Fiction
Amy sat on the cold concrete steps resting her chin on her fist, while the other hand clutched an ink-blotted letter. She stared at the sign three doors down that had a big red line crossing out the words "For Sale." Under it in small letters it said "Sold!" Slowly a tear rolled down her cheek and plopped down onto the letter, smudging the words "Dear Amy." She scrunched it up into a wad and threw it carelessly toward a trash can, missing it by a foot or two. She heaved a sigh and stooped down to pick it back up, knowing that if she didn't, her mother might read it. Amy stuffed the letter into her jeans pocket, making a big lump. She shuffled across the street to Emily's house, as if there was one last hope of her being there. Amy looked down at the latch on the gate. Did she dare? No, of course not! It wasn't her house . . . but then again the new family wasn't moving in until September, and it was only July. She opened the metal latch, letting it slowly creak open as she remembered the words on the letter she had almost thrown away. "Amy, look under the big rock in my backyard. Love, Emily." She pulled the wad of paper from her pocket, carefully folded it into a neat square, and put it back in her jeans. She walked around the house to the backyard, looking for "the big rock." She spotted a large lumpy one in the corner of the yard under a hedge, only to find a few squashed worms and a bunch of red ants underneath it. "Ugh!" she cried and jumped back, letting the rock thump down to the ground. Nearby she saw a reddish-brown rock that she and Emily had often covered with a blanket for their dolls to have tea on. She pulled it back and there it was, a miniature copper teapot in the folds of a red-and-white checkered doll blanket. She used her thumb to brush a few grains of dirt from the teapot, and carried it and the blanket home like they were pieces of fragile glass. She shoved open the door of her house and was greeted by the fragrance of home-baked chocolate-chip cookies. "Amy, what have you been doing all this time?" asked her mother curiously. "Oh, nothing," Amy said, not wanting to admit to her that she had trespassed at Emily's old house. She grabbed a hunk of cookie dough and was just ready to stuff it into her mouth when she heard, "Not until after dinner," and felt the dough snatched from her hand. "By the way, a letter came for you today, I meant to tell you earlier, but you were out so long, worrying me to death by the way." "Thanks," said Amy, grabbing the letter and shrugging off her mother's concern, as she ran up the stairs to her room. She jumped into bed and let her hair hang over the side while she read the letter on her back. Dear Amy, New York is really great. I've made lots of friends at school, but there's one special friend that I've been meaning to tell you about. Her name is Madeline. Last night we went to the movies together. The ticket lady was really nice. She let Madeline in for free! Amy felt a surge of anger run up her spine and into her mouth, making her want to shout. She was hot and confused, and almost missed her mother's voice shouting, "Amy, set the table. Now!" She dragged herself downstairs, covering her tears with her hair. When she sat down at the table with her parents her mother asked what was wrong. Her father, a tall, lanky man who was usually away at his office, told Amy if she wasn't going to tell them what the matter was then please would she stop crying and eat her dinner. She sat there sulking, and for the rest of the meal ate in silence. During dinner she thought about how Emily and Madeline had become best friends. While she was shoveling peas into her mouth she wondered if Emily had room in her for two best friends. Probably not, she thought pessimistically. Just before dessert, Amy quietly asked to be excused, not in the mood for eating canned peaches and macaroons. In the late summer evening the sun was just beginning to set. She opened the back screen door, letting it slam behind her, and wandered across the damp, limp grass to her swing. Instead of sitting in the swing herself, she pushed the empty seat back and forth, then quickly remembered that this was what she and Emily had done with their dolls. She abruptly plopped down onto the plastic seat, and holding onto the ropes, she pushed off, pumping hard until her toes touched the branches of a magnolia tree. Then falling back toward the ground, she tilted her head back, letting the tips of her hair touch the blades of grass. Her head felt lighter, and she was able to begin writing a letter back to Emily in her head. It would say something like, "Dear Emily," but Amy immediately frowned and crossed out "Dear" in her head. "Yesterday at nature camp a new girl came. Her name was Clorissa," a name from Amy's well-worn fairy tale book. She would tell Emily that she and Clorissa had won an award for picking the best herbs on the nature trail to make tea. She would say they spent all of their time together. She jumped off the swing and ran through the darkness back to her house. That night, sitting with a flashlight in bed, she carefully copied her thoughts onto paper. Then she fell asleep, and dreamed of the look on Emily's face when she read the letter. Amy awoke the next morning feeling light-hearted and gay. She rolled out
Fiction
