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Contents

Musical Dreams

INTRODUCTION   elen Silverstein tried to fight back tears as she sat in the passenger's seat of her mother's sleek, blue Dodge. Despite the fact that Olivia Roi Silverstein, her mother, was almost breaking the speed limit, Helen felt that she could never be far enough away from her viola teacher's house. The woman's harsh words still rang in her ears: "You need to work on this! It won't just come to you one day, you know." Helen had spent weeks perfecting the Bach sonata and three-octave arpeggios that she had just played flawlessly, or so Helen thought. Obviously, her teacher thought that the performance was far from flawless. In fact, she seemed to find a fault in every note: the pitch was flat or sharp, her bow was crooked, her instrument wasn't high enough, or worst of all, her vibrato was wrong. Why did everyone else seem to think her vibrato was so beautiful while her teacher considered it to be sloppy and terrible? Because, thought Helen, everyone who likes my playing knows nothing about music. This wasn't quite true; after all, her parents were both excellent musicians, but did they truly enjoy her playing? Sometimes it was hard to tell. The radio cut sharply into Helen's thoughts, and the monotonous voice of a man droning on and on about the stock market was like a needle jabbing into her temples again and again. "Mom, do you mind turning off the radio?" she asked. "I've got a headache." "You know, I'm entitled to listen to something I like once in a while," said Olivia, turning off the radio. "Did you finish your French homework yet? You said you'd do it on the way to your lesson!" "Oops! Sorry I forgot. Do you have a pen?" "It's in my purse, and I don't have a free hand right now! You'll have to get it yourself!" snapped her mother. Please be calm. Take a deep breath, begged Helen silently, but she said, "I don't mind getting the pen. Sorry to bother you." "I just don't see why I have to do everything for you, Helen," sighed Mrs. Silverstein. Helen felt a lump rise in her throat. Now her mother was angry with her. Could this day possibly get any worse? She arrived home to find her house dimly lit and quiet. This was to be expected, as her dad loved privacy and conserving energy. Sighing, Helen pushed in the doorbell. After a few seconds, her dad rushed to open the door, a plate of freshly cooked chicken paprikash in one hand. A towel was tucked into his shirt collar, and his silver-gray beard and mustache glistened in the blackness of the night. His large, warm brown eyes pierced through the milky strands of moonlight that clung to the sky With a tight smile on his face, he asked, "Why'd you have such a long lesson?" Helen could hear the stormy annoyance in his voice, and she couldn't bear to see him upset, too. "I'm going to get ready for bed," said Helen, kissing her father. "I'll meet you upstairs." She jogged up the stairs to her room, changed into her pajamas, and started in on the tedious task of running a brush through her hair one hundred times. *          *          * MOVEMENT ONE Helen strode confidently down the hall on her way out of the Harrisburg School of Music (H.S.M.). She had just finished her last orchestra rehearsal of the year, and it had ended early. Helen hoisted her viola strap higher on her shoulder as she watched the other violists chatting happily Amy, Sara, and Katy were inseparable. In fact, the only student from Helen's orchestra who would speak to her was her stand partner, Allysa. She hated to sound like a typical moody, depressed teenager with social problems, but sometimes Helen felt like no one liked her. Even Tori Peterson, a girl from her math class and the only other person from her grade who attended H.S.M., refused to talk to her. Instead, she and her snotty, popular friends, Quinn Wallace and Astrid Amberson, completely ignored Helen. The only time Helen felt comfortable at H.S.M. was when she was playing viola. The power of being the principal, the leader, the best violist, was invigorating, and the pure joy and love of playing rich, beautiful music enlightened her and filled her with pleasure. Helen's only regret was that she wasn't in the most advanced orchestra. A hot-pink flyer startled her, and Helen peered at it more closely. It was information about the advanced orchestra. Scanning the list of audition requirements, Helen popped it into the side pocket of her purple case. She also flipped through the thick stack of excerpts. Every student auditioning had to play the required excerpts, or small sections of pieces. Violins had to play Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, and Prokofiev; cellos were required to perform Haydn and Schubert. Finally, Helen's hands found the viola excerpts. There were only two: Mozart and Haydn. Carefully sliding the excerpts into her case, she continued down the hallway. Adrenaline pulsed through her body at the thought of auditioning. It was an exciting, educational experience that always made Helen feel proud, and since performing never made her nervous, she looked upon auditions as rare opportunities to test herself and push her limits. Besides, joining this orchestra might be the key to improving her playing. *          *          * MOVEMENT TWO Helen anxiously flipped through her two books of pieces. The Bach sonatas all seemed too difficult or too basic to play for her audition, and she knew the judges would be annoyed to hear the same Suzuki pieces over and over again. At first, she had thought of asking her teacher to help her choose a piece, then decided against it. Helen's teacher would only select a piece like the Seitz Student Concerto in C Major, a concerto played by nearly every violin and viola student in the world! How could she

