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Grade
7

I was suddenly woken up by the blinding sun coming in brightly through the shades. Where was I? I lifted my head up slowly from a hard, smooth surface. A desk, maybe. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I appeared to be in fourth period humanities. I noticed the teacher was talking to the class about something I could only hear slightly. Something about research on an author.
“Alright guys, time to get out a computer and start researching,” the teacher shouted over the bustling students rushing to the computer cart, shoes squeaking with every step. I waited for what felt like an eternity in line to get a computer. I squeezed past three people, and grabbed a computer.
“Ah, number 13 is still here,” I whispered to myself. I fiddled with the number 13 sticker on the laptop as I walked towards my friends sitting in the back of the cramped classroom.
“Little one!” Rhett said as he patted the seat next to him. I smiled widely as I sat down on the stiff couch between Rhett and Emily.
“Oh my gosh! Lottie! You need to see this thing in I drew in my notebook!” Emily bubbled as she noticed that I sat down.
“Where’s Claudia?” I asked Emily, completely ignoring what she had just said.
“Oh, Claudia is over on the couch by the whiteboard. I think she wants to be alone today,” Rhett interrupted, even though I wasn’t asking him. “Or, well… This is Claudia we’re talking about. She might just be really invested in her book.” This I couldn’t disagree with.
“So… let’s say a… friend of mine didn’t know what we’re supposed to be researching right now. What would you say to them?” I asked, trying to be unsuspicious.
“You fell asleep in class again, didn’t you,” Rhett said, trying to hold in a laugh.
“No! A friend did!” I huffed.
“Right…Sure...” Emily said, giggling. I ignored her.

I flipped open my laptop and logged in. Sheila, whom I had not noticed was on the end of the couch, said something quietly to me.
“Hi.” That was all she said. As I turned my head towards her, she smiled a little.
I tried to work on researching this author, but I couldn’t really find any information. So instead, I just leaned back into the stiff, old couch. I shut my computer lid and rubbed my eyes. That was the last thing I remembered.
I was woken up again by the sunlight beaming into the room. My faint reflection in the dirty windows revealed a game of tic-tac-toe in red sharpie on my forehead. Really, Rhett?
“Good work everyone! Put your laptops away and you’re dismissed for lunch,” the teacher announced. Had I really been asleep that long?
The whole class raced down the hallway, pushing and shoving, like there was a winning lottery ticket at the staircase leading to the cafeteria. I shuffled down the dusty hallway towards my locker. I noticed Rhett standing at his locker a little further down the hallway, so I walked over to him to say hello.
“Hello!” I greeted Rhett from behind.
“Hi!” he replied cheerfully, turning around with a smile on his face.
“Why are you so excited? Pizza day in the cafeteria isn’t till next week,” I teased.
“Because I just bought some nice new markers! Copic Markers!” Rhett pulled out a big ziplock bag from his cluttered locker. He opened the bag and dug through the piles of bubble wrap inside. At last he pulled out a box of 36 Copic markers. I was amazed. I looked through the top of the clear box, and my eyes practically got lost in the rainbow of marker shades.
“Jesus, how much did that cost?” I asked, still staring at the markers in awe.
“Like $90. It took so long to raise up enough money, but now here they are!” Rhett beamed with pride.
“So, where are you going to eat lunch?” I asked, changing the subject. “Me, Emily, Claudia, and Sheila are going to sit in our usual spot. You should come eat with us!” I offered, grabbing my lunch off the top of my locker and walking away.

“Lottie! Lottie!” Emily called, patting the seat next to her at our usual spot in the cafeteria. I smiled as I walked over to the empty seat between Sheila and Emily. I sat down on the slightly scratchy bench and zipped open my lunch box. I grabbed my juice box and poked the straw in. Rhett came running into the cafeteria from the back door. He was running full speed towards our table, but then he couldn’t slow himself down, and slipped, falling on his face. I burst out laughing.
“Are you ok?” I asked Rhett as he got up and sat down next to me.
“Are you ok? You were drinking lemonade when you started laughing!”
“Oh, I guess I was,” I replied, coughing a little bit. That's what I loved about our friendship. The never-ending laughter. Laughter of jokes, of memes, of odd drawings.
“Oh! I forgot. I wanted to show you this thing I drew,” I said awkwardly, flipping to a page in my purple binder. I found it, and I showed Rhett this drawing of otherworldly weirdness. Even though I wasn’t very confident in my drawing, Rhett’s eyes practically sparkled with amazement.
“Why are you smiling?” I asked modestly. “It’s not even that great…”
“Shut your face, Ronk!” Rhett replied, smiling. I liked it when Rhett called me “Ronk”. I have no idea how my name developed from Lottie to Ronk, but that’s what I like about it. It doesn’t make sense.

When lunch period ended, all of us went running outside, pulling on jackets and gloves as we ran to the swing set. I hopped on an old swing, the chain handles covered in frost. Rhett jumped on the rusty one next to me, and Claudia and Emily took the two remaining ones. Just as we had all gotten on the four swings, Sheila arrived at the swing set. She looked around at all the filled swings, and then looked me right in the eye.
“Maybe I’ll swing tomorrow,” she said, smiling. Then she walked off to hang out with Clover and Anna.
“Hey guess what I found on the internet yesterday!” Rhett interrupted the silence. “It’s a Transformers meme and--”
“HEY HOW WAS YOUR WEEKEND, EMILY?” I asked very loudly to prevent Rhett from torturing me with his memes from the darkest corners of the internet.

This pretty much set the mood for the rest of recess. Rhett talking about memes, me screaming in reaction, Emily sometimes joining in, Claudia staring. Just staring. Before we knew it, the whistle blew, and it was time for fifth period. Advisory.

“Ok, class,” the teacher began. “So, here we are in advisory. Does anybody have anything they’d like to say to the whole class?”
“Can we get a coffee machine in the classroom?” some boy shouted from the back of the room.
“Haha, very funny. Anything else someone in the class would like to say?”
“Can we get a class set of egg chairs?” a girl asked.
“Can we install a slide into the wall?”
“Can we pass a law against homework?”
“Can we order pizza?”
“Can we have two hours of recess today?”
“Can we go on a field trip to the amusement park?”
“Trust me, I would love to get, well, two of those things,” the teacher said, rolling her eyes. “Now, does anybody have anything serious to talk about?”
“When will class be over?”
“You know what, let’s just watch a documentary about sea lions!” the teacher suggested. The teacher walked over to her computer and slid a disk in the side. She plugged in a cord and adjusted the volume.
“Today we’ll take a look at the majestic, lovable sea lion…”

My eyes slowly opened. I really better get more sleep at night.
The teacher was at her desk. “I see you fell asleep again.” I quickly gathered my pencils and notebooks and shoved them in my binder, running out of the room. I looked at my watch. 15 minutes late for spanish class. As I ran through the door, the teacher had already started a lesson, and I had just walked into the middle of it.
“¿Alguien puede explicar este texto?” the teacher asked the whole class. She noticed me walking in. “Lottie? ¿Alguien puede explicar este texto?” I stared at her blankly.
“Yo ... Yo no recuer… recuerdo, maestro. Lo siento.” The teacher looked at me with slight disappointment.
“Tendrás que escribir un ensayo que explique tu respuesta. se vence el jueves. toma asiento.” I had no idea what she just said, so I nodded and sat down next to Sheila.
“What are we doing?” I whispered to her.
“Reading two paragraphs and explaining the differences.” The rest of spanish class flew past, me barely scraping by when answering the teacher.

