Keeping Score, by Linda Sue Park; Clarion Books: New York, 2008; $16 Before I read Keeping Score, when I thought of baseball, I thought of boys. I thought the only way people got to know the game of baseball was by playing it. After I read it, I was inspired to learn more about the baseball teams in my area (the Cubs and the White Sox). Before I knew it, I was watching games on TV, and even getting to be a pretty good hitter! Now, baseball doesn’t seem so much like a boy thing anymore! During the Korean War, which is when Keeping Score takes place, playing baseball almost always was for boys. But Maggie, the main character, knows the game of baseball like the back of her hand, and she got to know it the hard way: by listening to every single Brooklyn Dodgers game on the radio. She never misses a pitch. In fact, it is while she’s listening to a game at the nearby firehouse where her dad used to work that she meets Jim. He’s another intense fan, but for the New York Giants. The two talk baseball, compare favorite players, and laugh about most everything. And perhaps most importantly, it’s Jim who teaches Maggie to keep score. And keeping score of a baseball game isn’t the same as scoring a soccer game, or a football game. Keeping score of a baseball game requires concentration, and a really huge knowledge of baseball. Everything changes when Jim is drafted into the Korean War. But at least sending letters back and forth from Korea to America is sort of fun for Maggie. And while letters are going back from Korea to America, the Dodgers are winning game after game. It means a lot to every Dodgers fan, especially Maggie! You see, the Dodgers had never won the World Series. Not even once. But now, even the Yankees (their main rivals) are being crushed by the Dodgers! There are so many wins that the losses hardly matter. And then, something horrible happens. After hours of carrying bodies in from the battlefield, Jim stops walking, talking, and moving altogether. He’s suffering from what your parents might call post-traumatic stress syndrome. And right after the Dodgers’ huge winning streak, they lose the pennant game! To the Yankees! Both baseball and life are a cycle of hope and disappointment, and with the Dodgers out of the World Series and Jim sick from the war, it seems like disappointment is all there is. But I think that Maggie’s love of baseball really helps her get through all these setbacks. After all, even after Willie Mays strikes out five times, he still has the determination to come up to bat and hit a solo home run. And it really helps me to think about this idea too. Little disappointments happen to me every day, solo auditions I didn’t get, the White Sox losing a game, a test I didn’t ace. It’s important to just keep trying. So Maggie comes up with a plan. She decides that when Jim comes home she will take him to see a Giants game at Ebbets Field. She spends months saving up for it. And that’s not all. To help Jim get better she decides to do the hardest thing she has ever had to do in her life: pray for the Giants to win the World Series. I will not tell you how this all works itself out—you’ll just have to read it for yourself! But what I really admire about Maggie is how she had the strength to sacrifice all of this just to help a friend. Eliza Edwards-Levin, 10Chicago, Illinois
Bailey’s Resolve
The hot sun beat down on us like we were grilled-cheese sandwiches. As I bent down to pick up an empty bag of chips, I fell on the dried-up dirt and a drop of sweat fell to the ground. The thirsty ground sucked it up and I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Mrs. Porter standing beside me, sneering. “Getting tired, Bailey?” she asked. With aching muscles I got up off the ground and wiped the dust from my sunburnt knees. “No, ma’am,” I said triumphantly. As she walked away I stuck out my tongue and hoped that it would rain. Here we were along the highway, Stacy, Michael, and I, doing our ten hours of community service that were required before our field trip to Hillside Meadows. I thought about how terrible it had been when Mrs. Porter had announced that the class was going to have to work for our trip. Of course, the three of us hadn’t done it yet, so Mrs. Porter had taken charge, postponing our much-anticipated field trip and making the three of us do it all in one day. I watched Michael’s dirt-streaked pants as they shifted slowly around on the other side of the highway. The community service was bad enough, but my fellow workers weren’t exactly the cream of the crop. Michael was rude and seemed never to wear clean clothes. He was one of the worst people to spend a hot Saturday with. Stacy wasn’t as bad, but she always wore about twenty bracelets on each arm so you were stuck with the annoying sound of clacking all day long. “Getting tired, Bailey?” I looked down at the cracked Arizona dirt and sighed. I stuck my pole into an old plastic bag and then threw it into a torn trash bag. Mrs. Porter wasn’t the worst teacher around, she really tried to make class fun, but when it came to the three of us she seemed to have a grudge. I wasn’t a bad kid, or at least that’s what Momma said. “One of these days, you’ll open up and all your wonderful abilities will spill out onto your worksheets and textbooks, and the school will know exactly what Bailey McDowel is truly made of,” she used to say; and I believed it. But that was before Dad had gotten sick, and after that Momma only said, “You can do better.” After that, I stopped believing in both my ability and Daddy getting better. I angrily punched a milk carton, blocking the stressful thoughts from my head, and threw it in the bag with all the strength I could muster. “Only