Writings in the Key of LIfe

Writings in the Key of Life

A Collection of Works by Jacob Minsinger TABLE OF CONTENTS Writer’s Statement FAQs Life as I’ve Lived It Homes Home Life Kodak Memories Kid’s Corner Pre School—1995 3 Hobbies The Value of Balance Life and Death To Max Breaking News Excerpt from Positive Parenting: Raising a Child for Dummies Deda Life’s Impact OCD Excerpt from Hamilton vs. St. Clair Lies Vulnerability Life’s Situations Empty Threats Meandering in the Green Thumb’s Paradise Excerpt from Team Captain Sparrow Revisited through Mahalia Jackson

Writer’s Statement Life is the existence of a human being. It’s every experience, every moment, every breath. It’s the first memory and the last. It grows to mean something different for everyone. No two lives are the same; each is a different path forged by the explorer who makes the choices. My path has been created in part by the writing and reflection I have done. Writing for me is not only an expression, but a way for me to look back on my own experiences.

Entering CAPA High School as a literary artist, I had the interest in writing but not the technical skills to craft a great piece. Year after year, I learned how to craft poems, short stories, plays, and a memoir. The whole process took a lot of dedication for a high school student, but I reaped the benefits in the end.

This anthology is a collection of the work that I’ve done over the past four years, starting with the first piece I wrote in ninth grade to the latest piece from twelfth grade. It is broken into sections about various aspects of life. The first section is autobiographical, with selections of poetry and my memoir; the second section is a look at life and death, the two ends of human existence; in the third section, I look at some of the ways that life can impact and alter ways of thinking; lastly, the fourth section talks about life’s situations and how different people react to events.

Eleanor Roosevelt said, “People grow through experience if they meet life honestly and courageously.” Though sometimes I might not go through life courageously, I feel that I have grown through my experiences by approaching life with an open mind, willing to change and be shaped by those around me. Writing gives me the gateway to search my mind and explore the different views of life by stepping into different characters through fiction, drama, and poetry. The title of my anthology is connected to Stevie Wonder’s album Songs in the Key of Life, which he crafted about the proposals for success and how to live life. This idea, I feel, accurately depicts what I have attempted to accomplish through this collection of work.

FAQs Describe your early education.

When I was seven, a sheet of white engraved with horizontal lines and my hand mixed with a pencil started to blossom into a wonderful gift that I gave to myself.

What is your permanent address?

An Olympic-sized pool where I slide through gallons of water.

In a quiet classroom full of learning and interaction.

On a street that I roam with friends.

In a book cloaked with fantasy and mystery.

In my head where no one can find me.

Are you married.

Yes. Like a Mormon.

To the dense books in which I spend time with, and a computer, who is easily annoyed when you push its buttons.

Describe a crucial event in your life.

Falling, for what seemed like a year.

Waking up and walking woozily to my mom.

Trying to stay awake while taking a trip to the place I was born.

Feeling the siren of pain and agony that was sounding from my wrist.

A warning of what was going to come.

List your honors and awards.

I found my place in life when I was seven.

Scared everyone when I was eight.

Started to talk when I was one.

Started listening when I was five.

Give a brief statement of your plans.

To enjoy the simple things in life.

To continue appreciating everything I have, and to hope you read my answers and understand me.

Life as I’ve Lived It

Homes I have many homes. One of them is a two-story house that sits upon a plot of faded grass. Two trees stand on opposite sides of the concrete path leading to the pure white front door. Behind the door lies a small hallway with auburn carpeting. In the kitchen are a variety of mahogany drawers, containing silverware, pots and pans, and dishes used for serving food.

A refrigerator sits against the opposite wall. To the right of the refrigerator is a wooden table with four chairs situated around it. A white wall covered with rose-lined wallpaper is right next to the chairs. Behind the wall lies a dining room, where four people are sitting around another wooden table eating and talking politics. On the table sits an array of scrumptious dinner foods—chicken marinated with Italian dressing, steaming corn, and freshly baked bread. The odor of Italian dressing seeps into everyone’s nose. People sit on the dark brown couch that rests below the portrait of Robert E. Lee in the living room. An old television rests against the wall, showing the six o’clock news as people sit on the dark brown loveseat and eat what is left of their meal.

Three boys run through the living room, ignoring the screaming adults. They run

by the front door and up the auburn stairs. Atop the steps is a bathroom, but the boys run to the left—to my room. It’s bare. Plain white walls with a strip of wallpaper show a montage of sports. In the right corner is my blue-covered bed. On it, kids jump almost as high as the ceiling. “Hey, stop that,” my dad says. So we continue running down the hallway, passing my dad’s study as we run. No one goes in dad’s study or mom and dad’s bedroom, so we are forced into my sister’s room, an oasis of evil for us boys. This room is also white but has teddy bear wallpaper. A vanity is set up adjacent to the door and in the corner, rests her bed. The girls scream when the boys enter, and they run out of the room. They can be conquered.

The girls run to the backyard, and the boys are soon to join them. They run out the front door and down the concrete driveway into the backyard. The girls are already swinging on the swing set in the grassy area. They are swinging on a double swing that looks like a locomotive, and their hair flips upward in the wind. They slide down the fire engine red slide, screaming as they go down. Beyond the grassy area is a steep hill—a hill I’m not allowed to go down. I call it the Forbidden Forest because I’m almost certain there are deadly creatures down there. The fence is the only thing standing between me and the thirty-foot drop into the oasis that is full of brown grass and dead shrubs. I have lost many a ball to the wrath of the Forbidden Forest, but one day, I’ll conquer its steep hill and find all that I have lost.

Home Life Fresh smells of mom cooking her homemade delights.

Waking up at 6:00 a.m. and having stairs to walk down.

Eating my waffle and cereal at a nice clean table.

The smell of coffee that I don’t drink.

A sister that is anxious to give me a play-by-play of her day every Monday through Friday.

Standing on the deck and staring into the woods.

The daisies, mums, impatiens, rhododendrons and hostas greet me after a hard day’s work.

To sleep in a bed that always opens up with a hug.

A dad who is always asking me questions.

How was you day?

What did you do?

Got a lot of homework?

A mom who cares twenty-four hours a day—

always preparing dinner.

A house who can protect me from all natural disasters.

Neighbors who are people I look up to and people I talk to.

Lauren, Princess of Dogs “Hail to Pitt” Bob Neighborly Tom Miss Edna.

A place where those who love are all around.

Kodak Memories Early childhood is hard to remember. Even as a teenager, I have to write down everything idea that comes to my head. I rely on other people and pictures to fully understand the ins and outs of my early childhood experiences. However, there are some memories that just stick out for one reason or another. These memories may be happy or terrifying, but they have some significance. They’re what I call the Kodak memories because no matter where I go, I can always replay them in my head. It’s like carrying around a photo album or a video camera in my brain. I just flip to a page or press play, and I see the event happen right behind my eyes.

One of these memories was my first vacation. I was five. My mom, dad, sister, and I went to Story Book Forest in Ligonier, Pennsylvania. It was a place for kids to go and meet their favorite characters from popular fairytales and other stories. Characters like Hansel and Gretel, Cinderella, The Three Little Pigs, and the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe were just some of the fantastical characters. Kids were able to participate in fun

activities that involved popular stories and board games. One journey took kids to see the Three Little Pigs in their homes. It was a kid’s ultimate fantasy.

The best place in Story Book Forest was the Candyland Maze. The maze was modeled after the popular Candyland game. In this maze, kids tried to get to King Kandy’s Castle, just like in the board game. I only went through the maze once, but it was exhilarating. I zoomed past Gramma Nutt, Gloppy the Molasses Monster, and the notorious Lord Licorice, my self-proclaimed arch nemesis. The worst thing about the maze was that there were adults in there trying to help you; but I didn’t need or want any help finding my way to the castle. Though I understand they were there to make sure we didn’t get lost, I didn’t want them to help me. That would ruin my purpose for trying.

