Rain and warm mist stick to the windowsills. My face is leaning towards light, pressed against glass. It’s a sun shower. Always such an unnerving thing, as most adults put it. I think we need more of these sun showers in life. It’s too rare a moment to pass up, and it brings such joy. I am sitting on one of the various window seats that my home-decorator mother insisted on for our house when I was born, the last of seven children. There is one window seat for each of us, with cluttered cubbies and our names underneath. Other than my parents, we kids don’t care whose window seat belongs to whom, and we take whichever is available. I’m currently sitting on Mark’s. For the past couple of days I’ve been thinking more intently than I’m used to, and less selfishly than my thoughts usually turn out to be. I’m thinking about people, and what I’m missing when I look at them. * * * I met Loraline at art camp, at the beginning of summer. She came up to me, popped a big bubblegum bubble in my face, and asked, “Are you the new camper?” “Yes,” I’d answered, a bit shell-shocked, not so much because of what she’d asked, but because of her forwardness, and her appearance: a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, overalls, and wild, dirty-blond hair. “Of course, you gotta be,” Loraline said, hitting her forehead with her palm, “how many new campers are there! Simonee said one new camper, not plural, more than one. So you’re obviously it.” I was already a bit frazzled, but the sudden mention of a girl with an odd name like Simonee—not Simone—made me even more confused. I asked who Simonee was, and she just laughed. It’s too rare a moment to pass up, and it brings such joy “Who’s Simonee! Good one, real good one. I’m Loraline. You’ll get used to me blowing bubbles—I use gum for my art projects. I’m very original.” Now that that was established, I didn’t ask anything else about this mysterious Simonee girl—until I met her. There was such an anticipation to meet the girl who apparently everyone except me knew that I found myself asking, “When will Simonee come to camp?” about every minute of my first day. “What, are you in love with her or something?!” joked Gabriel, who Loraline had introduced me to as “the calm guy.” Gabe smiled gently beneath his curly brown hair, and he indeed didn’t look like someone who liked arguing. In fact, he was the one who had suggested the idea of creating a clay music box to the camp counselors—a project that we were working on today I was painting mine with waves and mermaids, for the calming ocean. I noticed that Loraline’s was bright pink, and had pictures of ballerinas popping bubbles, and that Gabe’s had faces of smiling people looking straight at you. I wondered what Simonee’s music box would have looked like if she were here. My second day at camp, Simonee arrived. And ohh, did she arrive in style. “There she is!” Gabriel pointed out, as she strutted through the doors to the art room. Everything surprised me. First, I overheard that she was fourteen. And I thought / was short! She could pass for an eleven-year-old, honestly The second surprise was that when she entered with her four dalmatians and huge fur coat and mittens (in summertime!), the three camp counselors—Stacey, Joe, and Abigail—cleared a sort of path for her, as did the campers. The four dalmatians barked wildly as Simonee got them to shut up for a few minutes, leading them off to a corner where they obediently stayed put. She shrugged off her heavy fur coat and handed it to Joe, who quickly hung it up. Just as Simonee was walking over to our art table (I’d figured out by now that Gabriel and Loraline were her friends, and by establishing myself with them, I was too) and I wasn’t ready for more surprises, every single camper minus myself sang out, “Hi, Simoneeeee!” Simonee ignored the cheers and claps for her and plopped down right next to me. “Tell me your name,” she commanded. “Why?” I couldn’t help asking. “Tell it.” “Deliah.” “Deliah,” she repeated, gazing at Loraline for a minute, then at Gabriel. “Hmmm. We’ll have to think up something for you.” “Think up something for me?” I was shot a look that had never before been aimed at me: a look that told me right off that I was an ignorant fool with gravy for brains. Simonee’s answer was simple. “A nickname. Are you mentally challenged?” “No, she’s just new,” said Loraline, quickly. She was immediately shot The Look of Dumbnosity. “Newbies always start out mentally challenged. Some, like me and you and Gabriel, get over it, and some…” Simonee looked straight at me “…might not.” * * * The third and fourth days of camp were a blur of Simonee bossing people around, Loraline constantly popping her bubbles to re-use them for her art projects, and Gabriel acting as the peacemaker, while I sat silent as a mime. On the fifth day, Simonee poked me during collage-making. Loraline, obviously, was looking for pink backgrounds to match her bubblegum scene, Simonee was trying to find cute dog pictures, Gabriel was on a hunt for caramel colors to match his skin in the self-portrait he was making, and I was on the lookout for pictures of children— especially friends. I’d never experienced friendships with kids as different as these three, and I wanted my artwork to reflect upon them in some way. “Don’t you ever talk?” Simonee asked simply. “Yes, I do talk. I just haven’t been given much of an opportunity to prove my chatting skills yet. At the right moment, I assure you that I will please you with talk.” Apparently I had answered correctly Loraline blew a bubble and tipped her cowboy hat at
