Half a World Away, by Cynthia Kadohata; Atheneum Books for Young Readers: New York, 2014; $16.99 Electricity: It creates lightning, turns on the TV, generates power. A microscopic current. Something that we cannot see, that connects us all. The concept fascinates twelve-year-old Jaden. But what he can’t understand is this: he doesn’t feel connected to anyone. So he lights fires. Hoards food. Steals. Runs until his anger beats him to the ground. His biological mother didn’t want him. And while his adoptive parents say they love him, Jaden feels… nothing. Or, something, actually. Like an epic fail. And now Jaden’s parents want to adopt a new kid, so they pack up and fly with Jaden halfway around the world to get one. In Kazakhstan, Jaden’s smoldering anger flares. He knows what will happen next. Or does he? Have you ever known someone, close, who loves you but you did not love them back? That’s how Jaden feels about his adoptive parents. Jaden was abandoned by his mother when he was four, and he has told himself he will never love another. And he doesn’t, or at least not until the extraordinary chain of events that occurs when Jaden and his adoptive parents visit Kazakhstan to adopt another child. Half a World Away taught me that love is an amazing thing and can completely transform someone. When I started reading this novel, I thought Jaden was kind of an obnoxious brat. He has a cell phone and a computer of his own but is sarcastic to his parents, steals money, and hides food. And I’m speaking about stealing more than loose change every now and then. Try thirty dollars! Then I began to feel sympathy for him, because of his situation. And because of the feelings of love for his adoptive parents that Jaden has unintentionally locked up deep inside his soul where he can never find them. Jaden’s adoptive parents, Steve and Penni, are actually pretty nice. It’s just Jaden who is the problem. Or that’s how he feels, anyway. Jaden believes that he’s just a big screwup, and everything’s his fault. Sometimes I feel like a failure too. I can relate to Jaden, entirely, because he has trouble controlling his anger and I feel the same way at times. Also, Jaden’s biological mother abandoned him at a very young age. I have not had contact with my biological mother—who lives in a foreign country—in over six years. I share Jaden’s pain. I have a stepmother, and sometimes I wish that I lived with my real mother instead. This book taught me to just be grateful for the family I already have instead of wishing for one that does not seem possible. Jaden feels that Steve and Penni are looking for a new child to replace him. But when they get to Kazakhstan, they find out the baby they wanted was already adopted. While Steve and Penni look for a new baby to adopt, Jaden struggles with his feelings. Sometimes, I feel I, too, am alone in wrestling with my emotions. This book served to remind me I am not alone. Half a World Away made me want to cry at some of the sadder parts and jump up and down at the happy parts. This book moved me. I usually don’t read stories like this. Instead, I read adventure stories about dragons or wizards. But I’m glad I read this book, because it made me grateful for who I am, what I have, and most importantly, the family I do have, rather than the family I do not have. Kobe Simon, 11Scottsdale, Arizona
Girl’s Best Friend
My curly red hair flew out behind me as I ran. What I desperately needed was a place where I could be alone, a place where all there was for company were the chirping of crickets, the flapping of birds, and the occasional breeze. Luckily, I knew exactly where that was. Lost in my determination of my journey, and so absorbed in my thoughts that a stray twig slashed a cut on my ankle as I ran—it didn’t matter. Nothing matters when the most faithful dog you’ve ever known leaves Earth, because then it seems like the world is over, and what is a little gash compared to the loss of the greatest dog in the world? Finally, after much huffing and puffing, I stopped at the creek. My creek. My place. My hideout. Looking in the water, I pouted, and in the water a freckle-faced girl pouted back at me. But she was soon swept away with the rush of playful little waves frolicking on the rocks. The laughing waves left behind mounds of tiny bubbles, and I could see the reflections of hundreds of geese circling overhead, all squawking noisily. It was nice to let myself sink into another world, to escape from one in pieces… A single teardrop fell through the creek. I thought, and mourned over what had happened just hours earlier as I sat down, dipping my feet into the creek. This morning, my dog, the best dog in the world, who, after eight healthy, fun, and