7th Grade Reflection

At the end of sixth grade and in the summer after, I always worried about what seventh grade would be like. My older brother was probably to blame. He fed me bad information about seventh grade. He whispered lots of little mean bits in my ear, and shouted bursts of horrible facts. So I began to believe his claims. I thought that all the teachers were dreadful and loaded you up with piles of homework every night. Not all that he told me was true, but not all of it was a lie either.

As the bell rang to signal the beginning of my first day, I relaxed a little, like the bubbles of stress were starting to pop.

I do actually have lots of dumb homework sometimes, and the teachers are usually okay, but the word I would use to describe seventh grade is, “tolerable.”

By October, usually every night I had an hour or so of homework. As a dancer, I’m constantly at the studio dancing, so that leaves little time for homework. Last year I would go to bed at a “reasonable hour” as my parents would call it, but now, I don’t get home until after that time.

Eventually I figured out that I couldn’t change the fact that school was only okay, so I had to accept it. For example, I had to live with a B+ in math instead of my usual A. Math is the only class that I have an 89 in and all my other classes are like 92 and above. It bothers me for some reason, but I just have to shake it off.

In this whole year I think it was pretty much a lot of review and only some new things. Besides normal school work, I learned how to do turns in second in dance, I learned to be happy for others if they got something you always wanted but you never had yourself, and I learned some pretty good tricks for bending the dress-code. Not really cheating it, but just some cool ways to dress it up without breaking rules and stuff. Well, most teachers don’t even care anyways.

As the year is coming to a close, you’d think that things would be winding down. Well they are at school—less work, teachers getting slightly looser, more fun stuff. Things get busier for me in actual life though. Like dance recitals, auditions, signing up for camps, summer plans, all the stuff you get to do when you’re not being at mind-numbing school.

My only advice to next year’s seventh graders; do NOT do lots of extracurriculars on a Monday night. You will regret it when your homework seems extra-boring and hard because you are tired. Don’t make things more complicated when they can be easy.

Week 5: A Memory—Puppy Puppet

A little girl throws open the doors of her bedroom, thrilled to be home from school. She leaps into the wide, sunny space, her broad smile mirroring the glittering sunlight that streams in through the open window. A large dog bounds into her skinny, baby arms, it’s shiny, golden coat shimmering. The girl stumbles in surprise but wraps her arms around the dog in a joyful hug just the same. The fluffy pup flips it’s thick tail in whip-like flicks and yips cheerfully. The girl’s smile slips into an even more vast grin, and her eyes flutter closed in pure bliss. The dog licks it’s wet muzzle, and thumps it’s tail happily as the girl gently kisses the dog on it’s forehead.

This is the scene you might see when I got home from school everyday—that is, if Ruff was real.

As an eight-year-old, I had requested a puppy for my birthday. I wished, hoped, dreamed for that puppy day and night. I awoke on my ninth birthday, eyes gleaming with glee. I tore downstairs to the kitchen where my parents waited, a fresh plate delicious of chocolate-chip waffles in front of them. I remember how the table was set—the plate heaped high with piping hot waffles, the steam swirled off in curly wisps. The plate was very grown-up looking, clean white ceramic printed with spring flowers along the rims. Perched atop the polished wood, there was a soft, rosy-pink, crystal glass full of rich, thick, creamy milk. A beautiful purple vase full of pink and white roses decorated the surface of our lazy Susan. As I scarfed down the tasty waffles and gulped the milk greedily, I spied my mom carrying a stack of wrapped gifts. Eyeing the pile of colorful boxes, I polished off the rest of the meal and raced to the couch.

The largest box, wrapped with a sparkly pink bow, caught my eye as soon as I sat on the couch. I tore the wrapping off every gift, appreciating everything, when I finally moved to the big one. Peeling off the paper, I got a glimpse of what treasure lay inside.

An extremely adorable puppy stuffed animal!

I yanked it out of the box, and hugged it immediately, screaming out my joy. I loved every detail of that toy, examining her beautiful, chocolate eyes, her shiny, golden coat, and her cute, fuzzy muzzle. Then my hand slipped inside a gap. I gasped, surprised when I wiggled my hand around and discovered her to be a puppet. I loved her even more.

I named her Ruff.

I couldn’t live without Ruff. She was tucked under my covers beside me every night. Once when I couldn’t find her, and it was bedtime, I started to cry. Fat tears rolled down my cheeks—I couldn’t stop. Then Mom found her hiding behind a curtain, and I finally calmed.

