It was late afternoon on a humid Thursday in June. The air seemed to wrap everything on Long Island up in a sticky, sweaty bundle, even despite being near the ocean. The heat certainly didn’t help my already sweaty palms and flip-flopping stomach that made me think of a beached cod. Ugh! New York City should be evacuated on days like this! I thought. “Rachel, it’s time to go! Are you all ready for the concert? Grandma and Grandpa just pulled into the driveway and the drive will take an hour with traffic.” Mom’s voice had a slight air of impatience. “Yeah, I’m ready!” I called down to her, stepping out of my room, music and bassoon in hand. I almost fell down the stairs wearing the high heels Mom had bought me the day before. Good thing we didn’t have to walk anywhere too far, or else I would probably break my ankle! Everyone piled into our burgundy Ford Windstar, and we jerked backwards out of the driveway. I felt the contents of my stomach slosh around. Grandpa Solomon had insisted on driving, and with his attitude of scaring cars out of his way, it was a wonder that all of us hadn’t already been killed in an accident. After getting on the highway to head into the city, I started feeling carsick. I tried to zone out and ignore everything around me —my brother Isaac’s humming to his iPod, the adults’ talk of how proud they were that I was playing at Carnegie Hall, me being only thirteen years old! Just how did I do it between Hebrew School and homework and lessons, they wanted to know? At least my five-year-old sister, Rebecca, was sleeping, or my head would have been exploding by now! I closed my eyes. Deep breaths, Rachel, deep breaths. My mouth tasted sour, like rotten milk, acidic and green. I felt like I was going to throw up. “Mom, Mom, I feel sick,” I moaned. I felt like I was being reborn, my spirit echoing throughout the hall… “Sweetie, just relax. We’ll be there in half an hour and you’ll be fine,” she said, very unsympathetically. Grandma looked at me. “Helen, she does look a little pale. We won’t be late if we stop for only a couple of minutes.” However, my mom was not going to miss this opportunity, even if that meant that we had to roll down the windows and I had to use the plastic grocery bag in the back seat. “Rachel, find a bag back there in case you need it. We can stop, but only if you actually do throw up.” Choruses of “Ewwws!” rose from everyone except my very serious mother. Gripping my music and disfiguring the perfect black marks, I choked on bile, and quickly my grandmother grabbed my dark, shiny brown hair, opening the bag just as I let loose all the things I had eaten in the past twelve hours. Thank God there was an exit coming up. * * * Twenty minutes later, we were back on the road, and thirty minutes after that I was opening my heavy eyelids to the sight of the Empire State Building. Fortunately, I had slept, because that’s generally what you do when you’re sick, right? Carnegie Hall was bathed in light, since it was early evening. The sun was dipping below the skyline, casting shadows of the tall, steel monsters that New York was famous for. Mom and I got out of the car at the entrance, where we were supposed to meet my father. He came running up to us and hugged me tightly, smelling like work offices and cologne, then planted a kiss perfectly on my mother’s lips. “How’s my gorgeous girl doing today?” he asked. “Or should I say, my two gorgeous girls?” He grinned. I led the way up through the heavy glass doors and into Carnegie Hall. Mom walked up to an employee and asked where performers were supposed to go. “You can head right to the backstage,” he replied in a professional manner. “All the musicians are warming up back there.” He pointed us to a door labeled BACKSTAGE, painted on with neat gold letters. Inside, everything was utter chaos. Music was lying everywhere and stands were interspersed randomly throughout the room. An Asian violinist was playing an amazing, staccato piece so high that I doubted piccolos could even beat that! He looked about my age, maybe even a little younger. I was shocked. Mom and Dad said that they had to leave now and that they would see me after the show. Each of them wished me good luck and kissed me before they disappeared out of the backstage door and into the growing crowd of people on the other side. It was all up to me, now. It was hot inside the backstage area, so hot that beads of sweat soon dotted my forehead. As I was putting my bassoon together, the tenor joint slipped from my hands and made a terrible thud on the linoleum floor. All heads turned to look at me. I felt my face flush with embarrassment. “Sorry,” I squeak-choked. I prayed, and I mean prayed, that my hands wouldn’t slide off the keys when I played my piece. Luckily, no more awful things happened— I didn’t even spill my reed water! But by the time I was all set up to play, almost everyone else performing tonight was there. After a quick chromatic scale, the introducer and conductor for tonight tapped on a music stand to get our attention. In a second, silence had overcome the room. He cleared his throat and began. “Hello, fine young musicians, and welcome to Carnegie Hall. My name is William Bostrovsky, and I will be introducing all of you, as well as conducting two pieces that will be played by the Boston Youth Symphony Orchestra tonight. Here is the order of performances for this evening. Up
