Cherries and Sunrises (Steve)

Ugh...paparazzi.

I ordered them to scat unless they wanted the Mindcrack administration and angry parents involved. Some obliged, but some stayed. I'm sorry, but you know the rules. If you're not respecting my students, I won't muddle through any cordiality or pleasantries. Raising the volume on my device, I told them to leave again. If they describe me as rude in the next article, I won't feel bad about it. They disrespected my students' basic rights.

Look. Do with me what you want. Circulate those random creepshots and tell people that I'm on drugs or whatever, but don't do anything with my students. I can't have my students' lives ruined by some stupid people who don't know what boundaries are. Just in time, Mindcrack security arrived and began to clear the area. All but one person remained, a girl who looked like she was in high school.
          "This is Catalina Cortez and I'm with the Desert Tribune." Isn't that Mark's contrabass clarinetist? What's she doing with the Tribune? "Is it okay if I ask you and one student of yours from each grade a few questions?"
          "Who do you have in mind?" She showed me her list.

6th Grade: Nathalie Soulard 
7th Grade: Adrian Roth 
8th Grade: Alice Alder
9th Grade: Lisette LaCoste
10th Grade: Kenji Sugihara 
11th Grade: Hannah Engelhardt 
12th Grade: Kyle Escalona

Problem: Kyle and Hannah are in AP Alchemy and I don't think journalistic opportunities are valid reasons to leave the exam room. I alerted Catalina of this problem; she said she could wait because the school knows she's with the Tribune for education purposes. Those are looser policies than some colleges. I wrote passes for the students and alerted their teachers of the opportunity.

Rather than check on his scores after the interview, Kyle showed up for his after school practice with a bag of yellow cherries. His affinity for the fruit is one of the things I'll always remember about him. He practiced rudiments on a pad. After some sloppy paradiddles, he popped a cherry in his mouth and refined his technique. He's going to need a lot of cherries to perfect rudiments like that.

After Caitlin died, Kyle left little bags of cherries on my desk for days in a row. I didn't know what he meant by this gesture at the time, but I know now that he was trying to give me strength. Kyle often makes use of his odd abilities to make people happy. The taste of his fruits indicate the amount of effort he puts into them. The cherries came from genuine sympathy. At first, they were tart as lemon, but each bag grew sweeter with each passing day. The paradiddles came much more cleanly until Kyle knocked on my door.
         "I have more cherries for you." Kyle handed me a bag of the fruits, which were yellow with shadows of red. "Be sure to give some to your friends."
         "I will." Ranging from golden to crimson, each cherry was a sunrise and a sunset in one. I bit into one. The skin snapped under my teeth and its juices poured into my mouth. After a burst of initial tartness, my tongue bathed in pure sweetness. After moving the syrupy substance around in my mouth and extracting more and more of it as I chewed, the cherry slid down my throat.

Upon opening the door, I stepped out and saw the sky painted the same colors as the cherries Kyle gave me. The sun may never set on my grieving Caitlin, but it had risen on my love for Landon. Judging by the cherry pits I found in his trashcan, he probably holds some semblance of fondness for the fruit. He should taste the sunrise and the sunset in each golden, crimson orb along with me. It would only be fitting that another chapter of my journey begin with him.

(A/N: If you correctly guess the variety of cherry that Kyle handed to Steve, you get to give me a writing prompt!)

Love Me, I Say (Emmeline)

It's late at night and I'm cramming for the last round of AP exams. Such is the price of being intelligent. Success is all about being the right kind of person. I need to get fives on all of these in order to have any kind of chance in life. What was that formula I needed for physics? I said it under my breath as I studied my AP lit passage. I'm in the top 10% of my class, but I need to be the top student. Drawing in a breath, I pored over a poem.

Do this.
Do that.
You should. 
You can't. 

What's such a simple poem doing in a practice AP exam? The author wasn't even a real poet, just some kid. I read the blurb. Leave it to Steve to be everywhere, even in practice AP exams. He wrote it some time around his elementary school years during his time as a violin prodigy. Does his talent know no bounds?

Put on
A show.
Just hold 
Your bow. 

I looked at the questions. These lines are definitely iambic monometer. Even a normal student could answer that question.

Learn math
And write.
Stay up
All night.

