Fiction
Twelve-year-old Emily hobbled down the stairs, rubbing her tired hazel eyes. She collapsed onto a chair in the breakfast room, clutching a book in her hand. “How was The Lake?” an old man asked, nodding toward the book. Wispy gray hair adorned the sides and back of his head like a garland, but the top was smooth and shiny as a crystal ball. Holding back a yawn, Emily swept a lock of reddish-brown hair out of her face and replied, “It was really good, Grandpa. It doesn’t have a lot of suspense or action in it, but it was really descriptive. I could picture myself right on the lake in the story.” “I can tell you liked it, Emily, or else you would not have stayed up all night to finish it,” Emily’s grandfather, Mr. Larson, said, chuckling. Mr. Larson owned a little library on Main Street, and his granddaughter enjoyed previewing books before he placed them on his shelves. Mr. Larson called this job a “book tester.” “Is it really good for Emily’s health to stay up so late reading these books?” questioned Emily’s mother, her pretty brownish-green eyes the exact image of Emily’s. “Of course it’s good for her!” Mr. Larson exclaimed. “Reading is very good for your soul.” Frowning, Emily’s mother poured a bowl of cereal for her daughter and handed it to her. “I got a new shipment of books yesterday, Emily,” Mr. Larson said excitedly. Emily suddenly perked up and her eyes sparkled like diamonds. Her cheeks, dusted with freckles like cinnamon sprinkles, glowed with excitement. “Really?” she asked excitedly. “May I test them out?” “Of course,” Mr. Larson promised. “The box of books is at the library. We’ll go right after you finish your breakfast.” Cramming large spoonfuls of Cheerios into her mouth, Emily said through her bites, “I’ll be done in five minutes.” * * * Emily and her grandfather were walking hand in hand down the sidewalk. Orange, red, and yellow leaves twirled in the chilly November breeze like beautiful ballerinas. Emily’s mittened hand covered her icy nose as they briskly traipsed through the streets until they reached Mr. Larson’s Library. Unlocking the glass door, Mr. Larson swung it open and ushered Emily into the building. The cozy, one-room library was filled with hundreds of books on beautiful, smooth oak shelves. Behind the counter sat a large cardboard box. Emily imagined herself riffling through the pages of each one, smelling the crisp scent of brand-new books. “Pull out the scissors from the desk drawer, Emily, so we can open this,” Mr. Larson said, kneeling down beside the box. Pulling open the drawer, Emily’s hands closed around the scissors. Then she saw it. It was a stunning, maroon leather-bound book with gold lettering on the cover. The pages did not look new, for they were torn in some spots, yellowed, and smelled musty. The title was simply The Story. Emily thought she had never seen a more beautiful book. “I’ve never seen this book in your library before. May I preview it?” she asked her grandfather hopefully. His faint eyebrows frowned in worry. “Pay no mind to it,” Mr. Larson said. “It’s just an old magic book.” “It’s a magic book?” breathed Emily. “Oh, Grandpa! Please let me read it!” “Magic books can be very dangerous,” cautioned Mr. Larson. “I cannot allow any harm to come upon my only grandchild.” There was a slight warmness in his voice, but at the same time Emily heard an authoritative strictness in it, too, so she didn’t say another word about The Story. * * * That night, Emily settled down in her bed to read the pile of books she had chosen from the box at her grandfather’s library. The small tower included novels from her favorite author, chapter books from budding writers, and so on. But none of those interested her, for underneath the heap of books sat The Story. It had taken some careful maneuvering to sneak it into her selection of books, but she had succeeded, and as she opened up The Story, the trouble she had gone to seemed worth it. The Story was the most amazing book she had ever read. Somehow, it combined all styles of writing: fiction, drama, comedy, and more, into one pleasing paragraph after another. She devoured the thick book, and soon forgot where she was. The way the words were woven together and the way the author described settings and characters were magical, but the true magic of the book was not yet revealed to her. * * * Her lamp glowed softly like a firefly, penetrating the pitch-black night outside. Rain pelted down on the roof and the harsh wind whipped the tree limbs around, the boughs making a scraping noise against the window. Eerie shadows from the gnarled, clawing arms of trees cast menacing silhouettes on the walls. It was midnight, and Emily had fallen asleep on her bed, her auburn hair spread out on the soft pillow. The Story sat beside her, the light shining on its pages. This is where the magic began. Wiry, leafy vines began to grow from the pages, coiling around each other like a snake. They climbed up the walls, cloaking the white paint in dark green masses. More plants, including exotic flowers and tiny saplings, began to sprout from the pages, crowding to move out of The Story and into the real world. But plants were only the beginning of the problem. The array of botany was followed by various species of animals, including lions, tigers, and even a few monkeys. By this point, Emily could not have stayed asleep with the grunts, roars, and other noises that filled the air. When she awoke, her mouth dropped open and her face went pale as she saw what was before her. Her eyes swept the room, looking for the source of this stampede of nature, although she already knew the origin. The Story was the
