Spring is a great time to get outside and write. It's also a great time to get some of our memories down on paper so that we can preserve them for years to come!
This month's authors Rong X. and Mackenzie W. preserve the laughter and the tears, and most of all, the lessons learned from both. Enjoy!
WARNING: Do Not Drink This Cocoa!
“Want me to make you guys some hot chocolate?”
“Yes please! Our
fingers are numb!”
Only after the offer of
hot chocolate did he then walk into the pantry and realize that to his dismay,
and ours, we were out of the stir-in mix.
“That’s alright, we
still have the milk!” he gandered, “I think I can easily find a recipe for hot
chocolate with just milk and probably some chocolate bars to make it
chocolatey?” He gave us a winning smile, but we could all hear the hesitation
in his voice.
He yanked open the fridge
door to grab the milk, his outstretched hand grasping only air instead.
“Okay… so we don’t have
any milk…” he said slowly, regretting every word before it even slipped his
lips, “But don’t worry! I’ll figure out how to make it from scratch!”
We sat and waited for
several tolling minutes.
“Come and get it!” An
excited voice floated out from the kitchen a few minutes later.
Snaking my hand through
the handle and embracing the mug with my palms, I instantly felt the warmth
radiating from within, swimming through my veins. I took in the chocolatey smell
that seemed to waft all the way into my brain, and even that gave me enough
warmth to make me feel cozier. I couldn’t help but smile a sigh of relief.
Plunking in a few marshmallows and letting them wallow
in wait, it looked like the epidemy of the perfect mug of hot cocoa: Marshmallows
playing tag in a kiddy pool of chocolaty goodness.
Only then did I squint close into my mug and notice
the cloudy, translucent quality of the drink, and what looked like little rocks
and pebbles sitting in the bottom. I let my spoon take a dip in the mug and
move in a consistent circular motion, swirling my hot cocoa into a tiny tornado.
The clouds circled my spoon like a storm, refusing to mix right. What the
heck??
“Dad, what’s in this?”
“Chocolate chips and
boiled water… I know, I know,” he answered as we all glanced at him blankly, “Hey!
Don’t look at me like that, we didn’t have anything else, so it was the best I
could do!”
Hm, okay. So that ‘delicious’ smell I so joyously
inhaled a few minutes prior turned out to be some boiled water and chocolate
chips. Yummmm, a sarcastic voice dragged out in my head.
As I looked around it seemed like my siblings all had
the same expression on their face as me: Are we supposed to drink this??
Slowly and shakily I brought the mug to my lips. The
discolored drink shoved an overwhelming amount of steam into my face making me
pinch my eyes closed. Had it been your typical hot cocoa, I would have welcomed
the steam with open arms: But this was definitely not your typical hot cocoa,
and not by a long shot. I cracked open my mouth just a sliver, allowing the
bare minimum of the drink to slip past my lips.
The bland taste seemed overly bland, stabbing my taste
buds with its plainness. The chalky texture seemed to cling to my mouth not
wanting to let go. A drink famous for having a smile-worthy sweetness, now shown
through my eyes, turned infamous for its tastelessness. It’s as if it had been
mutated, in my own household, into a flavorless and insipid drink. My throat
refused to open up its drawbridge and let the tidal wave of cloudy river pass through.
It basically screamed at me: You’re not seriously going to let this poison
into your body… are you?!?! None the less, my ten-year-old-chocolate-addict-self
pushed it all down into my stomach.
I have little to no memory of what happened in the
snow that day, but rather a memory full of gagging down a drink like no other.
Ten-year-old me might have poured the drink down the sink without hesitation
had she not been craving hot chocolate so much she just had to drink it. It
took some time, but now I don’t zero in on the awfulness of that experience.
To this day, it’s funny to watch my dad’s reaction
when I bring up his attempt at hot chocolate from scratch. But now I see he
took the time to attempt to make something with all the wrong ingredients: And
while the hot cocoa train crashed and burned, the memory blossoms and grows
fonder every day.
It’s things like that, the little things, that count
the most. The little things that I will always remember.
My parents might not even realize the little things: But
it’s what they do for me and the sacrifices they make, even the small and
subtle, that I will keep folded neatly in my trunk of memories only to look
back on and smile about years later. It is these things that truly mean the
world to me, even if one of those memories is chalky hot cocoa that I practically
forced down my throat.
by Mackenzie W., Grade 9
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| Artwork by Jacob D., Grade 8 |
Whoops, Slipped on the Keys!
It has been told
to me many, many times: even the best pianists make mistakes during their
performances. They just expertly cover up the flaw, so the audience isn’t aware
of it. I know for a fact that I am not a part of these “best pianists”, but I
do have moments where even I am impressed with how well I covered up the
mistake. Nobody in the crowd, besides my parents and my piano teacher, Sylvia,
would notice.
The Sounds of Excellence Concert on
April 6, 2019 was not one of those proud moments.
The day started off amazing (as all
infamous days do). I had already found out that I aced the auditions and got
into the Sounds of Excellence Concert, so all I had to get through was the
concert itself. I’ve already performed in this concert twice, so I really had
nothing to worry about.
Little did I know how rushed I would
become. I thought since I was performing third to last, I had all the time I
needed. However, I got carried away by the lighthearted and social atmosphere backstage
and forgot to practice. Pretty soon, there were only two performers ahead of
me, and I only had time to briefly skim through the piece.
