How to Fail
Deep breath, deep breath. I look straight into the mirror. “Hello,” I say to the fake audience. “My name is Henry,” I sigh, shaking my head. “Hello, my name is Henry and I am going...
Issue: <span>July/August 2013</span>
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Deep breath, deep breath. I look straight into the mirror. “Hello,” I say to the fake audience. “My name is Henry,” I sigh, shaking my head.
“Hello, my name is Henry and I am going to show you what would now be called a modern miracle.” About three hours every day are dedicated to magic practice.
I drop to the floor and pull open my magic drawer.
Did I do something wrong?
Did I say something I wasn’t supposed to?
Why did you leave me like a child crying at school,
pleading for their parents to come back?
Only they come back, and I know you will not.
You weren’t supposed to leave.
I never saw you go.
You didn’t leave a letter.
Can I come with you? We could run away up to the clouds
and hide there forever.
It was 7:32 a.m., my hair was getting frizzy, the fog outside my car window was limiting my vision to a few scrawny bushes, and my stomach was churning.
“Hey,” my dad called from the front seat, “you OK, Pade?”
“Yup,” I lied, because it wasn’t really a question, but conversation. He was satisfied and turned around.
My Mixed-Up Berry Blue Summer,
by Jennifer Gennari; Houghton Mifflin Books
for Children: New York, 2012; $15.99
My Mixed-Up Berry Blue Summer is a book about politics and pie. June Farrell is a twelve-year-old girl living in Vermont whose talent is making delicious pies. All she wanted to do over summer vacation was go swimming in Lake Champlain and enter the Champlain Valley Fair Pie Competition.
It was just a typical day, a nightmare of an “as a family” picnic; my brothers following me around, me trying to get away and be alone for five short minutes. I’m sort of a loner sometimes, though when I say that, I don’t mean I’m a recluse, or that I’m not a people person, because I am.
I stare into the crystal clear water and watch
My life flow by in only a way nature can make it.
My eyes wander to the trees
and notice the pattern of the shadow
the tree casts upon the rough black rocks.
It is then I realize every aspect of the creek—
the fish, the sun flowers and morning flowers,
and a patch of purple lilies.
The musty, damp smell of earth engulfs me, blocking the sharp, acute smells of night from outside my den. My bushy tail, tipped with white, flicks, causing the leaves and moss that make up my nest to rustle and scatter. It does not matter. I shall see to it come daylight, for now it is my time to prowl. The moon is full and the time is right, I must emerge.
I used to think that you only met surprising people in grand theaters, comic book stores, and cathedrals, but now I know that you could meet the most different of all on top of an ordinary rock. August was drawing to a close, and the blue moon was due to appear.
A curiously-shaped case, elongated ebony
Buckles, that when opened reveal gleaming gold
Nestled in velvet, radiant brass glints in twists and turns
Narrow pipes widen to a vast bell
Pieced together with knobs and screws
What will this clanky contraption do?
The blue car rolled down the dusty road, coming to an abrupt stop in an empty lot. I jumped out and twirled around to face the camp. The sweet smell of pine trees circled around my head and I inhaled. The head counselor came out to meet me and showed me to my bunk.