Sandra looks out into the crowd. Her face is firm, her lips set in a straight line. This is it—the moment she’s been waiting for for nearly ten years. She pulls her hat brim down over her eyes and pulls on her gloves, worn from the hard labor back when she helped her father on the ranch. She pats the pockets on her old jeans and straightens her favorite blue shirt. Then she turns and walks to the pen where the bulls are kept. She climbs on the bull—with help from the rodeo clowns—and begins to tighten the rope around her hand. She looks up and as she does so, sees her brother-in-law, Roger, wave at her from the crowd. She doesn’t smile, just nods, and lets her mind wander to the day this all began. * * * It had been a splendid day; the sun was up and shining down on the red dust that carpeted the ranch and everything on it. She had risen early, wanting to get her chores done so she could have some time to herself. Sandra had breathed in the deep smell of desert, soaking in the lovely hues of the place everyone called wasteland. Her home had never been that to her—it wasn’t the middle of nowhere at all. On the contrary, it was right smack in the middle of Mother Nature and all her other children. Sandra knew she’d never leave—Arizona was much too beautiful to ever leave behind. Sandra knew shed never leave—Arizona was much too beautiful to ever leave behind Sandra talked to the horses as she shoveled out their beds of hay and stocked their trough with oats. Her favorite was an amber mare brought in from the wild a few years ago. She had taken to Sandra and Sandra had eventually given her a name—Dawn. “An’ how you doin’, Ms. Dawn?” Sandra had asked, giving her a loving pet on the nose. Dawn whinnied in reply. “Yes, I reckoned you’d say that,” Sandra replied, looking out the window of the barn. “It sure is a lovely day.” Sandra had been twelve then, just barely blooming into a young lady. She loved flowers and kittens, horses and little children, too. But there was one thing in her life she lived for—bull riding. Technically, it wasn’t bull riding yet—Sandra had barely been a year at riding calves. But someday she would graduate to bulls—if her sister didn’t stop her first. Sandra had just finished her chores and was taking out her favorite calf—Little Yellow Jacket—when her father and Roger appeared at the corral. Sandra didn’t mind them—they often came out to the corral to talk about something or another. Sandra seated herself on Little Yellow Jacket and bent down to whisper to him. “Give me your worst, Little Jacket; I’ve ridden you every time.” With that, she gave his hindquarters a jab with her spurs and they set off in a whirlwind of dust and kicks. Sandra held her hand high, trying her best to stay on. Most calves went into a wave motion when spurred, so that all the rider had to do to stay on was to move with them. Little Yellow Jacket was different—he’d twist and jump, curving his body into impossible angles and jerking to the sides when Sandra least expected it. Somewhere in all the melee, Sandra heard Roger say to her father, “Whoa! She’s good! You teach her?” She heard her father reply, “No, she did that all by herself. She is awfully good, isn’t she?” Sandra could hear her sister, Diane, her elder by ten years, yell from the house, “Oh, you boys! Don’t encourage her!” Diane had been the girly-girl, the one who loved cooking and wanted to stay inside all day. Sandra had never been like that—she had always loved the smell of the wind in the evening and the color of the Arizonan dust on her black boots. After awhile, Sandra was finally bucked from Little Yellow Jacket’s back. She got up slowly as her dad led the calf away. She dusted the red from her pants and turned to go back to the house. On the way there, Roger stopped her. “You’re good,” he said. “So you say,” she answered. She was tired and her throat was aching for a glass of water. “Would you like to go to the Championships one day?” he asked. “Yeah, one day.” She turned to go back inside when Roger called out to her. “You could, you know!” She slowly pivoted on her heel. “What are you saying? That I could go to the Championships?” He smiled, a bit gap-toothed, his face sweating beneath his rusty orange hair. “That’s what I said.” “But no woman has ever made it to the Championships.” “How would you like to be the first?” Sandra was silent for a moment. “You really think I could?” Roger’s smiled widened. “Sure do.” “How? I don’t even have a trainer.” “Sure you do.” Sandra looked around, as though expecting to see a trainer magically appear from behind the crates stacked against the stables. “Where?” “Well right here!” Sandra almost giggled. “A funny-looking man like you being my trainer?” “Yes,” Roger nodded. “I don’t think Diane ever told you this—I think she might be embarrassed by it, don’t know why—but I used to be a bull rider.” Sandra cocked her head. “Really?” “Yes, I almost made it to the Championships, but,” he shook his head, “I got out on the qualification rides. I got paired up with a really old bull—I reckon he had been all ridden-out years before.” “Ah.” Sandra scuffed the dirt with the heel of her boot. She understood. Riders were not only judged on their ability to ride, but also by how healthy and hard-bucking their bull was. “Could we start tomorrow then?” “What?” Roger looked slightly bewildered. “Tomorrow. Could we start training tomorrow?” “Sure.” Roger and Sandra walked into the house together, discussing her
