2025 Short Story & Essay Contest: Third Place, High School Short Story Contest
By Asha Akkinepally
The year was 1954 when two twenty-two-year-old girls slipped out of the comfort of their Bethesda homes and into the waiting August night.
Their families were unaware of their departure; it wouldn’t have been permitted. They carried little luggage, as few things are necessary when starting a new life. Leaving is the most important part. And they were leaving everything they had ever known.
Both of the girls had fallen in love, and now they were running to it.
—
According to everyone, Clara Johnson was perfect.
Perfect victory-rolled hair, perfect pastel-colored dresses, perfect three-story house, perfect Chevrolet-driving friends, perfect cherry red lips that never stained her perfect blinding white smile.
Oh, and she was nice. Her famous apple pie would be a good metaphor for her personality. Sweetness spilled from every crevice of her golden exterior; anyone who met her loved her.
Yes, the only thing that wasn’t perfect about Clara’s life was her family. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, and grief had led her father to bury himself in his work. Clara was an only child—her home life was a lonely one.
But did that hurt her image? No, of course not. She was Clara Johnson. It only made people think better of her—even with poor circumstances, she was still so wonderful. Nothing, it seemed, could make people see her as anything less than perfect.
Nothing except the love of her life.
—
June 28, 1950.
Otherwise known as the day Clara Johnson fell in love.
“Are you okay, miss?”
Disoriented, Clara tried to look up. Why did her head hurt? Her eyesight was fuzzy, but things slowly started to come into view. She was looking into the very concerned face of a young man about her age, with chocolatey skin and deep, deep eyes. She stared into them. They were so deep—she’d never met anyone with such deep eyes—that it wasn’t hard for one to imagine they were falling into them. Maybe she was falling into them. She was falling, falling, falling…
“Miss?”
She startled, bringing herself out of her daze. “W-what?” She looked at him bewilderedly. “Who are you? Where am I?”
He gave her a worried look and held up a finger. “You’re outside a bakery. How many fingers am I holding up?”
“One.”
“Now follow it with your eyes.”
She did so. He then asked her what her name was.
“Clara Johnson.”
“Who’s the president right now?”
“Eisenhower.” She looked at him strangely. “What are you doing?”
“Checking to see if you have a concussion, which I don’t think you do, miss.” He stood up from where he was kneeling and held out a hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. “Someone accidentally shoved you and you fell. I tried to catch you, but wasn’t quick enough.”
She dusted her dress off. “Thank you very much.”
He tipped his hat. “Of course, Miss Johnson.”
“What’s your name?” she asked. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to know.
“Will. Will Taylor.” He flashed her a smile. He had quite a nice smile, she thought.
—
“Clara? Clara.”
“Hmm?”
Her father looked at her in bemusement. “I asked you if you were done eating. You’ve been so distracted this evening.”
She blushed. Hours later she was still thinking of him. “Yes, I’m done.”
“Good. Ask Mandy to teach you how to make that upside-down cake, it was one of her better desserts.”
Clara nodded. It would be a good distraction.
“Mandy?” she called as she walked into the kitchen. “Can you—Oh!”
Mandy (their cook since Clara’s infanthood), was talking to a young man. Clara blinked, thinking maybe she had imagined him. But no, Will was standing in her kitchen.
They turned when they heard her voice. “Clara,” Mandy said, “this is my nephew, Will. He came a bit early to pick me up.”
“We’ve met,” said Will, smiling.
“He helped me when I fell on the sidewalk,” Clara explained, recovering her wits. She looked at Mandy confusedly. “I thought your nephew lived in Delaware.”
“He’s here for college. He’s going to Howard to become a doctor, you know.” Mandy beamed proudly.
“I’m not in medical school yet,” he said modestly.
“Is that how you knew how to check for a concussion?” Clara asked.
He laughed. “You don’t need to be studying to become a doctor to know that, miss. But I saw one do it, which is how I learned.”
“Oh.”
“What did you want, dear?” Mandy looked at her.
“What?”
“What did you want to ask me when you came into the kitchen?”
“Oh, it isn’t important. Go home, I’ll ask you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Mandy gave her a strange look. She told Will, “I’ll clear the table and come.”
