Fiction
I look back on that night and wonder why I was so scared. Was it the noises—or the fact I was alone, surrounded by water, with nothing overhead but the glittering stars and the Cheshire moon? That day began just like any other Thursday. At school I almost fell asleep in math class, and by the time I got home, I was ready to go outside. Unfortunately, my mom made me finish my homework first. I had just finished my homework when I heard the announcer on the radio say, "It's five-thirty and the temperature is sixty-three degrees." "Yes!" I cried. Grabbing a jacket and telling my mom goodbye, I got on my bike and rode to Jim's house. He usually finishes his chores and piano practice by five-thirty. Jim lives near the Cypress River. I found him behind his house, working on the model boat he planned to enter in the county's annual model boat contest. "How is the boat coming?" "Fine," Jim replied as he tangled his finger in a ball of string. "Do you want to go to the river—that is if you aren't too wrapped up?" He rolled his eyes. "Sure. I'll leave a note for my mom." I raced him the two blocks to the river. Jim won, but he was out of breath. This section of the river has immense oaks, cypress and willow trees growing beside it. Sometimes when the wind blows hard it sounds as if they are whispering among themselves. The pier creaked under our feet as we walked out to the edge and sat down. The breeze off the river felt good against my skin. I was watching an egret flying against the pink skyline, scanning for fish before dark, when I heard Jim mutter, "I wonder what that is." He was staring at the reeds to the right of the pier. "What?" "That green thing in the reeds." Jim went over to investigate. With a stick he knocked away the brown reeds to reveal an old wooden fishing boat about three feet wide and twelve feet long. Its once white color had faded to gray. The paint was peeling on the sides like sunburned skin. A frayed yellow rope tied to the bow led up to a cypress root. "Hey, look at this relic," he said. "Think it belongs to Captain Volge?" "Do you think it belonged to the Captain?" Captain Volge was a one-eyed fisherman rumored to have been a pirate. One morning he went out on the river to check his nets and that night his boat washed ashore empty. His body was never found. I must have looked a little scared, because Jim looked up at me and laughed. "If it is and we mess with it, he's liable to come looking for you." Jim pulled the boat into the water. "Sure is rickety." I decided to prove to Jim that I wasn't scared. I got in and sat down on one of the three slats that served as seats. "Still seaworthy," I declared. "Tell it to the captain." "I ain't scared of no ghost!" I stood up and began swinging an imaginary sword in the air. "You'd be heading for the hills leaving a cloud of dust behind you if you saw the captain," Jim taunted. "Oh is that so?" Trying to execute a particularly daring sword thrust, I lost my footing and fell back into the boat. The shifting weight pushed the boat on out into the river. I sat up and grabbed the rope at the bow, hoping to pull myself in, but when I pulled on it there was no tension on the end. Jim was frowning at the boat, as if he was trying to think of a plan. I could see him, receding away from me. "Turn it around," he called. "Try to paddle it back to shore." I frantically searched around the boat for an oar, but all I saw was a frayed rope. "There's nothing to paddle with!" "Jump in and swim!" I started to slip over the side—and then I remembered hearing about a swimmer who had been bitten on the foot by a sand shark down at Spivey's Point, only a mile or so away. Shark sightings weren't that uncommon in this section of the river, which was only a few miles from the Albemarle Sound. "What if there's a shark?" Jim shouted something back but I couldn't hear what it was. The boat was moving fast now in the current, and in the fading light I couldn't make out the expression on his face. He ran along the bank, trying to keep me in sight, but after a while, I couldn't see him anymore at all. The boat moved away from the bank, into the center of the wide river, and headed south toward the sound. It was dark, and the eerie cry of a screech owl sent a chill down my spine. I saw the ghost of Captain Volge, his blade shining in the light of the moon. At such times, my imagination can be my enemy, transforming driftwood carved by years of water into a ghost, and a jumping fish, scales shining in the moonlight, into a sword blade. Knowing it was my imagination didn't help. I huddled up in my windbreaker, shivering in the wind that chilled my bones. I looked out at the river, shining like onyx in the moonlight, and wondered what was lurking beneath its depths. A shark? I couldn't let myself get carried off to the sound. I'd read about boats overturning there and people drowning. I tried to pray, but the only thing I could think of was "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep." I felt OK until I got to the part about "if I should die before I wake." Somehow that didn't seem very comforting. I lay back in the boat, resting my head on one of the slats, and tried to relax.
