Photo by Rick Geary

This was going to be so easy. All I had to do was trap the thing.

FIRST AWARD WINNER

• Pedro Ponce
• Age 14
• San Diego High School,
• Golden Hill

Clockwise from top left: Pedro Ponce, John Pertle, Eric Ulman, Laura Goldberg, Matt Isom, Angela Grimes. Karen Hartman, center.

Robert Burroughs and Paul Stachelek

If was an ordinary summer day.

I woke up at 8:00, washed, and got myself a bowl of cornflakes. Then I turned on the TV, most of my subsistence that summer of '86. That morning, it was the Today Show. Jane Pauley was pregnant; Bryant Gumbel and Willard Scott were joking around in the studio. The news was wonderfully bleak — drought in the southeast, strikes in the northeast, and catastrophe everywhere else. I let myself drift from TV to cornflakes and back.

Pretty soon, I was done, and Donahue was on. “Special guest star!" the program listings had blared — a gas station attendant who, one night, had mistaken his St. Bernard for his girlfriend.

I got bored, so I turned the TV off. The image on the screen faded with an icy click of the control knob. I was going to my room, to be bored there, when my mother came in with some momentous news.

“Son ... there’s a skunk in the backyard.”

My mother is apprehensive of many things, especially wild animals (her son running a close second). Here was the person who mocked me for my fear of spiders. Here was the person who laughed in danger’s face. Here was the person who taught me to be strong in times of weakness (most of them luscious blondes with nice legs). My mother, afraid of a skunk.

“Not just a skunk, a BIG ugly skunk with beady eyes and a vicious white stripe down its back.” My mother never lied ... she just exaggerated.

“Mom, it’s probably gone by now.”

“It’s still there behind the paint cans in the garage.” She was always doing something around the house, like painting, since my dad never took any summer vacation.

“It’s probably as scared of you as you are of it.”

“I’d like to see you trap it, then.”

“Mom, it’s a waste of time.”

“No, I want you to go. It’s such a docile animal. It won’t hurt you.”

“It’s a wild animal; it’s not right to trap it.”

“I’m not going to have that thing running around the house.”

She crossed her arms and stared at me. There was always some way she could convince me to do things. Her brown eyes hardened into a vindictive glare that challenged me to go.

“Ok, Mom, be right back.” She wouldn’t win this time. Even I wasn’t afraid of a skunk.

I’d read in books about Mephitis Mephitis, the common brown striped skunk. It was a furry animal with long claws and a snout that was used to dig up food. Its diet consisted of fruit and insects, but when in need, it would turn to junk yards and trash cans. It had no means of defense except the foul-smelling mush for which it was infamous. Besides this, skunks were slow, awkward, and peaceful animals.

This was going to be so easy. All I had to do was trap the thing. It was probably so gentle, I could lead it out with a stick or something. I could tie it to a tree — it would be so friendly, I could put a leash on it. All it was was a skunk. A plain skunk that fed on things like dry cat food, insects, garbage; maybe it had eaten some nuclear waste on its way to the garage that caused a gene mutation, turning it into a ferocious, disease-spreading animal with fangs and stiff, needle-like fur and it bred with other skunks that in turn bred with other skunks creating a new race of mutant skunks bent on the destruction of the human race and the conquest of the universe.

Was that Mom calling me? ...

I live in the little known section of Golden Hills, which, if I’m right, is bordered by Logan Heights, North Park and Mission Hills. It’s almost like living in a small town, only recent changes have made it more modern, essentially rapid development (condos and such) and the wave of Hispanic families moving up from Logan Heights.

The street I live on isn’t an ethnic one. It’s a combination of many different cultures. My family and our next door neighbors are Peruvian. Our other next door neighbors are black and just moved in. Across the street we have your typical middle-class whites and senior citizens. At the very corner is an Asian woman who lives alone, tending an exquisite Japanese garden. Not very noticeable at first, the place gets to you. I enjoy walking down the sidewalk, hearing the clop of feet on virgin white asphalt and dead leaves from the magnolia in front of our house crunched by the wheels of a passing bicyclist. The smell of cut grass wafts through the air and a power tool, hard at work, echoes between houses. The pastel blue of the sky is outlined with palm trees, weeping willows, and an occasional oak. And silence, welcome silence, not ominous, but a warm blanket of silence etched with the sounds of birds and airplanes and loud music from a nearby radio.

It was across that street that I went that day. My mom, having proved her point, told me to get a trap from our neighbor, Mr. Shenk, the busybody and a religious protector of the environment.

“A skunk, you say?” said Shenk as he scratched his head, the word almost foreign. “Can't trap them ... damn things piddle all over you.”

“Well, my mom’s sort of worried, and she thought you could help.”

“O’ course I could always blow the thing up with my rifle... quick and easy ... could always pickle it... the holidays coming up and all... what d’ya say?”

Among other things, goodbye ...

Mom was down, but not out. She had to do some laundry and she bravely faced the situation.

“Now just stay there and keep guard with that brick,” she said as she fumbled with some clothespins. “Don’t pay attention to anything ...just look for the thing.” She rushed through the load with the speed of a touch typist and we were soon at the back door of the house. She looked desperately in the pockets of her apron, in the basket, in the clothespin bag. I was the one who finally realized the situation.

“Mom, we’re locked out of the house.”

There are certain moments in a person’s life which he/she wants to live forever. Mine was the expression on my sister’s face when I sucked up her favorite parakeet with our vacuum cleaner. The expression on my mom’s face came close. She put down the basket, took a deep breath, and panicked.

“Look for the keys! Everywhere! Quick! You don’t know what that animal can do now that we’re defenseless!” I saved myself the trouble of chronic hearing impairities and went into the backyard.

Our backyard is small, but has a surprising amount of trees. There’s a fig tree, two lemon trees, a peach tree, an avocado tree, a sapote tree, and an apricot tree. When summer comes, all of them blossom, and the grass warms, forming an undescribable scent that warms you as you inhale it. Contemplating this I was unaware of the rustling in the tomato plants. It became louder; I turned around and there it was — the skunk. It was gnawing at rotting fruit. It looked up and stared at me. I stood there and stared at it. But he wasn’t the ferocious creature I had made him, but a docile neighbor in the natural world. We were on common ground, both survivors in a world of catastrophe. It was — deep. I began to understand Life: for two minutes, the world was clear.

Brother Skunk, of course, could care less. He pushed his tender prey into a hole underneath the garage, wondering what the hell the big Primate was staring at him for.

My sister got back from summer school at 2:00 and let us into the house with her keys. My mom asked me if I had found the original set.

“No,” I said absently.

To this day, no one knew of my odyssey into the ominous human-skunk relationship. The triumph of understanding it was, for me, the most wonderful experience in my entire life.

SECOND AWARD WINNER

• John Pertle
• Age 17
• Serra High School
• Tierrasanta

Part I: In The Library

I had dreamt about Victoria. Thrice. In the dream the night before, she led me along a winding, descending path. The path led to the banks of a monstrous river. She waded into the suddenly calm waters and began to swim. I followed, floating easily into the warm, soothing wetness. Victoria reached the opposite bank first. When I reached the land, I noticed a small, generic house set on a slight hill. I entered the house and discovered a desk filled with paper. This was my desk. I desperately plowed through embarrassing pornography, trying to find the BOOK. I can’t find the BOOK.

“You won’t find the book,” Victoria said. “It’s not in there. You left your book at the bottom of the river.”

Now, Victoria was at the card catalogue. I was at the study table — studying Victoria. Victoria is so nice. I don’t think she has a boyfriend. She was going with Ned Parsons, but that’s obviously over. I made sure to pay special attention to Victoria’s lovelife. After all, she was the girl of my dreams.

Part II: At The Party.

