Fiction
It was a chilly autumn morning. I pushed my hands into my pockets as I walked out of our house to the car. “Don’t worry, Renee,” said my mom, “you’ll do great.” Still, though, I worried. Today I had an audition for a competition to play at Benaroya Hall. I had practiced and practiced and practiced and had even taken ten deep breaths, but still my nerves felt like someone was dancing the hula on them. And honestly, to tell the truth, it didn’t help that I thought I had forgotten my violin on the way out. Luckily for me, my mom was more on top of things and had brought it out to the car. As soon as I fastened my seat belt, I was back to worrying. To try to stop worrying, I pulled out my music. It was the solo for Winter, by Vivaldi. I chose it because if I’m one of the winners, I’ll play at Benaroya Hall, the home of the Seattle Symphony, on the first day of winter. I look at it, silently playing it in my head, poring over its pages, thinking things like, Play that part slowly and feelingly or, Remember, that part’s triple forte, play that loud. Soon, though, I’ve run out of things to say to myself about the piece, and I try to absorb myself by talking to my older brother, Jake. Sometimes he’s really annoying, but luckily for me, today he doesn’t try to get on my nerves. Instead, he’s really nice, talking and joking with me. And then suddenly we get there. It’s supposed to be a one-hour-thirteen-minute drive and ferry ride from our house on Bainbridge Island to the University of Washington (U-dub), where the audition is. But time sped up, and it feels like the ferry took less time than it was supposed to, and the car magically sped ahead. I pick up my violin and the folder that has my music and slowly walk to the doors of the music building at U-dub. When I get inside, there’s a sign that points me to the waiting room. I turn left and walk into the room. It’s light and airy, and everyone’s got their instruments out and is tuning, playing, or just sitting there, holding their instrument. My spot is at 11:30. Right now, it’s 11:15. I unzip my violin case and tune my violin. Then, I take out and tighten my bow. I scan the room for people I know. No one. Those fifteen minutes speed by, and soon a woman with her hair in a neat bun and wearing a black dress is calling my name. “Katz, Renee?” Violin in one hand, bow in the other, I grab my music and walk over to the door. The woman leads me down a couple of dark, silent hallways. Well, not exactly silent. But they would’ve been silent if not for the woman talking so much. She blathers on and on and on. I’m way too nervous to hear a word of what she’s saying. The walk is short, thankfully, and even better, there is someone finishing up their audition inside the room. Then, suddenly, the door opens, and a girl a little older than I am steps out. She smiles at me. “Go on,” the woman in the bun says, with an encouraging smile. It’s the least amount of words I’ve heard her say at one time. My throat is dry as I step into the room and look around. The room is small and cozy, with four people sitting in chairs at the other end of the room. The judges. There are two men and two women. One man looks really tall, the other looks medium height. One woman is pretty short, the other is at least as tall as the tall man. They all smile at me. The normal-height man says, “Are you Renee Katz?” “Yes,” I say nervously, clutching my violin tightly. I put my music on the stand. I say, “I’m going to play the solo for Winter, by Vivaldi.” The judges look thoughtful. I pick up my violin and begin to play. I play the first movement, the Allegro non molto. Sharp and icy, you’re out in the cold, miles from anywhere, it’s a snowstorm, and you’re freezing. Then I play the second movement, the Largo. While everyone else is outside, freezing, you’re cozy and warm in front of a fire, with a book, hearing the rain/hail come down. After that, I play the third and last movement, the Allegro. You’re ice-skating on a pond, building a snow person, just playing around in winter fun. You’re not great at ice-skating, but you love it. And then, I play the last note. I’m stunned. Today I’ve played it much better than I ever have. When I look up, the judges are busy writing down notes on notepads. One by one, they all finish. The tall woman smiles at me and says, “Thank you.” I take the hint, grab my music, check to see that I have everything, and say bye to the judges as I walk out of the room, down the dark, now thankfully silent hallways and think about what just happened. I know I probably won’t be one of the lucky five winners that get to play at Benaroya Hall. But I’m glad I tried. I soon get back to the waiting room. I pack up my violin, put my music back in its folder, and walk out the door. There my mom and Jake are waiting for me. I give them a big smile to let them know I was great. They smile back, looking relieved. We go to a restaurant in Seattle for lunch and then ferry ourselves back on the 1:10 ferry for home. * * * Every day, for the next week, I went and got the mail. That was because the competition judge were supposed to send a letter within the week.
