Even as a young child, I had an inclination to watch people. Not in a bad way; I didn’t gossip or be judgmental, I just observed. The ways of people interested me greatly. When I was about six, a new family, the Burkes, moved in beside mine. Just watching them carry their things into the big blue house made me curious. I decided that day to be friends with their daughter, who was my age—surely nothing could be better than to have a friend who lived next door! But I had my own friends to be preoccupied with, and as the years passed by the right moment to befriend her never seemed to come. Mr. Burke was a small, stocky man with a visible harshness and anger toward the world. He would grumble continuously as he stomped up and down the walk, carrying groceries or a briefcase. His wife was a plain, sad woman whose forehead was never free of wrinkles. I rarely saw either of them smile. Because of what I saw in her parents, I would have expected their daughter Rochelle to be long-faced and sullen herself. And she was . . . sort of. But she was different. It was as if she was a step further away from reality, lost in a world of her own. Something was never present in her face. From what I could see, she never looked sad or angry, just distant. Expressionless. Rochelle had large, mysterious gray eyes, the color of the sky on a cloudy day. They were like foggy, translucent pools that made her thoughts and the real person she was barely recognizable. It made that inner personality just a blurry silhouette seen through frosted glass. “Hello, there,” I called from the gate. “Could I come in for a second?” Rochelle’s stringy, light brown hair had a silver tint to it, and hung limply over her back and shoulders, a shadow around an oval, pale face with no jarring features. She was slender, and moved with a grace I can hardly describe—free and floating, but like a sleepwalker. It was often obvious that she was unaware of the world around her. I thought she was beautiful, a strange sort of beautiful, yes, but beautiful nonetheless. Not overly proud of my own short, round figure and short, dark hair, brown eyes and freckled face, I decided one day when I was eight that if I could change my looks I’d look like her. Something about Rochelle’s intriguing yet mysterious appearance drew me to wonder about the person it was hiding. One Saturday in September when I was eleven, I saw Rochelle playing outside in a corner of her yard from our living room window It was one of those drizzly, depressing days when I usually stay inside and read or play solitaire, but Rochelle didn’t seem to care about the weather. I had seen her many times in that corner under the Burkes’ rowan tree, busy at some unknown activity We were still strangers to each other after five years; she went to a different school than me and I think inside I was a little nervous about approaching her. Why did I need her, anyway? As I have said, I had many friends of my own. But that day the sociable person I was couldn’t be bothered to phone up those friends. Maybe, I thought, staring out at Rochelle, this was my chance to get to know her. And I have to admit I was dying to know what she was doing out in the yard. Tiredly, I pulled myself up off the couch. I found my mom doing laundry in the basement. “I’m going for a walk,” I told her, hoping she wouldn’t question me. But she looked at me as if I was crazy. “A walk? You? Ida, hon, tell me what mischief you’re going out to do now.” “I’m going to make friends with the Burke girl,” I said, sighing. My mom would question me less if I told the truth. “OK, then,” still looking at me curiously. Ducking around her I mounted the stairs and rushed to the door. Pulling on a sweater, my windbreaker and rubber boots, I raced out of my yard and over to Rochelle’s. “Hello, there,” I called from the gate. Startled, she looked up and stared at me. “Could I come in for a second?” She didn’t say anything, so I unlatched the gate, went through and walked over to her. For a minute we just stared at each other, and then I said, a little weaker this time, “I’m Ida Kennedy.” My courage was beginning to droop, running out rapidly like sand through a sieve—Rochelle’s stare was penetrating, and a little haunting. “I, uh, live next door.” “I know that,” uttered Rochelle faintly. “I’ve seen you many times.” “I was wondering . . .” I swallowed, and continued. “I was wondering if we could be friends.” “I have no friends,” was the simple response. The girl’s voice was strained and high-pitched, yet the tone was accepting. She glanced down at the ground, and I looked too. Before her lay rows upon rows of flat little stones. Most were gray—they reminded me somehow of Rochelle’s cold, drawn face—but others were sprinkled with red, purple or green little specks. I estimated that there were one hundred stones there. Slowly, our eyes met. “What are those?” I questioned, without thinking. “They’re stones,” Rochelle informed me coldly. “I mean, what are they for?” I said quickly. “I don’t know,” said Rochelle in a faraway voice. “What are you for? What am I for?” “Oh.” I felt stupid. “Well, I’ll go now” The light pitter-patter of rain roughened slightly. “OK.” Rochelle turned her head away, and left. I couldn’t believe it. Never in my whole life had I failed to make friends with someone. I was used to getting along with my peers, if I wanted to. What a nasty shock! After that,
March/April 2004
I Ripped It
