Fiction
Gabriella DeFrancesco dug a fingernail into her eyebrow, resting for a moment in a state of utter fatigue. It was nearly midnight, and the bed in her room taunted her. She sighed, "Why me?" Gabby was on the verge of committing to an entire summer cooped up in the cloistered science lab of one of the country's most prestigious universities. The application form lay on her rolltop desk. All she could think was, "How did I get myself into this?" Closing her eyes, Gabby recalled a conversation earlier in the day with her Advanced Placement Biology teacher, Mr. Bennett. "Miss DeFrancesco," Mr. Bennett said, presenting her with an application and a brochure, "you're the first student that, in all my years of teaching, I can send to this program with complete confidence that you'll benefit from it." Gabby smiled an embarrassed smile and thanked Mr. Bennett in as few words as possible. She slung her brick-loaded backpack onto her shoulder and left, completely ignoring Mr. Bennett's frenzied shouts of "Two shoulders, Gabby, put the pack over two shoulders. You'll destroy your back!" When Gabby returned home and told her parents how she planned to spend the summer, her mother grabbed her face and kissed both cheeks over and over until it became annoying. Her father, for his part, was completely befuddled. But he ended up yelling "Magnifico!" and several other Italian phrases all meaning "wonderful" and ending in "-ico!" Gabby's summer dreams of vegetating on the porch vanished into thin air, their particles becoming so condensed that they imploded. * * * Downstairs, the grandfather clock in the living room tolled twelve times. Gabby pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to focus on the application. The next question was, "What are you passionate about?" The irony of the query bugged her. The fact was that she could never participate in normal teenage life because of her lack of passion for anything. This was disturbing. The nagging feeling that she was wasting her childhood kept her up at night. Gabby wrote a neat, cursive "B" on the page, then vigorously erased it. She had dismissed the thought of writing "Biology" before she put her pencil to paper. Although it was the answer that the sponsor, Cell Division, Inc., wanted to hear, it somehow didn't satisfy her. The ghost of the "B" shimmered on the page. She looked up from the application. Her eye caught the edge of an old photograph tacked to the bulletin board which hung above her desk. Hidden by her jam-packed schedule and reminder notes, the photo had become part of the board, just another thing in which to stick thumbtacks. Gabby disengaged the picture from the hole-riddled cork. It fell a little, before being firmly secured by Gabby's pointer finger. She brought it close to her face. In the photo, a small girl, smiling an unblemished eight-year-old smile, was ready for her big dancing debut. Gabby grinned at the little girl, knowing that her every dimple was identical to those of the child. Gabby remembered that day so well. It seemed to have been the beginning of her life. This long-ago recital was the first thing she had done that really mattered. Oh! How Gabby had loved dancing! She would twirl and leap and sparkle and smile, until her toes begged for mercy, but her mind begged for more. What a phenomenal ride! And she would dance until she was sure she was lame. Gabby hadn't danced since she was thirteen, when the three-hour practices, dress rehearsals, and the commute to and from The Rock School began to affect her grades. Just remembering the day that she had quit made Gabby tingle. "You failed a science test?" her mother asked, hardly expecting an answer. "You could've failed with a 64, but you had to get a 58! You never even mentioned a test!" "Esther, Esther, please calm down," Gabby's father said. But when his wife glared at him, he turned his full attention to the pages of the test. "It slipped my mind, what with dancing and all." Gabby tried to keep her voice reasonable, not wishing to provoke her mother any further. "If you can't handle both school and dance, then you'll just have to cut back on one of them. And it won't be school!" Her mother bit her lower lip in an effort to control her anger. "That little place in Berwyn has a nice ballet program . . ." "Forget it! That's a lame program. It's for little kids. I'm serious about dancing!" Gabby shouted without thinking. "I can't cut back on dance at my age. It's now or never!" Gabby knew she should have stopped there, but she didn't. "I'd rather quit than go halfway!" "Fine! You know what, that's fine!" her mother said, as she turned and swept out of the room in an angry daze. Gabby fled out the front door, slamming it