Imagine if you, the reader, were standing in front of a scale; you were in the fifth grade and weighed 155 pounds, and your dietitian said that you needed to lose some weight, FAST.  What would you think? Well, what I thought was that I would always be like that, that I would never be able to change, and that I would be stuck out of shape for the rest of my life. But that isn’t what happened, and here is how that all changed.

Back in the the fourth grade, I started stress eating because I was really struggling with the work back in the day. While I was obese back then, and caused a lot of problems both physically and mentally, I was completely paranoid and self-conscious.  It didn’t affect my actions outside of school until one year later when my mom started becoming concerned about my weight. She said how I was getting 13 minute miles at school, and how I got out of breath just from going up the stairs, so she took me to a dietician.

The results weren’t too great.  After the doctor got her results, she told me the immensely harsh truth. I was five foot two inches and 155 pounds. Tell me, how would you react in that situation? Would you be frightened, or scared for you life? I sure was, and it lead me to all of these gremlins in my head. And with that truth, the  dieting started to come into play. Salads, workout camps, running, all of it. However,  in spite of their valiant attempts to get me fit, none of it worked. And my parents seemed to give up...

But around the same time something that everyone hates started to come into play, running. My mother, without my consent, signed me up for modified cross country in seventh grade. When I heard this I flipped out. Aside from my older sister, my entire family was a running family (still are today), but at the time I wasn’t a runner of any sort! I was part of a running team for fun, but I always came in the bottom three.

I thought that this would be a nightmare! And at first, yeah it was, it felt like torture. My legs felt like garbage after each practice, I always felt bad about myself, being in last, and it felt like a one and one half hour practice was five and one half hours! I wanted to stop as soon as humanly possible. But I soon started to notice something…

After the first meet that I had drastically improved my running speed by about three minutes in only about two weeks! Not only that, I enjoyed the peaceful blowing of the winds when running, and just being outside was a pleasure. And things only got better from there; my mile time changed from a ten-minute, to a seven-minute mile! I felt like I was on the top of the world! I still run today, and I've improved all my times by one minute (in mile time).

So I have come a long way with my weight, but what I’m trying to help you understand is to never give up. Take my story for an example. I was 155 pounds and five foot two inches, but with hard work, I lost over forty pounds and gained six inches, and I’m not in my most fit state yet. Just because something is hard, like losing weight, or writing an essay, doesn’t mean that it is impossible.    As long as you put your mind to it, and work hard, you can succeed, I know it.

-Robert Cusato

Guilt is one of the most treacherous and unforgiving feelings in the world. Guilt can sometimes be far worse than any kind of pain or grief. You can’t make this feeling go away as easily, for you are in a conflict with yourself. Sometimes you can be your greatest enemy. Feeling bad for something you did is a very human emotion, and the only way to resolve it is to confront it. Honesty can sometimes be your greatest weapon against guilt.

It was a few years back, maybe in fourth grade or so. We had taken a test in Math class. Let’s just say that I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. I never really tried my hardest academically, and studying was the last thing that came to mind at home. I was aware that my dad kept a close eye on my grades, and that failure wasn’t an option. So I did the worst, stupidest thing. I cheated. The test was going smoothly, and I hadn’t encountered any problems that I couldn’t solve. Until I came across one question that really stumped me. The girl next to me wasn’t exactly aware of my cheating, and no one caught me. It was only one question, I reassured myself, everything else was my own brain.

Several days later we received our graded tests. My eyes were immediately drawn to the the bright red marker that my teacher had used to mark the grades. My eyes widened to see the big underlined one-hundred. A smile spread across my face as I read the teacher’s note: Great job! One of the only hundreds in class! I was extremely delighted, and I was about to brag to the entire class when I felt a pang in my heart. It wasn’t anything extreme, but it brought a close to my short-lived sense of glee. I remembered how I had cheated on one of the questions on the test. The more I thought about it, and the more I looked at the one-hundred, the worse I had felt.

