She cuts me off. “It’s Rowen. And I’m busy. Good luck.” The white moving truck with faded blue letters pulls into the driveway behind us. I stare ahead at the one-story house that is now ours. Unbelievable. I look down, into my folded hands. The never-ending car trip seems like a bundle of candy right now. Will things keep getting worse? “Bay,” my mom says gently. I look out the window, oblivious to her coaxing voice. Diandra lets out a snicker. Fine. Let my only sister think I’m an idiot. Works for me. I close my eyes, remembering California. The waves rolling in, the sun beaming down. I take a glance at the harsh reality. Snow falling. Short houses. Lakes, not oceans. Why Minnesota? Mom deserves the silent treatment. She caused the divorce. She caused the move. Diandra doesn’t care, Mom doesn’t care, and Dad’s all the way on the other side of the world, deciding to live his life in Australia. Why didn’t he take me with him? Why did Mom have to package me up and ship me to the opposite of California with her? I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car. I hold out a finger and let a snowflake land on it. The delicate thing melts at my touch. Shivering, I tug my scarf tighter. Diandra hops out of the car, swinging her backpack after her. Only a few more years, I remind myself as she whips her dazzling blond hair around herself. Just a few more years before Diandra can drive off, searching for boys or something. Mom is out next, turning off the car, the old engine stuttering to a stop. She hurries around the car, her high heels clicking as she moves in a strangled run, working against her impossible shoes. I brush aside my mess of dirty-blond hair that is in two knotty braids. “Bay,” Mom repeats, raising her eyebrows in exasperation. I turn away, facing the street. No cars pass. An occasional jeep or something rolls by, a trail of exhaust following. “Come on, let’s be rational. What can be so bad with change?” My mom rattles on, but my eyes are fixed on the street, tuning her out. I scan the houses facing ours and turn back to the bumpy pavement that needs work. Then, a bike rides by. Wait, hold it. A bike? In winter? On the calm streets caked with a layer of fresh snow? A biker in this weather? A biker with—wait—no coat on? This is strange. I’m off, racing after this bike. My mom is taken by surprise, screeching after me, “Bay! Bay! What do you think you’re doing? Diandra? Diandra!!! Bay!” My feet thud against the pavement, my breath coming out in puffs of fog. I don’t know what’s taken hold of me. Maybe it’s the move. Maybe it’s the sight of something strange. Or maybe it’s everything tied up in one big knot. The fact that once I finally make a friend, I’m whisked off to another town, expected to rewrite my whole life. The fact that this is impossible for me, and that I never fit in. The fact that this girl might be someone else who’s in her own world. Just another person who is out there, different, odd. Awkward with everyone and everything. I keep running. The biker finally stops in front of a house a few blocks down from ours. She takes off her helmet, letting her short, choppy brown hair come into view. The biker rests her bike against a sign that reads “No Parking from 5 p.m.–7 a.m.” and locks her bike to it. “Hey,” I greet breathlessly, after I’ve caught up to her. The girl looks at me with her blue eyes, puzzled. She looks thirteen, my age. I also notice that she doesn’t seem to be cold at all, even though her arms are bare. “Hello?” she responds. Her eyes scan me. I hesitate, then continue, a little nervous, to be honest. This girl’s intimidating. Or maybe I’m just intimidated by everything. “I’m Bay and I’ve just moved in. Few blocks down. I know…” She cuts me off. “It’s Rowen. And I’m busy. Good luck.” Then Rowen turns on her heel and is marching inside her tan house. Her hair bounces with her stiff body. I’m speechless. My mouth is still open. I ignore the urge to call out and close it, disturbed by her rudeness. I tug at one of my braids, biting my lip, feeling tears welling up. “Just another one of those girls,” I whisper to myself. I just stay there, standing, staring at the house until I give in to myself and turn away, my head down. I slip off my Toms and walk home barefoot, ignoring the biting pain of the cold. The snow melts against the bottoms of my feet, leaving footprints. I give in to the pain, slipping on my shoes. I shiver and continue walking down the middle of the seemingly abandoned street. Thoughts turn in my head. I already messed up. School hasn’t even started. Thank God it’s winter break. I arrive at our new house and stand there, sighing. Our new house doesn’t even look good. It’s off-white with red shutters. Our old house was a brilliant but calm green. I remember introducing Coral to it, and how I could fool around with her, relieved that she didn’t care how insecure or awkward I was. But now, I don’t have anyone who cares that I exist. I stare at my dull house with hate. Then, I nearly get run over and have to hop out of the street to avoid the honking car. This brings me back to my senses. The door bangs open and Diandra runs out, shooting darts at me with her sharp eyes. Her hands curl into fists. “Baylie Natalie Gale! Where were you?” she shouts. “Around,” I tell her. She emits an exasperated noise and storms back inside.
