Gabriella DeFrancesco dug a fingernail into her eyebrow, resting for a moment in a state of utter fatigue. It was nearly midnight, and the bed in her room taunted her. She sighed, “Why me?” Gabby was on the verge of committing to an entire summer cooped up in the cloistered science lab of one of the country’s most prestigious universities. The application form lay on her rolltop desk. All she could think was, “How did I get myself into this?” Closing her eyes, Gabby recalled a conversation earlier in the day with her Advanced Placement Biology teacher, Mr. Bennett. “Miss DeFrancesco,” Mr. Bennett said, presenting her with an application and a brochure, “you’re the first student that, in all my years of teaching, I can send to this program with complete confidence that you’ll benefit from it.” Gabby smiled an embarrassed smile and thanked Mr. Bennett in as few words as possible. She slung her brick-loaded backpack onto her shoulder and left, completely ignoring Mr. Bennett’s frenzied shouts of “Two shoulders, Gabby, put the pack over two shoulders. You’ll destroy your back!” When Gabby returned home and told her parents how she planned to spend the summer, her mother grabbed her face and kissed both cheeks over and over until it became annoying. Her father, for his part, was completely befuddled. But he ended up yelling “Magnifico!” and several other Italian phrases all meaning “wonderful” and ending in “-ico!” Gabby’s summer dreams of vegetating on the porch vanished into thin air, their particles becoming so condensed that they imploded. * * * Downstairs, the grandfather clock in the living room tolled twelve times. Gabby pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to focus on the application. The next question was, “What are you passionate about?” The irony of the query bugged her. The fact was that she could never participate in normal teenage life because of her lack of passion for anything. This was disturbing. The nagging feeling that she was wasting her childhood kept her up at night. Her feet remembered their old grace, their old love Gabby wrote a neat, cursive “B” on the page, then vigorously erased it. She had dismissed the thought of writing “Biology” before she put her pencil to paper. Although it was the answer that the sponsor, Cell Division, Inc., wanted to hear, it somehow didn’t satisfy her. The ghost of the “B” shimmered on the page. She looked up from the application. Her eye caught the edge of an old photograph tacked to the bulletin board which hung above her desk. Hidden by her jam-packed schedule and reminder notes, the photo had become part of the board, just another thing in which to stick thumbtacks. Gabby disengaged the picture from the hole-riddled cork. It fell a little, before being firmly secured by Gabby’s pointer finger. She brought it close to her face. In the photo, a small girl, smiling an unblemished eight-year-old smile, was ready for her big dancing debut. Gabby grinned at the little girl, knowing that her every dimple was identical to those of the child. Gabby remembered that day so well. It seemed to have been the beginning of her life. This long-ago recital was the first thing she had done that really mattered. Oh! How Gabby had loved dancing! She would twirl and leap and sparkle and smile, until her toes begged for mercy, but her mind begged for more. What a phenomenal ride! And she would dance until she was sure she was lame. Gabby hadn’t danced since she was thirteen, when the three-hour practices, dress rehearsals, and the commute to and from The Rock School began to affect her grades. Just remembering the day that she had quit made Gabby tingle. “You failed a science test?” her mother asked, hardly expecting an answer. “You could’ve failed with a 64, but you had to get a 58! You never even mentioned a test!” “Esther, Esther, please calm down,” Gabby’s father said. But when his wife glared at him, he turned his full attention to the pages of the test. “It slipped my mind, what with dancing and all.” Gabby tried to keep her voice reasonable, not wishing to provoke her mother any further. “If you can’t handle both school and dance, then you’ll just have to cut back on one of them. And it won’t be school!” Her mother bit her lower lip in an effort to control her anger. “That little place in Berwyn has a nice ballet program . . .” “Forget it! That’s a lame program. It’s for little kids. I’m serious about dancing!” Gabby shouted without thinking. “I can’t cut back on dance at my age. It’s now or never!” Gabby knew she should have stopped there, but she didn’t. “I’d rather quit than go halfway!” “Fine! You know what, that’s fine!” her mother said, as she turned and swept out of the room in an angry daze. Gabby fled out the front door, slamming it so hard that a porcelain Madonna fell from the mantel and shattered. Gabby’s father, who was an engineer and could have passed the failed test in his sleep, yelled after Gabby, “If you’d answered all of the questions E = mc² , you would have gotten half of them right.” He also yelled that he could say E = mc² in Italian, and, just to prove it to the wall, he did. So Gabby quit dancing, and suddenly formerly disapproving teachers became models of praising, encouraging educators. A year later, when she announced to her parents that she had been accepted into a highly selective advanced biology course and had decided to start down the road to becoming a doctor, her mother began crying, completely overjoyed. Her father, thinking that his wife was upset, tried to comfort her. The whole ordeal was rather funny. * * * The grandfather clock chimed the quarter-hour and snapped Gabby out of her daydream. She stood, stretching,
Elegy on the Death of Cesar Chavez