That night, I showed the test to my dad. He held the paper in his hands, and he gave me a look of pride. “Great job!” he exclaimed. “ One-hundred is a fantastic grade!” I couldn’t help but smile at his bombardment of compliments. Then a sudden wave of sorrow crashed over me. I looked at the grade, and then at my father. I knew that the grade I had received wasn’t mine. What is this feeling? It had felt as though someone was tightly gripping my heart.

“Umm, dad?” I asked.

“What is it?” He was still smiling.

There was a lump in my throat. “ I-I, uh, cheated on that one question.” I pointed at one of the problems on the test. My dad’s smile faded, and a look of disappointment fell over him. He looked at me and eyed the paper.

He sighed, “ You cheated?” I looked back at him sheepishly.

“Yeah,” I replied. “ I-I just didn’t know the answer so I just...” I trailed off as I looked down at my feet.

“I’m very disappointed,” he replied. “ You have to make things right.” I knew that he was right. That I had to make things right, but I was scared. I couldn’t help but think that my teacher would yell at me in rage. I took a deep breath.

“You’re right,” I replied. That night, I was unable to think about anything but the test. It felt as though heavy weights were pulling my heart down. All night I wondered how my teacher would react to the truth. The next day, my father and I decided to talk to the teacher and tell her what happened. I knew that it was inevitable, but I still dreaded the moment. We had agreed to talk to the teacher after school. The day dragged on, and it felt extremely long.

Finally, the clock had hit two, and it was time for dismissal. My dad was waiting for me at the lobby, and together we made our way to my classroom, through the sea of kids eagerly running to the busses. My teacher looked surprised, for we hadn’t informed her that we would be coming.

“My son has something he wants to talk about,” said my dad.

“Okay? What is it?” My teacher pulled up a chair for us to sit down. A concerned look was on her face. I looked down at my knees. I couldn’t speak up. My dad rested a hand on my shoulder and gave me an encouraging look.

“Remember the Math test that we took?” I asked.

“Of course,” my teacher replied, “ What about it?”

“I-I, uh, I cheated on one of the questions,” I stammered. I couldn’t bring myself to look at my teacher’s face; I was too scared that she would be angry.

“Thank you for telling me,” she replied, “Thank you for being honest.” I looked up, and to my surprise she wasn’t mad at all. In fact, she was smiling.

“These things happen,” she said in a soft voice, “and a lot of people cheat, but you came to me and told me.” She looked at me. “It doesn’t make it okay, but you were honest about it. Being honest can be really hard sometimes. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I mumbled. That was it. My teacher bid us farewell, and I thanked her. After that, we left. The car ride home was silent, but a smile was stretched across my face from ear to ear. It felt like a weight had been lifted from my chest, and I was free from the chains of guilt. Everything looked clearer and brighter. It felt like the warm sun had finally decided to show up after a long dreary rain.

“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” my dad asked.

“No, no it wasn’t,” I replied.

Like my teacher had said, being honest isn’t always easy, but sometimes honesty is the only way that you’ll forgive yourself. When you feel like you’re drowning in a sea of guilt, making up for what you’ve done is the only way out. Next time you’ve done something you know you shouldn’t have done, try being honest about it. It might save you from a lot of excessive worrying.

-Tomoki  Cooper

For most people, the adults and people in their lives encourage them to challenge themselves, and to follow their dreams. Most teachers will try to push you forward so you’re doing the best that you possibly can. This, unfortunately, was not the case with my piano teacher.

It was a usual slow-paced lesson full of monotonous rhythms. I wanted to be ambitious and learn harder music. I had already requested to try more challenging works on numerous occasions but was always told that it was ‘too hard.’ I was already convinced that my teacher would refuse again, and she did. After pacing between thoughts, I decided to simply learn a piece and ask for advice afterwards.

I had no idea where to start. The process of learning an advanced piece completely on your own is tedious and frustrating. I couldn’t even play the first measure with both hands, and every single part of the music proved to be a challenge. Despite this, I felt like I had so much freedom instead of being enclosed in my teacher’s lifeless, straightforward assignments. Don’t get me wrong; I wanted to completely give up at times when the notes seemed like a foreign language, but by the end of the week, the first page had been learned.