Fiction
I found the box today. It was on the dust-covered shelf in the new room. While I was searching for one of my many misplaced books, I picked up this plain-looking plastic box to set it out of the way. To my astonishment I discovered it was quite heavy. Placing it on my knee, I tugged the lid off and peeked curiously inside. What could it have contained? There they were. Beautiful oddities of every pastel shade were piled onto one another. Curling, twisted, spiky, flat, ruffled, scalloped, and every kind of seashell imaginable was in that mundane box. I ran my fingers along the tops of them. The shells had been my sister's. She must have left them behind. They brought back a memory to me. * * * One Easter, long before my sister left, our parents decided to go out to a camp called Turkey Hill, so we loaded up the car and drove out. It must have taken us about five hours of driving. We went on and on, until I'm sure every part of me had become numb from sitting so long. Some other people went too. We planned to enjoy the Easter celebrations together. I recall one of my friends going with her parents. Anyway, when we were on the way to the camp in our hideous minivan, my sister and I sketched funny little pictures into a tiny Lisa Frank notebook I had brought. We drew a multitude of things, little cars, planes, and animals. We eventually arrived. We pulled onto a long dirt driveway that led to the cabins. As our tires dug in and out of the potholes, a billowing cloud of thick dust rose behind the minivan. All along the road were majestic pine trees that cast shadows over the ferns. We parked in front of the main office building, which was painted brown with peeling biscuit trim around the door and the windows. I was delighted to see a swing set and jungle gym to the left of the coffee-colored building. When we explored the camp later that day, we encountered winding hiking paths that led through fields of bent yellow grass. After walking a distance there was the lake. It reflected a twisted willow tree with long whips of leaves just beginning to unfurl. Pond skimmers zipped across the water causing tiny ripples. It was serene. Our few days at Turkey Hill went much like this: It rained. We played in the mud. It rained more. We went on hikes and consequently caked our shoes with mud. My sister and I had to remove our shoes every time we wished to enter our rooms. A row of twenty-six dilapidated shoes was set outside across the porches of the cabins our group had rented. Somewhere in the middle of these days, between sitting with my sister in the swings behind the cabins, and when we walked around the lake, I found a giant seashell. Strangely, instead of being by the shore of the murky lake, the conch shell was in the grass outside the cabins. I didn't think about that, but went immediately and showed it around like the proud five-year-old I was. The shell was a creamy shade of pale pink. Its inside was smooth, shiny, and the surface felt like blown glass. The outside of it had once been rough and pointed, but years of enduring the conditions of the ocean floor had rubbed it flat. Streaked with orange and tinged with shades of brown, the shell was a symphony of colors. "It's mine!" I cried. Two children who had been staying in one of the other cabins demanded to have the seashell that I had found. "We brought it from California!" They squealed like pigs. My parents forced me to give it back to the other kids. I was furious. It wasn't fair, I thought to myself Why should I have to give it back? They were the ones who had left it in the grass. It was just like the cliche, "Finders, keepers, losers, weepers." They had lost it and I had found it. It was mine! I gave it back. I glared at them the whole time. I gritted my teeth to keep myself from calling them baboons. Afterwards my sister promised to help me look for another shell around the lake. We searched for a lengthy period of time, but all we discovered were the fragments of clamshells. The rest of the days at Turkey Hill passed gloomily as I thought about the perfect seashell I had found and lost to the reptilian children of cabin six. The day came for us to drive home, and the weather was rainy. Thick cumulus clouds blanketed the sky with insipid gray. Torrents of water cascaded over the car windows. On the front window the squealing windshield wipers kept the water off the window. I sat again with my sister