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Colleges and Universities A-Z University of Chicago ✅
141

<p>I did the table essay...</p>

<p>As the Table Turns</p>

<p>My world revolves around dinner, so my ideal table would be a doughnut-shaped Lazy Susan that reciprocates the feeling. The center of the table (the doughnut hole) would remain still while the outer ring (the doughnut itself) would rotate. People would sit facing each other on the static center and the eternally mobile ring. When I say the table rotates, I do not mean it spins like a cheap bed in a Vegas hotel room, but it moves imperceptibly slowly so that a diner will face the person originally to his/her left after forty-five minutes. To have coherent conversations with people, I cannot start talking then be six seats over after a few minutes, but an overly long discussion can become repetitive, and only the table is allowed to be circular.
On an evening when SAT studying has not abducted any of us, I and my five close friends could sit and laugh while also discussing more serious subjects like how college has become life, the universe, and everything. After an hour and a half, the now rotated table would make talking awkward, so we say goodbye. As they return to their families, mine would just be arriving, with my slightly senile grandma already ranting about how they should not be giving Hispanic names like Alberto to our hurricanes.
My sarcasm seeps out of me as I reply, “I did not realize that America now owns the weather.”
My brother, a.k.a. devil’s advocate, chimes in, “You could make an argument that we do in fact own hurricanes since our meteorologists name and thus claim them before all other countries do.”
And make an argument he would. At about the time the other people at the table get sick of our endless battle, the table would prevent my brother and I from speaking anymore, and thus we move on to new victims. Once people began to see old faces, family time would end, but the night would not. Though my older brother loves inciting conflict, later in the night when I join him in eating leftovers, I join a very different him. This David shares his bizarre dreams with me:
“I was standing on a battleship that was floating because gravity was reversed. When I asked how we could stand on deck if gravity was distorted, the captain told me not to question it.”
I tease, “It seems that you subconsciously want to turn the army upside down. I hope your mentor knows that before he gives you that internship with the war colleges…”
After an hour, my spinning doughnut would make talking uncomfortable, and we both would be too tired to move, so we would go off to dream dreams to discuss on future nights.
When I feel lonely, I can always cheer myself up by remembering “hoodles” (a cross between a poodle and a horse that came into being while looking at clouds and snacking on Triscuits) or any other inside joke my friends and I have created over all our shared meals. Conflict makes a powerful impression as well, for having my talking time limited would motivate me to hone my debating skills in order to be especially clear and concise. Also, to be the champion of this quirky table, I would have to thoroughly know my own views as well as the views of my foes in order to ready myself to counter their claims. I could not predict having to know the international laws of the naming/ownership of hurricanes, but previously collected information allowed me to make an effective argument. Debate rouses a desire to become more educated, but seemingly banal discussions supply much of that education. I do not seem to be gaining wisdom when my aunt regales me with the plot of As the World Turns at dinner. However, at least I do not ignorantly insult soap operas for being unrealistic, for I am informed in my criticism. Even so, one of those lowly shows inspired the title of this essay, so even the seemingly trivial information has some value. Life is just a compilation of knowledge, so why not make living easier by dining at my table?</p>

<p>Anyone think the quote from my slightly senile/racist grandmother was too offensive? My mother thought it was a little risky, but it's her mother, so she is a little biased.</p>

142

<p>I did option four. PM me with your email anyone who wants to read it.</p>

143

<p>i wrote mine about looking for ice cream with my boyfriend (...in the essay he is referred to as "close friend") on a lazy Sunday afternoon. this related to the picture essay, and i was accepted. :-)</p>

144

<p>missBarbara that sounds interesting. and congratulations. do you mind posting it?</p>

145

<p>Very impressive essays.</p>

146

<p>gouchicago, that was a very thoughtful, well-written essay. why did you take it off? lol luckily I subscribed to this thread via email. otherwise i would have missed it completely</p>

147

<p>format didnt work</p>

148

<p>Before you read it, please note that some of the numbers are supposed to be like a^2 , a squared, and it loooks like a times 2 because i cant paste superscripts onto this forums comment box.
so its like a to the nth power b to the nth power...blah blah.</p>

<p>In the numerically significant year of 1637, Pierre de Fermat proposed a theorem that would become the bane of existence of thousands of future mathematicians. Simply stated, it proclaimed that</p>

