Remus: Volume VIII

Remus Literary and Art Journal of The American University of Rome: Volume VIII 1

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Remus VolumeVIII 2

Remus

Volume VIII Spring 2014 Editorial Supervisor Lisa Colletta Student Editors Kristen Hook & Betty Mattei Layout & Design Ayşe Zeynep Özbay Remus Publications Department of Communication and English The American Univesity of Rome Via Pietro Roselli, 4, Rome, Italy, 00153 Email: remuslitjournal@gmail.com http://www.aur.edu/communication-english/remus-literary-journal/ Cover Photo: Francesco Malavasi Remus thanks the AUR Student Government and The AUR Department of Communication and English © 2014 Remus Publications.

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In This Issue R[amato], or The Color of Copper Neptune’s Fury, Neptune’s Bounty Trento as a Film Habemus Papam Reading Vendemmia Coming Home Late One Night The Evolution of Fear Grandma’s Cold Hands Little, Yellow Box Skippy Derek’s Downfall My Own Mexican Fiesta The City With a View Rumor Mill

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Kristen Hook Daniel Meier Nicole Fersko Jade Cass Betty Mattei Kelli O’Neill Courtney Hurd Zoe Pedulla Taylor Tomasco Kiana Nakagawa Abby Kolb Bronte Stahl Ana Luisa Ramirez Martina Mikulcikova Olga Carries

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Avize Ayşe Zeynep Özbay

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R[amato], or The Color of Copper Kristen Hook

This phantom limb I amputate With brackets and hyphen marks, scissors and glue Bonded weight I fail to tame: How many words can I make of you? i. (ama[t]) s/he loves in Latin; The soil and scattered syntactic seed.

Regenerative: the bloody “what?” etched into crude and crumbling tablets.

Gray clay. ii.

Then (ama) Tearing off the “t” Lingo number two: mine.

Hark! the heraldic Re-verse reciprocity We, the conduit-swing swing into being With those Apennin-ish things in the middle: Mountains.

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iii.

(Rama) ...Rama, Hare, Hare.

In the piazza parade.

Planned avatar dual descent --perhaps— Watch Satan whisk Sita away: Pancake batter.

Clumps conglomerating, clumps dissolving.

Bipolar sizzle-pop; fire and air.

Syrupy spatula, the flipping and flogging Black satin, slip back into skin: I transmute. iv. (mar) Mixing and mashing Sea that I swim in; Pisces, believe that’s the me, the me in you.

Tap it out— salt water in your ear.

Venice gets a queen— and I, a freckled Cancer. v. (tamaro) ; [tuh-mah-row] (futuristic phonetics--be with me always!)

Fascist poetry.

Tamaro leave-green: emerald, I sleep Seething in stereotype-sickness; Yesterday’s gall Not so orthographically far from the tank-topped, two-“r” -ed tamarro term but—thank God—just distant enough.

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vi. Arriving at (amaro) now Resentful mental pet.

Part-time poetic prostitute tritely typing, Ticking tripods away (Tri-puh-let, tri-puh-let, t-) ime to torture two twofold minds Trying together to mesh into trin/fin-ity puzzles.

Perturbation that ring-shouts through This syllabic syllabus: self-indulgent. vii. (am) in pronoun-less, naked sufficiency.

I-dentifiable sense Stuck behind some somewhere veil.

Mental map makers made mental connecting. the. dots.

--and the tongues-Ladies and gents of the Nabokovian jury: My morse code, unmonumental.

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Sunset Ghost Francesco Malavasi

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Neptune’s Fury, Neptune’s Bounty Daniel Meier

Bryan had woken up miserable, Matt had soon joined him in misery when the boat started rocking, Josh’s misery followed shortly after that, and Nathan and I were getting ready to board the misery train. Jon hadn’t said a word since breakfast, so for all I know he may have been the most miserable of all. We were on the fabled island of Capri situated in the Bay of Naples along Italy’s legendary Amalfi coast, and it rained, rained torrents. It was as if some spiteful, Roman god had decided to pick up all the water surrounding the island and drop it back down to punish everyone for abandoning belief in him. The rain alone wouldn’t have been so bad. We’d endured a rainy day on Vesuvius the day before and a rainy evening in Sorrento but were able to entertain ourselves nonetheless. The problems that arose were unique to our island destination: choppy seas to reach the island (leading to Matt’s sea sickness), the fact that we had no resources to dry off or change clothes (Josh in particular seemed to be soaked), and, worst of all, every possible activity and entertainment on the island was shut down due to the weather, including trips to the Blue Grotto (the source of Bryan’s foul mood in particular, but it was getting all of us down).

The Grotta Azzurra had served as a source of inspiration for artists and religious ceremonies for millennia and was said to be crafted by Neptune himself. We were standing on the docks a few hundred feet away, but for our purposes it might as well have been lost alongside Atlantis. A distance that would have been swimmable on a good day was impossible to reach today even in the skiff of an experienced Capri fisherman. We had come to Capri to enjoy the sea, and without that option, our day, and really our entire trip to Amalfi (having been rained on every day so far), was seemingly a waste of time and money, money we could have spent at any number of places around Italy.

We were keeping ourselves occupied by standing dejectedly under the awning of a closed bar and grumbling to each other in an endless loop of, “this sucks” and, “what a waste of time” and, “f*** this.” Jon’s voice piped up from the back of the group, and the hopeful tone he spoke with seemed horribly out of place amongst its 10

melancholy companions: “We could go get food somewhere, I bet they have good fish to eat at most of these places.”

Who the hell are you, Jon? Can’t you see we’re in the middle of moping? Get with the program. But no, he had struck a chord. We had budgeted about €100 each for excursions today and weren’t going to be able to spend a centesimo of it. That meant we could walk into the swankiest restaurant in Capri and throw down on the most expensive food and wine (okay, maybe not the MOST expensive wine) and still be under budget. Matt and Nathan had been talking all weekend about getting seafood, so why not? We’ll do the Italian thing and spend the entire afternoon having a multicourse meal at a restaurant. Even Bryan had quit kicking the rock that he’d been nagging at for the last hour long enough to look up.

Josh, meanwhile, hadn’t bitten, “Then we’d have to go out in the rain again and my hoodie is finally starting to dry.” “All right, stay here under the awning then. We’ll come get you when we’re finished,” I said. I knew it sounded cold, but I felt cold and wasn’t in the mood to deal with more of anyone else’s whining, I had enough whining of my own to get done. Without knowing where I was going or if I might take a wrong turn off a seaside cliff somewhere (not unheard of in Capri), I left the awning and took up the steps beside the bar. I heard Jon’s rapid footfalls as he caught up, and I thought I heard a few others behind those, but like Orpheus, I felt I couldn’t turn around or I’d risk sending my pack of Eurydices cascading back into the underworld. On I went without another word.

