The finest time to go fishing is at dusk. A hazy fog is settling over the lake, and the sun sits perched just above the crown of the tree line, casting a multitude of soft colors. I prepare myself, sliding slowly into the canoe, balancing myself and making sure not to fall into the crisp dusk waters. Row after row, my paddle breaks the water’s surface and pushes me along. I look to the rear and a long line of small waves glide off the canoe like a halo on an angel. I look to the left and then the right, and all is quiet on the lake. Far off in the woods I can hear twigs being broken under the pressure of another animal’s weight. I look back to the water and spy a tree that has fallen weak and into the water, marking my fishing spot. Foot by foot I steady the canoe closer to the shore. I can see the weed beds through the clear water now, and I know I’m in my territory. I stop for a second and let my head fall back as I admire the beautiful sky. The stars are timidly peeking out from behind the clouds. Soon enough their bodies will glow with light, but not now. I turn my head back to my main intentions: fishing. I slowly reach for my pole, lying parallel on the canoe, and I gently raise the lure to my eye’s level. The knot seems good. I unhook the taut bait for the pole. I hold the pole lower now towards the reel and lift it slowly over my head. I look behind me and the bait dangles on the thin fishing string perpendicular to the pole. I take a deep breath. The finest time to go fishing is at dusk I gently toss my bait towards the shore just before the weed line. I have a popper which floats delicately on the surface of the water until, with a swift pull of my reel, it pops, imitating a frog. I slowly jig the lure closer to the boat. Back to the boat and nothing, but fishing takes patience. Cast. Nothing. Cast. Nothing. Again and again this pattern repeats. This cast is different though, it floats in the air and then lands precisely where I want it, right above the weeds. I start to jig the bait in… nothing bites. I take a breath of frustration. I watch the line calmly sit on the lake, and BAM! The once calm line becomes taut with a gentle pull and there is no doubt that a fish is on. All the patience has now paid off, and there is an almost bubbly feeling deep inside me. Panic sets in. Set the hook, my mind screams. I jerk my pole up and the fish is on. The whole world is spinning now as I reel in the fish. The fish is near the boat and just as tired as I am. One last battle to go. Instinct sets in and my hand plunges into the ice-cold water. I can feel the fish struggling with all its might as my hand wraps around it. I lift the fish and take control of the battle. One final surge and the fish is out of the water. It’s a keeper. This is my favorite feeling in the world. Nothing, absolutely nothing, surpasses this feeling. Ben Hayes, 13Fox Point, Wisconsin Soyi Sarkar, 13Short Hills, New Jersey
The Trains That Went By 31 Years Ago
I watch the trains go by The sky takes on a purple haze that seems unique to London As I slowly fall asleep, I try to imagine my father doing the same thing, decades ago I am lying in the house he grew up in, in the same bed, with the same blanket I imagine living in London eating dinner at the little table where you have to tuck your elbows in then going upstairs to bed and looking at the trains Would I enjoy it as much? Would I even consider myself lucky? I wake up and look out the window The sun is glaring in my face even though it is early morning I watch the trains going by, the same ones as last night The trains feel as if they are right next to you close enough that you can watch the people going past as the trains follow their everyday routine The people on the trains never notice you But you can see everything they do for those brief seconds before they disappear Stella White, 11Newark, Delaware
Wolf in the Woods
Jack looked up at me with longing eyes that shimmered in the moonlight Mom and Dad were asleep. I had to wait a whole three hours after I went to my bedroom to sneak downstairs. Who knew that after kids fall asleep, parents stay up until midnight? Sprinting down the path, my mind wandered to Jack. He would be upset that I was late but happy I had brought him the meat he requested. I got to the edge of a grove of trees and slowed my pace. Twice I looked over my shoulder to see if anybody was there, but all that was near was the glittering full moon. I looked onward. Standing before me were countless towering oak trees that looked slanted as I advanced through the forest. The night sky stood there, too, the darkest of all blacks, providing no light but that of the moon’s for me to travel under. The unusually hushed evening made me jump at every little rustling I heard in the bushes, every occasional whistle of the wind. Yet I still had a sense of security knowing that Jack was near. He would never let a fly harm me after all I’ve done for him. Weaving through trees and overgrown weeds, I drew closer to the cave. Sliding the steak from my messenger bag, I whistled our call. My friend crept from a shadow within his nook as soon as I summoned him. I managed a meek grin of greeting at my furry companion. Then I gave him the meat. Jack bowed his head in respect. I stood watching him scarf down the pink, juicy steak until my legs got impatient and I sat. Jack, oblivious to me, finished his meal and looked up at me with longing eyes that shimmered in the moonlight. “I know you want more,” I told him sincerely. “I swear, I tried. But Mom would realize if I took more. I can’t have that happen after last time. She got suspicious of you.” But he continued to beg, so I gave him half of the crackers meant for me and kept the rest for myself. We both nibbled and stared at the ground in silence. When we were finished, he came closer to snuggle up. That was when I realized just how frigid it was. Ice littered the ground. Jack’s luscious fur provided me with warmth when we both settled down. Soon Jack was snoring in a slow rhythm. I arranged a bed of fertile grass and flower buds with