below are the sample writings of a diversified group of talented individuals in Ms. Etkins's Writing 1C
Derek Yee "MC Whitewash" :: Keeping the Silence [Enjoy the Silence]
Rachel was the first and only girl that I was truly attracted to. She was there the first day I entered the Tappan Street public pool. The large building contained three large pools and two diving boards. I would practice five to six days a week and she would always be present. I talked to her at the pool back then when we were younger. Now, I hardly dare glance at her. Times change.
I had no experience in expressing my private thoughts to anyone. Rachel was on my mind all day, every day and I could not tell her how I wished to walk with her, to talk to her, and to hold her hand. It took me much courage to speak to her. And since I saw her five days a week, I had to use a lot of courage. However, when I spoke to her, things went well. I would ask her formal questions; for example: how school was, what she did that day, and how fast she would swim the following set. She would respond with an answer; a smile, a laugh and some questions for me. I would tentatively listen to every word and memorize her every facial feature. How I did adore that smile. After practice I would sit outside on a rock bench and complete arduous homework assignments while Rachel would hide amongst friends. My only restriction was my mother. "No thinking about girls yet!" She warned. I feared the thought of my mother discovering that I admired a girl. It was already too late and I paid no heed to her advice.
About a year after I began thinking about Rachel; one incident changed everything between us. Earlier that day, a persuasive friend of mine convinced me to reveal my affection for Rachel. Swimming practice ended and time crept closer. "Tell her!" Echoed in my head. Then the thoughts of my mother's words caught me. "They will distract you from your work!" The echoes battled each other. The pros and cons, the right and wrong. What would I do if Rachel laughed? How would I live with the shame chained to my ankles like massive weights? I hastily dressed up and left the locker room. I opened the door to the bleachers and the wet musty chlorine infested my nostrils. I sat on the bleachers and pondered the future action of events. Peer pressure, peer pressure, and more peer pressure. Then came my mother's warning. The hinges absent with oil screamed as I pushed open the doors. With an artificial, and apathetic visage, I walked out of the building and tossed my swimming bag onto the rock bench just outside the entrance. The cool breeze of the dark night enveloped me in doubt. I wiped my sweaty palms on my dark baggy pants. Quickly glancing at my watch, the time read "6:15." Another five minutes and she would come out of the locker room. In that time I pulled out my English homework and began reading. Nonetheless, I had to constantly wipe the sweat from my palms. How would I tell her anyway? I lifted my eyes from the page and checked my watch. Too late. 3, 2, 1 ...
The pool's front entrance opened. Rachel stepped out with her bags and tossed them beside me. My eyes fell back to the open page as she smiled and waved. She sat down and looked into the street awaiting the arrival of her father. My stomach quivered as I looked at her one last time.
"You know you're very pretty," I said.
She looked at me with a puzzled face, "Huh?"
"I've admired you for about the last year, but I've never told you," I mumbled, eyes shifting from her face to the ground. Just then, my mother exited the pool with my brother. I picked up my bag and slowly walked to the car.
For the last three years I have not spoken to her. In fact, she stopped talking to me. Although this memory lies in the back of my head, Rachel's impact remains fresh and stolid. I realized that if I had listened to my mother, at least I would be speaking to Rachel. Whenever I see Rachel in the hallways of the Brookline Public High School, I always laugh and smile. My mom was right this time. Perhaps I give my mother less credit than she deserves.
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Garvi Sheth :: Missing Piece
Becca, who lives in Leonardtown, Maryland, was an honor roll student and star soccer player all through elementary school. She was a bright, happy, popular girl, and her parents were proud of her. But when she was in sixth grade, her mother started working full-time, and there was no one to drive her to soccer practices, friends' houses, the movie theater, or dance classes. Her new friends at Leonardtown Middle School all smoked. By seventh grade, Becca was a C-student and smoked. By eleventh grade, Becca had dropped out of school, smoked pot, and worked at McDonald's to support her three-year-old daughter.