an hour left,” Mrs. Porter announced happily from where she was resting on a beat-up lawn chair. I heard jingling from across the road as Stacy threw her arms up in celebration. The hour passed slowly, and soon I saw Momma’s tired face from the bus as we pulled into the school parking lot. Momma didn’t smile much anymore, and that made it harder for me. She always seemed filled to the brim with sadness. Daddy had pulled me into his bedroom one day about a month after he was diagnosed with his cancer, and he pulled me right onto the bed so my head was resting on his, and he whispered, “Baby, don’t you let your Momma’s spirits get down, and trust me when I say that she’ll get a sad sickness worse than my own disease if you do.” Then he had patted my hand and I had promised him I’d take care of Momma. So when I saw her, I thought of my promise to Daddy and I put on a cheerful face just for her as I walked to our Cadillac across the dusty parking lot. “How was your day, Momma?” I said with a smile as I climbed into the front seat. “Oh good, honey, just fine. Your daddy just had his treatment today, so be careful to be quiet when we get home, he’s taking a nap,” she replied with a meager smile. I racked my brain for something more to say, but soon the quiet hum of the car seemed to make a canyon of silence between us, and I kept my mouth shut. I was glad to be home, and glad to see Daddy sleeping with a peaceful smile as I walked down the hall. Our house was made of weathered brown boards and there was a garden in the back. Momma loved to garden, but lately it was overgrown. I didn’t mind, though. Gracie, my best friend, and I enjoyed the wild roses that lay tangled on the granite stepping stones. I often snipped stems to put in a vase in the kitchen or on Daddy’s bedside table to cheer him up. Sunday passed in a blur, filled with the quiet thumps of feet tiptoeing down the hall past Daddy’s room where he lay asleep. Monday morning, I woke up feeling tired, but I had a little excitement built up for our field trip today, and I had big plans. I had resolved to myself on Sunday that, no matter what, I would make Momma laugh or smile again this week, and keep my promise to Daddy. I ate some toast and orange juice, gave Daddy’s white head a kiss, and hopped on the bus with promises for the coming day. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked, more of a statement than a question When we arrived at the school, Mrs. Porter fussed about, straightening our collared shirts and swaying skirts. She then lined us up accordingly to get on the bus that would take us the hour ride to the well-known Hillside Meadows. Stacy was there, with a smiling face and four blue bracelets, and so was Michael, with what seemed to be a clean shirt. I gave them a smile and stepped into the noisy bus, ready for the crowded ride. The bus
The Ship in a Bottle
Sarah stared at the detail in the rigging of the tiny ship inside the glass bottle the window of the Chandlery had to offer. She hoped someday it could be her personal vessel. If it were hers, oh, the marvelous adventures she would send it on! But the time for daydreaming was over. The day was becoming eclipsed. She surveyed the horizon where the pale blue cloudless sky sank swiftly into inky surf. Down by the docks, she knew her father, an earnest fisherman in the short summer months, was probably whiling away the cold, hard afternoon whittling a small piece of ash. She could picture him in his work, humming sea-faring ditties to keep himself company. Newfoundland could be a desolate place in the stark winter months. She would finish her daily stroll along the deserted rocky shoreline hunting for rare treasure or a treasure map, as was her daily custom, and meet up with her father before heading home for supper. She knew her mother would have a thick meaty stew simmering on the woodstove, while Jordy, still only a toddler, would be amusing himself in his high chair with a tarnished silver spoon dangling from his mouth. But today was not like any other. At once Sarah spied the translucent bottle holding pieces of sea and sky, bobbing up and down on the near cresting waves. It was the most curious thing she had ever seen. Standing on the shoreline and being careful not to get her only pair of shoes wet, she picked up the indigo bottle and emptied its foamy contents back into the sea. Upon doing so, the bottle’s smooth glassy surface caught her fancy. It appeared to be a very ancient bottle, not at all like the kind found in the local Pierce’s Mercantile and General. Inside its neck sat a bloated, saturated piece of cloth-like paper that had markings on it resembling tightly curled letters. Sarah knew from her home-schooling that the first bottles were invented by the Egyptians millennia ago, and likely the scrawl it held could not be hieroglyphics. Still, it looked like cuneiform. Could the bottle be one that originally held spirits, perhaps tossed overboard by a sailor from a Spanish galleon? Or could it have been discarded by an English vessel, possibly by a ship’s doctor, having already outlived its medicinal purpose? And what story lay buried in the mysterious code being held captive in its hull? She was enthralled with the bottle’s curved, frosted appearance, and its wide, long neck. Along its shaft, it appeared pitted. Yes, this was a stalwart mariner of sorts which had sailed nobly and durably upon the high seas, possibly for centuries. It was the most curious thing she had ever seen Upon eyeing the curious bottle, her father had an idea. Although Sarah was reluctant at first to relinquish the treasure back into its briny home, she also recognized an opportunity to own a twin to the tiny ship making