Isn't that what the lot of us are doing, that is, if we want to be successful? I don't understand why people think I'm especially cruel to them when we're all in the same boat. It's their loss. Let them fail and fall to the ground while I soar to the top. I'll gladly give up my soul for perfect scores on all of my AP exams. I circled more answers. I need all fives. If I don't get all fives, I don't know what I'll do. Even if I get fours, I'm still the best student, right?

For my upcoming theater exam, I'll sing an English cover of Aishite, Aishite, Aishite. I sang my scales while poring over the questions.

Mallory (Mark)

I saw Steve's interview on TV...again. He gave the same responses as always, which worked, but weren't exactly honest. He averts his eyes briefly when he's concealing negative emotions and he did it during the interview, not enough to really be noticeable, but enough to be an indication that something was amiss. Up there, he was acting exactly like my woodwinds during AP testing week: putting on a meaningless show in the name of a meaningless cause.

Catalina learned that the hard way. Last year, she loaded herself with all these AP classes that I never knew existed. During that year, she was this lifeless thing running off of coffee and fear. After not taking AP classes, she is so much happier and had the time to write for the Desert Tribune. Most college-educated journalists would die for the opportunity alone, but actual publication? Some journalists can't even dream of such fortune.

My Caitgate vlog gained a lot of traction through social media. By a lot, I mean that it went viral, was commented on by some major celebrities (not including Steve), and I've been asked to appear on TV...again. I don't know how Steve deals with doing it on a regular basis; one time was stressful enough. The reactions were mixed. Some people changed their opinions after realizing what the organization had done. Some still dredged up "problematic" stuff to try to justify the organization's actions. However, one of them decided to find my Twitter and had the nerve to attack me for something that I did not choose.

Glad to see that you're back with your problematic opinions, Mallory. 

Quit pretending.

I'll dox all your students unless you delete the video.


Disagree with me? Call me stupid? That's not a problem.

Call me Mallory? Say that I'm "faking"? Threaten to dox my students? That's a problem. I scrolled down further. Steve asked the person "Who's that?". A grin spread across my face, but I still wanted to peel off my skin and toss it into the ocean.

Even if being born in a female body wasn't bad enough, my mother, Yoko, had always told me that I needed to be "pretty". I resented that. There was some truth to her statement, but I had no desire to be pretty. I wanted to be handsome. I worked so hard to be that and, yet, it seemed that some troll had the nerve to take it all away.

But who am I to let them?

I Have Become What You Like (Steve)

I'm in for another TV interview. I got my cosmetics bag out and began applying my makeup. It's been easier to just do it myself rather than flag down the studio's makeup artist before every shoot. Before applying primer, I blotted my nose to get rid of any excess oil and sprayed my face with moisture mist. I'm so glad that Ayako told me about this product because matte foundation and powder are very drying. As I did the rest, I thought of how the wear and tear of performance influenced my life.

I have a love-hate relationship with performing. While I love it, it wears down on me. The nature of performance demands setting aside a part of one's self for the duration of a concert, interview, or other event. Do that day in and day out and that part of yourself will eventually dissolve into nothing as you turn to performance more and more for your sense of identity. If success is becoming what people like, I have done just that. However, I never felt as though I have succeeded at anything.
          "Twenty minutes!" a studio executive called. I looked in the mirror again and blended everything out again. I curled my eyelashes. This was my TV face, the one that everyone knew and loved. All I need to do is tap out the right words like the right notes and do it the right way.

        "Five minutes!" After a quick trip to the restroom, I was ready for the camera. My device was fully charged and hasn't rage quitted on me yet, which was a good sign. I made my way to my seat on cue as I always do. The host, Alana, had an inviting smile.
 
       "This is and this is 'Where are they now?' As you may know, Steve Lowell used to be a violin prodigy and went on to be the star of his high school spleef team and the slayer of the Ender Dragon. He is the face of Minecraft and, not only that, he is an accomplished musician. Well, that's enough of me. We all know who we're here to see." I walked on and waved to the audience as per usual. They applauded. "So, how does it feel to be one of Minecraft's biggest successes?"

