“Wheeee!” We must have been going fifty, maybe sixty miles per hour in his new Whaler speedboat, and I loved every minute of it. Janet, lying down in the bow to perfect her supermodel tan, gripped onto the handrails at this sudden shift of speed. I laughed next to Jesse, my six-foot-one, fifteen-year-old friend from two houses down. His sandy-blond hair was erupting from his worn Boston Red Sox cap that looked like it went through just as much abuse as the team itself. His emerald eyes were shielded by a brand new, gleaming pair of black Oakleys so as to impress the ladies. I on the other hand was uncomfortably placed on the driver’s seat next to him, attempting to look half as cool. I strained my eyes behind the dashboard and I could barely make out our destination in the distance. VVe must have been going fifty, maybe sixty miles per how; and I loved every minute of it I stepped off the Kiss My Bass and lingered on the dock as Jesse fastened the bow rope to the dock post. My fifteen-year-old sister, Janet, a brown-haired, fashion-loving, shoe-collecting diva, was right behind me, sporting a J-Crew skirt and an Anthropology T-shirt. Then I noticed her earrings, sparkling like tiny suns dangling from her earlobes. Why has she suddenly started wearing earrings? I thought to myself. Who is she trying to impress? It’s not like we’re in the city… we’re on a boat heading into a fisherman’s diner! However, the thought of melt-in-your-mouth, luscious, buttermilk pancakes quickly took over my mind and I had to cup my hand up to my mouth to stop the cascading drops of drool. Jesse jogged up the walkway, slowly putting his wife beater over his bare chest, and I thought I saw Janet’s stare linger for a couple of seconds before she looked down at her feet. You see, the story of our friendship is a complicated one and may not be for the weak of heart. Back in the day, when I was a mere six years old, I met Jesse on the sandy shoreline of Wingaersheek beach. He looked a lot like me, only two years older with some buck teeth, but I didn’t care and we soon become two peas in a pod. One day I brought him to my humble abode, and we ran into my sister. Coincidentally, the two knew each other from sailing. However, they were not buddies. Jesse would tease her incessantly and Janet hated him. The awkwardness that followed was so tangible it was hard to breathe. In the following summers, Janet and Jesse warmed up to each other, but it was obvious that Jesse and I were closer buddies than him and Janet. I selfishly enjoyed this knowledge, but that would all end soon. Jesse taught me everything about sports, girls, video games, baseball cards, and everything in between! Soon, Janet became accepted into our Rat Pack, and we’d all hang out together. But recently, I started to feel that maybe I was becoming the outcast… We walked through the rickety, weather- beaten door of Charlie’s Restaurant. The jingle-jangle of the two bells taped to the front door caught the attention of the waitress and she pointed us to a corner booth. I slid down the bouncy seat, and Jesse followed behind me as Janet sat opposite from him, directly opposite. A rumbling feeling erupted from my stomach, my calling card for hunger. Or was it something else? I ordered my buttermilk pancakes and Janet and Jesse decided to split a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes. “You like chocolate chip pancakes?” my sister giddily exclaimed. “Me too!” Suddenly, they started to talk non-stop and every time I tried to get a word in edgewise, I was cut off by banter of shoes or high school. What has happened to our friendship? Our gang? And then I was struck with the most hideous, repulsive, barf-inducing thought. Do—do my friends LIKE each other? Oh—oh no, it can’t be! But even as I denied this horrible idea, the two were having a staring contest and my sister laughed the most girlish giggle I had ever heard from her. My heart sank as our waitress named Pam set out my steaming, juicy set of carb-filled happiness. The two clanged their forks together as I tried to bury my heartbroken face into my cup of milk. With each round of the pedals I felt more confident that this was the right thing to do I walked alone down Wingaersheek Beach, the same beach where Jesse and I used to practice football plays in the sand and where we would point out all of the beach babes soaking up the rays. The clouds had swallowed the sun, leaving only a dull shine on one end of the beach. Every step I took, I could not believe my luck (or lack thereof). All of the signs, how did I miss them? Their lone walks together when I was at tennis, her always dressing up nice even when we were eating pizza, Jesse always calling and asking for Janet instead of me, I felt so alone. He was my best friend, the only one I had, and I was losing him and there was nothing I could do to stop it. But, maybe it was time I met someone else, someone my own age. There were the Silverman kids on the next street over; one of them looks around thirteen. Maybe it’s time that I took control, to stop feeling alone and left out. I ran up my beach path, snapped on my sandals, slammed on my helmet, and biked to the next street over. With each round of the pedals I felt more confident that this was the right thing to do. I was sick of wasting away my summer with two kids who thought of me as an annoying little brother rather than a friend. Quickly
September/October 2006
Firefly Sky
