TheBurg

good CompAny By grACe BeATTy Cookie had been missing for a good three days now. No amount of calling could summon him, nor did the stale tuna bits sitting on the back porch lure him home. Sheridan sat on the front stoop all afternoon, waiting for her beige and brown pal. He never showed for his 12-to-4 catnap, not even with his favorite mat placed right in the sun. With a sigh, she heaved herself off the stoop and walked through the young suburbia, halting at the main road. Only 13 year olds were allowed to explore into the forest beyond— her mother's rule. But what if Cookie had gone in there? She couldn't wait three years! Looking both ways, she hurried over the asphalt and disappeared down the ridge. e warm spring breeze drifted through the branches above, caressing their baby flower buds. New grass sprigs folded like feathers under her bright orange rain boots. A loud crunch distracted her. Sheridan turned to see a thistle bush toppled over. A boy her age sprawled on top, startled eyes fixed on her. On instinct, she ran as fast as the plastic boots could take her, the pursuer at her heels, footsteps drawing closer with every passing tree. Tripping through brush, she fell to her stomach at the edge of a drop-off, its cliff falling to a rocky outcropping below. Her head spun, the severe drop spinning before her eyes. Scrabbling back from the end, she ran into a pair of legs. A hand clutched her shoulder. "Don't move!" Sheridan stared into the trees, frozen. e hand helped her up and turned her around. A boy's frightened eyes stared into hers, his face dirty, hair littered with small bush leaves. His other hand held a pocketknife, its end pointed at Sheridan's ribs. "Don't move." She nodded, gulping her fear. His gaze hardened. "What are you doing in my woods?" "Your woods?" He raised the knife to her head, shaking. "Yes, my woods!" Tears burned her cheeks. "I'm just looking for my cat!" He cocked his eyebrows. "His name is Cookie, it's on his collar. He's brownish." e boy snorted. "I ain't seen no collared cat." He scanned the trees. "Who's with you?" "Nobody." "Put your hands behind your back." Sheridan obeyed. e boy pulled her forward, putting one hand to her neck, knife to her lower torso. "Okay, go. Slowly." She eased through the bushes, the hand pushing her forward, steering her past thick trunks and roots and over an enormous fallen oak. Descending a final hill, they came to a small ravine. e boy's eyes darted toward the forest behind them, then pushed Sheridan toward an old pine trunk that bridged the two sides. "You first." Looking over the edge, she saw the bubbling stream flow past, wet pebbles reflecting the springtime sun. She gripped the log with two hands. e boy tapped the knife against his thigh. "Come on!" With trembling steps, Sheridan climbed up the tree roots, crawling across the slick bark with caterpillar speed. e boy jumped up after her, his sneakers grazing her boots with every step. Grace Beatty is a senior at CASA Charter School. To read the complete story, go to www.theburgnews.com. FAde AwAy By yAASMeeN PIPer My eyes flutter open. e light hanging above my head nearly blinds me. e first thing I see: the wooden ceiling covered in chipped red paint. To my right is a wall full of old wine bottles, cardboard boxes with baby clothes spilling out, and numerous bobbleheads my dad swore he threw out. I'm in my shed. I have no idea how I got here, but I guess it's better than laying in a ditch somewhere or waking up with a face tattoo. Now that I think about it, I grab my face feeling for any abnormalities when red catches my eye. Blood. With having two older brothers, the sight of blood is nothing new, but seeing my hands and T-shirt covered in it and possessing no memory of how it got there gives me an uneasy feeling. I scan my body looking for any open wounds. Nothing, and other than the throbbing in my head, I feel no pain. I gradually sit up and immediately feel hundreds of tiny soldiers stomp around in my head. I rub my temples, but the throbbing continues. Tiny drops of blood scatter around my sneakers. I raise my head to see a trail of blood leading to the door. I follow them. I expect to see a dead body at the end of it. It's probably Jack the Jock. I always hated that guy with his perfect hair and perfect teeth. Maybe my drunk self ripped them out. e thought kind of makes me smile. e trail ends at the door. Slowly, I creep the door open, preparing for the worst. I'm greeted by blinding sunlight. I examine my surroundings: grass with daisies and tulips popping up from the ground, a tall oak tree, which I jumped off in seventh grade and broke my leg, and a white house full of parents that are probably looking for an explanation. No dead body, but a bloody handprint smudged at the doorjamb as if the person stumbled out of the shed. Around the fingernail impressions, four tiny indents mar the wood, each displaying a piece of purple paint. I match my hand to them. e fingers are too skinny to be mine, which confirms my original theory: e blood scattered around the shed and on my clothes doesn't belong to me. e Monday morning chatter at school consists of Natalie elman's party. e hundreds that attended recalled their favorite moments (like when Trish threw up on Ava and Chad did the "chicken challenge," whatever that is). ose who didn't go told stories they heard had from others. I don't remember any of it, the entire night a blur. e last thing I remember after walking in with Travis is seeing Lila. From 20 feet away, I still smelled her: fresh strawberries and rain. It made me sick watching her straddle Jack the Jock that night, knowing we had broken up just two weeks before. I find Travis in the main hall, eager to tell him about the blood I found in the shed. I wave at him from a few feet away, but he doesn't meet my eyes. His body stiffens, face goes pale as if he's going to puke any second. "Hey Travis," I call after him, catching up to him. "Why do you...?" I pause, following his gaze. About 10 police officers scatter around the hallway. Two officers talk to our principal, Ms. Andrews. e others chat up some students who look like they're about to crap their pants. Yaasmeen Piper is a senior at CASA Charter School. To read the complete story, go to www.theburgnews.com. 05.15 | The Burg | 45

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