I was at this party. I was stoned. I felt self-conscious and paranoid. I didn’t want anyone at this party to know that I was stoned. It felt like everyone was looking at me and talking behind my back. I stood in a lot of dark corners.

Suddenly, she was at the party. Victoria was very impressive-looking — her polyester dress, her mountain of hairspray. Her earnest eyes that spoke to me what her voice couldn’t. And the way she walked — my God — sheer excellence in heels. I had to have her.

She moved with ease from group to group. I kept to myself and just watched her. I was uncomfortable in most social situations. Being stoned only magnified my inhibition. I wanted desperately to talk to Victoria, but my paranoia wouldn’t let me. I somehow felt her calling out to me. Several times during the party I would look across the room to see her smiling at me. Was she really smiling at me? That smile. Gosh. Maybe she was smiling at some guy behind me. I couldn’t talk to her. I couldn’t ask her to dance. She would move away or say no.

She probably thinks I’m a dick. She’s smiling at me because she knows I’m stoned and she thinks I’m a dick. She thinks I’m a dirthead.

“Uh, hi John.”

“Oh, hi, Victoria” I said.

“Pretty neat party, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I guess it is. Did you have fun?”

“I’m having a great time,” Victoria said, supressing a giggle. “I’m stoned out of my mind.” “You?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell anybody.”

“Well Gosh,” I said.

Part III: In The Bedroom. “No,” she said. “I don’t love you.”

“Would you want to kiss me?” I asked.

“I want to kiss you. Kiss me,” she said.

I kissed her. It was incredible. Well, it was kind of normal, but a kiss is a kiss, right? Every kiss is incredible. Well, not every kiss. This kiss was incredible. It wasn’t exceptional, it was just incredible. And she doesn’t love me. Well, actually, I can’t say that I love her. She just excites me. Well, she intrigues me. Actually, I’m to a certain point obsessed with her.

“I do like you,” she said.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “I’ll kiss you again, though.”

We kissed again. Her hands moved up and down my back. I held her close. Her fingers in my hair, tingling tingling. Our bodies together like perfectly fitting puzzle pieces and every other cliche I had ever felt at the bottom of my heart.

“You know that I dreamt about you? Three different times.” “Really?”

“Do you dream about me?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t remember my dreams anyway.”

“Well I do,” I said. “See, since I dreamt about you three times, I think of you as the girl of my dreams.”

“Dud,” she said. “I’m just me. Wanna get drunk?”

“No. I would just like to stay with you awhile.”

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I want you.”

“You know,” she said, “I never even thought about you in any way until tonight. You’re really sweet.” “So are you ”

“No I’m not,” she said. “Please don’t ever tell anyone I kissed you.” “I won't.”

I finally understood. I found the book. We kissed again. I never spoke to Victoria again.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Angela Grimes
• Age 17
• San Pasqual High School,
• Escondido

My most embarrassing moment occurred during my eighth grade year. It was the first year I began going to a lot of social activities with boys as well as girls. My friends and I started going skating on weekends, to parties where there were boys, and to school activities. Included in these school activities were dances.

My eigth grade year was one in which I really began make a lot of friends. I was a “cool” eigth grader much older and more mature than the seventh graders, so I thought.

That was until my most embarrassing moment. It all happened at a school dance. I was having a good time and really enjoying myself. Then it happened!

A seventh grade boy asked me to dance to a slow song. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had been taller than me, or at least the same height, but, he was almost a whole foot shorter than I. To top it off he had braces and was classified as a “nerd.”

I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, although all my girlfriends were laughing. I decided to save the boy from further embarrassment so I said, “Sure, why not?” I already regretted accepting the invitation to dance as I followed him to the dance floor.

While we were dancing he started resting his head on my chest. My friends were really laughing now. I didn’t think things could get any worse. However, they did. Things got much worse than my most horrifying nightmare. I gently started pushing him away. He wouldn’t budge. I was really getting embarrassed now.

I tried again to push him away.

He still wouldn’t move. This time as I glanced down I realized his braces were caught in my sweater. I could have died. At the time I thought I was going to.

He was struggling to get unstuck. The song was coming to an end he was still caught.

As he tried to pull away my sweater began to snag. The farther he pulled, the worse my sweater got.

Things were really getting awful. Everyone was looking at us now. A fast song came on and I was still on the dance floor stuck to this nerd.

After what seemed like hours passed, we finally got separated. I was so relieved. I thought I’d never hear the end of it. My friends did a pretty good job making sure I didn't.

Although my friends still teased me at times it didn’t bother me as much as time passed. That is until the yearbook came out. Someone with a sick sense of humor had taken a picture of the whole, awful nightmare and submitted to to the yearbook.

It was the most embarrassing experience of my life. Those few short moments on the dance floor turned out to be the worst in my entire life. I’m still reminded of it every time I open my eighth grade yearbook.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Karen Suzanne Hartman
• Age 15
• La Jolla High School
• La Jolla

More greeters! We need more greeters!” The steel-haired, sensibly shod Floor Captain of the Annual Salvation Army Thanksgiving Dinner was frantic.

‘‘I can greet people,” I offered tenuously. The meal had just begun and I was eager get on with the philanthropy. After all, I was donating my time; it seemed only fair that I should get my share of heart-warming experiences from the grateful indigents whom I was serving.

“All right, thank you, dear. Remember, seniors in the Green section, families in the Red, and all others in the Blue. That includes the handicapped. Just greet them warmly, as you would a family member. And don’t forget to say ‘Happy Thanksgiving.’ We want them to feel special today. Watch me.” She walked over to a young man in line. “Happy Thanksgiving. My, I’ll bet we’re hungry today! Follow me, now. That’s right, very good!” I felt vaguely nauseous.

Swallowing my misgivings, I stepped forward to escort an elderly woman. “Hello, ma’am, happy Thanksgiving.” I guided her to a green-dotted table. She mumbled benignly that I was a lovely girl, that it was a lovely meal, how lovely it was to get out of the house every so often, then smiled sweetly when I held her chair.

“Thank you so much, dear,” she whispered.

I was somewhat heartened as I returned to greet a tall man in his twenties. “Happy Thanksgiving, sir. Follow me, please.” We chatted as I led him to the Blue section.

“Can I ask you a question, sweetheart?”

“Certainly.” (I was prepared to answer that seconds were not allowed.)

“How old are you?”

“Almost sixteen.”

“Well, if you ever want to work for real money, you call me up. Hear?” He bestowed me with my second wink of the day, somewhat less wholesome than the first. ’’....Enjoy your meal, sir.”

I scurried back to the entrance and noticed an elderly man who hadn’t yet been helped. “Hello, sir. Happy Thanksgiving.” I unconsciously put my arm around the back of his military jacket as I helped him to the correct table. “How will this seat be?” I flashed him the standard smile and found myself staring into a pair of proud, indignant, unnervingly intelligent eyes. He looked at me steadily, from my Salvation Army name tag down to my arm draped around him with such unwarranted familiarity, then back into my face. I immediately jerked my hand away, trying to make my non-verbal apology as clear as his accusation. Not knowing what to say, I let him seat himself. My stomach churned as I walked away, this time at my own hypocrisy.

His stare lingered with me for the rest of the morning, so engraved into my conscience that I could not merely shrug it off. Who did I think I was? Without any consent or invitation, I had invaded the personal space of a stranger as naturally as I would that of a close friend. My disgust was heightened by the realization that, under any other circumstances, I would have kept a particularly broad distance from this man, and would have been shocked had he attempted the same behavior. It was as if my meager donation of one morning made me so superior to he that his privacy was of no concern in the face of my altruism. I was humiliated to know that I had less true dignity than some of the people whom I was patronizing so grossly.

