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
L’eau/Water
Pour moi, l’eau c’est la plage Où vit ma grand-mère, Les grands ours bruns Qui rôdent autour de la maison, L’océan qui me chante une berceuse, Le bateau de mon oncle qui part À la pêche. Pour moi, l’eau C’est une vague salée. For me, water is the island Where my grandmother lives, The big brown bears That creep around the house, The ocean that sings me a lullaby, My uncle’s boat that goes out fishing. For me, water Is a salty wave. Ella Csuros, 8Montreal, Canada
Blue Eyes
“Hey, Ben, do you wanna play basketball?” Nick asked There are some things in life that you never forget—no matter how much time passes, they just cling to your heart and mind like the stubby fingers of a kindergartner clutching his mother’s hand on the first day of school. Special moments, like the day when my parents showed Nick and me the place where they met, and we sat there under the big tree, as one happy family, or emotional events, like the time when my parents told us that they were getting a divorce— those are things that will stay with me forever. That day when I thought I had lost my brother was one of those things. It is still as clear in my mind as the moment it happened. I remember it started on a humid afternoon in August, during one of those days when the air is so heavy that you can barely move and the heat overwhelms your senses. The sun smothered us like a thick-soled boot extinguishing a coal that escaped from the fireplace. We could feel its merciless heat on our backs as Nick, my ten-year-old brother, and I sat on the front stoop, eating Popsicles. Our mother had ordered us out of the house after Nick spilled his drink all over the kitchen table. “Hey, Ben, do you wanna play basketball?” Nick asked. He was always playing basketball those days. “No. It’s too hot,” I replied. Nick grabbed a ball anyway and started dribbling around. “When will you be ready to play?” he pestered. “I don’t want to play at all, Nick. Stop bothering me.” “Bother! Bother! Bother!” “You’re such a baby! Why don’t you go ask your mommy to play with you? Oh, wait, I forgot, she doesn’t like you anymore because you ruined her tablecloth.” I was being a bully, but I was irritated and I knew what would get to him. “She still likes me! She’s my mom!” “OK, OK, you can think whatever you want.” I had him. He threw his basketball at me and ran inside. I waited for Mom to send him back out again, but she didn’t. She was probably finished cleaning up. Nick was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in. I shot him a look that let him know I had won and then headed upstairs. I was taking it too far, and I knew it, but I had to get the better of him. “Shut up, Ben,” he called after me, but I ignored him. When I was almost to the top of the stairs, I heard a sob escape his chest before he could stifle it. He hated when I teased him about being a baby. Ever since the divorce, he had been really close to Mom, and he still felt insecure. I shouldn’t have been so harsh with him. The thing about Nick is that he usually forgives you pretty quickly. I thought that by the next morning at the latest, he would have forgotten the whole incident. At first, I thought he had, but he wouldn’t speak to me and his eyes were red, as if he had been crying. Something was wrong, and I worried about him for most of the day. Maybe something was going on at school. Or, more likely, he was still sore about our argument from the previous afternoon. He was only ten, after all. I decided to apologize when I got a chance. The walk home from baseball practice was pretty long, and about halfway through, all that humidity built up into a thunderstorm, and before I knew it, rain began to pelt my face like bullets. I put my hands over my head and started to run. Thunder boomed, and I ran faster and faster. When I reached the front door, I knocked as hard as I could. I waited for the familiar sound of my mother’s pumps on the hardwood floor, hurrying to let me in, but heard nothing. I knocked again. “Mom?” A huge peel of thunder crashed from the angry skies, and it really began to come down. Where was she? I fished around my pockets for my key. I found it and unlocked the door, collapsing into the shelter of my warm home. I trudged upstairs, peeled off my sopping baseball pants, dried my hair, and felt a lot better. I would have been happy to settle in for the night, except for one thing. Where was Mom? And, come to think of it, where was Nick? I headed downstairs to phone the neighbors in case someone had seen them. When I reached the kitchen, however, something caught my eye. Lying on the table was a note written in my mother’s careful hand. Can’t find Nick. Went out to look for him. Stay here. I love you. —Mom When I finished reading it, two thoughts immediately invaded my mind like so many enthusiastic schoolchildren shooting their hands up to answer a question. My first thought was that I knew exactly what had happened to my brother. I don’t know how I knew, but I’d never been so sure of anything in my life: he had run away. My second thought was that there was no way that I was staying home. I had to find him. I ran outside and the ferocious rain that almost knocked me down nearly changed my mind. Squinting my eyes, I ran around back and grabbed my bike. The first place I thought to look was Nick’s friend Daniel’s house. Even if he hadn’t planned to go there, he might have taken shelter from the rain. I pedaled faster than I had ever before, and the rain stung my raw skin. I couldn’t see very clearly, but when I reached Daniel’s house, I recognized the dejected walk of my mother slogging down the front walkway. She must have had the same idea I had, but not had any luck. “Mom!