a patch of soft, green moss as a pillow. Jack and I were so close that he delivered heat as well as a blanket. I stared into my wolf friend’s tranquil face as he snoozed. The timber wolf had faded, thick, black fur with streaks of white. When I stroked him, layers of hair were swept off his coat. As for his facial features, his snout was slender and his teeth still razor-sharp as they’d never been used to fight, hunt, or even bite. The teeth were very misleading but made up for with those forgiving, ocean-blue eyes that stood out most of all. He was about seven years old and particularly decrepit, but whatever his disorder, whatever his looks, I loved him for who he was. It was as if he understood English; when I talked to him, he’d nod or bow and always behaved himself properly. He was my protector. Under my breath I whispered to myself, I, Rose Lengton, will always care for and love this wolf with all my heart. Six years ago, when I was seven myself, I found and raised him. He had never been shown how to hunt, so I brought him food and showed him where to find water and shelter. Every day after school I’d meet him in the woods to play, sleep, and care for him. On weekends like today, I go to Jack at night without letting Mom and Dad know, of course. They’d ground me forever if they discovered I was fostering a wolf without their supervision. I had been caring for the dejected wolf ever since he had been abandoned as a pup. Soon enough I fell soundly asleep, although I had horrific nightmares about wars and death. I was awakened by Jack’s nuzzling to comfort me. I felt relieved… until he alerted me with a flash of panic in his eyes that our worst fear had been realized. It was morning, and I hadn’t returned home. My parents would be worried. I snatched my bag, waved goodbye to Jack, and darted through the clearing. I got a glance of a bundle of fur that looked oddly like Jack’s. The sun crept up way high into the sky from behind the horizon, I noted. Not good; my parents ought to have been awake already; I sped up. Mom and Dad were waiting for me at the dining table at home. “Rose! There you are,” cried Mom. “We were so scared for you,” my dad told me sweetly. I looked from him to my mother, unsure of what to say, and uneasy about their looks. Did they know? They couldn’t have. “So,” she continued, “explain yourself.” She put her hands on her hips, waiting for my response. “I-I, uh…” What should I have said? Should I’ve told her the truth about Jack? I had to keep him safe. On the other hand, I’d never fibbed before for no good reason. “Well, um, you see,” I started, but I couldn’t lie. “I’ve sort of been taking care of a wolf for a few years in the woods, and I was out visiting him,” I blurted out. Bracing myself. Waiting for the punishment, for the lecture. But none came. All my parents did was laugh, as if I were joking. I didn’t try to convince them any further. “Whatever,” I said, and went upstairs to my bedroom. They were still chuckling. * * * The following
Inside Out and Back Again
Inside Out and Back Again, by Thanhha Lai; HarperCollins Children’s Books: New York, 2011; $16.99 Last year, my family and I moved from Florida to West Virginia and it was a disaster. The movers came late, our kayak fell off our car roof while my parents were driving down a highway at about two o’clock in the morning, and we moved into our new house late so for twelve days we had to roam around staying in the houses of friends and family. My family’s move was bad but it was nowhere near as awful as Ha and her family’s move from Saigon, Vietnam, to Alabama in 1975, a story told in this thrilling and fascinating book. Ha and her family (her mom and three brothers; her father was missing in action) had to flee from Saigon during the Vietnam War because Saigon was being captured by the North Vietnamese Army. All Ha had ever known was Saigon. It was a very rough long trip but finally they made it. All of the people that had escaped Vietnam had to stay in “tent cities,” and in order for them to leave they had to be sponsored by a person to move somewhere. Ha’s family was sponsored to move to Alabama by a man Ha calls “our cowboy” because of his hat and appearance. Their sponsor worked hard to help them adjust to life in Alabama, but their neighbors were not friendly except for one helpful lady. Ha’s story includes adventure and suspense but also sadness. As a reader, I was worried when they were on the ship escaping Vietnam because they ran out of food. Once in America, her family faced a great of deal of hardship because they had little money. When Ha arrived in the U.S. she spoke only a few words of English. She couldn’t understand what the children who made fun of her at school said. Her oldest brother, Quang, spoke more English than the rest of them and had studied engineering in Vietnam. His skills were what attracted their sponsor in the first place. Ha was grateful for the home they moved into but she preferred the style and design of her Saigon home. At one point she writes that life in America was so hard that she almost preferred living in war in Saigon to being in Alabama. But over time, Ha made friends, settled in more at school, and started to learn English. It took me a little while to adjust to my new home. I started school and soon I made new friends. I think that all that is necessary to make new friends and adjust is time and having a good attitude. Ha’s story taught me about the war in Vietnam and about the difficulties of changing to a whole new life. The story is written in stanzas that are like poems. They are also like journal entries because they move chronologically forward and describe different parts of her life. They cover the span of one year—1975 (the year of the Cat). The story includes fabulous details that make it even more interesting. I found the story gripping and couldn’t put the book down. The author—Thanhha Lai—was born in Vietnam and moved to Alabama at the end of the war. Much of what happened to Ha in the book was based on memories of Lai’s childhood. I felt sorry for the hardships in Ha’s life but I’m certainly glad that the author turned them into a book. Annie Sheehan-Dean, 10Morgantown, West Virginia