its home in the Chandlery. So, after much deliberation over a supper of moose-and-carrot stew and buttermilk biscuits, the plan was decided upon. After the evening meal, Sarah chose one of her father’s best hand-carved miniature orca whales, the more acclaimed inhabitants of Newfoundland, to slip into the fluted neck of the bottle. She and her father carefully corked the bottle and sealed it with hot wax from the cabin’s only light source. With the next changing of the tides, the vessel again was launched. * * * On a sun-drenched afternoon, with the reflecting rays so strong as to be blinding, Michel was intrigued by what he saw just meters in front of him, swirling in an eddy. It could be a small grayish-blue sandpiper or it could be a fluid bottle, the color of sea. From a distance, he was not certain which. Michel’s feet burned from the sand as hot as embers leading down to the shoreline of Cote d’Ivoire. He painstakingly made his way to the lapping waves to retrieve the ancient relic, which had appeared as if by magic. At once, he brought the glistening bottle back to his father to study. There was no doubt; this bottle had been put into the vast sea with purpose. It had a message to deliver. The twelve-year-old boy twisted the cork out of the bottle with keen interest. The contents were surprisingly dry. Looking inside the walls of the bottle, he spotted the hand-carved whale and smiled. Carefully constructed, it seemed it had been fashioned just for his amusement. His father, who knew some other languages in addition to his native French, was able to decipher that the carefully penned alphabet on the accompanying note was in fact Arabic. The name inscribed at the bottom in English was “Sarah” and the date recorded as eight months previously. The writing above it was primitive and resembled pictograms. Sarah’s penmanship in comparison was well developed next to the small picture of the cetacean with its signature spout. Michel and his father thought long and hard of an appropriate response and after three whole days of devoted consternation chose two small items that would represent their proud country and tossed it back into the sea. Carefully constructed, it seemed it had been fashioned just for his amusement * * * When Keiko discovered the bottle on the rocks overlooking Yokohama Bay, she was enchanted. Without hesitation, she uncorked the aqua frosted vessel. Immediately a scent of cacao and coffee wafted from its portal. She closed her eyes and pictured coffee beans picked and roasted from a plantation set back under a canopy of lush leafy trees. The scent was pungent. This was very different from the smell of fish escaping from the local cannery and the scent of green tea which filled her nostrils, rising from her mother’s teapot at each morning and evening meal. Keiko pondered over which item to put next into the experienced seafaring vessel. Her grandfather
Beating the Storm
I zoom uphill Take a cautious turn onto the road Coasting downhill feels great Like jumping in the ocean No pedaling, a cool breeze Still lurking in my mind The thought of pushing the limit To go back uphill I slowly come across a steep hill My thighs burn I am going in slow motion But it is worth going up this hill For the thrill of going down the other side The cool air whips across my shirtless skin I rocket down the hill Hill by hill I pedal Until my body feels like one big wet noodle A storm cloud approaches Making it more of a challenge to get to the lake The air feels like swimming in hot water I finally reach the last hill My energy bursts Like squeezing water from a sponge I reach the lake Relief fills my body First move… JUMP IN The water is perfect Alec Zollman, 13Strafford, New Hampshire
The Drawing
“I’m moving.” Anabeth stared at Leo. Her mouth was hanging open and her eyes were wide. “What?” “I’m moving to New York City.” Anabeth gulped. “Funny. Ha ha,” she said tentatively. “It’s not a joke. I’m moving.” The words seemed to hang in the air. Anabeth stared at Leo across the basketball she held in her hands. “Why?” “M’dad got a new job.” “But you’ll come and visit, right?” “S’pose” “It’s not a joke. I’m moving” Anabeth didn’t know what to do, so she threw the ball. It bounced off the rim of the hoop. Leo’s gaze followed the ball as it rolled towards the shed, but he did not follow it. Neither did Anabeth. Later, Leo could not say how long they stood there silently. It seemed hours. Finally, Anabeth’s mom came out of the house and called, “Cookies!” * * * The next day at school Anabeth could not pay attention. Her eyes kept straying to Leo, who was sitting at the desk next to her. She kept replaying last night’s conversation in her mind. New York City. How could he live so far? She bent over her textbook and tried to read. What did she care if Peter Stuyvesant had a peg leg? She stole another glance at her best friend. He sat absorbed in his textbook, twirling one stray bang. She would miss that about him. No matter where he was, Leo was almost always twirling a bit of his jet-black hair. * * * Anabeth rode as fast as she could. Years of practice kept her from falling off her bike. The roads and houses and farms of Geneva, New York, flew past her. Her mind raced, trying to find something positive about the situation. At least we’re staying in the same state. He’s only going to be a day’s drive away. * * * Leo saw Anabeth coming five minutes before she arrived. When she got there she leapt off her bike and ran to him. Only when she was a few feet away did he realize she was crying. This was strange somehow. They stood there quietly for a moment. Then all at once, Anabeth let out a sob and ran forward. She flung her arms around him and then