A kid spends the school day writing a letter to their missing friend Dear Tom, You are not missing much. School is the same. I am supposed to be writing a poem about the fall and how magical it is, but poems just do not work for me. Ms. Soody said poems are magic falling from the sky. I disagree. Every time I think of a poem, the flashback hits me like a bee stinging my arm. I have to be quick and ice the sting. Today we had PE. Everyone wants to play football. Why that game? I prefer baseball. You liked baseball too. Of course, no one cares about my opinions, so I don’t say anything. Recess is not any better, except that we don’t have to listen to anyone and we can just be ourselves. So, I stay by a tree and eat my lunch. It starts to form again. The memory is so clear. The words are so precise. I couldn’t shake this one. It kept staying. The lake. The swing. The letter. The bell rings and I start to head inside. I didn’t realize we were still doing poems. I hate poems. When will the day end? I have to begin a poem, so I’ll stop writing. I look at the clock. The minutes feel like hours. When I am bored, I think everything is hours. I’m back from the worst poem I have ever written. Luckily, it’s music now. I love music—the sound of each instrument being played. The piano is my favorite. Remember when we used to play together? The keys going up and down. Music is only thirty minutes, so I don’t have much time. Ms. Soody says we are the greatest class. I know she is just saying that and doesn’t mean it. She says it to all her classes. Whenever Ms. Soody says something, she starts to clear her throat. Like a frog is blocking her airway. I am pulling at my jacket as I listen. It is loose on my right arm. It is Sarah’s old jacket. I still like it anyway. Then it hits me: the jacket, the lake. I hate it. I look at the clock. The minutes feel like hours. When I am bored, I think everything is hours. That is what my mom says. It is math right now. I should be listening, but fractions are too easy. Ms. Soody does not know fractions are easy. So, I am sitting here writing to you. I wish you were here. I can still remember the day you left. How could I ever forget? The moment my head turned to the moment you read the letter. I could tell something was wrong. Hold on, I better listen. Ms. Soody is saying something about free time. That means more time to write. Turns out free time is doing work you did not finish. I’ve got science that I haven’t finished. I’ll be back. Water cycle. That is what we are learning. I thought you would want to know because science is your favorite subject. I feel like there is a circle, but half of it is missing because you are not here. Bea Hertzmark, 10Riverside, CT

Violet lives in the Divided States of America, a country split between the Purple and Green People “Who’s there?” I call into the empty blackness, a chill running down my spine. I watch as a black cat leaps past me and around a corner, disappearing into the darkness. I exhale a sigh of relief and try to convince myself, yet again, there is nothing to fear. I begin walking, squeezing the strap of my satchel filled with documents like a four-year-old clinging to her mother’s hand. I dart across the street, heading toward a haunted-looking building with decaying red trim. Delivering business documents in the Forbidden Strip is dangerous, especially for a thirteen-year-old Purple girl like me. My parents would have never let me come here, but we are struggling for money, so I became a business courier. The Forbidden Strip is part of the Divided States of America, which consists of three separate lands. I hail from the West, a land solely for the Purple People, and the Green People occupy the East. My parents tell me the West is far superior and our brilliant shade of lavender should remain separate from the East’s pale-green skin. We believe in individual achievement and preserving traditions while the East advocates a new direction, putting the government’s interests ahead of citizens’ needs. I am told that the people from the East look down on us and we have a long history of conflict, causing mistrust and fear. Between both lands lies the Forbidden Strip, where people from the West and East choose to live together. I have heard terrible rumors about the people who live here. However, important documents still need to be transferred from the West, even if we are separate territories. So, I must skulk through the neighborhoods of the Forbidden Strip delivering documents, afraid of every shadow I see. *          *          * I am still jumpy as I walk toward the train station to return home when I notice a tall figure with a similar satchel tucked under his arm rapidly approaching on the horizon. He must be another courier arriving from the train station, but is he from the West or East? And is he dangerous? I glance around the street for places to hide—an odorous garbage bin,  a rickety wooden stairwell, an abandoned couch. When I look up again, the figure is staring straight at me. I am no longer a courier, but a deer caught in headlights. I take inventory of my feeble weapons: my satchel strap, shoelace, and a hair elastic. I feel the breeze from the figure’s coat as we walk past each other, and I continue toward the train station without looking back at him. Fire and Water Just when I think I’m a safe distance away, I hear a deep voice yelling, “Are you Violet, the courier from the West?” My mind is racing: I could pretend that I am not her or ignore the stranger and continue to the train station. He walks closer and grabs my hand. As his flashlight dances across my skin, it reveals a deep purple—the color of a field of violets in spring: “Well, you sure are purple. Purple as they get, and you have the right courier satchel. There was a mudslide on the train tracks and they’re halting all travel until it’s cleared. You will have to stay in the Forbidden Strip for another day.” The light moves across his hand as he readjusts his satchel, causing me to gasp. His skin is bright green, the color of freshly mown grass. He must be from the East. I blink and look again, but he turns off the flashlight and I cannot see his skin anymore. He bids me farewell, though I am too distracted to thank him. I touched his skin. I talked to him. And he was green. I run and run until I am out of breath to distance myself as much as possible. As my lungs recover and my body evaporates its layer of salty sweat, I remember the man’s green hand. I think about his message and don’t know whether to trust him. Maybe the tricky Green People caused the mudslide. I recall now that I never heard the 3 a.m. train whistle: maybe there really was a mudslide. I stare at the empty streets of the Forbidden Strip, wishing they would transport me back to the familiar streets of the West. I feel utterly lost. A tear slips from my eye. I look up at the sky and take big gulps of fresh air. The bright, glittery stars are beginning to fade into the pale-blue morning light, and the sun is peeking up from behind the buildings. I don’t have time to decide whether the Green man’s message is true. The glow of a new morning is spreading across the Forbidden Strip. If I can’t return home, I need to find a place to hide. *          *          * I awake to the sounds of feet thumping below me and little voices begging for a pancake breakfast. For a blissful moment, I am convinced that I am lying in my own comfortable bed back in the West and these are my two younger siblings, Iris and Mauve. I am the last one up, probably exhausted from my adventure in the Forbidden Strip. I roll onto my side and open my eyes. Instead of finding my purple wall, I see a cobweb-filled ceiling, a dusty mattress, and an attic stuffed with old bicycles, worn chairs, and dusty paintings. The moment of bliss slips away as I remember my current situation. Earlier, I’d wandered through the streets in pursuit of a place to hide. What horrible plan are they devising? Are they triggering a war to force us to adopt their views? After careful searching and several close-up encounters with squirrels, I discovered a fire