Following are the winning entries in the May, 2012 C4WE Contest. The genre for this contest was YA (Young Adult) Fiction.
First Place: He Was a Quirky Kid
By Ben Sharpton, who has been writing for a long, long time. He has authored more than 100 magazine articles in such publications as Entrepreneur, Secrets of Success and iPhone Life, and has published three curriculum books. His first two novels are scheduled to be released at the end of this year: THE 3RD OPTION, a high-concept, international thriller, by Brandylane Publishers and SEVEN SANCTUARIES, an historical novel about life during desegregation in a small town in the south, by Novel Voices Press. Sharpton has also been a corporate trainer for such organizations as Universal Studios Florida and Tupperware World Headquarters. He teaches college business courses for a prominent online university. He now lives in Roswell, Georgia with his wife Kay, two (barely) teenage children, a boxer named “Grace” and a chubby beagle named “Peanut.
He Was a Quirky Kid
“He was a quirky kid – different than the others. Not that you’d notice it on the surface. Physically, he was quite normal; a little taller than average, not incredibly handsome, but probably not necessarily destined for a magazine photo shoot. Yet, he possessed something that made him compellingly different.
“In many ways, that difference made him better than most of us. Not that he recognized this. He never acted superior or elite or even special. In fact, he treated everyone around him as if they were family.
“But others recognized him as special and maybe that’s why they distanced themselves.
“Chris Pennington was a student in my wife’s fourth grade class. His uniqueness was obvious, even at ten years old. He challenged those around him in a healthy, thought-provoking way. He asked tough questions for his age. He raised concerns. In this sense, he was a teacher’s dream. And, his questioning made everyone in his class better.”
# # #
One day, Ellen came home after school sporting the most puzzled look I’ve ever seen. A fierce thunderstorm had just started, and she rushed through the door, soaking wet. We lived in a tiny house at the time, and boxes and junk filled the garage so we both parked in the driveway.
“What’s up, Hon?” I asked, after pecking her cheek, and wrapping a bath towel around her shoulders. She didn’t seem to notice either action.
She thought long and hard. I expected her to attempt to convince me to do a chore, or adopt a perspective, or visit her parents.
She wiped a wet lock of hair from her eyes. “We’re reading MANIAC MCGEE in school right now.”
“Good book.”
She ignored my comment. “The book goes into some deep issues for kids at this age, like racism and homelessness. Most of the kids seem to take those parts in stride, but one of my brighter students, a kid named Chris Pennington, seemed especially concerned. The idea that racism and homelessness might be issues in our community really upset him.” Her eyes met mine as she tried to make me understand.
“Is he from a bad home – alcoholic parents, violence, drugs or something? You know as well as I, bringing up such issues in an already unstable environment can be frightening to kids.”
“No, not at all. In parent meetings, they’ve seemed about as together as any parents I’ve met. Of course, I guess they could have fooled me.”
She started pulling items from the pantry, preparing for supper, but she still seemed distracted. She grabbed a box of rice, put it back and took it out again. “He seemed genuinely worried, almost to tears, that a child might live in such a world. The other kids teased him about it, but I could tell it troubled him immensely.”
“Well,” I offered, ignoring the hunger pangs in my stomach. “Keep an eye on him, and I’m sure everything will be fine.”
# # #
“I met Chris in middle school in my eighth grade American History class. I may have brought my preconceived notions with me, based on my wife’s experience, but it didn’t take long to realize how unique Chris was. I wish I’d had a whole class full of Chris Penningtons.
“In particular, he loved to learn about the forefathers of our country. He pushed me to spend more time on Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights movement and challenged us on every facet of America’s role in Vietnam.
“As the semester rolled on, I noticed that some students seemed irritated by him. They accused him of brown-nosing and asked to move on to other topics when he wanted to stay on just one. They snickered when he raised his hand. Like a pack of wolves they sensed different nature and it bothered them. It somehow threatened them.
“But Chris didn’t waver. He remained true to himself, despite pressure from those around him.”
# # #
Every year, eighth graders in Georgia take a three-day trip to historic spots around the state. Kids in our school district toured southern Georgia, visiting Savannah, the Okeefenokee Swamp and Andersonville, the home of the largest American Civil War POW camp. The Andersonville tour can shock even the toughest kid. They packed forty-five thousand Union prisoners into less than five hundred acres surrounded by high wooden walls and sentry towers. Ultimately, almost thirteen thousand prisoners died of disease, diarrhea, malnutrition and starvation.