A Breath of Fresh Air
When I grabbed my sweatshirt and started running out of the house, there was no rational reason for it. I wasn’t sure where I was going or why I was going there. I just needed somewhere to escape to. I felt so out of place in my house. What I was so sick and tired of, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that if I stayed at home any longer, my heart would burst and the jelly of me would spill all over the creamy porcelain kitchen tile. Running can make you feel like you’re not even in your own skin. You’re not stuck in a body, your mind is free to go wherever it wants to visit. My legs kept moving, moving, moving, and my destination was like the leaky faucet in the guest room bathroom that you never think about: lost in the tangle of thoughts that infest minds. Actually, I didn’t care where I was running to. The wind brushing at my face was soothing, and as my legs moved in a rhythmical motion I could feel my feet pushing off the ground with every step. As I ran, I closed my eyes and let my feet absorb everything that surrounded me. There was welcoming, cake-batter-like ground, lumpy and soft, that made my feet dance a shhp shhp shhp dance. Then there was the thud thud thud of my sneakers on cold asphalt, the yellow brick road of city people. Pebble Beach: Welcome! The sign surprised me because my house was eleven miles away from the beach. Slowing to a walk, I kicked off my shoes and carelessly left them in a pile by a piece of driftwood. The beach isn’t all seashells, sand, and water It’s a whole world… Along the seashore, I observed all of my surroundings. The beach was an incredible place. The ocean had always been stunning to me, because it’s always there. No matter what’s happening in the human world, you can count on the salty seawater tickling the shore to be there. Little holes in the path I strolled gave a preview of the crab life beneath all of the caked sand. I had always wondered how the creatures breathed down under the ground. Did they get claustrophobic? Were there oysters on the seashore? My little sister Leah had always wanted a pearl in its shell. Since I was in a pondering mood, I let my mind wonder and wander. Didn’t the grains of sand that came before a pearl could be made hurt the oysters? Wouldn’t it be like a permanent itch? The oysters couldn’t do anything about it. If I were an oyster I would just want that grain of sand out of my shell. Out of my life. But if I couldn’t get it out, what would I do? I would… try to make the best out of it. Maybe that’s what a pearl really is. A result of patience, endurance, and finally, a beautiful, smooth treasure. I had never really become conscious of the fact that the beach’s beauty wasn’t all in the view. The beach isn’t all seashells, sand, and water. It’s a whole world, from seaweed cartwheeling onto the shore, to the symphony of seagulls’ shrieks. And, like so many other things, it has meaning behind it. The ocean’s steadfast trustworthiness and an oyster’s patience, labor, and finally triumph were examples of what could happen in my life. Next time my sister clung to me like a wet swimsuit, I wouldn’t shrug her off like usual. I would listen to her and help her feel less insecure, even if she was irritating. I’d make the little things in life become my grains of sand, and I’d turn them into pearls. A day at the beach, exposed to nature’s examples of patience and dependability, had eroded all my frustration at city life away, and with a fresh perspective about my world, I was ready to go home. Katharine Pong, 12Burlingame, California
Phoebe
It was a quaint little backyard, not much, but cozy, a haven for many strays. With pretty, plump azalea bushes to dash into, and a soft, ivy-covered ground to sleep on, a homeless kitty could spend a few comfortable nights there. Of course, it was never a permanent home of any stray, but there was one who was different. She was not quite full-grown, but not a kitten either. Her stomach was as white and fluffy as a cloud, but her tail, back, and the top of her head were a thunderstorm gray. She had petite paws and innocent features. Her face consisted of glittering, clever, but frightened eyes and an adorable little pink nose that almost sparkled in the sunlight. She had obviously had a previous home, because there was a silver bell attached to her neck by a red velvet strap. Unfortunately, her previous owner had most likely abused her; she was petrified of humans and always had that anxious look in her eyes. She was not quite full grown, but not a kitten either She had certainly taken quite a shine to that garden, and had seemed to settle there, but she took care not to venture near the crusted old brownstone that towered above her. Little did she know, the woman who lived in that house was interested in her, she was curious about the cat that lived in her yard. She also took pity on the poor thing; she was scared the kitty might starve. Every time the cat tried to sneak up on a bird or squirrel, her bell would jingle, scaring the critter away, and leaving her hungry. She was beginning to grow slim and slightly weak. The woman thought the cat was adorable, but didn’t even consider taking her in. She still