SO-Abigail+H.

Hello, my name is Abby, I don't go by Abigail. Writing is something I luuuurve to do, and I couldn't live if I didn't have my drawing pencils and black sketchbook! And uh, I luv to read.. too much infact. I've actually been grounded from it before. I know what you're thinking, you're proablly thinking, NERD!!!!!! well, that's okay with me :)

I also love ballet, I've been in it ever since I was in kindergarten, and next year I will be in Pointe. I'm very, //very// tall for my age, 5' 6" my sister calls me 'The Baby Giraffe'! hehe :D The odd thing is that one of my best friends is short for her age!

My sister and I often take walks together on the train tracks, and everytime the weather is nice, you'll probabally find me outside. I am interested in Herboligy (I think that's what it's called), who knew that you could use a dandelion for skin treatment!! The reason I didn't insert one of those creepy things that talk, is because they are really creepy and would scare the crap out of me everytime I edited my page.

Welllll, anyways, hope my introduction didn't bore you out of your skull, and I hope you enjoy my story, which in a odd way is related to one of my life experiance-thingys!!

Seasons of Apple By Abby Harmes I felt guilty. The kind of guilty that seemed to cover you like a thick mist, reminding that you can't ignore that fact that //you// could have prevented everything that happend. The kind of guilt that ripped at your insides and whinned to be let out. The kind of guilt that screamed at you, "You could have stopped her, you could have warned her about that truck, it's all //your// fault that she isn't alive." And now that I was constintly reminded, I realized that it //was// my fault. A tall nurse with a clipboard entered my room, followed by Dr. Kendall, “It appears from your symptoms that you have sustained a concussion, we need to keep you overnight for observation.” He then handed my crying Mom some papers. I sighed, closing my eyes, I just wanted to get out of this hospital. * * *  Her funeral was a couple weeks later, as soon as I saw her face; so calm and ghost white, contrasted to the terror that masked her face in her final moments, my stomach flipped, and I had to run, bawling my eyes out, to the bathroom. * * *  I hate the after-taste of barf. I weakly attempted to push the stall door open, but my knees where about as steady as a toothpick holding the eiffel tower. Mrs. Harper, her mom, was standing outside of the stalls; with mascara streaming down her face, trying to clean up her makeup mess in a small compact mirror. I tried to pretend she wasn’t there; nothing is more awkward then seeing your best friend’s mom cry. But as I pushed open the bathroom door, I knew she needed exactly what I needed. I turned around, tears brimming my chalkboard-green eyes, all I could manage was a shaky, “Mrs. Harper?” before tears where stinging my cheeks and I was trembling uncontrolably. She held me tightly and whispered, “It wasn’t your fault Apple.” Every day for the rest of the summer was the same. Get up, eat breakfast, pee, go back to bed, Mom wakes me up for supper, and then it’s time to go to bed again. Dreaming was mostly pleasant, besides the reoccurring nightmare that haunted my sleep. Her dying all over again, and me, useless with my feet stuck to the concrete. No matter how many times I screamed at her to move, she couldn’t hear me. I wake up right as I see her agonized face, plastered with a silent scream and blood. I woke up that morning, and fell asleep again, no human should have to wake up this early and be expected to make it through the day. I got up when the glee-club-commander/Penelope ripped the sheets off my bed and told me to, "Rise and shine sunshine!! I made you //pancakes!//", like that was supposed to make me say, "Gee whiz! I'm so excited for another day of algebra and history assignments! Let's get crackin'!" I gave her the dirtiest look I could muster in my zombie state mutterd a couple words i'm glad she didn't make out and rolled out of my bed. After I yawned/scratched my butt/etc. I ran a brush through my tousled jet black hair, put on a wrinkled pair of baggy gray sweats and a ketchup-stained sweater. It’s not like I was trying to impress anyone. My mom said she was excited for me, going to a new school, new friends. But I knew that was just mom-code for, “forget about her, and find new friends.” Easy for her to say, it wasn’t //her// best friend that