Fiction
People who believe in magic can see that magic in the trickling waters of a creek; or at least I can. I began to love going down to the creek in the woods behind our home when I was six-and-a-half. My parents usually took me, but when I turned seven, I was independent enough to go alone. By then, the creek was always washing things up onto the banks, especially beautiful sparkling rocks. It was almost like it was giving me gifts. Often my brother, Peter, and I would run down to the creek with my dog, Sizzles, running in front of us, barking at squirrels. When we arrived, we would kick off our shoes and splash around in the cool rushing water. After it rains, the creek is a huge treacherous river, and my parents don’t let me go down there very often. It was a sunny spring Saturday morning. After breakfast, I decided that I was going to spend a while at the creek. I called, “Mama! I’m going down to the creek.” “OK, but first let me show you something!” she called back. I ran into the grassy green garden and she held up the head of a gorgeous pink camellia. Mama loves flowers. I love them too, but I don’t think anyone loves them as much as she does. She is a pretty famous person in the town for grafting camellias. “It’s beautiful.” I smiled at it. “It’s called Pink Perfection,” she returned happily. I could see why. I examined the perfect layered petals on the flower, smiling. Unexpectedly, Mama frowned and said, “You know, my camellias are disappearing. It could be deer, but I have the feeling that somebody is picking them.” I frowned too and wondered, What could be happening to them? Then I said, “Well, I’ll go now, and I’ll see you soon.” As I left the yard and headed towards the forest, I heard a familiar voice chasing me. “Where are you going, Lindsey?” It was Peter. “The creek.” “I want to come.” I shrugged and said, “Well, come!” He nodded and jogged after me. A stick cracked in half as I trampled it with Sizzles at my heels. She wagged her tail and jumped over a log, forging ahead of Peter and me. We knew the woods well by now, the three of us. When we reached the creek, I yanked off my red boots and jumped off of a muddy hill. Sizzles leapt back to avoid me and I laughed, standing in the cool rushing water. Then I saw her, a girl with long dark curls, standing in the creek about twenty yards away. She had brown eyes too, and, most importantly, she had spun a crown of flowers that perched in her hair. It was spun with clovers, wildflowers, and tiny violets, but also an assortment of roses and perfect pink layered camellias. When I took a step in her direction, she sprinted out of the creek, grabbing a pair of brown boots on the ground. Sizzles barked and growled, making to run across the creek, but I grabbed her collar. “No, Sizzie!” I exclaimed. “Bad dog.” “What?” Peter asked. “Someone… someone was over there.” I waded across the creek as Peter watched me with looks of suspicion and question on his face. The girl was gone, but there on the sand lay a single Pink Perfection camellia. * * * All through the school week she was in the back of my mind. When I wasn’t busy with my work, like at recess, my mind floated to that topic. On Wednesday, a few of my friends—Katie, Eloise, and Jenny—asked if I wanted to play with them. Thinking I had spent too long with my mind on this mysterious figure, I joined in their game. “Did you see those Mexicans in the grocery store?” Eloise asked as we snapped sticks off of branches to make wands. “Oh, yeah,” Jenny replied, sneering. “And they’ve got two girls, right? What do they think they’re doing here? Mexicans shouldn’t be taking Americans’ jobs, which is, like, definitely what they’re doing! They don’t belong here. I bet they’re illegal immigrants!” “If I knew their names, I’d totally turn them in!” Katie joined in. I frowned uncomfortably, remembering the image of the girl at the creek. Her tan skin and black hair fit the definition of Mexican. Was she? At last, Friday came. I had finally figured out who the girl was: a neighbor of ours who lived in an old small house in the woods. I had seen her in the grocery store before, but my family didn’t know her parents, or her, or her sister. When Saturday afternoon arrived, I yanked on my boots and jogged towards the woods to go to the creek. I was set to see the stranger again, foolishly bringing a pair of binoculars just to be sure. I let Peter come. He knew about the girl because I didn’t see the point of keeping it a secret alone, but I did make him promise to keep it one, just in case the girls wanted it that way. * * * We left Sizzles and went on our own, sweeping away the branches that clawed at our hair. At last, the rushing waters came into earshot, then sight, and there she was. She had brought her sister around too, and they sat by the water, cooling their feet and talking. Although I could hear their speaking quite clearly, not a word made sense. It was all in Spanish. I watched them from behind a live oak, and Peter peeked around the other side. The smaller girl was the one I had seen last week, and she still wore the crown of flowers in her hair. In fact, it was quite amazing. She had woven it together with the same materials, but what made my heart skip a beat was that the flowers that made it up were
