The Grave Robber’s Secret, by Anna Myers; Walker & Company: New York, 2011; $16.99 The main character in The Grave Robber’s Secret, Robby, is a twelve-year-old boy who lives in a poor section of Philadelphia at the beginning of the 1800s. Robby’s father thinks he has found a get-rich-quick scheme—grave robbing! In those days medical schools would buy dead bodies for their students to dissect. Robby and his mother are terrified of the idea, but Robbie’s father will not hear of any disagreement. In his mind this will be an easy way to support his family, and so he begins making Robby come with him. Then William Burke comes to live in the boarding house Robby’s mother runs. He is an intimidating figure who thinks he is of a higher class than everyone else because of his fancy clothes and gold cane. But Robby soon becomes friends with Burke’s terribly shy daughter, Martha. Real trouble begins when Robby finds a woman’s shoe that does not belong to his mother in the hall. He had heard a woman’s laugh the night before, and he begins to wonder if Burke is even worse than he thought. One night a strange man comes in to play cards with Burke and Robby’s father. Martha peeks and sees something horrible. Imagine Robby’s horror at finding out that Burke and his father are murdering people off the street and selling them to the medical school! This is a book about feeling trapped. If Robby goes straight to the police his father might be hanged. He is also terrified that, without proof, they will not believe him and will let Burke go. Burke might kill him or his mother. He tells his mother what has happened, but he knows she will do nothing because she always feels powerless compared to his father. He thinks about doing nothing himself, but he cannot live with the knowledge that others are being killed when he could have stopped them. Reading it, I thought about how hard it is even now for children who are abused by the adults in their lives. I used to think, “Just turn them in!” But I now I see it’s hard to turn in someone you love and are terrified of at the same time. Robby decides he needs more proof before he decides, and he follows the men to the graveyard one night. He sees that they are planning to kill an old homeless lady. To save her, Robby cries out for them to stop and then runs deeper into the graveyard. Robby is about to be caught by the raging men when the police come. Martha, realizing the danger he would be in, had gone to get them. Robby is not the only one who has been feeling trapped. Martha’s mother has died and so she is dependent in all ways on a man who lies and cheats and even kills people. Yet now she is able to begin to find some strength in herself because Robby has reached out to her and she is not completely alone. I will always remember when Martha walked into the boarding house, how she came in, looking down, with a big brown shawl wrapped around her. Robby thought she looked fragile and I thought she looked like she was trying to hide or disappear. But now she has a friend to save, and so she does. I loved this story because it is a very fast-paced, exciting mystery and yet understandable and not confusing. It also helped me understand a real-life mystery—why people in bad situations sometimes can’t just get out of them. But making friends with someone always helps. Loren Townsend, 12Highland Park, New Jersey
The Real Winner
Of course, she would never be as good a surfer as Miranda Sydney Kalili flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and charged into an oncoming wave. It was a big one, and it swallowed Sydney whole. She felt the cool water engulf her body and sting her eyes, and she accidentally swallowed a mouthful of sea water. She tumbled onto the sandy shore and faced her sister, Miranda. Miranda shook her head. “Sydney, you know I can do better than that.” The sisters waited until a big wave arrived, and this time Miranda ran. Sydney watched her older sister as she jumped into the wave; her sister made it look effortless. Several seconds later, Miranda jogged back to where Sydney was and said, “Bet you can’t do that.” “But… but mine was good, too,” protested Sydney. She was sick of Miranda being better than her at almost everything. Miranda rolled her eyes. “Sydney, if you want to prove yourself, go ahead and do it.” She paused. “Hey, here comes a big one now!” Sydney ran into the wave, but her try was no good. She barely reached the wave before it crashed ashore, but it did knock her over. Sydney did somersaults on the sand and blinked back tears. Miranda was laughing like her sister’s failure was the funniest thing in the world. “Stop it!” cried Sydney. “It was a mistake!” Miranda shook her head. “Sydney, I have way more experience than you. I’ve been doing this since I was, like, four. I’ll always be better than you.” Sydney could not listen