died. My mom has to get to her herb and dreadlock shop bright and early, so my older sister Penelope always gives me a ride in her beat-up faded-red Chevy. As I headed for the schools doors, she stopped me with her hand I wanted to bite so bad I had to cover my mouth, and said with a sincere (and probally what she thought was 'motherly') look, “Apple, I know this might be tough, but please just think positively about this, okay? You get to meet new friends, and get involved with some school activities! Sounds fun right?” I sucked in a massive heap of air, and sighed, I might as well tell her what she wants to hear, “Yeah, sounds… fun.” She smiled, and said, “That’s my girl, keep up that good attitude ‘kay?” and with that she pecked me on the cheek, ruffled my hair and drove off in the old junk-mobile. I hate how she acts all motherly all the time. “Fun.” I repeated, wiping the crimson red lipstick off my cheek; but ‘fun’ didn’t fit my life at the moment. As soon as I entered the school I got a big whiff of antiseptic, my stomach churned; just like the hospitals smell. Memories stampeded into my head: “//If we don’t get this girl into surgery now she’s going to die!”// “//We need a Doctor, now!”// “//Man, that’s a lot of blood…”// “//Careful carrying her, it looks like she got a major blow to the head.”// The sound of the receptionist snapped me back to the present, “Are you okay? You look a little pale.” She had a apprehensive expression on her face. “Yeah, I’m… fine.” I said hiding my tears with my hand that I rubbed over my eyes, “Uh, hi, I’m Apple Hart, can I have my schedule?” * * *  I entered the dusty classroom far after the bell had rung, Desolate Middle School was a castle compared to my old school. “Class this is our new student, Apple Hart.” the lofty and elegant Ms. Simon announced as she stared down her nose at me with a look of disgust. I heard a couple people stifling laughter and mumbling to each other, “Apple, that’s the dumbest name a person can give a kid.” and “Look at her outfit! Is she poor or something?” I flashed them all a dirty look, letting them know I’m not deaf. Ms. Simon continued apparently not noticing the rude comments, “I expect you all to welcome her to our classroom, and help her find her classes.” And with that she told us to open our text books to page one hundred and two. Each period felt so agonizingly long I could barely endur it; and when a nosey girl named Sue Linn Campbell asked about the scar that ran through my eyebrow, and remarked that it "looks really hideous", memories instantly clouded my head: //“Stitch up that cut!”// // “Is this the needle you needed?” // // “ Yes, is it sterile? You, get some antibiotics, this cut is swelling up quick!” // // “We need to pull out those shards of glass before we sew it up.” // I snapped at her and told her to mind her own business. She told everyone that I was a rude brat, and they should steer clear of me. So from then on the new ‘cool‘ thing to do was to treat me like I was the stupidest and weirdest thing alive. So much for making new friends Glee Mafia Superior. * * *  As soon as I got home I ran up the stairs, pretending not to hear Penelope's greeting of, "I bet you made a whole lot of friends! Do you want to talk about it over waffels?!", locked my door, turned up my Bob Marley CD as loud as it would go, and flopped on my bed. I laid there motionless for hours, besides my fingers that traced the macrame necklaces's endless pattern, and another hand squeezing the guts out of my teddy bear; thinking of Sue Linn, crimson lipstick, stained sweaters, and concussions; but most of all I thought of semi trucks and funerals. I knew that Bob Marley was wrong, everything //isn't// going to be alright. * * *  The next day was torture, and so was the next day, and the next, I was cursed to re-live the same repulsive routine every day. And then one day the routine was shaken up. It was mid-winter, I had given up any hope of friends long ago. And then Ms. Simon came into the classroom with a short girl that had wavy auburn hair that went past her shoulders, freckles that dusted her face, and a nervous smile that half-heartidly lingred on her lips. What surprised me the most is that when she looked at me, her smile broadened, and dimples indented her cheeks. I almost gasped, and my eyes bulged out of my sockets. Suddenly tuning into Ms. Simon’s chatter, I heard her say in her nasaly tone, “Why don’t you go sit in a empty spot by