Harshika Gidwani
The savanna was dry and hot, and the sun was beating down on the Jeep that was accelerating over the rocky terrain. The driver, wearing beige shorts and a shirt to match his beige hat – a classic sign of a savanna worker– turned around to look at the four kids, which included his nephew, Marcos. Marcos stared right back at his uncle, a look that said, Why are you making us do this, uncle? Amara noticed the look. She was Marcos’s best friend; she had blonde-brown waves cascading down her shoulders. She grinned at her twin, Mila, who was busy snapping pictures with her blue camera, which was suspended from a cord at her neck. The last kid was Marcos’s friend, called Aaron. He fidgeted with his fingers, looking more nervous than Amara had ever seen him before. “What’s up with you, Aaron?” Amara asked. Three other pairs of eyes turned their focus on Aaron. He turned red under his hat. “Nothing . . .” Aaron mumbled. Amara just waited, knowing he’d say it eventually. Her prediction turned out to be true when he blurted out, “I heard there are lions on the savanna. Do you think they’ll come for us?” Before Amara could answer, Marcos’s uncle, Atlas, said in the most non-reassuring way, “You’ll find out r’now Aaron.” Aaron started chewing his nail as the Jeep halted near a termite mound, the tallest one so that it would act like a flag. The kids hopped out of the car, careful to avoid any of the giant termites. Mila hastily captured pictures, though. “Take it in, kids,” Uncle Atlas said, spreading his arms to indicate the environment. “The savanna.” Amara noticed her friends’ reactions. Aaron tried to blend in with his surroundings using the beige clothes Uncle Atlas had given them. Mila stared at Uncle Atlas for a second, then snapped a half-hearted picture, just for his sake. Marcos coughed and scratched his head looking unimpressed, which was probably because he came to the savanna every break, so it wasn’t new to him. “Eh, you know, we aren’t really in the best spot to capture the beauty,” Uncle Atlas said. “Anyway, what we’re gonna do is climb onto that ledge right there,” he pointed to the small cliff above them, “and we’re gonna observe some zebras.” The ground was gritty and rough under their feet, but they made it to the top, where Uncle Atlas kneeled to grab five pairs of binoculars from his backpack. Amara eagerly grabbed her own, adjusted the power, and then peered into them. “There ya go,” Uncle Atlas said, watching Amara. “What do you see?” “I can see a lot . . . of grass.” Amara said. Marcos coughed again. Aaron slumped to the ground in anxiety. Mila glared at the grass. “Well,” Marcos said, rubbing his eyes, “we’re gonna be here awhile.” A soft bird chirp floated towards them. They turned around to look back. Aaron immediately shrieked at the sight of a coalition of cheetahs, muscles tensed, like they were about to pounce. “No we’re not,” Amara had the nerve to say. Uncle Atlas tensed, then said quietly, “Run when they pounce. Hopefully they’ll go for the zebra.” “What zebra?!” Mila asked, her voice going up a few octaves. The cheetahs pounced. They bolted. A tear formed in Amara’s eye from running so hard, but she didn’t dare stop. Marcos was way ahead of her, Mila was at her side, and Aaron was stumbling forward, frightened tears filling his eyes. The cheetahs were probably right behind them, and they had no choice but to keep running. So, naturally, that’s when Aaron tripped, knocking over Mila, who, in a desperate attempt to not fall, grabbed the collar of Amara’s shirt and sent her tumbling to the ground as well. “OW!” Marcos stopped in his tracks then sprinted back. He grabbed Amara and pulled her up, then helped Aaron who was curled on the ground, bracing for the cheetah attack. “Um, guys?” Marcos said, finally helping Mila up. “The cheetahs are . . . right there.” The cheetahs slowed to a threatening crawl, glaring at the kids. “What do they want?! What do they want?!” one of the kids screamed. Maybe it was Amara. Anyway, they were cornered into the back of the cave, when Mila yelled, “Wait! What do they want?” Amara stared at her, then slowly caught on. “Be quiet! Do you hear that?” Marcos and Aaron stared at her in disbelief, which turned into a look of utter confusion when a tiny chirp came from Aaron’s bag. He flung it off his shoulders and set it carefully on the ground. A small cheetah waddled out, yawning and inching back to the big cheetahs. The cheetahs quickly picked up their baby by the collar and gave the kids a long, hard stare. They left, without harming them. Aaron slumped to the ground in relief. Amara watched the cheetahs go, then turned to her friends and said, “They weren’t trying to hurt us. There was an other side to the story, one we didn’t know.” In the distance they could see Uncle Atlas running towards them, shouting unintelligible things. “Huh. Talk about the wrong perspective.”