<p>"If an integer n is greater than 2, then the equation an + bn = cn has</p>

<p>no solutions in non-zero integers a, b, and c."</p>

<p>Ring a bell? Maybe because it is a remix of the most sounded tune in the history of mathematics: the Pythagorean Theorem. </p>

<p>At first glance, the proof of this theorem seems to be at the grasp of a highly accomplished 5th grader (a mediocre 6th grader at most). Upon a closer look however, this theorem becomes quite a puzzle for any reader. "Why", one asks, "does this work for n=2 but not for any other integer? Why can't I figure this out!?" This perfectly balanced yet elusive world of mathematics is the characteristic upon which it is founded.</p>

<p>One could propose a comparison between this puzzle and my application to the University of Chicago. Weeks from now, this essay, along with the rest of my polished profile, will be sitting in an office among thousands of other thick folders. Fermat's theorem relates directly to this scenario. Why is it that for countless applicants with stellar SAT scores and identical GPA's there will be a big fat R on the manila folder with their name on it? Why is it that for EVERY OTHER NUMBER in the universe besides two, this formula is not valid? For every acceptance letter in the mail, it seems that there will be an infinite number of instances in which a rejection letter is opened and anguished over by those who feel betrayed and circumvented by what was to them a perfect fate. What does it really take to replicate the moment when impossibility becomes attainable?</p>

<p>Throughout my own journey to prove myself the perfect college applicant, I have discovered that my proof is not mathematically conclusive. In the geometric cosmos, digital perfection is what provides an absolute solution. Since the beginning of high school, I have resisted the enticing desire to change my mentality from a humanistic perspective into that of a graph lying on a 2-dimensional Cartesian coordinate plane in which numerical accomplishments are the sole keys to happiness. This essay is not a justification of my achievements, or lack thereof, but rather a statement arguing that in the much more flawed world of man, the human factor is an infinitely more vital element than perfection of numbers. </p>

<p>I am not a robot programmed to precision. I do not raise my hand in class expecting to give the right answer every time, but hoping preferably to provide strangely insightful and humorous incorrect observations. I do not write for the sake of using defectless grammar, but rather to express what it is that afflicts me. I do not embark on a journey to travel without tribulation, but instead to learn what errors I have committed along the way. If the University of Chicago accepts me for its class of 2012, they are not admitting a being lacking imperfections, but an inexact, mortal illustration of the harmony existing in the algebraic universe of a2+ b2 = c2.</p>

149

<p>Wow, beefs. I really liked your essay :)</p>

150

<p>gouchicago: What, exactly, is Miss Silvetris "risking"? Can't exactly plagiarize if it's past the deadline now.</p>

151

<p>much appreciated mshp</p>

152

<p>Right... my mistake...:)</p>

153

<p>Phew, I was wondering if people could still submit essays and steal mine or something. Like anyone would want it, but it's the possibility that counts :P</p>

154

<p>Hello fellow UChicago applicants...I have applied RD, and without further ado, here is my (rather outlandish) main work for the indescribable university that is Chicago. Feel free to comment; it would ease my anxiousness as to whether this essay is any good or not... I responded to the "create a story using these elemnets" essay option #4. Without further ado...</p>

<p>“Shel Silverstein Meets Batman By Means of a Paper Airplane (Not Magic Carpet) Ride” by: phoenix17</p>

