Issue date: June 4, 2000

STUDENT FICTION CONTEST
Great stories by teen writers
Winner:
"Reminiscent of Orange Juice After Chocolate," by Jenny Leong
Runners-up:
"Dancing" by Margaret Maloney
 -- About the author
"Perfect" by Corin Heymann
"Strawberry Tears" by Meghan Teresa Barr
"The Runner" by Derek T. Muller
"Wog Is Me" by Mary Rebecca Wilkinson Seltzer

Dancing
By Margaret Maloney

I am told that sometimes the best work is done in the middle of the night. I am also told that if I do not get enough sleep, my value as an asset to the world will be nothing, nada, zip. These things are told to me by my parents. My mother is an artist. My father ... well, he is a professional. I do not know exactly what profession, but I will figure it out someday. He works all the time, that's all I can tell. What he does is pas mes oignons. That is all he ever tells me when I ask. If it's not my business, then whose is it? Luigi the milkman? I don't think so.

So I figure if Papa says that what he does for a living is none of my business, then what I do to live is none of his. So I write at 1, sometimes 2 in the morning, or at least until my head hurts. Papa says it will kill me, but I think it is good for the mind to do something. In the fall, it sits around all day in school, nothing new, nothing exciting, pas interressant, so in the summer I write as much as I can. I write for no one but myself, just Eve being Eve, spilling out thoughts onto the page like a baby spills milk on the floor. All over, everywhere and everything, making everything look like a blind man's eye, cloudy and mysterious. That's how it is.

I never wear shoes when I write. If I didn't have to, I wouldn't at all. But no one wants to possibly step in dog stuff while going to classes in which they have nothing to think about except the dog stuff on their bare feet. So I wear shoes. But when I write, I tap my toes and stretch my soles and turn my ankles, in and out, in and out. It feels closed in with shoes, like my feet are gasping for breath and writhing in the death throes of asphyxiation. When the shoes have been thrown off into the corner, looking a little beaten up from hitting the wall the 12th time that day, my feet feel as if they are the only part of my body that can dance, and if they didn't get the music, the writing, they'll jump back into the shoes like mourners into veils, hiding their sadness at the untimely death of their happiness. So when I write, my feet must have the joie de vivre of an army of faeries, I think.

Mama loves my feet. She says that they are just like Papa's, only mine dance when his shuffle. According to her, my feet smile more than my face does. "Oh, look," she'll say when I look happy. "Eve's feet have told her something!" What they must be telling, that is uncertain. I think they're tickling my nerves, because I'm always happy when I get tickled.

On these short summer nights, my feet talk to me lots. Par example, I think this princess I am writing about shouldn't go in this castle that she sees, but my feet start twitching and dancing faster than normal. No! Don't you see! She's got to go there! If she doesn't, she'll just go home to her papa! Who knows what's in the castle! So she goes into the castle, and, as usual, my feet are right. She meets an ogre (a nice one) and it takes her to its home. Now I have more to write, more stories to tell! I think that if I didn't listen to my feet, my stories would be very boring.

My feet make my life exciting, too. Like yesterday, they told me that I shouldn't go outside, that there was something much more interesting happening in the living room. I went to the living room and saw that my parents were yelling at each other. "Luciana, she's only 8! Why do you think she can do this?"

"Because she does, John. She writes until every page is filled in her notebooks, and she won't go outside, not even when Bethany comes over. I've read it, too. She's incredible, John. Why don''t you see it?" Papa was getting madder, so I walked up to Mama.

"Mama, I'm hungry. Can you help me make something?" That quieted Papa, and made Mama smile.

"Of course, honey." She took my hand and led me into the kitchen. My feet were right. At least, this time, I got there before it was too bad.

Tonight, I'm sitting at Papa's desk to write. Mama wants to paint me writing, and she says that Papa's desk will make me look small, and that's how she wants me to be for the painting. That's why I'm writing about me. I always need something to write about; I can't just go. It's like Mama and her paintings. She doesn't just paint when somebody tells her to, she has to know what she's painting. My stories are always different. I don't write about the same person every time, and I never stay in the same place. How can one do that? Je ne sais pas, but it seems very boring. Why write always about cowboys when one could just as easily write 10 stories about 10 different things?

Mama is painting my feet now. I can tell because she's letting her arm be a whirlwind, and that's the only part of me that moves that fast. I think she's beautiful when she's painting. She lets her hair fly out from her face, and as she paints, it becomes more and more like a halo, lit by the light of the candelabra on the wall behind her. She doesn't look like an angel, though, even if Papa calls her that. All the angels I've ever seen are very stiff, and a little too arched, I think. They look like they have wires in their backs, like dolls who have been stretched and turned just so. Even when they are smiling, you can tell that they want to cry. Mama, on the other hand, never looks like she wants to cry when she's smiling. She looks like the smile itself, like a huge sunbeam that's covering everything, that makes the air a golden pool that you want to swim in.

Papa's singing. Yesterday, I think. Mama can hear it, too, because she's not smiling anymore. Papa only sings when he really feels something, and, I think, maybe this isn't a good feeling. I can never tell, because he doesn't sound happy or sad or anything. He just sings. Mama stopped painting. She told me to stay here, and keep writing. I wonder if she knows what Papa's thinking. She almost always does.

I can hear Papa yelling. He's mad, I think. Mama is yelling back, but I don't know if she's mad or just trying to match him. I can hear them going into their room, so I'm going to go out there. My feet are dancing, but it's not a get-up-and-go dance. They're twitching, like they're nervous. I think they want me to stay. They're almost always right.

Mama and Papa are getting louder. I can make out a few of the words, but they're only things like "you" and "that," stuff that doesn't tell me why they're saying it. There's a crash. It was very good that I didn't go out there, I think. Another crash. Papa must be throwing things. There isn't any more yelling. Mama has calmed him down, perhaps. I don't hear anything ... wait. One of them (Papa?) is coming down here. Maybe he will tuck me in. It's getting kind of late. I'm getting tired, too. My feet aren't, though; they're doing their nervous dance again. I wonder ...

About the author:

Margaret Maloney Decatur (Ala.) Daily reader Maloney, 15, of Decatur, Ala., is a sophomore at St. Bernard Preparatory School in Cullman.
Sponsoring teacher: Helen Glasscock.