Discovering Hidden Treasures: Works by

Transcription

All Rights Reserved.
The Path of a Baseball copyright © 2013 by Andrew Ravaschiere.
Evening at Home copyright © 2013 by Arina Bykadorova.
The Bruised Apple copyright © 2013 by Sasha Herman.
"Being Muslim" copyright © 2013 by Isheta Khanom.
Police Statement copyright © 2013 by Aliza Schapiro.
You’ve hit a Dead End copyright © 2013 by Leslie Landis.
“Drives and their causes” copyright © 2013 by Maria Filipchenko.
Ernest Rising copyright © 2013 by Angelica Rozza.
Back Then When We Found That Piano copyright © 2013 by
Arina Bykadorova.
Nerd Problems copyright © 2013 by Khadijah Johnson.
Unity of Generations copyright © 2013 by Mie Mie Abouelkheir.
Waiting copyright © 2013 by Nora Etienne.
Streets copyright © 2013 by Zenobia Lowe.
Ode to an NYC Subway Car copyright © 2013 by Erika Lopez.
On Being Static copyright © 2013 by Sara Wallace-Lee.
In the Year 2020 copyright © 2013 by Ashaki Lloyd.
Produced by Brooklyn Public Library as a part of our 2013
Teen Writing Contest.
Edited by Nicola McDonald and Yesha Naik.
Cover Design by Meaghan Horner
Contents
................................................................................................. 1
Discovering Hidden Treasures: ................................................ 4
***** Prose Winners ***** ........................................................ 5
The Path of a Baseball by Andrew Ravaschiere....................... 6
Evening at Home by Arina Bykadorova ................................. 13
The Bruised Apple by Sasha Herman..................................... 15
***** Prose Honors *****........................................................ 20
"Being Muslim" by Isheta Khanom ........................................ 21
Police Statement by Aliza Schapiro ....................................... 24
You’ve hit a Dead End by Leslie Landis .................................. 41
“Drives and their causes” by Maria Filipchenko .................... 48
Ernest Rising by Angelica Rozza............................................. 52
***** Poetry Winners ***** .................................................... 87
Back then, when we found that piano by Arina Bykadorova 88
#NERDPROBLEMS by Khadjiah Johnson ................................ 89
The Unity of Generations by Mie Abouelkheir ...................... 92
***** Poetry Honors ***** ...................................................... 93
Waiting by Nora Etienne ....................................................... 94
Streets by Zenobia Lowe ....................................................... 95
In The Year 2020 by Ashaki Lloyd ......................................... 96
On Being Static by Sara Wallace-Lee ..................................... 97
Ode to a NYC Subway Train Car by Erika Lopez..................... 99
3
Discovering Hidden
Treasures:
Works by Brooklyn’s Young Writers
***** Prose Winners *****
5
The Path of a Baseball by Andrew Ravaschiere
Some kids still, at the age of thirteen or fourteen, sneak a stuffed
bear, or cat, or rabbit, in their bed. My mom finds baseballs
cradled in the back of mine. The seams on the baseball are
engraved in my memory. Although these red seams deceptively
look soft, they are as hard as the baseball itself. One finger more
or less on the seam determines whether the outcome is a home run,
or a silent car-trip back to the city in either the stagnantly hot Long
Island air, or the foggy, cold misty rain.
I have a ton of baseballs in my room – the regulation kind, some
soft, squishy ones that my grandmother used to teach me how to
hit when I was four, and one made of wadded-up paper towel and
duct-tape. The duct-tape one was the product of a man named,
“Jarrod,” the owner of an ice cream store, the Boston-based
Emack & Bolio’s across the avenue from my apartment building.
A few years ago, when I was still shorter than my mom, after a
joyous day of baseball camp on the West Side, I could always
count that Jarrod would make the wadded-up ball, and he and I
would play a version of baseball behind the counter, using a stack
of plastic cups still in their plastic wrapper for a bat, and various
ice cream cases for bases. A couple of times, I even hit a “ball” out
of the store’s door onto First Avenue! Jarrod was (and still is) a
rabid Red Sox fan, and I was (and still am) an equally rabid
Yankees fan, so we started a blog, “Twenty-eight and Eight,”
named because of our ages. It’s still up somewhere on the ‘Net,
but it didn’t last long. Jarrod, as it turned out, was not only a fan,
but also a businessman (in fact the son of the owner of the chain),
a guy who took electric guitar lessons, and who had some
grown-up/out-late, mysterious social life. I blogged more than he
did.
I play some form of baseball no matter what the season. One day
during the winter after my Emack baseball summer, I opened our
apartment door to find my maternal grandmother wearing a
catcher’s mask. She was ready to train me. “I just want to die with
my own teeth,” she explained. We started out with the squishy
balls, but soon moved on to the real thing. My dad put a stop to
indoor baseball in my bedroom (or anywhere else in our
apartment, for that matter) when I put a large dent in the plaster of
the north wall of my room.
The next summer, when I was nine, there was a golden day when
my dad and I were playing catch on his parents’ farm in New
Jersey. The day was warm but dry and my dad and I went all the
way out back, until we were just in front of the cornfield. Back
and forth, we threw to each other. The only sound was the
“Thwock” of the ball into a glove. We moved further and further
back from each other until we were the width of the cornfield
apart. That’s about the width of two houses and a wide, country
driveway. Back and forth, “Thwock” to glove. I think my dad was
a little surprised at how hard and accurately I was throwing. After
a long, serene time, I was aware that a little crowd had gathered to
watch from the faraway back porch. My cousin Billy was in his
twenties then, before he went to Afghanistan, and he and his
then-girlfriend, a nice girl from Tom’s River, were nodding with
approval. Tom’s River is a big deal in the Little League world;
they’ve sent their travel team to the Little League World Series
zillions of times. When Dad and I came back from the catch, the
girlfriend said, “I know two guys from the Tom’s River travel
team that made it to the majors! One went right from the team
[meaning from High School], but his brother was so good that he
made the Majors wait until he finished Rutgers.” I saw where she
was going, but pretended I didn’t know. “Are you on a travel team?
You should be!” she said. Billy said, “What an arm!”
7
The best of all was my Grandpa Dan, my father’s dad, already
extremely affected by Parkinson’s Disease and barely able to talk.
I wasn’t sure if he had been paying attention. He said, “Protect,
your arm; don’t throw any curveballs. You’ll go far.” After that
day, there was talk of my being on a travel team. My dad brought
it up sometimes, and, by the next spring, I tried out for, and made
it onto, the CYO Titans. In the summer of 2010, when I was
thirteen, I was playing for the Empires. The team was made up,
basically, of the same guys that had played on the CYO team. We
were an independent team, that is to say that we were not a
member of a league. A Dalton dad, an anesthesiologist, was our
organizer and manager. His wife’s parents had a house way out on
Long Island, and, ergo, almost all of our games were played out
east. Once or twice a season, that house made for some great team
parties. They had a pool, a field, and a batting cage.
We had no home field. That means that all of our games were
played on Long Island. For the one game that the Doctor Dad had
scheduled on Randall’s Island, a location about 20-minutes from
East Side team
member’s houses, the other team forfeited rather than having to
come in from the Island. Last summer, the final games of the
season were especially precious; there was talk that the
anesthesiologist dad would get his son on a different, nationally
ranked team, that our Empires would dissolve, that these early
mornings, achieved by hurling through dawn-colored space to get
to the game with these fine teammates, would all end.
The season went by in a familiar car-trip blur. There was the dirt
from the baseball fields, and the windy chilly Sunday mornings
that I grabbed a blanket for a car nap in April and May, October
and November. There were the pleasant, breezy June mornings in
which I felt the early day’s, refreshing air going through my
nostrils. I felt liberated and excited about the games ahead,
someplace between out of breath and not needing to breathe,
waiting to be the heroic figure everyone would be talking about on
Monday. I lived for the sound of the crack of the bat, and the
“thwock” of the ball landing squarely in a glove, in the silence of
the field. Once, at baseball camp, a kid yelled out, “What a rocket!”
when I had a good at-bat. That stuff – the comments – were just a
bonus.
At the same time, though, I was afraid of messing up, scared of
being laughed at by the other team (although it never happened),
so as a result, my stomach took a jump that would last for about
five hours. This must be what the excitement and terror of leaping
out of a plane feels like.
There was a little contest my parents had. I don’t think they
wanted me to notice. The contest was who would take me to the
game. Each of them would give a not-heartfelt groan about how
early he or she would have to leave, but I know they wanted to
come, to watch me play baseball. I was having a good season.
After some great hits, and a rare chance to pitch (the manager’s
son was the starter), my teammates called me “ARav!” and
wanted to know what I was eating for breakfast. The week before,
my mom had taken snips of video with her not-smart phone and
texted them to my grandfather.
I have a regulation game baseball from a day last June. It is only a
little scuffed, and its stitches are intact. It is the baseball that jolts
me back to the day my family’s life changed: Sunday, June 6,
2010. It was a seventy-something degree sunny day, with a
beautiful light breeze in the air. My dad had left in the wee hours
for Oklahoma City for a business conference, an uncommon
occurrence. My mom ran her plan like a military maneuver: drop
9
off my sister at my grandparents’ house ten blocks away, and take
one of my teammates, his mom, and me to the game. My sister
would be picked up for a play date later in the morning.
My mom drove fast, but the trip was still long. We hurried up to
wait: the umpires for my game didn’t show up for a while. The
moms faced in the direction of the sun on the visitors’ bleachers.
The other team turned out to be pretty nice – at first, one dad from
each team volunteered to ump. The first game started. These dads
were fair, even calling their own sons, “Out!” When official
league umps finally
showed up in the middle of the delayed first game, parents from
both teams still had the spirit of cooperation; no one cursed the
umps like the week before. My team stuck together in the dug out.
Sometimes our teams’ dads gave us some pointers; sometimes we
just goofed around – boys from Riverdale, Dalton, and Town.
That Sunday seemed strange. Shortly after the first game, my
mom left in a hurry, and said whom I was likely to go home with,
but that I should ask them for a ride anyway. If you know my mom,
you’d know that this loosey-goosey planning is not at all like her.
I figured my sister’s play date was over, and my mom had to pick
her up. Your mind fills in details even when they are wrong.
And somehow, even for a doubleheader, the morning was over
quickly. Dads were talking about getting in a game of golf. After
the game ended, a loss in which we got crushed, I went in a car
with two friends
to go home. I planned and study for my science finals the next day.
But I wasn’t going home, I was going to the hospital. One friend’s
mom said that my mother’s father was in the hospital. This made
no sense to me and I thought she was mistaken. After all, it was
my grandmother that had been ill for the last few years, so I
figured that’s whom they
meant. When I got to the hospital, a team of doctors had
surrounded my grandfather, and rushed him for an MRI. “Will he
be okay?” I asked my mom. She tries to put a positive spin on
things, but she is always truthful. No one knew.
A few minutes later, I found out that he had had a stroke while my
sister was alone with him and my grandmother. Like the blind
men who describe an elephant, everyone has their own version of
their
experience that day. My mom told me the story of how she texted
him to see if my sister’s play date had arrived, and that he couldn’t
figure out how to text her, and on the phone, his words were
scrambled. My sister told me how she had discovered he had
fallen and how she had helped him. I wanted to cry, but I knew I
couldn’t: my mom was alone. Her husband was in Oklahoma City
and her parents were both sick. I gave her a hug, and she let
herself cry – but only for two seconds.
My mom cried. The only other time I had seen her cry was a year
after 9/11, when she told me of a friend who had gone down in one
of the planes. The clumps of dirt from my cleats littered the booth
in the E.R.
My grandfather had been the sole caregiver for my grandmother.
Without him, what would happen to her? A kind social worker
arranged for her to be admitted into the hospital. It turned out she
was ill, too. My stomach was in knots: what could I do to help
them? For me (and probably anyone else he knew), my
grandfather was the iron horse, the back-up guy for picking me up
from games and dances, the guy who I could confide in and who
shared his very best stories with me, the guy who would play math
games with me, the guy who really knew me and loved me no
11
matter what. My grandfather picked me up from a few dances in
our grade’s “Bar Mitzvah” year. After one dance, when a girl who
had been great one week rejected me the next, my grandfather,
who picked me up, told me of his own experiences. He quoted one
of his favorite poems for me, a poem that ended with, “And if of
herself she will not love, and nothing make her, the devil take her!”
And he had broken down. He was in good spirits, but he couldn’t
say some of the words he had said before with such ease, such
beauty. There’s a tiny area in the brain that controls nouns. That’s
the part
of him that was affected. I haven’t been able to call him for help
with math, or for babysitting. He’d been to a couple of my
practices, but that was before. Somehow, I always think he’ll be
able to go to
more.
My mom says I was always helpful, but for me, it was the
beginning of my stepping up and helping out. I must have had that
muddy Empire uniform on until the next day. Now, a baseball was
not just a cork
ball with seams that look soft but is not as it was before; it was a
whole day’s journey, and a transition to adulthood.
Evening at Home by Arina Bykadorova
The evening is wounding down, wounding down like the cloths
are wrapping around my baby sister, pinioned together by my
grandmother’s arms, strong like steel beams, tanned by time and
age. Cathartic is the word that comes to mind later, when at last
the baby girl is calm, nose stuck valiantly into our grandma’s
bosom. She’s breathing in her scent, the one that is common to us
all (that clings to our laundry) plus her favorite oil from Israel,
plus the smell of Russia, a smell from the bones. I remember that
scent; I remember doing what she is doing now.
We’re reduced to whispers and each sound carries more weight in
its potential to waken the little one. My other sister,
five-and-a-half, has finished her cartoons and to my pleasant
surprise has not come begging for another one. I sit on the floor by
the rocking chair and sip the tea I brought for my grandma from
the kitchen.
“So what do we do?” she asks. Her arm is not steel after all, and
she is getting tired.
I want to tell her again about the prom proposal I saw today, about
how I thought somebody else was going to ask my friend out but
another boy did before him, and how shocked I was. But she’s too
involved in my sister to listen to my story.
“Do you want me to bring in the stroller?” I feel a squeeze of
reluctance, but master it.
She nods. I slip on my father’s jacket and his slippers because my
grandma has just been grumbling about him and I want to prove
13
my daughterly affection, even though he’s at work and not there to
see it.
I fantasize that our handsome neighbor, four doors down, will, by
chance, be outside and help me bring the stroller in. I am wrong;
there is not even light in his windows. So much the better, I think
after a moment, considering the sweatpants I’m wearing. It’s a
nice night, and I feel the promise of summer evenings in the air. I
lug my load quickly home and unfold it.
“Make sure it’s warm and cozy. She’s asleep now against my
chest because it’s warming her stomach. And turn the lights off.”
“Yes, grandma.” I cozy up the stroller as best I can and, heaven be
praised, the baby doesn’t wake up when we put her in. I sway back
and forth, leading with my hips, my womanly, well-defined hips
that are so useful for small children and laundry baskets but not
teenage boys, and rock the stroller. The baby dozes.
My sister is afraid of the dark, of the shapes and monsters and
masked villains that can emerge from it. She doesn’t like to be left
alone and wakes up in the middle of the night because she’s scared.
