The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill, by Megan Frazer Blakemore; Bloomsbury Children’s Books: New York, 2015; $7.99 In 1953 Hazel Kaplansky is a fifth-grader who wants badly to be a detective. She has read all the Nancy Drew books in her library, feels that she is the perfect sleuth, and is prepared to solve any mystery that comes her way. But none ever do. Until… rumors of communist spies in Hazel’s own town, Maple Hill, begin to float around. Hazel is very eager to help find these potential spies. Finally, she will have something interesting to put in her so far boring Mysteries Notebook. So when she has a hunch that Mr. Jones, the hired gravedigger at the cemetery that her parents run, is up to no good, she starts doing some sleuthing. With the help of Samuel, a new boy in town, who is maybe, possibly, even smarter than Hazel, she uncovers many clues, but, as Samuel says, no concrete evidence. Even though there is no solid evidence, Hazel is absolutely sure “The Comrade,” as she calls Mr. Jones, is a spy. Otherwise, how can the locked safes he receives from Mr. Short, the father of a mean girl in Hazel’s class, be explained? Or the objects he leaves at a grave? This grave, marked “Alice, Ten Years Old,” seems to be a drop-off spot for information. Then there is the mystery of Samuel himself. Everyone seems to know something about his mother that they won’t tell Hazel. Even Hazel’s classmates know. Hazel wants to find out and believes Samuel’s mother must be a communist spy. Then Hazel realizes that thinking every other person in her town is a spy is getting her nowhere, and she is hurting more than one person’s feelings. I connected to Hazel a lot, because I live in Vermont like she does, and I like to climb trees, ride my bike, and I am in fifth grade. Also, she is something of a tomboy, as am I. The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill got me interested McCarthyism and the Red Scare. I did some research about the time period, and I thought it was interesting to learn about when some people were afraid the U.S. would become a communist nation, and Senator Joseph McCarthy made their fears seem real. When I asked my grandfather about the Red Scare and how it affected his family, he said what he most remembered were extended hearings on television almost every day, where Senator McCarthy sat, making accusations. Also, he said a local priest, who was determined to root out all communists, accused the principal at the high school he went to of having communist ties. It was neat talking to him and hearing about what he remembered from the early 1950s. I liked learning about a time that seems long ago about which I formerly knew so little. I really loved this book because I changed my mind so many times. Sometimes I thought Hazel was completely correct, and everyone else was wrong; sometimes I was convinced Hazel was not being observant enough, and she might be mistaken. My favorite thing about this book was that it has a surprise ending. The ending was not at all what I imagined. Also, the author did something very rare: she ended this book in the perfect place. I do not think this book needs a sequel at all, not even an epilogue, because the end is entirely satisfactory. Adelle C. Macdowell, 11Johnson, Vermont
November/December 2015
Thank You, Mr. Huffington
“Awesome!” Mr. Huffington said, clapping his hands OCTOBER Come on, Josh,” Mom urged one day. “It won’t kill you if you join band.” “Yes, it will,” I retorted. “I’ll take away your video games,” Mom threatened. “OK, fine!” I finally gave in after weeks of argument. “I’m sure the way to fit in at my new school is to be a band geek, so that’s exactly what I’ll be. Then you’ll be happy.” “Josh, we both know that’s not what this is about,” Mom said sharply. I grabbed my comic book from the table, ran to my room, and slammed the door behind me. I jumped onto my bed and crossed my legs. Angrily, I flipped the pages, sighing and shaking my head. Mom never got me. Not since I turned ten, not since we moved, not since I joined fifth grade, and especially not since Dad died. I lay there for a while, staring miserably at a small chip in the ceiling. Then I heard Mom call, “Josh, time for dinner!” Glancing at my watch, I realized an hour had passed. I threw my comic book off my stomach and ran to the kitchen. Mom was listening to those jazz recordings, like always, though she turned them off quickly when I entered the room. Another hour passed, and Mom and I had finished dinner without speaking one word to each other. I went back to my room and resumed my position on the bed, until the chip in the ceiling