Olivia is devastated when she learns her family is moving away from lush, beautiful California to drab, grey New York City I relaxed in my backyard, delighted by everything around me. The warm breeze rippled through the air. A symphony of birdsong erupted from the chirping birds that swooped around the sapphire blue sky. I visualized the clouds as fluffy cotton candy that you could devour in delicious wisps. A majestic palm tree’s lush emerald green leaves swayed slightly. From the juicy fruits of the orange tree wafted up a wonderful fragrance. The pear tree was tiny compared to the other trees in the backyard but pleasant to look upon. A peach tree had feather-shaped leaves that varied in shades from lime to rainforest green. The peaches were soft, like satin or velvet, and refreshingly quenching. The grass tickled my ankles enticingly, swishing hypnotically like serpents. I’d only resided in California for a little while, but that was enough for me to love it thoroughly. My spacious house was illuminated by exquisite lamps, furnished with elaborate sofas, intricately decorated chairs, and magnificent tables. The windows were iridescent and looked out onto the panorama of the backyard and the front yard. I spent barely any time in the front yard because, instead of grass, there was the obsidian-black road. Still, it was entertaining to scrutinize the streaks of colorful blurs whiz by, the quick-moving cars. I also enjoyed the consistency, how everything stayed the same, how nothing changed unexpectedly for the worse. Suddenly, all of those wonderful experiences began to be tainted with a hint of change. Instead of the serene contentment that settled on my family at most times, there was a general mood of frenzied liveliness. I would leap out of my comfortable bed energetically, enthusiastic and effervescent for another day filled with my magnificent life in California, then notice my parents discussing matters that were evidently significant. I only caught drifts of words that floated to my ears. San Francisco Bay “Great opportunity . . .” “New York City . . .” “Amazing schools . . .” I ignored this, my mind drifting back instead toward the last time we had moved, from Canada to here in California. It had been quite paradisiacal. A picturesque scene with a large glassy window depicted itself in my mind. Booming fireworks of all colors thrust themselves forcefully into the dark night sky, exploding in blindingly bright sparks . . . Anyway, we couldn’t be moving again! We just came here a year ago! I told myself firmly. I bound out of the house with as much indifference as I could muster, despite the ominousness of the conversation, because, if anything changed, I didn’t want to know. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do a while later when I was called into the living room for the announcement. “We’re moving to New York City!” my mother announced, sounding ecstatic. It took me a moment to register this, that it was true, we were moving. I don’t think it’s official, I told myself hopefully, but I knew that I had to resign myself to the fate I was being condemned to. New York? I thought with contempt. Why can’t we stay in California? Our house is here, my school is here, my friends are here . . . what’s in New York that’s so much better? I clung to the few precious moments I had left of California. Everything seemed to pass in a monotonous blur, because I couldn’t fully indulge in the excitement of packing, which I would normally have loved, since I knew that we were moving soon. Whenever I went to school, I felt devastated that I was leaving behind all of my friends. I’d known them for an entire year, which was a lot when you were only five— basically one fifth of my lifetime! I’d spent so much time with them and couldn’t imagine leaving them all behind. How would I stay in touch with them when I lived so far away? I dreaded moving to New York the way you would dread being pulled into a torrential riptide or a vicious tornado. And when I ended up finally moving, my suspicions were confirmed. The view outside of my window of New York was a dilapidated building with very plain bricks meticulously woven into the figure. The crimson paint was peeling and the stairs on the fire escape might have been shimmering obsidian-black, but were now a bit tarnished and stained. Whenever I looked out of the window, I saw a few patches of blue sky, so unlike the vast field of vivid blue I’d seen before. Thick smoke occasionally covered even those rare glimpses, in which case I despaired especially. And I most certainly did not have a backyard, let alone a luxurious one filled with piquant, appetizing fruits. I didn’t have the same spacious house, so I kept thinking about all I didn’t have anymore and realized how lucky I’d been before. I couldn’t even take advantage of what I’d had; it was too late. I tried not to indulge in sorrow and self-pity, but who could blame me if I did? I wondered how long it would be until all of my memories of California slowly disappeared, fading into blurry images and then disintegrating into nothingness. But there was nothing I could do. I was five years old; I had no power in decisions. I felt a sense of both growing helplessness and emptiness. Everything I did, I did it without enthusiasm. This was definitely not “a place with more opportunities.” Not a day passed without me thinking longingly of California. Not a day passed without me thinking longingly of California. After I had been miserable for a considerable amount of time, I noticed that, though I personally hadn’t seen any positives in moving, my parents clearly did. They seemed delighted with the condo and relished unpacking to make the place comfortable. Every day,