hadn’t gotten over the recent loss of her pet cat that was very dear to her, Robert. He had been a unique cat, playful and mischievous, but all the more lovable. She still wanted to do something for the young kitty, so she decided that she would try to take her bell off. She stepped gingerly into the yard, trying not to make too much noise. But the second the cat caught a glimpse of the woman, she darted behind a tree, not wanting anything to do with people. The woman was determined to get that cat something to eat, and she had an idea for the next day. When she got home from work, she carelessly tossed her bag aside, eager to help the sweet young cat. She grabbed a paper plate and poured some cat food on it. Again, she stepped outside as gingerly as possible, but the cat sprung into the azaleas. From the fragments of world visible from in-between the dense bushes, the cat saw the woman put something down on the ground and walk back into the house. The cat was puzzled. Why would the woman put down a white disc with little brown circles? she thought. Intrigued, she slinked out of her hiding place and over to the unknown object. She sniffed, and a wonderful scent (in her opinion) erupted from the plate. She inhaled deeper and deeper until she was scarfing down the food. She knew the meal was from the woman, and she assumed she was kind, but felt she couldn’t trust humans yet; ugly flashes of her old life still remained in her mind. The woman’s interest in the cat had turned to a love for her. She had fed her and watched her in a motherly fashion for a couple weeks, and was almost sure she could welcome the beautiful creature into her home. But sorrowful memories of poor Robert’s death still lurked in her mind, and she didn’t know if she could handle taking in another cat. As she debated with herself, she practiced her routine of pouring some cat food onto a plate and toptoeing outside. The cat cleansed her paws with her rough little tongue as she, too, thought about whether or not she would like to live with the woman. After the woman had given her several meals, feelings of affection for her food supplier had grown. She stopped, alert, with her ears perked up as the woman stepped outside to give her food, but she did not run away. The two maintained eye contact right until the minute the woman walked into her home, but didn’t close the door. The cat looked at the food, then at the awaiting open door, and listlessly but surely walked into the house. Thirteen years later, a plump, aged, affectionate cat named Phoebe purrs relentlessly as she nuzzles the sleeping daughter of the woman who took her in. Erin Cadora,10Brooklyn, New York
Cape Cod Bay Tide
Our suspicion grows as the tide rises. The path is gone along with the beach, blocking our way. The marsh has disappeared, the sand a new brown, the sky a pale gray. Ice chunks linger in the ever flowing waters. The bird cries are far out on the bay where the ice banks end, where open water lies. Jump from island to island, making sure not to get splashed by the freezing salt water. Our dog runs out onto the icebergs, and then comes shivering back to our heels. The cold wind blows and seems to push the tide in. The trunks of the pines touch the bank, inches away from the sea. The sun hides, and the hills seem to grow with the shadows. The eyes of little crabs come from holes along the beach, and scurry to higher ground. This is high tide. Sophie Anne Ruehr, 11Brookline, Massachusetts
Big Dreams for Number Seven
When Alicia awoke she first thought she was in heaven. Indeed, everything around her was white: the sheets, the curtains, the furnishings. She sat up in bed and instantly felt a shot of pain course through her knee. She lay back down and stared at the ceiling. Then it came back to her: it had been the fourth quarter with thirty seconds to go and Alicia’s basketball team, the Bulls, were in the lead by one point against the Devil Rays in the championship game. The recipe for disaster. Alicia had been shoving with the other team’s center in the low post when the shot went up from the point guard. She vaguely remembered jumping up against the center for the rebound… and then the other girl had hooked her knee and Alicia had collapsed to the floor. The last thing she remembered was her coach’s worried face above her. And thinking that she had just got her game high record: forty-two points. A doctor came in. “You took a nasty spill there. A ripped tendon in your knee. We’ve done the surgery.” “How long will it take to get better?” said Alicia, feeling dread seep through her chest. “About a year,” said the doctor, “just for it to heal, of course. After that you’ll have to finish physical therapy. You won’t be able to play next season.” Alicia blinked. Next year she would be a senior. Next year was the year she could get a scholarship to Duke, her dream school. Next year was supposed to be her year to be the best of the best and show it to the world. She was already the best forward on her team. And now she was going to miss her one dream she had had since she was eight years old. “You should really do this, Al. It would be good for you” “No basketball,” she repeated. “I’m afraid so. It’s a bad tear.” Alicia sat back. That was all she could take in for now. She wondered if the Bulls had won the championship. * * * Alicia’s mother and father drove her home and helped her up the stairs of