But now the dark wraps us up, wounding in comfort, in the
obscure outline of our living room. It binds up the glaring things
of the day, undisturbed except by the wandering square of light
from a passing car. My sister sits on my grandma’s lap on the rug
as I sway, even though I know the baby’s asleep already, and for a
moment it is all covered, all dark, all sleep and rest and breathing.
The Bruised Apple by Sasha Herman
Her name was Eoin Banneker. It was an unconventional name
for a girl, most likely making her the subject of ridicule among
her contemporaries, but that didn’t matter, as nobody knew it.
She was lying on the thin mattress, so thin she felt every bump in
the wooden frame beneath her, staring at the ceiling and pushing
her fingers into her ears. She didn’t want to hear little Maksim
crying for their mother, or Constance shushing him and telling
Eoin to get up. She was hungry and irritated, the hunger biting at
her stomach, the irritation biting at her throat, lingering on her
tongue and ready to snap. She longed for the times when she
would get fed whenever she was hungry, and her mother was
always home and about the house taking care of her. She longed
for the stone cottage of Litchfield Lane, Berry Hill. Then James
Sullivan, Eoin’s father, left her mother, Sylvie Banneker. Sylvie
Banneker didn’t seem to mind that James Sullivan left. Their
relationship was also unconventional, as they were never
married. Sylvie Banneker gathered up four of her children, the
four youngest. Annabel, the eldest moved in with a young man
she was courting for quite some time, Benjamin, in a lovely
apartment above a bakery, and Jared became a journalist and
traveled all over, never once returning to Europe. Sylvie
Banneker smuggled her four youngest children into the
Rosewood Estate in Nottingham, where they lived in the
servant’s quarters unknown to the Earl, his wife, and his mother.
Eoin observed her sister, Constance, who was reading an old
shopping list their mother must have been assigned to ages ago.
She read it, silently mouthing each word. When they lived in the
cottage on Litchfield Lane, Berry Hill, Constance was old
15
enough to attend school, unlike Eoin, and also unlike Eoin, she
learned to read.
The wooden door, gnawed at by rodents, opened slowly and
Eoin ducked under the swath of sheets she was lying on.
Unplugging her ears, she heard Constance breathing from under
the bed. She must have heard the heavy footsteps a few seconds
before. Both girls untangled themselves from their hiding spots
when they saw who entered the room.
“Tobias! You’d just about frightened us to death with those
heavy boots stomping down the hall! You should be ashamed of
yourself for frightening us so!” Constance scoffed, holding
Maksim a bit too tightly.
Tobias grinned and rolled his eyes at his indignant younger
sister. He pulled off his heavy boots and sooty jacket. He worked
on the farm a little ways down the road all week and usually
slept there, as the conditions were much more preferable than the
cramped room.
“Oh don’t you scold me, Constance. All the Upstairs are at their
celebration in the garden, including Mum. Sorry, Owe, no luck
tonight. If I’d have known I’d have brought some oatmeal from
the farm.” Tobias washed his face in a basin of water by the
door, his calloused hands scrubbing at the grime on his face.
Eoin snapped upright, her brown curls of hair bouncing wildly at
her shoulders. “There’s no one upstairs?”
“Not even the other servants. You know how these celebrations
are, everyone will be out in the garden until late tonight, even
Mum.” Tobias replied, pulling on his clean trousers and cotton
shirt. Eoin felt the hunger biting at her stomach again and sat
completely still. Constance twirled sharply yet gracefully to face
Eoin. She used to take dance classes at the conservatory on
Litchfield Lane. “Oh no! No, no, no, no! Eoin you are not going
up there! Mum will kill you and if you’re caught we’ll have to
live in some rubbish dump, and then I’ll kill you too! Think of
the consequences for once!”
Eoin theatrically put a finger on her chin, “I think and all I think
of is how extraordinarily hungry I am.” And angry at Mum for
leaving us alone for yet another night, she thought, but didn’t say
that aloud. Eoin pulled her jumper over her head and darted to
the door without looking back. “Even the Earl isn’t intelligent
enough to accurately identify the culprit that scuffed up his
imported rugs. Please relax, Constance!” Eoin retorted as she let
the heavy door swing shut behind her. She walked on the balls of
her feet down the dark servants hall that reeked of mildew and
mold. She felt along the wall for a doorknob, slightly rusted and
the engravings were worn by use. Eoin scampered up the
splintered stairs and carefully opened the second door.
It was beautiful. It was lustrous, it was resplendent, and it was
radiant and there was no other way to describe it, as any other
word would demean it. She faced a lavish parlor, the colors she
imagined the most precious gems to be. A golden oriental carpet
lay before a grove of satin cushioned chairs and intricately
carved couches. The colors of the cushions ranged from
turquoise to emerald green, to blood red, to orange and finally to
royal blue, the richest color of them all. An oil painting of Lord
Portsmouth, the Earl, hung over the mantle of the marble
fireplace, in the middle of an array of expensive compositions.
Eoin felt blinded by the wealthy radiance of the room that
contrasted so sharply with the gray walls and ragged wooden
trimmings of the Downstairs.
17
Moving on, Eoin carefully maneuvered around the carpets and
through another doorway at the other end of the parlor. She
continued briskly down a small hall and saw the glint of pots and
pans at the end. Right on the counter was a stained glass tureen
full of fruit, shining as brightly as the parlor. Eoin snatched an
apple from the tureen and examined it. It was shiny, and as blood
red as the rich walls of the glistening parlor, but it had a tiny
bruise right next to the stem. Eoin pivoted to dart back
downstairs but froze.
Standing in an elegant lavender gown, a lacy wrap over her
shoulders, a cream colored bonnet and matching gloves and
shoes, stood Old Lady Portsmouth, towering over Eoin. Her gray
hair fell in ringlets down her neck and reaching the middle of her
back, and her sharp unblinking eyes seemed to scour Eoin and
the entire kitchen all at once. Eoin’s mind couldn’t keep up with
what her legs were doing. While she dropped the apple into the
turneen and ran as fast as she could back through the parlor and
down the splintered stairs, her mind was still frozen on the image
of Lord Portsmouth’s mother, Old Lady Portsmouth watching
her. A ball of lead that tried again and again to pull her straight
through the wooden floor replaced the hunger and irritation that
had been gnawing at her stomach.
Inside the room, Constance was bent over the basin of water and
Tobias was scribbling in his little leather bound book he used to
keep track of money and his and Sylvie Banneker’s wages.
“I need your help washing my hair.” Constance snapped, her
voice brittle yet business-like. Eoin numbly helped her soak her
entire head of blond hair and rub the hair soap in. Constance
smacked Eoin’s hand away. “You’re putting too much soap in!
You know how expensive it is!” But Eoin wasn’t listening, she
was waiting. Waiting for the men to stomp down the splintered
stairs and know down the door with Old Lady Portsmouth
driving the line, vindictively pointing and shouting the
condemning words that would break Sylvie Banneker’s heart.
Eoin winced. That was what she was afraid of. Seeing her
mother set her jaw, furrow her brow, pack up her children and
move on. She would look fierce, dignified and stronger than any
man, but she wouldn’t be the same. Her whole body would sag
around her spine as if she was carrying the weight of the world.
Eoin didn’t want to live to see the day that Sylvie Banneker was
defeated. More than anything, Eoin wanted to see her mother and
hug her and forgive her and ask for forgiveness from her.
As Eoin helped Constance towel her hair off with an old linen
sheet, she heard a soft knock on the door. If it were speaking it
would have been a whisper. Eoin felt the lead ball in her stomach
trying to pull through the floor, and now she wanted the floor to
give way and have the ball pull her all the way to the middle of
the earth. Slowly Eoin walked to the door, hesitated, and then
grasped the brass doorknob with all of her strength and thrust the
door open. And then she froze for the second time that day.
“What is it, Eoin? Why are you making such an incredible
racket?” Constance scoffed, approaching Eoin from behind.
Eoin didn’t respond. On the floor in front of her was an apple,
blood red as the rich walls of the parlor with a tiny bruise right
next to the stem, and still warm to the touch.
19
***** Prose Honors *****
"Being Muslim" by Isheta Khanom
People are afraid of me.
Why are they afraid of me, you might ask? A rare disease?
Hideous scars? Vile breath? I reply, with a smile on my face, that
it puzzled me at first, too. But now I know. People think worse
about me than that. Much worse. But I've learned. And I know that
it isn't me. They're just scared of differences.
You know, I do have the freedom of religion. Created by of two
clauses, granted by the First Amendment that says the government
can't trump one religion over another. Equality, right? Okay, I
guess most people get that. Or do they?
Well, the second clause allows people do whatever are the
requirements of their religion. I would think most people got that,
too, until terrorists from halfway across the world planned these
horrible attacks that threw Americans into fear. I was scared, just
like any other person might be. And suddenly, the translation of
terrorists became Muslims. Because the terrorist group who
planned the attacks was Muslim.
I mean, the whole nation wasn't hating. Just some people. I was
five in 2001, but I still felt the discrimination. And there really
wasn't any explicit reason for it. If I didn't wear it, then people
would have probably ignored me. It was another way for them to
label me. Now you'll ask me what that “it” is. And I'll tell you.
A hijab. Otherwise known as a headscarf or veil, and of course,
the derogatory terms, like towel head, diaper head, turban, and
whatnot. Whatever it's called, it has a very important place in my
life. For some, it's a choice: Yeah, I'll wear it when it's the right
time, or I'm getting to the age when I think I should. But those
who do wear it are viewed as suppressed women forced to wear it
21
because the sexist, fundamentalist men who rule their household
say they must. Not true, people. Totally not true.
I'm a Muslim girl who was born and raised in Brooklyn. I'm
turning 16 and starting my junior year of high school in the fall.
My parents are from Bangladesh. So, that's pretty much my bio.
But there's a lot hiding behind that bio. The first thing people see
is the Muslim part of me. Some of the stereotypes include that I
don't speak English, don't know how to dress like an “American,”
am a terrorist, and eat smelly foods. Well, the last one might be
true. But other than that, stereotypes have degraded me to no end.
I'm a practicing Muslim. I pray five times a day, stick to the rules,
fast when it's time, and wear my hijab. This is how my life as a
teenager is led. (And possibly will be, depending on choices I
make in the future.) And I can do all that because of the freedom
granted by the First Amendment.
That brings me back to that question. Why are people scared of
me? I'm as harmless as a fly, even though I may not look it without
makeup. Honestly, I think people are not scared of Muslims as a
whole. They are scared of differences.
I'm pretty sure all of us have met at least one Muslim who wasn't a
terrorist. Hey, you're reading the work of a non-terrorist Muslim
right now. And let me tell you something else – those terrorists
made their interpretation of our sacred book, acted upon it, and
live in a whole different hemisphere. So why put all Muslims in
the same group?
People think that the ideals presented in Islam are very different
from American ideals. Actually, they aren't. And let me tell you
something else. Muslims are all different races. They have
different backgrounds but share the same book and abide by its
rules. And isn't that true for Americans too? And I'm not talking
about the book-and-its-rules part here. This American I speak of
isn't a race, but to some, it's simply one classification. People need
to face the fact that America is made up of many different
ethnicities and customs.
And it hurts me to see that even those in my community, who are
so diverse, are prejudiced against me. Me, my religion, my hijab.
And those are all my choices. The choices I made because I had
the freedom. You can see that I'm not doing anything to hurt
people.
You know, that may be the choice of those narrow-minded people,
but I hope they change their minds. They have the freedom to
befriend and understand – as I, among many other individuals –
had the freedom to make my choice about religion. These choices
can decide the future of generations. These choices affect
everyone, because who knows when hatred among people
accelerates into other actions? Making the right choice is not only
about us, it's about everyone. The way someone thinks and the
choices they make are so important.
Who knows what the future holds? I already made my choice.
Now it's your turn.
23
Police Statement by Aliza Schapiro
From: Lieutenant Phillip Ian Gregg
To: Chief Amos Richmer Stanton, Esq.
Re: Anastasia Hamilton, Meekaella George, Ryan DeSeige, and
Daxon Ellick
Attached, as requested, are the written statements of the four
children regarding the unfortunate... incident with former
Officer Ullah DuBois.
The transcripts contain the statements recorded before and
after the incident.
I hope it is satisfactory.
P.I.G.
I am aware of the decision not to convict Daxon Ellick, though I
must say, are you sure about that? I have read the transcripts,
and I am unconvinced that he is entirely innocent.
But, again, you are the boss...
WRITTEN STATEMENT OF ANASTASIA HAMILTON:
I didn't know that the cookies were so precious. Like, so crucial
to the world, or whatever. I don't know why Officer DuBois
called me out of math class to write this. I mean, I hate math, so
it's all right, I guess.
I didn't eat the cookies.
Why would I?
I'm on a diet.
Everyone knows that.
I tried telling that to Officer DuBois when he gave me this paper:
Me: "Officer DuBois, why would I eat those cookies? I'm on a
diet!!!"
Officer DuBois: "Shut up and write."
Officer DuBois is a jerk.
WRITTEN STATEMENT OF MEEKA GEORGE:
There are some things in life too beautiful to touch, to fix.
A golden red sunset. That lone dewdrop teetering on the edge
of an emerald green leaf. The raging rush of an icy blue river.
Those cookies were one of those things.
WRITTEN STATEMENT OF RYAN DESEIGE:
I don't like oatmeal raisin cookies. I didn't even go near them.
WRITTEN STATEMENT OF DAX ELLICK:
So there I was, out on the sports field, at 2:05 PM.
We had a chemistry exam.
Clearly, I wasn't taking that exam.
I was taking something, I'll admit to that.
When that fat cop came, I thought he knew about the dope.
Turns out, there are some cookies gone AWOL.
**********
25
I just saw Dax Ellick. I think he's a dealer. No. I KNOW HE IS A
DRUG DEALER AND I AM IN THE VERY SAME ROOM AS HE
IS!!!!!!!
This is absolutely unacceptable!
I told Officer DuBois very firmly, no room for argument, that I
would sue this state for every penny it can beg off, if this
situation is not rectified.
AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID?!?!
He laughed, cruelly, and told me with this little smirk on his face,
that just BEHIND THAT WALL!!!! are holding cells filled with
MURDERERS and he would like very much to know if I am still
fussing (his word not mine)(but I digress), he would like to know
if I'm still fussing about being questioned in the same room as a
drug dealer.
That wall is just 3 feet behind me.
I think I may have a nervous breakdown.
Dax is clearly the cookie thief. Isn't 'cookie' another name for a
certain drug?!?!
It's COKE. Not COOKIE.
Cocaine.
And a dealer? ME?!
I categorically deny that I deal in drugs.
Anastasia is in complete hysterics. Currently, she's yelling about
her rights as a free American, how she can refuse to be
detained in the same vicinity as a criminal.
Officer DuBois reminds her of the fact that she is in a police
station.
Anastasia: "My dad is a judge, y'know!!! And if he knew that you
were imprisoning me in here with these delinquents, you'd be
stripped of that badge and gun in three seconds!!!"
I know Anastasia Hamilton from school.
I didn’t' know her dad is a judge.
I already told you, I didn't go near those cookies.
Why am I still here?
