Fiction
As I sipped the sherberty punch, I gazed about the Fitzpatricks' sprawling farm for a comfortable spot to sit. It was the Fourth of July, and summer heat waves rippled across the cow pastures behind the barns. The Fitzpatricks, our neighbors, were giving a party. I could see my older brother Wesley trying to climb up the knotted rope that hung from a newly constructed tree house. I could do that, I thought. Easily. That is, if I ever got up the nerve to climb fifteen feet above the ground. I glanced about the party and spied my best friend Tracy, sitting on the porch steps. She waved to me, and I started toward her. "Holly!" someone shouted. I jumped. Oh, it was only my brother Wesley, calling me from the tree house. "What?" I shouted back. "Why don't you come on up here? You wouldn't believe the view!" I said nothing. Suddenly another person popped up beside Wesley, grinning freckledly down. My punch got caught in my throat somehow. It was Henry Fitzpatrick. He was wiry and freckled, maybe one or two years older than my fourteen-year-old brother, with a head of thick red hair. I looked hard at my paper cup. "C'mon, Holly, give it a try," he urged. "OK," I said as nonchalantly as possible, setting down my trembling cup. After all, I didn't want to look like a sissy. My loose chestnut curls bounced against my shoulders as I crossed the distance between the porch and the giant maple. I was under the rope now, gazing at it. I had to do it now. Oh, how had I gotten myself into this thing? I looked up. Both of them were staring down at me. Henry smiled encouragingly. I simply couldn't mess up in front of him. "Don't worry," Wesley yelled. "You'll make it. Everybody else did." I took a deep breath and swung onto the first knot. It wasn't that hard. Getting up the second one was a bit more difficult. I was on the sixth knot, almost done, when I glanced down to make sure my feet were secure. I didn't even notice my feet. All I saw was how far away the ground was. Was the rope whirling, or was it just me? "Holl, are you OK?" Henry had asked me something, but I wasn't thinking clearly. I felt someone grab my hand. I forced myself to look up, and felt my feet giving way. I wanted to scream but I couldn't. I felt for the rope, but it wasn't there. I felt my hand slipping rapidly out of the hand that was holding mine. I let out a scream as our hands parted. The last thing I remember were two very white faces, one of them with freckles, getting farther and farther away. I opened my eyes. They felt strangely heavy and hard to open. All I saw was white. Maybe I'm in heaven, I thought vaguely. Slowly my vision was clearing. No, it wasn't clouds I was seeing. It was a clean, sterile, flat white—one that reminded me of hospitals. Hospital! Of course. That would make sense. I had probably hurt myself falling from the tree house, and had been taken to a hospital. Strange that nothing hurt on me. I felt tired, though—very tired. I wondered how long I had been lying here. Probably since yesterday. My vision was now sufficiently cleared to take in my surroundings. There was a window, but there was a blind drawn on it. There was a bulletin board, on which there was a very yellowed card that said "Get Well Soon, Holly, with love, Mom, Dad and Wesley." There was a clock over the door, which read 1:34 PM on its plain face. It was then that I noticed the machines. There were a lot of them, lined up next to each other in complex rows. They were connected to . . . me! I looked cross-eyed at my nose. There were tubes coming out of it. Eeuw, I instinctively thought. I tried to move my head. It took some energy to do it, and I lay back on the pillows again, exhausted. There was nothing to do. I wished there was a magazine left on the cot. I slept. I wakened to the sound of a door creaking open. I glanced at the door. A nurse was coming in with a needleful of clear stuff and a clipboard. She stopped in front of my cot and wrote something down on her clipboard. She looked nice, about twenty years old. She raised her eyes for the first time to mine. I made an effort to smile, though it was difficult and hurt a bit. What followed was very unexpected. The nurse gasped, and she dropped her cargo with a resounding clatter. She backed quickly out of the room, staring at me all the time. I frowned slightly. What was the matter with her? The next moment a doctor entered, looking very confused and flustered. Behind him the nurse who acted so oddly followed. "Y- you see, doctor, she is alive and awake and she even smiled a bit at me—see for yourself, doctor! And after all these years!" The doctor stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. I cleared my throat. Finally, he told the nurse to bring him a folding chair. When she got back he lowered himself into it. He looked at his hands for a long time. Then he spoke. "Holly, can you tell me a little bit about yourself?" "Sure," I said. My voice sounded deeper and raspier than usual. "My name is Holly Fullbright and I'm thirteen years old. I have one brother Wesley, who's fourteen, my mom and dad, three cats and my pet parakeet Phoebe. Can you tell me why I'm here?" The doctor looked at me weirdly. "This is going to be hard to explain, Holly. You remember when you fell out of the
