Text Leveling System

Words of Stone

RDQ:	2470	Max Word/Sent	46	Total Words	2918		Diff Words	1027
Lex	970	Ave Word/.Sent	10	Hi Freq occurs	2055	70.4%	Hi freq	405	39.4%
AR	5.7	Long Sentences	15.1	Low Freq occurs	195	6.7%	Low freq	175	17%

Blaze Werla buried Ortman before breakfast. It was the fifth of July, and already the day was white hot. Blaze peeled off his T-shirt and tossed it on the hard ground. He shoveled quickly and furtively, making a small, neat hole the size of a basketball. When the digging was through, Blaze knelt, and using both arms and cupped hands, filled the hole back up, covering Ortman forever. There was something fierce about the manner in which Blaze worked-the determined line of his mouth, the tension that rippled across his back. Dirt stuck to Blaze's sweaty body like bread crumbs; his damp red hair clung to his forehead in ringlets. Blaze slapped the ground flat with the palms of his hands, making a thudding sound and remembering all the other burials, glancing at the nearby stones that marked them. Burials. There had been four others before Ortman. (Not counting his mother's.) The small graves formed a partial ring around the huge black locust tree on the hill near the highway behind Blaze's house. First there had been Benny. Then Ajax. Next Ken. Then Harold. And now Ortman. Blaze wondered what he would do once the circle was complete. Where would he bury then? He was ten years old. Would he still need to do this when he was twelve? Fifteen? He hoped not. He was tired of being afraid.
Blaze stood and stamped the dirt over Ortman one last time. He picked up the stone he had chosen earlier that morning and held it for a few seconds, as if it were a large egg containing precious life. He had chosen the stone because of its markings: pale mossy blotches that looked like bull's-eyes. Blaze set the stone down firmly in place. "Goodbye, Ortman," he whispered. Blaze backed up, scratched the scars on his ankles with either foot, ran his dirty hand through his hair, and stared at the grave site until the crescent of stones blurred before him, becoming a broken pearl bracelet around the arm of a tree it bound.
On the way down the hill toward home, Blaze was already creating someone new in his mind to take Ortman's place. Someone who would be big. Someone who would be tall. Someone who would be fearless. Someone who would be everything Blaze was not.
Blaze was slight, with small feet and hands. He thought his fingers resembled birthday candles, especially compared to his father's ample, knuckly ones. At school, Blaze was the shortest student in his class. His identity with many kids from other grades hinged solely upon his size and his red hair. His hair was so distinctive, in fact, that passersby often turned their heads to take notice. His clear blue eyes had a similar effect on people. Freckles peppered Blaze's cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyelashes were full and as transparent as fishing line. And-he was fearful.
Blaze swatted at the leafy, waist-high weeds that surrounded him and thought, I am a contradiction-my name is Blaze and I'm afraid of fire. And fire was only the beginning of a long list of things that made Blaze's head prickle just thinking of them.
Fire. Large dogs. Wasps. The dark.
And then there were the other things. The more important things. The really frightening ones. Nightmares. The Ferris wheel at the fairgrounds. The Fourth of July.
Blaze fixed his attention on the drooping slate roof of his house in the near distance. "Come on ... Simon," he said over his shoulder into the warm breeze. "Let's go eat."
"Morning, Blaze," Nova called pleasantly when she heard the screen door open and gently close. "Morning, Grandma," Blaze said, entering the
kitchen. He walked to the sink and began washing his hands methodically with liquid dish soap, making a thick lather that worked its way up his arms. Ortman's dead, he said matter-of-factly in his head, watching a tiny pinkish blue bubble rise from his hands. Now I've got Simon.
Blaze didn't believe in imaginary friends the way he truly had when he was younger. He didn't set places for them at the table or make himself as small as possible in bed to leave room for them. He didn't talk to them out loud when anyone might hear. But every July he formed a new one. It was habit as much as anything else.
In a way, he compared it to Nova's practice of saying "Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit" for good luck on the first day of each month. It had to be her first words spoken or else it didn't work. Nova was far from superstitious, and yet, if she forgot to say it, she seemed annoyed with herself all morning.
Blaze also compared it to the relationship his father had with God. Although he had told Blaze many times that he didn't really know what he believed, Glenn said that he prayed every now and then. He talked to God when no one else was around.
Glenn had his version of God. Nova had "Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit." And Blaze had Simon.
"Well, what can I get you for breakfast?" Nova asked mildly.
Blaze had been looking out the window toward the hill. He turned and faced his grandmother. "Scrambled eggs, please," he said. And Nova hummed while she
made them. At the stove, with her back to Blaze, Nova's wispy moth-colored hair looked just like a dandelion right before you make a wish and- blow it. But nothing else about Nova was wispy. She was generous in both size and spirit.
