Fiction
The wind burns my face as Willow and I bound over tree roots and the soft earth of the forest. The sun-dappled woodlands stretch invitingly before us. The majestic spread of leaves lies like a masterpiece, untouched by human or horse. Eagerly Willow gallops into it, causing the leaves to blow up like a bomb. The horse snorts delightedly. It is a crisp late-November morning in Lake Ariel, Pennsylvania. To our left glitters the frigid cobalt lake. The ducks, Jack and Sydney, patrol along the shoreline, making sure everything is under control. To the right is nothing, just the tangled mass of skeletal maples and dogwoods. Suddenly I hear the faint call of my mother's worried voice, signaling Willow and me to come back to the barn. Reluctantly and somewhat irritated now, I turn the horse back in the direction of Strawberry Grove. Willow is as deflated as I am as he heads back to the barn at a reluctant trot. The untamed wilderness turns into a well-worn path. Various footprints trample it. I think back to how many horses have galloped on these lands. Let's see, there was Rosebud, Juno, Penelope, Pumpkin, Typhoon, and so many more. My parents have owned Strawberry Grove Farm since they were newlyweds of twenty. Now, nearly twenty-five years later, the strong stone walls of the barn and the old farmhouse on the hill are going strong. My mother stands at the hayloft window with her binoculars in hand, worried lines creased on her weathered forehead. My black bangs fly up when I sigh in exasperation. Ever since the accident, my mother has become increasingly more of a worrier than she ever was. It is irritating sometimes, but I simply remember what Dad has drilled me to tell myself, "She's worried because she loves you." "Dylan, please stay closer to the house where I can keep an eye on you. Or better yet, just ride in the paddock. Why don't you get back into showing?" I sigh yet again and shut my eyes. I fight the urge to yell. "Mom, Willow and I know the woods like the back of our hands. Or hooves in Willow's case," I told her, cracking a grin. But Mom's face remains stern and a little bit sad. I can tell she's thinking about Georgina. The sight of Georgina's pale face lying in the leaves with her cloud of dark hair lying eerily around her still haunts my mother. "Dylan, please. You're my only daughter left. I don't want to lose you too," Mom tells me in a choked voice, and hurries back toward the house. Sighing in frustration, I untack Willow and let him loose with his pasture buddies, Comet, Tiny, Warrior, and Persia. The eldest horses, Pumpkin and Rosebud, recognizing me, nicker softly and lumber forward. I feel a surge of affection for the sweet horses, who are in their high twenties and the oldest horses at Strawberry Grove. But their chestnut coats still gleam a healthy shine and their brown eyes shine. My parents had bought them as a pair when they were a shade over four. We are old friends. "Hey, guys," I greet them, pulling some fresh carrots out of my coat pockets. Greedily but daintily they nibble each one, grateful for the attention. Suddenly the horses prick their ears and the sound of the rattling trailer comes up the road. Dad's back with the new horse. * * * All three of us, along with the yellow-and-chocolate labs, Banana and Ryley, gather around the roomy box stall that is now occupied with a gorgeous gray mare, dappled white and complemented by a black, gray, and white mane. Her name is Baby Blue, nicknamed Baby, and she is my newfound interest in the horse breed. Baby munches calmly on the hay, casting her three awed onlookers curious glances once in a while, but otherwise the move hasn't affected her. "Dad, she's gorgeous," I breathe for about the millionth time. Since the moment my father backed the finely conformed Arabian mare out of the trailer, I knew she was something special. But how to find out . . . The afternoon swiftly flows into a milky pink twilight, the winter sky dotted with cotton-like clouds. The last of the procrastinating geese fly overhead, frantically fleeing from the frigid cold to the tropical south. In the warmth and coziness of the huge stone farmhouse, I can hardly concentrate on the dullness of my math homework. Baby occupies my mind now. Dreamily I sketch a horse head on the margin of my paper. She has a finely dished face and intelligent wide-set eyes. My mother is overlooking. "What interesting math homework. It's changed quite a lot since I was in sixth grade," Mom observes dryly. "Oh, um . . . I was just getting a head start on my art project," I reply weakly. Mom just raises her eyebrows and continues with the dishes. "Dylan, if this horse is going to inhabit your mind, I'll have to find another home for her," Dad tells me from his nest of newspaper on the couch. "Oh, no, Dad, she won't," I vow hastily, and quickly flee back to my math homework. * * * A week later, now in the early stages of December, I am delighted to find at least a foot of snow draped dramatically over the earth like a blanket. The horses, even more enthused, frolic merrily about the paddocks. The dogs nip at each other playfully as they roam the property. The fat barn cat, Callie, lounges lazily in the snow, enjoying the weather at a calmer level. School, to my delight, is cancelled today, so I take the opportunity to finally get on Baby's back. The gray mare leans against the sturdy box stall door, relishing the fact that she could hang her head over the side. Dad told me that at her old home there were bars on the doors. "Hey, girlie,"
Fiction
