The farm looked old and dull, but in my thoughts everything, even the quiet farm, was eerie. I had the dream again; the same dream I had every full moon, the only dream I ever had. The gentle eyes of my mother looked down at me. All I could see were the soft, green eyes. I could feel the warmth and fear of my mother, fear that was for me. “Terry!” called my father. “Breakfast!” He was actually my adoptive father. He found me in the woods and took care of me. He knew that adopting me would be a bad idea. He had no experience whatsoever with raising a child, and the only person who could help him would be his younger brother. He spent weeks searching for my family, but found no one. He could give me up to an orphanage or adopt me himself. I suppose he felt responsible for me, or maybe it was sheer pity, but he took me in and I was brought up living on a farm with him and my uncle, Dude. He is really my Uncle Ben, but “Uncle Ben” makes rice, and Dude was a childhood nickname. I suppose I liked Dude all right, but he was gone so much that I didn’t really get to spend much time with him. “Coming!” I yelled. I ran hard and fast, I was good at that. Dude says my mother and father were probably great athletes. Besides, today my father was making waffles for breakfast. * * * It sat down and pulled the straw out of my tangled hair. I had slept in the barn with the animals again. I felt at peace with them. My father could tell I had been sleeping there, but I suppose, against his better judgement, he let me be. My father and I did not talk much. It wasn’t that we didn’t like each other, it’s just that we didn’t “click.” Neither of us was a very good conversationalist, so silence filled the gaps in our relationship. But it wasn’t a comfortable silence. It wasn’t awkward either. There was simply nothing there; no words, no thoughts, no feelings. I had lived twelve years with someone I barely knew. His tired face was that of a stranger that looked different every time I saw it. I did not miss my father when we were apart, and I did not notice when we were together. I was never angry with him, nor was I happy. He was simply there, nameless, my provider, but don’t get me wrong. I was grateful to him. Only sometimes I wondered if his choice to adopt me was a smart one. Did I really belong here? Could things really go on like this? “Did you finish all of your homework?” my father asked, breaking the silence. “Yep,” I answered. “What are you doing in school today?” he continued quietly. “Nothing.” “Hmmm. Do you like your new math class?” “No, not really.” We both went back to poking at our waffles. It was a typical breakfast conversation. I thought of saying more; telling him how I despised math class and how I learned more walking home through the peaceful woods, tasting the fresh air, than I ever could at school, but I decided that I would sound silly and thought better of it. Many long, silent moments passed before the next conversation began. “I got another one this morning.” This time it was Dude speaking. My father nodded. “Two more chickens are gone.” “Suppose I’ll go down to the market an’ get some more.” He looked tired and distressed. I knew what they were talking about. I hated it. Our chickens were disappearing. My father decided it was wolves, but we never actually saw them take the chickens. Although with so many wolves running around Stoneland, Wyoming, what else could it have been? I had my own ideas. When I proved that the Hoster boys from next door were taking the chickens, no more innocent wolves would die. I couldn’t be absolutely sure they were taking them, but whenever they came over they snooped around, and day by day their chicken flock seemed to grow larger and ours smaller. I stared blankly out the window as a beautiful full-grown wolf stepped into our yard Off in my own world, I stared blankly out the window, but my thoughts on the chickens came to an abrupt halt as a beautiful full-grown wolf stepped into our yard. It was far away from the chickens, but close enough. Even though the wolf wasn’t after them, it was in danger simply by being here. I had to get to it before my father did. I tore across the yard, each step faster than I could count. As I neared the wolf I did not slow. For my own safety I should have stopped. I did not. I knew the wolf wouldn’t hurt me. I could feel it in a place deeper and more spiritual than my heart, and somehow, somehow, I knew she felt the same. The part when I actually, physically tackled the wolf was a blur of forgotten memory. All I knew, or rather felt, was me running with the wolf, for the wolf, to a place I knew by heart and yet had never seen. The feel of my legs straining to push my body through the force of the eager wind felt natural, completely natural. When my heart finally stopped urging me forward with the force of a thousand fists, I found myself at the entrance of a cave. Unsure of what to do next, I glanced over at the wolf. Taking sure and gentle steps, she proceeded inside. I followed, a bit bewildered. There must have been fifteen . . . no, twenty wolves! The soft gray texture of their fur made me want to reach out and touch them but I kept my distance. They were all peaceful and quiet,
