Once upon a time, there was a mystical and prosperous land called Atlantica. There, lived a little girl named Arainia. It was a serene day. Arainia and her mother Lilly were working out in the garden. The sun’s golden rays spilled down onto the two ladies and the cheerful greenery. The flowers happily danced in the warm wisps of air. The girl’s mother headed to the back of the barn to feed the birds. She smiled as the chirps of the birds echoed throughout the barn, turning a dirty shack into a superb structure with beautiful harmonic melodies gracing off the walls. It was the most peaceful, perfect day.  Suddenly, the bird seeds abruptly fell from Lilly’s hands. She whipped around, not believing what she had just heard. The noise was awful, as if an entire forest were being uprooted. Her first and only thought was to get back to Arainia before it was too late.

                Lilly sprinted as fast as her legs would allow her. Her thoughts, however, were racing even faster.  She screamed out her daughter’s name until the garden came into sight. Arainia had her emerald green eyes locked on the sky above her. On the horizon, absolutely gigantic figures dominated the land. It was the strangest and the most bone-chilling sight the little girl had ever seen. Arainia was grabbed by her terrified mother, who ran into the log cabin they called home. The frigid air of the basement pierced their skin as the overwhelming smell of rotting wood surrounded them. The basement was the home of darkness and nothing else. “Mom!” Arainia pleaded, “Please tell me what’s going on!” After several moments of silence Lilly opened the basement door. A mysterious golden light flooded the murky room. A river of tears poured from Lilly’s face.”Arainia – it’s them” she said firmly, “You need to listen to me. I’m going to leave and find the rest of our family. You absolutely must stay put.” But just as the door was but an inch from closing against the rotting frame, Arianna’s mother opened it once more and looked Arainia directly in the eyes. “If I do not return, go to the forest. You will be safe there,” spoke Lilly, her face illuminated by the bright light casting down the stairs. “Arainia – always remember - it’s not all about the size of your strength, but rather of the strength of your heart.” And with that, the door was shut and Arainia was enveloped in a black abyss once more.

                Arainia’s memories were crashing into one another – making everything blurry and vague. The image of the figures dominating the sky haunted her thoughts. Suddenly, a violent crash against the land shook the house. Arainia knew what the terrifying figures were. This was no natural disaster, horrific accident, or attack. Arainia shuddered as pieces of wood fell from the ceiling with each violent crash. It was the titans. She flashed back to the time when she was little and read, quite intrigued, about them in Greek mythology. They were destructive monsters that history had said were locked away forever. Arainia knew what she had seen on the horizon, and she knew that Atlantica was never going to be the same.

                Arainia quickly jerked awake after dozing off as she was sure she heard a footstep of one of the Titans. She was relieved to find that it was merely her stomach growling. At times, she thought a mountain was being knocked over. No, it was her heart violently pounding against her chest. She was hungry, anxious, and after several hours, still alone. She prayed to be able to wrap her arms around her mother, father, brothers and sisters just one more time. With a heavy breath she opened the door and slowly walked up the creaking stairs, every step seeming to bring her closer to death. She had only stepped one foot outside before she broke down. The lake by her garden that was usually as smooth as a mirror was now flooded and murky. The sky that was usually stained pink with the afternoon sunset was now an eerie black. Atlantica, which had always been such a stunning city, was now almost destroyed. “The forest.” Her mother’s words flashed back in her head. She had been on the hunting grounds on the outskirts of the forest, but never into the dark, frightening land. Citizens of the city had always been instructed to never, ever enter the forest. The thought of an unknown land with unknown creatures scared Arainia, but she followed the winding pathway as her mother had told her to do. She silently prayed that she would walk into the forest and find her family. Little did she know, deep in the forest, someone or something other than her family was waiting for her.
               

Arainia stepped into a different world. A world where there was no chaos. A world where fascinating creatures roamed about, all shielded by the thick interlocking braches of the trees above. The forest was a majestic place. A place of peace, but at the moment, it was a place of heartbreak for Arainia. Her family was nowhere in sight. Her heart felt like a stone that had dropped through her stomach. “I wish you were here!” she cried. The mournful girl lay down on the carpet of moss and cried herself to sleep.

                Arainia’s eyes burst open. A stream of flames was circling around her. It wasn’t a dream. The fire’s long, angled strips were reaching out and grabbing her. “STOP!” Arainia screamed. “Whatever you are LEAVE ME ALONE!” Almost instantly the flames vanished and the frigid air of the night returned. Arainia couldn’t return to sleep. She had to figure out what that was. The glittering moon lit the forest pathways. She quietly walked along, looking for the mysterious creature. Before long, just as the sun was breaking through the treetops, her little legs simply couldn’t carry her any longer. She fell into a slumber once more, leaving her vulnerable to whatever was lurking in that forest.

                That night it came again. Arainia woke up to a blazing flame pressing against her face. But this time she could see a silhouette behind the fire, it was some kind of bird. Its pointed beak and sharpened talons make it look like a lethal creature. Arainia’s heart crashed against her chest. “Don’t kill me!” She pleaded. The bird of fire came closer. But instead of attacking her, it released an apple from its talons and gave it to the girl. Arainia was apprehensive at first, but her hunger defeated her and she devoured the apple. The bird stood tall beside her, flames flowing off its back. She realized that the bird’s fire caused her no harm. The bird soared into the night sky to hunt more food for Arainia. From that point on, she viewed the phoenix as her protector. At that time, she didn’t know that her life would change because of the phoenix, nor did she know that the fate of Atlantica would depend on both of them.

                She named the phoenix River Star. The two lived off the forest’s blessings. The forest was now Arainia’s only home and River Star was her only friend. She often traveled to the outskirts of the forest to check on the damage to the city. Nearly two weeks after the arrival of the Titans, more than half the town was completely obliterated. She knew something had to be done, and soon.

                Arainia dreamed of her mother that night. “Remember- it’s not all about the size of your strength, but rather of the strength of your heart.” The words echoed endlessly in her head. She departed early from her dream as the ground below her began to violently shake. She was up on her feet running before she knew it, adrenaline already rushing through her veins. It felt like a massive earthquake. River Star quickly streamed alongside her as trees in the forest began to fall over. But Arainia knew that it wasn’t an earthquake. She whipped around to see the most petrifying scene that had ever occurred on Planet Earth. There were twelve of them. Each one was easily as tall as four skyscrapers, and a swing of their wrist could cause massive devastation. The creatures dominated over the land, demolishing everything in their path, and now they had made it to the forest. Fear flooded inside Arainia, trying to drown her. She let out a blood-curdling scream when she felt something scoop her up and settle her into the treetops. She closed her eyes, as she was sure one of the Titans had a good hold of her. “River Star!” she cried out thankfully as she realized the phoenix was flying her to a safer place. But Arainia knew she couldn’t escape this danger.

                “Arainia.” said a deep and powerful voice. “Now is the time to defeat.” Arainia’s heart stopped. The voice was River Star’s. She locked eyes with River Star. She acknowledged that they had to defeat the titans on their own, and nodded to River Star. Even though she was still in shock that a phoenix spoke to her, and knew they were much outnumbered for this battle, Arainia was ready to fight, and she was willing to die trying.

                Arainia and River Star took to the air, flames flowing behind them. They went straight toward the Titans. River Star’s powers became all-powerful and Arainia had never before been braver. Phoenix and girl were now a team. “Begin the battle,” whispered Arainia. “This is the rise of the shining stars.”

“Well what happened next Mommy?” asked little Lilly. “Well, let me finish dear!” Arainia went back to telling her story. “It took long, grueling hours. Arainia was injured and River Star was exhausted. But they would not give up. It wasn’t about the size of their strength, but it was the strength of their heart that won the battle for them.”  Now, many years later, Arainia’s beautiful 10 year old daughter, Lilly, sat and listened in astonishment to her mother’s story. “Where’s River Star now?” questioned Lilly. A blazing phoenix suddenly appeared in the corner.

Mozart - Horn Concerto No. 3 in E-flat Major. John sighed as he flipped open the slightly crumpled piece of music and set it on the broken music stand. He looked down at his French horn, which was beginning to look a bit tarnished, and lifted it into playing position. E-flat major. Emerald. John took a deep breath and began to play. Warm, majestic colors filled the cramped room, soaring through the air, guided by well-practiced technique. The white walls of his bedroom faded away, and he was surrounded by blinding stage lights, backed by a powerful orchestra. Suddenly, he fumbled a phrase ending; the audience jeered, and the stage disappeared. John rolled his eyes, exasperated. He took another deep breath to try again -- knock, knock.

“John, we have to leave right now! Why are you practicing?” scolded his mother. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that Lucy’s getting baptized today -- hurry up!”

John grumbled dejectedly, setting the horn on his dark green pillow. Playing horn had become an increasingly depressing task; juggling college auditions with schoolwork was bad enough, but John also knew that his parents wouldn’t let him go to a music conservatory in the end anyway. The result was an overwhelming combination of self-doubt, self-pity, and self-loathing. I wish I could love science. Or business. But here I am, a painfully above-average horn player. No benefit to society.

John swapped his sweatpants for a pair of jeans and made his way to the garage, where his sister, Lucy, and his father were already waiting in the old family van. His mother rolled her eyes as she noted John’s choice of clothing, but said nothing as she followed along into the car.

The church was filled with excited parents and apprehensive children. John took a seat in the back row, ignoring the glares of his parents, who sat in the second row.

John’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Susie:  “Lunch?”

“Sure. After church.” Send. John’s brief smile faded as the service began.

“Jeremiah, chapter 29, verse 11: ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” The pastor paused dramatically. “There is no luck in the universe, only God’s will. And we must humbly accept that God knows what’s best for us better than we ourselves can know.”

John tuned out the rest of the sermon. I don’t know what God’s will is, but you’re right about there being no luck in the universe. He grumpily slouched in his chair, mulling over the misfortune that was his life.

John somehow stayed awake to see his sister commit her life to Jesus Christ, but that was mostly because the crowd in his head was causing a ruckus. You’re great, for an amateur. Your potential lies elsewhere. Laughing at his musical mediocrity.

Church ended promptly at noon, and the family van meandered its way home.

A text from Susie appeared on John’s phone. “Need a ride? Roberto can drive us, and Eddie is back, by the way.”

“Yeah, I’ll be home in ten. Tell Eddie I’ll bring Nat.” Send.

“Awesome. Bring your horn so we can go directly to rehearsal afterwards. See you soon!”

The van had barely pulled into the garage before John hopped out and dashed into the house. He grabbed his wallet, stuffed it in his pocket, and ran to his bedroom, where Nat was waiting in a glass fish tank. Nat was Eddie’s pet anaconda. Eddie went on vacation a lot with his mother, and John took care of the gray-green snake in his absence. The anaconda rearranged itself gloomily as John lifted the tank, and John felt the corners of his mouth twinge upwards in a half-smile. Eddie didn’t understand John’s disillusionment with high school, but maybe his anaconda did. John tucked the tank under his arm and lifted his French horn case with his hand.

“I’m going out for lunch with friends.” John brushed past his mother’s disapproving stare and opened the front door as Roberto pulled up in his Toyota Prius.

“John!” Eddie was in the passenger seat. “Thanks for looking after Nat. Just set him in the trunk.”