I loved running through mazes because I never knew if I was going in the right direction but always longed to get to the end. The idea of running through a human sized maze fascinated me. It was a quest taken straight out of the Saturday morning cartoons. I loved going to my grandparents’ house, especially in the summer because their garden was always full of juicy, red tomatoes, ripe green peppers, and towering corn stalks. I went there once a day before I started school since they only lived two streets away.

It was a sunny day in July, and my grandparents were out in the garden. I was too young to help out, so I hit a wiffle ball against the garage door with a plastic bat while my grandparents tended to the vegetables. Being a child, I could only hit a ball against a plain, white wall so many times before my attention span persuaded me to do something else.

I wandered over to my grandparents, who were picking the ripened onions and

tomatoes. I wanted someone to play with, but they just wanted to make sure I didn’t destroy their plants. Deda, my grandmother, could only take so much gardening since she had back problems, so when she grew tired, she looked for ways to get out of the labor.

This year, my grandfather had planted an abundant amount of corn stalks. Trying to calm me down before my grandfather flipped out, Deda took me to one end of the corn stalks and ran through them saying, “Catch me, Jacob, catch me.”

For so long, I had been waiting for a chance to run through these corn stalks, and I didn’t let this perfect opportunity slide by. I ran in after her. The sun glistened through the stalks, creating warmth to go along with this perfect moment. Deda looked back every once in a while to see if I was still behind her. She smiled as she ran quickly through the aisles of maize, and I smiled back, loving every second of this exciting chase. We were getting near the end of the line, and I had lost her between the rows. I looked around alert and ready to pounce on her. As I walked through the silent rows, her hands stretched out and grabbed me. I screamed. She’d won. She carried me out of the stalks, showing my grandfather who the victor was. He was a little angry with us, but I was having too much fun to care.

Kid’s Corner Pre-School—1995 I wandered around the wooden table where red, blue, green and yellow water sat in Styrofoam plates.

My friend got a hold of the green water.

He approached me with shaky hands and a grin.

I wanted to walk away, walk away but I didn’t.

The green liquid flew to my face.

It smudged the corner of my eye, which swelled with tears.

The knower of knowledge came running expressing her concerns.

She brought a bucket of cold, bitter water.

I continued to weep.

She saw the paint smeared in my eye and found a paper towel.

I told her no.

Nobody had ever touched my eye, not even me.

But I gave in.

My eyes were washed painfully clean.

I could see the brown birds flying again, the ocean-blue sky, touched with white clouds— the perfect painting.

The only green was the grass I stood on.

I went back outside to play.

My friend approached me saying two words I was now familiar with.

3 Hobbies As a child, I always found school to be an interesting concept. Children were transported to a building full of other children, and while in the building, these children, called students, would be filled with information. From about third grade on, I studied the ways my teachers taught. After some time, it became easy to distinguish between the teachers who made things up as they went along and those who thought long and hard about each class. I also played school with my grandfather when I visited him. My classroom occupied the whole lower floor except for the bathroom, which was where my sister taught her class. Since I was older, I got the prime real estate. My grandmother was the principal and resident lunch lady who provided cheese sandwiches for the teachers as they were needed. My grandfather was the only real student in my class. Other students included Power Rangers, Barney, who got straight A’s, and the cast of Harry Potter.

I kept a small tablet of yellow lined paper. I made this paper into a table with my students’ names on it, and each day, I would teach the class and pretend to call on one of

the students since my grandfather didn’t always know the answer. At the end of each session, I would give grades to everyone. My grandfather usually got B’s.

Another hobby was the simple game of IT-tag. My front yard was the perfect place for intense game. There were two trees equidistant from the house and on opposite sides of the yard. They were used as bases. One person was IT, and it became his or her objective to tag someone else, thereby making that person IT. A person could not be tagged on a base. Though it sounds relatively simple, it was all about the strategy. It was a daring move to get off base and get onto the next one without getting caught, but it had to be done in order to keep the game interesting. On the other hand, one couldn’t be too daring because no one wanted to inherit the worst position, being IT. One of the basic strategies that I developed was the taunt. The taunt involved someone getting one or two steps off the base just to get the IT person’s attention. By the time the IT person ran after you, you could just step back on base. This aggravated the IT person, which might not have been the best thing to do because, as I learned later, aggravation only makes someone want to tag you more.

Another strategy was the diversion. Two people were needed to complete this operation. One person’s job was to run off base very quickly towards the IT person. This would get the IT person to chase after that person while the other person ran to the other base. The only downfall to this strategy is that the diversion sometimes became IT, which leads me to a special tip on this strategy—never be the diversion.

Often, a game became very slow because the people would not get off the base. In the event this would happen, the IT person would use what is known as black magic.

Black magic was used to force people off base. The IT person would say a little incantation and then count to five to get both people off base. To this day, I have not found a strategy to counterattack black magic.

Since I was in first grade and went to see the concerts performed by the older students, I wanted to play an instrument. The idea of making music to me was awesome, but I wasn’t allowed to until third grade. I eagerly awaited the day when Ms. Halt entered my classroom and gave me the form to fill out which instrument I wanted to play. Being the young child that I was, I chose drums because it seemed to be the neatest instrument, even though I hated the loud banging sounds in parades. Nevertheless, I began learning how to play quarter notes and eighth notes on a drum pad. I wasn’t good enough to play on a snare drum.

My elementary instrumental experience wasn’t the greatest. My first performance was the spring concert in third grade at Allegheny Traditional Academy. I was scheduled to play one song. I was nervous being on stage for the first time, even though I was in the back, and no one could see me. When it was time to play my song, a fifth grader approached me and kicked me off my drum, and I didn’t say anything to him. He was two years older than me. There was nothing I could say or do. So, the spring concert wasn’t really my first concert, but I still got a Super Soaker for being there.

I had a much better instrumental experience in middle school. In sixth grade, I learned how to play sixteenth notes, and I played a drum set duet for the spring concert.

Seventh grade was the year of “Gates of Orion,” a song that stumped everyone, but we pulled it off in the end. And then there was my glorious eighth grade year. I was more

comfortable at school and realized that the drums weren’t what I had in mind. Halfway through the year, I switched to playing the piano. My friend, Demet, and I arranged the song “Karma” by Alicia Keys for our entire band. She played the violin part, and I played the piano part that Keys is well known for playing. Seeing as how I went from playing no piano to playing a professional piano piece in the matter of a half a year, I felt accomplished and began taking piano lessons, which I have been taking ever since. Still, one of the single best achievements in my life is arranging and playing “Karma.”

The Value of Balance High school is a multi-faceted world that is much different than middle school. In middle school, everything was great. There was no pressure to get the highest grades, and the workload wasn’t so overwhelming. Then promotion came along and soon, the first day of high school was here, and anxiety about high school began. I remember coming into school on the first day and getting my first huge swell of homework. I did not know what to do with myself. So, I just wrote it down in my planner and did it all that night. It sounds simple enough, but when I ended up sitting at my desk for two or three hours at a time, I realized this was the real deal. Then, I started thinking about colleges and making sure I made myself look like the best applicant. School became a game, and I had to beat it. But soon, I learned that high school was a balancing act between work and fun, and for a while, I was only walking on one side of the rope.

Being in CAS classes made this a tough rope to walk, and it got to me after a

while. I spent nights doing hours and hours of work. I took it with me when I went places just in case I’d find down time to study. It was the center of my life for a while. Sure, my grades were fine, but it meant sacrificing what I wanted to do. It wasn’t until I looked at how much I was doing that I realized I needed to loosen up a little and take my mind off the work.

So for those who feel that work is overwhelming, at times, it will be that way, but it is not good to lock oneself in a room and just do work. It’s not healthy, and it will make anyone crazy. So have some fun, hang out with friends because the most important thing in life is living it.

