WRITING CONTEST
THE WRITERS OF ROHAN
Dear Students,
We would like to thank all of you who submitted a story to our Writers of Rohan Second Annual Writing Contest. We were so impressed with the quality of all your submissions that we decided to create an honorary mention reward. We were awestruck with all your talent and writing skills. I hope this will encourage you to continue writing. Some of the stories simply blew us away and put us on an emotional roller coaster, some made us cry, some were incredibly ambitious with illustrations and had an aspiration one day to become a full length novel. None of them made us feel indifferent! Great job!
I hope this contest will encourage all of you to continue writing. I hope all of you will continue to challenge yourselves and push deeper to find human emotions. We hope you enjoy reading all of them.
Congratulations to all our winners!!!
The Writers of Rohan
Congratulations to our winners!
Honorary Mention and a $40 reward
Clouds Written by Peri
Pillowy and white, they jaunted cheerily through the sky
Drifting toward their destination
They floated in their friend groups
Smiling as they soared
Through their lush, blue field
Some of them waved to King Sol
Others were small and shy
Hoping to go unnoticed by the majestic, golden ruler
But exchanging smiles
With Queen Luna
Then
From the west
Came a deafening boom
Produced by misshapen monstrosities
Swollen and fearsome
And clothed in the most ominous shades of gray
Their war cries multiplied
Deep, resounding
Craving power
Dark mists enveloped the sky
Signifying another territory
Had been conquered by the Stormclouds
The once-blissful Puffclouds were no longer in sight
Banished
So sad and miserable
That they had become Rainclouds
Sobbing over the world in great sheets
Down below
A few humans looked at the precipitation
From a scientific viewpoint
While most just scowled at the inconvenience
The clouds felt broken, betrayed
Forced out of their home
Their bodies disintegrating
As they sobbed out all the water in them
For all they were
Was water
And a soul
And soon
Just a soul
They turned bitter and angry
And they themselves
Became Stormclouds
They swooped over the mountains
Driving away Puffclouds
Which always became Rainclouds
Which always became Stormclouds
Wreaking havoc on the people below
They reached an ocean
Glittering with golden light
While a ship drifted peacefully along
And the water was calm
In charged the Stormclouds
With angry shrieks
And menacing cries
Exactly like the ones that had first driven them away
And fiery beams of white light would accompany them
Like spotlights of death
They obscured the sun
And they forced the sea
And the wind
To join them
In their conquest
The ocean might as well have been a rearing horse
The wind tormenting the ship’s passengers
With a stroke of its invisible hands
Rising from this pit of doom
Great waves crashed upon the wooden floorboards with sickening blows
Then plunged down into the depths of the ocean
Dragging with them whatever they could find
Once caught, no prisoner could escape these relentless attackers
And even those who were still free
Were prisoners of
The howling wind
The booming thunder
And the persistent crashes of light
And all the innocent clouds driven away
By these raging clouds
Were soon causing the same terrors
Somewhere else
And so on, and so on
Until the Earth’s body
Was nothing but a wrecked carcass
Destroyed by
Hate
Caused by anger
Caused by hate
Caused by anger
Caused by—
Suddenly
I awoke
And realized
That the cycle of cruelty is never-ending
That unless we pull each other closer
Instead of pushing each other away
Unless we understand our resentment and fear
Instead of hurling it at others
Like the Stormclouds
Our world will be overtaken by
Hate
Caused by anger
Caused by hate
Caused by anger
Caused by—
But if we are all
Puffclouds
Our world will be ruled by
Love
Caused by happiness
Caused by love
Caused by happiness
Caused by love
Third Place and a $50 reward
Dear Diary Written by Savannah
Dear Diary
Prologue
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!” My family and friends are attempting to sing. Nobody is in sync with the person next to them, but it’s the thought that counts. After a fun day of games and birthday celebrations, it is finally time for cake!
Today, March 21, I turn twelve. Since I was practically born at the dead of night, 11:58p.m., I am actually twelve when I wake up on March 22. Most years, I either couldn’t stay up because it was a school night, or I simply failed to stay awake. This year is the year, however, that I will accomplish all my childhood goals before I become a teenager. Staying up until I turn twelve will be the first thing I complete.
“Happy birthday dear Kate! Happy birthday to you!” the group wraps up. My mom, Jennifer, made a beautiful three layer cake. It has pastel blue and green carefully piped swirls of frosting covering all the vanilla goodness. There are thirteen sparkly candles on the cake. My mom always likes to add one for good luck. I push the blonde hair out of my face, blow out the candles, and make a wish.
I wish to get rid of my diabetes.
Every year, I wish for the same thing, and every year I get no result. I have had diabetes since I was born and know that it doesn’t have a cure. I guess I am just hoping for a miracle.
Everyone cheers, and my older brother, Alex, goes inside to grab a knife and dessert plates. I look at Mom anxiously, eyeing the cake. She pulls out her phone and says, “ I’ll give you some insulin so you can have a slice.” “Thanks Mom,” I replied. She pushes a couple buttons, and checks my blood sugar before she lets me dig in. Ever since I was eight, I have been able to have a little bit of sugar every once and a while if I get insulin pumped into me. Thanks to modern technology, my mom’s phone connects to my pump. Sometimes I wish that I could just have a new, working pancreas and forget about all the doctor visits and examinations. Just in case anything happens that shouldn’t I always have a fanny pack with enough apple juice to raise my blood sugar.
Alex comes out with the knife and plates, and Mom cuts the cake. I don’t get to eat sugar much, so I try to go slowly, but end up gobbling up my slice and licking my lips with relish.
Once everyone is done eating, I get to open presents. I throw away my rainbow plate and sit down on one of the many confetti covered benches in our backyard. My dad used to make them as a hobby, but he stopped doing that years ago. This one has “Richardson: A strong, loyal, and brave being” engraved on the back of it. Richardson is my last name. When Dad wrote this, I guess he didn’t think he would end up leaving us all for some woman in Paris. I will never understand him.
Richardson:
A strong, loyal, and brave being
My best friend, Melanie, comes over and sits next to me. She has long, black hair and freckles all over her nose. “Your mom makes a delicious cake,” she says. “I know, right?” I responded. “What was your favorite party game we played?” “Oh! Definitely the Mini Olympics! The best event was mini tennis…ping-pong! Genius!” Melanie replies. Sometimes she gets really excited and giddy when someone comes up with something clever. “What was yours?” “Oh…um…,”
I start to say. I am feeling dizzy and my hands are getting awfully sweaty. Uh-oh. Did my insulin not work? Did I eat too much sugar? I reach into my fanny pack in search of an apple juicebox. Wait! Apple juice won’t help if my blood sugar is too high! I look at Melanie, and her face is spinning. “Kate! What’s wrong?!?” Melanie screams. “Help! Something is wrong with Kate!” I’m 100% sure she was screaming that, but my brain made everything sound ten times quieter than it actually was. And just as fast as it started, it stopped and I woke up on a hospital bed.
