We left the adults talking and took off running down the beach to the cottage I shaded my eyes against the Saturday morning sun, then snuck another peek at my watch. It was already ten o’clock, and Isabella Hohenstaufen had yet to appear. Every summer, for two weeks, my parents and I vacation at Carrie Ann Bay, where we own a beach house. This is the part of summer that is devoted to family time, when me, Mom, and Dad get to spend some quality time together. However, for one weekend, I get to invite a friend over. We stay in a congenial white cottage next door to the beach house, and for two days, we get to do whatever we want. Popcorn, movies, late nights, surfboarding, you name it. Usually, I take my best friend, Jessica, but she had moved to Kansas this spring, making it “highly impractical for her to come,” as Mom said. So this year, I invited Isabella. See, Isabella is my pen pal. My whole seventh-grade class had been assigned to someone from another school district. Most kids had stopped after two letters, but not me and Isabella. We’d been corresponding for about a year, and even though I’d never seen her face-to-face, I could tell she was the kind of person I would want to be around. Her letters were long and detailed, but not painfully so, and her stories were always entertaining, like the time she and her younger siblings tried making their own glue and ended up pasting their fingers together. But the best part was that she answered my letters almost immediately. Her favorite food was strawberry ice cream, and she liked to read books, like me. I felt I could tell her anything, things I didn’t even tell Jessica, because I knew Isabella wouldn’t laugh, at least not to my face, and she always had a kind word. So, this summer I thought Isabella would be the perfect choice for a cottage-mate. I squinted at the road, and my heart leaped in my chest. I saw a red minivan approaching the beach house. It stopped in the path, and a girl got out of the passenger’s side. She slung a red backpack on her shoulder and started walking quickly towards me. I waved energetically at her, and she waved back, even faster. Finally, when we came to the middle of the path, I got my first good look at my pen pal. She had curly blond hair and warm hazel eyes that laughed and sparkled. She was wearing denim shorts, a white T-shirt, and a vivacious, effervescent grin. “Hi,” I smiled, “I’m Crystal.” “Isabella,” said Isabella shyly. I heard the screen door bang shut, and my parents came out. “You must be Isabella!” bubbled Mom. “We’ve heard so much about you!” “Isabella, welcome,” said Dad, gripping my pen pal’s hand in a hearty handshake. “I’m Mr. Glassman, and this is Mrs. Glassman. Now, did your mom bring you?” “Y-yes,” stammered Isabella, obviously overwhelmed by all this attention. “She’s coming j-just now.” Sure enough, a woman who looked just like Isabella walked up behind her daughter. “Sorry we’re so late,” she said. “We got lost on the highway. The road really twists and turns, doesn’t it.” “Yes, especially if you’re not used to it,” said Mom. “I’m Paige.” “Amy.” Dad held out his hand. “And I’m Mark.” They then proceeded to talk about boring adult stuff, like where Isabella and I would be staying, when she would be picked up, etc., etc. I turned back to Isabella. “Wanna see the cottage?” “You bet,” said Isabella. “Hey, Mom, I’m going up to the cottage. See you Monday.” “OK, sweetheart,” said Mrs. Hohenstaufen. “I love you. Be good, now. I don’t want you getting into any mischief.” “Mom!” Isabella shot me a quick “can you believe her?” look. I shot her an “I know, my parents are the same way” look, and grinned. She grinned back. We left the adults talking and took off running down the beach to the cottage. * * * The cottage wasn’t much by Carrie Ann Bay standards, but it was just right to me. It had two rooms, a living room and a bathroom, a small television, a microwave, a pantry, a refrigerator, a couch, and a vase of seashells. I could tell that Isabella thought it was the best thing since sliced bread. She stared at everything open-mouthed, even peeking in the bathroom three times. “So, your parents let you stay here? With a friend? For a whole weekend?” “Yeah,” I said, “it’s pretty sweet.” “Sweet? It’s wonderful! I don’t even have my own bed. I have to share one with my sister, Casey. And she drools!” Isabella had never told me this in her letters. “I think you’re lucky to even have siblings. It gets kind of lonely being an only child.” Isabella shrugged. Then she grinned brightly. “So, can we go exploring? I’ve never been to Carrie Ann Bay.” “Sure. We can go boogie-boarding. You brought your swimsuit, right?” “Of course!” She unzipped her backpack, took out a blue one-piece, and threw her backpack near the door. It was clear that Isabella knew how to travel light, as her backpack seemed to float to the ground. “Great! You can get changed in the bathroom, and I’ll change out here.” As Isabella shut herself in the bathroom, I found myself smiling. Her exuberance was infectious. Even though it just started, I could tell this would be a great weekend. * * * “So what’d you think of the waves? Pretty awesome, huh?” I asked as Isabella and I made our way back to the cottage. We had been in the water all day and were tired and dripping wet. We had wrapped towels around ourselves, but that didn’t stop the chilly Carrie Ann Bay winds from creeping in and making us shiver. “Awesome doesn’t cover it!” said Isabella, laughing. “Only, I still have water