Fiction
"What a lovely place for a summer vacation," sighed my twelve-year-old cousin Allison, as we stood on the bluffs of the Maine coast. I nodded as my eyes swept over the glass-like water in the bay with numerous islands scattered beyond it. My gaze rested on the lighthouse erected on the edge of a steep rocky cliff connected to the mainland. A clatter of stones above made us turn to see Allison's sister, ten-year-old Jenny, skipping down the slope to meet us. "Good morning!" she cried. "I thought I would find you here. Whatcha want to do? We have the whole day free." "What about rowing our boat out to the lighthouse?" I suggested. The idea was met with favor and we descended the rest of the way down to the beach. There a sleek red-and-white boat, the Bonnie Belle, lay pulled up on the beach. Allison and Jenny quickly clambered into the boat as I shoved it into the calm waters. Grabbing the oars, I set out at a leisurely pace toward the lighthouse. Allison manned the rudder and Jenny sat at the prow of the boat. The lighthouse was about two miles away and it was hardly a chore to row the boat. All the same I readily consented to Jenny's request to row the boat "just a little distance" as she had said because, for her age, she was great at handling the oars. I leaned over the front of the boat, dangling my fingers in the water, not at all expecting the nightmarish experience that was to come. We were about one-fourth of a mile away from the lighthouse when, to my surprise, Allison began turning the boat back the way we had come. Jenny let out a wail of protest and I said sharply, "What do you think you are doing, Allison?" "I'm turning back, Rebekah!" she said, just as sharply as I did. Jenny, hoping to avoid a quarrel, said, "You're not afraid of a little wind, are you?" for a gentle breeze had been blowing. "No," answered Allison. Then pointing southeast she continued, "But are you afraid of that?" We looked and my heart almost stopped beating. An immense black cloud was forming out at sea and rapidly heading our way. I yelled at Jenny to get out of the way and, grabbing the oars, began rowing for shore at a pace which would have won any race I ever entered. "Why not head for the lighthouse and beach the boat? We would be safe there, wouldn't we?" questioned Jenny. "No, Jen," I answered. "There's no place to beach the boat because the lighthouse is on a cliff. Remember?" Jenny didn't bother talking anymore. Foamy whitecaps danced on the sea which had been so calm barely an hour before. "Better put your life vests on!" Allison advised. Without hesitating Jenny reached under her seat and pulled out three life vests. She buckled one on, then handed one to Allison who, putting the tiller between her knees, quickly did the same. Rowing feverishly, I couldn't stop to put mine on. Jenny performed the task. I rowed for all I was worth, but with waves crashing against the boat it was no easy task. The storm hit with all its force. Buckets of rain poured on us from all directions. "Do you think we will tip over?" cried Allison's voice above the wind. How I wanted to say no. Instead I told the truth. "We might, so prepare to swim for it." Jenny didn't say anything, but I knew she was scared. Suddenly she cried out, "Big wave off the port side!" Allison tried to turn us so we would hit the wave head on, but it was in vain. The wave smacked into us, tipping the Bonnie Belle over. I tumbled into the sea and thought we were goners as the icy waters of the Atlantic closed over my head. I came up choking and gasping for breath. To my surprise I wasn't dead, nor were any of the others, for I could see them a little distance away. Swimming to Jenny's side, I grasped her life vest and yelled into her ear, asking if she was OK. She nodded. Allison came struggling over. She, too, seemed all right. I calculated we were about a hundred yards from shore. I knew we had better reach land before we froze in the 54-degree water. "Is the boat lost?" asked Allison. "Yeah," I answered. The Bonnie Belle was already far from us, heading toward the jagged rocks. I told Jenny to grab my shoulder straps and Allison to hold Jenny's. In that way we were together. I used my arms and swam toward the beach. Allison kicked and we made good progress going with the current. I was sure that I had swallowed half the ocean, since every time a wave washed over my head I would swallow some of it. I was thoroughly exhausted. First rowing, and now swimming, my arms felt like they were going to fall off. We were about twenty-five yards from shore when my strength gave out and I could go no further. I begged my cousins to go on. They would not. "Listen to me!" I cried. "Go on! If one of us doesn't make it there's no need for all of us not to!" Through salt-filled eyes I saw them battling the waves. Dimly I remember being unmercifully washed back and forth by the surf. Once I felt the ground with my hands and I tried to hold on to it, but I was pulled away by the strong undertow. Totally giving myself up for lost, I vaguely realized someone was pulling on my shoulder strap. I felt the water trying to wrench me away, but my rescuer hauled me onto the beach. Dragging me to the side of Jenny, Allison (for it was she who had rescued me) flopped by my side. Everything went black and I
