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
Cedar Wood and Rose
“It’s too cold.” “Aw, come on, Trinity, just jump!” I glowered at Will from the riverbank. “It’s too cold.” He considered me for a minute, then, holding his hands up in a sign of surrender, he walked out of the water, dripping, and sighed in resignation. I crossed my arms, feeling very proud of myself. I had finally out-willed him. Ha ha! I thought, You have no control over me now, Will Brydan! I was just about to voice this thought when he suddenly ran at me, scooped me up, and carried me kicking and screaming back into the lake, sundress and all. When he was up to his waist, and I was almost touching the water, he stopped. “Ready?” he asked, grinning down at me roguishly. I crossed my arms and glared at him, quite aware that I was helpless while he was holding me up like this. “You’re horrible,” I said with finality. This said, he promptly dropped me into the sun-warmed water. I came up sputtering, and immediately started swimming out to catch him. He was already out in the middle of our tiny lake. Laughing, he called out, “Hurry up, slowpoke! I haven’t got all day!” I quickened my pace, and before long, I caught up to him. “Now, aren’t you glad you came into the water?” he asked impishly. I opened my mouth to say something biting, but he had dunked me into the water again, and was off laughing. I came up with revenge written all over my face. This friend of mine needed to be taken down a notch. As we watched the clouds roll past, Will and I talked over the last couple of years I lunged after him with a yell, and caught him around the neck. After sufficiently punishing him for his ungentlemanly deeds by way of shoving him underwater, I relaxed and just floated there with my arms still around his neck. “You’re an idiot, did you know that?” I said to him after a little time had passed. He just smiled. “Yeah, I know.” After about an hour in the water, we retired to the shore and lay down in the grass, the sun shining over us. I spread my dark brown hair out so that it would dry faster, and turned my green eyes to the sky. As we watched the clouds roll past, Will and I talked over the last couple of years. He was only half a year older than me, but was about a foot taller and a lot stronger. I had been living here for as long as I could remember, and Will had always been in the picture someplace or another. He and his family lived across the lake from us, but he had always seemed like a brother to me. His mother home-schooled us both, so we never had much homework or the like to worry about for most of our lives. We had grown up in utopia. “Look at those clouds, they look like a dragon with a big fat knight running after it,” Will said. “Yeah… Do you remember when we went to that medieval masquerade in Riverside?” I asked. “Yep, that hoop skirt you had on was atrocious.” “It was not,” I answered, slapping him on the shoulder good-humoredly. “You were just mad that day because your mother made you wear that ridiculous suit.” “Any self-respecting seven-year-old would have been throwing fits,” he countered. “OK, fine,” I said. After a few minutes of companionable silence, a question popped into my mind. “Do you ever feel really old when we talk like this?” “Like what?” “Well, so… nostalgic.” Will turned onto his side to look at me, his coffee-colored hair glinting in the sun, and fixed his brown, almost black eyes on me. Assuming a very serious expression, and pursing his lips a little, he said, “Well now, I can’t say I have.” He stopped and winked at me. “That was the best imitation of Uncle Marty yet,” I told to him, smiling. Laughing, he rolled onto his back again, paused, and turned his head back in my direction. “You really think so? I thought I made him seem too old.” “Nope, that was as close to perfect as you’ve gotten yet.” * * * While walking home, we talked, joked, and laughed as only eleven-year-olds can. When we got there, our parents were in the living room discussing something in hushed voices. “Yep, there’s no way around it. The company transferred us both, and we can’t seem to get them to rethink their decision.” “But the children will be devastated.” “I know, Ellen,” Will’s dad said, “but it’s unavoidable.” “Do you have to move as far as Minnesota, though?” my mother asked. “Yes, I…” Will’s father trailed off as he saw us standing in the door. We were paralyzed, horrified at what we heard. “Where will we be moving?” I whispered, almost breathless from the tension. I was almost afraid to ask the question, and I dreaded the answer the minute the question