There is one thing that always completes my summer. Mission Beach. Every August, my family either takes the eight-hour drive or the one-hour flight down to San Diego, where my mom grew up. My grandpa lives in a small complex called Stonecrest, and about a ten-minute drive away is Mission Beach, my favorite beach in the whole world. My mom’s best friend, Auntie Julia, brings down her entire huge family from Piedmont, California, and Chicago, Illinois, and she rents the same old enormous beach house located directly on Mission Beach. It’s 10:04 am, according to my sister’s watch. Dad is driving the car, singing along to Bob Dylan blasting on the radio. Mom is on the phone with Auntie Julia (occasionally making furious gestures to Dad to bring down the volume), and my sister Anna is announcing the time every four minutes. I finger my bright blue summer dress that I bought from The Gap this past July. All the windows of our minivan are rolled down, air-conditioning is on full blast, and we are off to the beach. I think this is the best way to end my summer. Dad hasn’t even parked or turned off the car when Anna and I unbuckle and explode out of the car. The cool salty breeze tickles my nose and tugs at my hair as a smile breaks on my face. The hot sun beats down as we quickly unpack the trunk and trudge down the alley to the big familiar brown house. The four of us climb the brick wall. Mom helps me up and I can see the sparkling blue ocean that never fails to amaze me. Kate and Anna wave to us as we wade out of the water “Natalie! Anna!” A little girl, who is around eight, runs over and gives me a huge hug. “Mommy, they’re here!” “OK, I’m coming!” Auntie Julia rushes over, her spiky brown hair damp, and she has on a cute black dress. Of course, she isn’t really my aunt. But our families are so close that it is hard not to refer to each other as family. Julia smiles and embraces my mom in a giant hug, and then my dad. “Welcome back, guys! Everyone’s out on the beach.” We follow Julia onto the front porch of the house that faces the bluer-than-blue ocean. There isn’t a cloud above in the sky, and tanned teenagers are tossing around a volleyball in the sand across the boardwalk. “Natalie!” I spin around to see a cute blond girl, freckles sprinkled across her nose, her hair glowing strawberry blond in the sun. I smile. “Ellie!” We share a hug. She is a year younger than me and we first bonded a few years ago over our love of reading and books. Ellie is Julia’s niece. Her mom is Beth, who has two older boys, also: Chase, age fourteen, and Josh, age sixteen Kate tugs my hand. “Let’s go to the beach, c’mon!” I grin and glance over my shoulder at Julia, Mom, and Dad. Mom takes my bag, smiling, “Go on!” It’s a tradition. Ellie, Anna, Kate, and I race across the sand and see who can get to the water first. We grip hands as we check up and down the boardwalk to make sure there are no bikers or pedestrians coming, then we sprint across the asphalt and scramble over the three-foot concrete wall. I kick off my flip-flops and my feet sink into the warm sand. I can already feel my shoulders starting to get sunburned as Kate yells, “GO!” We take off, trying to pick up our feet as much as possible so we don’t get burned. Running through the sand is hard! It’s really different from running over hard, solid ground. If you let your weight sink into your feet for more than two seconds, it’s like sprinting through molasses. We pass a volleyball game as Kate and Anna start falling behind. Now it is me versus Ellie. We flash mock-competitive looks at each other. I look down to see the sand growing darker and firmer, meaning it’s wet and we are getting close to water. I could feel the balls of my feet throbbing. Ellie’s face is red and she pants. I pump my sore legs faster, now able to run normally because the wet sand is more dense and packed tighter. Ellie and I splash into the refreshingly ice-cold ocean at the same time. We laugh, gasping and panting, as the waves lap at our knees. The hem of my dress brushes a passing wave, but it feels good. Kate and Anna wave to us as we wade out of the water. They stand at the top of a sandy hill. Ellie and I start towards them, when a bucket of freezing water hits my back; Ellie and I scream. We whirl around to see Chase and Josh holding two pails of ocean water, kneeling in laughter. With our entire backsides drenched, Ellie and I have found new energy even after the long sprint down to the water as we pursue Chase and Josh into the ocean. A wave rolls up and splashes around my ankles as I tilt my head toward the turquoise sky and I realize my summer can’t get any better than this. Natalie Bettendorf, 13Berkeley, California Emily Considine, 13Half Moon Bay, California
We the Children (Benjamin Pratt and the Keepers of the School)
