The Middle

Blog post #2

I’ve been listening to Jimmy Eat World’s "The Middle" a lot. It’s a song from my middle school years, when my musical predilections were different (read: generally unbearable to look back on now). One day, though, the song came on while I had my iPod on shuffle, and now I’m actively playing it over and over again.

I think even in middle school, I recognized the sort of manufactured, clichéd quality of the lyrics, which include lines like—

“Just try your best./Try everything you can.”

Obviously, the song’s title also pops up: “It just takes some time, little girl./You’re in the middle of the ride.”

Never had I sought any deeper meaning in the song beyond its catchy tune, and it’s not that I’m now deciding it’s meaningful, exactly. I’m just also caught in the middle of what I’ve told everyone is a form of limbo—the year before I start living. Sometimes, in the middle of drudgery, I forget this (“this” being everything around me) is transient and that beyond having to do things as tedious as internal assessments or outlining chapters out of a textbook is years ahead of doing whatever I want. Maybe I’m actually supposed to be looking back with more forgiving eyes, now that the termination of my high school career is nearing. In reality, I am so not nostalgic.

Katherine Fang

Editor-in-chief
Bellaire High School--Three Penny Press

A Second Chance

2:07 a.m. The bright, green digits on the dashboard glare at me, burning the time into my eyes. As my eyelids begin to droop, the numbers are still engrained in my vision, and the panic begins to set in. Luckily, my mom's constant yelling from the driver's seat snaps me back into focus, and her words are finally intelligible.

"Molly, what are you doing? We are completely lost! Why aren't you helping me?? Stop looking at me like that!"

2:11 a.m. We're driving around in circles in The-Middle-of-Nowhere, New Jersey. After delayed flights, lost luggage, and inept rental car employees, it’s pretty easy to say that we're behind schedule. With a supposed hotel nowhere in sight and a mom who has lost every ounce of sanity she once possessed, I can vividly see my dreams melting away. Four hours and forty-nine minutes from now I'm supposed to be on a freshly cut softball field, warming up for possibly the most important game of my career. The emails have been sent off to the dream schools, and responses have finally found their way into my inbox. Only now, it seems my opportunity will won't arrive, since we may never make it out of this New Jersey turnpike nightmare.

4:17 a.m. My head hits the cool, cotton pillow, and now I know what heaven feels like. Did I pass out in the car? There’s no time to think of an answer with a pillow as perfect as this one. I take the first calm, deep breath I have taken all day. Sure, I have to play in a matter of hours, but before I can realize any implications, I fall blissfully asleep.

7:34 a.m. I can feel my mom's hand on my shoulder as I force my eyes open. I've never been hung over before, but this must be what it feels like. My bed calls for me, begging for me to lie back down just for five more minutes. Then it hits me. Bright green digits on the dresser glare at me, and my stomach knots up. 7:34 a.m. I’ve missed warm-ups. I have to play in twenty-six minutes in front of college coaches, and I’m still sitting here in my dad’s Texans sleep shirt. Still, I swallow my tears, throw on my jersey, and rush out the door.

8:25 a.m. The glaring sun ignites a firestorm in my head at second base. I can feel my eyes begging to close and my brain pounding. Did someone put weights in my cleats? My breathing is heavy and I have lost all focus. How many outs are there? Wait, since when did the bases get loaded? Uh oh; should I be in double play depth? Suddenly, my coach is screaming at me and waving his arms like a flightless bird trying so desperately to get off the ground. I glance behind me and find the a bright yellow ball glaring at me, burning its image into my eyes. Oh no. Did I just miss that ground ball? Oh, please don’t let this be happening to me! Not now. Not in front of the coaches. This was my chance! The fatigue is too strong for tears, but I want so hopelessly to cry. I’m finished.

9:45 a.m. The abysmal game is over, and I can’t stop staring at my cleats. I can’t wait to forget it all, but I doubt that will happen. Suddenly, a small card blocks the view of my Mizuno’s.

“Here,” my coach murmurs, handing me the card. “Looks like someone saw something in you in all that mess.”

               It reads “University of Pennsylvania Softball Camp – January 6^th”. Those are the words that will be engraved into my vision forever. My second chance.

Molly Oretsky
Staff Writer
Bellaire High School, TPP

The Chocolate Cake

Traditions come in an all kinds of packages. They are passed down generation to generation cherished each time. These traditions are what make up part of our character. They come from our culture and represent our background. My package, happens to come in a large brown scrumptious one: The Chocolate Cake. Since my grandma was little, she would have one big chocolate cake made every single birthday. It had three delicious layers of spongy chocolate cake topped with one layer of chocolate fudge hardened over the top and in between each layer. This heavenly creation was one to save. My grandma then made this cake for each one of her four kids on every one of their birthdays. In one year, there would be six chocolate cakes made to be devoured. She didn’t even have to ask because there wasn’t even a doubt about which cake my mom and her siblings wanted. They never questioned the chocolate cake until one year my uncle decided that he wanted a change and wanted to try a new flavor. He asked for a strawberry cake. As they all sat around the table ready to bite into the soft pink filling, their faces began to change. With every bite, their expression began to turn into disgust. The strawberry cake tasted like sausage. Some sausage oil must have gotten into the pan that year by coincedence, but it was taken as a sign and never again was the chocolate cake every questioned. To this day that same chocolate cake with its succulent fudge is made for every one of my cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents and parents’ birthday.