Fiction
Sabrina had been preparing for this for weeks. The small girl, with the statuesque figure and her hair pulled tightly back into a high ponytail, surrounded by a foil scrunchie, looked radiant in her amethyst team leotard. She sparkled, not so much from the glittery rhinestones sewn to her chest in a waterfall formation going off like a thousand shimmering flashbulbs with every move, but from a genuine smile that poured out, “I am happy to be here. This is my sport.” Her cheerful face and the flame that burned brightly from the depth of her soul could light up any darkened corner. The day of the big meet had finally arrived! Sabrina loved gymnastics from the very first time she entered the gym as a four-year-old. Back then, she was limited to somersaults, but she couldn’t wait to catch up to the bigger, stronger girls who ran in compact, power-packed tumbling passes diagonally across the mat. She loved the meets. Sure, there was a lot of pressure to do well for the team, but pressure aside, the competition made her better than she thought she could be. All the athletes were there, to show off their best skills, and all the hard work they put into the sport. Competition brought out her best. Sabrina loved all the excitement and energy too, particularly at the start of each meet, bursting at the seams with anticipation. She loved hearing the national anthem booming up from the floor and into the stands. She loved standing shoulder-to- shoulder with her teammates, and the invisible, unbreakable bond that linked them together. But soon, all eyes would be on her alone, when it was her turn to mount the balance beam—that four-inch-wide beam that appeared to float high up in the stratosphere among the clouds, although it proved to be only a few feet off the ground. The beam challenged her, looking menacing at times, even staring her down. But Sabrina would not let it get the best of her, not this time. Using her warm-up minutes, Sabrina pirouetted perfectly on top of the beam, managing a full twist with her arms held high. She practiced her scale, elevating her leg in back of her, pulling her arms back into a wing formation, keeping her chest and chin both high. She was confident and ready. No doubt, this is the day she would get her Level 6 back walkover on the beam in competition. This was the only skill she needed which had eluded her. Some of her teammates of course had no problem with the skill, and others, like her, really struggled, needing to work hard at it. Still, she was proud of herself for taking calculated risks, daring to be better, and challenging herself to learn it. When her time came in front of the judges, she would need to bend backwards and kick one leg first, then the other, over her head, hanging for a second upside down, her legs in a mid-air split, then come up again in a lunge to balance herself, keeping both her fears and her poise in check. The no-nonsense green pennant flag swiftly went up, signaling it was her turn. When she saluted the judges, her stomach started flip-flopping wildly. Sabrina wondered if anyone else could hear her heart thumping loudly against her chest wall. First, she managed a first-rate scissor mount onto the beam, pointing her toes into tight arrows. She pictured her mom in the bleachers, holding her breath until she finished the back walkover that had given her so many frustrated practices, the skill that crept into her nightly dreams that seemed too eager to taunt her. This was her moment. Surely, with so much practice and so much coaching, she would do it now. She would taste victory— this time! The moment snuck up on her. The time which held special meaning had arrived, no matter what the clock mounted high on the painted cinder-block wall announced. Sabrina stretched tall with her arms in the air overhead. Now, she thought. She carefully reached backward over her head, searching for that four-inch- wide strip of varnished wood. She found it. She pushed off on her right foot, keeping her eyes fixed upon the string of glaring lights overhead, trying to keep her position in a straight line. But suddenly… oops, she could feel her foothold give way, and she was falling… falling… far down below into a deep, bottomless chasm. It would not be today that her spirits would climb to their summit. Her heart slumped and