Contents

Penny’s Journey

The hole, setting there in the middle of the clearing, was by no means small, but the little, wide-eyed girl of thirteen years was still amazed that something as big as a dragon could've fit through it. Penny was a peasant in the town. She had left the city's gates to fetch water for her family when she sighted a strange trail of scales and prints leading off toward the forest. And then she had seen it—a glittering, sky-blue dragon with magnificent leathery wings and blazing green eyes. It had been only a second before it had slithered into the burrow in a final flash of radiance. Now Penny stood beside the hole, her straight profile outlined in the setting sun, confident, but tense—like a tiger waiting to pounce, dirty-blond wisps of her hair escaping from a messy bun in the evening breeze. Her empty water jug lay upturned and forgotten. The people of her city dreaded dragons, their emotions mixed with fear and anger. But even Penny, after seeing a dragon in its most innocent form, could not blame them. Only thirteen years had passed since the dragons had come. There had been nine of them, all fiery red, with hot, searing breath and wide, hungry mouths. They had killed Penny's sister, mother, and father. She could not remember any of them, though, because that was the night she was born, two hours before her family was killed. Now, all that remained of her relatives were her uncle, aunt, adopted two-year-old brother and her grandparents, who all lived in the same mud hut. Penny raced among the tall, ominous pines and oaks, their snagging branches snatching at her skin and clothing. She only slowed to a steady trot once the trees thinned and she could see the village gates ahead. The village was small and nearly everyone knew everyone. But ever since the fateful day when Penny was born, each person had grown independent and sharp. Penny raced among the small, familiar houses until she saw the tiny mud-brick cottage with a thatched roof that was her own. After murmuring a brief apology for not getting water to her hawkeyed, hands-on-her-hips kind of grandma, she trotted briskly to her small room in search of a good book. But thoughts of the sky-blue dragon slowly led her to the window, looking out toward the dark forest. Through all of what Penny had experienced in her thirteen short years, she had a will tougher than most young girls. But this—it pulled on her as if by magic and soon she was sprinting toward the wood again. She soon came upon the hole, but this time she didn't stop. She dove right in, and blackness shrouded over her thoughts. *          *          * Penny woke up feeling like she had too many of Grandma's cakes the night before. Trying in vain a mess of disheveled hair, she turned her sharp chin to a noise in the door. There sat the dragon, its glittering eyes focusing on the young girl. Finally, in a deep, throaty voice, he said, "I've been waiting." Penny sat speechless with wonder. Before she could think of the strangeness of what he had said, he croaked again, "What is your name?" "Penny" "Where do you come from?" "The village." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Are you scared?" "Yes." "I can make you happier." The dragon's eyes seemed to smile. Penny's eyes flared in anger. "Who said I wasn't happy?" she snapped angrily. She stood as if to leave. "Please," the dragon sighed, rustling his wings. "I am lonely. Stay" And then, "I will show you my world." "But . . . " Penny objected, but then a burst of color flashed into her mind. She cried in astonishment, and as more images splashed across her thoughts, she realized that the dragon could not only speak, but he could pass on pictures into another's mind, too. Into Penny's mind sparked dazzling mountains, sparkling rivers, and creatures of all different kinds. And suddenly they stopped. Penny only realized that she was closing her eyes then, and she looked up, blinking, at the dragon, who gave a kind smile back. "That was . . . wonderful," Penny stammered quietly. The dragon stretched his wings, then calmly asked, "Would you like to live there? With me?" Penny thought of the astounding offer. Her thoughts returned to the pictures—the castles, and treasure, pirates and mermaids and lakes and . . . everything imaginable. But how? How could there be a place so . . . perfect? But, she thought, Grandma had always said there was a perfect place—later. But was this what she had meant? Thinking of her grandma made her thoughts whirl to Stefan, the small outcast who her family adopted, his pudgy cheeks and tumbling chuckle. And of tight-lipped Grandma, "pleasingly plump" Aunt Mabel, tall, dangerous-looking Uncle Ted, and old Gramps, who couldn't walk or remember anything. "Not much to speak of," Penny said dismally to herself. But they were enough. Her sharp complexion turned toward the dragon and she stated flatly, "I'm sorry. But I refuse." The dragon let out a strange human-like scream. Then, his textured scales turned into folds of smooth, silky black robes. His green eyes turned dark and dangerous as his snout folded in and a beard sprouted from a jutting chin. And there stood a man—a magician—with an evil glint in his eye. "Penny, you're the last one of a long line. Your father was the twenty-third in that line and you, the twenty-fourth. If you haven't figured it out by now, I plan to have you eliminated from existence." She had. Her first instincts told her to turn and run, but she wanted to learn more. "Why are you doing this?" Her voice was confident. The only thing betraying her fear was in her eyes. "One of your ancient ancestors and I made a deal—and he didn't keep his end of the deal up,

