Fiction
It was a freezing cold winter day in China. My family and I were visiting my beloved paternal grandmother who lives in ZhengZhou, a city in China. And this time we were celebrating the Chinese New Year with her. It was said that eating oranges during the special occasion is meant for good luck. Being superstitious, my father and I went to the market to buy a few before the big day. The market in China is different. It's usually a street with small booths. These booths sell fresh vegetables, fruits and even meat. People who have farms in the countryside always come to the market to sell their goods. When my father and I arrived, the market was crowded with people, and of course, oranges. We looked around in the crowd of people and stopped at the sight of a small booth. This small booth was quite different; it was just a big piece of cloth on the ground with a few fresh-looking oranges. But I wondered why there were no customers. Unable to stop my curiosity, I persuaded my father to take a look at the oranges. We walked toward the booth and saw a young girl sitting on a stool, reading next to the booth. Her mind seemed to have whirled into the story, because she didn't even notice us when we walked toward her. My father cleared his throat and asked, "How much are the oranges?" The girl heard him and jumped up as though her stool had just been electrified. "Oh . . . ah . . . what?" the girl stammered. "How much are the oranges?" my father repeated patiently. "Oh . . . three for one yuan," the girl answered politely. "They are not totally ripe . . . a bit sour," she added, when my father was examining the oranges carefully. After a while he looked up and said, "I don't mind if they are sour . . . I'll buy twenty of them." Both the girl and I looked at him with surprise; I never thought my father could be so generous. Then the girl put the oranges in a bag and gave them to him. My father carelessly stuffed some money into her hand and we walked out of the busy street. "Why did you buy so many oranges from her?" I asked my father as we walked toward the bus stop. "Well, she was so truthful and even told me that her own oranges are sour; besides, she really enjoys studying. And look at her book, it's so old; maybe she can use the money she earned to buy some books!" I nodded my head vigorously after hearing my father's words. Just then, I felt somebody tugging my arm; I turned and recognized the person as the girl whom we bought the oranges from. "Ran . . . ran all the . . . way here, never . . . thought you walked so fast . . . here's . . . your change . . ." she panted, and stuffed the money in my hand. "Got to go and . . . look after my booth, bye!" Before I could mutter a thanks, she had already turned a corner and was out of sight. I stared at the coins in my hand; although it was only a few coins, the girl and her act of honesty will be etched in my memory forever . . .
Fiction
Our power was gone again. The house was at least sixty years old, I say sesenta, but we moved in a few weeks ago. The rain was slamming into the earth like a fist. Trees outside bent their heads in awe of the storm. I thought, this was the kind of weather when my abuela, or grandmother, once sang songs and drank hot black coffee. But in the family room my parents and two older brothers sat around the newspaper like mosquitoes to a light with no words shared between them. I stepped out into the rain. The water met my skin in a burst of coldness, past the jacket and pants to the tender skin. Rain always makes me feel alive and I hear my heartbeat through the pattern of drops. But then I go back inside to the air-conditioning and rock 'n' roll music, and I am not so sure. My father calls himself a man of the times. He works in a city job and must watch the politics and the local events on the television or read of them in the papers. My abuela said that it is a changing world, but we must not forget those before us who were born and lived their lives in Cuba. Also she said that of the many things that will make me a man, one is conscience. One day I broke a mug while washing and, remembering this thing, I went to tell my father, but instead of thanking me for my words as I had hoped, he paddled me. Telling does not matter much anymore. Now my brothers always uncover what I have done wrong and tell for me. My brothers, they are the strong and handsome names of Juan and Padre, just as my father is Miguel. But me, the last child, I am only little Gabriel. But I remember my abuela always calling me her little nieto, which is grandson, but from the ways she spoke it with her heart in her lips and eyes I always imagined myself as loved one. Whenever I was with my abuela I was the loved one but now I am only Gabriel. I look back and see the yellow evening when she died. I sat on a chair beside her cheek but my parents and the doctor stood frowning far away at the foot. In the window above her head the sun settled like an old bird into its nest with a halo of red clouds, the sign of clear skies tomorrow. I heard her say in a voice as thin as a fallen leaf, "El sol sets on me today, my little nieto. But en la matiana, you will rise and see him, my darling. Many more of him you will see. Recuerdas, remember what I have taught you, my nieto. Adios." "Adios, mi abuela," I whispered. Her lids fell lightly across her cheeks and I knew the end. I