Drake brushed his teeth and checked the top right corner of the mirror. It had become a habit, checking it. Just like every day, a small sticky note was pasted onto the corner of the mirror. Today’s said “hello.” Uh-oh, she was mad. It was custom for his wife to write a small, endearing note, but when she was upset, she would always write “hello.”  He checked his watch, 7:05, just like every day. Drake woke up at seven each morning as if his body was an alarm itself. Similarly, he always fell asleep at seven, too, it didn’t matter what he was doing or where he was doing it. In fact, a few months earlier, he fell asleep waiting for the red light to turn green, and had it not been for his wife shaking him to wake up, Drake might have stayed asleep until seven the next morning. Since then, he was sure to be in bed by seven. Aubrey, on the other hand, didn’t need as much sleep. She was just as punctual as he, though. Every day, she spent thirty minutes at the Norteville Park, where the two had met, to watch the sunrise and sunset.

            Drake scurried out the front door and to the florist shop just on the other side of the street. Petunias. Aubrey loved petunias. Taking out his wallet, he grabbed a bouquet of the pink flowers, an Almond Joy, and a glance at the park, where Aubrey was sitting at the bench and staring across the lake. He strolled over and sat next to her. While opening the pack of Almond Joy, he gently set down the petunias on her lap and asked, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

She was silent.  He offered her the Almond Joy, her favorite candy, and said “Please?”

“Nothing,” she replied, reluctantly biting into the chocolate and coconut candy. Drake sighed and thought of everything that had happened since last night. What could he have done? Then, it hit him. Yesterday Aubrey’s mother was coming over for dinner. Remembering the dirty plates in the sink this morning, Drake figured that she had been running late and arrived after seven, by which Drake was asleep and unable to answer the door. Her mom must have had to wait until Aubrey got home to get in.

“I’m sorry. I thought your mom had cancelled so I just went to bed last night. I promise I’ll make it up to you and your mom for lunch.” Aubrey looked at him and smiled. She could never stay mad at him for long and she knew that his apology plans were always well thought out and exciting.

The next day, Drake woke up at seven, and walked over to the bathroom. No note. Drake panicked. Aubrey always left a note. Unsure of what had happened, he rushed out the door and looked at the bench at the park. There she was, gazing out over the lake. Walking over, he ran through scenarios in his head. Was she mad again? What did I do this time? Did we run out of sticky notes? He settled down beside her and asked “hey, what happened?”

“What do you mean?” she responded, confused.

“Oh, you didn’t leave a note on the mirror today.”

She stared back, with a blank face. “What?”

“You didn’t leave a sticky note on the mirror. You know how you always leave a sticky note?”

She laughed and replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Drake walked her home and showed her the full cabinet of old sticky notes. “Weird, I don’t remember ever writing these,” she commented.

Next morning, Drake awoke, per his usual bodily alarm clock. Still no note. Sluggish, he walked out the front door of his house and lazily shuffled towards his wife, who sat on the bench staring at the stormy clouds. He sat down next to her and put his jacket on her. She looked at him blankly and was silent for a few seconds, before saying, “Hi, I’m Aubrey.”

He laughed and hugged her, “Yes, baby, I know. Come on, let’s go home. It’s cold.”

She furrowed her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side, visibly confused. Then, she remembered. He was her husband, of course. How could she have forgotten?

At the doctor’s office, Dr. Graham invited the couple to sit, his expression both caring and concerned, and began to speak, slowly and calmly. Alzheimer’s. Never had a single word crippled the two so much. All of the doctor’s other words seemed to blur together in a haze of confusion. Alzheimer’s, Aubrey had Alzheimer’s.

Within two months, North Sun Care Center was Aubrey’s permanent home. She had almost no recollection of Drake; he was like a word that was on the tip of her tongue yet she couldn’t think of. With special permission from North Sun, on the weekends, she could still go to the Norteville Park to watch the sunrise. On those weekends, Drake always disguised himself as another early-morning-and-sunrise enthusiast, sitting on the bench just a few yards to the left of Aubrey’s typical spot. She occasionally nodded to him, but they never spoke. One morning, feeling especially audacious, he decided he wanted to speak with Aubrey; it had been forever since he had felt the same sort of completeness he felt when he was with her. He seated himself next to her and commented, “The sun really is…cool.” Instantly, he regretted it. He had just described the Sun as cool. Cool was just about the most bland and vague adjective in the entire English language and logically, the Sun wasn’t cool, it was hot.

A few seconds and a long series of mental face palms by Drake later, she replied, “Honestly, the Sun is kind of hot.” Drake laughed and she reached out her hand, “Hi, I’m Aubrey.” Her bright smile was exactly the same as so long ago, when they first met on the other side of Norteville Park.

The Phoenix

Jynsa Lin brushed her hair out of her face and raised a spoonful of broth to her lips. The silky black strands just swung back into her face, brushing her collarbone. She wasn’t even allowed a strip of leather to bind her hair up. The clicking of boots and echoing down the hall alerted her to the arrival of a guard. She bowed her head submissively, staring at her worn black-gray shirt and pants, hair covering her face completely. The leering man appeared, banging on the bars of her cell with his spear. A new guard, she noted. Normally the guards were too disgusted by her appearance to go near her for any reason other than to give her food.

“Don’t feel too sorry for yourself- you deserve whatever you got, wench.” the guard sneered, jabbing at her with his spear. She snapped her head up, eyes blazing at the remark, and he startled at her mangled cheek, at her golden eye. “Witch,” he spat, and quickly stalked away. Memories of the wound flooded Jyn. She let them carry her away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jyn sat attentively on the carpeted floor of the throne hall. Generals and advisors argued back and forth, discussing how to keep control of Adirah, capital city of Sherrha. Rebellion had sprung up there, and was currently succeeding. Adirah had been her kingdom’s colony for almost two decades, and the king wanted to keep it that way. Jyn reflected that this was the only council meeting she would ever be allowed to attend. Nagging her father had paid off. She played with the sleeve of her sweeping robe. Women didn’t attend war councils, her father had said distastefully before bringing her here. As one of the favored advisors of the king, he shared some, if not all, of the king’s barbaric beliefs. She cast a glance towards the king himself, presiding over the council on his gilded throne on the dais at the end of the hall. The bickering suddenly silenced as one of the generals, Tagara, stood up and faced the king.

“My liege, why not simply exhaust Sherrha and force them to surrender? We have an advantage in resources, compared to the rebels, and our army can outlast them. I suggest we besiege them until they run out of supplies.”

“But our own soldiers will die in droves in a siege! We barely have enough supplies to outlast the rebels!” exclaimed one of the others.

“But we will have reduced the citadel to starving beggars, no, Advisor Muro?” A small smirk crossed General Tagara’s face. “And with that, our control over all of Sherrha will be cemented once more.” Jyn’s shock and outrage consumed her. She jumped up to face him.

“You can’t send an entire division to die off so you can regain control of a colony sooner! These are people who love and defend our nation! How could you betray them like that and send them off to die?” She glanced around the room. A few council members shifted uneasily, while one or two nodded. Tagara looked down at her with open contempt. Embarrassed and furious, her father hissed at her to apologize and sit down. She tried again.

“Those men have families, wives and children that depend on them. Mothers who will await their return as a war hero back home! What would they think if they knew that their children and husbands and fathers had been sent on a suicide mission like cattle to slaughter? Where is your honor if your do this?” Jyn shook her head. “What you’re doing is callous and dishonorable! There have to be other ways than sending an entire division to die!”

“If you would allow me to interrupt your tirade, Lady,” a smooth voice interjected from the dais. “General Tagara, I approve of your plans. And you…”

Jyn felt the weight of the king’s gaze as he looked at her, eyes glittering with malicious amusement. “Perhaps it is not clear to you, Lady, but you are not to speak in this council. Nor is it your place to judge its actions or decisions. By doing exactly that, you have insulted my general, and by extension, me.”

A bolt of fear pierced Jyn. She shouldn’t have spoken out. The king was merciless, and her outburst would cost her. But if not her, she asked herself, then who?

“See how she speaks with such fire,” the king’s cruel voice rang, addressing the council, and then to her: “Surely, you wouldn’t mind a bit more. Guards!”

Before Jyn could protest, two sentries appeared behind her and seized her arms. “Take her down to the dungeons.”