heaved a heavy sigh. She jumped back on the beam though, quickly, defying gravity, so as not to get another penalty deduction, and then finished up, holding her dismount for the required quantum of time. Her nemesis had won again. “Better luck next time,” she heard her coach mumble as she faced the disappointment pooling in her coach’s bottomless black eyes where she saw herself in endless free fall. But Sabrina’s own sights were set ahead on the horizon. * * * After all the shiny medals dangling on thick ribbons had been given out, and with both the tears and thunderous claps now fading back into the background to lurk among the bars and beams, biding their time until their next invitation, Sabrina scanned the floor, hoping the beam was still free. Yesssss, she cheered in her mind. The next session wasn’t about to start for another eight to ten minutes. There was still a chance. The gym was empty. The crowd had poured out lazily with magnetic feet, bottlenecking at the front door, like spilled sticky soda pop, and the new crowd hadn’t been unleashed yet. Some of the conversation fizz was dying down. She knew she only had a little time to get back to work. She could picture her well-intentioned parents already waiting anxiously for her in the car, trying to find some comforting words. Sabrina seized her opportunity, not waiting
Fiction
I walk outside and feel the grass being crushed under my shoe. A light breeze teases the trees. The peaceful yard won’t be this way for long. “Come on, Klaire! Race me!” Sophia cries, grasping my hand and pulling me over to the edge of the grass. “Only one race,” I remind her. “OK!” she says, itching to start. “From here to Monica’s driveway,” Sophia says, pointing her finger at the gravel two lawns away. “Got it,” I assure her. We take our positions. I crouch, poised, like an arrow about to be released from an archer’s bow. My knees are slightly bent and my eyes are on the driveway. Sophia glances at me, and then models herself after my pose. She starts the countdown. “On your mark, get set, go!” she cries. We start. I quickly zoom away, like a tornado whirling. My sandals fly off, but I haven’t time to catch them. The world flies by as my feet leap over the soft green grass. It tickles my toes and scratches my feet. The air rushes by my head. My hair is flying in back of me like a banner. I keep my eyes on the ground so I can dodge the pinecones scattered about by the neighborhood squirrels. A smile leaps across my lips. I’d forgotten how happy running makes me. I reach the gravel and turn around. I’m far ahead of Sophia. A moth flies up from the dirt where I have disturbed it. I’m almost to the finish line and I slow down a bit, not a tornado but a zephyr now. I reach the driveway and stop, hands on knees and panting. Sophia halts beside me. My hair is in disarray and my mouth is smiling, smiling wider than it has smiled for a very long time. “Wanna race again?” I ask.
Fiction
INTRODUCTION First of all, you must know that my story is not unique. It’s merely the same tale as millions, maybe even billions of human beings; a few thousand hearts broken every day the same way as my life was shattered. Shattered but able to be put back together, piece by piece. But keeping that in mind, this narration is not a happy one. It was the worst thing in my short life, and that life was in a ruin for a while. They say that for every good thing that happens, a bad, awful, miserable thing appears in the same story. Same story, same life. That’s the way they say it. But I take it the other way. I say the opposite; for every bad thing a good thing appears. I am not responsible for my life, my story, but no doubt I have changed it—after all, a writer is the owner, and the changer of his book, is he not? Change. A meaningful word, and rarely used correctly. Change makes things what they are; change creates, preserves and destroys everything. Everything except change itself. I have made up a phrase, and it is one of the few things to say and not be heard, only understood. “In every darkness shines a light within it.” That simple sentence is so complex because of its truth. I believe that in every life it is prominent. It is there, and in the light in the darkness there is another darkness, a smaller but darker one, in which there is a tiny but dazzling light, in which another even smaller darkness… and so on. But my story is not just light and darkness. It is also love and the breaking of love. It is, to name the affliction that blessed my life, my parents’ love that broke, and when the love broke, the people broke apart from each other, and that led to the creation of many things, including a small baby who is now almost fifteen months, a love between five people that could never be broken, even if the previous time my mother had a love that could not be broken it broke. I am sure, with every atom in my being, that the love we have now will be whole forever. Before I embark on the specifics of my tale, this