The day I saved Mark’s life, there was no sign of disaster in the brilliant blue sky that sparkled in my eyes as I awoke, casting the shadow of my rocking chair over the wooden floor. It was August, at the peak of tourist season. Rob was off to camp, way up in the Berkshires of Massachusetts. So I decided to pop down to the tracks. This was one of me and Rob’s favorite hangouts, besides the amusement park where Rob’s uncle worked. I quietly slipped on some clothes, careful not to wake my younger brother, Scott. Ma had warned him off the tracks on pain of death. Anyways, he was too young for me to bother with. As I passed Ma’s room, I took care to avoid the creaky board. If she had woken, she would’ve demanded where I was off to, and she’d never let me go, even if I managed a lie. I had my appendix out last July, and I think Ma near fainted from grief, being that my older brother died from appendicitis. Ma was a wee bit paranoid now, it being five years to the date after his death. As I passed the kitchen, I snatched an apple from the bowl on the table. There were a few flies buzzing around last night’s dishes in the sink. I was careful not to let any more in, as I crept out the back. Virginia in the summer is hot, even with the sea nearly in the backyard. The sweat was pouring off me by the time I reached the tracks. I saw Joe Parkinson there already. Him and his brother Mark were trying to light a fire with a magnifying glass. I waved at them before I jogged down the tracks to my spot. “Mark, come on!” I screamed frantically It was right at a curve in the tracks, and closed in on three sides. I thought of it as a sort of nook in the hillside. I stayed crouched there while I finished my apple, right down to the seeds. I made a game of spitting them across the tracks, after flicking the stem into the grass. Joe and Mark had given up their fire, and were walking up the tracks toward me. They could have been twins, they looked so alike—the same tousled dirtyblond hair and wide, green eyes—but there were nearly three years between them. “That was some crack in Scouts, wasn’t it?” Joe asked, by way of greeting. I nodded amiably and jumped down from the nook. Mark was rubbing his head, remembering. We had let out the least dangerous of Counselor Sawman’s snakes, and were playing with them. I was absently poking one of the sleepier ones with a stick. Joe rather likes snakes, so he didn’t like my prodding. He snatched the stick from my hand. “Hey!” I shouted. Joe was dancing away, routinely holding the stick out temptingly, then pulling it back. I ran at him with my arms out threateningly. We collapsed in a wrestling heap. I could see Mark quietly sneaking up behind, so I tried to keep Joe occupied. It worked. Mark quickly pounced on Joe’s sneaker. “Ha,” he whooped, and whisked away before Joe could move. Mark set off at a canter, holding the shoe above his head. I was watching him with a laugh about to burst out of my lips, when he suddenly disappeared. His sneakers, meant for tramping, had no grips on their soles and had slid on the slick leaves. He had fallen backwards into the steep slope we called the Gorge. It was maybe twenty feet wide, thirty feet deep and greatly resembled a miniature valley. I rushed over, in time to see Mark’s flailing limbs roll down the hill at great speed. I grimaced. Joe was standing very still; he didn’t even appear to be breathing. I realized that I was holding my breath. Crack! Mark’s head bounced off a log at the bottom of the Gorge. Joe and I hurriedly skidded down to him. We dragged him back up the hill, panting heavily. He was “all right,” Joe diagnosed, while I meekly enclosed the snakes in their cages once again. I smiled nervously now, and reached down for some loose stones to chuck across the tracks. Mark was laboriously placing some pebbles along the rail. They seemed to be rather unsteady, and kept wobbling to and fro. “Ed,” shouted Joe, “train’s comin’!” I dropped my rocks and ran back to the shelter of the trees with Joe. Mark’s pebbles had almost all been shaken off the rail, but Mark was still sitting by it. “Mark,” Joe called, “move it!” Mark didn’t move, just kind of twitched. “Mark, come on!” I screamed frantically. I could hear the train’s whistle now, the one it always blew right before it came hurtling around the bend. In my mind, I could already see Mark’s broken body being flung down the tracks like a rag doll. I knew I couldn’t let that happen, but my body seemed as slow as my mind was fast. I rushed at Mark with a sudden pump of adrenaline. I felt my hands collide with his bony shoulders as, at the same time, I flung myself backwards to escape the train. The driver had seen us seconds before. I could smell my hair burning from the friction sparks of braking wheels on track. I waited breathlessly as the short train passed. It might have only lasted seconds, but it felt like years I waited for that train to go. And when it did, I saw Mark. He was huddled on the other side of the tracks, with his head in his hands. But he appeared to be alive. The train had come to a screeching halt a few hundred yards ahead. People were indignantly streaming out of it. I could hear a man loudly complaining to his wife, who appeared to have her eyes closed. It
