Fiction
“Phooey," Kate said as she stared out at the rain. She and her friend Madison had wanted to play badminton in the backyard, but the clouds had stubbornly defied them. "This stinks," Madison said. "We'll have to find something else to do." "Like what?" Kate asked. "Like... we could draw pictures. Or I could help you with your homework." Here she goes again, Kate thought. Offering to help me with my homework. "Let's draw pictures," Kate said. "OK!" Madison said cheerily. Kate retrieved two pieces of clean white paper from the depths of her closet and brought them to the kitchen table where Madison already sat. She gave her friend a sheet and placed one in front of herself. Then she hustled away to get colored pencils. When finally Kate was ready, she plopped down in a chair and began to draw. She drew crooked lines and erased too much. When she looked at Madison's paper, she gasped. Madison had drawn a beautiful picture. It was a collie lying on a soft patch of grass. Madison had captured every detail of it, even though the drawing was unfinished. As Kate watched her friend draw the back leg of the dog her jaw dropped. Madison's hand flew gracefully across her paper. Kate stared at her own page. She had tried to draw a pumpkin, but it was lopsided and crooked, and covered in ugly dark lines that had been partially erased. "It's OK," Madison said with a weak smile, trying to compliment Kate's drawing. "It looks... happy" Kate and Madison stared at each other. "Let's do something else," Kate said, crumpling her picture and throwing it away. She felt relieved when Madison finally left for home. * * * The next day at school Kate and Madison's math teacher, Mrs. Meyers, was passing out the most recent tests. Kate crossed her fingers under her desk, praying for a big red A. Madison, who was sitting next to her, winked and grinned. Unfortunately, Kate was about to be disappointed. When the test appeared on her desk she found herself staring at a big red C-minus. Kate glanced at her friend's test. Hers had a big red A-plus written on the top. Madison was smiling. "I would like Madison to come up and read us her answers. You can write in corrections while she reads," Mrs. Meyers said. Kate sank down in her chair. Madison was always better than her at math. Actually, Madison was better than her at everything. As Madison read the answers, Kate reluctantly wrote her corrections in a red pen. As soon as the bell rang she stuffed the wretched paper in her backpack and slunk off to her next class. Madison happily plunked down next to Kate at lunch. "What did you get on your math test?" she asked. "C-minus," Kate muttered bitterly. "Oh," Madison said, her smile disappearing. "I could tutor you for the next test if you want." "Nah," Kate said. "I'm OK." But Kate wasn't OK. There was an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach. Madison was so much better than her. A perfect picture, an A-plus... they were so Madison-style. A lopsided pumpkin and a C-minus were so incredibly and horribly Kate-style. But Kate didn't want them to be. * * * A few days later Kate went to hang out at Madison's house. They were playing Scrabble. Madison used big words like "warbling," "elixir" and "quagmire," while Kate used words like "dog" and "that" and "horse." When the game was over, Kate said nothing. "Are you OK?" Madison asked. "Yeah," Kate murmured. "Well... no." Finally, all of Kate's hard feelings towards Madison poured out of her. "It's just that you're so perfect in every way. You're Madison, the girl who gets an A on every assignment. Or Madison, the girl who won the drawing contest. Or Madison, the girl who beats her seventeen-year-old brother at Boggle. You're the A-plus person, and I'm just a C-minus person. I wish that we could be the same. It would be so much easier to be your friend if you were the same as me. And seriously, why should you be better than me at everything? You're just miss prissy perfect lady. I feel like you're leaving me behind with your Rs and your trophies and certificates. You're popular, Madison, and I'm not. I'm plain old Kate, and you're Madison the Fantastic, or Madison the Brilliant, or whatever. I feel like I'm not as good as you. You're always wanting to help me with my homework, or finish my drawings, or something like that." A single tear rolled down Madison's cheek. "OK," she said, "if that's how you feel about me." She got up and silently left the room. Kate stood and reached for the phone. "Mom," she said, "can you come pick me up early?" "Why? Are you sick or something?" Kate steadied her voice. "No. Just... just come pick me up." "OK..." * * * Kate couldn’t get comfortable in bed that night, and repeatedly found herself thinking about Madison in school the next day—instead of the textbook. At lunch Madison sat with Hillary and her band of friends. She sat in the front of the bus on the way home, while Kate sat near the back. When both girls exited the bus at the same stop to go home, neither spoke a word to the other. They just went on their way. Kate leaned against her bed and began her English homework. When she screeched to a halt on one question she reached for the phone beside her bed. She automatically began to dial Madison's number before she realized what she was doing and hung up. Instead, she went downstairs to ask her mother for help. "Is something weird going on with you and Madison?" Kate's mother asked suspiciously. "You two haven't talked much lately, and you came home early from her house yesterday. It's not like I haven't noticed." Kate