I continued with my business of serving and seating, but I had been drastically humbled. I no longer felt like a heaven-bound, unselfish soul who was kind enough to feed poor ingrates: I was lucky to be allowed into the lives of so many people. That proud old man certainly does not owe me thanks. I am grateful to him for showing me the underside of my actions and striking me off my self-imposed pedestal.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Erik Ulman
• Age 17
• San Pasqual High School
• Escondido

Quite frankly, I have never really had a “shining” moment of “glory.” I can speak of moments of intense pleasure — but these were, to be sure, fleeting and wrapped in illusion. I could speak of my successful musical performances — but I never felt anything more than mild satisfaction after these ventures. For a “shining moment,”

I would be expected to gush forth with show-business cliches of initial nervousness, amazement at success, and unqualified elation at the close. Nor have my artistic, literary, or scholastic achievements induced more than a reasonable happiness — certainly not the pride and exultation suggested by “shining glory.” I think it perhaps best, then, to write of an experience of unparalleled intensity that has fundamentally altered my conceptions of art and life. I experienced an enlightenment on May 10, 1985 — and I suppose enlightenment is a kind of glory in itself, albeit personal and in no way showy.

On this date over a year ago, my friend Devin Rench and I drove down to UCSD for the American premiere of a seminal work by the experimental composer John Cage, the Freeman Etudes I-XVI. Devin and I had long been partisans of this adventurous and intellectually challenging composer, and could not pass up the opportunity to be present at this premiere, especially as performed by such a renowned artist as violinist Janos Negyesy.

It was roughly 7:30 PM when we arrived. There had been a festival earlier that day, and people still swarmed around the parking lot. Devin managed to find a parking place, and then we strolled down to Mandeville Auditorium. Soon, we were sitting in the front row of the semi-darkened hall, discussing Cage and awaiting the performance. The audience itself was worthy of attention: a bewildering assortment of punks, normal students, aging hippies, grandmothers in shawls, and professors. It was heartening to see such a diverse audience joined by a common interest in new music.

Negyesy came on stage fifteen minutes late, but his appearance in itself was worth the wait. Negyesy, a dignified man of about 50, was dressed in a blue cotton shirt, dark blue vinyl pants, and black boots; he wore, in addition, eyeliner, lipstick, and blush. He was certainly a striking apparition.

Negyesy touched off a stopwatch, elevated his violin, and the music started — eighty minutes of it, with no intermission. The score had been created by overlaying transparent paper on star maps, and then transferring the dots — with the help of the ancient Chinese book of divination, the I-Ching — onto manuscript paper. Dynamics and other such modifiers were later added through additional I-Ching coin tosses.

As could be expected, the music was hardly conventional. There was no melody, no rhythm, no phrasing. Instead, what one heard was a collection of random tones, noises, and chords, some long, some short, separated by silences of varying length.

I thought to myself, “Well, this will all be very intriguing for five minutes or so, but I don’t know if I can take eighty minutes of it.”

However, the piece began to exercise a special hold. Each note — since there were no phrases — took on the intensity of a phrase. It was as though a whole, extremely meaningful phrase were condensed into a single note or aggregate. As can be imagined, then, the Freeman Etudes had a unique concentration and intensity, especially with the visual complement of Negyesy’s electric, exciting playing. In fact, the music became incredibly moving, with each note existing for a second (or more, or less), then only to vanish, never to be heard in the same way again. Devin and I found it at once saddening and inspiring — saddening in that the disappearance of each sound was akin to a death, but inspiring in that the stream of isolated notes continued anyway, dissimilar tones and noises joined in the construction of this great edifice of sound.

Then the piece was over. The time had passed very quickly, but paradoxically, slowly as well, an effect difficult to describe. And, curiously, throughout the piece I was never sure if I liked it or not — judgment of the work had not, as usually is the case, entered into my perception of it.

Negyesy looked up; there was a moment of silence. Then Devin and I stood and led a solemn standing ovation. Negyesy bowed several times, then left; the applause dwindled; the lights went up.

I realized now that my legs were shaking, and that I could not speak more than a few incoherent phrases. I murmured, “My God, my God —” repeatedly under my breath as I wandered about aimlessly, quivering. Devin also found it difficult to speak. Finally, we managed to direct ourselves to the car, still overwhelmed. On the way back, I almost burst into tears, but stemmed this impulse, by bursting into wild laughter, in which Devin joined me. Freeman Etudes was certainly an experience of intensity which has not yet been equalled again in my life.

But how does it qualify as a moment of glory? Well, perhaps my interpretation of this cliche is different from the intended one. However, Freeman Etudes induced a truly glorious sensation, and also changed my perception of art (and life) in a “glorious” way. I am, largely thanks to John Cage, more willing to hear beauty in any sound, and, consequently, am more able to find beauty in everyday life. In addition, the example of perseverance offered by Cage’s heroic notes is one that I often refer to. Thus, I can say that May 10, 1985, presented me with a true, personal shining moment of glory.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Matt Isom
• Age 14
• Morse High School
• San Diego

As soon as I left the house that morning, I was destined for trouble.

On the way to school, I put on my buttons. Most of these were miscellaneous symbols of bands, but one stood out. “Too Drunk To Fuck,” it read. This was, of course, the name of a Dead Kennedys song, but it was also a potentially funny and potentially offensive phrase on its own. I liked both of these aspects.

My friends loved the button.

Many had never heard the song (or even knew who the Dead Kennedys were), but they still understood it. They laughed, and so did I. None of my teachers saw the button. At least, none of them saw the button until I pointed it out to them.

Advertising the fact that you are wearing an article of clothing with a profane statement on it in the presence of a teacher is like walking into a police station with a smoking gun. It is asking for trouble. In fact, the very term “asking for trouble” probably has its origins in such an act. I’m not stupid. The chain of events which led to my getting caught was much more complicated.

I was sitting in science class. It was an “advanced” class of some sort, the type in which school superintendants are prone to enter when visiting the school. But the name “advanced class” says little about student character. In a stereotypical advanced class, a bunch of nerdy kids sit around and compare statistical analyses, the accuracy of which they are all absolutely aware of. My advanced class was a party. I told jokes. People laughed. The teacher told me to be quiet. I flipped the teacher off. This was a good arrangement, and it is typical of advanced classes (see where your tax dollars go?).

My teacher was Mister B. I’d put his whole name down but he would probably hunt me down and kill me. Suffice it to say that Mister B had (and has, disregarding correctional surgery, which is not a bad idea for Mister B) curly hair (or “nappy,” as I more commonly reffered to it) and a bulbous nose with a big red knob on the end. Mister B and I got along well, excepting certain instances when I flipped him off, and the times he would conspire against me with the aid of other teachers. Come to think of it, we got along rather poorly.

One day, a certain school superintendant paid a visit to the class. Mister B, somewhat unnerved (teachers were without a contract at the time and the superintendent was taking much of the blame), asked me to tell the superintendant my “joke of the day”. I never had a “joke of the day”. I told lots of jokes every day. On top of that, I was too busy trying to conceal my rather conspicuous button to think of anything particularly witty to say. As I shifted my body in an attempt to hide the button, the superintendant tilted his head, as if to read it. Fearfully, I blurted “No joke today. Mister B! If I did have one, it would be in really poor taste about the space shuttle Challenger or... or the ... ”

“Or the teachers’ contracts!!!” yelled somebody. I wished I had thought of that. To make up for missing such a golden opportunity.

I told a really funny joke about the teachers’ contracts which now defies my memory. Somewhat disgruntled, the superintendant left the classroom. I sighed a breath of relief.

“What was the problem. Matt?” asked Mister B.

“Nothing, I was just trying to keep him from reading my buttons.”

“Oh, I see. What are they? Ah, let’s see. ‘Dead Kennedys ... In God We Trust Incorporated ... what’s this one? Too Drunk To... Fuck? I know this isn't the cool thing to do. Matt, but I’m going to have to confiscate that one.”

