Fiction
I glide gracefully, looking down at the world below me. I swoop over the trees, adjusting my wing to catch the breeze. I feel the strong winds blow over me, calming my thoughts. I am a sparrow, I think to myself. I am me. As I think this, I get a bad feeling. I look up. Up, high in the sky, regarding me with beady eyes: a hawk. I don't take time to recognize what kind. Knowing I've noticed it, it dives at me, screaming. Knowing it will be easier to escape, I dive, too. Down, down towards the trees. Though I am already lower, the hawk is faster. It is a race for safety. We both fly to live. I fly to escape the hawk, a predator. It flies to catch prey, to eat. One of us must lose. The hawk is too close. It stretches its talons, ready to catch me and fly away before it crashes into the tall trees. I realize quickly that speed is not the answer to survival. I am a sparrow. I am agile. The question lies in the unknown, though. It may be intimidating, but is it any match for me? There is no time to think. It rakes its talons forward, hoping to win the contest of survival, but I am not ready to give myself up. I flap my wings and flit to the right. It is not ready for that move. It puts on the brakes, which gives me time to escape and plan my next move because I know that it will not give up until it has caught me. I may not be able to escape completely, but I can put death off until I have reached the bottom of the hill of life. I have already climbed to the peak, and I am climbing down, wishing there was not a bottom waiting for me. The hawk flies a sharp turn around, and as it streaks at me, I feint to the right and dive down again. Swooping and diving, he chases me where I hoped he would: down into the trees, where there is an obstacle course of branches as an arena. As I pass under the treetops, I am surprised by the sudden dimness. I can't see him for a second, but then he is there right behind me. We dodge branch after branch, but I can't seem to get him off my tail. My wings are sore, and I am getting tired, and yet, I still fight for my life. Suddenly, I see him putting on an extra burst of speed, and I feel his sharp talons finally closing around me. I tuck my wings into my body, knowing he will carry me away. The claws cut into me, causing pain throughout my entire body. The talons pierce further into my body. The hawk flaps his wings, lifting us higher, up past the treetops into the bright light of the sun. I twist my head to look up at him. In the glare of the sun, I make out his eyes staring straight ahead of him. They seem to tell me, “That's just the way it is.” And I know that it is true. The race has ended. And I have lost. I close my eyes. * * * THE HAWK I carried the sparrow away from the forest. I could sense him looking up at me, and I looked straight ahead. I would not give any mercy. I did not look down as, slowly, his breathing stopped. I carried him towards my nest to feed him to my little eyases, my babies. I tried not to respect the brave little bird who was now lifelessly clutched in my talons. I did not like thinking those thoughts because hawks should be fearless. I had to kill him to keep my precious youngsters alive. I flew towards the sun with my strong wings pumping at a steady beat.
Fiction
My Dad’s Birthday I’ll Never Forget
My dad’s zebra hair was black with a few specks of white. It was his forty-first birthday. It seems that as each year passes, his hair gets more and more white. We were planning to celebrate his birthday with a special family dinner. We were going to a restaurant called Atlantic Grill. It was May 28, 2004, and the entire day during school all I could think about was going to Atlantic Grill with my parents and my brother. It is one of my favorite restaurants and I love their food. They make a homemade chocolate-chip cookie that is the best in the world! Dad came home from work a little early that day at 5:30. Then we were off on the dirty, gray sidewalks of New York City. It was a nice spring evening. The sun was peeking out from behind a building as it was lowering for sunset. It was warm outside, getting ready for summer. For once the streets were a little quieter than usual, but there sure were a ton of cars. Everybody was in cars because I noticed that there was major traffic on York Avenue. On the walk there I asked my mom, “What are you going to get for dinner?” “A salad,” she replied. “Dad, what are you going to get?” I asked. “The sushi, of course,” my dad responded. “What are you going to have, Danny?” my dad questioned. “I am going to get the grilled cheese. You know how I love Atlantic Grill’s grilled cheese. It