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February 2020
Volume 47
Number 5
cricketmedia.com
$6.95
the realm of imagination
the realm of imagination
Fe br u a r y 2020
Vol u m e 47
N u m be r 5
COV E R A N D B O R D E R
by Leonid Gore “Winter Filigree” acrylic on paper
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Educational Press Association of America Golden Lamp Award Distinguished Achievement Award
Academics Choice Smart Media Award
International Reading Association Paul A. Witty Short Story Award 1988–1993, 1997, 2003, 2004, 2006, 2007, 2009, 2011–2015
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Leonid Gore is an award-winning artist, illustrator, and author. Born and raised in Belarus, he studied art at the Academy of Arts in Minsk. Since 1990, he has been living in the United States. Leonid’s illustrations have graced more than thirty picture books, five of which he also wrote. Critics have praised his work as “visually stunning” and “brilliant.” His books have been honored as IRA Children’s Choice books and Publishers Weekly Best Books of the Year; have received starred reviews from the School Library Journal and the Kirkus Reviews, Boston Globe, and Horn Book magazines; and have been recognized as part of 100 Great Children’s Books by the New York Public Library. Leonid Gore lives in Oakland, New Jersey, and works out of his studio on the banks of the Ramapo River.
CRICKET ADVISORY BOARD Marianne Carus Founder and Editor-in-Chief from 1972–2012 Kieran Egan Professor of Education, Simon Fraser University, Vancouver Betsy Hearne Professor, University of Illinois, Champaign; Critic, Author Sybille Jagusch Children’s Literature Specialist Linda Sue Park Author Katherine Paterson Author Barbara Scharioth Former Director of the International Youth Library in Munich, Germany Anita Silvey Author, Critic Sandra Stotsky Professor of Education Reform, University of Arkansas, Fayetteville Roger Sutton Editor-in-Chief of The Horn Book Magazine, Critic Ann Thwaite Author, Critic
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PHOTO BY EMILY GORE
CRICKET STAFF Lonnie Plecha Editor Anna Lender Art Director Patrick Murray Designer Carolyn Digby Conahan Staff Artist Deborah Vetter Senior Contributing Editor Julie Peterson Copyeditor Emily Cambias Assistant Editor Adrienne Matzen Permissions Specialist
National Magazine Award finalist in the category of General Excellence
Society of Midland Authors Award for Excellence in Children’s Literature
Parents’ Choice Gold Award
February 2020, Volume 47, Number 5, © 2020, Cricket Media, Inc. All rights reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or in part, in any form. View submission guidelines and submit manuscripts online at cricketmag.submittable.com. Please note that we no longer accept unsolicited hard copy submissions. Not responsible for unsolicited manuscripts or other material. All letters and competition entries are assumed for publication and become the property of Cricket Media. For information regarding our privacy policy and compliance with the Children’s Online Privacy Protection Act, please visit our website at cricketmedia.com/privacy or write to us at Cricket/COPPA, 70 East Lake Street, Suite 800, Chicago, IL 60601. continued on page 47
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The Human Zamboni by Jennifer Sneed One Day, Some Day by Cindy Breedlove She Dreamed of Dresses by Ann Dorer February Secrets by Linda Elovitz Marshall False Impressions by Christy Lenzi Favorite First Sentences from Cricket readers Three Impossible Tasks by Phillis Gershator From Slave to Congressman by Timothy Tocher Timespiral by Karleen Bradford
Letterbox Cricket Country by Carolyn Digby Conahan Ugly Bird’s Crossbird Puzzle Cricket League Cricket and Ladybug by Carolyn Digby Conahan Old Cricket Says
cover and border art © 2020 by Leonid Gore
THIS ONE’S FOR YOU.
Dear Everybuggy, I love your magazine. I love all the cool stories. My grandparents got me Cricket, and I have been getting it for two months. My favorite buggy is Pussywillow. My favorite books are the Horse Diaries and Heartland. (Each is a series.) I am a homeschooler. I love horses. Some of my cousins call me the Horse Whisperer and Cat Whisperer. I am really great with animals. I have a dog named Elsa and a cat named Buttercup and two birds named Mickey and Vanilla. Vanilla is albino. My brother Aaron has two birds and seven fish. My dad has two canaries. And my family has three fish in our backyard. I do tae kwon do and I am a first-degree black belt. I have been to seventeen national parks and I am a Junior Ranger in all of them. Liliana F., age 12 Griffith, Indiana
MEWY YAY!
away to warmer waters. We hear from her once Dear Everybuggy, in a while. Hi! I have been getting your magazine for a Love, while now. Kelly (September 2019), I consider Ladybug myself a nerd in just about everything! I always wish Harry Potter was real, about twice a day! I Dear Cricket, am Ginny Weasley, and my patronus is a horse. To I am very flexible. I have gymnastics tomorrow. anyone, what is your patronus, and who are you? I have very good table manners. My favorite table Charlotte, age 10 manner is chewing with my mouth closed. East Hampton, Connecticut EXPERIENCE IN THE P.S . Hey, Cricket, does Zoot play cello? My friend and I are writing a play THEATER! OHHH, My aunt does! I play flute and violin. called “Evil vs. Love.” It has four songs. WHERE DO I START? Are Muffin, Ladybug, and PussywilThe last song in the play has very SINGING, DANCING, low interested in flute or violin? funny lyrics. It’s called “A Box of CherTRAGEDY, COMEDY, I ries.” If you have any experience in LOVE IT ALL! Dear Charlotte, the theater, please tell me. Yes, Zoot plays cello. Old Lindsay Bett, age 9 Cricket plays violin, and the rest of Chicago, Illinois us love the sound of the flute and the violin. We’d love to hear you play! Dear Cricket magazine, Love, I love your magazine. The stories are really Cricket Dear Cricket, interesting, and the Letterbox is my favorite. I I really like reading the Letterbox and what am blind and I can’t do the crossword puzzles, Dear Everybuggy, people have to write about. To Moonlightelf (Sepbecause I get the magazine on tape from a library. I love Harry Potter! I have a Hermione wand tember 2019): I like how you told about your real I liked the story “Golden Spike” in the Sep(she is my favorite character because she reads life and I’ll tell about mine. I like hiking out back in tember 2019 issue. I was thinking of joining your like crazy!) and competed in a costume contest my family’s woods. We have three acres, and the story contest, but I didn’t. (Sorry, Cricket!) I love acres have thousands of blueberry, blackberry, and as her, with my arms full of books! My sister, who “Cricket Country” and “Cricket and Ladybug,” too. was dressed as Rey from Star Wars, won! raspberry bushes that are full in bloom in summer. I love these books: The Boxcar Children, Has anyone read the book Eregon or seen the We also have a big backyard and a HUGE garden A to Z Mysteries, and The One and READING AND movie (or both)? I have read it and am wondering that has given us so much to eat for dinners and Only Ivan. I like reading, writing and if the movie is good for eleven-year-olds to see. I lunches. I have five brothers and I love to read. camping. I am trying to write a story WRITING ARE FINE PASTIMES WHILE have a lot of my mom’s old magazines, and in the I have one hundred and something books in my myself, but I didn’t get too far. CAMPING, TOO! comics my favorite character was the mermaid room that are all mine. I am working on writing a Thanks for making this magaSilvery. What happened to her? book called Chicken Girl. I love polar bears. zine. It’s great. I loved “Magnus” (October 2018–January To Ella (July/August 2019), I can give you a Wesley Martin, age 8 2019)! The pictures were chilling! Juniper book list: The Secret Zoo series by Bryan Chick, Mifflinburg, Pennsylvania (September 2019), I love your plant names. The Penderwicks series by Jeanne Birdsall, Nancy Does anyone here live in Oklahoma? And what Drew mysteries by Carolyn Keene, and The Dear Cricket, exactly is Pussywillow? Chronicles of Narnia series by C. S. Lewis. My favorite Cricket illustrators are YingWE ENJOY EVERY Kylie W., age 11 Thank you to all the editors, artFang Shen (“The Pearl Inside,” May/June–September BIT OF HEARING Bixby, Oklahoma ists, and authors who take the time 2018), Leonid Gore (November/December 2016 FROM YOU, TOO. OUR to make Cricket! I enjoy every bit cover), and Kyle Reed (April 2018 cover). I also have READERS ARE THE Dear Kylie, of it. And thank you, everybuggy, broad tastes in music. I like country, bluegrass, some VERY BEST! Pussywillow is a magic pussy for making me feel so welcome. classical, choral, and the list goes on. I love the song willow that slid off her bush and Heidi M., age 12 “Old Town Road” by Lil Nas X and Billy Ray Cyrus. came to life one day. She was all Goffstown, John, age 13 alone, so I adopted her. Silvery swam New Hampshire Virginia
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CHIRPS FROM CRICKET’S Dear Everybuggy, peridot (a gemstone). He likes to sit by Are there any Kingdom Keepers my mom and meow constantly until LET TERBOX AND CHAT TERBOX WELL DONE, fans out there? I’ve read all the books he is fed. He once sat on my back. CADET! PRETTY I love Cricket! I love reading, but I mostly do it at and I’m starting the sequel series, What’s your pet like? BIG DEAL, school. I am very busy. My favorite book series are A Kingdom Keepers: The Return. It’s Adira D., age 10 INDEED! Series of Unfortunate Events and Harry Potter. a little weird at times, but so far, so Mew York City Alliyah T., age 9 good! Down to Earth Oklahoma I am a cadet in the Civil Air Patrol and I recently received the Billy Mitchell I have a giant gray tabby named Hey, would anyone else new to Kyngdom like Award, promoting me to second Cosmo, who likes to sleep on people’s to get together to create an RP on there? Nothing lieutenant. It’s a pretty big deal. Civil Air chests and hunt mice. He’s amazing, Patrol is the official auxiliary of the U.S. Air though he does have a gross habit of going too deep into the complex lore or the story, but like maybe just being travelers that just lets us Force, designed for civilians to provide their skills mousing and bringing the mice he killed to us. explore there and have an adventure. and services in time of need. Kids age twelve and Have any of you gotten any new pets recently? ? up can join and learn leadership, aerospace, drill, You can talk about them here. Inkwell and search and rescue. It’s a great organization. I I also have dogs—a Great Pyrenees named encourage readers to check it out! Dominic and a Black Mouth Cur/bulldog mix What about in the Grasplands? I don’t think My favorite music is from Disney soundtracks: named Riley. They are hilarious and love to wrestle they’ve even been used in the story yet, so it at the moment Coco, Ratatouille, Mary Poppins, with each other. Dominic can sit, stay, shake, heel, would be fun to introduce them. They appear to and Mary Poppins Returns. The instrumentals, lie down, and even roll over when he wants to. be open grasslands—the perfect place for a few especially by Michael Giacchino, are the best. It’s Riley is the complete opposite and only does what small, rural communities, and also for some travelalso fun to sing Disney songs! she wants, but she is an amazing dog anyway. ers to trek across Annie Powell, age 18 Cosmo likes to sleep in Riley’s bed with her. I love Sybill Alpharetta, Georgia my pets! Kyngdom Fleet Hey, Jarvis! Down to Earth A February 17 is Random Act of I remember you! I’m doing well and also I do CHATTERBOX Kindness Day! Pay for the next perdebate. I’m in a local Parliamentary circuit, but I Back around 2015, lots of things REUNION! son in line’s drink, help your mum also do World Schools and I might be doing Policy were going on in the Chatterbox AWESOME! out in the kitchen, even a complinext year. Would you partake in any Model UN, world. Several of us oldies were ment will work! Help around the moot court, or ethics bowl? leaving or watching our friends leave, house, give a gift to a friend, maybe September so we stood up on a soapbox and post a kind post on Chatterbox. Stopping By, Down to Earth, Chatterbox declared that on Valentine’s Day 2019 Floof Industries all past and present CBers would return Dates to Remember Hi, Rogue Wildling! to chat and catch up with each other. This Month, Chatterbox I do Public Forum, which is very similar to Cayke Policy debate in that you debate with a partner, Attention All Chatterboxers! Rogue Wildling, I think you have a fantabulous but it also has several differences. In Policy I’m Down to Earth imagination and strong and hardworking soul. pretty sure all of the cross-examinations are one Your stories are so well written, and I admire all of sided, whereas in Public Forum, both speakers on Yes, we must think of a date for the next your work! opposite sides can ask questions to each other. Chatterbox reunion. It would be awful to not have Ella Starburst There’s even a cross-examination at the end a date like that to hang on to. It’s such an ingrained This Month where everyone can speak, which can get pretty part of the culture, I feel like I might be upset once crazy. My school has a Lincoln-Douglas team, but it’s over. Maybe we could make it Valentine’s Day Thank you, Ella! I’m very flattered. Your voI’ve never tried it. every however many years. It would be cool if we cabulary is something to marvel at, in a good way. September, that’s so cool. My brother and two added however many years ago 2019 was from the I love how you pick out words so perfectly to make of my cousins are all in Model UN, so I hear a lot year when the idea was established. people laugh. You’re very upbeat, and I love how about it. Abigail you never fail to be enthusiastic. Jarvis Valentine’s Day 2019, Down to Earth Rogue Wildling Stopping By, Down to Earth This Month It was 2015, four years! I like the idea of a fourDo you love animals? I do! year reunion. WE LOVE PETS, I have one, a cat. His name Cho Chang TOO, DON’T Send letters to Cricket’s Letterbox, is Moonglum (after a charValentine’s Day, Down to Earth WE, PUSS? YES P.O. Box 300, Peru, IL 61354, or email us at acter in a book my dad DO. WE DO [email protected]. Letters may be edited read), and he is white with Every four years—perfect! It’ll always be the for length. the faintest streak of pale year between the years of the Winter and Summer gray between his ears. His Olympics. So the next Chatterbox reunion will be Visit the Chatterbox at: eyes are green with goldish on February 14, 2023. c r i c ke t m a g k i d s .co m /c h a t te r b ox flecks. They remind me of Chatterbox Admin
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GEORGE! TAIL! WHAT ICE ARE YOU DANCING WEARING? COSTUMES, OF COURSE.