very spoiled years, had got run over. Now that I think about it, Spotz had not been just my dog. Spotz had been my life’s companion. She never criticized me. Instead, she comforted me. And when I was upset, when I had a bad day, or when we got some bad news from the bank, Spotz would always trot along with me—no matter how much she’d rather explore our food pantry, or roll in the mud—to this creek, to our place. To our own secret hideout that only we knew. To where I could calm down my anger—and today I had a lot of anger bottled up inside me. I was mad at myself for never realizing until now how important Spotz had been in my life. And now Spotz had… It was much too late now. Spotz had not been just my dog. Spotz had been my life’s companion. If I had stayed at home instead of going to Cecilia’s sleepover, none of this would have happened. Spotz would accompany me to my rough years, and maybe she’d even see me graduate! I had a dozen questions for myself. Didn’t I know that Spotz was scared of thunder and hated it? Didn’t I know that there would be a storm that night, yet I still went to the sleepover, leaving dear Spotz all alone? Didn’t I know that when Spotz heard thunder, she’d dig a tunnel beneath the fence to escape? That she would be terrified? That she would be out of her mind? That… that she’d accidentally get run over by a car? No, a tiny voice in my head whispered. You couldn’t have known that Spotz would get run over. True. But… for not thinking about my beloved Spotz, for focusing on the sleepover, did that make me a bad person? Replaying the events in my head was too painful for words. How Spotz had playfully licked my hand and looked me in the eye for what I didn’t know then was the last time. And seeing Spotz’s limp body on the side of the road, helping Mom and Dad bury her… it was all too much… I couldn’t stand it. And I cried. First, tears welled up in my eyes, then, gradually, a flow of tears began dripping down in the creek. Lying down on the cool black earth, I cried myself to dreams, while the serene scene before me faded away slowly. * * * “Jeana, Jeana, wake up!” Annoyed at this, I sat up. Blinking a million times faster than usual, I gaped at the tall, brown-haired woman beside me by the creek, sitting patiently. It was Mom!!!! Suddenly, I felt flustered, shocked, and a mixture of all the emotions that make you go red in the face, and I’m positive that my face had turned into an awkward-looking tomato. “Er, how, ho-how, di-did you fi-fi-find…” I sputtered, knowing that my words made no sense. Mom surveyed my face. Gently, she said, “Jeana, when I heard, I knew what you would do. The number of times I saw Spotz and you come here…” She grasped my hand tightly, and I saw her eyes glistening with tears. A shadow of guilt flickered across them. “Your dad and I should’ve watched her more carefully. I know how much Spotz meant to you. I… I really, really am sorry.” Mom sniffed. So did I. Mom continued, “It’s hard, I know, but try thinking the other way. Spotz had a great eight years with us. It’s OK to mourn now, but remember, you’ve still got a life to lead. Spotz may be gone, but she won’t ever go away in our hearts.” Mom didn’t get up, and her presence itself was comforting. As we watched the orange sky dissolve into an indigo night, it was then I realized just how much Spotz had been a part of my life. Catherine Chung, 10Theodore, Alabama
Racing Coconuts
I feel the thrill of the moment as my coconut wobbles, surprisingly fast, past me “Truth or Dare?” my best friend Jackson challenges me. I glance around at my circle of friends like they might have an answer. “Dare,” I say confidently. My friends and I always get together Saturday evenings. We’re gathered around a campfire eating marshmallows on a beach in Florida. Just then, Jackson grins wickedly at a tall palm tree with four coconuts cradled under its huge green leaves, and then back at me. “Simon—I dare you to a coconut race with me. Take it or leave it.” “I’ll take it,” I say, feeling my face turn red like it always does when I’m excited. Jackson and I know the drill. We each jog over to separate palm trees and shake them vigorously. When the tree gives up a coconut, I catch it as it falls. Jackson also gets a coconut. Then we drag our feet in the sand, creating one wide racetrack going for maybe twenty-five feet down a hill. The hill is steep enough to give the coconuts momentum. Jackson and I go to the starting line and bend down, the coconuts barely touching the ground. I feel the tense feeling of excitement in the air, my heart beating quickly. Everyone has their eye on our coconuts. A surfer shouts loudly to a friend in the distance. No one budges, no one