The Kind Cow and the Tiger King of the Forest
What a lot of disturbance and noise he was making There is a special place in the old Kingdom of Nepal where the plains meet forests that goes on up to the Himalayan Mountains until the tree line stops and it is very cold, where the daphne bird, the rhino, and the tiger are close to grazing cows. Gopa was a beautiful cow with kind bright eyes who lived in this amazing place. She spent her time grazing in the grass and occasionally wandering into the forest to explore new types of grass to eat or new views of the forest to gaze at. Gopa loved spending time wandering through the forest, gazing up at the trees and searching for new flavors to nibble on. Sometimes Gopa would just stare out into the distance at the peaks of the Himalayas, just admiring their height. One day Gopa was wandering around in the forest when she heard the sound of stamping feet. To see where the sound was coming from, Gopa went out to look. Quickly, she walked into a clearing and saw a rhino with its horn stuck in a tree, stamping his legs behind him, trying to free himself. What a lot of disturbance and noise he was making. Nearby birds screeched and monkeys made howling noises, making fun of him. The rhino yanked and pulled in a great panic as hard as he could, trying to get his horn out of the trunk of the big tree. “Dear Rhino, please calm down,” Gopa said. “If we both pull at the same time the horn will come out.” The rhino thought it was worth a try so Gopa and Rhino both pulled as hard as they could. Gopa pulled Rhino by his tail in her mouth as hard as she could. With little effort the horn slipped out of the tree trunk. “Dhanyavad,” said the relieved rhino. “Without you I would be stuck there all day, and would feel hungry too.” “You’re welcome,” Gopa replied. “I was happy to help.” Exhausted, Gopa returned home to her barn. Feeling good that she helped the rhino, she fell quickly to sleep. The next day Gopa went out and grazed in the field. When she was full she wandered into the forest. After a while of just walking around she heard a daphne cry. Gopa went and looked and saw a daphne on the ground with a branch on top of his wing. The daphne told Gopa that he was looking for food when the big branch fell from a tree and landed on his wing, pinning him to the ground. Gopa comforted and assured the daphne that he could roll the branch off and the daphne’s beautiful wings would be fine. But he was still worried. Gopa was determined to help Daphne. Gently, Gopa nudged the branch off of the daphne’s wing. “Dhanyavad,” Daphne cried, while thinking to himself that Gopa is not bad for a cow. “Thank you again,” he said as he tried to spread his wings to fly home. But when the daphne tried to get up and fly he got into the air and then spiraled back down like an airplane with a broken engine. He was caught by Gopa. “Gopa,” Daphne chirped, “what will I do? I need to rest before I can fly. Would you please take me to my nest?” “OK,” replied Gopa. So Gopa walked till they found the nest of the daphne, where she gently placed him back into his home. “Gopa, would you kindly wait nearby for a little bit?” chirped Daphne. Gopa waited near the nest as Daphne asked. Daphne went inside and when he came out, he had a leaf wrapped around his wing like a bandage. Daphne flew around to show off his new wing. After that, Gopa went home to the barn and went to sleep. That night Gopa dreamed a very strange dream. She dreamed that an invisible force with a tiger’s tail was pulling her out of her barn into the forest clearing. Then the Holy Cow came into the clearing and said that Gopa was going to be eaten. Gopa woke up with a stir and then the dream went blank. When Gopa woke again it was early morning and she was being dragged into the forest. “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!” Gopa screamed. ‘‘Who are you and how did I get here?” “I am the Tiger King of the Forest,” roared the tiger. “While you were asleep I dragged you out of your barn and into the forest. Now I will eat you!!!!!!!” “Help!!!!!” Gopa screamed. “Gopa, would you kindly wait nearby for a little bit?” chirped Daphne Just then, Rhino happened to walk by and heard Gopa scream. He remembered how Gopa had saved him. He was determined to help Gopa in return, even though he was very scared of the tiger. Just at that moment Daphne was passing overhead and saw what was happening to Gopa. He remembered how Gopa had saved him. He thought to himself, What can I do to help Gopa? I am just a bird! He was also afraid of the tiger. But he joined the rhino. Together they were determined to help Gopa. Rhino charged at the tiger while Daphne swooped around and pecked at the tiger. Tiger dodged Rhino’s horn and swatted Daphne. Rhino skidded to a stop, turned around, and charged again, grazing the tiger’s shoulder and creating a cut. At the sight of his own blood, Tiger darted away into the depths of the forest, followed by his long tail. Rhino and Daphne led Gopa out of the forest and back to her barn. “Dhanyavad,” Gopa said, “for saving me from the Tiger King.” “No problem,” Daphne and Rhino replied. “You helped us, and we helped you.” Arjun Pillai Hausner, 12New Delhi, India Libby Marrs, 12Albuquerque, New Mexico
Mixed Bag