Nicely Johnson and Caylan
As I recall, it was early in the morning, around seven or eight, when I first arrived at summer camp. The beautiful summer breeze whisked through my nose, giving me a vague sense of freedom. How I had longed to leave school and have this feeling tingle my senses. This had marked my third year at summer camp, and I was ecstatic to meet my friends again. I walked across the new green grass leading to the main campus. Directly in front of me, I would say about twenty-five yards, a red-haired boy paced back and forth. He looked at his feet, as if he had just discovered them. I came closer, and noticed his pale white skin. I had never seen anyone like him before. Now, I was several feet from him, but he managed to still keep his head faced to the ground. “Hello. I’m Daniel Lyons, it’s very nice to meet you.” I held my hand out for a handshake, making him slowly lift his head up. “I am Cay . . . Cayla . . . Caylan . . . I am Caylan.” “Hi, Caylan, it’s very nice to meet you.” I was puzzled by the way he talked. As he spoke, he would change the position of his head and hands. As I walked away, I got a quick glance at the back of his white T-shirt. “Johnson School for Special Students.” I began to formulate why he was different from the rest of us. It gave me a drooping feeling of sadness, but I kept walking. “Hey Dan! What have you been doin’ with that Caylan kid?” I would say a week or so had passed by when Gary, the head of the drama section of the camp, informed us that we were going to put on the production “Guys and Dolls,” and auditions were to be held that afternoon. I thought I did fairly well, because I earned the part of Nicely Johnson. I would perform the song “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat.” I walked down the cobblestone path leading to the boys’ bunk. Caylan walked over to me. “I hear that . . . that you are Nicely . . . Nicely Johnson. That song you sing. I know the words. Can you . . . you take me out on stage with . . . with you? OK then. Bye.” He began to walk away. “Wait, Caylan! Umm . . . I dunno if you can do tha- . . . I’ll talk to Gary.” He smiled at me. * * * “You’re it, Caylan!” I ran away from him laughing. He was laughing more than I was, and I don’t think I’d ever seen him so happy. He reached for me, and missed. I kept running, until he had finally caught me. I now chased him around, until we were both tired. We sat down, breathing heavily. “So, did you . . . did you talk to Gary?” “No, I didn’t, Caylan; I guess I will now.” * * * “No! Are you outta your mind?!” Gary’s face turned a dark shade of red. “But he doesn’t understand! He may be thirteen years old, but he’s really just a young child; he can’t take your refusal!” “No, and that’s final!” I walked away, my tail between my legs. Caylan walked up to me. I stared at him darkly. He understood, and walked away. I kept walking a different direction. I smashed into the water, still amazed on the height I gained on the diving board jump. I opened my eyes as a girl swam under my feet. It was Jenna, one of my good friends. She and I surfaced. “Hey Dan! What have you been doin’ with that Caylan kid? You don’t hang out with us much any more. And why the heck won’t he come in the water?” “He hates water, it scares him. He really likes to stand on the edge and look in. I dunno why.” I looked at him still standing on the edge smiling. Krist came up behind him, ready to push him in. I sprung from the water, and rushed Krist, pushing him and me into the water. “Don’t push him in! You know he hates water!” “I’m just playin’. What’s wrong with you?!” He swam down under the water and swam away. Caylan smiled and kept gazing into the water. Jenna swam back up to me, a frown spread on her face. She shook her head and swam away. I walked down to the boys’ bunk dribbling a basketball. I looked in and there Caylan was. He hummed the tune to my song from the play. He danced to himself, the exact movements I do in the number. He knew as if choreographed by my rehearsals. It was amazing, a flawless mirror of myself! I smiled as he finished, and clapped loudly. He swung around and began to laugh; he bowed and walked past me. Two weeks had passed since then, and Caylan and I went our separate ways. We talked now and then, but not as much as we used to. I had focused more on my other friends. Now I walked with Jenna and Krist. We were talking, and mid-sentence, Krist was interrupted by a magnificently huge boom. We were showered with water as the sky turned darker. More booms followed, preceding more rain. Jenna, Krist and I ran to our bunks, where roll was called. “Dan.” “Here.” “Krist.” “Here.” “Caylan . . . Caylan!?” Oh no. A feeling of dread shot through my stomach. I ran outside, barefoot, running through the mud. Rain pattered painfully now on my back. I ran to the pavilion. Empty. I proceeded running to the music shed, a great distance away. No one was there either. I ran past the tennis courts, where a white flash glared in my eyes. Caylan was sitting in the corner of the court. “CAYLAN! Let’s go! C’mon!
