Chloe Crilley, Sophomore at Wando High School 

Supporting Teacher Jeannie Fox 

How To Exhale

Most kids would say their biggest fears are the deep end of a pool or the kitchen at night when it is dark,  and the floorboards creak a little louder than usual. However, mine could not be consoled by closing my eyes and plugging my nose before jumping in or tiptoeing into my parent's bed, flashlight in hand. My biggest fear has always been change. 

I stared at my wall, which once held colorful photographs and streaky light purple paint, now covered by large cardboard boxes stamped with hideous red lettering saying, “fragile! Handle with care!" Because of my dad's job, I knew that moving again was inevitable. Molly, my neighbor and best friend knew it was inevitable too, but she still cried as the moving van pulled out of my driveway. I cried too as I stepped out of her front door the morning after our last sleepover, but my tears were filled with calamitous irony. Truthfully, I hated Tennessee, and deep down I wanted to run away from that suffocating town as fast as my legs would take me. Despite that, I would much rather have stayed in a place where I was lonely and unhappy than get a chance to change everything. My tears were not out of sadness, they were out of fear. 

Starting fresh in South Carolina was an exhale that got stuck in my lungs. Air that would go stale, a breath I would choke on for months after. My new room was nice, but I missed my old streaky paint and the huge bay windows. I peeled off the tape that sealed the souvenirs of my old life, all nestled into dusty brown boxes. The change was quick, I started school only two weeks later. By the end of February, I had a whole group of new friends and by March I even scored myself a boyfriend. Things were genuinely looking up for me and I had hope, although it was over just as fast as it came. By May, my friends were gone, and by mid-August, my boyfriend vanished too. All I had left by the end of the summer was a broken heart and a severe case of whiplash. 

I found myself staring at my wall again, realizing that I had been abandoned by or forced to abandon every friendship I had ever made. So, I developed the mindset that if I let go of everything I had,  nothing else could be ripped away from me. I disconnected from the few 

straggling friendships I had left and stopped letting people try to get close to me. My whole freshman year was monotonous, without change. I struggled hard in most of my classes and often got no sleep at all. The days practically melted into the next, but that's what I wanted. My fear of change had proliferated, but I insisted on calling it peace. 

The air was still warm and lively when I visited Molly at the end of that summer. The bumps in the road  felt warm and familiar as my mom’s car drove down my old cul-de-sac. Being there was like I had just stepped through a time machine. Her room looked the same as it always has. Photo booth strips from the fourth-grade school fair were still pinned to her bulletin board and the blankets we used for our forts were still neatly draped over her bed. We went swimming, made smoothies, and went shopping during the day. At night we would watch nostalgic movies and stuff our faces with popcorn. What Molly does not know is that after she fell asleep, I would sneak off and cry in her bathroom. I thought that I was just overwhelmed or homesick. Though looking  back at it now, it is clear to me that my stomach was swollen from regret. 

All at once, memories from the continuous years when I felt nothing, but pain and emptiness

surrounded me, sucking me through a time warp and crushing my lungs. I was ten years old again, crying on my tire swing because the girls who lived behind me told me I wasn’t skinny or popular enough to be friends with them anymore. I was twelve again, crying in a bathroom stall because I felt like I didn’t belong and people in my class kept making fun of me. I was thirteen again, staring at a social media post, where a group of girls laughed about how they were happy I was moving, saying that nobody liked me anyway. That’s when I realized that because of change, I am not that girl anymore. Moving let me learn what happiness feels like and how to love myself. The changes that had taken shape in my life since moving to South Carolina had smoothed the edges I would cut myself on over and over again. All it took was a trip to the past, to realize that I like the future more. 

Two weeks later, I started my sophomore year and vowed to stop self-sabotaging my friendships, to go out and experience new things, and to stop letting my fear of change hinder me from finding my place in the world. Through all of that, I not only found the difference between truly living and simply surviving, but I also got over my biggest fear. 

When you breathe in air, the oxygen moves into your blood. The bad stuff though, the carbon dioxide, gets filtered and sent straight to your lungs, where you then exhale it all back out. This happens subconsciously of course, but it is a basic function of life. In my opinion, change is a lot like that process; learning how to deal with it is like learning how to exhale. Even if I do find my bedroom walls covered up with cardboard boxes again, I think I would be okay. I wouldn’t be leaving my whole life behind me, I’d be taking it with me.

