Salt sea spray brushed against my cheek as I paced placidly along my beach. Well, not my beach, technically, but that’s what I fondly call it. My adoptive mother, Elnore, says every time it’s a nice day out, “It’s a day for your beach, Shayla, go and capture it.” So that’s where I am now, on a beach where your thoughts break loose from a cage called your mind, and take off into the sky. While my thoughts are off scanning the horizons, my green eyes stay close to the beach, seeking out shells. I always look for additions to my shell collection, which are easy to find, for I practically live on the beach. My eyes spot a dark gray shell poking out of the soft sand. I trot over and squat down by it, taking a piece of my short, curly brown hair and tucking it behind my ear. I carefully pick up the shell and turn it over. Sure enough, the rainbow colors of an abalone shell shimmer back at me. I smile and place the shell in the pocket of my battered old shorts, then skip off along the shoreline. After a few minutes of poking along the beach, I find the driftwood bench that I crafted myself. I plop down on it and think about my life, what I always do on this unique bench. I was adopted, or rather I was found. See, Elnore found me on the beach, which is, of course, very odd. Elnore told the police about me, and the police did their job and investigated to see if anyone had a missing child. No one claimed me, so Elnore took me under her wing. I have lived with her ever since, twelve years. I love Elnore’s cozy old beach house, and I love Elnore, but I would like to know about my past. After a few minutes of poking along the beach, I find the driftwood bench that I crafted myself A ship bell rings faintly. I look out on the ocean. Old Mr. Flint waves at me from his equally old fishing schooner. I wave back. Mr. Flint points to the cove that he usually docks in. I nod and he turns back to his wheel. Lifting myself off the bench, I make my way down to Fisher’s Cove. I usually help Mr. Flint unload his catch in exchange for stories of what he saw in the ocean that day, and a buck or two. “Aye, little Shayla!” Mr. Flint greets me with a toothy smile. “Hey!” I grin back. “Any fish stories today?” “Jest unusual happenings. I swear I saw a whale jest off the mainland. Gray-colored one it was.” My eyes open wide with surprise. “But it’s not time for whales to migrate by here yet!” I exclaim. “Yeah, I know. That’s what’s so strange about that whale. Help me with this net, wouldja?” I bend down and help him with a net full of fish. I still am very curious. “Was there anything strange about the whale, besides the obvious?” I enquire eagerly. Old Mr. Flint wrinkles up his nose, thinking hard. “Eyah . . . it were tossin’ around a trinket thing, mayhap a shell. I don’ think that that’s what’s causin’ um to act this way though.” He pulls out another net, and I help him with it. “Nothing else?” I ask hopefully. “Nothin’ ‘cept the sunrise,” was the disappointing answer. I stay through the usual sunrise bit, I finish, he thanks me, and hands me the regular paycheck (a dollar-fifty). Finally I trudge home, with darkness setting over the ocean. “I suppose you will be enlightening the beach with your presence today, right?” I smile at Elnore’s obvious question, and reply enthusiastically over the tink, tink of spoons against breakfast oatmeal bowls. “Of course! Going to the beach is one of the many privileges of this off-school vacation! How could you ever doubt I would spend a day without my beach?” “Oh, just a wild guess.” Elnore picks up my satchel, and tosses it at me. “Go find some seashells!” “Aye, aye captain!” I rush happily out the door. It is foggy when I get to my beach, and the waves crash steadily against the jagged rocks. I shrug my shoulders and continue on my way. A few sand dollars are all I can see in the sand, broken ones at that. I suddenly decide to walk on the western part of my beach, a part that I don’t acknowledge much. The wind starts to whip around violently, and strands of hair keep blowing in my face. Frustrated, I search my satchel for a rubber band, and come out with a piece of string. I turn in the direction of the ocean and tie my hair up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move out on the ocean. I know it isn’t the waves; the thing I see is an object. Something plops down in the sand right next to me and I jump. I come to my senses and look down. A large shell sits comfortably in the sand, as if it had been there a million years. I stoop and take a closer look. The shell is a conch shell, and definitely excels in looks. It is glossy, and the surface is a mixture of cream and white colors. It is delicately rounded and has a curlicue on the top of it. Excited, I pick up the pretty shell and put it in my satchel. I walk home quickly, eager to show Elnore my lucky find. How little I knew then. * * * “Elnore, Elnore! Look, look! Look what I found!” I burst through the door, wet from the now falling rain. Elnore glances up from her sketch pad, and puts on her wire-rimmed glasses. “What do you have there?” I hold up the conch shell. Elnore’s eyes are like tennis balls. “Wow. That is