anymore. She ran to her house, which wasn’t that far from the beach. Her mom was cooking shrimp with her “special” sauce, which both the sisters knew was just a mixture of soy sauce, ketchup, coconut milk, and a little olive oil. * * * “Aloha, Sydney dear. What’s the rush?” asked Mom as she poured special sauce over the shrimp. Sydney didn’t answer. She ran into the room she and Miranda shared and lay down on her bed. She could hear the door opening, then closing, and she heard her sister’s footsteps. “Mom, is it OK if I enter this surf contest that they’re having tomorrow?” “Yes, Miranda, but…” Her mother was interrupted by Miranda. “Awesome!” Miranda exited, and Sydney came out of her room. Mom eyed her and said, “Sweetie, go play outside before the shrimp is done.” Sydney trudged outside to the shore. As usual, the beach was packed. It was summer vacation, and tourists from all around were visiting Hawaii. Sydney noticed that a large banner was up. It read, “Hibiscus Surfing Contest Tomorrow!” Hibiscus surfing competitions were not just any type of surfing competitions. They were Hibiscus surfing competitions. These competitions were held once a year, and there were many rules in order to enter. You had to be over twelve years old. You had to have been in at least two surfing competitions in your life. You had to have lived in Hawaii for at least four years. You had to own a surfboard… the list goes on and on. Miranda was fourteen years old. She had been in a total of eleven surfing competitions in her life. She, Sydney, and the rest of their family had been living in Hawaii forever—this was where Sydney’s ancestors had come from. And Miranda owned a beautiful surfboard—it was deep purple and had her name on it. Miranda had never been in a Hibiscus surfing competition before. Oke, the lifeguard, noticed Sydney strolling around and called out, “Sydney, Miranda just signed the Hibiscus papers! She will be in the competition! Kela’apopo.” “I heard,” sighed Sydney wearily. “And you’re not happy. Why are you not happy? Kaikua’ana will be in the surfing contest… I would be excited.” “Never mind, Oke,” said Sydney, “why I’m not happy about this.” She strutted away. Miranda was gone now, and Sydney supposed that her mother’s shrimp was done. Sadly, she walked back home. “Aloha and welcome to the seventy-third annual Hibiscus surfing competition! That’s right, friends, this special contest has been going on since 1938—and look how far we’ve come!” These happy words were said by a cheery announcer out of Sydney’s sight. Sydney looked at her sister, who was wearing a light blue water suit and nervously leaning on her personalized surfboard. The announcer continued talking, but Sydney didn’t listen. Before she knew it, Miranda and her surfboard were paddling to a large wave. She rode the wave beautifully. She kept her arms out for balance, not that she needed it. The whole crowd was in awe of her. Sydney turned away. Miranda was showing off again. Of course, she would never be as good a surfer as Miranda. Never. Tears burned her eyes. Just as she was prepared to run back home, she heard a high-pitched shriek and everyone gasped. Sydney turned to where she expected to see Miranda, but her sister was gone. Her purple surfboard was floating on the surface of the water. Instantly, Sydney ran to the ocean. She wasn’t dressed for swimming (she had on a thin cotton tank top and a pair of shorts), but she ran into the water. She didn’t know how deep she was in the water. She didn’t know if people were watching her. All of her thoughts were mixed up in her head like soup. She knew just one thing. She needed to get to her sister. Waves came up and threatened to crash over her, but she swam through them using the trick that Miranda had taught her. Sydney had barely reached her sister’s surfboard when she felt strong, cool arms wrap around her. She squirmed around and saw that they were those of Oke, the lifeguard. Instead of trying to escape from Oke’s strong grip, she cried out, “Kokua! Help! Help!” “It’s OK, Sydney, you’re OK,” Oke said, trying to soothe her. “No, Miranda, Miranda! Help her! Not me, her!” But Sydney’s pleas
Blood Red
Two black-and-white dogs Dash across the beach Legs pumping Flicking mud into the sun The sun Turning the lake Those same brilliant colors As the glowing red rocks around it Fiery fluid Creeps up on the shore Where two dogs lie In slumber Noses in the blood red sand Jeremy Trujillo, 12Montrose, Colorado
Plastic Eggs and a Wind-Up Rabbit
