Hero

Dear Journal, I see examples of bravery everywhere October 11, 1781. Dear Journal, I see examples of bravery everywhere. Benjamin Franklin is rallying up the colonists, hoping to unite them as a nation. Our brave soldiers are fighting England’s troops and winning, and basically, everyone is helping the war effort. What can I do? I just sit at home and play with my little brother, Johnny. I can never be a hero like those men. Well, I won’t bore you with a list of complaints. I only wished to find solace in writing. I shall write in you again tomorrow. Oh, and may I call you Mary? I fear I cannot think of you as a friend if you do not have a name, even though you are naught but paper and leather. Mother is telling me to go to bed. Until tomorrow. *          *          * I close my journal. It was sent from Father as a gift from Yorktown, where he is fighting. I still miss him, but this way, I can almost feel his smile through the pages of the journal that was his way of telling me he still thinks fondly of his beloved daughter. I blow out my candle, filling the small room with gray smoke. Too tired to undress, I sink into soft goose-feather pillows and fall asleep. I jolt awake. Thunder crashes, and ashes of light are up in the sky. Wind gusts and rain strike our small house. Among the rest of the noise, a high keening wail hits my ears. It’s coming from the nursery. I tiptoe gently down the corridor and peek inside. Mother is standing by Johnny’s cradle. Her soft, wavy chestnut hair falls down to her slim waist, and her deep-set emerald eyes are framed by long lashes. Her skin is tan, the color of soft clay. I wish I looked like her. My hair is gingery-gold and straight. Cool gray eyes are paired with a snub nose, giving me a rather serious expression. Mother’s eyes give her a happy expression, like she has smiles tucked into the corners of her face. Right now, she is not smiling. Suddenly I notice that her lashes are sparkling with tears. Instinctively I move forward to comfort her. “Mother, what’s wrong?” In response, she pulls me next to her and angles the cradle towards me. Instantly I see that Johnny is sickly. His normally healthy skin is damp and flushed. I reach out a shaking hand and touch him. His hands are cold and clammy, while the rest of his body is burning up. I gasp as he lets out another wail. Mother whispers in a hoarse voice, “Lucia, the doctor is so far away and it’s dark and stormy. I cannot leave Johnny for so long. I do not know what to do.” She breaks down sobbing. The sound pulls at my heart. I suddenly have an idea. “I will go, Mother!” Her head snaps up, and she gets a steely look in her eyes. “Absolutely not! I could never lose both of you. Go back to bed. Johnny is not in our hands anymore.” She hugs me and pushes me back to my bedchamber. “But, Mother, I…” “No, Lucia.” As I walk back to my bed, I fume at Mother. Why shouldn’t I fetch the doctor? I am old enough! A thought comes, unbidden, to my head. If I maybe went to the doctor without Mother knowing, could I… No, Lucia, it is wicked to disobey one’s parents. Johnny is so sick though… If I go fast enough, Mother would never know until she sees the doctor. By then she will be so happy about Johnny, she won’t scold me! Having made up my mind, I slip to the stables. As my numb hands saddle Birdsong, I grow more and more worried. It is all very well to make such a bold plan, but to carry it out is something else. The journey to the doctor’s is long and dangerous. Hard enough to make in broad daylight, to try to make it at night during a storm is like running into a group of Redcoats. Something no person could possibly survive! However, I have to try, for Johnny. The rain pours and pours. The wind heaves gusty breaths of air I travel on. Every pothole might mean injury. Every sharp turn, death. I stop by Potter’s Way. If I travel down this way, I might reach the doctor faster, but it overlooks a murky river. If I fall in, I will surely perish. Should I go? I struggle with myself for a minute. I don’t know why I am hesitating. I scold myself Lucia, think of poor, sick Johnny. He is your brother, do you want him to die because of your cowardice? I make as if to go to Potter’s Way, but a small voice in the back of my head stops me. Lucia, of course you care about your brother, but think of yourself too. What use are you if you die? Hating myself, I urge Birdsong past Potter’s Way, down the main path. Biting my lip, I ride on, trying to justify my behavior to myself. I jerk the reins and Birdsong furiously gallops down the path to the forest After some time, I hear horse steps following me. Somewhere, a muffled neigh is followed by a whinny of pain. Instantly, I am alert. Is it? Could it be? Horse thieves! Mother had told me many a tale about them. Mean grizzled men. If they caught you, they would take your horse and valuables, if you were lucky. If you weren’t, they also took your life. I could keep ahead of them for some time, Birdsong was a young horse, fast and sprite. However, horse thieves are very experienced. No doubt, I wasn’t the only victim who had a good horse. They would catch up to me sooner or later. I think fast I have an idea,