Memories
The sunlight slanted through her window, dancing merrily around the room: the crayon drawings still taped on the walls, the beanbag chair sitting invitingly on the floor, the magenta streak on her desk from when she had drawn a particularly messy oil pastel scene. Kathy smiled, lost in the deluge of memories. This room was special to her, and yet she would be leaving it forever in two weeks. She would be moving clear across the country, from California to Massachusetts. After a few moments she sighed and sat down on the floor. She pulled a stack of books toward her and started sorting through them. Old picture books? Into the bin without a second glance. Roald Dahl? Kathy stared at them for a minute and then tossed them onto the pile of books to ask her brother if he wanted them. Her cleaning went well. In half an hour she was on her bottom shelf, with the taller books: comic compilations, encyclopedias of science and mammals, an old photo album, and assorted art books. Kathy flipped through the photo album for a few minutes, enjoying pictures from the first five years of her life, and then she saw the binder. Frowning, she pulled it out. She had no idea what the half-inch plastic binder contained. But as soon as she saw the cover, a grin spread across her face and she settled more comfortably against her wall. “Kathy’s Stories, age 9,” it read in a childish hand. When she was nine, Kathy had gone through a writing phase where she churned out five stories per week. She hadn’t looked at them in years, probably since they were first written. Kathy opened the binder and began to read. At last she reached the final story A clock ticked regularly in the background and the dust motes swirled around her, becoming golden when the ray of sunlight coming through the window leveled as the afternoon wore on. A deep silence spread around the house. Her brother suspiciously became quiet. The clattering from the kitchen became more muted. Even the very birds outside Kathy’s window seemed to stop singing. Kathy delved through time and space, completely alone, held captive by the words of her nine-year-old self. Nothing existed except the words on the paper, speaking with a volition of their own about fantastic faraway lands and heroes who triumphed over evil (interestingly enough, they were all named Kathy) and amazing, exotic beasts illustrated in compelling colors and seeming to breathe with life and spirit. The words wove a complex spell around Kathy, and she sat late into the afternoon, drinking in tale after tale of increasing interest and skill. At last she reached the final story. This one was written at least six months after the others. Kathy remembered that she had wanted to write a story set in the future. A realistic one, unlike her other stories of heroism and adventure. It was titled simply “Memories.” Kathy scanned the page and frowned in disappointment. Only one small paragraph had been written under the title. Apparently she hadn’t had time to finish it. The paragraph read: The sunlight slanted through her window, dancing merrily around the room: the crayon drawings still taped on the walls, the beanbag chair sitting invitingly on the floor, the magenta streak on her desk from when she had drawn a particularly messy oil pastel scene. Kathy smiled, lost in the deluge of memories. This room was special to her, and yet she would be leaving it forever in two weeks. But there it stopped. The real Kathy gasped. As a nine-year-old, she had written about the very event that was happening to her now! But as Kathy raised her eyes from the page, the world came awake again. The spell was broken. The house was awakening as from a deep sleep. The birds again began to chatter, the scent of lasagna drifted from the kitchen, and Kathy’s brother began once more to whistle to himself. Kathy still sat immobile, but after a few minutes she came to a decision. She turned the page onto a blank sheet and began to write, continuing the story about moving but melding it to the one in the binder. Her neat, slanted handwriting contrasted strongly with how she had written as a nine-year-old, but her style was much the same. Kathy wrote late into the evening, until she was pleased. She read it through once more, checking for mistakes. She didn’t edit the first paragraph at all. Genna Carroll, 13San Jose, California Rebecca Bihn-Wallace, 12Baltimore, Maryland
After All, You’re Callie Boone