The fields are a wonder in summertime: Midnight black like the sky, With twinkling lights like stars. What are those lights? Hundreds of fireflies flittering about, Tiny and so nimble. Their lights shine on and off, Making the field like shiny sequins, Like moonshine dancing off the sea. I run out into the field, The half-grown wheat scratching my legs, The ground soft and damp, The air humid and fresh. The fireflies dart away from me, Intimidated by my presence, But I don’t mind. I watch them from a distance. They float above the wheat, Like bright candles in the field. Glancing up at the heavens, I see the stars, Bright candles in the sky This is the moment When Heaven and Earth meet: The stars in the sky are the stars on the ground. How strange it seems That something as small as fireflies Can bring these two vast kingdoms Together as one. Jennifer Hu, 13Hummelstown, Pennsylvania
Cherish Road
I was seven when I first worked up the courage to get on the back of a horse. Not that it needed too much courage to climb aboard a twenty-year-old pony who was not even five feet tall. It was at one of those pony rides at the county fair, nothing special. Me and the little pony, named Cash, walked once around a little paddock, me holding the mane with white knuckles, and the old man who ran it leading the little horse. After the first trip around, I decided I had had enough, and I climbed down. My mom was putting the digital camera back in her purse; she had just snapped a picture of me on top of Cash, and my dad beaming brightly through his beard. My parents then took me to get some cotton candy and ride the merry-go-round. When I climbed onto the deck of the ride, I chose the white horse with a harness of flowers and chipped paint. I had ridden that one since the first summer of coming to the county fair; it had always made me feel magical. But as the horse went up and down, I found that it couldn’t replace the sensation of a living creature below me, my body moving with it, even if I had been terrified. That was probably the most important day of my life. That was the day I decided to ride. The very next summer, I was already cantering. And the summer after that, I got my first horse. I named her Cherish, though while I was riding, I called her Cher. She was sixteen hands tall, and was two when we got her. She had a buckskin coat and was my perfect companion. I told her more than I told my friends. She stayed in our little barn behind our house, and was with us when we moved to Kentucky I still remember my anxiety about leaving her alone in a cramped trailer behind us. But the seven-hour drive was completely worth it. We moved from our little house in the country of Sewickley, Pennsylvania, to the rolling pastures of Greenland, Kentucky Dad was gameskeeper for a property owned by Mr. Wester, the owner of the legendary racing stud, Black Thunder. Black Thunder had sired nearly seven other racing legends. Now, in his old age, the ten-million- dollar horse shared a pasture with Cherish. I always pretended they were boyfriend and girlfriend. As I grew older on the farm in Greenland, I rode more and more As I grew older on the farm in Greenland, I rode more and more. I became a very good rider, and was always winning trophies and such at little shows scattered around the area. The shows were my mom’s idea, I never really cared for dressage or jumping on Cherish. I wasn’t like the girls at school, they claimed that dressage was for proper ladies, or that jumping made them feel like they were flying. I could jump and do dressage just fine. But what really got my heart racing was not dressage or jumping, but racing. I needed to run. I needed to race. At the stable where I rode and was instructed, we had a little thing called Game Sundays. Now, I didn’t have time to ride every day, no matter how much I wanted to. But I did ride on the weekend, so I was there for Game Sunday. On that day, the kids riding could choose a game to play on horseback, like polo, or racing. Of course my vote was always for racing, and sometimes it won. And during those times, I truly knew what was so wonderful about riding. While Cherish ran her hardest, time seemed to slow. I could feel her every movement, every little increase in muscle tension, I could hear her breathing and my breath came in and out to match hers. We won almost always. My thrill of the race only increased as time wore on. Soon, I was pressing my parents to enroll me in county-fair races, instead of wasting time on dressage and jumping. After about a month of nagging (not mentioning the hours of chores I did to make Mom pleased), they finally agreed to enter me in one cross-country race. It wasn’t much of one, only a quarter mile through the pasture owned by Edgar Greenwell, but at least it was something. I remember the day of the race was clear and sunny, perfect for racing. I could see the finish line, an orange sign stretched across the small space between Mr. Greenwell’s house and barn. It read, “Finish.” I apologize for talking about the finish line so obviously I’m not questioning your intelligence of the word. But while Cherish and I were lining up on the starting line, I could only see that one thing. When the pop gun bang rang out, I gave Cherish a nudge. I believe still to this day that Cherish loved to run. She did that day All it took was a nudge, and she was off, running as fast as possible. There was a gelding who was leading, but Cher and I were right behind him. Cher kept her pace the whole half I figured that was all she had, she couldn’t run any faster, but I was wrong. Around halfway there, she began to run faster. I could feel her body aching to move faster and faster, and she did. We slowly began to pace the gelding, whose rider probably couldn’t tell whether we were going faster or if they were going slower. Then Cherish broke free. It was as if she was breaking free of a thin layer of film; now she could really run. We ended up winning the race. My parents, always supportive, were thrilled. I took the little medal that was the prize home. I set it apart from my other winnings. I put it in the barn next
