Fiction
My mother always wanted a little girl. One who would wear frilly pink dresses and bows and barrettes in her hair and would play with dolls and have tea parties with china and have perfect manners and would take ballet and would grow up to marry a fine young gentleman and then have some more lovely children. But she got me. At first, when it was announced that I was a girl, she cried with joy. She fitted me with lacy baby dresses and gave me all the dolls a girl would hope for and adorned me with hair accessories. But her happiness didn’t last long. I absolutely detested dresses, and I threw a humongous fit when I was forced to wear them. I yanked bows out of my hair and threw them across the room. Once I even swallowed a barrette. By the time we had gotten to the emergency room, it had already ended up in my dirty diaper. When she gave me dolls to play with, I pulled off their heads and stomped on them. When she tried to put the pink booties that Grandma had sent me on my feet, I screamed and tried to chew on them. More than ponies with manes that I could braid, I enjoyed my older brother’s action figures. I would pretend they were invading the dolls’ planet and taking it over. That was one of my favorite games. As I grew up, I didn’t become any less stubborn. My mother wanted to grow out my long brown hair so that she could put it in a French braid, but I hated it because it got in my eyes and interfered with sports, and it tangled easily. When my mother refused to let me cut it, I became angry, so I took a pair of flimsy stationery scissors and snipped it off myself. It was jagged and cut close to the neck, and I knew it looked awful, but I liked it because it was much more manageable. When my mother saw it she clutched her heart and whispered, “Oh, Angel, what have you done?” And that’s another thing that I hate: when my mother calls me Angel. My real name is Angelica, but I think that sounds terrible. If my mother had known what I would really be like when I was born, she would have named me something much more practical, but she didn’t know. So now I’m stuck with a name like Angelica. Whenever anyone asks what my name is, I tell them that I’m Angie. It’s not great, but heck knows it’s better than Angelica or Angel. On the day before school picture day, my mother went out and bought me a skirt without telling me. It was knee-length and billowed out when you spun around. It was made of brown fabric with pink roses all over it, and it had a little lace bow on the waist. I hated it upon sight, and I refused to wear it. My mother became very upset. When she’s mad, worried, or stressed, she straightens her dress over and over and over and fixes her bun again and again, even when there’s not a strand out of line. She did this when I wouldn’t wear the skirt. “But Angel, it looks so dear on you,” she said, hopelessly trying to explain to me why I should wear it. “And what’s so wrong with it? I think it’s perfectly charming.” She reached out to stroke my pixie cut, but I ducked away. “It’s ugly,” I told her. “I won’t wear it. And don’t call me Angel!” “Don’t be unreasonable,” my mother said. “You will wear it and that is that.” I knew enough not to argue with her, but I wasn’t going to be seen in school with that on either. So I went to school early on school picture day and slipped into the school. In the girls’ locker room, I changed into my gym clothes, something I knew my mother would never approve of. Sure enough, when the pictures arrived and she saw me dressed in sports shorts and a T-shirt, she totally freaked. She gave me a lecture on responsibility, though I have no idea what that has to do with changing clothes, and then sent me to my room. She always sends photos to Grandma and my aunts and uncles, but she couldn’t do it with those photos. So she arranged a photo shoot with a real photographer and made sure that this time I couldn’t weasel out of it. But I pretended to come down with a fever, and we had to postpone. My mother never got around to rescheduling the shoot. * * * Now it was an hour before my first middle-school dance, and I was picking out what to wear. Of course, my mother was by my side, criticizing my choices. I pulled out a pair of light capris from my dresser and held them up for inspection. My mother shook her head and said, “Oh, Angel, you really can’t think of wearing that, can you?” “Why not?” I asked flatly, not really wanting an answer. “Girls should look nice at dances,” my mother argued, taking a flowery, lacy skirt from the very darkest depths of my drawer where I kept all the clothes I swore never to wear. She smiled and shoved it into my arms. “This will look just lovely with your thin complexion.” Stung at the comment about my complexion, though I knew she was oblivious to its harm, and even more disgusted with her choice of clothes, I shoved it back. “No thanks, I’d rather have something more practical.” I put the capris on top of my dresser and then started looking for a shirt. After some browsing, I chose a dark green T-shirt with a picture of a palm tree on it. “But dear, surely you don’t want to be seen with such dull clothes on at
Fiction
I gaze at the distant sun reflecting on the lake. I see the loon dipping in and out of the reservoir. Then I see a small ripple in the remote waters. That strikes a vague memory of the days when my brother and I caught frogs in a nearby pond. There are frogs in my memory, jumping, creating small splashes in the water. Now, I dip my foot into the frigid water. When my whole foot submerges, the lake feels warm. It is like there is a blanket on the top of the water to protect it from the bitterness of the outside air. The sereneness of the lake calms me. When I am tired or need a break, this cozy spot on the water’s edge, where the limb of the tree above curls, unwinds me. I settle myself on the decayed moss where mushrooms grow alongside me. Then a crow perches on the bough above me and makes rain sprinkle on my shivering body. The sudden rain drenches me. I can smell the mildew and wet grass when I go to this setting. I can hear the echo of the crow calling to his fellow feathered friends. I can envision the dam across the lake. It strikes the rocks like powerful hail thrashing the ground. My body shivers in the cold. The shallow water grass blows in the gust of wind, causing the waves to collide into the rocks and on the shore. I can see a sailboat in the distance. The sailor seems as if he is having trouble controlling both the tiller and mainsheet. Gradually, he gains power of the boat as the gust of wind starts to diminish. Now, as I stand up from this home of mine and look around, I get a feeling that there is a vacant spot overlooking the elegant lake. It is independent from all other regions that are in my eyesight. That is why it makes me feel at home. It stands out of the blue and that is how I know it is my place where I can be passive and ponder my thoughts. Now when I am stressed or overwhelmed and need to find a way to relax, I put myself back at that place, my spot on the water’s edge. I know I will cherish this place my whole life.