“It was nice meeting you again, Miss Johnson,” Will said politely, still smiling. He had such a nice smile.
“Likewise.” She made to leave the kitchen, before turning around and adding, “Will?”
“Yes, miss?”
“Call me Clara.”
He smiled at her again, and that was the moment when Clara Johnson started to fall in love.
How unfortunate.
—
According to everyone, Adelaide Miller was trouble.
Trouble wound its fingers through her frizzy curls, it hid in the creases of her unironed clothes, it crouched in corners of her small house, it buckled next to her in her brother’s Ford, and it lingered at the corners of her mischievous smile, a smile that brought a slight feeling of trepidation upon the person it was directed towards.
Oh, and she was strange. She was an oddity, out of place. She couldn’t even be compared to a sore thumb, because at least that could be explained. Adelaide was like people who hated chocolate—she didn’t make sense.
Yes, the only thing that wasn’t trouble about Adelaide’s life was her family. Mrs. Miller was a lovely, benevolent woman, Mr. Miller a man with an ever-present smile and a hearty laugh, their sons handsome, robust boys. People often wondered how such a girl could come from such a family—it was one of the many inexplicable things about her.
But did they improve her image? No, of course not. She was Adelaide Miller. It only made people think worse of her—even with good circumstances, she was still so unruly. Nothing, it seemed, could make people think of her as anything more than trouble.
Nothing except the love of her life.
—
January 5, 1943.
Otherwise known as the day Adelaide Miller fell in love.
“Why did we have to bring you again?” Robby, one of Adelaide’s brothers, scowled at her.
“Because I was gonna tell Mom and Dad where you were going if you didn’t,” she retorted.
“Both of you shut up.” Their oldest brother, Billy, silenced them. “This is serious.”
“I can’t believe Mark is going to juvie,” Charlie, the youngest of her brothers and the one closest to her in age, said sadly. “He’s so nice—I find it hard to believe he was stealing.”
“Not just stealing—he robbed a month’s worth of profits,” Robby pointed out.
“Allegedly. I think he was framed for the crime. Besides, why would he do it?” Billy said. “Let’s hurry, we don’t want to be late.”
They all filed into the court, wedging into one of the back rows. They had gone to see the trial of Billy’s friend, Mark, who had been accused of stealing from a jewelry store. It was packed, filled with everyone who knew Mark and even those who didn’t, all crowded into the hot room.
“I guess everyone wanted to see Mark before he, you know…” Charlie trailed off.
“Let’s pray he won’t.” Billy wasn’t the only one in the room who thought Mark hadn’t stolen. Most of the audience were people who knew him, and knew there was no possible way he could have committed the crime. He was the type who helped old ladies cross the street, the kind that would remember everything about everyone. Not a thief.
The court was soon called to order and the trial proceedings began. From the first words of the opening statements, Adelaide was entranced. Mark had been framed, his lawyer proved. In just a few hours, something they had all thought to be true, a belief, weighty in their minds but substanceless elsewhere, had formed into a solid, indisputable fact. It was, Adelaide felt, its own sort of magic.
Sitting there, in that courtroom, sandwiched uncomfortably between her brothers, Adelaide Miller decided that she wouldn’t follow the path her parents had laid for her. She refused to become a housewife. She would become a lawyer because she had fallen in love with the law.
How unfortunate.
—
June 28, 1954.
Otherwise known as the day that Clara Johnson decided to run away.
“Whatcha thinking?” Clara asked Will as she swung her legs back and forth. They were talking while sitting in the open trunk of his beat-up car in a deserted parking lot. Of course, no one could see them together, hence the deserted part.
He was looking at their clasped hands, lost in thought. “What are we doing, Clara?”
She was startled by his somber tone. “What are you talking about?”
“I mean, in what world could this—” he held up their hands— “ever work?”
“Where is this coming from?” She looked at him, bewildered. Why was he bringing this up now? It was a truth that they had been dancing around for four years, one they both knew they would have to confront one day. But Clara knew that the minute they did, the sharpness of it would shatter their beautiful illusion, puncture their bubble of contentment. And she didn’t want that. Not yet.
