There he was, looking the other way! “Splat!” A blast of cold water slapped my bare arm. Gasping, I quickly whirled around to catch the source of the attack. I faced a familiar face with dark brown eyes, dark uncombed hair that stuck out in every direction, and a big, playful smile. It couldn’t be anyone but my older brother, Paul. “Fight, or prepare to die!” he yelled, trying to make his voice sound raspy and evil. I giggled at the fake pirate voice he made, knowing that this threat was coming all along. The clues were simple, it was a hot, humid day and my brother and I were very bored. It was too hot to be outside, too hot to be inside, too hot to be anywhere. Our parents had gone to attend a school PTA meeting and had left me in the supervision of my older brother. Was this a good decision? I wasn’t so sure. “Hmm,” I said, deciding which risk I should take, “dying” or fighting. “Fight!” I decided, grinning. “Good choice,” my brother said in the raspy pirate voice. He threw me a water gun filled with water. “I’ll stay in the back and you go to the front,” he declared. I nodded and ran as fast as I could to the front of the house. “Ready?” I heard my brother call. “Yeah!” I answered. The fight began! After a few seconds of waiting behind a tall pine tree, I crept up to the side of the house, my water gun up, ready to fire. Cautiously, I took a quick glance of the front of the house, searching for my brother. There he was, looking the other way! A perfect chance, I thought to myself. I silently tiptoed towards my brother to get a more accurate shot and then started spurting water at his back. He yelled in shock and, as quick as lightning, he spun around like a top and then started pumping water at me like a maniac. There was water everywhere! Then, I was out of water. “Hey! Wait!” I yelled, trying to avoid water gushing into my mouth. My brother stopped. He was grinning so wide that all I could see was a row of big, white teeth, like a shark that’s just about to eat you whole. His eyes glittered with delight like stars in the night sky. His wet, dark brown hair was plastered down to his head, which made it look like he had a hat on. “I’m out of water!” I exclaimed. “So am I,” my brother replied. We walked towards the water hose to refill our guns. That was when I realized I was drenched from head to toe. Although it was a bright sunny day, I was freezing. My wet clothes were stuck to my skin, making me even colder. As my brother refilled his gun, he asked in a concerned tone, “Are you cold? Do you want to go in now?” “Well, it is kind of cold…” I started. Suddenly, he stopped the hose and poured all the water out of the gun. “Let’s go in, your lips are turning blue.” “What?” I exclaimed. “What about our game?” I couldn’t help but sound disappointed. My brother pulled me into the house. He got a big, fuzzy blanket and threw it over me. It draped over my face. “Hey!” I yelled playfully, pulling the blanket back over my head. “Whoops,” he said in a funny clown voice. He got out one of my mom’s finest cups and a tea bag. He filled the cup with hot water and dropped the tea bag in the cup. He said, “Care for some biscuits and truffles?” I giggled and was about to answer when I heard a rattle of keys and the click of the key turning in the keyhole. The door opened and in came our parents. “Hi Paul, hi Isabel,” my mom said. Then she asked, “Why are you all wet?” My brother and I shared a quick glance. “No reason,” we said at the same time. Isabel Won, 11Belle Mead, New Jersey Katherine Wang, 13Tampa, Florida
July/August 2011
Through a Champion’s Eyes
The crowds roar for me as I step on the track. I listen, and I arch my neck and dance as my groom leads me down the stretch. Mike, my jockey, sits still on my back and listens too. But I know he is excited. I can tell by the way he grips the reins, clutching them firm. I prance a little more to assure him of my confidence. Now my groom unsnaps the lead rope, and Mike stands in the saddle and lets me break into a canter. We are approaching the starting stalls, and other horses and riders canter past us. Some are nervous and skittish, so that an assistant must lope out on his own mount and steady them by the bridle. I continue my canter down the track. I know what is expected of me. We jog past the starting gate. Mike lets me go a little more before turning me around. We slow to a walk. An assistant trots up beside us, and he leans over and takes hold of my bridle. Again I stretch my legs and dance. Slowly, all the racers turn and are ponied up to the stalls. We have the number four post position. The