Tap, tap, tap. The light drizzle sprinkled upon my window. I stood up and ran downstairs. "Yes! Only one more hour till eight. My favorite show 'Rocket Power' will be on." I skipped into the living room and grabbed my Gameboy off the top shelf. While doing this I thought about how nice it was on rainy days like this. My parents couldn't make me go outside. I poured my cornflakes into the bowl. I looked with my dark blue eyes down into the bowl. Wow! Those pieces of cereal are like the stones that sink in the next level of Nintendo. I thought of all this while playing my game on Gameboy. The milk would be the lava I would sink in. I stopped the game and ate my cereal slowly, imagining each spoonful another monster jumping out of the lava and killing me. I did this for quite a while until my cereal got soggy. I took my plate to the sink and looked at the clock. Still half an hour to go. Ten minutes later my parents got up. They ate breakfast. With only two minutes to go, I ran into the TV room and flipped on the TV. "Rocket Power" had just started. I lay down on the soft leather couch and lay there with my eyes half closed. "Frederick," called my father Leonard. "We don't have any more wood for the fire." I saw Leonard's face peek around the door. "That means you've gotta help." "But Dad . . ." "No buts about it. It'll only take half an hour." " . . . in half an hour, my show will be over." "Do you want to freeze to death?" I snapped off the TV and walked out of the room with my head down. I flung a jacket around me and stomped outside. "Ahhh, but it's raining," I said with a grin, and turned around. "No. The rain has stopped. Now it's just foggy." I slowly walked down the stairs, trying to think of an excuse. The chill stung me like needles. The little autumn light that there was cast an image through the skeletons of trees. I finally made it to the corner of the field where all the wood was kept. I saw my father breaking through the fog with the rusty wheelbarrow from the barn. When he got to where I was standing, I started throwing wood into the wheelbarrow. When it was so full that not one more log could fit in it, he took it back to the house to empty. He took his time, as if trying to make me suffer. Once he had disappeared into the fog, something else caught my eye. It was from above me. When I looked up, I saw a small animal with a big gray bushy tail. A squirrel. It darted from branch to branch. I followed it down to the creek. Every once in a while it would stop to groom itself. When it got to the creek, it noticed me. Such a fascinating creature, climbing head first down the trunk of an old oak, every few minutes glancing up at me. When it reached the ground, it hesitantly came toward me. After it was about three feet away from me, I reached out to pat it. It scampered away frantically. I waited patiently for the squirrel to sneak back out of the blackberry bush. It did with a cautious look, its eyes staring at me the whole time. Slowly, it sat down next to me. I reached out a quivering hand, its eyes closed. Now I could feel the warmth of the animal's fur. Suddenly, a flash of feathers was flung into my face, and a small squeaking sound filled the forest. When the feathers left, the squirrel was gone. I looked up to see a red-tailed hawk with the squirrel clenched between its talons. I followed the vicious bird to its huge nest of leaves and sticks. The scraggly bundle was literally five feet long and two feet thick. The bird landed as I started to climb the big pine. I kept an eye on the nest until I reached it. I had a grip on the tree as I peeked over the edge. Three little cotton balls were bouncing up and down, looking as if their heads were attached to loose springs. I saw the squirrel in the mother hawk's beak. She was about to feed it to her young. She saw me! Her yellow eyes glared at me with an awkward stare. I ducked and clung to the tree like it was my mother. The hawk dropped the half-dead squirrel into the nest and peered over the edge. She couldn't see me, so she started digging into her nest; I peered over the other side of the scruffled nest to see the birds from behind and all three youngsters staring at her. No one was looking at the squirrel but me. I snatched the squirrel and felt a pecking at my back. I lost my balance and fell, fell and fell till I hit the ground, felt the squirrel leave my hands and everything went black. Slowly my eyes opened, but sharply squinted as the sun reached into my pupils. I rolled into the shade of the dark pine. The damp ground comforted me. "What time is it? Where am I? Why am I here? Wasn't I just chopping wood with my father?" I slowly got up from the leaf-carpeted soil, trying to think why I was in the middle of the forest. I looked up and saw a grungy nest. In the back of my mind I could remember a bird, a hawk, with something in its sharp talons. It was a smaller animal, shaking and squeaking. I just couldn't remember what. I dazedly walked home, trying to recall the story, when my back started to hurt. I reached back to feel a drop of
Fiction