WAIT TILL YOU SEE OUR PAIRS ROUTINE! WE’VE GOT MOVES NEVER SEEN BEFORE!
SOUNDS AMAZING, BUT...
A DIFFERENT KIND OF DANCE ON ICE.
...WE’RE PLAYING HOCKEY TODAY! AND THE CC CUP IS MINE, ALL MINE! (WHACK!)
MEW-WEEEE!
THE ROUGH KIND!
YOU CAN’T JUST HIT PEOPLE LIKE THAT! THERE ARE RULES, AND PENALTIES!
WHAT ABOUT ’EM? (OOF! OW!)
YOU’RE TRYING TO TAKE ALL THE FUN OUT OF IT!
SORRY, LADYBUG. I WAS GUARDING THE GOAL AND MY SLIME FROZE TO THE ICE! GOTTA KEEP MOVING, SLUGGO. A GOALIE NEEDS TO BE READY TO STOP A PUCK COMING FROM ANY DIRECTION, AT ANY TIME!
LOSING TEETH IS NO FUN! AND WHAT ABOUT CONCUSSIONS?
ICE HOCKEY IS AMAZING, EVEN GRACEFUL, IN ITS OWN WAY.
AND THERE’S NO SPINNING! I WASN’T LOOKING FORWARD TO THE SPINNING.
AFRAID WE’D GET TANGLED UP?
I’M READY! YOU WON’T GET PAST ME THIS TIME!
PARDON ME, I SLIPPED!
LOOK OUT, MARTY, DON’T GET BETWEEN ME AND MY TROPHY CUP!
MEW-WHEEE
YOU’LL NEED PROTECTIVE GEAR. BETTER PUT THIS ON.
OH, YEAH? WATCH ME–HEY! OW. FOUL!
I’LL TRY... (OOCH! OUCH! OW.)
HA HA HA!
HEY! I GAVE YOU A PENALTY! COME BACK HERE AND GET IN THE PENALTY BOX!
HEY! HELP! STOP! I’M STUCK AGAIN! HEY! OW! STOP PUSHING! OOF! SORRY.
EEK! I’M DOOMED!
WE’LL BE CRUSHED!
OW!
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NOT SURE THERE’S A BOX THAT’LL HOLD HER...
I’M GETTING AN ICE BURN!
The I S KATE D TO
Human Zamb0ni
year. Today was the day I was going to center ice, set my toe land the axel in compick to anchor me to petition. Today was the spot, and posed in by Jennifer Sneed the day I was NOT the opening attitude skating to Annie. of my program— “You’ve got this, hands on hips, eyes Harper,” my friend tilted up to look at Caleb yelled from the hockey banners the bleachers. My hanging from the ice other friends held up arena’s grimy ceiling. crossed fingers and I smiled playfully blew me kisses. They as part of the didn’t look so sure. choreography of my My dads whisprogram, but I didn’t tled. One yelled, have to fake a smile “You look beautiful, today. Beautiful,” admiring I felt it! the sparkly comNot the eyes of petition dress he’d my skating friends as bought to give me they leaned on the “more confidence.” rail of the bleachI can do this! I ers above me. Not thought as my music the eyes of my dads swelled. It wavered as they pretended slightly because of not to be concerned. the janky sound sysAnd certainly not tem echoing in the the eyes of the judges cavernous arena, but wrapped in fleece in as long as the tempo the hockey box across was right, I’d be A-OK. I started my program from me, looking like they’d run screaming with a circular step sequence and a megawatt for the hills if they heard the soundtrack to smile, followed by a beautiful combination Annie one more time. spin if I do say so myself. Flying camel, sit What I felt was the power of certainty. spin, layback spin. Perfection, leading up to Today was the day I was going to skate a my nemesis. The jump! The axel! clean freestyle program for the first time in a
Illustrated by Noa Kelner text © 2020 by Jennifer Sneed, art © 2020 by Noa Kelner
A TOE PICK IS THE JAGGED BIT AT THE FRONT OF AN ICE SKATING BLADE, FOR GRIPPING THE ICE.
JANKY IS ANOTHER WORD FOR RUN-DOWN, SHODDY, LOWQUALITY. A NEMESIS IS YOUR ARCHENEMY.
A ZAMBONI IS A MACHINE USED TO SMOOTH AND RESURFACE THE ICE.
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I could do it when I practiced off-ice, but I’d only landed it on-ice approximately fourteen times in my entire life. And I’d been working on it forever, which is NOT an exaggeration! I’d leave it out if I could, but my Olympic dreams hinged on it. My coach, Geena, put it early in my program so I could do it while my legs were fresh. I was on the right back outside edge of my skate blade, ready to turn forward and launch into the axel. The butterflies in my stomach were back, working against me, making me feel like I needed to barf. You stinkin’ butterflies, I thought, I can do this! I stepped into takeoff and I did . . . a waltz jump. A jump I’d been doing since I was about six years old. Only one-half a
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THE FLYING CAMEL IS A GRACEFUL ICESKATING MOVE.
rotation instead of the one and one-half that I need for the axel. I heard my friends’ groans from upstairs, imagined the disappointed looks on my dads’ faces, glimpsed Coach Geena’s questioning eyebrow as I glided past the door. It’s not over, I telegraphed to them all, don’t be disappointed. I could fix this. I’d just replace the next jump with the axel. It didn’t work out the way I’d hoped. I fell, and I kept falling. Never one to give up, I replaced every jump in my program with the axel, but I didn’t land one. I spent so much time literally on the ice that it’s like I was a human Zamboni making sure the ice was clean for the next skater. The two minutes, fifteen seconds of my program felt like an eon. By the time I was done, my consolation-
ON ONE LEG WITH THE OTHER LEG RAISEED PARALLEL TO THE ICE. LIKE THIS... SORTA. MORE LIKE THIS, ACTUALLY.
SMOOTH MOVE, SLUGGO!
I LOVE THE MUSICAL ANNIE ! “TOMORROW! TOMORROW!”
prize dress was soaked through and I was seven seconds behind my music, so I finished skating to silence. It was the most humiliating moment of my life. The silence continued as I skated toward the exit, where my coach stood holding my skate guards. Everyone in the arena was looking at me but trying not to look at me. I guess it was like watching a car wreck—you can’t look away. The next skater in my event, a cute little eight-year-old named Marlo, glided past me to take her place center ice. What am I doing here? I thought. You’ve got to admit your skating career has hit a snag when your competition is nearly five years younger than you are. Coach Geena handed me the skate guards and draped my sweater across my shoulders. “Making up your own choreography now, are you?” It was her gentle way of asking what happened out on the ice, but the only answer I could think of is that I’m a terrible skater. It didn’t seem like a constructive comment, so I just shrugged. As I walked upstairs to join the dads in the bleachers, I heard the oohs and aahs of the audience as Marlo
SKATE GUARDS ARE USED TO COVER THE SHARP EDGE OF YOUR SKATE BLADES WHEN YOU’RE NOT SKATING.
skated her program. I didn’t look. I passed some tiny Snowplow Sam level kids, probably five years old, with medals around their necks. I won medals when I was that age, too. It seemed easy then. Fun. I snuggled between the dads, and they gave me hugs and the kind of reassuring comments parents are wired to give. My friends were embarrassed for me. I could tell because they couldn’t look me in the eye. I saw them huddled together downstairs, probably talking about me—Harper, the Human Zamboni. Everyone except Caleb,
that is. He brought me a sorry-you-crashedand-burned hot chocolate, but then he had to rush off to skate his own program, which has a double axel and about a million other doubles. Caleb and I are the same age, I should add. I wanted to go home, but the dads said it’s poor sportsmanship to leave before the results from my event were posted. So, we waited until the white piece of copy paper was taped crookedly to the wall. Sure enough, not only did I not win a medal, I ranked last. I highfived Marlo and told her she skated a great program, which was NOT a lie, then I pulled the dads away from conversation and to the front doors. That night, after I’d washed off all the makeup and hair gel I wear for competition, I plopped down on the sofa and picked up the remote. “Harper, it’s eight o’clock. Time for bed,” Daddy Dan said. “I’m the only almost thirteen-year-old at school who has to go to bed at eight.” “And probably the only one who has to be on the ice at five-thirty in the morning to practice.” “About that. I’m not going,” I said. “What? Why?” “Let’s just say, I’m exploring my options.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. “Maybe I’d rather be a . . . concert pianist,” I said, uttering the first thing that popped into my mind. “But you don’t play the piano.” “I can learn.”
