Chen

                   I was late to orchestra on Saturday, so Vales** was going to kill me. I was concertmistress, and it was my duty to set an example for the orchestra I was to lead, composed of only two members left since the three years hence when I joined it. I was always late, but I do a lot of things I don't like to do because I am expert self saboteur  I didn't have a good practice week, either. But I arrived, and I was expecting Vales to roll his eyes instead of kick me out. Instead Chen was there, and Marrissa was in my chair, and I was very, very confused.
"You aren't concertmaster?" Rashida works at my orchestra as one of the administrators and Cheerleader for Everyone.
I was startled, and I said "no," and ran on stage. I then told Marrissa she probably shouldn't sit in my seat because I was the best and I deserved it. Actually, I said,
"Do you want to sit there or.. because I can now?"
I felt sassy and prepared, but then I looked ahead of me. In a warm light which irradiated from him coldly, Chen was my violin teacher, and he was going to actually kill me instead of roll his eyes. Chen was conducting today because Vales was out of the country. I wanted to die better than to sit under Chen's flailing conducting arms. I wanted Vales to kill me. I figured that although Vales had told me for a record three years,
"I will cut off all your fingers. Does anyone have a pencil? Yes? Ah, thank you, I will use this to throw at you if you play a wrong note. Where were we? Measure 75? Ok, uno, dos, tres.. We start here, three measures before, and this pencil is sharp."
Death by Vales would be much easier. I wanted to take the pencil, because Chen was going to make someone search for the pocket knife his or her mother said only to use when there were strangers. Chen was a stranger, and he told us to begin at measure one, in two. We started and Chen took out his knife because he started talking.
"WHAT IS THIS? YOU PLAY LIKE THIS? OH NO. OH. OH. OH. YOU PLAY LIKE THIS? THIS IS IN TWO. WHAT ARE YOU DOING. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
            Chen is famous for the shards in his words. People say it's because he's Taiwanese and they have a different culture there, one that's more harsh and less round on the edges than that of Americans. People say his accent is strange to children in DC, even though a lot of Asian kids go to my orchestra. People say Chen is mean.
"Start again."
           I was dead because I was concertmistress and my orchestra just sounded like a lawnmower sawing away at a cat's tail embezzled with the goods of a thorn bush and all the insects that ate from it. We were a cat and a lawn mower and dead insects moaning. We were dead because Chen was screaming,
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU HAVE FIVE MONTHS, AND THIS IS WHAT YOU'VE GOT? WE EXPECT YOU TO PRACTICE, YEAH, BUT WHAT DO YOU DO? WHAT IS THIS? WHAT IS THIS?"
Ari was laughing. He was laughing, and laughing, and Chen was screaming, and I wasn't smiling, even though I thought I would be.
"WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT?"
         I met Chen when I was seven and in C level. I was perfectly fine with sitting in the back and maintaining a positive yet demure attitude towards the orchestra. I was extremely enthusiastic, and I loved my violin. I thought violin was a young instrument, because my last conductor, Ashton, used to sing,
"black socks, black socks, red socks, red socks," to us and told us to say, "bacon, eggs, and ham," whenever we bowed after concerts. My first concert was Ode to Joy. I was a second violin, and I had no idea what I was doing, and I was lost. So I decided I would play as fast as I could, and finish before anyone else to get it over with. I did, and everyone had the same idea.
Ashton left. I was first violin.
Chen at the wall behind the window, and there was a strange boy named Sam. He showed me he could play his violin with his teeth. The first thing I ever heard him say was,
"How many instruments to I play dad? Oh I play violin, saxophone, bass, keyboard.."
I was afraid of the orchestra. Chen placed the music on my stand, and it had high notes. I was afraid of the orchestra. Once seating came along, everyone was afraid of him. He yelled at us the first rehearsal. Parents always lined the wall parallel to that of the orchestra whenever class started, just to be there, just to make sure their children didn't play their violins with their teeth and get poisoned from rosin. This time they lined the wall because of Chen. One rehearsal, my mother sat with the Education Administrator before she left eating Coffee cake, and Mr. Chen wasn't yelling at me. That wasn't how it was. I was concertmistress and I deserved to be there.
             In E level, two years later, I was in a jury, and I had to memorize some piece that kept me there an extra three months I suppose. Jury is the way out of a level, and I was ready. I had my scales ready, and my etudes, and I was the best of my section (without Alan), so I could go. I am an expert self saboteur. My jury panel was two Asian women, and one Asian man. I looked again and identified him, resentfully. He smiled. I was an expert. I played, and I played well because these were the days when I could sabotage myself because at least I practicemkld before. This time, I knew of my friend's folklore of Chen after my concertmistress tenure, and I was scared. I played my memorized piece, and reached the middle. I froze.
Please don't freeze, what are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
This is what I told myself. I look at the identified man, and he smiled at me. The two Asian women looked at me. I looked at my violin, played, and finished. Chen smiled, and I left. Then I cried.
I didn't fail, because the next week I was in F level, ready to be concertmistress again, and I was.
              Now Chen was yelling at me because I didn't practice that week and we were a lawnmower and a cat and some insects, except this time there was a dog involved and a possum as well. Chen gave me his smirk, snapped his neck, and leaned into the yellow of the light. He looked like a mountain in Disney, the kind that exude demons and wild animals to kill you. He was going to kill me.
"WHO IS YOUR SECTIONALS TEACHER?" His rage was fierce. In a way, Chen is part Beyonce, because he always is.
"WHO IS YOUR SECTIONALS TEACHER?" I am not Beyonce or Chen, I am not fierce. Chen thought I was incompetent, so he had to ask again. I was staring at him, and he was not smiling.
