page: 1...soon zaki felt as much at home in the water as he did out of it. now, if only farid would...

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Table of Contents

3 José’s Good Luck

5 Zaki’s Challenge

7 Rafiki Means Friend

9 The Mixed-Up Fish Dance

11 Sweetened Condensed Milk

13 Walking For My Life

15 Estrella Starring

17 The Tennin’s Robe

19 I’m Not a Cowboy!

©Highlights for Children, Inc. This item is permitted to be used by a teacher or educator free of charge for classroom use by printing or photocopying one copy for each student in the class. Highlights® Fun with a Purpose®

ISBN 978-1-62091-265-2

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PAGE: 20

José Tavares tightened his grip on the fishing net behind him and grabbed the sand with his toes.

Scan the field, he thought as he stepped forward. Look for a team-mate to pass to. He moved the sand with short kicks. Left, right. Left, right.

José always thought about soccer, even as he helped Mama, Uncle António, and the oxen pull the net from the sea.

“Slow down, José,” Papa called.“Slow down, José,” his little

sister, Carla, chanted. She danced across the sand and tossed her rag ball at him.

José loosened his grip on the net. He planted his feet firmly in the sand, dipped his head for-ward, and gently butted the ball back to Carla.

Then he turned to watch Papa lead their oxen, Felix and Pedro, toward the barn that stood about a soccer field’s distance from the sea. Left, right. Left, right. Each step the ox team took drew the net closer to shore.

José’s heart felt heavy. He knew that fishing was Papa’s life. It was Grandpapa’s and Uncle António’s life, too. He couldn’t expect them to understand his need to hurry. He couldn’t expect

them to understand that if you wanted soccer to be your life, you must play soccer. That if you wanted to play on the school team, you must go to practice. And that practice started today.

Mama and Uncle António straightened the huge net as its front edge eased up onto the beach. “Pull, José!” Mama urged.

Once more José flattened his foot, held his toes and his head down, and pressed forward.

“The net feels full,” Mama said. “Maybe our luck will change.”

Maybe it will, José thought, but probably not. Every summer morning when the sea was calm, Papa and Uncle António put a net across the back of their high-prowed boat and rowed out to sea. There, they dropped the net into the water, then rowed back to shore. José and Grandpapa hitched the lead rope on the net to the ox team. The oxen and José’s family then hauled the net ashore.

Once, all the fishermen in this part of Portugal had used ox teams. Now, everyone but Papa used a tractor. “Too many mouths to feed,” Papa said when folks asked him why he didn’t buy a tractor. “Not enough luck.”

José knew this was true. With a little luck, a net could snag a school of herring or sardines to be sold at the fish auction. With a little luck, Papa could make enough money to buy a tractor.

It was José’s job to feed and groom Felix and Pedro, but if Papa had a tractor instead, José knew that Papa would want to take care of it. Then José would have time to fish and practice soccer. José smiled. Maybe this day would be different. Maybe, just maybe, this day would be lucky.

José’s thoughts were inter-rupted when the catch of fish in

José ’s Good LuckBy Dorothy K. Mock Art by Gary Undercuff ler

Snap! Snap! Snap!Three more links inthe net unraveled.

PAGE: 21

the net finally became visible. Grandpapa and Papa hurried to help José and Uncle António. The four of them waded into the water, wedged their weight against the sides of the net, and drew the net onto the sand.

Suddenly the fish on José’s side of the net shifted. “Tighten your grip, José!” Papa ordered.

José lunged forward just in time to see a link in the net snap. Then—Snap! Snap! Snap! Three more links unraveled.

The biggest sardines José had ever seen slipped through the hole in the net and swam back out to sea. A few bite-sized sardines flip-flopped free on the beach.

José’s ears burned with anger and disappointment. Grandpapa, Uncle António, and Papa all struggled to drag the broken net onto dry sand. They needed José’s help. José wanted to help. But all he could do was watch.

He watched Carla catch the bite-sized sardines and plop them into a bag. He watched Mama help sort the remaining fish: some for her to cook into stew, some for Grandmama to can, some for Aunt Teresa to sell at the market.

Then José turned and ran as fast as his bare feet could move across sand. He ran past Felix and Pedro, past the ox barn, and past the auction block to a hedge of sweet bay trees that bordered the soccer field. Practice had started. José squatted behind the trees and listened to the coach.

“Approach the ball from an angle and point your shoulder toward the goal,” he said. “Kick with your instep. Let your hip follow through. Practice!” José shut his eyes and pictured himself scoring a goal.

“Soccer is a team sport!” the coach shouted. “Every player must do his best for the team.

Work together! Success is the result of teamwork!”

The sun was slipping into the sea when José went home. Some-one had fed and groomed Felix and Pedro. The boat had been beached and cleaned. The net was spread out on the beach, and Grandpapa was busy mending it.