hears. I will win this race. I will. “On your mark, get set…” Jackson starts, my heart beating even quicker. “On your mark, get set…” everyone cries, “Go!” Our coconuts tumble out of our hands and down the track, picking up sand. “Jackson and I race alongside the coconuts, making sure neither of them stray off our uneven track. Our friends start choosing sides. They break away from our circle and form two clumps, one cheering, “Go… Jackson! Go… Jackson! Let’s hear it for Jackson!” and another group yells, “Simon! Simon! Simon!” I feel the thrill of the moment as my coconut wobbles, surprisingly fast, past me. I sprint to keep up with it. Our audience crane their necks and squint to see the coconuts through the rapidly falling night. Now the coconuts are nearing the end of the track, where Jackson and I made a heap of sand to stop the coconuts from rolling on and into the water. Mine’s in front—or is it Jackson’s? Oh, darn it, we forgot to mark the coconuts so we could tell whose is whose! But it’s too late— one of the coconuts has hit the barrier of sand. “I won!” Jackson shrieks, sticking his index fingers in the air. “No way. I won!” I argue, jabbing my thumb into my chest. “You wish!” “You’re just jealous of the winner!!” “I definitely won!” “You did not.” The two of us go on like this for a while more, the onlookers’ heads swiveling from one person to the other. Eventually we get tired of our argument and collapse on the ground, laughing. Once we quiet down, all the kids lie on their backs and look at the stars. I gaze at one that looks particularly like a coconut. Rachel Barglow, 10Arlington, Massachusetts Ester Luna, 12Washington, D.C.
Canoe
Gliding through the water As swift and silent as an arrow With the swish swish splash of the paddle. Water burbling over smooth stones, singing over sticks, Jumbling in a happy mass to wherever rivers go. The blue blue sky overhead, clear as crystal, Dotted here and there with wisps of milk-white clouds. A gentle breeze, ruffling the water, making ripples. Tousling my hair with invisible fingers. The calls of birds to one another overhead, A tapestry of sound, laced with splashes And the murmur of summer crickets. Trees in full glory, Ancient reminders of what used to be, Stand as silent sentinels— Ever watchful as the river flows on. Magnificent cliffs rise out of the current, With tall black buttresses like a castle, Cloaked in emerald green, Polka-dotted by clumps of sunshine flowers. The crunch of the boat on rocks. Eager feet clamber out to explore this new place. The smell of wild mint drifts lazily on the air Like the circling hawk, Wafting under my nose, inviting a taste… An eagle, full of splendor and pride, Perches in the tallest tree And watches everyone below. Like a father, stern, gazing on playing children. His eyes are black as the rock and cruel if need be. The boat drifts on again, Past a brigade of pelicans dressed in shiny white. They glance momentarily at our canoe and, As if deeming it not important enough to trouble themselves with, They continue their toilet. All this beauty and magnificence, Captured in a single moment, like a snapshot, Tucked away in the folds of memory, To be taken out later and cherished as a jewel, A memory of what once was, The canoe, the river, the long ago afternoon… Hannah Mark, 12Hardin, Montana
The Bean Plant
When my dad said we needed a fresh start after my mom died I didn’t realize he meant literally. Fresh tomatoes dotted the field with clouds of basil and parsley. Stalks of corn towered over the pumpkin patch and the smell of fertilizer burned my nose. The sun crept over the rolling hills as dawn slunk over the morning sky. My dad called me down for breakfast. I groaned, threw off my covers, and pulled on my slippers before dragging myself downstairs. “Why, good morning, sleepyhead! I made pancakes!” my dad chimed. I pulled a comb through my ratty hair. “Dad, it’s five-thirty in the morning, why do we have to get up so early?” “Because there is a lot of work to be done around here and we don’t have enough money to hire help for the time being,” he responded, flipping the pancakes. “I miss Mom,” I moaned. He froze, the pancake sizzled in the pan, he lowered his head. “I know, but life moves on and we must too, no matter how much we miss her,” he replied quietly. “By the way, Mia, I need you to water the crops, put down fresh fertilizer, do the laundry, and start dinner. I need to head to town to gather some supplies, but I’ll be back by three.