Fiction
Maddy leaps from stone to stone, clutching a limp tiger in her left hand, and laughs. She is so happy with her first Beanie Baby. She doesn't think of Stripes as a stuffed animal, but as a wild tiger, her best friend. She swings Stripes around and around, and he is a blur of gold and black to everyone but her. She sees his beady gold eyes staring right into her hazel ones. She giggles again, and the sea roars its laughter back at her. The trees are swishing, and everything around her seems jovial. She climbs a particularly large boulder and stands up to feel the salty air whip her hair back and wrap a blanket of cold around her. It feels good and refreshing. Stripes purrs his approval, too. They skip and play for a while longer until Mum calls for them to follow her up the path leading to home. * * * Wind whistles in my ears as I'm swung around and around. I'm enjoying it but am scared. The memory of a swinging accident left a black-and-blue mark on my right eye. Trees tower up above my fuzzy figure. My golden eyes fill with awe at the single leaf that truly dwarfs me to an even smaller size. I am often ashamed at being a tiger, at the size I am. My mouth is sewn together and for that I am often regretful. I can't speak or roar. I have to show my affections. All of a sudden Maddy whirls around, sending wind whistling in my ears, and begins to wail to her parents about something she forgot at the ocean. We are not far up the trail so her parents agree. Maddy runs back down the trail so fast that my eyes would have watered if they were not beads. We finally get back to the sea's sloshing waves, and Maddy retrieves a doll that is almost as dear to her as me. She puts me down and hugs her doll close to her chest. I smile and prepare to be picked up. I wait for long moments looking at the ground. I eventually look up to see nothing but the sea and its rolling waves and rocks that were mountains to me. No Maddy. No Maddy's parents. No doll. I sit there thinking this over and over again. A seagull flaps its wings on a nearby rock, bringing me back to my senses. I try to look around but realize I'm a stuffed animal. I need a child and its love to move. As far as I could tell Maddy was gone and I was lost. So it's just you and me, I think bitterly, angry at the seagull for no particular reason. He pecks at me and flips me into a patch of sunlight. My eyes reflect in the sun and flash brightly. This frightens the seagull away, but he keeps a watchful lookout on me, eyes flashing as much as mine do, though he is not in the sun. I keep my eye on him until he cries his mournful screech and takes flight. I am lost and I have made a disgusting scavenger for an enemy. So I do the only thing I can do. I sit and think. * * * Maddy sobs and sobs. The couch is not comforting to her anymore. Where is her little tiger? "It's OK, Maddy" her mother says soothingly, "we will go back to the ocean tomorrow." Maddy sniffs and tries to think about seeing Stripes the next bright summer day. She gets up and paces. What if the tide washes him away? Even if it brings him back, he surely will not be in the same place. "Oh, Stripes," she whispers, "please come back!" * * * The tide is now even closer. What am I to do? Maddy! Why did you have to leave me? Come back! Come back! I think furiously. Slish! Slosh! The water tickles around my belly and ankles. Why can't I move? Maddy, come back! The water now is sloshing around my ears, the rest of my body completely consumed. I don't need to breathe but I am not used to being in water. I struggle, or try to, but I'm still a stuffed animal and cannot move of my own free will. Slish! Slosh! Now no part of my body is above the waves. Come back, Maddy! The night swallows dusk and I am alone in the ocean. I see the glow of the full moon cast a light over the rocky beach when the waves bring me up. The tide has brought me out to the sea. I then slowly fade into unconsciousness, if a stuffed animal can. When I awaken, the waves are still lapping the shore in an even rhythm. That is when I realize that one of those lapping waves had washed me ashore! I recognize the big boulder that Maddy had stood upon, holding me gently and firmly. Come back, Maddy, because now I am back! * * * "Today is the day, Mom! We are going to get my tiger and bring him home!" Maddy says confidently, though she knows they will not find him from just knowledge and from the weak smile on her mother's face. Yet they hike down the road to the trail and walk (Maddy runs) down to the ocean. Halfway down she stops for a breath and looks up at her mom and dad. They are talking quickly to each other. She turns back around and runs so fast that the trees going by on either side of her are a blur of green and brown. The ground beneath her feet all of a sudden goes from padded soil to rocks and boulders. Trees break away to reveal the vast sea, shining in the sun, that stretches out forever in one part, and in another, laps on the faraway shore of another place. Maddy
Fiction
