Narrative Essay

“Are you ready?” he said. He seemed so calm and confident.
“Yeah, I guess,” I whimpered. He saw the distress on my face. He heard the terror in my voice. He almost seemed frustrated, not at me, but because he knew he could not help. He knew I could do this. He gazed down the hill again.
“You can walk your bike down if you like, but I know you can do this.” How could he be so sure? I did not want to let him down.
“No, I want to do it.” He was proud of that answer.
“I’ll go down first,” he said. It seemed he was gone and at the bottom of the hill before he had even finished that sentence. I stood there staring down at him, with Courtney wiggling in the back seat. I got in position to get on my bike. My heart started beating faster and my breath became louder. I could see my dad yelling something up to me, but I could not hear what it was. Finally I took a deep breath, looked down one more time, and then I jumped on the bike and began to go.
It was on my seventh birthday, September 30th, 1998. I woke up so excited as all kids do. That day my grandparents were starting demolition on a house just around the block from my own. After breakfast my mom suggested riding bikes down to go watch. I loved riding my bike. I had the training wheels off for quite a while and I was becoming acclimated to riding bikes. The bike I had was old. My dad’s friend had given it to him for me. So I went to my room and got dressed. While my mom was still getting ready, she asked me to go out to the shed and get my bike and helmet out. When I opened the shed there it was, a beautiful, new, shiny, purple bike with gears, handbrakes, and a bow wrapped around it. The smile on my face must have been from ear to ear.
“Do you like it?” my mom asked from the back door.
“I love it! Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I took the bike out of the shed and tried to ride it around my house, but since it was bigger, I had quite a lot of difficulties getting on it and riding it. It was as if I were starting from square one again.
Finally my mom came out. She helped me on and off of it. I learned how to use the handbrakes and control this much bigger bike. We rode down the street to my grandparents, but I was much more concerned with my new bike. I fell quite a lot and had some difficulty stopping. Somehow my mom got me off the bike and inside for the rest of the day. My Dad came home around five. I ran up to him still with so much excitement.
“Daddy. Daddy. I got a new bike!”
“You did?”
“Yeah, come see it!” he came out to the shed with me.
“Oh, wow. It is as pretty as you. Do you want to go for a nice long bike ride on your new big girl bike after dinner?”
After we ate my dad got his bike out. His bike had a little seat on the back of it for my little sister Courtney. We practiced riding up and down our street a little more. Once he felt I was comfortable enough we left.
For the first time on a bike my dad took me throughout the entire neighborhood. I was looking around at everything that I had never seen before, and I was so preoccupied that I would forget to look at where I was going which got to be pretty dangerous. My dad knew what he was doing when he took me towards Summit Avenue. As we neared the corner I asked which way to go. He said to stay straight, and I listened unaware of what lay ahead. I noticed that it got more difficult to pedal and I was worried there was something wrong with my bike before I realized that it was because we were going up a hill. I pedaled as hard as my little legs could and finally I got so tired I had to tell my dad to stop so that I could have a break. Then we continued back up the hill. It just seemed to keep going up, and up, and up. What I did not realize was that we would have to go down, or I did not realize until we reached the super steep drop.
“Ahhhhhh!” I screamed.
“What are you screaming like that for?” he asked.
“I can’t ride my bike down that. It’s like a roller coaster but worse. And I don’t even like roller coasters.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine. You have your new big girl bike now. You have to use it to go down big girl hills.” The tears started to swell up in my eyes. I was terrified. My dad spent the next few minutes calming me down. Eventually I decided to go down the hill after my dad, when he went down the hill I hesitated to follow and now I was stuck at the top of the hill myself. I did not want to disappoint my dad. I had no idea that he had become as nervous as me. He has told me that the only comfort he had was that at the bottom of the hill was a bunch of bags of leaves, and he would rather me crash into leaves rather than into a fence or curb.
I finally jumped onto the bike and began to slowly roll down the hill. I was trying so hard to keep my balance. My speed started escalating. I was going faster than I ever had on a bike before. The good thing was that my new bike had hand brakes. My old bike had the brakes where you had to push the pedal backwards to stop. If I was on my old bike I would have never been able to slow down. When I was about halfway down the hill I pressed as hard as I could on the brakes. I have no idea how I did not get thrown over the handlebars, I stopped so fast. I made it down the hill. I was still so shocked at what had just happened that I could not even be proud of myself, but my dad was. We finished our bike ride with no other steep hill and drops. We got home safely and told my mother the story over a big piece of birthday cake.

