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

Half an Eggshell

I jump down the small drop to the grassy road. Tall, brown grass overruns it, thorny weeds branching up from the dry ground. Long stalks of fennel huddle together. Lizards skitter away from my shoes, and they dart down deep cracks in the earth. The road snakes down the valley. Behind it is a golden brown bluff. Tall grass stands, waving gently—the whole bluff looks like a giant river, swaying back and forth, back and forth. I run down the hill, summer liberties rising through my stomach. Four days ago I’d graduated from elementary to middle school. The jump was a big one. I was leaving the place that was familiar, that hadn’t changed for seven years. The old was comfortable, the new was… Spiny weeds latch themselves onto my jeans. A noise in the bushes, a hawk calls. They fly by. I slow, reaching a fork in the road. The left fork winds around the back side of the bluff, the right climbs up it. I choose left. Avocado trees hang loose over the trail, casting blotchy late-afternoon shadows. A hawk calls again, flying directly overhead before it lands on a branch. It eyes me, wondering who this stranger is in the middle of his territory. The hawk ruffles its feathers, turning away. I step back. Walking slower, I hear only the swish, swish of wind through the grass. Another hawk joins the first, but I don’t look back. They call to each other, and fly to a closer branch. It’s small; I almost crush it in my hand Screeeeeee! Scree-scree-scree-ssscreeee! Scree-scree screeeeeech! Their tones are angry—fast and sharp. Crisp leaves crunch beneath me. Spiny leaves stick to my socks. The trail is winding away from the couple of hawks, up a slight hill. The lizards are still. A flash of white catches my eye. I bend down, picking up half of an eggshell. It’s small; I almost crush it in my hand. The jagged edge is cracked cleanly, where the small bird must have picked his way out. Maybe flew out of the nest. Maybe left his family. Maybe the little bird wasn’t ready to go at all… The trail fades, golden grass taking over. I sit on a low branch, looking through the leaves over the valley. I hear a rustle behind me, looking to see the hawks hopping across the place I’ve just left. The egg cracks in my grip, pieces of shell fall to the ground. One of the hawks picks up a leaf in his beak, and it hits me. They’re looking for the egg. The hawks’ calls are more frantic, and they hop back and forth across the mound of leaves where the egg was. I swing my legs around the tree, jumping down. I step softly, quickly, towards the hawks. They back off to the side, flapping onto a branch. I set the eggshell down, then sprint away from the birds, down the hill, through the shadows. I don’t hear the hawks until I’m nearly halfway down the road: Sssssscreeee… Their tones are gentle—slow and soft. Sssssscreeeee… Sssssscreeeeee… Claudia Ross, 13Studio City, California Joan He, 12Wynnewood, Pennsylvania