so hard that a porcelain Madonna fell from the mantel and shattered. Gabby's father, who was an engineer and could have passed the failed test in his sleep, yelled after Gabby, "If you'd answered all of the questions E = mc² , you would have gotten half of them right." He also yelled that he could say E = mc² in Italian, and, just to prove it to the wall, he did. So Gabby quit dancing, and suddenly formerly disapproving teachers became models of praising, encouraging educators. A year later, when she announced to her parents that she had been accepted into a highly selective advanced biology course and had decided to start down the road to becoming a doctor, her mother began crying, completely overjoyed. Her father, thinking that his wife was upset, tried to comfort her. The whole ordeal was rather funny. * * * The grandfather clock chimed the quarter-hour and snapped Gabby out of her daydream. She stood, stretching, and walked over to her dance trunk. It sat
Fiction
CHAPTER ONE his was supposed to be the best summer of twelve-year-old Bryan Carmanne's life. His dad's best friend, Bryan called him Uncle Scott, was a manager for the New York Yankees. Bryan was invited to be a ball boy for the team for the whole summer! He would even get to travel with the team to some of the "away" games. "I know it's your dream to be in the major leagues someday," Uncle Scott told him when he broke the great news to Bryan. "This will give you a taste of what it is really like to see the big guys in action. I already worked out all of the details with your mom and dad. What do you say? Do you think you can give up your whole summer for the team?" "Oh, I know it will be hard, but I think that Bryan could make the sacrifice for the summer," his dad said, laughing. "Do you really mean it, Dad? Can I do it? Uncle Scott, will I get to meet my all-time favorite player, Derek Jeter? Do you think I can get his autograph?" Bryan said excitedly. "Not only will you get to meet Derek, but you'll also work with him and the rest of the team all summer," answered Uncle Scott. For as long as Bryan could remember, he dreamed of playing in the major leagues. It started when his dad gave him his first baseball glove. He was only three years old, but he and Dad practiced throwing and catching every chance they got. By the time he joined the local baseball team, the coaches all told him he was a natural. Now, he was the star hitter for the Bronx Blasters. His batting average was the best on the team, at .396. His idol was Derek Jeter, the shortstop for the New York Yankees. Once at a Yankees game Bryan caught a home-run ball hit by Derek. Now he had the chance to actually meet and work with him. This was going to be the best summer ever! "Thanks, Dad, thanks, Uncle Scott. You're the best!" cried Bryan, jumping up and down. For the next few days, Bryan was ecstatic. Until this morning, that is. It all started when his mom called him into the living room for a "conference." Bryan could sense he wasn't going to like what she had to say. She wasn't smiling, and she wouldn't look Bryan in the eye. She had a serious expression on her face. His dad was there too, which was a bad sign. "Bryan, there has been a little change of plan for your summer vacation," said his mom. "The museum has asked Dad and me to go to Egypt for the summer to research that new dinosaur graveyard. We can't pass up this wonderful chance to continue our research on dinosaurs." "Son, we can't take you with us. The excavation site is too dangerous, and we won't have time to spend with you anyway," Dad added. "How would you like to spend the summer with Grandma Mildred and Grandpa Chuck in Montana?" "What are you talking about? You know I already have plans with Uncle Scott and the Yankees for the summer," said Bryan. "Dad and I have to take this research job. We'll be in Egypt for ten weeks. You can't come with us because it's too dangerous," Mom repeated. "The ranch in Montana will be a lot of fun." "You call this a little change in plans? How could you do this to me?" Bryan yelled angrily. "Why can't I just stay with Uncle Scott for the summer?" "Bryan, that's out of the question. Uncle Scott will be traveling with the team. How could he keep an eye on you? Our arrangement for the summer was for you to work at the Yankees' home games," answered Mom, patiently. "You are treating me like a baby! I don't have a say in anything around here. This is so unfair. I haven't seen my grandparents since I was two years old. Why do I have to stay with them?" Bryan shouted. "Grandma Mildred and Grandpa Chuck are getting old. They might not be with us much longer. They really want to see you, and get to know you. With all the traveling Mom