I sigh As the warm water pours down my back Washing off the dust and dirt Of the last week It’s been so long since I showered. A movie Playing on television Surrounding me with its music and images It’s nice to be part of society again. Pillows Soft and fluffy Two of them on my bed I’d forgotten what they felt like. A warm quilt Pulled over me What a nice warm place to sleep. A radiator Blowing warmth into the room It’s nice to be away from the drafts of the tent. Showers, television, Pillows, mattresses, Quilts, radiators Sleeping will be easy here. Before I drift off Into the welcoming world of sleep I look up. I see only the white paint Of the ceiling above me, Separating me from the stars High up in the heavens Pinpricks of light slowly rotating Which were my companions for the last week. Genna Carroll, 13San Jose, California
Fern, the Queen of All Hunting Dogs
She put the blanket into the basket and set them next to Fern Mom gently shook me. “Honey, your father is home.” “What? Oh! Yay!” I cried, already out of bed. “Dad, how did your hunting trip go? Was Fern good?” “Fabulous!” my tall father said. “She treed this one!” He held up a large silver coon. “You trained her well.” “Thanks, Dad.” I looked up at him. “But where is Fern now?” “She ran off. Probably chasing after a deer. You know that nose of hers. She’ll come back, she always does,” Mom said, laying a cool hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure?” I asked her. “Ninety-nine-point-nine,” Mom said. “Now go back to bed. It’s six o’clock in the morning.” “Aw, Mom.” I hurried away. “Wake me up if she comes back.” I woke up at eight and clattered downstairs. In the living room, Mom and Dad were already sipping coffee. I glanced at their quiet faces. “Mom?” I asked. “Dad? Did Fern come back yet?” Dad nodded. “Well, is she OK?’’ “Shyla, Fern was attacked by something, we don’t know what,” Mom said softly. “Well, is she going to be all right? When did she come home? Why didn’t you wake me up?” I didn’t know what to think. “She came home about an hour ago. We didn’t think we should wake you.” I noticed they didn’t answer my first question. “Well, is she…” “She’s alive, but, well, it could go either way,” Mom said. I looked at her, horrified. My dear sweet Fern, named after the girl in Charlotte’s Web, just two years old. She couldn’t die. I wouldn’t let her. Slowly, as if I were dreaming, I walked outdoors and over to Fern’s doghouse. Sure enough, a small figure lay prostrate on the floor of her tiny house. “Hey Ferny, girl,” I said. My little redbone’s tail thumped so softly I could hardly hear it. I kept my voice as calm as I could. “You’re going to get better, you hear? You’re a tough li’l girl and, if I know you, you’ll pull through. Get some rest now, OK?” Feeling better, I walked away. Inside, I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat down at our homemade table to eat it. “Shyla,” came a sleepy voice from behind me. My brother, Michael, was awake. “Yeah,” I muttered. “I heard you guys talking,” Michael said sheepishly. “Then you’re a nasty little snoop,” I said. I felt bad about Fern and didn’t want to talk to a barely seven-year-old about it. “I’m not kidding. You weren’t supposed to listen.” “That’s too bad,” Michael said stubbornly. “How’s Ferny?” “Better than ever.” I dumped my bowl in the sink. “That’s not true. You know that’s not true.” Michael stood sleepy-eyed in the middle of the room, but I wasn’t about to fight with him. “Goodbye, Michael.” I walked away. Mom was fixing a bowl of venison that we had canned last winter. She handed it to me with a spoon. “Feed this to Fern.” “Will this make her better?” I asked doubtfully, stirring the tender chunks of meat. “Hopefully, yes,” Mom said. She ladled some warm broth over the meat. “She needs the energy, and the protein.” “OK,” I said, almost smiling. “Are we going to take her to the vet?” “No, honey, vets cost too much. Your dad’s been out of work, there’s no extra.” “I’d pay,” I whined as I walked away, knowing full well I didn’t have enough. Outside, I walked to Fern’s house and knelt beside her. Thump-thump. A knot rose in my throat. I swallowed and gently fed the warm meat to Ferny. “See, little girl, that’s not so bad. Looks so good I could eat it myself.” I stroked her head. After two spoonfuls, Fern refused to eat. I ran back to the house. “Mom, she ate a couple of spoonfuls. Is that good?” “Well, I’d have liked her to eat a little more,” Mom sighed, “but I suppose whatever she eats is good.” “Well, I think she’ll get better.” I crossed my arms stubbornly. “I certainly hope so.” Mom smiled affectionately at me. Looking down, I realized I was still wearing my pajamas. I ran to my room and changed into a green T-shirt with a white butterfly on it, and a pink skort. Then I ran outside barefooted. Fern hadn’t moved an inch and, except for her thumping tail, she looked dead. Suddenly, tears filled my eyes. This was too hard. I loved her so much and she was dying and I couldn’t do anything! I ran away into the woods. I could hear the thumping of her tail as I ran off. “Sssshhhhyyyyllllaaaa!” Michael called. “Hhhellppp! Commme quicckk.” Fearing the worst, I ran back to Fern’s house again. There I found my sweet dog collapsed on the grass with Michael standing helpless beside her. “Sh-sh-shshyla,” he sobbed. “She got up, and she’s bleeding everywhere.” “Calm, Michael.” Mom appeared next to us. “Shyla, honey, go get my laundry basket and that old yellow baby blanket of yours.” I ran back to the house and grabbed the materials. I handed them to Mom and she put the blanket into the basket and set them next to Fern. “We probably shouldn’t lift her. I think she’ll get in it.” Mom laid a hand on Michael and my shoulders. And she did. Dad came over and carried her into the house as gently as he could and then he set her down in my room and left. I read Charlotte’s Web to her and she looked up every time I said Fern. And I sang to her, songs that had words that weren’t words, tunes that weren’t tunes that rose and fell but stayed soft. Then I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes and fell into a dark world where no light or dreams ever enter. When I woke up, Fern had peed on my floor. I cleaned it