Grandpapa looked up at José, then motioned for him to come over. As José approached him, Grandpapa smiled, then his fingers went back to work. “In some ways, José, a family is like a fishing net,” Grandpapa said as he wove strands of rope together to repair the broken links. “The strength of the whole depends on the strength of each link.”

José studied an oversized cork bobber trapped in the sand and thought about his family. He

knew he had let them down when he had run off after the net broke. It reminded José of what the coach had been saying about teamwork.

“I’m sorry about today,” José said finally. “I guess a family is like soccer, too. Everyone has to work together to succeed.” Then he used all his strength to run forward and kick the bobber. His kick lofted it high into the air before it landed in a sandy ridge.

“Score!” Grandpapa shouted.Lucky score, José thought. But

with practice—even if it’s just practice with a bobber, for now—luck can turn into skill. Then anything can happen.

José smiled as he ran back to help Grandpapa fold the fishing net. Tomorrow would be different. He was sure of it.

“Success is the result of teamwork!”


ISBN 978-1-62091-434-2

PAGE: 22

Zaki took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When his lungs felt comfortable, he dived beneath the water. Looking up, he could see the bright sun glinting on the water’s surface.

Soon, Zaki thought, I shall be able to hold my breath as long as

Farid. Then I, too, shall be able to dive for pearls and bring wealth to our family.

With lungs burning, he quickly surfaced and gasped for breath. Zaki was small for his twelve years, and he resented being treated as a child. Farid, his older

brother, had been looked upon as a man long before he was Zaki’s age.

Now, every day as the sun warmed the Arabian Gulf, Farid and the other young Bahraini men went out in their wooden boats, called dhows, to dive for oysters. With luck, there would be pearls in many of them. Each pearl earned a bonus for the man who found it. Many times Zaki begged to go along, but Farid always refused to let him.

“You?” Farid would laugh. “First, small one, you have to become larger than the oyster!” Still laughing, Farid would go his manly way, leaving Zaki bitter and angry.

So every day Zaki would go to the shallow water to practice. His grandfather, a former diver, would watch him and advise him. All morning, Zaki would practice diving beneath the waves. Every afternoon, again and again he would go underwater and hold his breath. With each day’s practice, his diving improved and he could hold his breath a little while longer.

Soon Zaki felt as much at home in the water as he did out of it. Now, if only Farid would take him seriously.

Tomorrow will be the day, Zaki decided. Tomorrow I shall challenge Farid. When I can stay beneath the waves longer than he, the whole village will know I am a man. Zaki waded to the shore, his mind focused on the next day.

He rose early the next morning. Even so, he had to hurry to catch up with Farid, who was already on the beach.

“Farid, wait!” called Zaki. “I must speak to you.”

In the stillness of the morning his voice carried clearly. The group of men around Farid grew quiet as Zaki spoke.

Zaki’s ChallengeBy Pam Sandlin Art by Gary Undercuff ler

“I will not lose!”


ISBN 978-1-62091-392-5

PAGE: 23

“Farid, I say that I can hold my breath under the water as long as you can. If I win, I ask only that you treat me as a man and let me dive by your side.”

The men of the village gasped and began to laugh. Zaki silently waited for his brother to answer.

Farid looked amused. “And what happens, young brother, when you lose?”

At the word when instead of if, Zaki lost his temper.

He shouted, “I will not lose!” He took a breath. “But if I should, I promise not to ask to go with you for a full year!”

“Then it will be worth it not to listen to your pleading,” said Farid dryly. “When will this contest begin?”

“Now,” replied Zaki. “Let us go into the Gulf. The men of the village are here to judge.”

Farid looked surprised, but with all of his friends looking on, he had little choice but to agree.

Zaki and Farid waded out into the sea until it was deep enough for them to dive. One of the men counted slowly to ten to give the brothers time to regulate their breathing. Then, at a signal, both dived beneath the waves. Zaki opened his eyes and found himself looking into his brother’s face. Farid was smiling with confidence. That smile made Zaki even more determined to win.

Seconds ticked by slowly with neither brother moving toward the surface. Slowly, too, the smile was fading from Farid’s face. Zaki knew that his brother had not been expecting any serious competition. As more seconds passed and turned into a minute, a frown appeared on Farid’s face. Soon the frown turned into a worried look. Farid was realizing that Zaki could possibly beat him.

Looking into Farid’s eyes, Zaki

suddenly understood what losing could mean to his brother. Never would the villagers allow him to live it down. He would be teased and tormented about losing to a mere child.

Zaki’s throat felt tight, but his lungs had not yet begun to burn. He still had time before he must surface, but the strain was show-ing on Farid’s face.

Zaki reached out, touched his brother’s hand, and smiled. Almost without thinking, Zaki kicked his feet and rose to the surface of the water a second before Farid’s head appeared beside him.

The men around them cheered and patted Farid on the back. Farid, however, put his arm around Zaki’s shoulders.

“Today,” Farid announced, “we shall have a new diver among us.” Then quietly, for Zaki’s ears alone, he said, “Thank you, my brother.” And Zaki knew that they both had learned that it takes more than strength to make a man.