Before I knew it, it was time to help out a kindergarten teacher downstairs. Every Tuesday, I ran to a kindergarten room and helped clean, help make art projects, organize, and keep kids entertained on the playground, maybe solve any problems if they appear. I ran through the hallway, paying no attention to the no running rule. I was too excited to see the kindergarteners.
“Hey Rhett!” I greeted him excitedly in the hallway.
“Hello Ronk! Why’re you so excited?”
“Cause it’s a Tuesday! I get to help out the kindergarteners!” My eyes were practically glimmering with anticipation.
“Well nice seeing you, but modern dance is starting, I better join the class. And I’ll see you after 7th period, right?”
“As always!” I said, running away smiling. I was always released early from helping so I would have time to get back upstairs before the dismissal bell rang. I reached the classroom and opened the door.
“Lottie!” A little girl shouted in excitement.
“Yay! Lottie’s here!”
“Lottie, look at this drawing I made for you!”
“Lottie! Can you help me with my writing, please?” I was very loved by these kindergarteners. I was like the coolest thing in the world to them.
“Well You’re certainly the class favorite,” the teacher said, chuckling.
“Pfft. They’d probably think no different to any other middle schooler.” I replied modestly. “So… What should I help out with today?”
“Well… Hmm… Today, it would be really helpful to me if you would polish my collection of student skulls.” I stared at the teacher. “Haha, just kidding. Can you wash the dishes from snack time?”

“Why are you washing the dishes?” asked a little boy from behind.
“Because they’re dirty.”
“Why?”
“Because you ate your snack in them.”
“Why?”
“Because you and your classmates were hungry.”
“Why?”
“Because people need to eat.”
“Why?”
“So you live a long life.”
“Why?”
“. . .” I decided to end the question game there. “Hey, it looks like your teacher is telling the class how to make a craft! Why don’t you go sit down, eh?”
“Okay!” He said with sparkles in his eyes. I continued washing the dishes for a while until the entire class set of bowls were washed and dried. I stacked them neatly in the pantry and walked over to the teacher.
“What should I do next?”
“Well… In five minutes, we’re going out to recess. You can play with the class, you want. You’ve earned it.” I was overjoyed. In elementary school, you would get at least three recess breaks a day. In middle school, you only got one. I was super excited to get an extra recess. I ran outside to play with everybody.
“Hi, Fujiko!” I greeted the few children that I knew the names of.
“Hi, Lottie!”
“Hello, Liza!” I said, running up the hill to the playground
“Hi! Want to play catch?”
“Maybe later!”
“Hey, Lottie!”
“Hi, Danny!” I was so loved by these younger kids. I liked it. It gave me a feeling of self worth.

Before I knew it, Fujiko and Liza were ringing the bell. It was time to go inside.
“Thanks for your help today, Lottie! I really appreciate having you here.”
“Aww, thanks! I love helping out.”
“Feel free to leave a bit early to pack up your things upstairs.”

I ran to Rhett’s modern dance class. Since I was released early from the kindergarten class, there was probably still quite a few minutes left for all the other classes. I peeked in a door window and looked at Rhett dancing. It was amazing. I wish I could dance without making a fool of myself. I checked my wrist for a watch, but there wasn’t one there. I always forget that I don’t have a watch. Rhett saw me inspecting my wrist for a watch that didn’t exist and started cracking up, even though he was still following the dance teacher’s routine. The teacher looked in my direction. I ducked out of sight as fast as I could. After that, I sat outside the door waiting. In around five minutes or so, the music in the classroom had stopped. I opened the door and ran past the teacher.
“Hello Lottie. Nice of you to stop by in the middle of a routine,” the teacher said sarcastically. I ran over to Rhett.
“Hello!!” I greeted. Rhett burst out in laughter.
“You’ve never owned a watch in your life!”
“I know! But I always think I do!”
“Haha… So, where’re Sheila and Emily?”
“Sheila should be here any minute.”
“Emily?”
“She’s probably on her way, too.”

Soon enough, Sheila and Emily arrived.
“Hey, Lottie!” Emily said.
“Hello,” Sheila shyly joined in.
“So! See you all tomorrow!” Rhett broke the silence cheerfully.
“Yeah! See ya!” Emily said.
“...Bye.” Sheila fidgeted. Emily and Rhett headed to the bus pick up lane, Sheila left for the office lobby, and I made way for the door.
“See you all tomorrow!”

The End

Grade
7

 Hunger

 

        The sun shone through the windows, the sky blue and dotted with clouds. I could make out Obongsan Mountain in the distance. It had been raining for one month straight in South Hamgyong province, and I could not remember the last time I had seen the sun. I limped into the kitchen where my mother was, and heard a sizzling sound of something cooking in a frying pan. My eyes widened and my stomach ached at the thought of a proper breakfast. For weeks, my mother and I had been scavenging for raw corn and whatever scraps we could find. At least it seemed better than others in our village, subsisting on tree bark and grass.

       “Seo-yeon,” my mother called, holding out a bamboo basket covered with a piece of white cloth. “I made three scallion pancakes. Can you bring them to your father?” I thought of every scallion, every pat of flour we'd salvaged for him. He’d committed an offense, talking openly about the famine and had been sentenced to work in a coal mine for re-education. I didn’t understand why my father’s speaking out the truth deserved this punishment, but my mother had assured me it was better than some of the other labor compounds in the mountains: at least we could see him and bring him the food we’d saved. Some villagers were forbidden visits to see their family members in the camps where they’d crush limestone and load it into industrial kilns, or make leather goods that were toxic because of the glues. I knew of stories about many who had died in camps far worse than the one my father had been sent to.

        In my hands, the basket was as warm as the sun, but I put the aroma of hot oil out of my mind; I moved quickly, a slight bounce in my step. It wasn’t raining, the air warm and I could hear birds chirping.

        As I walked deeper into Yodok, my limbs began to ache, especially my ankles and wrists. My mouth felt dry in the heat, bitter with thirst. I focused on lifting one leg before the other, but the heaviness weighed upon me, like a sack of corn or wood for a fire. I staggered a few more steps before stopping to rest. I’d made this trip a half dozen times before, but never had I felt so exhausted, especially so suddenly.

        I leaned against the wall of a grey, crumbling building, squinting up at the sun, which now seemed to sting where it had been bright with hope. I fought to get back up, but my legs still trembled. I couldn’t stand and my hunger seemed to burn a hole in my ribs. I pressed my hand over the basket’s cloth. Surely one little bite wouldn’t hurt.

        I picked up one of the pancakes with shaking fingers and took the tiniest of bites.

        The soft dough and salted scallions filled my nose and the emptiness between my ribs. I closed my eyes, savoring every last bit before taking a second nibble. Then a third. A fourth. When I looked under the cloth again, my eyes shot open. I hurriedly covered the two remaining pancakes and tried to quicken my step, to make use of this energy that might have made my father’s life a bit more bearable.