<pre><code>It was a cold and wet November dawn, and there was nothing but emptiness to dwell upon. And Bruce Wayne was dwelling upon that emptiness as he perused the grounds of Hyde Park and the University of Chicago. Wayne, a.k.a. “Batman,” a superhero without a superpower to his name, sauntered along, baffled by his own paradoxical Justice League status. Perhaps more perplexing, however, was the complex mathematical problem proposed to Batman three days prior by his arch nemesis, the Riddler.
Wayne stared blankly at the devastated slice of tree bark in his hand, previously folded into the shape of a Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor fighter jet. And what stared back at him was a triangle, but not just any triangle. A triangle with a small square inscribed in one corner. One side of the triangle was labeled with length “3” and the other with length “4.” And Batman’s seemingly insurmountable task was to find the length of the third and longest side. With one scribbling of a Dixon Ticonderoga number two pencil (Black Edition, of course), the Riddler had finally created a problem that the famed dark knight of Gotham simply could not solve. “Alfred couldn’t even figure this one out, and he’s the smartest butler I know,” Bruce thought to himself.
All of Wayne’s previous efforts to solve the problem had failed. Thus he was left to agonize over the question himself, unless he could find someone to help him solve it. He remembered that the Riddler had given him one clue as to who this person might be. “El Pythagoro,” had been the name he was given, but being unversed in the Spanish tongue, Batman had little idea what the name might mean. Suddenly, an idea struck him. “Pythagoro sounds an awful lot like Picasso,” he thought to himself. “Perhaps the answer lies in one of his works of art.” Inspired by his Da Vinci Code-like intuition, Wayne quickly decided to jump in the Batmobile and head to the famed Art Institute of Chicago to see if he could unearth some clue as to the solving of the incredibly complex conundrum that he now carried in his pocket alongside his “Proud to Be a Chemist” pocket-size periodic table of the elements.
As Batman prepared to depart from the University of Chicago campus, he admired the important-looking Gothic architecture surrounding him. “Looks an awful lot like my house,” he mused. As he attempted to inconspicuously hop into his famed vehicle, Wayne was suddenly approached by three young boys, all bearing pens and paper. “Knew I should have driven my other car,” he muttered to himself. “Batman, Batman, will you sign autographs for us?” the boys inquired. “Alright,” he replied reluctantly. “Batman, will you sign my paper,” one of the boys asked again. “And yes I said yes I will Yes,” Bruce cried, this time a bit annoyed. “B-A-T-M-A-N, there you go big guy.” His cover now blown, Batman hustled back to his automobile and sped off in the direction of downtown Chicago.
Upon arriving at the Art Institute of Chicago, Wayne set his mind once again on his current mission: to find the one man who could solve the Riddler’s most difficult riddle yet. He entered through the main entrance, featuring three sets of double doors on the exterior. “If you divide the six doors on the outside by three, that would give you two doors,” he thought. His own mathematical prowess amazed him as he began to observe the fantastic works of art on display. One particular work stood out to him as he glanced from one to another. The plaque beneath it read “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte,” by Georges Seurat.
</code></pre>

<p>“Ah, the most famous work in the history of pointillism,” Bruce said to himself. “Actually, I believe the correct term is ‘Neo-Impressionism’ Mr. Wayne.”
Batman wheeled around, only to be confronted with the face of everyone’s favorite Muppet, Kermit the Frog.
“What the…” Bruce exclaimed.
“Haha, gotcha Batman.” Out from behind Kermit’s body popped the face of Terry Fator. “Oh, I know you,” Bruce said. “You’re that ventriloquist who won season two of ‘America’s Got Talent.’ I love that show.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Fator proclaimed matter-of-factly.
“Hey, maybe you can help me with this problem here in my pocket,” said Bruce. “It’s a problem from the Riddler, and the only clue he gave me was that the man who could help me solve it bore the name “El Pythagoro.”
“Why, ‘El Pythagoro’ is the Spanish name of Shel Silverstein,” announced Mr. Fator. “He was born right here in Chicago and still resides in the house where the sidewalk ends. Go there, and you will see a light in the attic. There you will find Mr. Shel Silverstein.”
Racing down the street in his car (more like tank), Batman found the house with a light in the attic where the sidewalk ended. He rap-rap-rapped at Mr. Silverstein’s door, and when it opened, he was met with the face of a man that had seen much in his lifetime. “El Pythagoro, I need your help.”
Mr. Wayne simply held the piece of paper out in front of him. Recognizing the problem immediately, Shel said to Mr. Wayne, “Ah, of course. Let me explain it in the simplest way I know how. Let’s say you had three giraffes in one group, and four giraffes in another, and you spread the animals from head to toe in two different directions, forming a ninety degree angle between them. You would have one line of three giraffes and another line of four giraffes. Now, say you wanted to know how many giraffes you would have to place from end to end in order to connect the two lines of giraffes to each other. I suppose you could figure this out by squaring the number of giraffes on each of the two shorter sides, adding these two numbers together, and raising that result to the one half power. In this case, you would have 9+16=25 giraffes, of which the square root is 5. The answer is five giraffes.”
Simply blown away by this explanation, Batman began to weep openly for the end of innocence and for the loss of that faithful friend Robin.
“Thank you, Shel Silverstein. Thank you.”
As the Dark Knight began to walk out into the dark night, he turned around to see the home where the sidewalk ended one more time. And as he looked back, the light went out in the attic.</p>

