Music

I finger the valves. They are cold and uninviting to the touch. I take a breath. My lips form an embouchure. I blow. At first there is noise, Much noise, Then the music starts. It flows through my veins, Coursing through my body. I play from the heart. I love it, No, Need it. Music is me, I am the music. I need it, I want it, I can’t get enough, I play until my heart swells And my body sways. I feel it in my bones, I feel it in my toes, I reach deep, And pull the music from me. It keeps coming, I play the notes. But they aren’t just notes. It’s a beautiful, swirling music. It’s a loud leaping leopard, And a quiet mouse, It’s for everyone, It’s for me. It fills my room, My valves are fluid. My fingers dance across them. Another melody, It sounds like a trundling tortoise, Marching home. It goes high, It goes low, My lips never slow. I breathe in, And out. In and out. The music ripples like a river, Creating smiling pools of pleasure in my heart. I can’t let it stop. I won’t let it stop. Music is me, I am the music. Leah Berger, 12Shelburne, Vermont

The Gap and the Gift

Her family had done nothing wrong, why was she so angry? Sherry had not returned to her home country in years. In a way, it was no longer her home country. What had been home is now the past. Father was the one who had insisted on the trip. She had been indifferent at first, but her father had persisted. China had changed; no longer a third-world country, it was now a Mecca of wealth. Yet once in a while, Sherry would catch a glimpse of the slums, normally overshadowed by the forever reaching skyscrapers. The day after their arrival, Sherry’s father had purchased a round-trip train ticket to his hometown. Sherry watched the city view zoom by, crushing the assumptions and conclusions Sherry had carefully welded from outdated books and movies on modern China. She closed her eyes, and a billion years seemed to float by, accompanied by the soft rumble of a train and a low patter of words she once knew. * TEN YEARS AGO A six-year-old Sherry knelt in the garden, dirt tickling her bare knees. Her grandmother knelt beside her, her fingers skillfully separating weed from vegetable. Sherry’s grandmother did not believe in planting flowers. “They only feed the eyes.” Instead, the two planted a wide array of vegetables to supply the family kitchen. So many wonders were cultivated in the garden, tomatoes for pasta, cucumbers destined to fulfill a delicious egg drop soup. Sherry relished the moment, the day was warm but not stifling; her backyard was well shaded by the great oaks behind her. Yellow orchids framed the old wooden fence wrapped around her backyard. Sherry liked spending time with her grandma; she eagerly helped with the gardening and cooking; it generated a swelling pride within Sherry. “Lai, bang wo jiu yi xia zhe ge cao,” 1 her grandma spoke again, her Chinese punctured with a few heavy pants. Sherry pulled out the weed and then paused for more instruction. Sherry watched as her grandmother gently examined a cucumber before holding it out for Sherry to pluck. The cucumber fell into the palm of an awaiting hand. Sherry’s grandma smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. *          *          * FIVE YEARS AGO Sherry watched as her grandma wandered their street. She watched as her grandma picked up the prickly seedpods that no one knew a name for exactly and threw them into her basket. She watched as her grandma bent to pull up dandelions from the lawn, throwing them into her basket too. What was she doing? “Nai, Nai, what are you doing?” “These cao can be eaten. They are very nutritious.” Her grandma’s voice was a little shaky. She had aged. Nowadays it seemed everything was a challenge for Grandmother to achieve. “No! You can’t eat those, they’re weeds! Nobody eats those! Nai Nai, come inside and go… watch some TV.” “Ai yah! You don’t know! I used to eat these all the time as a kid!” Sherry frowned before turning to head back into the house. Sherry rarely spent her time outside anymore, for fear of growing freckles. Sherry instead spent most of her time in front of a screen of some sort; if it wasn’t the desktop then it was the laptop. Her parents frowned and shook their heads, warning her of premature wrinkles. “Go practice piano,” Sherry’s parents urged her. “No, I don’t want to.” “It’s not a matter of want or not.” “Yes it is.” Her father peered down at Sherry, stern and rigid. “You don’t give up on this. Don’t be a quitter. Sherry, do you know what the poverty line is?” Sherry sat deaf to his words. “It’s the line between happiness and sorrow. And do you know who is on the other side of the line? It’s the unlucky ones, and the quitters. Your grandma was unlucky. But she worked hard, and now she lives well in America.” Father continued. “You are lucky; you were born on the right side of the line. If you want to stay there you have to work hard.” His voice was sharp; it cut Sherry with a truth she overlooked. But she stared ahead, refusing to look him in the eye. That night for dinner was a bowl of dandelion salad. Sherry’s mother crinkled her nose and in broken English muttered to Sherry, “She probably pick that from somebody yard.” Dinner that night was a soup of silence. *          *          * TWO YEARS AGO “Every rice grain comes with a drop of sweat.” Sherry’s father pleasantly quoted his favorite Chinese saying. Sherry glared, angry, before shoving more rice into her mouth. “Look at all those rice grains wasted.” A few more grains slipped from the firm grip of Sherry’s chopsticks to the table. Sherry shot back in English, “Shut up.” “Is that how you talk to your parents?” Sherry growled. Her father dramatically sighed, then continued to reminisce about his childhood days. Sherry’s mother joined in, and so did her grandmother. “It was so difficult back then… We were so poor.” “Aye… I used to live in a one-room shack. Ma, do you remember?” “Nowadays everybody has a mansion.” “It was incredible that you even made it into college.” “Yes, used to walk six miles to make it to school.” Sherry’s grandmother paused, then sighed, “My mother was against it.” “Dad, why did you bring me here?” “Things are better now.” Sherry’s mother joined in. “So much better that you are getting fat!” The whole table erupted into laughter, only Sherry continued to silently shove rice into her mouth. She grew more and more vicious, and finally erupted. “Shut up!” The room froze. Sherry could feel her family’s eyes on her, but she continued to shove food into her mouth. Sherry’s mother found her tongue first. “Why?” Sherry faltered; she didn’t have a why. Her family had done nothing wrong, why was she