and I do, we haven't made time to spend with them. This is a perfect solution to our summer-plan problem," explained Dad. "You can spend the summer together, and when Mom and I get back from Egypt, we'll meet you at the ranch and we'll all be together for a few days." "Well, I hate this 'perfect solution.' I don't see anything perfect about it. I'll be stuck in the middle of nowhere with two old strangers. They probably have never even heard of the New York Yankees. This stinks!" Bryan stormed up to his room and slammed his door. "I feel terrible about this," said Bryan's mom. "It really is the best way, honey," replied Bryan's dad. "I just hope Mom and Dad know what they are in for." Bryan plopped down on his bed. He stared at his prized possession, the home-run ball hit by Jeter. He looked at Derek's smiling face on the poster on the wall. Bryan felt like crying, but instead, he punched his pillow. He would never get Derek to autograph that ball now. Spend the summer with his rickety old grandparents whom he barely knew, and give up the Yankees? Were his parents nuts? CHAPTER TWO Bryan woke up on Saturday morning feeling awful. He tossed and turned all night, thinking about how his summer was ruined. He had never felt this angry. His parents were traitors. Around mid-morning he decided to leave the safety of his room and go downstairs for breakfast. "Good morning, Bryan, how did you sleep?" asked Bryan's dad. "What do you think?" answered Bryan. "That's enough of that attitude, young man," said his mom.
Fiction
It was summer and our family was eating dinner. We were eating food I didn't like. For dinner we had liver, broccoli and beans. I was hungry but I didn't feel like eating liver or broccoli. My mom noticed I wasn't eating and asked, "Dear, why aren't you eating?" "Mom, I don't like liver or broccoli," I answered quietly. My mom had a disappointed look on her face. I was staring at a piece of broccoli when all of a sudden I was back in the past in Berlin. It was a sad, cloudy and cold day in Berlin. The houses there were old and falling down; there were hardly any trees, but when you saw one it would have no branches on it or it would be decaying. Most restaurants and stores were out of business. There was trash littered everywhere and there were people lying on the ground. Their faces were pale and one man I saw was shivering. I felt sorry for these people because I had a home when some didn't. In one corner I saw a crowd of children by a garbage can. They were arguing over a piece of apple core that had been eaten already. I heard a boy say, "I get to have it because I'm older!" I started walking around the city. Everything looked so sad and so poor. I went into a dark alley when I saw a girl who was about eight years old. She was a small skinny girl; she had blond curls, her clothes were torn and she wasn't wearing any shoes. She was eating an old fishbone that had a littie chunk of meat left on it. When she saw me she quickly put the fishbone behind her. "Please don't take it from me. I'm really hungry," she answered quietly. "Don't worry," I quickly replied, "I'm not hungry. How long have you been hungry?" "I'm not sure," she said timidly, "but I know I've been hungry for a long time." I asked, "Where are your parents?" Her face all of a sudden saddened, then she started to cry. "They died two months ago because of starvation," she said between sobs. "Please don't cry. I'm sorry," I replied. "Where do you sleep at night?" "Oh, I sleep at my house. Do you want to come and see?" she said in a shy voice. But before I could say anything she grabbed my hand and started leading me to her house. I followed her through two alleys and then we were there. It was old and the paint was peeling off, a window was broken, the front steps creaked under my weight when I stepped on it. When we were in the house I saw there was one bedroom, and a small kitchen and living room. The kitchen had a few pots and pans and the stove was wrecked. In the living room there was a small dinner table and three chairs. She took me to her room. She had slept there before with her parents on the same bed. There was a drawer where they kept their clothes, a night table, a chair, a picture of her parents. Then she said, "Sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep at night but I hug the picture of my parents to comfort me. Once I dreamed of my mom as an angel and she came to take me to heaven, then I woke up. I wasn't in heaven, I was in my room, and my mom would be gone." My heart reached out to her. "I think I better be going," I answered sadly. "Bye," she replied. "Hope I meet you again soon." I went to the door and when I got out I was lifted up and started flying