My Burton had a taste for dramatics. Her daily schedule was crammed full of acting lessons, ballet, and auditions. Her room overflowed with masks, stage makeup, and old playbills. Every day after school she would walk over to the acting studio where she took musical theater classes. Often, she would come home with amazing news about her budding career. Her parents knew how much she loved the spotlight. They knew of her ability to mold herself into any role, to put her heart into what she was doing. But Amy felt that, if she could be seen in a different way, her talent could shine more brightly. She soon found a way to be a shining star while mending a broken heart. However, it wasn’t how she had planned. “Amy! It’s time to go!” called Mom. It was April 28, Amy’s twelfth birthday, and they were going to New York’s Hollywood—Broadway. They would see Phantom of the Opera, eat at the best diner in town, and ride the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. Amy was so excited she practically fell down the stairs. She had on her favorite stargazing (as she called it) outfit—bright pink flares, a white chenille sweater, and open-toe jellies. Like a filmstrip, she was ready to roll. The pair climbed into the family’s blazing blue Chevy and blasted up the music. The spring air nipped at their cheeks and Amy’s hair sparkled yellow in the sunlight. “Sweetie,” said Mom, “before we go, I’d like to stop over at Rolesrose and pick up that crystal necklace your dad bought me.” “How’s it look, honey?” Mom yelled over the buzz of the cash register “Sure, Mom,” Amy replied, and off they went. Rolesrose was an antique shop owned by a cute old lady named Edna Berg. She seemed to have many secrets, as did her shop. It accommodated everything from glass elephants to Barbies in prom gowns to ship models and exotic souvenirs. The car stopped with a jolt, and the twosome jumped out and opened the rusty door of “antique paradise.” Amy wandered over to where the old movie cameras were. But it wasn’t the cameras she thought whimsically delightful. It was the jewelry box made of pink stained glass that fascinated Amy. A rainbow of delicately beaded figures, representing dancing women, dangled off the sides. On the top was a set of brass comedy and tragedy masks trimmed with turquoise rhinestones. Inside were various gem compartments. Amy’s fingers crawled gently over the smooth glass and the colorful beads. The brass mask models on the dazzling box seemed to glitter and glow. Next to this box, on the same dusty shelf, was a showcased jade elephant, its varnish glinting in the dim light. Although the bright jade color was beautiful, the elephant didn’t have the same magical beauty that the jewel box had. It didn’t have the shine, the shimmer, the feeling. However, Edna Berg often referred to this elephant as her husband’s favorite. Mr. Berg claimed it took him down nostalgia lane, back to when he fought in the Korean War. Amy looked over to where her mother was, trying on an iridescent string of crystals. “How’s it look, honey?” Mom yelled over the buzz of the cash register. Then her voice broke into a whisper. “Daddy has good taste, don’t you think?” She raised her eyebrows and Amy chuckled. “Well, he found you, didn’t he, Mom?” Her mother smiled, then turned back to the mirror. Amy turned back to her thoughts, too. Hmmmm, she thought. After all the times she had visited Rolesrose, she had never gathered up enough courage to look at the price of the box she admired. Today’s the day, she thought. Besides, nothing will ruin my day. It’s my birthday! Her hand skated across the shelf the box was on with excitement, feeling for the back of the box because the shelf was so cluttered. Catching mental hold of where it ended width-wise, she edged her way carefully around to the back of the shelf. Peering through the clutter, her eye caught hold of the familiar twinkle of the jewel box. She reached in carefully and began pulling out the prized object. With an abrupt motion, her hand froze. Her nail had gotten stuck on something. She jiggled her hand back and forth and realized that in order to get the box she would have to yank it out of its place. She began to pull and felt her nail split, but her burning desire to take a peek at the jewel box’s price erased the pain. She jerked the box from the shelf and sighed a breath of relief. But before her smile had a chance to appear, she heard a glassy crash. Startled, Amy winced. She twirled around and fixed her gaze on what had fallen. It was the jade elephant! Amy’s mouth burned; her eyes stung with pity and anger. How could she break something as valuable as this? Amy quickly began sweeping up the pieces with her sandals. She could take them home secretly and glue them together. But the right thing to do, she knew, was to tell the truth. Yet how could this one girl, who broke the most precious thing in an old man’s life, tell the truth? Amy drew near the tear-streaked face of Edna Berg, who had seen the crash and looked as broken apart as the elephant itself. “I’m so sorry,” Amy said in tears. “I promise I’ll replace it.” There was a long pause, interrupted by a raspy voice. “It’s not the money,” Edna sobbed. “It’s that my husband held it so close to his heart.” Amy bit her tongue. “I didn’t know how much it meant to him,” she lied. She stroked Edna’s arm to comfort her. “The truth is, sweetheart,” the woman began, “my husband is very sick. The doctor said he has had another stroke and is becoming weaker every day.” The poor woman collapsed
