The Singing Swing by Clarissa D. (good books to read for teens .TXT) 📕

What Do You Want To Be?


As I brush my hand over my sketch, checking it for any mistakes, Mrs. Dees says to hand the test up. I remember when I first had the idea of my scheme, flipping through a book. The description of a canvas as the child had her own inspiration, as I had mine.
It was a painting of a girl. From the waist up, her hair was a deep black, and you could almost see stars, if you looked hard enough. Her eyes were mysterious blue, and they seemed to have no end, like a bottomless black pit. Her blouse was so lavender, it was as if they were violet tulips freshly picked and seamed together by a careful hand. Below the waist her legs turned blood red, then auburn, then creamy yellow. It looked like it was going down the color wheel. It’s different, that’s the kind of things I like, the unusually different things. For once my mind was at peace, I could actually call myself an artist. I was inspired and I put it on paper, amazingly.
“Cat, give me your paper.” said Chase, with his lips in a tight line and hand stretched out for the paper, clearly irritated with me. He must have been trying to get the paper from me for a while.
Chase and I are best friends for life (BFFL), since ….well, for life. But we both have our images to keep up with. So after school we study together, do projects, and hang out. At school we act like we hate each other.
His finger pointed at the English quiz under my illustration. I slowly pulled it, trying not to make any creases or ruin the complexion, and placed the quiz in his hands, and he wrenched at it, like I was too slow for him.
I was undoubtedly going fail my English test, since I only had one sentence (not even a whole sentence) on my essay. ‘I would like to be a…’ that was all I got. It was supposed to be one of those “What you want to be when you grow up?” essays. This is the question the 8th graders get asked a lot now, since we’re so close to high school. When we have to choose what collage we go to and what we want to do. Why do the teachers need to know anyway? It’s not like they care.
I hate those sappy teachers, who brag and say “Last year I had the best class ever.”, or “Last year, all my students passed my class.”, or even “I hope this year will be like last year.” Just keep dreaming, because you’re not once going to get a picture-perfect class, ever. Sorry.
One time we had a substitute who gave us a lecture on how much the parents like her, she said, these exact words, “All the parents like me, because I know how to teach. They say, ‘I want my child to have you as a teacher again, because they had straight A’s all year.’ See I make you pay attention, or I give you detention.” The most imprudent thing I ever heard a teacher say. I didn’t finish my work that day and started to sketch. And guess what? She didn’t even notice.
“Read until the bell rings, please.” Mrs. Dees said. “And no drawing.” I knew she was speaking to me.
Sighing, I pulled out my library book. It was called The Giving and The Getting. It was about a woman that had it all and gave it away to the hungry. For a reward, she was granted a baby, the thing she wanted the most. A baby girl named Rachel. But the giver died of the black plague before her daughter reached the age of eight. She died happy knowing her daughter was safe and would carry her story on forever.
I flipped the last page of the book, as a tear dared to escape my eye. I wiped at it before it escaped.
I tucked the book away into my backpack, and waited patiently for the lunch bell to ring.
When it did Mrs. Dees called me to her desk. “Yes, Mrs. Dees?”
She looked up from her papers, sighing, “Catherin, what do you want to be when grow up?” she said.
I shrugged my shoulders, “I guess an artist . . . it’s the only thing I’m good at.” This is very true, well . . . almost true.
“Well, why didn’t you write that down?” she asked.


Define yourself . . . . . . that’s the Dancey Middle School motto. I get up every morning, looking at my reflection and think about my own character, I try to define myself. I try to discover what other people think of me, but mostly I try not to, because most of the time I don’t want to know.
That’s why I hate English class.
Even though I’m really decent at writing, I hate doing it, unless it has a really respectable purpose and no one sees it except the person grading it. When I write, I write the truth. Even writing about fairytales, it’s something that’s happening in my life or someone else I know. Also my mom is really nosey, so I try not to write stuff down otherwise she’ll find it, read it, and question me about it, send me to counseling because I’m depressed, or something like that. Stupid, I know.
I put my stuff in my locker, and walk to the cafeteria to eat lunch.
“Hey look its Catherina, the freak.” whispered a Becky, loud enough for me to hear and no one else.
I remembered when i used cry about girls like her. I begged my mom not ever let me go to that school again.
I was in the car with my mom, she was dropping me of in the parking lot, in the fourth grade, “Mom, they hate me. They think I’m weird and stupid. Mom, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to.” I cried.
“Baby, you’re the strongest girl I know. You know what’s right and what’s wrong. And that’s what matters.” My mom said.
“They don’t even know me, Mom. They don’t even know.” I said, as salty red tears run down my face.
“Then go show them, baby. Go prove them wrong.” She said smiling. That day she was the best mom in the world. Also the day that i smiled and said, “At least I’m not a clone like you.” every time someone called me weird, or different, or a freak.
But today I didn’t, today I just skipped lunch and ran to the bathroom. I ran to the last stall and sat on the floor, crying my eyes out. When I looked up to get some toilet paper for my nose, I noticed it. In permanent marker on the stall wall it said, ‘Catharina Sky is a freak.’ The ink wasn’t even dry yet.


I am a freak. I am a freak. Freak! Freak! Freak! That’s all I ever hear. I want it to end, so I can start over.
I walk down the street by my house, turn at the corner, turn at the next corner. I stand before a long curvy road, where people with fishing poles, campers, and boats, all spend their weekends. Twin Lakes are separated by a narrow strip of land, which isn't even safe to walk on.
I pay no attention to the kids, screaming every time a boat passes. Instead I go into the one-person bathroom, and slam the door behind me. With a click I lock the door.

Publication Date: 10-19-2011

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