Until the 1930s, many men in Bahrain made their living by pearl diving.

Farid was realizing that Zaki could

possibly beat him.

PAGE: 6

When she was twelve years old, Raha earned a scholarship to study at a boarding school in England. She kissed her little sister’s round cheek. She patted the cow’s brown shoulder. She hugged Mama’s wide waist. Then Raha and Baba, her father, rode the crowded bus to the airport.

“I named you Raha, which means happiness,” Baba said. “Remember that.”

As the plane took off, Raha looked out the window at the goat herds and brown rivers of Kenya. She gazed down at the green fields where she used to run like the wind.

At school in England, Raha wished Baba had told her to study hard and to practice running every day. That was much easier than staying happy.

The teachers gave her dozens of math problems to solve, essays to write, and books to read. She ran to her classes through cold rain, clutching her books inside her blue blazer.

At school in England, it wasn’t easy for

Raha to stay happy.

Her running coach gave her a striped shirt and white shorts, shoes with cleats for sprints, and another pair with spongy soles for cross-country.

Raha had always run barefoot at home, and the shoes felt tight on her toes. But all the other runners wore shoes, and Raha didn’t want to be different.

The team practiced every

weekday afternoon. On Saturdays, everyone watched rugby—every-one but Raha. On Saturdays, she ran alone on country lanes lined with thistle and blackberries. She ran over fields thick with mud. The cold air stung her throat, and her shoes stuck in the mud, slowing her down. She missed running barefoot and fast under the hot African sun.

Each day at lunch, Raha sat alone in the large hall, eating rubbery roast beef and brussels sprouts. She wished she were home, eating spicy soup from a calabash bowl and laughing with her family. Her mouth craved fish and coconut, or a golden papaya, juicy and sweet.

One Saturday, Raha ran up a hill and found herself in a barn-yard. One of her classmates, a day student named Thomas, stood just inside the barn doors.

After he greeted her, Raha asked, “Why aren’t you watching rugby?”

Rafiki Means FriendBy Denny Dart Art by Susan Spellman

“She’ll give birth to a calf soon.”

PAGE: 7

“I have to help my father,” said Thomas. “Would you like to see the cows?”

Raha entered the barn, and the familiar smell of cows surrounded her. “We have a cow at home,” she said. “I call her Rafiki. That means friend.”

Raha rubbed the swollen sides of a brown cow.

“She’ll give birth to a calf soon,” said Thomas.

On Monday, Thomas invited Raha to sit with him and his friends at lunch. They talked about the track meet coming up in two weeks. At home, Raha had always looked forward to running races, but now she had a churning in her stomach. How would she run fast in those clumsy shoes?

The next Saturday, Raha ran to Thomas’s farm. She didn’t see him at the barn, so she ran up the hill to the fields above. She found Thomas’s brown cow lying on her side and breathing heavily.

“Poor thing, your calf is coming,” Raha said. “You need help.” She

looked out over the fields, but there was no one in earshot.

Raha didn’t know how to deliver a calf, but she knew how to run. She pulled off her shoes and ran, barefoot and fast, as she used to run at home.

Raha missed running under the hot African sun.

She ran over the fields, past the barn, and to the white house where Thomas lived. Raha found Thomas and his father, and they followed her back up the hill.

When they reached the upper field, the cow still lay on her side. Beside her, the calf was already born, but it lay slick and still. Please, Raha thought, let them be alive.

“The calf is breathing,” said Thomas’s father. He dragged the calf to the mother’s head. The cow, smelling her newborn, struggled to her feet, nuzzled her calf, and

started to lick its wet fur. The calf opened its eyes.

“We came just in time,” said Thomas, still panting.

“Yes, thanks to you,” Thomas’s father said, nodding to Raha. He looked at the calf. “She’ll be needing a name.”

“How about Rafiki?” Thomas suggested. Then he smiled at Raha and said, “It means friend.”

On her run back to the school, Raha felt like a bird flying over the patchwork of green fields.

In the shower room, Raha stood in her clothes under the hot water, letting the mud run off her. She grinned. Baba, she thought, I’m living up to my name.

On the day of the races, busloads of runners and spec-tators came from other schools. Thomas waved to Raha from the crowd. She wore her striped shirt and her white shorts. Her feet were bare.

The runners lined up, and the starting gun exploded. Raha ran like the wind.

Raha didn’t know how to deliver a calf, but she

knew how to run.


ISBN 978-1-62091-353-6

PAGE: 40

“I don’t want to be a fish this year,” I grumbled, cinching a pair of fishing pants with a cord that Laura had just handed to me.

“I hope this works, then,” said Laura. She pulled a straw fishing hat from a box of old clothes. “The brim’s a little ratty, but it’s still wide enough to shade your face.”

I twisted my hair into a bun before putting on the musty-smelling hat, then stared into the only mirror in the house. I smiled. I looked just like a boy. This was going to work.