Madeline Leluc, Junior at Charleston School of the Arts

Supporting Teacher Danielle DeTiberus

Through Our Eyes

Main Street was Aiken’s sad attempt at a downtown. There was one restaurant, one bar, one store, and one salon–which is where my mom was, getting her hair done. She had forced me to get out of the house, I hadn’t left it for something other than school in weeks. The Vintage Mall was exactly what it sounds like. An old building, with red neon signs outside spelling its name–most of which aren’t lit anymore. The beige paint is peeling off the sides, revealing its brick foundation. There are posters on the outside, which I presume didn’t always look so faded. 

I didn’t recognize myself in the glass reflection of the front door. My greasy hair sat flat around my pale, bare face. I had acne for the first time, all across my forehead and cheeks. I wore my brother’s clothes, which sagged and drooped in all the wrong places. I couldn’t remember the last time I looked in the mirror, and I made no effort to fix my appearance, I had accepted defeat. 

I was fairly certain that the store was closed, as the lights were off and no one was inside, but the doors were unlocked, so, I let myself in. I dragged my feet down the aisles; guns and hunting knives were displayed along the glass shelves. The carpet was green and lined with red flowers; it smelled like rotten milk–or maybe that was my sweatshirt. While surveying the vintage tea sets, a lens caught my eye in the corner of the store. Shuffled behind Coca-Cola merchandise from the 60s and Vietnam War propaganda was a Sony A7CII. As I blew the dust off of it a faint voice spoke behind me. 

“You’ve got a good eye,” it said. Before I could think I reached for the pepper spray in my pocket and swung around. 

“Calm down there, Lara Croft,” the dark figure lets out a wheeze. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust and make out the body a few feet away from me. It’s an old man, probably in his 80s, wearing a cowboy hat and boots. Underneath the hat peeks out bits of grey hair, which frame his sagging face. He’s hunched over a walker, which seems to be more of an extension of his frail arms than a tool to help him move. I put the pepper spray back in my pocket and mumble something along the lines of sorry. 

“Do you want some candy?” He asks. I make him repeat the question to make sure I hear him right. I do. 

“You know you really have to work on your kidnapping skills,” he chuckles and hobbles away. Both my lack of self-preservation and fervent curiosity lead me to follow him. I bring the camera with. He takes me across the store, through a small doorway into what I presume to be his office. There’s a wooden desk that takes up most of the room. An oil lamp lights the space, casting shadows of our bodies along the wallpaper. He reaches for something in his drawer and hands me a lolly-pop. I put it in my pocket, he seems to understand why. 

“That belonged to my pops,” the old man nods his head to the camera in my hands. Each word is drawn  out with a slow cadence. He takes a seat in the chair behind his desk, I stay standing, by the door. 

“He brought it to Germany, never made it back though. His brother, my uncle, brought the camera home and shuffled it into the back of the store. I forgot we had it,” his accent dances with the lilt of the deep South.

“Do you want to hold it?” I surprise myself by speaking. I cringe at the way I talk. The old man doesn’t seem to notice. His face changes when I ask the question. His eyes look into mine, and I can finally see him. His pupils are milky and glazed over, like an old dog. The old man seems to know what my question is before I get the chance to ask it. 

“I’ve owned this store for sixty years, just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” he pauses, “and I’ve never held a camera before, I don’t want to break it--" 

“Here,” I crouch next to him and put the camera strap around his neck. I teach him how to focus a picture, adjust the aperture, and stabilize a shot. His fingers glide over the buttons, he’s gentle, careful not to press anything too hard, always asking if he’s doing the right thing. After a few test shots, he asks a question. 

“Do you mind if I take a picture of you? I want to remember this.” I let out an awkward teenage chuckle to ease the tension. 

“I would love that,” I reply. I move a few steps backward, creating distance between him and I. He struggles a bit at first remembering where each button is. I offer to help, but he’s persistent on figuring it out alone. It’s during this intermediate passing time, his and my mutual struggle, when I realize who we are. We are two strangers, separated by decades of life in age, birth, sex, brought together by a piece of machinery. A piece of machinery built by people with their own lives, their own struggles, and fortunes. And somehow it has ended up in the hands of a fourteen-year-old,  and a blind eighty-year-old. In that small, forgotten corner of the world, I had 

found not only a camera but a man, with a story. It’s not that his world was this small office while my  world was everything else, no, we shared it, we lived in it together. 

I watch as he positions the shot and aims the scope at his target. He closes one eye, positions the other one  down the barrel, and pulls the trigger. I close my eyes and smile.