My fingers trembled as I laced up my toe shoes. I drew in a long, shaky breath. Why, when I had longed for these new satin shoes just a few months ago, did I want so badly to take them off and crawl under my bed? "Got the recital jitters?" a voice asked gently. I nodded, oblivious to the speaker of the comforting words. Vaguely, I looked up. Of course. It was my best friend, Sarah. How could I not recognize that pretty voice? Sarah was the scarecrow in our ballet school's production of the classic movie, The Wizard of Oz. It was Sarah's and my favorite movie. Sarah was a wonderful dancer. Everyone was sure that she would get the lead role. Sarah was the only one who wasn't surprised at who got the part of Dorothy. Everyone was surprised. Even the girl cast as Dorothy was shocked. How could I know that? I knew because that unbelievably lucky person, the girl that Miss Stephanie saw as good enough to dance the lead role, was I, Morgan Quincy. "Ready to get 'em out there, hon?" a deep voice suddenly shook me out of my puzzled thoughts. My dad smiled down at me. "You look beautiful, Morgan." I grinned at Dad. I was actually very average-looking, with a tall, thin figure, bright blue eyes. My long brown hair was tied in two ponytails for my part in the ballet. It didn't matter how I looked to my dad. My sister and brother aren't knockouts either. Sarah was the one who would be called beautiful. Her short blond hair was cut so it framed her round face perfectly. Her lively green eyes dazzled everyone. Right now, you couldn't tell that, because her elaborate scarecrow costume covered most of her. My dad was the one who could always make me feel proud of myself. I don't know what I would do without him. "Oh sweetie, you look so grownup. That dress is so pretty. Are you sure it's not too small? You did grow quite a bit. Should I ask Miss Stephanie if she has another one? Oh, and one more thing, Gram and Granddad are here to see you. Your sister is here. She missed a day of college to see you. Arnold is in the audience; oh, Morgan, you are going to be wonderful. Hi there, Sarah, I'm sure you'll be wonderful too, dear." As my mother stopped to take a breath she looked at my face more closely. "Is that makeup on your face?!" she practically screamed. "Mo-om." I groaned, trying to keep the smile off my face. "Puh-lease. It's your youngest daughter's big debut. Give me some encouragement, will ya?" My mom always tries to fill silence with words, but sometimes I enjoy silence. My dad and Arnold, my brother, like silence also. That's why we like fishing together. "If your mom came fishing with us," my dad would announce playfully, "the fish would wear earplugs!" Of course, my older sister Beth used to come fishing with us, but then she "outgrew it." I hope that I never outgrow fishing, because I like the quality time spent with my dad. "Morgan, honey, are you OK? You have that daydreaming gaze again." I was able to get a nod in before Mom took off again. "Now I'll be watching from the audience, and after we will go out for dinner. I was thinking that French place down the street, the cute little cafe? I'll check it out later. Well, I have to go; good luck, darling!" My dad rolled his eyes at my mom's excessive chattering and strolled away. My mom, all intentions of finding me a new dress and wiping off my makeup lost, linked arms with Dad and went with him. "Wow," murmured Sarah, "your parents are really nice." I felt a pang of guilt. Sarah's parents had died when she was eight. I couldn't even imagine what it would be like without my parents. Sarah lived with her aunt and uncle and their son Eric. They were nice people, but to tell the truth, they were kind of dull. Sarah was the best friend in the world. When Miss Stephanie told me about my part, I stood there speechless while Sarah wrapped me in a hug and squealed. If she was even the tiniest bit jealous she didn't show it. I wish that I could show some of her cool, calm behavior before every recital. She was well suited for the scarecrow. Not only was she a gifted dancer, she was a great actress and could act clumsy as the scarecrow should. Why did Sarah choose me for a best friend? I couldn't even think of anything to say about her parents. Instead I mumbled, "I'm so sorry, Sarah," and left a lot of things unsaid. Sarah nodded, obviously too wrapped up in thoughts of her parents to speak. She often talked about them to me. She confided that she was glad that she had been old enough when they died to have memories. Personally, I thought it would ease the pain if you didn't remember them. We sat down to stretch, only a half-hour before the show. I thought about the show. I had several solos in the show, including one to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." It was my favorite dance of the show. It had plenty of feeling, with pirouettes and jetés, my favorite moves. "Morgan, don't get all starry-eyed on me now," Sarah teased. I flashed her a smile, glad she wasn't thinking about her parents. "Concentrate on the music, the steps will come." I frowned slightly. Where did that thought come from? Miss Stephanie, I realized. Of course. How many times had she circled around our dancing groups, eyes flashing, whispering, "Concentrate on the music! The steps will come!" "Shoot!" I muttered suddenly. Sarah turned to me, full of concern. "What's wrong, Morgan?" I almost laughed. Leave it to Sarah to
Fiction