just cried. Leo returned the hug without really thinking. “Come on! We have to go!” Leo’s dad’s voice rang out through the silence. Anabeth detached herself from Leo and reached into her basket. She pulled out a piece of paper. “I thought you might want this.” She handed it to him. He unfolded the paper and looked at the drawing of a girl with blond hair and a boy with jet-black hair, riding bikes by a lake. He recognized it as Seneca Lake. He and Anabeth had often ridden their bikes there. “Come on!” Leo raised his eyes to Anabeth’s. “Good-bye… Anabeth.” She was crying again. “Good-bye.” He climbed into the car and stared out of the window. As he stared at his best friend in front of his house, growing smaller and smaller, a single tear ran down his cheek. * * * “Leo! Wake up!” Leo opened his eyes. The car was no longer speeding past country fields, but driving over a great bridge. Leo had lived in the more country-like part of Geneva, so the sight of the city ahead made his eyes grow wide. “Beautiful, right?” Leo shrugged. So far the Manhattan skyline was unimpressive. Just a jumble of buildings. “See that one in the middle? The really tall one?” Leo nodded. “That’s the Empire State Building.” They finally got to the other end of the bridge. The buildings here were much taller than the ones he normally saw. “We’re going to take a detour. We’ll go to Times Square.” His father took a bunch of turns and twists, following the streets that all looked the same to him. How could anybody find their way? Back in Geneva he and Anabeth had nicknamed all of the roads: Cherry Road (there was a Cherry tree), Farm Road (there was a bunch of farms). And then there was the best: Seneca Road. This road went all the way around Seneca Lake. Lost in thought, Leo stared out of the window, not really seeing. The streets sped past, not really meaning anything. “Leo, we’re here.” Leo woke from his daydreams, and the busy streets and loud music of New York came back to him. They were entering a little area that was like a town. Every building was made of the same red bricks. They stopped in front of a building. The building was on top of a hill, along with several other buildings. He climbed the stairs and peered around the corner of the building. Right next to the building that would soon be his home, was a little playground. * * * Several hours later, Leo stood in his room. It was fairly big. It had two windows, and pushed to one wall was his old loft bed and on another was a white shelf. He walked over to the shelf and pulled out the drawing. Now that he looked at it, he could see that all Anabeth’s artistic skill was put into it. He could see each strand of hair, even a twinkle in the eyes. But the real beauty was not them, but the lake behind them. She had managed to make it shimmer, and make each current a different shade of blue-green. She had drawn the beautiful trees that held white flowers. One fell onto his shoulder, and his hand went up from the bike to brush it away. The hills behind the lake were a rich green, and somehow Anabeth had drawn the mist so that it looked real. Leo took one last glance at it, and then tucked it away in a little box on the shelf. Then he lay on the bed and stared out of the window. He could see the city
The Tracks
The day I saved Mark’s life, there was no sign of disaster in the brilliant blue sky that sparkled in my eyes as I awoke, casting the shadow of my rocking chair over the wooden floor. It was August, at the peak of tourist season. Rob was off to camp, way up in the Berkshires of Massachusetts. So I decided to pop down to the tracks. This was one of me and Rob’s favorite hangouts, besides the amusement park where Rob’s uncle worked. I quietly slipped on some clothes, careful not to wake my younger brother, Scott. Ma had warned him off the tracks on pain of death. Anyways, he was too young for me to bother with. As I passed Ma’s room, I took care to avoid the creaky board. If she had woken, she would’ve demanded where I was off to, and she’d never let me go, even if I managed a lie. I had my appendix out last July, and I think Ma near fainted from grief, being that my older brother died from appendicitis. Ma was a wee bit paranoid now, it being five years to the date after his death. As I passed the kitchen, I snatched an apple from the bowl on the table. There were a few flies buzzing around last night’s dishes in the sink. I was careful not to let any more in, as I crept out the back. Virginia in the summer is hot, even with the sea nearly in the backyard. The sweat was pouring off me by the time I reached the tracks. I saw Joe Parkinson there already. Him and his brother Mark were trying to light a fire with a magnifying glass. I waved at them before I jogged down the tracks to my spot. “Mark, come on!” I screamed frantically It was right at a curve in the tracks, and closed in on three sides. I thought of it as a sort of nook in the hillside. I stayed crouched there while I finished my apple, right down to the seeds. I made a game of spitting them across the tracks, after flicking the stem into the grass. Joe and Mark had given up their fire, and were walking up the tracks toward me. They could have been twins, they looked so alike—the same tousled dirtyblond hair and wide, green eyes—but there were nearly three years between them. “That was some crack in Scouts, wasn’t it?” Joe asked, by way of greeting. I nodded amiably and jumped down from the nook. Mark was rubbing his head, remembering. We had let out the least dangerous of Counselor Sawman’s snakes, and were playing with them. I was absently poking one of the sleepier ones with a stick. Joe rather likes snakes, so he didn’t like my prodding. He snatched