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.