Contest Winners

2nd Place Winner, by 15-year old by Michelle Yu

Annabell Hated Being Asian

by Michelle Yu

She hat She hated the irritating stereotypes that were always associated with her. She hated how she was mocked just because of her looks. She hated the jeers of ching-chong and Konnichiwa, and how it would echo in her head for the rest of the day, making her hands curl into fists and wishing she could punch one of those smug faces in.

            But she couldn’t. Because then she would be reported by a teacher, sent to the principal’s office, get a referral, and have her parents yelling at her, drowning her in a cascade of spit and spiteful words.

            Most of all, she hated playing the piano.

            The car rides to her piano teacher’s house were a dread. She always rested her head on the back of her seat, earbuds plugged into her ear, drowning out the classical music CD that her mother always insisted on putting on. Why Rachmaninoff? Why Tchaikovsky? Why Mozart? She despised all of them, to an extent where she wished that she possessed some sort of time-traveling powers just so she could go back to the seventeenth century and wipe out all those snotty-nosed composers.

            Her teacher always made the same curt remarks on Annabell’s playing. “Did you use the metronome?” he would ask and, without waiting for a reply, would continue— “I thought not. A quarter beat should be at one-hundred. You’re playing way too fast. Rubinstein may be Russian, but you aren’t supposed to.”

            Annabell would smile politely. The first time she had heard the stupid joke, she had forced herself to chuckle. Now, she doubted that she had the aptitude to laugh at anything her teacher said. Her mom would guffaw loudly in the over-exaggerated way that made Annabell want to bury her head in shame.

            Her lessons consisted more of her teacher berating her than actual playing. Her fingers never seemed to cooperate.

            On the way back home, her mom would scream at her. Annabell could see the enraged face and the eyes filled with judgment and disappointment from the rearview mirror. There were many times where she wanted to take a hammer and whack it across the mirror just to save her from the expression on her mother’s face that told her that she was a total failure.    

            “How I wish I made your sister play the piano instead of playing soccer,” her mom said one time. “Perhaps you’ll be adept at sports. But then again, maybe not.”

            The last words stung. Annabell’s mother thought she was worthless. Her sister was always in the limelight. She was the very core of her mother’s delight and joy. 

            The thought that her sister was the absolute favorite child should’ve bothered Annabell, but it didn’t, strangely. All she felt was an unusual inner sense of peace. She was already a talentless and stupid girl; she couldn’t lower herself anymore, could she?

            So she stopped trying at school. An F on a test? No big deal. Getting after-school detention for fighting? Who cares. Her mother would appreciate the serenity in the house.

            She was sixteen when she’d finally had enough. She wanted to burn the piano. Douse it in alcohol and maybe some of her father’s beer, and just set the thing on fire. She would love to watch it go up in flames, the inferno eating up the wood and melting the metal. She wanted to hear the sudden whoosh when the fire attacked with more vigor, spreading to every nook and cranny of the piano.

            She wanted it dead. It was like her archenemy. Her life was a clash between her and that gigantic mass of maple wood. And she was losing, she knew. But she wasn’t going to surrender.

            Soon, she found that she couldn’t even stand being in the same room as that piano. She couldn’t look at pianos at all. She hated how the fifty-two gleaming white teeth would always smile at her, mocking her, grinning at her and telling her to come play it. She detested how large it was, how its shadows would loom over her at night. She loathed the creaking sounds that it made when she sat on the bench or kicked one of its legs.

            She wanted to kill it. It was either her or the piano. Annabell knew that she couldn’t survive much longer with that thing in the room always staring at her.

            But she couldn’t. There would be enormous consequences if she destroyed it. The piano had been her grandmother’s childhood friend and the reason her mother got the opportunity to attend college. It meant the world to the family.

            But she hated it.

            Today was like any other day. She walked home from school, unconsciously dragging her feet because she didn’t want to play the three hours of practice her mother had always insisted on. She knew she didn’t have any choice, though.

            After she struggled through the battle, she quickly slammed the cover down on the keys and draped the velvet cloth over the piano. She had endured another day. If she could take it one step at a time, she just might get through high school.

