Grade 9-10 Winners

HONOURABLE MENTION (GRADE 9-10)
Jillian Clasky
Tsunami

June 29th, 7:38am
24 hours, 22 minutes left

Dreams are peaceful. In my dreams I feel the waves whipping around me, sucking me into the current as my feet drag through the sand. They carry me away from everything: Away from steady ground, because steady feels too confined. Away from people’s faces, because all I ever see in them is pity. Away from worry, stress, and broken pieces. All that’s left is the ocean and me.

Eventually, though, I have to wake. And daytime? That’s when the tsunamis hit. After my eyes fly open, I rise unsteadily and lock the bathroom door. The girl reflected in the mirror is me, except she’s not; her face is drawn and her eyes are bloodshot and her auburn hair is in ratty and knotted. I close my eyes, because it hurts even just to glimpse what I’ve become.

I push the shower curtain aside and pull the handle. The stream of water is loud enough to block out sounds from around the house, but the voices in my head are louder. Only one more day until my sister’s life is destroyed forever. And only one more day to stop that from happening.

June 29th, 10:43am
21 hours, 17 minutes left

Before, I didn’t think it was legal for suspects to be held in custody before their trial. I thought wrong.

Even a month in jail has destroyed Ariella. It’s not that she was completely innocent before; she’s made her fair share of mistakes– but she was never a murderer, and being looked at like that, like she’s capable of taking the life of another human being, it’s broken something inside of her. Her eyes are still cobalt blue, the bright, striking ones I’ve always envied, but they seem haunted now, cloaked in dark circles and fear. And although Ariella’s a year older than me, she appears so small and helpless surrounded by lifeless grey walls and metal bars.

Despite her predicament, she manages a tight-lipped smile when she sees me approaching.

“I’ve got letters from a few of your friends,” I tell her, “and Mom and Dad are coming this afternoon with the lawyer to figure things out for tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Bree. Any new developments?” She knows, though, that she’s only grasping at straws.

“We’re trying. I swear we’re trying, Ari. But no, nothing yet.” It pains me to say it, because despite what I tell her, we both know that there’s hardly any hope left.

Ariella closes her eyes and exhales, replying: “It’s no one’s fault but Valerie’s. If she hadn’t turned me in for a crime I didn’t commit because she saw my hair from a distance- my God, what kind of proof is that, saying she saw my hair, because it’s this disgusting auburn colour, so distinctive-”

I gasp suddenly and an idea begins to form in my head: admittedly a little bit far-fetched, but plausible, definitely plausible. At least, plausible from an outsider’s perspective. “Ari,” I whisper. “What if…”

She glances up at me. “What? What is it?” “What if it was her? What if it was Valerie?”

June 29th, 3:13pm
16 hours, 47 minutes left

Popularity isn’t exactly a hierarchy at our school, it’s more of an abstract concept, but it’s safe to say that Valerie Meyer is popular– and that, paired with her parents’ seemingly endless supply of cash, equates to power. Valerie can make anyone’s life hell if she wants to. She certainly accomplished it with my sister.

So saying that I’m afraid as I walk up the cobblestone path that leads to the Meyer mansion would be an understatement. I’m not afraid of Valerie herself, exactly, but of what she'll do to me if she realizes what I’m about to do: attempt to frame her for a murder I’m fairly certain she didn’t commit.

But it doesn’t matter whether or not I believe it. It matters whether the judge will. I press down the recording button on my phone before wrapping my hand around the intricate knocker. It feels cold to the touch as I hold my breath and release it. The sharp clang of metal on metal seems to reverberate for hours, but suddenly I hear pounding feet and the click of a lock, and then I’m gazing into the face of a teenage girl with silvery-blonde hair and a grimace adorning her cherry-red lips.

“Brianna Scott. May I ask what you’re doing at my house?” Valerie’s voice is sharp and calculated.

