“Layla got admitted to a mental facility. She's been self-harming and she tried to kill herself.” Did I fail as a sister? Did society fail her? I thought I should feel upset or sad or worried for her, right? I'm supposed to be more concerned that she tried to take away her life and ask her how she's doing. But this wasn't how I felt. I was pissed. Your life isn't your own, you hurt people by making the choice to take your own life. I was so angry that she tried to go without some sort of goodbye or note. I was infuriated that she didn't try to fix the problem or get help. But I knew that if she was successful in her attempt, I would be having a different conversation. The successful cases always start out with people who were unhappy and struggled to reach out for help, and the only difference between them and Layla was that she failed. I thought I was heartless for my lack of empathy until I heard what my mom had to say about the next day: “Go to school tomorrow. Get the homework for your sister. If people ask where your sister is, just tell them that she got sick. You aren't lying to them. Don't tell your cousins, just keep this to yourself.” Our dirty little secret was swiftly swept under the rug and we were still the picture-perfect family that she imagined in her head. Do the work, get through the day, go home. It went like this for some weeks as Layla was in and out of that haunted building. That nightmare that put bars on an already trapped mind. She laughs about stories of "butt juice" and funny nurses, but I knew when she told me those stories that every night she cried herself to sleep on that firm mat, in a room of people she never knew before. Girls shared anecdotes that made Layla's story seem like a lullaby. I knew the cage that she had to suffer in for what must have felt like ages with only minutes of communication with friends and family on a daily basis. I walked around school pretending that everything was okay; all I had to do was say “my sister isn't feeling well” and smile. I know the frustration that my mother had to endure with Layla's situation, so I took care of myself. I was one less child to worry about. I didn't have time to be sad. Every day, after eight hours of pretending that everything was fine, I walked myself to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner, and when I got home, I would begin the process of feeding five mouths- one less than “normal”. I would clean up everything and get to work or bed. I didn't have time to be sad. That one weekend was supposed to be like rain in the desert. I was finally going out for the first time since the storm struck. I was out with a friend when I got the call. Words that would echo in my mind forever as I answered the phone to a furious mother: “I'm done. If Layla wants to kill herself, then fine, let her do it. I don't care anymore. I just want her gone and out of the house. I don't ever want to see her after she graduates high school” In the span of one month, I became a mom, a therapist, and alone. Part of me was furious that she couldn't maintain her composure and have the patience to attend to her mentally ill child after all the hours I spent to make sure she had little housework to do. But I knew when I heard those words that my mother wasn't trying to be difficult, it was her cry for help. “Hey, mom, you don't mean that. I know that she's frustrating at times, but she is your daughter and you love her. She is trying her best to get better, but it's a long process.” Who did I have to bring peace to my chaos? I grew even madder at no one. I took on extra responsibilities, I did what I was told to protect the perfect dollhouse image of our family, but in the process, I lost myself. I did nothing for myself and I stopped talking to the people that were knights in protecting my mental health when hell went loose. I found a safe haven in the one place I have never enjoyed since the third grade: math class. Anyone that tells you that math teachers are terrible people either (1) failed math or (2) never took a single good math course in their entire life. My math teacher let me rant to him about completely irrelevant details like the perks of being a Disney princess or the lack of warm bagels in the cafeteria on a daily basis. He was the only person to point out tendencies in Layla that kids my age have never recognized. He knew about the responsibilities that I had going on at home and it felt nice to be seen. I felt like I was sacrificing my time for people that didn't even notice me, but someone was looking in from the outside and he knew the pain I was putting myself through. He knew the fake smile that I put on and the fire that I couldn't seem to put out no matter how hard I tried. I didn't blame people around me for not seeing me clearly, I was simply grateful for finding a space where I could relax my shoulders and stop holding my breath.