Fiction
Year of Pain and Year of Glory
“Alissa Escarce . . . Alissa Escarce," I muttered to myself, my finger moving slowly down the long list of names taped to the scratched wall. "Eugenie Cha . . . Jennifer Li . . . here we go, Alissa Escarce," I whispered, half glowing with pride, half shaking with nervousness. I was standing in the music room at John Adams Middle School, waiting for my turn to play the violin as a finalist in the Kiwanis solo competition. A week before, after spending hours practicing and perfecting my solo piece, I had played in the preliminary round of this competition. I had been chosen as a finalist, one of the eight best musicians at my school. I remembered, before the performance, the terrible jelly-like feeling in my legs, my fear and pounding heart, and afterward the glory and pride that came with being chosen as the only sixth-grade finalist. In a few minutes, all these feelings were going to repeat themselves, only more intense and frightening. Still, through my nervousness, I felt a need to prove myself, to win. Ten minutes later, I sat on the railing outside the auditorium, waiting for my chance to show off my musical skills. I was in my own world, separated from everyone else, especially Mrs. Taylor, my accompanist, who was chatting away happily and unconcerned beside me. "So," she asked, with a huge, toothy grin on her face, "how's school?" "Good, I guess," I answered dully and distantly, a chill running through my anxious body. "That's great!" she replied cheerfully, oblivious to my lack of excitement. "I hope you're not nervous. I'm sure you'll do a great job! You played wonderfully during our rehearsals!" "Yeah—thanks—I hope so," I muttered abruptly, now chewing on the side of my cheek, trying in vain to calm my nerves. "You know, my daughter . . ." Suddenly, her animated speech was interrupted by the squeaking of the auditorium door. My school acquaintance, Jennifer Li, emerged carrying her cello and looking at the floor. A woman walked out briskly after her, turned toward me, and asked, "Alissa? Are you Alissa?" "Yeah. Yeah, that's me," I stammered, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. "My turn?" I asked cautiously. "Yes, you can go in now," she assured me, smiling, "Good luck!" Unable to answer through the gigantic ball that was forming in my throat, I nodded stiffly and proceeded into the auditorium on quivering legs that threatened to collapse, Mrs. Taylor right behind me. I finally found my place beside the piano, alone and small before the judge, the small crowd that had accumulated at the back of the building, and a few music teachers, including Mr. Park, my orchestra director. He looked at me piercingly, freezing my brain under his hard stare. In those few seconds that contained an eternity, his cold, emotionless eyes made me realize that winning this competition might take more than I had to offer. I was suddenly completely absorbed in my thoughts and worries, oblivious to the world around me. Then, as suddenly as my mind had been distracted, I was brought back to my senses by the judge's booming voice, which said, "Tune." I fumbled to pick up my violin, tuned my strings to the piano notes with shaking hands and played a few scales, embarrassed and shy before my small audience. I waited once again, staring at the clock in the back of the room, as the judge filled out my entry form. The clock was acting strangely. Its second hand seemed to move first slowly, then extremely quickly, then sluggishly again. My terrified twelve-year-old mind assured me that it was broken. When the judge finally finished writing and said, "Play," I picked up my instrument once more and played the first note of the piece. It rang out, crisp and clear. That first note cooled my tense nerves and fed my wavering confidence. The piece climbed and turned and shimmered, each note brighter than the last. I nailed all but two notes, the difficult sections and fancy twists sounding more beautiful than ever before. As I played the last vibrating, shining note, the back of the room exploded in applause. A shy smile forced itself onto my face no matter how hard I tried to subdue it. I put down my violin and looked around the room to see Mr. Park clapping lightly, looking at me and smiling his vague, indecipherable smile. I walked out of the room, proud but unsure of myself, hoping that the judge had thought that my performance was as good as I imagined it. The next morning, as I sat down in orchestra, I was uncertain whether to look forward to or dread the announcement of the competition results. Finally, when Mr. Park stood up on the podium to announce the winners, I sat back and looked up at him hopefully. "First place, Rebecca Beasley, from John Adams Middle School," he announced blankly, looking around the room. "Second place, Ilana Summers, from Lincoln Middle School," he continued, as all eyes snapped toward the tall blond girl