Phoenix Rising by Karen Hesse; Henry Holt & Company: New York, 1994; $16.95 Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do some people live and others die? Isn’t it ironic how a loss can bring two strangers together, but then ultimately, keep them apart? These are some of the questions which Karen Hesse explores in Phoenix Rising a story of a friendship blossoming from one of the most devastating tragedies imaginable—an accident at a nuclear power plant. Nyle, a young teenage girl, has already lost her mother and grandfather when the accident happens at Cookshire power plant. She lives with her grandmother on their farm near the plant, and watches with horror and fear as the power accident spreads radioactive nuclear energy, destroying their flock and their crops. Nyle knows that people are dying as well, and wonders if she and her grandmother will be next. If you have never lost a loved one, you may not understand Nyle’s anger when she hears that Miriam and Ezra Trent, two sick refugees from the accident, are coming to stay in the back bedroom—the same bedroom where both Nyle’s mother and grandfather died. But I understood Nyle’s feelings, for last year my uncle, who was only forty years old, died after a terrible illness. Nyle’s anger is rooted in fear—fear of getting close to people only to lose them. She tries to build a wall, to protect herself from further hurt. As the story progresses, however, Nyle learns—and the reader learns with her—how to break down those walls. Nyle’s grandmother convinces her that taking the refugees in is the right thing to do. Difficult as it is for her emotionally, Nyle tries to make the best of the situation, and begins to spend time with Ezra. At first she reads to him and wets his face with compresses, but then they start to really talk—to connect—and they develop a deep relationship that goes both ways. It is not just that Nyle learns to care for Ezra, all the while knowing that she might lose him; Ezra also cares for Nyle, and his caring for her transforms her. As their friendship progresses, Nyle is no longer the closed, guarded person we met at the beginning of the story Ezra has an uncanny way of making Nyle open up. Nyle feels that Ezra understands her, and she is able to confide her deepest thoughts in him. Through Ezra, Nyle begins to break down her walls, and rebuild herself as a person. What a lesson in friendship! Phoenix Rising is also, however, a lesson in strength of mind and spirit. Ezra, like my dear Uncle David, was so sick that he could hardly move, but he willed himself to keep going on. He found the strength to keep living and to help others live their lives at the same time. While it is true that Nyle gave Ezra strength and prolonged his life, it is more remarkable how Ezra actually brought Nyle back to life. My uncle, like Ezra, gave me strength even as he lay dying, and I sat by his side. No matter how weak he was, he never stopped trying to animate me with his humor. The story of Ezra and Nyle confirmed for me that friendship and love are a two-way street. And we can learn so much in life—about how to live life—from helping to give life to those who are suffering. Alm Bryn, 12Hollywood, Florida
July/August 2003
The Island
She stood on the dock, squinting into the early morning sun. The wooden planks creaked softly as she ran over it. A dog trotted behind her, a small scruffy brown dog. They stopped near the end of the dock, leaped off the edge and into a small boat. “The ferry’s not here yet,” she said to the dog, who didn’t respond, merely scrambled onto one of the seats and put his paws on the edge of the boat for a better view. She started the motor. Slowly, the boat crept away from the silent harbor and out to sea. The dog uttered a soft growl, and then was quiet. The girl looked over her shoulder at the island. It was small, the island, made up of small cottages for the year-round villagers (population 200) and the summer homes that tourists built. Since it was six miles out from the Massachusetts shore, the only way to go anywhere from the island was by ferry; and so the houses were built in a cluster around the harbor. But beyond that, there were several miles of beach, where the island children had explored and wandered for their whole lives. There were sandy dunes, driftwood with which to build forts. And of course, there was the sea. Island life revolved around the sea. The sea, and tourists, but mostly the sea. The girl loved the sea. She loved to swim and splash in the waves, to glide through it in her boat. She loved sea glass and sea shells, and everything about the sea. When she was angry, the water was fierce, and when