Chapter 1
Getting Started
I ended up in the hospital for three days. I woke up around 11:30 p.m., and was dazed and confused. It turns out that there was no more insulin in my pump, and my mom’s app didn’t inform her because of a glitch. Modern technology: You have to love it while hating it. Without getting too scientific, my blood sugar got too high. There is nothing you can do to stop high blood sugar after it rises, so I was just looked after in the hospital until it was at a safe level. Even though my birthday didn’t turn out to be amazing, after waking up I managed to stay awake for the big moment. My first minutes of being twelve occurred in a hospital with a bunch of tubes connected to various parts of my body.
Here I am now. Sitting on the couch two days after my hospital visit. The doctor said that I can go back to school next week. I’m reading a book from my favorite series when the doorbell rings. Mom runs over to get it attempting to cover the smile growing on her face. She opens the door and Melanie and her mother, Diane, walk in. “Melanie,” I say, surprised. “I didn’t know you were coming!” “Well duh, silly,” Melanie says, running over to me. “That’s the point of a surprise.” “So Kate,” says Mom. “Because you didn’t get to open your presents on your birthday as planned, you can open them today with Melanie.” “Yay!” I exclaim. We sit down at a round table in the corner of our den. It is practically stacked to the ceiling with presents. I didn’t realize so many people came to my party. Mom tries to call Alex down to watch me open my gifts, but he said that being at the hospital for three days was enough dedication to give to me for a while. If Dad were still here he would have forced Alex to come down. Mom is one of those people who doesn’t want to ruffle any feathers even if they are the feathers of her own son.
I reach for the present at the top of the pile. The present is from my friend Delilah. It is a small box with very fancy wrapping paper and a large pink bow. I remove the bow, put it on the table, and pull at the tape on the side of the box. Unwrapping it carefully to salvage the elegant paper, I slide out the box and see the words “ Gemstone King” written on the top of the black and white pattern. “Ooooo,” I exclaim. “Are these…?” Opening the box, I gasp and pull out dangly jeweled earrings. Melanie is writing down what each of the gifts are and who they are from.
“Now you have to get your ears pierced, Kate,” she says.
“You’re right,” I look at Mom. “Right, Mom!?”
“I suppose you’re ready,” Mom says reluctantly.
I finally finished opening all the gifts. My favorites are the earrings, a Bath & Body Works collection, a candle making set, and a diary. Mom said that I should write in the diary as often as I can. She said that she used to use her diary as a way to get through difficult times as well as a “person” to talk to. Melanie and I talk for a while, and when she leaves, I take the diary up to my room. Plopping into my black reading chair, I open the diary and start to write:
Dear Diary, (I think I’m supposed to capitalize the “D” in Diary because it’s what I’m calling you, but I don’t really know.)
Hi! I’m Kate Belle Richardson. I just turned twelve five days ago…um….I have diabetes. My birthday party was ruined because my blood sugar got too high. (I don’t really know what to write.) Let’s see. My mom’s name is Jennifer. My brother’s name is Alex. He’s really annoying most of the time. He just stays in his room doing stuff that I know isn’t homework. My dad left us a couple years ago, but my parents aren’t legally divorced yet. I have some things that I want to do before I turn thirteen:
Be able to canter on a horse Solve a Rubik’s cube in a minute and a half or less
Talk to my dad
Have a better grasp on my diabetes
Get either 1st, 2nd, or 3rd in the Spelling Bee
Read 10 books for pleasure
Visit another country
Make it onto the Honor Roll
Redecorate my room
Climb an indoor rock wall with a 7½/10 difficulty or more
Teach my dog, Cookie, two new tricks
Get my ears pierced
That’s all I can think of for now.
Talk to you later!
Love,
Kate
That actually felt pretty good. I think to myself. Who knows, I might have a good thing going with this diary…
Chapter 2:
It’s Not As Easy As It Looks
“We’re almost there, Honey,” Mom says. “How do you feel? Nervous? Excited?”
“I don’t know,” I say softly. “I’m excited, but don’t know how much it’ll hurt, or if I’ll regret the whole thing all together.”
“It’s gonna hurt so much that you’ll be in pain for the rest of your life and won’t be able to talk to me ever again,” Alex says mockingly.
“That’s enough out of you, Alex. I know you don’t want to be here, but while you are, have a little respect for your sister,” Mom says sternly. That’s about how firm she’ll get without feeling bad.
Here I am; in the car, about to get holes in my ears. Yay, I guess. I’m really concerned that it will hurt, but I listen to the opposite of everything Alex says, so I don’t think it will be that bad. Unfortunately, I don’t get to wear the earrings Delilah got for me until I have been wearing studs for a couple weeks.
I look out the window and focus on what I see to ease my fears. I see a woman in purple yoga pants walking her dog, and a little girl with her dad walking down the street licking a lollipop and laughing. I quickly turn away to avoid jealousy, and choke down my tears. I just don’t understand why he left us like that, I think. Okay, the window tactic didn’t work. Now I am feeling worse than I did before. I try spelling words backward in my head:
STOP: P-O-T-S
WINDOW: W-O-D-N-I-W
BACKWARD: D-R-A-W-K-C-A-B
RANDOM: M-O-
“You’re awfully quiet back there,” Mom says suddenly.
“Oh u-um,” I stutter. “I was just spelling words backward in my head to stop thinking about getting my ears pierced.”
“Oh. You’ll be just fine! After it’s over we can walk around the mall and you can show off your earrings in a couple stores,” Mom says. Her idea is even better than the spelling game. We pull up to the mall and walk inside.
Once we get into Claire’s,-Alex stayed in the car…thank god.-I sit up on the chair and the lady draws a little dot on my earlobe to show me where she is going to pierce. “Ready?” she asks.
“As I’ll ever be…”
I clench my hands together, squeeze my eyes shut, and…
“It’s over!” the lady says.
“What?!” I exclaim. “I barely felt anything!!”
“I told you it wouldn’t be so bad,” Mom says while taking pictures from the corner of the shop.
“Are you ready for the other side?”
“I sure am!” I say, overjoyed.
A few minutes later Mom and I walk out of the shop with a small bag of earrings that I can wear after I have had my studs in for at least three weeks. As promised, we walk through stores for a while until Mom realizes that Alex has been waiting in the car for almost an hour and half. We rush out of the mall laughing hysterically to find Alex scrolling through Instagram on his phone. Usually I would be annoyed, but I’m too happy to feel anything other than joy.