Lost and Found

Niki scowled. She clutched the rumpled picture of her best friend, Claire, as she trudged up the many stairs. I don’t care if this is a famous place, she thought angrily. It doesn’t change the fact that they made me move to Ireland and leave Claire behind in Wisconsin. Niki grumpily followed her parents up the never-ending flight of stairs leading to the Cliffs of Moher. Niki’s mother glanced back at Niki and sighed. Her daughter wore the same pouting look she had been wearing ever since they moved to Ireland. There were so many beautiful sights in Ireland, and her daughter wouldn’t see any of it. She was stuck on the fact that she wouldn’t see Claire until Christmas, six months away. As Niki continued to climb the seemingly never-ending stairs, the wind began to get stronger. When she reached the top, panting, she gasped in spite of herself. This was the most amazing thing she had ever seen. The land curved in, off to her left, and then curved out again; so she was looking across the water to the cliffs themselves. They rose majestically from the crashing waves and misty air. They were lined up in a row, so where one cliff ended, another one began. Then the wind soared, carrying the picture high into the sky Niki could hear the waves crashing far below. The wind came rushing in from the ocean, curving around the land to slam into her. The wind was so fierce she was yanked and shoved back and forth. She had to fight not to get blown over as she mounted the final steps. Ahead, there was a sturdy stone castle where her parents stood. She made her way slowly to them, fighting the wind every step of the way. “It’s… I didn’t know it would be like this!” she shouted; but the wind tore the words from her mouth. She just grinned at her parents instead. Niki caught her breath in a sheltered area where the castle protected her from the strong winds. After a moment, she headed out, going around the corner of the castle. Then she was hit by the most powerful wind yet. She held her arms out to the side and leaned into the wind. It tore at her like a wild animal. The wind whipped her hair across her face and made her eyes water. This wind gave her a feeling of excitement and exhilaration that she had never felt before. She closed her eyes and leaned even more into the wind. She imagined herself flying free, soaring up, up, up… she felt calm in a way she couldn’t explain. She had been filled with millions of different emotions since moving here: excitement, anger, sorrow; but now she was feeling strangely free. Suddenly, the picture of Claire, still in her hand, was torn from her grasp by the gusts of wind. She opened her eyes and the feeling of calm disappeared. “No!” she cried. She tried to run and catch the picture but the wind held her back. She watched helplessly as the wind tossed the picture back and forth, up and down, left and right. Then the wind soared, carrying the picture high into the sky. Then it plunged down, down, closer and closer to the crashing waves. Niki stared as the picture disappeared into the swirling water. *          *          * So where do you want to go tomorrow?” Niki’s father asked. Niki shrugged. She had been silent ever since Claire’s picture had blown over the cliff. Niki’s parents exchanged glances and walked quicker. Their daughter clearly wanted to be left alone. Niki sighed. Losing that picture was like losing her friend all over again. Niki trudged toward their room, which had been a horse stable before it was remodeled into a hotel. Her parents thought that staying in this hotel and visiting famous Irish places would make her like living in Ireland. It wasn’t working. Niki sighed again. She halfheartedly scanned the landscape, running her eyes over huge trees, the flowing stream, the stone wall covered with ivy. She reached out and ran her hand through the ivy as she walked. Some of the ivy curtain parted and Niki saw a blue piece of trash crammed into a hole in the stone wall. She stopped walking and separated the ivy so she could tug on it. There was a rock holding it in place, which seemed strange. Why would you need a rock to hold a piece of trash in a hole in a wall? Niki wondered. She yanked it out and let the curtain of ivy close. Niki blinked and looked closer at what she held in her hand. It was a blue plastic bag with a piece of paper inside it. Carefully, Niki opened the bag and pulled the paper out. Niki couldn’t breathe. A girl? Who lived here? Dear Someone, Hi. My father runs this hotel. This is where I live, but none of my friends live around here. I’m lonely. I’ve always wanted a penpal from another country, so would you write me a letter when you get home? It would be even better if you lived here; but letters are a good way to be friends, too. Your hopeful friend, Bridget Niki couldn’t breathe. A girl? Who lived here? This was better than she had imagined. Their new house was only a few minutes’ drive away. She started to run, calling, “Mom! Dad! Look what I found!” Niki raced to their room. She waved the letter at her mother, too breathless with excitement to explain. Her mother took the letter and handed Niki one in exchange. Niki glanced at the return address and hurriedly ripped open the envelope. It was from Claire! Niki grinned. She might have lost Claire’s picture, but she would never lose Claire as a friend. And she had found a new friend right here in Ireland. Maureen Sullivan, 12Arlington Heights, Illinois Carly Thaw, 13Charleston,