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Think you can handle that?” My dad said to leave her be, that she was probably without a home I nodded without looking up. “That’s my girl!” He dumped a stack of pancakes onto my plate. “Dig in!” Once we were done with breakfast, my dad pulled out of the driveway in the rusty old pickup truck, leaving me all alone. I sighed and pulled my knees to my chest as I sat on the front stoop. When my mom was here I was never alone. When I was scared she’d pull me close and tell me that she was there, right there for me. She said she would protect me, she said I would never be alone. I took three deep breaths and composed myself. I forced myself to stand and go over the list of my chores. * * * Watering all the plants took a couple hours; I pushed the big cart of fertilizer down the long path towards the fields. I soon approached the bean patch. An old lady was there, just sitting and staring. She hung out there a lot. I didn’t know who she was though. My dad said to leave her be, that she was probably without a home and needed someplace to stay. It was still uncomfortable having her around though. I sped up my pace. I didn’t want to be near her any longer than necessary. It was hard to maneuver the cart on the bumpy ground. I struggled to keep it in line, but it hit a rock and went swerving to the side. Fertilizer was everywhere, and all over the old woman. Dirt colored her bleached hair and stained her weathered yellow dress. She didn’t say a word; she just stared, her eyes drilling holes into mine. I stood there like a deer in the headlights, then ran, leaving the cart as I sprinted back to the house. * * * My dad and I were enjoying our meal of mashed potatoes, biscuits, peas, and lamb chops when the bell rang. My dad set his napkin on the table and went to answer the door. Standing stiffly in the doorway was the old lady; she was still filthy from the fertilizer. “My clothes are dirty,” she stated blandly. “I can see that,” my dad answered, a little thrown. “My clothes are dirty,” she repeated, more insistently this time. “How may I help you?” he asked. “She knows,” she pointed at me. “She knows why my clothes are dirty.” “Mia?” He waited for an explanation. I shifted awkwardly in my seat as my dad looked at me expectantly. “It was an accident!” I blurted. “I couldn’t steer the cart and the fertilizer spilled!” “Mia!” My dad shook his head. “You didn’t help her clean up?” “Look at her, Dad, she’s scary!” “Mia!” he scolded. He shook his head. “I’m so sorry about this,” he apologized to the lady. “Mia, go upstairs and get my overalls and your big fleece. She needs new clothes.” “But Dad, I like that fleece!” “Mia!” He stared at me. “Fine!” I stomped up the stairs, pulled the clothing out of the closet roughly, trudged downstairs, and threw the clothing in the lady’s face. “Mia!” my dad exclaimed. “Go to your room!” I gave the woman a look of pure hatred and did as my dad told me to. I lay awake for most of the night, thinking about what happened downstairs. I wasn’t sure why I got so upset. The jacket didn’t mean that much to me. I guess it was the fact that that lady just barged in and ruined the peaceful evening I was having with my dad. My mom would have stuck up for me. She wouldn’t have let me get pushed around by some stranger. * * * The next day I went on with my chores as usual after apologizing to my dad about making a scene the night before. I walked down the long path to get the hose and sponges I needed to clean the truck. Unfortunately, it was the same path I took when I spilled the fertilizer the day before. I prayed that the lady wouldn’t be there, but to my dismay there she was. I tried to avoid her gaze as I sped up my pace. “You like my here bean plant, child?” the lady croaked. I stopped and stared. “I said, you like my here bean plant?” I waited a
My Grandfather’s Words
One day we were riding in the car Talking about his work He speaks so deeply about everything Has a philosophical point of view. Talks to me like an adult As if I understand The amount of wood needed to construct a frame And how business works. Nonetheless, I listen And do so very intently For I love to hear the sound of his words that are not only Soft and gentle and beautiful But have lessons hidden beneath them. Kira Householder, 12Scottsdale, Arizona
Different City, Same Stars