Mon, when is Bubbe coming?" I asked impatiently. "Soon," she replied for the seventeenth time. It was a family tradition for my grandma to come over every Saturday to light the havdalah candle, a symbol that the Jewish Sabbath has ended, with our family. I was sitting on the steps of the porch when I heard the steady tap . . . tap . . . tap of her cane. "Bubbe!!!" I exclaimed. "Hello, sweetheart!" said Bubbe, while embracing me. Clutching her cane with one hand, she carefully raised her other hand, which was shaking, to the mezuzah on the door and then lowered it to her wrinkled lips. I could tell it hurt her to stretch that far. I asked her why she wasted so much effort just to kiss the mezuzah. She just chuckled and said that that was a long story. "I'll tell you when I sit down, darling." I helped Bubbe inside and then we both plopped down onto the couch. "Well, I wasn't always old," Bubbe began. "In fact, I was once a first-grader like you! Where I lived there were cold winters like you couldn't imagine! There was one winter that was much colder than the others were. School was canceled, but we couldn't even play outside in the snow because it was blocking the door! I think the temperature outside must have been minus twenty degrees! I wanted to play in the snow so badly. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore! I went out the back door and walked outside." "But Bubbe, didn't you know that you weren't supposed to do that?" I interrupted. "Of course I knew! But did I listen? No! So anyway, outside I played a game where I would climb a tree and jump into the snow as if I was jumping into a lake. I walked deeper and deeper into the woods near our house until I found the perfect tree. I played the tree game for hours. "Eventually, I started to get dizzy, cold, and tired. I looked around and realized that I was deeper in the woods than I thought. From then on, what happened was a blur. I vaguely remember my feet becoming numb in the ice-cold snow. I started to cry for my mother. "I stumbled along until I made it to a small clearing where there was just one house. Dizziness was overwhelming me. I was just six years old, but I knew what would happen to me if I didn't get inside soon. Finally, I crawled onto the porch of the house and knocked on the door. When no one answered, I fell against the door knowing my situation was hopeless. But then . . . something caught my attention. On the doorpost was one of those things that my mom and dad always kissed whenever they walked outside. "Without thinking, I slowly raised my hand to the mezuzah. I remember seeing my life pass through my eyes and thinking about how much I would miss my family. To me, it seemed like all hope was lost. I lowered my hand to my lips and then fainted." "Oh Bubbe, please don't tell me the rest of the story! It's too sad!" "Don't worry, sweetie! After all, I'm here with you now, right? When I woke up I was in the hospital. I heard someone shouting that I was awake. The doctors told my parents that it was a miracle that I was still alive. I opened my eyes and saw four people in the room, two of whom were my mother and father. I could tell that the tall man in white was the doctor, but who was the last one? "He was a young boy who looked about my age with curly brown hair. He told me that he had found me on the stairs of his side porch, an exit he almost never used. For some unknown reason he did that day. The doctors talked about good timing and good medicine and so on. . . but I knew that it was really the mezuzah! My deepest desire was granted because of the thing on the door that I had kissed! By the way, that boy eventually became my best friend and your Zadie!" Bubbe looked at me for a response to the story, but I had fallen fast asleep with a smile on my face and an all-new appreciation for my Bubbe and the mezuzah.
Fiction
The whiteout was incredible, one of the most amazing things Jack Graham had ever seen. Unfortunately, one thing he hadn't seen lately was the rest of his team. He knew he had to keep going . . . otherwise he would freeze in this stark, hostile, white world. The shrieking wind bit his face and blew ice crystals into his beard and goggles, giving him the appearance of a snowman. He checked his oxygen. Just six minutes' worth left. Jack struggled to stand against the snow and ice and wind. He shook out his beard and stumbled into the field of colorlessness. Was that ice he heard cracking? He took a step, felt the ground give way, and fell. He screamed as he plummeted and was silenced as his shout was replaced by the cracking of bone on hard ice. Jack awoke to the sound of voices above. He tried to yell, "I'm down here, in this pit," but the sharp pain in his chest caused it to come out, "Oohwhuph." He could hardly breathe and his chest, arm, and head hurt, and were all throbbing. He slowly got to his feet. At least his legs hadn't been hurt. He took a deep breath and looked around. He saw a blue, icy cave with glistening walls and sunlight at the top of a wide, vertical shaft. If only I was back in Arizona, he thought. He could feel the cool pillows and sheets of his bed back home. What I would give for some chicken noodle soup. He longed for the beautiful sunsets and dry warmth from the afternoon sun. Snapping back into reality, he headed for a patch of ice with the most light coming through it and pounded on it