PART ONE



ABERDEEN






God, this classroom is hotter than a kiln. Just because our History teacher is also the art teacher doesn’t mean that we should be roasting as hot as our clay projects. I try to hold my pencil tighter, but the sweat on my hands is loosening my grip. So much for “air conditioning.”
I take a deep breath and try to focus on my drawing. This one, today, seemed like more than a doodle. Maybe once I finish, I’ll ink it up. Hopefully I won’t mess it up like I did with the Lucille twins’ portrait. Of course, they tried to tell me that it was pretty good, but I know I could’ve done better.
I looked to the side and caught Maria’s glance. In her bag, one of her numerous writing magazines was hanging out. I saw her hand holding the page of one of her favorite books, The Secret Garden. I wasn’t that fond of classics.
“Hey, Deen!”
I looked Maria Weintz in her sky blue eyes. Her peach colored hair surrounded her face, but didn’t obscure her view.

We had been friends since the first day of school of sixth grade. She noticed my graphic novel version of Percy Jackson, and held the original version in her book bag. She waved it around to get my attention, and I will never forget thinking to myself, well, no one can be that excited about any sort of book series.
Through our friendship, though, I was certainly proved wrong.

“What is it, Maria?”
“There’s something I wanna show you, Deen! Can you meet me after class?”
“Um, sure, okay.” I wiped my hands on my shirt.
Not too far from our desks lay a sea of kids, followed by the art/history teacher. I usually sat in the back of the room, away from the other sweaty, sticky students. Most of them weren’t my friends.
But today seemed different. Today seemed new. Hopefully, with whatever Maria had to show me, it would be worthwhile. Maybe even good.


MARIA





“HEY, HEY! YEAH, YEAH!
I’M GONNA TAKE ON THE WORLD!”
The words of my favorite song are stuck in my head once again.
I look over at Deen. I can see little puddles of sweat gathering under her hand, onto her paper. It’s a good thing her dark brown hair is cropped short; if it weren’t, then she’d be dying of heat. I fold the page of my book, and whisper over to her.
Deen, of course, is my best friend. I don’t try to hide it. She may be a pessimist at times, but it’s my job as her friend to pick her up when she’s feeling down, right?
Today, she’ll be amazed at what I have in store.

I remember meeting Aberdeen Katherine Jones when she sat alone in the back of the class on the first day of school. It wasn’t kindergarten or first grade, but I know her now well-enough to call her my best friend.
She was reading one of my favorite books! Well, not exactly.
After I got to know her, though, I found out that she was a gifted artist, but no one knew much about her other than that. She told me at the end of the first day, I remember, to call her Deen.
“Deen? I’ve never heard that name for a girl before. Did you get sick of being called Abby as a kid, or something?”
I remember her waiting a while to answer, and then her words coming out in barely a whisper.
“I just don’t want to become too normal, you know?”
It was the first day of sixth grade.

Deen and I sit in the back of the classroom almost every day. Through the pressures, studies, homework, and projects in school, we always stick together. I see her so much that I’ve started seeing her everywhere. Through my books I’d read and the fantasies I’d thought of, she always seems to come up. She’s a good model for my characters in my own short stories, sometimes.
Maybe she was the new girl. Or the best friend. Or the artist, drawing away the heat haze on the Fourth of July.
She was just that kind of girl, I knew her.
As our classmates began to stand up, I rushed over to her desk. She didn’t look up at me when I came over.
“Okay, so-”
“What is it, Maria? You’re all hyper.”
“What? Me, hyper?” I puffed out my chest in mock dissatisfaction. “I think you are sorely mistaken!”
“Tch, really?” Deen smirked at me. That counted as a smile, you know!
I reached back over to my desk and pulled out my bookbag. As I began rummaging through it, Deen hovered over my shoulder.
“So, what’s this about?”
“Oh, nothing really, you just your everyday- BNAMACHHYHOO!!”
My shout of glory had turned into a sneeze! Of course, something had to come up to send it askew.
“...Bnamachehyhoo? Gosh, Maria, that’s a new one. Gotta put that one in the books for the world’s weirdest sneezes.”
“Wha- I was meaning to say ‘BAM’ all cool-like, but I just-“
“What ever happened to a simple ‘achoo’? Is it not your jam?”
I finally pulled out my new edition of Writers Monthly and shoved it in Deen’s face. Boy, did that shut her up.