"you are..." I smiled, just because I was beyond uncomfortable. I was not used to this. I didn't deserve my seat.
Ari was laughing.
"Start again."
                 Two years ago, when I began my career as a first violinist for my orchestra, the teacher for the first violins was Ms. Erenspeck. I met Ms. Erenspeck when she first broke her wrist, and her hair was boring, as it was short and brown. She was a substitute for a teacher who would later run out of the cafeteria where her baffled students ate salty pizza, frighteningly crying because she had just been fired.She had an Andy Warhol shirt, the kind with the quadrants, and it was purple. She sat in the middle of the room and taught violin without one, but only for five minutes. The other eighty-five were her telling stories of her school, her arm, and probably cows.
                The next time I met Ms. Erenspeck was when she went to the sort of wrong-ish room to sub, and all of us students went to the other sort of wrong-ish room, and we spent the entire time socializing and hanging out. She spent five minutes teaching because we had loafed from her class, and eventually we found her staring at a wall. Her hair was red, I think.
               The next time I met her she had blonde hair in a fauxhawk. We spoke of cows and Elliot's Afflack voice, we spoke of her middle school (a place I was desperate to attend because of how cool she was and because middle school was not fun). I was in first violins, and she was my teacher. I sat last chair. We spent five minutes playing because Elliot's voice was so humorous, and she had to tell us about her wrist. She had a violin in her hands. My mom came to get me early the day we spoke of cows, and I told her I liked that class a lot.
"That is not class," she told me.
              Everyone left that year, and when I returned it was me, Ari-Jan, my friend whose name started with an A, and Simon I believe. Our teacher was not Erenspeck, because there was something brutally wrong. Erenspeck had retreated to the seconds, and we were first rate. We had to get a first rate teacher. We weren't cows we were cattle. We had to report to Chen. I wasn't afraid of Chen the first day because of C level, but Ari-Jan slightly much so. So was my friend who's name started with an A. I don't believe Simon liked him very much either. We had only seen our music for a day, but Chen's words weren't of mercy, they were of Chen.
"Why don't you practice?"
We had just gotten that music that day.
                 A year later, or perhaps it wasn't, anyway, sometime during some Winter, the first violins of the JO and YO had merged to produce our Kennedy Center Christmas Spectacular, and Chen was our teacher. His face was red with angry veins. His arms moved cryptically. His scarf pulled against his neck. Ms. Nash walked in, and so did Berard. Chen looked a bit sad, and he left. Ari-Jan laughed a bit to himself.
"Excuse me," Ms. Nash said. In the movies they have the big Black women whose words you respect like a bible because they speak that, also.
"Hello, everyone," Maestro Berard always smiled.
                 Chen left, and it was all of the first raters in the room, looking at Ms. Nash and Berard sitting at desks, twiddling our thumbs. Ari-Jan and I sat at parallel desks, and the room was segregated with firsts.
"We need to know about Mr. Chen. Is he... Does he say anything?" Ms. Nash looked concerned.
I thought, what is this?
All of the firsts were new people. By this point, Ari-Jan and I had known each other since E I suppose, even though we hadn't become good friends until the current moment. I had my C level memory, he had his juries. The firsts in YO had,
"Well. He called us all idiots once. He said we were stupid."
Ari Jan laughed to himself. He looked at me because I bet he was thinking, "what are you doing. What are you doing?" I was thinking the same. Chen was going to be deemed second rate and abusive because these kids are new. Chen was the school bully, but he was also the cool kid. He was tough, and once you get used to that, you realize he's quite fabulous and it makes sense that you laugh after he tells you he wants to cry because you couldn't play with a fourth finger. When you do, and he gives you that little toothed smile, eyes genuine with your progression. Chen's spirit animal is the alligator in All Dogs Go to Heaven because you think he's going to kill you and then he turns out to be a drag queen wanting to make music with you. Chen is not a drag queen, but he's fabulous. I assure.
I told this to my mother after class was over, the part about having to talk to Nash and Berard
"Well maybe he is abusive. Maybe, you're just used to it. You don't realize it, you know? Maybe the new kids on the block are good for you."
I wanted my mother to be wrong forever and forever and forever and forever. I didn't want this to be the truth because truth is abusive.
              The next September, Chen was our best friend. Sam was there, and once he played, Chen told us,
"You make me want to kill myself. You make me want to throw myself out that window. I cannot open the window because the window doesn't open. You make me want to kill myself."
Sam, Alina, Marrisa, Malayna, and me laughed about this down the hallway. There was a cadence in his voice. It sounded like, you MAKE me WANT to KI-ll MYSELF. Only the important words are daggers. His sass was absolutely fabulous. Chen wasn't our best friend because he was sassy, though, he was our best friend because he was nice. He stopped class so we could speak of turkeys, theatre, and a lot of times the perks of Alina's life because Alina can speak of anything at anytime, and usually does. Once Alina was telling us of her fruit adventures as she lived in Thailand, and Chen related instantly,
"The fruit from my country? It's.. it's.. Ackguh! It's SOOO good! My! It's SOOO good! I miss it. The fruit here? Auckguh! What is it? I cannot. It is not like the fruit from my country. I have it mailed to me."
Ever since then, we hadn't the need to stand, or to really try. We could just go and talk about American culture and our weeks. It was therapy. Therapy from the guy who just told Sam he wanted to kill himself because of Sam. At his birthday party, we had cookies, brownies, and soda. Chen said he was allergic to most of it, and we could eat what we liked. I was late that day. I gave him a Capri Sun for good measure. He smiled at me and told me to eat up.