Elegy on the Death of César Chavez by Rudolfo Anaya; Cinco Puntos Press: El Paso, Texas, 2000; $16.95 I remember that my mother cried on the day César Chavez died. I was four years old but I remember that my whole family was sad. When I read Elegy on the Death of César Chavez last month, I understood why my mother cried. The book is a poem expressing the grieving of people when César Chavez died. It is twenty-six pages with collage illustrations by Gaspar Enriquez. The collages mix black and white and color pictures that make the reader remember the faces of the campesinos (farmworkers) and César Chavez. It’s short but it’s like a sad song that gets stuck in your head. I am a sixth-grader at DePortola Middle School. I had to write a biography so I read about the life of César Chavez and did a biographical report on him. I read books on him, but those books were only about facts and chronologies. My history book just had a paragraph about him in it. I learned about the important things he did for farmworkers, but this book, Elegy on the Death of César Chavez, helped me understand how people felt about him—that “he lives in the hearts of those who loved him.” I learned about the labor leader from my grandparents and my mother. My family worked in the fields and that is why he was important to my family. My grandfather showed me the short hoe he used to use when he worked in the fields. César Chavez made it against the law for workers to use the short hoes because it hurt their backs. The author described how César Chavez was the “guide across the fields of toil” and it made me remember how tired my grandfather looked when he came back from the fields because it was very hard work. In this book the author weaves some Spanish words into the poem like el lucero (bright star) and “across the land we heard las camparias doblando” (the bells tolling). It makes the poem stronger for people like me who are bilingual. It would have been good if the author had included the definitions for the Spanish words for readers who only understand English in the back of the book, like explaining that huelga means strike and the word campesino means farmworker. Younger readers will have to look up some of the English vocabulary in this book, but you can understand the words by the way they are used. After reading this book about Chavez I felt how people felt about him and how they felt about the world around them. Even if someone never heard of him before, this elegy would make him sad and feel that César Chavez was a hero. Thomas Arguilez Smith, 12San Diego, California
The Montana Summer
CHAPTER ONE This was supposed to be the best summer of twelve-year-old Bryan Carmanne’s life. His dad’s best friend, Bryan called him Uncle Scott, was a manager for the New York Yankees. Bryan was invited to be a ball boy for the team for the whole summer! He would even get to travel with the team to some of the “away” games. “I know it’s your dream to be in the major leagues someday,” Uncle Scott told him when he broke the great news to Bryan. “This will give you a taste of what it is really like to see the big guys in action. I already worked out all of the details with your mom and dad. What do you say? Do you think you can give up your whole summer for the team?” “Oh, I know it will be hard, but I think that Bryan could make the sacrifice for the summer,” his dad said, laughing. “Do you really mean it, Dad? Can I do it? Uncle Scott, will I get to meet my all-time favorite player, Derek Jeter? Do you think I can get his autograph?” Bryan said excitedly. “Not only will you get to meet Derek, but you’ll also work with him and the rest of the team all summer,” answered Uncle Scott. For as long as Bryan could remember, he dreamed of playing in the major leagues. It started when his dad gave him his first baseball glove. He was only three years old, but he and Dad practiced throwing and catching every chance they got. By the time he joined the local baseball team, the coaches all told him he was a natural. Now, he was the star hitter for the Bronx Blasters. His batting average was the best on the team, at .396. His idol was Derek Jeter, the shortstop for the New York Yankees. Once at a Yankees game Bryan caught a home-run ball hit by Derek. Now he had the chance to actually meet and work with him. This was going to be the best summer ever! Whenever Bryan was batting, he always had a feeling of excitement burst right through him “Thanks, Dad, thanks, Uncle Scott. You’re the best!” cried Bryan, jumping up and down. For the next few days, Bryan was ecstatic. Until this morning, that is. It all started when his mom called him into the living room for a “conference.” Bryan could sense he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. She wasn’t smiling, and she wouldn’t look Bryan in the eye. She had a serious expression on her face. His dad was there too, which was a bad sign. “Bryan, there has been a little change of plan for your summer vacation,” said his mom. “The museum has asked Dad and me to go to Egypt for the summer to research that new dinosaur graveyard. We can’t pass up this wonderful chance to continue our research on dinosaurs.” “Son, we can’t take you with us. The excavation site is too dangerous, and we won’t have time to spend with you anyway,” Dad added. “How would you like to spend the summer with Grandma Mildred and Grandpa Chuck in Montana?” “What are you talking about? You know I already have plans with Uncle Scott and the Yankees for the summer,” said Bryan. “Dad and I have to take this research job. We’ll be in Egypt for ten weeks. You can’t come with us because it’s too dangerous,” Mom repeated. “The ranch in Montana will be a lot of fun.” “You call this a little change in plans? How could you do this to me?” Bryan