is even better than yours, Mom,” I replied. When we got to the restaurant, I glanced around. The restaurant was packed with people at the tables and at the bar. We were hoping to sit outside because it was so noisy inside and it was a beautiful evening. Inside, there were TVs, paintings, phones ringing, people talking and music playing. There was the smell of smoke because the fresh food had just been put on the grill. Luckily, there was one open table outside for the four of us. The hostess sat us at the table and brought us menus. When the waitress raced over I anxiously asked, “Can I have a grilled cheese with french fries on the side?” “Sure, munchkin,” she replied because I was only six at the time. “What are you going to have tonight, ma’am?” she asked my mom with a little bit of a Southern accent. “I will have a Greek salad please,” my mom replied. “What about you?” she questioned as she turned to my dad. “I will have the sushi platter with a California roll,” my dad said. “What will the little one be having tonight?” she asked, motioning to my brother Dylan. “A New York strip steak,” my dad responded before my mom could answer. My brother was three years old and has had autism ever since he was born. His brain has trouble making sense of the world. Autism causes Dylan to experience life differently than other kids who can play around with their friends and talk about sports. He can’t talk because he has autism. He is trying to learn to talk and his teachers are working with him at school. He usually communicates using pictures and by shaking his head. Whenever we go to restaurants my parents will usually talk for him and tell the waitress or waiter what my brother Dylan wants to eat. Sometimes I get frustrated that Dylan can’t talk and because he is different. But I love him so much and keep hoping that he will get better and talk soon. I searched in my mom’s purse for her BlackBerry. I liked to play a game on it called Brick Breaker where there is a ball and a platform that you have to move around to get the ball to hit the bricks. Her purse was so unorganized with lots of papers shoved in and some of her belongings were creeping out. I smelled the fresh leather because the purse was brand new. When I rubbed my hand to the left it was smooth to the touch but to the right it was rough and bumpy. I liked the feel of rough and then smooth. It felt as if I was petting a cat or dog when it was smooth, but when it was rough it kind of felt like a papier-mache project I once made. I would always look through my mom’s purse for her BlackBerry when I was bored or waiting at a restaurant for our food to arrive. After what felt like an hour our food came. I saw the orange melted cheese and the steam coming from the french fries. There was a smoky smell filling the air and whetting my appetite. The smoke had a blast of heat. When I took my first bite it was hot, delicious and soaked in spicy ketchup. Then I turned my attention to Dylan. I saw his tan face, gray shirt, silver fork, and white napkin with red ketchup stains. I could smell his fruity shampoo that he used in the shower. I was staring at my brother’s steak. It looked like heaven. It was so juicy that it was dripping into his mouth like a leaky faucet. I could smell how good it tasted. I leaned over and put my fork right into his steak because I craved a taste of it. When I put a gigantic piece of steak in my mouth it was so juicy and delicious that I felt I was in a whole new world. I got so addicted to this great taste that I kept stuffing more of the steak in my mouth. Then all of a sudden my brother started crying hysterically. I realized he had every right to be upset. I had just eaten almost a third of his dinner right in front of him without even caring. Sometimes I forget that just because he can’t talk, he has
Fiction
The captain of the ship Sea Horse sat back in his chair and drank a long drain of his coffee. They were almost to Spain, their destination, and the only mishap had been the thunderstorm a day ago. He contemplated this fact, and had just decided that this had been the most uneventful voyage yet, when he heard the distress call. One of his sailors burst into the cabin. “Captain! A strange disturbance around the ship the Horn of Plenty, sir! Permission to reply to the signal.” The captain scratched his beard. “Permission granted. Make a large circle around the disturbance, and come abreast of them on the Horn of Plenty’s starboard side.” The night watchman aboard the Horn of Plenty had been watching the disturbance, a black stallion, ever since he had escaped during the storm a day before. He had named the