stay fairly local, Edward Wilcox would move to a different hospital. Now, the whole Wilcox family would be moving to Wisconsin so Edward could be a research surgeon heading up cloning in the Midwest. Pretty amazing once she thought about it. “Isabelle!” Abbey’s annoying voice cut through her thoughts. Isabelle glanced at her. The little girl was pointing at something. “What?” Isabelle asked with as much patience as she could muster. “There’s an enormous log blocking the path.” Abbey sounded genuinely scared. “And I can’t really jump, especially not out of the ring!” “Well…” Isabelle frowned. “Looks like you are going to have to try. Because the way we came is about a half-hour ride from here. And we can’t go back, it’s already pretty dark. Unless you plan on camping out here.” Abbey really did look for a second like she was ready to go galloping recklessly back to the barn. But then she shook her head. “I’ll try, OK?” Abbey even managed a small smile. “But don’t expect it to look like something out of Young Rider!” Isabelle grinned. “That’s the spirit!” Normally, Abbey wasn’t her favorite person, but she did want her jump to be a success, not only for safety reasons, but Isabelle didn’t want the younger girl’s confidence to be damaged. “OK, go for it, Kim Severson!” Isabelle shouted to Abbey, naming an Olympic cross-country rider. Abbey cued her pony into a canter and gamely looked ahead of the log. “Nice, Abbey, keep looking ahead, give her little squeezes if she feels hesitant…” Rainbow popped easily over the three-foot log and Abbey landed laughing on the other side. “Yes!” From where Isabelle sat on Kaptein, she saw a tiny fist pumped in the air. She could also hear Abbey praising and patting her pony as though she had just won an Olympic medal. In a way, she had. Isabelle circled Kaptein as large as she could allow and pushed him into a canter. “Heads up, Abbey!” Isabelle shouted to clear the way for her and her gelding. Kaptein galloped strongly up to the obstacle and then stopped and rolled his eyes. “Kaptein!” Isabelle whispered fiercely into his mane. Isabelle couldn’t believe Abbey had
A Long Way from Home
As Katie Dale looked out the window at the icy tundra, she wondered about many things. She wondered what the surprise was her grandma talked about so often. She wondered if she would make new friends. She wondered what her house was going to look like. She wondered if it was possible to learn a new language in approximately three days. She wondered if all these thoughts were usual when going to a new country Katie sat in the taxi frozen with fear. She was all alone ready to start a new life in Iceland. Katie had been under so much pressure since both her parents died. She had been around almost all of America looking for a new family Katie didn’t understand it. Why couldn’t she stay with her grandmother, why? Katie knew perfectly why, it was because everyone thought her grandmother was a crazy old lady who ought to be locked up forever. Katie strongly disagreed with this, but how could she change what was in the past? She was just thankful she was going to have some parents around to support her. “Here you are, miss, at the Akureyri Airport,” said the taxi driver. Startled by this remark, Katie paid the taxi driver a little of her money that was left to her by her parents. This must be the store Grandma mentioned in her letter Katie thought When Katie stepped out of the car a sudden wind blew her leather bag off her arm and onto the ground. Her belongings spilled everywhere. She quickly gathered them before the wind blew them away She was putting away what she thought was her last item, until she saw a white envelope marked Katie. She had never seen this before, but she recognized the handwriting as her grandmother’s. She read the letter aloud in a sort of mumble. My dear Katie, I don’t know if you will miss me on your long excursion, but I’ll miss you terribly. I am so very proud of you leaving your home, and going far away with no support. But that is not true my dear. I always feel as if you are right next to me, and no matter what, you will always have me for support. I once lived in Iceland for nine years. During those years I made many friends. There is one friend I know that you must meet. Her name is Marrisa. She lives in an old antique shop fairly close to the Akureyri Airport. Enclosed is a ticket. In order to meet her you must take this ticket to the person behind the counter at the shop, and ask for Marrisa. If he is kind enough he’ll let you take her home with you forever. With love, Grandma P.S. I’m sure your folks won’t mind Marrisa living with you. Katie was so happy to know her grandma had friends right here in Iceland. She immediately started looking for the antique shop. Katie wandered not far into an odd little shopping town. She looked and looked in every store window. Finally she saw an old building full of many odd things of different shapes and sizes. This must be the store Grandma mentioned in her letter, Katie thought. As she entered the shop a sudden burst of warm air hit her in the face. There were racks with