Becca is like many other teenagers in St. Mary's County, Maryland. St. Mary's County seems to fit together like a puzzle, with its picturesque woods, numerous farms and rural charm. But one piece is missing- teen centers, Teens have tennis courts, swimming pools, playgrounds, a golf course, and a small volleyball court within biking distance of their homes in Leonardtown. There are sports teams and after-school clubs, but parents have to drive their kids to and from team practices, and the after-school programs, though they use public transportation and are open to all students, are geared towards "troubled students" with psychological problems or problems with schoolwork, making it uncomfortable for stable children who are doing fine in school. So, like Becca, many kids have nothing fun to do after school, and some of these idle teenagers, many from stable families with no problems, turn to drugs and bad things for entertainment.
It's not that our children aren't taught enough about the dangers of drugs and sex. At school, teachers give them many programs against drug use. In 5th grade, they have D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education); in 7th grade, they have a science unit teaching about STD's and the virtue of abstinence, as well as TNT (Towards No Tobacco); in 89th grade, they have a health unit about the dangers of drugs. Throughout the school year, the whole middle school attends assemblies in which the students are taught about the dangers of drugs, and they watch movies on the same subject. In addition to these programs, university students come to the middle school and conduct surveys to find statistics about teenagers who do drugs and smoke. One year, they had a poster contest with the theme :I have better things to do than drugs." But despite all of these programs, many teenagers do drugs simply because they have nothing better to do.
Becca's not alone, because this problem is everywhere. On one middle and high school bus alone, four high-school girls who used to ride dropped out of school, two because they were pregnant. Many sixth graders today boast about not being virgins and describe the feeling they get when they are high off marijuana. At Leonardtown Middle School, there are pregnant sixth graders, random locker searches, and a ban on White-Out, because many kids were caught inhaling its fumes in the back of the classroom. Our country's Recreation and Parks Association, which offers many sports teams and various extracurricular actives; stopped holding middle school dances since last year because too many people fought, break danced, and used the drug Ecstasy at the dances. Three years ago, statistics showed that about fourteen percent of St. Mary's County's seventh graders have tried marijuana before, and the percentage has probably increased since then. As you can see, the anti-drug and abstinence programs offered at school are not working well enough. Teenagers need something better to do than drugs, that they can do without making their parents drive them far away.
If we work together and start small, we can solve this problem. Since the education programs are obviously not helping the situation, perhaps a new approach will. Building teen centers will give teens something fun to do after school that will keep them away from drugs, instead of preaching to them about the dangers of drugs. There already are neighborhood clubs in convenient locations, where kids can reach by bike, and with donations and volunteer support, these clubs can turn into teen centers. Each of these clubs includes a swimming pool and tennis courts, and one has a playground and volleyball court. We can take advantage of their locations by building a new wing to each club to be reserved for teens; that way, we won't have to waste time and money by seeking out a new location and building new buildings. People could donate old board games, game tables, folding chairs, and video games, and if we have enough monetary donations, we could buy a big-screen TV, air hockey table, additional video games, and maybe a pool table or ping-pong table for each center. An adult volunteer could come and supervise and organize activities for after-school hours, or donations could hire people to do this job at each center. If this solution helps to keep teens off drugs and reduce teenage pregnancies, then maybe we could expand the teen centers, but it's best to start small.
If Becca had been able to go to a fun, supervised teen center while her mom was at work, she might have made better friends, found new hobbies, and stayed an honor student in school. She would be a successful, happy, drug-free high school student right now. What happened to Becca wasn't fair, and it would be even more unfair if the same thing happened to her little sister. We need the support and donations of citizens of St. Mary's County if we want to solve this problem. If we want our children to grow into successful, responsible adults, then we first need to make sure they stay on the right path. For teenagers to stay away from drugs and sex, they first need something better to do. Teen centers would give them something fun to do after school, without being terribly expensive. They can make lives happy and our futures bright.
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Anna S. :: The Photograph that Never Was
My parents and I went hiking in Sabino Canyon where I turned eight. For hours we walked up the torturous path in the scorching heat. I dragged my feet, kicked small rocks, and complained all the way. I wanted to swim, go home, sit down in the shade, anything to escape the heat and tiring walk, but my parents would not listen to my entireties. They tried to comfort me, tell me of the delicious picnic we'd be having at the top on a shady bank, give me water to drink, and sing songs with me. I temporarily forgot about my worries but they soon returned.
