I listened to the thumping of his footsteps behind me.  He was close—too close.  But it didn’t matter.  I wasn’t getting caught tonight, and I had more than one advantage I could utilize if I chose to do so.  Advantage #1: I knew these streets better than anyone by now—certainly better than any cop ever would.  I could lead him on a wild goose chase for hours, without ever getting tired, if I wanted.  But tonight, I didn’t want to.  It was late, the guy probably had a family he wanted to get home to, and besides, I knew he was only trying to do his job.  It wasn’t his fault that there was no way in hell I was going to let myself get caught.  After four years of running, why would I choose to go back now?  I would do whatever I had to to keep myself from being put in the backseat of the police cruiser the cop had conveniently left unlocked two blocks away.

Not that I had any intention of stealing his car.  Oh no, I wasn’t known for my superior skills in the subsection of thievery known as grand theft auto like one of my “coworkers”, Zane, was.  There were other things—things that equated to less prison time—that I was known for.  In fact, I wanted nothing more than for the cop to give up the chase, go back in his cruiser, and drive away.  But from the sound of the man’s feet still padding the ground and his heavy breathing, it didn’t seem like that was an option tonight.

I rounded the corner and immediately slipped through a crack in the wall of the building to my right.  The crack didn’t really look big enough to hide someone inside it, which was probably why the building hadn’t been condemned yet, and truthfully it probably wasn’t.  But, as I discovered a year ago during a chase very similar to this one (only it had been an overweight hotdog cart owner running behind me), while the space wasn’t big enough for a normal person, it was big enough for a 115 pound, 16-year-old girl like me.  From that moment on, the small space became known as “Hideout #12”.  And that leads me to Advantage #2: when you’re a minor living on the streets, keeping a list of hideouts is just one of the ways to help ensure your survival.

The officer slowed to careful walk when he turned the corner and found that I had disappeared from sight.  Even though I couldn’t see him, I knew exactly where he stood.  Shifting his weight to the front of his left foot, the cop lifted his right and took another step forward.  I couldn’t even hear the crunch of gravel as his right foot made contact with the ground once again—he was purposely keeping his footsteps quiet—but it didn’t matter how quiet he was, sound or no sound, I knew exactly when he put his foot down.  I even knew that at this point he had already shifted his weight back to his right foot in preparation for taking another silent step with his left.  From my hole, I clutched my shoulder bag to my chest, closed my eyes and stood very still as the officer rolled the remaining weight on his left foot forward, slowing lifting his heel until all the weight was in his toes—well, not all his toes—he purposely wasn’t putting any weight on his second toe. I wondered if he had broken it.

“It’s okay,” he called to me, “I won’t hurt you. I just want to help.”

That’s what they all said. I held my breath as he walked past #12.  When he was a good ten feet away again, I slowly let out the air I was holding.

“I’m a police officer,” he said.  Like I hadn’t already figured that one out.  Why did he think I was hiding?  ”I promise everything will be okay.”

I rolled my eyes.  This guy clearly had no clue what the foster care system was like.

“You can come out now.”

As if I was going to do that. I sighed. It was starting to look like I might not have a choice.  In order to come out I needed this guy to leave me alone, but of course I was stuck with the one cop on the force who convinced himself he is going to save me from the horrors of street life—don’t get me wrong, living on the streets does have its hazards, but, at this point, I’d learned either how to handle them or how to avoid them (I guess that would count as Advantage #3).  So really, with his meddling, this cop was turning out to be more like one of those hazards than a help.

He crouched down on the other side of the street to see if I was hiding behind a dumpster.  I shook my head.  A dumpster?  Really?  I mean, come on, I may have lived in an abandoned factory but I did have at least a little decorum.

I admit I started to panic when I sensed him straighten up and take a couple steps closer to #12.  And yes, you heard me right, I sensed him.  Advantage #4 (and probably my greatest one yet): I couldn’t see him, I couldn’t hear him, and I certainly couldn’t smell him thanks to the dumpster in this particular alley, but I could sense him.  It’s the only way I know how to describe the fact that I knew exactly where this man stood, how he was leaning slightly on his right foot—probably favored it—and how I even knew that he was holding both hands out in front of him as if I might try to jump him, which, I was seriously starting to consider at the moment.

It’s this way with everyone who gets within 50 feet of me.  I don’t have to see them or hear them to know where or how they are standing, I just know.  As long as some part of their body is in contact with the ground, I know the positions of all the limbs on the person’s body.  And, if I feel threatened—much like I did now—I also know where the person’s greatest point of weakness is, or, what I would have to hit, touch, punch, whatever, to get the person to lose their balance and fall to the ground.  For example, I knew that if I were to stomp down on the officer’s left foot then slid his right out from under him he would be on the ground faster than my old friend, Riley, could swipe a giant bag of chips at the convenience store.

I’ve had this ability to know a person’s location and movements without looking for as long as I can remember, but the part about instantly knowing what would take them down manifested when I needed to escape the beatings of my last foster father.  One minute I was cowering in the corner of his living room, the next I had punched him as hard as I could to the left of his stomach and, to my astonishment, I found this 250 pound grown man rolling on the floor in agony.  I have never lost a fight since, even when I’ve been outnumbered.  And trust me—I’ve been in a lot of fights, but it’s not like I go looking for them.  I’m just always in the wrong place at the wrong time, much like I was now.

Even with my own version of a sixth sense, as I liked to call it, and my favorable history when it came to physical combat, I still didn’t want to fight a cop.  It would make me feel like even more of a criminal than I already was.  Despite the constant fights I get into and the façade I put up for my “coworker” (I call him a “coworker” because he isn’t someone I particularly like, just the one I am forced to make contact with on a daily basis), I’m really extremely moral on the inside.  When we first met, Zane dubbed me “Goody” (short for Goody-Two-Shoes), until I threatened to throw his face in the gravel every day if he didn’t stop.  He wasn’t wrong about me though.  One day, I even hoped that I could put these years behind me and start a normal life.  But, a rap sheet that said I had assaulted an officer, even if I am still a minor, wasn’t going to help me live my dream.

The cop was now less than two feet away from my hiding place. If he were to simply look to his left he would see the crevice and, depending on his previous experience with kids, he may or may not wonder whether a teenage girl could fit inside. If he didn’t, then he would be in the clear and I could simply wait it out in #12 until he left. But if he did then he would be in for a rude wake up call, cause even if I didn’t want to fight him, I couldn’t get officer assaulting put on my rap sheet if I didn’t get caught (which, as I mentioned before, wasn’t happening tonight).

Unlucky for him, he wondered. I should have squished myself to one side to better blend in with the wall but it was too late, he saw me.

“It’s okay, I won’t hurt you,” he said and held out his hand, “you can come out now.” Little did he know that it would be safer for him if I stayed inside and he just walked away. Sometimes I wished I had the ability to control minds instead of sensing weight and movement—I would feel a lot better about having to escape situations like this if I didn’t have to actually hurt the person. I mean, come on, the cop wasn’t doing anything wrong, and, on top of that he seemed like a really nice guy. Had I not been running from the system, and anyone who might turn me over to them (aka the police), I might have actually trusted the guy to help me. But I was on the run, so he couldn’t be trusted.

I slowly took his hand and let him pull me out of my hiding place. “There that’s better, isn’t it?” he asked. I braced myself, preparing to stomp of his foot, probably re-breaking his toes by doing so, and run. “What’s your name?” I was clear. There was plenty of room for me to break away.

“Sorry,” I said before I stomped down on his foot, not as hard as I could, but enough for it to hurt…a lot. The cop immediately let go of my hand—forgetting that I hadn’t been the most cooperative prey—and let out an “ow”. When he looked up from his foot it was too late for him to catch me again. I was already scaling the fence at the end of the alleyway.

“Hey!” he called in a last stitch effort to get me to go back to him, but it was futile. I hopped down from the top of the fence and was officially out of sight. I took one last glance at the wooden fence behind me and felt the area for the cop to make sure he wasn’t following me, but he was still right where I left him, only now he was taking care not to put any weight on the toes on his left foot. I breathed a sigh of relief and started walking in the direction of Henry VIII’s mansion.

My current keeper, or “boss”, is a prominent business tycoon—and is filthy rich—note the mansion.  His name isn’t actually Henry VIII.  I just like to call him that because he’s the fourth or fifth (I can never remember which) Henry in his family, and, from what I can tell, he can be pretty cutthroat in the business world.  I mean, you don’t get to the top of the pyramid without issuing a few threats here or there—some of which I actually had the pleasure of delivering for him.

I checked my watch. It was almost midnight. I was supposed to be back an hour ago.  The cop situation had taken up a lot more of my time than I thought. No doubt Zane was wondering where I was. Even though I lived in Henry VIII’s house, most of the time he could care less w

When I reached the kitchen door around the back of the mansion I felt around the area for any other people, but it was deserted except for possibly Zane, Henry VIII, and the butler (who, for some reason, refused to tell me his real name), all of whom I couldn’t be sure were there. The one setback of my extra sense was that I couldn’t detect people who were on a different level from me. So, if I was on the first floor, I would have no idea if there were people on the floor above or below me. The only reason for this that I could fathom was that my body could sense any vibrations some else’s body gave off and I couldn’t feel them on other floors simply because they weren’t horizontally connected. That was why when I had to hide from people chasing me I never went up or down, I always stayed on the same plane, too afraid of what would happen if I lost track of the person.

I pulled a key from my jeans’ pocket, inserted into the lock, and carefully turned it until I heard the familiar “click”, making almost no sound. I had just placed my hand on the golden handle when the kitchen door in front of me swung open.  A six-foot tall, and decently built, guy with short, almost army cut, light brown hair was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Where have you been?” Zane asked. He was pissed. But then again, Zane was rarely content with things. When I first met him I had been constantly afraid he would go on a rage and turn into a huge green monster like the Hulk in one of my old foster brother’s comic books. But over time I realized he was mostly talk—well, he was mostly talk when it came to me. With anyone else, he was a serious force to be reckoned with.

Shifting my weight, I looked up to a still pissed Zane. “I was forced to give a cop the old 1, 2,” I said, smiling.

Zane frowned. He knew I had a thing for getting into as little trouble as possible—I mean he calls me goody, remember? “No you didn’t,” he said, but he didn’t sound so sure.

I shook my head. “No I didn’t, but I did stomp on his foot.”

His frowned deepened. He was disappointed in me. “That’s not the same.”

Zane and I both have an arsenal of fighting skills in our pocket.  There were a couple things I had learned on my own before Henry VIII took me in, but since then my combat abilities have literally quadrupled.  Now, Henry VIII says I’m the best fighter he’s ever seen.  I have even beaten Zane in a fight before—of course my sixth sense is a definite advantage.  He might still get mad at me but ever since then he will never pick a fight with me again. Not that I blame him—I would never pick a fight with me. No ordinary person stood a chance. Of course, Zane isn’t ordinary. He has a “special” skill just as I do, but it isn’t one that necessarily helps in hand-to-hand combat.

Instead of having sixth sense like me, he has perfect aim.  It sounds kind of lame when said like that, but trust me, it’s intense.  He never misses a target—whether he’s using shooting a gun, throwing a knife, or even something as simple as tossing a piece of paper in the trashcan—or even if there is something in between him and the target.  I once saw him throw a serrated knife into its holding block from across the room with Ms. Wanda, Henry VIII’s cook, standing in the middle of the kitchen.

I often wonder if there are more people like us out there.  Before I met Zane, I sometimes snuck into bars and watch wrestling to see if any of the champions there could have the same ability I did. But the announcer never talked about anyone who had never lost a fight, nor did any of the wrestlers seem to use a strategy foreign to his opponent.

I shrugged. “So you gonna let me in or what?”

Zane uncrossed his arms and stepped aside. I walked by him, stealing an apple from the bowl on the island counter before heading upstairs. Zane followed up to my room on the third floor.  Leaning against the doorway, he watched as I took off my black jacket and tossed it on the floor.  I grabbed a hair tie from the dresser and pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail.  Unlike my curly head, Zane’s hair had absolutely no volume to it.  Not that it mattered.  Girls still swooned over him whenever he smiled their way—except me of course—I only rolled my eyes.

“So, did you succeed?” Zane asked me.

I shot him a glare.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“Of course I did,” I said, “George Sanders will be resigning from his position come tomorrow morning.”

“Good.”

“Steal any more cars?” I asked.