The Healer’s Apprentice
Murmurs and whispers buzzed through the darkened hall. No one had any idea why the elders had called a meet, but that did not hinder them from thinking up reasons. Some believed that it was merely a routine meeting to discuss the upcoming harvest celebration, though they could not explain why it was conducted in such secrecy. Others stoutly maintained that the worst had happened; someone outside the Arborus clan had learned the sacred healing-knowledge and they were called to meeting to discuss how to react to the threat. A group of girls near the front of the hall were particularly talkative, whispering and giggling loudly among themselves. One of the girls participated little in the conversation, but listened and smiled at the exuberance of her friends. She was one of the few not targeted in the girls’ good-natured teasing; for a reason no one could explain, Keris was off limits. Though she was well-liked to an extent, the girls seemed to understand that she was somewhat different; Keris had always been on the edges of the girls’ activities. But she assumed a wistful expression when no one was looking, for Keris was desperately uncomfortable with her position on the outskirts, though she knew she didn’t belong in the inner group. An elder stepped onto the speaking platform at the front, and even the girls’ lively chatter died down as everyone hushed in expectation. It was Elder Larch, the spokeswoman for the elders and in charge of mediating disputes among the clan. She stepped to the front of the platform and spoke, her voice reaching to every corner of the hall. Taking a deep breath, she recited what she knew must be her part of the apprentice’s oath “Friends,” she began with a small smile, “we know all of you are wondering why the elders have called you here today. Many of you will have noted that Elder Oak has been in failing health for the past several months. He feels his ailment has begun to interfere with his duties as healer.” A murmur of polite dissent rippled through the hall, but many of the clan secretly agreed with the elder. How could someone flawed in body be entrusted with the most sacred knowledge of the entire clan? “Therefore,” continued Elder Larch, raising her voice above the murmurs, “he has decided to take an apprentice, one to whom he can pass on his knowledge, and who will take over his duties when he leaves us. This meet was called so that he may announce his choice for apprentice.” Now the murmur was more excited, as everyone wondered aloud who the apprentice would be. All but Keris. She sat stiffly in her chair, a look of realization slowly spreading over her face and leaving her eyes wide in an almost terrified expression. She knew that when apprentices were called, the elders almost always chose young people on the outside of their social group. This way, they would be willing to leave their age group and devote their lives to learning their calling. Keris knew that she fit the requirement, but she was sure the elders did not know that part of her wanted, and wanted desperately, to fit in and be accepted, even while the other part knew that she would never truly be a part of her peer group. With a sense of inevitability, Keris watched Elder Oak step shakily into the speaking area. She was probably the only one in the hall not surprised at all when he announced formally, “Keris Noltera, I, Elder Oak, call you to bind yourself to the learning of the healing knowledge, to be my apprentice and acolyte from this day until the day I leave the clan forever.” Then he smiled kindly and, looking at her for the first time, added, “Now, my dear, you must come up here and say your part of the oath.” Numbly, hardly noticing the gasps and congratulations of her friends, Keris stood up and walked to the front of the hall. Her heart had dropped out. She felt nothing but a vague sadness, and for her, that was hardly unusual. She ascended the stairs at the side of the platform and joined the elder. He motioned for her to turn and face the crowd. As she did so, words flew into her mind. She gasped and looked incredulously at the frail elder, hardly believing he could be capable of such power. But he merely nodded and smiled, gently urging her to go ahead. Taking a deep breath, she recited what she knew must be her part of the apprentice’s oath. “I, Keris Noltera, do accept the call of Elder Oak and agree to bind myself to the learning of the healing-knowledge, to be his apprentice and acolyte until the day he leaves the clan forever.” After she finished speaking, she felt a connection begin between herself and the elder. This strange presence in her mind filled her with curiosity, but she was pulled back from exploring it by Elder Oak, who stepped to the front of the stage and announced, “Tonight, there will be a celebration in honor of my new apprentice.” Masked by the murmur of anticipation, the elder told Keris, “You will have the rest of the day, including the celebration, to say your good-byes and move your belongings out of your family’s home. I will take you to your new lodgings after the celebration. You know where I live, don’t you?” Keris nodded. Though she had never come close enough to see the old man’s dwelling, everyone in the clan knew where it was, several miles into the dense forest to the west of the clan’s village. Even after the healer moved off, Keris could hardly believe the ceremony was over; it had happened so quickly. In a few minutes her very destiny with the clan had been determined, and her childhood ended. No longer would she live with her family, or even