candlesticks, paintings, mirrors and dolls. Straight ahead was a counter with an old man behind it. Katie walked up to him and handed him a small golden ticket. The man looked puzzled, until Katie said, “Marrisa.” The confused look on the man’s face faded. He also spoke English, and he said, “She’s downstairs between the lamps and jewelry.” Now Katie was puzzled. The man, then, took her by the hand and led her to a small dark room below the store. He led to a part that had shelves full of old broken things that Katie couldn’t tell what they were, except one thing. It was the most beautiful doll she had ever seen. She had a very detailed face, and she wore a blue dress with 1684 embroidered at the bottom. Katie stared at her for a long time. The man must’ve noticed, because he took the doll off the shelf and handed her to Katie while saying, “This is Marrisa. There isn’t much I can do with her, but you can have her for free if you’d like. I got her from an old friend of mine. I knew her for nine years.” Katie didn’t know what to say. She just nodded her head and turned to walk back up the stairs. She was near the top of the staircase when she looked back at the old wrinkled face and said, “Thank you,” in a soft gentle voice. Katie walked back to the airport feeling just a little different than before. She easily found her parents, because they held up a sign that said Katie. That night Katie found some paper, and wrote: Dear Grandma, I met Marrisa today. You were right, the man let me keep her. Since I got her I’ve told her everything. She’s like my new best friend that I can always trust. My parents are great, they even speak English. They live in a cozy cabin near a huge forest. I love you a lot, Katie As Katie curled up in her bed she thought to herself, I have two great parents, one best friend, and a grandma who loves me. How could life get any better? Emily Livaudais,11Fenton, Missouri Karina Jivkova, 13Sofia, Bulgaria
Project Mulberry
Project Mulberry, by Linda Sue Park; Clarion Books: New York, 2oog; $16 “That’s great but what about here?” That’s the question I used to ask myself whenever my mom bragged about how well developed and strong and powerful Korea was. My parents were born and raised in Korea; I have lived in L.A. all my life. Often I wished that my parents would brag about America instead because that would be more useful to me. This past October, my mom borrowed books from the library, just as she does every two weeks or so. I left Project Mulberry at the bottom of the pile because it didn’t sound interesting and the cover looked dull. I didn’t even know what Mulberry meant. Finally, after I had read through the other books, I picked up Project Mulberry and started to read it. I read five pages the first day and the rest of the book the second day I was so fascinated by the story that even my mom and dad’s favorite Korean soap opera, blaring on the TV with its characters always crying and shouting and fighting, didn’t distract me. The main character of Project Mulberry, Julia Song, was in almost the exact same cultural situation as I was. I really wanted to figure out how she solved the problem of juggling two cultures. Julia Song, a seventh-grader who has just recently moved to Plainfield, Illinois, needs to find a project for the state fair. Julia’s Korean-born mom, whose own mom worked with silkworms, suggests a silkworm project. Patrick, Julia’s best friend, loves the idea but Julia thinks it is too Korean. She instead wants a more American project. Julia eventually gives in and throughout the book she gradually changes her attitude about the project, caring for it more and more. At the climax of the novel, Julia realizes she loves the silkworms and finds herself protecting them from being killed; the final step of the process requires the silkworms to be killed. Later, Patrick and Julia compromise and she allows Patrick and Julia’s mom to kill some of the silkworms for the project. Julia learns much more from this adventure than how to raise silkworms and make silk. When Julia decides to do the silkworm project, she accepts her heritage and stops fighting it. By the end of the story, Julia starts to ask questions about her family’s past and appreciates her background. I realized it was useless to deny my background because I can’t change it. When Julia finds herself unexpectedly enjoying the project, I thought, I can do that too. Now I understand that being Korean adds to instead of detracts from my American identity. Finally, I am proud of my parents’ bragging about Korea. Finally I have stopped asking myself rhetorical questions and have really started listening to learn about the land of my ancestors. For anyone who is struggling as I was to bridge more than one culture, Project Mulberry provides unique insights and an enjoyable read. Richard Chung, 13Los Angeles, California
In My Eyes
