“You mean ‘chill out’. No. I mean ‘be more chill. As per rap slash hip-hop.” This quote describes Jeremy Heere’s problem – he wants to be “Cool”. He is not. Be More Chill by Ned Vizzini describes the unspoken struggle of teenagers to be “Cool’.
The main character of Be More Chill is Jeremy Heere. Jeremy is a highschooler who is desperate for social attention and girls. The author has done a great job in creating a real teenager with real, raw emotions. He shows the sheer wants of a highschooler and how they view the world. All in all, he is so real that the reader feels what he would have felt.

The plot revolves around the “squip”. The squip is an ingestible supercomputer with all the information one needs. Jeremy purchases a squip, hoping to become “Cool”. This pulls the reader into the story on the “what if?” factor. People like to imagine what it would be like to be in the place of the main character. In this case, the reader thinks about what it would be like to be able to know everything, and get almost anything he ior she wants.

The theme of this story is based off of the idea of repercussions. There are always adverse reactions to any action performed. In this case, the adverse reaction of the pill is that he takes drugs and makes bad choices. He discovers that life is not just about the material things.

In conclusion, Ned Vizzini has created a pop culture masterpiece in his book, Be More Chill. Being a teenager is hard, and add to that a bad influence, and you get the interesting tale of Jeremy Heere. This thought-provoking story should be read by 8^th graders all around. I give it 4 stars out of 5.
 

10,000 feet and dropping. 9,500. 9,000. The altimeter is whirling now, spinning so fast I can’t discern my height. The sparkling ice is rushing up to meet me rapidly. If only I had listened.

“No, you can”t make it!” the critics told me. “You won’t be able to cross the ice cap, not in that tin can!” The tin can. I suppose the 1 seater pusher-prop kit plane I built is somewhat of a tin can; but it is tried and tested. Many a hard flight we have been through. Dust and rain, extreme heat and extreme cold. Then again, it can barely get itself in the air, let alone that and 75 kilos of pilot, as well as supplies.

“I’ll be fine!” I had arrogantly insisted with them. “what can go wrong?” Oh, was I in for a surprise. Dropping like a stone, the plane starts to spin into a stall. I can’t simply glide down. It seems that fate wants me to die screaming. The spinning pushes blood to my head. I keep blacking out; swirling in and out of consciousness. I need to stay awake. Unconscious people don’t do well in falling planes.

Falling still, I have an epiphany. It’s ice! I’ll go right through! If the crash doesn’t kill me, the hypothermia brought on by the near-freezing water should. At this point, even my parachute can’t save me. Jumping out of the plane when spinning would just send me flying at near terminal velocity across the ice, until I either fall off or hit something. It’s like a game show: Choose Your Death! you can A: crash the plane, B: Drown, C: Freeze to death, or D: slide to your end! So exciting! I think I’m going to go with D. Even If my parachute doesn’t deploy, it should be quick. Should be. Then again, things don’t seem to be going exactly my way today.

Around 1500 feet, I punch out the windshield. WHOOSH! I am immediately and violently thrown out of the cockpit with such great force that I feel my ribs strain. There is no air left in my lungs, and at this speed, I can barely inhale. The wind buffets me like a fall leaf as I plunge earthward. The altimeter watch I’m wearing seems to have the same affliction as the one in the plane; I can’t read it. As I slip away from the throngs of awareness, it is all I can do to to pull my chute. the corners of my vision are curling and fading; hopefully I will live to open them once again.

Pain. Just pain. I can’t be dead. Dead people don’t feel pain. I think. If this is what being dead is like, then being dead sucks. Ha ha. Ouch. Laughing is not a good idea. I should try and get up before the ice gives me frostbite. Sit up. SIT UP. My body is taking a long time to execute my commands. I hope there’s no brain damage. No amnesia, though. Damage assessment. Nothing broken, at least I don’t think so. If there is, the body’s natural painkillers are numbing it. There’s nothing that stands out, really; I just ache all over. Nothing serious, just bruising. Anything that is serious won’t show up for a while.

Now comes the tricky task of getting up. if there is any spinal injury, I won’t know until I get up. Well, If I am injured and get up I’ll die, but if I’m not and I get up, I’ll freeze. I think I’ll take that risk. I haul myself up and start dragging the torn, dirty parachute off of myself. It seems to have wrapped itself around me. If it hadn’t, I might have sustained more serious injuries; then again, I could have fallen in the water and been dragged down. In some places the ice is so thin one step could send one plunging to his death.