After All, You’re Callie Boone, by Winnie Mack; Feiwel and Friends: New York, 2010; $16.99 “Oh fish sticks, tartar, and a side of fries!” Being called a loser by your former best friend, having to live together with stinking ferrets, and doing one extremely public belly flop is definitely not Callie Boone’s idea of a fun summer. Then enters Hoot, the new kid from next door, who turns Callie’s world upside down and right side up and teaches her the true meaning of friendship. Callie loves the water. It’s the only place where she feels like she can get away from everything and everyone at once. But that all changes when Callie gets banned permanently from the pool for doing a dive from the high diving board (which is strictly forbidden to children). Actually… it wasn’t a dive—it was a belly flop. But it wasn’t her fault… or at least that’s what Callie thinks. The other girls she was swimming with made her do it! But deep down, Callie knows that she did the dive because she wanted to wow the older girls. She wanted to come out of th water to the sound of thundering applause. Instead, she came up to hear the sound of roaring laughter. In addition to being humiliated in front of a gigantic crowd of people, Callie is friendless. Ever since first grade, Callie Boone and Amy Higgins were the best of friends, but just before the end of the school year, Amy started acting weird. It began when Amy no longer wanted to trade stickers with the other kids. Next, Callie couldn’t find Amy to sit with her in the cafeteria. She realized that Amy had gone home with Samantha McAllister to work on an assignment. Although Callie had the same assignment, she hadn’t been invited along. Why? Then on the last day of school, Callie overheard Amy and Samantha talking… about her! Callie feels upset and doesn’t understand why Amy traded her in for snotty old Samantha McAllister. Is it because Callie likes riding her bike better than painting her fingernails? During this whole scenario of events, a new family moves into the house next door. Callie has been crossing her fingers hoping a girl her age will move in who, for some unknown reason, will want to be best friends with her. But Callie’s hopes are dashed when a boy with a large amount of freckles turns up on the other side of the hedge. When Hoot asks her to show him around the neighborhood, Callie is flabbergasted. She can’t be seen showing a boy around town. People might talk and then no one would want to be her friend. Still, Callie and Hoot end up becoming good buddies. In this sense I’m a little like Callie. I also have a good friend who is a boy. We’ve known each other since we were born and are still close. When I was in third grade, my mom decided to pull me out of school and home-school me. When I first started, I didn’t know anyone else and—like Callie—was sometimes very lonely. But all the kids were friendly and nice to me and integrated me into their group. Now I know them well and we have lots of fun together. Through home-schooling I have met many different kinds of people and I’m happy about that. I think friendship is special and it’s important to have friends of different ages, races, genders, and personalities. When things have finally started to look up for Callie, real disaster strikes and she feels like she’s on a high diving board with no way down. But with lots of effort and teamwork, she might pull through. After all, she’s Callie Boone! Jamila Kern, 10Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts
All You Need Is Love
Addie didn’t—couldn’t—believe what she was hearing Addie was perched precariously on the edge of her ruffled bed. Her mother was seated next to her, chewing on her lower lip as she so often did when something was troubling her. “Addie,” her mother started, then stopped to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her red T-shirt. “Mom, w-what is it?” Addie’s stomach was in knots. She wondered if her cat, Pumpkin, had run away again. “It’s Grandma, Addie. She… she…” Cinnamon Taylor drew a shaky breath before continuing. “She passed away, darling.” Addie didn’t—couldn’t—believe what she was hearing. “What?” “Grandma had cancer, Addie. She didn’t want you to know, so she hid it from you. She lost her hair and had been terribly sick. Grandma knew this was coming, but she didn’t want to upset you. You understand, don’t you? I hope you’re not mad at me for not telling you.” Addie stared numbly at her mother, who was valiantly trying not to cry in front of her. For the first few seconds, Addie felt nothing. She wasn’t sad, or happy, or much of anything really. But, as Addie gazed into her mother’s puffy eyes, the weight of the situation pressed down upon her. “No! Why did Grandma have to die? She… she…” Addie couldn’t speak anymore. Tears were flooding from her eyes. Addie grabbed the handheld mirror from atop her dresser and flung it against the wall. It shattered into a million tiny fragments. Addie continued to storm about the room. Her mother just watched, stunned. Addie had always been a calm child, no matter what situation she was faced with. When Cinnamon and her husband had told her of their decision to divorce a few years ago, Addie had just numbly nodded. Cinnamon had never seen Addie rage the way she was now. “Why did she have to die?” Addie kicked the bed angrily, as if it was the bed’s fault her grandmother had passed away. Suddenly, Cinnamon came to her senses and grabbed her daughter’s arm. Addie allowed herself to be enveloped in a hug. “I know, I know,” Cinnamon whispered. “She