“Hi Lucy. Remember me?” Josh stared at the rows of cages. They were everywhere. Dogs barked and cats yowled, and Josh watched dismally as his mother drove away. He was at the local animal shelter because his mother signed him up for volunteering without his consent. Now here he was, standing hopelessly in the shelter, with no idea what to do. He hated animals, ever since his aunt’s German shepherd, Lucy, bit his hand. He cried the whole way to surgery, mostly because he thought he lost Lucy’s love. His grandmother gave away Lucy soon after that. That was when he was five. Now here he was, seven years later, near dogs of many different shapes, sizes, and breeds. There were nervous, shaking Chihuahuas, bumbling, joyous golden retrievers, and intuitive border collies, picking diligently at the locks to their cages with their teeth, hoping to open them and run around. Then there were the cats. Josh never liked cats. He thought they were lazy, coy, and boring. They never did anything. And the cats at the animal shelter were even worse in his opinion. They expected everything to be handed to them. He gritted his teeth. He would try his hardest to convince his mother to let him quit. “Hi! You must the new volunteer! I am Lindsay!” Josh turned and saw a tall woman approaching him. She sounds so excited about everything, he thought to himself. He hoped he would not end up like her while volunteering at the animal shelter. Oh, how he wished he could be home and play his guitar. Playing guitar was his only hobby. His grandfather had taught him to play and even gave him his old guitar. After school, Josh would go to his room, and he would play a song and practice it so he could play for his grandfather. He shuffled his feet, like a naughty schoolboy. “Hi,” he mumbled back. He was extremely shy, and her presence was overbearing. He hoped he would leave soon. “Have you ever worked with animals before?” Lindsay inquired. A rising hope bubbled inside him. He had not! Maybe they would kick him out! “No,” he said in a dull voice. She would not need to know he did not want to be here. “That is all right, you can start with the older animals. They do not need any experience to be helped and loved! Great! I will send you right over!” Oh no! Josh thought. His mind panicked. The clockwork in his brain started to dysfunction. He felt warm. “OK,” he murmured, “where is it?” “It is on the second floor. I will help you find your way.” She guided him and together they went upstairs. Lindsay opened the door to a small room. Inside the room was a German shepherd bearing a striking resemblance to Lucy, looking dejected and abandoned. “Here’s the perfect dog for you!” Lindsay exclaimed. “She is very sweet, and a favorite among the TLCC: the Tender Loving Care Crew! And you are its newest member! Strangely, you are the first twelve-year-old to join TLCC. You must really love animals.” She turned to leave, but Josh suddenly spoke up. “Wait! What is this dog’s name?” he asked. “Lucy. She has been here for seven years. Some old lady brought her in saying she bit her grandson. I cannot see why, though. She is a sweet old dog.” Josh felt his heart twinge with guilt. It was his fault she was in here. “I will leave to let you two get acquainted. See you in an hour.” Lindsay left, as swiftly as a fall breeze. Josh looked at Lucy. He sat down, carefully scared of her next move. To his surprise she lay down next to him and put her head in his lap. She looked at him with large eyes. He gently petted her head. “Hi Lucy. Remember me?” She looked up at him and sniffed. She jumped up and for a moment Josh was scared, but she moved forward so suddenly he could not move and just waited for the pain of her gargantuan jaws. But instead of pain, he felt a warm tongue licking his face. He laughed. He spent the rest of the time playing fetch with Lucy, until Lindsay came back. “Looks like you two had fun,” she said. “Maybe you can stay for a few more minutes.” “OK!” Josh turned back to Lucy. “One more throw, OK Lucy?” She wagged her tail. He threw the ball as far as he could inside her room. She caught the ball in midair with her powerful jaws. He laughed, and then petted her head. “OK Lucy, I have to go, but I will be back tomorrow,” he said. “I will bring my guitar and you can sing along.” Lucy barked and wagged her tail. He laughed. “All right. Bye Lucy, bye Lindsay.” Josh left the building and waited for his mother. * * * The next day, Josh rushed home, grabbed his guitar, and (since his mother could not take him) walked to the shelter. He spent three hours playing his guitar for Lucy. When he was about to leave, Lindsay approached him. “I heard you playing guitar. You were great! Maybe you could play for all the animals tomorrow. They might like the music. I know Lucy did.” “All right.” Josh bent down and tied his shoelace. “See you tomorrow?” “Actually, no, tomorrow is my day off.” “Oh. Oh well, see you around, I guess.” Josh left the building and called his mom. “Could you please pick me up from the shelter? Oh really? Cool! Thanks!” He waited for his mom, and left. * * * The next few days he spent in the shelter. Until one day, he saw Lindsay crying. “What is the matter?” Josh queried. “They are taking Lucy to be euthanized tomorrow! She is too old to be adopted by someone; no one is interested in old dogs, they want puppies!