Fiction
Splash! A clap of water crashes to my cheek. But I don't even think about that. I think about how my arms and legs are moving—well, mostly my arms moving up and down but also going side to side. I feel like a bird, a bird soaring into the gray misty sky. The heat licking at my wings, but I am free, don't have to care about school or anything else. As I soar I see a medium-sized shadow sprint through the water as it sees my big body soaring above it. My eyes narrow in closely, trying to see the direction of the fish. I can feel it, and just as it is trying to turn around, I dive. Wings back, eyes forward, feet pointed towards the clouds, and I dive, I slice into the water like an arrow and catch my prey I begin to eat it, and then I realize that I am still underwater. But then the strangest feeling pops over me, and I am not gasping for air. In fact my body begins to shift, shift into the shape of a fish, a silvery shimmering fish, gliding through the water, towards a group of smaller fish, doing fish-like errands. I swim around and around this area, and my tail begins to feel funny Suddenly the oysters at the bottom sure look delicious. But, I need some air. I pop to the top, slapping my heavy—heavy?—well, slapping my heavy tail against the water. And then I realize—wait a second—I'm an otter. And suddenly every single oyster on the bottom looks s000 scrumptious. And then, I dive. Dive down deep, trying to get them, but just as I do that, a huge wave slaps against me and pushes me off course. So huge, the biggest wave I've ever felt. I swim back, forgetting the delicious oysters that just lay under my eyes. Forgetting everything except that my life depends completely on me getting out of this wave. I try kicking and steering my body to the side. I have never kicked this hard before—I will probably go limp. My heart nearly sinks as I feel the water steepen a little ways and turn my head to see a waterfall. My only chance of life is to find something that I can hold on to. And then, I see it, a rock, sticking up, just a little ways, I only have one chance to grab it, and I reach out and I let out the first real breath that I have taken in a long time, when I feel the smooth surface of the hard rock. But just as I shift to get into a more comfortable position, one of my paws slips and I hit my head on the rock. For a second, I feel pain, ear-splitting pain, sucking my whole body into the feeling. But then, I remember. I'm just daydreaming, again. And I'm not an animal—in fact, I am a normal girl, and I swim back to my father waiting for me by the diving board.
Fiction
My cat, Comet, has always lived the wild life, ever since we adopted him as a kitten. We let him roam free outside, he won't allow a collar, he catches birds and mice to eat, he uses no litter box. I had the worst of bad feelings on Sunday afternoon when I realized that Comet was nowhere to be found. The thought crossed my mind that maybe we shouldn't have been so easygoing about letting him out onto the city streets, especially at night. Both the closets and the dryer were empty, and there was no ball of fur on the bed or on top of the clay-firing kiln in our basement. I felt a deep pit in my stomach and I thought about where he might be out there. He was a small tabby cat and the world was unimaginably huge in comparison. That night I lay in bed, sobbing and unsure what to do. Comet could be anywhere, in a car down the road, stuck in a garden, or maybe—I forced myself not to think about it—maybe even dead. The next morning I awoke and rubbed away dry tears. I felt horrible about all the times that I clapped loudly to scare Comet off the computer desk, or the times when he nipped me because of the ways I'd patted him or brushed him. He was surely a very sensitive cat, but I felt guilty about his disappearance. I spent the early part of the morning posting flyers around my neighborhood that my dad had designed the night before. Comet Is Missing! If you've seen this rascal, please let us know. He could be sleeping in your yard, eating your food, but he's Wanted by the Authorities The poster offered a reward and listed a phone number. Centered on the page was Comet, just his head showing when the picture was taken of him in a brown paper bag. The color reproduction of the photo looked so real; I yearned to reach out and touch his soft, short fur. In the picture he looked so cute with his large green eyes and little pink nose. His expression was so innocent-seeming, which made me think of the times that I got up early in the morning, and Comet would swat my feet and bite my ankles out of eagerness for his food. Innocent. Yeah right, I thought, and almost smiled. As the morning grew older, I put Comet's face all over the neighborhood, on telephone poles, light posts, and in the window of the local pet store. Wherever I looked, I saw my lost cat's face. I will not give up hope of finding him, I told myself. I was in higher hopes when I answered the phone that afternoon and learned that someone might have found Comet. A friend of a friend had found a cat whom he was keeping at