Morning of the Horses

A mysterious quietness filled the misty morning air as Sadie stepped into her slippers and tiptoed out to the garden. The cold morning air slipped beneath her flannel nightgown and made her shiver. Here in Toronto, Canada, the winter mornings were cold and Sadie disliked them. But she ignored the chilly weather and headed toward the back of her garden. When Sadie reached the tangling green vines that grew up and over the red brick wall that separated her garden from the alley, she glanced over her shoulder at her house to make sure that none of the family was watching. Soundlessly, Sadie heaved herself over the wall and hopped down into the alley below. And then there it was, the horse corral, which was surrounded by a number of elm trees. Sadie secretly visited these horses most mornings, and felt very sorry for them because they were not well taken care of. But two months ago, Sadie had decided to take care of the horses herself. She opened her knapsack and took out the oats, carrots, apples and sugar cubes that she had packed. Each and every horse had learned to trust Sadie, and all came trotting up to her anxiously. Sadie smiled at her friends, and stroked their velvet muzzles with happiness. This time of morning, misty and cool, with the horses, was Sadie's time. Her favorite time. She loved to feed them and watch their tails whisk the air. The man who owned the horses was unkind to them. He barely fed them a bucket of grain a day, and he never brushed their coats, manes and tails, rode them or hung out with them. And there he was, treating all people around him with kindness and leaving his poor horses out in the thunder and lightning, rain and snow. He didn't deserve to own horses, thought Sadie. If you owned a horse, you should care for it. Once in a while, Sadie brought along her hairbrush to brush the horses with. The horses really seemed to enjoy being brushed, since their coats were so shabby and dusty. Her horses may be shabby and thin, hungry and old, but they still had a sort of young liveliness kept inside them. As Sadie was gently brushing the manes of the horses, she heard a whinnying call come from a gray stallion. All the other horses came jogging up to him. Seconds later, Sadie watched in amazement as each horse gracefully leapt over the fence! Then, from the bottom of her heart, Sadie knew that she must climb aboard. She skipped over to a buckskin mare and mounted up. All eight horses and Sadie ran down the alley, through the quiet, sleeping streets, and up over the hill at the end of the block. Sadie's nightgown fluttered in the breeze along with the horses' manes and tails. The sun was rising, and they galloped toward it, wild and free.

The Shifting Sands

“Jaidev," his mother whispered to him, as he ran into her arms. "How was your day?" "Good!" he answered vigorously, as they gave each other their ritual hug and kiss. "And the weekend is finally here!" He bounced around with the energy of a rabbit. But happiness is temporary, and is often struck down. Jaidev was a young boy of about eleven living in India. He belonged to the sizable Muslim minority and lived with his two parents and his brother, Tarang. They lived in a small, mostly Muslim community on the coast of India. They were not in poverty, but neither was Jaidev's family bathing in priceless gems. However, regardless of their social status, they enjoyed a content life, by being faithful to the Holy Koran and finding strength in Allah, and living as a close and loving family. When they returned home Father had not yet returned from his busy work day, and Tarang was still over at a friend's house. Jaidev helped his mother to begin preparing for the evening meal. They organized the spices and counted the eggs. They measured the milk and the water just perfectly. Jaidev's mouth was watering by the time they got out the curry. A little later, Father returned home with Tarang trotting behind him. Tarang was fourteen years old and was sometimes rebellious, sometimes calm. One day he would yell and scream and not agree with anything, and the next day he would just sit and listen like an awakening bird. The family sat down to the delicious meal that Jaidev and Mother had strained all afternoon to create. The fumes of the curried chicken wafted throughout the house, engulfing and seducing all who came near. After eating, the children and the adults split. Jaidev and Tarang strode off to the bedroom they shared, while Mother and Father cleaned up in the kitchen and then went off to their room. Little by little, the house subsided into sleep, and night crept with its ominous inky blackness over India and the world. *          *          * Dawn awoke with brilliant light over the ocean, but it served only as mockery of the dangers of the waters. Jaidev and Tarang woke up at sunrise to go out and play on the sand and swim in the salty ocean. They told their mother and father, who were still quite sleepy and just nodded their heads before going back into the bliss of their unconsciousness only moments later. The two brothers raced and wrestled in the pale morning sun. The grains of sand moved in a rhythmic dance with the feet of Jaidev and Tarang as they played for hours on end. Beads of sweat began to form on their bodies, pouring down into the soft meadow of dunes. The heat became too much to bear. "Watch this," Tarang called out to Jaidev. Tarang turned toward the ocean and began to run. He became a blur, then a streak, and then he dove, head first, into the refreshing, cool water. "Come on, Jaidev," he shouted playfully. He stood up and then let himself fall backward with a splash. The water engulfed him innocently. "It feels so good!" he taunted. Jaidev smiled back. He began to gallop like a madman and was about ten yards away from the ocean when he heard a scream. Time slowed. Then time stopped. The ocean curled up and became a lasso. It ensnared Tarang and tugged. Tarang disappeared under the water. Jaidev halted at the tip of the white foam. "Tarang?" he shrilly shouted. The only response came from the gulls up above, chuckling rudely to themselves. He shouted again. This time the ocean responded. The waves and the salt and the currents and the water became one mass of energy. They sharply receded into the depths, in the blink of an eye. What lay before Jaidev was one hundred yards of empty desert where the sea and his brother had just been. "Tarang?" he whispered, this time in a choked voice and so softly, that the gulls did not laugh, for they did not hear him. Jaidev just watched, in amazement, in shock, in awe, at the barrenness of the stretch where life had been only moments earlier. There were clams and fish and other strange creatures that were left behind. Why couldn't they have been claimed back into their watery homes and Tarang been left on the beach laughing and rolling as they had been only minutes, no, seconds ago? Or was it minutes? Time had become distorted in such a way that Jaidev had no perspective anymore. He had nothing to compare time with. Had it been five seconds since the disaster? Had it been fifteen minutes? He did not know. Jaidev was oblivious to any danger that could still be coming. He very gently plopped himself down in the sand, and prayed. He prayed to Allah that Tarang would come back. Then he thought. He thought about the ocean and the birds. He thought about the sand and curried chicken and Mother and Father. He thought about the wind and the sun and the terrible thunder that shattered the air when lightning fell from the sky. And then he opened his eyes. He realized that he had to run back home to tell his parents about Tarang's disappearance. His toes hugged the sand as he turned around. He walked, and then he began to sprint. He ran to the house, but as he got there, he saw Mother and Father sprinting out the door. Why are they running too? he thought. Jaidev spun around. The sea was in a fury, rampaging up the beach toward their small community He began to run faster than he had ever run before. His legs stretched and his feet flew in a constantly hastening tempo. Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back, he thought. He caught that thought, killing one single mosquito out of an entire cloud