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By: Harshika Gidwani
“Mike, I need to have a word with you!” A voice rang from downstairs. I grumbled at the sound. I just wanted to eat my taco in peace, but life seemed to have other plans. I forced myself to descend the stairs, knowing my report card lay on the dining table, probably read and re-read by my parents a billion times. “Yes?” I asked, trying to keep my tone subtle, but not too subtle. Yeah, I was pretty much a goner. My mother stared at me with her piercing stare that made me feel like that time I had to get an x-ray of my broken finger: weird and prickly. She looked like she was about to confront me, but instead, she said, “How was your day sweetie?” That got me taken aback. How was your day sweetie? Really? I shrugged. “Fine, I guess.” She leaned back. “Let's go get ice cream.” My ears almost popped out. What was happening today? “Ice cream? Really?” I asked in disbelief. My mom nodded and told me to get my twin brother, Matt. I agreed, but before I could get Matt, he strutted down the stairs, wearing a smug smirk and flipping his hair back. “Mom, how was my report card?” he asked, stopping at the foot of the stairs. Our mom’s eyes brightened. “Oh, it was wonderful, honey. All A’s but one B. Still really good.” Matt smiled mischievously. “And Mike?” I glared at him. “Why do you want to know?” “Oh, just because I wanna see how good you did,” he said. As Mom shuffled through the papers he added quietly, “Because I wanna rub it in your face when Mom sees how bad you did and decides to leave you out on ice cream.” “You wish,” I hissed back. Mom found my report card and made it clear for us to see. “Same as you, Matt.” I grinned, thinking I should probably go finish that taco for a celebration. Matt’s face turned the color of a tomato, but then quickly righted itself. “Let's go get ice cream then,” he said, trying to grin. I just flashed him a smug smile and went to get my hoodie. School a few days later was . . . not fun. Matt kept making fun of all the kids who got a lower grade than him, whereas I just watched and kept my mouth shut. I wasn't fair; just because they scored slightly lower than him didn't mean that he could bully them endlessly. The teachers kept trying to catch Matt in the act, but then he’d just pretend to be innocent, remind them of his ‘fabulous grades’, and then leave to find another victim. I had just sat down in ELA class, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. “You need to stop!” I turned around hastily, to see a girl glaring daggers at me. “You’re not the king of the universe, in fact, quite the opposite when you bully people like that.” I just stared, flabbergasted until something clicked. “Oh,” I told the blonde girl, “No, you must be talking about my brother, Matt. The one who was bullying everyone today.” “You have a twin brother?” “I wish I didn’t, but, yeah,” I mumbled. Her brain looked like it was working furiously, but finally got the confirmation when Matt walked in. “Oh. I’m sorry . . . then.” She turned around awkwardly and started talking to her friends. I just kept my mouth shut, which was good, since our teacher, Mrs. Everhart, walked into the class. “Today, we were supposed to learn about constructing an essay, but I feel that some people need to learn this before.” She grabbed a marker and drew in big bold words: Humility. “What does this mean to you?” she asked, projecting her voice for force. Some kids raised their hands, but, unfortunately, she called on me. I knew sitting in the front wouldn’t turn out well. I cleared my throat. “Uh, I think humility means . . .” I moistened my lips, “It means being humble. Knowing you’ve done something great, but not bragging about it.” I said that last bit for Matt, so he might get something into that big head of his. He looked unaffected by my words. I sat down. “That was a good example, Mike, but it goes deeper than that. There is no one definition of Humility–” “There is in the dictionary,” Matt interjected. “–Matt, did I ask you to speak? No, so please do not interrupt me again,” Mrs. Everhart said, before continuing, “Humility can mean many different things, but it always circulates to humbleness. And to show it to all of you, I would like to use an example, which I’m sure Matt will help me demonstrate.” She gestured for him to