Coming to UC Irvine, I thought I knew exactly what I did and did not want. I wanted to be at UCLA. I didn’t want to be in Irvine. I wanted to have fun and party and, maybe on occasion, study. I wanted to be a fiction writer, not a journalist.
On a beautiful sunny Saturday morning, the grounds of Marian Bergeson Elementary School are quiet and empty — almost. Little by little, families emerge across the campus. Some carry umbrellas or tents, some have foldable sports chairs and all are ready for a morning of baseball.
I was in the sixth grade and my teacher had just decided that she wanted to read a book to our class. Her choice, “The Phantom Tollbooth” by Norton Juster, ended up changing my life, the way I looked at books and how words could be used.
I have a confession to make: I want an iPhone 4. Really badly. It’s come between my cell phone and me; our relationship is just not the same anymore. I am no longer satisfied with its just-the-basics features.
“Good luck, Mallory!” a girl says to me. She has to be joking, walking around to each person and telling him or her “good luck” with a smile on her face. I’m mildly horrified because it’s the opening night for my drama team’s annual Christmas musical and we’re backstage, preparing to begin. Doesn’t she know that it’s bad luck to say good luck in the theatre?