In My Own Backyard
We threw back our heads and sang like the bluebirds The first day of summer vacation, I made a beeline for the library. I checked out as many books as I could and trudged home with a bulging book bag. Swinging open the front door, I dove for the couch. I slung my book bag off my aching shoulder and rummaged inside it, retrieving the first book I touched. With barely a glance at the cover, I curled up on the couch and launched into the story. My eyes scanned the pages, reading a mile a minute. Occasionally, I would note a new word, jot it down in my memory, or measure the length of each chapter. My goal for the summer was to read 200 books. It wasn’t some library competition, or a summer reading list my English teacher gave me. It might sound weird, but I came up with it myself. Yep, while all the other kids were playing their summer away, I would be doing something productive for a change. It wasn’t just because I had had to read so many boring history books during the school year that I didn’t have time to read for fun. I did have free time. But I had used it writing stories of my own. You see, I also had a longtime goal: to be a famous novelist. And I figured that starting as a kid was as good a time as any. Actually, I had a secret goal: to be one of the youngest famous novelists: Nina Rupert, world-renowned novelist at age ten. I had decided a long time ago not to tell anybody about it just in case it didn’t work out and I ended up not writing novels until I was older. And from the looks of things, it sure seemed that way. All the stories I had written did not have endings. No plots. Just characters and settings. Anyway, I had heard somewhere that one of the keys to good writing is to read a lot. So that’s what I decided to do. I put away all my notebooks with beginnings of fabulous stories about people stuck at the top of a highly active volcano, or dolphins swimming happily in coral reefs, or people merrily tilling the land in a medieval kingdom. The description parts were spectacular, and everything was utterly elegant. It drew the reader in to see what happened next, but the unfortunate thing was that I had no idea what was going to happen. So, as I already said, I stashed all the notebooks up on my closet shelf with the resolution to read 200 books during the summer. I had a firm belief that reading all those books would help me develop satisfactory stories. So there I was, getting a head start. The first week flew by fairly well, and I read about one book a day. My list of new vocabulary words grew minute by minute. Then Hilary came. She came one bright, breezy day, all breathless with the joy of being alive. Of course, I didn’t really notice, because I was deep in the land of giants and dragons, and a mysterious wizard with a hidden secret. Wind-blown strawberry-blond hair in a messy ponytail, dancing hazel eyes behind purple-rimmed glasses, and a spattering of freckles. That was Hilary. She was my cousin, two-and-a-half years younger than I. She came to stay for the summer. Her mother had just had twins, and her parents had decided that it would be better for both her and them if she stayed with us, the nearest relatives, for a while. I didn’t mind her being with us, as long as she did not interrupt my strict reading schedule, which was basically from waking up until breakfast, then from breakfast to lunch, and from lunch to dinner. If I had time, I squeezed in a few extra minutes before bed. In short, I read all the time. Hilary never complained, about being homesick, or being lonely, or even not liking the squash casserole my mother made. Not once. Instead, every day, she would disappear outside. I didn’t know what she was doing, but every time she skipped back in, her face was all aglow and she smelled like the grass. She had an odd, peculiar way of looking at things. I guess the best word for her would be “queer.” “The cat who lives across the street climbed into my lap today!” she would say. “His fur felt like silk and was as smooth and cool as a slice of honeydew, only not so wet.” “Did you see the clouds, Nina? They’re so fluffy, like whipped cream.” “Come see the dewdrops, Nina! The whole neighborhood is sparkling like my sequined shirt, only better!” “The crepe myrtles are blooming, so pink and wrinkled like tissue paper!” “Look, the sky’s lit up like rose petals in honey! Come on!” And she would slip back outside, laughing. I just sat on the couch, reading. Every time I finished a book, I would write the title down on a piece of paper. Hilary was no more than a fly to me. Pretty soon, I learned to ignore her completely. But Hilary wouldn’t give up. She kept coming inside every day, bearing news of the outside world blooming around me. To tell you the truth, I was completely oblivious to everything else, and I didn’t really care. I ate my meals in a dazed silence, still stuck in the times of the Great Depression, wild Australia, or the savage jungle tribes of South America, solving a mystery or escaping danger. I spent my nights awake in bed, pondering how the authors wrote so intriguingly, so convincingly, so—so wonderfully. I couldn’t even think of the right word. As time went on, I became more and more reluctant to pick up a book. The couch became familiar and boring. My list of titles, which once had grown rapidly, now advanced so
My Father’s Doves