with his good arm. The tiny crack where he hit the wall brought fresh air into the cave. He grabbed as much of his climbing gear as he could and, remembering his ice ax, chopped a hole big enough to climb through, and slowly, with great pain, he passed through. He was greeted by the harsh winds of the north face of the mountain, the only one never climbed by man. He staggered onto a ledge, and began a slow and agonizing descent. After several minutes, his head began to spin, and he tottered and teetered perilously near to the three-thousand-foot drop-off next to him. He slipped and blacked out. When Jack woke up, he was lying in a rock-walled cave, with an insulated blanket draped over him, and the smell of something sweet wafting through the thin air. He looked around at decades' worth of used climbing gear. Bottles, stoves, parkas, goggles—a treasure trove of all things mountaineering. A hulking, gargantuan figure stood over a fire, boiling tea. Its hair was shaggy like a mammoth's, and it had no visible eyes or mouth. The beast turned toward him, and he recognized it from pictures he'd seen, and stories he'd heard. It was the abominable snowman himself—the yeti. He was in awe, afraid and curious and realizing that the yeti had rescued him from certain death. Just then he noticed a strange, hard object around his arm and a bandage around his head. He touched the gauzy substance and felt warm blood in a circular area on it. I must have taken a nasty spill, he thought. The great mass of hair hobbled over to him, bringing a cup of sweet liquid, and the man drank. Sleep came quickly, and for the third time his eyelids fluttered open and the huge beast was gone. He stood up, put on long underwear, insulated snow pants, two parkas, and his boots. He grabbed his ice ax, gave himself fresh oxygen, and left. Jack fumbled and stumbled down from the cave ledge. He paused for a second, looking down at the white valley below. How am I ever gonna get down there? he wondered. It's hopeless. Upon reaching a larger ledge, he promptly hit his arm on a rock and howled, his voice echoing through the valley below. When at last the noise died down, he heard a rumbling from the peak above. "Avalanche!" he yelled as he ran. The torrent of snow swept him off his feet and he tumbled, twisted, and was whipped around by the wave. As the avalanche slowed, it came nearer and nearer to a patch of yellow rocks. The stones became larger and larger until the avalanche stopped and Jack was close enough to realize that they were the tents of his team. There was just one obstacle left. As he approached the edge of the gorge, he could see that no ladders were still bridging the twenty-foot gap. He would have to descend, and ascend again on the other side. He hammered a spike into the permafrost. He tied a rope onto the spike, and clipped himself onto it. Slowly and cautiously he lowered himself into the dark abyss of the canyon. Finally his feet hit solid ice. Turning, he saw another gap, but couldn't see the end in the dim light. He couldn't take his chances going down further; he didn't have enough rope. The only way to cross was to jump. He first took off as much gear as he could. Then he unclipped his rope, took a deep breath, and broke into a full run for the edge of the drop. Leaping into the air with a loud yell, he flew, eating up the distance. He felt himself slowing, and looked down. The blackness was still there. He stretched his legs out in front of him as far as he could, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he began to fall. In one last effort to save himself, he reached his hands out as far as he could, until they ached, and, by the fingertips of both hands, caught a ledge. He pulled himself up, and pain shot through his broken arm, causing him to let go
Fiction
Dong-suk followed his uncle, carefully keeping his pace slow enough for his haal-mu-hee, his grandma. His mother was close behind. The group moved along with hurried steps, adding to the bustle of the sidewalks of Seoul. His hand was gripped tightly around his grandmother's and he shouldered a backpack. Although his feet were quick to stay in line behind his uncle, his thoughts were slow. He was going to America to be with his father, who had left a year before. He could not wait to see his father, but he was afraid his father would not be proud of him. As he thought, his free hand closed around the black stone in his pocket. The stone had been given to him the night before. There had been a specially cooked meal and his grandmother had told her stories and sang songs. She had driven away all his doubts about America. After dinner, while he was in bed, Grandmother had come in and given him a tiny pebble, her lucky dol, or stone. Dong-suk remembered the way she had smiled, showing her famous dimple on her cheek. Then she had spread out her small, delicate hands, wrapping him in a hug. * * * Abbie banged the front door open and stepped inside without taking off her rollerblades. "Abbie May Kessler, what have I told you about roller-blades in the house?" said her mother as she passed by. Abbie smiled, ducking her head so her mom wouldn't see. She threw off the rollerblades and then hopped on up to her bedroom as her mom yelled, "And you'd better get started on those book reports of yours. If you haven't gotten them finished by July, you