Now she sat helpless, her days of freedom just a memory “Just take it easy, Jenna. We don’t want you to fall.” Jenna gritted her teeth and took a step. She gripped the walker in front of her so hard her knuckles were white. The pain she expected didn’t occur, and she looked up with a smile. “Mom, do you think I…” Her leg collapsed underneath her and she thudded to the ground with a cry of agony. Tears were wrenched from her eyes against her will, but it wasn’t the pain. She was used to pain. Pain was her constant companion. It had been with her ever since she had fallen off the stone wall by the creek while chasing her cousin and shattered her leg. The surgery to implant the stabilizing rods had gone wrong, and Jenna was left with a useless leg. No, she was crying because of the hopelessness of it all. Every day she tried to exercise, to strengthen her leg, but she still couldn’t take a single step. Her mother was at her side, but she wasn’t aware of it. At that moment, her world consisted of the walker on its side with its wheels still spinning, her throbbing leg, and the tears that streamed down her face and soaked her shirt. * * * Jenna had PE first period, but it wasn’t physical. Usually, PE was just sitting in her wheelchair reading or doing homework. Today she watched the other kids. They lined up at the edge of the jumbo track, the mile-long course they ran each day. Mr. Heket blew his whistle, and they were off. Alexa was far ahead, her long legs pumping gracefully. But then, reflected Jenna, she always was. It hadn’t always been that way. Jenna could still remember the days when another slim girl had been out in front, by far the fastest, the strongest. I ran like the wind, thought Jenna bitterly. I was the wind before. Then a twinge in her leg reminded her that things were different now. Now she sat helpless, her days of freedom just a memory. The doctors pretended she could make a miraculous recovery, but Jenna could see the truth behind their fake smiles: you will never heal. You will be crippled for life. Alexa was nearly finished with the run, and Jenna listened intently for her time. “Well done, Alexa. 5:33.” Jenna sat upright in shock. The record she had set before her fall still stood, but not for long now. It had been 5:32. Alexa smiled breathlessly. Now along came Daniel, always second. Jenna tuned out again. Soon, the slower runners were arriving. As fashionable Sasha finished, she ignored Mr. Heket and continued chatting with her friends. “Hey, you know? I hate running. Sometimes I wish I had, like, a broken leg or something.” Jenna spun the wheels of her wheelchair, intensely angry all of a sudden. Skillfully maneuvering over to the group of kids, she planted herself firmly in their way. Sasha looked at her, surprised. “Excuse me,” she said in an overly enunciated tone, as if Jenna was stupid as well as wheelchair-confined. Jenna remained still. “Believe me, Sasha. You don’t want a broken leg.” Sasha shot a glance at Jenna’s leg. “Oh, yeah. Oops.” She shoved past Jenna, who made no move to stop her. Jenna felt tears stinging in her eyes, remembering days past. Sasha had been her friend, before the accident. Now Sasha found her own friends, and Jenna was alone. Wind before, thought Jenna, watching Sasha’s retreating back. I was wind before. * * * “Guess what, Jenna?” gushed her mother as Jenna was lifted into her car. Her face was glowing. “Doctor Johnson says there’s some different technology he can try, and he thinks it can help you!” Yeah, right, thought Jenna. Like anything can help me now. “It’ll mean more surgery. Do you think you can handle that?” Jenna wasn’t sure. She had been suspicious of surgery since hers had gone wrong. Her uneasiness came from the voice in her subconscious that asked, “What if it happens again? What if you’re paralyzed, or even killed?” “I don’t know… What’s the different technology?” “Well, they tried inserting rods before, but Dr. Johnson says they could try metal plates. He also said they might have to re-break the bone… Do you want to do this?” Do I? Jenna asked herself. If there’s even a small chance I can run again? “I… Can I think about it?” “Of course.” Jenna retreated into the recesses of her mind for contemplation. The surgery could fix her, she knew that. But, persisted that tiny little voice, what if… “No!” Jenna declared, defiantly. “But, Jenna…” Her mother’s voice was sad. “I… No, I didn’t mean it that way, Mom. I meant, like, no to not doing it. I mean, yes. I’ll do it.” Jenna was babbling. She was determined not to live in fear and let that voice win. Her fears and doubts intensified, but she mentally shoved them away. I could be wind again, Jenna reminded herself. * * * It was deathly cold in the waiting room. Jenna was only half-awake. Why did I have to get up at three in the morning? she thought. She vaguely glanced around the room, taking in the cold plastic chairs and the walls that were so white it hurt to look at them. A side door opened and a nurse stepped out. “Jenna Rakashashov?” Jenna became slightly more awake as adrenaline coursed through her. She slid her wheelchair into the next room, where a nurse helped her onto the gurney. Lying back, she gazed up at the white ceiling tiles that looked like they were made of cardboard. The gurney began to move slowly, and Jenna could feel her leg throb with the same rhythm as the clicking wheels. Ha, she said silently to the voice of doubt inside of her. I win. I’ll be fixed. Then she
Horses
George, with his silver-gray fur cantering across bright green grass whinnying softly his white mane blown out by the wind the sun a horizon of bright colors behind him Reaching out to pet the soft brown and white dotted face of Polka Peering out from behind the stall ready to ride * * * All my life I’ve been watching those jumpers in that field wishing it was me. Finally I was ready. The swishing of Violet’s tail and the clop of her canter encouraged me onward. Leaning forward I felt my heart soar into the bright blue sky as Violet leapt into the air almost as if she were flying. Then dropping gently to the ground and coming slowly to a stop. I had done it. I had jumped. Sophia Lipkin, 9Brooklyn, New York
Lilly of the South