“What the...”

“Come on, give it to me.

As I removed the button and handed it to Mister B with disdain, the class moaned and booed. They were on my side. I flipped Mister B off. Later, he refused to return it to me, forcing me to “reclaim” it. He never noticed.

I still have my “Too Drunk To Fuck” button, but I don’t wear it as much, because I intend to keep it.

HONORABLE MENTION

• Laura Goldberg
• Age 15
• School of Creative and Performing Arts
• Mira Mesa

My entire life is one continuously embarrassing moment. If I’m not walking into a pole or tripping over invisible objects. I’ll be busy setting myself up for a truly mortifying experience. Such was the case last June at La Jolla Shores. This was one incident that would keep my face flushed for the rest of the summer.

It was one week before the end of my sophomore year, and I actually believed I was going to graduate without having something. humiliating happen to me.

Nothing too embarrasing had happened for a few weeks and I thought, if my luck would just hold out, I could make it through the end of the year without being made a fool of. Sure, keep dreaming.

My best friends, “Kim and Cathy,” wanted to celebrate the end of the school year by getting a few people together and going down to La Jolla Shores.

Since none of us had our driver’s licenses yet, we thought it would be a good idea to go afterschool on one of the school buses. We decided to ride one with a stop on its route that was near the Shores.

With our mode of transportation out of the way, all we had left to do was figure out who we should invite to go with us. At the time, I had a massive crush on an absolute dreamboat named Jeff. Of course, he had absolutely no idea of my existence and I thought I would die if I couldn’t snag him for my boyfriend by the end of the year.

“This calls for drastic measures,” I thought.

Then it hit me, “invite him to the beach party! If parading around in front of him in a swimsuit doesn’t get his attention, I might as well join a convent!”

There was only one problem with that plan, exactly how likely would it be for him to accept a party invitation from a total stranger? I couldn’t just walk up to him and say, “Hi! I know you don’t know me, but I’m madly in lust with you and I want you to come to a beach party with me.”

I mean, come on! That’s just a little too rude, don’t you think? Therefore, I came up with a more subtle plan, get Kim or Cathy to invite him since they were already friends with him. Needless to say, they agreed with my proposal and got him to come to the party. Unfortunately, there was a hitch attached to all this. He wouldn’t come if his friend, Brian, wasn’t invited also.

If I had had any brains, I would have just said, “forget it!”, and gone off in search of another guy to pine over. But, ohh-nooo! I was so desperate for Jeff, I was willing to undergo any torture to get him, even Brian.

What I loved most about Jeff was his sense of humor. No matter what the situation was, he could make it seem hilarious. Brian, on the other hand, was not as congenial as Jeff. He had the gift for laughter also, but his talent lay in getting laughs at other people’s expense, especially mine. Chaos erupted between us every time we were within twenty feet of each other. Each of us trying to get the better of the other.

Despite this, I decided to make the supreme sacrifice and allowed Brian to come. That was my biggest mistake.

The second mistake I made was to bring my swimsuit to school in a clothes bag so I could change in the bathroom at school before going to the beach. I should have realized that once I had removed my “feminine undergarments” and placed them in the bag, they would be fair game for any curious passerby to examine.

My third mistake was to start talking to Brian once our little group had gotten on the bus. By the time we got off at the Shores, Brian and I were at each other’s throats!

“Hey Sandy, is that a zit on your face or did Mt. Saint Helens just relocate there?”

That did it. I couldn’t stand having Brian insult me like that anymore.

“Why don’t you just shut up and leave me alone!” I screamed.

I was so mad, my face turned beet-red and my cheeks puffed out. Brian and Jeff cracked up. Watching Jeff laugh so heartily at my plight brought tears to my eyes. I thought I would start sobbing any minute.

Fortunately, Kim came to my rescue and suggested we all go swimming for awhile. Everyone stripped down to their bathing suits and charged towards the water. Two seconds later, we all came charging back up the beach like bats-out-of-hell, chilled to the bone.

“Jeez,” Cathy exclaimed, “The water’s freezing!”

“It’s even colder out here!” I turned towards Jeff, “How can you stand just wearing those swimshorts?”

Jeff gave me a blank look while he answered my question.

“I brought a pair of sweatpants along just in case it got too cold.” Regardless of the impassive tone in his reply, I beamed at him while he said it. Finally! He was actually talking to me! Just as I was about to launch into a major flirtational assault, Cathy declares she’s in desperate need of a coke.

“Will somebody come with me to the store?” she asked.

Gentlemen that they were, Brian and Jeff graciously offered to accompany Cathy in her search for a convenience store, I wasn’t about to let Cathy’s untimely desire for some refreshments ruin my only chance at getting to know Jeff, so I decided to join them. I should have counted on Brian to thwart my plans once again, because as I stood up he snapped, “Sit back down. Somebody has to watch our stuff.” Seeing the devastated look on my face, Kim tried to console me.

“Stay here and keep me company, Sandy. We can watch the surfers while they're gone.”

The trio was gone for over an hour and all I could do was worry about what horrible things Brian was telling Jeff about me. I thought I had blown it with him, for sure. Nothing worse could happen ... or so I thought. But, Murphy’s Law was waiting right around the corner, ready to deal me the final, devastating blow.

As the beach temperature dropped below zero, I found myself shivering in my skimpy swimsuit. Then the devil himself came to me and whispered in my ear, “Sandy, wouldn’t it be a great idea if you put on Jeffs sweatpants? Just think about how warm you would feel.” Now who could say no to such a bewitching prospect?

I didn’t give it a second thought that Jeff might object, I just assumed he would politely ask for his pants back. Believe me. I’ll never assume anything again for the rest of my days.

When the trio returned. Jeff didn’t even seem to notice my apparel. We all just sat around for a few minutes and made small talk, until Brian drew Jeff away from our crowd to whisper in his ear. Then they both excused themselves to use the restroom and promptly returned, one minute later, with a slightly altered appearance. As I glanced up at Jeff, I felt my jaw drop to the sand and my eyes bulge out of my head. There, on a public beach in broad daylight, with my closest friends (and one despicable enemy) watching, stood Jeff, clad in a tank top, swimshorts, and My BRA strapped across his chest.

Obviously, my attempts at drowning myself failed and so did my hopes of ever dating Jeff. However, there are still many more fish in the sea and I intend to keep on fishing until I make the “perfect” catch! One last thing I do know, you’ll never catch me and my bra separated again!

NOTEWORTHY

• Nicki Sucec
• Age 17
• San Diego High School,
• San Diego

There’s a few people in this world like Dave running around. I’m sure you’ve probably encountered one before. Dave is the type of guy who goes around pretending he knows everything, but doesn’t, and can make anyone believe he does with his smooth talk. He’s the type of guy who isn’t really good-looking, but doesn’t have to be because he’s got this charm about him that no one who’s not wise to him, can resist. He’s the type of guy that kisses a girl’s hand without seeming corny (at least to her anyway) and the kinda guy that doesn’t do half of what he’s supposed to do, but gets credit for doing all of it. Yep. Daves are the sweet talkers of the world.

Well anyway, awhile back, I unfortunately had the bad luck of meeting Dave. And even more unfortunately, falling for his act. In a matter of weeks I thought I loved the guy and I didn’t even get mad when he didn’t call, when he was late, or when I had to sit around all night wondering where the hell he was or who the hell he was with. That’s how taken in I was by him.

He got all “F’”s in high school and ending up taking the test to get out and barely passed, but even so, he was able to get a job paying $7.00 an hour at a theater because a buddy of his pulled a few strings for him.