She stood on the dock, squinting into the early morning sun. The wooden planks creaked softly as she ran over it. A dog trotted behind her, a small scruffy brown dog. They stopped near the end of the dock, leaped off the edge and into a small boat. "The ferry's not here yet," she said to the dog, who didn't respond, merely scrambled onto one of the seats and put his paws on the edge of the boat for a better view. She started the motor. Slowly, the boat crept away from the silent harbor and out to sea. The dog uttered a soft growl, and then was quiet. The girl looked over her shoulder at the island. It was small, the island, made up of small cottages for the year-round villagers (population 200) and the summer homes that tourists built. Since it was six miles out from the Massachusetts shore, the only way to go anywhere from the island was by ferry; and so the houses were built in a cluster around the harbor. But beyond that, there were several miles of beach, where the island children had explored and wandered for their whole lives. There were sandy dunes, driftwood with which to build forts. And of course, there was the sea. Island life revolved around the sea. The sea, and tourists, but mostly the sea. The girl loved the sea. She loved to swim and splash in the waves, to glide through it in her boat. She loved sea glass and sea shells, and everything about the sea. When she was angry, the water was fierce, and when she was happy the waves were gentle. Sometimes, she thought that she and the ocean were one. The island was called Evening Star Isle, and the girl was Eve. Tourists had given her that name. Her real name was Margaret. Margaret Ann. She hated that name. She liked to be called Eve. Eve, which was the name of the Isle. She was the island. That's what people were always telling her and she knew it was true. She had dark brown hair with streaks in it. Red, gold, and white-blond, all jumbled together, and her eyes were dark brown, almost black. When people looked at her, they saw the island. Tourists snapped her picture while she was sitting on the beach, and once an art student had drawn her. They were far out now. She cut the motor. Eve let the boat drift aimlessly, let herself be carried with the gentle current, savoring these last moments. In the distance, the ferry emerged from the fog. Eve looked up. When she saw the ferry, she swayed slightly in the boat, clutching the side. "Time to go back," she whispered. "Time for me to leave, Tro." The dog whimpered softly. "It's OK for you," Eve told him. "They're not kicking you out, you know, so be grateful for that." Reluctantly, she started the motor and headed back to shore. Her father was waiting for her on the dock, having just arrived back in his fishing boat. He helped her out of the boat, and Tro hopped after her. Silently, they unloaded buckets of fish and carried them to Charlie's shed, where they would be sorted and sent to the mainland. They trudged back to the cottage. "You understand, don't you?" asked her father quietly. She wanted to say no. She wanted to yell and scream and tell them that she wasn't going, would never go, because she was the island and the island was her, and she wasn't leaving, not ever. They couldn't make her. She refused. But she couldn't say that, and so she simply nodded. The cottage was a ways back from the little village, closer to the sprawling dunes and the wide, open sea. Father and daughter walked silently, entered the house without a word. Inside, Eve's grandmother (who had been living with them since Gramps had died) was making breakfast, potatoes and eggs. Eve's sister, Angela, was perched on the edge of her chair, her golden hair rippling over her shoulders and down her back. At ten, she was three years younger than Eve, and the princess of the family. Their mother was sitting listlessly, staring out the window. Eve went to kiss her cheek, but she didn't respond. "Margaret! Come help with the eggs." Eve went over and stirred the eggs around in the pan while Granny fussed over Angela. "Sweetheart, you understand, it's only for a little while, till your ma gets back on her feet. Only a month, Angie-pie. You won't be away from your island more than a month." Angela said, "It's Eve's island." Eve smiled to herself. "Who?" asked Granny. "Whose island? Daniel, what in heaven's name is the child saying?" He cleared his throat. "She means Margaret." Granny glared at Eve. "Don't be putting fool notions into this child's head. Eve's island, it ain't no one's island but for those who love it." "Eve loves the island," said Angela. "Not more'n you do, and you being more deservin', Angel," Granny cooed. "I do declare, Daniel, that child is the most spoiled thing I ever saw. Callin' the island hers, influencing her sister. And with the baby . . ." At that, everyone froze, save for Mama, who tilted her head and continued to look out the window mutely. Eve dropped the spatula, and a cold ice wrapped around her heart. Baby . . . Her father turned to his mother with a hard face. "Mother, that's enough." "Don't you turn this on me. It's her fault, 'twasn't mine." "I said enough!" Dad shouted. Granny smiled triumphantly, knowing she had hit a nerve. The ferry docked. Eve could see it out the window. She ate quickly. "Don't shove food into your mouth," Granny snapped. "Eat like a lady. Watch Angela." Angela smiled her foolish smile at her grandmother. "What an angel." * * * Eve boarded the ferry, clutching Angela's hand tightly
Fiction