On that day in 1939, Ben was only ten years old. Yet, as he sat sipping cream soda in his father's store, his legs dangling off the high wooden stool, Ben felt almost as old and wise as Heinrich Goldberg, the ancient bookstore owner who had fought in the great World War. Yes, Heinrich knew everything, all right. He told terrific stories about how he had crouched in deep trenches, bullets whistling overhead, how he hadn't even noticed the wound in his arm that had caused him to be sent away until his sleeve began to turn red . . . Ben wanted to be exactly like Heinrich when he grew up. "Is everyone here?" came Father's anxious whisper. Ben's thoughts crashed to bits like the windows of their store had a month ago, when the Gestapo, or German Secret Police, had smashed them to pieces. "Yeah, I think so," Ben whispered back, glancing around the room excitedly. He was the only one there under eighteen, maybe even twenty. Father listened intently for a few seconds, his eyes piercing the darkness to every corner of the room. The shades were pulled completely down, and the only light was that which filtered in under the door. Even so, now that the windows were gone, they had to be extremely careful of unwanted listeners at Father's secret meetings. Suddenly, Father began to speak. "As you all know," he began, "and as we all suspected, Hitler's aggression against us Jews has become more than unfair laws and yellow stars on our jackets." Ben could hear murmurs of agreement and could faintly see people nodding as he squinted through the gloom. "I could relate to you numerous incidents of terror and injustice, of damage done to property—and people." Here, Father had to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the indignant muttering which undulated through the room. "We must take action!" declared Father, in a voice that was so full of passion that it would have been a yell had there not been a need for quiet. "We are gathered here to decide whether to flee to safety in Switzerland, or to stay and form a resistance group." "No decision there!" screeched the crackling voice of Heinrich Goldberg, oblivious to the alarmed chorus of "sshhh" all around him. "Would we run away like a bunch of stinking, lily-livered cowards?" "Heinrich," Father answered, trying not to smile, "even if we do decide to form a resistance, you will be sent to safety." "What about this, eh, eh?" said Heinrich angrily, pointing to his sleeve, which was carefully torn in the exact spot where his scar was. Some people said Heinrich was a pompous old fool, but Ben admired him more than anyone else, except for Father. If he had as good a scar as that, he would make sure everyone could see it, too. Meanwhile, restless murmurs rippled through the room. It seemed to Ben that Heinrich could have waited for a better time to voice his opinion. Perhaps it was true that Heinrich didn't always think before he . . . No! How could Ben have thought such a thing? He was sure that Heinrich had a very good reason for speaking up when he did, and yet . . . Confusion spun in a dizzying wave through Ben's head. His cream soda suddenly seemed bland and unappetizing. Then, like an ice cube on your forehead on a summer afternoon, Father's voice broke in, sending a calm coolness through the hot, restless mutterings. "Let's not waste our valuable time on discussing the details of actions not yet decided upon, and on arguing a case upon which all present have already formed an opinion. And yet. . ." Father paused. "And yet, if we do decide to stay, I have a very special job in mind for you, Heinrich." Alight in the glow of Heinrich's enormous beam, Father began the vote. "All in favor of a complete run for safety, say nay." There was a heavy silence. "And all in favor of forming a resistance group, say aye—quietly." This last was added as "ayes" began swelling through every corner of the room. They were quiet, as Father had suggested, yet determined. They sound so brave, thought Ben excitedly. I bet any one of them could take on ten Nazis! Yet fear gripped his heart as the reality of what they were doing sank in. He remembered a film clip of Adolf Hitler he had once seen—the huge black moustache, the evil, glinting eyes, the harsh, cruel voice . . . Ben shivered violently. Father must have felt it for, next to Ben, he whispered, "All right, son?" The terrible image blew away like a speck of dust. "All right there?" Father repeated. "Yes," answered Ben. I'm fine." * * * Switzerland. It was only just across the border, yet it seemed continents away. How could Father send him there? Why couldn't he help with the fighting? It wasn't fair! Yet, in his heart, Ben knew that it was going to be very dangerous, staying and fighting the powerful Nazis. He knew that Father just wanted to keep him safe. Ben started to sigh, then caught himself just in time. Father and Heinrich might hear him. He knew it was wrong, but couldn't resist. He was listening at the door of a room. Inside, Father and Heinrich were arguing heatedly. "I should have seen through your sneaky plan at once, Joseph!" Heinrich was screeching. "I have a very special job in mind for you," he mocked bitterly. "You want to send me away, that's all. You want to get rid of me." That same wave of dizzying confusion came over Ben again, this time stronger. How could Heinrich say those things about Father? There was something, something about Heinrich he hadn't seen before and didn't like. Yet he couldn't think what it was. Ben put his ear to the door again and tried to
Fiction