A Day with My Dog

I picked up the soggy, slobbered-on tennis ball and threw it yet again. I watched Sunset gleefully pursue it yet again. It was part of our special bond, this pointless game of fetch. Both of us knew our parts in this tireless ritual of throwing and retrieving. Sunset did not want to give up the ball without a struggle. I had to grasp it while she held it tightly in her jaws, and we played tug-of-war. I yanked it back and forth and her head followed. She then released the ball for a moment's time to catch her breath; I snatched it from her teeth and threw it again. At last we collapsed on the grass, exhausted. I began stroking her mane of golden fur that surrounded her golden retriever head that moved rhythmically with each pant. She snuggled her body closer to mine and rolled over to expose her soft white underbelly. It was flaked with mud. In fact, her fur was matted with dirt. I knew I would have to do something about it, but that would be later. She awaited her belly-scratching with eager anticipation. I responded to her invitation by running my fingernails along the sleek lines of her torso. She rolled her head to the side and closed her eyes in pure contentment. She would gladly have welcomed my continuing in this way till eternity. Disappointment was inevitable. At last, I got up and beckoned to her. She waited a little longer, hoping I would return, but finally she knew her duty and reluctantly followed. I picked up the garden hose as casually as possible, but Sunset was not so easily fooled. When I turned on the water, aiming the nozzle toward the flower bed to make her think I was innocently watering the flowers, Sunset tried to make a run for it. I was too quick for her. Dropping the garden hose, I leaped upon her. She crouched down, curling her sixty-pound body into a remarkably small, furry ball. While lying across her, I stretched my arm out as far as it would go and just barely reached the hose. It took four towels to dry her off. I vigorously rubbed her down with each towel. The sweet fragrance of the soap could not cover up the distinctive odor of damp dog. Sunset rose to her feet, shook herself thoroughly, and with an effort at restoring her pride, gracefully pranced over to a sun-drenched spot on the lawn. She lay down. I sprawled myself out beside her. We both looked into the distance and watched the puffy white clouds drift by. I knew that if I ever had a choice, that would be the day I would relive.