        The sun continued to wax, and I had to squint to see. My eyes burned, legs even heavier. There were people around me. I felt them watching my uneven step, faces blurring together into one dark mass. I leaned against the wall of an abandoned shop, my legs slowly giving away, until I was sitting on the ground again, gasping for breath. I made certain to look away from the basket, the tempation of more salt, more scallions.

        Suddenly, a young man in a threadbare jacket with legs as swollen as an elephant’s collapsed beside me. His head rested on the wall, chipped like a shell that’s been stepped on. The man sat there for a few moments, gasping in breaths more shallow than my own. Then his head slumped to the side and stayed there. Lifeless eyes gazed blankly back at mine, then up at the sizzling sun.

        I watched in horror, shock ricocheting through my body like a curse. I snatched my basket and ate another without thinking. My heart quickened. I stood up and pressed my body forward, vowing never to look back or rest again.

        I walked with slumped shoulders past a huge mosaic of the great leader and father of the people, Kim Jong-il, gazing blissfully out into an ocean of black coal outside the mine. Just one pancake left for my father, I thought, he, who spent his days with no more than a pinch of cornmeal, and for what reason? My eyes filled with tears, my tongue with the same thirst that now seemed more like a punishment I deserved.

        When I saw my father, the sun stung my eyes more acutely, as if to threaten blindness, a curse I was meant to suffer for my sin--what I saw now, so clearly, in my father’s hollow cheeks covered in soot. When he saw me, he smiled, revealing gaps between his teeth. He reached out, and I met his large, calloused palms. Suddenly I felt as though we were bathing in the warmest sunlight. As if maybe we’d died, and this was heaven?

        My heart pumped blood, my eyes twitched, hands still shaking in reminder, No, we were still here. I handed him the basket, the pancakes heavy in my stomach: all that I’d failed to provide him. I pictured the morsel of food left in the basket. Tears racing down my cheeks, but my father must have mistaken them for happiness, because he said Thank you, still smiling through his missing teeth.

        And in that dark space, his hunger, I knew that the pain of my love, my shame, would always be mine to bear alone.

 

Grade
6

The busy village crowded my path on the way to school. I see the flower shop opening and I think I’ll stop by later and get some flowers for my  mom. I see the school ahead and pick up my pace.  The bell is about to ring. I can’t be late again or Jonathan will be after me. “Slowpoke,” he’ll call me. He always turns everything I do into something bad! What can I do about living the farthest from school? Besides, I’m not one of those people who likes getting up in the morning. I’d rather be nocturnal. I made it before the bell...just. No Jonathan in sight.

On my way out of school I passed by the principal's office. The door was ajar and I heard Mr.Whittington say to a student, “I know you don’t have the best situation at home, but bullying is not the answer.” I recognized the student’s voice. It was Jonathan. I decided to scurry along before I was seen. On the way to the flower shop I started thinking, what could “not the best situation at home” mean?

I stepped into the flower shop. The sweet smell of flowers was calming and made me feel at home. The old lady at the counter noticed me and said, “Back again?”

“Yes, the flowers I got mom are beginning to wilt,” I replied. As I strolled out of the shop with my bouquet of purple tulips, something unsettled me. I saw Jonathan poking through crowd coming towards me. He knocked me to the ground, grabbed my flowers and said,

“Asking someone out or is it someone's birthday?”

“No!”I shouted, “They are for my mom!”

He didn't listen and chucked them across the street. It was hard to see through the crowd, but I could see several cars running over the flowers. When the dust settled, all I could see was a gathering of petals, stems, and paper. Jonathan, as if he saw a frightening monster, took off in panic. I couldn’t believe he had done this. He had done mean things in the past, but never this bad. As my black hair fell across my shoulders, I curled up in the ball and wept. Opal, the old lady from the flower shop, came out, helped me up and brought me to a tiny room in the back of the her shop. Opal sat me down at a table, gave me a warm cup of tea and sat down across from me.

“Maggie, I saw what Jonathan did to you, It isn’t the first he has done something like this. Before his parents divorced and his mom left, Jonathan was a sweet boy. He would often stop by to buy flowers for his mom just as you do. In fact, purple tulips were his mom’s favorite type of flower. When Jonathan’s mother left, his dad made him the scapegoat. When things went wrong for his dad he would lock Jonathan in his room or give him a beating. What’s worse is that in his Dad’s anger he broke off all contact with his x-wife. Jonathan hasn’t seen his mother in two years. Over time Jonathan slowly turned into the bully you see today.” So, that’s what Mr. Whittington meant by “not the best home situation”. After I calmed down, Opal gave me a new bouquet of purple tulips and I headed home. Mom probably wasn't home yet, and Dad's out of town on his work trip so I won't get in trouble if I'm home late.

When I got home Max was jumping everywhere, just being that excited yellow little fluff of happiness he usually is. I had a bit of homework to do, but I had a lot to think about too. I went to my room and sat down on my bed and waited. Max followed me the whole way. He put his head on my bed and sat their whining.

“Oh Max. I want to help out Jonathan in anyway I can, but I don't know how,” He just stared at me with his little golden retriever eyes and then I got an idea… “ Max!! you’re a genius! I'm sure if I get just a little bit more information I'll be able to help get Jonathan and his Mom back together! Then maybe we can put all this bullying behind us! I don't know if I'm a hundred percent ready to let go of what he did...um... No! what's done is done! It’s  in the past! And anyway, all's well that ends well. Let's see... tomorrow is a weekend so... Yes! That's exactly what I'll do!!” I heard the garage door opening and I snapped back to reality.

“Maggie, I’m home.” I could hear my Mom’s voice echoing up the stairs and into my room. I went downstairs for dinner.

“Oh, you know I love purple tulips,” Mom said,

“Maybe I’ll bring some into work. My friend Madeline really likes purple tulips.” I got a sneaking suspicion.

“Could Jonathan and Madeline be connected?” I whispered to myself.

“What did you say Maggie?”

“Oh, nothing. Hey Mom, does Madeline have any children?”

“Yes, she has a boy named Jonathan. Sadly, she hasn’t seen him in a few years.” My jaw dropped open. “Are you sure you are OK, Maggie? I sense something is wrong,” said Mom I slowly told my Mom the entire story of Jonathan, maybe not the entire story.

Mom paused. “I guess divorce can do many things to a kid and their parents. But I think I can help you. “

The next day I started in on our plan. I needed purple tulips and chocolates. Next, I had to find Jonathan and lure him to the special spot. I finally found Jonathan in the library. When you’re an easy target for a bully and you run away, they'll chase you. I never thought that I’d be able to use that bit of knowledge to my advantage.

Mom was supposed to take care of getting Madeline to the special spot. I was to take care of Jonathan as well as getting the gifts. In spite of my nickname, “Slowpoke”, I am quite a fast runner. I was really excited and had to set a pace so he could follow me. I ran into the park and dove behind the restroom building.  I stopped suddenly, turned on my heel, held my hand out, glared into the depths of Jonathan’s eyes and said, “STOP!” He came to a screeching halt!