Daniela Carlock
Writer

SkyFall

One. Two. Three. Jump. The last words I remember before I take my plunge to the safety net near the ground. I have always enjoyed a life of living on the edge, so having the opportunity to attempt this daredevil experience was an opportunity I could not pass up. I was attending the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo when I suddenly heard a loud shriek from up above. I look up to behold a sky high crane with a bungee chord attached. My mouth opens and I immediately get in line to get more information. I discover that it costs $80, a little pricey, but I ultimately decide that this experience is totally worth it. As I wait in line to take my plunge to earth, I began to second guess my decision.

"Should I get a refund? What if the chord breaks and I break my neck? What I faint in mid-air?"

My hands begin to moisten the closer and closer I get to the front of the line. 

"You're next! Let's get you strapped in," said the bungee jump coordinator.

My hear began to beat fast. My anxiety levels were past extreme. I took a few steps forward and let him strap me in to the wires on top of wires of safety gear. 

I step into the elevator of doom that carries me and the bungee jump coordinator to the top of the crane. I see every become smaller and smaller as I go up. I don't hear anything but the wind hitting my face. The bungee jump coordinator says "One, two, three, jump!"

 I take the leap of face.

The next event I remember is looking up at the sky from the safety net.

I survived!

Johnnie Sinclair

News Writer

Bellaire HS

Bellaire,Tx

Keep Dreaming

"Dude, I had this insane dream last night!" I said to my friend."In the dream I had myself go to sleep and I had a dream within a dream!"

          "Woah, that's radical man," replied my friend.

I smirked to myself, feeling very accomplished with my sleeping endeavor. And then I woke up.

          Ever since watching Inception, I had been fascinated by lucid dreaming and the novelty of experiencing a dream within a dream. Last year, I wanted to experience it myself so badly, that I began to research on my own if it was possible. Much to my surprise and satisfaction, I found that lucid dreaming existed and was very possible. Using what I had learned from various internet sources, I began to take measures to practice lucid dreaming. At first it was very frustrating. I ended up either keeping myself awake for too long at nights because of my dream within a dream craze, or just falling asleep and forgetting what I was trying to do. Then, one night I got it right. I fell asleep, but I was awake in my dream. I was so exhilarated by finally being able to lucid dream. Then I remembered my primary goal to have a dream within a dream, so I had my dream self go to asleep in the dream. But here’s the trippy part: I must have forgotten while in the dream how many levels down I was in the dream, and so I thought I had woken up. I began to tell a friend how I had a lucid dream, but I was not back in reality yet. I had lost myself in my own dreams. When I finally woke up to reality, I was just really dumbfounded by having such a  profound experience,

          That was the one time I had ever accomplished lucid dreaming. I have still been trying to replicate that experience, because it’s something I’ll never forget.

Zean Liao
Staff Writer
Bellaire

Those metal earrings

Everyone has a story. Pages upon pages of scribed experiences, thoughts, emotions. When you meet someone, you take the first impression as the final ultimatum. I give verdicts by the hour, judging every stranger and his/her intentions, assuming the worst and hoping the least. I stepped out of the bus onto a dirt road. The transportation system stopped and refused to take passengers any farther. The buildings lost their urban finesse, the people ditched their suits for basic rags, and the air ceased to smell like baked bread and began to take on the smell of wet dog.
"Mother, this place is ratchet," I said with disgust.
"Daughter, this place is my home," my mom refuted. "We didn't all come from the privileged north side."
I was in the middle of southern Bogota. I could not believe that this was the same city with my favorite mall, my nice gated community, and my favorite restaurant. The disparity between the northern and southern parts of Bogota was not only blatant but was almost designed. As we walked toward my supposed great great second aunt twice removed's house, I examined the slovens and their filthy lifestyles, giving them each a name, a story, and a judgement. My number one victim was this teenage boy about my age who was sitting on his porch drinking a beer. Wow, that is so illegal. Get up and do something instead of sitting there and staring, I thought to myself. I continued by making my visit to my aunt's house with a sour attitude and with no intention of lightening up. When I returned home that night, I opened up my purse and panicked when I realized that $50 were missing. I ran frantically to my mom's room and began to accuse all of the scum of the south of stealing my money. She handed me a bag with earrings and $50.
"The $50, Adriano, your cousin, he saw you drop them yesterday. He wanted to give them back. The earrings, he wanted to wish you a happy birthday. He made them. It's what he's been doing with his spare time ever since his dad died."
The kid sitting across the road on the dirt porch chugging down a beer because he just lost his father. Adriano. A distant cousin of mine. Everything but a crook.
Everyone has a story. Pages upon pages that one cannot see with a simple glance. I now read into the pages of those around me before making my judgement. And now, I wonder, what they read in mine.