“You sound so good! You are going to
be awesome out there!” my best friend Rachel reassured me.
I mustered up a nervous smile and
wiped my sweaty hands on my dress. “Let’s hope you’re right...”
A woman, probably in her late 20s,
popped in the room. “Rong Xu?” she pointed at me. “You are on deck!”
Uh oh. I stood up shakily and
followed her to the vast area directly behind the stage.
“The jazz band is currently
performing. When they are finished and come backstage, you will then go out on
stage, curtsy, and do your thing! You will do great, good luck!” the lady
smiled at me and walked out of the room.
I sat down in the waiting chair and
bit the inside of my mouth. I could hear the jazz band finishing up. In just a
few seconds, I was going to have to go out onto that stage—
The crowd clapped and cheered. The
jazz band’s performance was over.
I forced myself not to cry. You’ve
done this concert two times already, Rong. I reassured myself for the 50th
time that day. You will be fine.
I took two huge breaths, stood up,
and faced my fate. The members of the jazz band that just played jogged past me,
a huge smile written on each of their faces.
Will I be as happy as them after
my performance too?
As I walked out on stage and felt a
warm light shining on my face, I looked over at the crowd and spotted my family.
I could tell that my parents were just as tense as I was. I moved my eyes down
and gulped when I saw my piano teacher.
I put on the world’s fakest smile and tried my
best to curtsy without falling over. I stared at the piano next to me.
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
The expensive Steinway piano was just an arm’s reach away.
I subconsciously sat down on the seat;
the keys of doom right in front of me. I inhaled… and started playing.
I rapidly scanned through the
memorized sheet music in my head and transferred the knowledge to my fingers. My
heart was ready to jump out and run away, but I maintained a serene face,
extending my fingers to reach all the notes. I had no time to think…the music
was going too fast. Sweat coated my fingers, making the keys slippery, but this
was common when I performed at recitals. I just needed to make sure that I
don’t play a wrong note, because then the whole piece would fall apart.
As the music rose and dipped, I
started feeling the inner pulse of the piece, and the beautiful melody drifted
through my ears. Just like how you played at the audition. You can do
thi—
My pinky slipped.
The world’s ugliest arpeggio came
out of the piano.
I panicked. No, no! This isn’t
happening! Soon, all my fingers were playing wrong notes. I was playing
everything except what was supposed to be played. Every knowledge of Chopin’s Étude
in A flat flew away from my brain.
The music transformed from a lovely
piece of classical music to a horror movie introduction.
Was that supposed to be a B flat?
No! Argh…what is the next note? What am I doing? You messed up at the Kimmel
Center! This is a huge concert! Mom and Dad are going to be so mad! Sylvia will
never want to teach you again. Such a failure. I was getting unbelievably frustrated. Even if
the audience did not know the piece itself, I knew that they could tell that I
made a huge mistake.
This panic continued for about one
minute. Then, for some unspoken, divine reason, I managed to get back on track.
That feeling of guilt and disappointment
never left me. I finished the whole piece with half of the emotion and
adrenaline I started with. What was the point of finishing anyway? I had
already messed up half the piece. This mistake was unmendable.
The last chord echoed through the Perelman
Theater. The audience started clapping, but I could sense the uncertainty
interweaved with every clap. It was the worst feeling.
I got up from the piano, took a deep
breath, and curtsied.
I tried my best to compose myself
while walking off the stage, acting like I didn’t just butcher a whole piece of
music. Once I got backstage, I was ready to let it all out, but I remembered:
there were still people here. My friends were waiting for me on the other side,
not aware that I destroyed my whole performance. I forced the tears back into
my eyes and walked out with a shivering smile. Rachel and her older brother,
Oliver, ran out of the room where all the other performers were lounging.
“You did so good!” they exclaimed,
smiling as brightly as ever.
“Yeah, no.” I laughed. I could feel
the hot tears welling up again. “I messed up. Badly.”
Their faces fell. After an awkward
two seconds of silence, I flashed a quick smile and walked back to the Green
Room.
When the concert finally ended, everybody
walked out to the main lobby and waited for their parents. Every other
performer was rejoicing and recalling their performances, while all I wanted
was to do was disappear.
I shuffled dejectedly up to my
parents. My mother even had a bouquet of flowers waiting for me—she thought my
performance would be perfect.
“怎么回事 (What happened)?”
she asked.
I turned my back to everyone in the
lobby and starting sobbing, as quietly as I could. “我不知道 (I don’t know)!” I
sniffled. “我忘了
(I forgot!)!”
My father patted my back. “没事. 回家吧(It’s okay. Let’s
go home).”
As upset as I was, deep down inside
me, I knew I had learned an invaluable lesson. This was the reality of life: I
worked so hard for six months just to perform for eight minutes and to mess up.
Even just for a chance at not making a mistake, I needed to work ten times
harder. Once I got on that stage and started playing, my fate no longer lied in
my hands. All I could do was hope that my hours of practice were not for
nothing. Every person goes through this once in their life. It’s the sad truth.
I could do nothing about it, and it was no use having a breakdown about
something that happened in the past that I could no longer control. I decided
to finally let go, to free myself from these chains of disappointment, and to
continue facing forward.
Soft rain pitter-pattered on the car
windows. As the Philadelphia cityscape slowly faded away behind us, the
remaining guilt and sorrow in my heart diminished along with it.
by Rong X., Grade 9