Much about life is a game, and I can’t say that I’ve stopped trying to stay ahead of it. But I am proud to say that I have learned to balance on the rope of what students should do in high school. Homework can’t be ignored, but either can friends. And to me, that was the most important lesson to learn.

Life and Death

To Max My cousin, born Monday May 26, 2008 It came as a surprise, your three-week early birth.

Approaching the hospital door, each step took us closer to the joy inside, and as the hospital door opened, a familiar face greeted us holding his tiny baby swaddled in a blanket. Carrying you in his arms, he greeted us. Say hello to my newborn son.

The first time I held you, you felt as warm as the sun.

You moved your head revealing a possible birthmark.

Most of the time, you lay just moving your arms to scratch your face. Cautiously I held you close, head propped on my elbow, your white knitted baby cap slid off as you tossed your head and tried to open the constricting blanket. You appeared to be open to a long good night sleep. After all, this son

had a rough yesterday for the hour in the baby delivery room. But it was evident that birth was not a choice for you. Time was closing in, but we didn’t think you’d be in our arms this soon. The family was not yet fully armed to handle a child. Presents weren’t yet opened.

Nobody thought it would come to this closer.

It was a Memorial Day showered with sun.

Who thought this would be the day for birth?

But, like your parents, we had an antsy baby, one who we all anticipate to be babied with many family members’ open arms right from the moment after your birthing.

And I know that you’ll be ready and open to the attention you’ll receive as the grandson of a large family that is stitched so close together. You’ll be welcomed into the closeness of the family no matter what. But as a little baby you may not realize how good that son-of-a-gun has it. You’ll be guarded by an enormous army of all of those who care, those who are openhearted to you since conception and far beyond your day of birth.

This fresh birth has brought all of us closer and opened my life to a new chapter: for a baby to hold in my arms and brighten my day like the sun.

Breaking News “I can’t believe they lost,” Jim said to his girlfriend, Penny, as they crossed the Roberto Clemente Bridge with the cluster of other people heading back into town. “They need to get rid of that manager and find a good pitcher.” As they walked, Jim noticed the eerie creaking sound. “Do you hear that? No bridge should sound like that.” He pulled out a notepad and a ballpoint pen from his pocket and wrote on it. “We should do a special on them. That’ll boost ratings.”

“Take a break, Jimmy,” Penny said as she reached for Jim’s notepad. “You took the day off. Relax a little.”

“Work never stops.” They continued walking across the bridge towards the red

and tan skyscraper, making their way to the front door with the green awning hanging over it.

As they crossed through the door, bystanders greeted Jim. “Nice day, isn’t it Mr. Crowley?”

“Sorry about the loss, Jim. It was a close game.” Like every other time he met his fans, Jim merely responded with a smile and a wave. Penny and he were celebrities. They even had their own elevator in the condominium, which they took up to the twelfth floor.

They walked to room 1255, Jim’s room. It was a unique condo that Jim specifically designed for himself because he was not a fan of the other rooms. His bedroom had a large plasma television implanted in the beige walls. It sat opposite his queen-sized bed so that he could watch what he called the competition. He walked into the dining room where a glass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Penny walked to the refrigerator where she took out a birthday cake for Jim. “Happy birthday, honey.” She pulled out a pack of matches and some candles. After attempting to light them, she handed them to Jim and let him light his own candles. “Well, aren’t you great?”

“It’s just a match, Penny. No big deal.”

“Oh just blow out the candles. I have to leave soon.” With one gust of air, he blew out the ten striped candles that were twenty-two short of matching his age. A half an hour later, Penny went to the news station. She was covering 11 tonight.

After she left, Jim went onto the balcony. He maneuvered his way through the plastic chairs and tables to get to the edge. Looking out onto the bluely lit PNC Park, he sighed. It was the first time today when he was at peace. At least until a roar of beeping sounds from Pirates game traffic broke him from his serenity. He went back inside and

lay on his bed while watching other news channels that thought it would be a good idea to have a broadcast at 10. What could happen in an hour?

Just as Chief Meteorologist Jeff Verszyla was giving the same weather report for the third time in thirty minutes, a shriek pierced the twelfth floor. Jim hopped off his bed, hoping to open his door to a breaking news story in the making. It was just Marge Daily, the paranoid old lady that Jim saved from a “terrible disaster” at least once a week. She continued screaming and flailing her arms. “What is it, Marge?” Jim approached her, not too concerned.

“I’m seeing red,” she said as she backed away from her condo. “It’s all red in there.”

“Well let’s see what we can do about—.” He stopped dead as he saw the fire burning intensely over the stove. Jim rushed into the condo looking for the fire extinguisher. The fire expanded as he searched. It gnawed at the wooden cabinets and made its way to the floor. Jim ran out of the condo. “Fire, fire! Get out!” He pushed the flailing Marge along, hoping she would find her own way. Sparks of flames spat their way into the twelfth floor hallway, and everyone rushed to the stairwells in their pajamas, panic-stricken. Jim ran out of his apartment, checking to see if anyone was still left on the floor. The sprinklers were in full blast, soaking everyone, but they did almost nothing to quench the fire.

He followed in at the end of the line of pushing people waiting to get down the steps as fast as possible. The flames engulfed Marge’s entire apartment and were moving towards Jim’s. He just stared as the flames devoured his home—his plasma TV, his expensive glass chandelier, his golden Rolex wristwatch—all destroyed with the flames

that showed no mercy. He wanted to rescue the first book his grandfather gave him to read when he was a child. He wanted to save the last picture he took with his mother and father before they died. He wanted to preserve the teddy bear he had from birth. But it was all going up in flames now. All of the memories, all that he had, all that he was, fell to the fire.

The line wasn’t moving. The people kept screaming at each other. “Walk faster.”

“It’s so hot.” “Move it.” But everyone was at a stand still. Eleven other floors of people were rushing out of the building. Hope diminished as the fire grew. It had finished Jim’s apartment now and was making its way to Merv Davis’s, quickly finding its way to the stairwell. “Let’s go people! Move!” Jim started forcing his way through the line. He was too young to die. He didn’t get his job at 60 Minutes, or at least at the Early Show.

He hadn’t been to Germany, and he hadn’t had kids yet. There would have to be more than this. It was only right.

A minute later, he was in the stairwell. It was like Pirate’s game traffic recreated on the steps. People were yelling, but no one was going anywhere. Some were leaning over the railings to see how much farther they had to go. People were fainting and gagging with every step. The smell of burnt metal filed through the stairwell. Violent coughing broke out among the residents. “Oh my God. Can’t we go any faster?” The old man next to Jim was pale and clinging to the railing.

“Are you okay, sir,” Jim said as he stopped the man from falling forward.

“I’m claustrophobic, and that smell is really making me sick.” He clutched his stomach. “I can’t take it much longer in here.”

“Stick it out.” Jim grabbed his arm and helped him step by step. “We can’t be that

far away.”

“Well I guess you’re right, Jim. If we aren’t out in about ten minutes, we’ll be dead. So either way, it can’t be that much longer.” He tried to fight his urge to hurl.

Jim zoned out for a moment and almost released the man from his grasp. He just assumed everyone would be out in time. The time was running down, just like in the movies. The bomb was ticking down. “We’ll be out of here by then,” he said, trying to help the man down another step.

“I appreciate you helping me, sir,” the man said. “But I gotta ask. How can you be so calm? We’re in a burning building, and we don’t have much time to get out.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m calm. But I know that somehow things are gonna end up okay.”

“That might be how it is in your celebrity world, but when you’re living in the world of the normal people, no one cares whether you live or die. You’re a name, I’m just a number.”

