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
History Is Worth Preserving
Grandmother Rose seemed to bubble with joy Anna Nakagawa loved going to her grandparents’ house. The house was large, with lots of room inside and out. There was a room full of books, a grand piano, a room with a huge TV, and even a room of her very own, where she stayed every time she came over. And of course her grandparents were wonderful. With her being the only girl grandchild, they treated her like a princess. So once a month she stayed at their house for a day or two. Today was the Monday of spring break. She was going to spend a leisurely week here, doing nothing. There was a small downside to staying with her grandparents. Whenever Anna came over, she had to visit her great-grandmother, Rose. She did love her grandmother, but Anna always felt awkward and uncomfortable around her. It also was kind of depressing to see her now, since she often had medical problems and sometimes forgot things. * * * “We’re here!” Grandma said as they drove into the garage. Anna popped out of the car, grabbed her suitcase, and ran in. “We should visit Grandmother Rose before lunch,” Grandma suggested, after Anna was settled. “Do we have to go right now?” asked Anna, wanting to relax and read. “Anna, there will be plenty of time to relax later. Besides, Grandmother Rose just moved to a new nursing home. It would really cheer her up if you visited her.” “Oh, all right,” Anna sighed. She grabbed the first book in her suitcase and headed back out the door. Anna glanced at the book she brought as they drove to the nursing home. The book was called A Brief History of World War II. Anna had already started it, and it was very interesting. There were tales of bravery in Europe, in Africa, in the Pacific, and even in America. Stories of prisoners of war, submarine captains, army nurses, air force captains, Jewish refugees, and patriotic children on the home front all were in this book. “Here we are!” Grandma said, interrupting her thoughts. The nursing home was big and open. Anna and Grandma signed their names in the guest book and then hurried down halls filled with nurses, elderly people, and guests. They stopped in front of room 302, which had a sign that said EMILY ROSE SEO in gold letters. Grandma knocked on the door. “Come in,” said a frail, yet loud and confident voice. Inside, Grandmother Rose was sitting at the kitchen table, eating grapes and doing a puzzle of a cat by a pond. “Hello, Anna dear! Hello, Mary! How are you two today? Sit down! Would you like some grapes? Or perhaps some water?” Grandmother Rose seemed to bubble with joy. “I’ll have a few grapes,” Anna meekly responded, sitting down on a rocking chair by a closet and a bed. She set her book on a small side table. Grandma sat down at the kitchen table. “That’s a nice puzzle, Rose. Where did you get it?” Grandma asked. “My sister Louisa sent it. We used to do puzzles together when I was little.” There were a few moments of silence while Grandmother Rose worked on the puzzle and Grandma checked the small refrigerator. Finally, Grandma spoke. “Why don’t you two stay here while I talk to the nurse about your medication.” An odd silence followed as both women looked at the girl, waiting for an answer. “All right,” Anna finally responded. Grandma knew Anna was very uncomfortable, but she thought leaving the two alone would do them good. * * * After Grandma left, Anna walked over to the tall bookcase, lined with photos, postcards, trinkets, maps, ancient books, and a quaint collection of spoons. Anna looked at them all, but she was especially drawn to one black-and-white photo. The photo was of a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, with a cheerful expression, but you could see that she was tired and worn out. Her eyes were dark with a sort of mysterious air, but the happy expression overpowered them. She had very curly black hair and wore a long coat with a skirt that barely stuck out underneath. The girl had large boots on, which was fitting since the ground looked very muddy, and she stood next to a long, shed-like building. The background resembled some sort of farm. The photo was turning brown with age, and the frame looked as old as the photo. “Yes, that’s me, when I was twelve years old” Anna studied the photo a long time and then asked, “Is that you?” Rose smiled. “Yes, that’s me, when I was twelve years old.” “Are you at a farm or something?” “No, that’s at Camp Minidoka.” “Where’s that?” “Minidoka was one of the camps where they interned Japanese Americans. It’s in Idaho.” “Oh.” Anna really had no idea what she was talking about, but she kept quiet. After a few quiet minutes she asked, “Why were you there?” “Do you