Jyn was pushed through hallways and down stairs, and she considered the king’s words. His comment about her “fire”- there were braziers down in the dungeons, used for heating branding irons or torturing rods. She started to hyperventilate as the realization struck, trying to wrench her arms out of the vise-like grips. They were going to burn her, they were going to- dizziness washed over her. The footsteps of the council sounded behind her, murmuring to themselves. She was pushed into a room with a table and a fire pit by the king’s silent direction.

“Drown her in fire.”

She struggled against the guards that held her arms, kicking and flailing, but they dragged her towards the crackling brazier. Closer and closer by the second, she could see the orange-yellow coals and feel the heat of the flame. The watching council quieted at the sight of her struggle, but not one of them came to her aid, not even her father.

“The left side of her face,” the king said from somewhere to the side. “Enough that she will live, but with a reminder of her dishonor forever.”

A hand clamped over her topknot and twisted her head so that her left eye and cheek faced the flame. Whimpering and shaking became thrashing and shrieking. The hand behind her head shoved her face into the flame, and for an instant she felt nothing until white-hot agony spread across her face, so fierce she couldn’t even let out a scream. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook from the pain. Choked sobs and shrieks forced their way past her lips as she writhed in that position, her face in the fire, for what seemed like an eternity. She couldn’t move her mouth. Her left eyelid was in burning pain, her cheek searing. She was suddenly yanked out of the flames and tossed to the floor, landing hard on the unforgiving stone. Air fanned across her face, sending it into scorching pain again. Jyn let the wave of black crash over her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She woke in a dimly lit room, her left eye and cheekbone covered by soft cloth. A soft shift that fell to her shins had replaced her silk robe. As she slowly gained consciousness, the blistering pain hit. Her back arched off the cot, but she couldn’t scream. Only broken whimpers came from her. Someone rushed in through the door, and with a glint of silver she was drowning in black again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Weeks later, Jyn had healed, at least to the extent that she could walk and talk, could remove the bandage from her face without fear of damage or infection. The first time she’d looked in the mirror she’d nearly vomited. Plasticky burn scars, an ugly burnt red color, stretched from below her left eye and cheekbone almost to her temple and ear. Her hair was mostly untouched, probably because she’d had it in a topknot. Her left eye, also victim to the flames, had narrowed from the melted skin, so she was perpetually glaring with it. The iris of the eye had gone from dark brown-black to an unearthly golden color. She could still see through the eye, which the healer told her was a miracle. Jyn was also informed that a battalion had been sent to besiege Adirah. She’d sat quietly for hours, blood roaring in her ears and pounding through her head, unable to think or speak. Her pleas had been for nothing, had had no effect. One day later, she was visited by her father, who spat at her that she’d been stripped of her station and honor. Two days later, she was carted away by guards and thrown in Jejuna Prison.

The largest prison in the nation, Jejuna housed the worst of the worst in its lower levels and temporarily kept people who’d done practically nothing in its upper levels. It extended many floors above and below the ground for space, constantly expanding. Jyn had been put somewhere in the middle. Her stomach had roiled at the sight of all the gaunt, hopeless faces in their cells. This was where she would be stuck for the rest of her life. That had been six weeks ago, if her timekeeping was accurate. In that time her disgust and disapproval of the nobles in that room had turned to hatred; her resignation to resolve.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

She snapped back to the present as another cringing guard rapped on the cell bars and told her to finish eating. Slurping up the broth, Jynsa slid the bowl and spoon out of her cell. One day, she silently promised herself, she would take her revenge. For herself and for all her nation’s soldiers killed in that raid. Even if it took years, she would get free. A soft, savage laugh rasped out of her.

She had risen from the ashes, reborn, and she would burn anyone in her way.

“Can I light that for you?” a gentleman asked over the classical romantic music being played, holding up his lighter as an offering. Kate smirked and subtly nodded at him. She watched as his thumb clicked the lighter in a matter of seconds, creating a flame in the midst of the bar. Its glowing orange shade reflected off of the tower of champagne glasses and crystal chandeliers hanging above the crowds.

“Look at that,” Kate remarked in wonder with an unlit cigarette in her mouth. The light breeze danced with the flame, swaying it left and right, and sometimes, one would overpower the other; the flame would dim or it would grow stronger.

Kate leaned above the gentleman’s lighter, interjecting the tall flame with her unlit cigarette. The flame became spastic and then calmed down, as she placed the cigarette between her fingers, wiping at the stain left by her red lipstick. “Fire always interested me.” she said softly, looking directly in the gentleman’s eyes.

He chuckled, before taking a seat. “Can I get you a drink-”

Before she could reply, a male voice was heard from behind her. “Ah, yes. The rapid oxidation in combustion that releases heat and light. It’s very charming.” He walked between the two, placing his hands on both of their shoulders. “Maybe not the best first date material, though. Now, go on,” he directed at the gentleman, shooing him away like a fly.

“Anthony, how lovely it is to see you.” Kate muttered, angrily taking another smoke. “It wasn’t a date.”

“Oh, right. How could I forget? This is your thing: you hunt down wealthy men for their money,” he said, catching the attention of the bartender. “A scotch on the rocks, please.”

Her hand began to twitch and an overwhelming rush of heat reached her powdered face. “You don’t know anything about me,”

“I bet these are fake.” he said, grabbing a hold of her wrist and looking at the many rings on her hand. “You can’t possibly afford these.”

“Stop!” she yelled through her teeth, trying not to attract attention. She pulled her arm away and wiped her hands on the velvet fabric of her gown.

“I’m assuming they’re your sister’s. The dress included.”

“Why don’t you say it louder for everyone to hear?”

Anthony quietly thanked the bartender, before turning back to Kate, never breaking eye contact. “Kate Donovan wears her sister’s clothing becau-”

Kate’s hand immediately covered his mouth, one of her nails digging into his lip. “You will never tell anyone that. Especially the reason.” Her voice felt stuck in the back of her throat. “Why are you here?” she whispered, removing her hand and cupping his face instead.

“Because,” he started, moving her hands away. “I have this idea for my next photography project. I want to showcase a gallery about urban life.” Her eyebrow lifted and her countenance relaxed, motivating Anthony to continue. “I wanted to get your permission to take pictures of your… home, if that’s what you would call it.”

This time, it was Kate’s turn to laugh. “You want to take pictures of my miserable life?” She took another puff, blowing out the smoke towards Anthony’s face. “For what possible reason?”

“For my art gallery.”

“To mock me.”

“It’s about urban life. You’re part of it, aren’t you? So, I just want your permission to take a few photos,” he reassured her.

“I’m going to have to pass.” And with that, she grabbed her coat and purse off of the bar counter and made her way towards the exit. She squeezed through many crowds of the elite, who were sipping champagne and discussing the latest current events. She barely made it through without tears spilling.

Once the cold air of the night hit her face and the door to the bar closed, she threw the remnants of her cigarette on the concrete and crushed it to nothing but ashes. The bottom of her shoe dug into the matter, as she tried to keep up her balance from her heels that were a size too big; she took them from a lost-and-found.

The wind was constantly blowing in her face, knocking her down, and forcing her to confront with her reality. No matter how much she manipulated her exterior, it would never make up for the interior- a darker place that stored the hardships she endured in a photo album.

“Kate!” Anthony suddenly called from the entrance, his voice echoing down the street. When she didn’t respond, he began running after her. Out of breath, he turned her around to face him, and for a moment, the wind died down. “Kate, you have to stop playing these games-”

“Okay,” she interrupted shortly.

He did a double take. “Wait, really? That’s it?”

Kate avoided eye contact. “Who am I even kidding, Anthony? What am I doing with my life?” She was about to take out a new cigarette, but Anthony was a step ahead. “Thanks,” she mumbled, lighting his gift. She then pursed her quivering lips on the cigarette, inhaling as much as she could. Both of them stood there in silence for a few moments, watching corporate men in crisp suits walk out, with dazzling arm candy dressed in the latest styles fresh off the runway. “I could never be that,” Kate revealed, chuckling as puffs of smoke escaped from her mouth. “So, I might as well accept the truth with some professional pictures.”

