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Grade
8

Long ago, a little kitten was born in the spring in a little forest just beyond the arctic circle. She was the same size as her littermates, and just as lively. Her parents called her Beetle. This name suited her, as she was black with green eyes. She was also able to see well in the dark. Because of this, her parents joked that she couldn’t tell night from day. Everyone in her family loved her very much.

After about a moon passed, things changed. Beetles siblings had grown, but she was still the same size. Her parents no longer joked about her, but they would talk about her in hushed tones when they thought she wasn’t listening. They would let her siblings do more and more new things, but Beetle wasn’t ever allowed to join them.

By summer, Beetle’s siblings were going out on their own for two or three days at a time. They would make fun of Beetle with their friends, saying that she was always going to be too small to hunt, and too little to ever protect herself.

Beetle’s parents kept Beetle in her den, and she wasn’t allowed to leave the clearing where they made their home. Beetle felt cooped up in the clearing, and longed to feel the wind on her face and the sun on her back.

That night, Beetle escaped. She slipped through a hole in the bramble den. Then, she rolled in a patch of small mushrooms to disguise her scent in case her parents tried to go after her. Beetle knew she still had to sleep, so she climbed up a towering old maple and slept in the crook of a branch.

The next morning, Beetle woke to the sound of birds chirping and the sun on her face. She climbed back down the tree and decided to go exploring. Beetle wanted to find a good place to stay. Though the tree was okay, Beetle found the branch a little too rough.

By the end of the day, Beetle had found no good bushes or trees that were not occupied by other creatures. She had come across three mice, but she had not managed to catch any of them. Because of this, she was very hungry. That night, Beetle found another tree to sleep in.

A few days later, Beetle wished she had never left her family. She was so hungry, she thought she could eat a fox and still have room leftover. Beetle couldn’t find a nice place to call home, and she wasn’t sleeping well in trees anymore.

That night, Beetle couldn’t sleep. She thought she heard a mouse underneath the tree she was in, so she decided to try to catch it. Beetle crept down the trunk and quickly spotted it. The mouse was nibbling at an acorn by the base of the trunk. Beetle silently leaped off the tree trunk and caught the mouse. She resolved to eat it slowly, but found it gone within a minute.

Ecstatic with the success of her first catch, Beetle decided to try hunting at night more often. She easily caught a shrew, and she finally felt full after eating it.

The next morning, Beetle had a stroke of luck.  She found an old gnarled tree with a hollow halfway up the trunk. She climbed the trunk and discovered that the hollow had moss growing inside it. The moss was undisturbed, and the hollow smelled like fresh growth, without traces of other animals. Beetle decided to claim it as her home, and slept all through the day.

Beetle woke in the late evening. She was hungry again, but she felt confident that she could catch something. She left after marking the hollow with her scent.

Beetle lived this way throughout the summer moons, sleeping during the day and hunting by night. She slept in the mossy hollow and came to call it home. Fall came and went, bringing little flurries of leaves that Beetle enjoyed playing in.

Then winter arrived, dumping snow everywhere. When Beetle woke up that evening, everything was white. She thought she was dreaming, so she poked herself. Hard. Her poke hurt, so she knew she wasn’t dreaming. Beetle also felt very cold, but she still decided to go explore and find out that the white stuff was.

Beetle leaped out of her tree and scrambled back onto the trunk almost as soon as she landed.  The white stuff was fluffy and cold. Very cold. She felt a drop of water on her nose, and looked up to see where it came from.  The sky was filled with fluffy white stuff, and it was falling to the ground! As exciting as this all was, Beetle climbed back up to her nest to stay warm and dry. Despite the fact that it was night, she fell asleep almost instantly.

HELP!  Beetle woke instantly, startled out of her sleep by the noise. HELP!  The cry came again. Someone needs my help! Beetle surveyed the ground, wondering how to get to the cat in need of help. The sky had continued raining fluffy white stuff all while she was sleeping. The fluffy white stuff now looked very deep, and Beetle was worried that if she stood in it, she would get buried and be unable to see where she was going.  However, she wanted to find the cat that needed help and help them. In the end, she decided to climb through the trees to go find the cat, so she clambered out of her hollow and up the tree.

Beetle started along one of the many branches of the tree her hollow was in. However, she realized belatedly that she had forgotten that the tree branches would also be covered in fluffy white stuff. A few feet away from the trunk of the tree, a chunk of fluffy white stuff got dislodged when Beetle put her paw on it. Beetle tumbled off the branch. One might guess that she was terrified, but they’d be wrong. Beetle’s only thought as she was flying through the air was I’m cold.

Beetle was jerked back to reality when she landed on the ground with a soft thump.  It didn’t feel that cold after her fall through the freezing air. She had barely compacted the fluffy white stuff, and could stand on top of the fluffy white stuff without sinking into it.

A few trees away, she found the place where the sound originated. It was coming from a bush with fluffy white stuff inside.  Beetle was about to go back to her tree, because it looked like the sound might have been caused by the wind. Then something surprising happened. The fluffy white stuff in the bush moved! After looking more closely, she realized that there was no fluffy white stuff in the bush. What Beetle had believed was fluffy white stuff was actually a white cat.

After scouting around the bush a little bit more, Beetle realized that the bush was the white cat’s den.  She discovered that the entrance to the den had been clogged up with the fluffy white stuff. It looked like the white cat had tried to dig it out earlier that morning, but failed.  She could also see that the den was close to collapsing. From her observations, Beetle realized that if the den collapsed, it would kill the white cat.

“Hey white cat!” Beetle yowled, “Help me dig out the entrance to your den!”  Beetle started digging slowly, but soon was digging furiously. Fluffy white stuff was flying everywhere, and the air was quickly filled with it. She could see most of the entrance to the den now, and would soon be able to pull the white cat out of the den.

“Ouch!” Beetle squealed.  Something had scratched her left paw. She would have dismissed it as a thorn, but she had seen a flash of white when she pulled her paws from the hole.  She had made a hole into the white cats den! Beetle reached her paw through the hole and grabbed the white cat’s paw. She began to pull the white cat out of the hole.

Crack! Thwump!  Beetle closed her eyes and wheeled around to keep from getting fluffy white stuff in her eyes.  When she turned back around, she could see that the den had collapsed and the white cat was nowhere to be seen. Then the snow shifted, and Beetle saw a pair of blue eyes staring at her close to where the entrance to the den had been.  With closer examination, she could see that the white cat had barely made it out of the den.

“Hey! White cat,” Beetle meowed, “What’s your name?”

“Snow,” The white cat responded simply. “It’s the same stuff that almost killed me just now.”

“WHAT! The fluffy white stuff is snow?” Beetle replied, clearly surprised.

“Yep,” Snow responded, “Can you help me get out before this snow crushes me?”

“Yeah,” Beetle responded, proceeding to carefully dig Snow out of the pile of snow.

“Thanks for saving me there,” Snow said after Beetle had finished digging her out. “I’ll miss that den though. It was watertight.”

“You can come stay with me if you like,” Beetle offered.  “Come on, it’s this way.”

Beetle started walking. She had only gone a few tail-lengths before she realized that Snow wasn’t following her.  She turned around and saw Snow sitting in the same spot. “Are you going to follow me?” Beetle asked.

“I would if I could,” Snow responded sadly.

“What do you mean ‘if you could’?” Beetle pressed.

“I mean I can’t”

“Why can’t you?”

“I just can’t”

“Could you please just tell me? I’m going to be sharing my den with you.”

“Well . . . . . . . . . . . . . I . . . . . . . . . . . I-can’t-see.”

“That’s okay,” Beetle said comfortingly, “I’ll put my tail on top of your head and you can follow that.”

They made slow progress back to Beetle’s den. Beetle padded slowly across the snow, Snow plowing through it forcefully behind her.

When they arrived back at the old tree, Beetle told Snow that, “There’s a hollow about three tail-lengths up the tree, and there’s a nest made of moss in the hollow. It smells very strongly of my scent. Go into the hollow and sleep. It’s been a long day for you.”

“Where are you going?” Snow wondered aloud.

“I’m going to get moss for another nest.” Beetle meowed.

“How will you see?” Snow inquired.

“I have really good night vision.”

It snowed sporadically throughout the next few days.  Beetle went out hunting on her own, and usually returned freezing with very little prey.  The hollow was cozy, but Snow couldn’t wait to go back outside. She didn’t seem to care about the cold, and usually slept next to the entrance to the hollow.

A few months later, spring finally arrived.  The snow all melted, leaving the ground all soggy and muddy.  Beetle complained that she would never be clean again, but she would take Snow out every day to help her figure out her surroundings.  Snow was slowly getting better at managing her blindness, and could find anything within 10 tail-lengths of the nest.

One soggy day in early April, Beetle and Snow were out hunting.  This was the third lesson Beetle gave Snow on hunting, and Snow had been able to catch a mouse.  This was an improvement over the last two times they had done this. Beetle had decided to take a round-about way back to the hollow to see how Snow was doing traveling in unknown territory. Now, this round-about route happened to take Beetle close to the den she used to share with her family, but Beetle didn’t know this.

A few minutes later, Beetle thought she heard a cat crying.  The sound originated from a clump of bushes to her left.

She told Snow that, “I’m going to go investigate, and you can follow me if you’d like.”

She went around to the other side of the bushes, listening to the leaves rustling behind her. She quickly found an entrance tunnel.  At the moment she looked into the entrance tunnel, she realized that she was going into her old home. She prepared herself to walk into the old life she had once both loved and hated.

Beetle walked through the tunnel. On the outside, she looked like a proud cat, but on the inside, her emotions and thoughts were conflicted.  

