Dear Admissionspersons Who Work In Glen Echo,
I would like to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for putting up with me for almost four years. No matter how creepy my affinity for your workplace is or how tenuous my right to be there, you have always been pleasant and welcoming. Your tolerance and willingness to answer questions have helped make GE the haven of my high school career.
May you never lack for inquisitive, history-mad students.
Sincerely,
Cate Carver.
PS- Don't worry; I haven't found conclusive evidence of ghosts yet. Operative word here being "conclusive."
Monday, January 24, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Thirteen Confessions of A Sleep-Deprived Student
Confession the First: My lucky number is thirteen. Or any combination of ones, threes, or multiples of three, really. The reasons for this are manifold- well, actually, they are just one, but that one is complicated. Suffice it to say the reason involves my late older brother. But I always take three chips, three cookies, or even three shakes of salt on my couscous; sometimes it verges on the obsessive-compulsive. Thus, thirteen shall be the number of the confessions. Twelve shall I not confess, unless I then proceed to thirteen. Fifteen is right out. (Alright, enough Monty Python references. Pardon me.)
Confession the Second: I have "ninja" Tourette Syndrome. It was fairly serious when I was first diagnosed in second grade, but has improved drastically since. Most people don't know until I tell them- or even notice thereafter.
Confession the Third: I try to eat things as slowly as possible. I've been known to eat oranges one juice-pocket at a time; "two-bite" brownies can last six bites if I'm careful. What can I say? Food is meant to be savored.
Confession the Fourth: I hate driving. Rolling along at dangerous speeds in a tangle of metal, putting poison into the air, and praying the maniacs around you don't cause your death- some people find this fun?
Confession the Fifth: I am a serial jaywalker. Somehow, I live with myself.
Confession the Sixth: The more tired I am, the more irrational and confrontational I become. If you come at me when I haven't slept in a long while, be prepared to argue over whether the sky is blue. In addition, my speech becomes more modern and I walk more on my whole foot (as opposed to walking on the balls of my feet, as usual).
Confession the Seventh: I love Lady Gaga; she's one of the few popular, modern musicians whose work doesn't make me want to become a hermit.
Confession the Eighth: I sing constantly. Not just in the shower, but while getting dressed, doing my homework, reading, drawing, writing, walking down the street, etc. I've never had formal voice training and my singing isn't spectacular, but I enjoy it.
Confession the Ninth: Marzipan is my drug of choice. Mark me, I'll someday be on the news as the first mother arrested for child neglect who spent all her money on marzipan assortments.
Confession the Tenth: As a child, I was obsessed with Brittney Spears. I wanted to enter a contest to win tickets (with backstage passes) to her show; thus, there is a video somewhere of six-year-old me singing "Baby, One More Time." If anyone finds it, please let me know so I can have it destroyed.
Confession the Eleventh: I dream of someday attending a masquerade ball. Not just a party with a masquerade theme, but a proper ball with fancy decorations, live music, old-fashioned dances, and pimped-out dresses. If you've ever seen the 1986 movie "Labyrinth" with David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly...yeah. Something like that.
Confession the Twelfth: Modern technology drives me insane. I loathe Facebook, most i-gadgets, and Twitter. Especially Twitter. Once I get out of jail for marzipan-fueled child neglect, I'll get thrown in again for attempting to hack into the Twitter servers and shut it down. And yet, in the face of this technophobia, I'm a bit of an Internet addict. You figure it out.
Confession the Thirteenth: I will probably never have the attention span to write a novel. Oh, I talk about my works-in-progress, and I'd like to get a book published, but I can't keep my mind on one plot and one set of characters for more than two months. Maybe someday...
Confession the Second: I have "ninja" Tourette Syndrome. It was fairly serious when I was first diagnosed in second grade, but has improved drastically since. Most people don't know until I tell them- or even notice thereafter.
Confession the Third: I try to eat things as slowly as possible. I've been known to eat oranges one juice-pocket at a time; "two-bite" brownies can last six bites if I'm careful. What can I say? Food is meant to be savored.
Confession the Fourth: I hate driving. Rolling along at dangerous speeds in a tangle of metal, putting poison into the air, and praying the maniacs around you don't cause your death- some people find this fun?
Confession the Fifth: I am a serial jaywalker. Somehow, I live with myself.
Confession the Sixth: The more tired I am, the more irrational and confrontational I become. If you come at me when I haven't slept in a long while, be prepared to argue over whether the sky is blue. In addition, my speech becomes more modern and I walk more on my whole foot (as opposed to walking on the balls of my feet, as usual).
Confession the Seventh: I love Lady Gaga; she's one of the few popular, modern musicians whose work doesn't make me want to become a hermit.
Confession the Eighth: I sing constantly. Not just in the shower, but while getting dressed, doing my homework, reading, drawing, writing, walking down the street, etc. I've never had formal voice training and my singing isn't spectacular, but I enjoy it.
Confession the Ninth: Marzipan is my drug of choice. Mark me, I'll someday be on the news as the first mother arrested for child neglect who spent all her money on marzipan assortments.