yelled angrily. “Why can’t I just stay with Uncle Scott for the summer?” “Bryan, that’s out of the question. Uncle Scott will be traveling with the team. How could he keep an eye on you? Our arrangement for the summer was for you to work at the Yankees’ home games,” answered Mom, patiently. “You are treating me like a baby! I don’t have a say in anything around here. This is so unfair. I haven’t seen my grandparents since I was two years old. Why do I have to stay with them?” Bryan shouted. “Grandma Mildred and Grandpa Chuck are getting old. They might not be with us much longer. They really want to see you, and get to know you. With all the traveling Mom and I do, we haven’t made time to spend with them. This is a perfect solution to our summer-plan problem,” explained Dad. “You can spend the summer together, and when Mom and I get back from Egypt, we’ll meet you at the ranch and we’ll all be together for a few days.” “Well, I hate this ‘perfect solution.’ I don’t see anything perfect about it. I’ll be stuck in the middle of nowhere with two old strangers. They probably have never even heard of the New York Yankees. This stinks!” Bryan stormed up to his room and slammed his door. “I feel terrible about this,” said Bryan’s mom. “It really is the best way, honey,” replied Bryan’s dad. “I just hope Mom and Dad know what they are in for.” Bryan plopped down on his bed. He stared at his prized possession, the home-run ball hit by Jeter. He looked at Derek’s smiling face on the poster on the wall. Bryan felt like crying, but instead, he punched his pillow. He would never get Derek to autograph that ball now. Spend the summer with his rickety old grandparents whom he barely knew, and give up the Yankees? Were his parents nuts? CHAPTER TWO Bryan woke up on Saturday morning feeling awful. He tossed and turned all night, thinking about how his summer was ruined. He had never felt this angry. His parents were traitors. Around mid-morning he decided to leave the safety of his room and go downstairs for breakfast. “Good morning, Bryan, how did you sleep?” asked Bryan’s dad. “What
Hungry
It was summer and our family was eating dinner. We were eating food I didn’t like. For dinner we had liver, broccoli and beans. I was hungry but I didn’t feel like eating liver or broccoli. My mom noticed I wasn’t eating and asked, “Dear, why aren’t you eating?” “Mom, I don’t like liver or broccoli,” I answered quietly. My mom had a disappointed look on her face. I was staring at a piece of broccoli when all of a sudden I was back in the past in Berlin. It was a sad, cloudy and cold day in Berlin. The houses there were old and falling down; there were hardly any trees, but when you saw one it would have no branches on it or it would be decaying. Most restaurants and stores were out of business. There was trash littered everywhere and there were people lying on the ground. Their faces were pale and one man I saw was shivering. I felt sorry for these people because I had a home when some didn’t. In one corner I saw a crowd of children by a garbage can. They were arguing over a piece of apple core that had been eaten already. I heard a boy say, “I get to have it because I’m older!” I started walking around the city. Everything looked so sad and so poor. I went into a dark alley when I saw a girl who was about eight years old. She was a small skinny girl; she had blond curls, her clothes were torn and she wasn’t wearing any shoes. She was eating an old fishbone that had a littie chunk of meat left on it. When she saw me she quickly put the fishbone behind her. Then I started going down slowly to the ground and I stopped at Vietnam “Please don’t take it from me. I’m really hungry,” she answered quietly. “Don’t worry,” I quickly replied, “I’m not hungry. How long have you been hungry?” “I’m not sure,” she said timidly, “but I know I’ve been hungry for a long time.” I asked, “Where are your parents?” Her face all of a sudden saddened, then she started to cry. “They died two months ago because of starvation,” she said between sobs. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry,” I replied. “Where do you sleep at night?” “Oh, I sleep at my house. Do you want to come and see?” she said in a shy voice. But before I could say anything she grabbed my hand and started leading me to her house. I followed her through two alleys and then we were there. It was old and the paint was peeling off, a window was broken, the front steps creaked under my weight when I stepped on it. When we were in the house I saw there was one bedroom, and a small kitchen and living room. The kitchen had a few pots and pans and the stove was wrecked. In the living room there was a small dinner table and three chairs. She took me to her room. She had slept there before with her parents on the same bed. There was a drawer where they kept their clothes, a night table, a chair, a picture of her parents. Then she said, “Sometimes I’m afraid to go to sleep at night but I hug the picture of my parents to comfort me. Once I dreamed of my mom as an angel and she came to take me to heaven, then I woke up. I wasn’t in heaven, I was in my room, and my mom would be gone.” My heart reached out to her. “I think I better be going,” I answered sadly. “Bye,” she replied. “Hope I meet you again soon.” I went to the door and when I got out I was lifted up and started flying at a great speed. I flew past cities and towns. I saw millions of people that looked like tiny little dolls. I just kept on flying and flying. When I was flying past China, I saw so many interesting scenes. Then I started going down slowly to the ground and I stopped at Vietnam. It was a hot day. Vietnam didn’t look as bad as Berlin in the past. There were a lot of straw houses and