Was she a proud cat going to face her past, or was she a cat that needed her family’s love? These thoughts tossed and turned inside her head as she slowly stepped through the tunnel.

Beetle stood in the clearing, staring at her parents.  Her parents stared back. On the outside, she looked like the same cat, but on the inside she was a survivor.  Beetle could feel Snow come in behind her. Finally, Finally her parents recognized her, but their recognition quickly changed into astonishment.  They were surprised by something behind her.

“I-I-Is that you Snow?” Beetle’s mom finally stammered through the silence.

“You know Snow?” Beetle mewed, surprised.

“Uh . . . yeah,” Beetle’s dad responded, sounding about as confident as his mate.

“HOW????” Beetle demanded, astonished.

“Well . . . uh . . . she’s your sister,” Beetles dad replied.

“We were so worried about you,” Beetles mom added, “Where have you been?”

After that, Beetle launched into a long explanation of her adventures.

After the explanation, Beetles parents hesitated. Then they asked, “Are you going to move back in with us?”

Beetle purred, “No, but we’ll visit often.  When the kits are older, you can come visit us.  We should be getting home now.”

And so they parted on good terms with promises to visit each other soon.

 

Grade
6

One day, millions of years ago, God was starting to get bored and lonely. He would wander around his gardens and tend to his plants but he did not really have anything to do. God decided he would make a beautiful planet with a variety of plants and animals with crystal blue oceans and a big flaming yellow ball of heat and light to keep his animals warm and give the plants food. Then God decided that he would make a protector of life. He created Ostrich. It was a muscular bird with hefty legs and humongous wings that let him soar through the sky. Ostrich was a beautiful golden yellow with feathers of multiple colors. Ostrich was given extraordinary powers so that he could protect the sick and wounded of the new planet, Earth.  

 

God sent Ostrich down to Earth to see how Ostrich would perform.  At first, Ostrich was kind and nice to the other animals. He would share his food and help animals with hurt legs or paws while God was watching, but as soon as God stopped paying attention, Ostrich would act out and be mean to the other animals.  Since God was not watching, he never knew of this.

 

 One day,  as Ostrich was traveling through the dense green forest which he called home, he spotted Rabbit eating some dandelions. 

 

“Oh, Rabbit, what are you doing in my forest?” questioned Ostrich.

 

“I am just eating dandelions,” replied Rabbit.

 

“Not in my forest you are not!” screeched Ostrich. 

 

“Why is this your forest?” asked Rabbit.

 

“Because I am the most beautiful animal in existence, can’t you see my magnificent feathers?” Questioned Ostrich. 

 

“I can, but why does that make you more worthy to eat dandelions that you don’t even enjoy?” Asked Rabbit again.

 

“Because this is my forest and everything in it belongs to me.  Now get out!” Yelled Ostrich.

 

With that, Ostrich chased Rabbit away and stepped on his tail. Rabbit howled in pain! Ostrich could see the crimson blood shimmering and staining Rabbit’s tail but Ostrich did not care. Rabbit never came back to the forest.  As he ran, Rabbit yelled back at Ostrich and said,

“There will be consequences for this!” 

“Consequences, what consequences?”  thought Ostrich. After that he thought nothing more of it.

 

The next day Ostrich was feeling parched so he headed to his favorite river to quench his thirst.  When he reached there, Ostrich saw that where his beloved river once flowed was now a cracked muddy ditch. Ostrich was outraged! He started to leave when he just barely noticed something in the corner of his eye. There, behind him, in the midst of the ditch, stood a colossal mound of branches and tree trunks stacked high into the sky. Ostrich flew to the top of the dam to see who was in charge of the monstrosity. At the top of the dam Ostrich saw a beaver yelling orders at the other beavers down below in the murky depths of the water. Ostrich demanded the beavers destroy the dam! 

 

“Come on you rodent with your stupid buck teeth.  Take this dam down or I will destroy it myself!” exclaimed Ostrich.

 

“You may try but we will defend this dam with our lives!” Retorted Beaver.

 

“I need you to destroy this dam so I can have my beautiful river back” screeched Ostrich. Although Ostrich was loud, he did not frighten the beavers.

 

“Ostrich, we need this dam more than you need your beloved river. This is our home and without this dam our home will be destroyed”  explained Beaver. 

 

“I care not what it is for, only that you take it down!” proclaimed Ostrich.

 

Ostrich knocked Beaver off the dam and into the murky water below.

 

“If you rodents don’t destroy this dam by tomorrow I will do the same thing to all of you” snarled Ostrich. 

 

The next morning, Ostrich woke up and marched back to find the dam still standing with a slew of beavers protecting it.

 

“You will not des...” uttered Beaver, but before he could finish Ostrich flew up with his massive wings and knocked Beaver out. 

 

“Anyone else dare get in my way and I will destroy you like I did to Beaver!” Ostrich said with a cruel smile on his face.

 

Ostrich rushed forward, scaring the lead beavers backward. He lunged at the dam, tearing off branches and knocking the wall inward onto itself. The beavers pleaded Ostrich to stop, but Ostrich could not hear them through his torment of fury. Within mere minutes the dam started to burst and the water flowed through it.

 

“Ostrich!” A voice boomed.

“Ostrich!” The voice spoke again.

 

Ostrich woke up and looked around to see who was calling his name. It was God and he demanded Ostrich come up to heaven. When Ostrich reached the gates of heaven God asked,

 

 “Did you deny Rabbit access to your safe haven forest and destroy the home of the beavers?” 

 

“Yes, I did because of my beautiful feathers, and I am the greater being of all the animals on Earth.” Replied Ostrich

 

“Then you do not deserve your feathers!” Stated God.

 

Ostrich was ordered back to Earth. At first he couldn't tell if anything had changed, then Ostrich noticed his throat had become parched and he felt thirsty.  Ostrich jumped up to fly but could not. Ostrich figured he was just tired so he walked to the river and moved down to get a drink. When he bent down Ostrich saw his reflection.

“No no no no this can't be,” proclaimed Ostrich!

 

 But it was true. His colors were gone and were replaced with black feathers and light gray skin. Panicked, Ostrich flapped his wings to fly but did not move.  Then he realized God had done the unbearable. God took away his beautiful colors, his golden skin, his ability to fly, and all of his powers. Ostrich felt worthless. He looked up to the sky and screeched,

 

“How could you do this to me God, curse you!” 

God decided that Ostrich did not deserve to live in a forest or near a river, so God sentenced him to forever live in the Savannas of Africa. And that is why ostriches can’t fly to this day.     

 

 

Grade
11

Naomi Hunt, a former high school teacher had just moved  to Mexico city.While there she was asked to substitute for an all girl high school.That Monday morning, she woke up, made her bed and walked out of her abandoned  little building. Santa Fe high school, a ratty, quaint and interesting building, made in 1980. She walks towards the school, watching crowded, boisterous students enter the building.Students walking in as she utters “welcome class”. As she was teaching, she saw three little girls running back and forth outside the window. She kept looking out and got distracted from teaching. One of the students asked, Ms Naomi? Why do you keep staring out the window?. Jaws dropped as she was shocked at the fact that she was the only one seeing those kids.For the rest of the school week she continued to see them, swing on the playground a few miles away from the schools window. That night as she was getting ready for  bed, she heard three little voices, as she looked out her bedroom window, she saw the same girls again. Next day she went around asking about the situation. She found an old lady whom she asked about.The old woman told her, those three kids got killed by a bus back then. They used to live in the same building Naomi lived in, also they were the childrens  of that old lady, who came to be Naomi's grandma she never knew about.

 

Grade
7

High school year was just so arduous. You had to keep up with the trends, the clothes, and the popularity. I couldn’t keep up though, and I would be so insecure with the way I dressed and how I acted. In my high school, I couldn’t be myself without being judged or being called weird. Even my best friends told me to get new clothes because being with me, a person who wasn’t like the rest, was embarrassing to them. I never really had friends then, did I?

“Hey, Piper hurry up!” Bianca, my best friend, called. 

“Okay, jeez, calm down,” I said. 

Bianca examined me with a disgusted look. I looked down at my feet, knowing she was disgusted by the way I dressed that day. I couldn’t be myself when I was at school, even around my best friends. If I’m being honest, I was only hanging out with them because I had no one else. I was afraid to be alone with nobody to be there for me, but it feels like I was already left alone. They’re there physically, but never actually with me mentally. I have a friend group that includes Bianca, Leslie, Ralph, and Isabella. They were my friends from day one, but they drifted apart. They tell me everyday to get new clothes and not act so weird. Was I really that weird? 

I sat down at the lunch tables with Bianca. We sat there and didn’t talk which was the most awkward thing. Everyday, I would sit with her but she wouldn’t be waiting on me to talk, she wanted to talk to her real friends and the friends she actually likes. 

“Where are they?” she asked under her breath. 

“Bianca! Come on we’re going to watch the basketball game over in the yard” Ralph exclaimed with the rest of the group. 

They looked at me and looked away. Bianca left me with a doubt and didn’t look back. There I was, alone in the cafeteria. I heard laughing from outside. I looked out and from the distance I saw Ralph taking goofy photos with the group. I was the outcast. The one no one wanted to hang out with because of her personality and looks. It made me so sad to remember that I am a nobody to my best friends. It's almost like I'm invisible. 

I finished my lunch and went to my locker to put my math books down and get ready for english class. While walking to my locker, I saw a boy with jeans and a plain red shirt. He was trying to open my locker! I ran towards him and looked at him in terror. 

    “What are you doing!?” I exclaimed very loud that I could hear the echoes of my voice in the hallway. 