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Daddy Jon, figuring this could probably go on forever, interrupted. “It’s OK. One missed practice won’t hurt.” I didn’t go to bed until ten o’clock! At 5:20 the next morning I got a text. Caleb: Where are you? Me: WAS asleep. Caleb: Sick? Me: No. Caleb: Didn’t see you after my program. Me: Went home early. How’d you do? Caleb: Gold. Me: Figures. I went back to sleep. I spent an entire week exploring my options. I looked around at school to see what activities were offered, and I looked online, but everything paled in comparison to skating. Finally, Daddy Jon asked if, after all my considering, I’d come to any conclusions. “Not really,” I answered. “Some things seem OK, but not as much fun as skating. And most activities seem to offer as many chances to humiliate myself as skating does.” He laughed. “That’s basically life. When you put yourself out there, the chances of making mistakes are high.” “Well, that’s encouraging!” “But true, so you may as well do what you love, and you’ve always loved skating.” “I do. The speed, the cold, the feel of my blade as it cuts into the ice, making wind . . .” “Making wind?” he snickered. “Ha-ha! Very funny! But I love the feel of the wind as I zoom around the rink. I love everything about skating except the axel—
SEE? YOU SHOULD DO WHAT YOU LOVE, BECAUSE YOU LOVE IT! BEING “THE BEST” IS NOT THE POINT.
and being embarrassed that I can’t do it. But I’ll never get to the Olympics without it.” “Maybe the Olympics isn’t the goal. Maybe you skate just because you love it.” “But how will I face everyone at the rink?” “They’ve had setbacks, too. It happens to everyone.” It always pains me to admit my parents are actually smart, but he had a point. The next morning, when I stepped through the doors of the ice arena, I breathed in the familiar smell: biting cold, dampness, and just a hint of mildew. Ah! It was good to be back. Some of my friends were sitting on the bench lacing up their skates and others were clustered around the door to the rink, wait-
ALSO BECAUSE I’M THE BEST... AND NOT EVERYONE CAN BE ME, OBVIOUSLY.
ing for the Zamboni to make a pass around the ice before they could get on. Every one of them shouted my name and gave me a hug or a high-five. Nobody mentioned my disastrous program. “I’m glad you’re back,” said Caleb. “It’s been boring without you.” “Thanks. It was boring being away. Besides, I figured I had to come back. The rink needs me. If the Zamboni breaks, I can fill in for it.” Everyone laughed. I laughed. It was a pretty good joke, after all. And when I stepped on the ice again and stroked around the perimeter, feeling the wind on my face, I knew I was in the right place.
One Day, Some Day by Cindy Breedlove My fingers fly to lace up tight. I need to practice, get it right. I wibble-wobble, stroking slow. Three times around the rink I go. I strike a pose, and then I skate a sloppy, crooked figure eight. I do some jumps. I try a spin. I fall, get up, and try again. Another skater’s on the rink. She’s a professional, I think. She moves with grace and jumps with ease. There are no Band-Aids on her knees. I sigh and wobble, slip and slide. One day, some day, I will glide.
Illustrated by Irena Freitas
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text © 2020 by Cindy Breedlove, art © 2020 by Irena Freitas
She Dreamed of Dresses by Ann Dorer
“HUR RY UP! HUR RY up!” Ann Lowe wanted to tell her mama. Ann had an idea she could hardly wait to try. Instead, Ann watched silently as her mama cut out the pieces of rose-colored silk she would sew together. She was making a fancy party dress for the wife of the governor of Alabama. Ann’s mother could not afford to make a mistake. Silk was expensive. And black seamstresses had to do exceptional work or white ladies wouldn’t hire them. At last, her mother finished. Ann gathered up the fabric scraps. She grabbed her needle, scissors, and spool of thread. Then she scooted outside to the flower garden. T Ann settled down beside a rosebush and picked out which bloom she wanted to copy. Then her ong, brown fingers went to work. With a snip here aand there, a fold this way and that, and a few hidd den stitches, she turned the silk into a rose. Her iidea worked! Ann could just see how pretty this rose would look sewn oonto a long, white evening gown. Maybe a stem of green silk ccould trail down the length of the dress and have more roses oon it. In this way, yet another dress design took shape in Ann’s creative mind. It happened all the time. Even at A night. She’d dream up a gown while she was sleeping. T Then she’d have to jump out of bed and draw it—fast—to rremember it the next day.
Illustrated by Heidi Younger Dresses by Ann Lowe text © 2020 by Ann Dorer, art © 2020 by Heidi Younger
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Ann’s childhood home in Clayton, Alabama
Ann’s mother made the money her family needed by sewing dresses for the elite white women of Alabama’s capital. Ann’s grandmother had done the same. But there was Ann in the middle of her childhood, and she already knew what she wanted to do when she grew up. She didn’t want to just sew fine dresses like her mother and grandmother did. Ann wanted to design them, exquisite gowns like a princess would wear as she glided across a ballroom floor. She wanted to be a top fashion designer in New York City. That’s where people wore the kind of dresses that Ann dreamed up. But this was the early 1900s. Black people were no longer slaves like Ann’s grandmother had been. But the doors of opportunity were shut to people with brown skin. They couldn’t go to the same schools as white children. They couldn’t eat in restaurants or spend the night in a motel. In stores, there were separate water fountains for blacks and whites. Separate bathrooms, too. And Ann lived in Clayton, Alabama, a tiny town way down South. It was a long way from New York City. Ann knew her dream could never come true. But that didn’t stop her from dreaming it. Her mind kept dreaming up new dress designs, and some of these she sewed for herself. When she was seventeen, Ann was wearing one of her own creations as she walked through a department store. A nearby sales clerk motioned for Ann to come over. A finely dressed white lady stood beside the clerk. Ann approached hesitantly. Black people were not welcome to shop in such stores. Was she going to be told to leave? To Ann’s surprise, the sales girl introduced Ann to Josephine Edwards Lee, who was visiting from Florida. Mrs. Lee had asked for the introduction because she was so impressed with how Ann was dressed. “Where did you get this beautiful outfit?” Mrs. Lee asked. Ann answered simply. It was her own design, and she had made it. “I’m from Tampa,” Mrs. Lee told Ann, “and there isn’t anyone there who can sew like that.”
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WOW! LOOK AT THOSE DRESSES!
REALLY PRETTY! AND SO DELICATE! I’D BE AFRAID TO SKATEBOARD IN THEM.
Ann’s sewing machine
Mrs. Lee explained that she was a mother with four daughters. Her oldest two—twin girls—were soon to be married. “Will you move down to Tampa and sew for us?” she asked Ann. This was Ann’s chance to make all the lovely gowns she kept dreaming of, a chance that might never come again. Ann got on the train to Tampa. There she designed and sewed dress after dress for the females of the Lee family. And when their wealthy friends saw how wonderful Ann’s designs were, they, too, asked her to create gowns for them. Ann was doing what she loved. She was happy. But her dream of being a top New York fashion designer refused to leave her heart. So when she saw an advertisement in a magazine for a fashion-design school in New York City, she decided to go. It was 1917. Ann was now nineteen years old. When she walked into the school, its director was shocked to see the color of her skin. To him, the idea of a black girl attending a high-class fashion school was absurd. Did she even have the $1,500 for tuition? Ann showed him her bankbook. He reluctantly allowed her to stay. But he put her in a room by herself. Gradually, however, white students began to slip into Ann’s classroom. They wanted to see the enchanting designs she sketched so beautifully. They wanted to see the incredible fabric flowers she made to accent her gowns. With her talent and ability to sew—her mama and grandmother had taught her well—Ann completed the one-year course in just six months. “There is nothing more that we can teach you,” the instructor said. “You are very good.” Ann returned to Tampa. By the time she was twentyone, she was running the town’s leading dress business. Here, eighteen dressmakers worked to keep up with the demands for the exceptional designs that tumbled from Ann’s amazing mind. Still, Ann’s biggest dream would not stop calling her. “I want to do the very best,” she said. “I want to see one of those lovely New York society girls in one of my gowns.” So after twelve years in Tampa, Ann chased her dream with one giant step. She moved to New York City and opened a workspace. She took $20,000 with
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her. It was to keep her going until enough wealthy women discovered her work. But this took too long. Ann ran out of money by the end of the first year. She had to give up her workspace. She was forced to ask shop owners to give her some fabric and a place to work. “I’ll make dresses for nothing,” she promised. “You pay me only if they sell.” And oh, how they sold! Slowly, the ladies from America’s wealthiest families discovered the magnificent one-of-a-kind gowns that Ann designed. These socialites quietly shared her name with one another. In fact, Ann Lowe became New York society’s bestkept secret. Surely, however, the world would soon learn this secret. It was now 1953, and the mother of Jacqueline Bouvier asked Ann to design her daughter’s bridal gown as well as the gowns of the wedding party. Jacqueline was marrying John F. Kennedy, a man who would one day be the president of the United States. For two intense months, Ann and her seamstresses worked to transform fifty yards of French silk chiffon taffeta into a glorious wedding dress. With thousands of stitches, they handsewed folded taffeta strips into rows and rows above the hem of the gown and into large circles that ran around and around on its wide-swept skirt. At last, the bride’s gown was completed, and so were the fifteen candy-pink bridesmaids’ dresses with red satin sashes. Ann sighed with relief as she locked her workroom door that night. When she opened that door the next morning, she screamed. The room was flooded with water from a burst pipe in the ceiling. The bridal gown was ruined! And so were ten of the bridesmaids’ dresses. Ann wept. The wedding was just ten days away. When her seamstresses arrived, the room was filled with weeping women. But Ann said, “Girls, we’ve got to stop all this crying and get this place cleaned up.” Ann’s mother and grandmother always delivered quality work, and they did it when promised. Ann would do the same. Sewing night and day, fighting exhaustion, she and her seamstresses remade the wedding gown and the ten bridesmaid dresses. Ann delivered them all on time to the estate where the wedding was to be held. She In her beautiful gown by Ann Lowe, Jacqueline never told the family about the pipe-bursting disaster. Bouvier Kennedy poses with Senator John F. Kennedy on their wedding day in 1953.