So Brad Wilson and I were kickin' back yesterday, and he told
me that Jeremy Rainn had seen this cookie jar in the front office
when he'd gone to get his detention slip signed.
A cookie jar, filled with cookies?
It was just asking to be stolen.
**********
My dad isn't really a judge.
He played a judge in this movie, "Valor". It came out, like, 100
years ago.
No one at school knows my dad is an actor.
No one at school knows who he is.
Cuz, see, my dad?
When I was three, he went to a bank to show off his new gun.
The police don't like show-offs.
My dad's Uzi Sub-machine Gun, it also had kind of what the
guidance counselor in my school would call, "a tendency to
speak without thinking."
My dad's gun had a rather harsh argument with an officer.
The officer is now resting six feet under the ground.
My dad's been in jail for the past 13 years.
I wasn't in school when the cookies were stolen.
I was in the library, downloading music onto my new iPod
Touch.
But maybe I shouldn't be telling that to the police?
How many times do I have to tell you?
I DIDN'T TOUCH THE COOKIES.
There's this pretty decent park near my house.
27
There's a HUGE snake-shaped slide that my little sister loves.
She ran away once.
I was thirteen, she was four.
The cops were going nuts, they couldn't find her anywhere. But
I, in a stroke of genius, ran over to the park, and searched under
the slide.
There's this little alcove, see, where all the little kids go to play
hide-and-seek.
And there she was.
Muddy, bloody, and sobbing, but she was there.
That's why I don't trust the cops.
They seriously didn't think to search the park?
Really?
And these are the people who are supposed to keep us safe?
**********
It all comes down to what I said before.
Why are these cookies so important to the world?
Clearly, these weren't just cookies.
I've got to say, of all the times I've been taken out of class, this
one's gotta take the cake.
Cookies? Really?
Honestly, I want to know something.
Why us?
Why me- I get. I'm the stoner. I'm the potential dropout. I
practically scream, "I'm a criminal!!!"
(Clearly, Anastasia hears this loud and clear.)
But why everyone else?
No, really, why?
There's Ryan DeSeige-hes a good guy, and a buddy of mine.
Keeps to himself, mostly, though. Not like Brad or Jeremy or
anyone else that I could call my friend.
I have a lot of friends, actually.
Anastasia Hamilton wouldn't think so, but I do.
Because, hey.
I'm a nice guy.
**********
"Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?"
"Anastasia stole the cookies from the cookie jar!"
"Who me?!"
"Yes, you!"
"Couldn't be!"
"Then WHO?!"
"Dax stole the cookies from the cookie jar!"
And so forth.
Remember that song we used to sing?
Kind of dumb, but we were grade school kids, so I forgive us.
Really dumb. And annoying.
But that's pretty much what we're doing here.
Getting accused, shifting the blame.
We're going around in circles, over here.
But I still say Dax did it.
Well, Anastasia badgered Officer DuBois enough to tell us why
in heaven's name the police were conducting a SEARCH for
COOKIES.
Anastasia is now in a holding cell.
(Kidding.)
Officer DuBois told us something very, very, scary.
Oh, please, Meeka. It's not that scary.
And I still say it's too much fuss over gross oatmeal raisin
cookies.
The raisins ruin it for me.
I mean, everyone knows what raisins are.
29
Raisins are dried-up roaches.
Well.
Everything makes sense now.
Sort of.
**********
Apparently, according to Officer DuBois, those cookies had little
capsules inside them.
Little capsules filled with a mega dosage of cyanide.
Cyanide, if you didn't know already, is a super strong poison,
that EVEN IF YOU MERELY INHALE IT, you can DIE!!!!
That's how strong it is.
So why, I asked, very intelligently, were they in our school? If
the cops knew about it, why didn't they, oh I don't know, GET IT
OUT OF THERE?!?!?! Before someone, like, eats one?
And dies?
Cuz that's what happens when you eat something poisonous.
You die.
"Thank you for clarifying, Miss Hamilton,” Officer DuBois says
sarcastically. "I never would've known otherwise. And then I
might have eaten poison, and then what would happen?!"
Anastasia mutters something about how that wouldn't be so
tragic.
"Is that a threat, Miss Hamilton?" Officer DuBois asks
maliciously.
Anastasia is quiet.
Did anyone else notice that DuBois didn't answer Anastasia's
question?
I noticed.
And I also wondered- if we were the "suspects"; meaning to say,
that they thought we- Anastasia, Ryan, Meeka, and I- had
possibly stolen the cookies- stolen and eaten themThese capsules that will dissolve any minute and allow the
cyanide to seep into our bloodstream--What I mean to say is:
Why are we in a police station?
Why are we not in an emergency room?
**********
Something very frightening just occurred to me.
You see, there was this thing I forgot to mention.
I am not very good at sticking to a diet.
Oh, no.
There was a rush of activity all at onceAnastasia, jumping up and running to the doorOfficer DuBois, screaming, "NO!" and grabbing her armMeeka, gasping, realizingDax tries to break the door down, but it's locked- from the
outside...
It's locked.
The door is locked, and out of the five people that are in this
room, one is about to die of cyanide poisoning, and the other is
slowly drawing out his gun.
The barrel is pointed straight at Anastasia.
**********
31
"Anastasia Hamilton," DuBois hisses, eyes alight with a strange
fire. "I've had the utmost pleasure of meeting your father."
The way he says it, it doesn't really sound like it was such a
pleasure.
The gun is sort of distracting.
"Yes," he continues, gnashing his teeth, "not such a pleasure,
actually... I met him, see, when he was sentenced to life without
parole on March 21st, 2000."
How does he know...?
"You see, Anastasia, dear- the officer your daddy shot? He was
my father."
Dax is still trying to break down the door.
DuBois pays no heed.
His bright, bright eyes are burning holes into Anastasia's.
"You miss your dad, don't you, Miss Hamilton?" his voice is
sugary sweet. "Well, thanks to your dad, I'm never going to see
my dad ever again."
"I get that you had a loss, Officer," Dax calls out, easily, "and I
feel bad for you, really, but that's no excuse to use clichés."
DuBois rounds on Dax, the gun pointed at him now, but then he
hesitates.
Dax is aiming an identical gun right back at him.
Okay, so I have a gun. Big deal.
It's not like I go around shooting people with it.
And, obviously, I kind of need it.
Like, right now.
**********
Two things came hurtling through my mind at that point:
One:
Oh my gosh, he has a gun.
I knew he was a criminal.
Two:
He is sort of saving my life, so am I really going to focus on this
criminality?
We're going to die.
This was obviously all a hoax.
The capsules would have dissolved by now, it’s been, what?
It's been about four hours.
Clearly, DuBois just needed an excuse to get Anastasia Hamilton
in here.
I've been saying from the beginning that there's no way that
they could be making such a big deal over oatmeal raisin
cookies.
"Put the gun down," DuBois snaps. "This is not about you."
"You want to kill my friend," I articulate slowly. "You've MADE it
about me."
Anastasia's eyes pop.
I wonder- oh.
I called her my friend.
**********
Dax Ellick just called me his friend.
If I weren't so freaked out by that GUN (Oh, my lord, can he
please point that somewhere else?!?!) I would have cracked up.
Me... And Dax Ellick... friends?!
Let me tell you something about Dax Ellick.
1. He always has that strange glitter in his eyes, from the heroin,
no doubt.
2. The way he talks, it's just so, like, confusing, and so
ANNOYING and CRYPTIC, like y'know? You can hardly
understand half of what he says.
33
3. He's legit in detention so often that it's a running joke in my
school that he's going to marry the detention supervisor.
He's a criminal, clearly.
So, yeah.
I don't consort with criminals.
Again, I WOULD be thinking all this, if I did not have that GUN
GLARING AT ME LIKE THAT.
Ryan finally opens his mouth.
"There are no poison capsules, are there?"
Oh, yeah. The cyanide. I'd forgotten all about that.
Hyperventilated heart attack start...
Now.
Officer DuBois twists his sore-filled lips into a horrific smile.
"No, Mr. DeSeige. There are no poison capsules. The cookies
were just that. Cookies."
"I knew it," Ryan mutters. "Oatmeal raisin."
He says that last like an expletive.
"So why'd you..." Dax's drawling voice slithers over from near
the door.
"I staged this little interrogation," DuBois informs us, "to get
Miss Hamilton in here."
"Obviously," Ryan rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, DuBois, we kinda figured, y'know, the way you're flippin'
that gun in her general direction," Dax agrees.
"That sort of clued us in," Ryan continues.
"So, yeah, you got her in here to take revenge on her for her old
man killing yours, you've said that." Dax caresses his trigger
lightly.
DuBois growls, thick eyebrows knitting together like a
caterpillar.
My blood pressure is up to Mars.
Anastasia is this lovely mixture of white and green, like mold
sprouting on a cotton ball.
"Yeah, shoot her cuz you want to avenge Daddy, perfect
revenge plan really, I'm proud of you," Dax, getting quite chatty
now, "but that's clichéd, and you know how I feel about those.
No originality. Life is meant to be utilized creatively, liberally,
and experimentally. Anyone who uses clichés, and or is clichéd,
does not deserve to live."
"From 'My Fair Lady'," Ryan informs a sweating DuBois. "Maybe
paraphrasing." To Dax, " You're kind of being hypocritical there,
Daxon, man. Y'know, about the creativity thing."
Boys! They're going to get us killed!
"Quoting is not clichéd!" Dax defends himself.
"ENOUGH!" roars DuBois, before Ryan can insert his own witty
remark.
His whole body is shaking from his rage. "Enough!"
He chews on his bottom lip for a moment, eyes dilating- the
boys' dizzying back and forth has unnerved him.
"Enough. I'm going to kill you all!"
"So there is no poison," Anastasia finally blurts out.
DuBois leers at her. "No. No poison. Finally caught on? Still
shoulda stuck to that diet, Lardo Lady."
Anastasia's so relieved that she's not about to drop dead any
second, that she doesn't seem to mind that he just called her
fat.
She's not, by the way.
Fat, I mean.
She's not exactly a model, but at least she looks healthy.
Unlike some other people I know.
I'm not anorexic!!!
But that's totally not the point right now!!!
Shut up, Ryan!!!
One thing is still bugging me, though.
"Why the rest of us?" I ask DuBois.
35
"Oh, that," DuBois snickers. "Your principal, Mrs. Teek? She was
very helpful. She was greatly aggravated over the loss of her
cookies."
That's nothing new. Teek is always aggravated over something.
"When I mentioned that I was searching for suspects engaged in
illicit criminal activity, she was all too eager to put your name on
my list, Mr. Ellick. Something about you being half on your way
to jail already, and it would not surprise her in the least if you
had decided to harm your poor school even further by depriving
them of their cookies."
He's watching me closely, for my reaction.
He won't be getting one, though.
I already knew my rep preceded me. Old news.
But Mrs. Teek is going down, and it ain't gonna be pretty.
And her little cookies, too.
"And why Ryan and Meeka?" Anastasia asks, high-pitched voice
betraying her terror.
Meeka George is super quiet.
Being the only black girl in a predominantly WASPish
community and school, I guess she feels it safer to stay pretty
much under the radar.
Which is actually really sad, if you think about it.
"Why them two?" DuBois rolls his eyes, but Anastasia's small
squeak of pain alerts me to the fact that his grip on her arm is
getting stronger. "Really, Mr. Ellick, such inane questions! I
don't know. I saw the two of them out of class, and more
suspects equal more credibility. Nothing too exciting... They're
nothing too exciting."
Nothing too exciting?!
I may be quiet.
People at school may not know who I am.
But after my dad's car was smashed in my driveway- with him in
it- by KKK members, screaming, "Get back to the south, [negro]
slaves!!!" and other racial slurs, beating my dad so bad that we
had to sell the house and my mom's internet company to pay
the medical bills...
You'd be quiet, too.
"And now," Officer DuBois snaps, "enough with the questions."
He's impatient.
Officer DuBois shoves the gun in Anastasia's stricken face, and
presses his finger ever so slightly on the trigger.
He's going to kill her.
I release the trigger.
Meeka screams, but it's drowned out by the huge POP the
bullet makes as it flies gracefully out of the barrel.
**********
And then suddenly, without warning, DuBois collapsed.
Okay. So it was because Dax shot him.
But still.
It was without warning.
I don't know how it happened, but one minute we were all
standing, shocked, gaping at Officer DuBois's dead (?) body, and
the next, there was this horrific CRASH!!! And the door went
flying off its hinges, narrowly missing Ryan DeSeige by an inch.
There were ten policemen there, eyes and mouths wide open
like a fish.
We are in soooo much trouble.
"What on earth just happened here?!" an officer yells. "Did that
guy-" pointing a quivering finger at Dax, "just shoot Ullah?!"
"Ullah's dead?!"
"What's going on?!"
"Who killed Officer DuBois???"
"Who ARE you kids?!"
37
"STOP!!!" a deep, authorative voice cut through the babbling
cacophony.
I almost died.
The Chief of Police, Amos Stanton.
Somebody please tell me why, WHY, whenever there's trouble,
people automatically turn to ME.
WHY?!?!
Do I really have 'criminal' written all over my face?!
And then I realize.
I'm holding the smoking gun.
Nice goin', Daxon.
I gotta say, this time, I agree with Meeka's prophesies of doom.
We're toast.
Toast with peanut butter.
**********
"WHAT," thunders Chief Stanton, "IS GOING ON HERE?!"
There were a few tense-filled moments of silence before
someone spoke up.
"We were tricked into coming here and being questioned on the
premise of a couple of stolen cookies. Officer DuBois gathered
us all here to provide a cover for his true agenda- to kill
Anastasia Hamilton. And then, just before DuBois could kill
Anastasia, Dax shot him. It was purely in self-defense."
Quiet.
And then I realize who had spoken.
Me.
Oh, wow, that was so professional, Meeka.
And I'm still having a major nervous breakdown, here.
Good Lord, Meeka spoke.
Chief Stanton stares at her.
"Officer DuBois tried to kill... you?" He found Anastasia shaking
against the wall. Meeka takes her hand, and Anastasia squeezes
it, tightly.
Chief Stanton gulps.
He knew, clearly, what would happen if he tried to convict Dax
of killing Officer DuBois. He would have a major media circus in
the precinct's backyard once people found out that an officer
had gone rogue and attempted murder. The headache and
sharp loss of respect for the police were not worth the case
against Dax, which he would lose, anyway. There were three
other witnesses who would testify that Dax had shot merely in
defense of, well, me. Even if he tried to penalize him on the fact
that he was carrying a gun, he'd be protected under New York's
vigilante laws. And something tells me that that gun is legal- Mr.
Ellick is famous for going hunting in Maine every March.
Stanton glances around, furtively. "Tell you what, young man,"
he tells Dax. "We won't charge you for assault and battery on an
officer, or get you in trouble for that gun, if you keep all of
this..." he waves a hand around the room, "quiet."
Dax gives him a scornful look. He knows what I know, what we
all know- he's not in trouble.
But... he's also tired of this. He also just wants to go home.
Like Chief Stanton, he's not in the mood of a huge media
headache.
So, he shoves his gun back into his back, swipes his damp bangs
off his forehead, and says, "It's a deal."
And so now, here we are.