Fiction
Jasper stared out the window of the van and thought. He thought that he would not like his new home. His friends and his father were at his real home, the home he wanted to be his. The home that used to be his. His mother and father got divorced six months ago and his mother wouldn’t let her husband take Jasper. Jasper would rather have gone with his father. His mother could not teach him to fold paper airplanes or throw a football. She could not throw a basketball or sing him his favorite lullaby. She could show him drawing techniques and read to him. Jasper did not like those things. He had shoulder-length brown hair and green eyes. Like his father. Jasper stared out the window and looked at the sea. He had everything in common with his father. His father was behind him, like his past. As a matter of fact, his best days were behind him. How would he ever get along with his mother, and how could he do it alone? Jasper looked down at his notebook. A droplet of water splashed onto one of the pages. Jasper knew where it had come from. He wiped his grimy arm across his eyes and listened to the radio. “… and it is one hundred three degrees out, humid,” the reporter said energetically. One hundred three degrees, thought Jasper. No wonder I’m sweating. “Jasper, darling,” his mother whispered, “we’re here.” They stepped out of the car and Jasper looked at his new home. It was a nice place, two stories, and painted sky blue with white shutters. There was a basketball hoop attached to the garage door and a large backyard. The beach was just down the road and there was a dock and an ice cream parlor. Jasper’s mother sent him to the beach while she sorted things out with the moving truck guy. She gave Jasper ten dollars for ice cream. Jasper walked down the road. The beach was deserted. It was too hot. First he went into the ice cream parlor and bought a cone of fudge ripple. He slung his feet over the dock and squinted into the sun. His feet made ripples in the water. Just like my ice cream, thought Jasper. His mind directed back to the move. I’ll have to make new friends, he thought. I’ll have to get along with Mom, he thought. I’ll have to be missing dad, he thought. But he knew he had to get along with Mom, because otherwise his father would be mad at him. Now he was totally confused about how to do that. When he got home, his hands sticky from the ice cream, his mother showed him his room. She bought some wooden letters and spelled JASPER over his bed. His room had a desk and a bed and a closet and a dresser and a bookcase. Like any old room. “It’s nice,” he told his mother politely. Then Jasper excused himself and went to sit in the backyard. What would he do? What he really needed was something to keep him calm, to calm him when he was upset. He needed his own special place, that had a sound that calmed him down. So the next day, he rode around the neighborhood and looked at all the places. The playground, the beach, the ice cream shop… He settled on the dock. He loved to put his feet in the water, the dock was almost always empty, and it had the sound of the sea. One day Jasper and his mother went to the beach and Jasper found a conch shell. He sent it to his father, along with a tag that said, “A gift from your boy, Jasper.” * * * But then one evening, Jasper had a big fight with his mother. Naturally, it was about his father. And Jasper was so angry and upset he ran out into the backyard and hugged his knees until the lights went out in his house and the stars came out. Jasper tiptoed back into his room and got ready for bed. He got in bed and closed his eyes. But the pesky burden that was sleep would not come, and Jasper could not stop his brain from squeezing into thoughts about the fight. Then he remembered his special place. He looked at his clock. It read 10:02 p.m. Pretty late, thought Jasper, but not too late. So he walked into the bathroom and put on some shorts and a T-shirt that read, “The Beach Is Cool,” then tiptoed out onto the street. His feet ruffled the water and he lay back on the dock and felt the breeze rustle his hair. For once since he moved, he felt, not exactly happy, but at peace. Not upset. He leaned his head back and thought. Then he took out a piece of paper and a pen and wrote a letter to his dad. * * * A week later, Jasper lay on his bed, tinkering with his broken radio until he became bored by trying to fix it. He rolled over on his back and stared at the clock. It read 11:57 a.m. Jasper would have to wait. It wasn’t happening until one o’clock. The letter had worked. Jasper was waiting on the front steps. He leaned his head back and let the breeze rustle his hair. Then secretly, he smiled, something he hadn’t done much since his parents got divorced. Jasper knew his father wouldn’t come exactly on time. He was famous in the family for being late. The times where his mother and father had laughed about that seemed ages ago. So this time, Jasper went into the house around 12:25 p.m. to have lunch. At 12:38 p.m., he came out, licking a purple Popsicle. Then he sat down on the front steps again. Around 1:15 p.m., Jasper was getting anxious. He hoped his father was planning on coming. Until that