Later on in the afternoon I go back to my diary. I have written a couple entries since the first time I wrote in it. I find myself going to it if I fight with Mom or Alex or if I think about Dad. Surprisingly, it really helps.
Dear Diary,
Sorry that I haven’t written in/to you for a while. I’ve been really busy with school. You know, essays, science experiments, and history projects. I got my ears pierced today! I thought it would hurt much more than it actually did. I can check that off the list!
Be able to canter on a horse
Solve a Rubik’s cube in a minute and a half or less
Talk to my dad
Have a better grasp on my diabetes
Get either 1st, 2nd, or 3rd in the Spelling Bee
Read 10 books for pleasure
Visit another country
Make it onto the Honor Roll
Redecorate my room
Climb an indoor rock wall with a 7½/10 difficulty or more
Teach my dog, Cookie, two new tricks
(CHECK) Get my ears pierced
I don’t have much time to talk today because I have some homework to do before school tomorrow. Bye!!
~Kate
What I like about this diary is that I can make my entries as brief or as detailed as I want and I don’t have to give it a second thought.
Tomorrow I have to go to school to face all the taunts and teases I get. It feels like most people in my classes think I’m an extra burden because I have diabetes and occasional flare ups occur. It really isn’t any of their business. My favorite teacher, Ms. Ledger, tells me that there is nothing wrong with me. She says that I am who I am and that’s the best anyone can do. I don’t really get what she is saying though. I mean, there IS something wrong with me. I have diabetes. It can be scary. It’s not fun or normal.
“Kate!,” a faint voice says while shaking me. “Kate! It’s time to get up. You have school today!!” I open my eyes enough to see Mom hovering over me with a concerned look on her face.
“Wha-what?” I stutter. “Oh. I’ll be downstairs in five.”
“Ok,” Mom walks away.
I slip into a purple jumper and slide into the bathroom to brush my teeth and hair. Like most teenage boys, Alex won’t get out of his room until the last second. I pound on his door underneath the sign that reads, “DO NOT ENTER,” and shout,
“Alex! You’re gonna be late for school!”
“Like I care,” he responds in a I-rule-the-world tone. I just shrug and head downstairs. Everyday I try, and everyday he responds in the same manner. It’s just sort of a habit now.
Most stories about a girl heading to school start with steaming hot pancakes or fluffy blueberry muffins that the main character eats nonchalantly before catching the bus. This one, however, starts with a bagel spread with cream cheese. Mom has always put cucumbers and a bit of pepper on the bagels since I was about seven. It actually tastes really good. And no, there is no fresh squeezed orange juice either. Just milk. I like it that way. Besides, I can’t eat muffins or pancakes.
I eat my bagel while scrolling through Google Classroom to make sure that I have all my assignments done and submitted. When I see that I do, I smile and Mom says, “I see you are all caught up with your schoolwork…as usual.” It’s almost scary how easily she can read my smiles. “Diane will be here to pick you up in five minutes, so hurry up.” I carpool with Melanie. Her mom does drop off while mine does pick up. “Okay,” I say, gobbling up the rest of my bagel and packing up my backpack.
25 minutes later I get out of Melanie’s car and we walk through the gates of our noisy school. On the bulletin board that is shown to the right of the walkway I see that the Model United Nations students get to go on a trip to Paris next month. EEEEEEEE, I think to myself. I’m in M.U.N!! I wonder if Mom will let me go.
“Are you gonna go on the trip? I know how excited you’ve been about getting to go out of state on a school trip,” Melanie squeals.
“I really want to…but I don’t know if my mom will let me.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” “I dunno.
She might be concerned about my diabetes flaring up,” I start. I lower my voice. “Or me running off to try to find my dad.”
“Oh please,” Melanie says. “She’ll let you go. You haven’t run off like that before, have you?”
“No…But I HAVE made several attempts to mail letters to him, call him, call his work. Every time Mom stops me before I can say, ‘Why’d you leave us like that?’”
“Kate. Come on! If she says she won’t let you go, try to convince her to chaperone or something. You have to go.”
We stop walking and turn towards our lockers to get our books. As I open my locker,I say, “You know what? That’s a good idea. Thanks Melanie! You always come up with the best ideas.” She smiles and heads to her homeroom. That will be the last I see of my BFF until lunch.
As I walk over to Homeroom, some girl shouts, “Hey! How many times have you been sent to the hospital this month?!?” Rumor has it, you were sent on your birthday so you chickened out of going to school last week.” As I get closer, I can tell who is screaming those remarks. None other than Jessica Stevenson. Notorious for making people feel bad about themselves and spreading rumors. She kisses up to the teachers in class, but before the 8:00 A.M. bell rings, she squeezes in as many comments as she can to lower the self esteem of everyone around her. For someone so smart, she really doesn’t get her information about other people from a reliable source. Jessica looks like your average bully: Tall, long silky hair, cute outfits.
“For your information, Jessica, I have only been to the hospital once this month,” I hold up my index finger and walk towards her until I’m about a foot away. “I didn’t go to school last week on doctor's orders. But…last time I checked, it wasn’t any of your business.” I walk away leaving a petrified Jessica in the middle of the hallway. People don’t usually stand up to her like that. I could have mentioned why she didn’t know right away that I was in the hospital on my birthday, -she wasn’t invited to my party- but I don’t want to stoop all the way down to her level.
I went through a pretty regular first four periods of the day. I had Science, Math, English, and History. Because of a rotating bell schedule, today is the only day that the classes that aren’t academic are saved for last.
I grab my lunchbox from Ms. Ledger’s -my homeroom and English teacherclassroom and head over to the cafeteria. Once I reach the cafeteria, I walk past it and make a sharp turn to my left. Melanie and I always eat behind the cafeteria. It avoids a lot of the noise and gross tables. A couple people sit there respectfully talking to their friends. Sometimes crazy seventh and eighth graders run through spraying milk all around the school, but that usually stays within the cafeteria.
“Hey Lanie!” (I used to call Melanie “Mel,” but she said she prefers “Lanie.”)
“Hi Kate! Have you thought about the M.U.N. trip?”
“Yeah, a little. I am just worried that I’ll be tempted to see him…”
“I get what you’re saying. If you are tempted, try talking to your mom. You deserve to see your father every once and a while, and going to Paris for a school trip is the perfect excuse.” Melanie opens her lunchbox and pulls out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“Yeah. I just don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask my diary.”
“Wait a second!?! Is your new DIARY replacing me?” Melanie asks, slightly offended.
“No, no, of course not. Sometimes I just like asking something that can’t answer. It makes me search for the answer inside of me rather than in someone else.”
“I get i-,” Melanie starts.