beside me in the back seat of our tan minivan. Another five hours dwindled away before we were home again. When we reached our house she said, "You can pick any one of these you want, but only one." My sister slid the plain white plastic box from its place on a shelf in her closet and let me choose a shell. I dumped them out onto the carpet and pawed through all of them. They had black frills and purple underbellies. Their undersides shone with iridescence. The small ones resembled barnacles, while another was so white and smooth it felt unnatural. In the end, I did not take one of the huge monstrosities. Instead, I chose a small, curling nautilus with bright stripes running up each of its curves. Although its size was not gigantic and its colors were not bright, it was beautiful. * * * As I knelt in the new room, I slowly slid the lid back into place. It was only a plain plastic box filled with overly dusty seashells,
Fiction
It was a sultry day in August. Sofia lay on her bed, her eyes closed. She heard Isabela, her sister, playing with her cousins downstairs. Cousin Diego's radio drowned out baby Ana's wailing. Quietly, Sofia tiptoed out of the room. She darted down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, unnoticed. Out on the lawn, Sofia ran as fast as she could. The wind rippled through her black curtain of hair as she ran. Sofia ran down the noisy street, past the clear brook, and into the woods. As Sofia threw herself onto the pine-needle-covered ground, she felt the quietness of the woods settle around her. This was Sofia's quiet place, her thinking spot. It was her secret place to escape the noise and chaos of her home. This was where Sofia came when she felt angry or confused. Sofia thought in the quiet shade of the tall trees. She felt protected. Tilting her head back, Sofia gazed up at the bright sky through the pines. Why had she done this, why? Why had she forgotten her Spanish? Sofia longed for the days when the melodic language flowed freely off her tongue. The days when she communicated in Spanish with ease with her grandma, easily switching languages back and forth with her parents. Sofia still remembered her classmates' harsh words . . . "Spanish is the poor people's talk." Her face burning, Sofia vowed to herself never to speak a word of Spanish again. That was back in Iowa, where her parents had worked in a factory from dawn to dusk. Then one night, the phone rang. It was Sofia's Uncle Manuel, who lived in Minnesota. Tio Manuel had urged Sofia's Papi to move north, where there were better jobs with better pay. So the family had moved. Now Sofia's family lived in a small house in a suburb of Minneapolis with Tio Manuel's family, Sofia's aunts, and her grandma. Papi and Mama both had full-time jobs. Sofia would be entering the seventh grade in the fall, Enrique kindergarten, and little Isabela pre-school. Sofia's life was so different in the United States than it had been in Mexico City, where her family had lived until she was four. Although Sofia hadn't been back to Mexico since, she was determined to return. She missed her friends and family in Mexico. Sofia stood up. Shaking off the dirt, she began making her way home, slowly but steadily Sofia knew she would never change her ways to be popular again. She knew that her mistake would make her stronger than before, more ready to face new challenges. Sofia would never be the same. Easing the back door open, Sofia knew she would relearn her Spanish. Whatever it would take, she could do it.
Fiction
“He's back again?!” exclaimed Kaitlin, dropping her backpack on the floor. "What did the owners complain of this time?" Steve, the thirty-year-old manager of the animal shelter, replied, "Oh, the usual. He barks too much, bites, growls, and they simply can't put up with him." "Poor little Bullet," she sympathized, going over to the sign-in desk. "This is the fifth time he's been here. Wasn't his mother an Australian shepherd?" "Yep. We still don't know what his dad was. He's cute though. Anyway, today you get a fun job. You get to clean all of the cages!" "Whoopee! What fun I'll have," Kaitlin said sarcastically. She turned and got a bunch of plastic bags, a pile of the last week's newspaper, and rubber gloves from a closet on her right. Over her back she called to Steve as she left the front office. "See you around!" "Oh, Kaitlin! Wait!" he exclaimed, apparently remembering