    He stepped back and tumbled backwards. He looked like he had just seen a ghost and was ready to run away. I immediately felt bad for screaming and terrifying him, so I went easy on him. 

    “What are you doing to my locker?” I said in a slightly formal and toned down voice. 

    “I didn't mean any harm,” he said in a low tone. “I promise I didn't mean any harm.”

    “Then what were you doing with my locker?” I asked.

    “I'm new here. I thought this was my locker,” he mumbled. 

    “Oh, I can help you if you need help finding your locker. I know how it's like to be completely new to a school. It's hard and terrifying at the same time,” I said. 

    “Thanks. I've been asking a lot of people around here lately but not everyone is welcoming, you know?” he said. 

    “Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”

    I related to him a lot. I never got a warm welcome when I went to this school. I looked at him and we made eye contact for a long time. I don't know how it happened. 

    “So, what's your locker number?” I asked, breaking eye contact. 

    “Oh, number twenty,” I said. 

    “That should be next to my locker, I'm twenty-one,” I said. 

    We both looked up to the locker that said twenty. He looked at me and smiled, his dimples sparkling in the sun. 

    “Thanks. I didn't get your name though,” he said with a smile. 

    “I'm Piper,” I responded with a smile back. 

    “I'm Chris,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

    Suddenly a big clank went off. We both got startled. 

    “Well, time for class,” he said.

    “Whats your next period?” I asked. 

    “English,”he said. 

    “Really? Me too,”I responded. 

    “Lead the way Miss Expert on Lockers,” he said with a laugh. 

    I smiled and laughed. For the first time, I wasn't alone walking to english class. 

English class went by particularly fast. I sat next to Chris and we both laughed for the entire time. He kept making jokes and I couldn't help it. We got told to be quiet a couple of times, but I didn't even care. We walked out the class with beaming smiles on our faces. It was break time and Chris and I went to the student store. He bought me an ice pop, and we sat in the shade, laughing the whole time. 

“Hey, I'm glad we met. But if you don't mind me asking, where are your other friends? There is no way you don't have any other friends besides me with that type of personality and looks you have. You´re super cool to be around,” he said, drinking the last bit of his ice pop. 

I looked down at my shoes. 

“I'm glad you feel that way and think of me that way, but I didn't have any friends before you. Well a group of friends actually, but they weren't really what you would call friends. They would say I was weird and I dressed weirdly. Today, they left me to go watch a basketball game outside, and they didn’t even acknowledge the fact that I was there,” I mumbled. 

“Oh. I understand. I never really had friends growing up, so I understand what you’ve been through. It’s just so sad to know people have to go through this, I never would want anyone going through what I’ve been through. I never had friends, until I met you,” he said. 

“Same here,” I said, finishing the last of my ice pop. “I just wish I wasn’t always invisible. I have feelings too.” 

“I know it’s hard to go through that because I’ve been through the same thing. I was always ignored, it hurts. But through-out the years, I realized that being myself is the best thing I can do. Because if you aren’t yourself, you’ll lose yourself even more. Everyone who thinks your weird aren’t the right people you should hang out with. Why be ordinary when you could stand out to the world and show the bright side of you?” he said. “ It’s all so sad how people change to please other people and be the same as everyone else.” 

My heart sank. All this time, I wanted to be like everyone else. I wanted to be ordinary. But talking to Chris showed me that you can either be your true self and be happy or fake your identity just to make others happy. I looked at Chris and hugged him. He hugged me back and he smiled on my shoulder. 

The end of the day came and I walked home. I looked around, embracing and loving my personality. No one else has the same personality as me. Nobody has the same sense of humor as me. But that’s okay, because being different isn’t so bad after all! I watched the sunset go down and smiled, welcoming my true self in. 

Grade
9

 

Twenty Tardies

 

The fourth period bell rang, and Charlotte rushed to class. She could have sworn the hallways had been crowded with kids just a minute ago, but now it was unusually quiet. I can’t get another tardy, she thought angrily. I already have nineteen Another one and I’ll have to meet with the dean. She burst into class, slightly out of breath. Everyone was seated at their desks, and the teacher, Mr. Phillips, had already begun the lesson.

Staring at her feet, Charlotte made her way to her desk in the back of the classroom and plopped down, dropping her backpack at her feet.

“Ms. Nelson,” Mr. Phillips said, pausing his lesson. “Late again.”

Charlotte shrugged and removed her textbook from her bag. She didn’t really care about being singled out by Mr. Phillips; she was late almost once a week. Sometimes, if she came up with a really good excuse, Mr. Phillips would turn a blind eye and mark her as on time. 

As the day wore on, Charlotte was late to several more classes. She was even late to lunch and had to wait at the back of the line. By the time she got her hamburger, the lunch period was almost over. She scarfed down her food, which she came to regret later when indigestion caused her to be late to French. After French, she suffered through two more classes. Then, it was time to go home.

--

As soon as the final bell rang, Charlotte grabbed her phone from her bag and opened the bus schedule app. The next one was due to arrive in five minutes. Five minutes? That’s ages away. I’ll have time to go to the bathroom, Charlotte decided, walking leisurely down the hall.  

“Hey, Charlotte!” A voice called from across the hall. A tall, blonde boy wearing a baggy sweatshirt and shorts was standing at his locker. He waved to her. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!” It was Benny, one of Charlotte’s oldest friends from middle school. 

“Benny! What’s up?” Charlotte responded, running over to him. Soon, they were wrapped up in conversation.

By the time Charlotte came to her senses and remembered the bus, it was too late. Defeated, Charlotte slowly crossed the street and plopped down on the bench at the bus stop. She didn’t need to check her phone to see when the next bus would come. The buses only arrived once an hour. That’s what I hate about the public transit here, Charlotte thought bitterly. It’s always on time, and I’m not. 

 

--

When she got home, Charlotte’s mother was waiting for her. She was a tall woman with long chestnut hair and a thin, shrewd face. She stood in such a way in the foyer- with her arms folded across her chest, backlit by the lights in the living room- that her long shadow settled over Charlotte.

“Charlotte,” Her mom started, elongating each vowel like she did when she was angry. “Come downstairs, I want to have a chat with you.”

“Busted!” Her younger brother Wyatt yelled from where he was playing video games on the couch. Charlotte shot him a look.

“Charlotte, what is going on with you lately?” Her mother said, leaning towards her expectantly.

“What do you mean?” Charlotte said dismissively, shoving her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” her mother said, losing patience. “You know what I mean.” 

Charlotte shrugged and looked around, avoiding eye contact. She settled on the doorway to the kitchen, focusing on the gleam of sunlight on the metal pots and pans stacked on the granite counter. 

“English was your twentieth tardy,” her mom continued. 

“What?” Charlotte pretended to act shocked. “I don’t understand how that happened. In which class?”

“All of them,” her mom frowned. 

“Oh.” 

“You have to meet with Mrs. Williams tomorrow during break. This is really serious, Charlotte. If you get any more, you might have to repeat the tenth grade.” Charlotte winced.

“No way,” She exhaled. “Are you kidding?” 

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” 

Her mom did not look like she was kidding. She was glaring down at Charlotte, her lips pursed. 

“You know,” her mom began. She let out an exasperated sigh, her forehead creasing. “If any of this has to do with Grandma, I can get someone for you to talk to. I’m sure the school will understand-” 

“It’s not about Grandma!” Charlotte shouted. 

 Wyatt stirred in the other room.

--

The next day, Mrs. Williams also brought Grandma up at the meeting. 

“Charlotte, dear,” Mrs. Williams said in her old, raspy voice. Charlotte was sure she used to be a smoker. “I know things have been difficult for you at home, with the recent passing of your grandmother, and I know the school counselor would be happy to work through these issues with you.” 

Charlotte wanted to snap at her, just like she had at her mom, but she knew she couldn’t do that.  She smiled thinly and shook her head.

“Everything is fine at home, Mrs. Williams,” Charlotte said evenly. “Thank you for your concern.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Williams pressed. “It might be a good idea to talk to someone. The passing of a family member is not something to take lightly, and I suggest-”

“That isn’t necessary,” Charlotte interrupted. She couldn’t bear to hear more of Mrs. Willaim’s scripted response. Mrs. Williams had no idea what she was going through. She didn’t even know Grandma, Charlotte thought bitterly. I don’t care what she says.

“You can’t keep being late to every class, dear,” Mrs. Williams said. “You’re a very smart kid, and your grades are very good. I would hate to see this affect your future.”

“I know.” Charlotte bounced her leg up and down, desperate to get out of Mrs. William’s sickly-sweet smelling office. “I’m working on it.”

Okay,” Mrs. Williams said at last. “You can go.”

“Thanks.” Charlotte stood and left. 

--

After the meeting, Charlotte felt her stomach churning. She kept mulling over what Mrs. Williams and her mother had said. You might have to repeat the tenth grade. I would hate to see this affect your future. There was no way Charlotte was going to watch all of her friends graduate without her. And her grades were almost perfect; it just wasn’t fair.

Even though she didn’t get to her next few classes on time, Charlotte wasn’t as late as she usually was. She even caught the bus, which was very impressive. Her favorite seat was open, and she sat, leaning against the window. As she stared out into the street, she caught the reflection of the woman sitting across the aisle from her. It was an older lady, her face buried in a book. One of her veiny hands rested on the large leather handbag taking up the seat next to her. The dull red paint on her fingernails was chipped and faded. 

The bus lurched to a stop and Charlotte almost hit her head against the window. The woman took her hand off the leather bag to grip her book, but it slipped from her lap. The bus began to move again, and the book slid down the aisle towards Charlotte. The woman sighed and tried to reach for it, but it was too far. 

“Here,” Charlotte said, grabbing the book from the ground near her feet. The woman snatched the book, her cracked lips forming a smile. 