"Oh. WHAT IS THIS? YOU PLAY THIS? THIS? YOU CANNOT PLAY THIS. OK, OK SO THIS IS MY SECTION. I TELL THEM WHAT TO DO, THEY DO WELL, OK, AND YOU DO THIS? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? OK SO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO IS, YOU HAVE TO PRACTICE, OK? YOU GO HOME, YOU GO ON... YOU... YOU.. YOU.. YOUTUBE, YOU LISTEN TO THE SONG OK. AND YOU PRACTICE. EVERYDAY YA. SO I KNOW YOU WON'T DO THAT. BUT WHAT IS THIS I CANNOT HERE YOU. I yell because I care. I care. I care.. care.. care.. because the music. I care the music. I care. And you cannot play like this. You cannot play like this because it's unfair. It's unfair to the music. It's unfair to you. five minute's break."
I wasn't sure if I had lost or gained hope in Chen. He was becoming old Chen. My memories of him with the brownies and cookies he treated us to on the belated birthday party we set up for him were instantly replaced with that in which Ari-Jan and I arrived late eating cake (because there was a party during lunch) and he yelled at us because we were late and we didn't get him any. I didn't want to laugh, I wanted to cry. He was killing me. I couldn't breath with daggers in me. But then he was Chen again. I was sabotaging myself because we sounded like cats and death. He cared, he cared, he cared, he cared, he cared for the music, and he cared for us.
Ari was laughing.
"WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING FOR?"
Maybe not so, but Chen was back. Chen gave us cake and then got mad at us because we ate it all. Once break came, Ari came up to me from his principal second violinist seat, smiled devilishly, and said,
"Your teacher is funny. He's so mean he's funny. WHO AM I? WHO AM I?"
"He's Chen," I said, because he was.