Finally, we came to the top of the mountain and my worries were forgotten; my parents' worries began. The view was gorgeous: a waterfall fell steeply from the cliff on which we sat. I walked to the edge, ignoring my parents' cries that it was much too slippery and high and that I could fall and crack my head open. Yes, the image was troubling but I felt invincible, too young to die. I wanted to see how the water looked from the top, how high we were , and if I could take a nice photography with my new camera. Standing at the edge, I saw the bright, blue sky through the dark, green foliage, the towering mountains with soldier-like cacti guarding the horizon, and the water rushing down. I wondered if I could fly or perhaps plunge into the serene pool below.
My drams were interrupted when I was yanked back to safety. I never did experience the joys of the birds or take that photograph.
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Betsy Franz "Oxymoron"
I often think back to the time three years ago when I lost my best friend Sarah. Later, I referred to this experience as "The Letter." The actual letter was sent to Sarah after the Jingle Ball concert when I was in sixth grade.
At that time, I enjoyed a happy existence as a preteen girl. My group of friends made pans to meet each other in fifty years to recall our cute clothing and Beanie Baby collections. The lectures given to our grade on how to avoid cliquishness had little effect on us. But we said that we were a "nice" clique, which would let anyone in. However, unlike most of the sixth graders in my school I didn't like pop music. I had no desire to go to this Christmas time concert sponsored by Z100, the most popular radio station at my school.
I rarely listened to it. All the most well-known artists were playing there- whoever they were.
So when Sarah invited a group of friends (me not included) to go see the convert, I didn't care. I had been friends with Sarah for a few years before she bought necklaces for us that read "best Friends Forever ... and Ever ... and Ever ..." I figured Sarah didn't invite me because she knew I was not the convert going type, and that I didn't listen to the radio station.
I thought I wouldn't care when my friends came to school the next day wearing matching Jingle Ball t-shirts. I thought I could endure the stories of who was there, and how much fun they had. What I failed to anticipate was the emptiness I would feel being excluded, no matter from what. I realized I had missed the experience, not the concert.
I wanted to make my feelings known to Sarah. I dutifully remembered that it is unwise to confront someone over the phone or on the internet. I had always loved writing, so I thought a letter was a brilliant solution to the problem of how to confront her. It wasn't an angry letter; it was a sad letter that might make her feel sorry for me. I typed it up and mailed it, not bothering to edit it or save it on my computer.
I hardly remember what the letter said, just that it involved ideas like I thought she was my best friend, that I thought she could have asked me to come instead of a new girl she had been hanging out with, and I said outright to her my feelings were hurt. I continued to say that I felt like I was in a soap opera. I ended the letter "Your......Friend, Betsy." That probably had something to do with the angry phone call a few days later, not from Sarah but from her mother, Anne.
This phone call was between my mom and Anne. I was listening in, and no doubt Sarah was too. Anne screamed that the reason Sarah hadn't invited me was because Sarah had known that my mom wouldn't let me go to the concert, and she hadn't wanted to hurt my feelings.
"[Betsy] shouldn't have been insulted," Anne declared firmly. "Sarah just needs some space, some time to cool down."
With Anne bellowing at her, my mother said the proper thing to do would be for me to apologize to Sarah, for making her so angry.
What? She hurt my feelings first, and I had to apologize?
The next day at school I tried to corner her in the hallway and in the locker room. I finally got her on her way back to class from the cafeteria, saying, "Do you just not want to solve this?" I told her, "I'm very sorry for writing that letter. And for making a big fuss over not getting invited to the concert. I didn't even want to go, anyway."
She gave me a fixed smile.
"My mom," I said. "Thought maybe we could meet at Johnny Rockets (Sarah's favorite restaurant) and talk this over." Sarah nodded, saying that sounded good.
But I never received an apology from her, and she didn't talk to me the rest of the day. When I asked why she had been avoiding me, she said clearly, "Betsy, I just need some space, some time to cool down."