“Excuse me, may I please have those two doves?” Running to the market, my father clutched the bagful of coins to his chest. On the leather bag was sewn “,” horse, in Chinese, the only gift that his father had given him before the war. He hurried across town, walking under the wood sign with the words “Tai City” etched on it and following the path, which he knew by heart. He finally arrived at the center of town, full of street vendors selling fruits and other goods, with gray-uniformed soldiers at every corner. The coins were clanking against each other inside the bag as if clamoring to break free. My father lowered his eyes from the glaring of the men and shuffled to the doves’ area. He spilled the coins onto his calloused, rough hands and spoke to the salesperson. “Excuse me,” he said in a steady voice, “may I please have those two doves?” My father pointed to the two slender spotted doves perched inside an angular metal cage—the doves which he had admired for so long. The man glared suspiciously at him. “Do you have the money?” “Yes, sir,” replied my father, trying to look confident despite the fluttering inside his stomach, “here are the four yuan for both of them.” The salesman quickly grabbed the money out of my father’s hands as if afraid someone would steal it and counted the coins four times. Just as quickly, the salesman shoved the two doves into my father’s arms and dismissively waved his hand for my father to be on his way. The doves were really his now. He had imagined this moment for quite some time, though in his daydreams, his father would have been there with him, negotiating with the bird seller, cracking jokes with those he knew, and maybe even stopping for a small treat for both of them once the doves were safely in their hands. But he was alone, and even finally being the owner of two beautiful doves did not lessen the hurt of missing his father. Will I ever see him again? he wondered. As my father held the doves, he felt the anxiety disappear. He could hear the piping of the magpies fluttering from tree to tree. The sky broadened deeper blue, and the sun’s rays shone among the few trees, whose shadows lightened. The city no longer smelled of failure and sweat, but now of hope and persistence. My father reached an apartment building plastered with old advertisements and newspaper postings that had disintegrated into the walls. Though dirty flies swarmed his hair, trying to bite his skin, he paid no attention. My grandmother came out to greet him. In my mind’s eye, I can almost see her now in her ragged apron, though she was younger then and her hair was still inky and brilliant. She hugged him, with the hands that supported the family, the ones that sewed the clothes and cooked the food. My grandmother looked at him with hope and love, the smile smoothing out premature wrinkles that had already started forming on her face. The doves chirped around at the home, preening themselves and each other. They flew about, occasionally gulping down a fly that got in their way. They are so useful already, my father thought. My grandmother watched my father’s visible admiration of the doves, and smiles settled onto their faces for the first time since his father had gone to war. * * * My father remembered the day. The sun shone brightly and cheerfully, and he had just been invited by the headmaster himself to write an article in the school newspaper. He wanted to tell his family right away. Though he was mocked and jeered by some of his classmates who viewed him as a teacher’s pet, he felt so proud to be the first nine-year-old in the history of the school to have been given this honor. He understood that an honor like this came with a price. The neighborhood boys had teased him and refused to let him join in on their games. He hadn’t asked for this, but it had happened, and he felt happy. He had skipped up the cement steps, for once not seeing them in their true state—dirty and hard, but imagining them as black onyx gemstones leading up to his family’s small apartment. As soon as he opened the door, he recoiled in surprise. His mother was weeping, her head hunched down, her usual tightly coiled chignon now a messy bun with strands sticking out. My father was shocked; he had never seen his mother cry before. She glanced up with her red, swollen eyes and pointed with a trembling finger to a piece of white, clean paper printed with gold, beautiful symbols. Even without reading the characters, my father immediately knew what it was. The paper was too bright and clean to be from anyone other than the Chinese government. His father was going to the civil war. He was already gone. * * * My father tried to manage his usual routine. But, without his father, he would rush home after school, almost afraid of the world now and its control over him. He had memorized the way to his apartment, and his feet could trace it without him even looking up. The truth was: he didn’t want to look up and see the real world anymore. He didn’t want to acknowledge what it had become. My father wanted a miracle. He had started spending most of his time with his doves, flying them in the abandoned woods outside of town and talking to them in the dark quiet of his home. My father had heard about amazing animals that could do things normal ones couldn’t—things such as play fetch, or jump rope, or be able to find hidden people and explosive material. Because his doves were special, he saw them as being almost magical and felt that they
Memories and Beginnings
“Maggie, this is Miss Tania, your new piano teacher” The doorbell’s ring still echoed in my head. I stood on the third step of the stairs that led up to the bedrooms and leaned my body all the way out. That way I could see the mirror that hung in the foyer next to the front door. I heard Mom wheel the rolling chair back from the computer and walk to the door. My older sister, Alexa Kate, ran from the den to join her, her sandy hair flying. Through the mirror, I saw Mom open the door and smile as a young lady stepped briskly in. From the open window in the kitchen, the fragrant scent of honeysuckle and lilac drifted across the house and tickled my nose. Memories came flooding back. Grandma’s sweet, laughing face creased with wrinkles, her wispy white hair framing her face perfectly. The way she threw back her head and laughed, as she, Alexa Kate, and I made cookies, or picked dandelions and sent our wishes to the wind. The way she would scold us, shaking her finger and looking stern, but the merry twinkle in her eyes always betrayed her. The way her body swayed as she sat on the piano bench and played her whole heart out. Beethoven, Brahms, Bach, she played them all. She had taught