some brick houses that only the rich could afford. Palm trees were everywhere and there were boats that were loaded with food to sell, and there were stands that sold things like clothes and more food! I started to walk along the dirt roads. I passed an old bridge and saw three boys and two girls. One girl was sleeping on the bare floor. Then a boy quickly ran and grabbed a piece of bread off the ground and ran back under the bridge. “Hey, I got some food!” he excitedly told the others. He started to split the bread and he got the biggest piece. “Why do you get a bigger piece than us?” one of the other boys said. “Cause I got the bread!” he shouted. They started arguing, then fighting. Here sometimes, they would fight for their food, but I could eat as much as I wanted. I had learned my lesson. I started running. I ran up a hill and then I closed my eyes. I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but did I smell broccoli? When I opened my eyes I was back at home! “You fell asleep in the middle of dinner!” my dad said disapprovingly. Whew, I thought, it was only a dream! I started gulping down my food. My parents looked happy now. A little bird flaps its wings, Looking for its nest. The streets look so sad, Flying through the rain. This little bird has no nest, Young orphans have no home. Both are suffering, Both keep wandering. Tran Nguyen, 13Victoria, British Columbia,CanadaTran wrote this story when she was 10 Martin Taylor, 12Portola Valley, California
The Ocean
I stand on the ocean shore, watching the waves go by. The sun is going down but I don’t leave. I will stay out on the ocean shore. Seagulls fly overhead, they land down on the beach. Their far-off cries bid the day good-night. Out in the sunset I see dolphins leaping through the waves. Their turning, jumping transforms the setting sun into the start of a new day. They call out to me and I long to join them in the freedom that is the sea. Sunset is a dark, purple haze, recalling everything that is beautiful. I grab a boogie-board and float along with the water. A giant wave comes over me and I tumble head over heels underwater. In the sea I am a new creature. When I return to the surface I laugh out loud. I look up and see the first stars. The sky is becoming black. It is time for me to be going. Tomorrow I’ll come back and watch from the ocean shore. William Ilgen, 9Berkeley, California
The Land
The Land by Mildred D. Taylor; Phyllis Fogelman Books: New York, 2001; $17.99 “Can’t figure how you can be so crazy ’bout them white brothers of yours neither, when once y’all grown, they’ll be the boss and you’ll be jus’ another nigger.” One of the factors that made The Land so interesting was a unique conflict. Paul-Edward grew up with a black mother and a white father during the post—Civil War era. There was still a good deal of hate between the two races in the South. Though slavery was illegal, blacks were still treated like dirt. As Paul-Edward was growing up, he was the proverbial “man without a country.” Blacks didn’t like him because he had white skin and whites didn’t like him because they just knew that down deep he was a black. As I said earlier, this presented a very unique conflict. Another reason that The Land was so good was that it played my emotions better than Yo-Yo Ma can play the cello. When Paul was trying to win the horse race, my blood pressure rose higher. When Paul was missing his dad because of running away on the train, the next time I saw my dad I hugged him tighter. When Paul was running from the whites, I pulled my bed covers a little closer. The two main characters are Mitchell, a black who starts out hating Paul-Edward, but eventually—through a deal with him—becomes his best friend. Mitchell isn’t afraid of anything, and has a great sense of humor. The other main character, of course, is Paul himself. He is very intellectual, has a healthy amount of worries, and doesn’t understand why whites hate blacks. These characters’ clashing personalities give the book pizzazz and bring two, usually opposite, views of each situation into the mix, making it a lot more fun to read. Most people would say this book is simply preaching against racism, but the moral goes deeper than color. The Land is not just simply about blacks vs. whites, but it tells a story of how through friendship, love, and determination a man beat the odds and made his dream a reality. It doesn’t matter if it’s a black who wants to own land in a white man’s country, or a boy who wants to become president when he grows up, the moral is that nice guys don’t necessarily finish last. The Land is fast-paced, a quick read, and very well written. I normally do not even enjoy historical fiction, but this was one of the best books I have read in a while. Sam Gates, 13Louisville, Kentucky
Mystery at the Marsh
“Look!” A little brown head bobbed out from under the dock; the feet under it propelled it around the reeds and out of sight. “What was that thing?” asked Ted, almost falling into the water trying to find it. “A muskrat, kids. You can use that in your essay when we get back to school,” said Miss Cole. Ann Dover looked out at the ripples shimmering and glistening with the reflected sun. She sighed, her breath sending a gray smoke-like puff over the lake. The gently swaying cattails rustled and Ann caught a whiff of the dusty incense they gave off, tickling her pink, cold nose. “OK, class, you may start taking notes now.” Ann stared into the water. The bottom was covered with long, stringy algae, which she assumed was making the almost-faint stench. It looked cold and lonely, but Ann knew it was full of life. “Full of life,” she wrote. As Ann looked back at the warm biological station, she noticed something by the bank. It