Non-Fiction

Afterwords

By Marimac McRae

I’m on a couch that smells like someone else’s house. It’s a good smell, homey and fresh at the same time. I slide into the corner seat with apprehension, and my nervousness forms weights my ankles and wrists, manifesting itself in the awkward placement of my hands. I can’t get comfortable here quite yet, even though the seat supports me perfectly. I can’t get too relaxed quite yet. The canvas rolls out, and I feel another memory forming in the atmosphere of the dimly lit living room as strongly as if there were a temperature change.

Eleven girls lay on the floor next to me in a perfect row. The dim light cannot stick to our skin with anything stronger than a subtle orange glow. My eyes trace over the girls like a piano player would trace the keys of the piano; we both know the harmony of this unseen but understood order. They are all incredibly immobile, but their arms and legs are sprawled out in different directions, implicating a kind of motion that restlessly holds the moment still.

Through the air sifts Vivian’s voice reading to us. Bags lay empty, and we lay with them either lost to or claimed by the night. Empty and crumpled in the corner, I feel shadows from the deep creases in the deflated fabric under our eyes blooming like sunflowers. Through the shadows that bloom in the early hours of today, Vivian found her copy of the 3rd Harry Potter book. It is missing both covers, and the page corners are softened by frequent turns. Vivian reads without her glasses, but she reads without missing a word. The girls lay still in their active poses on the couch, like a piano holding out a note at the end of the song. Vivian’s story takes us to another world: a world beyond the party, a world that runs to its own music. I lose the lyrics that play in loops in my head in favor of falling into the waking dream of the post-party bedtime story that fills the air.

Made-up stories are caught in books, in lines that run straight on paper, in lines regulated by rules and managed by fonts. I want to catch this one, right now, somehow. The juxtaposition of these stories, the atmosphere’s power to transport us, and how motion is held prisoner by sleep and some softened pages. The piano keys so alive have finally fallen silent, and only an echo of us remains lingering in the solidifying air. Through the gaps, the story of our generation reaches all of us individually, I think. I don’t know if anyone else is awake and hearing this too. I don’t know if anyone enjoys this as much as Vivian and I do. But I do know that my wrists feel unbound, and I sink into the couch with a kind of belonging that I would not have felt otherwise.

But just when I think I am alone, one of the girls rings out with a smile at one of the story’s jokes. Then, another one rings out in harmony; she is smiling too.

I don’t really know what this all means. These mature girls have let this story take them as its own. Their confidence just hours before comes beaming back to me in the unspoken tongue of memory, and I wonder if this is the side of the girls that I will see when we wake up. Will we be docile or dauntless in the daylight?

The footsteps I left come back to me, shouting in the unspoken tongue of memory. They leave patterns like how-to-dance floors that become the tapestries of the night. They remind me of what happened through their brush strokes made with the remnants of motion. Memories that resonate with me fall to my fingertips, finding their place in an eternally expanding database hidden behind my locks of thick, tousled hair. Somewhere between an after party and Harry Potter, I discover I am very glad to be right where I am.

I inhale the smell of a house unfamiliar that has become familiar. I know that my last footstep of the night has become one of my favorites. I smile as my sleep-starved eyes close, and the notes of Harry Potter cloud my head and put me to sleep like they always did when I was younger.

Marimac McRae is a rising senior at Harpeth Hall, an all girls school in Nashville, Tennessee. Her work has been featured on Teen Ink and on the RunSmart blog of Olympian runner Malindi Elmore. She enjoys Cross Country, Track, Swimming, and other types of cardio-related pain. She also has worked as an executive editor for the literary magazine Polyphony H.S..

Second Chances

By Archika Dogra

I never knew that playing the sport you love could be so hard.

I started playing softball when I was in third grade after my mother had initially signed me up just for fun. I remember the first day of practice. Before I even made it to the field, I threw up in the car. You may think that I was just extremely nervous, but it wasn’t anything serious like that. I had just had a bad falafel. That’s it.

Ironically, that trivial moment seemed to symbolize the rest of my softball “career.”

Throwing up may seem to be a grotesque way of symbolizing a passion. Yet over the years I kept on finding myself quietly discarding the comments, while taking the criticism to heart. In other words, every time I was complemented, I threw it up, while every time I was criticized, I digested it. Concerning, no?

I continued playing softball in Little League throughout elementary school, just as a fun way to spend my Monday and Wednesday afternoons. However, once I reached fifth grade, softball started to become a little more serious.