came out of my mouth. “South Carolina.” I found Will skipping stones on the lake. When he had run out of the house after our parents told us we were moving to different states, I hadn’t been able to keep up with him. We didn’t say anything to each other; we just stood side by side, with “Will mechanically swinging his arm to throw the stones across the water. I watched as each of the stones skipped across the smooth, glassy surface of the lake. He never missed a beat. It had taken him a long time to learn how to do that. As I stood there, I reflected on all the golden years I had spent here. Everywhere I looked, I could name off something that had happened in that very spot. Each of the stones made their journey: skip… skip… skip… sink. Skip… skip… sink. Skip… skip… skip… skip… sink. After some
The Wolf
I sit on the porch The dark woods around me Insects chirping And listen To the distant sounds of the party Inside. It is a party thrown for me, By my parents. A party I didn’t want— Strangers crowding into our little house People I don’t know Pinching my cheeks Muttering lies about “How she’s grown!” I escape to the woods Fleeing the lights And the cheerful, pointless chatter And crouch in a dark clearing Reveling in the silence And the dark. A flash of movement And a wolf creeps into the clearing I freeze in fear Breath making tiny white puffs in the air Terrified to move Terrified to stay still. The slim, strong, deadly animal Looks at me Dark, intelligent eyes. Like my own. We stare in silence Caught in the spell of the winter woods. Then I whisper, “You’re alone, too?” The beautiful, elegant head Seems to dip in a nod And then the wolf Proud, fierce, and yet gentle, Turns and vanishes into the shadows. I walk slowly back to the house Returning to my party Where I wasn’t missed. Before I go inside I turn For one last look. Hoping somehow She had come to say goodbye. The trees are still and empty. Disappointed, I reach for the door And then stop— A sound from the forest. A long, lonely howl. It starts out rough But spirals up into a sweet, sorrowful note That sounds like tears And ends. I think of the wolf Alone in the forest. I face the trees and whisper, “Me too.” Coley Scheppegrell, 13Charlotte, North Carolina
Illumination
Rachel sat at her kitchen table, leafing through the Sunday newspaper. Comics, sports, politics… nothing caught her eye. She briefly skimmed the weather page, which had predicted sunshine; however, it was pouring outside. Looking up from the black-and-white pages, Rachel saw a world of gray. The smooth gray tile of her kitchen floor, the gray of the walls, the windowpanes, the bland chairs. Gray curtains bordered the windows. Through the dirty glass smudged with water droplets Rachel saw more gray—the sky, thick with rain and smog, the skeletal trees, the snow from that morning that had turned into unpleasant slush. Gray. Rachel sighed, lost in her thoughts. She was alone in the house, and her breath seemed to echo off the walls. She was alone more and more these days, since the divorce had taken over both her parents’ lives. In fact, she probably wouldn’t be in this house much longer—her mother was moving to New York City and buying an apartment, while her father was selling their current home and buying a smaller, more boring one in downtown Durham. Rachel and her younger brother, Grayson, were going to live with their father and then every month visit New York, where their mother would be living. It would be a lot of money, and Gary, Rachel’s father, would have to work another job to pay for it. “It won’t be far, Rach,” Rachel’s mother had said. “A two-hour plane flight, sweetie, and three seconds to dial the phone, I’ll pick up, and we can talk, dear, anytime. Right, Rachel?” The truth was, it seemed like Clair, Rachel’s mother, was trying to reassure herself, not Rachel. Looking up from the black-and-white pages, Rachel saw a world of gray “Yeah, Mom.” Rachel glanced into the hallway There stood boxes, brown cardboard boxes, stacked as high as the ceiling. The boxes were neatly labeled in Gary’s neat cursive, and each stack was categorized by name. To the right, a stack was labeled “Clair.” Another yet taller stack was labeled “Grayson.” Gary’s own stack was the highest. Next to it, there were three boxes with “Rachel” written on them. Rachel, unlike her mother or father, didn’t like to keep things. Gary kept every letter he received, every doodle from Rachel and Grayson, every newspaper article about a friend. One box, Rachel knew, contained some thirty diaries, kept over the course of Gary’s life. Clair