sitting next to me. My heart sank, so heavy I thought it would just fall through me. I had hoped to beat her, the only obstacle between my current position and being the best violinist in the school. Still, I sat, now hoping for a different prize. "Third place, Heather Peterson, from John Adams Middle School," Mr. Park said quickly, when most eyes had left amazed Ilana. "And fourth place, Daniel Cooper, from Lincoln Middle School." I sat back in my chair, my vision clouding with tears. Suddenly, Ilana turned to me, wide-eyed, and whispered, "Oh, my God! I can't believe that judge! Yours was the best!" "Yeah, well, I guess not," I mumbled hoarsely, forcing a small, sad smile of congratulation. I looked down, sighed heavily, and began to unpack my violin. "Oh, well. It's OK, you know. You can't always win. And there's
Fiction
I woke up as a small gap of light beamed into my eyes from a hole in the curtain. I opened my bedroom window to see what kind of a day it was. The sun was radiating on my face, but the only thing I could feel was the heat. There was not even the slightest breeze in the air; it gave me a strange feeling. My house is near the ocean, so I was accustomed to early morning breezes. But today the air was as still as a stagnant pond. I continued to look out my bedroom window, and I was pleased to see that there was not a cloud in the sky. I knew that it would be a perfect day for skateboarding. Even though the day was nice and sunny, something tugged at my mind, but I could not put my finger on it. I had an uneasy feeling that seemed to consume my thoughts. As I continued to stare out onto the empty street, I noticed something very strange. Usually on a Saturday morning, all the dogs on the street are barking, wandering around, or even terrorizing a few cats. Today, not a bark could be heard, or a single dog could be seen. I could not imagine where all the dogs could be hiding. It was almost like something was going to happen, but I could not figure out what. Despite my uneasy feelings, I was determined to have a good day. I jumped into my favorite pair of cargo pants, threw on my blue Tech Deck shirt, and slipped into a comfortable pair of black Emericas. I tossed the cat over my shoulder, and we both bounced down the stairs to get a bite to eat. As I was shoving a bacon-and-cheese breakfast sandwich into my mouth, I flipped on my favorite television show, "Junkyard Wars." I was just getting settled into my chair when a news flash rudely interrupted my program. A reporter appeared and announced that several small earthquakes had rattled a town, just twenty-seven miles away. He said that these quakes measured 4.1 on the Richter scale, and that not much damage was done to the local structures. I watched the news report and thought about the last time a quake had hit our little town of Aptos. We hadn't had one since 1989. But that quake shook the area tremendously and caused a ton of damage. It was measured at 7.1 on the Richter scale. I was only a few months old, so this quake did not even faze me. But believe me, I heard all about it from my parents. They won't ever forget the rocking, rolling, and rumbling of that quake. The blaring ring of the telephone interrupted my thoughts. I jumped up from the couch and grabbed my cordless phone. "Hello," I blurted into the receiver. "Hey, Alex, what's happening?" said my best friend Tim. "I am not up to much, except for watching a dumb news report about an earthquake. Do you want to go to the skate park today?" I said with enthusiasm. "Sure, I'll drop by at around ten," Tim confirmed his plans. "I will see you then, dude," I answered and quickly hung up the phone. Tim showed up a few minutes early. I knew he was ready to get going because he didn't even notice my new PlayStation 2. Tim never passes up a chance to play a video game, but today his mind was on skating. Tim just got a Zero skateboard for his birthday, and he was dying to try it out. We were both out the door in a flash and started our one-mile trip to the park on our skateboards. A slight breeze kicked up and brushed against our faces as we rolled along the sidewalks. We noticed that there weren't too many people outside, and the dogs weren't chasing us as usual. When we got to the skate park entrance, we noticed a huge line of kids waiting to get inside. The line wrapped around the block, so we had to cut across the Kmart parking lot in order to get to the end of the line. "How long is it going to take us to get into this park?" I said to Tim with a frustrated look on my face. "We could be out here for hours, Alex," complained Tim. After about an hour, Tim and I finally made our way through the entrance gate of the park. There were skaters everywhere, and we were having a hard time finding a spot to skate on the half pipe. Every time we come to this park, Tim and I always skate on the half pipe, but since there was not room to skate there, we proceeded to a small, enclosed area where we could grind. We could spend hours grinding on our skateboards, so I knew that we'd be in this area of the park for quite a while. Tim and I were having a blast, and we didn't want the day to end. I knew that I had to be home for supper at six, so we only had an hour more of skating. We left the grinding room and ran over to the skating bowl, which is a large metal bowl that is enclosed by a cement wall. The skaters like to do tricks in the bowl—nose grinds, 360s, 180s, hard flips, and bumping. I looked at the clock. It was 5:05 PM. A strange feeling came over me, but I didn't know why. I ignored the feeling and glided up the side of the bowl to show Tim how well I could do a hard flip. Just as I was ready to turn, I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I got up off the ground, stood on my board, but something strange was happening all around me. The other skaters were moving back and forth, the cement wall was swaying,
