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November/December 2000

Waiting for the Right Time

It has been three years since she, my one and only best friend, left, and I am dying to see her. She had lived down the street and I had known her forever. I have vivid memories of her room: clothes strewn all over, hanging on chairs, underneath her bed, and piled on her desk. Play horses with broken legs and unruly manes were stationed in miniature barns, on her dresser, and on her comforter. The sun would glow through the lacy curtains onto her bed, which was usually not made. The two dressers, which were placed against the wall, were piled high with papers, toys, and other odds and ends. She would always have to clean it before she played with me, so if I wanted to start playing soon, I’d help her stuff all her things underneath her bed, then we would take everything back out to find what we wanted to play with. Or we would take out a game like Monopoly and litter the floor again. If I didn’t help her, I’d end up waiting for a call back all day, and finally, at 5:00 PM, I’d find out she finally finished, but by then it was too late. These memories have plagued my thoughts over and over. All I think about is Hannah and her family in England. I sometimes start to imagine what her huge house looks like, what her yard looks like, and especially about her. I wonder if she keeps her room clean now, if she still yells at her siblings when they barge unexpectedly into her room, or if she still lingers while doing her work. Maybe she has improved her spelling since writing the word “mountain” six times repeatedly incorrectly, and spelled differently each time! Maybe . . . oh well, it is not worth thinking about if I can’t go and see her. Believe me, I’ve been there! We would take out a game of Monopoly and litter the floor again It started a year after she left. I greatly missed her, and could never stop thinking about her, especially when I received lengthy letters from her, or when she wrote me via the Internet to tell me how she was doing. She had tried to describe her house, but it was too big and elaborate to explain. I started to long to see her again. I begged (on my hands and knees of course) my parents to let me go, but I was “too young,” “it is too dangerous,” “it is such a long journey,” “it’s too expensive.” All of these and more were the excuses I received until I had had enough. Yelling at my parents, I screamed, “It’s my best friend. I haven’t seen her in so long and you expect me to do that without a fight? Without an argument until I win?!?!” My parents responded, “We have told you why. Maybe she can visit.” “But you don’t understand,” I whined, “this is my best friend. I have seen her almost every day since I was four, but now that record has been broken because she moved and I can’t even visit.” “Well, you’ll never visit with that attitude. Go to your room and cool down.” And I reluctantly trudged up to my room. Later, once I’d been in my room for a while, I heard a soft knock on the door. I called, “Come in.” In walked my solemn-faced dad. He walked over to my bed and sat down next to me; then he waited for me to start. I said, “Hi.” He answered, “Hi. Would you like to talk about this long trip you have been dreaming of for months?” “I guess so,” I answered reluctantly (what else could I say?). “I really want to see Hannah. I haven’t seen her for so long, and I only get to talk to her on the phone once in a while, and when we do get to talk, it’s about worthless things, since we don’t know what to talk about.” “I understand,” was the surprising answer. “I really want to go there too. Maybe we can plan a trip there for the whole family. While we’re there, we could also see Darby and Brittany (our cousins who also live in England).” “Really?” I started to get excited now. A trip on the plane with my whole family would be much better than flying by myself like I had planned. “Yes, I think we could try that. We just have to wait until the right time to ask your mom. Until then, we’ll just hint every once in a while. Sound good?” “Sounds very good. Just hint, got it!” And ever since, I’ve been waiting for the right time. Of course I still miss Hannah a whole bunch, but I am content to wait until the perfect time . . . Kristen Martin, 12Herndon, Virginia Hannah LeVasseur, 12West Chester. Pennsylvania

When Zachary Beaver Came to Town

When Zachary Beaver Came to Town by Kimberly Willis Holt; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 1999; $16.95 Has a trailer from nowhere with a 300-pound boy inside ever pulled up in front of your local grocery store? That’s exactly what happened in When Zachary Beaver Came to Town. When I first picked up this book I found it only slightly entertaining, but as I read on I became very involved and couldn’t put it down. In the book, a 300-pound boy, Zachary Beaver, is brought to Antler, Texas, in a trailer pulled by his legal guardian, Paulie, who charges people two dollars for a look at Zachary—a one-man freak show, “The Fattest Boy in the World.” At first everyone in the town stays away from Zachary because he is different, and in a small town like Antler, different is bad. Zachary’s situation reminded me of a kid at an acting camp I knew who everyone made fun of— just because he was fat. Even though I’d never talked to him, I knew on the inside he was probably a great guy and I felt really sorry for him. I watched this boy sit by himself and draw—he was a great drawer—and I started talking to him some. Whenever somebody is different, people often stay away from them, but in some cases they get used to them and then, in a way, befriend them. I guess that’s what I did. And that’s what happened with Zachary. Toby and Cal, two best friends in Antler—Toby being the slightest bit more mature—stay away from Zachary at first but after a while decide to help Zachary have some fun. They have Cal’s older sister, who just learned to drive, take them and Zachary to a drive-in movie by building stairs in the back of the truck so he could get out. He was too fat to get out of the trailer otherwise. They even fulfill Zachary’s dream to be baptized. Zachary wanted to be baptized because that was his mom’s dream for him before she died. When she died, he went to her funeral, but there was such a crowd staring at him (because of his weight) that he wouldn’t get baptized. In the end, the Bowl-a-Rama owner, Ferris, who was almost a preacher, baptizes Zachary. Eventually, the people of Antler got used to Zachary being there, and they start to feel sorry for him, and would even leave him food on his door step and run away. The book has a selection of everything from tragedy to even a little romance between the prettiest girl in town and Toby. But the main point of the book, and the part I liked best, was the way the author showed the many ways that people learn to live with and actually like strangers. This is probably a common experience, much like another one of my experiences with a Turkish boy who was in my third-grade class. He was made fun of because of his name, Bilge, and because of his personality. Over the year, I learned to like him a lot, even though no one else did, probably because my personality was more like his than the other boys in my class. I keep asking my mom how we can find Bilge in Turkey, because I miss him, but all we know about him is his first name. Probably the saddest part of the book, and another feeling that I’ve had some experience with, was when Cal’s older brother, Wayne, who everyone likes, is fighting in the Vietnam War and near the end, dies. Before Wayne dies, Toby writes him a letter pretending to be Cal, because Cal never returned any of Wayne’s letters to him because he was too lazy. When Cal figures this out, it threatens their friendship. I can’t relate to that but my friend can. Once I told him a secret and he, not thinking, told someone else, causing me to be very upset. In the end, it all turned out all right. He apologized and the secret didn’t cause too much harm. As for what happens to Cal and Toby’s friendship, well, you’ll just have to read the book to find out. Eli Black, 9Austin, Texas

