by Katherine Grace Bond

At last, Princess Hyacinth emerged from her tower. Her hair was a dark waterfall down her back. The birds sang. The forest creatures gathered around her. “We will not let the evil queen harm you,” they said.

“Jenna, now!” Brea plants a basketball in my lap.

“It's your turn,” Morgan says, pulling me to my feet. I almost drop my journal through the bleachers.

I don't know why I let my friends talk me into this. I stank at soccer; I was a disaster at volleyball.

“Basketball's the perfect sport for you,” Brea insists.

“You're tall,” Morgan says.

“Statuesque,” Brea corrects.

Gigantic, I think.

The only thing I'm good at is writing. Today, Mrs. Simonds announces the members of Scribe Squad. Only the best writers in the school get accepted. I just know that I'm going to finish my novel, find an agent and see my book in stores next year.

Mr. Tennis calls me. (Yes, that's really my gym teacher's name.)

“Go, Jenna, go!” Brea and Morgan chant.

Princess Hyacinth needed to complete one more impossible task for the evil queen.

I feel stupid dribbling the ball.

“Show us a little shooting,” Mr. Tennis says.

I've made only three baskets in my entire life.

“You can do it, Jenna!” Morgan shouts.

The princess leapt up, tossing the orange orb high above the ruby circlet. The orb descended. Princess Hyacinth descended, her hair flowing, her feet-

Crash! The ball bounces off the rim. I come down hard. My ankle twists under me. It feels like it's exploded.

“Jenna!” Mr. Tennis is at my side. “Don't move!”

I'm screaming so loudly that I can hardly hear him.

Broken Dreams

If the tower had been terrible, the dungeon was worse. Princess Hyacinth tried to move her legs, but she couldn't because of the heavy chains with which the evil queen had imprisoned her.

I am . . . so . . . stupid, I think.

“What are you in for?” the girl in the next hospital bed asks, interrupting my thoughts. She's about my age, with a round face and dark eyes.

“Being a klutz,” I say.

“Interesting,” the girl says. “I didn't know there was surgery for that.” She props herself up on an elbow. “I have a hole in my heart; I've been here since I was born.”

“Since you were born?”

She rolls onto her back. “On and off. Just got out of Intensive Care yesterday. I'm better now. I'm Charisa. You?”

“Jenna.”

“Jen-na,” she tries out my name. “I like that. What's in the notebook?”

“It's speculative fiction.”

“Specu-what?”

“It's a fantasy. A novel. I'm going to publish it. I'm on the Scribe Squad at school.”

I think it's OK to say this, even though I haven't gotten the “official” word yet.

“Oh,” Charisa says. “I don't read.”

“You don't? I mean-what else can you do in a place like this?”

“I mean I can't read. Never learned.”

She doesn't even seem embarrassed.

“How come you never learned?”

“Reading stimulates gamma waves in my brain. I get seizures.”

“Seizures?”

“Yeah. You know-” She stiffens her arms and makes a Frankenstein face. “Like that. Only I guess I thrash around, too. If the TV's on it's worse. Something about the light flickering.”

Mom comes in. “Hey, Jenna-girl.” She kisses my forehead. “I brought your favorite.”

Mom unveils a plate of chocolate-chip brownies. “Nurse Lee said you can party with your roommate.”

“Yay!” Charisa calls.

“I've gotta run, Babe. Tony's at karate.”

Mom kisses me again.

“Oh, and here. Morgan and Brea gathered up your school stuff.”

She sets a packet of papers on my stomach and waves goodbye.

“She's a good hospital mom.” Charisa bites a brownie. “Most of the first-timers freak out on day one.”

My ankle hurts. I wonder if the surgery is going to make it better or worse. Charisa rummages in her drawer and pulls out a sketchbook.

“I'm going to draw Jesus,” she announces.

“Really?” For some reason this makes me feel good. My family usually doesn't think much about church. Charisa sketches an oval for a face.

I sort through my school papers. Here it is-my acceptance into Scribe Squad! The sheet has ten names. I read it twice. Mine isn't there.

This must be a mistake! I turn over the paper and find a note from Mrs. Simonds:

Jenna, We had a lot of applicants; it was a tough choice. I liked your writing sample. Please try again next year.

Charisa is drawing Jesus' beard. I don't want to cry in front of her. My ankle throbs to the rhythm of my pulse. Loser. Loser. Loser.