won't be going to Gram's house with us." Abbie sighed; why had her mom chosen to give her three extra book reports when the school had already given her one! She liked reading and writing, but not when it was four four-page book reports on four different people. * * * They were on the subway for a pretty long time; the airport was a good distance away from where they lived. Dong-suk went over his limited vocabulary of the new language in his mind, trying to pronounce the unfamiliar words exactly right. He hoped that his English would be good enough for America. He glanced up and felt his heart skip a beat. There it was. The bee-hang-gi. Dong-suk pressed his nose against the window and let his eyes dance from one of the huge aircrafts to another. He watched one of the huge birds take off right before his eyes. Airplane, he thought, cleverly using an English word instead of Korean. He smiled at the thought of using an English word; it made him feel important; it made him feel American. Dong-suk's flight number boomed over the intercom system and he bravely stood up, hoping that his legs would not collapse. He walked with his uncle, grandmother, and mother over to the gate. His grandmother set the little suitcase she had been carrying down and kissed him on the forehead. His mother's eyes were glossy and red. He hugged her, begging her not to cry, using all his courage to reassure her. Then he faced his uncle. He looked up, staring at his uncle's face. The soldier, he thought; his uncle had always reminded him of a soldier. He sniffled, but did not cry under his uncle's stern eye. * * * When the plane had landed, Dong-suk was greeted by his father and a strange man with brown, wavy hair who was tall and skinny. Dong-suk was surprised, even baffled a little. He was expecting to only be met by his father, but he was curious about this man, so it didn't bother him much. He was so glad to see his father, glad that that long waiting was over. His father looked happy as they hugged and Dong-suk couldn't stop smiling. He tried to stay awake for the car ride; he wanted to see every little bit of America he could. The signs fascinated him. They were so colorful and he could make out most of the letters. He was content. Slowly, though, his seat felt more and more comfortable and his eyes more and more heavy. * * * Abbie rushed downstairs when she heard the car door slam. She opened the door and flung herself outside. "Hi, Daddy," she called into the darkness. "Hey, Abbie, honey. Could you come over here and help me?" he answered back from the driveway. When Abbie got there, she was surprised to see two other figures next to the car, one she recognized a little, and one around her own size. She grabbed some bags from the trunk of the car and headed in, toward the steps. She put the luggage down near the door. Her mom was standing there. "Who are those for?" she asked. Abbie shrugged. A few moments later, her father stood there in the doorway, with two people at his side. "I would like you to meet Dong-suk," he said, looking at the younger person. The other one was Mr. Lee; Abby recognized him. He had started working for her dad when he had arrived in America, last fall. "They will be staying for dinner, since Dong-suk hasn't eaten anything in a long time and it's much too late to go out to a restaurant." Abbie looked at the boy, studying his tan skin and almond-shaped eyes; the boy stared back at her, his expression unreadable. There was a moment's silence and then his father explained that Dong-suk had come to America to be with him, and that he did not know very much English. Abbie felt a little squeamish as the boy watched her. It wasn't that she was prejudiced, she hated people like that, but well, this was a different feeling. An odd sensation that made her feel uncomfortable. Why was he staring at her, why
Fiction
Tick. Tick. Tick. I lay on my bed on Saturday morning, flat on my back with my watch pressed to my ear. I listened to the patient, steady ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. The house was empty except for my dad and me, and he was down in the basement, working in his studio. Mom was out on one of her short trips from the house, grocery shopping. Dylan, my older brother, was hanging out at the mall with some of his more distasteful friends. I was glad he was out of the house—he could be incredibly annoying at times—but without Mom and with Dad practically nonexistent in his studio, I was all alone except for Emilia. Emilia was my new baby sister that was just born a few weeks ago. I had been frequently assigned to watch over her. I wasn't used to a baby in the house. She made me nervous and cried at night so that I hardly got any sleep, and I hardly got any sleep already. That was because of Silver Blue. Silver Blue had been my cat, my beautiful Siamese cat with her big blue eyes and delicate wedge-shaped face. She had started out as just Blue in the beginning; her brilliant blue eyes deserved a name, my whole family agreed, but I decided she would be Silver Blue. Silver Blue's eyes were special. They were blue, of course, and big and curious; but they had odd little flecks of silvery here and there. I had loved her. I still loved her. Silver Blue had been a house cat. She almost never went outside, but Dylan had opened the door . . . that morning was emblazoned