The Blueberry Family

Two girls sat on a small, colorful carpet in the living room of their new house. The older one, a lanky seven-year-old redhead, sat up tall and poised, her feet tucked underneath her. The younger one, a chubby four-year-old with brown curls, was sprawled out on her stomach, paper dolls scattered around her. “Allie, play with me?” the little girl, Jessie, said. She was tired of all the moving boxes, and her parents’ distraction. Unfortunately, her parents loved moving and did it frequently, due to both their work, their spirit for adventure, and restlessness. But playing with her sister, the gorgeous, poised Allison, would make up for it. Allison smiled. “OK. Do you want to play with these paper dolls or with the new game Mommy brought us?” The little girl scrunched up her face in concentration. “Paper dolls,” she decided. “OK,” Allison said. “Now, who do you want to be?” “It’s a family,” Jessie said. “I’m the oldest child, um… Andrea.” Allison giggled. “And I’m the youngest child, Jenna. What’s their last name?” “Allie, play with me?” the little girl, Jessie, said “Um… Blueberry!” Jessie said, remembering the fresh, sweet berries they had tasted when they lived in Maine. Allison sighed. “That isn’t a real name. What about… Smith or something?” “No. Blueberry,” Jessie said, still able to savor the sweet berry. “OK, Blueberry it is.” And so the Blueberry Family was born. *          *          * I kneel on the hardwood floor, peering into a moving box with the set of paper dolls we used as the Blueberry Family. Allison and I are helping unpack in our new Connecticut home. I take out the packet of paper dolls and smile as I hold it up to Allison. “Hey Allison, remember these?” I call out, but Allison continues unpacking. Silent. I sigh and look down at the packet. I had actually never forgotten the Blueberry Family, where I was the bossy older sister and Allison the cute younger sister. Allison and I shared a brilliant imagination despite our three-year age difference. The story we made up was magical: in the Blueberry Family’s world, Jenna and Andrea lived at a magic amusement park near a blueberry field with their parents. At night, after everyone had left the park, the Blueberry Family tried out all the rides and even slept on the Ferris wheel. Sometimes Allison would draw pictures, illustrating our Blueberry Family stories. The Blueberry Family kept me stable through all our moves. “Allison?” I say again, louder. “Remember the Blueberry Family? Maybe we could play with them again one of these days? Hey, remember that one story we played with them when the merry-go-round…” She sighs. “Look, Jessie, I liked playing with you and everything, but we’re older now and I think we need to find our own friends.” I feel numb with hurt. True, I had seen it coming. The graceful, poised, child Allison has grown into an outgoing, social fifteen-year-old Allison, who isn’t interested in me. Once I had adored her, and that felt special, now it seems everyone adores her. Allison gets better and better at making friends, while I continually struggle to find just one. Worst of all, she’s too old for magic amusement parks and paper-doll families. One of the things I used to admire in Allison was her unique way of thinking, so unlike all the other kids her age. When she was nine, she told me that she never believed in magic as in flying, but magic as in friendship. Even as a six-year-old I recognized the wisdom and sophistication of the statement. But she hasn’t said anything like that for a while. I leave the room. She doesn’t seem to notice. “Jessica?” My mom looks over the staircase to see me. “Look at this house, Jessica. Can’t you just feel the spirit?” She takes a deep breath. I don’t respond. “No? Well, you will, soon enough. There’s everything we need here. This is a wonderful town. This is where we’ll stay.” Even though she says that every time, it gives me a boost just to hear it. Maybe Connecticut will be different. Maybe I’ll find lots of friends here, more than Allison. Maybe I’ll find a secret door leading to a magic amusement park… I’m not too old for those kinds of dreams. “Donna, you can’t promise that,” my father says, stepping over a moving box. The living room is cluttered with them. “Why not?” she demands. “Because of my job, and besides, that’s just the way we are,” Dad says. I sigh and edge back up the stairs. *          *          * On the first day of school, I decide to bike there instead of taking the bus. I want to be away from the prying eyes of children who tease newcomers. “So I’ll see you later,” I say to Allison as I take my cereal bowl to the sink. “Mhmm,” she says. “Maybe later we could play, um, do something together?” She stands up, almost knocking her chair to the floor. “Jessie, I’m going to the mall with Lucille after school. I don’t think there’ll be time for that today.” “Who’s Lucille?” “Oh, you haven’t met her yet? She has a sister just about your age, I think. She lives across the street,” Allison points, “and she’s the coolest.” “Right,” I say vaguely. I miss the days before “coolest” became part of Allison’s vocabulary. “Jessie, you need to get going. School starts at 8:20,” says Mom. She looks out the window and sighs. “Look at this town. We’re staying here, Jessie.” “Humph,” Dad says. “Well, we are!” Mom cries. “It’s best not to get their hopes up, Donna.” “What’s wrong with getting their hopes up?” Mom asks. Both of them have forgotten that Allison and I are in the kitchen too. I look at Allison, hoping to share an eye-roll, but she looks out the window. *          *          * Wearing my backpack, I dash up the old oak tree right

