The X-Men meets Stranger Things in this coming-of-age tale.
I, Nadine Jackson, believe in science and opportunities, not stories out of a comic book.
So as part of a school project, my friends Imogen 'Aria' Zhang, Marco Martinez, James Ryder and I...
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"To live anywhere in the world today and be against equality because of race or color is like living in Alaska and being against snow."
— William Faulkner
The sound of the train whistle hurt my ears, as my friends and I stood in front of the train tracks, trying to get out of Manhattan.
Dark granite walls filled my heart with dread, as the stone flourished from ceiling to the floor we are standing. On each end of the train tracks are two large tunnels.
Though many had seen subway tunnels up close before, I imagine them turn into gaping mouths-spitting and swallowing the train whole.
Kinda similar to Spirited Away, I think.
Bright lights hung like chandeliers raining its fluorescent white down on us frightened kids.
Behind us are advertising posters and black wooden benches, which are occupied by weary travelers.
I notice that some of the passengers were men, women, and a few children, complaining about the lack of heat in the subway station.
I don't blame them, though: Manhattan has a way of tricking people into believing that the temperature will be as sunny as Florida.
One day you return home from a bad suntan, and the next, you will get your kitchen floor wet from the rain puddles on your front doorstep.
Reasons like this made my dad decide to never watch the weather broadcast ever again.
He thinks the weather people make up stuff so they could earn twice the money more than an average businessman.
I wanted to argue that it wasn't the case; occasionally, weathermen make predictions because they have no idea when it's going to rain or not.
And besides, there is a fifty percent chance that their weather predictions are correct.
Speaking of predictions, my friend Marco Martinez doubts that the train will arrive any minute.
He has dark hair, maple-colored eyes, a chubby nose, olive-brown skin, and wore a Red Sox baseball cap, yellow t-shirt, khaki pants, and gray sneakers.
Though he was fifteen, Marco is the shortest in our group. His head matched the length of my shoulders, but his entire body looked like a stretched piece of Laffy Taffy.
Lifting his small Spider-Man backpack up to his scrawny shoulders, Marco grunts: "I can't believe we are doing this. Isn't there another way?"