sat for many hours memorizing each wrinkle of her face until my father called for me, "Gabriel!" Then I kissed her cheek and left her forever. * * * I went in for la comida, but I thought it did not deserve the Spanish name because it was pizza. The taste of grease rose in my throat with the taste of bile and I thought of my abuela's fish and yellow rice. We are in her house which was given to us when she died, a few miles from Miami. My parents much prefer city life, but this house was all paid off and with much furniture, and they came for the cheapness. But they tore down all her paintings and memories and put up wallpaper with seashells. Think of it, I tell myself, trading a lifetime for seashells! "So," my father told us, "the bull will be delivered tomorrow." A sign was up for a bull for sale and my brother Juan saw it. "I want to be a matador," he told my father. Juan has the temperament of a fighter. He is mean and cunning and has no mercy, and he played the games of fighting when a child. "Very well," said my father, "but besides strength you must get education too." Now the bull is coming. Probably Juan will try to ride its horns into me. * * * The bull was young and medium-size. His nostrils flared and he pranced near the walls of our pen. His name was Diablo, which is devil; however, as soon as I saw his hide I called him Rojo. His skin was red as blood or pepper. I liked to think of him as my own age and circumstance, only another prisoner in this great big world. That morning Juan stepped into the pen with his bullfighting cap and a red cloth and all his proud anger. Maybe it is angry pride; I do not know which. "Bull!" he shouted in an ugly voice. "Come and fight!" The bull in response charged across the dirt to him and he stepped aside just in time from the pointed horns. Then he ran and vaulted the fence. Now he is inside telling tales of how he conquered the mighty bull, on his first attempt. Only I saw him. Then I opened the gate and approached the bull. A sugar cube rested on my open hand, which showed my good intention. The bull, or Rojo as I thought in my private mind, pawed the ground anxiously. I thought, you are just scared and lonely like a lost kitten. Soon his curiosity overcame fear. Rojo approached me and consumed the sugar into his great mouth. I reached out one hand to pat his great horn. He was not afraid and he leapt away and did a bull dance all around the pen. The dirt was packed by his prancing hooves. When he returned he begged for more and I fed it into his mouth, and then I seated myself upon
Fiction
I had never had anyone my age who lived on my street. All of my friends lived at least ten minutes away. I had always envied those who could call up their friends whenever they were bored and say, "Hey, want to get together?" My mom told many fond stories of her adventures with neighborhood kids when she was little. When Jessica moved into the house across the street, I was thrilled. I had all of these great notions about what we could do together and how much fun it would be to have a friend living so close. For a while, it seemed as perfect as I'd pictured it, then, well, let's just say that Jessica had a hidden personality that wasn't nice at all. * * * I never really saw Jessica move in. Mom said there was a moving truck, but I didn't see it. After a few days, I saw a girl come out of the house and walk down the driveway to the mailbox. I happened to be sitting on my porch, so I went to say hello. Secretly, I had been waiting to catch a glimpse of someone since I'd learned a new family had moved in. This girl, obviously close to my age, was what I'd hoped for. "Hi," I greeted the girl. She had very light, almost white, blond hair and piercing blue eyes. She was wearing short jean cutoffs and a T-shirt. "I'm Beth—I live across the street." The girl looked a little suspicious, then smiled. "I'm Jessica." "Where did you move here from?" I asked, trying to strike up a conversation. Jessica seemed to jump at the question, then replied, "California." "Really?" I was impressed. "How do you like the house? The garden in front is so pretty . . ." Jessica looked at the garden as if that was the first time she'd noticed it. "Oh—sure, it's OK." We talked for a little bit longer, or I talked and Jessica sort of put in a couple words now and then. I invited her over, but she declined, saying she had unpacking to do. It was a couple weeks before she finally came over. I thought she would be just like having one of my other friends over, but she proved me wrong. "This is my cat, Fluffy," I told her, as we sat with lemonade in my bedroom. "I named him when I was three—Fluffy, because of his long fur." I cuddled Fluffy and he purred affectionately. "Why are you hugging a cat?" Jessica asked, as if there was something disgusting about Fluffy. "I don't know," I replied. "Is it wrong to hug a cat?" Jessica pushed back her blond hair and shrugged. "It's just strange." She changed the subject. "Let's go outside." "OK." We picked up our lemonade glasses, Jessica's still had some left, and walked down the hall. Mom and Dad's door to their room stood open, letting in air. "Oh darn it!" I turned to see Jessica's glass on the floor, the pink lemonade on the rug. "I'm so sorry, I . . ." "It's all right, Jessica," I assured her quickly. "I'll get a towel." So I ran downstairs, returning with a sponge