Good Omens

Saturday afternoon stretches out lazily. There's no homework to finish. No papers to write or books to read or problem sets to solve. No exams to study for. Several hours with no demands at all. It's the perfect time to get acquainted with the school's library.

Even in late October, California is sunny and warm. The library is several blocks away, and the walk over is pleasant and drawn-out.

Four stories tall, it sits on the border of two school campuses, next to the student health center.  The entrance is beneath a walk-way, which connects the original building to a second, newer one.  The doubling of space makes the library feel larger than itself.

Swiping a student ID card grants access to the building. A quick climb up the stairs reveals the main level. To the left is the entrance to the skyway that grants access to the other half of the library. That side is mostly reference material. The stacks are on this side.

The stacks seem to exert a magnetic force. Computers and reading rooms are all but ignored on the walk to the amazing stacks, which house the literature collection. The library may be four stories tall, but the stacks have been compressed so that there are seven levels of them. The space is tight, nearly claustrophobic. All the better to pack in even more books.

The stacks only connect to the main library on a few levels. A metal staircase  runs up one side, and tiny desks are crammed in on the sides of it. The classification system is unfamiliar, but it doesn't take too long to descend to the fantasy section, all the way at the bottom. Looking for these books is like descending into a cave. It's fitting.

Terry Pratchett is supposed to be a good author. His Discworld series inspired fanatical reactions in a few people in high school. Unfortunately this library doesn't have a single one of the 30+ books in that series. At least not on the shelves. It's not that surprising, given how limited the fantasy section is. This is a research library, after all, and the focus is different from the libraries in high school and middle school.

What it does have turns out to be even better: a novel called Good Omens that was co-authored by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Gaiman has written some excellent books, so any chance to read more is well worth taking. And a co-authored book seems like a much more gentle access point to this prolific author whose inspires such ardent fandom.

The book is carried almost reverently back up through the stacks to the main level of the library. There it's checked out with the assistance of a computer. Then back up to the dorm, and the grassy field outside it. A perfect reading spot is discovered, and the book is promptly devoured in the lazy afternoon sun.

Formal Wear

I've been thinking I'd
Like to see your eyes
Open up real wide
The minute that you see me

I spent the summer of 2007 listening to nothing but The Counting Crows. Their first four albums were always on my iPad. On my computer. On repeat. On shuffle. I could have recited the lyrics to any one of their songs off the top of my head. As the summer turned into fall, those lyrics stayed in my brain, repeating themselves in snippets and snatches. But as December approached, I zeroed in on one stanza in particular.

Kevin and I had been hooking up in secret since Football season ended in mid-November. Our formal was approaching, and I was determined that we would go public that night, one way or another. I wanted him to admit that we were more than friends, to make some sort of commitment. I wanted his eyes to open up real wide the minute that he saw me. So I knew I'd need a killer dress.

I went to the local mall with my friends the weekend before the dance to find this dress. It didn't take too long for me to zero in on a purple gown. The skirt fell simply with no adornment. The torso was ruched and asymmetrical. The halter straps were decorated with shining gems. I felt beautiful wearing it, and I knew that it would match the only pair heels I owned. Although those strappy, black heels would have gone with almost any dress I bought.

On the day of, I helped decorate the dorm's courtyard with my roommate. We laughed and gossiped and she assured me that everything would go to plan. Then it was time to get ready. I'd been carefully not letting Kevin see the dress, hoping to surprise him.

The beginning of the evening found me on the second story balcony, looking down at twinkling lights and fancy friends. Kevin found me there and presented me with a rose, as the men were supposed to do for their dates this evening. And when he looked at me, I knew the dress didn't matter. He'd brought me a rose because he was feeling all the same things as me and I was beautiful because I was just beginning to fall in love.

The next few hours were a blur of roses, champagne, chocolate, and dancing. It was everything I'd hoped for from my senior prom. By the end of the evening Kevin and I had agreed to be monogomous (though that's a longer story). A friend walked in on us on the couch, so the secret was out, and my perfect dress ended the evening in a crumpled pile on the floor, exchanged for the more comfortable option of shorts and a t-shirt.

It was fun to get dressed up. It was even more fun to realize how little it mattered. To Kevin, and ultimately to me. A pretty dress is fun, but it's just a dress. Years later, when I was shopping for a wedding dress, I bought the third one I tried on. It fit, it looked good, and I didn't need the stress of finding something perfect. Especially since I'd already had the perfect dress, seven years previously, when Kevin wore a tux and gave me a rose and agreed to be my boyfriend.

Exam Day

I flip through the pages of my midterm, checking the answers one more time. I'm mad that I don't have a clue on the bonus question, but excited to be at a school where the professors are nerdy enough to ask the students to name all four members of teen girl squad for extra credit. It feels cool, in a completely uncool way. It makes me feel like I fit in, completely, finally.

I finish double-checking. Chemistry isn't my strongest subject and it would be awful to fail my very first college exam.  I think I got everything right though. Or right enough. Even with that awful song playing through my mind

I love frosh chem, I love frosh chem, I love frosh chem, each and every day

The sophomores were blasting it on repeat over every speaker on campus last night

I love frosh chem, I love frosh chem, I love frosh chem, in every single way

 Occasionally they interjected it with a loop of slightly more useful songs set to Beatles tunes.

nrt, nrt, nrt, nrt.  The pressure times the volume, nrt.

I'll never be able to listen to Let It Be again without hearing the revised lyrics. I'll also never forget the ideal gas law. I guess that's a win.

I walk to the front of the room and add my paper to the stack of completed tests. Then I turn and leave the lecture hall.

Outside, I take a deep breath and enjoy the Southern California sunshine for a moment before beginning the trek back to my dorm. I'd been hearing about this exam, the First Frosh Chem Test, since I interviewed as a prospective student. It wasn't nearly as bad as everyone had led me to believe.

I join the flock of other freshmen who have completed the exam heading back to our dorms. Everyone's chatting about plans for the rest of the day. No one has another class until the afternoon, and with the pressure of the exam gone it seems like we have all the time in the world to relax.

Approaching the residential end of campus I notice that it's a lot louder than normal. Normally the only people outside this early are either on their way to or from class. But most of the upperclassmen are outside. Running back and forth with water guns and hoses.

A water balloon splashes on the sidewalk next to me, followed quickly by another. Some of the frosh are trying to dodge out of the way, others are running to see what the excitement is all about.

The dorms are absolute chaos. A pyramid of dressers, drawers, and bookshelves is displayed in the courtyard. It seems to be as tall as the dorm itself. An entire room has been recreated in the courtyard as well. A couple of cages house freshmen who have been soaked and are now enjoying beers while upperclassmen occasionally hose them down again.