I heard a fascinating conversation between some of the boys while standing in line at the National Prisoner of War Museum at Andersonville.
“Every one of those damn Yankees deserved what they got here,” one boy said with a thick accent. This kid wasn’t the smartest in my class and he didn’t mind. He seemed to take pride in getting low grades.
“This place is crazy-rude,” another said, wrinkling a freckled nose.
“We aren’t much better, today,” Chris added.
“What do you mean, Penning-douche?” the first boy asked.
“Have you seen the pictures from Abu Ghraib? Did you hear about the torture tapes that the CIA destroyed?” He squared off against the other boy.
I started to intervene, but waited and see what would happen.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Abu Ghraib was nothing like this.”
“Torture, rape and murder are nothing to be proud of,” Chris said.
“Yeah, but that was only caused by a handful of soldiers.”
“That’s what the reports claimed,” Chris answered. He stood his ground.
“The United States did nothing like that.”
“The United States is not perfect.”
At that point, Mr. Vickers, a school counselor, intervened. To my knowledge, he had never taught history. He sent most of the boys in one direction and Chris in another.
“I saw that little stand-off over there,” I said to Mr. Vickers. “You know, both kids raised some interesting points.”
“It looked like it might be getting out of hand,” Vickers said. “The last thing we need on this trip is a fight.”
“Perhaps they all learned something today,” I offered.
Vickers didn’t say anything.
# # #
“A couple of years later, I landed a job as Principal for the high school that Chris attended. It didn’t take long to notice Chris’ impact. He was an integral part of the school orchestra, the fencing team and the German club. He worked to promote AIDS awareness and Earth Day events. He challenged the school whenever stereotypes threatened to hold a student back.
“Unfortunately, not all of his efforts were supported by everyone. He frustrated some students and they couldn’t control their feelings. On several occasions bullies beat him up. A couple of weeks ago the beating was so bad he was sent to the hospital. Some just can’t tolerate people who are different.”
# # #
I found Chris huddled in the stairwell late in the afternoon, long after school had let out. Dried blood from a slash in his cheek and a blow to his nose covered his shirt. His wrist twisted backwards in an awkward and grotesque way. He could hardly breathe. I feared he had several broken ribs.
I immediately called 911 and an ambulance rushed him to the hospital. In the ambulance, he ignored my questions about the investigation and refused to tell me who had beaten him. He told me to leave him alone and eventually turned away – a painful maneuver – and refused to talk.
The next day one of the custodians discovered some gross graffiti in one of the restrooms. The words called Chris a ‘fag’ and threatened his life. It took several hours to clean the smut from the walls.
Jennifer Taylor, a classmate of Chris’ and one of those ‘invisible students’ who never caused trouble or complained, came to my office late that afternoon. She wore faded jeans with slashes in the knees, and a black t-shirt. “They beat Chris because of me,” she claimed. “I’m a lesbian. I know it. I’m comfortable with it,” she said, locking eyes with me in a confident way. “Yesterday, after school, they cornered me beneath the stairs.” She looked away.
“Who?”
She told me the names of the boys. “They threatened me and offered to, ‘make me a woman’ right then and there. It was getting dark, and the stairwell smelled like piss. I’ve never wanted to be somewhere else so much in my life. Chris came half-way down the stairs and told them to leave me alone. He jumped on the leader from three steps up. Chris is so little he didn’t have a chance. When they started beating on him, I ran away. I was so scared.” She stared at her hands. They shook as if they were plugged into an electrical outlet.
The boys were arrested. However, the father of one of the boys was a prominent attorney and another headed the booster’s club. The school board decided to suspend the boys from school for a week. When they returned, they acted like conquering heroes.
I tried to reach out to Chris when he came back to school, but he drew inside himself and spoke to no one. His parents sought counseling, and we initiated sensitivity sessions in school.
Last week his mother found him hanging from the clothes bar in his closet.
# # #
“I want to thank you for allowing me an opportunity to share this eulogy of Chris Pennington. Our school, our community, and our world is a lesser place because he is no longer with us. We have all lost something so very, very special.
“My hope and prayer is that his life and death will serve to make us more sensitive, more understanding and more tolerant of those who are different and more resistant to those who resort to violent, senseless acts like those perpetrated on Chris.”