Chief of Police standing guard over us, glowering, as we write
down the events of the past few hours.
39
They wanted to convict Dax Ellick for shooting a cop, but we've
insisted and evidence showed that it was only in defense.
So, here you go, officers.
My transcript.
Have a nice day, now.
And maybe you want to be careful in the future, make sure a
guy is stable before you give him a gun and a badge?
Thanks.
Anastasia caught up to me before.
"Hey. Dax. Thank you," she murmured.
"What was that?" I raised my eyebrows, teasingly.
"I said, thank you-" she paused, noting the look in my eye. "Oh,
you are impossible. Just want to hear me grovel, don't you."
"Weeelllll," I drawled, "you did call me a criminal, y'know."
"You are!" Anastasia insisted, giggling. "You carry a gun! If that's
not criminal, I don't know what is!!!"
"That gun saved your life," I pointed out.
"So now I owe you, is what you’re saying." Anastasia twirled a
strand of honey-blonde hair around her finger.
"Yes, Miss Anastasia, that you do," I slung my arm around her.
"You wanna hear what your payment is?"
"If I must," she sighed, but not really.
"You come over one day, come out to pizza with me. Listen to
music. Go biking. Study for that murder chem test. Y'know.
Hang out."
"Hang out," she repeated. "Like... Friends."
"Yeah," I replied, matching her small grin with one of my own.
"Friends."
You’ve hit a Dead End by Leslie Landis
Ava:
We played dodge ball today. I thought that sport was illegal in
schools… but whatever that’s not the point. There’s no reason to
actually talk about my gym class except that she was on the other
team. Marley Stewart. We were best friends when we were
younger. Before she got pretty and popular. As her snarky friends
Sammy and Natalie would say, she got an “upgrade”. She ditched
me for them. Those bimbos. No I’m serious, they’re really stupid.
They use their looks to survive in this cold blooded every man for
themselves school. They all have perfect glossy hair, long glued
on eyelashes, clothes from all the expensive brands, and their “it
girl” personalities. Just think of them as the plastics times 10. And
me, I have damaged brown hair, brown lifeless eyes, and cheap
clothes from target.
I don’t hold a grudge or anything. Just because she left me alone at
the lunch table 4 years ago looking like an idiot doesn’t mean I
shouldn’t move on. Okay…. Maybe I'm still mad. She’s just the
worst! Today in the morning before 1st period I was putting some
books in my locker when she came up to me and stared me dead in
the eye. She took her French tip nails and stuck them into my
homework. And then in a split second, my books were on the floor
and my homework was everywhere. And she said in her high
nasally pitched voice, “clumsy much?” like what the hell? I was
just putting my books in my locker! But she just prances off. Her
blue eyes once again giving me the Marley stare down. But this
time she didn’t make eye contact. And maybe, just maybe, it was
on purpose. It even looked like she was crying….
Marley:
41
My parents got divorced. It was finalized last weekend. My dad
cheated on my mom. It was February 14th. Valentine’s Day. The
most romantic time of the year. My mom went over to my dad’s
law firm to surprise him with a box of chocolates and red roses.
Instead of finding him working hard at his desk she… well… he
was working hard. Or doing it hard, as I should say. She found
him on the desk, stripped down to his Calvin Klein underwear
and on top of a skinny naked Brazilian woman no more than 25.
She was his assistant. Gross. My mom took me out of school that
day. But we didn’t eat. We mostly cried. My tears falling down
on my turkey sandwich. The waiter tried to offer us some free
desserts, but it didn’t help. The manager had to ask us to leave. I
didn’t care. Later that day, we learned he’d been having an affair
for a year with her. That didn’t shock me. Then we learned a
couple weeks later that she was carrying his child. If someone
was to barge into my home and shoot me in the head, that would
have hurt less. I haven’t spoken to him since. I only saw him for
the first time in a couple of months when we got the custody
papers finalized. But when I looked at his face, I didn’t see my
dad. He wasn’t the man who taught me how to ride a bike. He
wasn’t the man who gave me piggyback rides at the park when I
was younger. He was just this man who was about to leave my
life forever. I wanted to talk to him. Ask him why he did that to
our family. But I couldn’t. It was over.
Natalie and Sammy didn’t care. They acted as though I was this
alien from Mars. When I tried to tell them, all they could say
was, “eww your face is so blotchy!” or “you look like… gross”.
Seriously, these girls needed a wider vocabulary list because it
seemed like “eww and gross” was all they knew. Anyway, they
said I was going soft. They said I was losing my edge. They said
I wasn’t Marley. I’ll show them. I went up to this girl’s locker
and looked her dead in the eye. I gave her my snootiest look and
smacked her books on the ground. She looked flabbergasted.
Puzzled. And then I realized it was Ava. I couldn’t. Not now. So
I left. I wanted to cry, but I held it in. I hope she didn’t see.
Ava:
Balls started to fly everywhere. I stood in the back. Like I said,
this game was pointless. I saw Marley on the other side. She was
throwing dodge balls like crazy. Especially hard may I add. And
to think I thought she didn’t want to ruin her manicure. Natalie
and Sammy were gossiping towards the side about some guy
they had a fling with over the summer. More kids on my team
were getting hit and soon there were only a couple of us left.
There was this Asian kid on my team who got a bloody nose
from one of those violent balls so I figured I need to get out of
this game soon before I got hurt. So I went to the front. Just then,
Marley came up and threw the ball straight into my stomach. I
dropped the floor in pain. So much for that plan. A big red mark
appeared under my life is good t-shirt. She came up to me and
randomly started yelling, “Hit me! HIT ME!” so I slapped her. I
didn’t think I wanted to but I got caught up in the moment. She
crumbled to the floor and started to sob. Of course right on cue,
Sammy came up to Marley and yelled, “what are you doing
Marley? Why are you acting like such a loser? No wonder your
dad left you!” Marley looked at her with tears streaming from
her icy blue eyes. She grabbed my hand and whispered, “I'm
sorry.” And she ran off. Her heels scratched the floor, leaving
pink scuffmarks. I looked around the gym seeing the flickering
light bouncing off of traumatized faces. But I couldn’t think. I
saw scars on Marley’s wrist.
43
Marley:
I’ve been cutting myself for almost a year now. When my mom
went to her therapist, I went to the bathroom. I’d get my small
pocketknife, sit in the tub, and cut my wrist. I’d let the blood
ooze from my wrist to the tub. I'd do it for like 10 minutes. Then
I’d clean the bathroom, scrubbing every spot so that it was as
clear as day. My mom didn’t suspect a thing.
Today in dodge ball, I couldn’t stop thinking about how to
escape my life. But I saw this boy with a Mets hat. It reminded
me of one time when my family and I went to a Mets game. My
dad caught a ball for me and my parents got on the kissing cam.
They were so happy. My face gleamed with joy that day. I knew
it could never happen again, which brings us back to the dodge
ball game today. The first ball had hit a tall Asian boy in a Nike
shirt. “Why can’t I have a happy life?” I asked myself. The
second ball then hit an unsuspecting girl fixing her hair. And
then I realized: I hit a dead end. The third ball hit a girl in a life
is good t-shirt. It was her again. Ava. The girl who laughed with
me, fought with me, but always was there for me. And I ditched
her. Maybe this was karma seeking its revenge. I had to make it
up to her. “Hit me!” I yelled. And she did. But that didn’t help.
And then my so-called friends started yelling at me. And Ava
noticed my scars and… my life is just a soap opera that... needs
to be taken off the air. I knew what I needed to do. I left the
school. I had to run. I ripped off my Hollister shirt. It only
showed my shallowness. I wiped off my makeup. It made me
look like a baby hooker. I took off my Steve Madden heels. No
one could run in those. I took off all my bracelets, necklaces, and
earrings. I ran free and new. But I still couldn’t escape my
reality. Everyone hated me! Ava, Natalie, Sammy, but mostly
my dad. If he loved me, why would he hurt me? He’s an idiot.
He’s not worth a penny! But I couldn’t help but love him… no,
stop! I ran down to the pier and stopped. This is it, I thought.
Maybe everyone would be happier… if I just jumped. I jumped
in. I let the salt water sink above my face. I let all the life inside
of me flush out. I let all my struggles, all the drama, and all the
pain just go away. I was free. Finally free. And then everything
went black…
Ava:
I saw her jump from the pier. I followed her about 10 blocks. My
mom would be mad that I cut school. But this was more serious.
Marley was dying. I went up to the edge of the pier. I saw her
blonde hair in the murky water. She looked like a mermaid. A
beautiful creature. But she was more than just a pretty girl. She
was a pretty girl who was hurting. There was no time to call
anyone. I jumped in and swam down. It reminded me of the time
we both were at the pier for a birthday party. She got mad
because she hadn’t won the hula hoop competition and I did. To
make her feel better, I gave her my mini trophy and she gave me
her ice cream cone. We sat by the dock laughing and talking. It
was the best day ever. I can’t believe I let that slip away. I wasn’t
about to give up like I did 4 years ago, so I swam down faster. I
knew she couldn’t swim, let alone save herself. I grabbed her
arm and I swam back up with her. I threw her onto the dock and
check her pulse. No pulse. I checked her heartbeat. No heartbeat.
“HELP!” I yelled. No one could hear. No one was around. I
didn’t know how to do CPR. I could see the color of her face
wash out. We were running out of time. “HELP!”
Marley:
I woke up in a cream colored room. There wasn’t anything
special in the room. I was hooked up to some kind of machine. It
45
was really creepy. I was in the hospital. From the pier. I thought
I was going to go to heaven, not this. I couldn’t remember much
after I jumped in. I could faintly remember someone yelling help
and then an ambulance blaring loudly. I thought I was dying, and
that those were the sounds of death.
Just then, a chubby 40 something nurse came in. “Great you’re
awake! Let me get your family.” My mom came in first. She
came up to me. I could tell she had been crying. “My dear
baby!” she cried. Then my dad came in. Through the door I
could see that Brazilian woman breastfeeding their biracial baby.
He came up to me and kissed my forehead. He whispered, “I'm
sorry,” and left. That was the last time I ever saw him.
Ava:
Marley and her mom moved away soon after that. When the
press got a hold of the story, they couldn’t stay around any
longer. Her dad stayed to tell the story. I think he liked the
attention. But soon, even he got tired and moved to Brazil with
his new family. School eventually went back to normal. Natalie
and Sammy got back to their usual stuck up ways. They acted as
though Marley never existed. That day I was honored by the fire
station as an honorary hero. I didn’t do anything really. I just
yelled help and someone heard me. After the ceremony, I walked
down to the pier and bought an ice cream cone. After that, I went
and sat by the docks all night, remembering her and our
friendship. I should have fought harder for her. I gave up too
quickly. But there was nothing I could do now. I just hoped she
was safe.
Marley:
Dear Ava,
Thank you for saving me. I’m living in Boston now, and I’m
starting fresh. I've been thinking a lot about our friendship and
maybe when I'm better I can start seeing you again. I’ve been
seeing people to help me with my depression. They’ve put me on
meds but they say in a couple of months they might be able to
take me off the prescription. It’s still hard to think about this
year. I don’t think I will ever be completely happy now, but I’m
certain I'm going to be okay. I’m definitely a better person. And
each day, I'm getting stronger. I just wanted to say thanks again
and I hope I can see you sometime. Good luck with everything
and I hope to see you soon at our dock.
Your friend,
Marley
47
“Drives and their causes” by Maria Filipchenko
There are some days when we both seat at the bench in our
terrace and stare at the sunset. The minutes move slower and
slower, and the already polychromatic view begins to bloom as
the sun decides to take its deserved rest. She stirs next to me, and
I feel the heat of her body, the smell of lavender shampoo in her
hair; it all suddenly becomes too sumptuous and exorbitant, and
my eyes begin to tear, my breath heaving. She pretends not to
notice.
Sometimes I wake up at nights and feel the other side of the bed.
It’s cold most of the time, so I get up and go on that goddamned
terrace, and here she is. Sitting and staring into nothingness. I
say, “Annie, Annie”, but she doesn’t hear me, too lost in her
thoughts. I think we are all lost in some way.
The other day I went to the supermarket two miles from our
house, and there was Zoe. She was my high-school sweetheart,
the only girl in the town who knew what “oxymoron” meant and
how to cook Shepard’s pie. I thought we were in love and would
have five kids one day, but then I met Annie and realized that kid
toys’ prices had gone up and that love came in different ways.
Zoe screamed at me about the house we were going to build and
the second daughter, whom we would name Amy after her
mother, but I was already too busy thinking about the things
Annie had told me the night before. She’d told me, “Listen”, and
then she’d sat quietly for an hour. Zoe, back at the supermarket,
instead of glaring at me like she would if everything were not as
messed up as it was, looked at me with her big sad eyes and
sniffed, trying to commiserate. She tried to ask me something –
probably about Annie - but I ran out of the supermarket as fast as
I could whilst carrying two bags of groceries.
If I said I never suspected that she was ill, that would be a lie. I
never tried to suspect, never asked her if she was okay okay, and
when I did, it was the wrong kind of question. I had the
deficiency of interest and the right questions; she, on her side,
had the deficiency of nothing but the knowledge of her illness.
The doctor said that the illness was rudimentary and that there
was nothing to worry about but the Superball game. I didn’t
laugh at the joke, and Annie didn’t care to know what the
Superball was, so the doctor started hating us and frowned every
time we had an appointment. I guess one is supposed to laugh at
every doctor’s bad joke. I didn’t know it back then.
I didn’t know a lot of things back then, like the fact that Annie
was not as stoic as she seemed to be. I didn’t know that probity
was the necessity that my every relationship lacked. I didn’t
know that my attempt to appease everything was not the solution
to every problem Annie and I had. I didn’t know Annie, to begin
with.
And all those things I didn’t know – they were the ones that
mattered at the end. In the little callow mind of mine, I imagined
Annie and me to be some sort of paramours, really. Unstoppable
and star-crossed lovers. Enamored with each other forever.
Cherishing my little fantasies like the five children I could have
had if I had stayed with Zoe, I dreamed and dreamed of it all.
We had an accident. We were at her parents’ house, where my
ways of eating and joking caused her parents to raise their
eyebrows and massage their temples. Everything in that house
seemed inimical and inhospitable, but I never really cared
because I spent roughly four hours in two months there. Annie
was eating, while her dad was telling some awful joke about
49
today’s immigration control, and then something snapped in her,
so loudly and noticeably that all of us almost turned to see if the
TV fell down. And then she stood up and started screaming, with
white knuckles and screwed-up eyes, and none of us knew what
to do except for her mom, who, being the smartest person on this
goddamned planed, pointed her finger at me and told me to get
my ass out of her house. Which I did, by the way, because
Annie’s dad’s eyes dangerously started glancing towards the gun
he had and knew how to use. After that I came home and
watched “Melancholia” because it was her favorite movie. I fell
asleep.
I was not allowed at the hospital. I guess her parents told the
staff to not let in the guy with “that weird pathetically indifferent
face” because that’s how they used to describe me while
gossiping to the oldest ladies of the town. I stopped trying to
come in when I heard Annie screaming from her room. I
speculated that I would make everything worse and went home
and cried. How very romantic of me.