I did everything with her, we danced, we played dress-up, we ate meals together, we read stories, we even sometimes went to school together! Of course most teachers didn’t know that, because I had secretly slipped her into my backpack, careful not to squash her. She would just be happy and safe, comfortable in my backpack.

I swear if she was real, she would be the most loyal, loving, adorable dog on the planet. Ruff was special. I loved her; I knew that if she was to come alive one day, she would love me too.

Week three: Deep

“I sit alone in this winter, clarity which clouds my mind…” Marcus Mumford’s voice blares clear and crisp through my ear buds. First, I was just curled up on my couch with my earbuds stuck in my ears, letting the blasting music soothe my ruffled thoughts when this line came spilling out into my head. My mind became tangled again, but quickly unknotted itself for the chorus to fill my tune-thirsty skull with its delicious melody.

This one quote really made me think, it made a clouding, cluttering burst of feeling swirl around me. This line is special, it holds a meaning that is so tragic and beautiful, it makes my teardrops transform into glittering jewels as they draw shimmering streaks across my face. This whole song is that powerful—it makes sparkling tears roll down my cheeks every time its sorrowful, lonely tune enters my ears. This quote—this line, is special.

I understand now, the symbolic meaning that the quote carries. I understand the melancholy words sweeping around my mind. My patience had begun to wear thin when at first I tried to piece it out word by word. One by one. At last I finally came to a tentative conclusion; Marcus Mumford has undergone a time of loneliness, maybe loss of a love. A time where he has been buried deep in cold sadness—this ties into the idea of being alone in winter. He hints that he has begun to realize what happened—thus the idea of clarity. Then all of this clarity, what he now understands, he is now constantly thinking about it—where the idea of a clouded mind comes in. I have had moments like this, moments of clarity when I can’t stop thinking about it. I know his feeling. I can relate.

Marcus Mumford writes all of his songs himself, except for one cover he’s done. He makes his songs really pull you in like crashing waves on a beach. His every word holds as much meaning as there are stars in the night sky, and his every word sparkles like them too. His every word is special and different, and each one is…

Deep.

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Photo Credit: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dave-lerner/the-coming-entrepreneuria_b_656448.html

Week Two: Best Places in Austin—My Pick!

A creamy breeze tickles your face as you slide into the clear water of Barton Springs—my favorite outside place in Austin!

Swimming in Barton Springs feels great against scorched-skin in summer… Got a flushed face and a stinging body? Take a dip! The water maintains a steady and cool temperature throughout the year. The springs are beautiful if you go for a morning swim, the water is clear, blue, and sparkly against the subtle mist. I love the sweet pleasure that you experience as the water rushes over your toes, making you tingle in the first moments. Once you slide in deeper, the water is like silky cream slipping over your skin as you glide through with smooth, easy strokes. Before I get in, my mind is usually clouded and cluttered, but once I’m out and glittering with shimmery droplets, my mind is completely fresh and bright. Going for a swim in Barton Springs is great.

Sweet, delicious, bubbly Mango lemonade chills my throat as it slides down easily. Where am I? I’m sitting on a squashy couch at The Clay Pit—the best Indian cuisine to ever touch your lips. From even the first tiny bite of food, a blast of amazing flavor explodes in your mouth; it’s like “perfect” spilling across your taste buds. The decor is warm and cozy, like the food. The Clay Pit fixes up the best brunch-buffet in town, usually sporting hot, filling foods adorned with thick, creamy, exotic sauces. I usually pick a yummy chicken plate. It’s warm, tangy and tender. It’s exceptionally soft, like what kids imagine clouds to be like. The rice is the best rice I have ever tasted. Its not sticky and clumpy like most rice, but every grain is excellent. The salad has just the right amount of dressing so it’s not drenched and sopping, but not dry and bland. Every bite of the salad you take, is filled with joy from the mildly spicy, but surprisingly sweet dressing. It’s not disgustingly sweet, like a bowl of sugar for desert, but sweet like fruit is sweet. Fluffy is definitely the word to describe their naan, it’s so soft, and light. The naan is especially tasty when dipped in Mango Chutney, a stunningly terrific sauce. More like dip, because it’s too thick and chunky for sauce. One of my favorite things at Clay Pit is their Mango Lemonade, which I mentioned earlier. It’s the most exquisitely delectable drink that has ever flowed down my throat. It’s everything I love in a drink, sweet, bubbly, tingly, delicious, cool, tangy, fresh, exciting. Mango Lemonade really sparks your taste buds with an electric shock of bursting flavor. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried it. The Clay Pit is the best food in Austin!

If you go to these two places, plus my amazing dance academy, all in one day, you should congratulate yourself on having the perfect day in Austin. You can be calmed, freshened, and electrified with a zap of good energy all at once.

These are the best places in Austin—my pick!

Into Shadow

downloaded from morgue file.

 

A thick, heavy mist shrouds the room from my sight. The fog is moist as it begins to fade. A tall, carved arc swoops across the cavern entrance. It is engraved with strange markings of skulls and roses. My eyes refuse to adjust to the darkness. I feel a sharp grip on my wrist. His fingers are like frozen bones crafted of ice, but the touch is light, like the gentle caress of your cheek. He guides me, his fingers intertwining with mine. As my hands tingle with the cold of his bones, I struggle to get away. Yanking away from his grasp, his bony fingers tighten and his pace quickens. I stumble blindly across the slippery tiling. Suddenly I am shoved sharply to the ground. He releases me and hisses into my ear. “Beware…” His dry whisper echoes throughout the hollow cavern, and with a mighty sweep of his midnight-velvet cape, he disappears into blackness.

Into Shadow.

I am left stunned with a cloud of dirt cluttering and cramming its way into my nose. I let out a dusty, raspy cough and bolt to my feet. Gone. He was just there, in front of me. He was just there! But now…

He’s gone.

I brush my hands off on my dress, a dusty grey mark stains the fragile fabric. Rubbing my eyes, I glance around to see if there is any sign of HIM… The whole room is old-style. Beautifully romantic… yet tragically dark. The cavern is mysterious, with a thin fog flowing along the ground, and darkness spilling into every crack and crevice. Bare. That is a word to describe the hollow cave. Bare. Furniture is usually plenty in many normal homes-

and this home is anything BUT normal…

In this horrible labyrinth, the furniture is minimal, only adding to the discomfort. Hiding in a corner, I peer around and spot a vast, broad bookcase. The carved wood is grand, with swirling curls and markings that match the arc in the entrance. I envision the wonderful case sporting hundreds of books in the library. My vision is shattered when I realize that only one lonely book sits upon the crooked shelf. I can tell it used to be a clean, pearly white with fancy gold lettering. Now the spine is tattered, the cover is worn and grubby, the letters are peeling and dull. The words spell something I can’t recognize. French maybe? I turn away and grit my teeth.

I step over to a shadowed table, draped in a blood-red cloth. Gingerly, I take the fabric between my fingers, it is soft and heavy. Velvet. White rose petals are strewn about, and a piece of paper flutters from the wind blowing from a window. Light streams in gently, it is darkening into a soft grey outside and I observe that the window is taped over. I turn back to the piece of artwork. The paper is crackly at the edges and is blackened. I lift the paper from the table and stare at the sketch. It is filled in black with only a perfect white rose in the middle.

A voice pops into my mind and startles me. “I drew it myself…” The deep voice echoes through the hall. I drop the sketch onto the tabletop and fling my head around to face him. I see a dark, shadowed figure, he stands in front of a long wooden case. The case isn’t very tall, maybe two feet high. It is lined with shimmering white candles, perched in gold carved holders. All of them are lit, the flames flicker in the dark, sending bits of light sparkling across this mask. Cracked white ceramic appears to be what the mask is made of. He glides forward soundlessly. He seems to float towards me silently without his feet even skimming the floor. The masked figure stops abruptly, right in front of my face! My throat weaves knots across my vocal cords, making it feel tight. His bony, pale arms shoots out without warning to the side and all the candles disappear into wispy swirls of smoke. His arm quickly tucks back into his cloak. My heart is racing. He smoothly draws back his hood and extends his arm, reaching out to my face. His long, slender fingers just barely brush my cheek.

I try to scream but no sound comes out.

Then, I peel off his mask.

This time, when I scream, the sound is clear and shrill. My vision begins to blur as I hear maniacal cackling spurting from his mouth. His shrieking laughter rings throughout the cave bitterly as the last thing I see is, He evaporates into thin air. All that’s left is a pale swirl of smoke, and a white rose… laying gently at my feet.

That is when I collapse onto the crimson carpet and black out.

 

 

 

 

photo credits to morgue files

A Memory. I laugh now, but not then.

I have been to Europe, twice.