his house. I hung up the phone and prayed that it would be him. The San Francisco weather was breezy yet warm when I walked across the street to the light green apartment building where this person lived. I entered the building and scaled a flight of red-carpeted stairs, taking them two at a time. The suspense was too much to bear. I was led into a bright kitchen, where food and water bowls were laid carefully on the linoleum with a litter box nearby. We went into the living room where there were couches and a view of the street. Then my eyes landed on a cat lying atop a bookshelf in the corner. For a split second my heart sank and I lost hope. "That's not him," I said confidently, eyeing the feline who had just begun to wake up after a nap in a sun patch. But as the cat got up, the moment of realization made me ecstatic. It was Comet! He hopped down for a pat on the back, and I fed him a chicken treat that I'd brought from the cupboard at home. I couldn't stop stroking him with immense pleasure; it was all too good. It turned out that Comet had somehow gotten onto the roof of the apartment, and had gotten stuck in the light well. "My upstairs neighbor heard him meowing all night, so I found him and brought him in," said the man who had rescued Comet. After gratefully thanking him, I gently picked Comet up and carried him down the stairs and back across the street. I felt the hard asphalt on my feet as I kept Comet in the firm cradle of my arms. Now that I had been reunited with him, I felt as if I could never let him go, but I decided to put him down once we reached the opposite sidewalk because of his restlessness. When he reached the concrete, Comet seemed unsure for a moment and stood still, and I was unsure as to whether he wanted to go home, or if he had no care for it anymore. I began to jog to encourage him forward, and right away he broke into a full-out cheetah run. When we reached our house, Comet skidded on the concrete and came to an abrupt stop, only to continue running, taking the front stairs of my house by twos. He was so happy to be home; he beat me to the front door by a couple of yards. He always does.
Fiction
Jennifer was heartbroken to learn that Grandma Bea had landed in the hospital for a hip replacement. True, the heavy-set woman with the perennial cheery disposition, with cherries in her cheeks and a twinkle in her hazel eyes, had been slowing down as of late. The diminutive eight-year-old child, with hair the color of straw, who wore it in braids that reached to her waist, had noticed that their daily strolls along the winding paths in Boston Garden were taking longer now. Lately, Grandma couldn't catch up to her and she had extra time to feed the pigeons the crusts of toast she had squirreled away from breakfast, before being gently prodded to resume the circuitous trek home. Each day, the gentle woman with the soft doughy hands met her bus stop after school, which occupied the northwest corner of the garden, and walked with her kitty-corner across the wide expanse to her mom's Beacon-Hill brownstone, which sat at the southeast corner near the shiny gold dome of the State House. Mom was an attorney, who often had to conduct late-afternoon business luncheons at fancy hotel restaurants just at pickup time it seemed, but Grandma was always there right on cue, as steady and as timely as the arrival of the deep magenta magnolia blossoms that lined nearby Commonwealth Avenue come May. Oh, how Jen loved Boston Garden in the spring! The fresh-smelling earth came alive with dewy stalks promising blooms with rainbow hues in the upcoming weeks ahead. The blitz of color and mixture of scents would prove tantalizing to passersby with few able to resist its unspoken beckoning. Upon entering the huge iron gate which hung on a spiky black fence surrounding the Boston landmark, resembling a crown in its full majesty, Jen thought it made her feel like a princess, and the treasures within were her personal castle garden. In the early summer, Grandma Bea and she would stop to ride the graceful swan boats which had become celebrities amid the garden. How she loved the stately swans that heralded the start of every summer. Their passengers who visited the historic city from all around the globe were never disappointed by the sauntering boats, led by the graceful swan figureheads, enjoyed by all ages. Looking out from behind their expansive sculpted wings, one could look down and see families of emerald-and-brown-headed mallards paddling alongside their revered ancestors with their rubbery webbed feet in constant motion to keep up with the legendary birds which, with a little imagination, came to life. At the height of summer, when school was out and camp was in session, Jen remembered that Grandma and she would once again be entranced by the light raspberry perfume of the full-blossomed crimson roses that grew in the garden's center. If you closed your eyes, their hypnotic scent made all your troubles evaporate. Just one whiff could revive and elevate your spirit, so you felt as though your feet could lift off the ground, and within no time you had flown home with only the pigeons to guide you. In the fall, as it was now, Grandma and she would often make their way over to the duckling parade, a celebrated group of siblings who made their home in the park