**Vales, my conductor, is Mariano Vales. He composed the music for Zorro, which is why I link you to that article. He's the coolest Argentine I know because I only know a handful (I'm sorry Ariella and Lucia). That's why he counts in Spanish. You should support him and see the show because it's supposed to be a good show, and he'll make good use of your money once he gets paid. He's an excellent person to talk to, and very personable.

The Paparazzi in the Hedge at the B-Lister's House and Orchestra

       


*****No Links this time because of the video******

   In tech class, this one kid of whom I wasn't very fond curved his neck around my computer, put his face into mine, and told me, "Your IMP gave me nightmares."
            In the Eighth grade, everyone in the magnet program was to create his or her own project to address whatever he or she cared. I chose orchestra (naturally), and puppets (naturally) and I made Zazapalooza, a Sesame Street program which inadvertently resulted what looked like the trips of each of the Yo Gabba Gabba Monsters. My teacher gave me a 75/100, but I didn't care. It was much too long, and it was sensible only in its intentions (which weren't that evident), and the puppets lived in the lower fifth of the screen. I didn't care, it was me.
            I wasn't sure which response would make it so the inches between his face and mine would increase until his neck was no longer grotesque, and I was looking at the computer. I wasn't sure whether this was of his nature (he gave me somewhat of a hell in the eighth grade; however, I was innocent then and many of his jokes didn't faze me due to lack of mature knowledge), or if he was trying to go to heaven by making hell of his hell.
"Thank you," I said.
            Thank you because I made you have nightmares. Fire with fire in a way, but instead I branded him with my brand. I realized then that, the videos and the projects I make are very much me, and any attention is any attention. I felt like a celebrity through his nightmares. My friends translated his comment. The perils and guilt of fame were screening through me, and I wanted to change my IMP so there weren't any bad dreams; instead people could see the talking puppets and the good one that was mine. My friends told me the videos I produced (and any project for that matter) were "trippy."
              I am a sqaure and I don't endorse narcotics. I don't agree drugs are an outlet for creativity, rather I view them as a bit of a cheat to creativity; but when I felt my teeth come together at "tri," and my lips release as I said "ppy," I was Salvador Dali. I don't do drugs, I am drugs. That is why you had your bad dream, kid from Tech class. I felt woozy. I wasn't trippy, I was cocky. I decided it might've been best to edit my IMP so as to reduce nightmares, but I was proud. I didn't need enhancements, I needed myself.
                I've realized I should invest in making sense of my projects. Although I am proud of their nonsense, and the axiomatic ramblings, I do wish to be comprehensive. This is what I attempted in my video project. I wasn't trying to redeem myself of the Tech Class Boy's nightmares, I was trying to make sense. It took me a while to do so. I wanted to open with me eating humus and watching netflix while reciting "I. I HATED HER SO MUCH. THE FLA-FLA-FLAMES. ON THE SIDE OF MY FACE. BREA-BREA-BREA-HEATH-HEATHING BREATHS," as Netflix has established many of the days obscured with icy snow and sock drenching sludge. I thought a bit, and I thought about trying to make sense, and my IMP, and the impetus of every project I have ever done. Orchestra.
                 So, I filmed orchestra. The day before, my father took away my phone for reasons which do not follow chronologically in this story, and I was alleviated of my means to film. I have a fancy camera, but I am the forgetful type and such a piece of equipment is not the best adopted technology for me. I had to film, therefore, with my mother's 4s, after class, after lunch, after  Mr. Chen had told us everyone was horrible and we'll all have to fend for ourselves (Mr. Chen is our crazy sectionals teacher. He's the epitome of a culture shock, as he's Taiwanese, brash, demanding, and extremely hardworking. Each of his students are not. It's much the situation with the white school teacher who fosters the poor inner city students, except in this case the inner city students have fostered the teacher. Mr. Chen expects so little of us; while before he claimed to stick his head out of a window because a student's playing was so bad(which were conveniently sealed to the uppermost window), he now greets us with a mere "you all are horrible" and continues to discuss fruit. His class, nonetheless, is the most photogenic and dramatic stage in the entire building.)