assistant lets go, and Mike steers me towards my stall. A starting handler takes my reins and leads me in. The gates are closed behind me. I feel Mike’s hands leave the reins for a moment as he reaches up to pull his goggles over his eyes. Then they are back again with a ready hold. I flick my ears down the row at the sound of more gates being closed, one by one. Nearly all are in position now. Jockeys shift, horses stamp. I relax and feel Mike let out a breath as well. We know what to do. Mike keeps me steady, but I can sense his tingling excitement Everyone is still now. The air is electric. Even the crowd feels it, and a shout surges from them… Riiiiiiing! The gates slam open, and for a few moments I see the track, clear and unoccupied before me. Then horses begin to crowd forward and bunch at the rail. Mike eases me to the back, some lengths behind the pack. I prick my ears and settle into that long, slow gallop I know so well. “…Zenyatta’s dead last, Zenyatta’s dead last early…” The voice of the announcer fades in for a moment, but then it is lost again in the thunder of hooves. Mike crouches in the stirrups, his hands, legs, and whip motionless. I keep a steady stride, watching the rumps of the horses ahead rise and fall, rise and fall. A little farther on, I feel the bit moving in my mouth and Mike’s hands rubbing against my neck. It is my signal. I extend my stride. We sweep by the first horse with no trouble and settle in second-to-last. Mike keeps me steady, but I can sense his tingling excitement. * * * The pack ahead begins its sweep around the first turn. I follow unhurriedly. We come out of the turn easily and I continue to breeze. I watch the jostling of the horses ahead and I am glad we are in the back, where I can concentrate and prepare for my real run at the end. We are closer to the pack now, only a length or two behind the racer in front of us. The second and final turn is approaching. Still I wait for the signal. We swoop around the turn. Now it is a straightaway for the wire. The drone of the announcer becomes momentarily audible. “…if she can win this, she’ll be a superhorse…” Mike gives me my cue a second time. I glance at the outside of the pack, for that is where I usually go, but this time Mike steers me towards the inside rail. The horses are breaking, and there is a hole there wide enough for me to slip through. I take it. Now I am in the middle of the pack, and I can feel Mike glancing around for another opening. There! Something is opening up on the outside. I prick my ears up and head for it. A horse rushes into our way, and we have to go around. But now the track is free and clear before us. Mike urges me with his hands and his whip. I fly over the ground. My strides lengthen and push me forward with ever-increasing speed. We are gaining… gaining… gaining… The crowd screams, but the voice of the astounded announcer sails above it all. “ This—is—un—be— l i e v e- a – b l e ! ZENYATTA!” We flash under the wire, half a length in front. Mike punches the air with his fist in victory. The feeling is surging through him, and it makes me want to gallop further, but he eases back on the reins. I slow, even though I love the soaring sensation of running. The race is over. And when a rider lopes over to lead us to the winner’s circle, Mike takes off his helmet and lifts his eyes to heaven, thanking God for once again giving us wings. * * * On November 7, 2009, the Breeder’s Cup Classic was run at Santa Anita Park, California. The winner was the first female horse to ever capture that race—a five-year-old mare named Zenyatta. She was undefeated. In 2010 she went on to win five more races, all piloted by jockey Mike Smith. She retired in November of 2010 with a total of twenty starts and nineteen wins. Later, she also won 2010 Horse of the Year. Though her brilliant career is over, she will remain in our hearts for many, many years to come. Long live the Queen. Mary Jessica Woods, 13Frankfort, Illinois
Blue Eyes
