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The Indigo Sisters

By Amrita B. 

During the fall of ninth grade, my mother signed me up for a local soccer league. I wasn’t too happy about it as I had planned to attend a prestigious art workshop. It didn’t help that I was not a natural at sports. I was an artist and nothing came to me quite like art did. 

But I respected my parents, so I pulled on my shin guards and went to soccer practice. 

The conditioning was horrible and I found myself taking longer breaks than anyone else. I was desperately slurping water from the fountain when a girl appeared next to me. 


“Hey.” I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and looked up at the girl. She was tall and pretty, and her hair was a deep shade of blue. 

“I like your blue hair.” 

The girl’s mouth hardened. “It’s not blue. It’s indigo.” 

“Indigo?” I had never seen anyone with indigo hair.

The girl’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. You see, every color in the rainbow gets acknowledged. Except for indigo.”

The girl sat down. “Did you know that there’s controversy over whether indigo is a color? Like how can indigo not be a color?” 

I stared at her curiously. As an artist, my whole world was color, and I felt a tiny bit ashamed for not having ever given indigo this much thought. 

The girl smiled as if she could read my thoughts. “I’m Jodie by the way.”

“I’m Serena.” I stared at her cleats. “Are you on the soccer team? I haven’t seen you around.” 

Jodie shrugged. “I’m supposed to be. But then again, I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”

“Serena!” The coach’s raucous voice interrupted us. “You’ve been drinking water for ten minutes!” 

I stood up. “I have to go.” 

Jodie waggled her fingers at me, an amused smile on her face. As I went back to the soccer drills, I remember thinking that maybe, just maybe, this soccer season wouldn’t be so bad. 


I didn’t see Jodie for a few weeks after that. I soon realized she didn’t like commitment. On the off chance that she actually showed up, I abandoned soccer practice to sit with her. 

“But, what do you really wanna do?” Jodie was lying on her back, staring at the clouds. She twirled a strand of indigo hair around her finger. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I know you hate soccer.” Jodie retorted. 

I shrugged, thinking about what my parents would say if they knew I was ditching soccer practice. “You wouldn’t understand.” 

A defiant look flashed in Jodie’s eyes. “Try me.” 

So I told her. I told her about my strict Indian parents and how they wanted me to pursue a career that would “make the family proud”. How I was expected to be a doctor, lawyer or engineer. How my parents wouldn’t fund my education if I pursued the liberal arts.  

Jodie listened. Then she told me her story. 

Jodie was a rebel. She fought against everybody and everything. She had straight D’s and smoked cigarettes. I knew my parents would kill me if they knew I was hanging out with someone like her. 

In a strange way I admired her. I never told her, but she knew. She was a sophomore, and it felt good to talk to a cool, older girl. She told me about her deranged mom and her deadbeat dad. Jodie was the one taking care of her younger brother. 

Soccer practice became our hangout. It was odd how we bonded over something that we both despised. We were so different-- yet we both saw indigo in the world and that meant something. 


At school we didn’t talk. Jodie hung out with the rough crowd and I knew it would hurt both our reputations if we were seen together. 

“Serena!” My friend Elise Cho caught up with me outside geometry class. “Where have you been?”

I shrugged. Ever since I’d met Jodie, I hadn’t really given my other friends much thought. 

Elise narrowed her eyes at me. “I heard you’ve been hanging out with that girl.” She pointed to Jodie and her friends in line at the snack shack. “She’s not exactly good company, if you know what I mean.” Elise wrinkled her nose in distaste, as if Jodie was a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. 

“She’s a good friend. And I don’t think you should judge people so quickly.” 

Elise looked embarrassed. “Oh okay. Hey, what did you get on that math quiz?” 


That weekend, I was calmly working on a piece in the garage. I was engrossed in painting an aquatic scene, trying to make the water shimmer by adding a white undertone. I was relaxed; the tick of the clock was the only other sound in the room. 