Breakfast was Blaze's favorite meal of the day, and the kitchen was his favorite room in the house. Towels, pots, pans, and various other cooking utensils hung on hooks from the walls and ceiling, reminding Blaze of the buy-and-sell shop in town. Four wide windows let in enough sunlight to balance the clutter. In the early morning, the dramatic shadows of the suspended spatulas and ladles spilled down the flowered wallpaper like stalactites. Or were they stalagmites? Blaze could never keep them straight. He had confused them on his final science test of the school year only last month.
During the summer, Blaze always ate breakfast with Nova, just the two of them at the thick, round oak table. Nova unerringly sensed Blaze's moods; she knew when he wanted to talk and when quiet seemed to be what was needed. If Nova wasn't asking Blaze questions or maintaining a peaceful, necessary silence, she was humming (as she was now); that meant she was deep in thought. Blaze was certain that Nova's low murmuring that morning was due to the cucumber beetles she had been battling in her squash patch. Books and magazines on organic gardening were stacked on the counter by the sink like dirty dishes.
Humming. Then silence. Then only the sound of silverware playing against china.
"I don't know how you do it-getting up at this hour when you don't have to," Glenn said, suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway.
"Hi, Dad," Blaze said with a start, surprised by Glenn's unusually early jump on the day. His eyes skated up to meet his father's. Ordinarily breakfast was long finished by the time Glenn made it out of bed. "Morning, Glenn. Eggs today?" Nova asked.
. "Just coffee." He padded barefooted across the cracking linoleum and reached for a mug from the cupboard. Glenn was tall and big-boned. His straight blond hair fell into his eyes and barely grazed his shoulders, hiding the ringed birthmark on the back of his neck. It was purple and looked like Saturn. When Blaze was mad at his father, he pretended that the birthmark meant that Glenn was really an alien from outer space. "So what's on the agenda for you two today?" Glenn asked, filling his mug. He sat at the table precisely halfway between Blaze and Nova.
"Cucumber beetles," Nova said. "I'm going to try to lick them with a mixture of vanilla and water. It's a trick I read about in one of my magazines," she added, working her fingers as if she held a spray bottle.
"And you?" Glenn said, looking at Blaze. Blaze shrugged. "Nothing really."
Glenn rubbed his steel gray eyes and yawned, his wide
unshaven jaw opening and closing like a machine. "Want a ride into town? You could call someone from school." "Nah," Blaze replied, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head.
"I'll take you to the lake or the park. Anywhere you want to go."
"The moon?" Blaze joked.
Glenn yawned and chuckled at the same time.
"I think I'll just mess around here," Blaze told him. After rubbing his eyes again, Glenn massaged the space between his eyebrows. "Just don't think too much," he said slowly, turning his mug on the table and winking. "It's not good for you." He rose with his coffee and headed toward the back door. He stopped at the sink and leaned against it momentarily. "Oh, by the way . . ." he said. He thrust his hand deep into his pocket and pulled out something small. He flung it gently across the tabletop. It was an old rusty skeleton key. It stopped right beside Blaze's plate, kissing his fork. "I found it yesterday," Glenn said. "For your collection."
"Thanks," Blaze answered. He watched Glenn disappear down the hallway, the key floating on the fringe of his vision. His ankles itched. Blaze knew that Glenn wouldn't give him keys if he knew why he saved them.
But here was a new one. Right before him. An ancient thing. It might be my best one yet, Blaze thought. The key's sharp metallic scent tickled Blaze's nostrils. He scooped it up and fingered it, and it seemed to burn in
his hand. Blaze wondered who it had once belonged to, what lock it would release, whose door it might open.
It would be a typical July day. Glenn would spend it in the sagging garage that he had converted into a studio, emerging at dinnertime flecked with paint of all colors. Then he'd return and work again until very late, maybe until dawn. Unlike most fathers, Glenn was home all day in the summer. He was a high-school art teacher who devoted his entire vacation to painting large canvases that Blaze liked, but didn't quite understand. Nova would bustle about the kitchen and her garden-concocting, canning, weeding, pruning, and trying to exterminate cucumber beetles for all time. And Blaze would wander throughout the house and around the hill, occasionally talking to someone that no one else could see.
And it would be a typical July night for Blaze. In bed, he would will himself not to dream. Or, at least, not to remember his dreams when he awoke. He would take the library book from his nightstand, open it halfway, and place it beside him to look as if he had been reading. His mason jar filled with his lost key collection would be on the floor within reach. Then, his lamp still on, Blaze would settle in among his nest of four pillows, wishing and waiting for morning light.
When Blaze woke up the next morning his chest ached with strangeness. He had been dreaming. It was a dream he had had before. In it a maze of black snakes burst into flames at his feet while he struggled to open a door. The door was held tightly closed by a series of locks. His mother's voice came from behind the door. Sometimes in the dream he would have a key. But even when he did, it would never work.