was a big pile of what looked like algae, but it was more clumpy, like individual things. She started to examine it, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw her teacher looking disapprovingly at her, and quickly started writing. “OK, kids, pack up. It’s snack time!” It looked cold and lonely, but Ann knew it was full of life Ann heard people hiss, “Yesssss!” under their breath. Everyone got up and formed a line. As they trudged back up the dock, stomping their feet to warm them, Ann heard Bob whisper to Jeff, “Finally. It smelled like dead fish over there.” Dead fish. That was what the pile was. But how did all those fish die? Ann thought. Best not to think about that now, she decided. All she was thinking about was having a nice snack in the warm biological station. * * * Ann was relieved when the class stepped in front of big doors leading to a warm, cozy habitat. Everyone wanted to get in, and there was a scramble as the doors of the biological station opened. Along the wall were all sorts of stuffed marsh birds, displays of life cycles, and glass cases of rock samples marked with little labels. Off to one side, there was a little shelf. In it were eleven or twelve species of fish. Fish. Ann caught up with her class and seated herself against the wall. After unzipping her backpack, she took out a fruit rollup. Dead fish. True, it was still cold from the winter that had passed, but they should have been hibernating, or whatever fish do. She would have to look around the lake again. Sitting up, she saw a little plate that said “Men’s Room—205. Women’s Room—128.” The women’s room was downstairs! She could ask to use the bathroom, and then slip out the door that led to the lake. Getting up, she walked over to her teacher. “Miss Cole, may I use the bathroom?” Ann held her breath. “Hurry back. We’ll be working on the trail next.” Rushing downstairs, Ann started searching for the lake door. She had only seen it from the dock, and it wasn’t a main door. “Hi!” Ann glanced up. Looking down at her was a kind-faced woman in a scientist’s white lab coat. Her name tag read Biologist Mason. “May I help you?” she asked. Ann thought quickly. “Could you show me to the bathroom?” she asked, hoping her face didn’t give her away. “Right down the hall, and through the third door on the left,” the woman answered. Ann thanked her, and started to the bathroom. “Do you like the lake?” she heard Biologist Mason call after her. Ann turned around and nodded, trying to make it look like she was in a hurry. “Come with your family sometime, and I’ll show you around. My name’s Jennifer.” With that, finally, the biologist turned and retreated into a lab. Ann stood a moment, thinking. Then, she realized how little time she had. Stepping down the last of the stairs, she looked right. There was a lab. She looked left. There was a big door propped open by an oar. Ann pushed open the door and stepped out onto a dirt path. A little to the right stood the dock. Ann ran out to where the fish were. It hadn’t changed from a few minutes ago. There was nothing she could see to cause the fishes’ death. Crushed, Ann turned around; she was face-to-face with Jeff Schiller, one of her seventh-grade classmates. Ann stared at him. Then, knowing they would both get in trouble if they were late, they started walking back. “You’re going to tell on me, aren’t you,” Ann said without looking at him. “No, I was coming out for the same reason. To see about the fish.” Seeing Ann didn’t trust him, he added, “We can find out together.” “OK,” Ann said. “But not now, we’ll be late. I’ll talk to you at break.” She immediately regretted it, but there was no time to take it back. Jeff followed her as they ran up the stairs, clanging on the metal, making an echo loud enough for the world to hear. * * * “Rinnnnnnng!” Back at school, break time had finally crept its way up to pounce on Ann. She looked around, but in the mass of kids, she lost sight of Jeff by the door. Slowly, she slipped her essay paper (titled “Wingra Marsh”) in a blue folder and, putting her pencil back in her desk, got to her feet. Other girls have crushes on boys, but not me, she thought, staring at the door. What will people think when they see me talking to Jeff—the most popular boy at Henry James Middle School? She took a deep breath and started outside. “Ann.” Ann jumped. She had forgotten about Miss Cole correcting papers at her desk. “May I see your essay, please?” “Oh,” Ann
Esperanza Rising
Esperanza Rising by Pam Murioz Ryan; Scholastic Press: New York, 2000; $15.95 Did you know that esperanza means hope in Spanish? That word, and that word alone, is the perfect way to describe the young heroine of this novel, Esperanza Ortega. Esperanza Ortega is a pampered little rich girl in Aguascalientes, Mexico in 1930, who has all the food, clothes, and toys that any twelve-year-old child could want. She has many servants and she has her love for her mother, father, and grandmother. The novel starts by showing the theme of the book: when Esperanza was six years old, her father took her for a walk in El Rancho de Rosas, their home, and told her to lie down in the field, and she could feel the heart of the valley. When Esperanza did as he said, it turned out to be true, and she and her father shared this little secret. The day before Esperanza’s thirteenth birthday, however, a horrible thing happens: her father is attacked and killed by bandits, who believe that they killed righteously, because Papa is rich and most likely scorns the poor, like them. When this dreadful news is delivered to Esperanza and her mother, they go into mourning, and Papa’s older stepbrothers, Tio Marco and Tio Luis, come to supposedly help them through their time of need. The true