Fiction
Salt sea spray brushed against my cheek as I paced placidly along my beach. Well, not my beach, technically, but that's what I fondly call it. My adoptive mother, Elnore, says every time it's a nice day out, "It's a day for your beach, Shayla, go and capture it." So that's where I am now, on a beach where your thoughts break loose from a cage called your mind, and take off into the sky. While my thoughts are off scanning the horizons, my green eyes stay close to the beach, seeking out shells. I always look for additions to my shell collection, which are easy to find, for I practically live on the beach. My eyes spot a dark gray shell poking out of the soft sand. I trot over and squat down by it, taking a piece of my short, curly brown hair and tucking it behind my ear. I carefully pick up the shell and turn it over. Sure enough, the rainbow colors of an abalone shell shimmer back at me. I smile and place the shell in the pocket of my battered old shorts, then skip off along the shoreline. After a few minutes of poking along the beach, I find the driftwood bench that I crafted myself. I plop down on it and think about my life, what I always do on this unique bench. I was adopted, or rather I was found. See, Elnore found me on the beach, which is, of course, very odd. Elnore told the police about me, and the police did their job and investigated to see if anyone had a missing child. No one claimed me, so Elnore took me under her wing. I have lived with her ever since, twelve years. I love Elnore's cozy old beach house, and I love Elnore, but I would like to know about my past. A ship bell rings faintly. I look out on the ocean. Old Mr. Flint waves at me from his equally old fishing schooner. I wave back. Mr. Flint points to the cove that he usually docks in. I nod and he turns back to his wheel. Lifting myself off the bench, I make my way down to Fisher's Cove. I usually help Mr. Flint unload his catch in exchange for stories of what he saw in the ocean that day, and a buck or two. "Aye, little Shayla!" Mr. Flint greets me with a toothy smile. "Hey!" I grin back. "Any fish stories today?" "Jest unusual happenings. I swear I saw a whale jest off the mainland. Gray-colored one it was." My eyes open wide with surprise. "But it's not time for whales to migrate by here yet!" I exclaim. "Yeah, I know. That's what's so strange about that whale. Help me with this net, wouldja?" I bend down and help him with a net full of fish. I still am very curious. "Was there anything strange about the whale, besides the obvious?" I enquire eagerly. Old Mr. Flint wrinkles up his nose, thinking hard. "Eyah . . . it were tossin' around a trinket thing, mayhap a shell. I don' think that that's what's causin' um to act this way though." He pulls out another net, and I help him with it. "Nothing else?" I ask hopefully. "Nothin' 'cept the sunrise," was the disappointing answer. I stay through the usual sunrise bit, I finish, he thanks me, and hands me the regular paycheck (a dollar-fifty). Finally I trudge home, with darkness setting over the ocean. "I suppose you will be enlightening the beach with your presence today, right?" I smile at Elnore's obvious question, and reply enthusiastically over the tink, tink of spoons against breakfast oatmeal bowls. "Of course! Going to the beach is one of the many privileges of this off-school vacation! How could you ever doubt I would spend a day without my beach?" "Oh, just a wild guess." Elnore picks up my satchel, and tosses it at me. "Go find some seashells!" "Aye, aye captain!" I rush happily out the door. It is foggy when I get to my beach, and the waves crash steadily against the jagged rocks. I shrug my shoulders and continue on my way. A few sand dollars are all I can see in the sand, broken ones at that. I suddenly decide to walk on the western part of my beach, a part that I don't acknowledge much. The wind starts to whip around violently, and strands of hair keep blowing in my face. Frustrated, I search my satchel for a rubber band, and come out with a piece of string. I turn in the direction of the ocean and tie my hair up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move out on the ocean. I know it isn't the waves; the thing I see is an object. Something plops down in the sand right next to me and I jump. I come to my senses and look down. A large shell sits comfortably in the sand, as if it had been there a million years. I stoop and take a closer look. The shell is a conch shell, and definitely excels in looks. It is glossy, and the surface is a mixture of cream and white colors. It is delicately rounded and has a curlicue on the top of it. Excited, I pick up the pretty shell and put it in my satchel. I walk home quickly, eager to show Elnore my lucky find. How little I knew then. * * * "Elnore, Elnore! Look, look! Look what I found!" I burst through the door, wet from the now falling rain. Elnore glances up from her sketch pad, and puts on her wire-rimmed glasses. "What do you have there?" I hold up the conch shell. Elnore's eyes are like tennis balls. "Wow. That is the biggest shell I have ever seen! Where'd you find it?" "On the west beach." Elnore nods. "Could