At the annual Fish Dance in our Mexican village, the girls were always the fish, and the boys were always the fishermen.

Our dance teachers said that’s the way it was. But I liked fishing, and I wanted to dance the part of a fisherman. This year, things would be different.

Laura glanced at a small wall clock. “We’d better hurry. Practice starts in ten minutes.”

I nodded and slipped on my leather fishing sandals.

We dashed down cobblestone streets toward the plaza. The salty smell of the ocean was heavy in the hot, humid air. I breathed deeply and felt a drop of sweat trickle down my back.

The plaza was a flurry of activity as people prepared for tomorrow’s festival. We zigzagged

between yelling vendors and fruit-filled stalls. On the beach, ten- and eleven-year-olds had already gathered in two groups: the boys on one side, the girls on the other.

“Remember,” whispered Laura as we joined them, “you’re my cousin from the next village.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it,” I said shakily.

“Laura, where’s Marisa today? I thought you two were attached at the hip,” said a thin nasal voice beside us. I glanced over to see Sonia Rivera. She was always trouble.

“And who’s the guy with the nice clothes?” Sonia continued with a sneer. The girls around her giggled.

“Um, Marisa’s sick. This is my cousin from the next village,” Laura answered quickly.

Keeping my face hidden under the brim of my hat, I turned toward the crowd of boys who were elbowing and shoving one another. I crashed smack into someone’s back and frantically grabbed my hat before it went flying off.

“Hey! Watch it!” The boy turned around, and my knees went weak. It was David Alvarez. He brushed back his curly hair and peered at me.

“S-s-sorry,” I sputtered, pulling the hat down farther and quickly moving away.

Just then Señor Rodriguez and Señora Garcia, the dance teachers, arrived carrying a load of small nets and plastic fish headpieces. I shuddered, remembering how much I had sweat in that headpiece last year.

By Lisa Avila Art by Kathryn Mitter

We zigzagged between vendors.


ISBN 978-1-62091-435-9

PAGE: 41

The boys jostled one another to get their nets. I pushed my way in and stuck a hand out, as everyone else did. When every boy and I had a net, Señor Rodriguez told us to stand in two lines.

“. . . Now turn and throw the net, gently, turn, throw . . . ,” Señor Rodriguez chanted loudly, while the girls wove in and out between us.

I threw my net and tried hard not to hit any fish. It was working! I was a dancing fisherman!

Swish! Plop! A net behind me caught my hat, and before I could reach up and grab it, it fell to the sand. I felt my bun untwist and my hair cascade down my back.

“Sorry . . . HEY!” The boy behind me yelled so loudly that everyone stopped dancing.

I looked up to see Sonia’s triumphant smile fade, and there was silence. I could hardly breathe.

“Well, that’s true,” Señor Rodriguez said slowly. “Does anyone else want to be a fisherman . . . or a fish?”

Then the weirdest thing happened. “I’ve always wanted to try on the funny fish head,” said one boy, laughing. And some of the boys and girls started trading their nets and fish heads, just like that.

That year I got to dance next to David, and people called it the Mixed-up Fish Dance. The villagers said it was the best Fish Dance ever, and for me, it really was.

“Marisa Valez! What’s the meaning of this?” growled Señor Rodriguez, and I felt my face grow hot.

“I . . . I just wanted to be a fisherman,” I said lamely, with my head down. I heard snickers, and I imagined David laughing at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sonia raise her hand. “Señor Rodriguez, I don’t think Marisa should be a fisherman. In fact, she shouldn’t dance at all. It’s not right.”

With my heart pounding and tears stinging my eyes, I turned to leave.

“Why not?” said a voice that stopped me from taking a step. It was David. “Marisa’s good at fishing.”

Just like that, my secret was out!

PAGE: 40

Then one summer Ishmael went to visit his grandma. She lived in the West Indies in a country made up of two islands called Trinidad and Tobago. His mom and dad and little brother went along, too.

First they drove a hundred miles from their house to the airport in St. Louis, Missouri.

Then they f lew to Nashville, Tennessee, and to Miami, Florida, and to San Juan, Puerto Rico, and to

Port of Spain, Trinidad.Ishmael had been born in

Trinidad, but he had moved to the United States with his mom and dad when he was very little. There were lots of things about Trinidad that were strange to him. There were lots of things that he had forgotten.

He had forgotten how big Grandma’s house was, with upstairs and down-stairs and sidestairs.

It had four full bathrooms with openings high in the brick walls. He could take a shower at night and hear birds and frogs and crickets outside.

He had forgotten that even the inside walls were concrete block. They were plastered smooth like wallboard, so he didn’t know how hard they were until he banged his head by accident. That hurt!

He had forgotten about the metal roof that made rain sound as loud as hail.

He had forgotten about the bats scrabbling above the upstairs ceiling at dusk as they got ready to f ly from the eaves of the house.