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Second Place: The Firma Twins
By Denise Timpko. Denise has always wanted to be a writer. So she became one. She’s written professionally for publishing companies, associations, and corporations for many years. Although she’s loved her day job, it’s time for her to do what she really wants to do: Be a published author of children’s and young adult fiction. Denise is a member of SCBWI, has been married for 21 years to a fellow book and art enthusiast, loves to travel, and owns three cats and a dog. She writes an annual family newsletter, Chez Timpko News, which is distributed at the Timpko holiday party in December where her husband, Chef Charles Michael, prepares an elaborate buffet. Because the newsletter is so popular, her greatest fear is not getting it done in time for the party. In June 2012 she published the novel version of The Firma Twins and the Purple Staff of Death, the first book in an open-ended series, on Amazon.com.
The Firma Twins and the Purple Staff of Death
Unique
Here’s what you need to know about me, I rehearsed in my mind. My name is . . .
“Isis Firma,” Mrs. Meadows, my English teacher, interrupted. “You’re first.”
My exhaled breath ruffled the pages of my speech. At least my teeth aren’t chattering like they did five years ago, I thought. Of course, I was just a child then, nearly seven.
“Good luck!” my best friend Phoenix Rising whispered. The warmth in her almond-shaped chocolate eyes encouraged me.
Electra turned around in her seat in front of Phoenix’s, one hand twirling the three white locks in her dark red hair. “Break a leg, sis!”
In front of me, Kelly Horton reiterated, “What they said.”
He frowned when his voice suddenly got higher. He stroked his chin. Kelly, my sister’s best friend, is six months older than we are and can’t wait to grow a dark brown beard like his dad.
“I’m not acting,” I whispered. “‘Break a leg’ is an expression for actors!”
“Why, oh, why can’t your mind be identical to mine?” Electra grimaced. “Your body is.”
“Just go with it,” Kelly choked back a laugh.
“Isis?”
“Sorry,” I walked to the front of the room, noticing the theme “Getting to Know You” written on the whiteboard. I placed the pages of my speech on the lectern and arranged them so they’d be easy to turn.
“Don’t rush,” Mom told me last night. “Make yourself comfortable first.”
“But don’t take forever,” Dad’s advice was.
My parents give speeches frequently in their jobs. Kelly’s dad, who’s a reporter at the Washington Post, has heard them speak.
“Everyone wants to listen to the Firmas,” he says. “Not only are they funny, but your parents make the work of the Bureau of Seemingly Silly Statistics interesting and appealing.”
Just what I needed: the pressure of parents who are natural born speakers. It must kill them to have a daughter who’s afraid to speak in front of an audience, even to people she knows.
I closed my eyes and imagined Aunt Epiderma’s cheerful face.
“Look directly at the audience,” she advised last night at dinner. “And imagine them in their underwear.”
My English class has only twenty-one kids. Some, like Kelly and Phoenix and Gary Hunter, I’ve known since second grade. Others I just met this year, like the Musk triplets—Minerva, Cosette, and Olaf. With their mud brown hair, thin long noses, black eyes, and short skinny legs, they remind me of skinny shrews.
I began. “Here’s what you need to know about me. My name is Isis Illiana Terra Firma, and I come from a family of identical twins. My younger brothers are twins, and each of my parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents are or were twins.”
“Weird!” Minerva Musk commented. Cosette and Olaf Musk laughed.
“Quiet!” Mrs. Meadows stood beside me. I looked down at the top of her head where I could see a quarter-inch line of gray emerging from mahogany brown hair.
“No talking!” Mrs. Meadows resumed her seat on the edge of her desk. “Continue, Isis.”
“So you now want to tell me it’s medically impossible to have identical twins in three generations on both sides of the family?” I said. “Yeah, right. That’s what the doctors at the National Institutes of Health—NIH for short—in Bethesda, Maryland, think. At least, that’s what they say. But they’re wrong, so very, very wrong. My family is a fave at NIH. The docs shake their heads whenever the Firmas are mentioned. I know this because my Aunt Epiderma Firma works there.”
I stopped, distracted by the signaling going on between Minerva and her siblings. They were writing and drawing on a paper and laughing.
Mrs. Meadows walked down the aisle to stand beside them. She grabbed the picture.
