Spark A Story: Twenty Short Stories by American Teens

Copyright © 2017 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

www.hmhco.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-328-88197-7

eISBN 978-1-328-93339-3

v1.0517

Cover design by Jackie Shepherd

Cover illustration © Kate Edwards/Getty Images

A Sixth Sense copyright © 2017 by Tal Bajaroff

Undoing Reality copyright © 2017 by Kayla Bernhoester

The Gene copyright © 2017 by Jaryn Blair

Silent Words copyright © 2017 by Niki Borghei

The Sickle copyright © 2017 by Carlo Di Bernardo

The Unfortunate Tale of Sam Withersby copyright © 2017 by Kyla Duhart

Dream World copyright © 2017 by Adelle Else

Noli Me Tangere copyright © 2017 by Bethany Hall

Only a Fool Would copyright © 2017 by Aamna Haq

Of Metaphors, Monsters, and Wild Thoughts copyright © 2017 by Annie Hoang

Arasing copyright © 2017 by Morgan Levine

All Westbound Trains copyright © 2017 by Simon Liu

A Portrait of the Artist as a Teenage Girl copyright © 2017 by Aela Morris

The Cabin copyright © 2017 by Rushalee Nirodi

Etiam Doloris copyright © 2017 by Joshua Peck

Squish copyright © 2017 by Hannah Perry

Black and White copyright © 2017 by Victoria Richardson

The Letters copyright © 2017 by Destiny Trinh

Sunday copyright © 2017 by Grace Twomey

The Flood copyright © 2017 by Amelia Van Donsel

Introduction

FOR OVER A HUNDRED YEARS Houghton Mifflin Harcourt has published annual editions of The Best American Short Stories, a collection culled from a wide range of publications, in a two-step process. First, a series editor—in recent years, Heidi Pitlor—reads everything she can get her hands on, and picks about one hundred contenders. She removes the author names and any other identifying information and sends them to a guest editor (a different, well-known writer each year), who makes a final selection of twenty-odd choices. These collections have been so successful for so long that they have inspired a number of parallel volumes: The Best American Essays, The Best American Sports Writing, The Best American Comics, et al.

At the same time, through the decades, HMH has been a leading publisher of preschool and elementary- and secondary-school educational materials. So it may come as a surprise that we have only now come up with a simple idea: Could we take our experience with the Best American series and combine it with our contacts at every high school in the country, in order to inspire students to enter a short story competition?

Here’s how it worked:

The competition was open to all high school students in the United States.

Hundreds of entries were read independently by three HMH judges, after author names and identifying information were removed.

Entries were judged on creativity, originality, and overall quality of writing.

The fifty strongest entries were presented to our team of fiction editors to make a final selection of the top twenty.

This team comprised ten men and women who read fiction submissions for a living, and who have helped HMH publish award-winning and beloved novels and story collections for many years. They really enjoyed the chance to read these young writers’ efforts. Speaking as one member, I can report that it was refreshing to have the chance to peer inside the minds of younger, developing writers, young men and women who might not yet have mastered all aspects of their craft but were experimenting with voice, character, and world building.

There were a certain number of realistic coming-of-age stories—no surprise there—but there were a large number of science fiction and crime stories, too, and even some horror stories (though not so many that we worried about the psychological state of America’s youth).

The winning entries have been copyedited for style and usage, and (as with any of our Best American collections) they vary widely in subject, tone, and setting. Collectively, they give us reasons to be hopeful about the next generation of American writers and storytellers. Here are twenty creative young minds at work, at least some of whom will surely go on to write full-length novels and perhaps screenplays, too. Enjoy.

Bruce Nichols, publisher

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

TAL BAJAROFF

A Sixth Sense

IT SMELLED OF DAMP SOCKS. I usually enjoy the smell, but today something was off. The surrounding atmosphere seemed to close in on me. I snuggled further into my bed. The smell was pungent. What was about to happen? The last time I experienced this was too long ago for me to remember the outcome. My roommate called me from across the house. Excited to see her, I quickly jumped out of bed and sprinted to her. All sorts of questions started swirling in my head: What time is it? What are we going to eat? Are we going to go for a run? Is that new?