at a great speed. I flew past cities and towns. I saw millions of people that looked like tiny little dolls. I just kept on flying and flying. When I was flying past China, I saw so many interesting scenes. Then I started going down slowly to the ground and I stopped at Vietnam. It was a hot day. Vietnam didn't look as bad as Berlin in the past. There were a lot of straw houses and some brick houses that only the rich could afford. Palm trees were everywhere and there were boats that were loaded with food to sell, and there were stands that sold things like clothes and more food! I started to walk along the dirt roads. I passed an old bridge and saw three boys and two girls. One girl was sleeping on the bare floor. Then a boy quickly ran and grabbed a piece of bread off the ground and ran back under the bridge. "Hey, I got some food!" he excitedly told the others. He started to split the bread and he got the biggest piece. "Why do you get a bigger piece than us?" one of the other boys said. "Cause I got the bread!" he shouted. They started arguing, then fighting. Here sometimes, they would fight for their food, but I could eat as much as I wanted. I had learned my lesson. I started running. I ran up a hill and then I closed my eyes. I didn't know if it was my imagination, but did I smell broccoli? When I opened my eyes I was back at home! "You fell asleep in the middle of dinner!" my dad said disapprovingly. Whew, I thought, it was only a dream! I started gulping down my food. My parents looked happy now. A little bird flaps its wings, Looking for its nest. The streets look so sad, Flying through the rain. This little bird has no nest, Young orphans have no home. Both are suffering, Both keep wandering.
Fiction
Tall buildings scrape the sky, a murky river gently runs, carrying with it logs and leaves. A graceful arch frames this quiet city. Cars drive down the streets; few people walk on such a hot and humid night, so muggy your knuckles begin to swell. Inside this city a substantial building stands, a building that is so cold you must wear a jacket inside. That's not why people go there, however. It's for something much better than that . . . hockey. "Dad! Look at that guy! He has blue oozing out of his head!" "Wow, that's a great look!" my dad says in his best sarcastic tone as we walk around outside of the Saavis Center, home of the St. Louis Blues. We are the only ones to be seen wearing Avalanche merchandise; everyone else is wearing things that say something like, "St. Louis Blues! Do you bleed blue?" I was wearing my Avalanche jersey that said in big letters, "DRURY 28." My dad was wearing a sweater with the Avalanche logo. "People are nuts in this town! They all have blue oozing out from somewhere!" I said as I watched people move around and into the stadium. People sit and stare at me in my jersey, hat and pom-poms sticking out from my head. I don't mind, I like the attention. My dad and I slowly make our way into the cold and crowded building. All over people stare at us, most likely thinking we are some idiots that moved from Denver to St. Louis and are still loyal to our old team! They are not even close! My dad and I have never had a very good relationship; he is always at work and never home. When he does get home it is at one or two in the morning and I am fast asleep. Even if I was awake, he never says much, and when he does it's, "Hi, how was your day? That's good. You should be in bed." That's it. I barely knew him and he barely knew me, or so I thought. It was Mother's Day when my dad brought up the idea; he made it sound like it could never happen, but I knew it could! He said that we should drive all the way from Denver to St. Louis and get tickets to see the Avalanche play the Blues during the Stanley Cup playoffs. This took me by surprise; how did he know I loved hockey? Why was he suddenly after twelve years wanting to spend time with me? He said that getting the tickets was the only thing stopping us . . . oh, and my mom. I would have to convince Mom that it was OK if I missed four days of school, and that it was OK that Dad and I be gone for that long. I knew I could convince Mom, the only problem was the tickets. We started with the woman who works for my dad (her family is in St. Louis). She called her parents and they said they would get back to us. We waited all day and had still gotten no answer. Both of us knew that if we got tickets we would have to leave day after tomorrow in order to make it to the first game. By night we had heard nothing and Dad had given up, but I had not, and would not. I went to school the next morning as if nothing had happened, and halfway through the day I got a message saying to call my