I had been used to following everything my teacher instructed me to do. After failing to play with both hands simultaneously, I tried recalling what she typically had me do when starting a new piece, and turned to playing the music separately with each hand. In the beginning, this also was an immense challenge, and I spent at least one day practicing with just one hand. I felt so weak and powerless learning this way but slowly improved. Although there were still many mistakes and errors when I played, I was so proud that I had taught myself that one page.

I thought that simply learning the music was hard, but the most daunting part was going into the silent, echoing room with my teacher and performing for her. Every ounce of confidence and courage I had built throughout the week seemed to shrivel away in seconds. I took out the music hesitantly, handed it to her and held my breath as she read the title. She sighed and told me to play. As I placed my hands on the piano, I could feel her glaring eyes staring at me. I started to play, nervously at first, but when I got through the first few measures, I began to ignore my teacher’s glowering face and let the music guide me. When I finished, I could tell that she was impressed but still hid it when she talked in her usual stubborn way. Either way, I felt accomplished achieving something that I worked so hard for.

I’ve realized that in life, people will disagree with you and your ideas. But if you don’t listen to the people who doubt your ambitions and keep working hard, you’ll be able to reach your goal, no matter how far fetched it may seem. Sometimes you’ll feel like giving up, but just remember the reason you decided to pursue it.

-Ellen  Chaing

Shifting around in the small seat and attempting to find a comfortable position in the very back of the airplane wasn’t very effective. Everyone was still searching for their seats in the cramped space, shoving bags into the overhead compartments and going about their business. Looking around, I watched all the different people weave in and out of each other. The young couples, the arguing siblings, the elderly ones, and the crying babies. All of them with their own stories and lives that I would never know. And I would only be another stranger to them, a nameless face soon to be forgotten. Unless I took a chance and spoke to them, I would just be another person in the crowd.

Things were starting to settle down, and as less people filled the narrow walkway, my eyes landed on the man across from my own seat next to the aisle. A dark skinned, middle aged guy, wearing long black pants. He was forced to stand to allow another man through to an inner seat, and I watched him stand up rather awkwardly, not really bending his right leg, and relying heavily on his arms to push himself up off the seat. Immediately curious, I kept my eyes on him as he sat back down, still not seeming to have proper use of his leg. And as soon as he was settled in his seat once more, it was obvious that the knee joint of his right leg was not of  a normal one. It was much more knobby, and not quite in proportion to the rest of his body as it should have been, his pants draping over it in an odd fashion. I quickly came to the conclusion that he might have a prosthetic leg, and the more I studied it the more I believed it. In my mind I was jumping in excitement because right across from me was this guy with a prosthetic leg, and how cool is that?

I wanted to call out, to ask him about his leg, what happened, how it worked, and everything in between. I ached with curiosity, and my head was racing with all the possibilities. But I couldn’t make myself open my mouth to speak, my throat suddenly dry. The hustle and bustle of everyone else faded into the background, and all I could focus on was the overwhelming fear of saying something to that man. I couldn’t take the risk, I mean, what if it all backfired? What if he was offended, what if he didn’t actually have a prosthetic leg and my eyes were just tricking me? No no, that couldn’t be right, I know what I saw and what was there in front of me. And I so badly wanted just to ask, to have an interesting conversation with this stranger before I missed the rare opportunity. It’s certainly not every day you meet someone with an artificial limb.

I spent so long worrying over how to approach him, my tone of voice, how to catch his attention, what I would say, etc., all the while knowing that the clock was ticking, with the window of opportunity closing fast. The man was flipping through one of the magazines from the pocket on the seat in front of him, not seeming to actually stop and read any of them. He put the magazine away and leaned back in his seat, appearing to be rather tired, which did absolutely nothing for my confidence. Now I was also kind of freaking out because, oh no, he’s falling asleep, and then I can’t ask him about his leg; if he’s trying to fall asleep that’s really rude. Oh crap, I’ve missed my chance.