Anthony was genuinely stunned, and Kate could see his eyes lighten up and his entire posture soften. “Of course, Kate. Thank you.” He then put his arm on the small of her back, as they walked to her “home”- the basement of her sister’s house. There was only an old couch, a pile of dirty clothes and cardboard boxes filled with receipts and past credit cards. The ceiling was cracked with lines running across, and a bucket was situated in the left corner to catch leaking water.

Her heels went flying, when she and Anthony made it to the bottom of the staircase, her bare feet meeting the uncleaned carpet.

“Not a single thing has changed,” Anthony noted, his eyes gazing over the entire room.

“Is this why you broke up with me?” she suddenly asked, gesturing to her facade. He gave a hesitant chuckle, as Kate plopped down on the couch, causing a squeak when her body collided with the worn-out springs. She smoothed out her gown before saying, “Get my good side at least, will you?”

Anthony took out his camera from his bag, went down on one knee, and proceeded to take pictures. The flash went off in a matter of seconds, and Kate’s eyes were brightened by its yellow and white light. There was a new glow to her, as if the wind had finally begun to die down and the flame inside of her was beginning to grow stronger.

The worst choice ever. Today is the day I'm going to my dad’s house for the first time in 3 years. I know I'm gonna miss my mom. I’ll be 865.1 miles away from her. The whole summer with my dad, oh boy, it's going to be a long one. 
My dad pulled up in a shiny gray 2017 Chevy Camaro. I was riding my scooter up and down the sidewalk. I saw him, he got out of the car and ran toward me with a big smile. I was excited to see him but scared at the same time. He would always say “I’ll be here I’ll be here,” and I would get my hopes up, and the day he said he would be here he’s not, so I stopped getting my hopes up. Now he's here and I don't know what I’m feeling. I love him and miss him. We walk up to my house, I'm holding on to him with all my might saying to myself. Why did you leave? Did you have to go? 
I get my bags from my house. My mom and dad talk about a day my mom is gonna pick me up from my dad’s house. I’m walking down to the car with my bags in my hand, and this lady I’ve never met gets out. 
“Hi, my name is Lisa, I’m your dad’s wife.” I shudder at the word wife. Knowing what he does. 
“Hi,” I respond awkwardly. I get into the car and hug my little sister Mari.  There is another girl in the car, she’s my step-sister, her name is Robyn. I don’t get to see her much, so it was good to see her. The car ride was super boring, we just played on our phones the entire time.
15 hours later, we arrive in Atlanta. I fell out of the car with my bags in my hand. Mari, Robyn and I ran up to the apartment building. We walk into the apartment, and I'm surprised, to see 3 guys sitting on the couch. My dad walks in behind me and introduces me to them. The oldest one's name is Ryan, the middle one's name is Justin, the youngest one's name was Christian. 
“Zoya these are your step-brothers.” 
“Uh, hi,” I said awkwardly. I set my stuff down next to the couch and sat down. We were all quiet until Ryan asked everyone if they wanted cinnamon rolls. They all said yes, except me. 
“You sure you don't want one?” Ryan asked. 
“I'm sure,” I replied. He walked away. My dad and Lisa went into their rooms to get ready for bed. It was super late, it was 1:00 AM. Robyn and Meri got ready for bed, Justin, and Ryan was playing GTA 5 in the living room. Robyn and Mari came out of the bedroom with their PJ’s on. “We don’t go to bed at this time, we go to bed at 5 AM.” Justin and Ryan said. I was so confused. The latest I've stayed up is midnight on New Years, but 1 in the morning is so late. 
“Wanna play too Zoya?” Justin asked. I’m kinda shy when it comes to new people.
 “Um sure, only if you teach me,” I replied. They taught me how to play, the game was so easy. Five minutes later, my dad comes out. 
“WHY ARE YOU GUYS NOT IN BED WE HAVE A LONG DAY TOMORROW!” He yelled. “ZOYA I EXPECTED MORE FROM YOU, YOU’RE TIRED I CAN SEE IT IN YOUR EYES! GET TO BED ALL OF YOU! NOW!”
 We turned off the TV, making the room pitch black.  I was scared. Not in the dark, but of my dad. We threw on our clothes and lay down in our designated sleeping spots. I lay down and started to doze off. I was half asleep when water slowly dripped down on my head, then all of a sudden  Splash! A whole pot of water went all over my head, they were recording it too. It was so embarrassing, I was soaking wet it was horrible. I didn’t know what to do, I ran to my Dad’s room and knocked on his door.  No response.  I knocked again, no response. I walked away from the door in tears, my soaking wet moppy hair dripping water all over my face.  I was cold and wet. I lay down on the wet floor where I had been laying. I put the wet blanket over my head and fell back asleep. I woke up to the smell of wet dog. It was me who smelled like a wet dog from last night. My hair was a mess it was wet and tangled. My dad asked us who was knocking at the door, he seemed pretty upset about it. 
“It was Zoya, she was crying,” Christian said. 
“Zoya, why where you knocking at our door?” Dad asked. 
“Well, Justin dumped water all over me while I was sleeping,” I responded. 
“No I didn't, I would never do that, Vince I’m older you have to believe me,” Justin argued. 
“I believe Zoya, she’s all wet how can I not believe her, plus you’re older you need to own up to your actions. Remember you’re 15 years old.” Dad responded back. ”Go take a shower Zoya.” I walked to the bathroom to shower off when Justin stopped me in the hallway.
“Zoya you got me in trouble for pouring a little bit of water on your head,” Justin argued. 
“That’s so unfair!  You poured a whole cooking pot of water on my head,” I argued back. I walked into to the bathroom to shower. The bathroom was gross.  It had grime on the bottom of the shower.
“No way am I getting in this tub without flip-flops on,” I whisper to myself so no one heard me. I ran to get my flip flops out of the bottom of my swim bag and ran back into the bathroom. I got in there and took my clothes, feeling the cold air conditioning hit my back. I turned on the shower and got in.  It was cold at first but then it got warm. I washed my already wet hair with shampoo and cleaned my already wet body, removing the horrible scent that I hope to forget. 
                Later that day we walked down to the pool, it was a nice pool. I jumped straight into the pool.  It was so nice to be in a pool. 
“Zoya let’s play ‘Marco Polo’!” Mari yelled at me. 
“Okay, I’ll be Marco the rest of you are Polo!” I yelled back. I got out of the pool and counted to ten.  I jumped into the pool with my eyes closed and yelled “MARCO.” 
Justin, Mari, Ryan, Cristin, and Robyn yelled “POLO.”
“MARCO!”
“POLO!”
“MARCO!”
“POLO!”
“MARC- !” I hit someone. “Was that you Mari?”
“Ugh, you got me!” Mari yelled.
“Marco!” Mari yelled.
“Polo!” we all yelled back.
“Marco!” 
“Polo!”
“Marco!” 
“Agh you got me!” Justin said.
“Guys it’s time to go home,” Dad yelled. 
We got out of the pool and grabbed our towels. We walked back to the house with my towel wrapped around me. The pool water was dripping down my back, the hard cement was scratching my feet. When we got back to the apartment I ran to the bathroom and changed into comfy clothes. When I came out of the bathroom everyone was on different sides of the room on their phones not talking, I was super confused.
“Guys, what are you doing?” I asked.
“While you were in the bathroom Mari decided it was a good idea to slap me in the face," Justin said.
"Mari, why did you do that?" I asked.
"I don't know I just felt like it," Mari responded. 