155

<p>phoenix17: Not bad. Your style is pretty good but a lot of the puns and plot would go straight over a lot of heads. I hope you get in!</p>

156

<p>IT</p>

<pre><code> Impulses rushed through my brain. A singular euphoria filled my heart as I pondered what had unfolded that night. It was at that moment that I felt compelled to…write! It was as if a jolt of electricity thundered and boiled my blood. A boiling that would not subside until my message was cemented via the synapses of my brain onto the tattered sketch paper that rested on the desk in my bedroom. The uncanny jolt had only occurred once before. It was this past summer when I was working in Minnesota at a crane and hoist business. The evolution of that single jolt was seemingly exponential. Half a page one summer night grew into more than two hundred-pages, ranging from the intricate fabrication of hydraulic hoists to the deep subconscious battles individuals struggle through externally and internally.

Three months later, I was lying in my bed and the electricity began flowing in a similar fashion as did this past summer. On this night I wrote about a profound discussion, rather vaguely to protect the confidentiality of my friends, which laid the grounds for the purpose of my life, hinting at my strong connection to God and my burning desire to learn. It was in those forty-five minutes that my hand became a conduit once again. Whatever the format, the style, or manner in which I wrote, “it” all seemed irrelevant. “It” isn’t a word I necessarily like to use. Simply describing the impreciseness of “it” is rather difficult. “It” is vague and imprecise. Nevertheless, this “it” was emotion and intellect manifest; it was all that mattered to me and I had to write. “It” was a necessary evil.

(Genesis of night) “It” was a subconscious knowledge, a revelation that lay hidden deep, underneath the voices of four teenagers. Four pensive minds, three of my closest friends and me sat around a large oak table. One was a humorous Middle-Eastern young man, another was a vibrant, magnetic extrovert, and the other was a sensitive, introspective, politically charged individual. We discussed the past and future at great length that night. Intimate personal and family anecdotes were shared. Much of the discussion centered on the fears held deep within, the future, and life. The progression of thought and conversation manifested emotions and revelations both new and old. The diversity in background and thought was palpably united under one ideal, to venerate the concept of understanding. The moments in the discussion afflicted with uncertainty and despair were the times that my thoughts elucidated many misconceptions and shed uncommon light and hope. This was not of me. I merely acted as conduit in which I could actively feel the Holy Spirit working through and in me. I knew not the future and all of its intricacies nor the origins of the past, but rather I knew the purpose of life. I tell the truth to whoever reads this, this feeling is beyond love, and nevertheless it is a byproduct of love, the greatest love. A feeling that humbles yet invigorates the soul and mind to share and learn. Faith is magical. Without faith, there is a void in the hollows of the body; this void can never be bridged. I know this because even at my young age I have seen it. I can SEE it, agonizingly. This is what I fear most. I used to tell myself that I wrote in fear of forgetting; however, this fear I see weighs on me ten thousand times more. I need to help those that I love, and those that I do not.

I have found that the past, present, and futures can be viewed in a different light, an omniscient divine light. Instead of predicting or evaluating problems in the context of time, it is far more beneficial to view problems and solutions similar to what Carl Jung describes as a “collective unconscious”. The polarizing effects of this country and the world’s problems are inevitable but a simple change in mindset would propagate much good. Instigating change is the universal purpose of education. My purpose in life however, is not to “convert” anyone. Rather my purpose in life is to understand how my life and the lives of others affect one another. Through education and the help of God, I will know how to better understand, act, and ultimately succeed. I know this because I feel it deep in my heart; within it rests a burning desire to excel and glorify God through my actions.(Conclusion of night)

Life can be beautiful in it's imperfections. Although we are all imperfect it is through the interaction and bond with other people that we are able to grow and learn. My father often talks to me about the thresholds of perfection in woodworking. Articulating the fact that while machines and technology can theoretically make two things perfect, nothing in reality ever is. “It” symbolizes human nature’s lust for wanting what we can not have, perfection. My imperfection in writing, thought, actions, or any other facet of life is a constant reminder of life’s flaws; nevertheless a necessary evil. “It” is necessary for birth, growth, and death. Life is “IT”. It is all we have on earth. “It” is universal. “It” is flawed. “It” is beautiful.
</code></pre>

157

<p>phoenix17, i really like your essay. the U of C is the only university that will truly appreciate your whackiness. :)</p>