mean you’ve never heard of the internment of the Japanese Americans during World War II? Isn’t it even mentioned in that book you have?” “Oh yeah, once my mom told me you went to some prison camp.” “Well, would you like to hear about it?” “Uh, sure, I guess.” “Well, Anna, it’s a long story. My father was a Nisei, but my mother was an Issei. They met in Portland, married in Portland, and settled in Portland.” “What’s a Nee-say, and what’s an Eesay?” Anna asked, curiously. “An Issei is someone who was born in Japan but has immigrated to America. A Nisei is the child of an Issei, an American citizen. We were pretty well-to-do. Nisei were generally treated better than Issei, since they were thought to be more ‘American.’ Issei weren’t able to become citizens or own land, so even though my mom had come to America at age four, she did not have very many rights. Still, we
Hidden Pools
My shoes trudge up the path, caked with gooey mud. My shirt sticks to my body, and my hair clings to my flushed face. The winding path steeply curves on and on, taunting my burning muscles. My eyelids droop, as my legs become more and more mechanical, moving up and down with no real motivation. I snag a strawberry guava off a tree and stuff it in my mouth to suppress the gnawing in my stomach. Ginger, our dog, runs off ahead through the wilderness. My dad climbs next to me, panting heavily. “If the path doesn’t start curving down to the left soon, we’re going to have to turn back,” he says, exhaustion creeping at the edge of his voice. I knew he was right. If we didn’t see the pools of this hike soon, we were either lost or on the wrong path. I couldn’t believe that we had hiked all this way for nothing. Ginger runs toward us, sweat dripping off her tongue and creating miniature pools below her. I grab a drink of water from my dad’s pack and we continue on. “Let’s turn back in five minutes,” he sighs. “Sure,” I say, disappointed that even my dad has pretty much given up. One… Two… Three… Four… The minutes tick by, until I reluctantly decide that five minutes has come and gone. Even so, I wait for my dad to voice his affirmation that we will have to turn back. As we round another bend in the trail, the path goes out of sight. “Did the trail end?” I wonder aloud “Did the trail end?” I wonder aloud. I tentatively take another step, gazing ahead. I break into a grin as I see—finally— that we are on the right path. The trail descends steeply into the valley, plunging into a forest of strawberry guava trees, mossy rocks, and ferns. I stumble down the rocky path in a delirious anticipation of the thirty-two miles of pools we came all this way to see. “Whooooohoooo!” I scream when I reach a pool and jump into the water. The achingly cold water chills my bones. I laugh as my dad comes in and Ginger does a belly flop. I gaze up at the sky as a fleck of rain hits my head. When I feel more drops come down, I can’t help but wonder how close we came to turning back. I thank my lucky stars, because I know I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Risa Askerooth, 12Mililani, Hawaii Amy Yu, 12San Diego, California
Morphing into Monsters
A silver van pulls up the desert driveway From sliding doors Spill three cousins Holding teddy bears and swords Lonely fields are filled once more Screams and hollers absorb the sun-baked summer air We stumble together, reminding each other of our game Played only near the overgrown grass And where Christmas trees grow during summer MONSTER TAG. Skip through the bushes Or near the woods And find a place where none can see If tagged You’re it! The new monster, searching for its prey Adults cry, “Be careful,” as we prance off Their words are meaningless in our ears Drifting up with the subtle breeze We disperse Each racing around the house’s corner Looming fingers creep up the gray walls Peering through the bushes, I glance across the fields of green The monster’s footsteps slow A lion before the deathly pounce Grass bowing beneath its feet Paw by paw, step by step Nervous excitement builds up inside me Where to run? Where to hide? The bush embracing me with its prickly Yet protective branches I duck out from under my shield The chase begins. Candace Huntington, 13Boston, Massachusetts
Yosemite Grasslands