Darkwood
Darkwood, by M.E. Breen; Bloomsbury Children’s Books: New York, 2009; $16.99 “What happened next was so strange that Annie could not be sure afterward what was real and what she had imagined.” This line, from M. E. Breen’s Darkwood, is an accurate summary of Breen’s first novel. The story is a wonderful sort of strange, and captivates the mind like any work of a master fantasy writer. Annie Trewitt’s story begins in Howland, a dark little town in the depths of Dour County where “kinderstalk” prowl the nighttime woods searching for humans and animals to prey on. Annie lives with her prim aunt and odious, ill-tempered uncle. Her parents and sister have been “killed,” or so it seems. The beginning of the story has a bleak and mysterious tone to it. The plot initially is a bit confusing but quickly unwinds itself to a comprehensible state. Throughout the first few chapters, the mood increasingly chills as Annie’s adventure takes her to the dreaded woods—at night. Some of the feelings that Annie experiences in the beginning are loneliness and desperation. Her only true companions at the start are her wise and unfailingly loyal cats, Isadore and Prudence, whose characters are portrayed so well that the reader forgets, at times, that they are not human. I found this bleak loneliness at the start of the story to be overwhelming, but as the story progresses, Annie’s character grows easier to identify with. Breen captures the experiences of a young girl who is almost completely alone in a frightening world, but who somehow manages to function instinctively, and to be passionate and admirably brave. A great snapshot is the line “But now—now she could hardly bear ever having resented Page for anything.” Annie lost her beloved sister, Page, years before the story takes place, but still constantly aches for her. I knew exactly how Annie felt: she could not even consider resenting her sister because of anything, now that she had lost her. My favorite part of the story was how Annie’s family was slowly pieced back together, and her fascinating relationship with the “kinderstalk,” which reworked the typical animal-human relationships found in today’s youth fiction. However, a major theme in this novel is also corruption and evil. Most of the adults in the story are strong antagonists. The lack of positive adult characters adds to the chill of the plot. Annie almost always found a way to fight back against these seemingly stronger villains and eventually triumph. I can relate to Annie’s audacity and rebelliousness. Often in school I am the one to speak up when an assignment is unclear or unfair to my classmates and me. Audacity and courage are always involved. At one point, Annie goes to work at the Drop, the mine where children are forced to mine ringstone (a valuable stone) alongside adults. However, Annie does not cower in fear when ruthless adults yell at her. She realizes that something very wrong is going on at the mine, and she eventually makes her escape. I was impressed with Darkwood. The plot is entertainingly complex yet comprehensible, and features the perfect mix of chill, suspense, and triumph. My only complaint about Darkwood is that it will leave you begging for a sequel. Caroline D. Lu, 13Andover, Massachusetts
The Water Gun Fight
There he was, looking the other way! “Splat!” A blast of cold water slapped my bare arm. Gasping, I quickly whirled around to catch the source of the attack. I faced a familiar face with dark brown eyes, dark uncombed hair that stuck out in every direction, and a big, playful smile. It couldn’t be anyone but my older brother, Paul. “Fight, or prepare to die!” he yelled, trying to make his voice sound raspy and evil. I giggled at the fake pirate voice he made, knowing that this threat was coming all along. The clues were simple, it was a hot, humid day and my brother and I were very bored. It was too hot to be outside, too hot to be inside, too hot to be anywhere. Our parents had gone to attend a school PTA meeting and had left me in the supervision of my older brother. Was this a good decision? I wasn’t so sure. “Hmm,” I said, deciding which risk I should take, “dying” or fighting. “Fight!” I decided, grinning. “Good choice,” my brother said in the raspy pirate voice. He threw me a water gun filled with water. “I’ll stay in the back and you go to the front,” he declared. I nodded and ran as fast as I could to the front of the house. “Ready?” I heard my brother call. “Yeah!” I answered. The fight began! After a few seconds of waiting behind a tall pine tree, I crept up to the side of the house, my water gun up, ready to fire. Cautiously, I took a quick glance of the front of the house, searching for my brother. There he was, looking the other way! A perfect chance, I thought to myself. I silently tiptoed