ABERDEEN





I scanned the pages thrust out in front of me. I stood back and began to read.



Writers Monthly Art and Writing Contest


Writers Monthly is holding our yearly art and literature contest!
This contest is open to all young adults willing to submit art and writing in one single entry. All entries will be judged by our editors-

“What is this?” I ask, looking toward her. I can tell Maria has a good gist of this, seeing how hopped up she is about it. She must’ve read it beforehand.
“Can’t you see? It’s a contest!” She almost yells and then waves the magazine in front of me.
I swat away the magazine. “Yeah, but isn’t that for writers? That’s your thing, remember? I’m the artist, and you do the writing.”
“Yeah, exactly! This contest is for both writers and artists. The entry requires art and writing. The entry can be submitted by more than one person, too!”
Maria leaned over to me and smiled, waiting for me to finish her thought. I sighed and started to pick up my things.
“Deen, wait! Don’t you want to enter? I can do the writing and storytelling, and then you can do all the art stuff! You see? With both of our skills, we could really win!”
I stopped myself and looked Maria in the eye, and thought to myself. A contest? I couldn’t possibly try; I wasn’t as good as she thought I was.
“Maria, I would only bring you down.”



MARIA


“What? Deen, you’re the best artist I know!” I tried to reason with her.
“You’re just saying that,” she replied.
“No, I’m not! Really, Deen, I want you to help me with this.”
“No, Maria, you don’t understand, there’s so much I still have to learn, and I’m nowhere near perfect.”
“Deen, no one’s perfect,” I looked her in the eye. “I know that, and you know that. I’m not the best writer, you know.”
“Yes you are!” She glared at me. “I’ve seen you’re writing! It’s the best in the class!”
Our voices escalated higher and higher, with this opportunity now becoming a dispute between us.
“Anybody can write!”
“Anybody could draw!”
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down.
“Deen, really. You’re the best artist I know. I’m not telling you this because I’m your friend.”
Deen started to walk slowly away from me.
“I’m telling you this because it’s the truth.”
Deen turned back to me, and I could see her annoyance.
It was annoyance, after all; not refusal.
“When is the entry deadline?”




PART TWO



ABERDEEN





“Ouch,” I hear Maria not too far away from me.
“What is it?” I ask, picking up another graphic novel.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a paper cut.”
Maria and I have been sitting in her aunt’s bookstore for about five hours. Wow, the time has gone quick today, just like the time since we discovered the contest.
After we both agreed to submit an entry for the Art and Literature Contest, we had found out more and more about it in the few days that followed. We learned that the contest requires 1-7 pieces of artwork to correspond with the literature submitted. Maria, whom I trusted, suggested that we should write a short story.
Well, more like she. Maria was going to be the one writing the story after all. I was assigned to draw three comic pages depicting a critical scene from the story. The contest did not require a certain type of artwork, and was very open-ended. It left room for us to create our entry.
Except, well, we hadn’t exactly begun to create anything yet. At all.
It’s been about two weeks since the day we’ve discovered the contest, and all we’ve done is doodle and dream. At this point, we only have ten days to submit our entry.
“Hey, Maria,” I leaned over to the side of the bookshelf. “Any ideas?”
“Nope, nothin’.”
I settled back in my chair. We’ve been spending the entire day in this bookstore. Maria and I have been here many times before. She practically lives at this bookstore, and she gets almost all of her novels from here. It’s a secondhand bookstore, and to Maria, this is her home.
“No book can go without a reader! That’s dumb, for a book not to have a home.”
She told me that the first day I walked in this store. Strewn books greeted me from every corner imaginable. Big books. Small books. Old books. New books. It was all here. It seemed cluttered and chaotic, but it seemed to be organized in a simple way.
“It’s a mess in here! A beautiful mess.”
This was Maria’s bookstore, and today we came in here to, well, brainstorm. She thought the best place to try creating a story was in a place surrounded by them.
“Maria, it’s getting pretty late.” I sighed.
“No, no, Deen!” I heard Maria’s voice bounce around the room. “How about a sci-fi story?”
“No, that’s too difficult, I think,”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Those kinda stories require a lot of development.”
“And we don’t have the time,”
“Yeah,” Her voice seemed to deflate. “Have you got anything?”
“No, not really,” I picked up another graphic novel and flipped through the perfect-inked pages.
“Maybe… realistic-fiction?”
“Well, it seems easier than sci-fi, that’s for sure.”
“Alright, good.” I heard her footsteps start again, standing up. “Um, got any character ideas?”
“Dude, you know my character development is crap. Remember that English project where we had to design just the characters? I thought it would be easy!”
“Well, it seems like no type of writing is easy, after all. I definitely don’t think it’s gonna get much easier from here on in, huh, Deen?”
I saw Maria’s eyes peering in through the bookshelves. There were bags in her eyes, begging for rest. We had been reading, researching, and brainstorming all day.
“I’m tired too,” I whispered, and got an understanding look from Maria.
“How about we continue this tomorrow? I mean, I know we’ve been putting it off and all, but I really don’t think we can come up with something at least moderately good when we’re both half asleep.”
Maria yawned and started to walk around the bookshelf towards me. I stood up and grabbed my not-so-empty bag.
“Do you need any other books to take with you? We’ve got tons-”
“Maria, if I carry any more books, I think my arm just might fall off.”