May/June 2009
In Mozart’s Shadow: His Sister’s Story
In Mozart’s Shadow: His Sister’s Story, by Carolyn Meyer; Harcourt Children’s Books: New York, 2008; $17 Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was gifted in music beyond imagination. He was a genius, a prodigy. He is remembered and respected by thousands of people all over the world as one of the greatest composers. But no one remembers his sister, Nannerl Mozart. She was almost as talented as Wolfgang, but she was a girl. Possibly the best harpsichordist of her time, Nannerl was pushed away from her musical dreams to make room for her brother’s brilliance. As children, Wolfgang and Nannerl sat for hours, side by side, at the harpsichord, making music together. At one point in Carolyn Meyer’s book, In Mozart’s Shadow, Nannerl says, “My brother might tease me about almost anything but he never said a critical word about my keyboard technique. I adored him for that.” I found In Mozart’s Shadow to be a rather sad, yet compelling story, not because of death or tragedy, but because Nannerl had more disappointments than joys. Her one solace was her music. I have had three very disappointing piano teachers, causing me to lose joy in my music. But reading Nannerl’s story and how she loved making music has inspired me to love playing again. I live in a pretty, small town, not as ancient and refined as Salzburg, Austria, where the Mozarts lived, yet like it in some ways. Sometimes when I am at home, I feel caged and isolated, and when I am away from home, I miss it and realize how wonderful it is. In the story, Nannerl Mozart can never achieve her full potential living in Salzburg, but she yearns for it when she leaves it. The character I could not make up my mind about was Nannerl’s father, Leopold Mozart. He was a devoted teacher to his children and he took them all over Europe. They traveled to the courts of the greatest powers of the time, to entertain the nobility with their extraordinary playing. But soon Leopold gave all his attention to Wolfgang and forgot his daughter until the end of his life when he needed her. I have conflicting feelings about Leopold; I can see why he would give up his talented daughter for his brilliant son. However, to leave Nannerl behind when he took Wolfgang to Italy, and not give her her chance, was awful. Leopold loved his daughter, but she was a girl, and her only respectable future in his eyes was marriage. The father and son traveled to Italy numerous times, where Wolfgang studied music. Yet Wolfgang resented the never-ending control of his father and he longed to break away. Probably all of us have known someone who grew up too closely tied by their parents and when they broke free they became distant or moved away, fearing to be fettered again. So it was with Wolfgang. My brother and I often play with dolls. We can spend hours making up stories for the dolls to act out. Nannerl and Wolfgang did a similar thing with chess pieces. As they played the game of chess, they would make up stories for the pieces to live out. Nannerl often felt that she and Wolfgang were two halves of one person, and when they played together they became whole. I thought Carolyn Meyer wrote a beautiful story about people who really lived. Through the eyes of Nannerl Mozart, the characters struggle and achieve, living out their lives with both sorrow and joy. Gertrude S. Suokko, 13Woodstock, Vermont
Summer Days
“That one looks like a ship,” I say, pointing my finger to a large cloud. I can almost see Captain Hook swaggering on the deck, but then my fantasy just evaporates into another fat cloud. I turn my head and see a herd of elephants parading through the sky. They stampede through the clouds, and I say nothing, waiting for them to disappear into a daydream. I imagine the sun shining on the elephants in Africa. “Eliza?” Jamie asks, breaking my trance. “What? Sorry… wasn’t listening,” I say. “We noticed,” Hazen snorts. “Hey now!” I say, sitting up. “You are so out of it, Liza.” “Speak for yourself,” I shoot back to Hazen. “Look!” Jamie says, breaking our friendly bickering. Two huge clouds are going toward each other. I’m confused. The