was a little less extreme, yet more eccentric. Clair’s belongings were more unusual: a smooth stone with the word “believe” carved into its surface, a broken pocket watch, a Tootsie-Roll wrapper from when she was a child. Sculptures she had bought, and paintings she had created. While Gary’s things were neatly stacked inside the boxes, Clair’s were thrown pell-mell into the containers. However, Rachel’s possessions were minimal. A scrapbook. A photo album. Five of her most beloved novels. A spiral-bound notebook. A ragged old teddy bear. Because Rachel didn’t like things. She liked memories, not little trinkets symbolizing lost moments. Her room, empty now in preparation for the move, had been arranged simplistically, painted the palest of purples and decorated with wispy green leaves. Her bed had been a simple cherry wood frame with a sage-colored bedspread. She had had a desk. That was it. Rachel savored the memory, clinging to it, holding it, letting it comfort her. Rachel shivered as the warmth of the memory left her. Sighing, she stood up from the table, hoping her parents would be home soon. She was bored. Rachel had no hobbies, no likings, no special talents. She had nothing that could provide solace in her life, the life that was so scrambled from the divorce. No religious group, no tradition, no cultural beliefs. She had nothing. When the phone rang, Rachel screamed, as her ears had become accustomed to the utter silence. It felt good to scream, to let out some of the awful emotion that had entered her soul since the divorce. She screamed again, and then realized she should probably answer the phone. No, she thought, she didn’t have to. The answering machine would do it for her. She kept screaming, not caring who was calling. She didn’t have the heart to worry about anyone else right now. Rachel climbed the stairs to her dreary, empty bedroom. The quiet was haunting. It had been so long since this room had seen laughter, so long since there had been hordes of gossiping girls sitting on the floor and talking. So long. So long since Rachel had had a friend. * * * The last time Rachel had had a real friend was in the fourth grade. Now she was in eighth. The friend had been an Indian girl named Rubaina Tej. Rubaina was, in Rachel’s opinion, perfect. She was smart, kind, pretty, and creative. Rachel had passing grades, but nothing compared to Rubaina’s outstanding ones. The friendship had met a harsh end, with a large fight at the beginning of fifth grade. It began with the teacher mispronouncing Rubaina’s name. At recess, Rachel and Rubaina went to the swings. “Hey, Rub-in-ia,” Rachel had said, mockingly imitating the teacher’s mispronunciation. “Why don’t you get up and give me the good swing?” Rubaina looked disgusted. “Um… I… guess so… ” Rachel quickly jumped on the swing. “So, maybe you should call yourself Ruby, y’know, it sounds way more American, and it’d be way easier to spell.” Rubaina gritted her teeth. “I don’t think so.” “Well, I think it’s way better. Much more… nice and normal. I like more normal things. So, Ruby! What’s going on, Ruby? How are you, Ruby?” Rubaina jumped off the swing, cold flames rising in her unusual blue eyes. “You know what, Rachel Lewis? You know why you like average things? Because you are average. You have nothing special. You’re not smart, not artistic, you aren’t athletic, and you don’t win anything You know what, Rachel? I don’t have patience or time to waste my life with people
The Tale of the Strange Nobleman
Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful noble lady whose name was Thione. She was loved and cherished by all of her people, and her wisdom was prized for miles around. Her husband also was a brave and noble man, and loved by his people just as much as his wife. His name was Lord Paul, and he was lord over many of the king’s provinces. And so when the king invited him to a feast to celebrate his own marriage, Lord Paul had to attend, and his wife, Lady Thione, stayed to govern the castle during his absence. The journey was hard, but after weeks of travel, Lord Paul and his retinue entered the king’s palace. The feast was indeed as great as the king had said in his letter of invitation, and the splendor and aroma of the food made even the pickiest of the courtiers’ mouths water. There was fruit in abundance, meat stews, beef, pork, and chicken, a great variety of cheeses and breads, and wine that came specifically from the king’s cellars in honor of his bride. Yet happy as he was, Lord Paul also felt lonely for his fair Lady Thione, for he felt that the beauty of the new