MARIA







“Do you want a ride home, Deen? My aunt can drive us.”
It wasn’t too long ago when Deen left, saying she could walk home. We said our goodbyes, promising to meet up tomorrow to chat some more. She waved me off, and walked slowly away from the store.
Truth is, I’m scared.
We don’t have much time left. What if we don’t finish? I don’t exactly want to give up. I don’t want to overdo it either- in the past, I’ve tended to write much more than needed, often at the worst times. At times like this, I like to come to the bookstore. It isn’t mine exactly, but I love it here. My aunt owns the place, and it’s where I do most of my writing.
Whenever I come here, I think that it’s the best place to write. Not only are you surrounded by books, but you can look at many stories and think, hopefully, with good revision and effort, you might come close to it.
Not today.
I couldn’t look at another book if I tried. My eyes have been scanning pages all day. It seemed like I had read enough topic sentences to write an entire book of leads, and not one of them inspired me to make my own.
I sighed and plopped down into my favorite chair. It was my chair, my aunt had told me. It was where I found comfort. I would read, write, and relax in that seat. It always seemed to make me comfortable, but today, the chair felt as hard as a boulder. It didn’t feel like mine anymore. It didn’t feel like I deserved it.
“I’ll never be as good as those writers,” I thought to myself.
There is always something I seem to lack. It may be character development, or a steady description, or maybe even fulfilling dialogue. Was I giving the reader enough information? Were my characters filled with life? Should I be writing my story through conversation, or through brief summaries?
I’m not a writer.
I just try. I try, hoping for the best.
I’m not a planner, a developer, a describer, a conversationalist. I may be loud, but sometimes I’m not so proud.
I just try my hardest.
Sometimes, you’re hardest just doesn’t seem good enough.


ABERDEEN






“Mom, I’m home!”
I shout loud enough to be heard through the entire house, but with no response. I begin to climb the stairs up toward my bedroom- the only room hiding my many sketchbooks.
I couldn’t let anyone see them. Not now, not ever.
I pulled the door open to my bedroom and slugged my bag off near my desk. I approached the table, cluttered with pencils, pens, and paper. Some of the paper is torn. My wastebasket is full to the brim with crumpled up sketchbook paper.
Ever since we decided to enter this contest, I’ve done some studying.
I’ve taken the graphic novels from Maria’s bookstore. I’ve taken my time to look at artwork from my favorite artists off the internet. I’ve even looked at entries already submitted to the contest in the magazine’s website. I had come to one fact, and it seemed to be true in everything that I looked at.
I don’t have even a smidgen of the skill taken to make all the wonderful art that I’ve been seeing.
I have so much to learn.
“Oh, what’s that? Wow, what a wonderful picture of an action scene! I bet I could try to draw that, maybe!” My past thoughts linger in my head.
It’s not that easy.
I try to think of a pose, but then find myself struggling with the proportions. I try to show the right expression on a character, but it end up being nothing like the emotion needed to be shown. I try to show my creativity through art, and I see myself scrambling to get everything the way I want it to be, but with no luck.
That’s the way it’s been for the past two weeks. No, maybe even the past month. Even before the contest, I’ve been finding out little by little.
I’m not as good as everyone thinks I am.
I try, but that’s it.
I don’t know about anatomy, about proportions, about expressions. I may be called the best artist in the class, but I certainly don’t live up to that title.
I just try to do it right.
And, sometimes, it may not feel right at all.