“Thanks, dear,” she croaked, depositing the book into her handbag. “I was afraid I would have to get up and get it.” 

Charlotte caught a glimpse of the cover. The Book Thief

“No problem,” Charlotte replied. “You know, my Grandma used to like that book.”

“Used to?” the woman frowned. “What made her dislike it?” 

Charlotte was caught off-guard.

“Uh, you know, uh, she’s not around anymore,” Charlotte managed to say.

“Oh,” the woman sighed softly. Charlotte could barely hear her over the traffic. “That’s too bad.”

“It is too bad.” Charlotte heard an unintended bitterness in her own voice and winced.  “I mean, I miss her a lot.” The old woman looked away and was silent for a moment, lost in thought. I’ve said too much, Charlotte thought. 

“One of my friends used to like that book, too,” the woman said, finally turning to look back at Charlotte. “It was her favorite. That’s why I’m reading it.”

“Really?” Charlotte wasn’t sure what to say. “Do- do you like it?” The woman chuckled to herself.

“Not at all,” she laughed. “But I still like to read it sometimes.” 

Unsure of what to do next, Charlotte turned to look out the window again. They were stuck in traffic, the bus flanked by cars. Storefronts were sandwiched between tall, glittering office buildings. Small trees lined the busy sidewalks. Workers and students carrying briefcases, backpacks, and coffee hurried by, all in a rush to get somewhere. I wonder if any of them are late to where they need to be, Charlotte thought. I bet some of them are. 

“I’m always late to everything,” Charlotte blurted. “They, uh, my mom and my dean, they say I might have to redo the tenth grade. You know, because I’m late to, uh, everything, really.”  

“You didn’t miss the bus,” the woman said sweetly. “So, not everything.” 

“Well, yeah, but most things,” Charlotte continued. “I was late to four classes today- science, French, math, English-” Charlotte felt her voice crack and her face flush. 

“It’s okay,” the woman said, trying her best to be comforting. 

“It’s not okay,” Charlotte objected. “They’re going to make me redo a grade! Don’t you get it?” 

The woman gave her a pained look and reached for her, extending a withered hand. The hand brushed her shoulder, and Charlotte flinched. Then the woman brought her hand back to her lap. 

So stupid, Charlotte thought. 

For the rest of the way, they rode in silence. At last, it was Charlotte’s stop. Wordlessly, she stood and left the bus. The woman didn’t even look up. 

--

Charlotte walked slowly down the sidewalk. She wasn’t in a hurry to get home and face Wyatt with his video games, or her parents, constantly scolding her for being late and talking about her grandmother. Eventually, she found herself in front of her grandmother’s old home. It was a small, ranch-style house painted a hideous mustard yellow. It looked out of place next to the other houses, which were neutral colors- white, or beige. 

Charlotte chuckled wryly. Her grandmother had always talked about getting the house repainted, but she had never gotten around to it. The front lawn, which had been neatly manicured when her grandmother had still lived there, was missing patches of drying grass. Charlotte leaned against the black chain link fence encircling the lawn, resting her chin on the cool metal. 

After a few moments, the front door opened. Charlotte jumped back from the fence, realising how creepy she must have looked. A short, bald, middle-aged man wearing casual jeans and a lime green polo shirt shut the door without locking it and made his way towards her. Figuring that leaving would make her look even more suspicious, Charlotte stayed where she was. 

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Do you live here?” Charlotte asked dumbly. The man raised an eyebrow at her but nodded. “Have you ever thought about repainting it?” The man gave her a confused look. “You know, like white, or a different color.”

“I haven’t, but my wife always goes on about how gross the color is,” the man chuckled. “We just moved here a few months ago. Are you looking for someone?” 

“No, I know where she is,” Charlotte said, looking at the ground. The man wore untied grey nikes, his heels sticking out like he had just shoved his feet in to come outside. 

“I’m sorry, who?” the man said. 

“Oh, my grandma,” Charlotte replied. “She used to live here. You should really take better care of your lawn.”

“Excuse me? I think that you should leave.” A shadow passed over his face, his brow furrowing. For some reason, his aggravation made Charlotte feel better. 

“Sorry. I just wanted to see the house.” Charlotte backed away from the fence. “But you should probably re-paint it. My grandma always wanted to, but she was too late.”

“That’s too bad,” he said apathetically. “Please leave.” 

“Geez, I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Charlotte said, backing away even further. She stumbled off of the curb and into the street. The man glared at her from behind the fence. “Your lawn is disgusting, by the way,” Charlotte yelled, laughing madly. The man gripped the top of the fence. His face was bright red, the afternoon sun glinting off of his shiny, round head.

“I’m going to call the police,” he resolved, loudly enough for Charlotte to hear. “Get out of here. Get away from my house.” 

 “I’m not on your property,” Charlotte taunted. “The police can’t do anything to me. It’s not even your house. It was my grandma’s.” 

“I worked hard to afford this house,” the man snarled. “You’ve probably never worked hard in your life, you stupid punk.” The man pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Ok, ok, no need to call the police,” Charlotte said, gasping for breath. “I’ll get out of your hair.” She spinned around and walked away, grinning over her shoulder at the man, who was glowering at her from behind the fence.

--

When Charlotte arrived at home, she made her way to the stairs and was about to climb to her room, but something stopped her. She peered over the banister at Wyatt, distracted by the flashing lights and colors on the TV screen. Even though he was three years younger than her, Charlotte saw her future in him. Was she doomed to waste away, distracted, until she became shriveled and old like the woman on the bus, passing the time by reading books or talking to strangers? Grandma wasn’t like that, Charlotte thought. She did something with her life. Charlotte remembered the bald man, raving about how he had worked hard for his house, Grandma’s house. And how neither the man, nor grandma, had gotten around to painting it. 

Charlotte turned around and headed across the foyer, towards the dining room. I’m not going to be like Wyatt, she determined. I’m going to paint my house

“Everyone! Dinner’s ready!” Charlotte’s mom called from the kitchen. 

“What’d you say?” Wyatt yelled in response.

From where she was sitting at the dining room table, Charlotte could hear the click of her mom’s heels on the hardwood floor as she approached.

“Oh, Charlotte, I didn’t realise you were home,” her mom said. “What are you doing at the table already? You’re usually late.” 

“I know,” Charlotte said, looking up from where she was sitting at the dining room table. “I got here early.”

 

Grade
6

I always despised that thudding sound and the vibrating buzz -- this one reminded me of bees ravaging their way into my clammy skin. I pressured myself to dispose of the unwanted thoughts lurking through my brain. Thoughts such as, “What was for dinner?” and “What was the girl beside me doing?”  Putting those thoughts on hold like those calls to Comcast that leave you in boredom. I then simply turned into my sit spin. 

Glaring at the ripping blue paint, ennui fills me. Twisting and turning side to side trying to gain a clearer view of the TV screen which provided a sense of solace. The beeping sound of the white machine beside me invoked memories of the rollerskate’s screech. Going on and on with no stopping. Comfort arises from the walking dead in the TV.  With a plain bun in my hands, I refused to eat. My thoughts were gone; they were misplaced. My whole day vanished.

My head hurt, just a bit. Just a bit, nothing more than a bit. It was too soon for something like this, with Internationals just around the corner. All I needed was some water and a small rest until my lesson started. That’s all I required. No, it hurt. It felt like millions of tiny soldiers kicking and turning inside my head, preventing me from focusing on anything other than falling into their ambush.  The pain throbbed but what was I supposed to do? 

“Harshini!” That sound hoisted me from my seat and into the center of the roller skating rink. “Let’s focus on spins today. Let’s do camel spin.” Curving my skates around the edge, I drifted to do something, but what? What did she say? I couldn’t recall. I was frightened to return and ask again. I didn’t want to be a nuisance but I couldn’t go without mentioning the throbbing pain in my head. I couldn’t refocus. I was just a blank slate. My thoughts escaped. “No! Come back!”  I heard nothing but silence. 

Where am I? Where is the rink? Why is it so silent? What happened to that crowded feeling of the coaches, skaters, spectators, and whoever else wandered around? I always disliked it, but now I craved it. I didn’t understand what was occurring. I observed my dad with a peculiar look on my face. What had I done? Had I done something wrong?

Driving to an unknown location, I peered into the night sky, polluted with no star in sight. I couldn’t think of anything but time still passed.  This was one of those moments where I was thoughtless, I didn’t know what to think or do. I stared as my dad interrogated me with questions I couldn’t answer. Each word I spoke, his face changed, then it was gone. Then my mind went blank again but this was different. Everything was missing. 

I peered down to see me wearing this obnoxious gown which reminded me of those grandmas from the cheesy fairy tales. All I needed was a shower cap and a cracky voice. I scan the room. Where was I? I see that ponderous bold sign, standing out from the rest. Those words returned. What I thought was my friend turned out to be my enemy. This was where I first saw a sliver of light, but now I felt powerless and a dark cloud fell over. JFK HOSPITAL.

The huge white room surrounded me like a metal cage around a vicious beast which they refused to let escape into the wild. I hung my head down low in despair as a woman in her mid-40s with a lab coat entered the room. 

“Hello, I am sorry to say you suffered a concussion and lost your memory for that day.” 

“Could I still do it?”

“Do what?”

“Do rollerskating, of course.”

“ How did it happen? I feel fine. What are you even talking about?”

“After suffering an injury like this it is too risky to go back to rollerskating. I’m afraid you won’t be able to continue.”

“What do you mean? I’m fine! I promise I’m fine! I don’t feel any pain! Please!”