Fiction
INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY It was just one of those foggy afternoons when, suddenly, my dad’s phone rang. Of course, his phone rings a lot considering he’s a marine biologist, and people call him about sea lions, seals, and whatnot. But this call was different. It came from a local fisherman, fourteen miles off the coast of Northern California. He said he had found a bottlenose dolphin trapped under fishnets and that he didn’t know how long it had been there or how it got there, but he was certain of one thing: without help it was going to die. My dad frowned, drummed his fingers along the countertop, crossed the room, made a few quick calls, got some equipment, and headed for the door. Right then and there, I decided to go with him. “Dad,” I began, “I was wondering if I could… go with you?” He shrugged and pushed out his lower lip. “Should be OK.” I smiled, and together we left the house. We met up with four of my dad’s friends at our boat, The Porpoise. I realized that all of them were dressed for the adventure, while I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Oh well, it was too late to go back, so I just stepped on board, and we started off. We live in Berkeley, so we had to cut across the San Francisco Bay in order to get into the open Pacific. The ride took us under the majestic Golden Gate Bridge, although we could barely see it; it was veiled in mist. As we continued out to sea, I kept hoping to see some sign of the perishing animal. I never like that feeling, when you know somebody or something is dying, and there is nothing you can do to help. I could feel a coldness in my stomach and perspiration running down my neck. I glanced up at my dad’s fellow biologists and saw them talking comfortably. I gotta say, I was envious. I mean, I’m sitting here all queasy and they are chatting away! Everybody looked up when my dad turned off the boat’s motor. I started staring out at the sea, which was as smooth as glass. I was about to ask where the dolphin was, when my dad seemed to read my thoughts. He said, “We are gonna go in silently. We don’t want to make the dolphin anxious.” I liked the way my dad was saying “we.” It made me think that I might be included. His next words confirmed my thoughts. “Your wetsuit is on the boat,” he said, “and I’ve got an extra pair of goggles you could use. Do you wanna come?” I nodded happily and crossed the boat to get changed. Our boat slowly drifted toward a tangled mass of fishnets and buoys. When we were about twenty yards away, my dad, two of his friends, and I slipped into the water. The only exposed part of my body was my face, but still, my whole body got chills when I dunked under. Getting to the fishnets was slow progress. I could have gotten there much faster if I didn’t have a life jacket on; it gave my arms a very limited amount of space, to say the least. It took a while to get to the nets, but let me tell you, it took a whole lot longer to find the dolphin. It was somewhere in what looked like a massive knot. Finally, we found it, and it was in pretty bad shape. The dolphin was almost in a vertical position in the water. Ropes ensnared its entire body. One of the traps was weighing down the animal’s tail fluke. We were all armed with knives, and both my dad and his colleagues had oxygen tanks, meaning they could dive under to free the dolphin’s tail. I had to free its mouth and head. When you’re freeing a dolphin, you’re going to want to be super careful. And when I say “super,” I mean it. If I were to miss any of the ropes and cut the dolphin, it could freak out, thrash around, and maybe hurt us and itself. So it was slow work. Now, I’m up at the surface sawing away at the ropes, and my dad and his friends are down at the tail. Do you think the dolphin was enjoying all this activity? No. It’s slashing its pectoral fin at me and flipping its tail. In fact, it was using all its remaining strength to get us away! And if it didn’t have any more strength left… That thought made me work faster. After half-an-hour’s work, many of the ropes were already loosened or cut away. But that wasn’t enough; I wanted every one of these horrible nets at the bottom of the ocean. In another fifteen minutes my wish was granted. The nets slipped down, down into the endless abyss. The dolphin was free! My dad, his two colleagues, and I, swam happily to the boat to celebrate. When we turned back, the dolphin was still there. We waited for ten minutes. Twenty minutes. The dolphin wouldn’t leave. Then I noticed a small gray object, in another set of nets, eight yards from where the dolphin was swimming. I pointed it out to my dad and his eyes widened. Then he smiled at me. “She has a calf!” he exclaimed. That got me and all four of my dad’s friends diving into the water. The mother dolphin reached her calf before us, but surprisingly she let us touch and untangle it. Once it was freed, she nuzzled it. We smiled and swam back to the boat. I climbed aboard and turned around. She’d followed us. She popped her head out of the water and gave a short whistle. It could have only meant one thing. “Thanks.”