John complied and joined Susie in the backseat. He sat in the middle so that he could sit next to Susie while also giving his French horn a seat. As the car accelerated out of the neighborhood, John saw that Roberto was wearing sandals, leaving his toes out in the open. Roberto had a rubber toe.

“You okay, John?” Susie tossed her silky brown hair and looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. “You look stressed.”

“Yeah, just music stuff as usual.” John’s answer was noncommittal, but his eyes betrayed appreciation. “My parents--”

“You’re so silly. Music is fun.” Susie laughed melodiously. “My violin teacher always tells me to practice each day as if it’s my last chance ever.”

Eddie interrupted. “Nerds. Are you guys okay with Chipotle?”

“Yep.” John snuck a glance at Susie before looking out the window, lost in thought. God, she’s so perfect. I don’t deserve her either.

The Prius wound along the grassy lanes of Mooseville, constantly accelerating. “Hey, Roberto, slow down,” said Eddie. “No hurry.”

“Don’t worry,” laughed Roberto. “I’ve got this.” But the car was approaching a red stoplight rapidly, with no signs of slowing down. “Wait, what the heck is happening?”

Roberto frantically tried to hit the brakes, but his rubber toe had somehow become stuck to the accelerator in the hot weather. They flew into the intersection just as a McDonald’s truck was crossing through. I’m lovin’ it. The last thing John heard before he blacked out was the wrenching sound of metal colliding with metal. Black. Metallic black. There is no luck in this world. Nat slithered out of his overturned tank to freedom, unnoticed amid the chaos.

-----

“John. John, are you awake?” John opened his eyes to the concerned face of his mother. He had a mighty strong headache and noticed that his right leg was in a cast, resting on a bland white hospital bed.

“What happened?” he choked out.

“Don’t you remember? There was an accident, and you and your friends were hurt very badly. Actually--” his mother stopped short and looked away.

John’s heart turned to stone. “Mom. Is Susie okay? You have to tell me!”

His mother’s eyes were oceans. “John… Susie died a few days after the crash. You’ve been unconscious for over a week now.”

John began to drift out of consciousness. He didn’t seem to comprehend this bit of information as he dozed off. Purple. Deep, brooding purple.

John was discharged from the hospital just one week later, but he didn’t return to school. He spent the next few weeks at home, staring into the woods in the backyard. He didn’t play his French horn, which had escaped the accident unscathed.

One day, Mr. Jackson, the school band director, came to visit. John resented a lot of the adults at school, but his band teacher was an exception.

“Hey, John. We miss you in band.” Mr. Jackson took a seat on the old red sofa in the living room, causing it to creak. “Miss playing horn?”

John shook his head, avoiding his teacher’s gaze as he took a seat next to Mr. Jackson. “I’m thinking I might quit soon. My parents aren’t letting me go to music school anyway.” He sighed. “Mr. Jackson, I wish I were better. I’ve worked so hard, but no one will ever hear me play horn again after I graduate.” Tears were streaming down John’s face now.

Mr. Jackson gently cleared his throat. “John, look at me.”

John wiped away his tears with a tissue and looked up. “I’m -- I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson.”

“It’s fine, John.” Mr. Jackson’s eyes were a warm chocolatey brown. “You can talk to me.” He hesitated. “But you have to be honest. You love music, John; you would never quit.”

Salty, stinging tears returned to John’s gray-green eyes. “Susie…” His voice trailed off.

“Hey.” Mr. Jackson interjected. “I’m here to listen. You’ll feel better if you talk it out, I promise.”

John sniffled. “I miss playing duets with her. There aren’t really any duets for violin and French horn, so we had to transcribe duets written for other instruments. I was always bothered by that, but she never seemed to care.” John fought the lump in his throat. “She didn’t practice a lot. I hate wrong notes, but there was something special in her playing that made up for it. I felt so free when I played with her -- I could be happy or sad or excited or romantic, and she would always be right there with me. Even when our duets didn’t fit together so well, her smile at the end made up for it. I-- I can’t believe I’m never going to see that smile again”

Mr. Jackson was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. “Susie’s the girl who performed for Matt’s ceremony, right?” Matt was the principal cellist of the school orchestra when he committed suicide two years ago.

John nodded. “Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise. Everyone was crying at the end.”

“I remember. She really didn’t hold back. You could tell she loved violin, and more importantly, that her performance was truly dedicated to Matt.” Mr. Jackson glanced at his watch. “I wish I could talk to you more, but I have to get home. Get well soon, John. I’ll be waiting for you in band.”

“Thanks for coming to see me,” said John. Mr. Jackson smiled and waved as he left through the front door. John returned to his bedroom, where he plopped his head down on the dark green pillow. His eyelids began to droop -- the conversation had sapped him of his strength. Susie. His heart clenched excruciatingly, but he now knew how to fix it. I’ll play it out on my horn, Susie, and you can help me with your violin. Just like we always do. John’s mind filled with old duets as he fell asleep. Red. Romantic, ruby red.

-----

John was sitting on the park bench with Susie, watching the last rays of sun descend into the suburban skyline.

“Hmm, tough question. I’d have to go with E-flat. What color is that?” Susie looked to John for his response.

“Green. Emerald, really.” John saw colors in his head when he heard musical pitches -- a phenomenon known as synesthesia. Synesthesia was often the subject of their musical discussions.

“Emerald, really? That’s my favorite color, you know.” Susie’s eyes twinkled. “What about composers? Who paints the best?”

John pondered the question for a second before answering. “Mozart. Tchaikovsky is more emotional, and Ravel has more colorful impressions. But Mozart’s music is just so perfect, somehow. I don’t know.”

“I like Mozart, too,” said Susie. “His music is so sweet, even the sad pieces.”

An acorn fell from the oak tree that was sheltering them, landing on Susie’s lap. She tossed it impishly at John, but his mind had drifted elsewhere and his posture did not shift.

“John, you’re doing it again,” Susie chided gently. “Do you even like spending time with me?” She bit her lip playfully.

“Susie, am I a bad boyfriend?” John turned suddenly, ignoring his girlfriend’s question. “I feel like I used to treat you to new things all the time. Now we’re both busier, and besides, we’ve exhausted everything Mooseville has to offer. I’m sorry I can’t be more interesting.”

Susie laughed softly and carefully pushed back John’s bangs, which were beginning to become a little too long. “You’re so silly. I like you because of who you are, not for what you can do for me. Why would I go on a date behind my parents’ back with someone I don’t like?”

John let out a grin. “Really? What do you like about me?” he teased, leaning in to hear the response.

Susie rolled her eyes. “You tell me what you like about me first.”

“Okay. I like your hair, and your beautiful face, and your-- your personality. Yeah, I think that sums it up.” John put his arm around Susie, eyes twinkling humorously.

“Ha-ha, you are so romantic,” said Susie sarcastically. She shifted slightly, gazing off into the distance. “I guess I have to be the mature one as usual. I love how caring you are, John. I love that you go out of your way to make sure I’m okay, and I love how hard you work at keeping our relationship fresh. To be honest, I don’t think you need to worry that much. You could stop trying completely, and that first spark that brought us together would still keep our relationship going, because I love you. And--”

John kissed Susie. She had a tendency to ramble on and on, but that was okay. He thought it was cute. As the last streaks of light faded into the night sky, the park’s sprinkler system went off, spraying the green lawn with fresh droplets of water.

-----

John was standing backstage, nervously fingering his French horn as he awaited his turn to take the stage for the senior concerto concert. This was it: his last-ever solo performance as a high school student. The violinist who had been playing finished his piece -- the Tchaikovsky violin concerto, third movement -- with a flourish, and the audience erupted into applause. Accurate, but devoid of emotion. Susie frowned.

John swallowed the knot that was forming in his throat. He glanced up to see Mr. Jackson standing next to him.

“Hey, buddy. You’ve been tough on yourself,” said Mr. Jackson, “and we can all see the results of your hard work. Just go out there and have fun -- remember, that’s what music is all about! I want to see that spark in your eye.” The band director patted John heartily on the back and gestured out at the stage, where the orchestra was waiting.

 

That first spark. Don’t need to worry. John was taken back to his first memory of a horn performance. His eight-year-old self had fallen in love with every aspect of the instrument, from the shiny bell to the mellow yet magnificent sounds that came out of it. John walked onto the stage, took a quick bow, and gave the conductor a nod to start the piece. The sweet strings introduced Mozart’s melody, and John closed his eyes for a brief second, letting the waves of sound wash over him. He lifted the horn to his lips and began to play, filling the hall with colorful notes, soaring over the orchestral ocean. John’s gray-green eyes twinkled. E-flat major. Emerald. Exhilaration. Susie.

The girl, little at the time, picked him up from the  toy store; the place he could still remember full of bright white lights and rows of toys, cold and silent. She picked him up with her small, stubby fingers and looked at him with her soft doe eyes, declaring that this was the bear she wanted. So Teddy was paid for by the impatient mother and the little girl gently cradled him on the ride to their home, where Teddy was made to sit on the little girl’s bed.

Teddy bear, teddy bear turn around.

It was a rhyme the girl would chant with her friends as they jump-roped down the sidewalk on breezy summer days. Teddy would hear their high-pitched laughter from outside the window in her bedroom as he would sit, still, against her headboard.

He would try to turn his cotton-stuffed head and move his black beady eyes towards the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the world outside. But somehow he never could.

She would always come back, though. She would run inside, scoop him up, and grab his limp arms, swinging him around in circles as she squealed with glee. He wanted to tell her that he was glad she had picked him out of all the other toys. But somehow he never could.

Teddy bear, teddy bear touch the ground.

The little girl soon grew to her teens, and slowly Teddy’s once silky layer of fur became patchy and stiff. She would come back to him sometimes and tell him about how she went to school and met new friends, but she was so stressed out and tired. He wanted to tell her that he missed her, that he missed her and her carefree spirit. But somehow he never could.

Teddy bear, teddy bear turn off the lights.

Years seemed to pass and Teddy worried that the little girl would never come back. One day she appeared without warning and took him downstairs to the basement storage area.  She set him against a blue wall.

“Bye, Teddy,” she said, with an apologetic glance. Smiling slightly at the silliness of the situation, she went upstairs. 

Teddy would hear her walking upstairs, talking on the phone, typing on her computer. But she would never come down the stairs to visit him. The months passed by, and Teddy bear grew cold and lonely.

Teddy bear, teddy bear say goodnight. 

Now, the aged bear remembers how the rhyme would end, with the excited chatter of the girls as they jumped out of the jump-rope.  Teddy misses the little girl’s laugh and smallness. The moon shines a single, solitary beam through the old basement window upon another forgotten toy, another fleeting reminder of a little girl’s childhood. 

 

“They grow up so fast,” he thinks to himself. He wants to tell her that it’s okay, that people move on, that she should live her life without him. He hopes one day he will.

“That’s right, punk. Slither along.” Joseph scoffs as I walk by, refusing to meet his eyes. He spits to the side in what he thinks was a macho manner.

 

I make a small smile at his disturbingly accurate comment. Slither, he’d said. Coincidence? I think not. Serpentine features had become central to my identity. After all, I was a snake.

 

Did I ever really want to be a snake? I’m not so sure, but it was the role that had been assigned to me since the end of my sophomore year. It’s not like I had been saving my draw-four-wild cards until someone played a reverse; it just happened that way. I managed to win myself a round of uno and an identity all at the same time.