Don't think about it, Blaze told himself.
His dreams were always so vivid during the summer. He might not remember having a dream for months, but come July they would return. It was peculiar the way that worked.
Blaze blinked and looked around. His room focused about him, becoming familiar and touchable. The library book from the night before was now closed and neatly placed on his nightstand, his bedside lamp turned off. Although he had never actually seen Nova or Glenn do these things, he had often sensed a presence-passing as a shadow, removing the book, turning off the light, tugging the bedclothes up under his chin, touching his forehead, pulling the door closed.
Blaze sat up and swung his legs out from under the sheet. It was dawn. A gust of wind caused the loose window screen to flutter and the faded plaid curtains to balloon and collapse. The curtains had worn thin in many places and were at least as old as Blaze. So was the large, multicolored oval rug that covered most of the floor. But nearly everything else was relatively new in comparison. The bookshelf, the bed, the nightstand, the dresser. Blaze could still remember the old blue-striped wallpaper, but now the walls were white. He had picked the paint himself. Snowflake, it was called on the paint chart.
It was several summers earlier that Glenn had urged Blaze to redecorate his room. "I could paint the solar system on your ceiling," Glenn had suggested. "And we could buy some of those neat glow-in-the-dark stars to stick on." Glenn paused, tapping his fingers on his chin. "We could redo the walls, too. This wallpaper's not the greatest. We'd have to clean this place out first, though. Get rid of some of this old baby stuff." As he spoke,
'Glenn gestured vaguely toward the toys, knickknacks, and books that crowded Blaze's shelves, drawers, closet, and the dusty space under his bed. Things he had long outgrown. "What do you think?"
Blaze was looking at his prized possession-a plastic Noah's ark replica-perched atop the low overstuffed bookcase. "Okay," he answered reluctantly, not wanting to disappoint Glenn.
"Great!"
"But can I keep my ark?" Blaze's voice was urgent. Glenn hugged him. "Of course," he said into his son's red hair.
Blaze picked the ark off the shelf and clutched it tightly. "And can we just paint the walls and ceiling white? No solar system?"
"You bet," said Glenn.
Blaze figured that the lighter the walls and ceiling were, the lighter his room would be at night.
Blaze still had the ark. He kept it tucked safely under his bed. Out of sight if a friend from school came over. Now he pulled it out and brought it to the window. Resting one end of it on the sill, he held it in place with his stomach and drew open the curtains to glance at the hill. He did this every morning. But that morning there was something different. Something very strange. Something so strange that Blaze stepped back from the window in surprise, causing his ark to fall. It cracked in half at his feet, little animals scattering across the floor like the pieces of a shattered glass.
A chill hit Blaze in the small of his back and spread to his neck. Written with stones on the broad, mowed stretch of the hillside was the word REENA. Blaze felt hazy and anxious. His heart rattled. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before opening them again. Nothing had changed. Squinting, Blaze leaned on the windowsill, his nose pressed to the screen, then pulled back. The word was still there. It seemed to fill the window. The window seemed to fill the room. Blaze was smaller than ever.
REENA.
"Who did this, Simon?" Blaze whispered. His first thought was to wake Glenn, but something deep and instinctive led him in another direction. Temporarily forgetting about his ark, Blaze slipped into some shorts, a T-shirt, and shoes. His hands shook, fumbling with his laces and getting tangled in the folds of his shirt. But, once dressed, he managed to move quickly and quietly so as not to wake anyone-melting down the stairs, tiptoeing throughout the house, and then pushing up the hill with all his might.
When Blaze stopped, he was gasping for air. He doubled over-hands on knees-and tried to breathe evenly. His breath felt warm on his skin. He lifted his head. The letters were enormous up so close. Impulsively, Blaze shoved stone after stone aside with his feet,
scrambling them so no one else could read the word. A few he heaved with his hands; they tumbled down the slope. A round and smooth stone with green rings on it caught his attention. It looked exactly like the stone he had chosen to mark Ortman's grave. He examined it closely. Recognized it.
"Oh, no," Blaze said, stunned all over again. The sky and the grass changed places in his vision as he raced for the black locust tree. After stumbling twice, he used his hands in an animal-like fashion to help him move without falling.
He wanted to cry. His stones were missing. All five of them. Whoever had written REENA had used them to help construct the letters. Blaze circled the tree a number of times, raising a cloud of dust. Then he sat resting against it, thinking. Waiting. Without the slightest idea of what to do next. A group of crows swooped down nearby. They strutted in a chaotic formation, their calls long and raucous. In a sudden beating of glossy black wings, they took off again. Up, up, up they flew, and Blaze watched, feeling as if he were sinking.