It’s just, my family has been moving all over for as long as I can remember CHAPTER ONE: THE SOUTH POLE The plane seemed to be going ridiculously slow. I had a seat by the window and was looking out at the South Pole, also my new home. Both of my parents were considered brilliant scientists. I didn’t disagree. We were moving to the bottom of the world so they could study the earth’s changing climates. At fourteen, I shouldn’t complain, and believe me, I really tried not to. It’s just, my family has been moving all over for as long as I can remember. Before the South Pole, we lived in Australia. (They were studying heat and sun rays.) I loved Australia. What I would miss the most would be my friends Ophelia Jones and Percy Smith. They were both only children like me. Ophelia’s mom is a nurse, and her dad was a pilot, but he got kicked out for something, but Ophelia never told me what. Percy’s mom died when he was just a few hours old. His dad is really cool though. He’s a math whiz and a great photographer. I would miss them, a lot. The plane stuttered to a stop, made a strange blasting noise, but didn’t shatter into a million pieces like I had expected. The flight attendant ushered us out to the walkway and we entered the small (very small) airport. We looked around for a person holding a sign that read “Anderson.” My mom spotted it first. We approached the young woman holding the sign. She had on a black coat that went to her knees. Her blond hair was pulled back in a braid. And her face and eyes were kind and gentle. “Are you the Andersons?” she asked. “Yes,” my dad answered. “I’m Patrick; this is my wife, Karen, and my daughter, Lilly.” The woman smiled and said, “A pleasure to meet you. My name is Jasmine Lewis, my son Jeremy is around here somewhere.” My parents shook hands with her, and she led us to the door. A boy around my age with perfect brown hair and ocean-blue eyes caught up with us. “Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, this is my son, Jeremy,” Jasmine said. “Nice to meet you.” He shook hands with my parents and then with me. “Let me carry that for you.” He took my suitcase, and we walked through the ice and snow to find Mrs. Lewis’s snowmobiles. Once we found them, she threw Jeremy a pair of keys. Mrs. Lewis’s mobile had three seats, but Jeremy’s had only two seats. “Lilly, you can ride with Jeremy,” my mom instructed. Jeremy handed me a helmet, he put the keys in the ignition, and we took off through the snow. Mrs. Lewis was a few feet behind us with my mom nervously clutching her waist. I wasn’t scared, I was actually having fun. “You all right back there?” Jeremy called back to me. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I called back over the roaring of the snowmobiles. “We’re about to turn, hold on to me.” I didn’t hesitate to cling to his back as we turned a sharp corner, nearly missing a general store. “Show off!” Mrs. Lewis called to Jeremy. He laughed, and I did too. We soon came to a charming little cottage and parked the snowmobiles. “This one’s yours, ours is that one.” Jeremy pointed to a smaller cottage a little ways behind ours. We got off the bikes, and Jeremy grabbed my suitcase for me. Both of our jean legs were soaked, and I was freezing. “You OK?” Jeremy asked. “J-just c-cold,” I muttered. Jeremy left and returned with a green wool blanket, and he put it around my shoulders. “Thanks.” “No problem, my sister made it for a welcoming present for you.” “Lilly.” My mom appeared. “We’re going to go tour around town; do you and Jeremy want to stay here?” “Sure.” Jeremy read my mind. “OK, see you later then.” She left. “Would you like a tour?” Jeremy asked. “Sure.” And he showed me around. There were three bedrooms, one bathroom, a small kitchen, and a living room. In the kitchen were four chairs that surrounded a small table. There was a woodstove, an icebox, a counter, and four cupboards. He pulled out a small pan and set it on the stove. He took milk, cocoa powder, and powdered sugar. I sat down at the table and watched him make hot chocolate. “How long have you lived here?” I asked as he poured the milk in over the cocoa. “I think since I was three. We lived in Russia before here.” “Why did you live in Russia?” “I’m not really sure.” He raised an eyebrow. He took a ladle out of a drawer and poured the cocoa in mugs. I wrapped the blanket more tightly around me. He set a mug in front of me. I took a drink, and I could feel my legs warming up. It was delicious. “Where did you learn to cook?” I asked. He looked down at the floor. “My sister taught me.” “Was it the same sister who made this blanket?” “Yes.” “I would like to meet her.” He slammed his cup on the table, stood up, and walked toward the door. His action made me jump. “Where are you going?” I followed him. “I’ve got to go home,” he muttered as he pulled his coat on. “Why?” I asked. He walked over to me. “I just really think I should go.” His teeth were gritted together. I looked into his angry eyes. “OK, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him. I walked back to the kitchen, put a lid on the leftover hot chocolate, and dumped Jeremy’s in the sink. My parents came home later that night. My mom was carrying grocery bags and my dad was carrying a library bag full of
My Vicksburg
My Vicksburg, by Ann Rinaldi; Harcourt Children’s Books: New York, 2009; $16 Fourteen-year-old Claire Louise Corbet has always lived a life of medicine because her brother and papa are both doctors. Now more than ever there are hospitals, sickness and injuries around her. Claire Louise is living in the Civil War battle of Vicksburg. During the battle, most families of Vicksburg are living in dugout cave homes. Claire Louise’s cave serves as a home for Mama, herself, and her little brother James, while her older brother and papa are serving in the army. The fighting is so heavy that people can only leave their caves or houses during the Yankees’ breakfast, lunch and dinner breaks. To occupy these days, everyone, including Claire Louise, must find something to do. My favorite part of the story, even though it is not the main theme, is Claire Louise’s work at the hospital. This might be because I want to be a doctor, or it might be because my uncle and grandfather are doctors. Either way, I think the hospital part of My Vicksburg is very impressive. After visiting the hospital with her brother, Claire Louise decides that she would like to contribute her time to helping the wounded soldiers. Claire Louise decides to visit the hospital twice a week and write letters for the injured Brave Boys, as her mama calls them. When Claire Louise goes to the hospital she walks across town to the makeshift tent. The environment at the hospital is very different from her regular life. Many men are wounded, amputated, bleeding, and sad. Some are even dead. The nurses sometimes move these dead soldiers to keep the wounded men’s spirits high. The first time she goes to the hospital, Claire Louise is scared by all the injuries. Claire Louise decides to keep coming despite her fright because she is dedicated to the help she is providing. At the hospital people are glad to see her. The sight of a young girl rouses hope in many soldiers. Sometimes Claire Louise does favors along with her task of letter writing. At one point in the story, she brings sweet potatoes to a soldier because he is hungry. Claire Louise’s main duty is to write down the words of the wounded. Many letters are written to wives, mothers, and children, saying that all will be well and that they loved their family very, very much. One soldier, dying of typhoid, asked Claire Louise to record his words to his wife. He then loudly recited an epic love letter, saddening both nurses and other soldiers. Although this story took place long ago, I think it has many similarities with 2010. People still want to help out just like Claire Louise did. In our time with the Iraq War we could use some of the lessons Claire Louise learned. Because our war is so far away, many people feel there is nothing we can do to help. Yes, it is true young girls can’t visit army hospitals, but we can write to those serving, say thank you, or connect ourselves other ways. The soldiers will appreciate anything anyone does. By the age of fourteen Claire Louise had undergone conflict in her country, her city, even in her family. This is a story about facing conflicts, growing up, and learning lessons. Claire Louise lived 150 years ago but there are things we can relate to today. Whether you are interested in historical fiction, working out conflicts, medicine, or the Civil War, you can find something worthwhile in My Vicksburg. Grace Russell, 12Belmont, North Carolina
Photos in the Hayloft
Retrieving her iPod, Jenny scowled and stared back at her grandpa Jenny yawned, getting ready. She had only slept three hours because of all the gaming she had done. She popped her iPod on and headed down the stairs. She had promised to help, so that her grandpa would keep quiet about how good it was for young people to do chores. He was so old-fashioned. She never did chores at home, so why here? She pulled on her angora sweater, slipped on her suede boots and headed for the barn. Inside the barn, Jenny saw cobwebs loosely hung around the whitewashed cement ceiling that now looked more brown than white. It was dirty and musty; the ground was full of hay that had been flattened by dirt and manure. Old milk pumps were mounted on every stall. Some of the black-and-white jersey cows were staring at Jenny with their deep, hazel eyes, while others munched on the hay in the troughs in front of them. She only came here because her parents were busy traveling all around the world with their jobs, and they had bribed her with the latest laptop in the stores if she spent the summer with her grandpa. Jenny already knew which laptop she wanted. It was hot pink and had all the latest features. She couldn’t wait to get it. Bessie stared at Jenny and made a loud and low moo. Taken aback, Jenny stepped backwards into manure, sending her iPod whirling through the air and landing on its face. “Great to see you,” Grandpa smiled. “Come over here and help hold Bessie, while I work with getting this calf out. You hold her tail out and don’t let her swish it.” Retrieving her iPod, Jenny scowled and stared back at her grandpa. The smell of the barn and now her new suede boots drifted up to her nose. She turned and raced out the door, scraped her boots off on the grass, and ran into an old barn. She pushed open the red, wooden door, climbed up the rickety old knotted-wood ladder that led to a hayloft and stationed herself behind some fresh hay. Pitchforks leaned against the walls and clumps of hay were scattered all over the floor. She swept away the loose hay with her feet to make room to sit among the hay bales. The hay stung her back but she was so relieved to be away from her grandpa and that old cow. She had heard her grandpa holler for her, but whatever he had yelled, she was too far away to hear what he had said. Why did her grandpa always make her do things that she didn’t want to do? Making her get up early in the morning just to feed those cows, or making her listen to his growing-up stories. Didn’t he know that she didn’t care? So what if he grew up during the wartime? It didn’t have anything to do with her, so it was just a waste of her time. She never really listened anyway. She tried to turn on her iPod, only to find that it needed to be charged. She looked around, searching for something to do, and spotted an old, leather walnut-brown suitcase tucked behind some rusty rakes, hoes and shovels. She pulled the dust-covered suitcase out of the heap, dusted it off and carelessly undid the buckles. She ripped open the lid, only to find piles of black-and-white pictures, about 300 in all. She flipped through them, scattering some on the floor. There were many pictures of people she didn’t know and landscapes she had never seen. There were a few pictures of her grandpa growing up. Some pictures had her grandpa, about ten, playing the mandolin. That mandolin was now in her parents’ glass cabinet. Nobody played it anymore. She wondered why they even kept it. One particular picture caught her eye; it was the figure of a tall young man. He had dark thin hair and his eyes gleamed with adventure, as if ready for anything that was yet to come. He was wearing an old brown shirt and had ripped and tattered brown pants held