“I… I want you to have something” A scream cut through the cool night air, but no one was around to hear it. A small boy of around five years old huddled against a tree trunk, crying desperately. His short brown hair was plastered against his brow, tears staining his freckled face. “Mommy!” he screamed. “Mommy save me!” He stared fearfully at a dark cave from which a deep rumbling resounded. Smoke billowed from the cave’s mouth, and light flashed from within. The boy’s eyes widened in fear, and he stumbled away from the entrance. A large dragon emerged from the inky blackness, fire spurting from its nostrils. Its scales glowed a dark green, and its eyes flashed red. The boy screamed, but there was no hope. The dragon slowly advanced, its eyes cold and calculating. Its back legs tensed, and the dragon sprang over the little boy, briefly expanding its wings. It began to herd the boy into the cave, occasionally spurting fire to keep him moving. The boy soon reached the cave. He took one look at the dragon and rushed into the cave, fruitlessly searching for a chance of escape. The dragon followed him, its intent obviously successful. There was a piercing scream, then silence. The dragon emerged from the cave, blood dripping from its muzzle. * * * Lily knew she was going to die the moment she heard her name. She raised her eyes to the center of the village square, hoping she had mis-heard. An old man with matted gray hair and sunken, hollow eyes stared back at her. He stood beside a worn barrel, holding a slip of paper in his hand. “Lily Joanson,” he repeated, “you have been chosen to serve your town in the greatest way possible.” Lily knew what would happen next; she had heard that same speech every year, but never directed to her. “Nine years ago,” he continued, “a great dragon settled near our town. He raided our village and destroyed our crops. The only way to appease him is to sacrifice one of our children to him every year. This year, you have been chosen.” Lily felt the ground tumble from beneath her legs. The next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground, the taste of dirt on her lips. A woman was screaming in the background, “No, not Lily! My baby, my only daughter, have mercy, I beg you!” Strong arms lifted her from the ground. She looked up into the face of her oldest brother, Peter. His wavy golden hair hung around his face, freckles splattered across his nose. He gently stroked her long brown hair, whispering words of comfort to both her mother and her. But her mother would not be consoled. “She’s only twelve!” she wailed. Lily couldn’t think. She had seen this happen every year. All the children wrote their names on a slip of paper, including her, and dropped it into the barrel. No one really knew where the barrel had come from, but there was a rumor that it was the only object that survived the dragon’s first raid. The old man would draw a slip of paper, make the speech, then send the child on their way. No one had ever returned. Lily’s sharp green eyes filled with tears, but she tried to hold them back for her mother’s sake. Lily was not athletic or clever; she knew she had no chance. She stumbled back to her family’s cottage in a daze and flopped onto her mat. She fell asleep without bothering to eat and dreamed of gruesome deaths and dragons. * * * It was still dark out when Lily woke. Her mat was warm and comfortable and, for a second, she forgot her despair. But it all came rushing back when she remembered the events of yesterday. Lily quietly sobbed into her pillow. She didn’t want to die. There was so much she had to live for. It was her dream to one day have a family of her own, and have children who could live without the threat of a dragon hanging over their heads. Now, that would never be. Her older brothers stirred beside her. She had three: Peter, John, and Mark. She loved them all dearly. That was another thing. Her mother would be completely broken if she died. She was her mother’s only daughter, the only one who still wasn’t grown up. Peter was eighteen, John was sixteen, and Mark was fifteen. Her brothers rolled out of bed and began to get dressed. Their faces were tearstained. It was all she could do not to start crying again. Looking at them, she realized what wonderful brothers they had been. She rushed over and threw her arms around them. “I love you!” she cried. They hugged her back awkwardly, not sure how to respond. The family sat down to breakfast, no one sure how to act. Lily’s mother wore a pained expression, like she was trying to hold herself together for Lily’s sake. Lily’s father had died several years before in a fire. He had previously worked as a blacksmith, and a clumsy apprentice had let the fire get too close to the wood. Lily’s father, his two apprentices, and a delivery boy had died in the following fire. Although the boys provided for the family, her father’s death created a gaping hole in their lives. After breakfast, Peter drew Lily aside. “I… I want you to have something,” he said in a cracked voice. He silently held out a small hair clip. It was shaped like three lilies, her namesake. They were a creamy white with traces of pink in the middle. He gently clasped it into her hair, then stood back to admire her. “Remember me,” he whispered. With that he turned away and walked off. Lily watched him leave, a lone tear trickling down her pale cheek. She tried to go about her normal business; she
July/August 2012
Sean Griswold’s Head