and a towel. It seemed like an honest mistake at the time, but it wasn't. That night Mom and Dad were going to a wedding. It was a fancy one and Mom wanted to wear her diamond ring. She only wore it on holidays and special occasions because it was her great-grandmother's. "Beth, have you seen my diamond ring?" Mom came into my room. "It's not in my jewelry box, and I know I didn't take it out. In fact, I remember seeing it this morning." I shook my head. "No, I haven't seen it since you wore it at Christmas." "That's what I thought." After my parents were gone, and my grandma was washing the dinner dishes, I went into my parents' room to see if I could find the ring. It was nowhere in Mom's jewelry box, or on the floor, or behind the dresser. I knew Mom would never take the ring out unless she was planning on wearing it right away. Where could it be? No one had been at our house since that morning—except Jessica. * * * Jessica and I spent a large amount of time together in the next few weeks. I put the ring incident out of my mind—Jessica would never have stolen it! We went swimming, played games, and roller-bladed. I hardly ever saw Jessica's family. She said that her stepdad worked all day and her mom was "around." She mentioned an older sister, but I'd never seen her. I'd never been in Jessica's house, either. Jessica never wanted to go to her house, only mine. I didn't really care. My best friend Cathy came home from vacation in early July—she'd been gone since the beginning of June. I was happy to see her again and sure that she and Jessica would like each other. I invited them both over. Cathy was two years younger. That made no difference to me. She had been my friend forever. She was always smiling, plus very funny, but serious when the time was right to be. I thought Jessica was funny, too, and was eager for them to meet. The afternoon went well. Jessica and Cathy seemed to like one another, although Jessica was a little quiet toward Cathy. Once, when we were playing Monopoly, Cathy gave Jessica, who was banker, an extra $100 when she was buying a piece of property. Jessica gave it back to her, joking sarcastically, "Now what grade are you going into?" "Sixth." Cathy smiled. As if totally surprised, Jessica looked at her. "Sixth? I'm going into eighth." She sounded smug. Then the game continued, but Jessica seemed to treat Cathy differently, counting to make sure that Cathy was giving her the exact right amount of money. * * *
Fiction
I hiked up the rocky trail that led to the place I knew so well. Tiny drops of rain fell from the dark sky. A cool mist lingered over the ground. The boughs of the elms that had grown over the path brushed my face. Normally, we would have cut the branches back, but now that my grandpa was gone it seemed as though nothing should be disturbed; as if by changing the things around him we would be doing something wrong. Nothing had really been the same again since my grandpa had died. A lot of my friends wondered why my grandpa was so important to me. But they had dads, so for them it was different. My dad had died of cancer when I was two. I don't remember him. After that, my grandpa had been like a father to me. We did everything together. We went swimming, fishing and to Saturday night movies. But the place I liked best was where I was going now. Our farm was the most awesome place ever. We called it "our" farm because, as he said, it was my farm too. It wasn't a real farm at all. We had farmers for neighbors, but our farm was a piece of wilderness. It was acres of bush and forests, with our cabin, gardens and yard at one edge. We had built trails all over the place, but since the only way we could possibly maintain them was to walk them regularly, and since my grandpa wasn't here anymore, that didn't happen. This was my first time up here for a while. My mom had been bugging me for months to come up. I was afraid it would evoke painful memories. Memories of hot summer days when we would cool off in the swimming hole, laughing and talking. Memories of planting my grandpa's massive flower gardens. He had bed after bed of hollyhocks, peonies, delphiniums, lilies, phlox, hostas, lilacs, rhododendrons, asters, daisies and probably every type of flower that would grow in our climate. Memories of hiking our trails, cooking in our kitchen and most of all, just being with him. But finally I decided to go. I was half right. The whole place screamed "Grandpa!" at me. Every step along that trail I took I remembered something else about him. I was fondly thinking of him, and then I remembered that he would never be able to enjoy the pastimes that he loved so much again. These bittersweet thoughts filled my head as I crunched my way past the cranberry bushes, the pond and finally the big hill we used to ski down. It was a very steep climb up to the top. As I was reaching the top I realized the rain had stopped. I turned the bend in the path and a beautiful sight met my eyes. A single magnolia tree grew in the clearing, ahead. It was now in full flower, its lovely pink blossoms beautifully unfurled and shining in the ray of light that had pierced the darkness. The storm clouds of sorrow were rolled away and a beautiful rainbow was let down from the heavens. It shined brightly and I could feel my grandpa telling me everything would be all right. And now, I was quite sure he was right.
