Family

Table of Contents
Lexile®
measure
3
Isabel’s Idea 760L
5
Invention Number Three 660L
7
My Mom Hates to Cook 670L
9
Sweetened Condensed Milk 910L
11
Trout Are Swirling 670L
13
The Enemy 670L
15
Estrella Starring 680L
17
Gramma’s Favorite 830L
19
A Once-in-a-Lifetime Experience 660L
©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 978-1-62091-266-9
Isabel’s
Idea
By Deborah Ruddell
Art by Amy Wummer
“Isabel,” called Dad from the
kitchen, “can you help us with the
Shortie, please?”
Shortie! thought Isabel with a
shiver of embarrassment as she
trudged into the kitchen. What
other family has a nickname for
dessert? None! She was sure of it.
“Shortie,” you see, was short
for Strawberry Shortcake, the
dessert that Isabel, her parents,
and her younger brother had
been eating every night for
THREE YEARS! In most ways,
the Finches were a magnificent
family with lots of imagination.
But in the dessert area, they were
stuck in a red-and-white rut. Here
is how it all began. . . .
One carefree summer night,
three long years earlier, Mrs.
Finch had gone to the store and
returned with three things:
1. a package of six spongy yellow
cakes (little ones),
2. a squirt can of whipped cream,
and
3. a basket of ripe strawberries.
As you probably know, these
are the very things you need to
make the queen of all desserts:
Strawberry Shortcake.
When the rest of the family saw
what Mrs. Finch had bought, they
were filled with glee. Each person
squirted whirly swirls of whipped
cream on a little cake. On top of
that, they piled mounds of juicy
strawberries. Then, they finished
off each shortcake with a final
whipped-cream twirl, just for
looks.
For a few moments, the four
Finches stood back to admire the
The Finches
were stuck in
a dessert rut.
©Highlights for Children, Inc. This item is permitted to be used by a teacher or educator free of
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Highlights ® Fun with a Purpose ®
ISBN 978-1-62091-415-1
majesty of their snow-capped
strawberry mountains. Mrs. Finch
lit some candles, and they ate
every bite of the shortcakes in
complete silence. That’s how
delicious they were.
Slowly, things took a turn for
the worse.
After dinner the next evening,
they saw that they had plenty of
whipped cream and strawberries
left but only two of the little
cakes. So Mr. Finch ran out to the
store to buy another package.
By the third night, the Finches
had eaten all their strawberries,
but they still had four little cakes
and some whipped cream. What’s
a family supposed to do? Eat
Strawberry Shortcake without
strawberries? Not on your life!
So Mrs. Finch bought a new
basket of strawberries, and the
cycle kept going. No matter how
hard the Finches tried, they could
never use up all the strawberries,
whipped cream, and cake at the
same time. Night after night after
night, they ate Strawberry Shortcake. They could only dream
about Apple Crisp and Cherry
Pie and Pineapple Upside-Down
Cake and Lemon Fluff. Those
were desserts for other families.
Someday, Isabel thought, our
heads will probably turn into
giant strawberries.
Finally, they gave up. Strawberry Shortcake became the Finch
family’s official, never-ending
dessert. Making it every night
was a chore. After a while, it even
got its own nickname.
“What do we need for the
Shortie tonight?” Mr. Finch would
ask every morning as he was
leaving. Someone would call out
the answer, and Mr. Finch would
pick up that ingredient on his way
home from work. It was a good
system that had never failed the
Finches until . . .
“I sabel! Are you coming to help
with the Shortie?” said Mr. Finch
for the second time.
“I’m here, Dad,” said Isabel
wearily. (Three years of Shortie
had taken their toll.)
The Finches started their
routine of putting all the Shortie
“This shortcake situation
has got to end!”
ingredients onto the kitchen
counter, ready for the family
assembly line. But there had been
a mix-up! Instead of buying cakes
that day, Mr. Finch had picked up
strawberries by mistake. The four
Finches froze, staring at the
empty place on the counter where
the cakes were supposed to be.
“I’ll go to the store,” sighed Mrs.
Finch at last. She started for the
door.
“No, Mom!” exclaimed Isabel,
surprising everyone with her
confident tone. “This shortcake
situation has got to end! And I
think I know how to stop it.”
The room was silent. The other
three Finches looked at Isabel as
if she had just announced that she
was running for President of the
United States.
“How?” whispered her family in
unison.
“It’s easy, really,” said Isabel,
taking command. “We already
have strawberries and whipped
cream, right?”
“Right,” they agreed, with a
touch of uncertainty.
“Don’t you see?” cried Isabel.
“We’re halfway to Banana Splits!
There are only a few things we’ll
need—bananas, of course, and ice
cream, and maybe some chocolate
syrup and cherries!”
“Isabel, you’re brilliant!” Mrs.
Finch declared. “You’ve saved us
from a lifetime of Shortie!”
The four Finches hugged each
other and jumped up and down
with happiness. After three long
years, they were finally free.
Things were different after
that. The Finches treated Isabel
like a hero. They asked for her
advice when they had big
problems to solve. And of course,
they never ate Strawberry
Shortcake again.
Every night, Isabel smiled
proudly to herself when her dad
called the family into the kitchen.
“Come on, everybody,” he’d say,
“time to help with the Splitters!”
Invention
Number Three
By Jeanne DuPrau
Art by Gary Undercuffler
Ferguson Jones was planning to
be a famous inventor. He was not
famous yet, being only in the
fourth grade, but he was on his
way. Ferguson had just completed
his first invention.
“Mom,” he said, “my invention
is ready to be viewed. You can see
it, too, Willard,” he said to his
brother, who was busy trying to
fix the kitchen clock. “Step right
into my room.”
On a table in Ferguson’s bedroom was a contraption made of
wooden sticks, cardboard tubes,
and rubber bands. A red balloon
was tied to the top.
“What in the world . . . ?” said
Willard.
Ferguson held up a hand. “Just
watch,” he said. “This invention
works with chutes and levers.”
Ferguson unhooked one of
the rubber bands, which caused
a chute to tip, which sent a ball
rolling downward. The ball fell
onto a lever with a tack at the
other end. The tack leaped up and
pierced the balloon, which popped
with a loud noise.
Ferguson’s mother laughed.
“Very clever!” she said.
“But not very useful,” said
Willard. “If you want to pop a
“This invention works
with chutes and levers.”
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Highlights ® Fun with a Purpose ®
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balloon, why not just stick a pin
in it?”
Willard went back to the
kitchen to continue his useful job
of repairing the clock. He had the
larger clock parts spread out on
the table and the smaller parts
lined up neatly on the sill of the
open window.
Ferguson was sorry that his
brother didn’t appreciate his
invention. But he wasn’t discouraged. He knew that all famous
inventors were scoffed at early in
their careers. He got right to work
on Invention Number Two.
When it was finished, he called
in his mother and brother again.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said
Ferguson, “I present to you Invention Number Two, which works
with strings and wheels.”
Invention Number Two was a
network of strings that ran all the
way across Ferguson’s room.
“Watch this,” Ferguson said,
sitting down on his bed. He turned
a crank, which pulled a string,
which caused all the other strings
to move in a complicated way. On
the other side of the room, one of
Ferguson’s tennis shoes, hooked to
the end of the string, rose into the
air and traveled toward his bed.
Grinning, Ferguson reached up
and grabbed the sneaker.
His mother chuckled. “That’s
ingenious!” she said.
“Maybe so,” said Willard. “But
why not invent something useful?”
He turned around and went back
to the kitchen.
Ferguson tried to think of a
useful invention. But he soon
realized that what he liked best
about inventing things was the
invention itself—not what it was
able to do. He liked figuring out
what would happen if you pulled
on this and pushed on that, if you
tipped this one way and that the
other way, if you put a weight here
were railings in the way. Tricky,
but not too tricky for a soon-to-befamous inventor.
“OK,” said Ferguson. “It’s time
for Invention Number Three.”
It took about half an hour.