I never really talked much on my team and I definitely wouldn’t have called myself a leader. Even today I find myself holding back a number of comments when taking part in friendly conversations or even team discussions. Some people regarded me as timid, some as boring, and others as “too serious.” In fifth grade, I was told by my coach to try out for All Stars. It was a one-tournament team of girls from around my area that seemed to demonstrate skills above normal standards. I was elated at the fact that somebody deemed me competent enough to try out for such a team.

I went to tryouts and made the team— which wasn’t much of an achievement, considering that basically everybody made it. The everyday practices went well and I received a number of pitching opportunities- which was at the time my favorite position. However, come the tournament, things changed.

I was benched. A lot. I didn’t even have a chance at proving myself during the games. The whole tournament I watched other girls happily prance on and off the field while sitting under the shelter of a clammy dugout. It was disappointing honestly- I was a decent player and really wanted to pitch. The only positions I played were some outfield and maybe one inning of shortstop.

Looking back at it, it makes me sad to realize that only at the age of ten I had already begun to lose my confidence.

The next season I excelled at pitching once again during Little League and was ready to redeem myself during All Stars. Come the tournament once again, I was benched more than I would have wished to be.

Was it because I was too quiet?

Should I have stood up for myself?

Was it only because of my hitting, which tended to falter at times?

I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t getting the equal amount of time that other girls were getting. I slowly started backing myself further into a corner- into a place where my coaches wouldn’t acknowledge me, my teammates wouldn’t remember me, and the team parents wouldn’t remember me. I started believing that I sucked at the one thing I loved to do. I wanted to quit, but never told my parents or my coaches. So I played on.

The summer of the tournament, I tried out for Select. I finally got in and felt accomplished. Training season came and went by and I felt ready to pitch for the season. I was anxious to pitch in my first tournament- my very first select tournament.

We traveled to Yakima for my first tournament and I was mentally going through the pitching motion at least a hundred times. I felt confident; like I had felt at the beginning of every season I had previously played. Fatefully, the end result was almost the same.

The inning for me to prove myself as a pitcher finally arrived. I didn’t execute. It was a cringe-worthy inning of balls rolling over the plate, batters being walked, and hitters being given free bases. I gave up about five runs in one inning- five runs too many. I had worked hard the whole season only to blow this one chance. When I walked off of the mound that inning, I knew what my one mistake was. I had exuded fear and anxiety instead of poise. I had thought about proving myself to others, about being benched for the rest of the season, and about not being the best on my team. I never thought about a second chance, even if I messed up. And the saddest part is- there was never a second chance.

Every day after that tournament I went to pitching practice.

Every day I played as consistently as others.

Every day I worked hard on my pitching.

Every day I waited for a second chance.

If you don’t get second chances, how are you supposed to believe in yourself? My confidence went from zero to negative. Every time I made a play, I focused on the errors instead of the successes. I slowly started being pushed out of my position at second base, even as a capable player. I didn’t even have the confidence to speak up for myself as I watched myself sitting in the dugout while other players took the field every inning. I can’t blame my coaches or my teammates. I can only blame myself.

Finally, my parents told me that if I wasn’t going to speak out, I would never get what I wanted. I was adamant that my actions on the field spoke louder than my words. Apparently, that was not the case. I had a talk with my coach, showed him the stats, and refuted his excuses. Slowly, I won my position back- but it would never win back the confidence that I needed to push me forward.

This isn’t a story about how now I’ve magically transformed into a confident and improved player. I’ve stopped pitching and I still don’t even have a consistent spot on second base on my select team this year. I’ve continually performed well, but I feel that all my coaches see are my errors. Maybe that’s true if you don’t stand up for yourself, don’t have a dominating presence on the team, or just worry yourself to an extent of making the wrong plays. However, I’ve definitely gotten better. I’ve realized that if I’m going to talk less, I would have to observe more. My coaches and my teammates can’t affect how I play. I’ve realized that the only one that can directly tear you down is yourself. Confidence is the key. And lastly, I’ve become resolute to stand by the opinion that everybody should have a second chance.

If others won’t give me one, I’ll just have to give myself a second chance.

Archika Dogra loves to write and read, along with playing outside. She plays select soccer and softball throughout the year. She will be going into high school as a freshman once the summer ends. She loves science, programming, and getting involved with her local theater. She has been recognized for her writing internationally, and also by contests such as Letters About Literature. In the future she would love to pursue acting, writing, and something STEM related, all at the same time hopefully.