something. Kaitlin backtracked at his call to listen to what he had to say "There's a girl coming today and she's going to be working here from now on. Her name's Gabriella; be nice!" "Don't worry! Of course I'll be nice. I mean, she's going to have to put up with you and that's always really . . ." she ducked as Steve threw a pencil at her. "Begone, rascal!" he said good-naturedly. Laughing, Kaitlin left, and went to her job. I wonder what the new girl will be like, she thought. It had been years since anyone except for Steve and Kaitlin had worked at the shelter. As she started the first cage, she glanced down the dark row and toward the big black dog she and Steve had been talking about earlier. After being found when he was seven weeks old in a gutter, he had come to the shelter, and had had four owners since. Now he was a year old, with a bad reputation. Still, Kaitlin believed that he could be trained if someone just found the secret trick to getting him calmed down. A cat pulling on her long, red braid brought her back down to earth. "OK, OK, I'll feed you," she told the cat. "Just let me finish cleaning the cages first." Forty-five minutes later she was done, and she went to the storage room for food for all of the animals. There, she found Steve giving a girl of about fifteen a tour of the building. She was a tall, skinny, Hispanic girl, with long black hair that hung below her waist. Steve grinned as Kaitlin walked in the storage room. "Here she is!" he exclaimed. "Gabriella, this is Kaitlin, who will be working with you. She'll show you how everything runs here in more detail. We have a lot of fun here, and are really happy for you to join us! You can help Kaitlin feed the animals now, and later you can walk the dogs together. So long!" As he walked out the door of the storage room, he tripped over a bag of birdseed and knocked into a shelf, toppling a bag of dog food and causing it to rip open. Soon it was raining dog food. Kaitlin burst into laughter instantly. Steve looked hilarious lying on the ground with a confused expression on his face, and dog food in his dark brown hair. Gabriella was trying her best not to laugh out of respect for her new employer, but finally gave up and laughed hysterically. Bright red, Steve got up and went to get a broom, mumbling about how he should have hired a boy. In bed that night, as she did every night, Kaitlin tried to think of a way to convince her parents to let her get a dog. They were convinced that she wasn't ready for the responsibility, because she had play rehearsal three days a week after school, and spent almost all of her other time at the shelter. "You can't have a pet. You're only thirteen, and you're too busy." Really, it was ridiculous that she couldn't have a pet because her dad owned the shelter. Not that he cared about it at all; he had inherited it. Every month he would send Steve the money to pay for food, supplies, the vet bill and, of course, to pay him. It had been Kaitlin's dad's idea to hire someone else because he and her mother thought that Kaitlin spent too much time at the shelter. The very idea, Kaitlin thought, was absurd. Of course, her parents also worried about her because she didn't have many friends. That was even more nonsense. She had Steve, all the animals at the shelter, and her teachers. But by the time she got to bed at night, she had always made out a pretty sorry case for herself. * * * The next day, as Kaitlin was doing her homework in the auditorium during rehearsal, a girl walked up to her. At first, she was so startled someone had even noticed her that she didn't realize who it was. It was Gabriella. "Oh! Uh . . . hi!" she finally managed to say. "Are you in the play? I don't remember seeing you here before." "No, I'm not in the play," was Gabriella's reply. "My younger sister, Maria, is. She's in seventh grade." "Oh, I see," Kaitlin said. She tried to think of what to say next. I know I'm not very good at talking to people I don't know, she thought. What do I say? Is she trying to be my friend? "I was just wondering if you could tell Mr. Riley that I won't be at work this evening because I have a dentist appointment. I'm really sorry, but I just found out, and my mom couldn't change it." Gabriella waited a moment and then asked cautiously, "Do you think he'll mind?" Mr. Riley? Who's Mr. Riley? Kaitlin wondered. Oh! She means Steve! Aloud she said, "He won't mind at all.