Swissh! Ed was playing basketball on the slab, a super-smooth playground on the campus of Country Day, his school. In the coolness of the evening the asphalt felt oddly warm beneath Ed's bare feet. He was playing with his best friend Dave, and he had just scored a two-pointer while Dave was blocking him. "In your eye!" Ed screamed. Just as Ed noticed it was getting dark, his mom yelled, "Come on up, boys, dinner is starting, and we have to eat before bingo." Ed felt free of school rules as he walked over to his shoes that he had kicked aside earlier, and thought about Mr. Gonzalez as he put them back on. Mr. Gonzalez was the headmaster and had an uncanny way of getting Ed into trouble when he had the chance. Like that time when he had yelled at the boys for swinging on the swings loudly during a school play. Geez, some people . . . The boys raced up to the Pavilion and, as always, Dave, who was six months older, won. They bought bingo cards, ate their spaghetti dinner like wolves, threw a couple of croutons and got ready to play by clearing their cards. The Pavilion, a hilltop pentagonal building, looked like an anthill. People were walking every which way, babies were screaming, not to mention girls. The corrugated galvanized roof reflected the sounds so that it sounded as if all the four-year-olds in the universe were reciting the alphabet in their own different languages. The microphone was now being adjusted by the announcer and it made a noise that made Ed's ears beg for mercy. Ed played the first few rounds but did not win. These rounds were regular bingo (five in a row) and had boring prizes, such as sea-life books and an art kit. After those, both the rounds and the prizes got more interesting. Twenty-five dollar gift certificates, a blow-up soccer goal and thirty dollars worth of food at a good Chinese restaurant. Dave won a prize from one of these rounds, a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to a place in town that he had never heard of before, Royal Poinciana. He was worried that he would not like his prize, but he was reassured by Ed's mom. "It's a cool place Dave, kind of like Lamuria." Ed's head was a kaleidoscope of emotions. One part of his mind was happy for his best friend, but the other half was almost jealous that the winner had not been him. This also made him determined to win another game. After a few more empty-handed rounds and the same kind of prizes, Ed was ready to play for the big prize, the air-hockey table. Ed's hands started to sweat and he felt like he had eaten some live guinea pigs that were currently hopping about in his stomach. By the time the final round started, Ed was mumbling things like "guinea pig" and "flying monkeys" to comfort himself. A sudden hair-raising creeaagch indicated the starting of the final round. "This round will be blackout bingo for the air-hockey table." Straining, the announcer lifted up the hockey table to show the prize. The first number called was B-12. That was good because Ed had that one on both cards. The numbers kept streaming out of the announcer's mouth. On occasion, the announcer would say something like "hill . . ." and a few of the girls would hopefully scream numbers like 25 or 27 but the announcer would prove them wrong with an I-21. You could feel the tension in the air. As the game progressed the crowd would exclaim "YES!" or "NO!" depending on if they had the number called on their cards. Ed had only two left, O-64 and B-14. The next number called was Oooo . . . "64" a girl cried, "65" another called out. Ed's hopes skyrocketed. "Oooo . . . 70," called the announcer. The crowd was a sea of "YES!" and "NO!" The next number, Beeeeee . . . "4! 14! 5!" cried the crowd in hopes to convince the caller. "Beeeee . . . 14," called the announcer. The sounds from the crowd, "Yes!" "Joy," Ed added. "NO!" from the back and then from the left front corner the dreaded sound came—"BINGO!" Then there were several "No's" and imitation crying. Ed's head dropped. He had lost to an old lady. What was she going to do with the hockey table that he had wanted? Ed left the building and went to the car. He felt terrible; he had lost by one square, just one! The world was closing in on him as they drove Dave home. Ed just couldn't get it off his mind. One square left! Thinking about it made him feel as sick as that time he drank Listerine. Even though Ed knew it would make him feel worse, he snuggled up into the seat, and when Dave said good-bye he pretended he was asleep. Finally the family arrived home. Ed forgot to brush his teeth and went directly to bed. His stomach ached. He hoped he'd feel better in the morning.
Fiction
"Hurry up, Chris," my dad whispered in my ear. "He's gonna get away. You need to shoot him now." I was looking down my brand new Remington 20-gauge shotgun at a mallard. It was a miserable Youth Waterfowl Hunting Day for me. I knew shooting those ducks would make my father proud, but I just couldn't. My father was an avid duck hunter and fisherman when his job allowed it. Fishing bored me, so Dad hardly ever asked if I'd like to go with him. I had gone hunting with Dad before but never brought a gun, because I didn't own one, and his were too big for me. The shotgun had been a present for my twelfth birthday in August. I'd been practicing almost every evening at the local shooting range, where I learned to ignore my gun's kick and to ventilate soda cans. I knew I could hit that duck, but I didn't want to. I had never enjoyed killing things, and I loathed jerks who killed animals for no reason at all. I liked nature. I didn't want to hurt it. I looked down the barrel at one of the ducks. This duck had struggled to find enough food to survive, and had to evade predators each day of its life, and now my dad asked me to kill it so we could have one nice meal. I hated myself for even pointing the gun near the mallard, but I hated to hurt my father's feelings too. "I . . . I can't tell which is the duck and which is the decoy," I pathetically explained to my dad. "Just try, Chris. I know you can do it," Dad whispered confidently back to me. Thanks, Dad, I cried to myself. Just make it harder for me. Tears leaked from my eyes as my brain raced to make a decision. "You really don't want to shoot them, do you?" Dad quietly intruded on my thoughts. I was too choked up to make any noise. Luckily, a nod was enough.
