Salty Air

My sister and I Scramble up the jagged rocks Our pockets full of shells, rocks And the occasional sea glass. My mother sits by the fire, Reading peacefully We grab sheets of paper towels On the windowsill, a menagerie Of tiny ocean creatures Unmoving now, glistening in the sun They sit there all weekend Until it’s time to Go. The sea glass is the last act in the show All others packed up Shoved into bags and jackets We always leave the best for last But when we get home, Exhausted in that exhilarating way, The memories are drawn out of our things We lock them in our minds And all that’s left is dull rocks The magic somehow all gone. They were always more beautiful When you had the ocean behind them The waves pounding the shores The earthy damp scent And the fireplace, crackling all night. Pearl Tulay, 12Amherst, Massachusetts

A Secret Freedom

Cali Marlin smiled in anticipation as she held her mare, Artemis, or Arty, as Cali liked to call her. Today was the day. Every year Cali, her brother, Finn, and their parents rode all over the ranch in search of Secret, an elusive mare, and her band. Secret’s band had been loose on the ranch for years, but a human being had yet to catch a glimpse of their lead mare. The only reason they knew she existed was by finding white tail hairs caught in bushes. There was no other albino in the band. By collecting her urine and running it through multiple tests they knew she was female. And the places where she chose to relieve herself showed that she was lead mare, or at least a very high-ranking mare in the herd. This year, Cali wanted more than anything to see Secret. “Ready to go, Carolina?” A deep voice drawled behind her. Cali turned and frowned. “Stop it, Finn. I’ve told you a million times to call me Cali!” “And I’ve told you a million times to call me Grand Master and Great King of the World!” Cali huffed and turned away. Finn ruffled her hair and then jumped into his horse, Pepper’s, saddle. Although the belittling gesture annoyed Cali, nothing could spoil her day now. She sprang into the saddle just as her parents came riding up. “Everyone ready?” their dad asked. “Ready!” Finn and Cali chorused. They set off over rolling pastures and moved gradually into rockier country with steep outcroppings and buffeting winds. The trail they were on followed a fast flowing river upstream, higher and higher, until they were in the rocky foothills of the mountains. Cali and Finn exclaimed every time they saw something that looked like a footprint, but none of them turned out to be legitimate. Around noon Cali’s mom pointed upwards at a massive gray storm cloud gathering on the horizon. “Looks like rain.” Cali’s heart sank. They would have to head back—the mountains could be treacherous in bad weather. Her dream of finding Secret would have to wait until next year. In a few minutes it started to drizzle. Cali was just beginning to hope that they would be able to keep looking after all when a bolt of lightning struck a giant twisted pine tree directly in front of them. The tree crashed to the ground with a resounding echo that shook the bones of the mountain. “We’ll have to pick a path around it!” Finn shouted over the roaring rain. Cali’s father pushed his horse into the woods around the tree, and her mother and Finn followed. Cali squeezed Artemis, but the mare didn’t move. Cali kicked her gently. Artemis stood like a statue. Cali was starting to panic. The river was already swelling over Artemis’s hooves. She gently pulled the mare’s head away from the river, but it was no use. Artemis jigged backwards, eyes rolling in panic. “Calm down, Arty. It’s going to be OK.” Cali glanced into the woods. Her family was gone. And Artemis was beyond reason. She danced further and further into the river. Suddenly, a wild current swept them both into the middle of the river. Cali felt as if an icy hand was grabbing her, forcing her under the freezing water. She spluttered as finally they were pushed momentarily to the surface. The driving rain was blurring Cali’s vision, but she could have sworn she saw a flash of white in the trees on the other side of the river. But before she could confirm it a foaming wave crashed over her head, pulling her and Artemis down into the turbulent waters. Cali clung to the mare, holding on for dear life. Artemis battled hard, thrusting her forelegs into the infinitely stronger current, but it was to no avail. Just as Cali felt certain that this was the end, a mass of solid bodies pushed them to the surface. Cali looked around and gasped. Bays, pintos, palominos, blacks, duns, and one lone albino horse were striking out for shore, pulling Artemis along with them. Upon reaching land they shook themselves like dogs. Artemis did the same, nearly throwing Cali. With a joyous bound, they moved as one across the prairie Then, carefully, they began to pick their way down the mountainside. The precision with which they moved was flawless, and even in the pouring rain they looked ethereal. Beside them Cali felt like an ugly troll in the company of swan maidens. Finally, they reached the rolling plains beneath the foothills. With a joyous bound, they moved as one across the prairie. Their hooves tapped out a speedy staccato, and all around her Cali could see a myriad of different horses all running to the same rhythm. She raised her face to the sky and laughed from pure exhilaration. With her wet hair streaming out behind her, Cali gripped  Artemis’s mane and let herself be pulled into a secret freedom. Aiwen L. Desai, 12Madison, Wisconsin Christine Troll, 12Somerset, Pennsylvania

