I am bold but I still have fear Small as a bug on a leaf Step by step to center stage Spiders up my spine Shoulders back Lump in my throat Swallow hard Cloud in my head Think straight Words in a cocoon Make their way out Start to fly In the bright lights I find my voice Jane Trina, 10Whitefish, Montana
Judah
“No, it can’t be.” Slowly my hands caressed the sweetsmelling leather of his bridle, and my fingers traced the small letters engraved on the tiny brass nameplate. J-U-D-A-H. Judah. My gaze dropped from my friend’s sympathetic face to the bridle in my hands to hide the tears welling up in my eyes. The only thing that I could see past my tears was the shiny metal plaque on my best friend’s bridle. My chest grew tight and a sob rose in my throat as I made out the tiny red hearts that I had painted around his name. I realized suddenly that my lips were moving in a silent prayer. “Please no, God, please don’t let it be true. Not Judah. Not my stubborn, cantankerous, sweet, wonderful Judah! Please don’t let it be true.” But it was true. I knew that it was true. Judah was gone. Coming to this stable for riding lessons and meeting Judah was one of the best things that had ever happened to me. He was a sorrel thoroughbred gelding, kind of plain looking but beautiful in my eyes. There wasn’t really anything special about his appearance, except the large white splotch on his forehead that made an almost perfect map of the Middle East, hence his unusual name. But something had drawn me to him, and ever since the first time our eyes met, we were a team. I had learned to ride on Judah, and almost all of the blue ribbons that adorned my bedroom wall had been won from Judah’s back. The tall thoroughbred was an excellent teacher, and everything I knew about horses I attributed to him and my riding instructor, Holly. I had won many ribbons and spent many happy times on and around Judah, and when my father left my family for good, it was Judah whose mane I had cried in. We were a team. “No, it can’t be” Or, we had been. My mind was numb and I wanted to be alone, but I listened while my friend told me what had happened. After the first of several mild knee injuries that Judah had suffered over the last few years, his owner and my riding instructor, Holly, had begun to consider retiring him. After all, Judah was getting rather old. However, his quick recovery and the way he threw himself back into his work convinced her that he would be able to give riding lessons for quite a while yet, so Judah stayed. That was the way it had been after his second injury, too. But when the same problem popped up again, Holly had decided that it was time to turn the most amazing horse in the world out to pasture. She had made the decision without telling anyone, and he had left to go to another farm two days ago. I wanted to be mad at Holly for sending Judah away, but I couldn’t. I was too miserable to be angry. Already I missed my horse. Well, not my horse. Judah was Holly’s horse, and it wasn’t like she needed anyone’s permission to retire him. Only Judah, God, and I knew that I thought of him as my horse. Judah’s fuzzy orange ears were the only ones that I had ever whispered it to. If only it were true. If only he was my horse. But he wasn’t. And he was gone. I walked out of the stable without a word, never realizing that Judah’s familiar leather bridle was still clutched in my hands. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the stable after that, so instead I turned my attention to finding my best friend in the world. After numerous emails to Holly, I learned that Judah was still in the state, but Holly had forgotten the name of the place where he was, and she didn’t have time to try to find it. So, after that, all of my spare time was spent researching stables in the area and sending countless emails, letters, and phone calls to the owners to find out if an old sorrel thoroughbred with an irregular white splotch on his forehead lived there. Sometimes, if nobody replied to my desperate messages, my mom would drive me to the stable or farm after work to ask in person. Yet, though I knocked on many doors and sent countless emails and all my allowance money was spent on postage stamps, I could not locate Judah. It had been over a month since I’d seen him last, and every night I barely held back a flood of tears when I looked at the many pictures of him scattered about my room. While driving to my sister’s dance recital on a chilly day in October, we passed an unfamiliar stable set far back from the road. A pasture full of lush grass sprawled toward the road, and I scrutinized it, as I always did, for horses. Suddenly, I spotted a tall, fuzzy sorrel grazing near the middle of the pasture. “Mom, can we stop here for a second? Please?” The strained, high-pitched voice that asked the question sounded more like a dying duck than me. But I didn’t care. Tears pricked at my eyes, and my throat constricted. My heart pounded. My mom pulled over with a concerned glance in my direction. “What’s wrong, honey?” she queried. I didn’t answer. The next few moments passed in a blur. There was a house near the barn, and I leaped out of the car and sprinted to it. Almost as soon as I knocked on the door, someone opened it. After that, I don’t remember anything of what happened except for hearing the words “Judah, yes” and “go see him.” That was all I needed to hear. Blinded by tears, I tore across the lawn and vaulted over the fence to the pasture. “Judah!” I called out to my horse with as much strength as I could muster, ignoring the tears streaming down my