Rachel gently set down the next pile of firewood by her mistress’s fireplace. She stood up straight and yawned. It was already 5:3o. She went into the kitchen and fetched the teapot. She crushed up some tea leaves and threw them into the pot of boiling water. The water slowly turned brown, like waiting for the sun to rise. She looked at her dark brown skin. If only she were white. She would have her own personal slave, a big white house, get to eat real food, and get to taste tea! As the water finally turned dark brown she poured it into the teapot. She set out the teacups, the teapot, the butter and bread, the sugar, and the cream all on one tray and brought it out as her mistress, Mistress Sarah, her daughter, Madeline, and her master, Sir John, sat down. They each took a teacup and put sugar and cream at the bottom. As each of them nibbled on their bread, Rachel poured them tea. Rachel looked into the deep brown of the tea in Madeline’s cup. The sugar dissolved quickly while the cream turned it a pale tan. Rachel smelled the delicious taste that was longing to be brought to her lips. Her hands went out to take the cup but snapped back in when Mistress Sarah yelled, “Stop at once! You fool! Tea is only for civilized human beings! Not a negro like you!” Rachel set the pot of tea by Sir John and ran out into the fields where her mother was picking cotton with a few other Africans. She spotted her mother and hugged her. Rachel smelled the delicious taste that was longing to be brought to her lips “What’s happened, child?” asked her mother, stroking her braids. “Have you ever had tea?” Rachel asked. “Once,” said her mother, “when I was a child and working for Sarah, I snuck some tea from the kitchen. It was British tea. I didn’t have any sugar or cream with me, so I snuck some sugar out of the blue cupboard your grandmother kept her spices in.” “Mother, how could you!” exclaimed Rachel. “We’re only supposed to use those spices, especially the sugar, for special occasions only!” “Yes,” her mother continued, “but I convinced myself this was a special occasion. It was the best drink I ever had! Very hot, but so sweet and refreshing. I drank every last drop of it. That’s when Sir John caught me.” “Did he beat you awfully?” Rachel asked anxiously. “Let’s not get into details,” said her mother. “Oh, Mother!” said Rachel, wrapping her arms even tighter around her mom. “Rachel!” cried Sir John. “Go, child,” said her mother. “I’ll be right here.” Rachel ran toward the front door. “A slave owner is here to have a look at you,” said Sir John, pushing her into the house. Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. She held back her tears. The slave owner was sure to take her away from her mother and papa and little Noel, who was only eight months old. She would be thrown on a ship and would be taken somewhere else in the world. The slave owner examined her carefully. The slave owner whispered something in Sir John’s ear. “Girl,” said the slave owner, “get me some water.” Rachel hurried outside and filled a bucket with water. She went into the kitchen and filled a pitcher with the water from the bucket. She carried the pitcher and a glass into the dining room and poured the man some water. “You’ve got this girl well trained, sir,” the slave owner said to Sir John. “Well then, that settles it,” Sir John said, shaking hands with the man. The slave owner took hold of Rachel’s dress and started to drag her. “No! No!” Rachel screamed. They can’t do this, Rachel thought, they can’t take me away from Mama! She was dragged onto a stagecoach. The slave owner put heavy shackles on her feet. “No! Don’t take my baby!” Rachel’s mama called. She was racing through the cotton fields as fast as she could. She dropped on her knees in front of Sir John. “Please,” Mama begged, “don’t let them take her! She’s my baby!” “Mama,” Rachel cried as the slave owner flicked the horses with a whip. Her mother got off her knees and raced after the moving stagecoach. Rachel held her hand out for her mother to take it. Her mother grabbed hold of it and pulled Rachel off the stagecoach. Rachel landed on the dirt road. Her mother whispered in her ear, “Follow me.” Her mother started running into the woods. Rachel’s heavy shackles slowed her down. Mama picked her up and ran as fast as she could. They heard dog barks behind them. Her mother raced inside a cave. She cupped a hand over Rachel’s mouth while several dogs went flying past the cave. One dog stopped. He sniffed around and looked into the cave. Mama carried Rachel deeper into the cave. They found a little hole for Rachel to climb in. But they put Rachel in the hole too soon, for the dog heard her shackles clang against the hard rock floor of the cave. Mama found a big rock to throw at the dog. The dog saw her and started barking madly Mama threw the big rock on top of the dog. She picked up Rachel and started to run. As night fell Mama set Rachel on the ground. “Oh, Mama!” cried Rachel, throwing her arms over her. “Thank you for saving me! I was so scared, I don’t know why I didn’t free myself from him.” “It’s OK,” said Mama, letting go of Rachel, “you were in shock.” Rachel smiled. She stood up. Forgetting about the shackles around her ankles, she tried reaching an apple high up on a tree above her. She tripped on her shackles and fell face first. Her shackles made a loud noise. Then the dog barks