It can’t get much better than this Snow blindfolded the ground, warning it not to peek. Spring was here, but the green landscape was still under construction, a curtain of whiteness hiding it. Navy paint poured itself into the sky, filling it up as night came. A white moon floated on top of the ocean of blue dye. Freezing light radiated from it. I let my head fall to the pillow, eyes slipping closed. My book crawled out of my fingers as I fell asleep. Click-click-click-click-click. My eyelids crept apart, and I turned my attention to the perfect scene outside my bedroom window. The sky had melted into a bright blue, and patches of warm green grass showed. Smiling, I tried to fall back asleep, but just as I looked down I shrieked. A silhouette of a strange creature was next to me, shaking violently. I tore away the covers and raced to the light switch. Bitter yellow flooded the room. A wind-up rabbit hopped cheerfully across my pillow. Easter! I forgot all about it. Snickers came from my closet, and I yanked open the doors to find my little sister, Chloe, crouched there. I gave her my best Really? look and pointed to the bunny hopping around on my bed. She smiled and nodded. “Not funny,” I said, even though she made me laugh inside. She sat there with a tiny grin on her face, not getting my hint. “Go get dressed,” I added, and giggled as I slipped the door closed behind her. She skipped away and I went over to retrieve her wind-up toy. I twisted the handle and let it do its little dance. Chloe popped her head back in my room to squeal “Happy Easter!” and grab her rabbit toy from my palm. I fell into my fluffy beanbag and thought about what a great day it was going to be. A scavenger hunt with clues in eggs that all led up to a grand prize at the end, a happy sister who I got to find it with, the sickly sweet candy that would make us happy but later regretful of eating so much. Chloe stuck her head in my room again. “Come on, Rachel!” I met Chloe in the garage where she was getting onto her bike with pink streamers. Her Easter basket was taped to her handlebars. I had a backpack on my shoulders because I thought it was a pain to carry around a basket everywhere. Our scavenger hunts went all over the neighborhood. Usually our mom left the big prize back at home, so we would always wind up there again. “Mom gave me the first clue! Can I read it?” Chloe looked hopefully at me for approval. I nodded. “Cold, dark, black, and empty, visited by those seeking information.” Chloe scrunched up her nose. “What?!” I knew it was the mailbox, but I liked to let her guess it on her own. “Well, what place…?” I started, but her eyes shot open and she interrupted me. “Mailbox!” she shouted, and I smiled as I took off after her. We shot down the long bumpy driveway, bouncing up and down on our seats. Chloe was an expert rider for an eight-year-old. She didn’t even wobble. Smoothly, she skidded to a stop and opened up the mailbox, pulling out a lime-green egg. She opened the egg by pinching it at the seam so it cracked apart. Our clue fluttered to the ground. She picked it up and started to read. All the while I was staring into the blue sky, dotted with puddles of white paint. The first pink flower was shoving dirt out of its way as it reached for the surface. Then I looked at Chloe, her face grinning eagerly. And I thought, It can’t get much better than this. Cammie Keel, 13Boulder, Colorado Claire Nilsson, 12Greenville, South Carolina
A Different Kind of Friend
Emma signed back with petulance, “No, Mother, home” Emma Simmons was as angry as a deranged bull. Her mother was going to make her go to church every week, a duty Emma considered pure torture. Emma had to sit through the whole service not hearing one single sound wave because she was stone deaf. She’d been born that way. She knew, after the service, the old ladies in their flowered dresses would watch and pity her, the deaf girl. But they were nothing compared to Ms. Lorenzo, Emma’s nemesis. She was the church organist. Ms. Lorenzo’s job depended on the one thing Emma couldn’t do—hear. Ms. Lorenzo didn’t just hear musical notes; she could hear car tires squealing, dogs barking, the microwave beeping, and phones ringing. Emma wouldn’t have minded missing out on those sounds, but Ms. Lorenzo, along with almost everybody else, could hear people talking to them. Emma could only attempt to lip-read people’s speech. As Emma fixed her hair for church, her phone buzzed inside her slipper. Emma took it out and flipped it open. Her mother texted her, “R U ready??? Going 2 B late 4 church .” Emma texted back, “K comin.” Emma walked downstairs and slipped on her shoes. She opened the door to the garage and got into the car. According to her phone, two minutes and thirty-six seconds after she got into the car, her mother hopped into the car and started the engine. Emma could feel the vibration through her seat. Once Emma and her mother were seated in the pew, Emma flipped open to a random page in the pew Bible: Mark 7:31, the healing of a deaf-mute man. Gosh, this is so unfair, Emma thought, some guy 2000 years ago has his hearing restored to him by the Son of God and I’m stuck in the modern