Who knew life would be like this one day. We are truly living the fantasy of textbook history. Being a high school student, much of my life has turned upside down. Not knowing when (or how) I will go to college, how I will complete the various passion projects I yearn to do, and how I will discover my true passions for the rest of my life. The amount of uncertainty has brought anxiety and nervousness in all aspects of my life. Being a teenager, the only thing I want is a normal life; a life where I can go to school, see my friends, and learn to grow into a responsible adult. Of course, I am not the only teenager whose feet have been swept off the ground because of this pandemic and the chaos that surrounds our world today. As long as everyone stands together during these rough times, we will be able to get through this pandemic not only quickly, but also as stronger, better people. What I do now is try to help my community. I try to help the community by participating in various events such as can drives and cleaning events. I try to participate in as many volunteering school events as I can while wearing a mask and maintaining social distancing. I see my friends but have to maintain the 6 feet distance, the small distance that seems to have separated families, relationships, and friends. Along with this, I try to maintain a discipline of advancing my studies, so I can go on to become a more intelligent and knowledgeable person when coming out of this pandemic. Every resource I can get my hands on, I try to use. I go rummage through the old books in the musty basement, scavenging for all of the knowledge I can gain. I continue to use the various online platforms I have available to me to try and express myself and learn more about the various career options available to me. This is one the aspects of this pandemic I am most thankful for - the ability to continue to learn and grow through various online platforms. I am thankful to all of the healthworkers and frontline workers putting their life at risk to save the world from this awful, deadly virus. If it were not for them, students like me would probably not have the hope of returning to school this coming fall. They are the reason the number of recovered patients keeps on rising everyday! Hearing about the various tragedies outside of the COVID pandemic continue to strike me. I try to raise my voice in these situations. It hurts to see families affected by the toll of this virus, but slowly (and surely) we will all get through this together!

So I sit, in my navy blue cap and gown, observing the torrent of cars flood the street. Our car is dull, black, and inconspicuous, just how my mom prefers it. She didn't come along, she despises crowds. My brother sits ruefully in the backseat, conned by my father's bait of ice cream afterwards. He is also graduating, and will attend my high school next year. I can't blame him for being somber; his trips and celebrations were hijacked as well. The parade feels like a sham, and so I sit, festering in a puddle of sweat, at the mercy of the sun and the driver in front of me. Many parents spared no expense - painting their windows, balloons tied to mirrors, proudly proclaiming their children's name, and future university, that is if they were ‘one of those parents'. Others proceeded with less pomp, perhaps some chalk on the windows, a flag to half-heartedly twirl. Then there were those like us. My dad breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a considerable proportion of cars barren and hollow. Passing grade. I wonder what kinds of families occupied those cars. We pulled onto the major road and the procession grinded to a halt as the leading cars pulled into the parking lot. Many families stood on the sidewalks, waving signs and hats and banners. Proud of every graduate, whether they knew them or not. Proud of their community, of their future, of who we had become… I wonder what kinds of families twirl those banners. Inching along the street, I glanced out the window in systematic intervals, deflecting eye contact with anyone I vaguely knew. A classic high school obstacle - eye contact. Catching eyes, calculating whether I knew someone enough to say hi, then waiting too long until we rudely rip our connections to shreds and walk past like strangers, even though a couple seconds ago, we hardly were. My dad waves more than me. How am I supposed to wave at someone I don't know? My brother, done sulking but still not ready to admit it, peeks his head out the window. All I can do is watch and smile listlessly. It seems like, with half the parade over, half of high school had been squandered as well. As we turned the corner onto the last stretch before the parking lot, someone caught my eye. I cried out to my English teacher, a warm, soothing, refreshing woman who I grew to love and respect over the year. She smiled a mother's smile, and I felt some baggage slip off my shoulders and sink into the car seats. In the home stretch, most of the families on the streets were taking photos of their graduates. I made the most of it, smiling, waving, doing things that came naturally to a chosen few at the beginning. Some cheerleaders performed on the side. I remember at basketball games being miffed by their chants everytime we scored. This time, I was glad they were here. At the stop before the parking lot, I noticed a rising senior, an officer of a volunteer club I was co-president of. She was our choice for president, an intelligent, charismatic, outgoing, unabashed figurehead. Everything I was not for the majority of the ‘parade'. I stuck my head out the window, inquiring across the street if she had picked a leadership team for next year. She looked away, smiled sheepishly, and congratulated me. Always an escape with her. I sat back down, mildly concerned. She would do a good job. I smiled softly, wondering if she would take the club where I could not. We zoomed into the parking lot, my dad excited by the space the car in front had finally conceded. The final turn. I held a piece of notebook paper with my name on it for my announcer. I almost already knew, but Mista Bale, my basketball coach, econ teacher - the man who had shaped me today was rocking the announcers booth. He boomed into the speakers, “My man, Pranav Mitsumurthiiii!”