must be known: I do not know, nor want to know, all of what happened in my parents’ marriage that made them miserable. I assume I will find out in later years, and tears will fall from my eyes again, and the grief that I had will be reborn, though I do not know if it will be greater or smaller than my grief when the breaking of the love appeared in my life. Because the love had broken before I knew it, but I was unknowing, and ignorance was a blessing. But sometimes I noticed small things, which leaked out like a hole in a faulty pipe, and I wondered. Thankfully, however, my small mind passed those things over without a second thought. But they were still there, and unknowingly I was scared. * * * CHAPTER ONE BEFORE My father had been working on his book for as long as I could remember. In total, it took seven years. Much more time then he had been allotted by his publishers. The book had somewhat shaped my early childhood, and if not that, it had somewhat shaped my father, and of course, I was shaped by my father tremendously. I remember clearly, how he used to sit there in his study all day, how after school I would come home, go to his office, talk to him about my day, and then I would leave, and he would be there for the rest of the day, and he came out at dinnertime, and he would cook, and I would eat, and I would talk, and then go to sleep. In the time after I had my after-school chat with him and before my dinner, I would be with my mother. We might go to a movie, or work on an art project, or go to a park, or do whatever activities a mother does with a child. My father would be uninvolved, and I would wonder what he was doing there, in his study, working all day. But of course, I know now. He was making money, the money which bought me an elite private-school education, the money that paid the health insurance, the day-to-day money that bought me ice creams after school, the money that paid the babysitter, the money that bought my clothes—all the expenses were bought by him sitting in his study, working all day. And often he would go on trips to places around the world, to India, the place where his book took place, for as long as two months. I remember how I and my brother tried to Scotch-tape the door shut, to stop him from going, and the Welcome Back signs we used to make for him. You see, we loved him. He was not very involved with the family, but we loved him just as much as any son could love a father. And yet, we were scared of him. He was frustrated with money, and money was what he had to sacrifice everything for, and money was a curse. And he had a temper, because a man who is frustrated with what he does, who finds life so hard, a man cannot keep all those rages bottled up inside him. He got mad, and we silently got mad too, but we were too scared to voice our anger. But we didn’t know the reasons, we didn’t know how hard life was for him, we didn’t know how much he loved us and how much he did for us, and we should have known. But we didn’t, and anger grew, fear collected. But when I say “we” I
Fiction
My bare feet dug into the scorching sand. Racing toward the glistening waves ahead, I sank my feet into sand that now was squishy and cold. The surf lapped at my feet and I wildly plunged in. The frigid water made my spine tingle, and goose bumps popped up on my arms and legs. That familiar salty taste flooded into my mouth. I moved with the tide, in and out, in and out, in and out. The gentle pull calmed me. Still, I didn’t stop treading, even when a wave toppled over me. I glumly sighed and disappeared into the water once more. Another wave rolled over me. I scurried out of the icy water and headed for our striped towel, which I draped over my shoulders. Hurrying toward the now empty playground, I scanned it for Ethan, my four-year-old brother. Spotting him, I dashed toward the swings that overlooked the sparkling water, where he sat playing in the sand. It was the end of another day, when the peachy sun glittered and set the whole sea on fire—oranges, reds, purples. Holding Ethan by the hand, I reluctantly tore myself away from the forlorn-looking swings that creaked in the wind. Staring at my mother sadly, we left. The ride home was a silent one. Ethan didn’t understand that it was our last trip to the place I’d loved forever. We were moving.
Fiction