Another dorm has stacked 50 or more mattresses into a pile near the balcony. Students are taking turns jumping from the second story onto it.

A clothesline has been strung up diagonally across the courtyard with all sorts of underwear on display: boxers, briefs, panties, and bras.

There's a full-fledged water balloon fight happening, though the sophomores seem to control nearly all of the ammunition. Frosh are stealing what they can, but are usually promptly punished for their cunning with sprays of water.

I continue on to my dorm, on the far end of campus. I want to put my calculator away before joining in the fun. At the entrance to my dorm I encounter a hastily constructed labyrinth of fences. I have to go through it to reach my room, and there are sophomores stationed all around to pour buckets of water on me, drop water balloons, or spray me with a water gun.

I hold up my calculator in defense. One of them points to the alternate route that's been set up if I don't want to get wet, but I opt to simply hand her my calculator instead. They pass it along while I make my way through the labyrinth. At the other end, I feel like I've been dunked in a pool. Happily my calculator remains dry and functional.

My roommate has already been back to the room. It seems that she had to deal with a hundred Dixie cups stapled together and filled with water. I'm glad she got here first and dismantled them. I throw my stuff on the bed and dash back to the water fight and pile of mattresses. A campus-wide party is the perfect way to blow off steam after my first college exam.

Double Lecture

The alarm starts chirping and I open my eyes to see sunlight streaming through the window. It's seven in the morning, which still feels entirely too early. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, having made it through most of a year of 8 AM classes. But there are some things that I'll just never get used to, and mornings are at the top of that list.

As I move to get out of bed, arms encircle me from behind. The reason I'm so bleary-eyed this morning holds me in bed. "Don't go," he mumbles.

"I have to. I have class."

"What class?"

"Double lecture."

Everyone knows what that means. Three hours of chemistry and physics, first thing in the morning. It feels like an outdated hazing ritual. Everyone's gone through it, and those who survived are still here. They don't make it much easier for those of us currently going through it. But it's a right of passage, a way of proving that you belong at this school.

"Skip it." But I'm already extricating myself from the bed and looking for my towel.

"I would if physics were first. I can't skip chemistry. I'm barely passing as it is." The second part's true anyway. But I wouldn't skip physics either. I haven't missed a class yet, and I'd like to keep that record up.

When I return from my shower, the guy has fallen back to sleep. He's a year ahead of me, and a CS major to boot. He probably doesn't have any classes until the afternoon. I decide to let him sleep and hope that he's gone by the time I get back from class. I get dressed and check my email while the water for my tea boils. Then I grab the thermos and my notebook and dash out the door.

On the way into the lecture hall I stop for a bagel. I'm a firm believer that breakfast is not to be skipped. Besides which, the act of pulling apart the bagel, smearing it in cream cheese, and gnawing away on the chewy bread will keep me awake until the caffeine kicks in.

I find a seat near the middle of the room and set up my notebook, pencil, and eraser. The bagel goes on top, and I take notes around it for the beginning of class. I do my best to write down everything important. It's not long before I'm almost completely distracted, playing dots with my friends and keeping a tally of every time the professor says "thus". She usually averages once a minute, though it can climb higher if she's particularly nervous. I think this is her first semester lecturing.

At 9:30 we get a brief break to stretch our legs and use the restroom. A few people use the opportunity to head back to their rooms, and I briefly consider joining them. But he's probably not in my bed anymore. Even if he is, I'm not sure I'd want a repeat of last night. Attraction so rarely survives the sober light of day.

We file back in to our seats when the physics professor arrives. Switching from organic chemistry to mechanics is old-hat by now. Though to be honest I'm just taking notes on auto-pilot at this point. It's a good thing I learned most of this in my high school AP course. I'm not sure my ego could handle the frustration of not understanding two subjects back-to-back like this.

Halfway through the second lecture, it feels like my brain is liquefying in my head. This professor has no interesting ticks to track, the games with friends have fallen off, and taking notes is growing more and more tedious. The professor is aware of this, and he grants us a short break to stretch our legs and shake loose the cobwebs. Then it's back for a truly torturous 45 minutes. I'd make a bad joke about time dilation if I had the brainpower.

Finally the lecture is over and I troop to the dining hall with my friends for an early lunch. Three hours of lectures have left our brains in desperate need of nourishment and the release of socialization. The semester is almost over. Just a few more weeks of double lecture before it becomes nothing more than a bad memory and something to tease next year's class about. It's not yet clear that this is only the beginning of a truly grueling workload.

Cheerleader

She knows how it looks. Following the boys to every one of their games. Keeping track of various statistics for them. Dropping everything to spend a Tuesday or a Thursday evening at another campus, not even drinking while everyone else does. It looks a little bit pathetic, a little bit like she might be in love with one of them. And even if she is, so what? It beats the alternative.

The League was established by some guys a couple of campuses over, and her friends were quick to sign up. They dubbed themselves Team Holy, and she immediately signed on as their first cheerleader. Or maybe she's a groupie? Keeping score makes her feel useful  at least. But she's still devoting two nights a week to watching her friends play beer pong, mostly against people she's never met before.

It actually doesn't seem weird until she steps back a bit. Since coming to college, beer pong has been at the center of most of her social life. The rules are simple, the games are fun, and there's a lot of beer involved. What could be better than that? There are certainly a lot of things that could be worse. So even when she's not actively participating, she's happy to hang out. It's how she spends most of her free time anyway, and it gets her out of her toxic room for a few hours, lets her relax with her friends.

She's not even entirely sure how the league works. It's not exactly like a basketball bracket, because teams aren't getting eliminated yet. Team Holy is assigned games against other teams, seemingly at random. She knows that someone is in charge of everything. Who plays who and when. Who won, who lost. The statistics she records are more detailed: bring backs, bounces, blocks. She's proud that her friend is one of the best blockers in the league. No one can bounce a ball past him.

At some point there will be a tournament. The standings will determine how everyone is slotted into a bracket, and, after a booze-soaked evening, a grand champion will be declared. She doesn't want that night to come. It will mean the end of these games. The end of this easy excuse to get her out of her room and away from the drama.

So she'll gladly play the cheerleader. She'll put her energy into supporting the friends who have given her an excuse to get away from her roommates and off campus for an hour. She'll mark down the score, she'll joke about being a groupie. She'll wonder, briefly, if they think her hanging-on is as weird as other people do. But then she'll cheer at another great shot and allow herself this brief escape.