Alexa Kate and me to play, too. We would sit in the living room and laugh and play and laugh some more. Whenever we couldn’t get a piece right, she would always say, “Learn to like the music, and the music will learn to like you. Music only plays right for happy fingers. So have fun, and it will come!” But now Grandma was gone, and Mom had found another piano teacher to take her place. “Maggie!” Mom’s voice drew me reluctantly to the foyer, where I stood behind Alexa Kate, trying to hide. The lady smiled at me, her short brown hair bobbing. With her flowery skirt and blouse, she seemed right at home. Mom continued. “Maggie, this is Miss Tania, your new piano teacher.” She turned to Miss Tania. “Well, I guess I should let you get started? Which one of you girls wants to go first?” I did not raise my hand. Let Alexa Kate go first. She and I were only eighteen months apart, but we were completely different. She was not scared of anything. Why did I have to get the timid genes? The living room was just to the right of the front door, marked off by the couches. The old upright piano that Grandma had brought with her stood in the corner, crowned by an antique lamp and a photograph of Grandma, Alexa Kate, and me. Alexa Kate skipped over to the piano. Miss Tania followed, with a large, bulging bag. She dropped promptly onto the chair next to the bench. The chair that Grandma had always sat in. “Alexa Kate,” she said it with a lilting accent, “what have you been working on?” My sister picked up one of the faded yellow books that had been Grandma’s. “I just started practicing Heller’s ‘Study in A Minor, op. 47, no. 3.’” “Ah,” Miss Tania nodded knowingly. “Why don’t you play it for me?” Alexa Kate seated herself on the piano bench as comfortably as ever. Soon a lilting melody wafted through the house, Miss Tania humming along with a funny tone. I swallowed and raced upstairs to my room. Thirty minutes passed, and I lay on my bed, dreading my lesson. * * * “Maaa-ggie!” It was Alexa Kate. . “It’s your turn!” I forced my feet to tread down the stairs, into the living room. Alexa Kate breezily passed me, whispering, “She’s fun.” Even more fun than Grandma? I sat stiffly down on the piano bench and managed a lousy smile. Miss Tania smiled her sweetest grin. “Hello, Maggie. What are you playing?” I pulled out another music book that was falling apart. “Rameau, ‘Minuet in G minor.’” The teacher nodded in approval. I set the book up on the stand. My fingers found the keys. Slowly, I began to play, her eyes boring into me. Before I knew it, I was done. Miss Tania applauded me heartily. “Well done, Maggie! You are doing everything very well: the dynamics, the rhythm, the technique. Only the tempo needs to be faster. And—relax.” She reached over and gave my shoulders a little massage. It tickled. “You need to be completely comfortable. It doesn’t work if you can play the music perfectly; you have to have feeling, yet. Feel the music, Maggie.” I bit my lip. How could I enjoy myself when Grandma was gone and Miss Tania was watching me instead? Miss Tania reached down and retrieved a glossy new music book. “Here,” she said, flipping it open and giving it to me, “I want you to play this.” I stared at the swarming sea of black dots. Sharps, flats, cadenzas, trills: this piece was fraught with danger. I looked at the title of the piece. “Summer Memories, Part One.” More like Summer Horrors. “I’ve never played this kind of music before,” I stammered. “Only these.” I gestured to the pile of worn-out books on the table beside us. “Only classical? Well, it’s time you start trying other styles of music. Variety is good for you. This is modern music. It looks intimidating, I know, but once you get the hang of it, it will be fun! Come on, try it.” I set “Summer Memories” on the stand on top of Rameau. “Very slowly now, just to get a feel,” Miss Tania advised. Hesitantly, I placed my hands on the keyboard and dived into the world of unknown. It was a nightmare. I had to stop after almost every note, find the next one, make sure I had them all correct, then carefully press down the keys. Worst of all, the piece was six pages long! The longest I’ve
Running
We run until it hurts too much to take in another breath My breath is a thin jet of smoke, in the cold winter morning Drifting from my lips The sound of our footsteps beating the hard-packed snow is inviting And then, all at once, we all fall We fold into one another Every joint in our bodies collapsing Like a folding chair, My knees, my waist, my elbows, until I’m down Till my ankles are her ankles And her calf is mine And we laugh A pile of marionettes, Waiting for strings to be pulled up again, In a happy dance Astrid May Steiner-Manning, 12St. Paul, Minnesota
Jump
Suddenly, his falling speed changed Gary Evans stared down at the tiny world below as the plane soared over the lush Californian Redwood Forest. The trees had climbed upward noticeably more since the last time Gary had been in a plane on the same journey before, only three months ago. Only last time, he hadn’t found the courage to jump. He pulled away from the grimy window and looked straight ahead of him, counting the minutes until the jump. You can do it, man, he thought. You can do it this time. Gary squirmed around, partially from nerves and partially from excitement. It was sweaty and uncomfortable in the hot plane, and Gary thought he might wet his pants. The silk light cloth that he was wearing for his dive was not doing a thing to absorb the perspiration pouring from his pores. “How you doing, Gary?” a voice boomed over the speaker. It was the captain, Gary’s father’s friend, who had been instructing Gary in skydiving for just under a year now. “G-g-good, I think.” Gary’s voice was barely a squeak. “Ready? I’m going to come back here and have Lewis here drive for me.” Lewis was the copilot. “I’m going to come back here and help you.” “I’ll need it,” muttered Gary. The speaker shut off abruptly with a sharp click. Minutes later, Captain Lopez entered the small cabin, his swarthy body filling up most of the space between