by Compilation
Mom set up a makeshift storefront in the garage with a sign and a cashbox, and the people kept coming. None of that made a difference to Ellie. She kept on baking. Her fame spread.
And every day, Grandma asked for a new flavor, and Ellie ran back through the woods to start again. But it was different now. Ellie did not seek Grandma’s approval so much as her satisfaction.
Then one day, Grandma made a new request. “I wonder, Ellie, what a masterpiece might taste like?” She closed her eyes as if to go to sleep.
Ellie rushed back home, the cake in one hand, the heavy recipe book clutched in the other. The woods seemed darker that day, and Ellie, in her haste, did not see the protruding root. It caught her foot, and she fell. The cake tumbled out, and the book smashed to the ground, scattering the pages like leaves.
The crows fell like black stones, flapping and cawing, their beaks stabbing down onto both the cake and the pages of the book, scattering the recipes, tearing at the soft sponge and ripping everything to pieces. They clawed and bit, murderous and dark and furious.
In moments they were gone. There was nothing left of the treasure trove of handwritten recipes except for shreds of paper smeared in cake. The recipes were gone.
Ellie pushed herself up to her knees and sobbed. Her elbows were scraped, and her lip was bleeding. It was nothing compared to the pain she felt at losing the book. Now Ellie would have to tell Grandma not only that she’d stolen the book but that it was never coming back.
“Go away!” Ellie screamed at the crows. “Go away!” She threw the cake platter at them, scattering them so they took flight and disappeared above the trees.
She picked herself up and limped home.
For three days Ellie did not dare set foot in the kitchen. The aromas of all her former cakes haunted her—all smells from recipes written by Grandma’s hand. All creations from the book. All products of Grandma’s wisdom and her lifetime of experience. How could she make a cake without instructions from the book that had held them all? Ellie couldn’t create something from nothing.
Grandma had requested a masterpiece. Ellie felt helpless.
“Which one is your favorite?” asked a stranger who stopped by with the rest of the crowds a day later. It was the first time someone had asked Ellie’s opinion. She didn’t know.
“I like the frosting on this one,” she whispered, pointing to a thick chocolate double- layered cake with fudge frosting. “And this one’s texture,” she said, pointing to a dense strawberry cake. “And this one’s got so many layers,” she said, pointing to a very tall coconut-flavored cake.
“If you could make any cake, what would it be?” asked the man. It was a strange question. Ellie had never invented a cake. She only had followed instructions. But this man was asking her.
She turned back to the kitchen and donned her baker’s hat. She had no recipe. But by now she knew the basic ingredients by heart. She knew how the sugar would blend with the butter into a creamy mixture. She knew how many eggs to add to give her the consistency she needed. She set aside the right amount of vanilla and baking powder and flour. She mixed the ingredients together, and finally, as if by instinct, she set the oven to 350 degrees. She could feel what was right. There was no invisible hand guiding hers. This was something Ellie knew.
When the cake was finished and Ellie opened the oven, the aroma filled the whole kitchen. She let the cake cool, then she frosted it with her own mixture of spicy fudge frosting. Then it was complete.
She sealed it in a cake box, removed her baker’s hat, and then carefully hiked across the woods to Grandma’s house.
Grandma was waiting for her. She was sitting at her kitchen table. Ellie opened the cake box. Grandma cocked one eyebrow as Ellie cut her a slice.
Grandma took a bite, wrapping her mouth around the dark morsel. Her eyes grew wide. “Fudge, with dense chocolate sponge, and . . . blueberries . . . wrapped in cream. And spices.” She took another bite. “This is new,” she said, wagging her fork at the slice. “This was never in my book of recipes.”
Of course Grandma knew where all those cakes had come from. Ellie started to cry. “Oh, Grandma, I’m so sorry. You’re famous treasure book of recipes . . . I took it, and now it’s gone.”
Grandma opened her arms, and Ellie nestled into her embrace, sobbing into her grandma’s shoulder.