“Listen,” I said In a strict yet kind voice, “I used to think that you would just bully me because you had nothing better to do. I knew there had to be a reason, but a part of me still thought it was just out of boredom.” My voice was softer now, it didn't sound so strict or direct. I ignored what my mother had told me. She told me what to say when I confronted him. She advised me to be quick and direct. However, I wanted to be friends after this. All fairy tales end with a happy ending. I wanted this school year to be like a fairy tale. I wanted it to end happily. I smiled at Jonathan and said, “Over the past few days, I learned about your parents divorce. I learned about how your father treats you. I learned, well I think I learned, the reason that you bully me.”

“Oh, shut up already! you know nothing!” snapped Jonathan.

“You're right. I don’t know anything.” This seemed to shock him quite a bit. “Or rather I didn't know anything and in a way I still don’t. I have a loving family. My parents are together and everything works out. I have no holes in my life, no issues that terribly affect me. However, I believe in love. There's someone here waiting for you,”  I said pointing around the corner of the building. “Please, take these flowers and chocolates and go out there. Even if your parents never get back together, you shouldn't have to suffer as much as you do.”

With that, I gave him the flowers and the chocolates and gave him a slight nudge. He still must have been processing what I said, because he didn't fight me. Instead, he looked around the corner and almost dropped the things I gave him. I heard a woman's excited voice call out, “Jonathan!?”

“ Mom?!”

“John,” this time the voice seemed closer. I decided to leave before i was spotted and this got awkward.

That night Dad came home from his work trip. We had a big dinner and everyone was very happy. The next day I was walking Max when we decided to pass through the park. I saw a tall beautiful blonde haired woman, wearing a light red dress, with yellow and white flowers sprinkled all over it like a flowery red cupcake sitting on a bench. There was someone sitting next to her, a boy around my age, with dirty blonde hair. He was wearing a white shirt and dark blue jeans. He waved at me and gave me a thumbs up. I could hear the lady next to him saying, “Is that a friend of yours?” And the boy replied, “yeah Mom.”

I just Smiled. I was happy to see Jonathan and his mother hanging out together. I hoped that we could be friends. And as if he heard my thoughts, the next day he came up to me after school and said, “I know this is ridiculous, especially after all the pain I caused you, but can we be friends?”

“I was hoping you'd say that,” I replied

Okay, so maybe it took a few more months then that, but still happened. And I'm happy it did!

Grade
8

 

003
 

I awoke to the dawn of a new day.  My name was gone and in its place was only a number.  I couldn’t recall what I had been called before. All I knew now was displayed on my skinny, lifeless forearm.  The black lines of the number curved down and in, and out and down.  003. I wasn’t strong enough to lift my other arm to touch it so I just sat there staring out of half closed eyes blankly at it. 
From the day I got sick and went to the hospital everything became a blur. On a cold winter day we checked into supposedly the best children’s hospital in New York. The all too cheery and nice nurses took me to an MRI, or brought me medicine. I fell asleep constantly for what seemed to be days at a time. I think I may have been awake, or at least listening, more than the doctors or nurses or even my family thought.
Now sitting here trying to remember everything from the past week, I started to examine my surroundings. The walls are a dirty white and there is a single lamp with the bulb as bright as if it were new. There are no windows or glass to see outside. I officially feel trapped. My body itself as no visible wounds, but I have a pounding headache and a bandage from where my IV’s were. And the bed I’m lying on is most likely the worst mattress ever.
I just can’t seem to get enough of that number on my arm. I keep repeating it in my head zero zero three, zero zero three, zero zero three. I get this weird sense that if I were to say it outloud it make all this much more real.
“Zero zero three.” I decided to speak. An animated voice then comes out and echos off the small walls,
“Yes experiment number zero zero three what is your first question for today?”
“Where the hell am I!” I ask. The voice then calls out asking another question,
“Is that the final decision for your question?”
“Yes,” I reply but to my surprise with more annoyance as if I were talking to a sibling, which for the record I have no clue if I have one or not. The voice startles me when it comes to give me an answer.
“This is a United States Government experiment with a set of teenagers and young adults that have special potential. Given your number you are the third experiment so far.”
The hell? I thought to myself. I’m not going to be somebody’s labrat. I have to find a way out. I go to get up but to my surprise my right ankle is tied down, and well...I fall.
I go to look at what’s keeping my ankle down and it’s a simple handcuff linked to me and the leg of the bed. Whoever put me here is not very smart. I laugh to myself and lift up the bottom part of the bed, and quickly pull my leg and the cuff follows. I guess I can handle the cuff still there, it’s not really my top priority right now. I laugh again, not because I’m funny but because I am so out of sorts I’m kind of losing it. 
I get up, brush myself off and head for the door. It’s heavy but to my surprise it’s unlocked. I start to look out and figure which way to turn. Left or right keeps replaying in my head. Then before I could even take a step in the direction I choose it, hits me,
“This is all much too easy.” And before I scramble back to my room someone’s hands are covering my face with a towel and everything is once again dark.
Once again I woke up back in the same room. I quickly jolt up and check my surroundings. Then look down at my ankle to see if the cuff was still there, now there was only a small tracking bracelet. I try the door again, eager to escape. It’s open.
In the hallway there are small lights about a foot away from each other lining the bottom of the steel walls. The speaker comes on again,
“Please follow the lighted pathway, please follow the lighted pathway”, It keeps repeating itself.
I continue to, well, follow the lighted pathway. I walk in one direction for quite a long time before I reach a blinding white room. Two automatic doors then shut behind me. For all I can see I’m alone in the room. Then I turn and see a small line of people around my age waiting at a desk, kind of like hospital scene. I decide to not immediately run up to them but to take my time to see if they come at me first. No one has made any sudden movements.
 I approach the line and follow suit like the two other people in it. I read the title of the desk quietly to myself,
“Information desk”, thank god no one turned to me, I would have no idea to respond. I wondered if this was where the speaker announcements were made. I saw a lady behind the desk hand papers to the first in line. As the boy reached for them I thought I saw a hint of a tattoo. The same type that I have! But then as quickly as it had crossed my vision it was gone, but my thoughts didn’t subside as fast. I weighed whether or not I should call out to him and ask him about the tattoo, what was happening, and mostly everything since I got here. But I didn’t ask a single question, nor say a word.
When finally it was my turn to reach the desk I was ready to demand answers, but instead was already interrupted by the lady. 
“What’s your number?” She asked quite coldly. I mean I guess I wasn’t surprised but I could use someone talking in a nice, non-animated voice.
“Three”, I replied
“Ah”, she said almost as though a lightbulb had turned on above her head, “Miss Anna LeBlanc. This is the first time coming out of your room is that correct?”
“Wait”, I abruptly say not really paying attention to the second part of her response, “Is my name really Anna LeBlanc or is it some kind of sick, fake name you’re trying to give me?”
“No, Miss Leblanc that is the name we received you with. Your birth certificate says so”, She then gestures toward a classic manilla file. I snatch it swiftly and before I run out of the line she stops me and tells me that this is the only information I will receive for this week. But, she continues to explain, because I had been off the normal schedule that I qualify to get two files this week and to return here in three days for another. I give kind of a lazy laugh, only for the fact that I find it ironic that that’s also the number tattooed on me.
 Instead of immediately returning to my so-called room I find a secluded space from the desk where I can read through the file, my file. As I open the file a key card in a plastic bag falls out. I pick it up and the bag has black marker scribed on it reading, “Key to new room.” I sigh in relief, and hope it’s better than the one I woke up in.
I shift through some important looking legal documents that I figure I’ll look at later in my new room. Then i come across a paper that says “Research on Anna LeBlanc”. I rapidly inhale the words, questions flooding through my head of what my life was before waking up. I supposedly have parents that are still married, a brother named Alex, a year younger than me, and a dog whose name was not discovered. We lived in South Dakota then moved to Michigan, and came to New York shortly before I got “sick”. I was born in 2004 and am now thirteen, to be fourteen in August. And then follow ups of medical history, allergies, and family heritage.
I get up to head for the doors out into the hallway when a girl from earlier comes up to me. She has dark red/orange hair and is petite, and looks overly friendly.
“Hey! My name’s Haylee Vonmaur. I noticed you earlier and you seem new, want to walk together to our rooms?” Woa, I was right, her excitement is overwhelming. I stare blankly at her for about ten seconds before she tries again.
“Oh shoot, I’m sorry, you probably speak a different language or something”, she starts mumbling to herself, “I guess I could try a little french, or maybe russian.” I finally reply to her to make her stop rambling, 
“Hi, I’m Anna Leblanc. I’m also not a big conversationalist but I’ll take you up on that offer for a walk.”
“Oh goody!” She practically yells at me. She grabs my arm, looks at my number and decides on where we should go. 
“We’re most likely in the same hallway because our numbers are so close, I’m a two. And the new rooming system works with your set as the hallway number and your assigned number as the room.”
“Great”, I say, “can’t wait.”
When we reach our rooms, I open mine with the key card and by the looks of the door it seems the same as my old “room” which makes me feel like I’m going to throw-up. Then when the door opens it reveals a somewhat familiar room to me. Every item has somewhat of a blue them that seems to all fit together. A breeze sweeps through as if you were standing on a beach, which makes me notice all the beach themed things. I let out a sigh and flop onto the bed. As Haylee leaves I thank her and go back to complete relaxation. I feel drowsy enough to pass out right then and there but a thought intrudes into my mind
“Why should you be so happy when you know this isn’t your real home? Why shouldn’t you be demanding more answers? You shouldn’t be this happy when you know there are still crazy people out there trying to keep you here?” I decide I can’t be mad or sad about anything until I know more about my life before this, and just fall asleep then and there in the middle of the thoughts.
I awake to pounding on the door, I hastily shoot up and grab anything that I could use as a weapon. My hand reaches at something sharp, I look at what I’m holding and of course, just a seashell. I go for the door and decide to open it like when you rip off a bandaid. It’s only Haylee.
“Oh god you scared the crap out of me!” She apologizes and tells me to put on some comfortable clothes from the dresser and follow her when I’m done. I go quickly change and follow her as she told me to do so. I ask her what it’s about and she only tells me it has something to do with some-sort of check-up and orientation. I give an unsatisfied sound as I continue to follow. It’s like when I had to go to the eighth grade orientation back when we lived in Michigan. It seemed so unnecessary to go if we were moving. And oh my god, I just remembered something. I guess something good came out of that nap, and even though my mood got better I told myself to keep it under wraps.
As the automatic doors of a new room comes in sight we walk faster to make sure we aren’t late. When we get in I see what seems to be some doctors and government officials, or at least dressed with authority. I see the other boy I have t come to know (from Haylee babbling) as Cameron Jade. Apparently all he does is sulk in the corner and look depressed, and well that couldn’t be more accurate at this moment. He then gets up and starts walking in my direction. He whispers to me,
“You know, I’m not as depressed as I look.” My head fills with questions when he cuts in,
“I read minds, and you’re not very smart.” He goes to sulk in another corner. I look over to Haylee and see her hands playing with something dark and somewhat magic like, I tell myself to not go over there and disrupt that mess. 
A lady in a white lab coat asks me to sit on a bed/table type thing and she holds me quite still as she injects me. I begin to fall over when a type of black dust consumes my body. I’m then laid down on the bed and am completely paralyzed for the moment being. 
“All we did was activate the powers already hiding in your bloodstream. Soon you will receive control over objects and peoples motions. We will be training you to fight against the countries secret enemies and recruit more like you. Right now you don’t have a choice, as we are housing your fist enemy in this very building. I blacked out.
I wake up to the same lab I was in before. I move my arm and everything is fine. I get up and search a desk to find a laptop. I begin to search my name and anything that might correspond with me in the files.
“Anna Leblanc”, I keep repeating aloud. I find a file with my name and nervously but quickly press on it. It shows my parents names with a number and email. I furiously look for the email application and compose one. Something short but informative. Before I can type the last part the doors burst open with the same kind of black dust. Haylee enters. I get a strange vibe and quickly add to the email “send Alex”. I send the letter and face her. She has a wicked grin and asks me, 
“Ready for our first fight LeBlanc?”
    