Fiction
Sunlight streamed through the stormy clouds and a rainbow seemed to end over the field beside me. For a moment I remembered the childhood saying that treasure could be found at the end of the rainbow. I laughed, but glanced over the field anyway. There I saw tender green leaves in tidy rows, yet untouched by the weeds. Suddenly I saw millions of red gems sparkling with dewdrops, at the verge of bursting, and sitting proudly on a bed of straw. The first fruits of the season, the sign of summer and the beginning of the fresh fruit feasts were before my eyes. It was strawberry season. I pedaled my bicycle further and came to a hand-drawn sign "Pickers Wanted." I looked at the sign in awe—could I be paid to travel the sweet-smelling rows and to eat all the sun-warmed berries I wanted? That weekend, at the tender age of thirteen, I started my first summer job. I pulled myself from bed before the sun rose and was pedaling along long deserted country roads by six AM. I arrived just before seven and was given crates and tags. I followed the field boss to a flooded row and I set to work. I was happy and the days began to fly by. Each morning the cold, wet leaves would soak me and I would take off my shoes, to work barefoot in thick mud. I shivered for the first couple of hours, before the harsh sun began to shine relentlessly overhead. Soon I would long for the cool morning to return. I learned to fear the field bosses, who were employed to pick on the pickers. The berries I picked were either too green or I was leaving too many green berries on the plants. My crates were either too skimpy or too full. I couldn't argue, though, or I would lose my job and, unless my crates pleased them, my card would not be punched. Every worker longed for lunch break. We would all stand, stretch and head hungrily to our coolers in a shady orchard. There was always a long line for a repugnant outhouse from which gasping people would flee. You had to bring your own toilet paper and your own wash water. Lunch finished much too soon and, like prisoners, we returned to the endless rows. The afternoons were scorching hot and a cloud over the sun was something to savor. I had never realized the diversity of field workers. As I worked I heard the chatter of the Portuguese, Chinese, Jamaicans and Mexicans. There was a man there who had impoverished Vietnamese workers working for him. All their picking money went to him and he gave each one a fraction back. The most amazing group of all, however, were the German Mennonites. Entire families came out each day, dressed in dresses and clothes that hid all of their bodies. They didn't seem to mind that these clothes would be filthy within minutes. The children, as young as three, would pick for about an hour before tiring, and they would go and play on sandy roads. They were oblivious to cars and, forgotten by their parents, they were soon covered head to toe in dust. The Mennonites were a group to marvel at. They could pick double the speed of everyone else, taking frequent breaks. I tried never to share my row with them, because they always passed me and took the best berries. On Sundays the fields became strangely quiet, because no Mennonite would work on the Sabbath. The days became weeks. Each day I bent my aching back over those abundant berries and picked with red-stained, dirt-caked hands. I earned a quarter for every quart I filled and I could fill close to two hundred quarts in a ten-hour day. Having no other experience, I thought it was great money. I felt so proud to stand in the long line of tired workers who all slaved together and receive crisp bills for my work. Every night I would ride the long, lonely farm roads home, often having to scrape the mud from my bike tires with a stick so they could turn. My summer job ended with the harvest. I was upset and relieved at the same time. I would earn no more money and eat no more berries. On the other hand, I could sleep in and live in the comforts of home. The experience taught me to appreciate farmers, to value many novelties I took for granted and to see strawberries in an entirely new light. I had been working on a strawberry farm for several weeks. The farm was heavily irrigated, resulting in ankle-deep mud along the rows. During the day, I would always walk past a young Mennonite girl, who played in the orchard while her parents picked. She was always in a dress, with two braids and enough clothes for the coldest winter day. She eyed me each time I passed, marveling that I could be immodest enough to wear a T-shirt, shorts and no shoes. Over time her staring grew more intense and it seemed like she wanted to speak with me. One day I ambled by in exhaustion, my back painfully hunched over, my hands stained red with black nails, my body covered in stains, sweat and dust, and my bare feet heavy with caked mud. The child looked up timidly and stated sincerely in broken English: "You look pretty."
