It wasn’t that Bob didn’t want to go to college, that wasn’t the issue, he certainly hated high school enough, it was the applications: question after question after question, asking him his three academic areas of interest and now rank how certain he is on a scale of one to five; it was all the “short responses” and “personal statements”; it was the “Why this college?” essay when his only answer was “Why not?”; it was the feeling in the pit of his stomach when he realized that it said 400 characters not 400 words and, oh, the characters included spaces; it was the stress of willing that teacher telepathically to send in his letter of recommendation now or, preferably, three days ago; it was trying to upload an essay and realizing that it was hundreds of kilobytes too big; it was thinking he was done with the application, then realizing that he couldn’t upload a document, he couldn’t copy-paste into the box, he had to retype everything. But more than any of that, it was knowing that even after all the college applications were done, there would be scholarship applications, CSS profiles, FAFSAs, and IDOCs. There would be an EFC, that five-digit number that would tell him that all the essays and applications were a waste of time, because there would be no way to afford any of it. 

By Helen (period 3)

Timmy had been sitting in the sandbox all morning, waiting for Margaret to notice him; he was tired of all the rumors attached to his having cooties, which might make her run away; he was upset that the bottle of glue, which he kindly offered Margaret to sample, was taken away by his teacher who wasn't a connoisseur of Elmer's, and who even lectured them on the dangers of ingesting white paste; he was scared that Margaret wouldn't play with him because he wasn't cool enough to pick his nose or play with mud, which would dirty his t-shirt that on that particular day, just a few days before Valentine's Day, was washed and ironed and matched the color of her shoes. Timmy was nervous. He was going through a condition that so many preschoolers had experienced on that same playground. But when it got to Timmy it made him feel clammy, sweaty, nauseous, even giddy. Timmy had a crush. 

(Loretta) 

Barbara counted down the minutes to Toys ‘R’ Us’ opening. Pressed against the back of the large woman standing in front of her, she tapped her foot angrily, a habit she’d acquired in high school while waiting for bells to signal release from tedious classes. It was a painful habit after she spent minutes doing it – but she seemed to believe it helped her cope. She had been working full time as a dental hygenist and watching her neighbors’, friends’, and siblings’ children on weekends to make a little extra cash, all while dealing with her own three kids, aged 3, 5, and 7 and a half, who constantly pulled on her arms and begged for the attention she had been finding difficult to give them at the extreme level they demanded. Barbara was stressed. She tapped her foot but stood sullenly silent, her energy spent focused on her packed itinerary for the day and the thicket of middle-aged feisty women all waiting outside of the toy store at 6:58 that morning, while she wondered why they were all there, and wondered what it was about Christmas and mothers that made the world split into two at once – the paradox of the season’s unconditionally celebratory Brotherhood and the biting competitive thriftiness of holiday shoppers. So far, Barbara’s Christmas had been light on the “merry.”

(Gretchen, Mandi, Patrick) 

It was 7:50 in the morning; too early for meaningful conversation or successful analysis, specifically of an essay that took two hours to read the night before, and had left the reader exhausted. George Porge was done; he was done with the same old routine, done with late nights full of busy work and early mornings that demanded mental clarity at an ungodly hour. Porge was done with school. Today would be his retribution. He checked the time bomb attached to his chest and rebuttoned his coat. Months of careful preparation all led up to this fateful day. He walked quickly to a payphone, placed two quarters neatly into the slot, and called the main office.

by Julie Oldfield, Alissa Hartman, Brian Feng, Christine Yang

Mary had been struggling through a variety of classes that she was now tired of, she couldn’t wait to graduate; she was tired of all the gossip surrounding her dating the thirty-year old Valero, who was not available tonight; she was angry that a CE presentation, due in two weeks, forced her to share her personal life, even sharing her possible future as a Vegas showgirl; she was worried about her starring role in the Moving Up assembly, which would require that she perform a cheerleading routine with an ankle that at this particular moment, just a few nights before the assembly, was worn out, strained and in much pain. Mary was stressed. She was the victim of an ailment so common that thousands have suffered through it before her. But when it got to Mary, it sent her into a state of stress, concern, and lack of motivation. Mary had senioritis.

(Heather, Lauren, Erin, Lisa) 

Louis had been working the same job, which once fascinated him, for too long; he was irritated that the $80,000 salary no longer met the needs of his materialistic stay-at-home wife and no longer compensated for his sleepless nights; he was no longer interested in the lives of the rich and what they deem worthless; he was frustrated with the permanent stains that marked his clothing, that no brand of laundry detergent did the trick; he was sick of the countless amounts of hours and money spent on his personal sanitation, attempting to rid himself of the stains and smells that plagued his body each  and every day. Louis was done. He was the victim of an underpaid job whose benefits did not nearly match the people and places he had to endure. The constant repetition, day after day, had made Louis fall into a state of depression, that detached him from his family, himself, and society. Louis was an overworked garbage man. 

(Anna, Xana, Tara)