Gloria took another deep breath, no luck. The thick musty air still hung heavy in her room, meek rays of sunlight crept out through the slits in the door and captured millions of dust particles surrounding her. She managed to force open a window that had been painted shut, which only served to create more dust, and to her dismay the air outside was just as smothering. Gloria dug through one of her suitcases and found her copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Following the words with her finger, she picked up where she had left off. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer’s day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum. Angrily, she shoved the book under her mattress, closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Unfortunately, the last task was just as difficult as the first because as soon she had rested her head, the door flew open, revealing her oddly well-intentioned aunt. Aunt Daisy was a round woman with rosy cheeks and strawberry- blond hair, and she was a woman who would never be seen in public without some form of makeup on. “Glory, child! Look at how late it is and you’re still in bed! Now why don’tcha go on down to the Dixie Maid and meet yourself some friends.” The window at the far end of the room provided the best view in the entire world “Why don’t you knock first?” Aunt Daisy looked hurt for a second, and then changed the subject. “What about some cake? The least you can do is eat something; put some meat on them bones.” “Whatever.” Aunt Daisy waddled down the stairs and then back up again, this time with a glass of cold milk and a piece of iced lemon cake arranged on her best china. She set them down and kept talking. “Listen Glory, now I know thatcha would rather be somewheres else right about now. But there ain’t nothing I can do till you want to talk about it.” “Later.” “Oh. Well all right then, y’all just give a shout out if you need anything.” “Yeah.” She turned to leave and then stopped as if remembering something. “Uh, this evening I’m going over to Susanna’s house for our weekly bridge game, it’ll just be us and a couple others. Her number’s on the table if there’s an emergency.” “OK…” Oblivious to Gloria’s mood, she continued her conversation. “You know, you have my permission to go on out tonight. I hear that there’s a new picture out.” “A picture?” “What do you children call it… um… a film.” “I’m not a child, I’m almost sixteen.” “I know that. One last thing and I’ll leave. I just wanted you to know that your room’s going to be ready soon. So you can leave this dirty little attic.” Gloria noticed the way she turned up her nose on the word attic, and she stifled a laugh at the thought of the pigsty Aunt Daisy called her bedroom. “I’m fine with this room.” In truth, Gloria disliked everything about that place except for one thing. The window at the far end of the room provided the best view in the entire world. Looking through it felt like she had gone back in time, back to when she was in New Jersey with her parents and sister. When she looked through the window she could see the fields of white daisies, red roses and golden marigolds framed by the beautiful birch trees, which her father had planted ten summers ago. With all of the low points about living with her aunt, she wouldn’t even consider leaving her one source of comfort. “Now are y’all sure?” “Yes,” she said impatiently. Finally, Aunt Daisy took the hint. Gathering what was left of her dignity, she swaggered out of the door, which was barely big enough to allow her safe exit. Gloria couldn’t help but laugh as her aunt squeezed through the narrow doorway and continued down the stairs. Once she was certain that her aunt was gone and not coming back she fell back onto her bed and got lost within her dreams. Caramel light filled the room and the air no longer seemed so very hot. She rubbed her eyes drowsily and glanced at her watch, which read 5:35. She got dressed slowly and crept downstairs. The first thing she noticed was the Rolodex, which stood in the middle of the table and served no purpose other than to cast shadows beside itself The porch light was on in anticipation of the approaching darkness. It was at this moment she realized that she was alone. “Aunt Daisy!” she called out. No answer. She felt a wave of boredom and decided to step outside into the fading Alabama day Once she had done so, she immediately regretted it. Everything seemed to slow down to a molasses-type pace and she could get a view of the entire town with one glance. Then she felt herself being carried away, past the local high school, past the town center and past the weeping willow trees, which marked the entrance to the town without a name. Sprays of ocean water licked her cheeks and she emerged from her dreamlike state. Questions ran through her mind like wildfire and she searched the beach for signs of civilization. The sun had set completely and the only lights visible came from the lighthouse, which stood amongst the rocks. At a speed never before reached, she sprinted towards the light, realizing that the person there could be her only hope. The stairs, which led to the top of the lighthouse, seemed endless and creaked more with each passing second. Now her
November/December 2006