Fiction
I found the crossword puzzle section of the newspaper and picked up a pencil. One across: Roman goddess of wisdom. That was easy enough; I had studied Greece and Rome in fourth grade. I breezed through the crossword puzzle until I came to thirty-three down. “What will fly away if you don’t grab it soon enough?” Ten letters. I racked my mind for bird species that were ten letters long. Mockingbird? That was too long. Bluebird? Too short. I sighed and nibbled on a warm crumpet with raspberry jam. The doorbell rang, and, expecting the mailman, I answered the door. It wasn’t the mailman. “Hi, Ashley!” Bethany chirped. My heart sank. Bethany was a handful to live across the street from, even if she didn’t go to my school and we weren’t the same age. I tried to dodge her whenever possible: at the town pool, riding bikes, gardening in the front yard. She was like a bug that clung onto me that I couldn’t shake off. I know I seem a little cruel, but I was on spring break, it was ten am, I had woken up fifteen minutes ago, and I was pretty grumpy. I sighed. “Hi, Bethany. Have you had breakfast yet?” “Well, yes, but I’m already dressed and you’re not, and those crumpets look yummy, so maybe I could have one while I waited for you to get changed?” She gave me a pleading, hopeful look with her big blue eyes, the color of my mom’s forget-me-nots. There was no way I could say no to her. I sat her down at the kitchen table and jogged upstairs, throwing on a hot-pink short-sleeved shirt and khaki shorts. Fresh and most definitely awake, I jogged back downstairs to find Bethany polishing off the last of the crumpets. Thank God Mom bought them in bulk, I thought, eyeing the now empty plate and the kitchen table covered in crumbs. Bethany saw me. I sat back down and picked up my crossword puzzle. Bethany leaped up from her seat. “Can I see? I solve that kind of stuff with my dad all the time!” She peeked over my shoulder. “Thirty-three down—what will fly away if you don’t grab it soon enough? Weird.” She paused for a while, thinking. “Ooh! Ooh! I’ve got it!” I got annoyed. I’d had it with Bethany. “Bethany, listen. Crossword puzzles you’re supposed to solve on your own. OK?” Bethany pouted. “Fine.” She slammed the door without saying goodbye, which was totally fine with me. It was when I went upstairs to my room that I felt guilty. I sat at my desk, trying to draw something. Drawing always took my mind off of something. I drew my cat, Toffee. I drew my best friend, Lizzie, who was in Hawaii for spring break, and me, laughing and having a picnic. I drew my fish. I drew my favorite cartoon character. All of them didn’t look right for some reason. My mom came in. “Ash? What’s wrong?” I shrugged. “Who finished all of the crumpets?” I felt my eyes narrow. “Bethany.” My mom seemed to understand. “Oh, Ashley. You don’t understand.” I hate when adults say that. “I do.” My mom slung an arm around my shoulders. “Bethany likes you. She wants to be like you.” “I get that much,” I grumbled. My mom continued, ignoring my grumpy attitude. “You’re her role model. Remember Isabel?” I felt guilty. “Yes.” Isabel was a girl that lived on my street when I was eight. She was my idol: tall, tan every summer, kind, pretty, not bossy. She was five years older than me, and I wanted to be with her every second of my life. She came over to babysit me almost every day; when she didn’t, I would say, “Where’s Isa?” She was the big sister I’d never had: I would help her study for her Spanish test; she would let me borrow her nail polish and lip gloss. We would do everything together: go to amusement parks, ride our bikes, share cotton candy, bake cookies, plant twin lavender seeds in our front yards so that they would bloom together, we did all we could ever think of. Now, Isabel’s in high school. I have her e-mail address, her phone number, and we still talk to each other, but I don’t hang out every day with her. I can’t. My mom smiled. “Maybe you’re Bethany’s Isabel.” The tiny sprig of guiltiness bloomed into a flower. I sighed. “I’ll find her.” My mom grinned. “That’s the spirit.” I hopped on my bike and pedaled off to where I knew I’d find her: in the park, on the playground, doing the mini-monkey bars over and over. She saw me and dropped down. “What? I thought you were doing your crossword puzzle,” Bethany said. I smiled. “Bethany, I’m sorry…” She was trying so hard to look mad that I giggled, and eventually she did too. We laughed until other people at the playground gave us weird looks. “Want to race down the slide?” Bethany asked. “Sure,” I replied. As we waited for our turn down the slides, Bethany whispered, “Want to know what the answer to the crossword puzzle was?” I figured there would be many more crossword puzzles to do together, so I said, “What was it?” Bethany smiled and said, “Friendship. F-R-I-E-N-D-S-H-I-P.” I smiled too. Of course.