ONE MONTH LATER(July)

"Dad come on we have to go to the football game," I yelled.
"Okay, I'm coming," dad yelled from his room.
    I run out to the car with Mari, Cristan, Justin, and Ryan.
“Ok Christian in the middle, Justin and Ryan on each side of Christian,” Dad says
“Umm where are we gonna sit,” I respond.
“You’re going to sit on their laps. Zoya you’re on Ryan’s lap, Mari you’re on Justin’s lap, and lastly Robyn you’re on Christian’s lap,” dad said.
I crawl into the cramped car after Mari and Robyn got in. We were in the car for twenty minutes. We finally got to the football game. Dad went down to the football field with Ryan. Mari, Justin, Christian, and I walked up the cement stairs to the bleachers. I could see my dad from where I was sitting, he had on a bright red shirt that said Coach Vincent on it. 
After the football game we got ready for bed. Just like every night I was afraid to go to bed, I was so afraid that someone was gonna pour water all over my head. Tonight was not going to be that night. Justin and I stayed up until eight in the morning planning this. I got all the ingredients to do this.
“Ok, I got the hair gel, shea butter, and the shaving cream,” I whispered.
I put the hair gel all over my hand, then placed the shea butter, then the shaving cream. Right before i could slap Christian in the face he woke up.
“What are you guys doing?” Christian asked.
“I’m washing my face and Justin is playing GTA 5,” I replied.
Christian started to doze off when ‘SLAP’ I hit Christian straight across the face. 
“Zoya what was that for?”
“That was for pouring water on my head last night,”I responded.
I layed down on the couch and fell asleep. 
“ZOYA GET UP!” someone yelled in my ear
I jump right off the couch and fell onto the floor making a loud noise.
“Christian told me what you did last night. Because of that you have to clean the entire kitchen,” My dad yelled.
“Ugh what a lucky day,” I said.
“ZOYA WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY! IN TIME OUT, NOW!” Dad screamed.
I walk to the very small office with my dad following behind me. I sit down on the uncomfortable office chair.
“Why. Did. You. Slap. Christian?” My dad yelled as he punched my arm with every word.
“I wa-wanted pay back for him pouring water on my head yesterday night,” I cried.
“You are gonna sit in the office until you realize what you did wrong!”
All day I say in the office, Sitting there just thinking.

Today there was no school for Grace, so she relaxed and tidied up her room. Her house was quite big, with yellow flowers that framed the large windows and white columns. Since it was only Grace, her mother, and her brother, other people came to the home to live with them as well. As Grace peered outside, the rays of sun shone through the window. She went outside to go for a walk, but stopped abruptly because her neck began to hurt, most likely from sleeping the wrong way. Shaking it off, she continued walking because it was a beautiful day, the birds chirping above. She walked slowly across the sidewalk, inhaling the fresh air and watching squirrels jump from branch to branch. A smile spread across her face until she saw one of the squirrels head toward the woods. An uncomfortable feeling settled over her after she watched the squirrel, as if she had forgotten something and it was related to the woods. As she walked further down, she realized with horror that she hadn’t walked her brother back home from his school while her mother was at work, even when she had specifically asked Grace to. Her pace quickened and she took the shortcut through the woods.

Grace found it rather eerie to have to go past the dark and shadowing trees. Perhaps what she found even more unsettling was the thick branches that had grown out and blocked the bright sun from shining through. Her feet crunched the fallen brown leaves and the rotting trunks filled the air with their heavy, atrocious scent. Trying not to pay attention to her surroundings, she walked briskly, knowing that the school was near.

Once she was out of the woods, Grace looked up and saw that she had arrived at her destination. Relieved to finally be here, she ran in hoping that the teachers would’ve waited with Marcus until she arrived. She groaned with exasperation, for nobody was there. The brick school looked empty and without a doubt, Marcus had left. Grace assumed he had walked home alone after she didn’t come for such a prolonged time and a feeling of guilt crept up. Her mother would be furious if she knew that Grace had left her much younger brother to walk home all by himself. What if he didn’t know the way back to the house? She ran back to the woods rapidly, praying he would be home safe and waiting for her to come home.

Grace was becoming more concerned about her brother with each step. He was only six years old; how would he be able to find the way home by himself? What if he was hurt or injured? Grace recalled the time when Marcus was just three and screamed in the middle of the night. Grace and her mother came rushing into his room.

“What’s wrong?” their mother asked frantically. He couldn’t speak so he pointed up to the ceiling. Grace saw a small, black spider.

“Marcus, are you afraid of a tiny, harmless bug?” she teased.

“It’s scary! It has eight legs!” Marcus yelled, shaking from being so terrified.

“All we need to do is bring the spider back to its natural habitat,” their mother said. She cupped the spider gently with her hands and slowly let it out through the window.

“If you’re scared of spiders, they’re ten times more scared of you,” she said.

Grace could feel tears pricking in the corner of her eyes.

She became determined to see her brother again. He was probably just safely waiting for his sister to come home. She had to get there as soon as possible. Right when she was about to run, Grace’s legs began to cramp painfully. Standing still and looking around, she took in her surroundings because they looked unfamiliar. A wave of anxiousness filled her when she figured out that she was lost. She started to walk again, ignoring the cramps. Frustration built up inside her. She couldn’t even see a way out of the woods anymore. Without a clue, she walked around until she reached a bright maple tree. From there, she saw the sidewalk and a big white house surrounded by yellow flowers. Relieved, she headed to the house and upon arrival, a woman with a white dress came running toward her.

“Ms. Frances! Where have you been? The nursing home staff has been looking for you everywhere in the woods!” she exclaimed.

“Excuse me? How did you know I was in the woods? I was just trying to pick up my brother up from school. Is he here?” Grace asked. She didn’t understand what this woman was saying, nursing home staff? This was her house and some guests, not a home to care for elders. Why was she calling her Ms. Frances instead of Grace? Ms. Frances was her mother’s name.

The woman looked at Grace and sighed heavily.

“Ms. Frances, this is a nursing home. If you are to leave, please notify me so I will not be worried about your whereabouts,” the woman said.

Grace gave her a blank stare, then dismissed the strange things this woman was talking about.

“Where is my brother?”

“I must do this again, mustn’t I? Ms. Frances, your brother has passed away,” she said. The silence between them thickened and Grace stood there shocked, her whole body numb. She opened her mouth in an attempt to speak, but was unsuccessful and instead tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision.

“This is all my fault! He must have gotten injured after I didn’t pick him up!”

Grace felt her whole body heave from crying.

“Is mother okay? Oh, is she furious at me?”

The woman watched her sob. Her hand went to her temple and she rubbed it slowly while she took a deep breath and exhaled. Her gaze fixated on Grace’s eyes.

“No, Ms. Frances. Your brother died in a car crash thirty-seven years ago and your mother died seventeen years ago,” she said pitifully. The woman felt melancholy when she broke the news and she began to crack her knuckles out of habit, breaking the silence.

Grace stood quivering while she let the news process through. How had she not known that her family, the people she cared about most, had died? Surely, she would have remembered: this was a misunderstanding, a large one.

“My mother reminded me just yesterday evening to pick up Marcus from school while she was at work, she could not have died sixteen years ago! My brother is only six, so how could he have died twelve years ago?” Grace shouted.

The woman’s eyes softened and filled with pain to see Ms. Frances like this.

“Please come with me.”

She led Grace to a cemetery, and they stood in front of two tombstones

In loving memory of Mariah Frances

A mother who worked so hard to raise two children alone

You will never be forgotten

1924-2000

Marcus Frances

A loving son and brother

You are always in our hearts

1956-1980

“I can’t comprehend this. The dates are wrong, it isn’t 1980 yet, or 2000. It’s only 1962,” Grace said.

“No, the dates are right. Ms. Frances, you are not fifteen years old, you’re seventy. You have been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, which tricks your mind into thinking you’re much younger because it makes you think that you’re living in the past. This is why even though your brother and mother has passed away, you can’t remember,” the woman explained.    

Grace was unable to believe what the woman in front of her was saying until she looked at her hands, which she had thought were soft and youthful, but were instead cracked and wrinkled. She couldn’t even recall the burial of her family members and cried for her loved ones next to their tombstones. The woman waited with Grace, not leaving her side even when it became cold and dark. The woman was her nurse, who took care of Grace when she was sick or hurt, and to leave her during such a hard time would be amiss. Once no more tears could fall down her cheeks, Grace stood up and walked back home with her nurse, hand in hand.

The next morning, Grace woke up and cleaned her room. Later that day, she went outside to pick up the mail, but realized in horror that she had forgotten to walk her little brother back home from school.

                                              1.

It was hard for me to believe that she could behave that way. Supposedly she was my friend of three years.  We had gone trick-or-treating together last Halloween, been to her birthday party twice, and practiced tennis together many afternoons after school.  Just the night before, we had treated her family to a nice pasta dinner, complete with her favorite chocolate fudge ice cream, in celebration of our win together in doubles.  So, it was hard to understand why she did it.

Even long after the end of that fateful point, I still couldn’t understand Carrie’s actions.  When it was my turn to return serve, it was obvious that I was not ready. My back was turned to her as I was fixing my cap, tightening the strap around my ponytail. When I turned around, the ball was already flying by me. I looked at her wondering what had just happened, but she looked back at me with steely eyes and took the point.