Invention Number Three combined some of the finest features of
Inventions One and Two.
The whole contraption lowered
a magnet right onto the tiny clock
part, picked it up, and swung it
back through the kitchen window
and into Ferguson’s hand.
Ferguson handed the clock part
to Willard.
“Well,” said Willard, “you
fi-nally invented something
useful.”
Ferguson looked at his mother
and smiled. She smiled back. They
both knew that Invention Number
Three would never have happened
without Invention Number One
and Invention Number Two.
“Why not
invent something useful?”
and a balance there. What the
invention actually did wasn’t
nearly as interesting.
Just then Ferguson heard a
startled yell from the kitchen. He
dashed in to see what had
happened. Willard and Mom were
standing by the open window. “I
just brushed it with my elbow,”
Willard was saying, “and it fell.”
“What fell?” asked Ferguson.
“A part of the clock. It’s way
down there on the steps of the fire
escape. I guess I could climb down
and get it. . . .”
“Oh no, you could not,” said
Mom. “Much too dangerous.”
Ferguson peered out the
window. “Where is it?” he asked.
“There,” said Willard, pointing.
Ferguson looked closely, then
saw it—a little wheel-like thing—
on the edge of a step. He did some
quick thinking. It wasn’t straight
down from the window. It was
downward and outward. And there
The clock part
had fallen onto
the fire escape
below.
My Mom
Hates to Cook
By Ann Harth
Art by Amy Wummer
M
y mom hates to cook. She’d
rather tinker with her motorcycle
or practice knot tying for rock
climbing. She also spends a lot of
time with me.
“Hi,
honey!”
Mom’s passion, after
me and her Harley,
is climbing.
Every morning Mom takes me
to school. I put on my purple
helmet and climb into The Beast.
(When I was born, Mom added a
sidecar to her radiant red Harley
Davidson.)
I don’t mind it except that I
can’t finish my homework on the
way to school like other kids can.
Also, I usually arrive looking like
I just stepped off a roller coaster.
Wind and purple helmets don’t
help the hair much.
Mom’s passion, after me and
her Harley, is climbing. I would
say “rock climbing,” but we don’t
have any large rocks or mountains
nearby. Mom has to improvise.
Occasionally I’ll come home to
find her scaling the side of the
house. “Hi, honey!” she’ll yell,
waving madly. My mom’s voice
really carries, especially when I’m
with a large group of kids.
I used to feel embarrassed that
my mom was so different. She’d
even try to blend in for my sake.
She stopped singing Beatles songs
and pretending to play the bass
while she waited for me after
school. She practiced her cartwheels in our backyard instead of
on the football field. Those were
little things, but I knew that she
was trying.
Now I’ve come to appreciate
Mom for who she is—and not just
because she’s a hero.
It all started with a cooking
project. Every student in Mrs.
Maitland’s home-economics class
was supposed to create an original
dish, then present it at school the
following Tuesday morning. I
We spent hours
in the kitchen.
©Highlights for Children, Inc. This item is permitted to be used by a teacher or educator free of
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Highlights ® Fun with a Purpose ®
ISBN 978-1-62091-417-5
begged Mom to help me. She gave
in, but not until I promised to help
her wax The Beast.
We spent hours in the kitchen.
We tried jelly-filled hot dogs and
noodleless lasagna, baked ham
with chocolate sauce, and hardboiled eggs rolled in coconut. We
eventually agreed on chocolate
cake with bright-green peppermint frosting. I was satisfied. It
beat hot dogs, anyway.
The big day came. Our parents
were supposed to bring our
culinary delights to the classroom
at eleven o’clock. As Mom dropped
me off that morning, I tied strings
around her fingers and made her
repeat, “I will not forget the cake.
I will not forget the cake.” I
watched her muttering it as she
chugged away.
After math, we all filed up to
the third floor. I looked around for
Mom. She wasn’t there.
Sammy Pingle’s father had
brought some sort of chicken dish.
Pamela Bean and her aunt had a
pitcher of liquid with lemons
floating in it. Janet Greely and
her mom proudly stood near an
enormous fruit salad topped with
little marshmallows. Where are
you, Mom? I wondered.
