As the night breaks into dawn and the sky comes alive, the morning fog rolls through, dampening my uniform and freezing my skin. It billows and curls around the gnarled maple trees and obscures the leaf-strewn ground from my eyes. My dark, sad eyes. Eyes that have been tainted by war. This place would have been beautiful, had it not been for the hellish act that was to be committed here not long from now. May God forgive me. I pull off my cap and wipe my sweaty face on the sleeve of my tattered gray uniform. My legs ache from the long and miserable nights I have seen, but they continue to march mindlessly. I have no control. My worn and splintered musket rubs the skin on my shoulder raw; as it burdens me more with each step I take. Filthy flies follow us; my face is caked with dirt. My hair is long and unkempt, my hands, callused and rough. The steady sloshing of water in my canteen keeps me awake. The leaves are starting to take color as the sun begins to peak over the horizon. We must hurry. Men around me whistle sad tunes and stare at their feet. Being only fourteen years old, it was my choice to join this militia. I now wonder if I made a mistake. Our regiment leader raises his fist and points ahead through the now clearing fog. A thick gray smoke is curling up through the trees . . . a campfire. The enemy is near. I can hear them, just waking up and fixing breakfast. They are young, just like me. We are ordered to remain silent and ready our rifles, and I do both, wondering whose young life I am going to destroy as I stuff the lead bullet down the barrel and ready the gunpowder. A wave of nausea rolls over me. I don’t want to be here. They are young just like me We creep forward about forty yards and take up positions behind some large pines. The fog still protects us. From here, I can make out shadowy figures moving about the enemy camp. They are calm and unaware—none carries their weapons. I look over at the regiment leader and he raises his fist. I raise my weapon in the direction of the enemy. He holds up five fingers. I take aim. He proceeds to slowly drop each finger. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and fire. The loud cracks of gunfire explode around me and the shadowy silhouettes fall. Their cries of pain are unbearable and almost all of them are dead after the first barrage. I drop my rifle and once again, noise explodes around me. Those who remained alive in the camp drop and lie still. Dead men with their surprised eyes thrown wide open. I look down and nearly collapse. A boy, no older than I, lies sprawled on the cold ground, a bullet through his chest, as his open canteen slowly leaks its contents out onto the dirt. No one should have to die this young. I run over to the edge of their encampment and vomit. Taking a small sip from my canteen, I proceed back to my place in line and continue to march. I worry. We are planning a similar attack tomorrow, right here, within this hellish beauty. Zaki Moustafa, 13West Palm Beach, Florida Ben Wisniewski, 12Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
January/February 2005
Olive’s Ocean
Olive’s Ocean by Kevin Henkes; Greenwillow Books: New York, 2003; $15.99 Olive’s ocean should be sold with a complimentary bag of Kleenex. I could tell from the beginning that this wasn’t going to be The Boxcar Children. I must admit that I was really prepared for the worst. I’ve read soooo many books that are supposed to touch your heart and are just boring and predictable. This is not the case with Olive’s Ocean. You see, Kevin Henkes is a true writer. He’s not some sappy poetic writer wannabe. He has this way of writing that’s plain but still very powerful. I play the cello, and when I just play a note really in tune and whisk the bow across the string neatly, it sounds just as good as when I wiggle my fingers a lot and do all these fancy flourishes. This lachrymose writing has an elegant simplicity that really works. And I’m not talking about the Lily’s Purple Plastic Purse Kevin Henkes anymore. (Yes, it is the same author.) This new Kevin Henkes is more grim and sentimental. Just try to picture one of those perky and cute little mice having their classmate, Olive, being run over by a car, almost drowning on a vacation at their near-dead grandmother’s beachside house, and being horribly betrayed by their boyfriend. Since the grandmother will die soon, she and our red-haired protagonist, Martha, have talking sessions about each other every day, and through talking with Granny and reading dead Olive’s diary, Martha evolves into a writer. She writes this haunting yet beautiful poem that is even better if you haven’t read the book because it’s just a chaotic jumble of a bazillion thoughts plopped on a piece of paper. I love that. She even plans to write a book, but we’ll talk more about that later. At the beach, Martha finds love with the grandmother’s neighbor, Jimmy, who turns out to be a total creep. One thing that Kevin Henkes did take with him on the path to this tear-jerking read