Fiction
Arachne was my sister, but we were as different as night and day. I was tall and lanky, tanned from hours spent on the seashore hunting for the shellfish that Father used in his dye. She was small and pale from hours in front of the loom, doing the weaving that had brought her fame. Ever since she was small, Arachne had been able to take an ordinary piece of cloth and turn it into a blaze of color and beauty that would take your breath away. On her work, figures breathed and flowers blossomed. Her amazing weaving had spread through Greece, and now people came from Crete, Sparta, Macedonia, places we had never heard of, to see the miracle weaver for themselves. On the morning that it happened, the spectators were already thick around our hut. Father was behind it, dying a new batch of yarn. I was looking for my best friend, Cora. We liked to stand behind the crowd and hear their praise and Arachne’s biting remarks. Besides extraordinary weaving skills, my sister also possessed a sharp tongue. Finally, I was about to resort to looking in the pig sty when I heard Cora calling me. “Alethea!” She was standing by the crowd. I joined her with a dirty look. She shrugged and mouthed, I was at the beach, and I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of that. We turned our attention back to the crowd just in time to hear a man joke to his companion, “Now if only my wife could weave like that! I’d be richer than the emperor! How does she do it?” Arachne’s response was quick and sharp. “I certainly did not learn by standing still and gawping like a goat! I used my own two hands, to a much better result than you!” Another woman murmured, “What skill! Surely, dear, you must have been taught by Athena herself !” She made two of the worst mistakes you could make with Arachne. Father once absentmindedly called Arachne dear and she threw a fit and tore one of the tapestries she had woven that day into shreds. Arachne also hated to be compared to anyone. I held my breath and hoped Arachne wouldn’t kill the woman or tear the cloth, because we needed the money. Thankfully, her attack was fully verbal. “How dare you compare me to that goddess! My weaving is far better than hers, but she won’t admit it! I would challenge her to a contest, but of course she wouldn’t come!” In the shocked quiet that followed this outburst, a hunched, ragged old woman near the front suddenly spoke in a quavering yet surprisingly firm voice. “You foolish girl. Nothing good has ever happened to mortals who challenged the gods. Take back what you said at once, and later make an offering to Athena, lest she truly come and unleash her fury on you.” For an inexplicable reason, my blood ran cold when she uttered the final threat, and I glanced at Cora. She was pale under her tan. Gripped by fear, I started to squeeze my way through the crowd, trying desperately to reach Arachne before something happened to her. I also kept an eye on the strange old woman as well as I could. But she was too angry and too proud to notice anything but this old woman that dared to rebuke her. “I will not take back my challenge!” Arachne raged. “What do you, a ragged old beggar, know of me? I am the greatest weaver among both the gods and the mortals, and Athena is welcome to compete against me!” Barely had her words died off when the old woman began to glow. She threw off her ragged cloak and was suddenly dressed in a shining white chiton. She grew taller, and her face was radiant and beautiful, tender yet at the same time stern. I had seen that face before, on statues in temples. Arachne had challenged Athena, and Athena had come. My sister stood silently before her loom, and her face was a thunderstorm of emotion. Anger, astonishment, and was that fear? The crowd was silent with shock, waiting for something more to unfold. Finally, Arachne’s mouth tightened into a thin, determined line, and she motioned Athena towards another loom that was standing in the corner. She removed the cloth she had been working on and, without any further ado, began a new weaving. Athena did too. Someone must have told Father because he came running with two baskets filled with skeins of his yarn, in colors bright as the rainbow and as