When I related this experience to my mother, her response was "Don't go begging her to be your friend." So I didn't. We never talked much after that day, and we never scheduled a time to meet at the restaurant.
I assumed that life could be a soap opera, and every problem would be resolved with a smile, hug, and the audience's "Aww's" in the background. But all that happened was life continued. I said goodbye to the necklace and Beanie Babies and cute pink sweaters. I grew to think "Best Friends Forever" was an oxymoron. My friend had replaced me with another friend that was all there was to it. So I grew closer to other friends and found a new best friend two years later. She knows, also, that no one can be friends forever and ever, but we're still close.
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Amit Mehta :: Portrait of a Painter
Upon the door is posted an eviction notice set for 8/29/02. In the middle of the room stands a worn-out chestnut colored desk with a box of spam propped underneath one of the shorter legs. To the right of the desk is a dilapidated old couch with dust mites crawling throughout it. Worn-out clothes with numerous paint stains hang from a frayed clothesline suspended between an old rickety chair and the rail of the fire-escape. Plastic paint brushes lay on the desk and overdue payment notices from both Lippa Electric Company and American Express litter the cracked tile floor. Canvases haphazardly splattered with bright paints whose price tags display cost that are repeatedly slashed and decreasing, hang suspended from grimy paint stained walls.
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Sidney Levine :: The Boy
Something's not right. Something definitely does not feel right. I shrug off ideas that my body had been abducted by aliens and roll out of bed, deciding to think it over later. I rub my eyes and look in the mirror. What do you know?! My hair is just the way I want it. I throw open the door after kicking my history book out of the day then sop suddenly and retrace my step back to the mirror. I lean close to the glass. Wasn't I a girl last night? I mean, it's not like I checked or anything, but you know, you just take certain things for granted after a while. I press my nose against the mirror as if, upon closer inspection my reflection might change. Oh well, my shortened attention span can't handle this and I decide to think it over later.
I fly from the room again, bounding down the stairs, two at a time. Five minutes later I'm walking Spot down a gloomy, trash-filled ally. Actually, it would be more accurate to say I am dragging him; even Spot knows we shouldn't be here. Something shiny catches my eye and I stop to pick up a lump of glittering metal. I run my fingers across it and a slug's trail of metallic residue is left on my hand. Something tells me I shouldn't be touching this so I pocket it and keep moving. The slimy stuff has left my hands with a foul odor. Gross. I smell them again. Still gross. I have to get rid of that smell, but how? Then an idea, came to me: think it over later. What a plan! Satisfied with myself, I continue my stroll.
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Amira Karriem :: Memorial Park
I stood in the doorway holding snoopy and my read and black paid blanket and said good bye to my tv, my bed, and to my room. I didn't pack clothes or food but intended to live on my own at 9 years old. My mother annoyed me so much that I could no longer stay in the house.
Earlier that day my brother and I ran around the living room to the sound of my mother's voice yelling at us to slow down in the background. We didn't and as I flew past the coffee table in a game of tag, the glass vase began to tip over.
"Amira!" How many times do I have to tell you to stop running! Look what happened! You know what- go to your room!" I ran crying up the stairs where I decided that I would be running away. Later on I announced my new living quarters: Memorial Park. The swings, monkey bars, and slides would all be mine. In the eyes of a 9 year old, this was heaven.
I stood with my chin held high, my fingers fumbling with the fringe of my blanket waiting by the van as my mom got her keys. She made it clear that if I was going to run away that she would have to bring me. It was dark and humid outside. The fire flies flickered and I swatted at the tiny gnats and bugs that buzzed around me. In the car my legs twitched and I clenched my Snoopy when I heard the low rumble of the engine as we pulled out of the driveway.
Determined to show my mother that I was bigger than she was I did not talk. My eyes stayed glued to the window as we rode down the hill to the park. We reached a traffic light, the one right before you turn into the parking lot of the park, when my mom began to speak. I anticipated a quick, "This is your last change." speech, but she continued to drone on in a low pitched tone that she used to scold me. I always blocked that voice out. Millions of thoughts cluttered my head as I pondered what to do. "Woohoo! You're doing great with the silence thing!" Half of me said and "You don't want to live in a park, you'll miss everyone!" Screamed the other. I didn't want to live in a park without a bed, a tv, and a family, and so I cried.