towards my brother to get a more accurate shot and then started spurting water at his back. He yelled in shock and, as quick as lightning, he spun around like a top and then started pumping water at me like a maniac. There was water everywhere! Then, I was out of water. “Hey! Wait!” I yelled, trying to avoid water gushing into my mouth. My brother stopped. He was grinning so wide that all I could see was a row of big, white teeth, like a shark that’s just about to eat you whole. His eyes glittered with delight like stars in the night sky. His wet, dark brown hair was plastered down to his head, which made it look like he had a hat on. “I’m out of water!” I exclaimed. “So am I,” my brother replied. We walked towards the water hose to refill our guns. That was when I realized I was drenched from head to toe. Although it was a bright sunny day, I was freezing. My wet clothes were stuck to my skin, making me even colder. As my brother refilled his gun, he asked in a concerned tone, “Are you cold? Do you want to go in now?” “Well, it is kind of cold…” I started. Suddenly, he stopped the hose and poured all the water out of the gun. “Let’s go in, your lips are turning blue.” “What?” I exclaimed. “What about our game?” I couldn’t help but sound disappointed. My brother pulled me into the house. He got a big, fuzzy blanket and threw it over me. It draped over my face. “Hey!” I yelled playfully, pulling the blanket back over my head. “Whoops,” he said in a funny clown voice. He got out one of my mom’s finest cups and a tea bag. He filled the cup with hot water and dropped the tea bag in the cup. He said, “Care for some biscuits and truffles?” I giggled and was about to answer when I heard a rattle of keys and the click of the key turning in the keyhole. The door opened and in came our parents. “Hi Paul, hi Isabel,” my mom said. Then she asked, “Why are you all wet?” My brother and I shared a quick glance. “No reason,” we said at the same time. Isabel Won, 11Belle Mead, New Jersey Katherine Wang, 13Tampa, Florida
Through a Champion’s Eyes
The crowds roar for me as I step on the track. I listen, and I arch my neck and dance as my groom leads me down the stretch. Mike, my jockey, sits still on my back and listens too. But I know he is excited. I can tell by the way he grips the reins, clutching them firm. I prance a little more to assure him of my confidence. Now my groom unsnaps the lead rope, and Mike stands in the saddle and lets me break into a canter. We are approaching the starting stalls, and other horses and riders canter past us. Some are nervous and skittish, so that an assistant must lope out on his own mount and steady them by the bridle. I continue my canter down the track. I know what is expected of me. We jog past the starting gate. Mike lets me go a little more before turning me around. We slow to a walk. An assistant trots up beside us, and he leans over and takes hold of my bridle. Again I stretch my legs and dance. Slowly, all the racers turn and are ponied up to the stalls. We have the number four post position. The assistant lets go, and Mike steers me towards my stall. A starting handler takes my reins and leads me in. The gates are closed behind me. I feel Mike’s hands leave the reins for a moment as he reaches up to pull his goggles over his eyes. Then they are back again with a ready hold. I flick my ears down the row at the sound of more gates being closed, one by one. Nearly all are in position now. Jockeys shift, horses stamp. I relax and feel Mike let out a breath as well. We know what to do. Mike keeps me steady, but I can sense his tingling excitement Everyone is still now. The air is electric. Even the crowd feels it, and a shout surges from them… Riiiiiiing! The gates slam open, and for a few moments I see the track, clear and unoccupied before me. Then horses begin to crowd forward and bunch at the rail. Mike eases me to the back, some lengths behind the pack. I prick my ears and settle into that long, slow gallop I know so well. “…Zenyatta’s dead last, Zenyatta’s dead last early…” The voice of the announcer fades in for a moment, but then it is lost again in the thunder of hooves. Mike crouches in the stirrups, his hands, legs, and whip motionless. I keep a steady stride, watching the rumps of the horses ahead rise and fall, rise and fall. A little farther on, I feel the bit moving in my mouth and Mike’s hands rubbing against my neck. It is my signal. I extend my stride. We sweep by the first horse with no trouble and settle in second-to-last. Mike keeps me steady, but I can sense his tingling excitement. * * * The pack ahead begins its sweep around the first turn. I follow unhurriedly. We come out of the turn easily and I continue to breeze. I watch the jostling of the horses ahead and I am glad we are in the back, where I can concentrate and prepare for my real run at the end. We are closer to the pack now, only a length or two behind the racer in front of us. The second and final turn is approaching. Still I wait for the signal. We swoop around the turn. Now it is a straightaway for the wire. The drone of the announcer becomes momentarily audible. “…if she can win this, she’ll be a superhorse…” Mike gives me my cue a second time. I glance at the outside of the pack, for that is where I usually go, but this time Mike steers me towards the inside rail. The horses are breaking, and there is a hole there wide enough for me to slip through. I take it. Now I am