Click the following links to navigate to original non-fiction prose written by Brazosport ISD students.
"Anticipation"- Kelsey
Creveling
"The Perfect Finish"-
Katie Yoder
"Behind Bars"- Lindsay
Collins
You may respond to any of these by clicking the Response button below the title.
Anticipation
by Kelsey Creveling
Pacing a groove in the
floor, I wait. An eternity has passed since four PM tryouts but it’s not even
ten o’clock. My heart accelerates as each second ticks by. I am home awaiting
the magical hour of ten when the list and my fate will be posted. The results
are out of my control now. Extensive hours of practice, depravity of sleep,
aching muscles, complicated choreography and the adrenaline rushing performance
are done. Forty- seven girls. One hundred and forty one score sheets. Sixteen
top scores make the list.
I am still pacing, my homework isn’t finished and tomorrow’s school day
looms. Algebra, the toughest subject, is particularly oppressive with this
waiting on my shoulders. Texas History’s project is due. Science definitions
clutter endless pages refusing to stay stuck in my head. And I’m sixteen book
points behind.
Dinner is a blur.
Hayley picks up on the tense vibe and as a typical seven year old is a pesky
sister. Her Barbie “Think Pink” CD is blaring and on repeat. “Think pink, think
pink, think pink……” She interrupts my homework attempts with inane questions
like “What’s your favorite animal?” “What’s your favorite color?” “What’s your
favorite movie, Ariel or Belle?” Shouldn’t she be in bed?
9:45 PM. Finally.
The rental car keys are missing and there is no spare. One car is in the body
shop and the other in downtown Houston. This never happens. We frantically toss
the house. Between the seat cushions of the sofa we discover the keys and a
whole cache of Hayley’s trinkets. She’s a taxi driver and the sofa is her
cab. Just love her creative mind, not!
9:55 PM and we are backing out of the driveway. We make the less than mile trip
to Lake Jackson Intermediate School. The car ride is silent but not absent of
the interior roar of our cumulative anxiety. I notice every single house, every
single street sign, the single, old man walking his German shepherd. We make the
turn from one street to another. I am pierced by a double edged sword – I want
to know, yet I am scared to death to know.
We pull into the parking lot. School doesn’t look like school. The familiar
buildings appear alien as the walls are dark and oddly lit with a purple, hazy
glow. There is a ground fog that swallows people within short distances from
their cars. Screams, shouts, sobbing and laughter jar my ears. I’ve entered a
House of Mirrors.
Out of the chaos and fog two friends race up to my car and pull me with them. We
stumble as one towards the list. “Did I make it? Is my name on that list? If
not, can I deal? Will I cry? My friends wouldn’t take me to the list if I hadn’t
made it? Would they?” We stop.
They ask, “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Deep breath. Visibly shaking I approach the list with their hands over my
eyes. One, two, three. Do I see an “ing?” Yes, yes! Near the top. The list is
alphabetical and that “ing” has a Kelsey Crevel in front. I’m on it. I made the
list. I made it! I’m a cheerleader!
I’m swarmed with dizzying emotions and hugs, hugs, hugs. I made it! I’m a
cheerleader! I’m one of the sixteen.
My life is changed, changed until the next year’s tryouts when the process is
repeated. The waiting never gets easier but cheering is something I love. Friday
night, bright lights, on the field, in front of the crowd, screaming for the
team. Consequently this coming April I will be pacing again while I wait for the
2005 Varsity Cheerleaders list to be posted.
The Perfect Finish
by Katie Yoder
The crowd behind me roars. Every yell overwhelms my nervous senses, worsening
the fact that I have to swim the fastest race of my life. I stare anxiously at
the tranquil pool; not one ripple dares to venture across. Its smooth texture
reminds me of Jell-O. I try to focus. I try to envision my race, but my frantic
thoughts and attention are drawn to the rest of my team, whose excitement and
adrenaline keep them restless. I begin to get a sharp, annoying pain in the pit
of my stomach and the sudden urge to use the restroom, the first physical signs
of my stress. I’ve been waiting for them. That, however, is the least of my
worries.
All eight relays stand behind the starting block, and wait for this show to get
on the road. Now, being incapable of controlling my discomfort, I anxiously
glance at the competition to my left, and then to my right.
All
around me girls are bouncing up and down, shaking out their muscles, and swinging their arms
loosely about. I too try to play their little game, but end up just feeling
stupid with no utter importance in the process.
My ears are enclosed by the sounds of obnoxious chants,
“Relay, Relay, Relay, GO! Relay, Relay, Relay, GO!”
Within each huddle, teams try to inspire each other to go faster then ever
before. I turn to my huddle where senior, Karen Abild, leads us in our own
enthusiastic pep talk.
“Ok, we all have to go under twenty-seven seconds to break the record!!”
An earth shattering whoop escapes from Laura and Lisa as the excitement of the
upcoming race consumes their bodies. I force myself to act just as pumped, but I
can’t stop dwelling on the fact I have never broken twenty-seven seconds in the
fifty yard freestyle in my whole life. Our two hundred yard freestyle relay came
to Alief Aquatic Center with one mission: to break our school record. I,
unfortunately, am the weakest link.
My trembling body follows the commands of the announcer like a robot.
“Swimmers, on the block!”
Being the first one in my relay, I cautiously creep up the starting block. My
feet settle firm on the black gritty material, and my toes curl around the edge,
securing my position. I bend down, pressing my goggles so the suction cinches
tighter and tighter against my eyes sockets, a nervous habit that has
accompanied me throughout my ten year swim career.
“Swimmers, take your mark!”