Winter Light
Warm light Streams from the sky Snow swirls in freezing wind Still, I will go out. Through the branches sprinkles A shower of light A lesson from the trees About the winter sun Here is Miyo’s poem in Japanese: atatakai hikari ga sora kara futte kuru fukisusabu kitakaze no naka sore de mo watakushi wa soto ni deru eda no suldma yori furisosogu hikari no shawaa gairoju ga oshiete kureta mafuyu no taiyoo Miyo Kurosaki, 12Kyoto, Japan
The First Snowflake
At midnight today, the first snowflake fell Wandering through miles of clear December air. It blew onto my windowpane And lay there, a silent witness To the candlelight twinkling within And the stars without. Sarah Kim Perry, 11Bethesda, Maryland
Sketching Tammy
Art class. The comforting scent of paints and crayons greeted me as I made my way into the room. As if by magic all of my problems seemed to slip away, like I was losing many heavy weights that were tied to my heart. For two hours, those long-awaited two hours on Friday afternoons, I could be as free as an eagle and let my imagination soar. No one called me “teacher’s pet” or shot me mean glances for exactly 120 minutes. I didn’t have to worry about tests, or when we were going to move again, or Mom always being tired. “Samantha!” Barbra, my art teacher, always seemed to have a smile ready for anyone. No doubt I needed her smile after a long week of school. “Have a seat. We’ll start as soon as the new girl arrives.” I pulled out a metal chair from the table and sat down. The new girl, I thought vaguely. Barbra had mentioned her the week before. I paid no real attention, there was no reason to. I had never had many friends, we moved too often due to Dad’s job for me to keep any friends for long. No one at this new school liked me and I made no move to get into one of their groups. I was used to being an outsider. I took some colored pencils from my backpack and began to sketch. I drew the outline of a face, then added eyes and a nose in the correct spots. I took a peach color and shaded in the skin. Then I made the eyes blue and the hair blond with a slight curl at the bottom. The mouth was curved in a pleasant smile. I grinned back at my sketch. If only I had a friend like the girl that I’d drawn. “This is Tammy,” announced Barbra, her arm around the girl’s shoulders “OK, everyone, let’s stop for a second so I can introduce our new student.” At Barbra’s voice, I closed my sketchpad and looked up. The several other students, all high-school age, did the same. For a moment, we all just stared. Then one of the boys whispered something to a girl beside him, and she giggled. The new student was a girl about thirteen — my age. She was black. “This is Tammy,” announced Barbra, her arm around the girl’s shoulders. Tammy smiled at us timidly, then Barbra pointed her to a seat. “You can sit over there by Samantha.” Tammy looked my way, but I pretended to study my sketchpad. I had never spent any time with a person who was a different color than me, and I was unsure how to act. Our neighborhoods had been almost entirely white. Barbra gave us instructions to draw what scared us. I set to work drawing what first came to my mind—a snake. I had always been terrified of snakes. Once I went to the zoo and saw one behind glass. After that I was unable to sleep without nightmares for weeks. I finished my drawing of a copperhead, my worst-feared snake. Tammy was still drawing. I glanced quickly at her sketch. What I saw startled me—a man in black stood pointing a gun at someone. The person was pressed against a wall, looking scared. That night, after I had read a few chapters of my book, I glanced at my sketchpad and saw the snake picture. I held the pad and thought of Tammy’s sketch, how real it was. The copperhead was an imaginary fear, in a way. None lived in my Illinois town, or anywhere else that I’d lived. But guns—the possibility made me shiver. During the next few weeks I had a tendency to sneak a peek at Tammy’s sketches. The one with the gun stayed with me. Every time that I heard of a shooting on television or on the radio, Tammy’s sketch popped into my mind. Her other sketches were good, too. They all showed that feeling that Barbra encouraged us to include in our pictures. She had once said, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Then things started happening. At first I thought it was nothing, but I was wrong. After the second art class that Tammy attended was when the happenings began. When she came back the following week, all of her sketches for an upcoming painting were all torn up. Only one sketch remained—one that had a man standing behind a podium. It took a moment for me to realize that it was supposed to be Martin Luther King, Jr. It took a moment because his head had been blotted out with black ink. Scrawled across the paper were the words, “Go home, darkie.” When Tammy saw this, her eyes opened a little wider, but that was all. Barbra, however, turned as red as a beet, and, for the first time that I’d ever seen, she got angry. “I do not accept this behavior in my class,” she said, holding up the sketch. “I expect it never to happen again.” The happenings continued, although they weren’t as visible as the first. They didn’t happen every class, either. Once Tammy’s sculpture was squashed. Then her colored pencils disappeared. After that her painting had shoe marks on it, like someone had stepped on it. Through it all, I remained silent. I hadn’t spoken once to Tammy. The other students occasionally said a few words to her, but they rarely exceeded “Pass the paint.” I did find myself beginning to admire Tammy’s obvious talent for art. Barbra did, too, and began calling her “Picassa” after the artist Picasso. That made Tammy smile. I felt tension in the class, even when I tried to convince myself that it was nothing. I began to notice that two of the boys would casually knock into Tammy, or spill water her way “accidentally.” Their actions made me feel uneasy, yet I had no proof that they were the ones who were