Monster-Muskie

In the cold, dark waters of the lake in Wisconsin, His yellow eyes swivel about His ns never stop waving I can barely hear the swish of his tail— Just a vibration in the water His brown-green scales are black in the murk His translucent ns are almost invisible I can almost taste the blood coming from his fresh meal Bubbles oat to the surface— He is feeding I imagine the raw, mildew-ish stink that clings to him His large nostrils are He hears, and sees my bright rattle-trap lure His white, razor-sharp teeth are moving up and down I feel the shaking, the pounding, the tension of my fishing line The giant, scaly monster-muskie swims away, The plastic chartreuse of my lure clutched between his killer teeth I hear a ping! as my braided line snaps. Ben Stieren, 13Omaha, Nebraska

A Moment

I roll onto my side, the grass damp and prickly on my bare legs. A speckled monarch flits across a big-leaf hydrangea sky. The breeze tousles the rose bushes, sighs, then rests. Nature’s beauty draws me in, but my own drowsiness, like the reel of a fishing rod, pulls me back. I let the blades pierce my neck, my arms openly welcoming the chilling sensation while a tree teases me with its shade, covering me, then dancing off. Peace envelops me like the husk of a summer tomatillo, like the soft petal of a sleepy tulip. Gertie-Pearl Zwick-Schachter, 12New York, New York

First Impression

She cuts me off. “It’s Rowen. And I’m busy. Good luck.” The white moving truck with faded blue letters pulls into the driveway behind us. I stare ahead at the one-story house that is now ours. Unbelievable. I look down, into my folded hands. The never-ending car trip seems like a bundle of candy right now. Will things keep getting worse? “Bay,” my mom says gently. I look out the window, oblivious to her coaxing voice. Diandra lets out a snicker. Fine. Let my only sister think I’m an idiot. Works for me. I close my eyes, remembering California. The waves rolling in, the sun beaming down. I take a glance at the harsh reality. Snow falling. Short houses. Lakes, not oceans. Why Minnesota? Mom deserves the silent treatment. She caused the divorce. She caused the move. Diandra doesn’t care, Mom doesn’t care, and Dad’s all the way on the other side of the world, deciding to live his life in Australia. Why didn’t he take me with him? Why did Mom have to package me up and ship me to the opposite of California with her? I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car. I hold out a finger and let a snowflake land on it. The delicate thing melts at my touch. Shivering, I tug my scarf tighter. Diandra hops out of the car, swinging her backpack after her. Only a few more years, I remind myself as she whips her dazzling blond hair around herself. Just a few more years before Diandra can drive off, searching for boys or something. Mom is out next, turning off the car, the old engine stuttering to a stop. She hurries around the car, her high heels clicking as she moves in a strangled run, working against her impossible shoes. I brush aside my mess of dirty-blond hair that is in two knotty braids. “Bay,” Mom repeats, raising her eyebrows in exasperation. I turn away, facing the street. No cars pass. An occasional jeep or something rolls by, a trail of exhaust following. “Come on, let’s be rational. What can be so bad with change?” My mom rattles on, but my eyes are fixed on the street, tuning her out. I scan the houses facing ours and turn back to the bumpy pavement that needs work. Then, a bike rides by. Wait, hold it. A bike? In winter? On the calm streets caked with a layer of fresh snow? A biker in this weather? A biker with—wait—no coat on? This is strange. I’m off, racing after this bike. My mom is taken by surprise, screeching after me, “Bay! Bay! What do you think you’re doing? Diandra? Diandra!!! Bay!” My feet thud against the pavement, my breath coming out in puffs of fog. I don’t know what’s taken hold of me. Maybe it’s the move. Maybe it’s the sight of something strange. Or maybe it’s everything tied up in one big knot. The fact that once I finally make a friend, I’m whisked off to another town, expected to rewrite my whole life. The fact that this is impossible for me, and that I never fit in. The fact that this girl might be someone else who’s in her own world. Just another person who is out there, different, odd. Awkward with everyone and everything. I keep running. The biker finally stops in front of a house a few blocks down from ours. She takes off her helmet, letting her short, choppy brown hair come into view. The biker rests her bike against a sign that reads “No Parking from 5 p.m.–7 a.m.” and locks her bike to it. “Hey,” I greet breathlessly, after I’ve caught up to her. The girl looks at me with her blue eyes, puzzled. She looks thirteen, my age. I also notice that she doesn’t seem to be cold at all, even though her arms are bare. “Hello?” she responds. Her eyes scan me. I hesitate, then continue, a little nervous, to be honest. This girl’s intimidating. Or maybe I’m just intimidated by everything. “I’m Bay and I’ve just moved in. Few blocks down. I know…” She cuts me off. “It’s Rowen. And I’m busy. Good luck.” Then Rowen turns on her heel and is marching inside her tan house. Her hair bounces with her stiff body. I’m speechless. My mouth is still open. I ignore the urge to call out and close it, disturbed by her rudeness. I tug at one of my braids, biting my lip, feeling tears welling up. “Just another one of those girls,” I whisper to myself. I just stay there, standing, staring at the house until I give in to myself and turn away, my head down. I slip off my Toms and walk home barefoot, ignoring the biting pain of the cold. The snow melts against the bottoms of my feet, leaving footprints. I give in to the pain, slipping on my shoes. I shiver and continue walking down the middle of the seemingly abandoned street. Thoughts turn in my head. I already messed up. School hasn’t even started. Thank God it’s winter break. I arrive at our new house and stand there, sighing. Our new house doesn’t even look good. It’s off-white with red shutters. Our old house was a brilliant but calm green. I remember introducing Coral to it, and how I could fool around with her, relieved that she didn’t care how insecure or awkward I was. But now, I don’t have anyone who cares that I exist. I stare at my dull house with hate. Then, I nearly get run over and have to hop out of the street to avoid the honking car. This brings me back to my senses. The door bangs open and Diandra runs out, shooting darts at me with her sharp eyes. Her hands curl into fists. “Baylie Natalie Gale! Where were you?” she shouts. “Around,” I tell her. She emits an exasperated noise and storms back inside.