After ten months without attending a birthday party, the narrator has developed a new appreciation for their rituals “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!” The group of ten or so middle school girls sings the traditional birthday song with considerably less enthusiasm than the ten-year-old boys clustered around another table. The birthday girl’s mom, who has already photographed us all at least twice, starts a countdown: “Are you one? Are you two?” Rainbow Wishes Everyone joins in. When we get to twelve, there’s a pause and then some half-hearted cheering. I’ve never really known what to do at the end of the chant. Do you cheer? Say yes? Clap? I wonder if anyone really knows the answer. Everyone finds a seat around the picnic tables as the mom begins to slice up the birthday cake. I get a huge slice, although I’m not sure that I’ll eat it all. The cake isn’t good, but there’s something special about store-bought birthday cakes, even though they taste like sugar and artificial flavoring. For me, they hold the memories of all the other birthday parties that I’ve been to. It’s still strange, though, that I’ve missed these bad birthday cakes in the last ten months. I smile to myself as I walk over to the garbage can to throw out what’s left of the slice of cake. Oren Milgrom-Dorfman, 12New York, NY Aspen Clayton, 11Lisle, IL

The writer is thrilled to find a rare yellow feather On the way back from a baseball game, the game I hit my first double, I was walking up to the snack bar with all five saved snack tickets clutched in my hand. I decided to walk farther up, when SCREEEEEEECH! I stopped dead in my tracks. I saw something on the ground. It appeared to be a bird’s feather of some kind, so I flipped it over. In a flash of bright gold-yellow, there it was: a goldfinch feather. I was sweating with amazement. Some people would call that an overreaction, like, “It’s just a feather!” and, “You see those all the time!” The truth is, though, I hadn’t ever seen a goldfinch or one of their feathers before. I gave Mommy the amazing bright-yellow object called a goldfinch feather. That was, of course, after I’d shown it to everyone at the snack bar. Rainbow Feather It was getting darker by the minute as we edged toward the car, when I spotted something completely different. A massive black beetle was slowly making its way close to the bushes. It was the largest live beetle I had ever seen. It was so black that, for a second, it blended into the surrounding darkness as we reached the car. Unfortunately, when we got home, we discovered that the goldfinch feather was no longer inside Mommy’s purse. Tears trickled down my face as I sped into the bathroom . . . what an upsetting feeling, when you’ve just found something that can never be replaced, and it didn’t even last a single day in your grasp. I thought aloud to myself: “Maybe it’s not gone, but that’s unlikely . . . maybe it’s some place we don’t know about, like in the car somewhere . . . ?” A few of the tears disappeared. Luckily, a few days later, the goldfinch feather was recovered! Thank goodness it was hidden in Mommy’s leather handbag in her grey VW Beetle. She’d forgotten that she had put it there. It is now part of my growing feather collection, as my most valued piece. To this day, I am still amazed that I found the feather of a bird I have never actually seen. Noa McCarter, 8Collingswood, NJ Leticia Cheng, 9San Jose, CA

It’s the last day of school before summer vacation, but Ia isn’t happy—it’s the last day she’ll see her best friend The stairwell was filled with laughter, giggles, and cheerful voices as we left the school building on the last day of fourth grade. Somewhere on the stairwell was Yaara. Yaara was one of the most kindhearted girls I had ever met. Unlike most of the other girls in fourth grade, she never excluded anyone. When we would goof off at lunch, I never had to worry about her criticizing me, or thinking I was weird. Yaara was about as tall as me and had dark brown hair that was always in a ponytail. She always made people laugh, even when she wasn’t trying to be funny. We had our own inside jokes, and once, we even tried to create our own secret language. She was a very positive person. Yaara was almost always smiling, or giggling. I had known her since the beginning of fourth grade, and