“Isn’t this beautiful?” “It’s your turn, Quasar.” I was shaken out of my self-induced funk by the lively sound of my mom’s voice. “Huh?” “Come on,” said my dad. “Is the correct definition of cupidity a) unconditional and unbiased love, b) a type of Italian sausage, or c) greed?” “Uh… A,” I mumbled. “Nope,” said Dad. “It’s greed. Your mom wins the Dictionary Game again.” “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not really in the mood.” “But Quasar,” said Mom, “it’s Family Fun Friday. You’re really missing out on all the fun! Do you want to play Scrabble instead?” “Do you think we could maybe… watch a movie?” I suggested tentatively. “That’s a great idea, Quasar,” said Dad. “There’s a Nova on string theory at nine!” “Ugh, never mind,” I said. “I’m going to go read.” “Good idea,” said my mom. “Here’s that O. Henry book of short stories. ‘While the Auto Waits’ is a great one.” “Forget it,” I mumbled. “I’m off to bed.” Forget self-induced funk, this is seriously parent-induced. I’ve heard all of their rationales about how lucky I am not to have annoying siblings to deal with, but a sibling is also a partner in life. The solitude can be peaceful and relaxing, but sometimes I gaze out the window and wish I had someone to share the burden of overly intellectual parents. While lying alone, sleepless in the dark, I long for a companion to talk to, someone to think of quirky nicknames with that aren’t related in any way to something scientific, someone to reassure me when I’m scared, instead of my father launching into a monotonous explanation about the physical impossibilities of the boogeyman. So while I nod along to my mother’s rendition of an Eagles’ song from her youth, my heart is aching for a kindred spirit. Luckily for me, my entire grade is about to embark on the long-anticipated trip to Yosemite. For those precious two days, I will have sisters. * * * As I walked towards the bus, sleeping bag in hand, my parents waved goodbye. “We’ll tape all the Novas for you,” said my mom. “We won’t play Scrabble until you’re back!” my dad called. “And if you get bored,” my mom reassured me, “you can read The Grapes of Wrath. I packed it for you.” “Yeah, right,” I muttered, and stuffed the book in the trash before we boarded the bus. By the time we arrived in Yosemite though, my wide grin had slowly morphed into a grimace of disgust. Sitting in the overcrowded bus, I had closed my eyes and attempted to block out all surrounding stimuli, but alas, no such luck. My life for those two hours was a mix of shouts, farts, and the occasional sob of homesickness. I had gritted my teeth together, though not too hard because it erodes enamel, and waited, like a last-minute stowaway on an overcrowded ship to America, for us to reach our idyllic destination. To my horror, the famous, lush green grasses of Yosemite were brittle, bleached by the sun’s harsh rays. Near our campsite, it was a dry savanna, much different from the green, semi-coniferous forest advertised in the glossy brochures I had read before coming. I would have to file a complaint for false advertising. We were then herded out of the bus like flocks of sheep to our respective cabins and left alone to “get organized.” Still determined to have a good time, I was about to ask my cabinmates to join me in a game of Guess That Historical Figure, but they were too busy fighting over the largest bed in the room. “I call dibs,” said Gretchen triumphantly, waving her hand above her head like she had won an Olympic gold medal instead of a sagging, decrepit mattress with rusted springs and chipped paint. “That’s not fair,” snapped Allie. “The big one should go to whoever shares a bed, and I’m not sharing.” “Well then, I’m not either,” sniffed Gretchen. Still clinging to my earlier optimism, I chirped to Niota, “Well, I guess we can share.” During the afternoon meeting, the camp leader smiled disingenuously at us, gushing about how overjoyed she was to be introducing us to this “beautiful wonder of nature,” while covertly wiping her hands on her olive-green jacket after accidentally touching a child’s hand. Despite her discomfort with us, she was right. As we had ventured more deeply into Yosemite to the community center, I marveled at the juxtaposition of the evergreens’ prickly needles against the impressive granite mountains and brilliantly blue sky, pondering how such images and textures had inspired poetry and art. “Anyone want to play a game or tell a ghost story?” I asked shyly after we were all bundled up in our beds with the same bored, oh-my-god-how-am-I-gonna-survive-here-for-another-day expressions. “No,” said Allie, and everyone turned over and went to sleep. The next day I woke up freezing. “Why is it so cold?” I asked, shivering. “Because someone,” said Gretchen, glaring at Allie, “forgot to turn on the heater.” “Well, at least I don’t snore,” retorted Allie. I groaned. This was going to be a really long day. On the hike, I paused to admire a gorgeous flower, its pale pink petals sprinkled with specks of golden pollen. “Isn’t this beautiful?” I said to Niota. “Eww!” she shouted, face scrunched up into a disgusted expression. “I’m allergic,” she said, then sneezed dramatically. “Do you know what this is called?” I inquired of our hiking leader. “Look, kid,” Jay said, “I’m just here because I want a car, and this is the only job I’m qualified for. So shut up and walk.” I stared at him indignantly. Apparently, I was the only one appreciating Yosemite’s stunning flora. At lunch, we chewed eagerly on our cheese sandwiches and carrot sticks. Perhaps regretting his previous surliness, Jay brought brownies to us but then resumed playing Angry Birds on his iPhone. Afterwards we trekked up another trail, enjoying the chirps