My Rope Swing
Threads of twine twisted together Working to keep me up As I swing into the air My hair trailing behind me. Crashing my legs into the bushes I get scratched all over But I don’t care Holding onto the rope with all my might. Wind slashes against my cheeks Bark and twigs fall in my eyes The branch sways back and forth, threatening to break As I spin around in a wild circle. Leaning back and looking up The tree’s limbs wrap around the sky Shining through the foliage The sun smiles and so do I. Alexandra Orczyk, 11Escondido, California
No Regrets
My sneakers pounded the red turf as I circled the track. Sweat ran down my neck and I wiped my stinging eyes. Beside me ran Rhonda Monroe, her braids flying out behind her. “You’re slow, Bailey. You shouldn’t be on the track team. Bye bye,” she jeered as she shot away from me. I gritted my teeth and ran harder, ignoring my burning lungs. I drove my feet hard into the ground, imagining that with each step I was pounding Rhonda’s face. I smiled viciously. Finally I skidded to a stop in front of Coach Leslie, just seconds behind Rhonda. I gasped and clutched my aching sides, determined to not look at her triumphant smirk. Coach Leslie smiled encouragingly as the other girls began to cluster around her. Finally, as Jenna leisurely jogged up to the group, she pulled out her clipboard. “Great job, everyone,” she said. “I have some great news. The Oregon State Championships are coming up. Three of you landed a spot in the champs. And the honor goes to Rhonda, Lucy, and Bailey!” “I knew it,” Rhonda said loudly. “I’ve won the Oregon State Championships twice. I mean, for such a great runner like me, it’s totally easy.” Lucy screamed and tackled me. I crashed into the ground and winced. Lucy didn’t seem to notice. She danced around me, her face shining with happiness. I pushed myself up and gave her a grin. I glanced at Rhonda, who stood off to the side, staring at us. I could see a longing in her eyes that startled me. And the honor goes to Rhonda, Lucy, and Bailey!” “The winner of the race receives one thousand dollars. However, other girls from many other states will also be competing. I expect you girls to come to practice at least four times a week, including our normal meets. The rest of you, we will just have our usual practices two times a week,” Coach Leslie instructed. “All right, see you on Thursday.” I ran to Mom’s car and threw open the door. She looked up from her iPhone and smiled as I jumped into the back seat. “Well, you look happy,” she observed as she started the engine. I bounced up and down on the seat. “I’m going to the Oregon champs with Lucy!” I cheered. “And… well, with Rhonda.” My mother frowned at my subdued excitement about Rhonda. She raised an eyebrow quizzically. I avoided her gaze and picked at the stitches in the back seat. My mother cleared her throat and I sighed, defeated. “It’s just that Rhonda’s so rude,” I finally mumbled. “She always makes fun of me.” “And you do the same to her.” “You would, too, if you had to listen to her sneer at you all day!” I snapped. My mother shook her head and stopped the car at the red light. I crossed my arms, scowling. Figures my mom would insist I had to be Ms. Goody-Goody angel. My mom turned around to face me. I braced myself for a blow about treating others well. But instead she only said, “Rhonda’s brother has a rare disease. Only an expensive operation her parents can’t afford can save him. It’s been hard on Rhonda.” I didn’t say anything as the guilt plague pummeled me. My mom turned around and kept driving. Guilt. It was the one feeling I couldn’t stand. I wished I could just go back to hating Rhonda in peace. * * * “Fast mile, girls, let’s go,” Coach Leslie called the second Lucy, Rhonda, and I stepped onto the turf. I nodded and sprinted down the track, Lucy at my heels. I could hardly look at Rhonda, much less give a snarky remark as Lucy and I passed her. Her head was down and she was dragging her feet. Around the track I whirled, Rhonda trailing behind me. My breaths came in short gasps as I fought for air. My legs pushed onward though my muscles screamed for a