My Sag Harbor

The heavy door is embellished With a whale knocker And on the side a doorbell That no longer rings. You walk up the porch steps And turn the cold metal knob Pushing against the force That never wants you to open the white door. This is my Sag Harbor. The houses are small With dogs running out in the yard As you walk into the town. Pass the little ice cream parlor And the restaurant with live lobsters Watching you pass with fishy eyes. And pass the toy store Crowded with kids Holding quarters to get their turn on the Coin-operated fire engines. This is my Sag Harbor. A shimmering turquoise is the color of the Wharf. Where huge crew ships, Put down their anchors, And tie themselves to the dock. The sailboats can be seen for miles, Clipped to their buoys, Floating on the surface like butterflies, In a peaceful order, Until a motorboat comes racing through, Creating waves. At the beach you see the rolling sand dunes, And the pebbles that litter the lining of the incoming wave. Like lace the rocks encircle each other, On the wet sand contrasting beautifully with The deep blue of the ocean, And the lighter sky. This is my Sag Harbor. Charlotte Robertson, 11New York, New York

Magical Childhood

Being carefree is one of the best gifts in childhood Memories… I am six years old. I am the hero of this story. Me and my friends are inseparable. For hours we play Star Wars. Some of us are Jedi, others Sith, and some Clones. The bottom line—it is pure magic! The worst fight we all ever had was over whose sled was whose on the hill behind my house, but it did not end our friendship. I wanted to write what it was like in my head to be six years old and compare it to what I would see now. Panning down on the neighborhood park, I fight the battle droids, deflecting lasers with my Obi-Wan replica lightsaber. My brother, Caleb, and best friend, Daniel, are beside me as we fend off imaginary droids. We then transition to “dueling” the other three boys, Michael, Jared, and Clay, who are also characters from Star Wars. In our minds we are on Christophsis from the movie The Clone Wars. As I go on a run, I see six kids running around playing Star Wars, swinging around their colorful toy lightsabers. Being thirteen, I really do miss those days. I watch them running behind trees and pretending they have “the force.” For these boys, there isn’t a care in the world. All that matters is just them and their friends. Being carefree is one of the best gifts in childhood. I just wish it could stay, instead of going away to all of the worries of the world. As a little kid, your most scary worry is the imagined monster under the bed, which is how sometimes it should stay. As a little kid, you just want to grow up, but what you don’t realize is, as an adult you will miss it. I battle the Sith. Neither me nor Michael will say the other one won. We will do this for hours, battling each other as Star Wars characters, pretending to have “the force.” Caleb would save the day almost every time by fending off one of the other boys. To me, my brother is my hero; he always seemed so smart. I want to be on his side so badly. As I continue to run along the park path, I have stopped and started to really look at these six kids. They laugh and play. They battle and duel. They fall to their knees and topple over to pretend death. It brings memories flooding back, and I cannot stop thinking of my childhood when I would play Star Wars with my friends. I think about the long summer nights, when being out late was nine o’clock, not eleven o’clock. Now we are in our X-wings, pretending to shoot at each other. Daniel, Jared, Michael, Clay, and my favorite, Caleb, run around from yard to yard, playing. Eventually, we “land” and I am captured. I am taken to an outpost where I try to escape but can’t. In the distance, however, I see my best friend, Daniel, and my brother, Caleb, coming to save me and save the day. I keep running, watching, and listening to the boys play, and I notice how much the little boy with dark brown hair looks up to his older brother, just as I still do. I am so much older now but still feel what that play feels like. That same little brown haired boy is taken prisoner, while a friend and the boy’s brother come to his rescue. They succeed! Now all three of them run away to go hide and probably attack once again. All this is ended by getting called home for lunch by their moms. They make plans with their four friends to meet back up to continue after lunch. Deep inside, all the while, they are hoping it is all real in another galaxy, and maybe it is. In this galaxy, it is just six boys and some movies, and their imagination. In a galaxy far, far away, two brothers wait for Episode Seven of The Saga on December 18, 2015. On that night, they hope that, just like when they were six, it is all real. Four of the boys will go to the movie at midnight, because it was all so much more than a movie—it was days of playing. It was the greatest thing in the world. Luke Brolsma, 13Blaine, Minnesota Gordon Su, 13Milpitas, California

One Last Chance