Waiting for the Right Time
It has been three years since she, my one and only best friend, left, and I am dying to see her. She had lived down the street and I had known her forever. I have vivid memories of her room: clothes strewn all over, hanging on chairs, underneath her bed, and piled on her desk. Play horses with broken legs and unruly manes were stationed in miniature barns, on her dresser, and on her comforter. The sun would glow through the lacy curtains onto her bed, which was usually not made. The two dressers, which were placed against the wall, were piled high with papers, toys, and other odds and ends. She would always have to clean it before she played with me, so if I wanted to start playing soon, I’d help her stuff all her things underneath her bed, then we would take everything back out to find what we wanted to play with. Or we would take out a game like Monopoly and litter the floor again. If I didn’t help her, I’d end up waiting for a call back all day, and finally, at 5:00 PM, I’d find out she finally finished, but by then it was too late. These memories have plagued my thoughts over and over. All I think about is Hannah and her family in England. I sometimes start to imagine what her huge house looks like, what her yard looks like, and especially about her. I wonder if she keeps her room clean now, if she still yells at her siblings when they barge unexpectedly into her room, or if she still lingers while doing her work. Maybe she has improved her spelling since writing the word “mountain” six times repeatedly incorrectly, and spelled differently each time! Maybe . . . oh well, it is not worth thinking about if I can’t go and see her. Believe me, I’ve been there! We would take out a game of Monopoly and litter the floor again It started a year after she left. I greatly missed her, and could never stop thinking about her, especially when I received lengthy letters from her, or when she wrote me via the Internet to tell me how she was doing. She had tried to describe her house, but it was too big and elaborate to explain. I started to long to see her again. I begged (on my hands and knees of course) my parents to let me go, but I was “too young,” “it is too dangerous,” “it is such a long journey,” “it’s too expensive.” All of these and more were the excuses I received until I had had enough. Yelling at my parents, I screamed, “It’s my best friend. I haven’t seen her in so long and you expect me to do that without a fight? Without an argument until I win?!?!” My parents responded, “We have told you why. Maybe she can visit.” “But you don’t understand,” I whined, “this is my best friend. I have seen her almost every day since I was four, but now that record has been broken because she moved and I can’t even visit.” “Well, you’ll never visit with that attitude. Go to your room and cool down.” And I reluctantly trudged up to my room. Later, once I’d been in my room for a while, I heard a soft knock on the door. I called, “Come in.” In walked my solemn-faced dad. He walked over to my bed and sat down next to me; then he waited for me to start. I said, “Hi.” He answered, “Hi. Would you like to talk about this long trip you have been dreaming of for months?” “I guess so,” I answered reluctantly (what else could I say?). “I really want to see Hannah. I haven’t seen her for so long, and I only get to talk to her on the phone once in a while, and when we do get to talk, it’s about worthless things, since we don’t know what to talk about.” “I understand,” was the surprising answer. “I really want to go there too. Maybe we can plan a trip there for the whole family. While we’re there, we could also see Darby and Brittany (our cousins who also live in England).” “Really?” I started to get excited now. A trip on the plane with my whole family would be much better than flying by myself like I had planned. “Yes, I think we could try that. We just have to wait until the right time to ask your mom. Until then, we’ll just hint every once in a while. Sound good?” “Sounds very good. Just hint, got it!” And ever since, I’ve been waiting for the right time. Of course I still miss Hannah a whole bunch, but I am content to wait until the perfect time . . . Kristen Martin, 12Herndon, Virginia Hannah LeVasseur, 12West Chester. Pennsylvania
When Zachary Beaver Came to Town
