2004 - Mississippi School for Mathematics and Science

small personal catalog and began scanningthrough it.“Jaye Harrison,” she finally read, thenlooked to us. “Brought in for a fatal heartattack.”She pressed a button.“He has a replacement cataloged, but it willtake a couple hours to create a spare before weput in the replacement.”“When will he be out?” my mother askedbluntly, her pursed lips causing a web of linesto shoot out from the corners of her mouth.“The surgery will take an hour at the leastand he will be released at the end of the day.”“Yeah, thanks. I’ll be looking forward to thebills,” she said as we walked away.The secretary seemed to have taken nooffense because when I glanced back she hadalready busied herself with other things anddiscarded my father’s catalog to the corner ofher desk.My mother and I walked back outside tocatch the next tram. I’d be an hour late forclasses. She didn’t seem worried.When we reached the school she sent mein without an excuse. The office secretarymarked my tardiness with a large red T on myschedule then sent me to classes.I sat for hours through the tedious lectures,the monotonous drone of the professor’s voice.I dozed off for half of one class and woketo my red-faced professor looming above me. Iwas assigned a ten-page report on the historyof genetics in the twenty-second century, due intwo days.I dragged myself through the next class andan exam in my last period. I was afraid to scanmy test, knowing I wouldn’t get a high mark. Iwas right.After classes, I picked up some books fromthe Archives Hall for my report then caught thetram home.When I walked in the door, a smell alertedmy senses. It wasn’t the sour-smelling gas fromthe morning but more like the smell of hospitals,that opened your nostrils and lung with aburning sensation.I passed my parents’ room and glancedinside. Under the thin blue-gray thermal blanketa body lay on his side with his back to thedoor. A patch of tousled, thinning pale blondehair stuck out from the blanket. The bodyheaved up and down with slow, raspingbreaths.THE CHRIS READ AWARD FOR FICTIONThe Chris Read Award for Fiction, instituted with the 1994 issue of Southern Voices, honors amember of the Mississippi School for Mathematics and Science’s Class of 1991. ChristopherDavid Read was an active leader at MSMS as a member of Emissaries, the Debate Club, andthe Southern Voices staff. Chris’s first love, however, was writing. Southern style.Chris often wove his Southern tales late at night. Chris would compose either on thecomputer or on (his favorite) the old, brown Royal typewriter he had bought from the pawnshop down 13th Street South. Faking sleep, I would watch the grin on Chris’s face as heworked out the next great story. When he finished, Chris would always “wake me” and excitedlyread his new story to me. He never knew that I had been hiding, watching his creativeprocess with admiration. I was not the only one to admire Chris’s work. This award stands astestimony to the admiration that we all held for Chris and his work and as a memorial tothe Southern writing tradition which Chris loved.Chris had the potential to become a great writer. Unfortunately, Chris never reached thispotential: he was killed in a car wreck on January 17, 1993. Though Chris will never attainhis dream of writing a great novel, all of those who loved and respected Chris hope that therecipient of this Award, as well as all the other aspiring writers at MSMS, will achieve theirdreams.Michael D. GoggansClass of 1991S V3 2