Cari Bonilla
Staff Editor
Bellaire HS
Bellaire, TX

I Go By Tonya

I could already hear it in my mind, “Sorry if I mispronounce this, but TOSYZUX Chen.” Every year on first day of school, I expect the same thing in all of my classes. As all the anticipating students reunite with old friends and the teacher tries to register the new faces, the roll gets called and most of the time it’s ignored. But when my impossible name is pronounced, the chit chat seems to stops. “That’s me, umm I just go by Tonya,” I say.

I have mixed feelings about my name. On one hand I don’t really care if I am judged because of it but on the other hand, I sometimes feel embarrassed. People say the first impression is always the most important. With my teachers and classmates, the first impression is always “this girl has a Chinese name”. I eventually outgrow this perception as people seem to forget overtime. But the arrival of a substitute reminds my friends once again. My friend Arjun always greets me with a little smirk and his interpretation of my name. To him, my name sounds like ten-shoe so he proceeds by signaling a 10 with his fingers and then pointing to his shoe. This pretty much defines our friendship. 

Tonya Chen

Staff Writer

Bellaire High School TPP

An Unforgettable Experience

Staring down at what seemed to be a never-ending abyss of water, I was sure that I wasn't going to jump. The twenty-minute hike to the cliff while wearing only a swimsuit and flip-flops seemed enough for one day. Jumping alone into the open air of the 20-foot drop did not look like an invigorating experience. It seemed terrifying. How would I possibly make it the whole 20 feet? The wind could carry me back, and I could hit the rock. I could accidentally land in too shallow water. I could slip and fall head first. There were endless possibilities of what could happen. One thing was for sure: none of them would happen to me. I was not jumping. For someone so absolutely set on a decision, it is surprising how quickly my thoughts could change. How would I possibly go home after climbing my way up the rock and not jump? I could miss out on an incredible experience. I could regret something that I will never have the opportunity to do again. I could look back and wonder why I skipped out on such an exciting event. So, I went for it. I jumped, and it was amazing. In that moment I felt refreshed, I felt exhilarated, and most of all I felt alive.


Alison Elberger

writer

Black Friday Shopping

As I push through women after women after women. I finally see them. The new, dark brown, riding boots that I have wanted since the beginning of winter. I run to go grad them before someone else does. I find a quiet corner to go try them on. They fit perfectly. Waking up at 6.a.m is finally worth it. The what-seemed endless drive to the galleria doesn't matter anymore. Right as I'm to check out, I notice there is a sweater sale going on in the Macy's next door. Well might as well as I'm here, I could go check it out. I doubt there is anything still in my size. But you never know, I might find something that is worthwhile. I walk in. It looks as if a tornado has passed through. Am I going to find anything in this black hole? Is it really worth it? Well, I might as well try. I savage through the scraps of clothes I find left.I see something, buried under a pile of clothes. I dig through and find the perfect sweater. The perfect holiday sweater covered with reindeer and snowflakes. I can't expect to leave the store without it. I look at size. A small! This is really a thanksgiving miracle. As I check out, the lady at the register tells I'm lucky. It was the last one. Finally ready to go home and take a fulfilled nap. Successful shopping trip? Very, Would I do it again next year? Never.

Jackie Wertheimer
Entertainment Writer
Bellaire High School
Bellaire, TX

A Push

     I feel alone. My eyes scan the entire room and all I see are a bunch of strangers to me. I crack a smile, desperately trying to evoke a sense of confidence. But really on the inside my heart is pounding 20 miles a minute as I try to take in everything.

    Ever since I can remember, I've always been a shy person. I can clearly remember the moments in elementary where I would sit as silent as a mouse with a group of kids. With my close friends, I could be myself but with people that I didn't know, I crawled back into my shell.  It seemed as if there was a piece of duct tape over my mouth preventing me from communicating with people I didn't know. There was nothing for me to say to someone I didn't know and the fear of meeting someone mean held me back.

    I stand in a room full of people 30 + years older than me. As my mom shoves me towards a stranger, she whispers, " You'll thank me for this later." I am forced to get out of my comfort zone. I am forced to do something I don't want to do. After the initial butterflies, I realized that it wasn't as bad as I expected. Now I feel like there is nothing limiting me anymore. My mom has also been a strong believer in that everyone just needs a little push to overcome a fear. I think she's right.

Jennifer Wang

Writer

Bellaire High School TPP