the captain’s cabin and the passenger cabin. He held up his hand in a thumbs- up sign, and Gary returned the signal, having no excuse not to. I’m ready… I suppose, he thought. The boy followed Captain Lopez to the hatch opening at the rear of the tiny plane. There, they geared up. Gary already had his jumpsuit on, the eccentric green grips for him to hold onto during the dive flashing at him. The captain secured a folded parachute to Gary’s back and placed an altimeter on Gary’s wrist like a watch. A few seconds into the dive, Gary was to look at the altimeter to see when he had to eject his parachute. But just in case he didn’t eject the main parachute in time, Captain Lopez gave him an AAD, or an automatic activation device, to activate the backup parachute. Gary gulped. He hoped he wouldn’t panic if he forgot to activate the parachute. Finally, the captain strapped a spinal protector to Gary’s back. Although it was bulky and uncomfortable to wear, the boy didn’t complain. He didn’t want to have back injuries for the rest of his life if something went wrong. The captain’s huge frame shook as the plane vibrated. “Gary, are you ready? Hey, man, it’s OK. It’ll be fine.” Gary remembered the fall, the exultation, the freedom he had felt on his first fall on tandem with Captain Lopez. He hadn’t felt out of control or even like he was falling. He felt as if he could do anything. Well, there wasn’t much he could do being strapped to Captain Lopez’s back, but he still felt it. Gary nodded slowly, feeling as though he might urinate in his pants. He forced his legs forward and felt himself moving toward the hatch, listening numbly to the captain’s instructions. “I’m going to open the hatch, OK? The wind’ll be whistlin’ in your ears, maybe even blow you around a bit, but just hold onto this handle and you’ll be fine. Then, when I tell you it’s time to jump, you’ll slip down the hatch head first—with your arms in front of you—and you’ll jump. Big X shape, arms and legs out like we discussed, yeah? Body straight and level to the ground. Le-vel. Got it?” Gary managed to speak this time. “Yyes, got it,” he replied shakily. “Big X.” To show that he understood, he stretched out his four limbs as widely as he could. Giving another thumbs up, Captain Lopez started for the hatch. He unlatched the three bolts that lined the opening and threw open the metal door, which banged outward with a dull thud on the bottom of the plane. Wind reached up through the door and slashed at Gary’s face, his exposed cheeks, and the skin around his goggles. Frantically, he grabbed onto the handle that the captain had indicated and hung on. “Gary!” Captain Lopez roared over the din. “Get ready for your big X! It’s time!” Gary’s mind was in turmoil. OK, this is it. Big X, remember. Big X. He stepped toward the hatch, the wind whipping his hair and grabbing his clothes, teasing his jumpsuit. He lay on the floor and used his feet to push himself forward. He could barely see outside, with the wind right in his face, but he could spot the red-and-green treetops of the Muir Woods and, beyond that, the sparkling glitter of the San Francisco Bay. He felt the rush of air as he hit the howling air head on. He felt a boost from behind as Captain Lopez gave him an extra hoist, and he was off. Gary Evans was skydiving. The downward surge didn’t come for a few seconds. He was riding on the wind, gliding gracefully down away from the plane. Oh my gosh, am I flying or skydiving? Gary thought as he whooped with glee. Then came the plunge. Gary banked sharply, his hands splicing through the air and not doing a thing to slow his descent. He began to fall, and he upturned his X so that his hands and feet were tapered upward. Then he thought better of it and held onto the green grips on his jumpsuit. He had no control, and he was falling fast. It was hard to keep his legs straight out—his instinct was to curl up. The wind forced him down toward the treetops, but he angled himself toward the San Francisco Bay. Gary’s arm got caught underneath his body, and something hard smacked into his arm. The
The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict
The Extraordinary Education of Nicholas Benedict, by Trenton Lee Stewart; Little, Brown and Company: New York, 2012; $17.99 The first thing I noticed about this book was that it is the newest installment of The Mysterious Benedict Society series, one of my favorites. I inwardly groaned because, in my opinion, the series had come to a conclusion in the previous book. I did not look forward to reading a book with a dull, over-stretched plot. However, upon reading the back cover, I discovered that it was a prequel about the childhood of Nicholas Benedict, an important yet minor character in the other books. I think it was very wise of Trenton Lee Stewart to elaborate upon Nicholas’s life, as knowing more about him really enhances the plot of the other books. In this prequel, youthful Nicholas is an orphan, traveling to a new orphanage under the supervision of Mrs. Ferrier, a “plump old woman with enormous spectacles.” Nicholas himself is an undersized nine-year-old genius with a huge nose. And, most importantly of all, he has narcolepsy, a sleeping disorder that makes him see terrifying figures in the dark of night and nod off to sleep at the most ridiculous times. In the opening scene, this odd twosome is traveling by train to meet Mr. Collum, the director of “Child’s End” (really “Rothschild’s End,” named after its founders, also “The Manor”). Here, Nicholas is to live. Nicholas finds that the orphanage is a rough place to live, but he will soon find a few friends and one immense, old, and deliciously tempting mystery—but it looks like he might not be the only one trying to crack this puzzle! One reason I loved this book so much is that I could relate to some of the situations, making the story more personal. Nicholas’s constant moving reminded me of how, in the past three years, I have moved twice. Of course, moving with my family is nothing like being an orphan, going from one horrible orphanage to another, but I felt