break. Finally I crossed the finish line, seconds before Lucy. We waited for Rhonda. It seemed like an eternity before she finally ran up to us. We hurried over to Coach Leslie. She was frowning as she whipped her red hair into a ponytail. I winced as she started giving Rhonda the stink eye. “OK, not bad. Take a water break. Rhonda, come over here,” Coach Leslie ordered. I gulped down the refreshing water as it cooled my body. I could feel beads of sweat running down my sticky back. I inched over to where Coach Leslie was standing behind the storage shed. I leaned back, pretending to savor the shade. Instead, I strained to hear their conversation. “Look, I know you have a lot going on, but that run was unacceptable. You got to step up your game or else Alexia is going to replace you. Once you’re on the track you have to leave your emotions behind,” Coach Leslie said. “OK, OK. My brother had another seizure and you’re, like, telling me to just deal with it. Give me a break!” Rhonda said. Her voice started to crack. She sniffled. “Uh, I’m sorry this is so hard for you. Just, um, try to calm down,” Coach Leslie said awkwardly. She was never the comforting person. She was kind, but her way of kindness was driving us hard. They stepped out from behind the shed and I jumped and made a strangled cat sound. Coach Leslie eyed me, but I avoided her gaze. “All right, we’ll run more tomorrow. Get a good rest tonight and try not to think about… other things,” she said, giving Rhonda a good stare. I nodded and wearily headed towards the gate. As I let myself out and walked over to the car, I still couldn’t believe Rhonda Monroe would cry about anything. * * * My mind forgot about
Willow
Willow, by Tonya Cherie Hegamin; Candlewick Press: Somerville, Massachusetts, 2014; $16.99 The first thing I noticed about this book was the fact that Willow is both the main character’s name and the title. I liked this because I sometimes refer to a book by the protagonist’s name and not the title. Willow is about a fifteen-year-old black girl who lives in Maryland in the late 1840s. Like many girls of her heritage in that time, Willow is a slave. However, she considers her life almost as good as a free one, because she has always been favored by her master. Reverend Jefferson Jeffries (what a name!) treats all his slaves with much more respect than other masters do. Still, they are slaves. Willow’s father is both Rev Jeff’s most trusted servant and his overseer, so Willow and her papa live a little nicer than most. Unlike many parents today, Willow’s papa makes all the decisions for her and is not open to negotiation. My parents give me lots of choices and support the things I want to do, like piano and competitive gymnastics. One thing that is very similar between Willow and me is that we love to read and write. However, my parents have always encouraged and helped me with reading, and Willow has to keep hers a secret. I have been keeping a journal for years and making up stories since I was little. Now I write some of them down, but every day I tell myself several stories that will never end up on paper. For Willow, writing does not come easily, as she has to teach herself. Her most prized possession is the copybook in which she writes letters to her dead mama. One day, while Willow is riding her horse in the woods, near the tree where she writes these letters, she spots two black men in the forest, one leading the other to freedom. Later, meeting one of those men, Cato, she discovers that he is a freeborn and lives in a town full of free blacks. Amazing! Willow thinks. A whole town full of free black people? Soon she falls in love with Cato and begins to consider running away. One part of this book which I particularly did not like is when Willow and Cato spend a night together in the woods. It is very romantic and has too much description. The author uses a lot of description throughout the book, and in some places, like this, I thought it was too much. The thing I liked most about this book was that you felt you knew the characters. Since it is written in the first person, I felt that I was Willow, and I knew all of the other characters. I was so excited when I got this book, I sat down to start it almost immediately. From the very first page to the very last one, Willow is a powerful book. It talks a lot about human rights and is very accurate and true to the times. One issue that is addressed as well as slavery is male dominance, the fact that men made all the decisions. At the start of the book, Cato is not sure how much rights women deserve, until he meets Willow and realizes that, just as blacks need their rights, so do women. If you read this book, I hope you find it, as I did, to be a good account of the times back then, written in a way easily related to by modern preteens and teenagers. Jessica McGaughey, 13Odessa, Ontario, Canada