Broomball

Eight of us are crammed in a car that seats five. One person sits in the passenger seat with another on his lap. Four of us are squished into the back seat. Someone even volunteered to ride in the trunk.

Sober drivers are hard to come by when there's a broomball game. It's a game best enjoyed while drunk, and as many people as possible want to enjoy it to the fullest extent. But the ice rink is a ten minute drive from campus, so some people have to stay sober and their cars get pretty crowded.

The ride over is loud. We've had a lot to drink in preparation for this once-a-semester game. The windows are all rolled down so people can hang out and provide some relief for the cramped car. The music is blasting and everyone is shouting over it.

At the ice rink we spill out of the car and go inside. The rink is a mass of people. At least a hundred students, maybe closer to two hundred, have gathered. We're milling around, sliding across the ice.

Human + alcohol - friction = laughter (and bruises in the morning).

At midnight the game starts and a ball is thrown into the rink. The drunken mass now has a purpose. We are running towards the ball, trying to get it first. There’s only one rule in broomball: get the ball in the other team's net.

It doesn't take long to figure out  that if you go near the ball, odds are you will end up in a pile of people. And if the ball comes to you, you will be at the bottom of a pile of people unless you throw it away immediately. Once you are in one of these piles you learn that your body bends in new and interesting ways. Ways that will probably be painful tomorrow.

Tonight drunk trumps pain.

At one point I see my roommate going for the ball while a frosh is to pulling her away. I do what my alcohol soaked brain believes is most sensible: I go after the frosh. The only problem is that he’s way bigger than I am and pushes me away easily. The next moment I’m down on the ice, and he’s reaching out his hand to help me up. My head hurts. I must have hit it when he knocked me over. I wave his hand away and indicate that I’m okay. Then I make my way over to the side of the rink.

The game’s been going on for half an hour. The other team has yet to score and we’ve scored 3 or 4 times already. Possibly 5. It’s a little unclear, but we're winning. That's all that matters.

When I’m reasonably sure that the room is spinning because of the alcohol in my system and not my head injury, I go back out on the ice. This time I make my way over to our goal, where a group of girls is lined up to block the other team from scoring. Arms linked, fingers woven into the net, our job is to block people more than balls. Which we do quite effectively.

Soon enough the timer buzzes indicating the end of the game. The final score? 69 to bitch, as always. We won, as expected. Some people say we scored 4 times, others say it was as much as 9. The other team didn't score at all.

We pile back in the car and go home. Tomorrow will be painful. Bruises and cuts on top of a hangover make getting out of bed hard. But that only lasts for a day. Memories are forever.

AMPM

There comes a time, several hours after dinner, if you're still awake, when you find yourself in need of another meal. This happens often in college. Nights are short. Most people survive on fewer than the recommended eight hours of sleep. So a fourth meal find its way into the routine. A midnight snack, to keep you going just a bit longer.

There comes a time, on some nights, when you find yourself craving an adventure. It doesn't have to be very exciting. Just an excuse to get out of your room and go for a walk. It's really more of a destination than an adventure when you come down to it. But when your head is cloudy with pot and a lack of sleep, the mundane can become epic.

These desires don't always converge. Sometimes all you want is food. The body high overpowers you, and it is all you can do to make some instant mac and cheese. Or call the Thai place that delivers until two the morning. Other times, the desire to wander overpowers the need for food. On these nights, it is time to go exploring. To find the secret gardens and hidden artwork that seem so much more magical after the sun has set.

But when you find yourself craving both a burrito and a ramble, there is only one place to go: ampm.

The gas station is a few blocks away from campus. It's far enough for a good walk and talk, but close enough that you won't forget your purpose or get lost. It has everything a stoned student could want: microwave burritos, hostess cupcakes, chips of every flavor. Buying food presents the challenge of pretending that you aren't stoned, even as you're secure in the knowledge that it won't rally matter.

There are tables outside if you need a break before the long walk back to the dorm. And there's a playground halfway back if you've still got some energy to burn off. All in all, the trip to ampm has everything a restless stoner could want. Which is why we seem to go there all the time. So long as nothing more exciting is going on, that is.

The College Alphabet

The first twenty-six posts on this blog came from a high school English assignment: one short story for every letter of the alphabet. They went up quickly because they were already written. And though some are embarrassing (obvious, melodramatic, unedited), others seem to have some real grace. Over a decade later and I'm still genuinely proud of a handful of them.

I've been planning to apply the same treatment to my college experience for years now. I've even written and posted some of those stories, though I have since taken them down. But I have a hard time committing to this project. This last time I came close to making it happen. But things slipped, life got in the way, I started questioning the quality of the stories.

Then I realized that one of the darker entries was scheduled to go up on Christmas Day and I scrapped the entire thing. It was the final excuse I needed to walk away from this project yet again.

Not too far away, though. I did make progress. I generated a good number of ideas.

So it's time to commit again. Third time's the charm, right? Is this the third time I've started this particular project?

Anyway, a few caveats before we dive in. These are for me, more than you. The ten of you who might be reading this blog. Who might care about the baby steps I'm taking towards becoming a writer. A real one. One whose work people want to read even if they've never met me. One who gets paid for it.

These will, essentially be rough drafts. I'm going for quantity over quality here. Write and write and write some more. All of the stories are true, more or less. They're my truth. My remembrances of college, 6-10 years later. Some of you may remember things differently, and that's okay. Sometimes I might deliberately change a name or a detail or something in service of the story. After all, every story is true, but every story is also only true enough. Truth itself is hard to pin down, even in physics.

Along with that truth I should provide a disclaimer. In many ways, college was the best time of my life. In many other ways, it was the worst. I met my people and made friendships that will last a lifetime. I met my husband. I was blessed with more friends than any one person deserves, really. I behaved badly in some instances, did things that still cause me shame and regret. Things that I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for, even if other people have.

I struggled. I drank too much, and I smoked more. I barely passed some of my classes (though I did graduate on time. Barely.) I fought with family and friends. Some relationships were destroyed, others strengthened. I learned a lot about how I deal with stress and how I shouldn't deal with stress. I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder halfway through, and it took a while to figure that out.

A lot of the struggle is behind me, though it will also always be with me. I try to focus on the good memories in these stories, but the bad ones deserve they're place. They're a part of who I am, as much as the good times.

This collection will hopefully speak for itself by the end. But I wanted to put assurances out there first. I've shed the friends I wanted to shed and maintained the relationships that mattered most. I achieved a work-life balance that keeps me balanced. Now we can get down to the messy business of remembering. And writing.