in my mind. Unwillingly, in my mind's eye, I saw it happen again. * * * I stepped down the stairs in just my nightgown, tousle-haired and yawning. The carpet felt rough under my bare feet. It was early, almost five o'clock in the morning, an especially cold, brisk morning in the middle of winter. The house felt icy; I was going to make some hot chocolate for myself before going back to bed. A flash of creamy white fur materialized at my feet, and a familiar mewling filled the heavy, morning-like silence. I stooped and rubbed behind Silver Blue's ear with the tip of my finger; she liked that. Purring, she nipped my toes lovingly and wove around my cold feet, warming them up. And asking for food. Smiling, I made my way past the door and to the kitchen, talking to her as I went. "Sorry, Sil, not this early. Better luck later." Silver Blue mewed again and trotted beside me hopefully as I entered the kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk. Her empty food bowl was on the opposite wall, but I walked purposefully away from it. Clearly she did not understand, but Silver Blue the Siamese had a reputation for being patient. She sat on her haunches, watching unblinkingly with those big, silver-flecked eyes, and mewled. Then she sauntered over, butted her head against my ankles, set her claws into my nightgown and stared up at me. I looked right back at her until it got unbearable. I laughed as quietly as I could and tossed her a cat treat. "Here you go, Sil, I think you could weasel a treat out of a hungry fox." Silver Blue wolfed down the treat and was back at it again, her odd eyes just shouting for another. "Krista!" Someone thundered down the stairs, calling my name in surprise. Silver Blue's creamy, dark-tipped ear twitched around toward the noise and back again. She did not turn, but kept watching me. I detached her claws and coolly started to work, getting the chocolate syrup from the pantry and squeezing it into my glass of milk. It was Dylan, not my mother or father; I wasn't in trouble. I pretended to ignore him as he raced partway into the kitchen, causing Silver Blue to leap out of the way, mewling. "What," Dylan burst out, "are you doing up so—oh, well, I don't care anyway. I have to be up early!" "Why?" I asked, mixing my milk with the chocolate syrup. "The newspaper, of course!" I hid my surprise; Dylan wasn't one to read the newspaper. In fact, he almost never read at all of his own free will. "Why?" I repeated, taking up my glass and turning to the microwave. "The hockey game, stupid!" Dylan sneered, "Mom and Dad didn't let me stay up to watch it because I have a science test tomorrow and they said I need my sleep. Ha! Well anyway, I need to see the results in the newspaper! I bet it's front-page!" He leapt for the door and wrenched it open; a flurry of snow blew in as he sprang outside. "Don't let Silver Blue . . ." Still holding the not-so-hot chocolate, I hurried over just in time to see Silver Blue bounding out. "Silver Blue! Come back, Sil!" I leapt over to catch her, spilling milk and chocolate on the tiles, staring out the door and not caring. What I witnessed next made my heart nearly stop. Silver Blue, looking exultant and mewling excitedly, the sound I knew so well, was in the middle of the road. "Silver Blue!" Heartbeats, that was all, and then a car careened straight into my cat, my faithful companion for years that I loved so much; and then she was gone. The glass slipped from my numbed fingers and crashed to the floor; I didn't notice my alarmed father rushing down the stairs because of the noise, or Emilia wailing upstairs. Still barefoot and in my nightgown, I raced out the door and onto the street, ignoring cars screeching to a halt as I came running. The car who had hit Silver Blue had stopped, sideways across the road, and someone was getting out of it. I looked around wildly and my eyes
Fiction
The new girl stood over by the jungle gym, not climbing or talking to the other girls, but just standing there, peering into a brown lunch bag. She pulled something out of it, but I couldn't see what it was from the distance. Matt, a skinny boy with round glasses, was talking about a scary show he had watched on television. "I wasn't scared," Matt boasted. "I thought it was stupid." We all looked in awe at Matt, and told him of our own bravery stories. Still, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the new girl. She was now examining the object taken from the bag earlier. The new girl had come to our class at the beginning of the week, and Miss Emily, our kindergarten teacher, had introduced her, but I couldn't remember her name. My curiosity got the better of me, and I walked over to the girl. I was too shy to say anything, however, so we just stood there, looking at each other. Finally, the new girl held out her hand, holding out the thing she had taken from her lunch bag, offering it to me. It was a pear. A red one. "Thanks," I said, softly. I took the pear from her, and the girl giggled. "I'm Jenny." "I'm Jason," I said, and a little pear juice dribbled down my chin. "That's funny," said Jenny, giggling again. "Our names both start with 'juh'." Then, both of us broke into unexplainable fits of laughter, and whenever one of us began to calm down, the other one would continue to giggle. This would result in even more laughter, making