world and nobody is healing me. Emma felt a vibration in the floor. Ms. Lorenzo was playing a hymn. Emma put down the Bible and gave Ms. Lorenzo evil glares for the rest of the service. Emma stood for the closing hymn and then followed her mother outside. She signed “home” to her mother. Her mother signed back, “OK.” After a few weeks of regularly going to church, Emma thought, this church thing is thinly veiled public humiliation. After church, Ms. Lorenzo walked up to them. “Hello, Ms. Simmons. I noticed your daughter looking over at the organ. If you wanted, I could let Emma put her hand on the side of the organ so she could feel the vibrations while I play.” “Let me ask Emma,” answered Ms. Simmons. “Touch organ vibrations,” she signed to Emma. Emma signed back with petulance, “No, Mother, home.” Emma’s mother sighed and turned to Ms. Lorenzo. “I’m sorry, Emma doesn’t seem interested. It was extremely nice of you to think of her.” As soon as her mother’s lips stopped moving, Emma started pointing toward the car and tugging on her mother’s sleeve. When they got in the car, Ms. Simmons turned to her daughter and signed, “Rude daughter.” “Hate Ms. Lorenzo,” Emma signed back. Emma glared out of the car window for the entire ride home. Evelyn Lorenzo was attempting to practice Bach’s Fugue in D minor for the upcoming memorial service when she had an idea. These page turns are difficult. It would be helpful to have a page-turner, she thought as the rain drummed on the roof. Sometimes Evelyn whished she was deaf to the outside noises of the world… that’s who she should pick: Ms. Simmons’s deaf girl. The girl seemed to enjoy the organ. Every time Evelyn caught her eye in church she was looking at the organ. Evelyn decided to ask Ms. Simmons after church tomorrow. * * * The next day, Emma woke up and felt miserable. She’d spent yesterday afternoon in the rain running errands with her mother and Emma had caught a bad cold. She stumbled downstairs and found her mother in the kitchen making coffee. Emma signed, “Sick, no church.” Her mother felt Emma’s forehead. “Feel warm, stay home and nap,” signed Ms. Simmons. Emma signed, “OK.” Evelyn firmly played the postlude and rushed outside to find Emma’s mother before she left. Evelyn walked up to Ms. Simmons and noticed that Emma wasn’t there. “Ms. Simmons, where is your daughter?” asked Ms. Lorenzo. “Emma is at home with a bad cold,” answered Ms. Simmons. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Simmons. I wanted to ask your daughter a favor. I’ve noticed Emma seems to enjoy the organ when I play it in church. I need someone to turn pages for an organ piece; I’ll be playing for Jane Samuel’s memorial service. She was the former church organist and I’m expected to play a very difficult and memorable piece for the service. I thought Emma might be the right person for this.” Ms. Simmons was speechless. Not many people actually want to interact with her daughter, she thought. But Emma hates Ms. Lorenzo. But Emma’s lip-reading teacher said Emma needs to spend time with non-deaf people so she can cope in the real world. Ms. Simmons coughed. “Are you sure Emma could be your page-turner? She can’t even hear the organ; she can only feel the sound waves vibrating through the floor. Also, she is a very bad lip-reader so you two couldn’t communicate,” spoke Ms. Simmons. There was an awkward moment of silence. Then Ms. Lorenzo spoke, “Are you implying that Emma is the wrong person for this?” “Yes, I suppose I am,” answered Ms. Simmons. “I disagree. I could nod my head when I want the page turned by Emma. If worse comes to worst, you could be our translator.” “As you wish, Evelyn. When do you want Emma to practice with you?” “How about Thursday night at seven-thirty? That would work well for me.” “Thank you and see you then, Evelyn.” “Goodbye.” As Evelyn Lorenzo walked away she thought, My goodness, that woman
Moment of Truth
My last chance, One more miss And it’s over, Cool sweat trickles down my neck. I risk striking out, My pride. My hands tremble My swing wobbles My body Not my own, I can’t do this. To everyone else, A spring day, Warm and beautiful. Dandelions cover the field, The opposite of my emotions. I worry, I fear. The day is too sunny, I doubt. I hear the sound, Loud and clear. A glimmer of hope sparks inside of me, A candle in a dark room. The ball is gone. It flies with the birds. The ball touches down A mile away, Out of sight. The candle turns into a torch, A thousand torches, The game is mine. I’m at the top of the world. “Keep this moment forever.” A feeling comes to me, Sweeter than any peach or pie, Victory. Marshall McKenna, 12Lexington, Massachusetts
Window into the Wild