“Hey, Ben, do you wanna play basketball?” Nick asked There are some things in life that you never forget—no matter how much time passes, they just cling to your heart and mind like the stubby fingers of a kindergartner clutching his mother’s hand on the first day of school. Special moments, like the day when my parents showed Nick and me the place where they met, and we sat there under the big tree, as one happy family, or emotional events, like the time when my parents told us that they were getting a divorce— those are things that will stay with me forever. That day when I thought I had lost my brother was one of those things. It is still as clear in my mind as the moment it happened. I remember it started on a humid afternoon in August, during one of those days when the air is so heavy that you can barely move and the heat overwhelms your senses. The sun smothered us like a thick-soled boot extinguishing a coal that escaped from the fireplace. We could feel its merciless heat on our backs as Nick, my ten-year-old brother, and I sat on the front stoop, eating Popsicles. Our mother had ordered us out of the house after Nick spilled his drink all over the kitchen table. “Hey, Ben, do you wanna play basketball?” Nick asked. He was always playing basketball those days. “No. It’s too hot,” I replied. Nick grabbed a ball anyway and started dribbling around. “When will you be ready to play?” he pestered. “I don’t want to play at all, Nick. Stop bothering me.” “Bother! Bother! Bother!” “You’re such a baby! Why don’t you go ask your mommy to play with you? Oh, wait, I forgot, she doesn’t like you anymore because you ruined her tablecloth.” I was being a bully, but I was irritated and I knew what would get to him. “She still likes me! She’s my mom!” “OK, OK, you can think whatever you want.” I had him. He threw his basketball at me and ran inside. I waited for Mom to send him back out again, but she didn’t. She was probably finished cleaning up. Nick was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in. I shot him a look that let him know I had won and then headed upstairs. I was taking it too far, and I knew it, but I had to get the better of him. “Shut up, Ben,” he called after me, but I ignored him. When I was almost to the top of the stairs, I heard a sob escape his chest before he could stifle it. He hated when I teased him about being a baby. Ever since the divorce, he had been really close to Mom, and he still felt insecure. I shouldn’t have been so harsh with him. The thing about Nick is that he usually forgives you pretty quickly. I thought that by the next morning at the latest, he would have forgotten the whole incident. At first, I thought he had, but he wouldn’t speak to me and his eyes were red, as if he had been crying. Something was wrong, and I worried about him for most of the day. Maybe something was going on at school. Or, more likely, he was still sore about our argument from the previous afternoon. He was only ten, after all. I decided to apologize when I got a chance. The walk home from baseball practice was pretty long, and about halfway through, all that humidity built up into a thunderstorm, and before I knew it, rain began to pelt my face like bullets. I put my hands over my head and started to run. Thunder boomed, and I ran faster and faster. When I reached the front door, I knocked as hard as I could. I waited for the familiar sound of my mother’s pumps on the hardwood floor, hurrying to let me in, but heard nothing. I knocked again. “Mom?” A huge peel of thunder crashed from the angry skies, and it really began to come down. Where was she? I fished around my pockets for my key. I found it and unlocked the door, collapsing into the shelter of my warm home. I trudged upstairs, peeled off my sopping baseball pants, dried my hair, and felt a lot better. I would have been happy to settle in for the night, except for one thing. Where was Mom? And, come to think of it, where was Nick? I headed downstairs to phone the neighbors in case someone had seen them. When I reached the kitchen, however, something caught my eye. Lying on the table was a note written in my mother’s careful hand. Can’t find Nick. Went out to look for him. Stay here. I love you. —Mom When I finished reading it, two thoughts immediately invaded my mind like so many enthusiastic schoolchildren shooting their hands up to answer a question. My first thought was that I knew exactly what had happened to my brother. I don’t know how I knew, but I’d never been so sure of anything in my life: he had run away. My second thought was that there was no way that I was staying home. I had to find him. I ran outside and the ferocious rain that almost knocked me down nearly changed my mind. Squinting my eyes, I ran around back and grabbed my bike. The first place I thought to look was Nick’s friend Daniel’s house. Even if he hadn’t planned to go there, he might have taken shelter from the rain. I pedaled faster than I had ever before, and the rain stung my raw skin. I couldn’t see very clearly, but when I reached Daniel’s house, I recognized the dejected walk of my mother slogging down the front walkway. She must have had the same idea I had, but not had any luck. “Mom!
