I leave for school, Strolling with my mother. My tiny pink backpack is slung over my shoulder. It is a crisp, autumn day. All the leaves Changing pigments. My mother Constantly reminding me to Walk faster. To keep up with her, I drag my little feet along. Into the dirt they go… And there! As I round the next corner, I hear a faint tinkling. It’s not my imagination. I spin around And lay my eyes on it! Yes! It’s a brown-and-white tabby! Mother scolds, “Mia, keep walking. You get so distracted over little things in life.” As our walk progresses, I still hear the tinkling, sweet little bells ringing from the kitty’s neck. Every few seconds I turn my head around, Checking to see if the tabby is still there, And it is. As I check back one last time, my mother says, “Mia, we’re here at Linden. Hurry up, Or you’ll be late!” “Bye, kitty! See you tomorrow!” Mia Ba-Lu Hildebrandt, 12Glen Ridge, New Jersey
Bad Dinner
We’re eating Chinese tonight. Dark plastic bowls filled with rice and vegetables, egg rolls in little cardboard boxes, even the fortune cookies with the lottery numbers on the back of the paper. This is a real treat. Mom doesn’t care for Chinese food, but it’s Dad’s favorite, so tonight she’s putting up with it. In case you hadn’t guessed, I kind of like it, too. I crammed about six pieces of sweet-and-sour chicken in my mouth and smiled at Mom. She forced herself to smile back. I could tell she wasn’t into the food tonight. Dad reached his hand across the table. Mom placed her hand over his, stroking it gently. I’ve never seen them do that before. “Jason,” said Mom, “you love your father, don’t you?” “Um… of course. Why?” “And your father loves you more than anything else in the world,” Mom continued. Dad nodded his head. “He wants you to grow up to be the best that you can be.” “Mom?” “But sometimes, when you grow up, you have to make decisions that aren’t… easy.” I could tell Mom was softening things up. But what was she getting at? Did I do something bad? Was there something wrong with Dad? Were they getting a divorce? I mean, they fight sometimes, but I never thought… “Your dad wishes there were more options, but sometimes there just aren’t.” “Mom, please spit it out.” I couldn’t take it anymore. I thought this was going to be a great night. We ordered Chinese. The weather was getting nice. I was thinking about seeing a movie. “Jason, your father’s job is being moved to California” “Jason, your father’s job is being moved to California.” I stared at Dad. He looked back at me, his eyes deep and soft. “You mean Dad’s out of a job?” I asked. “No, it’s not like that. He’s going to California, too.” “Wait! We’re coming with, right?” Dad looked sadder than I had seen him in years. He shook his head slowly, once to the left and once to the right. That’s when I realized what was actually happening. “Wait, why? Why do we have to stay here? I want to go with Dad!” Dad swallowed and cleared his throat. “I wish there were another way, Jason, and if there was I would do it, but these are very difficult times and we need the money.” “Why can’t Mom find a job?” “There are millions of qualified people out there looking for work. We can’t take that chance,” Mom said. She put her hand on my shoulder. “I know we’ll all miss having Dad around. But don’t worry! He’ll call us every night, and he’ll still fly up here on holidays. Besides, it’s only until we pay off the house.” “That’s not the same! Why can’t we just live off of welfare or something? We could get by! Isn’t it worth it if we can keep Dad here?” I could hear myself getting angry before I knew it. “We’d have to give up the house, which is bad because we owe more than it’s worth. We’d sell most of the furniture. We’d live in a small, dusty apartment in a bad neighborhood. We’d use food stamps and thrift stores to get by.” “So? You guys can handle that!” My voice quivered. “It’s not about us. It’s about what’s best for you.” I just about choked on a piece of chicken. “For me? It’d be best for me to have my mom and my dad in the same place!” Rice sputtered out of my mouth and stuck to the table. There was a moment of pause. Mom tilted her head to the floor, gripping Dad’s hand tightly. I saw a tear rolling down her cheek. I felt guilty. Did I make her cry? Was she just sad that Dad’s leaving? It felt a little unfair at the same time. It wasn’t my fault that Dad was going away. Then I had another thought. “Dad, do you think they’ll change their mind?” “What do you mean?” “Do you think if you ask real nice, they’ll let you…” I trailed off because I felt stupid saying it, but I really wished… “I already asked. They’re very sorry.” That was the moment where it all felt real. There was no other way. It was going to happen. Mom and Dad just stared. I stood up and left the table. I didn’t know what I was going to do, I just thought, I need to get away, I need to get away. It was a stress-relief type thing. Sometimes I have to hit a pillow to get it all out. A pillow wasn’t good enough, though. Pillows are soft and fluffy. I could feel a panic setting in, but I didn’t know where it was coming from. I spun around. I felt like screaming, but that wasn’t much better than a pillow. I spun until I got too dizzy. Then I did something stupid. I ran out the door as fast as I could. I didn’t have any shoes. It was dark. It was so cold. The stress kept building up inside of me so I ran faster and faster, but it was no good. I thought about what my life would be like with Dad gone. He was always there for me. He drove me places. He gave me advice. He could talk to me about… I don’t know, girls and stuff. I need that kind of support. In first grade, we learned the difference between needs and wants. Dad is a need. Money is a want. I yelled at the top of my lungs, even though I knew it wasn’t enough. My feet hurt really bad, but I didn’t care. I thought about running forever and never coming back. I thought a lot of crazy things that I won’t admit. My chest heaved in and out, forcing me to sprint faster. I couldn’t see much, just dark rows of