Fiction
It wasn't the best night for the race. Earlier that afternoon, a torrential downpour had drenched the ground. The air was thick and humid and the sky a murky gray soup. Dense fog was beginning to envelop the landscape. The tote board flashed the condition of the track—SLOPPY. Judy Garland was depressed. She had trained hard for weeks, enduring the whiplashes of her rider, Jose Montegna. Clearly, she was a champion, at least in her last few races. But that had been on other tracks, dry, fast tracks where her hooves could dig in like claws and propel her forward as swiftly as the rushing wind. She had never raced at this track and she had never raced on muddy ground. The competition was fierce here and she knew it. There was Southwind Diamond, Arapamack, Frisky Fame and especially Stormont Zodiac, all of them stronger, faster and more sure of themselves. Judy didn't have much of a chance. The odds on her were 45 to 1. "Two minutes to post time," the announcer warned. The trotters were just finishing their show rounds, parading in front of the crowd in the stands hoping to attract more bets. You could bet any amount above the one dollar minimum. At 5-to-1 odds, the winner would collect ten dollars on a two-dollar bet, and half that amount if the horse placed or showed. Most people bet on either their favorite number, a name they liked, or the color of the horse's outfit. It was mostly guesswork. Judy was number 4 and she was all decked out in bright lemon. Southwind Diamond was number 1 in black gear, Arapamack sported number 5 in blazing pink, Stormont Zodiac was number 2 in red, and Frisky Fame number 3 in neon green. There were four others, numbered 6 to 9, all in hot, flashy colors. At 1 to 1, Stormont Zodiac was clearly the crowd's favorite. The riders guided their trotters to the back stretch and lined up behind and across the white truck that awaited them. Suddenly, the truck spread its gates like two straight wings on an iron bird. Slowly at first, it began to roll down the track, the horses and riders following close, all in a straight line. "The field is in the hands of the starter" echoed from the loudspeakers in the stands. The crowd had placed their final bets, and together as one group they surged to get as close to the rail as possible. People watched in tense silence as the horses came around the bend toward the starting line. The riders leaned back in their two-wheel harnesses, one hand on the reins and the other whipping their horses' backsides. Swish! Snap! The tail of the whip stung their hides. The animals, trying to get away from the next lash, sprung forward, their legs stretching, straining and pounding through the grimy mud. Judy was scared. For a moment the giant, white lights in the stadium blinded her, and in that moment an image flashed across her mind's eye. She was in a stable, just born, stumbling to get up for the first time because her legs wouldn't support her. After a few minutes, she felt some warm air on her face. She opened her eyes and looked up to see her mother breathing heavily, gazing into her eyes and almost whispering without even moving her lips, "Welcome to the world." Then suddenly, she felt a nudge on her rear. She turned around to see her father poking his nose under her belly as if to say, "Get up." Judy struggled. She pushed her back legs out behind her, trying to get a foothold. When her feet were stable, she moved her front legs into position and pushed up. She pushed with all her might, her leg muscles straining so that every part of her was rigid. Her knees were still bent but she forced them upwards, shifting her body weight when she moved. Finally, with one last effort, she straightened her knees and stood up. She stood there panting and snorting, then looked up into her mother's eyes once more. Again, without opening her mouth, the mother's gaze penetrated her baby's thoughts, "Your name is Judy and you are a champion." As the truck picked up speed, so did the field, but still close together and straight across. Judy was fourth on the inside, next to Frisky Fame, then Stormont Zodiac and Southwind Diamond on the rail, and fanning out to the right of Judy, Arapamack, Charlie Whiskey, Great Expectations, Dreams Are Free and Anitra. There were nine in all, each one a champion, each one determined to wear the blue blanket of victory. Around the turn, they came toward the starting line. The truck lurched forward, folded its gates and veered off to the side. "And they're off!" the announcer shouted. Once around the mile-long track and one of them would cross the line first. Instantly, the crowd began to cheer, each man for his horse, "Come on, Whiskey . . . Run, Stormont . . . Let's go, Dreams . . . Move it, Frisky . . ." The babble of voices filled the grandstand, excited, angry, hopeful voices. Some people jumped up and down, others pumped their fists into the air, still others closed their eyes and prayed. A foreign language rose high above the crowd, "AndintheleadArapamackfollowedbyFriskyFameStormontZodiacAnitraCharlieWhiskeyJudyGarlandSouthwindDiamondDreamsAreFreeandbringinguptherearGreatExpectations." Thirty-six hooves splashed mud as each horse in the field of nine fought to gain an early lead. The riders in their chariots, their goggles all splattered with dirt and water, sliced their whips through the air. Frisky Fame lunged ahead in a burst of speed, followed close behind by Stormont Zodiac and Anitra. Judy was doing her best to keep up with the rest of the field but her back legs, not used to the sloppy mud, slipped and she fell back to seventh place. Ahead of her through the pack she could see the favorite, her arch-rival