My Mother’s Little Girl
Suddenly an image of my mother as a young girl flashed through my head My mother always wanted a little girl. One who would wear frilly pink dresses and bows and barrettes in her hair and would play with dolls and have tea parties with china and have perfect manners and would take ballet and would grow up to marry a fine young gentleman and then have some more lovely children. But she got me. At first, when it was announced that I was a girl, she cried with joy. She fitted me with lacy baby dresses and gave me all the dolls a girl would hope for and adorned me with hair accessories. But her happiness didn’t last long. I absolutely detested dresses, and I threw a humongous fit when I was forced to wear them. I yanked bows out of my hair and threw them across the room. Once I even swallowed a barrette. By the time we had gotten to the emergency room, it had already ended up in my dirty diaper. When she gave me dolls to play with, I pulled off their heads and stomped on them. When she tried to put the pink booties that Grandma had sent me on my feet, I screamed and tried to chew on them. More than ponies with manes that I could braid, I enjoyed my older brother’s action figures. I would pretend they were invading the dolls’ planet and taking it over. That was one of my favorite games. As I grew up, I didn’t become any less stubborn. My mother wanted to grow out my long brown hair so that she could put it in a French braid, but I hated it because it got in my eyes and interfered with sports, and it tangled easily. When my mother refused to let me cut it, I became angry, so I took a pair of flimsy stationery scissors and snipped it off myself. It was jagged and cut close to the neck, and I knew it looked awful, but I liked it because it was much more manageable. When my mother saw it she clutched her heart and whispered, “Oh, Angel, what have you done?” And that’s another thing that I hate: when my mother calls me Angel. My real name is Angelica, but I think that sounds terrible. If my mother had known what I would really be like when I was born, she would have named me something much more practical, but she didn’t know. So now I’m stuck with a name like Angelica. Whenever anyone asks what my name is, I tell them that I’m Angie. It’s not great, but heck knows it’s better than Angelica or Angel. On the day before school picture day, my mother went out and bought me a skirt without telling me. It was knee-length and billowed out when you spun around. It was made of brown fabric with pink roses all over it, and it had a little lace bow on the waist. I hated it upon sight, and I refused to wear it. My mother became very upset. When she’s mad, worried, or stressed, she straightens her dress over and over and over and fixes her bun again and again, even when there’s not a strand out of line. She did this when I wouldn’t wear the skirt. “But Angel, it looks so dear on you,” she said, hopelessly trying to explain to me why I should wear it. “And what’s so wrong with it? I think it’s perfectly charming.” She reached out to stroke my pixie cut, but I ducked away. “It’s ugly,” I told her. “I won’t wear it. And don’t call me Angel!” “Don’t be unreasonable,” my mother said. “You will wear it and that is that.” I knew enough not to argue with her, but I wasn’t going to be seen in school with that on either. So I went to school early on school picture day and slipped into the school. In the girls’ locker room, I changed into my gym clothes, something I knew my mother would never approve of. Sure enough, when the pictures arrived and she saw me dressed in sports shorts and a T-shirt, she totally freaked. She gave me a lecture on responsibility, though I have no idea what that has to do with changing clothes, and then sent me to my room. She always sends photos to Grandma and my aunts and uncles, but she couldn’t do it with those photos. So she arranged a photo shoot with a real photographer and made sure that this time I couldn’t weasel out of it. But I pretended to come down with a fever, and we had to postpone. My mother never got around to rescheduling the shoot. * * * Now it was an hour before my first middle-school dance, and I was picking out what to wear. Of course, my mother was by my side, criticizing my choices. I pulled out a pair of light capris from my dresser and held them up for inspection. My mother shook her head and said, “Oh, Angel, you really can’t think of wearing that, can you?” “Why not?” I asked flatly, not really wanting an answer. “Girls should look nice at dances,” my mother argued, taking a flowery, lacy skirt from the very darkest depths of my drawer where I kept all the clothes I swore never to wear. She smiled and shoved it into my arms. “This will look just lovely with your thin complexion.” Stung at the comment about my complexion, though I knew she was oblivious to its harm, and even more disgusted with her choice of clothes, I shoved it back. “No thanks, I’d rather have something more practical.” I put the capris on top of my dresser and then started looking for a shirt. After some browsing, I chose a dark green T-shirt with a picture of a palm tree on it. “But
Fall Night
I gaze at the fall night sky I lie down in the cold grass Close my eyes Breathing slowly I imagine I am a falling leaf I float in twirl in the slow breeze I open my eyes stand up I look Around and all I see are bare Trees and fallen leaves I lie back down and stare at the Fall night sky Elizabeth R. Herndon, 10Paradise, California