Fiction
Storm-tossed waves broke like a thousand glass shards against the craggy black rocks at the base of the cliff. A sleeping girl, curled among the long grasses, didn’t hear the storm. She was in the midst of a nightmare, tossing and turning. Suddenly, a clap of thunder pierced the night and the girl woke up, breathing heavily. She looked around, although it was impossible to see anything. The moon was hidden behind dark storm clouds that refused to shed any rain. The girl stood up, a wild, yet frightened, look in her eyes. She knew what the storm meant: Beta, along with the others in the wolf clan, was calling her, and they weren’t happy. The girl broke into a run. She ran away from the crashing waves and the inky sea. She ran through the tall grasses and thorns of the rose hips, never stopping or slowing to catch her breath. Her brown tunic was pressed against her body as the winds whipped her black hair, violently, out of its tight braid. Lightning flashed and thunder exploded, constantly keeping the sky filled with noise. Finally, the girl reached a sand dune that was hidden in beach grasses. Another jagged streak of lightning lit the sky just long enough for the girl to catch a glimpse of the worn wooden door carved with the ancient language of the wolves. This was the entrance to Beta’s lair. She waved her hand over the door, mumbling a strange incantation. The next thing she knew, she had the sensation of being squeezed though a tight tube before landing unsteadily on her feet inside the warren. The candles cast ominous shadows onto the floor of sand. Here and there were the occasional carcasses of unlucky animals or a seashell or two. Standing in the middle of the den was a great shaggy wolf with a chunk of fur and flesh missing from his left ear. He had glowing yellow eyes and sharpened teeth. The wolf started to pace in a circle around the girl. “Where is it?” growled Beta in a raspy voice. “I don’t have it, whatever you are looking for,” the girl said, refusing to be intimidated by this ferocious animal. “Do you dare take me for a fool?” growled Beta, baring his teeth, and his hackles rose. The girl was tempted to say yes, but she knew Beta wasn’t one for humor. He was twice the size of the girl and could spring at any moment, tearing the girl apart. “I don’t have it,” the girl repeated. Beta’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me, Adrin. Remember what happened to your father?” Adrin broke her gaze from Beta’s. Her eyes grew wide at the memory of how her father had lied to the wolves, just to protect Adrin. She thought back to how the wolves had forced her father out of their hut and started to fight him. Adrin remembered her father battling the clan of wolves, but to no avail. She remembered how the wolves sprung at her father, killing him in one leap. Adrin recalled how the wolves pitched her father’s limp body off the edge of the cliff and into the dark sea below. Adrin blinked out of her trance and continued to glare at Beta. “Tell me what you seek and you shall have it in eight days time.” Adrin tried to keep her voice from shaking. Beta sat down and contemplated the offer. “Hmm. The orphaned daughter of my enemy, go and retrieve the lost owl diadem that belonged to every sorcerer and sorceress that ever existed. If she fails, then I’ll take her life. Dangerous, life threatening,” Beta paused and grinned a wicked grin at Adrin, “just what I like. What do you say, Adrin? Do we have a deal?” Adrin swallowed and wiped her sweaty palms against her leggings. Her father wouldn’t have liked her to work with his enemy. Adrin was fearful for her life. She took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “Agreed. Eight days by midnight, no later. It’s a deal.” Adrin shook the paw of power-hungry Beta. “See you then, my dear,” said Beta as he disappeared in a whirlwind of sand.