2014, Fog
The world is full of fog that people put out to hide the wrongs that they have done (or are about to do) The world is full of deceitfulness and lies that is the fog of the world But there is another kind and that is of the countryside of my home where fog is real and drifts drowsily around old Douglas firs and house windows Through that slow sleepy fog I read in newspapers and hear on the radio about the war in this and that far-off country Though here at home I am safe and warm there is no war here except the occasional war between that stray cat and my dog aside from that there is only peace Later when the sun breaks through lighting tree tips and making colors bright and flowing down I run along the warming ground with my large black dog for both of us are youths and like to run he with ears flopping and tail bouncing and I with my hair bent by the wind Then I sit on a hill and watch the ducks swimming in the lake the herons fishing for newts and the hawks hunting for mice I can see a deer with her fawns the robins in their nest the bees going to work at the flowers I am glad that they are all still here. I think to myself this is Paradise. Abraham Lawrence, 12Eugene, Oregon
The Crystal River
Everything in the village was brown. The small, squat huts were brown. The narrow dirt road was brown. The marketplace was crowded and filthy and brown. The grass and fields, which always seemed withered and tired, were brown. And most of all, day after day, the twisting, murky river was brown. Keisha trudged along the path through the village one morning on her way to get water, like she did most mornings. Despite the sweltering summer heat, the older villagers greeted each other cheerfully and young children skipped and played. Among them was Keisha’s little sister, Afia, who was only four. Glancing briefly back over her shoulder, Keisha spotted Afia racing and laughing with a group of other children. Mini whirlwinds of dust swirled up around their small bodies, and they paused frequently to cough dry, hacking coughs. Another group of young children waved to Keisha, and she waved back. But the kids the same age as Keisha teased, just like they did every day. “Are you still looking for magic stones?” they taunted, and hooted with laughter. Some days Keisha retaliated, saying, “You have to go for water every day too. You know that it’s as brown as the road. You’ll be jealous if I do find a magic stone.” Today though, Keisha just ignored them and marched on, gripping the handle of the large wooden bucket. Several older kids who were standing nearby, taking a rare rest from their daily stifling hot farm work, smiled at her. “You’re only twelve, Keisha—stop trying to save the world by yourself!” They chuckled. “Don’t forget to look for a magic stone today” Keisha disregarded them as well. At the center of town, Keisha passed the marketplace. It was dusty and dim, but everyone laughed loudly as they bartered for a good deal. “I’m not payin’ that much for your scrawny vegetables!” one woman declared over the roar of the crowd. At the edge of the marketplace, under the shade of a lone tree, stood the old blind man that everyone called Grandfather, though only out of respect—no one knew of anyone that he was related to. As always, Grandfather knew when Keisha was coming. “Good day, young one!” he greeted her. “Don’t forget to look for a magic stone today.” “I won’t, Grandfather,” Keisha assured him halfheartedly. It was Grandfather who had first told her about the magic stones. They were blue, he had told her. A deep, beautiful blue like the ocean. Keisha had never seen the ocean and knew no one who had, but she could imagine an intense, powerful blue that she was sure must be the hue of the ocean. The stones, Grandfather had told her, were for wishing on. If you held one and wished, the next day your wish would come true. He was considered only a skillful storyteller by the rest of the village, but Keisha held his stories as fact. Keisha hummed a quiet, wordless tune as she walked past the end of the village and along rows and rows of fields. Her gaze darted around, constantly searching for the dark blue stones, but her heart was heavier than a full sack of rocks gathered from the fields. There never were any wishing stones, and she suddenly felt certain that there never would be. Keisha wondered if everyone else was right. She realized that they probably were and that Grandfather was only a storyteller. Anger as hot as boiling water flared up inside her, and she realized how childish the hopes were that she had clung to. Keisha quickened her pace, her tough, bare feet hitting the hard ground with slaps like an angry drumbeat. Many steps later, Keisha reached the twisting river. She straightened her faded, tattered dress and bent to fill the huge bucket with the murky brown water; water that her family