The Girl In The Blue Dress

Reads: 342  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Short story written for my elementary chapter in my autobiography for my 10th grade honors class.

Submitted: November 28, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 28, 2008

A A A

A A A


My third grade class stood in a straight line. All of us were shaking. Every girl wore a dress and every boy wore khakis. Soon, Mrs. Campbell gave us the order to move forward. My class of twenty kids began marching, like little toy soldiers. Our small feet made a steady, echoing beat on the newly polished gymnasium floor.
It seemed as though every face in the audience beamed down on me and I was forced to smile. I was the leader of my class, the tallest, and the first to step onto the risers. As I stepped up with my left foot, I knew I was shaking too. My weak knees sent signals to my brain; they felt as though they were going to slide out from under me. I stayed strong and within minutes, we were all lined up on the risers. They began to sway and shake beneath my feet, like a palm tree in the eye of a hurricane. Smiles were falsely painted on our fragile faces. I knew every song by heart; I could recite them as well as I could have said my phone number or address.
The microphone was less than two feet from my mouth. That is not what bothered me the most. It was the girl in front of me that had the tears running down her rosy cheeks and splashing to the floor. The slow melodic music began to play, the faint sound of the piano keys striking the bells hidden within its hollow frame. With my head held high and my singing voice ready to break the eerie silence. But the faint sniffles of the crying girl made me pause.  I knew they would only become louder as the song progressed. The choice became clear; do I sing with my class and let her cry? Or should I stick with the crying girl and leave my class?
I did what my heart told me to do. My small hand reached out and took hers. She looked up and gave me a small grin. Her name was Kylie. She wore a bright blue dress and butterfly earrings. I was focused on her until the loud voices of my classmates snapped me out of my daze. “Follow me,” I told her. The music teacher gave us a piercing look and the audience slowly gasped. However, I took Kylie’s hand in my own and lead her towards the gym doors. Every eye was on us as we crossed the floor, her black boots clacking as we walked.
When we made it to the lobby, our teacher was already waiting. We turned to each other and clasped our hands tighter. A bright flash all of the sudden surrounded us. Kylie and I turned around to see a man with a camera that covered his entire face. He lowered it slowly, smiled at us, then abruptly left and disappeared into the cold, winter night. 
It was not until years later, when this night was brought up, and we all looked back and laughed. About seven years ago, Kylie moved to Fertile, and I moved to a new house too, but somehow we both received the blank white envelope in the mail. I remember pulling the envelope out of the mail, no writing, no return address or stamp. Running my thumb along the fold that sealed it so tightly, I uncovered a photograph. It showed the silhouettes of two small girls, their hands joined between them, both in dresses. Soon, I remembered that day again. Every single moment from that night rushed back to me, like water flowing over a waterfall, the images flooded my mind. To this day, no one is aware of whom the picture was from but like so many things in life, it is better left unknown.


© Copyright 2020 mschneider104. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments: