To Elsa, Saturdays mean bliss. Saturdays are the morning of her entire week. They are the crowning glory the cherry on the top of the sundae. A week without Saturdays to Elsa would be a week without happiness. She takes what she can get. And she gets Saturdays. All week long, she taps her patent-leather-clad toes. She fidgets and she flutters. She doesn’t have the patience to button her dresses or shirts, or zip up jackets. She’s a blur, she’s a nuisance. She’s waiting for her Saturdays. Her parents smile fondly, and her sisters scoff. But what can they do? The brownstone at 23 East Hampshire Street is the kingdom, and Elsa is the miniature queen. Mother, Father, Clara, Heidi, and Tanya, they all jump to her commands. The eldest, Lena, does too. And can they help it? Just a frown from the little dancer casts a shadow over the whole day. Even Palinka, the brown-and-white dog, is devoted to Elsa. No treat tastes as good as bacon from Elsa’s pudgy, dimpled hand. Elsa’s treats are Saturdays. Friday night she comes home from dance class, and plops her little four-year-old self by the dining room window. She sits, all by herself, in the velvet crimson window seat, and carefully lets down her bun of red-gold hair. She slips off her dance shoes and her scratchy tutu, and lets them fall to the floor like unheard whispers. The dining room is glossy, decadent, and dark. Books from the mahogany shelves brood over Elsa, thinking important thoughts. Elsa is a little scared by the picture of Great-Grandmother Marguerite that overlooks the window seat, who has the hooked nose of people who died very old a very long time ago. But Elsa has learned to look defiantly back into Great-Grandmother’s flat brown eyes. Lena smiles at her little ballerina of a sister, bringing her cinnamon cookies Elsa herself has bright blue eyes, like well-tended violets or pieces of spring sky the fairies forgot to collect. She has a little upturned nose sprinkled with cinnamon freckles, and soft pink lips. Her upper lip is dented with a little scar, from when high-spirited Heidi dropped her on the hearth. Elsa has never quite forgiven Heidi for that. But she loves Heidi anyway. Elsa is a person who loves naturally Even Heidi, who is all long legs and jutting elbows and who can be hard to love. Some people can sing and some people can run, but Elsa can love. Elsa leans her red-gold head against the mahogany paneling, and taps her fingers in a rhythm. She hears Clara practicing at the piano. Music fills the house like piney smells, grand and booming. Clara, who is fifteen, loves the piano. Clara wraps her whole soul in music, like a down blanket. She hums all the time, even in her sleep. When she walks home from school, her long gangly legs in their navy-blue-uniform tights skip to the tune of an unheard violin. Elsa hears Tanya with Mother in the kitchen, banging oven doors, stirring, whirring the beaters. Heidi is groaning in the living room, angry with math. Heidi takes up so much space, with long legs and arms and wild auburn hair and flashing green eyes. She vibrates with contained energy. Elsa doesn’t. Elsa radiates peace. Elsa watches the people go by, bundled up and warm. They wave at her fairy image in the windowpane. She waves back, and then turns to Lena. Lena smiles at her little ballerina of a sister, bringing her cinnamon cookies. Lena stretches her lean arm along the mantelpiece, and lays her glossy brown head on it, and watches her sister. “Elsie, how was ballet?” “It was good.” Elsa takes a deep bite of cinnamon-raisin cookie. “We did plies. I’m to be a Snowflake in the Nutcracker.'” “That’s grand,” Lena says. She smiles, her green eyes calm and comfortable, laughing at the little miniature witch of a girl. “And are you waiting for Saturday?” “Oh, yes,” says Elsa. And then Mother comes in, moving quietly, a candle in her hand. “Elsie, liebchen, hand me the matches.” Elsa does so, scrambling, a little monkey in her tights. She hands Mother the box of heavy matches, and everyone watches as Mother lights the Friday night candles. Puff! The candles bloom like chrysanthemums in the darkness, Mother’s hand shielding them from the wind. * * * Saturday morning Elsa wakes up early, and she lets twelve-year-old Tanya help her dress. Elsa buttons her red coat, and she takes her blue hat into Lena’s room. Lena and Heidi are just waking up, fresh-faced in the early morning dawn. Lena brushes Elsa’s hair, the brush sure and strong in her hands. She strokes Elsa’s tangles into a red-gold halo of curls. Elsa scrunches her blue tam-o’-shanter on her head, and Heidi frowns at her. Elsa smiles back, angelic and content. And then all the sisters walk out the door. They walk hand-in-hand, tall and dignified Lena, fiery tomboy Heidi, dreamy musician Clara. Plump and motherly Tanya holds hands with Elsa. One by one, they file into the corner deli. They get their bagels, they get their lox. The owner smiles at the Saturday morning regulars, and hands them free moon cookies. Elsa hates moon cookies, but she wouldn’t have any other cookie for the world. She licks off the brown-and-white icing, careful not to mix the two. She waits to lick the brown icing until all the creamy moon part is licked off, and the hard, tasteless half-cookie is slick and shiny in her mittened hand. The sisters walk to the park, and eat the bagels there. Elsa’s heart is singing and dancing. She thinks her chest might burst open with how happy she is. Lena smiles at her, thinking her own private thoughts. That Elsa. Always staring at something in the distance, something that pleased her and made her rose-pink lips twist in one corner. “Keep your fairy lands, Elsie,” Lena whispers. Elsa eats