Ameena looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her worried face stared back at her. “Come on!” Adam, who was Ameena’s twin, yelled impatiently. “Adam’s fitting in well,” Ameena remarked. She remembered how, when they had first moved, Adam, who was regularly noisy and active, had been so subdued and unusually silent. Lately though, Adam was a pest as usual. Somehow, a pest seemed better to Ameena. Of course a pest wasn’t ideally what you’d want for a brother. If you got to choose your sibling you would probably pick an obedient, well-behaved brother who did all your work for you. But Ameena was relieved when Adam returned to normal. Adam had befriended a boy named Sammy who lived across the hall from them in their apartment on 5th Street in Brooklyn. Sammy was a basketball player. Sometimes at night Ameena could hear the sound of the basketball hitting the floor. Every day Adam went over to Sammy’s house to trade Pokemon and basketball cards, while Ameena stayed in her room chatting with her Californian friends on the phone. There were three of them: Sarah, Amnah, and Maryam. Ameena had pictures of them on her bulletin board above her desk. Ameena’s mom tried to encourage her to make friends, but Ameena refused. “Move on,” her mom suggested. Since Ameena was incredibly shy, she couldn’t even say hi to a girl who had been friendly to her and who was taking residence next door to them at apartment 1b. She had no hope at all. Now Ameena had another problem: school. Ameena was a practicing Muslim and wore a scarf. Many ignorant people, especially in New York, had a bad image of Muslims. They associated them with 9/11 because those people had claimed to be Muslim. Deep down inside Ameena knew that she was just a normal twelve-year- old girl. She was exactly like everyone else except that she believed different things. Every religion has its not-so-good people and its good people, Ameena noted. She wished everyone else realized that as well. The fact was, they did not. Ameena reflected on all of this as she headed to the door. She slung her backpack on her back and waved goodbye to her mom, who was sorting the laundry into darks and whites. The city outside was chilly, and Ameena zipped up her sweatshirt. The autumn morning felt crisp. Adam and Ameena soon arrived at Brooklyn Junior High. The two pushed their way through the crowd of people to their classroom and took seats toward the back. Ameena took in her surroundings. There were about five rows of desks, each containing places for ten students. At the head of the room, there was a large desk with a bouquet of tulips which matched the pale yellow paint of the room remarkably well. On the wall opposite the door, there was a pencil sharpener and below it, a cheap plastic garbage can. In each pupil’s desk drawer were five new pencils and a stack of clean white paper. Some rubbery-smelling erasers were also included. The red-paneled glass door cast a glorious light into the classroom when it was sunny outside. On the front of the door was a nameplate that read Room 12. All in all the classroom was pretty comfortable. Ameena recognized the girl from apartment 1b. She was sitting next to her. All of a sudden a hush fell over the class. Everyone’s heads were turned toward the door. A woman six-and-a-half feet tall marched into the room. She was brandishing her book as though it was a sword. She searched the room daringly for anything out of place. Satisfied, she stomped to the front of the room and announced, “Girls and Boys!” Everyone jumped. “I am Mrs. Franconi, and I am your seventh-grade teacher!” No one objected, so she continued, “Open your books and get to work. School isn’t just to play around.” Everyone opened their books without a word. Math and Language Arts turned out pretty uneventful, and no one misbehaved even once. Mrs. Franconi barked and boomed all class long, which hurt Ameena’s ears. Once, when a girl named Britta forgot how to spell “expedition,” Mrs. Franconi looked like a firecracker ready to explode. When it was time for history, everything went from pretty good to horrible. Ms. Lillian was a beginner teacher. First, she was five minutes late for class because she was conversing with the other teachers in the lounge. Next, a little brainy girl knew the answer to one of Ms. Lillian’s questions and was so excited about it that she stood up on her desk, fell off, and twisted her ankle. Then Ms. Lillian started fretting all over her and gave her a watermelon sucker from a plastic baggie in her purse. A jealous kid called Ike climbed onto his desk, jumped down, and started fake bawling. Pretty soon almost everybody was doing the same. Everyone was just trying to get a lollipop. Finally, class was over. Ameena felt sorry for Ms. Lillian, who had to endure all these disrespectful kids. After school Ameena and Adam were absentmindedly strolling toward their lockers when, all of a sudden, “Hey, Muslims!” someone teased. Without even looking, Ameena could tell this guy was not going to be friendly to her by his tone of voice. Ameena whirled around. A boy with flaming red hair and a black T-shirt with red writing on it yanked at Ameena’s scarf. Ameena stood there, desperate and totally helpless. She hoped someone would arrive and help them, but no one did. Another boy who had spiky black hair and a plain, bright red T-shirt threw an overstuffed yellow water balloon at Adam and hit him smack in the face. A third boy with pale blond hair, wearing all black, shouted after the two now-retreating figures, “We’ll get you Muslims; we’ll get you!” Ameena and Adam ran down the hallway with all their might. It seemed that there was no other way