up by suspenders. It looked like he was standing on a cobbled street, lined with many buildings. Jenny yawned. She made herself a pillow of golden-brown straw and fell asleep. * * * “Boom!” Jenny bolted up, suddenly wide awake as some concrete debris dropped inches away from her head. Scanning, she saw no windows but only a door slightly ajar. The air was getting thicker and she dropped to her knees and started to crawl towards the door. With all her might, she pried it open. A woman came rushing out, shouting, “Come, child, we must get to shelter!” She firmly grabbed Jenny’s arm and dragged her out of the building and onto a cobbled street below. Jenny knew the woman wasn’t speaking English, but somehow she could understand her. It was the language her grandpa sometimes spoke; it was German. “Let go of me! I don’t even know you!” Jenny snapped. She coughed. She could barely catch her breath. Suddenly, the building she was just in collapsed into rubble and dust. “We’ll find your family later, but now you and I must get out of here before another bomb hits,” the woman insisted. Jenny looked around; she could see burning and leaning buildings, roofs caved in, and walls gone. It looked like a river of fire all around her. Some people were screaming and running, while others lay motionless on the streets. Jenny even saw a woman with her hair and clothes on fire! Where was she? The woman dragged Jenny down the road. They finally stopped and went inside a concrete shelter. Inside, people were huddled together. Kids were crying and parents quietly wept. It seemed like everyone was in shock. The air-raid sirens pounded in her ears. Jenny wanted out of there. She couldn’t think. Tears
Through Each Other’s Eyes
The tiny wolf scrambled to keep up with her brothers and mother as she trudged through snow that reached up to her chest. She felt her legs go numb as she tried to walk in mother’s paw prints. She gave a wail of protest as the blinding snow swallowed the dull shadow of her mother in a whirl of gray and white. The wolf pup felt the snow clumping in her paws, stinging them. The pup cried out as the ground gave way under her small gray paws, sending her tumbling into darkness… Sakura woke with a shudder that passed through her fur and rippled the pale gray peltage. Sakura still felt the loss of her family afresh. She remembered whimpering pitifully in a paw print of her mother when she had lost her brothers and mother in a blizzard. Then warm shapes, pulling her gently around them, soft as living furs. She remembered waking in a warm nest, the clumped snow washed off her. In this new family, she felt cared for and loved, but even so, her family was still gone. Her brother had been found not far away, howling and almost unconscious. Sakura couldn’t stand sitting here alone with her thoughts. She could never outrun the memory of looking at her beloved brother, hearing his wailing of fear, his gaze staring at her, though she knew he could no longer, and never again, see her. * * * The girl ran her hands through caramel hair, her pale cheeks stained with tears. She kept repeating in her head how he couldn’t have been dead, how he was faking. But she knew her beloved Champ was dead, his age failing him and crippling him. She knew him as her little black lab puppy, still gnawing and jumping with mischievous innocence. She remembered him chewing furniture and eating both human and dog food, his impatient yips when she tried to teach him to roll over. But she knew that it was all memories now. So she had kept running from the house, until she had reached the dull gray sea, almost reflecting the hazy, blue-less sky that shone no sun. She had taken refuge on a rough, bark-like rock on the edge of the cliffs. She had cried there all morning, feeling as if there was to be no happiness again. Can you really see your own soulful self in an animal’s eyes? Suddenly there was the crackle of twigs. The girl whipped around to see a large pale gray wolf slide out of the pines bordering the cliffs. The girl quickly grabbed a nearby rock, ready to throw if the wolf lunged. But the creature’s eyes were not aggressive or hostile; the golden depths seemed to be filled with grief and sadness. For a moment the girl saw her own liquid brown eyes reflected there, and for a moment she saw a pulsing light of rainbow colors there. Can you really see your own soulful self in an animal’s eyes? She remembered a similar feeling stirring when she met the brown eyes of Champ, but she never saw anything like this. Then the wolf dipped its head as if respectfully. The girl was in awe. She felt no need to fear this creature. She dipped her head in a response. She felt mesmerized by the golden depths of the eyes. * * * Sakura saw the girl staring her in the eyes, drawn by something. Sakura felt something else though, a pulsing emotion of sadness. She closed her eyes and saw darkness, but still the girl, with a blue and purple bubble of sadness around her. The wolf saw a strange dog in the girl’s eyes, and the sadness intensified, like a growing fire. Then she heard the girl gasp, as if whatever she had been staring at in her eyes, the connection had broken. Sakura knew that the dog had been important to the girl. In fact, it reminded her of someone… * * * The girl watched the wolf leave. She sighed, knowing the moment couldn’t last forever. She slumped back on the rock, wondering what to do. Then there was more rustling. The wolf returned, gently guiding along a handsome black wolf. The girl was painfully reminded of Champ, with his smooth black coat, his warm brown eyes, and his slightly flopped ears… The wolf nodded and nuzzled the black wolf ’s ear. The girl guessed they were talking. The black wolf walked toward her, his brown gaze unwavering. He’s blind, she thought. But when he stumbled and she caught him, she knew she would take care of him and love him as much as Champ. The two creatures, girl and wolf, looked at each other, brown meeting gold. They knew they had solved a problem together, and Sakura knew her brother would be cared for. The two spirits departed, one holding the young wolf, the other holding pride, and they disappeared in the mist, knowing they could heal in peace. Alex Carmona, 12Montebello, California Jordan Lei, 12Portland, Oregon