“Principal,” she said. “Out. Now.”
“Not fair!” Olaf squealed.
“This is the third time this week you’ve misbehaved. You know the rule. Three times and you go to the principal plus detention.”
“Mom won’t like that,” Minerva warned. “She picks us up after school and doesn’t want us to be late.”
“You should have thought about that before.”
After an eternity, the triplets dragged themselves out of the room.
“Sorry, Isis. Continue.”
I found my place. “By the way, I’m a twin, too. My sister’s name is Electra Morpheana Terra Firma.”
Electra stood and bowed deeply. I frowned. She shouldn’t stand during my speech. At a whisper from Phoenix, Electra sat.
“Our family lives in a large house with a tower in Arlington, Virginia. Grandmother Firma was so amused by our last name that, when Granddad built the house for her, she christened it Terra Firma, which is Latin for “solid earth.” Our parents gave our brothers and us that name, too. I bet you’re thinking my family is unusual. Congratulations. You are so absolutely right.”
My classmates laughed, but it wasn’t like the Musks’ laughter. They weren’t making fun of me. It felt good. Phoenix and Kelly held their thumbs up.
“Electra and I have green eyes and long, dark red hair with three solid white locks in the middle. She wears her hair down; me, a ponytail. Most of our ancestors came from the British Isles. Some were Native Americans.
“It’s our twelfth birthday next Monday. Only one more year before we officially become teenagers. And we can’t wait.
“So that’s about it. Unusual family, Terra Firma, what we look like, age, and oh, yeah, I forgot the height factor. We’re five feet, nine inches tall. And we aren’t embarrassed by being the tallest girls in seventh grade. Far from it. Being tall is an advantage. Aunt Epiderma taught us that.
“And what I’m really interested in is Egyptology. I like everything ancient Egyptian—art, hieroglyphics, and mummies.”
My sister mimed groaning.
I paused. Next time I give a speech, I’ll tell Electra to stay home.
Electra straightened when she noticed Mrs. Meadows watching her.
“This year,” I said. “It’s my turn to decide what to do on our birthday. So I’m looking to my dreams for inspiration. Last night I dreamt I attended a funeral in ancient Egypt. This priest who carried a three-sided black staff with a purple star on top told me to remember the man who was being buried. ‘He has a message for you,’ he said. ‘But he’s dead,’ I said. ‘Death is not as final as you think,’ he said.”
“Wow!” Phoenix mouthed without a sound.
“Awesome,” Kelly said.
“That dream reminded me. The Institute of Ancient Egyptian Stuff is opening an exhibit of its mummy that was recently autopsied. So that’s what we’re doing on our birthday—going to the museum.”
“Booooring!” Electra shouted as she got to her feet.
Osiris! How dare she interrupt my speech!
“When it’s your turn to choose what to do on our birthday,” I said. “You always choose stuff that shows me up! Like you did last year.”
Electra shrugged. “Not my fault you got two left feet.”
Gary laughed. Friend or no friend, I gave him the evil eye.
“You know I can’t ice skate!”
“Girls!” Mrs. Meadow interjected.
I turned to her. “Electra chose to go ice skating at the indoor ice rink where she has figure skating lessons. As usual, she became the center of attention.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did! You showed off your latest skating routine: Playing the Sound of Music on your flute while doing glides, swizzles, and turns.”
“That’s not possible.” Mrs. Meadows shook her head. “No one can play a flute and skate like that.”
“Ask Kelly and Phoenix. They were there.”
“It’s true, Mrs. Meadows,” Kelly spoke up. “Electra’s skating will send her to the Olympics. That’s what her instructor thinks. So do I.”
Phoenix nodded. “That’s right. And everybody clapped at her performance.”
Mrs. Meadows reassessed Electra. “Impressive.”
“Believe you me, Mrs. Meadows,” I recaptured our teacher’s attention. “It’s hard being the sister of a future Olympics champion, especially if you skate as badly as I do. Wouldn’t you think identical twins would have identical skills? That’s what her instructor thinks. But, no, that’s not the way it works. Electra skates supremely, and I stink. She plays the flute divinely, and I stink.
“Well, it’s my birthday, too. This year we’re going to do something I like—touring my favorite museum in Washington, DC. I’m the star there. I drink, eat, and dream Egyptology. No one ice skated in ancient Egypt. So there, sister mine.