Success? What is success anyway? Is "success" a ten year old boy playing until his fingers bled and his arm screamed in agony or is it a senior buying pizza for his friends to celebrate a pivotal victory? Most of my "successes" were me saying "yes" and executing whatever tasks people wanted me to do. I felt my identity slipping away, but I kept doing it to hear people telling me that I did a good job, whatever that was. I became a copycat, a man with a mirror for a face.

The problem is? I need to be always on, always shifting. I need to charming, confident, funny, strong, talented and, in all other ways, the man people want me to be. Although I love the applause after a good performance more than anything, I want to be free to shut some of those qualities off and just be. It'd be nice to turn off strong and admit when I'm sad or scared or turn off talented and cheer on my friends in the audience. One of the attributes that I owe my successes to is that I can't help but draw attention to myself. Over the years, I've come to hate it. Despite having everything that anyone could ever want, I'm still not satisfied.

I wanted to tell Alana what I felt, honestly, but I ended up giving the same generic answer as always. I don't know how to be myself anymore. This is what you wanted, right? I'm just a face and a name to the lot of you. Keep demanding from me. All I can do is emulate anyway.

Come In (Steve)

After the last of the hardcore students left, I decided to work up the courage to go to Landon's place and ask him out. I can't exactly pinpoint when our friendship evolved into romantic affection, but it probably started when we tried to get coffee together. He ran off and I don't know why. Maybe he saw some press cameras that I didn't.

When I stepped out the door, a warm breeze blew past my face. I felt like a middle school girl seeing her first crush as I set out on the path. As if I were walking on air, my steps glided effortlessly along the sandstone road. It led through the jungle, which overflowed with ripe cocoa beans. The air was thick and muggy here, but I barely noticed, much less minded

I arrived outside the door and knocked. After waiting, I had no answer. I looked arou nd the house to find that the bathroom light was on in one of the rooms. That's unusual. I didn't hear the shower running or any other normal activity. I held my ear to the wall. What that...vomiting? I knocked on the wall, which is a way of asking if someone is okay if they appear to be in distress. I got no response. I knocked again. I could make out a weak, raspy "Come in" and more vomiting noises.
Climbing through the window, I found Landon hunched over the toilet puking up what seemed to be all the fluids in his body. He looked lighter than printer paper and sweated bullets as he heaved more from his gut. How can one stomach hold all of that? I bent down, scooped him up, and got his head out of the toilet. I took a moment to examine the contents of the toilet bowl. I didn't see anything that

resembled coffee grounds. Closing the lid and flushing the toilet, Landon sat against the wall still dry-heaving. This wasn't good. I hoisted him up onto my shoulder again and laid him down in his bed. My finger shook as I pecked out a sentence.
          "I'll get you a doctor, okay?" I typed out a message to my friend and doctor, Andrew Lai.

Help. Landon's puking his brains out.

Not literally, I hope.

Not funny.

Okay. What's his height and weight?

5'11" and...160 lbs, I guess. It might be less now.

Age?

22 years


How is he?

Tired. He must have been vomiting for a while because, when I came, it was all just thin yellow stuff. After that came dry heaving. 

Did he have a fever? I laid a hand across his forehead. It felt hot. I found a thermometer and took his temperature. It didn't seem bad, but it never hurt to check.

100.2. He looks terrible! How can I help?

Get a cold compress to deal with the fever and see if he has any Pedialyte lying around. He's likely dehydrated to the point where water just makes things worse. I scoured the cabinets for Pedialyte until I found an unopened bottle of cherry Pedialyte. Unflavored would have been ideal, but this would have to do.

After pouring a glass of the stuff, I went back over to the bedroom. I shook Landon awake and offered the Pedialyte. He looked at me to indicate that he needed me to hold the cup. As I put the cup to his lips, he sipped. I put it down on his nightstand and dabbed his forehead with the cold compress.
         "Excuse me." Landon held a hand to his mouth and started retching. He started to get up, but I found a trashcan. He vomited some more, but hardly anything came out. I got a napkin and wiped his mouth. After that, I dabbed at his forehead with the cold compress and watched as he fell asleep nearly instantaneously. I rubbed his belly gently and slowly as the slightest bit pf pleasure crossed his face. I'd scrub the bathroom with bleach later. Right now, Landon needs me.
 