their house. She was still getting used to the crutches she had been given. Alicia then sat in a chair across from her parents. Alicia’s family was not poor but they were not wealthy. She knew that her parents had wanted nothing more than for their basketball star to get a sports scholarship to one of the best schools in the nation. “There it goes,” Alicia said. “There goes what?” Alicia’s mother asked, looking sad. “My opportunity to get a scholarship.” Alicia knew that her parents would try to make it sound like it didn’t really matter. But she knew better than that. It was her father who had first told her about scholarships in sports and taught her how to play basketball. “Alicia, you know that’s not the only dream in the world. There are other things that matter. Like academics.” There it was. Her father was trying to put a good face on things. Her parents stood up and went into the kitchen. Alicia hobbled upstairs and collapsed onto her bed. She couldn’t deal with the fact that she would probably not play any college basketball. Or make it to the WNBA. Just then the phone rang. Alicia picked it up and saw on her caller ID that it was her coach. “Hi, Alicia. I thought you’d want to know who won the game,” he said. “Yeah, I do! Did we win?” Alicia crossed her fingers again, anxiously awaiting his answer. “The Bulls won, Alicia. And I hope you know that we couldn’t have done it without you. The Devil Rays couldn’t get another shot off.” Alicia let out a relieved breath. But then again, she felt the same as she had before. What was the point if she couldn’t play next year? “That’s great,” she managed to say. “Thank you.” “You know that there were scouts at that game. Forty-two points must have looked pretty promising to them, don’t you think? How’s your knee, Alicia?” “I can’t play next year.” “Your family told me. But today I saw this brochure for basketball summer camps for girls. They’re looking for coaches. Sounds like just the thing you could do while still healing. I’ll drop it off if you want.” Alicia said halfheartedly that it sounded great and then said goodbye. She then lay down on her bed again and fell into a dreamless sleep. * * * When Alicia woke up she found the basketball camp brochure on her bedside table. She went downstairs to call Emily King, one of her teammates. Alicia needed to talk to someone. Emily said that she’d come over. When Emily came into Alicia’s room she saw the camp pamphlet. “This looks really fun,” she said. “If Coach had recommended me I wouldn’t hesitate! You should really do this, Al. It would be good for you.” “I can’t even play next season,” Alicia said. “How am I supposed to wrangle a bunch of grade-school girls?” “Come on, Al.” Emily raised her eyebrows. “When we were in fourth grade you were the one who taught me how to play basketball.” “I still don’t know,” said Alicia. “Well I do. Sign up for it, and if you change your mind I’ll do it for you.” After Emily left, Alicia thought about the summer camp. Both her coach and Emily were right. It would be good for her to share her talent with others, even if she couldn’t use it for herself. It might be fun, anyway, teaching her favorite sport to little girls. * * * It was now late in June and the first session of the All-Star Girls Basketball Camp was beginning that day. When she arrived at the gym and saw all the little girls she was surprised to realize that for the first time since she had injured
Home, and Other Big Fat Lies
Home, and Other Big Fat Lies by Jill Wolfson; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 2006; $16.95 This story begins when the great and mighty “Termite” gets sent to her twelfth foster home. People call Whitney Termite because she is hyper and small for her age. Whitney has always lived in the city, but this time she is off to go live in the woods. Whitney can tell you a lot about foster parents, but not much about trees. She thinks she will never find a place where she belongs, or a family who loves her. As a reader, at this point I was trying to imagine what it would be like, as an eleven-year-old, to have no mom, dad or even a home. When I read this section of the book, it made me feel bad for Whitney, because she always had to move from foster home to foster home. She was constantly experiencing different things and a lot of changes. This would be very hard for any eleven-year- old, especially for someone who doesn’t have a family to love her. When Whitney gets to her destination, a place in the middle of nowhere called Forest Glen, she soon discovers all the wonderful animals and trees. When she arrives at her new house there is a boy a little older than she is. Whitney wants to talk to the boy, but when she tries to get to know him he seems very shy. He won’t talk to her very much. Soon, Whitney finds out that the boy goes to her school and that his name is Striker. Reading this part of the book, I thought that something special was going to happen between Striker and Whitney. When Whitney goes to her new school for the first time, she meets her science teacher, Mr. Cantor. Mr. Cantor is really nice to Whitney Whitney realizes she doesn’t know much about the woods. She asks Mr. Cantor about them. Mr. Cantor thinks it would be fun and educational to have a club about nature for kids like Whitney When the club meets, all the kids decide that they want to do a year-round project. Mr. Cantor thinks it