The wolf leaned towards him and their eyes met again Brandon bounced the tennis ball up and down on the dirt ground. The short, dark-haired boy was nine Earth years old, just old enough to resent this boring trip his parents had brought him on. Who wanted to go to a wildlife reserve anyway, even if it was one of the last remaining on Earth? Everyone cool in his class got to go to Mercury, or at least the Moon. Brandon’s brown eyes glared at nothing in particular from underneath heavy brows as he threw the tennis ball hard on the ground one last time. It flew off in another direction. Muttering to himself, Brandon headed off to get it. The ball rolled into the shadows and off of the carefully groomed dirt path, made to make you feel as though you were traipsing through the wilderness when actually anything you wanted was just a button press away. Brandon slipped off of the path after the ball, making almost no sound. The last thing he needed now was his parents yelling at him for leaving the designated safe area. The wild animals here were dangerous, they said, and they were restrained by an invisible wall of energy that shocked any animals but humans that walked near it. Brandon imagined that he was passing through that wall right now, and shivered. The boy squinted as he walked along, trying to make out the bright yellow-green of the tennis ball in this dark area of the park, shaded by the many trees around. Brandon looked back the way he’d come and saw the path, his parents making their way slowly along it. It was reassuring, yet Brandon wondered at how far he’d already come. He must have really bounced the tennis ball hard for it to go this far! Ahead of him, Brandon spotted the round splotch of out-of-place color that was his tennis ball. He hurried now, ignoring the plant tendrils that grasped at his designer clothing. Just as Brandon bent down to pick up the ball, he saw movement in front of him. The dark-haired boy froze. Everything his parents had told him before this trip ran through his head, despite his trying to look bored and not remember it at the time. You have to stay on the paths. Don’t go wandering off. I know you think it’s boring, but there are wild animals in this park that could kill you as surely as a crash-landing on some other planet. Listen to me, Brandon. I’m telling you to be careful. Brandon wished he had listened, and just let the tennis ball go. It wasn’t as important as his life! Seconds passed as he crouched, petrified, and nothing lunged out of the bushes. Nothing tore his head off, or even snarled at him. Carefully, slowly, Brandon dropped to his knees, one hand still on the tennis ball, and peered through the undergrowth where he had seen the movement. What he saw next took his breath away. Brandon didn’t immediately see whatever had made the movement in the clearing before him. It was all shadowed and dappled with light that forced its way through the thick, interlocking branches above. But he watched and waited, and after a while a piece of the shaows seemed to detach itself and move towards him. It was a wolf. A gray-furred, lithe beast that was no less muscled for its slender form; the kind of animal they spoke of in all the stories, but that was hopelessly endangered now and lived in only a few parks. It came at Brandon in a sort of slow lope, shining yellow eyes fixed on him. A few feet away, it stopped and sat down, swishing its thick furry tail across the ground once. There was no question of its having seen Brandon; its eyes never left his face. Brandon suddenly felt vulnerable and open, despite being behind a bush. Something urged Brandon to get a better look at this almost mythical creature. Few people these days could claim to have seen one; they lived only on Earth and couldn’t survive on other planets, despite attempts to set them up there. Besides, part of Brandon’s mind told him, he was just as unprotected here behind the bush as he would be with a full view of the wolf. He wished he had brought a camera. Remembering all he’d ever heard about wolves: their ruthlessness, their strength, but also their beauty and loyalty to their packs, Brandon inched his way out from behind the bush. Once he could see the wolf in full, he stopped, feeling afraid outside the safety of his bush. The wolf was still staring at him. Yellow eyes met brown and Brandon found himself amazed. Here he was, on his knees in a forest, trading glances with a wild wolf! All this because his tennis ball had rolled away! Brandon continued to stare into the wolf’s eyes like he was mesmerized. The wolf got to its paws gracefully and Brandon felt another surge of fear. After everything, was it going to kill him now? Those yellow eyes didn’t seem murderous, but then again, wolves didn’t murder. They killed to survive. The wolf padded silently over the leaves, coming closer and closer. Brandon was on the verge of panicking when the wolf stopped. It was close enough now for Brandon to reach out an arm and feel its gray fur, but he didn’t. He was paralyzed, unable to move. The wolf leaned towards him and their eyes met again. “Brandon! Brandon?” The wolf jerked away as the call echoed through the forest. The moment was broken. Brandon fell backwards in surprise at hearing his name, pushing himself back up on his elbows just in time to see the wolf fading into the shadows again without a backward glance. “Brandon! Brandon, where did you go?” The boy being called realized that his parents had noticed his absence,