“Valerie. Nice to see you.” I take a deep breath and begin to speak, but Valerie cuts me off. “Stop with the pleasantries and get to the point. I have things to do.”

“What, have you got another best friend to accuse of murder or something?” I can’t help myself, but I know snapping at her won’t get me anywhere.

“You know nothing about me.” Her voice shakes a little bit, but the expression on her face is made of stone. “And it seems to me that you know nothing about your beloved sister, either. I bet you didn’t know that her and Ben weren’t that golden couple that everyone perceived them to be. I bet you didn’t know how badly he treated her. She was trapped, Brianna. She was the only person with a motive.”

She appears to think her words come as a surprise to me. They don’t; I iced Ariella’s bruises and bandaged her wounds night after night in the weeks leading up to her boyfriend’s death. I begged her, over and over again, to speak up, but she refused. She said that Ben was just going through a tough time, that it would all be okay. It’s funny how much love can blind us sometimes.

“If that’s all true, if killing him was her only escape, then why would you turn her in? That’s not justice. That’s cruel.”

“It doesn’t matter how horrible Ben was,” Valerie replies quietly. “It’s murder. It’s killing another human being. You don’t understand justice, Brianna, just your twisted sense of loyalty. And you refuse to admit what you know somewhere inside you.” Maybe loyalty is more important than justice, I think to myself.

All I say is: “What about you?” She just stares at me, confused, so I continue, “You said you saw Ariella push Ben. But is it true? I mean, you were close with Ben too. But never as close as Ari was… Where were you really that night?”

Valerie freezes just before her lips tighten into a thin line. “Are you accusing me,” she says slowly, her words dripping with menace, “of murdering Ben Ashton? Out of petty jealousy?”

“No, I–”

“Get out of my house.” And though she slams the door in my face immediately, I catch a final glimpse of her. She’s holding her chin up but I can see her trembling.

June 29th, 5:29pm
14 hours, 31 minutes left

I’ve given up.

The past month has been a blur of constant investigations, speaking to a horde of lawyers, and never-ending nights of fear instead of sleep. And all of it’s amounted to nothing: Ariella will be convicted tomorrow. All of the evidence points to her. She’ll never have a future, she’ll never be happy, and God knows whether she’ll even be human anymore once she gets out of that place. There’s nothing left to do but pray.

I walk, barefoot, down the rocky cliff near the pier, my mind so numb that I barely notice as the jagged stones dig into the soles of my feet. Being enveloped in seawater feels good, but not good enough; swimming is no longer an escape, not while I’m awake. I’ve always come to this particular spot because, although the cliff atop it is a common hangout for local teens, the shaded area below is hidden from the rest of the world. It’s also, it seems, an ideal location for murder. The body was removed and the evidence has been washed away by now, but I can’t look at the rock formation without imagining Ben falling, without hearing the sickening crunch of his neck snapping and seeing his blood stain the normally crystal-clear water.

Most of all, I can’t help but picture Ariella’s face when our family and Ben’s approached those rocks the next day, surrounded by police officers and grief. I remember her eyes widening, her breath catching, her heart too filled with shock for any tears to fall.
And yet, as I surge through the water, I remember her guilty relief, the look in her eyes that said she’d just woken up from a nightmare.

The first time Ariella told me about Ben, she showed me a bruise, bright purple on her shoulder blade. My initial shock struck me speechless for a moment, but when I told her that she had to tell someone, she refused. “I don’t want to hurt him!” she always exclaimed through her tears, and each time, I gaped at her, incredulous. “He hurt you, Ari,” I reminded her time and time again, pressing ice against her delicate, broken skin. “He deserves it.”

And then Ariella: “It must’ve been an accident… it’s my fault… he just got carried away, Bree…”

With each bruise, each scrape, each drop of blood he drew from Ariella’s body, I felt more and more protective of my older sister. The fury that coursed through my veins was strong and overwhelming; I wanted to hurt Ben, to see him suffer the way he made Ariella suffer.