We the Children (Benjamin Pratt and the Keepers of the School), by Andrew Clements; Atheneum Books for Young Readers: New York, 2011; $6.99 Atheneum Books, the publishing company, knew what they were doing when they published this mysterious and wonderful book by Andrew Clements. I relate to Ben, the main character, a lot. Ben is friendly and outgoing. I am, too. Ben is also brave and nosy, and he likes to know what things mean and what others are doing. He always accepts a challenge and never gives up. He’s confident and always knows he can do it. I also feel close to Jill, another main character. She always is wondering who to take sides with. She knows what she should do, but when she tries she feels like her ideas are criticized. She’s negative and overwhelmed sometimes, but then she feels really bad and apologizes. She becomes sweet, energetic, and bold. When Ben and Jill find out the school they go to is going to be torn down, they feel like they must stop it. I would react the same way. I would feel upset and find a trustworthy teacher, though, to speak to a board meeting about my opinion. I wouldn’t start being a detective like Ben and Jill until after the teacher failed. Then I would look for clues to help me. When Ben and Jill need to solve the clues, they spend a lot of time in the library to learn about the school’s past. I would research the clues on the Internet. Jill did a tiny bit online. I would type in each clue and hope to find how they related to my school. As for when the grouchy and scary janitor, Mr. Keane, stops Ben to give him the coin, I would have done the same. I would take the coin and promise to save the school, but I would not go straight to a friend to find out about a dead person who had their name on the coin. I would Google them. Once I received the coin, I would feel scared and hopeless. I probably would go and forget about it until I had free time. If I heard that Mr. Keane had died, part of me would feel nervous because now I would be alone, which would make me go recruit a friend. Part of me would feel sad but would tell me that now, if I broke my promise, Mr. Keane would not know. Most of me would feel too sad to even think about the coin. My favorite parts of the book were very touching. One was how Jill seemed to always understand how Ben felt and would try to make him joyful. The other was when Ben saved Robert’s life. That made me think of Ben as heroic and kind. It always made me angry when Robert bullied Ben. If I had been there, I would have told Robert what a bully he was and I would have stood up for Ben. Overall, I would recommend this story to anyone who loves a mystery and conflicts that only tightly bonded friendship can solve. This book is heartwarming and touches your soul. Madeline Hastie, 10Northfield, New Hampshire
Royal Blue
“We’ll see who the better horse is tomorrow, won’t we?” I paced nervously back and forth in front of Royal Blue’s stall and wondered why Dad was taking so long talking to Mr. Fields. Mr. Fields wasn’t going to buy Royal Blue even if he paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for the successful racehorse, I knew, since Dad had told me just that morning that he wouldn’t sell. Dad turned down many offers already. Why wasn’t he giving Mr. Fields just a flat-out no? I stopped walking and patted Blue’s satin nose, which was sticking out of the stall. The chestnut stallion was scheduled to race in the Kentucky Derby tomorrow, and since he had shown so well in races before, people from all over the country were coming to put in an offer before the race. “We’re not selling you,” I said softly to Blue, looking up into his caramel-colored eyes. “You’re going to run in our barn’s colors tomorrow, boy. You can count on that.” Finally, Mr. Fields appeared from the office and walked down the aisle. He looked a bit disgruntled, which I gathered to mean that Blue was still ours. “Fine thoroughbred,” he commented, giving Royal Blue a small sugar cube from his coat pocket. “Good luck tomorrow.” “Thank you,” I replied a little frostily, wondering why Mr. Fields was bothering to talk to me. When he had made offers on some of our other thoroughbreds, he had always ignored me. “You’re going to need it. You know King of the Wind, my prized race horse, will be competing tomorrow, and it is well known that he has won just as many races as Royal Blue!” My heart jumped to my throat. King of the Wind was one of the winningest horses in the Derby, and although I knew Royal Blue was just as fast, he was recovering from a strained tendon. It took months of rehabilitation and training until Blue was fit enough to run again. “Well, good luck to you, sir,” I said, glad that I had a decent poker face. “We’ll see who the better horse is tomorrow, won’t we?” Mr. Fields chuckled. “Yes, I think we will.” He smiled and left the barn, still laughing under his breath. I grimaced from his mocking me and wished I