Those Less Fortunate
For now I’m just happy to be home Shira felt a thumping on her bedroom floor. She got up from her desk and ran into the living room. Sure enough, Dad was home. Shira watched him lug his bulky cello case through the door and over to the corner by the piano where it was stored. Her father taught cello at a nearby university and had an hour’s drive to work. He always got home later than the family wished. Now he went over to the kitchen doorway where her mother was wiping her soapy hands on a towel. Shira saw her mom say something to her dad, and then he hugged her. Seeing his daughter, Dad walked back into the living room and did the same to Shira. “How’s my little songbird?” Shira read his smiling lips. Shira. The name meant song, which was ironic for a girl who had been deaf since she was seven years old. The last sound she remembered as she lay in the hospital bed was her mother saying, “It’s getting worse.” That night had been a sleepless one. When morning came, Shira was frightened when she watched her mother greet her but could not hear what she was saying. She’d watched her brother, Nolan, go off to school in the days that followed, disappointed that she had to stay home to be taught by her mother, who was struggling to learn signs herself. These days, however, Shira didn’t regret staying home since Maxwell Junior High kept Nolan on an undesirably busy schedule. There were better things to be doing than sitting in a class at seven-thirty am—like sleeping! A few hours of extra rest, though, could hardly make up for the discouragement she felt in being so different and difficult to talk with. She was grateful for the group of faithful friends who saw past the speech barrier, but at times it could be frustrating when others were afraid to talk to her. She also longed to hear again the warm tones of her father’s cello. She cherished the memories of when he used to take it out and play for her after suppers long ago. In those days she’d had a cello of her own, and many a happy lesson she had spent scratching blissfully away as he patiently instructed her. Now she turned to him and asked, “How was teaching today, Dad?” “Not too bad,” she read his lips in answer. “Only, the kids are so worn out from their lessons with Mrs. Etterson. Their technique is so stiff and they have a hard time playing relaxed. I’ve tried talking to her about it, but she seems to be set in her ways.” Mrs. Etterson was the other cello teacher at the school. Her lessons were always unpleasant and her practice requirements always unrealistic and unhealthy. Shira had gone to school with her dad several times and admired the way he not only demonstrated passages with skill but encouraged the students to experiment and figure things out for themselves. Mrs. Etterson did not. With her, everything was “my way or the highway.” “I’m sorry about that. You should really talk to the board. They need a different teacher.” “You’re probably right, but for now I’m just happy to be home. Howdy, Nolan!” Nolan came down the stairs, having just emerged from the shower after a vigorous basketball practice. His short, towel-dried hair stood up in wet spikes on his head. “Hey, Dad,” Shira read his reply. Dad went on with something like “How was practice,” to which Nolan, looking very tired, gave a short answer and plopped down on the old, overstuffed couch. After a while in which Dad read the paper, Nolan did homework, and Shira doodled a picture of their old collie dog, Whetford, who was curled up in front of her rocking chair, Mom called them in for dinner. There was a steaming pot of broccoli with a basket of warmly buttered rolls, and Nolan devoured a heaping portion of mashed potatoes. Staring at her forkful of broccoli, Shira remembered the family dinners of long before, which had been full of chatter. Nolan had been a talkative little six-year-old then, and Mom and Dad used to laugh at the disappointed faces their little ones made when there was broccoli on their plates. Laugh. How long ago that memory was. Sure, she still saw Dad’s eyes squint and twinkle and his whole frame shake at times, and Mom throw her head back at one of Nolan’s jokes, but even those soundless occasions were getting much rarer. Nolan frequently came to the table looking tired and sat in a silent stare through most of the meal. Dad appeared similar, though he sometimes tried to liven things up with a joke. Shira sighed and looked around the table. Even with Dad’s busy teaching schedule and Nolan’s long school days, she was thankful that they could all be together at the end of the day. Her friend Amy, though she lived in a bigger house in a nicer neighborhood, was less fortunate in this respect because her father was frequently away for weeks at a time with his consulting job. Shira sighed once more and popped the bite of broccoli in her mouth. After dinner they all sat down in the living room, and Nolan turned on a football game. Even though football had never really interested her, Shira was secretly glad that they were watching a game because her family never watched with the sound on or, if they did, hardly paid attention to the commentary. In this way Shira didn’t feel left out. She was curled up on the couch, coloring in the drawing of Whetford, when her mom leaned over from her magazine in the rocking chair. “That’s a very good drawing,” she signed. “It’s just like his soft little doggie eyes are looking at me.” “Thanks. Really?” replied Shira. “I was just doodling.” * *
Song of the Trotter
Dark clouds gather, looming huge and gray, Rain cold-needles my face, The wind whips me into exhilaration. A rumbling starts down the track. Thunder? No, not thunder. It’s flint-and-steel hooves, striking out a lightning rhythm. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Heads high, ears back— The rain stings them, too. Yet I see them charge undaunted, For they know the storm is theirs. The track is a dance floor, With the wind for music. They know the steps. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Flecked with sweat and rain, Hot and cold. The voice of the whip drives them on. They stretch out, bodies glistening. My heartbeat joins with theirs, As they speed straight under the wire, Singing the song of the harness horse. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Mary Woods, 12Frankfort, Illinois