. My stats teacher snapped a quick photo of me, and shooed us along a line of crazy, rowdy, deafening teachers. I smiled genuinely, perhaps for the first time, as I saw them, living four years again in the 30 seconds the line lasted, until finally, suddenly, it was silent. Graduate. As we drive home, my hair, untrimmed and chaotic, finally dislodges my grad cap, shoving it to the floor between my feet as it springs upwards. I stare blankly out the window, thinking so many things and nothing at the same time. Given the circumstances, the school did a fantastic job. But the parade also represents cruelty, helplessness, regret, and for the life of me I cannot forget that. So as I see friends pile out of their cars onto the grassy fields to celebrate and commemorate, all I remember are the experiences I left behind, and the opportunities that were cruelly wrenched from my grasp. And when I finally get home and flop onto my chair, one final smile dances across my lips. I have many regrets. But we are the class of 2020, and we have become strong.

My first job was at a popular, upscale local restaurant that shall remain nameless. I had the distinct honor of greeting our guests at the door and finding suitable accommodations for their dining needs. I was a hostess. A menu and silverware slinger. The face of the business and the keeper of the wait list. While the place was classy as hell, the owners were unbearably pretentious. Designer clothes, artificial (or at the very least, enhanced) facial features, and a beyond extravagant lifestyle set these folks apart, and in their minds, high above, the majority of the business owners in our area. That mood permeated the entire place. Never mind the fact that we were in southern Oklahoma and not Beverly Hills. Never mind the fact that most of our patrons drove pick-up trucks and not BMWs. This was true of the owners, the managers, servers, cooks, host/hostesses, bussers, and perhaps most importantly, the customers. I was joined in my greeting duties by two alpha females from my school. At school, they were not extremely popular, but also not outcasts. They had an adequately sized group of friends, composed mostly of fellow athletes that they could successfully intimidate and boss around. They were abrasive, aggressive and grossly lacking in class. All of these details, however, did not prevent them from feeling superior to the common folk they were forced to walk amongst. It was as if simply being employed by this elitist establishment, simply receiving a W-2, was the only license needed to belittle and shame others. It was not attractive. Obviously, my kind heart did not last long. After parting ways with my first source of income, the rumors at school began to swirl. It was sophomore year, and I was on top of the world. I made excellent grades, participated in several extracurricular activities and was not too many rungs down on the social ladder. I was a well-behaved teenager who was terrified of the consequences of getting into any significant trouble. As such, I was surprised when I began to observe that the gossip-filled notes being passed fervently across the room from student to student managed to pass over me. I was not included in the latest buzz, and by my fellow student's reactions, I could tell it was juicy. Feeling left out, I complained to my current best friend after class. Her eyes immediately fell on her shoes, which began awkwardly shuffling weight from one to the other. She bit her lip, then cautiously raised her eyes to meet mine. “You know why they skipped you, right?” she said. “The notes are about you. Apparently, there's a rumor going around that you are pregnant and your parents made you quit your job.” I couldn't move. My stomach dropped, my heart rate increased and suddenly I was finding it difficult to find air to fill my lungs. How could anyone possibly believe this? I was sixteen years old, my own mother was currently 4 months along with my little sister! “AHA!” I thought to myself. That was it! Someone must have seen me buy a pregnancy test (for my mom) several weeks back and assumed the worst. I began to relax. Once people realized that my mom was having a baby, they would feel silly and the rumors would stop, I was sure of it. The relief was short lived, however. As I looked up, I saw a trio of fast-moving bodies coming toward me down the hallway. It was my boyfriend of 2 years, flanked by two familiar and angry alpha females. I'll save everyone here the drama of the back and forth, voices raised, he said/she said drama and just let you all know that everything turned out well in the end. I convinced my boyfriend that I was not going to be giving birth to his offspring in the coming months. My very pregnant mom came to school events frequently, showing everyone that my retorts to their claims were valid and true. There is one twist to this story, and it gives me profound joy to this very day. On the day of graduation, a little over two short years later, the sun rose and shined on my life with endless promise and possibility. Those two alpha females joined me in celebration as we walked across the stage and received our diplomas; both in their third trimester.