Then I heard the story of how I arrived at JFK. Skating into the sit spin, I noticed I was rapidly rotating, but it would be too abrupt to stop. I flipped my foot inwards and tried reigning it in. I rotated at such a fast rate that I couldn’t control it and then suddenly my skate lost its firm support on the ground. I slammed my head against the ground with the wheels of the skate still spinning. This constant image replayed in my head, as I shivered, trying to understand if I could continue without rollerskating. I was nothing, I was worthless, and I definitely wasn’t the spectacular star I was said to be. I couldn’t let anyone see me at the bottom. I arose from the filthy hardwood, which had probably been skated over myriad times, and skated into the whirlpool of skaters. I didn’t realize this tumble would take me here. 

Why? Why me? What did I do to deserve this? Alarming thoughts in my mind. I couldn’t believe this occurrence. Why? Just why? I can change. What did I do wrong? Sometimes, when I take a break from those big things in life which used my time, I realize the importance of the little things. Placing in the 800-meter dash, receiving a multitude of sticky notes asking to collaborate with me in Model UN, finally finding time to call a friend, and simply prioritizing those important moments that I should experience I always constantly overlooked. These little things provided me with that sense of happiness that I enjoyed, but I will never say losing skating was the best thing. I took it and made it into a good thing. Taking a simple half jump and transforming it into a triple axel jump. Skating will always be part of me; it will always be my best friend. Maybe it is those little things in life that matter. Maybe it is important to turn life into lemonade. 

 

Grade
6

It was a cool damp spring morning at Apple Crisp farm. Georgie the pig and Samantha the duck were sitting on the long green, slightly wet grass. They were finishing their warm crunchy waffles with creamy sweet syrup.

 As the fishy and rotten smell of food drifted through the air, it alerted Georgie and Samantha that the dump truck was here. Georgie had always been afraid of mud and wanted some boots to protect him. The truck was the best spot. They ran to the grassy field. And sitting on top of the pile were 4 red, slight tron boots, that would fit a doll's feet. It seemed like the best day of Georgie’s life. Just as they reached the truck it started to roll away. They screamed as loud as they could and tried running after it. But nothing could stop the truck. To Georgie it was like the world was going to end. As Georgie and Samantha were walking back Georgie said, “Hey look its a map of where the truck goes, let's take it.

The next week as the sun was still rising. Georgie finishes his hot creamy oatmeal. He ran out of the pig pen and straight to the duck pond. There Samantha and her family were all snuggled up fast asleep. Georgie carefully tiptoed so he wouldn’t wake up any duck. Then Georgie oh so carefully woke Samantha up and they were ready to go. The adventure had begun.

They ran to the fence in the long grassy field. Goerige was so tiny he could barely see where he was going almost setting the alarm off. Just in time he ran into Samantha. She helped him the rest of the way. As Samantha and Georgie stepped onto the pavement the heat of the pavement felt like hot lava pouring out. They felt the tingle in their feet and immediately jumped back. Georgie and Samantha had to take the long way through the grass. As they were walking they saw Farmer Fred who was taking his daily, morning walk. He almost saw them, but they were quick enough and hid.

         Samantha said,” Phew, that was a close one, we almost got caught.”

The walk was long and tiring. And it was starting to get dark outside. They found a farm 5 miles from their original farm and stayed the night. The night flew by so quickly. They were awakened by the birds chirping, the tired-less frogs croaking and the cool breeze rustling against the tree. Both Samantha and Georgie woke up immediately and headed out. As day and nights passed they thought they were getting closer and closer every day. One morning the smell of the fishy and rotten smell of food floated its way over and told Georige and Samantha that they were close to the landfill. 

Late that afternoon they reached. Georgie’s eyes twinkled with glimmer as he got a glimpse of the boots. 

       Georgie said,'' How are we going to get through all of this trash and it stinks so bad in here. Lucky Samantha had face masks for them to be able to bare the pain. They started climbing the mounds of trash. 

Then all of a sudden Georgie said, “ Let's turn around, it is of no use to get the boots.” Samantha said,” Georgie if it was of no use to get the boots, then why did I spend my whole time coming here?” Georgie said, “ Sorry, I really didn’t want to cause this much trouble.” “Okay fine we can turn around,” said Samantha 

Back at the farm both Georgie and Samantha’s parents were scared that they           were gone. And that was the same day Georgie and Samantha had to take their baths. Farmer Fred came to find out that they were not there. Farmer Fred thought that a fox or wolf came at them. So he ended up building a fence and covering up that space where Georgie and Samantha got out.

Back at the landfill Georgie and Samantha decided after a long argument that they were going to head home. As they came out of the landfill and walked half a mile. Georgie stopped and said,” Samantha I guess you’re right.”

 “What?”said Samantha.

 “We came all this way and are turning back empty handed,” Georgie replied.

“So what do you want me to do about that,” said Samantha

“Let's turn back and get the boots that I’ve always wanted,” said Georgie.

“What are you crazy, now we have to walk all the way back, Georgie just make up your mind are we going to get the boots or not!” exclaimed Samantha. They started to head back, as the hot sun shone down upon them in the late afternoon.

At Apple Crisp farm Farmer Fred put up signs that said Missing if you find a duckling or a piglet with little brown spots please return to Apple crisp farm. Both Mommy duck and Mommy pig were worried to death. 

Samantha and Georgie went back into the landfill and climbed the mound of trash that the boots were sitting on. The sun started to set so both of them had to sleep with their face masks hopping no trash would fall on their heads. Once again the night flew by so fast that they didn't even know that they slept. At 6:00am Samantha heard the sound of a dump truck and immediately woke Georgie up.

Georgie remembered that today at 9:00am the trucks would be back and put more trash. They had to quickly hustle to the top and back down. 

It had finally been a week since Georgie and Samantha had gone. Farmer Fred was pretty sure that an animal had eaten them. While other animals had fate that they were still alive.

In that mean time which was an hour and a half later they reached the top. Georgie took the boots, gave them a big kiss and put them on. They finally accomplished the largest and scariest adventure of their lives. This time on the way done it took nothing, but a minute or so. Georgie and Samantha slid their way down on their butts.

Everyone gave up and thought that they were never coming back home. It was over that was the only son that Miss Pig had and that was the only daughter that Miss Duck had. Miss pig and Miss Duck began to cry, “It's over, I’m never going to see my babies again.” 

The truck ended up coming earlier than expected. As it started to dump the things it was an inch away from hitting them, but the skills that they had were so great that they didn’t even get hit. Georgie and Samantha ran as fast as they could before the sun started to set. The boots made Georgie go so fast that he took Samantha’s hand and as she was flying in the air he ran. He made it all the way to the farm that they stayed at when they were leaving to get the boots. 

The next morning they shoved a bunch of food down their throats, they hadn’t eaten for a week. And dashed back home, within an hour. By that time it was already 8:00am and everyone was awake. Georgie and Samantha went back to the same place they got out in the fence and found out it was sealed back together. Which meant they had to be careful and take the long way. 

Georgie said,” Samantha, do you think they will forget about us?”

Samantha exclaimed,” Georgie don’t be silly of course not.” 

They walked all the way to the duck pond and pig pen. Miss pig screamed Georgie you are back, where have you been and where did you get those. Before she could finish there both of you are, oh I see you went to get the boots that I threw away a couple weeks ago. Next time let us know where you’re going because we were all extremely scared.

 

Grade
11

I am a green girl. Like the deep green of a Fraser fir tree, the color of the branches that lie draped in snow in the wintertime. I am a green girl, but the other girls in my class were blue. Their supple skin glimmered in shades ranging from pastel baby to rich royal, and every morning they flooded into the classroom, like a wave crashing onto the sand. I was the only green girl in my class.

Sitting at the back of the classroom, I watched the blue girls sitting down in front of me, crossing their long legs and tossing their sun-washed ringlets onto their shoulders. When they turned their heads, I spotted nose rings on their button noses. Every blue girl had a nose piercing. The minute hoops of gold and silver glistened with rubies and diamonds, emeralds and opal stones. During lunch, I heard the blue girls chatting about the newest nose ring collections in stores. I sat at an adjacent table, picking at my fingernails and staring at my green skin.

If I could get a piercing, I would buy a gold ring with an azurite stone, the swirls of blue and green twinkling on the nose ring. But I would never be able to afford the $500 operation. My mother would call me a little twit for even thinking about having a $1,000 collection of nose rings. Still, I daydreamed. The blue girls would flock to me and call me their friend when they saw my exorbitant nose rings. Their fingers, as blue as the wings of a morpho butterfly, would graze my green nose. I would slip into their table during lunch time and chat about all the new nose rings with them. I would be a blue girl with green skin. 

Lunch was over, and all the students headed back to the classroom. My stomach grumbled throughout class, so I could hardly pay attention to the lessons. Then, the bell announced the end of the school day. Walking past the line of cars at the front of the school, I made my way to the bus stop and rode into the outskirts of town. 

Black and white grim covered the brick walls of the apartment, and the stairs groaned under my steps as I hopped to the second floor. 

Opening the door to my apartment, my eyes were greeted by yellow paint that was peeling off the wall and a messy clutter in the dimly-lit living room. My mother lay passed out on the couch, her thin body tucked under a flea market blanket. On the coffee table, three empty bottles of whiskey sat next to a stack of Cosmopolitan magazines that my mother had stolen from a nail salon. I tossed the empty bottles into the trash can. Just as I was opening the pantry door to see barren shelves, a tall man emerged from my mother’s bedroom. Every day, a strange man would come out of her room, often with only a pair of underwear on. Some of them would pull me into her bedroom, and they would always leave before my mother woke up. 