“Ha-ha. Very funny,” he said in a monotone voice.

“I’m hilarious. Now if you don’t mind I’d like to get some sleep before the butler knocks on my door at seven,” I said, walking up to him.

“Okay,” he said and turned to leave but stopped, “Oh and I think we’re going to get a joint assignment tomorrow.”  Without another word, he walked down the hall to his own bedroom.  I slowly closed the door behind him. A joint assignment?  We had only gotten one of those from Henry VIII once before and that was because there had been multiple people that needed to be taken out of the equation.  Maybe Zane was lying—it wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before.  I went to bed, literally wondering what tomorrow would bring.

Zane was right.  At seven a.m. the next morning I heard the familiar wake-up knock from the butler and swish of an assignment envelope being slid under the door.  Pulling on a pair of yoga pants and tank-top, I picked up the envelope from the carpet and opened it.  I slid my finger inside and pulled out the piece of paper in side, immediately recognizing the seal of Henry VIII’s family.  Skimming through the letter, I picked out the important bits of information: the time, location, target, and…the fact that Zane and I would be working together on this assignment.  According to the letter, Henry VIII hoped that we would be able to accomplish the task before tomorrow morning—looked like it was going to be another late night.

While Zane chomped a piece of toast and I shoveled scrambled eggs into my mouth, we discussed our plan for the coming night.  He would use a tranquilizer gun to take out any guards and I would take care of anyone who decided to attack us—not that we expected there to be more than one guard come that time of night.  We studied the blueprints, memorizing every possibly exit in case things took a turn for the worse—but they never did.

We spent all morning and afternoon sharpening our skills.  I had Zane flat on his back at least six times, but Zane outshot me every time.  By the time eight o’clock rolled around we were positive that we were an unstoppable team.

Together, Zane and I walked out back to the garage where his car was hidden.  It wasn’t one of the ones he had stolen.  It was the car Henry VIII insisted we use for our missions—he said it was less conspicuous than a silver Porsche.  I don’t mind—it’s not like I do any of the driving.  I am still too young to have a license, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to drive.  It’s just that Zane insists on driving since he is two years older than me and in possession of a legal driver’s license.  He says it would be better for him to be behind the wheel if we ever get pulled over.

We drove for half an hour in silence before Zane turned down a deserted side street and parked the car beneath a large oak tree.  We got out of the car and Zane headed around back to open the trunk, which doubled as a weapons arsenal.  I stayed near the front of the car.  For some reason, the sight of all those guns, knives, and even a bow and arrow made me nervous.  I knew I just needed to focus on my part of the mission.

Zane pulled three guns and two knives from inside the trunk.  “You have your knife?” he asked me.

I shook my head.  “You know I don’t need one.”

He flipped one of the knives and held it out to me, handle end out.  “I’d prefer if you held onto it, just in case.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, but accepted the knife, tucking it on the inside of my right boot.  Standing back up, I took a deep breath and searched the surrounding area for any other bodies.  My senses immediately picked up on Zane, standing only three feet away from me and a squirrel on the other side of the oak tree, but other than them there was no sign of life.

“We’re clear for now,” I told Zane.

“Let’s go then,” he said and started walking towards the building, whose lights were only just visible through the trees.  Our footsteps were almost nonexistent, even with the many leaves and twigs that lay on the ground below us.  Each time Zane or I put a foot down, I listened for a sound but there never was one.  Had my sixth sense not told me we were actually stepping on the ground I would have thought we were walking on air.  No one would hear us coming—and that was exactly the way we wanted it.

I stayed close behind Zane as we approached the building.  “What is this place?”

“I’m not sure,” Zane whispered back to me, “but Henry said they would be in there.  Just focus on the assignment.”

I didn’t respond.  He didn’t have to tell me to focus, but the sight of the five-story building was foreboding.  As we continued forward, I searched the grounds for any hint of life.  Once we reached the edge of the surrounding trees I put a hand out to stop Zane.  I closed my eyes and felt the area.

“We should go to the left,” I said, opening them again, “There are two guards to the right, but I can’t feel anyone stationed at door nine.”

Zane nodded and silently crept forward once more.  The suspicion in my heart only increased when we found that not only was door nine not guarded but it had been left open.  Were they expecting us?  We took the back staircase up to the fifth floor.

I hate stairs, but then again elevators aren’t any better.  Both make me feel extremely vulnerable.  I felt blind as I climbed each step behind Zane.  I couldn’t sense if there was anyone on the floor below us or on the floor above us.  If I closed my eyes I wouldn’t even know Zane was a couple steps ahead of me.  The varying levels of all the steps made it impossible for me to use my sixth sense.  If anyone wished to beat me in a fight, a staircase would be the place to do it.

I breathed a sigh of relief when my feet found the landing of the fifth floor.

Leaning against the stair door, Zane asked, “What are we looking at?”

I felt the area beyond the door and my breath caught in my throat.  There were so many.  I mentally counted the number of guards on the floor—fifteen.  Something wasn’t right.  Henry VIII had never sent us on a mission where the target was so well protected.  “There’s—there’s a lot.”

“How many?” Zane asked.

I grimaced.  “Fifteen.”

Zane didn’t say anything—he didn’t react at all.  Had he expected this?  Was there something he wasn’t telling me?

“We stick to the plan,” he said finally and grabbed the doorknob, “You ready?”

I nodded.  This wasn’t going to be easy, but if anyone could do it, we could.  Zane went through the door first and I immediately heard the sound of his tranquilizer gun going off.  I followed him into the hall to find one guard lying slumped against the wall and two more coming at us.  Zane shot one and I ran ahead to attack the second—two swift jabs in each of the man’s knees and one on the right side of his ribs would take him out.  Together we worked our way through fourteen of the fifteen guards to the main office on the floor—where the target would be.

Zane paused outside the double doors.  “On three,” he mouthed to me and I nodded.  He held up one finger, two fingers.  When he held up the third finger we burst through the doors.  I ran forward and quickly took out the last remaining guard.  When I turned to see if Zane had cornered the target, I found that there wasn’t just one man, but three.  Zane had pulled another gun on the men.

“Which of you is Walter Chase?” I demanded.

“I am.”  The balding man in the middle straightened up.  “What do you want?”

I opened my mouth to answer when my sixth sense picked up a bizarre movement in Zane’s direction—his finger was pulling back towards his hand.  “Wha—“ I started but didn’t get to finish because in the next second the room was filled with the deafening sound of a gun being fired.  My eyes shot to Walter Chase but he was already crumpled on the floor, clutching his chest, his hands red with blood.

I stepped in front of Zane—not that that would stop him from hitting either of the other men.  “What are you doing?” I asked, my eyes wide.

“I’m following orders,” he said.

“We weren’t instructed to kill them!” I shouted.

“You weren’t,” Zane said, “I was.”

“No,” I said softly, shaking my head.  This couldn’t be.  We were just supposed to interrogate the man—find out where he sent a specific shipment—not kill him.

“Henry wants them all dead,” Zane whispered to me, “We have to do it.”

I looked him in the eye.  This wasn’t right.  “No,” I said firmly.  Then I punched him in four separate spots of his abdomen, creating a diamond shape.  He doubled over in pain, his guns falling to the floor.  “Get out of here!” I called to the men behind me.

Zane swung a leg out—attempting to trip me—but I easily avoided him.  Once I sensed that the men had safely left the floor, I aimed a single knuckle in the weak spot of Zane’s head—just above the ear.  He was out cold before he could even try to stop me.

Leaving him lying there, I turned and ran.  I ran and ran and ran.  I didn’t stop when I left the building.  I didn’t stop when I passed the car Zane had driven.  I just didn’t stop.  No matter what I did or where I went, I would always end of here: running for my life.  This was my life.  This was my home.

[Image by Suat Eman]

The housemates sharing space at the Jersey Shore are living the most absurd, incredible lives. They work meaningless little shifts, tan constantly, exercise daily, and party non-stop. Their days mostly revolve around their personal situations and the focus of the show is centered on their hilarious, dysfunctional relationships with one another. They are exaggerations of their own stereotypes, and they embrace it. Their antics are absolute comedy and have influenced a generation that acting in a similar way has become acceptable in today’s society. The housemates are unapologetic about who they are and it is that mentality that a younger audience would appreciate and embody. The reason why a show like “Jersey Shore” would do better than another show with characters that are relatively alike is because of the reality television aspect; because this show is considered ‘real’, viewers consider it sincere and have faith that real people are behaving in such a way in their real lives. ‘Jersey Shore’, then, serves as motivation for others to be ridiculous and unashamed.

As a fan, the impact of the show is evident in the ‘Snooki-poof’ hairstyles, Pauly D Halloween costumes, and GTL status updates. It is normal that teenagers would adore the show and idolize its cast in the same way that younger kids look up to cartoon superheroes. Deep down, we all know that The Situation, Ronnie, Sammie Sweetheart, and the other housemates are living in their own bubble and that real life is a lot different than reality television, but for the hour that ‘Jersey Shore’ is on every week is a vision of what our lives could be like if we chose to let the general public view us living outrageously.

Yes, the show is winding down after three years, but that does not mean the end of it’s cast. Some of the housemates, such as JWoww and Pauly D, received spin-off shows (though no spin-off could ever be better than “Jersey Shore”). Others, like the unforgettable Snooki, are just too iconic to let go off and will unquestionably be seen often in the future. In no time at all, another show will take the place of ‘Jersey Shore’ as equally unbelievable and impacting, just as it did to ‘The Hills’ and ‘Real World’ (Remember them?). ‘Jersey Shore’ may be leaving soon, but it will always be remembered.

The show, despite its expected cancellation after the sixth season finale, will no doubt live on and eventually be reinstated by another network hoping to recreate the same magic of the original.

I am sprinting hard.  Of course I am—it is in my nature to win.  This is the last leg of the race.  It is the third and final section of the competition.  I slow down, not enough for the cameras flying around the contestants to notice, but just enough for the person behind me to catch up.  I know exactly who it is—Darian—the only person to have ever beaten me. I listen to the pounding of his footsteps and try to match his pace.  When he speeds up, I do too, pretending to fight to stay in the lead.  No one can know I am choosing to give up.  I grit my teeth as my feet smack the pavement, but it isn’t enough, and I know that.  I let him pass.  We round the corner and the Greater Stadium comes into view.  The lights from it are so bright they make the night sky seem like it could be a color other than black.  Every citizen from the Civilization has come to see the winner of the most important competition in our history.  They have come to see the final event in our history.  I can hear their roars of excitement and anticipation.  I have heard them for the past half mile.  It is the hum of their shouts that keeps me going—and holds me back.

The final two: Darian and I.  Darian, who has been my rival since we were both chosen to be workers in the Civilization’s Physical Health Sector—Darian, who was my first interaction outside my family once I turned five—Darian, who has always been my best friend.  There was never any doubt in my mind that we would be the ones competing during the physical test of the competition—it was what we had been trained to do, but I couldn’t have predicted we’d be the top two competitors in the personality and knowledge tests as well.  He snatched first place in the personality test and I came out on top in the knowledge one.  So, if Darian wins this test, then he wins the whole competition.  He is a few yards ahead of me now—close enough for me to see his red t-shirt soak up the sweat that drips from his back.  I could be pushing harder, reaching farther, running faster.  I have beaten him many times before, and I still have a chance to beat him now.  But I keep my pace—fast, but not fast enough to win.

I should want to win.  To win this competition would be the greatest honor to ever exist.  It would be an even greater honor than being chosen to become one of the Civilization’s Elders—the highest ranking position.  The problem is that I don’t want this honor.  With it comes an even greater responsibility—one I’m not ready for, despite what the test results say.  But I know Darian is ready.  He is the perfect person for the Elders’ task.  He is the perfect person to lead the Civilization into the unknown.

I watch him as he runs, imagining how he will look on the podium.  He will smile his goofy lopsided smile and wave to the thundering crowd.  After all, unlike me, he wants this.  I will be happy for him.  I won’t think about how, come mid-afternoon tomorrow, I won’t remember anything about him or any of the moments we’ve shared.  I will hug him and congratulate him.  I will smile.

We are only twenty yards away from the stadium entrance when someone behind me cries out.  It takes me by surprise and I slow to a stop.  Turning my head, I see Tane Gardini lying on the asphalt, clutching his left ankle.  I had forgotten about him.  He was the only other competitor to score high enough in the personality and knowledge tests to make it to the physical one.  But I knew before the start of the race that he wouldn’t win, not against me and Darian.  Tane is from the Civilization’s Technology Sector, and everyone knows those citizens don’t get a lot of physical exercise.  But he has kept up with Darian and me throughout the race—never getting close enough to pull ahead but also never losing sight of us.