Taking the Wheel

By Megan Kane

A decision made at a DMV saved my life.

Sixteen years after the fact, I’m standing in line at the local Department of Motor Vehicles. I begin to bounce on my toes as the line shifts forward—I’m approaching the moment I’ve been waiting for ever since I motored around in my plastic foot-powered yellow Jeep at the age of five and thought longingly of the open road beyond our asphalt driveway.

I lean to the right to look back into the DMV waiting room. I’ve already paid my dues there; my back is sore after sitting for hours on the cracked vinyl upholstery of the tacky plastic chairs. I’ve inhaled the heady scent of sweat and shag carpeting that oozes from the very pores of the place. I’ve listened to the incessant drone of the intercom as a string of numbers was called out, and endured the anguish of hearing, “Now serving number 182!” and looking down at the little black 291 etched on my paper in taunting black ink. Now, after the nail-biting, spine-tingling task of parallel parking and driving around the block has been completed, I have been ushered back inside to be issued that coveted square of plastic that is more commonly termed “the junior driver’s license.”

My dad is standing behind me in line. He can make conversation with almost anything, and since I’m too caught up in a daze of happiness, he has turned his efforts to the man behind us. Soon, him and the other dad—they’re an easy breed to spot, what with their polo shirts and baseball caps and shadows of anxious teens trailing in their wake—are talking about everything from muscle cars to fly fishing. The teen standing behind the other man exchanges half-excited, half-embarrassed looks with me.

The line inches forward again, and we finally reach the front. The woman at the desk smiles broadly at me. Despite the dull atmosphere of the DMV, her tone is perky as she asks for my paperwork. Then again, she only sees the success stories. Only those who have passed the test go to her. She holds the key to my future, the swath of plastic that will change my world.

She asks me for the necessary details—name, date of birth, address, etc.—and I rattle them off eagerly. I’m already picturing what I will do with my newfound independence. I think of the places I’ll be able to go now without becoming tangled in the schedules of my two younger sisters. I think of the few friends I’ve confided in about my plans for today, just in case I failed, and how I will now broadcast the story to anyone who will listen. I think of the endless places to which I can now drive and the endless things which I can now do.

But then, the woman at the desk asks her last question. She pauses before she does so, and taps a space on the application with a long pink fingernail. Then she squints up at me over her red-rimmed glasses, as if examining something within me that is beyond the surface details of age, height, and eye color.

“Do you want to be an organ donor?” she asks me.

In that moment, I’m not thinking of the future. Instead, I am transported back into the past.

First, I’m four again, squirming against the nurse who is holding my arm on the edge of the cold metal hospital chair. She’s armed with a needle she calls a “butterfly,” but even this insect euphemism does not completely reassure me.

Then I’m eight, pursing my lips in an oval so the clear liquid medication dribbles down my chin. I’m on a futile quest to keep it from touching my tongue, but my mom just hands me a glass of apple juice to wash the taste away. As I swallow I feel bitter chemicals coursing down my throat along with the tangy, fruity juice I will never completely enjoy again.

But then I’m two, peering down through the soft blue folds of the blanket into the eyes of my baby sister. I’m five and hiding on the soft wood-chip soil under the jungle gym with my friends and our Beanie Babies, and we’re on a mission to save the kingdom before the lunch bell rings. I’m fourteen and riding in a pink Jeep over the bumpy desserts of Sedona; I’m twelve and bobbing between the cool ocean waves on a scorching summer day. I’m singing and dancing and laughing and crying and trying and failing and doing thousands and thousands of things as the movie of my life reels through my head. Some are good, and some are sad, and a few of them are just plain embarrassing.

All of them, though, have one thing in common. In all of the millions of memories housed in the scrapbook of my head and my heart, I am very much alive.

And this is because one day, over sixteen years ago, another girl stood at another DMV counter and answered the clerk’s last question with a “Yes.” And because of that that one simple decision, that girl’s liver continues to live on in my body, even after she passed away in a motor vehicle accident.

At six months old, I became the recipient of an organ transplant.

Because of this, I stand in the DMV counter and give the only answer to the woman’s final question that I possibly can. It is the only answer that seems right. It is the only answer I hope I would give even without sixteen years of personal experience regarding the perks of organ donation.