I remember one time when the head manager of the theater called him into his office. Dave had been stealing money from the company. The workers were supposed to take inventory by the amount of popcorn containers; every one less container from the beginning of the night to the end was one they had sold. So what Dave did, was when the manager wasn’t looking he would go into the theater after the first showing was over, collect the empty popcorn containers, resell them, and then he would pocket the money he had made from selling them the first time. And when they took inventory, the containers would still be there and no one would suspect a thing. Well, I guess he started doing it too much because the movie company noticed the profit decrease and he got called in. His manager called him into his office and told him that the head manager had come to speak to him. In a couple minutes the head manager arrived and asked the assistant manager to please leave the room. By this time Dave was sure he was caught. “Well Dave,” the manager said. “The reason I have asked to speak with you is because there has been some stealing going on around here.”

“Yep,” Dave thought to himself, “I knew it.” Then the head manager continued, “And your manager has informed me that you are a very conscientious worker and deserve to be congratulated, so I’m asking you to keep an eye out for whoever’s been stealing, and I’ll make sure you get the credit you deserve.” The next week Dave got a two-dollar raise.

That’s the way his life was. He always got out of impossible situations without any trouble, and some how managed to come out better than when he started. He was the best of the con-artists and wasn’t at all afraid to use other people. Why should he be, he had no scruples.

He was always bragging about all the cool things he’d done and how he tricked so and so, or made Joe Smoo look dumb. He did everything wrong and never got caught. Just when you’d think you were about to trick him or he was about to make a complete fool of himself, he’d get saved. It was like God was always watching him and reached his hand out to catch him every time he was about to fall.

That is, every time, but once. And believe me, once was enough!

It was Christmas Eve and I was sitting at home waiting patiently for Dave to arrive (he was already more than an hour late) and finally the doorbell rang. I opened the door and there he was with his best buddy (or at least Dave thought so) standing on the porch all bundled up (far more than you need to be during winter in San Diego) with presents in hands yelping “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” in his horrible voice that he knew was terrible but didn’t care what anyone else thought so he yelped anyway. I thought, “How Charming” and of course my parents ate it right up. They came in and sat down around the fire. We all talked and laughed for awhile, ate some food, and then opened presents. I won’t say anything more about the presents except that I wasn’t exactly surprised when after he opened up the silver lighter and the tie I gave him, I unwrapped the record he gave me and the first thing I saw was a bright red sticker that read, THE NICE PRICE.

Dave’s friend had never seen my house before so I showed them around. The whole while Dave cracked jokes about his friend like, “watch out you might stretch out the door when you walk through”, “Watch out you stupid cluts!” And bringing up embarrassing things that happened to the poor guy years ago that you could just tell he told everyone when they first met the guy. “Remember the time you peed your pants in front of the whole school...” The poor guy tried to joke back, but just never seemed to be able to top Dave’s cutdowns. No one could.

So finally the three of us went out into the backyard. The yard had two different levels, one all cement with a garage, trees, and a jacuzzi, and a lower one with grass, more trees, and even further back was a treehouse that our family had built. Usually we took the path that led to the steps to get down to the lower level, but it was shorter to jump off the wall so I decided to take that way. Well, it was kinda dark and I thought they heard me when I warned them about the four-foot drop, but apparently Dave’s friend didn’t because he fell flat on his face. Man, did Dave laugh his ass off. And man, did I feel bad. The whole rest of the night Dave wouldn’t shut up about it. So the poor guy brushed himself off as we walked up the steps back to the house. Of course Dave was still laughing, and his buddy was sticking to the path like glue and not saying a word. I was pretty quiet too, just listening to Dave crack his jokes- “Can you believe he did that ... Oh my ....Ah ha.” “Can’t even find his way through someone’s backyard,... Ah ha ... ” when suddenly I heard a loud SPLASH! I knew exactly what had happened. The first thing I thought to myself was “Oh no, the poor guy, not again.” I was afraid to turn around, but when I did there was Dave standing in his drenched parka, shoes and all, soaking wet in the middle of the jacuzzi. There it was — Dave’s embarrassing incident and mine and his friend’s Shining Moment of Glory. Man, what a night to remember. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who did.

Oh incidentally, later that night I finally found out what Dave’s buddy’s name was. Ironically enough, it was Dave. Even though after seeing that NICE PRICE sticker tonight I swore I’d never go out with another Dave, that night I made an exception. □

NOTEWORTHY

• James Marlin
• Age 16
• Mission Bay High School
• Pacific Beach

It can be accurately stated that the most embarrassing time in my life was what I went through after I had shaved my eyebrows off.

It was June, 1983. There were two weeks of school left. I was in the house by myself thinking about what I would do. Then it came to me. “Do something daring,” I thought to myself. So, that I did. I went into the bathroom and shaved my eyebrows clear off.

I reasoned, “Just act natural. Maybe she won’t notice.

I looked at myself and thought, “Well, that will shock them.” I then walked into the living room and turned on the television set, and enjoyed a half hour of leisure. Obviously, the effects of what I had done had not set into my mind yet.

Then, all of a sudden, I heard my mother’s car drive up. A huge sense of panic ran through my mind, like a herd of elephants running through it.

There she was, walking up to the porch. Quickly, and as quietly as I could, I raced out into the back yard and over to the side of my house. Now was when the horror hit me. “What have I done!” I gasped. Then I reasoned, “Okay, just act natural; maybe she won’t notice ” So, back into the house I walked. As I saw my mother standing there, I froze.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Dumping the trash,” I replied, smiling as honestly as possible.

Then I knew I had been caught.

Her eyes darted right to where my eyebrows had once been.

“What happened to your eyebrows?” she asked, with a half surprised, one fourth angry, and one fourth disgusted tone.

I lied again; “Nothing.”

“Is that why they’re not there anymore?” she asked.

“Well, okay, I shaved them off,” I replied.

After that, I heard a nice long lecture about how stupid it was to shave my eyebrows off, and how I might not ever look the same. Little was I to know that this was to be the first event of the longest two weeks that I might ever live.

The weekend. I noticed, seemed unusually long; especially at the dinner table. Every one would sit there and stare at me for what seemed to be an eternity. I was mortified.

The following morning I went through all of my classes and nobody said a thing. Although there was no confrontation, I still felt as though everybody in the world was staring at me. It was terribly embarrassing. Whenever I walked by a group of kids and they were laughing, I would turn red enough to make any lobster green with envy.

Along with the embarrassment of what I had done, went the knowledge of the stupidity of what I had done.

Therefore, I made up another “cute” little lie, and rehearsed it about a hundred times to myself.

“Oh, I wasn’t born with eyebrows.” When I think back about that statement, I think,

“What a joke!”

I was very fortunate indeed that I had thought up that little saying when I did. Namely, because about three days later someone asked me what had happened to my eyebrows. Actually, there were about five people who asked me the same question. To all, the same answer, “I never had any.”

Those were what made up the most embarrassing moments of my life. □

NOTEWORTHY

• Joe Horiye
• Age 17
• Madison High School
• Clairemont

The early morning was cold and dark. There was no sun to brighten up the day, but as I looked across the Oceanside Pier and stared into the magnificent ocean, my heart grew warm, for my grandfather was at my side and I loved him very much. He was teaching me how to fish. And even though I wasn't too enthusiastic about the idea at the time, his presence seemed to have made all the difference in the world. I learned quite a bit from that special man. He would have given me the world if he could have. And maybe because of the many treasures we uncovered together, he didn't fail in granting me the world, for I gained something just as valuable as the universe, or perhaps even greater, the meaning of love. I might have only been nine years old at the time, but the lesson I learned that one chilly morning will stay with me forever.

After my grandfather had baited the hooks and casted them into the sea, he handed me a pole and said, “Now don’t be too discouraged if you don’t catch a fish today. It’s not as easy as you think it is.”