Dumpling Days
Dumpling Days, by Grace Lin; Little, Brown Books for Young Readers: New York, 2012; $15.99 “You should know Taiwan. It’s…” Dad said, his face dimming as he tried to think of the right word in English. His hand fell as he gave up and said it in Chinese instead. “It’s… Taiwan is… bao dao.” (treasure island) —Pacy’s dad, describing Taiwan in Dumpling Days Have you ever gone on a trip that changed your life? Well, in Grace Lin’s novel, Dumpling Days, Pacy Lin, an Americanized Taiwanese from New York, does just that. With her parents and two sisters, Pacy goes on an exciting trip to Taiwan to celebrate her grandmother’s birthday. There, not only does Pacy get to see her Chinese relatives, she gets her fortune told, eats varieties of dumplings, and witnesses a special photo shoot. Through her adventures, she learns her true identity and grows closer to those who matter most. Grace Lin’s new novel is full of humorous twists and turns. In many parts, I can relate to Pacy’s feelings. Like Pacy, I am an American-born Chinese, and I am not yet fluent in the language. I have never been to China or Taiwan, though after reading this novel, I am looking forward to going there so that I can learn more about my heritage and Chinese culture. When I read about Pacy’s troubles and worries because she did not know Chinese, I became motivated to learn more Chinese before I go, to ensure that I don’t feel as lost as she did during my stay. My favorite part is when they visit the highest mailbox in the world. It is on the eighty-ninth floor of the Taipei 101 building, and it has three sections: Family, Friend, and Lover. Pacy mails a postcard to her best friend, Melody, who had moved away to California, and places it in the Friends box. When Ki-ki, Pacy’s seven-year-old sister, places her card into the Lover box, everyone taunts, “Who’s your boyfriend?” Ki-ki, however, remains indignant. She replies that she does not have a boyfriend and that she mailed it to herself because she has nobody else to send it to. Thinking about Ki-ki putting that postcard into the Lover section made me crack up. On many pages, there are intricate drawings portraying what is happening in the story. These pictures are very creative, and they give you an idea of how everything looks. My favorite picture is of the four statues portraying the four pleasures of life: yawning, picking your ears, scratching your back, and picking your nose! This shows the Chinese sense of humor. What I learned from Dumpling Days is that winning and competition isn’t everything. In Pacy’s painting classes, there is this mean girl, Audrey. Audrey tries to criticize Pacy in order to bring attention toward herself. This angers Pacy and makes her concentrate on being better than Audrey. Pacy feels frustrated and unhappy. At the art contest on the last day of classes, a girl named Eva wins for their class. This makes Pacy feel slightly crestfallen that she didn’t win, but she is even more regretful about wasting time competing with Audrey when she could have been befriending Eva and enjoying her classes. I found Dumpling Days to be a funny and interesting novel, and I hope it will be for you too. I am looking forward to reading Grace Lin’s other novels, also starring Pacy: Year of the Dog and Year of the Rat. Emily Chen, 10Brookline, Massachusetts
Homecoming
She was as light as a feather and as smooth as a river rock I had marveled at her beauty a dozen times before, but this was different. This time was special. She was sitting in front of me in her temporary plastic container as we drove home. Every little bump made me tense all my muscles. I didn’t want her to get scared. I figured that for someone as fragile and small as her, driving over a tiny pothole would be like an earthquake. She stared up at me with her curious brown eyes and I met her gaze in awe. I had waited months to get her, hours of research and planning. Taking trip after trip to the pet store. It wouldn’t have taken so long, but my dad was always busy at work so it was hard for him to find time to go with me. We had to wait to get her so we could set up her terrarium, what was about to become her new home. As we drove, my heart started picking up speed. I couldn’t wait to show her my house, our house. It was the most unbelievable feeling in the world; finally having her with me. I held my hand over