Maui

Waves are crashing all around me, The sun is casting its yellow rays upon the island. I hear a yell but it is oh so distant: “Go! Go!” I turn my head to see a wall rapidly approaching. I thrash my arms and kick, But it seems too late for me. I push up onto the board and stand, Keeping my balance. The timing is perfect, I sail onward to the palms in the distance. I am flying. No, I am face down in the sand, Waves lapping at my feet. For a moment I think I am dead, But my board slithers up beside me. I smile and laugh. I did it. I surfed. Eddie Mansius, 13Charlotte, North Carolina

Good Eats

Jimmy Culpepper looked out through the bay window fogged up with lazy steam. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There was a squall shaping up outside, a true-life Maine nor’easter. It wasn’t so much that he minded a good ol’- fashioned nor’easter so much as he minded it today, now. This was the celebration he and his older sister, along with his grandparents, had plotted so long and hard for. Today was his parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary and the gala send-off party for the honeymoon they never had. Today it was their job to make dreams come true. Squinting his pale gray-blue eyes out over the horizon, he thought he saw a fountain shoot straight up from a spout yonder in the distance amidst a heavy shower of snow and hail, but he couldn’t be sure. If he had, it would be a lucky omen. High above Blowhole Bay, Jimmy kept his hopes alive, that the day would turn clear. He couldn’t believe his sorry luck rolling in with the six-foot black choppy waves crashing on the sandy seaweed-strewn shore below. “It’s gonna turn out all right, Jimmy. You gotta believe.” It was his ever-optimistic granddad, slapping him on the shoulder with the force of conviction. Granddad Culpepper, who spent much of his life raising a family on the Hungry Lobster, through its good times and bad, its ups and downs, always believed that you made your own good luck. You didn’t wait for it. Jimmy though wasn’t a believer, at least not yet. The restaurant was his family’s livelihood, passed down through each generation. He knew the restaurant had paid his dad, Ollie’s (short for Oliver), way through Bowdoin College where he had met Anne, his mom, both business majors, and now was making good on his sister’s college education at Bates College in Lewiston. Still, he saw his parents worry about making ends meet and it wasn’t easy for them to get away. There wouldn’t be a second chance. In danced Mom and Dad, rolling their mittened hands and sauntering to the beat! As a youngster, Jimmy remembered sitting in the back seat tickled pink, enamored and mesmerized by the playful roadside signs that led up the steep incline to the red-roofed stucco building overlooking the bay. A collection of signs half a kilometer apart enticed hungry travelers up to the original seafood diner. The first sign questioned, “Hungry?” The last, which sat high above the rooftop on a pole, showed a mischievous red lobster cartoon with a half-eaten sign in its mouth that lit up, “Good Eats.” His mom and dad had been married in 1989, the year his granddad retired. Mom and Dad, who had helped Grandma and Granddad out every summer during their college careers, sunk every penny of their treasure chest back into restoring the diner and converting it into a modern-day summer shack, putting off any notion of a romantic honeymoon. But today was their day, their twentieth wedding anniversary, and they were scheduled to finally lift off to a long-awaited honeymoon adventure, only a restaurant, two yellow labs and two children later. But now—it didn’t look good. “Mr. Mavery, is it clearing up?” Jimmy asked hesitantly to the incoming customer ringing the bell over the front door, already knowing the answer to that naive question. Mr. Mavery was Dad’s best friend from college who owned a gift shop in the tourist town. “I’m afraid it’s not good news, Jimmy,” he offered, brushing the thick white snowdrifts from his dripping yellow McIntosh. He continued, “Can’t plow the roads out to the local airport quick enough before it’s all right back. I don’t think any planes will be gettin’ out to Portland today, ayah?” Jimmy’s heart sank. Today, his parents were supposed to fly to Portland, then on to Nassau, Bahamas, the land of endless sapphire skies, sun-splashed beaches and a buyer’s paradise filled with colorful straw markets. But just as Jimmy felt like throwing in the towel in frustration, he heard, “Let’s get this party started!” It was Grandma Culpepper coming up behind him. “I just put up the tinselly palm trees, set out the large scallop-shell platters, and dug out the steel drum CD I found at last summer’s yard sale on the Commons. Let’s get going.” Just the sunny grin on her face caused a break in the clouds, he was certain. Jimmy and Helena, now home on college winter break, tidied up the chairs and tables and Grandpa lit the broilers and deep fry-o-lators. Fish chowder was already boiling on the cooktops, producing tissue-paper-thin clouds of hazy steam. Before long, Jimmy could hear sizzling from the hot fat. Grandpa had cut up a bunch of chewy quahogs and cherry stones in an attempt to approximate conch fritters. Before long the restaurant’s parking lot had been cleared by Mr. Mavery’s employees, and guests started to fill in the open spaces quickly with their hearty pickups and four-wheel drives. There was a party on today! Before Jimmy could dwell on misfortune further, the front door blew open with a gust of arctic wind. In danced Mom and Dad, rolling their mittened hands and sauntering to the beat! He couldn’t believe his eyes. Mom and Dad were shaking and shimmying like he had never seen before. They didn’t appear worried. Judy Mavery had shared the surprise party on the drive over, and Mom and Dad were clearly in the mood, whether or not blue skies dawned. Unexpectedly, his older cousins Billy and Samantha produced bamboo poles and a limbo line was started. The steel drums blared in the background and the aroma of salty conch fritters permeated the dining room. Someone turned up the thermostat. Somehow, they had all been transported to Snug Harbor. They were all in the Bahamas! Mom and Dad were the first to bend under the limbo stick. Jimmy quickly joined the conga line and the easy laughter, letting his wrinkled brow and shoulders relax. All his fears evaporated