I may have not anticipated such a disaster, but I was at least somewhat prepared. I have a suit designed to keep me warm, even in these harsh conditions. I had food, a gun, a radio, and a GPS in the plane. but all that is gone now. With the rate the plane and I were going, it could be miles away in any direction. In addition to the fact that the automatic distress beacon set off my a plane crash won’t be much use under 1500 feet of water.

The best thing for me now will be to make shelter. It may be torn and ruined, but the parachute is not useless. I can use it to protect myself from having to have direct contact with the ice, as well as putting it over myself during the night to trap body heat. As night approaches, I reminisce about what went wrong. The weather wasn’t perfect, but not dangerously bad. Light snow, moderate winds. Leaving in the morning allowed me ample time to get to the Pole. As the arctic sun sinks below the horizon, I have to try to keep my body warm. Deep breaths in the nose and out the mouth. Even in the bitter cold, wrapped in the canvas parachute, I am still taken over by the slow envelope of darkness as I drift into sleep.

Waking up in the morning is a rough ordeal. my bruises from the previous day are still fresh and are renewed by the hard pack ice I have been sleeping on. Breathing in the chilled morning air is painful but refreshing. Yet again I have to haul myself into a sitting position to assess what I have to do through the day. Judging by where I was when the plane went down, I am far, far away from the shore of Greenland. Even then what direction would I go?

Because I know the sun rises in the east, I know that I have to travel in that direction. No landmarks here to help me find my way.  Hopefully that will bring me back to civilization.  As I begin to trudge through the light dusting of snow, I realize to some extent how little I really was prepared. Besides my water-repellent suit, which I have sloughed off, I am just wearing a fleece coat, snow pants, and a pair of damp boots. I dearly need my toes; I hope the water doesn’t give me frostbite of some sort. Even then, better safe than sorry. I pull off the wet socks and throw them into the parachute I am dragging, along with the suit.

As the day drags on, a thirst I have had for hours slowly grows stronger. One can only live for so long without food, and barely at all without water. I have to break a chunk of ice to melt. Luckily, one of the few survival items I did bring was my knife. A trusty, shiny, sharp piece of steel with a tough hickory handle wrapped in leather. Chipping ice off the top seems to work. Later on, I feel a slight twinge. Ignoring it, I keep shuffling through the snow. The twinge I experienced earlier has now grown into a full-fledged nauseous ache.

I fall to my knees, overtaken by the pain. Retching because I haven’t eaten enough to vomit, all that comes up is the water from my drink. That’s when I realize: the water on top can’t be safe. Any and every bit of wildlife in this area lives and treads here. that’s similar to licking the bottom of a polar bear’s foot. I make a mental note: New Priority: Get clean water. but where?

Using the knife as a scraper, I clear off an area to use for water. Slowly but surely, I carve away the “dirty” ice, leaving a pristine patch for water. It seems that digging my knife away and making ice chips helps it melt more quickly, in an effort  to get as much water as possible. After what seems like hours, I have melted just enough ice to somewhat up. The sun is setting now, creating more work for me. I have to settle down before nightfall. After laying down the parachute, I lay down and close my eyes. Before sleep claims me, I think about what I might miss.  My brother and sister; nieces and nephews; I have no family of my own. What are the thinking? About me? What of my funeral?

In the night, I encounter a serious problem. Getting up to answer nature’s call could be dangerous. in the pitch blackness of arctic night, I feel around for the edge of the parachute. This is the only area I know is safe: there could be any number of things past that invisible edge. After finishing the deed just to the edge of the parachute, I crawl back in for another restless night of tossing and turning on the ice. Eventually, the exhaustion takes over and I almost pass out.

The next morning I have a near-death experience. While chipping ice for water, I hear a huge, deep crunching sound, like a freight train running into a wall. I feel the ground shift and collapse. There is water coming up from underneath me. There is nothing that could make me want to run more. dragging a 20 kilo parachute behind me, I run as fast as physically possible for a man of my age and fitness. the parachute is skipping across the icy sheet of water as I sprint for safer ground. My foot stops. My torso plunges forward, catapulting me me head-over-heels into a drift of snow.

And just as suddenly as it started, the thunderous cracking stops. Chest heaving, I roll over onto my back and I nearly pass out. A few minutes later, I sit up and observe what as happened. There are huge floating islands of ice, separated by the icy water that would kill me in minutes. I observe my socks floating on the current away from me. Damn.