started getting blurry. My eyelids got heavy. “Good night, Mom,” I murmured. I fell asleep in my clothes but woke up when I heard Mom shuffling into my room. I closed my eyes again and pretended to be asleep. Mom ruffled my hair and kissed my forehead. It was just as well she was acting so affectionate. By tomorrow, I’d be a band geek. By tomorrow, she would have ruined my life. The next day, a teacher I had never seen before sauntered into my classroom, so tall he had to duck through the doorway to get in. He had gelled-back brown hair, brown eyes, and a huge smile, one that lit up the whole room. His smile almost made me smile. But then that grinning, very tall man introduced himself. “Hi, everyone. I’m Mr. Huffington, the band teacher.” Mr. Huffington talked excitedly for forty-five minutes straight, hardly taking a breath, about how awesome it was to be in band. The strange thing was, hearing and watching him, I started feeling like maybe being around a guy like that would almost make being a band geek worthwhile in the end. * * * MARCH Five months had passed since I joined band with Mr. Huffington. I was OK with going early every Wednesday morning for practice. I was OK with lugging my trumpet case up and down the stairs every Friday for trumpet lessons. I wasn’t crazy about it all, but it was OK. I wasn’t suffering or anything, at least not the way I do in math. But I wasn’t very good at the trumpet. I was trying hard but just wasn’t getting the feel for it. The band was scheduled to play at the fifth-grade graduation in June. I’d told everybody I was going to play, and now I couldn’t just drop out, but I wouldn’t be allowed to play unless I got better. So I tried even harder. And absolutely nothing happened. “Come on, Josh,” Mr. Huffington said encouragingly one particularly frustrating Friday afternoon. “Curl in your lips. Let your air take over.” I took a deep breath and let the air flow through my curled lips. To my surprise, I hit a pretty high note. “Awesome!” Mr. Huffington said, clapping his hands. “That was High C. Just try to aim a little lower, for G.” “OK,” I said, suddenly feeling more confident. I aimed lower and got G. “Good!” exclaimed Mr. Huffington. “You’ll be playing like a pro in no time.” “How long is no time?” I asked. “Because I have to play at graduation. Do you think I’ll be able to?” “Probably,” Mr. Huffington said, “if you practice a little more.” “Hmm…” It was true I hadn’t practiced much, even when I’d wanted to practice. Often I’d pull out my rusty rental trumpet, but instead of hearing my notes flying out of it, right away I’d start to hear the notes from those recordings. My heart would get tight, my eyes would start to sting, and I’d quickly tuck the trumpet away. But if I practiced, would I ever sound like the recordings? Would I ever be that good? Was it worth it to even try? “OK,” I said doubtfully. “I’ll try to practice a little more.” “Great,” Mr. Huffington said. Then the period was over, so the half of the trumpets I practiced with on Fridays all packed up their stuff. The next half came streaming in through the door. I liked it better on Wednesday mornings, when all the trumpets played in unison. No—I liked it on Wednesday mornings, when the entire band played in unison. This March was a crisp one, not so cold as to have winter gear muffling your voice, but not too hot, where you sweat like a waterfall. It was a mellow March. The flowers were getting planted, to grow in May, and we weren’t getting too much rain—that was April’s job. I had forgotten to practice during the week, so I practiced extra the Tuesday before band. Mr. Huffington took special interest in me the next day—how I kept missing notes, struggling with my air, and how my elbows were jabbing my own ribs. How tense I was. How sweat trickled down my forehead. He took special interest in me this time—the time I was failing at the trumpet, more miserably than I ever had. He just looked. He listened. He didn’t speak. At lunch, I ate fast, threw out the white foam tray,
The Gold Pocket Watch