You see, organ donors are few and far between. Though ninety percent of Americans claim to support organ donation, only thirty percent check that little box at the DMV that commits them to the task. An average of twenty-two people die each day while on the transplant waiting list (organdonor.gov). Sixteen years ago, I was fortunate enough to be taken off the list just in time. I am incredibly grateful for the liver I was given. Of course I have been subjected to medications and hospital trips and tests for most of my life. I’ve also been subjected to family and friends and school and travel and everything that makes life wonderful. For me, it’s a fair trade. And I think that others deserve the chance to experience life as I have.

So I look the woman behind the desk straight in the eye. Her face is framed with frizzy blond hair, and she wears an unremarkable green polo. Even in such a dull, dreary place, I think she knows, too. I think she knows what an impact one simple answer can have. I think that she knows, as I know, that if enough people answer the right way, there won’t be a need for a transplant list. I think she knows that if the generosity of my own organ donor were to be felt by everyone receiving a license today, we could become a society remembered for giving gifts that lived on well after our lives had run their course. I think there is a glimmer of hope in her eye that is realized as I respond, “Yes.”

Sixteen years ago, a decision made at a DMV saved my life. Now it is my turn to take the wheel. Who will join me?

Megan Kane is a rising sophomore at Elizabethtown College. She is pursuing a degree in English/Secondary Education. In her free time, Megan enjoys reading, writing for the school newspaper, spending time with friends and playing the violin in the community orchestra. She lives in Clarks Summit, PA.

Man of the House

By Kenny Allen

When my little brother was born, my first reaction was that he was cute, and I’d be able to post pictures of him on Facebook. Soon I found myself watching him sleep every night because I wanted to know that he was safe. I believed that if anything happened to him, it would be my fault. It would hurt me to watch him play with older kids because they would use his toys and he’d be too afraid to tell them no. It took all the willpower I had to not step in when I watched. I was nervous about everything he did. Every time he ran, ate circular foods, played with small toys, or slept on his stomach, I got scared. My job was to protect him. He is the only person on this planet that I would sacrifice my life for.

At the age of twelve I had a funny thought, “I’m the man of the house.” It only made sense. As a twelve-year-old, I was the oldest male in the house. As I got older, it made more and more sense. If I wanted to be the man of the house, things had to change. I had to grow up quickly. I needed to be a role model for my brother, and be independent in order to make my mom’s life as easy as possible. I went from being a kid that played video games instead of doing math homework, to the person that picked up his little brother from daycare every day. I got a job, picked up my work in school, and tried to become as self-sufficient as I could. I made sacrifices, but that’s what was necessary. Picking up my brother from daycare meant that I couldn’t always hang out after school, or get dinner with my friends, but I was doing the things that had to be done.

On my way home from work, I look at my phone to see a text from my mom “We got broken into.” I couldn’t believe it. Everybody always talks about how bad my neighborhood is, but in fifteen years of living here, nothing had happened. I needed to know what was going on at home. I felt all control slipping away. Somebody had broken into my house, now my mom wasn’t responding to my texts, and there was nothing I could do. I started to play out all the different scenarios in my head. Would everything we owned be gone? Did somebody get hurt? What happened to my mom and why couldn’t she reply to my text? As I started to play out all of the possible damage that could’ve been done, I found myself running home. The first thing that I saw was my brother playing basketball, and my mom talking to a police officer. Now I’d seen everything I needed to see. Even if our apartment had been stripped to the bone, I didn’t care. My family was safe and that’s the only thing that mattered. After assessing the damage, we realized the only thing that they took was my PlayStation. The thieves had gone through all the electronics in my house, and the only thing that they had taken was a PlayStation? I’d never felt so relieved. Now it felt so unimportant that I didn’t even feel like I should even tell anybody. My mom kept asking me questions and saying things that made me realize how on-edge she was. She asked me if I was feeling okay, if I felt safe, if I thought we should stay in a hotel for the night. Throughout all of these questions, I was visibly happy. However, I knew that the feelings wouldn’t last.

A common theme after somebody experiences a break-in is that they don’t miss their belongings, but they miss their sense of privacy and security. As I lay in my bed that night, it began to hit me. I felt that no matter how hard I worked, somebody could just kick my door down and take everything away from me. Everybody’s home is supposed to be the place where they feel comfortable. My room has things on the walls that illustrate who I am. But that day, my home felt like it belonged to more people than just me. It belonged to the people who kicked my door down and took my things. Before my house was my safe-haven, now it felt like anybody that wanted to have access to it could have it.