Fiction
I'm spinning, spinning, spinning, my eyes closed. My hair brushes against the soft mossy grass and the sounds of traffic are distant, but I'm aware of them. Two arms—are they mine?—are holding onto the tire swing comfortably, not gripping but giving me a feeling that if I fall I'm not falling too far. It doesn't feel like my eyes are closed. It feels like they're not there at all. The feeling is bliss. "Maggie!" someone calls. I am outraged at them temporarily. How dare they yell out my name and interrupt that nice dizzy feeling? My toes, connected to my ankles, connected to my calves, connected to my knees hooked through the tire, touch the grass to stop me. I sit up, no longer leaning backwards like I love to do. The tire spins faster. I'm way too dizzy to listen to the voice calling my name again. When I open my eyes the dizziness fades, and I'm sad that the feeling is gone. My mother stands in front of me with her hands on her hips, angry. "Maggie!" At the end of my name her voice slides straight up into another octave. I can't help but giggle, even though that is the very last thing I should do. "I talked to you about this tire swing. The rope's wearing through—can't you see it, Maggie?" She holds a piece of rope up to my eyes. "It's fading. Just in time, too. You're thirteen, Maggie, a little old for a tire swing." Since I turned thirteen, my mother has considered me too old for everything. She wants me to cut my hair, dark brown and long enough for me to sit on it. But Heather isn't too old for anything. Heather wanted the tire swing in the first place, and she can go on it "because she's lighter than you." Heather is "about to outgrow" a tire swing, so she has to "enjoy it while she can." My mother's words have gained the ability to drive me insane. I have nothing against Heather. It's perfectly fair; I can go with my friends wherever I want as long as I tell my mother where I'm going and when I'll get home, and I can do that spur-of-the-moment without planning anything three days ahead of time. And Heather can go on the tire swing, read the comic strips, and eat raw cookie dough. And she is my sister. I'm the only person allowed to call her Copper for her red hair. Heather is hiding up in the tree, but my mother doesn't know. It seems like the best secret in the world. I sigh, lean back, and pretend to just be annoyed when in fact I am winking at Heather. "Maggie! Can't you just get off the tire swing?" "Sure, Ma. It just takes a while." I pretend to be struggling to lift my feet up, struggling to emerge from the tire that's making my mother crazy. Ma gets bored watching me and walks inside. I smile smugly, bend over backwards, and flip myself out. If Ma saw she'd have a cow. Heather starts laughing, and so do I. We giggle over Ma, standing in front of the plants, oblivious to our mischief. Ma turns around. I stand in front of the tire and strike a Miss America pose. Ta-da! My mother scowls and walks inside. I scramble up the tree silently and sit next to Heather on the top branch. "Yo, Copper." "Yo, Mags. We're running out of berries." "Let's go to the farm, then." "That's the thing. Tyler's been mad at me since I picked that deformed blackberry, the one he thought National Enquirer would pay him twenty dollars for. If I go back there he'll throw a fit." I smile. "Tyler's on vacation in Co-sta Ri-ca, remember?" I stretch out the name of the place where he is, the way Tyler says it. "Oh, yeah." Heather shimmies across the branches to the tire swing branch and climbs expertly down the rope. I'm right behind her. We stand on either side of the tire swing and jump off simultaneously. I tap Ma on the shoulder, say, "We're riding our bikes to the farm for the afternoon," and rush to the garage, where Heather is wheeling out her ancient and very cool aqua-colored bike. That thing is a work of art. After strapping on our identical helmets we start pedaling to the farm. Heather is way faster than me on her bike, but I was riding around while she was at Girl Scouts last week and for maybe the fifth time ever I got to the farm before her. Old Tyler's a little crazy but he's got the greatest berry patch you ever saw. He doesn't put pesticides out there or anything, but at the beginning of each summer he plants a new kind of berry, waters it, and lets it grow wild. He lets everyone come over and pick the berries. We use a key Tyler gave us and walk right on into his kitchen. It looks like it hasn't been changed since 1932. There's no microwave, and a very rusty sink, with a stove plopped right in the middle where you might put a cute little table. There are some straw-woven baskets in the cupboard that we put our berries in. They've got red checkered pieces of fabric in them so the juice won't seep through. I love the farm; it's like going back in time. I run out the door and listen to the comforting slam behind me. Heather is already picking strawberries, huge juicy ripe ones. I can just imagine what they taste like. "Yo, Copper," I whisper to Heather. She jumps. "I didn't know you were right there." "I don't want you to get all the strawberries before I do. Have you eaten any yet?" "Nope." I'm not surprised. Heather thinks that if you wait to eat them they taste better. I love to sink my teeth
Fiction