it harder for either of us to stop. "Class!" Miss Emily called from outside the school door. "Time to come back inside!" Jenny and I swallowed our laughter, and separated into our groups, me with the boys, and Jenny with the girls. However, even in our different groups, we smiled at each other before naptime. * * * "I'm going to Jenny's! I'm going to Jenny's!" Thank goodness my seatbelt was tightly fastened; I was practically bouncing off the walls of my family's minivan. My mother, up in the front seat, was begging me to keep calm. "We're almost there," she told me. But I didn't listen, because I was going over to Jenny's house. "I have lots of fun stuff to do," Jenny had told me earlier that week. "Legos, roller skates, and . . ." Jenny's eyes grew wide ". . . Barbies." I had frowned. "Barbies? I don't like Barbies. They're for girls." Jenny shrugged, not seeming hurt in the least. "That's OK. There's my dog, Max, and . . ." Our van pulled up in front of a nice, brick house with a colorful flower garden in the front. It was a small house, but it fit so well with my imagination's former version of the house. On the porch, in the front of the house, there was a porch swing and on the swing sat a young girl. "Jenny!" I ran out to greet my friend. "Hi, Jason!" Jenny smiled, then waved at my mom, who was walking up the walk. A friendly-looking woman came out of the front door of the house, and smiled at me. "Hello, Jason. I'm Mrs. Weber, Jenny's mom." "Hi," I said, growing shy. Our mothers began talking to each other about very motherly things, so Jenny took my hand and led me inside. "You can meet Max now." We played all afternoon. We played with Legos, built castles in her sandbox, and played hide-and-seek. Once we got exhausted from playing, we went back to the kitchen, where our mothers were now talking at the counter. Jenny's mom smiled at us when we walked in. "My cookies are almost out of the oven." Jenny squealed with delight. "Mom makes the best cookies!" The timer rang, and Jenny and I greedily ate the chewy chocolate-chip cookies. "Mmmm!" I exclaimed. There were several more visits at Jenny's, and I enjoyed every second I spent there. Then the inevitable teasing began. "Hey, Jason, is Jenny your girlfriend?" the boys would say. "Stay away from Jason, he's got cooties, too!" That's when I stopped playing with Jenny. Without me, Jenny was friendless. She had given me her friendship, and had trusted me, but, even in kindergarten, I had my reputation to look after. I often saw Jenny sitting on a swing, alone, swaying a little, but not attempting to go over the top of the swing set, like she used to. Sometimes our eyes would meet, and when that happened, I would quickly look away. * * * I was skateboarding to school that day. It was my first day of the eighth grade, and I had spiked my hair just for the occasion. One girl I passed obviously didn't care how she looked on the first day of school. She was wearing an ugly brown sweater, and her long, brown hair was wet. I snickered as she tripped over her untied shoelaces. At lunch, after I was reunited with my old friends, our conversations got off the subject of how we spent our summer vacations, but on the other people in the school. "Who's that?" I asked, motioning toward the girl I had seen on my way to school. Alex turned around to look at her. She was eating a sandwich at an empty table. "That's Jennifer Weber," he said. "Her dad gets transferred a lot. She was here, back in the old days." Alex chuckled. "She's really weird and depressed and stuff," Matt said. They kept talking about Jennifer's abnormality, but my mind was elsewhere. Jennifer Weber. Jennifer Weber. Jenny Weber. Jenny. A picture of a red pear and chocolate-chip cookie came into my mind. Then an image of a little girl, sitting alone on a swing. This image stayed a long time in my mind, not like the cookie or the pear, which vanished as
Fiction
Julia arose at the early hour of four o'clock AM, fighting already bubbling nerves, and being careful not to wake her parents in the next room or her two younger siblings. She didn't want anyone to know about her endeavors, should they fail. And she didn't want to hurt her parents by going behind their backs. Due to their financial state, her parents planned for Julia to attend the community college while living at home. That being exactly what she didn't want to do, she had applied to more prominent schools and had finally won an audition space—hopefully she could earn acceptance and a scholarship. Near silent, she dressed in comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt, French-braided her hair out of her face and began packing her car up, that being a general term. Julia referred to her car as the junkmobile, but it would get her where she needed to go—four hours away. She loaded her business suit, which she would wear for her audition, her bag of application materials and references, and made one last trip to the house. Gingerly, she lifted up her most prized possession, her grandmother's cello. The case, earned by baby-sitting three mischievous monsters all summer, was new, but the instrument inside was not. Handled carefully for two generations, the relentless playing had rounded its tone, making it full, gorgeous. It was the one and only advantage she had on the harrowed road to her dreams. Like a crook, she