in the middle of the pack, and I can feel Mike glancing around for another opening. There! Something is opening up on the outside. I prick my ears up and head for it. A horse rushes into our way, and we have to go around. But now the track is free and clear before us. Mike urges me with his hands and his whip. I fly over the ground. My strides lengthen and push me forward with ever-increasing speed. We are gaining… gaining… gaining… The crowd screams, but the voice of the astounded announcer sails above it all. “ This—is—un—be— l i e v e- a – b l e ! ZENYATTA!” We flash under the wire, half a length in front. Mike punches the air with his fist in victory. The feeling is surging through him, and it makes me want to gallop further, but he eases back on the reins. I slow, even though I love the soaring sensation of running. The race is over. And when a rider lopes over to lead us to the winner’s circle, Mike takes off his helmet and lifts his eyes to heaven, thanking God for once again giving us wings. * * * On November 7, 2009, the Breeder’s Cup Classic was run at Santa Anita Park, California. The winner was the first female horse to ever capture that race—a five-year-old mare named Zenyatta. She was undefeated. In 2010 she went on to win five more races, all piloted by jockey Mike Smith. She retired in November of 2010 with a total of twenty starts and nineteen wins. Later, she also won 2010 Horse of the Year. Though her brilliant career is over, she will remain in our hearts for many, many years to come. Long live the Queen. Mary Jessica Woods, 13Frankfort, Illinois
Working for Sparkle
Suzy added the finishing touch and smiled There was no noise. Everything was silent except for birds chirping and leaves rustling. Off in the distance a bell rang. Suddenly, noise erupted as students came running out of Lake Heights Elementary eager to begin their summer. Only one child didn’t run out screaming and yelling. This child was an eight-year-old girl named Suzy. Suzy was an average-looking girl with cropped blond hair to her shoulders. She was doodling in her notebook, ignoring all the screams of delight around her. Suzy added the finishing touch and smiled, admiring the kitten looking up at her from her notebook. Pocketing it, Suzy skipped down the sidewalk towards home, daydreaming all the while. She thought of what she and her best friend, Emily, would do for the summer. Suzy was so busy thinking about swimming and playing soccer that she didn’t realize where she was going. Suzy snapped out of her trance as she heard a large truck go by. Looking around at her surroundings, she gulped. This definitely wasn’t her friendly neighborhood, but uptown. How on earth did I get here? she thought to herself nervously. The truck that had rumbled so noisily past her stopped at a building. On the side of the building she read: Humane S-so-ciety.” Suzy frowned. Humane Society? What’s that? she wondered curiously. Well, I need a telephone to call Mom and Dad, and it looks pretty friendly, so I guess there’s only one way to find out. Suzy walked over to the doors and, opening them, went inside. It was like her dream come true. Every inch of the room was filled with cats and dogs meowing and barking. “Wow,” she whispered in awe. Looking down the rows of the cages, one particular animal caught her eye. It was a tiny, adorable calico kitten that was looking at her pleadingly. Suzy walked over to its cage and reached out her hand. “Hello! Can I help you?” She spun around, an elderly lady was walking toward her with a big smile on her face. “No! I mean… yes!” said Suzy. “Er, do you have a telephone I could use?” “Certainly,” said the woman, indicating a pay phone on the wall. Suzy thanked her and placed a quarter in the phone. A few minutes later she hung up, relieved her parents were home and coming to get her. While she waited, the lady told Suzy all about the Humane Society. Suzy then went back to the kitten to look at it admiringly. It softly emitted a tiny meow. An idea suddenly occurred to her… Suzy saw her parents’ car outside and whispered to the kitten, “See you soon.” “Please!” cried Suzy for the fifth time in a row. “For the last time, no!” her mother exclaimed. “You’re not old enough, Suze,” her father said gently. They were back at Suzy’s house and she had just asked them about the calico kitten. “Would you please turn it down a notch!” snapped Suzy’s older brother, Mark, as he came into the kitchen wearing his headphones. “Rock music is much more interesting than an argument about a stupid kitten, and I can’t even hear it with my headphones on!” “Yes,” said Suzy’s mother, “this argument is over.” Suzy burst into tears. “That lady told me what they do with unwanted animals and you don’t even care!” she sobbed. Running up to her room, she slammed the door and threw herself on her bed. She stayed in her room the rest of the evening. The next day, Suzy told Emily about what happened the night before. Instead of acting angry at Suzy’s parents, however, Emily smiled. “Don’t worry, Suzy, I know how you can get that kitten.” That night, Suzy set to work on Emily’s idea. By doing chores around the house, she would show she was responsible enough for a kitten. Unfortunately, her parents had no idea what she was up to and just thought she was being helpful. After Suzy finished cleaning bathrooms, doing dishes, and washing windows, she was exhausted. Surprised, she happily accepted the money her father