Jim looked up at the smoke hovering in the stairwell. The other people would just be the number reported on the 11:00 news. But Jim Crowley would be the name. Ten killed in the fire that almost took Jim Crowley’s life. They are left nameless, faceless, without identity.

The ceiling began to cave. Small pieces of debris fell onto the heads of those still trying to make their way down the stairwell. It wouldn’t be long now. The people started moving a little faster. Most had to be out by now.

Firemen made their way up the steps. “Move out of the way,” they screamed as they carried a huge hose with them. They were going to have a lot of work to do. Jim

continued helping the man down the steps. The stranger was able to keep up with the pace of the crowd but grew increasingly pale with every step. Gasping for air, he grabbed the railing harder. “Only a couple more flights,” Jim said as they approached the fourth floor.

“I can’t take much more. Everything’s spinning.” The man was falling forward with every step, and Jim grew weak from having to keep him upright. As they stepped onto the fourth floor landing, a scream rang out into the stairwell. Jim paused for a minute while the man took a breath. Another man was running down the steps next to him.

“Hey,” Jim said to the man running behind him. “Do you think you could help this man get down the steps?”

“I’ll try Mr. Crowley,” the other man said. He grabbed onto the old man.

The old man looked up at Jim. “At least you live up to your name.”

The old man struggled down the steps, coughing excessively. With all the other noise, Jim could still hear the faint screaming. He opened the door to the fourth floor and ran down the hallway to see where it was coming from.

He pushed open the door that led to a hallway full of smoke and sprinklers. Jim saw a woman collapsed in her doorway. He recognized her. She was Mary Herring, a former field reporter who left channel 11 to be a chef. “Jim Crowley. Oh, thank goodness. I can’t get up.”

Jim stopped at her door. He went over to Mary and picked her up. “I can’t feel my legs.”

Jim couldn’t speak. He was unable to move his mouth. All of his energy went to supporting Mary. He just kept walking, only concentrating on carrying Mary. He was completely drained—from the smoke, from helping the old man, from lifting the beam,

from walking the woman down the hallway, and now from carrying Mary. He didn’t know how much more he could take. The physical strain was wearing on him. This had to be over soon. He didn’t have much left.

He got to the door and struggled to get it open. Now, the stairwell was almost clear. The only thing left was the fire hose that snaked up the steps. The fire wasn’t out yet.

He moved slowly down the steps—one foot at a time. His arms stiffened as he struggled to carry this woman down four flights of steps. She tried to move her leg but found herself screaming in agony. “I can’t move my legs. Oh my God. I’m crippled.”

As she complained about her injury, Jim just thought to himself. How can she complain about not being able to walk? She could die in two minutes. Losing her legs is the least of her problems.

More firemen ran past Jim up the steps. “What are you still doing here? Get out.

This place is going down.”

They rushed up the steps as fast as possible. Time was running out. Jim was weak. One more muscle contraction, thirty more steps. Down below, Jim heard people talking. “How did you sleep through that noise? And those sprinklers?”

“I was having a nice dream,” a man said, “There were clouds and airplanes. I heard an airplane take off.”

“Well it seems like you’re gonna get out in time. I feel sorry for the other drunks who are still passed out in their rooms right now. They’ve lived their last memory.”

Jim stopped at this point. He needed a rest. There was something terribly wrong with this situation. He had to get out. He had a girlfriend. He had a family that he didn’t

spend enough time with. He didn’t say goodbye to them yet. But he couldn’t think about that. There was still time to get out. The building wasn’t collapsing yet. He and Mary would be just fine.

He made it to the first floor landing. Ten more steps to go. Mary passed out from the smoke inhalation six steps ago. She felt like dead weight. Just ten more steps, Jim thought. Then someone would help. There had to be firemen on the ground floor. The sweat from his hands loosened Mary from his grasp. He couldn’t drop her now. He had gone too far, taken too many risks to lose her by letting her slip away. That wasn’t heroic.

He was only heroic if he saved her. No one’s a hero for just trying to save someone.

They have to succeed. Jim tried to readjust his grip on Mary, but the more he moved his hands, the harder it was to walk. He had to stop. He would drop her otherwise. So, he sat on the steps and fixed his grip. But when he went to stand up, he couldn’t. His legs didn’t have anything left in them. He was weighed down by Mary, and his muscles wouldn’t bring him to his feet. They didn’t care about this being a life or death situation.

He woke Mary up. “Crawl down the steps. It’s your only way out. I can’t carry you anymore.”

“Did I pass out? Oh my goodness. I didn’t mean to. And I still can’t move my legs.”

“Just get down the steps.” Jim helped her along. There were only eight steps left.

He held onto the railing as he made his way down the stairwell. Mary was moving faster than him.

“All firemen,” someone said over a loud speaker, “get out of the condo immediately. I repeat, get out of the condo immediately.”

Five steps left, and a rumble shook the building. People were screaming outside.

This must be it. Doors burst open from the twelfth floor. The firemen were rushing down the steps, their boots clanking against the steps. Jim stopped moving. Everything turned numb. He couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t move. It was all over. He never thought it would end this way. He always knew he would get out alive, at least he always thought he would.

A louder rumble shook the condo. This was it. He would be the name that went down with the fire at Encore Condominium. The hero who saved two lives, but he wouldn’t live to bask in the glory. He wouldn’t live to have kids. He wouldn’t marry Penny. He would go down with the firemen who risked their lives to put out a stove fire.

Life didn’t feel complete for Jim yet, but he didn’t have a choice. He was happy with his life, but there should have been so much more.

The final rumble came, and Jim found a peace of mind. That was until he realized that Penny would be announcing his death to the world at 11 tonight.

Excerpt from Positive Parenting: Raising a Child for Dummies Kyle stomped into his house at eleven in the morning. Mrs. Smith was sitting on the couch feeding Neal. “Top of the afternoon there, Mr. McCandliss. You’re home a bit early. I thought I’d have to stay a wee longer.”

There was a pause before Kyle responded. “I’m taking the rest of the day off,” he said wiping his nose. “Do you think you could come back around five tonight for a couple hours?”

“Well I will have to check my calendar,” she said. “Would you mind finishing this?” She handed Neal off to Kyle.

“Boy do I have a lot to tell you,” Kyle said sticking the bottle back into Neal’s mouth. The infant smiled upon seeing his father, but his smile changed to a blank state.

Even a baby could feel the frustration exuding from his father’s presence. “I’ve got a three o’clock perm appointment, but I should be done by five,” Mrs. Smith said walking

out the door. “Have a pleasant day.” The lady closed the door, and Kyle continued to feed Neal.

“Well look at this Neal,” Kyle said. “We have more time to play together. How about that?”

Neal was breathing heavily through his nose as he inhaled milk from his bottle.

His hands stayed by his side, and they lay perfectly still. Occasionally, his hand would twitch, and he would curl his fingers into a tiny fist. “You seem so calm today,” Kyle said.

Neal continued to chug the bottle for another four ounces until he started to fuss.

Kyle propped Neal upright on his leg, placed his left hand slightly under Neal’s neck, and patted Neal’s back with his right hand. He alternated between rubbing and patting Neal’s back. The baby began to squirm, breathing heavier and kicking his legs. “Alright,” Kyle said, “let’s try the old fashioned way.”

He picked Neal up, slung him over his shoulder, and proceeded to pat and rub his back. He walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror to find that Neal was staring off, his mouth agape. Neal’s hands tightened, and he began to grunt. “I know it’s in there,” Kyle said. “Maybe just a couple more…”

And that was it. Neal’s mouth let out a deep, bellowing sound that wouldn’t be normally associated with an infant. After the burp, Neal’s eyes widened, and he cocked his head back a little. “Good boy,” Kyle said, kissing Neal’s head of thinning hair.

Almost immediately after the thundering noise, the child laid his fists into his father’s arm and wailed. Kyle walked back over to the living room where he laid the bottle. “Alright,” he said, “hold on a minute.”