dad. I did, and the first thing he said was "Wanna go to St. Louis?" Tears filled my eyes, I would finally get to know my dad. The air was filled with all kinds of noises as we fought our way to our seats with bags of popcorn and Pepsis, and after we sat down we paid more attention to our surroundings. Next to me was a couple who looked shocked, and I smiled at them just to get a glare back. I get it, I thought, they just don't understand that we are not crazy fans that are there to torment them! One and a half minutes into the game and we have three goals! Bourque, Messier and Tanguay. Boom, boom, boom! Everyone is sitting there with this look on their faces that says to the goalie, "How could you do this?!" We are standing tall, the only ones in the stadium cheering and yelling! The people next to us stand up and leave! While we celebrate! Together. The rest of the first period goes by and most of the second, when the lady who is sitting in front of us leaves and returns with a small bag that she hands to us. I open it to find a puck that says St. Louis Blues. "I wanted you to have something to remember this trip by," she says. Later at the middle of the third period the score is 3-3, and we have come to know everyone around us. The man behind us comes up the stairs with his sixth or seventh beer; he sits down and soon cracks up at his friend's joke. I feel a cool liquid dripping down my back, everyone gasps, and he says over and over again that it was not on purpose. The liquid is beer. My dad immediately perks up, "You bum! What are you doing pouring beer on my daughter? You don't ever do that again! I'm very tempted to call security on you!" He actually stood up for me. At the end of the game it's still 3-3. The tense overtime begins. Everyone's hearts are racing, pounding, beating, and throbbing inside their chests. This is it. One goal and the game's over. Seconds go by, then minutes; each team has equally good chances but no pucks go in. A tense and long five minutes go past when the red light finally
Fiction
Rebecca loved that dog. If anything happened to it, I think she'd probably convince her mother to sue the vet. She'd say they didn't give her dog enough care or that they messed up the last time she took her dog for a checkup. I'm sorry to say that I hated my cousin Rebecca's dog. I never told her this, but it's true. From the moment I walked in the door the first time Aunt Jess, Rebecca's mom, asked me to babysit Rebecca, that dog and I have hated each other. I hated the way it stared at you with a kind of smirk on its face. I hated the way Rebecca let its hair grow in front of its eyes, so that you could never tell if it was looking at you or not. The dog's name was Lawyer, named after the job Rebecca's father used to have before he and her mother got divorced. Aunt Jess complained that he was never home enough, but Rebecca and I didn't blame her. As he became more successful, though, we began to see less and less of him. He was always rushing from one case to another, one court to the next. After Rebecca's parents got divorced, her father went away to college to get a degree in Library Science, and became a librarian at a library in New York. He didn't want to stay in California because he didn't want to have to face Rebecca or her mom, or worse, the dog. It would remind him of his past job and past family, and Rebecca's father just wasn't strong enough to face his own problems. Rebecca asked me to come with her to walk Lawyer one day, and I accepted, not wanting to hurt her feelings. I could tell that Lawyer was uncomfortable with me around from the second he saw me. He growled and kept casting glances at me over his shoulder. Somehow Rebecca didn't notice. "I have news about my dad! He's coming back!" said Rebecca, excitedly, the moment we started out down her driveway. Her blue eyes glittered in the sun as the wind ruffled through her chestnut-brown hair, which she inherited from her father. Her blue windbreaker really brought out the blue in her eyes. "Really? When did he and your mother decide on this?" I asked, surprised. "Well, I kind of figured it out myself. He sent me a letter for my birthday and at the bottom he said he missed me! Isn't that great? And so now he's coming back for me and Lawyer, and my mom is gonna love him again! Isn't that great, Alice?" I cringed. "Did he specifically say that he was coming back?" I asked her. "Oh, Alice, you don't understand anything!" she said, laughing. "He's not supposed to say that he's coming back. It's supposed to be a surprise!" "I see," I said painfully. "And where is he going to stay? I didn't know your mother forgave him." "She didn't have to. He got another job, Alice. He stopped being