A Christmas Wish

“Scruffy! Where are you?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Where could he be?” I asked in dismay. I turned around to make my way to Hickory Hill where I thought Scruffy might be lurking. Just then I heard a faint bark and in the next moment a little furry husky had tumbled into my arms. “There you are, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Well, you’re here now and that is all that matters. Come on. Grandma told me to be home before supper and it’s getting dark.” Scruffy and I headed down the mountain toward our house. It was winter and the bitter cold was creeping in. By the time we got home it was pitch black, and the smell of warm stew and a blazing fire welcomed us into our home. It was almost Christmas and the house was as cheery as it had ever been. My name is Lily May Matthews, Lily for short. I’m seven years old. I live in a small cabin nestled in the woods with my grandma, grandpa and Scruffy, my puppy. My grandparents like the isolation and the independence of living away from the town. We don’t have transportation or contact with other people unless we take a weekend trip into town, which is a long and tiring walk by foot. I had just gotten back from my expedition with Scruffy to the dark shadowy cave up in the northern part of the forest, but in the midst of our expedition Scruffy had run off, and I spent the rest of the expedition chasing after him. Just then I heard a faint bark and in the next moment a little furry husky had tumbled into my arms “This stew is delicious, Grandma,” I said to my grandma, as the warm, tasteful liquid touched my tongue and scurried down to my stomach. “Thank you, dear, now eat up so you can get a good night’s rest.” “Where’s Grandpa?” I asked, noticing the empty rocking chair with warm soup that was waiting, untouched. “He started out on his fishing trip late this afternoon. I know he promised to take you but we couldn’t find you. I’m sorry, sweets.” “Oh. It’s all right. I’ll go next year,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. As I sat sipping my soup, I noticed Scruffy pawing the door. “Oh, Scruffy, you know you’re not allowed out after dark,” said Grandma as she sat by the fire warming her mint tea. I stared at Scruffy for a long while, holding my spoon in midair, just staring. Something was wrong, I could feel it. Something told me that Scruffy didn’t want to go out, but he needed to go out. Something was definitely wrong. “Grandma, something’s wrong,” I said, getting up from the chair and pushing the soup out of my way. “What’s wrong, Lily?” Grandma asked, gesturing for me to come sit in her lap. I declined the invitation and went to the door. I opened the door and looked out into the somber, windy night. A crescent moon was hanging in the sky, clouds steadily devouring it. Scruffy barked, scurried out the door, and disappeared into the dark. “There’s a storm coming,” Grandma said as she walked up behind me to peer out into the night. “I do hope Grandpa gets back soon,” she added. I began to feel Grandma’s uneasiness with the situation and I began to worry. “He’s just enjoying taking his time. He’ll be in soon; you know Grandpa.” She forced out a meek smile and hurried me into the cabin. I crawled into bed without bothering to wash. The mattress was comforting and soft and the blanket was warm and gentle. Grandma kissed me goodnight, went and sat by the fire and started to knit. Every few minutes she glanced out the window in hopes that Grandpa would come trudging over the hill with a sack full of trout hanging by his side. But he never came, and the old rocking chair lay empty and untouched. About a week had passed since Grandpa had disappeared, and in that week everything had been destroyed. Grandma, the blooming flower that she had once been, had died and turned into a sad, weeping weed. She just sat by the fire day after day, never speaking. When I tried to comfort her, she would try to smile for me, although as the days went by it became harder. I couldn’t bear the sadness of the house, but the more I tried to be cheery the more I missed Grandpa. There was no laughter and no happiness. It had been killed and all that remained was an unbearable pain that would not leave. “Dear God, I wish Grandpa will come home for Christmas. Nothing is the same without him. I need him here and so does Grandma. Please help me. Thank you. Amen.” I prayed like that every night the same prayer. I had to see my grandpa. And even worse, Scruffy had not returned home since he ran off that night. Later on, I went up to Blueberry Field to pick blueberries for the pie that Grandma was making. As I was picking, I heard a rustling in the bush behind me. I froze. It stopped. I went back to picking. Then it moved again. I cautiously turned around to see if I could get a glimpse of the creature. All I saw was fur. A bear! I slowly crept toward the creature, hoping he would not notice me. But it was too late, the creature had attacked. I screamed as the so-called beast ferociously licked me. “Scruffy! You came back,” I cried. “Come on, let’s go home.” We ran around Blueberry Field, through the woods, and down Hickory Hill. I slammed the door as we ran into the house, gasping for breath. We must have startled Grandma because she had apparently spilled her tea. “Grandma, look! Scruffy came home.” “Why, hello, little