When she was done, Grandma held her at arm’s length. “The book is gone, but those recipes are in here,” she said, tapping Ellie on the chest. “It’s a much safer place to keep them.” She winked. “It’s one way to live forever.”
Grandma took a leather-bound book from underneath the table. Ellie opened it. The lined pages were empty.
“You are a baker now, Ellie. Fill a new book,” said Grandma. She gave the book to Ellie.
And Ellie did.
Adam Glendon Sidwell
In between writing books, Adam uses the power of computers to make monsters, robots, and zombies come to life for blockbuster movies, including Pirates of the Caribbean, King Kong, Pacific Rim, Transformers, and Tron. After spending countless hours in front of a keyboard meticulously adjusting tentacles, calibrating hydraulics, and brushing monkey fur, he is delighted at the prospect of modifying his creations with the flick of a few deftly placed adjectives.
Adam wrote every single word in the Evertaster series, the picture book Fetch, and the novel Chum. He once showed a famous movie star where the bathroom was.
http://www.evertaster.com/
Tristan
(Ewing’s Sarcoma)
Meet Tristan! Tristan was diagnosed with a very aggressive form of bone cancer. In order to stop the cancer from spreading, Tristan’s right leg was amputated just below the knee. Prior to his cancer, Tristan loved playing sports and was very athletic. Despite losing his leg, nothing has changed. Tristan is every bit as athletic as he was before, only now he has a cool metal prosthetic.
The fact that he lost his right leg to cancer has not stopped him from dreaming big!
He wants to play for the University of Utah and then play professional football for the San Francisco 49ers. He has a lot of work ahead of him to make that dream happen, but for now I plan to give him something to look forward to!
fox13now.com/2014/04/12/photo-shoot-to-raise-funds-help-inspire-kids-who-have-cancer/
Tristan’s Touchdowns
Frank L. Cole
The referee’s whistle was like a giant vacuum sucking the air straight out of the stadium. The Cosmo Cougars had just scored another touchdown, and the Bay Herriman fans dropped their posters and let out a sigh of disappointment.
Sitting on the sidelines with his helmet in his lap, Tristan Chidester glanced up at the scoreboard and shook his head. It was 21–3 with three minutes to go in the game. The Bombers’ hopes of a state championship had ended with that last Cosmo touchdown.
“We gave it our best shot,” Tristan heard their coach say.
“C’mon, Tristan,” said Tanner, Tristan’s older brother, “you’re going in.”
Tanner played defense and had done his part to keep the game close. But the Cosmo Cougars were just too good.
“They got lucky,” Tristan muttered.
“I don’t know,” Tanner said. “They sacked Colin seven times!”
“Yeah, I was watching the same game.”
Tristan didn’t always get to play, and when he did it was mostly on special teams. Though he tried his best not to complain, his dream was to play quarterback, and watching his teammates take the field while he sat on the sidelines was frustrating at times.
Standing from the bench, Tristan fastened the chin strap of his helmet and hiked his sock up over his prosthetic leg. The prosthetic was custom-made with a gold lightning bolt painted on the side.
“Fullback,” Coach announced to Tristan, patting him on the shoulder.
“Okay.” Tristan trotted a few steps onto the field but hesitated. Fullback? There was only three minutes left of the season, and he didn’t want to s
pend that time blocking for someone else. Gritting his teeth, Tristan turned to face his coach.
“Can I play quarterback?” he asked hopefully.
Coach frowned. “Sorry, that’s Colin’s position. It’s his ball.”
Tristan considered protesting, but Colin was his friend and deserved to be quarterback.
“He can have it,” Colin said, moving up next to Coach. “I don’t need to be QB for this play.”
Coach Jim seemed on the verge of shouting at the senior for challenging his decision, but instead he merely itched his nose. “Fine. Colin, you’ll play fullback. Tristan, keep it simple. No passing plays. We don’t want the score to get out of hand.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Tristan said to Colin as they trotted onto the field.
Colin grinned mischievously. “Whatever, dude!” He handed Tristan the wristband with the team’s playbook, and Tristan slipped it over his forearm. “Did you see what those guys did to me? Seven sacks! I don’t want to throw against them anymore.”