a lawyer a long time ago. He's a library guy now," said Rebecca, eyes twinkling. "Rebecca, what if he doesn't come back? What if he just misses you but doesn't want to face you or your mom?" Or your dog, I thought to myself. Rebecca's expression changed to a serious one. "Alice, you're not being funny anymore. Stop teasing, because Lawyer and I don't want to hear it," she said to me, with a warning tone in her voice. "I'm not teasing! But honestly, just because he misses you doesn't mean he will come back. It's only natural for him to miss a daughter like you, but he may not come back. Do you understand what I'm saying, Becca?" I said to her. "No, I don't. He's my dad, and he's coming back because he loves me. You're the one who doesn't understand!" she shouted. With that, she tugged on Lawyer's leash, turned around, and sprinted home with the dog at her heels. She tripped over her untied shoelaces, but luckily she didn't fall. Slowly I began walking to my house, which was only two blocks away. When I got home, I called my mom at work and asked her what we needed from the grocery store. She got pretty annoyed at me for bothering her, because as soon as I called I realized that the list was right next to the phone. I grabbed the list and left. As I was walking to the store, I stopped by Rebecca's house. If there's one good thing about living in a small town, it's that everything is real close to everything else. Aunt Jess told me that Rebecca was not in the mood for visitors, so I just followed her into the kitchen. "Do you know what's up with Becca, hon?" she asked me. She turned on the tap for the sink and started scrubbing away at a pan. I sat down at the table and traced my finger over the hand-stitched tablecloth. It's about two hundred years old, passed down to the oldest daughter in each generation since my great-great-great-grandparents came to America from Ireland. "Well, she thinks Uncle George is coming back," I said. Aunt Jess's hand slammed down on the counter at the mention of his name. "What?" she whispered. She spun around and faced me. "See, Uncle George sent Rebecca a birthday card and said that he missed her, and now she thinks that he's coming back for her," I said, not daring to look at Aunt Jess in the eyes. She turned off the water and sunk into a chair, holding her forehead in her hands. I think I saw a tear roll down her face, but I wasn't sure. "She doesn't deserve this," Aunt Jess said softly. "Rebecca deserves two parents in the same house, not one. I wish he'd come back and face his own problems. He could have just changed his
Fiction
The light glinted playfully across my face, awakening me from my slumber. I reluctantly got up from my warm, furry haven curled up beside my mother with all of my siblings around me. I stretched luxuriously, and winced as I remembered yet again how hard the floor of that cave was. Cautiously, I tried to crawl over Hashim, who had odd brown stripes across his forehead, and Malishkim, with the white paws, without waking either of them up. I warily crept up the natural stone stairs that circled their way around the inside of the cavern and peered into the shallow freshwater lake in the room at its zenith. The reflection that looked back up at me didn't look anything like the faces of my family. My face was tanned from the sun, but it was still starkly naked and pink. Everyone else in my pride had rich, deep golden fur over their entire bodies, and the papuas, or fathers, in our pride even had a long brown fringe of fur around their faces. My hind legs were much, much longer than theirs, and I had peculiar miniature extensions with tough plates at the ends of them coming out of my paws. I splashed awkwardly into the water, transforming my reflection into a plethora of tiny ripples. I liked it that way. I couldn't see that I was different. I began to wash. It wasn't always like this. My moshi (mother) found me under a bush in a mirage when I was very young, crying louder than she had ever heard her own young yell. I was a hideous, Crimson, wrinkled tiny thing covered with a strange-colored fur that wasn't plush at all. But Moshi felt an unusual sense of compassion for me, and she had finished her hunting for that day already anyway, so she gently placed me on her back and took me to her pride. When all of the papuas in our pride came home, not everyone thought that I should be welcome. However, my moshi and papua insisted, so they brought me along with them from shelter to shelter. The others had to listen to them because they were the leaders of our pride. "Lalashim? Are you up there?" My moshi's melodious voice awakened me from my daydream. I quickly licked my paws and ran them through the long, red