All weekend, Harper's been working on a creative writing project for school. We knew it was something that meant a lot to her because she blew right through the four page minimum and kept on writing in her free time. We loved her story and wanted to share. Here it is:
“Are you a good artist? Want to be a millionaire?!
Submit a piece of artwork to the National Youth Art League (NYAL), and
the winner of the contest will win a million dollars. Go online to our
website at www.nationalyouthartleague.artist
or call 1(800)555-ART1.
**Entries
Due before Friday, October 25th.**”
The day I saw that sign, was the day my life
changed forever, although I didn’t know it at the time. But I’m getting
ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning....
Another day of seventh grade. Another day of
leaving my mom to retire from our run down apartment in our dangerous
neighborhood that has the highest murder list in the state, so she can work two
jobs. I live in Brookdale, Iowa. My home is four and a half miles away
from Elmore, the town where the rich kids with daddies that didn’t leave them
when they were in third grade, live. My school, Crestwood Middle School,
the place that my personal angel became a devil, is in that town.
When people ask me about why my dad left, I honestly
don’t have an answer. I thought things were going ok, but obviously they
weren’t. Every so often, I would hear a shout from downstairs at night,
or a crying from my mom’s side of their bed. But I assumed that that was
normal. I know now that it isn’t. Somedays, I’m glad that he is
gone from my life; that he blocked me off completely. But others, I wish
life would be the same as it is for other kids my age. A family with both
parents, and children.
I used to have friends at school, but when my dad
left, they abandoned me. They are the kind of people that only care about
what clothes you wear, what food you eat, what you look like, and how much
money your parents make. When my dad left, I lost all of that, including
my best friends: Amber, Brooklyn, and Jennifer. Amber and I used to be
the leaders of our group, then Brooklyn, then Jennifer. I was the
prettiest, Amber the richest, Brooklyn the smartest, and Jennifer the sweetest.
So even within our own personal kingdom, we had rankings and were in that
order: me, Amber, Brooklyn, and Jennifer. Now, they are all my equal
enemies.
Everyday, I get up at 5:45 so I can get to school on
time, but the “Popucats” get dropped off in Amber’s pink limo with plenty of
time to spare. They still use the ridiculous nickname that I made up in
second grade just short of a year before my dad left. I wish things were
different. I’m tired of being teased.
As I ponder what my life has turned into in these
past four years on my walk to school today, I kick the gravel that serves as a
sidewalk. In just over half a mile I will be in Elmore, and can continue
with doodling on my second-hand notebooks that my mom saved money for all
summer to buy. ‘Oh well,’ I thought to myself. ‘It’s the
closest thing I have to being an artist.’
As I enter the boundaries of Elmore, a bright yellow
poster catches my eye:
“Are
you a good artist?...”
At this, I stop in my tracks. I first
became interested in art when my father left. I guess it is sort an
outlet for me to reveal my feelings of anger and loss created by him.
After a while, I became pretty good at it. But never an award
winner or anything. But now, here is the chance to be a real
artist. I could finally make something out of myself. ‘But what
would I make? What could I make it out of? I don’t have any money to make
a project. My mom and I barely have enough to keep going.’ This
predicament almost makes me cry. I could solve all of my problems, help
my mom find a job that she actually enjoys, and get my friends back... but I
can’t. There isn’t enough money, or time, or, or, I can’t even think the
word. ‘Talent’.
I run the next six blocks to school with tears
streaming down my face, to the Popucat’s delight.
“Look!” screeches Amber as Brooklyn and
Jennifer emerge from the limo behind her, snickering. Amber is wearing
her uniform with pink rhinestones embellishing it. The backpack that
rests on her shoulder is a pink puffball explosion. Her blonde curls are
held up with bobby pins,and bounces as she points at me. “Ickle, wittle
Callie is a crybaby!” Brooklyn with her red hair and black and blue
glasses encourages everyone in the courtyard to erupt in laughter. As
Jennifer’s purple flats hit the pavement, I feel my face heat up as my cheeks
turn tomato red.
‘Everyday, they tease me.
Everyday, they remind me of what I have lost. I have to enter the
contest... and win it! Then, maybe they won’t laugh at me anymore because
I finally won’t be the outsider that is the complete laughing stock of the
school.’