            No. That was another two years. A whole seven hundred and thirty days with the monster.

            “Annabell!” her mother shrieked from the room. “Go cut the fruit! Your sister is coming home from school!”

            Annabell sighed. She walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of apples from the counter. She took the biggest knife she could find and weight it in her hands. If only she could take it and find the nerve to hack the piano apart.

            Whack. Shoot. She had cut the apple asymmetrically. One of the sides was a lot larger than the other.

            Oh well. She brought the knife down again, chopping it into little uneven pieces, not caring what her sister would say when she saw it. Complain in her loud, obnoxious voice, probably. And then her mother would yell at Annabell again.

            She shaved the red skin of the apple off (because her sister was a picky eater) and dumped it into the garbage disposal. The InSinkErator. She remembered reading an article at school about the invention of the in-sink disposal system.

            There were tons of scraps of food inside it now. Annabell should probably flick the switch. She liked hearing the ear-piercing, grumbling noise the garbage disposal made as it chewed all the leftover food into tiny, practically nonexistent particles.

            She flicked it. The red scrapings of the apple disappeared in a flash.

            Then Annabell got an idea. An idea that would end the war between her and the piano.

            She felt relief wash over herself. It was finally over. If she did this, it would be over.

            She shoved her hands down and grimaced in pain. She didn’t scream. It felt good, in a way. It felt relaxing. It felt like the troubles of her past life were reduced to ashes.

            “Annabell?” her mother said. “What’s going on? What’s that noise?”

            Ah. Nice timing. Annabell looked up and smiled. She laughed as her mother screamed.

            “Look Mom,” she said, holding her bloody hands up. Some fingers were mutilated, the others completely dissevered. They were all covered by a thick film of red. Blood spotted the sink, and she could smell the copper-ish scent in the air.

            “Look Mom, no hands,” she said proudly.

3rd Place Winner: Shirley Dilley

Apples, Pumpkins, or Manure

by Shirley Dilley

Walter turned on the porch light as night approached his world. He crossed the room and settled in his antique, oak carved rocker near the front window. The bowl of candies he'd purchased at the grocery store was balanced on his lap. Cold air permeated the single pane glass making him shiver from the chill. Or was it from the memories?

I should have installed double paned storm windows to keep out the cold when I rebuilt my folks' cabin.

Moving slowly with age, aching from raking the yard that afternoon, he placed a small, well-worn patchwork quilt over his lap.

The leaves were changing to their earthy cranberry and gold colors later than usual this year. The little goblins, witches, and pirates would probably stir up the piles of freshly raked leaves. He knew they didn't mean to cause extra work. It was just the night's excitement that kept them running and skipping down the street in search of treats.

Children, sidewalks, row houses. It was a different sight when he used to race through the cornfields to neighboring farmhouses. When he was a boy, he enjoyed the "tricks" as well as the "treats". His favorite trick was the same every Halloween. He and his buddy Jacob, from down the road, filled a small potato sack with fresh manure they collected in the fields. They placed it on a farmer's porch on the top step, making sure it was a different neighbor each year, of course. Before they knocked loudly on the door, they struck a match and lit up the sack. Jumping into the bushes at the end of the porch, it was difficult to remain hidden when shrieks of laughter exposed their location. Watching the neighbor stomp on the bag to extinguish the fire while fresh manure smeared his shoes was a young boy's dream prank.

The doorbell rang, disturbing Walter's daydream. A tiara-topped princess and a baseball player stood on the porch with their mom waving from the sidewalk. "Trick or treat", the two little ones said in unison. He bent down holding his bowl of candies within the reach of the small children. "Thank you, Mister." He closed the door and walked slowly back to his rocker, waiting for the next group of revelers.

I wonder if they have apple bobbing or pumpkin carving contests anymore. It seems to be all about the candy.

That frightening Halloween night, many years ago, Walter's dad was reading the newspaper near the fireplace. His mom was baking oatmeal raisin cookies and wrapping them in wax paper tied with red ribbons. The pink ruffled apron barely covered her expanding tummy. His new little brother or sister would be here by Christmas. When Jacob came to the door, Walter gave his mom and dad each a hug and grabbed his jacket and cap. He and Jacob raced through the cornfields toward Old George's farm house. They stopped in the field to pick up some fresh manure.