Neal was silenced as soon as he felt the texture of the bottle hit his lips. He continued in a rampage to get to the bottom. His mouth sucked violently on the bottle as Neal guzzled the milk like he had been dying of thirst. It took him about twenty minutes and two more burps to finish the rest of its contents. Kyle raised him up. “That’s a good boy,” he said.

Neal smiled at him and made a quiet giggle. Kyle laid him on the couch to play with him for a while. He brought over some rattles and rings for Neal to grab onto.

“Alright, Neal. Let’s talk.”

Neal transfixed his gaze on Kyle’s mouth and attempted to mimic his father’s lip movements and sounds. Kyle repeated “dada,” and Neal tried imitating it. Often, he would turn his head sideways and stick his lips out as far as he could, looking like Donald Duck. As funny as it was, Kyle couldn’t find his ability to laugh. He merely stared at his son in amazement, saying, “Oh boy do we have a lot of work to do.”

They played around for a half hour or so until Kyle put Neal in his crib while he ate his lunch. Instead of eating in the kitchen, he ate over Neal’s crib. Today just felt like a day when he should be with his son. For the duration of Kyle’s lunch, Neal just looked around like he always did, but it always seemed new to him. “It amazes me how you don’t get bored looking at the same thing over and over again,” Kyle said taking a bite out of his turkey sandwich.

But Neal just stared. He stared at the sides of the crib, at the light hanging off its edge and at the mobile of bears hanging above. “You’ve been through this before,” Kyle said, “but it never bores you.”

After lunch, Kyle put Neal on the floor for a while. “You know, Neal,” he said.

“Daddy’s got a big decision to make tonight, and I’m not sure how that’s gonna go.” Neal fixed his gaze again on Kyle’s lips. “I just don’t know. I’ve been trying to put everything in words, but up to now, I haven’t been able to, and I still don’t thing I can. When I found out you were gonna be mine, I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to have a little tike to chase around the house and build a life with. It all seemed to be going my way.”

Neal stuck his tongue out and licked his upper lip. He made cooing sounds and fidgeted with his arms and legs. “But daddy had to go and do something stupid. Hard to imagine that, huh? Daddy went and screwed some things up for us, buddy, and he can’t fix them now. What I would give to just redo the last six months, but that’s not an option for me. So carry on we will, how about that?” He tickled Neal under the neck. Neal pulled his head down to cover his exposed neck, giggling in the process.

“How fun is this,” Kyle said going for Neal’s armpit. “Who needs a mom in the picture anyway?”

They continued playing for the next couple hours. While he fed Neal his bottle and rocked him to sleep, Kyle second-guessed his thoughts of a mother. He grew frustrated when he had to answer the phone while holding his son only to find that it was a pollster wanting to know who he was voting for. “Nader,” he said to them hanging up the phone. He ate a snack while trying to feed Neal again, which was when he realized that it would be very helpful to have four hands.

At four o’clock, Kyle sat Neal on his lap, and they talked. “Tonight’s an important night, buddy. You might not know it now, but daddy’s making a big decision. Daddy’s never had to do something like this before, but he’s gonna do it tonight. He’s gonna make up for all those mistakes in the past and try and make the future so much better, okay?”

Neal examined around the room. “Oh, what do you care? I’m just blabbering to you. You don’t understand a word I’m saying. But you look so happy. But you’re happy because you don’t understand, right? You just sit there and look around. I’d be a fool to think you actually knew what I’m saying.” Neal began kicking into Kyle’s legs.

“Maybe if I had someone who could talk to me, I wouldn’t have to lay everything on you. But that’s the problem, isn’t it, buddy? There’s no one else. It’s just you—a baby who just looks around at random things and cries all the time. There’s always someone to take care of you, but who’s there to take care of me? Just answer me that.

Where’s my support? I got rid of it a couple months ago by going out with her sister.

Probably wasn’t the best decision I’ve made, but I guess I haven’t made too many good ones, huh? I dropped religion, which turned my family against me. Then, I got Cindy pregnant, which trapped me for the rest of my life. And then, if things weren’t bad enough, she left because of my stupid mistake. And now I’m gonna lose one more.”

Neal’s face reddened, and he tossed his head back and forth. “Oh, please, do you have to start that now? It’s not really the best time.”

But Neal didn’t care about the right time or place to cry. He didn’t care about Kyle’s problems. He had his own, and to him, he was more important than anyone else.

Kyle laid Neal back in his crib, but the crying didn’t cease. Instead of picking Neal up again, Kyle just walked into his room and closed the door. He jumped onto his checker-sheeted bed, releasing a breath that had been imprisoned in his all day. His eyes closed, and he lay motionless for a moment. Thoughts did not flood his head. Everything ceased in that instant.

A moment later, he pushed his eyes open, wondering how long he’d been asleep.

Neal’s cries had stopped as if by some miraculous act of God. He sat up in the dark room and began walking when he tripped over a shoebox lying on the floor. Opening it, he found his old baseball cards of Ken Griffey Jr., Cal Ripkin, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Babe Ruth. He remembered the days when he collected these pieces of paper and traded them with friends—the time before Neal. He remembered throwing them into this shoebox when Neal was born and putting them on the floor in his room because there was no room anywhere else. At the bottom of the box, he found one picture that didn’t belong with the cards. It was a picture of Cindy and him at PNC Park wearing their Pirates shirts even though the team was no good anyway. He put the image back into the shoebox.

That was his past now, and he knew he had to put all of it behind him.

The doorbell rang, and Kyle hadn’t left his room yet. “Coming,” he said running down the steps. He opened the door to see Mrs. Smith wearing the same overcoat and fluffier hair. “Hello again, Mr. McCandliss,” she said entering the house.

“Thanks for coming back tonight,” Kyle said. “I need to sort some things out, and I couldn’t do it with Neal around.”

“Alrighty by me,” Mrs. Smith said, examining Kyle up and down. “Now, is what you’re wearing the new style or did you forget to change?”

Kyle looked at himself to find he was still in the sweatpants he’d been wearing all day. “Oh god, I forgot to change. Um, Neal’s in the crib. I’ll be right back.” He ran up the stairs to throw on another pair of pants. In the process, he tripped over the shoebox, and all the baseball cards flew into the air. But Kyle didn’t have time to deal with that at the moment. He threw on a pair a kakis and ran back down the steps to see Mrs. Smith rocking Neal as he was waking up. “It looks like your son wanted to see you before you

left,” Mrs. Smith said.

Neal saw his dad over Mrs. Smith’s shoulder, and he reached for him. Kyle came closer and held his fingers up to Neal’s hand so that he would grip onto it. “Well I’m glad to see you’re doing better. He was having some problems before, but he seems better now.”

“That’s splendid,” Mrs. Smith said rocking Neal back and forth. She looked at the clock. “Well, if you look at the time. It seems that you might be late to your little meeting there, Mr. McCandliss.”

“Right,” Kyle said putting his shoes on and opening the door. “I should be back soon.”

“Take your time,” she said. “I think tonight I’ll teach little Nestor his ABC’s.”

Kyle kissed Neal on the forehead. “See you, little one,” he said. Neal smiled as if he forgot all of the troubles of the past afternoon. And with that, Kyle shut the door.

Deda Death had always been a funny thing to me. I listened to stories about it on the news everyday, and it haunted me sometimes. It was something that always came out of nowhere, and that bothered me. Through my childhood, I hadn’t experienced death of any kind with the exception of a family friend who I didn’t know very well. However, I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d have to deal with it face to face.

It was Saturday January 13, 2007. My grandfather called that night saying that Deda had fallen, and she wasn’t waking up. My father called the paramedics, and they thought she was just sleeping. “She was snoring like a trouper,” my mother said when she came home. They would have to go to the hospital. I called my other grandmother to tell her the news. “She’s gonna be just fine,” she said. Just fine, I repeated in my head, just fine.