Fiction
My Burton had a taste for dramatics. Her daily schedule was crammed full of acting lessons, ballet, and auditions. Her room overflowed with masks, stage makeup, and old playbills. Every day after school she would walk over to the acting studio where she took musical theater classes. Often, she would come home with amazing news about her budding career. Her parents knew how much she loved the spotlight. They knew of her ability to mold herself into any role, to put her heart into what she was doing. But Amy felt that, if she could be seen in a different way, her talent could shine more brightly. She soon found a way to be a shining star while mending a broken heart. However, it wasn't how she had planned. "Amy! It's time to go!" called Mom. It was April 28, Amy's twelfth birthday, and they were going to New York's Hollywood—Broadway. They would see Phantom of the Opera, eat at the best diner in town, and ride the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. Amy was so excited she practically fell down the stairs. She had on her favorite stargazing (as she called it) outfit—bright pink flares, a white chenille sweater, and open-toe jellies. Like a filmstrip, she was ready to roll. The pair climbed into the family's blazing blue Chevy and blasted up the music. The spring air nipped at their cheeks and Amy's hair sparkled yellow in the sunlight. "Sweetie," said Mom, "before we go, I'd like to stop over at Rolesrose and pick up that crystal necklace your dad bought me." "Sure, Mom," Amy replied, and off they went. Rolesrose was an antique shop owned by a cute old lady named Edna Berg. She seemed to have many secrets, as did her shop. It accommodated everything from glass elephants to Barbies in prom gowns to ship models and exotic souvenirs. The car stopped with a jolt, and the twosome jumped out and opened the rusty door of "antique paradise." Amy wandered over to where the old movie cameras were. But it wasn't the cameras she thought whimsically delightful. It was the jewelry box made of pink stained glass that fascinated Amy. A rainbow of delicately beaded figures, representing dancing women, dangled off the sides. On the top was a set of brass comedy and tragedy masks trimmed with turquoise rhinestones. Inside were various gem compartments. Amy's fingers crawled gently over the smooth glass and the colorful beads. The brass mask models on the dazzling box seemed to glitter and glow. Next to this box, on the same dusty shelf, was a showcased jade elephant, its varnish glinting in the dim light. Although the bright jade color was beautiful, the elephant didn't have the same magical beauty that the jewel box had. It didn't have the shine, the shimmer, the feeling. However, Edna Berg often referred to this elephant as her husband's favorite. Mr. Berg claimed it took him down nostalgia lane, back to when he fought in the Korean War. Amy looked over to where her mother was, trying on an iridescent string of crystals. "How's it look, honey?" Mom yelled over the buzz of the cash register. Then her voice broke into a whisper. "Daddy has good taste, don't you think?" She raised her eyebrows and Amy chuckled. "Well, he found you, didn't he, Mom?" Her mother smiled, then turned back to the mirror. Amy turned back to her thoughts, too. Hmmmm, she thought. After all the times she had visited Rolesrose, she had never gathered up enough courage to look at the price of the box she admired. Today's the day, she thought. Besides, nothing will ruin my day. It's my birthday! Her hand skated across the shelf the box was on with excitement, feeling for the back of the box because the shelf was so cluttered. Catching mental hold of where it ended width-wise, she edged her way carefully around to the back of the shelf. Peering through the clutter, her eye caught hold of the familiar twinkle of the jewel box. She reached in carefully and began pulling out the prized object. With an abrupt motion, her hand froze. Her nail had gotten stuck on something. She jiggled her hand back and forth and realized that in order to get the box she would have to yank it out of its place. She began to pull and felt her nail split, but her burning desire to take a peek at the jewel box's price erased the pain. She jerked the box from the shelf and sighed a breath of relief. But before her smile had a chance to appear, she heard a glassy crash. Startled, Amy winced. She twirled around and fixed her gaze on what had fallen. It was the jade elephant! Amy's mouth burned; her eyes stung with pity and anger. How could she break something as valuable as this? Amy quickly began sweeping up the pieces with her sandals. She could take them home secretly and glue them together. But the right thing to do, she knew, was to tell the truth. Yet how could this one girl, who broke the most precious thing in an old man's life, tell the truth? Amy drew near the tear-streaked face of Edna Berg, who had seen the crash and looked as broken apart as the elephant itself. "I'm so sorry," Amy said in tears. "I promise I'll replace it." There was a long pause, interrupted by a raspy voice. "It's not the money," Edna sobbed. "It's that my husband held it so close to his heart." Amy bit her tongue. "I didn't know how much it meant to him," she lied. She stroked Edna's arm to comfort her. "The truth is, sweetheart," the woman began, "my husband is very sick. The doctor said he has had another stroke and is becoming weaker every day." The poor woman collapsed to a stool in grief. Amy waited until Edna gained back her strength.
