There was a space. The space was empty, but, if you think about it, it wasn’t an absence; it was a presence. It didn’t belong. Inside her heart, there was the absence, or presence. In her heart was an empty space, or filled space, and it just didn’t belong. The rest of her heart, though, could take years to describe thoroughly. There was art, there was math, there was writing, there were jokes, and there was family. What was missing? In the very back, there was sorrow, but sorrow had its place. Of course, it was hidden. Everyone has sorrow hidden in them. It is human. But everything about this girl was normal. Except for the absence, she felt as if she was complete. Not special, not out of the ordinary, but she was fine. You could almost say she was perfect, but even in perfection, there are flaws. You see, even in perfection, it is hard to learn, to improve, and to do better. You cannot set goals, not achieve, for what is there to achieve in perfection? The perfection, as the girl saw it, was something she loved. But not until she learned of what that perfection did to her did she realize what it took from her. Every day, she would watch the other children get scolded, and taught, and corrected. She laughed and thanked the gods for what she had achieved. Two days later, the girl was crying. She was crying, and crying. For she was told by her teacher that she had to stay home from school. “Why?” the girl cried out. She was upset at the teacher. So, so, so upset. For that teacher, unintentionally, had spoiled her lifelong journey toward perfection. She had never cried. Even as a baby. Now she let it out, and, surprisingly, it felt good. She approached her teacher. Screams and screams were aimed at the teacher. The teacher looked hurt. What was hurt? It didn’t make the girl happy. There was something else, like the opposite of happiness. Then, she hugged her. It was a solution. Why would she need a solution? The solution helped. It filled up the hole of hurt. The hurt was still there, but it was covered, and the covering made her happy. It was an accomplishment, and that felt good. Eliana Schaffer, 11Los Angeles, CA Sloka Ganne, 9Overland Park, KS
School
The Experiment
There is an alien among us. She has built a wall across her heart, one made of sheets so thick others do not see her. Until they realize— An alien is here, an alien is here—there is the alien. She tries to walk the halls in silence, tries to creep up to classrooms. It works, and the alien is not noticed. * * * Homework. “Damn it,” I mutter to myself quietly. But everyone hears, and they crowd around me. “Are you hurt?” “Is there anything I can do?” “If you need anything, just tell!” I force a smile upon my face. “I’m okay—I just forgot my homework.” A girl whom I have never once noticed in my life walks up to me. In her hand is her homework. * * * This alien—she is an experiment. She is a fake, she is different. And she knows that nobody will try to break down that wall around her. Who can see her first behind those green paper walls? * * * Maybe it’s because I’m rich, because my dad is a millionaire. I know nobody wants to be friends with a nobody. I know that nobody would willingly give their own homework away . . . To a nobody. Who will like me once I grow up? Once I am not different from the rest of them? * * * This alien, she knows that everyone loves that wall. They probe and push and talk. They do not care. She is an experiment, a test to see who can take away that wall first. * * * I walk these halls alone. Nobody comes to me until they realize that it’s her, the girl with the money! Soon enough, I might forget who I am. I might just be the girl with the money. * * * This experiment is gone. This experiment is a nothing. Julia Li, 12Mason, OH Daania Sharifi, 13Gainesville, VA
Tree Swallow
I open my eyes and hear a Song Thrush outside. When I was little, my grandfather taught me the names of all the local birds and how to recognize them. His favourite was the Tree Swallow. He loved its shiny green feathers and the way it swooped and flew in the sky. I glance at the clock on the wall; it says 6:30am. I get slowly out of bed, not wanting to go to school. Last Thanksgiving, Mrs. Kent asked the class to write an essay about something for which we were thankful. Most kids wrote about being thankful for having TVs or the latest computer games. I wrote about my grandfather. He died in October. He was my best friend. We would go to the apple orchard together to eat apples while we bird-watched. But this autumn we didn’t get to go because he was sick and a couple of weeks later he died. My life crumbled, like an old wall too tired to keep standing up, once he was gone. In the essay I spilled my feelings (sadness, fear, dread, anger, questions, spite, longing, and darkness) onto the paper, not knowing that the teacher was going to read them outloud. So, when she did, it kind of scared the class and startled the teacher. They didn’t know how to react to what I wrote so they started to avoid me even more than before. I was never one of the group, but when Grandpa was alive it didn’t matter because he was the only friend I needed. I drag on a pair of jeans and my orange turtleneck. I shuffle down the corridor into the kitchen where Mum is putting a bowl of oatmeal on the table for me. “Sorry Sweetie, but I have to go to work,” she calls as she shuts the front door. “Have a good day!” “Bye,” I mumble in response. It’s not her fault she has to go to work so early. Since Grandpa died, I’ve gotten used to being alone. I pour myself a glass of apple juice and eat my oatmeal. The sun has just started to golden the sky, rays of light seeping through the curtains. I make my lunch, grab my backpack and pull on my red and orange poncho. Out of the house the cool breeze caresses my nose and cheeks. I get my bike out of the garage. It’s leaf green and rather muddy. In the spring air, on my bike, with the wind whipping my face, I feel like a bird. My grandfather used to say I was like a Tree Swallow, flying free, soaring into the clouds. After riding down the hill I go straight on a dusty path, then I turn right onto a track that runs the side of a field. By now the sun has really started spreading its light on the world. Jumping off my bike, I leave it leaning against a bush. I throw my backpack next to it and rush to my oak in the middle of the field. Its gigantic arms are waving at me. I wave back and climb up to the first big branch. Taking the next branch in my hands, I swing myself up. Up and up I go. Leaves brushing my hair and branches scratching my face. Reaching the top is always the best, the reason I climb my oak every day. To see the world as if I am on top of it. I’m sitting on the very last branch (it’s a bit flimsy but I don’t weigh much). From up here I can see the rolling hills and the mountains beyond. As I look over the hills the cool wind ruffles my short brown hair. The wind up here is so much nicer than the wind down below. It’s always cool and carries the scent of the hills with it. I found this tree just after my grandfather died. At first I used it as a hide-away, and I still do, but now I come here to hide from the world, not just my grief. I wish I could let go of the branches and fly into the clouds. Not a worry in the world, nobody to tease me, not having to endure school where everyone avoids me. I would be free from all my troubles. I stay up for a long time and then look at my watch. Shoot! I’m going to be late. I scramble down the tree. “Ow!” A branch scratches my cheek. It stings. Shoot, shoot, shoot. I run full pelt to my bike, grabbing my bag as I launch myself onto it. I ride as fast as I can, hoping the bell won’t ring before I get to class. I pull open the classroom door just as the bell rings. My hair is windswept, my face is flushed and my cheek still stings a little but the man behind the desk doesn’t seem to notice. “Glad you made it,” he says. “Please take your seat.” I sit, wondering what’s going on. The man with the awesome ponytail behind the desk isn’t Mrs Kent. Someone kicks my chair and someone else whispers but then everybody quiets down as the man at the front starts to speak. “Good morning everybody. I’m going to be your replacement teacher for the rest of the year because Mrs. Kent has just had her baby. My name is Spencer Torents. I love words, dark coffee, and guitars. I also just got back from a month long bicycle trip in New Zealand. Now, I’d like to get to know you guys…” He’s probably going to get us to write a page about ourselves so he can “get to know us.” It’s not that I don’t like writing (I love writing!), it’s just that I’ve learned not to put anything real onto paper. “So, for homework I would like each and every one of you to make or bring something in that represents you.
