Berkeley Carroll is thrilled to congratulate Gia O. ’30 on her outstanding achievement in this year’s Scholastic Art & Writing Awards! Among our many talented student writers recognized in the New York Regional competition this year, Gia stands out as the only BC student to receive a National Medal, earning a prestigious Silver Medal for her humor piece, The Great Couch Conspiracy.

Gia’s work, already impressive on the regional level, earned her multiple awards for pieces including poetry, dramatic script, short story, and critical essay. But it was her lighthearted and clever humor piece, inspired by real events and focusing on a young girl’s ongoing rivalry with her living room couch, that caught the judges’ eye.

“I thought they would pick one of my more mature, dramatic pieces,” Gia said. “I was surprised they chose the humor one.” But, in my opinion, the judges definitely got it right, and The Great Couch Conspiracy—filled with missing pens, stolen remote controls, and rediscovered memories—is both hilarious, sweet, and smart. And now… award winning!

Congratulations, Gia! We can’t wait to read what you have for us next.

The Great Couch Conspiracy 

by Gia O. '30

Everyone knows that couches are living beings. Yep, you heard me. Don’t give me that look. It’s obvious. Why else would they steal your spare change, eat your TV remote, and swallow your phone whole? Think about it. You drop a potato chip, and, poof, it’s gone. They’re like the Bermuda Triangle of the living room. The Grand Canyon of the family room. The black hole of… Okay, you get it. They’re monsters.

I first suspected something was off when I was seven. I had this purple glitter pen that I loved more than I love myself now. One day, I’m using it to draw a mustache on my 1-year old little brother’s face (as one does), and then the doorbell rings. I toss the pen on the couch, answer the door, and… no pen. I even checked the cushions like a civilized human being before resorting to flipping the whole couch upside down like a deranged monkey on a sugar rush. And it was just gone.

That’s when I knew: Couch was a thief. A sneaky, squishy bandit in broad daylight. After the pen debacle, I decided to keep a closer eye on it. I set traps, left snacks around it to see if they’d disappear, even talked to it (like those people in documentaries who swear they’ve seen Bigfoot). But nothing worked. My pen was gone, swallowed up into the deep, dark void of Couch.

Now, years later, I’m sitting here on my trusty-but-shady Couch, wondering what else it’s taken over the years. My sanity, for one. My socks, for sure. There’s a good chance it’s holding my social life hostage too.

The final straw came last week. I’m doing the classic couch potato thing, eating chips, watching The Bachelor, wondering why these women fight over a guy who can’t even pronounce “charcuterie” correctly, and then, as if by magic, my phone slips out of my hand and into the cushions. I reach in, expecting to find it wedged between a Dorito and a dust bunny, but instead, my hand brushes against something cold, something metallic. I pull it out, and would you believe it? It’s my purple glitter pen. 

I blink. Couch has had it all these years. It’s been hiding it from me. But why return it now? Is this some kind of peace offering? An apology? Or is Couch just playing mind games with me, luring me into a false sense of security before it goes in for the kill? 

And then I realize- this is war. Couch has underestimated me, thinking I’d just take my pen and go back to ignoring all the other stuff it’s kidnapped. But no. I’m onto you, Couch. This is just the beginning.

I start pulling out the cushions. I’m determined to find every single item it’s ever stolen from me. There’s a sock, my mom’s favorite earring, three more socks (seriously, why only one from each pair?), a fork (???), and a ticket stub from a movie I’m pretty sure I never saw. But where is my remote? WHERE IS IT?

I’ve got half the couch dismembered when my dad walks in. He stares at the chaos, the pillows everywhere, me armed with a flashlight and a level of determination usually reserved for finals week… and just shakes his head. “What are you doing?”

“Couch is a thief,” I say, dead serious.

He nods slowly, like he’s indulging a toddler. “Sure. And the toaster’s plotting to burn the house down, right?”

“No, that’s ridiculous. The toaster doesn’t have the range,” I snap. “Couch is different. Couch is evil.”

Dad just sighs and heads to the kitchen, probably to have a chat with our “psychiatric professional” (my mom). But I don’t care. I’m too deep into this now.

Hours later, I’m knee-deep in Couch innards when I find it. The remote. It’s right there, wedged in a spot I must have missed in all my previous searches. I hold it up like I’ve just won an Oscar. “YES! TAKE THAT, COUCH!”

I expect fireworks or a victory parade or at least an apology from Couch, but nope. Just silence. And suddenly, I’m hit with the weirdest feeling. Almost like… regret? Couch isn’t a thief. Couch is… a keeper. A guardian of memories, storing all the things I’ve lost and forgotten over the years. Maybe it didn’t eat my stuff on purpose. Maybe it was saving it for me. 

I sink back down on Couch, remote in hand, feeling oddly comforted. “Sorry, Couch,” I mumble, patting the armrest. “I guess I misjudged you.” 

And then, like a sign from the universe, a quarter falls out of the cushions. I pick it up, grinning. Couch, you sneaky genius. We’re good.

I turn on the TV, snuggle into the cushions, and reach for a chip. Only, the bowl is empty. I look around, confused. I know I had more.

Then I hear a crunch. I look down, and there it is: a chip, sticking out from under the cushion like a smirk. 

I narrow my eyes. 

Oh, it’s on.