the stick from my hand. “Hey!” I shouted. Joe was dancing away, routinely holding the stick out temptingly, then pulling it back. I ran at him with my arms out threateningly. We collapsed in a wrestling heap. I could see Mark quietly sneaking up behind, so I tried to keep Joe occupied. It worked. Mark quickly pounced on Joe’s sneaker. “Ha,” he whooped, and whisked away before Joe could move. Mark set off at a canter, holding the shoe above his head. I was watching him with a laugh about to burst out of my lips, when he suddenly disappeared. His sneakers, meant for tramping, had no grips on their soles and had slid on the slick leaves. He had fallen backwards into the steep slope we called the Gorge. It was maybe twenty feet wide, thirty feet deep and greatly resembled a miniature valley. I rushed over, in time to see Mark’s flailing limbs roll down the hill at great speed. I grimaced. Joe was standing very still; he didn’t even appear to be breathing. I realized that I was holding my breath. Crack! Mark’s head bounced off a log at the bottom of the Gorge. Joe and I hurriedly skidded down to him. We dragged him back up the hill, panting heavily. He was “all right,” Joe diagnosed, while I meekly enclosed the snakes in their cages once again. I smiled nervously now, and reached down for some loose stones to chuck across the tracks. Mark was laboriously placing some pebbles along the rail. They seemed to be rather unsteady, and kept wobbling to and fro. “Ed,” shouted Joe, “train’s comin’!” I dropped my rocks and ran back to the shelter of the trees with Joe. Mark’s pebbles had almost all been shaken off the rail, but Mark was still sitting by it. “Mark,” Joe called, “move it!” Mark didn’t move, just kind of twitched. “Mark, come on!” I screamed frantically. I could hear the train’s whistle now, the one it always blew right before it came hurtling around the bend. In my mind, I could already see Mark’s broken body being flung down the tracks like a rag doll. I knew I couldn’t let that happen, but my body seemed as slow as my mind was fast. I rushed at Mark with a sudden pump of adrenaline. I felt my hands collide with his bony shoulders as, at the same time, I flung myself backwards to escape the train. The driver had seen us seconds before. I could smell my hair burning from the friction sparks of braking wheels on track. I waited breathlessly as the short train passed. It might have only lasted seconds, but it felt like years I waited for that train to go. And when it did, I saw Mark. He was huddled on the other side of the tracks, with his head in his hands. But he appeared to be alive. The train had come to a screeching halt a few hundred yards ahead. People were indignantly streaming out of it. I could hear a man loudly complaining to his wife, who appeared to have her eyes closed. It
In Mozart’s Shadow: His Sister’s Story
In Mozart’s Shadow: His Sister’s Story, by Carolyn Meyer; Harcourt Children’s Books: New York, 2008; $17 Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was gifted in music beyond imagination. He was a genius, a prodigy. He is remembered and respected by thousands of people all over the world as one of the greatest composers. But no one remembers his sister, Nannerl Mozart. She was almost as talented as Wolfgang, but she was a girl. Possibly the best harpsichordist of her time, Nannerl was pushed away from her musical dreams to make room for her brother’s brilliance. As children, Wolfgang and Nannerl sat for hours, side by side, at the harpsichord, making music together. At one point in Carolyn Meyer’s book, In Mozart’s Shadow, Nannerl says, “My brother might tease me about almost anything but he never said a critical word about my keyboard technique. I adored him for that.” I found In Mozart’s Shadow to be a rather sad, yet compelling story, not because of death or tragedy, but because Nannerl had more disappointments than joys. Her one solace was her music. I have had three very disappointing piano teachers, causing me to lose joy in my music. But reading Nannerl’s story and how she loved making music has inspired me to love playing again. I live in a pretty, small town, not as ancient and refined as Salzburg, Austria, where the Mozarts lived, yet like it in some ways. Sometimes when I am at home, I feel caged and isolated, and when I am away from home, I miss it and realize how wonderful it is. In the story, Nannerl Mozart can never achieve her full potential living in Salzburg, but she yearns for it when she leaves it. The character I could not make up my mind about was Nannerl’s father, Leopold Mozart. He was a devoted teacher to his children and he took them all over Europe. They traveled to the courts of the greatest powers of the time, to entertain the nobility with their extraordinary playing. But soon Leopold gave all his attention to Wolfgang and forgot his daughter until the end of his life when he needed her. I have conflicting feelings about Leopold; I can see why he would give up his talented daughter for his brilliant son. However, to leave Nannerl behind when he took Wolfgang to Italy, and not give her her chance, was awful. Leopold loved his daughter, but she was a girl, and her only respectable future in his eyes was marriage. The father and son traveled to Italy numerous times, where Wolfgang studied music. Yet Wolfgang resented the never-ending control of his father and he longed to break away. Probably all of us have known someone who grew up too closely tied by their parents and when they broke free they became distant or moved away, fearing to be fettered again. So it was with Wolfgang. My brother and I often play with dolls. We can spend hours making up stories for the dolls to act out. Nannerl and Wolfgang did a similar thing with chess pieces. As they played the game of chess, they would make up stories for the pieces to live out. Nannerl often felt that she and Wolfgang were two halves of one person, and when they played together they became whole. I thought Carolyn Meyer wrote a beautiful story about people who really lived. Through the eyes of Nannerl Mozart, the characters struggle and achieve, living out their lives with both sorrow and joy. Gertrude S. Suokko, 13Woodstock, Vermont