and were always available among sun or rain showers in a cast-bronze version, although everyone knew their real-life namesakes made their domicile under the large bridge which spanned the winding river the swans made their own. When you least expected it, they tiptoed near to inquire what special delicacy you might share from your picnic cuisine or what royal fare you might have brought especially for them, perhaps a buttery madeleine from Montberry's French Creme Bakery atop the hill? Just last week, the grandmother and granddaughter couple couldn't stop smiling on their way home. The vermilion, Halloween-orange and lemony leaves now danced and mingled in the autumn bewitching twilight, casting an ever-changing stained-glass mosaic along the familiar path. On their route home, Jen and her best companion loved listening to the rustling leaves, whispering from the two-century-old trees which served as a canopy to the statue of Paul Revere and his horse. It was as if they held untold secrets they would share if only their Revolutionary-period dialect could be deciphered. Winter brought its own special life to the garden. Jen happily recalled how in the clear crisp blue air, the orbs on the bridge lit up just as the sun sank to resemble low-hanging stars twinlding merrily with their more distant cousins in the bright dusky sky. * * * Jennifer wondered what gift she could bring Grandma Bea on her visit to the austere hospital the day after tomorrow. It would have to be something especially delightful. Jen thought about the traditional get-well gifts, like a card or perhaps a checkered box of candy from Brigham's, the local confectionary and ice cream shop, a frequently called upon neighbor by locals. But checking her piggy-bank stores, she knew she barely had enough, even if she scraped together the few stale and discolored coins that remained at its bottom after purchasing her mom's birthday present just last month. But if she could scrape some amount together, what could she buy that would be special—special enough for Grandma Bea? * * * When Grandma Bea's stand-in, amiable Uncle Harry, arrived to meet her at the bus stop the next day, Jen had an idea. She knew she would need to find something from the special afternoon walks they both cherished. A magnificent citrus-colored leaf? No, it would wither in no time and eventually crackle into dry, brown dust. A drawing of a duck? No, the ducks had already flown south to find solace from the frigid New England winter ahead. Where could she possibly find a model that might accommodate her at this late date? With Uncle Harry only a few short steps behind her, Jen sped ahead to the covered landing where the swan
Fiction
I am looking forward to this. It is my first thought as my eyes snap open. I keep them open, waiting until my dark bedroom comes into focus, which it rapidly does. I anxiously search my sister's face, and find it to be smooth and serene. She sleeps on beside me. Good. I want it that way. I did not set an alarm for fear of waking her. Besides, I do not need one. I have always been able to wake up early. I can't sleep in, even though I'm almost thirteen, almost at a sleep-in age. My bedroom window, cracked open, tells me that it is a windy morning and still dark. I can smell the earthy autumn smell—drifting through the window with the breeze—that is caused by dead leaves rotting into the soil. It is between six and seven. I guess this, for I cannot risk turning on the lamp on my nightstand to look at my alarm clock. The main idea is not to wake anybody. Not that what I'm about to do is evil. Why does everyone associate the word "secretive" with dark, harmful deeds? I just need some time alone. Some time for me. For me, to be free of people for a little while is renewing. Then I can hop on the school bus feeling happy and industrious. Then, but first... I am looking forward to this. I slip out of bed, and I am silent as a shadow. My searching fingers find my dresser drawer—the bottom one. I feel the smooth brass handle, grooved with chiseled designs, and I pull. Into the drawer my hand dives. I search, I feel among the oceans of rumpled cloth. Then I find them. My fingers know the fabric of my riding pants—light and stretchy. I give a pull, then slide the drawer closed silently. A slightly tattered shirt I find in the next drawer up, wooly-warm socks in the drawer to the right. I am dressed in no time, for I know that there is someone waiting for me outside. And it isn't a person, so I have to hurry. People can wait. Ponies can't. My muffled feet glide with me down the hard floor of the hall, down the carpeted stairs. I slip into the garage, scraping the door shut behind me. I have awakened no one. I grope for my almost-new boots, and my chaps whose surfaces are worn slick from gripping a saddle so many times. I will lace them up outside. The leather chin strap of my riding helmet I have unconsciously wound around my fingers in my excitement. I step out the garage door and lace my boots, which are immediately drenched with dew. I have escaped. But I will come back. I have a life, and I appreciate it... most of the time. But it is nice to have a break once in a while. Right now. I climb the steep, grassy slope up to our barn. My timing is perfect—the sun is just tipping the horizon, lighting up the whole silent