Tranquility Reservoir
I gaze at the distant sun reflecting on the lake. I see the loon dipping in and out of the reservoir. Then I see a small ripple in the remote waters. That strikes a vague memory of the days when my brother and I caught frogs in a nearby pond. There are frogs in my memory, jumping, creating small splashes in the water. Now, I dip my foot into the frigid water. When my whole foot submerges, the lake feels warm. It is like there is a blanket on the top of the water to protect it from the bitterness of the outside air. The sereneness of the lake calms me. When I am tired or need a break, this cozy spot on the water’s edge, where the limb of the tree above curls, unwinds me. I settle myself on the decayed moss where mushrooms grow alongside me. Then a crow perches on the bough above me and makes rain sprinkle on my shivering body. The sudden rain drenches me. I can smell the mildew and wet grass when I go to this setting. I can hear the echo of the crow calling to his fellow feathered friends. I can envision the dam across the lake. It strikes the rocks like powerful hail thrashing the ground. I know I will cherish this place my whole life My body shivers in the cold. The shallow water grass blows in the gust of wind, causing the waves to collide into the rocks and on the shore. I can see a sailboat in the distance. The sailor seems as if he is having trouble controlling both the tiller and mainsheet. Gradually, he gains power of the boat as the gust of wind starts to diminish. Now, as I stand up from this home of mine and look around, I get a feeling that there is a vacant spot overlooking the elegant lake. It is independent from all other regions that are in my eyesight. That is why it makes me feel at home. It stands out of the blue and that is how I know it is my place where I can be passive and ponder my thoughts. Now when I am stressed or overwhelmed and need to find a way to relax, I put myself back at that place, my spot on the water’s edge. I know I will cherish this place my whole life. Billy Liptrot, 13Boxford, Massachusetts Victoria D’Ascenzo, 11Lincoln University, Pennsylvania
Adrin’s Chase
“What do you say, Adrin? Do we have a deal?” Storm-tossed waves broke like a thousand glass shards against the craggy black rocks at the base of the cliff. A sleeping girl, curled among the long grasses, didn’t hear the storm. She was in the midst of a nightmare, tossing and turning. Suddenly, a clap of thunder pierced the night and the girl woke up, breathing heavily. She looked around, although it was impossible to see anything. The moon was hidden behind dark storm clouds that refused to shed any rain. The girl stood up, a wild, yet frightened, look in her eyes. She knew what the storm meant: Beta, along with the others in the wolf clan, was calling her, and they weren’t happy. The girl broke into a run. She ran away from the crashing waves and the inky sea. She ran through the tall grasses and thorns of the rose hips, never stopping or slowing to catch her breath. Her brown tunic was pressed against her body as the winds whipped her black hair, violently, out of its tight braid. Lightning flashed and thunder exploded, constantly keeping the sky filled with noise. Finally, the girl reached a sand dune that was hidden in beach grasses. Another jagged streak of lightning lit the sky just long enough for the girl to catch a glimpse of the worn wooden door carved with the ancient language of the wolves. This was the entrance to Beta’s lair. She waved her hand over the door, mumbling a strange incantation. The next thing she knew, she had the sensation of being squeezed though a tight tube before landing unsteadily on her feet inside the warren. The candles cast ominous shadows onto the floor of sand. Here and there were the occasional carcasses of unlucky animals or a seashell or two. Standing in the middle of the den was a great shaggy wolf with a chunk of fur and flesh missing from his left ear. He had glowing yellow eyes and sharpened teeth. The wolf started to pace in a circle around the girl. “Where is it?” growled Beta in a raspy voice. “I don’t have it, whatever you are looking for,” the girl said, refusing to be intimidated by this ferocious animal. “Do you dare take me for a fool?” growled Beta, baring his teeth, and his hackles rose. The girl was tempted to say yes, but she knew Beta wasn’t one for humor. He was twice the size of the girl and could spring at any moment, tearing the girl apart. “I don’t have it,” the girl repeated. Beta’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me, Adrin. Remember what happened to your father?” Adrin broke her gaze from Beta’s. Her eyes grew wide at the memory of how her father had lied to the wolves, just to protect Adrin. She thought back to how the wolves had forced her father out of their hut and started to fight him. Adrin remembered her father battling the clan of wolves, but to no avail. She remembered how the wolves sprung at her father, killing him in one leap. Adrin recalled how the wolves pitched her father’s limp body off the edge of the cliff and into the dark sea below. Adrin blinked out of her trance and continued to glare at Beta. “Tell me what you seek and you shall have it in eight days time.” Adrin tried to keep her voice from shaking. Beta sat down and contemplated the offer. “Hmm. The orphaned daughter of my enemy, go and retrieve the lost owl diadem that belonged to every sorcerer and sorceress that ever existed. If she fails, then I’ll take her life. Dangerous, life threatening,” Beta paused and grinned a wicked grin at Adrin, “just what I like. What do you say, Adrin? Do we have a deal?” Adrin swallowed and wiped her sweaty palms against her leggings. Her father wouldn’t have liked her to work with his enemy. Adrin was fearful for her life. She took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “Agreed. Eight days by midnight, no later. It’s a deal.” Adrin shook the paw of power-hungry Beta. “See you then, my dear,” said Beta as he disappeared in a whirlwind of sand. Arden Bastia, 13Warwick, Rhode Island Alondra Paredes, 13Bentonville, Arkansas