This was the last audition for a whole year, and Ella was a nervous wreck Ella wrapped her legs around the cold metal of the folding chair, held her résumé, headshot, and sheet music tightly, and clenched her teeth. She didn’t want the moms sitting in the back and the kids around her to see the uncontrollable nervous twitches she was having. This usually didn’t happen at normal auditions, but this was her last chance for a whole year. When she had told her parents she wanted to be an actress, they had shaken their heads sadly. “We thought you would make better decisions, honey,” her mom had said. They were both doctors. Her mom was a brain surgeon; her dad devoted his time to finding a cure for cancer. Both geniuses in their fields, and everyone expected their only daughter to be one too. Ella looked like her parents; she had the dirty-blond hair of her father and the piercing green eyes of her mother, but that was as far as the similarities went. While both of her parents were immaculate, her room was commonly known as “The Pig Sty.” She was the only one of the Parks who could sing to save her life, and, worst of all, she almost threw up every time she saw a drop of blood. Her parents loved her, and Ella loved her parents, but sometimes she felt trapped in a dark cage of expectations. She had wanted to be an actress ever since her parents were given tickets to see a Broadway show when she was seven. The singing and dancing had thrilled her, and the acting made her believe that the story was real. When they got home, she had asked her parents to enroll her in dance lessons, and she printed out the sheet music to learn. Now, five years later, she had finally told her parents she did not want to be a doctor. They were very disappointed in her, but, trying to be fair, they had agreed to a one-year trial run. Ella had said that if they took her to all of the auditions she heard of and let her enroll in more dance classes for one year and she didn’t get into a show, then she would not go to any auditions the following year and take the young doctors program. Her parents believed that Ella should start young to ensure that she would be one of the most promising medical students by college graduation. To others, this might not sound like a high gamble. She would be allowed to go to more auditions after the doctor year, so what was the big problem? However, one year is a much longer time to kids who have only lived ten, eleven, or twelve of those. It would seem even longer, almost like an eternity, if you could not do the thing you love at all. Dr. Parks and Dr. Brigham (her mother went by her maiden name in order to be less confusing) both thought this was fair and had agreed. They really did want the best for Ella, but they were sure that being a doctor was the best. So anyway, here she was. Her parents had dutifully carried out their part of the deal and had taken her to auditions from January all the way through to December. She had not gotten into any shows. Each time, something had happened to mess her up. Once, she tripped and fell during her routine, another time she didn’t smile once, and yet another time she brought the wrong sheet music. She lost her voice during one, skipped a paragraph during a cold reading in another, and held her music in front of her face so no one could hear her in another. It got to the point where it seemed that there was nothing more to go wrong. Before she walked in, she would pray to get through just one audition without messing up, but she never did. Everyone else seemed so experienced, so knowledgeable. This was the last audition for a whole year, and Ella was a nervous wreck. “Stop shaking!” she angrily commanded herself, but she couldn’t. She had learned the music and dance routine flawlessly, but what if something happened like all of the other times? Suddenly, a voice broke through the layers of worries. “Ella Parks, up next. Slate, please.” She stood up shakily and told herself, “Act like this is your audition. Like you already got the part. You can do anything you want to do. You have waited long enough for this opportunity, and here it is. As your grandfather often says, ‘Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.’ So seize the day, Ella!” With that, she felt her wobbly smile turn into a winning one. She stood up straight and tall, and confidently walked to the center of the room. “Hello!” she said in a loud, clear voice. “My name is Ella Parks, and I will be singing ‘Popular’ from Wicked.” She walked, no, floated is a better word, over to the accompanist and handed him her music. She closed her eyes as the music washed over her, and began to sing. *          *          * ONE WEEK LATER This letter arrived in Ella’s mailbox, one week after the audition, on Christmas Eve. Dear Miss Parks, We would like to congratulate you on your acquisition of the role of Annie in our production of Annie. We are thrilled to have you as part of our cast in this show and hope you will audition for many more in this theater. The rehearsal schedule is included. Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and we will see you for the first rehearsal in January. Sincerely, Trish Cassella, Director Stephan Fitzsimmons, Music Director Tony Lenti, Choreographer When Ella read this, she screamed and jumped with joy and excitement.