July/August 2001
In the Land of the Basketball Hoops
She slung her leg over the side of the hammock and sighed. It was the sigh alone that told the story of her boredom, the story of being dragged out to visit an aunt and uncle she barely knew; then of finding that her relatives and their neighbors were about the dullest people who ever walked the face of the earth. Then just as she sighed again, the actress in her searching for the best pitch to portray most complete and utter boredom, the screen door opened and quietly closed and her aunt stepped out and squinted in the sunshine. “Carmon, honey. I’m afraid this must be rather dull for a city girl like you,” she tittered. “Why don’t you take a little stroll. I’m going to be off to the Ladies Society.” Her aunt stood awhile, expectantly waiting for her niece to jump up and scamper down the road calling, “Have a nice day, Auntie!” like the niece she had always imagined. Carmon only raised one eyebrow and twisted a short black curl around her finger. Reluctantly Aunt Angela walked down the manicured sidewalk toward the dark red minivan in the garage. A minute later she was backing out of the graveled driveway. Carmon watched and wondered, momentarily, why people drove in parkways and parked in driveways, but she soon dismissed the thought, telling herself that it was much too hot to think. Her eyes followed the minivan in a lazy sort of way, the way you might imagine a large beetle who, having just eaten his fill, lay watching a slow, fat fly. Carmon got up and pulled her soccer shorts from her sweaty skin, then gave up because they replastered each time. A gnat flew into her hair, and she flicked it away. “I guess anything would be better than this, even a walk,” she said to the mosquito on her arm before squashing it. Carmon grabbed her faded New York Mets cap and put it on, then began to walk toward Maple Street, which was three houses down from Aunt Angela and Uncle Fredrick’s house. At each house there was a girl with blond hair, shooting hoops and hoops and hoops and hoops . . . On the corner of Maple Street and Eve Street there stood a large house. Carmon stopped to pull out her water bottle from a Barbie fanny pack that her little sister Melissa had insisted she bring and wear to remember her. Carmon took a long drink, then replaced it and looked up at the house. It looked like an imitation of the houses she’d seen along Brattle Street in one of her many visits to Cambridge, mixed with an imitation of a villa in Switzerland that she had stayed at for a year. Carmon shook her head and smiled. The imitation was certainly bad. Thunk, thunk, thunk—her head turned automatically toward the sound. In the driveway there stood a medium-height girl with medium-length blond hair. She was shooting baskets at a hoop almost rhythmically. Carmon gazed at her for a moment, then noticed the lack of emotion on her suntanned face. She showed no sign of having any fun, yet every time she shot the ball it landed neatly in the basket. Carmon shook her head, then walked on. As she came to the driveway of the next house she heard dribbling again, and again. Carmon turned her head to see a young girl shooting baskets. She seemed totally unaware that right next door, a girl was also playing. Their houses were just far enough apart that neither of them could see each other. Carmon wanted to run up to the girl and tell her that right next door a girl was shooting baskets too, and that they could play one-on-one, but the girl’s dad was on the lawn blowing leaves in a circle with a leaf blower. Every few minutes he would stop and watch his daughter’s endless, perfect shots, then give her a thumbs-up. She would smile, toss her blond hair, then continue to shoot and dribble, perfect synchronized dribbling. Carmon walked on and on, and at each house there was a girl with blond hair, shooting hoops and hoops and hoops and hoops . . . Carmon began to be mesmerized by the endless perfection. She looked around her and realized she had no idea where she was. Her head seemed to be throbbing in perfect, synchronized beats, almost the same as the thunk, thunk, thunk coming from the driveway ahead. She couldn’t seem to remember where she’d turned or how long she had been walking. She looked around and realized you couldn’t give directions around here. You couldn’t say “turn left at the house with the leaf blower” because every house had one, prominently filling the natural silence. You couldn’t say “turn right at the house with the fake jockey statue” because every house had one. And you couldn’t say “make a U-turn at the house with the minivan” because every driveway seemed to contain one. You certainly couldn’t say “cross the street at the house with the basketball hoop.” Even in her present