Fiction
“Strike three!'' The quarterfinal game was over. Jesús Castillo had tossed his fourth perfect game in a row, earning the Little Leaguers of Miami a bid to the semifinals of the Little League World Series. His face was all over the newspapers. Headlines of Jesús becoming the next Koufax streaked across the tops of the pages. Even though it was in the Little Leagues, when was the last time any pitcher struck out every batter he faced in a game? As Jesús was leaving the locker room, a man in a polo shirt he had seen on TV ran up to him and shook his hand. "Congratulations, Jesús," he said. "I'm Harold Reynolds from ESPN, and I was wondering if I could do a quick interview with you." Jesús timidly nodded his head. "I got to ask you this, little man. What's it like being the most famous twelve-year-old kid in the country?" Jesús felt his heart drift into his throat. Trying to find an answer, he found his mouth saying the words, "It's great." "Tomorrow's the semifinal game. You must be nervous." "Yes," Jesús agreed. "Jesús, scouts from the Yankees, Mets, Athletics, and Rockies will be at tomorrow's game and the championship. Just about every scout from every team will be watching these Little League games. Do you have anything special up your sleeve?" "No," Jesús replied. "I'm just going to pitch like I normally do." Harold Reynolds laughed. "I know you're twelve years old, but there is talk around the league that you'll be the number one pick in the Major League Baseball draft someday. How does that make you feel?" "Great," he answered. "All right, Jesús, I got one last question. How did you get such an incredibly strong arm? I mean, it defies the laws of physics that a kid your age could have such a powerful arm." Jesús could not answer that question. He simply looked into Harold Reynolds's eyes. "It's all right," Reynolds said. "Your secret can stay a secret. Anyway, thanks a lot for giving us your time to do this interview. Good luck in tomorrow's game." With that, he left Jesús. For ten minutes, Jesús sat in his chair, looking at the ground, thinking. * * * "Play ball!" Team Miami was up to bat first. Jesús anxiously sat in the dugout, waiting for his opportunity to go out and pitch. Yet the look in his eyes was not that of the predator, but that of the prey. He sat back and closed his eyes. As Jesús sat in the dugout with his eyes closed, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He glanced at the scoreboard and found out that Roberto had hit a home run. Jesús was not the only superstar for team Miami. His best friend, Roberto, the catcher, basked in the glory that Jesús also shared. For a league of twelve-year-olds, Roberto displayed incredible power. In the previous three games that the Miami team had played, Roberto had hit five home runs. The team from Miami was truly blessed to have these two remarkable players on the same team. Anyhow, it was time for Jesús to go to work. That inning was a breeze for Jesús. To the delight of the capacity crowd, he struck out all three batters he faced. Strangely, he did not feel any satisfaction with what he accomplished. After each batter that he struck out, he did not feel joy, but anger. His heart was heavy. He returned to the dugout, and sat in the same exact spot that he had left. He didn't like to be disturbed whenever he was pitching. The next inning was essentially the same for Jesús as the first. Before he threw each pitch, the crowd would rise in eager anticipation to see what the result would be. Even though the stadium was packed with people, Jesús could not sense any of them sitting there. To him, the only people he could see were his teammates, the opposing team, and his father. After every pitch, he would take a look at the stands and see his father smiling with pride. Five innings had passed. Jesús had been pitching like a man on fire. During those five innings, he had fifteen strikeouts. Thanks to two home runs by Jesús's friend Roberto, team Miami had a two-to-zero lead. As Jesús made the jog to the pitcher's mound, he looked into the stands and saw his father. Seeing that Jesús was staring at him, his father gave him a thumbs up. Jesús handled the first batter of the final inning incredibly. Three pitches and he was out. The second batter was also remarkably easy and Jesús struck him out on three pitches. The third batter, however, presented more of a challenge. Refusing to go down, he constantly fought off the pitches by fouling them into the stands. Finally, Jesús threw a curve ball that seemed to fall from the heavens. The batter swung and missed. Every player from team Miami ran toward Jesús. Roberto ran from home plate and embraced Jesús. He had pitched one of the most memorable games in Little League history. Night had arrived, and Jesús knew that he would need his rest for tomorrow's big game. To his dismay, however, he tossed and turned in bed. He cupped his hands behind his head and lay there, thinking about times when he was little. * * * It wasn't too long ago. Jesús was I still living in Cuba at that time. He was thirteen years old, and all day long it had been stormy. He had been inside fiddling with his glove and baseball when he heard screaming come from outside. His father quickly snatched him off the ground and left the house in a full sprint. After hours of running, Jesús and his father finally approached the Caribbean Sea. At last, Jesús understood what they had been running to. He saw a rickety boat tied with