the container at an angle to shield her from the sun. There was no music coming from the radio. No entertaining stories coming from Dad’s mouth. Just silence. But it wasn’t that awkward kind of silence that makes you want to wriggle in your chair. It was that magnificent, magical silence that makes you wish you could freeze time and savor every minute of blissful peace. After what seemed like ages of trying to hold her as still as physically possible, we reached our little suburban house. My dad fumbled with his keys and we went inside. I carried her carefully up the stairs and into the den. As Dad made some final touches to the terrarium, I showed my mom the new addition to our family. She was a beautiful crested gecko, with three toes on each little padded foot and a graceful tail almost the length of her body. She had two rows of spiky ridges that created dramatic eyelashes and then cascaded elegantly down her back. Her scales made an intricate orange pattern and her head looked like an ancient arrowhead, with her spectacular little eyes sitting on each side before coming to a gentle curved point where her nose would be. I could feel the vibrations of her every footstep, and I could almost see her tiny heart race inside her body. She was probably the only one who had even worse butterflies than I did. I pulled off the lid and gently lifted her out. She was as light as a feather and as smooth as a river rock that had been shaped perfectly by Mother Nature’s waters. I set her down cautiously on top of the small log inside the glass terrarium. She just sat there frozen. I noticed that she had turned a very dark, dark brown color. I knew that darker colors usually meant crested geckos were excited or scared. I closed the door to her domain after spraying the inside with warm water from a spray bottle. That way it would be nice and humid like the lush rainforest where she came from. We left her alone for a while so she could adjust to her new environment. When I got downstairs, Dad asked me what I was going to name her. Wow. I hadn’t thought of that. I decided that I wanted to give her a name that was fitting to her heritage. I wanted it to mean something. I knew from all my research that crested geckos live in New Caledonia, a tropical island to the east of Australia. I did some searching on the computer but couldn’t find out how to say lizard in Polynesian. However, I did discover that the Polynesian lizard god is called Moko. “Moko. Moko.” I tested the word out loud. I loved the way it fit so comfortably in my mouth. It was perfect. We had to let Moko rest before we could really start enjoying her company, but I sneaked into the den and checked on her before I went to bed. She had climbed high up on the vine that was suction-cupped onto her back wall. She was exploring and had turned back to her brilliant shade of bright orange. That night, I dreamed that I was with Moko in the rainforest. We were laughing and playing in the canopy of the trees, and just peeking through was the moon and the stars, shining brighter than ever before. I woke with the fluffy feeling of joy and love in my heart, and I knew that Moko and I were going to be happy together for a very, very long time. Haley Cheek, 12Wellesley, Massachusetts Isabella Xie, 11Newton, Massachusetts
Daffodil
A pea-green shoot pokes out of the ground. Through the last sprinkle of snow, It stretches. Straightens. Reaching towards the sky, it whispers, “Spring. Spring. Spring.” It battles the icy wind And the winter-beaten mud. Slowly A bud grows, Rounder, bigger, smoother. One day… Yellow. Finally. Five fairy petals caress the warming air, Surrounding a golden crown. A lone beam of sunshine, Among browns and grays. Head high, It is the herald of spring, Announcing the arrival of sunshine, The birds, and Other daffodils. Madeleine Yi, 12Derwood, Maryland
Logs
The morning the oak tree was cut down was dismal and wet The morning the oak tree was cut down was dismal and wet, clouds drooping under the defeated sky. My breath fogged up the school bus window as I strained my eyes for one last look at the tree’s branches; one last look at the way they stretched towards the weak sunlight. I did not feel particularly sad, as I had expected, but then, what was going to happen had not yet fully registered. It was as though I was going to snap my head up in the middle of next day’s math class and say “What!” about twenty-six hours too late. The town council, as they so bravely called themselves, had come to us months before, demanding that we cut down the “safety hazard” in our front yard. My father, never one to respect authority—especially if they were asking him to destroy something he loved, had laughed in their faces and slammed the door. Thinking that they would give up, we had promptly forgotten about the encounter until presented with