A Wider World

Kayla dropped the laundry basket down by the washing machine. This was the last load to bring down. She was hot from running up and down the stairs all morning. She rolled up her sleeves and looked around the basement. The unfinished cement walls looked bare and cold, brightened only by the dabs of paint she had splotched there when she was five. She climbed the wooden stairs to the kitchen where her mother was writing a shopping list. "How many guests do we have booked?" Kayla asked as she pushed her sandy hair out of her face. Having a B-and-B was a lot of work but it brought in extra income as her dad's house-painting business didn't bring in much. Mom looked away from her shopping list. "I think we'll have three rooms taken by tonight. Mrs. and Mr. Wosen will take one and then Charmaine, and a new lady is coming tonight. An author, I think." But Kayla didn't care if she was an astronaut. There was no one her age. She was used to being the only person around under twenty, but she hated it. She didn't even go to school! She knew taking correspondence courses gave her more time to help her mom, but still. She gathered her schoolbooks off the sideboard, grabbed a Werthers candy from the little black cat-shaped dish by the door, and ran out to the porch. She stepped into blue flip-flops decorated with palm trees, and headed toward the beach, sucking her candy. It wasn't really a proper beach, just a little string of pebbly inlets separated by small outcroppings of rocks and scrub. She swam down here in the summer but now in early September, the ocean water was too frigid to do anything but dip your toes. She settled down on a patch of moss and began her math. *          *          * When she returned to the house her mother was making up beds in the empty rooms. Kayla walked down the long hall with the guest rooms on either side. At the end of the hallway she pushed open an old white door. She ran up the narrow flight of stairs to her own room perched at the top of the house and stood just inside the doorway soaking up the sunlight that streamed through her many round windows. She loved her room. The people who had built the house must have loved the sea as she did for they had built the five round windows exactly like portholes. Kayla sometimes pretended that each window opened onto a different country She put her schoolbooks on the shelf next to her whale-watching and sea-life books. She checked the small box outside her door where her mom always put her mail. She found a postcard from Sharon, a girl from England who stayed here two summers ago, and a plain white envelope. She tore open the envelope and two pieces of pink writing paper fell out. She didn't recognize the handwriting. She read, Dear Butterfly, (Butterfly? Kayla thought, genuinely puzzled.) My life is so blah. Nothing ever happens. I haven't seen you for ages. Since you left it feels like my world is falling to pieces. All my friends have more friends than I do. They all go to private schools. Today my little brother messed up my room. It seems like my friends live in other worlds and no one understands how I feel about mine. Please write back soon. Your friend, Chelsea "What a wimp," said Kayla aloud. "She has a little brother, friends, and she goes to school, and she still thinks her life is boring." But who in the world was that letter meant for anyway? She was definitely not Butterfly. Kayla studied the envelope. The address was blurred as if something had been spilled on it. There was a return address. Montreal. I'm sure I don't know anyone from Montreal, thought Kayla. Kayla's mother's voice filtered up, calling her to make dinner. Cramming the mysterious letter into her pocket, she ran down the stairs. *          *          * From the hallway Kayla heard voices from the kitchen. She was about to go in when she caught her name. Kayla peered around the doorway surreptitiously. Brochure in hand, her mother was chatting to a lady. She must be the author coming to stay, thought Kayla. Though she knew it was wrong, she stayed to listen. Just for a moment, she told herself "Oh, yes, Mrs. Tarnsford," Kayla heard her mom speak, "I reserved a room for you looking out over the forest." "Wonderful! And I heard you have a daughter. I am writing a book and she may be able to help me if she would." "Of course she will," Mom purred. "I'll send her up after dinner." Kayla groaned inwardly. She remembered when the librarian, Mrs. Baxter, had been writing a book on "the juvenile reader," her mother had volunteered her and consequently she had spent three hours answering questions like, "How does reading relate to your personal development?" or "What book has inspired you to break the boundaries of your expectations?" At least this time, Kayla told herself, she knew what to expect. Feeling slightly guilty for listening, she stepped into the room. Mrs. Tarnsford had just gone to get her bags. "Do I have to?" Kayla blurted out. Her mother looked round with a wry smile. "So you heard?" Seeing Kayla's face she went on. "Yes, you do have to. She is a good paying guest and she is only staying three days. Now I have lots to do. Please start the dinner," she said, giving Kayla's shoulder a squeeze as she went out of the room. *          *          * Seven o'clock saw Kayla reluctantly climbing the stairs. All the other guests had gone out to dinner and the cracks under their doors were dark. Come to think of it, so was Mrs. Tarnsford's. When she came to the last door she knocked.