Fiction
I paced nervously back and forth in front of Royal Blue’s stall and wondered why Dad was taking so long talking to Mr. Fields. Mr. Fields wasn’t going to buy Royal Blue even if he paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for the successful racehorse, I knew, since Dad had told me just that morning that he wouldn’t sell. Dad turned down many offers already. Why wasn’t he giving Mr. Fields just a flat-out no? I stopped walking and patted Blue’s satin nose, which was sticking out of the stall. The chestnut stallion was scheduled to race in the Kentucky Derby tomorrow, and since he had shown so well in races before, people from all over the country were coming to put in an offer before the race. “We’re not selling you,” I said softly to Blue, looking up into his caramel-colored eyes. “You’re going to run in our barn’s colors tomorrow, boy. You can count on that.” Finally, Mr. Fields appeared from the office and walked down the aisle. He looked a bit disgruntled, which I gathered to mean that Blue was still ours. “Fine thoroughbred,” he commented, giving Royal Blue a small sugar cube from his coat pocket. “Good luck tomorrow.” “Thank you,” I replied a little frostily, wondering why Mr. Fields was bothering to talk to me. When he had made offers on some of our other thoroughbreds, he had always ignored me. “You’re going to need it. You know King of the Wind, my prized race horse, will be competing tomorrow, and it is well known that he has won just as many races as Royal Blue!” My heart jumped to my throat. King of the Wind was one of the winningest horses in the Derby, and although I knew Royal Blue was just as fast, he was recovering from a strained tendon. It took months of rehabilitation and training until Blue was fit enough to run again. “Well, good luck to you, sir,” I said, glad that I had a decent poker face. “We’ll see who the better horse is tomorrow, won’t we?” Mr. Fields chuckled. “Yes, I think we will.” He smiled and left the barn, still laughing under his breath. I grimaced from his mocking me and wished I thought of a good retort, but I was consoled by the fact that Royal Blue might win, letting us have the last laugh. Dad strolled over to me at Blue’s stall and smiled. “Well, Sam, we still have Royal Blue.” “That’s great, Dad,” I said, forcing a smile, not wanting him to know I was worried that King of the Wind might breeze ahead of us at the first of the Triple Crown races. “Don’t worry, hon. Think of how Royal Blue has won so many other times.” Dad patted me on the back, seeing through my front. I nodded absently, thinking of just the opposite, of how many Blue hadn’t won without anything to explain for a poor performance. “Good night, Blue. See you at the track, buddy.” Dad stroked Blue’s nose once before turning to leave the barn. “Sleep tight, Blue! You’ve got a long day ahead of you, boy,” I said, smiling and following Dad. * * * The day of the race dawned bright and early for everyone at the track. We arrived at the barn before any spectators were around, yet before we were halfway through with grooming and saddling Blue, people started milling around, wanting autographs from trainers and jockeys and snapshots of the horses. I was Blue’s groom and the daughter of the owner; so as I walked him to stretch his legs, I had to put up with reporters asking question after question after question. “Miss Sam Kinsley,” one reporter called out, running up to us as we walked. “How do you think your chances of winning are today, compared to your biggest rival, King of the Wind?” I thought carefully, knowing anything I said could be twisted into anything the reporter wanted. “Well, racing is a gamble, and anything could happen on the track today. King of the Wind will be a threat, but I’m sure we’ll be up to the challenge,” I replied. The reporter wrote this down, but before he could press me more, another reporter came on the other side of Blue with another question. “Mr. Fields, King of the Wind’s owner, is boasting that his horse can win the Derby, as well as the Triple Crown. Do you think this is so, Miss Kinsley?” “Every horse out there has a chance today,” I said simply, knowing that was the most diplomatic response I could give. Luckily, I returned to the barn by this time and was able to get the door open and me inside. However, it isn’t so easy to fit a thousand-pound animal inside a small crack; so in widening it, a few other people followed me in. Thankfully, it was only Mr. Williams and Mr. Ridge, two friends of my father’s, and Jim Crawly, a reporter who respected our privacy and never published anything about us without asking our permission. “Well, hello, Jim,” Mom said. She was dressed in a pretty print dress and a blue floral hat. “How d’you do, ma’am,” Jim politely replied. “Very well, thank you. I’m sorry I can’t stop to chat. I’ll save you a seat though.” “In the winner’s circle?” Jim quipped back confidently. Mom left, and since everyone else seemed pretty busy, I decided I’d go warm up Blue. I led him to the exercise track and swung up on his saddle. “Hello, Miss Kinsley.” I stiffened at the voice behind me. Carl Davis, the head exercise rider for the horses at Mr. Fields’s stable, rode up behind me on King of the Wind. Carl was definitely not my favorite person and, since he always condescended to me because I was just a groom, I avoided him as much as possible. “Your job is on the ground, not in the
Fiction