Buffalo Hunt

“Look, son. See the way the land is in shadow, even though there is nothing to cast it?” The boy stood, facing the early morning. He let the gentle breeze caress his dark skin and play with his hair as he stared thoughtfully off into the distance. Today was the day of his first buffalo hunt. Today he had a chance to become a man. Ten years old, he had been waiting many months for the time to be right. He had been practicing his aim with his bow and arrows and had been working with his pony as well. He was determined that all would go well and he would be given a name by the end of the day. For the young Sioux warrior did not have a name. He would not be given one until he had proven himself in some way worthy of one. All he had was his nickname, Arrow. His friends had named him such because of his keen eyes and sharp hand. He rarely missed his targets. A nickname such as his was better than none, however. His friend, Wet Grasses, was named for the first time he was sent to gather grasses for the fire. He was not supervised, and gathered and dumped armful after armful of wet grass on the fire, causing the entire camp to be encased in smoke for the better part of the night. At the soft step of his father he turned. His father smiled reassuringly at him and moved to stand beside him. His voice was husky in the early morning. “Look, son. See the way the land is in shadow, even though there is nothing to cast it? That is the buffalo, waiting for us.” He looked down at his son and the boy smiled, letting his excitement show. “I am ready.” The sun seemed to burst up from the horizon at the same time as the camp awakened, men and boys appearing out of tipis with the women and girls not far behind. The happy chatter filled the air as the women sharpened their knives for the skinning of the buffalo. The men painted their ponies with their family’s design and made sure that their quivers were full of arrows and their bows were flexible. Arrow smiled up at his father and ran off to bring his pony to the paint. His father watched him go, a proud smile playing about his lips, for he had taught the boy and was confident in his abilities. Arrow reappeared, leading his pony to the paint. Carefully, he selected the same black and yellow paint as his father. Dipping his hand into the wet, chalky substance, he bit his lip in concentration as he smeared the animal’s haunches in the spots and lines of his family. He glanced to the side of him to see Wet Grasses doing the same thing. Arrow could tell from the sparkle in Wet Grasses’ eyes that he, too, was filled with anticipation for the hunt. Breathing deeply, Arrow dabbed his own face with paint as well, before swinging himself up on top of his pony. He looked over the camp and laughed aloud at the cheerful busyness. He could see his mother and sisters preparing for the buffalo, and he waved to them. Most of the men were not yet finished with painting their horses, and Arrow watched them eagerly. He had been watching them for years now, waiting impatiently for when he would be old enough to join them. It was different, watching from the middle of the action instead of the outskirts. He shielded his eyes against the sun and looked for the younger boys that were watching. He waited until he found them and had to suppress a feeling of pride that this time he was the one they were looking up to. At a cry from the leader the rest of the men mounted their horses, yelling and cheering as the horses gradually moved out of the camp to the open plains. Arrow felt a clamor of joy well up in him as his pony’s muscles bunched beneath him, moving into a comfortable canter. Arrow sat tall on the warm back of his pony and whooped. Wet Grasses was riding beside him, and he too yelled out. They were riding in the middle of the pack, real men helping to feed the women and children. They nearly pulled their horses up short, though, when they saw the buffalo. Arrow drew in his breath at the sight of them. Never in his life had he seen a live buffalo before. He had only ever seen the dead ones that the women skinned after the hunt. A surge of energy filled him and he grinned as he urged his pony on. They were downwind, so the buffalo had not seen them yet. He wanted to be right at the front, where he would be one of the ones to actually startle the buffalo into fleeing. He felt for the bow slung across his back. It was still there, in a position where it would be easy for him to reach when he needed it. His arrows, too, were hanging in a tube from his waist. He fingered the feathered tips, longing to pull one out and shoot—but the time was not right. The buffalo were beginning to sense them now. They lifted their heads in uneasiness, then, as they caught sight of the horses, they broke into a run. Like a stream of water they cascaded down the gentle slope. Arrow leaned down over his pony’s neck, forcing him into a gallop. He could sense the other men doing the same. With Wet Grasses beside him, his father somewhere behind him, he surged into the center of the herd. The thundering of hooves was in his ears, and he looked around himself. The completeness of the buffalo was all around him. He was alone. Not truly alone, for

