Lost Friendship
Whenever I see Joanne, I always notice the red scar on her beautiful long legs. Although it was just a small scar, it seemed so noticeable on her feminine and beautiful legs. Joanne is the...
Issue: <span>May/June 2002</span>
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Whenever I see Joanne, I always notice the red scar on her beautiful long legs. Although it was just a small scar, it seemed so noticeable on her feminine and beautiful legs. Joanne is the prettiest girl in my class. She has deep chestnut hair that she can flick about her face and shining crystal eyes glittering behind her little spectacles. We had been the best of friends, until one day . . .
Do you think that it's possible to love someone you have never met? Is it possible to love someone who lived and died before you were even born? Cécile Cosqueric, a sixteen-year-old girl living in Paris, France in 1919 is whom I'm talking about. I believe her life was meant to touch mine. I am a twelve-year-old American girl, living in Atlanta, Georgia in the year 2002.
Behind your vacant stare,
Memories lie hidden,
Faltering and fleeting
The distant remembered,
The present, unrecallable.
Never afraid before
Shadows of freshly plastered seams
On my living room wall,
Now haunt you, transporting you
Back to the barbed-wire camps.
So vividly you recall
Your Nazi captors,
And your escape
Yet, it is my name that
Escapes you now.
Daddy had said today would be our special day together. We would have gone to the movies and had pizza, but no, he was off rescuing yet another animal from its abusive owners. Couldn't he have waited until tomorrow?
I walked outside and sat on the porch. I guess he couldn't have waited. The poor animal was probably in terrible condition, judging by the rest of the animals Daddy and I had rescued.
I was playing with them, actually playing with them. They were just like Dad's rug, but my size, and alive! I cuddled in their soft black fur. Their padded leather paws threw me and I fell, laughing. We rolled into each other and onto each other. And their big round eyes looked at me, comfortingly. They felt the same way towards me as I felt towards them.
"Brandon! Brandon, can you weed the flower bed in the front yard?" Mom called from the kitchen.
I let out a groan. "Aw, Mom, please don't make me! I had to go with Dad to the store in that stupid backfiring car. Can't I rest a little?"
"But it looks sloppy, and Mrs. Kelly is coming over for coffee and a chat this evening," my mom pleaded.
"Can't Chris?" I asked in my most faked tired voice.
Jiraporn looked up. Mother was approaching, shaking her head. "Bad news, Little Mango Tree. I talked to Bouchar. He says we lose the house unless we pay the remaining mortgage in one month."
"But so much money!" Jiraporn protested, hugging herself. "We can't harvest enough rice to pay that, let alone feed ourselves and the spirits."
Mother nodded dismally, and sat down next to Jiraporn.
When my mother died the summer I graduated seventh grade, the first thing I did after silently returning home from her funeral with my father was dig through my trash bin in search of a previously ignored leaflet distributed by our local Parks and Recreation. I then signed myself up for every class, workshop and camp they had listed.
One Eye Laughing, the Other Weeping: The Diary of Julie Weiss
by Barry Denenberg; Scholastic, Inc.: New York, 2000; $12.95
When someone says the word "Jewish" do you feel a sudden rush of hate, a thrill of fear, or does it even stand out enough that it makes you feel anything at all? For Julie Weiss, a Jewish girl who is about twelve years of age, that word means fear and confusion.