sky with amber sparks. My favorite time of day. New, and clean, and cool, and quiet. Evening is clean and cool, too, but opportunity is lacking. Everything is set in stone. But in the morning, everything is pliable and optimistic. Anything can happen. I can see my pony, Zorro, in his pasture. His black, dainty head is silhouetted against the lightening sky. He is beautiful. I hurry. Cresting the hill at last, I slowly enter our tack room at our barn. It is a sacred place—a haven that is dark and rich and quiet. It smells of the leather saddles we keep here, and the perpetual tick of the cheap old plastic clock—a tiny sound but magnified in the silence this room imposes—is soothing and permanent. I don't believe that clock will ever stop. It is an absolute to me, something that cannot, will not, break down. I rouse myself—that clock can put one to sleep. I find Zorro's bridle and hurriedly go to him. I climb his rough wooden fence carefully and we walk to meet each other. His thick, black forelock pulses with his stride. Oh, I am looking forward to this. He is my favorite part of today. When my class goes on a field trip our teacher always asks us, "What was your favorite part?" And we have to write a report on it. Zorro is my favorite part most any day. I can write reports about him until my hand falls off. We reach each other and I stroke his silky neck. Dirt crumbles off his back as I brush his body with my hand. He paces, circling around me, begging me to put on his bridle and get on. When his back is clean I pull the bridle over his ears. I fasten the straps that go around his nose and throat. Dusty my sister's little white pony, comes over to investigate, but we ignore him. This is our time, our moment. I gather the reins over his neck in my palm. I hold them together with strands of long black mane. Zorro is piebald—black and white. His mane is black while his tail is white. He is still. I bounce a few times on the ground, gaining altitude. Then I push myself into the air and land with my stomach on his back. I swing my leg gently over his hindquarters and settle myself into position. Zorro is a pony. Soon he will be too small for me. But not today Not now. I am looking forward to this. I am riding him bareback. We walk to the gate, and I lean over to unlatch it. If Zorro were to spook or shift right now, bad things would happen for me. But he doesn't. We go out the gate and I latch it again. I point Zorro towards the woods. His walk is a prance. Now I know how
Fiction
Noel seemed to hang in the air for a second before crashing into the ground. The grass rushed up to meet him as his lungs were crushed by the impact. Dazed, Noel looked around. The soccer ball was snatched away quickly as the opposition took control. The stifled laughs that followed made Noel wish he were dead. Slowly, like so many times before, he stood and walked away No one intervened. History seems to like repeating itself, thought Noel bitterly. The same thing had happened yesterday And the day before that. Just as Noel was finding his stride in the soccer game, one of the kids would do something to humiliate him. Noel never said a word. He just picked himself up and walked away. They aren't mean, thought Noel dejectedly I'm just not one of them. But I'm strong, thought Noel. I can wait it out. Once I make the soccer team I can meet some new people. But as the bell rang, Noel couldn't help but wish that he had at least one friend who could really understand him. Noel walked to the doors, hiding his disappointment at the day's game. Just as he stepped into the school, Noel saw that lunch was over. He bent down to collect his books for his next class. As he stood, he was suddenly standing face-to-face with a girl from one of his classes. She stood, holding her books, flicking her brown ponytail back over her head, and blocking his path. "Do you want to get better at soccer?" she asked. Noel was taken by surprise. "What?" "Don't you want to show the people out there how good you are?" Noel had no idea if she was picking on him or joking. Unsure of what to say, he blurted, "Who are you?" She smiled. "What, you've been here for a week and you still don't know who I am? I'm in your science class, remember? Sarah Nusterwicz sound familiar?" Now that Noel thought about it, it did. She sat in the row behind him, but they never talked before. "Well? Do you?" Sarah looked expectantly at him. "I could teach you some stuff." "What? How?" Sarah smiled again. "Just meet me here after school, OK? I want to help you." Noel was surprised at the sudden conversation. He just stared as she turned and headed off. * * * The bell rang, and immediately a scurry of papers and books drowned out the teacher's last words. Kids rushed out of the classroom, eager to chat with their friends and enjoy the rest of the day Noel went to his locker and got his bag. Hefting it on his shoulder, he walked slowly down the hall. Noel saw her leaning at a corner of the hallway near the doors to the fields and courts. Her book bag was at her feet, and she was gracefully juggling a soccer ball. It hopped from her knees to her feet, then leapt up obediently to her head. Seeing Noel out of the corner of her eye, she let the ball drop to her feet, passing it to Noel. Noel flicked the ball up, feeling good to be touching a soccer ball