Arachne

Arachne was my sister, but we were as different as night and day. I was tall and lanky, tanned from hours spent on the seashore hunting for the shellfish that Father used in his dye. She was small and pale from hours in front of the loom, doing the weaving that had brought her fame. Ever since she was small, Arachne had been able to take an ordinary piece of cloth and turn it into a blaze of color and beauty that would take your breath away. On her work, figures breathed and flowers blossomed. Her amazing weaving had spread through Greece, and now people came from Crete, Sparta, Macedonia, places we had never heard of, to see the miracle weaver for themselves. On the morning that it happened, the spectators were already thick around our hut. Father was behind it, dying a new batch of yarn. I was looking for my best friend, Cora. We liked to stand behind the crowd and hear their praise and Arachne’s biting remarks. Besides extraordinary weaving skills, my sister also possessed a sharp tongue. Finally, I was about to resort to looking in the pig sty when I heard Cora calling me. “Alethea!” She was standing by the crowd. I joined her with a dirty look. She shrugged and mouthed, I was at the beach, and I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of that. We turned our attention back to the crowd just in time to hear a man joke to his companion, “Now if only my wife could weave like that! I’d be richer than the emperor! How does she do it?” Arachne had challenged Athena, and Athena had come Arachne’s response was quick and sharp. “I certainly did not learn by standing still and gawping like a goat! I used my own two hands, to a much better result than you!” Another woman murmured, “What skill! Surely, dear, you must have been taught by Athena herself !” She made two of the worst mistakes you could make with Arachne. Father once absentmindedly called Arachne dear and she threw a fit and tore one of the tapestries she had woven that day into shreds. Arachne also hated to be compared to anyone. I held my breath and hoped Arachne wouldn’t kill the woman or tear the cloth, because we needed the money. Thankfully, her attack was fully verbal. “How dare you compare me to that goddess! My weaving is far better than hers, but she won’t admit it! I would challenge her to a contest, but of course she wouldn’t come!” In the shocked quiet that followed this outburst, a hunched, ragged old woman near the front suddenly spoke in a quavering yet surprisingly firm voice. “You foolish girl. Nothing good has ever happened to mortals who challenged the gods. Take back what you said at once, and later make an offering to Athena, lest she truly come and unleash her fury on you.” For an inexplicable reason, my blood ran cold when she uttered the final threat, and I glanced at Cora. She was pale under her tan. Gripped by fear, I started to squeeze my way through the crowd, trying desperately to reach Arachne before something happened to her. I also kept an eye on the strange old woman as well as I could. But she was too angry and too proud to notice anything but this old woman that dared to rebuke her. “I will not take back my challenge!” Arachne raged. “What do you, a ragged old beggar, know of me? I am the greatest weaver among both the gods and the mortals, and Athena is welcome to compete against me!” Barely had her words died off when the old woman began to glow. She threw off her ragged cloak and was suddenly dressed in a shining white chiton. She grew taller, and her face was radiant and beautiful, tender yet at the same time stern. I had seen that face before, on statues in temples. Arachne had challenged Athena, and Athena had come. My sister stood silently before her loom, and her face was a thunderstorm of emotion. Anger, astonishment, and was that fear? The crowd was silent with shock, waiting for something more to unfold. Finally, Arachne’s mouth tightened into a thin, determined line, and she motioned Athena towards another loom that was standing in the corner. She removed the cloth she had been working on and, without any further ado, began a new weaving. Athena did too. Someone must have told Father because he came running with two baskets filled with skeins of his yarn, in colors bright as the rainbow and as varied. He silently placed one basket by Arachne and one by Athena, with a bow to her. Then he looked around and came to stand beside me. We watched without a word. Athena wove faster than Arachne. A pattern began to take shape on her loom. I strained to see, and suddenly understood. It was a warning to Arachne. In the center of the pattern, Athena competed with Poseidon for possession of Athens. She stood by her newly created olive tree, and the sea god stood tall by his creation, the horse. The other gods were also there, Zeus in the middle, blazing with glory. It was clear, somehow, that they were all favoring Athena. On the four corners of the cloth, the goddess had woven the terrible fates of mortals who had dared to compete with the gods. It was clear what Arachne’s fate would be if she continued to defy Athena. I turned to see my sister’s weaving, and gasped. Her face was hard and angry, and her pattern was a direct insult to the gods. There was Leda, with Zeus disguised as the swan, and Danae, locked in her tower, visited by Zeus as a golden ray of light. I also recognized Europa and the bull. All the unworthy acts of the gods were displayed on Arachne’s