Tane lived down the street from me when I was young.  He was always a quiet kid, preferring to remain indoors during the regulated interaction time for our age group.  I can’t help but recall his parents’ reactions when they learned their son would be a part of the Civilization’s greatest competition.

I watch as Tane stands and tries to put weight on his injured ankle.  But he can’t and his face strains against the pain.  It is broken.  I can’t let him feel the shame of being disqualified—of not crossing the finish line.

I turn around and run back to him.  A camera flies around my face but I swat it away.  I already know everyone is watching me give up the only chance I have of winning, and I don’t care.  I will make the last memories of Tane and his family happy ones.  I place my arm around Tane’s back and swing his arm over my shoulders, supporting half his weight.  He doesn’t say anything when I do this—he doesn’t have to–I can tell that he is thankful.  Together, we walk the rest of the way to the stadium.  We cross the finish line and I help Tane over to the citizens from the Medical Sector, who stand nearby.  The audience politely applauds.

I see Darian across the circle.  He is shaking hands and talking with various sector leaders.  When he sees me, he excuses himself from the conversation and walks towards me, closing the distance between us.

“Congratulations,” I say, smiling at him—just as I promised myself I would.

“Thanks,” he says, “but I really thought you would win.  You were ahead of me up until the end there.”

I shake my head.  “I pushed myself too hard in the beginning,” I tell him, “I didn’t have enough energy to finish as strong as you did.”

He nods as if he understands but his eyes narrow slightly.  He is suspicious.  Does he know I didn’t want to win?

I look away, faking concern for Tane.  Were we anywhere else Darian wouldn’t have let the issue drop but, because we are surrounded by thousands of other citizens, he doesn’t say anything and, for once, I am grateful for his silence.

“May I have your attention please,” a voice booms from the black box at the top of the stadium.  It takes a couple seconds, but soon everyone is quiet.  The voice—one of the Elder’s—continues, “We will announce the winner shortly.  Thank you for your patience.”  Almost immediately, the whispers start—everyone wondering the same thing.

What could the Elder possibly mean?  Announce the winner?  But everyone already knows who won.  They can see the standings of each competitor on the screen in the center of the stadium.  They saw Darian cross the finish line first.  We know he won.

I look up at the Elders’ box.  It is entirely made of glass, but, with the tinted windows it is impossible to see inside.  Every Elder sanctuary is this way—tinted or opaque or even reflective so that no citizen can see the people inside.  The identities of the Elders are kept secret because they are the ones who make all the decisions.  It was their distant ancestors who formed the Civilization after the devastating plague killed almost all of the Earth’s population, and they are the ones who rule over the Civilization now.  They create rules as they see fit—the most recent one forbidding the use of any nicknames.  Their reasoning being that multiple names spur people to create multiple identities.  It was the Elders who designed this competition and its three tests.

Darian takes my hand and squeezes it.  I give him a reassuring smile.  It’s obvious he won.  No one can debate that.

An Elder steps out of the box.  He is the only Elder I have ever seen—the only Elder anyone has ever seen—the Bridge Elder, the one person chosen from amongst the citizens to be the messenger between the populace and the other Elders.  He has dark hair that falls in subtle waves against his round face.  I do not know his name, just as I don’t know the names of any of our Elders, but I do know that he is the youngest, having only been chosen to become an Elder six years ago.  He raises the microphone to his lips and a silence falls over the stadium again.

“Please join me in congratulating the winner of our competition, Kadence Reid.”  There is an explosion of sound as the audience cheers and hollers.  “Because of her desire to rescue an opponent, the Elders have decided to award her first place points, thereby making her our victor.”

I stare up at the Elder.  He smiles down at me.  This can’t be happening.  I didn’t win.  I made sure of that.  They have to be lying.  But I know they aren’t—the Elders never lie—even though I didn’t cross the finish line first, they believe I am the winner and, therefore, I am.

My eyes scan the lower levels of the crowd, searching for my parents.  They stand beside the Haysleys, Darian’s parents.  My father claps wildly.  I have never seen him look at me the way he is now.  My mother holds my little brother, Gavin, against her.  Her eyes are glistening with tears.  This is the proudest day of their lives.  But it is the worst of mine.

I force the edges of my lips upward in a smile and raise my hand to all of the Civilization’s citizens, but I don’t look at their faces.  Instead, I look up to the night sky.  There are no stars in it tonight—nothing for me to wish upon—no way for me to escape my fate.  I will be the one to remember.

*****

“Kadence?” Darian whispers, coming up behind me, “Are you okay?”

I nod, but don’t look at him.  I can’t.  If I do, he will know I am lying.

We follow the competition facilitators down a tunnel that lead underneath the stadium.  I don’t know where they are taking us, but I don’t care.  I am just happy to get away from the expectant eyes of the crowd and the praise of my parents.  Didn’t they know I didn’t want this?  I even asked my mother to take me off the list when she told me Father signed me up for the competition.  But, at that point, it was too late to back out.

Initially, there were a hundred competitors.  Fifty boys and fifty girls—all 18 years of age or, if 17, then turning 18 by Sunday.  Sunday—tomorrow—my birthday.  Tomorrow I will be 18, but, come tomorrow I will be the only one who knows.  In fact, I will be the only one who knows anything.

Two weeks notice.  That was all the time the Elders gave everyone else to understand and plan for a future where they forget the past.  Tomorrow’s total solar eclipse won’t be the first the Civilization has experienced, but it will be the first I will experience.  The Civilization hasn’t seen a total solar eclipse in almost a hundred years.  Even though no one alive today can remember the shocking events of the last solar eclipse, it is one historical event that is seared into the minds of all citizens.  The day we learned a total solar eclipse can erase our memories—permanently.

We used to live in fear of a solar eclipse, but now the Elders have asked us to embrace its new power.  It was a request that, naturally, I feared at first.  The idea of losing every memory and every connection I ever made was daunting.  It made me wonder if anything, or even anyone, was important.  What was the point of the past seventeen years if I wouldn’t remember them?  But then I realized it didn’t matter if there was a point.  The Elders made a decision and it was final.  They believe our Civilization to be corrupt.  They want to start anew, and the eclipse can give them the clean slate they are looking for.  Although I don’t like their choice, I can understand it.  I even accepted the fact that my memory would be completely erased once the light of the sun reemerged from behind the moon, because I knew I wouldn’t be the only one.  Even though my friends and family wouldn’t remember me, it would be okay because I would forget them too.

But not anymore.  Now I will remember.

As the winner of the greatest competition our Civilization has ever seen, I will not get to feel the effects of the eclipse.  It is a great and terrible honor to be left behind.  But it isn’t like I’m being left behind, exactly.  I will be the Elders’ backup plan, as I have come to call the position.  The competition winner will not lose his memory and will therefore become a guide, or consultant, for the Civilization after the eclipse.  Basically, I will be the one to stop them from making the same mistakes they made in the past.

We turn the corner and there is a man standing at the end of the hall, waiting for us.  When we get closer I recognize him to be the Bridge Elder.

“Kadence Reid?” He asks, not waiting for me to respond.  He sticks out his hand, holding it vertically in the air between us, “I am Seth Butler.”

I place the palm of my hand against his in the Civilization’s typical greeting.  It occurs to me that this is something I can change if I want.  “Kadence,” I say as we pull our hands away, “And this is Darian.”  I watch as Darian also greets Seth.  I don’t know why I expected the Elder to apologize to Darian for taking away his win.  The Elders never apologize for their decisions.  But, in a way, their decision to act on the eclipse is like a giant apology to all the citizens.

“Pleased to meet both of you,” Seth says, and then he gestures to a door to his right, “Your parents are through there.  Kadence, you have three minutes and then I’ll need you to come with me.  We have much to prepare.”

I nod and follow Darian through the door.  The first person I notice is my father, pacing back and forth in front of the standard cream couch.  His eyes light up when he sees me.  Again, I force a smile on my face—just for him.  He scoops me up in his arms, hugging me tighter than he has in years.  It feels good.  It feels good to know that I have finally earned his pride.  But what would he say if he knew I am having doubts?  If he knew how scared I am?

He pushes away, holding me at a distance.  His eyes graze over my face, as if he is finally seeing me as his daughter.  “You were amazing,” he says.

I smile at him—a real smile.  I can’t remember the last time he complimented me.  I turn to see my mother standing in the soft light, tears still glistening in her eyes.  She knows how hard this is for me.  When she pulls me against her I can smell the sweet smell of vanilla frosting on her—she probably made me a birthday cake.  I wonder if I will even get to see it.

“Congratulations, Kadie,” she whispers in my ear, using the forbidden nickname I love.  It takes all the strength I have to not start crying, because I know her words aren’t ones of praise but ones of parting.  We both know this may be the last time we will see each other before the eclipse.  “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I tell her.  I hear the door click open behind me.  I know it is time to go, but I don’t move.  I don’t want to leave them.  I don’t want them to forget me.

“Kadence,” Seth says, “we need you.”

They need me.  The Civilization needs me.  But I need my family.

I glance over at Darian.  He is standing with his mother and father.  His mother holds his hand and his father rests his on Darian’s shoulder.  Darian’s eyes meet mine.  They are technically green but, right now, seem to be more than one color.  There is gold around his pupils that bleeds into the greenish-gray of his outer edges like sun rays reach through dark clouds after a storm.  They remind me of the eclipse to come but, for the first time since they announced me as the winner, I am not afraid.  Darian smiles at me.  I smile back, and then Seth leads me out of the room.

*****

I listen to the beating of thousands of simultaneous footsteps.  Inside the Elders’ black box I can almost pretend that a week hasn’t passed and that I am waiting with all the other contestants for the competition to start—that it isn’t already over—that I haven’t won.  But those aren’t the footsteps of animated fans.  They are the footsteps of anxious citizens—citizens who trust me to help them create a better future.  Everyone is silent as they trudge through the grass.  The open field was the only place large enough to hold all the citizens and allow each of them to see the entire eclipse.  I wonder which footsteps are my mother’s or my father’s or Darian’s.  I wish I could tell each of the footsteps apart—I desperately want to see my family and Darian one last time, before everything changes.

At large events like this one I used to think the Elders’ box was a sort of sanctuary—a place to get away from the push of human contact, the constant sound of voices, and the smell of perspiration in the air.  I used to think it would be the perfect place to escape, but now all I want to do is escape it.  I sit alone in the corner of the room, watching the Elders talk and pace and smile at each other.  I wonder how they can be so happy when they are about to lose everything, but then I realize they don’t have anything.  They deserted their families a long time ago for their positions.  They only have each other.  Maybe that is why the decision to start over was such an easy one for them.  I wish my decision could be as easy.

When I can no longer hear the pounding of footsteps outside I know that everyone has settled into the field.  Seth beckons me to him.  I shakily stand up and go to stand beside him.  I hope he doesn’t notice how nervous I am.  The rest of the Elders line up in front of us.  Under any other circumstances I would have felt privileged to be in the presence of all the Elders—to be able to see their faces and know their names—but today, I find myself wishing their identities were still a mystery to me.  Seeing their normal hair and their normal faces and their normal bodies makes them seem human.  And being human means that you make mistakes.

Are they making a mistake now?  Choosing to have everyone erase their memories proves they believe they were wrong in the past, why can’t they be wrong now?

The Elder at the front of the line opens the black glass door and light illuminates the faces of each of the Elders.  Still standing beside Seth, I follow them through the door and out into the open field.  Thousands of eyes follow us as we walk, but no one talks.  Anything they would have said no longer matters.  At the front, next to the Elders’ black box is an awning, and underneath the awning is a chair.  I know the chair is for me because the awning is completely opaque—there is no chance any light will get through.  As long as I sit in that chair, my memory will remain intact.

The Elders sit down in the grass with all the citizens.  It is strange to see them sitting with everyone else, especially since they have always been considered separate from us.

I hold my head high as I walk to my special chair, despite the intense weight of the thousands of stares that follow my movements.  I stare back—scanning the crowd for a familiar face—but the only person I can spot is Tane.  There are so many eyes on me that it is impossible to find the ones belonging to the people I love.