gave her with a proud smile. She did this every day until she had enough money to buy: a litter box, one bag of cat food, and some sand. Suzy knew her parents wouldn’t keep paying her to do housework, so she and Emily hung up posters around town reading: Keen to Be Clean? Call Suzy at 268- 5021. No one (to Suzy’s disappointment) hired her after they found out her age. Then one day her luck changed. After listening on the phone for a while, Suzy jumped up and yelled, “I’m hired!” With that she ran out of the house and went to Baker Street to meet her customer. “Go away, Mark!” she shouted Trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach, Suzy rang the bell. The door opened and Suzy gasped. It was the elderly woman from the Humane Society! “I know you,” she said in surprise, “y-you’re the woman who…” “Yes, I’m Mrs. Wood,” said the woman. “Are you Suzy? The one who’s supposed to clean my house?” Suzy nodded. She noticed how Mrs. Wood’s eyes seemed to sparkle and felt she could trust this lady with the kind smile. She blurted out the whole story. Mrs. Wood listened carefully, then nodded as Suzy finished. “It sounds like you’ve been working up a storm dear, so please accept this and save that little kitten,” she said, taking Suzy’s hand and pressing a twenty-dollar bill into her palm. Suzy looked at it. There was even enough money to acquire a squeaky toy, plus everything else she needed. “B-but I haven’t cleaned anything for you!” “Oh, don’t worry about that, something tells me you’d be a lovely owner for that calico kitten.” When Suzy got home Mark was in the kitchen listening to his iPod and eating a bag of Oreos. Taking one earphone out, he said, “Hey, kitten-obsessed.” Glaring at
The World Apart
The trail is rough, But I absorb it all, Every bump, dip and curve, And let it become me. My hands rattle on the bars of my bike, As I take on this course. With speed and energy I never knew. The scenery astounds. A stream tries to keep up, The trees watch from above, The grass plays at my ankles, The birds cheer me on. As I try to blend, Into the scenery. The burn in my thighs, The wind in my face, The rustle of my hair, The fast steady motion, Is the rhythmic beat, Of the world apart. Ash Berger, 12Concord, North Carolina
No Time to Twirl
My mom gets the camera out, ready to get the perfect shot for our summer photo book “Ewww! Its guts and internal juices are dripping down the driveway!” my sister would screech in a squeaky six-year-old voice. “Yeah, and now they’re dripping on you!” I said, while shoving half of the dead corpse in her face. “Girls, stop playing with our dinner. We have to eat those,” my grandmom would say. My sister would be temporarily quiet and listen, while I would get the knife, hammer, and cutting board out. Ready to kill crabs. Every summer we go down to the Jersey Shore. We do a gazillion things there. Go to the boardwalk, the beach, the pool, buy hermit crabs, go out to dinner almost every night, go for bike rides and so much more. Although the restaurants are very good and I wind up eating too much and regretting it, those meals are never the perfect meal. The perfect meal is one that is homemade. It takes all day to make it and it never lets you down. It always tastes the same, smells the same, and looks the same. I know this sounds cheesy, but it is because it really is made with love. My grandmother stands there creating the gravy all day long, adding spices, continually stirring, bringing that wooden spoon to her mouth, tasting it, and adding some more spices, and after about five hours it is perfect. Early in the morning, on a day we’ve been waiting for, my sister, my pop-pop, and I get in his blue Escalade and drive to the fish market. The ride is long, but my sister and I sit in those large leather seats and talk about how good the macaroni is going to be and thinking of good names to give to the crabs before we kill them. After hours of driving, or at least that is what it seems to us, we eagerly hop out of the car. As soon as we walk into the store a strong whiff of sea enters our nostrils; the smell of so much salt stings our noses. My pop-pop walks to the front counter to secure our dinner while my sister and I usually play-fight with the figurines of shrimp and lobsters. After we get bored with that, we can be found pressing our noses against the glass of the lobster tanks. If one squirms just a little, we both scream. Just as quickly we are shushed by the creepy old guy in the back corner cutting off fish heads. Usually by that time my pop-pop has finished up with our “live” purchase. The hard-shell crabs are in a gigantic brown paper bag that wiggles every ten seconds and has wet splotches of what we think is pee. The ride home is longer. Olivia and I sneakily turn up the AC and point the fans at each other and turn the seat warmers on and off. These games cause lots of laughter, which often gets us yelled at because Pop-Pop isn’t fond of giddiness. The need to be silent causes even more laughter. But we would be startled to silence when the bag in the back rustled. This past year, when we got home, my grandmom and my mom were waiting on the driveway with a large knife, tongs, hammer, cutting board, and a huge pot. We immediately got into our positions; Olivia and I would grab a hammer, and my grandmom would get a crab out of the moving bag, sometimes bringing out several as they hold onto each other for dear life or like monkeys in a