The M31: Borrowed Bus Stories

Will you ever have a relationship as special as that? Every day, you wake up, eat breakfast, and walk down the five flights of steep, stone-cold stairs. As a cheery neighbor greets you, you put on a fake smile and fast walk out the door. You’ve never been a big “people person,” or a dog person, or even a cat person for that matter. Should you be someone? As you step out into the traffic, you realize your morning is already buzzing by and you haven’t even gotten your coffee. 7:57. A small boy and his dad walk up to the bus stop. The boy can barely reach his father’s hand. They sit and talk, play patty-cake. Will you ever have kids? Or even just a relationship as special as that? A warm feeling fills your stomach. The wind blows. You shiver and watch as the small boy and his father hail a cab. 8:06. The strange old woman comes. She’s the one who feeds the pigeons, who searches through trash for cans and bottles. You wonder if she ever had someone. 8:13. You kick a rock. No buses. 8:28 ticks by, the latest time you can get on the bus and be at work by 9:00. Finally. The M31 creeps down the traffic-covered hill and you step up the black-and-yellow stairs. You choose your favorite seat, near the back, sit down, and watch. You can see the whole bus, everything that goes on. A million little stories, and a million different feelings flood the open space. The York Avenue bus. From 63rd to 91st. You spend about 45 minutes a day on average on that bus. The part that makes it all worthwhile are the people. French kids. Doctors and nurses. Crying babies. You see and hear little bits and pieces of people’s days and sometimes, for the slightest moment, you take off your veil of aloneness and intertwine. Giving someone your seat, loaning someone change, or even just exchanging a glance when the cranky old lady yells at a little kid. You need the confusion, the distraction from the loneliness. When you’re on the bus, you’re an observer. A listener. A looker. You’re not there. A fly on the wall. Bits of conversations fly through your thoughts, you take in. With each breath you inhale the moods of others. You get on the bus and get off, leaving behind the stories for the next day. One day, you stepped up the yellow-and-black steps, ready to absorb. As you sat down, a cute little baby and his mother caught your eye. Buttoned up in his shiny white jacket, he was happy, and observing just like you. Suddenly, BUMP, spit-up on the seats. On the floor. On that little white jacket. “It’s all right,” the mother whispered, “it’s OK.” An old man, lifting his silent vow of isolation, offered the baby’s mother a napkin. You watched. Two friends made that would never see each other again. Ever. Bus stops. Baby and mother get off. And the old man’s eyes were glued to that little baby. You looked out the window and saw a mirror image. Smiling, waving, gleaming blue eyes lit up. But off the bus, continuing with the push and pull of daily life, the man and the baby disappear into oblivion. Forgotten. In the world of borrowed bus stories. Charlotte Merrick, 12New York, New York Athena Gerasoulis, 12Edison, New Jersey

The Mighty Jump

This was it. I could see it in front of me. The stream was ending. I had to jump. The strong current was blinding. The mischievous drops of water were going against me. I picked up speed. Flapping my tail fin one hundred times a second. Propelling forward faster and faster. I jumped. Elegantly soaring through the air. Slipping right through a grizzly bear’s jaws. I could see the open sky above, and the rushing water crashing below. Then just like that, I gracefully slipped through the quiet and frigid waters. My adventure was over. Ella Rogers, 10Lake Forest Park,Washington