He had forgotten about the lizards. They were everywhere outside, on the garden wall and on the mango tree and under the rosebushes. Some of them even lived inside the house. They caught tiny moths f luttering around the light bulbs at night.

He had forgotten about the strange and wonderful fruit—juicy mangoes with no strings to catch in his teeth; bananas that were tiny and

smelled like apples; green coconuts with cool, sweet water inside; plums that were too small; papayas that

Can you be homesick for a place that

isn’t home?

Ishmael lived in Missouri with his mom and dad and little brother. They had lived there for years. It was home. It was the only place Ishmael could imagine feeling homesick for.

Sweetened Condensed Milk By Vashanti Rahaman

Art by Larry Johnson


ISBN 978-1-62091-420-5

PAGE: 41

candies and desserts. In Trinidad, sweetened condensed milk came in cans, but it also came in little brick packs like juice boxes. Ishmael learned how to pull up the corner of a brick pack and cut it off. He learned to pour the sweetened condensed

milk into a spoon and to stir it into tea or cocoa. He learned to trickle the sweetened condensed milk onto bread or, when no one was watching, to put whole spoonfuls in his mouth.

Then their visit to Trinidad ended. He had to leave Grandma and her great big house, and the rain forests and the coral reefs and the relatives and the fruit. Ishmael was a little sad.

When they got back to Missouri, Ishmael felt home-sick for Trinidad. It was strange

to feel homesick for a place that wasn’t home.

One day Ishmael found sweetened condensed milk in the

grocery store. Mom let him buy some. It came in a little tin, and it tasted just like the sweetened

condensed milk in Trinidad. Ishmael thought it was better than all the souvenirs and photographs they had brought back.

With his eyes closed and his mouth full of sweetened con-densed milk, it was easy for Ishmael to imagine that he was back in Trinidad.

were too huge; sweet oranges that always had green skins; and sour oranges with skins that turned bright orange.

He had forgotten about relatives. In Missouri, his family had no relatives who lived nearby.

He had forgotten about cousins who wanted him to act in plays. They let him have the best parts, even though they giggled at his American accent. One cousin helped Ishmael’s little brother catch a huge praying mantis.

Ishmael had forgotten about baby cousins who wanted to climb all over him and who tried to do everything he did.

He had forgotten about uncles who bought him chicken nuggets and pizza and ice cream, and took him for drives over moun-tains, through rain forests, and to beaches and coral reefs. They had to f ly in an airplane to Tobago to see the coral reefs.

He had forgotten about great-uncles who were doctors and who brought medicines for upset tummies and the sand-f ly bites on his legs.

He had forgotten about the aunts who cooked mountains of spicy food and some special dishes with “no pepper at all” just for him.

He had forgotten about Great-grandma, with her tiny wrinkled hands and cool soft skin and gentle smiles.

He had forgotten about cocoa that tasted spicy, not at all like American cocoa. He had even forgotten about sweetened condensed milk.

Ishmael’s little brother didn’t like the sweetened condensed milk. He had been born in Missouri, and their mom had never bought sweetened condensed milk in America.

Sweetened condensed milk in Trinidad was special. It was not just for making

PAGE: 34

such remote country. I put my remaining food and canteens of water into my day pack and set off on foot, going north, the direction of the main highway.

I was low on water. Too little food did not matter, but hiking across the desert in July without water could be fatal.

As I set out, I hatched un-reasonable fears in my mind. I was afraid of everything around me. Grasshoppers hopped, beetles crawled, rodents scurried. Each creature made my heart jump. In my mind, every movement was a scary animal about to strike and kill me.

I walked for hours in this state of mind. I cried and groaned until

I realized that nobody was around to hear me. Complaining was useless.

A change came over me, a gradual transformation. I began to feel less afraid. Fear was replaced by curiosity.

I went on, and slowly but surely began to see the desert world differently, through interested eyes, not frightened ones.

A rattlesnake slithered past, scales glistening in the sun. The wild beauty of the snake steadied me. I might have run but didn’t, realizing the animal meant me no harm. It never even saw me.

The snake slid over the ground and vanished. In the silence and hazy heat of that moment, I

I was stranded in the desert.

Walking for My LifeIt was the middle of July. I had spent two days exploring a bat cave in the Jornada del Muerto desert in southern New Mexico.

The cave was part of an ancient f low of lava, now hardened into solid rock. The lava had gurgled out of the ground like liquid metal 250 thousand years ago. The cave was tucked away in what had once been an air bubble in the f low. The top side of the bubble had fallen in, creating an opening in the roof of a long, narrow cave that led back into the lava two hundred feet, a perfect home for bats.

I had left the cave and was driving my pickup truck on a rough track across the hard, jagged surface of the lava f low. Suddenly the steering wheel jerked and my hands slipped. The truck ground to a halt, caught on a black lava boulder.

A quick inspection of the underside proved the worst: the truck’s axle was bent, nearly broken in two.