“Last boarding call for Flight 31 to Moscow, Russia. Last call for Flight 31.” The JFK PA machine was loud and clear, not fuzzy like usual, and I felt pained as I acknowledged that it was time to say goodbye to Dad. “Dad, promise me that you’ll take care of Mom and yourself. Promise me you’ll see the doctor about that repeating headache problem. Promise me you’ll be careful when driving and call me every day. Do you promise?” I demanded, as if I was a hundred-year-old woman having a nervous breakdown, instead of an eleven-year-old girl about to go on an adventurous trip. I bit my fingernails. Is everything I am saying going straight through him? My father laughed a bit, but my glum stare forced him to stop. “I promise,” he swore, his tone grim and serious. The corners of his eyes were creased with concern and his face seemed to be asking me, “What about you? Will you be careful? Do you promise?” “Agreed then,” I answered, matter-of-factly. “In return, I promise to be smart in Russia.” I kissed him on the cheek and said, “See you in a month,” giddy with anticipation of my upcoming travel adventures. I headed towards my grandmother who was already showing the flight attendant our tickets. I could not believe that in less than ten hours I would be halfway across the world! * * * A month later, I was back in that same airport, getting off that almost-same flight—Moscow to New York. New York! I had missed this place too much. I thought of when we had traveled through Russia by boat. I remembered all those hours when I gazed at the serene, seemingly endless surface of the River Volga, in which the trees surrounding it cast their long, dark shadows. I felt the water spray from the fast-moving boat against my skin, heard the seagulls squawking in the air, smelled the soothing aroma of forest pines drifting through the breeze. Yet all I could think about was where my parents were at that moment and how gloomy I felt without them by my side. How’s New York in general? Had the fireworks for Independence Day burst through the night in a flash of beauty? Were the lakes in Central Park beginning to cover with moss-green algae? Had the Con Edison workers finished the construction on Second Avenue? What new exhibits were on display at the Metropolitan Museum? I had wondered. Most of all, I recalled that first homesick night in Moscow when I couldn’t fall asleep no matter what. I tossed and turned all night, looking out the stained, cracked window into the pitch-black street, where shadows fell like creepy ghosts, breathing in my ear, “You don’t belong here. You don’t belong here.” Grandma said I couldn’t sleep because of the jetlag, but I didn’t think so. But my trip was far from being a weep fest. In fact, I had an incredible time. I saw the places where my parents grew up. I saw fascinating museums, the cobblestone streets where Catherine the Great took her morning strolls 300 years ago. I visited the building where all the Russian cosmonauts are trained. I walked through St. Petersburg at one o’clock in the morning during the spectacular White Nights. I stepped into abbeys built in the ninth century. Sometimes, walking from street to street, one memorable experience to another, I’d be too awed to even put my feelings into words. Nevertheless, when I sat on that plane back to America, I was eager to get back to New York. I couldn’t wait to see Dad picking me up at the airport, telling me how much he had missed me. Therefore, when we got off the plane, it was all a blur—I was too overwhelmed to notice anything. Not the swooshing of turning-on cell phones, not the comforting smell of freshly baked blueberry muffins coming from duty-free cafes, not the rough feeling of people pushing disrespectfully past you. I felt as if Dad was not more than an inch away, as if I could touch him already, as if I heard his voice directly above my head, as if all I had to do was reach up—and there he’d be. “Come on. Come on!” I told Grandma impatiently. “Hurry up!” We squeezed through the crowds of people heading towards the big traffic jam—the customs inspection. I was still in my daze though—imagining seeing them: my parents and New York. I could almost imagine every feature of my mother’s face—and the structure of every tower that scrapes the sky above New York City. “Next,” one of boundary inspectors called. “Stall 22, please.” “Cool!” I whispered to Grandma. “That’s my lucky number.” “OK, kiddo, let’s go,” she replied sarcastically. We walked towards the stall. The man sitting in it had a shrewd, wrinkled old face with deep, wicked dimples in his smile. He sneered at us and ordered, “Documents,” as if he was an evil king and we, his helpless subjects. My grandmother dug through her purse for the passports and the declaration slips that were filled out on the plane. She handed them over to him. He snatched them from her as though the papers were a gun and poor Grandma was about to fire. He looked through the papers for so long that I began to wonder if he fell asleep. I wanted to ask, Is there a problem? but I didn’t. That would be rude. At last, he sighed as if he could not wait to get off duty and said, “You need a document providing the permission of the parents.” “Yes, yes, I have it,” assured Grandma. She dug back into her purse and fished out the neatly folded piece of paper. “Here you go.” He grabbed it so fast that I was sure it would rip—but it did not. He examined it thoroughly. As he looked up, I noticed that he wore an enormous amount of
Fiction
