Could someone edit this/tell me your opinion? Thanks!?

It all started with her name. We were sitting in sixth grade homeroom, all nervously scoping each other out, seeing who was pretty, who had a uni-brow, how many pimples the few people you knew from your elementary school had accumulated over the summer. Waiting for someone to comment on the skirt we all knew was too short, and didn’t have the legs to wear it, someone to drop the back of an earring so the pressure would be off us while she scrambled under the desks, finally found her tiny silver clasp and stuck it in the back of her ear, behind her veil of hair, newly straightened for the first time. They put us in rows by the alphabet; I was nervously looking around me, doubting that some of the kids in the class could recite the entire thing, and I knew where my seat would be. Even though I hardly knew anyone, I knew that I would be in front of this girl named Chelsea; we’d gone to elementary school together, she’d been the most popular girl in the fifth grade. We’d never been close friends, but once, at recess, she asked me if I would play hide and seek with them. I’d been so happy I didn’t check for risks; I was the shyest girl in our grade, hiding behind the bangs that I only decided to grow out freshman year in high school. They’d left me hiding under the little alcove that the tire and wood playground had. Everyone knew where it was; it was only afterwards that I figured this out and realized that Chelsea’s excuse was that I was a really good hider and should be proud. I also realized later what it meant when girls walked away, tittering and speaking behind cupped palms.


That day in homeroom, which is, a ridiculously pointless waste of ten minutes in the morning, and until you get to high school, another ten in the afternoon, we were getting put into alphabetical order. I got stuck in between Chelsea and this boy, I think his name was Tommy, who wore these coke bottle glasses; really, they looked like his parents couldn’t afford real glasses, and just cut off the bottom of glass bottles and stuck a piece of wire around them. But, I have a feeling that he had a lot of money; if I ever get the chance, I’ll find my sixth grade yearbook from the box of all the things I have to remember, find out what his last name was, and look him up. Chances are that now, he’s a stud, has an earring, and is married to some Belgian model. But Tommy has no point in this, other than one incidence at lunch, and even at that, it’s stretching his noble purpose in our lives. Oh, and for the hell of it, to my left was this kid named Tristan. He was in the popular group, but he always farted in class, and even if it wasn’t him, he did it enough so that you could blame it on him if you ever needed to. Tristan…well, he’s not important in this, other than the fact that I’m sure that I blamed something on him at one point in sixth grade. After we were settled, the front of the alphabet, we settled for staring at the kids who hadn’t gotten put into desks yet, and deciding who would be our sixth grade popular group. A girl with pretty blonde hair, curling in subtle waves over and over itself was called next, Hilary, with only one “L”. After a week of hearing this, we got sick of her, even if her hair was excellent.


The last person to be called was a shy looking girl, her face partially obscured by her massive side bang, the rest of her almost thigh length hair secured in a long braid, tied with a thin leather cord with a little silver star attached to the end of it. She looked afraid to be standing up there by herself, but she had to have known it was coming. After a kid with the last name Yoraz had just been called, there’s not much room for another kid to squeak in after her. But the teacher looked down at her paper once, opened her mouth, then, surprised, took a second glance down at the roster. Her eyes flitted to the girl, still standing at the front of the room, in her khaki capris and crimson cotton shirt, embroidered with blue hyacinths, some kind of flower, but that sounds right. So the teacher looked up at her, and, with the most American accent that I’ve ever heard, “Sackery Zeenay”. By this time, we were all staring at her, I could hear Chelsea’s snickers from in front of me, and with dignity that I hadn’t though a sixth grader could possess, she stared our teacher in the eye- it was at this point that I realized that her eyes were denim blue, something that wouldn’t have been as surprising if her skin wasn’t it’s shade of golden brown. She said, speaking slowly and with a slight accent that I wouldn’t be able to place for three years, “It’s Suh-kah-ree Zeh-nah.” She repeated it again, faster. With a withering look from the teacher and a slightly audible gasp from the class, she sat down in the last seat, her last interruption for the day. Many days, actually. But almost three years later, I would approach her, and tell her that I remembered that day. The reason that I wanted to talk to her- that night, when I was supposed to be working on my math homework, I said her name. The syllables rolled off my tongue, it’s cinnamon taste lingered on my tongue, turning our dinner of chicken, string beans, and mashed potatoes red and sweet.

Could someone edit this/tell me your opinion? Thanks!?
Behind Cupped Palms





It all started with her name. We were sitting in our sixth grade homeroom, all nervously scooping each other out; who was pretty, who had a uni-brow, how many pimples each kid from elementary school had accumulated over the summer; waiting for someone to comment on the skirt we all knew was too short, and the girl without the legs to wear it; wishing for someone to drop the back of an earring, so the pressure and sweat off our necks would evaporate as she scrambled under the desks, finally to retrieve her silver clasp and stick it in the back of her ear, behind her veil of hair, newly straightened for the first time. They would put us in rows by the alphabet; from the corners of my eyes, I stood, nervously looking around me, doubting that some of the kids in the class could recite the entire thing, and I knew where my seat would be. Even though my surroundings were foreign and my fellow classmates I had only just met, I knew one thing, Chelsea.