Twenty-Six
Rain, to Gracie, had always seemed like the tears of hope. Instead of closing all the windows and playing board games, she walks half a mile to the nearest park. Running away from home was simple now. She had gotten used to it. Most of it was to the park, and most of it was in the rain. The two things just clicked. When Gracie arrived at the park, it was almost always empty. Occasionally there would be a lone skateboarder, lining up the benches and crashing at the end. But on those days when the park was silent except for the pounding of the rain and the croaking of a lost bullfrog, Gracie took over the playground. It was astonishing the way she moved so well with the rain, silently but firmly. She looked as if a part of it. And the look on her face—so free. What she is doing requires strength and endurance. But most of all, determination. She steps to the bar and grips it, but do you see that her knuckles are not white? See how relaxed she is as she pulls her body up in the air? Watch her chin pose directly above the fragile bar. Then watch it all tumble down, the bar above her once more. He lacks the grace that she has. But the power, the will—it’s all there This act of power and grace combined continues twenty-six times. Her goal. She drops down, feet reuniting with the earth. The look on her face is the same as if she is a bird landing softly in the hills of heaven. She is ready. She has practiced for two months, ever since the last fitness testing. Then she had gotten four chin-ups, and with a heavy heart she remembers having to write that number on her sheet. Now she can write twenty-six and go to the fitness competitions. But there is one face she needs to see before all that is done. * * * “Hey, Louis! How many this time, huh, bud?” Coach Winters slaps him on the back like a long-lost buddy. The dumbest thing is that Louis replies in the same buddy voice. “Twenty-four,” says Louis, grinning across at his coach’s amazed face, although he’s heard and spoken the number at least a hundred times. They babble about the upcoming fitness stuff like it was the world. But Coach has another period to attend to, and although he’ll wait until the last minute to talk to Louis, Gracie knows he has to leave. She waits until they say goodbye and Coach walks off, whistling and grinning. “So… twenty-four, huh?” she asks, trying out the buddy voice. She’s just got to start drawling a little and smiling really hard. He looks at her like she’s stupid. Why would she be interested in what he was doing? But because he is a show-off and likes to tell people that, he nods. She leans in close. “Twenty-six,” she says, carefully enunciating each word. She doesn’t leave yet, though. His expression is what she’s looking for. It’s first confusion, like he has to piece together exactly what she’s saying. Then it’s obvious he’s finding the difference between the numbers. When that’s done, recognition—pure, surprised recognition —flashes across his face. All in a matter of two seconds. She doesn’t wait any longer and hurries away, swinging her books so that she looks relaxed, leaving him to contemplate. * * * Gracie can’t focus. It’s the last period of the day, and all she can look at is Louis. He’s angry, that’s for sure. There’s something else, too. He keeps looking up at her, and seeing that she is still watching him, turning away. Louis is like a snake—if you challenge and corner him against a wall, he’ll bite. Any little thing will tick him off now. He keeps frowning and glancing around. He confronts her when the bell rings. She has been expecting it, and has the whole thing planned out. “I can do it,” he tells her. “Twenty-seven.” “Prove it,” is all she answers, asking if he knows where her park is. When he nods, she only smiles and pats him on the back. Good sportsmanship. It can go a long way. It’s raining, again, when she arrives at the park. To her surprise, he’s already there, huffing and puffing under the bar. It’s not what she expected, but Gracie ignores that and keeps going. Right when he sees her he flops down, as if he was planning what to do. “I can do it!” he says again, but he doesn’t sound like he’s too sure. “Lemme see it,” says Gracie, who is equally nervous. It’s the first time she’s let someone else be in her park, her kingdom. The first few are easy—he does them good and quick, using energy to impress. He hits ten before he dwindles a little below the bar. His eyes flicker to match hers, and he sees her outstretched fingers— ten of them. “Ten, keep going!” she calls, swinging her legs. The key, she knows, is to look relaxed and believe in herself. She shouldn’t sweat it, but in the back of her mind, she finds the difference between the number he’s on and twenty-six. What if she’s really not ready? He’s got fifteen. Five to twenty. Then another six to twenty-six. Suddenly, to Gracie, the numbers feel small and weak, unable to hold the strength that Louis has. Louis himself, under the bar, feels totally different. They are painful and unwelcoming. He is going into new territory. But he’s got the determination that Gracie has. Even if every bone breaks, he’ll go on and smile at the end. Twenty. He recognizes the number portrayed on Gracie’s fingers. All of a sudden he’s in the tens just like the goal. He hangs under the bar, fists clenched but a determined smile on his face. He won’t quit on his dream, that’s just not who he is.