                  I filmed orchestra, kind of. I went to my cousins class, and I was the worst student teacher my aunt or anyone could dream of, and I filmed my cousin, his father, and my aunt in the class while I was supposed to be tuning or correcting a bow-hold  It was slow, and I felt extremely sketchy, like a paparazzi man seeking a B-list actor from the hedge of his suburban home. I got what I needed done, and (after getting caught discussing important relationship matters with my best friend,) I corrected Rebekka's bending pinky and tuned each students tiny, metallic violin.
                   I then disappeared to the halls with my best friend. We finished our discussion of his important relationship matters, and I was able to film the orchestra packing up down the hall. I was the paparazzi man in the hedge, but the B-list actor wasn't outside cooking a barbeque, instead he was relaxing on the porch, expectant of my presence. That is to say, I felt much less stalker like. I felt most like a filmmaker when people passed by. I felt like a fly on the wall instead of a man in a hedge. I felt like I was documenting an event I would acknowledged once I edited it.
                   Then we went downstairs to visit the subject of the Important Relationship Matter, and the members of her quartet. The lighting was beautiful. It made everything seem yellow, yet established and defined, like memories of a late summer or a photograph faded from pressure of thousands of others. I wanted to document that, so I left my fly on the wall position, and asked to film. These were my friends (I would've filmed anyway). They tightened their bows and straightened their backs, and they played especially for me. It didn't feel like a trip, it felt real. This video was going to be put together.
                   The rest of the film was my trip home, which is usually me venting to my mother and Lynn Rosetta Caspar daintily advising recipes on fancy macaroni and cheese or what have you. I didn't want to record much any of that because:
1. I don't believe the Brittish Kids want to know about my venting issues with orchestra, as much of it is:
         a. why doesn't anyone practice?
         b. why don't I?
         c. it's so hard being a priviliged concert master and the best but not "outstanding"
         d. why am I a jerk?
2. I don't like Lynn Rosetta Caspar's show very much because it reminds me I spend all of my Saturday playing violin, and not doing other Saturday things I wouldn't know about because my Saturday is DCYO.
                   I was nervous with my film. Was it enough for a trip? It couldn't be trippy at all! Sure, it was comprehensive, but was it me? It seemed too much to define myself in adjectives and the nouns from which they derive. I was going to edit, but I needed to know more of where I was from. Such deducing arrived me with the conclusion that I could film my grandparents house.
                     I am not a heartless wench. I don't go to my grandparents house often, tragically, because they're the coolest people who live the most serene lives in the DC Metro Area, more so than anyone with an incense home in Takoma Park. When my dad said he was going, I knew I had homework, but what better way to be productive than pay a much needed call to one's grandparents while also employing the trip as video material? It was a lovely visit. I love my grandparents very much, and we spent much of our time together watching America's Funniest Home Videos and laughing out our hearts. I didn't use the video, however, because I found I had too much already, and I couldn't.
                     Editing, therefore, was hard, but only because there were so many technical difficulties with my computer. My story was well synthesized  I had the videos I wanted, and I let the voiceover script come naturally. I was able to tell orchestra. Even though I couldn't show Chen, or the mess of orchestra lunch, or even Vales and his speech about cutting off our fingers with his rusty scissors, I found orchestra is truly orchestra all day, and the development of its baby classes, to the baby orchestra, to the quartet, is truly where I'm from. There's not much more me than that.