All of a sudden, everyone takes their eyes off of me and looks up to the sky.  I know the eclipse is starting.  A dark shadow appears at the edge of my vision.  I watch as it grows and grows, covering the first column of people.  Then the second.  Then the third.  The fifth.  The twelfth.  I watch as the enlarging shadow engulfs the entire Civilization.  The image of the small moon blocking the enormous sun is reflected in the eyes of every person in front of me.  They are one.

The shadow slithers its way beneath my skin.  It seeps into my veins and creeps along to my heart.  It freezes me.  While everyone else is filled with the image of the eclipse, I am filled with black ice.  I don’t think I have ever felt more alone.

I stand up and walk out from underneath the awning.  I can’t do this.  I can’t be the one to help lead these people into the future.  All I have to do is look up—look up, and I too will forget.  I will still be alone, but we will be alone together.

I take a deep breath to try to calm myself.  I have never feared the dark before.  But the darkness this shadow brings is more than just a change of light.  It is a change of life.  Starting today I will no longer be Kadence Reid, I will be the girl who remembers.  I will have to watch everyone I know begin new lives, not knowing who they used to be or how much they meant to others.  I will have to watch as my parents, my brother, and Darian look through me instead of at me.

I finally find my mother and father.  They are staring up at the sky—their eyes transfixed on the eclipse.  I wonder if light will ever be able to penetrate the shadow over my heart again.

I look away.  I can’t watch my parents without the threat of building tears.  I find another pair of eyes.  They, like all the others, show me the eclipse I cannot witness myself.  But, unlike the others, I realize they are not simply light and dark.  They are full of color—gold and gray and green.

Darian.

His eyes are not changed by the eclipse.  They are still his eyes, and they are staring at me.  I hold his gaze.  I am breathless.  He isn’t watching the eclipse.  He isn’t looking up at the sky at all.  His eyes are on me.  He has been focused on me the whole time.  He will remember me.  I will not be alone.

Out of the corner of my eye I see the darkness start to recede.  The eclipse is ending—the bright rays of the sun vanquishing the shadow of the moon.

[Image by Zirconicusso]

1. Crochet Slouchy Beanie
Nothing says chic quite like a slouching beanie that’s part winter wear, part fashionista. These knit beauties make ideal accessories and are versatile when attempting to hide any weather-damaged hairstyles. Wet Seal and Forever 21 are perfect for finding stylish slouchy beanies at decent prices.

[Image by Imagery Majestic]
2. Fur Wedges
When it’s too cold for stilettos and pumps, what’s a girl to do? Fur wedges (or fake fur, of course) is the way to go when out on the town and sporting cold feet. Fur wedges are comfortable to walk in and will ensure your feet won’t get too frozen on a girl’s night out or just on a rendezvous with someone special. Charlotte Russe and Guess have a few models, in addition to some knee-high boot designs.

3. Yoga Pants
Yes, the outfit choice men and women enjoy most – comfortable yoga pants. On mornings that are too grey for inspiration, throw on a pair of yoga pants for ease and appeal. Victoria’s Secret Pink and Love Culture are always great sources for all of your yoga pants needs.

4. Texting Mittens
With texting mittens, texting in cold weather is no longer an impossible mission. Found anywhere from Hot Topic to Target, these mittens are crucial to checking smart phones and keeping warm. Some texting mittens have sensitive index and thumb fingers for touch phones; others have removable sections for easy access to texting.

[Image by Marcus]

5. Leather Jackets
Leather jackets (or pleather jackets) are sure to be hot this wintertime season, and for good reason. Leather jackets make any outfit look fierce and are flexible enough to be pulled off with relatively any look (casual, girly, edgy, etc). Every retailer carries these amazing jackets in countless different styles, so be sure to check for them at Express, Guess, and Windsor.

6. Graphic Sweatshirts
Summer may have belonged to colorful tank tops and shorts, but fall and winter definitely revolve around adorable graphic sweatshirts. Forever 21, Wet Seal, and H&M are excellent stores to scour for these intricate sweatshirts. This season is all about Disney, Hello Kitty, and old school patterns. Brighten up dull skies with flashy sweatshirts that are both diverse and warming.

[Feature Image by Imagery Majestic]

Sunaina Patel loved to escape.  But she didn’t understand why people always said the beach was the perfect place to escape their responsibilities and relax.  As Brooke pulled into a parking space, Sunni thought she couldn’t want anything more than to escape the beach.  The three girls grabbed their things and headed down the boardwalk to the seemingly endless miles of sand.  Once settled into a spot Kyla deemed “so pristine”, Sunni sat in the shade under the pink pinstriped umbrella and stared out at the people in the ocean: watching as they jumped the waves that threatened to send them spinning in an underwater fog.  She hated the beach.  Absolutely hated it.  She hated the way the sand stuck to her skin whether she was wet or dry.  She hated how she had to move her chair, not only according to the position of the sun, but also the level of the tide.  Most of all, she hated seeing all the people having fun when she couldn’t.

Taking the high SPF sunscreen out of her bag, she looked over to the lifeguard at the top of his stand.  He was nodding to the woman on his right who was chatting animatedly at him.  He didn’t seem to care though—he just smiled and casually rested his arms behind the top of his neck.  Sunni couldn’t help but glare at the two of them, and not just because they both looked like they had jumped out of a body-building commercial, but also because, even being the only two people who were actually working on the beach, they were clearly having more fun than she was.  Not that she wasn’t trying to have fun, she was.  It was just that the book she brought wasn’t delicious enough for her to sink her teeth in and the sun didn’t feel nearly as good as an air conditioner set to 68 degrees would have.

“Hey Sun, while you have that out do you think you could get my back?” Brooke asked, lifting her head from its melon-sized indent on the colorful beach towel, “I think I’m starting to turn red.”  She craned her neck in an attempt to see her possibly burning back.  When Sunni burned all it did was make her body ache.  She didn’t even turn red—it wasn’t possible with her skin tone.  The sun only turned her Southern Indian skin black, which was why she was determined to remain hidden under the pink umbrella all day.

Sunni didn’t really want to lather greasy lotion all over Brooke’s tanning back.  She thought it seemed too personal of a gesture—like knowing a person’s secrets without being told.  The only person who had ever touched Sunni’s back was her mother.  She considered Brooke more of an acquaintance than a friend.  They had only met each other two weeks ago.  But apparently two weeks was plenty of time for Brooke to get to know someone.  Sure they sat in connecting cubicles for eight hours Monday thru Friday, but their conversations had never surpassed the topic of the weather.  The only time they ever managed to talk about things other than the sun and the rain was when they spent a Friday night at the bar, getting drunk on piña coladas.  Apparently it was those four hours they spent together bitching about how constraining their mothers are and falling off their barstools that gave Brooke the idea Sunni was her friend.  Sunni wanted to consider herself one of Brooke’s friends—it would mean that she was one step closer to reaching her goal of emancipating herself from her family—but she had to admit to herself that she was having trouble connecting with Brooke.

“Actually, I was just about to run to the bathroom,” Sunni said.  She didn’t really have to go, but she couldn’t think of another excuse for why she wouldn’t smooth sun tan lotion over Brooke’s back.  Bracing her arms on either side of her striped beach chair, much like she would if she were holding on for dear life to a small row boat, she pushed herself into a standing position in the shaky sand.  Brooke watched her, her eyebrows forming a valley above her nose.  Sunni made a half smile in an attempt to tell her she was sorry, but Brooke didn’t say anything.  She’s probably reconsidering inviting me on this trip, Sunni thought and looked away.  Kyla, the petite redhead to Brooke’s right, let out a heavy sigh that broke the tension between the two.

“Just give it to me,” she said, “I’ll do it.”  She stuck her arm out to Sunni without opening her eyes.  Her arm reminded Sunni of the angry elephant she saw once when she visited her grandmother in India with her mother and father.  The elephant had stomped around with its trunk sticking straight out in the air, annoyed that the trainer had taken its ball away.  She didn’t know why, but Kyla always reminded her of that elephant.  She wondered what Kyla and Brooke thought of when they saw her.  Sunni silently walked around Brooke and handed the lotion over to Kyla.

“You have to move your hair.”  She heard Kyla tell Brooke as she walked off in the direction of the bathrooms.  The beach was crowded, but then again it was the weekend.  There were families with whining kids and shovels and pails all over the small stretch of land.  Sunni didn’t mind though.  The children’s cries drowned out the rumbling ones of the ocean.  As she walked she stayed as close to the dunes as possible.  That way there was a whole section of people before her if the ocean decided to uncoil and strike like a startled snake.  She noticed a little boy, who at first glance she thought was naked, before she realized he was just standing in a giant hole he’d dug.  He held a blue shovel, which was almost as tall as he was, in one hand as he pushed more sand out of the hole with the other.  Sunni wondered how long it had taken the boy to dig the hole—it looked like he could fit at least five of himself inside it if he wanted to.  When another little boy with a red shovel walked up to the edge of the hole the first boy growled at him for knocking sand back in it.  The boy with the red shovel ran away while the boy with the blue one dropped his to use both hands to push the fallen sand back up the slope.

When Sunni finally reached the bathroom, her feet were burning and her calves ached.  She was relived to be able to stand on the wooden planks, no matter how skewed they were—any splinters had to be better than the flaming sand.  There was a long line of women waiting to use the bathroom.  Sunni didn’t want to wait in line to go the bathroom when she didn’t even need to go.  She considered just turning around and walking back to Brooke and Kyla but she didn’t really want to engage in an already awkward conversation with either of them, and besides, she thought, you need to give your feet a chance to rest.  She could imagine what her mother would say if she knew Sunni was complaining about having to stand in line to use the bathroom.

“Fifty!” she’d say, “I would wait behind fifty women and men to use the bathroom when I lived in India.  You lucky you get a toilet!  You know what I waited for?  A hole in the ground!”  Sunni was sure that whenever her mother said things like this she was making them up.

Sunni stood in line behind a girl who looked like she had jumped out of one of the fashion magazines that were scattered across Sunni’s kitchen counter back in her apartment.  Sunni was sure the girl was even wearing the same yellow, eyelet bikini she had seen the model wearing on page 12.  Sunni’s own bikini was a cheap red one that she had picked out because she thought it matched the one she saw Scarlett Johansson wear on page nine, but when she went home to compare the two she discovered they were completely different.  Her bathing suit had more of an orange tint to it, while Scarlett’s was candy apple red.  Sunni wanted to return the orange suit, especially since she was sure the color wouldn’t look good against her brown skin, but Brooke had picked her up to go to the beach only an hour later.  So she was stuck with it.  At least the model in front of me can’t see the hideous thing, Sunni thought.  But she could see the extra large, green t-shirt that hung so low it covered Sunni’s knees.  It had been a gift from her father when he came back from India after spending six months there for “family drama”.  Six months alone with her insane mother, and all Sunni had received was an oversized t-shirt that said Hollywood, like the sign on the hill, with a big, red “B” written over the H.  She didn’t know why she kept the shirt.  She hated Bollywood movies—they were just another part of the Indian culture she wanted to escape.  What she should have done before packing for this girl’s weekend was burn the t-shirt and buy a proper cover-up made of that half-towel material.  Sunni pulled at a sleeve of the t-shirt and took a step forward as a woman in a blue floral one piece went in the bathroom.

“Are you gonna be sick?” Sunni turned to see a little boy standing next to her, “Is that why you’re standing in line?”  It was the same boy with the red shovel who she saw being pushed away from the large hole.  He was wearing blue swim trunks that had red and yellow racecars all over them.  The bathing suit fell past his knees making it look like it was one size too big and no one had bothered to go back to the store to exchange it for the proper size.  He looked to be about six years old and had blonde hair that was nowhere near long enough to cover his Dopey-like ears.

“Umm, no,” Sunni said.  What kind of question was that?  She looked away, hoping that he would go back to wherever his family was sitting on the beach.  But he didn’t.  She could still see the outline of his shadow on the boardwalk beside her.

“Oh,” he said and continued to stare up at her, “You know that I knew you were going to say no.”

“Then why’d you ask?”  Sunni knew she was being blunt, but she really didn’t want, or need, a little boy harassing her about why she was in line for the bathroom.  She assumed it would be obvious as to why she was standing there, even though she technically didn’t have to go.

“I always have to ask,” he said, “If I don’t ask then I won’t know your answer.”  That much was obvious. Wasn’t that how normal question and answer conversations worked?

