Fiction
Madeline anxiously gathered her books and half-jogged towards the classroom door, praying that her Civics teacher, Miss Jones, wouldn’t notice her. “Madeline, can I speak with you for a moment?” Madeline’s Civics teacher called in her high, soprano voice. Her eyes scanned the room and then narrowed when they met Madeline’s. Madeline heaved a sigh. So much for being unnoticed. I bet she’s going to call your parents, Madeline silently thought, scolding herself. She made her way to Miss Jones’s desk, prepared for the worst. Miss Jones towered over Madeline and pointed a perfectly manicured finger at her. “I told you last week that you need five community service hours to pass my class. Why don’t I have them?” Miss Jones snapped. “I’m sorry. I guess I forgot. Besides, I have drama and acting classes filling up my time,” Madeline mumbled apologetically. Miss Jones huffed. “Because of your procrastination, I have no choice but to assign you a project.” She rummaged through her desk drawer, searching for something. Madeline groaned. She’d heard rumors about the handpicked projects from Miss Jones. Two kids received trash duty and one even got a job volunteering at the local jail. Madeline imagined herself picking up a rotten banana peel on the side of the road or talking to a prisoner with face piercings and shuddered. Miss Jones finally pulled out a flyer and placed it in front of Madeline. “This is an advertisement from Nature’s Nursing Home. They are looking for volunteers to help entertain the elderly there. The number and address is at the bottom,” Miss Jones said smugly. “I have to babysit old people?” Madeline screeched. “I don’t have time! There’s a reason why their friends and family don’t visit them anymore. This will be so humiliating.” Miss Jones frowned in disapproval. “You will start next Monday, volunteering right after school. Don’t skip this,” Miss Jones said, shoving the flyer in Madeline’s hand. That night, Madeline tried to forget about Miss Jones’s idea during dinner, but it was nearly impossible. She pushed a piece of chicken around her plate and dug holes in her rice. “Are you OK, Madeline?” Madeline’s mother asked and then shot a look at Courtney, Madeline’s older sister, who was playing on her phone. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Madeline replied, looking down at her plate. “You actually look kind of horrible. Did your friend realize that you’re a doofus? Oops, you don’t have any friends,” Courtney snickered. Madeline stuck out her tongue. She wasn’t in the mood for her sister’s juvenile comebacks. “Courtney!” Madeline’s mother exclaimed. Later, Madeline decided to do her homework. She dumped the contents of her backpack on her bed and searched for her math worksheet. When she was searching on her bed, Madeline’s eyes traveled to the half-crumpled Nature’s Nursing Home flyer that she shoved in her bag that afternoon. Madeline sighed, grabbed the flyer, and went downstairs to the kitchen phone. * * * When Madeline walked inside Nature’s Nursing Home on Monday, her instinct was to run away and accept a failing grade from Miss Jones. Instead, she kept her head down as she made her way to the front desk. “Hi, my name is Madeline. I’m here to volunteer to entertain the old, sorry, elderly people here,” Madeline said politely to the lady at the front desk. The lady smiled. “That’s excellent. We don’t get a lot of volunteers, never mind young ones. Many people are hostile toward the seniors here. Follow me, please.” The lady led Madeline to a door and knocked twice. It was very quiet until a frail voice answered, “Come in.” Inside, the room smelled heavily of perfume and baby powder. A bed lay towards a corner, unmade, and an assortment of cards and game chips were scattered all over the bedroom floor. Sitting on a chair next to a square table sat an old woman with frizzy, gray curls forming a halo around her head. Her floral shirt and blue jeans stood out against her pale skin. “This is Mrs. Blair, the senior citizen who you will be spending time with every day this week,” the lady at the front desk said proudly. She gave Madeline a wink and shut the door behind her. Madeline stood awkwardly in front of Mrs. Blair. She cleared her throat and spoke. “Hello. I’m Madeline.” “Hello, Madeline. You have a pretty name,” Mrs. Blair replied. “Thank you,” Madeline replied shyly. “May I sit?” She gestured to the other chair. “Sure,” Mrs. Blair shrugged. Silence filled the space between them. Mrs. Blair’s eyes shifted to and from Madeline to the room. “Tell me about yourself, Madeline,” Mrs. Blair said suddenly. “Well,” Madeline started, “I don’t have any grandpas or grandmas, so I can’t relate to elderly people much. I love the performing arts. I’m mainly here because I have to volunteer here to get a good grade in Civics.” As soon as Madeline said the last sentence, she winced. Mrs. Blair didn’t seem to mind. “Many people, especially teens, don’t seem to care about old folks like me. Thankfully, I’m going to change that about you. Ask me anything.” Madeline thought for a moment. “What was your job?” Madeline finally decided. “I was a Broadway star in New York,” Mrs. Blair answered, looking down. “That’s really cool. Can you tell me about it?” Madeline asked, amazed. Mrs. Blair grinned. “It was in 1948 and I was fourteen at the time. There was a crazy superstition that the lead actor or actress had to wear a special bracelet or they would be cursed forever in their acting career. Back then, I was the lead in almost all of the plays so I always wore the bracelet. Till this day, I still have it and used to wear it when performing plays for the others here when I was more flexible.” Madeline laughed along with Mrs. Blair and listened carefully to the other stories. When Courtney came to pick up Madeline, Madeline was
Fiction
Three Huge Problems: Getting Through a Week in the Sixth Grade!