a connection nevertheless. I also identify with some of the characters. For instance, Nicholas and I share an immense love of books. I would have reacted exactly as he did when he first saw the library (he almost fell asleep from the shock!). I also read relatively fast, but nowhere as fast as Nicholas, who reads hundred-page volumes in minutes! From the story, I learned quite a bit about narcolepsy. I think that it was very clever of the author to weave so many facts into this story. Although I really enjoyed this book, I think that if the book were written in a diary format, it would be possible to convey more of the characters’ feelings and thoughts than with the third-person-narrator style of the book. I also found this series to be very similar to The Secret Series (The Name of This Book Is Secret, etc.). Overall, this book is a well-written, fast-paced novel with a suspenseful plot that works like superglue—you just can’t put this book down! I especially liked how it combines real-life issues with pleasure to create a fun but also very meaningful book that I’m sure, in days to come, will be enjoyed by many mystery-loving children and adults alike! Marina Dauer, 12 Ann Arbor, Michigan
The Right Wing
Kelsey raised her binoculars and magnified the kingly bird Kelsey crouched lower in the grass. A beautiful quail (coturnix octumix japonica) strutted pompously around her pond. Kelsey raised her binoculars and magnified the kingly bird. She could see all its tail feathers, from the soft browns to the deep whites. She carefully crept closer. The bird was like a mini-peacock. She pictured it in the store. Peacock—now travel size! She giggled, and the bird, alarmed, took flight and sailed for a short while over her pond. Kelsey sighed. Quails were very rare this time of year, and she probably wouldn’t see another one. She gazed through the chicken wire at the tree’s red leaves, sadly drifting down to the ground. Kelsey had set up a sort of institution for the birds when winter came. She and her mom had worked together to bend chicken wire around and above their backyard. They planted lots of plants, bushes, and they even managed to get their hands on a palm tree. Heaters were placed around the bushes and pond, so that it was always warm. In the distance, a warm and motherly voice called out. “Kelsey! Kelsey, it’s lunchtime.” She sighed and packed up her stuff. Her birder’s notebook, binoculars, and the Guide to Puget Sound Birds went into her backpack. She hung her pouch full of birdseed around her neck. The gravel under her feet made a pleasing crunch as she walked. Crows flew up when she passed them, like the ripples when you drag your fingers in the water. She was used to random birds, like crows and magpies, appearing in her sanctuary. It happened all the time. Kelsey’s half-frozen fingers fumbled at the latch to open the gate. She walked all the way down the side yard path to the front door of her yellow-and-white house. A cheery orange mailbox at the front walk read 8281. Kelsey pushed down the red flag and flipped through the letters that they had. Bills… more bills… an issue of The New York Times. The cover of The New York Times had an owl on it. Kelsey was intrigued. She put down the bills and opened the magazine. “Birders’ Contest for Kids,” it read. “Two hundred dollars to whoever can spot the most birds in one day.” Kelsey’s heart leaped. A birders’ contest! She would do great at that… and two hundred dollars! That was enough to buy that sweet little puppy she saw in the pet store the other day. (She may be a birdwatcher, but Kelsey also had a thing for dogs.) She raced into the house. “Mom!” she yelled, carelessly throwing her stuff on the floor. “Mom! There’s a birders’ contest for kids and the winner gets two hundred dollars which would be enough to buy…” “Whoa, whoa, slow down,” said her mom, looking up from Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte. “A birders’ contest? Two hundred dollars to the winner? My, my, Kelsey. When is this contest?” Kelsey flipped open the magazine again. “Tomorrow!” she yelped. “At Sunset Park! Please, Mom, can we go?” Her mom smiled. “All right, Kelsey. We can go.” * * * Ow, ow, ow!” It was the day of the big birding contest, and Kelsey’s mom was brushing back her long, caramel hair. Her face was screwed in pain as the pink brush practically tugged her hair out of her head. “There we go, all done,” said her mother, leaning back to survey the braid she had made. Kelsey got up and called to her mom. “C’mon, Mom, we’re going to be late!” “Dear, did you remember your birder’s notebook?” asked her mom as they were rushing out the door. “Did you remember your binoculars?” she asked as they pulled out of the driveway. “Do you have your field guide?” she asked as they got onto the highway. “Got your bird feed?” she asked as they pulled into the parking lot of Sunset Park. “Yes, Mom, I’ve got everything.” A large banner was hung by the entrance that stated “Birding Contest.” Kelsey ran over to it. A lady was standing under it with a clipboard. Kelsey jogged over to her. “Hello,” she said. “Are you here to watch the birding contest or participate in it?” “Participate in it!” answered Kelsey. “Name?” asked the lady. “Kelsey Redburn.” The lady scribbled something on her clipboard. “All right, you’re all checked in. The contest is over there. You’re number three. You’d better hurry, it’s about to begin.” So Kelsey ran over to the stands. There were four big blocks, each numbered from one to four. Kelsey determinedly stepped up onto the one that read “three.” A voice boomed out on a hidden loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the contestants! Contestant number one is Ricky Delvosia!” There was clapping. “Contestant number two is Lily Michaels!” More clapping. “Contestant number three is Kelsey Redburn!” Everybody clapped for her. It felt great, hearing all that clapping. “And contestant number four is David Roberns!” More clapping. “All right, contestants, when the buzzer sounds, go into the woods. Whenever you see a bird, press your buzzer. You’ll find them on your pedestals.” Kelsey looked down. A buzzer with a button was at her feet. “Ready? Three… Two… One…” BEEP! Kelsey snatched up her buzzer and ran into the forest. At once she spotted a crow perched on a branch. Beep! Her buzzer wasn’t quite as loud as the other one, but she already had one bird. Aha! A starling and a robin flew above her. Already she had three birds on her list. She was off to a good start! Kelsey scampered over to a pond and saw a duck and a swan. Beep, beep. From here she could see the scoreboard. Ricky had seen four, Lily had seen seven, and Kelsey had seen five… But David… David had seen twenty-six! Even as she watched, the number went up. Twenty-seven… twenty-eight… Six geese took flight. She beeped her buzzer six times. Her