 

But that’s just how it works in high school; it’s an unforgiving environment. You make one mistake, and you’re out of the game.

 

“Hey Tom, you better pull those grades up or there’s no way in hell you’re going to go to college, got that?”

 

My teacher, Mr. Cooley, attempts to use the axe known as my future to instill academic interest in my damned soul. We had built a good relationship before, back when I thought grades were important...but it’s stupid...it’s all bullshit.

 

“Mr. Cooley...where are the Matthews of yesteryear?” I ask.

 

He walks away in a hurry.

 

Matthew was smart. No, he was more than smart. He was destined for great things, that boy. He had an excellent memory, like that girl Cam Jansen. He remembered every word from the first book we read, lying together in the sun, learning about the bug we had just squished. He remembered every painting I slept through when our parents took us to the Art Institute of Chicago. He remembered every little thing we did together...he was truly a genius.

 

He was also the singer in my band.

 

He was said to have the voice of an angel. Fans who thought angels were too feminine described him as the second coming of Ezra Koenig. He could sing a beautiful falsetto during his choir solos. He could belt out the guttural notes of our Nirvana covers. One thing’s for sure: he was as musically gifted as he was brilliant. Like all brilliant talents, however (or at least some of them), it came back to bite him in our last concert.

 

We’d joked about the lyrics he had written; he’d often pick awkward words to use and somehow string them together in a melodic, beautiful way...they still looked awkward on paper though. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I had told him, “hey, why don’t you rephrase that sentence?” Maybe this whole situation could’ve been avoided. Maybe he wouldn’t have mispronounced the word “niggardly” in the biggest concert of our lives. Alas, shit happens.

 

Matthews reputation was broken afterwards. “Damn racist,” they’d say. “Matthew? More like Jim Crow.” The fact of the matter was, most of them were waiting for this moment to tear him down. They simply couldn’t stand someone so talented in their midst, someone as kind and clever as Matt. They were the real snakes. They deserved to die.

 

I turn around. There he is: Joseph. The ringleader, the one who escalated the teasing to bullying and then to torture, the one who drove Matt to take his own life. My breathing grows labored. My pulse quickens, my head throbs. My ears pound with hot, molten anger running through my veins. It seems to chant. Dum dum. Dum dum. Kill the damn piece of trash that murdered your friend. I begin to walk toward him, each step slow, deliberate, full of weight.

 

And with each step my blood cools, slows. The chanting dissipates. My breathing begins to return to normal.

 

Why?

 

It’s because of this damned thing called rationalizing. With each step I had begun to “come to my senses”. I remembered the consequences of murder, the future I could have. I had begun to think that rather than revenge, Matt would want me to live happily enough for the both of us. Matt would want what’s best for me.

 

I feel like shit for chickening out though.

 

But who knows? Maybe that’s what he wanted...for me to let Joseph live, for me to go on with my own life. Then again...maybe I’m just making up bullshit rationalizations to cover my own ass. The point is, I’m not going to kill Joseph. To maintain a moral high ground, to be happy, because I’m a coward, whatever. I’m not going to do it.

 

My walking slows to a stop. I turn back around and head for the main office to fill out an anonymous bullying report like the good little boy I am.

 

Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. I continue to mutter to myself as I lie in bed, agonizing over my decision. Why couldn’t I do it? What’s the real reason I couldn’t do it? I can’t seem to answer the question. No matter how hard I think, no matter how much I analyze, I can’t tell whether I’m selfish, cowardly, noble, or a mixture of all of them. I need a consult. I need our third band member, Jeremy.

 

“Hey man.”

 

“You can’t sleep either?” Jeremy had always been a perceptive one. I adjust my grip on my cellphone.

 

“Yeah...I was about to do it, you know. I was going to kill that Joseph bastard. My mind was made up, I was about to boil over with anger.” My ear starts to tickle. I notice my hand is shaking, brushing the phone against my irritated ear.

 

“Well, since your ass isn’t in jail, I suppose you didn’t kill him.” His voice takes a quiet but forceful tone.

 

“Yeah. It’s just…all I could do was file a report for bullying. Pathetic...” I pause.

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

“I...I don’t know.”

 

“I’m not criticizing you, Tom. You did the right thing. You see, the thing about death...it’s pointless. Look...you saw how talented Matt was. Guess what? He still got his ass killed because of a stupid mispronunciation. But you know, he was a good guy. He got to heaven, I know he did. Chill out, live your own life. Don’t think about killing Joseph. Leave that bastard alone, it doesn’t even matter.” He sighs.

 

My head spins with confusion. What the hell is Jeremy saying? “Chill out”? “It doesn’t matter”? It does matter. It’s Matt he killed, Matt!

 

“What are you saying, have you gone mental? This is Joseph, the guy that killed our best friend! Do you know what Matt could’ve been? He could’ve been anything. He could’ve been a doctor that saved hundred of lives, or a firemen, hell, he even could’ve been president. But that bastard Joseph ended all of it. Matt had so much ahead of it...how can you just forget it? How the hell can you expect me to just forget it all?” I can feel the pounding again, the roaring of anger.

 

“Man, you don’t understand. The thing is...don’t you remember Sunday school? Bro, we used to go every week when we were kids, remember that? We learned that good people go to heaven, that bad people go to hell. Matt just got to heaven early, and Joseph is going to go to hell eventually. Don’t screw this up for yourself. You think anything you can do will do shit? He’s the principal’s son, dammit. Forget all of it. See Matt again in heaven someday.” His lackadaisical attitude begins to piss me off.

 

“No no no no NO! Don’t you see? Life is not just a fucking test to see where you end up in the afterlife. Heaven? Hell? It’s all shit. Matt’s life is what matters, and that bastard Joseph ended it. And what pisses me off most, more than your carefree attitude, more than even Matt’s death, is that I can’t do shit about it. I CAN’T DO SHIT ABOUT IT YOU APATHETIC SON OF A-”

 

He suddenly hangs up. I am left with my phone clutched to my ear, my whole body trembling, my chest heaving, my head pounding. Why am I so powerless? Why is the world so full of shit? Why is everything so unfair? Why can’t I do ANYTHING? These thoughts rage through my head. They torment me, destroy me. I need an outlet. I need to know I can do something. There’s a staff meeting tonight; Joseph’s parents would not be home. I grab my bat and car keys and head out.

 

I thought I would say something clever when he came to answer the door. I thought I would ask him why he killed Matt. I thought I would look for answers, look for the truth, look for some way to validate Matt’s death. But I didn’t.

 

“AHHHHHHHH!!!” He barely has any time to flinch before I bring the bat smashing down on his collar bone. Crack. I can feel the bone give way. Crack. There goes another. He’s hollering in pain. He collapses to his knees and raises his arms over his head, begging for it to stop, pleading, apologizing, groveling. I raise my bat to bring down the final strike, but I can’t do it. My arms feel like lead. I realize I don’t feel anger. I don’t feel the pleasure of vengeance. I don’t even feel grim satisfaction. I feel...relieved. Disgustingly so. I wipe the bloody bat on his bush and walk back to my car. Time to drive home.

 

Once again I’m lying in bed, but this time the answers are clear to me. I’m not actually that angry about Matt’s death. I’m not actually all that angry about how unfair life is. Hell, I’m not even worried that I’ll die such an absurd death like Matt’s. I don’t feel...anything. I’m the apathetic bastard...I tried so hard to feel anger, resentment, to feel I had to do something because I was guilty. I felt guilty about my emotionless state.

 

Even now, I find it hard to care. Maybe the police will come arrest me. Maybe I’ll get kicked out of school, lose everyone I love, get hit by a lightning bolt, whatever. I want to care about life...but I don’t.

 

I guess I am just like Jeremy.

 

The blaring of sirens jars me out of my thoughts. I look out my window to find police cars lined up outside my house. Officers climb out, joined by two familiar faces: the principal and Mr. Cooley.

 

“We know you’re in there, Tom! We know what you did! Come out!” The officers blaring voice stirs up a headache. My feet involuntarily reposition me to my front door.

 

“Just let me go in first! Let me talk to him!” I can hear Mr. Cooley desperately yelling. Apparently the police quickly caved, because the next thing I know Mr. Cooley is the one knocking on my door.

 

“Tom? Open the door...I just want to talk. I know you’ve been having a hard time with Matt’s death and did something stupid out of anger...let’s talk about it, okay?” He sounds so sincere, so patient and concerned.

 

“No...no, no, no, no, no, Mr Cooley, it’s not that. I didn’t do it because I’m angry…” my voice cracks. I can feel my chest heave up and down, my throat convulse, my cheeks growing wet.

 

“Then...why did you do it?” The caring tone of his voice triggers another sob.

 

“Mr. Cooley...I just wanted to feel emotional, to feel like I cared, but I don’t really...I’m, I’m...Jeremy…” I begin to break down. Moments of silence ensue, with Mr. Cooley thinking of what to say.

 

“Ah, Tom, I know what you mean. But listen...I know you. You really do care. It’s just...your way of coping with poor Matt’s death, that’s all. You’re scared of the world around you, yes, I know you are, no matter how much you deny it. You’re scared because someone as talented as Matt could die from something so absurd...but that’s just how life is, Tom. You can’t close yourself off to emotions like that. You just have to...let them go free. Accept that Matt’s life really mattered. Accept that he’s gone. Accept that your life matters and that...sometimes, life just sucks. But you learn to deal with it. You can do it, Tom. Now, please, will you open this door?”

 

My entire body shaking, my mind blank, tears streaming down my face, I stagger towards the door. I don’t know what may come after this. I know I’ve done wrong, I know I’ve probably ruined my future with such a crime, but...I’m ready to face everything. I’m ready to live my important life.

I open the door.

The man had tears gushing down his face like the Niagara Falls of sadness. His eyes had great bags under them, a sign of the countless nights he had spent watching and hoping, but he was fighting an unbeatable battle. You can’t overcome death, as they say, “you can run but you can’t hide.” The man’s name was Marcus, and his daughter Tanya had been running from death for months. This felt unbearable. Marcus was a talented athlete, but he was helpless against an enemy he could not see or hear, much less fight. Tanya was the only thing keeping him going; now he had nothing. No one to work for.

“WHY, WHY!” he shouted at the starless sky, knowing he would not get an answer from the beautiful sky, that was so contrary to his solemn mood.

Marcus just sat there on the rough sidewalk, knowing in his broken heart that eventually he would have to get up, walk, and face the world that had tortured him so. After a while, he stood up. He knew that he would have to keep living life. He was sure that’s what both of them would have wanted. He lost his wife and his daughter in a two-month span. The hardest 1-2 punch he had ever felt, including his high school boxing career. He somehow got himself to call a cab. When he got home, Marcus lay down exhausted, and fell asleep instantly.

He didn't know what to do when he awoke, as the weight of death was still clutching his mind. Marcus sat up, his body tired and worn from many long days and sleepless nights. The law firm had been more generous than he could have hoped for, giving him two extra weeks of leave time, but it wasn’t enough, nothing would be. He walked outside, not knowing where he was going or what time he was coming back. Soon enough he was downtown, the sky a cornucopia of colors. He could hear the endless chatter of people who were having a much better day than he was.

