“And the winner is . . .”
Please — not me, not me, not me…
Every other kid in the crowd leaned forward, expectantly. Everyone wanted to win this prize.
Everyone except me.
At my elementary school (way back in the dark ages), we had an annual writing competition for fourth through sixth graders. We had to write an essay on fire safety. The winner — usually a sixth grader — got the honor of being the school’s Junior Fire Chief for the year. This came with a real fire hat, badge, parade, rides on the trucks, hanging out with the firefighters, etc. It was any kid’s dream.
It wasn’t mine. I was the shyest child in the school. To be hauled up on stage in front of everyone would be my worst nightmare. In addition, my best friend had already told me of her overwhelming desire to win the contest. I was more than willing to forgo the honor to keep the peace.
There should have been nothing to fear. It had been many years since a little fourth grader had won this contest. My chances were slim to none. Right? I cringed as the crowd of students jostled and pushed, chattering excitedly. I felt light-headed. Not me, not me, not me.
“And the winner is . . . Karen Dunmire!”
My fourth-grade classmates erupted in screams. I don’t even remember being shoved to the front and walking up the long red staircase. I do remember looking out over our student body and not hearing a word the fireman was saying about me. All I remember thinking is, “I feel sick.”
When I wrote about my writing journey (a while back) I had completely forgotten this incident. My first writing contest. How things have changed. I can look back and laugh. Every time I send off a manuscript, it’s like entering that essay contest all over again. Except now my chant is a little different.
Please, pick me, pick me, pick me!