The minutes ticked by. More
grown-ups appeared, brandishing
more tasty dishes. Finally I heard
the distant roar of The Beast. I
raced to the window. I slumped.
Mom was empty-handed!
I met her at the door.
“You forgot it, didn’t you?”
Mom’s eyes opened wide.
“I’m sor—” She couldn’t finish
her apology; a clanging alarm cut
her off.
Mrs. Maitland yelled, “Fire!
This is not a drill! Everyone out of
the building!”
We all headed for the stairs.
We found out later that Misty
Branden’s older brother had been
heating oil for popcorn. He’d
started talking to Timothy
Smythe’s older sister and had
forgotten about the hot oil. When
Misty came to put caramel on her
popped corn, there were flames
leaping from the pan.
Everyone piled into the parking
lot. Smoke started to curl out of
one of the third-floor windows.
Mom held my hand tightly. I
forgot about my cake.
We heard a scream.
As Mrs. Maitland was taking
attendance, we heard a scream.
We looked up and saw Shannon
Patterson peering out the window
of the room next to the fire.
“Help!” she cried out. “I’m
trapped!”
Mom disappeared. She grabbed
her climbing gear from The Beast
and strode toward the building.
She scaled the huge pine tree
next to the school. At the top, she
started to throw her weight back
and forth. The tree swung toward
the window, and she hopped onto
the ledge and into the building.
Mom’s ropes flew as she
created a harness. She secured
one end, then lowered a shaky
Shannon safely to the ground.
“Release the harness!” she
yelled.
I found myself at the bottom of
the rope, remembering all the
knotting and unknotting lessons
I’d had. As soon as Shannon was
free, Mom pulled the rope up
quickly. She rappelled down the
side of the building while everyone cheered. As she reached the
ground, I heard her softly
humming “Yellow Submarine.” I
couldn’t stop grinning.
Who cares if my mom hates
to cook?
Sweetened
Condensed
Milk
By Vashanti Rahaman
Art by Larry Johnson
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.
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 downstairs 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?
©Highlights for Children, Inc. This item is permitted to be used by a teacher or educator free of
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Highlights ® Fun with a Purpose ®
ISBN 978-1-62091-420-5
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 sandf 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 Greatgrandma, 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
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 homesick 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 condensed milk, it
was easy for
Ishmael to
imagine that he
was back in
Trinidad.
Trout Are Swirling
By Jill Nogales
Art by Denny Bond
“Trout are swirling. Trout are
swirling!” Grandpa says.
I know what that means. The trout
in the brook behind the cabin are
hungry. They swim round and round
looking for food.
“Let’s go fishing!” Grandpa says.
Grandpa snatches his lucky fishing
cap and the tackle box from the back
porch. He lets me carry the fishing
poles. Someday I’m going to wear a
lucky fishing cap like Grandpa’s.
“Come on, trout are swirling!” he
says again.
To catch the swirling trout, Grandpa
says we must wash our hands with
mud. I like doing that. I wipe my
hands on my jeans, just like Grandpa.
Grandpa points to a deep pool of
water in the stream. “That’s where the
trout are swirling,” he whispers.
On tiptoe, we sneak up on the trout.
As we get closer to the stream, we
crawl on our hands and knees so the
trout can’t see us.
We cover our hooks with bait that
smells like cheese. It’s not really
cheese, but Grandpa says the trout
won’t know the difference.
Kerplunk. Kerplunk. We toss our
baited hooks into the stream and wait
for the swirling trout to bite.
My nose itches, but I don’t dare
scratch it—not when the trout are
swirling. I don’t move an inch. I don’t
©Highlights for Children, Inc. This item is permitted to be used by a teacher or educator free of
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Highlights ® Fun with a Purpose ®
ISBN 978-1-62091-424-3
say a word. It might scare the trout.
Grandpa watches the
tip of his fishing pole. I watch
the tip of my pole, too. I wonder if
the trout are swirling around our bait.
The tip of my pole jiggles just a little.
Maybe a swirling trout is nibbling at
the bait. I hold my pole very still and
hope the trout takes a big bite.
We wait for
the fish to bite.
Then my pole jerks down. The trout
is on my hook! It tugs hard at my
fishing line, but I won’t let go of my
pole—not with a big trout on the other
end. I grip the pole tightly and reel the
trout to shore.
Grandpa scoops the trout into a net
before it can flip-flop away.
He measures it with a tape measure.
“It’s a fourteen-incher!” Grandpa
whispers.
I’m so excited that I almost forget
to be quiet. But I don’t make a sound
because Grandpa is already watching
the tip of his pole again, waiting for
a swirling trout to nibble his bait.
We wait and wait, but Grandpa
doesn’t get a nibble. I pick up my trout,
and we head back to the house.
Grandpa looks at me and grins.
“Anyone who catches a trout like that
doesn’t need a lucky cap,” he says,
laughing. I hope he’s right, but I still
want to wear a lucky cap someday,
just like his. Grandpa sure knows a lot
about swirling trout.
A scrawny boy
burst from the
pile.
The
Enemy
By Sandra E. McBride
Art by Wayne Alfano
Granny and I watched from the
“I’ve seen all the Britishers,
front door of our cabin as the last
Brunswickers, and Hessians I ever
of the camp followers trudged past.
want to see,” he grumbled.
They were a sad and weary lot—
David had joined the militia
women with babies on their hips,
when he heard that an invading
and ragged children no older than
army led by British General John
me prodding cows and
Burgoyne was coming
sheep along the muddy
our way.
The defeated
road. The defeated
David was with the
British and
British and German
German soldiers American army when
soldiers had already
they made a stand at
had already
marched downriver.
Bemis Heights, just
marched
My brother, David,
north of our village. As
downriver.
refused to watch them
his company stormed an
pass by. He lay on a
enemy stronghold eleven
pallet before the fire, the stump of
days ago, his leg was shattered.
his right leg bound in bandages.
Surgeons had to cut it off.
©Highlights for Children, Inc. This item is permitted to be used by a teacher or educator free of
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Highlights ® Fun with a Purpose ®
ISBN 978-1-62091-396-3
When the American army
surrounded the general, Burgoyne
finally surrendered. David was
proud of the great victory, but
I knew he worried about how he
would take care of Granny and me
now that he had only one leg.
It was growing dark. I lit the
candles and put the checkerboard
on the floor in front of David. We
played checkers every night.
“Sarah, go feed the cow and
bring in some firewood,” Granny
said.
“We’ll play after supper,” I told
David.
I pulled my woolen shawl tight
around my shoulders and walked
to the stable. The cow was curled
in her stall chewing her cud. I took
down the pitchfork from the peg
and thrust its points into the pile
of hay in the corner stall.
“Halten!”
A scrawny boy burst from the
pile, his fists clenched. I pointed
the pitchfork at him and stood my
ground.
“Who are you? What are you
doing here?” I demanded.
He lowered his fists. “Please, I
can march no farther,” he said in
halting English. “Let me rest here
tonight, and I will go on in the
morning.”
“You were traveling with the
army?”
The boy nodded. “Papa was a
Hessian soldier. He was killed by
your rebels, ten days past.”
“Your mama?”
“Dead also. There is much
disease in the camps.”
“You have no family?”
He shook his head.
“My name is Sarah,” I said,
tossing hay into the cow’s manger.
I leaned the pitchfork against the
wall.
“I am Wilhelm.”
“By morning, Wilhelm, the
army and its followers will be
friendship to anyone who needed
gone. They are crossing the river
it. Wilhelm was our enemy, but
tonight, going on to Boston.”
he sure did need a friend. What
Wilhelm hefted a dirty blanket
would David say when I brought a
roll onto his shoulders. “Then I
Hessian boy into our cabin? David
must go.”
had nearly died fighting to protect
He was barefoot. “How are you
our home from the British and
going to walk all the
their German allies.
way to Boston with no
“Granny is fixing
“My brother may
shoes?” I asked.
supper.