Fiction
I gaze from the gray wooden bench in my neighbor's backyard as the water from the hose quietly flows out onto the budding tomato plants. I watch the plants and rest easy, knowing the hose is taking care of the plants, and there is nothing more I can do. The roots and soil soak up the water almost as fast as I can make it flow. And so I sit with a blank stare, for there is nothing to do but watch the excess water drip to the ground. The drips from the hose become puddles, and soon the puddles seem to become rivers on the brown-tiled ground. I see a farm of these red-brown ants, scurrying along around their home. What will happen when the water reaches the farm? Will they survive? The ants' small, lithe bodies work rapidly at what they are doing, smelling the inevitable. They all run away from the water, which is rapidly closing in. They all rush back to their farm, their home, their creation. They spend their whole lives working together to create, make better things, and now they are looking at the end of it all straight in the eye. I take a moment and wonder if this is a reflection of the world. Is this how it really is? I keep watching as the water first attacks and then surrounds two ants. They twist and turn, struggling to stay afloat as the water closes in on them, getting deeper and deeper. I know if I do nothing, refrain from saving them, the guilt will lay heavy on my heart for years to come. Finally the guilt takes over, and I rush to my knees, water soaking my shorts. I try to get these two to come on my finger, but they will not. They refuse to let me save them. The water closes in on them, and soon overwhelms them as I lay helpless. Only then do they decide to climb onto my dirt-covered finger. It almost took them until death to trust one such as me. I check to see if they are alive, and both can move fine. I set them a step above the water, so they may be able to escape. Then I go for more. I see the bodies of them, floating in the water, certainly dead. If I were religious I would pray for them. But now I write for them instead. I spot one moving in the water. I lay down my finger and scoop, hoping to save one of these poor tiny creatures. Almost magically, one is there, atop my finger, alive. I set it down with the others and scavenge for more, but there are none. All were swept away by the water. How much I wish I could turn off the hose, turn off this machine of death, but I cannot. I have a job to do, and no matter how many lives at stake, how much guilt fills my soul, I cannot turn off the hose. I must complete my job. It stuns me how much these little lives mean to me. When I was a small child, I would make a sport of killing them. I would make a fort of rocks, and whoever tried to breach the walls would meet their doom. Now, I cannot hurt a bug. I can't even hurt the mosquitoes that pester me and drive me crazy I catch them in my hand, proclaim them dead to my audience, and secretly set them free outside. It is empathy that drives me, what it would be like to be hated and small, with no self-defense. The spiders I hated as a small child I now smile at, talk to. I call myself crazy for doing so, but it helps me fight the small fear I still have for them. How much these small lives mean to me, I cannot tell you. But just watch them, try to understand, and you will see how much those small lives affect you.
Fiction
Eve set her bags down with a sigh, and looked around. The room's white walls stood out in stark contrast to the wood floors, the bed, with its antique-looking iron headboard and footboard and the patchwork quilt, and the bare walnut bookshelf. The only ornament in the room was an old-fashioned fishing net hanging on the wall, with seashells and sea creatures attached to it. Eve looked at her relatively bare surroundings, and remembered her room at home, misty green, Eve's favorite color, with a huge bed and a canopy Eve blinked away a tear, and began to unpack. Before she could take anything out of her bags, a knock sounded on the door. "Come in," Eve called. The door opened, and Nan Carter appeared. Nan was Eve's foster mother for the month, tall, motherly, and gray-haired. Nan had two children, twins, a boy and girl, a bit older than Eve's age of fourteen. The twins would be sixteen in October, which was four months away. Eve was just one of the many foster children who came to the Carters' house. "Well," Nan said, concern showing in only her eyes, "How are you doing?" Eve bit her lip. "I'm great, Ms. Carter. Thank you for the room. It's beautiful." "It's not much," Nan said, sighing, "I need to paint it a nice color, and maybe get a couple of rugs down. But the view from the window's lovely, and I've got some nice curtains I'm going to put up tomorrow." Eve nodded. "That'd be nice, Ms. Carter." "Call me Nan, please. Supper's going to