Not Your Ordinary Fairy Tale
Every day was a holiday, or so it seemed. You didn’t need decorated trees, fireworks, cakes and candles, or paper hats to celebrate special days, Marty thought. Marty loved her lazy Sunday mornings perched on a high stool in her galley kitchen, eating stacks of buckwheat pancakes dripping in amber syrup, lovingly cooked just the way she liked ’em, crispy brown on the outside and fluffy golden yellow on the inside. Her dad had promised that Sundays were their own special days together and no one would ever interfere. She loved her dad for that and for the myriad of special days he had devoted to her. She savored every one of them. She loved regular Friday-night barbecues on the geranium-lined terrace just as much as the sailing vacations on Martha’s Vineyard that only came each windswept August along with the humidity. Of all her favorite days, her most favorite ones weren’t vacation holidays at all, but ordinary afternoons figure skating at the Frog Pond across from their Beacon Hill brownstone on late wintry afternoons, just as the sun was sinking. The magenta-and- plum sky, reflecting in the shimmering raspberry-blue ice, mixed together like oil pastels to create magical vistas. With the row of cupolas standing guard on the hill, just beyond the iron fence surrounding the Common, the Boston skyline was right out of a medieval fairy-tale picture book. She had become a princess, and her dad her knight in shining armor. With him protecting her heart she felt safe in a world that had slung more than a few arrows at her. Her dad had promised that Sundays were their own special days together Until Jessica arrived. After Mom died, it had been just the two of them. That was nine years ago. She had been almost four years old, then. Dad always said no one could take Mom’s place and Marty knew deep down that she could believe him; he was trustworthy. No one could possibly ever take Mom’s place. Marty still had fuzzy memories of her broad cheerful smile, and floral scent, her sparkly eyes and the polonaises she loved playing on the baby grand. There were signs of her everywhere in the apartment. Dad kept their wedding photo on display on the Steinway in the great room and a bottle of her favorite gardenia scent on his dresser. But Jessica now seemed like a constant interloper. She just showed up one day and never left, sort of like Marmalade, the orangey-red striped tabby who arrived on their doorstep in a blizzard and adopted the modest-sized family on the spot. She had unabashedly come knocking at the door in need of a cozy home and constant scratching behind her ear, and Marty had been overly eager to pamper her. Now she owned the place. Jessica in a similar way had wedged herself in. Jessica had been sent over by her dad’s publisher. He was an experienced writer and she a young aspiring editor who wanted to throw herself into her work—and Marty’s world, brimming with rainbows. * * * Marty looked down at the carefully scripted aqua “J” intertwined with “S” for Sinclair on the back of the envelope that held the engraved wedding invitation. It sat royally now on the mahogany sideboard biding its time. Sinclair Roberts. Ever since she could remember, she envisioned that one day she would grow up and leave the nest first, not the other way around. Marty Roberts. Although everyone mistook her for a boy, with her short cropped fiery red hair, and a uniform of cutoffs and perennial rocker T-shirts, she thought she would be the one to break up the pair eventually as she sped off to an all-girls’ college or maybe even—marriage to her own Prince Charming. Never in her wildest fantasies did she think her dad would be the one to break up the duo. But Jessica had other plans and dreams for herself, which selfishly included Dad. Marty gasped for air. Suddenly, she felt all her memories and her future slipping out from under her like quicksand. Her happiest days were behind her for certain. “Honey, come in here.” It was Dad, chirping from the living room with all the brightness of a spring robin. “We need you!” I wonder, Marty pondered skeptically. When Marty entered the large sunlit brick front room with the sheer muslin curtains, Dad and Jessie were hand-in-hand on their favorite spots on the couch. Marmalade was spread out across Dad’s lap, licking one paw, enjoying a mid-morning bath. Why was it Marmalade had no trouble staking her rightful claim to him, when she had so much difficulty? Marty smiled at the placid feline, which resembled a carefree dust rag in an indulgent pose. She wasn’t going to be displaced from her castle—by anyone. Marmalade purred contentedly. “Marty, which of these party favors do you like best?” Jessica pointed to a glossy brochure, one of several opened before the blissful couple. “Your dad likes these miniature porcelain swans filled with pastel butter mints. But they seem so old-fashioned to me. I need your help. I like these Belgian-chocolate swans in colorful tinfoil.” Both looked hideous to Marty. Marty searched for a diplomatic answer. She would prefer neither. She would prefer that Jessica go away and that there would be no wedding, but that wasn’t a choice the pair of entangled arms and hearts had given her. Marty could see why her dad liked Jessica. She wasn’t a stunning beauty. She was more the “girl next door.” Pretty and nice enough. Jessica continued to carry on a dialogue to fill the void. “Are you OK with the wedding, Marty? Do you want us to wait until you graduate from eighth grade next summer? We can wait, you know. I realize it’s just been you and your dad for some time. If you need more time to get used to the idea, we can give you all the time you need.” Her