I jolt awake when I hear the stewardess’s too perky voice come over the plane’s intercom system. “We will be landing in New York in just about fifteen minutes. I hope you all have enjoyed your flight thus far…” I zone out when she starts to ramble on about the weather conditions and time in New York. My dad realizes I’m awake and turns to me. “Welcome home,” he says. I give him a lame smile in return and hope he accounts its lack of cheeriness for sleepiness. But on the inside, all of me is frowning. New York is not my home. It never really was and it never will be. Colorado is home. Colorado was where I could lie on the roof in a sleeping bag and stare at the stars for hours. Colorado was where I kept a collection of newspaper articles and random doodles in a loose floorboard in my room. Colorado was where I grew up, despite the fact that I was born here, and where anything that ever mattered happened to me. * * * The airport we touch down in is like any other. Filled with people, smelling like dry bagels and tasteless coffee, and crowded with suitcases rolling along always clean hallways. As we make our way through the airport, Dad proceeds to tell me of his childhood here, the things he did, and the neighborhood he grew up in. I keep a few steps ahead of him so that he can’t see the grimace that contorts my face. Dad is just beginning a speech that I’m sure will go on for at least ten more minutes about where we’re moving in, and I can’t stand it anymore. As we make our way through the airport, Dad proceeds to tell me of his childhood here “Stop,” I say sternly, and it’s obvious my dad is taken aback by my tone. “I’m sorry…” I say, trying to soften my voice, “I’m just… tired.” He nods and stops talking, but I’m sure he’s continuing the conversation in his head. For the past six months, since the unimaginable happened, he’s taken to filling up empty space with words; endless chatter and meaningless conversation. I think it’s his attempt to keep his thoughts away from what happened, but there’s no way he’s not thinking about it. The sudden death of your wife—and the mother of yours truly—is hard to ignore. So it’s not a huge surprise when he starts chatting again when we climb into the taxi. “Oh, Sam! You and I, we’re going to have the chance to start over here.” There’s an emotion in his voice that I can’t pinpoint, but it makes me think of bitter, day-old coffee. “New York is where we belong. It’s where I grew up, and where you were born. This is good for us, I promise.” He reaches over to give my hand a reassuring squeeze, but I yank it away at his touch. Dad sighs and keeps talking, but the thoughts that crowd my brain are louder than his words. I have the same lean frame as my dad, but my features match my mother’s. Creamy skin, dark hair, a small nose, and the same clear blue eyes that are the color of a cloudless summer day. But my mother and I have more in common than that. She and I both believe in living in the moment. Traveling, creating art, leaving a mark on the world—that was her kind of thing. And New York is the place she would love to be, but instead of being here with her, I’m here because of her. Or more precisely, because of her death. When my head clears, and I’m confident the tears will stay put, I tune back into real life. Dad’s now pointing out specific locations and landmarks. The taxi driver keeps flicking his eyes up to the rearview mirror, eyeing Dad. He looks just as irritated with the never-ending chatter as I feel. Luckily for him, he doesn’t have to deal with it as often. Soon we are pulling up to the squat brick apartment building and I am relieved to escape the small taxi. The man who drove us stops the car with a slight lurch and walks around to the trunk. He hands us our suitcases and accepts the payment nicely enough, but says nothing and pulls away quickly. The landlady who meets us at the door is a short old woman with hair that looks silver and brushes over her shoulders when she moves her head. Her eyes are wide and bright blue, like she’s still searching for something in her old age. When we enter the small lobby area and set our stuff down, she introduces herself. “Hello! I’m Ms. Fink, but please, please call me Rose.” “Thank you, Ms. Fink. I’m…” my dad starts. “Mr. Michelson and his daughter, Samantha,” she smiles warmly at us, and I feel welcomed, not just into the apartment building, but into this new life. My heart readily welcomes the feelings but I shove them away, telling (reminding) myself I do not belong here. “Welcome to Willow Falls Apartments,” she continues. “You found your way here well enough, I hope?” “Yes. I was wondering…” “Great!” Rose interrupts Dad again and I can’t help but smirk. Looks like she might give him a taste of his own medicine. “ I’ll get your key,” she says, disappearing into an once on the left of a long hallway. When she reappears, Rose is holding two dull-looking silver keys and hands them to my dad, telling him, “You’ll be in apartment 3B,” and pointing us towards the stairwell. Calling the apartment building Willow Falls makes it sound luxurious, but it’s no more than a four-story row house stuck in the middle of a street full of average-looking homes. The kind of homes families would live in, I can’t help but think.