be on the front porch in about an hour, so I'll leave you to get unpacked and settled. You get your own bathroom, it's right down the hall, and we made a little sign with your name on it for you, and there are towels in the linen closet. You can get Jasmyne to give you a tour of the house, if you want. This is pretty much your wing of the house, because my room's on the other side, and the twins have the upstairs, so don't worry about disturbing any of us. I hope you'll be comfortable here during your stay. We'll talk more during dinner." "That's good," Eve said. She turned back to her packing as Nan closed the door. Pretty soon, it got too dark to work without a light, so Eve switched on the electric light overhead. It didn't work, so Eve had to make do with two bedside lamps and a floor lamp that lit the room surprisingly well. Pretty soon, Eve had her worldly belongings unpacked, and arranged. She lay on the chaise lounge and looked out the window at the rocks and the ocean. Nan Carter owned a small island with a "cottage," and from almost every window, you could see the ocean. Eve had a room that looked out over a rocky area, and then ocean until the mainland, with its little twinkling lights. Eve sighed, and settled down. It had been a tumultuous day, what with her coming to her first foster home, and the flurry of getting to Carter Island, and introductions, and so many countless little things. Eve kept busy, not liking to think about her parents, her loving wonderful parents, who had been working at the prison. While Eve had waited at home, there had been an awful fire, and both of her parents had died. Eve had no other relations, and so she ended up in foster care. Before Eve was even settled, there was a rap at the door. It came again, so Eve ran to the other side of the room, and opened the door. Jasmyne and Jake were standing in the doorway, grinning. Eve suppressed a sigh. "Hello," Jasmyne said, coming in and perching on the bed. "Are you settled yet?" Jasmyne was beautiful, so beautiful that Eve had nearly walked into a pole the first time they met. Jasmyne had long, thick, glossy black curls, with wonderfully fair skin, and not a freckle. Her eyes were big and violet, her mother spoiled her, and she was dressed at the height of the fashions. She had pierced ears, a professional manicure, and Eve would have bet anything that Jasmyne had a huge room, elaborately decorated, and with big windows. Jake was Jasmyne's perfect counterpart, tall, handsome, with glossy black hair, and gray eyes. Eve was all too aware of how she looked next to these Carters. Eve had long thick blond hair, with startling green eyes, and red lips, but she wasn't really pretty. Eve had older clothes, her ears weren't pierced, and manicures were unknown to her. The twins, despite their angelic appearance, were on Eve's bad side though. She didn't trust them, not one bit. And they knew it. "So," Jasmyne said, smirking. "Is this all of your stuff? Cuz it isn't very much. My room is packed with stuff." "This is it," Eve said, retreating into her shell. That was what her parents called the quietness and mumbling that came with Eve being upset, or embarrassed. "May we look around?" Jake asked. "I'd prefer you didn't." "Oh, but surely," Jasmyne said, "you don't have anything to hide?" Eve didn't, but she didn't want these twin devils looking at her parents' pictures, and at all her other stuff. To change the subject, Eve said, "Why don't you give me a tour of the house? Nan said you should." Jasmyne frowned. "I dunno. Why would you want to do a thing like that?" Eve smiled. "I want to know where I'm living for the next month. I'm sure your room is lovely. Can I see it?" Once upstairs, Jasmyne flung open the door. Eve bit her lip to keep from gasping. It was a large room, about the size of a master bedroom. The room was painted a pale yellow, and it had thick yellow carpeting. Jasmyne's bed was a queen-size, was made of white painted wood,
Book Reviews
Girl of Kosovo by Alice Mead; Farrar, Straus and Giroux: New York, 2001; $16 When people thought the Holocaust was over, it wasn't. For the Jews it may have been over in the 1940s, but for the Albanians it wasn't over until 1999. Girl of Kosovo is a marvelous book. Beneath the cover unravels a story thick and chock-full of courage, hope and sadness, which I think is written so eloquently and precisely Throughout the book Zana Dugolli, an eleven-year-old girl, struggles to keep the hatred of the Serbians out of her heart. Zana is an Albanian girl growing up in the time of a holocaust against Albanians. Every day she faces the struggle to survive and is alert to any gunshots and bombs, which may crumble her life to itty-bitty pieces. Zana is an amazing character, who out of necessity has converted her heart into a rock. In an attack in her village her ankle is obliterated and shrapnel weaves its way through her hip. Zana is sent immediately to a hospital in Belgrade seven hours from her home and family. Although wishing she didn't have to go, she finds the courage inside of her. This amazed me because I wouldn't want to be alienated from my family during war. I have