You must eat
not take kindly
“I marched from
before you go on your
to you being here,”
Canada with no shoes. I
way,” I said.
I said.
do not need shoes to get
“Danke,” said
to Boston. Hessian men
Wilhelm.
can do anything.”
“My brother was badly wounded
Hessian men? Wilhelm could
in the battle that took your father,”
not have been more than eight
I told him. “He may not take kindly
years old. My parents had both
to you being here.”
died before I was eight, but
I gathered an armload of
Granny and David took care of me.
firewood from the woodshed.
Who would care for Wilhelm?
Wilhelm slung his blanket roll
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
behind his back and picked up
Wilhelm nodded. “Ja.”
two logs.
Granny always said that
I opened the door. Wilhelm
we should offer the hand of
followed me inside. We piled the
David glared
at the boy.
This story is fictional,
but the historical details
are true. On October 17,
1777, British General John
Burgoyne and his troops
surrendered to General
Horatio Gates and the
American army after the
Second Battle of Saratoga,
which began at Bemis
Heights in New York. This
marked a turning point in
the American Revolution.
firewood on the stone hearth.
“Granny, David,” I said, “this is
Wilhelm. He has no family. May
he stay for supper?”
David shifted on the pallet and
glared at the boy.
“His papa was a Hessian soldier,”
I said. “He died in the battle.”
“The battle is over,” Granny
said. She put another plate on the
table.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said,
helping David up. “We could use
an extra hand while you’re laid up.
Wilhelm tells me Hessian men can
do anything. Can he stay?”
David scowled at Wilhelm. I
held my breath. Was he going
to send the boy out into the cold
night?
“Wilhelm,” he said finally, “can
you drive an ox team?”
“Ja,” said Wilhelm.
“Can you split wood?”
“Ja.”
“Can you play checkers better
than my sister can?”
Wilhelm’s blue eyes twinkled.
“Ja!” he said.
David smiled. “He can stay.”
Estrella
Starring
By Diana Conway
Art by Dennis McDermott
O
ur 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
“Bad hair
day?”
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.
I don’t feel like
part of this
family.
©Highlights for Children, Inc. This item is permitted to be used by a teacher or educator free of
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Highlights ® Fun with a Purpose ®
ISBN 978-1-62091-421-2
“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
Photos by
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.
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.
“Go
ahead
and tell
her.”
O
n 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
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.
Gramma’s
Favorite
By Lois Fuller Lewis
Art by Susan Spellman
I like staying overnight at my
Gramma Ruiz’s house—that is,
until Gramma starts telling me
how wonderful my cousin Maya
is. Then it’s Maya this and Maya
that until I don’t ever want to hear
another word about her.
That’s why I wasn’t too excited
when Gramma called me on the
phone to “come on over and bring
your pj’s.” When I got there, it was
worse than I’d expected. There, in
Grandpa’s big leather rocker, sat
Maya, all dressed up and formallooking and wearing fancy shoes
as if she’d just been to a party.
“Surprise, Kristen!” Gramma
Ruiz said. “Your cousin Maya and
her parents have traveled in from
the East Coast on business. Maya
gets to visit with us this afternoon
while your Aunt Marcy and Uncle
Victor go to a meeting downtown.”
Maya was squinting at me
while Gramma chattered away
about how excited she’d been for
this surprise get-together, and
how cousins ought to get to know
each other better, and how Maya’s
parents wouldn’t be back till five
o’clock to pick her up.
I hung my baseball cap in the
closet and set my backpack by
the stairway, all the time smiling
and nodding as if I’d been waiting
forever for this chance to spend an
afternoon with Maya.
Grandpa’s chair squawked as
Maya rocked back and forth. It’s
the chair I like best in the house,
the one I usually sit in. I sat down
I couldn’t
remember what
it was I didn’t
like about her.
on the sofa across from her.
Shortly, Gramma went off to
the kitchen to “see about some
lunch,” she’d said. That left me
stuck in the living room with
rocking Maya.