again. He juggled it twice on his knees, then passed it back. Sarah caught it in her hands. "So," she said, "you came. I was afraid you were going to get lost or something. Let's go outside." Noel followed Sarah out. The weather was bright and sunny, small breezes pushing Noel's hair back as they walked to the field. A perfect day. "You're new here, right?" "I've been here for a week and you still don't know that?" Sarah glanced at him, then laughed. "You learn fast. I hope you learn fast enough to make the team." Noel stared at her. "What? You aren't trying out?" Noel was stung by her remark. "Of course I will! And why would I need your help?" Sarah turned to face him. "Listen, I've watched you at lunch, and you're pretty good. But right now the other kids know that you're new, so they're taking advantage of you by being over-aggressive. I felt bad and decided that I'd help you." "What's there to teach me?" "Well, I'm just saying. There's some things you might want to know before you go try out." Noel paused for a moment, and then smiled. He decided that he liked her attitude. "Thanks. I guess you're the only person here who has ever noticed me. Do you play soccer, too?” "Soccer?" scoffed Sarah. "I'm just about the best goalkeeper in our grade, including the boys. Would you like to see?" She rolled the soccer ball to him, took out some worn goalie gloves from her backpack, and stood in front of the goal, in the natural goalkeeper stance. Noel was incredulous. Shooting on a girl? Noel thought desperately of what to do. He didn't want to make Sarah feel bad if he scored. She seemed like the only friend that Noel would ever have. But back at his old school, he was always the champion shooter on his team. Penalty kick? No problem. Bending corner kick? A breeze. He flexed his foot. As Noel swung, he glanced at Sarah. Her eyes were riveted on him, unnerving him. The ball shot low and hard towards the goal. Sarah merely sidestepped and blocked the ball with her foot. "You're holding back, aren't you?" she said. "Shoot like you were doing at lunch!" Noel felt himself redden. He decided to go for an upper corner. Going for the upper corners was always his signature at his old school. As long as the ball was still and he had time to prepare, Noel could drill a shot that would match no other. All the goalkeepers at his school would be frozen, watching helplessly as Noel scored with ease. Noel backed up, taking care not to give away which side he was committed to until the last
Fiction
Rachel sat at her kitchen table, leafing through the Sunday newspaper. Comics, sports, politics... nothing caught her eye. She briefly skimmed the weather page, which had predicted sunshine; however, it was pouring outside. Looking up from the black-and-white pages, Rachel saw a world of gray. The smooth gray tile of her kitchen floor, the gray of the walls, the windowpanes, the bland chairs. Gray curtains bordered the windows. Through the dirty glass smudged with water droplets Rachel saw more gray—the sky, thick with rain and smog, the skeletal trees, the snow from that morning that had turned into unpleasant slush. Gray. Rachel sighed, lost in her thoughts. She was alone in the house, and her breath seemed to echo off the walls. She was alone more and more these days, since the divorce had taken over both her parents' lives. In fact, she probably wouldn't be in this house much longer—her mother was moving to New York City and buying an apartment, while her father was selling their current home and buying a smaller, more boring one in downtown Durham. Rachel and her younger brother, Grayson, were going to live with their father and then every month visit New York, where their mother would be living. It would be a lot of money, and Gary, Rachel's father, would have to work another job to pay for it. "It won't be far, Rach," Rachel's mother had said. "A two-hour plane flight, sweetie, and three seconds to dial the phone, I'll pick up, and we can talk, dear, anytime. Right, Rachel?" The truth was, it seemed like Clair, Rachel's mother, was trying to reassure herself, not Rachel. "Yeah, Mom." Rachel glanced into the hallway There stood boxes, brown cardboard boxes, stacked as high as the ceiling. The boxes were neatly labeled in Gary's neat cursive, and each stack was categorized by name. To the right, a stack was labeled "Clair." Another yet taller stack was labeled "Grayson." Gary's own stack was the highest. Next to it, there were three boxes with "Rachel" written on them. Rachel, unlike her mother or father, didn't like to keep things. Gary kept every letter he received, every doodle from Rachel and Grayson, every newspaper article about a friend. One box, Rachel knew, contained some thirty diaries, kept over the course of Gary's life. Clair was a little less extreme, yet more eccentric. Clair's belongings were more unusual: a smooth stone with the word "believe" carved into its surface, a broken pocket watch, a Tootsie-Roll wrapper from when she was a child. Sculptures she had bought, and paintings she had created. While Gary's things were neatly stacked inside the boxes, Clair's were thrown pell-mell into the containers. However, Rachel's possessions were minimal. A scrapbook. A photo album. Five of her most beloved novels. A spiral-bound notebook. A ragged old teddy bear. Because Rachel