state of mind Carmon knew that. Carmon turned yet another corner with the desperate hope of ending up on her aunt and uncle’s street, though the street sign clearly read Twilight Park. In front of her, about five houses down, stood a Man, a Lady and a perfect little Boy. They were calling her name and beckoning to her. They seemed to know her, though she was certain she’d never seen them in her life. She seemed drawn toward them, closer, closer, her head throbbing with the repeated cries of “Carmon, Carmon, Carmon . . .” She walked on, the monotonous, coordinated sound of the voices merging with the ever louder thump of basketballs. The people stood in front of her smiling. The man held a basketball which he placed in her outstretched hands. She walked forward, catching a glimpse of
Summer Days Beside Cannon Rock
The ocean, rocks, and cool sea breeze are what awaited me every July at our old summer house in Maine. The living room, dining room and two bedrooms upstairs had the most beautiful view in the whole house. It was of the glistening teal ocean and huge rocks on which one could climb. They were all along the seaside, like a barrier separating the water and land. These midnight, cloudy-day rocks were simply called “the rocks,” and one in particular was shaped like a cannon pointing out to sea; we called it Cannon Rock. It was the largest, and if one were to climb to the top of it, the whole world would seem like it was before her eyes. As I walked down our worn-off, soft, charcoal-color porch stairs, I passed beach flowers that looked like mini-hibiscuses. I was heading toward the rocks. Waves crashed up against the rocks that sounded like a hard crack of a whip. I climbed on all fours and watched out for the razor-sharp barnacles. They were stuck on like a baby calf clinging to its mother in its early stages. Above me the sun was blazing, and I heard the screeching of seagulls soaring through the clear blue sky. I breathed in the salty sea air, which reminded me of Cape Cod salt-and-vinegar chips, my favorite. Around and inside the rocks were tidepools and areas to search for the little treasures the ocean brings. The foamy water from the open gap in a rock shampooed my cool bare feet. As I kept exploring the watery world, sudden shimmers caught my eye. Sea glass was sparkling on small moist stones and rocks. The pieces were frosty colors of midnight-sky blue, emerald green, and baby-boy blue. I used to drop them in a jar, making a collection to admire. I searched around more, observing different motionless creatures. I gently picked up a starfish and felt its hard top, like rough sandpaper. It looked like pores on a grapefruit. I scooped up several multicolored periwinkles, and saw a crab scuttle across and hide under a big rock. He was the color of the setting sun. Next, I saw stringy strands of slimy cucumber-colored seaweed. I also glimpsed some other seaweed that looked like the packaging bubble wrap that covers fragile things. I gently picked up a starfish and felt its hard top, like rough sandpaper When I was finished examining the various animals, I headed up to the sizzling hot rocks, baked by the afternoon sun. I sat down and peered out onto the horizon; here I could see Stratton Island and Bluff Island. These islands looked like small blots propped up by the water against the sky. Sailboats floated along the skyline, even though it didn’t look like they were moving at all. I think of the times I spent on the rocks and in Maine. Once we had a family cookout, several times we packed picnics to eat, and one evening we roasted marshmallows against a fire. My dreams at night here were about my different adventures I had, and new things I learned. I think of how I wished to be a marine biologist, because of my love I had for the ocean and the wonders inside of it. I was never afraid to touch some “gooey-gross” seaweed like others would say. I could only admire it, and other things. I remembered a night when I heard two seals barking outside of my bedroom window. They were moving black figures, swimming the dark sea. That was my last night there; it was like they were saying good-bye. In the movie Peter Pan the mermaid lagoon and the islands reminded me of Maine. So many things did. For example, when I ate plain Pringles chips or Rice Krispies treats. Whenever I held a large seashell up to my ear, the rushing of the waves reminded me of the water slapping against the rocks. Even when I smelled a bit of salty sea air, it just tingled me inside and the memories went through my head. I had grown attached to our house and rocks on the sea, just like baby calves come to bond with their mother. The time I spent there gave me a chance to view the whole world, just as I could do at the top of Cannon Rock. Memories could be cherished forever from the events that don’t always last. Katey Storey, 13 Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts Hannah Richman, 13Kittanning, Pennsylvania