Back on the Horse

Sometimes writing is easy. Ideas come and spin themselves easily into words and sentences and paragraphs. At times like these you do foolish things, like take on a writing project with an unrealistic deadline, commit yourself to three entirely separate blogs, decide to write a novel, all at the same time.

Other times, writing is much harder. Life creeps in around the edges. Who can really be expected to write when the holidays are right around the corner? Or when you have a day job and a never-ending list of books to read and TV shows to watch? When there are a million other things to do and the words just won't come.

It's easy to write when the words are flowing freely from your fingertips. It's harder when you're fighting uphill against bad ideas and writer's block and imposter syndrome. But that's when you write anyway. Writing anyway is what makes you a writer. That's what all the real writers say.

So. No more waiting for the perfect idea, the flash of genius, the mini-vacation when you'll finally have time. It's time to buckle down and do it anyway. It won't be good. It won't be pretty. That's how you get better. Write and write and write until the hay gets spun into gold. Nothing magic, just time spent and work done. That's how dreams come true.

Zelda

I’m not as obsessed with video games as some people I know. Most don’t hold my attention for very long. But there is one series of games that I can play for hours without even realizing any time has passed. The Legend of Zelda captures my imagination.

There is a series of dungeons with difficult bosses that must be defeated. Each room in each dungeon is a puzzle that must be solved, which appeals to my mind. I love entering the rooms and trying to figure out (1) what the puzzle in that particular room is and (2) how to solve it.

On top of the problem solving aspect of the game, the premise appeals to me. Each of the fourteen or fifteen games in the Zelda series centers on a teenage boy who is told that he must save the world. He doesn’t have superpowers or any other special abilities. I like the idea that heroes can be ordinary people.

I sit entranced for hours while I make me way through the dungeons, defeat the bosses, and try to save the imaginary world of Hyrule.

Yale

I look at the bright orange envelope that has arrived for me. The bright orange can only mean one thing: it’s from the people at Explo, the summer program that Yale University offers to high school students who have just completed their sophomore or junior year. 

I take a deep breath and slit open the envelope. I remove a folder, the same color as the envelope, and open it. Inside is a letter informing me of the classes that I’m signed up for (neurology and biomedical ethics), a book of general information, and about ten more forms that need to be filled out and sent back. I fill out as much as I can and hand the forms off to my dad to fill out the rest. 

The little book is mostly filled with rules. There’s even an entire page on the punishment for “sexual behavior”, but it never explains what is actually considered “sexual behavior”. As I flip through the rule, the packing suggestion list and all the other information that has been packed into this twenty page booklet, me excitement grows. I’m actually going to spend three weeks at Yale this summer, without my parents or anyone else.

Xander

Xander-syndrome. It’s when you have a crush on your best guy friends, but he only has eyes for the bubbly blonde sitting next to him. He sees you as his friend, his best friend, but he doesn’t see that you want so much more than that. He doesn’t want to see it. I suffered from Xander-syndrome my freshman year of high school.

I had a crush on a guy who was perfect, in my eyes anyway. Like any guy deserving of the nickname Xander he was nice, funny, loyal, and head-over-heels in love with the one girl he would never have. Like so many people, he wanted the unattainable ideal. I suppose I did, too.

He once told me that I was like a sister to him. No words have ever stung me more. A sibling is the one completely undateable person; no sane person would even consider it. I became determined to share my feelings with him, no matter the cost to my self-esteem. At least then he would know.

Try as I might, I couldn’t get up the courage to tell him to his face. I wrote about it instead. Well, as they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. I know now that it wasn’t my most brilliant idea, but it seemed good at the time. Anyway the fault isn’t all mine; he completely overreacted.

A year after he found out about my crush, he moved away. For those twelve months he would even look at me, much less speak to me. A perfectly good friendship had been ruined, but at least I learned that these situations should be dealt with face-to-face, if at all possible. If I had told him to his face, he would have still respected my courage at least and the friendship wouldn’t have been completely destroyed.

Woods

Note: I believe that I intended this to be from the point of view of a bird. I'm not sure it worked.

I see her nearly every day, the human girl that comes to these woods. She is an adolescent, a teenager as humans call it. She’s the size of an adult, but still gangly. She has the look of an adolescent. She knows that soon everything that has ever supported her will be stolen and she’ll be forced to redefine her life.

I think she comes to these woods for the solitude and silence they provide her. I know that there are more living beings in this small space than in her entire world and each being has a unique sound. But human beings are such noisy creatures that I’m sure, to her ears, these woods are peaceful.

Maybe she comes here to listen to those sounds, though. She is always very quiet and thoughtful, whether she is wandering the paths here or just sitting on a fallen log. Sometimes I think she’s trying to listen to every sound in these woods, but many are out of her range of hearing. I know she can hear the songs the other birds and I sing, but there are so many I don’t know how she can listen to them. Perhaps she is listening to something deeper, something she can only hear against the peaceful backdrop of these woods.

Vow

 Do you remember? We grew up together; there was nothing that could separate us. We sought each other out at every family gathering and stayed pinned to each other’s sides until your mother or mine tore us apart, saying it was time to go home. We weren’t quite sisters, but cousins was good enough. We still shared the same blood, had the same interests. I was closer to you than any of my other friends.

What happened? Don’t tell me you forgot. When we were seven years old they came and taught us about the dangers of smoking in school. They told us about lung cancer and emphysema and death. I think it scared you even more than it scared me. You made me promise to never smoke. We vowed to each other that we would never even touch a cigarette. And here you are, sixteen years old, going through a pack a day.

Can you tell me why? Did you want to be cool? Did you want everyone else to accept you? Did you tell yourself, it’s just one, one won’t hurt? Did you forget our oath? Can I ask you one more question?

Was it worth it? Was that one year basking in the glow of the popular girl worth betraying me? Was it worth lung disease? Was it worth death? I stayed true to the vow. I’ve never smoked a cigarette and I never intend to. And it’s satisfying to know that I didn’t betray the oath, our promise, or our friendship.

Uber-fest

Note: This is the first time I ever binge-watched a television show. Who would have known it would become such a cultural phenomenon

"Wow, what a beautiful sunset,” Jessi comments from the floor. She has looked up momentarily to see the rays of the low sun piercing through the window blinds.

"Um, Jess, that’s not sunset,” I inform her from my spot on the couch. “That’s sunrise.” I suddenly feel incredibly tired.

Jessi, Katie, and I have been watching television for the past twelve hours. We still have about six to go, not counting breaks. This isn’t just any television, though. I received the complete second season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the mail yesterday – I preordered it about a month ago. The three of us then decided that it would be a good idea to watch the season straight through, without stopping. These inventive slumber parties will eventually become known as Buffy-fests and will become tradition in our circle of friends.