would be a great idea to adopt a highway When Whitney and all her friends picked up the highway it inspired me and made me feel happy to know other kids feel the way I feel about pollution and littering. My sister and I always pick up the side of our road when people litter too much. We come back with wagons full to the brim with litter. It makes me feel bad to think about littering because the people who are littering are risking the lives of all different kinds of plants and animals. My favorite part of the book is the part where Whitney goes into the woods for the first time one day after school. She is amazed at what she sees. She is especially surprised by a really big tree that has all sorts of voodooist things around it, like candles and wind chimes. Whitney wonders who could have done this. She ends up finding out this is Striker’s favorite tree, which he climbs often and spends lots of time in. I can relate to a person who would put voodoo things around a tree and love being in a tree. I live on a farm in the woods, and when I’m in the woods I feel relaxed. I would highly recommend this book to anyone who knows someone who is a foster child, someone who loves nature like me or anyone who likes a story about love (in this case love for family and nature). This book taught me that foster kids aren’t different from other kids and that nature is really important to everyone. Taylor Megan Potasky,11Holyoke, Massachusetts
A Light Shining Out of the Darkness
Orion padded along through the dense undergrowth, his leather-coated feet silent as death’s cruel hand as they compressed the damp soil. His mother, Selena’s, words, clear and simple as a raindrop, echoed through his head, “I need you to fill this basket with ashberries.” Orion nodded, forgetting that his mother’s words were only a reverie. His elf eyes scanned the bushes, searching for the berries with the gray pallor. These berries were essential if he was to hold up his mother’s reputation as the best healer in the Dawn Woods. Ashberries, his mother had only used them once in his presence. It was also the only time she had ever failed. His father had gone out to hunt, a simple hunt out in the fairly safe Dawn Woods. No one knew that a young male dragon had made a home in a nearby cave where the deer had often lodged for the night. For all that was known, as his father had gone alone, he had entered the cave hoping to find the deer, there was something quite different waiting for him. The dragon had appeared in front of him out of nowhere like a specter and unleashed a ball of burning hatred of all creatures at him and his horse. Hours later his horse limped up to the small cottage and began to neigh. This awoke Selena who came warily outside to a gruesome sight. The beautiful white horse was filthy with ash and soot, its right flank was a different sight. A curling pattern of blood arched down its right flank. Wasn’t white the color of life, not death? Dragging behind it was Orion’s father holding on only by his foot, caught in a stirrup. His body was completely disfigured by oozing burns. Letting out a sigh of relief he began to fill his basket Selena had heaved him inside and into the room where she treated her patients. Orion had been out behind the house at the well, getting a drink of water. He was pouring the water into a cup when he saw his mother dragging the body through the house. “Who’s that, Mommy?” he had drowsily questioned, staring at the unrecognizable body. He had just barely been able to make out his mother’s words, her voice was choked with tears, “Your father.” It took a moment for his child’s mind to register Selena’s words but when it did the effect was devastating for him. He broke down in silent tears at first; giving way to sobbing on the floor and wishing his father had heeded his words, begging him to stay home. Selena had made a mush out of ashberries, the only known cure to dragonfire burns, and she began pasting her husband’s figure with the bland-colored paste. Her tears were flowing freely now and were dripping on the raw-skinned body. Orion’s father had then regained consciousness and the pain had driven him back into dreamful infinity. After hours of grief, the sun had risen, birds were tweeting, bugs were buzzing, but in the little operating room there was no life. The man’s family came in full of hope, only to be sent back to the abject misery that had lasted the nearly endless night. Orion’s father had been buried in the woods, as was custom, for elves’ home is the forest and to be sent off in any other way or buried in any other location would be obscene. There had been no one but his own family to mourn his horrible demise and Orion’s home became a place of silent suffering. Since then Selena had striven harder than ever not to let death arrive at her doorstep again. That morning it seemed that the fateful night had occurred again. A lone stranger arrived at their door in the same bedraggled condition as Orion’s father had. Orion was surprised that the man was even conscious after his exhausting ordeal. He had brought the man in and Selena set to work. Selena opened the drawer labeled Ashberries. It was empty. In her franticness to save her husband, Selena had ravenously used up her entire store of the rare berries. In her grief over her beloved husband’s death, she had not wanted to even look at the berries again, never mind refill