Young Writers Society

Hilarious! I probably would have been one of the weird theater kids lol. I think my favorite characters were poor Michael Castor and that crying boy with the mascara. Unfortunately some people can’t help but feel very passionately and make a big scene. I first thought that the narrator was another student, but now I think that the narrator is a God, seeing as they can predict the children’s futures.

Good story. Happy New Year!

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm here to leave a quick review!!

First Impression: Ahh this was quite a lovely piece I think. A really fun way to use those same old cliches when it comes to fiction of this category and turn into something unique and hilarious in its own powerful way.

Anyway let's get right to it,

There’s a yellow bus in an empty parking lot on a June morning. Inside, it smells of cheap makeup, mental health problems, and narcissism. Outside, there are bags and ukulele cases being loaded into the bottom. So many ukulele cases. Why are there so many ukulele cases, you ask? I could not tell you, my friend. This is just how it goes.

Ok, you can step inside now. Let’s start walking down the aisle. Look into the seats. This girl at the front is singing at the top of her lungs. She sounds terrible, but her friends keep telling her she sounds beautiful. No, I don’t know why. Stop asking stupid questions. Keep walking. Uh-oh. This boy is crying. There is mascara running down his face. “I just try so hard,” he wails, “but nobody understands me. Nobody!” Oh boy. Condolences to the people who are going to have to deal with him. Keep walking. What’s happening in this seat? Oops. These kids are kissing. Look away. What’s over here? These people are doing some kind of strange ritual where they keep yelling “zip, zap, zop.” Odd. Where have you just entered? A bus to a cult convention? A battle? No, my friend. You have entered somewhere much, much, worse. This is the bus to arts camp.

Alright, you’ve almost made it to the back of the bus. See that boy in the very back seat? He’s wearing round sunglasses like he thinks he’s John Lennon. He’s wearing all black and staring longingly out the window with AirPods in, occasionally turning around to smoothly nod at one of the girls staring at him. Do you see him? That is Logan Ford. He is the most popular boy at this camp. He plays the drums, electric guitar, and keyboard. He spends one-third of his days at camp playing these instruments in various inconvenient places where he is sure to get attention. He spends another third strutting around with his guitar, secretly wishing he had a real-life slow-motion filter to over exaggerate his swagger. The last third of the day is spent with the ladies, who cannot seem to get enough of him. They follow him. They sit on his lap. They flirtatiously ask to play his guitar or hold his drumsticks. They wear his leather jacket (which may or may not be from The Gap). They fight over him.

There is, however, something that he doesn’t want you to know, although based on what I’ve mentioned about our setting, you may be able to figure it out. While he may be the big man on campus, it is possible that he doesn’t have much competition among the other boys, and that the girls here don’t have very many other options. He very well may be the singular only option.

The main thing that Logan doesn’t want you to know is that in a few months, he will return to school, where he will sit alone at lunch every day and hide in the bathroom during gym class. While he does mention to his bullies that Olivia Jackson, who played the lead in “Hello, Dolly” in the second session of camp in 2018, told him that she thinks he is handsomer than Hans from Frozen, they somehow don’t seem to find this too impressive. Don’t feel too bad for him, though. He is going to need some humbling after this summer.

You want to know who that girl is, the one who keeps trying to show Logan videos of her performance in her most recent school musical? Well, my friend, that’s the woman herself, Olivia Jackson. Olivia has been going to this camp every summer since she was eight, has played the leads in the musicals every year, and wants everyone, including you, to know. She would also like you to know that in her tote bag, she has a chart predicting what this year’s musical will be, based on the patterns of the musicals of the last eight years, hints from the directors, among other things, along with a full casting prediction. She thinks she will be playing Velma in Chicago, but little does she know, she will be playing Bird Girl #4 in Seussical. Make sure all the windows are closed around her when she finds out. She has a water bottle filled with lukewarm water. She can’t drink cold water because she says it will freeze her larynx and then she won’t be able to sing. No, that’s not how it works. Don’t tell her.