thought of a good retort, but I was consoled by the fact that Royal Blue might win, letting us have the last laugh. Dad strolled over to me at Blue’s stall and smiled. “Well, Sam, we still have Royal Blue.” “That’s great, Dad,” I said, forcing a smile, not wanting him to know I was worried that King of the Wind might breeze ahead of us at the first of the Triple Crown races. “Don’t worry, hon. Think of how Royal Blue has won so many other times.” Dad patted me on the back, seeing through my front. I nodded absently, thinking of just the opposite, of how many Blue hadn’t won without anything to explain for a poor performance. “Good night, Blue. See you at the track, buddy.” Dad stroked Blue’s nose once before turning to leave the barn. “Sleep tight, Blue! You’ve got a long day ahead of you, boy,” I said, smiling and following Dad. * * * The day of the race dawned bright and early for everyone at the track. We arrived at the barn before any spectators were around, yet before we were halfway through with grooming and saddling Blue, people started milling around, wanting autographs from trainers and jockeys and snapshots of the horses. I was Blue’s groom and the daughter of the owner; so as I walked him to stretch his legs, I had to put up with reporters asking question after question after question. “Miss Sam Kinsley,” one reporter called out, running up to us as we walked. “How do you think your chances of winning are today, compared to your biggest rival, King of the Wind?” I thought carefully, knowing anything I said could be twisted into anything the reporter wanted. “Well, racing is a gamble, and anything could happen on the track today. King of the Wind will be a threat, but I’m sure we’ll be up to the challenge,” I replied. The reporter wrote this down, but before he could press me more, another reporter came on the other side of Blue with another question. “Mr. Fields, King of the Wind’s owner, is boasting that his horse can win the Derby, as well as the Triple Crown. Do you think this is so, Miss Kinsley?” “Every horse out there has a chance today,” I said simply, knowing that was the most diplomatic response I could give. Luckily, I returned to the barn by this time and was able to get the door open and me inside. However, it isn’t so easy to fit a thousand-pound animal inside a small crack; so in widening it, a few other people followed me in. Thankfully, it was only Mr. Williams and Mr. Ridge, two friends of my father’s, and Jim Crawly, a reporter who respected our privacy and never published anything about us without asking our permission. “Well, hello, Jim,” Mom said. She was dressed in a pretty print dress and a blue floral hat. “How d’you do, ma’am,” Jim politely replied. “Very well, thank you. I’m sorry I can’t stop to chat. I’ll save you a seat though.” “In the winner’s circle?” Jim quipped back confidently. Mom left, and since everyone else seemed pretty busy, I decided I’d go warm up Blue. I led him to the exercise track and swung up on his saddle. “Hello, Miss Kinsley.” I stiffened at the voice behind me. Carl Davis, the head exercise rider for the horses at Mr. Fields’s stable, rode up behind me on King of the Wind. Carl was definitely not my favorite person and, since he always condescended to me because I was just a groom, I avoided him as much as
The Jewel Case
I see you in a bowl Tantalizing me. I pick you up Your smoothness Goes unnoticed As I cut you into quarters Eagerly trying to get to Your ripeness. You are a red jewel case With red jewels inside you, Shimmering Like drops of blood. I take one jewel I put it to my lips I smell nothing But taste the Heavenliness Sweetness Deliciousness Of the Red pomegranate. Ruhi Sah, 11Brooklyn, New York
I’m Home
I saw the places where my parents grew up “Last boarding call for Flight 31 to Moscow, Russia. Last call for Flight 31.” The JFK PA machine was loud and clear, not fuzzy like usual, and I felt pained as I acknowledged that it was time to say goodbye to Dad. “Dad, promise me that you’ll take care of Mom and yourself. Promise me you’ll see the doctor about that repeating headache problem. Promise me you’ll be careful when driving and call me every day. Do you promise?” I demanded, as if I was a hundred-year-old woman having a nervous breakdown, instead of an eleven-year-old girl about to go on an adventurous trip. I bit my fingernails. Is everything I am saying going straight through him? My father laughed a bit, but my glum stare forced him to stop. “I promise,” he swore, his tone grim and serious. The corners of his eyes were creased with concern and his face seemed to be asking me, “What about you? Will you be careful? Do you promise?” “Agreed then,” I answered, matter-of-factly. “In return, I promise to be smart in Russia.” I kissed him on the cheek and said, “See you in a month,” giddy with anticipation of my upcoming travel adventures. I