What we found was an old, white building of two stories with ultramarine shutters wide open to the weather and what smelled like something cooking that even Bacchus would stop to taste. This was the spot and I was going in whether they joined me or not. If you’ve ever gone out to eat with me, you know I never pick the first place I see, I never enter without looking at the menu first, and I always consult my dining companions. I failed on all three counts. The rain had picked up again and with it the mourning of my tragic chorus.

We were greeted by a short man with alopecia (at least we wouldn’t find the waiter’s hair in our food, can I joke about that?) who told us in a southern Italian accent to take off as many of our wet clothes as we needed and to hang them by a huge propane lamp at the front door. We slogged upstairs to the main dining room, trudged across the fancy carpeting between tables of well-dressed, slightly aghast, and enviably dry Italians, and sat at a large table in the corner beside two windows looking out over the port. It would have been a wonderful view if it weren’t masked by clouds and sheets of rain.

“Nope,” said Matt, closing his menu putting it down on the table, careful not to disturb his place setting in case he had to pay for that too. “This place is way too expensive.”

“We haven’t really got anything else to spend the money on here,” Nathan 11

argued with a surprising degree of patience.

I came to his support with, “I had the same idea down the hill, let’s just order whatever we want and hangout here while our clothes dry.”

Matt had a point, €15 for the salads, €20-something for a soup, and we came looking for a fish filet which was going to come out to around €30 per plate. My eyes bulged at the descriptions of the “mouthwatering morning catch” and “fruit of the sea from the reefs surrounding Capri.” The annotation at the bottom of the page ensured that nothing we would be served would come from more than a few miles away and that to freeze food was blasphemy in the eyes of the chef here.

“I’m going to make like a grotto and cave,” said Matt after giving the menu another look.

“Don’t talk about that,” Bryan spat. Meanwhile, Josh had already flagged down the waiter and ordered two bottles of wine and an antipasto for himself. It didn’t matter how much Josh budgeted himself for food—he never had enough. A big guy like him could come into one of these places and spend a small fortune on a meal and then walk down the street for a kebab and gelato to finish things off, a feat I’ve witnessed more than once.

So we sat and talked, and our mood warmed up along with our bones and souls.

The wine “took the edge off,” the way mom says it does after she gets home from work, and the bruschette seemed worth every bit of their price. Maybe it was because we hadn’t eaten breakfast, but the way the tomato bites popped in my mouth and coursed across my palette was unrivaled by any of the bruschette I had tried in Rome.

The wine, meanwhile, was exactly the dry sort of red I had decided I liked during my weekend in Toscana. I swirled it in the glass and gave it a sniff to determine that, yes, it was indeed wine. It’s amazing the difference in taste—even to a novice wine drinker like myself—between the wine at this restaurant and the budget bottles from the Bangladesh shops in Trastevere.

Finally, the plate of fish emerged from the kitchen, held aloft in a sort of ceremonial reverence by my bald, table-waiting friend. I could feel my mouth curl in a voracious grin as the plate was placed before me with the lemon juice still crackling on the plate. I had gone for the prized white fish, more money on one cut of fish than I ordinarily spend on food for two days. It flaked at the slightest press of the knife, and I pulled it apart more than I cut it. Everyone dove straight into their secondi when it arrived, but I slowed myself for a dual purpose: to let the warm aroma of the rosemary- and lemon-treated fish waft over me, and because I knew the longer we sat at the table, the longer our respite from the raging weather.

In a matter of moments, but what felt like eternity, I had given in and begun to devour the fish like Scylla devouring Ulysses’ crew. In all too short a time, my plate was cleaned of its nautical bounty. Even Nathan resembled more the fell Cerberus, teeth gnashing from what seemed to be three voracious heads more than the 12

delicate and precise surgeon he was studying to become. All that remained were the indigestible bones scattered about our plates (and a few on the white table cloth), and not even the eyes had escaped Josh. “People eat them—it’s a thing.” He was right, but it didn’t make the idea more appealing.

We sat and polished off a third bottle of wine, leaned back in our cushioned chairs, and a smile managed to creep onto the face of everyone at the table except Bryan, whose thoughts were still haunted by the statues submerged in the raging tides of the Tyrrhenian Sea. A glance out the window showed that the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and we could look down on the docks and surrounding limestone cliffs and appreciate the view for the first time since arriving at the Isle. I observed that the water was still really choppy, which meant no chance of the Blue Grotto and guaranteed a rough ferry ride back to Sorrento (bad news for Matt), but at least we might make it back to the ferry without being totally drenched again.

We got the tab and I checked my watch. For an afternoon in that restaurant, the numerical values of time and money hadn’t mattered—we had simply enjoyed our Amalfi experience in a way totally different from what we had hoped. Four hours had escaped since we stood under the awning down the hill. FOUR HOURS. We only had forty-five minutes to pay, find the steps, and get back to the ferry. Worse yet, the bill had arrived in front of Josh, and a dramatic “Oh, shit” had escaped his lips.

The six of us broke the bank on this meal. We knew Josh owed the most but we had all enjoyed the wine and appetizers and knew the damage we had done to our budgets. With a day four hours shorter, and a wallet lightened by the splurge, I sloshed down the steps back to the ferry. Sol hadn’t parted the clouds to beam down on us, Neptune hadn’t pacified the seas, and Venti continued to strew signs and umbrellas across the streets. When we embarked, we weren’t leaving Venus’ paradise in Cythera as we had expected, yet to me, Capri remains mythical.

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Trento as a Film Nicole Fersko

As I walk alone through the narrow, cobblestone streets of Trento, I can never seem to shake off the feeling that I am an extra in a never-ending film taking place in the Late-Medieval or Renaissance period. Trento is a small yet momentous city found in the north of Italy, bordering Austria. Entering the city from Piazza Venezia, everything begins to look like a movie set. The tall Dolomite Mountains and pine trees become inescapable, as if they were permanent background props. The stage may change from a more historical atmosphere to a local, more modern one, but the mountains never seem to disappear. And for years and years, as I walk aimlessly passing each antique building, I notice that the pastel colors never seem to fade, and the wooden balconies look as if they have been left untouched. The sounds of the town create a routine soundtrack for my everyday walk; the bell that rings harmoniously three times a day, the slow and speedy footsteps of the characters, the motorino engines, car horns, and the buses that brake once they arrive at their stop.