stole out of the house, noiselessly locking the door behind her. As if handling fine china, she placed her inheritance in the back seat of the car and hopped into the driver's seat, praying for a quiet start-up—the car was as unpredictable as a green filly. Thankfully, her prayer was answered; she would be miles away when her family read the note of explanation. The car puttered down the street, rolling over discarded belongings and refuse. The street cleaners never came to this part of the town. Yards on her right and left were furnished with the odd patch of crabgrass, and more prominently beige, dusty dirt oases. On her right, a rusted Red Flyer wagon lay overturned, with a mud-encrusted bucket lying beside it. On the left, the shutters of the house had fallen off and had been converted into makeshift skateboard ramps. Several dogs were chained outside, tongues lolling out of their mouths, panting. Coated in burrs and other muck they had found to roll in, they were badly in need of a grooming. Car pulling into traffic at the end of the street, Julia thought back to her own small home. Although her parents didn't have an abundance of money, their house stood out like a diamond among coal. The yard was intact, with a coating of plush green grass, and the house shone with a fresh coat of paint. There were several neat flower beds, and when something needed to be repaired, it was, when the money could be found. Reflecting on her past resentment of her family's financial state, she realized that she could have had it much worse. Yes, she had worked extremely hard, but cello lessons cost money and to get the scholarships you had to be educated. Although they had lived close to poverty ever since the family business went bankrupt, she still had a roof, food, and loving family and friends. For the first time in her life she was thankful, truly thankful for all that she had. It was as if the years of resentment, hidden hatred, and cynicism had worn off. Her body felt ten pounds lighter. She breezed down the road with this newfound appreciation for her life, and before she could recap the journey, she found herself looking at the map for the university's local town. She navigated through the manicured campus, dorm rooms, classrooms, and libraries until finally she approached the performing arts hall and offices. Checking her car, and paying the nominal parking fee with a few tattered bills, she maneuvered skillfully into a spot. Carefully opening the door and stretching taut legs, she slowly stood and removed her suit. She would change before checking in; first impressions counted here and she wanted hers to be one of maturity and preparedness. Self-assured, she entered a side door, located a rest room and changed into her suit, a present from her aunt, her only confidant. The navy blue did wonders for her, brought out a gleam of sunshine in her mane, and a sparkle in her sapphire eyes. Displaying a true smile, not one of the manufactured ones she was accustomed to wearing, she boldly exited the rest room and went back to retrieve her cello, stashing the travel clothes in the back Seat. Lifting her instrument, the music bag, and the paperwork, she began to think over the music notes she would soon have to execute with utmost precision and conviction of her true love for music. Then, more timidly, she entered the main doors and approached the desk. Facing a pickle-faced secretary dressed crisply in a linen suit, she heard her manicured nails tapping on the keyboard. Frames perched on her delicate nose; she glanced up through them and queried in a nasal voice, "Yes? What can I do for you?" as if her purpose at the building was not clear. After all, she was carrying a cello case. Curling short ragged nails into a fist, she fought the nervous waiver out of her voice. "I'm here for the eleven o'clock audition spot," she proclaimed boldly, a little louder than necessary. "Oh, you must be Julia Montgomery. They will be expecting you shortly. I'll have Robert take you to your warm-up room and from there an attendant will come for you when it is your turn." She then beckoned to Robert, a lively-looking boy with tightly wound obsidian curls and dancing emerald eyes. "Robert will take you to your audition room, without any of his tricks," she added
Poem
Friday Night at Miss Farida’s Piano Lesson
Miss Farida loves vanilla-smelling candles which flicker against the sleeping couch. I place my sandals beside the spill of shoes and slippers strewn across the plastic mat in the hallway to her room. I see the Sesame Street stickers propped near the electric piano, tangled in a hoop of dreaming dust, and the pedals, wrapped in a layer of fine metal. Miss Farida takes my stack of weary books that whimper as she turns to "Stepping Stones." My delicate hands look like tiny mice skittering across the keys. I play to a beat from the metronome fast as a hummingbird's heartbeat, slow as a whale's. Miss Farida takes a pencil from her hair and writes in my notebook. "Tonight you will write a song about New Year's." I pick up my denim bag and dump my books into it. Already, I begin to hear the notes of endless possibilities for my composition: The orchestra of 10,000 fuchsia fireworks exploding in the air, the symphony of sparklers, the dropping ball of melody, the score of the night, filled with new beginnings.