headed towards my grandmother who was already showing the flight attendant our tickets. I could not believe that in less than ten hours I would be halfway across the world! * * * A month later, I was back in that same airport, getting off that almost-same flight—Moscow to New York. New York! I had missed this place too much. I thought of when we had traveled through Russia by boat. I remembered all those hours when I gazed at the serene, seemingly endless surface of the River Volga, in which the trees surrounding it cast their long, dark shadows. I felt the water spray from the fast-moving boat against my skin, heard the seagulls squawking in the air, smelled the soothing aroma of forest pines drifting through the breeze. Yet all I could think about was where my parents were at that moment and how gloomy I felt without them by my side. How’s New York in general? Had the fireworks for Independence Day burst through the night in a flash of beauty? Were the lakes in Central Park beginning to cover with moss-green algae? Had the Con Edison workers finished the construction on Second Avenue? What new exhibits were on display at the Metropolitan Museum? I had wondered. Most of all, I recalled that first homesick night in Moscow when I couldn’t fall asleep no matter what. I tossed and turned all night, looking out the stained, cracked window into the pitch-black street, where shadows fell like creepy ghosts, breathing in my ear, “You don’t belong here. You don’t belong here.” Grandma said I couldn’t sleep because of the jetlag, but I didn’t think so. But my trip was far from being a weep fest. In fact, I had an incredible time. I saw the places where my parents grew up. I saw fascinating museums, the cobblestone streets where Catherine the Great took her morning strolls 300 years ago. I visited the building where all the Russian cosmonauts are trained. I walked through St. Petersburg at one o’clock in the morning during the spectacular White Nights. I stepped into abbeys built in the ninth century. Sometimes, walking from street to street, one memorable experience to another, I’d be too awed to even put my feelings into words. Nevertheless, when I sat on that plane back to America, I was eager to get back to New York. I couldn’t wait to see Dad picking me up at the airport, telling me how much he had missed me. Therefore, when we got off the plane, it was all a blur—I was too overwhelmed to notice anything. Not the swooshing of turning-on cell phones, not the comforting smell of freshly baked blueberry muffins coming from duty-free cafes, not the rough feeling of people pushing disrespectfully past you. I felt as if Dad was not more than an inch away, as if I could touch him already, as if I heard his voice directly above my head, as if all I had to do was reach up—and there he’d be. “Come on. Come on!” I told Grandma impatiently. “Hurry up!” We squeezed through the crowds of people heading towards the big traffic jam—the customs inspection. I was still in my daze though—imagining seeing them: my parents and New York. I could almost imagine every feature of my mother’s face—and the structure of every tower that scrapes the sky above New York City. “Next,” one of boundary inspectors called. “Stall 22, please.” “Cool!” I whispered to Grandma. “That’s my lucky number.” “OK, kiddo, let’s go,” she replied sarcastically. We walked towards the stall. The man sitting in it had a shrewd, wrinkled old face with deep, wicked dimples in his smile. He sneered at us and ordered, “Documents,” as if he was an evil king and we, his helpless subjects. My grandmother dug through her purse for the passports and the declaration slips that were filled out on the plane. She handed them over to him. He snatched them from her as though the papers were a gun and poor Grandma was about to fire. He looked through the papers for so long that I began to wonder if he fell asleep. I wanted to ask, Is there a problem? but I didn’t. That would be rude. At last, he sighed as if he could not wait to get off duty and said, “You need a document providing the permission of the parents.” “Yes, yes, I have it,” assured Grandma. She dug back into her purse and fished out the neatly folded piece of paper. “Here you go.” He grabbed it so fast that I was sure it would rip—but it did not. He examined it thoroughly. As he looked up,
The Nature Walk
I shut the door behind me Exasperated and overwhelmed And start walking briskly As I walk I hear crickets chirping like a marching band I hear leaves crunching under me Soothing me over my bad day at school I feel the cool, fresh air across my face As I walk forward I smell the sweet smell of the nighttime dew Just like after a rainy day I slowly inch forward daydreaming Feeling like I am on the top of the world I cannot describe it It is simply the feeling of a nature walk Tanay Kumta, 12Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Discovering Opportunities