Take a Stand

“Go back to China, slant eyes,” they would say. “Why won’t you just leave us alone, Tina?” In the beginning, I thought she could have just ignored them. But I didn’t understand what they were putting her through. I remember that cloudy Tuesday afternoon clearly. I had just finished my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. I sat on a tan, unfinished picnic table outside my classroom and tilted my head up toward the cloudy, deep blue sky, admiring the unseasonably cool weather for an early-August day. “Megan!” I heard her cry out. Immediately I knew it was Tina. Hearing the panic in her voice, I jolted my head up and automatically assumed the worst. “What happened?” I asked, feeling my defensive instincts kick in. “They told me they hated me and that all they wanted was for me to die. They told me to go back to China! Telling my teacher only upset them even more.” Tina said she felt trapped, and abandoned. I wanted to help my friend but I didn’t know exactly how to. I felt so weak, not wanting to confront the bullies, who were my close friends as well. Did that make me a bad friend and a bad person? Or did it make me only human? “I… I can’t believe…” I stuttered out, feeling my breath catch in my throat before I could even finish my sentence. “They’re foul. You aren’t even from China!” I knew this because Tina was always talking about her rare yet incredible trips to visit her family in the Philippines. “They told me to go back to China!” All of my confusing, mixed emotions welled up and scared me as I struggled to keep my head from bursting. Time stopped. I blinked and looked around me until I realized that I couldn’t even see. I couldn’t hear, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe. All that mattered was Tina. Emotions raced through me, sending chills down my spine. I searched my mind for an easy way out. I searched and searched, testing all possible outcomes. Still, I was confused and afraid for me and for Tina. She was distraught, softly sobbing into her knees. I then realized what I knew all along about what had to be done. I gave Tina a long, comforting hug. “I will take care of this,” I promised her, still with my hand on her shoulder. Before my brain could catch up, my legs had taken me all the way to the only swing set in the playground, where the bullies were seated in a circle on the ground. This was the place that the particular group of twelve-year-old girls always sat. They had claimed the red swing set as their “meeting place” to be respected and avoided by all other students in the school. I watched them for a while. I noticed the smirks on their faces growing as they laughed together about forcing Tina to leave. My twenty seconds of buildup consisted of a quick self-pep talk to convince myself that I could finally stand up for something. “You can do this,” I assured myself, “for Tina.” I jerked to a stop just in front of the girls. I still remember how I felt, staring down at them. Before I opened my mouth to speak, I took a very needed deep breath. “You need to leave Tina alone. She didn’t do anything wrong and she most definitely does not deserve you treating her like this.” As I spoke, their surprise flared and washed over them like a violent wave trying to drown out the sand beneath it. Each girl exchanged an angry and nervous glance. They obviously never expected me, or anyone, for that matter, to confront them. “What’s your problem?” I heard finally from one of the girls. “If you don’t want to be her friends, then don’t be her friends. But you owe her kindness at the least,” I demanded. They still looked upset, but after that I knew I was done. They knew they were done. That was all it took and I was astonished! Slowly, I turned to walk away. Bullies weren’t worth my time, or Tina’s tears. As I headed back, I smiled. I couldn’t believe the strength, joy, and amazement I felt standing up for my best friend. I hadn’t had the strength in the beginning and it wasn’t until after I had stood up for her that I realized the importance of true courage. I then, now, and will forever know that that was the right thing to do. I feel much more mature after defending Tina, and I will cherish the memory of standing up for her when searching for confidence as I go through life. Megan Little, 13Phoenix, Arizona Teah Laupapa, 13Kapolei, Hawaii