beautiful horse Tear Drop and had prayed for him every time the waves hurled him up and pulled him under. The stallion was promised to a wealthy businessman in England, as were all the other horses aboard. The man was starting a business and wanted expensive purebred horses. The watchman said Tear Drop’s name over and over, talking to him, calming him. The big horse seemed to sense the desperation in the watchman’s voice, for he slowed his frantic paddling and stared into the man’s eyes. The large ship rocked suddenly, and the watchman slowly abandoned his post to direct the Sea Horse to Tear Drop. As the large ship crawled slowly forward, Tear Drop started to panic. The watchman rushed to the railing and began to talk to him. Almost immediately, he became still. The crew aboard the Sea Horse readied their equipment and were trying to find a man to go out, when the night watchman timidly spoke up. “Captain, sir?” “Yes, David?” the captain asked absently, his eyes fixed on Tear Drop. “May I go to him, sir?” The captain turned. “You’re volunteering? The horse could kill you, you know.” The watchman nodded. “Yes sir.” The captain turned to the Sea Horse’s crew. “Well, put him in, then!” David was quivering with excitement as the crew from the Sea Horse readied the equipment for him to take to Tear Drop. When it was time, he launched himself into the waves. Treading water, he moved gradually closer to the big horse. Uneasy, Tear Drop swam away. The sailor tried again to get closer, calling his name over and over. Tear Drop again swam away. David slowly pursued him, but he was quickly tiring. When he felt he could swim no longer with the equipment strapped to his back, he turned around to signal to the Sea Horse. Directly in front of him, he saw nothing but open water. He looked up, startled. Both ships were quite a distance away, too far for him to swim to. Suddenly, the ocean felt very big and violent, the waves enormous, the pack on his back like lead. A large wave tossed David high, then pulled him under. As he came back up, he found himself yelling Tear Drop’s name. Tear Drop was treading water, watching the wave-battered man. Another wave sucked David under and, when he resurfaced, Tear Drop was nowhere to be seen. A pang of fear twisted David’s heart. Then he felt a bump on his back. He spun around. Tear Drop faced him, nickering. David tentatively reached out to touch Tear Drop, then grabbed his mane and hauled himself up when another wave tugged at him. Tear Drop never flinched, seeming to know the importance of being still. When he was sure of himself, David waved his arm in a big sweeping motion, calling the ships to come closer. When he saw that they were underway, he wrapped his arms around Tear Drop’s neck and laid his head on his mane. Within a quarter hour, the ship was near enough to hoist Tear Drop aboard. David clambered after, so exhausted that the sailors had to carry him to his bunk. Almost before his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep sleep. The days passed quickly after that, one and then another, blending together in a flurry of activity. The one thing that stood out was the time spent between Tear Drop and David. David had saved Tear Drop’s life by sending the distress call, and Tear Drop had saved David from drowning. There was a special bond between the two of them, and if David wasn’t the one to feed him, Tear Drop wouldn’t eat. Some of the sailors grumbled, saying the stallion was picky. Others openly admired the bond between the two. Still others pretended not to notice, simply because they didn’t know what to think. Every morning, David was up earlier than needed, feeding, exercising, and caressing Tear Drop. One morning as he and Tear Drop were strolling around the top deck, the captain approached. “David.” “Yes, Captain, sir?” “We’re almost to England. I can feel it in my bones! Oh, to taste my Maria’s tea right now.” He inhaled deeply. “I expect you’ll be glad to see your family too, son. You married?” The mention of England distracted David, and it was a moment before he was able to speak. “Yes, sir. Got a wife, and a young boy.” He half smiled. “Mary and Nicholas. Sure will be nice to see them again. I wish they could meet this guy, though.” He patted Tear Drop’s withers, and Tear Drop nibbled his sleeve. The captain looked at the exchange, opened his mouth, and then shut it. Then he turned, and walked away. * * * A week later, they arrived in England. David convinced the captain to let him take Tear Drop to his new home. As he and ten other sailors walked down the paved walk, David could only wonder if he would ever see Tear Drop again. On the voyage, they had become almost like brothers. Or