This is the horse that inspired me the most Where I live, the seasons come and go as they please, along with the day and night. Everything has been the same for as long as I can remember. The daily routine of waking up, brushing my teeth, and getting on the bus only to be disturbed by teenagers seemed like a part of my life now. After getting off of the bus to go in to my school, no matter what grade I was in, it never seemed to change. Whether I was in primary school, or middle school, everything always seemed the same. After school finally had ended, I would board the bus once again and look out the window. Everything passing by in such a blur made me wonder if anything would ever change. As we passed by the once lush field of grass that was now reduced to nothing but brown stubble due to the snowy winter, I saw a few horses. Some of the horses’ coats were as white as the cleanest alabaster fabric. Others were as red as rustic bricks on a cafe’s wall. They always seemed so peaceful, so carefree. It was like they didn’t care about what was coming tomorrow. Whether it was a blizzard or excruciating heat, they didn’t care. Oh, how I would love to be a horse. Never going back and doing the same annoying routine thing, always moving along and never looking back. These horses were the only thing keeping me going for the next day. They made me think to myself, that no matter what challenges I faced the next day, I would see the horses. There was one in particular that inspired me more, though. It was different from any other horse in that herd. Its hair was as jet black as a clear night with a new moon. It just seemed so wild, so free. It was so carefree that, compared to every other horse in that herd, it seemed like it had just drunk seven Monster Energy Drinks. This is the horse that inspired me the most. It made me think that maybe I needed to make some changes and become as carefree as the jet-black horse that stood out in the crowd of alabaster and red horses. And then I realized that all of the other horses were me, and the jet-black horse was just an opportunity, somewhere inside of me, waiting to happen. Ocyin Davis, 11Satellite Beach, Florida Onalee Higgins, 11Galesville, Wisconsin
Fixing Delilah
Fixing Delilah, by Sarah Ockler; Little, Brown and Company: New York, 2010; $16.99 Sarah Ockler’s Fixing Delilah follows Delilah Hannaford (a sixteen-year-old girl) as she discovers her family’s secrets and learns the true importance of family. The novel starts with Delilah and her boyfriend, Finn, who do not like each other but are dating. Delilah, a slightly arrogant girl, is going back to Vermont to bury her grandmother. She hasn’t seen her since she was eight (because of a fight between Delilah’s mother, Claire, and her grandmother). While in Vermont, Delilah starts digging up secrets that Aunt Rachel, her grandmother, and her mother, buried deep. She learns the cause of the fight that split the family apart, the true story about why she didn’t have a dad, and the mystery behind Aunt Stephanie’s death at eighteen. She also meets her old friend Patrick, and Sarah Ockler surprises us with some pleasant romance. The book deals with three main themes that are relevant to most teenagers: secrets, love, and the true meaning of family. I think most readers of Fixing Delilah can relate to Delilah growing up without a father. Unfortunately, I know a lot of kids whose parents are divorced, and I can’t help wondering about how hard it must be for them to adapt to their lives. Also, I’m sure there are those who experienced a similar situation to the Hannaford Family Fight because, as it says on the cover of the book: “Family. It’s not always a perfect fit.” Sometimes family members just don’t get along. My only problem with the fight was its length (eight years is half of Delilah’s life!), and even that was clarified when I learned more about the grandmother. I could relate to Aunt Rachel because she reminded me of the bystander. She knew about the secrets and wanted to tell Delilah because it was the right thing to do, but Claire had told her not to. I was like Aunt Rachel once when a boy in my class was being bullied. I knew that the right thing to do was to speak up for him, but I was silent. In addition to seeing myself in Aunt Rachel, I saw myself in Delilah sometimes because I can be selfish and uncompassionate. It made me realize how unlikable I must be during some occasions. I didn’t always like Delilah, so I imagine my parents don’t always like the way I act. As for the love theme, Sarah Ockler was clever to include Finn, in order to contrast Delilah’s relationship with him with her later relationship with Patrick, an eighteen-year-old boy and a childhood friend of Delilah’s. At some times during Fixing Delilah I was almost crying because of the