With my time at Magnet coming to a close, I found it proper that I would return to my humble beginnings for my last article. In particular, I am here to speak of the great travesty that occurred freshman year with my group’s aquaponics project. In all honesty, I had forgotten about this until Jenny Yao, a former group member, requested that I write something about it. In order to honor her and our beloved fish Sparkles, Skanky, Philippe, Stacy, Jessie, Jessie’s Girl, Shakira, Bubbles, and Water.

Let’s start off by setting the stage. The year was 2014, and life was good. I arrived at school that fateful morning wearing my freshest pair of Nike elite socks and made my way to class. Suddenly, I heard a horrific scream that immediately made me wish I’d brought extra pants to school. I rushed to Mr. McCormick’s back room to find Jenny on the floor, sobbing, a single finger pointing at where our aquaponics project sat. The tank’s design was perfect, it was built by the Pharaoh, filled with Poseidon’s water, and blessed by the Pope. But now, on top of our formerly crystal clear water sat a thin layer of green cleaning spray. With astonishment I reached my finger into the green goo, then smelled it. That was a mistake. What hit me next was the strong scent of ammonia and crushed dreams. Slowly the world around me faded to black as I realized what it was, and the last thing I remember was the thud of my own head on the floor. I awoke in the nurse’s office in someone else’s underwear with a tissue shoved up each nostril. Then came the nurse with the bad news, not only had I soiled myself but our fish had died as well. The next day we held the funeral, with Jenny and my fellow group members carrying out the 21 gun salute as I flushed our hard work to eternal life in fish heaven. For the rest of the year, I spent each day looking over my shoulder, wondering who wanted me dead and why. As years passed, I developed PTSD, and to this day I can’t see a fish without running to the corner of the room and sobbing for exactly 13 minutes. Even though we were allowed to cut our project short and enjoy the rest of our year, I still spent every day thinking of the possible suspects. Was it an accident by the cleaning crew? Was it Mr. McCormick in a fit of rage about something? Was it me in a stupor? Was it, I dare say, Mr. Corson? We don’t know, and maybe we never will, but a great man once said the best way to remember is to not forget.

I’ve reviewed all of the suspects in this case, and they all have alibis as clean as the Spic and Span that killed our precious aquatic friends. Hopefully that guy who claimed to be a PI that I paid $3000 to found something and he’ll let me know soon. In the meantime, I mourn the failures of the criminal justice system.