join her at the front of the classroom. Matt looked nervous but quickly hid it under his smug expression. “Okay, so we’re gonna pretend Matt just got an A+ on his paper . . .” She grabbed a sticky note and drew an A+ on it. Then handed it to him. He gripped it proudly, brandishing it to the class. I rolled my eyes. “His grades are great, but then he goes around telling everyone . . .” Matt was forced to give his sticky note around, and it got passed between everyone in the class, eventually revolving around back to him. “He has now told everyone about his grades, and possibly bragged about it as well,” Mrs. Everhart swiftly plucked the sticky note out of his and and tore it in half. She let the pieces flutter to the ground before clearing her throat and saying, “The good things you do mean nothing if you use it for bad.” By: Harshika Gidwani
The sad thing about doomsday is that it always starts out as a normal day. Walter Beckett woke up on a normal day. He packed his writing utensils in a satchel and headed off to school with a kiss from his parents. After school, he returned home, ate an apple, then headed off to work on the farm. That was his everyday routine. The village he lived in was friendly, and there was no danger. Until that night. When an exhausted Walter shuffled into his small house, he sat down on the dirt floor and waited for his mother to bring him his dinner He pulled out his paper, ink cartridge, and quill, and he started to write a story. ‘It was a lonely, narrow, river,’ he wrote, ‘the boy, sweeping his hair out of his eyes to take in his surroundings better, walked along the dry bank. All of a sudden, there was a loud–’ BANG! Walter nearly dropped his quill. He stood up abruptly, not knowing what to do. Where had the sound come from? “Walter?” his mother called from the other room, “What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything!” he replied while peering through the crack under the door and watching a pair of big heavy boots stop outside towards his house. “Mother! Could you make haste and come here?” He indistinctly heard his mother grumble. “Mother! Hurry!” Someone pounded on the door, “Boy! I heard you in there! Open the door, NOW!” Walter trembled, “Why? Do you need something? I could surely arrange it for you. Perhaps a warm meal?” “I don’t want your food! I want your door to be open!” the man shouted. Walter’s mother ran into the room, holding her skirt up to her ankles and looking surprised. “Listen, here!” she shouted back, dropping her skirt down with a graceful sway, “You can’t just barge into my home. I order you to leave immediately!” Walter looked at his mother with pride. That was his brave mother. “Charlotte,” another weak voice said, “Open it.” The voice belonged to Walter’s father. Why would he want them to open the door? Unless . . . he was in trouble. Walter rushed to the door and wrenched it open. Standing there was an extremely large royal guard, and his father right beside him, looking terrified. The guard sneered at them, “By order of the King, we are taking control of the village. You must pay your taxes: half of your produce; young boys the age of seven and over shall not go to school any longer and instead work in the fields; and a man in each home must serve in the army.” His voice thundered in Walter’s head. No wonder Walter’s father looked so scared; he was going to have to serve in the army. Mother recovered first, “What is this? We lived without a king for many years. We can live without one now, too.” “Well, we’ve taken control now,” the guard’s eyes glinted, “Those who do not pay will receive a severe punishment.” Mother had a matching look on her face, ‘We’ll endure whatever punishment you have for us. You can’t just march on up and take control of our lives!” The guard snorted. He pulled Walter by the collar of his shirt and said, “Very well then. I will take this boy. That was the punishment.” Walter’s voice seemed to disappear. He thrashed and flailed, but the guard didn’t let him wriggle away. “WAIT! No! We’ll do it!” Mother pulled Walter back firmly. He felt like he was a tug-of-war rope. “That’s what I like to hear,” The guard let go of Walter and stomped away. Walter didn’t know that that was the turning point of his life. Walter’s family never had enough food to feed themselves, Walter hadn’t seen his father since