Summer Days
“That one looks like a ship,” I say, pointing my finger to a large cloud. I can almost see Captain Hook swaggering on the deck, but then my fantasy just evaporates into another fat cloud. I turn my head and see a herd of elephants parading through the sky. They stampede through the clouds, and I say nothing, waiting for them to disappear into a daydream. I imagine the sun shining on the elephants in Africa. “Eliza?” Jamie asks, breaking my trance. “What? Sorry… wasn’t listening,” I say. “We noticed,” Hazen snorts. “Hey now!” I say, sitting up. “You are so out of it, Liza.” “Speak for yourself,” I shoot back to Hazen. “Look!” Jamie says, breaking our friendly bickering. Two huge clouds are going toward each other. I’m confused. The wind should be pushing them in the same direction. “They’re on different planes,” explains Jamie. “Thank you for enlightening us, boy super-genius,” Hazen says, but I marvel at the clouds as they hover above us, going toward each other faster than the average clouds. But when the two clouds meet, nothing happens. They just go by. Are we like that? Do we not even know it when something incredible just passes us by? “Huh,” is all I have to say. We all lie back down, staining the backs of our shirts with wet grass, to watch the clouds. Are we like that? Do we not even know it when something incredible just passes us by? “This is what summer is meant to be,” says Hazen lazily. I nod wholeheartedly. “Yeah,” agrees Jamie. “Hey, look! That one looks like an E,” he says. “Yeah, it does,” I say. “I wonder if the cloud gods are trying to tell me something?” I wiggle my eyebrows, and Hazen cracks up. “Let’s go!” Hazen says, jumping up. I follow her, knowing exactly what she means. “Where are we supposed to go?” asks Jamie, not yet caught on. “Anywhere! Everywhere!” I say, and start running. Hazen flies by me. Jamie soon catches up. We sprint through the infinity of green fields. My feet get covered in dewy mowed grass, but who cares? I run with the wind. With the ground beneath my feet, and the sun shining for us high above. Something about this carefree feeling is better than anything else. When school starts, these times are gone, so I savor the thundering noise of my feet hitting the ground, and the wind pushing my hair into my face, and sun hurting my eyes. The three of us run until we collapse. My heart is beating way too fast, but I’m still in energy mode. “Chicken,” I say. “Low,” Jamie responds immediately. “Tree!” I shout. It is my favorite game. “Leaf.” “Alphabet.” “Bog.” “Flame!” “Stare.” I wonder how long this game could go. It is nothing. You shout words until someone pauses. But it is the best game in the entire world. “Um, guys, what’s going on?” asks Hazen. Jamie and I keep shouting. Finally I point to Hazen, and say one word. “You.” And just like that, she has joined the endless game. After a while Jamie stops, and Hazen drains out, too. Now I am the only one screaming. I must sound like a lunatic. One last word. “Champion!” I yell, laughing. “Hey, look over there!” says Hazen. A huge rock bulges out in the meadow. It is covered in ivy, moss, and prickles, and surrounded by high grass filled with thorns and milkweed. “Let’s climb it!” I say. Jamie and Hazen look reluctant. “Oh c’mon!” Hazen follows me, but Jamie stays. “Please, Jamie?” He shakes his head. “No prickles for me,” he says. “Fine,” says Hazen, and we jog over to the unmowed weeds around the rock. “OK, here we go,” I say, and start fighting my way through the jungle that reaches my belly button. “Ow!” My first thorn—with many to follow, I’m sure—scratches my leg. I hear an almost responding “Ow!” behind me from Hazen. We forge on. When we’re halfway there, I hear a voice not belonging to Hazen. “Ouch!” “Jamie!” I turn. “Thanks for coming.” We wait for him to catch up, and then continue. After many prickles, scratches, and pauses for tick checks, we reach the top. I look around the rock. I see the same things but from a higher perspective. “Well, this is a disappointment,” Hazen says. I kind of agree with her, but don’t want to admit it. “It’s cool,” says Jamie. “Look at the mountains!” Hazen says. They seem to have risen out from the horizon. The clouds around them are pinkish from the reflected sun. “Wow.” “Wow wow,” I say. “Let’s go,” says Jamie. “OK,” I say. “Wasted effort…” “Your idea,” points out Hazen. “Fine. Last one down is a wasted effort!” I say, already sprinting through the thorns. They ignore me, slowly picking their way through the prickles. When they reach the bottom, we compare scratches. “Thank God for long shorts,” says Hazen. “Yeah,” says Jamie. I look at my shorter shorts and notice I have twice as many scratches as each of them. “Oh well,” I sigh. We stand in silence. “Whadda you want to do now?” asks Jamie. “Blah,” says Hazen, a twinkle in her eye, and the game starts up again. We shout and scream, and act like little kids. How nice it is to pretend, just for one day, that we’ve gone back in time, and there is nothing more important in the world than us having fun. Carefree. If you know that there is reason to care, then there is no such thing as being free of that reason. Maybe that’s why it’s impossible to really pretend to be young again, back when you didn’t know that reason existed. After a while we are back on the grass above Hazen’s house again. I have one last favor to ask of this perfect carefree day. I stand up and start spinning in circles, just like