“Melanie! Don’t share any of that sweet, delicious jelly with Kate or she’ll explode,” Jessica suddenly appeared talking in a voice that sounded like she wanted me to explode.
“You know what,” Melanie says. “ I wasn’t planning on it, but she won’t explode. Don’t try to pretend like bullying people is cool. Don’t pretend like you don’t have anything about you that you want to change but can’t.” Earlier I said that Melanie gets excited and happy when someone comes up with something clever. I forgot to mention that she also gets really ticked off when someone says something clever in a rude way. Jessica and a pack of girls that began to form around her retreat without saying a word.
“Thanks Melanie,” I say. “I really needed someone by my side for that. You know, Jessica’s been getting worse lately.” I shrug. I don’t want Melanie to see what I’m feeling. I’m feeling ashamed. If I didn’t have stupid diabetes everything would be okay. I wouldn’t get teased as much, I wouldn’t have to worry about flare ups, I’d be able to eat candy like a normal kid can. The only times I get candy are when I rarely get enough insulin pumped into me or when my blood sugar gets too low. I wish I were normal. Like Mom, or Melanie, or Ms. Ledger, or -I can’t believe I’m saying this- Alex.
“Anytime girl! Those brats don’t have any right to treat you like that.”
Carefully avoiding the Paris topic, we chat for a while until the bell rings and a whirlpool of students sweep us over to P.E.
In P.E., we just had a running day. I love running, so it was actually fun! I head over to Model U.N. feeling excited but sick to my stomach at the same time. My teacher, Mr. Stonewall, is a great teacher, but he is very strict about deadlines. He’ll probably want permission slips on his desk tomorrow morning. Any later then that and you can’t go.
Guess what? I was right. I leave the class an hour later with a couple pages stapled together filled with signature lines and emergency contact information.
I quickly go to my locker to grab the books I’ll need for homework and take the long way out of the school to avoid Jessica and her band of plastic friends. I walk out of the gate to find Melanie trapped in a barricade of the people I was attempting to avoid. It seems that Melanie set off a spark in Jessica that will burst into flames and can’t be extinguished until Jessica does something that bothers Melanie. SHe is pushing through the barricade and eventually makes her way out with a little help from me. Melanie claims that there is nothing Jessica can say or do that would bug her, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling sorry for her. If I didn’t have diabetes none of this would happen. Now my friends are getting affected by my stupid condition. I wish I could just start my life over and not have anything wrong with me. I think to myself.
After I finish my homework, I turn to my diary. It’s just sitting there with a fluffy outside sleeve practically begging me to write in it. So, that’s what I obviously have to do:
Chapter 3
The Big Ask
Dear Diary,
Today was a pretty interesting day. I stood up to Jessica Stevenson today, I found out about a potential school trip to Paris, Melanie stood up to Jessica and then had to pay for it later. You know, I feel like my diabetes is causing everyone around me a whole disarray. I mean the only reason Melanie had to stand up for me in the first place was because Jessica was making remarks about my diabetes. I can’t live in this skin knowing that I will always have this heavy weight. I can’t stand it anymore!!!!!!!!!!!! Woah. I just exploded there. I may have bled through a page. Sorry…I hope that didn’t hurt. ;)
On a different topic, I really want to go to Paris, but I’m worried that Mom won’t let me. I guess I won’t know unless I ask her. I’ll ask during dinner. Oh! She just called from downstairs that we’ll be eating in five minutes. I should probably wash up. I’ll tell you what happened after dinner.
Love,
Kate
I close the book but can’t put it down. It’s almost as if it’s glued to my hand. Something inside of my stomach-no gut is swirling. I spin around and plop on my bed smiling ear to ear. Did I just? No I couldn’t have. The sensation in my gut lowers to my legs and I start jumping for joy. No way. Not after all this time. I think I just cracked the code to the problem I have with my diabetes.
I just realized that I am who I am and that just became enough for me. Two seconds ago I figured out that everyone has problems, and the first step to accepting other people's problems is accepting your own. From now on, I am who I am and nothing and no one can change that. Maybe that’s why Melanie is so accepting of me. She knows that I am just me. Some aspects I have control of while others I don't.
Why did it just hit me so suddenly? I think it’s like what I was telling Melanie earlier. It must be because I was ready to come to that realization and having my diary to talk to without hearing a response that was just there to try and make me feel better helped. Tomorrow I won’t hide my fanny pack away in my backpack, but I’ll wear it with pride. I AM KATE BELLE RICHARDSON AND I HAVE DIABETES! I think.
“Kate! Alex! Time for dinner! Wash your hands and come down to set the table,” Mom shouts from the kitchen.
“Okay,” I shout. “I’ll be down in two minutes.” First I go back to my diary and check off a goal on my list:
Be able to canter on a horse
Solve a Rubik’s cube in a minute and a half or less
Talk to my dad
(CHECK) Have a better grasp on my diabetes
Get either 1st, 2nd, or 3rd in the Spelling Bee Read
10 books for pleasure
Visit another country
Make it onto the Honor Roll
Redecorate my room
Climb an indoor rock wall with a 7½/10 difficulty or more
Teach my dog, Cookie, two new tricks
(CHECK) Get my ears pierced
I wash my hands and head down to the dining room. A question other than the Model U.N. question poked at me. “Hey Mom,” I ask while setting forks on the three placemats set down. “Do you know who got me the diary for my birthday?”
“I’m not sure,” she replies. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just been really nice to have and I am not usually the type of person who likes that kind of thing so I was wondering who knew me enough to think I’d like it.”
“Oh, I see. After dinner you should ask Melanie. She was writing all that down, right?”
“Yeah. I’ll ask her.”
Alex brings the plates that Mom filled to the table and we sit down. Mom made a chicken caesar salad with croutons and cranberries. “Hey Mom,” I repeat.
“Yes Honey?”
“There is a trip that everyone in Model U.N. has an opportunity to go on. Can I go?”
“Where is it?”
“Oh. Paris,” I say softly hoping she doesn’t realize that that’s where Dad lives now.
“Paris. That’s very far,” Mom states, clearly showing that that isn’t her only concern.
“I have the permission slip. It gives the parents all the information. We’ll all be taken care of by many teachers and chaperones.” As I say that last part, I see Mom’s eyes flicker.
“Are there any more chaperone positions?”
“Yeah. I think Mr. Stonewall said something about there being three more…”
“Okay. You can go if I can chaperone.”
“Great! I can’t wait.”
A new voice chimes in, “Exactly how long is this trip?” It was Alex.
“One week,” I reply, smirking at him.