Tucker McManus, Sophomore at Academic Magnet Academy 

Supporting Teacher Monique Collins

Last First Day

Camp Rim Rock is situated in the West Virginian mountains, two hours away from the nation’s capital. My grandmother called its forests and slamming screen doors home sixty years ago, and I’ve called its gravel paths and ramshackle cabins the same for six summers. Whether it was at age six, first stepping into the Chippewa unit with a stack of books waiting to be read; or, when I was fourteen, returning after a three-year hiatus with a beaten-up CD player and The Essential Bob Dylan. Every year the walk from car to cabin was the same: shirt stuck to your back, the nauseating yet nostalgic smell emanating from the barn, and that ephemeral haze unique to the camp’s grounds. Rim Rock had been a reprieve from teenage angst and parental guidelines for generations, but that summer its promise of friendship bracelets tied on tanned wrists was plagued by a sense of dread. I was fifteen, and it was my last first day at camp. 

Saying goodbye to my dad at the foot of Choctaw Hill, I stood to watch counselors and campers hike up and down the seventy-five-degree incline. It must have been close to the thousandth time I’d seen that hill, but something made me stop and look. The pale green forestry filtered sunlight on the gravel, painting shapes of pure and clean light. The painstakingly steep summit enabled fifteen-year-old girls like myself to plan pranks on Sioux unit and gossip as loud as possible during unlimited flashlight time. Each stone at the edge of the path had seen the yearly fleets of first years clinging to their parents and last years excitedly catching up with their friends about the past school year’s drama. That hill had seen over sixty years of girls forming lifelong friendships under the guise of summer shenanigans. 

I began trudging up the hill, thinking about the upcoming two weeks. This hill never gets easier I swear. Are Joni and I bunkmates this year? Is Choctaw going to win Singdown? Will all my friends in other cabins come to cabin four during flashlight time? What horse will I get? If I get Royal again and she bites another hole in my favorite shirt I will flip out. 

That may have been my last summer, but everything felt the same. The tiny campers were still shepherded to and from units by their counselors, the drama pavilion was still adorned with its fading red curtains, and cabin four was still my favorite in all of Choctaw. At the top of the incline, one of  my oldest friends launched herself at me, almost sending me rolling down the hill. 

“Melanie! Guess who you’re sharing cabin four with this summer!” Laura said, her knuckles white from the vice grip around my shoulders. Her voice sent me back to Chippewa when we first met and through the summers since evading sports counselors and lounging by the pool. 

I shrugged her off and laughed before dropping my bag at the foot of the cabin. The three uneven stairs  greeted me, almost beckoning campers to give the shack back the life it missed so badly during winter. “If it’s anything like the past six summers, I’m guessing Joni and Andrea?” I said, my tone sarcastic and playful. 

“Just like every year,” Laura said, the crack in her smile betraying the same feelings of a fleeting childhood and the need to make this summer the best one yet. 

“I can’t believe this is our last first day as campers. It just feels so surreal, y’know?” I said, already over the awkward introduction phase that weighs on the first day. 

“Oh, I know, and this year is gonna be crazy. I heard that only half the showers work and there’s

no hot water,” Laura said, nodding her head towards the tiny house that served as our unit’s bathrooms. As I shifted my gaze around the Choctaw’s main fire circle, Andrea caught my eye through the screen windows of cabin four. I shot her a quick wave and grabbed my trunk before walking towards the door. As I entered cabin four, I knew it was home for the summer. 

*** 

The only thing that chirped louder than the crickets on that humid summer night were the nine girls crowded into cabin four. Hours were spent recounting horrible dates, messy friendships, and a boundless game of truth or dare. After Joni’s watch beeped midnight, the flashlight that illuminated excited eyes belonging to my friends from visiting cabins finally went out. The silence that followed their departure was deafening. I crawled back to the top bunk I claimed earlier that day and looked for a reprieve from the continuous loop of thoughts plaguing my mind. The CD player I’d brought was too tempting to pass up, and Sufjan Stevens’ Carrie & Lowell was the soundtrack to my nightly reflections. Today was the last time I’d ever have to do a swim evaluation. I can’t believe Joni got back with her boyfriend, that’s the human equivalent of a paper plate. Only twelve more nights sleeping on mattresses thinner than a sheet of paper. Less than eight hours until day two. God, I’m going to miss this place.  

Though it may have been the last time I’d have the rush of a first day at camp, the memories and friendships formed during those six sessions sandwiched between the Blue Ridge Mountains will follow  me forever. Laura still calls to update me on her latest flings, Andrea still sends me new music she finds,  and Joni and I still call once a week to debrief on each other’s lives. We may not be enclosed by rotted wood and suffocated by Joni’s Bath and Body Works collection, but the camaraderie crafted by fire pits and secrets swapped will always remain a constant in my life. I may have left Camp Rim Rock in the past, but a part of me will forever be stuck wandering its beaten-down paths.