purpose for their staying comes clear, though, when Tio Luis announces that he wishes to marry Mama. However, Mama turns his proposal down. But after the uncles burn their house to the ground, the family realizes that they must leave Mexico. Esperanza, Mama, and their former servants—Miguel, Alfonso, and Hortensia—take the train to California and begin to work as farm laborers. Esperanza is enraged, however, because she is not used to “being treated like horses” or living among poor people. Even after she befriends Miguel’s younger cousin Isabel, she still scorns and fears the labor camp because there are the strikers in it who are trying to get better working conditions and will stop at nothing and no one to get what they want. I liked Esperanza Rising, but there was one big thing that I didn’t like: Esperanza was so real a character that I felt a little bit queasy. I’m not very comfortable around realistic fiction books. I’m more the fantasy-novel type. I still don’t like books that don’t end “happily ever after.” There were some things that Esperanza experienced that I have as well. When Esperanza was asked to sweep the porch and she didn’t know how to even use a broom, I knew just how she felt, because I’ve had that feeling more than once. When I was little, I begged my mom to let me have a bike, so I could be “just like the big kids,” and I never rode it, so I’ve never learned how to ride a bike. When my friends ask me to ride my bike with them, I always have to lie and say that it’s “much closer to walk,” and “oh, couldn’t you walk, too?” It’s very difficult when you can’t do something that most other people can. But Esperanza learned how to use a broom, while I still have yet to learn how to ride a bike! Esperanza Rising is written so you could definitely feel what the characters were feeling. I very nearly almost laughed out loud at the part when Esperanza had to wash the babies’ diapers and she didn’t know how, so she was just dipping them into the washing basin with two fingers. Esperanza Rising is a vivid, well-written book. The author takes her time, and describes every scene and every character as though the whole novel revolved around them. And she shows how Esperanza changes: from a pampered, stuck-up girl, to an understanding young woman. And the whole story contains hope. Hope that the strikers will understand why Esperanza and her family and the other workers need their jobs and will not join them. Hope that Esperanza will one day become rich again. And hope that Abuelita, Esperanza’s grandmother, will one day come and join Esperanza and Mama in the labor camp, because she was left behind at El Rancho de Rosas. Luisa V. Lopez, I INew York, New YorkLuisa was 10 when she wrote her review.
Paradise
I look once more out the rolled-down window of our faded blue Chevrolet and gaze out at our little yellow summer house, rapidly shrinking as we roll away. The trim white shutters are pulled tight, awaiting next year when we return and the house will brim with life and energy once again. I see our dark auburn porch sitting peacefully on the sand. A warm breeze blows, tinkling the silver chimes that hang from its roof. The little windowbox my mom uses during the summer has nothing left but a little dirt and maybe a couple of dead spiders. Stretching below and past the porch is pure white sand. It leads to sparkling aqua-blue waters that reflect the sun and almost blind me in their brightness. I remember this morning when I took a last swim in the cool, turquoise waters. The sunrise was beautiful, pale pink, lavender, and apricot, but the water held a chill which I hadn’t felt all summer. I remember this morning when I took a last swim in the cool, turquoise waters I look down at my patched denim cutoffs. They have been worn so many times that they are almost white, but they hold a faint sea-smell that I love. Those shorts bring back memories of all the past summers we have spent on Richolette Beach. I remember the sunny day a few years ago when a bunch of neighbors and our whole family teamed up to push a beached whale back to sea. I recall that notable time when Dad first taught me how to sail a boat. I remember watching my first falling star on Grandma’s knees late one night, catching my first fish, and learning the miracle of life one week as I watched hundreds of baby sea turtles, just hatched, crawl to the sea for the first time. Mom reprimanded me this morning, saying that it will be cold back in San Francisco and I should at least wear pants, but I insisted that since it was the last day of summer, I was going to wear my summer shorts. The last day of summer. I guess I can’t deny any longer that fall is really coming. The leaves of the oaks and maples we drive by remind me of colorful nasturtiums and flickering flames with their brilliant reds, oranges and yellows. I look back longingly at my lovely days of getting up early for a refreshing morning swim, sunbathing idly on the soft, warm sand, and hunting for interesting shells for my collection. I remember watching the sun set over the ocean and then dropping into bed, exhausted but exhilarated, to fall asleep to the peaceful sounds of waves lapping playfully on the sand, and crickets chirping soothing lullabies. Realization creeps over me that starting tomorrow I will again be forced to stick to a strict schedule of homework, teachers and classes. I shudder slightly as a cool wind sweeps through the car window, which I close. Forcing thoughts of school to the back of my mind, I lean back cozily against the warm seat and close my eyes. My mind wanders freely, and again I start daydreaming of past days at the little house on Richolette Beach. For I know that summer will come again, and I will once more lie on the sand, idly watching the gentle waves. I know that once more, I can be in paradise. Leah Sausjord Karlins, 12Campbell, California Maya Sprinsock, 9Santa Cruz, California
