We all got quiet, admiring her beauty It was finally spring in the woods of Montana. The bitter coldness had ended at last, and not only was the temperature warmer, but also the hearts of those who lived there. Bozeman, a chocolate-brown horse, was about to have a baby. Her life as a rodeo horse was over, for she had retired months ago. One day, her beautiful foal arrived. Here’s how the day went… “Mama, Mama, is Bozeman OK?” I, the owner’s daughter, asked. “Max, Bozeman’s foal is being born!” Mrs. Andrews cried to her husband. Mr. Andrews ran out to the pasture and saw a little foal, seconds old, lying in the itchy grass. Even though the foal was covered in slime and looked very ugly, Mr. Andrews could see the kindness in her eyes. “What’s her name going to be, Daddy?” I asked, when my mother came out. “She deserves a very special name, Addi. So, I’m going to name her Missoula,” explained Daddy with confidence. Just as Mr. Andrews said Missoula, her head lifted up, making her look even more real. We all got quiet, admiring her beauty. We didn’t talk for the rest of that day, and that is how that one magical day went. * * * Missoula was growing up livelier by the day. She walked around the pasture where she was born every day to visit her mother. She was very kind, especially with me and my friends. One day, Mr. Levi, the Andrews’ friend, came. “Come on in, Mr. Levi,” said Mr. Andrews through the moaning screen door. “Max! May I meet Missoula, please?” asked Mr. Levi. “Sure! I still can’t believe you came all the way from Joplin, Missouri!” Dad said, leading him to Missoula’s pasture. Right as Missoula saw Mr. Levi, she steadily walked over, very curiously. I ran out and gave Missoula a big hug. Missoula lovingly and lightly nudged my neck, letting her kindness shine brighter than the sun. “In two weeks, we are sending her off to rodeo training,” Mr. Andrews explained. Mr. Levi’s face turned red. “Rodeo? Rodeo training? The sweetest horse I ever did meet, and rodeo?” “What’s wrong with a rodeo?” I asked. “It’s what her mama did,” explained Mrs. Andrews. “Please, please, please send her to be a therapy horse at my hippotherapy ranch!” begged Mr. Levi. “Only for one month, but if my dear Missoula isn’t happy there, she’ll go straight to rodeo training,” my daddy said, very sternly. “Great!” called out Mr. Levi. “What is hippotherapy?” I asked, worried poor Missoula wouldn’t be happy. “Well, it helps kids with different diagnoses to improve posture, and many other important things,” Mr. Levi explained. “Addi, we especially need therapy horses now because the tornado wiped out more than half of them,” Mr. Levi said, trying to put an end to my jealousy, which was bubbling hotter and hotter. I thought about how terrible it would be if Missoula got swept up by another tornado. My jealousy exploded. “I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m really mad that another kid gets to ride my dear Missoula!” “Addi,” Mother said softly. “These children have Down syndrome, autism, brain injuries, and so much more. Don’t be selfish.” Just then, my jealousy went away. There are so many bad characteristics in this world, but selfishness is one of the worst. “Put Missoula to good use,” I said, not angry now, but rather proud. “She deserves it.” * * * Five days after Mr. Levi had left, the air was misty and gray, and a certain sadness loomed that fit the mood. Tomorrow Missoula was leaving, but now I was glad and I even knew who was riding her. The girl’s name was Sammy, and she was very smart. She had mild autism. We sent letters back and forth. She said she has always dreamed of riding a horse. I said I was really happy to fulfill her dreams. I wasn’t lying, not even the tiniest bit. I mean, I knew that Missoula was leaving, so why not help a girl my age with autism? And everyone knows that after every storm a beautiful rainbow appears. The only one who was sad now was Bozeman, who seemed to know that Missoula was leaving. I went to bed instantly, and it seemed like only a snap of the fingers before I woke up. I gave Missoula a big kiss and told her she’d be great. She nudged me, and my biggest enemy, crying, met me again. Then, a big truck with a cage attached to it drove into our driveway, and Mr. Levi came out. I rubbed my tears and wiped them across Missoula’s back. I wanted Sammy to know me, at least a little bit. Missoula was loaded on the truck, and it slowly drifted away with Missoula now looking sadder than she ever had. I ran inside and let my wet face soak up on Mama’s dress. The beautiful lavender turned an ugly shade of purple, almost like the day. I was very upset, so I went to talk to Bozeman. “Bozeman, I know you’re sad, but I have a plan,” I said, waiting for an answer. Bozeman said, “Neigh!” as if to say, Addi, are you out of your mind? So I just sat down on the rock by the barn door and thought—until it came to me. “Bozeman,” I said, “what if we could raise enough money to go visit Missoula?” Bozeman’s eyes twinkled with delight. I dashed into the house and grabbed a piece of paper. “Help Us Raise Money to Visit Beloved Horse in Joplin,” I printed. It was beautifully decorated, so I posted it up by a tree and sat down on the top of a thick root. At first, nobody came. So I chanted, “Missoula of the mountains, Missoula of the mountains!” I left the sign up and ran inside and wrote to Sammy. Here’s what I said: Dear Sammy,
November/December 2012
Shriveled Roses