All in a Day's Work (Alisha)

I hate the gifted/talented programs at some schools, not because I hate gifted/talented students, but because it's an easy outlet for the exploitation of gifted/talented students. Why is it that some schools, usually ones that vehemently protect students with intellectual disabilities, are quick to objectify and demean gifted students? I sent a few of my journalists out to find more answers on the age-old question, but I thought of the answers I had from personal experience as I sat down to try to fix the bad school lunch problem. There is no point in attempting to create healthy meals if they are not palatable or enough calories; a few slimy grapes and a cup of questionable tuna salad is not a suitable meal for a first grader even if said first grader manages to choke it down out of sheer desperation.

When I was a child, I envied Caitlin. She was celebrated for well, everything she did, even just existing. Naturally, I was incredibly jealous of her. I wished that I could sing or play the clarinet when she could do both and do them very well. I had no aptitude for either instrument, so I was stuck playing viola. I wished for her beauty and altruism. I wished that I didn't tower over everyone at 6'4". All because of my selfishness, she's dead. As much as I want to grieve properly, I need to get on with my work.

I've researched something called the "prodigy effect" for a while. Its effects become visible as soon as the "prodigy" is recognized, but the toll is most visible some time during adolescence. It comes in stages. The prodigy effect starts as a kind of pride and it either (1) completely falls apart due to an event or series of events or (2) results in chronic, excessive displays of pride akin to narcissism. The former is more common and, if the second does occur, it usually indicates that the fall is about to come. If the fall never occurs, the affected person develops a god complex.

The rest of my journalists are covering the Mindcrack suicide crisis. Some of the bathrooms looked like war zones--and I've been to schools situated right in the middle of some heated disputes between communities. Suicide is a common cause of death, but it does not usually occur on such a scale in such a short amount of time. Mass suicides like these are usually attributed to cults or fear of disease, but that doesn't seem to be the case with Mindcrack.

I redesigned the menu for the elementary school that served questionable tuna salad and went on to conquer other tasks. It's all in a day's work.

One-Eyed Train Wrecks (Landon)

Since my hair was still wet from my morning shower, I felt less than prepared when I heard the doorbell ring. Still holding a half-bitten hard-boiled egg in my hand, I opened the door. My visitor, a blond-haired woman, stared at me. She had a percussion stick bag and some other things with her. It's been a while since I've played drums. Looking her over, I decided to let her in.

The woman introduced herself as "Anna". After pouring a glass of water for her, I found a book or something near her titled "One-Eyed Jacks". Though people tell me it's good, I've never seen the movie. Maybe it was the script. However, I got the impression that One-Eyed Jacks was not a book or a script.
          "Want to play this?" Anna held the sheet music up. She had me look through the parts. This takes six people ordinarily, but any percussionist worth their salt can multitask.
          "All right. What part do you want to play?" Anna looked at me again. "Auxiliaries look fun," I suggested. We didn't have mallet instruments, but I did have some piano skills up my sleeve.
          "Sounds good." Anna and I went to get our instruments. I uncovered a snare drum and my piano. "Let's warm up on our own just to make sure our fingers work." Anna giggled.
          "Don't tell Farkas I was here."
          "Who's that?" I did not hear that name around these parts.
          "He's my husband."
          "Oh, did you have something else in mind?" Anna cocked her head confusedly. She didn't get my joke.
          "What?" It was better that I didn't say it.
          "Never mind."

Both of us played some scales and rudiments. Anna surprised me with her skill, to be honest. After that, we played together for a bit. She handed me the music and I counted off. My eyes darted between the parts and I tried to play them. The melody was simple enough, so I kept up. I tried to roll with one finger. Anna played the temple blocks. Apparently, she was amused by me darting around on the piano. She played snare while I rested my hands. I was afraid that she would fall over as she reached for the cymbal, but she managed.

Meanwhile, my xylophone part fell off the piano. I played what I could with one hand while retrieving it. My left hand protested, screaming in pain. This is what I get for not practicing.The xylophone part rode on a sudden draft and, attempting to reach it, I fell over onto the floor. Anna stopped playing.
         "Are you okay?"
         "Nothing hurt but my ego." I got up and handed Anna her music. "Looks like the one-eyed Jacks became the no-eyed Jacks." She left with the biggest grin on her face. I had the feeling she would tell her friends about our little train wreck.