A Night of Fire

A gloomy hole sheltered the shivering cardinal during a raging thunderstorm. The hole was an incomplete snake house, burrowed with consummate skill. The cardinal knew he had to get out before the hole filled with rainwater. Ever so carefully, he worked his way up the shallow passage, his gorgeous red feathers now streaked with dirt. He chirped desperately; he was stuck, as water started to fill the shelter. The cardinal used his last shred of energy to try to push his way out, but it was no use. As thunder boomed and lightning cracked, the cardinal knew he was done, knew it was all over. Just a few seconds later, a branch broke off the nearest tree, crashing to the ground beside him! The cardinal opened one eye, but the limb had not widened the hole on impact with the ground. The branch was no help to him. But he was wrong! A child had heard the branch fall as she was running home through the storm with drinking water for her family. The limb blocked her path, and as she bent to move it the stranded cardinal caught her eye. He looked up at her, up to his neck in water, and took in the girl’s appearance. She was tall, with deeply tanned skin and a jet-black braid down her back. Her eyes were a liquid brown, kind, yet reserved. She had on moccasins and a deerskin beaded dress. “I am Jessica,” the girl solemnly spoke. “I will help you.” She gently helped free the bird from the earth and rain. Noticing how filthy he was, she sprinted into a nearby cave, lightning flashing all around her. In the cave, she sacrificed her family’s drinking water to clean him. The brown streaks finally gave way and revealed a brilliant red coat of feathers. As he flew away, he seemed to set fire to the trees Jessica stared at the now sleeping bird, transfixed. Huddled in the cave, she waited out the storm. When the cardinal woke up, it did not move. “I will name you Fire, for the wings on your back and the glimmer in your eye,” Jessica said. Worriedly, she gently lifted Fire. He simply perched on her hand, gazing at her steadily, trustingly. She tossed him in the air. He flew around her head, made a loop-de-loop, and sat back down on her shoulder. She giggled. “Show-off.” Together, the improbable pair sat in the cave, and Jessica fed Fire some jerky, until he was comfortable enough to come over again, grab the meat, and eat it sitting right on her head. Even so, the little night of fun was bittersweet, for Jessica knew she would have to let Fire go when the storm let up. As soon as it was over, she murmured a little goodbye to him and set him loose to go back to his family. Jessica watched the sun make dancing rainbows on the wet cardinal’s wings. As he flew away, he seemed to set fire to the trees. Jordan Dunaway-Barlow, 13Houston, Texas Megan Knizak, 13Georgetown, Massachusetts

Navy-Blue Cloth— Words and Pain

I hope he’ll never forget, he is Kathryn’s dog. My dog “He was mostly your dog.” The words flew in flurries around my head. I shall never forget them. “He was mostly your dog. Mostly your dog. Your dog. Dog.” Never-ending words, a round of angels whispered in my head. A comfort I drank like I would drink elixir. I found a blanket in those words. A mission. A dream that could never be reached. To find him. For the few of us who have suffered this particular loss, you know how it is worse than a pet dying. Knowing that somewhere out there, he lives. Hickory was a flurry of a pup. His brown and black spots said splatter paint, and his black hole eyes had an overflowing cup of happiness. “I have a home!” they seemed to shout, “I have a home!” But he was afraid of my dad. Hickory was abused as a young dog and was separated from his only friend, his sister. We figured, over time, he must have thought my dad was the one who abused him. In the car, we were shouting out names. We didn’t want the pup to be called Hickory. “Juice Box!” “Bennett!” “Clifford!” “Henry!” “Wags!” “Greg!” “JUICE BOX!” Then we heard the words on the radio, “Mason-Dixon Road Line.” Bing. Ding. Bingo! Dixon. Dixon. Dixon. The words curved on my tongue, the way a flower does when it wilts. They floated like clouds above our heads, in a navy-blue cloth. Then they shimmered, and whoosh! Out the window they went, to tell the newspaper, the state, the country, the world, the universe about our dog. Dixon. But good things never last. Two years later, October 16th, he is taken away. Whooshed out of my world, like those navy-blue words were, two years before. Gone from my life. But this time, the whoosh had great pain in it. My calender became filled. On every Friday it read “eight Dixon weeks,” and so on. It had a hopeful look. All my possessions did. We all were holding our breath, we all longed for Dixon to come home, like that Lassie dog did. I still do dream he will. I know he is out there. I hope he’ll never forget, he is Kathryn’s dog. My dog. If you happen to come into my house one day, October 16th, you will come across six people wearing everyday clothes and doing everyday things. But if you travel upstairs, you shall see a girl with straw-colored hair, wearing dark-colored clothing, and in her hands a black band with three tinkling things on it. You shall be curious, so you shall come closer. You will see in her white-with-anger-and-sadness hands, a collar. Of a dog, who shall always have a home in her heart. And if by chance you go by New Hampshire one day and see a dog that is white and black, with splatter-paint spots and black hole eyes, you know who he is. Make sure his cup is overflowing with happiness. Rub his ears, and tell him these simple words, “I will always love you.” Kathryn Malnight, 11Wayland, Massachusetts Alondra Paredes, 12Bentonville, Arkansas