      Half a century ago we thought discrimination was acceptable. Our nation was fine with the belief that white and black children shouldn’t be taught in the same schools. Less than 50 years ago we said they couldn’t marry. The Supreme Court overruled this, stating that “separate is not equal”. Now here 50 years later we have come to a similar crossroads: should gays be allowed to “marry”? Those who say no say that they should have the same rights, just they can’t use the word marriage. But then that is separate. And as we already know, that cannot be equal. Our country was founded on the belief of equality for all; and now we have voted against that. One of the main purposes of the government is to protect the rights of the minority from the overpowering majority. What has possessed us to remove the rights of the minority? In the 1960’s black people were the minority. We know that they get the same rights; they are human beings. Are we now going to say that gays are not human? Do they function differently? Are they a disruption to peaceful society? I think not. We have had more trouble from cultists and evangelicals than homosexuals. Should we take away their rights too, then?

    The bible says that marriage is between a man and a woman, but the bible has no power over our country. The first amendment to the U.S. Constitution says that we may practice any religion and that the government has no involvement with the church. Banning gay marriage is based on the fact that the bible says that marriage is between a man and a woman. The bible does not have the authority in this country to define marriage. In addition, marriage is not a solely Christian idea. Muslims marry. Buddhists marry. Atheists marry. Yet another reason that we cannot use the bible definition in our national law. 

    Many say that the definition of marriage is a union between a man and a woman. They say that cannot be changed. Just wondering, when did Webster’s dictionary become a government document? Anyone can print a dictionary: the government could use any definition of marriage. Marriage is a word. You cannot reserve a word for one group; in this case heterosexuals. We do not call white people white and black people black all the time; we are all people. We all hold jobs. We work together, eat together, go to school together. In this great nation of tolerance, what has compelled us to be intolerant to a different group?

    Supporters of Proposition 8 belive that this is not a matter of discrimination; they say it is a matter of choice. I think that sexuality is not a choice: it is ingrained in the depths of our conciousness from the day we are born. Homosexuals do not say, “I want to be gay.” They realize it but it has always been there. There are different levels of femininity in males, and different levels of masculinity in females. Those who are homosexual have more of the opposite, and vice versa for heterosexuals. Just as race is, sexuality is not a choice or a state of mind; it is a state of being. 

    This is discrimination in its purest form. In the founding documents of our country it says that we must treat all equally; and we are not treating our nation’s people equally by taking away their right? All people have the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. If someone pursues happiness in marrying another and is restricted from this, is this not directly unconstitutional? We have struck down slavery, segregation, and persecution. But now we have struck down a fundamental right; the right to marriage. What’s next? Free speech? Freedom of expression? Freedom of the press? Removing the right to marriage as we want it is just the beginning of a long and steep slope to a grim end of peace and harmony in our country. We say our country was the first place to have perfect freedom; are we going to be the first to kill it off, too?

“Did you kill someone?” The question is much too common. As always, our veterans will sigh and look away; their hearts know the truth. They vividly remember the pain and suffering of their friends and allies, whether they were in Iwo Jima or Germany; Vietnam or the Middle East. They easily recall the times when they missed their homeland, their families, what gave them the power to stay in the name of liberty. They gave their all for their country; their life, family, even their sanity. Is one day in their honor sufficient?

Before, I didn’t have much empathy for veterans, until they became a part of my life. My cousin Sean served a four year tour with the Marine Corps, protecting al Taquaddum Airbase in Fallujah. In our minds was permanently the Marines motto: Semper Fidelis. Always faithful. We placed a yellow ribbon around our tree in his support, and like that ribbon, we were always faithful, hoping for his safe return. We didn’t receive much information about him: one call in six months, a welcome surprise. He said he was fine, but we could tell it wasn’t so. When he arrived back, his features were unchanged, but beneath that façade were mental scars; he was shaken like a dog that had been abused.

We celebrated Sean’s safe passage and talked to him about his experience in the Iraq. He talked to his serviceman friends about life, but death was a topic not to be discussed. An attempt to speak about killing would yield no response. I saw this in Sean’s photos. Each picture encompassed sadness or death in some way, whether it be a corpse or a burning building. That was a home for someone. Death is not something to be taken lightly.

Every veteran is someone’s child. They have a mother and a father, people who care about them. Many have children who haven’t known a parent for most of their life. There are almost as many who are mourned by their parents, spouses and children. Those children will never know a father or sometimes a mother. Veterans are people just like us. They have chosen a different cause to volunteer for. They give not only their time: they are willing to give their lives, their sanity, for the principle called freedom. This freedom and the sacrifice it entails are the reasons we honor our country’s veterans.