Fiction
Gemma was shielding herself from a sandstorm of dandelion seeds. Her tutor, Dominick Vickson, and herself were right at the core of a lush field. “As you can see,” Dominick called above the strong summer wind, as they made their way through the long, fine, green stalks, “wind is another form of seed dispersal. So that makes…” He choked on a mouthful of seeds, and coughed them out. Gemma giggled behind her hand and finished the sentence for him. “…that makes three different ways of seed dispersal we’ve learnt today!” Dominick nodded approvingly. They had almost reached the village smothered by the thick forest pines on the other side of the field. “And can you remember what they are?” he tested her. Gemma thought for a moment, recalling their trek through the woods, then snapped her fingers. “The first one we learnt was how the seeds sometimes get stuck in a passing animal’s fur, then fall off later,” she replied carefully. “The second one was how they eat the seeds and— well—excrete them,” she blushed but shook it off. “And we just learnt the third,” she said with a grin, as Dominick managed to get another mouthful of dandelion seeds, “…seed dispersal by wind!” * * * Soon they were back in the village. The ripe, orange sun was low in the sky, staining the horizon a horrifying yet fascinating red. Gemma was bathing in the river that trickled be-hind the small log cabin that she and her parents lived in. The water was cool and refreshing, gurgling and bubbling happily as it streamed along like an endless cord of blue ribbon. As she washed, a twittering bird caught her attention. Its wings were a deep, eye-catching turquoise; its chest was a soft, plush orange and it had a white underbelly. The bird’s beady black eyes darted back and forth, as it hopped along the bank. It must be a bluebird, Gemma thought, look at that magnificent sheen! Suddenly, her mother walked out of the back door of the cabin, startling the bluebird. “Gemma, your tutor is here to see you.” Her mother smiled. “And he’s brought the loveliest clothes with him! You’d better dry yourself off, then greet him.” She handed Gemma a clean linen towel that had been left outside to be baked by the sun. “I’ll be right there!” Gemma exclaimed, hopping out of the river and gladly taking the warm sheet to towel herself off with, from her mother. * * * Gemma walked in, her curling raven-black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her red cotton dress creased as she sat down on the chair opposite Dominick. “Hello!” she said cheerfully. “Haven’t today’s lessons ended?” He beamed. “Well, this isn’t really a lesson,” he said. Unable to contain himself, he blurted it out, “Have you heard of the Masked Ball?” “No.” Instantly, a flashing yellow question mark appeared in Gemma’s head. It was her weakness—a thirst for knowledge. “Well,” Dominick explained excitedly, “it’s a marvellous ball that happens every year, and the theme is masquerade. All the famous scientists, writers, mathematicians and artists meet there every year and exchange information. The fun part isn’t the elaborate dresses, delicious food or bittersweet drinks; it’s the fact that you have absolutely no clue as to the identity of the person you’re getting information from, because all of these great, talented people are masked. And so you will be too, Gemma.” He stopped for breath, panting. Dominick pulled out a beautiful black mask from his satchel, along with a dark blue gown of silk and pair of pearly white shoes. Gemma’s eyes widened as she realized what he meant. “I- I- I’m going to the Masked Ball?” she stuttered. Her heart was pounding wildly, she felt the blood pulsing ecstatically inside her. She would get to meet all of those wonderful people! She, Gemma Burberry, would become a masked guest at this extravagant event! “I’m not even on the guest list though!” she cried, more with excitement than doubt. “How can I get in?” Dominick grinned. “That’s the sneaky bit,” he said. “My Aunt Jennifer is the cousin of the man who runs the catering at the ball. She was invited to come along and mingle with the guests, but sadly she caught pneumonia and can’t go. Instead, we’ve agreed that you, a young scholar with plenty of potential, should go instead. Your name from then on will be Jennifer Vickson.” “But what if the catering man mistakes me for your aunt?” Gemma gasped. “He’ll certainly be there!” “No he won’t,” Dominick replied calmly. “He’s gone down with pneumonia too—who do you think my aunt caught it from?” Gemma sat down, not even realizing she had stood up in the first place. There