Schooled

By Leah Wolfe Schooled, by Gordon Korman; Hyperion Books for Children: New York, 2007; $15.99 Have you ever been the target of teasing? Or have you even been the one doing the teasing? Most of us have, as I’m ashamed to admit. But the story of Schooled, written by Gordon Korman, will teach you the true meaning and importance of peace. I’ve witnessed certain people in my own school and neighborhood being bullied and harassed, heartlessly and thoughtlessly. I’ve heard biting remarks like “You’re an idiot,” and I’ve even seen violence. Just the other day, two boys at my school decided unreasonably that fighting was the best way to resolve a disagreement. That decision fought back with them, though, and I know for sure that at least one of them was sent to the principal’s office. We are the ones who are causing this, and we have total control to stop it. Sometimes, though, we simply choose not to. I recommend Schooled for anyone, really, of either gender and any personality, no matter what age, because it teaches a wonderful lesson that is crucial for everyone to learn. If you truly commit yourself to making a difference in your and your neighbors’ everyday life, this story can give you the boost you need. It will help you realize how much better everything would be if we only tried to feel compassion for others and to judge them on their heart and soul, instead of on their appearance and social status. In fact, today’s system of being “nerdy” or “popular” wouldn’t even exist if friendship were blind, and if we could all patiently get along. Schooled will not allow you to tune these things out. Capricorn Anderson has no sense of reality at all while he lives on a hippie commune called Garland Farm, with his hippie grandmother, Rain. He is homeschooled, and he rarely leaves his deserted community. (Well, it’s deserted except for Cap and Rain.) He learns to drive at the age of eight. He doesn’t remember who his parents were. They were killed volunteering for the Peace Corps when he was younger, but he had known them at some point. Still, they had blurred in with everyone else at Garland Farm because, there, everyone belonged to everyone. How many people do you know well? You could have too many friends to count! At least I know that I have loads of people to value in my life. Unlike me, Capricorn only has one. The only human being that he knows well is Rain! Even with this being true, he isn’t lonesome. He doesn’t even know what it’s like to have several friends. So he’s perfectly satisfied. But the tables are turned (and shaken wildly about) when Rain is thrust into the hospital, and Cap is thrust into public middle school. This thirteen-year-old is now the target of all of the teasing, but he never—not once—loses his temper. And when an awful prank is played, Cap is put in charge… and in trouble. How does this peaceful character deal with his job as eighth-grade president? Well, I won’t give that away now. But you can find out for yourself by reading Schooled, by Gordon Korman! Leah Wolfe, 10Florham Park, New Jersey