This thought must noticeably brighten my
expression, because after I start to smile, Amber turns on her heel and stalks
off under the shade of the willow in the middle of the courtyard.
Brooklyn and Jennifer are in close pursuit, and stick their tongues out
at me as their shoes click on the stone ground.
The bell for first period rings, and we all
rush into the ancient brick castle that serves as our school. In the
hallways, the walls are lined with red and gold colored lockers and classroom
doors. As I make my way to geometry, I notice several of the bright
posters that caught my attention on my walk to school this morning.
Even though me thinking this to myself makes me
want to throw up, I can barely hold myself down from tearing the poster down.
I don’t want even one small competitor. A chance that I won’t win.
Although, in my heart, I know that there is still a large possibility
that I won’t become a millionaire.
Students are crowded around them eagerly
discussing project ideas.
“I think I’ll make a model of a car!” one boy
in blue sneakers shouts. His face is oily and he has every hair in place.
Like a nerd from a movie.
‘You’ll never win with that!” the girl next to
him sneers. Her uniform is actually pretty on her, fits in all the right
places. The books cradled in her arms have pink sparkly book covers.
The ones that cost over a dollar each. I can’t even afford to dream
of such a luxury. “I’m sure that the contest judges want something more
creative. Something they haven’t seen before. I’m going to make a
scale drawing of our school.”
Their confidence in their ideas surprises me,
but I realize that they have probably been given anything they want in their
entire life. ‘At least going through what I have makes me appreciate
that not everything comes on so easily.’
As I am thinking about the girl’s words, an
idea strikes me. ‘“I’m sure that the contest judges want something
more creative. Something they haven’t seen before.”’ her words make
me realize that I have an unique point of view on the world that could
help me win the contest.
Grinning, I rush up the stairs and into my
geometry class. All throughout class and the rest of the day, my mind is
somewhere else. Every time a teacher calls on me or asks me a question, I
embarrass myself again. After stuttering and giving the wrong answer
about some completely different topic, I blush and receive a glare from the
teacher of the particular class.
Finally, the school day is over and I can
return to planning my project without being put on the spot to explain an
answer to a question I hadn’t heard.
When I enter the outskirts of my neighborhood,
I immediately search through the trash cans along the streets filled with potholes
to find as many useable items as I can. If I find a can or bottle, it
goes in my bag. A plastic grocery bag, or egg or milk carton, I put in my
backpack. These pieces of garbage are going to be a part of my project
for the million dollar contest.
On the walk to school the next day, I do the
same thing I did in Brookdale: get garbage from the trash cans.
Eventually, this will win. I can feel it.
On Friday in the art room at school, I bring
out the board I found in an alleyway in Brookdale. I plan to paint it
white with a black line down the middle. All afternoon, my only goal is
to get the painting part done. It will take a few days to dry, and the
contest ends in two weeks.
Drip. Drip. The paint is almost
done, and it is getting late. I’ll have to leave it here over the
weekend, but I know it’ll be safe and dry by Monday.
Over the weekend, I continue to obsess over my
project. I can’t help but feeling that something has happened to it with
my absence. I know that it is silly, but it still raises a bump in my
throat.
This Monday is almost as bad as the day I first
saw the neon posters because when I arrive at school early to check on my
artwork, I notice a bag outside of the art room door. It is a pink bag
covered in puffballs. I run from the scene as soon as I can make my feet
move so I will not be discovered.
At lunch, the weight in my stomach makes me
sick, and my untouched lasagna is getting cold. My thoughts are swirling
around so much I can barely keep track of them. ‘She hates art.
The only reason Amber would be in the art room is that she wants to make
an art project. But the only reason she would make a project is so she
would get something out of it. And the only thing that she would get out
of an art project is the million dollars! Oh no! She’s probably
going to win because her dad can pay for real supplies and real lessons and
real projects. I don’t have any of that.’
Although I don’t realize it, as I am thinking
this, my lasagna has started to resemble guts because I have been mashing it.
‘But why does she need the money? She’s probably just doing this
so she can hold it over me.’