The prank was successful. Old George was removing his smelly boots on the porch when Jacob and Walter ran for home.

"Look at the smoke, Walter."

"Where?"

"Over by your house, I think."

As they watched, both boys could see flames beginning to tower above the cornfields mingled with the smoke. Walter sprinted for home with Jacob close behind. When they slowed at the gate, they could see the house totally enveloped in flames. Firefighters had already arrived and were fighting the blaze while the boys watched, helplessly.

The firemen helped Walter into their truck as they prepared to leave and drove him into town. They called his grandparents and sat with him until they arrived. He ran to his grandparents and collapsed in their arms. It seemed like hours they cried together.

"They're all gone, Grandpa. Mama, Dad and our new baby. I couldn't do anythin' to help 'em. I'm so sorry."

"Just a minute here, young fella. You have nothing' to be sorry for. This was just a tragic accident and the fireman tol' me it looked like it happened so fast no one could've done anythin' to help. The breeze tonight was strong and fanned those flames purty quick."

"But how? What do ya think happened, Grandpa? How'd it start?" Walter asked in between his sobs.

"Well, son, the fireman said it appears your dad was tryin’ to stomp out a fire at the front door and his pant leg probably caught on fire. Your mom most likely went to help him and caught fire, too. Then it spread to the house. Must have been some of those no-account kids from down in the holler who've been settin' those porch fires ever' Halloween for the past couple years. If I could get my hands on 'em, I'd tan their hides good and then have the sheriff lock 'em up."

Walter's doorbell rang again, bringing his troubled mind back to the present. When he opened the door, he smiled at the miniature clown and cheerleader.

"Trick or treat."

"Have some candy, little ones. Take a few. You have fun tonight but only treats. No tricks, you hear?"

Honorable Mentions

Chicanery

by Helen Keevert Crall 

The news of the capture of ardent abolitionist, John Brown, by Col. Robert E. Lee at Harpers Ferry on Oct. 16, 1857, traveled down the Ohio River, reaching Kentucky within days, stirring whispers of an inevitable war between the north and south.

John Fairfield, owner of the finest eating establishment in Paducah, Kentucky, sat in the dining parlor, his personal table facing the large open window, heavy drapes tied back with braided cords. Beautifully designed handmade quilts hung by rope and pulley against the wall in front of Mr. Fairfield. He took pleasure in examining their craftsmanship, often having them lowered to gently rub the textured material between his fingers.

Mr. Fairfield’s view out the window revealed the town courtyard. Horses harnessed to carriages stood tied to hitching posts. The strong odor of their damp hair and dung mingled, permeating the cool air. Children in colorful ‘go to market’ outfits, played tag and danced to the songs of a nearby fiddler, their laughter ricocheting off nearby buildings to combine with the boisterous voices of  watermen dragging nets, heavy with fish, onto shore.

Stray dogs barked, chasing wharf cats and rats while women shopped in the courtyard market buying fresh fish in burlap bags, dirty river water still dripping from their scales and puddles formed and spread across the dirt.

The Ohio River meandered around the edges of the town with its flat-bottom barges and picturesque side-paddle boats churning as they entered and departed the wharf, dropping off and picking up passengers and cargo. Steam powered trains, bogged down with heavy loads, their shrill whistles piercing the air, arrived and departed the station on the east side of the courtyard. The lifeblood of the town of Paducah continually ebbed and flowed.

Aromas carried by the breeze, lingered at the open windows before entering the restaurant to blend with the smell of whisky and cigars and iron pots filled with meat and potatoes over burning logs.

At dusk the men folk quickly gathered at the tavern.

***

Though numerous patrons acknowledged him when passing his table, Mr. Fairfield did not offer a seat, preferring to lay his walking stick and top hat on the chair, removing them only for his dear friend, Samuel Pitman, the train conductor, who joined him every evening. Another seat was saved for the steamboat captain, Aaron Rogers who sat with them on Friday nights. This night, while sharing a bottle of sweet smelling bourbon, they bent their strong shoulders over what was thought by casual observers to be cash receipts for the restaurant, train and steamboat. With furrowed brows and lowered voices, these friends, sobered by the news of the abolitionist’s capture at Harpers Ferry and the whispers of a dreaded war, commiserated over what was close to their hearts: the issue of slavery.