A Night for Soccer

It was bitterly cold. Standing by the bench, our team huddled in a group, shivering as we listened to our coach. Gusts of freezing wind blew around us, pelting us with miniscule drops of rain that stung our skin. The moaning of the trees sung in the background. And the sky was dark. I wrapped my hands in my sleeves, waiting as the referee walked up to the semicircle formed by the players. My teeth chattered as he inspected our cleats. I saw my mother on the sideline, wrapped cozily in her overcoat, raising an umbrella to shield her from the rain. She waved, giving me the thumbs-up sign, trying to encourage me. I smiled bleakly, and stomped the ground, trying to find some warmth. The game started at the whistle. It was our last game of the season, and I was determined to end it with a victory. The field was ominous, huddled figures bent over, trying to fight the overpowering wind as they strove to control the ball. I quickly ignored my discomfort. My freezing arms could come later. Right now, it was time to play soccer. I sought for an opening in their defense, immediately attentive. Together, our front line moved in formation, advancing upon their defensive men. We followed the flight of the ball, waiting, like hyenas stalking a herd of zebra. And there was our chance. We pounced, each covering our own man as our striker attacked the ball. The timing was perfect. We quickly gained possession of the ball. I struggled against the wind, running up to join in the attack. Our striker swerved left, dragging two defenders with him. Branching off, our forwards ran up, threatening the opposing defense. The goalie looked nervously at our executed patterns. My breath came in ragged gasps, the cold air stinging my lungs. My lungs. They were burning, yet my legs were still frozen. I forced them to move. We moved in intricate patterns, each looking for the opening and the pass. My shoelaces connected with the ball as it swung in a frenzied arc “Jimmy!” A single word. Jimmy turned and sent off a high cross. Perfect. I ran up with my teammate, zeroing in on the exact spot that the flight of the ball would end. The defender was slow to react, he turned and tried to intercept the pass. But I watched the ball closely as it came spinning down. The ball bounced once, and I saw that I was at the edge of the box. Possibilities sprang into my mind. I was suddenly overcome with indecision. Should I attempt a shot? Or get closer? I saw Jimmy running back from the sideline for a pass. My mom was in the background, yelling support, drowning out all the other people like only moms can do. My mind clicked in the split second it had taken me to assess the situation. I forgot the cold. My lungs relaxed as I focused on the ball. I swung at it hard and low. My shoelaces connected with the ball as it swung in a frenzied arc. The ball shot off, and I turned to watch. The goalie was desperate. He flung himself at the incoming shot, holding his arms high. He missed. The ball was going past his outstretched hands, into the goal… Ping! The metallic sound sang, announcing the verdict. The ball bounced off the crossbar and into the air. The goalie recollected himself and easily caught it. The crowd sounded as one in their disappointment. I shook my head in frustration, then turned to watch my mom. I thought for sure that would have been a goal. My mom smiled brilliantly, mouthing for me to keep trying. My teammates scattered around me patted me on the back, exclaiming their confidence and faith in me. My mood lifted as my teammates’ support soothed my dented ego. Yes, I thought. There were still fifty-nine minutes to go. I looked up at the sky, defying the weather as it continued to buffet around me. Now the darkness and pelting rain only exhilarated me. This was what I lived for. I turned and jogged back a few feet, ready to receive the next probe by the opposition. The cold was suddenly gone. And I was right at home. Andrew Lee, 13DeWitt, New York Erin Wolf, 12Seattle, Washington