"Grace!!! Wake up!" I awoke that morning to the sound of my mother's prickly voice in my ear. I grunted and put the pillow over my head. "Grace!" "All right!" I cried, "I'm up!!!" My mother tutted and looked me in the eye. "I wish you wouldn't sleep so late, there's chores to be done." She sat down on my creaky old bed and took hold of my shoulders. "Listen to me," she said. I sat up and wriggled free of her grasp. "I'm listening," I said with a sigh. I knew what was coming. My list of chores. She did this to me every morning. It was the year 185o, and I was sixteen years old, with light skin and sandy blond hair, that was often falling into my hazel eyes. "Your list of chores for the day is . . ." I interrupted her. "Mother," I said wearily, "don't you think there is more to life than sewing or cooking or washing? Something adventurous and thrilling? Something . . . wild?" My sister Katrina laughed at this statement and started getting dressed. My mother looked at me very solemnly. "Grace, darling, will you ever understand? Women are made for one purpose: to clean, get married and have babies." I decided that this was not the right time to point out to her that those were three purposes. "Now, here are your chores." * * * I spent the rest of the morning sweeping the floor of our little hut. It had only two bedrooms; one was for my father, mother and Jack to share. Jack was only ten weeks old, with black hair, like my father, and gray eyes, like Katrina. Katrina, my eighteen-year-old sister, was very fond of her glossy black hair that reached halfway between her waist and her knees. She was a very gorgeous woman, and had many marriage proposals, but hadn't accepted one yet. She and I were complete opposites, not only in appearance (I looked exactly like my mother, and she looked quite the same as my father), but also in spirit. I was adventurous and I never wanted to marry while she enjoyed the housework and believed the same theory as my mother; we're only here to get married and have babies. In fact, the only thing that kept me from running from that house was my father. My father was bright, witty, and like me, he was adventurous. I just cherished him. He was always trying to reason with my mother, trying to get her to let me come pick flowers in the fields while he worked, or take walks alone, and all of the things that ladies weren't expected to do. But aside from my father, I had only one thing to keep me sane: my poetry. Whenever I had the chance, I would run off to the old tree with the hollow trunk and take my poetry book out of a hole in the tree, where I also kept a notebook, ink and pen given to me by my father. He was the only one who knew my passion for poetry, because I dared not tell the others. They would just laugh at me, the way they always do when I talk of unusual things. Then I would sit under the shade of the tree and write. Many times I would climb up in the outstretching arms of the tree, and sit and write of the sun, or clouds or night. Sometimes it rhymed, and sometimes it was just the way I feel. And others, I wouldn't write it at all, just think about it, and eventually, I'd fall asleep. "Gracie, Mother says you have to come help make lunch." Katrina's voice pierced my thoughts. I desperately searched for an excuse. "I'm still sweeping," I lied, forcing a smile, "The floors have to be extra . . ." But Katrina wouldn't have any of it. "Nice try, but it isn't fooling me." I hung my head and sighed. "What must I do?" I asked. Katrina thrust a straw basket into my arms and said, "Just go pick enough apples to make a pie." I looked up, surprised. Katrina noticed my shock and, exasperated, exclaimed, "For dinner!!!" A smirk grew across my face. "For dessert!" I said. And then I was out the door in a flash, running toward the apple tree, with the straw basket in hand. It was a beautiful sunny day outside, and I wanted to just stretch out on the grass and gaze at the clouds. But first I had to pick the apples. I climbed up in the tree and grabbed the reddest apples I could find. In the end I had about ten apples. I knew that that would be probably over enough, so I picked the smallest apple out of the bunch and ate it. It was delicious! I didn't want to go home to do more chores on that gorgeous day. I just wanted to sit out in the sun. I'm sure they won't miss me, I reasoned to myself, I think I will write my poetry. So, with that thought in mind, I sauntered over to the big old tree and took out my notebook, pen and ink. I gripped my pen and notebook with my mouth, and held the ink tightly in my left hand. Then I began to climb. Today, I thought, there must be a very clear sky, so the view must be best from the highest branch. And so I climbed to the highest branch of the tree, and sat facing the hills, leaning my back against the tree trunk. It was actually quite comfortable. And so, I began to write. I was absorbed in my poetry when I heard a voice calling up to me. "Hello up there!!!" called the voice. I swiveled around to see whom the voice belonged to. It was a tall man, with brown hair and eyes to match. I smiled
Fiction
Thirteen and Still Feeling Lucky