“Why are you talking to me?” Sunni asked, “There are a thousand people on this beach.”  She wanted to add an “and why don’t you go bother one of them?” to the end of that but didn’t want to be flat out mean to a six-year-old.  She was already getting glares for her tone of voice from the elderly woman who had gotten in line behind her, but the boy didn’t seem to notice or care that she sounded pissed off.

“You’re different,” he said.  Great, Sunni thought, once again she was picked out of crowd because of her skin color.  It followed her everywhere and was the one thing she couldn’t run away from.  “I wanted to make sure I was right.”

“Right about what?”  Sunni knew that if she really wanted to get rid of the kid, she shouldn’t be asking him questions, but her curiosity was beginning to outweigh her irritation.  The boy leaned in closer to her and motioned for her to bend down.

“Can you keep a secret?” he whispered.

She nodded.  She wondered if that was true.  She couldn’t remember a time where she was actually expected to keep a secret.  Back home, her family and friends had belonged to large Indian community that Sunni always thought of as a cult.  Everyone knew everything about everyone else.  Anything that was supposed to be secret never really was because it would spread from person to person like a contagious disease.

“I’m psychic.”  He watched her face for a reaction.  Her first thought was that the kid was playing a joke on her but when she looked at him his expression was completely serious.

“Psychic?” she asked.  She raised her eyebrows in speculation.

“Shh!” He glared at her, “You lied about being able to keep a secret.”  She had to admit that he had that much right.  He grabbed her wrist and gently pulled her in the direction of the shops along the boardwalk.  “We’ll have to find someplace else to talk.”

“But—” Sunni gestured to the line for the bathroom.

“Come on,” he tugged again, “I know you don’t have to go.”  She frowned.  How did he know that?

“How did you know that?” she asked, voicing her thoughts.  The old woman behind her scoffed.

“If you don’t have to use the restroom then get out of line,” she said.

“I already told you, now come on,” he said again.

It wasn’t like Sunni had a choice, especially with the old lady sending lasers into the back of her head.  She sighed and let the boy lead her away.  As they walked he held the red shovel close to his chest, probably trying not to hit anyone with the toy.  He led her to a raised picnic table with a large blue umbrella stuck down a hole in the middle of the faded wood.  Someone had scribbled OP + CJ with a heart around the initials in one corner of the table and in another Lola had left a note to the world letting it know she was there in 2008.  Sunni wondered what she had been doing in 2008 when Lola wrote those three words—probably planning her cultural prison break.

The picnic table was a part of the outdoor seating for an old pizzeria.  From the looks of the place it didn’t look like business was doing so well.  The manager chose to write the specials and the restaurant’s daily deals on the display window’s blinds in green Expo marker.  Sunni was sure it had saved money, but it was her guess that the sloppy handwriting had driven away customers.  Because the blinds were closed, she couldn’t actually see if there were many people inside the pizzeria, but she knew that it wasn’t a restaurant she would have chosen to eat at.  She wondered why the boy wanted to sit there and talk with her.  In fact, she still wondered why the boy wanted to talk to her at all.  Didn’t his parents teach him not to talk to strangers?  Doubt it, she thought, he wasn’t shy at all.

In more prickling way than one, the boy reminded Sunni of her mother.  A mother she hadn’t talked to in more than three weeks.  She had taken up the habit of purposely not picking up the phone whenever the caller I.D. read “Aditiya Patel”.  When Sunni first moved to the other side of the country she answered every call her mother made to her.  She ended up listening to her mother complain about how far away she was for about two hours each day and then another three about what the entire Indian community was doing that day.  Sunni hated hearing about all the other Patels and the Shaiks and the Guptas and the rest of the Indian families.  And, as the weeks went on, Sunni began to feel less guilty about leaving her family.  She picked up the phone fewer times and talked less when she did—creating excuses to hang up sooner each time.  Her parents couldn’t be surprised by her evasive behavior though.  They knew she hated it at home—she had always made that much clear.

Sunni distinctly remembered one night, the night before the start of Diwali, she yelled at her mother for not agreeing to let her go to a midnight movie with her non-Indian friends.  Sunni had gone anyway.  And when her parents showed up at the theater to take her home, she refused to go with them.  Ignoring their threats to ground her and take her phone and anything else they could think of, she calmly got in the passenger seat of her friend’s car and left them standing there in the parking lot at two-thirty in the morning.  She was seventeen and her sole goal had been to effectively communicate how deep her hatred for their lifestyle ran.  In her defense, Sunni’s parents should have realized they were raising a white girl in an Indian girl’s body when she spat out the curry they repeatedly tried to give her, screaming that it was too spicy for her to handle.  These days, she tried to be more subtle with her distaste for her family’s culture.  She told them that she had to move because she had received a job offer that she couldn’t turn down, when she had actually received a better one only three hours from where she grew up.

She wondered if this boy liked his family.  Judging by the fact that he was resorting to conversing with complete strangers on a crowded beach made Sunni think that he probably didn’t have the best relationship with his parents either.

“I’m Brian,” the boy said as he laid the red shovel on the table in between them.

“What’s with the shovel?” Sunni asked, staring at the object that separated the space in front of her.

“It’s my connection to the beach,” he said, shrugging, “A lot of people have shovels on the beach.”

“Yeah, but they usually use them for digging holes,” she pointed out.

“Exactly, so this shovel knows the beach below the sand that we walk on.”

Sunni stared at him.  He was strangely metaphorical for a six-year-old.  She guessed that came with being psychic.  What was she talking about?  The boy wasn’t really psychic.

“So, what’s your name?” he asked, watching her again.  “No!  Wait!” he held up his hand to keep her from speaking, “I bet I can guess it.”

“I doubt it, you’ve probably never heard of it before,” Sunni said.  He narrowed his eyes and stared at her.  The way he was looking at her made her feel like he was actually pulling the answer out of her brain through her skull and skin.

“It’s something with a B,” he said after a minute.

Sunni smiled in satisfaction—she had actually been hoping he would get it wrong.   “Nope.  You’ll have to keep guessing.”

“I’m not guessing.  I told you I’m psychic.” He smiled back at her, revealing a large gap where one of his front teeth should be, “So, what is your name?”

“Sunaina, but my friends call me Sunni,” she said, giving in.  “Why do you think you’re psychic?”

“I don’t think,” Brian confided, “I know.  I mean sometimes I just know things about people without them having to tell me.  Like knowing you didn’t have to go to the bathroom…and that you don’t like your family,” he added, shifting his eyes down to the shovel.  Sunni couldn’t hide her surprise that time.  She had no idea how this kid could possibly know that about her.  “It’s okay,” he said, “I don’t like my family either.  I like being psychic.  I think it’s cool, but they don’t think so.  They think I’m crazy.  They keep trying to send me away to these mental hospitals.”

“What do you mean trying?” Sunni asked softly.  All these years she had wanted to get rid of her family, and this little boy had a family that was trying to get rid of him.

“The hospitals won’t take me because of my age.  They say I’m too young,” he admitted, “And the regular hospitals say there’s nothing wrong with me.”  She smiled sympathetically—she knew exactly what it felt like to not fit in even if she never knew what it felt like to be pushed away.  She had always been the one doing the pushing.  “They try to hide their disappointment from me, but I know.  I always know.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.  They just want what’s best for you.”  Sunni found herself saying, even though she didn’t believe it.

“You don’t believe me,” he said.

“No, I do—“

“Not about my parents, about me being psychic.  I can see it.”

Sunni didn’t answer.  What was she supposed to say?  That she didn’t believe this kid who had parents who hated was psychic?  She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“It’s okay.  Nobody really does.  But you know what?”

“What?” she asked.

“You’re going to get better.”

“Better?  Better at what?”

“Your family.”  Sunni shifted uncomfortably on the bench.  She didn’t answer him.  She had tried for years to accept her family and her heritage but she had never been able to succeed.  Why would things begin to work out now?  He was right about one thing—she didn’t believe him.

“I wish mine would,” Brian whispered, “That’s the worst part about being psychic.  I know things aren’t going to get better because I know they only want to send me away.”

Again, Sunni couldn’t think of anything to say.  Did she feel bad for Brian?  Yes, but she knew there wasn’t anything she could do to help him.  They sat together in an unsettling silence that seeped from the crevices of their mouths.

After awhile, Brian stood up.  “I have to go,” he said, “my parents want to leave.”  Sunni wondered if Brooke and Kyla had come looking for her.  “Good luck turning your ac- ac- acqua—”

“Acquaintances?” she offered.

“Yeah!  Good luck turning your acquaintances into friends,” he said, “It was nice meeting you Sunni.”  He smiled and then left her sitting at the picnic table alone.  He had forgotten his shovel.  Sunni picked it up and began walking back to Brooke and Kyla.  She passed the bathroom—there was no one in line anymore—and the hole the boy with the blue shovel dug.  She ran her fingers along the edge of the shovel, wondering if Brian ever used it to dig his own hole.

Their pink umbrella came back into view.  Her acquaintances were right where she left them.  Suddenly, a thought struck her.  How had Brian known that she considered Brooke and Kyla acquaintances and not friends?  She hadn’t even talked about them in front of him.  It could be a coincidence, she thought, or maybe he had seen her with them earlier.  Or, maybe, just maybe, there was a chance he really was psychic.  Sunni laughed at herself.  That was ridiculous.

“We should probably head out,” Sunni said as she approached them.  Kyla checked the time on her phone.

“Oh, yeah.  You’re right.”  They all stood up and began packing their things away in their beach bags.  Sunni folded the umbrella and began to walk back up to the boardwalk without waiting for either of them.

When Sunni got back to her apartment later that night she had three new voicemails—two from her mother and one from her father.  She felt her usual feelings of annoyance that always seemed to reemerge whenever she heard their voices as she listened to each of the messages.  But, this time, she didn’t delete them.  She listened to them all the way through and then picked up the phone.  She held it against her ear listening to the dial tone for awhile.  Brian had said it would get better.  He had been right about her not needing to go to the bathroom, about her hating her family, and about Brooke and Kyla being acquaintances.  Maybe he could get lucky for a fifth time that day.  She looked over at the red shovel she had set down on the island in the kitchen.  Sunni took the phone away from her ear and started to dial her home number.

[Image by foto76]

Ingredients for Crust:
1 ¾ cups of graham cracker crumbs
3 tablespoons of light brown sugar
½ teaspoon of ground cinnamon
1 stick of melted butter

Ingredients for Filling:
3 8-ounce packages of cream cheese, not refrigerated
1 15-ounce can of pureed pumpkin
3 eggs, plus an egg yolk
¼ cup of sour cream
1 ½ cups of sugar
½ teaspoon of ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon of fresh ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon of ground cloves
2 tablespoon of flour
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
2. Combine the graham cracker crumbs, brown sugar, and cinnamon in a bowl.
3. Add melted butter. This is your mixture for the crust of the cheesecake.
4. Press the crust down into a springform pan and set aside.
5. Now to work on the filling. Start by beating the cream cheese in a bowl until it has achieved a smooth texture.
6. Slowly add the other filling ingredients one at a time while beating them together. Ensure everything is thoroughly mixed together.
7. Pour the finished batch into the pan with your crust pounded in.
8. Place the pan into your preheated oven. Allow the pan to sit for 1 hour.
9. After time is up, remove the pan from the oven and let it sit for 15 minutes.
10. Then, cover the pan with plastic wrap and stick it in the refrigerator for 4 hours. This cheesecake will make 8 servings.

Balsamic Bloody Mary
For the alcohol-friendly, try a simple upgrade from the classical Bloody Mary favorite. Ready in minutes, this drink only needs an hour to sit before it is prepped for your enjoyment. Though it demands a hefty amount of diverse ingredients, the list is realistic enough to find.

Ingredients:
24 ounces of vegetable cocktail
1 teaspoon of celery seed
1 tablespoon of freshly grounded black pepper
1 juiced lime, 1 lime cut into wedges
1 juiced lemon
2 tablespoons of freshly grated horseradish
1 tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce
8 ounces of vodka
4 celery stalks
4 teaspoons of balsamic vinegar
1. Take a large pitcher.
2. Combine the vegetable cocktail, celery seed, pepper, citrus juices, horseradish, Worcestershire sauce, and hot pepper sauce. Stir well.
3. Cover the pitcher and refrigerate for 1 hour.
4. Fill 4 glasses with ice cubes.
5. Add 2 ounces of vodka to each and fill ¾ of each glass with the cocktail mix.
6. Place 1 celery stalk into each glass.
7. Squeeze a lemon wedge over each glass, then drop the wedge inside.
8. Float a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar on the top of each drink.
9. Serve up your delicious Bloody Maries!