There has to be a way out, and suddenly I see it. Because Ariella’s not the only auburn-haired girl with a grudge.

As I walk away, I say goodbye to the sea, to its sun-kissed waves and familiar rumble, and I take a final breath of salty air that will have to last me for the years to come.

At least I’ll have the ocean in my dreams.

June 30th, 1:32am
6 hours, 28 minutes left

That night, my dreams are nightmares.

June 30th, 8:00am
0 hours, 0 minutes left

“Today’s case concerns the murder of Benjamin Henry Ashton.”

The judge’s words are blatant and emotionless, and when he names my sister– “Ariella Beatrice Scott”– as the suspect, I want more than anything to cry out or run up and put my arms around her, but all I can do is sit here and watch.

I watch as the first opening statement is given. Ariella’s face is grave but determined, because she knows her chances of winning the case are almost nonexistent, but she dares to hope.

I watch as the prosecutor tells the courtroom that my sister is a murderer.

I watch as Valerie testifies against her best friend. Although her hair is pinned in a neat updo and her attire is solemn and professional, I can see mascara smudges underneath her eyes.

I watch as the evidence is laid out in front of us, evidence that was carefully collected to paint my sister in the most negative light possible.

I watch as Ariella blinks hard, while her lawyer gives her closing statement in resignation. My mother’s arms wrap around me and I feel her tears soak right through my thin cardigan as the sense of foreboding in the air intensifies.

I watch as the jury deliberates, dreading the verdict but knowing the outcome. We all know it by now.

I watch as my sister is found guilty of murder.

“No!” The voice that cries out stops everyone in their place, and it takes me a moment to register that it’s my own. “You can’t convict her. She didn’t kill him! I know who did it!”

Every eye in the room is trained on me. With shaking hands and a heavy heart, I say, loud and clear: “It was me.”

Ariella’s eyes widen. “Bree, no.” “I killed Ben Ashton.”

I don’t know whether or not this is justice, but it doesn’t even matter anymore, because she’s free.

Ariella is free.

WINNER (GRADE 9-10)
Kaitlyn Gardiner
A Day to Remember

My name is Abigail Meoquanee, Abby for short. I miss my Mother so much. She volunteered to become a Canadian soldier many years ago. No one asked her to do this.

We live in a First Nations community in Northern Ontario. This is the only home I have ever known and I cannot imagine living anywhere else. Last Christmas my Mother left once again to live on a military base in Manitoba, where she uses her specialized training as a medical officer. She says there is no career more rewarding or challenging than serving in our country’s Armed Forces. She is one of only ten thousand Canadian women, and one of only 1200 First Nations people in the Canadian military. My Mother is a bit of a hero around here.

As proud as she is to be doing her job, my Mother worries about leaving her family behind, especially me. In May, she was deployed to a foreign country to help treat children in refugee camps. She writes to me often and I sleep with her latest letters under my pillow. Some have strange postage stamps on the envelopes. My Mother says she will be back next summer just in time for me to start high school.

I live with my Father and Grandma for now. I am an only child. My Father isn’t the best chef around since my Mother was always the cook in our house. Since she left, our dinners have consisted mostly of frozen fish sticks. Growing fresh fruits and vegetables in this area is difficult because of our climate, but we get them sometimes. I used to like fish sticks but now I am tired of them, and my mouth waters for her good food again. I don’t know how to tell my Father without hurting his feelings, so I have not said anything. Today is my birthday and my Grandma says she will bake me a chocolate birthday cake tonight. I have not had chocolate cake since my Mother left.

“WAKE UP ABBY, YOU’RE GONNA BE LATE FOR SCHOOL,” my Father yells from the kitchen. I was already awake and looking at the card my Mother gave me last year. It has a cute puppy that looks like my pup Alasie, dancing on two legs and holding balloons. Almost everyone in our small community has a dog. Inside is signed, “Love Forever, Your Wiyanga” with little hearts floating around it. I place it back carefully on my dresser.

