The first day of seventh grade our teacher, Mrs. Mahoney, took attendance. Each name was called and answered. None of them were new. We had all known each other since at least fourth grade. My name, always the last to be called, finally came. “Whitby, Sam.” I responded, “Here!” But unusually, she didn’t stop there. One more name was called. “Zachary, Sophie.” There was silence, punctuated only by the occasional whisper or giggle. Mrs. Mahoney called, a faint frown creasing her forehead: “Sophie? Are you here?” Still there was no response. Now we were all paying attention, and we all saw the empty desk at the very back of the room. The shadowed chair sat vacantly under our stares. Just then there was a ding! from the front of the room, and everyone whirled back around to look at Mrs. Mahoney’s computer on her desk. Our teacher read her message quickly, and her frown deepened. “It seems that Sophie will not be joining us today,” she told us finally. “She has… other matters to attend to. However, she wishes you all a wonderful day at school.” Mrs. Mahoney made a mark on her clipboard, and then smiled around at us. “First on the schedule is math. Pencils out, please.” * * * During recess we all gathered by the wall of the school to discuss the mysterious “Zachary, Sophie.” John, one of my friends, spoke the loudest. “She’s new,” he announced. “Did you hear her? She wishes us a ‘wonderful day at school.’” “She’s taunting us, this hoity-toity Sophie,” scowled Winnie Adams. “Acting all high and mighty. Being snobbish.” “And what other matters do you think she has to attend to?” John added. “Sleeping in?” This idea was instantly seized upon by the rest of us. “Watching television!” “Going shopping!” “Playing computer games!” We hated “Zachary, Sophie” for not coming to school. We hated her for being new. We hated her for having other matters to attend to. In other words, we hated her for no reason at all. * * * For the next six days, “Zachary, Sophie” had no response at attendance. Every day, just after roll call, there would be another ding! She had other matters to attend to, she told us, and she would be unable to come to school. However, she wished us, her “fellow classmates, a wonderful day at school.” Every day we hated her more; we would gather in the courtyard at recess and sneer at “Zachary, Sophie” and her “other matters.” I was among them, but John was the unofficial leader of our group. “Fellow classmates! As if she has the right to say that at all,” he said one day. We all agreed. “She hasn’t even talked to us! Or seen us, or known us at all,” I added. “She hasn’t even learned anything with us! She’s not a fellow anything,” John said indignantly, and off we were again. “I hope she never comes to this school,” Winnie said darkly. But on the seventh day, “Zachary, Sophie” showed up in the front row—in a manner of speaking. * * * As soon as we walked in, we could tell something was different. Mrs. Mahoney met us at the door. “Frances, I would like you to move to the back row, to the empty seat,” she said as soon as she saw Frances, who was one of Winnie’s closest friends. “I didn’t do anything wrong!” cried Frances, indignant. “I’m not punishing you,” Mrs. Mahoney told her. “I just need your seat in the front.” We all looked towards Frances’s desk in the front row and saw, to our surprise, Mrs. Mahoney’s open computer. As we filed in and took our seats, we all glanced at the screen curiously. Finally we were all settled. We waited for Mrs. Mahoney to take up her clipboard and take attendance, but she didn’t. She took up her computer instead. The class studied the face on-screen. It was a girl’s face, with brown hair. That was as much as we could tell, because the image was of extremely bad quality. “All right.” Mrs. Mahoney tilted the screen towards us. “Now, this is my class. I’m taking attendance now.” Who was she talking to? The picture on-screen? She put the computer on her desk (screen facing us), and ran through our names. “Whitby, Sam.” “Here,” I said. There was a pause. “Zachary, Sophie,” Mrs. Mahoney said, with an air of finality. The rest of us were already whispering, taking the extra time we knew would follow to put in a few last words of conversation with our friends before math. But then a clear voice cut through the whispers. “Here,” it said. All of our heads jerked up, and we all stared with shock at the face on the screen, the face of “Zachary, Sophie” at last. * * * Because I was the last name before “Zachary, Sophie,” I was the one in charge of the computer. I was to direct the camera to whoever was speaking in class, to the board up front if Mrs. Mahoney was writing on it, to the page of my book if we were reading together as a class. I was warned severely not to break the computer, or there would be “dire consequences.” “I would also like you to bring Sophie out to recess to be part of the socialization there,” Mrs. Mahoney added. “She’s never been to school before, so she doesn’t quite know how this works. Please include her in your conversations.” At this, everyone exchanged glances. * * * At recess I dutifully took Sophie out to the wall, where we all looked at each other with helpless stares. Finally John turned the computer towards him.