The Loss of a Leaf
It was a picturesque day at a pond, The glassy water gently undulated, Transforming turtles to twigs. The swans slowly carved their way forward, The paddleboats hypnotically Slap slap slapped. But no day is perfect for everyone, Like the coming of fall, For betwixt the lily pads, A swan lay Dead, Its head limp at its side. Two deceivingly collected swans swam up, Their wings arched over their backs. One of the mourners swam up and went from calm and collected, To aggressive and emotional. It began biting the neck of the dead swan, wings pumping, causing a great ruckus. Was it cannibalizing or freeing the other swan from its eternal sleep? That swan will be denied so much, Days like today, Cygnets, And the late summer water relaxing away troubles. Was it dead from natural causes, or man-made ones? Could it have been saved? So many questions, Like the water in the clouds, So much stress and more worry than bugs in a humid summer’s night. All from The loss of a leaf. Peter Satterthwaite, 13Cranston, Rhode Island
Today
Today was the big day. I was afraid it would go horribly wrong. I woke up today with that feeling you always get before something big. I ate breakfast in a hurried fashion. I always ate a slow and controlled breakfast. Today was different. Today was the day of the concert. I had eggs and bacon today. That was our family’s traditional Friday breakfast. I shoveled each bite in with such force that I could have scared my dentist. I thought I was doing everything fast, but I almost missed the bus! I stared at my beautiful instrument for almost fifteen minutes, thinking intently. I play the cello, the large instrument that everybody misspells. I couldn’t take my mind off the performance—the hum of the instrument, the squeaking of the wood, and the beautiful sound that flows out when a bow slides across the strings. On the bus today, I talked to no one. There was a kind of tension between me and the school only a mile away. The gymnasium was just waiting for me to arrive, to take my seat in front of the whole school and do what I love to do. I had been playing the cello for almost two years when I was asked by the principal to play. I remembered that day well. School had just finished for the day, and already the warm summer breeze was gone. Gone were the days of swimming and playing, gone were the days of sunshine and beaches, gone were those juicy, orange peaches that I adored so much. It seemed that just as soon as summer started, it was over. I was sitting on the street corner, waiting for the bus to arrive. The autumn leaves swept by my face, and I was reminded of the baseballs, streaking past my face like comets. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. It was the principal. She had short and curly white hair, dark brown eyes, and a smile that could spread joy across a crowd of people. She looked down on me and asked me the question that led me to many hours of stress and practicing. “Will you play?” I stared at my beautiful instrument for almost fifteen minutes, thinking intently I arrived at the gym at eight-fifteen, thirty minutes before the concert. We set up our stands and tuned our instruments. Nobody spoke. The tension between us all was greater than iron chains, coiled around an object firmly. This was not a time for joking, laughing, or talking. This was a time of music. Five minutes later, the doors opened and our music instructor walked in. He was wearing a tuxedo, but you could see it was done by trembling hands because the tie was lopsided and uneven. He walked over to the piano and took his seat. I was reminded of the times when I took my seat in the sand, resting at a summery beach. This was nothing like that. We were inside a large, dark, and enclosed room that had a sense of urgency. We all took our seats and looked around each other. We were all ready. Then, fifteen minutes later, the whole school filed in. It suddenly dawned on me the amount of people we were performing in front of. I tried to push it back into the depths of my mind, but it kept resurfacing like a disease that wouldn’t go away. I took some deep breaths, but it didn’t help. The students took their places in the seats, and all eyes turned to the performers. The lights flashed onto our stage, but they weren’t needed. We placed our bows in the position and started to play. The five minutes that the group of musicians spent playing were ones I will never forget. The sound was so sweet it was almost as nourishing as a peach. The lights felt like the rays of sunshine. And the noise was the soft splashing of the waves. But this was different. This was better. The stress released felt as good as succeeding in a goal. And only one feeling was felt through the performers, pure joy. It finished just as soon as it started, like summer. The applause that was heard thundered through campus like a stampede of animals, running after the hunt they all wished to claim. The crowd stood up and roared like a thousand warriors after the death of the enemy. Today was the big day. Today was better than summer. Today was not horribly wrong. Today I succeeded and that is better than I could have hoped for. Cole Miller, 11San Rafael, California Emma T. Capps, 12San Carlos, California