“I’ll catch one ” I quickly answered.

"That’s exactly what I told my father the first time he took me fishing...”

“And did you catch one?” I interrupted.

My grandfather’s eyes began to water, but he had a pleasant smile upon his face. His eyes closed and when they reopened, he spoke. “Indeed, I did ... ” He giggled a little.

“And then what happened?” I questioned.

“My father gave me a big hug and he told me that he loved me.” ‘And then what?” I begged.

“And then I realized that my father really was proud of me and that he did love me.”

“What do you mean, really was?”

I asked.

“Don’t worry about it. I was just a child then and it’s sorta funny when you come to think of it.”

I stared into the darkness, hoping that somebody would be listening to my prayers, for I wanted to catch a fish. I didn’t want to catch one of those beautiful sea creatures for myself though. I wanted to catch one for my grandfather, to please him and make him proud of me.

For some reason, probably because of the story I had just heard, I felt as if I was being tested. And this was one examination I didn’t want to fail, because I couldn't bear the possibility of losing my grandfather’s love. I had to catch a fish. It was the only way that I could keep him and his caring heart. Besides, when somebody shares his love with you, it’s your duty to give some back, for true relationships consist of individuals who have considered their part in the give and take ratio.

Two hours had passed and the sun was beginning to awaken. Streaks of light now reflected off the water’s surface, and the sea of emptiness suddenly changed into a sea of possibilities. I still hadn't managed to achieve my certain goal, but things seemed to be changing for the better, at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

Everything seemed to be going okay, but when I noticed my grandfather reeling in the lines, my heart suddenly sank.

“I’m not going!” I yelled as I frowned at the ocean.

“It’s time to go, Joe.” He patted my head. “Better luck next time. We better get home before the sun comes up. I'm sure that your grandmother is preparing you a special breakfast.’*

I grabbed the railing with my hands and clenched the pier like I had never done before. I wasn't about to leave. “I’m not going!" I yelled as I frowned at the ocean.

“Why not?” Grandfather asked.

“Because I didn’t catch a fish!

“Now Joe, I told you not to get too disappointed. You’ll catch one next time. Besides, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s not important.”

“It is important!” I said as tears came to my eyes. “It’s very important!”

I couldn't believe the energy that was channeling through my body. I fiercely pounded my feet into the hard wooden planks and I began to cry. I was about ready to scream, but my grandfather stopped me. He placed his hand upon mine and asked, “Now, what are you crying for?”

“Because ... Because I didn't catch a fish.”

“That’s nothing to cry about.” “Yes, it is!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Why?”

“I wanted to catch a fish for you because I wanted to make you proud of me. I just want you to keep loving me, because I love you.”

“And what makes you so sure that I don’t love you, or that I’m going to stop loving you?”

“Because I didn’t make you proud of me today, and I won't be getting my report card until another three weeks, so you won't have a reason to love me.”

“Joe, you listen to me, and you listen to me good. I love you. and I don't need a reason to care about you. It doesn't matter to me if you get good grades, or catch a fish, because I’m already proud of you. I’m proud to be your grandfather. You've made me a very happy man. I get to share things with you that I'll probably never share with anyone else. You'll always have a special place in my heart.”

“But you’ve given me so much. I owe you... “

“All that you owe me is your love, and believe me, your heart has already brought me much happiness. You don’t have to win me over, because love isn’t a competition. It's a feeling. A special message from the heart. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?” I nodded, and he finished, “Now come here and give me a hug.”

I quickly embraced my grandfather and I felt his magical touch. “I love you.” I whispered in his ear.

We stayed to watch the sunset. It was a gorgeous sight. The sky was clear and the water was calm. Everything was perfect. It was as if the sky and the sea had combined energies to form one heavenly body. I can’t really describe what I saw any better than that, but I know that’s exactly how I felt about my grandfather, as if we had become one.

“It’s almost funny.” He said.

“What is?”

“How things pass from one generation to the next, certain teachings and ideas ”

I understand what he meant by that, and I answered, 'Teach me more grandfather.” I’ve never had a better teacher since.

This was my shining moment of glory because I realized that I didn’t have to do something terrific or be somebody I wasn’t to be loved. All I had to do was be myself. At the age of nine, I saw the light.

NOTEWORTHY

• Stacy Lynn Cooper
• Age 13
• Mar Vista Middle School,
• San Diego

My most truly embarrassing moment in my life was when I made a speech on my sixth grade graduation day.

Such as, my leg bounced up and down, I couldn't talk, and I was very clumsy.

Throughout the entire speech my leg bounced up and down. For example, I tried to hold it down but it kept on bouncing. For instance, I put my foot on the other foot but it still wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop no matter what I did. Another example is everyone in the audience was looking at my leg and trying not to laugh. Even my friends had their hands over their mouths so they wouldn’t burst out laughing.

I was so nervous my body and voice wouldn’t cooperate. For instance, when 1 looked out at the audience my eyes popped out of my head. They were so big it looked like I was dying! However, my eyes were very dry but I didn't blink.

My voice squeaked and people couldn't understand what I was saying. It kept cracking and I had a lump in my throat but the lump still i wouldn’t go away.

At the end of my speech I almost fell down the stairs. In particular, as I finished and tried to walk away my body wouldn’t move. It felt as if I tried to walk my knees would give out. Finally, when my body did move, it moved so fast I forgot about the steps. As I quickly walked away my heels got caught on the edge of the stairs. At the same time, I managed to move my heels away before I fell. Then I ran down the last step to my seat.

To sum it up, it was the most embarrassing and humiliating time of my life. But now when I think back to this day I think it is hilarious. □

NOTEWORTHY

• Krista Butler
• Age 16
• Mission Bay High School,
• Pacific Beach

The first day of the best year of my life” I thought as I got into my new car and put the key into the ignition of my brand new bright red Thunderbird. My parents had bought it for me just two weeks before and now I was about to drive it to school on the first day of my junior year. I can’t wait to see all my friends. They’re all going to be so jealous. Half of them don’t even have a car, much less a brand new bright red Thunderbird. I turned the key and put my foot on the gas. The purr of the engine sounded like nothing I’d ever heard before. It was soft yet powerful. I glanced into my rearview mirror and slowly pulled out into the street.

I drove down Diamond, turned left on Cass, and left again onto Grand Avenue. I was almost there — Mission Bay High School. As I got closer, the traffic got heavier, there had been some sort of accident. I didn’t want to get stuck in all that bumper to bumper traffic so I turned right on one of the side streets. I turned left at the first corner and went straight for a block and then stopped at a stop sign. There was only one car coming and it was turning right, (or so I thought) I took my foot off the brake and pulled out into the intersection when all of a sudden the car that had its right turn signal on went straight and hit my brand new car! I was terribly shaken up when I climbed out of my car and looked at where I had been hit. My front left fender was totaled. It was one big giant dent. The other car was an old beat up rusty Datsun which wasn’t damaged at all. The woman driving it got out and asked me if I was all right. “Yes, I’m all right, but look at what you did to my car!!’’ I said, half yelling and half crying. “Im sorry’’ she said “but I'm afraid that it was your fault.” Her voice was calm. “My fault?!?” I yelled “you’re the one who hit me!” “yes, but you had a stop sign,” she said beginning to get a little agitated. “I know, I stopped at it!!!”, I screamed right into her face “and besides you had your right hand signal on, turkey,” I snarled at her.

By this time, people had begun to gather around, staring at us and listening to us. Someone came up to me and asked if she should call the police. “No,” said the woman who was driving the Datsun. “I’ve got to get to work and I don’t have time to sit here and wait for the police”

“That’s fine” I said “I’ve got to get to school, but I do want your name, address, and telephone number,” I told her, trying to stay calm. “And I want yours” she said, obviously upset. I reached into the backseat of my car and took out a pad of paper and a pen and handed it to her. She wrote down the information that I asked for and handed everything back to me. I did the same for her and handed her the piece of paper. I threw the stuff into the backseat of my car. “You’ll be hearing from me soon!” I said as I got into my car. “I’m sure I will”, she said trying to restrain herself.