that unfortunate day, and Walter couldn’t go to school, all after that night. The guards were rough and beat people who wouldn’t do what they wanted. One day, as Walter stumbled back home from another miserable day in the fields, someone banged on the door. Mother shuffled into the room wearily, “Open the door.” Walter opened it and gasped, “Dad?” “There’s no time!” he barged in and hugged them, then pulled back to look at them seriously, panic flashing in his eyes, “We’re running away. Tonight.” Walter knew something like this was going to happen. He quickly packed his supplies into his satchel and waited in his room. There, he contemplated what was going to happen next. “Alright,” his father flipped his helmet on. “Let’s go.” The other villagers were waiting outside. They all looked pained. Walter joined his friends but held his head down. They would have to be as quiet as they could. They trekked on. Walter hugged himself. His friends looked at him fearfully. When the air was still, and their houses were far behind them, they heard something. It was galloping horses. “Run! GO!” Walter’s father shouted. Everyone broke into a sprint, but the army was faster. Walter’s father stopped. He signaled for the other men to join him, all who were wearing army uniforms. Walter stopped in his tracks, “Father! Run! What are you doing?” His dad looked at him grimly, “Protecting. You go. Don’t look back. We’ll hold them off.” Walter had tears in his eyes but he nodded. Before he turned around to go, he gave his dad a giant bear hug, like he always used to give him. “Be safe,” Walter murmured, squeezing his dad tighter, “You are the bravest man in the world.” His dad squeezed him back, then shoved him into his mother’s hands. They took off running. Walter looked back as he ran, thinking to himself, ‘That is my dad. He is brave, and he will keep me safe.' *Comment if you want a Part 2.* By: Harshika Gidwani
I dug my fingernails into my palms, hard. I watched as my peers screamed and thrashed around, clawing at their throats. I knew I was better than this. I would not give up. We were trapped in a weird metal room with no way to escape. A type of oxygen-stealing gas leaked through the vents, which were bolted tight and made out of unbreakable material. This was a test to see who would get to go to MMA, Masterminds Academy. I gritted my teeth and ran my fingers along the sleek white metal, feeling for something that would turn the gas off. “Opal!” someone yelled behind me. I turned around and my best friend, Jason, pointed to the vent in front of him. I jogged over and examined it. “This vent is a little different from the others. See how it is slightly tinted green, and the gas coming from it is white? It has to mean something," Jason said. I nodded, trying hard to keep my mouth shut. I pressed my ear to the vent and heard tiny coughs of smoke pluming out. Then, I ran over to my vent and pressed my ear to it. Nothing. I did the same for the other three before I ran over and told Jason, “Only your vent is making noise.” He nodded, we both pressed our ears on the vent, then I pulled back. The metal the vent was made out of was unbreakable, so we couldn’t crawl in. I turned my brain over furiously. Every time the gas collided against the oxygen, tiny sparks erupted from midair. This gas... “It’s flammable. This gas is flammable, and we can make an explosion that won’t break the vent’s metal, but melt it," I said confidently. Jason pressed his sleeve over his nose and mouth. “How?" I bit my lip, thinking hard. There had to be a way. I glanced around the room. There were no bottles or containers that we could use to trap the air. I saw an inhaler lying on the floor. I rushed to it and picked it up, then I went into a corner of the room with oxygen that was still untouched. I scooped some in the inhaler then sprinted over to Jason’s vent where I pressed my thumb on the button. “You should back away,” I warned him. He shook his head, “I need to stay. We both are going to make it into MMA.” He put his thumb over mine which was resting on the button. I wanted to argue, but I could tell that he wouldn’t budge. “Okay. 3, 2, 1.” We punched the button. The second the oxygen erupted into the abundance of the gas, a deafening boom blew us backwards. When the smoke cleared, I saw that the vent metal was drooping down, a puddly