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As expected, photographs of Jacqueline Kennedy in her wedding gown appeared in thousands of newspapers throughout America. But not one newspaper gave Ann’s name. The wealthy high-society ladies of New York, though, did know her name. They continued to seek her work, and Ann’s imagination whirled with new dress designs for them day and night. Waking up in the morning, she sometimes said, “Don’t talk to me right now. I have a gown.” As times changed, Ann’s name eventually became better known. Between 1964 and 1968, she was featured in three national magazines and several newspapers. She even appeared on a popular television program, The Mike Douglas Show. Ann told the listening audience that her goal was not to achieve fame and fortune. Her desire was “to prove that a Negro can become a major dress designer.” Which she did. Throughout her fifty-seven-year career, the black lady from the tiny Alabama town designed thousands of exquisite gowns for the mothers, daughters, and granddaughters of America’s elite society. Ann so loved to hear, “The Ann Lowe dresses were doing all the dancing at the cotillion last night.” At age seventy-four, Ann became blind. She could no longer sketch dress designs and had to retire. But for the rest of her life, Ann Lowe still dreamed and dreamed of dresses. A COTILLION IS A FORMAL BALL FOR PRESENTING YOUNG LADIES, DEBUTANTES, INTO “SOCIETY.”
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February SecretS
by Linda Elovitz Marshall en a aroun s gray with rain or sleet or snow When all the world is— February Shhh, Don’t tell . . . On a bare branch By a building’s wall Shy, quiet Pussy willows Secret signs of spring.
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text © 2020 by Linda Elovitz Marshall
FALSE IMPRESSIONS Part 1
THE NEW EMBELLISHER threw slivers of turtle meat and garlic cloves into hot sesame oil. As it hissed and spat, he crushed dried herbs into his chubby palm with an enormous thumb, then tossed those in, too. I cringed as his long, dirty fingernails slipped between the flesh and shells of the shellfish to rip them apart and twist them in half. He cast the meat into the smoking oil and piled the shells on the table like a death heap of tiny skeletons. Wiping his hands on his thighs, he turned to his eldest son and demanded the jug of date beer, which he pressed to his thick lips and noisily gulped down. He noticed I was watching him and glared at me as he slapped his younger son on the back of the head.
by Christy Lenzi
Illustrated by Barr y Wilkinson
“Clean up this mess!” he grunted at him. Belching, he turned his backside to me and stirred his dish. I continued working in silence. As I plastered the flat rounds of unleavened dough inside the domed ovens, I pictured my father standing at the embers, looking over the fat embellisher’s shoulder. “Tut-tut!” he would have said. “Olive oil for turtle—never sesame. You have the fire too hot; it will chase the taste right out of it! Never rush the cooking. Remember, perfect flavor comes with time and care.” I grinned as I imagined the shock it would have been for my father to see the man’s filthy fingers. He’d always kept a basin
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of fresh water on the worktable so that our hands remained clean. My father had cooked for the good master twenty years. Things would be much different around here with the new embellisher. I heated the ovens, then took a bowl of dates to the outer kitchen to stem them in private. Privacy had been scarce this past moon since the new embellisher’s family had moved into my father’s quarters, but I was thankful that this would be my final day among them. I looked up through the hanging vines to the heavens, marking the progress of Shamash, the sun god; he was almost to the edge of his sky. By the time he journeyed halfway under the earth, sleep would spill over me in a strange place—my new home. A prayer welled up within me. As most people do when their hearts are full, I called out to my personal god, the patron god of my family. Every family had a divine benefactor, and my ancestors’ special deity was Sin the moon god. He was my guide and protector. There were many gods to worship and make offerings to, but Sin received my deepest devotion. He had not yet arrived in the heavens, but I knew he was on his way. “O great Sin,” I whispered, “god of the moon, lord of the night, brilliant exalted light of the heavens, hear my cry. I entreat you, my god, grant me a favorable night. I implore you, god of my father, do not forget your servant—” “I would give a pebble of fine amber to know your thoughts.”
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The voice was clear and light. It jolted me. I put my bowl down and stood up quickly. Before me was a girl I’d never seen before. The faded color and simple cut of her garments indicated she was a slave like myself. She was standing by the courtyard gate with her head cocked to one side, awaiting my reply. I didn’t know what to say. She smiled apologetically. “Are your meditations more valuable than that?” Her eyes were unusually light, almost the color of cedar, and her hair was as dark as the moon god’s night. Around her neck hung a string of honey-colored stones. I laughed at my silence. “You startled me! I’d be happy to oblige you, but I’m certain you would regret your trade.” “Ah, you’re certain, are you?” She grinned. “So you think you’re able to predict someone’s thoughts? I’d like to have that gift!” “I have no such gift,” I said, laughing. “Come, give me your stone, and I’ll deliver my thoughts to you!” She tilted her head forward and reached behind her neck to undo the clasp holding the string of amber stones. Her long hair tumbled over her shoulders. It reminded me of the blackberry wine I’d poured out to the gods at my father’s funeral. Aromatic and dark, it had shone brilliantly as it rushed over the stone steps. The girl pulled off one translucent pebble and placed it in my palm. “That one is special; do you see?” I peered at it closely.
“There’s a fire-bug resting within it.” She leaned toward me and pointed at the tiny creature trapped inside the amber. Her skin smelled of apples. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked. “Are you sure you want to part with such a treasure?” “It is what I intend.” She closed my fingers around the stone and tapped my hand three times in agreement of trade. “Now reveal to me your thoughts as you gazed at the sky.” I placed the piece of amber carefully in my belt and bent to pick up my bowl of dates. Shrugging, I told her, “I’m not a diviner—I wasn’t reading omens. I was only thanking my god Sin that I will be leaving this place before Shamash tunnels under the
earth.” I began plucking stems fiercely from the dates but could not resist glancing up to see her reaction to my words. The girl was looking thoughtfully at the sky. “You saw nothing up there? Let me see what I can make of it.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and rested her arms akimbo as she squinted at Shamash. Intrigued, I put down my bowl again to watch her. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “How interesting.” She looked at me intently before suddenly throwing up her hands. “Oh, I must get on my way; perhaps we’ll meet again.” “Please, wait—has someone made known to you the secret art of the diviners?” I asked in amazement. She hesitated. I held out a handful of dates. “I’d give a handful of fine dates to know your thoughts!”
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She laughed as she held out her hands, and I filled them with the sweet fruit. I closed her slender fingers around the dates and tapped gently three times. “This is what I see,” she began. “You are Nabi-sin. Your father is the good embellisher, who is now a shade of the Netherworld.” I stood up in surprise at her words. Ignoring my reaction, she continued, “Your sleep will be spilled over you this night in the house of Zarriqum, the seal cutter.” She paused and wrinkled her brow in concentration. “Ah! This is not just any seal cutter—Zarriqum makes royal seals for the household of King Hammurabi! H’mmm . . . I see that your good master is sending you to Zarriqum as an apprentice and that you will be welcomed there.” “It is as you say!” I exclaimed. “How have you come to know the diviners’ ways?” She grinned silently at me. I was baffled. “Who are you? May I know your name?” “I am Kirum, the daughter of Zarriqum the seal cutter. I’ve come to fetch you to your new home.” A T T H E F I R S T glimmer of dawn, I rolled up my reed mat and made offerings of drinking water and a measure of flour to my god Sin, who lingered in the morning sky as a slender crescent. When I was a child, Father had explained that the crescent is a shining silver boat carrying Sin over the floodwaters of heaven. I stretched my arms toward the moon-boat and prayed to my god. When I
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LAPIS LAZULI IS BLUE. OBSIDIAN IS GLOSSY, GLASSY BLACK.
CARNELIAN IS ALWAYS RED, OR REDDISH...
was finished with prayers, I poured a dab of oil into my palm. After working it through my hair, I placed a band of cloth around my forehead and tied it in the back. I anxiously groped my chin, hoping to feel some sign of a beard, but I was disappointed yet again. I made my way through Zarriqum’s quarters to the workroom. He wasn’t there yet, but I knew someone was up; I could smell the eclectic aroma of fish, onions, and lentils. I immediately noticed the worktable and bow drills in the center of the room. For the next four years, I would be learning the art of cutting complex designs into tiny cylinder seals that would be worn and used by Babylon’s elite. The walls of the small room were lined with shelves full of seals, some intricately fashioned and some still blank. Clay jars were everywhere, filled with drill bits and other sharp tools. I had never seen so many colorful and valuable stones gathered in one place. There were seals of jasper, lapis lazuli, ivory, carnelian, obsidian, and others I didn’t know. One shelf had a small pile of seals made from more common materials. My seal, which I wore as a pendant around my neck, was made of clay; Father had given it to me when I was a boy. Even though I could not read the mysterious signs inscribed to represent my name, I felt as though my identity were somehow etched upon it. I ran the tips of my fingers over the surface. It depicted the story of the hero Gilgamesh and his friend Enkidu defeating ...BUT JASPER COMES IN A VARIETY OF COLORS.
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the giant Humbaba, guardian of the cedar forest. The story had always entranced me. My master’s son, Mar-eshtar, and I used to pretend we were Gilgamesh and Enkidu looking for adventure. One day we swore a blood oath that we would remain friends forever. Fumbling with the kitchen knife, we tried to mix our blood together by cutting our thumbs and letting the blood drop and mingle in a bowl. We thought that thereafter we would surely be closer than brothers. Mareshtar gouged himself severely, and we began running around the kitchen, screaming like madmen, sure that he would die. My father came just in time. I remembered how alone I felt when Mar-eshtar left home at ten to be educated in the scribal arts. My master had told me that Mar-eshtar was now a royal scribe in King Hammurabi’s service. “I hope your dreams were favorable, Nabisin.” It was Kirum, setting a simple dish of fish and beans on the worktable. She turned to go, but I wanted her to stay, so I grabbed a jasper seal from the shelf and held it toward her. “Kirum—this is a beautiful seal. Can you tell me what the scene is?” She took the dark green seal and examined it closely. Opening the lid of a nearby jar, she pulled out a small hunk of clay and laid it on the table. She flattened it with a wooden rolling pin and swiftly rolled the green seal across the clay to reveal its impression. “This is the bird-man who stole the Tablets of Destiny from the wind god. He is being brought before him as a prisoner.”
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“Why is there no inscription?” I asked. I didn’t want her to leave so soon. “First the seal designs are cut, and later the requested signs are engraved with the help of Mar-eshtar, one of the king’s scribes. He’s very agreeable,” she added, smiling. “He works with us often. You’ll meet him today.” Mar-eshtar! I was glad to hear I would see my friend again; it had been six years. At the same time, it surprised me to feel a pang of jealousy as his name fell affectionately from Kirum’s lips. “I must assist my father. May you find favor in the eyes of your god this day.” She smiled again. “And you with yours,” I replied as she left the room. I contemplated what Kirum had said. Today I will see Mar-eshtar. But what should I expect after all these years? Friendship between a master’s son and a slave is common enough in youth, but the years may have brought some changes. . . . It wasn’t long before Zarriqum, my new instructor, entered the workroom. He was much older than I had expected, with white hair and whiskers he had not bothered to oil or smooth. Scratching his head in deep thought, he strode briskly into the room and paused at the worktable, biting his lip. He didn’t seem to notice me, so I cleared my throat to greet him. “I’m fortunate to meet you, good Zarriqum.” He looked up absently and seemed to focus on the clay seal hanging from my neck before turning his eyes to my face.