“Kat! Time for dinner!” “Coming!” Kat had come home from a long day—a very long day—at Hearst Middle School. She wasn’t hungry, she was mad. “Kat, it’s getting cold!” She sighed, closed her homework book, still ignoring her phone, and headed downstairs. “Did you have a good day?” asked her mom as she was scooping pasta onto the dinner plates. Kat’s brother, Finn, was already eating the Italian bread and getting crumbs everywhere. Kat sat down and grabbed a piece of bread. Maybe she was hungrier than she thought. “Kat? Did you hear me?” “Yeah.” “So how was your day?” “Good.” But Kat had really had the opposite of a good day at school. Faith, her best friend, had dumped her over a boy neither one of them really even liked, then she was bullied by Becca, the most popular girl at school. Again. And she’d lost all her math homework for the year. Or maybe she hadn’t lost it; maybe someone had taken it. She wasn’t sure, and she wasn’t sure if she was ever going to be sure. Three huge problems, no huge solutions. Ugh. Kat ate her dinner and ruminated quietly about the day’s events while Finn, Mom, and Dad yapped about some football game or something. Every once in a while they tried to include her in the conversation, but she just shrugged, sighed, or rolled her eyes. * * * The next day when she got to school, before any classes started, she bought a cup of hot chocolate in the cafeteria. She went back outside to sit on the bench and wait for the first bell for homeroom. She was sitting there, thinking about what she could have done with her math homework and how to explain to Faith that she really didn’t have any interest in Brian, when she heard someone cry out. That’s when she saw the self-appointed popular girls—the Sassies, as some people called them, but never to their faces— bullying a girl named Samantha in front of the school. “Hey, stop it!” said Samantha as they pushed her to the ground. “Let her go,” yelled Kat. “What are you going to do about it?” mocked Becca, the leader of the gang. “You want me to let her go? Say please!” Her group laughed. Samantha was trying to pull away, but Becca was too strong. Right then and there, without planning or knowing what she was doing, Kat spilled her hot chocolate all over Becca’s satin dress. “Please,” Kat said in her sweetest voice. “Oops.” “Hey! My dress!” Becca cried. “That’s what I’ll do about it, bully. I guess that chocolate wasn’t so hot after all. Come on, Samantha. Let’s go to homeroom.” Kat and Samantha hurried away from the gang, who were all still stunned at what Kat had done to Becca. * * * Later, after third period, Kat thought she was in the clear. She’d made it through gym and the Sassies hadn’t bothered her at all. She thought they were done with her, or maybe even a little scared of her. Big mistake. On the way to the cafeteria after fourth period, she turned a corner and came face to face with Becca and her group. They swarmed around her. “You’ll be sorry for what you did to me,” said Becca. Kat knew from experience that when Becca said someone was going to be sorry for what they had done, they really were going to be sorry. Becca had beaten up two girls in the fifth grade for daring to talk back to her. Becca didn’t look scared of her, that’s for sure. * * * At lunch, Samantha thanked Kat for standing up for her this morning. “Thank you, Kat. That was really nice. And really brave.” “Oh, it was nothing.” “No, it wasn’t nothing. Becca is the meanest girl in the whole school.” “I guess so.” Because she’d stuck up for Samantha and stood up to Becca and the Sassies, Kat thought she should feel good about herself. But she had butterflies in her stomach because she didn’t know what Becca was going to do. * * * That night, she couldn’t sleep. Her phone kept beeping because she was getting mean texts that said things like, “Is Crybaby going to cry because she can’t stand up for herself?” Which didn’t make any sense because she had stood up to them, not for herself but for someone else. Then again, where is it written that bullies and their dumb texts have to make sense? Kat turned the volume down to zero and went to sleep, but she had some pretty rough dreams. In one, Becca was an evil witch who was trying to turn her into a cricket! * * * On the bus the next morning, Becca and her group were convincing people that Kat had bullied her and that Kat was mean for doing that. It was all a lie. Of course, Samantha didn’t believe it because she was there when it actually happened! Still, in every period Samantha was the only one who didn’t ignore her. Everyone else believed Becca, maybe because they were afraid not to. Even Faith, her supposed best friend, was mean to her, “Gosh, Kat, you have some nerve to bully Becca.” “I didn’t bully her!” cried Kat. “She was beating up Samantha and I stopped her!” “Stop lying. Liar.” “I’m not lying, and if you weren’t so mad about this Brian thing, which isn’t a thing at all, you would trust me and believe me like you always do.” “Wait,” said Faith, “why is the thing with Brian not a thing?” “Because he likes you, not me!” “Then why were you talking to him the other day in gym?” “Because, silly, he was asking me about you!” “Oh. Really? He likes me?” “Really. Now can you do me a favor and help me find my math homework?” Faith looked down on the ground and blushed. “I