Marcus was walking besides a two-story building when he noticed a flier on the window. It said, “VOLUNTEERS NEEDED Peace Neighborhood Center.”  On most days Marcus would have just passed this flier up without even a second glance, but this wasn’t a normal day at all. The fact was that Marcus needed to volunteer at least once, to show himself that he would one day move on from the horrors that had consumed the past few months. He took out his cell phone and called the number shown on the flier.

“Hello?” said a soft female voice.

“I’m looking to volunteer.”

“Really, well you can come tomorrow, we really need the help,” she answered, in a sad sort of tone.

“Okay, sounds good,” Marcus said, wondering what “we really need the help” would mean for him tomorrow. But he didn't care, he was happy to help. Happy to be of use to someone in this world, as he couldn't be of any use to the people he cared most about.

The Peace Neighborhood Center looked like a gym on the outside, but once you got in, it looked much more like a school. Marcus went up to the front desk where a short young lady was sitting. “I signed up to volunteer today, how can I help?” he asked in a low tone.

“Can you tutor?” her voice was nice and soft, like chocolate rain.

            “I guess.”

            “Okay, put your name and the time on the sign-in sheet, then you can go in that green door over there,” she was pointing at a door right behind her desk. It was a very dark green, almost blackish. His heart was beating a little faster, and he thought, “I sure hope I don’t get a screaming six year old,” but when he walked in he was surprised to see that it was actually fairly quiet. There was a large group of kids reading, and a couple of younger children playing a game in the corner. He was told to help someone named Kayla, a tall girl with rich dark brown skin, and black hair.

            “How old are you?” Marcus asked.

            “Twelve,” Kayla’s voice was cloudy and sad, and you could tell by the look on her face that something was wrong, but Marcus knew he shouldn't press it. She was supposed to read him the book, and he would tell her what she got wrong, but she read amazingly well. She was reading The Iliad, which must be some sort of record for a twelve-year-old to read.

            “Can I do something else?” Her eyes wouldn't meet Marcus’s; she was either very shy or really depressed, or maybe even both. Marcus had lost his daughter two days earlier, and by comparison, he looked almost cheerful. Whatever Kayla was going through, it must be really terrible.

            “What do you want to do?” Marcus asked.

            “Cards,”  Kayla answered plainly. For the next thirty minutes, they played a card game that Marcus had never heard of before. He found it surprisingly fun and interesting, even though he didn't understand much of the strategy. Kayla was great at the game though, and beat him every single time they played.

            After working with Kayla, Marcus went into the kitchen and helped the people there make a salad for the kids. It was actually a pretty good day for Marcus, considering what had happened to his life over the last few months.

            In a world where feelings are all relative, for Marcus, volunteering at the Peace Neighborhood Center felt amazing, a wonderful change from the death and sadness that had consumed his life the past few months. There was still the pain of sadness, but it was further back now, compressed by the distraction of the Neighborhood Center. Two lives lost is a tragedy, but why lose another in the depression that follows those lost lives? Marcus knew that helping others would be the only way to not be another pointless casualty in the fight that is living.

So this is why Marcus decided to come back to the center the next day, and the day after that, for as long as he could. Every single day, Kayla would read aloud to him in that strong soft voice, but after about five minutes she would always want to do something else. They played a different game every time. All the games were new to Marcus, and they all required an amazing amount of skill and intellect. There was still something wrong though, you could see it in Kayla’s eyes. It was as if the sun that is her person was covered by a dark gray cloud, but she was trapped in the cloud and unable to get out. Even when she seemed happy, there was still something wrong, a frown hidden in the depths of her smiling face. Marcus didn't know what to do. Should he ask, and risk getting shut out of her life completely, or should he stand idly by, knowing in his heart that maybe he could help her. This question bothered Marcus all the time; it was eighty degrees outside, but his body still felt cold.

Two days later something bad happened. Kayla had to leave early for a dentist appointment. When her dad got there he seemed angry for some reason, he swore a couple of times, and dragged her out. Kayla seemed very upset, but didn't really let on.  The look on her face was the same as a wounded animal, scared and hurt. Marcus felt really bad right then; a mountain of sadness and anger hit him all at once, but what could he do? He knew that if he cut in, it might result in additional pain and suffering for Kayla. He was more trapped than ever in his life. He had been put in headlocks that had knocked him out, but this was much worse. When he left the Peace Neighborhood Center that day, Marcus was lost.

The next day, Marcus found Kayla sitting in a corner. As soon as he sat down, she burst into tears. Marcus didn't know what to do, so he started reading out loud. They read for over an hour, but when Kayla got up to walk home, Marcus noticed something. Kayla had big dark bruises on her lower neck reaching to the top of her shirt. “What did your dad do to you?” Marcus whispered to Kayla, afraid of what he might hear. He didn't get a response, instead she just started sobbing.

Two hours later they were at the police station. It turned out that Kayla’s dad had been abusing her for years, but had always threatened to beat her more if she told anyone. Her dad had been put in a jail for the time being, until things were sorted out. After a long time, Kayla finally asked, “Will everything be alright?”

With all that had happened to Marcus’s life over the past few months, he gave the only sincere answer he could, “I sure hope so.”

 

"Jamila! JAMILA!" shrieks my friend Noha. "Get up! You'll be late for chores!" I groan, stretch, and slowly stand from my uncomfortable "bed" (which is really just a mat of hay and grass on the bare floor). 

 

I stumble over to Ms. Sayeed's room. She is our mistress, and we work for her as, well, house maids.

 

I knock on her door first thing in the morning to see what she needs done around the house. She scowls as she opens the door, clearly annoyed to be woken up.

 

"Good morning ma'am," I say. She grunts in reply to my greeting and proceeds to unload a huge list of jejune chores to be completed before the end of the day. She then slams the door, signifying that she's done talking to me.

 

Seriously, the word "boring" doesn't begin to describe my grievances with this place. At least at senior centers for the elderly, they have Bingo Nights and Taco Tuesdays Wing Wednesdays and whatnot. Here, the highlight of the week is getting to have a little extra daal, sabzi, and rice for dinner plus some chocolate we buy with the tiny salary we get.

 

I sigh and skulk over to the tattered closet with the creaky door to grab the dusty old broom, a cloth, and some commercial cleaning spray. Ever since my parents sent me off to this old house, my life has changed. 

 

4 years ago, I was living happily with my family in a village. We didn't have much... there was always a limit on how much money could be spent. But we were complacent with what we had. Then, the drought hit. 

 

For simple farmers like my father who were completely dependent on their crops, the drought was devastating. My parents had no choice but to send each of their children away to someplace safe so we wouldn't have to suffer from poverty. My younger sister Maysa was sent to one of our aunt's house in Lahore, Pakistan. Afreen, my other sister, was sent to another one of our cousins. But what about me? Why was I sent to this creaky damp house? Why was I the one who toiled for hours as a cleaning maid for an old lady to earn some money for my parents? I asked myself this question everyday. But I always did what I was told. All the work I did as a maid is what supported my parents' financial need.

 

But a longing grows inside me everyday, a longing for education. I, unlike other rich children in my neighborhood who have the privilege to attend school but detest it, would love to read, write, and learn science. It's not fair, I think, for any kid to be deprived of education and the right to learn.

 

Sadly, I am the only one here who wants to grow to be someone successful, someone big.

 

I stroll past the kitchen, where I see Noha, who also works as a maid here, preparing breakfast. Her face is sweaty and she looks years older than she is. I guess constant heat, suffering, and work takes its toll on your body.

 

Sweeping the floors, my mind drifts into some unknown land. I dream of a school for girls like me, girls who are not privileged. I long for notebooks, pencils, crayons, something to learn so I can alleviate the boredom of this place.

 

Suddenly the idea hits me.

 

What if—?

 

What if I somehow snuck out to the local school near us? Think of all the books I could read and the things I could write! Immediately I think of the options. It's definitely plausible. Ms. Sayeed lets Noha and I go out and do whatever we want for a couple of hours in the evening anyways. She trusts us not to wander off or run away. I remember asking Noha once why Ms. Sayeed trusted us so much when she knew we could just escape. 

 

"Are you out of your mind?" was Noha's reply. "Run away? To where, exactly? To my parents who depend on me for the money I make? To my relatives who couldn't care less about me? To where, Jamila? Face it, we can't run. It's pointless. You're stuck here for eternity."

 

Stuck here for eternity. For eternity.

 

Eternity.

 

As those words rang in my mind, I made up my mind that eternity was a bit too long for me. I could all spend that free time learning at the school! Why not try? What have I got to lose, anyways?

 

Excited, I quickly finish scrubbing the floor and dust the rest of the house. I tell Noha to make something special tonight for dinner since we have guests and then proceed to finish the laundry for Ms. Sayeed.

 

Time flies quickly and evening finds me. I can't wait to get to the school.

 

I walk down the dirt road, worn path and follow the signs. Eventually, I reach a small building, simple and sophisticated. Unlocking the gate, I hesitantly stroll in.

 

I cautiously peek in, and then walk to the receptionist. Though she looks at me in distaste at first when I ask her to meet the principal, she reluctantly lets me past her to the office.

 

The principal, an elderly woman with kind eyes greets me. Her dimples and deep, sunken eyelids make her look tired, yet her smile enlightens the room. She looks surprised to see me.

 

"And just who are you, young lady?" she asks, all smiles. 

 

"I, um, hello ma'am. My name is Jamila. Jamila Siddiqui. I work at Ms. Sayeed's house."

 

"Ah," she replies, "the house down the road, correct, dear?" she inquires.

 

"Yes ma'am, that's the one. I'm one of her maids. I help her with chores, cooking, and cleaning."

 

"Hm, I imagine you don't enjoy doing that, do you?" she says with a twinkle in her eye.

 

I loosen up and tell her my whole story, ending with the fact that I want to learn something just like all the other privileged students here. "I don't have money, ma'am, but I have a passion to learn all the subjects like no one else. Girls like me, impoverished kids, don't get many chances in life to grow and do what they want to. I want to change that and get an education. Can you—" 

 

Ms. Tayebjee, the principal, holds up her hand as if to silence me. It works. I immediately shut up and think, That's it. This is where she tells me to get out and go back home. Wherever that is.

 

But much to my surprise, she places a hand on my arm gently and says, "You don't need to explain yourself."

 

She applauds me and says I should be proud for showing an initiative to learn. She goes on and says that there is a nation wide science fair coming up. "I know it may not be possible for you to pull together a project in this short amount of time, but if you meet me at the school at this time every day, I can tutor and help you."

 

A grin lights up on my face. I thank her profusely and promise to return tomorrow.

 

As I wake the next morning, Noha is surprises to see me so chirpy. I rush through my work and set off, bouncing, for the school.

 

I talk to Ms. Tayebjee about what I want my project to be. I tell her I want to learn and create a water filter. I myself never got clean water at home, and I want to do something to change the dirty water that kids drink everyday. We discuss ideas on a cheap, affordable, yet effective water filter.

 

And so I sit there with Ms. Tayebjee everyday, working to collect supplies to build my project with. Sometimes I find myself daydreaming about what it would be like to win this competition. To see the pride in my family's eyes. To prove that I am just as capable of this as any other student, no matter how poor I am financially.

 

Noha doesn't know a thing about this yet. No one does. I don't intend to tell them, anyway. I don't think I could handle the "I told you so" look in their eyes if my project fails and I don't win.

 

But weeks later, my mistress gets a call from the school. Her eyes widen and she hands me the phone.