Shadow
For a few days in mid-September, the temperature seems perfect. It’s not boiling hot, but it hasn’t reached what you would call freezing cold yet. It’s a little chilly, but that makes you feel fresh and wide awake, and the wind isn’t horribly wild and hasn’t started biting at your face. It was one of those days, and so my dad and I drove down to the local woods to go for a walk. The ride was short, and I entertained myself by looking at the trees’ beautiful gowns of gold, red, and orange. Here and there, a pine tree popped up, looking serious and glum compared to the others around it. We stopped and parked in the small lot. I got out, and a cool, crisp breeze brushed my cheek and ruffled my blond hair. We started walking, and our feet crunched on the forest floor. Sometimes—in a sudden gust of wind—a brightly colored leaf would float gently down, adding to the great carpet of foliage already resting there. We talked some, but I usually skipped ahead of my dad, my hair whipping back, and breathed in the fresh, earthy smell of the forest. After a ways, about thirty minutes after we started, a bubbling stream wound itself towards us and continued to race merrily along the path. As we rounded a bend, I noticed a skinny, black animal drinking from the stream. I froze, for my first thought was, bear. My dad didn’t notice it at first but then stopped as well. He was a black lab that was obviously lost—or a stray. His fur was matted, and his ribs were showing. But there was also something around his neck. It wasn’t a collar—I could tell that much—but more like a piece of string. The animal heard our footsteps and turned to look at us. Well, he seemed to be looking at me. He wasn’t just looking, however. He was almost talking to me in a way I couldn’t explain—the way animals seem to give messages to humans without words, through just their eyes. This dog’s eyes were like melted chocolate, and if I had to say what he was conveying to me in words, it would be, “Help me.” Still frozen, I peered closely at him, trying to see what the thing around his neck was. But instead, I found myself gazing back into those eyes, as if I could not look away. And then the dog came slowly, tentatively, towards us, his tail wagging slowly. My dad unfroze and walked toward the dog, just as slowly as the dog walked toward him. Then my dad said, “Hannah, let’s get the dog back to the car, OK? Then we’ll take him to the Humane Society—he obviously needs help.” Unfreezing, I nodded. “Come on,” I coaxed. The dog was too willing. He bounded towards us, then stopped, and limped the rest of the way; his leg was hurt, it seemed. Half an hour later, we were in the small parking lot, and my dad was looking at the map to find the route to the Humane Society. I was looking at the thing around the dog’s neck. Tied on a red string was a piece of paper. In small, messy handwriting it said, “Please take care of Shadow.” Immediately, my heart went out to the dog. How could someone do that? How could someone let a dog survive on his or her own? And then a small question formed in my mind. What would have happened to Shadow if we hadn’t found him? Trying not to think about the answer to that question, I paid more attention to Shadow. His fur was as black as a raven, and one of his ears had a chunk missing from it. On the way back, I had petted him, but my dad said something about ticks, and so I stopped. But he had to agree with me that this dog was very cute. Well, if he was a little bit plumper, and his fur was brushed, he’d be adorable. When my dad folded the map and put it away, I dared to ask him, “Dad, can we keep Shadow?” “Shadow?” he asked. Then he sighed. “Hannah honey, you’ve named the dog already? You know we can’t keep him.” “No, look, Dad, it says on his tag.” “He has a collar?” “No, look.” My dad crouched down and looked at the tag that had been around his neck. I could see his lips forming the words as he read them. He was almost talking to me in a way I couldn’t explain Again, he sighed. “Well, let’s get going, Hannah.” I nodded, looking at Shadow. He was pacing around us, glancing sadly at me with his big brown eyes. We got in the car, and Shadow sat in the back, panting happily. “Can we keep him, Dad?” I pleaded. “No, Hannah,” my dad said firmly. “We can’t. I’m sorry.” “Please, please, please?” I begged. “Sorry, Hannah,” said my dad. “I just don’t want him to go to someone who’ll abandon him again,” I said. My dad sighed. “There are other people who care about dogs, sweetie,” said my dad. “I know,” I said. “But what if he gets placed in a home that doesn’t care?” “He won’t,” said my dad. “That’s what the Humane Society is careful about. ” I turned my attention to the trees again, but somehow they didn’t seem so interesting anymore. Half an hour later, we arrived at the building. We walked inside and I found myself in a room that had cages with cats in them, guinea pigs chattering anxiously, and sounds of barking dogs echoing through it. I wanted to take each cat home, and each gerbil and hamster as well. The lady took Shadow, and my dad dragged me out of the Humane Society. Though I begged my parents for Shadow, they refused. I pouted. They wouldn’t give in. Finally, I had to give
The Dragonfly Pool