Out of My Mind

Out of My Mind, by Sharon M. Draper; Atheneum Books for Young Readers: New York, 2010; $17.99 Eleven-year-old Melody Brooks is a genius. She remembers everything that has ever happened to her, from the lullabies her parents sang to her as a baby to the words from every documentary and TV show she’s ever watched. Melody’s life is like a movie, and she remembers every bit of it. There is only one problem. Melody can’t walk. She can’t talk. She can’t write. Melody Brooks has never taken a single step, spoken a single word, or written a single sentence in her life. Melody has cerebral palsy, a disability that, as she puts it, “limits her body but not her mind.” Unfortunately, not too many people realize this. Melody is tired of being treated like a baby by her teachers, doctors, and classmates. She wants to do something amazing, like Stephen Hawking. She wants the “normal” kids to notice her and ask her to play, just like everyone else. Most of all, though, Melody just wants to talk. Words have always surrounded her, floating around like a cloud of air, always just out of reach. Her inability to speak is making Melody go out of her mind, and she is intent on finding a way to speak. Melody’s story got me thinking: What would it be like to never walk, or talk, or write? I could only think of one word to describe this situation: hard. I would never feel the thrills of crossing the finish line at a cross-country meet, or putting pencil to paper and making words come alive when I write. I couldn’t plant a garden in summer, or go sledding in winter, or ride my bike in spring. I couldn’t feel the rushing of water when I dive into a pool, or thank a friend for a birthday gift. Worst of all, though, I could never even know what it was like to experience these things. Yet, somehow, Melody still manages to always have a smile on her face and embrace life the way it is. She does some pretty amazing things too. Melody makes the Whiz Kids team, stands up to bullies, and even saves her baby sister from being fatally injured. All in all, I found Melody to be an incredible person, with an awesome personality to match. Out of My Mind really emphasizes the quote, “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” just like you can’t judge a person by the way they look. As Melody puts it, “You have to go beyond the wheelchair, there’s a real person inside.” Out of My Mind is easily one of my all-time favorite books. I loved everything about it, from the characters to the plot and the setting. I’d recommended it to everybody. Just beware, Out of My Mind is so great, you might not be able to put it down! Lila Gaudrault, 12Cape Elizabeth, Maine