their lawyer, who listed the laws we were violating until our eyebrows touched our hair. Knowing they had won, the group of committee members had smugly walked down our walkway, smart skirts and pressed pants rippling in the breeze. I had felt a strong urge to yell something at them, but my father’s footsteps drew my attention. He was walking away, toward the kitchen! To my utter disbelief he had picked up the phone and dialed the local tree service company, arranging an appointment for the “soonest time possible.” My father, who loved that old oak as much as I did, had given up. His great grandmother, when her father had built the house, had planted it. His father had taught him to climb in its dependable arms, and he had taught his daughter, me. But he had given up. And then, so had I. And here I was, being pulled away by a cheerful, yellow bus amid drizzling rain and gray skies, wondering if I would hear the crack! of splitting wood all the way in my science room. Then the realization I had been expecting came, and I knew that I wasn’t going to sit around while my favorite part of the neighborhood was destroyed by paranoid monkeys in dress clothes. I was going to try my best, come what may. “Excuse me?” I asked the bus driver, trying not to look at the rolls of fat that cascaded from her stomach, resting on her legs. “Yeah?” “I was—um—wondering if you would let me out. I forgot something at home. I can have my mother drive me to school after I get it, she’s off work today.” This was a lie, but how was she to know? “Sure, hon, get on out. Don’t be late for school!” With a faint hiss like angry snakes hidden inside the dashboard, the doors opened, and I ran down the rain-darkened steps and onto the road. Even though my house was only a few blocks away, I knew I had to sprint to make it there in time. They were coming to cut the oak down at eight-thirty, in less than five minutes. Panting, I reached the back gate of my yard and yanked it open. Hidden by leaves, I put my foot in the familiar knothole and hoisted myself up into the tree’s branches. They stood, immobile and confident under my feet, while their delicate leaves filtered sunlight like stained glass. I climbed from branch to branch, farther than I had ever dared to climb before, so far up that when I peeked down, the whole town seemed unfolded below me like a giant Monopoly board. Suddenly I felt a little scared, as if I might be doing the wrong thing. But I couldn’t turn back now, could I? The rain had started to come down harder by the time the green truck pulled up into our driveway. Scrawled across the side in mud-brown print was Fitch & Thompson’s Tree Service: Providing Help for Trees for Minimum Fees since 2007. I didn’t really see what there was to brag about, but then I wasn’t in the tree service industry. Three men wearing atrocious orange shirts bearing Fitch & Thompson across the back walked the length of the yard and up onto our front step. Before they could knock on the door it opened, and my father and three committee members walked out. When had they gotten here? One of the men walked over to the base of the oak and started to take notes, while the other two pulled the truck out of the driveway and parked it parallel to the edge of the yard, where their soon-to-be victim gallantly stood. They began to prepare their chainsaws, and I knew it was time to announce my presence. However, I didn’t get the chance. “What are you doing up there?” The man who had been taking notes had evidently looked up, and everyone else followed suit. “I’m passively resisting,” I stated bluntly. “You can’t cut her down now. That would be murder.” I said the last bit triumphantly, directing my words at the people who had condemned my friend to die. They sputtered a bit, and the tree man’s jaw fell open, but my attention was now focused on my father. He had a sad, slightly disappointed look on his face, as if he had expected better of me. “Caroline. Come down, now. This is going to do nothing but disrupt things. You can’t stay here forever, and then they’ll just come back tomorrow.” I hadn’t thought about that in my race to figure out what to do, and suddenly the plan seemed much less ingenious. But I would stand my ground. “No. I’m staying up here.” The rain was pouring by now, sticking my hair to my neck and soaking through my clothes. My teeth chattered of their
Noire
A crow or raven against the black night. A cry from a lone child. A smooth dark rock thrown at you. A dot, sweet, warm, and black on your tongue. A musty smell, revolting at first, sweet afterwards, though too quick to catch. Scented like a black horse. At first sight, A child tattered, crying, and though silent makes the loudest sound. It is a whinny heard in the distance. It’s something or someone you love Who Dies. That’s Negro. Jonah O’Hara David, 10Norman, Oklahoma