September/October 2003

Bloody Jack

Bloody Jack by L. A. Meyer; Harcourt, Inc.: New York, 2002; $17 Sometime in your life you most likely will experience the thrill of getting involved with something and loving it. It brings about new friends, new adventures, and sometimes even new hopes and a better life. Unfortunately, this new experience may not really be what you had overall expected. For example, many kids take up playing an instrument and get hooked on the idea of giving an exceptional concert. A lot of times the kids don’t realize that practicing and rehearsals take time and energy. I realized this after I started violin lessons! In Bloody Jack, an exciting new change also occurs. It is the eighteenth century and Mary Faber had been living on the streets in London. She is an orphan and she was living with a group of friends. The book called it a gang but I was surprised because everyone in the gang was so sweet and kind to one another and protected each other from harm. This new way to look at some gangs as being nice, substitute families touched me and now I will never look at gangs the same way again. When the leader of the family gang is mysteriously found dead in a nearby alley, Mary brushes away her grief and disguises herself as a boy. “Jacky” gets taken in on a ship going out to sea because she can read fairly well. Life starts to look up. She meets a group of boisterous boys and battles pirates, killing one and therefore earning her the name Bloody Jack. But killing is not as heroic as she had thought, and the gore and cannons terrify her. She gets sick at the beings and blood all around her. She never really got over the shock of her first real battle, as I never really got over the shock of my first time at “Laser Quest” (a game indoors where each person tries to zap another person with his or her laser gun). I related to Jacky here because I felt both overwhelmed and excited about the game at first glance. But, like Jacky, I was aghast at the idea that people were actually shooting at me! Bloody Jack is not a light read. Shootings and diabolical pirates cost lives from the ship. Jacky constantly has to watch out for her own safety, and when she relaxes she gets sexually harassed and beaten up! I had to put down this book a couple of times because the events seemed to be just too awful for me to continue. Happy experiences where Jacky was fully comfortable with what she was doing were scarce. I was disappointed that there were not a lot of passages with pure adventure. Sure, there were disputes and passages about what everyone did on the ship, but I felt the book was missing a lot of description, character development, and the supposed thrills of adventure on a ship. I was so relieved to be reading something exciting when Jacky was abandoned on an island in the ocean. She had to fend for herself and the plot was based more on her survival than her love life. I remembered the time I explored an island in the middle of a big lake and how I felt so little and alone compared to the natural wisdom of the plants. I thought that must be how Jacky felt! Bloody Jack is a complex, rather depressing, high-level read that will most definitely stir the reader and make them appreciate the little happy things in life. Julia Kete, 11West Hartford, Connecticut

The Moment of Decision

“Strike three!” The quarterfinal game was over. Jesús Castillo had tossed his fourth perfect game in a row, earning the Little Leaguers of Miami a bid to the semifinals of the Little League World Series. His face was all over the newspapers. Headlines of Jesús becoming the next Koufax streaked across the tops of the pages. Even though it was in the Little Leagues, when was the last time any pitcher struck out every batter he faced in a game? As Jesús was leaving the locker room, a man in a polo shirt he had seen on TV ran up to him and shook his hand. “Congratulations, Jesús,” he said. “I’m Harold Reynolds from ESPN, and I was wondering if I could do a quick interview with you.” Jesús timidly nodded his head. “I got to ask you this, little man. What’s it like being the most famous twelve-year-old kid in the country?” Jesús felt his heart drift into his throat. Trying to find an answer, he found his mouth saying the words, “It’s great.” “Tomorrow’s the semifinal game. You must be nervous.” “Yes,” Jesús agreed. “Jesús, scouts from the Yankees, Mets, Athletics, and Rockies will be at tomorrow’s game and the championship. Just about every scout from every team will be watching these Little League games. Do you have anything special up your sleeve?” “No,” Jesús replied. “I’m just going to pitch like I normally do.” He had pitched one of the most memorable games in Little League history Harold Reynolds laughed. “I know you’re twelve years old, but there is talk around the league that you’ll be the number one pick in the Major League Baseball draft someday. How does that make you feel?” “Great,” he answered. “All right, Jesús, I got one last question. How did you get such an incredibly strong arm? I mean, it defies the laws of physics that a kid your age could have such a powerful arm.” Jesús could not answer that question. He simply looked into Harold Reynolds’s eyes. “It’s all right,” Reynolds said. “Your secret can stay a secret. Anyway, thanks a lot for giving us your time to do this interview. Good luck in tomorrow’s game.” With that, he left Jesús. For ten minutes, Jesús sat in his chair, looking at the ground, thinking. *          *          * “Play ball!” Team Miami was up to bat first. Jesús anxiously sat in the dugout, waiting for his opportunity to go out and pitch. Yet the look in his eyes was not that of the predator, but that of the prey. He sat back and closed his eyes. As Jesús sat in the dugout with his eyes closed, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He glanced at the scoreboard and found out that Roberto had hit a home run. Jesús was not the only superstar for team Miami. His best friend, Roberto, the catcher, basked in the glory that Jesús also shared. For a league of twelve-year-olds, Roberto displayed incredible power. In the previous three games that the Miami team had played, Roberto had hit five home runs. The team from Miami was truly blessed to have these two remarkable players on the same team. Anyhow, it was time for Jesús to go to work. That inning was a breeze for Jesús. To the delight of the capacity crowd, he struck out all three batters he faced. Strangely, he did not feel any satisfaction with what he accomplished. After each batter that he struck out, he did not feel joy, but anger. His heart was heavy. He returned to the dugout, and sat in the same exact spot that he had left. He didn’t like to be disturbed whenever he was pitching. The next inning was essentially the same for Jesús as the first. Before he threw each pitch, the crowd would rise in eager anticipation to see what the result would be. Even though the stadium was packed with people, Jesús could not sense any of them sitting there. To him, the only people he could see were his teammates, the opposing team, and his father. After every pitch, he would take a look at the stands and see his father smiling with pride. Five innings had passed. Jesús had been pitching like a man on fire. During those five innings, he had fifteen strikeouts. Thanks to two home runs by Jesús’s friend Roberto, team Miami had a two-to-zero lead. As Jesús made the jog to the pitcher’s mound, he looked into the stands and saw his father. Seeing that Jesús was staring at him, his father gave him a thumbs up. Jesús handled the first batter of the final inning incredibly. Three pitches and he was out. The second batter was also remarkably easy and Jesús struck him out on three pitches. The third batter, however, presented more of a challenge. Refusing to go down, he constantly fought off the pitches by fouling them into the stands. Finally, Jesús threw a curve ball that seemed to fall from the heavens. The batter swung and missed. Every player from team Miami ran toward Jesús. Roberto ran from home plate and embraced Jesús. He had pitched one of the most memorable games in Little League history. Night had arrived, and Jesús knew that he would need his rest for tomorrow’s big game. To his dismay, however, he tossed and turned in bed. He cupped his hands behind his head and lay there, thinking about times when he was little. *          *          * It wasn’t too long ago. Jesús was I still living in Cuba at that time. He was thirteen years old, and all day long it had been stormy. He had been inside fiddling with his glove and baseball when he heard screaming come from outside. His father quickly snatched him off the ground and left the house in a full sprint. After hours of running, Jesús and his father finally approached the Caribbean Sea. At last, Jesús understood