Matched

Matched, by Ally Condie; Speak (an imprint of Penguin Books): New York, 2011; $9.99 Part of leading your own, individual life is choosing whom you love and where you work. Imagine how drab and strict life would be if someone controlled that and decided when you died. If there is even one rebellious bone in your body, you probably would have despised a life like that. You cannot call a life your own until you control it, which everyone has the right to do. At least, nowadays. But in this futuristic novel, things are a little bit different, and Cassia Reyes isn’t exactly appreciative of that fact. Along with trying to deal with the order and rigidness of the Society’s harsh rules, Cassia is falling in love with someone she is not supposed to. This is like committing a crime. She knows what she’s doing is wrong, but she has to see the poetic, spiritual boy she fell in love with. This is when her rebellious side kicks in. Cassia finally realizes that the Society can’t make her into someone she’s not. This is where she and I share a trait. I am not just a lump of clay that someone can barge in on and mold me into someone I’m not, and neither is Cassia. I’m my own person, and so is everyone. Even if all your rights are taken away, you still have that. And with being your own person comes the capability to be with anyone your fate chooses. I love how the author uses poetry, passion, and desperation to bring the two characters together. Usually, I’m not into romance, but there’s something deeper and more indescribable than love in this book. Even when they’re apart, they’re still together; they’re inside each other’s hearts and minds. I think everyone and anyone can learn something vital from this. What I learned from this is that you don’t have to be near someone to be close to them. If you truly know them, then they’re on your mind all day and all night, even when you’re sleeping. Surviving without them simply isn’t an option. I learned that a relationship doesn’t just happen. It takes time, and that time should be spent together. It’s not about the appearance of the person nor anything else, except what they have to offer you, and if they’ll accept your offering. The foundation of a relationship is like a building. You construct the base with sturdy bricks, because you need to know if you can trust this person. If you can, the second floor is more lenient, and less broad than the first. Then you keep building up and the connection blossoms. You don’t just know straight away either. Cassia doesn’t realize she loves this boy at first. All he did was teach her to write, a forbidden concept in the Society, guide her through all her troubles, spend time with her, and admire her. But if that’s not love, I don’t know what is. If you want to see a powerful relationship built off of destiny and thrive off of forbidden actions, this is the book for you. Kira Householder, 12Scottsdale, Arizona