The Highest Football

It’s funny, sometimes some things that are supposed to make perfect sense are actually totally the opposite from the truth. Like the fact that opposites attract. Mike and I met in the good old days. Second grade. The good old days. It was actually the day I came to my first elementary school, Floral Street School. He is this hulking guy at first glance with all this… sort of classic New York look. His look makes you think big bully, football player, and you know… the things you think when the guy is big. Actually, he is a football player. But his eyes and laugh speak the best thing you could hope for when you go to a new school. A friend. Friends are like sisters or brothers. You fight once in a while… or you might fight all the time. People used to see us next to each other with him a head taller than me, and they thought that it was such a weird thing. He always called me Jay for short, but after second and third grade he started calling me by my real name, Jaylen, and I appreciated that. It proved that he actually would take the time to pronounce my name. But some other kids in my class called me after a comedian, Jay Leno, which is a coincidence. I guess I didn’t mind. We always split in recess. So he could play football with the other, I guess you could say, “big” and “popular” kids. While I went with the other kids in my class. But there was one time, I remember, that changed that. “We get Jaylen!” he exclaimed to the rest of the guys I was treading on the blacktop, bored, watching the sun start to peep out of its unreachable fort, wishing I could do something. As the wind slapped my face and pinched my ears, and I rubbed my hands together in a useless attempt at warmth, I glanced at the football field with a fleeting look. Walking over there I could see that they were picking team members. So I sat at the edge of the football field and watched. I saw Michael make a touchdown and I looked to him and smiled and he smiled back. He could have just celebrated or he could have done the thing that saved me from a hundred boring recesses. “Hey Jaylen,” he greeted, and I nodded. “Come on.” He outstretched his calloused hand to my soft piano-playing hand and he hauled me up like a pencil that he had just dropped. “We get Jaylen!” he exclaimed to the rest of the guys and they nodded awkwardly and my face reddened. I am going to die of embarrassment, I thought, looking up into the sky, hoping some spirit would save me from getting trampled and becoming a part of the ground. Mike hollered, “Hike!” While I fled outward, dodging the oncoming army of football players, I made eye connection with Mike and, without warning, he fired. Of course it was coming at me. I ran toward the flying pigskin, scrambling toward the right position. The ball looked like a bird that has just had its wings clipped. Suddenly a bumpy ball was in my arms and I carried it as I saw the professionals do. And I bulleted as fast as I could. I saw one of the kids bolting behind me and he planted his two hands on me. But a little too hard, which was expected because I was like a half of their weight. Plummeting face first, I outstretched my arms in a desperate attempt to weaken the oncoming agony. Instantly I could make out the oohs and ouchies from the crowd of kids enclosed around me. I sprawled on the ground as my leg erupted in flames. I could feel the tears burning through my eyes like the lava oozes out of a volcano. I rolled over on the ground and looked up at somebody branching out their hand to me. I clasped onto it as he boosted me onto my own two feet, toweling off the tears that were spurting from my eyes with my sleeve. I looked at the people hovering around me and no longer was there an awkward “he does not belong here” look. But replaced was a considerate look. “Jaylen! You OK?” Mike asked in worry. “Ye-eah I’m a-a-all right,” I stuttered, dusting the the sand off of my skin. “Do you want to sit out?” he questioned. I widened my eyes in a look that said “are you kidding me!” As I brushed past him out to the field, playing the game of football, I could feel his smile burning my shirt, and I could feel mine forming from my mouth. Every day there forth I never did sit on the curb watching everybody have fun again. Instead, I was the one who was enjoying myself. That goes to show you that if you have a friend you will never stay on the ground defeated. Friendship is a game of football, you get knocked down lots of times but there is always somebody to pick you up… up to keep playing. But now I’m in a new school, one where I know I will have just as many memories. But to tell the truth, Mike will always be the highest football that will soar, everlasting in my mind. Jaylen Wang, 10Wayland, Massachusetts Christine Stevens, 12Newark, California

I Cry

I feel tears welling up in my eyes I try to suppress them I don’t want to cry At least not here In front of people But I do I do cry I cry and I cry And I try to push it back But I’ve waited too long I think about it About the mess About my parents My childhood My home My safety And I cry even more The mess is big It overwhelms me It makes me shiver It makes me cry My mother didn’t love my father anymore I can’t take that knowledge I can’t believe it After twenty-three years Of loving You just stop I don’t understand her Confusion makes me cry I love my mother I love my father I don’t see Why they can’t love each other The unknown makes me cry I have to move Even though we just moved I have to pack my clothes My toys So I can leave my father All alone Change makes me cry I cry I cry because I am Sad and Confused and Annoyed I cry because of my Parents’ divorce I cry Isabella Ainsworth, 11Davis, California

