Vermill!on Beach

The dark-eyed teen boy stood tall and slightly to my right on the stage. Although he was nervously blinking, his presence commanded the attention of the large group of people gathered before him. The backdrop, suspended above us, featured the words "Collegiate Competition of the Minds," a fitting description for the intense intellectual challenge that lay ahead.

With stern determination in his reflective eyes, he nervously approached the microphone. His small and nimble hands gripped it tightly, emanating a mix of apprehension and excitement. His shiny black hair matched his tailored suit and silk tie. He looked like a pallbearer or perhaps the unfortunate soul that was actually being carried by six of his closest friends in a satin-lined metal casket.

In the front row sat an Asian couple, just as precisely presenting panache. Obviously the boy's proud parents, their dark eyes fixated on their son. The woman, with a bob of shiny black hair, flashed a stiffly uncomfortable smile and gently nodded her head. The gesture seemed to convey both encouragement and admiration. Her hair seemed to shimmer in the spotlight, appearing almost like the slow-motion shots seen in shampoo commercials. And in her two hands, out of site and tucked on her lap, was a crumpled piece of colored paper with a printed program of the competition. Clutching it tightly, the rumpled pamphlet contained every wrinkle of angst that her face did not.

As her husband observed her anxiety, his larger, smooth hand gently encircled her shoulders. Their eyes signaled the support for each other that they didn’t share aloud. After nodding her approval of the message received, she released the crinkled-up paper.

While the words escaped the young boy’s mouth, the microphone loosened slightly in his hand, and then his hand slid up, absentmindedly to tightened his tie. The weight of anticipation and responsibility bore down, relentlessly, on his narrow shoulders. Nevertheless, he maintained his composure, his face projecting a semblance of calmness that belied the storm of emotions within. Shoulders back, chin up, he ignored the sweat rolling down the sides of his face in anticipation of the worst. The only tell was his eyes shifting from one parental face to the other and the slight movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. But anyone observing his feet, I noted, could see the unsteadiness by the rocking of his left foot, as it slowly scuffed against the right.

With each word he uttered, the young man confidently addressed the broad audience before him, his voice clear and steady. It was evident that this moment was pivotal, and he was ready to give it his all. The epitome of a desperately fractured focus performing a tightrope walk for thousands; one wrong utterance, regardless of his hours in preparedness knowledge, and he’d fall.

The boy grasped something from his pocket, dragged a kerchiefed hand across his sweaty brow, and quickly replaced as if he was walking the audience through a magic trick. Then his gaze flitted, momentarily, to the line of defeated competitors stationed across the front row. It was as if they were cruelly placed there as an unspoken promise of where losers go to watch the final battle as punishment. Their expressions revealing battles fought, some reflecting the absolute pain of failure with tear-stained cheeks. However, there were a few faces that held onto a glimmer of hope, eager to see who would emerge as the reigning champion after hours and days of intense collegiate competition.

The powerful lights from above beat down on the speakers stationed at either side of the stage, creating an atmosphere of heightened anticipation. One of the three judges, the eldest and chubbiest amongst them, took his turn to speak. With each word he projected, his jowls vibrated as if he were a speaking St. Bernard, adding a distinctive flair to his delivered statement.

"Originally from Sweden," the procter pronounced, pausing for effect, "I was a chemist, inventor, engineer, philanthropist, and businessman. I even had the honor of inventing dynamite, which later led to the establishment of a renowned award named after me. So, my question to you is, who am I?"

The room fell silent as the question lingered ominously in the air, a challenge for the bright minds competing for the coveted title. The silence was nearly overbearing as a few scant whispers circulated throughout the room.

As the anticipated angst lingered in the auditorium, a sneeze erupted from the back of the room, followed by a few grumbles. The judge, displaying a hint of annoyance, decided to repeat the question. In response, the boy on stage cleared his throat and leaned in toward the microphone, his hand’s nervously encircling it, with voice loud and clear as he declared, "You are Lars Magnus Ericsson?"

An eerie hush fell upon the auditorium, specifically in the second row where my family sat, watching with bated breath. My baby sister, a determined girl with mother’s duplicate face, squinted her eyes and crossed the fingers of both hands as she anxiously observed the judge's reaction.

However, the judge's lips pressed together, refusing to break the weighted silence— a sure sign of disappointment. The other male judge looked suspiciously like Orville I'm sorry, that's incorrect," he announced, cuing the boy to return to his position in line for the next challenge with a casual swish of his hand.

My sister held her fingers, crossed by each side of her face, so tightly they were practically bone-white. However, immediately unfastened as she shot up in her seat, ready to take her turn. However, her mother swiftly clasped her hands in a stern manner, giving her a disapproving stare that silently conveyed the message, "That's not polite." A dull moan escaped from the rest of the audience, sensing the tension and disappointment that filled the air.

Despite the tears welling in his eyes, the boy held his head high as he silently moved past the remaining competitor, without making eye contact. Holding himself upright and square-shouldered, returned to his place on stage. It was a mixed bag of emotions filling him up.