Patrick’s Boots
One day in 2003, when I was in fifth grade, Ms. Brune partnered me with Brandon so we could quiz each other for an upcoming test. The desks were pulled into pairs, facing each other. I was glad we were by the window because it was hot that day Brandon sat on his feet the way he normally did, playing with his pencils. I sat cross-legged on my chair. We weren’t concentrating very hard because we knew we could study at home. We started talking about the war in Iraq; that’s all anyone talked about. It was on the news every night. Teachers talked about it in hallways when they thought we weren’t listening. Brandon said that one of his relatives had been in Iraq and was killed by a bomb. I told him that my Aunt Kerri had been there over the summer, but she had come home fine with lots of pictures to show. He said I was lucky. I always look forward to Aunt Kerri’s visits. She says “Hey Kiddo!” and gives me a hug. She travels to cool places and has cool stories to tell. In 2003 she had been to Iraq as part of her job. I noticed right away that her hair had grown longer. She arrived at our house with her laptop computer, her camera, and a plastic bag with some Iraqi money. The money was orange and green and had Saddam Hussein’s portrait on it. We sat on the couch and looked at pictures. She complained about jet lag, but she didn’t seem tired. She pointed excitedly at the pictures, explaining what they were. Some were taken from helicopters whose cockpits looked small and uncomfortable, though their rotors looked large and disproportional. In one picture Aunt Kerri was standing in the hatchway of a humvee by a machine gun. In another she was dressed in camouflage, like a soldier, wearing a helmet and holding a rifle. She was smiling. We started talking about the war in Iraq; that’s all anyone talked about The next year, when I was in sixth grade, Mom read in Mom-mom’s and Poppop’s church newsletter that we could send care packages to soldiers who were from her hometown of Bel Air, Maryland. She started gathering things for a soldier named Patrick Adle. He was the nephew of one of Mom-mom’s co-workers. The newsletter said to send foot powder and Chapstick, earplugs to keep the sand out of his ears, and other toiletries. The box sat on the dining room table until she had all the stuff together. Then she packed it up and sealed it with a lot of packing tape. Two months later the package arrived back on our doorstep. When Mom picked me up from school that day, I wanted to tell her about a good grade I got on my math test. Before I could start she told me that the package had come back. When we got home the box was still on the porch. It was dented, the corners pushed in. There was more tape over the tape we had put on. Written on the package in black marker was the word DECEASED. Mom called her mother. She was almost crying. Her voice was higher than usual. We had found out a couple of weeks before that Patrick had been killed in action, but we weren’t expecting the package to come back. We thought they would give the things to somebody else who could use them. For me it was a new thing to feel sad about somebody I didn’t know. In the summer of 2005, we went on vacation to Seattle where it was sunny and cool. When we got back to Baltimore, it was hot and humid. Mom-mom and Pop-pop picked us up at the airport. I sat in the back seat with Mom-mom. It was dark outside; street lamps cast bars of light across the seats. The air conditioning was on high; I was shivering. I wanted to tell Mom-mom about my trip, but Mom-mom and Pop-pop had been on a trip, too. They had been to Philadelphia where they visited a memorial to honor soldiers killed in Iraq. The memorial included the boots of some of the fallen. Patrick Adle’s boots were there. It was obvious Mom-mom wanted to talk. Her voice was quieter than usual, her hands were still. She had held Patrick’s boots in her hands. I think the war impacts us through the things that have been to Iraq and have come back. Johanna Guilfoyle, 12Baltimore, Maryland Ashley Whitesides, 12Grand Junction, Colorado
Mountain
Pure, dazzling white Miles of ice blend with miles of snow and snow-covered rock which can be deadly if you don’t know where to look A solitary climber winds his way up this mountain stopping only now and then to adjust his tinted snow goggles This high up he almost feels ill overwhelmed by the sheer altitude of this mountain which he has come to love in a way as his own the altitude of his mountain can do this to people — make them feel so ill that they never make it up to the summit but he will he vows this to himself Each step is a mountain in itself the snow is quicksand it wants to drag him down with every step he takes but he fights back and wins this battle thinking only of the summit the very top oh the view from the summit nothing else is on his mind not even the ever-diminishing speed of his steps He sees the snow is ending—could it be the summit is only fifty yards away? He quickens his pace His struggles are pushed like mere toys to the back of his mind with one last step a step taken more by determination and resolve than by the energy of his body and his feet He reaches the summit and looks down Emily Riippa,13Grand Rapids, Michigan