meant a lot to me too.” With that, the fight went out of Addie and she collapsed, sobbing, on her bed. * * * Addie continued to mope for the next week or so. One dull summer afternoon, Addie was lying on her stomach in her bed. She tried to concentrate on the novel she was reading, but to no avail. Like a boomerang, all thoughts strayed back to Grandma. Grandma had been more than just a grandmother to Addie. When Dad had left to go live in the middle of nowhere, Grandma stepped in. She helped Cinnamon adjust to being a single parent and was always around to babysit Addie or do whatever was needed around the house. Addie and Grandma, who was Dad’s mom, became close friends immediately. It was terrible that Grandma would never be around to talk or laugh with Addie anymore. Cinnamon quietly knocked on the door, then let herself in. “Come on, Addie,” she said softly. “We need to go to the lawyer’s office. Mr. Mitchell’s reading the will today, you know.” Sighing in resignation, Addie dragged herself out of bed and stared in the mirror. She saw Grandma’s dark, thoughtful eyes staring back. Addie wrenched a comb through her black hair. Realizing it was futile to try to tame her hair now, Addie threw the comb back on the dresser and waited at the apartment door. The ride to Mr. Mitchell’s office was long and quiet. Addie stared glumly out the taxi window at all the people rushing to and fro. She chewed the watermelon gum in her mouth without even tasting it. “Here we are,” the driver proclaimed, coming to a stop in front of a tall, glass building. Addie got out of the cab, then looked up and down the building in amazement. This place was nice. Cinnamon purposefully strode into the cool, air-conditioned lobby with Addie at her heels. The lobby was absolutely gorgeous. Addie craned her neck in an attempt to see everything at once as her mother led her up to the reception desk. “We’re here to see Mr. Mitchell,” Cinnamon told the receptionist. “Fifteenth floor,” the woman said, without looking up. “It’s suite 1503.” After the elevator ride, the pair found the office and quietly let themselves in. There was an empty waiting room complete with a dormant television and large leather seats. Addie wished she could’ve stayed home. Just then an adjoining door opened and a well-dressed businessman stood before them. He extended his hand to Cinnamon. “Hello, Ms. Taylor. I’m glad you could make it.” He smiled down at Addie, as one would do if amused by a small child. Addie glared back. She didn’t like this man. He was glad Grandma had died, just so he could get business. When his back was turned, Addie stuck her tongue out at him. Mr. Mitchell led the pair into his office. There was a huge window behind his desk that allowed a fantastic view of New York City. Addie caught a glimpse of water in the distance. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. “Nice view, huh?” Mr. Mitchell was talking to her again. He was seated behind his desk in a large leather chair. She just shrugged at Mr. Mitchell though, to show she wasn’t impressed with his office. “Both of you have been mentioned in the late Andrea Evelyn Taylor’s will. Shall I begin?” Cinnamon nodded, and Addie stared at her sneakers. “For you, Miss Addie,” he said cheerfully The man droned on forever about legal stuff, and Addie automatically tuned him out. She quickly took an interest again, however, when she heard her name. “And to Addison Matilda…” At this, Addie winced. Nobody called her by her full name, plus Addie despised her middle name. She had been named after a character in one of Roald Dahl’s books.
Fog
Every evening a tumbling, frothy white waterfall cascades over the mountains. Its thick, swirly, blanket settles among the trees, and oozes into the valley. It keeps coming; soft, white and misty. It reaches its tendrils around each tree. You can see it creeping, crawling like it is sneaking up on someone. As the sun sets, yellow rays shine through its top layer of mist. So bright are the sun’s last rays it drowns the mountain’s green Till all you can see is the very outline. The sky darkens. Slowly, the froth pools in the valley and rests its head. One by one the stars come out, shining crisp in the cold clear night. The fingers of mist wake early and start retreating back over the mountains to the sea. Slowly the world wakes up. The sun shines its first blossoming rays towards the sky. The soft blanket slips back over the hills, hoping not to be seen. Robin Sandell, 11Portola Valley, California
Rose’s Tree