she was happy the waves were gentle. Sometimes, she thought that she and the ocean were one. Slowly, the boat crept away from the silent harbor and out to sea The island was called Evening Star Isle, and the girl was Eve. Tourists had given her that name. Her real name was Margaret. Margaret Ann. She hated that name. She liked to be called Eve. Eve, which was the name of the Isle. She was the island. That’s what people were always telling her and she knew it was true. She had dark brown hair with streaks in it. Red, gold, and white-blond, all jumbled together, and her eyes were dark brown, almost black. When people looked at her, they saw the island. Tourists snapped her picture while she was sitting on the beach, and once an art student had drawn her. They were far out now. She cut the motor. Eve let the boat drift aimlessly, let herself be carried with the gentle current, savoring these last moments. In the distance, the ferry emerged from the fog. Eve looked up. When she saw the ferry, she swayed slightly in the boat, clutching the side. “Time to go back,” she whispered. “Time for me to leave, Tro.” The dog whimpered softly. “It’s OK for you,” Eve told him. “They’re not kicking you out, you know, so be grateful for that.” Reluctantly, she started the motor and headed back to shore. Her father was waiting for her on the dock, having just arrived back in his fishing boat. He helped her out of the boat, and Tro hopped after her. Silently, they unloaded buckets of fish and carried them to Charlie’s shed, where they would be sorted and sent to the mainland. They trudged back to the cottage. “You understand, don’t you?” asked her father quietly. She wanted to say no. She wanted to yell and scream and tell them that she wasn’t going, would never go, because she was the island and the island was her, and she wasn’t leaving, not ever. They couldn’t make her. She refused. But she couldn’t say that, and so she simply nodded. The cottage was a ways back from the little village, closer to the sprawling dunes and the wide, open sea. Father and daughter walked silently, entered the house without a word. Inside, Eve’s grandmother (who had been living with them since Gramps had died) was making breakfast, potatoes and eggs. Eve’s sister, Angela, was perched on the edge of her chair, her golden hair rippling over her shoulders and down her back. At ten, she was three years younger than Eve, and the princess of the family. Their mother was sitting listlessly, staring out the window. Eve went to kiss her cheek, but she didn’t respond. “Margaret! Come help with the eggs.” Eve went over and stirred the eggs around in the pan while Granny fussed over Angela. “Sweetheart, you understand, it’s only for a little while, till your ma gets back on her feet. Only a month, Angie-pie. You won’t be away from your island more than a month.” Angela said, “It’s Eve’s island.” Eve smiled to herself. “Who?” asked Granny. “Whose island? Daniel, what in heaven’s name is the child saying?” He cleared his throat. “She means Margaret.” Granny glared at Eve. “Don’t be putting fool notions into this child’s head. Eve’s island, it ain’t no one’s island but for those who love it.” “Eve loves the island,” said Angela. “Not more’n you do, and you being more deservin’, Angel,” Granny cooed. “I do declare, Daniel, that child is the most spoiled thing I ever saw. Callin’ the island hers, influencing her sister. And with the baby . . .” At that, everyone froze, save for Mama, who tilted her head and continued to look out the window mutely. Eve dropped the spatula, and a cold ice wrapped around her heart. Baby . . . Her father turned to his mother with a hard face. “Mother, that’s enough.” “Don’t you turn this on me. It’s her fault, ’twasn’t mine.” “I said enough!” Dad shouted. Granny smiled triumphantly, knowing she had hit a nerve. The ferry docked. Eve could see it out the window. She ate quickly. “Don’t shove food into your mouth,” Granny snapped. “Eat like a lady. Watch Angela.” Angela smiled her foolish smile at her grandmother. “What
A Friend