her stash. Anyway, what were the chances that she would have to treat someone with dragonfire burns again? Orion was sent to retrieve the final but most important ingredient to the poultice that would save the man’s life. Now he was searching as best he could to keep the stranger from having the same fate as his late father. Finally, after what seemed like years of searching compacted into about an hour, Orion found the ashberry bush. Letting out a sigh of relief, he began to fill his basket. When the basket was overflowing with the gray spheres, he began his trek home with celerity He scampered through the door to the house, slamming it hastily behind him, and bore his precious cargo to his waiting mother. She dismissed him to his room at once, and Selena began crushing the berries with a pestle and mortar. Orion thumped onto his bed, exhausted after his long journey, and instantly fell into a dreamless slumber. When he awoke, he immediately remembered the stranger and hurried into the kitchen. There, sitting at the table and tightly wrapped in bandages, was the man, smiling and happily conversing with Selena, who for the first time in years was truly happy. The happiness that had hidden from sight for years in the midst of her sadness was finally showing itself, a light shining out of the darkness. Jonathan Morris, 12Grantham, New Hampshire Anna Welch, 13Hancock, New Hampshire
The Redwing Blackbird Sings
In the morning I wake up At six-fifteen Much too early Hair is combed Teeth are brushed Breakfast is had One day being like another But On my way to the bus stop A redwing blackbird sings Doo-Dee-oo! Time stops But my feet still move It is March The air has a fresh rainy smell The redwing blackbird Sings again Doo-Dee-oo! I am at the bus stop The bus pulls up And time starts again Nina Wilson, 10Grayslake, Illinois
Badger Will Be Badger
Nobody knew why we kept him. To tell the truth, I didn’t exactly know, either. We named him Badger for the brown-gold stripe that ran down his muzzle, and later on, we would say that it fit his personality too. He wasn’t exactly an aggressive dog. He was, however, a jumpy, biting, rebellious dog. But he was beautiful and cute, and we loved him. Mom once commented, “It’s a good thing he’s so adorable…” She’d always trail off, whether to add emphasis or to search for words, I don’t know. Badger was a male version of Miss Congeniality and probably the most well-loved mutt among the people at the puppy training class, too, for Badger was Prince Charming in fur. He was always happy around new people, always wagging his tail, always squirming for attention. That personality was his downfall. Sure, he was cute. My younger sister Sierra was always shrieking, “Isn’t he adorable?!!” The youngest, Clarabelle, would always chime in, “I know; he’s the cutest.” I, however, demanded discipline and respect. They demanded cuteness. He was good at that. Good, I mean, at looking cute with pillows in mouth, Kleenexes shredded all around him, and towels slobbered upon. Of course, everywhere Badger went, mischief was involved At first, we thought it was just puppy energy But as he grew into a big, strong, naughty golden retriever, we quickly changed our thinking. Wherever Badger roamed, trouble was to follow. Anyone who had to live with Badger knew that… * * * I clamped the hand brake back, and wiped a hand across my brow. It was late March, but the snow was all melted away, the temperature in the high eighties, and the river unfrozen. As I rested on my bike, I gazed at the crystal-blue water through the thick sumacs. Thin layers of ice still covered some of the Wolf River, but most of it was thawed. Ducks, geese, and sea gulls rested on the remaining ice, making a loud racket that was a mixture of honks, croaks, and shrieks sounding like women screaming. “Amazing,” I breathed. I had lived in Wisconsin for several years, but I was always dazzled by the river in springtime. I got a good view, too. My house was situated about fifty feet from Stumpy Bay’s bank, and the bank was surrounded by sumac trees and long, itchy grass. Stumpy Bay was where we got our water supply (filtered, of course), but it was off-limits for swimming. Stumpy Bay was named for the deadheads, algae, quicksand, muskies, and snapping turtles that lurked in the murky water. In the spring, it was clear and blue, like the rest of the river, but in the summer, it was covered in a film of green algae, which looked disgusting. It also smelled horrible, especially on muggy days. “Come on, Lu!” Sierra was calling, speeding down the gravel driveway with Badger at her wheels. “Beat you to the road!” “Just try!” I shouted back, digging my feet into the pedals. I easily caught up with Sierra, and we both nearly collided with Clarabelle and Badger, who were coming back. Sierra and I turned around carefully and then raced back, laughing lightheartedly. Badger had dropped back to my spokes, for he was becoming winded from the exercise. Of course, everywhere Badger went, mischief was involved. That’s why my skirt was muddied by Badger’s dirty lips and my leg had a scratch from some stray teeth. “Git, dog!” I yelled, thoroughly sick of having to discipline this unintelligent mutt. Badger looked at me daringly with his hazel-brown eyes. He moved closer again, and I was tempted to run straight into him and teach him a lesson, but refrained. A bite on my leg was the reward