My Brother
We reminded them that they were a bit late. We laughed I sit at the computer, trying to think of memories to write about. I stare out the window. Then I hear “Crazy Baby,” a techno song by Nightcore II. It comes from our iMac computer upstairs. I start to think about Elliot, about the things he used to do with me when he finished his homework to entertain ourselves. We used to play together with my collection of stuffed animals. He made up the Animal Galaxy, an entire galaxy inhabited by only animals. They had tons of weird, science-fictiony gadgets like The Royal Chair, a chair that could play movies and serve food. He drew awesome spaceships and designed all the spaceships in the Animal Galaxy. I remember how he could turn anything I owned into a machine. He turned my toy golf club into a ray gun and my gel pen case into a keyboard. I remember we used to pretend that my bunk bed was a spaceship. Elliot played the captain, I played the first officer, and our toy bunnies played the pilot and the other officers. Once, Elliot and I pretended that our ship crashed into an abandoned spaceship and our ship became stuck to it. “Board the abandoned ship and self-destruct it,” commanded Elliot. “But, captain,” I objected, “if we blow up the other ship and the ships are connected, won’t we blow up in the process?” Captain Elliot saw my reasoning and canceled the order. We’d have sleepovers on my bunk bed and we’d stay up almost all night talking. One night there was a thunderstorm. A thunderclap shook the house and rattled the radiator. Both of us woke up, extremely scared. “When I count to three, we call for Mom,” Elliot said quietly. “1, 2, 3… MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!” That made us feel better, but we still ran to our parents’ bedroom. I remember one night, before Christmas, we tried to stay up till midnight. We tried sneaking downstairs to get playing cards, with our bathrobes draped over us like invisibility cloaks from Harry Potter. We said Merry Christmas to each other at midnight, then talked a bit. Five minutes after midnight, our parents came in and said Merry Christmas to us. We reminded them that they were a bit late. We laughed. Nowadays, Elliot doesn’t play with me as much, one reason being that we both have lots of homework, the other being that we’ve both grown up now. I’m eleven years old, in my first year of middle school. Elliot is fifteen years old, in his freshman year at high school. Usually, he’s at the computer, chatting on Facebook, playing computer games, maybe doing his homework. He always uses the iMac, which means I usually have to type up reports on our old, slow, Microsoft computer. Most weekdays, after school, he stays at the high school to talk with friends until around six-thirty pm. Also, during dinner, he usually gets a plate, fills it up with a good amount of food, then takes it to the computer either to talk to friends on Facebook or watch Bleach, a Japanese anime. When I’m around him, I feel scared, scared that he’ll lash out at me and yell. When I look at old pictures of him when he was younger, I’m reminded of the carefree, happy, playful kid he once was. Mom says he’s going through a stage. She says that we have to live with it, to get through it. However, I know that deep inside of him, he is still happy and playful, like before. It may seem like he doesn’t care about me anymore, but he’s my brother and siblings love each other. Even if he accidentally told a friend’s dad that I was ten and he said he doesn’t keep track of how old I am, I know that, inside, he cares for me and loves me. I feel like I’m a Pokemon trainer and Elliot is one of my Pokemon. Pokemon change their personality when they evolve. I feel that after Elliot “evolved,” his personality changed, too. I know what I should do about Elliot: don’t annoy him, let him rest a bit before I start talking to him, and wait for him to evolve again. When he evolves, hopefully we’ll become a great team. After thinking back, I found a notebook lying next to the computer. I opened it and found a map of the Animal Galaxy. I looked at the various planets: Bonar, Meoin, Cheezta, Squeakerain, Dragonia, Velveteen… I turned the page and found various drawings of spaceships, like a Bomber, Royal Transport, O-wings, E-wings… So many memories and only one memoir to write… Which one should I write about? I thought. I had an idea, why not write about every one I can remember? With that, I sat down and began to type. Natalie Han, 11Lexington Massachusetts Byron Otis, 13Keller, Texas
Jessica’s Horse
Jessica Marstell kicked at a stone as she trudged down the dirt road. She was headed for her uncle’s horse ranch in Country Ridge, Arizona. She didn’t like going to Uncle Jame’s ranch because she didn’t like horses. Jessica had to work at Uncle Jame’s ranch all summer, though, because she wanted a new laptop computer, and Mr. and Mrs. Marstell insisted that, if Jessica wanted a brand new computer at twelve years old, she’d have to pay for it herself. Jessica had asked her parents to buy her many things and she had gotten them, but now they decided it was time for her to learn more responsibility and appreciation by earning them herself. “Hurry up, Jessie! Old Speckles is waiting to be ridden!” Uncle Jame called out as soon as Jessica was in sight. “If Speckles is so old, why does he have to be ridden?” Jessica answered weakly. Uncle Jame frowned at his niece. Jessica turned around and gave the horse a sour look. She put her foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle of the broad Appaloosa. Even though Speckles was wearing a western saddle, Jessica still posted to his trot. Jessica was a pretty good rider because her parents made her take lessons at an early age, but now she didn’t always ride the way she was supposed to. Jessica had become a little bit of a spoiled and careless girl. Jessica urged Speckles into a gallop as soon as they reached the trail that led up the mountain, through some trees. Jessica slowed Speckles when