“I lost my watch! I lost my father!” The Eiffel Tower was the ideal pickpocketing spot. Tourists were the most likely targets because of their ignorance and trust in the locals. Much of Paris’s underworld hung around the Eiffel Tower, preying on unsuspecting, over-trusting visitors. One clean, quick, unseen swipe, and the fool had lost a possession. When that fool found out, it was much too late. Luc was a young boy, dark-haired with a lanky frame, who was quite advanced in the art of pickpocketing. He spent many of his summer afternoons going to the Eiffel Tower and preying on those unsuspecting fools. He was a regular at the Eiffel Tower but always careful enough to not get noticed as one who comes every day. Luc had seen men taken away by the police, because they were suspected of pickpocketing. If a pickpocket was to survive the racket, he must be alert and cautious at all times. Luc solved this problem by wearing a variety of baseball caps, so he would remain inconspicuous and look like a different boy every day. He would use his different caps and various disguises to look like an American. One day, on the observation deck at the Eiffel Tower, Luc was observing his next target and was liking what he saw. The target was an old man, too busy seeing the gorgeous view to notice anything else. The old man was very tall and seemed calm and collected. Judging by his facial features, Luc guessed that the old man was German. Indeed the view was gorgeous, and it distracted many people. This was ideal for pickpocketing. The Eiffel Tower was crowded on the observation deck, so “accidentally” bumping into someone was a great excuse, and it always worked for Luc. The old man was looking east in the direction of Notre Dame and was not guarding his valuables. He was one of the tourists who had too much trust and knew nothing about survival. It was a warm, sunny day, which also benefited Luc, because the sun blinded his victims. Now, the question was what to steal from the old man. The old man had a gold pocket watch that was hanging out of his pocket. Luc had never seen such a prize. The pocket watch looked old and valuable. Of course, it might not be authentic, but if it was, it would sell for a lot of money. Luc decided to take the chance. He moved in to get a closer position. The trick to good pickpocketing is to move slowly and not go for the victim immediately. One needs to approach cautiously and not arouse suspicion. Luc made his way over to the old man carefully, stopping every so often, as though he too was interested in the sights. He was not interested in the sights. His eye was always on the prize. The old man walked away from him, towards the west side of the tower, but Luc was not worried. He would catch him eventually. He always did. The old man was talking jovially to a guide and his guard was down. Luc wanted that pocket watch. It was just swinging in the old man’s pocket, taunting him, willing him to come and get it. Luc was not going to fail now. Mercy was for the weak and soft. Why was it that no one suspected Luc? Was it because he was a child, and children are trusted more? That is one of the mysteries of life: children are marked as immature and naive in the world of adults. Luc broke through the wide corridor packed with many tourists and was at last alone with the old man. But this would not do. It was far too obvious if he was the only one around the old man. The old man would suspect him immediately, and that would be the end of the road for Luc. Luc would have to wait for a while. The old man seemed to have no intention of leaving the spot he was infatuated with, so Luc wanted to be productive while he waited. With an experienced eye, Luc quickly and confidently selected his new victim for the meantime: a middle-aged woman, on the other side of the tower, with her purse unclasped. It seemed almost too perfect, which caused Luc to hesitate. But a pickpocket needed also to be confident in his work. So, he took his running start, to make it look like he was that naive, ignorant boy that all adults expected him to be. He ran into the woman and at the same time, with a concise swipe of his hand, took her wallet. He apologized to her, but she just muttered, “Boys.” It took some time, like it always did, but it was finally announced over the loudspeaker. “Warning: Pickpockets are active in the tower!” Luc grinned at these words, knowing that his job was done. Now, he needed to find his main target: the old man with the gold pocket watch. Luc was a little nervous, because he was running out of time, and he was no closer to getting the gold pocket watch than he was when he first discovered it. He closed in on the old man and was finally in a good position. As he passed by the old man, he snatched that gold pocket watch right out of the old man’s pocket, and the old man didn’t even blink an eye! Luc was pleased with his success and was in high spirits while he made his way to the lift. As Luc stood in line for the lift, he looked behind him and saw the old man walking slowly to the lift. Luc willed the line to go faster. The last thing he needed right now was the old man to foil his plan. After what seemed like an eternity, the lift came back up. As the people in line began to file