When Zachary Beaver Came to Town by Kimberly Willis Holt; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 1999; $16.95 Has a trailer from nowhere with a 300-pound boy inside ever pulled up in front of your local grocery store? That’s exactly what happened in When Zachary Beaver Came to Town. When I first picked up this book I found it only slightly entertaining, but as I read on I became very involved and couldn’t put it down. In the book, a 300-pound boy, Zachary Beaver, is brought to Antler, Texas, in a trailer pulled by his legal guardian, Paulie, who charges people two dollars for a look at Zachary—a one-man freak show, “The Fattest Boy in the World.” At first everyone in the town stays away from Zachary because he is different, and in a small town like Antler, different is bad. Zachary’s situation reminded me of a kid at an acting camp I knew who everyone made fun of— just because he was fat. Even though I’d never talked to him, I knew on the inside he was probably a great guy and I felt really sorry for him. I watched this boy sit by himself and draw—he was a great drawer—and I started talking to him some. Whenever somebody is different, people often stay away from them, but in some cases they get used to them and then, in a way, befriend them. I guess that’s what I did. And that’s what happened with Zachary. Toby and Cal, two best friends in Antler—Toby being the slightest bit more mature—stay away from Zachary at first but after a while decide to help Zachary have some fun. They have Cal’s older sister, who just learned to drive, take them and Zachary to a drive-in movie by building stairs in the back of the truck so he could get out. He was too fat to get out of the trailer otherwise. They even fulfill Zachary’s dream to be baptized. Zachary wanted to be baptized because that was his mom’s dream for him before she died. When she died, he went to her funeral, but there was such a crowd staring at him (because of his weight) that he wouldn’t get baptized. In the end, the Bowl-a-Rama owner, Ferris, who was almost a preacher, baptizes Zachary. Eventually, the people of Antler got used to Zachary being there, and they start to feel sorry for him, and would even leave him food on his door step and run away. The book has a selection of everything from tragedy to even a little romance between the prettiest girl in town and Toby. But the main point of the book, and the part I liked best, was the way the author showed the many ways that people learn to live with and actually like strangers. This is probably a common experience, much like another one of my experiences with a Turkish boy who was in my third-grade class. He was made fun of because of his name, Bilge, and because of his personality. Over the year, I learned to like him a lot, even though no one else did, probably because my personality was more like his than the other boys in my class. I keep asking my mom how we can find Bilge in Turkey, because I miss him, but all we know about him is his first name. Probably the saddest part of the book, and another feeling that I’ve had some experience with, was when Cal’s older brother, Wayne, who everyone likes, is fighting in the Vietnam War and near the end, dies. Before Wayne dies, Toby writes him a letter pretending to be Cal, because Cal never returned any of Wayne’s letters to him because he was too lazy. When Cal figures this out, it threatens their friendship. I can’t relate to that but my friend can. Once I told him a secret and he, not thinking, told someone else, causing me to be very upset. In the end, it all turned out all right. He apologized and the secret didn’t cause too much harm. As for what happens to Cal and Toby’s friendship, well, you’ll just have to read the book to find out. Eli Black, 9Austin, Texas
A Christmas Wish
“Scruffy! Where are you?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Where could he be?” I asked in dismay. I turned around to make my way to Hickory Hill where I thought Scruffy might be lurking. Just then I heard a faint bark and in the next moment a little furry husky had tumbled into my arms. “There you are, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Well, you’re here now and that is all that matters. Come on. Grandma told me to be home before supper and it’s getting dark.” Scruffy and I headed down the mountain toward our house. It was winter and the bitter cold was creeping in. By the time we got home it was pitch black, and the smell of warm stew and a blazing fire welcomed us into our home. It was almost Christmas and the house was as cheery as it had ever been. My name is Lily May Matthews, Lily for short. I’m seven years old. I live in a small cabin nestled in the woods with my grandma, grandpa and Scruffy, my puppy. My grandparents like the isolation and the independence of living away from the town. We don’t have transportation or contact with other people unless we take a weekend trip into town, which is a long and tiring walk by foot. I had just gotten back from my expedition with Scruffy to the dark shadowy cave up in the northern part of the forest, but in the midst of our expedition Scruffy had run off, and I spent the rest of the expedition chasing after him. Just then I heard a faint bark and in the next moment a little furry husky had tumbled into my arms “This stew is delicious, Grandma,” I said to my grandma, as the warm, tasteful liquid touched my tongue and scurried down to my stomach. “Thank you, dear, now eat up so you can get a good night’s rest.” “Where’s Grandpa?” I asked, noticing the empty rocking chair with warm soup that was waiting, untouched. “He started out on his fishing trip late this afternoon. I know he promised to take you but we