“Cora! Cora, lookit! Lookit me!” “Hey! Hey Cora! Look at me!” I looked up from my paperback. Somehow, Rose had hoisted herself up and into a little red wagon that stood by the fence. The little girl stood there, precarious but triumphant, her small arms stuck out to the sides for balance. I laughed inwardly at the look of mixed surprise and pride on my younger cousin’s sweet face. “Rose, honey, get down from there. Remember what happened last time?” I said, lifting her gently down from the wagon. “Uh huh,” said Rose rather sadly, fingering the small bruise on her forehead, obtained in a similar incident two days earlier. “I just like to be up high.” “I know you do, Rose, but it’s still dangerous. How do you think your mommy would feel if you fell down again?” Rose looked up at me seriously, considering. “Well, first she would be angry at me cause I’m not supposed to climb things. Then she’d yell at you for not taking care of me better. But after a while,” she proclaimed, brightening, “she would say that she was just glad I was safe and give me a Popsicle.” She looked up and grinned. “Can I have a Popsicle right now?” Not for the first time, I marveled at the four-year-old girl’s intellect. She was so observant for her age, sometimes it was frightening. “Not right now. Later, OK?” She nodded, then noticed something. “Cora, you brought your camera. Why,” she wondered aloud, “why did you bring your camera? Were you gonna take pictures?” “I thought I might, yes. Do you want me to take a picture of you, Rose?” The truth was that I had hoped to snap a few photos of my little cousin for my photography class. “Yeah! Yeah!” Scrambling excitedly, Rose ran to the fence. Turning around, she posed, one hand sassily placed on a little hip, the other thrown high, palm up, with the fingers trailing slightly, a movie star smile on her little face. Rose would have been a miniature model, if it weren’t for the knitted red-and-navy-blue sweater hanging around her torso in woolly folds. I resisted the urge to laugh, picked up my digital camera, and clicked. Rose dropped the model stance and dashed over to see the screen. We both laughed at the ridiculously adult pose. “I look funny, don’t I? Like the ladies in Mommy’s mazzageens. Is it later? Can I have a Popsicle now?” Reminding her for the hundredth time that it was mag-a-zines, not mazzageens, I ruffled my little cousin’s hair fondly. “No, it’s not quite later enough yet. Wait a little longer,” I said mildly, and returned to my book. Rose was truly a remarkable kid. For a few minutes, the small novel I held captured my attention. I leaned back in my cushioned lawn chair. Rose had settled comfortably down with a shovel and pail in the patch of dirt designated for her digging. I was sure she wouldn’t move for a while. Then suddenly, the cry came again. “Cora! Cora, lookit! Lookit me!” My head snapped up. Not the wagon again! But it wasn’t the wagon. It was Rose’s tree. Who knows how she did it? But in one way or another, Rose had climbed to a perilous perch again—when I looked up, her little body was wedged in a crook of the apple sapling her parents had planted when Rose was born. This was Rose’s tree, a monument to her life. She loved it fiercely and was never so happy as when she was, as now, nestled in its branches. My first instinct was to jump up and rescue my little cousin, but she looked perfectly safe and happy there in the tree, and I couldn’t resist the obviously perfect photo op. Snatching up my camera, I snapped a quick shot of the scene, then dropped my camera onto a cushion and lightly disentangled Rose from the tree. “Rose, I told you, no more climbing stuff!” I chided, a little more harshly than I intended. I could see my tone have an effect on her, her little shoulders sagging and her normally sparkling eyes downcast. I immediately felt guilty, gathering her up and whispering reassuring words in her little ear. “I’m sorry, Cora,” she said sadly. “I just wanted to see if I could get up by myself.” She brightened slightly. “You took a picture, didn’t you?” “I guess I did,” I said, remembering. Snapping the photo, jumping up and lifting Rose out of the tree were blended in my memory in one streamlined movement. I found it difficult to recall the moment of actually pressing the shutter button. I pulled up the photo on the small screen and looked for a long moment. In the photo, Rose’s knees were hooked over the spot where two of the branches met, her short little legs hooked over each other in a surprisingly ladylike manner. Her chubby left hand was coiled tightly around the nearest bough, and her right stuck out slightly in front, the elbow cupped between knee and branch. Rose’s face was turned straight toward the lens, and her crinkled eyes and half-grin made it seem as though she and I were sharing a secret or private joke—not funny enough to cause real laughter, but full of wit nonetheless. Looking at the surprisingly good picture, I struggled to make sense of my emotions. The picture made me want to laugh, but it strangely seemed to make me slightly sad as well. I knew that it was silly, but I had a sense that the tree, the one object Rose loved most, would one day be cut down. I wondered why this seemed so evident. At that moment, I knew I would save this photo. If future generations asked about it, the most truthful reply would be to say that this was Rose, that the picture summed up her as well as anything could. Because it did.