"I don't want to run away!" I exclaimed, swallowing salty tears. "I'm sorry mommy, I want to go home, I'm really sorry," and for the first time I saw my mother cry.
We sat at the traffic light and instead of making a right into the parking lot, we made a left and rode back up the hill. Home. Through all the darkness of the sky, it glowed. My light beamed through the window and my heart pounded faster as the corners of my mouth curled into a grin. My tv was still on, the dent in my bed still fresh from when I sat on it earlier, my glass of orange juice half full on the table. That night I lay in bed with my eyes closed shut as my mother entered the room. She kissed me on the forehead and I felt the beginnings of a smile creep up on my face.
"Good night princess," she whispered in a low soothing tone. "I'm glade you came back." And I was.
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Elizabeth Wilson "Lizz" :: Elusive Bleach
The room is always dark; the lights are burned out, some broken even, but never replaced. Light enters the room only from two windows, half-covered by opaque green shades, and is reflected into all corners of the room due to the crack-filled mirror. Below the mirror lies an oak dresser covered with old pieces of paper masked in absent minded drawings and broken and used razor blades. Next to the dresser stands a small bed with its sheets crumpled at the edges of the bed and pressed down as if an iron has been used. Every square inch of wall is covered with posters of famous rock musicians, keeping a watching eye on the room's inhabitants at all times. Some posters are ripped or have holes in them from a pen that was thrown and then removed.
The bare wood floor is a continuous shelf for which clothes, both dirty and clean, have been lazily pushed aside to make way for a haphazard path leading to the door. The desk chair holds clothes draped over its back and matches lying on its seat. Dust forms a soft skin on the computer, keyboard, and mouse. The schoolbooks that once inhabited the desktop are now shoved together in a corner even darker than and more secluded from the rest of the cave.
Broken drawers lay open, exposing cluttered junk that spills out, falling and landing with a hard sound on the wood. Bracelets, necklaces, and old mementos from happier times are stuffed into the back of these drawers, mixing events of the past with present ones. Pictures of volleyball on the beach and ice cream fights co-exist with abstract art in black and deep purple.
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Jill Feffer :: Final Journey
I am lying in front of a mirror on the floor of my home, the mailroom. The mirror reflects the word "FRAGILE" in big, black capital letters. Suddenly, gloved hands enclose my perimeter, and the mirror becomes smaller and smaller. At the same time, a truck comes into view. It grows until it eclipses the sun before its movement ceases and it turns to face me with its door. No more am I held with gloved hands, but now I am caressed by gentle fingers. The sun sets rather quickly as I am lowered into an open crate. Following a series of metallic clangs, the cover is secured and darkness consumes me. I don't know where we're going, but I keep being flung against the side of the wooden box, so it must be a faraway destination. What seems like endless night is abruptly interrupted as my crate is pried open. I hear a crash as the crate's cover is tossed to the floor. Rough hands carelessly remove me from my temporary home. A warm breeze tickles my "FRAGILE" sign as the truck becomes smaller and smaller, like the mirror once did. The moon is shining with a translucent glow; I suppose I will never again see the undiluted brightness of the sun. One side of my weight hangs unsupported in the air as I hear three loud bangs. I rough hands disappear and are replaced by a small yet firm grip. These little hands drop me onto a hard, bare surface, then vanish. Long, slender fingers appear, two of them holding a pair of scissors.