At nighttime, it’s replaced with the screams of drunken young people and the blaring house music coming from the one night club in Trento. But after two a.m., when the stores have closed and the houses have shut their blinds, I hear silence.

Every movie has distinct characters. In my mind, Trento has them, as well. My grandfather, Lino, who is tall, stern-faced, and unable to show affection, might come off as intimidating to some, but it’s what makes him distinctive, too. He wakes up every day with the same routine and script. Every morning, he walks downstairs to his usual tabacchi shop and buys the Trentino Alto-Adige newspaper. He greets the shop owner, Ruggero: “Come andiamo oggi?” How are we doing today? Ruggero lights his cigar, and the smoke pours out of his mouth as he responds, “Si va avanti, Signore Lino.” Life goes on.

Lino likes to take advantage of morning store hours to run errands. He walks to the panificio around the corner and picks up a fresh loaf of bread to accompany his lunch and dinner. He walks to one of the nearest piazzas to the cheese and meat vendor to buy creamy Gorgonzola, his favorite cheese. Marco, who is dressed in 14

his all-white butcher outfit, does not even have to ask which cheese he wants. He simply hands him the packaged Gorgonzola. “Send my love to your daughter,” says Marco as Lino holds onto the wrapped-up cheese. He walks into the bank and sees his accountant, Lucia. “Buongiorno Lucia, dimmi tutto!” he greets her, waiting to hear about which stocks he should be investing in.

Back at home, he smears the fresh Gorgonzola cheese onto his slice of bread and swallows it down, accompanying it with a glass of local, red wine. After lunch, he reads the rest of his newspaper and sits in front of the television, watching either the news or some Italian talk show.

Occasionally, I’ll drop by. I ring the buzzer and he answers, “Avanti!” I walk in and say my line: “Permesso.” I give my grandfather two kisses on the cheek. “Ciao, Nonno! Come stai?”

“Non mi lamento, sai.” I’m not complaining.

“Ma oggi non fa troppo freddo.” I try to bring up the weather and strike up a conversation.

“No, oggi si sta bene,” he replies.

“Cosa hai fatto oggi?” I ask him, even though I already know.

“Il solito.” Our conversations don’t ever last long.

But to me, Lino is just the retired and elderly side of Trento. As a college student in the small city, life is also a routine, but in a different way. My cousin, Francesca, a philosophy student, wakes up in the mornings and eats breakfast; either milk and cookies or cereal. During the week, she goes to class when she has to go to class, and during her free time, she goes to the Trentino public library. She is dedicated and passionate about what she studies; after all, it is what she has decided to do for the next few years. When the bell tower rings and it’s seven o’clock, she meets her two friends at the Duomo Bar for a Spritz drink and some finger food, where they can talk about the insane amount of work they have or the latest gossip, but nothing beyond that. During the weekend, there are organized parties and bars where she may go to drink with friends. She may just enjoy one beer and call it a night or feel the need to let loose and roam the streets carelessly. Occasionally, she and her family will leave town and go to vacation spots in the south of Italy, but they never leave the country.

Sara, my fifteen-year-old sister, plays the rebellious high school student. She goes to school from the morning to the afternoon, and around noon, when my mom has food ready on the table, she comes home. She dreads doing her homework, because she still hasn’t found what she’s interested in, and so she is studying an array of subjects that she doesn’t find very appetizing. She, unlike her twin brother, Luca, understands the importance of an education. Luca sees school as simply another part of the routine. He goes to class, and may not retain anything—or choose not to. Piazza Duomo, the main piazza, is where they meet their friends after school to walk around and go into stores, usually not buying anything.

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Then there’s me, the extra. Not exactly sure what my purpose is in Trento. Even the tourists have roles and lines. They stand in the same places and say the same phrases, “Ci faresti una foto per piacere?” (Will you take our picture, please?) I wander endlessly, trying to find my place. But Trento has become a film I step into; one in which I find comfort in knowing its beginning, middle, and end. R

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Rain in Rome Nicole Fersko

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Habemus Papam Jade Cass

As we ran down the Gianicolo and arrived at the square, We saw hundreds of thousands waiting there With baited breath and strange anticipation For the new pope of the Catholic nation, And then velvet, red curtains descended, And “habemus papam” crescendo-ed!

An eruption of hopeful applause, Forgetting the wrongs and flaws.

The pope, in his brilliant white, A prayer for his predecessor recited.

“Buona sera,” he said, and we all listened, As he stood and preached and his power glistened.

Flags of all nations, waving proud, The magnificence of being in this crowd.

The church bells ring and the people stare; What will this pope share?

Will honesty and integrity be back in fashion?

We all pray for that with fervent passion.

“Amen” -

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(Untitled) Fatharani Fadhilah 19

Reading Betty Mattei

“The key to measuring is to test. And by the way, I’ve heard every excuse in the book why we should not test -- oh, there’s too many tests; you teach the test; testing is intrusive; testing is not the role of government. How can you possibly determine whether a child can read at grade level if you don’t test?”

– George W. Bush on No Child Left Behind, 2009

There are a lot of things they do not tell you in Catholic school. They do not speak of excess, unnecessary things like playgrounds or lockers—textbooks or art class. They don’t speak of the unmentionable land of heathens called Public School, where students get free pencil cases, warm lunches, and air conditioning. Never mind, Private School, the last stop of the long, dark, and winding road to a successful career in pediatric medicine or corporate law (gag).

No, we do not speak of these winged and claw-footed demons that hide around the corners of life—waiting to grab hold and take us as prisoners of want and ambition. Perhaps it is part of the Catholic religion to teach children to live piously; to be grateful for every little treat and present they are granted.

Or that a cool way to stay warm during recess is drinking beer out of Nicky’s thermos. They also never truly explained the entire standardized testing thing.

Yeah, Betty takes them--didn’t every one? But standardized testing just means no homework and that you can wear your gym uniform for three days. Why -- what was is it supposed to mean?

Betty isn’t stupid, but she isn’t known for being the smartest—like David Canu or Kelsey Flood, who reign over the student body as the unchallengeable, longstanding Boy/Girl of the Month. She is mostly known because her mom teaches sixth grade and her brother is a Mathlete. She thinks she must be smart because she knows how to add, read, and write—that’s all you really need, right? She loves to read and, one time, in the second grade, her poem about a rainbow was hung up on the principal’s door. Now, I wouldn’t know what goes on at Public School—with your award ceremonies and trophies—but having your work hung on the principal’s door at Catholic school is an undeniable omen for oncoming success.