Fiction
The hot, arid California air that is usually scorching in the middle of July has—for some odd, outlandish reason—quieted down. It is like a rain forest: wet and hot with great clouds like the feathers of an African gray parrot that ooze languidly along the horizon. It is like the South; the air is saturated with lazy banks of humidity. The hay that the Smiths have purchased (it’s sitting on their pristine lawn, ugly and out of place as a baby swan in a duck’s family) is steaming. Literally steaming. Wisps like ghostly hands rise from it, trailing their lacy tendrils in the swampy air. The air smells of storm. We sit on the old couch and sniff the air rapturously, like hounds pausing in pursuit of a fox. Nothing is more satisfying than sitting at the big living room window with a friend and watching with relish as the rain floods the uneven backyard. If only the lights would go out! We shiver with the sheer excitement of it all. It is truly delicious. The wind has picked up, wailing like a lost toddler, tossing leaf handkerchiefs in the gray sky. Trees rustle, whispering half-heard rumors to one another, swapping gossip, passing tales back and forth. When a human picks one up on the wind, all the truth will be swept away into history, leaving nothing but a faux shell of fabrication. Lunch? No. Mom leaves the room. No time for idle chewing and chomping: important things are happening. The first raindrops begin to fall. They are too small to make a difference, but to us they are like gold coins falling from the heavens. We count them. There is one. Plip. Did you see that one fall on the chair? Plop. There are too many! Pitter-patter. We can’t possibly count them all. The intervals between the drops become shorter and shorter, until they vanish altogether. They speckle the patio and slide down the windows, creating tiny rivers, swirled with rivulets and eddies that channel the course of these miniature streams. And then we can hear it. The melodious symphony of a thousand raindrops, falling from the endless Above. And the roiling sky: it is like the angry sea and it seethes and churns and it is a lion, ready to destroy. And we laugh and it is like the jingling of keys and it eggs the storm on. But we are ready as the lightning flashes. And it lights the room for a mere second in an eerie bluish spike of electricity. Lights, can you please go out! “Why don’t you just turn them off?” suggests practical Mom, so calm, so maddeningly oblivious to necessity. “It’s the same in the end.” Nuh-uh. No way. That defeats the whole purpose. And then we jump as the booming of thunder rends the air like a gong. And the house shakes as we land on the couch again and shudder and shiver and realize that more will follow. And we gaze out at the rain and wind and the blinding sheets of droplets pelting at our house like it is a mere tin can, forlorn and meek and quiet in an empty alleyway. And the grass looks greener than before and we wish it would grow in the browning parts. And then Sister screams as lightning strikes again and the lights go out! We cheer and high-five and Sister’s textbook is on the floor and one of the pages has scribbles from where the pencil marked it when she dropped it. But then the lights come back on and it was just a flicker and we whine and yawn and boredom has returned. But then it hasn’t because the light flickers and it is fun to watch and the storm still rages on and the patio is drenched and flooded with puddles. And we itch to go and jump and step in them until we are all wet and we can dry off and put on clean clothes. But Mom says no, you might get struck by lightning. And we whine but we know in our hearts she is right and anyway, who wants to be outside when you could get electrocuted? Not us. The backyard trees are wet and drooping from the excess of rain. Little droplets of silver fall from their somber black trunks and onto the soaked earth. Maybe our unassuming backyard will become a rain forest and we can have monkeys for pets! Sister says we’re crazy, but who cares if