AE-51

Have you found a landing site yet, Mallory?" roared General Landings, gray hairs bristling. In the close confines of the ship's cockpit, the sound nearly blew my eardrums out. I gritted my teeth and said, "Not yet sir. I'm scanning as we speak sir." "Well get on with it!" He turned away and I shook my head. Jeez, that guy was irritating. We had been in space for nearly five years Earth time, but some new, strange technology that gave me a severe headache whenever I thought about it, made it possible to make the trip in little over a year. However long we had been out there, though, the general's ear-splitting commands were beginning to grate on my nerves. I flipped onto a different screen in my little navigation alcove. A high-res moving picture of the planet's surface danced around in front of me. The glare was hurting my eyes and I squinted. "Jax," I called to the pilot. "Yeah." "Try HG-737," I said, giving the coordinates for a possible landing site. Sometimes it took multiple tries to get a good site, and I hoped this one would work or the general would have a few choice words to say. As Jax began the descent, General Landings leaned over my shoulder to look at the screens. "Does this junk heap have any life?" he asked. The importance of the moment had made him talk in a civil tone and I was eager to keep it that way. I did some rapid typing and looked at the results, interested. "This place has been dead since time began. Not a spark of life." The general sighed and rubbed his eyes. He snapped them open again and glared at the monitor. "Didn't we send a probe here a couple years ago?" I asked. "We did. And the stupid thing sent transmissions back saying this was a good place for making a colony. Probes," he growled, and added a few colorful adjectives. "This place will work," I said, trying to keep the general in a good mood. The ship slowly had started to shake. We were going through the atmosphere of planet AE-51 and I braced myself. This was the part of the flight where I usually evicted some of my stomach contents. The gentle rumbles gave way to a violent throttling that felt as if a couple of giants were playing ping-pong with our ship. My teeth began to vibrate in my mouth and I clamped them shut. I'm not getting paid enough for this, I thought. The shakings got worse and worse and I thought I saw my life flashing before my eyes. Somewhere far away I heard Jax flipping switches and cursing. I was sure I was going to have a few more white hairs after this ordeal. We got rattled harder and harder until we suddenly seemed to hover and then all movement stopped. "We've landed," said Jax with a trace of smugness. I closed my eyes, gave a long relieved sigh, and released my seat belt. "Good! Now let's get out there!" said the general, so loudly that he nearly knocked me off my feet. I opened the door to the cockpit and walked into the cabin. It consisted of a few chairs and a big red couch, a coffee maker, and an entertainment system. The two other men of our team were sitting there. They were twins, and I couldn't exactly remember why they had come on the trip. "Bob, Ron, we've landed," I said. They both got up wordlessly. They did everything without expression, without emotion, and I couldn't remember the last time they talked. I often thought that they didn't even care if we landed or not. We strapped on helmets from the racks and, for no particular reason, stood in a line. General Landings strode briskly from the cockpit, snapped on a helmet and, with great relish, opened the main hatch. None of us went out at first. We simply stood dumb in the cabin until Jax boldly walked out, her shoulders hunched. Following her lead, we all cautiously left the ship. I stared out the visor of my helmet. The flat ground was a dusty orange color with small pebbles scattered about. A small wind gusted around our legs, pulling up some sand and swirling it in the air. I looked around. On all sides were straight, empty spaces, not a single hill or bump. But it wasn't the depressing landscape that left me speechless. About fifty yards away, half-buried in the dirt of a dry, dead planet, was a space shuttle. Bob reached it first; I think it was the first time I had seen him run. The rest of us approached it slowly, like it would jump up and attack us at any moment. I ran a gloved hand lightly up and down the rusty side. From the amount of wear I guessed the ship to be at least five hundred years old; but the model was very similar to a new version that had been made in America. Jax was examining the underside and I heard her gasp and swear over the speaker in my helmet. "What is it?" I asked, running over to her. She wordlessly nodded to the metal. I looked. The ID number of the ship was USA 29845. The ship we had come in had the same ID. And two different ships never have the same numbers. I called over the rest of the team and we all silently crouched in front of the large black figures, like an ancient tribe worshiping some idol. Even the general was lost for words, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. Ron fiddled with some wires and the main hatch opened. We all looked at each other. Following Jax's example, I went into the ship first, with the team trailing behind me. The cabin looked exactly like ours, down to the coffee stain on the couch.