Fiction
In the Land of the Basketball Hoops
She slung her leg over the side of the hammock and sighed. It was the sigh alone that told the story of her boredom, the story of being dragged out to visit an aunt and uncle she barely knew; then of finding that her relatives and their neighbors were about the dullest people who ever walked the face of the earth. Then just as she sighed again, the actress in her searching for the best pitch to portray most complete and utter boredom, the screen door opened and quietly closed and her aunt stepped out and squinted in the sunshine. "Carmon, honey. I'm afraid this must be rather dull for a city girl like you," she tittered. "Why don't you take a little stroll. I'm going to be off to the Ladies Society." Her aunt stood awhile, expectantly waiting for her niece to jump up and scamper down the road calling, "Have a nice day, Auntie!" like the niece she had always imagined. Carmon only raised one eyebrow and twisted a short black curl around her finger. Reluctantly Aunt Angela walked down the manicured sidewalk toward the dark red minivan in the garage. A minute later she was backing out of the graveled driveway. Carmon watched and wondered, momentarily, why people drove in parkways and parked in driveways, but she soon dismissed the thought, telling herself that it was much too hot to think. Her eyes followed the minivan in a lazy sort of way, the way you might imagine a large beetle who, having just eaten his fill, lay watching a slow, fat fly. Carmon got up and pulled her soccer shorts from her sweaty skin, then gave up because they replastered each time. A gnat flew into her hair, and she flicked it away. "I guess anything would be better than this, even a walk," she said to the mosquito on her arm before squashing it. Carmon grabbed her faded New York Mets cap and put it on, then began to walk toward Maple Street, which was three houses down from Aunt Angela and Uncle Fredrick's house. On the corner of Maple Street and Eve Street there stood a large house. Carmon stopped to pull out her water bottle from a Barbie fanny pack that her little sister Melissa had insisted she bring and wear to remember her. Carmon took a long drink, then replaced it and looked up at the house. It looked like an imitation of the houses she'd seen along Brattle Street in one of her many visits to Cambridge, mixed with an imitation of a villa in Switzerland that she had stayed at for a year. Carmon shook her head and smiled. The imitation was certainly bad. Thunk, thunk, thunk—her head turned automatically toward the sound. In the driveway there stood a medium-height girl with medium-length blond hair. She was shooting baskets at a hoop almost rhythmically. Carmon gazed at her for a moment, then noticed the lack of emotion on her suntanned face. She showed no sign of having any fun, yet every time she shot the ball it landed neatly in the basket. Carmon shook her head, then walked on. As she came to the driveway of the next house she heard dribbling again, and again. Carmon turned her head to see a young girl shooting baskets. She seemed totally unaware that right next door, a girl was also playing. Their houses were just far enough apart that neither of them could see each other. Carmon wanted to run up to the girl and tell her that right next door a girl was shooting baskets too, and that they could play one-on-one, but the girl's dad was on the lawn blowing leaves in a circle with a leaf blower. Every few minutes he would stop and watch his daughter's endless, perfect shots, then give her a thumbs-up. She would smile, toss her blond hair, then continue to shoot and dribble, perfect synchronized dribbling. Carmon walked on and on, and at each house there was a girl with blond hair, shooting hoops and hoops and hoops and hoops . . . Carmon began to be mesmerized by the endless perfection. She looked around her and realized she had no idea where she was. Her head seemed to be throbbing in perfect, synchronized beats, almost the same as the thunk, thunk, thunk coming from the driveway ahead. She couldn't seem to remember where she'd turned or how long she had been walking. She looked around and realized you couldn't give directions around here. You couldn't say "turn left at the house with the leaf blower" because every house had one, prominently filling the natural silence. You couldn't say "turn right at the house with the fake jockey