On an early dismissal day, I arrived home and heard my mother with a man in her bedroom. As I went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, I saw a black tool belt sitting on our counter. In the smallest pouch, there was a tiny screwdriver with a tip as sharp as the edge of a paper clip. Suddenly, a brilliant idea popped into my head. I tucked the screwdriver into my pocket and headed to the bathroom. 

Standing in front of the mirror, I looked at my gaunt reflection, my bones sticking out under my green skin.  My eyes were raven black, darker than the midnight sky, but when I smiled, they were as piercing as the morning stars. A nest of curly, dark hair cascaded on my shoulder. I had thick luscious brows, a sharp chin, and high cheekbones that jutted out of my face. Perhaps I would be called beautiful if my skin had been blue. My hands were quivering as I thought about the blue girls at my school. Their bright smiles. Their ambrosial fragrance. Their silvery voices that sang about buying new nose rings. 

A stream of blood trickled down my neck after I had pierced my nose with the screwdriver. I was only mildly aware of the pain that was shooting up and down my nose as I frantically wiped away the drops of crimson in the bathroom sink and on the tiled floor.

A tiny hole remained open for a couple of days, but I didn’t have any nose rings to wear. The throbbing pain eventually ebbed away, and I returned to being a green girl with green skin. If I tried to sit next to the blue girls at lunch, they would all move to the other table. They spoke to me only when they had to, their eyes always looking away even when they did talk to me. I remember reaching out to get my backpack from my cubbyhole, and my hand nearly touched a blue girl’s arm. She jerked her arm away, as if I was a snake, and quickly got up to leave. I sat there on the floor for a moment, asking the universe why did I have to be ugly, why did I have to be stupid, why did I have to be green?

***

My mother stopped going to her job--she had worked as a waitress--so I was used to coming home to an empty pantry. When she was passed out on the couch, I would take a couple of dollars from her stash of cash in the closet, and head to the nearby 24-hour juice pop store. 

Filled with sugar and oil, juice pops were a quick and easy way to abate my hunger after a week of meager cafeteria food. The blue girls would squeal “eeewww!” whenever juice pops were mentioned. But I liked the sweet burst of flavor--and I didn’t have much choice. 

I was rounding the corner of the juice pop store, when I saw a gorgeous green woman leaning on the wall. She was wearing an iridescent sequin dress that hugged her hourglass figure. Her lips were red and voluptuous, and her thick curls crowned her head, making her look like a retro-style beauty queen. I asked my mother about this woman back at home.

That was a prostitute, she told me. Prostitutes pull down their pants, and then men give them money.

I figured I could become a prostitute since I was already pulling my pants down for men. And I didn’t have to wait long for this to come true. One day when I was back at the juice pop store, a man stopped me in my tracks. 

Look at my skin. What do you see?

He was pointing to his flesh. I was startled but I responded.

Green, I said.

Yes, I am green. Like you, he nodded his head.

He put his forearm next to mine. He was a deep olive, like burnt mustard mixed with teal. 

I understand what you are going through. I understand what it is like being a green person in this blue world. 

I peered into his round, chocolate eyes. He smelled like a cocktail of blueberry juice pops and whiskey, the heavy type of whiskey that my mother drank for hours until she passed out.

Blue people treat us like dogs. You are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen, and you deserve so much more.

His mouth curled into a broad grin. Warmth was spreading into my cheeks as I smiled back. He spun me a picture of a glamorous life with expensive dresses and lavish dining and a charming white mansion. He promised that he would protect me from the men that would try to steal my money.

I started working with Marcus--that was the name of the pimp--the next night. I stood by the juice pop store corner wearing a neon pink dress that cost $9.99 and plastic high heels that were a couple sizes too big. I tried to make my hair look big and beautiful but ended up with a disheveled bouffant, and my eyes were shrouded in a dark smokey shadow that I thought made me look older. 

I was only 15 and cried through everything. The man whom I dated on this first night showed me what to do. He could taste my fear, and he relished the flavor of my young body. I made $300 that night, and Marcus took half. When I showed up at my apartment with a fist full of cash, my mother didn’t ask any questions. She seemed happy to see me bringing money home.

The days flew by in a whirlwind. For a moment I blinked, and the crunchy autumn leaves that fluttered down from trees were replaced by harsh, cold gales and snow piling up on the streets. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw the same black eyes, sharp chin, and high cheekbones from before I became a prostitute. But I wasn’t the same person. On the right side of my nose, there was a brown splotch where the screwdriver had dug a hole into my skin. I would often graze the brown spot, and think about those blue girls who had sat together at lunch and chattered like little chirping robin birds. 

Every night, I would change into a cheap outfit and head to the juice pop corner store. After a busy evening, Marcus would launder off most of the money, leaving me with just a fraction of the cash. My pantry was filling up, but at a pace so slow that my stomach still growled throughout most days. At first, I abhorred my job. Fat, old men pinning me down, feeling every part of my body. I hated being used like a piece of trash that could be tossed out at any moment. I knew that I should confront Marcus, but the routine had fallen into my palm, and I was scared to let it go--scared of ending the only source of income in my household. 

On a frosty Tuesday night, I sat on a motel bed, goosebumps crawling up my thin green legs. I shifted around in my tight blue skirt and watched Marcus count out the money from the night. His dark hands moved through the stacks of cash swiftly, his voice softly tallying the $20 bills as he laid them down on the stained bed sheet. 

$660. Not bad. 

He patted my shoulder, and then, stuffing all the money except for $60 into his pocket. He got up to leave the room. 

Wait, Marcus, I called him. Aren’t you gonna give me more of that money?

He chuckled and said, Didn’t I pay for the nice blue dress that you are wearing right now? Didn’t I pay for that glitter nail manicure? I already take care of you, so why would you need more?

I have a mother to feed at home. I have to pay rent for my apartment, I told him. My lips were quivering, and I could see his hands moving in agitation. His fingers were clasped together, and he was rocking them back and forth, the lilting rhythm of cracking knuckles filling the momentary silence.

Where is the mansion that you promised? Where is the Lamborghini? You said that you would treat me well, but I am living a life no better than a dog’s! I screamed.

Marcus’ chest heaved up and down. His eyes were burning with a fire that I had never seen before.

I quit! Marcus, I quit being a pro--

BAM! My bottom jaw unhinged from my upper jaw, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth as I reeled from his punch. The world around me became blurry. My back hit the motel floor, and a green fist came pounding down on my face, again and again in a loop, like a cassette tape that hit a snag. I writhed under his body, but he straddled me with his strong legs. I couldn’t breathe. And I couldn’t escape.

I am the one giving you a job. No blue person will ever hire you, because you are a green girl. I don’t need you, but you need me!

I walked back to the bus stop that night, my hands covering my broken nose as his voice still rang in my ears. The bus was nearly empty; only one other seat was occupied by an elderly blue woman. The woman glared at me from her seat, but I ignored her. I was used to people hurling dirty looks at me.

Marcus never spoke of that night again. But I was scared. His menacing glare and cruel smirk haunted me for days. I wanted to run away from him, but he knew where I lived and could beat me up again if I didn’t show up to work. And then a month after the incident, he gave me a gift to celebrate our one year anniversary of working together: a hologram phone. 

I sucked in my breath with a gleeful squeal the moment that I laid my eyes on the hologram. The exact same model of hologram phones used to be carried in the pockets of the blue girls in my middle school. I held the hologram in my hand, feeling the smooth, cool surface against my skin. It felt heavy, like a miniature bowling ball. I opened and closed the phone, listening to the little click every time. I felt like a blue girl, ready to text my friends and take holographic photos, forgetting about how Marcus had hit me - about how I had hated being a prostitute. Marcus explained to me that buying the mansion and the car would take time, and he was saving up our money so that one day we could bathe in a life of luxury. He told me that he would always be my knight-in-shining armor, protecting me from danger. For now, all I needed to do was keep working with him. It seemed to me that he was asking me to do just a small favor for something grand, something absolutely monumental in return.

I had sex with seven clients that night, a record high for me. When I was slipping my dress back on, my last client of the night told me, I love your nose. The little dark spot is so beautiful. 

My fingers skimmed my nose, and I thought about the blue girls with their nose piercings. I am not a blue girl. I am green, and I am a prostitute. But I am also beautiful. And I deserve so much more.

Grade
12

I was in a daze when my mom asked me, right after my 15th birthday, if I wanted to study in America for a year as an exchange student. Whatever just entered my ears caused a circuit in my cerebral cortex. Then, an untamed tingly feeling seized my body. Every fiber in my body started to vibrate with excitement. “Why not?” I said, a smile growing of its own accord. 

I had come back from Europe a month earlier. All the eye-opening experiences were fresh in my memory. I had widened my horizon and seen so many things that I couldn’t see in China. From then on, the eagerness to see more was like a fire burning inside of me. How could I possibly turn down the opportunity to continue my adventure and explore the other side of the world?

After a long, uneasy wait during the difficult application process, I was finally informed of my acceptance at Denver City High School in Denver City, Texas. Facing a brand-new country and a host family, anxious thoughts constantly raced in my head. Even my parents started to doubt if it was the right decision to “let the little bird fly over the Pacific and seek another nest.” When it was the moment to bid my parents farewell at Beijing International Airport, I quickly said goodbye and scurried to the gate without turning back. I knew that even the slightest glimpse would cause my tears to flow until I had no more to shed. 