September/October 2015
My Sag Harbor
The heavy door is embellished With a whale knocker And on the side a doorbell That no longer rings. You walk up the porch steps And turn the cold metal knob Pushing against the force That never wants you to open the white door. This is my Sag Harbor. The houses are small With dogs running out in the yard As you walk into the town. Pass the little ice cream parlor And the restaurant with live lobsters Watching you pass with fishy eyes. And pass the toy store Crowded with kids Holding quarters to get their turn on the Coin-operated fire engines. This is my Sag Harbor. A shimmering turquoise is the color of the Wharf. Where huge crew ships, Put down their anchors, And tie themselves to the dock. The sailboats can be seen for miles, Clipped to their buoys, Floating on the surface like butterflies, In a peaceful order, Until a motorboat comes racing through, Creating waves. At the beach you see the rolling sand dunes, And the pebbles that litter the lining of the incoming wave. Like lace the rocks encircle each other, On the wet sand contrasting beautifully with The deep blue of the ocean, And the lighter sky. This is my Sag Harbor. Charlotte Robertson, 11New York, New York
Magical Childhood
Being carefree is one of the best gifts in childhood Memories… I am six years old. I am the hero of this story. Me and my friends are inseparable. For hours we play Star Wars. Some of us are Jedi, others Sith, and some Clones. The bottom line—it is pure magic! The worst fight we all ever had was over whose sled was whose on the hill behind my house, but it did not end our friendship. I wanted to write what it was like in my head to be six years old and compare it to what I would see now. Panning down on the neighborhood park, I fight the battle droids, deflecting lasers with my Obi-Wan replica lightsaber. My brother, Caleb, and best friend, Daniel, are beside me as we fend off imaginary droids. We then transition to “dueling” the other three boys, Michael, Jared, and Clay, who are also characters from Star Wars. In our minds we are on Christophsis from the movie The Clone Wars. As I go on a run, I see six kids running around playing Star Wars, swinging around their colorful toy lightsabers. Being thirteen, I really do miss those days. I watch them running behind trees and pretending they have “the force.” For these boys, there isn’t a care in the world. All that matters is just them and their friends. Being carefree is one of the best gifts in childhood. I just wish it could stay, instead of going away to all of the worries of the world. As a little kid, your most scary worry is the imagined monster under the bed, which is how sometimes it should stay. As a little kid, you just want to grow up, but what you don’t realize is, as an adult you will miss it. I battle the Sith. Neither me nor Michael will say the other one won. We will do this for hours, battling each other as Star Wars characters, pretending to have “the force.” Caleb would save the day almost every time by fending off one of the other boys. To me, my brother is my hero; he always seemed so smart. I want to be on his side so badly. As I continue to run along the park path, I have stopped and started to really look at these six kids. They laugh and play. They battle and duel. They fall to their knees and topple over to pretend death. It brings memories flooding back, and I cannot stop thinking of my childhood when I would play Star Wars with my friends. I think about the long summer nights, when being out late was nine o’clock, not eleven o’clock. Now we are in our X-wings, pretending to shoot at each other. Daniel, Jared, Michael, Clay, and my favorite, Caleb, run around from yard to yard, playing. Eventually, we “land” and I am captured. I am taken to an outpost where I try to escape but can’t. In the distance, however, I see my best friend, Daniel, and my brother, Caleb, coming to save me and save the day. I keep running, watching, and listening to the boys play, and I notice how much the little boy with dark brown hair looks up to his older brother, just as I still do. I am so much older now but still feel what that play feels like. That same little brown haired boy is taken prisoner, while a friend and the boy’s brother come to his rescue. They succeed! Now all three of them run away to go hide and probably attack once again. All this is ended by getting called home for lunch by their moms. They make plans with their four friends to meet back up to continue after lunch. Deep inside, all the while, they are hoping it is all real in another galaxy, and maybe it is. In this galaxy, it is just six boys and some movies, and their imagination. In a galaxy far, far away, two brothers wait for Episode Seven of The Saga on December 18, 2015. On that night, they hope that, just like when they were six, it is all real. Four of the boys will go to the movie at midnight, because it was all so much more than a movie—it was days of playing. It was the greatest thing in the world. Luke Brolsma, 13Blaine, Minnesota Gordon Su, 13Milpitas, California