“Bah! ‘Good Zarriqum’—what makes you think I’m good? Perhaps I am horrible. It is yet to be seen, eh? Ridiculous nonsense, these social niceties. You shall call me Zarriqum.” I didn’t know what to think. Even though Zarriqum was a slave like myself, I would be under his authority for the next four years. Not only that—he was Kirum’s father. I felt I should show some sort of respect, so I bowed and said, “I’m fortunate to meet you, Zarriqum.” He looked at me curiously, then walked toward the shelf of costly seals. “You were trained in the embellisher’s art. Why is it, do you think, that your master has designed a seal cutter’s education for you?” He was closely scrutinizing a lapis lazuli seal with
a gold cap on either end. As he held it perpendicular to his eyes, I could feel my face burning. He had hit upon a sore spot. I’d grown up in the kitchens of my master and learned my father’s art. I was ashamed that the good master hadn’t appointed me his personal embellisher when Father died. “I . . . I’m young,” I stammered. “I haven’t mastered the brewing of beer. . . . I . . . I don’t know,” I finished lamely. “Perhaps it’s because you will be worth more when you return to him as a seal cutter. Look at this.” He held the deep blue seal toward Shamash’s early light. “The courtiers love to see their names in clay impressions and to adorn themselves like peacocks. Silver and gold flow to the masters of the seal cutters!”
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Kirum came to the door. “Father, the ambassador of Mari is waiting to discuss a stone selection with you.” Zarriqum tossed the seal in my direction. As I caught it, he bellowed, “Silver and gold!” and walked out the door. Kirum lifted the seal from my hands and carefully returned it to the shelf. “So, you have met my father. What is your impression?” She pushed back her hair and set her hands on her hips as I had seen her do the day before. “It surprised me that you and he show no resemblance to each other. You must look like your mother.” I ran my hand over the shaft of the bow drill where the string looped around it, pretending an interest in its mechanisms. “Perhaps I do; I cannot say.” She looked away. “I have no knowledge of my parents. Zarriqum adopted me.” I stopped fiddling with the bow drill and faced her, hoping she would continue.
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“I was but a baby when Zarriqum’s wife found me abandoned in an orchard outside the walls of Babylon. They considered giving me in service to the temple but decided to adopt me since they had no child of their own. Zarriqum’s wife died a few years later.” I wanted to say something about my father—how I understood what it’s like to feel alone, but she tossed her hair over her shoulder and lifted her head high. “I may have been the daughter of a beggar for all I know, but it doesn’t matter. Now I’m a seal cutter for King Hammurabi of Babylon!” Kirum—a seal cutter? I had never heard of a female artisan. Before I could respond, a tall young man walked briskly into the room. When he saw me, he stopped abruptly in astonishment. After a moment’s hesitation, he laughed heartily and exclaimed, “Gilgamesh!” to be continued
LISTEN TO THIS!
“I’m sur rounded by thousa nds of wor ds.”
“Always, for as long as she could recall, Gracie had the memory of f ire.”
OUT OF MY MIND by Sharon M. Draper
UNWRIT TEN by Tara Gilboy
submitted by Caroline A. Percival of San Antonio, TX
“The best time to talk to ghosts is just before the sun comes up.” CHAINS (The Seeds of America Trilogy) by Laurie Halse Anderson submitted by Catherine Graham of Ave Maria, FL
submitted by Celeste Thalhammer of Blue River, WI
“On my first trip to Yellowstone National Park, I threw a rock at a dragon.”
STUART LIT TLE by E. B. White submitted by Erin F. of Tennessee
“Mr. a nd Mrs. Dursley, of number four Pr ivet Dr ive, wer e proud to say they wer e perfectly nor mal, thank you very much.” HARRY POT TER AND THE SORCEROR’S STONE (Harry Potter, Book 1) by J.K. Rowling submitted by Coco Beck of Redwood City, CA
OF GIANTS AND ICE (The Ever Afters) by Shelby Bach submitted by Claire Springston of Erin, New York
“When Mrs. Frederick C. Little’s second son arrived, everybody noticed that he was not much bigger than a mouse.”
JUST READ!
I’VE GOT ONE THAT’S EVEN BETTER!
“Even before he got electrocuted, Jason was having a rotten day.” THE LOST HERO (The Heroes of Olympus, Book 1) by Rick Riordan submitted by Ryin Sullivan of Eagle Bend, MN
“Sometimes a new dog will ask me my lineage, for I look like no other hound on Ithaka, most of which are small and bred to shepherd livestock, if they are bred for any purpose at all.” ARGOS: THE STORY OF ODYSSEUS AS TOLD BY HIS LOYAL DOG by Ralph Hardy submitted by Sophie K. of Scottsdale, AZ
Have we missed your favorite first sentence? Send it to Cricket / Favorite First Sentences, P.O. Box 300, Peru, IL 61354. Please include only one sentence and be sure to write your complete name and address on the letter. Or send your favorite first sentence to: [email protected]
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Part 2
Three Impossible Tasks A Tale from Old China While restoring the artwork in the temple of Guanyin, the Goddess of Mercy, Pei, a poor young artist, sees the daughter of the new governor general, Yu-lan. Struck by Yu-lan’s beauty, Pei secretly sketches her portrait and composes a short love poem alongside it. A sudden breeze blows the sheet of paper across the room to where Yu-lan finds it. Pei and Yu-lan fall in love, but Pei is just a commoner, an unknown artist who has yet to pass more than the first level of imperial examinations. To win her hand, Pei must accomplish three tasks devised by Yu-lan’s father, who is intent on seeing Pei fail. Pei’s first task is to defeat a massive wrestler in “a fair fight.” Pei’s wit saves the day—and any broken bones—when he fulfills the task by proposing a fight of crickets. “YOU WON THE day with crickets,” said the governor general. “But what about pearls? You wrote in your poem that you wished to be a pearl against my daughter’s throat. Bring her a large one then, fresh from an oyster at the bottom of the sea. My men will row you out to the oyster beds, where you must find a pearl worthy of my daughter.” He paused. “On your first and only dive.” “As you wish, honorable sir.” The two young people gazed at each other. Their eyes flashed messages back and forth. But Pei was not hopeful. He had never dived for pearls before. Walking home, he thought about the task ahead. If I were rich I would buy Yu-lan a hundred large pearls, but I can’t afford even a small one. If only I could breathe underwater. I
by Phillis Gershator 26
Illustrated by Felicia Hoshino text © 2020 by Phillis Gershator, art © 2020 by Felicia Hoshino
would have more time to find a pearl. But one needs air to breathe. Facing the facts, Pei’s heart sank like a stone in water. It would be a fearful task simply staying alive in the ocean, let alone finding a big pearl. The odds were against him, and he knew it. Then, as he passed the tall grass growing in a ditch at the side of the road, he had an idea. He collected a bundle of the dry reeds. Slipping one reed inside another, he tied them together until he had fashioned a watertight tube. He plugged his nose with cotton and practiced breathing through the tube. Would it work? Next morning, Pei boarded the governor general’s boat with his curled up reed and a small hatchet for opening oysters. Two
WHAT? THERE ARE PEARLS UNDERWATER YOU CAN JUST PICK UP, FOR FREE?
THE OYSTERS MIGHT HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT THAT...
boatmen and one of the governor general’s servants accompanied him. The boatmen sympathized with the young man’s plight. They rowed him to some oyster beds in shallow water, where at least he could reach the bottom quickly. He’d have a chance to crack open an oyster or two before he had to come up for air. The men tied a rope around his waist and weighted him down with a stone. “Tug three times when you need air,” one said. “We’ll pull you up.” Before Pei was completely submerged, he stuck one end of the breathing tube above the water and the other end into his mouth. Down he went, unrolling his breathing tube so that the top remained just above the surface of the water. He tried to breathe slowly and calmly. He cracked open one oyster after another. At last, he found a pearl! A small one. He cracked open as many more oysters as he could find, looking for a bigger pearl. Time was passing. The boatmen were getting nervous. Gripping the rope, they felt movements below. As far as they could tell, Pei was alive and walking about. “He must have huge lungs,” one boatman said. “Or maybe he learned breathing tricks from the monks.” “Don’t let him drown,” said the servant. “The governor general would have my head. The old man wants him to lose face, not his life.” “Give the fellow a few more minutes,” advised a boatman. “Then we’ll pull him up, whether or not he tugs at the rope.” Before a few minutes had passed, they felt Pei tugging at the rope. They pulled him up as fast as they could, expecting him to flip-flop
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BRUSQUELY MEANS IN A SHORT, ABRUPT, OR ROUGH MANNER. UM–WHAT’S UP, LADYBUG?
around, gasping for air like a fish. Instead, he breathed normally, as though he’d just returned from a pleasant walk. He thanked the boatmen for their patience. The servant said, not so patiently, “Return to the governor general’s palace immediately. The old man is waiting for us.” Once again, Pei bowed before the governor general, who greeted him brusquely, with few words. “Have you brought a pearl for Yu-lan, a large one?” “Yes, honorable sir. It is my pleasure to present her with this pearl. I only wish it were even bigger.” And from a little woven bag, he removed a large and glowing pearl. “I have pearls, too, for her faithful attendants,” and he poured several smaller pearls out of the bag into his palm. “Oh! Ah!” Everyone in the hall sighed in amazement. The governor general was also amazed. He looked questioningly at the servant who had accompanied the pearl diving expedition. The servant assured him, “Pei stayed underwater for a long time. He must have learned the secret of non-breathing from the monks. But I swear, he found the pearls in the sea, for there were none on his person when he came aboard. He had only an empty woven bag, a small hatchet, and some dry grass.” The governor general may have been disappointed, but he wasn’t ready to give up. “You have one more chance to prove that you deserve my daughter,” he said, fiddling nervously with his long, coral bead necklace. He MMMMMF! NNNFFF!