I leaned back in the cushioned seat of the gondola. I looked over at my close friend and mountain bike riding partner Daniel Vest. Dirt smudges ran across his face, and his clothes had a tint of brown on them. Both of our shirts were drenched with sweat. I drummed my fingers on the seat. Outside, the wind howled at us as the gondola took us to the top of Mammoth Mountain. Daniel and I had been riding cross-country trails all day to train for our next race, and to finish the day off, we were going to ride the world-famous downhill course Kamikaze. It drops from a summit of 11,o53 feet to 8,9oo feet in about seven minutes, riding at a medium pace. Daniel rode a Specialized Hard Rock, a 24-speed hardtail and an all-out cross-country bike. I had a Schwinn Rocket 88, a 27-speed full-suspension bike. It was also a cross-country bike. At the time, we were both saving up for downhill bikes so that we could each have one bike for downhill and free riding and one bike for cross-country; however, we couldn't wait until we had the right equipment. The Kamikaze's draw was too powerful. I looked out the window. Trees stretched out for miles and miles, and they could be seen all the way to the White Mountains. The gondola rumbled and shook as we entered the station at the peak of Mammoth's height. The doors opened with a sound like the release of a cap on a soda bottle. Daniel and I grabbed our glasses, stepped out of the gondola, and wheeled our bikes out of the station and down the stairs. A cold wind blew through the air and moaned in my ears. A dust devil swirled through the air, causing all of the tourists who were taking the scenic gondola ride to gape and point. I looked over the barbed-wire fence which separated the level ground from a section of Kamikaze. The wide course was windswept, and rocks littered it. Daniel and I clipped into our pedals and rode toward the start. A wooden sign read "Kamikaze," and right next to the name of the course there was a black diamond. My stomach knotted up. Should we be doing this? It was a pro downhill course, and we were only thirteen. No, I said to myself, I can't chicken out now. I've just got to do this. We turned and began our descent. One minute later, we were speeding down the course side by side. Unlike the sheltered cross-country courses, trees were nowhere to be found except in the distance since the course was above the tree line. There were, however, plenty of rocks. My shocks rocketed up and down. My fingers were sore because of their position on the brakes. I had to be ready for anything. My knees moved in harmony with my shocks. The wind blew into our faces and moaned in our ears, but neither of us was daunted. I saw a bump throw the back of Daniel's bike into the air. His back tire came down crooked, but he shifted his weight and corrected it just in time. He then began a right turn which took us into another straight downhill section. I shifted my weight toward the back tire so that I didn't lean forward too much. We leaned into another right turn. Pink flags fluttered in the wind to our left. I sighed in relief. This was the last part of the course. We were finally done. I pushed my pedals as I tried to catch up to Daniel, my bike wobbling from the sheer speed of it all. "Whoa!" Daniel shouted. He leaned into a hard left turn and was then out of sight. Right ahead of me lay a series of sandy ditches. That was why Daniel had turned so suddenly I, however, couldn't turn. If I turned right, I would just hit more sand. If I turned left, I would hit the metal pole that supported the pink flags. I stared ahead, frozen. A bump knocked my hand off its resting position on the back brake. I braced myself for the impact. I would have to do whatever I could to avoid injury. My front tire dug into the sand, and my bike immediately stopped. I, however, kept moving. My stomach lurched as my body threw itself over the handlebars. There was a snap as my clip-in shoes tore out of the pedals. My arms flailed as I flew through the air. My legs jutted upward. I was in the same position a swimmer is in as he dives into the water, but my hands weren't in front of my head. My head slammed into the ground. Bright lights erupted in my eyes. I kept rolling and rolling until the sand finally stopped me. I heard Daniel shout something, I couldn't tell what, as he dropped his bike and sprinted toward me. My head burned, and it felt as if it were swelling inside my helmet. I unbuckled my helmet and threw it to the ground. "Are you OK?" Daniel asked. "Yeah, I'm fine," I replied. I put my hand in my hair. Rocks littered it, and dirt was smeared all over my shirt. I sat there for about a minute. Finally, after he asked if I was OK again, Daniel suggested that we get to the bottom. I nodded. * * * We sat on a bench outside of the main lodge. I looked around at all of the tourists who climbed the climbing wall and rented mountain bikes. I rubbed my head. That had been a pretty hard fall. My head still hurt, but it should since the fall was only about—how long ago was it? I thought about it. Why couldn't I remember? I had fallen on . . . "Oh, no," I said. "What?" Daniel turned to me. "I . . . I don't remember where I
Fiction
I was lying in my bunk, listening to the waves rocking the sides of the Yorktown when I heard the sound. It wasn't much, just a slight splash in the water, but when you have been living on an aircraft carrier for six months in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, you know the sound of a Catalina when you hear one. I heard the heavy seaplanes moving toward the Yorktown, and saw a light suddenly flicker on in the captain's cabin. Must be important, I said to myself Captain Fletcher doesn't wake up at 5:45 in the morning for anything like this usually. I heard a slight murmur of voices on the above deck, but I couldn't make out the words. Then, without a warning, a siren went off, then another, and then another. I leapt out of bed, and started for the narrow stairs that I knew would soon become a mass of bodies, pushing and shoving their way up, before