Toly hid among the tall grasses of the tropical forest. He could feel the cold sweat trickling down his face. The tiger was standing close now, so close Toly could feel its pulsing breath. The vibrant black and orange of the tiger's coat hurt his eyes. It couldn't see him; only the tiger's keen sense of smell told it Toly was there. Toly waited for just the right moment and then in an instant, with one smooth liquid movement, Toly found himself mounted on the beast's back. The tiger was growing more obedient now; Toly felt its warm fur beneath him. "Run!" Toly told the tiger and it ran. Ran fast over crannies and ditches, carrying Toly further and further away from the city. Toly felt the wind ruffling his hair, violently blowing in his eyes, forcing tears to form. He had done it! He was riding the tiger. He was the conqueror. He was . . . "Toly!" his mother's voice reached him as though it was coming from somewhere far away. "Wake up! It's nearly seven o'clock!" The beautiful forest, the mighty tiger, the smell of the moist soil; all disintegrated as if they never were and Toly drowsily opened his eyes. "Aw, go on, Mum, five more minutes," he pleaded desperately. Anything to win him more time. "No!" his mother retorted firmly, and left the room. Toly's sheets were cold with sweat, but he knew that he had done it; he had ridden the tiger! Toly detested school; no, he feared it. Most of all he feared Derek, the school's bully. He feared him with a fear hard to describe, a fear that engulfed him like a giant wave, a fear that made his knees give way and his stomach tense up at the mere mention of Derek's name. By rights Derek should have been a stupid lug whose fist did most of his bidding. But it wasn't right, nothing was ever right. Derek was cunning, calculating and strong—he was a tiger. Yet the fear Toly felt for the bully and the tiger were different as could be. The fear of the tiger was invigorating, it caused every vein to thrill and stand to attention. The fear of the tiger was rewarding, it made Toly feel a strange sense of achievement. Made him proud. Yet the fear of Derek made Toly feel none of those things. It made him want to crouch down really small and hide somewhere in a dark hole where no one could find him. Ever. Derek's bullying was usually nothing the school considered "serious." It was just a shove here or a nasty comment there. But it was those small cruelties that hurt Toly more than anything. His days were spent trying to keep out of Derek's way, being careful never to leave the watchful eye of the teacher for the wide expanse of the playground. A dangerous place—Derek's domain. Derek knew the playground like the tiger knew his jungle. He ruled it, and all those who ventured out into it were at his mercy. All day Toly stayed on guard, tense and scared. Jumping at the slam of a door, at heavy footsteps. The only escape from his fear was the daydreams of the tiger. Toly knew they weren't real, of course he did, but in them he was always so brave. The hero. The winner. In real life he was nothing—just a small scared boy. Toly knew it couldn't go on like this. Something deep inside, which was as much part of him as the daydreams of the tiger, told him that one day he would have to make a stand for himself. It wouldn't be easy . . . Toly was waiting. Waiting and watching. He wasn't hiding behind the grasses anymore. He was standing in the open expanse of the jungle. Heart pounding, faster, faster, faster. One movement and he stood upright in front of the tiger. Not shuffling, not lowering his gaze, just upright. Toly stood upright. His heart pounding, blood rushing through his veins. He looked his enemy in the eye. It took nearly all of Toly's strength to do that. Suddenly he wasn't afraid. Derek's commanding expression was gone. Instead, a rather confused one appeared. A smile crept up on Toly's face. A very small one at first. Then bigger and bigger, until his whole face was creased in a massive grin. Derek looked uneasy. He lowered his head and shuffled into the school building, defeated. His mates followed, teetering, their respect for Derek considerably shaken during the last ten minutes. Toly just stood in the middle of the playground in amazement, unaware of all the students around him beaming in appreciation. Toly was unsure what exactly he had done, but he knew one thing; this time he had ridden the tiger—for real!
Poem
At first misty then drizzling now coming down hard like long, thin fingers reaching down to earth gray against the green of the pine trees combining with the fog that has rolled in from the sea. Many people prefer tropical islands or dusty deserts— but I like the wet and the fog and the mist and the gray skies of home because . . . to me, nothing is better than wet and mist and fog and gray fingers of rain against green trees.
Poem
I didn't know That going to my new school Would mean four long nights Away from you. I didn't know I would miss your scratchy face When you kiss me, Wrestling on the bed, Climbing on your back Or into the "rabbit hole" To watch TV together. I didn't know Just how much I'd miss your funny faces And my favorite Hungarian love song About meeting the girl at seven-thirty Under the stars. I didn't know How much I loved Your gentle "slamming" me into bed, Your never giving me a straight answer And the footballs we throw to each other. I know now how much you love me Because you drive the long miles To San Francisco Working extra, Returning only after everyone is asleep Just for me. You leave before dawn, but You call every morning and night Just to say you love me millions. The only thing ever scary about you Is losing you. It breaks my heart And unfolds it That you work so long and hard Just for me.