Shattered Hopes

Princess Hyacinth gazed through the bars of her stupid prison cell in the stupid evil queen's stupid castle. The birds were hopeless. The forest creatures could not save her. Her hair was a mess. “I'll just stay here and rot,” she said.

Nurse Lee says I'm not supposed to eat or drink before my surgery. My ankle is killing me. Brea and Morgan are staying away. Even Mom isn't here. She probably loves Tony more than me.

“Hey, Jenna-girl,” Charisa says.

“You sound like my mom.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Worthless,” I say.

“You think people are worthless?”

“No, I think I'm worthless.”

“Aren't you a people?”

“Um.”

“Haven't you heard Genesis? I've got it on tape. God makes people and says, 'Very good!' You can't argue with that.”

Nurse Lee brings in Charisa's breakfast.

“Oatmeal,” Charisa says. “Really, Jenna, you're not missing much.”

I look at the clock. I hope Mom gets here soon. Are they going to give me shots before the surgery? What about that bag-on-a-pole thing where they poke the tube into your arm?

“Nervous?” Charisa says.

“No.”

“I'm always nervous,” she says. “But I could die. You're not gonna die.”

I'm a little annoyed. It's not like I can top that. Then I'm ashamed of myself.

“Is that scary? Thinking you might die?”

Charisa is quiet a moment. “No. I'm not actually scared of that. It's been with me so long it's normal. And I'd be with Jesus, you know? It's hard on my parents, though.” I don't know.

“Hey,” she says. “Don't look so flipped out. Read to me, OK? Read me that speculative thing.”

Charisa takes a spoonful of oatmeal.

“Yuck, this really is terrible.”

“So's my book,” I say. “It's terrible.”

“Read it anyway,” she says. “Please?” She bats her eyes. “I'm a poor, sick girl.”

I laugh and start to read.

“Your evil queen sounds a lot like you,” Charisa says after hearing several minutes of my story.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Nobody's as tough on you as you are, Jenna.”

My ankle begins to throb. I move, and my elbow hits the TV remote. The television comes on full blast. Fifteen flavors of soda flicker across the screen as the remote falls on the floor.

Suddenly, Charisa goes rigid; her eyes stare straight ahead. Her body jerks. This is the real thing.

The nurse call button is on the remote. My ankle hurts too much to move.

“Help!” I holler and a nurse runs to Charisa.

“Turn off the TV!”

Just then, my mom rushes in with Nurse Lee. “Time to go, Jenna.”

They wheel me out of the room before I can see what's happened to Charisa.

Picture of Love

I'm home for two boring weeks after surgery. Brea and Morgan come over and give me a basketball autographed by Mr. Tennis and the entire team. “Now that you've got a sports injury, you're a real athlete,” Morgan says.

I don't feel like anything but a real failure. Every morning I hobble into the bathroom and look at my pathetic face in the mirror. I'm not a volleyball player, I'm not a basketball player-I'm not even a writer, and I always thought I was. There's no point in finishing my novel. It's worthless, and so am I.

Sometimes at night I think of Charisa, even though I try not to. Did I make her have a seizure? Is she OK? When I tried to ask Nurse Lee right after my surgery, she just said, “She's been moved,” and that it was “confidential patient information.” She smiled, though, and said, “Thanks for asking.”

One morning a big envelope comes in the mail. I tear it open. It's Charisa's Jesus. He's so good. He looks at me with kind eyes. A note falls out.

Jenna, I found you!!! See? I can rite a littel. What hapens to the prinsess? Come see me. Luv, Charisa

All day long Charisa's Jesus watches me from the wall where I had taped him up. He seems to be saying, “I don't think people are worthless. And you look like a people to Me.”

Finally, I start to write.

The evil queen pointed at Princess Hyacinth. “Stupid, worthless girl,” she cried.

The princess rose slowly to her feet. “The True Ruler does not say that.”

“I am the true ruler,” spat the queen.

“No,” the princess said, “the True Ruler is the King of Love.”

“Wow!” Charisa says when I visit her in the hospital the next day. She hasn't stopped grinning since I started reading the story. “You're really good, Jenna.” She leans back on her pillows.

Charisa says she's feeling healthy today, but I know she can't play volleyball or basketball. She can't write a novel or even read one. And I know something else about her.

“You're really good, too, Charisa,” I say. “You're good at drawing, but you're also just . . . really good.”

“Yeah?” Charisa says. “That's because Jesus is good.

	Q: What kind of phone does a turtle use? A: A shell-ular phone. Andy B., 10, Wisconsin Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe