Grade 5 Star Writers Winner
Ellie Jeffers '15
I pedaled as fast as I could, trying to get home to my eight-year-old sister. I bumped over a pothole, and cringed, hoping I hadn’t broken the eggs. In my bike basket, I had just the essentials; apples, bread, milk, eggs, and peanut butter. Thank goodness we actually had a fridge. I pulled into our ‘driveway’ - really just a sidewalk - and ran into the house just before my sister, Jennifer, came into the kitchen. I smiled at her and pulled the groceries out of their bags, putting the majority of them into the fridge.
Jennifer sat down on the stool and waited patiently while I made peanut butter sandwiches for us. She devoured hers almost instantly and ran into the other room to get her chalk. Jennifer wanted to be an artist one day, so I had bought her the chalk as a present.
If you’re wondering where our parents are, don’t. They both died a few months ago. Even though Jen and I were born in America, we moved to Guatemala with our parents when I was five and Jen was one. Jennifer and I kept our rundown little house in Guatemala City after our parents died. We keep a little garden in our backyard. We grow carrots, peppers, and lettuce. Jennifer and I keep to ourselves and try not to make any friends. It’s not like we have a choice. If anyone knew Jennifer and I didn’t have a guardian, they would send us to the local orphanage. I don’t want Jennifer to grow up in a place where they force the kids to slave away in a garden for hours each day. So I sell most of the vegetables and buy anything we need at the market.
Jennifer called, “Hey, Bella, look what I drew!” She points to a sidewalk square, where she had drawn a full-color picture of our house. It’s so much like the real thing I have to go outside and compare the two. When I’ve determined that she’s gotten every single detail, she trots over and beams up at me. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s amazing,” I say, and I really do mean it. She’s gotten the likeness of it so perfectly, it’s easy to imagine her as an artist someday. I call her inside for lunch, which consists of peanut butter sandwiches, an apple, and a glass of milk. After she eats, we play hide-and-seek in the basement of our house. She always hides in the tiniest little nooks that I can never find. When I hide, I actually do try, but she finds me every single time within two minutes. Finally I give up, and she draws on the walls of our room, which I do permit her to do, with her chalk.
When she’s done, she calls me in, and I see that this time, she’s drawn a dog. He’s beautiful, with brown, white, and black fur. He looks like a King Charles spaniel, which I only know the name of because we have a dog encyclopedia in our basement that I’ve read four times. “Wow, Jen,” I say, amazed. “How did you draw such a good picture?”
Jennifer points out of the window. I look out, confused, and then a large furry animal enters my vision. The dog seems to be jumping up to see inside the house. I open the window and lift him in. “He looks like a stray,” I say to Jennifer, who I can tell is about to ask if we can keep him. She does end up asking, and I sigh. “Jen, it’s a lot of hard work,” I say, looking her straight in the eye. There’s no point in sugarcoating it. Jen jumps up and down. “I’ll do it! I’ll feed him and walk him every day! Please?” she begs. I relent, and she cheers, petting the puppy. “What do we name him?” she asks. Jennifer and I puzzle over this for twenty minutes before we finally agree on Kingston, since we’ve always been fond of Jamaica. I go into the kitchen to make a salad for dinner, and Kingston follows me. “I can already tell that you’re a troublemaker,” I say, looking down at him. He wags his tail and eats his food, which is basically just a piece of bread with carrots on it.
The next day when I go to the market, I buy some chicken, some paper and crayons as a treat for Jen’s birthday tomorrow, some colored rope, and a few other things. When I get home, I hide the crayons, put the chicken and other things in the fridge, and set the rope on the counter. When Jen comes in, she immediately asks, “What’s the rope for?”
I smile and reply, “Just wait and see.” I deftly braid three strands of rope, tying it so the size is adjustable. When I’m done, I add on a plastic loop. With every step, Jen looks more and more confused. Next, I braid three longer pieces of rope and attach a loop to one end and a clip to the other. When I’m done, I slide the first contraption over Kingston’s head and clip the other one onto it.
“Tada!” I say proudly, smiling. Jen’s face lights up as she understands. A collar and leash!” she says.
I nod and she races outside, holding onto the loop end of the leash. She runs down the yard and ties Kingston’s leash to a tree as she draws on the sidewalk. I smile. With Jen out of the way, I can finally start. I pull cake ingredients out of the fridge. I had found a cookbook in the basement and I was eager to try to make a cake for Jen’s birthday. I mixed in all the ingredients and poured it into a cake mold before setting it in the oven and baking it.
An hour later, Jen is still drawing and the cake is done. I pull it out of the oven and frost it with a picture of a dog’s head on it. When I’m done, I put it in the fridge. Jen isn’t allowed to look in without my permission. In the basement, I had also found some wrapping paper, a box, some ribbon and scissors. I put the pad of paper and crayons into the box and wrap it up before tying ribbon around the whole thing. Then I hide it under my bed.
The next day, I’m up with the sun and making pancakes for Jen’s birthday brunch. Jen comes dashing in with Kingston just as I deftly slide the pancakes onto a plate. She gasps in surprise and eats about ten pancakes before I tell her to go play for a little bit. I say, “If you want, I can take you and Kingston to the park in a little bit.” Jen nods and Kingston barks in agreement.