never been separated from my family for more than a couple of days, and if at all I was separated it was with trusted close friends. Zana was sent away with absolute strangers. This I thought was a wonderful example of spirit. I realized how fortunate I was living in the USA, where unprecedented medical treatment is taken for granted. It was so unfair that the nurses at the hospitals chastised and called innocent Zana a terrorist for being an Albanian. Zana tried to ignore them but somehow the obnoxious comments won her over, and filled her heart with even more sorrow. At several such points in the book tears filled my eyes. I realized the Albanians were treated like dirt and pebbles on the road. After reading about so much injustice, I wanted to make a difference. I decided I had to make children my age read this book, and experience the aftermath of war from the perspective of a girl their age. Especially during today's times, when the news is primarily about the US going to war with Iraq and biological terrorism threats on us. When there was no spirit in the air and sadness was just down the road, hope was still not defeated. An example of hope is when a British doctor helps Zana's injury heal, and when a Serb takes Zama to the hospital. Both these incidents surprised me because from Zana's point of view the Serbs were horrible. Also, it made me think why would a British person want to help an injured girl. Just as every cloud has a silver lining I realized that all Serbs weren't bad; some had a side covered in sweet honey. What I thought made this book such a mandatory read is that it helped me understand the politics in this world. With North Korea threatening to send out nuclear bombs and Osama Bin Laden supporting terrorism, this book sends a special message out to its readers. "Don't let anyone fill your heart with hatred," as the author quotes in the story. Also, do not tolerate injustice.
Book Reviews
Bloody Jack by L. A. Meyer; Harcourt, Inc.: New York, 2002; $17 Sometime in your life you most likely will experience the thrill of getting involved with something and loving it. It brings about new friends, new adventures, and sometimes even new hopes and a better life. Unfortunately, this new experience may not really be what you had overall expected. For example, many kids take up playing an instrument and get hooked on the idea of giving an exceptional concert. A lot of times the kids don't realize that practicing and rehearsals take time and energy. I realized this after I started violin lessons! In Bloody Jack, an exciting new change also occurs. It is the eighteenth century and Mary Faber had been living on the streets in London. She is an orphan and she was living with a group of friends. The book called it a gang but I was surprised because everyone in the gang was so sweet and kind to one another and protected each other from harm. This new way to look at some gangs as being nice, substitute families touched me and now I will never look at gangs the same way again. When the leader of the family gang is mysteriously found dead in a nearby alley, Mary brushes away her grief and disguises herself as a boy. "Jacky" gets taken in on a ship going out to sea because she can read fairly well. Life starts to look up. She meets a group of boisterous boys and battles pirates, killing one and therefore earning her the name Bloody Jack. But killing is not as heroic as she had thought, and the gore and cannons terrify her. She gets sick at the beings and blood all around her. She never really got over the shock of her first real battle, as I never really got over the shock of my first time at "Laser Quest" (a game indoors where each person tries to zap another person with his or her laser gun). I related to Jacky here because I felt both overwhelmed and excited about the game at first glance. But, like Jacky, I was aghast at the idea that people were actually shooting at me! Bloody Jack is not a light read. Shootings and diabolical pirates cost lives from the ship. Jacky constantly has to watch out for her own safety, and when she relaxes she gets sexually harassed and beaten up! I had to put down this book a couple of times because the events seemed to be just too awful for me to continue. Happy experiences where Jacky was fully comfortable with what she was doing were scarce. I was disappointed that there were not a lot of passages with pure adventure. Sure, there were disputes and passages about what everyone did on the ship, but I felt the book was missing a lot of description, character development, and the supposed thrills of adventure on a ship. I was so relieved to be reading something exciting when Jacky was abandoned on an island in the ocean. She had to fend for herself and the plot was based more on her survival than her love life. I remembered the time I explored an island in the middle of a big lake and how I felt so little and alone compared to the natural wisdom of the plants. I thought that must be how Jacky felt! Bloody Jack is a complex, rather depressing, high-level read that will most definitely stir the reader and make them appreciate the little happy things in life.