queen did not rival her, and soon this loneliness shown forth not only in his heart, but in his face, and the king, being keen of eye, noticed, and being slightly drunk from the overabundance of wine, was offended and inquired of his lord’s woe. The king could not believe his eyes, for there was the arrow, right in the center of the wreath “How can I be happy, o my king,” Lord Paul answered, “when I long for my own wife whose wisdom is famed in the provinces and whose beauty goes unrivaled?” Then the king was furious for he felt that his wife’s beauty would surely surpass any who dared to boast in such a way. Therefore, he, in anger, had Lord Paul sent to the dungeons, until “the woman of whom he boasted should prove her wisdom to be greater than his queen’s.” So he sent his decree to Lady Thione, convinced that nothing could rescue Lord Paul from his sentence. * * * Yet, as always, Lady Thione thought wisely and devoted all of her time to thinking of a way to rescue her husband on the king’s terms. Many days and nights she stayed in her tower, thinking and praying, till on the morning of the third day she emerged with a scheme. Quickly she commanded that a great and beautiful bow, inlaid with gold and silver, be made, along with a quiver of arrows of equal workmanship. Then she called to the blacksmiths for gauntlets and leggings of mail to be made, along with an iron helmet. Then she and her maids set to work on the finest embroidered shirt and tunic that could be made out of fine silk and velvet, stitching in many patterns, making it as beautiful an attire as possible. For one entire month they worked, none knowing what she was scheming. Finally, on the first day of spring, Lady Thione and her maids finished the strange-looking garment. She arrayed herself with the heavily embroidered shirt and tunic, tying them in place with a green silk sash into which she thrust two foreign knives. Then she did up her hair and put on her helmet, along with the chain-mail leggings and gauntlets, and a few articles of gold, Finally slinging on her bow and quiver. In that strange array, she looked like a young formidable prince from a far land, and her presence struck awe into her servants’ hearts. So she mounted her black mare and rode to the king’s palace. * * * The king could make nothing of the lordly stranger, except that he must be a great prince from a faraway land. His display of wealth was either the rashness of a fool, or he did not fear that anything would be stolen. The king decided upon the latter when he recognized the youth’s quiet, cold, yet courteous attitude. So he politely invited the travel-stained lordling into his hall, and asked him why he had come. The disguised Thione replied using a strange accent, “I have journeyed for many miles, as it is the custom of my country to learn of those who live beyond our great borders.” The king was nonplussed. But his wife was a little more suspicious and, whispering to the king, said, “O my king, I would be wary of that one, for something in me says that that is no man, but a woman who lies beneath that barbarian apparel.” The king looked at the waiting prince and softly replied, “Perhaps, Queen, but I feel inclined to test this noble stranger before making such a judgment. If it would ease your heart, then I shall have you devise what three tests should be given him.” To this the queen agreed, and the king turned again to the foreign prince. “In honor of your stay, we shall hold a feast, and events appropriate shall be named, of which I hope you will partake.” The strange nobleman nodded and the king continued. “Should you win all three of these events, I will grant one wish to you.” The prince bowed, and the king dismissed him to be guided to his quarters. The feast was held the next day, and the food was indeed great to behold. But the prince did not eat with his hands but withdrew from his sash a pair of wooden sticks that were pointed on one end and dull on the other. Positioning them like claws in his hand, he ate his meal in that fashion, much to the surprise of the court. All doubt that had been in the king’s mind until then was gone in that instant. The prince not only looked different, he acted different! The first event
Early Spring
The ice and snow are almost melted, Winter’s biting cold has mellowed, Mountains brown and bare for so long, Show an almost imperceptible haze of green. The sky is the delicate shade of thrushes’ eggs Soon to be laid in a nest of mud and twigs. A mole furrows the earth’s brow with his tunneling, Cautious tongues of green make their way Through last autumn’s leaves into the balmy air. The first robin pecks at the newly softened ground, And drags an unwilling worm into the light. Ava Alexander, 11Dalton, Pennsylvania