For dinner, I make Jen a special birthday dinner. After I serve the cake, she goes to bed. I grin and pull out a check. In the basement, I had sold a whole bunch of furniture, and earned enough money to get a new house. I felt hopeful for the first time since my parents had died.
Jennifer sat down on the stool and waited patiently while I made peanut butter sandwiches for us. She devoured hers almost instantly and ran into the other room to get her chalk. Jennifer wanted to be an artist one day, so I had bought her the chalk as a present.
If you’re wondering where our parents are, don’t. They both died a few months ago. Even though Jen and I were born in America, we moved to Guatemala with our parents when I was five and Jen was one. Jennifer and I kept our rundown little house in Guatemala City after our parents died. We keep a little garden in our backyard. We grow carrots, peppers, and lettuce. Jennifer and I keep to ourselves and try not to make any friends. It’s not like we have a choice. If anyone knew Jennifer and I didn’t have a guardian, they would send us to the local orphanage. I don’t want Jennifer to grow up in a place where they force the kids to slave away in a garden for hours each day. So I sell most of the vegetables and buy anything we need at the market.
Jennifer called, “Hey, Bella, look what I drew!” She points to a sidewalk square, where she had drawn a full-color picture of our house. It’s so much like the real thing I have to go outside and compare the two. When I’ve determined that she’s gotten every single detail, she trots over and beams up at me. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s amazing,” I say, and I really do mean it. She’s gotten the likeness of it so perfectly, it’s easy to imagine her as an artist someday. I call her inside for lunch, which consists of peanut butter sandwiches, an apple, and a glass of milk. After she eats, we play hide-and-seek in the basement of our house. She always hides in the tiniest little nooks that I can never find. When I hide, I actually do try, but she finds me every single time within two minutes. Finally I give up, and she draws on the walls of our room, which I do permit her to do, with her chalk.
When she’s done, she calls me in, and I see that this time, she’s drawn a dog. He’s beautiful, with brown, white, and black fur. He looks like a King Charles spaniel, which I only know the name of because we have a dog encyclopedia in our basement that I’ve read four times. “Wow, Jen,” I say, amazed. “How did you draw such a good picture?”
Jennifer points out of the window. I look out, confused, and then a large furry animal enters my vision. The dog seems to be jumping up to see inside the house. I open the window and lift him in. “He looks like a stray,” I say to Jennifer, who I can tell is about to ask if we can keep him. She does end up asking, and I sigh. “Jen, it’s a lot of hard work,” I say, looking her straight in the eye. There’s no point in sugarcoating it. Jen jumps up and down. “I’ll do it! I’ll feed him and walk him every day! Please?” she begs. I relent, and she cheers, petting the puppy. “What do we name him?” she asks. Jennifer and I puzzle over this for twenty minutes before we finally agree on Kingston, since we’ve always been fond of Jamaica. I go into the kitchen to make a salad for dinner, and Kingston follows me. “I can already tell that you’re a troublemaker,” I say, looking down at him. He wags his tail and eats his food, which is basically just a piece of bread with carrots on it.
The next day when I go to the market, I buy some chicken, some paper and crayons as a treat for Jen’s birthday tomorrow, some colored rope, and a few other things. When I get home, I hide the crayons, put the chicken and other things in the fridge, and set the rope on the counter. When Jen comes in, she immediately asks, “What’s the rope for?”
I smile and reply, “Just wait and see.” I deftly braid three strands of rope, tying it so the size is adjustable. When I’m done, I add on a plastic loop. With every step, Jen looks more and more confused. Next, I braid three longer pieces of rope and attach a loop to one end and a clip to the other. When I’m done, I slide the first contraption over Kingston’s head and clip the other one onto it.
“Tada!” I say proudly, smiling. Jen’s face lights up as she understands. A collar and leash!” she says.
I nod and she races outside, holding onto the loop end of the leash. She runs down the yard and ties Kingston’s leash to a tree as she draws on the sidewalk. I smile. With Jen out of the way, I can finally start. I pull cake ingredients out of the fridge. I had found a cookbook in the basement and I was eager to try to make a cake for Jen’s birthday. I mixed in all the ingredients and poured it into a cake mold before setting it in the oven and baking it.
An hour later, Jen is still drawing and the cake is done. I pull it out of the oven and frost it with a picture of a dog’s head on it. When I’m done, I put it in the fridge. Jen isn’t allowed to look in without my permission. In the basement, I had also found some wrapping paper, a box, some ribbon and scissors. I put the pad of paper and crayons into the box and wrap it up before tying ribbon around the whole thing. Then I hide it under my bed.
The next day, I’m up with the sun and making pancakes for Jen’s birthday brunch. Jen comes dashing in with Kingston just as I deftly slide the pancakes onto a plate. She gasps in surprise and eats about ten pancakes before I tell her to go play for a little bit. I say, “If you want, I can take you and Kingston to the park in a little bit.” Jen nods and Kingston barks in agreement.
For dinner, I make Jen a special birthday dinner. After I serve the cake, she goes to bed. I grin and pull out a check. In the basement, I had sold a whole bunch of furniture, and earned enough money to get a new house. I felt hopeful for the first time since my parents had died.