fur that only grew on top of my head. I stretched and finally ran silently down the steps. All of the moshis in our pride were looking up at me expectantly from the foot of the stairwell. The sun was showing its full, round, orange face, a small hoofka above the horizon, so it was time to go hunting. The papuas and cubs were still sleeping, as they would until they saw it fit to rouse themselves. We all slunk out of the cave into the bright, warm morning. I loved waking up early to go hunting with the females. Everyone walked along in a comfortable silence until we caught the scent of an antelope, Zebra, or other hefty animal. The giraffes we left alone, though. There was an old legend saying that if anyone tried to sink their teeth into their supple flesh, they would move their powerful legs and kick us to join our ancestors in the heavens. Then, we would creep up as close as possible to the animal, and when we were sure that we were at the most advantageous spot, we would run simultaneously up to prey and trap it until one of us could clamp our jaws on their neck, the fatal spot. There would be a small struggle, but eventually the animal would succumb to death and hang limply in our mouths. Finally, we would eat until we were full to bursting and bring what was left home. This was where my job would come up. Two summers ago, I discovered that the sticklike objects protruding from my paws could curl around a kill and make carrying the meat much simpler. Since my legs couldn't move swiftly enough to trap our meal, my teeth weren't sharp enough to cut its throat, and my nose was too feeble to smell the animal, I insisted to the other hunters that my task would be to carry the kill back home. That day, we were all chattering cheerfully on the way back. It had been a good hunt; we had brought home three zebras and two antelope. Suddenly, my moshi stopped in her tracks, her muzzle raised high and twitching. "Humans! Upwind from here!" she exclaimed. We all swiftly turned our heads upwind. As one, we skulked from bush to bush, out of sight of the humans, until we could see them. It was rare that people ever came here to the savannah because the climate was so harsh. Being that we were all very curious creatures, when they did come, we always went, unnoticed, to check them out. We never attacked them unless we were particularly desperate for food or they were disrespecting our space. As we all crouched under a patch of dry grass, we inspected them painstakingly. These particular ones looked very strange. Most of the humans who came here were very dark. Moshi says that they are the native humans of this land. But these, these humans had oddly pink skin, so light they were almost white! There were two of them; one of them had long, red-gold hair and sparkling blue eyes, and the other had short, deep brown hair and greenish eyes that looked rather like the deepest part of the hidden pool in our cave. And yet . . . they looked vaguely familiar, like a memory from a dream. One of our youngest moshis, Ganua, blurted out precisely why I remembered them. "Why, they look like you, Lalashim! Especially the one with the orange hair!" I was a little baby, screaming and flailing my fists around, when these two people and a substantial
Poem
I stand on the ocean shore, watching the waves go by. The sun is going down but I don't leave. I will stay out on the ocean shore. Seagulls fly overhead, they land down on the beach. Their far-off cries bid the day good-night. Out in the sunset I see dolphins leaping through the waves. Their turning, jumping transforms the setting sun into the start of a new day. They call out to me and I long to join them in the freedom that is the sea. Sunset is a dark, purple haze, recalling everything that is beautiful. I grab a boogie-board and float along with the water. A giant wave comes over me and I tumble head over heels underwater. In the sea I am a new creature. When I return to the surface I laugh out loud. I look up and see the first stars. The sky is becoming black. It is time for me to be going. Tomorrow I'll come back and watch from the ocean shore.
Poem
(for Cameron) Looking down at the Little wrinkled face and The mop of black hair in my arms, I felt excited, holding a baby For the first time. Peeking through tired eyes, he tried To behold the newness of life, But was too sleepy from the Hard work of being born. Seeing his small hands and The little scratch on his face I smiled down at him, And he smiled back in his sleep. I wanted to tell him about What he was in for, All of the adventures and Surprises of the world. He was two days old, Squirming in my arms, And I thought about new life And how it moves from one boy to another.