The plane hadn’t even started to taxi yet, but I absolutely needed to talk to that guy before too much time passed for it to be awkward. I mean, it was already awkward, but more than it was. I’ve always been rather cautious with my decisions, and whenever it came to taking action for things like this, I usually stayed passive until I was pushed into it by someone else. But this time, I only had myself to nudge into taking initiative. And by now, I figured it was too late. Disappointment filled me as I realized that I was so caught up in my own meandering mind that I missed the opening I needed to start the conversation.

Now we were starting to move, the airplane beginning to speed down the runway. I finally turned my head so that it was facing back forwards, once again trying to find a comfortable position for myself. As we lifted off, I gave a last glance to the man, but now seeing that he was stirring and opening his eyes. He never ended up falling asleep after all, I guess, and my heart leapt at the opportunity opening up again. I froze again, my mind racing with the possibilities and running through all the things I could say. All I knew was that I couldn’t squander this second chance that had been given to me. I was still extremely fearful, but not to the extent of before. In my mind I had lost this opening once already, and I knew that if I didn’t speak quickly, I would always wonder what could’ve been. And that’s what really pushed me into action. Before I could stop myself, the words were spilling from my mouth.

“Sir? Um,” my voice was hoarse and quiet, and I cleared my throat before continuing, “Excuse me, sir? I couldn’t help but notice your leg. You have a prosthetic, right?” He turned and smiled at me. He seemed pleasantly surprised and responded kindly. He asked how I had noticed his prosthetic, and I explained all that I had seen. In turn, he told me about how his leg had been blown off by a shell when he had served as a soldier in Afghanistan. He seemed genuinely glad to share his story, and talking with him was much less menacing than it had seemed a few moments ago. I had been able to best my own worries and start a conversation with this interesting stranger, and to me, it felt like a weight that I didn’t even know existed was lifted from my chest.

It was remarkably fascinating to have the experience and talk to this man with a prosthetic limb, which I would’ve never been able to do if I hadn’t taken the chance and tried speaking to him. I’ve always been a bit of a wreck in social situations, and taking initiative to satisfy my curiosity was almost completely new to me, especially on my own. It was most certainly a step forward in dealing with the constraints of my own mind and going out of my comfort zone. The man, whose name I had never even asked, had shown me his prosthetic and was so kind to me. It helped me to realize that not everything was going to be as horrible and awkward as I would always make it out to be. You really never know, but honestly, what’s the worst that could happen?

There are an infinite amount of opportunities that pass through our lives, if only we would reach out and grab them. It’s perfectly okay to take risks and just learn as you go. Isn’t that how we all get through this existence? We could change the course of our lives if we wanted to, right now. You could go out and confess your crush, start working out, chop all your hair off, make a new friend, doing all of these things from where we are right now. But you have to start with that first leap of faith. So let me say this; go out into the world and change it, take those risks, leave your mark, and you never know what could happen.

-Joanna Chen

Have you ever thought that one phone call could  be a life or death situation?

Never I would think that in a matter of minutes you could find yourself laughing and then crying.  My uncle and I are roughly close. Since I was young my uncle use to take care of me because my parents went to work. We would do everything together. There was not one day where my uncle never asked for me. My uncle works on cars, so every time the sun was shinning  we were always outside. I would be watching him fix his car or find ways to make his car exceptional. My uncle was always there for me. When I was sick at school, no matter what he was doing he would drop anything and everything to come get me.

It all started one day when I was running in the basement, and when I came up only my mom was there. I asked her where  Dad and Eton (one of my brothers) were. She told me that they went to the hospital for my uncle. My heart released, and in my mind I was thinking what could have happened; I just saw him two days ago. I called my dad;no answer. Ten minutes later my  brother called and said to call my cousin to come pick up my mom and I so we could go see my uncle. When my cousin came we jumped in the car and off we went. In the car I was contemplative about my dad because my dad only has one brother and no one else.