This quarter I read three very interesting books, all from the Artemis Fowl series, by Eoin Colfer. First, I read The Eternity Code. In this book, the young criminal mastermind and main character, Artemis Fowl, creates a mini supercomputer from fairy (yes, fairy) technology. He proceeds to get it stolen, and enlists the help of a fairy swat team to get it back. I enjoyed this book very much, albeit having the fairies. The next book in the series i read is called The Opal Deception. In this book, Artemis has a mental and physical battle with a fairy called Opal Koboi. She steals a famous painting, traps him in a troll-infested cave, and almost kills him. In the end, however, he wins, dooming her to a fate as a poor human. The third and final book I read in the series was called The Lost Colony. In this last story, Artemis figures out how to get access to a demon from a “4^th dimension”. He has a monstrous fight over said demon with a rival genius. Of course, being the good guy, he wins, and “mind-wipes” the rival. Overall, I very much enjoyed this series, and would recommend it to anyone who likes sci-fi reading.

“What?! We’re not going?!” I sputter, my face livid. “Why not?!”

“Gotcha!” laughs my dad. “We’re driving up in 20 minutes.”

“Yess!” We are going to the famed Table Mountain, in the Cape of Good Hope on the tip of Africa. I have only been there once before, when I was 7; a beautiful place where you can see all of Cape town and the surrounding area.

In what feels like 30 seconds, we are on our way. Driving past the dirty little town of Vishoek. It is our last day here, we fly back tonight. But I put that into the back of my mind as I excite myself about this experience. After about half an hour, we finally arrive at the base of the mountain. From here we can see the small blue cable cars, dangling on what seems like a piece of fishing line, from the top of the mountain.

Inside, we are stuck in the line for what feels like hours, waiting to buy our tickets. Walking into the station, there is one of the old cable cars, battered and beaten, painted a flat red color.

“Man, imagine going up in that, hey?” I say to my dad and Alastair.

“Yah, a rickety little thing that is.”

Coming down the thick threaded steel cable is one of the new, advanced cable cars. It holds around 30 people, and it is one of 4 in the world which have a revolving floor. Because of this, when ascending you can see all around. Clambering into the car, we are excited and all smiles. We thought we werent going to be able to come; my sister has pinkeye and we had to pack the stuff.

The cable car is hot and humid, but we don’t really care. As it ascends, we can see a larger and better view of the city below. We can see the waterfront, the beaches, and Robben Island, the South Africa equivalent of Alcatraz. The car is slowly rotating and our view is slowly changes. We can see CAmps Bay, the beach where we were the day before. We can see the Lion’s Head, a peak nearby. AS we near the upper station, we can see the Devil’s Peak. I am exalted as We step out onto the dirt and rocks of Table Mountain.

It is a clear day, perfect for taking pictures. my camera is endlessly clicking as we walk the path. My dad shows me the different places in the city. He also pionts out where his mother’s ashes were scattered. I ame in awe, mouth hanging open, at this beautiful green rocky mountain. We walk the edge or a great forge, which from far away just looks like a nick in the side of the mountain.  as we come around the back of the walkable path, I scoop up a rock and a little bit of dirt. A small souveneir from a huge place.

Coming back down the cable car, I reminisce about my amazing experience here and the rest of my experience here in South Africa. I have a feeling of great joy for this trip, but with it comes a great sadness that it is over.

Aaaah! Sharks! Swimming all around us, the smell of blood in the water, ready to attack! Alastair, Dad, cousin Chad, cousin Kayla, and I are on a shark cage diving boat on a hot summer day in the middle of December. Grandpa, Dad’s dad, has a friend (he is friends with everyone here in Gansbaai) who owns a famous shark cage diving venue.

We are in Gansbaai, in the beautiful southern Cape on the tip of Africa, a place of deep blue water and rolling green hills, home to the one and only Great White Shark. In the waters of the bay swim these denizens of the sea, these lions of the water, who circle the boat, hoping for a scrap of fish to be thrown off. Our eyes grow wide as we watch one pull on a bloody sack of fish- it tears! The great beast is an amazing predator. The first group slowly clambers into the cage.

“Hey Dad,” I call, “shall we go in?”

“No, let’s wait till next time.”

As the first group settles into the cage, a small shark appears from underneath the cage! It glares at the divers with eyes gleaming with hate, hoping dearly for meat. The people in the cage shiver as it swims by.

Splash! everyone on the boat turns, eyes boggling as they see that another shark has raced into the area and ripped the bag of bait from the boat with its muscular jaws. There is a collective gasp from the crowd as it tears apart the fish inside. I hope that we won’t miss any action because of this.

Finally, the wait is over.

“Excited?” asks my dad.

“Who wouldn’t be?” I reply, ecstatic.