Tristan eyed the Cougar defense stepping up to the line. They were huge, and he knew they intended to smear as many Bomber players as they could before the final whistle sounded.
“What’s the play, Colin?” one of Tristan’s teammates asked when the two boys joined the huddle. It was Joe, the left tackle.
“Tristan’s got the ball. Ask him,” Colin answered.
“Right on!” said Michael, one of the wide receivers and Tristan’s best friend. “It’s about time.”
Several hands smacked Tristan’s helmet, and he felt his skin prickle with excitement. This was the moment he’d been waiting for since the surgery. The moment to prove the doubters wrong.
“What do you want to do?” Joe asked.
Tristan looked up at the scoreboard and smiled. “I want to win.”
Most of the boys in the huddle started laughing as Tristan took a knee and flipped through the playbook. “We’re running Red Turkey. Michael, I’m going to hit you in the corner.”
Joe smirked. “Red Turkey? That’s not in the playbook. You’re making that up.”
“I know Red Turkey,” Michael said. He turned to Joe. “It always worked when Tristan called it in rec league.” A few of the others players nodded in agreement. “Coach isn’t going to like it.”
Tristan shrugged. “We need a touchdown.”
“Don’t you know what the score is?” Joe pointed to the far end of the field. “You’re joking, right?”
Tristan grabbed Joe by the face mask and pulled it within an inch of his own. “Do I look like I’m joking?” He narrowed his eyes but then gave Joe’s helmet a friendly pat. “They’re not expecting anything like this. Trust me. All right, boys, gobble, gobble.”
Tristan stood behind Marcus, the center. Crowding the line, several Cosmo players were actually growling as they readied to attack. It would be a blitz, no doubt about it, but that was exactly what Tristan was counting on.
Dropping back, Tristan yelled, “Hike!” and immediately moved to avoid a Cosmo player who burst through the line and dove for his legs. He pulled his arm back and launched the ball just as a wall of players crashed into him. Collapsing beneath the Cosmo defense, Tristan watched his spiral soar down the field and into Michael’s outstretched hands. There were no other players around, and Michael easily ran the ball into the end zone for a touchdown. The crowd of Bomber fans erupted.
“What was that?” Coach thumbed through his playbook, looking for an explanation.
After a successful kick, the lights on the board showcased the new score: 21–10, with two and a half minutes left.
“Are you insane?” Tanner asked Tristan after he’d jogged off the field.
“That was Red Turkey!”
“You have to get me the ball back,” Tristan said.
Tanner raised an eyebrow. “How am I going to do that?”
Tristan winked. “You could try Opening the Barn Door. Remember that play?”
Tanner rolled his eyes. “This isn’t rec league. If you upset Coach, he won’t let either one of us on the team next season.”
A hand snagged Tristan’s jersey, spinning him around. “What was that?” Coach Jim demanded.
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t know what else to do. Those guys are fast.” He looked at the ground, trying to keep from smiling.
“Well, it was an amazing throw.” As Coach Jim turned to instruct the defense, Michael leaped onto Tristan’s back.
“Best pass of the year!” Michael cheered. “When I saw those guys on top of you, I thought you were dead.”
“It felt like I was dead. They’re heavy.” Tristan snagged a water bottle and took a swig.
“I don’t even care if we lose. That play made them look stupid.”
“We’re not losing this game.”
“Yeah, I know, we just have to believe.” Michael mockingly twirled his finger. “But in case you’ve forgotten, we also have to get our offense back on the field.”
“I think we’re about to.”
Tristan focused on the field as Bay Herriman kicked the ball. Catching it just inside the ten-yard line, a Cosmo player took off in a sprint. He raced past the Bombers with ease, looking as though he would go all the way, with only Tanner remaining at midfield. The player hesitated, but then sidestepped around Tanner, who seemed frozen in place. Coach Jim slammed his clipboard on the ground and shook his fist. How could Tanner, a top-notch defender, just stand there like a statue?