was nothing stopping her. Nothing blocking her way from becoming a guest at the Masked Ball… what should she do? A smile slowly began to spread on her face, as sweetly and willingly as hot butter on toast. “Of course I’ll go,” she said. “I’d be crazy not to!” * * * Meanwhile, the ball was taking place. Lords and ladies, scientists and amateurs, all gathered under the brilliant, golden light that leaked through the crystals of the grand chandelier, which hung suspended over their heads. The floor was a cool marble, the tables all of the smoothest oak, even the curtain cords were tied in fancy silver bows! But the highlight of the evening was the masks. Oh, what a variety! There were red masks of velvet lined with gold tissue; menacing black masks adorned with long, dark feathers; pleasant, solid blue masks with shining silver pearls. Suddenly, the chatter subsided as the doorman led another person into the room. It was a young woman, wearing a soft, navy-blue dress and an intriguing, mysterious dark mask almost as black as her hair. Eventually, the noise grew back to its usual level. The girl was Gemma. Gemma walked around, blushing prettily for no apparent
Fiction
We sat there, under the tree, our tree. The tree with the leaves that spread to the sun like helping hands. The tree with the tall trunk and cool shade. “It’s hot,” I complained, fanning myself with the back of my hand, the mid-August sun beating down from the unforgiving sun. Mimi stood up. Her long dark hair draped down her back and her rosy face was pink. Jared and I stared at her in confusion. “We have been sitting here all day, complaining about the heat. I want to go hiking into the woods. My mom was talking of a small stream she found while she was exploring the new hunting trails.” And with that Mimi marched off. Jared looked at me and I looked at Jared and we both stood up to follow. Our tree stood on a hill looking over the dark, forbidding woods. Those trees were black and tall in a way that our tree was not. Those trees rose like mountains until they seemed to scrape the glaring cloudless sky. They whispered about some untold secret when the wind passed, rattling together with a sound like bones. It was for this reason that I stopped at the forest’s edge. Long, thick, parched stems of grasses pressed up against my legs. A small red-and-black ladybug was crawling, ever so slowly, up one of the stems. It reached the top, lost its footing and fell. “Emma, hurry up!” Mimi’s voice was impatient and I could see her far ahead, through the trees. Her yellow summer dress stood out like a ghost against the dark trunks and I hurried to catch up. We followed no path in particular. The forest floor was carpeted with leaves, which had fallen in the late summer drought, making the ground crunchy and hard to see. There were no birds and no small animals. No, they had all fled, searching for water somewhere else. We reached the place. A place where the trees were green and lush and the grass sang. When a gust of wind blew, it sang of joy and happiness and life. There were rocks beyond the grass that led to a river. Not a stream, as described by Mimi’s mother, but a rushing, swishing, pouring river. The water was a clear, beautiful, turquoise blue. Mimi flung off her shoes and ran to dip her toes into the water and Jared followed not too far after. We hadn’t seen this much water in a long time. My feet dipped under the cold surface and felt the hard, round pebbles of the riverbed between their toes. Jared gasped and I looked up. On the opposite shore was a woman. She was tall and slender. Her hair was thick and hung in ringlets around her face. She wore a white dress though her feet were bare. But the most amazing part of her beauty was she seemed to emanate a faint, silvery glow. I glanced sideways at Jared and his mouth was hanging open. I longed to shut it and ask this wonderful lady to forgive his rudeness, but I didn’t. She opened her mouth and the word came out like a tumbling waterfall, fluent and enchanting. “Come.” Jared stepped forward as if under a spell. Somehow, he crossed the river and stood beside her. She grabbed him by the arm and ran with a wonderful grace. Mimi screamed and ran after her, sloshing through the racing river. The woman paused just inside the trees and looked back. Her eyes grew dark and hard, they seemed to grow bigger and bigger until they swallowed everything else. The world tipped under me and all was quiet. My eyes fluttered open and I was back under the tree, our tree, with Mimi and Jared beside me. Something was different and I looked up to see the sky open in a torrential downpour.