Grade
11

“Hello…. This is he….Yes, I just finished treating the patients Mr. Wesst and Mr. Chang, I believe they had a respiratory disorder of some sort, we should find out after the fluid tests come back… Yes please have them on my desk…Okay…bye-bye.”

“Hi baby and hi Mommy Marilyn I finally get to see my loves in a week…Yes, I’m finally off duty in Hong Kong after these 3 months…The hotel is good, nice breakfasts too...mhmm... Okay, see you soon...Love you too.”

“...Yes, I would like to request an ambulance...I don’t feel very well, I am having problems breathing...Yes, I am staying at the Pearl Hospital in Hong Kong... Thank you.”

“...Hi honey I’m leaving this message I was just checked into a hospital. I’m not feeling so good, I’ll call you later.”

“A Physician died yesterday from a new respiratory syndrome diagnosed as SARS, and he has been classified as a super spreader, spreading the virus to almost everyone on the floor of his hotel and those in the hotel spreading it across the globe.”

 

Grade
8

Awakened with vigilant senses like a hunted wolf, she calculated the distance to the bars, noticing rustling from another cell. Flung herself against the metal bars. It seemed the most appealing thing to do, it felt good. She tried it again and again...

It wasn’t helping. Collapsing in pain, her mind flickered with self realization. Of the fact that she knew nothing about herself or why she was here. Nothing but a vast blank space and the four letter word, “Rory.” It was capitalized. A name? To whom? She felt like a newborn baby.

Was it raining inside? Were those tears? Brushing herself off, though the only thing to “brush off” was worry. Unevenly she spoke.

“Hi ...” A small two letter word with great meaning, though she couldn’t recall the meaning.

“Hello!?” The response threw her into a protective stance. This unexpected synonym came from the wall. Silently, she pulled herself through invisible mud to where the voice had come.

She monotony repeated her word, “hi.” This exact same word was different. Still full of trepidation, but now noticeably crisp. Dead unbearable silence followed, it held the power to drive anyone mad. This black silence was suicidal and melancholy.

Grade
8

The scene is in black and white. A man sits to one side of the courtroom. He is dressed in a tailored gray suit, and his gold watch glints from the light in the room. On the other side, a young woman sits. She’s not listening closely, but she hears the words spiraling through the air like a whip. The crack echoes in every ear in the room.