long. Unfortunately, the stairs were already clogged when I reached them. Why did they have to put the pilots' cabins at the far end of the ship, I wondered. Oh well, now I had an excuse to wait for Mike. Mike was my best friend aboard the Yorktown. I hadn't known him until I had been drafted into the army to fight in World War II, but when we met, we became inseparable. He had come from Russia to the U.S. in World War I, and had adjusted to the American culture very well. I was happy to have someone that flexible to watch out for me, just as I watched out for him. He was very smart, and could literally take apart his plane and put it back together. He knew exactly what every thing did and was one of the best pilots on the ship. The only thing that made him different from the rest of us was his attitude toward the war we were fighting. Unlike me and the other pilots, Mike was the only one who didn't think that it was exciting and even fun to fight for his country He just didn't like war. I, on the other hand, thought it was very exciting to be taking part in this war. For the first time, I felt that I was doing something important. Even before I had been drafted, I had dreamed of flying a bomber, destroying enemy areas, and shooting down enemy planes. From the beginning, I looked forward to the day that I would fly up on a mission. Little did I know that that day would be a day I would remember and hate forever. When I saw Mike, I motioned for him to come over, and we walked up the narrow, steel stairs together to the pilot ready room. When we finally managed to push ourselves up the stairway and across the slippery deck, the small room was already crowded with pilots. When we squeezed ourselves in, we knew something was going to happen that day. Captain Frank Fletcher was standing in front of us, pacing back and forth and looking very anxious. Then suddenly, he stopped. "Boys," he said in his serious barking voice, "today is a day that will make history. Japanese carriers have been sighted and we're sending every man out to bomb them. If we can wipe them out, maybe this war will turn around." The men in the room grew quiet for a few moments, and then cheers and some talking broke out. Many of us had never even seen a Zero (Japan's preferred fighter) let alone an enemy aircraft carrier. This was big even by the older pilot's standards. Sure, they had shot down a few planes in their careers, but bombing a carrier? That was something only people like Jake had ever done. Jake was my rear gunner. He had been on the Yorktown before almost everyone, and he had seen it all. He had shot down Zeros, participated in bombings, and had paid the consequences. His right cheek was black and heavily scarred. In one mission, his plane had caught a hail of machine-gun fire and many had grazed his cheek. His pilot was killed, but he inflated the life raft, and was picked up by a search-and-rescue team. After that, he had become one of the most respected members of the ship. Younger men eagerly listened to his tales of battle, but surprisingly, he was never eager to begin another battle. All that had ended after his pilot had been killed. It had really changed Jake, and after that, he was never quite the same about war. Sure, he told stories like everyone else, and stayed in the Navy though he could have left long ago, but he seemed to not care about the war anymore. Still, I was glad that he was my rear gunner. I felt invincible with such a good man sitting behind me, pumping his machine gun at enemy planes (though, as I said, I had yet to see a Zero). Captain Fletcher resumed speaking. He gave us details, such as wind speed, locations, temperatures, squadrons, and the rest of it. I followed very closely, but I noticed that Mike hadn't. His face had turned slightly whitish, and when I asked him what was wrong, he just said, "I don't think I'm going to like this at all." "Oh, come on, Mike," I said to him. "You'll be fine. Anyway, you're the best pilot on the ship, and everyone knows it." "Really?" he said, as if surprised. "Of course; now let's get to our planes, they need some work," I said, ending the conversation. We walked down to the hangars with the other pilots in silence. The anticipation hung in the air, and even the workers were giving us admiring looks. After all, weren't we the people who were going out to bomb the ships? Weren't we the people who would win this war
Fiction
"Remember when we were eating yellow popsicles in the park and there was a wind and the yellow melted popsicle blew on us?" "Yes," I responded, "your mum asked where we'd gotten mustard stains." We both broke down laughing, until I managed to gasp, "Remember when I took the shortcut behind the school and rode through the mud and my pants got all dotted with mud flecks?" "I remember," Chris chuckled, "and when we went home, I stalled your mum while you snuck upstairs to change." We both laughed again for a long while. Chris started again. "Remember when . . ." Ah, those were the days. It was always like this, on Saturday evenings in the purply-dim dusk, recalling things from the past. We were lying in our favorite spot, a tall hill in the park with a huge oak tree on top; it was great to just sprawl out in the shade on your stomach with the breeze tickling you; that was exactly what we were doing. I giggled as Chris recounted that memorable incident in the school cafeteria. Then I remember-whenned