 

"Jamila? Jamila, you won the contest! You were one of the top 50 contestants!" gushes Ms. Tayebjee.

 

The judges are extremely impressed. They want to interview me about my life and background. I guess it's not everyday that a poor little maid girl like me wins something this big.

 

So here I am... days later. I won $1,000 in US dollars, part of which I have sent to my parents. I have moved back in to my parents' home. Instead of scrubbing floors, I earn money by working for a printing press nearby. The job may be tedious, but it beats being a maid. It also pays for the school that I attend daily.

 

I am very independent now. I earn a living just like any other adult, yet I am still learning about life and its ups and downs. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that letting society confine you to a certain job or position won't do any good. You should learn to work for what you want. 

 

Winning the competition was an amazing feeling. But even more spectacular was the fact that I did it even though I was limited in terms of proper education.

 

If you have an education, be grateful for it. Thousands aren't as privileged as you.

 

If you don't, do whatever you can to achieve it!

“Poor composition, unsatisfactory projection, and average claims?” I grumbled my results from the debate tournament to myself at the crowded hall of the annual Crawford debate tournament. I had such inflated expectations! I had toiled for infinitesimal hours rehearsing, planning, reciting, formulating, reciting, reciting, and researching (oh and did I mention reciting??) for the big speech I had given today. My eloquent yet pretentious speech had become a ubiquitous mantra in my mind along with all the unfortunate souls that were forced to hear me practice it over and over again. I was sure this tournament would finally be my day of success, I was convinced I would not go home to sympathetic eyes and reassuring “next time”s but would enter my residence greeted by a barrage of vibrant celebration. I was not satisfied when I heard of my usual placement around the 50th place mark. Needless to say, I was overwhelmed by disappointment as I walked out of the frigid, resonant awards hall and into the reunion room, which was balmy and cozy in contrast. The rest of the day was dejectedly uniform; the sad yet attemptedly reassuring looks, staring solemnly at our family’s massive oakwood dinner table during dinner, and  you know, all that typical ‘recovery’ stuff.

 

    I suppose I should introduce myself, which is apparently the only thing in which I come even close to proficiency in my debates. I take many forms, depending on the perspective you look at me. To my parents I am their gifted and talented intellectual who excels at everything he tries, in their eyes my failure at debate is merely a slight imperfection. Besides, I came from getting 65th place (last by the way) to 50th, that’s an improvement that should be commended right? To my friends I am the slightly dorky dude who is ‘boss’ at first person shooter RPGs and has a nice taste in music. To my teachers I am that child with such ‘potential’ but will never make anything of it since he never pays attention in class and has an apathetic attitude towards school. To that one kid around the block, whom to this day I have not discovered why he loathes the world around him so much, I am “that stupid loser kid who has no friends and farts in elevators on purpose” Yes, that is quoted by him, and no, I don’t know where he got that elevator part from. But among all those forms with all my different attributes, I can be consolidated into one form, the one that is viewed from my perspective, a simple boy with a dream to be a lawyer some day named Gerald. Now do you see why they call my introductions pretentious?

 

    The day after the tournament was a regular day. I ate my soggy cereal, trudged the three blocks to the bus stop through the smoggy New York air under  the imposing NYC skyline. We lived in the suburbs of New York, just far enough from all the crime and traffic associated with most metropolises but just close enough to be enveloped by the clouds of waste that billow from the cars, factories, and airplanes. I boarded the bus with my usual nonchalant swagger and sat in the seat adjacent to my best friend Mark. He swiveled his head to greet me and in doing so his modest yet stylish brownish-blonde hair flipped on his scalp. I knew he didn’t mean it, but everytime he did that it felt like Mark was insinuating that his mane of radiant frizzy yet tame honey-colored hair was superior to all , especially the greasy black mop that grows from my scalp like weeds in an untamed garden. The bus belched a black mist from its’ tailpipe and I was jolted out of my thoughts. “so how’d the debate tournament go for you Gerald?” asked Mark. He knew very well how it went, he just wanted to be able to offer his condolences when he received my depressing reply. In fact, he was the person who got first. “56th… an improvement from last time…” I muttered glumly. “Aw c’mon dude cheer up! There’s always next time!” He replied enthusiastically. Next time, next time, next time… I was sick of hearing that, how come every ‘next time’ was always the time that I utterly failed again only to be told to keep my head up for the ‘next time’ I would fail again? It was a vicious cycle. Besides, how would Mark know anything about failure? He came home with a 1st place ribbon every time he tried anything. I had observed Mark closely before and had found no evident characteristics setting us apart  when it came to effort, so why was he so successful? I supposed some people were just naturally that way. “Y’know Mark… sometimes I think I’m tired of waiting for ‘next time’” I replied soberly. This time he couldn’t find any reply and simply stared at the floor.

 

    My school day was just as nondescript as all the other days I had been in the gloomy brick box that is my school; math, P.E., Language Arts, all a bunch of teachers standing on their soapboxes yakking stuff I already knew. But, on that day something occurred that, as I realized later on, would change my career and the path I took in life. I met Ted. Now I know that might not sound like such a groundbreaking event; I mean, millions of people meet millions of other people everyday, right? But, that’s not the point. What changed my life was not so much the fact that I met Ted as what information making his acquaintance brought me. I saw him at the student-orientation night for new students, which is basically some gimmick put on by the school to make new students feel ‘welcome’ or whatever. The irony of it is that the new students feel even less welcome since the whole orientation consists of present students strutting their knowledge about the school and making the kids feel like an even bigger stranger. Sadly, I was posted as one of those students who were to ‘assist’ the supervisors run the event, which basically meant that you had to be in some adult’s thrall all evening, fetching glasses of water, showing students the way to the bathroom, and helping teachers set up the long creamy white card tables that were used to hold refreshments. Ted, unlike the other students I observed, was curious and loquacious. He approached me with a casual “sup dude” and I was taken aback. I had talked to other students many times before that night, explaining to them the workings of the overwhelmingly-complex school of ours, but not once had anyone actually said anything back to me! But, I was glad for the company, so I greeted him back.

 

Though we made some small-talk about our favorite subjects and the relative location of everything in our school, the part of our conversation that really stood out was when he mentioned partaking in something called the ‘Geography Bee’ in his old school. I had never particularly fancied geography before as I had just seen it as one of the countless other subjects that we are expected to know about by the end of the 9th grade. I would try just enough to pull the As and Bs that satisfied my parents and that’s all. The second the teacher announced that we would be moving on to whatever god-forsaken subject they planned to bore us with next, I would drop everything I knew about Geography and turn my focus to whatever lay ahead. So, when Ted told me how fervently he had worked for the Bee, I internally rolled my eyes and told him we did indeed have a Geography Bee team of our own and its’ first meeting was this Tuesday. He proceeded to tell me, with some craving in his eyes and drool leaking from his mouth, of the splendiferous conditions of victory in the Bee. I couldn’t help but be mesmerized at his mention of the one hundred thousand dollars awarded to the national victor. “Teee-eeed! C’mon we’re leaving!” a young voice called, “Oh, gotta go see ya around man” said Ted, interrupted from his vivid description of the competition. “oh… yeah, see ya” I replied absentmindedly, daydreaming of my fictitious triumphs in the Geography Bee. I shook myself out of my woolgathering and vowed to keep my focus on my dream of becoming a lawyer, besides, that was my true call in life wasn’t it?

 

   But yet I still somehow found myself at the first practice on Tuesday evening.

 

    My first impression of the Geography Bee was, as I recall, not a positive one. The large room we were allocated was sparsely populated, as if no one felt that it was necessary to waste their Tuesday evening at some ramshackle ‘Geography Bee’. It was as if I had entered a whole new world, I barely knew any of the kids at the practice! My only friends were Ted and Mark. I was dismayed to discover Mark’s appearance since, as you already know, Mark is superior at everything. I sat down at one of the elongated rectangular tables clearly intended for a party of ten people or more but instead housed a couple kids or so. While waiting for practice to begin I observed the pattern of the tiles on the floor, I had never been in that room before. When practice finally started a middle-aged plump woman entered the room in somewhat of a bustle and plopped her materials on the table in front of the enormous white board that covered the length of an entire wall. “Welcome to the Geography Bee, I will be your teacher this season. My name is…” the woman began but was immediately interrupted by a stocky 6th grader with crescent-shaped glasses sitting directly across from her “...Mrs. Paxton! We all know!” chirps of “Yup” and “You know we do!” circulated around the room. Mrs. Paxton simply rolled her eyes humoredly and began passing out the books we would be studying from. Wow, I really am a stranger here! Does everyone really know her this well? I thought. When my book arrived I lifted its frayed cover and read the title. ‘The geography and culture of the world” Wow! That sounds really broadfor a book that is only about one hundred pages thick! Mrs. Paxton, in finishing handing out the books, began lecturing us about the ‘wonders of geography’.  I nodded,  dismally acting as if I gave a rat’s tail while reading ahead through the book.

 

Although I didn’t learn anything or let myself believe that I cared for Geography that day, I was, even if I didn’t know it at the time, inspired by people in history and their ventures. I found myself reading the book in my spare time. While others saw the book as something to fear due to its’ complexity and unpredictability in what parts of it would be on the actual Bee, I began to  think of it as somewhat of like a storybook. Each section of the book  was like a different chapter of the big book of world history, coming together within time with such impeccable timeliness that it led to other events, which lead to others, shaping the world as we know it. Thinking this way I worked extra hard over the next few weeks, propelled by not the impending regional competition, but by some unknown force that just made it infeasible for me not to study the book like I was drilling it for gold (which, by the way, is exactly what Americans were doing during the California gold rush in 1849… oops, that was off-topic, I just can’t help myself.  I quickly rose to being one of the best in my group, surpassed only by, you guessed it,  Mr. perfect himself: Mark. He usually scored higher than me on our practice tests and I accepted that, readily accepting that he was better than me. However whenever I beat him on a practice test (usually by like 1 or 2 points) he would congratulate me with a smile convincing to anyone, but he would look into my eyes and snort the first time he got the chance. We talked less and less, partly due to his jealousy and also to my anger at him for being such a bad sport. I wasn’t too disappointed, I just reassured myself that he was never a good friend if he acts like this just because I did better than him on one measly test.

 

Meanwhile the Geography Bee was looming, with its’ Regional championship in a mere one week. Now I know I said I wasn’t intimidated by the study-book, but that didn’t stop me from being absolutely terrified by the fierce competition that engulfed you in an envelope of steely glances and angry glares experienced even at the regional level of the Bee. I was studying harder than ever and it was nearly impossible for anyone to believe that I had actually started out as the worst and least interested member of my study group but there I was, acing every single practice test. Ted was especially surprised at my new performance, since every time I knew an answer in practice he would look at me with astonishment in his eyes and would give me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. The week leading up to the Regional competition dragged slower than any week I had ever experienced, It was as if every minute was doubled, and the torture of enduring that minute was doubled yet again since the week dragged on because of both anticipation and fear! But finally the awaited day arrived; I was jolted awake at 6AM in the morning to trudge six long miles to the bus station where the Geography bee participants would convene, proceeding to board the bus taking us to the competition at a nearby university. When we arrived, we were shunted to a devious space termed the ‘testing room’. We waited there for about thirty minutes while the hosts of the tournament retrieved the tests we were to take. I observed that for many people in the tournament this excess time was used by everyone in the room to intimidate their opponents as much as possible by pulling out the hardest practice sheets and subtly flashing them in the direction of the others in the room, all while making a big show of doing the worksheets with incredible ease. Finally the tests were handed out and my next three hours were consumed by being bent over a sheet of paper writing down the obscure yet interesting Geography facts I had compiled in my head over the last few months.