Humming along, I squeezed the acrylic tube, but nothing came out. I realized that I was out of the pearl color I was so fond of. I combed through my pile of paints, looking for any other white color, like ivory or cream. There was nothing. My wooden paint box remained a rainbow of crimson, coral, amber, turquoise and lavender. 

I spied my old art box sitting on a dusty shelf. Wiping my hands clean on a cloth, I rummaged through the box looking for any white paints, but I couldn’t find any. There was one more box on the next shelf that I could try. As a last thought, I lifted the lid. I flipped through folders and binders. 

One of the folders had my dad’s name printed on it. Curious, I opened the folder. Inside were pages after pages of poems. One poem was printed on glossy, expensive paper. It was stapled to an old-fashioned certificate that read “Congratulations on winning first place in the 10thannual Greenville County Poetry Contest.” 

I scanned a few lines of the poem. It was something about a snowman melting in the sun. The poems were obviously written on a typewriter, and my dad’s signature was printed at the bottom. I was startled. I couldn’t picture a practical Silicon Valley engineer like my dad writing poetry. 

Somewhat curious, I climbed the steps looking for him. My dad was in his office, typing on his computer. I cleared my throat.

“Oh, Serena.” My dad looked tired. Wasting no time, I held up the folder. 

“I found this.” My dad’s eyes widened in surprise. He took the folder.

“Wow, I haven’t seen this folder in years. Where did you find these?” 

I shrugged. “In the garage.” 

My dad looked happy. 

His eyes lit up, as he came across the snowman poem. “I remember this. When I was in college, I entered this local contest. I never thought I would win.” 

“You wrote poems. A lot of them.” I stated pointedly. 

My dad looked at me but didn’t say anything. 

“Why don’t you support my art?” I uttered softly. 

My dad stood up. 

“Serena, it’s not that I don’t support your art. I just want you to be practical. I loved writing poetry, but I was an immigrant in a new country. I couldn’t make a living off it. The liberal arts are a risk. You don’t want to be a starving, homeless artist.” My dad spoke gently. “It isn’t realistic for a career.” 

My dad pulled me into a hug. “I do support you, Serena. I just want you to be pragmatic.” 

I smiled happily. “Thanks Dad.”

My dad and I continued to talk. He agreed that it was okay to sign up for a painting class at school for next year. I felt better after talking to my dad. Maybe he did understand me. 


Sometime in early October, Jodie came over to my house. I made sure my parents weren’t home because I didn’t know how they would react towards her. 

“Nice place.” Jodie waltzed through the door. The strong scent of chicken curry and masala wafted through the house. I cringed. 

“So, where’s your paintings?” Jodie asked. 

I led her down the steps into the garage. I nervously watched her eyes scan over the dozens of canvases occupying the room. Jodie roamed around, cautiously touching my work. Then, she took out a cigarette. 

“Jodie! You can’t smoke in here! My parents will kill me!” I squealed anxiously. She waved me off. 

“Jodie!” That’s when I saw her expression. Her eyes widened in shock. Her unlit cigarette dropped to the ground. 

She gaped at a painting I had drawn of her. I cringed, embarrassed. I’d completely forgotten it was in the garage. 

“Oh my god. Is that me?” Jodie turned to me incredulously, tears in her eyes. “Nobody has ever considered me worthy enough.”

I shrugged, flustered. 

“Serena, you can’t ever stop painting. You are really good at this.” Jodie’s eyes were blurred with tears. “Serena, you have to promise me.” 

I was shocked. Jodie didn’t usually cry. I had never seen her get emotional over anything. 

“Okay.” I whispered. 

Jodie picked up her cigarette. “Come on, let’s get some frozen yogurt.” She was still mesmerized as we left the house. 


A few days later, my friend Elise Cho came over to my house to work on a project for biology. We sat on my bed, typing away on our laptops. 

“Have you thought about what classes you want to take next year?” Elise asked.

I shrugged. “I was thinking about taking a painting class.” 

“What about college?” Elise looked up at me in shock. 