him about the time I was laughing so hard at the dinner table that pop came out of my nose. And that had to be the night when we had company. After the usual bout of giggling, I turned expectantly to Chris, waiting for a nice funny remember-when. He always told them instantly and they were always perfectly detailed and good. This time, however, he was silent, staring away into space with a wistful look. I was about to nudge him gently when he said, in a whisper, "Heather . . . do you remember when you and I became friends?" * * * Third grade. I was friendless, shy, not pretty or popular. I had no best pals, as other people did. I had already been branded as Heather the Loner. I was miserable. But lo and behold! As I was counting up an addition problem in my head before lunch, here came the most popular girl in my class, Kirsten . . . straight toward me. She had a load of friends, and they always seemed to avoid me. I didn't know why; but there she was, surrounded by her usual crowd of pals, clearly making for me! Her light gray eyes friendly, Kirsten reached my desk and grinned a hello at me. I smiled back, not believing my eyes. "Hi, Heather," Kirsten said, "Wanna play this recess?" I was flabbergasted. "Uh . . . I guess . . . I mean . . . sure!" Kirsten smiled and started to go back to her seat. "See you then," she called over her shoulder. From then on, I played with her; but Kirsten and her friends made fun of me, played tricks on me, forced me to hold the rope all the time when they were skipping and made up new rules so I could get captured in Cops and Robbers. My life in school was more miserable than ever, until the new kid came. His name was Christopher, and he wasn't too tall, with white-blond hair and light, playful blue eyes. However, his eyes weren't too playful in our class; they were downcast and shy. He didn't have any friends either, and nobody seemed to want to play with him, even though he was a fast runner and pretty nice. I was among them. He was a stranger, after all; a new kid. Still, I felt sorry for him. I knew how he felt. But I didn't dare come forward and talk to him; I was very shy, and after all, there was Kirsten. For some reason, I was desperately loyal to her; I tried to please her and make her laugh and win her approval. And she'd been treating me like dirt through a mask of friendship. But I was terrified of being cast out; I would be the loner again, wandering aimlessly at recesses, friendless and alone. No, I wouldn't do that. At least with Kirsten I had somebody. One fateful day, everything changed. It was a pizza day; everybody had ordered pizza and we were in the middle of lunch, munching away, laughing and talking. Kirsten and her friends had pulled up their chairs to my desk; we were all having lunch at my group, and I was having an OK time. Christopher was in my group; he sat alone with his pizza, eating in silence. Nobody was bothering him, until Nick, coming in from the water fountain, zipped into the classroom past his desk. At the time I was reluctantly joining in on the discussion of clothes which I didn't really care about, but Kirsten had opposite feelings—when there was a yelp and a bang. "Hey! You, c'mere, I'll teach you!" I spun around in my seat. There was Christopher, glaring at Nick. His pizza was on the floor. Nick was howling across the room. "Hah, I'd like to see you try!" Kirsten chose this moment to laugh a cruel little laugh, pointing at Christopher; the class joined in instantly I didn't. I still had one pizza left. Instantly, like a subconscious reflex to this, I took my remaining pizza, summoned up all my courage, and slid it toward Christopher, ignoring the incredulous "What are you doing Heather?" from Kirsten. The pizza slid into place on Christopher's napkin, and he looked at me with wide eyes. "Thanks," he whispered. I met his eyes, and smiled. * * * Chris and I became instant friends; best friends, in fact. I shrugged off Kirsten, who had earlier branded Chris as "uncool," and the rest of her friends; and I played with Chris. I did everything with Chris. I ignored the jeers of kids when I played with him because I was a girl and he was a boy. I ignored the "sitting in a tree" verse they howled at Chris and me at recesses. I ignored it all. You could
Fiction
In the blue goat-hair tent, Shaimaa heard the music and laughter of the wedding, the shrill ululation of women's voices and heavy swirl of woolen skirts. She pulled the scratchy blanket that smelled of camels up over her nose to avoid inhaling the mouth-watering flavors of prickly pear cactus, sweet and juicy, of plump golden raisins and date wine, of lentil bread soaked in sticky wild honey. Night had fallen over the desert, but there was no peace. Mother stirred faintly in the corner. Through the musty dimness Shaimaa could see her, pale and thin as a wraith, the circle of scarlet paint on her forehead like a bleeding sun. Nestled against her in a mound of wool, baby Selwa whimpered, and Mother moaned in her sleep and pulled the browned bundle of skin and bones closer. Shaimaa knew how much the child had taken out of her: a sickeningly hard labor, then draining her of milk, which was in short supply as there had been sparse food for some weeks. They fed Selwa on camel's milk while Mother slept, slept so deeply that her breath was only a whisper. Marriage, thought Shaimaa disdainfully. Her father, seeing that Selwa was Mother's last