Every day was a holiday, or so it seemed. You didn’t need decorated trees, fireworks, cakes and candles, or paper hats to celebrate special days, Marty thought. Marty loved her lazy Sunday mornings perched on a high stool in her galley kitchen, eating stacks of buckwheat pancakes dripping in amber syrup, lovingly cooked just the way she liked ’em, crispy brown on the outside and fluffy golden yellow on the inside. Her dad had promised that Sundays were their own special days together and no one would ever interfere. She loved her dad for that and for the myriad of special days he had devoted to her. She savored every one of them. She loved regular Friday-night barbecues on the geranium-lined terrace just as much as the sailing vacations on Martha’s Vineyard that only came each windswept August along with the humidity. Of all her favorite days, her most favorite ones weren’t vacation holidays at all, but ordinary afternoons figure skating at the Frog Pond across from their Beacon Hill brownstone on late wintry afternoons, just as the sun was sinking. The magenta-and- plum sky, reflecting in the shimmering raspberry-blue ice, mixed together like oil pastels to create magical vistas. With the row of cupolas standing guard on the hill, just beyond the iron fence surrounding the Common, the Boston skyline was right out of a medieval fairy-tale picture book. She had become a princess, and her dad her knight in shining armor. With him protecting her heart she felt safe in a world that had slung more than a few arrows at her. Her dad had promised that Sundays were their own special days together Until Jessica arrived. After Mom died, it had been just the two of them. That was nine years ago. She had been almost four years old, then. Dad always said no one could take Mom’s place and Marty knew deep down that she could believe him; he was trustworthy. No one could possibly ever take Mom’s place. Marty still had fuzzy memories of her broad cheerful smile, and floral scent, her sparkly eyes and the polonaises she loved playing on the baby grand. There were signs of her everywhere in the apartment. Dad kept their wedding photo on display on the Steinway in the great room and a bottle of her favorite gardenia scent on his dresser. But Jessica now seemed like a constant interloper. She just showed up one day and never left, sort of like Marmalade, the orangey-red striped tabby who arrived on their doorstep in a blizzard and adopted the modest-sized family on the spot. She had unabashedly come knocking at the door in need of a cozy home and constant scratching behind her ear, and Marty had been overly eager to pamper her. Now she owned the place. Jessica in a similar way had wedged herself in. Jessica had been sent over by her dad’s publisher. He was an experienced writer and she a young aspiring editor who wanted to throw herself into her work—and Marty’s world, brimming with rainbows. * * * Marty looked down at the carefully scripted aqua “J” intertwined with “S” for Sinclair on the back of the envelope that held the engraved wedding invitation. It sat royally now on the mahogany sideboard biding its time. Sinclair Roberts. Ever since she could remember, she envisioned that one day she would grow up and leave the nest first, not the other way around. Marty Roberts. Although everyone mistook her for a boy, with her short cropped fiery red hair, and a uniform of cutoffs and perennial rocker T-shirts, she thought she would be the one to break up the pair eventually as she sped off to an all-girls’ college or maybe even—marriage to her own Prince Charming. Never in her wildest fantasies did she think her dad would be the one to break up the duo. But Jessica had other plans and dreams for herself, which selfishly included Dad. Marty gasped for air. Suddenly, she felt all her memories and her future slipping out from under her like quicksand. Her happiest days were behind her for certain. “Honey, come in here.” It was Dad, chirping from the living room with all the brightness of a spring robin. “We need you!” I wonder, Marty pondered skeptically. When Marty entered the large sunlit brick front room with the sheer muslin curtains, Dad and Jessie were hand-in-hand on their favorite spots on the couch. Marmalade was spread out across Dad’s lap, licking one paw, enjoying a mid-morning bath. Why was it Marmalade had no trouble staking her rightful claim to him, when she had so much difficulty? Marty smiled at the placid feline, which resembled a carefree dust rag in an indulgent pose. She wasn’t going to be displaced from her castle—by anyone. Marmalade purred contentedly. “Marty, which of these party favors do you like best?” Jessica pointed to a glossy brochure, one of several opened before the blissful couple. “Your dad likes these miniature porcelain swans filled with pastel butter mints. But they seem so old-fashioned to me. I need your help. I like these Belgian-chocolate swans in colorful tinfoil.” Both looked hideous to Marty. Marty searched for a diplomatic answer. She would prefer neither. She would prefer that Jessica go away and that there would be no wedding, but that wasn’t a choice the pair of entangled arms and hearts had given her. Marty could see why her dad liked Jessica. She wasn’t a stunning beauty. She was more the “girl next door.” Pretty and nice enough. Jessica continued to carry on a dialogue to fill the void. “Are you OK with the wedding, Marty? Do you want us to wait until you graduate from eighth grade next summer? We can wait, you know. I realize it’s just been you and your dad for some time. If you need more time to get used to the idea, we can give you all the time you need.” Her