Children yelling and racing through the yard. The smell of fresh cut grass. Teenagers singing happy birthday and cutting the cake. A girl approaches my perch on one of the picnic tables. “Hey Joslin, do you want me to pop that big fat zit on your nose? After all, you wouldn't want to be seen in public with that now would you?” The party that seemed fun and playful dissolves from my eyes, and all I can see is the people watching me be humiliated and staying silent. The brand of the sun turns into a brilliant red dye of embarrassment covering my face. I stand up and walk inside. The stunned silence fades and the party returns to full volume. I was nine years old when it first appeared. I greeted the day and shuffled into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bright red splotches littered my face, like the trash beside the road before community clean up. I run to my mother, my predicament obvious. She tells me acne is normal, everyone gets it. The next several months though, it becomes more than a common cold, but rather a fever, and then a cancerous tumor spreading across my body. My face begins to swell up and turn red and puffy on a daily basis. I look in the mirror and all I see is blow fish cheeks, and they never deflate. I'm twelve years old. My parents finally have to accept that this isn't just acne, but puberty on steroids. We go to the doctor. Twelve bottles of topical creams, pill bottles, and a dairy free diet later, they tell me I'll get better. But the pockets of pus won't leave when the radiation of medication hits them. The first day of high school comes, and I'm embarrassed to leave the car. My face is just as puffy as before, only now, scars litter the battlefield where my clear face cells once fought and sacrificed their lives over the years. I slathered cover up all over my face hoping no one could tell the truth. Inevitably though, someone would see through the camouflage and blurt out, “What's wrong with your face?” As the stresses of trying to make new friends, selling my horse, my siblings leaving for college, and my parents' separation built up, my face released it through acne, not yoga. In a culture where value is calculated based on appearance, my stocks were at the level of the Great Depression. On the plus side, figuring out who my true friends were was easy. Compared to other kids who struggled with frenemies; I had only to find people who were willing to sit by me. My Sophomore year, however, the grin-and-bear-it method began to dissolve. I walked by a flyer advertising for Cheerleading tryouts. As a Freshman I had seen the same exact flyer Mrs. Dvorak recycled year after year. I'd let my mind take a brief flight of fancy of what it would be like to be a Cheerleader. Yet the poster said applicants were partially judged on appearance, and with a face that had only marginally improved since I was 12 years old, that placed me firmly out of the running in my mind. As a fifteen year old girl though, I was ready to challenge what society dictated was appropriate for someone who looked like me. I tried out. And that Friday, teeth chattering and knees knocking, I scurried out into the parking lot. I expected the opening words to be “I'm sorry, however…”, but instead they were “Congratulations!” I worked as hard as I could to be the best cheerleader because I felt I had to prove I was worthy of the honor. I continued to hide my face when I washed my hands in front of the mirror, but I also chose to put a hold on the cover up. After all, it was my face. If I didn't care, who had the right to? Slowly I became friends with the other cheerleaders. Girls whose faces were as smooth as models. For them an acne problem was one zit in a whole month. I felt sure that they secretly found me ugly. Finally I asked one of the girls why they were friends with me. They told me that after years of people seeking their friendship solely for their physical attraction, friendship felt tainted. No one appreciated them as a friend, but rather only as a status symbol to be seen with in school. My friendship though, was more about personality than appearance. Acne forced me to find intrinsic value within myself. I wasn't traditionally beautiful, so I cultivated my humor and intelligence. Without experiencing this dermatological condition I might never have gone beyond my surface stock market value to polish my personality. Acne helped me build a self esteem that would last longer than a smooth complexion because it was based on my intrinsic worth and uniqueness, not what I looked like as a person. Some days I still struggle to look eye to eye with my reflection, and whenever someone mentions my acne, even as a compliment, I feel hurt. I never want people to see me as an object to admire or be disgusted with. I am a person with character who may suffer from acne, but I do not let it define me. I am a person with dreams and goals who twice a day washes my face with special medications.