Mission Beach
There is one thing that always completes my summer. Mission Beach. Every August, my family either takes the eight-hour drive or the one-hour flight down to San Diego, where my mom grew up. My grandpa lives in a small complex called Stonecrest, and about a ten-minute drive away is Mission Beach, my favorite beach in the whole world. My mom’s best friend, Auntie Julia, brings down her entire huge family from Piedmont, California, and Chicago, Illinois, and she rents the same old enormous beach house located directly on Mission Beach. It’s 10:04 am, according to my sister’s watch. Dad is driving the car, singing along to Bob Dylan blasting on the radio. Mom is on the phone with Auntie Julia (occasionally making furious gestures to Dad to bring down the volume), and my sister Anna is announcing the time every four minutes. I finger my bright blue summer dress that I bought from The Gap this past July. All the windows of our minivan are rolled down, air-conditioning is on full blast, and we are off to the beach. I think this is the best way to end my summer. Dad hasn’t even parked or turned off the car when Anna and I unbuckle and explode out of the car. The cool salty breeze tickles my nose and tugs at my hair as a smile breaks on my face. The hot sun beats down as we quickly unpack the trunk and trudge down the alley to the big familiar brown house. The four of us climb the brick wall. Mom helps me up and I can see the sparkling blue ocean that never fails to amaze me. Kate and Anna wave to us as we wade out of the water “Natalie! Anna!” A little girl, who is around eight, runs over and gives me a huge hug. “Mommy, they’re here!” “OK, I’m coming!” Auntie Julia rushes over, her spiky brown hair damp, and she has on a cute black dress. Of course, she isn’t really my aunt. But our families are so close that it is hard not to refer to each other as family. Julia smiles and embraces my mom in a giant hug, and then my dad. “Welcome back, guys! Everyone’s out on the beach.” We follow Julia onto the front porch of the house that faces the bluer-than-blue ocean. There isn’t a cloud above in the sky, and tanned teenagers are tossing around a volleyball in the sand across the boardwalk. “Natalie!” I spin around to see a cute blond girl, freckles sprinkled across her nose, her hair glowing strawberry blond in the sun. I smile. “Ellie!” We share a hug. She is a year younger than me and we first bonded a few years ago over our love of reading and books. Ellie is Julia’s niece. Her mom is Beth, who has two older boys, also: Chase, age fourteen, and Josh, age sixteen Kate tugs my hand. “Let’s go to the beach, c’mon!” I grin and glance over my shoulder at Julia, Mom, and Dad. Mom takes my bag, smiling, “Go on!” It’s a tradition. Ellie, Anna, Kate, and I race across the sand and see who can get to the water first. We grip hands as we check up and down the boardwalk to make sure there are no bikers or pedestrians coming, then we sprint across the asphalt and scramble over the three-foot concrete wall. I kick off my flip-flops and my feet sink into the warm sand. I can already feel my shoulders starting to get sunburned as Kate yells, “GO!” We take off, trying to pick up our feet as much as possible so we don’t get burned. Running through the sand is hard! It’s really different from running over hard, solid ground. If you let your weight sink into your feet for more than two seconds, it’s like sprinting through molasses. We pass a volleyball game as Kate and Anna start falling behind. Now it is me versus Ellie. We flash mock-competitive looks at each other. I look down to see the sand growing darker and firmer, meaning it’s wet and we are getting close to water. I could feel the balls of my feet throbbing. Ellie’s face is red and she pants. I pump my sore legs faster, now able to run normally because the wet sand is more dense and packed tighter. Ellie and I splash into the refreshingly ice-cold ocean at the same time. We laugh, gasping and panting, as the waves lap at our knees. The hem of my dress brushes a passing wave, but it feels good. Kate and Anna wave to us as we wade out of the water. They stand at the top of a sandy hill. Ellie and I start towards them, when a bucket of freezing water hits my back; Ellie and I scream. We whirl around to see Chase and Josh holding two pails of ocean water, kneeling in laughter. With our entire backsides drenched, Ellie and I have found new energy even after the long sprint down to the water as we pursue Chase and Josh into the ocean. A wave rolls up and splashes around my ankles as I tilt my head toward the turquoise sky and I realize my summer can’t get any better than this. Natalie Bettendorf, 13Berkeley, California Emily Considine, 13Half Moon Bay, California
