Whisker, Mittens, & bridges
Justina Liu, Freshman
High school began on the second day in first period geometry. She laid down code of conduct, and then swept the classroom for names, grades and some characteristics not meeting the eye. Descriptions were crisp and dead end conversations. I have two cats. Ah. Names? Whisker and Mitten. Mitten is a short hair. Twenty five students outlined their life stories, and those of feline friends. I dropped an invisible penny into the imaginary wishing well and made a silent plea for lessons to start. Scandalous, I know. Our first unit was logic. If logic starts now, then we will finish in a school year minus one day. Very logical. Upperclassmen with under eye circles and callused fingers—walking, breathing epitomes of the fruit high school bears. And freedom? It can keep its freedom. This was to me the beginning of a battle,
set to prolong too long, a victory to remain standing in the end among others, or without. Then, the soldier too the first fall. “And after a test, it is not in your interest to tell the other class what’s on it. When it comes down to class rank and colleges, the margin between those above and below you will be a tenth of a point.” She cleared her throat and continued, “Look around, these people are competitors in the very end.” The bell rang and I glanced at the master of Whisker and Mitten. Indeed, some things fail to meet the eyes. Tennis season came to a close in the second week of October. Practice was daily after school, and on occasion the cross country team would run by the courts. We would then become a herd of grazing cattle, they, galloping gazelles. But despite the mellowness of the sport, the weight of my tweed tote and its contents became apparent within a week after cessation of play. I traded in the navy bag for an aquamarine Timber-
land backpack. Aquamarine was still in season then. And in the Timberland were the to do’s, should do’s, and haven’t done’s, that moved rhythmically with my fatigued figure. I fantasized about leaving it, perhaps under a tree, somewhere in Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, Palestine for that matter! And that some poor person would find it and the contents within would become theirs. I treaded on, like a soldier would stride with his bag, because in it were the necessities for his survival, or at least that’s what they told him. I began the New Year with a new backpack, Swiss Army this time. The left strap on the Timberland had ripped, robbing it of any preference over my original tote. It was black, masculine, and rather ugly, but it freed my eyes from my old carry’s blue tint, which bore a disturbingly strong resemblance to the grade speed background. The toughness, brutality, and intensely studious aura— the way it told school to suck it—especially satiating. With a companion on my back, I strolled the halls for three weeks leading up to midterms with a determination to be reach, be, academic perfection. Like a soldier. Get the enemy before he gets you.
I wanted to consume myself with school. I didn’t know it had already begun consuming me. I remained faithful to my Swiss, even more so to the contents within. I was on a fast track, one track, one stop, train to success. It never occurred to me that a train would run out of fuel. What did trains run on anyone? I hadn’t a clue. So I threw in everything I had. I gasped for air. The air was toxic. But, were these not the fumes of excellence? And then the little soldier realized, she’d gotten on the wrong train. Dad why is it so hard? And she cried herself a river. If you loved me you’d home school me! Built herself a bridge. What do you mean I’m building my own mountains? Watched the smoky clouds clear from the summit. And prayed to God that no one steps on that train.
7 pg08 justina.indd 1
5/26/2011 10:55:56 AM