“You have to take academic classes like computer science or AP English.” 

“I don’t think you should base everything on college. We’re only freshmen,” I responded. 

Elise looked sad. “There’s so much pressure though, especially from my parents. Surely you must be feeling it too?” She asked me. 

I turned the volume down on my headphones. “But, you have to do what you want, Elise.” I replied gently. 

She nodded wistfully. “I guess. It’s just so hard sometimes, you know?” 


Two days later, Jodie’s mom was placed in a mental hospital. I tried to get Jodie to talk about it, but she refused. I didn’t know what to do except be there for her.

A couple of my friends on the soccer team judged me for hanging out with Jodie, but I didn’t care. Jodie spent the tips she earned from her waitress job to take us to the local Guild Theater. We watched old art movies. 

Hanging out with Jodie made me happy. She never pressured me to smoke or made fun of how much I cared about my grades. With her, I could be myself. I didn’t have to compete for higher grades, like I did with my friends. I didn’t have to feel bad about being mediocre at soccer, like I did with the soccer team. I didn’t have to feel like I had to live up to someone’s high expectations, like I did with my parents. When it was just the two of us, sitting in the park, I felt like myself. 


One Monday, I was called into the counselor’s offices to select classes for sophomore year. 

“So what classes are you considering?” Ms. Jenkins leaned back in her chair. 

This was it. I took a deep breath. “I want to take the painting class.” 

Ms. Jenkins was aghast. “Painting? Are your parents okay with that?” The way she said it made me sound like a teenage rebel.  

“Yes.” I tried to stay calm. 

“I really think you should do the AP computer science course. It will look really good on a college application.” Ms. Jenkins turned towards her computer and started selecting the course. 
“Ms. Jenkins?” 

“Mmm hmm?” She was about to click the submit button. 

“I’m taking the painting class.” 
Ms. Jenkins turned around with an exasperated look on her face. “Serena, I think you should go home and have a conversation with your parents about this. You don’t want to do something you’ll regret.” 

I stood up and left the classroom, leaving Ms. Jenkins in shock. I smiled, knowing that Jodie would be proud. 


A couple of weeks later, there was an accident.

The coroner said she had drowned in a swimming pool. She’d been drinking. 

I remember crying. I remember endlessly sobbing. I remember screaming. For seven days, I didn’t leave the house. I locked myself in the garage and painted. I hurled tubes of paint at the canvas. I slashed line after line like my paintbrush was a knife. I threw away all my paints except for indigo. 

My parents didn’t understand. My friends didn’t understand. Nobody knew Jodie. 

They didn’t even have a funeral. She was quietly buried in a local cemetery. I found out from the newspaper.  

I was Jodie’s only friend. 

I felt completely alone. I hated Jodie for leaving me, and I hated myself for hating her. 

My parents worried about me. January led to February, and February led to May. 

It took me a long time to understand that Jodie wasn’t coming back. She was my guardian angel, and I never got to thank her. 

I passed my days in the art room at school. I befriended the teacher, and she let me paint there every day at lunch. I stopped being the perfect daughter. I still got A’s, but I was no longer quiet and shy. If I didn’t agree with something, I spoke out. If somebody said something rude about my clothes, I didn’t cower away. I lost most of my friends after I quit the debate team and signed up for art classes. But, I quickly made new friends, many who were more inclined to the arts, like me. Painting in the art room, I felt like I truly belonged.  


It’s been four years since Jodie died. 

I took her advice and applied to The Rhode Island School of Design. My parents weren’t too happy about it, but even they couldn’t resist the full-blown scholarship I was awarded. In a few weeks, one of my paintings will be displayed at a prestigious art gallery in Providence. It’s titled “Indigo Sisters.” 

Every year, I visit Jodie’s grave. I always lay flowers; they’re never blue and always indigo. 

I like to believe that Jodie wasn’t a bad person. She was just too lost to ultimately find her way back. I will always regret the fact that she helped me find my way, while I could not save her.