Memory: Light up the night photo advert. When I was in grade 11, far from my ass childhood, I was on the way home from light up the night. That would be my town welcoming of December. When I was just living I saw a pacticluar advert for a an art exhibition in a local gallery. It was about photos of Everest by A guy who died on the mountain. The next day I went to the exhibit and the kept returning because there was also a documentary about teaching the children in Nepal how to read which the guy was trying to do other then mountain. I would go there Every day after school and on weekends to see the exhibit, documentary and give all my weeks allowance which was $15 a weekend and when I did use my pocket change from lunch. These continued until the new year when the exhibit was over. Soon the gallery closedown but that exhibit as someone how is part Tibetan, and who wants to climb the same mountain too this memory has haunted me like a compassionate ghost.

I remember a boy breaking my heart once. He tossed it across the apartment courtyard like a Frisbee. It hit the hardness of the concrete, shattering it into several pieces. "Whoops, sorry," He laughed to himself. I was not happy. This was the only heart I had, the only piece of jewelry I ever owned. I was four-years-old and didn't care that it was a plastic heart-shaped piece of junk. I stood feeling belittled by his behavior as he bolted the other direction revealing that it was his time to leave. "Don't tell my mom, ok?" He said with a mischievous smile peeling across his face. He acted as if I really didn't care about the piece of plastic. He stood smiling to himself for a moment before taking off. It was weird and made me think that boys will always be childish in their ways no matter what age they were. I slowly turned around and walked back to my aunt's apartment building. Her husband was standing outside the door, waiting. "What happened to your necklace?" He asked. "It broke," I said burying my head into my chest. "Who broke it?" His face was full of concern. "The boy broke it, he broke my heart," I said pointing over to the neighbor boy's apartment building. We walked over to the broken bits and pieces confirming that indeed someone broke my heart. "Next time when someone asks for something that belongs to you, don't give it to them just because they want it." I let this sink into my four-year-old brain. Never give someone something that is yours just because they want it. Since then, I never really liked boys. They all seemed to teasingly want to break my heart. But then I found out that girls do the same. I was always fond of female characters from my favorite stories and T.V. shows but I never thought that would leak over into puberty and into my young adult years. When I finally got fed up with the feeling I wasn't just fond other girls I decided to tell my mother that I didn't just like girls, I loved them. I also told her my teacher happened to have the same sexual preference. My mom responded with a smile and bought my teacher a bottle of wine which I wished was for me. I didn't care if I was only in the 6th grade, having a taste of wine seemed to match the moment of growing up. Besides, I just confessed a deep feeling I had for other females. This feeling spun in my heart like a spider's web trying to catch the next meal, except this time love was the prey. As soon as I got into High School I spotted her during the first week of my sophomore year. There was something about her that lit up my heart and I hoped it wasn't just because she happened to be attractive. I hoped that whatever I was feeling wasn't about her looks but was something beneath the surface that resonated with my spiritual being. I had a difficult time trying to place my finger on what this feeling about this girl was. All that seemed to surface when searching for the answer from within was the desire to be loved without the sameness of our physiques getting in the way that a human could love one another. In my mind I wasn't in love but rather I wanted to love another woman without the mixed perceptions of society's protocol on how love should be. I understood by this time in my life when you choose to put your feelings out in the open to someone, it is possible that they might not accept those feelings you have for them. This was how society was and despite that knowledge, I did it anyway, I put my feelings out there for someone to see. We had the same art class together. The art table she sat at was just her and this other guy, and that was all. It was just her and this one dude that wanted to be the president one day. I sat at another table with people from my school year. The following year I told her my feelings through a letter. The paper had a background that made up the colors of the rainbow, which was ironic to the symbolism of the LGBT gay rights flag. I was nervous and could feel my heart palpitate in the concave of my chest as I handed her the letter. She thanked me with the soft tone of her voice, but right after I handed her that letter, it was as though I saw doubt twinkle in her eyes. It was the day of a pep assembly. Her cheerleading peers performed and that's when it happened. She did an awesome acrobatic spin and landed perfectly on her feet. She then glanced up at me and then smiled gently. It was like she really did like me but she also liked guys. That's when I broke down. She played me like a game and it broke my heart. I felt ashamed for liking someone else that was the same sex as me. I felt apart from everyone else too. I had a nomadic life as a high school girl and spent my time trying to figure out who I really was on the inside. It was tough and I wish I could go back through at time portal just to tell myself, "It's okay, you can be gay. No really, it's okay. Don't be ashamed of who you are."