Reject

Sometimes I sat on my bed, seething, and thinking, Why me? Reject. That’s what I was. My parents claimed that eight children in the house was too much for them to handle, and that they couldn’t support them all, so they sent me away to live with my grandparents. That wouldn’t have been as much of a problem, except that Granny and Gramps lived in Maine, thousands of miles away from my original home in Salem, Oregon. I only ever got to see my family at holidays, birthdays, and one month in the summer. And that wasn’t all that bothered me. It’s just, being sent away by your own parents, rejected from your own home, isn’t very comforting. In fact, it made me downright mad, and sad, and homesick. Even though I’ve been living at my grandparents’ house since I was four (I’m eleven now, almost twelve), and I don’t remember much of my other house, it still hurt to think that I was the one picked to be shipped off. I felt like an outcast. Sometimes I sat on my bed, seething, and thinking, Why me? Why couldn’t it have been one of my brothers, Carl the troublemaker maybe? Why did I have to be the one with the unfortunate fate? Whenever I asked my mother this, she just tersely told me, “Because you’re mature enough to deal with it,” and then changed the subject. But I was only four at the time. How could they have known I would be “mature”? Maybe they just chose me because, being the youngest in my family, I was too young to understand and wouldn’t put up a big fuss. I probably just thought I was going to see Granny and Gramps for a visit, and that in a week or two, my parents would come to pick me up and take me home again. Unfortunately, they never did. So now I was living in a little cottage by the sea and had a tiny bedroom in the attic with a little round porthole window, which I could look out of and see the ocean with its rolling lace-trimmed waves, spraying salty sea foam up into the misty air. And the gulls waddling across the beach and soaring in the ever-cloudy sky, squawking in gull language to each other about some fish they had found. I often sat and stared out that window, across the ocean, wishing I were back home with the rest of my family, and feeling lonely. And that’s what I was doing just then, looking glumly out of the porthole and feeling sorry for myself. I turned away from the window and glanced around my room. The ceiling took the shape of the roof, pointed at the top and slanting steeply down, so that I had to bend down or bump my head on one of the thick beams running down from the tip to the floor. This was also a hazard I had to remember when waking up in the morning. Even though my bed was pushed out slightly, I could still sit up in the morning and hurt myself. On the same wall as the porthole, I had an old mahogany desk that Gramps had given me when I first came here, along with a stack of stationery and writing utensils, though I couldn’t even read yet, much less write anything but a crude and barely recognizable version of my name. Now I used the desk all the time, journaling, drawing, and writing stories. That’s another thing: I loved to write. It was a way for me to escape my troubles and write about someone else’s, or create a world all of my own, one where no one was sent away by their family or forced to live feeling regret and longing all their life. It helped me express the way I felt about the world. When I was feeling angry, resentful, sad or confused, I would sit down and write, and it helped somehow. It was like giving away all of my unwanted emotions, like lifting a load of bricks off my shoulders. I emerged from my daydream when I heard my grandmother calling my name. She was yelling something about a phone. Oh, that’s right, it was time for the daily phone call to my home in Oregon. OK, so it wasn’t always daily, more like every other day, but daily phone call sounded better than every-other-daily phone call. I sighed and started down the rickety old staircase. I reached the bottom and briskly walked through the living room and into the kitchen, where Granny was frying scallops on the stove. My grandmother is younger than most grandmothers, only in her mid-sixties. She always said that was lucky because if she had been any older, she might not have agreed to take me in. I didn’t totally think it was so great because if she and Gramps hadn’t been able to house me, I might have stayed at my own home. But then again, my parents probably would’ve found some cousin to take me. Granny is only a few inches taller than me and has gray hair tied back into a loose bun. She has soft features and a very kind smile. Her skin is pale and slightly flabby in some places, but tough like an elephant’s. She is not hunched over at all and always likes to have her fingers moving, so I usually find her knitting, sewing, finger knitting, typing on her laptop, or just drumming her fingers on the kitchen counter. I said hello to her and she smiled at me and said, “Hello, Cincinnati.” I unhooked the phone from its place on the wall and stared somberly at the keypad. I always felt excited when I called, but a bit dejected too. I stared some more, as if willing the phone to disappear in my hands, but I knew it had to be done. I slowly punched the numbers