Book Reviews
Elegy on the Death of Cesar Chavez
Elegy on the Death of César Chavez by Rudolfo Anaya; Cinco Puntos Press: El Paso, Texas, 2000; $16.95 I remember that my mother cried on the day César Chavez died. I was four years old but I remember that my whole family was sad. When I read Elegy on the Death of César Chavez last month, I understood why my mother cried. The book is a poem expressing the grieving of people when César Chavez died. It is twenty-six pages with collage illustrations by Gaspar Enriquez. The collages mix black and white and color pictures that make the reader remember the faces of the campesinos (farmworkers) and César Chavez. It's short but it's like a sad song that gets stuck in your head. I am a sixth-grader at DePortola Middle School. I had to write a biography so I read about the life of César Chavez and did a biographical report on him. I read books on him, but those books were only about facts and chronologies. My history book just had a paragraph about him in it. I learned about the important things he did for farmworkers, but this book, Elegy on the Death of César Chavez, helped me understand how people felt about him—that "he lives in the hearts of those who loved him." I learned about the labor leader from my grandparents and my mother. My family worked in the fields and that is why he was important to my family. My grandfather showed me the short hoe he used to use when he worked in the fields. César Chavez made it against the law for workers to use the short hoes because it hurt their backs. The author described how César Chavez was the "guide across the fields of toil" and it made me remember how tired my grandfather looked when he came back from the fields because it was very hard work. In this book the author weaves some Spanish words into the poem like el lucero (bright star) and "across the land we heard las camparias doblando" (the bells tolling). It makes the poem stronger for people like me who are bilingual. It would have been good if the author had included the definitions for the Spanish words for readers who only understand English in the back of the book, like explaining that huelga means strike and the word campesino means farmworker. Younger readers will have to look up some of the English vocabulary in this book, but you can understand the words by the way they are used. After reading this book about Chavez I felt how people felt about him and how they felt about the world around them. Even if someone never heard of him before, this elegy would make him sad and feel that César Chavez was a hero.
Book Reviews
Tides by V. M. Caldwell; Milkweed Editions: Minneapolis, 2001; $16.95 People of all ages will love V. M. Caldwell's Tides, a touching, well-written story. The author includes characters of different ages and personalities, making it enjoyable for a vast expanse of readers. Children who have lost a parent or are experiencing a difficult childhood will especially like the book because it gives hope that things can work out. Tides is about an orphan, Elizabeth, who has recently been adopted by the Sheridan family. Every year the Sheridans go to the ocean to visit their grandmother and cousins. Elizabeth has always wanted to see the ocean, and she looks forward to the trip all year. But when she arrives, she discovers that she is terrified of the water. At the same time, the oldest Sheridan cousin, Adam, is angry and disturbed. Earlier in the year his two best friends were killed while driving home, drunk, from a party. He has never really recovered from the shock of the tragic accident. He treats his grandmother and parents disrespectfully and is cruel to his siblings. The Sheridans' struggles with these two central problems result in their growth as a family. I have had an experience very similar to Elizabeth's: ever since I was little, I wanted to learn to swim. Most of my friends could swim, and I envied them very much. I always imagined myself diving into crystal-clear, cool water, swimming with dolphins, and finding mermaid cities. But when I finally went to Lake Michigan, I hated it. The water was freezing and I got cramps. The pebbles hurt my feet, and I couldn't stand the smell of fish. When I felt seaweed swirl around my leg, I thought it was a fish, coming to eat me. I was so scared that I ran all the way back to the beach and wouldn't go back into the water for a long time. Most terrifying of all were the waves. I was afraid they would knock me over and that I wouldn't be able to get back up again. Elizabeth, too, was frightened of the waves, and the seaweed-fish smells made her nauseous. Throughout the entire story, the author helps you relate to all the characters by revealing their feelings and emotions. She writes wonderful dialogue that gives no doubt as to what they are feeling. For example, when Adam comes home because he has learned that his cousin was injured, his sister Molly is openly hostile to him. The description of Molly's face and tone as well as the dialogue make it obvious that Molly thinks Adam deserted the family and doesn't deserve to be called a Sheridan any longer. One thing I especially liked about Tides was that the situations in the story were very believable. Often the events in a story are possible, but not probable. In Tides, the characters handle their problems in ways that people might handle their problems in reality. For example, Adam decides to "solve" his problems with the family by leaving home. This is something that happens to many disturbed teens. Adam gets a job close by home for a while but in the fall decides to sign up for conservation work in a national park, instead of going to college as he had originally planned. Despite all the conflicts the author weaves into her plot, everyone's problems are resolved in a heart-warming, believable way. My favorite message from Tides is that a truly loving family can never be separated. The Sheridans live through many heart-wrenching situations that few families would live through without being permanently damaged. My own family has lived through an extremely difficult situation, but we are still here. Now that everything is over, I can see how we were there for each other the entire time, giving hope and support—just like the Sheridans.