A lot of the girls wanted to win at all costs. Often opponents would try to annoy me as a way to distract me from the game.  One girl even cried real tears and timed her bawling outbursts only when I was serving. Amazing. One strategy is to serve to the opponent when the opponent is not ready.  The quick serve. These stunts are pulled more often by players who are losing.  And she was losing.  But I let my guard down thinking she was my friend.

All those thoughts ran through my head in a split second.  So I quickly regained my composure and went on to playing the next point, trying to overlook the fact that my friend had just stolen a  point from me.  Even though Carrie did not quick serve me again for the rest of the match, she started doing other things to annoy me, like calling close balls out, questioning my line calls, and not calling out the score as she was supposed to.

How could she be so ruthless in trying to win this match? Didn’t she care about the consequences?  Didn’t she care about our friendship?

In the end, I won the match but that happy lighthearted triumphant feeling of winning was not there.  It was replaced by an unfamiliar cold and painful feeling of betrayal.  I stopped playing doubles with her after that match. Now whenever I see her at tournaments, my heart races and I have to decide if she is my friend or foe.

                                              2.

Today was different.  The early morning sun was starting to warm my hands. I held onto my new racquet, endorsed by Djokovic in all the tennis magazine spreads.  And like Djokovic, I was going to win.  I had been playing tennis since before kindergarten.  Initially it was the thrill of hitting a cone and earning a buck that kept my interest. Then I started to enjoy the spectators in the park who would clap when a cone was knocked down. I loved the excitement in their eyes and smiles. These days, I loved the excitement of playing a hard-fought game even if the results didn’t turn out the way that I want.

My heart began to race as we pulled into the parking lot of the tennis center, but my mind slowed it with a verse from Frozen: “Here I stand in the light of day.”  There was no hesitation.  I was tired of losing.  This time I was going to show my parents that I could win.  Something like “the wind is howling like a swirling storm inside” was telling me how I was going to do it.

It was not a quick warm up.  I did my routine: one-hundred jumps on the weighted rope, Carioca running drills, high-knees, butt-kickers and finally deep low lunges.  In that order.  Every time.  I could do them with my eyes closed.

Then it was almost time to check-in. Focus.  Remember Plan A: serve to the opponent’s backhand with a slice.  If that didn’t work, go to Plan B.  Hit an angled ground stroke to her backhand and then go down the line.  If both fail, then Plan C.  But there was no Plan C.  Help!  Keep breathing.  Don’t forget to breathe out when jumping into the serve.  Right.  I would be alright if I stuck to the plan.  Finally, behind the long row of palms, stood the tiny, almost hidden check-in-desk.

The overworked lady at the desk with the rushed, pulled-up hair glanced up quickly at me and snapped, “Your name?” in the most unpleasant and grouchy voice.  “Pastel,” I replied, still sheepishly after all these years.  “Court seven.  Be at the court in an hour.  If you’re not on time, there’s a point deduction ….”  And I could finish the sentence each time I was told, but I’d always swallow hard knowing that someday I might be late and get penalized.  Luckily it had never happened… yet. Better not to tempt fate.

I took a step back from the lady behind the desk and asked, “Who am I playing?” She searched through the draw sheets. I nearly fell backwards as she drawled, “Carrie Z., she’s your opponent.”

“Thank you,” I said hastily and sped off.

For the remainder of the hour, I continued my warm-up dynamic exercises, rehearsed my battle strategies. Before I knew it, time was up.  I heard the loud speaker announce that Carrie Z. was already on the court and asked for me to go to Court Seven.  I hoped that today would be a lucky day because my favorite number was seven.  But what if that’s Carrie’s favorite number now?  After all, it had been nearly two years since we last spoke.

At the court, Carrie and I gave each other swift smiles and brisk hi’s.  She had changed her hair style, keeping her brown hair longer, now tied up neatly in a swaying ponytail sectioned into thirds with three blue hair ties.  So nice.  What happened to the bangs?

“Do you want to spin your racquet?” Carrie’s voice punctuated the silence.  “Arrow up or down?”

“Arrow up,” I replied and watched the racket land arrow down so Carrie was going to serve first, and I picked to start on the side of the court against the morning sun.  I knew she had become a lot better player.  Something about her composure.  Had she forgotten about what she’d done to me just two years ago?  Should I return the favor and stab her in the back? No, I forced myself to hum the words in my head, “Let it go, let it go; turn away and slam the door.”  Then the words just blurted out loud, “It’s time to see what I can do,” as I tightened my cap strap around my ponytail.

An hour and a half into the match, I felt the sun’s rays pouring down on me; palms and brows salty and sweaty, I felt my ribcage heave and swell around my bursting heart.  It was difficult to maintain concentration.  I was mentally and physically exhausted.  But I was ahead 6-1, 5-4.  Still, I was taken aback that Carrie had not used any of her old bag of tricks this time.  The line calls were fair.  There was no questioning my calls. Now I just had to focus.  One more game and I would win.  This was crunch time. When I was up, I had a bad tendency to relax and my mind could wander, allowing the other play to catch up.  Then I would have to play a third full set.  And I hate third sets! 

Just split, run to the ball, load, feet solid on the floor and swing.  Remember to rotate the shoulder and hip to complete that full swing. Relax.  I had done it thousands of times in practice.  But Carrie surprised me and gave me an awkward ball that landed right in front of me so I sliced defensively. The ball landed short. Before I knew it, the ball flew by me. Minutes later, I had lost the second set.

My turn to serve.  The sun was directly in my eyes, fiercely bright. I ineffectively tried to shield the light with my other hand.  As always, I bounced the ball seven times.  Would Carrie carry out her old tricks now?  Just really focus.  Do the deep knee bend, trophy position, and jump into the serve.  I could see Carrie’s sharp silhouette, jaguar crouch, swaying right and left waiting to pounce on her prey… me.

All the same, I was confident I could do this.  I had been playing tennis since I was four years old.  I took a deep breath and my knees dropped synchronized to my arm bend in perfect trophy position, hip leaning forward, then in a flash my legs sprang up, and my racquet ripped the ball.  My slice serve landed right where I wanted it.  But the spin did not fool her; she knew me too well.  Each of us were hitting and dashing hard corner to corner until I saw Carrie coming to the net. I sped back, taking advantage of the perfect moment and lobbing the ball deep and high over her head. She turned and ran with her back to me, quickly scrambling to outrun the ball, and at the last moment lunge hit the ball back over the net.   While Carrie was still turned away, the ball landed on the outside margin of the line. It was difficult to say if it actually touched the line or not.  It was my call.  In or out?  Friend or foe?

The ball had already bounced twice before Carrie turned around. She looked at me with wide, imploring eyes.  “It’s good,” I said, clapping on the strings of my racket head.  And with that, Carrie screamed, “I won!  I won!” and ran towards me, throwing her arms around me in a warm, strong embrace.  This was the first time I loved tennis more for its losses than wins.  

As we put back our racquets into our oversized tennis bags, I turned to Carrie and said, “Congrats.  You played really well,” and quickly added, “I like how you did your hair with all the pretty blue ribbons.”

Carrie smiled again and said, “Hey, do you want to get some chocolate fudge ice cream?  My treat.”

As we walked off the court together, I did a little dance in my head to “Here I stand in the light of day.”  Well, Mom and Dad, I told you I was going to show you I could win—back my friend.

The highlight of Nicholas' days were the routine trips he took to The Gluttonous Panda for lunch. These excursions to procure greasy Chinese food were more than a habit or a routine: they were an addiction, plain and simple. Nick daydreamed of the restaurant's signature Dictator Mao's Chicken like an alcoholic would daydream of six-packs glittering in the light filtering through a convenience store's windows. While at work, he would anxiously check his Timex watch with increasing frequency until the blessed minute arrived and he could bolt.

Nick walked through the dented sliding doors, his palms sweaty with anticipation. His worn tennis shoes squeaked noisily against the scuff-marked linoleum tiles as he approached the buffet. There were only two people in line: a bickering Caucasian couple with elaborate dragon tattoos snaking around both their arms. The guy had a Chinese character tattooed on the side of his neck. Now, Nick was no expert on Oriental languages (yet), but he was taking Chinese lessons, and those lessons told him that the character meant 'soup'.