Fiction
The hot sun beat down on us like we were grilled-cheese sandwiches. As I bent down to pick up an empty bag of chips, I fell on the dried-up dirt and a drop of sweat fell to the ground. The thirsty ground sucked it up and I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Mrs. Porter standing beside me, sneering. “Getting tired, Bailey?” she asked. With aching muscles I got up off the ground and wiped the dust from my sunburnt knees. “No, ma’am,” I said triumphantly. As she walked away I stuck out my tongue and hoped that it would rain. Here we were along the highway, Stacy, Michael, and I, doing our ten hours of community service that were required before our field trip to Hillside Meadows. I thought about how terrible it had been when Mrs. Porter had announced that the class was going to have to work for our trip. Of course, the three of us hadn’t done it yet, so Mrs. Porter had taken charge, postponing our much-anticipated field trip and making the three of us do it all in one day. I watched Michael’s dirt-streaked pants as they shifted slowly around on the other side of the highway. The community service was bad enough, but my fellow workers weren’t exactly the cream of the crop. Michael was rude and seemed never to wear clean clothes. He was one of the worst people to spend a hot Saturday with. Stacy wasn’t as bad, but she always wore about twenty bracelets on each arm so you were stuck with the annoying sound of clacking all day long. I looked down at the cracked Arizona dirt and sighed. I stuck my pole into an old plastic bag and then threw it into a torn trash bag. Mrs. Porter wasn’t the worst teacher around, she really tried to make class fun, but when it came to the three of us she seemed to have a grudge. I wasn’t a bad kid, or at least that’s what Momma said. “One of these days, you’ll open up and all your wonderful abilities will spill out onto your worksheets and textbooks, and the school will know exactly what Bailey McDowel is truly made of,” she used to say; and I believed it. But that was before Dad had gotten sick, and after that Momma only said, “You can do better.” After that, I stopped believing in both my ability and Daddy getting better. I angrily punched a milk carton, blocking the stressful thoughts from my head, and threw it in the bag with all the strength I could muster. “Only an hour left,” Mrs. Porter announced happily from where she was resting on a beat-up lawn chair. I heard jingling from across the road as Stacy threw her arms up in celebration. The hour passed slowly, and soon I saw Momma’s tired face from the bus as we pulled into the school parking lot. Momma didn’t smile much anymore, and that made it harder for me. She always seemed filled to the brim with sadness. Daddy had pulled me into his bedroom one day about a month after he was diagnosed with his cancer, and he pulled me right onto the bed so my head was resting on his, and he whispered, “Baby, don’t you let your Momma’s spirits get down, and trust me when I say that she’ll get a sad sickness worse than my own disease if you do.” Then he had patted my hand and I had promised him I’d take care of Momma. So when I saw her, I thought of my promise to Daddy and I put on a cheerful face just for her as I walked to our Cadillac across the dusty parking lot. “How was your day, Momma?” I said with a smile as I climbed into the front seat. “Oh good, honey, just fine. Your daddy just had his treatment today, so be careful to be quiet when we get home, he’s taking a nap,” she replied with a meager smile. I racked my brain for something more to say, but soon the quiet hum of the car seemed to make a canyon of silence between us, and I kept my mouth shut. I was glad to be home, and glad to see Daddy sleeping with a peaceful smile as I walked down the hall. Our house was made of weathered brown boards and there was a garden in the back. Momma loved to garden, but lately it was overgrown. I didn’t mind, though. Gracie, my best friend, and I enjoyed the wild roses that lay tangled on the granite stepping stones. I often snipped stems to put in a vase in the kitchen or on Daddy’s bedside table to cheer him up. Sunday passed in a blur, filled with the quiet thumps of feet tiptoeing down the hall past Daddy’s room where he lay asleep. Monday morning, I woke up feeling tired, but I had a little excitement built up for our field trip today, and I had big plans. I had resolved to myself on Sunday that, no matter what, I would make Momma laugh or smile again this week, and keep my promise to Daddy. I ate some toast and orange juice, gave Daddy’s white head a kiss, and hopped on the bus with promises for the coming day. When we arrived at the school, Mrs. Porter fussed about, straightening our collared shirts and swaying skirts. She then lined us up accordingly to get on the bus that would take us the hour ride to the well-known Hillside Meadows. Stacy was there, with a smiling face and four blue bracelets, and so was Michael, with what seemed to be a clean shirt. I gave them a smile and stepped into the noisy bus, ready for the crowded ride. The bus ride seemed long and was filled with excited chatter as we pulled into the parking