we are. And then, crash bang boom! Lightning and thunder rising to a crescendo, creating a duet in the sky of blue and gray that pulses like a heart. The lights have to go out for real now! But they still don’t and we are battling the storm and the house is now nothing but a tepee or a lean-to. We must fight for survival in the cold, wet, roiling blackness. Mom is saying something about going to the grocery store and we don’t listen to her until we remember that the gutters will have overflowed. We plead to Mom to bring us along too; there is nothing better to do at this moment. And she complies and tells us to put on our jackets and boots. We oblige and walk out the door in bright colors and face the rain. We taste the adventure, craning our necks up to the gray sky and sticking our tongues out to feel the sweet fizz of excitement bubble in our mouths like a sugary soda. And then we see the gutter, the streaming gutter, torrents and all, cascading down the curb in a cataract of currents and eddies, ebb and flow. We long to wet our feet inside our snug Wellington boots and feel droplets explode around us. Mom says no. Of course she does. We get in the car and rain slides down the curved windows and it is beautiful. The pane is bejeweled with tiny
Fiction
It was late summer. The air was thick and humid. Elizabeth lay on her bed, even though the sun had been up for hours. Every day she chose a different place to zone out—her beanbag chair, the couch, a chair at the dining room table. It didn’t make much difference. Every night she cried herself to sleep, soaking her pillow, which was already stiff with tears. She didn’t even bother to turn it over to the fresh side. Every day the sun rose, but it couldn’t light her world now that her mother was gone. Elizabeth stared at the ceiling. When she was little, she and her mom used to lie on their backs, finding shapes in the ceiling plaster and making up stories about them. She picked them out now—the lion, the goat, the spaceship, the otter, the dragon, the wine glass—but they didn’t mean anything anymore. They were just splotches of plaster. It was hot. Sweltering, actually. The hot air pressed on Elizabeth’s lungs, making it hard to breathe. At last she couldn’t stand it anymore—the shapes on the ceiling, the heat, the awful, muffled stillness of the house, the endless hours, passing unnoticed. She jumped off her bed and ran down the stairs and out the front door. She paused on the doorstep, listening to the cicadas chirping in the sleepy silence. A mail truck was turning the corner at the end of her street. She ran to the mailbox, not really expecting to find anything interesting but needing something to do. “Watch out!” Elizabeth screamed. Back in the house, she flipped through the mail, a lump forming in her throat when she saw that several letters were addressed to Alice Benson, her mother. Most of it was for her dad, but one envelope had her name on it. She almost smiled when she saw the stamp with the queen’s profile on it. The letter was from her brother, James, who was in England for the summer. Elizabeth tore the letter open and read: Dear Elizabeth, I couldn’t believe it when I heard that Mom had been killed in a car crash. I miss you and Dad like crazy. Hang in there, Liz. I know this must be really hard for you. It is for me. Tell Dad I’m coming home on the eighteenth. See you soon. Love, Jimmy The next day, when Elizabeth got up, she thought, Seven days since it happened. She was surprised she’d lasted this long. After eating breakfast with her dad, who barely acknowledged her presence before shutting himself in his office for the day, Elizabeth decided to take a walk. The sun hadn’t had time to heat everything up yet, so it was almost cool as she started down her street. Half an hour later, she had walked further than she ever had before, to a part of town she’d only seen from the window of a car. The road sloped down, and as Elizabeth started down the hill, the door of a yellow house opened and a girl and a dog came out. The girl seemed to be blind—she gripped the dog’s harness and walked cautiously as she started up the hill toward Elizabeth. Elizabeth was so fascinated that she almost didn’t hear the whir of a bike tire. Almost. When she looked up, she saw a man on a bike coasting swiftly down the hill toward the blind girl. Elizabeth expected him to steer clear of the girl and her dog, but the man was listening to music and didn’t see her. “Watch out!” Elizabeth screamed. The girl looked up, confused. Her dog barked and tried to pull her out of the way. The biker looked up but it was too late for him to change course. He was going to crash! Without thinking, Elizabeth