“I love ancient Egypt,” I told the class. “Maybe it’s ‘cause I’m named for an Egyptian goddess.”
Electra’s chin pointed to the ceiling, “I’m named for a Greek heroine.”
“A tragic heroine who killed her mother,” I corrected.
“I’m Mom’s favorite. Why would she name me for a murderer?”
“Osiris!” I swore. “Maybe Dad named you. I’m his favorite, you know, because I’m the oldest, just like he is.”
“Girls!” Mrs. Meadows’ said. “Fighting in the middle of class! Sit down, Electra, or you will both have detention!”
Trust my sister to get us in trouble.
“Skating is more interesting than mummies,” Electra sat down.
“Isis, are you finished?” Mrs. Meadows said.
My speech! I’d forgotten my nervousness. Cure for stage fright: Have an argument with your sister.
“I forgot to explain Dad’s rules about swearing. It’s one of the peculiarities of Terra Firma. We’re only allowed to swear by gods and goddesses of Greek, Roman, Nordic, or Egyptian mythology.
“Now I’m done,” I gathered my papers.
Mrs. Meadows held up her hand. “Stay at the lectern. Class, I forgot to mention that after you give your speech, you need to answer questions.”
She looked at her watch. “We only have time for three questions.”
Pepper Bowman raised her hand.
Mrs. Meadows acknowledged her. “Pepper.”
“Why are you so interested in mummies?” Pepper said.
“Because they used to be people, just like us. I want to write stories about them. Ancient Egyptians were really cool. Plus mummies look strange but real, like they could sit up and talk to you.”
“Max,” Mrs. Meadows said.
“Why doesn’t your dad want you to use regular swear words?” Max Anderson asked.
“He says anyone can use regular swear words, but he wants us to be more literary, whatever that means. He’s tired of hearing four-letter words that begin with f.”
“That means you need to know the names of Greek, Roman, and Egyptian gods.”
“I like Egyptian gods and goddesses best.”
“Gary,” Mrs. Meadows said.
“Didn’t the Egyptians remove the brains of mummies by dragging them out their nose?”
“Ick!” Several girls said together.
“Yep,” I said. “In my dream I saw the whole mummification process. First, they wash the body with wine and water. Then they cut a long gash in the left side of the body and remove
the . . .”
“Isis,” Mrs. Meadows interrupted. “Everybody can read about the process themselves. Good speech.”
“I was just getting to the interesting part.”
Mrs. Meadows smiled.
“Thank you,” I said.
The bell rang.
“Shawn, Cody, and Ellen,” Mrs. Meadow called. “Your speeches are tomorrow.”
“So,” Phoenix said when I returned to my desk. “You made it through the speech without shaking! Congrats! Can I come to the museum on your birthday?”
“Me, too,” Kelly said. “I’ve been dying to see that movie you mentioned a while ago.”
“Me, too,” Phoenix said.
“Sure!” I replied.
“I got you over being nervous, didn’t I?” Electra smiled as we left the classroom.
“You what?”
“I’m not always a pain, you know.”
“You planned that?”
“I just took the opportunity, but I knew there’d be one.”
“Sneaky, isn’t she?” Kelly smiled.
“And I was going to be mad with you the rest of the day,” I said. “Oh, well, I’m glad you’re my twin.”
“Of course, I really do think mummies are boring,” Electra said.
“You would.”
“And you do have two left feet.”
Gary wasn’t the only one who received the evil eye from me that day.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Third Place: First Sight
by Judy Beglau, who lives half the year in Austin, Texas. The good half. And she spends the summers in the mountains of New Mexico, where she and her husband Bob enjoy the fabulous cool weather and gorgeous scenery. Judy started out writing children’s musicals, working with a partner and writing twelve in all and producing them at schools in Austin. After burning off most of her fingerprints hot gluing sets and costumes, she decided to see how it works to just write the words. She attended a Highlight’s For Children workshop at Chautauqua in 2009, and has been working on picture books, magazine stories, and a YA novel since then. She also does write for hire work for the Lutheran church through Augsburg Fortress Press, writing Sunday School materials and adult devotionals. A recent collaboration with a symphony composer got her back into the musical genre. A Halloween play called All Hallows Eve may soon be coming to a concert hall near you!