Little brothers are so annoying. Sure, you usually care about them when they’re hurt or crying or something like that. But in my opinion, they’re just crazy little things that claim to be related to us. I never knew that I could be so worried about my brother. * * * The smiling sun shone brightly down on my back as I walked happily down the sidewalk. My friend Audrey strolled along beside me, chatting cheerily. The sunny sky was a beautiful, brilliant blue. We reached some tall, black steps and climbed them. But I wasn’t fully ready for the scene inside. Sounds of laughter and loud voices filled my ears as I stepped into the vehicle of madness. Feet were stuck out as Audrey and I hurried to our seats in the back. Someone grabbed my backpack, and I shook him off. I ignored a shout of “Hey Ruby!” that was quickly lost in the tumultuous land of chaos surrounding me. This place is also known as the bus. Kids lounged on seats, talking and laughing. Windows were opened wide, and arms hung out of them. KISS FM blared from the speakers. I reached my assigned seat, following close at Audrey’s heels. I couldn’t stay in the front of the bus any longer. I plopped my backpack and water bottle on the floor at my feet with a clunk and collapsed. There was always a wait of about two or three minutes before the bus started moving. Audrey and I sit in the second-to-last seat on the bus. My other friend, Ulan, usually sits across the aisle from us with a fourth-grader named Katherine. “Is everybody on the bus?” our driver, Ms. Toni, yelled in her low, scratchy voice over the hubbub. “Yes!” several kids yelled back. I decided to do my duty as an older sister. “Abraham!! Are you on the bus?” I hollered. There was no answer. The other kids kept talking. “Abraham!” I shouted again, my voice softer and more worried than before. He still didn’t respond. I sat on my knees and scoured the rows of kids. There was no sign of my brother’s curly black-haired head. Panic surged through my veins. “Abraham isn’t on the bus,” I told Ulan and Audrey. They looked almost as panicked as I felt. “We have to tell the bus driver,” Ulan insisted. I rose from my seat, but Ulan was ahead of me. She had already taken three steps toward the front of the bus. “Excuse m…” she shouted, but was immediately cut off. There was a loud roar of the engine and a hiss of exhaust. The bus lurched forward, almost making Ulan lose her balance. We had started moving. “No!” I half yelled. I looked frantically out of the back window at my school getting farther and farther away each second and leaving my brother behind. “Oh. My. Gosh. I can’t believe that she left,” I said, partly to myself and partly to my friends. “I know!” exclaimed Audrey, trying to be supportive. The bus rounded a corner just then, and even though my school was out of sight I looked out of the back window again like a girl in some sappy romance movie, waiting for her soldier to come home. The whole bus ride my friends tried to convince me that Abraham would be OK. I tried to convince myself, too. Abraham will be all right, I thought. People have talked about what to do if you miss the bus. He knows to go to the office and call our parents. He’ll be fine. But that didn’t make me feel any better. I was still worried. Audrey and Ulan gently urged the topic of conversation away from my brother missing the bus until we were talking about something completely different. I knew that they were trying to distract me, make me forget about the problem at hand, and for that I was grateful. How could the beautiful day have gone so wrong? The sun, which was usually smiling, seemed to frown upon me. The clear blue skies showing through an open window mocked me as I slumped down in my seat. “You lost your bro-ther, you lost your bro-ther.” My stomach felt hollow and my heart felt heavy. Anxiety possessed me like a hidden devil. For some odd reason, everything around me seemed silent, like I was in my own personal underworld of anxiety. It’s OK, Ruby, I told myself. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know that Abraham would miss the bus. That was his responsibility. But criticizing my brother just made me feel worse. Even though I was eleven and Abraham ten, and I usually act like I don’t like him very much (and sometimes I actually don’t), I can be very protective of him, even if I’m the one doing the criticizing. Every now and then I would glance out the back window of the bus without really realizing I was doing it, as if my brother would magically appear behind it, yelling for the bus to slow down so he could climb in. But the logical part inside me knew that would never happen. Finally, the bus lurched to a head-spinning stop on King Street. This was where Audrey and I got off. I gathered up my stuff, hurriedly hugged Ulan, and rushed down the aisle. Some kids said goodbye, but I ignored them. I jumped down the last few steps of the bus and ran to my mom, who was waiting for me. “Mom!” I said urgently. “Abraham didn’t get on the bus!” My mother’s expression changed into one that she used when I was kidding about something. “Oh really?” she asked, her eyes bright and smiling like they always were when someone joked. The anxiety and worry I had recently felt inside me quickly turned to anger and frustration. Why didn’t she believe me? “I’m not kidding!” I said hotly. “I know,” my mom replied. “He went
Fiction
There is one thing that always completes my summer. Mission Beach. Every August, my family either takes the eight-hour drive or the one-hour flight down to San Diego, where my mom grew up. My grandpa lives in a small complex called Stonecrest, and about a ten-minute drive away is Mission Beach, my favorite beach in the whole world. My mom’s best friend, Auntie Julia, brings down her entire huge family from Piedmont, California, and Chicago, Illinois, and she rents the same old enormous beach house located directly on Mission Beach. It’s 10:04 am, according to my sister’s watch. Dad is driving the car, singing along to Bob Dylan blasting on the radio. Mom is on the phone with Auntie Julia (occasionally making furious gestures to Dad to bring down the volume), and my sister Anna is announcing the time every four minutes. I finger my bright blue summer dress that I bought from The Gap this past July. All the windows of our minivan are rolled