When we walked into Ellis Hospital emergency section, my mom asked for Badi, which is my uncle’s name. The nurse took us to him, and I looked through the door. I saw my uncle laying on the bed with his eye close and not moving nor talking.  That’s when I looked at my dad; tears ran down his face like a waterfall. I deliberated  for a quick few seconds if  my uncle had really just passed away. But no, there was no way. As I walked more into the room there were two ambulance people there, and they had a stretcher right next to them. Where could they be taking him? Is my uncle really gone?   That’s all that went through my head. As they put him on the stretcher one of the ambulance people told my dad that they were going to take him to Albany Medical Hospital instead. When they rolled him out my dad started crying in addition. My mom tried asking him what happened and what the doctors said, but nothing came out. My dad knew that not all of us could go to the hospital, so he left me and my brother at my grandma’s house.

My dad, my mom and cousin went to the hospital. As we walked in my grandma was crying because that was her son. As I walked up to her to give her a hug, my eyes started to water. There was no holding back because, for all we knew, that was the last time I was going to see him. It was a Sunday, and the next day  was school, but that was the last thing on my mind. As I went to go take a nap the doorbell rang; it was family members, and they were all there to ask about my uncle. All they  asked were questions that I couldn’t answer, wistfully. It was 2:00 AM and my parents were still not there. I couldn’t sleep at all. All I could think about was my uncle. At 3:00 AM my parents came, and the first thing I asked them was how was he; my dad couldn’t answer the question, so I didn’t asked again.

The next day I only had two hours of sleep, and when I woke up I had a headache, so I stayed home. On the same day my parents woke up early to go see my uncle. I couldn’t go because of my headache. In my dad’s eyes all I could see is stress and sadness, but mostly apprehension. They left around 8:00 AM and didn’t get back until 4:00 PM. When my dad walked through the door, he didn’t look as apprehensive  or heartbroken as before when he left. It looked like there was good news, so I asked him if  everything was average.  He told me I had to go see him. In my heart I thought, why would I have to go see him.. is this going to be the last time?

The days went by until Saturday came. It was the day I was going to see him. As my brother, my dad and I jumped into the car, my heart started to race like it was in a race car, and if I lost it was going to be the end. We pulled up, and there it was, the sign that said Albany Medical Hospital. As we walked through the hallways, I felt as if I didn’t want to see him because if I did  I was going to sob. As we turned around the curve  there it was, the room numbered 236. My dad walked in first, then me. As I saw him I started to cry. Then my uncle started to cry, which surprised me. I moved closer and closer to him and gave him a hug. It felt as if my whole body was filled with lava, and everytime I wanted to say  something my mouth would just hurt with discomfort. We stayed there until my dad got hungry. We said our goodbyes and off we went. In the car, all I could now think about was how were we going to tell my older brother. My older brother is in the Marines and had to work for two weeks in Newburgh. He called everyday, but no one told him because we didn’t want him to come home and leave work. Afterwards, it turned out that my uncle had a stroke and everything was going to be ok.

Two weeks or so being in and out of Albany Medical Hospital, it was finally time for him to go to Sunnyview Rehab Hospital. Because my uncle had a  stroke, he couldn’t talk, and his right hand and leg could not move. When we first walked in the lady at the the front desk was very nice; you could tell she like her job. As we went into his room he looked mournful. So my dad asked him what was amiss. He pointed to the pictures. When we saw the pictures it was with his kids, my cousins. It been about three weeks since he had seen his kids. He had three kids, one named Shanti, six years old, one boy named Ramnath, five years old, and lastly one girl named Sandy, who was only a couple months old. Almost  everyday my dad would go and bring them to see him. That’s when he would always have a smile on his face. Shanti and Ramnath would always run up and down the hallways like a race track. Everytime it was nice out we would take him outside, and they would be running around all over the place.

Now after one to two months of therapy we could finally take him home for a day. We were going to do something enormous. We got the whole family and did a barbeque. It was all entertaining, and he was so overjoyed to see everyone. Until we had to take him back. Now after another month of therapy he could walk and talk a little here and there. Now all we had to do was wait for was when he was going to get discharged. I knew this day would be the most happiest day of my life and his life too because he hated Sunnyview. He came to Sunnyview Rehab Hospital  in a wheelchair and now he was going to walk out on his feet.