Who Am I Notebook Story

Melissa could be on stage forever. She loves the heat from the bright lights shining down on her. She’s never fazed by the hundreds of eyes watching her. Unfortunately no song goes on forever. She was always jubilant at the applause, but just as sad that her performance was over. When you took away the audience, the stage, the lights, and the costume, Melissa was an average sixteen year old girl, self conscience and shy.
Melissa was clearly one of the prettiest girls in school. Her many years of dance gave her such a presence. She was so delicate, and walked with charm. Most boys shied away because she hovered over them. Her long blonde hair was always in a braid, and her bright blue eyes sparkled with such kindness. She was every boy in school’s dream, but she never noticed. Outside of her small group of friends from dance Melissa seldom spoke to anyone during school.
I have been her dance teacher for the past three years. Since I’m still young we were able to form a very close bond. We were like sisters. We trusted and confided in each other. We both agreed it was nice having some one outside of school to talk to.
Since the dance recital had been close approaching, Melissa and I spent countless hours in the studio practicing. She had her first solo performance. She was exceptionally nervous because her mother had called a friend to see her dance. Her mom’s friend just happened to work at Julliard. Julliard was Melissa’s dream, and I knew she would be able to get in. Dancing came so naturally to her. I never taught her a move that she had not perfected within a couple of tries, well except for this new maneuver.
I threw a very difficult move in the choreography. I assumed that Melissa would master it just like all the other complex moves before. It was sure to impress her mom’s friend. Everything was going perfectly. She had the perfect routine. The music, the moves, and the costume all fit Melissa to a tee. The single problem was this one new move. It came towards the end of the song. That’s how it happened.
A couple weeks ago we were practicing the routine. She was getting so frustrated with herself. Every time we ran through the song she missed that move. She would be too early, she would be too late, and some times she would fall. Her frustration got the best of her and she was not being as careful anymore. It must have been the fifteenth run through. Suddenly she fell. I saw her ankle twist in ways that no ankle should and I heard her loud shriek. Her ankle was badly sprained.
Today was the day of the recital. Up until yesterday she had been using crutches. Her doctor gave her an air cast and told her she was safe to walk on her ankle, but Melissa did not want to take the chance. Last night we practiced at the studio again. This time we took things easy. I suggested slipping a different move in there. We changed the choreography around a bit for a back up plan, in case she was not feeling very good about it. She practiced carefully. Many times I had spotted her just in case. Now that it was the recital she was going to have no spotter and no help. There would be no room for error. She had Julliard to impress.
“What have you decided?” I asked. I tried to be cheery, but I was just as nervous for her as she was for herself.
“I haven’t yet,” she mumbled.
“You haven’t decided. Melissa, you’re on in less than an hour!” I was shocked. She sat there looking down at her ankle in silence. She walked over to a chair and started doing some stretches I had recommended to her. “I know this isn’t about me, but for tonight I was hoping to live vicariously through you. I never had an opportunity like this…” I trailed off. I wanted to scream at her. This dance was what decided if she went to Julliard or not. Julliard! I should not have said that. I should not be pushing her into doing something rash. I went on, “Your health is the most important thing. You wouldn’t want to hurt that ankle again. Not because of the pain, but because it would mean no dancing for another two weeks at least. I do not think you could ever survive such a thing.”
She looked up and flashed me a crooked smile. “You’re right. It would drive me insane.”
“Oh Melissa, when are you going to learn? I’m always right!” She flashed me another smile. I lied, “Well I have to go help Karen with the youngsters. Half of them are probably balling their eyes out. She’s going to need help coaxing them onto the stage.” I did not want to prod her about what she was going to do any further. If she changed the routine she would have still been the best dancer all night. If she did not, her adrenalin was sure to help her nail the move. The only decision I would be disappointed in was if she decided not to perform.
I headed to where Karen and her class would be. As I had said half of them were crying. No, not half, at least two thirds of them were crying. I quickly dodged out of sight before Karen would see me and guilt me into helping out. I shuddered at the thought. I went into the auditorium and took my seat. I started flipping through the schedule nervously. I felt like such a spas; I could not sit still. I saw Melissa’s mom out of the corner of my eye. She was sitting a few rows back off to the right. I thought about getting up to say hello. I quickly convinced myself out of it. She probably blamed me for Melissa’s injury.
I sank deeper into my seat just as the light flickered. Everyone took their seats and quieted down. The owner of the studio came on stage thanking mother for helping. The first class came on, and then the second, and then the third. Why was I nervous? I merely have to sit here. Melissa had to perform a very difficult routine, on a bad ankle none the less. The owner came back out again. “Next we have a very special presentation. It is solo performance by one of our seniors. This will be her last performance with us, but she hopes to study dance in college. She is an extremely talented young lady. We’d like to thank her for the time she has put into our studio. It is my pleasure to introduce to you, Melissa Cole.” She was going to perform after all, but would she risk it?
The owner walked off the stage, and the spotlight turned off before focusing on Melissa. The music started. She twisted and twirled her long, lean body. Her ballet shoes felt as if they were part of her feet. Her blonde hair swayed along with her body to the music. Her blues eyes sparkled in the light. You could feel her passion. Her pale skin and white leotard made her look like an angel. I was mesmerized, as I’m sure the rest of the audience was. The moment was so perfect I had almost forgotten to look for that one move, the move that could end this song in horror. It was impossible to even imagine her falling or messing up now. Here it comes. I saw her stutter with her steps. This was something she would not have needed to do if she went with the easier step. I did not want to watch, but my eyes were glued to her. Here it was. I noticed how fast my heart had started beating. She pulled it off perfectly. No one would even guess the trouble she had, and much less the accident with her ankle. I was sad the dance was over, but jubilant that she had pulled it off.
I peered over my shoulder at her mother. I saw tears streaming down her face. I knew how proud I was as Melissa’s teacher; I could not imagine what it felt like to be her mother. Her mother’s friend was obviously impressed. I could see it in her face. How could you not be?
After the recital was over I ran back stage. I located Melissa and ran to her with open arms. “I knew you could do it. I knew you could.” She was so happy. Her smile ran from ear to ear. “You know what this means don’t you?” I asked.
She thought about her answer for a while. “New, harder moves?”
“No silly. It means that I need to get used to visiting you in New York City. I saw the look on your mom’s friend’s face. Consider yourself accepted. Julliard here you come!”