Witch’s Brew
Thankfully, Witch’s Brew does not require time to set before they can be enjoyed. With a prep time of only 20 minutes, these are perfect as last-minute drinks for guests to your Halloween party. These drinks do not require alcohol, so feel free to serve them without the advised vodka. Consider putting your Witch’s Brew in a plastic cauldron for extra authenticity.

Ingredients:
1 6-ounce package of lime gelatin
2 cups of boiling water
3 cups of chilled pineapple juice
1 2-liter bottle of chilled lemon-lime soft drink (or substitute ginger ale)
2 cups of chilled vodka (not necessary)
1. Pour the lime gelatin into a bowl and slowly stir in the boiling water for a minimum of 2 minutes, or until the gelatin is dissolved.
2. Then stir in the pineapple juice. Allow the mix to cool to room temperature for a bit.
3. Pour the mix into a bowl or cauldron. Carefully add the optional vodka and lemon-lime soda or ginger ale.
4. Stir gently to mix and you are done! This contains approximately 12 to 16 servings of Witch’s Brew.

Caramel Apples
Caramel Apples are a popular carnival delight and ideal for Halloween. They are quick to make and should not take longer than a half hour to produce. Add your own toppings to personalize your creations, like sprinkles or other sauces. Kids love them!

Ingredients:
6 apples
2 cups of sugar
¼ cup of light corn syrup
½ cup of water
½ cup of heavy cream
2 tablespoons of unsalted butter
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
1. Place a small saucepan over a medium-high heated stove and mix together the sugar, corn syrup, and water. Stir until the sugar dissolves.
2. Swirl the pan for 8 to 10 minutes, until the mixture is a light amber color.
3. Take the pan off the heated area and slowly add the heavy cream, then the unsalted butter, vanilla extract, and salt.
4. Put the plan back on the stove, this time on low heat, and whisk the contents until a smooth texture develops.
5. Take 6 apples and place sticks into the stem ends.
6. Once the caramel is decently thick, stick each apple into the caramel. Allow the excessive caramel to drip off.
7. Let the apples cool on a parchment-lined baking sheet. It is best to have the sheet coated with cooking spray beforehand.
8. When your apples have cooled down, they are ready to be enjoyed!

* Recipes provided by the Food Network.

[Photo by Jennifer Tramel]

I love these wallpaper envelopes! If you are lucky enough to have rolls of wallpaper that you don’t want to use on your walls, then these wallpaper envelopes are a perfect opportunity to use those extra rolls. Or you could go to your local wallpaper store and ask for old wallpaper samples.

What You Will Need
An envelope for a template
Old wallpaper (particularly the bold vintage designs)
A Pencil
Scissors
Double-sided sticky tape

1. Carefully pull apart the seams of the envelope and flatten it out to create a template.

2. Draw around the outline neatly onto the back of your envelope then cut out the shape.

3. Fold it along the same lines as the template back into the shape of an envelope and use thin strips of double-sided tape to stick it together.

4. Add more sticky tape on the flap when you are ready to seal.

It’s as easy as that! You can use these envelopes for any occasion. Be creative and enjoy!

“Really?”  I felt compelled to ask even though I knew he wouldn’t have told me I was hired if that wasn’t the case.  Despite the fact that the man in front of me wore a Goofy tie, I could tell, solely by the slight rise of his right nostril, that he didn’t have a funny bone in his sapling body.

“Really.” he said.  He didn’t look up from his laptop when he spoke.  And, with the glow of the computer screen whitening his already sickly skin tone, he looked like Dracula’s brother.  It’s probably a good thing he hides behind his desk all day, I thought.  He didn’t have one thing going for him, unless you count looking like one of the cartoon villains in the amusement park you run as something going for you.  I shouldn’t be talking though, having just been hired to dress as a cartoon character myself.  At least I was going to be one of the good guys.  Everyone knows that the villains are never the ones who live happily ever after.

When he didn’t speak again, I took the hint to leave.  I thanked him for meeting with me.  He told me to report to the park at seven a.m. on Saturday.  I nodded.  He continued to stare at his screen.  I wondered what was so interesting that he couldn’t even pull his gaze away to say goodbye to me.  I imagined it was the footage from hidden video cameras scattered around the park.  He was probably watching some guest repeatedly pick their nose, or wedgie.  I slowly closed the door, listening to the receptionist behind me cringe every time the door creaked.

“Sorry.” I whispered.  She shook her head, dismissing my apology.

“Here’s your employee I.D. card,” she looked up at me from over the top of the rectangular, yellow glasses that sat on her nose.  Tapping the light blue card on each word with her Mickey Mouse-eared pen, she said, “Don’t. Lose. That.”

“I won’t,” I said and smiled at her.  If there was one thing I was good at it was not losing things.  When I was six I got lost in a shopping mall.  I don’t know how it happened.  All I knew was that one minute I was standing beside my mother and the next I couldn’t find her anywhere.  I walked down the raceway, clutching the makeup bag I had insisted on carrying, searching for her.  Looking back, it had probably only been a minute, but, after that minute, I was sure that I would never see her again. Like most four-year-olds, I began to cry.  I passed a police officer but didn’t go to him.  I was too scared to talk to him—I needed my mother to talk to him for me, even though she wasn’t there.  It was only when he approached me and asked if I was lost did everything turn out okay.

The receptionist looked at me for a second, with what I assumed was the same bored expression she gave every new employee, and then swiveled around in her chair to a large drawer on the side of her L-shaped desk.  She pulled out a small padlock with an even smaller key attached to it.

“This is the lock for your locker,” she said as she handed me the orange lock and matching key, “you can pick any one you want, just make sure you bring me the number of the locker you choose.  And—“

“Let me guess?  Don’t lose the key, right?”

“I don’t care if you lose the key,” she shrugged, “It does cost 25 dollars to replace though, so it’s probably a good idea to not lose it.  What I was going to say was that you need to be at wigs and makeup—which is in wardrobe—by six a.m.”

“Six?” I asked, “but Mr.—“

“He has no clue how long it takes to get you girls ready to go,” she said dismissively, “Be there at six.”  I nodded and turned to leave.  “Hold on, there’s one more thing.”  From underneath a file on her desk she pulled out a paper with lines in the shape of a hexagon with a few other jutting out.

“What’s this?” I asked, taking the paper from her.

“It’s a map.” she said.

“I don’t need a map of the park, I know it by heart.” I told her and smiled, hoping she would be impressed.

“A true fan, how lovely,” she said, “this isn’t a map of the park.  It’s a map of what’s underneath the park.”  I examined the lines on the paper.  The key in the top corner of the map told me they were tunnels.  “Most everything is underground.”  I was unable to hide the surprise on my face.

It was only then that she smiled back.

I had to use the map on my very first day of work to find the break room.  It wasn’t that the tunnels were difficult to understand, it was just that I didn’t know which way to go when I first descended into them.  Descending into the tunnels was strangely like traveling to Wonderland.  The illusion of everything wonderful and happy from above disappeared, and yet there were still people walking around in character costumes.  Some were in full costume while others were only half dressed—not wearing a jacket, or a wig, or sometimes even a head.  The unnatural, fluorescent lights made me feel a bit uncomfortable.

Looking at the map, I realized that I needed to head towards Frontierland.  The signs and color coded walls told me which way to go from there.  The walls were purple, which meant that I was still in Fantasyland.  I walked along the tunnel, passing many different workers—and even a headless Winnie-the-Pooh—before I found the break room.

There weren’t many people in there when I entered.  I gave the few parade dancers a smile then went and bought myself a granola bar from the vending machine.  The machine must have been ancient, because the black spirals that held the items moved slower than Eeyore.  I could feel the dancers behind me watching as I waited for the granola bar—what were they thinking?  Were they simply wondering who the new girl was, or something else?  I considered forgetting the bar and just finding a seat where I could inconspicuously stick my head in some random magazine, but then they would probably think me weird for putting money in a vending machine and not waiting to take an item.  It felt like forever had passed before the bar dropped innocently to the bottom, allowing me to reach my hand in and grab it.  I sat down at a table on the other side of the room and the dancers ignored me once more.  I sighed with relief and opened my granola bar.  I had only taken one bite when three more people entered the room.  Like me, they were princesses: Cinderella, Tiana, and Belle.  The girl who was Tiana noticed me in my corner and immediately walked over to sit with me.

“So you’re the new Snow White,” she said, smiling, “I was wondering when I’d get the chance to meet you.  I’m Val.”

“Betsy,” I offered.  After each getting a water from the vending machine, the other two princesses came to sit by us.

“And this is Olivia,” Val gestured to the girl in the Cinderella costume, and then the brunette playing Belle, “and Meredith.”

“Nice to meet you.” I smiled at each of them.  When no one said anything I took a bite of my granola bar.  I wasn’t used to carrying a conversation.  Claire, my best friend back home—and my only friend—loved to talk.  She was always babbling about something and, most of the time, all I ever had to do was nod or say, “wow that’s messed up”.  But it didn’t look like that was going to happen with these girls.  I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t think of anything.  I tried to remember what Claire always complained about to me, but, surprisingly, I came up blank.  I guess my brain could only listen to her chatter for so long.

“So how’s your first day going?” Val asked me.

I’m saved! I thought.  “Pretty good,” I said.  I realized that I should probably say something else to help keep the conversation going.  “I got a bit lost in the tunnels at first though.”

“You mean the utiladors?” Olivia asked.

I frowned.  The what?

“That’s what we call the hallways of the underground tunnels,” Val explained.

“Oh, uh yeah,” I mumbled.  I didn’t think I was doing a very good job with this conversation.

“Don’t worry about it.  It gets easy once you understand the system behind it,” Val said.  The three of them silently sipped their waters while I took another bite of my granola bar.

“I got another one this morning,” Olivia said.  Val rolled her eyes.

“Really?” Meredith asked.

“Yeah,” Olivia wrinkled her nose.  I had no idea what they were talking about, but I wasn’t sure if I should interrupt.  I took the chance.

“Got what?” I asked.

“Phone number,” Val explained, “Some guys think they are so clever—sneakily slipping their business cards into your hand while you’re doing a meet and greet.”  She frowned.  “Guests can be such assholes sometimes.”  I didn’t see how giving a girl your number made you an asshole.  It was weird hearing the word asshole come out of the mouth of a woman who was dressed like a character from a G-rated movie.

“You’ll probably get one soon,” Meredith said.

“Yeah, be prepared,” Val said, “whatever you do, don’t ever call the number.  Throw the card out the first chance you get.”  I nodded, even though I still didn’t understand what was so bad about it.  It seemed like an easy way to start dating to me.

“Where do you have to go after this?”  Meredith asked.

“Umm,” I thought back to the schedule I had been given earlier that morning and had conveniently left in my locker, “I have to get ready for the parade.”

“So do we!” Olivia exclaimed.  The dancers on the other side of the room glared at her, but she didn’t notice.

“We’ll show you where to go,” Val said.

“Speaking of which,” Meredith said, speaking up for the first time.  Out of the pocket of her blue and white dress she pulled a gold pocket watch—an actual pocket watch!  Well, I guess Belle couldn’t exactly wear a wristwatch.  “We should probably get going.”  The four of us stood up from the table and left the room.  As we walked down the “utilador”, Olivia matched my pace beside me.

“So, I’m guessing you haven’t been to the hairdresser yet,” she said.

“The hairdresser?”

“We have a real hairdresser down here.”

“You mean in the tunn—I mean, utiladors?”

“Yeah.  They’re amazing, and no matter how you tell them you want your hair cut, they always know how to make it so it isn’t a problem with your wig.  I got bangs for the first time a couple months back and was afraid that they would show or have to be pinned back at an awkward angle, but look!” she grabbed my wrist and pointed to her head, “Do you see any bangs?  Nope!”

“That’s neat.” I said.

“You should definitely make an appointment the next time you want to get your hair cut.” Olivia said.  I smiled at her, and she continued talking.  The way she could babble on about anything reminded me of Claire.  Maybe I can do this, I thought.

Most of my stuff was still in boxes, even though I took the job at Disney World and moved to Orlando over a week ago. It was my first experience with moving.  I had lived on the outskirts of San Francisco since I was born.  My parents moved there two years before I was born, and simply decided they weren’t going to move again.  I hated being away from my parents.