The Dragonfly Pool, by Eva Ibbotson; Dutton Children’s Books: New York, 2008; $17.99 I’m not a big fan of fantasy books. So when I flipped through The Dragonfly Pool and found mentions of dukes, kings, and princes I groaned, thinking this book would be about royalty, kingdoms, and other things irrelevant to my life. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The Dragonfly Pool is about real-life situations and feelings. Tally is a girl living in London as World War II is approaching. Her father, believing she won’t be safe in London when the war comes, reluctantly sends her away to a boarding school called Delderton. Tally doesn’t want to go, worrying that it’ll be like her cousins’ strict boarding school. But when she arrives at Delderton, she is instantly comfortable and makes friends with a girl whose mother is a movie star, a boy who tries to flush his tie down the toilet, a girl who lisps and is allergic to many things, and other eccentric characters. Classes range from drama, where children “give birth” to themselves and act like forks, to biology, which starts at four am. The school is invited to perform at a folk-dancing festival in a country called Bergania. There they meet Karil, the crown prince of Bergania, who wants more than anything to be an “ordinary” kid. After his father’s assassination Karil is in danger, so the students go to great lengths to rescue him and bring him to Delderton. There were many themes in this book, such as friendship, trust, and reaching out to children from all over the world, but the most intriguing to me was the one Karil thinks about: the definition of ordinary. I have also wondered about this because sometimes I feel that I don’t have an ordinary family and I’m not an ordinary kid. I’m homeschooled; I can’t tolerate certain foods a lot of kids enjoy, like chocolate and ice cream; I have some challenges; and I’ve always felt kind of different, with the things that interest me, from other kids. So I could relate to Karil, who longs to be an ordinary person and join the Delderton kids at their school. The ironic element is that, compared to most other schools, Delderton is not ordinary. I liked the school with its quirks and would probably enjoy the classes. Another thing I liked was that the kids really learned stuff at Delderton, even though some of the classes might have seemed silly. Sometimes I worry that people might think I’m not getting a proper education because I don’t go to school, but I believe kids learn in places that work for them. Also, the descriptions were vivid and I felt like I was there. So reading about the school was fun. Some elements of the book were overplayed. Even though it was necessary to the plot, the scenes where the kids had to escape from Nazis became a little rote. Also, the “relatives pushing a kid to be something he doesn’t want to be” seemed kind of cliche. These scenes were boring because I felt I’d read them all somewhere else. Overall, however, I liked The Dragonfly Pool. The plot was intriguing, the themes were interesting and inspiring, and the location was fun. While reading it, I almost forgot about what was going on around me! Lena Greenberg, 11Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Memory’s Song
“We should have known better,” Garu grated angrily. The sparrow perched high in the apple tree, watching helplessly as the gray cat below devoured her kill. “Let’s leave. This is no place for the clan.” His fierce gaze flicked over his now small group: his trusted friend Baklan, Baklan’s mate Teekeh, their grown daughter Kila, and his own son, Liru. Liru looked up to him with imploring eyes. “Where? Where is there?” The sharpness in Garu’s voice changed to weariness. “I don’t know. But someplace.” He took off and the group followed suit. The summer evening air was cool and refreshing, but Garu could not enjoy it. He tried to keep his eyes ahead, but they kept glancing backwards at his son. Why did Liru have to have those pale brown feathers like his mother? Why did he have to serve as a reminder of that terrible event? A pain slashed through his heart. He remembered it all too well. * * * He and Lirana were flying together on a summer evening. The breeze was sweet and the sunset was radiant. It turned the green leaves of the forest below to gold. Little pink clouds skipped across the colorful horizon. He could see the smile on Lirana’s face and the gentle sparkle in her eye; a smile of pride at bringing up her first child. Their son Liru was a few weeks old and needed plenty of care, but Teekeh had offered to watch him for a while. Garu and his mate had eagerly taken the opportunity to enjoy the sunset and soar in the pleasant sky. And as Lirana let out a laugh of happiness and did a loop-the-loop in the air, Garu felt as if there was nothing more he could possibly want. He yearned to help, but he was overpowered by fear A screech rang in the quiet air, and suddenly all was chaos. Lirana screamed as the owl swooped towards her. The great talons were wide open, waiting to snatch prey out of the air. They closed with a snap—but Lirana was quicker. Her little pale brown wings tilted ever so slightly and escaped the flying predator. This happened once, twice, three times, and still the sparrow evaded the owl with inches to spare. But it could not last much longer. Meanwhile, Garu sat stupidly watching the scene from a branch he had crashed into when he had dived to avoid the owl. He yearned to help, but he was overpowered by fear. He was frozen in place. It had been growing steadily darker. The owl’s eyes were accustomed to the night, but Lirana’s were not. She was constantly twisting and turning. Then suddenly, in