Wolf Hunter

"Hi, Dad." Rhea smiled for about a second at her dad and slammed the front door. He glanced up, and then continued reading the paper. Just like always, he didn't care if she was home or not. "Rhea, will you please stop wearing that stupid shirt?" Rhea scowled at him. He knew as well as she did that he could have said something when they bought it. She frowned at him and stormed to her room. "I don't want to hear about it." She slammed and locked her door and stared into her mirror at her black shirt with a howling wolf. Her dad was angry because he made his money by selling chicken eggs and fresh vegetables to produce stores, and also shooting and skinning wolves and selling the pelts to fur companies. Rhea thought it was surely illegal but he insisted it wasn't. "Well, it should be," Rhea had muttered. Rhea was the complete opposite of her dad. Most people thought they weren't related because Rhea had short brown hair and hazel eyes, and her dad had black hair and dark brown eyes, but Rhea knew the main difference was in their personalities. Rhea was a vegetarian. Her dad liked steak. When wolves were skinned, she snuck out of the house to the Animal Society and played with the animals until she felt that everything was over. Her dad's hunting was actually the reason her dad and mom had divorced. Her mom had walked out the door a year ago, after her dad had shot a young wolf for, Rhea thought, no reason at all. And now, more than ever, Rhea wished that her mom had taken her. Rhea was torn from her thoughts by an ear-shattering gunshot coming from outside. "Not again!" she groaned in disgust. She decided to peek outside to see what her dad had killed this time, and fell backwards onto her bed when she saw the faint outline of a dead wolf lying on bloodstained grass in the forest behind their house. Her heart was pounding like a sledgehammer, and the only thing she could do was lie on her back in complete shock. So that's exactly what she did for a long time. Finally, her dad called her downstairs for dinner. She sighed, and slipped off her bed, her bare, sweaty feet sticking to the wood floor of her room. As she went down the old staircase, it creaked on every step. Her dad was eating chicken, and he muttered, "Your dinner is by the sink." Rhea pulled her ravioli from the counter and sat down as far away from her dad as possible. They sat that way very silently for a long time and finally Rhea asked her dad, "Can I volunteer at the Animal Society?" She already knew what the answer would be. "Rhea, we've gone over this before. You're too young to go anywhere without adult supervision . . ." Rhea was suddenly tired of his excuses. "Dad, I'm twelve years old and it's only three blocks away!" She dropped her fork and ran into the backyard. For a long time she sat on the ground, staring at the newly turned soil. A tiny beetle was crawling across a pebble, trying to get to a leaf, but every time it tried, it just fell back again. The third time it tried, it was flipped onto its back. Rhea picked the flailing beetle up and set it on the leaf. "I wish I were a beetle," Rhea thought out loud. "Then my only goal would be to get to a leaf, instead of making my dad stop shooting." Rhea smiled sadly. It seemed hopeless. The next morning, her dad told her he was going to kill the wolves attacking the henhouses. "Don't get any ideas," he said suspiciously. "I know you don't like me shooting, but if wolves are killing our hens then you know I have to shoot them." She smiled angelically, but deep down inside she didn't agree one bit. "I won't." As soon as their old Toyota pickup was out of sight, she grabbed her bike and pedaled in the direction of the woods. "He didn't really think I would stay!" she reassured herself. She figured that if she went straight through the woods instead of around them, she could beat him to the chicken coops. By the time she arrived, her dad was already there. He was pointing his gun at a female wolf guarding her baby. Her dad took aim, and she ran toward him, trying to stop him, trying to do anything, but even before she started running, she knew she was too late. The shot rang out, and Rhea prayed for the wolves to run away in time, but the poor, faithful mother wolf protected her baby until death. She howled in pain and her beautiful gray fur was soaked in blood. Tears poured down Rhea's cheeks as she saw the orphaned baby whimpering and nudging his mother's lifeless body, wondering why she wasn't moving. Rhea fell to her knees and sat there until her dad came over. "Rhea, stand up this instant and come home with me." Her dad sounded mad and she didn't understand how he could just ignore the fact that the pup no longer had a mother. She dried her tears and was overcome with anger. "I hate you!" she screamed. Rhea stood up and grabbed the pup in her jacket, bundling him up like she was wrapping a present, and ran as fast as she could to the Animal Society. When Rhea got to the front desk of the Society she quickly told them what had happened. "I see." The person at the front desk spoke soothingly. "Don't worry, Rhea, we'll take good care of your wolf." Rhea nodded, gave the squirming bundle to the front desk, and started to walk out. "Rhea, wait!" Rhea turned around. It was Joe, one of the volunteers. "You can visit