September/October 2001
That Small Whisper
“How did you sleep last night?” my sister Rose asks. She tosses back her honey-brown hair and hands me the breakfast bowl she just washed. “OK,” I reply, rinsing it, “but I woke up with a headache.” Rose is eleven, three years older than me, and usually we get along well. But today I am feeling grumpy. “I didn’t sleep too well,” says Rose, “because you were wiggling around and had most of the blankets.” Immediately, I rush to my defense. “I did not have all the blankets! They were just as much on your side!” “I didn’t say you had all the blankets,” she says. “You meant it though!” Rose makes an impatient splash in the dishwater and I am silent. Standing tiptoe on my yellow footstool, I glance over the soapy bowl at her. Looking innocent in her teddy-bear nightgown, she scrubs dishes fiercely until her patience returns. But, yes, gazing intently at her, I can tell that she, with her rosy-cheeked face looking so sweet, is plotting the great evil she is going to do. Today she will try to steal more blankets to her side when we make the bed. I know she is scheming, getting ready to make her move and probably even sorting out words to put me in the wrong. I look back down at the bowl I am rinsing. I had better be ready and have my argument prepared. “How did you sleep last night?” my sister Rose asks “Let’s make the bed now,” says Rose, emptying the blue dish tub and wiping the counter. “All right.” You certainly aren’t always that anxious to make the bed, I think. I’ll expose you before you have a chance to rejoice in your success. But as we trudge up the carpeted stairs, my conscience bothers me. Do the blankets really matter that much? And as we round the corner to our bedroom an annoying thought tickles my brain. Just apologize for wiggling so much and let her have more bedspread. But I instantly shove the thought away. No! She shouldn’t get away with this. We remove the pink pillows and blankets from the bed. I have to put her in her place, I think, as we spread the sheets and blankets back on. After smoothing them down, the time has come for me to expose her. Something whispers to me, “Don’t!” but I ignore it again and, peering at her side, I exclaim, “Rose! You have more blankets on your side!” She glances up, astonished. What fake surprise, I think. “No I don’t,” she replies calmly. “You do too. Come look.” Coming to my side of the bed she says, “You have just as much as I do, maybe more!” “Oh yeah?” With my hands, I measure the bedspread that hangs over my side and hold up my hands for her to see. “Now go measure your side,” I command. Obediently she returns to her side and measures in the same way, but when her hands are held up, I can tell (oh the evilness of it!), she has made her hands closer together on purpose. “See?” she says. “No! You made your hands closer together!” “All right,” she retorts hotly, “if you don’t believe me, get the ruler!” Rose’s patience has run out and her brown eyes begin to spark. As I march angrily to our desk to get the ruler, I glance at her side of the bed again. Uh-oh. Maybe she doesn’t have more. Maybe today she hadn’t been planning to steal more bedspread! Maybe . . . but of course, we have to be sure. Oh, I should not have started this mess. The tension bears down as we measure her side of the bedspread. The ruler reads 11 ¾ inches. “Are you still sure I have more?” Rose says, glaring at me. “Ye- . . . Yes.” Actually, I’m not sure. But I have to stick to my story. Now to measure my side. The pressure is so thick I can barely see. My heart begins to pound and perspiration dots my upper lip as Rose presses the ruler to the blankets. I hang back, afraid to look, my legs trembling. What if I have more? “Twelve inches!” Rose announces triumphantly. No! It can’t be! I refuse to accept it. “Let me see!” I insist, trying to sound overpowering, and I snatch the ruler from her hands to measure for myself. But the ruler still reads twelve inches. I sigh. Not daring to look at her, I slam the ruler back on the desk and, pursing my lips, I stalk out of the room. After tramping angrily about for a while, I lean heavily against the wall. Why did I ever start that argument? How I want to go back and start over. I should have listened to my conscience. It was just a small whisper, but it sure would have saved a lot of trouble. And as I cool off and think back, I am thankful that my conscience still pricks and annoys me. Peering into the room, I see Rose slamming drawers as she gets ready for the day. It looks as if I’ve spoiled her morning. I swallow hard and go in to apologize. Neva Pederson, 13Agua DuIce, California Alice Feng, 12North Potomac, Maryland