Characteristic Property
The space pods zoomed above Cassiopeia Jaiden Starwing as she stood on the moving sidewalk on her way home from Academy. Cassie ignored the zooming noise as everyone else did, but her mind did not focus on the obvious. Cassie always acted mellow—she was the youngest of seven children, and the only girl, and she was used to lying low while her brothers got into trouble. But today Cassie was bubbling inside. Tomorrow was her thirteenth birthday, but, like everyone on the planet Earth, she celebrated a day before with her family members. Today was her special day—her day to shine. Cassie grinned as the sidewalk approached her home. It was common knowledge throughout the galaxy that the people on Earth had some of the richest homes anywhere—Earth was a base station to the other planets and jobs there were well paying and important. Cassie’s home was no exception—it was a huge house, with floor upon floor of circular living space. Cassie’s father owned the fastest growing rocket ship company in the galaxy, and was always busy. Cassie’s mother used to work for the Intergalactal Peace Council and retired soon after her second son, Forrest, was born. Now Oriana Starwing was one of the most admired economics teachers on Earth, and was known as far away as Neptune. The space pods zoomed above Cassiopeia as she stood on the moving sidewalk Cassie entered her home, expecting to be greeted by her family at the door, the way her brothers’ celebrations began, but things were not as she suspected. In fact, they were the opposite. Her mother rushed around, collecting papers and briefcases, her pretty blond hair pulled off her face, exposing her Martian features, a skinny pointy nose and a heart-shaped face. Her father, unusually harried, barked instructions into the videophone in the living room. Cassie could see he was talking to his secretary, the chubby one, and an immigrant from Venus. Something about his wife going away . . . needing a housekeeper . . . “Cassie, star beam, how was your day?” Draco Starwing said quickly as he pounded the TERMINATE button on the videophone. “How was that event . . . what was it? A debate on who discovered Mercury first . . . or was it a Moon Ball championship?” “The debate was two weeks ago. I lost. Yumi plays Moon Ball. His championship is in two weeks. He’ll probably lose too . . .” “Oh, that’s fab!” exclaimed Draco, having not heard a word Cassie had said. “Now, Cass, I gotta tell ya something. Your mom got a grant to go get her hands dirty and learn about the third-world areas in Saturn . . . so she’ll be going away for a month or so. And I’ll be at a forum on Jupiter for the next two weeks, so that means you’ll be here with your darling bros, won’t that be fun?” Cassie felt her face grow hot. She hated her life sometimes—her parents never home, her brothers endlessly annoying her, and now her own birthday was ignored. She stalked away from her father and headed up the curving DNA-like stairs. Right before she reached the second level, she swung around on her heels. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Cassie asked quietly, her face twisted into a sarcastic smile. “Cass, whadaya mean? We’ve got it all set up, a student from Neptune is studying here and she’ll live with you guys for a month to take care of you. The school knows, the government knows, your brothers know. Your grandmother knows. What’s missing?” “A happy birthday.” And with that, Cassie dashed up to the seventh story. The next day, in the wee hours of the morning, Cassie heard the vr-vrooming noise of her parents’ space pods zooming away, one to the right, one to the left. Throughout the night they had tried to come in and apologize, but Cassie would pretend to be asleep. Finally, an hour before they left, Cassie’s mother simply came in and placed a parcel on Cassie’s Holovision. Cassie woke up at exactly nine o’clock. It was the first day of Daybreak, the three days of freedom that came after every eight days of work and school. She turned off her floating bed as she hobbled to her mirror, her back sore. Cassie stared at her reflection. She had fallen asleep in her academy uniform. All I see is a short girl in a purple-and-white outfit. Long, stringy dark hair. My father’s big green eyes, my mother’s broad smile. No one even knows my name. Ha, but maybe that will all change, now that I’m thirteen—if they even remember. She moped into the shower and emerged eight minutes later. She changed into one of her comfiest outfits—a silver shirt with fleecy black pants. Now she was prepared to meet the housekeeper. “Oooh, wet hair, did wittle baby Cryeoweepa have a bad night?” Pisces, her fourteen-year-old brother on his way to the kitchen, ambushed Cassie. Only a year older than she, Pisces was Cassie’s biggest annoyance. Her other brothers had a more seldom and subdued teasing style, but Pisces did not pick up on the trend. “Heavens, Cass, you’re what? Thirteen now? And you still act like a baby. Mom and Dad just forgot. Oh, yeah, by the way, they couldn’t find a good present at such short notice, so Dad got you a Starwing Rockets shirt. Have a great one.” And with that, Pisces was on the run again, toward the kitchen. “Oooh, you must be . . . uh . . . Kwasseo- no. . . no . . . Caspian? Ugh, I’ve taken Earthen for several years and still I cannot pronounce the simplest of names. But, no worries, I am Daviana, your housekeeper. I go to school in Neptune where I study Earth, but I wanted to come here and learn about an average family on Earth. At the University of Neptune, all they teach is history