I turn back to the television. A small part of my brain is beginning to wonder if this was such a great idea. I’m not big on pulling all-nighters, especially when I only slept for about five hours the previous night. Jessi looks wide awake, but closer inspection reveals that she is actually in that state that you always see young children in about fifteen minutes before they crash. Next to me, Katie is curled into a ball on the couch, sleeping peacefully.

I wonder if I’ll be able to stay conscious for the remaining six hours of the marathon. But there's an episode coming up that I wouldn't mind sleeping through. Maybe I can catch a brief nap then. Despite the fatigue, this has been one of the most fun “slumber parties” I’ve been to in a long time. I’m already planning the next one.

Tap

Fallap. Shuffle.

When you’re first learning, you start with simple steps, steps with one or two beats, steps that anyone can do.

Paddle and Roll. Shuffle off to Buffalo.

Then you move on to intermediate steps, steps with a definite rhythm, steps that sound cool. You learn how to shift your weight to help you get all of the necessary sounds in.

Maxi Four. Wings.

Later come the more difficult steps, steps with an intricate rhythm, steps that look cool. You have to use your entire body; tapping isn’t just in the legs anymore. You learn how the steps fit in with different types of music.

Shim Sham Shimmy. BS Chorus.

Finally you learn entire combinations, steps with varying rhythms, steps that make you a pro. You appreciate music, as most of these combinations are done a capella, forcing you to maintain the rhythm on your own. You have to commit entire routines to memory, to be performed on command. You learn that there is so much to learn you will never stop.

Shrek

I’d seen the movie a million times. I knew it so well that I could recite the dialogue and sings the songs in my sleep. Many times I’d react to a line before it came. But this time was special.

My friends and I were all at Katie’s house watching it. My boyfriend of one week and I were lying on the floor in front of the couch and I was using his chest as a pillow. Since I know the movie so well I was reciting the lines along with it, at least until I got yelled at. Apparently some people had never seen Shrek before. I did my best to keep my mouth shut, but I still found myself mouthing along with some of the lines.

Near the end of the movie, my boyfriend started fidgeting nervously. I tried to ignore it and simply enjoy the movie, but he kept squirming. Finally we neared the scene where Shrek kisses the princess and he stilled. Of course I immediately tensed up, wondering what was going through his head. Then he tilted my chin up towards him. 

Time slowed to almost a standstill as I received my first kiss, timed to the Beauty and the Beast spoof in the movie. It was all I could do not to pinch myself to make sure that I hadn't fallen asleep and was dreaming this moment. Before I could really react, it was over. We watched the end of the movie, with him holding me a little closer than before.

Remember Me?

Note: This is so deliciously melodramatic. Oh, teenage me

Remember me?

I always got straight A’s in school

And I was never that popular, or cool

I usually had my nose in a book

Curled up quietly in my own little nook

Imagining stories of adventure, romance

Hoping that one day I might stand a chance…

Remember me?

I was called many things, like bookworm, geek

But that’s who I was, timid and meek

In my life I had never been out on a date

It seemed like I never would at my rate

Everyone knew where they were going but I

It felt like my whole life was just one big lie

Remember me?

I’d always admired you from afar

And around you it seemed I just wasn’t up to par

You did many things that I never could

And you dreamed many things that I never would

But you always showed me a smiling face

Gave me hope that, someday, I might win the race

Remember me?

Well I didn’t expect you to

After all I was me and you were, well, you

But what’s this, you say you do remember?

That day in September

You say everyone does?

Well, what a day that was

Remember me?

I didn’t think I was a person one would miss

With or without me everyone seemed in bliss

All I was looking for was a friend

Someone to, maybe, prevent this end

And yet here it is, the final conclusion

After all you really were but an illusion

QWERTY

Notes: Ironic, given how much I write publicly now. It's worth noting that I still do this, though.

I’ve never been able to keep a journal. I’ve been too afraid that someone will find it and read my deepest, darkest, most private thoughts; the ones that no one is ever supposed to learn about. Nevertheless, every now and then I need to write down my thoughts and feelings, my fears, my worries, the things that I’d probably get in trouble for if I ever actually said them out loud. But writing it on paper is dangerous. Like I said before, someone could find it. That’s one reason I type.

When something is bothering me, I’ll sit down at my computer and type. My fingers fly over the keys faster than I could ever write by hand, so more of my thoughts get captured and written down. It helps me sort them out and see everything more clearly. Also, the click clack of my fingers on the keyboard is reassuring. When I’m alone with my thoughts, silence can be deafening. A steady, rhythmic sound can go a long way to holding off insanity.

Once all my thoughts are out, I can look at them, study them, and figure out what to do. Then I hit delete. That way, no one can ever find what I wrote and see my soul laid bare. I’ve gotten the problem off my chest, but the thoughts remain mine and mine alone. Plus it’s comforting to see all of my problems just disappear with the click of a mouse.

Puzzles

My father and I don’t have a lot in common anymore. He doesn’t want to accept the fact that I’m a teenager and that I’ll be moving out in a little over a year. I don’t like the fact that he’s always out of town on business. But we can still do puzzles together.

We’re working on a picture of the Earthrise image right now. The top half is almost entirely black. The bottom half is varying shades of purple and blue. We don’t talk when we’re working on it. We don’t need to. If one of us finds a piece, we put it in.

We’re connected when we’re doing puzzles. Father and child doing an activity together. Daddy and daughter working towards a common goal: finish the puzzle so we can mat it and try to find a place for it on the walls.

We don’t have a lot in common anymore. But at least we have this.

Old Rusty

Ryan, Rhianna and I came to YMCA camp all last summer and have been here for half of this summer so far. We know the story of Old Rusty as well as we know the trails through these woods. We also know that it’s baloney. Old Rusty isn’t the one banging rocks together, trying to scare all the campers. It’s just Brent. So this time, Ryan, Rhianna and I get to be behind the scenes, scaring all the other campers.

We go into the cave with the rest of the group, but we go into the right tunnel instead of the left and hide until Brent gets everyone to turn the lights out and sit quietly in the entrance to the right tunnel. Now it’s time to wait while Brent tells the story of Old Rusty and how he was trapped in the cave eighty years ago by some kids. He gets to the part about communicating with Old Rusty. “He can’t talk anymore, but he can throw rocks at the wall he’s trapped behind,” Brent informs everyone.

We can barely contain our excitement as Brent cues us. “Old Rusty, are you there?” We bang a rock against the wall. The other campers begin to ask him questions. We bang the rocks together louder and louder. We also start to roll pebbles towards the front row. Some of the campers scream.