Fiction
Our memories define who we are. They are the things that tie us to meaningful places as well as to the people we have loved. Memories are a part of us. So who are we without them? Who are we with nothing but lost, scattered memories? Who is my grandma? * * * The car ride to the retirement home is short. Dad parks the car right up front in between a black jeep and a red pickup truck. He turns to me with a thin smile. “Ready, honey?” I nod and get out of the car and can feel the thick heat bouncing onto my face from the sun. The fresh scent of flowers dances in the air and tickles my nose playfully. With hands clasped together, Dad and I walk up the steps to the large white retirement home. We push open the heavy glass doors, allowing the air conditioning to cool me down from the summer heat outside. I see Patty at the front desk and smile. She looks up happily and waves us over with bright eyes. “How are you today?” she asks from her swivel chair. “We’re doing good,” Dad replies. I grab a mint from the glass jar sitting on top of the desk. “How’s my grandma?” I ask as I unwrap the mint and plop it into my mouth. She gives me a reassuring smile and places a lock of black hair behind her ear. “She is doing well. I’m sure she will be very happy to see you both.” “Thanks, Patty,” Dad says as we begin to walk towards another set of glass doors. We push the doors open and enter a large room. One side of the room is filled with nice leather couches occupied by elders squinting at the television in the corner, and the other has corkboards filling the wall of the different activities occurring this month. Dad and I pass by old people mingling within the retirement home, canes and walkers in hand. We pass by an old woman wearing large glasses with white hair pulled back into a bun. “Hello!” She smiles and waves. I don’t know who this woman is, but I smile and wave back. Dad has always told me that I should do this. He tells me that living in places like this can be sad. Living here can remind you of your limitations. And sometimes the families of those living here don’t even bother to visit—they don’t even say hello. If I ever had to live in a place like this, I would be sad, too. We walk down a red-carpeted hallway with doors on both sides leading into bedrooms. Names are written in a slot next to each door in thick black letters of those who live here. At the end of the hall we stop. The door to Grandma’s room is wide open, and I can feel a humid breeze. Dad walks in first, looking concerned, with me following from behind. Usually Grandma’s door is shut tight when we come to visit. I can see Dad’s shoulders relax in front of me and feel mine do the same. Grandma is sitting in her wooden rocking chair by the corner in front of an open window. I puzzle at this for a moment. Grandma never has her window open, either. But I shake the thought off quickly to put on a smile for her. “Who are you?” Grandma stares at us with furrowed eyebrows. “Hi, Mom.” Dad takes a seat in the other wooden rocking chair next to Grandma. “It’s me, Daniel, your son.” “Oh, Daniel!” Her face lightens up and produces a wrinkled smile. “And this is your granddaughter, Maggie,” he says as he gestures to me. “Hi, Grandma!” I say as I take a seat on her neatly made bed. She puts a delicate hand to her pale cheek. “I didn’t know that I had a grandchild…” My heart aches for a moment as I look at her. Grandma’s faded blue eyes show nothing. There is no sign of recollection at all. “That’s OK, Mom.” Dad takes her hand into his. “Maybe you don’t recognize her. She probably looks different…” Dad frowns suddenly and looks down at Grandma’s hand. “Dad, what’s wrong?” I straighten up and try to read his face. He looks back up at Grandma in panic. “Mom, where’s your ring?” Grandma blinks. “What ring?” “Your wedding ring, Mom,” Dad speaks louder, “the one that your husband gave to you?” She shakes her head. “I don’t understand.” Dad rummages quickly through her dress pockets, fishing out nothing but tissues. He turns to me with a stern look. “Maggie, go push the employee assistance button,” he says quickly. I nod and run to the bedroom door. Next to it on the right side is a