leapt into the bike’s path. She felt it collide with her body, knocking her down on the rough asphalt. Her head slammed against the ground and she blacked out. * * * The first thing she noticed when she woke up was the music. It was piano music and at first she thought it was her mom playing. But she had never heard this song before. All the songs her mom used to play were worn into her brain so that she could easily recognize them. She opened her eyes. She was lying on a cream-colored sofa and it was the blind girl playing the piano, not her mom. Elizabeth tried to raise herself on her elbows, but her head was throbbing and she fell back on the pillows with a groan. The girl stopped playing. “Mom, she’s awake!” she called and then hurried over and knelt next to the sofa. She moved so easily through the room that Elizabeth wondered it she was really blind. Just then, a tall woman with long blond hair like her daughter’s hurried in, holding an ice pack. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Lousy,” muttered Elizabeth. The woman gently laid the ice pack against Elizabeth’s head. “My name is Maria Belmont. This is my daughter, Ramona.” “What happened?” asked Elizabeth. “I just remember jumping in front of the bike and then…” Maria smiled. “Yes, the biker said so. He was quite worked up. Didn’t even say sorry. He seemed to think it was your fault you got hit. At least he helped me carry you in here.” “I had to jump in front of him, otherwise he would have hit her,” Elizabeth explained, gesturing to Ramona. Ramona laughed. “Are you always this noble? The biker wouldn’t have hurt me any worse than he hurt you.” Elizabeth giggled. “I guess you’re right,” she admitted. “But I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing,” she added. “It wouldn’t be fair.” Ramona laughed again. “So what’s your name anyway, Miss Nobleness?” “Elizabeth.” “Should I call your parents?” asked Maria. “They might be worried…” “No,” said Elizabeth quickly. “I’m sure they’re not.” “All right,” said Maria uncertainly. “If you’re sure.”
Fiction
Magic is like a little puppy. Curious and frolicsome, it bounds throughout the world, unbidden and free. It pauses, sometimes, to explore or play. It’s that breeze that makes the nape of your neck tingle delightfully, that lifts you way off your feet, then sends you tumbling into warm, soft grass. It usually shows up when you don’t expect it—but sometimes when you do. Sometimes you know what it is the moment it touches you, other times you don’t realize until much later. Sometimes it’s just curious, other times it has a more serious cause. You never really know, with magic. Carissa Berlin had learned that lesson. She knew that magic, while amazing, wasn’t always dependable. It had a mind of its own. It chose when to appear, when it would help—and when it wouldn’t. Her pa said there was a reason behind everything. He said magic could sense when interfering could mess things up, so that’s why it kept away at times. It couldn’t be just random. Carissa wasn’t so sure. That freakish storm the other night, for instance. Her friend Lou’s barn roof crashed in, but Carissa’s house was untouched. “A miracle,” her ma had said as the family stood out on the porch, watching the neighbors fix and clean after the damage. “A right-and-regular miracle.” Carissa had agreed and felt thankful that they were all fine, and their home was too. Now—a day later—as she sat on her bed, deep in thought, she knew it was more than a coincidental happenstance. It was more. Magical, it had to be. The exciting thought made Carissa’s legs jiggle. But why us? she wondered. We’re doing great this year with Pa’s business, so fixing wouldn’t have set us back much at all… why not somebody who needed the protection more? She thought about asking her older sister, Ivy. Ivy always had good ideas, even if she could be bossy sometimes. But these days, Ivy often seemed preoccupied, and she snapped at or ignored her younger sister more than usual. No, Carissa decided. This was something she wanted to figure out herself. She flopped back on the bed so that she was looking at the ceiling. There was a crack on it that she liked to stare at when she was thinking. If you tilted your head at the right angle, it looked like a thin, tall girl with floating hair and large butterfly-like wings. When Carissa was six, she had decided that the ceiling-crack girl was a fairy and had named her Aria. “Why, Aria?” Carissa asked aloud, staring up at the figure. She often talked to Aria like this. Obviously, she couldn’t answer, but it made it easier for Carissa to think of ideas when she felt like she was brainstorming with another person. “Do you think