YOUNG WRITER OF THE MONTH
A story about being accepted and finding comfort in similarities. By Ruhi, 11-Plus Creative Writing.
As I finished digging scraps from a nearby bin, I shared it between my mama and papa. Shivering uncontrollably as the biting wind grew stronger; my emerald green eyes were full of despair. Pointed in all kinds of directions my almond hair was matted, dirty and knotted. “Mama, Papa, look what I found,” I exclaimed excitedly, jumping into our one tiny room. “It was an old, mouldy banana!”
“Well done my Asha, good job,” mama replied, trying relentlessly to sound joyful; her tired and weary face portraying her sadness. Meanwhile, my papa looked intently through a magazine labelled ‘How to get a job.
The next day was a big day: I was going to a local school for the very first time! A myriad of emotions swarmed around my brain, a mix of nervousness and excitement. Walking through the welcoming school gates, I saw students clambering out of expensive sports cars, holding designer bags with gold clutches and chains. “Not everyone will be like this,” I thought, getting panicked but as I advanced into the school I realised that my thinking was incorrect. My heart was a drum, its heartbeat amplifying every second with each second as hot as humiliation washed over me like a shower of shame. I felt small and worthless. Some people laughed behind my back and my heart sank.
Sobbing, the next day I sullenly put on a brown jacket to hide my tatty, ripped, old clothes. Outside, rain drops pelted down to the ground like silver bullets. At school, I was a mouse avoiding every person.
The sniggers and laughter behind my back filled the air again as my eyes simultaneously filled with sadness. Blinking the salty tears away I felt that the same heat washed over me. Just then my eyes grew to the size of tennis balls as I saw another girl who looked the same as me: ripped, tatty old clothes called Anne. Plucking up my confidence I decided to talk to her. As the days went on, we started to get to know each other more and more.
“You know that you should tell the class that you are not wealthy, they will understand I promise,” Anne said firmly I knew that it was the right thing to do so one lunchtime I decided to tell them. “Um... guys I wanted to say that I am um... poor. PANIC. HORROR. FEAR. I waited for them to laugh but they didn't. “Were so sorry to hear that,” they said sorrowfully.
Then me and Anne smiled at each other while our tatty clothes shone in the sun.