Scholastic Writing Award

The Fat Lady on the Plane
We shake and I gawk at the ripples in the fat lady jiggling next to me. To distract myself from the nausea taking over my stomach, I count them. Three, four, five… The plane shudders and I start over.
The pilots’ voice blares over the loudspeaker apologizing for the turbulence but yet again not giving us any notice on when the frightened babies will stop crying, the ripples on the lady will stop its jiggling, and the tight knot in my stomach will unravel, disentangle and release.
The passengers are locked in their seats. My stomach is locked in my throat. And my diary is locked with a key, sitting in my backpack.
I am breathing faster and faster and some might call it hyperventilating and now I’m hiccupping and now hopelessly I am trying not to let the tears stinging behind my eyes to give in, and stream down my blotchy face. The obnoxious seemingly five year old boy that is sitting behind me smirks, and even though I shouldn’t feel embarrassed because it seems like it would be embarrassing to just be him with his Pokémon cards and his extreme gelled up hair, my cheeks burn red and my stomach gives another lurch.
I haul out the baby blue diary with the big smiling cat on the front and search for the key, my fingers running along the crumbs and paper shreds on the bottom of my backpack until they reach a cool, hard metal. I pull it out and thrust the key into the tiny lock, looking around to make sure no-one is spying on me and my secret diary. The twenty year old lady sitting beside mom looks suspicious; however I need to release these thoughts that are smothering my mind and pour them out onto my paper, so I don’t have time for her. I shield my diary from her and every other busybody on the plane so only I can see it.
My hasty fifth grader handwriting independently scrawls across the sharp lines.
What happens if the plane crashes and we all fall and die and I never see mom or abba or Sam or Isaiah ever again even though I don’t like Sam or Isaiah. And what about that boy sitting behind me flying alone, even though he’s mean and he laughed at me I think his mom and dad would miss him. I’m scared. We are shaking more, diary. I’m really scared.
I lunge forward and the familiar taste of vomit stings the back of my throat. My stomach acid and the rubbery sandwich I devoured earlier on the plane are no longer in my stomach but unpleasantly settled on my lap and on the fat lady’s leg next to me; sickening both me and her. My tears and mucus are running together, drizzling down my cheeks and chin. Mom flings tissue after tissue to me, mopping up my eyes and nose and mouth.
It’s all going to be okay Ella. We are going to be fine. Almost home honey. Almost there.

K so thats what im enterin' for the Personal Memoir category
lemme know if you think its dope or not
thanks
jock