couldn’t find you. I’m sorry, sweets.” “Oh. It’s all right. I’ll go next year,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. As I sat sipping my soup, I noticed Scruffy pawing the door. “Oh, Scruffy, you know you’re not allowed out after dark,” said Grandma as she sat by the fire warming her mint tea. I stared at Scruffy for a long while, holding my spoon in midair, just staring. Something was wrong, I could feel it. Something told me that Scruffy didn’t want to go out, but he needed to go out. Something was definitely wrong. “Grandma, something’s wrong,” I said, getting up from the chair and pushing the soup out of my way. “What’s wrong, Lily?” Grandma asked, gesturing for me to come sit in her lap. I declined the invitation and went to the door. I opened the door and looked out into the somber, windy night. A crescent moon was hanging in the sky, clouds steadily devouring it. Scruffy barked, scurried out the door, and disappeared into the dark. “There’s a storm coming,” Grandma said as she walked up behind me to peer out into the night. “I do hope Grandpa gets back soon,” she added. I began to feel Grandma’s uneasiness with the situation and I began to worry. “He’s just enjoying taking his time. He’ll be in soon; you know Grandpa.” She forced out a meek smile and hurried me into the cabin. I crawled into bed without bothering to wash. The mattress was comforting and soft and the blanket was warm and gentle. Grandma kissed me goodnight, went and sat by the fire and started to knit. Every few minutes she glanced out the window in hopes that Grandpa would come trudging over the hill with a sack full of trout hanging by his side. But he never came, and the old rocking chair lay empty and untouched. About a week had passed since Grandpa had disappeared, and in that week everything had been destroyed. Grandma, the blooming flower that she had once been, had died and turned into a sad, weeping weed. She just sat by the fire day after day, never speaking. When I tried to comfort her, she would try to smile for me, although as the days went by it became harder. I couldn’t bear the sadness of the house, but the more I tried to be cheery the more I missed Grandpa. There was no laughter and no happiness. It had been killed and all that remained was an unbearable pain that would not leave. “Dear God, I wish Grandpa will come home for Christmas. Nothing is the same without him. I need him here and so does Grandma. Please help me. Thank you. Amen.” I prayed like that every night the same prayer. I had to see my grandpa. And even worse, Scruffy had not returned home since he ran off that night. Later on, I went up to Blueberry Field to pick blueberries for the pie that Grandma was making. As I was picking, I heard a rustling in the bush behind me. I froze. It stopped. I went back to picking. Then it moved again. I cautiously turned around to see if I could get a glimpse of the creature. All I saw was fur. A bear! I slowly crept toward the creature, hoping he would not notice me. But it was too late, the creature had attacked. I screamed as the so-called beast ferociously licked me. “Scruffy! You came back,” I cried. “Come on, let’s go home.” We ran around Blueberry Field, through the woods, and down Hickory Hill. I slammed the door as we ran into the house, gasping for breath. We must have startled Grandma because she had apparently spilled her tea. “Grandma, look! Scruffy came home.” “Why, hello, little
The Dancer Who Flew: A Memoir of Rudolf Nureyev
The Dancer Who Flew: A Memoir of Rudolf Nureyev by Linda Maybarduk; Tundra Books: Toronto, 1999; $18.95 When I was nine years old, I was in a musical at the local university in my town, the University of Michigan. My friends in the cast and I would stand in the wings and watch the dancers onstage, awed by the gracefulness and majesty they created. We would try to imitate the dances backstage, trying to get every lift and every spin just right. The dances were incredibly difficult for people of our age and size, but somehow we managed to do all of them. There was one lift I did where I would actually fly through the air like a bird. Once I was so overcome I fell on the ground laughing with delight. I’ve read many books about dance, but this is the only one I have ever read that captures the passion of dance. I expected another book listing dates of famous dances and who played what role. Instead I received an emotional book which reflected my own feelings for dancing, and which made me want to throw down the book and dance. The Dancer Who Flew: A Memoir of Rudolf Nureyev by Linda Maybarduk is a biography of Rudolf Nureyev, who changed dancing forever. Linda Maybarduk was Rudolf’s personal friend, so she told a lot about her own experiences with him, which made the book much more personal and touching. Rudolf grew up in the communist country of Russia, where his family was struggling to make ends meet. For much of his childhood, his father was away at war, so his mother had to work twice as hard. While his father was away, Rudolf discovered dancing when his mother took him to a ballet on New Year’s Eve. From then on he became obsessed with ballet. Rudolf’s father was not at all supportive of his son’s dreams and ambitions when he returned from the war. So on his own money and willpower, Rudolf auditioned for the Leningrad Ballet School in Russia and made it. While he was at the Leningrad Ballet