Seahorse
The wind blew against the trees, making them sway gently, their new leaves brushing each other lightly. The sweet sound of birdsong met my ears, along with the babbling of the stream and the gentle thu-thump of my horse’s hooves against the soft dirt track. It was a lovely day for a trail ride. The sun was shining, the cherry tree was in bloom, and everything was beautiful. My horse, too, was enjoying it. Her ears were pricked up, her trot was brisk, and the wind that ruffled her mane was keeping the flies away, too. She was an odd horse, to be sure. I had been there to witness her birth, and I was the first one to point out the oddest thing about her. “Look at her side!” I had whispered in astonishment. And there, as plain as day, was the word “sea.” She was paint (brown and white), so the spots were no surprise, but that one odd collection of spots on her left side… So we called her Seahorse. The first question people asked after we had told them about Seahorse’s word (as we referred to it) was “So, does she like water?” and the answer is “No, she loathes it with a passion.” And that’s right! I can’t even get her to cross the bridge over the stream! And whenever it rains, she’ll do anything to get inside. I live on a ranch, so there are a ton of horses and other animals around, but Seahorse is my favorite. I think it’s because I identify with her. You see, my name is Val. My mom says it stands for valor, but I always say it stands for Valerie. I’m not very brave. I’m scared of spiders, rats, crows, dogs, thunderstorms, and the dark. So, like Seahorse, I don’t really live up to my name. It was a lovely day for a trail ride The day was made even more bright and pretty by the promise of Becky’s arrival. She was my best friend and nothing at all like me. She was strong, confident, and didn’t have a name she had to live up to. She didn’t even look like me. She was tall, fair-skinned and had straight jet-black hair and green eyes. I was medium, tanned and had curly honey-blond hair and brown eyes. But we both loved horses, and that was enough! * * * The day had turned dark and oppressive by the afternoon. Thunder rumbled slightly in the distance and the sky was completely clouded over. I was watching out the window for the red pickup I knew would be coming into the driveway any second. When it did, I jumped up and ran down the stairs yelling, “Becky’s here! Becky’s here!” When I got outside I slowed down, and we gave each other high fives. We ran inside, laughing and talking. “So, what about our trail ride, Val?” asked Becky. I looked outside. “I dunno, Beck, Seahorse hates rain and Arthur hates loud noises.” Arthur was the horse Becky always rode when she came over to my house. “Oh we’ll be fine.” We checked with my mom and she said it would be OK as long as we came back if it started to rain. It only took us a few minutes to tack up and get our horses out on the trail. I could tell Arthur was getting nervous. His tail was swishing back and forth irritably and he kept starting at little noises. “Becky, let’s go back,” I said. “We’re fine! Quit worrying!” snapped Becky in her usual confident manner. It started to rain. “We need to turn back! We told Mom we’d go straight back if it started to rain!” I said, kind of desperately. “It isn’t raining, it’s sprinkling!” she shot back. In a few minutes the storm had broken loose. “Becky! We need to turn back!” I yelled over the roar of the storm. “Val!” I heard her over the thunderous noise. “I can’t control Arthur! He’s…” CRRACK! A huge thunderclap cut her off, and I heard the frightened scream of a horse and saw Arthur bolting off into the woods. Without thinking, I urged Seahorse onwards. In my mind, I knew that if Arthur reached the stream, he would jump it, and Becky would not be able to hold on. “You’re being unusually quiet,” I told her softly Seahorse came to a sliding halt when we reached the stream, which had now become a torrent. Sure enough, Arthur jumped the stream, and Becky fell into the raging water. Without thinking, I kicked Seahorse until she dove into the water. Make no mistake, I was terrified, but I reached out my hand and grabbed a handful of Becky’s shirt. I pulled her gasping and panting up onto Seahorse and urged her onto the shore. I dismounted from Seahorse and grabbed Arthur’s reins. The fact that he had lost his rider seemed to have puzzled him enough to stay put. And, besides, the rain was lessened by all of the trees. It took me a while to lead the horses back to the barn. Arthur kept startling at the thunder, and, after her heroic show of bravery, Seahorse did not want to cross the bridge. But I finally got back to the house, and, by the time I did, it was sprinkling again. “Whoever controls the weather around here should be put in a rubber room,” I murmured to myself as I helped Becky off and put the horses away. * * * Becky’s mom made a huge fuss over us and mine called the hospital (who said she would be fine with some rest and a warm blanket) and my dad made everyone hot chocolate. I sat down next to Becky, careful not to spill any of the hot drink I had in my hands. “You’re being unusually quiet,” I told her softly. She smiled slightly. “Well, part of it is aftershock, I mean, it
Cubing