wind should be pushing them in the same direction. “They’re on different planes,” explains Jamie. “Thank you for enlightening us, boy super-genius,” Hazen says, but I marvel at the clouds as they hover above us, going toward each other faster than the average clouds. But when the two clouds meet, nothing happens. They just go by. Are we like that? Do we not even know it when something incredible just passes us by? “Huh,” is all I have to say. We all lie back down, staining the backs of our shirts with wet grass, to watch the clouds. Are we like that? Do we not even know it when something incredible just passes us by? “This is what summer is meant to be,” says Hazen lazily. I nod wholeheartedly. “Yeah,” agrees Jamie. “Hey, look! That one looks like an E,” he says. “Yeah, it does,” I say. “I wonder if the cloud gods are trying to tell me something?” I wiggle my eyebrows, and Hazen cracks up. “Let’s go!” Hazen says, jumping up. I follow her, knowing exactly what she means. “Where are we supposed to go?” asks Jamie, not yet caught on. “Anywhere! Everywhere!” I say, and start running. Hazen flies by me. Jamie soon catches up. We sprint through the infinity of green fields. My feet get covered in dewy mowed grass, but who cares? I run with the wind. With the ground beneath my feet, and the sun shining for us high above. Something about this carefree feeling is better than anything else. When school starts, these times are gone, so I savor the thundering noise of my feet hitting the ground, and the wind pushing my hair into my face, and sun hurting my eyes. The three of us run until we collapse. My heart is beating way too fast, but I’m still in energy mode. “Chicken,” I say. “Low,” Jamie responds immediately. “Tree!” I shout. It is my favorite game. “Leaf.” “Alphabet.” “Bog.” “Flame!” “Stare.” I wonder how long this game could go. It is nothing. You shout words until someone pauses. But it is the best game in the entire world. “Um, guys, what’s going on?” asks Hazen. Jamie and I keep shouting. Finally I point to Hazen, and say one word. “You.” And just like that, she has joined the endless game. After a while Jamie stops, and Hazen drains out, too. Now I am the only one screaming. I must sound like a lunatic. One last word. “Champion!” I yell, laughing. “Hey, look over there!” says Hazen. A huge rock bulges out in the meadow. It is covered in ivy, moss, and prickles, and surrounded by high grass filled with thorns and milkweed. “Let’s climb it!” I say. Jamie and Hazen look reluctant. “Oh c’mon!” Hazen follows me, but Jamie stays. “Please, Jamie?” He shakes his head. “No prickles for me,” he says. “Fine,” says Hazen, and we jog over to the unmowed weeds around the rock. “OK, here we go,” I say, and start fighting my way through the jungle that reaches my belly button. “Ow!” My first thorn—with many to follow, I’m sure—scratches my leg. I hear an almost responding “Ow!” behind me from Hazen. We forge on. When we’re halfway there, I hear a voice not belonging to Hazen. “Ouch!” “Jamie!” I turn. “Thanks for coming.” We wait for him to catch up, and then continue. After many prickles, scratches, and pauses for tick checks, we reach the top. I look around the rock. I see the same things but from a higher perspective. “Well, this is a disappointment,” Hazen says. I kind of agree with her, but don’t want to admit it. “It’s cool,” says Jamie. “Look at the mountains!” Hazen says. They seem to have risen out from the horizon. The clouds around them are pinkish from the reflected sun. “Wow.” “Wow wow,” I say. “Let’s go,” says Jamie. “OK,” I say. “Wasted effort…” “Your idea,” points out Hazen. “Fine. Last one down is a wasted effort!” I say, already sprinting through the thorns. They ignore me, slowly picking their way through the prickles. When they reach the bottom, we compare scratches. “Thank God for long shorts,” says Hazen. “Yeah,” says Jamie. I look at my shorter shorts and notice I have twice as many scratches as each of them. “Oh well,” I sigh. We stand in silence. “Whadda you want to do now?” asks Jamie. “Blah,” says Hazen, a twinkle in her eye, and the game starts up again. We shout and scream, and act like little kids. How nice it is to pretend, just for one day, that we’ve gone back in time, and there is nothing more important in the world than us having fun. Carefree. If you know that there is reason to care, then there is no such thing as being free of that reason. Maybe that’s why it’s impossible to really pretend to be young again, back when you didn’t know that reason existed. After a while we are back on the grass above Hazen’s house again. I have one last favor to ask of this perfect carefree day. I stand up and start spinning in circles, just like