And then one day her mom called me and apologized. I thought
either the world had gone crazy or something had happened. I
hung up on her and rushed to the hospital. It was very quiet in
her room. I waited at her door for about five minutes, trying to
figure out my feelings and all that crap, but I felt only
nervousness and frustration. I was not voracious to see her, but
there was something that I sensed, some sort of anticipation that
I hadn’t felt in a while. I walked into her room.
She was there, in her bed, reading Kafka. I began shivering,
although it was the middle of June. I felt like throwing up. She
looked up from her book and narrowed her eyes, “Um, do I
know you?”
I guess that’s how being hit by a truck feels like. I felt my
internal organs pressed against each other and the current of
blood in my body slowing down as I gently shook my head. I
walked out of her room, the hospital, her life.
And now I am driving, driving, driving into the nothingness, into
the city I don’t know anymore. I know that she lied about
knowing me; she didn’t hide the look of recognition in her eyes.
I knew that something like this, completely sentimental and
tragic and quiet, would be the end of it. Once iridescent love now
seemed to be unrealistic and meaningless. Annie once said,
“What is love anyway?”
I speed up and light up the cigarette I haven’t smoked in years. I
let the smoke rise in my lungs, its touches causing my throat to
burn. My eyes begin to blurry as I speed up once more and throw
the cigarette out of the window. I guess there are different kinds
of love. I guess ours was not the right kind.
I let go.
51
Ernest Rising by Angelica Rozza
1.
Today is Wednesday, June 19th. The day I get to make my
own breakfast. This is a big deal for me. No help whatsoever and
it's finally a meal I think I’d enjoy: Hot Pockets.
My mother has been running around the house like a mad
woman since 8 a.m. Well, at least I noticed her running around at
8 a.m. since that is the prompt time I wake up every weekday. As
she runs from room to room, I get a nice whiff of her shampoo. It
smells like cucumbers and limes. When I woke up, my plate was
already on the kitchen table. I knew it was my plate because I
write my name on all of my dinnerware so no one else can eat
off of my plates. There was a note on the table:
Ernest,
Make your own breakfast. I'm running late.
- Love, Mom
I think it is a little weird that she left a note since she's still in
the house. But by the looks of her rushing, she isn’t in the mood
to talk.
So, yeah, I make my own breakfast.
Hot Pockets are always a wonderful idea since they’re my
favorite food. I put two into the microwave, one for now and one
for later. I wait by the microwave - not directly by the
microwave because when you stand too close, you get radiation,
then cancer, and then you die. As I wait, I cut my pink grapefruit
in half, place one half on my plate, wrap the other in Saran
Wrap, and place it back in the refrigerator. When my mom
makes my breakfast, I always make sure she has a fresh pair of
latex gloves on. So, I grab a pair from under the sink and slide
them on. I do this because when I use a knife or any other
utensil, I'm not quite sure if my mother was the last one who
touched them or if it was someone with a flesh-eating disease
who likes licking silverware.
After I wash all the spoons in the utensil drawer, I pull my
Hot Pockets out of the microwave with my oven mitts, which are
shaped like alligators. Steam that smells like meat flies up into
my nose, making my mouth water. But knowing how a Hot
Pocket works, and speaking from experience, you must wait five
minutes and forty-five seconds before you can eat one since the
inside is molten lava.
I set my food on the table and grab my mug from the
cupboard. I examine the mug closely to see if it has anyone else's
fingerprints, lip marks, or even dust or water marks. After the
mug checks out, I pull the Nesquik from the top of the
refrigerator. I open the container and waft the Nesquik to my
nose a few times, just in case there are any other powdered
substances added in. After that, I dump three tablespoons of the
mix into my mug and mix in skim milk. The skim milk is the
only milk I drink because of its long expiration date.
After this, I am done making breakfast.
Just as I finish wiping down the counters and my chair with
a Clorox wipe, Mother walks in and pauses by the table.
"Ernest," she says. "You made your own breakfast?"
"Yes. Like you said," I reply.
I remove the latex gloves from my hand, since they have
Clorox all over them, and replace them with a clean pair. I then
sit down in my freshly cleaned chair and tap my Hot Pockets.
They still have a minute to go.
Mom is standing by the table. She is guzzling coffee, and
eating a protein bar. I hate it when she eats protein bars because
she always eats the chocolate and raspberry ones and I have a
strict policy that fruit and chocolate should not be eaten together.
53
"Why didn't you make cereal?" Mom asks through the food
in her mouth.
I cringe because little pieces of spit come out of her mouth
and part of her protein bar lands on my grapefruit.
I don’t eat the breakfast I made today.
After Mom apologizes a few times, and clears my tainted
breakfast, I watch her intently as she carefully makes me a bowl
of Cheerios.
“Are you sure you don't want Rice Krispies with bananas,
Ernest?"
I grumble because we go through this at least four times a
month.
"No. One, because Rice Krispies are loud. Two, my food
cannot touch other food. So the mere thought of having fruit in
loud cereal gives me an aneurism."
Mom places the bowl in front of me, and chuckles.
"You aren't even making this stuff up,” she say. “Oh, and
before I forget to tell you, Mr.Russo cancelled today.”
"Why?"
"I'm not sure. He didn't say. But listen, he said that you still
have to study for your…"
"Is he sick?"
Mother lets out a loud sigh, and sucks in her teeth.
"Ernest, I said I didn't know. Now, can you listen?"
But I can’t listen. I am having a full-fledged panic attack. If
Mr.Russo was actually sick then some of his germs might have
been left over in my apartment from yesterday's lesson.
I start to scream.
Mom runs into my bedroom and retrieves my Supreme
Safety Box, which contains five bottles of hand sanitizer, one
inhaler, a pack of facemasks, a box of latex gloves, and Lysol
spray. Hyperventilating, I pour hand sanitizer in my hands and
wipe it down my arms and face. Then, I take a hit from my
inhaler, use more hand sanitizer, slide on my latex gloves, place
my mask across my face and have my mom spray me down with
Lysol. All in a matter of two minutes and thirty four seconds.
New record.
"Are you done yet, bubble boy?" Mom asks.
I can tell she is a little frazzled since the Supreme Safety
Box only comes out for matters such as germs and any
contagious ailments. It's the second most serious of boxes I have
lying around the house.
"Yes," I say.
She takes in a deep breath, revving herself up to restart the
conversation, and begins with, "I'm going to regret mentioning
this now after what I just saw, but Mr. Russo isn't going to make
it today. I have a very important meeting to go to in the city, so I
can't stay home to watch you."
"What are you saying?" My eyes grow a little wider. I can
almost feel what she is going to say next replace the oxygen in
the room.
She kneels down next to me. "You're going to have to stay
home by yourself today, Ernest."
I haven't been alone in my house for almost three years.
Back when I was thirteen, I had to go to the hospital for trouble
breathing, pains in my chest, and a high fever. When my mom
first took me to the hospital we both assumed I was having yet
another asthma attack and the doctors would just give me a
treatment, and have me spend the night. However, once the
doctors examined me, they told me I might have viral
pneumonia. I cried because I thought that anyone who has
pneumonia, like the elderly people in movies, usually dies from
it. I figured that since it's a disease for old people, no one would
actually care. My doctor laughed and said that this was a very
common disease and I probably just caught it from someone who
had influenza at school. Nothing was safe. Nothing I touched,
ate, slept on, or drank was clean. Everything had giant germs on
55
it. Giant and green. They were very real, vivid, bug-like
creatures, infecting my brain. Whatever I did, I pictured giant
germs crawling into my body, up my nose, running in my veins.
However, I kept the illusions to myself since I couldn't imagine
having to spend the night in the mental ward.
One night, at the hospital, I refused to eat anything the nurse
gave me. My mother was back at our apartment feeding our dog,
Dixie. However, my mother was the only one who I trusted to
feed me while I was in the hospital. She'd bring me fresh foods
from the house, such as salad and fruit. I had given up eating
meat because of E.coli. So that afternoon, while my mother was
only gone for fifteen minutes, a nurse came into the room with a
tray, "Time to eat up, little birdie." She wore green scrubs, the
color of germs.
My eyes grew wide. "Um, I'm not very hungry."
"Nonsense, boy. You haven't had anything in your system
except an IV and ice chips.”
She pulled the rolling table/tray over to my bed, and placed
the food plate on it. She pulled off its steamy cover to reveal
chicken potpie, a whole wheat roll, and strawberry jello. The
smell was putrid.
"Miss, I'm really not hungry," I said sheepishly.
"You gots to eat, boy."
And what she did next still tortures me to this day, and is
probably the root of my germaphobia.
She grabbed the utensil set, which is wrapped in plastic. She
started out using her fingers to tear the plastic, but couldn't, so
she resorted to using her teeth. Once her teeth cut it open the tip
of the fork was inside her mouth. I was utterly mortified, but
then it got worse. She grabbed the fork with her swollen, sweaty
fingers and scooped up the crust from the chicken potpie with it.
These words still haunt me too this day:
"Don't be difficult. Open up your mouth."
The unsanitized fork was hanging directly in front of my
airtight mouth. I rattled my head side to side so fast, I almost
passed out from motion sickness.
"Eat, child."
The fork hit my sealed lips. I couldn't do anything but
scream after that. The nurse took this as an opportunity to stuff
chicken potpie in my mouth. I screamed so hard I gave myself an
asthma attack and vomited all the food up on myself. All I
remember after that was waking up in the intensive care unit
with deep, throbbing pain in my chest and a new found hate for
chicken potpie and nurses.
"By myself?" I repeat to my mother.
"Only for a little while, baby. I'll get out of my meeting as
fast as I can and I'll make you your favorite meal when I get
home."
"There aren't any more Hot Pockets."
"No. Ernest. Your other favorite meal.”
"Mashed potatoes and string beans?”
“Yes, Sir. But you have to be good by yourself. Okay?"
Mom has her deal face on.
" I won't die?"
"Over my dead body." She smiles.
I wish she hadn't said dead body because now I’m imagining
a decomposing one, which is probably the sickest and grossest
thing and has the largest amount of germs living in it.
I swallow my vomit.
"Fine."
She smiles wide and gives me an air hug since I don't let her
touch me after my germ-attacks. Before I know it, she is gone. I
am home alone.
2.
57
I've been by myself for fifteen minutes so far. It's really an
odd feeling, being alone. Other people, normal people I guess,
who go outside to go to school, work, or whatever, must enjoy
being alone sometimes. It must be an ordeal to go outside every
day and come into contact with thousands of people. Being alone
for average people must be quite relaxing. But for me, I almost
forget how to function when I'm alone.
I used to know how to function outside. I used to play
baseball with my friends at the park, roll down the hills, get
sweaty, hug others, talk to others face to face and let people
touch me without scanning their hands for cuts. Before my viral
infection, I don't really remember spending too much time in my
apartment. I always remember being outside with friends and
family.
I haven't been outside for six months. Apart from never
being without a watchful eye since the day I came home from the
hospital, my parents thought it would be helpful to still take me
outside regularly to slowly shrink my fear of germs.
However, six months ago, everything in my life went sour.
It was October. My father took me to my old school to
retrieve some textbooks, since they understood my
homeschooling situation. In the car, I put on some latex gloves
and began cleaning the covers of the textbooks down with a
Clorox wipe.
My father looked at me and asked, "What are you doing?"
"Cleaning off other students’ germs," I replied. I continued
cleaning.
"Well, can you stop it?" He said through gritted teeth.
"Yeah, I'm almost done."
"No. Now, Ernest." My father slammed the brakes. My
unsuspecting body flew up against the dashboard.
"What's your problem?" I stammered.
My father's eyes grew black, and his lip started twitching.
"You," He said. "You are my problem."
The words stabbed my insides. I could almost feel the blood
drain from my face. Tears welled in my eyes. I always hated
when I was about to cry because of the mucus and puffiness that
came along with it.
"What do you mean?"
"This fucking germ stuff. I've fallen off the deep end with it.
I clean my car twice a day because of this obsession. You barely
eat anything I make for you. I can't touch you. You scream
bloody murder when someone sneezes. You're a teenage boy that
does nothing a teenage boy would do. You clean everyday,
Ernest. Clean and fucking clean, and dust and scream. You don't
interact nicely with anyone but your mother. This shit that you're
pulling, this fucking germ crap, is tearing this family apart. You
aren't sick, dumbass. There are millions of germs everywhere.
Some are just floating in this car, in the air you breathe, crawling
up and down your arms, swimming in your fucking mouth, right
now! There’s nothing you can do ab…”
All I remember from there is hitting him with all my force
across his jaw, his head slamming into the driver’s seat, then
tasting blood in my mouth right before I passed out.
When I woke up in my own bed, I was dressed in my
favorite white pajamas and my room smelled like Lysol. My
mom's calming mechanism for when I had an exhausting day. I
heard fighting between my mother and father in the living room.
I tried listening despite the throbbing in my ears.
"How dare you hit him, Lyle. How dare you!" Mother spoke
sternly.
"He needs to realize that this behavior is not okay, Andrea.
You have to stop babying him for God's sake. I'm surprised you
don't still breast feed him."
"My baby will get all the attention he needs from me so I can
make him feel better, understand? He's had a rough past few
59
years and he's scared. I understand that. It's not easy, but we are
his goddamn parents who love and cherish that boy."
I remember hearing the break in Mother’s voice. There was
complete silence for a few minutes, which was interrupted by
low mumbling. Then the conversation caught on fire again with
a sharp: "Shut the hell up, Lyle!"
"We can give him to some professionals! They'll help him!"
"No! He won't let them touch him," Mother screamed.
"When are you going to stop favoring him over me, Andrea?
When? I'm fed up with this shit! I haven't been able to actually
be with my wife since this kid lost his marbles. I miss my
family! I miss the old you! I miss the old him! I just can't do it
anymore, Andrea. He just makes me so angry. I'm sorry but it's
me or him," my father cried.
Then silence.
I remember thinking that my mother was going to probably
choose my father since he wasn't a germaphobe like me. He was
easier to take care of. He worked, he cooked, he could make my
mother smile like nobody else. And most importantly, he wasn't
me. I started to feel like I was a mistake. Like my whole life was
just supposed to end at age thirteen. What did I have after the
germs seized my mind? I was transformed into a tantrumthrowing baby that constantly wore latex gloves to protect
himself from invisible monsters. My mother should have chosen
my father.
"Screw you, Lyle,” Mother said. “I would never choose
someone as insensitive as you over my child. It's over."
I imagined her standing in the living room, no longer facing
my father, with her hands on her face.
"I'll come back for my things," was the last thing I ever
heard my father say.
This was the only time I cried and didn't try to stop it. I knew
that, in some way, everything that was happening would always
be my fault.
My mother came into my room after the ordeal, and hugged
my hand. Without thinking, I wrapped my arm around her,
feeling her tears soak up my white pajamas. I cringed at the
thought of her fluids on me, but I hugged her tighter so she'd
know I was sorry for what I caused.
3.
I look over some of the notes Mr. Russo left me and decide
there is no point in studying because I already know the work by
heart. Schoolwork comes easy to me since I have so much free
time. I enjoy studying and doing math because the answers to
math problems always make sense apart from life. The problems
in my life lack many answers.