“Remember when we were eating yellow popsicles in the park and there was a wind and the yellow melted popsicle blew on us?” “Yes,” I responded, “your mum asked where we’d gotten mustard stains.” We both broke down laughing, until I managed to gasp, “Remember when I took the shortcut behind the school and rode through the mud and my pants got all dotted with mud flecks?” “I remember,” Chris chuckled, “and when we went home, I stalled your mum while you snuck upstairs to change.” We both laughed again for a long while. Chris started again. “Remember when . . .” Ah, those were the days. It was always like this, on Saturday evenings in the purply-dim dusk, recalling things from the past. We were lying in our favorite spot, a tall hill in the park with a huge oak tree on top; it was great to just sprawl out in the shade on your stomach with the breeze tickling you; that was exactly what we were doing. I giggled as Chris recounted that memorable incident in the school cafeteria. Then I remember-whenned him about the time I was laughing so hard at the dinner table that pop came out of my nose. And that had to be the night when we had company. “Remember when . . .” After the usual bout of giggling, I turned expectantly to Chris, waiting for a nice funny remember-when. He always told them instantly and they were always perfectly detailed and good. This time, however, he was silent, staring away into space with a wistful look. I was about to nudge him gently when he said, in a whisper, “Heather . . . do you remember when you and I became friends?” * * * Third grade. I was friendless, shy, not pretty or popular. I had no best pals, as other people did. I had already been branded as Heather the Loner. I was miserable. But lo and behold! As I was counting up an addition problem in my head before lunch, here came the most popular girl in my class, Kirsten . . . straight toward me. She had a load of friends, and they always seemed to avoid me. I didn’t know why; but there she was, surrounded by her usual crowd of pals, clearly making for me! Her light gray eyes friendly, Kirsten reached my desk and grinned a hello at me. I smiled back, not believing my eyes. “Hi, Heather,” Kirsten said, “Wanna play this recess?” I was flabbergasted. “Uh . . . I guess . . . I mean . . . sure!” Kirsten smiled and started to go back to her seat. “See you then,” she called over her shoulder. From then on, I played with her; but Kirsten and her friends made fun of me, played tricks on me, forced me to hold the rope all the time when they were skipping and made up new rules so I could get captured in Cops and Robbers. My life in school was more miserable than ever, until the new kid came. His name was Christopher, and he wasn’t too tall, with white-blond hair and light, playful blue eyes. However, his eyes weren’t too playful in our class; they were downcast and shy. He didn’t have any friends either, and nobody seemed to want to play with him, even though he was a fast runner and pretty nice. I was among them. He was a stranger, after all; a new kid. Still, I felt sorry for him. I knew how he felt. But I didn’t dare come forward and talk to him; I was very shy, and after all, there was Kirsten. For some reason, I was desperately loyal to her; I tried to please her and make her laugh and win her approval. And she’d been treating me like dirt through a mask of friendship. But I was terrified of being cast out; I would be the loner again, wandering aimlessly at recesses, friendless and alone. No, I wouldn’t do that. At least with Kirsten I had somebody. One fateful day, everything changed. It was a pizza day; everybody had ordered pizza and we were in the middle of lunch, munching away, laughing and talking. Kirsten and her friends had pulled up their chairs to my desk; we were all having lunch at my group, and I was having an OK time. Christopher was in my group; he sat alone with his pizza, eating in silence. Nobody was bothering him, until Nick, coming in from the water fountain, zipped into the classroom past his desk. At the time I was reluctantly joining in on the discussion of clothes which I didn’t really care about, but Kirsten had opposite feelings—when there was a yelp and a bang. “Hey! You, c’mere, I’ll teach you!” I spun around in my seat. There was Christopher, glaring at Nick. His pizza was on the floor. Nick was howling across the room. “Hah, I’d like to see you try!” Kirsten chose this moment to laugh a cruel little laugh, pointing at Christopher; the class joined in instantly I didn’t. I still had one pizza left. Instantly, like a subconscious reflex to this, I took my remaining pizza, summoned up all my courage, and slid it toward Christopher, ignoring the incredulous “What are you doing Heather?” from Kirsten. The pizza slid into place on Christopher’s napkin, and he looked at me with wide eyes. “Thanks,” he whispered. I met his eyes, and smiled. * * * Chris and I became instant friends; best friends, in fact. I shrugged off Kirsten, who had earlier branded Chris as “uncool,” and the rest of her friends; and I played with Chris. I did everything with Chris. I ignored the jeers of kids when I played with him because I was a girl and he was a boy. I ignored the “sitting in a tree” verse they howled at Chris and me at recesses. I