SHE’S PRACTICING THE SECRET OF NONBREATHING, TO FIND PEARLS... CAREFUL, LADYBUG! YOU’RE TURNING BLUE.
wished he could send Pei off on a fairy tale mission, collecting eggs from celestial dragons, say, or dew from the stars. Or perhaps picking the peach of everlasting life from the Queen Mother’s heavenly garden high atop Jade Mountain. His daughter’s sobs broke through his reverie. “Father, please!” she cried, as though she had read his mind. “Pei is an artist. You have asked him to prove himself as a fighter and a pearl diver. Why won’t you ask him to do a painting?” “My precious daughter,” the governor general said, “you are right, and I will accede to your wishes. I well recall the words Pei wrote that caused our distress: I’ d be happy if I could only be a cricket upon your sleeve, a pearl against your throat, a plum blossom in your hand. “So now I will require Pei to paint a picture of plum blossoms. A true artist will judge it, one who has passed all the imperial exams. He will tell us if the painting is worthy to be held in your hand.” “Thank you, Father,” she said, relieved that Pei would not be sent away to find the elixir of immortality or capture the rarest animal of all, the one-horned kirin. “A painting of plum blossoms—is that fair? We will supply you with the necessary materials,” the governor general told Pei, sternly folding his silk-clad arms across his chest. Pei thought it was excessively fair. When the two young people glanced at each other, they smiled shyly, believing this last task was ACCEDE MEANS TO AGREE OR TO ABIDE BY AN AGREEMENT. UM, HOW’S IT GOING, LADYBUG?
one Pei would easily accomplish. The trial would soon be over! “You will complete your painting,” said the governor general, lighting a stick of incense, “in the time it takes for this incense to burn.” A servant led Pei to a small, empty room. He handed him a large piece of paper and a container filled with black ink. “Where are the brushes?” Pei asked. “There are none. The governor general says, ‘If you can make crickets fight your battles and you can breathe underwater, then you can paint without brushes.’” Pei despaired. All hope vanished. He buried his face in his hands, his heart pierced by the pain of defeat. “I can’t paint without a brush.” He realized he should not have been so confident. This last task was the most impossible of all. Not only would he fail, he would lose face. Losing face was worse than being beaten up in an unevenly matched fight or choking on seawater in a hopeless hunt for pearls. If he was nothing else, he was an artist. Now he would be looked upon as someone who called himself an artist but who could not paint. Before leaving the room, the servant tipped over the ink container, splattering the paper. “Maybe you can paint without ink, too. You have a whole hour to do it.” The servant departed, laughing raucously. But in the swirl of black ink spilling across the floor, Pei saw shapes. He dipped his finger in the wet ink. He created the trunk and branches of a tree. He traced a pond HE’S GOT A PEARL, I KNOW HE DOES! OPEN UP! SAY AHHHH!
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below and mountain behind. He worked fast, for the ink was drying rapidly. Like a wild man, he yanked a bunch of hair out of his head to form a brush. Dipping it in the last of the wet ink, he used it for the finer lines and details. When the ink dried, he bit the end off his little finger. With his own blood, Pei painted the blossoms on the tree. After the last particle of incense had turned to ash, Pei was brought back to the hall, where he presented the painting to the governor general. The taskmaster was astonished. He saw a tree, its dark red blossoms falling through the air to dissolve in the shadows of the pond below. How had Pei managed to do a painting without a brush or paint or even ink? The governor general knew that the entire container
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of ink had been spilled—because he had given his servant the order to spill it. He handed the painting over to the artist who had passed the imperial exams. “What do you think?” The imperial artist looked at it carefully. He pursed his lips and scratched his ear. He cocked his head. He squinted. He stepped back for the longer view and then forward with his nose nearly touching the paper. Finally answering the question, he took a deep breath. “This painting is divinely inspired! The artist has caught the essence of a plum tree in bloom.” The governor general could not argue with an imperial artist. But burning with curiosity, he could ask Pei, “How did you make this painting?” “The ink spilled and spattered the paper, so I incorporated the blotches into the design
with my fingers. I used my own hair to draw the fine lines.” “And these blossoms? Where did you get the paint?” Pei held up his hand, blood still oozing from his finger. “Blood, honorable sir. I used my blood to paint.” “What passion! What talent!” exclaimed the artist who had passed the imperial exams. “You have shown that you deserve my daughter,” the governor general admitted. “I know you will become a great artist, and I will accept you as my son-in-law. But in the future, you are commanded to use paint, not blood. I expect you to keep up your strength. I expect grandchildren.” “I will do my best, honorable sir.” P E I A N D Y U - L A N made ceremonial offerings together at the temple, to honor Guanyin. They thanked the Goddess of Mercy that day, and every day thereafter, for bringing them both such happiness, for everyone knew that even on a windy day no breezes stirred the still and quiet temple air. It had to have been Guanyin’s own breath that blew Pei’s portrait of Yu-lan across the floor.
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From Slave
to Congressman
The Amazing Story of ROBERT SMALLS by
TimoThy Tocher
AT THREE O’CLOCK on the morning of May 13, 1862, Robert Smalls, an enslaved man working for the Confederate army, risked his life and those of his crew and family. He ordered the sidewheel steamer known as the Planter to fire up its boilers. Robert had piloted the ship many times from its mooring in Charleston Harbor under orders from Confederate Captain Charles Relyea. But this time, only slaves were on board.
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Illustrated by Dennis Auth
text © 2020 by Timoty Tocher, art © 2020 by Dennis Auth
Captain Relyea and his officers had disobeyed orders and gone to spend the night with their families. The crew had been waiting for this opportunity. Months before, in a playful moment, one of the crewmen had dropped Captain Relyea’s hat onto Smalls’s head. This innocent joke gave Smalls an idea. Since his short, stocky build was similar to the captain’s, could he pass for the man if seen in bad light and from a distance? Once the thought entered Robert’s mind, it obsessed him. For a slave, Smalls had a good job. He piloted the Planter as it carried supplies, messages, and soldiers along the South Carolina waterfront. Yet he hated helping the Confederates fight the war. If the Union army were to win, there was a chance that President Lincoln would outlaw slavery. Robert longed to be a free man. Smalls was twelve when his master, Henry McKee, had removed him from his family in Beaufort, South Carolina, and sent him to Charleston to earn wages. Robert’s mother had been taken from her home at age nine to live with strangers. Robert could not bear the thought of losing his wife or children. Yet, with the stroke of a pen, he or any of his family members could be moved to a distant location, and there would be nothing he could do about it. Robert spoke to his wife, Hannah, and she approved of his plan. She did not want her children to endure slavery. Robert would try to steal the Planter and reach the Union navy blockade ten miles away. If they
were caught, they would jump into the sea with their children, choosing death over enslavement. By four o’clock, the ship was ready to go. Smalls picked up his wife and children, and those of some of the other crew, who had been hiding on another ship. As the Planter moved into the harbor, everyone knew there was no turning back. The penalty for moving the Planter without permission would be death for Smalls and the crew and severe beatings for the women. Their first challenge was to pass Fort Johnson. From inside the wheelhouse, wearing Captain Relyea’s hat, Smalls waved, inching the Planter forward slowly as if he had no reason to hurry. The sentry returned Smalls’s greeting. Soon they met a patrolling gunboat. In the murky darkness, Smalls saluted with a blast from the Planter’s whistle. He was allowed to pass. The final barrier separating the Planter from open water was Fort Sumter, which was on an island that dominated the entrance to Charleston Harbor. The Civil War had begun a year earlier when Confederate troops had fired on the Union forces holding the fort on April 12, 1861. Since taking control of the island fortress, the Confederates had set up log barriers in the bay so that no ship could pass without floating under the guns that lined Sumter’s walls. At 4:15 a.m., Smalls sailed beneath the cannons. He blew two long and one short toots of his whistle, the Confederate signal that he was a friend. The sentry acknowledged
THE UNION POSTED A NUMBER OF SHIPS OUTSIDE CHARLESTON AS A BLOCKADE TO PREVENT CONFEDERATE SHIPS AND SUPPLIES FROM PASSING.
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by yelling, “Blow them Yankees up!” as the Planter coasted past. As soon as the ship was out of range of Fort Sumter’s guns, Smalls called for full steam. Instead of heading for Confederate held Morris Island, where the Planter was expected to deliver four captured Yankee cannons, Smalls turned seaward and ran toward the Union blockade. The alarm was sounded in Fort Sumter, but it was too late. The Planter’s crew busied itself lowering the Confederate flag and raising a white bed sheet as a flag of truce, so that the Yankees would not try to sink them. But the morning fog was so thick they feared it might not be visible. When the Union blockade saw the Planter heading for their position, the steamships spread out. They had the speed to avoid the Planter until they could determine whether or not it was a danger to them. But the sailing ship Onward had no such option. Its captain, John Nickels, knew his craft was too slow to escape. If the Planter rammed the Onward, it might sink. He ordered all hands to battle stations and prepared his guns. As the Planter’s crew took cover, a gust of wind revealed the flag of truce. Captain Nickels allowed the Planter to approach. When he was within voice range, Smalls called out, “Good morning, sir! I’ve brought you some of the United States guns, sir!” A stunned Captain Nickels boarded the Planter and gave Smalls an American flag to replace the bedsheet flying from its mast. The women and children came on deck and hugged the excited crew. Smalls had done
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it. They were no longer slaves. For the time being they were considered “contraband”— a prize of war under the protection of the United States government. Smalls turned over the badly needed cannons and a book explaining a Confederate code called “Wig-Wag” used by ship captains to exchange secret messages using flags or torches. He reported vital information on where rebel troops were posted and how many men were in each unit. Captain Nickels took Smalls and his crew aboard Onward. The next day, the former slaves rode as passengers on the Planter while a Navy crew sailed it to Hilton Head Island. There Smalls met Commodore Samuel Francis DuPont, the man in charge of blockading Charleston Harbor. Though a wealthy man from a slaveholding state, DuPont had always been antislavery. He was fascinated to hear of Small’s daring and impressed by his willingness to fight for the Union. In time of war, those who captured enemy ships or weapons were entitled to prize money. Even though Smalls was a civilian and a black man, DuPont filled out the paperwork for the crew to be rewarded. DuPont assigned Robert to be the pilot of the Planter at a salary of forty dollars a month. He had earned thirty dollars for the same job with the Confederacy, but was allowed to keep only one dollar. The rest of his salary had gone to his owner, Henry McKee. The crew members enlisted in the U. S. Navy. In Charleston, people refused to believe that a slave was smart enough to steal a ship out of the heavily defended harbor. The
THE PILOT OF A SHIP STEERS IT, AND MUST KNOW ALL ABOUT ALL THE PORTS AND WATERWAYS AND HAZARDS ALONG THE WAY. IT’S A VERY IMPORTANT POSITION.