After being alone for about an hour, I decide to lock myself
in my room and go on the computer in hopes of wasting some
time.
My room is white. It used to be blue with black stripes, but
after I came home from the hospital, I decided that the room was
too childish, too creepy and perplexing for me to sleep in there.
My dad painted it white when he became fed up with my sleepstanding in the middle of the living room. I would complain
when the stripes from my previous paint would come through the
white, so my dad hired professionals. They were sweaty painters
who smelled like cigarettes and burps. It takes me a while to go
back into my room, even after all the scrubbing.
I sit down on my bed, disinfect my computer screen and
keyboard, sanitize my hands, and put on my glasses.
Usually, when I go on the computer, I look up philosophies,
and ways to conquer fears on Google, or something. I used to
religiously visit social media sites like Facebook and Twitter, but
after I began being homeschooled, I kind of lost my interest in
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Facebook, which basically means I lost the interest of my
friends.
After sitting at the computer for about half an hour, and
flipping through an online newspaper - since regular, newspapers
bleed ink and are touched by hundreds before purchase - I decide
to check my social media accounts out of boredom.
I first type in Facebook in the search box and struggle to
remember my password, but after I remember that it’s:
Imthecoolest, my newsfeed loads and I am drawn back into the
cyber world of statuses about nothing, sexy pictures that are
photoshopped, and inexcusable grammar mistakes. I have two
notifications.
Two.
Dos.
That is more than I have had in a long time. I open them.
One is from my Aunt Cassie asking if I would check out her
farm on Farmville. I close it out because I want Aunt Cassie to
learn that no one checks out anyone’s Farmville anymore. But
the second notification says it’s from Peter Pullton, my old best
friend.
He has posted something on my wall.
It takes me a second to register the fact that someone from
my once enjoyable life was trying to contact me. After I left
public school, six months ago, my friends tried calling me and
reaching me through media. Some even tried visiting the house,
some like Peter. But the germs were just beginning to grow
larger in my mind during that time, and I had to cut everyone out
of my life so that I wouldn't get sick. People, like Peter, who
have been there from the beginning, became nothing but an old
friendship that didn't last.
The page refreshes and begins to load. I hold my breath,
even though holding your breath isn't good for your lungs. I can’t
even begin to imagine what he had posted on my wall. What
would it say? Would it be rude? Would it be depressing? Would
I feel guilty afterwards? The page finally loads and now I am
staring at my Facebook wall.
The last picture I posted up, in 2009, is still there. It is a
picture of me in Lincoln Park Zoo, smiling with a giraffe.
I have changed so much.
Back then I had straight black hair. Now I have curly black
hair that is unmanageable, which is very annoying since I have
the perspective that everything in my head, or on my head, needs
to be managed and neat. I still have green eyes, though I didn't
expect that to change. I am definitely taller now. But looking at
the picture, there is a big contrast between the me back then and
the me now. I used to be much tanner, almost black; so much sun
damage on my face that I still deal with the surplus of ugly
freckles. But now, I am pale. The only sun that warms my skin
now is the light that passes through my window. A pang of
nostalgia runs through my heart. I knew going on Facebook
would be a bad idea. It always is.
I scroll down to see Peter Pullton's name on my wall. I
haven't seen his face for six months. I read his post:
“Hey Ernie, I know this is kind of pointless, but I got a new
phone number. 555-9001. Call me sometime, ok? It has been a
while man.” I can almost hear the disappointment in Peter's
words. The anger he must feel towards me for ditching him as a
friend. How could I face him? He enjoyed life when I stopped
enjoying mine. He grew up. He was sixteen now. Meanwhile, I
still felt thirteen. It would be a waste of a phone call.
I memorize his number.
Peter and I met back in the second grade. He was always a
charismatic kid, with a contagious laugh. People were always
just drawn to how witty and real he was. Among the kids in the
playground, Peter was the guy to stick with. When the second
grade started, I noticed that he and I were in the same line for
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Mrs. Hark's class. We approached one another on our walk to
our new classroom, and the rest was history. We were best buds,
and we liked people to be aware of how close we were. In
middle school, Peter grew seven inches, removed his braces,
and became the guy that girls fawned over. He had light brown
hair, blue eyes, and really clear skin. But on the handsome scale,
I was always right next to him. And since I was basically Peter's
conjoined twin, I got some girls too. But it was middle school.
Nothing was serious and everything was just drama, which I
don’t miss since I left reality. There were always a few
arguments about who liked who, and he said she said, but that
never drove a wedge between Peter and me. Almost every day
after school, Peter would go over to my house, or I would go
over to his, and we'd just sit and play video games, eat, and make
fun of people. It was a sweet ride while it lasted. He was the kind
of friend who would drop everything to help you out. I still
regret not being that kind of friend to him.
When I began cutting people out of my life during the
beginning of my germ obsession, Peter's parents were going
through a nasty divorce. He and his family were always very
close. They had family game nights, ate dinner in the dining
room, and watched movies together. But once Mrs.Pullton found
out Mr.Pullton was cheating on her, divorce lawyers,
settlements, and severe fighting invaded the calm Pullton
household and took over Peter's life.
One day, after I hadn’t been talking to anyone for over a
month, Peter knocked on my apartment door. My mother was in
the shower so she couldn't open it. I was startled.
"Who is it?" I hollered.
"Ernest, it's Peter." I could hear the sadness lump in his
throat.
"Peter?" I whispered.
"Ernest, listen. Everything is so goddamn awful now. My
parents are getting divorced and I can't do anything about it,
man. They're separating and they're trying to get custody of me,
Ernest. I can't choose who I want to go with. I'm scared. Help
me. Let me in, please."
His sobbing filled my ears. I couldn't force myself to look
through the peephole to see him cry. I wanted to let him in.
Sincerely, I did. But my body froze. I hadn't had contact with
someone other than my mother for a month and this was so
sudden.
"I can't." I sighed against the door.
"What?"
"I can't let you in, Peter," I said, regretfully.
I wanted to explain my reasoning to him. The words were
choking my tongue, but the more I thought to say the more I felt
like a complete lunatic.
“Ernest, I can't go back to my house. Please, spray me with
Lysol, anything. I need your help." He sobbed.
His vulnerability was almost unbearable. The strong leader
that once slept over at my house almost every day was now
desperately trying to get me to open the door. I remember
wondering whether he was more unnerved about his parents’
divorce or more frightened that his best friend refused to let him
in for guidance. I imagined a giant green germ crying outside
my door, trying to give me diseases, trying to make me cry and
have a panic attack. Not Peter. I tried pushing the thoughts out,
to just imagine my broken best friend on the other side of the
door.
"I can't. I'm sorry." Crippling pain shot through my palms
and into my chest. I would have rather died of a heart attack at
that moment over anything else but this.
I heard his fist slam up against the wall. I jumped back. The
punch was so rocklike. I imagined that Peter shattered the bones
in his hand. I waited for him to scream. For a long time there was
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a lot of silence. The kind of silence that is just so loud, you want
to curl up in a ball and scream.
"Fine!" He screamed, finally. "I thought we were best
friends, Ernest! I thought you would be there for me! I'm your
friend! Get over yourself!" Then followed the thumps of hurried
footsteps, and the muffled slam of my front door.
That was how I lost Peter Pullton as a best friend.
4.
I can’t stand being on my computer much, ever since I read
Peter's message. Memories that I tried to erase were just
flooding my mind, and when you’re home alone the memories
just seem to echo throughout the atmosphere.
I read for about fifteen minutes. An article about how to
have a successful home-based business in some magazine. The
magazine is pretty interesting, to say the least. In another article,
it includes a list of Chicago’s 100 Most Eligible Bachelors. Not
that I’m interested in meeting a single man in my area who
enjoys fine wine or anything. But it is almost enjoyable reading
about the saps who have loads of money from their law firms
and constructing businesses, handsome faces, built bodies, but
no ladies to share all the loving with. I guess they sought out the
magazine for some comfort and hope that beautiful women
would land on their doorsteps and fall in love with them, and not
their money.
I flip through the magazine a while longer. I have a pair of
gloves on, and after awhile the smell of latex gives me a splitting
headache. I go into the kitchen to trade the latex gloves for my
oven mitts because they are warm and smell like cookies. As I
begin to disinfect my cup in Clorox bleach, cries of people
invade my ears. Muffled cries of hundreds of people, followed
by the scuffling of feet above my head. When you live in a giant
complex apartment in the city, on the fifteenth floor, you are
bound to have one upstairs neighbor with a lead foot. Only this
thump of a foot is causing the shouts of civilians.
Something is going on outside.
5.
Slowly, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room.
Though the apartment isn’t very large, the living room is very
airy due to the two large windows that look out over the city of
Chicago. The view is quite nice when you grab a chair and peer
out into city life.
However, looking outside the window, the sheer aura of
what is outside is frozen, like time has stopped. The only thing to
remind me that civilization has not ceased to exist is the
screaming of people floors below me. I draw in a deep breath.
All of a sudden a loud voice envelops me.
“Mr. Bailey! Please retreat back into the building! We will
be able to work out your situation if you would just step inside!”
A megaphone. That’s what they are using. Why is someone
using a megaphone? Who is Mr. Bailey? I bolt toward the
window and peer outside. My alligator oven mitts cover my
gaping mouth.
Hundreds of people stand in the street. Six news channel
vans have set up along my block, all babbling in unison. Police
vehicles line the corners as police officers rope off a large throng
of people who can’t seem to take their eyes off the sky. There are
cameras in all directions. Firefighters talk amongst themselves as
they raise the lift connected to their truck.
What the hell is going on?
Looking at all the people standing outside begins to test my
composure. So many people. So many faces.
So. Many. Germs.
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I run from the window and close my eyes for a good five
minutes before I can open them again. I take in fifteen deep
breaths, followed by thirteen, then ten, then five, then two. Mr.
Russo said counting while breathing shuts the panic button off in
the mind quicker because you’re focusing your attention
elsewhere. Despite the anxiety, I’m intrigued by what is
happening outside. The cries of people and the unison they share.
Looking up into the sky is just enough for me to want to walk
back to see what’s going on. So, I pull myself together and look
outside once again, this time to see a suede loafer dangling above
my head.
“No! Let me be! I don’t deserve to live! I have nothing to
offer!” screams a voice not below me, nor in the apartment
above me, but floating above my head, outside the window.
A man in a nice gray suit. A man who is delusional. Within
seconds, his full body has slammed up against my window,
which causes me to belt out a blood-curling scream. The man
begins to find his footing on the ledge of my level. With every
step, the multitude of people below scream in fear. It’s like this
suicidal man’s every move has the ability to control every
onlooker’s vulnerable emotions.
“Take those damn cameras out of my face! Let me die!”
screams the man again.
He sounds ferocious. I imagine King Kong hanging on my
ledge waving off airplanes. I approach the window once again.
“Mike, suicide is not the answer. Come down,” says another
voice in a calming tone from the crowd.
From the sound of the voice, and the use of the man’s first
name, I realize this person must know him. Possibly his friend,
brother, cousin. Hopefully, his therapist.
“The only way I’m coming down is by flying and landing
dead in the middle of the street,” cries the man, now known fully
as Mike Bailey.
I’m confused. If Mike wants to die so horribly, why hasn’t
he just jumped yet?
A sudden rush of guilt runs up my spine. If this man jumps
and falls to his immediate death, and I just watch from my
window as thousands stand yards below us, will it be my fault?
I stare down at the police officers. All of them, like the
crowd of onlookers, stare at the suicidal man in awe, without
knowing what to do. How can anyone stop him from killing
himself and putting on a show for the whole state? Maybe even
the nation. No one is entering the building nor leaving the
building. Time has literally frozen. I begin to think about the
other people in my building, all of them probably watching the
action on flat screen televisions since the police officers are
ordering tenants to stay inside. I’m glad the chief police officer
asked all of us to remain inside the building because I feel less
odd about staying in my apartment 24/7. I feel like this gives me
an excuse.
I peer out the window once again. Everyone is wearing
shorts and tank tops. Women have their hair tied up, and some
men have a glaze of sweat across their foreheads. It must be at
least 80 degrees out today. The sun is blazing against my
window. Isn’t Mike hot in his suit? I guess that really doesn’t
matter. Then I catch my first good glimpse of the man on the
ledge.
He’s a very tall man, with very large hands. Tan. His black
and blue tie is untied and hanging around his neck like he’s just
had a long, tiring day – which I guess seems about right. His
black hair is blowing in the wind as he looks up at the sky. His
face is ridden with red blotches and his eyes are blood shot. Has
he been drinking? And the most noticeable feature of this man
sitting hundreds of feet above the ground is how devastated he
looks. I can almost touch how depressed he is - even though I’d
never touch him. I can see that he longs for a way out of his
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misery while a crowd eagerly awaits his decision to die or live.
This man needs help, but who’s really going to get up and help
him?
Before I can answer my own question, I feel my legs run out
from underneath me and into my bedroom. There, I pull out my
Ultimate Supreme Safety Box, which is hidden above my closet.
This closet holds all the contents I need when I’m about to have
contact with a complete stranger who might have a terrible,
contagious disease. You can never be too safe. I tie six safety
masks around my mouth, goggles, ski hat, nose plugs, and latex
gloves with my oven mitts over them. To top it all off, I put on
my yellow rain coat that’s been covered in Lysol.
I am more than prepared to save the life of a crazy man,
since I myself am a crazy man too. That’s what the crowd is
going to piece together once they get a look at me.
What if he’s dirty? What if he’s bloody? What if he spits at
me? What if I fall out the window and die on the polluted, filthy
street? What if he’s a murderer? An ex-con with a fetish for
germaphobic boys? What if he coughs on me? Pees on me?
Touches my face? Looks at me?
I exit my room, and peer out the living room window. Mike
is pacing the ledge like an agile cat now. For a man that was
about to plunge to his death, he surely kicked the fear of heights
in the nuts.
I suck in all the oxygen out of my inhaler, and wipe my face
down with hand sanitizer. The burning cleanness of the sanitizer
gives me the confidence to approach this man.
This is why my mother should never leave me alone.
Just when I go to open the window, the phone rings.
“God!” I shout and quickly run for the phone.
I take off my oven mitt and pick up the home phone. My
mother is shouting on the other end.
“Ernest! Baby! Are you okay? Did you have another attack?
I saw what’s going on the news. Are you scared? I left my
meeting early. Don’t worry, baby. Everything will be okay. They
aren’t letting me into the building, but I’ll fight until I get in.
Ernest?”
Mom’s mile-a-minute sentences throw me off.
“I’m fine. The man outside isn’t,” I say.
“Ernest, he isn’t covered with germs. The germs are inside
his head. He’ll eventually come to his senses. Don’t worry,” she
says softly.
“I’m going to help him come to his senses. I have to.”
“Ernest. Don’t you dare get involved, you hear me?” Mom’s
tone takes a nasty, stern turn.
“Too late. I already am.” I hang up the phone.
6.
A gust of wind runs along the sides of my face as I pop the
window open. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but I fear
that will just freak Mike out and cause him to fall. He’s sitting
now. On the ledge. His legs are crossed at the ankles and he’s
fidgeting with his thumbs. He stares at them intently as if there’s
nothing wrong with him casually sitting on the ledge, sixteen
stories above ground, in the middle of this beautiful day. (I
forgot how nice it feels to have sun hit your face, although I can
possibly get skin cancer because I have no sunscreen on.) His
face is swollen and red. He’s been crying.