Not only did I feel like they had access to me, but they had access to my family. The way I used to watch my brother sleep, the thieves could do that now if they wanted to. As the so-called “man of the house,” I had taken on the job of protecting my home and the people in it. After they kicked down my door, I knew that as a protector, I had failed.

Kenny Allen is a rising Senior who lives in Boston. He’s very passionate about politics, and his writing typically reflects that.

First Dose of Belle

By Garrett Bledsoe

Being the new kid at a school can be an exciting change, but at the same time it can be nerve wracking. Now, imagine your first day at this school full of strangers is actually your first time at a public school altogether. Sounds pretty terrifying I know, but it wasn’t as bad as you’d think.

Back in the year 2006, my family moved to the outskirts of Belle Missouri. It wasn’t a huge move, just about thirty minutes away from the only home I’d ever known. One thing was for sure; the scenery was entirely different from what I was familiar with. I had come from a small neighborhood where I was a few feet from other people’s homes and small businesses. Now I was surrounded by blue skies, wooded areas full of creatures, and of course the empty road that lead us there. I didn’t even care that my family of six had to cram into a doublewide trailer, that’s how much the new area interested me. Too bad I didn’t share the same enthusiasm for public school.

I was home schooled my first three years of education, because certain Linn teachers were unethical. It wasn’t so bad, I got to stay home in my Batman pjś and go on “field trips” with my mom and brother to the grocery store. I even got social interaction during swim class with my best friend from my pre-school days. However, I was still neurotic about public school. I was a short and stout eight-year-old boy with thick glasses that made my eyes look like tiny hazel planets, so I was a dorky looking kid. What countless movies and TV shows had taught me to believe about school was that kids like me got bullied. Of course in all of these shows and flicks, the nerd ultimately wins in the end and everything works out. Being the pessimistic eight-year- old I was for some reason, I was sure that I would get beat up and someone would take my lunch money and I wouldn’t win in the end.

Unfortunately for me, the time had come. I had rushed my porky little self to get ready; because there was no way I’d miss the bus on the first day. If that had happened surely word would spread and I’d be labeled “The Bus Misser,” or so my eight-year-old brain thought. My big brother, Braxton, and I scampered out into the dew-covered grass of the dim gray morning. Braxton didn’t seem even a fraction as terrified as I was, and he was going to the middle school! Everyone knows middle school is three times as dreadful as elementary. Again, I was eight. Anyway, the enormous bus pulled up and opened up to reveal a rather pleasant older lady named Susan. She smiled warmly at us and invited us on her bus. As we sat down no one threw trash at us or called us names. Maybe the day wasn’t going to be as bad as I had thought.

The day went by fairly quickly after the long bus ride. My teacher was very pleasant and all the other kids greeted me with smiles. At this point, I was starting to believe the events of movies were greatly exaggerated. The only real downside was my classroom smelled of skunk. I kid you not there was this foul odor of what I could only assume was a rotting animal. I couldn’t theorize about how a classmate must bring road kill for lunch all day though, I had to actually pay attention in class. Everything was going fine too until I accidentally called the teacher “mom”. This caused some “cute” girls to giggle quietly and my face to light up like a red sun. The teacher just smiled and carried on with the lesson.

By the end of the day, I had done a complete emotional 180. No longer was I stressing over the dangers of TV show bullies, instead I was enthusiastic about all the new people I’d met and the magic that was recess. I’d even made my first new school friend and he rode the same bus as me. Even more importantly though, I had actually talked to girls, real girls that I was not related to! I was having the time of my pudgy eight-year-old life and the happy train didn’t stop there. When we got home we were greeted by the wonderful smell of delicious fudge brownies. What a pleasant first day.

Apparently being the new kid isn’t always as bad as Hollywood thinks. There were no wedgies or humiliations, just new people to meet and experiences to be had. Of course this was only the third grade, a whole new set of fears would be invented when middle school reared its hideous face. That’s a story for another day though. Just kidding, that’s a story that won’t be told.

My name is Garrett Bledsoe, I’m eighteen, and recently graduated.I wrote this reflection piece for my Creative Writing class. In that class I’ve grown as a writer to the point of being confident enough to share some stories. Thank you for reading.