Under the gray sky In a dreary meadow, One with the trees and fallen leaves. A raven flies overhead And the cold north winds Start to creep in. But in between two oaks is where they lie. Once flourishing and lush, just like this meadow. Shriveled up, facing down With a pile of petals Upon the ground. No color left, in stem or flower, The thorns are still sharp, But no life inside them, Ready to fall, Shriveled Roses. Ethan Vranic, 12Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Not Quite as Easy as Pie
“Great job, guys!” Gabby smiled. “You made a pie!” I heard a loud bang! Followed by a “No, darn it!” I rolled my eyes, knowing Max was in the kitchen again. Clumsy, fumbling, so not-a-chef-and-never-will-be, Max. I peeked around the corner of the door frame, only to see him and his cat, Rufus, covered in flour. Rufus was not happy and bounded away, shaking flour on the floor. Gabby, Mati, and Arian stood nearby. By some miracle they had all missed the flour explosion (unlike poor Rufus), but none of them looked happy. “Really,” we all said in unison. “Really, Max?” He looked around at all of us, wearing a look that said that he knew he was an idiot, but also that we were being too judgmental. Well, duh. Gabby grabbed an apron off the oven handle and threw it to me. “C’mon let’s show them how it’s done!” she said fiercely and grabbed the now half-empty flour sack. Max explained, “Make it good, guys; this is for Mom and Dad’s anniversary.” I threw an apron in his face. “Surely you didn’t think we were doing this?” I said, emphasizing the “we.” “No,” Gabby agreed. “We’re teaching you!” she said, pointing at the three boys. Mati and Arian stepped forward, interestedly. * * * An hour later, the pie crust was rolled, four times because all three boys screwed up and their crusts fell apart. The apples had been drenched in cinnamon and sprinkled with sugar, and Arian had successfully bandaged his fingers after an apple-coring incident. Now we were ready to pinch the crusts. “OK,” I said, “now take a fork and press the tines into the edges to crimp it.” Max looked at me like I had three eyes on each ear. I rolled my eyes again. “Crimp means to make the pretty ruffle pattern that you see on pies’ edges,” I said. Bored (and slightly amused), I looked at Gabby, who was teaching Mati to poke ventilation holes in the crust. He looked happy, and I thought that was good because Gabby could be very aggressive. We both could. We were tomboys. That’s why we were here, teaching descendants of monkeys to make apple pies, instead of at the nail salon getting Sugar-and-Spice purple polish. And personally, I was glad. I turned back to Max and Arian and they were crimping away. “Very nice,” I said, clearly impressed. “Great!” They went on crimping until the whole pie was done. Then Mati, who was immensely enjoying poking ventilation holes in things, came over and did just that. The five of us looked at the pie. “Great job, guys!” Gabby smiled. “You made a pie!” The three boys smiled big cheese-eating grins. Gabby and I stood there, basking in their pride, but after a while we got so bored that I stepped in and took the pie. They didn’t notice. I popped the pie in the oven. They didn’t notice. Gabby shot a foam dart at Max’s nose. That he noticed. He smiled mischievously and shot her back. Then it turned awesome. An all-out foam dart war took over the entire house, and we only stopped when the oven timer pealed. * * * We all ran back to the kitchen, red-faced and full of adrenaline. Max dropped his gun in his haste and it landed with a loud clatter on the tile floor. Mati followed suit. Arian kept his gun in hand until he reached the counter, where he slammed it down as Gabby took the pie from the oven. Our pie came out golden-brown and flaky. It looked beautiful; better than any pie I ever made by myself. Gabby smiled at the pie, and as she was looking at it an orange dart whistled past her ear and hit the pie in the dead center. “My ventilation,” Mati screamed, a little too loudly. Gabby gripped him by the shoulders and said through her teeth, “We slaved over this pie for three hours, and all you care about is your ventilation?” Mati cringed under her gaze, but I saw a smile play on his face at her touch. I, too, smiled a little bit. “So let’s slap on the whipped cream!” Arian demanded. “We can’t yet; it’ll melt because the pie is still too hot,” Gabby said. “All right then, well, let’s decorate!” I exclaimed. “Your parents will be home soon, Max, let’s make this place nice!” So we did. We raided the wrapping paper and ribbons, created an arch of silver and red bows over the door, and draped gold streamers around everything. By the time we were done, everything was colored in bright metallic shades. Just in time, too. As I added the last bow to the arch, the door clicked open, and everyone but Max ran to hide. “Hi, honey!” I heard Max’s mom say from my place behind the bar. “What’s this?” She noticed the decorations. “It’s… something for you and Dad!” Max replied. From the tone in his voice I could tell it was taking all of his willpower not to tell. As he led his parents upstairs to more decorations, I remembered. The dart! The dart is still lodged in the pie! I thought. We have to get the dart out of the pie! I crept slowly from my hiding spot, every floorboard groaning under me. I was thankful to reach carpet, but the relief didn’t last long. Max was leading his parents back downstairs! I ran to the pie without any notion of the sounds I made. Quickly as I could, I dislodged the dart, but it left a gaping hole in the middle! The whipped cream! I thought, the whipped cream. But then Max and his mom and dad came into the kitchen. I had just enough time to snatch the pie and cream can off the counter and crouch, pie in hand, on the cold tile. Max saw me and stifled a gasp. Quickly diverting his parents,