over the year we had become really close friends. But now she was leaving, moving, and I wondered if I would ever see her again. Everyone tossed their hands in the air and screamed “FREEDOM!!!” when we walked out the big red doors, toward our dismissal spot. I couldn’t believe they were cheering on the day I was losing a friend. It seemed impossible that in under five minutes, Yaara would be gone. Unfortunately, it was happening, and I had to find a way to accept that. I felt the soft summer breeze blow on my face and through my hair. The air was filled with the sweet smell of flowers. I watched as the younger kids strolled by with their parents. The sight of summer was so enchanting that, for a moment, I forgot about the fact that Yaara was moving. Abstract Self Portrait Everywhere I looked, people were smiling, making plans to get ice cream, and discussing where they would be going for summer vacation. I would be going to Greece soon, just like every year, to see my dad’s family. Greece was close to Israel, but Yaara wouldn’t be in Israel when I was in Greece. She’d be in Hong Kong. Yaara had moved before. She was born in Israel and lived there for a couple years, but she had told me she was too young to remember any of it. After that, she had moved to the US. She came here, to New York City, when she was seven or eight. Her family would be spending the summer in Hong Kong and then moving to Israel at the end of the summer. As we stood at our dismissal spot, under the shade of a beautiful tree, most of the other students were deep in conversation. I wasn’t. In normal years, I would’ve joined in on the debates about which ice cream flavor was best, and the contests to see who would be traveling the farthest during summer vacation. This year I couldn’t. Every time someone walked by, my heart beat faster, and I got worried they would be the person who would pick Yaara up from school. I couldn’t believe she was leaving. It seemed like all the truly kind people had to leave. One of my friends in kindergarten had moved away, and another one of my good friends had moved away in first grade. I had lost touch with both of them, and I didn’t want to lose touch with Yaara. I remembered the day Yaara’s dog died. Yaara was generally a very cheerful person, but that day she had seemed depressed. Everyone kept asking her what was wrong, but she didn’t want to tell us. All around, people were asking things like, “What’s wrong?” or “Are you okay?” and “Why is Yaara sad?” Our friends Andjelina and Caitlin kept asking, but still she didn’t answer. Then at lunch, she told me what had happened. “My dog died last night,” she had said, her voice filled with sorrow. “My mom told me and my siblings this morning.” “I know how you feel,” I responded. “My dog died this summer.” We spent the rest of lunch telling each other what our dogs had been like. We shared the tragic parts, like the reasons they had died, but we also described the joyous parts, like the funny sounds they used to make, and their unique characteristics. The rest of the day had been gloomy. It was hard to be cheerful when a dog’s life had ended the day before. But deep down, I had a pleasant feeling. Yaara had told me, trusted me with her feelings. That was when I realized how close we were, and now that she was leaving, I was going to lose that friendship. Just like I had done the day my dog had been put to sleep, I hoped for a miracle. I noticed that every time I knew something was going to happen, and I didn’t want it to happen, I denied it. Even though I didn’t believe in miracles, I had convinced myself that Yaara wasn’t going away. The day my dog was going to be put to sleep, I imagined instead of being put to sleep, she would all of a sudden be healed and be able to walk again. Now, I imagined Yaara’s flight would be cancelled, or her parents would change their minds, and the family would end up staying in New York. I knew it sounded crazy, but for a minute, I actually believed she wouldn’t leave. For a minute, it seemed realistic that Yaara would be back in September, ready to attend fifth grade. But of course, that was just a fantasy. For a minute, it seemed realistic that Yaara would be back in September, ready to attend fifth grade. Yaara’s brother trotted toward our dismissal spot. I couldn’t believe it. Yaara was actually leaving. I watched as she went around saying goodbye to all