 

When the tests were finished we were relegated to the university’s cafeteria for the next three hours. While there we were free to purchase whatever snacks and sugary-foods we wished. Some kids heavily abused this privilege, and as a result I was left sitting alone in the corner weighing my chances of getting placed in the top ten… all while kids were running around shirtless from their exceptionally-high sugar-hype. Despite their medical inability to concentrate, the kids all sobered up pretty quickly when a supervisor entered the room to inform us that our rankings had been determined and that they would be announced in the awards’ hall (which was actually the university’s Varsity gym) in the next five minutes. At this news we all sprinted through the university’s long hallways to the gym. We filed into the bleachers facing a large stage set with a podium and… I gasped, taken aback by the sight I had just laid eyes upon. On a table on the stage were the most beautiful medals I had ever seen. The medals were covered with a vibrant, scintillating shade of gold and were rimmed by blue paint. The face of the medal was etched “2009 Geography Bee”. I could not take my eyes off of them all through the introductory speech that I can’t really tell you much about since I was so distracted by the medals’ beauty. But then I heard something that took my eyes off of the medals; I heard the hosts of the bee begin listing the names of the winners starting from the tenth-place winner.

 

My heart pounded as if a lion had entered my ribcage and was now heaving itself at the walls of my chest, begging to be released. I clenched my hands as the supervisor began counting down. I felt light-headed and dizzy, all I wanted at that moment was that first place medal in my grasp to prove to myself that I was not a failure, that I was capable of winning something. It was as if all of those pathetic debate tournaments where I came home thinking that I was no good at anything could be avenged with this one victory. But as the supervisor reached the fifth place winner, something funny happened; I realized that I had it all wrong before, I really didn't want to be a lawyer. That revelation struck me like a lightning bolt, I had forced myself to toil harder and harder for the past five years because I was absolutely sure my calling in life was to be a lawyer and to argue for the rights of people and for the world! But what I truly loved was the study of Geography, and no amount of forcing myself to ‘love’ something else could change that. And then when the announcer reached third place I realized something else; It really didn’t matter if I got first or not, and it didn’t matter even if I went on to be the state champion, because in the end I had won. I had achieved more than that first place medal could ever have given me. I had realized that my calling in life wasn’t to be a lawyer, and it wasn’t necessarily to be a geographer either. My calling in life was to develop on its’ own and there was nothing I could do about that but to wait and enjoy life. And when the supervisor announced my name for the first place champion I just stood up, smiled and accepted my reward.

   

August: Patient on the bus

I’m not insane. I’m not loony, deranged, crazy, or cookoo. I have complete possession of all my marbles. I’m normal. It just that that… do you remember that game where you place pillows on the ground and pretend that the floor is lava? I see that lava all the time and if I step on it… well I have never stepped on the lava.

I used to drink cocktails at a bar. My favorite was this lime flavored cocktail. The bartender he could make one of the best drinks ever. He even put this little red feather in the drink. It was perfect. I no longer drink. My cocktail now consists of a multitude of candy colored pills of different sizes. It makes the lava go away.

At the hospital I was at, I had a roommate. He was very young man, but he was really tall and really skinny. His name was John, although I called him Johnny. I’m the only one who called him Johnny. Not even his parents, when they came in, call him Johnny. John’s dad didn’t say much, his mom does the talking. Whenever the nurses or his mom try to offer him food, he screams at them. Whenever he screams at them, his dad leaves, and then his mom cries. Then they both leave. It’s really sad. I’m the only who can make him eat. He screams at the food and that the nurses had poisoned it, and then I step in. I try the food and then he eats a little of the food. I fine with it because his food is really good.

There was one nurse who was always really nice to me. Her name was Lillian. She checked on me every day at four forty-five. She would come in and ask me how I was doing and if I needed anything and if I took my ‘cocktail’. I would laugh at her. She asked about my medicine. Every day, I would say yes, but I’d follow with ‘but I’d like alcohol with it.” She would smile at that and she would always say, “August, I can’t give you that and you know it.” Lillian was pretty. She was really nice.

I was told that I was picked to go to a new hospital and that I wouldn't have choice. It was my sister’s, who is my guardian, choice because it was, as she said, better for me. But I heard that it was nearly six hundred dollars cheaper. I haven't seen my sister in nearly a year. The last time I saw her was at my parent’s funeral. I miss them.

When I left it was really sad for me. Lillian came in early that day. She asked me the same questions, but she sounded really sad. Again I replied that I would like alcohol, but I was really sad. I felt the tears come. They were hot and they dripped down my face slowly. They burned my cheeks. I swiped at them and Lillian gave me a tissue.

“I’m gonna miss you.” I told her. She walked to me and gave me a hug.

I began to cry again. I really did love Lillian and she was my best friend at the hospital.  I walked out of the building and after that I turned to look at my home for the past decade. I would miss it.

I made it to the bus, that was parked outside and Lillian followed me to help others. It was a very long bus nearly seventy- five feet. As I walked on I saw it was a normal bus, but with seat belts. Lillian came along to help me with my seatbelt. I told her I could do it myself. I couldn't understand her expression when I said that. She almost looked proud of me. After that she walked off the bus. I really did love her.

After the bus was filed with people, a man wearing a dark blue suit came on. He looked nervous. Once he entered, the bus driver stood to greet him. The bus driver was a tall man with dark hair and eyes. He had a thick mustache and wore a baseball cap that covered the top of his head. He shook the nervous man’s hand and the nervous man had said, “Keep them safe Leo,” The bus driver nodded, smiled and then closed the doors behind him He looked back to us through the mirror.

“Okay who wants to listen to some music?” His voice was low. He smiled at us and I could see the yellow stains on his teeth.

No one answered his question and he shrugged. “Okay” he mumbled and we were off. I turned in my seat which was hard to do because the seat belts crossed in an X over my chest. I saw the hospital disappear and I sighed. I wondered if Lillian was thinking of me as I was her.

As we drove off the, people in the bus started to talk, or at least what they thought was talking. Their voices rose and fell. There were mumbles and mutters from some, but others laughed. As we drove even further from the hospital it went quiet.

I was thinking. Where was I going? It was like a wild adventure. I was now excited for what was to come, but then I felt a slight buzz. It was a familiar buzz. It was the buzz that meant I needed more of my ‘cocktail’. The lava was returning. I could feel hot lava that burned my feet. I couldn't see the lava, yet. I needed Lillian. I shut my eyes and squeezed the arm rests on my seat. Suddenly the buzzing faded and I opened one eye. The floor was just worn carpet.

The bus drove through country side and as I looked out the window I saw a sign that read: BIG BILL’S BAR “Good drinks and hot gals”. The bar was off of exit 19. As the bus rolled on I noticed the exits. 12, 14, 15 and as the exits got closer to 19 I realized something. The bus driver was pulling off into that exit.

I called to the bus driver, “Are we almost there?”

I saw him look at me in the mirror and the chuckle and then look back to the road.

The bus pulled off the highway and into a parking lot. The sign said that the establishment was called BIG BILLS BAR. The bar was small and shabby. It was a little longer than the bus in length and it was a building entirely made of wood. A thick smoke was coming from the chimney and motorcycles were parked in lines near the entrance.

The bus rolled to a stop and the bus driver stood looking back at us.

“Y’all okay?” He asked taking off his hat and rubbing his head. He looked around and smirked. “See y’all in a few hours.” He chuckled and left that bus humming.

We sat in our seats in dead silence unsure what to do. I knew that a lot of the people here, like me, hadn't been without some type of supervision for I don't know how long. The bus driver, no matter how unobservant, was our supervision.

As I was sitting there confused I heard a small noise, a slight grunt of excursion and then a cry of satisfaction and joy. Unclicking my seatbelt I turned to look behind me, behind me where the patients that were worse than me. I had heard that they had these voices telling them to do terrible things like murder or rape. They were sent to the hospital instead of prison. They were the diagnosed mentally insane. Unlike me they had been strapped in tight with no way to get out unless someone helped them. One of them was out of their bindings and was standing up smiling.

“Carl!” A man yelled at the standing man, “Help me out!” Then that man got out as well. Soon all the patients who could walk were free.

Then I felt the buzzing again. This time it was loud and seemed like it came from somewhere deep like my reservations of medications had worn out. As I look down I saw the floor begin to melt away and be replaced by hot bubbling orange lava. I could feel its heat on my face and my eyes began to burn and sting. Tears began to stream down my face. I stood on my chair to get away. I needed to get away. I needed Lillian. I felt myself begin to panic.

“Auggy!”

I turned my head toward them. They were walking on the lava! I looked away from the bubbling steaming red-orange mass to see who was calling my name. It was Johnny. As he was walking closer to me he was saying something.

I just stared at him.

“Aug!” He said very loudly, “come on! We are leaving!”

“LAVA!” I screamed at him trying to open a window to get away. Then I looked out the window and saw that the lava was there too. I screamed. “I gonna die! No! God don't let me die!”

Johnny walked closer to me on the lava.

“Get on a chair! The Lava it's going to burn you!” I grabbed his arm, my fingers seemed to wrap around just the bone, and I yanked up to the chair. I was crying and panicking. “Johnny the lava!” I pointed to the floor and felt the heat on my hand.

He looked at me, confusion in his shrunken eyes, “what lava?”

“On the floor!” I screamed at him.

He jumped off the chair and touched the lava. As his hand was under the surface I saw the smoke and sizzle of the flesh being burnt off. I smelled the smell of roasting meat. He pulled his hand away and I screamed. All I saw a burnt bone. As he raised it further the small bones that made up his fingers began to fall off and steamed into the lava.

“See its fine let’s go!” He said waving his hand stump.

I looked at him, shocked, and I screamed again horrified.

Johnny shrugged and walks away. I looked over to where he was walking and saw the back door to the bus open and people were filing out.

Soon I was alone with only the bubbling lava for company. I looked down at it again and fainted.

 

Leo: the bus driver

I got back to the bus. My head was buzzing from the drinks at the bar. I could taste the scotch still on my lips and on the front of my teeth. I liked my lips savor the taste. I tossed my keys into the air as I walked down the steps from the bar whistling and chuckling. The booze making me giddy and I laughed aloud at a couple walking into the bar.

As I opened my bus' door and walked on, my shoes clinking on the metal stairs, I had stopped. I felt my blood run cold and I felt vomit rise in my throat. My bus was empty.

“Oh God!” I yelled to the empty bus and I heard something maybe a groan coming from a row of seats about half way down the bus.

I slowly walked down the aisle. As I looked behind a row of seats I saw a man, about forty, lying on his stomach on the ground. He had a giant welt on his head and as I lean closer he opened one little eye and curled into a ball.

“My head hurts,” He said. He sounded like a child.

          I leaned forward and pulled the man to his feet. He wore a white shirt and sweat pants which where both dirty from the floor of the bus.

          “Thank you,” He said standing full upright and brushing off his clothes. Then he froze and stared at the floor. “LAVA!” He screamed and jumped on the seat.