Mr. Jones, who had arrived in Paducah in early fall, chose the dining parlor for his evening meals of either steak with heaps of hot mashed potatoes, or the house specialty: steaming pot roast and new potatoes. After eating he would undo the bottom button of his waistcoat, allowing his bulging stomach breathing room. Mr. Jones frequently invited a passing patron to join him at his table, moving his slightly worn short tailed-coat and hat to make room. The men discussed the rumors of an impending war between the states while consuming large quantities of Kentucky’s finest whisky.

As fate would have it, Mr. Jones dined at a table directly across from Mr. Fairfield and he, like Mr. Fairfield, worried about how war would affect the issue of slavery. When the train horn whistled at 8 p.m. sharp or a steamboat belched heavy black smoke from its twin stacks notifying all in the town of its approach, Mr. Jones and his varying companions stopped in mid conversation to stare out the same window from across the room as did Mr. Fairfield, watching passengers’ arrival and departure.

But Mr. Jones was quick to return to the discussion of the night. He shared stories of his many escapades back in Virginia where, he informed his eager listeners, he had made a good living and had made quite a name for himself.

If one were to make a closer inspection of Misters Fairfield, Pitman, and Captain Rogers, it would be discovered that they were all masters of chicanery, expertly engaged in deception. Though Mr. Fairfield was in fact the owner of the dining parlor, he was also one of numerous financiers of the Underground Railroad, a secret organization run by abolitionists who helped runaway slaves on their road to freedom. Mr. Pitman, the train conductor, was conductor as well of human cargo, as was Captain Rogers, whose steamboat harbored escaped slaves disguised as deck hands or laborers in the boiler room. These three abolitionists fooled everyone.

***

Mr. Jones did not attempt to fool anyone. He was proud to be a bounty hunter, traveling from state to state, recovering runaway slaves, specifically women and children, whom he molested and abused before returning them to their masters, the wealthy plantation owners, for the going rate of $100 a head. Upon arriving in Paducah from Virginia, he had set himself a higher goal. He would recover twice the number of runaway slaves as he had in the past. He must hurry to meet his goal ifthe rumors proved true and slavery ended, taking with it, his livelihood.

Mr. Jones, though not a particularly intelligent man, as was often remarked upon by his acquaintances, prided himself on his fine tuned observational skills. He noticed, for example, that though the owner appeared to treat his slaves with a respect they did not deserve, they did not stay long, perhaps being traded to other employers, perchance in the west. Or so he thought. Whatever the reason, they often boarded the steamship or train without as much as a goodbye or return of uniform.Mr. Jones also noted that new staff arrived by train or steamboat regularly and were hired by Mr. Fairfield who provided them with thevacated jobs in the parlor.

And so it was that escaped slaves passed directly in front of Mr. Jones every Friday evening since his arrival in the town. Freedom quilts, as they were called because vital information concerning the escaped slave route was sewn into the prints, were boldly displayed along the wall. These were changed frequently, ostensibly to be dusted. Misters Pitman, Fairfield, and Captain Rogers provided and received the information that had been sewn into the quilts: maps, dates, and travel locations for use by the escaping slaves. The three men met in the parlor to exchange news and money for the operation of the Underground Railroad. Mister Pitman and Captain Rogers’ transports stopped in front of the restaurant, loading and unloading runaway slaves disguised as workers.

As for Mr. Fairfield and his friends who occupied the table across from him, Mr. Jones believed them to be what their manner of dress implied: Mr. Fairfield, a wealthy business owner, immaculately dressed in wool slacks with leather suspenders, tastefully styled white shirt, stiffened collar down, exquisite silk vest with watch and fob in pocket, evening tail coat, porked pie top hat, leather square toed boots, and artfully designed Cravat while the steamboat captain and train conductor were attired in immaculate and stylish uniform appropriate for their station in life.

