St. Robert CHS Student News
By Victoria Qiu (9) | STAFF REPORTER
Last day of the semester.
Adelaine rushed through the halls of the Academy, desperately trying to stay calm. With her sleek black hair and round glasses, she had been one of the top students for the past few years and was determined to keep that place. Looping her way through many of her classmates, she finally stopped in front of the large bulletin board. In big, bold letters, sprawled across the top of the wall, read EXAM RESULTS.
Victoria Qiu (9) | STAFF REPORTER
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep…
1 year, 128 days, 18 hours, 36 minutes. At least, that’s what the clock says.
Maggie Huang (9) | STAFF REPORTER
It’s almost 7 pm now, I’m lucky it hasn’t rained yet. I could always tell when it was about to rain; all the sounds would start to sing in a baritone voice. It’s ridiculous how they change the entire mood of a city.
Maggie Huang (9) | STAFF REPORTER
“Follow your dreams,” they said.
“Live your best life,” they said.
Victoria Qiu (9) | STAFF REPORTER
Finally, it’s Friday.
A sigh of relief escapes my lips as the final bell rings. I take my bag, say a hurried goodbye to my teacher, and rush out into the hallways. Not long after, it became a rush of laughter and talking, as more and more people spill out of different classrooms. I grab my jacket from my locker and slam it closed, wishing beyond hope I never need to open it again. I wish.
Ella Ascenzi (9) | STAFF REPORTER
I never believed in ghosts, until I became one myself. I recently passed and I am still getting used to the idea of being dead. It is hard at first because you do not remember how you went. You do not remember what you were doing before the passing, or who you were with. You do not know any of the perks of being a ghost until you find out for yourself. Some of the dead do not end up remembering or have an explanation of how they died. As for myself, I remembered what happened to me after 3 months of being a ghost.
Maggie Huang (9) | STAFF REPORTER
“We are not the same.”
I’m a therapist traumatized by my own childhood. In my experience, people who don’t come from abusive, dysfunctional, or traumatic childhoods don’t even entertain this issue. But to those who are coming for help, I would like to tell you a story. I’ve been telling this story for years. When a breath was taken, I’d begin;
Rachel Yan (11) | STAFF REPORTER
The lever slid back with a soft click. Travis pulled on the handle, guiding the train while it swung to the left. He settled back in his driver’s seat, listening to the bustle of activity in the train cars behind him.
Rachel Yan (11) | STAFF REPORTER
Darkness and brief flashes of light swirl in my vision. With a gasp, I open my eyes. I am leaning against a wall, cold linoleum tile beneath me. I see shadow cloaked walls leading to a door on the left.
Rachel Yan (11) | STAFF REPORTER
“When will mom be back?” Joyce asked, walking into the kitchen. She held out her phone. “She only told me she’s left for the meeting. It’s getting dark out.”