Until We Meet Again

I was skipping through the fields. I smelled one of Mama's tulips and sighed. It smelled just as I expected a sunrise would, if it had a smell. Suddenly, a boat appeared. I happily stepped into it. Suddenly the boat began to fill with water. I looked around. Water surrounded me! It was everywhere. I . . . I . . . I sat up quickly. I was in bed. It had been just a dream. I hadn't had many dreams like this before. Here in the Netherlands, not many people feared the water because of the dikes, which held it back. But something wasn't right. Just then my feet splashed in ankle-deep water. It churned and swirled around my legs. Startled, I looked down. Water filled my bed. The floor was no longer visible. Water was everywhere, inching higher and higher. I rubbed my eyes. Was I dreaming? The water couldn't have made it over the dikes. It wasn't possible! Was it? The icy water chilled my feet to the bone. I shrieked. My little brother Theodore, whom I call Teddy, sat up groggily. "What is it, Sieke? Am I late for chores?" he asked sleepily. His always-curious eyes looked up into mine. Teddy was nine that year. He was my only sibling. "Come on, Teddy" I ordered, "upstairs, now!" "But Sieke," he began, and then he saw the murky water, creeping slowly upward. I grabbed his hand, and we rushed up the stairs. We nearly crashed into Papa, who was on his way down. He looked behind us at the rushing water and said, "Go upstairs and wait with your mater." Teddy and I swiftly obeyed. We climbed the stairs and ran into the welcome arms of our mother. Mama squeezed us tight. "We know all about it," she told us when we tried to explain. "As soon as your papa woke up and saw it he headed straight for you." I began to sob. "We'll be all right," she kept repeating, "we'll be all right." There was no fear in her soothing voice, though I think she was trying to convince herself as much as us. I looked up at Mama, her golden hair swept up in two yellow braids, and her warm blue eyes anxious. As I said earlier, I was twelve, and people were constantly telling me that I looked like my mater. I wanted to be as brave as my mama, sitting there, comforting us. Her fear just barely showed in her bright blue eyes. Suddenly Papa burst through the door. "Up . . . on . . . the roof . . ." he panted. The water crept up the stairs behind him, like a robber coming to take all we had. Herding us out of her lap, Mama flung the window open. Papa rushed over and lifted me up. "Grab hold of the roof, Sieke, and pull yourself up," he instructed. So much was happening, and it was all happening so fast. Terrified, I squeezed my eyes shut and clung to the top of the roof, only halfway out the window. "Pull up, Sieke," ordered Papa. "I can't," I sobbed. Mama looked at me with pleading eyes. Taking a deep breath, I heaved myself up on the roof. Shivering, I sat there, waiting for the rest of them. Next came Teddy, then Mama, and last Papa. We all sat on the roof, clinging to each other, watching the deadly water rise toward us every second. We waited for what seemed like an eternity before the boats arrived. Teddy saw them first. It was maybe midday. The sun was blazing, set high in the sky. Half of me wanted to jump in the cool water. I was staring at it, when all of a sudden Teddy cried, "Boats! Look everyone, boats!" He ran and gave me a big hug. A dozen or so boats were floating past us, filled with people. "Hello," called a tall man from one of the boats, "would you like a ride?" Teddy jumped into a boat joyfully. I turned my back to them. What if one of the boats sprung a leak or . . . "It's much safer here than there on your roof, missy," said a voice from behind me. I whirled around. It was the tall man. My family had already disappeared in the people. The man somehow reminded me of Papa. Maybe it was his yellow beard, or his kind eyes. Smiling, I stepped into the boat and we floated away. I was nervous. It wasn't the boat; I had been on boats before. It was that water, that terrifying water. We floated by a bloated cow, and I felt sick. "Mater?" I said, looking around for my mother. There was no answer. "Mater!" I called, frightened. "Pater? Teddy?" I looked around desperately, realizing that my family was not in the boat that I was! I thought back. Many of the boats had separated back by our house. Who knew how far away they were now? I sat down, distressed. I was alone. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. It was the tall man. "You'll find them," he said. I looked down at his feet. He was wearing klompen, wooden shoes. I wondered if he lived near us. "I'm Mr. Van Roekel," he introduced himself. "My name is Sieke," I replied. "Sieke," he repeated and smiled. I smiled back. Just then another boat came our way. A man yelled, "Van Roekel! We need some help over here! We have a family with six kids, nearly in over their heads." Mr. Van Roekel jumped into the boat. I barely had time to shout a goodbye. I never saw him again. Later, another boat came by. I saw a few men talking to each other. One of them nodded his head. A few of his passengers climbed into our boat. Some in our boat moved to theirs. Suddenly a sopping