down, air-conditioning is on full blast, and we are off to the beach. I think this is the best way to end my summer. Dad hasn’t even parked or turned off the car when Anna and I unbuckle and explode out of the car. The cool salty breeze tickles my nose and tugs at my hair as a smile breaks on my face. The hot sun beats down as we quickly unpack the trunk and trudge down the alley to the big familiar brown house. The four of us climb the brick wall. Mom helps me up and I can see the sparkling blue ocean that never fails to amaze me. “Natalie! Anna!” A little girl, who is around eight, runs over and gives me a huge hug. “Mommy, they’re here!” “OK, I’m coming!” Auntie Julia rushes over, her spiky brown hair damp, and she has on a cute black dress. Of course, she isn’t really my aunt. But our families are so close that it is hard not to refer to each other as family. Julia smiles and embraces my mom in a giant hug, and then my dad. “Welcome back, guys! Everyone’s out on the beach.” We follow Julia onto the front porch of the house that faces the bluer-than-blue ocean. There isn’t a cloud above in the sky, and tanned teenagers are tossing around a volleyball in the sand across the boardwalk. “Natalie!” I spin around to see a cute blond girl, freckles sprinkled across her nose, her hair glowing strawberry blond in the sun. I smile. “Ellie!” We share a hug. She is a year younger than me and we first bonded a few years ago over our love of reading and books. Ellie is Julia’s niece. Her mom is Beth, who has two older boys, also: Chase, age fourteen, and Josh, age sixteen Kate tugs my hand. “Let’s go to the beach, c’mon!” I grin and glance over my shoulder at Julia, Mom, and Dad. Mom takes my bag, smiling, “Go on!” It’s a tradition. Ellie, Anna, Kate, and I race across the sand and see who can get to the water first. We grip hands as we check up and down the boardwalk to make sure there are no bikers or pedestrians coming, then we sprint across the asphalt and scramble over the three-foot concrete wall. I kick off my flip-flops and my feet sink into the warm sand. I can already feel my shoulders starting to get sunburned as Kate yells, “GO!” We take off, trying to pick up our feet as much as possible so we don’t get burned. Running through the sand is hard! It’s really different from running over hard, solid ground. If you let your weight sink into your feet for more than two seconds, it’s like sprinting through molasses. We pass a volleyball game as Kate and Anna start falling behind. Now it is me versus Ellie. We flash mock-competitive looks at each other. I look down to see the sand growing darker and firmer, meaning it’s wet and we are getting close to water. I could feel the balls of my feet throbbing. Ellie’s face is red and she pants. I pump my sore legs faster, now able to run normally because the wet sand is more dense and packed tighter. Ellie and I splash into the refreshingly ice-cold ocean at the same time. We laugh, gasping and panting, as the waves lap at our knees. The hem of my dress brushes a passing wave, but it feels good. Kate and Anna wave to us as we wade out of the water. They stand at the top of a sandy hill. Ellie and I start towards them, when a bucket of freezing water hits my back; Ellie and I scream. We whirl around to see Chase and Josh holding two pails of ocean water, kneeling in laughter. With our entire backsides drenched, Ellie and I have found new energy even after the long sprint down to the water as we pursue Chase and Josh into the ocean. A wave rolls up and splashes around my ankles as I tilt my head toward the turquoise sky and I realize my summer can’t get any better than this.
Fiction
Where I live, the seasons come and go as they please, along with the day and night. Everything has been the same for as long as I can remember. The daily routine of waking up, brushing my teeth, and getting on the bus only to be disturbed by teenagers seemed like a part of my life now. After getting off of the bus to go in to my school, no matter what grade I was in, it never seemed to change. Whether I was in primary school, or middle school, everything always seemed the same. After school finally had ended, I would board the bus once again and look out the window. Everything passing by in such a blur made me wonder if anything would ever change. As we passed by the once lush field of grass that was now reduced to nothing but brown stubble due to the snowy winter, I saw a few horses. Some of the horses’ coats were as white as the cleanest alabaster fabric. Others were as red as rustic bricks on a cafe’s wall. They always seemed so peaceful, so carefree. It was like they didn’t care about what was coming tomorrow. Whether it was a blizzard or excruciating heat, they didn’t care. Oh, how I would love to be a horse. Never going back and doing the same annoying routine thing, always moving along and never looking back. These horses were the only thing keeping me going for the next day. They made me think to myself, that no matter what challenges I faced the next day, I would see the horses. There was one in particular that inspired me more, though. It was different from any other horse in that herd. Its hair was as jet black as a clear night with a new moon. It just seemed so wild, so free. It was so carefree that, compared to every other horse in that herd, it seemed like it had just drunk seven Monster Energy Drinks. This is the horse that inspired me the most. It made me think that maybe I needed to make some changes and become as carefree as the jet-black horse that stood out in the crowd of alabaster and red horses. And then I realized that all of the other horses were me, and the jet-black horse was just an opportunity, somewhere inside of me, waiting to happen.