Steve Jobs
Steve Jobs, by Walter Isaacson; Simon & Schuster: New York, 2011; $35 Almost everybody uses Apple products these days: the iPad, iPod, iPhone, iMac, etc. But do you know who the driving force behind these great inventions was? Steve Jobs! I am fascinated with technology and want to accomplish great things too when I grow up, so I decided to read Steve Jobs, a biography by Walter Isaacson. Reading this book allowed me to take a look into Jobs’s flamboyant and complex personality that was so critical for his successes and failures. I suggest you read it too. Steve Jobs was adopted shortly after birth. In school, Jobs was a restless and precocious child. He dropped out of college and took a religious trip to India in his twenties. Shortly after he returned, he and his friend Steve Wozniak worked on a computer project that led to the founding of Apple Inc. That’s when his career took off. Jobs resigned from Apple in the late ’80s because of a power struggle with the then CEO, John Sculley. He went on to establish the NeXT company and Pixar. Jobs went back to Apple as CEO in the late ’90s. His biggest projects before he died in October 2011 were the iPod, iPhone, and iPad. Steve Jobs is a captivating book with plenty of interesting anecdotes. I did not know that Jobs was a vegetarian and once ate apples, only apples, for one week straight. A person would have to be extremely disciplined to just eat one thing for a long time. I found the strict eating habits of Jobs particularly puzzling because the same discipline was not shown at work—he could rarely refrain from shouting at his employees. Jobs didn’t like people who were different from him; many ideas were probably rejected because of who proposed them. I find that when I am in a team, we are more productive when everyone listens to each other. If Jobs had been more open-minded and receptive to others, Apple could be even greater. Steve Jobs was hardworking and dedicated. The large amount of time he spent working really benefited his company. But he overworked himself and sacrificed his health. Another price he paid was very little time with his family. Due to his focus on work and his aloof personality, he and his daughter Lisa did not begin to bond until she was about nine. He was also never very close to his other two daughters, Erin and Eve, although he was quite fond of his son, Reed. I find it sad for a great entrepreneur to not have an intimate relationship with his own children. Steve Jobs must have thought about this too. When Isaacson asked Jobs his motives for a biography, he said he wanted it to be something his children could use to know him better. I feel Jobs wanted this to be his second chance, a way to make up for all those times he wasn’t there for his children. I placed myself in Jobs’s shoes and thought, What would I have done? I decided that, although I would be just as dedicated to my work, I would also reserve time to bond with my family and relax a bit. I would play with my kids and leave them with happy childhood memories instead of a biography. I loved the way the author told Jobs’s story with so many actual comments from Jobs’s friends and family, co-workers, and enemies. After I read this book, I had a better understanding of Steve Jobs, not just as a great innovator but also as a human being. I learned a few lessons about life and work, and the importance and complexity of human relationships. Richard Ma, 10Kirksville, Missouri
Let It Be
Nothing would ever be the same Kate had floated in and out of consciousness for days after the accident. She would occasionally wake to hear her parents conversing nervously with the hospital doctors. The voices were hushed, the tones grave. Kate dreamt of car crashes over and over again. She repeatedly saw the impact of the SUV smashing into her side of the car, and she remembered everything going black. Over and over she had the car dream, and she would scream, but no one could hear her. There was nothing she could do to keep from being hit. After days of drifting in and out of consciousness, Kate finally awoke. She strained her vocal chords, calling for someone, anyone. Her mother was right by her side, stroking