A driving rainstorm prolonged my flight into a seemingly endless journey. After 19 hours, I finally took my first, unsteady step into Lubbock airport. As I exited the gate, a huge, colorful poster with giant letters caught my eyes: “MAGGIE, WELCOME TO AMERICA.” My eyes widened and then fixed upon the people who were holding the poster – my American mom, Shanna, and dad, Ronald. Shanna dressed in eye-catching red knitwear. She was tall and plump, with blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She had a fair complexion and kindness radiated from her. Ronald, on the other hand, was wearing a relatively casual T-shirt and shorts. Behind his serious glasses, the genuine smile squeezed his sapphire eyes. They stuffed me a bouquet of flowers and a bag of my favorite snacks, and hugged me so tightly that I couldn’t breathe. Then they started to talk; I could see from their glistening eyes that there were so much they wanted to say. Somehow, I felt warm on a cold day. 

We scurried across the parking lot in the rain and stopped in front of a gleaming maroon truck. I had never seen a huge truck like this! Shanna said proudly that trucks were the symbol of Texas. Even though the truck was spacious and comfortable, my mind went blank after I got into the truck. All the worries and insecurities exploded in my mind like a volcano. Awkward silence inundated the space. Thankfully, Shanna broke the spell. She started a conversation by asking me simple questions like “what do you like to do.” Although I stuttered all my answers, the brilliant smile on her face never faded away. Meanwhile, she talked slowly and loudly about their daily life and family members. She had a peaceful life as a high school teacher (at Denver City High School), and Ronald was a mechanic in the oil fields. In spare time, they enjoyed spending time with their family. Their lifestyle was peaceful and slow-paced, which was not at all my experience under the rigid Chinese school system. Somehow, her beautiful voice soothed my nerves, and as I watched the rain streaking the window, I fell asleep serenely like a child.

In the following days, I was introduced to other family members in succession. It was, actually, the first time in my life in which there were so many people gathered together just to see me, since my parents were my only family in Beijing. I met pop and granny (Shanna’s parents) who always gave my kisses on my forehead, Brittni and Edward (the Weir’s daughter and her husband) who could understand my accent more than anyone, baby Daniel (Brittni and Edward’s son) who made me blush by stealing my first kiss, Leona (Shanna’s aunt) who helped me “cheat” in Dominoes, and so on. I was especially grateful for granny since she cooked my first American dinner during a family gathering: mashed potatoes, beans, corns, well-done steaks, and cheesecake as the desert. I could never forget the moment when I put the first piece of cheesecake in my mouth: everyone’s eyes widened as if they had long been waiting for this historic moment to happen, and they broke into applause after I gave them a thumb-up. I let the cheesecake melt on my tongue, just like how their amicability melted my heart. 

The butterfly in my stomach started flapping again when it was time to go to school. Walking down the hallway on the first day of school, I could feel my cheeks getting hotter and hotter, and wondered if anyone else was as mortified as I was. All the unfamiliar faces, classes, and cultures intimidated me. But something eased my fear. Perhaps it was the boy who smiled and said hello to me in the hallway. Perhaps it was the teacher who made everyone in class try to pronounce my Chinese name. Or maybe it was the girl in my P.E. class who said “good job” to me even though I was the last one who crossed the finish line. It could also be the group of people who asked me to join them for a group assignment. I wasn’t sure, but I knew that after weeks, my body had already learned to relax.

On my quest to explore new surroundings, I discovered the game Minecraft. I liked playing Minecraft because I enjoyed the feeling of completing tasks and building up my world block by block. I applied this mindset to my real-world challenges and set forth a process to step out of my comfort zone. Make eye contact, check. Introduce myself, check. Have lunch with new friends, check. Answer questions in class, check. The more tasks I fulfilled, the broader my world became.

In here, I never stopped learning, since life never stopped teaching. At home, I learned to use silverware, to keep my shoes on in the house, to use dishwasher and dryer, to take a shower in a bathtub, to use a heater, and to play with the dogs. With the help of my new friends, I mastered using the apps that were previously unknown to me, doing make-ups, dressing up, taking selfies from the bathroom mirrors, and cheering during a football game. At church, I learned to participate in Sunday School, to greet people I didn’t know, and to sing on stage. At school, I was introduced to new concepts and interpretations from classes such as Psychology and Economics; I gained the knowledge of different cultures from other international students; and I tried things I couldn’t even imagine myself doing before, like sports and theater. I gradually came to realize that good grades aren't the only things that matter here---personality, interest, and ideology---all of them together define who I am. 

Each day was a discovery, such as when I learned a new way of living. I learned it when I opened Google without a VPN, when I saw families with more than one child, and when I heard people speak out against the government. Before I moved to America, these things were just words on a piece of paper; I didn't know they truly existed.

I finally came to understand why my Mom named me Siqi. In Confucian Analects, Siqi means to be humble and keep learning. I used to think my name was weird, but now I realize that no other names express my attitude of life better than Siqi.

On the path of growth, I would’ve never gone this far without the support from my host parents. Ever since the first day of my arrival, they treasured me like their own daughter. Shanna, as the strict mother, constantly pushed me out of my comfort zone and squeezed every drop of potential from me. She never ceased to encourage me to do things I feared, for example, hanging out with Americans and participating in extra-curricular activities. Back then I considered Shanna as a “tiger mom,” but there was no way I could become the same person I am today without her. She knew better than anyone that inside of me, confidence stayed silent. One time she forced me to play the piano in front of my friends. I was so mortified that I wished I could slip on an invisibility cloak and disappear. But when it was Shanna’s turn to play, she completely immersed herself in her music world regardless of people around. I was transfixed not on the music but the confidence flowing out of her dancing fingers. Everything around her was a blur and it became only her. That was the moment I realized I wanted to be someone like her, a bold, strong, and fearless woman. Whenever I needed to do a presentation in class, to perform on stage, or simply to initiate a conversation with someone new, Shanna’s figure would pop up in my head and remind me to stay brave. 

My peaceful life in Denver City continued, until the day when pop (Shanna’s father) was taken to the emergency room by an ambulance overnight. The next morning, just as the sun was rising, my host parents and I immediately took off to the hospital. The moment Shanna opened the ward’s door, I noticed that she was fighting back tears. Pop was catheterized by tubes all over his body. He was so bony, almost to the point of emaciation. Shanna slowly walked to the bed, gently grasped grandpa’s hand, and raised a touch of bitter smile. She stood by his side like a guardian angel. Shortly, more family members I’d never met came to visit. What surprised me was that not everyone acted like Shanna. Almost all of them were having fun talking to other relatives. In a situation like this, I decided to take initiative to look after pop so that I could share some of Shanna’s burden. I tried my best to feed him, help him to go to the bathroom, and clean up his bedsheet, even though I was a bit clumsy. Sometimes, I would tell grandpa some of my anecdotes in China to help him fall asleep. When there was someone who wanted to replace me, pop was unwilling, saying that he only wanted me by side. Shanna held on to my hands and beamed: “Thank you, my angel.”

We lived in a hotel close to the hospital. When midnight came, a burst of deep sobbing crept into my ears as I fell into between asleep and awake. My body sort of sleepwalked toward the sound of crying by itself. When I fully opened my eyes, I saw Shanna weeping into her hands! I had known anyone but her to cry. I embraced her in my arms, the deep sorrow emanated from her almost made me cry too. I didn’t ask why she cried because I knew even the strongest woman I’d known had to strip off her armor sometimes. 

When the crying quieted down, we talked for hours. We talked about everything, from her concern for pop to the annoying neighbor who always played loud music at night. I’d never talked so much in my life. Finally, I asked Shanna the question I’d been wondering: “Mom, why did you decide to take me in in the first place?” After a pause, she said: “When I was a kid, I went out to play, and a power pole suddenly broke down and slammed directly on me. I was severely injured. When I was 23, I was involved in a devastating car accident. The doctor said it was a miracle that I was still alive, but I must live the rest of my life in a wheelchair. See, I proved the doctor wrong, although I have more metal implants in my body than real bones.” She showed me an X-ray picture. I truly felt sorry for her, but she laughed and claimed that she was the “iron woman,” even though she couldn’t walk very well yet she could still fly. She said: “Although my dream of traveling the world has died, the scenery outside has never disappeared. You are like a window of which I can look out to see different parts of the world.” 

“Mom,” I said, “we are each other’s window.” 

That night, I had a dream. In my dream, Shanna became an iron woman who was flying high in the sky. She opened up her armored arms to shelter me and bequeathed a will of iron to me.

Time had begun to dissolve into itself, as shapeless as the drizzling December rain. In a blink, my one-year exchange in Denver City had ended. Leaving Shanna and Ronald at Lubbock Airport was just as hard as leaving my parents at Beijing International Airport a year ago. But this time was different. I did not leave with fear and uncertainty. Instead, I walked away with newfound confidence and courage. Now I finally understood that the destination of my journey was never a place, but a new way of exploring who and where I am. 

Grade
10

The afternoon was lazy, and the breeze that shifted through the large oaks outside suggested idleness. I sighed with impatience as my last student of the day struggled through Seitz’s Pupil’s Concerto No. 2. The air became thick with his lack of intonation and harsh noise derived from poor bowing technique. At last, he straightened his bow as he came from piano to double forte on staccato sixteenths, and ended on a high - and sharp - note with an adolescent, dramatic flourish.

“That will do for today,” I said, aching to escape the confines of my apartment. “You may go, and please practice proper bowing for next week.”

The young man nodded and thanked me as he took his fiddle and his leave.

Exhausted from teaching, I sank into the armchair by my bookshelf. I rubbed my temples and furrowed my brow at the sun through the window as it glared back at me.

It was a fair day, which quite contrasted the stormy weather of the past two weeks. The grass drew itself up to its full height and beamed more colorfully from its long hydration. The outside was bright and cheery: no longer the dank, dispirited world suited only for ghosts… though of course, I don’t believe in ghosts.