She was still petite, but taller
than I’d remembered her from
her last visit four years ago, and
she looked sort of pinched in the
face. She was good at small talk,
though, and was chirping away
about how nice it was to see me
again. But I could tell that she
didn’t really think so. She looked
about as happy to see me as if I’d
been a skunk crossing her path.
We sat there awhile chitchatting. I couldn’t remember
what it was I didn’t like about
her. The last time she was here,
we’d had hours of fun together
building caves out of Gramma’s
©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 978-1-62091-422-9
sofa pillows.
After that, I’d heard about her
only through Gramma’s tales.
Maya taking piano lessons. Maya
learning baton. Maya, Maya,
Maya. Now Maya was here, looking great with the latest haircut
and a sophisticated dress.
I glanced down at my jeans and
my grubby sneakers. I wished I
hadn’t come. It was bad enough
that she was Gramma’s favorite—
smarter, tinier, and more talented
than I was—but sophisticated,
too? This was too much.
Maya’s words crashed through
my thoughts. “I hear you like
to skate,” she was saying. I was
surprised. I wondered how she
knew about my skating.
“I hear you take piano lessons,”
I countered. A funny look crossed
her face, and she nodded.
“I hear you were captain of your
softball team,” she said.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “How do
you know all of this?”
Maya shrugged and looked
down. “I hear about you all the
time from Gramma’s letters.
You’re her favorite person to write
about.”
I couldn’t believe it. Then I
looked at Maya’s face. Could she
be jealous? Of me? The only thing
I could think of to say was, “You
marched in the Memorial Day
parade with your baton unit,
didn’t you?”
Maya looked up. “How do you
know all these things about me?”
“Gramma tells me about you all
the time, too!” I said. “I even know
that you wear a size-three shoe!”
Maya laughed, then slipped
off her shoes and sat cross-legged
“Isn’t Maya
a lovely
child!”
in the rocker. She smoothed her
dress over her legs. “My mom
made me wear this today so that
Gramma could see the dress I
wore in the piano recital last
month. Usually I wear jeans and
sneakers.”
“It’s a beautiful dress,” I told
her truthfully. “Do you think
you’d ruin it if . . . ?” Then I
chuckled and said, “Well, I guess
we’re too old to make caves out of
the sofa pillows.”
Maya laughed. “That was fun,
wasn’t it?” she said. “I have my
jump rope with me. We could do
that after lunch if you want.”
Maya and I taught each other
all the jump-rope songs we knew.
Gramma helped twirl the rope
and even taught us a few jumprope rhymes that she had sung
as a girl.
Five o’clock came too soon.
While Maya’s parents were in the
kitchen talking to Gramma, Maya
and I promised to write to each
other. She also promised to ask
her parents to let her come back
in the summer for a week-long
vacation with me at Gramma’s.
As Maya and her parents drove
off in their rental car, Gramma
and I stood on the front porch and
waved good-bye until they were
out of sight. “Isn’t Maya a lovely
child!” Gramma said.
“She’s really nice,” I agreed.
“Did you know that she got all
A’s on her report card last grading
period?” Gramma asked as we
went back into the house.
I smiled, knowing now that
Gramma had two favorites. “No,
Maya forgot to tell me that,” I
answered.
A Once-in-a-Lifetime
Experience
By Sandra Beswetherick
Art by David Leonard
I
t was my idea to invite
Derrick, the new kid in our
neighborhood, on our annual
father-and-son weekend trip.
Derrick had never been camping
or fishing.
“Great idea!” Dad said. “It’ll be
a once-in-a-lifetime experience for
him, one he’ll never forget.”
Dad and I didn’t realize how
true that would turn out to be.
The car blew a tire on the
way to our campsite. Not an
impressive start.
“A minor setback, that’s all,”
Dad said as Derrick and I tumbled
out of the car to help.
It was dark by the time we
reached the campsite, got the boat
into the water, and set up the
tent. There was a
stiff, icy breeze
blowing off the lake.
Derrick shivered
as he examined the
sky. “That isn’t
snow, is it?”
“Snow?” I said.