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Betty’s mother sustains five long years of watching her daughter hang her schoolbag on a rusty hook at the back of each class before she decides that the kid needs to be in a better environment. Perhaps she took a glance into the crystal ball Catholic school provides their teachers with and saw that a neighborhood parochial school -- a term meaning “unsophisticated” -- as a bright, blaring, and mostly likely pregnant, dead-end. As one of Betty’s peers may say, “She seent it comin’.”

But private school is a whole other world. They don’t just have one jungle gym, they have three. And they have cubby holes, a library, and something called Field Hockey. But who is Betty kidding? She can’t keep up with these kids. They all have backyards and dogs. They all play sports and study. They even have a special math class for the kids who know more stuff. How can someone know more stuff if we all go to the same school? No one wants to be her friend; they barely like each other.

And on top of all the sports teams, church choirs, field days, and the Hitler Youth style execution of it all, now there is this standardized testing thing. It’s all a bit of a blur of how it came to be, but here Betty is sitting in a meeting with her mother and Ms. D., her new private school teacher. That seems to be a popular trend among the younger teachers here, calling themselves by the first letter of their last name. Ms. D, Mr. B, Ms. K! Ms. D is now Mrs. D—isn’t that funny? Her husband’s last name ALSO starts with a D! Well, this Ms. D. isn’t the worst part of private school. She has really long, thin legs, a short, blonde bob and never smiles. Sometimes Betty catches her eating lunch alone. She likes her.

Ms. D explains that Betty’s standardized testing scores for Reading— with a capital R-- are quite low. How low, Mom? Kind of low, like, not even that low, just, like … Kind of.

Too low for private school. Too low for a school with three jungle gyms, tracked math classes, a science lab, and a theatre. Too low for a school that has separate kilt options for each season.

“Don’t worry!” Ms. D urges the young girl. “It’s okay. You’re in a new school.

You’re going to do special tutoring with student teacher, Melissa, every Monday. Some of your classmates are doing it as well. It will be fun.”

Ms. D might as well have said, “We’re gonna put thinkin’ stuff in your learnin’ head!” because all that echoes through Betty’s mind is, “You are stupid. You are stupid. You are stupid. And special. Really, really special.”

Betty’s mom tries to dissipate her anxiety. “Let’s just see what it’s about, okay?

Maybe you’ll like it.”

But if “Student Teacher Melissa” wasn’t enough, meeting in the back of the kindergarten class is definitely the last stop on the full-speed, brakeless train headed to the center of Total Self-Doubt.

Miss Melissa promises she will bring snacks for next time, since she knows it is hard to work after school. Maybe this will be fun. Maybe it will be like After-Care 21

where they get to eat Oreos and watch Hocus Pocus. Oreos, not, “generic, vanilla icing sandwiched between two, old cookies that taste distantly of chocolate.” Private school.

The next time they meet, Student Teacher Melissa brings stale pretzels. Betty eats them anyway. She needs something to waste away the forty minutes after three o’clock she spends watching Melissa flip frantically through a workbook, stuffed with dirty Post-It notes and awful penmanship, every once in a while pointing her pencil at another, faded question.

What do these even have to do with Reading? Match this black block where you think there should be one in the long sequence of thinking things in your head where your brain learns things by the way have I mentioned you are stupid?

Betty can’t get it out of her head—special. She doesn’t want to even learn any of this stuff, not if it means that having to learn it will make her stupid—or worse, make her used-to-be-stupid. What would the other kids say? That’s who Betty would always be; she would always be the “Special Tutoring” girl as long as she lived. Everyone would look at her and see it immediately-- stamped across her wide forehead, like the questions that never got any easier across the filmy, recycled paper of Melissa’s workbook. SPECIAL. They’d just have to look at her once.

Another girl, Alexa, meets with them. Alexa has rhinestone earrings and a Vera Bradley purse; she only meets with them sometimes. That’s what having a Juicy Couture jumpsuit-wearing mom gets you—only having to go to Special Tutoring sometimes. Not to mention that Alexa is one of the coolest girls in the fourth grade.

Something about her sometimes makes Betty think that nobody knows about Special Tutoring.

Student Teacher Melissa and Betty meet every Monday for a couple of weeks.

They munch away at stale pretzels, as Melissa never thinks to bring any other snack, and go over the impossibly strange puzzles with blocks and pictures and letters.

Sometimes Betty thinks she may even like Melissa, but then she remembers she is nine years old, sitting in a kindergarten classroom, eating stale pretzels with a twentyyear-old girl who just graduated college with a degree in Special Tutoring and a minor in Reading.

Any conversation between the two not dictated by a state-mandated program sheet is awkward. Student Teacher Melissa is always talking about books—that’s how she says it. Books. Very gently, on the tip of her tongue, with her thick neck stretched and her eyebrows raised. Books, like the very word may set off a series of strawberryscented, pink sparkled, white-upper-middle-class tantrums. Betty unknowingly engages Melissa’s tap dance around the subject throughout their meetings, until one day, she just comes out with it—no more eyebrows, no more neck tensing. Melissa tells Betty she should start reading long books—chapter books—with “not a lot” of pictures, and paragraphs, okay?

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Chapter Books? Her face melts into confusion. Didn’t she know that Betty was already reading chapter books? Had she taken the new copy of Harry Potter under her arm as a form of showboating?

Betty thought she was being specially tutored for Reading, not reading. Betty loves to read-- what does Reading have to do with it?

And then it hits her, a SPECIAL- shaped arrow to the heart. Apparently everything; apparently, in private school, unless you were everything—a rhinestone wearing, field hockey playing, special math class taking, Suburban lifestyle superstar-you were nothing. Suddenly, Alexa made more sense. It all, sort of, made more sense.

Watching Melissa struggle through the pantomime of sympathy and care, Betty would trade all three jungle gyms and the entire computer lab just to see her poem on the Principal’s door one more time. To know that someone knew she wasn’t special; that she could add and read and write. And maybe even Read.

“But, Miss Melissa, I’m reading Harry Potter.”

“Oh!” Her face lights up, “Have you seen the movie?” R

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Vendemmia Kelli O’Neill A Capstone Excerpt

Giulia was surprised when I asked her if I could come and work her family’s vendemmia, “It’s hard work, you know,” she said, warning me about five times over.

After explaining that I was doing this as part of my senior capstone project and that I was willing to work hard, she relented, still cautioning me that I should be prepared to be tired after.