The Chesapeake Bay Manatee

She watched the water froth and spin, dancing between her toes Adriane slowly opened her bedroom door, glancing down the hallway to make sure no one was awake. Once she was positive, she slipped through the small opening and closed the door. She hurried down the stairs and past the kitchen, wincing at her heavy footsteps, hoping no one would hear. As she reached the back door she slowed, looking for the key her mom kept on the counter. Once she spotted it, she picked it up and felt the sharp edge of the single key jab into her palm. Adriane turned toward the door and yanked it open, then walked into the night. A sharp wind caught her off guard and snaked over her skin. She shivered, tucking her arms across her chest, wishing she had worn something other than the old green shorts and a threadbare T-shirt. The worry faded, though, as soon as she looked up. Stars littered the sky like glitter on black tile, illuminating the moonless night. The glowing orb’s absence only added to the otherworldly experience the sky was performing for Adriane. Looking closely, she could see the small patches of sky covered by gray clouds, swirling like the Milky Way. Glancing back down, Adriane remembered what she had come out here to do and began making her way across the yard. Once she was walking on the road, she quickened, smiling with anticipation. She was risking a lot; if someone was to see Adriane they would tell her parents, or at the least, order her to leave and go home. Finally, she reached it. She walked out onto the boardwalk, listening to the patter of her feet on the old wood and the slap of waves on the metal below. The shore fell away as she made her way out to the front, sliding her hands off her chest. The ocean below bubbled, inviting her in. She smiled, bending down to sit on the edge of the boardwalk. Sharp pricks of cold stabbed at her feet as she slid them into the waves. Kicking slightly, she watched the water froth and spin, dancing between her toes. The cold began to fade as her skin adjusted to the temperature, allowing her to slide more of her legs in, until the water was hitting her calves. Leaning back on her elbows and then her back, she stared up at the sky once again, the boardwalk swaying beneath her. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander, the night scenery seeping into her skin, disguising her beneath the stars. She almost forgot where she was until an unpleasant nudge hit her foot. Adriane’s eyes snapped open, glancing around. She was still on the boardwalk, but it seemed as if quite some time had passed by. There was a bright blue tint to the once black sky, and the stars had faded quite a bit. Just as she was about to stand, something nudged her foot again. Gasping, she pulled her legs out of the water, blinking to shield her eyes from the spray of water that was brought with them. Holding her legs against her chest, she peeked over the edge of the boardwalk. Gray and leathery, a manatee sat just below the surface. Adriane had never seen a real manatee before. Chesapeake Bay wasn’t an uncommon place for them, though. Leaning in closer, she tried to get a better look. The manatee was small for its kind, with heavily creased skin like an elephant. It had two flat plate-like flippers on either side of its gigantic body and one large flat flipper at its back. Its eyes were tiny and beady, staring past Adriane. “Hey there,” she offered, trying to calm the creature. The manatee gazed up at her in response, gently pumping its fins. Adriane raised her head, looking for a fisherman or someone who worked at the docks, but she saw no one. Wondering if she should report the elephant-like creature, she turned back to the water. The manatee was still gazing at her intently, tilting its head as if in pain. “What is it?” Adriane asked, placing both her hands on the edge of the boardwalk. She watched the manatee as it slowly tilted its head again, pleading with its eyes. “What’s wrong?” Adriane’s voice faltered as she stared down at the enormous creature. Calmly, she put her hand in the water, just touching the surface. Almost instantly, the manatee nudged it, sliding its nose up against her palm. That’s when she noticed it. A huge net lay stretched across the manatee’s back. It was tangled up, strangled. Adriane looked back at its face, understanding the pain held in its eyes. It was suffering, and with this net around it, the manatee wouldn’t last long. It was suffering, and with this net around it, the manatee wouldn’t last long “Hold on, little guy, I’ll be right back,” Adriane spoke, hoping the manatee didn’t hear the fear and sadness that came with it. The pounding of her tired, heavy heart matched that of her feet as she ran back up the beach, kicking up sand. Looking at the sky above her, she watched as blues and purples stained the sky like splashes of paint across a canvas; the sun was rising. Switching her eyes forward again, she urged her feet to move faster, hoping to reach her house before it was too late. Adriane turned onto her yard and made her way to the door, practically smashing into the red-paint-coated panels on either side of it. She jammed the single key into the lock, then hurried up the stairs, yelling, “Mom! Dad! Hurry!” She slipped twice on the stairs in her haste, groaning and getting back up each time. When she had finally made it to the hallway, her parents were already there, looking surprised, scared, and tired all at the same time. “Manatee…” she bent down, putting her hands on