Melissa C. Walker

“My mind is not a very forgiving place.”

“Maybe we can just park and check out the fields," said Ethan. "It doesn't look like anyone's around."I was sad to leave the playlist behind--I was worried the car was my snow globe and it would shatter without us being in this small space filled with music and sunlight.It turned out, though, that the snow globe was bigger than I'd imagined. We high-stepped through grass that hadn't been mowed all spring, where blue and yellow wildflowers were growing. When we found a shady spot near a lone tree in the middle of the field, Ethan smoothed out some grass and said, "Let's sit.”

“Your kisses make me feel like I'm dancing.”

“When he smiles at me, I feel like I'm sitting under a heat lamp. I live for the times when his fingers brush my leg at lunch, or when we pass in the hallways and he raises his eyebrows at me, like we have a secret. I should feel bad--and I do, most of the time--but how can I stop thinking about him when seeing his face makes me feel so alive?”

“Maybe you're getting into the rhythm of sailing life," says James. He looks out at the waves that are rolling in to lap against the dock. "You know, the tides going in and then out, the wind blowing east and then west, the high of a perfect day out on the water, the low of a thunderstorm or a wind that won't go your way.”

“I just want you to see out there, where it's blue and wild and full of adventure. And then I want you to see in here, where there's a warm yellow glow and your family is making dinner and your mom and dad are dancing and your little sister is hoping that you'll throw a smile her way.”

“It almost felt like we were driving in our own world--like we were inside a snow globe--and there was music and sunlight and smiles and laughter floating in the air. And it was all self-contained in a beautiful bubble filled with glittering water that made things seem a little unreal, a little dream-like and hazy.”

“You can't beat yourself up anymore,' he says. 'And you can't compare your thing to my thing or to anyone else's thing on the how-bad-should-I-feel? scale.”

“He isn't mine to miss,' I say a minute later, after I control the quiver I know would have crept into my voice if I'd responded right away.'No one belongs to anyone, Clem. Especially not when you're sixteen years old.”

“Can anyone ever see the world in any other way but through their own personal lens?”