Here it was the day he would leave. Everyone was outside Sunnyview waiting while my dad and I went to go get him. He had no idea what was coming. As soon as we walked out everyone cheered and cried with happiness. He was finally out, and everything was going to be normal again. Now my dad had the biggest smile on his face knowing that his brother was finally out of the hospital.

My uncle is a fighter; he had been through a lot, and no matter what's going on he would always still be there for me or anyone. And he is still pushing through. My uncle inspired me by showing me that no matter what happens there is always a light behind all the darkness; one day you will find it.

-Tresha Behari

The music was beautiful. It was a haunting melody, lyrical and lilting and gentle as ocean mist, splattering the audience with quiet chords and a pulsing melody. The notes were smooth as silk, gliding like ocean waves and calling gently with the irresistible pull of a singing Siren, beckoning me to lose myself in the ethereal song. However, the smooth serenade was dimmed by the cacophony of my panicked thoughts, thoroughly eliminating any chance I had of enjoying the music by bombarding me with all the thoughts of what could go wrong, all the ways I could fail, and the dubious questions as to if I was ready for this performance. This was a challenge that scared me beyond belief; I didn’t think I could do it.

 I am terrified. It was a revelation that dumped itself on me as I was nervously waiting to perform and struggling to identify the emotion that was plaguing my limbs with numbness and trembling. The emotion that had captured my thoughts and threw doubts and fears at me from every direction. The emotion that had tied me to my chair, quickened my heartbeat, and caused me to hyperventilate as I closed my eyes and tried to calm the obvious shaking of my fingers. The emotion that I only matched to a title when my name was called and I stumbled up to the glossy Steinway piano after the previous girl’s performance, my hands shaking and dripping with sweat as I adjusted my seat, placed them on the piano, and desperately tried to calm myself as I peered at my own shiny, panicked reflection. I can’t do this, I thought. I’m going to fail.

When I started playing, my hands shook so badly that I could barely reach the notes. After stumbling through my first few measures, I was ready to give up and run away, to escape from the penetrating gaze of the audience and the critical stares of the judges. Still, I persevered despite my fear and anxiety, struggling through the first part of the song. The audience shifted, leaning back, subtly commentating as I played on; the judges cast their gazes to the ground, their faces unreadable out of the corner of my eye, though they didn’t seem terribly interested. Flashes of light pricked my vision, signaling bored children playing games on their parents’ phones. Annoyance flashed through me; I suddenly wanted them all to watch me, to hear within my notes the time I had put into each one. After hours and hours of tedious practicing, I refused to disgrace years of painful effort and sacrifice. I did the best I could,  my mind whispered. I am not about to be reduced to a trembling mess after all the time I spent on this song. I am ready, my mind confirmed, I am capable. My thoughts took up a chant: I am ready, I am capable, I am ready, I am capable, I am...It took another few moments of playing to recognize this new emotion.

Determined. I had spent countless hours practicing; I had spent countless summer days listening to my friends play outside while I labored to perfect a page that was not yet flawless. I had taken it upon myself to put hours of work into this song, despite how arduous it could be to constantly fix mistakes and make improvements. I knew this song; two years of practice had imbued the notes into my fingers. I was capable; I was ready.

I’m not going to give up now.

As I realized this, new confidence flooded through me and into the song. The uneven melody grew calm and continuous, each note dropping seamlessly to the next. My playing grew steady and clear, the notes ringing out with a full, rich tone. My fear mitigated, replaced by a sudden focus on the song and the techniques I needed to employ. Somehow I was able to successfully navigate the song, impeccably playing every note of the haunting, lyrical piece.