The Great Chessboard

A Story of the Civil War   t was early dawn on July 1, 1863. The cool breeze crept through the hills. Sunlight swarmed over the long and copious lines of tents. Not a soul stirred. It was, without a doubt, a sight for the human eye to behold. A lone shadow sat upon a tree stump, a few yards from the line of quiet tents from which he had come, staring off into the hills, awake, yet still dreaming. It's all like a dream, the figure thought lullingly. All like a glorious dream. But the dream turned him to reality which may if it chooses come as a complete and disappointing surprise to many. Why must there be reality? Why cannot everything be one, wonderful, everlasting dream? A bugle sounded four notes, a pause, and two more: reveille, the wake-up call. Corporal Benjamin Ryan of the 3rd Minnesota Volunteers of the Union Army rose from the stump and trudged down toward the camp. Alas, Ryan thought, the dream must end someday, and we must face the harsh truth of reality. Men of his regiment began to rise from their tents and the calm sleeping ground was soon filled with noise and hustle. Ryan walked amongst the men, himself already dressed and ready for any order. Another hour or so, he thought, and we'll be on the move again. He could feel it. Within the men, in the sky, in the rising sun, everywhere. He could picture it in his mind: row upon row of trudging, tired men in blue uniforms, kicking up dust, their heads low, muskets hunched over their shoulders. It was not a nice sight. They knew they were losing the war. The American Civil War had been raging for over two years now; who could know how much longer it would last? Every passing day brought more death, more sorrow, more mourning. Corporal Ryan was in the Union army, the army of the northern states. The Confederate army had control of the southern states. With General Robert Edward Lee as their commander, the Confederates, or the Rebs, seemed invincible, and time and time again they had reminded the Union army of that. The army of the North had gone through many commanders, the latest being Joe Hooker, but President Abraham Lincoln resigned him from command after the Union disaster at Chancellorsville, and thus Hooker was replaced by General George Meade. Meade was known by his officers as the "snapping turtle," for his aggressive reputation. Ryan wished that General John Reynolds, the commander of his corps, was in charge of the army; he'd win the war over a day or two if they'd picked him first. Ryan knew that General Reynolds had in fact been offered a commission for Major General, and had turned it down. It was his choice, but Ryan still thought he was the best man in the army. But there were other things to think of now. The rest of the men in the regiment lined up for a brisk breakfast. Ryan found that he wasn't hungry; he went to his tent. After he ducked in, he sat down on the grass. He ran his fingers through the fresh green, then through his hair. He looked around at his belongings. A canteen, some rations, a diary he'd written in every day since he'd enlisted, his bedroll, a quilt his mother had made for him when he was very young, an oil lamp, paper for letters, his musket, ammunition, a baseball, and, carefully laid on the quilt, a photograph of himself, his mother, his younger sister, his father, and his auntie. His most prized possession: all he had left of his family. He picked it up and looked closely at the tall, muscular figure of his father. He would have been proud, Ryan thought, if he saw me now, in the army. He was a lieutenant during 1812, and would tell a younger Ryan of his many different engagements. Ryan lived for the excitement of his father's stories of war all the while his father was alive . . . and now, his father dead, himself finally enlisted, Ryan found what a nightmare war was. Ryan thought hard to remember the day the nightmare began. *          *          * "Thank you, Reverend," Ryan had said. "I'm sorry my mother couldn't be present for the memorial, she . . . is not herself." Ryan had nodded to Reverend Mitchell and strode away from the sanctuary of the deceased. It had been a dull, cloudy day in January. No snow fell. No person walked the lonely Minnesota streets except Ryan, who was not certain what to think. He refused to face reality: he refused to face the fact that his father was dead. But he knew it was true. That was reality. The harsh, harsh reality. Ryan came to his home. He slowly walked up the front steps, and entered the door. His sister was in her room; he could hear her crying. She hadn't stopped for three days. Ryan went to his room and looked out the window. His mother was out there, tearing up grass and dirt and showering herself with it, screaming, sobbing, cursing the Lord for her husband's death. Ryan knelt beside the bed and prayed silently for his mother and his father's spirit. He rose, looked to the ceiling, and cried, "Why?" He ran out of the house, into the deserted road, seeking solitude, seeking peace with himself. He could not find any peace within him. He was flushed with emotions. He was in rage, in despair, in mourning . . . where to go? What to do? To whom must he turn? Unanswered questions. Too many unanswered questions. He just stood in the center of the road, helpless, for about an hour, and then, suddenly, he knew what to do. Where to go. He went back to the house, gathered his belongings, slipped a note under a vase in the