Late in the afternoon of a chilly day in January, 1858, two gentlemen, Mr. Fairfield and Mr. Jones, sat across the room from each other, alone over their whisky, in the well-furnished dining parlor in Paducah, Kentucky, while an escaped slave, posing as a waiter, hid in the dark alley outside the door. When Mr. Jones, that detestable bounty hunter, tipsy from love of whisky, exited the establishment, the slave hit him across the back of the head with a log taken from the wood pile. He carried him to the train and tossed him into the baggage car, his bodysoon to float down the Ohio River.

From his table by the window, Mr. Fairfield waved to his friend, Mr. Pitman, whose train, steam bellowing and wheels creaking on the steel tracks, chugged out of the station. Turning back toward the cook who was standing in the kitchen doorway wiping specks of flour from her face, he slowly lifted his glass of whisky in a toast. The temporary worker, Ms. Harriet Tugman, smiled and winked.

Hide and Seek

by Sneha Koilada 

There is a girl in the bushes. She is afraid. Her eyes alert and darting, her tiny waist supported by her haunches, ready to jump, ready to run. She doesn’t want to be afraid. She doesn’t want to run. She doesn’t want to be found. She is hiding, yes, but that’s just a game. She is hiding, yes, but she might just be lost.

It was Kabis who brought this upon her. Or the boy who played Kabis. The girls always loved to play Kabis. Kabis is a monster, the devil’s own flesh and blood. He hides on the attic as the girls enter the room in a terrified huddle, stifling their giggles and ready to explode in hysteria. He jumps on them from above, his screams rising from the hollows of his evil body and raining dread on the poor souls below. He taunts them with his might and drives them into a massive fit of shrieks as they run. And they run screaming, looking back every second, watching his ash covered darkness close in on them, until he takes them out one by one.

Kabis got tired of hiding. He is out in the open now, in the woods, where the girls play and it’s their turn to hide. They heard he was coming, passed the word to the other girls. It was said that you cannot hide from Kabis. You cannot run either. He is fast, he is merciless and he is thorough. He doesn’t leave anyone. It is only a matter of who lasts the longest. His growls were said to send shivers down your spine, his presence was said to send waves of fury your way until your hiding place starts to suffocate you and you fall upon his feet for mercy. But of course, Kabis has no mercy. He will make you squeal, he will make your cronies feel their bodies jitter as your trembling call for help reaches them. And they will move, they will scramble and you will scream only more as Kabis reaches in and drags them out.

And so Srishti hid, deep in the woods, her breath’s tickle her only company. And she watched that too because in there, even the sound of laboured breath seemed louder than a volcano. She didn’t want to be the squealer. She didn’t want to be the reason a bunch of her friends should get caught. She didn’t want to be named as the invalid in the game. For she was always known to lose. She was known for making her teams lose. She was slow and puny and always afraid. She didn’t want to be afraid.

As the time ticked by, she heard her girls become Kabis’s prey, one after the other. They screamed, they thrashed and they begged. Some even cried. Kabis howled like the forest wolves do at night when at one point he didn’t find anyone. He condemned his game to a circle he drew in the mud and he made them scream enough to match his frenzy. And three of the girls moved, even Srishti heard the dead leaves they scrambled in panic. And he caught all of them at once, or so it sounded like to Srishti. She slid further and further away into the darkness of the bushes. For the first time, she was thankful for her tiny body that would fit into the tiny crevices and openings there are in the rugged bushy terrain. She made not a peep as she heard Kabis make his barbarous conquests.

One after another each of her girlfriends fell prey to his evil might. Srishti imagined Kabis growing dragon wings as he soared the terrain looking for fresh blood, him spitting fire as he found yet another scared little girl and Srishti felt the shivers in her own body as they girl would scream. She heard her best friends being taken and then the strong ones and even the bullies. Each of them went the same way, kicking and thrashing, screaming in fear, screaming for mercy.