The drive from Rome to her family’s estate lasted about two hours. Their estate is seven hectors, and it lies amidst numerous fields of sunflowers on the border between Tuscany and Umbria. Most of the drive was done in separate cars. However, when we finally exited the interstate, we stopped at the only gas station, restaurant, and hotel combination in sight in order to pile everybody into one vehicle for the remaining twenty minutes of the drive. Some wise man once said, “The ancients knew that wine held a potential for joy and disaster,” and as I sat in the back seat smashed to the right-hand side of my friend’s pint-sized car, with my head banging on the window with every bump we hit along the rough dirt road, I found myself wondering: What, exactly, had I volunteered myself for this weekend?

When we arrived Giulia’s mother was waiting outside for us, it was almost nine o’clock, and we were all hungry. The first question asked by Signora Marraffa, “Chi di voi parla italiano?” The reply came from Lolo and amounted to everybody, excluding yours truly. The worry must have shown on my face, as Giulia promptly came to my defense saying that I speak it, just not very often or very quickly. Signora Marraffa looked straight at me with a worried face that quickly changed to a smile as she said, “Do not worry – with your Italian and my English, va tutto bene.” At that point, I knew one thing; that weekend was going to become one I would never forget.

Situated on a small hill in the rolling countryside, the house’s driveway was gravel and was lined on each side by two sections of grape fields planted perpendicularly; there were rose bushes planted at the end of each row of vines. You could easily mistake the function of those rose bushes as a purely aesthetic one, but their beauty serves yet another purpose. Any parasites that might affect roses are the 24

same as those that might affect the grape vines. For this reason, they are planted at the end of the grape rows. If something is making the roses sick, the grapes are likely infected, as well. Beauty with a purpose; it was a perfect example of Italian culture.

The driveway curved into a small area for parking that was just to the side of the cream-colored, stone building with brown accents. There were several Italian Cypress trees lining the property; tall, thin, stretching with all their might trying to touch the sky. This Tuscan Villa was like a dream made up from the calendar pictures featuring Italian landscapes that I had collected throughout the years while dreaming one day to go to Italy. However, I was not allowed to dream for long. Five hours and forty-three minutes later, I was woken up by a knock at my door; this was going to be a long day.

The workers claimed to be from Bulgaria, but Maria suspected that they were lying. “They are probably gypsies,” she said. In any case, nobody seemed to care much, and the work continued. I did not learn all of their names, as they did not seem to want to share much information. I took direction from the lady called Maria, who worked with Zorro. My friend Maria and I were told to work always on the same row as another guy, whose name we never caught, so we just called him ‘our guy.’

When the work began, we were given cutting pliers and rubber gloves. The gloves felt dry against my skin as work began. The morning was cool to begin with, but I knew the sun would come out soon and had already applied sunscreen to any exposed areas. This was no romantic movie, and I knew my fair skin would not do well under the Tuscan sun. As the work began, we were all a bit disorganized, but things eventually fell into a rhythm. Walking down each row slowly, two people worked on each side, one behind the other, making sure no grape clusters were left behind.

There were six rows that were harvested at the same time. A small tractor was driven down the center of the rows. It contained a huge vessel in which all the smaller buckets, which we filled, were emptied.

At first we were working gently with the vines, until the worker Maria quickly told Maria and me that we did not need to be gentle. It was more important that no grape be left behind. “Don’t be afraid to cut some of the leaves,” my friend, Maria, translated for me. The grapes themselves were a dark purple, almost black, and they appeared very dry on the outside. My hands began to sweat the more we worked.

Each person filled a large, plastic bucket with handles on each side. When it was full, we passed it to the center and yelled “una vuota” and waited to receive a new one.

Alternating between red and black buckets, an hour passed and ‘our guy’ asked if I was tired: “Sei stanca?” “No,” I replied – I was much too excited to be tired.

Having fallen into a tempo of cutting and waiting, my mind began to wander.

The Marraffa family began their wine-making endeavor in 1998, and since then, it has flourished. It is difficult to pin down when wine-making began. The earliest evidence was found in Iran near the Zagros Mountains, and has been dated back to the fourth millennium B.C. The seeds of domesticated grapes have been dated back even farther 25

in Georgia and Turkey, implying that wine making is almost certainly even older. “How long do you think people have been making wine?” I asked Signora Marraffa. “As long as there have been grapes,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, not once looking away from her work.

I was positioned along one of the rows closest to the tractor, and as it passed by and my full bucket was replaced with an empty one, I thought about how much— and how little—wine making has changed. The tractor’s vessel that was bursting with grapes headed down the row to empty its loot into another vehicle that, at the end of the day, took the grapes to be processed. I wondered what the Romans would have thought of the modern tractor. I suspected that the Roman Empire, in all of its logic and efficiency, would have embraced the tractor whole- heartedly, but my lungs were stinging from the exhaust fumes. We returned to work after an accidentally long lunch break, due to a delay at the pressing plant. One field already completed, we moved on to another. The rows were much longer in this section, and we frequently stood waiting on the tractor, talking to one another. An hour or more passed as I followed ‘our guy’ and did my best to hide from the sun behind the height of the grapevines with little success. I felt my skin burning and weariness began to set in. ‘Our guy’ asked again “Sei stanca?” This time the answer was “yes.”

The field seemed to grow increasingly as we worked. Everything in me was aching to stop. We moved to the last field as the sun showed its rays just a while longer. The rows were long in this section, too, and waiting for the tractor, our conversations were less frequent and the topics were increasing silly. As we began working in near darkness, I emptied my bucket and turned around, waiting for the tractor to begin to move again, and saw ‘our guy’ with a lit cigarette in one hand and a cluster of grapes in another. He took a long drag off the cigarette and then bit a mouthful of grapes off the cluster in his hand. He smiled and chewed at the same time; a little smoke escaped from his nose and mouth as the tractor began to move again. I stood there in my calendar-page Italy; sticky with rogue grape juice and covered in sweat, looking at the beautiful landscape alongside a gypsy worker, while I choked on tractor fumes and cigarette smoke. R

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The Girl by Campfire (left) The Blind Man in the Well (right) Monika Pedersen

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Coming Home Late One Night Courtney Hurd

The moonlight shone Silver and full As I pulled into the drive.

Childhood memories Flickered like ghosts In the star-studded dark.

Calling softly, I open the door.

The warning bark turns To a whimper of joy; Soft fur pressing my legs As they welcome me home.

I move through the darkness As if in the light of day To the bedroom where Sleeping she layBlood of my blood, Flesh of my fleshThe silver light paints An ethereal glow On the face I loved best In the world that I know.

Sleep had softened The lines of her face; And a peaceful serenity Had taken their place.

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One hand rested Curled on her cheek, And memories swamped me As I stood, watching her sleep.