didn't like things. She liked memories, not little trinkets symbolizing lost moments. Her room, empty now in preparation for the move, had been arranged simplistically, painted the palest of purples and decorated with wispy green leaves. Her bed had been a simple cherry wood frame with a sage-colored bedspread. She had had a desk. That was it. Rachel savored the memory, clinging to it, holding it, letting it comfort her. Rachel shivered as the warmth of the memory left her. Sighing, she stood up from the table, hoping her parents would be home soon. She was bored. Rachel had no hobbies, no likings, no special talents. She had nothing that could provide solace in her life, the life that was so scrambled from the divorce. No religious group, no tradition, no cultural beliefs. She had nothing. When the phone rang, Rachel screamed, as her ears had become accustomed to the utter silence. It felt good to scream, to let out some of the awful emotion that had entered her soul since the divorce. She screamed again, and then realized she should probably answer the phone. No, she thought, she didn't have to. The answering machine would do it for her. She kept screaming, not caring who was calling. She didn't have the heart to worry about anyone else right now. Rachel climbed the stairs to her dreary, empty bedroom. The quiet was haunting. It had been so long since this room had seen laughter, so long since there had been hordes of gossiping girls sitting on the floor and talking. So long. So long since Rachel had had a friend. * * * The last time Rachel had had a real friend was in the fourth grade. Now she was in eighth. The friend had been an Indian girl named Rubaina Tej. Rubaina was, in Rachel's opinion, perfect. She was smart, kind, pretty, and creative. Rachel had passing grades, but nothing compared to Rubaina's outstanding ones. The friendship had met a harsh end, with a large fight at the beginning of fifth grade. It began with the teacher mispronouncing Rubaina's name. At recess, Rachel and Rubaina went to the swings. "Hey, Rub-in-ia," Rachel had said, mockingly imitating the teacher's mispronunciation. "Why don't you get up and give me the good swing?" Rubaina looked disgusted. "Um... I... guess so... " Rachel quickly jumped on the swing. "So, maybe you should call yourself Ruby, y'know, it sounds way more American, and it'd be way easier to spell." Rubaina gritted her teeth. "I don't think so." "Well, I think it's way better. Much more... nice and normal. I like more normal things. So, Ruby! What's going on, Ruby? How are you, Ruby?" Rubaina jumped off the swing, cold flames rising in her unusual blue eyes. "You know what, Rachel Lewis? You know why you like average things? Because you are average. You have nothing special. You're not smart, not artistic, you aren't athletic, and you don't win anything You know what, Rachel? I don't have patience or time to waste my life with people like you. Your stupid jokes aren't funny anymore. They've gone way past
Poems
Mmmm, the man on the bench says as he plunges a spoon into his mouth. Aaaah, his wife says as she pulls out a clean white spoon from her lips. The woman at the front of the line grins. A little girl to the left of me is dancing like a ballerina, with a cup in one hand and a spoon in the other. Ice is shaved into thousands of pieces. Conversations have no meaning. I hear an occasional mmmm or aaaah. Finally, it is time to make a selection. Sweet Strawberry? Wet Watermelon? Merry Margarita? Ripe Raspberry? I know, Gushing Grape. I watch the ice being poured. My lips go dry The flavors are glazed on, and my tongue nearly falls off in anticipation Finally, my cup is full, and I am bouncing like a wild kangaroo. The counter girl places it on the cool counter. I grasp my treat and dig in. My taste buds take flight. Cold ice graces my tongue, as the sweet flavors rush down my throat. The taste gets better. Before I know it, my cup is empty. Yum.
Poems
I sit on the porch The dark woods around me Insects chirping And listen To the distant sounds of the party Inside. It is a party thrown for me, By my parents. A party I didn't want— Strangers crowding into our little house People I don't know Pinching my cheeks Muttering lies about "How she's grown!" I escape to the woods Fleeing the lights And the cheerful, pointless chatter And crouch in a dark clearing Reveling in the silence And the dark. A flash of movement And a wolf creeps into the clearing I freeze in fear Breath making tiny white puffs in the air Terrified to move Terrified to stay still. The slim, strong, deadly animal Looks at me Dark, intelligent eyes. Like my own. We stare in silence Caught in the spell of the winter woods. Then I whisper, "You're alone, too?" The beautiful, elegant head Seems to dip in a nod And then the wolf Proud, fierce, and yet gentle, Turns and vanishes into the shadows. I walk slowly back to the house Returning to my party Where I wasn't missed. Before I go inside I turn For one last look. Hoping somehow She had come to say goodbye. The trees are still and empty. Disappointed, I reach for the door And then stop— A sound from the forest. A long, lonely howl. It starts out rough But spirals up into a sweet, sorrowful note That sounds like tears And ends. I think of the wolf Alone in the forest. I face the trees and whisper, "Me too."