Fiction
My feet slapped against the wet sand, and waves lapped at my toes. White umbrellas blossomed like flowers all over the beach, teetering and threatening to fall down in the salty ocean breeze. I crossed over to the dry, sugar-powdered sand, and I could hear my heart pounding as I sprinted through mounds of shells. Colorful sun hats bobbed in the big, salty ocean and popped in and out of the rolling waves. The rough rocks felt tough against my bare feet as I clambered over them, headed toward the ocean. Sea foam clung to the grainy sand, and heaps of beautifully detailed shells lay in jumbled piles where the ocean had washed them up. The roar of crashing waves drowned out the animated chatter of seagulls and the contented babble of people draped lazily over sun chairs. A light, salty breeze blew the hair out of my eyes as I sprinted down the humongous ocean. Pelicans made acrobatic dives and swoops into the ocean as they searched for their lunch beneath the gushing waves. They greedily gobbled silver fish, which were flailing and panicking as if they were on land. The pelicans gulped, and you could still see the fish struggling and thrashing in the pelicans’ bulging pouches. The ocean glistened and shimmered in the sun’s blistering beams of light, and golden light gushed over the horizon. I heard excited shouts ahead, and I dashed over to where crowds of people were standing. They were gawking at the ocean breathlessly, and at first I thought they were just gaping at the humongous waves, but then I saw it. A gray-blue fin, slicing the water like a pizza. It leapt out of the water like a gymnast, not its whole body, only its back. It curved gracefully, forming an arc before splashing back under the waves. It was a dolphin! I called my siblings over to catch up to the graceful animal slipping through the ocean’s grasping hands. I sprinted down giant sand dunes, splashing in tide pools and dashing through puddles. I was far ahead of my brother and sisters, and they were also struggling to keep up with the playful creature. My heart raced, and my legs carried me across the beach of their own accord. I kept up with the dolphin, and every time it disappeared, I felt anxious. I leapt over half-ruined sand castles and heaps of rocks and pebbles. Its fin popped out more and more, daring me to follow it and teasing me if I couldn’t keep up. It dived in and out of the waves playfully, and wherever it went people cried out in amazement. I followed it until I was gasping for breath, and I sat down on a heaping, golden sand dune to take a short break. After a while, I jumped up to start my chase once again. I couldn’t see the dolphin, but joyful shouts up ahead told me it wasn’t too far. I sprinted faster this time, spraying wet sand in every direction as I tried to catch up to my teasing friend. Finally, I caught a glimpse of it once again, leaping through salty waves in a show-off way. I reached it just as it dived under the angry ocean. When I reached the scratchy rocks and the bright orange caution tape, I gazed longingly at the beautiful creature. A hand pulled me away, and my mom whispered, “We’re headed to the airport now. We’ll stop for dinner on the way, ’K?” I glanced back quickly at the dolphin, still diving with easy elegance, and knew it would be my good luck charm for the long trip back home.
Poem
I gaze at the fall night sky I lie down in the cold grass Close my eyes Breathing slowly I imagine I am a falling leaf I float in twirl in the slow breeze I open my eyes stand up I look Around and all I see are bare Trees and fallen leaves I lie back down and stare at the Fall night sky
Poem
I see you in a bowl Tantalizing me. I pick you up Your smoothness Goes unnoticed As I cut you into quarters Eagerly trying to get to Your ripeness. You are a red jewel case With red jewels inside you, Shimmering Like drops of blood. I take one jewel I put it to my lips I smell nothing But taste the Heavenliness Sweetness Deliciousness Of the Red pomegranate.