My Friend
Tap, tap, tap. The light drizzle sprinkled upon my window. I stood up and ran downstairs. “Yes! Only one more hour till eight. My favorite show ‘Rocket Power’ will be on.” I skipped into the living room and grabbed my Gameboy off the top shelf. While doing this I thought about how nice it was on rainy days like this. My parents couldn’t make me go outside. I poured my cornflakes into the bowl. I looked with my dark blue eyes down into the bowl. Wow! Those pieces of cereal are like the stones that sink in the next level of Nintendo. I thought of all this while playing my game on Gameboy. The milk would be the lava I would sink in. I stopped the game and ate my cereal slowly, imagining each spoonful another monster jumping out of the lava and killing me. I did this for quite a while until my cereal got soggy. I took my plate to the sink and looked at the clock. Still half an hour to go. Ten minutes later my parents got up. They ate breakfast. With only two minutes to go, I ran into the TV room and flipped on the TV. “Rocket Power” had just started. I lay down on the soft leather couch and lay there with my eyes half closed. “Frederick,” called my father Leonard. “We don’t have any more wood for the fire.” I saw Leonard’s face peek around the door. “That means you’ve gotta help.” “But Dad . . .” I saw the squirrel in the mother hawk’s beak. She was about to feed it to her young “No buts about it. It’ll only take half an hour.” ” . . . in half an hour, my show will be over.” “Do you want to freeze to death?” I snapped off the TV and walked out of the room with my head down. I flung a jacket around me and stomped outside. “Ahhh, but it’s raining,” I said with a grin, and turned around. “No. The rain has stopped. Now it’s just foggy.” I slowly walked down the stairs, trying to think of an excuse. The chill stung me like needles. The little autumn light that there was cast an image through the skeletons of trees. I finally made it to the corner of the field where all the wood was kept. I saw my father breaking through the fog with the rusty wheelbarrow from the barn. When he got to where I was standing, I started throwing wood into the wheelbarrow. When it was so full that not one more log could fit in it, he took it back to the house to empty. He took his time, as if trying to make me suffer. Once he had disappeared into the fog, something else caught my eye. It was from above me. When I looked up, I saw a small animal with a big gray bushy tail. A squirrel. It darted from branch to branch. I followed it down to the creek. Every once in a while it would stop to groom itself. When it got to the creek, it noticed me. Such a fascinating creature, climbing head first down the trunk of an old oak, every few minutes glancing up at me. When it reached the ground, it hesitantly came toward me. After it was about three feet away from me, I reached out to pat it. It scampered away frantically. I waited patiently for the squirrel to sneak back out of the blackberry bush. It did with a cautious look, its eyes staring at me the whole time. Slowly, it sat down next to me. I reached out a quivering hand, its eyes closed. Now I could feel the warmth of the animal’s fur. Suddenly, a flash of feathers was flung into my face, and a small squeaking sound filled the forest. When the feathers left, the squirrel was gone. I looked up to see a red-tailed hawk with the squirrel clenched between its talons. I followed the vicious bird to its huge nest of leaves and sticks. The scraggly bundle was literally five feet long and two feet thick. The bird landed as I started to climb the big pine. I kept an eye on the nest until I reached it. I had a grip on the tree as I peeked over the edge. Three little cotton balls were bouncing up and down, looking as if their heads were attached to loose springs. I saw the squirrel in the mother hawk’s beak. She was about to feed it to her young. She saw me! Her yellow eyes glared at me with an awkward stare. I ducked and clung to the tree like it was my mother. The hawk dropped the half-dead squirrel into the nest and peered over the edge. She couldn’t see me, so she started digging into her nest; I peered over the other side of the scruffled nest to see the birds from behind and all three youngsters staring at her. No one was looking at the squirrel but me. I snatched the squirrel and felt a pecking at my back. I lost my balance and fell, fell and fell till I hit the ground, felt the squirrel leave my hands and everything went black. Slowly my eyes opened, but sharply squinted as the sun reached into my pupils. I rolled into the shade of the dark pine. The damp ground comforted me. “What time is it? Where am I? Why am I here? Wasn’t I just chopping wood with my father?” I slowly got up from the leaf-carpeted soil, trying to think why I was in the middle of the forest. I looked up and saw a grungy nest. In the back of my mind I could remember a bird, a hawk, with something in its sharp talons. It was a smaller animal, shaking and squeaking. I just couldn’t remember what. I dazedly walked home, trying