Missing
I never knew that I could be so worried about my brother Little brothers are so annoying. Sure, you usually care about them when they’re hurt or crying or something like that. But in my opinion, they’re just crazy little things that claim to be related to us. I never knew that I could be so worried about my brother. * * * The smiling sun shone brightly down on my back as I walked happily down the sidewalk. My friend Audrey strolled along beside me, chatting cheerily. The sunny sky was a beautiful, brilliant blue. We reached some tall, black steps and climbed them. But I wasn’t fully ready for the scene inside. Sounds of laughter and loud voices filled my ears as I stepped into the vehicle of madness. Feet were stuck out as Audrey and I hurried to our seats in the back. Someone grabbed my backpack, and I shook him off. I ignored a shout of “Hey Ruby!” that was quickly lost in the tumultuous land of chaos surrounding me. This place is also known as the bus. Kids lounged on seats, talking and laughing. Windows were opened wide, and arms hung out of them. KISS FM blared from the speakers. I reached my assigned seat, following close at Audrey’s heels. I couldn’t stay in the front of the bus any longer. I plopped my backpack and water bottle on the floor at my feet with a clunk and collapsed. There was always a wait of about two or three minutes before the bus started moving. Audrey and I sit in the second-to-last seat on the bus. My other friend, Ulan, usually sits across the aisle from us with a fourth-grader named Katherine. “Is everybody on the bus?” our driver, Ms. Toni, yelled in her low, scratchy voice over the hubbub. “Yes!” several kids yelled back. I decided to do my duty as an older sister. “Abraham!! Are you on the bus?” I hollered. There was no answer. The other kids kept talking. “Abraham!” I shouted again, my voice softer and more worried than before. He still didn’t respond. I sat on my knees and scoured the rows of kids. There was no sign of my brother’s curly black-haired head. Panic surged through my veins. “Abraham isn’t on the bus,” I told Ulan and Audrey. They looked almost as panicked as I felt. “We have to tell the bus driver,” Ulan insisted. I rose from my seat, but Ulan was ahead of me. She had already taken three steps toward the front of the bus. “Excuse m…” she shouted, but was immediately cut off. There was a loud roar of the engine and a hiss of exhaust. The bus lurched forward, almost making Ulan lose her balance. We had started moving. “No!” I half yelled. I looked frantically out of the back window at my school getting farther and farther away each second and leaving my brother behind. “Oh. My. Gosh. I can’t believe that she left,” I said, partly to myself and partly to my friends. “I know!” exclaimed Audrey, trying to be supportive. The bus rounded a corner just then, and even though my school was out of sight I looked out of the back window again like a girl in some sappy romance movie, waiting for her soldier to come home. The whole bus ride my friends tried to convince me that Abraham would be OK. I tried to convince myself, too. Abraham will be all right, I thought. People have talked about what to do if you miss the bus. He knows to go to the office and call our parents. He’ll be fine. But that didn’t make me feel any better. I was still worried. Audrey and Ulan gently urged the topic of conversation away from my brother missing the bus until we were talking about something completely different. I knew that they were trying to distract me, make me forget about the problem at hand, and for that I was grateful. How could the beautiful day have gone so wrong? The sun, which was usually smiling, seemed to frown upon me. The clear blue skies showing through an open window mocked me as I slumped down in my seat. “You lost your bro-ther, you lost your bro-ther.” My stomach felt hollow and my heart felt heavy. Anxiety possessed me like a hidden devil. For some odd reason, everything around me seemed silent, like I was in my own personal underworld of anxiety. It’s OK, Ruby, I told myself. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know that Abraham would miss the bus. That was his responsibility. But criticizing my brother just made me feel worse. Even though I was eleven and Abraham ten, and I usually act like I don’t like him very much (and sometimes I actually don’t), I can be very protective of him, even if I’m the one doing the criticizing. Every now and then I would glance out the back window of the bus without really realizing I was doing it, as if my brother would magically appear behind it, yelling for the bus to slow down so he could climb in. But the logical part inside me knew that would never happen. Finally, the bus lurched to a head-spinning stop on King Street. This was where Audrey and I got off. I gathered up my stuff, hurriedly hugged Ulan, and rushed down the aisle. Some kids said goodbye, but I ignored them. I jumped down the last few steps of the bus and ran to my mom, who was waiting for me. “Mom!” I said urgently. “Abraham didn’t get on the bus!” My mother’s expression changed into one that she used when I was kidding about something. “Oh really?” she asked, her eyes bright and smiling like they always were when someone joked. The anxiety and worry I had recently felt inside me quickly turned to anger and frustration. Why didn’t she believe me? “I’m