Jill Feffer :: Anatomy
The most accurate way to learn what comprises a person is to study their anatomy. Such a procedure was been performed on one James. Tests have indicated date of origin to be 3/28/86. His feet and hands show traces of olden soil from Bethesda, MD, and 3 year old dirt from Boston, MA. Additionally, the hands are holding computer hardware and software, indicating a talent for the construction of both physical machines and web pages. The legs are poised to take a stance in taekwondo, while the arms hold the titles of novels by Amy Tan and Tom Clancy. From his mouth flow shorthand phrases common on AIM. Images of his many victories in worldwide computer games blanket the eyes. Electronica and Japanese pop music blast from his ears. The brain holds a preference for things white, custom blue, and light pink as well a quotation from John Milton's Paradise Lost: "Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n." However, the most powerful components of this being are located within the heart. One side contains family, such as his parents and five year old sister, who is being raised by her grandparents in China. The other half houses a passion for scholastic pursuits. His past experience at CTY Lancaster and present goal to "turn rambling into decent prose" motivates him to strive for success.
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Julian Kocher :: 50 Stiches
It took 50 stitches in all.
When I was 11, I got into an accident during soccer practice while having a scrimmage. The field was at Orhead High School, not far from my house. On a breakaway, I ran the full length of the field with the ball, and then passed it off/. A full-back on the other team intercepted the ball. I ran and delivered a slide-tackle and the ball was knocked away. After that, all I remember is feeling the extreme pain in my knee and crying.
"Get up," my coach said. "Be tough." Said the Goalie. "Don't be a wussy." Slowly I got up and tried to walk. Then I pulled up my pant leg to examine my injury. A huge gash three inches long and one inch wide ripped a hole beneath my kneecap. Seeing this, my coach yelled for his assistant and then I was carried to the nearest picnic table.
By this time my dad had arrived. He immediately put me in the backseat and drove me to the Stony Brook Medical Hospital, which was about half an hour away from the soccer field. Once we got there, my dad signed a lot of medical papers and then we waited for four hours.
After the long wait, doctors came and sewed my knee back together. They used over 50 stitches to reconnect four layers of skin. When I got home, I found out the injury would take four weeks to heal.
The scar ranges from red to light pink. It is right below my right kneecap, and just about as long. The scar has had an impact on my life. Right after I received the scar, I refused to wear shorts. Also, hard running and shock causes my knee to hurt a lot. Now I try to think less and less about it, and I wear shorts more often.
I learned to play aggressive, but always be careful.
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James Zhang "DJ James" :: Prelude Essay ( atypical being released from restricted section)
The Hernandez Cultural Center is tucked away among the one way streets of Boston. As I arrived with Andrew and Mingjian in an ensemble of black v-neck, black pants and black-collared shirt- I experienced flashbacks of my previous dances. They are best described as standing between friends- nodding and pretending to be listening- or, sitting down and watching everyone else. The young ladies did ask me to dance (quite frequently in some cases); though it was just that I did not feel like dancing. There wasn't any meaning in a pity dance- whether it was me or a girl who was the subject of the pity. Maybe that wasn't the case most of the time. Still, I made no extra effort to remember any girls' names.
We pulled up to the place. It was a church and an unusual place to be churning out club music. All in all, the atmosphere was friendly: I knew all the songs the disc jockeys spun up- DJ Epic's GAIA 2010, Darude, Silverblue, ATB, and many others. Also, I met up with various acquaintances. I stepped out, brushed lint and impurities off with a sleight of hand, straightened my pants and flapped my sleeves. Lucky for me, most of the well-dressed boys performed the same ritual. My socks were bright white in Andrew's large leather shoes, and I made extra effort to conceal these faults. Yao, Ian, and Erik called me over to chat. Even though we had nothing to chat about- except to be flashing our cell phones- I appreciated, for once, this little clique bubble. Thus I hid behind my friends for the most part; when they stood up, I stood up. There she was -standing behind the steps where we were sitting- taking tickets.
You know that one moment when your favorite song plays in your head, how everything is channeled out and your thoughts are in lucubration? "Suteki Da Ne" means "Isn't it Beautiful?" in Romanji, which is how Japanese is pronounced using the Roman alphabet. Now I don't know Japanese or Romanji- I'm Chinese by the way- but I love the way the words sound in Suteki Da Ne, my favorite song. So often have I paused, replayed and sang along to that song in hopes that I would get it perfect for the girl I have feelings for.