I could not expect rescue in

By Jennifer Owings DeweyArt by Denny Bond


ISBN 978-1-62091-437-3

PAGE: 35

noticed how peaceful the arid land was. Desert dwellers large and small went on with their lives, paying no attention to me.

That night I lay on the warm sand, using my day pack as a pillow. The sky went dark.

The stars began to shine, zillions of tiny fires spinning reassuringly in the hugeness of the heavens.

With a burned-lip smile I thought how little there was to fear, after all.

By noon the following day I was out of water. I continued north, forging a delicate balance in my mind between fear of death and the certainty I would live. I began to think how lucky I was to see the wild desert world. A wrecked truck and a forced hike across the desert gave me a chance to see what few others ever saw.

Late in the day, miles from the road, I came to a ranch house. It stood at the edge of the lava f low, low against the desert scrub, half-invisible through the waves of heat rising from the ground.

I walked into the yard and was greeted by a skinny hound dog. The rancher was close behind. He tipped the brim of his cowboy hat. “Care for some lemonade?” he said.

I drank all the lemonade that he and his wife had in their refrigerator. When it ran out, I drank tap water until my belly was swollen and sore.

“I liked it out there,” I told them when we got to talking. “I just wish I had been less frightened. I would have noticed more that way. Being scared made me miss things I would have seen otherwise.”

“I know what you mean,” the man said thoughtfully, scratching his chin whiskers with the fingers

of one hand. “It’s a rare sight, that desert wilderness, a rare sight.”

The next morning the three of us rode out on horseback to check on my truck.

“It’s a goner,” the rancher said.“Totaled,” I agreed.“Too bad,” his wife said. “Such a

pretty color, too.”We spent the night by the cave,

watching the bats f ly out. Hawks and owls were diving and trying to catch a late-in-the-day meal. The three of us sat thinking, saying little.

I knew that I might have perished on the bone-dry desert. Unlike the bats, hawks, and owls, I was not equipped for life with little water. All I could think about was how I wanted to take the same walk a second time.

When the day ended, the rancher said, “Too bad more folks can’t see this. Might make them think twice about what’s beautiful in the wild.”

“Yes sir,” his wife said, “that’s the truth of it.”

PAGE: 6

Photos by

Our house burned down just before Christmas. Sitting alone on the bed I now share with Cousin Rena, I gaze into the silver pocket mirror that I grabbed on the night of the fire. All my other stuff is gone.

Rena peeks into the room. “Hey, Estrella,” she says. “Bad hair day?”

Mom told me that teasing is just the Alaskan villagers’ way of showing that you belong, but I don’t feel like part of this family. My cousins act like I’m weird because I don’t know a tern from a gull or a cod from a salmon. The grown-ups tease Mom, too, because she forgot a lot of her Yup’ik language after she moved to Anchorage. Mom smiles, but I can see the sadness underneath. I

hope it’s not long before Dad finds us a new house back in the city.

Every Sunday, we call Dad on the phone in the village store. I

usually tell him good things, like how I got to ride on Uncle’s snowmobile. But last week I complained, “They don’t even have

Christmas on the right day!”Our relatives up here follow the

Russian Orthodox calendar. That means they celebrate Christmas in January.

Dad laughed. “Christmas is Christmas. It’ll be fun, and I’m sure you’ll do something special to thank them for taking you in.”

What could I give them when all I own is a tiny mirror?

I slide the mirror into my bag and find Rena in the living room.

“Come see the star,” she says.Stars at noon? What trick is

she playing now?Outside, Uncle is nailing wood

together. He’s making a star that’s five feet wide.

“What’s that for?” I ask, forgetting Mom’s advice to look and listen instead of asking so many questions.

Uncle’s mouth twitches. “It’s your new bed. Fancy design for a city girl.”

“No,” says Cousin Greg. “It’s a giant kite so you can fly home.”

I feel my eyes sting, and I’m glad when Rena drags me back inside.

Our mothers are mixing a bowl of berries with their hands. A jar of oil is on the table. Rena sneaks a taste. “You, too,” she says. “It’s agutak.” I shake my head. I just

Estrella Starring

By Diana ConwayArt by Dennis McDermott

I don’t feel like part of this

family.

“Bad hair day?”


ISBN 978-1-62091-421-2

PAGE: 7

know I won’t like anything made with seal oil. Big Aunt Ana laughs and says something in Yup’ik to Mom. The only word I understand is my name.

During the next few weeks, my relatives get ready for their Christmas. At least they’re too busy to tease me.

Rena practices singing hymns at the blue-domed church. Aunt Ana cooks huge pots of moose stew. Mom and I help whenever we can. It’s nice to feel useful again.

Greg helps Uncle with the star. They put a handle on the back so the star can spin like an amusement-park ride. They paint the frame, string on Christmas lights, attach a battery pack, and add a religious picture, foil, and ribbons.

I’ve been feeling more comfortable around Uncle and Greg, so I decide to ask again, “What’s the star really for?”