A Walk Down the Ocean
It was a dolphin! My feet slapped against the wet sand, and waves lapped at my toes. White umbrellas blossomed like flowers all over the beach, teetering and threatening to fall down in the salty ocean breeze. I crossed over to the dry, sugar-powdered sand, and I could hear my heart pounding as I sprinted through mounds of shells. Colorful sun hats bobbed in the big, salty ocean and popped in and out of the rolling waves. The rough rocks felt tough against my bare feet as I clambered over them, headed toward the ocean. Sea foam clung to the grainy sand, and heaps of beautifully detailed shells lay in jumbled piles where the ocean had washed them up. The roar of crashing waves drowned out the animated chatter of seagulls and the contented babble of people draped lazily over sun chairs. A light, salty breeze blew the hair out of my eyes as I sprinted down the humongous ocean. Pelicans made acrobatic dives and swoops into the ocean as they searched for their lunch beneath the gushing waves. They greedily gobbled silver fish, which were flailing and panicking as if they were on land. The pelicans gulped, and you could still see the fish struggling and thrashing in the pelicans’ bulging pouches. The ocean glistened and shimmered in the sun’s blistering beams of light, and golden light gushed over the horizon. I heard excited shouts ahead, and I dashed over to where crowds of people were standing. They were gawking at the ocean breathlessly, and at first I thought they were just gaping at the humongous waves, but then I saw it. A gray-blue fin, slicing the water like a pizza. It leapt out of the water like a gymnast, not its whole body, only its back. It curved gracefully, forming an arc before splashing back under the waves. It was a dolphin! I called my siblings over to catch up to the graceful animal slipping through the ocean’s grasping hands. I sprinted down giant sand dunes, splashing in tide pools and dashing through puddles. I was far ahead of my brother and sisters, and they were also struggling to keep up with the playful creature. My heart raced, and my legs carried me across the beach of their own accord. I kept up with the dolphin, and every time it disappeared, I felt anxious. I leapt over half-ruined sand castles and heaps of rocks and pebbles. Its fin popped out more and more, daring me to follow it and teasing me if I couldn’t keep up. It dived in and out of the waves playfully, and wherever it went people cried out in amazement. I followed it until I was gasping for breath, and I sat down on a heaping, golden sand dune to take a short break. After a while, I jumped up to start my chase once again. I couldn’t see the dolphin, but joyful shouts up ahead told me it wasn’t too far. I sprinted faster this time, spraying wet sand in every direction as I tried to catch up to my teasing friend. Finally, I caught a glimpse of it once again, leaping through salty waves in a show-off way. I reached it just as it dived under the angry ocean. When I reached the scratchy rocks and the bright orange caution tape, I gazed longingly at the beautiful creature. A hand pulled me away, and my mom whispered, “We’re headed to the airport now. We’ll stop for dinner on the way, ’K?” I glanced back quickly at the dolphin, still diving with easy elegance, and knew it would be my good luck charm for the long trip back home. Abby Lustig, 11Westmount, Quebec, Canada Audrey Zhang, 9Levittown, New York
My Coat of Many Colors
A carpet of sand melts into a sea of blue whipped cream I inhale the golden scent of joy Like syrup on my tongue The seagulls’ voices are wind chimes in the warm summer air They call to the sea and the sky I reach out my fingers to touch the sunset And wrap it around my shoulders like a coat Matthew Brailsford, 11Corona del Mar, California
The Lily Hair Clip
“I… I want you to have something” A scream cut through the cool night air, but no one was around to hear it. A small boy of around five years old huddled against a tree trunk, crying desperately. His short brown hair was plastered against his brow, tears staining his freckled face. “Mommy!” he screamed. “Mommy save me!” He stared fearfully at a dark cave from which a deep rumbling resounded. Smoke billowed from the cave’s mouth, and light flashed from within. The boy’s eyes widened in fear, and he stumbled away from the entrance. A large dragon emerged from the inky blackness, fire spurting from its nostrils. Its scales glowed a dark green, and its eyes flashed red. The boy screamed, but there was no hope. The dragon slowly advanced, its eyes cold and calculating. Its back legs tensed, and the dragon sprang over the little boy, briefly expanding its wings. It began to herd the boy into the cave, occasionally spurting fire to keep him moving. The boy soon reached the cave. He took one look at the dragon and rushed into the cave, fruitlessly searching for a chance of escape. The dragon followed him, its intent obviously successful. There was a piercing scream, then silence. The dragon emerged from the cave, blood dripping from its muzzle. * * * Lily knew she was going to die the moment she heard her name. She raised her eyes to the center of the village square, hoping she had mis-heard. An old man with matted gray hair and sunken, hollow eyes stared back at her. He stood beside a worn