The announcer’s jumbled voice echoes against the wall as the eight swimmers
reach down in sync. Impatiently waiting the cue to go, my body winces as a tiny
knot in my stomach makes breathing a painful task. The final whistle is blown,
hushing the hyperactive crowd. The serenity of the waters sends a shivering fear
up my spine, I think I’m gonna puke. BEEP. And in the blink of an eye eight
swimmers shoot out into the waters like rockets into space, hopefully leading
their team to victory.
Above the surface, the crowd screams. Too bad it’s a waste of breath, unheard
from beneath the water. Underneath the surface I thrive in my own world, lucky
lane number five. My fingertips slice through the icy water, yanking me faster
to the finish. Memories of all the practices endured and all the early mornings
at school rush through my mind like a raging river. I’m driven forwards; my
team’s depending on me at the other end. While trying harder and harder to keep
up with the foggy figures in the lanes next to me, something inside my calves
and thighs begins to burn. I have no other choice but to ignore the pain
creeping up my legs as I go for my flip turn. My natural instinct carries me in,
and off the wall faster than a cheetah in the wild. Kicking and splashing
hectically gets me nowhere! I feel as if I’m moving slower then ever.
Finally the wall approaches, so I tuck my head down and hold my breath tight as
I stretch powerfully into the touchpad. As I raise my head from the finish, I
spot the toes of Laura Paul entering the water after me. I catch my breath
before I face the girls on my team. Karen and Lisa greet me with jumping, with
screaming, and with yelling.
“You did it Katie! You broke twenty seven seconds!”
For the first time I am filled with happiness as the weight of the world lifts
off my shoulders. We turn to watch Laura finish her race. Adrenaline is pumping
through our veins as we watch Karen go off the block. But I feel so much relief;
I have done my part. Like clockwork, Karen completes her fifty. Now Lisa Paul
charges into the water, and as we look on in amazement, we know we have the
record. All the pieces to the puzzle are complete. As Lisa crawls out of the
pool, the score board officially tells us the record of seven years is broken.
We hug! We go crazy!
The other teams just stare in amazement, probably thinking, why are they so
happy? They didn’t even win. Oh, but to us it is a victory, a once-in-a-lifetime
honor. It means our letter jackets, it means our names up on that wall of fame,
but most significantly it means admiration for years to come by swimmers passing
through Brazoswood High School. The sweetest victory.
Behind Bars
By
Lindsay Collins
I feel like a bug under a microscope with the florescent lights beaming down on me. Who knew that throwing a wad of paper would be charged as such a crime? A grenade would be understandable, but a piece of paper? I’m a fish out of water in this unfamiliar territory among the school’s crooks and thieves. A prison is more like it. The slightest peep from my mouth can almost guarantee a doubled sentence.
Detention.
* * *
It’s impossible to concentrate on an English paper when the weekend is just minutes away. I scribble some words down in my notebook, pretending to focus like everyone sitting around me. Dissatisfied with my absent-minded work, I rip out the messy pages and crumple them up into a lopsided bundle, continuing to twist them around each other until the ink begins to rub off onto my hands. I immediately spot the trash can in the corner, cooking up another way to occupy my time. Without thinking twice, I pick up the remainder of my English report and sink it in an effortless toss.
My small victory is quickly interrupted by my teacher’s sharp voice. “Lindsay, did I just see you throw that?” Mrs. Smith demands like an inquiring judge.
“Yes, but I made…” I try to explain.
“I’ve heard enough! This
is a classroom, not some sort of playground. You have d-hall right after school
and I don’t want to hear another word about it!”
The clanging bell strikes me with reality. I flee from the classroom in anger and begin to wander to a place I have never been before as if I am lost at sea. After circling around the hallways a few times, I finally reach my destination, although it is not exactly a victory.
* * *
I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore. My ponytail and Gap T-shirt stick out in a sea of hooded jackets and baggy jeans. A single poster is plastered to the dingy walls that surround me in all directions. Don’t forget to smile. That’s a joke. The thick stench of cigarette smoke lingers in the air like fog. I try to stifle my building allergic reaction, but my efforts are useless and I end up letting out the sweetest little-girl sneeze ever. “Excuse me,” I whisper apologetically out of habit. “No talking!” the gray-haired man at the front of the room blurts out, filling his position as the warden of this junior high jail.
Feeling intimidated, I snatch up my backpack and move to a seat by the paper covered door, a quick escape route if I get desperate. Dozens of blood-shot eyes glare towards my strategically-located desk. My mannerisms are not welcome here.
As much as I try to keep to myself, I can’t help but study the kids sitting around me. We might all be in trouble together, but everyone else is so different from me. A skinny girl dips a brush into black polish, painting each chewed-up fingernail to match the rest of what she’s wearing. The guy in front of me meticulously scratches symbols and graffiti-looking words into his wooden tabletop. Everyone else is either sleeping under their ratty hoods or hunched over, scowling at the floor.
Staring longingly out the window, I wish for the fire alarm to go off. My silent prayer is interrupted by the annoying racket of an electric guitar as a spiky-haired boy switches on his radio. He quickly turns the volume down to a low roar, but the faint murmur of screaming still rattles my nerves. Tears begin to flood from my eyes as my composure plummets like a crashing plane.
Minutes pass like hours, my hands trembling in panic. The second hand on the clock controls every wave that buzzes in my brain, each rhythmic tick beckoning toward freedom. My agony builds as I go over my mistake a million times, mentally punishing myself for not just writing the paper like I was supposed to.
A familiar ringing suddenly forces me out of the past. Realizing what the sound means, I sling my bag over my shoulder and race out of the room, passing the other sluggish kids with flying colors. I sigh with relief as I step out into the hallway, breathing in the clean air and wiping off my tear-streaked face. It might have been only by a few seconds, but I make it to safety. I survived my first detention.