PART THREE



MARIA






I reach for the bookstore’s public phone and punch Deen’s number in. She’ll know it’s me.
I wait through the first five buzzing rings, and I soon hear her voice on the other line.
“Hey, Deen. It’s me.”
“Oh, um, hi Maria,”
“Listen for a bit. I need to meet with you about the contest-”
“Save it,” I hear Deen’s voice cutting me off, tinged with exhaustion. “I was thinking we aughta bail on the entry.”
I stay silent for a long moment on the phone.
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to crank this out from the start, but I wasn’t feeling so sure about my writing. We hadn’t planned, we hadn’t thought of any sort of characters, and nothing came close to a story.
“Deen, how ‘bout you meet me here? You know, at the bookstore.”
“Can’t you just tell me now?” I could hear disappointment in her voice, but it didn’t seem to be just over our meeting.
“Well, I think it would be best of you just came over. I have tea and stuff.”
“What? Tea? Ugh, fine, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I heard Deen hang up the phone.
I did the same.


ABERDEEN






I skipped to a run, approaching Maria’s bookstore. My feet pumped to the door where I skidded to a stop. I could see Maria in the window pouring a cup of not-so-opaque liquid.
“Aw, dude, come on. Tea? Are you kidding?” I burst in through the door and flung my bag off to the side.
“Well, don’t you like Yerba Mate? I thought you did.”
“Maria, coffee.” I motioned to her in a self-explaining fashion.
“Oh, really? Hmm, I don’t think we have coffee, and, even if we did, I don’t know how to make it.”
“Oh, just forget it.” I pulled her away from the steaming teacups to our spot between the bookshelves where we sat yesterday.
“Hey, it’s cool for you, but I really wanted some Mate!”
“Never mind that,” I began and looked her over. “We were gonna talk about our entry, remember?”
She sighed and looked down. I could tell she wasn’t feeling so hot. What had happened to that loud and bubbly writer that I was friends with? She didn’t seem to be here in the gloomy-looking, doubtful new Maria.
“Deen,” she began, “I don’t want to give up, but at the same time, I don’t think I can do this! I mean, I’m not- I can’t-”
“It’s alright,” I cut her off. She looked up at me, and I could see tears forming in her eyes.
“Look, Maria, d-don’t cry,” I stuttered and began to speak.
“When I first agreed with you about this contest, I knew it was going to be rough. I knew that we were going to have to go through some tough times. That’s okay, and I was expecting it. Look, I never felt prepared enough in the beginning to really agree to do the entry with you. I felt I still needed to improve a lot, and that I just wasn’t good enough to enter just yet.”
Maria’s eyes widened. As she stared at me, I knew she understood.
“I agree,” she hurried and slurred her words, saying, “I don’t want to give up, but I just don’t think I’m good enough at writing just yet. I don’t think I’ll be good enough to even enter.”
She wiped the tears forming at the ends of her eyes away. I looked at her and sighed.
“Maria, I understand completely. I respect your opinion of yourself, and it seems you have almost the same view of yourself that I do…” I looked down and didn’t finish my sentence.
“No, but, Deen!” Maria began with a start. “I just don’t want to give up. I understand that I want to improve, and that’s exactly why I can’t enter. I want to practice and learn more and more, until I’m proud of my work and I have enough time to do it. I want to improve, Deen. I think we both should. We should practice and practice until we’re both confident that we are giving our all.”
I returned my gaze to her.
“Maybe,” I started, with tears forming in my eyes, “Maybe giving up isn’t what it seems. It can be good if we want to improve, as long as we try when we’re ready, right?”
“Absolutely, Deen.”
“Heh,” I blinked away my tears and started to speak again, “Maybe we can both improve.”
“Here,” Maria stuck out her hand to me.
“What’s this?”
“I want you to promise me,” Maria began, “I want you to promise me that you and I will both continue and learn more about ourselves and better our talents, and that we won’t stop, even when it gets hard. I want you to promise me that we will keep improving, and that it’s okay to give up and try to work harder to make ourselves better.”
I reached out my hand and gripped hers.
“Alright,” I sniffled, “it’s a deal.”