barrel, holding a slip of paper in his hand. “Lily Joanson,” he repeated, “you have been chosen to serve your town in the greatest way possible.” Lily knew what would happen next; she had heard that same speech every year, but never directed to her. “Nine years ago,” he continued, “a great dragon settled near our town. He raided our village and destroyed our crops. The only way to appease him is to sacrifice one of our children to him every year. This year, you have been chosen.” Lily felt the ground tumble from beneath her legs. The next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground, the taste of dirt on her lips. A woman was screaming in the background, “No, not Lily! My baby, my only daughter, have mercy, I beg you!” Strong arms lifted her from the ground. She looked up into the face of her oldest brother, Peter. His wavy golden hair hung around his face, freckles splattered across his nose. He gently stroked her long brown hair, whispering words of comfort to both her mother and her. But her mother would not be consoled. “She’s only twelve!” she wailed. Lily couldn’t think. She had seen this happen every year. All the children wrote their names on a slip of paper, including her, and dropped it into the barrel. No one really knew where the barrel had come from, but there was a rumor that it was the only object that survived the dragon’s first raid. The old man would draw a slip of paper, make the speech, then send the child on their way. No one had ever returned. Lily’s sharp green eyes filled with tears, but she tried to hold them back for her mother’s sake. Lily was not athletic or clever; she knew she had no chance. She stumbled back to her family’s cottage in a daze and flopped onto her mat. She fell asleep without bothering to eat and dreamed of gruesome deaths and dragons. * * * It was still dark out when Lily woke. Her mat was warm and comfortable and, for a second, she forgot her despair. But it all came rushing back when she remembered the events of yesterday. Lily quietly sobbed into her pillow. She didn’t want to die. There was so much she had to live for. It was her dream to one day have a family of her own, and have children who could live without the threat of a dragon hanging over their heads. Now, that would never be. Her older brothers stirred beside her. She had three: Peter, John, and Mark. She loved them all dearly. That was another thing. Her mother would be completely broken if she died. She was her mother’s only daughter, the only one who still wasn’t grown up. Peter was eighteen, John was sixteen, and Mark was fifteen. Her brothers rolled out of bed and began to get dressed. Their faces were tearstained. It was all she could do not to start crying again. Looking at them, she realized what wonderful brothers they had been. She rushed over and threw her arms around them. “I love you!” she cried. They hugged her back awkwardly, not sure how to respond. The family sat down to breakfast, no one sure how to act. Lily’s mother wore a pained expression, like she was trying to hold herself together for Lily’s sake. Lily’s father had died several years before in a fire. He had previously worked as a blacksmith, and a clumsy apprentice had let the fire get too close to the wood. Lily’s father, his two apprentices, and a delivery boy had died in the following fire. Although the boys provided for the family, her father’s death created a gaping hole in their lives. After breakfast, Peter drew Lily aside. “I… I want you to have something,” he said in a cracked voice. He silently held out a small hair clip. It was shaped like three lilies, her namesake. They were a creamy white with traces of pink in the middle. He gently clasped it into her hair, then stood back to admire her. “Remember me,” he whispered. With that he turned away and walked off. Lily watched him leave, a lone tear trickling down her pale cheek. She tried to go about her normal business; she
Sean Griswold’s Head
Sean Griswold’s Head, by Lindsey Leavitt; Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers: New York, 2011; $16.99 Her parents lie about her father’s multiple sclerosis (MS), a potentially deadly disease of the central nervous system. Her best friend flirts with her older brother. A school counselor wants to meet with her. A boy’s head becomes the focus of her life. Payton Gritas, a high school freshman and the protagonist of Lindsey Leavitt’s Sean Griswold’s Head, is experiencing an emotionally difficult time. Payton, an organized girl who uses different colored highlighters—“yellow for literary devices, pink for plot points, orange for conflict”—finds her life in conflict. Although her parents lie to protect her from the reality of her father’s MS, Payton obsesses with her father and his serious disease. To get back on track, she starts a focus journal and chooses the head of Sean Griswold as her focus. After the death of Ripley, my puppy, I looked at Ripley’s pictures and remembered our past times together, but I never once considered concentrating on a classmate’s head. However, the more Payton studies Sean’s head, the more curious she becomes about him. When Jac, her best girl friend, encourages her to stalk Sean, Payton ignores her family for Sean. As the story evolves, Payton learns the source of Sean’s scar, undergoes changes in her relationship with Jac, and starts a bike-riding hobby. Instead of only worrying about MS, Payton now decides