Next up it was my turn. My mother had helped me prepare my blonde hair, delicately framing my face in light waves, a nearly childlike appearance despite being 15-years-old. No makeup or jewelry gave way to indicate anything other than unparalleled innocence, the way my parents liked it. Wearing the power-cinching deep crimson dress, my mother had toiled over for nearly a month, complete with a white sash draping my waistline, with a bow on my right hip. The reality of success hung just out of reach, as I allowed my determination to propelled me forward.

Taking a deep breath, I subconsciously licked my lips, a tell all of my nervousness for anyone who knew me. Lifting my sea blue eyes toward the judges' table, I remained alert, in search for not just my future, but the future of my family. My father who’d been working two jobs his entire life, printing news during the day and cleaning a variety of schools, including my own, at night.

My mother worked at a bakery, trying to pass it off as extra money, but every night, the table never volunteered any of its foods to the refrigerator. Except for condiments, it typically held a gallon of milk and a carton of eggs with a package of hotdogs, existing quietly in the corner of the door.

Even still, I silently longed for all of this to be over, the stress to be relinquished. Yet, simultaneously, I felt a craving for the responsibility; a power in my own two hands with a lingering anticipation of a mysterious future hanging in the air like a forbidden fruit.

The judge, his cool and dark eyes penetrating through the shallow light, repeated the question once more. His expression and demeanor exuded a peculiar air of calmness that nearly seemed to taunt.

“Originally from Sweden," he stated, his immense patience apparent. "I was a chemist, inventor, engineer, philanthropist, and businessman. I also invented dynamite before an esteemed award was named after me. Who am I?"

Trembling slightly, the I carefully pondered the response, with a heavy rise and and fall of my chest, my mind raced to recall the correct answer. Although I’d studied meticulously for this, when I seldom needed to study at all, I was determined to be granted the victor and coveted title of reigning champion in the collegiate competition of the minds. Winning this contest would change my life forever in an instant, and give my younger sibling all of the opportunities I was denied—and I’d basically be waved into any university I dreamed of.

By having these thoughts race through my mind, my hands started twitching, so I closed my eyes and let out a calming exhale. And then, with a timely confident voice, clearly declared from the depths of my being, "You are Alfred Bernard Nobel, the father of the Nobel Peace Prize."

And then, time stopped, seeming still as silence filled the room, with curious whispers among the crowd broken only by the faint sound of someone breathing. That’s when I understood the faint breath was my own, as everyone in the room awaited the judge's response. For as many people were in the hall, the air was filled with an even greater silence than it had been awaiting my response. Beyond empty—like a vacuum, sucking more than sound from the halls—but seconds and minutes of time.

The crotchety and overweight judge shifted, standing up with a solemn expression on his face. His thin lips pressed tightly, clapping his hands together loudly, the sound echoed through the chamber. The intensity of the sound strengthened, as he continued, until it filled the entire room. The audience joined in, standing from their seats, and the cacophony had a strength that continued to grow.

Through the microphone, the judge's deep voice bled through, repeating the correct answer to the question with an exaggerated nod of his balding head. The sounds of applause inundated my head, as if it were drowning in confetti shooting from cheers, whistles, and applause. Amongst the burst of joy, I could make out my family, proud as ever with more than upturned mouths—my parents each looked at least ten years younger. My kid sister, Bonnie, let out a whoop, pulling herself up onto her feet. She victoriously balanced on the seat of the cushioned chair. Everything was unbelievably magnificent—for a moment.

However, as the ringing grew, and the faces warmly smiled at me, everything began to melt like the timepieces of Salvador Dali called, “The Persistence of Memory,” depicting a variety of limp watches on the shoreline.

The smiles became grimaces, the eyebrows burrowed together in the center of their foreheads. Their faces and shoulders drooped as the clapping sound faded away, muffled. Even though I was surrounded with cheering, I was simultaneously in a distant space, disconnected from everything. The colors slowly faded and surrounded me with a suffocating darkness.

For a brief moment, pride caused her to smile before she gracefully returned to her place in the row of chairs. Her rival’s face filled with alarm as he watched her expression drop like melting chocolate on a hot July sidewalk. She stumbled and collapsed onto the wooden planks of the stage, THUD A ragdoll caught in the currents of overwhelming emotions, her body lay in a heap. Her blue eyes stared lifelessly at her defeated opponent.

He stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost. Springing from his chair, he released a high-pitched squeal, and bolted from the stage.

The once happy and bustling people in the room began to jumble around, their faces now marked with concern. The images blurred and faded into darkness, with voices in the distance overlapping one another. "What happened?”

“Is she okay?”

“Give her some air!”

“She looks so pale…”

With my eyes stuck open, staring into the lights overhead, I could make out dark silhouettes of the various witnesses surrounding me, but my body didn’t flinch. It didn’t move or even breathe. I was dying and I knew it. I guess everyone knew it.