child, had taken a second wife now. It was their wedding bells that chimed; the food was brought by his new wife's family. Tears sprang into Shaimaa's eyes, stinging them with salt. Softly, she murmured a passionate prayer to Allah: "Please, Allah, don't let Father stop loving Mother. Ever.” * * * "Shaimaa, this is Zainab." Father smiled as he placed his hand affectionately on the plump arm of the young woman, shrouded in gauzy violet and deep-blue woven cloth and dripping with gold jewelry, who smiled shyly at them. She was short and her face was a satin oval, moderately pretty, Shaimaa thought, but nothing special. Shaimaa clamped her lips together and glared darkly from the shadows of her veil, which revealed only her snapping eyes, gleaming wildly like black opals. Zainab's lips curved into a lilting smile. "I was very sorry to hear your mother is ill. I hope she's feeling better?" Biting her tongue, Shaimaa scowled beneath the folds of black cloth and smoothed her knotted blackbird hair haughtily. She left the question unanswered and strode away across the swirling hot sands, the dust stinging and blistering her bare heels, feeling the alarmed eyes of Zainab and father burning her back like glowing coals. She sank to her knees beside a creaking wooden loom. Mother's latest blanket, unfinished, was still a web of dyed woolen threads, twisted and interlaced with the strings of the loom. Shaimaa delicately slipped the shuttle through the strings, imagining her mother's soft gentle hands caressing the smooth yarn with the love she put into everything. Footsteps pounded the dry gritty sand and Zainab knelt gracefully beside her in a whirlwind of lushly-colored cotton. "Beautiful loom." "It's my mother's," muttered Shaimaa dryly. A choking sob rose in her throat, threatening to burst forth, but she swallowed it hard and touched the weaving. Zainab picked up a coarse donkey-hair brush that lay nearby. Before Shaimaa could stop her, she felt her hair tugged and twisted, the coarse bristles drawn through the thicket of tangled silk tresses. "I love your hair," Zainab murmured, lifting a lock that dangled in Shaimaa's eye and slipping it into her hand. "Stubborn hair, the prettiest kind. Has its own flame. I would never hurt that sort of hair, or any hair, for that matter. Aren't I brushing gently?" Her hands, on which were painted intricate swirled designs in the reddish henna dye, were light but firm, cool as date palms. Shaimaa jerked away, clasping her hair protectively. "Too gently. A mother should brush her daughter's hair. And my mother is asleep." Zainab was still a moment, stunned. Then she flipped her veil over her own face so that her mouth was hidden, but Shaimaa saw her eyes, deep and watery, misted with a loneliness that filled her like a gaping black maw. * * * Selwa was crying. Her shrieks echoed though the camp, drowning out the fitful bleating of goats and squawking of chickens. Amira, who was nursing her own chubby infant, darted a venomous glance at the tent where Selwa lay with Mother. "Allah above, will that child never cease to wail?" Her throat contracted as her baby, too, stopped suckling and began to cry. Silence struck more forcefully than a sandstorm. No one moved. Sheik Mansour, mending a camel's swollen leg, dropped a green ointment-jar in surprise and it rolled into the cooking fire and splintered into broken glass. Shaimaa tiptoed to the tent and lifted the soft flap of matted fur curiously. Mother was coughing. Beside her squatted Zainab, tenderly drizzling fresh goat milk into Selwa's tiny, feeble mouth. Selwa's lips puckered as she swallowed. Her flailing hand caught Zainab's necklace of lacy golden hand-motifs, curling around the strand of precious stones with a soft, cooing giggle. Shivering angrily, Shaimaa whirled and stormed up the slope to where Father was watering the sheep. Their woolly noses sent ripples over the opaque glassy surface as they drank. "Father, how can you? How dare you replace Mother with another woman?" The sob she had been dreading broke from her lips like a dry thunderclap, and it burned her like raw chilies rubbed against the skin. Father's mustache drooped. His snowy turban was unraveled and the melting sun struck his shining coffee-dark scalp, while light dancing blindingly on the blade of his naked scimitar made it almost impossible to look at him. "Shaimaa, listen . . .” "No, I will not!" She stared hard at the sheep's woolly back, allowed the angry words to flow forth in a flood she had, until now, held back. "Just because Mother is ill, you find another woman to try and make yourself happy. But it gives happiness to no one, not me, not Mother and Selwa, not Zainab.
Poems
Living in a world full Of selfishness and wealth, I feel the need to do something, Reach out to others. Two-year-old Diego Calls out to me, His picture spanning the miles From faraway Guatemala. Alone with just his mother And very little else, There must be some way to help, Save my money for his life. It isn't fair, Growing up with so much, Knowing others suffer in Their lives day after day, And not doing anything to share. I can make a difference, In Diego's poor community, Become his "big brother," Help him lead a healthy And successful life. Carrying his picture in my pocket, I can't wait for the moment When love wraps his body in blankets Or when I can finally hold his tiny hand In mine, knowing that I can be a part Of him forever.