“I’m Black and you’re white, Clara.” He stated it in such a matter-of-fact way that she winced. “We are not a possibility. I’d like to believe there’s a time in which we could be, but we’re not living in it. How can we keep pretending otherwise?”
“Why are you suddenly thinking about this?”
“I’m going to medical school next year. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep this up. And you, you’ll marry someone else, and you’ll forget me.” He gazed into her eyes. His own were wells of sadness. “I love you, Clara, but—”
“I love you too. As long as I’ve known you, I think I’ve loved you,” she interrupted. “And I’ll never forget you.”
“It was stupid of us to fall in love with each other.”
“You can’t control who you love.”
“But you’ll find someone else to love. And I’ll be horribly jealous of him because he’ll get to marry you, and you will have a house and children together and he’ll eat your apple pie every Friday when he comes home from work. But I’ll be okay because I’ll know you have a good life without me, a better life without me.”
“No, I won’t.” Then, suddenly, as if struck by lightning, she had a thought. “What if I marry you?”
Will almost laughed. “What?”
“In D.C., we could marry. They don’t have laws against it. I’ll come with you.”
“Clara…”
She blushed. It was crazy. She didn’t know what had possessed her to say it. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
“Of course, I want to marry you. But it’s not that simple. What about our families?” Will’s parents were dead now, and Mandy wouldn’t be opposed. They both knew whom he was really talking about. There was no possible way Albert Johnson would allow his daughter to marry Will Taylor.
He didn’t say this, though. Maybe he should have, because then Clara wouldn’t have said “I’ll… I’ll ask him.” Then, that evening, the catastrophic scene that followed wouldn’t have occurred. Then, as she lay in bed, she wouldn’t have sworn she would run away from her home, her town, all she had ever known.
—
January 5, 1954.
Otherwise known as the day Adelaide Miller decided to run away.
“We’ve got a magazine for Mom, bills, bills, a letter for Dad, and one for Addy—that’s quite a thick one, isn’t it?” Charlie said as he sorted through the mail.
Adelaide took it, glaring at him. “Why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be at work or something?”
Charlie shrugged, tossing an apple up and down. “It’s the weekend, didn’t you know?”
She rolled her eyes and rushed upstairs, clutching the envelope to her chest. If it was what she hoped it was…
She sat on her bed, tearing open the seal. A squeal of delight escaped her. She was going to American University Washington College of Law! She would be a lawyer! She—
“Addy?” Charlie said, poking his head into her room. “I heard a noise—” he frowned at the letter in her hand. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing.”
He snatched the letter from her hold, a teasing smile on his face as he held it out of her reach. “Is it a love letter?” he sang as she tried to get it back. “Dear Miss Miller, we are happy to accept you…” He furrowed his brows, looking down at her. “Addy, what is this? You applied to law school?”
“Yes,” she admitted, chewing her lip. “I want to be a lawyer.”
“Since when?”
“Since I was eleven.”
He stared at her for a moment, then ran to their parents who were sitting in the living room, Adelaide desperately chasing after him. “Mom, Dad, Addy applied to law school.”
“What?” they chorused, staring at her in shock. She felt herself shrink a little under their gazes.
“And she was accepted,” Charlie continued.
“Addy, college was one thing, but this…”
“You were supposed to find someone to marry at college. You told us it was what is done nowadays.” Her mother shook her head in distress.
“And it is!” Adelaide insisted. “I just…”
“Adelaide, we’ve tolerated your antics for your whole life, but this is where we draw the line,” her father said sternly. “You are going to get married to a nice respectable boy and become a good housewife.”
“I won’t—”
“You will.” Her father looked her in the eye so she would know he was serious.
“I want to be a lawyer. I’m going to be a lawyer.” She drew herself up to her full height, saying it with confidence.
“Not under our roof, you won’t,” her mother told her.
“Then I won’t be under your roof.”
Her parents and brother didn’t take her seriously. They should have.
Because that evening Adelaide decided, as she wrote her confirmation letter to American University, that she would run away.
—
On that fateful August night, both runaways boarded a bus bound for Washington, D.C.
Adelaide Miller sat across from a girl who was not so perfect and Clara Johnson was opposite someone who could be a bit more than just trouble.
But they were smiling.