“It’s a cradle for your new cousin,” Greg says.

My new cousin? Greg laughs at my confused look. It finally hits me—Aunt Ana’s big belly has a baby inside!

Of course I know that nobody would put a baby in a bed with electric lights.

“Come on,” I say, smiling.“Go ahead and tell her,”

says Uncle, giving me a wink.

On January sixth, Uncle brings the star into the darkened living room and turns it on. We ooh and aah when the lights spin a colored pattern on the wall.

I know now that we’re taking this—the new village

star—to the church. Tonight all the villagers, along with Mom and me, will carry it from house to house. It’s a Christmas tradition called selaviq, or starring—like when the wise men followed the star to see the baby Jesus in Bethlehem. At each house there will be food, gift giving, and singing. I can’t wait.

I also can’t wait for Aunt Ana’s baby to come. Dad finally found a house in Anchorage, but we won’t be moving in for two months. That’s one month after my new cousin is supposed to be born.

Before we leave for the church, Mom hands Uncle a bag of chocolates. “I know it’s not much,” she says.

Aunt and Uncle make a big fuss, as if the bag holds gold nuggets. Mom seems truly happy for the first time since the fire.

While I’m waiting, I try a tiny spoonful of agutak. It tastes oily, but sweet, too.

At the church, when nobody is looking, I wrap the leather cord of my mirror around one point of the star. This is my gift.

Later, when I go starring with my family, the mirror will make the lights shine even brighter.

“Go ahead and tell

her.”

PAGE: 30

A boy named Jiko and his mother lived in a village on the rocky coast of Japan. Jiko’s mother collected herbs in the mountains. She hung the herbs upside down to dry in the sun so that she would have herbs all year round, and all year round the villagers came to her for herbs to heal the sick.

One winter it happened that Mother herself became ill, but she had given away her last herbs. There were none left.

“Mother,” Jiko said, “tell me where to find the herbs to make you well again.”

“You have always been a devoted son,” she told Jiko, “but it is still winter, and the herbs

I need do not grow in winter.” Jiko pleaded, “Please tell me.

Somehow I will find them for you.”Even though Mother believed

it was a hopeless quest, she told Jiko about the mountain ledge where the summer herbs grew.

Jiko eagerly hurried off to the mountain to make his way up its icy slopes. When he dared not walk upright, he crawled along the slippery cliff, clinging to root-entwined rocks. At last he reached the mountaintop.

He had hoped for at least a sprig or a leaf, but he saw only gray rock and white snow. No trace of green—except for one pine tree.

Through tears of frustration, a f lash of color in the tree caught Jiko’s eye. What is that? A fallen bird? he wondered. The bird glowed and shimmered in the sunlight.

Jiko gently lifted the bird from the tree and held it. But it was not a bird after all. It was a many-colored feathered robe.

“How beautiful!” he whispered. “How did it get here, way up on the mountaintop?”

“You there,” a girl’s voice called, “give me back my robe!”

From behind the rocks stepped a small girl wearing a gossamer slip and a crown of f lowers.

“Your robe? How do I know it’s your robe?” Jiko asked.

“It’s my dancing robe.” “Well, I need this robe more

than you do. I will sell it. Then I will have enough money to buy herbs for my sick mother.”

“No! You can’t do that. Don’t take it away! It will only turn to dust.”

“I don’t believe you,” Jiko said,

The Tennin’s RobeBy Phillis Gershator

Art by Cheryl Kirk Noll

Tennin are beautiful winged maidens who live in the Buddhist paradise, where they dance and play musical instruments. This

story was inspired by a Japanese play called

The Feathered Mantle.

“Tell me where to find the herbs to make you well

again.”


ISBN 978-1-62091-436-6

PAGE: 31

stroking the robe’s feathers.“I must have my robe,” cried

the girl, stamping her foot.

“If you want it, you will have to pay for it,” said Jiko.

“I have no money,” the girl answered, her voice growing weak.

Jiko saw that the f lowers on her head were fading. Her body was fading, too.

“I can’t dance without my robe,” she whispered. “I am a Tennin, a celestial dancer. I entertain the gods of the heavens. I dance for the Moon God, the Storm God, and the Sun Goddess. How can I return to the heavens without my robe?”

The Tennin was barely visible now. The f lowers on her head were wilted and brown.

“The robe is my life,” she continued, her voice very small. “Without it, I am a fish without water. A root without earth. A f lower without sun. Without my robe, I will die.”

Jiko didn’t know what to do. What would his mother do? Even though Mother is so sick, I know she would not want me to keep a Tennin’s robe, he thought.

Jiko placed the robe around the Tennin’s shoulders.

The Tennin hugged the robe around her, smoothing its

beautiful feathers. The color returned to her cheeks, and she began to dance. “I will never forget you,” she promised Jiko before dancing away over the mountain and into the sky,

an arc of color trailing behind her.Then, in the very spot where

the Tennin’s feet had touched the

snow, Jiko saw herbs growing—fresh, green herbs. He picked all of them.