Movement

“Japan bombed Pearl Harbor! Japan bombed Pearl Harbor!” Yuki looked like a wild horse, galloping through the streets of the small, friendly town, her silky black hair flying through the wind. The glaring sun beamed down at her. “Japan bombed Pearl Harbor!” she screamed. “Japan bombed Pearl Harbor!” When two months had crawled by, and the event was forgotten in that small Japanese-American town, Yuki snatched a rusty red radio from her windowsill. The sun was streaming in. It was early afternoon, and a long shadow was cast behind the silent radio. She leapt outside, meeting a group of friends on her dusty stoop. The crackling voice began, reciting a shock. “Recently signed Executive Order 9066 allows people of any race or culture to be evacuated throughout the war,” then it added, “and most believe that Japanese-Americans will be targeted because of the threat posed by the bombing of Pearl Harbor in December.” Yuki could taste the blood in her mouth as she felt the inside of her cheek with her tongue. Yep, she’d bit off some skin. Another month passed, and Yuki had again forgotten about the day when the rusty red radio spoke those words. Just emerging from an orange grove, she and her friends were making their way home from school. Straight in front of her, her eyes were glued to a familiar wood post, for they had nowhere else to rest. She bent her fingers back until they screamed with a fire of pain inside of her. Her thoughts embraced the post, the imperfect edges, all the splinters from it that had pierced her skin, all the times she danced with joy around it, everything. She ran to the post, her friends close behind her. Cupping her hand so that it rested on it perfectly, she prepared herself to skip around it. But there was a paper in her way. A paper with bold lettering, tied to the post with a confident nail. She usually would have not stopped to acknowledge it, but she surprised herself and stopped in her tracks. She read it with worry—nearly tears—in her eyes. The radio was right. They (and all other Japanese-Americans) had to evacuate to internment camps in six days! Her mind raced. How would they make it? Who would she tell first? Before she knew it, it was all over. With nothing but clothes and her favorite bandana, Yuki was stepping on cold metal steps onto the cold metal train, her mother and her sister Keiko by her side. Her father had died long ago. The train engine rumbled and started, moving on the rickety tracks. All around her were mothers, their arms wrapped around their children, children with needy, tearful looks in their eyes, and men with their work caps, standing tall, clutching handles. Everyone was swaying with the train. And before long, Yuki felt like one of them too, swaying with the crowd, going to a place unknown. For one sweaty month, Yuki lived in horse stables. The space was so small that it felt like all the emotions, health, everything was spreading throughout the crowd. You could see and feel everything that the person next to you saw and felt. There wasn’t even enough room to breathe your own breath, say your own words, feel your own things, or think your own thoughts before someone else’s life butted into yours. Yuki desperately needed to start doing karate kicks, her fury and frustration flying with her power. Finally it was over. But nobody was preparing themselves to float home with relief, back to their beautiful lives. No. They were preparing themselves for something very different. Yuki sat again on a cold metal train, but the air was so fresh and cool, she didn’t mind quite so much. Wind was blowing through her silky black hair again. Her hair was flying through the fresh wind. Everyone else’s hair was tied up in a tight knot. Everyone else had stiff, short head covers of hair. Everyone else’s hair was bottling up their emotions and freedom. Only Yuki’s hair was free. Only Yuki was still Yuki. The barracks in Amache were brand new, you could tell. But that didn’t mean they seemed like a good place to live, a place worthy of human beings. People were already settling into their new homes though, and the dust behind the train was settling too, for it had flown in the air, surprised by the train’s passing. When the train left again, Yuki watched steam rise from the top, twirling then disappearing into the sky. All of Yuki’s friends were far, far away, and karate kicks weren’t helping. Yuki buried her face in her pillow all day, every day, for there was no school. Her hair was tangled in itchy, painful knots. All Yuki could think was, I’ve lost myself, the world is ending, and I’m only eight years old. Then she cried. She hadn’t cried since her father had died. Her tears were silent, but they were tears, dampening her stiff pillow in two dark circles. Yuki thought of the days when everything was going to be all right. Days passed, and the same thoughts and feelings passed through Yuki’s mind again and again, and she made no progress, whatever that could possibly be. She was a powerless, silent, motionless fire. She wobbled around on the creaky wooden floor, realizing that her legs were no longer functional. She tried to stretch her arms, but they were too stiff. She tried to squeeze her eyes closed in pain, but they were filled to the top with fresh tears and dried with dry ones. The last of Yuki’s personality was dying down, as was her life. She was struggling to live. The fierce temperatures seeped into her. Everything had to be over, there was no other way she could be living in such pain. This thought calmed her. Just take a deep breath, and in moments it will be over, and you

Goes the Ball

You know the sound— the clang as the ball bounces off the rust-colored hoop. The backboard, faded with use, trembles. You feel it vibrate. On the rebound, you throw again. In your mind, the ball soars through the hoop; a satisfying swish. Instead, the ball ricochets, landing in the mud; it splatters. When you pick it up, the ball is caked with mud. You sigh, and turn to head back. In the distance, there is a rumble of thunder And yet… the muddy ball flies, flecks of dirt trailing in its wake. You watch as the ball’s path forms a perfect arc; your heart leaps. Once again, you think of the ball soaring through the air, and passing through the hoop. This time, you hear it swish. Richard Ma, 12Kirksville, Missouri