statue" because every house had one. And you couldn't say "make a U-turn at the house with the minivan" because every driveway seemed to contain one. You certainly couldn't say "cross the street at the house with the basketball hoop." Even in her present state of mind Carmon knew that. Carmon turned yet another corner with the desperate hope of ending up on her aunt and uncle's street, though the street sign clearly read Twilight Park. In front of her, about five houses down, stood a Man, a Lady and a perfect little Boy. They were calling her name and beckoning to her. They seemed to know her, though she was certain she'd never seen them in her life. She seemed drawn toward them, closer, closer, her head throbbing with the repeated cries of "Carmon, Carmon, Carmon . . ." She walked on, the monotonous, coordinated sound of the voices merging with the ever louder thump of basketballs. The people stood in front of her smiling. The man held a basketball which he placed in her outstretched hands. She walked forward, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror on their minivan. Carmon wanted to scream as she stared into the mirror—her curls had straightened and
Fiction
Summer Days Beside Cannon Rock
The ocean, rocks, and cool sea breeze are what awaited me every July at our old summer house in Maine. The living room, dining room and two bedrooms upstairs had the most beautiful view in the whole house. It was of the glistening teal ocean and huge rocks on which one could climb. They were all along the seaside, like a barrier separating the water and land. These midnight, cloudy-day rocks were simply called "the rocks," and one in particular was shaped like a cannon pointing out to sea; we called it Cannon Rock. It was the largest, and if one were to climb to the top of it, the whole world would seem like it was before her eyes. As I walked down our worn-off, soft, charcoal-color porch stairs, I passed beach flowers that looked like mini-hibiscuses. I was heading toward the rocks. Waves crashed up against the rocks that sounded like a hard crack of a whip. I climbed on all fours and watched out for the razor-sharp barnacles. They were stuck on like a baby calf clinging to its mother in its early stages. Above me the sun was blazing, and I heard the screeching of seagulls soaring through the clear blue sky. I breathed in the salty sea air, which reminded me of Cape Cod salt-and-vinegar chips, my favorite. Around and inside the rocks were tidepools and areas to search for the little treasures the ocean brings. The foamy water from the open gap in a rock shampooed my cool bare feet. As I kept exploring the watery world, sudden shimmers caught my eye. Sea glass was sparkling on small moist stones and rocks. The pieces were frosty colors of midnight-sky blue, emerald green, and baby-boy blue. I used to drop them in a jar, making a collection to admire. I searched around more, observing different motionless creatures. I gently picked up a starfish and felt its hard top, like rough sandpaper. It looked like pores on a grapefruit. I scooped up several multicolored periwinkles, and saw a crab scuttle across and hide under a big rock. He was the color of the setting sun. Next, I saw stringy strands of slimy cucumber-colored seaweed. I also glimpsed some other seaweed that looked like the packaging bubble wrap that covers fragile things. When I was finished examining the various animals, I headed up to the sizzling hot rocks, baked by the afternoon sun. I sat down and peered out onto the horizon; here I could see Stratton Island and Bluff Island. These islands looked like small blots propped up by the water against the sky. Sailboats floated along the skyline, even though it didn't look like they were moving at all. I think of the times I spent on the rocks and in Maine. Once we had a family cookout, several times we packed picnics to eat, and one evening we roasted marshmallows against a fire. My dreams at night here were about my different adventures I had, and new things I learned. I think of how I wished to be a marine biologist, because of my love I had for the ocean and the wonders inside of it. I was never afraid to touch some "gooey-gross" seaweed like others would say. I could only admire it, and other things. I remembered a night when I heard two seals barking outside of my bedroom window. They were moving black figures, swimming the dark sea. That was my last night there; it was like they were saying good-bye. In the movie Peter Pan the mermaid lagoon and the islands reminded me of Maine. So many things did. For example, when I ate plain Pringles chips or Rice Krispies treats. Whenever I held a large seashell up to my ear, the rushing of the waves reminded me of the water slapping against the rocks. Even when I smelled a bit of salty sea air, it just tingled me inside and the memories went through my head. I had grown attached to our house and rocks on the sea, just like baby calves come to bond with their mother. The time I spent there gave me a chance to view the whole world, just as I could do at the top of Cannon Rock. Memories could be cherished forever from the events that don't always last.