Travel Team
Travel Team by Mike Lupica; Penguin Young Readers Group: New York, 2004; $16.99 Hello, I’m Zach Hoffman and I’m twelve years old. I’m going into the seventh grade and I love to read and play sports. I like reading books in which kids play sports with their friends and teach you lessons on confidence, pride, and teamwork. When I read the book Travel Team, by Mike Lupica, I was taught all of those lessons. Danny Walker, age twelve, is the smallest but best seventh-grade basketball player in Middletown. To Danny’s misfortune, when he arrives at the tryouts for Middletown’s travel basketball team, he finds out the Vikings are looking for a bigger team this year. After two nights of exhausting hard work, Danny is told after the tryout that he didn’t make the team. Danny is told up front by the coach, Mr. Ross, that he didn’t make it because he knew his dad as a kid. Everyone else got a phone call at home. Danny takes his tryout misfortune too personally and thinks about quitting basketball altogether. Danny’s parents are divorced. Danny lives with his kind mom, who’s an eighth-grade teacher. His dad, who was a basketball child star and former NBA player, lives out of town. When Richie Walker hears his son didn’t make his old Middletown travel team, he arrives back in Middletown and at Danny’s side. Danny’s confidence is beginning to rise back up to start playing again. His dad creates another travel team. This immediately boosts Danny’s confidence and he can’t wait to start. Danny is put in charge of contacting all of his friends that didn’t make the Vikings and all the other kids he wants to play on the travel team. Last summer, my dad created a basketball team and put us in a summer basketball league. Like Danny’s team, we didn’t start out too hot. But throughout the season, we got better. I realized that it isn’t always about winning, but having fun and getting better at what you love to do. It was my first year to try out for my school’s A team in basketball last fall. I was really nervous that I wouldn’t make it and everyone would make fun of me. I practiced really hard every day. Every day I practiced, I got a little better. By the time the tryouts came, I knew I was ready to show the coaches what I could do on the court. After the two nights of tryouts, I waited a long week for the call to finally come. I had done it. I had made the A team! After all the hard work I put into it, I had succeeded at reaching my goal. Up to this day, my confidence has stayed with me and I know I can accomplish anything. There was one part of Travel Team that I especially liked. Danny’s Middletown Hawks had made it to the play-offs. To the Hawks’ disadvantage, they would have to play the Middletown Vikings, the team Danny had originally tried out for. Mr. Ross’s son is equally as good as Danny and is also a very good friend of Danny’s. Ty got mad at his dad for not letting him hang out with Danny and his other friends on the Hawks. So before the big rivalry game, Ty becomes the newest member of the Middletown Hawks. When the game starts, the Vikings go up by a couple points. But Danny and Ty work up some plays to get the Hawks right back in the game. In the end, the game is won by the Hawks, after Danny makes a left-handed pass to Ty for a layup. I really enjoyed this book and hope to read another one by the magnificent author and ESPN sports reporter, Mike Lupica. Zach Hoffman,12Cincinnati, Ohio
A Faraway Place
Click here to link to a reading of the story by its author, Emmy J. X. Wong. Nan stared directly into the gray fog, letting the present day obliterate into the cold ethereal wetness. Standing defiantly on the pitching deck of the fast ferry, the Flying Cloud, which had left Hyannis only one hour earlier, she stared blankly at the emerging and unwelcoming, rocky shoreline in front of her and the cream-colored moorings that dotted the horizon fast approaching. How could her mom do this to her? she questioned. She was referring to her mom sending her here, or was it… nowhere? How could her mom send her to the place the Native Americans called “that faraway place, Nantucket”? she asked herself. It just wasn’t fair. “She knew what summer vacation meant to me,” Nan declared stubbornly. Nan relived the worn-out argument she had had with her mom at the ferry terminal just before her departure. She didn’t want to understand why she had to take care of Grammy Armstrong in ‘Sconset