To go into the cage, we are helped by weights so that we can sink when we need to. We do not use air tanks, ridding us of the problem of training; we simply put our heads under when a shark approaches. Brr! the bay waters are freezing, quite different to the warm outside air. I can’t belive I am really here, in a cage off the coast of Africa, observing sharks in their natural habitat. This is quite different from an aquarium: there, we are comfortable and they are inclosed, here, it is vice versa.

The sharks from earlier have left; we are alone in the water. Just us and the little fishies that are the dinner of bigger fishies, and so on and on. At the top are the reeeeally big fishies: the sharks. And right on cue, one arrives.

“Down!” yells the instructor as he sees the shark.

Through the cloudy water, all you can see is the shadow, but then, suddenly, it appears! The gnarled, pointed head of the animal breaks through the underwater grime and gnashes its frightening teeth at us; we hope that the cage is safe. As this first encounter ends, we are elated and sad. Happy that it is over, sad that we won’t see this beautiful work of art again. As we get tired, our wrinkled hands slip on the bars of the cage that is holding us up. Waiting for what feels like hours, we see shadows.

“Down!”

Frightening but rejuvenating, we see another great predator, amazing hunter, graceful murderer. A new shark comes to feed on the great feast provided by us humans. Yet again, another jagged silhouette coming towards us through the cloudy water, ready to strike at any moment.

“Gasp!” I suck in a gulp of icy water into my lungs as I see the dark jagged shape pass towards us, the sharp, yellow double rows of teeth ready to snap and tear at the flesh of it’s prey. Needs unfulfilled, the beast swims away hungry.

Tired but happy, we clamber out of the steel cage that has enclosed us for twenty to thirty minutes. We shiver as the cool breeze flows over our wet suits. As Chad and I sit on top of the boat, we talk.

“Hey, that was wicked!” Chad exclaims.

“Yah. You should have come in the cage!”

“Nooooo, that’s not for me!”

“Fine then, your loss!”

I enjoyed this, but i am happy and tired when it is over.

All alone, I carefully trod my way, barefoot, down the jagged, dirty, broken crags of rocks to the deep teal pool. It has an odor like the ocean: salty but clean. In the shadows hide the small rock dragons and other creatures of the water’s edge.

I dip my feet into the frigid water and shiver as the cold travels from my toes to my arms. I slowly lower myself into the icy cold pool. I breathe deeply as the chilly sea breeze fills my lungs, I feel a little warmer inside. Funny how the cold air still can keep you toasty.

As I climb onto the rocks on the far side of the pool, I see a whale splashing far out in the bay. I bet I could swim out to it if not for sharks. Sharks! The denizens of the waters in our peaceful bay, who kill to live and live to kill. Then again, I think I’ll just stay here. I can see the khaki tan beaches and deep green hills of Gansbaai and Cape Town, all from my small rocky perch overlooking the blue rock pool. I wonder if there is someone on those rolling green hills, looking back and wondering about me.

I dive back in to the cold water; I can feel soft, smooth seaweed brushing my legs as I skim on the bottom of the deep salty pool. I come up with a handful of the fine, dark bottom sand. It is a powdery texture, like you could make a cake with it. Yum.

I clamber back onto the land side of the shore, shaking, freezing, and dripping wet. I haul my tired body onto the crags and outcroppings and feel the hot afternoon sun bake me dry. When I am warm and comfortable again, I look towards where I came. What if I fall? If a kid falls into the ocean but no one is there to hear him yell, does he make a sound?

I put that scary thought back away in my mind and forget. I still have to get back to the shore. The sheer drop makes my stomach lurch like a roller coaster, but I dive in again. As the cool water cleans the sand off my feet, I think about the adrenaline rush of this experience and etch it into the back of my thoughts forever. Should I tell Grandpa and June? Or just leave it for myself, a cherished memory for me and me alone? Or publish it to the world?

I think I’ll take the latter.

Gathering Blue, by Lois Lowry, is about a crippled girl with a gimp leg, named Kira, who is a peaceful weaver within a violent and primitive society limited to a small village. She is orphaned when her mother dies abruptly and she is chosen to recreate a beautiful, amazing coat for the village’s annual worship ceremony. Throughout the story, she discovers the hidden lies and secrets of her society and its past. For example, she finds out that her father is alive and that he was almost killed and has been sent into exile, not taken by beasts like she had always been told. She learns that her father lives in a mystical village of other “brokens” and she leaves her society to live with them. I enjoyed this story because it shows how sometimes something that you trust and believe in on the surface can actually be bad for you on the inside.