May/June 2007
The Dancer
Behind the curtain of rain The Dancer awaits Her slick, muscular legs tensing, preparing, Wide eyes darting, searching. Suddenly, with all grace, she leaps through the air. Flying, Soaring, She lands with flawless balance Just in time to shoot her slender tongue into the air For dinner. The frog on her lily pad. Anna Preston,12Oakton, Virginia
Accusations
It all started on the stairs outside my English classroom. I was late and I wasn’t watching where I was going, so I ran smack into my best friend, Kelly. There were pencils bouncing down the steps, folders spewing their contents on the floor, and pens escaping only to be crushed underfoot by passing students. Mr. McPherson, my teacher, was less than pleased when Kelly and I walked into class two minutes after the bell. He was even angrier when, five minutes later, I couldn’t find my homework. It was the best report I’d ever written. When I’d left school that morning, I’d triple-checked to make sure it was in my English folder. Now I checked all of my other folders, too, and my binder, just in case I had misplaced it when I dropped my things. But as I dug through my backpack with increasing dread, the report refused to turn up. Mr. McPherson stood at the head of the classroom, his arms crossed. “Your report, Miss Jackson?” he asked impatiently. I looked up with a sick feeling in my stomach. It couldn’t be in the hallway; we’d picked up everything in sight. So if it wasn’t at home and not in my bag… then I had done the unthinkable. I, Lydia Jackson, straight-A student, had lost my homework. “I don’t have it, sir,” I squeaked. Mr. McPherson heaved a short sigh and strode back to his desk. “I will give you until Friday to turn in your report, although it will detract from your grade. I’m sure the report will turn up.” “Your report, Miss Jackson?” he asked impatiently I glanced back into my backpack in despair. I had never missed an assignment before. Friday was two days away. There was no way I could find my report by then, and writing it over would be impossible. Then I realized something. If it isn’t at home… and I didn’t leave it in the hall.., and if it isn’t in my bag… then someone stole it. As soon as I thought it, I knew exactly who had done it: the new girl who sat in the back of the classroom, who had long, dark hair that was always in her stony gray eyes. Lately, she’d been tossing shy glances in my direction, but they had made me a little nervous because I didn’t understand why she picked me. She was strange. She never talked to anyone, and people said she’d been caught shoplifting. She got terrible grades in English, and hardly ever turned in her homework. I knew she hadn’t brought in her report today. And she’d bent down to pick up my stuff in the hallway. If she could get my report and copy it down at home, she could turn it in late and still get a decent grade. As I sat in my seat, oblivious to the class, I felt a cold, hard lump of hate settle in my stomach. That awful girl had stolen my prize report. And I was going to get it back, no matter what it took. * * * “You’re kidding!” Kelly cried, leaning towards me, her gaze incredulous. “Well… I don’t know that she took it,” I amended. “But what else could have happened? I know it isn’t at home, and she’s the only one who would dare.” Kelly glanced over her shoulder at the girl, who sat by herself in a corner of the cafeteria, her dark hair falling like a curtain in front of her face. I saw her unzipped backpack sitting by her feet. “It’s got to be right there,” I breathed as we stared at the backpack. “It would be so easy to just walk by and snatch the report. You could spill your milk over there, or something.” “I don’t know,” Kelly hesitated. “Maybe we should just ask a teacher to check. She probably put it in her locker.” Kelly was probably right, but I was still seething over my humiliation in English. Maybe if I could turn my report in today, Mr. McPherson would still give me full credit. “No,” I decided. “I want it back now. We’ll walk by her table on our way to the trash can and drop our tray. You make a fuss, and I’ll go through her backpack. It’ll be over in a second.” Kelly was still uncertain, but we went on with our plan anyway. As we strode past, Kelly hooked her shoe around the girl’s leg, collapsing to her knees and dropping the tray. “Oh, man! I can’t believe this!” she cried as the girl turned to glare at her. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I bent over the backpack and started to rifle through it, but the girl turned back to her lunch, and saw me out of the corner of her eye. She whirled around and grabbed me by the shirt. I found myself dangling from her grasp. “What were you doing in my stuff? she hollered “What were you doing in my stuff?” she hollered. “Give my report back!” I yelled. “You stole my report!” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You thought I stole your dumb report? Why on earth would I want it?” I noticed several lunch monitors closing in on us. “I bet you’re going to turn it in yourself,” I said, “since you get bad grades in English!” I could hardly believe myself. Nothing that bratty had ever come out of my mouth before. It didn’t surprise me when she gave me a hard shove. Then I was on the floor, my shoulder smarting where I’d hit the table. Half a dozen teachers were crowded around me, lifting me back up. Kelly stood nearby, her tray of trash still strewn across the floor, eyes wide in horror. But what jumped out at me the most was the girl, standing aside, her fist still clenched, her stony eyes boring holes into mine. It was then that I saw something new in her