Charleston Mercury newspaper reported that an investigation was underway to determine which white citizens had planned the theft. A $2,000 reward was offered for Smalls, dead or alive. Ignoring the threats, Smalls continued to pilot the Planter. Commodore DuPont granted Smalls permission to visit Washington, D. C. Robert gave his first public speeches there, in an effort to raise money for former slaves who
had escaped to freedom. Smalls met President Abraham Lincoln and Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, who eagerly listened to his account of his adventures. Stanton wrote an order authorizing the formation of the first unit of black soldiers in the U. S. Army. Smalls was given the honor of delivering the order to Port Royal, South Carolina. On January 1, 1863, President Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation,
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freeing the slaves in Southern states. A massive army and navy attack on Charleston was planned. Smalls was chosen to pilot an ironclad ship named Keokuk. Ironclads were wooden ships whose sides had been covered with sheets of metal to make them harder for cannon balls or mines, then called torpedoes, to damage. The disadvantage was they were slow and difficult to maneuver. When the battle began, six Union ships steamed into Charleston Harbor with Keokuk and its two cannons in the rear. DuPont’s fleet was shot up so badly that Smalls was ordered to take Keokuk into the lead and protect the other ships while they made their escape. He fearlessly piloted Keokuk into
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danger, absorbing ninety-three hits from cannon balls in a mere thirty minutes. The outgunned Keokuk was able to fire only three shots. Somehow Smalls nursed his damaged ship and its crew to safety, with all hands bailing water. After everyone had safely transferred to another ship, Keokuk sank. The Planter was next used as an army transport ship. Smalls remained pilot with his salary increased to seventy-five dollars a month. On November 26, 1863, the Planter was sailing up a narrow creek, carrying food and supplies to six thousand Union soldiers camped on Morris Island. Confederate guns fired from both banks, catching the ship in a crossfire. The white captain of the Planter
panicked, running below deck and hiding in a coal bin. Smalls assumed command and zigzagged down the creek without losing a man or the ship. The U. S. Army named Smalls the new captain of the Planter, doubling his pay to $150 per month. With Charleston and Beaufort under constant attack from land and sea, white citizens deserted, burning their crops and leaving most of their possessions behind. Smalls was able to buy the Beaufort home where he had grown up as a slave. Smalls was ordered to sail the Planter to Philadelphia for a complete overhaul. The extended stay gave him his first chance to learn to read and write, something it was illegal for a slave to do. A black man named Octavius Catto instructed Smalls and wrote him letters afterward, suggesting books he should read. After the war, Smalls stayed in Beaufort. His former owner, Henry McKee, had died, and his family was in financial trouble. Smalls wrote to Jane McKee and invited her and her children to stay at their former home where he now lived with his family. The McKees accepted and Smalls sent them train fare. Despite his generosity, Jane McKee refused to sit at a dinner table with blacks. Robert had one room of the house converted to a special dining area for the McKees.
Robert Smalls in middle age
Smalls ran for Congress, winning election and serving five terms from 1875 to 1887. He fought for equal rights for all men, despite death threats from an antiblack group called the Red Shirts. One of the first black congressmen, Robert was a victim of prejudice. Many hotels did not accept black guests, so he often had to eat and sleep apart from his fellow representatives. In 1889, president Benjamin Harrison appointed him U. S. Customs Collector for the port of Beaufort. He held that important post until retiring in 1912. Smalls passed away in 1915, having realized his dream of freedom. The man who was not allowed to learn to read or write saw all his children graduate from college.
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Solution on page 47
Across 1. Small, portable timepiece 3. _______ _______ is ten years 7. Protective floor covering LOOK OUT, 8. Twelve o’clock in the daytime TIME’S FLYING 10. Children’s chasing game NOW! 13. Thursday (abbreviation) 15. Communication problem between youth and elders: generation _______ 16. Anno Domini (abbreviation) 17. Northeast (abbreviation) 18. Yes in Spanish 19. An hour is sixty _______ 20. I would (contraction) 21. Nickname for Edward 22. Before Christ (abbreviation) 23. Calendars are _______ way to measure time 24. South Dakota (abbreviation) 29. She was late because _______ car broke down 31. 365 days 32. Old-fashioned word for meadow 34. Shadow clock 35. Wake-up timepiece: _______ clock
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Down 1. Seven days 2. Time-measuring instrument 3. Ante meridiem (abbreviation) 4. Month, day, and year 5. Estimated time of arrival (abbreviation) 6. The game ended when time _______ 9. “To be or _______ to be . . .” 11. Hour_______ 12. He _______ his flight was delayed 14. A day is twenty-four _______ 17. In the _______ of time 18. A minute is sixty _______ 19. A year is twelve _______s 25. Opposite of night 26. Delay or put off 27. Region 28. The U.S. President is elected to a four-year _______ 30. _______ Whitney invented the cotton gin 33. Nickname for Alan AND NOT BECAUSE WE’RE HAVING FUN!
THE OPPOSITE! SEEMS LIKE WE’VE BEEN DODGING UGLY
.
by K ar
T
adford r B n e e l
al
e s p m ir i
FOR A MOMENT Jeff lay confused. He couldn’t figure out what had awakened him. He coughed. He coughed again. There was a tight, suffocating feeling in his chest. As he pulled himself groggily from the last remnants of sleep, he became aware of an acrid, burning smell and a shrill, piercing noise. His eyes were watering, the insides of his nostrils stinging. Then, suddenly, he was wide awake. His room was full of smoke! The noise he was hearing was the smoke alarm. The house was on fire! He leaped from the bed but collapsed onto the floor, choking. He lay there, trying to catch his breath. “Stay low.” The words from their school fire drill came back to him. “The smoke is least dense near the floor. Crawl. Don’t panic.” He panicked. His room was on the second floor, and there was no safe way out the window. The door was his only hope. He made more of a scrabbling dash for the door than a crawl, but in spite of his fear, he at least remembered to feel if it was hot. It wasn’t. Cautiously, he stood up and turned the knob. Fresh smoke billowed in, but he couldn’t see any flames. Beside him, the door of his parents’ room stood open. Through the eddying smoke he could barely make out the glimmer of their bedside light.
Illustrated by Andrea Wicklund
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That meant they weren’t home yet. The stairs were just beyond. He made for them, crouching low. At the landing he stumbled and half fell onto the top step. Suddenly the smoke was much worse. He couldn’t even see the bottom. He turned to go back to his room—maybe the window was the best way out after all—but the smoke was a solid wall behind him now, black and oily. He slid down the stairs, clutching the banister. The front door was right at the bottom. He reached the last step and ran for the door. He couldn’t see his sitter, Tim, anywhere. Jeff unlocked the door and yanked it open. The fresh, sweet smell of the spring night air rushed in. He breathed in a great gulp of it and staggered out through the doorway. Then he remembered his dog, Yank. The thought hit him like a baseball bat connecting right into his stomach. Yank slept in the kitchen. Jeff’s mom had been shutting him in lately because he’d gotten out and chewed the living room couch up last week. Jeff couldn’t leave him! More words from the fire drill echoed inside his head. “Never go back in. Never! Meet your parents at a predetermined place so you’ll know you’re all safe. Never go back in!” But Yank . . . Jeff had to save him! He turned and headed for the kitchen. The door was shut. Frantically, he pulled it open. A wall of flame shot out and engulfed him. He put up his hands defensively. Pain, searing and unbelievable, ripped at his palms and tore at his face. He gasped and inhaled a river of agony into his chest. He fell to his knees and tried to scream, but he couldn’t. Then there was nothing but roaring blackness. And Jeff was back in his bed again.
HE SAT BOLT
upright, staring around him into the darkness. It was cool; everything was quiet. He brought his hands to his face. They felt smooth, dry. No pain. But how could it be? He’d been in the fire! He’d felt it knifing into him. It wasn’t a dream, he knew it! He started to shake. He shook so badly, he had to grip the bedcover to keep under control. Even then he winced, expecting the raw pain to shoot into his
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palms as he grasped the blanket. It didn’t come. The bedcover felt soft and warm, as always. Jeff heard the key in the front door lock, then his parents’ voices greeting Tim. Yank barked a welcome. It must have been a dream.
JEFF’S INSIDES STILL
felt hollow and shaky when, that morning, he slid behind his desk at school. He pretended not to hear his friend Dave muttering his usual morning comment about Mr. Brown’s brown clothes. Mr. Brown always wore brown. Usually Jeff found Dave’s jokes funny. Not today. The dream was still on top of him. If it had been a dream. “What’s with you?” Dave asked. “You sick? You look awful.” “Nothing,” Jeff answered. He made a big show of dropping a book and leaning away from Dave to pick it up. How could he tell his friend he was freaked out because of a dream? No way. He’d never hear the end of it. “I’m going to talk about time today,” Mr. Brown said. “It’s a fascinating subject and leads into the theme of our next unit on space.” Jeff was barely listening. He could swear he still smelled the smoke. He sniffed at his arm, ran one finger gently over the palm of the other hand. The skin was smooth. Just a blister from his baseball bat. By the end of summer it would be a callus, he knew. He ran a hand through his hair. Still damp from his shower. His mom had been surprised when he’d insisted on showering before school, but he’d had to get the smell of smoke out of his nose. Mr. Brown’s voice was just a faraway echo: “The most usual way to think of time is to think of a straight line.” The words barely got through to Jeff. Usually science was his favorite subject, but today he couldn’t concentrate. Mr. Brown drew a line on the board. “We’re here right now,” he said. He drew an X at the beginning of the line. “In ten minutes we’ll be here.” He drew another X farther along the line. “And then in another ten minutes we’ll be here, and so on and so on, stretching on forever.” He drew a series of Xs along the line.
IF TIME IS A LINE, IT GOES ALONG IN ONE WAY...
AND I’M IN YOUR FUTURE, CRICKET! HA HA HA
THAT’S ONE THEORY.
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WHOA! THAT’S ONE LOOPY TIME LINE.
AND I’M STILL IN YOUR FUTURE, CRICKET! HA HA HA
ARGH. LADYBUG COMPLICATES ANY TIME LINE.
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Jeff rubbed his forehead. He never got headaches, but there was the beginning of one right now behind his right eye. “There are other theories, however,” Mr. Brown said. “One of the theories I particularly like is to think of time as a spiral. Like a coiled spring all stretched out with us traveling along the coils.” Mr. Brown picked up a shining metal spring from his desk top and started to stretch it out. He lost hold of one end, and it snapped back, nipping his fingers. He let out a yelp. The class snickered. Dave reached over to nudge Jeff in the ribs. “He’s really lost it now, man,” Dave said. But Mr. Brown got the spring under control and stretched it out again. “You can see that we could make our way along the coils, just as if we were following a winding road,” he said. “But what happens if I bend the spring a little?” In spite of himself, Jeff began to get interested. Mr. Brown moved his hands closer together and bent the spring back on itself so that some of the coils touched. “See the coils touching?” he asked. “If this were a model of time, and we were walking along this coil here, and then a coil ahead suddenly touched it, maybe we could skip across from our coil to the other and step right into the future! Or the past, if it were the coil behind that touched ours. How about that?” He beamed at the class. You had to say one thing about Mr. Brown: he certainly was enthusiastic. The rest of the day seemed to drag by. Jeff couldn’t concentrate on anything. He was one of his baseball team’s best players, but at practice after school he kept making mistakes. His coach finally ended up yelling at him, and he quit in disgust. It didn’t help matters to find a note from his mother on the kitchen table. It said that she and his dad were working late again tonight and Tim would be over to make his dinner and keep him company until they got home. When Tim banged into the house an hour later, he brought a pizza with him. He and Jeff shared it, and then they both settled down to homework. Jeff walked Yank, watched a little TV, and finally went to bed. It had been a bummer of a day.