Maddy’s Last Beach Visit
For the rest of time itself, the spirit of Maddy will always live on here at Fort Funston Beach Our sleek black Highlander pulls up into the parking lot atop the steep cliff. I open the door and jump out, my feet landing on hard gravel with a soft crunch. The salty ocean air fills my lungs, and the roaring of the sea is faint in my ears. My sisters file out of the open car door after me, while my parents are helping our dog Maddy out of the car while our other dog Lila waits eagerly behind. Had this been a normal weekend, this would just be our average trip to the beach this cloudy afternoon. But it will never be the same. Maddy has cancer. This will be her last trip to the beach. Maddy is too weak to walk, so my dad carries her on her dog bed. After everyone is out of the car, we start the walk down to the beach. The trail to the beach is a sandy one that winds through a small forest at a shallow angle. It is a very quiet walk; even the girls are silent for once. The only talking we hear is when we meet people who are coming up from the beach on the other side of the trail. Some notice the hospital band around Maddy’s leg and feel sorry for us. Some stop to pet her, and others walk by without any notice. It’s all right though; I don’t blame them. It’s hard to understand a type of pain until you’ve felt it yourself. We walk through one more grove of trees and then we are at sea level. We can hear seagulls cawing overhead as my dad finds an empty spot on the beach and lays Maddy down. I can see in her eyes that she knows, somehow, she knows that this is her last visit here. The final ending to her story. The cancer has been attacking her body for weeks now, but Maddy puts that out of her mind for this one time. Slowly, she brings herself to her feet. This is the first time she has stood in three days. Then, when she is steady, she begins to walk. Soon Maddy is trotting around in the surf and burying her favorite tennis ball, which we brought to the beach for her. Like the same old Maddy I’ve known my entire life. Carefree and happy, without a thought of cancer in her mind. It is this sight that makes me feel happiness and hope along with a cold, bitter sadness at the same time. A dying dog’s last visit to the place she loves. Eventually, we have to leave. I can tell that Maddy doesn’t want to, but she accepts it. She knows she can’t stay here forever, and she seems content. But for the rest of time itself, the spirit of Maddy will always live on here at Fort Funston Beach. Maddy is put to sleep the next day. Madison Avenue Dreams Kearns, 1997–2010. My mom’s dog baby, my golden retriever sister, and our family’s protector and companion. I think that losing a loved one is one of the most powerful emotions a human can feel. It leaves you with an icy black void in the pit of your stomach, and you selfishly think only of having that loved one here on earth with you. But it was Maddy’s time to go to heaven. She feels no more pain now; her suffering has ended. And while it feels wrong without her on earth, I know that she is still with us. Still watching over us, guarding us, now as I’m writing this, and for every day for the rest of my life. Ryan Kearns, 12Hillsborough, California Jordan Lei, 12Portland, Oregon
Icarus Falling
I awake early in our small, candlelit prison a stone tower high above the sands of Crete. Father melts hot wax from his thick candle dripping it on my shoulders his gentle hands press something into place. Wings! Giant, feathery white wings unfolding from my bronze shoulders I stand in awe. Suddenly guards pound on our bolted wooden door breaking the rich silence I hear loud shouts of rage and sharp panic cuts me like a knife. A whispered warning a soft shove I stumble out of the tall window nothing to hold onto and I’m plummeting toward the ground and armed guards my heart pounds wildly I squeeze my eyes shut waiting I’m a heavy stone dropping into the deep death abyss. Then my wings snap up trapping the cold wind I glide softly through the blue sky I’m alive! The wind rushes past me tangling in my black locks and slapping my flushed face exhilaration locks away my thoughts of dark, suffocating towers and nightmare labyrinths. I look down the sea is blue a deep, glittering mass of rolling waves spread forever before me I skim the cool surface feeling the tingling spray breathing in the scent of salt and freedom. Behind me Father whoops loudly “Icarus, my boy! We’re free!” I break into happy laughter, and he smiles. We fly together father and son beating our wings to a lulling rhythm we claim the vast sky. I see the sun a blinding golden sphere hanging high above I can reach it! Up I soar higher and higher leaving Father below passing astonished seagulls the sun burns hotly and my face glistens with sweat I reach out to the bright light. Then I feel it the hard wax softens in the raging heat and trickles slowly but steadily scalding my bare skin I’m terrified. Now I remember Father’s urgent warning Don’t fly too close to the sun! It’s too late. Feathers fall around me drifting away suspended in midair I flap my arms desperately and I scream to my father the harsh sound of sharp chilling fear but all he can do is watch helplessly the seagulls don’t catch me in their beaks and I sink into the black, icy depths of the sea all that is left is haunting silence and floating white feathers. Leila Yaghmaei, 12Aliso Viejo, California