“Don’t worry Alex. I’ll ask Aunt Heather if you can stay with her and Timmy and Lucy for the week. I’m sure they’d all love to see you,” Mom says trying to hide her own smirk. Alex rolls his eyes and the rest of the dinner is filled with talk about our days.
After dinner I text Melanie to see if she knows who sent the diary. While waiting for a response, I rack my brain and try to remember writing thank-you notes. I remember writing them, but don’t remember who I thanked for the diary. Melanie responds and says that the diary wasn’t written on the list. I flip to the beginning of the fluffy book to see if there is any name or inscription. I see a tiny blot of blue ink. I push my face as close as I can get to the diary without smashing my nose into it. The small blot reads:
“For Kate. I hope this helps you more than I ever could. From-”
Wait, no. It can’t be!
“From Dad”
To be continued…
Notes from the judge:
This is the diary of a 12-year-old girl, Kate Belle richardson, with diabetes who keeps a list of things she wants to do before she turns 13.Each chapter marks her crossing of one of her completed accomplishments like getting her ears pierced or getting a better grasp on her diabetes. At the end of the story, too be continued, will she get to cross off the cryptic goal “talk to my dad “on her bucket list
Second Place and a $75 reward
Stories are Waiting Written by Sara
This story won’t be found on your bookshelf, well loved and cherished through the ages. It won’t be found on your mother’s lap as she reads you stories of faraway places and fantasies. It won’t be found in a library, patiently waiting for someone to read it. It won’t be found in your desk, ready to be an escape from your work. It will sit here, waiting to tell its story, no matter how hard it will be to tell. It will sit here, untouched by the world, waiting for something. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting. Waiting for something. But what? This story might wait forever, but for what point? Why are these words, so delicately crafted by someone’s mind, waiting? Why isn’t this story trying to make a name for itself? Is it a waste of time? No. This story is waiting. Waiting for something. It’s not sure what it's waiting for, but it’s waiting for something. It’s content to wait as long as it takes, until it finds what it's waiting for. Perhaps it will find it soon. What it’s waiting for. Until then it will wait, as the years go by and the trees grow old. It will wait. The world will wait.
Fifty years ago, my grandfather left his hometown to venture the world. Fifty years ago, my grandfather died. He left his newborn son and wife behind in search of a new life, and didn’t even make it past the border. My father had to grow up without his. So when the time came for my dad to become one himself, he didn’t know how to do so. Growing up, my father wasn’t around very often. I could always tell he took after his father, he didn’t want to stay around in our town, and often took long trips away from home. I resented him for a while, but now that I’ve grown, I can see things his way. His father wasn’t there, and like any child would, he copied the mannerisms his father did. I know he spent many nights as a child, crying for his father to come back. My father decided he wouldn’t leave his kid. But from the look in his eyes, I can tell he never wanted to stay. He only stayed so he wouldn’t be his father, but it wasn’t truly what he wanted. In turn, I grew up feeling abandoned by him, even if he was still there. Now, looking at my newborn daughter, a weird feeling has come over me. It feels like pride and fear have mixed together and become one. Looking down at her face, I can tell I love her. I’m proud that I was able to create her, and I feel strong love for this child I hold in my arms. But all the same, I feel fear. I'm scared to raise this child. So many things could go wrong. However, what scares me most is the possibility of becoming my father. I can tell he loved me just as I love my daughter, yet he wasn’t there for me, though he swore he wouldn’t repeat after his father. I don’t want to become him, and I’m afraid to. At the same time, I’m afraid to get attached to the baby in my arms. She’s so delicate, and I’m afraid that if I stay around her, I might hurt her. Is this what my father thought when I was born? If he did, I’m afraid I’ll turn out how he did. I take a deep breath. My daughter. Rosaline. I’m the only father she has. I can’t be afraid anymore. I will do what my father and grandfather didn’t. I will be there for my daughter, no matter what happens. This is what I’ve been waiting for. If the world is damned and my daughter is flamed, then I must burn as well, for we share the same blood.
There are two sides to every story, as one would tell you. Usually, stories like that make out the other side to be the villain, or justify someone’s tale. But have you considered that between all layers of the story, there are consistencies, and within those consistencies, there might be hints to truth? An outsider’s perspective might be key to understanding the story one may tell, or it may flip the story completely. I’m not part of their story. Infact, I’m not sure they know I exist. But I watch. And I observe. If you listen to one of them, you’ll hear a story of heartbreak. One of betrayal, and sadness, and hurt beyond any other. If you listen to the other, you’ll hear a story much longer than the other. You’ll hear a story of misfortunes and boundary-pushing building up over many years. And both stories might be true in some sense, but with the outside perspective, the stories don’t seem so different. With the outside perspective, I know I hold the key to fixing things. But I won’t fix them. I don’t think I can, and even if I try, it will likely not go over well. In story one, a young girl finally finds a friend after years of loneliness, only for it to crash and burn when they are betrayed by the one they thought would save them. In story two, a young girl is drawn in by a fun personality, only to become uncomfortable, and break it off when they can’t handle the other anymore. Neither story is completely true. Story one fails to mention the other’s uncomfort, and it doesn’t recognize the over-bearing attachment of the first girl to the second. Story two fails to mention girl one’s fear of abandonment, and how it was never expressed between the two that the second was uncomfortable. Neither are the victims, but neither are the villians either. But who am I to say anything? I’m not part of this story. I won’t fix their stories, and even if I tried, it wouldn’t help. That’s how the world works. I may not be part of this story, but I do have my own. I know there are outside perspectives on my own stories too. I know there are people who can easily shed light on my stories too. But they won’t. And I’m fine with that. Sometimes it’s better to walk away and begin new stories. Ones with happier endings. It’s not worth trying to fix everything. You can’t. I won’t wait for my stories to be fixed. I will start new ones. Where one story ends, new ones begin, and it’s good to know when to stop and begin anew.