He holds the cube in his hands The unbreakable puzzle, Or so they say Flexing his fingers He holds it gingerly Like a trusted friend The stopwatch beeps His fingers fly over the cube Attacking the colors Orange, green, blue, and whites Spark through the air In graceful motions, his fingers Working like bees Shift through the layers Suddenly, Out of the blue The cube emerges from his palms Like a miracle, the cube is whole once again The stopwatch beeps And the magic stops Andrew Lee, 13DeWitt, New York
Wisconsin
I enter the old room, and a wave of familiarity washes over me. Nothing ever changes about this room, and I love it. I toss my backpack down and flop onto the silky smooth comforter of my bed, allowing myself to be immersed in the feeling of joy that permeates the room. I lift myself off the bed and walk over to the big sage-green brass-bound trunk. I lift the lid and smile. The unmoving soap boxes sit nestled among each other. I pick up each box individually, handling it with utmost care. One, a small oval that smells like lavender. Another, shaped like a lemon, smells of a delightful citrus. My favorite, the soap bar shaped like the Mad Hatter, with a generic soapy scent. Below the first layer of soaps is a second layer of hotel soaps and many others. Some are shaped like carrots, animals, and rectangles. I close the trunk and sit down on the cream-colored chair, covered with a green floral pattern. The chair is next to a table with an assortment of antique tarnished-silver brushes and combs atop it; each with the owner’s initials engraved in loopy, old-fashioned handwriting. Sitting cozily in the chair I slip my feet out of my shoes and rub them along the bumpy carpet as I pull a book out of my bag to begin reading. I inhale, smelling the beach just down the road, and hear the ducks calling on the lake. Nothing ever changes about this room, and I love it I finish reading, stand up, and look at the white-painted wood bookshelf. I run my hands along its rough surface, looking at the never-changing wedding and new-baby announcements, in addition to the pictures. I pick up each item on the shelves and examine them closely. One of my favorite pictures is a bunch of teenage girls posing in white dresses. It is their faces that draw my gaze. I also glance over the writing and designs on the wedding and baby announcements. I kneel down to look at the dusty old books on the bottom shelf, their faded gold gilt writing beckons to me, asking me to turn the pages that have been still for so long. I do not resist the call. I look out at the sloping lawn and the tall trees that border it. I look at the very top of the lighthouse out on the point, and I feel like I am truly home. Madison Kwasny, 12Truckee, California Amanda Valdovinos, 13Damascus, Oregon
Summer Ball
Summer Ball, by Mike Lupica; Philomel Books: New York, 2007; $17.99 Have you ever read the sequel to a book that you loved and felt utterly disappointed or, even worse, robbed? If you read Travel Team, by Mike Lupica, which was reviewed by Zach Hoffman in the May/June 2007 edition of Stone Soup, and decide to read Summer Ball, you will feel anything but robbed. Summer Ball is an amazing book written by the best sportswriter in the business. In the book, Danny Walker is coming off leading his team, the Middletown Warriors, to a travel team championship. His dad, a former NBA player, Richie Walker, decides that Danny will go to a famous basketball camp in Maine, the Right Way Basketball Camp. Even though Danny’s two best friends, Ty Ross and Will Stoddard, are going, Danny is worried about attending camp because he fears not being good enough or tall enough to compete well against some of the other campers, the best players his age in the country. When he arrives, his fears are realized. A player that played against Danny in the travel team championship game, Rasheed Hill, hates him and is attending camp. He is put on the same team as Danny, and their coach wants Rasheed to be the star of the team. When Danny visits the coach, the coach suggests that Danny try soccer. Danny is able to fight through all of these hardships and make it to the championship game, while standing up for his new friend, Zach Fox, in a fight with one of the best players in camp, Lamar Parrish. When Danny first arrives at camp, he realizes that he isn’t one of the best players there. One time, when I was eight, I went to a basketball camp. The camp was divided into two divisions. According to my age, I belonged in the top division. But after a few minutes of practice, I was demoted to the lower division, even though I felt like I was doing fine. But, just like Danny, I continued trying and I was promoted. My favorite part of the book is when Rasheed stood up for Danny during the championship game. Throughout the book, Rasheed and Danny slowly gain respect for each other and become friends. Because Coach Powers wouldn’t play Danny, Rasheed told Coach Powers that if Danny didn’t play, he wouldn’t play. When Coach put Danny back in, he led a huge comeback. Another one of my favorite parts was when the ref called a technical foul on Lamar. In my basketball league, there was one team that was very dirty. They were never called for a technical foul. In the book, the campers could cheer for whatever team they wanted. We got revenge on the dirty team by attending the league play-off game they were in and cheering loudly for the other team. One thing the author does extremely well is dialogue. Even though the camp is in Maine, it attracts players from all over the country. One of the friends Danny meets, Tarik, is from New York City, so he has a different vocabulary than the kids from Long Island. This is kind of funny because he uses terms that Danny (and I) don’t know. I definitely recommend this book about basketball, friendship, and teamwork. Once you pick it up, it is hard to put down. Aidan Quigley, 12Trumbull, Connecticut