Book Reviews
Desperate Journey, by Jim Murphy; Scholastic Press: New York, 2006; $16.99 Something about Desperate Journey just pulled me in. The author, Jim Murphy, showed me a different way of life. In the mid-i800s, many families, usually Irish, made a living by being pulled along the Erie Canal by teams of mules, horses, or any other animal able-bodied enough to pull a boat. They had to haul cargo with them and load it off, at their destination, all before a deadline. Otherwise, they didn't get any money. I can imagine what life must have been like. Near my house in New Jersey is the Raritan Canal. It was used to transport goods such as coal, straight through central New Jersey from Philadelphia to New York City Both the Erie and the Raritan Canals were built mostly by Irishmen, and by hand. Today, when I walk along the Canal, it is more overgrown and I see trees between the towpath and the water. My family and I bike and run along the towpath and canoe on the Canal. In Desperate Journey, the main character, twelve-year-old Maggie, her Momma, Papa, Uncle Hen, and little brother, Eamon, live on water in their boat and make a living by delivering goods along the Erie Canal. Maggie's job is the only job on the towpath. She makes sure the mules don't do any mischief. Her Papa and Momma take turns steering the boat. I can understand why Maggie feels left out. She wants to be in the nice, dry, non-muddy boat with her family. Most of all, she'd like to live on land. Maggie's Papa also earns money by having fist fights with canal bullies. He protects weaker men from the canal bullies. I don't like the fact that Maggie's Papa fist fights, but he does it for a good reason. But one fight goes wrong. Maggie's father loses a battle against a Canadian bully and owes three hundred and forty dollars! Maggie's family doesn't have that kind of money and the only valuable thing they have is their boat. The only way to save the boat is to make a bonus shipment. Everything changes when her Papa and Uncle Hen get arrested and are accused of beating up a man. With a nagging brother, a sick mother, and an arrested father and uncle, I really felt sorry for the hard-working Maggie. Maggie helps her family earn money. Kids today don't normally pitch in and help the family pay bills. Instead they might get an allowance and earn money from chores and get to keep it. I'm glad I get to go to school and make friends my own age. Maggie only has her brother and they fight all the time. Over the course of the book, Maggie and Eamon learn to get along. Maggie makes herself and her brother work hard to take off some of the gigantic burden her momma carries, being the only adult. The Erie Canal has a very interesting history. I think the book is printed in brown ink to give it an old-fashioned look. It was fascinating to read about life i5o years ago, but I'm glad to live in this century Today kids actually have a choice of what they're going to be when they grow up. Desperate Journey is about family bonds, luck, and tragedy, and it was captivating to read.
Book Reviews
Swordbird, by Nancy Yi Fan; HarperCollins: New York, 2007; $15.99 Imagine you live in a world of birds, of flight, of complete freedom. Imagine an evil hawk comes along and tries to steal your freedom and make you his slave. Imagine being caught up in a pointless, bloody war, for which your family and loved ones are sacrificing their lives. Well, that's a lot of imagining to do, but with the help of Nancy Yi Fan, the amazing twelve-year-old author of Swordbird, it becomes an enthralling learning experience. Fan makes you laugh and cry with the birds and you feel like your life depends on bringing this war to an end. Swordbird is a very important book. All too often books about war for kids are gruesome and depressing or silly and shallow. Not because the subject of war has to be incomprehensible, but because making the subject of war accessible to kids is not at all easy Fan does it perfectly Not only that, she brings it all together in a moral in the front flap: "What does fighting bring us? Fear, hatred, misery and death." By the time you finish the book you completely understand and agree with that statement. The book tells the tale of two flocks of birds, the Cardinals and the Blue Jays. They have been peaceful friends for decades. Suddenly they see their eggs being stolen by what they identify as each other. After a bloody war ensues, they realize that it is an evil hawk, Slimebeak, who is stealing. He is hoping they will fight each other so that he can capture them without them standing up for one another. Then he plans to enslave all of them and become king of the forest. The two flocks become friends again and join in a fight for freedom. Soon they realize that all that can save them is the mythical hero and king of peace, Swordbird. United, the Blue Jays and Cardinals send two birds, Aska and Miltin, on a quest for the stone that must be present to summon Swordbird. The gentle blue jay, Aska, was my favorite character. She was living in a war-torn world and yet she was the heroine of the story, she was strong and resolute, she went on the key mission and saved the day I really felt for her and cried for her when the brave robin, her love, Miltin, died, and it was because of her that I was really engaged in the book. I think Aska is a perfect role model because she is so good and kind in all ways. I, however, found it confusing how new characters just kept coming. I thought that only half of them really needed to be there and I thought the extras just made it more complicated for me. I think the book would have been better with only the main characters and a few extras. Swordbird is a magical book, a real page-turner, and though I won't spoil the end I'll tell you it's really satisfying. Fan says that the book is supposed to convey her feelings about terrorism and September H. She says that she was in the towers of the World Trade Center a month before they were destroyed and that it made a very big impression on her. You can definitely see that in the book, though it is set in a fantasy world. As Fan is a not a native English speaker and she is only twelve years old, it has inspired me, and I think it will inspire more kids, to see that anything is possible if you put your mind to it.
