I would spend those bored hours, Peering through the wire mesh screen, Waiting for something worthy of a smile. He zoomed, an invisible blur, Until he hovered at my window, His ruby throat aflame, And his wings a cloudy shimmer. His eyes waiting, Holding mine. It seemed for hours, As the hand ticked slowly, softly in the corner, We watched, wary, Until a small green streak, He disappeared. Sarah Wood, 12Seattle, Washington
March/April 2012
Soccer
“Jonathan, Erica, the lot of you, get on the field,” called Coach Mike Even now, three years later, I remember that vague understanding of what it meant when my parents told me we were moving to Chicago. I had five friends in California, and they were all a little bit older than me, though I was taller. I remember thinking that I needed to remember this place, since I wouldn’t be coming back for a while. Even at seven years old, I understood the curse of the concept “moving.” When I visited Chicago, the trees were bare, gloomy, and gray. The grass was flat and dead, there were no flowers, no trees, none of the hills I was used to. Everything was flat and gray with concrete. The houses were large and foreboding, made of an ugly brick. The house I was staying in was drafty, gray, and cold. I didn’t realize it was just the edges of winter. The first phone call in our house in Chicago, however, was for me, and it was from Vivian, a girl I didn’t know that well since she had changed schools when I still lived in California. But she was nice, and I liked her. I immediately wrote letters to some of my other friends: Rachael, Katherine, and Zoe. I gave them to my dad to mail. Then, oh then, the Chicago summer came. It was 100 degrees, hot, sticky, and humid. The heat seemed to shimmer, and if you touched metal, you would burn. I went to an outdoors sports camp, where I was informed by a curly-haired girl with black hair that two of our counselors had a crush on each other because they were teasing one another. I watched two girls, one chubby-cheeked with pale skin, the other black-haired with almond eyes. They treated each other as sisters but they couldn’t be; they looked too different. The chubby-cheeked girl, whose name was Olivia, turned out to be my best friend two, three years later. Zoe and Katherine wrote back, but Rachael didn’t. I figured that Dad had lost the letter, though he denied it. So I waited for letters. I unpacked, played tennis, cried that I left my stuffed animal in California—and to my parents I must have looked like a happy little seven-year-old who just moved and is content with her new home. Sure, I knew that they knew I wasn’t as happy as I could have been, but they didn’t know that I cried myself to sleep or that I choked up when I saw the last name of one of the teachers at my old school on the wall at the university swimming center. I wrote back to Zoe and Katherine about what Chicago was like and how much I missed them. It had been two months and still nothing from Rachael. At that point I began to question just how bad could the mailmen mess things up. Actually, Rachael hasn’t written to me to this day, though I wrote her two letters, and I’m sure the second one made it to her because I slipped it in her dad’s suitcase when he came to Chicago on a work trip and was working with my dad. Then, one day at the sports camp, we started our unit on soccer. Now, I loved—and still love—soccer. Not meaning to brag, but I was really good. (Don’t you love my seven-year-old modesty?) Whether or not because of me, my team won most of the games. At a particularly hot and sticky soccer game, a boy on my team came up to me and said, “If you gain possession, pass to me and I’ll score.” (Even then I would admit I did not have the best aim.) I shrugged. “Sure.” The boy had long black hair, coal black eyes, and was one or two years older than me. His name was—if I remember correctly—Jonathan. “Jonathan, Erica, the lot of you, get on the field,” called Coach Mike, waving the off- sides flag impatiently. I jogged over to the coach, a big man with dark skin, the sun attempting to strangle me as I ran. “Coach Mike, do I switch to midfield since Rachel’s not here?” I panted. Coach scanned the group of hot, sweaty grade schoolers. “Wait a minute, why’s Rachel not here?” “She sprained her ankle in track and field,” called Kylee, an explosive defender with hands the size of footballs and who could run like a deer. “Sure, but do you really want to?” “Yeah.” “Fine,” he said, “Everybody ready? In position—Leo, what are you doing? You’re defense!” I heard Coach’s ear-splintering whistle, and the other team kicked off. Now, if I were a writer, I would describe the game, make it exciting and all that, but there is really nothing to describe. We won. Jonathan (or was it John?) scored six times. After the game, I ran with the other kids to the water fountain. I flopped down on the grass and splashed water on my face. Sitting up, I poured the rest on my head. Jonathan walked up to me and held up his hand for a high five. “To teamwork.” I gave him a good, hard high five. He smiled. “Most girls I know barely even touch your hand when they high-five. I like your spirit.” “Most boys I know—well, used to know—would rather eat scat than be caught talking to a girl,” I replied, flattered. Jonathan threw his head back and laughed. It was a warm and friendly laugh, and it made me all tingly inside. “Wait, what do you mean, used to know?” he asked. “I just moved here from California.” “Well, welcome to Chicago.” “Thanks.” “Hey, do you want to join my soccer team?” he asked. “It could be fun. Each week two kids are picked to be team captains. If you come, I’ll know who to pick first.” “Yeah, I want to.” “I think I’ve seen you around before—do you