THE SCREAMING OF
the smoke alarm woke Jeff up. He coughed. He coughed again. There was a tight, suffocating feeling in his chest, an acrid burning smell in his nostrils. His eyes were watering. It was happening again! He rolled out of bed and lay on the carpet, gasping for breath, then crawled frantically for the door. This time he didn’t even bother to check; he just yanked it open. He looked toward his parents’ room. Their door was open, as he had known it would be, and their light glimmered through the smoke. He bent over nearly double and made for the stairs. The smoke was getting worse. He stumbled but finally reached the front door. He unlocked it and almost fell into the cool clear air outside. Then, again, he remembered Yank. He couldn’t leave him! He turned around and started back in. NO!
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The pain suddenly returned. The searing, raging memory of the fire swept over him. If he went back . . . that’s what would happen. But Yank . . . ! A sob tore through Jeff’s chest. He forced himself to turn away and stumbled down the front steps. He reached the bottom and looked back. Flames broke through the roof. He staggered clear, then sank down at the foot of the maple tree on the front lawn. He leaned into it, his head down on his knees and his eyes tightly closed. Vaguely, he heard sirens. There was noise and a confusion of people shouting and milling around him. Then a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Tim standing there. His shirt was black with soot, and he had a bruise on his forehead. “I tried to get to you, man,” Tim said. “I couldn’t make it!” “Yank,” Jeff said. “He’s in the kitchen.” “No, he’s not.” Tim smiled. “He got out with me.” And there Yank was, leaping up at Jeff and nosing him wetly. Incredibly, he had his favorite toy in his mouth. Jeff began to laugh. Then the laugh died in his throat. This time it hadn’t been a dream. This time it was for real. But if it hadn’t been for that dream the night before . . . if it hadn’t been for that, he would have gone back. He would have died. What had happened to him? And then he remembered Mr. Brown’s words. He saw again the stretched-out spring in his teacher’s hands, saw how he’d made the coils touch. What if . . . ? What if that was what had happened? What if Jeff had touched the future last night? Just enough to show him what would happen if he’d gone back for Yank? It was impossible. Of course it was. But, what if . . . ? SO.... EVERYTHING TURNED OUT FINE!
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MEWYWHEW!
THIS TIME. (SHIVER)
WHAT DRAMA! WHAT TALENT! WAIT FOR ME!
WINNERS
O CT O B E R 2 0 1 9 A R T CON T E ST Spooked! First prize 10 and under Stella Gorman, age 8 Sharon, MA
First prize 11 and up Cora G., age 15 Trabuco Canyon, CA
Second prize 10 and under Anthony Baltz, age 7 Germantown, TN
There’s a Human in the Village!
Witchcraft at Night
Second prize 10 and under Paxton Suhr, age 10 Los Ranchos, NM
Second prize 11 and up Nina Tomasa Koch, age 15 New London, WI
Dancing Skeleton
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Second prize 11 and up Zayda Pettica, age 12 Rego Park, NY
Third prize 10 and under Noor Syed, age 10 Asbury, NJ
MINE, TOO! NEXT TIME WE HOLD OUT FOR ICE DANCING! (OOF)!
OHHHH, NOW MY HEAD IS SPINNING.
ONLY BECAUSE MOST OF US DON’T HAVE TEETH. (OW)
Third prize 11 and up Hannah Jones, age 12 McKinney, TX
LADYBUG, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?
MMMPF GRMMPF I WUNF THE CUPF!
AT LEAST NOBUGGY LOST ANY TEETH!
UM, ACTUALLY, YOU DIDN’T GET PAST ME. I STOPPED YOU. AND THE PUCK IS STUCK IN YOUR MOUTH.
YOU DID! WELL DONE, SLUGGO!
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MMPF GRMMPF I WUNF. I WUNF!
SHOULD WE GIVE HER A CUP ANYWAY? IT SEEMS SO IMPORTANT TO HER...
NO WAY! YOU’LL ONLY ENCOURAGE HER .
BESIDES, SLUGGO DESERVES THE CUP— FOR BRAVERY ABOVE AND BEYOND THE CALL OF HOCKEY.
PATOOEY! NO FAIR! I DEMAND A REPLAY! GRRRRR!
BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, LADYBUG! THESE THINGS BUILD CHARACTER. MWEET!
I’M NOT SURE WE’LL SURVIVE MUCH MORE “CHARACTER” FROM LADYBUG. HEY-OW!
Third prize 11 and up Aliya Raofield, age 11 Bethesda, MD
Third prize 11 and up Anna Uszok, age 11 Pensacola Beach, FL
When the Lights Go Out
Honorable Mention Lilija Coleman, age 12, Unity, NH. Annabelle Czeiszperger, age 11, Pittsford, MI. Avah Dodson, age 11, Lafayette, CA. Olivia Gardner, age 14, Watkinsville, GA. Ruby Lowman, age 9, Lorain, OH. Sienna Lowman, age 11, Lorain, OH. Gabriela Mutic, age 9, Scarsdale, NY. Sabrina Patrick, age 13, Woodstock, GA. Daniela Rodríguez, age 12, San Juan, Puerto Rico. Lola Seiter, age 10, Brooklyn, NY.
To s e e m o r e w i n n i n g C r i c ke t L e a g u e e n t r i e s , v i s i t o u r we b s i t e : c r i c ke t m a g k i d s . c o m /c o n t e s t s Solution to Crossbird Puzzle U
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4. Only one entry per person, please. 5. If you want your work returned, enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope for each entry. 6. Your entry must be received by February 25, 2020. 7. Send entries to Cricket League, P.O. Box 300, Peru, IL 61354. (No faxes or email submissions, please!) 8. We will publish winning entries in the May/June 2020 issue and on the Cricket website.
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Contest Rules 1. Your contest entry must be your very own original work. Ideas and words should not be copied. 2. Your entry must be signed by your parent or guardian, stating that it is your own work, that no help was given, and that Cricket has permission to publish it in the magazine and on our website. 3. Be sure to include your name, age, and full address on your entry.
D
The bugs were fascinated by the beautiful fashions created by Ann Lowe in “She Dreamed of Dresses.” Ladybug has already pulled out her needle and thread to design a new baseball uniform for Sluggo, complete with pink bows. Cricket looks very elegant in his new top hat and tails (he always wanted a tail). And Tater is filling his sketchpad with futuristic designs for technologically advanced “smart clothing.” For this month’s contest, everybuggy would love for you to make a bold fashion statement with your best drawing of a clothing design. Maybe you will present your fantastic idea for a popular new fashion that will sweep the nation. Or you might be interested in clothes people wore in the past—perhaps a cool design that’s gone out of fashion, like the outfits worn by 1920s flappers, or 1950s bobbysoxers, or by your mom and dad in high school, or even ancient Romans. Perhaps you will draw the special costume or uniform for one of your favorite pastimes or sports—such as ballet, or dressage, or hockey, or mountain climbing, or a sparkly outfit for figure skating. Or you might imagine the wild outfits that people will wear in the future. Whether you design a ball gown for a princess, a new Star Fleet space uniform, a safer football helmet, or computerized basketball shoes that jump by themselves, everybuggy will be dressed at the height of fashion as they parade down the Cricket Country runway to enjoy your best drawing of a clothing design creation.
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N E W A RT CO N T E S T: FA S H I O N S TAT E M E N T
Acknowledgments continued from inside front cover
Grateful acknowledgment is given to the following publishers and copyright owners for permission to reprint selections from their publications. All possible care has been taken to trace ownership and secure permission for each selection. “False Impressions” text © 2004 by Christy Lenzi, art © 2004 by Barry Wilkinson. “Time Spiral” text © 2007 by Karleen Bradford, art © 2007 by Andrea Wicklund. Photo acknowledgements: 5-9 (BG) marinat197/Shutterstock.com; 11-15 (BG) Jozef Sowa/Shutterstock.com; 11, 14 (spots) Pixejoo/Shutterstock.com; 11 (LB), 11 (inset) Division of Cultural and Community Life, National Museum of American History, Smithsonian Institution; 11 (RB), 11 (inset), 12 (LB), 13 (BC), 13 (RB) Collection of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture, Gift of the Black Fashion Museum founded by Lois K. Alexander-Lane; 12 (LT), 13 (RT) Ann Dorer; 14 (LB) Toni Frissell/ John F. Kennedy Presidential Library; 15 (RB) © The Metropolitan Museum of Art/Art Resource, NY; 16 (BG) Grigoriy Pil/Shutterstock.com; 17-24 (BG) photonova/Shutterstock.com; 26-31 (BG) Apostrophe/Shutterstock.com; 26-31 (border) Phoebe Yu/Shutterstock.com; 37 (RT) LOC, LC-BH826- 825; 39-42 (spots) Podursky/Shutterstock.com. CRICKET magazine (ISSN 0090-6034) is published 9 times a year, monthly except for combined May/June, July/August, and November/December issues, by Cricket Media, 70 East Lake Street, Suite 800, Chicago, IL 60601. Additional Editorial Office located at 1751 Pinnacle Drive, Suite 600, McLean, VA 22102. Periodicals postage paid at McLean, VA, and at additional mailing offices. For address changes, back issues, subscriptions, customer service, or to renew, please visit shop.cricketmedia.com, email [email protected], write to CRICKET, P.O. Box 6395, Harlan, IA 51593-1895, or call 1-800-821-0115. POSTMASTER: Please send address changes to CRICKET, P.O. Box 6395, Harlan, IA 51593-1895. From time to time, CRICKET mails to its subscribers advertisements for other Cricket Media products or makes its subscriber list available to other reputable companies for their offering of products and services. If you prefer not to receive such mail, write to us at CRICKET, P.O. Box 6395, Harlan, IA 51593-1895. Printed in the United States of America.
1st Printing Quad Sussex, Wisconsin January 2020
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I F G E O R G E W A S H I N G T O N were alive today, it would be hard to know when to wish him a happy birthday. Wilma W. Shortz tells me there are three dates we can celebrate. George Washington was born in 1732, and until he was twenty-one years old, he celebrated his birthday on February 11. That’s the date recorded in the Washington family Bible. In 1752, however, eleven days were dropped from the calendar year, and eleven days were added to dates. As a result, February 11 became February 22, and George Washington had a new birthday. For centuries Europe had relied on the Julian calendar, established by Julius Caesar in 46 BC. However, the Julian calendar was eleven minutes and fourteen seconds longer than the solar year, which is the time it takes the earth to revolve around the sun. Eventually this small difference resulted in confusion as to when seasons and holidays should fall. In 1582 Pope Gregory XIII dropped ten days from the calendar, and dates and nature matched once again. Catholic countries immediately adopted the new Gregorian calendar, but it wasn’t until 1752 that Protestant England and her American Colonies dropped, or “suppressed,” eleven days. (In the 170 years since Pope Gregory, the Julian calendar had gained an extra day.) People went to bed on September 2 and woke up the next morning on September 14. And when George Washington’s birthday rolled around in 1753, it fell on February 22. Then, as if two birthdays weren’t enough, in 1968 Congress passed the Monday Holiday Act, which made the third Monday in February the day for the official observance of Washington’s birthday. Confusing? Yes, but if George Washington were living today, just think of all the celebrating he could do!
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