The art competition at school was always a highly anticipated event. This year was no exception, with students from all grades eager to showcase their creative talents. Among them were two friends, Jane and Sally.

Jane had a deep passion for art, but she often struggled with expressing her ideas on paper. She would spend hours in front of a blank canvas (画布), trying to capture the perfect image in her mind, but her efforts often fell short. Sally, on the other hand, was naturally talented and her artworks were always praised by teachers and classmates.

As the competition drew nearer, Jane worked harder than ever, staying up late into the night to perfect her piece. Sally, however, seemed to take it all in stride (大步走), casually sketching and painting without much effort. She often teased Jane about her lack of talent, making jokes that were meant to be light-hearted but stung Jane deeply.

On the day of the competition, Jane’s heart was filled with both excitement and fear. She had worked so hard on her piece, but she knew that it still paled in comparison to Sally’s effortless creations. As she set up her canvas and began to paint, she could feel Sally’s eyes on her, mocking (嘲笑) her every move.

Halfway through the competition, Jane encountered a difficult obstacle. She couldn’t seem to capture the essence of her subject the way she wanted to, and her frustration mounted. She looked around at the other students, seeing their confident strokes and vibrant colors, and she felt a pang of defeat. She wanted to give up, to throw away her brush and walk away.

But just as she was about to do so, she caught sight of Sally. Sally wasn’t laughing or mocking her now; instead, she looked at Jane with a mixture of surprise and concern. It was as if she realized that her words had hurt Jane more than she had intended. And in that moment, Jane found a new resolve. She wasn’t going to let Sally’s words or her own doubts defeat her. She was going to finish her piece, no matter what.

With renewed determination, Jane returned to her canvas.

She heard her name announced as the winner of a special recognition award for perseverance and dedication.

I still remember what I felt on a bright Saturday morning in late September, at a five-kilometer race in Clarkston, Georgia.

It was an unusual morning. About an hour earlier, when we drove into town to participate in the race, my 11-year-old son noticed a green tree cricket（蟋蟀） on my car. It was friendly, no longer than a fingernail. It jumped onto my son’s finger, and walked across my shirt, and then went back to my son’s hand, where it stayed so long that we eventually gave it a name: Little Friend.

The walk from the car to the registration table was perhaps a quarter of a mile. Little Friend stayed with my son. Then, we walked back across the railroad tracks and waited for the race to start. A few minutes before the race, Little Friend either fell or jumped off my son’s hand and landed on the sidewalk. Maybe it wanted to go free. But this was not a good place for that. Pedestrian（行人） traffic was heavy, so Little Friend was in danger. My son knelt and reached out his hand. It came back.

The race was about to start, and the tiny green insect was in for a wild ride. My son would run fast, and the race would be long. The race began. I ran well enough, and felt excited at the finish line. But that thrill gave way to anxiety when my son didn’t show up.

I knew he could run 5 kilometers in about 30 minutes. When I didn’t see him at the 35-minute mark, I began to wonder what had gone wrong. And as the 40-minute mark approached and he still didn’t appear, I went out looking for him. Had he got lost? I crossed the railroad tracks and looked down a long straightaway, hoping to see his face. Finally, there he was, just ahead of the 45-minute mark.

Little Friend was riding proudly on one finger of my son’s right hand.

Smiling, we walked back to the car with Little Friend.

It was a particularly dark and stormy night, with the fierce wind shook the windows wildly, as if some unseen force was beating them from outside. The clouds had gathered in a dense mass, blocking out the moon and the stars. Contrasting dramatically with the outside, the air in the house was filled with joy and warmth as family members gathered together, all eagerly anticipating the festival. The children were laughing and playing, chasing each other around the living room. Their laughter and chatter filled the air, creating a lively and festive atmosphere. The adults who sat around the dining table, sharing stories, were infected by their energy, finding themselves wearing smiles all the tire. It was New Year’s Eve and our annual party is in full swing.

Unexpectedly, our hearts skipped a beat as loud explosions echoed through the night, sending shivers down our spines. We rushed to the windows, hearts pounding, and looked out into the hills, where a terrifying sight awaited us. The electrical transformers (变压器) were now erupting in a chaotic display of sparks and flames. One by one, the lights in the surrounding areas began to flicker and fade. The darkness swallowed up the hills and just in a minute only a few scattered lights remained, twinkling weakly in the distance. And then, without warning, came a deafening explosion, and our own house went dark too.

I quickly gathered all the candles we had and lit them, casting a soft glow that transformed the room into a cozy atmosphere. However, we faced a challenge. With fifteen people gathering around. we still needed to prepare dinner. How could we possibly cook without electricity? The question hung in the air, but we knew we had to find a way to make the most of our situation and ensure everyone had a memorable New Year’s Eve.