beauty of their romance and the sweet innocence of it. I didn’t think their romance was cheesy. I found the author’s descriptions unique and touching, and I felt like this was the time her writing truly stood out and shone. I went through many emotions while reading Fixing Delilah. At times I wanted to cry because it was sad, at times because it was beautiful, and at times because I was laughing my head off. The themes were very easy to relate to. Here’s one of my favorite quotes from Fixing Delilah, which proves the author’s remarkable humor. “‘I’ll go,’ Rachel says. ‘Need anything specific? Milk? Toilet paper? Compassion, maybe? I’ll get a bunch. I probably have a coupon.’” Anna Vinitsky, 12Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Dreamer of Dreams
I can capture a bird’s flight, a mountain’s splendor, a tiger’s roar. My pen marks the crisp white paper like footprints on a snowy trail. My dreams are alive, and leaping like sparks in my hands. To dream is to speak a thousand words and never speak at all. In my dreams, I fly like a new bird, like the quiet of the storm. The music that flows from my eyes is like currents of electricity, and it powers me, the dreamer of dreams to live. Danielle Eagle, 12Winnipeg, Manitoba,Canada
The Ghost Children
Everyone said it was haunted, but we never listened We always loved going to that old house on the hill. Everyone said it was haunted, but we never listened. Michael, Emma, and me, Summer. Why did we always go there? I guess we were interested. We didn’t believe in ghosts. Not then. Now we know better. But even more than that, we were attracted to the house. That old wreck of a building, with shutters hanging loose and boards half ripped off. But it was majestic, too. Big, with a tower on each side. It must have been beautiful, once upon a time. Emma loved leafing through the old, blurred, black-and-white photographs. She especially loved one of a girl about our age, whose face, despite being blurred, Emma insisted was very like her own. Michael liked fiddling around with the old toys. There must have been children living in that house when it was abandoned. Why was it abandoned? No one knew. And we certainly never stopped to wonder. We didn’t want anyone coming to claim our special hideout. But anyway, there were lots of toys scattered around, old teddy bears and crayons, even an Erector Set, a metal, motor-powered set that almost anything could be built out of. Kind of like Tinker Toys, you know? For older kids, though. Michael really liked fiddling around with that thing. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he felt drawn to it the way Emma felt drawn to that old photograph. The way I felt drawn to the old clothes. * * * I just loved leafing through the old dresses, trousers, and shirts. Somehow, some of them fit me, and there was nothing I liked better than modeling my favorite frilly creations. I fantasized that I lived in the twentieth century, around the time people would’ve lived in this house. Sometimes I felt as though I was born into the wrong century. I had this absurd fascination with the early twentieth century. Maybe it came from the old house. It would’ve been built around that time. I don’t know. We loved that old house. Whenever we could, we’d go up the hill and hang out there, exploring the three floors and the attic, or just sit on the porch steps and talk. Today was one such day. “I’ll race you up the hill!” I called to Emma and Michael. I was already running and reached the porch steps first, followed by a breathless Emma and a panting Michael. “No fair!” Emma pouted. “You had a head start.” “Don’t be so whiny, Emma, let’s just go inside,” said easygoing Michael. We barged through the door. As usual, I went immediately to the old dresses, Emma to the photographs, and Michael to the toys. But after a while of trying on the old dresses, I realized I felt bored. “Hey, guys,” I said, “let’s do something else for once. Let’s go down to the basement. We never explored down there before.” Emma jerked her head up, eyes wide. “But that’s the part they say is haunted!” Although we had thoroughly explored every inch of the three floors and the attic, we had never set foot in the basement. “Don’t be such a scaredy-cat,” I said encouragingly. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you? The parents probably started those rumors to keep kids from coming up here.” Michael’s eyes were troubled. I knew that if he said no, Emma would agree, so I started working on him, getting him to crack. “Come on, Michael,” I encouraged. “Are you scared? There’s nothing to be afraid of. We should really go down there. I mean, why not? Please, Michael. Pretty please?” Michael looked away for a moment. I silently prayed that he would say yes. I really wanted to see what was down there, but if thirteen-year-old Michael said no, eleven-year-old Emma would go along with him, and, although I hardly dared admit it, even to myself, I was too chicken to go down by myself. “OK,” Michael finally agreed. I let out a mental whoop. Out loud, I thanked him seriously and, grabbing my flashlight, led the way downstairs. Cobwebs draped the mantelpiece of a fireplace and hung from the corners. I swung my flashlight around, peering everywhere. I accidentally kicked up some dust, and we all sneezed and choked on it. I could see why we hadn’t gone down there before. Behind me, Emma shivered and said, “Oooh, Summer, this is spooky. Let’s go back upstairs.” I’ll admit it, I did consider that. But twelve years old was too old to believe in ghosts, so I just said, “Let’s stay a little longer. I want to see what’s down here.” Although I was afraid, I looked into each corner, only to meet disappointment. The cobwebs I had seen before seemed to be the only ornament that graced the basement with their presence. But then I strode to the fireplace, the others close behind. There was no fire in the fireplace, and, by the looks of things, there hadn’t been one since the house was abandoned. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. There. That proved it. The place wasn’t haunted. Ghosts would’ve built a fire, right? Or wouldn’t they? Did ghosts get cold, anyway? I swung my flashlight to the mantelpiece. The basement wasn’t devoid of any possessions after all. Three framed photographs adorned the mantelpiece. I took them down and blew the thick layer of dust and cobwebs off before handing one each to Emma and Michael. “Let’s take these upstairs into the light,” I said. The other two were only too happy to obey and raced up the stairs as if they were being chased. I followed more slowly, looking back and swinging my flashlight to make sure no unearthly presence was following us up the stairs. For after I found the photographs, the peaceful old house seemed almost… well, menacing. We all crowded around the old couch in the living room to
Camp Conflict
To my amazement, Chris just set up the pieces and started playing! My name is Jake. I have brown hair and green eyes, and I’m eleven years old, but most importantly, I’ve always wanted to go to summer camp. Every year I beg my parents to let me go, but they always insist that it’s too expensive. It was the end of the year and I was about to confront my parents about summer camp, when they walked into my room with huge smiles glued to their faces. “This year we’re sending you and your brother off to summer camp!” my mom exclaimed. “Hoora…” I started. “Wait, did you say me and my brother?” I inquired. I looked over at my brother, Chris. He had pale skin, sad brown eyes, and was nine years old. He had given up on the puzzle he was doing because he wasn’t able to assemble the pieces in neat rows. We both looked at my dad anxiously. “Yes, his therapist said it could help him deal with his autism,” my dad replied. Around other people my brother does all kinds of weird things. Going to the same summer camp as him would be a nightmare. “I won’t go!” I insisted. “We’ll see,” said my dad. Six days later I found myself on the bus to Sherman Hill Camp, headed straight for my doom. As soon as we got there, we were given our cabin assignments. “Due to the fact that your brother, Chris, has autism, you will both be sleeping in Cabin D, even though he’s younger than you,” one of the counselors told me. I sighed and trudged off to my cabin. Despite my doubts, I had a great time at camp, but for my brother it was a different story. The first day he spilled some of the water he was drinking and shrieked so loudly that, even though I was sitting on the other side of the dining hall, my ears rang for two minutes afterward. The second day I glimpsed him sobbing because the nature hike began ten minutes late. My brother didn’t utter a single word for the first two days, much less talk to anyone, and even if he did, I could tell no one would have listened. These things were all worrisome, but they were nothing compared to what happened when a boy in my bunk started bullying him. The bullying started when a burly kid named Ned realized how important it was to my brother that his bedspread was flat. Ned was twice Chris’s size and had messy red hair. Every morning Chris would spend half an hour straightening his covers, and if anyone even touched his bed, he would get upset. One night when I got back from the evening activity I heard Chris scream. When I looked over to see what was wrong, I saw that not only were Chris’s sheets completely disheveled, but it looked like someone had poured mud all over his bed. When I scanned the room to figure out who was the culprit, I noticed that Ned’s smile was a mile wide. All week Ned messed up Chris’s bed. The next week he asked him trivia questions and teased him when he got the answers wrong. I called