she thought she saw something in the trees. “Whoa, boy,” she told Speckles as she dismounted. When Jessica got a closer look, she realized that the thing was a horse! “Hey, Uncle Jame! Look what I found!” Jessica shook her head in disgust when she saw how dirty the horse was. “I think I’d call you Mudcake if you were mine—not that I’d want you.” Jessica was surprised when the horse came up to her and sniffed her face. The horse was a gelding, his coat nearly all covered with mud, but under that mud there seemed to be a shiny dark bay color. “Even though I’m not so fond of horses, I guess the right thing to do is bring you back with me.” Jessica smiled when Mudcake nodded his head up and down. She tied a rope around his neck and got back on Speckles and rode back to Uncle Jame’s with Speckles’ reins in one hand and Mudcake’s rope in the other. “Hey, Uncle Jame! Look what I found!” Jessica said as she motioned to Mudcake. Uncle Jame came over to them and ran his hands over the new horse’s body. “Well, he looks like he’s been abandoned. These cuts and bruises are not that bad, though, and he’s a quarter horse.” “So are you going to keep him?” Jessica stroked Mudcake’s neck while she groomed him carefully. “I thought you didn’t like horses,” Uncle Jame said with raised eyebrows. “Well, um—I kinda like them better now… especially Mudcake,” Jessica blushed. “I can’t take another horse, but I think I know who should have him,” Uncle Jame smiled. “Oh.” Jessica felt disappointed at the thought of someone else taking Mudcake. “He’s all yours.” Uncle Jame handed her the lead rope. “What? Me? Mudcake? Mine?” Jessica sputtered. “Yep, your parents have been wanting you to get back into horse riding again, and your Mudcake can stay here for a while. I’ll feed him for you at first, but eventually you’re gonna have to buy him food and other supplies yourself,” Uncle Jame said. “Oh, of course! I can’t believe I’m saying this—but I think I’m starting to like horses!” Jessica hugged her uncle. “And, I’ll take great care of Mudcake—is he really all mine? I mean, why are you giving him to me? I haven’t been all that nice to you or the horses lately…” “I gave him to you because you are good for each other, and I know you’ll take care of him. If he’s not already trained, I’ll help you with that,” Uncle Jame answered. Jessica had never thought that she would ever love horses, but now she loved Mudcake, and the other horses no longer seemed so bad. “I always thought that horses were just big dirty animals that were unfriendly and unuseful, but I was wrong,” Jessica smiled. Jessica began to realize that Mudcake taught her that horses could be a human’s friend, even though he hadn’t done much. Jessica hugged Mudcake, her new horse—her new friend. The next day Jessica and her mom went to the tack shop. “What made you change your mind?” Mrs. Marstell asked. “Mudcake was just so friendly and funny, and he made me feel good. Then I started to realize how awful I’ve been to horses and I decided to change,” Jessica said as she entered the tack shop. She bought grain, a grooming bucket and tools, a feeding bucket and saddle pad. She’d use Uncle Jame’s saddle until she could afford her own—that new laptop didn’t seem to be so important anymore. After shopping, Jessica went to Uncle Jame’s ranch, did her work chores quickly, and then tacked up Mudcake. She climbed carefully into his saddle. She wasn’t sure if Mudcake was trained to ride, but he stood calmly with her on his back, so Jessica was relaxed. I love having my own horse, Jessica thought with a smile. Then she trotted Mudcake out into the field to start their very first ride together. Ismena Jameau, 10 Sebastopol, California Annie Liu, 13Somerset, New Jersey
Tortilla Sun
Tortilla Sun, by Jennifer Cervantes; Chronicle Books: San Francisco, 2010; $16.99 The thing that first hooked me onto Tortilla Sun was the word “magic.” In the first few sentences of Chapter One, Izzy Roybal is introduced as a discontented, lonely character, unhappy with her frequent moves all over San Diego and wanting to discover the secret of her long-dead father. Finding the old baseball in the bottom of a packing box enables her to take her first steps towards that. The words “because magic” are written on the baseball, with a small space between them as if something was missing. Izzy quickly figures out, from her mother’s confusion and annoyance at seeing the ball, that it was her father’s. Already, clouds of questions are beginning to roll through her mind… and mine. What is the secret of Izzy’s father that her mother has kept to herself for so long? Could the baseball be magic? And what are those missing words? The second thing to grab my attention was the fact that Izzy writes stories… or tries to. Like me, she is always eager to start a story but almost never has the impetus to finish it. The only thing that keeps her writing are the story cards that her fifth-grade teacher gave her. “Small cards aren’t so intimidating for budding writers,” she had said. The final touch, that kept me reading for the rest of the book, was Izzy’s surprise and anger when her mother tells her she must go to New Mexico for the next two months of summer. I had mixed feelings about this. As I live in New Mexico myself, part of me wanted to defend my home state. The other part, however, sympathized with Izzy. Her shock that she is being sent off alone to her grandmother’s—without being told why—reminded me of myself. Even in the beginning, Izzy’s search for the truth is made clear. Izzy’s grandmother—or Nana, as she calls her—is bright and twinkly but very religious and obviously capable of bearing great burdens, as I realized when I first met her. When Izzy is taken aback by how colorful her room is, Nana responds with, “But of course it’s colorful. Life is color, isn’t it?” My admiration for Izzy’s grandmother grew at her first tortilla-making lesson. When she tells Izzy that they must say the Hail Mary three times before starting, Izzy is embarrassed to say she doesn’t know it. But Nana does not say a single derisive word or even show much surprise. This came as a pleasant shock to me, for making fun of someone’s religion—or lack of it—is something almost no one will hesitate to do. Exploring the village, Izzy begins to hear words on the wind. “Come,” they say, and later, the name Bella. Another mystery begins to take shape. Could the wind have the right person, if it is the wind talking at all? How could an Isadora hear the word “Bella” on the breeze, as if it were calling to her? The rest of Izzy’s story cannot be told without revealing the end; however, it can be hinted at. The end of Izzy Roybal’s search for truth includes a talk with Socorro, the village storyteller, and a golden glass “truth catcher”; the shattering story of her father’s death; a near-fatal accident; and a name that is almost new. Does it end happily? To find out, you’ll have to read the enchanting story of Tortilla Sun for yourself. Emily A. Davis, 13Santa Fe, New Mexico