...well, at least the tattoo job was good. The lines were clean and dark, and he didn't see any swelling or redness. Nick wondered idly if maybe he should get a tattoo. Maybe it would make him look cooler? Maybe it would impress-

The couple's arguing hit a crescendo. From Nick's eavesdropping, they'd apparently decided to end a dedicated, seven-year relationship over honey walnut shrimp. Interesting. With a last, infuriated huff, the girl shook her head, sending neon blue hair flying into Nick's face. She stormed off, flipping off Soup Tattoo and disappearing through the sliding doors.

Soup Tattoo seemed at a loss for words for a moment, gaping at the space where his ex-girlfriend was like a floundering tuna. He looked remorsefully at his half-filled plate, before throwing a five-dollar-bill on the counter and leaving as well.

Suddenly the store was uncomfortably quiet. Where loud curses and extremely private information had been before, there was now only the low buzz of the wooden fan spinning diligently on the ceiling. Oppressive awkwardness filled the air-conditioned atmosphere.

Nick started piling his plate on with every food available in a desperate attempt to justify his presence in the store. Only once he was positive that he could not possibly finish even half of the oily overly-fried grub he was buying, did Nick approach the cashier. A veritable Mount Everest of assorted entrees and sides wobbled on his tray.

Amanda, the cashier girl, eyed his plate with some trepidation. "Just… put it there," she said, gesturing to the scale with a gloved hand. Nick gingerly placed his enormous lunch onto the scale, watching the the digital numbers on its side climb higher and higher

nervously.

19.3 pounds?! Holy guacamole! That's ten times the amount I usually get!

Nick swallowed. "Uh… how much would that be?" Amanda poked some buttons on the calculator fastened to the counter. "$151.80 plus tax." She pronounced the words solemnly, like a coroner would pronounce someone's death. Nick hissed an expletive through his teeth, before drooping resignedly and reaching for his already-overburdened American Excess Card. He could practically hear his credit score crying out in anguish.

"Wait!" Amanda lurched forward, holding Nick's wrist firmly and stopping him from swiping his card on the register. Their eyes locked for a single moment, and Nick felt his heart jackhammering violently in his chest like it wanted to crack his ribcage open. "You come here all the time," continued Amanda. "I think I can take twenty percent off of your total for being such a loyal customer." She smiled beatifically, ivory teeth dazzling bright in the neon lights of The Gluttonous Panda.

Nick blinked once. Twice. "I… would like that, yes."  Then Amanda - still smiling - reached under the counter, pulled out a '20% off' coupon, and handed it to Nick. He stared at the multicolored slip of paper and handed it back to her.  In a short, jerky motion, he placed his card on the terminal and dragged it all the way from top to bottom.

PURCHASE SUCCESSFUL, announced the terminal cheerfully. "You're good to go," beamed Amanda, dropping two plastic-wrapped fortune cookies on Nick's tray. "Thank you," he said, placing his card back into his faux-leather wallet. He slowly lifted his wobbling plate from the scale, and made his way over to a small booth with faded stains on the table's vinyl tablecloth.

Nick ate slowly and contemplatively, moving his roasted eggplant around his dish with a bendy plastic fork. Sauteed mushrooms, sweet-and-sour pork, fried potstickers, black pepper broccoli - obscure Scandinavian royalty would kill for this kind of food, he was sure. It didn't make him want to eat it any more, though. The truth was, Nick didn't like The Gluttonous Panda. It was too spicy, too exciting for his mild and bland palate. No, the only reason he went there so ludicrously often was…

His gaze wandered over to Amanda. Her glossy, chocolate-colored hair fell in thick, coiffed waves over her shoulders, her lipstick was the perfect shade of watermelon pink, and her almond-shaped eyes were playful and sparkling. Nick let out a dreamy sigh. She's absolutely perfect… so perfect that he was even subjecting himself to ridiculously expensive Chinese lessons, just so he could speak to her in her native language.

He sighed again, but this time it was sad and gloomy. He had no chance with her. Why would she go for a socially awkward geologist with no hobbies other than finding vaguely interesting rocks? Oh, right. She wouldn't. Nick finished off his water and stood up, pushing his plate away from him. He grabbed a fortune cookie from his tray and dejectedly left the restaurant, popping open the cookie's wrapper as he exited. The treat inside was a wonderful, toasty gold color, smelling of sweet vanilla and promising a delightful crunchiness. Nick snapped it in half, fished out the fortune inside, and threw both ends inside his mouth.

He walked over to a nearby trashcan, ready to throw out the fortune. But then, the strangest thing happened. He decided not to. Maybe it was because he decided he wanted some good news in his life, even though it was completely fake. Maybe he was simply curious about the mysterious and entirely bogus fate he was apparently going to have. Either way, he uncrumpled the tiny slip of paper and read the words printed inside.

You miss all the shots you don't take. True love will appear in your life… if you are brave enough to chase it.

Nick stared at the fortune. It's almost like it knew… No, that's ridiculous, he corrected himself. But even if it wasn't personalized for me, that doesn't mean it doesn't have some value. He turned his head to look at the distant shape of The Gluttonous Panda. The obese black-and-white bear on the sign seemed to be mocking him. I bet you won't do it, you pansy, he imagined it saying, waving its chopsticks at him infuriatingly. In a burst of irrational anger, Nick turned around and started running straight for the restaurant's entrance. By the time he entered through the sliding doors, he was panting and breathless. His normally pale face was flushed cherry-red with exertion.

"Amanda!" he gasped out, using a chair as a crutch to hold himself up. "Will you... will you go on a date with me?" He looked at her earnestly, forcing himself not to look away. His limbs were trembling, his heart was quaking, his brain was spinning. Please, please, let that fortune be correct…

Amanda opened and closed her mouth a few times, as if she were going to speak. At last, she shook her head, a rosy crescent smile on her face. "I was wondering when you were going to ask! I mean, I would've asked you myself, but that's against store policy." She laughed. "Of course I will, Nick. Of course I will."

And though it would probably cause him to die of diabetes at age forty, at that moment all of Nick's trips to The Gluttonous Panda were worth it.

“Ms. Gail was making goo-goo eyes at Mr. Pinn in the cafeteria. You should have seen how lovey-dovey they were.” Neal gossips to the students crowding around his desk. “No way that there’s a single person in this school that doesn’t know what is going on between the two of them.”

I know what he means, the two teachers have tried to keep their relationship a secret but the students weren’t fooled. The class is a ruckus, each student with their own story of the lovey-dovey teachers. Laughter rings throughout the room. It’s nice, having this kind of atmosphere surrounding me.

“Hey, Gaby. You’re spacing out again. You OK?” My best friend Kat stared at me. I had been spacing out more often than usual today. She must be worried.

I breathed out a sigh. “Yeah fine. Don’t worry, I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather today. I’ll feel better once school ends.”

“Yep. School is just so stressful. Hey, your parents are coming back from their second honeymoon tomorrow, right? You have one more day of freedom. Want to do anything special with your awesome best friend?”

“Haha, I’ll think about it. Maybe we can…” The bell sounds, interrupting me.

“Alright class, listen up. Take out your notes from yesterday…” Ms. Kras goes on with her English lesson. I stare at my pencil, twisting it this way and that. I already know what Ms. Kras is talking about so I paid little attention to her lecture. Time seems to flow by slowly.

Halfway through her instructions, a knock sounds on the door. I can tell how irritated she is that something was disturbing her very important lesson on passive voice. Actually most of the school knows that she could get irritated if someone interrupted her lesson. She goes to see who it is with a huff and opened the door to two police officers. Her face quickly looks concerned and they speak in hushed tones.

“Oooooh. Looks like someone’s in trouble. Wonder who they’re here for?” Neal says, unable to keep his snide remark in.

The entire class is whispering now on what the police could be here for. Ms. Kras’ hands go to her mouth as a gasp escaped. The female officer came through the doorway, and asks, “Which of you is Miss Gaby Cox?” Seeing me slightly raise my hand she goes on, “We need to speak with you. It’s about your parents. Please come out to the hallway for a moment.”

Heart racing, I make my way to the door. My friend is right behind me, but stays behind as the officer slightly closes the classroom door.

They walk me down the hall. Not far enough from prying eyes from the classroom but far enough that nothing will be heard. I can see the small window on the door showing a room full of curious students, wondering what was going on. The officers turned to me.