Maddie’s Little Miracle

The movie droned on: " . . . though today some of the canyons hold man-made lakes. This played an important role in the discovery of . . . " I slumped down in my seat and let out a deep yawn, despite my efforts at fighting it. How could they expect anyone to be alert and focused in the last class of the last day before winter break? Crinkled notebook paper lay scattered across desks, smeared in gray smudges from listless doodling. Girls passed notes back and forth, scribbling out conversations that had grown from meager sentences into five-page sagas. A couple kids remained staring at the television screen, lost in a deep trance. It made me wonder whether people could actually fall asleep with their eyes wide open. I rested my chin on my fist, gazing absentmindedly out the window. Big, fluffy white snow flurries floated down loftily from the sky, settling atop the old, leftover snow in a thin, new layer. It looked to me like good packing snow, the kind you can build big, bulky snowmen out of. Perhaps I'd build a snowman of my own when I got home. That was, of course, after I dropped by the Andersons' house. Mrs. Anderson had called me up on the phone last night, asking if I'd like to look after Maddie, their huge golden retriever, for a couple of days while they were out of town. I'd answered yes without any hesitation. Maddie must be the most lovable dog you are ever likely to meet. I'd looked after her a few times before. It was always fun. This time, however, I felt a little uneasy, a little weird. It would be the first time I looked after Maddie, just Maddie, and not also their gray tabby cat, Gretchen. Gretchen had been missing for nearly five days now, ever since that horrible snowstorm had blown past. I believe everyone had been a little freaked that day. I know for sure that I had been. We'd lost our power pretty early on, leaving the whole world, as much of it as I could see anyway, lost in total darkness. Outside, the wind had shrieked and howled relentlessly, like dying wolves on their last breath. It beat upon our house as if someone was actually standing outside taking a swing at it. I had to keep reassuring myself there was no way a house could literally uproot itself and fly away, like the one in The Wizard of Oz. Relief washed over me the next day as I woke to discover it had finally ended. Left behind, though, was a trail of gruesome damage. Poor Gretchen. There were no tracks, no clues. We didn't know where to even begin looking. The outlook was bleak. I felt a pencil jabbing at me between my shoulder blades. "Hey, Katie!" whispered Laura. "Some of us are heading over to Caribou after school. You gonna come? It'll basically be me, Allie, Sylvia, Steph. Maybe even Tim and Rich." I was already shaking my head no, but stopped as she mentioned Rich. He was new. We'd met him only a few days ago. He had bright blue eyes and the kind of smile that made you want to smile too. I toyed with the thought of going, but eventually discarded it. Maddie was waiting for me. The sorry pup, locked up all day in that house. She was probably dying to get some fresh air. Rich would just have to wait. "Sorry," I said, "I've got a job to do." "Another dog thing?" "Yeah." The movie snapped off and the screen went blank. "OK, class," Mrs. Chavez said, rising from her desk. "Your homework over break will be to take notes on Section Two of Chapter Ten. We'll discuss them when we get back. You're dismissed." I packed up my books and battled my way down the bustling hall. Kids, anxious to begin their winter break, swarmed all around in a brilliant chaos. Somehow I managed to reach my locker, retrieve my backpack and some books I needed, and now was heading for the front entrance. Quickening my pace, I was able to disembark, without interruption, swiftly out the doors. *          *          * It was snowing like mad by now. Cold too. Thank goodness I didn't live far off. Down a couple of streets, left at the main intersection, and I was in my neighborhood. I stopped first at my house, dropped off my backpack, snatched the Andersons' key off the table, and ventured back outside. The Andersons lived only three houses down. I inserted the key in their lock and twisted. The door swung open easily and I strode in. "Woof! Woof!" Maddie came barreling around the corner, jumping up to greet me like I was the first person she'd seen in years. Though that's probably the way she feels, I realized, as she sent me reeling backwards. "Whoa there, Maddie," I said, taking her front paws off my shoulders and setting them back on the ground. "Happy to see you, too." I led Maddie through the house and opened the door to their fenced-in backyard. The great golden retriever shot through the opening like a bolt of lightning, galloping into the fresh, powdery snow. She looped about in huge, winding circles, dashing this way and that, sprinting around crazily as if her life depended on it. I smiled. That was Maddie for you. Eventually Maddie began to slow, and she sat herself down right at the farthest corner of the yard. Her snout almost touched the cold metal of the fence. She was staring out at something, very still, a deep sadness seeming to have suddenly fallen over her. Her eyes clouded over, her tail drooped low, and all the while she kept staring out ahead of her. Whining softly, she began pawing at the fence. My face was grim. She must miss Gretchen, I thought to myself, she must miss her

