Emerson Hardebeck, junior class president at Timberline High School and an editor of Timberline’s student newspaper “The Blazer,” is a member of The Olympian’s Board of Contributors. He can be reached at email@example.com.
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All I remember is it was hot, and I was wearing my dad's shirt.
At the time, my head barely came up to his shoulders, and his striped polo must have gone down past my knees. I gaped at myself in the mirror. The fabric cocooning my small body rippled in a way that clothing shouldn’t. I was wearing a sail.
I hated getting all dressed up. My dad insisted, though, because of his then-exasperating belief that my favorite Star Wars T-shirt was not, in fact, appropriate for all occasions.
The only fanfare I was awarded after being elected class president at my high school a few years ago was a garbled bulletin over the public address system. This was exactly the kind of prestige that had first attracted me to the position.
All my life I’ve heard voices.
I couldn't help smiling as I filled out my voter registration forms the other day. This November will mark the first year that I am eligible to take an active role in our electoral process, rather than just snarling at bumper stickers or leaving angry, all-caps comments in response to online campaign videos.
LIMA, Peru — It is another day at the schoolhouse in Spanish-speaking Peru, and conversations are looming around me like strange hieroglyphics. There is a certain discomfiture about a setting that is instantly so familiar yet so dizzyingly encrypted.
One of my favorite people in the world is a charming young brunette named Bailey, who is almost as short as she is sweet. For clarity's sake, let me be blunt: Bailey is only a friend, nothing more. But a very dear friend.
In the wee hours of the night, every shadow or creak is always, invariably, a burglar.
There is nothing special about Colton Harris-Moore, really.
About once a month, a kindly woman in a medium tan coat sounds the mellow chimes of my doorbell, and waits patiently on the porch as I pull myself away from a generally spellbinding breakfast. I open the door, she opens her purse, and we exchange pleasantries as she passes over a pamphlet explaining one tenet or another of the Jehovah’s Witness religion. She donates countless mornings in this way, spreading salvation among the neighbors who are perched with varying degrees of precariousness upon the precipice of perdition.
It's finals week at most high schools, and students are cramming like mad, myself included.