Fiction
I cannot speak today. Instead, I must act out every word in charades or write it down on a pad of paper. I carry the pad of paper around with me, scraps of my life written down in faint pencil. “I already had breakfast,” says one. Another: “Daddy’s at the grocery store.” And, written heavily in big letters at the top of the page, “I have a sore throat.” I meander upstairs and turn towards the chair in the corner of the family room, thinking of the old National Geographic magazines stashed on top of the guidebooks piled behind the plump flower-patterned chair. Cassandra, my older sister, is camped out on the red couch, computer open on her lap, homework spread around her in a private whirlwind. Homework. On a Saturday. I nod to her as I pass, silently hoping to never have this much homework in high school. “Hi, Grace,” she responds. Then, seeing my mopey expression, “What’s wrong?” I hold up my pad of paper so that she can clearly see the bold letters at the top of the page. “Oh. Sorry,” Cassandra says. “Hurt a lot?” I nod vigorously and make my way over to the chair. I sink into it and grab a National Geographic magazine at random from behind me, fingers gently brushing against the spines of the guidebooks. I sink into the chair and begin to read, skimming lazily. I finish one magazine, then another. I’m aware of the time passing, aware that perhaps Daddy should be home by now. I reach over and tap Cassandra’s foot. She looks up, her fingers pausing in their incessant typing. “Yes, Grace?” she says irritably. I stand on tiptoes, fingers pointing toward the sky as I look down at Cassandra, my brow furrowed. She hands me my pad of paper, and I wave it away. I want to communicate by charades; I need to see if I can do it. “Bear?” Cassandra guesses. I shake my head no, then run to Daddy’s desk and grab his glasses. Shoving them on my head, I run back to Cassandra. She ponders what to guess, finger tapping her chin. “Bear with glasses? Harry Potter?” I roll my eyes, then resume my pose. I’m getting a headache from the glasses now, but Cassandra has to guess my pose first. I point violently to the glasses, nearly jabbing myself in the eye. “Glasses… Daddy’s glasses…” Cassandra guesses halfheartedly. I nod vigorously. “Daddy’s glasses!” Cassandra yells. I hold up one finger to indicate that I only want the first word. “Daddy!” Cassandra guesses. I nod and tear off the glasses, relieved, then tap my wrist. I’m giggling now, helpless laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. “Watch,” Cassandra says. I shake my head, still giggling, and tap my wrist more urgently. “Time?” she guesses. I nod, giggling, and point to Daddy’s glasses, now lying sideways on the coffee table, then to my wrist. “Daddy… time…” Cassandra says slowly, more unsure. I nod encouragingly, smiling now. Cassandra pauses, and then her eyes light up. “What time will Daddy come home?” I nod and start to giggle again, and soon Cassandra joins in. “I don’t know,” she hiccups. We roar with laughter and fall to the floor, still laughing. I smile at Cassandra as I realize the only language we need is a wordless language of love.
Fiction
“I wish I was like them, the seals,” I say to Russ, still a little dazed. “Why the seals? Why not any of the other animals we have seen?” Russ asks with a puzzled look on his face. “Because they are so free in their own little world with no problems at all,” I think aloud, gazing through the fogged-up glass of the exhibit. “Sometimes it’s nice to be in a big world, more people to meet and talk to,” Russ says to me with a giant smirk on his face. Russ is always getting after me for being too shy and not knowing more people. I just don’t talk that much. “Only idiots talk when they have nothing to say.” I always say that to people who ask why I’m so quiet. But at least he cares. Russ and I have been together for almost as long as I can remember. Being older by many years, and being my brother, he has always looked after me like another parent. I wonder if the seals know that they are in captivity. Or that, even though they are having the time of their lives, they are prisoners, I think to myself, awed. They have nothing to worry about. It must be absolute bliss to live like that. I keep thinking to myself, already in a trance. Drifting back down from the cloud I was dreaming on, I ask Russ, “Wouldn’t it be nice to be as free as they are?” I turn around for an answer and probably a look from Russ that is sure to call me a dumbstruck dreamer, but no one is there. He wouldn’t just take off like that. Did he tell me he was going somewhere? “Oh man, oh man,” I say while wringing my hands together so tightly they started to turn white. “I shouldn’t be daydreaming. I do it too much, and now because of it I don’t know where