But then I remembered that’s not what I really wanted to know. I glanced over only to find a darkening sky. Was it already night? My roommate had no answers for my questions. She just looked at me and smiled.

After we finished the season finale of our favorite show, there was a flash of light followed by a booming sound that resonated within the house. This raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

I leaped from the couch and ran to the window only to find it was raining. Of course! A storm! I should have known. As I trotted back to the couch to inform my roommate about the downpour, someone rang the doorbell. This diverted my attention away from the storm. My roommate and I proceeded to the door. More questions arose in my head: Who’s at the door? Will we be going on that run? What’s that smell? Who’s at the door?

Once again I regained my focus. A tall, lanky figure walked through the door and greeted my roommate with a warm embrace, pushing me aside. They briskly walked out the door, leaving me behind.

A few hours passed. The storm had died down and I could hear the clattering of keys opening the apartment door. She’s back! I rushed to greet my roommate. She bent down to pet me. I’m sorry, Duke, she said. My tail began to wag as she reached for the leash. As the rain ceased to fall, we stepped out onto the paved sidewalk and finally went on the run to the dog park that I had been dreaming about all day.

KAYLA BERNHOESTER

Undoing Reality

IN EVERY DIRECTION there was nothing but sand. I was alone. I squinted up at the sun; its harsh rays pierced my pale skin through the cloudless sky. It was completely silent. The sand, oddly enough, didn’t burn my bare feet. In fact, it almost felt cold. I felt a wave of heat roll through my entire body, immediately followed by a stronger wave of ice as my heart forced its way into my throat and made it difficult to breathe. I covered my eyes and screamed as loudly as I possibly could in an attempt to allow myself to breathe again. Even after I ran out of breath, my anxiety continued to grow. I ran my hands through my hair, squeezing my eyelids together. I was completely lost in a foreign place with no memory of why I was there and no clue how I would get home.

Home . . . Do I even know where home is?

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I uncovered my eyes and saw glossy marbled water that danced with the sun on the concrete walls. My feet were dipped in the cool water, and the warm sun was beating down on my shoulders.

Jessica! I know the water’s cold, but that’s really no reason to shout, my mother’s voice playfully scolded behind me. I turned myself around to see her holding a tray with three tall glasses that had a pale yellow liquid in them, in the hand she didn’t have resting on my tense shoulder.

I was gardening when I saw the lemons were ripe, so I thought I’d make us some lemonade. She grinned, taking a glass and holding it out to me.

I smiled down at the pale liquid, watching the translucent flowers bob up and down. I smiled at the thought of my five-foot-two-inch mother climbing the ten-foot tree to gather lemons. Though, this wasn’t really surprising. She loved to do anything she possibly could to make me happy.

This included giving me little pointless things like flower-shaped ice cube trays. She loved to laugh with me about her silly impulse buys. I think that was the reason she bought that stuff: to see me smile. I could feel her looking at me as she admired my reaction to the flower-shaped ice cubes.

Aren’t they so cute? my mother cheesed.

I smiled like I was listening, but I was completely lost in thought. Even though the event had passed, I debated telling my mother what I’d really been screaming about, but I didn’t want to risk her thinking I was losing my mind over something so silly. Besides, I probably had just fallen asleep in the sun. It was very relaxing, after all. The smell of chlorine was emitting from the pool, and the breeze provided a beautiful relief from the sun that steadily grew hotter as the day aged. I could smell the hundreds of flowers that were clumped in my mom’s garden, and I heard the gentle humming of fat, fuzzy bumblebees as they stuck their faces into the center of each grouping of petals.