for the whole summer while her mom stayed behind to work as a nurse at Cape Cod Hospital. She and her mom had moved to Cape Cod, Massachusetts, less than a year ago, just after the divorce. Her mom had said she wanted them to be closer to her family. Little did she know then she’d be sent to take care of an aging grandmother she hadn’t seen since she was five years old! “It’s not fair,” she heard her pleading words now echo aloud to an unsympathetic, weathered seagull who had come to perch on the cold, steely railing next to her. “I won’t see any of my friends this summer.” But no one was listening. She thought about the stolen sleepovers she and her new best friends, Molly and Claire, had carefully planned, the lost trips to sandy white beaches under azure skies that the Cape was famous for, and the lazy days she had planned to bank reading beneath the generous awning of a shady maple in the backyard before starting seventh grade. How could her mom do this to her? Just then a single blast of a horn sounded to interrupt her reverie. “Prepare for landing,” she heard the captain’s voice bellow across the crackling loudspeaker. The auburn-haired girl pulled her nubby, evergreen sweater tighter around her waist and wiped away a tear before finding her bag and departing down the gangplank with a crowd of tourists. When she reached solid ground, Nan dutifully pulled out her cell phone, dialed her mom first to tell her of a safe arrival, then the cab company owned by her uncle. In no time at all, a cheerful man of few words, simply dressed in a khaki pressed shirt and a sea captain’s hat, Uncle Tommy of Tommy’s Taxi, had scooped her up and headed for the eastern part of the island where she would spend her entire summer totally bored to death, no doubt. When Nan arrived at the natural shingled two-story clapboard Cape on the leeward side of the island, she was immediately taken by the ruffled carmine-pink roses that grew in sprays from bushes hugging the bleached-shell driveway and the lacy blue hydrangeas in the front garden. The sunlight was peaking out from behind the clouds, now casting a cheerful wash of sunshine over everything in her path. She stole a quick glance upward at the black iron weather vane forged into the shape of a whale, which sat atop the roof, and wondered if it held any special significance. Upon entering the house through the side entry, Nan was enveloped by warmth that felt as comforting as her mother’s old calico patchwork quilt she used to drag from the hallway closet whenever she was sick. There was a familiar feeling to the place. Nan headed up the uncarpeted narrow steps to the breezy second-story bedrooms where Uncle Tommy had promised she would find her gram, before he had to hurry off to pick up a paying customer. Immediately upon eyeing the frail woman with the dancing pale-blue eyes and mop of snowy hair, Nan knew she was home. “I’m so happy to see you, my Nanette,” exclaimed the older woman, with enthusiasm. “I hope I won’t be a burden to you,” she added meekly, her voice withering. “Ever since I caught pneumonia last winter, my Yankee stamina just hasn’t been the same.” Nan hugged the elderly woman firmly and returned a wide grin. She was genuinely happy to see her gram and hoped she would be on the mend soon. She now wanted to be of some help to the sprightly woman she felt close to but barely knew. The next day, Grammy Armstrong was sitting up among the patchwork covers and working her hands to create what looked like a neatly woven basket. “It’s a lightship basket,” she informed Nan. My great-granddad was a lightship keeper in the early days, as were many in my family.” “What’s a lightship, Gram?” asked Nan with keen interest. “A lightship is like a lighthouse, only it’s a ship that floats offshore to keep sailors from crashing on the shoals,” she began to explain. “These waters south of Nantucket are some of the most dangerous seas you’ll ever come across. Hundreds of ships have wrecked in these parts, so the lightship was the answer to warn sailors in the south shoals.” It seemed Nan now had more questions, not fewer, after her gram’s studied reply. “What’s a shoal? But how is the basket related to the lightship? Do lightships still exist? Can I go see one?” Nan anxiously fired back a flurry of questions. “Come with me,” Gram beckoned, taking Nan by the hand and leading her downstairs to take up a comfortable corner in the warm, sunlit kitchen. Over steaming mugs of peppery Earl Grey tea and sweet raisin scones lavished with heaps of tangy rose-hip jelly, Grammy Armstrong told her tales of lightships