November/December 2004
Elf Hat
I took the shiny red scissors and stuck the blades into the tape that mummified the brown package. I love getting packages in the mail. I love the smell of tape and cardboard, the promise within the shadowy depths of packing peanuts and something to pull out and unwrap. As I worked at the tape, I remembered one time that I had gotten a package just like this. I had been seven years old. * * * “Eliza, come here!” I ran to the kitchen on my seven-year-old legs. My mom thunked a brown package onto the table. “The UPS man just brought this for you,” she said. My fingers scrabbled at the tape, with no success. My mother brought out a big pair of red scissors, and deftly slit the tape. I reached into the warm packing peanuts. I pulled out a soft, floppy something wrapped in gray tissue paper. I shook the peanuts off— it reminded me of our shaggy old dog, Clancey, shaking off snow. “Open the envelope first,” Mom reminded patiently, handing me a blue envelope. “Happy Hanukkah,” said the card. “Love, Grandma and Grandpa.” I impatiently tore open the tissue paper. A faultless hat rolled out, hand-made by Grandma. It had blue and white alternating stripes, knitted with soft, bright yarn. “The UPS man just brought this for you” “My Hanukkah hat!” I shrieked. I remembered when my sister Becky had gotten her Hanukkah hat a few years ago. My younger sister who we called Puff could hardly wait for hers. She came skidding into the room to admire my hat. The next day my mom proudly pulled it on over my straight light-brown hair. I was wearing my Hanukkah mittens that I got last year in honor of the occasion. In school I enthusiastically showed off my hat. “Look at this!” I shouted, strutting down the center of the classroom. I noticed that the class was silent but not with admiration. Three girls watched me from the front of the room, my old friends from last year. Annie, June and Brenna. June was the head of them. “Eliza,” she said, her hand on her hip. She giggled. Annie and Brenna obediently giggled too. June waited for them to stop, and then said, “What exactly is that on your head?” “A Hanukkah hat!” I said uncertainly. She giggled again, even more smugly. From her backpack she pulled out four hats. And not normal hats either, but glowing, white-trimmed, crimson elf hats. She pulled hers on. “This,” she said, “is a hat.” She passed one to Brenna and one to Annie. Faced with the three of them, sinisterly identical, like Santa’s sweet little helpers gone bad, I stepped backwards. I put my mitten in my mouth, an old habit. June smiled at me. “Would you like one?” she asked, smiling. She was missing her two front teeth. “Yeah!” I said. Who needed a Hanukkah hat anyway? They weren’t all that special. Plus, they were handmade. Not at all like the beautiful, identical elf hats. She held it out in front of me. I could smell the tantalizing store-new scent. I reached for it with a mittened hand. She danced backwards, smiling. I reached for it again. She stepped back again, twitching it in front of me by the furry ball on the tip of the hat. “Sorry,” she said. “People with Hanukkah hats can’t have pretty hats like mine.” She tossed it in the trash can, stinky with yesterday’s food. Immediately Annie and Brenna buried it beneath half-empty milk cartons and sandwich crusts. I watched the glowing crimson and the snowy white disappear. Tears burned in my eyes, at the injustice of it all. I hardly noticed, and didn’t fight back, when June snatched my Hanukkah hat from my head. * * * June had moved from town last year, to somewhere in Texas or something. Now I am in eighth grade, and wiser than at age seven. But I still remember . . . I finished, finally, opening the package. It came from an address I didn’t know. Maybe someone had ordered me a present. I reached into the packing peanuts. “Card first,” I said. Clancey came bounding into the kitchen. “Hello, you monster,” I said, pulling him into my lap, where he sat, tongue hanging out. His wagging tail almost knocked the letter out of my hand. It was in a green envelope. “Dear Eliza,” it said in round, fat letters. “You probably don’t remember this, but I’ve remembered ever since. I hope that this makes you feel a bit better about . . .” (here something was heavily crossed out) “what happened.” It wasn’t signed. I pulled open the packing peanuts and grabbed something wrapped in white tissue paper. I unrolled it. Out fell a pristine, ruby-red elf hat. The white trim was enormously fluffy, right up to the downy ball on top. But that wasn’t all. I unrolled a second white-tissue-paper object. Out came my original Hanukkah hat. It was so small by now, the indigo fading to a lighter shade, the sharp lines losing their clearness. Clancey settled warmly into my lap. I laid them both out on the table. One so crimson and factory-made, the other lovingly completed over many hours. One I scorned, one I loved. But which was which? My heritage, or my need to fit in? Clancey’s wagging tail swept the blue one into my lap. The elf hat lay silently on the table. That was someone else’s story, someone else’s belief. I stroked his shaggy fur fondly. “I think,” I said to him, “that you made the right choice.” Molly Dektar, 13 Durham, North Carolina
Good Night, Son