The Burden of Words

Today is gray. A sluggish gray, tantalizing us with memories of the sunny days we could see Popocateptl. The day has been immersed with haze, clouds clotting the sky. It's on days like this that the pollution becomes an accomplice with my asthma, draining my nose and rasping my throat. Rasping my thoughts. My head is cotton, gray cotton. I hurry to get home, reminding myself of the mountain of homework that awaits. Home isn't that far from school; close enough that I can walk. My home isn't in the city's quiet, peaceful neighborhoods that elude the dizzying pace outside. We live right off Insurgentes, known for being one of the largest streets in the Americas. It's six paces from the curb to our strip of shriveled yard, nine more to the steps, four up to the stoop. Our home perches on the street, absorbing the street's noise and everything else that comes with it. And our home looks like every other one. It's a cream stucco-concrete building. Wrought-iron bars protectively span the windows. A collection of spikes of multicolored glass crown the flat roof—our generic, low-cost security. Home, enough for our five-person family unit. I let myself in. The smell of warm bread wafts through the house, hanging in the closets and hovering in the hall. Mmmmmm—Mami must have been to the panaderia. Leaving my satchel in the living room, I float into the kitchen through strands of mid-afternoon light. I know from the smells, from the singing, from the atmosphere, that Mami is inside. "Hola, Mami." "Mi'ja," she says, pecking me on the cheek. "Como estas?" "Oh, I had an OK day Como siempre." "Ay, mi'ja, aren't you hungry? Here, have a torta." She sets the sandwich in front of me on my favorite azure plate. Food is love, always. I push the torta away; I just had lunch. "Gracias, Mami, pero no tengo hambre." "Ay, Rosana, por favor. You are never hungry anymore. My daughter shouldn't be so thin. Just look at you." I look at myself. Pale skin, lightest of my family; rough hands my mother wishes I'd manicure; protocol jeans. The light above buzzes, on the verge of burning out, like it always is. Mami imposes food on me; imposes it on everybody. Everything is normal. "OK, just have some bites. Just a little." "Por favor, Mami. I'm tired, not hungry" "Ya, ya. Same thing." The torta goes back on the counter. She'll find time later to impose it on some other innocent individual. "So. How was your day?" I shrug. "The usual. But, Mami, I was wondering— there are some extra honors courses being offered after school. They would really help me do better in college. Would it be OK if I took them?" Mami is washing dishes in the sink, deep in the suds of irony I know she wishes she'd gone to college herself. "Really, Rosana, I want you to be an independent woman someday. You deserve a good education, mi'ja. But family comes first. You need to spend less time with your studies, more with your family. Too many rebellious ideas swirling around in your head." "Por favor, Mami." She turns toward me, shoulders sinking. The kitchen is dim, but her eyes seem lighter, deeper. "You know what Papi would say." I'm perfectly aware of it: he would say no. I try again: "But Mami, you always tell me to take advantage of the opportunities." Her eyes are glistening. "I know I tell you to. But you're forgetting what is most important." Then she pauses, her voice lowering to a whisper. Her voice is grainy, sound coming drifting in separate molecules. "I have raised my daughters to be strong-willed and independent because I was raised not to be. I didn't go to college. I married too early I wish I hadn't." Her words hang in the air, heavier than the smell of fresh bread. The molecules have stopped floating; now they're at a standstill. The power of her words has frozen them in place, in time. Mami turns back to the sink quickly, still washing dishes in the suds of irony. For an instant, it is as if the words were never spoken. "I didn't mean that. I love your papi very much." Her words ring unconvincing. And I know without her uttering another word that she really wishes she had gone to college and had a career first. Mami remains silent now, as usual. She's never spoken about herself that way before. When she speaks again, it is not my mother's strong voice. It's a wilted voice, marred to crack like an egg. Like my mother. Like us all. "My role is to be a good mother, a good wife. I wanted to work; I couldn't. I had children. I would have been a failure if I weren't married with children by a certain age. But you are different." Being different should be a compliment, but it's not. "You are different. So go ahead, take the courses." I should feel happy Relieved. But I don't. I feel only as if another burden has been placed securely on my shoulders, tension rising, an encumbrance imposed. With my mother's blessings.