I wanted to climb up beside her, And curl by her side As I had done in my youth.

And to let her soothe My world-weary heart As she had done before When life was simple And she was my world.

She would have waited up If she had known That tonight was the night I chose to come home.

I could feel that love As I watched her sleep, And felt the weight lift And leave me in peace.

Not willing to risk Disturbing her sleep, I used my hands to sign What I could not speak-“I love you, mother.� R

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The Evolution of Fear Zoe Pedulla

“God hates you!” He stood three inches from my face, shouting an encyclopedia of profanities. I felt the heat from his face, saw the microscopic circles of sweat trailing down his temples, and smelled his morning onion bagel. At 6’2”, his lanky frame hunched over me, eclipsing the only light in the room. He screeched, “God will smite you unless you become like me!” I focused on his forest green eyes, trying to cleanse my mind and remind myself this was just training, but each syllable singed like a hellish flame. Inhale, I told myself. Concentrate.

I was unaware of the other two hundred people in the room. Silently, I began to block out his words. I channeled my internal rage into a forced sense of calm and found that I could even begin to pity him.

This training was intentionally provoking me, toughening our group. In just two days, we would be facing extremist, anti-gay demonstrators from another state who were seeking to provoke our quiet town into a confrontation -- and a lawsuit. Our nonviolent counter-protest would try to defuse the hate they meant to detonate.

During the days leading up to their arrival, I grappled with understanding their motives. How could they show such blatant contempt for others? I understood that the Declaration of Independence entitled them to freedom of speech, but should they have the freedom to spew hatred and incite violence? Most confounding: who was I to judge them? I was as much a product of my environment as they were. If I had grown up elsewhere, could I have been one of those protesters? If that community had been mine, would I have had the self-awareness to break away from it?

My hometown of Lexington, Massachusetts was being targeted by the protestors precisely because our high school had a strong Gay-Straight Alliance club and supported the Day of Silence. These people had learned a specific orthodoxy and adhered to it because they thought it was morally right and profoundly necessary. But they chose to act on their beliefs by coming to our welcoming community, as they had to so many others, intending to sow chaos. In this sense, their manipulative tactics demanded a response.

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When the dreaded demonstrators finally arrived, I was surprised to see how ordinary they looked. Simple, gray t-shirts and blank expressions trickled out of a gargantuan van. Shockingly, the majority were children, led by two older women. Local police officers directed them into what looked, disturbingly, like an animal pen --- a rectangle of wire mesh directly across from where I stood. Their signs had words like “fags” and “dykes” splashed across innocent, white sheets of paper. Barack Obama was pictured on another, sporting horns and fangs. Pausing to let the anticipation build, a stout, middle-aged woman with a tense grip on her signs stepped forward, narrowing her eyes at us. When it came, her raspy voice reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West. Oddly, she was the only one shouting. A gangly, freckled, teenage boy slouched in the corner of the pen, silently holding his sign. A young, blonde girl, eyes glazed, stood next to a boy who looked about four years old. Even though they did not seem physically threatening, the depth of their hatred felt like a punch to the stomach.

My concentration broke when the stranger next to me flinched at the leader’s shout, “AIDS cures fags!” I squeezed her hand in comfort and she squeezed back. I then felt a friendly tap on my shoulder; an older gentleman caught my eye, turned around, and motioned for me to do the same. He had chosen me to trigger our planned group action. I saw many eyes watching me as I turned my back to the extremists, more graceful than I had ever been, but trembling inside. I felt strangely alone and vulnerable, regardless of the many hands connecting me. One by one, the line followed in a slow progression until the protestors could see nothing but the backs of our jackets, which read: “The Power of Silence.”

As troubling as that twisted, angry group inside the pen ultimately was, it would have be even more troubling to pretend their ideologies were uncommon— or that we had beaten them for good. Although the immediate threat had subsided, like the tide, it would inevitably rise again. R

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Grandma’s Cold Hands Taylor Tomasco

And then we moved. The house was bigger, the kids weren’t kids anymore, the house was full of less gaudy decorations, the cost of fish went up, and our palates became more “refined.” The new generation isn’t excited about smelts, whiting “acqua pazza,” shrimp and rice and baccalá stew. A dinner that was already expensive when things were $2 a pound has morphed into an expensive dinner with scallops, lobster, and Chilean sea bass. How did it come to this?

When we lived on Bancroft Street, the cooking started each year on December 21st, three days before Christmas Eve. My Grandmom Mare called to my father, her son in-law, “Chuck, put on that Christmas music— it is time to start cooking!” My dad loved Grandmom. I mean, everyone loved her, but she really was one of his favorites, and he laughed at her every move, her mix of emotions. He stood there chuckling while she simultaneously danced and sung in the kitchen to “Jingle Bell Rock” and screamed at Bob Barker on the Price is Right in the background. It was her favorite show, and she hummed the theme song while prepping the first fish, one of the most unexpected delights, baccalá. It was a cheap fish, loaded with salt. Mare plopped it into a bowl of warm water and left it on the counter for days. “Nobody touch that fish, it needs to rid of that stink!” And boy oh boy was she right.

Mare lived with us, and her kitchen was the size of a janitor’s mop closet.

Every year my mother, Janet, her two sisters, Regina and Diane, and their mother, Grandmom “Mare” would strap on festive red and green aprons and begin to prepare our thirteen-fish dinner for Christmas Eve. They would scream, argue, fight, and push each other around. Mare would threaten to smack one of her then thirty- to fortyyear-old daughters with her personal weapon-- her wooden spoon -- as if they were her young children again.

The stove could only fit three pots because one of our burners was broken, and our kitchen was full of fresh warms breads and Italian meats, but, somehow, my heavyset mother, my two aunts, and Grandmom would successfully cook thirteen different fishes in thirteen different styles; oh, and also a roast pork for the annoying “Americans” who didn’t like fresh fish.

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On the back of an old cookbook she would write out our Christmas Eve menu, probably five or six times, until it was perfect. The menu was generally the same from year to year, but Mare always insisted on adding something new or changing some of the cooking styles. Regardless, each and every year we looked forward to a great meal of various seafood, fried cauliflower fritters, and golden Brussels sprouts with crispy bacon.

Mare called us all her “little elves,” and we stood by her side waiting for orders.

She would hand Aunt Diane, the oldest, a bowl of mussels and a tooth brush and say, “Get to cleanin’!” And she would, without any fuss.