I turned the key in the ignition and drove to school. When I got there I was so upset that I didn’t want to see anyone. I went straight to the office and got my schedule. I looked at it; it seemed to be correct. I had American Literature first period. I looked at my watch and saw that it was five till eight; I had spent over half an hour talking to that witch who hit my car. I had to run to class so that I wouldn’t be late. The door to the room was open. I walked in and looked for the teacher. Oh my God, I said almost out loud when I saw who the teacher was.

I looked down at my schedule to make sure I was in the right class. I was and the teacher, Mrs. Swill was the woman who hit me on the way to school. I hadn’t even bothered to look at the name on the paper she had given me, and now it was too late. She saw me, what will I do? I thought to my self, but before I could do anything she walked over to me and asked me if I was in this class. When I said yes she just looked at me and said that she hoped that I was ready to work hard this year and then she turned around and walked back to her desk at the front of the room and sat down. I couldn’t believe that I had said all those things to my American Lit. teacher. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my entire life.

NOTEWORTHY

• Rick Bonner
• Age 17
• Patrick Henry High School,
• East San Diego

Highschool. This place has been the site of many disappointments for me. Most of my disappointments appear at regular intervals of six weeks. Yep, you guessed it, every six weeks we get progress reports, or my case, failure reports. It seems that all the fun things to do start to happen that weekend after progress reports. But since I have the problem of getting bad ones, I am unable to attend all the festivities. But one thing turned my life around, and to my surprise, it helped me get a good progress report. .

I am an athlete at Patrick Henry High. I am lazy, and seldom do my homework. But I do have some high points in my lethargic day to day struggle against employees of the San Diego Unified School District. Usually during the first six weeks of school, I try to get feel of the teachers around campus and find the easy ones to prey upon. In doing so, I end up getting behind in my studies, and fail the first six weeks. But at the beginning of the year, I hung around some of the guys on the basketball team. They were a neat bunch of guys who had their priorities in order. Being a good student first, and basketball second. They all had good grade point averages, and I kind of felt left out when it came to talking about school work. They were a prestigious group of gentlemen that were popular on campus, and were known by mostly all the females of the good looking gender.

I wanted to be a part of this elite force on campus, and to do it, I had to try out for the basketball team. But I had one problem. You see, in high school athletics, you must attain and hold at least a C average, or in numerical terms, a 2.0. My grade point average was somewhere in the negative 2.0 area. So I made up my mind, that I would work to the utmost of my ability to attain the required GPA and then try out for the basketball team.

I started out fresh on the next six weeks by signing up for some tutoring after school. Algebra, and history were my weakest subjects, so that’s where I started. While uowas making arrangements at school, my mother was make some of her own at home. She started by taking away my phone, radio, and my only link to civilization, the television. The only thing that was left in my room was my bed, desk, and a small flourescent lamp. The six weeks seemed to last an eternity. I had long hours of tutoring, and endless nights of studying.

Although the road was rough, it started making changes in me that both my parents and teachers noticed. My class behavior began to improve, my test scores went up, and the most amazing thing was that I was turning in my homework on time. Day and night, night and day I struggled to make the grade, until the day finally came.

The progress reports came without warning, and many people were caught off guard. I was prepared. I received a B and a C from my first two teachers, which was followed by an A in art, a C in algebra, a B+ in history, and an A in Gym. Can you believe it? I couldn’t, to tell the truth, I was stunned out of my pants. I actually had a B average. What a relief. All that work actually paid off, and I was ready for basketball.

The coach asked to see our report cards, and I ran up like an anxious child so he could see mine first. He was impressed. The tryouts were rigourous, and I thought that I would die before those four days were over. I made the first three cuts, and was anxious to see if I was on the final list. At first, I didn’t see my name, but there, next to last, was my name. I felt the highest natural high you could get when I saw my name. I rushed home, told my parents the great news, and celebrated with my long lost friend, the television.

NOTEWORTHY

• Stephanie Celin
• Age 15
• San Dieguito High School
• Encinitas

The time I wore a costume to a Halloween dance when everyone else was in normal clothes was a truly embarrassing moment for me. I was in the seventh grade at the time and it was the first junior high school dance I had been to. The friends I was going with were in the same situation, so we were all excited and we constantly talked about the upcoming event. About a week before the dance, I suggested to my friends that we wear costumes.

They thought it was a very stupid idea. So I decided there was no question that I was going to wear a costume. Until I talked to my mother.

When I got home from school, the day of the dance, I found my mother putting the finishing touches on my costume. The costume was of a Victorian woman. It consisted of a long scratchy olive green skirt, with an itchy off white lace blouse, and midcalf leather boots that were a size too small for me. It was not the most comfortable costume I have worn. When I told my mother no one I knew was going to dress in costumes for the dance, she thought it was ridiculous. “It is a Halloween dance! Why wouldn’t you wear a costume?”

I thought about what she said and admitted that it was a little absurd. Again, I changed my mind to wearing the costume. I thought for sure some other people would be wearing costumes too. Was I wrong!

As my parents were driving me up to the dance, I tried to find someone who was wearing a costume. I had no such luck. I then started to get nervous. I got extremely hot and sweaty. I kept wiping the palms of my hands on my skirt. When we arrived at the front of the school auditorium, I froze. I got enough courage to get out of the car, when my mother opened the door. When I did, I found everyone to be giving me a snotty glare. I turned back to my parents and pleaded to them to take me home. My step father told me to remain at the dance because maybe some other people dressed up. I agreed to stay and walked off to the line waiting outside the dance.

When I went up to the line, I saw no one to be wearing any sort of a costume. I really got afraid.

People started to come up to me and say sarcastic remarks about my outfit. For an example, one girl asked me if I was in the wrong century. As more criticisms came, the more my eyes filled up with tears of embarrassement.

When my friends found me, I was just about at the point of crying. They asked me why I dressed up for the dance. I could feel a tear roll down my face. I wiped my face with one of my sleeves and my eyes filled up again. I told why I did it and that I wanted to go home. One of my friends loaned me a quarter and I called my parents. My mother answered the phone and I told her to pick me up immediately. She asked if I could just stay there until the dance was over but I said I could not because of my embarrassment. Then I started to bawl. My mother told me to calm down and she would pick me up shortly.

When my mother came, I was very humiliated. She took me home and I contemplated if I wanted to go back to the dance. What if people remember I was the one wearing the costume? What if I get teased? I decided to go back, but this time in normal clothes.

When I got back to the dance, no one noticed or said anything. In fact, no one said anything about what happened at the dance until a week after. I was relieved for that.

Two years later, when I was in the ninth grade, I went to the Halloween dance. I saw a girl dressed as a baby. She had a look of nervousness on her face. She reminded me of the time I dressed up for the same dance in seventh grade. That truly was an embarrassing moment in my life.

NOTEWORTHY

• Yvonne Veia
• Age 16
• Mountain Empire High School
• Pine Valley

I thought it was the last day of my life, not because I thought I was going to die, because I didn’t, but because I didn’t want to go threw the rest of my life with one leg. I wondered would my friends still be my friends? Would my best friend still be my best friend? Would some kids be scared of me?

You see the day the doctor told me I had cancer, and I’d have to have my leg amputated, I knew things were going to change. See this is the type of thing that always happens to somebody else, never you, but in this case it did happen to me. I was scared, scared of what life would be different than everybody else.