When I was seven, I was sat in a room surrounded by officials, and I was asked to judge a man in front of me. I didn’t know why I was supposed to, but I did anyway. I was given the list of the man’s crimes, and told to give him a fitting punishment. I remember not liking the man, and reading off his crimes made me angry. Theft, robbery, assault on a police officer, and gang activity. Being a kid, I was ecstatic to be in a place of power. I decided to use as much of it as I could and I gave the man life in prison. Now that I’m grown, I realize that the man didn’t deserve that. After highschool, I took out a loan from the wrong person, and to pay it off, I had to do a gang’s dirty work. It was awful. I feared for my safety every minute, and had to do numerous crimes under the threat of harm coming my way. They worked me to the bone and I wondered if the man I judged was ever really all that bad, seeing as he did the same as I had to do for myself. Last month I got caught on a risky mission for the gang, trying to rob a convenience store to pay off my interest. I’ve been in a jail cell since then, waiting for the day my court trial will arrive. Today I sit outside the courtroom, wondering what my punishment will be. Time feels slow, like every second is a minute and a minute, an hour. My heart leaps out of my chest when I hear the courtroom door open, and with a push from the guards, I enter. The court looks familiar, though I can’t tell why. Between its granite countertops and its marble floors, I can see history melting together, past and present becoming one. I take a deep breath and look up to the stand. The judge hasn’t arrived yet, and I wonder who it will be. Will they take pity on me for the situation I was in? Or would they rule me as a monster, to be locked away and never seen again? My heart quickens as the door opens once more. The judge. I’m scared to turn around, although I’m not sure why. I can’t help but get the feeling that something’s off, like this judge isn’t meant to be here, like I am not meant to be here. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t lose hope now. I will plead my case the best I can, and pray to some god above that I will be spared. Footsteps stop as I take a deep breath and look up to the stand. Immediately, my heart stops. In a cruel twist of fate, I see someone I didn’t even consider as a possibility to judge me. Standing there, in blue jeans and a dinosaur hoodie, I see myself, fifteen years ago, unable to recognize who exactly the man standing before him was. I know how this will turn out. Despair slowly sinks in, as I sink to my knees. Have I really become the man I scorned all those years ago? And thus begins my life of waiting, at the result of my own hands. Insanity began to take its hold on me, until all I could do was wonder, had I sympathized with the man before me all those years ago, could I have had the life I wanted? Truly, it was a laughable subject, how one man’s lack of empathy could lead to his own downfall.
Three years ago, I murdered Josephine and took what she had for myself. I wore her clothes, ate her food, loved her friends, and slept in her room. No one ever realized she was missing, not when I took her place, but they noticed the differences between me and her. Josephine never made mistakes, she never left her house in the night, she never let her grades slip by even a single point. Josephine was perfect, unlike me. She was loved by the people around her, and I loved her too. But I was jealous. I wanted what she had. So one night I took her out to the big hill by her school, and I stabbed her. I watched the blood pour out of her chest, as she struggled to breathe, and choked on her own blood and spit. I didn’t feel upset. But what unsettled me was that she understood. She smiled and gave me a hug with the last of her energy, and told me she loved me. As she slowly bled out, the blood warm on my hands, I thought of how much I loved her. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure about my decision. When I look in the mirror, I can still see her, no matter how hard I try to erase her. She’s still there, and it’s killing me inside. She shares my smile, my hair, my skin. She haunts my memories and dreams. Josephine won’t leave, no matter what I do. I’ve replaced her, and stabbed her so many times, but she comes back. Josephine loves me, and I can’t convince her otherwise. As I wear her clothes and sleep in her bed, I can still see her in every action I do. Her body is mine, and mine is hers. I don’t belong where she was. I don’t deserve to be praised and loved as if I was her. We share the same blood, but I feel like she was only a stranger. The mirror shows me someone who looks exactly like her. She’s achieved so much that I never could. I can’t possibly be her, yet others think I am all the same. I don’t have memories from before Josephine, she’s always been here. We are one and the same, and we share the same body. But the Josephine they knew died a long time ago. I stabbed her on that hill. But she keeps coming back, waiting for my approval. I look at myself in the mirror and I know who I am. My name is Josephine. I am the girl I stabbed all those years ago. I am the girl who acheived all she did. So why doesn’t it feel like I am? It’s like I’m an imposter, just playing the part of Josephine. But deep inside, I know that we are one and the same. Josephine and me. Two sides of the same coin. One long dead, the other inhabiting her corpse. Josephine.
These stories may not seem connected, but they all belong together. They tell the stories of problems that plague the earth, and bring awareness to the world’s misfortunes. Story one tells a story of generational trauma, a problem that many immigrant, dysfunctional, and large families face. The trauma lessens throughout the generations, but it never truly fades away. Story two tells the story of someone looking on the outside in, easily able to solve a sinking relationship, but won’t because sometimes it’s better to let someone go. Story three tells the story of how one man’s lack of empathy for another, can cause his own downfall. Finally, Story four tells the story of a girl with imposter syndrome, unable to recognize her own accomplishments. All stories show some sort of message, waiting to be shown to the world, but until they find the right person, the stories will wait.
Notes from the judge:
Not so much a story, or even a series of inter connected stories, but a thought-provoking and strange study of four stories as embryionic tales waiting to be told or fleshed out. Each mini story about generational trauma, a gang victim, a girl with imposter syndrome could be a novel in itself. Contemplative, philosophical and profound.
First Place and a $100 reward
Tell it to the Cat Written by Riley
“I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, Piddles. I can’t go back, not now!”
Piddles stared at me with pitiful eyes. He understands how I feel; he hates social interaction, too. When I found him at the shelter he was sitting in a corner, disgusted by the other cats. No wonder we’re such a good pair.
“Reign, get up, honey! Don’t be late on your first day!”
I hate school so much. The heaps of work, the responsibility, waking up early, being around people. At least I had the summer to relax and hole up in my room for a couple of months. But summers are never long enough. They’re like a taste of freedom, a drop of childhood. I was such a happy little kid: I smiled all the time. I had friends that weren’t a pain to be around. But then suddenly I got unhappy. My friends started to sound shrill, annoying. Smiling became a chore.
Life became work.
And then there were “the incidents”, as my parents call them, in 9th and 10th grade. I think of them more like explosions - which sounds way cooler than panic attacks. In 9th grade, my “friend” Katelyn had made a comment about my face. “Reign’s face is kinda lopsided, huh?” Then the rest of the friend group decided that there was something wrong with my skin, my hair, my stomach. It hurt so much to hear those words. I didn’t even make it to the bathroom. I threw up right then and there and cried and hyperventilated. My body ached for days after. 10th grade was worse, though. Katelyn took a rather unflattering picture of me and posted it online - she called me every name in the book, and everyone at school saw it. The reason? At homecoming, her date approached me and told me he liked my dress. We chatted for a bit, and that was all. We didn’t even dance! It was completely platonic, but she claimed I was “stealing her man”. What?! Anyways, a couple weeks after she first posted the picture, she approached me in school and started cussing me out. I told her to “leave me the hell alone”, and she started CRYING. “You
guys see why I did this??? She harasses me, and tries to take everything from me!” she screamed. I just stood there shocked as everyone gave me an angry look. I wanted to do something else, say something, push her or yell back at her. But the Vice Principal was already turning the corner. He asked me what was going on and I felt my body start shaking. Then I burst into tears in front of, like, half the school. No one really laughed, they kind of just stared until the V.P. made them leave. God, it was embarrassing. Worst. Day. Ever.