I remember Once By mistake I ripped a map It was on my kitchen table And I was looking for you Buildings were split in half . . . And my road Led to yours Wouldn’t that be great If it were real? I’d rip a map And I’d be right next To you, again . . . My friend . . . My long lost friend Andrea Begin, 12Winnipeg, Manitoba,Canada
A Beautiful Memory
This Saturday morning I slept in. I knew I didn’t have to get up for anything except a tennis lesson at one o’clock. When I finally rolled out of bed at eleven, I stumbled downstairs to get breakfast. Today it was hard-boiled eggs and toast. I ate thankfully, for I was hungry, as I often am in the morning. After I had my fill, I wandered upstairs and remembered I had homework. I had to read, do a geography worksheet, and write a flashback piece. I sat and thought about what I would write, and eventually went back to my delicious breakfast. Then I remembered a certain day not too long ago, when I did a certain thing that I’ll never forget . . . and ate a certain breakfast of hard-boiled eggs. It was a chilly morning, as the mornings in the Adirondack Mountains so often are, and the moon was full and bright. Beep, beep, beep, beep . . . “Oy! Stupid alarm clock.” I snuggled farther down into my covers. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. “All right, all right!” I turned it off. I relished that last moment under my covers, and made a brave dash out of my bed, and fairly leapt into my jeans, two shirts, two sweatshirts, and heavy socks. I shivered. Yes, it was a cold morning. It was also four-thirty AM! I did about ten jumping jacks to get my body heat up and blood moving. I streaked for the bathroom where I quickly brushed my teeth, and pulled my hair up into a messy ponytail. I jumped out in a minute and laced up my hiking boots. I climbed the stairs two at a time and found three other people in the kitchen, all looking slightly fatigued. The first was my mother, who was dumping hot water and tea bags into the thermos. The second was my grandmother, who was hurriedly packing our breakfast into a couple of backpacks. The third was my grandfather, who was puttering around trying to make himself useful, and generally getting in the way. It was quite a hustle and bustle with a lot of shushing to Grandpa because he was “surely going to wake Bill,” my dad—the lazybones!—who couldn’t pry himself out of bed at that hour. Soon I pushed everyone out the door, whether they were ready or not. It was five already, and we wanted to get to our special destination in time. We piled into the car and drove off. Then I remembered a certain day not too long ago . . . We had all been staying in my grandparents’ house, their summer house. We love that house. It is so big that sometimes all eight of my cousins and my aunts and uncles stay there for a little while. The house is on a lake called Piseco Lake in the small town of Piseco, New York. At one end of the lake is “The Club.” That’s what all the old-timers and those who have been going there all their lives call it. Its fancy name is “The Irondequoit Inn.” It has a tennis court, a big field full of grasshoppers, four cabins that are rented, lots of rooms, and a beach where we swim and fool around. About a half mile out on the water is an island, which—very originally—we call “The Island.” It is a very nice island with a twisty narrow path through it and one small beach with a sharp drop-off. Mountains, some small, some big, and one called Panther, surround the lake. A road rings it too, and on that road our car was speeding along about five-fifteen that morning. There is a small dirt parking lot on the side of the road. We pulled into it. After unloading the car of all our gear, we started the ascent. We had flashlights to light our way, for it was still dark. We climbed and climbed. On the way, I found out that we were doing something that Mom did when she was my age, but not since, and something that Grandma had done when she was eleven, and again when Mom was my current age. We concentrated on the path, for it was easy to wander into the forest if you weren’t paying attention. I led the group, acting as “McDuff” or so my dad often says. It started to get a little lighter out, and we nervously looked over toward the eastern horizon and walked more quickly. Up near the top, I had to turn off the flashlight from time to time and stick it in my pocket so I could clamber up the rocks. Though not at this time of day, I had climbed this mountain many times, and I knew the tricks of the trail, where not to step because it is often muddy, and which trees are sturdy enough to hang onto. Suddenly, we came out onto a big flat rock on the top of the mountain. We sat down, exhausted. We opened up the thermos, and poured tea to warm ourselves. Grandma opened the bread bag and out came cinnamon-sugar-and-butter sandwiches. She opened the last bag, and eight hard-boiled eggs emerged. We ate, pouring bits of salt from the little packets on our eggs and catching pieces of crumbly yolk in our laps. Around six-ten, the sun started to rise. A brisk wind blew up, and we huddled together to keep warm. Then a sliver of brilliant peach-colored light poked out from behind the horizon. The light grew. Gray rocks and dark green pines began to take on color. The breeze softened as the darkness disappeared. We watched the mist swirl, uncurl, and disintegrate, as if by magic. As the mist went, the lake below and its forested surroundings revealed themselves. Around seven, it was all over, and we moseyed on down Panther Mountain with a wonderful memory of a sunrise and hard-boiled eggs in our minds. Emma Loizeaux, 11Hyattsville, Maryland