The Best Thing in the World
The late August sun warms the carpet in my room. I sit listening to the sounds below me. Mom and Grandma cooking food in the kitchen. Dad putting the finishing touches on the cake Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends ringing the doorbell My brother running to the door with hellos Loud laughter sounds throughout the house Squeals of delight from baby Maddy’s discoveries “Come down Craig, you’re being rude,” yells Mom. It’s my birthday, I’m not being rude. I’m thanking God for the best thing in the world. The best thing in the world is this moment in my life. Craig Shepard, 12Camillus, New York
Basketball Season
I roll down the car window. It’s hot. The engine murmurs steadily. I can feel my stomach flipping as we near Fullor. The basketball courts loom ahead, all empty but one. The two-door Toyota stops. Amy jumps out quickly. I take my time, slowly stepping out onto the scorched cracked blacktop. I can feel the heat through my black sandals. We wave good-bye, and I force a smile. Inside I am whimpering. Amy jogs over in her running shoes, short brown hair tied back. A blue sweatshirt casually blends into relatively baggy jeans. I wobble after her, my shoes slowing me down. I had curled my hair the night before. It lay like a doll’s. Big hoops dangle from my ears, giving way to a silver choker necklace. It was all planned out the night before. The clothes. I wanted to make a good first impression. Tight jeans match with my tank. It reads “Princess.” We stop in front of the coach. He frowns at me, observing my ensemble. I can feel my face turn red. I didn’t know they would all be boys. Sixteen boys. Sixteen pairs of eyes. Sixteen smirks. But now, as I look around me . . . I just don’t belong We need to run a warm-up lap around the bare field. The boys gradually pass me. Sympathetically, Amy matches my slow pace. I stare longingly in the direction of home, but am forced to turn a corner and head for the sneering crowd instead. A ball rolls out toward me, slowly. I pick it up. What am I doing here? Who am I trying to fool? Being on a team seemed like a great idea two weeks ago when I applied. But now, as I look around me . . . I just don’t belong . . . I close my eyes, in hope that I can just wake up from this bad dream . . . They open, looking down. I hold in my hands a basketball. I drop it, watching it roll away. Slowly, I turn to run. We both slip on the gravel. The boys make no attempt to muffle a loud laugh. I know they’re laughing at me. Amy goes to Felton Junior High. Fullor and Felton are like brothers. The two schools end in the same high school. They accept Amy as one of them. I am the outsider at Remdon Private Middle School. I arrive last, panting loudly. Everybody stares at me, annoyed. I held back the group. Coach says something about an all-star team. “The judges will choose the two best players . . . It’s in your hands . . . Only those who really want it . . .” I am not listening. A boy with mousy brown hair and large front teeth whispers something to his friend. Distinctly I can make out the words “pathetic” and “blondie.” They snicker, causing the coach to clear his throat loudly in their direction. I stare down at my feet. The private whimpers inside of me are threatening to reveal themselves to the world. The only pathetic blond here is me. WEEK TWO I feel my forehead. It seems fine. I stand still and close my eyes, searching every inch of my body for any sign of pain or illness. If I concentrate really hard, I can almost feel some pressure in my head . . . It’s useless. Unfortunately, it seems I’m in perfect health, and basketball practice starts in fifteen minutes. WEEK THREE I don’t know if it is the boys’ taunts or really just my lack of ability that is causing me to miss. Every shot. Insults are murmured constantly in my direction, loud enough for me to hear, yet concealed from the coach. Things like “princess” and “loser.” I don’t dare tell him, for fear of what the rest might do to me. It doesn’t make the situation any easier to accept, that apart from Amy, I am the oldest. No matter how much older I am than the boys, I’m still too young to have a nervous breakdown, but I fear it is edging close. Sobs echo throughout the inside of my head. My life is turning into a living nightmare. Amy gave up trying to convince me to ignore them. Ignore them? How can I just ignore them? Easy for her to say; feet don’t stick out in attempts to trip her as she walks by. Every little mistake of hers is forgotten automatically. Mine are as good as posted for public viewing. WEEK FOUR Shoot . . . miss. Shoot . . . miss. Shoot . . . miss. WEEK FIVE The boy with the big teeth goes by: C.J. Every now and then I make a shot. Nobody notices. WEEK SIX C.J. says he’ll give me a dollar for every shot I make. He coughs when I’m about to shoot and makes attempts to trip me when Coach isn’t looking. So why don’t I just leave? I thought about it. It’s too late. If I go now, C.J. will think he defeated me. I feel like Hamlet. To leave or not to leave . . . I’m not the quiet accepting type. I’m proud. Perhaps too proud. I shout back the first insults that come into my head. C.J. and his followers can top anything I say. I don’t care what the coach thinks, either. I don’t think he even notices anything is wrong. He’s far too ignorant and absorbed in his own little world. C.J. says something about my school. I throw the ball so hard at him, he falls over backward. Coach sees this as an accident. With their “chief” gone for the day, the boys don’t seem to find any pleasure in making my life miserable. Only a fraction continue to taunt me. Today I made my first three-pointer. WEEK SEVEN I am wearing sports pants today. My hair is