it was really magic?” The curtains fluttered, and a shaft of sunlight danced, just for a second, over Aria. Carissa took that as a yes. “You know how Pa says there’s a reason for everything, especially with magic, so what’s the reason here?” No answers popped into her mind. She got no bright ideas. Carissa sighed and closed her eyes, wondering about the whys and hows of magic. * * * Carissa sat up in bed. Something was different, though she wasn’t sure what. She looked around, panic growing. Her eyes darted from her bookcase to her plush blue chair and around again. The window was wide open, and the yellow curtains streamed in the breeze. Carissa could hear the chirps and whistles of the birds outside. The things in her room looked as if someone had sprinkled a fine silver powder throughout the room— they glittered like diamonds in the sunlight. Then Carissa noticed something that made her jaw drop in astonishment. Aria was gone from the ceiling. Where there was a crack, there was now smooth white ceiling. Suddenly, Carissa was aware of a sweet, high voice singing a soft melody. She stood up, entranced, and walked through the window. She floated out and seemed to glide through a world unlike the one she knew. Then! On the top of a hill, stood the figure Carissa had dreamed about for so long. The girl’s hair was golden like sunlight and flew behind her though there was no breeze. She had deep blue eyes and wore a dress that seemed to shift and glow, like it had been woven from the spirit of nature itself. Most remarkable of all, two bright blue, gossamer wings extended from her back, like those of a butterfly. She was the one singing, and the closer Carissa got, the more beautiful it seemed—clear and pure, delicate and sweet. “Aria?” Carissa breathed, and moved slowly toward the girl. “Come, Carissa,” she sang, smiling and holding out her arms, “I can show you the secrets of magic… Come, Carissa!” She stepped forward, her face welcoming. * * * “Come, Carissa, I said!” Her ma’s voice rang out in her ears. “It’s time for dinner!” Carissa blinked. She must’ve fallen asleep. What a lovely and strange dream she had. Just to be sure, she checked that Aria was still on the ceiling. Once again, the girl’s enchanting shape was imprinted right over Carissa’s bed. Carissa climbed off her bed and stretched. She glanced quickly at herself in the mirror—short, slim ten-year-old with auburn hair and bright green eyes. Carissa began walking toward the kitchen. Oddly, she still vividly remembered every detail of her dream. Usually, they vanished the moment she awoke, leaving only hazy traces. This one was different… “There you are!” her ma scolded, placing a plate of spaghetti in front of her youngest daughter. “I called and called… what were you doing up there?” “Oh,” Carissa began, a forkful of noodles already poised to be eaten, “I fell asleep this afternoon, I guess.” She stuffed the pasta into her mouth. Mmm, there was nothing like her ma’s spaghetti. Her ma—the best cook in their town—was tall
Fiction
The last flame of candlelight had flickered out hours ago, but even in the complete darkness, Annabelle Caldwell’s eyes refused to remain shut. It’s hopeless, Annabelle said to herself as she gazed out the window at the full moon. I’m never going to fall asleep. Her mind began wandering and it settled upon Ruth’s birthday party later this week. She and the other girls from her class would wear their nicest dresses and sit primly at the patio table, sipping their lemonade and nibbling their tea sandwiches. They’d make small conversation and giggle occasionally at appropriate times. Perhaps there… Thump. Thump. Thump. Annabelle jumped out of bed. Her heart raced. She could barely breathe. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead. What was that sound? And where was it coming from? Thump. Thump. Thump. The thumping was coming from above her. Are there ghosts in the attic? Annabelle thought as a shiver ran up her spine. Don’t be silly, she told herself as her heartbeat slowly returned to its normal pace. Ghosts aren’t real. But when the noise continued, she decided to investigate. Stealthily, she crept across her bedroom to the bureau. She groped around for a few endless moments and finally drew out three items: a lantern, a box of matches, and an old wooden bat. Annabelle tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack, just wide enough so that she could slip out of the room and into the hallway. She crawled to the spiraling staircase, wincing at every creak, every groan. Her heart pumped faster every second. When she finally came face to face with the closed attic door, the thump, thump, thump-ing was noticeably