“Oh no, he’s getting mad! We need to get out of here before there’s a cave-in.” Brent shouts. Everyone scrambles out except for Ryan, Rhianna and me. We wait in the cave for a while and scratch ourselves up a bit. We also pile up some rocks to make it look like there was a cave-in.  After what feels like a very long time, we leave the cave and find the rest of the group. We tell them all about the cave-in we were trapped in and are so excited when they actually believe us. Our secret is safe. None of us can wait until next week when there will be a whole new batch of campers who’ve never heard of Old Rusty.

Night

My brother and father are asleep. I can tell, just by listening to the slow steadiness of their breath.

I can taste rain on the air. I can feel the humidity increasing. The air is becoming thicker with the approaching storm. Outside the wind is pretending it is a wolf as it whips the treetops around. Coyotes are lending their voices, as are owls and other nocturnal birds, creating a symphony.

I snuggle into my sleeping bag. One of my arms isn’t covered and goose bumps are starting to pop up. I move it into my cocoon of warmth and feel the skin become smooth again.

I hear the first drops of rain fall on the tent. It starts out slowly, but rapidly increases in speed. The sound remains steady, like hundreds of woodpeckers. I hear the first explosion of thunder as the rumble causes the air to vibrate around me.

I can almost smell the air becoming fresher with each passing moment. My nose anticipates what it will experience after the storm has passed.

Then the hail starts. It has the same rhythm as the rain, but is louder. My father’s breathing quickens, but remains steady. He’s awake.

I continue to experience the storm, wishing my senses were as alert during the daytime.

Moles

“Hmm.”

What? Is that good or bad? What’s going on?

“Okay, Caitlin.”

Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?

“Now, there are four signs of malignant moles that we look for.”

What’s that paper for? Is she writing this down for me? A, B, C, D? Yeah, I can count to four, too.

“The first is asymmetry. Do you know what that is?”

I’m not stupid! I’m sixteen years old.

“Good. The second one is border. If the border is jagged, it could be malignant. The third one is color.”

Oh, how cute. The four signs match up with the four letters: A, B, C, D; asymmetry, border, color…

“If it isn’t uniform all the way through.”

Did I miss D? Oh well, I’ve got that handy dandy paper to take home with me.

“And the fourth sign is diameter. If the diameter, that’s all the way across, is greater than one centimeter.”

Don’t patronize me! I’m in pre-calculus. I know what a diameter is!

“Now, one of your moles is fine. But the other one is exhibiting three of these four signs. It’s asymmetrical, has a jagged border, and it’s not uniform in color.”

So there’s a three in four chance that it’s malignant? There’s a 75% chance that I have cancer?

“There’s nothing more that I can determine here.”

You don’t know whether or not I have cancer?!?

“But, don’t worry.”

Don’t worry? You just told me that there’s a 75% chance I have skin cancer, you’re not sure whether I do or not, and I’m not supposed to panic?

“I’m going to recommend you to a dermatologist.”

A dermatologist?

“You can set up an appointment for her to look at it.”

Why? We already know it’s probably malignant. Can’t she just take it out?

“You can probably get an appointment by early April.”

Early April? It’s January. That’s four months. I won’t know whether or not I have cancer for four months?

“Do you have any questions?”

…

“No? Are you sure? Okay, I’ll get the recommendation. I’ll be right back.”

Oh God. What if I have cancer? What’s going to happen? Oh please oh please oh please let me not have cancer.

“Okay, here you go. And Caitlin, thanks for being such a great patient.”

Oh boy! Do I get a lollipop?

“We’ll see you later. “

How can she be so cheery? She just told me that I might have cancer! I really hate the doctor.

Lost

It was a simple plan, really. A quick walk through the woods followed by lunch at the hatchery. Dad had heard about a trail that led to the rear entrance and it was absolutely gorgeous. It wound up and down hills through a massive, old forest just outside Vancouver, Canada.

By the time we reached the hatchery, after an hour-long hike, we were starving. Unfortunately, the back entrance was closed. We’d have to hike around to the front entrance. This may not seem too bad, but remember, we were in a forest. The trail t the entrance would take another hour to walk, at least. 

Luckily for us, dad knew a shortcut. It was great. We stumbled through the woods for another hour and a half before emerging into a quiet neighborhood. We walked along the road, ignoring the strange stares, and finally found our way to a bus stop.

Eventually the bus came. We got on it and were taken back to Vancouver. After our adventure in the woods, the walk to our hotel from the bus stop seemed like nothing. And our lunch, eaten at 4:30 in the afternoon, was quite possibly the most satisfying meal I have ever tasted.

Kids Artistic Review

Note: This is definitely the longest of the stories I wrote for this project. I even had to play with the font size to get it to fit on a single page. I ultimately reworked this story into one of my college essays.

The music is so loud you can almost feel the air vibrating. You don’t think you know the song, but you can’t be sure. Both lyrics and melody are lost in the noise. Even if you were to hear it again in an hour you wouldn’t recognize it. Only the beat of the music can be determined, and you feel it more than you hear it. It’s pulsing through your veins, mingling with your blood, assuring you that there is nowhere else you’d rather be.

The air backstage is thick with sweat and hair spray. It clings to your skin, making your back and arms sticky. Your face weighs about five pounds more than usual, due to the heavy make-up you’ve applied. Your hair has been pulled back in a tight ponytail that will probably stay put even after you’ve taken the elastic out.

The other girls backstage look exactly the way you imagine you do, anxious and excited, maybe a little nervous. Their make-up accentuates facial expressions while making them look like clowns; it will look normal on stage though. Everyone is wearing the same blue dance pants, blue and purple leotard, and matching scrunchie in a high ponytail with the bangs slicked back. You wonder how anyone can tell that the twenty of you are all different people, not just clones.

The music ends and a group of drenched girls rush off stage. They’re all wearing black pants with red tops. Most groups are wearing black and red in some combination. It provides a contrast that attracts the eye. But in a sea of red and black, your blue costumes attract more looks.

There is a black out and you file onstage, as quietly as you can in tap shoes. A voice from backstage calls out a single word, “Smile!” but you don’t know who the voice belongs to. You plaster a smile on your face in response, hoping it looks more natural than it feels.

The lights come up and the first note sounds. Immediately you forget everything except the music. Your legs and feet know the dance better than your brain does. Your face relaxes and the smile comes naturally now that the routine has started. All you concentrate on is the music. The beat is pounding through your body, reverberating in your head. It’s all you need.

All too soon it’s over. You hold your final pose as the lights go down then run off stage. You follow the other girls from the studio out to a row of seats in the audience. You watch the other dances, feeling much calmer now that you’ve finished.