Changes

Tick-tick. Tick-tick. The turn signal silenced as Dad rounded the last curb. After a long car ride, Orchard Drive was finally in view. My soon-to-be new house loomed in the distance. It was a sort of gloomy gray color with a ruby-red door that stood out against the drab surroundings. I had decided to like it. After all, what choice did I have? Mom and Dad had made up their minds. Come morning, the house was ours. Besides, everything at home, at school felt so . . . disconnected. It was all flat, the same old life I'd had since age five. I might even need a change. But life wasn't bad exactly, I reminded myself. It was fine, and safe, I knew that. Who knew what was waiting here? Our old red Buick pulled up the unfamiliar driveway Dad unlocked the doors with a click and we climbed out. As we walked to the front door, Dad promised, "It won't be long today, hon. I just have to make a few touch-ups on the paint job." I nodded. The house was truly ugly on the inside, and since Mom loved to watch "Trading Spaces," "House to Home," and other interior decorating shows, she had taken on redecorating the house as her personal mission. Dad and I had reached the front door. He punched in a number in the lockbox the real estate company had attached to its handle. As he turned the knob, I couldn't resist asking, "What's the password?" Dad grinned, "Secret." It was something I'd always asked, and the answer was always the same. Now we were in the house, and I was distracted by the awful smell! I coughed. The horrid scent made the air seem thick; I could barely breathe. Probably the paint, I told myself. Every wall had been painted, courtesy of Dad, and we had hired a company to put in wood flooring. Then I remembered— they had put a protective coating on the floor. That was probably not the most pleasant fragrance, and mixed in with the paint scent, the result made you want to hold your nose! But Dad admired what he could see of the house. "Looks nice," he said, a bit of pride in his voice. "It'll smell for a while, though, partly because of the paint, but mostly because of the floors. They put on a special coat of . . . " I smiled, hoping I looked interested while being informed of something I'd just figured out for myself, but I was putting all my efforts into trying not to gag on the scent. How could I survive even fifteen minutes in here? "Look, Dad," I said, interrupting him. "Maybe I can go outside today I mean, it's the warmest weather we've had this spring, and we've got that whole woods in our backyard . .. " He hesitated, and for a moment I thought he wouldn't let me go. "I think—oh, go ahead. Have fun." *          *          * I'd always loved walking in the woods, but the opportunity hardly presented itself. We lived in a city, and our backyard had been a few yards of grass, but this—this was heaven! All these trees, with no houses behind ours! I set out, but to my disappointment, the trees were purposely planted in rows. Not a woods to have adventures in, not a natural forest. These trees were planted by man. As I walked through orderly rows of maple and pine, I thought about life. Well, I thought about moving, in particular. The same old thoughts I'd been thinking ran through my head. A change. That sounded inviting. I envisioned myself with new friends, great friends, an awesome school . . . but who was I kidding? I wasn't the most outgoing person in the universe, and I certainly wouldn't be surrounded by friends at the end of September. The best date I could expect friends by was December. Change, I told myself. Change is nice. But moving? Isn't that a little extreme? Moving is much too permanent, too final. It takes away everything—specially friends. I'd still see them once in a while, but . . . There was nothing wrong with life as it was. It just needed a little spice, like a new hobby, or new friends, or both. I wondered if I could convince my parents to back out of it. The contract, Mom had told me, wasn't signed yet, but tomorrow they had a meeting with the current owner and then the papers would be signed. The owner had let us do whatever we pleased with the house (such as paint it) for right now. I forced myself to let my thoughts wander, and became aware that I was now walking through an assortment of different trees, not the rows I'd been walking on before. I wondered if I was still on the property Who owned the land behind this, anyway? I imagined running into an escaped convict, and from there, my thoughts ran wild. I spotted a beer bottle, and then a broken piece of pottery. Could someone really be living back here?! Frantically, I walked straight ahead, thinking maybe I'd run into a house soon, until my path was blocked by a thick row of bushes that stretched on and on. I trudged through it, only getting three scratches, but I tripped on a fallen branch and fell flat on my face. Something had cushioned my fall. I glanced down. Grass, piles of it. The lush green grass you only see on TV commercials. I didn't feel any pain, so I looked around. Oh, the sunlight! I hadn't realized how dark it had been among the trees. There was that bright, lush, green grass, with a large bush here and there. Little yellow wildflowers and purple crocuses sprinkled the ground, and I spotted a lone robin making a nest inside one of the bushes. I was being silly Escaped convict? Hiding

Happiness in the Johnson Family

I smell butter cookies, hot chocolate and the stickiness of sleep As we gallop up the stairs to the family room My brother jumping up and down beside me Like a monkey in his tree-green plaid pajamas The tree is glowing like a pyramid of radium And the presents, mysterious cubes and ovals wrapped in slippery wax wrapping paper The color of fluffy foamy whipped cream I hope to get a new skateboard or a surfboard Or any kind of board that moves I imagine tearing through the boxes to discover the treasure within We stare at our thumbs as we wait as impatiently as dogs about to be fed For my parents to wake up so we can open presents But we only hear our dad snoring As loud as the howl of the wind on a crisp, cold winter night But then we turn around and see our rumply tousled parents in the pine-scented hallway "You can open your presents now," they say With smiles as wide as two slivers of the moon "Finally!" my brother and I shout as we rush towards the pile of mysterious presents In the boxes I find root-beer-scented surf wax A black leash to hold me to my surfboard and my surfboard to me And foamy grip tape to help me from slipping off the board And as I hear my mom's gracefull laughter As she watches my brother bounce around the living room With a ribbon tied around his legs and arms as if he were a present I feel cozy in a blanket of happiness and love