Not guilty. The words snake around the room, on the floor, up the wall, coating the ceiling. Not guilty. A thousand dead voices whisper it in hoarse tones. Not guilty. It curls and twists like a dragon, and then it pours into the room, infecting the air like smoke. She gasps. It enters her lungs, replacing her air. She coughs and gasps again. There is no air. The smoke burns as she swallows, hot and fiery like a branding iron. Not guilty, on two accounts of manslaughter.

 

She jerked awake. Her head hit the top of the cab, and she breathed hard in short gasps.

“Miss, are you alright?” the driver asked. His hand rested on her shoulder. He has just awoken her. She stares down at her hands, currently curled in her lap, and then peered up at him and nodded.

“We’re here,” he says.

She looked past his shoulder as he straightened up and pulled away from the open door of the cab. The sun was low in the California sky, a pastel painting backdrop. The mild rainbow of colors did nothing to help the intimidating sight of the huge glass and white-sided building in front of her. Behind and slightly to the left, letters spelling out LAX illuminated the early evening sky brightly.

She looked down as the cab driver set a rolling bag on the pavement. She clutched the now extended handle.

“Thanks,” she murmured quietly to him. The falling dusk muted the hustle and bustle of the busy street around them, and she kept her eyes trained on the ground.

“You’re welcome. Safe travels, miss.” His black shoes tapped faintly around to the drivers side of the cab.

The young woman entered the airport and glanced around. Businessmen walked importantly to their destinations. Mothers berated their children to hurry along. The tan speckled tiles covering the floor crowded with feet and luggage. She let the stream of people push her along to her destination, and she tried to keep her focus on the next task. Security check.

She stepped up and joined the line winding through the lanes marked by black ropes. Unlike most of the others around her, she waited patiently. Almost like she would rather avoid security than hurry up and get through it at all. She stood in a sort of transfixed daze, lost in her own thoughts.

The LA airport had brought memories shooting back. The books that lined the shops walls looked achingly familiar to the ones her mother loved read. “Come here my dear,” she would say. “Do you know that word?” She pointed to the yellowing page. The little girl looked up at her mother with wide eyes, and shook her head. “It means beautiful. Which is what you are.” Her mother tenderly tucked a wild strand behind her ear.

She thought she almost saw her little brother’s favorite red shoes. “You look like you just walked out of clown school or something,” she had said to her brother when she first saw them.

“Hey! Don’t hate on the the shoes! They’re just unique.” Despite her raised eyebrow and doubtful look as a reply, he still wore them. What she would give to see him wearing them again, she thought.

“Next,” a woman called loudly. The young woman in line shook her head to clear her thoughts. Her family was gone now. She looked at the woman who had spoken as she stepped forward. The employee was wearing the same blue and black uniform all the airport workers wore. The badge on her right and the tag on her shoulder marked her as a TSA officer. The silver tag on her left read Hernandez. “ID and boarding pass please,” she said.

“Oh, uh, here,” the young woman in line fumbled through her pockets and then pulled out the requested items.

“Alright let’s see, Miss Aleah Wright, headed to New York City.” Hernandez studied the documents for a moment more, and then handed them back. Her curly brown ponytail swished on her uniform when she turned her head. “The Big Apple, how exciting. You’re all set.” Aleah only took the documents back, stuffed them in her pocket, and proceeded through the rest of security.

Now that Aleah was here, she was beginning to rethink what she was doing. Would her family approve of her decision? Aleah doubted it, but she decided it was too late to turn back.

 

Marty Gable sat in the second row in first class aboard flight B336, headed directly towards New York City. He was traveling alone, and his small rolling suitcase was already stored overhead. He pulled back the cuff of his suit coat, and checked the time on his watch. He then peered over the seat in front of him. He was impatient for the flight to depart. He had no wish to stay in California any longer. When he first landed in LA, he was originally responsible for what Mr. Gable saw as only a small accident. It was a huge nuisance, and his planned two week stay turned into several months.

As a young man, Marty thought that being a businessman would be considerably easy, all relaxing with a large income once he spent a quick few years climbing the ladder. But Marty was young and foolish then, and now he was entering his later years. Although in a more advanced position in the company than when he started, was still traveling left and right across the country like he was picked off the New York City streets yesterday.

So, his impatience distracting him, he took no notice of the young woman that quietly sat in the aisle seat next to him. He didn’t notice when she began removing a small, coffee sweetener sized packet from the front pocket of her bag before leaving it haphazardly in the isle, not bothering to stow it away above. He also didn’t notice when she took one from inside her breast coat pocket, nor when she slipped one out from under the tongue of her right boot or when she didn’t retie it.

He didn’t notice when she ripped open the first packet. It made a small noise, the torn paper and plastic barely audible over the bustle of the still boarding plane. He didn’t notice when she opened the empty bottle in front of her, held between her legs, and expertly tipped the contents into the narrow opening. He didn’t notice when she repeated this action twice more, screwed the cap of the bottle back on, and began to shake it.

He did, however, notice the thundering ka-boom of a loud explosion. The high-pitched scream of the lady behind him. The plume of smoke filling his vision. The bile taste that covered his tongue. The throbbing of his head, and the flow of blood that trickled down, down, down. And then, Marty Gable didn’t feeling anything at all.

Grade
6

A raspy wind howled through the air, whistling through the pines that scaled the snowy hills of Ernta. Snowflakes spiraled through the air, packing down onto the already snow-covered ground. Gerath wrapped himself tighter in his warm fur cloak, continuing up the hill. He glanced up at the night sky, dotted with shimmering stars. But that was a night of exquisite beauty, the night of the full moon. The stars seemed little specs of nothingness compared to the glowing majesty of the moon, which cast its eerie glow onto the ground. He quickly jerked his head down, scolding himself in his head for straying from the task at hand: hunting.

          The village of Hoptotek would not have enough food if Gerath failed, and that was just unthinkable. He already filled half of one of his woven jars, out of the four he needed to fill completely. His stomach lurched, as Gerath nearly fell to the ground in pain. He hadn't eaten for twelve hours, and he was already feeling light-headed. But food would have to wait, for his people needed him. He slowly arose and gasped in surprise as he saw what he wanted: animal tracks.

        He knelt closer to the footprints, examining the specific features of each mark.

     "Timberwolves," he spat, his voice thick with disgust. His heart was filled with nothing but hatred for these creatures, the foul beasts that terrorized hunters, and killed the livestock of farmers. His brown skin turned red with rage, as he whirled around, sending his long black hair flailing around. He grabbed his loose hair, tying it back with a loop of string that lay in his small satchel. He pulled his fur cowl over his head, beginning to examine the land around him. The snow was disturbed, overturned.

It was at that moment that a sharp howl rang through the air sending a chill down Gerath’s spine, by the rattling of leaves and snapping of twigs. The rumbling of footsteps drew closer to him, as he grabbed the bow slung over his shoulders, nocking an arrow in the bowstring. His vision darted across a plain of pine trees, looking for the creeping shadows of the lurking beasts. Suddenly, a sibilant shade slunk towards him, walking into the light. With a swift movement of the arm, Gerath released the bowstring, giving way for a hissing arrow to barrel out. Gerath observed as the shaft plunged into the wolf's head, and suddenly the bell rings.  A sharp shriek cut through the air interrupted his fantasies and brought him back to reality.  