Confession the Tenth: As a child, I was obsessed with Brittney Spears. I wanted to enter a contest to win tickets (with backstage passes) to her show; thus, there is a video somewhere of six-year-old me singing "Baby, One More Time." If anyone finds it, please let me know so I can have it destroyed.
Confession the Eleventh: I dream of someday attending a masquerade ball. Not just a party with a masquerade theme, but a proper ball with fancy decorations, live music, old-fashioned dances, and pimped-out dresses. If you've ever seen the 1986 movie "Labyrinth" with David Bowie and Jennifer Connelly...yeah. Something like that.
Confession the Twelfth: Modern technology drives me insane. I loathe Facebook, most i-gadgets, and Twitter. Especially Twitter. Once I get out of jail for marzipan-fueled child neglect, I'll get thrown in again for attempting to hack into the Twitter servers and shut it down. And yet, in the face of this technophobia, I'm a bit of an Internet addict. You figure it out.
Confession the Thirteenth: I will probably never have the attention span to write a novel. Oh, I talk about my works-in-progress, and I'd like to get a book published, but I can't keep my mind on one plot and one set of characters for more than two months. Maybe someday...
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Breaking-Something Memory
In my defense, I had never given the luggage rack a second glance. I didn't even know what it was, much less its age or value. It had always been just smudge in my peripheral vision, a mildly interesting construction of black wood and satin ribbon that didn't hold my attention for long. It had always been in the guest room; I assumed, as children do, that it always would be.
Blame the rain, if you must cast blame. It hammered at the windows and had for at least an hour. Without it, the neighbor girl and I would have been outside, coming up with new and inventive ways to skin our knees on the pavement. Her name was Lauren; she was nine, like me, and came from a family much more permissive than mine. This lack of parental concern fascinated me. Because of it, my mother disapproved of her and I sought her company whenever possible. None of my other next-door or two-doors-down friends were home for various reasons, so Mom had sighed and let me invite her over.
Our game of hide-and-seek having degenerated into follow-the-leader, I trotted obediently around the house behind her. We'd already passed through the bathroom, every room downstairs, and my small, pink-walled bedroom; only the guest room lay unexplored.
In a moment that should now prove my innocence in the matter, I hesitated at the door. This room, I vaguely knew, was full of fragile ornaments and furniture that Had To Stay Neat Or Else. It had never been designated as a place to play. But Lauren marched in without a backward glance, and so I followed her bobbing ponytail anxiously.
She stood on one foot, flapped her arms like a chicken, made a face; I mimicked her as per the game's rules. Bored of such mundane commands, she glanced around for something to add interest to our escapade. She found the luggage rack.
It's worth knowing, at this point, that I was a rather portly child. Lauren, by contrast, typified the skinny, tanned little girl who seems to inhabit all neighborhoods of the past. At the time, my awareness of this difference was minimal; it never seemed to matter or come up in conversation. So when she perched like a tiny bird on the gold straps of the rack, I hurried to copy the action.
CRACK!
I felt one of the ribbon-straps give way beneath me, heard the wood splinter.
Later I would learn that the rack was antique. When my father got home, I would receive the worst scolding of that month. In the moment, though, I could only think, "I hate you, Lauren."
Because, obviously, none of it had been my fault.
Blame the rain, if you must cast blame. It hammered at the windows and had for at least an hour. Without it, the neighbor girl and I would have been outside, coming up with new and inventive ways to skin our knees on the pavement. Her name was Lauren; she was nine, like me, and came from a family much more permissive than mine. This lack of parental concern fascinated me. Because of it, my mother disapproved of her and I sought her company whenever possible. None of my other next-door or two-doors-down friends were home for various reasons, so Mom had sighed and let me invite her over.
Our game of hide-and-seek having degenerated into follow-the-leader, I trotted obediently around the house behind her. We'd already passed through the bathroom, every room downstairs, and my small, pink-walled bedroom; only the guest room lay unexplored.
In a moment that should now prove my innocence in the matter, I hesitated at the door. This room, I vaguely knew, was full of fragile ornaments and furniture that Had To Stay Neat Or Else. It had never been designated as a place to play. But Lauren marched in without a backward glance, and so I followed her bobbing ponytail anxiously.
She stood on one foot, flapped her arms like a chicken, made a face; I mimicked her as per the game's rules. Bored of such mundane commands, she glanced around for something to add interest to our escapade. She found the luggage rack.
It's worth knowing, at this point, that I was a rather portly child. Lauren, by contrast, typified the skinny, tanned little girl who seems to inhabit all neighborhoods of the past. At the time, my awareness of this difference was minimal; it never seemed to matter or come up in conversation. So when she perched like a tiny bird on the gold straps of the rack, I hurried to copy the action.
CRACK!
I felt one of the ribbon-straps give way beneath me, heard the wood splinter.
Later I would learn that the rack was antique. When my father got home, I would receive the worst scolding of that month. In the moment, though, I could only think, "I hate you, Lauren."
Because, obviously, none of it had been my fault.
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