By the time the last of the bullies went, Srishti was feeling almost proud of herself. She outlasted them all. Sravya, who wouldn’t take her into the Kabaddi team because she was too frail, Nidhi would make her the joke by giving her infinite lives when they play chase and tag because she couldn’t run fast enough to make a difference and even Shirley who would seek her out first every time they play catch because she’d always lose first and thus be eliminated. She outlasted all of them bullies, just by being brave. She retreated more into the bushes where the shrill calls of her girls were so distant, they were as good as imaginary.

It seemed like hours have passed and Kabis still hadn’t come for her. She wondered if it was because she was so puny and insignificant that Kabis thought of her unworthy of his conquest. As the time ticked by, this reality seemed to convince itself onto Srishti. She was insignificant. But of course. She felt insignificant. Why would the mighty Kabis come for her? She was useless to him, too weak a prey. Of course, he always knew she was there. And that she was a squealer. He knew she was going to come out of her hiding place all by herself. Why should he waste any of his energy on her?

She felt indignant. But I didn’t surrender, did I Kabis? I didn’t shiver and run out like the other girls did, did I? Sooner or later, you will realise that the game you have passed up as too insignificant has outlasted all your mighty conquests. You will realise how strong I am and how smart I am and you will say so to all the other girls, that I am an opponent—the only opponent, worthy of your fight. Just you wait…you will recognise your fatal flaw. Just you wait, you will realise you lost. And that I won.

Kabis never came and the sounds in the woods died. Darkness fell. Srishti never surrendered. She was but forgotten.

They found her ten days later. She was brave.

A – B – C Misery

by Shirley Dilley 

“A” is for miss perfect Allysa, “B” is for my boyfriend she stole, and “C” is for the good cry I really need right now.

Kayla was pretending to take notes but writing nonsense while passing time until the end of the class period.

Why did I ever sign up for this class? If Mr. Nerd next to me doesn’t stop staring at my legs, I’m going to jam my pen into his right eyeball.

The bell rang ending her torture, so she stood to leave. The nerd bolted from his desk and collided with her. Kayla’s opened backpack flew up in the air and landed on the floor scattering the contents. They bent to pick up her books simultaneously and bumped heads.

“Watch where you‘re going! Jeeze!” Kayla felt this nightmare would never end.

“Sorry, so sorry. Let me help.”

“Just move. I’ll get them myself.”

She retrieved her books and resembled a sprinter as she raced for the exit.  He raced into the hallway trying to keep up.

“Did I hurt you when I bumped your head?”

Kayla sped up her pace ignoring the question as much as the person.

“Hey, could you slow down and talk for a minute?”

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say and I sure don’t have anything to say to you. Just stop following me. Gahd!

As she crossed the campus green, she heard the screech of brakes; then a sickening thud, followed by screams. Kayla ran back to see what happened and sidled her way through the forming crowd. Lying in the street, bleeding and broken, was the nerd.

“Oh my God. Somebody call an ambulance. Is he alive? Is he breathing?”

Minutes later, an ambulance arrived with siren wailing. The EMT’s quickly assessed his condition and loaded him into the ambulance. Shaken and feeling more than a little guilty, Kayla asked a few kids in the crowd if they knew who he was.  One kid said his first name was Noah.

“I’m not sure of his last name but I think it’s something like Benson or Benton.”

After her next class, she drove to the hospital and hurried to the information desk. Ignoring the fact there was a woman in front of her speaking with the receptionist, Kayla pushed her way forward.

“I was there when he was hit and want to find out if Noah Benson’s okay.”

A frantic looking woman turned to face her and said, “Do you know Noah?”

“No, I mean he’s in one of my classes but we aren’t really friends. We came out of class a few minutes before. I’d already crossed the street, but turned back to look when I heard the brakes squealing.”

“Come with me, dear. What’s your name?”

“Kayla.”

“I’m Noah’s mother, Carol Bentson. Noah’s in surgery but I’m supposed to wait in the Intensive Care waiting room.  Was he conscious when they put him in the ambulance? He didn’t deliberately walk in front of the car, did he?”

Kayla was taken off guard by the last question. “I don’t know.  I didn’t see what happened. Why do you think he would do that?”

Kayla’s eyes were drawn to Carol’s trembling hands. She had them gripped tightly, subconsciously willing them to be still.