her forehead, whispering kind words. “Mom,” Kate struggled to smile. “Oh, Kate, I knew you would make it, I knew you would!” Kate’s mother tenderly hugged her daughter. “Am I going to be OK, Mom? Is anything broken?” Kate’s mother, Denise, sniffled. “Honey, I… I have to call your dad. I’ll be right back.” “Mom, wait! You didn’t answer…” It was too late. Denise was gone. * * * Denise hurried outside and got in her car. She didn’t start it; she just sat there and stared at the rain rolling down the car’s windshield. Denise started to sob, and her hands shook as she dialed her home phone number. Her husband was probably asleep, since he had spent nearly the whole night at Kate’s bedside. Denise listened as the phone rang once, twice, three times— “Hello?” “Oh, David, thank God.” “Is everything all right? Denise? What’s the matter, honey?” “Kate woke up.” “Dear, that’s marvelous! I’ll be there right away. Why are you crying? Is something wrong?” “I can’t tell her, David. She’ll be crushed when she finds out her arm was amputated. Her life will never be the same. Kate asked me if she was all right, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her… especially after she had just woken up.” “I’ll be right there.” * * * Kate was horrified after she heard how upset her mother was. Was something wrong with her? Sure, she felt like she had just been crushed by a tractor-trailer, but that was to be expected. Kate tried to sit up so she could take stock of her surroundings and look at herself, but she didn’t have the strength to do it. Trying to hold back her tears of fear, Kate waited for her mother to return. Kate’s parents finally came in, accompanied by a nurse and a doctor. The adults looked somber, and Kate’s mom had obviously been crying. “Katelyn…” The doctor checked something on a clipboard he had with him. “Kate,” she corrected. Kate hated being called by her full name, as it sounded much too formal for a fun-loving girl like her. “Kate.” The doctor cleared his throat. “You were in quite an accident. You seem to be a fighter, but there was some permanent damage done.” Kate sucked in her breath nervously. “What’s wrong with me?” “Your left arm suffered some horrible damage during the crash. Glass penetrated your arm deeply, and you were bleeding badly. The only way to save you was to amputate your arm at the elbow.” Kate suddenly felt nauseated and dizzy. It couldn’t be true, could it? She’d never be able to do the simplest tasks like put on a shirt or pick up a large object. Kate would be an outcast, a weirdo, for the rest of her life. Nothing would ever be the same. * * * After an extended stay in the hospital, Kate was allowed to go home. Although she was glad to be home, Kate felt like she was drowning in a huge ocean with no way out. Nothing seemed fun anymore, and there was no reason to be happy. Some people said she was suffering from depression; others said she was just in shock and would eventually get over it. Kate felt like she couldn’t do anything for herself and that she was a baby again. Her mother had to help her dress, which humiliated poor Kate to tears. Fortunately, it was summer so Kate didn’t have to be seen by her peers. She rarely left the house for fear people would see her and stare. Kate felt like a freak, and she would have given anything to change what happened the night of the accident. One dull day much like the rest, Denise entered Kate’s room to find her trying to make a friendship bracelet from a collection of colorful strings. Kate was failing miserably at making the bracelet onehanded, and she was starting to become very agitated at finding that she couldn’t do something she enjoyed. “Why don’t you take a break, Kate?” Denise sat on the floor next to her daughter, brushing Kate’s hair away from her face. “Go for a walk, and get some fresh air. I don’t think being cooped up in this house is good for you.” “I don’t want to,” Kate mumbled sullenly. Her mother knew she didn’t like leaving the house, so why was she making her? “It’ll be good for you, Kate. Just walk around the block. It’ll calm you down. Please, honey? Do it for me.” Kate groaned when she realized she didn’t have a choice in the matter. She stood and said, “I’ll go around the block. Once. Then I’m coming in.” Kate left the house, turning left. Her sneakers crunched the gravel, and she realized she enjoyed the scent of the fresh air. Although dark rain clouds obscured the sky, Kate cherished the smell of the rain that was to come. Soon Kate found herself taking a long route around the neighborhood. She was about to turn around and come home when the heavens opened up and rain poured forth. The wind whipped the rain against Kate’s face, which she tried to shield with