After finding two abandoned baby hummingbirds, Michael must work hard to keep them alive It was a lazy day in the month of May when I got that so-memorable phone call from my sometimes-bothersome twin sister, May. “Michael, hurry, hurry, come over!” screamed my sister, who was practicing tennis with Mom at a nearby tennis court. “Why? I’m busy!” I shouted back. “There’s two baby birds on the court. I think they’re still alive.” My ears perked up, and instantaneously my irritating sister became my wonderful sibling. “I’m coming right now!” I dragged Dad off the couch and made him drive me to the tennis courts. When we arrived, I saw Mom and May standing over two orphaned rufous hummingbirds, barely a week old. I couldn’t believe my eyes. This was my first time seeing hummingbird nestlings. They were only about the size of a stick of gum, pink-colored, and naked, with eyes closed. They shivered and ruffled what little down they had, trying to shelter from the ocean breeze. Delicately, I cupped them into the palm of my hand while using my other hand to block the wind. Nest Building It was so nerve-racking to hold something so small and delicate. After gently placing the nestlings into a small insect cage padded with tissue paper, I began looking for their nest, hoping to find their mother, who was probably frantically seeking her young ones out. Along the boundary of the tennis court was a ten-foot-tall chain-link fence with ivy covering it from top to bottom. The ivy had grown thick, and probably hadn’t been cut back in years, which would make finding their home, a nest about the size of silver dollar, an almost impossible task. But the “needle in a haystack” chance of finding their nest didn’t deter me. I desperately wanted these little nestlings to live. I searched everywhere—every branch, nook, and cranny of ivy along the borders of the tennis court. After a couple of nerve-racking hours, I finally found the nest. It was located high up near the tree canopy, where neither my father, who is six-foot, three inches tall, nor I could reach. But mother bird was nowhere to be found. I even tried to stand still and listen for the chirping sounds of their mother trying to call to her babies. Not a peep. The mother had probably given up. Looking at Dad, I commanded, “I’m taking them home. I’ll raise them.” Realizing I wouldn’t take no for an answer, Dad reluctantly nodded. He was tired. I was excited. A New Home I gently carried the two fledglings to my “bug room,” where I keep hundreds, maybe thousands, of various beetle specimens I’ve found in such exotic places as Japan, Thailand, Fiji, and Arizona. I’m a full-fledged, card-carrying amateur entomologist. Maybe now I’ll double as an ornithologist. By chance, I had found an old hummingbird nest some months back while hunting for mantids on tree bark. What a coincidence that I could actually put it to good use. I slipped the two pebble-sized nestlings into the nest and delicately laid a collection of twigs and branches in an eight-inch, square insect cage that I previously used to store my live Coleoptera (beetles) collection. It was now a makeshift birdcage. Once settled, the larger of the two nestlings opened its beak, spread its tiny, skeletal wings, and began chirping wildly. The second one followed. I panicked. What do hummingbirds eat? I frantically searched the internet. There wasn’t much information on hummingbird care, but I found one video describing that fledglings would happily gulp down a four-part water to one-part sugar solution supplemented with protein-rich insects. I whisked up the sugar water and luckily already had live mealworms that I use to feed my predatory insects. Feeding Time The moment of truth. Feast or famine, literally. I dipped the syringe into the sugar water and held it in front of the larger chick. It quickly darted its head out of the nest and grabbed onto the syringe as I slowly squeezed the nectar into its beak. After a few gulps, the chick seemed content, closed its eyes, and went to sleep. The second one followed and did the same. It actually worked! I rejoiced. This was my first big step toward becoming a bird whisperer. Things were looking positive. The next day I offered the chicks some mealworm gut, which they ferociously ate up in seconds. Another milestone accomplished! This became our routine for the next couple of days, from seven in the morning to nine at night. Dad pitched in too, taking care of the birds when I was at school. I’d enter the bug room just about every half an hour and the nestlings would burst into screeching chirps, beaks wide open and wings flapping. A couple squirts of nectar and a few pieces of mealworm guts satisfied their hunger. They’d quiet down and fade into a drunken sleep. A Near-Death Experience Five days had passed, and except for school, I hadn’t left home once, ignoring various family outings like movie night or visits to Grandma and choosing to stick to my strict feeding and care regiment. They grew bigger, started to grow more feathers. My hard work was paying off. “You have to go out to eat this time! Grandma’s going too!” screamed May. “All you do is sit around and feed the stupid birds.” No way am I going to get out of this one, I thought to myself. But who would feed them? Could they last more than an hour without food? I was in panic mode. I had a great idea. I’d overfeed the fledglings so they’d last until I returned home from dinner. Just before getting into the car, I fed them several times their normal doses of nectar and mealworms. Honk, honk. “Hurry-up! Get in the car,” yelled Dad. Running out of time, I noticed their food crops, the pouch in a bird’s neck that stores