Ned names and insisted I’d tell one of the counselors if he kept bullying my brother, but Ned refused to reconcile with Chris. I could hardly wait for camp to be over. Chris had always been good at board games, so naturally he decided to participate in the chess tournament. I watched in awe as Chris beat player after player, until he finally made it to the final round. “Chris Marlow will play Ned Baker tomorrow,” said one of the counselors, and we all went back to our cabins. The next morning at the tournament, Ned and Chris sat next to each other on the stage. Chris opened the chess board box, and water spilled all over him. Ned grinned with a sinister look on his face. I braced myself for the screams, but to my amazement, Chris just set up the pieces and started playing! Two hours later, Chris checkmated Ned’s king and won the game. “I hate you all!” shouted Ned, then kicked my brother as hard as he could and stomped off the stage. “Get back here!” the camp director yelled, and by the tone of his voice, I could tell that Ned wouldn’t be coming back to Sherman Hill Summer Camp. I looked over at Chris, expecting him to be paralyzed with shock. My brother was chatting with one of the kids from the semifinals. A smile lit up my face, and there was only one thought in my head: “This is going to be the best summer ever!” David Agosto-Ginsburg, 11Cherry Hill, New Jersey Madeleine Gates, 13La Jolla, California
My Life with the Lincolns
My Life with the Lincolns, by Gayle Brandeis; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 2010; $16.99 Wilhelmina Edelman has three goals for the summer: to get through age twelve without dying, to keep her mom from becoming insane and going to a “nuthouse,” and to stop her dad from getting shot. As you might know, normal twelve-year-olds don’t usually have these types of summer goals. But Mina isn’t a normal twelve-year-old. She is Willie Lincoln reincarnated. Actually, her whole family used to be the Lincolns. Her dad’s initials are ABE, and Mina and her sisters have girl versions of the names of the Lincoln boys. But being in a reincarnated family has its drawbacks. Mina has to keep her family from coming to the same sticky end as the Lincolns. The book is set in 1966, and the Civil Rights Movement is well under way. Mina, being a girl from a white family, offers an interesting perspective on all the conflict going on. Mina’s father is a strong supporter of black rights and takes her on protest marches in secret. Once, they even went to an overnight vigil. At the vigil, the protesters kneeled on the ground until very late, even though people were crowded around them, taunting them and yelling offensive things. But the protesters persevered. This shows just how determined they were to get the rights they deserved, rights that should have been theirs at birth. Another event that was occurring during that time was the Vietnam War. Mina and her sister sometimes played Vietnam with the boys next door, screaming gibberish and throwing fake grenades in imitation of their idea of the Vietnamese people. Also, her neighbor’s father is sent to Vietnam but comes back after losing one of his arms. I felt so bad for him, and I could only imagine the pain and hardship the man was going through. A section of the book that really caught my attention was when Mina’s older sister, Roberta, falls in love with a young black man named Thomas. When they run away together and are found again, Mina’s mother is absolutely livid. She calls Thomas a predator and a menace and accuses him of having terrible intentions. I think she was being very prejudiced and racist because Thomas was a fine young man, and she surely would have not have been as enraged if he had been white. When Mina’s father fires their black cleaning woman (he says he is “emancipating” her), Mina’s mom becomes vastly angry with him, like a spewing cauldron. When she finds out her husband has been lying to her and taking Mina to dangerous protest marches, the cauldron begins foaming and seething. Then, when Roberta runs away with Thomas, the cauldron churns and froths, and all the contents gush out. This shows Mina’s parents’ deteriorating relationship, and eventually it gets so bad that Mina’s dad moves out. This book was truly excellent. It provided a different approach to the Civil Rights Movement and still described in detail all the events that were occurring. It also showed a child’s point of view to everything going on. People, some even from Mina’s own neighborhood, come to the protest marches just to throw rocks, bricks, and even Molotov cocktails at the protesters and to shout in their faces about White Power and other awful things. But back to the ongoing Lincoln problem. Will Mina die an early death like Willie Lincoln? Or will she be able to keep history from repeating itself? Ana Sofía Uzsoy, 12Cary, North Carolina
