“I’m an average gymnast. To me, competition isn’t always about winning. It’s about the drive.” I nervously step into the arena, itching at my rhinestone-covered leotard. My hair is pulled back in a tight bun as voices echo off the ceiling that soars above my head. The cold concrete floor tickles my bare feet. I search for my teammates and spot them at the far side of the room. Rushing over to see them, I pass many other gymnasts on the way. A booming voice fills the auditorium: “All gymnasts may begin warming up.” Feet pound the ground as we tumble across the springy mat. We take off our team jackets and capris and stand for the national anthem. My heartbeat accelerates. “You now may go greet the judge,” the loudspeaker blasts. We line up and head to the judge’s table. There we say hello, and she wishes us good luck. I step up to the blue floor and stand, chin up, straight arms, waiting to begin. I hear my name sing throughout the auditorium as the judge salutes. Returning the signal, I raise my hands above my head. It’s go time. Straight back, pointed toes, I get into my starting position. A Handful of Magic The first note of my floor routine rings throughout the auditorium. Matching the rhythm of the music, I dance across the floor. I reach the corner and prepare for my first tumbling pass. Hurdling into a roundoff, I launch myself forward. Quickly, I connect one back handspring and then another. With a sigh of relief, I stick the landing and continue my routine. Accelerando . . . My steps quicken, naturally pairing with the tempo of the music. My eyes track the next corner as I prepare for my leap pass, arms extended to the side. Floating across the floor, I throw myself into the air as my legs straighten into a split. Crescendo . . . The music gets louder as my body fills with adrenaline. Ritardando . . . The music slows as I make my way to the corner, steeling myself for the finale. I stand at the edge of the floor, feet neatly tucked into the corner, heartbeat racing. I take a deep breath and run . . . I’m an average gymnast. To me, competition isn’t always about winning. It’s about the drive. Audrey Tushman, 12Wellesley, MA Tatum Lovely, 12Pipersville, PA
A doorway to the starry sky where the stars shine so bright in the night you can see as clear as daylight the world full of wonder your eyes like a window for your soul grass so green and clean it almost seems as if a dream Katie Furman, 10Fogelsville, PA
Julia resolves to find a missing cat and reunite him with his bereft owner “Julia, would you be a dear and read the San Diego Times to me?” My grandma speaks with a scratchy voice as she slowly lies down on her crooked bed. Silver threads of moonlight shine through the window and blend with her bedside table lamp. “Sure!” I unsurely reply. We always read the newspaper before bedtime, which for me is usually an uninteresting task, but tonight, thank goodness, soon puts Grandma to sleep. I love my sweet grandma, and wwI want to take good care of her while my parents are off to Hawaii for their vacation, but sometimes I wish we could just try something new. I can’t stay in one spot for long. My restless body can’t resist the urge to dance. Yet tonight’s late-night news soon becomes engaging: “The catnapper moved as swiftly as a cheetah,” the housemaid reported. She saw him as she was leaving the Fiddlewick mansion at 7 p.m.: “He ran across my vacuumed carpet until the beautiful pure-white cat, Thomas, beloved of Ms. Fiddlewick, stopped him with loud screeches and hissing. That was when I knew he was being catnapped, so I ran outside to phone the police.” Said she didn’t get a good look at the catnapper, all covered in black with a black facemask. This news makes my heart ache for Thomas. A feeling of sorrow and kindness fills my body. Too tired to stay awake, Granny is already asleep. As I switch off the light, moonlight now fills the room, and I know I have to rescue Thomas. So, by moonlight, I continue reading: Apparently, Thomas’s loud screech had caught the attention of nearby police officers. But they were too slow to catch up. Though they searched the mansion, they couldn’t find Thomas. What else the catnapper stole, if anything, remains to be determined. The police asked another witness about the catnapper all in black. His gray eyes looked serious as he informed them, “I saw a man in black remove his balaclava and enter the Curtis Hotel. He had blond hair, nicely combed.” That hotel could be the catnapper’s temporary home. But after the news release, he probably left the hotel in a hurry without leaving a forwarding address. I listen to the deep growl of a bear, which I soon realize is my stomach. As I walk down the long hallway to the kitchen, I ruminate while my stomach growls noisily over my grandma’s snoring. Granny sleeps very heavily, and her snoring is almost as ear piercing as a loud siren in a deserted desert. As I enter the neat kitchen with a growling tummy and walk toward the white wooden cabinet, the cool marbled floor soothes me. The moon is now invisible from the kitchen, forcing me to turn on a light. From the shelves full of snacks in front of me, I choose a bag of dried apples, and snacks in hand, I stroll back through the hallway and into my grandma’s bedroom, pick up the newspaper, and continue to read. The paper included a “Missing Cat Announcement”: Our cat, Thomas, went missing on Aug. 15 around 7 p.m. We think he has been catnapped. Thomas is an all-white Siamese. His eyes are sapphire blue. See the attached photo. If you find or see this cat, please call Ms. Fiddlewick at 984-6783-5559 and leave a message with location details and your phone number. She will return your call. Hmm . . . find the cat, find the criminal? Or find the criminal, find the cat? The criminal could have read the news or heard the broadcast and already called that number to learn if there’s a reward for the cat. He could be caught that way. Most likely, though, he would have left the Curtis in a hurry. Where would he go? Perhaps Thomas, unminded, escaped and hid in the hotel where food would be plenty. So many unknowns and possibilities. Though the chance of my rescuing Thomas is slim, I can follow my instincts. I must gather food and milk to feed this cat and let him know that I care. I return to the kitchen for temptations: a bag full of aromatic tuna, steamed-warm milk, and a cat’s favorite treat—kibbles! Armed with temptations and my kind heart, I quietly sneak out the door so as not to wake Granny. Granny, overly protective, would surely forbid me from going on this adventure. I secure my helmet and begin to bike to the hotel, looking everywhere, wondering if I am anywhere close. Finally, I spot a big Curtis Hotel sign, written in big, lit-up words. I steer in that direction, get off my bike, and walk through the automatic sliding doors with my backpack, realizing that I look like a tourist. I sneak past the concierge, thinking about where a traumatized cat might hide. As I move toward the hotel dining room and kitchen, passing through a lounge, I begin to whisper, “Thomas! Thomas!” while searching the area. Under the couch, I find a single puff of white fur. A puff of white fur! Could it be Thomas’s white fur? My Lovely Friend Cat Studying the ground closely, I discover a seemingly endless trail of fur leading into an ominous hall where a cold, ghostly wind meets me, and I walk toward a soft creaking from up ahead, where lights occasionally turn on and off. There, the trail of fur stops, and I can see a door. I saunter into the room, a kitchen. There, I look up to notice the chefs staring at me. “Hi, I’m very sorry for disturbing you and for barging in. I will leave after I ask you if you have seen a white cat come into your kitchen?” “Yes, we have, but because it began eating our fresh fish and making a mess of this place, I threw it out the window,” a chef with