He picked up the pile of books that lay on his desk, his thoughtful smile drooping into a frown as he returned to the cold, hard real world.  A lanky kid approached him, his brown hair cleanly cut and his eyes a dark brown. Griffin recognized the boy like Michael, his closest friend.

   “Daydreaming again I see.” He guessed, throwing me a sly look. I nodded slowly, as I pushed in my chair and began to walk out the classroom. “What this time?” He asked, darting after me.

   “An Indian named Gerath. He was out hunting wild game so that his village Hoptotek wouldn’t starve.” Griffin told him. Michael let out a light chuckle, and a dimpled smile began to show.

“Yeah, but I bet Gerath couldn’t help you prepare for the math quiz,” Michael smirked. Griffin slammed his palm into his face, groaning loudly. Right then Griffin almost knocked into one of the girls that ambled down the hallway, recognizable to him as Eileen from his math class. He got his head back into the conversation, turning to face Micheal again.

“That’s tomorrow?!” Griffin asked irritably. Michael bobbed his head up and down, answering his question. He sighed yet again. “Guess I’ll have to study extra tonight.” Michael raised an eyebrow at him, offensively showing his disbelief.

“You know you won’t. You will spend more time on that computer of yours, probably hacking away at a short story.” Griffin didn’t admit it, but deep down inside he could already see that brilliant document, and the little black words looming onto the page as his ideas blossomed through the fragments of his imagination. As the bell rang to return to classes; he groaned as it was going to be a long, hard, day before he got to write.

Griffin’s house seemed rather pitiful in comparison to the massive homes of their neighbors.  Two floors, four small rooms on each floor, painted a dull white, no beautiful gardens, and with a garage where two cars barely fit.

Upon his arrival, the clean sound of the door opening gave Griffin a sense of satisfaction like he had just entered a lively inn, after a day of exciting journeying. He could see it now; the rain was pounding drearily out of the door and in his imagination, a weary traveler had arrived. He was in a tight tunic over his torso paired with tight black pants, and a small dagger was sheathed at his hips with a long cape trails behind him. On the first floor, the inn was a tavern, roaring with drunkards and a lute player softly strummed away at the strings of his instrument. Through all the chaos, the weary traveler saunters up to the desk. Right then he realized the ‘desk’ was the kitchen table, and that this ‘inn’ was the kitchen. Oh, another thing too; his home was anything but a safe place, it might be worse than school.  He knew deep down his daydreaming provided little more than writing material, everyone had always told him. With a sigh of slight depression, he began to hopelessly galavant upstairs. Every day he was faced with two choices: schoolwork or writing. Naturally, he usually picked the second option, and sloppily rushed to finish his homework minutes before bed. But he just had too much on his hands today, and he had to make the unusual choice of schoolwork.

He roughly dropped his heavy red book bag on the floor, as it rang out in a low bellowing tone. Thank goodness his mom wasn’t home, or he would be repaid with nothing but an aggressive growl from downstairs. He sprawled himself out on his bed, as glistening rays of sunlight cut through the window, dancing on his back.

A small bed next to the window and a small bookshelf by the side, filled with inspirational works from his favorite authors, seemed a safe environment for a writer. Of course, his most prized possession was on the small desk in the corner. He had worked over three years at his grandpa’s farm to be able to afford his primary tool for writing. It seemed insignificant as you walked into the room, that small Macintosh computer was loaded with every precious work of art he had ever written.

His stories were the one right thing in his life. Even his teachers thought that that kid indeed had a gift, a gift that could be used to help him go to college. Griffin hardly ever thought of going to college, he’d always assumed he’d merely publish a few novels in his teens to a good start; he’d hope that his skills and passion for writing would be enough for some publishing company to have interest. Of course, his parents would never dream of paying for college. One of the few things in the room that Griffin didn’t buy himself was the bed and mattress he lay on. That’s all his parents fell obligated to provide him. But he couldn’t ruin his day thinking of those two; he wouldn’t. He knew he had the power to create worlds and plots for him and others to escape the cold reality of this world. He prayed for others in despair to be able to use his stories and lessen their pain. Granted, he knew it never would happen, but that kid sure bonded with his characters. They were not tools, stepping stones to deliver glory to him, they were his friends, with their personalities, backgrounds, and beliefs. That was the reason he loved writing, the ability to forge characters full of heroism, generosity, and altruism, which he wished to encounter in real life.

His glance looked at that mac, a well-kept glistening white color. He darted his eyes around: a reflex he had developed to stay out of trouble. Then he excitedly leaped out of bed and hopped eagerly onto the yellow plastic chair that accompanied the desk. After the power-on sequence, Griffin smiled as he saw the already prepared doc load onto the screen. He took a deep breath, and with a grin, he began tapping away tenderly at the keys, as reality loomed into fantasy, and his soul was finally offered satisfaction.

Grade
11

To the ones who think friendship is easy...

The concept of “friendship” is hard to define. But I’ll tell you one thing. It’s anything but easy.

 

Some do it right and cross that long bridge to meet a friend at the center so they can jump down into the ocean waiting below. Together.

Others do it wrong and dive right into the water. Both start and end the same way, but the foundation is missing in one.

And that foundation is what gives meaning to the term… friendship. Friends are not something you just make and throw away the moment you get bored of them. They are not someone who you call up for entertainment but ignore when they need you. That’s not a friend. There’s another name for that.

A toy.

Or if you really want to be nice, an acquaintance.

 

To be friends, means to be putting in effort.

This means when they are angry with you, you work to talk it out and solve the problem.

This means that when you are angry with them, you tell them, instead of holding it in, waiting for all those little things to add up and go KABOOM, up in flames so that every little memory you had together is so obliterated, so marred by your fight that things will never be the same again.

 

I say this because you see, there was this girl. And she was my best friend, in a new school, a new world, and we dove right into it. No hesitation.

 

I was free falling into the water too soon, way too fast and it was too late for me to grab hold of the bridge, grab hold of her so that we could make that foundation.

 

It was only after we were in the water that I realized we had jumped straight into a riptide, and it was fighting to bring us both down under. But she decided to use me. Used me as though I was a piece of floating driftwood and pushed herself out of there, leaving me to be carried out further and further into the ocean until I couldn’t withstand the cold and the strength of the currents trying to bring me under and finally, my head dipped in and all was lost.

 

It started with her obsession with boys. There’s an unsaid girl code amongst friends. He’s her guy. You don’t try to take him from her.

 

Of course that’s how the tension started. Cliché, I know. It’s always boys. But jealousy is jealousy and it fills your mind and blinds you just like how water fills your nose and fills your lungs until all you can think about is the stinging of your nose and the suffocating pressure of the water filling you, filling you until you’re so heavy and so consumed that you sink. That was my mind and all I could see when I saw her. I didn’t like her using me to get closer to him and I didn’t like how she was slowly pulling him away from me. Even worse was the fact that she was successful. She wouldn’t just take herself away from me, she’d take him along with her.

 

Later, it wasn’t just him that made me so angry with her. I confronted her. I asked her,

“Do you like him?”

 

“No! Of course not! I could never like him!”

She said it while smiling and laughing, rolling her eyes as though the idea was absurd.

 

I found out the following week she had confessed to him.

 

But I never confronted her about it. About her lies. I didn’t realize how much they would pile up.