would drink. The river—which was more of a creek or stream—was called Crystal River. But the water was never crystal clear, or anywhere near it. Maybe it had been pure at one time, but if it had, no one could remember. Now clean water was wishful thinking. The shallow river seemed to be narrower every day too, and it was scarcely deep enough for Keisha to submerge her entire bucket under the muddy, sun-warmed water. Standing up, Keisha lugged the backbreaking bucket up the short, steep bank and set it down. She sat, since there was no one nearby to scold her for being lazy. The warm sun blazed down on her, scorching and burning. Keisha ran her fingers through her black braided hair and held it up off her sweaty neck, staring miserably at the river. There were many small stones along the banks of the river, and another sudden wave of fierce anger washed over her. Keisha bit her lip against the strong feeling of unjustness, willing her emotions not to spill over into hot tears. She grabbed a handful of small stones, digging all the way into the muck of the riverbank, and flung them far down the river. The stones were in the air for only a brief second as they soared above the stream and then dived into it, but it was long enough. Long enough for Keisha to see that one of them was blue. She scrambled after it, but the stone had already plunged to the muddy bottom of the river. Keisha searched desperately, but she knew deep inside her that it was futile. She had let Grandfather down. She had stopped looking; stopped hoping. And now her chance was gone. “Keisha! What on earth is taking you so long?” Keisha turned and glared at her older brother. She leaped out of the river, grabbed the burdensome water bucket, and flew past him down the path, not noticing the weight. * * * That night, lying on a thin blanket in the corner of her family’s traditional mud-brick hut, Keisha listened to
Lane Seven
Legs, they’re trembling with nervous excitement. Muffled voices pulse through your head. You’re moving now Perched Tense at the edge. You grip the lip of the block. Your body shakes with the sound of the start, But You’re already gone. You slip into the water Like it’s meant to be. It is. The rush pulls you. Through the water you speed. Your body taking control Arms, legs, core Gliding in perfect precision. You snort something into your airway. Gasping for air You leave the perfect world for a flash Of a second. Halfway to the T Marble Seven in view. Can you make it? One last breath And you completely submerge. Spinning through the bubbles A hair away from the wall. You kick. Hard pressure starts at your feet It spreads, Rocketing your body backwards. A few seconds left. You’re still on fire, but it’s fading. Your speed is no longer faster Than your heartbeat. You kick it in the last few yards Knowing The end is near. You slam both hands on the wall Smiling, screaming, laughing, You pump your fists in the air As you watch The other swimmers finish After you. Keslee Peterson, 13Mountain Home, Idaho
Carrot’s Home
I used to own real bunnies in Shanghai, China. My grandpa always bought some for me. But my only distinct memory of owning a pet rabbit was in my grandparents’ apartment. It was 2011, so I was seven years old and as obsessed with bunnies as some girls are obsessed with “Let It Go.” My friend Giselle came to visit me and my grandparents, and she brought a moving present—a real, snow-white, fluffy rabbit! I had been wishing for one already! We played with the bunny, whom we named Carrot, until Giselle had to go back to her place. Carrot was looking at me wistfully through the purple wired crate. “If you want to set him free, do that. But only on our balcony, in case he makes a mess,” said my grandma. I swear, that woman can read my mind! We let him eat carrots off the cool, tiled balcony of my grandparents’ apartment. I lifted him up so he could see the ant-like people dotting the lush green grass, and the surrounding buildings in this area of crowded China. It’s safe to say that he loved when I did that. Oh, the summertime joys! We would sometimes walk him to the park. Lots of feral cats lived there, and they actually scared Carrot! We held him, petted him, and let him drink water from a little blue saucer on the porch. He ate carrots and played with us peacefully, until, on the fifteenth day we had him, we had to give him away somehow because we were going to another part of China to stay for a couple of weeks. We let him eat carrots off the cool, tiled balcony That night, while my grandma was lulling him to sleep, Carrot drew in his last breath. His heart stopped beating. His eyes closed. I knew what happened. I ran from my room to the porch. “He knew… he knew we were going away. It… it was his time…” my grandma explained, her eyes fogging up. “Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry!” I burst