Book Reviews
Frightful's Mountain by Jean Craighead George; Dutton Children's Books: New York, 1999; $15.99 Jean Craighead George wrote the book Frightful's Mountain. It is about a peregrine falcon named Frightful and a boy named Sam who loves peregrine falcons. Sam lives in a tree house on a mountain where he likes to watch Frightful and many other creatures. When I was in fourth grade our class raised salmon so we could learn about them because they were endangered here in the state of Washington. When I read Frightful's Mountain it reminded me of raising the salmon because both the book and the raising of the salmon taught me that we need to protect our endangered species and all of the other animals from becoming extinct. Both from raising the salmon and from reading this book I learned about how people harm the animals. For instance, in the book people used insecticide called DDT in South America that insects were eating and dying from, and then some birds were eating those DDT-sprayed bugs, and then peregrine falcons would eat the birds that had eaten the insects. Then the peregrine falcons would die from the DDT. In the salmons' case that I studied people were dumping pollutants in the water and the fish would die in the polluted water. Frightful's Mountain is an all-around great book because of the way that the book can make you think you are there with the characters. You can almost hear people talking and hear the animals. It's as if you can reach out and touch everything. Therefore, I suggest this book to anyone who likes to read books that are hard to put down.
Book Reviews
Mind's Eye by Paul Fleischman; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 1999; $15.95 D0 you know what your mind's eye is? It's your imagination. In this book a sixteen-year-old girl, Courtney, meets an eighty-eight-year-old lady, Elva, nursing home in which both of them are living. Courtney is paralyzed from the waist down and Elva has a disease called Alzheimer's. Alzheimer's is a disease that makes you forget everything. If your closest friends and family come to visit you, you may have no recollection of who they are. In the book Elva sometimes thinks Courtney is her sister because of her Alzheimer's. This book is about the two main characters, Courtney and Elva, taking an imaginary journey to Italy, with an old guidebook for a guide. Elva wants to take a trip to Italy because before her husband died he asked her to go for him. Now she can't go because she is too old and sick, so she wants to go on the journey through her mind's eye. She got an old guidebook on Italy, only to find that she can't read the tiny print. I felt sorry for Elva at this point, because she loves to read, and to find that your eyes are getting bad when you really need them is sad. Elva has to rely on someone else's eyes to read for her. She chooses Courtney's eyes. She invites her on the journey through the mind's eye. Courtney is reluctant, but she is so bored that she goes along. The book shows how unpleasant and boring a nursing home can be. First of all, the nurses are untrustworthy. They steal from the patients. The patients have no way to entertain themselves since the TV doesn't work and they can't even go out to breathe some fresh air. I would hate to live in a nursing home because in the book it gives you the impression that nursing homes are awful places. Elva talks to Courtney a lot in the beginning of the book and Courtney doesn't listen to a word Elva says. I know what this feels like because it has happened to me many times before! Courtney seemed to be like any other teenager. She likes sleeping in till eleven o'clock! Courtney and Elva were complete strangers in the beginning of the book. They became friends only because Courtney was bored and Elva had nobody to talk to. At first I thought of Courtney as an unattractive teenager, but as the book went on Courtney became much nicer because she learned a lot from Elva. The most important thing she learned was that to survive in a nursing home she had to use her mind's eye. This book sends a good message because it shows you can use your imagination for anything. One thing that I didn't like about the book was the style in which it was written. It was written completely in dialogue like a play, which I felt made it more difficult to read. You have to concentrate harder since there are no paragraphs explaining what's going on. Also, it seemed to jump around a lot. However, I thought the author's descriptions gave you a very good idea of what the characters were experiencing and I could picture myself there. The topic was sometimes depressing but sometimes I felt really good for the characters. I felt good when they seemed to be enjoying themselves on their imaginary journey, but not when Courtney was being mean to Elva by ruining it. I felt sad when Elva died, but in a way I also felt good for her, because she lived a good life and with Alzheimer's and bad eyes I feel she wanted to die. This book deals with subjects like illness and old age, and being alone in the world, that are rather depressing. Even so, after finishing the book, I didn't feel sad. Instead I realized how your imagination can turn even awful things into something pleasant. That is what makes this book worth reading.