May/June 2008
Poet
Dust particles danced in the shafts of moonlight that filtered through the holes in the barn roof. The sight wasn’t much, just a regular old barn, but the sounds, ah, the sounds were special. Galileo, the owl, hooted from the rafters of the old building. Bella, the foal, shuffled restlessly in her stall, while Sugar, her mother, tried as well as she could to ignore the feisty young horse. In the chicken coop, Cara, the old hen, ruffled her feathers uncomfortably, yet remained sitting, protecting her future chicks from the cold. The five piglets of the barn, Penny, Sally, Marvin, Wendy, and Dennis, snuggled up to their mother, Whitney, snoring softly. Catherine’s cowbell jingled quietly as she moved into a more comfortable position. Slowly, the old barn door creaked open and the silhouette of a man was visible against the moonlight. The man stood there for a while, contemplating his surroundings. Galileo turned his owl head around and stared at him with his penetrating yellow eyes, though he soon relaxed. The man was usually here during the night, writing his poems. The poet fiddled with a flashlight. Once on, he pointed it at the ground so as not to disturb the sleeping animals and swung the barn door shut. He looked around at the farm animals, all deep in the realm of dreams, that is, except for the horses. Sugar was obviously annoyed at Bella, who ran around the stall with chaotic energy. The man walked over to the foal and, after rummaging around in his pocket for a few seconds, stretched out his hand. Bella accepted the carrot without hesitation and allowed the man to pet her muzzle. The loving strokes soothed the young horse and she calmly lay down in her stall. The only time he had peace and quiet was at night in the barn Once the foal was asleep, the man walked towards the back of the barn, his footsteps muffled by the straw that littered the floor. Next to the pigpen there was a wooden bench. He sat down and pulled a small notebook from his pocket. He opened it to the bookmark. The page was covered with crossing-outs and mistakes. He had tried to write during the day He often found it to be challenging inside the house, with the baby crying, his young daughter spilling his ink all over the floor, and his wife yelling at his teenage son all the time. The poet sighed heavily and put his notebook to the side. The only time he had peace and quiet was at night in the barn. Here, he was in his element. The poet listened for a minute or two. He was surrounded by the night sounds, the crickets chirping outside and the rhythmic breathing of the farm animals. He let the sounds take control of his body, control of his mind. In the air the sounds were trapped, but on the page they were free, free to be admired for their beauty. The sounds were restless to escape and they took control of the poet and he was the portal, the portal that led them to the real world. Without noticing it, his hand inched slowly towards his notebook and quill. He began writing. He wasn’t sure what he wrote, the verses of the poem just poured out of his soul and onto the clean page. The strawberry- red ink flowed smoothly, guided by his hand… no, by his heart. He wrote of the owl’s constant vigilance, the hen’s patience, the cow’s indifference, the foal’s incessant energy, the pig’s role as a mother of five. He wrote how all of them and the melodic sounds of the night were intertwined like strong rope. It seemed to him that they belonged together. Before he knew it, the man had filled two whole pages. He smiled. The barn had worked its nighttime magic once again. He felt much more relaxed, ready for another day in the fields, another day of work. He stood up and strode towards the big barn door, past the pigpen, the chicken coop, the stalls. The poet opened the door and took one last look around the old room. Then, he quietly swung the large door shut. And the dust struck up a dance. Claire Wilhelm-Safian, 11San Jose, California Chasen Shao, 10Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The Nickname Game