I can’t let that kind of thing happen again. I have to stay strong; I have to hold it in. Get through the year. Do my homework. Interact as little as possible, because friends mean more chances for another explosion.
***
My alarm clock woke me up at 6:30 every morning for the first week of school. I’d get up and throw a T-shirt and jeans on, then hobble to the bathroom to wash my face. Ewww, look at your eyes. Your face is so weird, Reign. Better put on some makeup. Then I’d put on some mascara and concealer and go eat a waffle for breakfast. Sneakers on, then walk to school because it’s only a block away. Then the fun part - waste the day away pretending to learn useless information in a stark gray building filled with meaningless people. The week was actually pretty easy; not much homework, not much need for social interaction, and the teachers were just boring enough that I could zone out but not so boring that I wanted to die. I didn’t have to talk to anyone either, besides Max.
Max has been my best friend for 6 years, but lately he’s been distant. He never wants to hang out anymore. We used to go to this little ice cream parlor after school every Friday, but we haven’t done that since May of 9th grade. I told him how I’ve been really stressed recently, and he barely even listened! But at least it was nice to have someone to say hi to in the halls… until the bell rang on Friday.
I’m walking towards the door after the 3:00 bell. There’s a song stuck in my head - Green Day’s American Idiot. I hum to myself as I think about what I’ll have for dinner tonight. Then I hear someone laugh behind me. Before I even have the chance to see what the commotion is about, I feel it: cold liquid on my back and my head. It trickles to my face and I realize it’s milk. I slowly turn around to see Katelyn and her posse laughing their heads off and filming me. No. I stare at Katelyn’s stupid little face, pinched up and cackling. Nonononono. Her eyeshadow looks terrible, god. At least her nose is cute. It was weird when we were little, but money fixed that crooked thing. Don’t explode, please. Well, if you fixed it once, you could probably fix it again.
Don’t wanna be an American idiot...
***
“Now, Ms. Evans, I understand that Katelyn poured water on you-”
“Milk.”
“Yes, fine, milk. However, that does not excuse violence. We have a zero tolerance policy here and I cannot allow-”
“Well I’m sorry, Mr. Jacobs, but I personally have a zero tolerance policy for Katelyn’s face.”
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. You deserve this. You’re so stupid and it’s good you got the milk thrown on you. Honestly, you should be thanking everyone at this damn school for giving you so much attention. You should kick him in the teeth. It’s fun and maybe it’ll finally prove to them what a stupid little piece of crap you are and that you should be sent away to some asylum in Sweden. Hit him. Do it. DO IT.
I shushed the voices and tried to bring myself back to his stupid little lecture in his stupid little office with its stupid little pictures and his stupid little face.
“You will have six weeks of detention. Katelyn will have 2 weeks of detention, since she did
pour water on y-”
“IT WASN’T WATER GODDAMMIT, IT WAS MILK. MY SHIRT SMELLS DISGUSTING,” I shouted, my voice cracking on the last sentence.
He sighed again. What an asshole. “Make that seven weeks.”
Honestly, I can’t even remember my “act of violence”. I saw Katelyn’s face and then all of a sudden she was on her knees with a gushing red nose. My hand was in a fist and it burned a little. I gotta tell this to the cat. Piddles loves revenge.
***
I have to go to detention every day after school for an hour. I sit in the back left corner and try to focus on my homework but it’s so hard - not really the work itself, but the act of doing the work. I can’t explain it. My brain just refuses to listen. I stare at the pages but nothing happens. My pencil won’t move. My eyes won’t read. My body just sits and sits and sits and I can’t control it.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I’m Reign Evans. I’m supposed to be smart and athletic and people like me. My mother isn’t ashamed of me. My father still brags to his coworkers about me. My friends still love me. When I was little I was on top of the world, the center of everything, I raised my hand to answer questions and listened when Ms. Teacher talked. I held my head up
high and laughed with my friends and ate the lunch my mother packed me with a note that said, Have a good day! I love you! I didn’t stay up at night wondering when all this crap would end. I went to bed smiling and woke up smiling and smiled and smiled and smiled.
And the worst part is, it was always genuine. I really did love life. It wasn’t like I was always pretending and in the last couple of years I’m letting it out. No, no I was always happy. Why did it leave? Where did it go? Everything hurts so much now, it’s so hard. Please, where is that light that I had at 7? My head can’t keep up with everything else going on in my life. The world is just going for a graceful skip through the park and I’m tumbling after it but I’ll never catch up. I can’t do this anymore. There’s no one on my side, and there’s nothing I can do. My grades can’t keep up either. I’m falling so fast and my head is screaming at me and my body is screaming at me and it’s so loud and all I can hear anymore is YOU’RE NOT ENOUGH WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU YOU’RE STUPID AND UGLY AND WORTHLESS YOU ARE NOTHING YOU ARE NOTHING YOU ARE-
There’s no quiet. I can’t escape.
I come back into consciousness and I notice my math homework is covered in drops of water. I rub my eyes and look around to make sure no one else in detention saw me crying. Haha. Made you cry. God, why won’t it shut up already?
***
I suppose I kind of hoped punching Katelyn would make Max like me more. I guess because he always jokes about sticking it to the man, and that’s what I was doing. Sticking it to the popular girl who wronged me, right? But instead he talked to me less! What the hell?? It’s probably just because he’s on the Student Council so he can’t condone violence. Right?
BEEP BEEP BEEP goes the alarm clock. God, it’s so annoying. My eyes are puffy and hurt from crying yesterday. My head is pounding. You deserve it, stupid. I crawl out of bed and consider just staying home. Ugh, but Mom would be mad at me and I really don’t want to deal with more chores as punishment for skipping. She doesn’t get it. Sometimes I try to explain to her how I
feel, and she listens, but I can tell it’s not getting through.
I throw on the same flannel I’ve worn all week - it’s my favorite shirt. Everyone’s gonna notice your dirty clothes and unwashed hair you freak. Oh, that’s why my head hurts. The voice is still screaming. Sometimes I don’t even realize it’s yelling, but when my head starts to pound I hear it. I walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror. Eww, you’re so ugly. God, no wonder everybody hates you. Your parents probably wish you weren’t born. You’ve let down everyone you stupid worthless piece of- I squeeze my eyes shut and it’s quiet for a minute. I look down at my face wash and moisturizer. My mascara and concealer. It doesn’t even matter. What’s the point of putting it on? And the amount of work it would take, I can’t handle it right now. I brush my teeth quickly and walk downstairs. Should I eat? I am kind of hungry. Oh, but you're so fat. You giant ugly girl, you can’t eat before school, you’ll look like a cow! You do already, but do you really want to make it worse? Okay, no food then. I feel tears well up in my eyes. When did it get to this?