for my mercy. “Badger!” I braked so suddenly that I nearly flipped off. I threw my bike down and lunged toward the puppy, whose tail was wagging in merriment. “No, don’t give me that ‘I don’t care’ look!” I hissed. Badger danced on his legs, eyes twinkling. My anger boiled even more at his nonchalant attitude. “Do you want to go up? Do you want a spanking? Do I have to drag you to your kennel?” Badger wasn’t the least bit subdued, and immediately turned around and ran off to Sierra and Clarabelle, who were slurping down Gatorade. Tears stung my eyes as I picked up my bike and slung my helmet onto the handle. Why care? I thought. He doesn’t. I pour my life into him, trying to make him happy, and all he does is attack me. Why? Why does he prefer Sierra over me, when I am the one who regulates what he does and does not do? I was jealous, hot, and upset. I loved Badger; where was the love I deserved? I had read story after story about how dogs were the most loyal friends a girl could have, but where did Badger fit into this category? I had had so many high hopes of him becoming a therapy dog, or an agility competitor, but he couldn’t even sit for two seconds. I walked my bike back up the driveway, Sierra and Clarabelle both asking what was wrong. I ignored them—and Badger—and parked my bike in the garage sullenly. If he hates me, I decided, then I will hate him too. I glanced at Badger one more time, then turned and left him, slipping into the house and slamming the door shut. I stomped up to my room and threw myself onto my bed, glaring at the design on my pillowcase. I looked up above my bed where a framed photograph of Badger and me hung. Daddy had snapped it when Badger first came home; when he was arm-sized, cuddly soft, and oh-so-sweet. I was smiling—my cheek buried into the top of his fuzzy, honey-colored head, my left arm wrapped around his chubby chest, the other supporting his bottom. His eyes were squinted, nothing like the expressive eyes
An Unlikely Friendship
An Unlikely Friendship by Ann Rinaldi; Harcourt Children’s Books: New York, 2007; $17 Imagine a lonely white girl, raised in a wealthy and prestigious family, who lived her dream of becoming First Lady in the White House. Now, imagine a black girl, born into slavery mistreated and overworked, who in the end was able to purchase her own freedom. Two women, different in skin color and social status, yet similar in their persistence to achieve their goals. In the novel An Unlikely Friendship, author Ann Rinaldi describes the unlikely yet unique friendship between two historical women, Mary Todd Lincoln and Elizabeth Keckley. In the beginning, I was excited how Ann Rinaldi immediately drew me into the historical happenings that occurred on Friday, April 14, 1865. The Civil War was finally over, which brought an end to slavery Suddenly, President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. Mary, emotional and shocked about her husband’s sudden death, only desired to see Elizabeth (Lizzy) because she was the only one who understood her. From here, the author takes us back into the past to the childhoods of Mary and Lizzy, beginning with Mary’s upbringing. Mary experienced a troubled childhood. Her mother passed away when she was young and she was raised by a selfish and cruel stepmother. Mary always put up a fight with her stepmother’s orders and was persistent in her beliefs. Even though her life was unhappy, Mary continued to believe in herself and never gave up on her dream of living in the White House. There was one person in Mary’s life that meant the world to her. Her name was Mammy Sally, a black slave and the family’s cook. When Mary experienced hardships, Mammy Sally was always there for her, like a mother. They developed a trusting relationship that Mary always cherished. In my life, I am fortunate to have two grandmas that I consider my Mammy Sallys, who care for me like Mammy Sally cared for Mary. Lizzy, born into slavery, was raised by her black mother on a southern plantation which was owned by her white father. She learned how to sew at age four. Lizzy wished for the day that she could sew for a grand lady. Later, she experienced the hardships that go along with being a female slave. This section of the story reminded me of when my class studied slavery I became furious while reading about the intense mistreatment of Lizzy, like whippings and other abuse. Through Lizzy’s hardships, she never gave up and she became a great seamstress. Later, after setting up her own business, Lizzy became Mary’s seamstress in the White House. Mary continued to live a difficult life because she dealt with depression, the death of her two sons, and the struggles of being First Lady. She looked to Lizzy for support and Lizzy was always there for her. Mary considered Lizzy her Mammy Sally. This unlikely friendship makes me think of the pen-pal friendship I have with a girl from Zambia, Africa. The friendship is special to me even though we live different lives and communicate with each other from one side of the world to the other. I would highly recommend this book to those who enjoy reading historical fiction. Ann Rinaldi presented the information so well that I have a strong understanding of the characters’ lives. She really allowed me to feel the amazing relationship between Mary Todd Lincoln and Elizabeth Keckley. Ashley Johnson,10West Linn, Oregon
Bullfighter