I remember the first day of Chemistry class when she came in. I had not recognized her from ninth grade, and indeed she did strike me as someone different. We all know I can't talk to girls whom I actually like. I have trouble saying hello and ciao without my hands becoming stiff ringlets or my person feeling quite enervated. Her name is Edna; I've sat next to her and my buddy Young for sophomore Chemistry. I never noticed her during Freshman year, although I wish I had. We talk sparingly in class and out- and every bit of our conversations are awkward. I don't think she remembered my promise to take her on her first fishing trip a couple of months back. I do, and I seem to have this uncanny ability to recall every one of our talks. I remember how she commented on how handsome I looked while I nervously awaited my public declamation. I remember how we gave each other high fives for getting Bs in chemistry. And I remember so clearly how her hair dropped and covered her checks while she was diligently taking notes or falling asleep.
As my friend Yao so honestly explained to me: There is a difference between love and infatuation. "First, you have to know her and actually talk to her. Second, love makes people do crazy and absurd things. You haven't even made a move or attempted to ask her out!" Despite my vehement protests, he does have some valid points. Everyone of my friends and Edna's thinks it absurd that I had written a 118 line poem and never showed it to her, and that I bought her a present and never gave it to her. They know how much I am stuck on Edna- She knows, of course she knows. That had already been established.
Edna gave me an invitation to the dance and teasingly told me to bring a certain someone along. I was humored by this as well since I actually wanted to ask the organizer of the dance out (her). I went anyway. Beforehand, I have in to the shallow expectations of the world. I purchased new clothes at structure and the Banana Republic, lost my long hair in place of an Asian haircut and among other things. It occurred to me that with these things, I couldn't expect to pay for my other interests. I wanted to make an impression, and Mystical Night was the last chance I would have that year.
To my dismay, the friends whom I came with left for some snacks and left me waiting for half an hour. Wendy said hello to me, and we talked to not look like recluses. She was waiting for her friends. I was trying to make my way up those steps. It was extremely disconcerting. I decided to make my entrance with a group of friends who walked my way. May fooled around with the boys, Wayne was flamboyant and fruity as usual- Ian was still waiting for his date. I was the only nervous wreck. "Looking fine James!" Exclaimed Anne. She was the only person I knew well in Edna's crowd. I really tried not to look into Edna's eyes as she signed my hand. It was clear that all the staff and participants knew about this situation. Seven to eleven was a long night even with great food, great music, and all my friends there. I frequently had to refill my full glass of soda to get a glance at Edna by the door. Oh how stunning she looked! I guess Edna rarely paid attention to dress in school (not to say she was without style) but that day, I was glad she did. Her oriental dress covered her frail frame and one ribbon in her hair caught my attention. It separated her from the temptations around me altogether; I knew she was the one. The feelings I had bottled inside made me practically crush my cup. My toes cringed every time I saw her; I hate the feeling, but I can't say that I don't look forward to it. Mystical Night was no exception.
Breathing in and out, I went back to the dance floor. I didn't dance that much. The few girls whom I did dance with showed me some pointers and encouraged me to ask Edna. How nice of them! It actually gave me just a bit more confidence. By then, all my friends had one endeavor in mind: Get James dancing with Edna. "Come on! Ask her already!" "James, I know Edna and can hook you up." "Ok- she agreed- she's waiting inside!" Peipei dragged me onto the dance floor, but I dug my soles into the marble and held my ground. My exit was blocked by Andrew, and my entourage of twenty persons pushed and pulled me to where Edna was sitting. They told me how she had hurt her back; finally, I conceded to their pains. I was instructed to comfort her, bring her a drink or even (unrealistically) offer her a backrub. The words couldn't come out of my mouth; I stood there like an idiot, groping the doorway so I couldn't get pushed in. The coatroom wasn't empty; I did not have a chance to sit down and chat. I acted as if I needed a script to say hello. Finally, for the sake of friendship, I had to do something-- anything for her.
"Hey there," I murmured.
"Hey." She said while waving back.
"People told me to come here to see if you're all right. I heard your back was
hurting. And I hope you feel better. Well, have a nice summer Edna!"