          He was screaming and crying and yelling at me to get off the floor. Even in my drunken state of mind I realized that he was the last mental patient on the bus.

          As he was a raving lunatic I grabbed his arms and sat him in his seat. He folded his legs and looked nervously at my feet still screaming and crying.

          “It’s all right,” I hoped that was comforting.

          “LAVA! LAVA!”  He cried twisting in my grasp and trying to break out of it.

          “Calm down! There is no lava!’ I yelled over him my patience was wearing thin.

“NO I DON’T WANT TO DIE!” He screamed and cried some more.

I realized that I needed to think in quiet. I looked at the screaming man, tears running down his face. “Oh, crap!” I muttered and hit the man on the side of the head. Not making a mark, but easily knocking him out. He slumped in his seat and almost fell off. I buckled him again and leaned his head against the window. He looked like he fell asleep.

Now my problem was what to do about the missing patients. I looked at my empty bus and thought. After a few moments I decided on my plan.

Later I drove around finding bus stops full of people. I drove up to the bus stop and as the opened the door I said the same thing, “Bus is different today the other bus was unusable.”

I had to turn away as people entered, I smiled. I watched in my rearview mirror as the bus slowly filled. Once it was full I pulled onto the highway.

I heard protests.

“What the hell man!”

“Where are we going?”

“Let me out!”

I didn’t stop and I drove to the hospital. As I pulled into the hospital I stood and looked toward the people, they looked back at me fear in their faces. I smirked at them and then walked to the nurses waiting for the patients.

“Sorry that we are late the traffic was pretty bad.” I told one pretty nurse.

“Oh it’s fine as long as they got here safe,” She said and smiled at me.

As I walked into the hospital to use the bathroom I turned to her and said, “Oh yeah the patients that got pretty violent on the drive here. I would be careful also I think some of their medication had worn off. They were saying some crazy crap. Like how I had kidnapped them and things like that.”

“Okay thanks.” She said the she told the other nurses.

As I walked away I heard people yelling at the nurses that they had been kidnapped. I turned to look at them. I saw one woman look at me. Fear was in her eyes. I smiled at that and waved to her then I turned and walked into the building smiling and tossing my keys into the air and whistling.

 

 

Track [trak]1a. n. Footprints 1b. Marks left behind 2. To follow 3. The sport…    

***

I misplaced a neighborhood boy’s name when it fell through the hole in my jumper skirt, but picked it up again when someone spit it out onto the pavement like a wad of gum. The first time I really noticed Cooper, he was running from the voice that reintroduced us. He buoyed through traffic, and his fine blond hair came into sight like a flare.  

I was ten, and that must have been the first time the word “theft” was pinned onto his collar. The only thing I would dare to steal then was the milkweed blooms pressed against the back of the schoolyard like slush, but even then I planted the seeds as an apology. But there was Cooper, with a small sun chained to a pendant.

I doubled behind him, in an urge to catch a better glimpse, though I didn’t get far. Today, I’m still chasing after this undefined figure – broad back and muscled legs – savoring that first taste of run.

***

The scruffy track shoes massage my toes as I bounce in anticipation. Marie sits next to me as I fiddle with the thick black goggles that ride my nose like wings.

    “Lynn, can’t you see without those?” she asks.

“Not a thing,” I say and lift them slightly. “I lost a contact.”

“They’re ugly,” she responds, scratching her ankle. “The captain is supposed to look more – I don’t know, powerful?”

The runners line up before I can reply, and my t-shirt falls over my shoulders like a rucksack as I grab the clipboard under my seat. Truth is, I wouldn’t look like a captain even if I took them off. I’m younger than the others, but Coach says I run like I’m made of pistons.

“Have you ever seen a bank thief trying to make his getaway on foot?” Coach said last meet. “Because you run like you’re afraid of getting caught.” I laughed it off, but sometimes when I’m comfortable enough to feel the guide of the track with just the wind, I close my eyes, and that voice screaming “Cooper” comes at me like a greyhound.

Marie scoffs and points at the ones she thinks will fail. Her pen circles a girl. On the track, her red hair practically consumes her eyes, but her leg muscles look like she’s been pounding down on these tracks since she could stand.

“That one, too,” she says. This time it’s a boy. His scrawny arms flap up as he stretches. I pull my bottom lip into my mouth. He furrows his eyes at the nearby redhead, then looks up. I give him a silty smile. He reminds me of myself, the competitive glares I used to shoot at  Cooper when he was a senior on the team.

 Coach twirls her thumb at us. I pull the timer from my pocket and signal back. Secretly, my hope is with those two. I mouth “Start” before Coach lets the flag drop. The world bucks under the field.

***

Cooper is a vision of feet dragging on pavement, fighting hard to climb back onto the mellow of the grass. It was always a struggle for him-even running was consumed in it. He was thief out of necessity- I never judged him for it.

I think of him as I sit in coach’s office. The stripped paint walls oddly remind me of skid marks taking a bite out of a crash scene.

Coach’s breath makes the square room into a smoke hut. The whirring of the fan coaxes the heat to rise above my ears.

Coach withdraws from the call she has been clinging onto like a flea on a hide. “How long have you been here?” she asks. For someone who forgot their student’s presence, she’s haughty. She kicks up a ratty yellow sneaker on the desk and lets the other leg bow against her chest.    

I bite my tongue. “Half an hour, tops.”

Coach thinks this over, and her teeth look like a mountain ridge as they shove through the part in her lips. “I’ve got the roster,” she says.     

The paper is dog-eared. She holds the tryout results at a distance.

“Lynn, You gotta promise you won’t argue with the kids I chose,” Coach says.

“Cross my heart,” I hiss, and make an incision with my index finger. The nail is chipped and grimy. I unconsciously put my hands into the folds of my t-shirt and reach for the sheet with another hand.

One name cuts across the sheet of the varsity team.

“Coach?” I ask.

She tilts her head. She positions her shoulders as if to buffer the edge in my voice. “That one,” she says without looking down at the page, “is under your special mentorship.”

“But why the varsity team-” My sentence unravels out my throat, and I push it with my tongue in a vague hope that the rest will pull loose.

“Cross your heart,” She says.

***

His name is Jed, and a storm is hunched over him.

“I didn’t see him in tryouts,” I tell Marie. She loops the frayed edges of old shoelaces around her wrist. It’s a habit before the run. For me, it’s holding my chest to my legs while stretching. It feels like my heart is in my knees, pumping thunder claps of blood.

“Well, I saw him,” Marie says.  She sucks her teeth. “You should know these things.” Her shoulders look perfectly square in the summer air as she bends forward.

“Sorry,” I say half-heartedly. The bleachers creak as I sit.

“I stayed a bit after tryouts.”

“He came late?”

“In an old t-shirt and sneakers,” Marie sighs. “He didn’t even warm up before hand, but coach was captivated by him.”

“He ran that fast?”

“You’re not that special, Lynn,” she chides. “Someone else can make it onto varsity as an underclassman, you know.”

 She takes a sip of her water bottle before adding, “and he looks just like him.”

***

I’m not that special. I’ve been made to feel different since I joined the varsity team as a seventh grader. They say Jed runs like me, but he only talks to the track during practice. I’ve tried to approach him, only for him to rebuff any constructive criticism I give. I can’t help but frown at the curves of his face.   

“He’s good,” the little tan boy from tryouts says as he waits for the field to vacate. His name is Ados. He weaves thin fingers through his hair before sitting on the bench.  

“You’re good yourself,” I tell him, “and pass the compliment on to Amy.” I’m referring to the redhead. “You’re both the pride of our junior varsity.”

“Thank you, but Amy isn’t my friend,” he fumbles, “she’s my rival.”

     Rival. I watch Jed walking off the field. The sun catches his neck and the side of his face. I understand what Marie meant. He does have an uncanny resemblance to Cooper.  I dislike him even more. I think I see him looking up at me as well as he stops to catch his breathe. He frowns as well.

***

Noon does not arrive but falls on us instead. The first meet is next week, and practices are shelved on top of each other.

Ados and Amy sit next to me before practice. I’ve taken them under my wing because I know the difference being sheltered can make.

Amy kicks the bench in front of us. “Why did you start running?”

Ados nods his head. “We heard an old member taught you-”

I interrupt before he finishes. “I’m running for a ghost.”

Silence unfurls itself.

I laugh because honesty is sneaky as it waits to crawl out the back of my throat. I don’t deny it, but I don’t say more. I am running for myself, for a ghost, to catch something. It’s a half truth. The important thing is that I have a cause.

Marie pulls up next to me later during practice.

“Did you notice that Jed wasn’t here for two practices?” she asks. His name curdles in the air like it's expired.

I  shrug. “Coach is the one that wanted him.” I had noticed, and it gave me a silent pleasure not to see him in practice, not to see his mouth, that looks so much like Cooper’s discontent at my appearance.

“Talk to him.” Marie frowns. “We all think you’re scaring him off.”

“I don’t want-”

“You’re only captain,” she sneers, “because you wanted to lord it over us. A real captainleads.”

All I wanted was to make Cooper proud.

“I didn’t want anything.” I tap my water bottle, and wonder when Jed was recognized as an asset, when he began to be treated equally by the rest of the varsity team, something for which I've been longing for years.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

***

I find him on my way home. His shadow is wrapped around a stop sign like a ribbon on a maypole. A cigarette hangs off his bottom lip and a red flannel flares out from under his sweatshirt.

“Your lungs will dry,” I say. He sometimes pants after practice. He shouldn’t be so careless with his health.

He doesn’t reply. I notice his sooty blonde hair is gelled back as he pulls at a few stray strands in the back.

“Some people don’t even have the liberty to breathe anymore.” I pull the cigarette out of his mouth and press on it with the tip of my shoe. “You’ve been skipping practice,” I say.

“That’s more important than practice.” The pavement is split on either side of him.

Cooper stole and worked two jobs to get by. But he never skipped practice. He was after his dream, and a scholarship was always at the back of his head. On bad days, he shook after practice.

“They say you’re alike, but you’re not.” I curl my hands until the last word fades.

Jed walks away.

***

He’s there at practice early, half-hidden by the rounds of bodies on the field.

Ados runs up the bleacher steps with Amy. Her hair catches my sight like a trail of fire, and I wait for smoke to follow her heaving figure.

“Lynn!” they say in unison.

Ados continues, “Why is Marie talking crap about Jed being better than you? I don't think he is.”

“Thanks, but I wouldn’t waste my breath on him.”

“But—”

“I’m not threatened by someone with no purpose.” Cooper sounds off in my head like a church bell. Track team has never been more important to me than when he left.

 “I want you to prove them wrong!” Amy bellows, and Ados nods. “We look up to you. What if they had belittled your mentor?”

 I look down at Jed, sitting next to Marie on the field. My legs carry me down without further protest.

“I challenge you,” I say coldly.

Marie rolls her eyes.

“Not you,” I say, “you.” I look at Jed.

A blank look remains on his face, but he gets up. Then he smirks. “When I win, you’ll have to admit that I’m better.”

I dig my fingers inside my palm like I’m grounding herbs. “You’re good at long distance, so I’ll make it the 800 meter run.”

       My foot ticks the seconds before he mouths, “Go.”