Shifted

Aneesa sat with her legs tucked into her chest, her chin sat limply on the worn denim that covered her knees. Her shoes were a well-loved pair of classic black Converse, the rubber parts entirely decorated with Sharpie. Her dark brown hair, so dark it looked black at first glance, hung over her face, putting a veil between herself and the world. She always wanted a cover from the world, even if it was just a hood or something small. She felt very delicate compared to the vast world so brimming with dangerous, frightening, unpleasant things and ideals. She felt that life had already taken enough blows at her, and she never wanted to be caught unarmed again. She pressed her cheek against the car window, watching her breath creep across the glass and then drawing spirals in it with her fingertip. Right now she hated this car, this vehicle that was driving her away from her home and bringing her to yet another unfamiliar place. She took a glance at her brother, who was rubbing his thumb back and forth over the left ear of his raggedy old stuffed rabbit. It had once been terry cloth but was now almost completely threadbare. She looked at him, thinking about how lucky he was. He hadn’t even known Daddy, she thought. He was only six months old when it happened. *          *          * It had been four years and she could still remember, exactly as it happened, that day, the day he died. She, her brother, and her mom were eating dinner when the phone rang. Her mother had just stared at it for several seconds before she hesitantly and slowly got up to answer it, as if she knew it would be simply awful news. Her polished fingers trembled horribly on the phone until finally she dropped it “Hello,” she said. Aneesa and her brother couldn’t tell what the person on the other line was saying but they didn’t really need to. Their mother’s lips clenched into a tight, white, thin line and her eyes had a petrified glimmer that neither of them had ever seen before. Her polished fingers trembled horribly on the phone until finally she dropped it. In the utterly silent room the clatter was like thunder. “Mrs. Ahmed? Mrs. Ahmed?!” shouted the man on the other line. “Yes, I’m sorry.” She picked up the phone again. In a shaky, weak, almost defeated voice she asked, “What hospital did you say?” She took out a pencil and paper, briskly wrote an address down and hung up the phone. “Mom,” Aneesa asked, “is everything… OK?” “No, hon, it’s not,” she replied, running her fingers through her daughter’s hair. Suddenly tears were rapidly streaming down her cheeks. “Your father,” she said miserably, turning to Aneesa’s brother and kissing him on the forehead, “your father got into a car crash, a very bad car crash. He suffered massive internal bleeding and they… they don’t think he has more then a few hours to live.” Aneesa remembered thinking about how in movies, when parents die, the children just feel numb and don’t cry until someone tells them it’s OK. She remembered wondering if there was something wrong with her because the moment those terrible words left her mother’s lips she had broken down sobbing. She had sat almost limply on her chair with the tears relentlessly gushing from her eyes. She remembered her mother holding her, trying to comfort her, but she too was sobbing hysterically. Aneesa remembered her mother’s cheek pressed against hers, and remembered wondering if it was her tears or her mother’s she felt on her skin. She remembered that her brother, a mere infant, who couldn’t have possibly known what was going on, began crying, just because he could feel the despair in the room. She remembered the horribly, devastatingly silent car ride to the hospital. She remembered the hospital lights were so bright, the walls were so white, and the floor was so clean it was like some disgusting alien world that she certainly didn’t want her dad to spend his last moments in. She remembered dashing out of her dad’s room the moment she saw him, and waiting right outside the room for her mother to say goodbye, with her back against that whiter-than-white hallway wall. It was just too much to bear to see his body so immobile and riddled with bandages, blood, tubes, and beeping machines. *          *          * Yes, Aneesa remembered that day exactly as it was, and it tortured her. “Hey hon, you OK?” her mother asked, running her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “I’m fine,” Aneesa replied. “I know you’re only nine, and your brother’s only four, and I know this is hard to understand, but I am very sorry that we’ve had to move so much, it’s just that, houses are so expensive these days, and on only one income it gets hard to pay the rent. This new house is a little smaller, but it has a backyard, and don’t you think it will be fun to have a little garden? And with some outdoor space I might even consider getting you that dog you were bugging me about a year ago.” “It’s all right Mom, don’t worry, me and Jakeem are fine.” “I love you more than anything, you know.” After a thirteen-hour car ride, Aneesa, Jakeem, and Mrs. Ahmed arrived at their new home. It was a pristine fall day, with a playful breeze, a glowing blue sky, and crisp leaves gently descending to the ground. It would have been a very pleasant day, Aneesa thought, if not for the fact that her life was being shifted once again. This house was in a small apartment building in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Aneesa studied the contents of the windows of the already-inhabited apartments. One was lined with stuffed animals and children’s drawings, another had dully colored, half-open curtains that revealed a windowsill filled with books. Mrs.