We’d gone to elementary school together. She’d been the most popular girl in the fifth grade. We’d never been close friends, but once, at recess, she asked me if I would play hide and seek with “them”. I was so overjoyed and innocent, I didn’t check for risks. I was the shyest girl in our grade, hiding behind the bangs that I only decided to grow out freshman year of high school. They’d left me hiding under the little alcove that the tire and wood playground hid. Everyone already knew where it was. It was only afterwards that I figured this out, realizing as soon as Chelsea released her excuse, (apparently I was a really good hider and should be proud) we would forever be enemies. It was also the first time I realized what it meant when girls walk away, tittering and whispering behind cupped palms.





That day in homeroom, a ridiculous, pointless waste of ten minutes in the morning, and until you get to high school, another ten in the afternoon, we were still trapped in. I got stuck standing between Chelsea and this boy, Tommy (?), who wore these coke bottle glasses. Really… they looked like his parents couldn’t afford real glasses, and just cut off the bottom of glass bottles and stuck a piece of wire around them. But, I had the slightest instinct that he had a butt load of money. If I ever get the chance, I’ll find my sixth grade yearbook, search out what his last name was, and look him up. Chances are that now, he’s a stud, has an earring, and is married to some Belgian model. But Tommy has no point in this, other than one incidence at lunch, and even at that, it’s stretching his noble purpose in our lives. Oh, and for the hell of it, to my left was this kid named Tristan. He was in the popular group, but he always farted in class, and even if it wasn’t him, he did it frequently enough so that he was sure to blame if you ever needed him. Tristan… well, he’s not important in this either, though I’m sure I blamed something on him at one point in sixth grade. After we were arranged in our seats laid out in alphabetical order, we settled for staring at the kids who hadn’t gotten put into desks yet, silently and synchronized deciding who would be our sixth grade popular group. A girl with pretty blonde hair, curled in subtle waves, towering over and over itself was called next: Hilary, with only one “L”. After a week of hearing this, we got sick of her, even if her hair was excellent.





The last person to be called was a shy looking girl, her face partially obscured by her massive side bangs and the rest of her thigh-length hair secured in a long, tight braid. A thin leather cord with a little silver star held it all together to keep our eyes in stare a few seconds longer. She looked afraid to be standing up there by herself, but she had to have known it was coming. After all, a kid with the last name Yoraz had just been called before her. There’s not much room for another kid to squeak in after her. But the teacher looked down at her paper once, opened her mouth, then surprised, took a second glance down at the roster. Her eyes flitted to the girl, still standing at the front of the room, khaki capris and crimson cotton shirt, embroidered with blue hyacinths, or some flower like that. So the teacher looked up at her, and, with the most American accent that I’ve ever heard, “Sackery Zeenay”. Our eyes shifted, all gawking in her direction, and I could faintly hear Chelsea’s snickers from in front of me. With dignity even I hadn’t thought a sixth grader could possess, she stared our teacher in the eye. It was then that I realized her eyes, a denim blue, something that would have been less surprising if her skin wasn’t it’s shade of golden brown. She said, speaking slowly and with a slight accent that I wouldn’t be able to place for three years, “It’s Suh-kah-ree Zeh-nah.” She repeated it again, faster. With a withering look from the teacher and a slightly audible gasp from the class, she sat down in the last seat, her last interruption for the day, many days, actually. But almost three years later, I would approach her, and tell her that I remembered that day; the reason that I wanted to talk to her so much that night, when I was supposed to be working on my math homework, instead I said her name. The syllables rolled off my tongue, it’s cinnamon taste lingered in my mouth, turning our dinner of chicken, string beans, and mashed potatoes, red and sweet.





that was a pleasure. to edit and to read. if you want me to edit any more continuations feel free to email me :) i'd love to do it.
Reply:You have a strong writer's voice that others could only dream about.
Reply:It's really good! it has very few spelling/grammar errors, if any! I Applaud you.
Reply:hey


did u write this your self?


if u did u are amazing and


i recommend u to be a writer


i know u wil be famous some day!!


(maybe beat meg cabot or jaqueline wilson)


lol
Reply:I really enjoyed this! I felt like I was in that classroom with you. Great job!! It is really refreshing to actually have someone post up a piece of writing that is actually good! Grammar, punctuation, spelling, great job!
Reply:An excellent story - finally one that doesn't have that many errors in it! However, you may want to check your comma use, and scraps of grammar. It's really rather good. Send it to Eradicator. www.mreradicator.blogspot.com He'll correct it for you, like a literacy agent.
Reply:So sorry, got too caught up in the story to notice. I think you misspelled a word thru carelessness, just go back and find it, search slowly and it will pop out.





I suspect your teacher will be so entertained, if you are writing this for a grade, that she will just be demanding more, not noticing errors. I myself demand more!! What happened next????





It was a fun read. Thanks!