Fiction
Our boogie boards went bump-bump-bump over the sand. The tide was high, and the waves were big. Just looking at them made me excited. There weren’t many people out today. Figures. It was two days until s-c-h-o-o-l started, the dry Santa Ana winds blowing in the hazy summer smog. My bathing suit was still sandy and damp from the day before, and oily black tar coated my bare feet. We kept walking. We had to get past the rocks that shredded our feet. The beach wasn’t sandy, or smooth. The stretch of coast was empty, and it was far from popular, being near an oil derrick and beat-up resort. This place was only full in the heat of early August when Malibu was too crowded. The beach had rhythm, personality: the happy loner that dallies; the dreamer that didn’t care what the little blond gang of Barbies thought. I could feel the hot sand through my worn black flip-flops. I started to sprint, eager. My blue Morey board, faded and battered, went bump-bump-bump in my wake. The string that attached to my wrist pulled down a slope to the hard sand, near the green, murky water. It wanted to be in the waves, just like me. I threw my towel down, kicked off my flip-flops. I ran down the beach, feet burning, dodging mounds of fly-ridden seaweed. “Claudia!” my brother called. “Wait!” But then he was sprinting too, his legs matching mine, beat for beat, push for push. We dashed into the waves, a ragged thrill of energy soaring through me. Shock. “Jeez, that’s cold!” I said. Bump-bump-bump! my boogie board replied, splashing over the water’s ripples. I waded farther in. Jack and I both gasped as the chilling water reached our necks. We sank in deeper after we’d caught a couple waves. I could just make out a new group of swells on the horizon. Three feet, easy. Good-sized. As they came closer, my Morey slipped out in front of me. Sure, I thought. “You gonna take it?” I asked Jack. “Yeah, think so.” He spun his board around, both of our backs to the wave. It rose beautifully behind me, forming a perfect crescent. I kicked out onto my stomach, and the wave jolted me forward. It all happened so fast: the wave went down with a crash, and my Morey shot out from under me like a man diving from a sinking ship. I was companionless. My stomach took a wrenching flip. Suddenly, covering my head (the one thing I learned from surfing lessons), I spun, some poor servant of the wave. I tried to force myself up, but white water held me hostage. Lungs bursting, I thrust myself upward. Air! I stood, dazed and battered. I felt as if I’d gone through spin cycles in the washing machine. But then my boogie board came floating towards me. Bump-bump-bump! it said. I stared at it for a moment, and then raced back into the waves.
Poems
Her pudgy feet ran through the grass Sparkling in the morning dew Her footprints left a trail behind her Impressions on the cold ground She ran Her feet stumbling on unfamiliar territory She tripped and stumbled to the ground She rose without hesitation and again began her pursuit Of the beautiful winged creature Its wings carried it higher Faster than her little feet could take her Yet she ran Willing herself to go faster She closed the gap It was nearly in her reach She sprung from the ground A single finger brushing a delicate wing Then it was off and she hit the ground It fluttered away Soaring to the sky While she stayed grounded Her face misted Her knees green But with a smile forming She accomplished her goal She touched the butterfly
Poems
As the notes take me I try to remember The ocean Mom and Dad stand by me Deeper we go Jumping big waves My parents lifting me up to jump Dolphin fins out in the horizon Laughing then Longing now For the sea to sweep me Off the ocean floor As it did a few years ago If only I could go back Into childhood memories See what I did not savor enough Be there once more And I go there As I fall sound asleep And my dreams carry me back out to sea
Poems
We sat As it rained and drenched the thirsty soil We sat And laughed and talked and drank tea Seventy-seven years apart But closer than a mother and daughter We exchanged simple words Mine so young, so naive Hers wise and old and perfect I scratched the head of her dog I dreamed The dog was my brother and she was my mother But the dream never came true She was mi abuela, my grandmother Her hands were as crinkled and dry As the books she so often gave me Her body was weak But her heart was still strong Or so I thought The day I became old I learned of how she lost her will to live of how she lay there willing death to take her I screamed and cursed the earth And my world clattered down around me Instead of laughing, now I cried Why oh why did she want to die? I cried Like the rain that covered us Seemingly so long ago.