Friendship
Game Time
You’re impatient. There’s no counting how many games you’ve played in your lifetime. No counting the screens you’ve set and the shots you’ve taken and the passes you’ve given and received. No counting the number of times you’ve waited in that small, dark, smelly little locker room, quick-stepping from one foot to the next. And yet, you’re the same third-grade girl, hair scraped into a reluctant ponytail, brand-new Nikes over blue cotton socks. Bouncing up and down. When? When? When do we start? Butterflies in your stomach, smile on your face. Since third grade, sure, you’ve gone to camps. You’ve guarded girls who broke your arms. You’ve gotten taller. You’ve gotten heavier. You’ve gotten older. Teammates dropped out, rejoined. You can no longer get away with wearing nothing under your jersey. Now, they whisper your name up and down the opposing bench. Girls play dirty under the basket because if they don’t foul you, you’ll go right through. The paper flashes your picture and cameras burn your eyes. But what’s different, really? You still have butterflies: spades of them. You still bounce. You’re bouncing now, in your laced-up kicks five or six sizes bigger than they were. There’s Ladell, your tiny point guard—she was tall for her age, in third grade, and they stuck her down at the block. There’s Desiree, your center. She’s been six feet since seventh grade. There’s Ellie, your wing. First player on your fifth-grade team to sink a three. They’re still here. You’re still here. So you got a little older. So you got a little stronger. So you got a little faster. But it’s the same locker room, the same girls. Your jersey’s half-untucked, the way it always is. Blue cotton socks rise from your Nikes. You’re made of bouncing and butterflies and anticipation. In ten minutes, you’ll be on that court, with Desiree stuck proudly in the middle of the jump circle. You’ll be behind her, to the right, ready to grab the ball when she tips it towards you. The bleachers will come alive. You’ll have fast breaks and steals, you’ll have turnovers and crazy threes. It’ll be just another game. The same extension of arms and legs, the same roar of the crowd. The same fumbling and breathlessness and calling out. Jumping jacks in the key, three-pointers from the right wing; pick-and-pop and pick-and-roll. L-cuts on the line. Baseline, baseline! Plant your feet and take the charge. The game’s the same, and so are you. Now, in that small, dark, smelly little locker room, you tap your feet. Across the room, Desiree’s earbuds are bleeding pump-up rap. Ellie mouths numbers as she watches the clock. Your girls. Your game. It’s almost time, and you’re impatient. Audrey Nelson, 13Bainbridge Island, WA
Only an Ocean Away
I had always lived on the floor above my best friend. I lived on the 29th floor of our building, and she lived on the 28th. All I had to do was ride the elevator down one floor. But now it’s different. Now I have to cross an ocean to see my best friend. Abigail and I had been friends for as long as either of us could remember. You would never see me without her, or her without me. We would stick together, as if glue kept us that way. We were inseparable. We were sisters. We were best friends. It all started on a crisp spring afternoon. The leaves were green; the flowers were blooming; and the sky was blue. I could feel myself smiling as I skipped to the swing set in the yard of my building. I knew that Abigail would be waiting for me there, like she always would back then, three years ago, when we were eight and in the second grade. I started to sprint over, imagining the fun we would have in my mind. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks. My stomach twisted into a knot. I saw Abigail’s tear-streaked face, and I ran towards her. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. That moment I knew, just like you know that it’s going to snow long before the first snowflake lands on your nose, that everything was about to change. I gazed up at the leafy trees and the ice blue sky. It was as if the sky didn’t care that everything was changing. Slowly, I walked over to Abigail. I crouched down next to her, careful not to step on her trembling hands. “What’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing her back, which was heaving from her sobs. I looked into her large, brown, almond-shaped eyes. “Please don’t be mad,” she pleaded. “Why would I be?” “Because,” she started to sob, “this is going to change everything.” “Wha—,” I started, suddenly concerned. “I’m moving,” she blurted out, hiding her face in her jet black hair. “To Korea.” At that moment, I felt like crying. My head started to pound, and a faint dizziness came over me. I buried my face into my hands, vigorously shaking my head. No, this can’t be happening, I thought. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I just sat there, frozen in place. I blinked rapidly to stop the warm tears from escaping my eyelids. Moving? To Korea? I asked myself over and over again. “You can’t move! No, please don’t leave,” I pleaded between heavy sobs. “I need to go. My dad got a new job. Everything’s all planned out. I don’t have a say in this. And, uh, we’re leaving in two days!” She explained, with a hopeless look in her eyes, while she pulled her shiny hair into a ponytail. “Two days?You can’t just leave me! It’s not fair! Wait a second, why didn’t you tell me?!” I could feel my face growing hot and red. “I tried to! You’ve got to understand! Please understand. I don’t have any control over this!” she said, her voice breaking. “Well, I don’t understand,” I told her, my voice growing louder by the second, “Friends don’t leave each other.” “Sometimes they have to. Sometimes things need to change,” she spoke, placing her hand on my shoulder. I pushed it off and turned away, my face flushed with anger. “No, they don’t need to change,” I argued. Things are fine as they are. Why do we need to change it? How could she do this to me? Friends don’t abandon each other, I thought. “Why can’t you be happy for me?” she asked, standing up and crossing her arms over her chest. “Why should I be happy for you?” I snapped back. “How could I be happy for you when you’ve betrayed me like this? You’re abandoning me.” “Betrayed you? You’ve got to be kidding!” she shot back. But I didn’t hear her. I was too busy storming away from her. I hate her. I’m going to hate her forever. How does she think I feel? I thought. That evening passed in a blur. I don’t remember anything from that night. Just being too angry and shaken to speak, eat, or sleep. Thoughts swam around in my brain as I laid under my covers. How does she think I feel? I asked myself again. All of a sudden, I could hear someone creeping into the room. I buried myself underneath my blankets and laid still, as if I were asleep. “I know you’re awake,” I heard a voice whisper next to my bed. “There’s no use faking it.” I knew that it was my mother. I could recognize her gentle footsteps, sneaking closer. “Abigail’s mom told me about their move,” she spoke, frowning sadly, “You’re going to miss her so much! But change happens.” “Why does everyone keep saying that?” I burst out. “Because it’s true, Evelyn. I know how hard this is, and it’s only going to get harder. Whether you like it or not, things change. People change.” I groaned, and rolled my eyes, “It’s all her fault. She ruined a perfectly good friendship.” “What happened?” My mom asked, slowly. “None of your business,” I replied, yawning. “Listen, sweetie,” my mother said, attempting to give me a kiss, “you need to go to sleep. But tomorrow, you are telling me all about what happened between you and Abigail.” “No, I’m not,” I argued. “Just come to me if you need me,” she told me sweetly, blowing me a kiss. “I love you.” “Love you too,” I muttered, half asleep. The next morning, I stared at my shoes as I walked to school. When I arrived at the classroom, I greeted my teacher, Myra, with a plastic smile and clenched teeth. Usually I would be genuinely happy to see her, but I was still upset from the previous day’s events. I glanced around at