158

<p>You've written a great essay! The way you used "And yes I said yes I will Yes" was just too funny and unique. I would be surprised if you didn't make it with such a wonderful essay.</p>

159

<p>This is the story essay for regular decision...</p>

<p>Before my eleventh birthday, I never quite understood what made Life quite so good. However, on the eve of my eleventh year, I had an experience that would change my worldview forever. Like many tales of discovery, this one starts on a cold, dark winter night…
I was sound asleep when I heard the crash outside my window. I rose to investigate, but all I saw before I blacked out was a flash of purple and what looked like stitches. Hours later, I awoke to the smell of chocolate and the incessant, nonsensical ramblings of my caretaker. Random machinery clung to his body, held in place by thousands of stitches, marring his purple skin and colossal head. I watched as he muttered to himself, “Master yes I did good yes he’ll be pleased yes me get big reward yes.” I sat and listened to his mutterings for what seemed like hours before I heard a horrifying screech. At that signal, my jailor picked me up, placing my face near his strawberry-scented stomach, and, to my terror, ran to answer his master.<br>
The smell of chocolate in the master’s abode was overwhelming, dulling all my other senses. As he turned to face me, I gasped in recognition. The master was none other than Count Chocula, the most evil of the breakfast cereal barons. With ample theatrics, he confirmed my suspicions: “Velcome to Choculvania! I am the great Count Chocula. You’ve already met my assistant, Frankenberry.” The creature called Frankenberry jumped at the sound of his name, asking, “Master pleased yes I did good yes?” The Count turned and slapped the pathetic beast as he exclaimed, “I told you he vas to be unharmed, you stupid brute!” Somehow, I felt pity for Frankenberry as he whimpered in the corner. “Now Mikey, you may be vondering vhy I invited you to my castle,” he continued. “I have brought you here for von reason and von reason only: you are to tell me the secret of Life cereal.” He laughed maniacally as he stated his demands, assured of his dominance.<br>
I had never been told the actual secret to Life’s simple, but fantastic flavor, but I did know where to find it. I told him the secret to Life was in the heart of an American university—the University of Chicago, to be exact. Immediately, Count Chocula began plotting a means to find Life’s secret and achieve complete control over the highly competitive breakfast cereal market. “First, ve’ll fly to Stockholm,” he announced, “and from there, ve’ll advance to Chicago and to my ultimate conquest!”<br>
In my haste to return to my cozy bed, I asked him, “Why would we fly to Stockholm first? Wouldn’t that take us longer?” “No, you stupid boy,” he smugly responded, “The fastest vay to Chicago is through Stockholm!”<br>
I then explained to him as clearly as I knew how the folly of his logic: “Think about it this way,” I began as I drew a small map. “We are here, in Choculvania. Now then, let’s say that Jim Morrison is in Chicago and Robby Krieger is in Stockholm. So, it’s us and the two Doors. We’ll call the line between Choculvania and Chicago ‘Count Morrison,’ the line between Choculvania and Stockholm ‘Robby Chocula,’ and the line between Stockholm and Chicago ‘Jim Krieger.’ Now, because Jim Krieger and Robby Chocula are perpendicular to one another, the triangle created by the three cities is a right triangle. Thus, Robby Chocula squared plus Jim Krieger squared is equal to Count Morrison squared. This proves that the fastest route to Chicago is not through Stockholm, but straight along the line, Count Morrison.”