Fiction
“How did you sleep last night?" my sister Rose asks. She tosses back her honey-brown hair and hands me the breakfast bowl she just washed. "OK," I reply, rinsing it, "but I woke up with a headache." Rose is eleven, three years older than me, and usually we get along well. But today I am feeling grumpy. "I didn't sleep too well," says Rose, "because you were wiggling around and had most of the blankets." Immediately, I rush to my defense. "I did not have all the blankets! They were just as much on your side!" "I didn't say you had all the blankets," she says. "You meant it though!" Rose makes an impatient splash in the dishwater and I am silent. Standing tiptoe on my yellow footstool, I glance over the soapy bowl at her. Looking innocent in her teddy-bear nightgown, she scrubs dishes fiercely until her patience returns. But, yes, gazing intently at her, I can tell that she, with her rosy-cheeked face looking so sweet, is plotting the great evil she is going to do. Today she will try to steal more blankets to her side when we make the bed. I know she is scheming, getting ready to make her move and probably even sorting out words to put me in the wrong. I look back down at the bowl I am rinsing. I had better be ready and have my argument prepared. "Let's make the bed now," says Rose, emptying the blue dish tub and wiping the counter. "All right." You certainly aren't always that anxious to make the bed, I think. I'll expose you before you have a chance to rejoice in your success. But as we trudge up the carpeted stairs, my conscience bothers me. Do the blankets really matter that much? And as we round the corner to our bedroom an annoying thought tickles my brain. Just apologize for wiggling so much and let her have more bedspread. But I instantly shove the thought away. No! She shouldn't get away with this. We remove the pink pillows and blankets from the bed. I have to put her in her place, I think, as we spread the sheets and blankets back on. After smoothing them down, the time has come for me to expose her. Something whispers to me, "Don't!" but I ignore it again and, peering at her side, I exclaim, "Rose! You have more blankets on your side!" She glances up, astonished. What fake surprise, I think. "No I don't," she replies calmly. "You do too. Come look." Coming to my side of the bed she says, "You have just as much as I do, maybe more!" "Oh yeah?" With my hands, I measure the bedspread that hangs over my side and hold up my hands for her to see. "Now go measure your side," I command. Obediently she returns to her side and measures in the same way, but when her hands are held up, I can tell (oh the evilness of it!), she has made her hands closer together on purpose. "See?" she says. "No! You made your hands closer together!" "All right," she retorts hotly, "if you don't believe me, get the ruler!" Rose's patience has run out and her brown eyes begin to spark. As I march angrily to our desk to get the ruler, I glance at her side of the bed again. Uh-oh. Maybe she doesn't have more. Maybe today she hadn't been planning to steal more bedspread! Maybe . . . but of course, we have to be sure. Oh, I should not have started this mess. The tension bears down as we measure her side of the bedspread. The ruler reads 11 ¾ inches. "Are you still sure I have more?" Rose says, glaring at me. "Ye- . . . Yes." Actually, I'm not sure. But I have to stick to my story. Now to measure my side. The pressure is so thick I can barely see. My heart begins to pound and perspiration dots my upper lip as Rose presses the ruler to the blankets. I hang back, afraid to look, my legs trembling. What if I have more? "Twelve inches!" Rose announces triumphantly. No! It can't be! I refuse to accept it. "Let me see!" I insist, trying to sound overpowering, and I snatch the ruler from her hands to measure for myself. But the ruler still reads twelve inches. I sigh. Not daring to look at her, I slam the ruler back on the desk and, pursing my lips, I stalk out of the room. After tramping angrily about for a while, I lean heavily against the wall. Why did I ever start that argument? How I want to go back and start over. I should have listened to my conscience. It was just a small whisper, but it sure would have saved a lot of trouble. And as I cool off and think back, I am thankful that my conscience still pricks and annoys me. Peering into the room, I see Rose slamming drawers as she gets ready for the day. It looks as if I've spoiled her morning. I swallow hard and go in to apologize.
Poem
The breeze tastes sweet and warm of sun of ripe fruit and of grass It ruffles my hair and plasters my sweat-wet shirt on my skin It blows doors shut and wafts in windows to cool hot pies and fill empty spaces In the gentle lull of the wind trees creak and shiver, fresh cut grass is tossed onto the walk and the clouds are pushed like cotton-ball puffs across a blue-glass sky At night the wind carries fireflies on its wings and sweet chirping songs of crickets and frogs When the breeze stops playing with my hair or creaking the loose gate and begins chafing my skin and redding my nose and cheeks making breath visible You know the summer wind has left But you remember its playful soul
Book Reviews
Fiona's Private Pages by Robin Cruise; Harcourt, Inc.: New York, 2000; $15 What do you think makes a True Friend? Is it someone who, as Fiona Claire Jardin thinks: 1) always says nice things about you, agrees with you 100 percent, and thinks you look perfect; 2) never gets mad or disappointed in you and never keeps you waiting; 3) keeps your secrets no matter what; 4) never gossips or passes notes about you; 5) is exactly like you? Or is a True Friend more like what her mother, Laurel Ryan, believes? A True Friend: 1) sees you with her heart; 2) listens to you with her heart; 3) knows and loves you in her heart; 4) carries you in her heart; 5) opens her heart to you. This is the question that Fiona explores in this book. Fiona's Private Pages is a wonderful book based on the pleasures and trials of friendship. It seems like every one of her ideas about friendship had to be tested and maybe changed. I could definitely understand many of Fiona's feelings. Fiona has a best friend named Blanca, and two "second-best friends" named Katie and Natalie. One of her struggles involves Natalie. Natalie has been having trouble in school, and her mother says that if she cannot bring