School, Rudolf and his friends would sneak out of the school late at night and dance. They would chase each other around trying to jump faster, higher, or farther than the other. This was my favorite part of the book because the author expresses their love for dance so wonderfully that I could so easily imag- me three excited teenagers running around Leningrad dancing and laughing. What I loved about the book was that it was so clear that this man was born to perform and loved every minute on stage. I could relate to this so well that sometimes I had to put down the book to think about my own experiences on stage. The author expressed how nervous he was before he went on stage, but then when he was there, he felt perfectly at home and happy. I’ve felt the same way, so overwhelmed I want to burst. When you know you are doing well and you are making people happy, it is the most effervescent and wonderful feeling. I could tell that Rudolf felt the same way, and I felt almost a connection to him, even though I never met him. Rudolf often talked about the invisible energy that propelled him through so many performances, even years after he should have retired. I, too, have felt that same invisible energy and passion that draws me back to the stage time and time again. It’s really very simple. Despite hard work, performing is one of the best things on earth. Marit Rogne, 12Ann Arbor, Michigan
A Connecticut Yankee Visits the Bronx
As I stepped out of Byron’s family Suburban, I could feel the powerful presence of Yankee Stadium. Coming from a small town, just being in the city was exciting. Today was Byron’s birthday and he had invited Matthew, David and myself to go to this game. We were really hyped up. I remember Byron saying to me, “Get your mitt, Coop!” At that moment, standing there with my best friend in the shadow of Yankee Stadium, decked out in my Yankee cap, I felt like a real fan. We threw the ball around for a few minutes in the parking lot before heading to the ballpark. Soon we were walking through the tunnel to the stadium. I could hear the fans shouting, smell the hot dogs, and feel the anticipation. The whole experience was intense. In the Bronx, you are a Yankee fan or you’re dirt. It was stunning. At the end of the tunnel the magical field sparkled. We found our seats. Byron and I were excited and talked about the game. Of course, in our minds, there was no question that the Yankees would win. Byron, his dad, Matthew and David went to get drinks and hot dogs. Miles, Byron’s little brother, wanted me to stay with him, so I did. Little did I know that the rest of our crew wouldn’t return until the middle of the first inning. The concession lines are long at Yankee Stadium. We were seated very close to the bullpen where Irabu was warming up. “Hey!” I shouted leaning over the rail, and incredibly Irabu acknowledged me, before the security guards pulled me back. Byron returned with our hot dogs and we sat on the hard seats with the sun beating down on us, eating and watching the game. Soon the spirit of New York captured us, and we were jumping up and down, roaring with the rest of the crowd. “Hey!” I shouted leaning over the rail, and incredibly Irabu acknowledged me It was hot. We decided we needed a break and went back through the tunnel to the concession stands to buy cold drinks. We had earned them with all of our hard cheering. By the time we got back to our seats, the score was 10-4 Boston. It looked as if the Yanks were going to lose. Since we had a long drive home, we decided to call it a day. In spite of the inevitable loss, I knew this day would remain in my memory for a long time. We left. As soon as we got in the car we turned on the radio to check out the score. The announcer said the Yankees had made a huge comeback. The score was now 10-9. We were so mad. We were even swearing. I think all of New York heard us. We felt like fools for leaving the game. We heard the announcer say that the Yanks had hit a home run, right to where we had been sitting! We sat through three nail-biting innings in the car listening to the radio. At the bottom of the ninth with two runners on and two outs, Bernie Williams came to the plate. Williams is an intimidating batter for any pitcher. The count went to three and two. There was silence in the car. The whole game led up to this moment. The tension was crazy. We hung on every word. The pitch was good—the announcer said, “It’s a swing, a hit, and a line drive to center field—back-back-back. . .” But the center fielder jumped up and robbed the ball from being a home run. He didn’t catch it—he “captured it,” said the announcer and brought it in to his chest. Boston had won. Everyone in our car was yelling and swearing. People in other cars were beeping their horns. That was the moment when I realized I really hated the Boston Red Sox, and that I loved this game with all my heart. Cooper Oznowicz, 12West Cornwall, Connecticut Devon Hoffman, 11Utica, New York
Winter Light
Warm light Streams from the sky Snow swirls in freezing wind Still, I will go out. Through the branches sprinkles A shower of light A lesson from the trees About the winter sun Here is Miyo’s poem in Japanese: atatakai hikari ga sora kara futte kuru fukisusabu kitakaze no naka sore de mo watakushi wa soto ni deru eda no suldma yori furisosogu hikari no shawaa gairoju ga oshiete kureta mafuyu no taiyoo Miyo Kurosaki, 12Kyoto, Japan