There is a weight in my knees keeping me back. We lock at the shoulders when there are ten yards left. “You’re not Cooper, Lynn,” he says.

 I swallow the base of my tongue. He has no right to mention the name, no right to comb through my thoughts as if they were tangled. I lunge ahead. My eyes blur as I win. When he crosses, I turn and  knock him onto the ground.

“I won,” I say. “You can’t belittle me.”

  Marie drags me off, and I repeat, “You can’t belittle me.”

***

When I held up my varsity team t-shirt to Cooper in seventh grade, he patted my head and said, “You little crook. You finally stole a spot next to me.” I memorized how the corners of his mouth lifted his whole face like a pulley system, so different from the half-smiles Marie would give me.

I like to think that his death was from his ambition to succeed and not because he was scared of being caught.

***

       I feel around the pavement, hoping that Coach won’t be too mad when I return to practice. I find the small memorial road sign behind an arm of weeds. I rip the foliage from the ground so the view of his name is no longer obstructed.  

    I hear footsteps. Jed is there, and I frown.

“You have no right to follow me,” I say, rubbing grass stains off on my track shorts.

He ignores me. “It’s stupid to idolize the dead.”

“I’m not idolizing him. I’m remembering.”

“The way he died was stupid. Cooper was a dumb thief. He thought he was helping us.”

 Us. The word pierces me. My mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. I like to ignore the fact that Cooper had a brother, that anything in his likeness remains outside my heart.

He speaks up again. “You always stuck around him like a tick. I hate that you replaced him as captain.”

“Shut up!”

He doesn’t budge. “Coach put me on the team because I sorta run like him-”  

“You don’t.” His body doesn’t displace the air in the same manner.

“I know,” Jed says harshly.

I’m quiet. Cooper’s presence is already fading. It’s been two whole years.

“She thinks I can be like him – that you should teach me. You knew him best. Maybe you can.”

 “So now you want to be like him?” I ask sarcastically, tracing the worn sign.

  “Not like you do. It’s as if he’s haunting your skin. That moment I said his name, you took off like a bullet. Still.” Jed extends his hand in submission. “Teach me. I’m supposed to be his brother. I am his brother.”  

“They say I run like a thief,” I say, defeated. “They only acknowledge that part of him in me.”

“No,” Jed says. “He might have, but that was his track, not yours.” His mouth stretches thinly in a sad smile as if he’s saying the past only holds footprints, and that Cooper is still running in our futures.

 

The traffic light shifted from red to green.

Elra sat on the yellow median crossed legged, watching the box sway slowly in the wind.

There was not a soul in sight, no cars as far as the eye could see, not a house, not a tree, not a blade of grass. The landscape was an ocean of black ash layered on chalky dirt, with little movement save the distant slopes of hills on the horizon.

Behind them the sun was sinking.

Cupping a small chin in the palm of an equally small hand, the girl stared at the yellow traffic light, which gazed squarely back at her through three long-lidded eyes.

The light flitted to yellow, then after a short pause to red.

“It’s moving fast.”

The voice whispered through the wind and drifted past her ears, beckoning forth the suppressed memories.

“It’s moving fast.”

“It’ll be here soon.”

“It’s moving fast.”

A small tongue slid between the lips of the tight mouth. An unexpected gust of wind tore at the strands of brown hair hanging loose around the girl’s shoulders, trying to pick her up along with the ashes and carry her away.

 “It’s time to go.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“It’s moving fast.”

It’s moving fast. There was the faintest trace of a smile in the eyes of the girl as the light lazily shifted back to green, ushering forward a host of invisible masses. An invisible police man stood beneath it, waving his arms, pushing invisible people forward and forward. Invisible lights blared, invisible voices shouted. Horns honked and slowly a grey cloud sank to the ground, falling like a blanket over the shoulders of a sleeping child.

The light was red. The scene melted back into the grey sky, its only source of color coming from the muffled rays of the sinking sun. They were tinted green, a bright, lime green, that shot through the smog in individual rays and hurt the eyes. Not Elra’s eyes though. Their only concern was the traffic light.

“Aren’t you going to come with us?”

“Don’t you need to find somewhere safe?”

“It’s moving fast.”

The winds persisted, the voices on them rising. The air formed fingers that pulled at Elra, dragging her through her past and into an unstoppable tidal wave of people that filled the streets and spilled into the hills. The sound of her racing footfalls had synchronized with those around her, creating one pounding rhythm. Adrenaline pumped through her, slamming her heart into her ribcage with such force that she feared it would break loose and abandon her. Everyone seemed to have the same idea. Voices and screams and cries for help were lifted into the chorus of explosions and things crashing to the ground, until it was all one collective sound of destruction. Through watering eyes Elra watched the ashes fall from the sky like corrupted snowflakes; sears of heat angrily lashed out at her from each side. Ever present in the background were the thundering booms that shook the ground and mocked their petty attempts of escape. Their ever growing proximity was a perpetual reminder that there would be none.

            Still they pressed forward. Body up against body. The air was hot from the fire and the panting breaths of thousands of mouths breathing in unison. The person before Elra fell and did not get up. Then the person beside. Slowly the road turned into an obstacle course of bodies. As the crowds thinned, those left shifted into a sprint. The thick air and suffocating heat slowly dissipated as they pulled out of the crumbling city. Slowly the herd slowed to a halt and looked around with wide eyes, bracing themselves for more danger. Elra had turned and looked behind her, the rest presently following suit. Behind them was nothing to be seen except for a wall of black that rolled toward them with the air of a wave breaking over the shore in slow motion. And as the first sighs of relief were heard throughout the group, the world exploded into a flash of red.

Red. The light was red. Slowly the visions faded and Elra remembered where she was. Her gaze still didn’t shift from the light, but she was aware of her surroundings. Aware of the last tip of the sun that gave one final attempt to light the world before being pulled under. Aware of the black sky, the sky that had been black ever since everything had started, the sky Elra doubted would ever be blue again.

There was one last streak of green in it, an unnaturally bright green with the air of having been placed there by the careless swipe of a painter’s brush. The traffic light blushed green in its own imitation and the final colorful flare was extinguished with the sun.

The darkness fell heavier than the ashes. Elra stared at the yellow box that did its best to penetrate the blackness. It could have been a beacon, could have been a comfort, but all Elra felt was a pit of dread slowly settling in her stomach.

The perfectly circular green eye gazed back at Elra without blinking. She engaged the light in a staring contest gladly, yet after a time the green circle seemed to grow before her eyes until her vision was filled with green, a magnificent, pulsating, bright green. Then she gave in and blinked, and the light was just a light again.

The green stayed for minutes. Something in Elra felt unsettled. The cycle was engrained in her, part of her natural rhythms, and now it had suddenly changed, as though frozen by the disappearance of the sun. Three minutes stretched into five, then into ten, and the light didn’t change.

We can live forever.

Elra remembered her vision clearing after the explosion. What had felt like the weight of the world rested on her chest.

Mankind will prevail no matter what the disaster. We have created the indestructible human.

She had shoved aside the rock and rubble, startled by her own strength. Pulling herself out of the pile of debris, she had stared around her.

Of course, we can’t make 15 billion invincible humans. Resources and moral obligations wouldn’t agree with that.

Red, red everywhere. Red on the road, red on the rocks, red on the lumps of ash that had once been trees. Elra shut her eyes, not allowing herself to look at the sources of all the red.

The scientist smiled at the camera and adjusted his suit jacket. But rest assured. Should destruction come, two will remain to rise above the calamity and continue our race.

Elra had shouted and screamed. The only response was the echo of her own hoarse voice, and that in and of itself was distant and muted. She had taken off at a sprint. The hills around her were leveled, the valleys where cities had stood were black plateaus of ash.

We won’t know who they are until the day comes, the man had continued with the same happy smile. But when the day does come, two ordinary people will rise from the ashes and save us all.

Elra remembered standing in her kitchen as the public service announcement came to a close. She had turned to her mother with a thoughtful frown.

“I’d feel bad for whoever those two are.”

Her mother’s amused smile had sent warmth tingling through Elra. “You may be the only one not wishing it to be yourself.”

Elra had run on without stopping. Her legs seemed to have gained unnatural strength and the blazing heat and thick rain of ashes seemed to have no effect on her.

This is it, the scientist had told them with an uncharacteristic note of seriousness, just before leaving the screen. This is the final step for mankind. Through these individuals, humans can finally be one with technology and remain forever, unrivaled and unchanging. It is finally our turn to determine the cycles of life. And we chose to live.

There was no life. No green, not a plant peeping from the ground or animal chirping through the rubble. Her eyes had blurred with tears as she ran until she didn’t know where she was going anymore.

Then she had seen the traffic light.

It was still green. Elra resurfaced from her memories with a tiny shudder. The light was green, it had been green for maybe half an hour now. It was wrong. A pulse of anxiety began to throb in her head. The cycle couldn’t just end like that. The green couldn’t just last forever, the cars couldn’t just move beneath it in a stream that never ended. That single shade of green couldn’t pierce the sky for all eternity without ever changing.

In the distance there was a noise, like that of footfalls approaching. The sound hardly reached Elra’s ears. Her gaze was riveted on the light, her muscles tense and her jaw clenched.

The footfalls grew nearer.

“Come on,” Elra muttered under her breath. “Come on.”

“Hello?”

The voice failed to penetrate Elra’s whirling thoughts.

“Change already!” she shouted at the light, getting to her feet. “Change!” Her fingernails bit into the palms of her hands.

“Hey.” The voice belonged to a male, of age similar to her. “Are you...”

“It’s not changing.”

“My name’s Zack.” The boy offered a hand which was ignored by Elra, whose gaze was still riveted on the light. “I assume that you’re the other... the one...” his voice died on his lips. “What are you staring at?”

“The light isn’t changing.” Elra’s voice had dropped to a horrified whisper.

Zack seemed to notice the swinging box for the first time.

“That's weird,” he frowned. “I mean, it must have its own power grid or something, because there's nothing else working anywhere...” Zack's brow puckered and he tapped the side of his head in confusion. “Weird.”

“The cycle stopped.” There was a trembling in Elra's voice. “The cycle can't just stop.”

Zack looked at the light for a moment, biting his lip.

“Hey,” he said in decidedly cheerful voice. “At least it stopped on green! We can take it as a symbol... green for life and a new beginning—that's what we are, isn't it?”

“Green for death.” Elra muttered. “We're as unnatural as it is.”

“Hey,” Zack's voice softened. “Don't worry-”

“It's a fake green.” A hint of anger entered Elra's voice. It grew as she continued. “A fake, unnatural green. It can't replace the green that was here before.”

“Don't worry about it,” Zack soothed, stepping in front of her. “Just look at me, okay? The light doesn't matter. What's your name? You still haven't told me.” He touched her arms and the girl jolted slightly, her eyes still trained on the light. “Just forget about the green. Look at me.”

Elra turned her eyes to him, and as she did, the light before her faded, the green dissolving into the black of night.

The darkness pressed harder upon the two, but as the traffic light dimmed, another light grew. Elra's eyes glowed, the intensity mounting until they were two fluorescent bulbs of piercing lime green. Zack stepped back in alarm, his hand leaving Elra.

Just as swiftly, the green dimmed. As the lights went out in her eyes, her body went slack and she fell to the ground.

For a moment there was silence, then from the palm of one hand a slender battery rolled smoking onto the ground.