“He’s been so depressed lately. Seven months ago he was driving his kid sister to her friend’s house when a drunk driver ran a red light. Josie was killed instantly. Noah blames himself for her death no matter how many times I tell him he isn’t responsible. He feels if he hadn’t delayed leaving to see the end of the hockey match he wouldn’t have been at that corner when the drunk ran the light. I’ve been worried sick about him.  He doesn’t sleep, eats barely enough to stay alive and has lost so much weight. He was always a good student and now I have to prod him to go to class. Nothing seems to interest him.”

Kayla felt guilty listening to this courageous woman. She lost her daughter a short time ago and now possibly losing her son.

Why was I so mean to Noah? All he was doing was looking at me. Just because I was having a rotten day, I didn’t have to treat him like garbage.

Tears slid down her cheeks. The surgeon approached Mrs. Bentson.  Kayla started to walk away to provide privacy, but Carol held tightly to her arm.

“Noah has no head trauma or internal injuries, Mrs. Bentson, which is the good news.  However, he has a cracked pelvis and both femurs are broken. He will have a lengthy recovery period, I’m afraid.”

“Is he awake now? Can I see him?”

“He’s still in recovery but when he’s transferred to Intensive Care, you can have a short visit with him.”

Carol insisted Kayla join her when she went to see her son, but Kayla felt Noah would probably be confused if he saw her there. 

“I’ll wait with you, Carol, and then leave when you go in to see Noah.  I’ll come back tomorrow. He may feel like having visitors then.”

“Hello.” Kayla said rather sheepishly as she peeked around the doorway of Noah’s hospital room.

“Hi. My mom told me you were here at the hospital with her yesterday. Why?”

“When you got hit by the car, I felt guilty about being so rude to you in class and wanted to see if you were going to be okay.” 

“No need.  It wasn’t your fault; driver was busy texting his girlfriend instead of looking where he was going.”

“I guess, but I still feel bad.  I don’t usually treat people that way and wanted to apologize. Are you in a lot of pain?”

“It sure doesn’t feel good, but they keep shooting me full of pain medicine. I know what they mean about feeling like a pin cushion.”

Both laughed and began to relax. 

Kayla collected Noah’s school assignments and delivered them to him each day. When he was transferred to the rehab center, she often brought a picnic lunch and wheeled him outside to enjoy the sunshine.  As their friendship grew, she observed that Noah was beginning to take pride in his appearance again. His dark hair was growing longer and fell in waves over his collar. She thought his slate blue eyes had more sparkle to them.

I wonder why I didn’t notice he’s really a handsome guy.

It was almost time for Noah to be discharged from the rehab center and Kayla wanted to ask him about his sister’s accident.

“Noah, your mom said you’d been depressed about Josie’s death prior to your accident.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“She even asked me if you had intentionally walked in front of the car. Did you?”

“No, for God’s sake, no. I was just trying to catch up with you.  I wanted to get to know you and wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Kayla still felt somehow responsible.

“I thought my rudeness might have been what pushed you over the edge in your depression. I felt terrible thinking you were injured because of me.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Kayla.”

“Then why do you blame yourself for your sister’s death?”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“How is it different, Noah? You think you’re responsible because you were driving.  You didn’t run the red light; you didn’t smash into the passenger side of your car. You have to admit you didn’t kill Josie and let go of your guilt feelings.  I feel sure she would hate to know you stopped living when she died.”

Noah hung his head and tears flooded his cheeks. Kayla put her arms around him and held him while he released the sorrow he had never allowed to surface. When he started to relax, she placed a very tender kiss on his cheek and told him she would see him the following day.

Noah was sitting outside when Kayla arrived the next afternoon. He looked peaceful and greeted her with a big smile on his face. 

She returned his smile and walked over to place the daily schoolwork on his lap. His wheelchair moved slightly and the papers slipped off his lap to the sidewalk. Kayla bent to pick them up at the same time Noah leaned over to retrieve them. They bumped heads. Again. Both started to laugh out loud.

“Isn’t this how it all began?” Kayla joked.

Noah took her hand, pulled her close to kiss her and said, “No, this is where it all begins”.