The policewoman gets ready to speak. Her name tack, white against her black uniform, reads Palmer. “Miss Gaby, your parents were coming home early. They were on a train that had derailed halfway to its destination about four hours ago. By the time the emergency team got there… Well… I’m sorry Miss Gaby. Neither of your parents made it.”

I’m not sure what happened next, but my feet couldn’t hold me up anymore. If there hadn’t been a wall behind me, I would have fallen. I slump against the wall. I can’t believe what these people were saying to me. There’s no way that my parents are… There’s no way that I’m…that I’m alone. No…no way. It’s not true. It can’t… can’t… be… true?

“Is there someone you want to call? Miss Gaby?” I can’t answer them.

I hear running footsteps and then warm arms surround me. I shift my head up to find Kat, looking terrified, her arms wrap around me. He holds me tight, like I might run away if she didn’t hold me.

“Gaby, what’s wrong? Gaby?” Her tone sounds concerned, no panicked. And my face felt oddly wet. I raise my hand to my cheek. It touches wet tears. Am I crying? Why?

Wait. What these officers said to me isn’t true. So why am I crying? It’s not…it can’t be true. My breathing feels labored. I can’t take in enough air. It feels like my head is spinning. Why is my chest so tight? Why are my fingers tingling?

“Gaby? Hey, come on. Talk to me. Gaby?” Kat. She’s still holding me. But I can’t breathe. I can’t look at her. I need to fix this. My mind can’t focus. Everything is moving… Everything is moving too quickly.

I can see the door to the classroom is now wide open. Ms. Kras is at her desk, her hands are still clasped around her mouth. My classmates stare back at me, most whispering to each other.

Officer Palmer moves to the doorway, saying something to the class. Her back is turned to me and the only sound I can hear is the swoosh of my blood, pumping through my head, by my heart.

Someone grabs my things, bringing them to the doorway. Neal. He seems shaken. His face devoid of a smile. That isn’t like him. He’s normally smiling and laughing at the jokes he makes. Why’s he look so…conflicted

I want to see my parents. I need to feel their beating hearts. I want their warmth. Right, warmth. Kat is still hugging me. The policeman leans down to her and tells her something. She gasps and tears start to snake their way down her face. Oh, that’s what he told her.

Now Kat is crying. No… If she cries, I’ll cry even more. I don’t want to believe this. I really want this to be a dream. I just want to wake up. I want to wake up with everything being normal.

I bury my head into her shoulders, trying to breath, to not panic. But it’s no use. I’m alone now.

8/21/1987

            Another one came today. She seemed to be so nice, innocent, naïve and trusting. She burst through the doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold, announcing “HimynameisAliHoneycuttIwaswonderingifyouhadanyfantasybooksImightlike?” all in one breath. If she knew- Oh! If she only knew! - the horrors that awaited her, she might have instead ran screaming in the opposite direction. I felt that by now, dooming children should no longer cause the pain it once did. In a way, I was right. It felt much worse.

            I groaned inwardly. Here we go again, I thought. “It all depends on perspective. What are you wishing to get lost in? A murder mystery or a Shakespeare classic? Or something in between? I must warn you though, many don’t like the books they find here.” Maybe my strange way with words would keep her away. I clung to the hope every time.

            Instead she giggled. “You talk funny, mister! I was actually wondering if I could borrow a book called The Cursed Man and then maybe borrow another like it. The Main library doesn’t have it and I was so sad. But then I saw your library in the phone book and here I am.” How ironic, I thought, The Cursed Man! How perfectly that described me. The curse kept me from yelling, “Run away! Run for your life! Escape while you can!” The curse kept me from refusing to give her the book. The curse made sure that the book that was wanted was always here. The curse made sure I was always there, as I wasn’t allowed to leave. The curse made them ignore the warning. Either that or nobody ever listened. And unlike in fairy tales, this curse couldn’t be broken unless I passed my burden to somebody else, preferably somebody that annoyed me, and leave this earth and all my earthly troubles.

            Resigned to my fate, I turned and walked over to the shelves. Without much struggle, I found her book and another I thought she would like. When you aren’t allowed to leave, even memorizing the Dewey Decimal System becomes appealing. It is better than remembering anyway. Ali interrupted my thoughts. “Do I need a library card? The only one I have is for the Main library.” A pause and then, “Are you OK? You don’t look so good.” The memories still haunt, and I suspect they always will.

            I shrugged and then passed by my wall of “library members”. I walked quickly to where I kept the Polaroid and the library cards. Every time I was forced to lend a book, I always took a picture of them and had them fill out a survey type paper. It probably isn’t healthy but I had a picture of every victim and their paper taped on a wall. It said “Library Members” at the top in a fancy font, as the curse won’t let me frighten them away. I finally speak saying, “You don’t need your other card, I just need a picture and I need you to sign here,” I look away as she signs, “and fill this out.” Nobody would ever defend me if they caught me doing this. Nobody would say, “He had warned her about the book.” Now it was too late. I cannot stop the crushing force of the sins I have. I had offended the Sorcerer of the Libraries. No wish or red ruby slippers could change the mind of somebody who would make Mohmand Ali cower in the corner muttering, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it!”

            “Gee, this is a lot more complicated than the other library! All we had to do was be old enough to write our name. It didn’t even have to be in cursive, thank goodness! I know how to though…” Ali kept talking on and on but I stopped listening. It is hard enough to steal the soul, or life, of somebody you don’t know, let alone somebody you know the life story of!

            I motioned that I needed to take her picture, and began to listen again. She was babbling on about a person named Louella Patton. How in the world had she gotten to talking about that? Louella was the first person I gave a book to. Did Ali see a connection? I wasn’t sure whether or whether not to desperately hope to be caught or to hope not to be. If I was caught they would need to exact justice and use my life to pay for my sins. I almost think I would welcome the end to my suffering. Although, the curse might make the entire population outside my door lose a lot of memories. If I was removed from my station and the curse didn’t stop my inevitable capture, then some other poor person would become the monster that is me. I shook my head to clear my thoughts, quickly snapped a picture and handed her the books. She skipped out the door without a care in the world. If only she knew.

8/28/1987

            It happened today. My picture of Ali Honeycutt changed. It wasn’t enough see easily, but the picture got darker. I knew that it was happening. I knew that she would be forgetting basic things, such as who her best friend was, where her classroom at school should be, and her dog’s name. She would probably try to pass it off as a joke because, after all, who would want to admit to her dog that she forgot? I knew that later in the process (I say this to protect the little bit of sanity I have left) she would have brief episodes where she would forget her age or yes, even her name. 2 weeks after she burst in to my library she would not wake up. She would be gone. I have always hoped that it is painless for them. I probably won’t ever know.

9/4/1987

            Today was the day, her last day. On these days I don’t even leave my office. I sit and try to respect the soon to be gone.

9/4/1987 (later)

            I knew it had happened. The picture changed to show her last moments. Why? Why do I have to do this? Once I learned what the Sorcerer of Libraries had done to me I wanted to yell at him, “I was playing tag! I was only a little boy for goodness’s sake! I ran into the room and right back out! I didn’t steal a rare and precious book! I don’t deserve this cruel torture! No one does!”

            I felt something inside me snap. “I am done!!!”, I yelled, “you’ve done it! Congratulations world! I am broken!” I’ve gone mad- no, I am a lunatic, a maniac, and most likely mentally ill. “I am not afraid! I am going to try! And I will succeed!” I had done a few half-hearted tests on the curse. Nothing had worked. “But it will now!” I forcefully mumbled to myself. The few tests had been before I was swallowed in grief by Louella Patton’s death. They mostly consisted of trying to walk out the door. Every time it was like walking into glass. This was how I attracted Louella’s attention in the first place.

             I tried it again. Much like the few zillions of times before, I bounced off the nothingness of the open door, feeling like a foolish bird who couldn’t see that there was obviously glass in front of him. I could scratch that off the list. Walking away wouldn’t work. I tried defying the curse in other ways, such as writing “Imminent danger comes to all who enter!”, on a paper and taping it to the door, but before I could tape it to the door, I blacked out, and later regained consciousness at my desk with, “you might get lost in a book!” written at the bottom of the page.