large red button with bold letters underneath it saying Employee Assistance. I push it urgently. And then, after waiting only a second more, I push it again. Suddenly Alex, one of the employees, walks in. “Do you need…” he begins. Dad cuts him off. “Her wedding ring. It’s not on her!” Alex’s eyes grow behind his glasses as he lets his mouth hang open. “I need help finding it!” Alex nods quickly and stumbles into the room. “Yes, of course.” Dad turns to me briefly. “Maggie, sit down next to her, OK?” I rush over to Grandma and take a seat next to her in the wooden rocking chair. We both watch in a blur as they rummage through the drawers and shelves. Dad and Alex go through her bin of dirty clothes and delicately turn over each dress and each pair of pants to make sure the ring couldn’t be hidden inside them. They rip off the sheets of what was once her neatly made bed and even crawl around on the floor, looking under everything. I turn to Grandma and wonder if she knows what’s happening. I wonder if she remembers
Fiction
It was a beautiful spring morning. My irises and daisies were beginning to bloom. The crepe myrtles had put on their finest display, and pink flowers littered my driveway. It was a perfect day in North Carolina. I stepped out of the house and got into my old truck. Slowly, I drove the few miles to the Carl Sandburg home. On the way up the hill, I met one of my fellow workers, Amy. We chatted together about everything, from baby goats to gardens. We reached the goat barn and went through the gate. “I’m so excited, Christy,” Amy told me. “You know Jenny?” I nodded. Jenny was the head worker. “Mmm hmm?” “Well anyway, she sent me an email this morning saying that a few of the goats gave birth last night!” “Great!” I exclaimed. We hurried inside the barn. “Christy, Amy, come over here,” Jenny called. We ran over to her. Jenny was holding Nellie, one of our goats, still. “She’s having trouble with her babies,” she told us solemnly. Amy and I looked at each other. We bent down and struggled with Nellie. An hour later we had a thin baby goat in our laps. “Only one?” Amy asked. “That’s unusual.” Jenny gently took the kid from me and examined it. “It’s very weak and sickly,” she noted. “He needs food.” She tried to urge Nellie to nurse her child. The goat turned around and refused to. “She’s shunning her baby because he’s so sick!” I cried in despair. “We’ll have to bottle-feed him,” Amy realized. “Christy, I’m putting you in charge of this little guy,” Jenny said. She handed me the goat. “But… but,” I stammered. “I’ve got to go check on the other goats. Come on, Amy.” Amy gave the kid one last glance before following Jenny out of the barn. I gently adjusted the little fellow and coaxed the nipple of a bottle into his mouth. He finished the milk in a few minutes and then snuggled against me. I smiled and stroked his soft brown back. He had found a new mother. Two weeks passed since the goat’s birth, and he still had never left the barn. He also still remained without a name. Jenny had left him in my responsibility, so I figured that I was supposed to name him. But none of the names I picked for him suited him. I tried Ginger, but he wasn’t fiery. He was calm and dependent. Fuzzy didn’t quite fit him. I asked visitors for ideas and came up with Little, Quiet, Sam, Cinnamon, and Chocolate. One day, as I was trying to think of a name, one of the workers, Marla, came in. I had never been very fond of her, as she wasn’t the brightest creature on earth. She stood leaning against the doorway of the barn. Finally she said, “Barney.” “What?” I looked up. “Barney. Name him Barney. He’s never left the barn, has he? So name him Barney.” She left the doorway and walked outside. I pondered the name. It suited him. He had never left the barn. It wasn’t too big or grand. It was tiny and quiet. Like him. “Barney,” I whispered. “Your name is now officially Barney.” Barney gave something in between a squeal and a whinny. “You like it? Huh? You like it?” I laughed, and rolled over in the hay with Barney on top of me. “What’s goin’ on?” Marla asked. I smiled. “Thanks for the name, Marla,” I said. She shrugged. “Sure.” Although she wouldn’t admit