Without Jodie, I doubt I ever would have learned to value what I want from life. 

I smile, remembering the time I stood up to Ms. Jenkins. That one day now seems so far away.

I doubt I’ll ever meet anybody as spontaneous and rebellious as Jodie. She taught me to see the world not as blue, but as indigo. Jodie and I, we’ll always be the Indigo Sisters.

The Indigo Sisters: by Amrita B. (Fiction)

What Friends Are For

By Emily S.

     I’m five years old. It’s a warm fall August day in the town of Milpitas, a dull and boring city in California reeking of the smell of dumpsters and cow dung. With sleepy eyes and slouched shoulders, I entered into my bright kindergarten classroom at Monarch Christian School, a red-brick building on the corner between a farm and a 7-11. Theyellow light from the sun beamed through the open window and the glare hit all parts of my face.  The room was filled with foam puzzle pieces, red and blue blocks, and tiny little Dora the Explorer and Superman lunch boxes. As my classmates screamed and laughed, the young teachers scrambled to keep us from making a mess or from hurting ourselves. My chestnut-brown eyes lit upas I saw my best friend, Avni, sitting across the room, making her own little block tower. I waved my arms wildly at her and ran across the carpeted floors to her location.We immediately fell into conversation about the new princess cartoon show we were watching and how Tommy was a huge jerk for dating Sarah instead of Molly. Yep. Those were the good old days.

     At lunch time, excited murmurs spread through the roomwhen we were told it was pasta day. I reached toward the red lunch tray, grabbed my meal, and returned to my designated mat to begin munching on the delicious chicken alfredo. As I turned around to set my lunch down, I heard Avni and this boy in our class, Nathan, arguing. Our teacher Ms. Shirley immediately rushed over.

     “What’s going on, you guys?” she confronted.

     “She hit me!” Nathan screamed, with as much ferocity as a five-year-old could muster. 

     “No, I didn’t. Tell him, Emily!” Avni shouted back. 

     All three faces turned towards me and waited for my response. It felt like minutes had passed before I decided to say something. 

     “I didn’t see what happened. Sorry,” I timidly told the teacher.

     After telling both Avni and Nathan to sit down and be quiet, the teacher scurried away to deal with the next pair of troublemakers that were fighting. 

     Avni turned to me in astonishment, shocked that I hadn’t come to her defense. 

     “I can’t believe it! Go tell the teacher that I didn’t do it or else we aren’t friends anymore!”,she demanded. 

     Being the five-year-old that I was, God forbid I lose a friend over this. So I did it. 

     I inched up to Ms. Shirley with my head down. 

     “Hi. I actually did see what happened. Avni didn’t do anything.” 

     The teacher looked at me skeptically and asked why I hadn’t said anything the first time she questioned me. 

     Not expecting the question, I said, “I don’t know.” 

     Ms. Shirley gave me one of those “I know what you did” looks that teachers always give and I confessed to her what Avni made me do. I broke down in front of her and started sobbing. Tears streamed down my face and my heart pulled at my chest. 

     That day, they pulled my parents aside for a parent-teacher conference. I remember the look of disappointment on my mom’s face when the teacher told her what I had done. 

     As my mom walked me out of the school into the park playground, she knelt down and turned to me. 

     “Emily, why did you lie for Avni?”

     “I don’t know. She told me to and I wanted her to still be my friend.”

     “You can’t do that, okay? Lying is very bad and you should never do it. Avni is not a good friend for telling you to do this.” 

     To this day, I still don’t know if Avni actually hit Nathan or not. What I do know is what this experience taught me. I learned what true friends are. Now that I’m a junior in high school, I have real friends that have my back no matter what. At the time, I thought Avni was my real friend, but in reality, she used me to get what she wanted. True friends would never have put me in the type of position that she put me in. Furthermore, it taught me what would happen if I was constantly a pushover for other people. This experience has helped me gain friends and lose friends and it has helped stand up for myself against others. I would like to think it is part of the reason that I am the strong, independent girl I am today. 