Riding the Gondola

New York at dusk When shadowy sun Rests on skyscrapers And in the park In the city Dragonflies murmur Birds hum As the little gondola Glides across the silver lake That parts between my fingers The tenor of cheerful chatter From the restaurants The whispered conversations Of the couples On their sunset rowboat trips The swan Splashing Preening its feathers One by one As night comes to the city that never sleeps The man on the gondola Sings in a resounding baritone “Venite all’agile Barchetta mia Santa Lucia Santa Lucia” “Come to my Swift little boat Santa Lucia Santa Lucia.” Anna Elizabeth Blech, 12New York, New York

The Migration

A pack of fifteen geese flew over the mainland and then out to sea. They were migrating to a warmer place. As they flew over the sea, they looked down; the sea was rough with choppy waves. The geese spotted a ship, a skipjack. It looked as though the three-man crew were catching oysters. The ship sat low in the water, obviously full of oysters. Suddenly a strong gust of wind blew, and the geese had to adjust a few feathers. Strong gusts of wind, choppy waves—the geese were no fools, a storm was coming, a big storm at that. The geese squawked, “A huge storm is coming, we better fly faster.” The skipjack started to rock back and forth. The geese heard a human shout, but they couldn’t hear what he said over the wind. Suddenly another human joined the one at the wheel. The third human, the one at the oyster thongs, pulled up the thongs. The wind was blowing stronger now. The human who had just pulled up the net let the sail out. The geese were no fools, a storm was coming, a big storm at that The geese were forced on despite their curiosity. The lead goose squawked, “Move closer; it is going to get very cold very fast.” The geese moved closer, so instead of a V they were in two straight lines. The brave geese flew on through the flashes of lightning, and the boom of thunder, through the insistent pelting of the rain, and the gusts of the wind. The geese were wet, tired, hungry, and annoyed. Why did the weather have to be terrible on their flight over the murky, green waters of the sea? Finally, the head goose squawked, “Almost there; I see land.” The geese breathed a sigh of relief. Finally they would get a chance to dry and preen their wet feathers. They would get a chance to sleep during the migration. Christopher Fifty, 11Churchville, Maryland Indra Boving, 13Hope Valley, Rhode Island

The Golden Dream of Carlo Chuchio

The Golden Dream of Carlo Chuchio, by Lloyd Alexander; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 2007; $18.95 Treasure hunts have long captivated the minds of children and adults alike. And treasure hunters, such as pirates or explorers, intrigue us just as much. But in Lloyd Alexander’s book, The Golden Dream of Carlo Chuchio, the “fearless hero” is a young, cowardly, inexperienced “chooch” (fool), living in the fictional port city of Magenta with his merchant uncle. In fact, his only reasons for trekking across the desert with a motley crew of misfits are a dream and a map found in a book of tales! This unlikely protagonist lies at the center of a unique adventure, a character we can’t help but love. Although there is one overlying plot, the author makes each event its own little vignette. Many of Carlo’s escapades (including being attacked by bandits twice, being robbed of everything but his undergarments by his right-hand man, meeting a possibly psychic artist and hermit, buying used dreams from a street merchant, and going through countless identity crises) come across as episodes in a grander story. Each small story is another step in Carlo’s journey. While Carlo is the most relatable character, my favorite is definitely Baksheesh, described as “the world’s worst camel-puller.” His personality is hilarious. He exalts anyone who is willing to pay him, and is fiercely loyal, though most of the time it is only to save his own skin. I think we all know people like this, who befriend people just long enough to get what they want. I once knew a girl who acted as though she genuinely wanted to get to know me. But it turned out she was just using me to get closer to one of my friends because she liked him. But Baksheesh truly has a good nature. Salamon puts it best: “You are sometimes a thief, frequently a liar. The list goes on and on. But you have a tender heart… whether you like it or not.” Another aspect I love about Baksheesh is how he constantly tries to help others out of a sticky situation, but usually gets them much farther into it. I have a friend like this who, although his intentions are good, just makes things worse. He unwittingly gives me horrible advice, tries to include me in jokes that make me cringe, and just makes all-around bad social decisions that cause other people to think less of me. The only problem I had with the book was the ending. While it wasn’t necessarily predictable, Alexander used a plot device involving maps, which I felt like I had seen in books before. After a story with such an original story line, the ending was somewhat disappointing, especially for such a legendary author as Lloyd Alexander. But it says a lot about The Golden Dream of Carlo Chuchio that this was the only flaw in the book. This was the late Lloyd Alexander’s last work, and I am glad to say that he went out on a good note. His story, characters, and description are impeccable, and he really inspires you to persevere for something you believe in. I would strongly recommend this book to anyone who loves adventure with a fair bit of humor mixed in. Julian Axelrod, 12Los Angeles, California