Have A Great Summer Jessica Harrison Being the first to sign someone’s yearbook was quite possibly the biggest mo-
ment of middle school. We haven’t made it to the promposals or flings of high school and we are far from the kindergarten declarations of love that lasted in a day of marriage before an amicable divorce. The yearbook was used as a tool to get someone to admit their true feelings for you in the confines of a nine by eleven sheet of paper. How does one property articulate their feelings for you and the culmination of moments you’ve spent together over the course of the year? The options were seemingly endless: Some opt to deface their yearbook photo. The cheesy pose where they make you nearly break your neck from turning so hard and your arm nearly popping out of place from stretching well beyond its bounds. The overcompensated face was now adorned with black eyes, mustaches, and vulgar images. Others preferred to sign their name simply like an autograph that would be worth millions in a few years. They act as if they had blessed me, I could be forever grateful to say I knew them when. There are also those who leave their phone number and insist we keep in touch. Though, if they really felt that way, wouldn’t I already have their number? In reality, this was a means to fill up their contact list as they strut into high school. Nothing says popularity in high school like a copious number of fake friends. I am not here to get any of these superficial yearbook mementos. The only graffiti I will allow on my crisp clean pages is the ink of Marcus Lake. Marcus Lake, the most amazing guy in school. He was the captain of the football and track teams, as well as my chemistry partner two years in a row. And yes, he is also the most handsome guy in school. I grasp my pile of multi-colored gel pens and make a beeline towards him. Being the first person to sign someone’s yearbook is quite the honor. It gives you access to all the prime real estate. As I head over to Marcus’ lunch table, someone shoots by me in a flash. I am able to catch myself on the trash can but look down to see my yearbook has vanished. As I scan the area, I see the culprit. Jackson Carter. He sits alone at the lunch table, hovering over the book like it is his precious. “Give it back.” I groan. He sticks his tongue out in pure concentration. You could practically see the smoke coming out of his ears. That was dangerous considering the amount of hairspray he had in his hair. He could burn the school down with his sad excuse of a brain and then I would never get to talk to Marcus. 90