The barbecue!

As the clock ticked closer to midnight, the excitement in the air reached a feverish pitch.

Recently, I volunteered with Interact, my school's service group at Read 2 Me, an activity that gives volunteers the opportunity to read to little kids and interact with them.

I walked with other volunteers into a large room in which there was a large variety of books. Some were picture books, such as Cifford or The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Others were chapter books with pictures in them, such as the Berenstain Bears and The Wimpy Kid series. For the extremely talented kids who like to be challenged, we provided chapter books that required imagination to understand. Just after I had gathered some books together, someone announced that it was almost time for the activity to start. All at once, a burst of voices was heard. The doors opened, and the children rushed in, beginning to look for a reading buddy（伙伴）. They all looked so eager to read, just like mice eager to taste a piece of cheese. I was sitting there waiting and glancing at the books that I had picked out for the lucky kid I would read them to.

Just then, a boy about six years old began to come my way, and I knew that I had found my reading buddy. "Hi, I'm Max. Would you like to be my reading buddy?" "Sure," I responded. And then, I let him search for a book of his choice.

"I like this one," shouted Max. I looked at the book that he had chosen. It told an adventure story of a little girl with her dog, and it seemed that it would be a good one to read to him.

Paragraph 1: "Can you tell me why you want this book?” I asked.

Paragraph 2: Then came the after-reading activities in which we interacted with each other.

One click of my wooden stick, and the buffaloes (水牛) moved forward. I guided them along the road’s edge, through the heart of the village. We walked past mud homes and villagers bent over tending to their crops. We eyed the green fields, where the buffaloes could eat growing grass. This was my life in a small village in Sindh, Pakistan. We had little, but I had a big dream.

Up ahead laughter attracted my attention. A group of students came into view, their uniforms a contrast to my faded trousers and worn-out shoes. Fingers wrapped tight around my stick, I stepped forward and said sincerely, “Dear students, could you please show me your books?” The students looked from my face to my stick, to their books. They quickly opened their bags and showed me their books. Illustrations of people and places caught my imagination.

“Someday, I’ll go to school too,” I declared, returning their books. Actually, I was desperate to go to school so that I could broaden my horizons.

Months passed. Every day I rose to my chores and buffaloes. Until, one day I got my chance. My uncle came to visit. He and Father sat, drinking tea outside. “Brother, you must send Rasool Bux to school. Herding the buffaloes is not in his future,” Uncle convinced my father. that all children should go to school. The following week, I was studying in primary school. Now, armed with my own books, I set out to learn everything. I read textbooks, asked questions, and even read newspapers for my father and his companions.

By the end of the year, I proved to be one of the best students in the school. I resolved to study at college or university in Karachi, a big city over 150 kilometers away. Unfortunately, I suffered from a skin condition that left white spots on my skin. The constant loss of skin color was stressful, making me feel bad about myself and even drawing attention away from my studies.

The thought of not being able to finish school made me feel extremely depressed.

I visited my uncle after I did make it to university in Karachi.

I was preparing side dishes to go with our Sunday barbecue when our daughter Rose stormed in the front door and rushed to her room. I glanced out the window and saw our neighbor Lucy walking back to her house across the road. As a mother, my feeling told me something happened between them.

“Rose, come in here. I need some help with dinner.” She came out of her room and stood beside me. She had a stubborn look on her face—the kind kids have when they know they are wrong but have persuaded themselves they are right. “I noticed that Lucy, your classmate, came over but didn’t stay long. Why?” I asked. “I don’t like her,” Rose complained. “I wish she would stop coming over here all the time. She dresses terribly, and sometimes she doesn’t smell good. Her nose is always runny, and her hair is in a mess. None of us like her.”

I knew that she referred to the popular crowd. It was a lot for a senior high student to deal with, trying to fit in with the popular crowd. It might be a shame if one of the girls in that crowd knew Lucy was playing with Rose.

I explained why I felt so sad for Lucy. “You see, baby,” I began, “I know how she felt today when you were sort of cold toward her. I know because that was me when I was in sixth grade. I was the poor kid with hand-me-down clothes, the kid who others looked down on. I also know what it was like to be hungry and see other families having a barbecue out and enjoying themselves. That feeling never goes away.” I went on to tell her that I didn’t want her to be that child or adult who looked down on others. I told her I wanted her to be kind and helpful, not judgmental and hurtful. I noticed Rose had tears in her eyes.

Minutes later, Rose went to Lucy’s house across the road.