 

I stayed silent every time she would ditch me to go hang out with her guy “friends,” or every time she “forgot” about a project we had to work on so I’d be forced to stay up till 3 finishing what she should have finished days ago.

I pretended not to know when the things I told her in confidence, things close to my heart were thrown casually by her for the rest of the world to know.

 

But I chose to swallow down every little incident, like gulping down water instead of air, as she would make me laugh and smile and introduce me to new people. The fun I had around her would replace air with water and at first I was fine with that. But slowly, that feeling of suffocation would grow, so gradually that even I didn’t notice at first.

 

I wouldn’t confront her every single time she lied to me, said something that made me uncomfortable or insecure about myself. Let them all pile up until the day was reached where all went KABOOM, all up in flames.

 

And that was that. We were done for. And our friendship never was the same again.

 

I was drowning by myself, watching bitterly as she laughed with her new friends, anger causing me to shut out those who tried to pull me out of the water.

 

But what I didn’t know, was her heart. What was going on with her and how, in her mind, I was the one who left when she most desperately needed me.

 

You see, there is a debilitating disorder called monophobia. And it comes hand in hand with depression.

She hated being alone. Despised it. Dreaded it. Feared it.

A second left alone and it was like in that vast sea she was impossibly alone, the cold sucking away the warmth of human touch, her muffled hearing making the world suffocatingly quiet as the briny water stung her eyes, blurring the world out of focus. And in that second she had to get away, as quick and as fast as she could. She needed someone, anyone to reach out her hand to her and lend her the warmth she thrived on. Her anxiety was growing by the second and she could feel it about to tear out from her skin, start to stiffen her limbs like a cramp, forbidding her to move. But she forced it down, drawing up that white wall of sound to block out her thoughts and kicked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times until she felt a pop as water rushed out of her ears, sunlight kissed her skin once more, shining through her closed lids. It was only then that she realized she had left me behind. She came back, looking for me, pushing through her nightmares of water to find me only to realize I was no longer there.

 

Her deceptions were ultimately what would lead to her demise and she knew it. But she wouldn’t change a thing.

 

Opening admitting to her lies would only lead to a loss of “friends” and ultimately, that meant being alone. And being alone meant the shadows would start dancing around her slowly leaching out what kept her so bright.

And if that light was extinguished, she would cease to be the sunny person she wanted everyone to see her to be.

And should everyone see what she was like once the flattering radiance had left, well…

She didn’t even want to think about it.

 

And so she left her good friend behind in the riptide and chose to save herself. And survive she did.

A new BFF, a new circle of friends, and the same luminous quality she had to herself would bring people to her, widening that circle of friends so that not a second would go by where she was alone.

 

And like moths to a burning flame, she would burn through all of them to feed her light until it was her. The Riptide. The water that swallowed me up whole.

Grade
11

The Man in the Boat

 

A shaky frame of a house is on your TV screen. The house is more or less unremarkable, just like nearly everything else in the shot. A loud whirring sound comes from the TV and the shot slowly rotates around the house. The frame shifts. There are teams of special police, armed to the teeth, standing across the road. A loud noise is audible through the TV speakers, and it is clear that the footage is from a flying helicopter. The frame shifts again and focuses on a small motorboat behind the house. The boat is about 12 feet long and also unremarkable. The camera shakes, but never strays from the motorboat.

Suddenly, the shot switches. It shows a blurry photo of two men standing in a crowd, their faces nearly indistinguishable. A red circle appears over the face of the man on the left. A large block of text reads: “SUSPECT NO. 2”. The shot switches again, this time to a thermal camera. The frame is black, with a white glow in one section. You can make out the glow of a warm body lying inside the boat.

It's all over the news, on every other channel. The newscasters are repetitive. They describe the scene over and over, using the same language and repeating the same phrases. You really only need to listen to what they’re saying for a couple of minutes in order to understand what is happening. In fact, you might as well be watching the TV on mute. A man is lying in a boat, with a tarp over top of it. He is a killer, and he’s on the run from the police. The shot is slow; nothing is happening. The helicopter continues to spin around and around the boat. Every minute or two, they show the video of the bomb going off a few days earlier during the marathon. You’ve already seen it a million times, but it doesn’t make it any less disconcerting. Then the frame switches back to the boat, and you’re left to wonder what the man inside it is thinking.

Your grandmother, father, and brother are watching the news with you. Your father and brother aren’t worried; they wear an expression of resignation. They are more interested in conversation than a man lying in a boat. Your grandmother however, is worried. Her shoulders are hunched up and she has a grim expression on her face. She is encapsulated in the manhunt, and you can see it on her face. Nobody in the room is saying anything particularly important and neither are the reporters. Mostly, you hear a collection of “wow”s and “that’s awful”. The image on the TV hasn’t changed. It is neither interesting nor uninteresting. A man is lying in a boat. The pieces of the frame don’t fit together. It seems strange that an army of police would watch a boat so intently. Is seems strange that a man would lie in a boat for so long. It seems strange that this is captivating to your grandmother, and it seems strange that she would rather watch the man than listen to what your brother was saying about university. It seems strange that the TV is still on.

The reporters repeat the story over and over, highlighting the same few details every time. A marathon, a homemade bomb, two suspects--brothers, an intense manhunt, a shootout, getaway, and a man lying in a boat. Everyone on the TV wears the same serious expression. Everyone knows how the story is going to end.

Terrorism and mass murder like this are a frequent occurrence. Nobody who follows the news is particularly shocked when something like this happens. People hear the bad news and say “that’s so horrible. It can’t happen again”. They take out their mental list of horrible things on the news and add this event to the bottom. They remember the number of people killed and the geographical location; Boston, in this case. Put the words ‘Boston’ and ‘Bombing’ together and everyone knows what you’re talking about. They put on a grim face and shake their heads. Then, they go back to watching the new, to see where the next horrible event will be.

Events like these are not remembered. Usually, within a month or two, the news moves on and so does everyone else. If the event is remembered, it resurfaces during a casual conversation. “Do you remember that bombing at the race a couple years ago?” your aunt says, “With the muslim kid, in the boat?”. Inevitably, the ladies in the coffee shop nod and say, “That was a bad one. Killed three, I think”, then the women move on with their conversation, fulfilling their duty to ‘never forget’.

Events like these are not real, in your mind. They happen every so often on the TV, and they are talked about for the next week, so you can express how sorry you are for the victims, how awful it really must be. Events like these keep you watching the news, even if you’re just watching a man lying in a motorboat. They happen frequently. They are shown because they are there. They don’t ‘shock’ anybody, save the people who witnessed it firsthand. “It really is awful”, everyone says over and over again. You watch each event like this on TV, listen to every story about the most recent attack on the radio. After a week or a month, you hear about the next event and forget about the previous. The news continues. People feel sorry for the victims and hate for the perpetrators, but nothing really happens. They just wait for the next event.

You leave your grandmother’s house later that night. The drive home is long and the car is dark and silent. Your father drives. You and your brother watch the cars next to yours on the road. The highway flying by looks like a abstract painting: the broken lines move back and forth and lights pool around your car one moment, while leaving you in darkness the next. Nobody has anything to say. There is nothing to say. People kill, people die. There is nothing to do. Eventually, you will forget about it. After a week or so, you will feel better. Then, you will turn the news back on.