Find the Sunshine

I was off in my own world, racing through the imprints of time I can remember as clearly as my own name, the sound of the rain pounding mercilessly away at the roof of my grandfather’s house and the howl of the wind outside the raindrop-painted windowpane. I slouched in the rocking chair in the living room, watching the rain hammer away at the wood boards on the back porch and rocking absentmindedly. The droning hum of the heater vent vibrated through the musty air of the house. It was all white noise, buzzing away at the back of my head. In truth, my mind was not in that gloomy old house. I was off in my own world, racing through the imprints of time. I was back to that summer, with my friends on the beach, taking in the sun and talking about nothing in particular. We laughed at jokes that made no sense and splashed through the surf, making an obvious effort to have as much fun as we could before school stole those days away from us. There was no telling how much I would give to be back at the beach, in the warm sun with my friends, rather than watching the rain come down, miles away from the seashore. My parents were at a Class of ’85 reunion, probably laughing with some of their old friends and catching up on years lost. Naturally, I was outvoted, and here I was sent to suffer in solitude in the musty air of my grandfather’s lonely old house. I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes. The silence began as the heater faded off, surrounding me, cutting through the pounding of the rain and the relentless howl of the wind. I listened for a moment before noticing the oddity of the silence. Where was my grandfather? For at least an hour, I had not heard a thing from him, which was unusual, for he was normally bustling around the house, occasionally with his cane, giving orders or letting Sparky, his highly energetic border collie, out into the yard. Now I could hear not a sound from his room or the kitchen. Befuddled, I rose to my feet, out of the chair, and curiously made my way down the hall to his room. My ever-prominent grandfather’s sudden silence held a feeling of gripping cold dread that wrapped around my heart like an iron fist. The pictures that hung from the walls in the long hall seemed to stare at me from either side, watching me, making the feeling that gripped me no easier to bear. Cautious, I touched the door to his room with my fingertips, pushing the light, wood door open. “Grandfather?” I called uncertainly. “Are you in here?” Relief washed over me when he answered in a clear, full voice. “Jane? Come in,” he replied. I sighed and entered, pushing the door all the way back. He sat on the tall, highbacked armchair that stood erect by the window, gazing out into the rain-soaked street. I rested a worried hand on the red fabric of the chair, furrowing my eyebrows in discombobulated confusion. “What is it?” I asked tentatively. Never was my grandfather this quiet, this withdrawn, so deep in thought. It startled me beyond all physical or mental belief and worried me to some extent. I had never really bonded with my grandfather, nor were we close at all, but the prospect of any idea bothering him this much was foreign to me. “Jane, could you fetch the photo album from my dresser?” he asked, gesturing at the old mahogany chest of drawers in one corner of the room. Bewildered, I scampered over to the dresser and picked up the leather-covered old photo album, cradling it in my hands so as not to ruin the antique delicateness. My grandfather turned to look at me and saw the way I looked at the old book. “Well, come on then. It won’t crumble beneath your fingers, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, the strength returning to his voice, seemingly breaking the brittle layer of ice that seemed to cover the room. Awoken from my daze, I walked more briskly to the chair and placed the album on his lap, stepping back after I did so. His eyebrows furrowed in thought as his hand ran over the leather cover, dull in some places but shining on others from the pale light gleaming through the window. He was silent once more, and I could feel the ice beginning to spread again, the delicate webbed frost spreading like a shadow. My grandfather sighed deeply, and a look of profound sadness came upon his face. “Your grandmother…” he began, fading off. “Your grandmother gave me this photo album, the first Christmas we ever spent together,” he said, talking more to himself than he was to me. “She told me to store all the memories I could in it, so on days like this one I could look back and remember.” He sighed, looking out the window through the rain-spattered glass. “So many memories…” he mumbled, flipping open to the first page. The picture was in black and white, depicting a man and a woman in a suit and dress, each wearing a brilliant smile. “Was that…” I began, but he cut me off. “Our wedding, a day I will forever remember, every color, sound, smell, everything,” he mumbled. I sat on the bed, not taking my eyes off his face. The former silence took over as he bowed his head over the photo, broken only by the patter of the rain and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. We seemed to sit in deep quiet for eternity, neither speaking nor moving, as if the entire room had been encased in amber, and trapped. Finally, my grandfather looked up at me, a question in his eyes, “Jane, do you remember your grandmother?” he asked, his voice brittle,