Poem
I saw a hot air balloon this morning And immediately thought of you Every time I am on the hill I yell "Hi Grandma!" As loud as I can I look at the ancient hilltop tree How its branch is pointing To all the land you loved I look at the vineyards And I remember How much you treasured them When I climb the hill I still remember Scattering your ashes How they blew on me in the wind And I didn't brush them off I think of you quilting Even in intensive care When it was hard for you to breathe And when you wanted off life support But stayed alive until we were ready I remember playing cards Listening to classical music and Spending Christmas mornings with you Now I can listen to your voice On the life story tape And sleep under your quilt Whenever I want But that is still nothing Compared to your love for me
Book Reviews
Promises to the Dead by Mary Downing Hahn; Clarion Books: New York, 2000; $15 Promises to the dead is a very interesting book. On the surface it seems simple, but scratch beneath the surface and you will find a unique story that obviously took some work. In Promises to the Dead, a young boy named Jesse happens upon a pregnant slave woman and her son. As the woman goes into labor, she sends Jesse to fetch an abolitionist midwife who lives nearby. As her condition quickly deteriorates after delivering a dead child, she makes Jesse promise to bring her little boy, Perry, to her dead master's sister in Baltimore. Then she dies, leaving Jesse stuck with his promise, since you can't break promises made to the dead. For the rest of the book, Jesse and Perry have to evade a slave-catcher, as well as Perry's master's widow. Because Perry was his master's illegitimate son, his mistress would like to get rid of him as fast as possible. Finally the two boys manage to find freedom, despite the hardships along the way. I thought the plot was unique, because it dealt with normal people having to help runaway slaves. The only people that one usually hears about are the names that are now famous, like Harriet Tubman. Mary Downing Hahn shows the reality of the normal abolitionist. That was my favorite part of the plot. I really enjoyed how many ideas she was able to rope into one plot and be able to make it work. However, I didn't think the plot was very plausible. It seems like there are many things that are hard for Jesse and Perry, and yet somehow there are many things that miraculously happen so that they are able to keep going. I would have enjoyed the book a lot more if Mary Downing Hahn had kept things agreeing with what she had said earlier in the story (i.e., what would happen if Perry's owner got him back). I also thought the book was a little too easy to read, so I wouldn't recommend it to anyone aged twelve and above, or with an above average reading level. However, all in all, the originality of the plot made it a light read that made up for unlikable details in the plot. There are many things in this book that are phenomenally well done. Not only does the plot have certain intricacies that keep the pages turning, but also the characters are extremely well drawn. Mary Downing Hahn knows how to make the reader like the good characters and hate the bad. She has successfully mastered the art of character creation, which I, as a writer, often struggle with. Making characters with multi-dimensional personalities of their own is a hard task. I commend her for making it seem easy. I also appreciated the honesty in this book. It is very hard to write a book on slavery and abolition (trust me, I've tried) and make it seem real. Mary Downing Hahn showed that it was the common people and not just those known as conductors on the Underground Railroad that made the real difference in eliminating slavery. I think that it produces good lessons to all of us out there today: keeping promises is important, and no matter what you do, it's important not to give up along the way, because you are somehow making a difference. Jesse remembered that when he was taking Perry to safety, and he fought to keep going. I try to remember that whenever things seem pointless, that no matter what, I need to keep going until I succeed.
