That morning at breakfast, Dylan sat perched on his usual seat at the table, sketching happily. I grabbed the milk and a spoon and sat down. I poured myself a heaping bowl of Cheerios, most of which spilled on the table. Dylan’s pencil scribbled away, and he periodically blew huge breaths over his paper to get rid of the shreds of eraser. Curious about what he was working so diligently at, I leaned over to get a better view. “Dylan!” I shouted. He was adding onto one of my drawings, and had already reshaped a good portion of it. Startled, Dylan looked up. “What?” “I’ve been working on that forever!” I snatched my notebook out of his hands. He’d made the people cartoon like and unrealistic, and shaded in all the wrong places. “You totally screwed up the whole thing!” I yelled. “I didn’t screw up anything!” he said, defensively. “I’ve told you a million times not to touch my stuff, and specifically not my sketchbook!” I flipped through the pages to see if he’d ruined any other drawings. He hadn’t. I flipped back to the drawing he was working on. I examined it closely, looking for flaws to point out. The faces of the people had become less dimensional and smudgy. Dylan always drew details with tons of shading, most of which wasn’t necessary. Sometimes I’d teach him where to shade, and help him with drawing figures, but he still resorted to his box-like, over shaded style. He’d added onto drawings before, but those were just sketches I’d whipped up in a few minutes. I’d been perfecting this one for at least a month. The paper was so worn out from my erasing, that there were shreds of it peeling off. And since Dylan pressed so hard that graphite was sprinkled all over the paper like snowflakes, I knew I wouldn’t be able to fully erase what he’d done without making a hole in the paper. I also saw he smudged over the shading that had taken me forever to get right. “God Dylan, you completely ruined it!” I said, the anger boiling out of me. “You know you suck at drawing figures. In fact, you suck at drawing, period, so why did you have screw up my sketch?” “I didn’t ruin it! And if you’d actually show me how to draw people, like you always promise, then maybe I’d be better!” “You’re so annoying! Why would I want to waste my time teaching you?” “Oh yeah? Well then I’m glad it’s ruined!” “I hate you!” I said through my teeth. Even though he was still frowning at me, I could tell he was hurt. He started to say something, but I cut him off. “Never ask me to teach you anything ever again. And don’t ever add onto any of my work.” Not waiting for a response, I stomped out of the kitchen. I thumped into my room and tossed my sketchbook on my bed. I threw it so hard it slid off the edge and onto the floor. I just left it there. When I passed by the kitchen on my way to the front door, I didn’t look in. I impatiently waited for the bus, fuming. On the way home from school, I sat crammed into the gray leather bus seat, intensely sketching, disregarding the world around me. Frustrated that my pencil wasn’t conveying the image in my mind, I flipped to a fresh page. The page I flipped to happened to be one of Dylan’s drawings. All day had been thinking about what happened, and by the time I’d gotten on the bus to go home, I’d realized I’d been a jerk. I decided I should apologize. When I got off the bus, I was blasted with cold air and snow. The snow crept up my ankles as I trudged to the front door. When I got inside, I dropped my backpack on the floor, which made a loud thump, then slid off my boots and tossed my coat on the floor. “Dylan?” I called. The light in the kitchen was on, but nobody was there. My bowl of dried Cheerios was still on the table from the morning. He must be in his room. “Hey, Zoe,” my Dad called up from the basement. “Hi, Dad.” “Is it really coming down out there?” “Yeah, there’s already a solid 4 inches.” “Wow, I didn’t think the storm would actually hit.” “And it looks like it’s just the beginning,” I added, glancing out the window. It had started piling up around noon, and there was already a thick white blanket covering everything. I went upstairs to Dylan’s room. His door was closed. “Dylan?” I called again, pushing open the door. His room was empty. His bed was unmade, and a book was propped open, face down on his bed. The phone rang. I ran downstairs to the living room, but my Dad picked it up before I got there. I looked outside again. Snow swirled around vigorously, and the wind whipped the side of the house. Where was Dylan? I was going to ask my Dad, but he didn’t like it when we interrupted him when he was on the phone. I sighed. I’d just apologize later. I walked into the kitchen to look for a snack. I grabbed the Ritz crackers out of the cabinet. The wrapper crinkled as I dumped the crackers on the counter. I stood munching on them. My Dad came running up the stairs from the basement. His face was pale, and his eyes were big and wild. “Come on Zoe, we need to go now.” “What? Why?” “We need to go to the hospital.” He grabbed his coat off the hook near the door. “What?” I asked, shocked. I started to panic when he didn’t answer. “To see Dylan.” He jammed his hat down on his head and started to tie his shoes. “Why is Dylan in the hospital?” He
January 2018
Annie with Dogs
Annie with Dogs Valentina Ventura, 4Des Moines, IA
A Surfing Tradition
The sun raised its head over a cold California coast. This sun was a special sun. It was the first sun of the year. There was to be a special gathering at the beach. It is what is called a “paddle-out.” Cars slowly gathered at the beach. The people inside the cars exited and came to the shore. No one talked, all they did was look at the horizon, which was light red from the coming sun. The waves were so big it was hard to see the horizon at times. All of them were bundled up, trying to protect themselves from the piercing cold. Every part of their body that was not bundled up was already turning blue. Soon an old Ford pickup truck parked with the back facing the ocean. The paint on this vehicle was chipping and there were many marks of rust on it. It was filled with wood. Three people got out of the pickup and unhitched the back, exposing the wood. The wood was twisted and knotted so bad it was terrible. Two teenagers came forward and started unloading the wood. They brought it over to a stone fireplace. The three men came into the crowd. Thankful nods went their way but still no one talked, almost as if they were in a trance. Soon a car pulled up with surfboards on the rack. The driver emerged from the car and started untying the boards. Once he was done he set the three boards by the pickup truck. The three men came forward and changed into their trunks but nothing else. They started to wax their boards, and even though they shivered and were cold to the bone they never put on anything except for their trunks. The group stood motionless, just looking at the horizon. Once the three men were done waxing their boards they walked, with their boards on their shoulder, to the shore and started whispering to each other. Then they stood motionless until the shore break calmed for a little bit and then they sprang into the water and started paddling furiously. The crowd on the beach watched them, still not talking. When the men were outside they sat there, millions of good waves passing under them. Then one set came with three waves in it. These waves weren’t good, these waves were spectacular. The waves so clear and crisp. Each one of them chose their own wave. They glided over the waves, no cutbacks, no nose-riding, nothing but gliding. They all rode in and as the last one exited the water something happened. The crowd cheered, the first sound they made all morning. Soon the festivities began. People got coffee and hot cocoa. People were yelling “Hey John” and such. Later a spectator of the event asked one of the teenagers who started the fire, “What was the deal with that?” and the teenager said, “It’s a tradition.” James Wilson, 11Riverside, CA