The Chickens
In a comic explosion of feathers, the hens race to the safety of a compost pile. I wave a dirty dish rag after them, a warning not to get too close to our first outside dinner of the year. They start to creep forward, combs waving, lured by the plates of food we are bringing out. I go to drastic measures, throwing the towel in their midst. The hens raise their wings high, and do a little flying sprint out of the area, shrieking indignantly. After dinner I go out to the coop and stroke them, listening to their soft clucks as they settle down for the night. They slowly rock and shuffle around on the roost, like they are putting themselves to sleep. I give each hen a pat on the head, then go back to the lit-up house, In sharp contrast with the dark night, leaving them to coo to each other until they fall asleep. Celie Kreilkamp, 11Bloomington, Indiana
Grandpa and the Chicken Coop
By Jack Zimmerman Illustrated by Thomas Buchanan My grandpa has always loved to build and is a very handy man. He retired from his job as an electrician a few years ago. He has really big muscles and really big hands, so he can always lift something heavy. However, he still loves to build and continues to do it, but now only with those he loves. He has built a garage, a barn, and a trellis, and when I’m around I work with him. I always thought to myself that one day I would build a project with him and I would show him how much fun I have doing them. The problem is he lives in California and I’m in New York, so I’m not around that much. My grandpa is always calling, saying how he is in the middle of a project that he is doing with my cousin Logan, who lives very close to him. I’m always jealous when I hear that and want to go over there and help. I didn’t think he knew how much I loved to build and I didn’t think he cared. One time I was in the middle of doing my homework in third grade and my grandpa called. “Hi son,” he said in his deep voice. “Hi Grandpa,” I said in reply. “Guess what!” he said in excitement. “What?” I said, excited to know. “Logan and I are building a barn. It’s so exciting,” he said. Everything went silent. I slowly turned to look out the window. I was so upset and disappointed, but all I said was, “Cool. It must be a lot of fun.” Then I said goodbye and hung up. We just sat there looking at our final piece of art and didn’t say much I tried not to think about it and tried to finish my homework as the light in my room slowly started to dim as the sun went down. I did finish my homework, but the whole time I was thinking about our conversation. I just wanted to be alone. I didn’t know what to do. The thing is, there was nothing I could do about it. My grandpa is so great and does everything I like to do, and for that reason I love him so much. All I needed was just one project. Building is just very fun for me. The summer after third grade I went back out to California. Grandpa and I were on our way to the store to get some supplies. We were going to build a chicken coop. We went through the store getting one thing after another. I didn’t do much because he was better when it came to getting supplies and he was also paying, so I let him do what he had to do. When we got back we started planning and putting the first steps together. “Do you want to put the first few boards together or do you want to read the blueprint we just made?” I said. “How about this? I will start to put the coop together as you read me the blueprint. You watch what I’m doing and when you think you can do it you tell me and we will switch,” Grandpa said. “Sounds good,” I said. We started to work on the coop and not long after I understood what he was doing and we switched. I started doing it myself until I made a mistake. “Wait a sec, son. That’s not how you do it. You have to hold the hammer like this and hit it on the nail like this.” “Oh, I get it now, Grandpa. Sorry.” “There is no need for a sorry, son. Mistakes are the only way to learn and the world would be so boring if there was no such thing as mistakes.” Each time I would make a mistake he would correct me and teach me how to do it right. That was what I loved most about him during that project. At the end of the day I couldn’t believe how much I had learned in just a few hours. I soon started to think that this project was more of a learning experience than just to build a coop with Grandpa. I felt like his goal was not by the end of the day to have a chicken coop, but to teach me the skill of building and to make sure I was having a fun day. A few