Dancing Birds

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” It was a cold Sunday morning in the fall. The trees were bare and looked like they needed a coat. The ocean water lapped up against the sand, liquid ice. Two boys played by the beach, each daring the other to go farther into the freezing water. A little girl sat atop a sand dune, staring but not seeing anything, her eyes dark blue and blank, her mind traveling far from the chilly scene laid out in front of her. *          *          * My mind was with my grandmother. I could just imagine her sitting next to me on the frigid sand, in her bright red coat, pointing out all kinds of clouds in the sky, finding things that were invisible, like fat Arctic terns hidden between the sand dunes. Then she would take me home, make her cinnamon hot chocolate, and sit down and keep knitting striped slippers to sell at her shop the next day. My brothers would come home, cold, wet, and laughing. Mother would return from the bakery and settle down, close her eyes, and listen to some unheard music. After dinner we would all sit around the fire. Papa would come from the kitchen and tell a story about growing up in Denmark. The story usually involved his brother, Uncle Alge. Uncle Alge was special because he could feel no pain. He did ridiculous things. He once took a swim in the ocean in December, came out, and rolled around in the snow. My grandma would be sipping elderberry tea, Mother would be stoking the fire and drawing things on her sketchpad. My two brothers would be playing some card game. I would be listening to Papa’s story. Now Grandma has gone back to her home in Wales and Papa has gone to help Uncle Alge in Denmark. It is just Mother and I running the bakery. Grandma’s knitting shop has a big, mean, red “For Sale” sign in front of it. Mama says that once we sell the shop we will go back to Wales and join Grandma. I do not want to leave our town in Quebec by the sea. This is the only home I have ever known. I am Glas Aaderyn Eden-Pasãre. The funny thing about my name is that if you translate it into English it would literally mean blue bird bird-bird. As it happens, I love birds. It was seven o’clock when a knock splintered the soft morning silence. Mama opened the door and was met by a stream of apologies, in French, of course. This must be the postman, Étang, I thought. He is our village chatterbox. Once the swell of explanations had subsided, he handed my mama a small, rather plain, brown envelope, the kind of envelope that could not contain anything good. He left, and Mama promptly shut the door, locking out any further disturbances to our morning. She slit open the letter with a satisfying rip, as if ripping it would make all the trouble it might contain disappear. My mama looked distinctly unhappy with the contents of the letter. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again, an indecisive look on her face. Finally, after giving the distinct impression that she was a fish, she spoke. “It seems that your cousin Maskine is coming to visit.” Maskine is the daughter of Uncle Alge and my dead Aunt Marge, who died when Maskine was ten. She arrived two days later. I saw her in the driveway, a small, coat-shaped figure, looking up at the house. The house is beautiful, it has a looming presence that you cannot easily forget. She seemed to be relishing every last detail, as if imprinting all of the worn, smooth stone in her mind. She struck me as a person who would not miss anything. Perhaps she could teach my brothers not to dump their green beans on the floor for Galapagos, our dog-like pet tortoise. She finally came inside. Placing her suitcase down in the center of the entrance hall, she proceeded to start staring again, looking up at the stairway that spiraled like a snake, a beginning but no apparent end. At dinner that night Maskine was silent. In the days that followed, the silence expanded, an ever growing puddle. She did not seem to be able to speak. Some tricky hobgoblin had stolen her tongue. She seemed to wear sadness as a second skin. I decided to give her time to adapt, like a new species. It takes them millions of years to develop all the skills that they need to survive. If they don’t die out first. One cold December day I was sitting on my favorite sand dune. As usual I was watching the birds run from the crystallizing foam. I loved the way they did their complicated dance across the frigid sand, as if their feet were flying to escape the cold. I wish I could dance that well. I am a horrible dancer. When I try I stomp on my dance partner’s feet, and then my brothers keel over laughing at the look on my mother’s face. Soon we are all holding our sides, we laugh so hard. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” I was rudely jumped out of my imagination and back into reality. I turned around. Maskine stood there, looking cold. “What do you mean?” I asked. “The birds, of course. Aren’t they dancing?” And those words would echo in my head for a long time after that. In that moment she saw the birds exactly the way that I did. The silence still hung around Maskine afterward, but it was more comfortable, like one between old friends who understood one another. One morning, about a week later, the doorbell rang. I was in my attic room, working on my mechanical birds. I love to make things. Especially things involving birds. My father started to teach me how to make mechanical animals when I was five.