It was about nine o’clock at night when my parents returned from the hospital. As they entered the room, I could feel a solemn chill send pins into my heart. My stomach dropped as my mom spoke. “We have some news to tell you,” she said. “Deda, she

didn’t make it. She had a brain aneurism, and there’s nothing they can do.”

I was speechless. There was nothing to say. How could this happen? She was a perfectly healthy woman, the healthiest of all my grandparents, and she was the first to die. It just didn’t seem right. It was surreal thinking about it, and it still is. I couldn’t imagine her gone. I was going to miss her cheese sandwiches she made every time I came to visit. I was going to miss her being the principal of my pretend school, and I was going to miss the days when we could just run through the cornstalks. I was going to miss my Deda, the woman I named.

From childhood, I was naïve enough to think nothing would change. My family would stay in tact, and nothing would interfere. Death and I had our first rumble that Saturday night, and death won. It brought me down from the utopia I thought would last forever. And now all I have are the Kodak memories of Deda, of friends, of family. And I flip through them everyday.

Life’s Impact

OCD I do it every moment of every day of every week of every year, and I never slip up.

If my backpack isn’t in complete order, from first to last, or if my homework isn’t written in my planner, my head throbs to the beat of my adrenaline-pumping heart.

It’s like having an alarm clock embedded in my head. Wake up at five fifty-nine. Get to school by seven thirty, get home by five, eat dinner by six, finish all homework by nine, and be in bed by ten thirty.

Reminders fill my head when I’m not in school.

Do your homework, write in your journal, put your retainer in. Did you study?

Did you play the piano?

You should be reading.

The list goes on and on and on, repeating over and over and over again, never-ending like a black hole, which reminds me, I have to study for that Chemistry quiz.

I am a slave to the mental post-it notes that won’t go away.

I am a slave to the growing list of things to do.

I am a slave to the busy life-style of always wanting to tackle more.

I am a slave to my work, to my planner, and to self-improvement— a subject I will never master.

An Excerpt from Hamilton vs. St. Clair The snow blanketed Rochester, New York. It was the weekend after Thanksgiving, and everyone was outside, decorating for the largest social season— Christmas. The time for laughter, the time for joy. The time for winners who crush the competition with their savory ham, and the time for losers who wish they would have put up that extra string of lights. It was an early morning on Baker Way. All were up at seven to form the ancient assembly line from the attic to the living room. Dad handed the packages of tinsel and garland to son on the steps who passed it onto mother in the hallway who gave them to daughter who carried them to the living room. After lugging the numerous boxes down from their frozen storage room, the family split into teams— father and son took outside, while mother and daughter stayed to decorate inside. The

teams had four hours to complete their work. Then they ate lunch followed by the essential system of checks and balances. The duos swapped areas—father and son stayed inside, mother and daughter took outside—and made sure everything was perfect. That night, they lit up the house and walked to the edge of their yard to marvel at the work they accomplished, while spiting the competition.

Lies Lies I’ve stayed away from you for as long as I could, but you insist on coming back.

You know you lead to break-ups, excommunication, and isolation, but you don’t care. You love to fake sick and miss school, and I know you have your homework done, but you forgot to print it, right?

Lies I don’t care about your nonsense.

You can’t change the way you are.

Lies I don’t want you in my company because if I hear you have another headache and need to go home early, I’m gonna get a migraine.

Lies I don’t want your deceitful words entering the ears of the innocent.

Lies I told my friends about you, and I’m proud of it.

So the next time you say you’re genuine and trustworthy, you won’t get the benefit of the doubt, and you’ll have the nerve to complain that it’s not fair, but it is fair.

Lies don’t expect to be invited to the party because you’re contagious and no one wants to get sick. No one wants to hear that your boyfriend dumped you.

You just want sympathy.

And don’t ever think about playing guilt trips just to get the attention you think you deserve.

Lies you are a prisoner and an addict who needs help.

Well here’s your get-out-of-jail-free card.

The truth.

Vulnerability It’s hard when you don’t have the ability to react to the jabs near the heart. It makes you become a liability to yourself and take on the label of one who holds real fear close to them. It makes you alive to the problems you confront at the table where you’re interrogated and hope you can bail out of this situation without letting someone catch your tail.

Then again maybe this is the year when you’ll be able to avoid the questioner’s rein.

Life’s Situations

Empty Threats (Opens to MRS. CUNNINGHAM’S office. She is sitting in a leather chair. LAUREN is sitting across from her. The desk is covered with papers. MRS. CUNNINGHAM occasionally jots down notes. Behind MRS. CUNNINGHAM is a table with a pitcher of water and Styrofoam cups.)

LAUREN It was a joke.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM So you did threaten a student.

LAUREN I was just joking around. Jerome didn’t turn in his homework, and I said I’d hit him with a meter stick the next time he forgot it. I was just kidding.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM (laughs) Do you know how many times a kid has sat in that chair and said, “I was just joking, Mrs. Cunningham. We were just playin’ around.” And can you believe the first couple times I let them get away with it?

(LAUREN squirms in her chair.)

LAUREN Jerome just laughed it off. He still hasn’t turned in a single thing.

(MRS. CUNNINGHAM writes on her paper.)

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Interesting. Do you make these “jokes” often?

LAUREN No, I’ve never threatened anyone before. Look at me, Mrs. Cunningham. Do I look threatening to you?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Not in particular. But you have to watch the quiet ones. So, do you take control of your classroom?

LAUREN For the most part.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Continue.

LAUREN Well, we start with our routine math problem, and the same old kids do it. The others just sit there. Then we go over the homework, which some never do. Then I teach something new, and it’s always the same kids who pay attention.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM

And why don’t your students pay attention?

LAUREN Because they don’t want to.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM So you don’t have control of your classroom?

LAUREN I try, Mrs. Cunningham. It’s just difficult when they aren’t interested.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Then make it interesting. Get them engaged. Make them want to learn.

LAUREN I’ve tried, but they don’t listen. I’ve used sports and money problems, but even that didn’t work. So I tried intimidation.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM And they laughed at you.

LAUREN Exactly.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM But not all of them. Someone took you seriously.

LAUREN What?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM The student I talked to took your threat very seriously.

LAUREN Who was it?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Ben Washington.

LAUREN I could’ve guessed. He’s got some emotional problems. He acts like I’m Stalin standing in front of the classroom. He’s not a bad kid. He just worries about everything. He never laughs at my jokes. Well, no one laughs at my jokes, but he’s always so tense.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Have you ever spoken with his parents?

LAUREN Yeah, they came to the open house. They seemed like nice people, but they were very concerned about their son.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM How is Ben doing?

LAUREN Fine. Kids tease him for being so attentive, but that’s the way he is. I haven’t had any problems with him. Well, until now, I guess.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Ben is a very bright student. But there are no jokes with him. I remember one time I told him to cool down, and he was fanning himself all day.

(LAUREN shoots MRS. CUNNINGHAM a puzzled look.)

MRS. CUNNINGHAM That was a joke.

LAUREN What if I apologized to him? I didn’t mean to scare anyone.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM I don’t think it’s going to be that easy. His parents are involved.

LAUREN What did they say?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM They just want to find out what happened.

(There is a pause, and LAUREN looks genuinely worried.)

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Oh relax. What’s the worst that could happen?

LAUREN I could be out of a job. (pause) You know I would never hit anyone. And I do so much here.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM You’re the cheerleading coach.

LAUREN

Hey, I spend hours trying to come up with cheers. It’s really hard to make up clever rhymes and choreographed routines.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM I see…

LAUREN I’m a math teacher. Maybe you should get one of the English teachers to come up with those silly cheers. It’d give Ms. Harmon something to do.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Well, Ms. Harmon might be the cheerleading coach if you’re not around next year.