Infinite Field
We are like a grain of sand on an endless beach A soft whisper echoed off the walls. “Jess!” I jerked into consciousness, tense and trembling. The door was closed. The clock ticked as usual. The lopsided calendar above my mahogany dresser showed the same picture of a sun sinking behind the mountains that had been there when I went to bed. Must be a dream. I leaned back into my pillow to close my eyes again. “Jessica Stark, wake up.” Silvia? A light tap sounded on the window pane. I shifted my position. In the darkness I could make out a small, round face with long black hair pressing its nose against the half-open window. It was Silvia! I stood, tore off my blanket, and pulled the window up all the way. What on earth was Silvia doing here at—I glanced at the lit clock—12:37 in the morning? “Hi,” Silvia whispered. “H-hi,” I whispered back. “What are you doing here so late?” Silvia glanced behind her shoulder and said, “I couldn’t sleep and thought you and I could go exploring.” Exploring? I suddenly felt afraid and remembered how quiet the house was. “I can’t come out now.” “Why not? It would be a good experience to explore the unknown— at night, that is.” Silvia pushed a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “Come on, please?” “Are you sure it’s safe?” “Sure it is! Just crawl out the window. I’ll help you.” “But what if…” “It’s fine. Don’t worry. We’ll only be out for a little while.” Silvia danced a little happy dance before whispering, “We can catch fireflies and watch the moonlight dance on the water.” It did sound pretty neat. But I couldn’t. Night was scary. Night was unpredictable. “Just jump down. It’s easy,” Silvia whispered again. “Are you sure?” I threw on some shoes. “Of course I’m sure, silly!” She reached out a hand. “Here, I’ll help you out.” I didn’t know what led me to grasp her hand, but after a matter of a few seconds I was outside my window under a bright moon, Silvia beside me. “Follow me,” Silvia whispered softly as she pulled my hand. I followed her through a small path cutting between two pine trees which I had never noticed before. “Where are we going?” “I’ll show you.” A silver moon wore a scarf of lacy clouds as I followed Silvia through the path, shivering all the way. A chilly wind rippled through the trees that also sent swirls through the pond. I was so enchanted by the sight that it left me with a new desire to see the world at night. To hear the world at night. Maybe to even feel the world at night. “Look, Jess!” Silvia pulled a branch aside with her delicate hand, revealing a huge field that stretched for miles, looking full of undiscovered wonder and mystery eager to be known. I could see fireflies blink in the magical blue night. I could even feel the sudden warmth of this field wrap its arms around me. It was a beautiful sight. Silvia scampered into the field and then turned, a sparkle in her eye. “I call this the Infinite Field.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, too caught up in the beauty of the grass glistening in the moon-drenched light to answer my friend. “Come on,” Silvia urged. She skipped back to where I stood and pulled me deeper into it. “We can catch some fireflies!” ’tis the night of the fireflies. A soft giggle escaped my lips. Yes, it was their night, but it was also going to be my night. The carpet of grass seemed to wave to me, almost beckoning me to come and play. The stars above seemed to wink at me, almost assuring me that I would be safe in their sight. How could I refuse and leave when wonder was going to unfold before my eyes? Without any more hesitation, I pulled off my shoes and followed my friend barefoot into the field, feeling the sudden coolness of the grass beneath my feet. One after another, the fireflies twinkled and came within catching distance. Occasionally, I caught one and then let it fly high into the sky, blinking its farewell. But otherwise, they would wink and disappear completely. “Twelve… thirteen… fourteen…” I listened to Silvia’s soft voice in the quiet night as she collected the fireflies in a small glass jar she had brought from home. I would’ve never thought of bringing something like that along! And I started thinking. How did she seem to know every detail of nature? She was the type of girl who would stop and smell the flowers even if she was in a rush to get somewhere. I have never cared to take the time to look closely at nature. But Silvia? It was her enjoyment— her delight—to explore the beauty around her. I would have never imagined myself underneath stars I could almost touch with my finger, or see the vivid picture of a moon casting pools of water on the grass. It was all too perfect to be real. But it was real. I suddenly jolted from my thoughts when Silvia started lifting the glowing jar above her head. “I want you to say ‘now’ when I nod at you, OK?” “OK,” I agreed. Curious, I watched her eyes twinkle excitedly. I wouldn’t miss this for the world… whatever it was! Once Silvia adjusted her hand to twist the cap off the jar, she nodded her head eagerly. “Now!” I shouted enthusiastically, throwing my arms into the air. On cue, she popped the cap open, releasing a spray of dazzling light into the night sky. The shower of firefly light danced high with the stars, before they parted into different directions. “Whoa,” I managed to say. Silvia just laughed and slipped the jar back in her bag. “Come on, let’s run!” Without waiting for