Back home, Jiko boiled the herbs in a kettle of water as he had seen his mother do many times. His mother drank the steaming broth each morning and night until she was well again.

Once the mountain snows melted, Jiko and his mother returned to the spot where the life-giving herbs had grown. There they built a shrine for the Tennin, a little house of wood and stone.

And every winter, the Tennin visited her shrine, leaving behind patches of fresh green herbs wherever her dainty feet danced upon the snow.

He crawled along the slippery cliff, clinging to root-entwined rocks.

“l can’t dance

without my robe.”

Iiko saw herbs growing.

PAGE: 30

Papa always wanted a vaquero, a cowboy, to help on our ranch. When I was born, he probably took one look at me and said, “Send her back!”

OK, so I exaggerate a little. But I know he wishes I were a boy. He’s always calling me “Joey” instead of “Josefina.”

I’ve been riding barrel races since about the time I started walking. But whenever I ask to help herd the cows here at the ranch, Papa says, “That’s men’s work.”

Saturday morning splashed in like a herd of wet elephants. We’d been having a lot of that—rain,

I’m Not a Cowboy!

By Jimmy Lumpkin Art by Lia Elizabeth Marcoux

I mean, not elephants. But frogs were another matter. They’d kept me awake half the night with their silly croaking.

I practically f lew into the kitchen when I smelled the

delicious aroma of chorizo, pork sausage. Papa had already finished eating and was putting on his rubber boots.

“Why did God make so many of them?” I asked.

“So many what, Joey?”“Josefina,” I corrected him

before answering, “Frogs.” Without a word, Papa tramped

out into the downpour. “Is Papa mad at me or just the

world in general?” I asked Mama, who sat at the table drinking coffee. After filling my plate with eggs and sausage at the stove, I sat down beside her.

“Your father’s worried about the cows,” she explained. “Unless he can drive them to high ground, they might drown. He needs help.”

“I’m pretty good on a horse,” I reminded her between bites. “I’ve got trophies to prove it.”

She laughed. “You know how Papa feels about young ladies driving cattle.”

I did, but I decided to make an offer anyway. When he splashed back onto the porch, I was there waiting. “I could help if you’d only let me,” I told him.

He stood there for what seemed like an hour, then said, “Go get your raincoat, Joey.”

“It’s Josefina!” I raced back into the house.

Wading down to the corral in my wide-brimmed hat and high-topped boots, I felt like a cowgirl.

“I’m pretty good on a horse.”

I felt like a cowgirl. But Papa

thinks there is no such person.

PAGE: 31

But, of course, Papa thinks there is no such person.

We rode into the pasture, Papa on a big roan named Miguel and me on my spotted mare, Isabella.

We began calling the cows as soon as we reached the willows along the river, but only the frogs answered. Our horses snorted as muddy water from the f looded stream tickled their bellies.

Finally, we found the red-and-white Hereford cows bunched up in a thicket of mesquite brush.

They sure didn’t want to leave their hideout. Papa and I rode back and forth behind them, yelling our heads off. At last we got the cows out of the thicket and herded them along a muddy road toward higher ground. But they balked at the deep stream that stood in our path.

Finally, the first cow stepped into the water, and the others followed. Papa swam across on Miguel, then turned to watch me. “Hold on tight, Joey.”

As Isabella waded in, I felt cold water creeping up my legs. It smelled like something rotten, and I wondered if I’d ever be clean again. Then my mare stumbled and went under except for her head. Gripping the saddle’s horn, I barely managed to stay in the saddle. I got soaked all the way up to my pigtails.

Grinning, Papa said, “A true cowboy is tough, Joey.”

“Cowgirl,” I mumbled.

We’d just gotten on solid ground when a loud clap of thunder almost made Isabella jump out from under me. Rain pounded down so hard I couldn’t see anything except the waterfall tumbling off the back of Papa’s sombrero. But the cows had to be somewhere up ahead. I could still

hear their bawling. It took all day getting them to

high ground. By the time we got back home, the rain had mostly given way to darkness. I could smell the wonderful aroma of Mama’s cooking as we rode past the ranch house. “I’m so hungry I could eat a frog,” I said.

Papa laughed. “Well, I suppose we can find you one.”

We dismounted and led our horses under the tin overhang of the barn. After lighting the kerosene lantern, Papa brushed Miguel and Isabella while I fed them some oats.

Papa said, “You’re a good cowboy, Joey.”

“Cowboy? Joey?”Laughing, Papa picked me

up as if I were a rag doll and squeezed me so hard I thought I’d break. “My little cowgirl, Josefina, I’m so proud of you!”

I guess Papa really does love me, even though I’m not a cowboy.

The cows sure didn’t want to leave their

hideout.

Rain pounded down so hard I couldn’t

see anything.


ISBN 978-1-62091-433-5

page: 1...soon zaki felt as much at home in the water as he did out of it. now, if only farid would...

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