into tears and hugged her tightly, as if she would float away from me if I let go, just like Carrot. It wasn’t her fault. Maybe Carrot had a disease. Maybe he was old. Maybe… I trudged back to my room, defeated. I sat on the dusty old piano bench and played “Swan Lake.” Only this time, the song sounded sadder and more lonesome. I cried until my eyes were red. Red, like Carrot’s eyes, I thought. Red, like my anger, and red like beauty. While I was trying to fall asleep that miserable night, suddenly I gasped. I saw Carrot floating on the air. He had a golden halo. He smiled at me. “Claire, you must not be sad. You took good care of me. You can sleep in peace knowing that you will see me once more…” I knew I could let my past slip away. The future is waiting. Carrot was guarding me, like an angel. He was watching me, from heaven. One day, I will see him again. Claire Mao, 10Dedham, Massachusetts Catherine Chung, 11Theodore, Alabama
Babe Didrikson Zaharias: The Making of a Champion
Babe Didrikson Zaharias: The Making of a Champion, by Russell Freedman; Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Books for Young Readers: Boston, 2014; $10.99 Russell Freedman’s biography, Babe Didrikson Zaharias: The Making of a Champion, is a fascinating book that tells the life story of one of the greatest athletes of all time. Babe lived for sports and excelled in many of them, including golf, track and field, basketball, baseball, tennis, bowling, diving, swimming, roller skating, and boxing. Earning her nickname from baseball great George Herman “Babe” Ruth, Jr., Babe took the world of athletics by storm, despite the opposition she faced as a woman athlete in the early twentieth century. Mildred Ella Didrikson was born on June 26, 1911, in Port Arthur, Texas. She was born into a family with five older siblings and would later become an older sibling herself. Babe grew up with a group of barefoot neighborhood kids, and she quickly became known as the local tomboy. As a child Babe seemed to find trouble. She was often sent to the principal’s office because of her pranks, and one time she was found sitting on top of the flagpole! It wasn’t long before Babe realized her passion. She knew from a young age what she wanted to live for, and her goal was to be the greatest athlete of all time. Babe was a motivated and determined young woman who was willing to work extremely hard to achieve her goals. It was not unusual for Babe to train from early morning right up until it turned dark. Before I read this book, I wondered if I could even relate to Babe. I quickly realized we had more in common than I thought. First, Babe and I share the same birthday, June 26. Also, I realized that Babe was an ordinary kid who loved sports, mowed lawns to earn money, and routinely found mischief, such as hitching a ride on a freight car and jumping off as it moved faster and faster! What I enjoyed most about reading this book was the surprise and excitement the biography had in store for the reader. I felt like I became friends with Babe. I rallied with Babe as she overcame adversities, cheered with her at every victory, and was shocked when the fame-seeking tomboy from Texas wanted to spend time at home in her garden and flowers. I was angry when Babe was treated unfairly, nervous when her marriage struggled, and sad when she died at such a young age. This is a wonderful biography and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it! Babe was a strong-willed young woman whose life demonstrated that with determination and purpose you can conquer and rise above adversities. I highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys reading biographies. Ben Dauphinais, 11Yadkinville, North Carolina
A Mysterious Package
I slipped off my shoes and sensed the tough airport rug beneath my feet. Behind me, hundreds of people were waiting in line for security. I slammed my bag into a gray plastic container. “Welcome to San Francisco International Airport. Please do not leave any baggage unattended at any time. We are not responsible for any stolen items. Thank you.” I stepped behind a broad-shouldered man, who immediately marched through the metal detector. It began beeping furiously; he still had his belt on. Then it was my turn. I checked my watch and quickly walked through. It was 10:45 in the morning, and my flight had just begun boarding. So, tugging my high-heeled shoes on and grabbing my bag, I raced across the terminal. B-98, I chanted in my mind. B-98, B-98. As I glanced at a sign indicating that my gate was to the right, the corner of my eye caught something. A slender man in a suit with a green tie was waving frantically at me, trying to get my attention. I don’t have time for this. Come on, Jeanette. You do not have time for this. He looked desperate, and for a second, I thought that I had met him before. I raced over to him, my