I gave another glance at the clear sky, and decided to go for a drive. There is a river half a mile or so out of the city, and I thought I would benefit from the open air. The walk along the river from the road to the old miller’s pond was one I frequented when the weather allowed. The miller had a pretty young daughter, and I often had the good fortune of exchanging a word with her when we crossed paths at the pond just off of the miller’s property; it was here I chose to go today.

I parked my car at the water’s edge and began my walk. The water was clear and cool, and the overtones of its pleasant trickle reminisced of a fictitious naiad's bubbling laugh. I hiked closer to the water’s edge and peered in. A tall, thin man gazed back at me with the pensive expression of one who emphasizes the critical analysis of all emotional values, and who lives too much inside his head.

I ran my fingers through my hair to give it a more boyish look, and the man in the river mimicked the motion, mocking me. I loitered at the water’s edge, debating between a straightened tie and a put together look, or rolled up sleeves and loosened tie, with my jacket tossed over my shoulder, to have a younger appeal. My reflection continued to taunt me as I experimented with style, and I concluded with a well blended mix of the two aesthetics. Would it draw the attraction of the miller’s daughter? It would have to do, I decided, and continued on my way.

The air chilled now that I was close to the water, and the breeze began to pick up. It flirted with the long river grasses along the banks, and the grasses bent to its gentle touch. A heron painted slow figure eights overhead, scanning the water for something unseen to the human eye. Nearby, the bushes rustled, indicating a squirrel or another small rodent. I let out a low whistle to the tune of Bach’s Prelude in C Minor. Some birds hidden in the trees echoed the melody.

At last, I came to the pond, and was disappointed to see I was alone. No miller’s girl greeted me with a tender smile and twist of her long blonde hair around her finger, or crouched at the water’s surface, studying the life within too intently to notice my approach and turn the studious, gaze on me, as though searching past my own surface for the same “life within.” No fair maiden skipped over to me with childish eagerness to describe the delicate spider web of a dragonfly’s wings or the croaking song of a toad. I shrugged it off as unimportant; I didn’t see her every time I came, and surely I would meet her again soon.

There is a small sort of peninsula that juts off of the bank and several feet into the middle of the pond. This was a favorite point of the miller’s girl and myself, and many afternoons like this one were shared between the two of us on a broad rock at the tip. Other times I would come upon itto find her engaged in painting from this overlook. The scenes she painted were stunning and showed the natural, effortless talent she possessed. Many times they depicted the view from the peninsula in all its beauty, but with something indescribable about it that gave an insightful, but eerie, chill to her masterpieces. In the folds of the water ripples she painted was the face of a girl, or in other works she painted, that same girl’s spirit was present in the way the paint-captured clouds grew dark over the sun on an otherwise brilliant day, or the grasses and pines were shown swaying from a tempestuous wind in her art when the weather of the day she painted was fair.

Once, when I asked her about this certain quality in her work, she told me it was a ghost.

“A moment, frozen in time. Any moment,” she said, “becomes permanent in that setting. The fabric of space is tangible. The fabric of time is a social construct in which the human mind processes each event. Every moment happens all at once; time is made up to separate these moments.”

“Did someone die here, then?” I cautioned, gesturing at her haunted painting, part joking in asking the question, part confused by her philosophies.

“Not yet.”

Whatever phantom plagued her troubled mind added a splendor of emotional value to her glorious paintings, mixing a hard reality with chilling creativity and imagination with the overlying darkness only she could see, but still more picturesque was the scene that only I could see, featuring a beautiful lady, so absorbed in finding beauty in everything around her that she missed it in herself.

There were still other times, too, when I would pass the hour reading on the rock on the point in the pond, before being interrupted by her racing toward me, barefooted and with her skirts pulled high above her knees in a reckless abandon of modesty, and running straight into the pond, before noticing I was there. When she saw me observing her, the color deepened in her cheeks, and she would exclaim a breathless apology to me. On one such occasion, she insisted through a furious blush that she would never act so shrewish, only she didn’t know I was there, and, “The water lilies were beckoning temptresses this afternoon.”

I broke a handful of lilies off of their stems and handed them to her, advising her to “let them tempt no further,” which caused her to blush harder and stammer for a moment before responding a thanks in her usual friendly way, and mumbling something else under her breath that it wasn’t just the lilies, but the siren that called her to the water, too.

“And has your maiden’s maritime mistress passed yet?” I asked, referencing the unknown spirit which had such a strong hold on the girl of my favor, though I knew better than to think this was any more than a creative fantasy of hers.

“The time is nearer,” she responded, too wrapped up in her bouquet of lilies to notice the weight of her words.

She called the point we shared these moments on Friend’s Favor, but my secret name for it was Lover’s Overlook.

Today, though, I was alone on Friend’s Favor, and on the usual rock which we treated as a bench was an assortment of long, white bones, belonging perhaps to a swan. It looked as though they had been left behind after the body of the bird was taken away, and now remained drying on the rock. No one would mind if I took them, and used them to make a fiddle. I had experimented with making instruments out of bones and other various materials in the past, and this seemed no different. I started gathering the bones, and an eerie feeling came over me. It was senseless, I knew, but they seemed to whisper of something darker than a drowned swan. I ignored the notion, as irrational feelings had no place with me. Still, I was wary, and I jumped when I heard footsteps approaching behind me.

“I don’t mean to startle you, son, it’s just me,” said a low voice, husky with age.

I turned to see the miller himself watching as I hastily pocketed the bones.

“You’re not stealing those bones from me, are you?” he asked.

I shook my head, and my nerves. “No sir,” I said.

“I’m only teasing,” the miller said, “They’re all yours if you want ‘em.”

“Thank you. Fine weather today, sir,” I said.

“Nicer than we’ve had in weeks, and it just goes to show what a good, hearty rain’ll do. Although, it isn’t all good things it’s done. Between you and me, these storms were a fright worse than usual.” The miller paused, gauging my interest in his story. I leaned forward and nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“I found a girl right here in my pond, drowned to death. I pulled her out this morning. Those are her bones you got there.”

A chill ran down my spine as the eerie feeling I felt became clearer.

“She was from the farm just about a league up river,” the miller went on. “There were two of ‘em girls living there. Sisters. Rumour says the younger was jealous of her sister for some love affair and tried to kill her. I guess the storms served vengeance for her. Still, it’s a right shame.”

The miller shook his head, distressed by the incident. “The corpse was a trifle washed out and gaunt like, but her hair was long and pretty, and seemed it could be put to use. As long as you’re taking her bones, you could find something for her hair, here.”

And before I could say anything, he handed me several locks of rich, dark brown hair.

“Now you mind the weather, lad, I don’t want anything happening to a nice boy like you when you haven’t even been married or nothing. Marriage - now that’s the only thing to make a fellow wish something would happen to ‘im.”

“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled, unsure what to do. “Mind the weather yourself, and take care of your daughter for me.”

He gave me a knowing grin, and began his hike back up to the big house where he lived with his daughter. I felt shaken, and the mood of the afternoon had changed. A few wisps of clouds drifted in front of the sun, and the pleasant breeze I had enjoyed on my walk down was now chilly and foreboding. The walk back seemed to be longer than I remembered, but my set stride had me returned to my car in a hurried manner.

I drove back to my apartment, where I took a late tea and began an evening task of assembling the bony instrument. The fiddle was shaped out of the breast bone, and I made the fiddle pegs out of the slender fingers. With the fine locks of hair, I strung a bow and, finished, I began to play it. I opened a sheet of music - Tchaikovsky’s Symphony 4 - and pulled the bow across the strings of the violin. The strain wailed a mournful tone, and the instrument seemed possessed by a mind of its own as it sang a different song than the notes I played. Instead, it cried a tale of two sisters: one younger, who fell in love with a man in the trees; and the older, a thief of this man’s love. The melody alluded to a tale of an attempt at murder, in which the younger sister appealed to a woodland beast for help, but was turned down. Resorted to revenge by her own hands, she pushed the sister into the river as she shrieked the name of her lover into the howling wind and rain.

Now, I don’t believe in ghosts, but I was certain this instrument was haunted by the story of the two sisters, and I wanted nothing to do with it. I never allow the feelings of the heart to compromise the integrity of the mind, but as long as this instrument remained in my home, it would torment my days and haunt my nights with the vengeful tale. I made up my mind to return the music of the older sister’s bones to the younger sister, as it seemed only the reunion of the two would bring peace to the wretched object.

I threw on my jacket and hurried back to my car, fiddle and bow tucked under my arm. I drove to the river, and followed the miller’s cryptic directions from there - about a league up river - to an old farmhouse. I walked with a determined pace up to the door. I wanted to be rid of the instrument soon, and the bright day was rapidly fading in sunset. In almost immediate effect of my sharp knock on the door, it was opened on a girl in what might have been late teens or early twenties. This must have been the younger sister. It was odd, how someone so young, and with the soft, delicate features she had could be so guilty of the murder she had committed.

I handed the instrument to her with no introduction, saying, “I think this belongs to you.”

She asked no questions and gave no sign of knowing what I was talking about, but as she took it from me, she paled, and her cool, unfrightened stare faltered, then shifted to one of stubborn defiance. She said nothing as she closed the door. I knocked again, but this time there was no response, save for the fiddle’s siren voice as it began to sing again of the sisters and the terrible wind and rain.

The strain followed me as I began the walk back to my car. I stopped when I reached the miller’s pond; his daughter stood at the tip of the peninsula, her back to me, gazing into the water. There was a new kind of serenity about her that came with the passing of that haunted spirit. I moved and stood next to her, joining her in her silent reflection. She slipped her hand into mine. As she did so, we heard a desperate moan carried to us over the water: one that sang of the dreadful wind and rain.