Where the Cotton Bolls Grow

My father was the first in his rural hometown to ever go to college. In China the colleges are scarce. College entrance exams were created to wipe out the majority of the people who wanted to advance from high school. In my father's time, not all the high-school graduates took the exams, and out of those who did, only three percent made it to college. It was the accomplishment of this feat that led him to meet my mother and eventually move to the United States. Ten years later, our family took our first plane trip back to China. I was twelve the summer we rode on a silver bird over mountains and seas to fly to my father's homeland. We transferred to a seven-hour bus which bobbed over miles and miles of blue and green expanse with fishermen laying sheets of plastic on the sides of the road to dry their newly harvested crayfish. Bus changed to pickup truck when an uncle that I had never seen enthusiastically picked us up in the only automobile in the village, a large clumsy machine with a roar that mixed with that of the wind until I could not tell which was which. Stretch upon stretch of green dotted with red and purple and white caught my eye. Beautiful flowers lay upon artistically stretched leaves that were waist-high. "They grow flowers here?" I shrieked. I caught the hint of the word "cotton" screamed back at me. My mom used to be obsessed with the movie Gone with the Wind when I was little, and the only cotton fields I had ever seen were the black-and-white ones in the movie. Seeing the fields of bright color, I had not realized that it was cotton. When the engine of the pickup finally stopped roaring, there was a shabby courtyard to the right of us. In contrast to the bright shades of green in the fields, everything in the village living areas was a brown, as if all color had been washed out and worn away. A group of no less than thirty people of all ages stood outside the wooden double doors that were chipped at the edges from fifty years of use. From the youngest at age eight to my grandma with sixty-some years behind her, they all seemed to be staring at me, eyes squinting from the sun. My family. Something about the scene intimidated me into getting off on the other side of the pickup truck. The arrival of visitors from outside the country that no one had seen for ten years was a rare event; at night a crowd of farmers carrying stools flooded into my grandparents' courtyard and seated themselves there, all looking as if waiting for me to do something. They did not revert to normal conversation until I told a few jokes in English and sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" for them, and it was not until after I had fallen asleep on my bed—a clay block covered with a layer of woven bamboo—that they picked up their stools and left. I begged my dad to take me to the cotton fields the next day. I wanted to get a closer look at the tiny flowers and lush greenery so I could come to a conjecture about whether picking cotton was anything like Gone with the Wind had portrayed it. I studied the farmer closest to us. He was bent over, a large straw hat covering a sun-browned face. His shabby clothes were wet, droplets of water and sweat collecting on his shirt and his pants. A large tank of battered metal weighed upon his back. In one hand was a hose connected to the tank that he used to spray pesticide onto the plants below. As I watched, he squirted the pesticide. A wave of pungent scent nearly choked me and my dad when the toxic fumes hit us. Clouds of sickly yellow misted the air. The farmer treaded into the cloud to reach the next stretch of cotton plants, and was hit by the spray. It clung to his clothes, sticky little droplets that covered all parts of his body. I realized with a jolt that what I had thought was water on his clothes was really pesticide. My dad waved to the worker, and greeted him loudly. The farmer turned around, eyes squinted in thought. It was apparent that he did not recognize my father. "Qing!" My dad called out the farmer's name. To my shock, I recognized it as a popular name that parents in villages named their little girls, "hard-worker." The farmer's face lighted in sudden recognition, and I realized that it indeed was a woman. She had apparently grown up with my dad and had all but forgotten him. My dad explained that he had moved to America after college and flew back with my mother and me for a visit. She had not known my dad at first sight, but she did seem to know what America was. Her eyes lit up, and she pointed to an empty can of pesticide on the ground. "That's from America," she said. I went over and inspected the can. The Monsanto Company, St. Louis, had produced it. "Say," Qing asked me, watching me read the words on the can, "do they grow cotton in America too?" I shook my head, expecting her to start denouncing American farmers for not growing something as precious as cotton that she had grown all her life. Instead, she got a misty look in her eyes. "America must be such a wonderful place. Don't have to grow cotton." She made a dramatic sweep with one hand, indicating the field. "The bugs have gotten worse and worse. Why, just a coupla years ago, Chinese pesticides work. Now only imported ones do. And sometimes even imported ones ain't strong enough. You gotta spray 'em once every ten days, or else the cotton's gone for sure." Her voice was strong