feet clacking over the din. What does he want? Now, about three feet away from him, I noticed that he was trying to speak to me, but that he was apparently deaf, so the words came jumbled, stuttering, and mumbling at high speed out of his mouth. Then, he took out a cardboard package discreetly and showed it to me with wide, chocolaty eyes. He fumbled for something in his jacket pocket and then displayed a paper and pencil. He was using the package as a backing, and he was scribbling a message onto the slip of paper. He held it out for me to read. His eyes were searching mine, pleading desperately “Please,” it said, and I imagined the voice of a desperate child somehow. “I promise, it is not illegal. It got through security. I need you. Deliver to my daughter in New York. Do not open. Please.” The man was tapping against the cardboard box now, and I looked up. He was pointing at an address. Will he follow me if I don’t take it? How does he even know I’m going to New York? His eyes were searching mine, pleading desperately. I hesitated. I must know this man. I bowed my head quickly as the result of some unidentified force I would never comprehend. I snatched the package and spoke to him for the first and only time. “Yes. I will.” I tried to show him that I understood. Then I fled from him towards my gate and did not look back. However, I did not need to. His deep brown eyes were still fresh in my mind. By the time I arrived at Gate B-98, my wristwatch read 11:01. The chairs were empty, save for a few travelers engrossed in their laptops or preoccupied with their earbuds and books. I walked up alongside the counter, where an attendant took the boarding pass from my hands. “Ma’am, is that your carry-on item?” She raised an eyebrow and gestured towards the cardboard box I wielded in my left hand. The last thing I need is a reminder of that stupid brown box! “Um, uh… yes. It is… my carry-on.” Now I was the stupid one, not the box. The attendant seemed hesitant, but she scanned my boarding pass and waved me down the corridor. I tried to take my mind off the man’s message, which was still stored inside my pocket. I fixed my gaze ahead and then turned the corner and stepped into the cabin, where two uniformed United Airlines flight attendants welcomed me aboard with practiced toothy smiles. I nodded to them and continued deeper into the plane, and sidestepped out of the aisle when I found my seat in business class. Finally, I sat down and pushed my bag and box under the seat in front of me with a sense of relief that the man didn’t cause me to miss my flight. I need to stop thinking about him. I shifted in the fabric-covered frame and got comfortable as the safety presentation began and the engines roared to life. I then began thinking about my trip as I looked out the smudged plastic window. I was just thinking about the fog, and San Francisco, and my house, and my husband, and the reasons for this trip, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see the tall flight attendant who had welcomed me onto the plane. Her hair was in an exceptionally neat bun. “I’m sorry, but your carry-on must be either entirely under the seat or in the overhead luggage bins.” I looked down, and I half expected the troublemaking box to smirk up at me. I managed an “Oh, OK” before unbuckling my seat belt and pushing the box with my hands the few critical centimeters it needed to move forward. The flight attendant, thankfully, was off on her way to pester someone else. Where was I? Oh yes, the reasons for this trip. At least GovMail paid for a seat in business class for me. I was bored to death, though, over the subject of Environmentally Friendly Packaging Policies that I had to attend a conference all the way in New York for. GovMail already kills the earth with their transportation methods, and people don’t care. The main purpose of developing “eco-packaging” was probably to advertise my company’s commitment “to saving the planet.” I really wished I didn’t have to leave my daughter for four days over that mess. I watched the wing of the aircraft as we took off, and it sliced through the airport at high speed before my stomach lurched when we levitated off the ground. As soon as we leveled out at our
Paradise Blue
When I grow up someday, I’ll paint my house paradise blue, An oasis among the streets. Wind chimes will line the porch, And will ring like almost forgotten songs Spilling into the depths of a cavern. Proud, leafy trees will hold birdhouses high. Like a giant yellow ball of joy, A forsythia bush will guard my house. From out of my open windows, Wandering aromas, sweet as honeycomb, Will swirl and spin and pirouette. Over my house, clouds will become Puffy white maracas and caterpillars. The air will shed its smog, And I’ll prop the front door ajar, As thunder growls in the distance. Emily Dexter, 13Carmel, Indiana