“It never snows in
March!” Dad protested.
But those big flakes fell fast
and heavy, blanketing the ground.
I burst out laughing. Derrick
grinned. But Dad was horrified.
He hustled us into the tent so we
wouldn’t catch pneumonia or
something. But first he made sure
we didn’t track any snow into the
tent with us.
“We need to keep the floor dry,”
Dad insisted. “There’s nothing
worse than sleeping in wet
sleeping bags.”
He passed out sandwiches after
we settled in. “Minor setback,” he
assured Derrick. “The snow
should be gone tomorrow.” Dad
reached for the large bottle of cola
to pour us each a drink.
Maybe the cola
was warm, or maybe
it had been jostled
too much, because
when Dad opened
it, that bottle
erupted like
Mount Vesuvius.
Cola overflowed
like lava. Dad
dropped the bottle. It
rolled across the tent floor
spewing its contents, and we ended
up perched on our sleeping bags
like castaways adrift
in a cola sea.
Derrick clapped
both hands over his
mouth. His face
turned red, and his
cheeks ballooned out
as if he were about
to explode, too.
From behind his hands came the
snuffling and snorting of trapped
laughter.
I tried to keep a straight face,
out of respect for Dad—not just
because he’d insisted that we
keep the tent floor dry, but
because he’d wanted this trip to
be perfect.
“Minor setback,” Dad muttered
as we soaked up cola with our
towels.
The next morning
dawned bright and
Derrick had
never been
camping or
fishing.
©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 978-1-62091-413-7
“You
guys,
bail!”
beautiful, much to Dad’s relief.
Derrick stood at the water’s edge,
admiring the clear still lake, the
tree-lined shore, and the cloudless
sky.
“Wait until you catch your first
fish, Derrick,” Dad said as he
“It never
snows in
March!”
got the boat ready. “That’s an
experience you won’t forget.” Dad
turned to me. “Right, Steve?”
“Right, Dad,” I answered.
“And wait until you taste some
fried, freshly caught fish for
breakfast,” Dad said. “Right,
Steve?”
“Right, Dad,” I said, although I
thought Dad was trying a little
too hard.
But Derrick didn’t catch his
first fish. In fact, none of us felt
even a nibble on our lines. This
wasn’t a minor setback for Dad.
This was a major disaster.
The silence grew. The still air
settled hot and heavy.
I leaned over the side of the
boat. “Fishy,” I sang into the
depths of the lake. “Come on,
I know you’re down there.” It sure
beat sitting around in silence. And
we weren’t catching any fish
anyway.
Derrick joined in. “Fishy,” he
crooned, looking down into the
water. “Here, fish, fish.” When he
turned back to me, his eyes were
bulged, his mouth was puckered,
and he was gulping down air the
way a fish gulps water. The
perfect fish-face!
I let out a whoop and made a
fish-face of my own, my open
hands on either side of my head
for gills. “Fishy!”
Derrick and I turned our
fish-faces toward Dad. There
sat Dad with the goggled eyes
and downturned frown of his
favorite fish, the largemouth
bass. “Fishy, fishy, bite my
hook,” he chanted in a throaty
voice, “so I can take you home
to cook.”
Derrick hooted with
laughter and fell into the
bottom of the boat. Dad’s bass
frown upturned into a grin.
Lucky that Dad’s mood
improved when it did, because it
was about then that the boat
started sinking.
“Mr. Adams,” Derrick asked,
“should there be this much water
in your boat?”
“Holy mackerel!” Dad yelled.
He reached for the motor. “You
guys, bail!”
We barely reached shore, the
boat sloshing with water.
That night, as we sat around
the campfire toasting marshmallows, Derrick admitted
he’d been worried about
coming on the trip. “But it’s
been incredible,” he said.
“I’ll never forget it.
Thanks for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome,” said
Dad. “We’re glad you
came.”
“I wonder what will
happen next?” Derrick asked,
putting another marshmallow on
his stick.
“Yeah,” I said. “I wonder.”
As for Dad, he smiled a brave
smile.
“I wonder
what will
happen next?”