it at the time, I knew that we had both found a new friend. * * * The weeks passed. Marla and I shared the responsibility of taking care of Barney. He became more curious, and once even ventured out of the barn. However, he still remained sickly. Jenny was afraid that when he grew up, he might pass along these sick genes. One day, she told me and Marla, “We’re going to have to neuter him. We can’t risk having a herd of sick goats.” I looked at my feet. “All right.” I couldn’t bear to watch. “You can take a break,” Jenny said, “both of you. You’ve worked so hard. Let’s give you each a week-long break, all right?” We nodded. As we walked to the parking lot, Marla said, “I’m really sorry.” I shook my head. “At least he’ll live,” I said. The week seemed years to me. Every second of the day, I worried about Barney. At night I tossed and turned. On the morning of the seventh day, I rushed over to the barn. Jenny met me. “Where’s Barney?” I gasped, seeing that his usual spot was empty. “I put Kate in charge of him for now.” My heart sank. “Oh.” “Don’t worry,” Jenny reassured me. “You’ll get him back soon. I know that you’re doing great with him. For now I need you to take care of Mocha.” My shoulders sagged. Mocha was a stingy goat, about Barney’s age. She had sprained her ankle a few weeks back, and though it had healed, it still bothered her. She would often stand in the corner and nip anyone who came too close to her. “OK.” I slowly approached Mocha with a handful of grain. I held it out to her. Instead of enjoying this rare treat, she backed away from me and eyed me suspiciously. I sighed. Suddenly I heard a familiar nicker. “Barney!” Kate was holding a squirming Barney in her arms. She brought him to Jenny. “Barney’s impossible,” she said. “He hasn’t been like this all week!” Jenny smiled. “He sees Christy. Kate, how ’bout you take care of Mocha and Christy takes care of Barney?” Relieved, Kate handed Barney over to me. I hugged him to my chest. “You’ve been such a good mother to Barney,” Jenny said. I glowed. “Thank you.” Jenny continued. “You’ll soon be saying goodbye to him.” Startled, I looked up. “Why?” “We sell some of
Fiction
I walked home with the poster for the spring musical heavy in my arms. I looked at it again, hoping that I had seen it wrong. Nope. The block letters were still dominating the page, telling me once again that I didn’t want to perform this spring. “Finding Broadway,” it said, “A Musical Without Words!” There wouldn’t be any lines, just solos. Just singing, which was my least favorite part of the play. I had done the spring musicals for a couple of years now, running in the fall and hanging out with my friends in the spring. This year it seemed that I was going to be out of the loop, skipping the play. It was a new thing to me. I entered my front door, kicked off my sneakers, and headed to the kitchen for a snack. I was halfway through my bowl of cereal when my mom walked in, having finished her email upstairs. “What’s that?” she asked, pulling the playbill from my arms before I could snatch it away. “Oh,” I said, looking down, “that’s the spring musical the school’s doing this year. I thought it looked kinda boring.” “Hmmm,” she replied, looking thoughtful. “Only singing. Interesting. I didn’t know you liked singing.” “I don’t,” I said. “I’m not sure about the play this year.” “But honey,” she interrupted, “you always do the plays!” “I know,” I sighed, “I’ll think about it.” I finished my cereal in silence and put my bowl in the sink. As I walked into the hallway, my hand reached for the phone. “I think I’ll call Ellie,” I said to no one in particular. My fingers dialed the number before I even put the phone to my ear. It rang and rang, but Ellie never answered. I left a message, telling her to call me. If I truly didn’t want to do the play, I wouldn’t be seeing much of my friends for the next few months. My dad stopped me on my way outside. He looked me in the eye for a few seconds before talking. “You look stressed,” he said. “Yeah,” I replied, “I know.” “What’s going on?” he asked. I waited before answering. “I’m not sure if I want to do the play this year. But all my friends will.” “There’s always