First Sight
“You’re saying it wrong.” Angela said, leaning forward and poking his back.
Hunter twisted in his chair, scowling. “What?”
“What you didn’t hear me, or what, saying what wrong?” Angela asked.
Hunter sighed, shook his head, and faced the front again. The girl was a nut case. He twitched his shoulders and slouched down in his chair. Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away. But it hadn’t worked so far. Angela Littlefeather was the bane of his existence…bane was his favorite word from the Shakespeare section their English class just finished. And Angela Littlefeather fit the definition exactly. A short, exasperating girl with black hair and black eyes that followed him wherever he went, she seemed take particular joy in making him feel ignorant. And this semester he was blessed to have her in three of his five classes. If graduation wasn’t a mere two months away, he would have asked his counselor for a schedule change.
Angela leaned toward him again and whispered loudly, “I’m just trying to save you the embarrassment of saying it wrong next time.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter could see her lean back in her chair and twirl her pencil. At least she had quit biting the pencil, thank God! AJ, Hunter’s best friend, tried to convince him that Angela had a thing for him. Well…if she treated him this way because she liked him, maybe he should just be thankful she didn’t hate him!
The bell rang and everyone surged toward the door. Hunter already had his books in his backpack and nearly vaulted from his chair, hoping to avoid Angela’s lecture on the proper pronunciation of ‘ennui’. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Erica Roker stick her foot out as Angela walked by. Angela fell face first, her books flying everywhere. Erica gave Hunter a little wink. Holy crap.
Angela was on her hands and knees, gathering her stuff, her face bright red. Erica was faking an apology that was so cheesy; anyone could tell she was so not sincere. Hunter hesitated. Help her? Pretend he didn’t see and go on to the next class? Oh, man. He really, really wanted to choose the latter. But years of careful training by his grandmother asserted itself. The tape played in his head, “Hunter Benjamin Walker, the only man worth being is a gentleman!”
He knelt beside her, handing her books and pencils. Why in the world did the girl not carry a backpack, anyway? Loose papers, most with “A” or “A+” written above her careful, immaculate handwriting. He hastily stacked them and handed them back to her. She mumbled an embarrassed thanks.
“I’ll hand ‘em to you,” Hunter said, and waited for her to gain her feet. The pile seemed daunting, even to him. How did she haul it around all day?
“Why don’t you keep all these books in your locker?” he asked before he thought better of it.
“I don’t have time to go there. It’s too far,” she said quietly. Then she looked him straight in the eye, defiant. “Some of us mortals have to work after school.”
Hunter didn’t know what to say. So he just nodded, like an idiot. He stood there for a second after she walked away. Why did she have to treat him like that, even after he helped her? He would never understand that girl. And he would never understand why he kept responding to her, either. He caught up with her in the hall just outside History.
“So, how do you say it?” he asked. Maybe he just really wanted to know how to say it.
“Like ‘On Wee.’’ Not ‘In Newy.’ It’s French,” Angela said, in her teacher voice.
“Oh,” was all he could think of to say.
She left him alone all during History. No corrections, no nothing. Mortals. Mortals? What in the heck did she mean by that? Hunter’s mind was squirming even as the rest of him lounged in his chair. He nearly missed the question. Mr. White had a knack for calling on him when his mind was wandering, but Hunter had this great trick of listening with one ear, so to speak.
“The French,” he responded. Mr. White looked surprised.
“Very good, Mr. Walker. And why do you suppose they did?” Mr. White asked.
Angela’s hand shot up. “Because Napoleon wanted to rule the seas as well as the land. He wanted to rule the world.”
Hunter turned around to look at Angela. Her eyes were dancing, her cheeks were pink. She was really and truly interested in this subject. Then Hunter’s eye was drawn to Erica, one seat back and to the side of Angela. She was mimicking Angela silently, her mouth drawn down in a sneer. She gave Hunter a smile and a wink. Another wink.
He turned to face Mr. White, feigning rapt attention until the bell rang. He carefully avoided looking back as he stood to leave. Who was scarier, Angela or Erica?
Maybe he could catch a ride with AJ and avoid the bus. His own car was still in the shop, waiting for parts. Hunter loved the speed bump-yellow Karmann Ghia his father had left him, but the fifty year old car spent a lot of time in the shop waiting for parts. His grandmother offered to let him borrow her taupe sedan, but he was not that desperate.