Poems
mariachis playing joyful songs and niños laughing street vendors, pregoneros, shouting out hopes of selling their goods las mujeres, the women, chatting as they slap tortillas on the patio these are the sounds of my México, the sounds que yo quiero mucho, the sounds I love
Book Reviews
Phoenix Rising by Karen Hesse; Henry Holt & Company: New York, 1994; $16.95 Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do some people live and others die? Isn't it ironic how a loss can bring two strangers together, but then ultimately, keep them apart? These are some of the questions which Karen Hesse explores in Phoenix Rising a story of a friendship blossoming from one of the most devastating tragedies imaginable—an accident at a nuclear power plant. Nyle, a young teenage girl, has already lost her mother and grandfather when the accident happens at Cookshire power plant. She lives with her grandmother on their farm near the plant, and watches with horror and fear as the power accident spreads radioactive nuclear energy, destroying their flock and their crops. Nyle knows that people are dying as well, and wonders if she and her grandmother will be next. If you have never lost a loved one, you may not understand Nyle's anger when she hears that Miriam and Ezra Trent, two sick refugees from the accident, are coming to stay in the back bedroom—the same bedroom where both Nyle's mother and grandfather died. But I understood Nyle's feelings, for last year my uncle, who was only forty years old, died after a terrible illness. Nyle's anger is rooted in fear—fear of getting close to people only to lose them. She tries to build a wall, to protect herself from further hurt. As the story progresses, however, Nyle learns—and the reader learns with her—how to break down those walls. Nyle's grandmother convinces her that taking the refugees in is the right thing to do. Difficult as it is for her emotionally, Nyle tries to make the best of the situation, and begins to spend time with Ezra. At first she reads to him and wets his face with compresses, but then they start to really talk—to connect—and they develop a deep relationship that goes both ways. It is not just that Nyle learns to care for Ezra, all the while knowing that she might lose him; Ezra also cares for Nyle, and his caring for her transforms her. As their friendship progresses, Nyle is no longer the closed, guarded person we met at the beginning of the story Ezra has an uncanny way of making Nyle open up. Nyle feels that Ezra understands her, and she is able to confide her deepest thoughts in him. Through Ezra, Nyle begins to break down her walls, and rebuild herself as a person. What a lesson in friendship! Phoenix Rising is also, however, a lesson in strength of mind and spirit. Ezra, like my dear Uncle David, was so sick that he could hardly move, but he willed himself to keep going on. He found the strength to keep living and to help others live their lives at the same time. While it is true that Nyle gave Ezra strength and prolonged his life, it is more remarkable how Ezra actually brought Nyle back to life. My uncle, like Ezra, gave me strength even as he lay dying, and I sat by his side. No matter how weak he was, he never stopped trying to animate me with his humor. The story of Ezra and Nyle confirmed for me that friendship and love are a two-way street. And we can learn so much in life—about how to live life—from helping to give life to those who are suffering.
Book Reviews
A Strong Right Arm: The Story of Mamie “Peanut” Johnson
A Strong Right Arm: The Story of Mamie "Peanut" Johnson by Michelle Y. Green; Dial Books for Young Readers: New York, 2002; $15.99 I love baseball, and I have always had a special interest in African-American history. But that is only a part of the reason that I liked A Strong Right Arm. The book is about Mamie Johnson, an African-American girl who plays baseball in the days when the major leagues were segregated. At the beginning of the book, we hear how Mamie has grown up with baseball, how her "life has been wrapped up in that three-inch universe of twine and leather." I think that is a good beginning because it shows right from the start what the book is about and displays the attitude of the main character. This book takes us through the baseball life of Mamie, and there are many instances where she shows the heart and determination of a true winner. For example, when Mamie was ten, she moved from South Carolina to New Jersey. There was no baseball for girls in her new town, and when she saw a white boys' team playing she wanted to play with them. The boys laughed and said she couldn't play because she was a "colored girl," but she signed up for the team anyway. I liked how, even when the boys teased her, Mamie knew she was as good as they were. Reading this book made me feel grateful for the kind of environment I live in. I am on a swim team. Unlike Mamie, I am not a natural athlete, but at least I am accepted and encouraged by my teammates. Mamie was a very good pitcher, but she was not fully accepted by her team because of her color. Mamie mentions that her family was always behind her, whatever she did. That shows the importance of a good family, because, as hard as it was for Mamie to achieve her goals, I think it would have been much harder without the strong support of her family. I like how Mamie says that her family was a leading force in her life and dreams, instead of saying that she accomplished everything she did by herself. My family is a huge part of my life, and I don't think I would be where I am in anything without their support. Although there are parts in this book that would not be particularly interesting to people who don't like baseball, I don't think this book is mainly about sports. I think it's about achieving goals, not giving up, and believing in yourself.