Apple?” as she pointed towards me with her boney finger. I thought for sure that she would look at me disgustedly and ask the teacher for another spot, but she didn’t! She sat right next to me, and whispered, "Hey Apple!," I was speechless, someone had actually talked to me. Someone actually wanted to be friends with //me//. This had to be a cruel joke, was I imagining this? I blinked hard and looked back at her, but she was still there, and smiling. “I love your name, mine is just plain and boring Kate, but you can call me Mouse, my Dad said when I was born," she makes her voice as macho-ly as she can and says, "you where as small as a mouse, infact I could fit you in //this hand.//" as she sticks out her sticky left arm and knocks the wind out of Ms. Simon, who tumbles backward into a bookcase. We almost peed our pants trying not to let our inner-laughing fit out, I was biting my lips until they bled, and her face looked so red she put lobsters to shame. We helped Ms. Simon up, then got escourted to the principals office. * * *  I was in such a good mood since then my sister actually asked if there was something wrong with me! I replied, “New friend.” and skipped away to the phone to see if Mouse could hangout, leaving my sister with her jaw hanging open. I bounced back towards her, phone in hand, patted her jaw and said, “You’ll catch flies.” That week we had our first sleepover at her house, her mom, Mrs. Hyacinth was a short, stout woman who owned her own bakery, and loved to feed people, “Are you sure you don’t want more croissants? I just made a new batch.” And her dad, Mr. Hyacinth was a tall gangly man who loved biology, and got excited over plants a little too easily, “The Aloe Vera plant can really be used for almost anything! Burns, acne, wrinkles, rosacea, you name it!” After my first visit I was practically another member of the family. And for the first time in a long time I was happy. * * * Mouse and I where sitting on her bed that summer, when she pulled a small square package out of her backpack, and handed it to me. “Happy Birthday Apple, I hope you like it!” She was almost bursting with excitement as she watched me carefully take off each piece of tape, “Just //open// it Apple!” she giggled. “I’m opening it!” I laughed. As soon as I saw it I stopped laughing, and all traces of a smile where gone. Memories flooded into my head: //“Do you like it Apple?”// // “I love it! I was looking for a macrame necklace like this everywhere!” // // “Well, Happy Birthday!” // The last sentence rung in my ears. “Apple?” Mouse asked. “Um… I have to go.” I whispered, my voice got choked up, and tears started streaming down my cheeks. She caught my sleeve at her bedroom door, looked me in the eye, and said, “Apple what’s wrong? You where fine until you saw the necklace.” I let my back slip down the back of the door, Mouse sat down next to me. “Last summer, on my birthday, my best friend and I went on a walk..” and so continued the story. And t hen Mouse and I hugged and cried for a long, long time. * * *  When I got home, I dug vigorously in my sock drawer until I felt the thick paper curl under my nails, I fished it out and taped it to my wall. A picture of a blonde girl with Windex-blue eyes; my eternal best friend; for the first time since the accident I whispered her name, “Daisy Aiden Harper.” And then the craziest thing happend, a mist had lifted, and my insides where mended. Bob Marley was right, everything did turn out alright.

**Questions for Peer Reviewers**
(Think in terms of questions you would like to ask the author.)

1. Think of plot—is it original? (If an adaptation, is it creative or interesting to you?) What suggestions do you have for the author(s)?

2. Think about problems that the characters face. Are there complications that add enough suspense, tension, or interest? Is there a climax that satisfies you? Is the resolution satisfying? What could be added or changed?

3. Think of characterization—are the characters life-like? Are characters likable and enjoyable? Do we get a good sense of character from many of these: description, dialogue, narrator's opinion, discussion from other characters, the character’s own actions?

4. Think of imagery and details. Do they help you //see// and //hear// and //experience// the story? What details would you like to see in the next revision of the story?

5. What areas of the story need the most improvement? What suggestions do you have for the author?