Sean Griswold’s Head, by Lindsey Leavitt; Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers: New York, 2011; $16.99 Her parents lie about her father’s multiple sclerosis (MS), a potentially deadly disease of the central nervous system. Her best friend flirts with her older brother. A school counselor wants to meet with her. A boy’s head becomes the focus of her life. Payton Gritas, a high school freshman and the protagonist of Lindsey Leavitt’s Sean Griswold’s Head, is experiencing an emotionally difficult time. Payton, an organized girl who uses different colored highlighters—“yellow for literary devices, pink for plot points, orange for conflict”—finds her life in conflict. Although her parents lie to protect her from the reality of her father’s MS, Payton obsesses with her father and his serious disease. To get back on track, she starts a focus journal and chooses the head of Sean Griswold as her focus. After the death of Ripley, my puppy, I looked at Ripley’s pictures and remembered our past times together, but I never once considered concentrating on a classmate’s head. However, the more Payton studies Sean’s head, the more curious she becomes about him. When Jac, her best girl friend, encourages her to stalk Sean, Payton ignores her family for Sean. As the story evolves, Payton learns the source of Sean’s scar, undergoes changes in her relationship with Jac, and starts a bike-riding hobby. Instead of only worrying about MS, Payton now decides to ride 75 miles on her bike to raise money for MS research. Payton’s efforts remind me of what I did last May: I jogged five kilometers in the Race for the Cure to help those women I know who suffer from breast cancer. Although I wish the author had also included titles for each numbered chapter, I do like the way she uses words to paint a picture. For example, to describe the anger of Payton’s mother, the author writes, “She’s like a pop bottle that has rolled around in a car for a few days.” These words enabled me to imagine the mother’s rage exploding like a geyser of soda. When exercising, Yessica, the trainer, tells Payton and the other students to imagine a jungle in which they are thirsty and biking away from a jaguar; Yessica’s details about the African wilderness reminded me of my trip to Tanzania where I saw the “water and fat antelope” that Payton can only pretend to see. This book reminds me of the importance of focusing—on my homework, tennis lessons, horseback riding, jogging, and learning to relax. By focusing on her father and his disease, Sean’s head, and then Sean as a person, biking, avoiding a best friend, and not communicating with her family, Payton eventually learns to focus on herself and what will make her happy. Marcella R. Gerszten, 12Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
The Most Important Thing
We talked for a while and soon became fast friends The waves lapped rhythmlessly against the side of the boat as I hoisted the sail and started slowly out into the bay. Dark clouds were forming on the horizon and drops of rain were beginning to fall. I squinted, trying to see through the increasing downpour, and I realized that I could not tell sky from sea. As thunder started to boom, the waves grew bigger and more dangerous. I sighed with relief as I spotted two tiny pinpricks of light wavering in the darkness. They were the two candles my mother always left out for me during a storm. I guided my boat toward the light and finally bumped it up on the shore. I raced over the dunes and splashed through the river in front of my house. The door slammed shut behind me as I blew in with the wind. My eyes darted around the clean kitchen and settled on a crumpled newspaper lying on the hearth. As I flipped through the pages, my eyes settled on an ad at the bottom of the page. It was a contest. A sailing contest. My eyes widened as I read more. “First prize of $100 to the winner of the race.” My family has always been poor so $100 would help us a lot, but we didn’t have anyone who was sick or dying. Still, I wanted to do it. I knew I could do it. But most importantly I knew I could sail. * * * Monday morning I was up at first light. I raced to the barn to do my chores, and by breakfast time the Nantucket Island sun was as high as the eye could see. I was just rigging up my racing sunfish, when I saw a boy walking down the beach. Not many people lived on Nantucket Island and I knew all the people that did. As far as I knew, there were no boys here. No young boys at all!!! The figure came closer. When he came close enough for me to make him out, I stared. He was the skinniest boy I had ever seen. His clothes were much too big for him and he was all elbows and knees. He had a mop of untidy brown hair and pale skin. His eyes were hazel and looked kind. I trusted him at once. “Hi,” I said, “my name’s Joshua Burne.” “My name’s Mike, Mike Brown.” We talked for a while and soon became fast friends. One day, when we met on the beach, something was wrong. His eyes were red from crying and he spoke softly. Too softly. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “It’s my father,” he answered. “He has a really severe disease and we don’t have enough money to pay for his care, Josh, he’s dying.” I could do nothing but stare in disbelief at Mike’s back as he disappeared over the dunes. * * * It was Sunday. The day of the race. I woke up early with a smile on my face and determination in my heart. I ate a hurried breakfast and started down to the beach where the race was to start. I rigged up my sunfish and, as the whistle blew, pushed off and jumped into it. I felt great as I began passing more and more people. The race was from one beach to an island about a mile out to sea and back. As I hit the island, I pushed off with my hands and turned around. Then I saw a boat ahead of me and realized I was in second place. I slapped the sides of my boat in frustration. I raced over the whitecaps toward the boat ahead of me. Its sails were limp. I stopped as I saw the person in the boat. It was Mike. Tears were pouring down his face and soaking his anorak. “I wanted to do it for my dad,” he barely whispered. Though my mind screamed to go, I gave Mike a push and turned around. My heart had said something different. I numbly steered my boat back to the starting line and pulled it up on the beach. * * * It was a rainy day a week later. I was down in the dumps until I saw a lone figure on the beach. It was Mike. But then another figure joined him. A taller, older-looking person. I ran out to meet them. The other figure was Mike’s father. He said to me, “I just want to thank you for letting Mike win that race for me. It was the right thing to do.” “No,” I said, “it wasn’t just that, it was the most important thing to do.” And I meant it with all my heart. Grace Manning, 12Westmount, Quebec, Canada Julianna Pereira, 13Pleasanton, California
