Freedom. That was the word that came to my mind as I watched them. They were so beautiful. So majestic. They were completely unaware of my presence, and yet I was enjoying theirs so much. They were wild horses. They walked and breathed as if they were a part of the earth. Drops of sunlight made their coats glimmer and shine. They moved with elegant grace and power. I rested my chin on my hands and sighed. I could have sat there, behind my special rock, forever. But the sun was slowly disappearing behind the emerald trees. I knew that I should saddle up and go home. I felt a warm breath on my cheek and looked up to see my horse, Aspen, standing beside me. I smiled and leaned my cheek against hers. “They’re beautiful, huh girl?” I said. My golden-and-white paint horse lifted her head and whinnied to the wild horses. They raised their heads in surprise. Some nickered in return. It was a beautiful sight, one that I wished would never end. Pink, orange, and blue clouds highlighted the purplish sky as the sun hid beneath the horizon. Foals and yearlings frolicked and played, and the lead horses kept an eye out for danger. I sighed. It was too bad I could not go any closer. I would be considered a danger if I approached them further. But it was no matter. For now, I was content just watching them. I always marveled at wild horses—their strength, their will. They suffered through many trials and losses, and still they went on gracefully. It was a beautiful sight, one that I wished would never end Slowly, I moved to sit on top of my rock. The lead stallion saw me and watched me with a scrutinizing eye. When he saw I meant no harm, he walked away. Still, I could tell he was carefully aware of me. This herd was special to me. I could not explain why—perhaps it was just because I was a horse-lover at heart. But they were my friends. They did not know that, of course—they were my silent friends. A friend that is not necessarily friends with you, but you are undoubtedly friends with them. I smiled. I liked that idea. A name, I thought suddenly. Each horse needed a name. After all, if I was going to be friends with them—silent friends, of course—I needed to know what to call them, individually. First I thought of a name for the lead stallion, a muscular, fiery bay with a blaze on his face… Blaze. That was perfect—not only because of his markings but because I could tell the word matched his temperament, his personality. Next I named the cute little gray foal that always stood out to me. That was Twister—not only was he a stormy color but he seemed to like jumping and twirling like a tornado. I gave a name to each and every member of the herd. Sunflower, Star, Bunny—I mentally marked them all with a special name that I saw fit. But I could not always call the herd by all their names, or even simply “the herd.” That was not special enough. As night fell and I readied Aspen for the ride home, I smiled. It was simple. They were my Silent Friends. Emily Grant, 13Potosi, Missouri Libby Marrs, 13Albuquerque, New Mexico
May/June 2012
Dogtag Summer
Dogtag Summer, by Elizabeth Partridge; Bloomsbury: New York, 2011; $16.99 I’m not adopted, but what if I was? What if one day you wake up and find out that the people who have watched and cared for you all of your life did not give birth to you? Would it make a difference? Does it even matter who your parents are? What really is a parent? Are they the people who raise you or the people who create you? Tracy is adopted. Her real name is the Song of the Shorebirds in Vietnam: too-et, too-et. She can only vaguely remember her biological mom from her early years in war-torn Vietnam. She never met her father and, when she begins to search for him, she must dig deep into forbidden territory. Tracy is happy in America with her American family. She is sometimes teased at school because she looks different, but her best friend, Stargazer, likes her just fine. She never thought much about her life in Vietnam, until she and Stargazer stumble upon her American dad’s old ammo box and find a dogtag. Once the box is opened, it seems to release all the pent-up ghosts of ’Nam’s past, and, for reasons Tracy doesn’t understand, these ghosts make her dad really mad. Tracy tries to ignore all of it, but Stargazer is curious and won’t give up. They soon discover that the box belongs to her biological father, James B. Kirby, and the tensions threaten to ruin her friendship with Stargazer. Will Tracy’s horrific past in Vietnam be revealed? What is her dad keeping a secret? Will she remember her early years in Vietnam? I would recommend you read the book and find out. I felt a comfortable connection to Tracy’s creativity and her love of adventure out in nature. In the summer, she and Stargazer built a Viking funeral ship out of scavenged materials. They set it on fire and watched it float down the river. My sister, Tessa, and I spend a lot of time outside hiking and exploring. We have a stream that provides many battlefields for the unexpected ambushes of our imaginations. Many days, we return home soaking wet and exhausted. Once, we built a duck sled made of cardboard for a race. The rules said that you have to make it down the hill with only cardboard touching the ground. I made cardboard slippers so I could run down the hill with huge cardboard-box overalls. That was my strange-looking sled. Tessa read the book too, and she said, “I kept wondering where the scar on Tracy’s neck came from and why she had such a strong reaction to the scissors in the ammo box. I have a scar above my lip. When I was six years old a rooster attacked me. With wings stretched out, he came at me fast and clawed my face. I was scared of roosters for a long time. I could tell that there was something Tracy was scared of too.” I strongly recommend Dogtag Summer for young readers from the age of seven to sixteen. If you enjoy history, adventure, or a good mystery, you will like this book. Dogtag Summer is a suspenseful, dramatic story that will keep you on your toes. It is a detailed description of a young girl’s life, as well as a glimpse of the war in Vietnam. Jyasi Nagel, 12Petersburgh, New York Tessa Nagel, 8Petersburgh, New York