hours later we were done building the chicken coop. I went and got a bucket to sit on next to Grandpa. The coop looked so shiny, like a brand new car. I could still smell the fresh paint emanating from the coop. The windows were so clean and the roof was on the most perfect slant I have ever seen. The bedding of hay for the chickens smelled like it was just cut a second ago. Grandpa and I had built the coop together. We just sat there looking at our final piece of art and didn’t say much. One thing was for sure though, I was thinking how great this project was to me and it reminded me how much I love my grandpa and how much I need him, even though I don’t get to see him often. He doesn’t realize it and I didn’t until now how much I have actually learned from him from just one simple project. I love him. We sat there looking at the coop, just him and me. I couldn’t believe what I saw. I had just built a chicken coop with my grandpa. One of my goals was done. Now, there I was looking at something I had finally got to do with my grandpa. I was so happy. “Thank you, son,” he said to me. “Thank me for what? You’re the one who has been teaching me. So thank you so much for everything.” “Thank you as well.
The Running Dream
The Running Dream, by Wendelin Van Draanen; Knopf Books for Young Readers: New York, 2011; $16.99 Have you ever seen a book on the shelf and known it was the perfect book for you even before you turned the first page? The Running Dream was like that for me. The moment I saw it on the shelf I knew instantly that I had to read it. Jessica, age sixteen, loves to run more than anything else in the world. She can run a 55-second, 400-meter dash. But then everything changes. She loses her leg in a terrible accident. Faced with the impossibility of running, Jessica sinks into depression. Only the love and encouragement of her track team and a girl with cerebral palsy named Rosa can make her dream of running again come true. This book touched the deepest feelings inside me. There was sadness and joy, pain and loss, hope and love, and sometimes a mixture of all of them. Jessica’s voice was so honest and true that I felt as if she was a real person, even a friend, sitting beside me and telling me her story. She was easy to relate to; I found myself comparing my experiences to hers. She found her love of running by sprinting around the soccer field, so did I. She ran track, so did I. She cheers on her teammates, so did I. Wendelin Van Draanen described the feelings of running so accurately too. I felt as if I was inside the story; it felt so real. Jessica’s determination also made me really admire her as a character. She showed determination when working with crutches and with a prosthetic leg. Even though she was often disappointed and frustrated with herself, she never lost her vision that she would run again. My favorite part of the story, however, was when Jessica had a crazy plan to run a 10-mile race pushing her friend Rosa in a wheelchair. She believed that people should see past Rosa’s disability and appreciate her for who she really was, a kind, funny, cheerful, and incredibly smart girl. Jessica’s strong will and strength were really inspiring. Even though running was painful, uncomfortable, and always really, really hard, she pushed through and found that she could do the impossible. Overall, this story is unlike any other that I’ve read. During the course of the story I learned about prosthetics and about what you can do if you believe in yourself and in others. The chapters were short and swift and full of meaning, conveyed in simple, crisp, concise sentences. I liked how the book was also divided in sections as if it were a race, starting with “Finish Line” and ending with “Starting Line.” If you are a runner, you must read this book because it will deeply impact you. Lauren Vanden Bosch, 13Grand Rapids, Michigan
The Path to Acceptance