Piddles rubs against my leg. “Hey, little buddy,” I say to him, my voice cracking. He likes to meet me at the door before I leave. I usually pick him up and cuddle him, but recently I just haven't…wanted to. No, that’s not right. Because I love Piddles, I just don’t have the energy or the, well, motivation to hold him, I guess. “I’ll be home soon, Pidds. I love you.”
10:13 a.m. on the same day. I walk out of science class and start to go to English. My brain feels fuzzy after that test. I definitely failed, but the painful feeling of knowing I didn’t do well on a test isn’t there. I honestly don’t care what happens at this point. You’re such a failure. I heard we have a substitute in English though, so maybe I’ll get a nap in before lunch. As I’m walking around the corner, at the end of the hall I see Max kissing Katelyn. Her nose is all healed up now; somehow it looks better than before. It’s not fair.
My Max. My friend. He betrayed me. He betrayed me. I know we stopped being as close, but he’s supposed to be on my side. Why would anyone be on your side? No one likes you.
I can feel the explosion coming, ready to burst out of me. It’s pushing on the walls of my ribcage so hard I can feel my skin pulsating. I can’t let it happen. I’ve gone through enough crap. Never again.
It’s going out to idiot America! Welcome to a new kind of tension…
I run out of the building and book it home. When I get there I realize my parents aren’t home. Oh right, they’re gone today and tomorrow for a work trip. That was definitely a lie so they could get away from you. They HATE you. If they came home and you were gone, they’d be so happy. I get into my room and let it all out, the screaming, the crying, the hyperventilating. The walls shake and the floorboards moan. I don’t even think I’m in my body anymore – I’m just watching it thrash and scream. Piddles just sits there and lets me do it. I think he’s scared to touch me. He looks so sad.
I have to get out. Out of this skin. Or at least these clothes. I grab my shirt and RIP it open - buttons go flying across the room. Wow, you’re so stupid and ridiculous that you can’t even keep your clothes together? Worthless piece of trash.
I yank off the shirt and throw it without even looking where. Piddles jumps out of the way of the flying flannel and scrambles out of the room. Oh my god, what the hell am I doing? “Piddles, come back. I’m sorry!” I look at the shirt on the floor. My favorite shirt. Dammit. No. I can’t let them win, I won’t do it. They’ve been screaming at me for so long and it’s enough. God, what were those coping skills my homeroom teacher went on about for a week back in 6th grade? Oh yeah. Deep breaths, walking, splashing water on your face.
I start to walk to the bathroom while taking deep breaths. Once I get there, I turn on the faucet, lean down, and cup water into my hands and let it soak my
face.
I walk back to my room, finally calm enough to address the button. Piddles is back. “Where’s that little sewing kit Grandma left us?” I mumble to Piddles. I go to the office closet and there it is. It’s a light, fading blue, with a picture of a lady smiling and holding a needle and thread. Apparently this sewing kit was my grandmother’s pride and joy. According to my mom, Grandma was strong and independent and ran a small clothing shop where she only hired women. I wish I could have met her. Maybe she’s a ghost and she’s pushing me to sew right now. That’d be badass.
I sit down on the ugly brown carpet and start to sew the button back onto my shirt using the instructions in the kit. I mess up the knot over and over again, but then on my 4th try, it works. The button looks good, the thread is even, and it stays in the fabric. And I explode again, but it’s different this time.
“I DID IT PIDDLES, DO YOU SEE?!” I jump and scream and dance and laugh and cry and hug my sweet little cat. I did it. I sewed the goddamn button.
***
I spend the rest of the afternoon sewing the other buttons back onto the shirt. There are a bunch of random buttons in the bottom of the sewing kit. Hmm. Those could look cool on my jeans… It was so weird - this button brought me so much freaking euphoria. Piddles sat in my lap and smiled a little cat-smile and stared at me with his big green eyes. I took a long, hot shower that night and woke up the next morning feeling…happy? Wow. I washed my face and put on my skincare and brushed my teeth and hair. I stared at myself in the mirror and inspected my face. I prepared for them to say you’re ugly or no one likes you or no one would miss you if you were gone. But for the first time in years, I don’t hear a single thing.
As I walked to school I went over the script in my head. I decided the night before that I needed to make some life changes, starting with today.
“What the hell are you doing here, Reign? Didn’t I get a restraining order on you?”
“Hi, Katelyn. I won’t be long, I just had to tell you something.”
“Ugh, what?”
“I was wrong to hit you.”
“No kidding. Psycho-”
“I’m not done. I was wrong, but you’re a bad person with an ugly soul and a mean heart. And that’s fine, because it’s who you are and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m not going to hit you or touch you or talk to you ever again after this because you aren’t worth my attention. I had an epiphany yesterday and I realized the amount of hate I had for you was more energy than you
deserve from me. And to be completely honest, when I think of you now I don’t feel anything at all. Anyways, have a good life.”
Her jaw was on. The. Floor. I smiled sweetly and walked away. I found Max later and I won’t bore you with the details, but I told him our friendship had run its course.
After each class that day, I went to my teachers and explained that during the last couple of months, I hadn’t been feeling like myself, but I was working on coping with it. I told them I’d get all the work done that I’d missed and asked for an extension on a couple projects. Most of them seemed proud of me! I felt a little overwhelmed by the amount of work I’d have to make up, but there was also a weight lifted off of me. It felt good.
***
Somehow I made it all up and I ended the semester with 2 A’s and 4 B’s. When I was younger, a B would have terrified me, but since I was coming from all D’s, I’m not even upset. I worked so hard and I did amazing. Over the winter break, I explained to my parents how I’d been feeling this semester. I think once I really sat down and told them in detail what was going on, it clicked for them. They were horrified. I started the spring semester with a therapist.
I started a sewing club in the spring semester, too! I made a bunch of friends, and I got to expand on the hobby that changed my life. Turns out a lot of kids like to sew, embroider, and cross stitch (one girl even taught me how to knit a stuffed animal of Piddles!). Life became so bright, so full of things I could do or experience. The future wasn’t grim, it was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. When I got up in the mornings, I would pick Piddles up and give him a huge hug. Sometimes when he’d look at me, I could almost feel him saying, “Good job Reign. You did it. I’m proud of you.”
Cats come off moody and brooding. But once they start to play with a yarn ball, their eyes dilate
and they become filled with personality. I picked up a needle and a spool of thread, and the same
thing happened to me.
Notes from the judge:
An alienated young girl reign whose anxiety attacks culminate in an explosive incident of violence against Kaitlyn. she loses her best friend Max leaving her cat piddle as her only confident. life returns and she learns to be happy again when she joins a sewing club. A beautifully told story with a satisfying ending.