her grades up, she will have to change schools. Fiona decides to help by asking Katie to tutor Natalie in math, but, unfortunately, her grades remain low and her parents transfer her to a Catholic girls' school. Although the girls still live in the same town, Fiona is worried that this change will hurt their friendship. When I was five years old, my family and I moved from Connecticut to California. I tried to keep in touch with my best friend Sally, but we didn't have the patience to write letters. Then, just last year, my best friend Madeleine moved to New York. Now that I am twelve, it is easier to keep up a friendship by writing and calling, but it is still a lot harder than when you see each other every day. A good friend is worth the effort. Fiona has another challenge with friends at school. A new girl, Mackenzie Swanson, has just started at Fiona's school and is already very popular. Fiona did not like Mackenzie from the beginning because she embarrassed Fiona in front of the whole class. As if this weren't enough, she also wrote and passed mean notes about her. Since Fiona assumes Mackenzie does not like her, she is surprised when Mackenzie invites her to spend the night. Fiona is confused because she is attracted to Mackenzie's wealth and popularity, but she doubts Mackenzie cares about being a true friend. I used to have "friends" like Mackenzie. They were cool and popular, but I was not content. Half the time they were nice to me and half the time they were not. I stopped hanging out with that group, and, although I am not popular anymore, I am much happier with my real friends who I know I can trust. Then, as if all these troubles were not enough, Katie tells Fiona a secret and makes her promise not to tell anyone! This is a big problem for Fiona because she knows if she does not tell anyone, Katie will be in terrible danger. But of course, this is number three on her True Friend list. Although I have never been in a situation quite as bad as this, many kids have. Should a person risk losing a friend in order to help her, or should secrets be kept no matter what? I think it is worth it to risk the friendship, especially if the secret is potentially dangerous to someone. Chances are your friend will forgive you and most likely be grateful in the long run. One year later, after all these ups and downs with friendship, Fiona reviews her list and realizes that her ideas of a True Friend have greatly changed. She understands that people can get mad at each other and still be friends. She also realizes how boring life would be if all her friends were just like her. I think many people will love to read Fiona's Private Pages and see that Fiona's experiences are much like their own. This book reminds me of what a True Friend really is, and how to be one.
Book Reviews
Queen's Own Fool by Jane Yolen and Robert J. Harris; Philomel Books: New York, 2000; $19.99 My dictionary tells me that "history" is a record of significant events in the past. It is a perfectly valid explanation of the word, but it leaves some things out. While poring over our history books in school, we often do not fully grasp that these people were real. They loved and feared and grieved, as we in the twenty-first century do. It takes a truly gifted author to take a piece of history and make it a fascinating tale. Jane Yolen and Robert Harris have won a place among these talented few with their novel, Queen's Own Fool. They have taken the true story of a remarkable young girl who led a daring life when women were considered to be inferior to men in every way. And they have brought this tale, overlooked by the history books, to the present. This girl, Nicola, is an intelligent, talkative, friendly person, one that we can sympathize with through all her dangers and hardships. Through her own point of view, she tells the story of the famous Mary Queen of Scots. The supporting characters—not all of them likable—expand the reality of the tale. Madame Jacqueline, Nicola's tutor, is one such character. She is a complete tyrant. Jacqueline demands that Nicola's intelligence be harnessed to the restrictive standards of her society. She also stifles Nicola's originality and innocent wit, trying to force her pupil into a conventional female role. However, the reason Madame Jacqueline is so interesting is that she can be viewed as the opposite of Queen Mary. For example, in the beginning of the book, Nicola and her uncle's family are lodged in a bleak, gray room, symbolizing their lowly position in society. When the queen arrives, she brings comfort and warmth to the room. Later in the book, Nicola is in a similar position, but this time she is alone in the coldness, without Pierre, Annette, or any of her old friends to comfort her. And worse, it is not the kind, merry queen who enters the bleak room, but the stern, stiff, unsympathetic tutor. Instead of bringing joy and hope to her surroundings, Madame Jacqueline makes a bad situation terrible. Some likable characters hold interest for the reader as well. One is Davie Riccio, a dwarf who has risen above the place his society demands that he take. Rather than being a jester that everyone laughs at, he has become one of the most important politicians in the royal court. But the price for his defiance of his culture's standards is great when his pride and audacity overcome his caution. My father owns a garden that I visit often. It is a place of renewal and rebirth, where plants spring up from the seemingly lifeless dirt. Nicola has similar experiences among gardens, but it is she who is renewed. It is at gardens that her life is changed—first, when she meets the queen, who takes Nicola out of her former impoverished life. Later, when she encounters La Renaudie, the Protestant outlaw, her idealized, happily-every-after view of the royal court is destroyed. The only major flaw I found in Queen's Own Fool was that it presented a misleading image of Queen Mary. In the story, she is portrayed as a kind, courageous, freedom-loving woman. In all probability, this is not the truth. Some historians claim that she plotted against Queen Elizabeth and played an important part in the plan to murder her husband. In addition, I thought the queen was too perfect to be very believable. But this book is well worth reading. Through authors like Jane Yolen and Robert Harris, history rises from the grave to reenact itself before us!
