100 Things to Do Before You Go To College

I never had the intention of getting my story published, it was all in the attempt of trying to increase my grade for English class for fear that I might get below an "A". I'm an over- achiever to the farthest extent but that's not the point. Over the course of the semester, since it was a type of composition course, we had managed to write a few good pieces and there were a couple I had enjoyed the most. When the semester was coming to a close, our teacher offered extra-credit to any of those who thought they might need it by submitting any pieces we had written throughout the year or those we had written on our own to a district anthology.

It was not surprising that I ended up submitting many pieces in order to try to make my grade as perfect as I could. I took some old poetry, a narrative essay that I didn't like, a descriptive essay about my parent's almost divorce and one that compared my siblings and I. The narrative essay, was, in my opinion, the most personal one because it had to do with the ever-so-cliche subject of falling for someone and reopening those wounds hurt. Needless to say, the last thing I expected was for that essay to be published.

So what happened that I simply did not like? In the simplest terms, which might end up coming off as complicated, I made the mistake of actually falling for someone. You only call something a mistake when you don't like it or it had unnerving consequences, and this one definitely applies. I fell for someone without really knowing what I was getting into and it went by so quickly that by the time the little fling was over, I didn't know how to react. In the beginning it was nice because I felt like Molly Ringwald in one of her John Hughes films where she met the totally perfect guy and they connected instantly but they couldn't be together. Maybe my life isn't like a John Hughes film, but it felt like it at the time. My essay entailed a brief description of the entire fiasco while keeping his name completely anonymous through the use of a pseudonym. What I feared the most was the chance of it getting published and him reading it, much to my humiliation of him thinking I was still feigning over him. The essay was none of the sort, but a story intricately weaved to how that experience forever changed me.

Months went by and I got caught up with course material from the latest semester so much that I paid no attention that the results from the judge's ruling on who got into the literary anthology. One day, while walking to class, one of the teachers whom I had never had congratulated me on winning something for the anthology, which came as a surprise to me. I had thought the judges enjoyed the heartfelt piece I wrote about my family almost falling apart but the teacher offered me no insight to what the winning piece was.

I walked from class to the cafeteria to go to lunch when I came across my friends in the breezeway where they told me the good news: I got first place in the anthology for short story. Then, they told me the winning piece was not the story about my parents but the one where I talked about the guy I connected oh-so graciously with. We all rushed immediately to my english teacher, who only confirmed the news that had been going around. I had indeed gotten my story published and won, but the story chosen was not one I particularly liked, especially considering I had re encountered the same person only weeks before and been disappointed again. You could only guess how furious I was, almost like relationship karma of a relationship that had not even been even the slightest exclusive.

To my surprise, I was the only junior whose piece was submitted and it had won, which was miraculous to all the teachers, but bad to me. Now the book that the story is published in only haunts me and taunts me everyday I pass by my bookshelf and the medal that hangs off of my picture holder stares me through. Most would be ecstatic about being published in a book, but not me, it only brings back memories I need not.