A Different Kind of Friend
Emma signed back with petulance, “No, Mother, home” Emma Simmons was as angry as a deranged bull. Her mother was going to make her go to church every week, a duty Emma considered pure torture. Emma had to sit through the whole service not hearing one single sound wave because she was stone deaf. She’d been born that way. She knew, after the service, the old ladies in their flowered dresses would watch and pity her, the deaf girl. But they were nothing compared to Ms. Lorenzo, Emma’s nemesis. She was the church organist. Ms. Lorenzo’s job depended on the one thing Emma couldn’t do—hear. Ms. Lorenzo didn’t just hear musical notes; she could hear car tires squealing, dogs barking, the microwave beeping, and phones ringing. Emma wouldn’t have minded missing out on those sounds, but Ms. Lorenzo, along with almost everybody else, could hear people talking to them. Emma could only attempt to lip-read people’s speech. As Emma fixed her hair for church, her phone buzzed inside her slipper. Emma took it out and flipped it open. Her mother texted her, “R U ready??? Going 2 B late 4 church .” Emma texted back, “K comin.” Emma walked downstairs and slipped on her shoes. She opened the door to the garage and got into the car. According to her phone, two minutes and thirty-six seconds after she got into the car, her mother hopped into the car and started the engine. Emma could feel the vibration through her seat. Once Emma and her mother were seated in the pew, Emma flipped open to a random page in the pew Bible: Mark 7:31, the healing of a deaf-mute man. Gosh, this is so unfair, Emma thought, some guy 2000 years ago has his hearing restored to him by the Son of God and I’m stuck in the modern world and nobody is healing me. Emma felt a vibration in the floor. Ms. Lorenzo was playing a hymn. Emma put down the Bible and gave Ms. Lorenzo evil glares for the rest of the service. Emma stood for the closing hymn and then followed her mother outside. She signed “home” to her mother. Her mother signed back, “OK.” After a few weeks of regularly going to church, Emma thought, this church thing is thinly veiled public humiliation. After church, Ms. Lorenzo walked up to them. “Hello, Ms. Simmons. I noticed your daughter looking over at the organ. If you wanted, I could let Emma put her hand on the side of the organ so she could feel the vibrations while I play.” “Let me ask Emma,” answered Ms. Simmons. “Touch organ vibrations,” she signed to Emma. Emma signed back with petulance, “No, Mother, home.” Emma’s mother sighed and turned to Ms. Lorenzo. “I’m sorry, Emma doesn’t seem interested. It was extremely nice of you to think of her.” As soon as her mother’s lips stopped moving, Emma started pointing toward the car and tugging on her mother’s sleeve. When they got in the car, Ms. Simmons turned to her daughter and signed, “Rude daughter.” “Hate Ms. Lorenzo,” Emma signed back. Emma glared out of the car window for the entire ride home. Evelyn Lorenzo was attempting to practice Bach’s Fugue in D minor for the upcoming memorial service when she had an idea. These page turns are difficult. It would be helpful to have a page-turner, she thought as the rain drummed on the roof. Sometimes Evelyn whished she was deaf to the outside noises of the world… that’s who she should pick: Ms. Simmons’s deaf girl. The girl seemed to enjoy the organ. Every time Evelyn caught her eye in church she was looking at the organ. Evelyn decided to ask Ms. Simmons after church tomorrow. * * * The next day, Emma woke up and felt miserable. She’d spent yesterday afternoon in the rain running errands with her mother and Emma had caught a bad cold. She stumbled downstairs and found her mother in the kitchen making coffee. Emma signed, “Sick, no church.” Her mother felt Emma’s forehead. “Feel warm, stay home and nap,” signed Ms. Simmons. Emma signed, “OK.” Evelyn firmly played the postlude and rushed outside to find Emma’s mother before she left. Evelyn walked up to Ms. Simmons and noticed that Emma wasn’t there. “Ms. Simmons, where is your daughter?” asked Ms. Lorenzo. “Emma is at home with a bad cold,” answered Ms. Simmons. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Simmons. I wanted to ask your daughter a favor. I’ve noticed Emma seems to enjoy the organ when I play it in church. I need someone to turn pages for an organ piece; I’ll be playing for Jane Samuel’s memorial service. She was the former church organist and I’m expected to play a very difficult and memorable piece for the service. I thought Emma might be the right person for this.” Ms. Simmons was speechless. Not many people actually want to interact with her daughter, she thought. But Emma hates Ms. Lorenzo. But Emma’s lip-reading teacher said Emma needs to spend time with non-deaf people so she can cope in the real world. Ms. Simmons coughed. “Are you sure Emma could be your page-turner? She can’t even hear the organ; she can only feel the sound waves vibrating through the floor. Also, she is a very bad lip-reader so you two couldn’t communicate,” spoke Ms. Simmons. There was an awkward moment of silence. Then Ms. Lorenzo spoke, “Are you implying that Emma is the wrong person for this?” “Yes, I suppose I am,” answered Ms. Simmons. “I disagree. I could nod my head when I want the page turned by Emma. If worse comes to worst, you could be our translator.” “As you wish, Evelyn. When do you want Emma to practice with you?” “How about Thursday night at seven-thirty? That would work well for me.” “Thank you and see you then, Evelyn.” “Goodbye.” As Evelyn Lorenzo walked away she thought, My goodness, that woman