While Olivia does throw all of her energy and over-achiever genes into theatre, it’s not like she has any choice. As a child, Olivia was thrown into any kind of acting class you could imagine and was told that one day, she would be a Broadway star. Generations of Jacksons had tried and failed miserably, embarrassing themselves in the process, and she would have to improve the family name, or else she would be sent to a baseball game. While Olivia claims to be the most passionate camper here, the truth is that sometimes, all she wants to do is spend her summer at the mall, the pool, or anywhere but here.

Enough about Olivia. Do you see the other back seat? Yes, that one. There sits Isabelle Benson, scribbling furiously in a small black notebook, wearing giant headphones and bright red lipstick. Don’t be caught expressing your taste in anything around her, because whatever it is, hers is superior. She will tell you your clothes are basic, and that she saw three other people wearing those shorts today. How come, she will ask, you listen to ridiculous, common, music such as Taylor Swift? Isabelle only listens to music written before the year 2000. She much prefers listening to music that she proclaims is “underground”. She will also disapprove of your auditioning for the musical and not the play. “It’s not that I’m judging you,” she will say in a tone that would prove otherwise, “but musicals are just a bit…frivolous. I prefer plays. They’re really only my outlet and I feel that they are a more…serious way to express my creative desire.”

Can I trust you? Okay, good. Don’t tell anyone this, but there is a reason Isabelle turns bright red whenever she is asked about her top artists and albums from this past year. Every night, Isabelle hides in her room and blasts Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo, and all the cheesiest possible musicals into her headphones. If she finds out you know, though, she may stab you with her quill pen.

Look over into the front seat, at the boy wearing glasses, a polo shirt, taking a tissue out of a Ziploc bag, and blowing his nose. His name is Michael Castor, and he does not particularly want to be here. Michael loves nothing more than sitting in his room, pouring over textbooks for fun, charting the constellations, or doing anything that would put him at the bottom of any totem pole. He has never sung, danced, painted, acted, or done a jazz square, whatever that is. But the thing is, last summer, Michael was sent home from sports camp halfway through because he kept getting beat up by the other boys and having his books stolen. So Michael’s mom did some research to determine what would be a “safer place” for him to spend the summer and heard from his aunt about where his older cousin, Rebecca, used to go, and now, here he is. To Michael, although the website claimed it to be “the recipe for a spectacular summer,” the only good thing about this place was that he wouldn’t have to swim in a lake.

But I, the all-knowing, have a secret. Tomorrow, a bunch of over-enthusiastic boys from his bunk will convince Michael to audition for the musical, thinking he won’t be competition. But he will open his mouth to sing and they will be shocked to hear “the voice of a god”. And little does anybody know that Michael will play the male lead this summer. And next summer. And the summer after that. And soon, Michael will finally get contact lenses and fall in love with performing. And his mother will never, ever, let him forget that it was her idea.

The last person you will have the pleasure of hearing about today is Riley Williams. She is the one wearing overalls and furiously drawing in a sketchpad, barely looking up. All you have to know about Riley is that the one thing she wants most in the world is to be a famous artist. She devotes every spare moment to drawing. She claims that art is her one and only passion and there is nothing else in the world that makes her happy. Her parents, however, aren’t too keen on the idea of their daughter going into the industry. If you dare start a conversation with her, she will launch into a rehearsed tirade about how her parents can’t comprehend her talent, how they want the best for themselves and not her, and how she is a struggling artist who nobody understands.

There is truth in the fact that Riley’s parents don’t want her to be an artist, but the reason is not that they “can’t comprehend her talent”. The reason is that Riley has no talent. Loving something does not mean you’re good at it, and Riley is a perfect example of this. One time, she drew a man and I thought it was supposed to be a basketball hoop. But Riley is so oblivious to her lack of skill that everybody, including her friends, parents, and teachers, are only trying to protect her. All they want is not to get her hopes up at chances of fame, while not destroying her feelings. Honestly, you’d be better off destroying her atrocious drawings.

Look, the bus is starting to move. I feel the concrete rumbling under the wheels. Do you hear that? The crying has stopped. So has the singing, the zipping, the zopping, and the zapping. Everybody has turned to look out the window, to watch the ugly parking lot slowly fade into the distance. It’s quiet. Enjoy the silence, because it’s going to be a very long summer.