“Alex, please shut off the lights after you finish studying, everyone has school tomorrow,"  Mrs.Gentile called as she left the kitchen for the night.

“I will” Alex groaned, as she dropped her tennis bag and backpack next to the kitchen table, each hitting the ground with an exhausted thump.

As her tea kettle whistled on the stove, she cracked open her AP English folder and dug out, A Clean Well Lighted Place, a Hemingway short story. She sighed, her head in her hands, and ran her fingers through her hair, anticipating the night's workload.

She skimmed the few pages of the story, but suddenly stopped on the last page, as if she was in a state of shock. Furrowed eyebrows and a look of confusion accompanied her pause, as she flipped back to the first page and then back to the last. After a few moments, she returned to the start of the story but this time, something was different.

Behind the glasses that always slipped down the bridge of her nose, her eyes seemed restless now, not drained. The still furrowed eyebrows now seemed perplexed, not confused. Her slouch disappeared and in its place was a hunched Alex Gentile, clutching the story in a feverish fashion.

A small smile slowly crept across her face as she got up from the table and sprinted upstairs to grab one of the many journals by her bedside.

“Please be quiet, Al," Mrs.Gentile murmured from behind her closed bedroom doors.

But Alex didn’t hear it, and as soon as she grabbed the leather bound journal, she rushed back down the stairs, almost tripping on the final step. As she slid back into her chair, the exhaustion from earlier was gone, replaced by a buzz of excitement.

Clicking open the brass lock, she opened the worn journal, enveloping the table with the crisp scent of unwritten thoughts. Placing her favorite pen in the center, Alex turned back to the story.

Line by line, paragraph by paragraph, magic danced in her eyes. She pulled her knees to her chest, tugging the story closer, as if the story was a pulling her deeper and deeper into its depths.

As Alex read, she scribbled her questions into her journal.

Does the old man have any family? Does the repetition of nada, mean the story is in Spain? Wait, didn’t Hemingway already write a novel on bullfighting? Something like afternoon death? No, no… Death in the Afternoon,. I should pick that up at the library after practice tomorrow.

The nature of her scrawls were restless and burning and as her questions went on unanswered, she filled in the blanks herself.

Maybe his wife died a tragic death in somewhere glamorous, Like Monte Carlo, in a car accident? Or maybe they had a forbidden love story, almost like Gatsby. Now he has money but doesn’t have the girl, so he sits in the cafe, mourning the loss of his one great love? Wait!! I’ve got it!! The young man is a mirror and the old man is who he will become if he doesn’t appreciate every part of life. Then again, how would the light and dark contrast tie in to the theme? Mirrors are never mentioned so does that make me wrong or just thinking out of the box? But then again, didn’t Mr.O’Malley say Hemingway writes like an iceberg? This could mean anything. Wow.

As two hours passes, the domain and range Advanced Algebra homework laid untouched. She couldn’t rip herself from the story. It was no longer just a short read for English, the story mirrored a gravitational pull, gripping onto her attention.

As the clock hit eleven, Alex laid the story, annihilated by both highlighting and ink, back in her folder. As her fingers were about to  hit the the kitchen light switch, she scribbled one last thought for the night in her journal.

My entire night was began with being reminded to turn the lights off, which I always forget because I like the light better than the dark. But I feel now that I just as I stay away from the dark, the old man stayed away from the dark to hide from his own personal darkness. I used to think many of us shy away from the dark out of fear, but now I think I shy from the darkness out of appreciation for the wonders I experience from the light. It’s kind of cool, in like a weirdly kooky way, that I feel the same level as Hemingway, I’ve never felt that with another writer before.  Okay, I actually REALLY need to go to bed now.

She laughed at herself, shook her head, and shut the lights off.

Mrs.Gentile awoke the next morning to turn her kitchen lights on and taped underneath the switch, was paper from Alex’s journal

Mom,
I won’t be home right after tennis, I’m picking up a few Hemingway stories at the library. If they aren’t available, I’ll check out Barnes and Nobles.. I love you.

P.S Yes, I did shut off the kitchen lights. I’ll remember from now on
Alex