When I was going into sixth grade, they sent me to a sleep-away camp.  It was supposed to be for a week—I didn’t even last one night before they had to come get me.  Since then, I’d like to think that I grew out of my dependence on them, but, even entering college, I wasn’t sure I had.  While Claire was going across the country to Clemson, I decided to go to community college, simply because I wanted to stay close to home.  For four years, Claire recounted all her exciting college experiences to me, while I had nothing to talk about but my classes.  When I graduated, I decided that I needed to move away—and, before I could convince myself not to, I started looking for places in Orlando.  I figured if I was going to be far from the comfort of home then I at least needed to be living my own fairytale at Disney.

I opened my mouth wide, held it, and then closed it again.  My jaw was still a little sore from smiling all the time at work. It seemed that no matter how long I held the heating pad against it, the muscles on the lower half of my face continuously ached.  I never realized how painful smiling could be.  I started doing jaw exercises—opening my mouth long-ways, sideways, and any other kind of way I could think of.  Thankfully, it was working and the pain was finally beginning to recede.

There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for why I still had so many boxes: patches of the sheetrock in my new duplex were covered in mold.  When I first looked at the place, I had assumed that the dark green spots were simply the previous owner’s attempts to design their own horrible wallpaper pattern.  It was only after I had officially signed the documents claiming that the downstairs complex was mine that I discovered the truth about the spots.

Now I had to have them fixed.  I was hoping that the landlord would pay for the damage.  He had agreed to “see what he could do” once I brought an estimate of the damage to him, but I honestly didn’t think he would pay to fix any of it.  The chubby man horded his money like a squirrel would store nuts for the winter.  He wouldn’t even give me a quarter when I was short for the parking meter the first time I looked at the place.  He reminded me of Monsieur D’Arque from Beauty and the Beast, the guy with the really large nose who Gaston bribes to have Belle’s father committed to the insane asylum, only heavier.

I unfolded the flaps of the last box against the wall to see what was inside: more books.  I slid my hand down the space between the two stacks and snuck my fingers underneath the bottom book, lifting the pile a bit so that the books were at an angle, allowing me to read their spines.  Most of them were teen romance novels—the ones that I secretly read again and again to ensure my heart that love really did exist.  Of course one was a modern interpretation of Cinderella, my favorite fairytale.

I pulled it out and flipped through the pages, remembering how I had randomly found it in my high school library.  It had been early spring, and I was hiding out in the library because it was getting close to prom.  People were getting “promposals” left and right during the lunch block.  Claire had already gotten asked by a boy in her calc. class by a cookie with the word “Prom?” written on it in blue icing.  Although I secretly wanted James Montgomery to ask me, I figured it wasn’t going to happen.  He didn’t even know I existed—and if I hid out in the library for the remainder of the lunch blocks until prom I wouldn’t have to suffer the humiliation of not being asked—or worse, watching James ask some other girl.  When I heard more screeches coming from the hall, I retreated into the stacks with the teen romances.  All those girls were getting to live their fairytales while I was hiding away in the library.  I was absently running my fingers along the many books when they caught on one that was sticking out slightly.  I pulled it off the shelf and read the back—I immediately recognized the tale of Cinderella.  I spent the rest of the period reading the book—still hoping that James Montgomery would actually run into the library and ask me to prom.

The buzzer outside croaked, informing me that the technician had arrived at last.  He was over twenty minutes late.  I dropped the book on top of the stack and quickly moved the box to the center of the room with the others.

He pushed the button again and the buzzer echoed in my bare apartment.  He’s awfully impatient for someone so late, I thought.  I opened the door to find Grumpy standing before me.

“You Bet-ty Lewis?”  He asked, squinting at the name on the name his clipboard.

“It’s Betsy,” I said.

“Are you the one who called about havin’ moldy walls?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s have a look at ‘em then.”  He moved closer, forcing me to open my door to him.  He walked right on in, as if he already knew where the green spots were.

“They’re over here.” I said as I closed the hideous, red firehouse door.  I walked into the living room and gestured to the far wall.  He knelt on the pee-stained carpet to examine the splotches on the white sheetrock and molding.  Apparently, the previous owners had a young son who thought it was funny to pee all over the house.  It made me cringe every time I looked down.

This is only temporary, I reminded myself.  Once I found the right guy and got married, I would have my own warm, cutesy home and not this sewer.

“This it?” the technician asked.

“No, there’s more over there and then in the laundry room too.” I said as I pointed to my right.  He stood up and went to examine the rest of the mold.  I looked out the window to my wonderful view of the red brick duplex home next to me had chosen to build their walls with.  I noticed that despite the few feet between the two buildings, a bird, most likely a seagull, had managed to leave its pristine droppings on the wall directly across from my only living room window.  The technician found the laundry room on his own and I trailed behind him.  Once again, he knelt down and examined the spots.

“I would put all these wet clothes in the dryer if I were you,” he said and stood up, grabbing the belt loops around his waist and hoisting his pants up as he did, “they’re probably not helping your mold problem.”

“Oh, I don’t like to use the dryer.  I’ve decided that I’m going to air-dry all my clothes,” I told him, holding my chin up a bit higher.  I had even bought wire from Home Depot to create my own clothesline.

On my way home after getting the job at Disney World, I decided that I need to do something at home to help me understand my character more.  I knew there were scenes in a bunch of the movies where the princesses hang-dried clothes, so I figured that would be the easiest thing for me to do.  The technician stared at me like I was crazy before he shook his head and pushed past me to get out of the small room.  “So what’s the damage?”

“The laundry room isn’t so bad, but I’m thinking the walls in the other room will have to be replaced,” he said.

“Replaced?” I asked.  I hadn’t been prepared for that.  “How much will it cost?”

“Ehhh…” he studied the walls, “’Bout 500 dollars.”

“500 dollars?” I repeated.  “Is that an accurate estimation?”  He paused while he looked at the walls behind me again.  I had a hard time believing more squinting would give me a better number.

“Yup,” he finally said and ripped a sheet off his clipboard, cutting the corner irregularly.  He handed me the jagged piece of paper with his mold diagnosis.  “Have a nice day.” he said mechanically and left.  I shut the door behind him and groaned.  Walking to the middle of my living room, I surveyed the 500 dollars worth of damage that the landlord was probably never going to fix.

Real princesses don’t have to deal with these problems, I thought bitterly.

It was my second week of work when a guy who had taken a picture with me carefully slipped a small piece of paper into my hand.  I was surprised, even though Val had told me it would happen.  I almost broke character and called after the man, but before I could the photographer who was with me took the paper and placed it in her pocket in one swift movement.  At the end of the shift she gave the paper back to me with the simple comment of “he’s cute” and headed off to the break room.  Sliding my nail in the opening of the crease, I unfolded the slip.  It was a business card with a name and 10 digit phone number on it.  I swear I almost fainted.  Despite Val’s warning, I thought I had finally found my prince, and, what would be a more appropriate way than him giving me his phone number in Disney while I was dressed as the most innocent and fairest princess?

The first thing I did when I got back to my moldy apartment was call the number.  After I explained to the man on the other end that I was the girl who played Snow White at Walt Disney World, he asked me if I was free that night.  A couple hours later, I found myself in a light pink blouse, dark jeans and high heels, waiting outside a small restaurant.  He showed up at six on the dot.  He wore a white button down shirt and a navy blazer.  Solely based on his timeliness and appearance, I was impressed.

“Are you Alex?” I asked, standing up from the wooden bench on the sidewalk.

“Betsy?” he smiled and I noted his perfectly white teeth.  I wondered if he had recently gotten laser surgery or if he was one of those few people whose teeth grew in like that—I would have liked to think the latter.  “Shall we?”  He gestured to the glass door of the restaurant and held it open for me to walk in first.  I couldn’t help but smile at how much of a gentleman he was.  Things were already going well.

The table the waiter led us to was in the back corner of the tiny restaurant.  A single rose lay against the rim of a thin plastic vase that was centered on the table.  It was as if the rose had been left by a previous couple who hadn’t had a good date, in hopes that Alex and I would have better luck.  I took it as a good sign.  I shouldn’t have.  I should have taken it as a warning.

Dinner only lasted half an hour.  We started by talking about our jobs.  He told me that he worked for a marketing company.  That was the first out of three things I learned about Alex that night.  He kept me talking by asking questions about my job and my favorite things.  He wanted to know why I chose the job, what I got to do as a princess, and if I liked it.

“Is the food good?” I asked him glancing at the menu in front of me.

“I don’t know,” he said indifferently, “I’ve never been here before.”

“Oh” was all I could manage to say.  I wondered where he heard about the place and why he brought me here if he didn’t know anything about it.  Maybe someone recommended it to him, or maybe he had heard positive reviews and thought I would enjoy it.  There weren’t very many people in the restaurant.  It was nice, it was almost like we had the restaurant to ourselves—like he had prepared this romantic dinner for just the two of us.  Catching his eye, I smiled at him from behind the menu.  He returned the smile.

We ordered our food when the waiter came by.  Alex clasped his hands together and set them on the table in front of him. Although his hands were definitely larger than mine, they looked smoother, even more delicate than mine.  He had small brown hairs in between each of his knuckles.  On one of his ring fingers, it looked almost like the hairs formed a line around the finger.

“So.” he said as he leaned in closer to me.

The more I stared at his hands, the more the line on his ring finger looked like it wasn’t the little hairs making the line, but more of a tan.  How could someone possibly get a tan like that on his finger?  Then it hit me.

“What do you say we—“

“Are you married?” I interrupted him—my heart dropping through the seat of my chair and onto the floor as I made my second realization about Alex.

“What?” He seemed taken aback by my question at first, but then he immediately asked, “How’d you know?”  My eyes widened in disbelief.  He didn’t even seem like he cared that he was trying to cheat on his wife with me.  I stood up from the table, knocking it slightly in my haste and causing the vase with the single rose to tip over.  Maybe the rose was cursed like the Beast’s.

“You may have taken off from your wedding ring, but the tan line is still there.” I said and then I walked out of the deserted restaurant.  He was at least smart enough not to follow.  It was exactly as Val said—some guests were assholes.  I learned the hard way that my prince wasn’t going to come from any guy who slipped me his number after taking a picture with me.

The little girl had thin, bleached blond hair that wisped around the curves of her tiny ears.  One of her big blue eyes poked out from behind her mother’s round thigh that she clung to like I had clung to my parents’ legs for years.  Unlike me though, she wasn’t necessarily scared, but more uncertain.  She was having trouble believing that a princess from her movie or book collection at home could really be standing there in front of her.  I squatted down, my yellow dress puffing out awkwardly.

Get on their level, I recalled from my training.

I smiled at the girl.   After working for over two months, and a lot of jaw exercises, my mouth no longer got sore from holding a smile for hours.  When the girl’s hidden eye popped out from behind the knee, I held my hand out to her.  I didn’t have to be afraid of what she would think of me.  I was Snow White—she already thought I was the most wonderful person in the world.  She glanced at my hand and cautiously stepped out in front of her mother.

“Go ahead, Natalie.  Give Snow White a hug.” the mother urged her young daughter.  The girl hesitated but then stepped into my open arms.  I gave her a good hug—not a light tap on the back but not a super tight squeeze either.  After a few seconds she wrapped her own arms around my neck and hugged me back.  The smile on her face when I leaned away was much bigger than what I thought would be able to fit across her tiny face.

“Nice to meet you, Natalie,” I said in my sing-song voice, “I’m Snow White.”  She giggled.  Her mother loved it.  She probably took more pictures than what would be taken at the girl’s wedding.  At that moment, I didn’t have a force a smile on my face.

Finally, the mother stepped back and said, “Okay, sweetie.  Let’s let someone else get a chance to meet Snow White.” Natalie gave me one last hug and then ran back over to her mother.  I smiled and waved goodbye to her.  The next people in line were a couple who looked to be about my own age.  The girl casually walked up to me with her boyfriend close behind.

“Can we get a picture with you?” she asked, holding up a digital camera.

“Of course,” I said in my sing-song voice again.  It was one of the first rules I learned: always use the “princess” voice, no matter how old the guests are.  She put her arm around my back on one side and her boyfriend did the same on the other.  I did the same to both of them.  We all smiled for the camera, and when the person taking the picture told us to “say cheese,” she responded with a giddy,

“Cheese!”  She stepped away and took the camera from the person.  “Thank you!” she gushed, turning back to me.