            After a few more failed attempts, I stopped to think about the process that the children undergo. First, they check out a book. Then they go home and go about as normal. For the first week they forget minor things, as only a little bit of their soul has been sucked into a book. In the second week, the soul suction increases. The book has a tiny bit of the soul and wants it all. The child then forgets bigger, more important things. Then the book finally wins the war. The child is still breathing and is usually thought to be in a coma. If the antagonist wins, and I think they usually do, the breathing stops. If the child wins, she wakes up from the coma. I am ashamed of what I do, but I must do it anyway. Their souls are forever safe in the books. For some strange reason, the parents and family who find the child never notice the seeds growing out of the book. They see the body of the child and ignore the soul. As I thought a little more about the steps, I realized that since the children were transported into the books, they probably had to fight the antagonist of the story. That meant that the other children I had done in probably couldn’t be saved, but there is a chance Ali could hold out until I could save her. I could write a book about what I have done and check it out to me! Or better yet, I could catalog my journal and check it out! I then would have to face myself, and if I win then I am free from my curse! If I don’t win, then the world will be a better place at least.

9/18/1987

            I, Arthur Linden, have cataloged my journal and checked it out. I am probably a few minutes away from, uh, wait where am I going? Whatever. Here I g - wait! Before I leave I have to write something down… annnnnnnnd…. done! Here goes nothing!

10/2/1987

            I am free!!! As I write this I am outside cooling down after running 3 miles in 45 minutes. I have never felt so alive or free! I have Ali Honeycutt’s address from when she signed up for a library card. I am really nervous now. I defeated my darkest side, the side that was darker that you will ever know, and this is what scares me? I knock on the door of her house. Her mother opens the door. “Good morning ma’am! I checked some books out to Ali Honeycutt a while ago and I was just letting you guys know that they are overdue. What’s wrong ma’am? Is something the matter?” I almost hate myself for feigning cheerfulness.

            “Oh, it isn’t your fault. Nobody told you. Our dear Ali is in the hospital in a coma. The doctors say that there isn’t much hope.” Mrs. Honeycutt’s eyes get really big and fill with tears.

            “I am so, so sorry to hear that ma’am. I just need the books and I leave you to be in peace.” I really don’t want to bug her, but I think the books must be near the body. “I would love to go see your daughter. Would you please tell me which room she is in?”

            After a few buses, I got out in front of the hospital and somehow found the room. I had to beg the doctors to let me see her. “I must make it in there! I am her uncle!” I remember saying. I was finally let into the room. “Come on Ali! You can do it!” I muttered. And then her chocolaty beautiful brown eyes blissfully opened.

10/3/1987

            I don’t know exactly where, who, or what I am. There is fine print on the back of my wrist that says “You were the Sorcerer of Libraries. That is no longer. The curse is broken. Save Ali Honeycutt. You are forgiven.”

Tears of joy rolled down my cheek, each one, so happy and powerful, they were sure to make flowers blossom with every drop. I was pulled into a deep and familiar hug.  Behind us was a wall of photos. Some bright with color, but barren with life. Others dull with color but filled with the happiness of life.

A lump of anger and sadness in my throat formed. I’m about to pull away as Dad says, “ I love you honey.” With those four words, the lump in my throat melted like ice cream in the sahara desert.

“So, you ready to go home?” Dad asked.

My body froze, rigid with anger. I jerked away, what did he think would happen. I felt something bubbling in my chest, I knew something was going to happen tonight. I had an angry caged tiger in my chest and it was time to release it.

“You left us!” I screamed in frustration. “You think you can just come home like nothing happened!”

“Whoah! Calm down Aliyah! You’re causing a huge scene!” Dad said cooly as he led me to a quiet corner.

“You know what! I’m done. You left me and mom to do what? Take a trip and take pictures.” I ranted. “I wish you would just get out of my life!” I stormed away.

I sat in the corner with my eyes raw and red. I take my phone out about to text my mother to pick me up. I look out of the corner of my eyes and see a picture. I look closer. I hadn’t really looked at them. One in particular caught my eye. It was a girl about my age. Her eyes were bright with determination and sadness. She looked so mature. I touched the photo and closed my eyes…..

“Dleen, pack up your books, and get the bread!”

I put my books away and into the secret compartment in the wall. I can’t ever tell anyone that I am actually learning things. I am not allowed to go to school, I am not allowed to be educated. My duty as a girl is to sit, be pretty, cook, and clean.

“Dleen, go straight to the market and come back as soon as you can, we’ve got company.”

I march to the market and set out my loafs of bread. I wait. My eyes get weary as time passes by. Each second is as long as a minute, each minute as long as an hour, and each hour as long as a day. My last loaf is bought. I pack up and walk to my house, I peek in my door, I see a man and an american lady dressed as a muslim. Before I can step in. I hear a loud boom. A strong force overpowers my body, I’m blasted back and all I see is black.   

I wake up to find everything around me is in a state of ruins.

“Mama! Papa!” I cry. I get up, somehow I was unharmed. I don’t know what happened, but I swear, I will rise over this, I am just a normal person, I do nothing wrong. This world is so cruel, but the attackers should know that they can’t hurt me.

I am Dleen. Yes, I am female. Yes, I am Arabic. Yes, my family, my house, and my city got bombed. No, I refuse to let these things bring me down.

My eyes burst open. I didn’t realize how long I had been standing there. I shivered. It all seemed so realistic like I had seen the girl in real life. My eyes drift off to see another boy looking as if he was only four. His eyes were filled with viciousness. He was wearing a uniform and held a knife. It looked like he had been trained to fight even at such a young age. It broke my heart to think that this world is teaching our future generation about violence. Our future is in these kids and if we teach them about violence, our world will be destroyed.

Following my careful steps, my hands landed on a girl with a somewhat dirty face and eyes that could light up an entire room. Something in my mind flickered. She looked so familiar. I finally realized where I had seen her before. Her name is Malala. A girl who fought for her rights to learn. She was shot in the head by the Taliban. Nevertheless, she never gave up, she continued to persist. I remembered reading about her and wanting to make such a big difference like her.

I looked away and saw someone so familiar I could recognize him in my sleep. He is my best friend.

“Hey Myles! What’s up!” I say as I glance up. “Whoah! What’s that bruise on your cheek from!”

“Oh that? My dad punched me.” He replied coolly.

“What!” My jaw dropped. Just as I say that a few teenagers come into our classroom.

“Hi! How’s everybody doing?” One of the teenagers says.

“Good.” We all say.

“That’s great! Today we are going to be talking about a topic that might be uncomfortable for some of you guys. We will be taking about depression and suicide.”

We watched a video about suicide, bullying and depression. It was so touching and beautifully written. We were then asked on our thoughts. We were asked to express our experiences and things that had happened to us.

My friend Myles raised his hands and let something out that I never knew. “ My brother had a good friend that was just like my brother. I looked up to him as my role model. One day, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and he was shot. His mom was a drug addict so my family had to go identify the body.”

Myles never cried, he always wanted to seem strong, he was always stereotyped as the bad and dumb kid but I knew he wasn’t dumb. I knew he had good ideas but hated listening to teachers. At this moment though, I saw Myles holding back tears.

I heard another one of my friends say something unknown to everyone. Her dad had committed suicide. I had no clue about this, she had always seemed so cool and casual as if her life was perfect. Maybe not everything was as it seemed from the outside.

I had a moment of realization. I stood there frozen. Suddenly I turned around and called for dad. He turned around with a puzzled look. I ran into his arms and cried.

“Did something happen?” He asked

I just looked at him.

I realize now that the world isn’t perfect. I above all should be grateful for what I have. I am an American citizen. I don’t need to worry about much. I have all the basic necessities, shelter, food, and good health. I have the right to be educated, the freedom of speech, the freedom of religion, and I also have the ability to run for president no matter my gender or color. This world is filled with pain, violence, and rivalry, but it is up to me to try and make this world a better place. Even though you may feel like a tiny grain of sand drifting aimlessly in a big ocean called the world, you do matter. You can’t let every little thing weigh you down. I am lucky to have my family and live in a peaceful place. I have a family who cares for me and I can’t be selfish to expect both of my parents to be perfect. You may envy others and find their lives perfect, but they feel just the same about your life. I now know not to take advantage of my “perfect” life. Even if this world isn’t perfect, that’s the beauty of it. We unite as a world and make this world great.