Then, as the Cosmo player headed for yet another touchdown, Tanner reacted, swiping out and knocking the ball free.
“Fumble!” the Cougars screamed on the field.
“Fumble!” the Bombers shouted from the sidelines.
“Barn Door!” Tristan slapped Michael in the chest as they watched Tanner scoop up the loose football. He was tackled shortly after, but the damage had been done. Bay Herriman was facing the end zone with ninety seconds left to play.
Once again the offense huddled together with Tristan in the middle.
“What now?” Michael asked eagerly.
“They’re probably expecting a pass, so let’s keep them guessing.” Tristan didn’t even look at the playbook. If they were going to pull this off, they would have to do it his way.
“Running the ball is going to waste time,” Joe said.
“Not if we do Tippy Toes.” Tristan divvied out instructions.
“These are seriously the dumbest play names I’ve ever heard,” Joe grumbled.
“But they work.” Tristan jabbed his finger at Joe. “Just make sure you keep them away from me.”
Directly after the snap, Tristan faked the handoff to Carlos, the running back, and several Cougars chased after him before realizing he didn’t have the ball. Tristan dashed through a hole in the line, pumping his legs as fast as he could. But there were too many players standing in the way, and he knew they would tackle him if he kept running.
Turning sharply, Tristan jogged toward the sideline. The Cougars slowed down as well, expecting the whistle to blow announcing the end of the play. But instead of stepping out of bounds, Tristan made his move. While toeing the imaginary tightrope of the sideline, he blurred past the defense and sprinted into the end zone.
Tristan spiked the ball as his teammates plowed him over like he was a tackling dummy. The score was now 21–17 with thirty seconds to go. The Cougars no longer looked confident of the win.
“I know that’s not one of my plays,” Coach said. Tristan was worried he’d be angry and so was surprised when the coach suddenly pulled him into a massive bear hug. “Unbelievable! You don’t happen to have any ideas for an onside kick, do you?”
After thinking for a moment, Tristan glanced down with a grin. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
The kickoff unit lined up for the onside kick, and to everyone’s shock, Tristan stood behind the football. Several parents shouted from the stands, demanding to know why Phil, the usual placekicker, wasn’t on the field.
H
olding up his hand, Tristan nodded to his coach before booting the ball high into the air. It soared to the right, barely passing the ten-yard marker.
The Cougars scrambled, trying to snatch the ball before Bay Herriman could get there. The fans held their breath as one of the Cougars leaped above the other players and grabbed hold of the ball first as time expired. Everyone groaned in defeat, knowing the comeback had fallen just short. Everyone, that is, except Tristan. He was too busy pumping his fist in the air as his teammate raced across the goal line with the real football clutched in his hands.
The Cosmo player, who had made what everyone believed to be the game-ending catch, stared down in confusion at the object in his hands. What he thought was the ball turned out to be a leg with a gold lighting bolt painted on the side.
Just before the kickoff, Tristan had loosened the strap beneath his knee, and when his prosthetic had sailed past the necessary yardage, fooling almost everyone on the field, so had the ball—which Michael caught and ran in for the game-winning touchdown.
A deafening roar filled the night air as the Bay Herriman Bombers hoisted Tristan above their heads and the throngs of fans chanted his name. It was a comeback win for the ages, and even the Cougars couldn’t help but applaud Tristan’s heroic victory.
After the celebration ended and the stands began to empty, Tristan stood on the field as a man in a plaid sports jacket approached.
“Impressive moves out there,” the man said. “I’ve never seen a game like that in all my years of covering this sport. You were the secret weapon. Why haven’t I seen you on the field before?”
Tristan shrugged and refastened his prosthesis to his knee. “I don’t get to play that much.”
“You’ve got a good coach, but he’d be a fool if he didn’t start you at quarterback next season.”
Tristan smiled. “You think so?”
The man pulled something from his shirt pocket and handed it to Tristan. “See you around, Tristan Chidester. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”
As the man walked away, Tristan looked down at the business card in his fingers.
Chip Chabot—Regional Scout for the San Francisco 49ers