Brush, Pen and Waiting

When Gizem opened her eyes in the morning, a gray light was pouring into her room, the wind was rattling the window, and the salty smell of the town was drifting inside. It was Wednesday, the third day of the festival. She sat up in bed, grabbed her diary, and scribbled down the fatigue from the previous day: “Day 22: We won with music on Monday, still have the medal around my neck. Yesterday there was a dance competition, Pınar’s group performed, but it didn’t work out. Today... Writing and drawing. My heart is racing, but this is a different kind of excitement.” She placed the pen on the table, a wave of thoughts passed through her; the excitement of music and dance had given way to a calmer, yet deeper anticipation. She stood up, put on her navy sweatshirt and jeans, and tied her hair into a messy bun. She looked at herself in the mirror. Today, I will speak with my pen.

When she arrived at school, the yard still had a festival vibe, but the enthusiasm from Monday had been replaced with a quieter intensity. Colorful flags were still fluttering in the trees, and students were whispering in the hallways. When the morning bell rang, she entered the class, 12-A, where everyone was scattered across their desks, tired but curious. Mert was scribbling on the board, Emre was teasing him, and Pınar was whispering with Beste in the corner. As Gizem placed her bag on the table, the announcement came over the speaker: “Attention, attention! On the third day of the festival, there will be drawing and writing competitions. Unlike previous years, this year both competitions will be held simultaneously. Participants will go to the A-1 hall for drawing and to the A-2 hall for writing at 10:00. The topic will be announced at that moment. You have 2 hours for drawing and 1.5 hours for writing. Materials will be provided by the school, and results will be announced on Monday. Good luck!”

The class fell silent for a moment, then whispers rose. Gizem’s eyes lit up, her heart raced, and as she sat at her desk, Beyza came over to her, her short brown hair falling over her forehead. “Did you hear?” she said, her voice full of excitement but also anxiety. “They’ll be at the same time, and the topic is a surprise... What do you think?”

Gizem shook her head, a smile on her lips. “Yes, it’s something different,” she said, her voice filled with enthusiasm. “Let’s go outside, let’s talk.” She grabbed her bag, took Beyza by the arm, and the two of them left the classroom, sitting on a bench in the yard. The air was cool, the wind was scattering leaves, and seagulls were soaring in the sky.

Beyza clasped her hands in her lap, her eyes dropped to the ground. “Having them at the same time... It’s interesting, but a little scary,” she said, her voice trembling. “What if I can’t think of anything? What if my brush freezes?” She looked up at Gizem, a hint of panic in her eyes.

Gizem smiled, feeling Beyza’s excitement within herself. “I think it’s great,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “Just think, drawing and writing... Both at the same time, with the same energy. I want to write about the town, everything I’ve been feeling since I got here. Your brush will capture the town’s colors, right?” Her eyes sparkled as she looked at Beyza, searching for a sign of relief on her face.

Beyza shrugged, pursing her lips. “Yeah, that’s what I think,” she said, her voice uncertain. “I want to paint the town’s shore, the waves, the seagulls. But... isn’t 2 hours a little short? And with the topic being a surprise, what if I draw something wrong? Everyone will see it.” She clenched her hands tightly, her breath quickening.

Gizem took a deep breath, sensing Beyza’s stress, a surge of empathy rising within her.

She placed her hand on Beyza’s shoulder, her fingers tightening gently, and looked into her eyes. “Beyza,” she said, her voice soft but strong. “Your brush already creates wonders. Look at what you’ve drawn before, each one tells a story. Time pressure won’t stop you, just let yourself flow with it. The town will come to life in your brush, I’m sure of it.” She smiled, her voice full of assurance, her eyes filled with encouragement. “No matter what the topic is, everything you create will be beautiful. Trust yourself, okay?”

Beyza paused for a moment, Gizem’s words warming her heart, a smile forming on her lips. “Do you really think so?” she said, her voice softening, her hands relaxing. “I think... You’re right. I should try.”

Gizem nodded, pulling her hand off Beyza’s shoulder. “Absolutely,” she said calmly. “I’m scared too when I write, wondering if I’ll run out of words. But then I tell myself, this is my chance. We’ll both leave a mark, Beyza.” She winked.

Beyza laughed, “Okay, I’m motivated now,” she said, a sense of relief in her voice. The two of them stood up, looking at each other. “Let’s wish each other luck,” Gizem said.

Beyza smiled, “Good luck to you too,” she said, and they both walked toward the hall.

At 10:00, the door of the A-2 hall opened. Gizem entered, her heart racing. The hall was filled with long rows, white papers, and pens laid out on the tables. A teacher—literature teacher Mr. Murat—was standing at the front. “Welcome,” he said, his voice clear. “Your topic is ‘Traces of a Memory.’ You have 1.5 hours, you may begin.” Gizem sat at her desk, pulled the paper in front of her, and took the pen in her hand. The smell of ink filled her nose. A memory... She closed her eyes, and the transition from Istanbul to the town came to her mind; saying goodbye to Zeynep, the city lights filtering through the train window, the sound of waves on the first morning in the town. The pen touched the paper, and the words started to flow: “When the train stopped that morning, with a suitcase in my hand, there was an emptiness inside me...” As she wrote, time seemed to disappear, the scratch of the pen on paper echoed in her ears, and her feelings poured onto the page—loneliness, hope, the town’s gray sky. Minutes passed, the words accumulated, and she wrote the final sentence: “And that memory became the first trace that connected me to this place.” She set down the pen, her breath quickened, and she looked at the paper, feeling both relief and curiosity: How will they find it?