shiny mess. As for the hole? Clear for me to crawl through. “Okay, now I will go into the vent–” I started. “No! I’ll go,” Jason protested. I grumbled, “You have to understand. I have to go through it!” “Why? Is there a problem with me going?” Jason yelled. “I’m smaller, it will be easier!” I yelled back. Everyone was staring at me. Jason gritted his teeth but he beckoned for me to go. I tightened my grip on the inhaler, took a long deep breath, then held my breath and crawled through. I could barely see, but I could tell I was getting closer by the increasing temperature. Closer to what, I wasn’t sure. My vision started to get blurry from the lack of air. I inched forward and fell, landing face-first on the floor. I desperately inhaled the oxygen that I had left in the inhaler. My vision cleared slightly. I was in the room from which the gas was coming from. A giant machine plumed out the poisonous air. Something clicked in my head, and suddenly I knew what I had to do. The oxygen was gone from the inhaler, and I needed more. I was probably risking everything when I screamed, “Jason! More oxygen!” and hurled the inhaler through the vent. I heard an irritated oof, on the other end. Yeah, I was probably going to pay for throwing an inhaler at his head, but not now. The inhaler came flying back my way, and I wasted no time in releasing the air. This boom was even bigger than the first one. It sent me flying backwards, and I hit my head on the metal. I held my breath, but there was no reason too. I had destroyed the gas machine, and pure oxygen floated back to me. It felt like a much-needed drink of water after not having oxygen for hours. “And that’s why you have to be creative!” I said weakly. I’m definitely getting into MMA. By: Harshika Gidwani
OPM - Being present and giving others my attention The early light poured through my bedroom window and hit my face. I pulled my blanket up to my forehead to block it, but then the hot air started suffocating me, so I had to pull it down again. I groaned. Now that I had woken up, hundreds of thoughts swirled around in my head. I need to get new blinds, I have three assignments due today, I have to clean my room, my mom will be coming in– “Noah! Wake up!” My mom yelled, pulling my blanket away from me, “You’re late for school!” School. Why was school so early in the morning? Why couldn’t school start in the afternoon, when everyone had already finished their breakfast, eaten their lunches, and had enough time to open their eyes? “Did you hear me?” My mom shrieked, pulling me out of bed. I groaned. The overload of thoughts again came again. What am I going to wear? What am I going to get for lunch? Is Mom still taking me to Jacob’s house today–? “Go get ready. I'll see you downstairs.” My mom let go of my hand and stomped downstairs. I had ADHD, so it was kind of hard for me to focus sometimes. Distracting thoughts constantly occupied my mind, and I barely had enough time to think about the present. Anyway, I was already late for school, and I didn’t want to have to do the “late kid walk” where everyone stares at you like you’re an alien as you keep your head down and walk shamefully into your class. I quickly dressed myself, flung my books and lunch bag into my backpack, and trudged off. *** I wonder what book I’m going to get this time. Will the library be packed? I want an adventure book . . . and a STEM kit. I hope they have Ozo-bots– “Noah!” My best friend, Jacob, whisper-yelled at me. I shook my head and then looked at him. Jacob pointed at our teacher, Mr. Lee, who was staring at me expectantly. “Noah, did you hear the question?” Mr. Lee asked. I could practically hear him grumbling internally about me. “No, sorry,” I said, my face burning hot. Mr. Lee sighed, “We just watched a video about staying in the present, and that whole time you weren’t in the present?!” I kept my mouth shut. “You kids always give me a headache,” he muttered before shaking his head and saying, “Forget it. Free time!” The kids whooped and bolted over to the game cabinet while I stayed in my seat and waited for Jacob to grab UNO so that we could play.Things were not looking good for me today. *** Did I remember to put my name on the assignments? Oh, no, I forgot to turn one in. It's fine, I’ll turn it in before I go home. Ugh, why does the cafeteria smell like cabbages– “Earth