I could tell from the Count’s perplexed expression that he did not understand a word of my mathematical proof, but he believed me nonetheless and agreed to fly straight to Chicago. However, the obvious then struck me on the head: we did not have any planes. How on earth would we get to Chicago? Even if Count Chocula could turn into a bat, he couldn’t possibly carry both Frankenberry and me, could he? What would I do if he left me in the castle all alone? I had to go with him. When I questioned the Count, he glared at me. “Ve vampires, the noblest of the nobility, do NOT turn into bats,” he howled. “Ve are carried, as any aristocratic being should be! Frankenberry, reveal Market!” Hoping to avoid a beating, Frankenberry muttered, “And yes I said yes I will yes,” as he grabbed a handful of cocoa powder and tossed it into the air. When it fell, it revealed the outline of a gargantuan invisible hand, hovering in mid-air. “This is Market, my loyal servant,” the Count explained. “Due to the high demand for his kind and its short supply, it vas very difficult to find a price for him, but it eventually evened out. I had to trade more chocolate than I like to remember for him. Nevertheless, it vas vorth every penny. Market!” he shouted, “Take us to the University of Chicago!” Market rose up into the air, scooped up the three of us and flew off into the night.<br>
When we arrived in Chicago the next evening, the Count wasted no time getting to the University. Once we reached the University’s crest in the heart of Reynolds Hall, I stood anxiously as I realized I did not know how to unlock the secret. However, as if by some twist of fate, a paper airplane landed on the large, golden eagle in the center of the floor. Count Chocula grabbed the paper airplane and quickly unfolded it to read its hidden message. He scoffed at its contents and threw it to the ground. “YOU LIED TO ME BOY!” he screamed, “Tell me vat the secret to Life cereal is or I’ll make you vish you vere never born!” When I didn’t answer, he cried out in desperation, “Vat is the secret element? Is it sodium? Calcium? Potassium?” As I averted my gaze in fear, I saw it: the answer to all my problems. Lying not two feet away was the crumpled up paper airplane and written on it was the secret to Life: “Harry heart Sally.” “I know the secret to Life!” I exclaimed. “Life is not about fear but love, the concept of jeong if you will. Life cereal is sweet because it is made with love.” “Love?” roared the Count, “That vishy-vashy emotion is your secret? Frankenberry, kill the boy.” As the Count turned and walked away, he heard a word come out of Frankenberry’s mouth that was more frightening than any he had heard before: “No.” A long pause. “I’ve said yes far too many times, Count Chocula. Mikey is right: love is the key. You have terrorized me for far too long.” With that, Frankenberry, that horrible abomination of a monster, transformed into an aging Irish man with a short, white beard. “Master Stoker?!” the Count shrieked as he quivered with fear. The man called Bram Stoker approached the shaking Count and whispered with a quiet power, “This is not what you were meant to become, my creation. You were meant only to inspire imaginary terror, never to cause actual pain. Your survival endangers too many other innocent souls.” Bram Stoker, Count Chocula’s creator, then proceeded to pull out his number two pencil and literally erase Count Chocula from existence.<br>
To this day, I don’t quite understand the events that occurred over those few days. I never heard from Count Chocula or his minions ever again, and sometimes I wonder if maybe it was all an elaborate dream. Regardless, my experience with the Count taught me the most valuable lesson I would ever learn. Happiness does not develop from fear, but from love. I learned the secret of Life, and you know what? I like it!</p>