I remember once I was riding a train for maybe eight hours. My family and I had been seated comfortably, sipping lemon and orange sodas, and reading. I was cozy, my chair leaned back with a book perched on my knees and a soft biscuit placed on a printed plate settled in my lap. The orange soda can was in my hands and we heard a voice over the intercom speak in a nasally voice. “This is the Venezia maestre stop, we repeat, Venezia maestre.” Venice was my stop and Venezia meant Venice so at that sound my ears perked up and my hands dropped the empty soda can on the table and began to pack up my belongings. We rushed off the train exhilarated by the thrill of being in Venice. But I didn’t see any water taxis, or the grand canal. We saw cars, there are no cars in Venice. An Italian man was wheeling his bike into a port. My mother asked him the directions to the Vaporetto, the place where you get a water taxi. He said, ” The Vaporetto? You are not in Venice ma’am.” Her face paled. Where were we and where’s the water? My dad checked a nearby sign. It read Venezia Maestre. My dad smirked. “Guess you’re right asking where’s the water! We are not in Venice! We hopped off a stop early!” He stated brightly. The man with the bike smiled. He looped the chain around the bike’s handlebars and strapped it to the metal port. Then he gave the lock a twist and a whirl. I heard a click and again I remembered we were thirty minutes away from our destination and didn’t have a clue as how to get there. I glanced briefly at the man and sighed. Mom clenched her hands into hard fists. She formed her lips into a tight line and raised her eyebrows. With a quick look at bike guy she added, “Is there any way that you could possibly catch a taxi from here? The man’s face made a question mark. He shrugged. I sucked in a short burst of breath sharply. We sort of just all thanked the man who introduced himself but I wasn’t listening and headed into the train station. “Let’s see the train listings. Maybe we could catch the next one to Venice. It doesn’t matter what seats we get. At least we will go!” My brother suggested. I mumbled that I agreed. The rest of my family nodded solemnly. What could happen?

Okay rephrase. What couldn’t happen? Nothing couldn’t have. We dragged heavy bags up and down like twelve flights of stairs, chased and missed like thirty trains, our bags bumped and bruised our legs, and our arms felt like boiled noodles after we stopped to regain our strength. Mom was fuming, her eyes were glazed with exhaustion and pain, and her face was pink with fury. Her eyes snapped but still sparkled. She stormed towards customer service to tell them our “difficult situation” as they called it. I called it our agonizing day of torment. She stopped in front of two people in uniform coats. “Excuse me, but we got off our train one stop early, could you please direct us to the nearest train to Venice?” The man exchanged looks with his female co-worker. He took a moment to inhale and sigh loudly and rudely. “You must have a ticket for the next train in…” He glanced at his watch and peered at us from under his hat with a bored look on his face. “Five minutes.” He continued slowly. The woman nudged the man and pasted a fake cheery look on her face. “I could show you to the ticket stand. Perhaps your family would like to aboard the train now while you buy the ticket? You would probably make your train just in time.” Five minutes? We would never make it! Mom’s eyes clouded for a moment and cleared. Run! Her eyes flashed. See you soon, just… go!

I turned on my heel and skipped a step which almost caused me to trip. I swayed dangerously, on the verge of collapsing. I caught myself and bounded down the stairs. My huge purple suitcase banged my leg. Pound! Pound! Pound! Pound! To the beat of my footsteps. My shoes clicked against the linoleum which began to get slippery. I skidded to check on the rest of the group. With them bustling on behind me, I decided to press on. I felt like the hour hand of the clocks whirled around a thousand times. Three more minutes and around half way there. I jumped the last couple steps and smashed onto the floor, heels digging into the hard surface to not slip. I slide along the hallway, my purple suitcase rolling behind. Lagging, it clicked and hit some bumps but I pushed on. Two minutes to get up the steps and across the platform. I skittered to a halt and steered my bag in a wide circle, it narrowly misses my toes. I whipped my head around and avert my gaze to see the rest of my family crashing into each other and yanking along banging bags to keep up. I tugged my bag which gets stuck on the edge of the step and with a burst of effort the wheels rolled, and come loose from the stairs. I keep tugging and hurtling up. We race from the top step and flash across the platform. The train is still in. I drag myself along to get on and finally I am. We sink into our seats. One minute. I remember mom, still buying tickets. I worry for her. I am pouring sweat and I clutch the table so hard my knuckles are white. Thirty seconds. Mom leaps on, her eyes wild and falls into her seat. I cough. Then swallow. Mom holds up a triumphant handful of red rimmed tickets glinting in the light. Dad chuckles, he chortles and we all join in giggling. Soon we are all engulfed in fits of big gulping laughter. “Hey that lady was right!” Dad snorts.
“What?” I ask breathlessly.
“She said we probably would make it just in time! And we definitely did!” The train jolts to confirm. We pull out of the station a little fuzzy and sore but otherwise, we were perfectly fine.

Do you have any interesting memories to share that you laugh about now and didn’t then?