Poem
I shut the door behind me Exasperated and overwhelmed And start walking briskly As I walk I hear crickets chirping like a marching band I hear leaves crunching under me Soothing me over my bad day at school I feel the cool, fresh air across my face As I walk forward I smell the sweet smell of the nighttime dew Just like after a rainy day I slowly inch forward daydreaming Feeling like I am on the top of the world I cannot describe it It is simply the feeling of a nature walk
Book Reviews
We the Children (Benjamin Pratt and the Keepers of the School)
We the Children (Benjamin Pratt and the Keepers of the School), by Andrew Clements; Atheneum Books for Young Readers: New York, 2011; $6.99 Atheneum Books, the publishing company, knew what they were doing when they published this mysterious and wonderful book by Andrew Clements. I relate to Ben, the main character, a lot. Ben is friendly and outgoing. I am, too. Ben is also brave and nosy, and he likes to know what things mean and what others are doing. He always accepts a challenge and never gives up. He’s confident and always knows he can do it. I also feel close to Jill, another main character. She always is wondering who to take sides with. She knows what she should do, but when she tries she feels like her ideas are criticized. She’s negative and overwhelmed sometimes, but then she feels really bad and apologizes. She becomes sweet, energetic, and bold. When Ben and Jill find out the school they go to is going to be torn down, they feel like they must stop it. I would react the same way. I would feel upset and find a trustworthy teacher, though, to speak to a board meeting about my opinion. I wouldn’t start being a detective like Ben and Jill until after the teacher failed. Then I would look for clues to help me. When Ben and Jill need to solve the clues, they spend a lot of time in the library to learn about the school’s past. I would research the clues on the Internet. Jill did a tiny bit online. I would type in each clue and hope to find how they related to my school. As for when the grouchy and scary janitor, Mr. Keane, stops Ben to give him the coin, I would have done the same. I would take the coin and promise to save the school, but I would not go straight to a friend to find out about a dead person who had their name on the coin. I would Google them. Once I received the coin, I would feel scared and hopeless. I probably would go and forget about it until I had free time. If I heard that Mr. Keane had died, part of me would feel nervous because now I would be alone, which would make me go recruit a friend. Part of me would feel sad but would tell me that now, if I broke my promise, Mr. Keane would not know. Most of me would feel too sad to even think about the coin. My favorite parts of the book were very touching. One was how Jill seemed to always understand how Ben felt and would try to make him joyful. The other was when Ben saved Robert’s life. That made me think of Ben as heroic and kind. It always made me angry when Robert bullied Ben. If I had been there, I would have told Robert what a bully he was and I would have stood up for Ben. Overall, I would recommend this story to anyone who loves a mystery and conflicts that only tightly bonded friendship can solve. This book is heartwarming and touches your soul.
Book Reviews
Fixing Delilah, by Sarah Ockler; Little, Brown and Company: New York, 2010; $16.99 Sarah Ockler’s Fixing Delilah follows Delilah Hannaford (a sixteen-year-old girl) as she discovers her family’s secrets and learns the true importance of family. The novel starts with Delilah and her boyfriend, Finn, who do not like each other but are dating. Delilah, a slightly arrogant girl, is going back to Vermont to bury her grandmother. She hasn’t seen her since she was eight (because of a fight between Delilah’s mother, Claire, and her grandmother). While in Vermont, Delilah starts digging up secrets that Aunt Rachel, her grandmother, and her mother, buried deep. She learns the cause of the fight that split the family apart, the true story about why she didn’t have a dad, and the mystery behind Aunt Stephanie’s death at eighteen. She also meets her old friend Patrick, and Sarah Ockler surprises us with some pleasant romance. The book deals with three main themes that are relevant to most teenagers: secrets, love, and the true meaning of family. I think most readers of Fixing Delilah can relate to Delilah growing up without a father. Unfortunately, I know a lot of kids whose parents are divorced, and I can’t help wondering about how hard it must be for them to adapt to their lives. Also, I’m sure there are those who experienced a similar situation to the Hannaford Family Fight because, as it says on the cover of the book: “Family. It’s not always a perfect fit.” Sometimes family members just don’t get along. My only problem with the fight was its length (eight years is half of Delilah’s life!), and even that was clarified when I learned more about the grandmother. I could relate to Aunt Rachel because she reminded me of the bystander. She knew about the secrets and wanted to tell Delilah because it was the right thing to do, but Claire had told her not to. I was like Aunt Rachel once when a boy in my class was being bullied. I knew that the right thing to do was to speak up for him, but I was silent. In addition to seeing myself in Aunt Rachel, I saw myself in Delilah sometimes because I can be selfish and uncompassionate. It made me realize how unlikable I must be during some occasions. I didn’t always like Delilah, so I imagine my parents don’t always like the way I act. As for the love theme, Sarah Ockler was clever to include Finn, in order to contrast Delilah’s relationship with him with her later relationship with Patrick, an eighteen-year-old boy and a childhood friend of Delilah’s. At some times during Fixing Delilah I was almost crying because of the beauty of their romance and the sweet innocence of it. I didn’t think their romance was cheesy. I found the author’s descriptions unique and touching, and I felt like this was the time her writing truly stood out and shone. I went through many emotions while reading Fixing Delilah. At times I wanted to cry because it was sad, at times because it was beautiful, and at times because I was laughing my head off. The themes were very easy to relate to. Here’s one of my favorite quotes from Fixing Delilah, which proves the author’s remarkable humor. “‘I’ll go,’ Rachel says. ‘Need anything specific? Milk? Toilet paper? Compassion, maybe? I’ll get a bunch. I probably have a coupon.’”