Finally, it’s time for the judges to announce the winners. Everyone who has performed returns to the stage and sits in clumps with the other members of their group. People in the audience are talking about “the blue group”. Every time you hear it mentioned, you look at the rest of the “blue group” and everyone smiles widely.

Still, you aren’t prepared when the judges announce that your dance has received first prize. Your teacher goes up to get the trophy and stack of ribbons. It doesn’t matter to you that there were only three other groups competing in the same division as you. One received the grand prize and the other tied with you. All that matters is that this was your first competition ever and you won first place.

July 24th

Today is July 24. I’ve been twelve years old for eight days. I suppose I feel different, but it’s not because I’m older.

I got a new bedroom set for my birthday. It hasn’t arrived yet. It’s a waterbed. I’ve always wanted a waterbed. But I’m not getting it because I want it. I’m getting it because I need a new bedroom set.

My room looks so empty. There’s nothing left. Well, it looks like there’s nothing left. My bed, my desk, my dresser, my nightstand, all of it’s downstairs in the U-Haul. My clothes are all in a bag in the trunk of my mom’s car. Most of my books have been packed up, too. Everything else is still here. I’ll be back in a week. It feels like I’m leaving forever.

The sun is shining, through the windows. It is July, after all, traditional time for sunshine and warmth. I hate it. It should be cold. The skies should be gray. It should be raining. That’s how I feel.

The wallpaper in my room has butterflies on it. I picked it out, back when we built this house. When my mom and dad built this house. Together. It was their dream house. Dreams are supposed to last forever. Longer than four and a half years at any rate. My new room doesn’t have wallpaper.

It won’t be the same. Everything is going to be completely different. But change can be good right? That’s what they always say. This is for the best. They say that too. And whoever they are, my mom’s been quoting them a lot lately.

It’s time to go. My new room is waiting for my old bed. My new life is waiting. I’m another year older. It’s time to grow up.

Intensive

My heart is pumping faster than it ever has before. I can feel the blood running through my jugular, my thighs, my fingers. Every time it pulses I worry that my skin will not be enough to hold the blood in my body.

My legs are twitching, little spasms running through every five seconds. It’s a good thing I’m sitting down. I doubt they could hold my weight right now. My back is pressed up against the mirror. My shirt is folded up so as much of my bare back can come into contact with the cold surface as possible. The coolness feels good and it almost distracts me from my intense pain. It feels like someone is repeatedly driving a knife into the small of back and the white-hot pain is racing up my spine.

I feel like dropping into a nice, hot bath right now. Judging from the looks on their faces, all the other girls here do too. Their hair is limp with sweat. Everyone is completely exhausted.

I’ve never danced so hard in my life. I can’t believe the class was two hours long. I don’t know how I’m going to face another three hours this afternoon, and four more days this week. But I know that it will be worth it.

Harry Potter

I am obsessed with Harry Potter. There, I admitted it. Now, where’s this road to recovery I've heard so much about?

I wasn’t always obsessed. I mean, Harry Potter hasn’t been around forever. There was a time when my life didn’t hinge on getting the next book in the series, or seeing the next movie, although that was a very long time ago.

It all started the summer my brother was reading the first book. It was just on the brink of becoming a national craze. He wanted me to read it with him, which meant that I first had to catch up to where he was in the book. But once I started, I couldn’t put the it down. I was halfway done by the time he got home from camp and unwilling to wait for him to catch back up. My mom had to pry the book out of my hands and force dinner down my throat that night. It wasn't long before I had finished the third book; before my brother had even finished the first one.

I loved how every detail was important to the story. An offhand remark in the first book became crucial to the plot of the third book. It was the first time I'd encountered such a dense story. I nearly went crazy waiting for the fourth book to come out. I re-read the other books until I had memorized them. I saw the movie two or three times in theatres. I took my younger cousins to the second one so that I would have an excuse to see it on opening weekend. Now the fifth book, which was supposed to hit shelves two years ago, is due out in one month.

The sixth book is going to take even longer, if it ever comes out. I don’t want my life to be consumed by this one book. Please, help me get better. I’ve admitted to my obsession. What’s the next step?

Green

Note: Of all these stories, this may be the one I spent the most time on. Does it show?

I’m bathed in green light. It’s bright, almost neon, not a shade that can be found in nature. This color is purely man made. It’s warm here. The rays of the sun are penetrating the walls of the tent, causing this unnatural glow.

I’m sitting in the middle of the tent. If I lean against the sides, it might topple over. The stakes holding it in place don’t go into the ground very far. My knees are pulled up to my chest with my arms wrapped around them. A book is in one corner. I tried to read it, but it was futile. I couldn’t concentrate. Tears trace salty paths down my cheeks and drop off my chin onto my chest.

The yelling is muffled and distant, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hear it, only that I can’t discern the words. I don’t want to, though. I don’t want to know what they fight about. What if they fight about me, or my brother? What if they say really awful things to each other? What if it’s worse than anything I can imagine? No. I’d rather not know.

A door slams back at the house. The sound reverberates through the entire forest and shakes me to my core. A car engine starts, and then fades as the car drives away. I rise and stand still a moment to make sure my legs are willing to hold my weight. When I feel steady, I pick up my book and head back to the house. It will be peaceful for an hour or two; maybe I can get some of my homework done.

Finale

Three people, two blankets, a box of Kleenex, and a box of Wheat Thins are piled on the two-person couch. The phone has been taken off the hook and the curtains are drawn to block the setting sun. The series finale of the greatest show ever made is going to start in seven minutes and twenty two seconds. Give or take. The networks aren’t always accurate when it comes to time.

“I hope Willow doesn’t die,” I say for the umpteenth time.

“Well, Buffy, Giles, and Xander are safe. That leaves Willow, Spike and Faith,” Cailin says.

“Are you sure someone’s going to die?” Katy asks.

“Yeah, the article said at least one major character would die. I suppose it could be Anya or Dawn, but neither of them would cause a big shock.” I tell her.

“Faith wouldn’t either,” Katy replies.

“Which leaves Spike and Willow.” I add.

“And Gunnar said that Spike isn’t going to die.” Cailin finishes the thought.

“I don’t want Willow to die.” I whine. Five minutes, fifty-six seconds.

We begin the conversation again. We’re already been through it more times than I can count. I’m pretty sure Willow is going to die, but I don’t want to believe it. Katy thinks Anya is going to die. Cailin is convinced that it will be Spike. One minute, forty-four seconds.

“Hurry up, mom!” I yell. “It’s about to start!