(LAUREN pauses for a moment.)

LAUREN (hysterical) You don’t understand. I can’t lose this job. This is all I have. I’ve got student loans to pay off.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM And what about your parents?

LAUREN They’re in no position to help.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Sounds like hard times.

(MRS. CUNNINGHAM continues writing on paper. LAUREN continues to squirm in her chair and struggles to find the words to speak.)

LAUREN It’s just been tough.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM You’re in debt. Sad story, but life’s not fair.

LAUREN It’s more than that, ma’am. (pause) Living in Maine has been tough. I moved here with a man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. We separated, and now all I have is a house and a mortgage. I’m all alone.

(MRS. CUNNINGHAM stops writing and goes over to get a drink

of water for LAUREN.) MRS. CUNNINGHAM What about friends and family?

LAUREN My family is estranged. We haven’t seen each other in some time. My friends don’t really talk to me anymore.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Why is that?

LAUREN It’s because of my ex, John.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM They didn’t like him?

LAUREN Not at all. They thought he was using me, and they were right. When I started dating John, he took over my life. He never let me do anything by myself. And I wasn’t allowed to see my friends anymore.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM And your friends felt pushed aside.

LAUREN I stopped doing things with them. John thought it would be better if I stayed away from them. He thought they were bad influences. Little did I know…

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Why did you move to Maine?

LAUREN John thought it would be nice up here. He saw pictures of some nice sites, and he wanted to go. We just went up for vacation at first, but he loved it so much he wanted to move up here.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM So you went.

LAUREN I was convinced that once we moved to Maine, he would marry me because we’d have our own home and all the time in the world to spend with each other. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Why didn’t you move back?

LAUREN I grew to like it here. Besides, I didn’t have enough money to pack up and go again. And it’s not like there was anyone I could go back to. Maine’s my home now, and I don’t plan on leaving. And this is my job, and I don’t plan on leaving that either.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM So if you lose this— LAUREN I’m stuck.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Unless you find another job.

LAUREN Maybe working at McDonald’s, but nothing like this.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM I’m sure you could find something. I was working in New Hampshire at an elementary school before I came to Maine.

LAUREN What happened there?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Well, it was my first teaching job. I was teaching a fifth grade English class in a shrinking district. It was a good job. I grew to really like it.

LAUREN And what happened?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM There was a massive downsizing, and being one of the newer teachers, I was displaced.

LAUREN That’s rough. So why did you come to Maine?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM I went back to looking for a job. I didn’t want to go too far, and Maine was within driving distance. I stumbled on a teaching job in this district. I didn’t mind teaching, but I thought I would be better suited as a principal. So I went back to school for a little while and earned a degree in education administration.

LAUREN Tough times.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM It wasn’t easy. But what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger. You’re a strong person, Miss Foster. You know that? Your friends abandoned you, your boyfriend used you and left you. Yet, you still have a positive attitude.

LAUREN I wouldn’t say that. It’s pretty difficult. I feel like my life’s back on track, and there’s something right here ready to screw me up again.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Don’t think like that. Challenges come up a lot in our lives, and we have to deal with them. You’ll get through this little roadblock.

LAUREN Not if I can’t keep this job.

(MRS. CUNNINGHAM looks down at the paper she had been writing on.)

MRS. CUNNINGHAM I don’t think it’s come to that yet. Let’s just talk to the parents, and we’ll go from there.

LAUREN Look, I can start over. Sure it’ll be hard, but I don’t want to put you through all this trouble.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM I’m sure you can Miss Foster, but I was thinking of something a little different.

(Beat.)

LAUREN What do you mean?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Well, you see, there is a lot to be debated in this situation. Yes, you threatened a student, but it seems the student ignored your threat.

LAUREN And I haven’t enforced it.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM (writing)

And it wasn’t enforced.

LAUREN So… MRS. CUNNINGHAM I will set up a conference with the parents. In order to sort this out, we need to make sure they understand the situation.

LAUREN But I won’t lose my job?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM I think not, Miss Foster. If we can convince the parents that this was a harmless threat, then you may get off free.

LAUREN And if the parents don’t agree?

MRS. CUNNINGHAM Then we’ll have more of a battle to fight. The Board may get involved if the parents are adamant about the situation. But even then, my guess is you’ll only be suspended without pay.

LAUREN Mrs. Cunningham, I appreciate all your help.

MRS. CUNNINGHAM I’m just glad we sorted that out. I didn’t want to take out my meter stick.

(LAUREN smirks as she stands up to leave the room. MRS. CUNNINGHAM continues writing.)

BLACKOUT

Meandering in the Green Thumb’s Paradise 1.

The Entrance Room Walking through the jungle filled with low-hanging branches and inhaling the aroma of dampness.

The leaves are dark green, light green, and the flowers are colored yellow. It’s the home of a million petite and obese leaves with elaborate designs carved in them. Sunflowers that smell like summer, and black cats that are caught in the swirls of ivy.

2.

The Bee Garden I focus on an array of red, yellow, and orange flowers just like the ones in my garden. Watering them every night before I go to bed is my summertime hobby.

Every night, I see bees sipping pollen from the yellow flower in the corner.

Afraid of being stung, I never interrupt their bliss.

I see the garden filled with enormous bees that are coated with green petals, but they aren’t sipping pollen, and their stingers look harmless.

3.

The Victoria Room Medusa has poisoned the plants even though her gaze is no longer deadly. It appears as though she is defeated and guarded by the Greek guardians of the cosmos. I conquered Medusa.

I watch her as she floated with powerless eyes.

I have become Zeus, and I keep her in check.

4.

The Rainbow Snake Room The long snake slithers through the garden. He scares my sister, and Lauren tries to

trap it with her net. The long snake with rainbow skin makes its home through the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet flowers. It sips the water out of the bowl, and remains perfectly still. Lauren would love to sneak up on the beast and take it home as a pet.

5.

Back to the Entrance Room Bamboo sticks as thin as pencils lean to the left.

Fiddle-leaf figs from Central and South America. Silver palm imported from Central Florida and the Bahamas. Three white pillars have orange flowers blossoming at their tops.

This is a green thumb’s paradise.

Excerpt from Team Captain FADE IN: INT. PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE–MIDDAY MICHAEL and his parents are sitting in PRINCIPAL SAMPSON’S office. He is sitting behind his desk in a red leather chair. He is dressed in a black suit with a tie that resembles a pencil. JOHN, Michael’s dad, is also wearing a grey suit, and LINDA,

Michael’s mom, is wearing a black suit jacket with a white shirt underneath and a black skirt. Michael is wearing a white, button-up shirt with black dress pants and black shoes.

JOHN As you know, we’re new to the city, and Michael is having trouble adjusting to his new environment.

LINDA It’s been difficult for him to make friends. He doesn’t know anybody.

PRINCIPAL SAMPSON I see. (pause) Well, you could enroll him in an extracurricular activity.

LINDA What activities do you have?

Principal Sampson opens his desk and pulls out a binder. It is labeled extracurricular activities. He puts on his glasses, opens the binder, and begins to read from it.

PRINCIPAL SAMPSON Well, we have soccer, swimming, and robotics at the moment. Later in the year, we have football, baseball, basketball and the English Bowl...

LINDA What’s the English Bowl?

PRINCIPAL SAMPSON From what I understand, the English Bowl is a competition in which the students read one book and study it, and in May, they compete to see which team has the best knowledge of the book.

JOHN It sounds interesting. What do you think Michael?

Michael crosses his arms and shrugs.

LINDA (to Principal Sampson) We’ll think about it.

CUT TO: INT. MICAHEL’S KITCHEN—NIGHT

Michael, Linda, and John are eating dinner. They are having pasta. Michael is twirling his pasta, and John and Linda are watching him while eating.

LINDA Is there something wrong, Michael?

Michael continues to twirl his food around and says nothing.