varied. He silently placed one basket by Arachne and one by Athena, with a bow to her. Then he looked around and came to stand beside me. We watched without a word. Athena wove faster than Arachne. A pattern began to take shape on her loom. I strained to see, and suddenly understood. It was a warning to Arachne. In the center of the pattern, Athena competed with Poseidon for possession of Athens. She stood by her newly created olive tree, and the sea god stood tall by his creation, the horse. The other gods were also there, Zeus in the middle, blazing with glory. It was clear, somehow, that they were all favoring Athena. On the four corners of the cloth, the goddess had woven the terrible fates of mortals who had dared to compete with the gods. It was clear what Arachne’s fate would be if she continued to defy Athena. I turned to see my sister’s weaving, and gasped. Her face was hard and angry, and her pattern was a direct insult to the gods. There was Leda, with Zeus disguised as the swan, and Danae, locked in her tower, visited by Zeus as a golden ray of light. I also recognized Europa and the bull. All the unworthy acts of the gods were displayed on Arachne’s cloth. Athena suddenly rose from her weaving, her
Fiction
Every day, you wake up, eat breakfast, and walk down the five flights of steep, stone-cold stairs. As a cheery neighbor greets you, you put on a fake smile and fast walk out the door. You’ve never been a big “people person,” or a dog person, or even a cat person for that matter. Should you be someone? As you step out into the traffic, you realize your morning is already buzzing by and you haven’t even gotten your coffee. 7:57. A small boy and his dad walk up to the bus stop. The boy can barely reach his father’s hand. They sit and talk, play patty-cake. Will you ever have kids? Or even just a relationship as special as that? A warm feeling fills your stomach. The wind blows. You shiver and watch as the small boy and his father hail a cab. 8:06. The strange old woman comes. She’s the one who feeds the pigeons, who searches through trash for cans and bottles. You wonder if she ever had someone. 8:13. You kick a rock. No buses. 8:28 ticks by, the latest time you can get on the bus and be at work by 9:00. Finally. The M31 creeps down the traffic-covered hill and you step up the black-and-yellow stairs. You choose your favorite seat, near the back, sit down, and watch. You can see the whole bus, everything that goes on. A million little stories, and a million different feelings flood the open space. The York Avenue bus. From 63rd to 91st. You spend about 45 minutes a day on average on that bus. The part that makes it all worthwhile are the people. French kids. Doctors and nurses. Crying babies. You see and hear little bits and pieces of people’s days and sometimes, for the slightest moment, you take off your veil of aloneness and intertwine. Giving someone your seat, loaning someone change, or even just exchanging a glance when the cranky old lady yells at a little kid. You need the confusion, the distraction from the loneliness. When you’re on the bus, you’re an observer. A listener. A looker. You’re not there. A fly on the wall. Bits of conversations fly through your thoughts, you take in. With each breath you inhale the moods of others. You get on the bus and get off, leaving behind the stories for the next day. One day, you stepped up the yellow-and-black steps, ready to absorb. As you sat down, a cute little baby and his mother caught your eye. Buttoned up in his shiny white jacket, he was happy, and observing just like you. Suddenly, BUMP, spit-up on the seats. On the floor. On that little white jacket. “It’s all right,” the mother whispered, “it’s OK.” An old man, lifting his silent vow of isolation, offered the baby’s mother a napkin. You watched. Two friends made that would never see each other again. Ever. Bus stops. Baby and mother get off. And the old man’s eyes were glued to that little baby. You looked out the window and saw a mirror image. Smiling, waving, gleaming blue eyes lit up. But off the bus, continuing with the push and pull of daily life, the man and the baby disappear into oblivion. Forgotten. In the world of borrowed bus stories.