I glanced over at my mother, who had seated herself in the beach chair she used specifically for the pool. People always said we looked alike, and I always took this as a compliment. A large pair of sunglasses currently covered her kind, blue eyes, and her dirty-blond hair was contained by one of those giant monster-toothed hairclips she loved to wear in the summer. Her two-piece dark-blue swimsuit exposed only a few inches of her stomach, though if she wanted to she could have pulled off a more exposing suit. Despite being forty-five, she still retained a thin, delicate figure. She was holding a book in her hand, and the tray with the two remaining lemonades sat on the small plastic table next to her.

I grinned when I saw she still had the black-and-purple yarn friendship bracelet I had made for her in the third grade tied around her wrist. This shouldn’t have come as a shock; she still had my sloppy hand-turkeys from kindergarten hanging in the family room.

I dipped my feet deeper into the water so it dampened just the bottom of my rolled-up jeans, staring at the strange angles that the optical illusion of moving water created.

Is that third glass of lemonade for Dad? I asked, still staring at my feet.

What third glass? I heard my mother ask, honest confusion in her voice.

I turned to see my mom set the glass she was just drinking out of back onto an otherwise empty tray.

That’s weird . . . I’m sure I saw three glasses . . .

Oh, never mind. I paused. When does Dad get off work?

He actually just called about an hour ago and told me he picked up another shift, so he’ll be a few hours late. He also said something about a science project you needed help with. He said he’d be home as soon as he could, but to get a head start on it.

I sighed, the memory of my science project sticking in my conscience. Self-loathing boiled in my stomach as I harassed myself for procrastinating on something worth so many points. I stood up and began walking toward the glass screen door that led inside from the patio, when it suddenly disappeared.

Actually, everything disappeared.

The only thing left was a solid white color. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. My head felt like it was going to explode and a queasy feeling began to spread along the lining of my stomach. Calm, muffled voices were interrupted by high-pitched screeching noises, which seemed to excite the voices dramatically. Blurry shadows began to move across my vision, and a dark shadow grew larger directly to my left. A deep, mature voice seemed to come out of it. I strained to listen.

He talked for what felt like hours, but I could only understand the last five words he said:

Come back to me, Jess.

Dad? I gasped, but it was too late. Just as quickly as it began, it was over.

I was staring directly into a mirror. Sinks were lined side-by-side along the entire wall, but only the one in front of me had the water on. A pile of foam was cupped into my right hand, and all of the stalls behind me had the doors cracked open. I cautiously lowered my hands into the sink and washed them off, continuously glancing into the mirror. I cupped my hands in the cold water and splashed the cold liquid on my face. I sighed and shut my eyes.

"I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy. Okay, how did I get here?"

But for some reason I already knew the answer. I vividly remembered walking into the restaurant with my mother. She had a red dress on that nicely complemented her freshly tanned skin. She had told the pale waiter she wanted a table for two, and he asked if a booth would suit us, in a thick Russian accent. My mother told him that would be fine, so he walked us to our table. When I sat down, I could feel that the faux leather seat was cold through my black leggings, and I decided to put on the hoodie I had carried in with me. The waiter, who introduced himself as Lucas, gave us our menus and told us he’d bring us some waters. He then left us alone to decide what food we would like to order. After a short time of discussion, we’d decided to share a lobster as a special treat. Lucas returned with the two waters, and my mother told him what we wanted. He nodded and returned to the kitchen to bring us the lobster. I decided that I’d wash my hands while he was gone, so I excused myself to the bathroom. That’s how I had gotten there.

So why do I also remember simply appearing here? What was that white vision I had? Was that real, or is this real? How could I have two different memories leading to the same scenario?

I pulled a paper towel out of the wall-mounted dispenser and dried my hands and face, readying myself to go back out to my mother.

I walked over to the table, and it was exactly how I had remembered it. My mother was still in her red dress, and the booth still felt cold when I sat down.

Are you okay? You seem upset, my mother prodded, her eyebrows raised with worry.

Yeah, I guess, I began to say, denying anything strange had even happened. Or maybe not. I don’t know.

What’s going on?

I paused.

Well, I started to say, but then I stopped. It’s probably nothing.

My mom pursed her lips like she always does when she’s putting a lot