louder. Cautiously, she opened the door, making a terribly loud squeak. The thumping stopped at once. “Who’s there?” Annabelle grasped onto the wall to keep from fainting. She should’ve run away: fly down the stairs, race into her room, and hide under the covers. But instead, with a shaky hand, she lit the lamp with a match, positioned her bat to swing, and inched forward. Through the beacon of light, Annabelle could make out a petrified face. It was a hot summer day when Annabelle’s father returned home from the cotton fields with a female slave. “She’s no good on the plantation. Hopefully, she can help out in the house.” Susan was only a few years older than her, so Annabelle had tried making friends, but whenever she tried talking to her, the girl would always turn away and not respond. Annabelle had given up trying a couple years ago. “Susan, what are you doing here?” Annabelle whispered, lowering her weapon slowly. Looking down at her bare feet, her face burning with shame, Susan muttered grimly, “I was leaving, miss.” A long silence stretched between them. Annabelle was smart enough to realize that Susan wasn’t leaving for a vacation. “Miss, how much do you know about slavery?” Susan finally asked, looking straight into Annabelle’s eyes for the first time. “Not much,” Annabelle admitted. “When I was seven, a group of European men came into my small village of Bunumbu, armed with guns and bayonets, and chained everyone up. They kicked us, whipped us, even threatened to kill us. They forced us into a cramped boat in horrible conditions. During that voyage, many, including my father and baby sister, died. When we arrived in Virginia, we were informed we’d be working as slaves. My mother and I were separated. I was placed in an auction where we were bid on.” “Oh, Susan,” Annabelle whispered, “that’s dreadful.” “Yes, miss,” Susan confirmed. “I was hoping to head north to Pennsylvania, where I could begin a new life.” Annabelle knew that this was all wrong. The right thing to do was to tell her father of Susan’s plan to escape. What would it be like, Annabelle thought, for me to be Susan? But as she looked into Susan’s wide chocolate eyes, she knew she couldn’t do such a thing. How could she ever pity herself again when there were people out there like Susan? People who have lost everything. People who have nobody left to turn to. “Susan, I want to help.” Annabelle took the girl’s small burlap sack and signaled for her to stay put. Then, silently, she went downstairs and collected a week’s meager supply of food, a refillable canister with water, a cotton blanket, a roll of gauze, and a compass. Susan’s eyes lit up and she opened her mouth to speak. Annabelle put a finger to her lips and shook her head. “Thank you,” Susan whispered quietly. Annabelle reached for the girl’s hand and led her to the backyard, where there was a surrounding forest. Annabelle could see the tears running down Susan’s face as she said, “I will never forget you and your kindness.” Annabelle didn’t hesitate as she wrapped her new friend into a hug. “Goodbye,” Susan said. She turned around and disappeared into the woods.
Poem
Every day I am reborn as something new. I am a prim cherry blossom, a sleek flying fish, a youthful scholar I am everything all at once; a savory dash of powdery cinnamon, a sprig of scorched chard. I am the pulse of the air I inhale, I am one of seven billion Homo sapiens. But no matter what or who I am, I will always gaze at our world of infinity from behind the same gleaming obsidian pupils, the same shining chestnut irises.
Poem
Ah, Baseball! My favorite sport. I feel the excitement and adrenalin running through me As we begin the game. I’m in my favorite position, The catcher’s spot, With the batter right beside me. I sign the pitch to the pitcher And the pitcher winds up. I see the ball sailing toward me And I hear the thud of the ball in my mitt. But wait, what’s this? A man stealing second? I must throw him out! I pop up as quick as I can, To zap the ball to the second baseman. The throw, The slide, The tag. And the umpire calls it… OUT! Hooray! As I squat down for the next pitch, I smile and think, “This is where I belong, Right behind Home Plate.”
Poem
The cricket drones and an eternity passes. As the night whispers on the ground below, perched forever behind the star-soaked curtain of sky. And the rain drips from the old gutters to my windowsill and onto the ground below. Listen. Wait. You may hear the murmuring conversations behind the windows of home. A wisp of music drifting on wind and mist, caught in the dewy grass. This world, half asleep, falling into the arms of unconscious thought and dreamless slumber is a symphony.