to Noah!” Jacob waved his hand in front of my face, snapping me out of my thoughts, “Do you remember? We’re going to have someone talk to us today on the stage.” I nodded. Almost immediately, someone stepped out of the curtain folds and a spotlight swiveled onto him. He looked very professional: he was wearing glasses, a suit, and generally looking like a Harvard professor. He tapped his very professional-looking shoe on the stage and said, “Good afternoon, students. I’m sure your teachers have explained to you why I’m here,” he nodded at the teachers then continued, “So, let’s get started. I’m Harris D. Fowler. I’m here to talk to all of you about staying in the present.” I groaned internally. Mr. Lee probably ranted about me to this guy. Why else would Mr. Fowler be staring at me pointedly? “You there, young man!” he yelled, pointing at me, “I can see that you are not thinking about the present moment right now, are you? Well, come up here!” I could feel my ears burning as I trudged up next to Mr. Fowler and plopped down on the chair he asked me to sit on. “A group of researchers from Harvard did an experiment on people,” he boomed so that the entire cafeteria could hear him, “They found out that our minds are wandering about 47% of the time. A reason for that may be that every single second, our sensory neurons send about 11 million bits of information to our brain, and our conscious attention can only handle 60 bits. The others go to your subconscious. That’s why it's crucial to be paying attention to what's happening around you; it can help you grow as a person. How? Well, when you pay attention and stay in the present moment, you can be happier, smarter, and more vigilant. Your brain needs to grasp information in the present, and when you overflow it with information that is not relevant, like stuff that is not in the present,” he paused and gave everyone pointed looks before continuing, but I thought I deserved to slip out of the present moment to think one quick thing: Huh. I’m glad I stayed in the present and listened to Mr. Fowler. Open-mindedness is the willingness to actively search for evidence that goes against one’s favored beliefs, plans, or goals. Those demonstrating open-mindedness see the other side and fight the tendency to have a bias for their own views. And, rather than favoring the socially dominant views, they give attention to those that are less dominant. – Positivity P2 Sources: By: Harshika Gidwani
Hira smiled faintly at her reflection in the mirror. She felt butterflies frolic in her stomach, but she attempted to stay calm. She couldn’t afford to lose anything because of her nerves. She had to grit her teeth and work harder than she’d ever worked before to become the jammer in the bout. Hira was part of a rollerskating team, and she was going to play in her first tournament, which is called a bout in the rollerskating world. In a bout, a person has one of two roles; the first is a blocker, who has to block the jammer from scoring points. A jammer has to rollerskate past the blocker to earn points. At the end of the match, the team with the most points wins. Hira had gotten sore feet, she had been bruised, and completely beaten up for this moment. The moment when they decided who would jam in the bout. She wanted to be the star of the match. “Hira, you coming?” someone asked. Hira swiveled around to see her best friend, Danica, leaning on the doorframe, her rollerskates already on her feet. Hira nodded, then turned to strap her own. She pulled the buckles tight– probably tighter than she should have– then skated out onto the blinding arena. Once there, spotlights glared down on the skaters and their coaches. Her other teammates were standing against the wall in a strict formation, waiting for the coaches to give them their signal to race. Hira joined the ranks, then stared at her coaches. Ms. Hailey skated to them and announced, “Racing shall commence in one minute. Remember: this is how we will determine who will jam and who will block. Try your best to be the fastest, and we don’t mind a little hitting. Just make sure it isn’t a hit that will land you in the penalty box.” Ms. Hailey gestured to the sad row of seats next to the arena, and everyone shuddered. “On your marks. Get set. Go!” in one thunderous second, everyone took off at blinding speed. Hira’s vision