Growing up, I never understood having a crush. There was that one kindergarten romance, but honestly, he was my friend that just so happened to be a boy. Therefore, “boyfriend”. We haven't seen each other since the first grade and now I'm off to college. After thinking back about his more feminine habits: Playing with barbies, makeup, being envious of my longer hair, and paying more attention to the other boys in a much more “friendly” manner. Well, I'm sure you get the picture now, but he was not going to be into me. I worried more about it in middle school because all my friends had crushes of some sort and even a boyfriend in some cases, not that middle school boyfriends really count anyway. I just felt as if I was missing out on something. So whenever anybody would ask, “Who do you like?” in their squeaky and insistent voices; That was my cue to say, “No one”. Which I had constantly repeated for years and years until my second year of high school. After realizing two things: High school is not like the movies and I might end up forever alone, I was not hype for that first day. I was exhausted because I was in denial about needing to sleep the night before. So when my art teacher was calling the class names for attendance and I scanned the room to match names to a face, something really threw me off. A particular accent. It sounded beautiful. Just the way the voice flowed coming out of this stranger's mouth was so soothing and refreshing. I found his face and I remember seeing him walk into the classroom before roll call and I recall misjudging him as a basic, all-American, white, male student, that I was bound to forget. Yet somehow, I was enthralled by just his voice. A tall young man with black hair, an attractive stubble, fair skin, a basic hoodie, and warm brown eyes. All of that and this hunk was sitting alone. This crazy feeling came and it was completely foreign to me. Butterflies in my stomach, rising temperature, uncontrollable smiling, and constant tensing of the body. I didn't want it, so I ignored it and I tried to ignore him too. A couple days had passed and considering the person I was, I lacked interests in talking to anyone in my art class and the rest of my classes. Though ignoring this one guy proved to be challenging, not because I was trying to talk to him, but because no one was. It bothered me for some reason and even more when I would glance at him during lunch and saw him alone. Right before the bell rang to release us from lunch, he made his way in front of me, just towering above me with his back turned. I had to talk to him and I urged myself to say “I like your backpack.” I stuttered out a bit loudly to reach him over the crowd of loud teens. If you didn't guess already, flirting wasn't my forte. Phenomenally though, he actually looked at me and smiled too, a charming flash of teeth. He thanked me for the compliment and I do believe he did say more, but I could barely hear him and understand his accent at the time. Frankly, his smile just consumed me and that was the only thing on my mind. So I just nodded and smiled like a doofus. That next day in art was different, I was allowed to enter his bubble now and sit next to him in class and then during lunch. It was euphoric. It turns out he was a charming nerd with a knack for 90s card games, specific video games, anime, and mathematics. We got along relatively quickly, but everything changed when the fire nation attacked. Just kidding, it changed when more people wanted to talk to him and he realized he did have more in common with other people besides me. Likely more in common with others than me. Naturally, I got jealous, so I chose to isolate myself and he did come looking, but it didn't last long. Probably because it was annoying and tiring to find me. I do remember he opened up to me more and I listened and I loved knowing things about him because I found him to be so interesting. He was the book that fed my mind and my brain was always hungry for his stories. While learning about him, I learned about his sexuality. Interestingly, when your first crush says he turned out to be bisexual, it makes you get a little tenser. Yet I still rooted for him and his love life. In hopes that if he would date someone that wasn't me, I could move on. Eventually, we both moved on. His types for partners ended up actually being strictly men because he's gay. After I confessed that I liked him in a romantic way, he came out. You would think I was heartbroken, but I was celebrating. Actually, I did cry a little, only a little though. It was liberating to confess and even though I got rejected, it wasn't because I'm not the prettiest, smartest, or best girl. It's because I'm a girl and my person of interest was incapable of seeing a woman in a romantic way. Or at least that's what I told myself so I could get over him. I can say that everything has turned out fine since then because now we both have boyfriends.