Dream of Dancing
I had never even thought about what I could do with ballet in my life. It was always just there. A little part of my life, one small piece of the pie of my world; twice a week, five o’clock to seven o’clock, barre to center. I wasn’t on pointe shoes yet, either. Ballet was just a hobby. * * * I slouch down in my white shag lounge chair and sigh. I lie there for a moment before grabbing my book and curling up to read. It’s just starting to feel like spring outside. There is new mud and water on the crowded streets below and the trees in front of the apartment are beginning to bud. My favorite time of year. Especially because of my eleventh birthday, in May! “Lavender?” Mom calls. I look up to see her standing in my doorway. Mom sits down on my quilted bedspread and smiles. “It’s Grandma Lilly’s birthday tomorrow,” she starts. Snap! I think to myself. I forgot! Trying not to look guilty, I nod. “We are inviting her to see the New York City Ballet perform Swan Lake at the David H. Koch Theater tomorrow evening. What do you think?” My mind races with thoughts of the New York City Ballet. I have never seen them dance in person before, and I am instantly excited. My grandpa’s favorite ballet to dance when he was a professional dancer was Swan Lake. He loved the blue-and-lavender backdrop of the lake scene. Sadly, he passed away the day before Azure was born. It’s also Grandma’s favorite ballet, though she never danced. It has always reminded her of Grandpa. “Great!” I say, and go back to my reading. The ballet is forgotten for the rest of the day. I don’t even think about it when I make Grandma Lilly a birthday card and wrap the pink vase I painted for her at Pretty Paints. * * * As I lie in bed for a few minutes after Mom and Dad say goodnight, this is when I finally remember Swan Lake. But it is forgotten moments later as I drift off to sleep. I dream I am a ballerina, floating across the large stage on delicate pointe shoes. I’m wearing a gauzy swan costume and a feather headpiece royally frames my face. My feet move like a swan’s should, gracefully, each step like a string of precious gems. Then I fall. My feet slide out and I lie still on the black stage. But it wasn’t an accident, I know. It was mystifying choreography. My eyes shoot open and I find myself staring straight into the eyes of a pretty girl with a long thin ponytail and blue-framed glasses. Sunlight streams in from the pillow-sized window above my dresser and I can see her clearly. “Good morning, Lavender!” the girl excitedly says in a soft voice. A police siren outside suddenly jolts my memory. “Azure!” I cry, and wrap my arms tightly around her neck. I can feel her heart glowing as I hug her. “Is Dad already off on his business trip?” She reluctantly nods. “But I’m here, right?” My older sister, Azure, is nineteen and in her first year of college in Florida. She usually never comes home because she always goes to my Aunt Kate’s house (she lives near her) during short breaks. Plus, we’re faaaaar away in NYC! We only get to see her on occasional short breaks and always on long ones. I slide out of bed and slip on my soft penguin slippers. “Want breakfast?” Azure offers. She has a sly glint in her eye that her glasses can’t hide. “What did you do?!” I whisper excitedly. Azure is the Queen of Tricksters. Butter on my ballet shoes (my dance teacher got so mad!), Jell-O smoothies, you name it, she’s done it. But I was surprised this time. “French toast on cinnamon bread! Bought it myself on the drive home from the airport!” she cries. My eyes get wide. That’s my all-time favorite food, except for the New-York-style pizza the vendor outside the apartment sells! I rush around the corner to the kitchen and settle in the light wooden chair closest to my room. Mmmmmm… I can smell the cinnamon as Azure pops six slices on a platter. I jump up, do an arabesque, and grab both of us tableware and sit back down. The two of us whisper until Mom stumbles into the kitchen wearing her blue bathrobe, disheveled hair, and still looking half asleep. “Azure, you’re home!” Mom cries. She hugs my big sister tightly. “Lovely,” Azure compliments me, “but just remember to turn out your standing leg!” “I know! I needed to be here for Grandma’s birthday, and to see Swan Lake!” Azure replies excitedly. Two years ago, Azure was an amazing dancer, the star of our studio. But sadly, she quit due to an ankle injury and never really wanted to try ballet again. She’s majoring in art and fixes to be a high school art teacher someday. I join the hug enthusiastically, and we stand like this for almost a full minute. * * * The day rolls by like a puff of a cloud on a breezy day, what with Azure here. Before I know it, it’s time to get ready for Swan Lake. I select from my closet a ruffled navy-blue skirt that goes well with my eyes. Then I add a sky-blue tank top and a white half-sweater with a delicate blue rose. Perfect. I stand in front of my floor-length mirror and do a pirouette. “Lovely,” Azure compliments me. She is sitting on my floor. “But just remember to turn out your standing leg!” “Well then, Ms. Prima Ballerina!” I answer, hands on hips. We laugh and I sit down on my bed while Azure does a French braid in my hair. “I wish Dad was here,” I whisper. Behind me, I can sense Azure’s frown. “Me too. Business