Fiction
Reject. That’s what I was. My parents claimed that eight children in the house was too much for them to handle, and that they couldn’t support them all, so they sent me away to live with my grandparents. That wouldn’t have been as much of a problem, except that Granny and Gramps lived in Maine, thousands of miles away from my original home in Salem, Oregon. I only ever got to see my family at holidays, birthdays, and one month in the summer. And that wasn’t all that bothered me. It’s just, being sent away by your own parents, rejected from your own home, isn’t very comforting. In fact, it made me downright mad, and sad, and homesick. Even though I’ve been living at my grandparents’ house since I was four (I’m eleven now, almost twelve), and I don’t remember much of my other house, it still hurt to think that I was the one picked to be shipped off. I felt like an outcast. Sometimes I sat on my bed, seething, and thinking, Why me? Why couldn’t it have been one of my brothers, Carl the troublemaker maybe? Why did I have to be the one with the unfortunate fate? Whenever I asked my mother this, she just tersely told me, “Because you’re mature enough to deal with it,” and then changed the subject. But I was only four at the time. How could they have known I would be “mature”? Maybe they just chose me because, being the youngest in my family, I was too young to understand and wouldn’t put up a big fuss. I probably just thought I was going to see Granny and Gramps for a visit, and that in a week or two, my parents would come to pick me up and take me home again. Unfortunately, they never did. So now I was living in a little cottage by the sea and had a tiny bedroom in the attic with a little round porthole window, which I could look out of and see the ocean with its rolling lace-trimmed waves, spraying salty sea foam up into the misty air. And the gulls waddling across the beach and soaring in the ever-cloudy sky, squawking in gull language to each other about some fish they had found. I often sat and stared out that window, across the ocean, wishing I were back home with the rest of my family, and feeling lonely. And that’s what I was doing just then, looking glumly out of the porthole and feeling sorry for myself. I turned away from the window and glanced around my room. The ceiling took the shape of the roof, pointed at the top and slanting steeply down, so that I had to bend down or bump my head on one of the thick beams running down from the tip to the floor. This was also a hazard I had to remember when waking up in the morning. Even though my bed was pushed out slightly, I could still sit up in the morning and hurt myself. On the same wall as the porthole, I had an old mahogany desk that Gramps had given me when I first came here, along with a stack of stationery and writing utensils, though I couldn’t even read yet, much less write anything but a crude and barely recognizable version of my name. Now I used the desk all the time, journaling, drawing, and writing stories. That’s another thing: I loved to write. It was a way for me to escape my troubles and write about someone else’s, or create a world all of my own, one where no one was sent away by their family or forced to live feeling regret and longing all their life. It helped me express the way I felt about the world. When I was feeling angry, resentful, sad or confused, I would sit down and write, and it helped somehow. It was like giving away all of my unwanted emotions, like lifting a load of bricks off my shoulders. I emerged from my daydream when I heard my grandmother calling my name. She was yelling something about a phone. Oh, that’s right, it was time for the daily phone call to my home in Oregon. OK, so it wasn’t always daily, more like every other day, but daily phone call sounded better than every-other-daily phone call. I sighed and started down the rickety old staircase. I reached the bottom and briskly walked through the living room and into the kitchen, where Granny was frying scallops on the stove. My grandmother is younger than most grandmothers, only in her mid-sixties. She always said that was lucky because if she had been any older, she might not have agreed to take me in. I didn’t totally think it was so great because if she and Gramps hadn’t been able to house me, I might have stayed at my own home. But then again, my parents probably would’ve found some cousin to take me. Granny is only a few inches taller than me and has gray hair tied back into a loose bun. She has soft features and a very kind smile. Her skin is pale and slightly flabby in some places, but tough like an elephant’s. She is not hunched over at all and always likes to have her fingers moving, so I usually find her knitting, sewing, finger knitting, typing on her laptop, or just drumming her fingers on the kitchen counter. I said hello to her and she smiled at me and said, “Hello, Cincinnati.” I unhooked the phone from its place on the wall and stared somberly at the keypad. I always felt excited when I called, but a bit dejected too. I stared some more, as if willing the phone to disappear in my hands, but I knew it had to be done. I slowly punched the numbers and put the phone to my ear, anxiously wrapping the cord
Fiction