Russ went.” I start to ramble on, punishing myself. I feel like cursing. Half running, half tripping, I move quickly around the circular area. Scanning the crowd, I see no sign of Russ. Shouting his name would do no good. No one could hear anything over this grunting mass of tourists. Swiftly, I squeeze past mobs while looking for a front desk or anyone who could help me. I run backwards up the ramp and look over the building layout and no Russ to be seen. Stopping dead in my tracks, I start to finger the braided ring Russ gave to me. I always do this when I am nervous. I have fingered it and rubbed it so much it is starting to slowly disappear. People tell you that worrying gets you nowhere. That is not true, it gets you more scared. I walk outside onto the picnic place right outside of the aquarium. I stand across from a table and lean on a wall. I scan the harbor and around the area for the red flame of Russ’s head he calls hair. Thoughts run through my mind that should never enter anyone’s. Did he leave me here on purpose? Will I ever get home? Is Russ all right? What will happen to me? My body’s shaking because of how scared I am—more than the cold fall wind. I still look around, hopeful to see any sign of Russ. I feel a little pinch on my foot. Scared of what I might find, I take a deep breath and slowly look down with my eyes closed. I’m shaking. Not wanting it to be a giant bug or a snake, I reluctantly open my eyes. I almost laugh. There is a turtle lying at my feet, having a small snack of my sneaker lace. I bend down cautiously to the turtle and soon I’m eye-to-eye with him. I look into the little guy’s eyes and “Russ!” I exclaim, ashamed that I forgot. Lost. I didn’t think of it that way. I’m lost. Without Russ I am really, truly lost. My legs slide slowly from under me. I sink down against the wall, feeling more invisible than ever. A tear wells up in my eye and slowly it slips down, not seen or heard, only sensed. More and more keep flowing down silently until my face is soaked and my eyes blurred. I flinch; a familiar pinching feeling is now on my elbow. Turning my head, I feel a flow of warm air that stinks of rotten garbage and greens. The turtle is on my legs and crawling into my lap to nibble at my jeans. “I bet someone is looking for you just like I hope that Russ is looking for me,” I say to the turtle while looking at it and seeing some things I didn’t see before—the turtle’s neck craned over my leg and his eyes darting back and forth, looking for something particular. The turtle looks very determined to get closer to my pant leg to get a little nibble. He is moving very slowly but in such a cute way it seems like time stands still just so I can see this creature journey through an obstacle course. “Maybe I should have just stayed put with the seals in my own world,” I tell the turtle with a glum look on my face and my arms crossed across my chest. Now more frustrated than scared, I look once more over the crowd in the grassy area. No one and nothing worth seeing. I look down toward the turtle and am almost ready to collapse when a hand lifts my head up. It’s Russ and an expression of pure alarm on his face melts into relief and tears are streaming down both of our faces toward where the turtle had been.
Poem
It was the last day. Names and Have a great summers Had been scribbled into yearbooks. Presents had been lovingly handed to teachers. For six years, we’d had last days. We’d sung cute little songs, And signed the yearbooks, The amount of friends growing each year. We’d always seen them—the oldest kids— Going to the ceremony. We’d always heard the music from the hallway. But we never thought that we’d actually be those fifth-graders. And we never imagined how strange it was when you’re sitting on a rug in a classroom for the last time. And you’ve had your last recess. Ever. And there you are, staring into your friends’ eyes, Not knowing whether to scream out with joy Or wail and explode with tears. Because the bell, that we have heard ring thousands of times, Is screaming its shrill, heartbreaking call, The sorrowful “Brrring!” that had told us time to go so many times, Was sounding for the last time, Like it was hollering, “I miss you,” forlornly, But it was too late— We had already gone away. And we’d never hear its call as students of that school again.
Poem
By Rebecca Mitkus Wishnie Down at the dock when all is dark, my footsteps clang and echo on the metal corridor above the ocean. Filling the near silence, accompanying the shhhh of the waves and the thud thump of the silver boats knocking on the dock. And the sssss... callop sssss... callop of the white-crested waves disintegrating on the peaceful shoreline. Look at the black sky! White sparks in the darkness of night, the kindling of light.