from a world of five-year-old mice, though, was his fabulous understanding of a kid’s brain. Only Henkes can capture the feeling of the last day of a trip. I certainly know that feeling, considering the millions of trips my overworked parents are always taking the family on. Haven’t we all experienced that sensation of “this is the last time I’ll sleep on this pillow, the last time I’ll walk through this door, the last glass of orange juice here . . . ?” I always feel like I have to do something special on the last day, but at the same time I want to remember what it was normally like here. I’ll never forget choosing the last-dinner restaurant. Whether to pick a new, exciting one, or the boring, humdrum one we went to every day. (Being the more boring, humdrum type, I always choose that second option.) But back to Olive’s Ocean, there’s only one thing that annoyed me. This is the type of book that you turn a lot of pages afterwards looking for more, and you yell obnoxiously to the poor book cover, “What? That’s it?” (scaring the cat off the sofa). I am still not at peace as I write this review. What happened to Martha’s book? Is Grandma dead yet? Did Martha keep writing? If you read this book, you won’t find out. Don’t worry though, it’s still worth your time. Olive’s Ocean is the type of book that makes you lean back and sigh. I felt so lucky to know that all my friends are with me, that my life is stable and good, and that I don’t know any boys named Jimmy Manning. Isabel Ortiz, 12Davis, California
Hermione and Leafy
“What should we play?” the little girl asked of her older cousin. The redhead stood and began walking up and down the bricks, using her arms for balance as if she were a tightrope walker at the circus. She furrowed her brow in concentration. “Sisters,” she said finally. The little girl beamed with pleasure. She was happy just to be at her hero-worshipped cousin’s house on this beautiful day when she did not have to go to school, this beautiful day with the purple wisteria trees in bloom. “Orphan sisters,” the redhead continued. “Our parents were explorers and they took us with them to go explore the jungle and they died out there, see? So now we’re two orphan sisters wandering around alone in the jungle. Trying to survive and find our way home.” She plopped down on the front steps with a self-satisfied smile. “My name’s gonna be Hermione; what about yours?” The little girl spotted a small green leaf in the driveway. “Leafy” she said. “Emma, that isn’t a real name. Why don’t you just be . . . Crookshanks or something?” “My name is Leafy.” “Ohhh, fine.” The redhead heaved a great sigh. Five-year-olds. “How old do you wanna be?” “Seven!” with an adoring gaze at her cousin. The redhead scrunched up her face, trying to think up the biggest age imaginable. “I’m thirteen,” she said decidedly. “Shh! You have to be very quiet. There are tigers” So that was that. Hermione stood, brushing off the back of her floral-print jeans, only suddenly the pattern was camouflage. So was her formerly pink hoodie. She ran through the grass with her body doubled over, beckoning for Leafy to follow. Despite their camouflage clothing and the green and black paint they had smeared under their eyelids, they were still fairly easy for predators to spot. And here in the very heart of the jungle, predators were everywhere. “What are we. . .” Leafy began. But Hermione said, “Shh! You have to be very quiet. There are tigers.” Leafy shivered with excitement. “Taahgers!” They stopped and ducked down in the tangled underbrush to rest and conspire. “It’ll be night soon,” Hermione whispered, flinching as a brightly colored bird flew uncomfortably low over her head. “We’d better build a fire to keep us warm and keep the wolves and stuff away, or we’ll be goners for sure. The matches Mom and Dad brought got wet in the swamp, but we can rub two sticks together. The trick is gathering the firewood without getting eaten.” The front door swung open just then, and a woman in jeans and a sweatshirt stuck her head out. “Alice, Emma, you guys hungry? I can make grilled cheese sandwiches.” “Yes, please,” said Alice. They could discover the previously overlooked sandwiches in their backpacks when the fire was built. “Me too!” added Emma. The woman went back inside. Hermione said, “Now, what we need is some strategy” but she stopped as she noticed her real-life sister reading on the front porch of the house. “Beth, you wanna play?” she offered. The girl, thirteen, looked up with a start. She had forgotten about the world outside of her book. “Oh, no thanks, sweetie.” The seven-year-old rolled her eyes, amazed at how anybody would want to read when nobody was making them; but before she could meditate on the mystery any longer, a sleek black panther leaped down at them from a tree overhead. “Watch out!” she shrieked to Leafy and, grabbing her hand, the two of them ran as fast as their small legs could carry them. Bethany Johnsen, 13Lindale, Texas Rachel Stanley, 13Seal Beach, California
