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The Secret Rose: I
By D.S. Lewi S.
age: 12

I sat on my bed, moving my black ballpoint pen quickly between my middle and index fingers, my other hand occupied with stroking Ginger, my chocolate cat. I stood, dropped the pen on my plaid sheets and looked out of my window as Ginger ran away, quickly.

There was a marvelous maple tree outside, but I wasn't focused on that. My reflection was what I was focused on. I had black hair, almond-shaped green eyes, a solemn expression and thick black eyebrows. I was Chinese. My mind told me, ''Maybe you should get some fresh air.''

''Maybe I should,'' I replied to nothing.

I walked out of my bedroom, through the hallway, and grabbed my dragon-embroidered pink jacket of the coat rack and walked out the front door. I walked around the yard, pondering what I should write my speech about. ''Wonder what Damon's doing?'' I said, heading next door.

I knocked and saw an eye through the peephole as it opened. A small boy, my age with moderately long black hair and eyes like mine stood there, holding a rose. I was shocked. Roses didn't grow in late December.

''Where'd you get this?''

''It's a secret,'' said Damon, half-smiling, ''But you can have it. Bye!''

''Bye. Thanks.''

I walked away, still stupefied, a yellow rose in my hand. ''What the heck?'' I muttered.

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