A gloomy hole sheltered the shivering cardinal during a raging thunderstorm. The hole was an incomplete snake house, burrowed with consummate skill. The cardinal knew he had to get out before the hole filled with rainwater. Ever so carefully, he worked his way up the shallow passage, his gorgeous red feathers now streaked with dirt. He chirped desperately; he was stuck, as water started to fill the shelter. The cardinal used his last shred of energy to try to push his way out, but it was no use. As thunder boomed and lightning cracked, the cardinal knew he was done, knew it was all over. Just a few seconds later, a branch broke off the nearest tree, crashing to the ground beside him! The cardinal opened one eye, but the limb had not widened the hole on impact with the ground. The branch was no help to him. But he was wrong! A child had heard the branch fall as she was running home through the storm with drinking water for her family. The limb blocked her path, and as she bent to move it the stranded cardinal caught her eye. He looked up at her, up to his neck in water, and took in the girl’s appearance. She was tall, with deeply tanned skin and a jet-black braid down her back. Her eyes were a liquid brown, kind, yet reserved. She had on moccasins and a deerskin beaded dress. “I am Jessica,” the girl solemnly spoke. “I will help you.” She gently helped free the bird from the earth and rain. Noticing how filthy he was, she sprinted into a nearby cave, lightning flashing all around her. In the cave, she sacrificed her family’s drinking water to clean him. The brown streaks finally gave way and revealed a brilliant red coat of feathers. Jessica stared at the now sleeping bird, transfixed. Huddled in the cave, she waited out the storm. When the cardinal woke up, it did not move. “I will name you Fire, for the wings on your back and the glimmer in your eye,” Jessica said. Worriedly, she gently lifted Fire. He simply perched on her hand, gazing at her steadily, trustingly. She tossed him in the air. He flew around her head, made a loop-de-loop, and sat back down on her shoulder. She giggled. “Show-off.” Together, the improbable pair sat in the cave, and Jessica fed Fire some jerky, until he was comfortable enough to come over again, grab the meat, and eat it sitting right on her head. Even so, the little night of fun was bittersweet, for Jessica knew she would have to let Fire go when the storm let up. As soon as it was over, she murmured a little goodbye to him and set him loose to go back to his family. Jessica watched the sun make dancing rainbows on the wet cardinal’s wings. As he flew away, he seemed to set fire to the trees.
Fiction
Navy-Blue Cloth— Words and Pain
“He was mostly your dog.” The words flew in flurries around my head. I shall never forget them. “He was mostly your dog. Mostly your dog. Your dog. Dog.” Never-ending words, a round of angels whispered in my head. A comfort I drank like I would drink elixir. I found a blanket in those words. A mission. A dream that could never be reached. To find him. For the few of us who have suffered this particular loss, you know how it is worse than a pet dying. Knowing that somewhere out there, he lives. Hickory was a flurry of a pup. His brown and black spots said splatter paint, and his black hole eyes had an overflowing cup of happiness. “I have a home!” they seemed to shout, “I have a home!” But he was afraid of my dad. Hickory was abused as a young dog and was separated from his only friend, his sister. We figured, over time, he must have thought my dad was the one who abused him. In the car, we were shouting out names. We didn’t want the pup to be called Hickory. “Juice Box!” “Bennett!” “Clifford!” “Henry!” “Wags!” “Greg!” “JUICE BOX!” Then we heard the words on the radio, “Mason-Dixon Road Line.” Bing. Ding. Bingo! Dixon. Dixon. Dixon. The words curved on my tongue, the way a flower does when it wilts. They floated like clouds above our heads, in a navy-blue cloth. Then they shimmered, and whoosh! Out the window they went, to tell the newspaper, the state, the country, the world, the universe about our dog. Dixon. But good things never last. Two years later, October 16th, he is taken away. Whooshed out of my world, like those navy-blue words were, two years before. Gone from my life. But this time, the whoosh had great pain in it. My calender became filled. On every Friday it read “eight Dixon weeks,” and so on. It had a hopeful look. All my possessions did. We all were holding our breath, we all longed for Dixon to come home, like that Lassie dog did. I still do dream he will. I know he is out there. I hope he’ll never forget, he is Kathryn’s dog. My dog. If you happen to come into my house one day, October 16th, you will come across six people wearing everyday clothes and doing everyday things. But if you travel upstairs, you shall see a girl with straw-colored hair, wearing dark-colored clothing, and in her hands a black band with three tinkling things on it. You shall be curious, so you shall come closer. You will see in her white-with-anger-and-sadness hands, a collar. Of a dog, who shall always have a home in her heart. And if by chance you go by New Hampshire one day and see a dog that is white and black, with splatter-paint spots and black hole eyes, you know who he is. Make sure his cup is overflowing with happiness. Rub his ears, and tell him these simple words, “I will always love you.”
