The Elite School (Of Fish)

BW: Hey Laura! I love how when you write humor articles you usually pick a theme and then make a lot of related puns throughout the article, and I liked how you did that here. I like this piece all the way up to the end, but that part is really confusing. I dont really understand what you were trying to say happened, or why that makes for a logical ending. It feels unfinished. Could you please rewrite that part and email this piece back to me for second draft edits when you’re done? My email is swatwood@stuy.edu

Thank you, Beaux Watwood

GU: Hey Laura! Great first draft! It’s a really original concept, and the marine humor throughout is awesome! My one recommendation would be to incorporate more of Serena’s memories since she is returning to her high school, I think it’s a good opportunity for jokes. Also Watwood is right, the ending is very abrupt and confusing. Other than that, great work!

Stuyvesant alumna and marine biologist Serena Sardina was sent off on an assignment to investigate aquatic fauna at the Chelsea Piers. Having only found petri dish collections of plankton, assorted strains of polluted kelp, and the remains of Peter Stuyvesant’s corpse, Sardina deemed the area too boring for research. However, she couldn’t abandon her assignment. So like all Stuyvesant scholars, she chose to procrastinate. Old habits die hard after all.

Though she had despised the school during her time as a student, Sardina found herself traversing the Tribeca Bridge, as nearly all alumni who swear to never return inevitably do. She walked through Stuyvesant’s entrance, nostalgically reminiscing of her past. From her report cards in high school leading into the missions of her professional life, she always seemed to be below sea level. Her former friends had often joked that this descent began with a Waxman exam “and the rest was history,” but the idea of her alma mater bestowing a curse that was currently preventing her from ascending the ropes of her career wasn’t a notion she was willing to drown herself in misery over.

Sardina forced her mind to swim away from the Mariana Trench of unresolved ego-related conflicts. There were bigger fish to fry, like uncovering the reason why the Senior Bar was abandoned, with the half floor eerily empty. She tiptoed warily across the hallway, wondering why an ominous vibe seemed to emit from the other side. Moreover, why was it so enticing?

The doors leading to the other side of the hallway were secured shut, and Sardina could not peek through the glass to see what was on the other side because it was covered with Chouberalian fire-safety propaganda (that was most certainly a fire hazard). She pressed her ear firmly to the wall. Muffled sounds emitted from the other side. How fishy. Her fingers hovered over the doorknob. Should she...

“Oh, what the hell.[a]” Sardina was aware that hesitation was one of the greatest forms of inhibition, and with regards to overcoming it, she was a decade overdue. She yanked back the doorknob. It was as if she’d obliterated a dam, for a deluge of students consumed her like a tsunami. Pity that she didn’t have the hindsight that sardines have more wiggle room in their cans than Stuyvesant students have space to breathe when waiting to request program changes.

She didn’t die of asphyxiation, but she did need to butterfly her way through the school, taking care not to smack any of its members in the face. Her body was eventually catapulted out of the doors, similar to the manner in which a whale ejects poop through its blowhole. Dazed, she noticed the head of a figure looking down from above her. When her eyes focused, she wanted to wallow into the Hudson’s polluted depths and perish in shame. It was her boss.

“Wasting precious hours at my alma mater, are we?” He snatched her camera and looked through its contents. Gradually the anger on his face melted into a shrug and a nod of acceptance. “Not necessarily the school of fish we were looking for, but make the description sound poetic and all the philosophy majors will be baited. Hook, line, and sinker.” He turned the camera to show a photo of a freshman’s face pressed up against the lens, resembling an overinflated pufferfish.

Sardina slowly stood up before quietly addressing her boss by his first name.

“Yeah?” He was clearly annoyed by this informality.

“Our alma mater,” she laughed ruefully and began to walk away before momentarily stopping to glare at her boss. “Don’t think I don’t remember you cheating from my bio final.”

Though she’d gotten the last word in, it was a Pyrrhic victory. Whether she chose to live her life honestly or not, some sardines are bound to always be at the bottom of the food chain.

[a]I wasn't phrasing this like a question