It’s a hot, dry August evening on the Oklahoma panhandle. The sun is going down and the crickets have begun to sing. There’s no breeze at all tonight, nothing to ease the blistering heat. I am twenty-three years old. I finished four years of college before I realized that a banker’s life was not for me. Right after graduation, I joined the PRCA, the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, and haven’t looked back since. I’ve traveled across the country riding bulls… big, mean, strong bulls. But through it all, what I’ve really wanted is a different kind of rodeo job. Tonight I’m going to make my dreams a reality I’ll be one of two clowns at a local rodeo. Unlike circus clowns, rodeo clowns have a dangerous job. We’re not just there to make the crowd laugh. During the bull riding, we become bullfighters, distracting the bulls to help keep the riders safe. I slip into my costume. I pull on overalls that have had the legs cut out so they resemble a skirt. I need to be able to move freely and turn fast. I pull on tights underneath to cover my legs. They are bright and colorful to attract the bulls’ attention. I’ll wear a cowboy hat but that goes on later. I begin to paint my face. It takes longer than anything else. As I am finishing up my makeup, I look into the mirror. I see my mother enter the room behind me. Her lips tremble and her tense white fists are pressed together. Her face is pale and ghost-like. Her eyes plead with me. “Matthew,” she says, “please listen to me. Don’t do this, honey I love you too much to see you put yourself in so much danger.” “But Mom,” I tell her; “I don’t really have a choice. This job chose me, remember?” “But Mom,” I tell her, “I don’t really have a choice. This job chose me, remember?” The look in her eyes tells me that she remembers all too well. I walk across the room and wrap my arms around her. I tell her that I am listening to her. That I really do understand her concerns. Then I tell her again that I really must do this. Not only for myself, but for Charlie too. Just then, my father limps through the door to join us. Dad used to fight bulls. He’ll understand. He smiles at me. Then he puts one hand on my shoulder and says, “All right, Matthew… ready to go?” “Yeah, Pop,” I tell him. I turn once more to my frightened mother and say, “All right, Mom, we’re going now. Wish me luck.” She pulls me close. She hugs me hard. She starts to cry I tell her once again not to worry. “Please be careful,” she says. I’m not sure if she’s crying for Charlie or for me. But then, I don’t guess it really matters. I tell Dad that he can drive. We climb up into our rickety old Ford pickup. It is so badly rusted that its original color cannot be determined. My father bought it brand new in 1950. He says that it was black then, but you couldn’t tell that by looking at it today. It only takes ten minutes to drive to the local rodeo grounds. When we arrive, almost every seat is filled. The rodeo began over an hour ago, but bull riding is always the last event of the night. The bulls wait impatiently in small pens behind an iron gate. There are Brahmas and Brahma crosses, Charolais, and scrappy Mexican fighting bulls. Their breed doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they buck. There is only one given in bull riding. Those bulls will try to kick, trample and crush anything that’s in their way, including me. I slide out of the truck and turn to my dad. “Now remember,” he says “I’ll be back to pick you up at ten o’clock. I’m going home so that I can be with your mother. If you need anything, call the house. Knock ’em dead, cowboy” he says to me, and then he is gone. I spot my partner for tonight, another clown named Slim, and go to say hello. Along the way I pass cowboys who all greet me happily. Most don’t know my name but they’re glad to see me anyway. One look at my clothes tells them that I am a bullfighter. I will risk my life to grant them a few seconds of safety They know that I will at least give them the chance to get up off the ground and run to the fence, avoiding danger. In the chutes, they’re getting the first bulls ready. A bull rope is slung around each bull’s belly, and is snugged up right behind their front legs. One end of the rope is called the tail. It gets passed through a loop on the other end of the rope and then the rope is tightened. The cowboys then wrap the remainder of the tail around their hands to secure their grip. A sticky substance called rosin is applied to the tail to keep it from slipping. If you listen hard, you can hear the occasional clanging of cowbells as the bulls mill around in the chute. The bells are hung on the bull rope for weight. When a cowboy lets go of the rope, this weight will cause the rope to fall harmlessly to the ground, so that no one has to remove it from an angry bull. Later, when the bulls are turned loose and are bucking wildly, you can hear the cowbells easily. Of course, by then everyone is too distracted to even notice it. The sun has gone down completely now as I walk out into the dusty arena. The first bull rider is preparing to climb aboard his bull. I secure my position, not too far away from the chute but not so
There Was a Blizzard
Blizzard white snow twirling dancing like another kind of ballerina. I see a girl she is white— seeing something I can’t see— a white hawk circling Alice Provost Simmons, 10Barrington, Rhode Island