running, you know,” he added. My dad has been trying to get me to join the track team for years. I always decline, because of the spring play, but I guess he thought this year was a possibility. “None of my friends do track,” I said. “That doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’ll make new friends.” “Right,” I replied. I hadn’t made a new friend since second grade. “Remember,” he called over his shoulder as he walked up the stairs, “follow your heart, not someone else’s.” The door slammed shut as I walked out onto the porch. My mind was full of swirling thoughts. I wanted to do the play because all my friends were doing it. I had never done track before. I wouldn’t know anyone there. I wouldn’t have any friends. I would be a loner. But I didn’t want to do the play because there would only be singing. I would hate my afternoons. I would be miserable for the next two months. I still hadn’t calmed down after a half hour of sitting on the grass. My mind would not clear, and all I could do was stare at the flowers. After fifteen more minutes had passed, I moved to get off the lawn. One of the flowers caught my eye. It was a bluebell, its petals blooming out towards the bright sunlight. It was about five feet away from the rest of the bluebells, which were only partway open. In my mind, I saw the poor flower as me, a loner by myself on the track team. But I also saw how happy the flower was, blooming larger than all its cousins in the shade. Maybe if I didn’t do the play, I would be like the flower. By myself, yet surrounded by happiness in what I was doing. I got up abruptly, all the blood rushing to my head. I had made my decision. I would join the track team. * * * The first day of track practice was Monday. After the bell had rung, I grabbed my stuff and ran down to the gym. The locker room was full of kids, excitedly changing and talking. I pushed my way to the back of my locker row and quickly put on my gym clothes. I ran upstairs to the gym and sat down on the stage. There was no one else to talk to. All of the other girls were with the friends they had signed up with and were giggling all around me in their little groups. I sat on the stage with my head down, feeling sorry for myself. Why had I ever chosen to do this? “Track!” came a voice. “Get off the stage and come over here!” It was our coach, who was also our PE teacher. “Hello,” he said, once we had all gathered around him. “My name is Coach Anderson.” Whispers were heard, like a small hissing noise had suddenly started in the gym. I was completely silent. “I hope you all enjoy track today. I think we should start with some warmups,” he continued. Everyone spread out with their friends, as Coach Anderson led us through some stretches. My legs felt tight. Running seemed impossible. “OK,” he called, “let’s do some running! Eighth graders, lead the way!” The older kids pushed to the front of the group and started to run around the school. Our school was pretty big, and by the time we got back to the gym my heart was pounding and my legs ached. I wanted to go home, but Coach Anderson had different ideas. “I want you to get in groups of six,” he called over the talking.
Poem
The grove of royal white birches I’ve always loved Casts intricate shadows On the pavement below. Black on black Like deer running at night. A young fern sprout Catches my eye. Something shines But nothing moves. An old plastic bag Flutters limply in the breeze From the high limb of a pine Like winter’s flag of surrender. The rhythmic snap Of the bag Is drowned out By the soft song Of a faraway Chickadee.
Poem
I saw a dolphin swim up to our ship, Not gray or blue but green, Just beyond the sea lions lying on the rocky beds That protect the docks from the wrath of the ocean. But today it is still, Our boat making ripples in the dark blue water, Fresh air washing my face, Waking me out of my morning slump. “Over there! Over there! The dolphins are jumping!” The ghost of my grandpa beside me, Like back on his old boat, His spirit still living With the mud and the fish smell, And the sunlight hitting the water and the swaying deck, And the dark brown leathery pelicans Flying low over the horizon.