Quickly I put on my special red dress to honour the day. My father says it is his favourite dress because it suits my brown eyes and long dark hair so well. The poppy from last year is still pinned on. I run to the kitchen and pour cheerios and milk into a bowl. “Hurry up,” Dad says. The bowl slips out of my hand and breaks on the floor. “I’m sorry Dad,” I say, feeling tears rush to my eyes. “Don’t apologize, just clean it up,” he says.

The snow is already getting deep now by November 11, and it takes me time to get to school. I am a little late. Getting to class quickly is all I can think about. I run down the hall and SLAM, my binder falls out of my backpack and onto the floor.

The notes from my big binder fall out and scatter. “Ugh, that broken zipper,” I say loudly. But no one is around to help me. Now I am going to be very late.

When I arrive at my classroom, I walk through the doorway and everyone stares at me. Obviously I interrupted the class. Staring at me, Mr. Matari, my teacher turns his attention back to the rest of the students, “So as I was saying…we will be going to the Remembrance Day assembly soon.” I hang up my well-worn backpack with the broken zipper, the birthday gift from my Mother last year. We hear the Principal, Ms. Kittiewinnie’s voice over the P.A. system, “Would the Primary and Junior grades please make their way to the gym now please?” Moments later I hear a group of students in the hallway talking loudly and excitedly. They are not being serious. Don’t they understand the significance of Remembrance Day?
“Oh, and Happy Birthday Abby!” my teacher says. The whole class sings Happy Birthday to me. “Thank you”, I say quietly. Ms. Kittiewinnie’s voice announces, “Would the Intermediate grades now come down to our special Remembrance Day presentation? We will begin shortly.”

I sit on the cold floor in the gym next to my best friend Skylar. We are asked to stand for the playing of O’Canada. In my red dress, I feel so proud on this special day and sing a little too loudly. A few students turn around and look at me. I smile at them as I finish singing our national anthem. We sit again, and the lights in the gym turn off when the slideshow starts.

Solemn music begins to play and pictures of poppies and crosses are shown on the large screen. I gently touch the softness of my poppy on my dress. On the screen are pictures and names of soldiers who have been killed during wartime. I want everyone to be safe, to live peacefully. I think of my Mother and start crying softly. Skylar looks at me and whispers, “It’s okay, she will call you tonight,” and hugs me. The slideshow finishes and we stand for a moment of silence.

Ms. Kittiewinnie walks to the podium and says, “Would Abigail Meoquanee please come up to the stage?” My eyes widen and I look at Skylar and she looks back at me. We are both surprised. She squeezes my hand tightly before I leave her. Nervously I walk through the crowd of students, passing the tables at the side of the gym with artifacts such as old brass buttons and dull coloured medals that were probably once shiny. Mr. Matari brought them in for Remembrance Day today for all the students to see.

At the front of the gym, where the both the Canadian and Ontario flags stand proudly beside our familiar First Nations flag, my whole body feels heavy as I climb the four steps up to the stage. I do not like being in front of large crowds and everyone is quietly watching me. I am still emotional about the slideshow and quickly wipe away the tears in my eyes. Could the other students imagine what it feels like to be me, a child who has a parent in the Canadian military?

The heavy blue curtains on the stage part slightly, and to my surprise I see my Mother in her Officer’s uniform walk toward me. Can that be right? She is still overseas. But as she came closer, I see, yes it is her! I run into her arms as she bends on one knee, and start crying. “I love you Mom!”

A loud thunder of claps and cheers erupt from the audience. For a moment I flash back to when I was in Kindergarten, remembering the first time she came home and I could not understand it all. Now I am older and can accept the dedication to the peace-keeping missions that she and so many others share. “I love you too!” I can’t stop crying and my heart fills with joy. I do not want to let go. “Happy Birthday!” my Mother whispers in my ear.

This will always be the best day to remember!