Finding a Bug on a Summer Morning

here this is a black dot. that moves uncontrollably in the slight breeze at odd angles in twisted, bent ways looking almost as if it is grasping at the delicate balance it now hangs in my breath is heavy as I try to make it fly, again the damage worsens and breaks this is not your final resting place I whisper my voice carried off by the wind I blow hard my tiny black dot flies away Ella Fasciano, 13Lebanon, New Jersey

If Only

I noticed the slightest little crack on the crown If only I had told someone about the crack in my helmet, if only I had run around the defender, if only I didn’t play in the championship game, if only I did what I knew I should have done all along… if only. I woke up at six in the morning. The game wasn’t until ten o’clock but I wanted to get there early. It’s not like I would have slept much later anyway because this was what I was thinking about all last night. After all, I was waiting for this the whole season. Just beat East River Middle and we would be guaranteed a spot in this year’s championship game. When I got to the frost-covered field it was deserted. Not many people would choose to sit outside in the early morning in November. I sat down in the corner of the bleachers and waited for the rest of my team to show up. It wasn’t long before other players wearing red-and-gold uniforms arrived at our home field. We started to gear up. I pulled my team helmet out of my bag and noticed the slightest little crack on the crown. I turned it around to look at the inside and noticed that one of the pads was out of position and half peeled away. It felt totally normal when it was buckled up so I jogged onto the field and didn’t give it a second thought. I knew this was a big game for me because when you’re the star running back and it’s the semifinals, the whole team is counting on you to perform well. The first half our offense moved like clockwork and we had a good lead. It was the middle of the fourth quarter, just a normal draw play, just a normal run, just a normal hit. So I thought. He hit me right in the head. Instead of hitting the padding, my forehead hit plastic. I went down. Hard. I sat there dazed for a moment but then hustled to the sideline still dizzy. Now I knew something was wrong. I didn’t go back in for the rest of the game because we were already winning by so much. After the game I didn’t feel much better, still dizzy and tired, and I kept wondering to myself, Was my helmet still in good condition? Was I going to be able to play on Sunday? I have had hits to the head before, but none were as bad as that one. There were only four days until the championship game and during that time things took a turn for the worse. I kept getting severe headaches and the first two days after the game I was sent home both days because I was throwing up at school. The night before the championship game, I sat alone in my room, wondering if I should play tomorrow. I remembered getting told over and over again that, if you get a bad hit to the head twice in a row, the consequences were severe. My parents asked me time and time again if I was OK to play the next day. I couldn’t tell anyone about the helmet because then they would connect the dots and think I had a head injury. I started to weigh my options but was so blinded by the fact that it was the final game of the season and our shot to win the title that I went against everything and decided to play. On the way to the game the next day I had that feeling in the pit of my stomach, like the one that you get when you know something is going to go wrong, and I kept wondering, Am I going to regret this decision? I forgot about everything when we arrived at the stadium. There were tens of thousands of people there—well, not exactly, maybe a hundred at most, but in my eyes I was playing in the Super Bowl. I got so immersed in my surroundings that my common sense went away, and I thought I was going to be fine during the game, but that little pit in my stomach was saying otherwise. For the first half of the game I forgot about my headaches, I forgot about my broken helmet, and I forgot that I was still vulnerable to a severe hit. All was fine until the end of the third quarter when I was sandwiched by two giant linemen. I got up and went back to the huddle, but my symptoms returned. It was a tie game and my conscience was telling me to go to the sideline and tell coach that I couldn’t play. That pit in the bottom of my stomach was still there but I thought that if I stayed on the field I could score the winning touchdown, so once again I went against what I knew I should really have done and I stayed on the field. I kept thinking about one thing though: Will this be a decision that I will regret? I managed to survive the whole fourth quarter and now we were down by six with only twenty seconds left. We were on the fifteen-yard line. First and ten was a pass play. Incomplete. Second down. Gain of two. A field goal wouldn’t tie the game. We needed a touchdown. Part of me wanted to be the star and score, but that uneasy feeling just kept getting worse and worse. Regret. Regret. Regret. I couldn’t get it to stop running through my head. It was a simple run. A draw play down the middle. The same play where I got hit the first time, except this time the stakes were much higher. The gap opened perfectly, I got the ball and took off down field. At the two-yard line I lifted my head and saw a defender running straight at me. During

This Real World

In this real world I can feel the long grass Brush my knees And hear the soft whisper Of the breeze calling Go home, go home As the daylight turns to night. In this real world I can see black specks Circling the sky Using high-pitched squeaks As they locate each other In the twilight. In this real world I can almost taste The sweetness of summer On my lips As the bullfrogs call Goodnight, goodnight. Meghan Waldron, 13South Deerfield,Massachusetts