The soft patter of rainfall filled the attic of the tiny house in Boston. Peter Carrol sat alone in the attic, surrounded by old photos and clothing. All of the memorabilia belonged to his son; a son who was no longer alive, a son who was his pride and joy; a son who was cruelly taken away. The man shed bitter tears as he looked at the different photos. He could not believe that his boy was dead. He and his son had never truly been as close as he wanted to be, he blamed himself for that. Peter Carrol’s childhood was no cakewalk. Raised in New York, he had to fight for any success. Peter was determined to succeed in life, and so he had never given up. With each opportunity he squeezed out a double return. He would never forget how hard it was to become the man he was today. “You have never said good night to me. Never in my life” Peter decided a long time ago that his son would not be raised as a spoiled child. No, his son would grow up and learn how to work for success. And so, ever since little Ryan Carrol was born, Peter gave him no breaks. Anything Ryan did, it had to be perfect, otherwise Peter would force upon Ryan countless chores and homework problems. Eventually, Ryan was able to become more and more of a man. Ryan learned values the hard way, just as Peter had. Ryan learned the power and the importance of money, the gentlemanly manners, all aspects of academic life, and music. Music gave Ryan a secret sanctuary in which he could be free. His father had never played an instrument, and so music was where Ryan could be free of criticism, hard looks, and constant pressure. It was that sense of freedom that propelled Ryan to become a piano prodigy. Every musical concert, Peter would sit in the back of the room, smiling in pure pride as his son dazzled the audience. However, when Ryan approached him, beaming, waiting to be congratulated, Peter would turn stony-faced, and simply nod and say “good.” Eventually Ryan gave up on his father, and after concerts, he would talk with other musicians, and not even give a glance toward his father. Peter had pushed too far. Ryan no longer looked upon Peter as a father, but as a fierce enemy. One night, Peter and Ryan got into a huge argument, and Ryan broke down. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he and his father argued about Ryan’s upbringing. At the end, Ryan stormed up the stairs, but halfway, he turned back and looked at his father, and coldly said, “You call yourself a father. You have never said good night to me. Never in my life.” It was those words that struck the most pain in Peter’s heart. He slowly realized the truth in the words. Even when Ryan was a small boy, he had never said good night to him. He sat alone in the kitchen, thinking about his son. One could not argue against the fact that Peter’s raising technique had seriously helped Ryan. Ryan was now a high school senior, valedictorian, student-council president, A-plus student, a dedicated scientist and had received acceptance letters from every single Ivy League school. Peter decided that the reward Ryan would harvest was much more important than the suffering he was going through now. Thus, Peter decided to continue his harsh upbringing of Ryan; however, he vowed that he would start saying good night to his son. The summer slipped by, and each night, Peter would realize that he had forgotten to say good night. This lasted all four years of Ryan’s stay in Harvard, and then the next three years Ryan spent in medical school. Within those seven years, Ryan had maintained a sparse relationship with his father. After Ryan graduated from medical school, he came back to visit his father. He thought that after seven years, his father would have changed. He was wrong. As he walked through the door, he expected a surprise party, with all his friends congratulating him, and shaking his hand. Instead, he walked in and found his father sitting alone at the counter reading the newspaper. Disappointed, and angered, Ryan simply walked to his old room and shut the door. What he did not know, was that hours before Ryan’s arrival, Peter had called everyone he knew and told them of Ryan’s graduation from medical school. That night, the father and son discussed Ryan’s plans for the future. Peter wanted Ryan to go on and become a big CEO of a pharmaceutical company. Ryan, on the other hand, wanted to help people himself. After an hour of discussion, Ryan stood and said, “Dad, I’ve already made up my mind. I was approached by a team of doctors from India when I was in med school. I’m going to India to help the people there. I’m leaving next week.” Peter was shocked. How could Ryan do this? Years flowed from Peter’s eyes, as he apologized for every harsh moment in their relationship How could he waste his education and his effort in India? But before Peter could refute, Ryan said good night and walked away. Peter merely grunted to Ryan’s farewell. Ryan chuckled and said, “There you are, Dad, same as always.” Peter didn’t understand at first, but an hour later he realized what had happened. Once again, he had forgotten to say good night. Ryan arrived in India the following Sunday, and was amazed at the clash of cultures that faced him. It was obvious the West had influence here, but the Indian culture was just as strong. He found his way to the hospital that he was to join. There, he saw the team of doctors he had met at med school. He worked alongside these doctors for three years. Together they faced the problems and sicknesses that arose