Rain and warm mist stick to the windowsills. My face is leaning towards light, pressed against glass. It’s a sun shower. Always such an unnerving thing, as most adults put it. I think we need more of these sun showers in life. It’s too rare a moment to pass up, and it brings such joy. I am sitting on one of the various window seats that my home-decorator mother insisted on for our house when I was born, the last of seven children. There is one window seat for each of us, with cluttered cubbies and our names underneath. Other than my parents, we kids don’t care whose window seat belongs to whom, and we take whichever is available. I’m currently sitting on Mark’s. For the past couple of days I’ve been thinking more intently than I’m used to, and less selfishly than my thoughts usually turn out to be. I’m thinking about people, and what I’m missing when I look at them. * * * I met Loraline at art camp, at the beginning of summer. She came up to me, popped a big bubblegum bubble in my face, and asked, “Are you the new camper?” “Yes,” I’d answered, a bit shell-shocked, not so much because of what she’d asked, but because of her forwardness, and her appearance: a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, overalls, and wild, dirty-blond hair. “Of course, you gotta be,” Loraline said, hitting her forehead with her palm, “how many new campers are there! Simonee said one new camper, not plural, more than one. So you’re obviously it.” I was already a bit frazzled, but the sudden mention of a girl with an odd name like Simonee—not Simone—made me even more confused. I asked who Simonee was, and she just laughed. It’s too rare a moment to pass up, and it brings such joy “Who’s Simonee! Good one, real good one. I’m Loraline. You’ll get used to me blowing bubbles—I use gum for my art projects. I’m very original.” Now that that was established, I didn’t ask anything else about this mysterious Simonee girl—until I met her. There was such an anticipation to meet the girl who apparently everyone except me knew that I found myself asking, “When will Simonee come to camp?” about every minute of my first day. “What, are you in love with her or something?!” joked Gabriel, who Loraline had introduced me to as “the calm guy.” Gabe smiled gently beneath his curly brown hair, and he indeed didn’t look like someone who liked arguing. In fact, he was the one who had suggested the idea of creating a clay music box to the camp counselors—a project that we were working on today I was painting mine with waves and mermaids, for the calming ocean. I noticed that Loraline’s was bright pink, and had pictures of ballerinas popping bubbles, and that Gabe’s had faces of smiling people looking straight at you. I wondered what Simonee’s music box would have looked like if she were here. My second day at camp, Simonee arrived. And ohh, did she arrive in style. “There she is!” Gabriel pointed out, as she strutted through the doors to the art room. Everything surprised me. First, I overheard that she was fourteen. And I thought / was short! She could pass for an eleven-year-old, honestly The second surprise was that when she entered with her four dalmatians and huge fur coat and mittens (in summertime!), the three camp counselors—Stacey, Joe, and Abigail—cleared a sort of path for her, as did the campers. The four dalmatians barked wildly as Simonee got them to shut up for a few minutes, leading them off to a corner where they obediently stayed put. She shrugged off her heavy fur coat and handed it to Joe, who quickly hung it up. Just as Simonee was walking over to our art table (I’d figured out by now that Gabriel and Loraline were her friends, and by establishing myself with them, I was too) and I wasn’t ready for more surprises, every single camper minus myself sang out, “Hi, Simoneeeee!” Simonee ignored the cheers and claps for her and plopped down right next to me. “Tell me your name,” she commanded. “Why?” I couldn’t help asking. “Tell it.” “Deliah.” “Deliah,” she repeated, gazing at Loraline for a minute, then at Gabriel. “Hmmm. We’ll have to think up something for you.” “Think up something for me?” I was shot a look that had never before been aimed at me: a look that told me right off that I was an ignorant fool with gravy for brains. Simonee’s answer was simple. “A nickname. Are you mentally challenged?” “No, she’s just new,” said Loraline, quickly. She was immediately shot The Look of Dumbnosity. “Newbies always start out mentally challenged. Some, like me and you and Gabriel, get over it, and some…” Simonee looked straight at me “…might not.” * * * The third and fourth days of camp were a blur of Simonee bossing people around, Loraline constantly popping her bubbles to re-use them for her art projects, and Gabriel acting as the peacemaker, while I sat silent as a mime. On the fifth day, Simonee poked me during collage-making. Loraline, obviously, was looking for pink backgrounds to match her bubblegum scene, Simonee was trying to find cute dog pictures, Gabriel was on a hunt for caramel colors to match his skin in the self-portrait he was making, and I was on the lookout for pictures of children— especially friends. I’d never experienced friendships with kids as different as these three, and I wanted my artwork to reflect upon them in some way. “Don’t you ever talk?” Simonee asked simply. “Yes, I do talk. I just haven’t been given much of an opportunity to prove my chatting skills yet. At the right moment, I assure you that I will please you with talk.” Apparently I had answered correctly Loraline blew a bubble and tipped her cowboy hat at