160

<p>Modern improvisational comedy had its start with The Compass Players, a group of
University of Chicago students, who later formed the Second City comedy troupe.
Here is a chance to play along. Improvise a story, essay, or script that meets all of
the following requirements:
· It must include the line “And yes I said yes I will Yes” (Ulysses, by James
Joyce).
· Its characters may not have superpowers.
· Your work has to mention the University of Chicago, but please, no accounts
of a high school student applying to the University–this is fiction, not
autobiography.
· Your work must include at least four of the following elements:
o a paper airplane
o a transformation
o a shoe
o the invisible hand
o two doors
o pointillism
o a fanciful explanation of the Pythagorean Theorem
o a ventriloquist or ventriloquism
o the Periodic Table of the Elements
o the concept of jeong
o number two pencils</p>

<p>I don’t know why I am narrating this to you, or even why you should read it. All I know
is that this is a legend no one (save me of course) knows. You may wish to believe it, or
you may not wish to do so, but one thing is for sure, you cannot ignore it, for it is and
always will be a legend.
It all started one sultry afternoon in the University of Chicago. Students were lazing
around in the Main Quad, some strolling arm in arm, and some, well… just lazing
around. Some were fervently flipping themselves after every minute, ‘like pancakes’
thought Harry, sitting alone on a stone bench. Nothing could cheer him up, he thought to
himself. Not even Neville Longbottom, who seemed to be walking with his wand
between his bottoms. He had done it again and he knew that it would be very difficult for
him to wriggle out of it this time, unlike the last, when he had gifted a chart of Periodic
Table of the Elements to Dumbledore and got away with it. He wondered if a box of
number 2 pencils would do the trick this time… and before he realized it, he dozed off…
yes, right there in the middle of the Main Quad…
2
Trying to catch some sleep in the class didn’t prove to be more helpful, thought Harry,
drooling over a used copy of The Republic of Plato. Wait a minute. Wasn’t this supposed
to be math class? Even professor Bloch’s lecture wouldn’t help.
“Imagine yourself to be a quarterback in a game of football. Your legs are the
perpendicular and base respectively and the distance between your legs is the
hypotenuse.” He chortled.
What happened next wouldn’t, either. The door of the classroom (there were two, the
other led to the lavatory, or was it the laboratory?) suddenly crashed open, revealing the
strangest thing Harry had ever seen. Harry couldn’t believe his eyes, how could it have
escaped from Azkaban?
“That’s a paper airplane!” cried a student.
“It’s a bird!” said another.
“That’s Libby Pearson!” voiced a third. “Oh no it isn’t!” screamed Libby over a pile of
applications. She apparently wasn’t impressed.
“Of course it isn’t…” said a girl with more freckles than face… “That’s Lord
Voldemort!”
“Phew! Finally! The end of the series hasn’t helped, eh?” said Voldemort from atop the
table. Turns out that a big table in the center of the class doesn’t help.
Harry reached for his left ear and pulled out his wand. Too late… Voldemort had already
begun making his way outside the class. He was halfway through to the Harper Quad
when Harry spotted him through the window and charged out himself. It took him a while
to reach there and he thought he saw Voldemort waving to him, sitting at the base of the
Linné statue. Probably that was his imagination. Probably it was not. Either way, that was
the last he saw of him…
Or so he thought… Voldemort was standing right on top of the to the Bond Chapel.
Harry gathered that the only way to stop him would be to chase him out of the campus,
which seemed highly unlikely, as Voldemort had fallen for UChicago more than the
anxious high schoolers touring the campus (“Mom, I swear I saw you-know-who in Cobb
Hall!”). Harry decided to lure him into following him and then somehow trick him out of
campus. He transformed into Dumbledore and began to wave his obnoxiously sequined
hat in front of Voldemort’s nose. The plan had worked, thought Harry, when Voldemort
tried to jinx him. Luckily it missed him by inches and hit the statue of a phoenix squarely
in the chest. This didn’t seem to work…
“Accio firebolt!” screamed Harry at the top of his voice and within seconds, a sleek
broomstick began to make its way towards him, breaking (yet) another phoenix statue.
Harry jumped onto the broomstick and started for the Botany pond at full speed.
3
Voldemort was quick to notice and launched himself into the air by virtue of the
Weasley’s Extra Life Jetpack (For witches and wizards who JUST can’t manouvre a
broomstick). But Harry was too swift for any of Voldemort’s contraptions. So swift, in
fact that he could barely watch where he was going. For a moment, he thought he saw
Ron and Hermione cozying up on the C-bench. Just a dream, he thought and sped on.
Once above the Botany pond, he realized there was little he could do other than
attempting a wronski feint and expecting Voldemort to follow suit. But they were not
alone that fateful day. Charging at them from another broomstick was…
“Sirius Black!” the students of UChicago said in unision.
Sirius winked at Harry and signalled him to follow him. Sirius began to fly to the Social
Sciences Quad. Although Harry was not quite sure of what he was doing, he followed.
Voldemort too came along, but his jetpack was soon chugging, indicating that it was
about to expire. Sirius then began to detour from the Social Sciences Quad but Voldemort
was too quick for him. He pulled out his wand and directed a curse at Sirius with full
force. Too forceful, as it turned out. Sirius fell from over fifty feet in the air and hit the
ground below with a thud.
Harry knew he had to carry on and sped back to the Botany pond, with Voldemort at his
tail. Once there, he began to descend slowly, but before he could touch the water, he sped
up into the air. His feet just brushed against the water but Voldemort wasn’t nearly as
fortunate. His Jetpack betrayed him at the last moment and he went staright into the pond.
Harry wasted no time and pulled out his wand and selaed the pond with a thin, but solid
sheet of ice and ran back to check on Sirius.
“Are you all right, Sirius?” he said, looking at Sirius who was apparently not in the
highest of spirits.
“And yes I said yes I will Yes.” Blabbered Sirius.
“Eh? You’re out of your mind Sirius.”
And saying so, he escorted Sirius back to the Maclean dorm, and thus ended that fateful
day.
So if you ever happen to see a man painted green from head to toe, with slits for nostrils,
thin red eyes and a canary yellow jetpack which bears the words “Up and at ‘em!” on it’s
front, staring at you from below the frozen Botany pond, you know exactly who it is.</p>