Five…four…three…two…one

“Tonight on UPN, we begin the search for America’s next Top Model!” We groan and lean back against the couch. “But first, on the series finale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer!” We squeal and lean forward once more.

Easter Bunny

The young girl was trembling in her bed, too excited to sleep. Easter was the next day and that meant a chocolate bunny and a basket full of jellybeans. She hoped the Easter Bunny knew that she had moved, but then she figured that it probably didn’t matter. After all, the Easter Bunny stopped at every house. He was sure to find her.

She wondered if the Easter Bunny was like Santa Claus. Did he only come after everyone was asleep? What if she couldn’t fall asleep? Her brain didn't seem to want to turn odd, and no matter how she tossed and turned she couldn't find a comfortable position. She decided to go ask her parents what to do.

Quietly, she crept out of bed and into the hall. She could see the living room over the railing and the light in the kitchen was creating a reflection in the living room windows. She noticed her father moving in the kitchen and looked closer at the reflection to see what he was doing downstairs.

She saw him take two baskets out of the highest cabinet in the kitchen and squinted to see the scene more clearly. He set the baskets on the counter, and she was able to get a good look at their contents.  Each basket had a box of marshmallow peeps and a chocolate bunny in it. Eyes wide, she hurried back to bed before her father could come upstairs and find out that she had discovered the truth of the Easter Bunny.

It no longer matter if stayed awake all night, but now she was plagued with new worries. If the Easter Bunny wasn’t real, what about the Tooth Fairy? Or Santa Claus?

Dance

This one was written shortly before I threw my back out, as were many of the dance-themed stories in this collection.

“Hey honey! Guess what, I have a surprise for you!” The woman greets her daughter.

“What is it?” the little girl asks as her mom signs her out of daycare and leads her to the car.

“I signed you up for dance class,” she announces, all smiles.

“Oh,” the little girl isn’t quite sure what to think.

“I’m sure you’ll like it. Just try it for a year.” The woman had been trying to come up with ways to get her shy daughter to meet new people and make more friends. Dance class would be perfect. The girl would meet people and have fun trying something new for a year.

The six-year-old wasn’t very excited for dance class. She wasn’t quite sure what it was and she didn’t know if she would like it. Plus, none of her friends would be there so she’d have to make all new ones. It was so hard to make friends with new people. She never knew what to say or how to act. But, she would try it for a year, to make her mom happy. Neither mother nor daughter could foresee the effects of that one little decision.

There was no way to know that two years down the road the girl would drop out of girl scouts because the meetings interfered with her dance classes. Who would have guessed that a year after that she would be placed in a talent group, costing an extra hour a week and another $30.00 a month. By the time the girl reached seventh grade, she had moved to more advanced levels and was at the studio two afternoons a week, as opposed to the two hours every Saturday. During her freshman year of high school, the young girl spent eight or nine hours a week at the studio. At the end of that year, she received a hundred dollar scholarship from the studio, which covered two weeks worth of classes.

The young child and her mother would be shocked to hear that during her junior year of high school, the girl was still dancing, still planning on dancing the following year, and even planning on continuing her dance career, at least through college. No, they were just expecting a year of making new friends in a new setting. Maybe next year it would be soccer, or softball.

Capture the Flag: A Failsafe Guide to Winning

1. Make sure your team gets the good half of the field. Don’t be fooled by lots of trees and hills. True, they provide many places to hide your flag, but they also provide many places for the enemy to hide, which makes it easy for them to sneak over without you realizing it. Choose the half that has more open space. It’s easier to spot, chase, and capture enemies when there isn’t a forest in the way.
2. Chose a team with a variety of people.
   1. Lazy people are good for sending over as decoys. They don’t really care whether they get captured or not and the other team will waste valuable players capturing and guarding them.
   2. Semi-lazy people are good for guarding your flag. They can just stand around, but still feel like they are contributing to the team effort.
   3. Risk-takers can help you determine where the enemy’s flag is. But be careful, they get captured a lot. Once the flag has been found, set them up in two teams. One team should be over on enemy territory as often as possible to keep them distracted. The other team should be given the task of freeing people who get captured.
   4. Patient people are the most important members of your team. These are the people who will actually be stealing the enemy’s flag. These people need to move from tree to tree towards the flag. This can take a long time, sometimes five or even ten minutes. On top of being patient it is a great help if the person is a good sprinter. Once the flag has been captured, it is key that the enemy is outrun.
3. When you are hiding your flag, chose an actual hiding place and a false hiding place. Set up guards at both hiding places. This will throw your enemy off. If you have enough people on your team, you can have more fake hiding places, but be sure to have at least three people guarding each one. Don’t put the most guards at the actual hiding place. Your enemy is expecting the actual flag to be the most heavily guarded. If you have an uneven number of guards, put more at one of the fake hiding spots.

You can also hide the flag in the pocket of one of your guards. Be careful with this one, though. Some people consider this move cheating.

4. Most important, have fun. I know that it’s hard to remember sometimes, but this is only a game

Bad Day

Dear Diary,

Today was one of the worst days of my life and I need to vent.

This morning I got up and put on outfit that I thought looked pretty cute on me. I went downstairs and grabbed a pop-tart for breakfast and my mom suddenly appeared. She told me that I really shouldn’t be eating pop-tarts because I’m getting fat. She said that I need to start watching my diet. Diary, last week the doctor told me that I’m five pounds underweight and I’d better not consider going on a diet.

Then I got to school. My best friend had some strange cuts on her arm that she tried to pass off as cat scratches. Diary, no cat scratches multiple times in perfect little parallel lines. I don’t know what to do. She obviously wanted me to see the cuts, she wore a tank top after all, but she won’t admit to it. How am I supposed to help my friend when my own life is falling apart?

In math we got our big test back. I did so horrible on it and I don’t know why. I’m usually so good at math, it’s my best subject. I always get A’s on the tests, not C’s. Plus I actually studied for this one.

After math was science; the girl who sits next to me loves to give me a hard time. You’d think I’d be immune to it by now, but it just made my day worse. She kept trying to get me to argue with her by saying that dance isn’t a sport, but cheerleading is. Then she started complaining about her awful day (her crush still doesn’t know her name) and I just about lost it.

I thought things would be great when I got home. I could just take a nice bath and forget about my day, but then the worst thing of all happened. My dad called to tell me that he and his fiancée are considering September 5 for the wedding, because that’s the earliest date that they can get the hall for the reception. September 5, 2001. My parents were married on September 5, 1976. You do the math, diary.

I think I’m going to go to sleep before anything worse happens.

Sincerely,

Caitlin