September/October 2009
The Loss of a Leaf
It was a picturesque day at a pond, The glassy water gently undulated, Transforming turtles to twigs. The swans slowly carved their way forward, The paddleboats hypnotically Slap slap slapped. But no day is perfect for everyone, Like the coming of fall, For betwixt the lily pads, A swan lay Dead, Its head limp at its side. Two deceivingly collected swans swam up, Their wings arched over their backs. One of the mourners swam up and went from calm and collected, To aggressive and emotional. It began biting the neck of the dead swan, wings pumping, causing a great ruckus. Was it cannibalizing or freeing the other swan from its eternal sleep? That swan will be denied so much, Days like today, Cygnets, And the late summer water relaxing away troubles. Was it dead from natural causes, or man-made ones? Could it have been saved? So many questions, Like the water in the clouds, So much stress and more worry than bugs in a humid summer’s night. All from The loss of a leaf. Peter Satterthwaite, 13Cranston, Rhode Island
Today
Today was the big day. I was afraid it would go horribly wrong. I woke up today with that feeling you always get before something big. I ate breakfast in a hurried fashion. I always ate a slow and controlled breakfast. Today was different. Today was the day of the concert. I had eggs and bacon today. That was our family’s traditional Friday breakfast. I shoveled each bite in with such force that I could have scared my dentist. I thought I was doing everything fast, but I almost missed the bus! I stared at my beautiful instrument for almost fifteen minutes, thinking intently. I play the cello, the large instrument that everybody misspells. I couldn’t take my mind off the performance—the hum of the instrument, the squeaking of the wood, and the beautiful sound that flows out when a bow slides across the strings. On the bus today, I talked to no one. There was a kind of tension between me and the school only a mile away. The gymnasium was just waiting for me to arrive, to take my seat in front of the whole school and do what I love to do. I had been playing the cello for almost two years when I was asked by the principal to play. I remembered that day well. School had just finished for the day, and already the warm summer breeze was gone. Gone were the days of swimming and playing, gone were the days of sunshine and beaches, gone were those juicy, orange peaches that I adored so much. It seemed that just as soon as summer started, it was over. I was sitting on the street corner, waiting for the bus to arrive. The autumn leaves swept by my face, and I was reminded of the baseballs, streaking past my face like comets. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. It was the principal. She had short and curly white hair, dark brown eyes, and a smile that could spread joy across a crowd of people. She looked down on me and asked me the question that led me to many hours of stress and practicing. “Will you play?” I stared at my beautiful instrument for almost fifteen minutes, thinking intently I arrived at the gym at eight-fifteen, thirty minutes before the concert. We set up our stands and tuned our instruments. Nobody spoke. The tension between us all was greater than iron chains, coiled around an object firmly. This was not a time for joking, laughing, or talking. This was a time of music. Five minutes later, the doors opened and our music instructor walked in. He was wearing a tuxedo, but you could see it was done by trembling hands because the tie was lopsided and uneven. He walked over to the piano and took his seat. I was reminded of the times when I took my seat in the sand, resting at a summery beach. This was nothing like that. We were inside a large, dark, and enclosed room that had a sense of urgency. We all took our seats and looked around each other. We were all ready. Then, fifteen minutes later, the whole school filed in. It suddenly dawned on me the amount of people we were performing in front of. I tried to push it back into the depths of my mind, but it kept resurfacing like a disease that wouldn’t go away. I took some deep breaths, but it didn’t help. The students took their places in the seats, and all eyes turned to the performers. The lights flashed onto our stage, but they weren’t needed. We placed our bows in the position and started to play. The five minutes that the group of musicians spent playing were ones I will never forget. The sound was so sweet it was almost as nourishing as a peach. The lights felt like the rays of sunshine. And the noise was the soft splashing of the waves. But this was different. This was better. The stress released felt as good as succeeding in a goal. And only one feeling was felt through the performers, pure joy. It finished just as soon as it started, like summer. The applause that was heard thundered through campus like a stampede of animals, running after the hunt they all wished to claim. The crowd stood up and roared like a thousand warriors after the death of the enemy. Today was the big day. Today was better than summer. Today was not horribly wrong. Today I succeeded and that is better than I could have hoped for. Cole Miller, 11San Rafael, California Emma T. Capps, 12San Carlos, California