JOHN Son, tell us what’s wrong.

MICHAEL School.

JOHN And what’s wrong with school?

MICHAEL Everything. I hate everything about it.

LINDA Oh, Michael, it can’t be that bad.

MICHAEL Try sitting through seven hours of not talking to anybody. It’s uncomfortable, and I already know the stuff they’re teaching.

LINDA That’s why you’re going to join the English Bowl team.

MICHAEL I can’t do that.

JOHN And why not?

MICHAEL Because the other kids’ll make fun of me.

JOHN Michael, you’re joining this English Bowl.

Michael stops twirling his pasta and leaves the table after eating barely anything.

CUT TO: INT. ENGLISH CLASS—MORNING MRS. LASKY is standing at the chalkboard. Michael and some of the other students are taking notes while others are falling asleep.

MRS. LASKY Who can explain to me the center of the heated battle between Socrates and Euthyphro?

She looks around, and no one raises their hand. Just as she is about to call on someone, the bell rings, and the students quickly pack up.

MRS. LASKY (while the students are packing their things) Remember, all of those brave souls interested in joining the English Bowl team should stay after school today.

CUT TO: INT. SAME—EARLY EVENING Five students are sitting in the front row of Mrs. Lasky’s classroom. Michael enters and sits behind them. Mrs. Lasky enters with packets of English Bowl rules.

MRS. LASKY So these are the students brave enough to tackle the ultimate obstacle that is memorizing literature. I applaud you all. But this competition is more than just memorizing words printed on a page. This competition will test how well you interpret the text you labor over.

GREG raises his hand.

GREG What’s the book?

MRS. LASKY Give me time, Greg. I’m building suspense.

She puts the packets down except for one and opens it.

MRS. LASKY Let me give you some clues. The novel uses vivid

imagery to take you into the mind of the reader.

She looks up, and everyone has a blank expression on their face.

MRS. LASKY It chronicles the life of a girl going through her first year at high school after having one of the worst summers of her life.

COLLEEN We’re reading Speak? That’s awesome. I love that book.

MRS. LASKY Has anyone else read the novel by Laurie Halse Anderson?

No one answers.

MRS. LASKY Well, then. We have a lot of work to do. But first we need to elect a team captain. A great responsibility lies with whomever receives the call to become team captain. He or she will be responsible for leading the troops to victory. The captain will also be charged with reading the whole book and being the go-to person if no one else has the answer. (pause) So who feels the call.

The students look around at one another, and Michael sinks in his seat.

MRS. LASKY No one feels the call to be team captain. What’s wrong with you children? Someone has to feel the call. (pauses) No one? Then the team will vote. Colleen, start us off.

COLLEEN I vote for the new kid.

MRS. LASKY That’s one vote for Michael. Michael, cast your vote.

MICHAEL Colleen.

GREG Speaking on behalf of the other four members of our group, we vote Michael.

MRS. LASKY Then Michael, please join me up here.

Michael is at first reluctant to leave his seat but decides to.

MRS. LASKY Kneel at my feet, Michael.

Michael, again reluctant at first, kneels. Mrs. Lasky picks up her pointer and knights Michael.

MRS. LASKY I now pronounce you Captain Michael of the Truman High English Bowl team.

Everyone claps, and Colleen cheers. Michael gets on his feet, and just as he is walking away, Mrs. Lasky stops him.

MRS. LASKY Tell us, Michael. What should the team do before the next practice?

Michael pauses for a moment, not knowing what to say.

MICHAEL Read the book.

COLLEEN And what if we already read it.

MICHAEL Then read it again.

MRS. LASKY (to Michael) Wise words. (to everyone) You are all dismissed.

CUT TO:

INT. MICHAEL’S KITCHEN—NIGHT Michael, John, and Linda are eating chicken. John is still in his work clothes—a black suit and a white undershirt. Linda is wearing shorts and a t-shirt.

LINDA So how was your English Bowl practice?

MICHAEL I was elected team captain.

LINDA That’s great.

MICHAEL No it’s not. Now I have to memorize the whole book. This is pointless.

JOHN Son, being in an extracurricular activity is not useless. And being the team captain is even better.

MICHAEL It only means I have to do more work, and I already have enough schoolwork.

JOHN It’s going to look good on for colleges, especially if you win.

MICHAEL Dad, there’s no way we’re gonna win.

JOHN Not with that mentality. Start thinking positive.

MICHAEL Dad, it’s not just about winning.

JOHN Of course it is. Everything in life is a competition.

Succeeding in challenges, getting into college, getting a good job. It’s all competition. Life is a competition.

MICHAEL I’m sorry, but I don’t see it that way.

Michael gets up and walks away from the table.

CUT TO: INT. ENGLISH CLASS—EARLY EVENING Michael is standing in front of the classroom. He has his book open. Mrs. Lasky is sitting behind him at her desk. The rest of the English Bowl participants are sitting in the front row of seats.

MICHAEL (while flipping through the pages) Alright. Greg, you take the first marking period.

Anne, you take the second. Harry, you take the third. Rachel, you take the fourth, and Colleen and I will work on the whole book.

COLLEEN Why can’t I have the third marking period, and Harry can read the whole book?

MICHAEL I guess we could do that.

MRS. LASKY (sighs) Oh, Michael, Michael, Michael. You are in charge.

Act like it. If Colleen wants to take a different section of the novel, tell her no. You assigned her to study the whole book, and that’s what she’ll do. Tell her.

MICHAEL (passively) Okay then. Colleen, you’re going to study the whole book.

Mrs. Lasky slams her hands on the desk.

MRS. LASKY That’s not the voice of a team captain. I want you to order Colleen to study the book.

MICHAEL

(a little louder than last time) Colleen, you are going to study the whole book.

Mrs. Lasky stands up and walks towards Michael.

MRS. LASKY I want to hear you scream at her.

MICHAEL (screaming) Colleen, you will study the whole book.

Colleen cowers a little. Mrs. Lasky puts her hands on Michael’s shoulders.

MRS. LASKY Okay, maybe not so loud next time.

CUT TO: INT. MICHAEL’S KITCHEN—NIGHT John and Linda are sitting at the kitchen table. Rice is the meal of the night. Michael shrugs in and sits but doesn’t pick up his spoon.

LINDA Now what’s wrong, sweetie?

JOHN What’s ever wrong with him? He’s always moping around like there’s something wrong. He just wants attention, that’s all. He’s a teenager. They just want to be “accepted”.

MICHAEL (to John) Shut up, Dad! You don’t have any idea what I go through at school. It’s torture. No one likes me, and I’m sick of this English Bowl.

Michael storms off.

JOHN (to Linda shaking his head) Teenagers.

Sparrow Revisited through Mahalia Jackson Why should I feel discouraged?/ Why should the shadows come?/ Why should my heart feel lonely?/When Jesus is my portion/A constant friend is He/His eye is on the sparrow /And I know He watches over me

“His Eye Is on the Sparrow” written by Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel performed by Mahalia Jackson Why should I feel discouraged when I have a constant friend looking over me?

A friend who looks over all, a friend to the young and old, male and female, a friend to all walks of life.

Why should the shadows come when I let the light soak through me?

It reins supreme over the dark influences of the past.

The light blankets us all now, and the shadows have become smaller.

Why should my heart feel lonely when all that I have longed for has arrived?

The shackles of oppression are dissipating.

Brother Martin tells me, “We’re not alone,” and I know He’s watching over me.

I hear the tender words of the man who sits beside me, and I drop my doubts and fears.

I see the clouds rise, but I stay steady on the path.

The rain pours down, and I cling to those close to me leaning onto their kindness for support.

I see the sparrow soaring over the skyscrapers and pastures. She has been wandering for decades, lost in the minds of the past.

But the sparrow mounts her perch again.

His eye looks down, smiling.

And I know he watches over me.