Fiction
It’s funny, sometimes some things that are supposed to make perfect sense are actually totally the opposite from the truth. Like the fact that opposites attract. Mike and I met in the good old days. Second grade. The good old days. It was actually the day I came to my first elementary school, Floral Street School. He is this hulking guy at first glance with all this… sort of classic New York look. His look makes you think big bully, football player, and you know… the things you think when the guy is big. Actually, he is a football player. But his eyes and laugh speak the best thing you could hope for when you go to a new school. A friend. Friends are like sisters or brothers. You fight once in a while… or you might fight all the time. People used to see us next to each other with him a head taller than me, and they thought that it was such a weird thing. He always called me Jay for short, but after second and third grade he started calling me by my real name, Jaylen, and I appreciated that. It proved that he actually would take the time to pronounce my name. But some other kids in my class called me after a comedian, Jay Leno, which is a coincidence. I guess I didn’t mind. We always split in recess. So he could play football with the other, I guess you could say, “big” and “popular” kids. While I went with the other kids in my class. But there was one time, I remember, that changed that. I was treading on the blacktop, bored, watching the sun start to peep out of its unreachable fort, wishing I could do something. As the wind slapped my face and pinched my ears, and I rubbed my hands together in a useless attempt at warmth, I glanced at the football field with a fleeting look. Walking over there I could see that they were picking team members. So I sat at the edge of the football field and watched. I saw Michael make a touchdown and I looked to him and smiled and he smiled back. He could have just celebrated or he could have done the thing that saved me from a hundred boring recesses. “Hey Jaylen,” he greeted, and I nodded. “Come on.” He outstretched his calloused hand to my soft piano-playing hand and he hauled me up like a pencil that he had just dropped. “We get Jaylen!” he exclaimed to the rest of the guys and they nodded awkwardly and my face reddened. I am going to die of embarrassment, I thought, looking up into the sky, hoping some spirit would save me from getting trampled and becoming a part of the ground. Mike hollered, “Hike!” While I fled outward, dodging the oncoming army of football players, I made eye connection with Mike and, without warning, he fired. Of course it was coming at me. I ran toward the flying pigskin, scrambling toward the right position. The ball looked like a bird that has just had its wings clipped. Suddenly a bumpy ball was in my arms and I carried it as I saw the professionals do. And I bulleted as fast as I could. I saw one of the kids bolting behind me and he planted his two hands on me. But a little too hard, which was expected because I was like a half of their weight. Plummeting face first, I outstretched my arms in a desperate attempt to weaken the oncoming agony. Instantly I could make out the oohs and ouchies from the crowd of kids enclosed around me. I sprawled on the ground as my leg erupted in flames. I could feel the tears burning through my eyes like the lava oozes out of a volcano. I rolled over on the ground and looked up at somebody branching out their hand to me. I clasped onto it as he boosted me onto my own two feet, toweling off the tears that were spurting from my eyes with my sleeve. I looked at the people hovering around me and no longer was there an awkward “he does not belong here” look. But replaced was a considerate look. “Jaylen! You OK?” Mike asked in worry. “Ye-eah I’m a-a-all right,” I stuttered, dusting the the sand off of my skin. “Do you want to sit out?” he questioned. I widened my eyes in a look that said “are you kidding me!” As I brushed past him out to the field, playing the game of football, I could feel his smile burning my shirt, and I could feel mine forming from my mouth. Every day there forth I never did sit on the curb watching everybody have fun again. Instead, I was the one who was enjoying myself. That goes to show you that if you have a friend you will never stay on the ground defeated. Friendship is a game of football, you get knocked down lots of times but there is always somebody to pick you up… up to keep playing. But now I’m in a new school, one where I know I will have just as many memories. But to tell the truth, Mike will always be the highest football that will soar, everlasting in my mind.
Poem
Everyone was startled at the Loud BBBLLLAAAGGGHHHH sound. I had just sneezed Into my trombone! Instantly, most of the class turned And looked my direction. What awkward timing! We were all in the middle of playing a song. I felt kind of embarrassed. I knew that was one thing I wouldn’t do again. But I let out a chuckle, As the band class Paused for a moment. The moment passed. The band played on.