The Locket of Lost Love

Melissa's hand recklessly fumbled in her backpack, reaching past crumpled papers and all the dried-out gel pens. "Hurry up," the bus driver impatiently snapped, as she stared at the long line of kids. "I haven't got all day!" "I'm looking for it," Melissa mumbled, now furiously tossing her notebooks out. Her bus pass was missing, and this meant a lengthy two-mile walk home. "You know I come on the bus every day" she tried, but wasn't successful. The doors of the bus closed in a hurry She sighed, yet as she put everything back into her midnight backpack, something caught her eye. A shiny gold chain was sticking out of the front pocket, revealing itself daintily. Melissa's shaking hands reached out to touch its thick, smooth texture. She gingerly pulled it out, glaring nervously at the heart locket in the middle. The paint had chipped off, now just showing the cheap material it was made of. "Mama," she whispered. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Mellie, happy birthday to you," the crowd chanted. Presents, presents were everywhere. Some wrapped in bright red, others in huge bows and clown party bags. And the balloons, they were all the colors of the rainbow, dazzling beauties covering the entire ceiling, each with a huge 4 on it. "Mellie?" Melissa jerked, startled by the sound of her name. It was Chloe, with a concerned look on her face. "Whatcha doing here; it's almost four o'clock!" Melissa opened her mouth to tell the bus pass incident to her friend, but stopped. She saw Chloe curiously looking at the locket in her hand. "It's nothing," Melissa anxiously said as she put the necklace in her pocket. "Anyway, I have to get home." A brisk autumn breeze hit her face as she got up. "See ya tomorrow! Are ya coming to ballet today and . . ." Chloe's words were drowned out by Melissa's flashback. Breathing in as much as possible, and then letting it all out, just blowing away the flames on the candles. How much fun that was. Of course, nothing could beat opening presents, so the sweet sound of "Present time!" rang through the air. They then all formed a circle, and each delightful box was passed around. Clowns, yes, clowns. Clowns were on this certain bag, filled with glittery tissue paper. Inside, though, was the best treat. A locket. Melissa continued on walking. A grin slowly formed on her face, as the memory became more and more real. How she longed to go back there, to her fourth birthday party, the time when no one seemed to have a care in the world. Now her heart ached. "Mama," she whispered, once again. A girl, with curly light brown hair and a surprised smile, and a thirty-year-old woman, with a straw hat and warm, soft eyes, were stored inside the locket. "You can put it on," that gentle soothing voice said. "Like this." Then an outburst of giggles exploded through the air. It jumped around the room until each person was absolutely hysterical. The smile faded, and turned into a frown. Just what was so funny? "Oh, Mellie, dear, you look exactly like your mother when she was a little girl, identical, I must say. Your bright, happy face, and beautiful eyes," an elderly man kindly explained. Melissa, for the second time that day, dug inside her backpack. Finally she found a small pocket mirror and gazed at her reflection. Is that you, Mama? Am I looking at you? Suddenly, her eyes swelled up and tears began to drop, one by one. She just couldn't help herself. And with a painful resentment, she opened the heart locket. Yes, there it was, a girl, with curly light brown hair and a surprised smile, and a thirty-year-old woman, with a straw hat and warm, soft eyes. Before she knew it, Melissa was on Marshwood Boulevard, and just a few yards from her house. There would be Dad, trying to cook the quickest dinner, while watching ESPN at the same time. He probably would barely hear her walk in and start her homework. *          *          * The smell of grease awaited Melissa as she stepped inside. "Hey, Mellie. Decided I would order Chinese, OK?" Dad said. "Hmmm . . . is that the Bulls game you have on?" "Nah. It just finished." Melissa just nodded and started to head upstairs, when her father's voice stopped her. "What's in your hand?" he asked, maybe a little louder than he meant. He was staring right into Melissa's teary eyes, and sensed that something was wrong. "If it is a teacher's note or something you better just come out and say it 'cause . . ." "No, Dad." And Melissa opened her hand. "Bye, honey," that amazing voice said. She stepped out into the lawn and walked down the gravel driveway. "Bye, Mama." But little did anyone know how true that farewell was. The woman floated into her Volvo and took off. Down the paved street, past the deep wooded area and soon out of sight. A phone call came much later, followed by many others. The house soon became lonely, as everyone, looking quite ghostly, left. What is a hospital? What has happened? And where is Mama? "Is that what I think it is?" Dad exclaimed, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he really was. "She is gone." Melissa choked on the words, not even believing it herself. She just shook her head. "No, that is where you are wrong." He took the locket from her hand and opened it up. "She is right here. In the locket of lost love."

My Dad

Spacious, dark oak desk holding a red pencil in a brightly lit room. Built by his splintered hands and intelligent brain. He is a carpenter. Standing in wet sneakers on Conard Field, smiling, pointing his index finger to where scrambling first-years should be. He is a football coach. In my blue-sheeted bed he lies, book in hand, reading, listening, and falling asleep beside me. He is my dad.

One Snake’s Life

New Spanish moss was my bed The ships' horns were my alarm clock In the early morning Along the Mississippi River's edge I was swimming left to right Left to right The mud was brown The sky was gray Going up the willow trees Down the willow trees Hiding in the rocks That mourning dove egg was delicious It was cool and damp When I slithered to the top of the levee (I was in a frightening mood) It happened I didn't see it coming The wheel