During my high school career, I have been fortunate to achieve many of the goals I have set for myself. These goals have included scoring high on standardized tests and other academic achievements, and even achieving high positions in school clubs and functions. However, if someone asked me what I felt my greatest achievement was, I would have to tell them that it was when I almost single handedly saved my school newspaper. During my junior year of high school, I had decided that I should become more involved in school functions and activities in my high school and, with my love of journalism, joining the newspaper club seemed like a great way to do that. Almost immediately, I was worried by how informal the club was and how little the students paid attention during the first meeting, but I paid it no mind and began writing the two articles I was assigned, an interview of my English teacher and a sports article covering the most recent football game. I was very excited and proud of my work and gave it to the club's sponsor before she said something that transformed my previous happiness into bitter disappointment. I was the only person in the entire club to write an article and the newspaper would be forced to miss its deadline because of it. After my disappointment faded, it was replaced with fury and determination. I was not going to allow the club that I felt had so much potential waste it, even if I had to create an entire school newspaper by myself. I began by writing several additional articles about current events in the school and borrowing the calendar from the principal to fill up enough newspaper pages to release it before October 30. However, I was quickly faced with my first problem; while designing the format of the school newspaper, I discovered that the articles were neither long nor numerous enough to fill the paper and that I would have to find additional items to insert. I hurriedly searched for a solution and found a small one when I read over the article where I interviewed the coach of the new soccer team. I would insert the entire year's soccer schedule which would be interesting and informative to the readers and, most importantly, would take up space in the newspaper. Unfortunately, this was a temporary solution and there was still a lot of space to fill if I wanted the newspaper to look professional. After hours of brainstorming, I offhandedly thought how much easier it would have been if more people had written articles and how I could get them to do that. Then an idea appeared in my mind, what if English teachers offered extra credit to students who wrote articles in the paper? I asked the English teachers in my school if they agreed with this idea and, after they agreed, I wrote another article detailing how students could receive extra credit in the future. After writing this article I had another idea, what if I made more things that could fill up space in the future and write an article about them now explaining the idea? After thinking that, it was easy to write about ideas such as a monthly art contest where the winner would have their artwork displayed in the paper or the advice column where students turned in questions that I would later answer in the paper. Some of these ideas later became a staple of the paper, while some failed almost immediately afterwards, but they all achieved their purpose and I was able to finish editing the first edition of the school newspaper thanks to them. After fine tuning the newspaper, it was released on October 27 to the approval of both students and teachers. Many commented on how it was the best newspaper my school had seen in years, but I was not content with stopping there. I was officially made the chief editor soon after the first edition of the school newspaper was released, and I began to work towards my vision for the end of the year, changing the paper from a bimonthly four-pager to a monthly eight-pager, both things that previous chief editors had attempted to achieve in the past but were unable to accomplish. No month was as difficult as the first, but I never forgot how difficult it was to release a paper by myself and I began to get as many students that were already in the club as I could to get involved. Many left the club, not having expected to have to work when they first joined, but the few that stayed behind proved to be invaluable. There were hardships, and many setbacks, but after more new ideas, such as a puzzle page and advertisements, thrown in with lots of hard work, we were able to achieve our goals only two months after our first newspaper edition, to everyone's shock. I hope that even when I graduate high school, the club will continue to prosper and, if it does not, I know that the lesson that nothing is impossible with enough hard work will live on with me and the other members forever.