My mom always had the most jobs, maybe because her technique was the best, or maybe because Mare liked to punish her for her teenage years. She was in charge of grating the fresh breadcrumbs, preparing whiting stew, and anything else Mare could think of. “Jan, get the whiting ready, we are going to make it the same as last year, “acqua pazza.” “I’m pretty sure you fried it with flour salt and pepper.” “No, Janet.” My mom knew she was right, but what could she do; it was Mare’s kitchen. A few minutes later, my mom would ask, “Hey Mare, can I put the bread in the food processor?”

“Grate the breadcrumbs, Janet.” “But it would be a lot faster….” “Here is a grater!” A few minutes of silence would pass and then I would watch Mare, the hawk, observing my mom’s chopping and then cringe. “Janet, I said mince the garlic.” “Mom!” “Jan, only one of us can be the boss!” My mom would tighten her lips and change the subject.

Meanwhile, five- year-old me, the wrecking ball, would run in and out of the kitchen in my princess nightgown at least twice a minute, breaking another one of my mother’s Anna Lee Christmas decorations. All I wanted was to stand next to Grandmom Mare and steal one of her burning hot and oily pieces of fried dough with a ball of gooey, fresh mozzarella in the middle. Even though I was her favorite, Mare gave me a hard time too. She would scream, “Get your hands out of the pan Tayls— you’re going eat them all!” But then her cold, fishy hands would reach for mine, and she would slip one of the pieces of dough into my hands and flash me a wink. There was something soothing about her touch. Her frigid, wrinkly, and ridiculously frigid and fishy-smelling hands actually felt warm to the touch and soothed my heart. I would bite into the treat with immediate satisfaction. It almost tasted better knowing Grandmom Mare had hand-rolled it just for me.

Aunt Regina is the youngest, and most creative. She was in charge of decorations and dessert; she loved these jobs because she got to stay out of the way.

Well, sometimes… While Mare had a full stove of pots and a table full of fish, Aunt Regina was forced to bake ten different kinds of cookies. Aunt Gi was a perfectionist, though, and somehow each cookie was shaped just right, even though she used a plastic sandwich bag for a piping tool. She would assemble her masterpieces on plastic trays with paper doilies for all of the families in the neighborhood. When she was 33

finished, she would come into the living room and hand me all of her baking utensils.

I would stand on my tippy toes by the sink and lick each one clean, trying to avoid dripping on the fresh fish.

It was funny, though: our space was so limited, but the four Ricci women were bombarded with compliments each year. We crammed over fifty people into our home, which should have only fit fifteen, and insisted on cooking thirteen different fish when the tradition called only for seven. God forbid we stuck to the usual. Mare and her daughters insisted on doing it all. They had a knack for turning the cheap stuff into unbelievable flavors. All of our guests: aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, and even neighbors came over each year in their fanciest dresses to indulge in what was considered “the best meal of the year.”

Cousins would offer to bring dishes with them, but Mare always turned them away and say, “Well, I am a good cook.” Everyone thought it was because she liked having control, and this was true. But more importantly, she worried that one of her guests would confuse the dishes and think that she was in charge of the burnt veggies or the overcooked smelts. She was the head chef and everything was Mare’s way.

When Uncle Joe, Grandmom’s brother, walked in, the party was there. He wore the same tan button down with the top three buttons undone, revealing his excess chest hair and gold chains with charms of the boot of Italy. He yelled from the parlor, “Hey Mare, we are hungry!” “Oh Joe, you horse’s ass!”

Now, it is different. I head to the kitchen on Christmas Eve morning and my older brothers are watching Sports Center, arguing about their fantasy teams loud enough that I can’t even hear Santa singing in surround sound. Christmas Eve comes and goes each year. My mother and aunts, like always, cook a mountain of fish, but without the guidance from Mare. It is kind of like archeology; Mare would dig deep and find the traditional, authentic fish, but now my mother and aunts sweep from the surface and purchase what is expensive and popular. I don’t remember the last time we ate whiting “acqua pazza,” baccalà stew, or cauliflower fritters for Christmas Eve. We still meet together promptly at seven o’clock each year, but the joy is over after our plates are cleared and stomachs are full. Uncle Joe isn’t there to swing me over his shoulders or pick on Grandmom Mare. Our new home is somewhat spacious, even with a larger crowd of seventy-five, but that is what makes it feel so empty. It’s lacking the warmth of Mare’s cold hands, and I never before thought I would say this, but we sure are missing Bob Barker in the background. R

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Dancing Stripes Francesco Malavasi

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Little, Yellow Box Kiana Nakagawa

A little, yellow box: I imagine this is what the inside butt-end of a Twinkie looks, feels, and smells like. The walls are a tad brighter than custard yellow (the cake), the ceiling is a fluorescent white (the filling), and things are accented by lightly-toasted, brown office furniture (’cause you know… there are more colors to a Twinkie than yellow and white, if you really think about it).

This little, yellow office is maybe twelve feet by twelve feet, but for as much office furniture and as many note-plastered bulletin boards as it holds, the office still feels rather empty. Not spacious, but empty. I wonder if this is the junior version of the cold, corporate world for which my business degree is preparing/is supposed to be preparing me.

This Jr. Corporate gives me bouts of anxiety. The mechanic symphony of drones and clicks makes me forget about my simple existence. Sometimes I can’t even tell if I’m breathing. I’m only ever reminded of it when my olfactory system sends a whiff of Twinkie to my barely-responsive cerebellum. I am Schrodinger’s cat – both alive and dead – in my little, yellow box. When, by chance, I happen to slip back into consciousness, my heart leaps and screams, “Let me out! Let me out!” My eyes, on the other hand, continue to trace over the blinking cursors holding my mind in rhythm with the breath of the overheating computer.

Phone booths are disappearing. Sleeping pills are getting stronger, Alice. Ruby slippers are driven out of style and home is another office. The hum of the florescent tubes over head at Jr. Corporate; the hum of the outlet by your bed and by your head when you sleep at night; the humming will pace our brainwaves to a flatline.

What we feel is madness being squelched to the time of machines. “Let me out.

Let me out.” R 36

Forte Prenestino, Roma Nicole Riker

37

Skippy Abby Kolb

I grabbed the knife and stabbed it right in the center.

“NO, honey! Not like that,” my mom’s eyes widened, as she leaped over to grab the knife out of my hand.

“You need to be gentle; knives are very dangerous,” she calmly continued as she placed it down on the counter.

It was my first time making my own lunch, and it was with real silverware, so I was trying to be grown-up about it. It turns out bayoneting a slice of bread isn’t really an adult thing to do.

I backed away to let her show me how to make it. She threw out the slice of whole wheat bread that I had massacred and placed the crinkly, packaged loaf out on the table to start anew.