After I was done, I scrambled back to my seat, unable to conceal the smile that blazed across my face and grew like a wildfire as I proudly acknowledged the smiles of pride from my family. The smile remained stamped on my face throughout the rest of the performances; suddenly energized, I swung my legs beneath my chair and would have whistled had the room not been in pin-drop silence, or had I been decent at whistling, which I wasn’t. So I did the best I could not to combust from the emotional overload of relief and euphoria, whistling in my head and keeping my head up and my smile broad. I did it. The realization made me giddy, and I could have skipped through the isles and danced to the cheerful tune a boy was currently playing on the piano, again, had the room not been in complete stillness, and had I been decent at dancing, which I was definitely not. Finally, I managed a fairly tranquil state, dimming my smile, though it adamantly refused to be expunged from my face. I breathed slowly, savoring the music now as I was no longer terrified. The boy’s hands were whirring at the speed of lightning, his fingers a blur as they danced along the keyboard, slowed to an almost complete stop, then lashed out with three final chords that resonated throughout the room. He paused, then slowly withdrew his hands from the keyboard and marched back to his parents, who offered silent compliments. It was over. Well, the performances, anyway.

Perhaps I should have been nervous for the announcement of results, but my elation at having played so well still echoed through the caverns of my mind. Whistling and dancing aside, I was purely happy for such an amazing experience, one I would never forget. The silence continued, still restricting me from expressing my joy with horrible dancing or strangled whistling. Scattered coughs tumbled through the audience, and there was a subtle fidgeting in the air as people stole furtive glances at their phones screens or simply shifted impatiently as the judges conversed in a location unknown. The lady who organized the competition suddenly strode in, her blonde-yellow hair bobbing as she marched past on (seemingly torturous) high heels and turned with a radiant smile on her face, drawing all eyes to her and the spotless white envelope in her hand. She delicately opened the envelope and drew out a slip of paper.

“In second place, Contestant number 12, Joanna Andrews, “ she called.

It took a moment for that to sink in. Contestant….. 12. Did I hear her wrong? But my name was unmistakable.

There was a crumpled slip of paper in my hands containing the words Contestant 12.

It. Was. Me.

I gaped at the woman, my mouth undoubtedly hanging open as my family grinned at me and voiced their excitement and appreciation. With the thunderous clapping, no one would have heard me whistling, but I missed the opportunity since I was too busy trying to lift my jaw, which refused to let me close my open mouth. Finally, I managed a grin, my facial muscles again being uncooperative as they refused to erase my wide smile.

Then came first place, again announced in a clear, clipped tone.

“Contestant 9.”

Of course, I couldn’t hear her name. A momentary flashback showed me a girl who had nailed every note, who had brought out all the hidden melodies and had portrayed all the emotions of the song perfectly. The girl’s black hair sprang up as her head jerked, her sparkling blue dress glinting as she smiled and received a round of loud, exuberant applause; she beamed at her ecstatic parents, whose gazes were brimming with joy and pride. I grinned at her briefly, understanding her overwhelment of happiness. We both remained seated, breathing in the congratulations that were thrown our way from family and competitors alike.

I can’t believe that I won second place.

After the competition was over, the winners were announced, and the excitement had died down; the crowd slowly began to trickle out, contestants collecting their comments from the judge and reading them under the watchful gaze and commentary of their parents. People flooded out into the cold, breeze-filled air; the morning had started to shed its frigid chill by bringing out the warm, welcoming sun, but the icy nature of autumn was not to be deterred. I picked up my comments, and my sister picked up hers; the lady also handed my mom several slips of paper, which she explained to be family tickets for the subsequent performance that was exclusively for the winners and would be held the next day.

With this announcement came a fresh outcry of dread from my mind, but I tuned out the thoughts and instead summoned thoughts of confidence to my mind. I can do this. And I will do this…. Fantabulously. Was that a word? It didn’t matter. The second performance would go well, I was sure of it.

I smiled and thought: I am ready for this.

Challenges are inexorable; they come frequently, they are difficult, and they are terrifying.  But if you face them with confidence….. you can accomplish more than you ever imagined you could.

-Joanna Andrews

It was a gloomy day. One of those when the clouds block out the sky, yet there’s no rain. Just dark.