“You’re very welcome,” I told her, and smiled wide again.  It was then that I felt her boyfriend push a piece of paper into my open palm.  My fingers closed around it and he followed his girlfriend to one of the rides in the park.  I knew exactly what was on the piece of paper.  After what happened with Alex, I didn’t trust any of the guys who stealthily gave me their phone numbers while I was working.  That was why, as soon as my shift was over, I threw the paper in the trash.

I took the bus back to my house, stopping at the edge of the street to pick up my mail from the day.  There wasn’t much. Climbing the three cement steps, I pulled out the keys for my half of the duplex.  For such a crap apartment, the key was very eloquently designed.  The top of it looked like the metal had been woven together.  It was a key that made me pretend I was actually using it to open a secret room in a castle, or a cute cottage in the woods.  I pushed the key into the doorknob and turned it, opening the large, red door.

I was greeted by a high-pitched repeated beeping noise.  It was coming from my washing machine.  I dropped the mail down on the floor next to the door and ran to stop it from beeping again.  I opened the washing machine door and pulled out one of my wet shirts.  Walking back into my living room, I unraveled the wire I had placed at the top of my bookshelf and wrapped one end around the hook on the wall with my wonderful window and the other end around the hook on the far wall.

The sound of thudding footsteps from upstairs told me that the kids who lived in the apartment above me were home too. I began hanging up the wet clothes—my socks and underwear first—then filling in the empty spaces with any shirts or shorts that would fit.  I hung all my bras over the doorknobs.  Any leftovers I laid on the backs of chairs or spread across the folding table I had set up in the small kitchen.  I stepped back to admire my work.  Even though Snow White hadn’t been one of my favorite princesses growing up, I felt like she was me in a way: sweet and caring.  After weeks of not having a dryer, the clothesline that hung across my living room was just something else that made me like Snow White.

I checked the washer to see if there was anything left inside.  I had missed a white t-shirt.  When I pulled it out and held it up, I realized that it was no longer white.  The color from one of my purple shirts had bled, making my plain white shirt look half tie-dyed.  I had been planning on wearing the shirt with a pair of my dark-wash jeans later that night.  What was I supposed to do now?  It was the only white shirt I owned—I had to find a way to get the stains out, or I would have to buy a new one.  I threw the shirt back in the washer.  Maybe there’s an answer online, I thought.  If I couldn’t find one, I knew I could always call my mother.  She would know what to do.

That night I found myself sitting on a wooden barstool sipping a drink that Val had ordered for me.  I didn’t know what it was, but I had watched the bartender (who Val was now flirting with) put a lot of tequila in it.  Olivia skipped over to me and stumbled a bit as she plopped herself down on the stool next to me.

“Isn’t this fun?” she said, the tone of her voice even higher than usual.  I nodded even though I wasn’t really having much fun sitting by myself.  “I told you you should have come out with us sooner!”  She giggled drunkenly and eyed a guy who walked past us.  “Val and I call it our princesses-gone-wild night.  Isn’t that funny?” she yelled in my ear.

I laughed with her even if it wasn’t very clever.  Before I had a chance to think of something to ask Olivia, she was gone, probably pursuing the guy who had walked by us.  I took another sip of my tequila drink, gagging a bit as it caught in my throat.  I examined the liquid, wondering why I was even bothering to drink it.  Usually, the only alcohol I drank was wine.  I felt like it was the only alcohol a presentable princess would drink.  I stared at the drink again.

Well, screw it, I thought as I took a larger gulp.  I was in a rowdy bar.  It didn’t matter if I was presentable or not.  I already knew I didn’t want any guys here giving me their numbers.

“Is this seat taken?”  A guy with messy brown hair gestured to the stool that Olivia had just left open.  He wore a blue plaid shirt that hung out of his ripped jeans like it had gotten caught on the edge of a chain link fence.  Even in the dimly lit room I could see the emerging scruff on his face, letting me know that he hadn’t shaved in a little while.

Definitely not prince material, I thought.  But I let him sit anyway—it wasn’t like anyone else was going to be joining me.

“Sure,” I said.  He slid onto the stool with ease—at least he wasn’t extremely intoxicated like more than half the men in the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“Already got one,” I said, raising the glass of tequila and whatever else to show him.  I tried to smile at him but it came out more as a grimace.

“I’m Harry.” he said as he held his hand out to me.  My eyes drifted down to his left hand, which was holding his beer.  No ring and more importantly no tan line, but that didn’t really mean anything.

“Betsy.” I said, taking it and then looking back out at the scene laid out in front of me.

“You watch football?” Harry asked, pointing to the large flat screen on the wall directly across from us.

I wondered why he hadn’t left yet.  “No, I don’t really like sports.” I told him.

“Me neither,” he said, “well, except for horse racing.  I’m a huge fan of the Kentucky Derby.”  He smiled at me.  I gave him a small smile back.  “So, what do you do for a living Miss Betsy?” he asked, the smile on his facing switching slightly sly.

“I work at Disney World.” I said.

“And what do you do at Disney World?” He raised his eyebrows at me, clearly amused by our conversation.

“I play Snow White.”

“So you really are the fairest of them all.  When I saw you from across the room that was my first thought, but I had to come over here just to make sure it was true.”  I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop myself from laughing a bit at his lame attempt at a pickup line.  His smile widened at my reaction.  “It must be cool to get paid for living your childhood dream.”

“Yeah,” I said, looking over at him again, “it is.”  A man standing next to the entrance to the bar waved to Harry.  He turned around and pulling a pen out of his pocket, he began writing something down on a napkin that was sitting on the counter.

“Well, I’m afraid I must leave you, my fair Betsy,” he said as he wrote, “but here’s my number.  Call me.”  He handed me the damp napkin and stood up.  Grinning foolishly, he bowed in front of me, “It was a pleasure talking with you, Snow White.”

I turned my head down, feeling my cheeks heat up in embarrassment.  When I looked back, he was gone.  I looked down at the phone number in my hand.  He definitely wasn’t my idea of the perfect husband, but I folded the delicate paper and carefully stowed it in the front pocket of my jeans.

Brown water was dripping from my apartment ceiling when I got home that night.  It looked like someone had flipped the world upside down and now mud puddles were the clouds in the sky.  The kids in the apartment above me had overflowed the bathtub.  The water had seeped through the cracks in the floor, running over the rusted pipe and through the ceiling to my apartment.  My clothes were ruined.

With the olive green spots on my walls and the brown stained clothes hanging from the clothesline I had set up, my living room had become a disgusting, wet art exhibit.  I debated on whether or not I should call the landlord.  I checked the time on my phone—it was two a.m.  I resolved to call him in the morning.  I grabbed the mail I had thrown on the floor earlier and escaped into my bedroom, hoping the water wouldn’t make the rest of the place smell.

I changed into my pajamas, not forgetting to pull the napkin out of my pocket before throwing my jeans in the hamper.  I plopped down on my bed with the napkin and my mail from the day.  The napkin was still wet from the bar, and using my nails, I carefully peeled it open.  The number on the inside was smeared: I could only make out the last four digits.  I crumpled the paper up and threw it across the room, missing my small trashcan.  I guess he wasn’t meant for me after all.

I looked around at the still damp clothes I had strewn out around my room—the only ones that had escaped the damage of the upstairs bath water.  Standing up, I grabbed the clothes—collecting them in my hands and walked to the laundry room.  I opened the dryer door and threw them in.  I turned the dial and pressed the start button.  The dryer sprung alive.  I walked back to my bedroom, listening to the dryer’s low rumbling.

[Image by Stephanie Watson]

[Image by Florin Garoi]

What You’ll Need:
- Medium to long straight hair (preferably)
- Comb
- A couple of elastic bands
- Hairspray
- Bobby pins

How To Get It:
1. Part your hair all the way down the middle.
2. Take the left side of your hair and tie one of the bands about two inches from the bottom.
3. Do the same with another band for the right side.
4. Twist both parts toward each other, until they each become tight coils.
5. Wrap the stubs under and use bobby pins to lock the bun in place.
6. Apply hairspray to any loose pieces.

A Night With The Girls Calls For Some Pomp

[Image by Adamr]

What You’ll Need:
- Medium to long hair, straight or curly, with bangs
- Comb
- Bobby pins
- Hairspray

How To Get It:
1. Separate your bangs from the rest of your hair.
2. Tease the section of your hair under your bangs.
3. Pull your bangs back.
4. Twist your bangs back one time and pin it with bobby pins. Adjust the height as you wish.
5. Apply hairspray as needed.

Meeting His Parents Half-Way

[Image by Stuart Miles]

What You’ll Need:
- Long, curly hair (preferably)
- Elastic band
- Hairspray

How To Get It:
1. Pull your hair and bangs back over your shoulders.
2. If your hair is not yet curled, section your hair into approximately ten parts.
3. Create big, defined curls and let them spill down your back.
4. Of the ten parts, take four curls and pull them up into a mid-ponytail.
5. Apply hairspray to the curls to maintain them.
6. This hairstyle can also be done with straight hair.
Fun In The Sun With Some Side Action

[Image by -Marcus-]

What You’ll Need:
- Long hair, straight or curly
- Elastic band
- Comb

How To Get It:
1. Part your hair down either side, as long as the sections consist of one thin part and one very thick part.
2. Curl the thin part to make it stand out, or tuck it behind your ear.
3. Pull the thicker section to one side of your hair and make a chunky braid down the front of your body.
4. You can either curl your bangs or let them hang freely over your head.
5. No hairspray is required and a messy appearance is most appropriate for this hairstyle.

[Feature Image by Tom Clare]

The Farmhouse Cheeseburger actually received a rather embarrassing Xtreme Eating Award by the Center for Science in the Public Interest back in 2011 for its hefty fat content. Possibly in retaliation for being called one of the unhealthiest restaurants in America, The Cheesecake Factory developed their “SkinnyLicious” side menu that features dishes under They also removed the Farmhouse Cheeseburger from their menu, choosing to “upgrade” their burgers into more slimming Glamburgers. The SkinnyLicious Hamburger, now found on their SkinnyLicious menu, is served with a green salad instead of French fries (it’s a start).

Denny’s

DON’T Fried Cheese Melt w/ Fries: 1,260 Calories, 21g of saturated fat
DO 6-Piece Pancake Puppies: 400 Calories, 0g of saturated fat

    This dish from Denny’s, literally, consists of deep-fried cheese, smothered in another cheese, and grilled between bread. Not to mention, the entire thing is covered in a thick marinara sauce and accompanied with oily French fries. Overall, the dish is so ridiculously fattening that CBS News called it the “latest extreme meal” back in 2010. Usually ordered as an appetizer, this dish has more fat than is required for an entrée. For the sake of common health sense, disregard the Fried Cheese Melt and pick the 6-piece Pancake Puppies (a much more sensible option) instead. It will not be a choice to regret.

Olive Garden

DON’T Chicken & Shrimp Carbonara: 1,440 Calories, 38g of saturated fat
DO Seafood Brodetto: 480 Calories, 3g of saturated fat

    Though not at the top of any lists for its outrageous menu options, Olive Garden has its own select dishes that surpass the 1,000 Calories mark. Among them is the popular Chicken & Shrimp Carbonara plate, which features a signature, rich sauce and both chicken and shrimp to pointlessly boost the fat content of the dish. Carbonara dishes (such as the one on The Cheesecake Factory’s menu) are typically concentrated in fat and are thus to be avoided. Skip the Carbonara and order the Seafood Brodetto, a stew-type dish that also has a delicious helping of shrimp.

Applebee’s

DON’T Provolone-Stuffed Meatballs w/ Fettuccine & Garlic Bread: 1,520 Calories, 43g of saturated fat
DO Creamy Parmesan Chicken: 470 Calories, 13g of saturated Fat

Another dish on the Xtreme Eating Awards list, the Provolone-Stuffed Meatballs from Applebee’s needlessly sports both a marinara and a Parmesan cream sauce, in addition to very unnecessary cheese stuffing in each meatball. According to ABC News, Applebee’s is the only restaurant company in the country that has several of its menu options endorsed by Weight Watchers, a renowned program that promotes easier means of losing weight. One of their Weight Watchers options is the Creamy Parmesan Chicken, a much healthier choice that is less likely to make your arteries scream.

[Images by Grant Cochrane & Wiangya]