Hunter jogged to the student parking lot. “AJ! Wait up!” he hollered as he saw his friend slide into his mother’s Tahoe. He had given AJ so much grief about driving a soccer mom’s car, but it looked good to him about now. “Can I get a ride?”
AJ nodded. He waited for Hunter to climb in, and then did the funny one-eyebrow-lifted look he had perfected. “I heard about Erica Roker and Angela. Erica has a serious crush on you. Serious enough to make war on her competition. I would not want to be Angela.”
“Give me a break, AJ! Exactly how is Angela competition?” Hunter said scornfully, responding to the words that jumped out at him.
“Well, now. Word is you have a soft spot for our brilliant Native American. And everyone knows she is “interested” in you!” AJ said, making the quotation finger motions and priding himself on his social intelligence.
As if her name conjured her out of the thin air, there was Angela a few feet ahead, standing on the sidewalk. And Erica was there, too. Three girls flanked Erica, and even with the windows up and the radio on, Hunter could tell this was not a friendly conversation. Erica towered over Angela, menace written in body language.
“Slow up, AJ.” Hunter rolled down his window, leaning out. “Hey, Angela. Get in,” he yelled.
“What are you doing, man,” AJ hissed, mad that Hunter was volunteering his vehicle.
“Shut up. We’re just going to drop her off at work. It’s on our way,” Hunter said. He looked at Angela. She was staring at him, and he could see her trying to make up her mind. “Hurry up,” he called, motioning with his arm. She took one look at Erica and turned toward the Tahoe.
AJ sighed and rolled his eyes. He hit the unlock button so Angela could climb in the back seat. “You owe me, Walker,” he said under his breath.
Angela shut the door, sitting tense and tight lipped as Hunter turned to look at her.
“So, we can drop you off at work. Which is where?” he said, trying to sound like this was an everyday occurrence.
Angela was silent a second, looking out the window.
“Midtown Library. But you can drop me off the city bus stop on Regis,” she said, catching AJ’s eye in the rearview mirror.
“We can take you to the library, right AJ?” Hunter said, giving AJ a friendly little punch on the arm
“Yeah. Ok. Sure,” AJ said, but he gave up pretending to be grumpy about it.
“How’d you get that job? They told me they only hired college kids for their grunt work,” Hunter asked, turning to look at Angela again.
“I’m enrolled in some college classes now. They made an exception,” Angela said.
Hunter pulled in his chin in surprise. “So…you go to school full time at Central High, work at the library and take college classes?”
“Yep,” she said, looking out the window again. She was quiet for a minute, and then looked at Hunter again. “Why are you being nice to me? Are you feeling sorry for me because Erica tripped me on purpose?”
“No, I just…is there a rule against being nice with which I am unfamiliar?” Hunter asked, mimicking her precise manner of speaking.
Angela laughed at his imitation of her. The tension in the car deflated suddenly, and the three of them talked about school and graduation and the weather and the likelihood that Central would make it to the state baseball playoffs. Angela opened her door when they stopped in front of the library.
“Thanks, Hunter. Thanks, AJ. I really do appreciate the ride. And the niceness.” Angela shut the door and made her way through the library doors with her giant pile of books in her arms, her long black hair shining in the sun.
Hunter watched her until he couldn’t see her any more. Then he turned to AJ, who was wiggling his eyebrows at him.
“Shut up. Let’s go home. Maybe my Karmann is ready,” Hunter said, glancing back at the library one more time.
“Yeah. You get better gas mileage than me. Good thing. Since you might be driving down here a lot.” AJ said, continuing the eyebrow wiggle.
“Maybe,” Hunter said.
They were quiet on the drive home, and Hunter was struck by how close he had come to not even seeing Angela. At least, not really seeing her. He felt like he had known her for eight years and only looked at her for the first time today. Maybe he had Erica to thank for that. He better be sure Erica knew to lay off Angela. That would be easy. Erica’s brother was the mechanic working on his Karmann Ghia. He could work the whole thing without ever talking to the girl. He’d be smooth and subtle. It was so much easier with guys. Girls were a whole other matter. He wondered what Angela was doing for the summer…
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Honorable Mention: The Knitted Cap
by Pat Decker Nipper, You can read her story in the 2nd Annual Center for Writing Excellence Anthology, due out this summer.
Center for Writing Excellence 