Grade 5 Disillusionment of Fashionable Red Pants and Stolen Reese's

               Grade 5 Disillusionment of Fashionable Red Pants and Stolen Reese's
                                                   Part 1 of a Homecoming Tale

           There was the lunch table. We don't usually sit together, but that day it was established. Sam was sitting next to Kwamel, on the left side, and on the right, Anne was doing her homework. We had all put our instruments down in front of the lunch seats, which ended towards the middle of the room, where the Pizza Line and Concession stand was set up, and where I my mom was selling candy to my friends. Behind the concession stands is the Grand Staircase of who in YO is Here Today. I had two slices of pizza in my hand, wrapped in tin foil, and a water bottle.

This is DCYO during lunchtime on a Saturday.
   
   "I just. I. Well ok you guys, so like  yesterday I had to go to homecoming game, yeah? And that was nice and all ok except for it wasn't. Ok? Please listen. I'm sorry, that sounded mean. Ok but yesterday I had to spend two and a half hours of my life standing out in the cold, and it was rainy, and my football team lost twenty-nine to zero! And then I couldn't even see the game because these shirtless boys were directly in front of me as mock cheerleaders, and it was most uncomfortable." DCYO is a lovely time for me to vent, because everyone is widely different, and the people I sit with don't go to Blair.

This is when Sam and Anne and Kwamel began to laugh.

"It's not funny! It took forever! And I was freezing and it was rainy and ugh they lost. I mean they lost!"
"I'm sorry," Kwamel is a mediator, he's the friendly type who wants you to feel ok. He's one of my best friends.
"Well. My homecoming game, I'm sorry, We're a pretty good team. That sounds awful. My game was cancelled last week and the referee wasn't even there!" Sam is one to talk about sports, but when he's not he's a good friend with substantial things to say, which never include rude comments.
"This is why I never go to Homecoming Game!" I have never heard Anne give positive feedback, or really say many positive remarks ever. She reads the classics for fun. It's fascinating.

"And you guys! You know what? I have to go to Homecoming Dance. I mean the dance. With dancing. Or grinding. I have to be with I have to go to Homecoming Dance! Oh God!"
"Calm down. Sucky schools have sucky dances. Don't go if you don't want to go." Sometimes Kwamel was too much of a mediator
"I went to mine and it was fun, but I go to an all boys school. The girls just come from places." Sam is a good friend who talks a lot.
"This is why I don't go to any school related events." This is why Anne is positively, or perhaps negatively, Anne.

       This is when all the other crew comes to the table. It's most of the YO kids in 11th and 12th graders. They're all nice people, and half are sports obsessed. Some are busy with academics and doing homework. Others talk about their lives the entire lunch period, and bother people with humor. I don't know everyone at the table, but there's not much room for clique drama in orchestra. There was, and that was painful, but that was during elementary school and another tale of a sort (which I don't quite remember).

"I JUST DON'T WANT TO GO TO HOMECOMING, KWAMEL." Usually I talk to Kiera, Anne, and Adia, but Anne was stuck in European History, and Adia was stuck in sports practice, and I think Kiera sat at the other end of the table. In truth I wasn't talking to Kwamel.

          He to whom I was talking was at the closest end to the table, close to the edge of the cafeteria, which was stocked with stale fruit to be sold Monday to eager students. After school, I go into the cafeteria, and there's a large refrigerator heated or chilled to a weekend temperature. This is what school meals look like. He to whom I was talking is not stale, he's very attractive, and  he had on very memorably fashionable red pants. He is Dutch, and from Holland, and he speaks using British terms.

         I've had a crush on him since the sixth grade, when all of the DCYO cliques had sprouted from their Elementary roots. He is very Dutch, and very polite, and he stutters when he talks. Once we were to play a motown medley piece, and he told me he hated "I'll be there" by Micheal Jackson. I thought he was an interesting fellow. We haven't really become very good friends, until now, and our friendship was recently broken because we're also intense rivals. We've always played Violin Super Mario. I've always been level up, first chair, teacher's favorite; When he was in H level I was in I.