At this moment, I realize that I need to win
this for more than selfish reasons. Sure, I could use a new bag and
clothing, art supplies, and yes, I really would like to help my mom out, but if
I win this, the “Popucats” will no longer have anything over me. Not
their money, homes, or happy parents.
After school, I bring out the painted board and
start to lay out the left side. On this side, I am making a model of an
average Elmore home. It will be made of the Elmore garbage. So,
over the next few days, I construct and glue down the Elmore side. The
house I am making is large and takes up almost the entire half of the board.
The clean plastic bags neatly folded over the roof, the pieces of rinsed
juice bottles nicely cut to make the windows. On Thursday, I start the Brookdale
side.
Even the garbage is shabbier by comparison.
The bottles dirtier, the cans dented and licked clean. The broken
glass from the streets will serve as the cracked windows frequently found in my
neighborhood. I make the two homes to scale, so even though on the left,
the house takes up almost the entire section, Brookdale’s average home covers
only a quarter of the space.
On the Monday before the entries are due, I glimpse
Amber’s project. Brooklyn and Jennifer are proudly smiling as if it is is
their own. Amber has brought her project to school. It is a picture
of her pink limo. Not very creative. I hear several kids made model
cars or diagrams. And, her project can’t be larger than a regular piece
of paper. For the first time, I feel confident in my piece.
Today is the Tuesday before the deadline of the
contest, and I practically have to do the entire Brookdale side. the only
thing I’ve done is set the pieces in the correct spots, and glued a few parts
down. Once everything is glued down and steady, I will rest. But
not a moment before.
After school as I walk into the art room, something
feels weird. I check in the corner of the room, and my project is there,
but it isn’t how I left it. The roofs of both houses are gone. ‘Oh
my goodness! What happened to it? Someone must have forcefully removed
them, because both of them were glued down!’
It is then that I realize a little part of my art
work that is certainly not intended to be there. Out of the corner of my
eye, I notice it. A little puffball now held down by paste right below
the newly glued down door of the Brookdale house. A pink puffball from
Ambers backpack. It was Amber who sabotaged my project.
On the long walk home, I do my best to find
replacements of my lost roofs, but there are no bags the same color to match
the ones previously used on the Elmore house. The are no actual pieces of
fallen roofs to replace the stolen ones.
The moment I get home I sprint to my bedroom and
start to cry. I cry for my broken windows that Amber doesn’t have to
worry about. I cry for the faded wallpaper that serves as my only
decoration in my bedroom. I cry that my bed creaks every time I move, or
even breathe. I cry for my broken project, and that in three days time,
my mother will have to go back to her job that gives her headaches because
Amber has beaten me again. But most importantly, I cry for Amber and
Brooklyn and Jennifer, because even though they have anything they could
possibly want, they still envy the girl who has no father, money, or even
friends.
By the time I have cried until I can hardly see anymore
because my eyes are too swollen, my mother will be home soon. I have to
bring myself back to reality, and help her with dinner. So when she walks
in the door and greets me with warm hug and a kiss on my forehead, I let her
grateful smile envelope me and hold me like a warm blanket.
Halfway throughout our feast of mac and cheese, she
starts to question me about my day.
“It was alright,” I say with little enthusiasm.
I can tell that she is not fooled.
“No Callie it wasn’t. I know something happened.
Tell me,” she encourages. I shake my head.
“I can’t. I need to figure this out on my
own.” My mother can be really brave sometimes, and right now, I think she
understands that in order for me to become a strong woman like herself, I need
to solve some of my own problems.
With only two days until Friday, I wake with a
start. I dress quickly, and eat in a daze because I am too preoccupied to
think of anything but my project. ‘This is my only hope. I have
to find a way to expose Amber for what she really is, and get my materials
back. Then, I can finish, and hopefully win.’
Within 20 minutes, I am out the door and hurrying to
get to school so I can carry out my plan to humiliate Amber into giving me my
garbage back. I plot my revenge on Amber the entire four and a half
miles. The plan is, in the courtyard, I will march straight over to the Popucats,
and demand my roofs back. When they refuse, because I know they will, I
will start to laugh at them and question whether or not they deserve their
popularity, since Amber felt the need to cheat to win a contest against me, the
girl with nothing. This will work. I can feel it.