Book Reviews
Crossing the Wire, by Will Hobbs; HarperCollins Publishers: New York, 2006; $16.99 When his father died years ago trying to cross the Arizona border, fifteen-year-old Victor Flores dropped out of school and started to plant corn to support his mother and five younger siblings. After he gradually came out of the grief of his father’s death, more problems came up for Victor. Nobody bought Mexican corn anymore, because American corn planted with chemical fertilizers and pesticides was much more affordable. One day Victor realized, if he continued to plant corn his family would have to starve. He decided to risk his life and cross the Mexican border and go to the United States like the other men in his village. His journey was extremely precarious and deadly. Victor experienced a lot of things that he had never imagined before. First, he broke his scalp by jumping off a dashing train. Then he experienced starvation, running out of food in the middle of the desert. His guide that he met got caught by border patrol. Surprisingly, Victor met his best friend in a soup kitchen, Rico, who left for El Norte several weeks before him. Victor even carried drugs for the drug smugglers without knowing it. And worst of all, he experienced walking for hours and hours under the blazing sun— chapped lips, dried mouth, completely dehydrated, his throat felt like it was on fire when he had to swallow. After eleven weeks, everything was worth it, he finally crossed and found a job. This book completely reversed my opinion on illegal immigrants. Before I read this book, I thought that, while the legal immigrants, like my parents, came to the U.S. as college students and waited for ten years to get a green card, the illegal immigrants did not go through the process of naturalization and it was effortless for them to get to the United States. In my head, I imagined that all they had to do was to run for a couple of hours and BAM! they are in the U.S. After reading this book, I felt ashamed and apologetic for what I had thought before. Nobody wants to leave their family and go to a completely unfamiliar country that they have never been to before. Like Victor, he did not want to come to the United States, but there was a burden on his back, to support his family. Also, the journey was deadly. People cannot imagine how many people died on their journey trying to cross the border. People have died because of starvation, some ran out of water, some died because of the heat, and some were even shot by border patrol. Only a few of the determined and the fortunate people have succeeded. Although the journey was hard, that does not mean it is not the right thing to do. From this book, I learned to see the world with other people’s eyes. After reading this book, I also truly felt sympathetic for people like Victor in real life. At the same time, I also learned to be thankful and to treasure the smallest things beside me, like going to school legally, not worrying about being deported, and having the ability to communicate with others using English. Crossing the Wire is a breathtaking book. I loved the characters and the story. This book is full of exciting adventures. I finished the book in just two days. Crossing the Wire is one of my favorite books and I hope you can read it too!
Book Reviews
One for the Murphys, by Lynda Mullaly Hunt; Nancy Paulsen Books: New York, 2012; $16.99 Growing up browsing through Salvation Army bins and snoozing in the basement, twelve-year-old Carley Connors is a born-and-bred Vegas girl who’s as tough as nails. Her dad is completely out of the picture, and it’s always been just her and her alcoholic mom. Carley’s mom smokes, makes her daughter eat from soup cans, and neglects sending Carley to school. This life is all Carley has ever known. But this zone of “normal” is torn apart after her mom’s heartbreaking betrayal that lands Carley in foster care. Do you ever doubt the people you love? That’s how Carley feels. Rejected from the one lifeline she knows, she chooses to shut herself off from everybody else. Her new foster family, the Murphys, are a lively household with three boys. They’re genuinely caring, but so… different. And so begins Carley’s struggle of opening herself up to the Murphys’ outpouring of love. The first couple chapters of One for the Murphys led me to wonder why Carley would even miss her mom. After all, she abused, neglected, and betrayed Carley. So how could she still ache for her mother? As the story progressed, I began to understand why. Carley’s mom is her closest family member. Memories of Mom singing The Little Mermaid and creating rhymes for her entertainment evoke a cozy childhood glow in Carley. My mom and I are very close. Sometimes I wonder if she knows me better than I know myself! She’s my number-one confidant. Whenever I have freak-out episodes or when I just need to calm down, she always knows exactly how to comfort me. Mom’s also pretty honest whenever I’ve done something that’s not quite right. I remember when I was enraged at my mom for a couple of days. We argued. I vaguely remember it was for a minor transgression that I probably deserved to be chastised for. There was some yelling involved. Mom wanted us to calm down and think it over, but that wasn’t the case. Afterwards came days of silence, with anger and depression boiling inside me. By day three, I was still keeping up my anger act, but I recall my mother standing in the doorway, late at night, whispering, “No matter what, I’ll always love you.” This is the same for Carley. Her toughness can’t mask the fact that she still yearns to be with her real mother, because she feels that nothing could ever compare to the warmth of a mother’s embrace. I agree that’s one of the best feelings in the world that we often overlook. The aspect I enjoyed most about One for the Murphys was how Lynda Mullaly Hunt let you explore Carley’s story. I laughed at her hilarious one-liners, rooted for Carley and the Murphys, and wept during the touching scene in which Carley describes the truth of her mother’s actions. The writing is so real. You can practically hear Michael Eric clomping down the stairs imitating his favorite superhero, Super Poopy Man, as Carley affectionately describes her foster brother’s antics. One for the Murphys is a thought-provoking novel that taught me not to take for granted and to always be prepared for the dramatic changes life brings. Anyone who wishes to read a tale with heart infused with humor and insight should consider One for the Murphys their next read.
