Out of the Closet [Rachel Cohen]

[Jacob Baine H3]

He strongly disliked school. No, he thought to himself, he really strongly disliked school. Hated, even.

Currently, Jacob was stuffed inside a broom closet. Although he had decided that if anyone happened upon him here, he would tell them that he was looking for his broom, but that wasn't completely true. First of all, Jacob didn't exactly own a broom. His mother bought one for him after two years of letters and whines and complaints and assertions that he absolutely needed a broom because he was going to be the next big Quidditch star--- but on one condition. Jacob didn't completely own the broom. His mother had maintained that he had to pay her back before the broom could be truly his. He only owned about ten sickles worth of it.

Squished between cleaning potions and dusty Cleansweeps and desperately trying to think of something other than his situation, he thought to himself that his broom wasn't good at all. His mother had ordered it from a cataloger he had supplied, but being a mother, she had ignored the rudely obvious red circles and dogears on the brooms he wanted. Not only that, but being a Muggle, she didn't know what she was doing. As a result, Jacob had the worst broom on the face of the planet. His mother had said it was fast, but anyone who knew anything about Quidditch knew that Twiggers were better off on fire than on the field. Intensified feelings of teenage exasperation and disappointment flooded him, yet they were far more comfortable than the feelings he was trying to put off.

The only thing that was keeping him there was fear, really. Fear, shame, embarrassment---- a whole host of nasty feelings that made him feel lower than pond scum. As much as Jacob was at loathe to admit it, he had been pushed into the closet by older boys. Apparently, he had been too friendly with a group of older girls (here Jacob sourly remembered that they had paid no attention to him), and so they stuffed him here. Fortunately, they hadn't spelled the door shut, but he didn't want to risk them still being out there. That, and he was enough of a loner without being caught walking out of the closet.

To distract himself from all the innuendos of that particular thought, he said rather loudly, "They're just jealous." It was a lie of course, but it made him feel better.

[Isabelle Leynette R3]

It was always thrilling to receive a letter from either her art teacher or her photography teacher. Both great mentors in different ways. Her art teacher cared about discipline and pushing past your mental block and working with skill rather then talent, though it was important. Her photography teacher let them do their own things. Around his studio he left a lot of challenges, and inspiring pieces. He thought them all to see as if it was a photograph, to carry your camera everywhere. So after a long day of school work, and generally being tired she was pleasantly shocked to find she hadn’t opened the letter she received this morning. At first she thought it was from her mother. This was in the morning, and thinking about it, it looked nothing like her mother’s writing. So Belle dropped her bag by her bed and reached for the white envelope with her name written across the front in large, barely legible writing. It was a guy’s handwriting. She gently broke the seal and scanned the letter. A smile was sitting on her lips after she had finished reading the letter. It was from her photography teacher. He had found a challenge he was sure she would enjoy. She had to take three hundred sixty-five pictures, one per day. It had to be a self-portrait, and it had to be at a different location each time. Each photograph had to be a piece of a puzzle that made her. He suggested she start with things she was either afraid of, or things she disliked. That was easy, she hated flying, and she was terrified of falling. She could only think of one thing, and that was Quidditch, but how was she supposed to take a picture if she was afraid of it and how would she take the picture if she was in the air …

If you have ever had an idea, an idea that you could practically feel the imaginary, clichéd light bulb light up right above your head; then you would know how Belle was feeling as she grabbed her camera bag and tore out of the room going so fast she barely felt anything except her heart racing, and the ever present smile on her lips. Inspiration hit her in many different ways before, but this must have been the most subtle. Just an idea. Walking towards the broom closet seemed to take forever but she finally made it. She tried to open it but it seemed locked. This was ridiculous. Finally with a charm she got the door open. Walking inside she saw something that just plain made her annoyed. “I was trying to get in and you couldn’t open the door for me?” She asked the boy that was inside.