“Hello. I’m Ernest Rykes," I say sheepishly.
Mike doesn’t flinch. My words are suffocated by the bulk of
my face masks, so I speak up.
“Hello! I’m Ernest Rykes!” I shout.
The man shudders and cocks his head towards my direction.
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“Mike Bailey.” He introduces himself, as if we are meeting
in a coffee shop on ordinary terms. His nonchalant reaction to
my presence is flabbergasting.
“You in the rain coat, you must retreat inside your
apartment! You’re not licensed to talk to this man,” shouts yet
another police officer through a megaphone.
Mike stares down at the officer with the megaphone. I
imagine how many people must have used that megaphone today
without cleaning it. I shutter, and ignore the cop.
“Mike, do you mind if I ask you one question?” I try not to
look down at all the people staring up at me, but from my
perspective, they all look like really obedient ants, and the
comfort of still being three-fourths in my apartment relaxes me. I
squint my eyes to blur out the height. To blur out the germs.
“Whatever,” replies Mike.
His voice is vacant and brittle, like an empty turtle’s shell.
“Why are you on my ledge? Not that I mind you sitting
here.”
Actually, I do mind. I mind a ridiculous amount, because
now I feel compelled to help you and put myself at risk.
“I want to die,” he says. His face is gaunt and white. He is
the portrait of a man defeated.
“Why?”
Mike turns his head towards me and runs his fingers through
his black hair. He’s a very handsome man now that I’ve had a
better look at him. Broad shoulders, piercing, green eyes. He
can’t be more than 40.
“Why do you care, anyway? Why does anyone care?” He
shouts at the crowd, even though I was the one who asked the
question.
I bob my head back into the house and grab a Clorox wipe
and a tissue. Since Mike spits when he talks, I need something to
clean my face.
“Here.” I hand him the tissue, and he takes it reluctantly. His
hand barely touches my glove and I’m so glad it doesn’t or I
would have had to drop the glove, and scrub my hand. He wipes
his nose and says, “Have you ever heard of Baily-Trust?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“I lost all of my company’s money in the stock market. I’m a
failure. All my colleagues, including my partner, abandoned
ship. My wife’s gone. My life’s over.”
“You don’t have to jump. Come inside. Well, not into my
apartment. Back upstairs.”
“Not into your apartment?” He looks at me sternly, as if he’s
offended, and as if sitting on people’s ledges is his normal way
of entering people’s homes.
“No. I mean, I would love to have you over, but no one’s
allowed in my apartment.”
“Why not?”
“Um, germs.” I fake laugh.
“Germs?”
“I’m a germaphobe, Mr.Bailey. I hate germs.”
“Wow. So what made you come to talk to me if you fear
germs?”
“You need help, don’t you?”
Mr. Bailey reflects on my comment.
“I do.” He sighs, finally.
“So, I’m helping you. Well, at least trying to.”
“Who helps you?”
“Um. My mother.”
Mr.Bailey smirks.
“But who helps you overcome your fears? Who talks you
down from the ledge, Ernest? Look at you! Just to come talk to
me you needed a hazmat suit.”
Mr. Bailey’s comment startles me. I can’t think of an
answer.
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What’s my purpose for not ending my own life? I’m a
germaphobe who hasn’t left the house in six months. All I do is
take up space and complicate lives.
I still don’t have an answer.
Mr.Bailey begins to stand up.
People begin to stir on the street. Police officers inch their
way into the building, escaping Mr.Bailey’s sight. News
correspondents begin babbling at high speed. They live for
moments like this.
I look into the crowd and see my mother having a violent
argument with a cop. She’s pointing in my direction, completely
hysterical as the cop refuses to let her pass him. She’s fuming.
She has every right to be angry.
“Mr.Bailey, this isn’t the answer! Don’t do this,” I beg,
though my argument feels hollow. The cop below me must have
heard my pleas and says, “Listen to him. Get back inside!”
I’m surprised they can hear me. I must be screaming.
“Thanks for keeping me company, kid. I’ll let God know
about you if I make it to heaven.” His left foot dangles over the
edge.
“Mr. Bailey, wait,” I cry. “I might be lost in my own world,
but you know what? I still think I might have a chance to pick
myself up. Everything happens for a reason and we just have to
search for it.” I feel anger bubble in my stomach that my
situation is being used to justify his.
Things are silent for a few minutes. The only movement that
Mr.Bailey is making is his designer suit flapping in the wind.
“You think you have a chance?”
“For some reason, yes. You should too.”
Mr.Bailey looks down at the horde of people below us.
“I know how to draw a crowd, don’t I?
I’m socially exhausted right now, but I continue the banter.
“You’d also make them cheer if you went inside. It’ll be a
good ending to a show.”
Mr.Bailey smiles. “How’d you become so smart, Ernest?”
He asks like he’s my relative whom I haven’t seen in a while.
I sigh out a breath of relief. “I have a lot of time to think.”
It looks like the worst is over. Mr.Bailey begins to take a
step back, a miniscule step that only I would notice, when a
piercing voice comes over the megaphone. A girl’s voice.
“Daddy!” A young woman with long black hair is on the
megaphone.
You can tell she is shaking like a leaf. She’s hysterical.
“Megan?” Mr.Bailey calls out. And in that one instance, his
knees buckle and he loses his footing. His one foot trips the
other. He is seconds away from losing the ledge beneath him. He
is seconds away from death. His body contorts. The crowd
screeches and braces themselves. The girl on the megaphone
falls to her knees and shrieks in terror.
I’m frozen in time.
People are preparing for Mr.Bailey to fall. Without thinking,
I feel my arms outstretch to their full extent. I open up the
mouths of my alligator hands, grab Mr.Bailey by the torso and
arm. With all my force, I attempt to pull his body into my
window. Within seconds his full body weight is leaning against
my arms. I feel my body tipping, my thighs crashing up against
my windowsill. My hands are sweaty. I feel the weight of the
world crushing my body and a hard surface cracking beneath me.
There’s a lot of screaming before everything goes black.
7.
There’s a high-pitched sound running throughout my whole
body - in my nerves, deep in my chest, in my bones. It’s so loud
that I want to escape it. I need to escape it. But I can’t move.
Everything is so dark, and I sense my arms reaching out for a
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light switch. I want to look around for someone to tell me where
I am. I feel like I’m floating on my back and being pushed very
slowly in the dark room I’m in.
“Hello?” My voice reverberates.
“No!” I scream.
The invisible force is pushing my floating, horizontal body
with such force I begin to fall into what seems like a hole. My
feet are below me, then my feet are above me. The hole is
painted in a spiral of blue and black. It’s like I’m Alice and I’m
falling down the rabbit hole.
The pit goes on endlessly. What I might fall into? Spikes?
Knives? Shattered glass? Shark infested water? Papers and
debris rising from the bottom of the pit are being blown into my
face.
My body hurts. Like the noise inside of me, the pain starts at
the core. My back is contorted, my spine possibly fractured.
However, I can’t find the words to complain. Who will listen?
Who will clean the blood blinding my eyes? I call out again. I
feel my mouth move, but I don’t hear myself. Instantly, in the
silence there is a loud thud. The bottomless pit has a bottom. I
feel like I’ve been falling for an eternity. It could have possibly
been an eternity.
“No!” I howl. Maybe someone will hear me. There’s a low
humming sound followed by loud footsteps. The footsteps are so
loud I’m vibrating.
“Hello? Help!” I scream again.
The footsteps are louder. They are coming towards me.
Someone has found me. But who?
A large doorway appears in the middle of the pit. It’s being
pushed up out of oblivion. I want to rub my eyes but I can’t find
my hands.
“Hello? Is anyone in there?” I holler.
Within a second the door flings open to reveal a white tiled
hallway. It’s so white, and pure that it’s almost a mirage.
“Hello?” I try again.
A shadow begins to appear in the tiled room. There is a
green, sparkling light behind it. The shadow reaches the doorway
and I stare closely.
“Who are you?” I cry. “Where am I?”
A skinny insect-like hand comes out of the shadow and
grabs a light fixture dangling in the hallway.
“Why sugar,” says the voice.
The light fixture points down to the shadow itself, revealing
a colossal sized maggot/monster hybrid, seething with slime, dirt
and blood. It reeks of rotting food. Tiny red eyes are now staring
into my soul, as the white mush moves like a wave and throws
me like a fastball into the hallway. I soar through the white
hallway when the voice of the maggot continues:
“You in the hospital.”
8.
Antiseptic fills my nose, a smell so familiar and so calming
that I don’t mind if I ever open my eyes again.
I have a feeling I know where I am and I begin to pray that
I’m no longer in that hellish dream. Hopefully, when I open my
eyes, I won’t encounter a maggot trying to choke me with its
massive insect arms. I decide to keep my eyes shut until I really
have to open them, which is sooner than I think because there is
a soft, teary voice cooing into my ear.
“Ernie, please wake up for Momma, please. Oh Ernest. My
poor baby.”
Mom.
This can no longer be a dream. The sound of my mother’s
cries is too realistic. I begin to open my eyes, blinking them a
few times as I adjust to the fluorescent lights dangling above my
head.
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“Mom?” My voice is hoarse, but I’m so glad I can hear
myself.
“Baby!” Mom squeals. She wraps her arms around me and
sobs.
“I’m so glad you’re all right. Let me hug you. I’m clean. I’m
clean. I’m so glad you’re all right, my baby. Let me hug you,”
she pleads.
I want to wrap my arms around her, but my arms don’t move
when my brain calls for them.
“What happened, Mom? Where are we?”
I turn my head to face her and notice that she isn’t wearing
any makeup. Her eyes are puffy and her face is almost as white
as milk. She grabs a seat adjacent to the bed, and pulls in close to
the frame. This isn’t my bed. This bed is like a crib, a beige crib
with a lot of buttons.
Oh crap.
“You’re in the hospital, Ernie.” Mom caresses my face,
clamping her lips together like a turtle’s mouth.
I had a feeling I was here, but the reality of it doesn’t fully
sink in.
I turn my head the opposite way. The room is white, whiter
than my bedroom. The large window is lined with flowers - pink,
orange, purple, and red flowers in decorated pots. There has to
be over a dozen flowers. Maybe two-dozen. Many rest on the
floor. I look over at the door, and what looks like over a hundred
cards piled on the window sill. All sorts of cards. Handmade,
store bought, some are even just loose-leaf with lots of writing
and decoration. Many are shaped like hearts. There are even a
few posters hanging around the room. They all have the same
theme:
“ERNEST! YOU’RE OUR HERO!”
And:
“YOU’RE AMAZING!”
And:
“ERNEST THE GREAT. CHICAGO’S FINEST.“
And:
“THANK YOU FOR BEING SO BRAVE!”
And:
“IT’S A BIRD! IT’S A PLANE! NO, IT’S ERNEST THE BRAVE!”
Next to my bed are dozens of gifts. Baskets of fruit, baskets
of muffins, baskets of soap, baseball gloves, a police officer’s
cap and badge with my name on it, clothing, gift cards and some
DVDS. All things I wouldn’t touch without swabbing. Scratch
that, these are all things I’d never touch since I don’t know
where they came from. I’m so goddamn confused, but somehow
I feel myself smiling.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“They’re gifts. All for you,” Mom says.
“From who? What’s going on?” I shoot my head back
towards her.
She holds her hands out and I reach for them since she’s
wearing rubber gloves.
“Listen again. Baby, you’re in the hospital. You did
something momentously brave yesterday. That’s why you’re
here.” She combs my hair back.
I look down at my body. I am wrapped in white clothes and
a white linen sheet is tucked so tight underneath me I feel like
I’m in a cocoon. A white, pure cocoon that smells of warm
linen. Tubes are entering my body in all different directions. An
IV drips to the left of me as a machine monitoring my hearts
beeps steadily.
Reality is finally setting in.
“Baby, do you remember anything about yesterday? At all?”
Mother asks.
I remember yesterday, but I don’t even know what today is.
79
“You were quite a sight. Oven mitts, nose plugs. You
seemed so brave. The whole crowd was just looking at you,
Ernie. They stared at you like you were a guardian angel, and
you were. You grabbed Mr.Bailey, when he lost his footing, and
pulled him into our apartment window with such force that he
crashed on top of you and knocked you out. You saved his life,
Ernest.”
I’m staring off into space. I remember people screaming. I
remember a crowd, wind, and a gray suit.
“How do you feel about what happened?”
My mouth is open. I can feel my tongue growing dry. I
saved a man’s life yesterday. I talked to a complete stranger. I
grabbed a complete stranger. A complete stranger fell on top of
me yesterday and knocked me out in my own apartment. That is
not a usual yesterday.
“After you saved his life yesterday, people ran into the
apartment building. They were cheering for you. Mr.Bailey had
mild bruising and he was shaking like a leaf because you weren’t
responding. The paramedics toted the both of you out of the
apartment and everyone was still cheering. All these gifts are
from people in the crowd yesterday. You’re a hero, Ernest.”
A hero.
I imagine myself soaring above Chicago, with red spandex
and a black cape. Miles above ground, watching over civilians,
saving lives one person at a time, becoming everyone’s savior.
Nah, that can’t be me.
“I …I…” I can’t seem to get these damn words out when
there’s a knock at the door and a handsome doctor on the other
side.
“Well, look who’s up! I’m Dr. Meran,” the doctor says,
smiling. His lab coat is immaculate, which makes me feel better
about him entering the room. He walks towards my bed, and
stares down at a clipboard. He marks some figures down, as he
intently examines my monitor. When he’s done with that, he
looks me dead in the eyes.
“It’s an honor to be in the same room with you, Ernest.
You’re quite the talk of the town. How are we feeling?”
“Talk of the town?” I rasp.
“Why, yes! All the news stations have been playing the
footage of you saving Mr. Bailey all day. You’re famous.”
“Oh,” I say blankly.
How do I respond to the fact that I’m considered famous in
the real world, when I have been living outside that circle for
half a year?
“You feeling okay?” He asks with a cocked eyebrow.
“Better, I imagine.” I say.
The doctor smiles at my mom and back at me.
“Good. I’ll be back in a few.” A loud voice outside the room
comes on the speaker and calls for Dr. Meran to report to the
mental ward immediately.
Suddenly, I turn to my mom and surprise myself by saying.
“I want to see myself on the news.”
Mom faces my direction.
“Sure, baby, sure.” She scurries towards the television
hanging on the wall and turns it on. It blurs out for a few seconds
and when it finally comes to, I can see what Dr. Meran is talking
about. You’d think that since I’m considered an honorary hero
they’d give me a room with a better television set.
A vivacious blonde anchor appears on the gritty screen. She
wears a purple blazer and a really gaudy butterfly necklace
hanging above her breasts. The sound doesn’t reach my ears
until my mom finally retrieves the remote from behind one of the
fruit baskets. The anchor’s red lips are moving quickly as a
picture of me and a man dangling from my apartment building
fill the top left of the screen.
“Turn it up!”
81
Mom turns it up to where it’s blasting.