I finished and gave her my thumbs up sign. She smiled back and thanked me. Yao got me out of this, and we both agreed it was thwarting for myself and Edna; it was best to be left alone and forgotten. On the other hand, how do you forget someone this special to you? Again, the hard-house and hip-hop reverberations drowned out my thoughts and left me sitting there thinking. From there, I didn't want to push my luck. But just talking to her, outside of class, meant a lot to me. After that, I felt rather cheerful and even danced with some girls. The lights went on, people took pictures, and all sorts of things. It wasn't that bad seeing as I did have fun and got to talk to her. And despite what Leon says, I don't think she'll forget me. I don't really have to make a move within the week. That is just unwarranted. Perhaps she'll see me as the considerate and gently individual who takes her interests above his own. I got one last look at Edna while I salvaged some balloons. I still communicate with her- we chat online at random times in the early morning. I wish I got to know her better, and I regret having taken the initiative at the dance or any of the days I sat inches away from her. I think I'm becoming a better person- partly for Edna, but most of all- for myself. I never pass up an opportunity nowadays save for the same thing happening all over again. There's always next year. The story isn't at an end yet. Rather, a "Prelude towards my Affection."
Personal Commentary: This was my first narration in a while written longhand. My hands ached after three drafts and a legible copy for the anthology. I'm glad Anna, Betsy, and Sydney stayed behind while I was still finishing it up. That night was the last dance after all. In essence, this is not one of my better works. To me, it sounds rather fake. No, the events and recollections are true- the voice sounds outmoded. I already wrote about Mystical Night for the restricted access section and this rewrite wasn't up to par. I admit, there are three great points in here I haven't mentioned before. Hope you enjoyed it- my other works are on the wolfyserver.org's restriced access section. -James
Lucy Liu :: The Boy
Despite the mild California weather, the rolling waves crash fiercely into the peaceful afternoon. As another wave moves inland, a boy's bright blue eyes widen. His hands spring up to grasp those of his parents. His pudgy feet curl in, anchoring his toes into the sand.
Beside him stands a slender blond woman, weaving a bright floral wrap, smiling and laughing. A man stood on the other side, his tanned complexion contrasting with his white Hawaiian shirt. They loom over the little boy, taking his hands and gently swinging his body forward. However, his feet stay grounded, his head jerking up at his father in surprise and reluctance. He squints his eyes against the blind sun.
The wave recedes and his eyes catch a sparkle in the sand, bouncing off a shell. The corners of his small, pink lips curl up slightly. He drops his hands and uncurls his toes, moving toward the shell. Another wave approaches, carrying its white foam akin to drool around a hound's mouth. Suddenly forgetting about the shell, he crouches down, all traces of a smirk gone from his face. His nose scrunches up, his feet scramble backwards, and his hands fumble for something to hold onto. The wave washes back, and the boy loses sight of the shell.
Dispirited, his eyes wander around once again to a bluish-gray crustacean on the shore, snapping its claws spasmodically, hunched over and alert. A lone jellyfish swims on the ocean surface, spreading its tentacles as if taking up arms. Slowly, it disappears into the vast ocean.
The mother sneaks up behind him and carries him underneath his arms. He snaps out of his reverie, squealing with delight and laughing along with his mother. He falters in his joy as she sweeps him over the water. The wave laps, caressing the tips of his toes, and he stares down, shuddering at the schilling yet novel feeling. The sand's ripples are distinct in the shallow water as a fish swims about aimlessly.
The boy's mother holds her child in one hand, dipping the other hand into the water to retrieve a rusty starfish. The boy throws his body forward to examine the specimen, tilting his head in curiosity. He stretches out his arm, but his mother places it back into the water. The boy wriggles in the woman's arms, and she begins to lower him. First his feet enter, eliciting several shivers from his petite body. Gradually, his legs are completely immersed, allowing him to stand, and his face wears an expression of uncommon peace.
He spots the starfish and lifts it out of the water. His eyes shine as he runs back to shore. He props himself down on the sand, examining the object of his fruitful endeavor.
Personal Commentary: [Not Applicable] Email Me