18 Things

18 Things, by Jamie Ayres; Curiosity Quills Press: Reston, Virginia, 2012; $14.99 Jamie Ayres has written an inspiring story about overcoming grief. In 18 Things, teenager Olga Gay Worontzoff suffers through depression after her best friend since kindergarten is fatally struck by lightning on their sailing trip. Olga feels responsible for his death, and that lie leads her to swallow an entire bottle of pain pills. Her worried parents send her to counseling, where her therapist has her create a bucket list of eighteen quests to complete the year of her eighteenth birthday. Through Olga’s bucket list, she manages not only to grow as a person, but to help heal the grief stricken hearts of those around her. I loved reading this book because it truly shows that even when something bad happens, you can turn it into something amazing. 18 Things also inspired me to write my own bucket list. It showed me that life is a fragile thing, and it can end at any second. That’s why bucket lists are important, so that even if we do die, we’ll be happy with the life we lived. While Olga’s list only consisted of eighteen things, mine ended up being eighty-five things. After reading this novel, I realized there were so many items on the to-do list of my life I wanted to experience. Because of my list, I rode my first roller coaster, went ice skating and roller skating, climbed a rock wall, carved my name into a tree, competed in a mud run, sent a message in a bottle, learned to ride a bike, and so much more. I even took some things off Olga’s list, like watching a meteor shower, spent a day following what a Magic 8 Ball said, and started watching the one hundred greatest movies of all time. I’m still working on completing my bucket list, but the experiences I’ve had so far have been out of this world. My bucket list helped me overcome my fears and accomplish things I never dreamed I was capable of. 18 Things was a wake-up call to me. Before reading this book, I was just living every day going through the motions. Now, I am truly living to the fullest, and I’ve learned to appreciate every minute of life. Not only has 18 Things affected my life, but the life of those around me. I’ve lent this book to nearly all my friends at my school, and they’ve loved the story, too. Every single one of them has rushed to make their bucket list after reading it. The only thing I didn’t like about 18 Things was the ending, and not because the resolution wasn’t good. It just made me cry so hard! I couldn’t believe the author ended the story in such a way, not after everything that happened. Although I had my suspicions about the ending all along, when it struck like lightning, it was like a part of me died. I don’t know if the ending was necessary, but I’m confident the author will find a way to weave the plot twist perfectly into her next installments of the trilogy in more unexpected ways. I can’t wait to see what’s in store for Olga, Nate, and all my other favorite characters. 18 Things is my all-time favorite book, and I recommend the novel to readers of all ages who enjoy coming-of-age love stories with paranormal twists. If you do read 18 Things, be ready to laugh, cry, and have your whole world turned upside down. Kaylee Ayres, 13Cape Coral, Florida

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

My Grandmother’s Earrings

By Tatum Schutt Illustrated by Phoebe Wagoner “Why are you twisting your earrings like that?” So there I was, trying to keep my voice calm as I laid out my case to my archenemy on her front stoop. “You just have to promise,” I said, hating how my voice sounded so weak and pleading. Jess regarded me like a dead mouse her cat had dropped at her door. “Fine!” she finally spit at my feet, and promptly slammed the door in my face. My shoulders relaxed and I grinned as I got on my bike and rushed away, the warm summer air whooshing by my face. By some evil force of nature, Jess and I had both ended up at Interstock Sleep-Away Camp for the same two weeks, in the same cabin. I had stopped by her house the day before we left to insure it was safe. I hated it when people felt bad for me. The next day I was ready with my duffle when the bus pulled up. I gave my mom and dad one last kiss when my mom pulled me back. “Are you sure you want to do this, sweetie? After what happened, you…” I cut her off before she could finish her sentence. “Of course I do! I love you, bye!” I shouted over my shoulder as I ran to the bus, my duffle hitting the backs of my knees. The doors opened with a swish and I was instantly barraged with the cheerful, bird-like chattering of happy campers. Coupled with it was the smell of lemons and lavender, which was odd, but I shook it off. Maybe someone was drinking lemonade. My face burst into a grin as bright as a supernova as I sat down next to a girl with kinky brown hair and introduced myself. There was no way I would let Jess ruin this for me. *          *          * The drone of mosquitoes filled the air as Nicole, the girl I sat with on the bus, and I anxiously swatted them away. Today was our first archery contest, and everyone was on edge. “Why are you twisting your earrings like that?” Nicole asked curiously. I immediately put my hand down and turned a bit red. I hadn’t realized I had been doing it. “I do it when I am nervous,” I said. Suddenly Jess emerged from the background of girls. “No offense, but they look really old-fashioned,” she said loudly, and I felt my face heat up like a pit of lava as more girls surrounded me. Suddenly I blurted out, “I only wear them because my mom makes me. My grandmother gave them to me, and she has really bad taste.” I laughed meanly. “Is that the same grandmother you’re always quoting?” Jess asked innocently. The obvious answer was yes, and my face felt as hot as a pan in the oven. I looked to Nicole for help, but she was staring intently at the ground. A girl from the crowd said, “Why don’t you take them off? Your mother would never know.” Others from my cabin chimed in, voicing their opinions. “I never thought of that!” I said, faking a surprised expression and shoving the earrings deep into my pocket. I shot terribly, barely making the target. The earrings were a lump of regret and embarrassment pressing against me, like the lump you get in your throat before you cry. When at last the day was over, I threw my shorts on the ground and dove head first into the forgiving folds of the cold sheets. *          *          * The next morning, I awoke before everyone to the eerie sound of an owl calling to its mate. I reached instinctively to my ears before the events of the day before came rushing back like muddy water when a dam breaks. I sat down with a plunk. I couldn’t believe I had lied to my cabin mates just because of something Jess had said. I decided to start fresh and tell everyone the truth about my grandmother and the earrings. I swore that I would never take them off again. I reached into my crumpled shorts pocket to get the earrings. I groped and groped around, but my fist closed around only emptiness. My breathing became more rapid as my heart seemed to rise to my throat. I was shaking out my shorts when reveille was played, signaling everyone to get up. Someone turned on the light and Nicole said, “Cicile, what’s the matter? Your face is all white.” I slowly put my hand up to my ears. “My earrings!” I said. “They’re gone!” Several people groaned. One girl, named Cathy, said, “What’s so important about those earrings anyway? You said yourself, they are really old-fashioned.” I sat down heavily on my bed. When I read this I nearly fell over with shock “Let’s just get this over with. My grandmother, the one I am always talking about, died two months ago. She gave me those earrings three weeks before she died. They were the only thing I had to remember her by.” I looked up and was met with eight pitying looks. Jess was the only one who was not looking at me; she was glaring at her lap. “She made me promise not to tell,” she said spitefully. “Why didn’t you want us to know?” Cathy asked softly. “I don’t like being pitied,” I said truthfully. “OK,” Nicole said suddenly, breaking the soft silence. “Who took them?” she asked, and everyone turned their heads and fixed their eyes pointedly on Jess. “Hey,” she said. “I don’t think the question is who took them so much as what took them.” I let out a little gasp. “Do you mean…do you think it was my grandmother’s ghost?” Jess nodded gravely. Suddenly the breakfast bell rang, breaking the silence like a class full