The Voice That Challenged a Nation

The Voice That Challenged a Nation, by Russell Freedman; Clarion Books: New York, 2oo4; $18 Marian Anderson was a great opera singer during the 1930s and 1940s. She was also an African- American. Marian was born on February 27, 1897, in South Philadelphia. She was the oldest of three daughters of John and Anna Anderson. At age twelve, Marian lost her committed father to death. Her mother had to raise her three daughters by herself. Marian worked to help her mother by scrubbing steps and running errands for her mother with her sisters. Today it is very unlikely that a kid would be scrubbing steps in an urban area like Philadelphia. It amazed me how the family worked together to make ends meet. Whenever she got money from her performances it was usually five dollars, and she gave her mother two dollars, gave one to each of her sisters and kept one for herself. Even though I think that today's kids are very caring, I think that not many would give their hard-earned money away like this, especially to their younger siblings. Marian got through school and was able to afford music lessons because the Union Baptist Church, which she attended, raised money for her. She had joined the senior and junior choirs and never missed a Sunday with them. She was very dedicated to these choirs and loved to sing. I was amazed at this symbol of unity in the African- American culture as well as the American culture in general. Her goal at that time was to be able to study and improve her voice at a certain school. However, when she went there for an application, she was turned down because she was black. The way the author described the situation made me livid. A singer with a voice like Marian's deserved to be heard and accepted at a famous and first-class school. This incident made her wonder why she wasn't able to get an application because, even though she was black, she knew she sang amazingly well and she had great potential. However, she did go on and I believe that this incident helped her to overcome some of the other surprises that were caused by prejudice along the way. What Marian went through to be recognized in mainstream America made me distressed and perplexed. How could a country that proclaimed "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" for all be so cruel and prejudiced toward one of its own? Even after Marian became famous in Europe and loved in America, the Daughters of the American Revolution denied her the right to sing at Constitution Hall. Many people stood by Marian, including Eleanor Roosevelt, the First Lady at the time. Eleanor went so far as to resign from her position in the DAR in order to protest against Marian's rejection to sing at Constitution Hall. On April 9, 1939, Marian sang on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to thousands of people, being "the voice that challenged a nation." She sang two more times at the Lincoln Memorial, one being in 1963, at the Civil Rights March, when Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his "I Have a Dream" speech. In 1955, she became the first African-American soloist at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. She led the way for many artists, including her nephew, James DePriest, who was able to conduct a series of concerts in Constitution Hall. She was not only extraordinary because of her voice, but also her strength, dignity and character, which shone through her voice. She was an inspiration and role model, not only for African-Americans, but also people of all nations.

A Boy No More

A Boy No More, by Harry Mazer; Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing: New York, zoo4; $15.95 Harry Mazer's book, A Boy No More, is set during World War II. On December 7, 1941, Adam Pelko, a fourteen-year-old boy, and his friends Davi and Martin were in a rowboat when the bombs fell on the USS Arizona on which Adam's father served. This was the legendary Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor. Soon afterwards, Adam was evacuated from Hawaii with his family and moved to San Diego to start a new life. The author adopted the perspective of Adam to tell this page-turning adventure. I find this point of view makes World War II seem a lot clearer, especially because it is so remote in time to me. In the vivid descriptions, I felt Adam's struggle to survive life without his father, his need to be responsible and work to help his family, his bonding friendship with Davi, and his frustration at others who were either lazy or counterproductive. In the second chapter Adam recalls, "I saw my father's ship, that great battleship the USS Arizona, explode and sink." This scene reminds me of when my family went to Hawaii for a vacation two years ago. We visited USS Arizona Memorial Center at Pearl Harbor. When I was standing on the memorial that straddled the sunken battleship's hull, I could still see the roof of the cabins and the smokestack. There were trickles of oil seeping to the surface of the water around the ship, making the water murky, dark, and shiny. I was saddened by the death of the sailors in Pearl Harbor. Even though I am so far in history from World War II, I have witnessed a similar horrifying catastrophe in my day: the collapsing of the Twin Towers on September II, 2001. I remember clearly when I saw the planes hit the Twin Towers on the television. I recall the loud sirens, the burning flames and the people running on the streets, and finally, the whole building slowly collapsing into black smoke. A Boy No More is a captivating story about history that we should remember. Harry Mazer wrote another book about Adam and Davi, which I will read, called A Boy at War. Some other stories around this time frame are Don't You Know There's a War On? by Avi, and Bat 6 by Virginia Euwer Wolff. I strongly suggest that anyone who is interested in learning about the history of World War II read this book.