Poem
This was it. I could see it in front of me. The stream was ending. I had to jump. The strong current was blinding. The mischievous drops of water were going against me. I picked up speed. Flapping my tail fin one hundred times a second. Propelling forward faster and faster. I jumped. Elegantly soaring through the air. Slipping right through a grizzly bear’s jaws. I could see the open sky above, and the rushing water crashing below. Then just like that, I gracefully slipped through the quiet and frigid waters. My adventure was over.
Poem
I feel tears welling up in my eyes I try to suppress them I don’t want to cry At least not here In front of people But I do I do cry I cry and I cry And I try to push it back But I’ve waited too long I think about it About the mess About my parents My childhood My home My safety And I cry even more The mess is big It overwhelms me It makes me shiver It makes me cry My mother didn’t love my father anymore I can’t take that knowledge I can’t believe it After twenty-three years Of loving You just stop I don’t understand her Confusion makes me cry I love my mother I love my father I don’t see Why they can’t love each other The unknown makes me cry I have to move Even though we just moved I have to pack my clothes My toys So I can leave my father All alone Change makes me cry I cry I cry because I am Sad and Confused and Annoyed I cry because of my Parents’ divorce I cry
Book Reviews
A Long Walk to Water, by Linda Sue Park; Clarion Books: New York, 2010; $16 Have you ever found yourself running as fast as you could but not really sure where you were going? Maybe you were trying to clear your thoughts or simply running for pleasure. Maybe, like eleven-year-old Salva Dut, you were trying to get away from something. Have you ever had to perform a task so terrible and tedious that you can’t wait for it to be over? Nya, also eleven, must do this every day. The year is 1985, and Salva is living in the village Loun-Ariik with his family in southern Sudan. One day, while Salva is at school, he and his classmates hear gunshots. It is not long before they realize that the Sudanese civil war has finally arrived at their village and is being fought just outside the schoolhouse. The students all hurry outside and are instructed by their teacher to hide in a nearby bush. After Salva reaches the bush, he realizes it is important for his survival to get away from the fighting. By himself, he begins to run away from his homeland and the Sudanese war, towards Ethiopia. There Salva remains, separated from his family, until the Ethiopian refugee camps are shut down six years later. Now that the camps are closing, many people begin to lose hope, but not Salva. He remembers that there are refugee camps in Kenya and leads about 12,000 young men and boys, called “the lost boys,” safely to Kenya. In 2008, Nya, also living in southern Sudan, must make the trip from her house to a nearby pond to get water. She carries a large plastic container on her head, and the trip there and back takes her the entire morning. When Nya comes home, her mother gives her boiled sorghum meal for lunch, then she leaves once again, to get more water from the pond. Each day, she walks twice, to the pond and back, to collect the family’s water. One day, two men come to Nya’s village and begin to discuss plans for building a well. At first the process goes very slowly, and the only water that comes to the well is very muddy. Nya wonders if the well will ever be anything more than a dream. Reading this book made me realize how lucky I am. Every day I have enough to eat, enough to drink, and my family is always with me. Here we have two eleven-year-old children, both making long, tireless journeys and getting by on very little. Salva is part of a cultural group called the Dinka, and Nya is part of a group called the Nuer. I found out that the people of Sudan recently voted to split their country into two, in part because of irreconcilable differences between these tribes. Officials hope that it will stop the fighting. Hearing about problems such as this makes me very thankful to be living in America. Salva and Nya’s stories are ones of survival and perseverance, and both tales really inspired me. Salva’s story, in particular, made a lasting impression on me, and I was shocked to find that the book was based on the true story of Salva Dut. The author, Linda Sue Park, had the chance to meet Salva, read his written accounts of the journey and conduct numerous interviews with him. Without giving away too much, I’ll say that Salva was eventually able to use his amazing talent in leadership, his initiative and innovation, as well as his perseverance, to do something even greater for others and make a difference in the lives of many. Also, towards the end of the book, Nya discovers that dreams can come true. A Long Walk to Water is one of the most inspiring books I’ve ever read.