Poem
On a perfect day long ago, in the dream-time so long that we do not remember late in the gold-brown autumn clad in hats and mittens we dashed outside to dance among auburn leaves tugging at each other’s hair and scraping fingers on rough pavement cheeks rosy we danced until the fall had filled us and we were whole again That was before the move, of course and now that memory is dust the old house alien with unknown furniture the garden overgrown that was before the move before I traded blustery autumns and snowfalls for sultry summers and palmetto bugs and I lie awake in bed at night reminiscing in silent loneliness hoping for the oblivion of sleep… But someone was there that day in the bullion autumn someone bid us stand by the bluff, overlooking the city smiling, bearing chapped cheeks and nose-tips someone snapped a picture so we will not forget snapshot
Book Reviews
Kizzy Ann Stamps, by Jeri Watts; Candlewick Press: New York, 2012; $15.99 Kizzy Ann Stamps is a normal girl. She has a dog named Shag. She lives on a farm with her mother, father, and brother. But there’s one catch to this whole “normal girl” business: Kizzy Ann is black. Today, that wouldn’t be a problem. However, in Kizzy’s time of 1963, being black would have been a huge deal. Discrimination was everywhere back then. If you were a black kid, you wouldn’t be allowed to use public restrooms. Trying on clothes at a store? The owners would’ve required you to put on gloves and cover up any body part that might be exposed to the fabric. Nowadays, we don’t have those types of problems. Black kids have the same rights as any other kids. But discrimination hasn’t left. Some types of discrimination people don’t really realize. For example, how many times have you been told you’re too young to hang out with the big kids? Or that you can’t play in the football game the neighborhood boys are organizing because you’re a girl? Both of these situations are forms of discrimination. One time, I was backstage at my dance recital. I was in first grade, and one of my friends was in second grade. We were in different classes, and each class had a backstage craft/snack table. I walked over to her table to say hi and a girl at my friend’s table said, “You can’t come over here. You’re a first grader.” We have a choice: we can join discrimination or rebel against it. Several characters in this book rebel against it. After Kizzy Ann is integrated into a “white” school, her new teacher, Miss Anderson, chooses to ditch discrimination and teach Kizzy like she was teaching a white kid. However, some characters join forces with discrimination. Kizzy Ann’s older brother, James, also attends a white school. But his teachers don’t hand out books to the black kids so they can learn alongside the white kids. And sports? None of the black kids played varsity regardless of their ability because varsity was for white kids only. Kizzy Ann and her family yearned to be treated normally. No negative attention, no special attention—just normal. When Kizzy and Shag sign themselves up for some dog training, their instructor, Mr. McKenna, treats them just like that: normal. He’s there for them through thick and thin, not trying to force their relationship but not wanting to hurt it either, even if he has trouble expressing it. This trio, plus the addition of the white neighbor boy, Frank Charles, eventually makes it to a real dog show after a fair share of troubles. Then discrimination butts in again—the man at the sign-in desk tries to eliminate her from the competition because of the color of her skin. This book reveals exactly what it might have felt like to be a black child back in 1963. It’s a book filled with excitement, heartbreak, and truth. I would recommend it to anyone in a fraction of a heartbeat. Discrimination is everywhere. We can ignore it, or we can destroy it. Which will you do?
Book Reviews
The Million Dollar Putt, by Dan Gutman; Hyperion Press: New York, 2006; $15.99 If you happen to be walking along the shelves in the library and it’s a rainy afternoon and you’re looking for a short but enchanting story, then The Million Dollar Putt, by Dan Gutman, is for you. Dan Gutman has made the life of a blind kid realistic, not to the point that you’re bewildered but to the point where you’re fascinated and curious, not ever wanting to put the book down. The Million Dollar Putt pulls you into an adventure with your heart drumming with golf, a blind kid, a girl, and a million dollar tournament. Ed Bogard, known as Bogie, is just any other kid. From his perspective, he thinks he could do anything a sighted kid could—apart from driving. Being blind doesn’t bother him because he could bike, parasail, and play guitar. So when he discovers that he could play golf like a pro, he’s stunned and excited. However, he realizes that golf is a team sport, and being blind means that he couldn’t put the ball on the tee, or set himself up. So what does he do? He finds Birdie, a mysterious girl who has been watching him for over a year since she first moved in. Birdie doesn’t know anything about golf, doesn’t know how to ride a bike or play guitar. But with her charm and her childish yet stunning personality, she becomes Bogie’s coach. In a blink of an eye, someone signs Bogie up for a golf tournament. It could’ve been any tournament, but it’s not because the prize is a million dollars! Can a blind kid and a girl who can’t ride a bike win these million dollars? Not many people have I come across who know this book, but I think this is a book totally worth reading. Dan Gutman writes fabulous books, and I’ve read almost all of them. Despite the sad touch to this story, not once have I pitied Ed in this book. He is a unique and original boy with his own opinions on life, even though he can’t see and he constantly gets made fun of and pranked on. I’ve never played golf in my life, but Ed makes it sound so easy, it makes me wonder if I should try. This book really encourages you to try new things and think in a way you’ve never thought before. After I read this book, I turned out the lights and imagined being blind, and I realized how hard it must’ve been for Ed, and how much of a strong-willed boy he is. I’d recommend this book to anyone who likes a bittersweet novel with a touch of humor and sadness. It doesn’t matter how old you are, this novel will still bring out the best in you, and all your other emotions.