Book Reviews
The Other Side of the Island, by Allegra Goodman; Penguin Young Readers Group: New York, 2008; $16.99 Imagine living in a world of rules—a world where the first letter of your name is chosen by the year you were born, a world where the weather is programmed each day. This is Honor’s world in The Other Side of the Island, by Allegra Goodman. Honor is born in the eighth year of the Enclosure: a world controlled by the Earth Mother, created after the polar ice caps melted and flooded the old world. There is no visible violence or hardship on the peaceful islands on which the world now lives. As long as one obeys the rules, no harm will come to them. But Honor’s parents do not obey the rules. They ignore the curfew, wade in the ocean, and sing songs. They even have another child, a boy named Quintilian, and keep him. Honor is the only child with a sibling. As Honor goes to school and learns the ways of the island, she becomes more and more ashamed of her parents. She tries everything she can to fit in, even changing her name to one where the H sound is heard. But, at the book’s end, Honor has learned her lesson. She realizes that being an individual is OK, and standing out from the crowd is what makes a person unique. She realizes that her parents, who are trying to bring down the Earth Mother and create a world where everyone can be different, are really the ones to imitate. I believe that The Other Side of the Island has a very important lesson to teach. One must learn to follow one’s own heart and be an individual. For example, when Honor realizes that none of the other girls in her class have boys as friends, she quickly abandons her best friend, Helix. When they make up later in the story, Honor realizes that she never should have given up her best friend, despite what others thought. One of the things I liked most about The Other Side of the Island was that I felt like I could connect with Honor’s character. At one point in all our lives, we wish to fit in. For example, I used to ice skate. Many of the girls with whom I skated went to the same school and were always talking about something that had happened there. Although I sometimes wished that I had more to talk to them about, so we could become better friends, I knew that I had to be my own person and not spend my life trying to be like them. By the end of The Other Side of the Island, Honor too has realized this. The Other Side of the Island shows what may happen to our world if we do not stop global warming. It is a scary thought and convinced me that we must do something to keep the polar ice caps from melting. The Other Side of the Island also does a great job of showing how individuality matters, yet it is still an adventure- filled page turner. Honor’s character embodies a determined spirit that I loved, and it made me want to keep reading to see what happened to her. Filled with friendship, love, hardship, and sadness, The Other Side of the Island will stay with you even after you have turned the last page.
Book Reviews
Keeping Score, by Linda Sue Park; Clarion Books: New York, 2008; $16 Before I read Keeping Score, when I thought of baseball, I thought of boys. I thought the only way people got to know the game of baseball was by playing it. After I read it, I was inspired to learn more about the baseball teams in my area (the Cubs and the White Sox). Before I knew it, I was watching games on TV, and even getting to be a pretty good hitter! Now, baseball doesn’t seem so much like a boy thing anymore! During the Korean War, which is when Keeping Score takes place, playing baseball almost always was for boys. But Maggie, the main character, knows the game of baseball like the back of her hand, and she got to know it the hard way: by listening to every single Brooklyn Dodgers game on the radio. She never misses a pitch. In fact, it is while she’s listening to a game at the nearby firehouse where her dad used to work that she meets Jim. He’s another intense fan, but for the New York Giants. The two talk baseball, compare favorite players, and laugh about most everything. And perhaps most importantly, it’s Jim who teaches Maggie to keep score. And keeping score of a baseball game isn’t the same as scoring a soccer game, or a football game. Keeping score of a baseball game requires concentration, and a really huge knowledge of baseball. Everything changes when Jim is drafted into the Korean War. But at least sending letters back and forth from Korea to America is sort of fun for Maggie. And while letters are going back from Korea to America, the Dodgers are winning game after game. It means a lot to every Dodgers fan, especially Maggie! You see, the Dodgers had never won the World Series. Not even once. But now, even the Yankees (their main rivals) are being crushed by the Dodgers! There are so many wins that the losses hardly matter. And then, something horrible happens. After hours of carrying bodies in from the battlefield, Jim stops walking, talking, and moving altogether. He’s suffering from what your parents might call post-traumatic stress syndrome. And right after the Dodgers’ huge winning streak, they lose the pennant game! To the Yankees! Both baseball and life are a cycle of hope and disappointment, and with the Dodgers out of the World Series and Jim sick from the war, it seems like disappointment is all there is. But I think that Maggie’s love of baseball really helps her get through all these setbacks. After all, even after Willie Mays strikes out five times, he still has the determination to come up to bat and hit a solo home run. And it really helps me to think about this idea too. Little disappointments happen to me every day, solo auditions I didn’t get, the White Sox losing a game, a test I didn’t ace. It’s important to just keep trying. So Maggie comes up with a plan. She decides that when Jim comes home she will take him to see a Giants game at Ebbets Field. She spends months saving up for it. And that’s not all. To help Jim get better she decides to do the hardest thing she has ever had to do in her life: pray for the Giants to win the World Series. I will not tell you how this all works itself out—you’ll just have to read it for yourself! But what I really admire about Maggie is how she had the strength to sacrifice all of this just to help a friend.