Kingdom of Ladybugs

By Luna Moore

I sat in my imaginary sandbox underneath the twin orange slides on the school playground. Last Saturday was my first time seeing Harry Potter, and I was trying to recreate the scene where Harry writes himself a happy birthday message in the dust. I watched as the other first graders laughed their way through a seventh game of hopscotch. I spent every recess in my imaginary sandbox counting everyone else’s hopscotch rounds. My friends Rose and Leyna sat inside the grey, donut-shaped wall that surrounded the playground. Bored of watching other people enjoy themselves, I decided to go talk to them. But as I got closer, I noticed that they had a book in their hands.

“What are you doing?” I pointed to the book.

Leyna glowered at me and hid the book from me. “None of your business. Only Rose and I can read this book.”

I crossed my arms and snapped, “Who made you the ultimate ruler of books?”

“It’s not like we don’t want you to see it,” Rose said. “But, you don’t even know how to read, so you can’t see it.” Rose shared a look with Leyna and they both giggled.

“I can read!” I stomped my foot, and they both started laughing.

“Then prove it,” Leyna handed me the book.

I looked at the first page of the book, but all of the letters jumped around the page and rearranged themselves until they no longer looked like individual letters, but rather a jumbled blob of my fears.

“L-L-I-O,” I stuttered, hot tears falling down my cheeks while Rose and Leyna cackled like a pair of drunken hyenas.

“I can’t believe you don’t know how to read?” Leyna asked, not even attempting to control her own laughter.

“S-s-stop it,” I stammered.

“Look, she doesn’t know how to talk either,” Rose howled.

“You’re stupid,” Leyna said.

I turned to walk away, but Rose said, “Luna, come back. We were only joking. You’re my bestest friend.”

How innocent her face looked when she said it, her big doe eyes staring at me, a sweet smile plastered onto her face. Part of me wanted to stop Leyna from stealing my “friend,” but before I could respond, the two of them laughed again. I used all of the strength in my legs to run away from them as fast as I could. I swung open the bathroom door, ran into a bathroom stall, and stayed there until recess was over.

That day I told myself that a kingdom of ladybugs inside my body had frozen my throat, and that’s why no words would come out when I tried to read. I wish I still believed that. From what I remember, Rose and I were close in first grade. What confused me was that Rose was always nice to me–except when Leyna was around. When she stared at me with her big, brown eyes that day, I figured she was about to stand up for me. I secretly hoped that she would push Leyna into the road and let her get run over by a massive truck.

Almost a year later, I sat in Mrs. Sontag’s second-grade classroom during the first week of school.

“Luna, can you read the next paragraph?” Mrs. Sontag asked. The whole class swiveled around to face me; they were a sea of small, voracious creatures, eager to hear the rest of the story.

“Why would you ask her? She can’t even read!” my classmate Bryce said. Oh, Bryce. Little did he know that reading had suddenly “clicked” with me during the summer. Thanks to this new development, and with the help of my mom, I was now quite precocious for my age.

“Give her a chance,” Mrs. Sontag said. She smiled at me.

I imagined the ladybugs trying to freeze my throat, but this time I wouldn’t let them stop me. I opened my mouth, and the words spilled out of me like the pounding waves of the ocean. The whole class looked at me, stunned. I was so caught up in the action of the story that I didn’t realize I had read two pages when all Mrs. Sontag had asked for was a paragraph.

What brought me back to reality was Mrs. Sontag’s soothing voice. “Sweetie, why don’t we give someone else a turn?”

I looked up from the book and saw the other kids whispering to each other. There is no way to describe the overwhelming joy that surged through me in that moment. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was an intelligent and important person. The wonderful world of books was finally accessible to me, not just to kids like Rose and Leyna. I soon became the most avid reader in the class, and at sixteen, I now read at the level of a college graduate. If only Leyna could see me now. After first grade, Leyna moved to Germany and could no longer torture me. Rose and her family took a one-year trip to France, and she came back a different person. She apologized for being mean and became a true friend. Maybe she learned how it felt to struggle to be good at something, being surrounded by people who spoke French so much better than she did.

But I’ve never forgotten how I struggled to read that year and what that taught me.

Sometimes, even now, when I’m standing in front of the class, all eyes upon me as I’m about to read something I wrote myself, I feel that kingdom of ladybugs threatening to seize my throat again. But I swallow hard, remember what it felt like to read that day in Mrs. Sontag’s class, to know I had joined that secret club of imaginary worlds and boundless journeys–and my voice comes.

Luna is a high school sophomore in Southern California. She has also been published in Literally Stories. Luna has been writing since she was nine and she hula hoops to relieve stress.