Book Reviews
The School Story by Andrew Clements; Simon & Schuster Books For Young Readers: New York, 2001; $16 Have you ever wondered how children get their books published? I know I have. Well, this whole book is an example of how one girl, Natalie, gets the story she wrote made into a real book (and a bestseller). Natalie is twelve years old, but she is still an amazing author. Her best friend is Zoe, and it was all Zoe's idea for the book to be published. Zoe is one of my favorite characters in this book. She is brave, smart, funny, and a great friend. She and Natalie are very different, but they help each other out. Without Zoe, Natalie would never have had the courage to try and publish her book, or have figured out how to. Zoe and Natalie's relationship, as you will find out, is a big part of the book. One of the reasons I liked this book so much was that I could relate to how Natalie feels about her work. I really like to write, but I don't like to let many other people see my creations. I'm sort of shy, and I would never have had the courage to send my work to a publisher. But the way Natalie gets her story published (with Zoe's help) is something I never could have dreamed of doing. It's all very clever and well thought out, and it involves a lot of courage. If it were me doing that, I would probably have chickened out in the first part of the process. I also think that it was very interesting how Zoe planned the whole thing out. It made this the kind of book you didn't want to put down until you figured out what was going to happen to Natalie and Zoe next. Another reason I liked this book so much was that, through what was happening to Natalie, you learned a lot about the publishing process too. It helps that Natalie's mom is a publisher, and so, as she explains things more clearly to Natalie, it's like she's explaining things more clearly to you. I think it was smart of Andrew Clements to make her mom do this, because it really helps young kids understand what happens after they send their work out. But the parts in this book that were the most touching to me were all the parts when Natalie thought about her dad. Natalie's father died a few years before this book was set, so he only appears in memories. The way she thinks of him and remembers him is so sweet to me. My dad is still alive, but it makes me think about how I feel about him, and how much I love him. When I read the part in Natalie's story about the dad it made me cry because I knew that Natalie was really writing her story for her father. It was amazing to me how Andrew Clements can make you laugh, cry, and learn about publishing in a 196-page book. One of the only things I didn't like about this book was that it never gave a copy of The Cheater, Natalie's book. It sounded very good and I really wanted to read it, even though it was made up. Other than that, I really liked this book, and it is even one of my favorites now. From the illustrations to the exciting style of writing, this book is a true inspiration to all young writers, and I would suggest it to anyone who loves to write.
Book Reviews
A Real American by Richard Easton; Clarion Books: New York, 2002; $15 This is the heartfelt story of two young boys becoming friends under some very adverse conditions. Nathan McClelland is a Pennsylvania farm boy whose neighbors have moved out, sold out to the coal company. He is lonely, with all of his friends gone, and his wish of a friend comes true with Arturo Tozzi, a young miner boy in the first wave of immigrants, the only child of the lot. Arturo wishes to see Nathan's animals, and have a friend in his new country. Nathan wishes to mold Arturo like his old and now gone friends Ben and Pete, and first tries to teach Arturo how to read. However, he acts too uppity, and Arturo shuns reading, wanting to be "a friend, not a student," or inferior. When Nathan's old friends, Ben and Pete, come back to visit, they accuse Arturo of being a foreigner, and Nathan tries to tell them that he is who he isn't, a boy named Arthur who's just like them. Arturo runs away, saying that he is who he is, Arturo Tozzi. Nathan, eating humble pie, decides to help Arturo, and assists in hindering troopers to convince Ernesto, Arturo's firebrand brother, to give up the strike. In this act of faith, Nathan and Arturo's friendship is restored, and they go on as friends. However, did Nathan and Arturo really resolve their friendship? If Arturo can't read, he can't communicate as well with Nathan as he could if he could read. The friendship is less powerful when Arturo and Nathan can't communicate in ways other than a pidgin English. It's like a Russian and an Egyptian trying to talk through Russian. The Egyptian can't use a full mastery of Russian, so the two don't know each other as well, and the bond is less potent. In the book, Nathan rebels against tradition to become friends with Arturo; his father expects him to stick only with the people and things he knows best. (Arturo's father supports the friendship, for the good it could do his son.) In the book Rocket Boys, by Homer Hickam, Jr., a young boy defies his own West Virginia coal mining town's tradition of becoming a high-school football star, and going on to work in the local mine. He decides to become a rocket scientist, under the heavy hindrance of his father, a head miner who doesn't believe in rockets until the very end, when the boy wins the National Science Fair, like Nathan's father who didn't believe Arturo could be a good friend until he helped Nathan stop the strike. It was surprising that miners had to buy their own tools, blasting powder, and extra timber to hold up the mine. This may account for the destitution of conditions in the mine, with no protection from the poisonous gases inside, and not enough timber to support cave-ins, and the poverty of the miners themselves, living in company-built shacks, and with barely enough food bought with credit from the company store to feed a family. This penury is illustrated in Growing up in Coal Country, listed in the back of the book by the author as reference, which gives a detailed account of the day-to-day lives of Pennsylvania coal miners. But, if Nathan wasn't lonely, if his friends Ben and Pete were still living right next door, and hadn't sold, would there still have been a friendship? That's doubtful, because the only reason Nathan agreed to be Arturo's friend was because he was lonely for Ben and Pete. Likewise, if Arturo had been in the second wave of miners, when they brought their kids, and Nathan was lonely, then Arturo wouldn't need Nathan, though Nathan would need him. It's sad that the only beginning fuel for this friendship came through the needs of Nathan and Arturo for a friend. If one of their needs had been fulfilled, there wouldn't have been a friendship.