The school bell rang. A flood of kids sprinted out of the school trying to be the first one out.  But there was one kid in the back that everyone avoided. He was looking for something, someone. As he walked through the crowd he relished the feeling of being feared. With each step he took, more kids, arms flailing, stumbled to get out of his path. He loved the feeling of attention as he walked up to his next victim. People, feet running, scrambled away, knowing if they did anything they’d be next. He watched as only one kid remained, his target, backed up against a wall.

“Please Mike,” the kid called out. Mike didn’t respond. “I didn’t mean it!” To this he thought a bit. What did this kid do? He didn’t remember, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing that would change his mind. He smiled and took a swing.

He wasn’t always like this. He used to be that kid in the classroom, the one you would ask to borrow a pencil from, the one that everyone knew, but not well. He had a couple of friends that he would always talk to. He had messy brown hair going every which way, seemingly controlling itself, deep brown eyes, almost soulless, and a big build. He wasn’t tall, nor short; he wasn’t smart, nor dumb. He was, for the most part, average, but to everyone something about him was off, with a lack of better words to explain it. No one knew why, so they just let him be.

Now things were completely different. His friends just disappeared. No one dared to speak to him, sneaking glances and keeping their distance away like predator and prey as he approached. He looked at the terror in their faces, only to grin. Even the teachers refused to meet his gaze. Something caused this change in him. No one knew why. He loved every moment of it, until he got home. He hated everything about his home. Home is where the only person that truly helped him feel at peace was no longer. Home is where he broke. That’s when this side of him started to show.

Ever since his mother passed away a few weeks before, he hoped that his father would take her place. His mother was the one person who helped him be at home, the one person who noticed him. So after that day, every time his father got home he hoped his father would talk to him, notice him. But everyday his father went to his room, only leaving to eat. His father just ignored him.

“Dad?” he would call.

“What?” his father would reply. It didn’t matter what he said next. He might’ve asked for help with homework, or to go shopping for school supplies, but the reply was always the same. “One moment,” his father would say. But his father never came. It broke him. And one day something just snapped. He couldn’t take it anymore. He stopped caring, and he stopped calling for help. He stopped, and he was truly alone. That next day something changed. He was never the most popular kid at school, and there was this one group of kids who he could always hear talking about him. Once again in the hallway he heard them. Before he didn’t care. But this time it was different. When he got out of school he looked around and saw those kids once again. He turned to walk away, fist clenching. He started to walk to them, and one of them noticed.

“Hey loser, you don’t belong here,” the kid called out. He just ignored them and continued to walk forward. Something in him kept begging him to move. He took one step at a time. One, two, three... They continued to call names, and to this he only sped up. Eight, nine, ten… The kids started to look genuinely worried, unsure of what was to happen. Seventeen,, eighteen, nineteen… When he reached them he stopped, and he finally let his anger loose. He didn’t remember exactly what he did. He was almost possessed, but there was something urging him to keep going. The last thing he remembered was teachers dragging him off the kids.

The wind blew heavily. As he walked up the steps to his house, the usual comforting, glowing dim-lit light, the one that felt like home on the second floor, wasn’t there. He felt something was missing. There were no sounds either, just cars driving by. It was too quiet. He peeked through the window, and no one was there either. He entered his house, looking around, but no one was there. The only thing was a note saying:

I need a break. I’ve gone away for a bit so it’ll be just you.

 - Dad

                                                                                                   

He stopped and reread it. He reread it again. There was no way, he thought. How long? Why? But as he thought some more he turned to more serious matters. How would he get to places? How would he get food? He can’t be gone for that long, he thought. But he wasn’t sure.

After a good bit of time he turned to more important matters at hand. He did his homework, made his dinner the best he could with what little there was, and followed the typical routine. What else could he do? But when he laid down to go to sleep he couldn’t help but find himself thinking about his dad again. It isn’t fair. How come he could just leave? Why would he just leave me? Why can’t I take a break too? His thoughts trailed on and on. Who said I couldn’t? He lingered on this thought, heart pounding, for a second. He could just leave. He could take a break. What was stopping him?

            Mike’s dad opened the door to his house. “Mike,” he called. “Sorry I left, I’ve done some thinking and I need to make this up to you.” There was no reply.

-Ian Zhang