I could see the silvery clouds roll in. I was headed out of our summer rental in the town of Saignon, France, to buy a baguette. As I walked down the narrow lane I saw the leaves blowing briskly and those marvelous clouds were moving faster all of a sudden. I knew that a storm was on its way. As I ran across the cracked brick stones I could hear the wind start to howl. It just started raining ample raindrops when I returned to our townhouse with the crusty baguette. I walked in the door and up the helicoid staircase and reached Mom’s bedroom. I could now hear the thunder bellowing in the distance. Mom was sitting on her bed, writing in her journal about our trip. “Where is Quin?” I said curiously. “He’s up in the loft, playing with the train he got at the antique market yesterday,” Mom said. I turned and continued to walk the spiral staircase until I made it to the loft. As I reached the top I could now see hail raining down out the balcony glass doors. Quin gets frightened easily, so I had an idea to turn the storm into something bigger that would really scare him. I couldn’t help myself from laughing. I guess I like to annoy my little brother. “Quin,” I said. “Yes?” Quin said. Can you believe that it’s raining hail?” “Yeah,” Quin replied. “But be careful,” I said. “Why?” Quin said nervously. “It is very dangerous, and it’s big and…” “Just tell me,” Quin interrupted. “It is the beginning of a tornado,” I yelled, trying to make myself not laugh. Suddenly there was a big crack of thunder. Hail was raining down. The hail was now the size of a golf ball! The storm was much more severe than I thought. The wind was howling, the ample raindrops were mixed with the hail so you couldn’t tell what was hail and what was rain. “I don’t want to die!” Quin kept repeating and repeating. I couldn’t help myself from laughing. I guess I like to annoy my little brother. Quin gets very dramatic very quickly and I find it funny to see that, but this time it quickly became bothersome. I walked down the creaky old wooden steps into the kitchen and left Quin alone, scared. As I looked through the kitchen window, I could see rushing water careening through the streets. It wasn’t a flood or anything like that, it was not even deep, but the darkness of the clouds made it look like it was deep. I could hear Mom speaking over the wind howling. In the distance I could also hear Quin screaming in terror. I had lost my patience because I realized Quin still can’t take a joke. He can never seem to let things go. What surprised me was I could still hear Quin screaming two floors below. I felt the cold handle of the refrigerator as I looked for a drink. Mom said in her sweetest voice, “Quin gets scared, you know. Quin is a really sensitive little boy. Do you remember when we adopted him he was considerably more scared than any other child in his orphanage? He didn’t want to be alone in the kitchen, the bathroom, or even his own room. Every time you make a simple joke, like the time when you said there was a monster in the closet, he feels scared and unsafe. Quin feels things in a more sensitive way than maybe you do.” “Yeah, but I can’t deal with it,” I snapped back. “We all have something that scares us. Like you, Logan, you have a fear of bees, hornets, and wasps. How would you feel if no one understood you? Why don’t you try and help Quin?” Mom said in a positive voice. “But he is scared of everything, Mom,” I said. Mom’s right eye went up. Mom just looked at me with this look that I call the really look. I walked to the couch and flung myself on the soft cushions. I started to think about what Mom said and I remembered that a year ago when we went to France I had been stung by a wasp. We were walking up to Château de Saumur. I could smell the strong aroma of grapes in the air. I went to sniff the voluminous grapes and was instantly attacked by a wasp. Ever since that day I find it hard to trust any type of buzzing bug. The buzzing noise haunts me. Every time I hear that noise I am terrified. Sometimes Quin says I am overreacting, but he still seems to understand me. I can see that I am overreacting. I keep my hood on when I am near a flower patch and I jump when I see a bee go near me. I wish I could stop this fear, but I can’t seem to get over it. When I was screaming “BEES!” Quin did not complain or walk away. He helped me and understood my fear. He is my little brother. I am his big brother. I should be helping him, I thought, and I was a jerk for making him more scared than he might have been. As I heard Quin continue to scream I felt bad, I felt really bad. I should have helped Quin when he really needed me. It was wrong of me to manipulate his fear to frighten him more. I felt myself running up the wooden stairs to Quin. As I headed up the staircase I could see Quin crying. I needed to fix what I had done. I suddenly came up with a good idea that would take his mind off this crazy storm. “Quin,” I said, trying to be cheerful. “What?” Quin said through his tears. “It’s just a storm, let’s play survivor. We have to use things in the house to protect ourselves against the storm and survive,”
Illuminated
Siena finds comfort in the starry night sky