In the A-1 hall, Beyza was sitting at her desk, with an easel, brushes, and paints laid out before her. Music teacher Ms. Ayşe said, “Your topic is ‘The Spirit of the Town,’ you have 2 hours, you may begin.” Beyza took the brush in her hand, the smell of paint filling her nose, her hand trembling. The town... She closed her eyes and saw the shore; the foam of the waves, the flapping wings of the seagulls, the gray sky. The brush touched the canvas, and she painted a blue wave, followed by white foam and a grayish horizon. The pressure of time was felt on her shoulders, but Gizem’s words echoed in her mind: “Let yourself flow...” Her brush sped up, seagulls soared in the sky, a fishing boat appeared on the shore, and the colors danced. In the final moments, she put down the brush, looked at the canvas, and her breath steadied. Did it work? she thought, feeling satisfaction but also expectation.

During the lunch break, the class was buzzing, everyone talking about the dance competition. Mert slapped the table and grinned. “Did you watch Pınar’s group yesterday? The energy was good, but I don’t know...” He shrugged, his eyes moving toward Pınar.

Pınar crossed her arms, pressed her lips together. “Yeah, it was good,” she said, her voice tense. “But the synchronization was off, Beste was a moment behind, Zeynep turned the wrong way. The jury gave us low scores, we got a 20. 11-B probably did better.” She rolled her eyes and slumped into her chair.

Beste leaned forward, her voice calm: "I don't think we were that bad," she said, as if to support Pınar. "The music sped up, and 'Dynamite' is already a tough song. We got applause, we had fun, that's something." She smiled, but there was disappointment in her eyes.

Zeynep fell silent, bowing her head at her desk, playing with her hands. Emre jumped in: "Yeah, we had fun, but we didn't win," he said, laughing mockingly. "Pınar managed the stage, but it was useless. Was 11-B's dance cleaner or something?"

Selin lifted her eyes, calm but sharp: "I watched, 11-B’s synchronization was good," she said. "Yours was energetic but messy. The jury might be right, but we’ll find out on Monday." She looked at Pınar, "Don't be sad, you tried," she said, her voice a consolation.

Pınar frowned, "I'm not sad," she said, but her voice trembled. "It's just... we could’ve done better." She slammed her fist on the table and fell silent. Mert laughed, "Come on, you'll win volleyball," he said, trying to lighten the mood.

Gizem thought to herself: Pınar’s angry, but Beste's right, they had fun. She met Beyza, and they sat under a tree in the yard. "How did it go?" Gizem asked, her voice full of curiosity.

Beyza smiled, "I drew the beach, seagulls, waves... But I don't know, maybe it's missing something?" she said, her eyes distant.

Gizem nodded, "Sounds great," she said, then shared her own piece: "I wrote about my move from Istanbul to here, memories... I hope they like it."

They both fell silent. "We'll wait until Monday," Beyza said, her voice impatient.

Gizem smiled, "Yeah, but I think we did a good job," she said, a sense of hope in her heart.

The works were submitted, the halls emptied, and the day ended. Gizem and Beyza grabbed their bags and began walking home, the sky turning orange, and the breeze was cool. Beyza said, "We didn’t win the dance, but we... maybe?" and smiled.

Gizem replied, "Definitely, we’ll see on Monday," her steps light.

A voice came from behind: "Hey, wait!" It was Yiğit, with a guitar bag slung over his shoulder, running to catch up, his breath quick. "Let me come with you," he said, calm but eager, his eyes on Gizem, a smile on his lips.

Beyza grinned, "Of course, champion," she said, referring to his medal.

Yiğit laughed, "That was Monday, now it's your turn," he said, looking at Gizem.

The three of them walked side by side, the conversation flying in the air.

Beyza asked, "How was it today, do you think?" her eyes on Yiğit.

Yiğit shrugged, "I was waiting in the yard while you were in the hall," he said, calmly. "But I heard about the dance, Pınar was really mad." He laughed, then turned to Gizem, "How was your summer?"

Gizem smiled, hands in her pockets, "It was good," she said, satisfaction in her voice. "The topic was 'The Traces of a Memory,' I wrote about my move from Istanbul to here. The train, the waves, the town... I hope they like it." Her eyes looked at Yiğit, waiting for his reaction.

Yiğit nodded, his dark eyes shining. "It sounds deep," he said, with admiration in his voice. "What you write... really makes you feel something, I’m sure." He smiled, and Gizem’s cheeks reddened. "Thanks," she said shyly.

Beyza jumped in, "I also drew 'The Spirit of the Town,'" she said eagerly. "The beach, seagulls, a boat... But 2 hours didn’t feel like enough." She shrugged and looked at Yiğit, "What do you think?"

Yiğit thought for a moment, then grinned. "I haven’t even seen what you drew, but the town you’re talking about is exactly that," he said calmly. "Seagulls, waves... The jury will definitely like it."

Beyza laughed, "I hope so," she said, feeling relieved.

The conversation continued, Yiğit said, "We got music on Monday, but dance... We’ll have to calm Pınar down," he laughed.

Gizem said, "Yeah, she was really mad in class," she smiled. "But maybe they’ll win volleyball."

Yiğit nodded, "They’ll win, Pınar doesn’t give up," he said, his eyes on Gizem. "Will you continue with writing?"

Gizem paused, the sound of waves filled her ears. "I don’t know," she said, her voice soft. "Music, writing... both seem to express who I am." She looked at Yiğit, "Are you always like this with music?"

Yiğit laughed, "Yeah, I grew up with a guitar," he said calmly. "I used to play on the beach, to match with the waves. Just like your drums." He winked, Gizem's heart raced, "Maybe one day we’ll play together again," he said, shyly.

Beyza grinned, "You were great on stage," she said, giving an insightful look. "It’s been talked about since Monday."

Yiğit replied, "The group was good, that’s all," but his eyes lingered on Gizem. Gizem fell silent, her cheeks flushed, the sound of the waves filled the conversation.