to ride 75 miles on her bike to raise money for MS research. Payton’s efforts remind me of what I did last May: I jogged five kilometers in the Race for the Cure to help those women I know who suffer from breast cancer. Although I wish the author had also included titles for each numbered chapter, I do like the way she uses words to paint a picture. For example, to describe the anger of Payton’s mother, the author writes, “She’s like a pop bottle that has rolled around in a car for a few days.” These words enabled me to imagine the mother’s rage exploding like a geyser of soda. When exercising, Yessica, the trainer, tells Payton and the other students to imagine a jungle in which they are thirsty and biking away from a jaguar; Yessica’s details about the African wilderness reminded me of my trip to Tanzania where I saw the “water and fat antelope” that Payton can only pretend to see. This book reminds me of the importance of focusing—on my homework, tennis lessons, horseback riding, jogging, and learning to relax. By focusing on her father and his disease, Sean’s head, and then Sean as a person, biking, avoiding a best friend, and not communicating with her family, Payton eventually learns to focus on herself and what will make her happy. Marcella R. Gerszten, 12Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
The Most Important Thing
We talked for a while and soon became fast friends The waves lapped rhythmlessly against the side of the boat as I hoisted the sail and started slowly out into the bay. Dark clouds were forming on the horizon and drops of rain were beginning to fall. I squinted, trying to see through the increasing downpour, and I realized that I could not tell sky from sea. As thunder started to boom, the waves grew bigger and more dangerous. I sighed with relief as I spotted two tiny pinpricks of light wavering in the darkness. They were the two candles my mother always left out for me during a storm. I guided my boat toward the light and finally bumped it up on the shore. I raced over the dunes and splashed through the river in front of my house. The door slammed shut behind me as I blew in with the wind. My eyes darted around the clean kitchen and settled on a crumpled newspaper lying on the hearth. As I flipped through the pages, my eyes settled on an ad at the bottom of the page. It was a contest. A sailing contest. My eyes widened as I read more. “First prize of $100 to the winner of the race.” My family has always been poor so $100 would help us a lot, but we didn’t have anyone who was sick or dying. Still, I wanted to do it. I knew I could do it. But most importantly I knew I could sail. * * * Monday morning I was up at first light. I raced to the barn to do my chores, and by breakfast time the Nantucket Island sun was as high as the eye could see. I was just rigging up my racing sunfish, when I saw a boy walking down the beach. Not many people lived on Nantucket Island and I knew all the people that did. As far as I knew, there were no boys here. No young boys at all!!! The figure came closer. When he came close enough for me to make him out, I stared. He was the skinniest boy I had ever seen. His clothes were much too big for him and he was all elbows and knees. He had a mop of untidy brown hair and pale skin. His eyes were hazel and looked kind. I trusted him at once. “Hi,” I said, “my name’s Joshua Burne.” “My name’s Mike, Mike Brown.” We talked for a while and soon became fast friends. One day, when we met on the beach, something was wrong. His eyes were red from crying and he spoke softly. Too softly. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “It’s my father,” he answered. “He has a really severe disease and we don’t have enough money to pay for his care, Josh, he’s dying.” I could do nothing but stare in disbelief at Mike’s back as he disappeared over the dunes. * * * It was Sunday. The day of the race. I woke up early with a smile on my face and determination in my heart. I ate a hurried breakfast and started down to the beach where the race was to start. I rigged up my sunfish and, as the whistle blew, pushed off and jumped into it. I felt great as I began passing more and more people. The race was from one beach to an island about a mile out to sea and back. As I hit the island, I pushed off with my hands and turned around. Then I saw a boat ahead of me and realized I was in second place. I slapped the sides of my boat in frustration. I raced over the whitecaps toward the boat ahead of me. Its sails were limp. I stopped as I saw the person in the boat. It was Mike. Tears were pouring down his face and soaking his anorak. “I wanted to do it for my dad,” he barely whispered. Though my mind screamed to go, I gave Mike a push and turned around. My heart had said something different. I numbly steered my boat back to the starting line and pulled it up on the beach. * * * It was a rainy day a week later. I was down in the dumps until I saw a lone figure on the beach. It was Mike. But then another figure joined him. A taller, older-looking person. I ran out to meet them. The other figure was Mike’s father. He said to me, “I just want to thank you for letting Mike win that race for me. It was the right thing to do.” “No,” I said, “it wasn’t just that, it was the most important thing to do.” And I meant it with all my heart. Grace Manning, 12Westmount, Quebec, Canada Julianna Pereira, 13Pleasanton, California