her inability to see, she doubled back—straight into the owl’s claws. Her scream rent the air, and then all was silent as the predator flew away with his kill. Garu felt numb all over. His claws came loose, and he fell from the branch. He landed in a soft pile of leaves, where he wept uncontrollably. * * * After that, he had left the forest, unable to stay at the place of his mate’s death. He had moved from one place to another—swamps, farms, cities, prairies, but never forests. He could not bear to be reminded. But everywhere he went, at least part of the clan was killed by one thing or another. And whenever they were, he left again, searching for a safer territory. But nothing had improved. Predators had picked off the clan one by one, until their number was reduced to a mere five. Suddenly, a screech rang in the quiet air, and instantly all was chaos. “Dad! Heeelp!!” Garu’s head whipped around at the sound of his son’s cry. A huge mottled owl was diving towards him, and Liru was flapping desperately. Garu’s heart skipped a beat, and then it plummeted down to his stomach. The nightmare was happening all over again. Baklan, Teekeh, and Kila had fled towards the fields below, leaving Liru to his fate. But Garu refused to do the same. This time he would not sit dumbly watching his loved-one die. He forced his wings to beat, and darted through the air towards his son. “I’m coming, Liru!” It seemed as if Garu had gone back into time. There was the little pale brown streaked sparrow, dodging and ducking, twisting and spinning. And there was the huge bird of prey, swooping and grasping thin air with gleaming talons. But this time Garu was not a spectator. He was a pursuer. Suddenly, he slammed into the owl’s back, and as soon as he realized what he had run into, he began tearing the owl’s feathers out, ripping and scratching. The owl was surprised at this ambush and rapidly dived down. Garu fell off the predator’s back and fell. But just in time he opened his wings and swooped upwards. He spotted his son flying away to safety and followed him into the darkness. The clack of claws sounded next to his ear, and there was a rush of air, ruffling his gray-brown feathers. The owl was after him. As he spun away to one side and then to the next, he saw Liru heading towards him. Regardless of his own safety, Liru was returning to help his father. “Liru, go!” screamed Garu. “Go, now!” He felt the whiff of air and tilted his wings to avoid the keen claws. “No!” his son shouted back. “I’m not going anywhere!” And he flew ever closer. “Liru, don’t you dare…” He never finished. Something sharp tore at his shoulder, and then he was free-falling, his wing flapping painfully and uselessly. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the illuminated golden eyes of the owl, and beyond that, his son hovering in the dark sky. * * * Long into the starry night Baklan watched for Garu’s return. He and Teekeh and Kila had flown down to a dense thicket when the
Leaf of Sunshine
The forest is calm, only an occasional chirp of a bird, breaks the silence, the sun is buried in a blanket of clouds, only a few golden rays escape, just enough to penetrate the darkness, cool wind rustles through the trees, gently swaying their nimble branches, so peaceful, one single leaf spirals to the ground, twirling, spinning, now upon the brown fallen leaves, lies one of a brilliant sun-yellow color, with its bright green smudges, splattered haphazardly across its surface, a beautiful sight, compared to the crumpled leaves surrounding it, it seems like a precious gem, it is a bit of sunshine, on a crisp autumn day. Laurel Gibson, 12Durham, New Hampshire
Pain
Pain can be felt in all kinds of ways. If you fall off a bike and scrape your knee you could feel pain, put on a bandage and, with time, forget about it. But there is another pain that can only be cured by accepting it because it never goes away. This is the pain I want to talk about. One beautiful spring morning, the birds were chirping, and the cool morning breeze blew through the window that woke me up gently. I suddenly remembered that that day my whole grade was going to perform a play called Matilda. My part was the father, which had the most lines to remember. I practiced like crazy until I learned it by heart. I gulped my milk down in a flash and wolfed down my waffles in a second. I slipped into my jeans and black short-sleeved polo T-shirt, put on my shoes and bolted out the door. As I boarded the half-crowded train I started to review my flash cards. I felt that going to school that day in particular would be an extraordinary day. But I didn’t know what sort of surprise awaited me. As I entered the school all smiling, a fifth-grader glared at me and said, “What are you smiling at? It isn’t a moment of happiness.” With that she spun around and charged up the stairs. I barely had a chance to reply to what she had said to me, when I passed by a group of kids sitting on the floor crying. I was confused as to why the whole school was so gloomy on what was supposed to be a fun morning. Near the main office, Ms. Rosenblum, a third-grade teacher, gestured me toward the cafeteria. I considered what I might have done for her to pull me aside. She wasn’t even my teacher. I sat down at a table, my hands all sweaty and cold, still wondering about why was I there. “What are you smiling at? It isn’t a moment of happiness” “I am sorry, Daniel, but I have some bad news for you,” she