The Three Wishes
It was a small sphere, glowing faintly green It was a perfect June day in the woods. The sky was royal blue, the grass looked soft, and maple trees were everywhere with golden light shining through their leaves. Clarice Hunter was miserable. As the car pulled in the gravel driveway, she averted her eyes from the house. It was just as nice as promised, freshly painted a blue that nearly matched the sky. Ivy climbed pleasantly up the sides. There were even bluebells in the window box. It did look cozy; Clary would have been thrilled to go there for vacation. But to live there?… “Aren’t you excited, Clary?!” asked her youngest sister, Eva. “Yeah,” Clary lied, turning away. The car came to a full stop in front of the house, and Eva scrambled over Olivia to get out of the car. Olive, adjusting her glasses, followed suit, and reluctantly Clary slid out after them. The three red-headed girls tumbled out of the car almost at once. Clary took Mack’s leash and led the straining brown Labrador up the front porch. There was, she realized, a window seat. Olive stood by Clary, watching their parents unloading the trunk and gazing happily at the house, while Eva ran around the front yard. “I know you didn’t want to come,” she said. “I’ll miss home too. But it won’t be so bad… knowing you, you’ll have three new best friends by the second day of school…” Clary shook her head. “No. I wouldn’t replace Ami. We’ve been best friends since third grade. But that’s not it, anyway. What if she gets another best friend now that we live so far away?” Only for a moment, Olive said nothing. Then she replied, “Can’t she have more than one friend?” “That’s not it either, Olive. You don’t have to act so smart all the time. You’re only eleven.” Shrugging, Olive knelt next to Mack and stroked his ears. “That’s only two years younger than you.” Silently, Clary handed the leash to Olive and went over to where her mother and Eva were. “Hi, honey,” her mom greeted, her eyes shining. “Just look at this place. Isn’t it beautiful?” Clary nodded mutely. * * * “It was built in the 1900s, you know, and… well,” she said when Clary yawned pointedly, “…well, Eva was really badly wanting to go swimming in the creek, and I was hoping you’d go with her.” She looked at Clary pleadingly. “It would be a really nice favor.” Clary hesitated. Her mother had promised her first pick of bedrooms. And this wasn’t such a huge deal… “All right,” she consented, “but I’m not going swimming too. I’ll just watch her.” “Thank you so much, Clary. Make sure she doesn’t go out too far. You can explore the house later.” As if that solves all my problems, Clary thought. She and Eva went inside the house together, and Clary took a sharp breath. She liked it more than she would ever admit. Why couldn’t it just be a rental house and not their house? It was, she decided, just a house; not a home. Not her home, anyway. There was something homely about it; worn places in the woodwork where other peoples’ shoes had tread every day, small nicks and chips in the wood and paint, places where the wallpaper had been marked a little. Comfortable things like that. Eva emerged from the bathroom suddenly, grinning and wearing her swimsuit. “C’mon, Clary! Let’s go!” “’K…” Clary muttered. It was only a short walk from the backyard to the creek. Eva skipped the whole way. There were pretty wild roses with their pink faces uplifted to the tall trees and blazing sky. Clary could hardly admire anything nice at the moment. She looked at her muddy orange sneakers instead. When they got there, Eva jumped right in the creek. She waded with the water up to her knees, smiling and shivering at the same time. “It’s cold. It’s nice.” It did look nice to Clary, snaking deep into the woods with bright, clear water and smooth, tossed stones at the bottom. She even peeled off her socks and shoes to put in her sweaty feet. It felt good on her toes. Eva’s short mop of red hair was soon soaked, but she didn’t want to get out of the creek, so Clary let her stay awhile. While Eva swam in shallow water, Clary practiced skipping stones for a while and even got a stone to skip four times once. Then it became a way to vent frustration. She stood with the water pooled around her ankles and named each rock before throwing it. Splash! The new house. Splash! Ami’s new best friend. Splash! Everything! It hardly seemed adequate revenge. The feeble little splash and ripples from each stone only made her more infuriated. Finally, bending to find rocks just to hurl out of pure temper, she paused. There, lying among the stones, was something else entirely. It was a small sphere, glowing faintly green. Clary’s first thought was that it might be a marble someone had dropped, but that didn’t seem likely. It was bigger than a normal marble, and marbles didn’t glow. She bent to pick it up. She’d expected it to be clammy from being underwater. It was wet, but to her surprise it was very warm, almost hot, tingling her fingertips. She turned the strange thing over in her hand, scrutinizing it. A few seconds passed, and the green glow and the heat began to fade. The sphere sitting in her palm was now dark blue and veined with thin, jagged white. It felt cold now. “What’s that?” Eva demanded, who had noticed Clary’s sudden silence. “Um…” Clary instinctively curled a fist around the sphere but opened her hand again. “It’s this weird thing I found underwater. It’s nothing.” Eva sloshed up next to Clary to take a closer look. “Can I hold it?” she begged. “No. You’ll…”