When something like this happens to you, you start to remember all the things you took for granted before. Not big things just little everyday things. I know that one day I’ll be doing all those things agin with no problem, and I know that what happened to me isn’t really that bad. Its something I can live with, because I remember that there is always somebody in the world that is worse off than me.

The day my best friend came over for the first time since my leg was amputated, I was kind of nervous, and I kept wondering what she was thinking, she acted the same like if nothing ever happened, so I guessed she really didn’t care how I looked, I was the same person inside and she new it.

All my old friends are still my old friends, and treat me the same. They don't treat me different because I have one leg, maybe they help me a little more than they would somebody else, and I am grateful for that. And there were some kids that didn’t want to see me because they said they didn’t ' like to see sick people, but after they saw me and saw I was the same person they felt comfortable with me.

By January I should be done with chemotherapy, and I am very happy and scared at the same time, I am scared my cancer will come back. Before if somebody said they had cancer I thought they would die, but now I no thats not true, I know that people do beat cancer, and I also no that Im going to be one of them persons, so I guess my shining moment of glory is my last chemotherapy treatment. □

NOTEWORTHY

• David C. Rice
• Age 15
• Helix High School,
• La Mesa

I guess in all little boys’ lives there is a girl, a girl who in their eyes, has no equal!

I was in the seventh grade, and my whole life was changing. Not only was I being introduced to the new world of junior high, where imaginative eighth graders put thoughts of taskmaster teachers into our heads, but even so, I noticed how wonderfully attractive one particular girl was. Slowly, but surely, my heart started to beat faster and faster until reached the wonderful level of PUPPY LOVE, at which every thought and action reminded me of her.

On the whole, most boys find a “cool” way of meeting girls they like, and then, later, make a mistake. I did it in reverse! Leaving the “cool” out respectively, I wrote a letter. Big, big mistake! The letter was roughly two pages, consisting of how long I had played soccer and how much I liked basketball — and other things girls could care less about.

My mistake? I took the letter to school. My best friend got hold of it because I foolishly told him I brought it school and it was in my locker. My best friend and I shared that locker and when I went to lunch early, he took it from my folder.

Lunch, that day, was its everyday normal routine. Our little group'sat at our usual table. We would try to trade whatever we had in our lunches for, hopefully, something better. When we finished, I expected all of us to go to the football field, as we always did.

Not this time!

My friend, instead, went over to the-girl-with-whom-I-was-madly-in-love and gave my letter to her. My jaw hit the floor. I saw him pull it out from underneath his shirt and gave it to her. After I ran half way across the school grounds, I looked back, thinking, “Maybe it will turn out all right.” I guess “hope” is anoher feeling which enters into a little boy’s life. What I saw was friend after friend gather around the-girl-with-whom-I-was-madly-in-love, and it made my day! Then came the feeling. Oh! God, take me now, and thoughts like where are the earthquakes when you need them.

This was the most embarrassing moment of my life — so far!

NOTEWORTHY

• Darrin Kass
• Age 15
• La Jolla High School,
• La Jolla

In kindergarden, the school I attended was Warren Walker. The teacher that I had was named Mrs. Ramalam. For all of those people who do not believe in witchcraft, they have not met this woman. Not only was she hideous, but she had a wart on the end of her nose. The brutal or slow painful death of this woman would arouse no pity.

On the first day of school Mrs. Ramalam set down a few rules which she thought were vital for the students to follow. The first rule she stated was that every boy was to wear shorts or pants with a zipper.

If any boy was wearing shorts or pants without a zipper without her permission they were to be severely punished. You probably would think that she would not enforce this rule, but this lovely woman did. Every morning right after school started all the boys would line up and she would check for zippers. For those who had no zippers, they sat in the corner all day and were not allowed play time. I, myself, spent many days in the corner and for this reason, Mrs. Ramalam and I started off on bad terms.

The second, and the most important, was that if anyone was caught spitting on something or someone, they would spend the rest of the day spitting in the toilet. Not only did I become acquainted with the corner, but also the toilet. Kindergarten, what a life.

Mrs. Ramalam believed in corporal punishment. Any bad behavior would result in a pull of the hair or the ear. Mrs. Ramalam said that this punishment was only done because, “Mrs. Ramalam loves you all so much.”

On the day of my great glory and honor, all the students were playing with the various toys. It was cleanup time and I was assigned to make sure that everyone was picking up their toys. Everyone was picking up except for one girl, my arch-enemy. She was the other student who wanted to be the person who told everyone to pick up their toys. She had lost the election to me, and held a grudge against me because of it. I told her to pick up and she ran screaming to Mrs. Ramalam saying that I had spit in her face. I pleaded innocent but to no avail. I had to spit in the toilet until the end of the day, but the day had just begun. I had to spit in the toilet for four hours.

In kindergarten I was smart yet very stubborn. All I had to do was apologize to Mrs. Ramalam, the class, and the girl whom I had allegedly spit on. No way was I going to apologize for something that I never did. I was going to spit.

I reached the toilet with sheer determination. I began to spit.

After about an hour and a half my mouth was so dry that it hurt. I realized that I could no longer go on. I was not going to apologize, so I had to figure out some other way. The witch had someone continually check on me so I had to spit, but it finally came to me. I would go to the principal, half crying, and say that even though I was sick, Mrs. Ramalam had made me spit in the toilet for four hours.

My plan worked brilliantly. My fake sickness fooled the principal and the nurse, and my parents were called, meaning that I was going home.

The principal walked me into Mrs. Ramalam’s room. She questioned and yelled at her for what she had done to me. When my parents arrived, I left the room with a big smile on my face.

I lived in pure hell in that classroom for what I had done to Mrs. Ramalam, but it was definitely worth it. The look she had on her face when I left the classroom was one that I will never forget. I will also never forget Mrs. Ramalam, or my moment of great glory. Maybe I will go to the Elysian Fields after all.

ABOUT THE CONTEST

In this issue appear the winners in the teen-age category of the 1986 Reader young people’s writing contest. Included are the first- and second-award winners, five honorable mentions, and several more stories that did not win awards but which we considered especially noteworthy. Next week’s Reader will feature the seven winners in the preteen category and more entries we felt were deserving of publication.

Young people were asked to write stories of unspecified length about either a truly embarrassing incident or a “moment of glory” that took place in San Diego County. The response was enormous; we received 3336 submissions, 1801 of which were written by teens and 1535 by preteens. Boys trailed girls by only a few hundred entries.

The majority of the young writers chose to chronicle an embarrassing moment and did so with surprising frankness. The unselfconscious narration of awful moments (“It was the worst day of my life!” “I wished I was dead!”) resulted in numerous stories the authors claimed never to have confessed outside their families. Most frequently cited episodes involved bladder failures in public (by the hundreds); gaping zippers; the unexpected loss of swimwear in the surf; and graceless falls in a procession, at a restaurant, or in class, with the hapless student taking his or her desk down, too. Missed cues or flubbed lines in a school play and botched recitals sent scores of young authors home in tears. And failed attempts to impress a heartthrob humbled others.

Many contributors said they could now laugh at their agonies, but not all the entries were lighthearted. Some students had been targets of prejudice or bullying; others claimed to have been publicly and unjustly accused by their teachers; and a few traced their own actions to tragic consequences.

Invariably, “moments of glory” occurred through sports — a crucial home run or goal. Winning, whether a school election, a game, or an academic contest, was a frequent theme, as was getting through a much-dreaded performance. In some cases, the glory was found in getting even or in vindication or in a newfound appreciation. We have edited none of the stories; they appear as we received them.

Special thanks are extended to the many teachers throughout San Diego County for their efforts in encouraging their students to participate in this competition. All the stories captivated us, and we sincerely thank every contributor.

Next week: Wet lips, the campaign manager, and more from the Reader's 1986 Young People’s Writing Contest.