“After yesterday’s failed suicide attempt by Mr. Mike
Bailey, merchandise marketer of Bailey-Trust enterprises, people
are buzzing about the mysterious boy with the rain coat and
alligator oven mitts. Who is he? The one and only Ernest Rykes.
News from Northwestern Memorial Hospital stated that both
Mr.Bailey and Ernest are in stable condition. Mr.Bailey is
undergoing a mental evaluation and therapy. To get more
information about the courageous boy in the oven mitts, our
correspondent, Mindy Soleadar, went back to the scene to do
some investigating.”
The screen flips from the blonde anchor lady who finishes
all of her sentences with a smile to another woman standing in
front of my apartment building.
“Thanks, Kirsten. Well I’m here in front of a magnificent
Michigan Avenue apartment building in which Mr. Mike Bailey
was rescued by a sixteen year old, Ernest Rykes, yesterday
afternoon. To get to know more about the man behind the
alligator gloves, we interviewed some people in his building.”
The screen transitions again to an old woman standing
behind her door as Mindy asks her, “What can you tell us about
Chicago’s hero Ernest Rykes?”
The old woman, who I’ve never seen before in my life sucks
in her teeth and spits out, “Never met him.” She slams the door
in Mindy’s face.
“Who was that?” I ask.
Mom doesn’t answer. Her eyes are still glued to the screen.
Now Mindy is in front of another door. This time a kid,
roughly my age, emerges. Jack L’dell. He used to go to my
elementary school until he transferred out in the fourth grade to
go to Catholic school. We used to be Book Buddies.
“Ernest? He used to be a pretty chill guy when I knew him.
Haven’t seen him in years. Real smart kid though.” Jack’s voice
is deep. Seems like puberty hit him with a frying pan.
“Years? But you two live in the same building.” Mindy says.
“Guess we always miss each other.”
The screen transitions again to the front of the building. I guess
they couldn’t really find anyone in the building who had any
current news about me.
Mindy is now talking to a tall fellow in a black suit. He is
holding a large cup of coffee.
“What do you think about the boy who saved Mr.Bailey from the
ledge yesterday afternoon?”
The man smirks and looks directly into the camera, “That
kid is one of the bravest people on the face of the planet.”
Mindy interviews a few other civilians and they all say the
same things in the cheeriest of voices:
“God bless that boy.”
“He has a lot of guts!”
“He stuck up for this guy while everyone else just stared.”
“I have a pair of alligator oven mitts now just because of
Ernie!”
“I would love to get to know him.”
I steal the remote from my mom’s hand and shut off the
television.
I’ve heard enough.
All these people who have never met me, ever, think I’m
someone to look up to. Not one of them is aware of who I really
am, and what’s wrong with me. They see my oven mitts and my
raincoat as almost a cute show I put on for them other than a
cloak to mask my fear of all of their germs. They want to know
me, they want to shake my hand. They want to talk to me face to
face. Interviewers are probably clawing at the hospital entrance
as we speak. But how can I face everyone when that’s the one
thing I fear the most? My secret of being a germaphobe is well
concealed and now I’m on the news and people want to get to
know me. What are they going to say when they find out that I’m
83
a freak? That I’m scared of all of them? That I see giant germs
crawling in every direction? That I’m home schooled? That I
never leave the goddamn house?
9.
I must have fallen asleep after my little discussion about
yesterday with my Mom. It’s weird that I’m not even sure what
time it is, and it’s weird that I didn’t even care to ask.
Through the window, I see the sunset. Burnt sunlight covers
my face. I don’t move. The sun as it sets is like a liquid, sending
radical waves of calm throughout my entire body. The window
looks like a Renaissance painting, the sunset being the focal
point, the rays glorifying its edge.
The sun seems to run down my face until it fully fades.
Illuminating my face are the busy lights of Chicago. I’m alone in
my hospital room.
Thank God.
I turn my body so I’m lying stiffly on my back. I feel
sweaty. My hair is very greasy and my mouth is dry as a desert.
But my body is so drugged that my mind is on vacation and took
all of my cares with it.
Some new posters have been added to the wall. Quite a few,
actually. A neon yellow one that says GET WELL SOON! And
some loose leaf papers with large little-kid handwriting. More
presents lay askew in the corner, but I haven’t the effort to check
them out. Still, nothing is piecing itself together. I mean, I feel
the pieces in my head, like a puzzle. But only part of the puzzle
is put together.
I draw in a deep breath. That’s all I really can do. The room
looks like it has been cleaned up. That’s always a pleasant
surprise.
I feel a sudden tingle of thirst. I try to avoid entangling
myself in the countless tubes that seem to be connected to every
inch of my body. Luckily, the ice chips are still in solid form. I
nibble on them, keeping them steadily on my tongue until my
tongue goes. At first, the scratchiness of my throat makes me gag
in response to the rush of cold, but then my throat relaxes. I’m
finally alleviated from such dry pain. I wish I could take a
shower - a nice, hot shower, with lots of hypoallergenic soap. I
need to wash away the layer of night sweats. My germ sensors
are sounding in my head. I so badly want to have a panic attack
to remind me of who I am, but with all the sedatives still in my
body, I can’t find the energy.
I turn my head and stare at the clock, ticking away on the
wall: 7:45 p.m.
If I was home, I would be in my bed right now, warm under
my clean sheets. I would be myself, not a national hero. Maybe
not the self I long to be, but the person I tried to keep safe - the
odd, fearful person I kind of got used to. The only thing filling
my head would be the sound of my heartbeat, not the cheers and
praise of civilians. My mother would be on the couch, eating a
late dinner, and watching television. She would have the
television almost on mute so she wouldn’t disturb my sleep. I
always wanted to tell her I wouldn’t mind if she had the
television on, but I know it makes her feel better to try to keep
me content. Like she’s helping me out in a way she can actually
understand. Right now, I’d be in my bed wondering how I can
make my mother understand that she can’t help me out. No one
can help me out. Maybe the only things that can are those
moments in life that offer us the chance to rise to the occasion to be who we really long to be.
After I became someone who lived in fear, I prayed for
something to prove to me that life’s not as bad as it seems, that
there was a chance I could become myself again, not some hero.
I just miss myself.
85
It is apparent now that we all have our reasons to stand on a
ledge, although not all of us realize we are worth being saved.
My mother gave up her life to adjust to mine. She lost everything
- a husband, time to relax, a normal family. And for the price of
what? To be the mother of a hero without a cape? I imagine her
sitting on the couch in our living room with her forlorn face, and
her disconnected eyes, watching some sad romance movie on the
television. I bring her whatever she wants from the kitchen. With
my bare hands, I carry a tray for her. It doesn’t matter who
touched anything on it. The whole room is silent apart from the
sad movie and her crying. But I can’t hear her. I can’t hear her
cry. The cry is on the inside - the inside of my head and the
inside of her heart.
***** Poetry Winners *****
87
Back then, when we found that piano by Arina
Bykadorova
We found a grand piano and we played it, oh we played it.
A grand piano, we said, a great piano.
We played at night to hide the sound,
We started up, we modulated down.
We went faster, faster with each rhyme,
Our piano couldn’t ever keep the time.
So it creaked and snapped and moaned,
and beat our tune down to the bone.
The strings they broke, they snapped off one by one
The notes melted with the coming of the sun.
I lost my voice, you wouldn’t sing,
Took to flight your beaten wings.
I’d cared for naught for but our duet,
Sang it to myself at night and yet –
I left it there and since then we haven’t met.
Honey, we’re not partners anymore,
If ever our hands should meet again as four,
It’ll be the day our skill completely fails,
And we start afresh with scales.
#NERDPROBLEMS by Khadjiah Johnson
YO, my best friend is so nerdy every time she sprays her asthma
pump, it sings the theme song of Pokemon.
Her mother believes it’s Onyx-ceptable, Ekans see why.
She's so nerdy when she read the Harry Potter series, Tom Felton
invited her to his backyard to play Quidditch.
At the end of the day she opened her Chamber of Secrets and
allowed him to Slitherin’
She's so nerdy she set her short haired brown dog named Dobby
loose out of her house
Just to yell “Dobby is a free elf.”
She's so nerdy, when she asked Stev Urkel for an autograph,
He gave her a car with plane coordinates.
She's so nerdy when Thor asked “Where are your nerdy
suspenders?”
She said. . . in my bedroom “Where the wild things are”. . .
He didn’t even have to ask, he knew to bring his hammer.
Both of ‘em.
Jazmin is so nerdy, when she took a trip to Asgard,
Odin told her good thing she's dating Thor. . .
His brother’s ideas of dates were too
Lo-ki.
She's so nerdy, every time she has her period,
89
Her ovaries fix her uterus’s grammatical errors.
Those commas knock people into comas.
She's so nerdy, when she told Ms Guiseppi a chemistry joke
She turned around then took notice that all of her friends, "argon".
She's so nerdy, she costarred on Dexter’s Laboratory, as
Mandark’s laugh.
That’s when she realized Dexter’s sister really wants the
Dee-Dee.
She identifies all of your UFO’S, UWO’s, and all of your hoes'
hoes.
So nerdy when she goes to comic-con everybody dresses up as
her.
So nerdy, she helped Velma find her glasses. . now where the hell
are mine?
So nerdy, whenever Psy sings Oopa gangnam style, she is the only
sexy lady he refers to.
So nerdy, when she was born she didn't experience the Big Bang
Theory, she was the Big Bang Theory.
Pun intended.
So nerdy, whenever people sing it's raining men
In her head it is actually raining sexy shirtless men, dressed as
library books.
Oh yeah baby, turn em pages. WORK EM TRILOGIES!
She's so nerdy and aqua-listically socially awkward when she
approaches a shark,
The remix version of the Jaws theme song comes on, while
wearing a shirt with the word “Shrimpy” on it.
Ain’t nobody can hold her down with the food chain.
They ain't about that life.
She's so nerdy and socially awkward, when she said "come at me
bro",
He didn't know where she was.
So nerdy and romantically awkward, when a guy looked down
and complimented her milkshakes. . she slurped on her straw and
said thanks it's Strawberry flavored.
Jazmin Walls is so nerdy, she only uses her super power of night
vision to read books in the dark, thug life.
Hashtag #MYEYESHAVEMOREMUSCLESTHANYOURS
91
The Unity of Generations by Mie Abouelkheir
I am from the itchy red sweaters, the cold evening showers
and the sweet smell of coffee in the morning.
I am from playgrounds, subways, and trees
all of which possessed great mysteries.
I am from bookshelves, round silver tables, and cupboards;
things I always seemed to climb.
I am from the youngest of three, Cookie, and the oldest of five,
Sam;
the eye of their happiness,
and the strength of their love.
I am from the abnormal breakfasts that are considered normal
back home;
falafels, fava beans, eggplants and white cheese.
I am from the reminders “clean your room”
and “call me when you leave school”
that are always forgotten.
I am from the beaded bracelets, broken pencils, and failed
inventions
all of which occupy my bedroom floor.
I am from the television that takes up space,
while the static filled radio plays its tunes.
I am from the dirt road that curves in the distance;
containing two paths all of which lead to the same destination
while the journey for one is rough the other is smooth.
I am from the moments that we cherish in times of stress.
I am from the memories made without any warning of their
significance.
I am from everything that makes home…
My home.
***** Poetry Honors *****
93
Waiting by Nora Etienne
Raindrops sound like footsteps sometimes,
especially when I am lying awake
alone in bed
waiting for sunrise or
maybe for something else.
At times like these,
all I can think of are
unpleasant dreams until
I hear the footsteps,
and I’m sure it is you
who is walking up the front porch.
So, I run downstairs and
swing open the front door,
only to remember that
raindrops sound like footsteps sometimes.
Streets by Zenobia Lowe
The bullets, the blood, the pain, the hugs.
The sorrow, the hurt, the caskets, the dirt.
The drugs, the thugs, the cries, the lies.
The rapist, the killers, the gangs, the dealers.
The love, the hate, the lost, the gain, the police.
The detectives, the bullets through domes;
The money, the cemeteries, the abandoned homes.
The group homes, the institutions, the wars, the revolutions.
The blacks, the whites, the murders, the coffins, the dark.
The light, the cautions, the abortions, the rich, the poor.
Our world, what else is more?
95
In The Year 2020 by Ashaki Lloyd
Crimson stained were the leaves, that,
Fell from naked tall trees, which,
Scraped at a gray angry sky, in,
A world where all truth had died, and,
False sages waxed philosophical, yet,
The people grew more and more cynical, till,
The desire for the rain that came once a year, had
Grown into hysterical fear, so,
When the first rain drop fell to the ground, the,
Throngs fell quiet and there wasn’t a sound, and,
As the drops became inundating there was relief in the air, yes,
The rain had come and their world was repaired.
On Being Static by Sara Wallace-Lee
The Tao lacks those pencil strokes
of soft grey
dull empty shadows
of hesitant confidence
that you strain your eyes to see
Do not strain too hard
you’ll soon find
that lines who form meaningless nothings
and incoherent shapes in space
do not search to belong
they search to be lost
One cannot be too bold
in trying to lose oneself.
Black stands out too strong on a blank page
but white on white will never work
and darkness is only exhumed in a crowd
Do not forget where you came from.
ashes to ashes
dust to dust
here and now are cold and unforgiving
it’s harder to be lost than to be found
Do not flow with the current.
97
Do not allow yourself to be taken by the wind.
You will not ‘become one’ with shit.
You will simply blend in.
Push against it, not to be seen,
but to deteriorate
and disintegrate
and transform into sand
In searching for nonexistence
remember that appearance is deceit.
After all, fog is part transparent;
not clarity, but not confusion either
maybe I understand Ellison after all
Ode to a NYC Subway Train Car by Erika Lopez
When I ride you, it’s as if I’m in a vacuum
I seem to lose track of time
You suck me into a curious place
A place where I am among dozens
But yet somehow manage to feel so alone
No one speaks
Shh!
I am careful not to interrupt the interminable and unquestionable
silence
You provide a myriad of sights to behold
A toddler, sucking his thumb while fast asleep
A man in a business suit playing Angry Birds on his iPad
A stern woman reading the newspaper
And a sneaky man trying to read it along with her
O subway car, you contain all kinds of people
Different shapes and colors
Like creatures of the sea
I see a rainbow of faces, encircling me
People brush past my arm
Oftentimes not even stopping to mutter “sorry”
It’s NYC and we’re all in a hurry
Hours and hours I spend riding you each week
99
And sometimes I dread you
For I dread being watched by strangers
And I dread being bumped into
And standing up for forty-five minutes
Secretly praying for someone to get up
But most of all, I dread your untimeliness
Do you ever care that I’m tired and want to go home?
Nope, you don’t
Like a robot programmed for a single, continuous task,
You ignore everything around you
Bang, bang, bang
You move, move, move
Gliding through the tunnels with ease
You mimic the flow water
And yet I put up with your flaws
Because I enjoy the solitude
You provide me with a chance to rejuvenate
To think and dream without interruption
Forty-five minutes of bliss
Until I cross your threshold
And leave the void
You say adieu in your usual monotone, “Stand clear of the closing
doors please.”
And so I head out
Until we meet again

Discovering Hidden Treasures: Works by

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