Annie Fishman returns to Keren Or in her last year of eligibility. She is a senior at Bais Yaakov and enjoys writing, drawing, reading, sports, and dance.
PROSE - 2009
Grades 7 - 9
First Place - Baila Elkin
Second Place - Lana Rubinstein
Third Place - Solomon Polansky
Grades 10 - 12
First Place - Annie Fishman
Prose, Grades 10 - 12: First Place
The Boy and the Bicycle - Annie Fishman
The boy pressed his warm, sticky fingers and small button nose up against the glass window. He appeared to be transfixed, staring at something with the deepest admiration and longing. Curious, I walked a couple steps and peered into the store display as well. There, with lights illuminating its sleek red color, sat a bicycle. It was really a rather ordinary bicycle. t had black tires, a red paint job, with white handles and seat. It was the kind of generic bike that every child had owned at one point, and that store owners would put in their window display as a holiday novelty item, as well as a creepy jack-in-the-box and a bright yellow plastic ball. But this boy apparently never had such a bike. My heart broke as I looked at this short, pudgy boy dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt. I walked by, looking on, thinking how sorry I was for this little boy, longing for the thing that sat in many children’s garages, dusty in a corner.
As I approached the front of my house, I hesitated before the garage. Shrugging off my backpack, I walked up to the security pad and punched in digits. The door rolled open revealing its contents slowly and noisily. Impatient, I ducked beneath the door and successfully maneuvered my way around a car, lawnmowers, sleds, rakes, and yes, bikes. Finally, I reached mine in the far corner of our two-car garage. There it was, a midnight blue bike sitting sadly on its side, just as I had left it. Though it was early December, I decided to take her for a ride. I maneuvered the two of us around a car, lawnmowers, sleds, rakes, and even bikes. We eventually made it out. With new energy, I swung my leg around the seat and coaxed the bike forward. I started out shakily and slowly, not having rode my bike in who knows how long, but eventually I gained speed and confidence. I smiled as wind filled my hair and pulled back the skin of my face. I imagined myself looking like a dog with its tongue out the window of a fast car and leaned over with laughter. I felt fast, free, and full of life. It was a short ride, just around the park by my house, but I came back with rosy cheeks and a smile on my face as I happily panted for breath.
I placed the bike carefully in the garage, picked up my backpack from where I had dropped it in my driveway, and tripped into my house. My mother looked startled by my appearance.
“Where were you and what have you been doing, Maya?” she asked.
“Just riding my bike,” I answered, as I hopped over to the bowl of fruit sitting on our kitchen island and took a Clementine.
“In the middle of the winter?” Mothers have a thing for exaggeration. She sighed and muttered, “Whatever makes you happy.”
“You know what else will make me happy? I’ve always wanted to play the piano. Yeah, I think I’m going to start. Oh, and I think I want to learn how to sew.” I hadn’t realized these small desires of mine before they left my mouth, but as they did, I realized they were true. My mother gave another sigh before she disappeared behind the newspaper she had been reading.
My day had made me happy, but also a bit sad as I thought of the boy. I halfheartedly scribbled answers to my homework as I sat cross-legged on my bed. I resolved to walk by the same toy store the next day, absolutely sure that the boy would be there.
The morning crawled by as I went through the motions of sitting in class. I fidgeted as my history teacher lectured, doodled over my French notes, and spaced out as my best friend described to me her most recent haircut malfunction. I had no patience for the things I regularly held near and dear – I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Pre-calculus was my last class and I sat there as my teacher droned on about linear equations. Finally, the bell rang and I was out of my seat. I hurried to my locker, grabbed my books and my coat. I was a girl on a mission.
I exited my school with spring in my step and wind in my hair. I held my messenger bag to my side and my pea coat to my chest as I flew down the steps and into the warm sun and biting temperature. I walked the route that I had yesterday which led me straight through a narrow street filled with bright and cozy shops. As I approached the street, I paused and my heart fluttered slightly. I resolved that I wanted to help the boy get his bike because he had taught me so much. He taught me about dreams, hope and freedom. The boy taught me that you can’t just pass before your dream without a second glance, no matter how the thick the sheet of glass is that separates you from it. I resolved that I wanted to be the one to stand there with my hands and nose pressed up against the glass and dream. It doesn’t matter if other people have your dream – that doesn’t make it any less unique and precious. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. A smile crept its way to my lips as I continued on to the small toy store hidden in its niche between a coffee house and a stationery shop. There was the glass window and there was the display, but the boy and the bike had disappeared.