said with a soft voice. “Mr. Dutt, our science teacher, died last night while he was driving his car,” she said. Like a movie stuck in rewind, all the fun memories were going from the last to the first science class. The first image that came to my mind was the day we made the experiment of Coke and Mentos in after-school science. Mr. Dutt organized the whole “crew” into groups. My group was working with Diet Coke and blizzardblue Mentos candies. I loved seeing the Coke rattle after I inserted the wire full of Mentos into the bottle nozzle. The sound of exploding bits of hard candy and overflowing soda excited the whole class. We all ended up soaking wet, and brown and sticky. It was one of the funniest days of my life. Then, in a flash, I pictured the bearded dragons, the turtles and the snakes in the science room. I saw Mr. Dutt feeding and petting them. I heard his voice and his funny jokes. All of it will be gone forever. My head felt like a helium balloon and my body like a rock. Now I understood why the fifth-grader glared at me, the kids were crying in the hallway and even the red eyes of Ms. Rosenblum. As soon as all these images were out of my heart, I blew up in tears. “I know how you feel, sweetheart, I miss him too,” she said as she gently stroked my hair. When I arrived at my fourth-grade classroom, my teacher, Ms. Painter, who was sitting on a rocking chair and reading a book, glanced up at me and said, “Daniel, do you know what happened? Did anyone tell you that Mr. Dutt d- ” “I know what happened,” I interrupted her, which she hates a lot but on this occasion she didn’t care. As I sat down at my table I saw the rest of the class drawing pictures quietly. Some were reading books and some were crying. When I saw the kids crying for a moment I felt that we were all sharing the same pain, that we were all friends. But that wasn’t so. Fourth grade was my worst year in elementary school. Kids always were making fun of me, calling me names and leaving me out. Nobody wanted me to play with them. Nobody wanted to sit and eat with me at lunchtime. Every day I dreaded to go to school. The whole school was my hostile enemy, except Mr. Dutt. He was my only true friend, or that’s how I felt. Now that he died I was completely alone. Then, I came across a doodle of a cartoon bearded dragon: it was my lizard, Carlo. I smiled and felt a bit better. I received Carlo for my birthday, inspired by Mr. Dutt’s bearded dragons, Angelo and Derek. I was amazed at how fun and enthusiastic creatures they were so I begged my parents for one. When I finally got one I learned a lot of facts on how to take care of them. I read about them on the Internet as well as in books and magazine articles, and then I went to Mr. Dutt and told him all that I had learned. Mr. Dutt was pretty amused at my interest, so he gave me more books about lizards and also let me help him take care of the bearded dragons at school. Science became my favorite class and Mr. Dutt, my best friend. Suddenly I left my chair all dreamy and went to the principal’s office to ask her if I could feed the lizards one more time. It took a long time for her to finally say yes. Then and there I realized that would be the last time I ever saw them. The principal had decided to send the lizards to an animal shelter.
When I Understood
NEW DELHI, INDIA, 2002 Staring wide-eyed out of the car window I look down at the dusty bodies of children clustered below me. Their hair is streaked with dust and grime Their skin darkened to a crisp by the intensity of the broiling summer sun. Their writhing hands clutch at the shiny silver metal of our car Grabbing hungrily at the colorful juice boxes my parents offer from the windows. I know I should be enjoying the bustling world around me, but somehow I can’t. The road is a blur of color and life; Vendors shout from their stalls Advertising a rainbow of colorful fruits and vegetables Or fine cloth dyed sunset orange, rose pink, indigo. Sweat clings to their dark skin as they haggle and argue with customers passing by Or just catch up on the latest gossip. Chickens strut through the crowd like confident butlers; A cow slowly ambles its way through the people. Despite the crowd the blasting honks of cars’ horns sound as they force their way through, Shiny metal islands in a sea of bodies. But I am taking in none of this; My eyes are riveted to the children. I catch sight of a girl about my age, Seven, Her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, Clutching the grubby hand of a wriggling two-year-old. Seeing the look of amazement and longing that fills her eyes As her gaze sweeps over our car I offer her one of the juice boxes With trembling fingers. She grabs it Immediately handing it to her little sister. Just watching the little girl inhale the sweet drink Its contents spilling from her mouth and running down her chin like a thousand rivers I think of all the times I’ve stormed out of the room crying after losing a game of checkers, Argued with my brother about who had to go first for piano lessons, Made faces when my parents made me eat vegetables. I can remember those times when my mom got angry, Yelling, “Don’t you understand, there are children dying in the world?” Looking down at the thin, hungry bodies of the children surrounding me At the toddler devouring the juice At the grateful look the girl gave me I realized that, For the first time, I did understand. Malini Gandhi, 13Auburndale, Massachusetts