Small Lives

I gaze from the gray wooden bench in my neighbor’s backyard as the water from the hose quietly flows out onto the budding tomato plants. I watch the plants and rest easy, knowing the hose is taking care of the plants, and there is nothing more I can do. The roots and soil soak up the water almost as fast as I can make it flow. And so I sit with a blank stare, for there is nothing to do but watch the excess water drip to the ground. The drips from the hose become puddles, and soon the puddles seem to become rivers on the brown-tiled ground. I see a farm of these red-brown ants, scurrying along around their home. What will happen when the water reaches the farm? Will they survive? The ants’ small, lithe bodies work rapidly at what they are doing, smelling the inevitable. They all run away from the water, which is rapidly closing in. They all rush back to their farm, their home, their creation. They spend their whole lives working together to create, make better things, and now they are looking at the end of it all straight in the eye. I take a moment and wonder if this is a reflection of the world. Is this how it really is? I keep watching as the water first attacks and then surrounds two ants. They twist and turn, struggling to stay afloat as the water closes in on them, getting deeper and deeper. I know if I do nothing, refrain from saving them, the guilt will lay heavy on my heart for years to come. Finally the guilt takes over, and I rush to my knees, water soaking my shorts. I try to get these two to come on my finger, but they will not. They refuse to let me save them. The water closes in on them, and soon overwhelms them as I lay helpless. Only then do they decide to climb onto my dirt-covered finger. It almost took them until death to trust one such as me. It stuns me how much these little lives mean to me I check to see if they are alive, and both can move fine. I set them a step above the water, so they may be able to escape. Then I go for more. I see the bodies of them, floating in the water, certainly dead. If I were religious I would pray for them. But now I write for them instead. I spot one moving in the water. I lay down my finger and scoop, hoping to save one of these poor tiny creatures. Almost magically, one is there, atop my finger, alive. I set it down with the others and scavenge for more, but there are none. All were swept away by the water. How much I wish I could turn off the hose, turn off this machine of death, but I cannot. I have a job to do, and no matter how many lives at stake, how much guilt fills my soul, I cannot turn off the hose. I must complete my job. It stuns me how much these little lives mean to me. When I was a small child, I would make a sport of killing them. I would make a fort of rocks, and whoever tried to breach the walls would meet their doom. Now, I cannot hurt a bug. I can’t even hurt the mosquitoes that pester me and drive me crazy I catch them in my hand, proclaim them dead to my audience, and secretly set them free outside. It is empathy that drives me, what it would be like to be hated and small, with no self-defense. The spiders I hated as a small child I now smile at, talk to. I call myself crazy for doing so, but it helps me fight the small fear I still have for them. How much these small lives mean to me, I cannot tell you. But just watch them, try to understand, and you will see how much those small lives affect you. Travis Royce, 13Portland, Oregon Anthony Pape-Calabrese, 11Chevy Chase, Maryland