400 word rough draft

It felt like a hopeless battle between my hair and the brush. The brush was my hair’s archenemy. I hated the brush. It was always trying to hurt me and rip my hair from my scalp. So in protest of the wretched torture device (a brush) I never brushed my hair. My hair whirled around my head like a twisted, frizzy bird’s nest I looked like a girl from “Annie”.

            I peeked out from under the brim of my yellow bangs. They came across my eyes cutting my vision in half. It was the first day of first grade and I had to tilt my head all the way back to see my teachers face from behind the curtain of hair. I was a no non-sense kind of kid and I cut to the chase with this new teacher immediately in hopes of eradicating my most pressing fear about first grade. “Are you mean; my brother told me you made a little girl cry?” I curtly asked her. She was taken aback and my mother quickly apologized and ushered me into the classroom. I have felt guilty about that comment since the day it slipped through my lips.

            The bangs had been my mother’s idea but they were constantly in my face making me resemble a shaggy, overgrown hound. I begged her to let me get rid of them but when she said no I just did it myself. I chopped them off with my favorite pair of child-safe ladybug scissors. After that nobody ever tried to tell me what to do with my hair again.

            When I was in sixth grade, on a Tuesday afternoon, the impulse for change overcame me. I begged my mom to give me a haircut and despite her ambivalence she finally obliged. It was awful, with each snip it got shorter and shorter. She had butchered my hair; I burst into tears. For the rest of the year I wore my hair in a tiny bun in the back of my head. Now a day if I feel impulsive I go to the hairdresser to have a professional cut my hair.

Narrative Part Three

With the experience and skills I took away from being the team manager I was able to successfully spin the volleyball on my finger for a good 30 seconds, cart dance, and keep very precise stats. No I’m only kidding, managing the team allowed me to practice with a varsity team and learn a lot about how to play. I played for a club team for the next year then I tried out for the NTHS varsity team again. I didn’t make it. Oh well. I could look at a situation and see that the glass was half full rather than half empty.

            Colleen and Jim were non-athletes, Colleen played a little lacrosse and field hockey but nothing serious. I watched them both grow older and follow society out into the real world. Going to college, finding jobs, and moving out on their own. My life had revolved around following by example. I would cut my hair the way my sister did. I would play a computer game my brother tried. I didn’t consider myself a leader until this past year. I was foraging a path not yet taken. I cut away the greenery from infront of me. I scanned the forest floor for my next step. This life path was unlike anyone I’d ever talked to or heard about. I felt so unorthodox and liberated. I could be my own person. My computer screen lit up my face. I starred at my mailbox on the screen. To the side I had organized a list under “college volleyball”. This list consists of 10 or 11 different schools none of which any of my siblings went to. None of my siblings played a sport in college. None of my siblings played volleyball. None of my siblings started a new sport their junior year. None of my siblings were me and that’s refreshingly simple.

Narrative Part two

            I shifted the cart around: I flung it under the net, I twirled in a circle to swing it behind me, I was dancing to alleviate my boredom. The coaches had asked me to be manager implying that with hard work I could be on the team the following year. Team manager is sort of just a fancy word for water girl. I eagerly came to practice everyday ready to absorb the skills and knowledge from the other girls hoping that maybe their abilities would just rub off on me. At games I would watch them scanning the court because I wanted to learn but also because it was my responsibility to write down when they did something well or not well (stats). Managing the team taught me a lot and I’m really glad I chose to do that rather than give up.

            Sean, my older brother, had set a high bar as far as sports went. He seemed to have walked out of the womb with a ability to swing a bat, dribble a basketball, and juggle a soccer ball. It was so unfair I was never good at any sports. His basketball career ended when he was a senior and finished off the season as a starter on the LFHS basketball team. I looked up to him and assumed that my life would proceed in a very similar way. I knew I was going to be just like Sean.

Narrative Part One

Mickey mouse. Gosh darn Mickey Mouse. He was always so friendly on T.V., his voice endearing, and his attitude mesmerizing. Well then, why had this loyal old friend turned his back on me, cruelly preventing me from getting on that ride? I watched my siblings walk by Mickey seemingly unconcerned by his outreached hand and a sign reading, “You must be this tall”. I tiptoed behind them, reaching my nose into the air, and stiffening my posture. ‘If only I was taller’, I thought as the cart pulled away.

            Shifting my weight from one leg to the other attempting to appear nonchalant. I was lanky, full of self-doubt, trying to find a place to put my impossibly long limbs. I am alone in the gym with a coach. She bounces me a volleyball. I hold it lightly in my hands unsure of what to do. I bounce it on the ground then try to slap it down like I’ve seen other volleyball players do. It lands on the toe of my tennis shoe and swiftly rolls away. I pause then quickly scramble to catch the ball before it rolls too far out of reach. Once I’m back at the end line she instructs me to serve it. I’ve barely touched a volleyball let alone serve one. So trying to conceal my apprehension I agree to serve it, as if it was something I could do in my sleep. I tossed it up above my head and flail at the ball with the force of my whole body. There was an empty thud as my hand hit the ball propelling it ten feet short of the net. My cheeks burn and I quickly spit out, “my bad”. Perhaps my aspirations to make the varsity team in a few months were more than naive.

            I was always the family caboose. What is a caboose but a tag along, slowly following my siblings along on their excursions and exploits. My opinion wasn’t solicited let along valued in any topic big or small. So I went along for the ride dependent on their pull to get me through. However over the years each compartment of this family train broke off and eventually left me completely alone, lost, and insecure with a empty track ahead of me.