barrel. My mom gets the camera out, ready to get the perfect shot for our summer photo book. My sister and I decided to name the first crab Alvin; we always name the crabs in alphabetic order. We felt bad for the Y and Z, since we only ordered 24 crabs, leaving two crabs to share four letters. My grandmom would carefully line up the knife on the crab, right between the eyes; he knew his destiny and attempted freedom to no avail. I usually had the honor of going first, since my sister was too chicken. I smacked that hammer down like a fly swatter on an annoying mosquito, splitting the crab in half in one swoop. My grandmom would pick up the crab halves and toss them into the pot. Although they were dead they still managed to move a tiny bit, which fascinated me. We continued on killing them: Betty, Carlos, Daniel, Emma. Ryan would go run behind our mom and hug her legs while my grandmom would grab the crabs and the execution continued. Swoosh. Right down the middle. It’s quick and painless. After some time, I was brave enough to pick up a crab half. I remember being so proud. Showing it off like a badge of honor. Dancing with it and shoving it in my sister’s face, saying, “Hey, Olivia… here comes the crab!” and “Ahhh, there’s a crab on your head!” By that time, I was almost on the ground laughing, and she was crying, which only made me want to tease her more. But, as usual, I would get scolded and drop the crab back in pot. After killing our last crab, Yolanda-Zack, my grandmom would walk straight to the laundry room sink to begin the cleaning. The cleaning takes a long time; we disappear, leaving my grandmom to do the dirty work. She has to peel the shells off and get the yuck out. Then, in a big pot she puts crushed tomatoes, oil, salt, pepper, garlic, onions, basil, oregano, a little sugar, and of course, the crabs. Being a good Italian cook, she doesn’t use exact measurements. She lets that cook, stirring when necessary. After a while, the smell in that kitchen is indescribable. She says that’s all she does but I don’t believe her, there is some culinary magic going
Do You Hear Me, Mr. Lincoln?
Do You Hear Me, Mr. Lincoln? by Judith Caseley; Graphia Books: New York, 2009; $6.99 Life has changed for Sierra Goodman after the death of her father. Her grieving mother has gone into a house-cleaning rage, her brother is too young to interpret how she feels and suffers nightmares, and her friends are clueless about how she feels. With no one to turn to, Sierra gets comfort from a portrait of Abraham Lincoln. It was a meaningful gift her father wanted her to have. Lincoln seems to be the only one to hear Sierra’s pain and help her move on. That’s why Sierra talked to the portrait about what she felt, even though it couldn’t talk back. After her father died, Sierra impatiently longed to return to her normal routine, but her mother resisted. She wanted to have family time again instead of just watching her mother clean all day. Sierra was very close to her father. Sierra’s entire family was grieved. Her Aunt Rose said that God took a diamond away from them. Moreover, the relationship between Sierra and her best friend, Eli, was growing apart. Sierra didn’t know why. It got worse when she found out that she’d have to act in a play as Mary Todd Lincoln while Eli acted as Abraham Lincoln. The play was like a reminder to Sierra when they acted the death of Lincoln. It reminded her of her father’s death. Both he and Lincoln died unexpectedly, even though her father was not shot. As I read about Sierra’s problems, I felt sad and would hate it if I were in that situation. However, I’ve felt tragedy too. I was quite young when my grandfather died, and I’d been very close to him. It hurt me a lot to lose him because I was always able to express myself to him. One day, like a missile flying by, my grandfather was gone. It had happened suddenly and it was shocking. Similar to Sierra, I had no one to get comfort from. So I wrote in my diary for comfort because I felt relieved being able to express myself. Sierra, however, got comfort from a portrait. We can relate because we both know how to find comfort at times when we’re down. My personal favorite part of the story was the play about Lincoln’s death. I liked it because it was for me the high point of the story. In that scene Sierra really expressed herself a lot. The play related to Sierra because Lincoln’s death reminded her of her father’s death. Both of their legs hung off the gurney because they were so tall. Sierra lost her father, and Mary Todd Lincoln lost her husband. They both lost people who were important to them. Another aspect of the story I liked is the way the story shows how diverse the world is today. In the story, Sierra’s mother is Cuban and her father is Jewish. They are bringing two cultures together with no discrimination. I like this. It makes me feel that the world is changing. People can join from different parts of the world and get along. Sierra Goodman’s grief is one I will always remember because I have never seen somebody overcome their grief so strongly. When I read this incredible story all I could think is “WOW.” It is a great piece of literature. I enjoyed this book of a long journey of sadness. I learned that there are challenges you face in life but you have to overcome. I think it’s the best book I’ve ever read. Nayamah Kolliegbo, 13Willingboro, New Jersey
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
