<HTML><FONT COLOR="#000080" SIZE=3 PTSIZE=9 FAMILY="SCRIPT" FACE="Comic Sans MS" LANG="0"><I>"My Playground"<BR>
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Walking down the hallways, now for the last time in my life, my eyes were teary. I noticed all the cracks in the walls, the old wooden doors, the white, faded-to-grey floor, and the bright exit signs. I made a mental picture of this school, this school where my parents went to high school. I was leaving this school today, as a ninth grader.<BR>
I was walking to the bandroom. The yearbook signing party had just ended. I went to my locker, just to make sure that I hadn't left any belongings. When I entered the bandroom, I saw most of my friends. They were all getting Mr. Johnson to sign their yearbooks. They all wanted a phrase or paragraph to remember him by. I had already had him sign mine once, but I wanted him to sign it again. I can still remember what he wrote. After sitting in a fold-out chair, getting the courage to go up to him, I walked across the dusty floor to where he was. That is, after I got the lump in my throat to disappear. "Mr. Johnson, " I said, "Will you sign mine again?" He looked down at me with his caring, glassy blue eyes and said, "Again? I don't know what to write." I really needed him to sign it again. "Please?" I begged. He sighed with a smile and took the pen from my shaking hand. I walked back across the room to talk with my friends. I watched him from the corner of my eye, careful not to let anyone see. He was deep in thought, for I know he wanted to write something memorable. After what seemed like forever, he closed the book. I went over to him, shyly saying thank you.<BR>
I went to a chair across the room, away from everyone. I could feel his stare as I sat down in the swivel chair. I looked at my yearbook cover, which was black with the months written all over it in metallic colors. Slowly, I opened it and looked for his handwriting. No one writes quite like he does, so it was easy to find. I had to turn the book sideways, and across the bottom it read, "Ms. D- This is my second entry- What to say?? I will miss you when you leave us, but all good things must come to an end." Again, I read it and this time tears slowly rolled down my face. I carefully wiped them away, not wanting anyone to notice. Looking around the room, I see the normal groups of kids laughing and talking loudly. In the front of the room stood his old beat up green chair. The black conductor's stand, cluttered with scores and papers, stood in front of it. To the right were the shelves containing all the books for the general music classes, and the blue and green Kerr's music folders for us. Well, not for me anymore. The entrance, through which I'd never walk again, was beside the shelves. To the left of his music stand was the sink and the windows looking out on Park Avenue. You could hear people outside.<BR>
The ringing of the bell, again, the last bell I'd hear, woke me from my daydreaming. I turned around to see where he was, and he was in his office. He was sitting at his cluttered desk talking to someone. A goodbye I figure. I sat down in a broken black chair. I notice the pictures I drew for him sitting on his desk. The one of him and me, and the one of his son, Alex. Taped on the door was a poem I'd written and the picture I drew in eighth grade. FarSide calendar pages were posted there, and artwork by other students. I felt that lump rise in my throat. I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. He must have noticed I was nervous because he patted my shoulder and said, "What's up, Darn-It?" I smiled. I loved it when he called me that. It was his special little nickname for me. I said quietly, "Thanks for signing my yearbook." He naturally said you're welcome. I stared at my feet, unable to look him in the eye. He knew me, and therefore he knew what I was feeling. He stood up, pulling me with him, and hugged me. He always knew how to make me feel better. The lump in my throat was now the size of a boulder. My eyes were teary again. I notices his smell, a cross between Bay Rum and something else. It was sweet smelling and characteristic of him. My head rested easily under his chin, for he was tall. His bony frame was still comforting. I looked up at him, and saw a long blackish-grey ponytail, glasses, slightly shaggy stubble on his face, and most of all, his deep blue eyes. They always knew what I was thinking. Right then, I was wondering how I was going to be OK without him. Then immediately, he said, "I'll miss you, Emily." I told him I'd miss him too. We were now the only ones in the bandroom, because everyone else was eager to leave when that last bell sounded. "It's time to go, Emily." He gently told me. He walked up to the front of the room to turn off his CD player. On his way back towards me, I stopped him, and said, "You know, I really do love you." He said softly, and lovingly, "I know you do, and I love you, too." And he hugged me. All I could think was when will I see him again? Who will be there for me in high school? Will he forget me? And again, immediately, he said, "I could never forget you, Emily." I only said, "I hope not."<BR>
We walked towards the red back door and he opened it. I looked around the room once more. The last thing I noticed was the bass drum head we had detached when one of our band members died. We all signed it and it was hung on the wall. As I walked down the steps, a song, "This Used To Be My Playground." by Madonna came to mind. The heavy metal door shut, removing the bandroom from my sight, but not from my memory. Or my heart.</I></HTML>