What Friends Are For: by Emily S. (Nonfiction)
Water's Edge (Honorable Mention): by Jaya U. (Poetry)
A Single Red Rose (Honorable Mention): by Amrita B. (Poetry)
Road to the Free World: by Michael X. (Poetry)
Task: by Acacia L. (Poetry)

Road to the Free World

By Michael X.

First Amendment—our right to freedom of speech

What is the First Amendment’s greatest threat?

It is not despots,

It is not suppression,

But it is today’s social pressure that is its greatest threat.

In today’s society,

There are sensitivity and hypocrisy everywhere,

Attacking others for trivial matters and fueling insanity,

Making people afraid to share their opinions with the public.

No judgment, No assumption, No oppression,

Cries the 21st century people,

Blissfully ignorant of sensitivity and hypocrisy.

Liberals and conservatives,



All deserve free speech.

Shameful it is to silence their ideas,

But even more shameful to speak against social oppression,

Yet be the spring of persecution.


Are males the only human beings deserving of respect?

Do certain races hold opinions that are correct?

Is one political ideology truly perfect?


Male or female,

White, black, or yellow,

Left or right,

They all do not matter.

Why do we, society,

Speak against the evils of suppression,

Yet in our daily lives,

Commit acts of oppression?


Have you ever,

Like a weakling caught up in a mob,

Laughed at and ridiculed another with opposing ideas?

Exchanged smug and condescending glances,

With peers of similar minds?

You most likely have done so.

Let ignorance be removed from inherent human qualities.

It is not difficult to respect others no matter who they are.

We all can contribute to build a more tolerant community,

Where no one feels reluctant to speak out because of sensitivity attacking them.

We all can contribute to build a safer community,

Where no one feels suppressed to speak out because of their social identity.



1984 sales have increased vastly these years,

Yet doublethink is still present in society.

Big Brother is not the only menace,

But the citizens are too.

Dilemma of Innocence (Honorable Mention): by Steven L. (Poetry)

Dilemma of Innocence (HM)

By Steven L. 

One little boy walked up the street

to find himself with people to meet

The people looked him up and down 

and saw he was little, they put on a frown

One was a smoker, the second a thief,

the last was a dirty, corrupted priest

The little boy was taken by these hands

and while being kidnapped, he turned into a fiend

But the little boy found his revenge as sweet

for he found the heavy souls and killed them in their sleep

The little boy walked home drowning in regret

and he was not a little boy; not after that


By Acacia L.

Task after task,

You need to relax.


Task after task,

I wish i had a flask.


Just kidding,

I’m not into drinking,

Especially when the colleges

Are barely accepting.


You know what they say:

“You’re worth more than your SAT”

You know that they say:

“You don’t need to take all seven APs”


How come we don’t really feel this way?

We try to keep all the emotions contained at bay.


You’re not alone,

We’re all finding our way.

You’re not alone,

People want to make a change.


Task after task,

I’m going to relax


Task after task,

I’m going to take off the mask.

Water's Edge (HM)

By Jaya U.

I sat there at the water's edge

The sparkling crystal clear water

The tide receding and residing,

The ripple coming forth priding in herself


I sat there at the water's edge, 

not knowing what befell the world behind me

Whether it was a war, I would never know

For when by water's edge, I stoop low


By water's edge, or fire's side

Bravery must abide

By God's palace, or Hell's pit

Perseverance will hit


For when I stand at the water's edge

Peaceful, when I hear the splash

Of the tide

I know, to always take pride

A Single Red Rose (HM)

By Amrita B.

I am a rose,
Curled up within,
Hidden among leaves,
Frightened of the light;
For the light means
Growing up
And I am scared.
Of growing older
And abandoning
All that I know.
But I realize that
Eventually I will have to
Unfurl my petals,
And venture into the unknown,
Even if that means
Accepting a simple, glass vase.    

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