Now he's in YO and I'm in JO, or the complete orchestra above me. He saved the princess and brought the flag down. He won the game.

          That''s why I wanted him to hear me. In a perfect world, he would've saved me. He would've said, "I can accompany you somehow to the dance, no matter the tickets and such. I will get you and me through the gates with my awkward Dutch Charm. I will admit to you that was not a fair audition because you are better than me. We will become friends again. We will arrive in a limo or whatever. We will dance like all of the cheesy 80's movies. We will be very fashionable. I will be the date to the dance even though I have a girlfriend and such-"

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It's not much of a pleasant moment, in any case, to have one interrupt perfect worlds. It even worse of a case when this person is your 10 year old cousin.

"NATALIE!" I try my hardest to embarrass her. I think this shows my love.
"Hi Aidan." She's more apathetic than a tenth grade teen debating whether to go to one of the most seminal dances of the year dreaming of dances with a red panted Dutch boy.

           Natalie had come to tell me she was going to New York City for a program with John's Hopkins. One day, she'll sit at the table, and she'll be the one in the crew doing homework but also causing havoc over who stole her Reese's while she wasn't looking. Natalie had also come to tell me strange things were afoot in the Fifth Grade. Two of her friends like each other, like like each other, and she doesn't know what to do. They won't even talk to each other! And you know what they did, they went on and made her the mediator, in case you didn't know what that means, that's when you have to talk to people through them.

Natalie's language is contagious. I was beginning to feel I didn't know as much as she did about relationships, or school, or what a mediator was, or why 80's movies were starting to sound not like High School, but the Fifth Grade.

Anyway, Natalie has to get her friends to talk to each other. I mean, why do they even like each other in the first place! What's my advice? I don't have any. I have some, but I'm not of expert experience. First, Natalie, you're in the fifth grade. Let it flow, just be a kid that's what High School is about, you know, the drama and all that. For now there's High School Musical. And don't even follow that drama! This is why you need to watch Veggietales. Veggietales rules. You know when I was your age, Natalie...

Natalie didn't care. I was a lame actual High School Student who Didn't even want to go to the Homecoming Dance.

         I wanted to go to homecoming because it meant fairy dusted dreams of my attractive Dutch violin rival and me in a Grease style slow dance with all of the other Homecoming attendees and because it was the staple of all High School Movie Staples. High School Movie Staples are so because they're really just the Fifth Grade. That's why I got rained upon. It was never a staple at all.

They're drama for the not dramatic. Youth invisibility. The teenager before the kid. The kid after the teenager. We're still kids. It's a staple because I'm young and impressionable and I'm too tired of being immature. But it's all about being immature. Fifth grade drama because that in high school isn't comparable to the television. I've already gone to homecoming dance. The drama I had in fifth grade was High School Musical. It was Pretty in Pink. I've already been to my homecoming dance, and now I'm just left to what's left of the Very Sorry Teenage Condition.

"See you later!" Natalie's not one to be phased. She doesn't care how much I embarrass her. I'm still the model junior to Troy Bolton.

It was 11:30 and the end of lunch.

"Good luck at homecoming," Kwamel said.
"Hope you have a nice time," Sam left the table.
"Dances are stupid." I'm not sure how Anne would know since she abstains herself from school activities, but I was afraid her point was affirmative. Negative. I'm not sure which.

It was 1

I decided to settle the matter with my mother and Kwamel's mom

"You don't go to homecoming to dance, or grind. You go to have fun. Really you go to find that person across the room" Kwamel's mom, Ms. Christian, is a wise woman.

"Who is that person?" I was naive.

"It's just that person. The person you'll be with. So you keep going to that party and that party until you find out there is no person across the room, in that room of course, and what you gotta do now is go somewhere else where there is." Ms. Christian was saying homecoming was a lot like 16 candles, but I won't exactly find my Jake. It was settled. Homecoming's just a fifth grade Urban Legend. Besides, Dutch boy wasn't going to be there, and I didn't like anyone from my school.

"But you have to go to that first party to see if that one person just might be there"

I was hoping that one person was a friend too, but maybe the legend wasn't so.


Peace