Baking Cookies

Since the beginning of time itself, my mom, my sister, and I have baked chocolate-chip cookies. They’re not amazing or perfect and definitely not round, but to us they’re as good as paradise. We bake them all the time, on rainy evenings, or mopey afternoons, or cozy Sunday mornings. If you scavenged through our kitchen and found that cookbook, in its rightful place beside the toaster, you would see the recipe forever open to that spot. You would see the splattered batter marks. You could even count the thousand chocolaty fingerprints. Today, we will bake them again, stirring up all our memories in the mixing bowl. We cascade into the kitchen, hollering and whooping and turning on cheerful music. We all dance, and Zoe sings, her sweet melodies rising into the air. We do a lot of things, but mostly, we bake. I dump in teaspoon after teaspoon. Cup after cup. I add vanilla, contemplate, and then add more. We pull out ingredients from cupboards. Flour flies, and batter drips. All the while my dog licks up the mess. Spatter, lick, spatter, lick. It goes on like this for a while until we have successfully put the pan into the oven. We stare in, oohing and aahing at the soon-to-be cookies. Now all there is left to do is wait. And check the timer, and wait. And peer in through the oven glass and wait. And wait. With nimble fingers, my mom pulls our legendary cookies from the oven. They are the yummiest shade of buttery brown. The chips are melted completely, mixed into the soft cookie. Perfect. Only then does my dad come down to admire. Only then does my sister stop texting. Now, it is time for our little feast. I add vanilla, contemplate, and then add more When I was little, and Zoe was little, we would pretend to have tea parties. I would lay out a pink crocheted blanket, on which we’d all sit, as if on a picnic. We’d sip milk from small teacups, and talk in English accents. My sister and I were usually princesses, and my mom, the queen. Now, as time progresses and we are all too old for make-believe, my family sits at the kitchen counter, just our plain old selves. We guzzle cookies, not trying to be proper or princess-like. We talk too. About regular things, about school, about what we’ll cook next. It usually turns out to be those same cookies. About past and future, and right now. Maybe we don’t play pretend anymore, but I’m sure we love these cookies as much as any queen of England ever could. Maybe even more. Ennya Papastoitsis, 11Watertown, Massachusetts Onalee Higgins, 13Galesville, Wisconsin