Book Reviews
Love, Aubrey, by Suzanne LaFleur; Wendy Lamb Books: New York, 2009; $15.99 Have you ever read a book that is, in every way, perfect? Have you ever read a book conveying a character so well that you feel as if you know them? That’s how I felt after that first delicious read of Love, Aubrey. Yes, my first time. But not my last. I live with my mom, dad, and brother. I can’t count how many times I have rolled my eyes at my dad, stuck out my tongue at my brother, or given my mom the silent treatment. But after I read Love, Aubrey, I remembered how wonderful it feels when I see a movie, just me and my mom, or go out to a wacky cafe with my dad, or play baseball with my brother. Then I thought of people like Aubrey, whose seven-year-old sister and father died in a car accident, whose mother abandoned her, and who had to move to Vermont with her grandmother. I don’t mean to sound preachy, but I realized how lucky I am. Imagine: you live a happy and normal life, your mom is always (or almost always) ready to play and have fun, your sister is as cute and nice as a seven-year-old sister could be and your dad has a good job that pays him well. This was Aubrey’s life. But while she is driving back from a vacation in a blinding downpour life throws a cruel curveball that kills both her sister and father. This brings me to the most complex point of all: kids are in many ways more adaptable than grown-ups. After this tragic accident, Aubrey’s mother—out of sheer grief—abandons her. So Aubrey moves to Vermont to live with her grandma. In Vermont, Aubrey has to start more than a new school—she has to start a new life. During the summer and the beginning of the school year Aubrey’s thoughts are constantly clouded by sadness and confusion, especially for her sister, Savannah, who was very similar to the sister of the girl next door. It seems that the only people Aubrey can talk to are her pet fish and Savannah’s imaginary friend, Jilly. It’s like she’s isolated herself on an island that she doesn’t feel ready to leave. But gradually she makes friends with Bridget, the girl next door, gets closer to her grandmother and starts to open up to the school counselor. In my life, I have attended three different schools. In first grade, when I spent a wonderful year in Germany with my family, I attended the Comenius School. I felt scared. I wondered what people would think of me. Would I make friends? Would anyone hate me? Would anyone like me? School is the majority of my social life, and it’s the same way for Aubrey. In school, there are other things to deal with besides sorrow—there’s homework, friends, crushes. While at school, Aubrey allows herself to flee from her island a little and begins to let the terrible things that have happened in her life fade into the past. Meanwhile, people are frantically searching for Aubrey’s mom. After about three months of school, she is found. Aubrey’s mother has always loved her. That’s not the problem. Death is a huge force that can do many things to people. I think the impact of the car crash and all the loved ones lost made Aubrey’s mother do this terrible thing despite her love and care for Aubrey. After her mother is found and spends months seeing a psychologist, she is finally ready to visit. This is a big deal for Aubrey. Think: your mother has abandoned you, apologized over and over through tears by phone, and now she’s coming to visit. I remember last year in my choir when we had auditioned for the first solo of the season. For weeks I had worried and wished and gotten sweaty hands from crossing my fingers, but when it finally came time for our conductor to announce who had gotten the solo, I was suddenly wishing that I had never come to choir. If you morph this into more serious terms, that’s how Aubrey felt. For months she has cried and prayed and desperately wanted her mom to come back, but when she finally does, Aubrey feels scared and confused. Slowly, Aubrey and her mother adjust to each other and begin to spend more time together, making dinner, playing Monopoly, hugging, talking, and relaxing outside. Aubrey, her grandmother, and her mom have a fantastic time together. But it’s just a visit and, after Aubrey’s mom goes back to their old house to see her psychologist some more and to get a job, Aubrey settles back into her now normal life in Vermont. Then a decision is put in front of Aubrey. She has the choice of living with her mother or staying with her Gram. She finds herself very confused. Should she go back and live with her mom? Should she stay here with Gram, Bridget and her counselor? Decisions cloud up a lot of life, and I sometimes wish that somebody could just decide them for me. But then again, I tell myself every time I am faced with one, I need to make my own decisions without somebody else planning out my life for me. That’s what Gram tells Aubrey when she asks what she should do. I’m not going to say that Love, Aubrey isn’t sad, because it is. Really sad! But I am going to say that you should never let the sadness stop you from reading this amazing book. Because once you begin reading about the life of Aubrey Priestly, you can never stop.