When I arrive at school, the Popucats are already
there, under the shade of the willow, laughing about something I will never
know. As planned, I strut over to them, and firmly demand for them to
return the stolen items.
I am about to start reprimanding, her when Amber
surprises me with a “fine”, and a sneer.
That really catches me off guard. Here I am
standing here like an idiot, thinking I was going to become a hero, because I
finally took them down. But, yet again, I am the one who wants things too
badly. Amber doesn’t need this. She only stole them from me to make
me upset.
I realize then that I was about to become as bad as Amber.
I was about to humiliate her, just so I can feel better about myself.
I am repulsed and ashamed by myself, and it ruins my moment of triumph.
After school, I put the roofs back on, and fix
everything else up. Tomorrow I will make sure everything looks as good as
it will get, then I will turn in it to the NYAL at the Community Center a few
blocks from school.
On Thursday, everything goes according to plan.
My project is amazing and it is surely the most unique entry the judges
will have seen.
Tonight, I am so nervous I can hardly sit in one
place for more than a minute. Constantly, I am biting my nails, and
thinking to myself, ‘What if I lose?’ even though I can’t afford to act
like this.
Today is friday, and at the end of the day we are
having an assembly to watch the announcement of the winners from the local
news. I think it is a cruel and unusual punishment to force kids to wait
for so long, but I don’t dare voice my opinion in case I get in trouble and
have to sit out of the assembly.
Finally, the secretary calls for the seventh grade
to make it down to the assembly hall to be seated. As my class and I walk
down the stairs, I start to feel sick. Once I am seated, I feel a bit
better, but still like I might throw up. Right now the principal is
calling for our attention.
“Students and faculty members, we are gathered
here today to witness some very talented young artists hopefully win a prize.
I want you all to be very quiet, and respectful because they have worked
so hard. Now, when we turn the TV on, I want absolute silence.” No
one is talking, but everyone is hyperventilating, secretly praying that the
million dollars will become theirs. The show begins.
“Hello Elmore, I’m Marty Goodman,” the news man
starts. “Today I have a special announcement for all those young artists
out in the area that participated in the Elmore Branch of the National Youth
Art League’s million dollar contest. I’m going to be announcing the
winners. So lets get the ball rolling! In fifth place, we have Andy
Werdington! Congratulations son, you just one yourself one hundred
dollars!” Andy doesn’t go to this school, but nobody’s eyes are breaking
the hold they have on the TV. The reporter continued. “In fourth
place, Miss Rebecca Harsh winning five hundred dollars! Nice job!
Next we have our third place winner, Candace Duster winning one thousand
dollars!” The front of the crowd burst into loud whistles and cheers.
The girl that had the pink sparkly book covers must be Candace, because
many people are patting her on the back. The crowd quiets as Marty talks on.
“We are down to the final two winners! Winning five thousand
dollars, Amber Golding takes the crown!” Yet again, the Popucats
encourage the crowd to react. I am on the edge of my seat thinking to
myself ‘This could be very bad or very good. Either I win the million
dollars, or nothing.’ Everybody, even the Popucats fall silent as he
announces the winner of the contest. “And finally, the million dollar
first place winner is, Callie Marshalls. Congratulations to all.
Winners, stop at the Elmore Community Center this afternoon to claim your
prize.”
The room is quiet as everyone takes in the fact
that I, the outsider they all make fun of, beat Amber. Then, BOOM!!!
I am being patted on the back, having my hand shaken, and receiving hugs
from people whose names I don’t know. The only people not congratulating
me are the Popucats, but I don’t need their acceptance.
I glow as I walk the few blocks to the
Community Center after school. The representatives from the NYAL shake my
hand as they give me my million in oversized check form. After a few
pictures, a representative drives me home in a limo that is even larger than
Amber’s. Once we reach my house, I get an extra smile and a goodbye.
I wait in the kitchen just smiling at the clock
until my mom arrives home. I show her my check, and she lunges across the
table to give me the biggest hug anyone in the history of the world has ever
gotten.
I felt like a princess that night. But
that project did me more than get me a million dollars. It made me
realize that there will always be bubbles of hate mixed in with the bubbles of
love, but as long as I only blow those of love, the rest will pop.
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