My Feelings on Poetry

I was the only person in class last week that said they did not like poetry. I do not like poetry for a couple of reasons. Firstly, poetry intimidates me. I find it so hard to rhyme, and to make my words flow. I know all poetry does not have to rhyme, and my poem about school did not. Another reason I do not like poetry is because I love writing and just letting my words flow. With stories I write everything I think in my head. I write what immediately comes to me, and I have no limit as to the sentence length or the amount syllables. With poetry you have to think about how you say things. You cannot just write down what you are thinking. So I guess I do not dislike poetry. I just do not like writing it. I actually like poetry. Song lyrics are poems to me. I love listening to music and finding how I could apply the lyrics to my life. My boyfriend is quite fond of writing poetry, and nothing makes me smile wider than the silly little couplets he sends me. They are hilarious. Any poetry I do like usually rhymes, and is funny. Everything has to make me smile. A lot of poetry is angry and depressing because people use poetry as an outlet. I do not want to read something that is going to make me angry or upset. I just want to read something that is going to make me smile. I can not say that I have a favorite poet. If I had to say anyone it would be the bands The Format and Death Cab for Cutie. I love both of their lyrics. My favorite line from a Format song would be, “Love is speaking in code, it’s an inside joke. Love is coming home.” I cannot even begin to tell you my favorite from Death Cab. Their songs are all so good.

Homeroom Poem

I drag my feet up the stairs
to room D29.
I’m usually the first person there.
I open the creaky door,
and flip on the lights.
The brightness stings my eyes.
I plop down at my desk
sometime before 7.
It’s closest to my teacher’s,
and faces the door.
I’m quite fond of the view.
My desk is always sticky.
Usually from my yesterday’s breakfast:
grapes and apples
and a juice box of ice tea.
I take out the homework
that I decided not to do at home.
My classmates start filing in.
Most drop of their books and leave in a hurry.
Others join me in the race
to finish their neglected homework.
By 7:15 I can barely hear
the faint scratch of my pencil
over the hustle and bustle
of the overcrowded hallways.
I start to concentrate less on my homework
and more on my classmates conversations.
Before I know it the second bell has rung.
It’s 7:20, and German is going to start.