Subjective Criteria

Illustrations: No support

Dialog: Multiple speakers

Dialog: Broken dialogue

Dialog: Unlabeled Speaker

Vocabulary: Many difficult words

Language: Many descriptive words

Sentences: Some Long/Complex

Text structure: Story/Poem

Inferences: Several Implications

Complexity: Several unrelated ideas

Concepts: Concrete/Simple Social

Chapters

Sequence of Events: Chronological

Mature concepts: With common experiences or clear fantasy

Features

Character traits

Character development

Complex character relationships

Simple Plot

Symbolism

Topic

Stealing

Death

Fears

Lying

*Family & Friends

*Feelings, Behaviors

Parents

Relationships

Low Frequency Words

ached	agenda	alien	ample	annoyed
anxious	bedclothes	birthmark	blotches	blurred
burials	bury	bustle	chaotic	comparison
concocting	construct	contradiction	converted	crescent
curtains	dandelion	determined	distinctive	doubled
dramatic	drawers	drooping	effect	exterminate
factly	fairgrounds	familiar	fashion	ferris
fingered	flecked	flowered	flung	formation
freckles	frightening	furtively	gardening	gasping
generous	gestured	glance	glancing	glossy
heaved	hinged	identity	imaginary	impulsively
instinctive	itched	knelt	knickknacks	ladles
lather	lighter	linoleum	liquid	locust
magazines	markings	massaged	metallic	methodically
mildly	momentarily	mowed	multicolored	murmuring
nah	nightmares	nightstand	nostrils	nova's
occasionally	ordinarily	organic	outgrown	oval
overstuffed	palms	partial	passersby	paused
peaceful	pearl	peculiar	peppered	perched
plaid	pleasantly	possession	precious	precisely
presence	prickle	prized	pruning	raising
raucous	recognized	redecorate	redo	reena
relationship	relatively	reluctantly	replica	resembled
ringed	ringlets	rippled	sagging	scent
science	scrambled	scrambling	sensed	series
shelves	shoved	shoveled	shrugged	silverware
similar	slate	solar	solely	spatulas
squash	stalactites	stalagmites	strangeness	strutted
studio	stunned	superstitious	surrounded	suspended
tabletop	tangled	temporarily	tension	throughout
thrust	thudding	tiptoeing	touchable	transparent
truly	typical	unerringly	unshaven	urged
urgent	utensils	vaguely	vanilla	various
vision	vivid	wander	wasps	windowsill
winking	wispy	wrinkling	yawned	younger