Melanie Martin Goes Dutch

Melanie Martin Goes Dutch by Carol Weston; Alfred A. Knopf: New York, 2002; $15.95 How would you feel if your parents told you that you were going to Holland for your summer vacation? Happy? Excited? Well, Melanie Martin feels both until she lands 3500 miles away from her home in New York City Melanie, a ten-year-old almost-fifth-grader, keeps a daily diary, and her entries and doodles make up the pages of the book. In this story, she travels with her mom, an art teacher; her dad, an overworked lawyer; her pesky brother, "Matt the Brat"; and her best friend since kindergarten, Cecily Hausner. This book has many good qualities. It is smart and witty. It made me laugh out loud because it was so funny. Through Melanie's eyes I learned a lot about Holland. I learned what the Dutch eat (lots of cheese, including fondue) and how they get around (by bicycle). I learned about their great artists (Vermeer, Rembrandt, and van Gogh) and a great writer (Anne Frank). I learned about their windmills, wooden shoes, and half-nude beaches. I even learned that the Pilgrims were in Holland before sailing on the Mayflower. I also learned how jealousy and anger can make you behave badly and how important it is to try to be a good person. Melanie is a special girl. She is funny and intelligent, but she can also be stubborn and selfish. By the end, though, she learns to be kinder, especially to Cecily, who is dealing with a very serious issue. Melanie learns, with the help of Anne Frank's diary, that "being a good person cannot just mean doing nothing wrong. It also has to mean doing something right." Melanie also learns that it is stupid to complain about privileges when Anne did not complain about hardships, like having to live in a small area without making noise. I could relate to this book a lot. I have traveled to Europe with my family and I know that traveling can be both exciting and difficult. I have enjoyed going to museums and learning about different cultures, but sometimes I get sick of walking around and want to watch TV, and sometimes I get sick of foreign food and want to eat at McDonald's. When my family travels, we are five people, two parents and three kids, just like in Melanie Martin. Most of the time we enjoy ourselves, but sometimes we argue. My brother can be annoying like Matt. Like Melanie, I enjoy writing. I keep a journal in school. This book made me want to keep a journal the next time I travel with my family. Melanie writes lots of short, funny poems and is very interested in words. I learned some new vocabulary and the derivation (the origin) of some English expressions. For example, Melanie's dad says that "nitwit" probably came from the Dutch for "I don't know." When Dutch settlers went to school and couldn't speak English, they would answer the teacher "niet weten" which earned them the nickname nitwits. Melanie Martin Goes Dutch is the second in a series—the first is called The Diary of Melanie Martin—but it doesn't matter which order you read them in. I read Goes Dutch first and liked it so much that I immediately read The Diary in which Melanie and her family travel to Italy. These books are real page-turners. I can't wait to read the next book about Melanie and her travels!

Shatterglass

Shatterglass by Tamora Pierce; Scholastic Press: New York, 2003; $16.95 Shatterglass, a fantasy novel by Tamora Pierce, touches ingeniously close to the real world. Pierce is able to weave a tale which, although fiction, is startlingly believable. The last volume in The Circle Opens quartet, Shatterglass follows the life of Tris, a young ambient mage of unimaginable power, and Kethlun Warder, a glassmaker who just wants to live a normal life but can't. Together they encounter two major crimes in the city of Tharios—one that takes away all rights of the prathmuni and the other, a murder. Who are the prathmuni? They are the "untouchables" of Tharios, uncomfortably similar to the Untouchables of India. In this book we are able to see the extremes of the mistreatment of people in India in a totally different world. When Tris asks a prathmuni girl why they are discriminated against, the girl explains, "We handle the bodies of the dead. We skin and tan animal hides. We make shoes. We take out the night soil. But mostly, we handle the dead, which means we defile whatever we touch . . ." This is similar to the Hindu law that says that working with animal skins makes one unclean, as does work that involves physical contact with blood, excrement, and the dead, all things which the Untouchables of India do. Shatterglass touched me because it shoved the issues of human injustice right into my face. When I first read about the prathmuni I thought, This is insane! I am so thankful that I don't live in a world like that! And yet, only a day after I had read about the prathmuni, I happened to read an article in National Geographic that spoke of the injustice of Untouchables occurring in my world! As I read on I realized that Shatterglass had many messages that reflected reality. For example: Kethlun Warder. Keth is a glassmaker of about twenty years who just wants to be normal—but can't. After being hit by lightning, he finds that his previous ease at glassmaking is gone and a mysterious power has taken its place. It is Tris's job to help Kethlun accept the fact that he is not like everyone else and that being different is OK, even good. Almost everyone deals with the issues of wanting to be someone he or she is not and having to accept reality. And then the murder mystery. (That is the great thing about Shatterglass. It has at least three major plots occurring and intertwining all at the same time—and the book makes perfect sense!) Obviously I have never been involved with murder, so I can't relate directly to it, but the mystery made the story that much deeper, that much more believable, that much better. After murdering the victims, the assassin would take the bodies and place them in public areas where everyone would notice them, in order to make the point that the caste system was wrong. In this way the murderer ridicules the government, but that does not mean that this method of drawing attention to the issue is the right one to use. The killer's method of displaying the corpses brings further into view the insanity of the treatment of the prathmuni. It also shows how wrong murder really is; Pierce shows that no victims are anonymous losses.