turned into a blur as she skated and dodged. The end wall, which was the finish line, was inching closer. First, it was thirty feet away, then ten. It quickly turned into five, then within an arm’s length. Her palm slapped the wall and an airhorn blew to mark the end of the race. “Well done, Hira!” Ms. Hailey said, beaming down at her student. Hira felt a grin spread across her face. Danica flashed her a thumbs-up, and her other coach, Ms. Fern, nodded approvingly, but one girl glared rudely at Hira. The girl, Julia, had desperately wanted to be jammer, but since she made it to the wall after Hira, she was most likely going to end being a blocker. However, Hira didn’t give this a second thought. She had made it to the wall first! Hopefully she’d become a jammer . . . “The jammer in tomorrow’s bout will be Hira Gupta!” Ms. Fern shouted. Hira whooped. “Tomorrow is going to be awesome!” Hira said to herself excitedly. *** “Hira, wear this,” Ms. Hailey slipped a rubbery cover on Hira’s helmet. The bout was in thirty minutes and if Hira had felt butterflies before, these were full-on dragonflies. To stay calm, she examined the helmet cover. It sported a green star on a white and blue striped background. The star was the mark of a jammer, and the rest of the design represented her team. Hira ran a hand over it and felt pride flare through her (and a little fear). Julia was also in the locker room, and she looked mad. A scowl twisted her features, and a glare like a laser beam pointed towards Hira. Hira flinched when she met Julia’s eyes but didn’t have time to concern herself with Julia. She double-checked her buckles, wrist guards, and knee/elbow pads. Then, with a deep breath, she skated out onto the arena. The crowd cheered and shouted her name. She skated around the rink once before lining up with her team. “Work smart, hard, and tough,” they chanted, then they separated to start the bout. Hira could feel every pair of eyes on her as she ducked, dodged, and skated past the other team’s blockers. Each time she flew by the blockers, a loud ding signal indicated that another point had been awarded to her team. The other team’s blockers formed an impenetrable line so she wouldn’t pass. She gritted her teeth and skated faster. Just then, she was knocked aside by someone! “Ow!” Hira shouted, flailing her arms to break her fall. She landed on her face, and her nose started bleeding. “Time out!” Ms. Fern yelled, rushing over to her fallen student and helping her up. She grimaced when she saw Hira’s swollen nose. “You gotta ice that,” she muttered, leading her to the locker room and setting her on a bench. “Wait here. I’ll go get some ice.” Hira nodded, then winced as another wave of pain hit her. Just as she started to massage her face, Julia ran in. “I’m so sorry, Hira! I don’t know what came over me! I just . . .” her voice trailed off as she stared down at her feet in shame. “You did this?” Hira asked incredulously, staring at her teammate in shock. “You hit me? But– we’re on the same team! Why?” “Because I wanted to be the star!” Julia said, balling her fists. “And you got it- and–” “But we’re on the same team!” Hira repeated hysterically, “No matter who the jammer is, we either win or we lose! And now, we have a pretty good chance of losing because of this,” Hira muttered the last part while pinching her nose. “What?” “Look, this is a team sport. We have to work together to win! It’s not one person. It’s all of us!” Hira said. “I got your ice!” Ms. Fern said, handing it to Hira. “Oh, Julia. You’re here. Good.” Her voice flattened, “You’re going to the penalty box.” “What?” Hira and Julia exclaimed in unison. “But she’s our best blocker and–” Hira started. “And the person who hit you for no reason,” Ms. Fern said. Julia lowered her head in shame. “Oka–” “She thought I was the other team’s jammer,” Hira said suddenly. “What?” Hira repeated what she had said firmly. “Oh. Well, In that case, I have to talk to the referee.” Ms. Fern excused herself and left. Julia looked stunned, “Why’d you say that?” “Because we’re a team,” Hira said firmly, “and will win as a team, or lose as a team.” She stretched her hand out to Julia, “Now, let’s do this thing.” Teamwork: You work well as a member of a group or team. You are loyal, reliable, and dedicated to helping your team achieve its goals. Sources: Positivity P2 |