“Okay, first let’s get a paper plate so the crumbs don’t get everywhere, riiight?”

I pulled out the drawer and grabbed two that were stuck together. I placed them nicely on the counter in front of her, while flashing her an innocent smile. She untied the flimsy twisty that sealed the bread inside its packaging and then told me to reach in and grab two slices. I looked up at her as I stuck my small hand in and hoped she wouldn’t notice me neglecting that awful end piece as I snuck behind it and grabbed two fresh slices. Of course she noticed—now she was watching my every move—but she knew how much I hated the crust.

I pinched the soft, grainy bread in between my tiny fingers and it sunk in a little bit, leaving a small oval imprint on either side. I lifted my arms up to place the slices next to each other on the plate with only a small gap keeping them from touching. My mom went to the cabinet to get the Skippy peanut butter, which was too high for me to reach. From her view, I just looked like two bright blonde pigtails with a pair of eyes that were fixated on the lifeless pieces of bread. I peeled a little bit of its darker brown trim that outlined the soft bread. I couldn’t wait to get rid of that crust. I looked up and saw her returning to my side of the counter with the big jar of Skippy in her hand.

Then the phone started ringing.

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My mother is a skilled conversationalist. Someone can call to ask one question, and my mom finds a way to be able to keep them on the phone for an hour. I frowned as I saw her walk over to answer it, knowing that there would be a torturous countdown until I could finally finish making my sandwich. Her voice went up when she answered, and I knew it had to be a good friend. I rolled my eyes and stamped my little pink sandal on the tile floor. I huffed and crinkled my eyebrows—because that’s how grown-ups show they’re mad—and then I started yanking on the straps of my overalls in a cranky fit of hunger.

She raised her index finger at me, signaling for me to be patient and calm. That’s when I realized I needed to take matters into my own hands. I suddenly understood why Winnie the Pooh tried to squeeze himself through Rabbit’s window to get the honey—sometimes a person is just better off when they’re left to their own devices.

I reached both hands up to the edge of the counter and wrapped them around the smooth container. My fingers couldn’t even meet around the other side. I inched it off the counter and placed it on the floor. Having seen my sneaky, little pigtails disappear behind the opposite side of the counter, my mom stretched the phone cord out until I was in her line of vision again. She gave me a look that I knew too well, as I dipped the tip of my finger into the peanut butter—manners were an afterthought.

I met her stern look and wiped my finger on my overalls—cleanliness was never a thought. I stood up from my crouched position and pulled out the silverware drawer.

The knife gleamed when it caught the reflection of the scattered lights on the ceiling, but I didn’t reach for it. I wasn’t scared of using the real knife, but I was scared about the way my mom had reacted to my first time using it, so I reached for a plastic spoon instead. She watched me curiously as she kept the phone glued to one ear and muttered the occasional “mm-hmm” to the person on the other end.

I thought about how selfish I was being and realized I should share, so I called our dog, Dixie, over. She was sprawled out on the living room floor, lying perfectly still, absorbing the sun that peeked through the windows. Once she heard her name she came over to me in a light, stealthy trot—I felt like she knew we needed to be quiet. My mother stared at us helplessly as I took a giant heaping of peanut butter on the spoon and then held it out for Dixie. Her pink tongue swirled over the whole spoon and then slithered away a silky bite. She started making this clopping sound as her tongue rolled on the roof of her mouth, trying to dissolve its sticky consistency. It didn’t slow her in her tracks for long. She continued licking the Skippy off the spoon like it were a tiny ice cream cone, and I sat there and laughed as her tongue dampened my hand.

That was enough to get my mom off the phone. She quickly ended her conversation and pulled the spoon out of my hand. Dixie licked the air a couple times hoping her tongue could reach another taste of peanut butter before it was completely gone. Realizing she was out of luck, she retired back to the living room and 39

curled back up on the rug. Luckily, my mom wasn’t angry, but she did cut me off before I got a chance to show her how independent I was. She picked me up and placed me on the counter, so my pink sandals dangled off the edge, and all of a sudden, I felt like a kid again.

She took the cap off, which she had put back on in her desperate attempt to put everything (myself included) back in its proper place after her phone call. Now she swiveled it loose, and it dropped to the counter and it twirled and rocked back and forth like a coin, making the sound of a faint drumroll. My mom handed me the real knife again and coiled my fingers tightly around the grip.

“Okay, now take just a little bit on the knife, honey,” she said as she tilted the jar towards me.

I looked down into the half empty jar and saw how the tan, soft peanut butter gathered up and stuck tightly together in different tidal waves that had been caused by the motions of the different utensils from past sandwiches. It looked like the skin of those bronzed girls I had seen on the cover of my older sister’s magazines. I took a weak swipe in the gloppy mess and retracted my knife to show my mother that I had in fact only taken “a little.” It was—of course—way too little, but the lesson of first taking smaller portions was something that stuck with me.

She smiled as she watched me concentrate very carefully on repeating the motions of dipping the knife in the stickiness, taking out only a little, and slowly spreading it across the bread. The plushy bread would sink with the weight of my knife and follow it around as I’d spread it, looking like I was chasing something that was under the covers. My mom watched patiently until I had finally managed to cover one slice of the grainy bread. She took the knife back and wiped it on the side of the jar, then nodded at me to flip the other slice on top of my masterpiece. This is back when I thought that there were actually “sides” to bread, so I lifted it carefully, pinching each side with two fingers like I learned how to do with my paintings in class. The delicate crust started to crumble and separate into small flakes that fell like a light snow onto the paper plates. Then I dropped it “face-up” onto the other slice. This was more beautiful than any of the finger paintings I had brought home from school. This was art.

My mom trimmed the crust off of the bread so that it just remained in flimsy strips. She ate them, which I thought was gross. Then she asked me what shape I wanted today.

“What do you think? Triangles? A star?” No, no. It had to be something meaningful. Something to mark the glorious occasion of my adulthood.

“A HEART!” I shouted with delight. R

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Rocks and Clouds Francesco Malavasi 41

Derek’s Downfall Written By Bronte Stahl Based on a Darwin Awards story

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EXT. TOWER BASE -- NIGHT A battered pickup truck lurches to a stop. Guns N’ Roses blares, disrupting the silence of the night as the door is flung open and DEREK, 25, already developing a bit of a beer gut, flannel shirt, trucker hat, and dirt under his fingernails, emerges with a six-pack of BUD LIGHT in his hand.

He slams the door and throws the six-pack on the roof of the car. He pulls out a lighter and rifles through his wallet for a picture of Vanessa, similar age, pretty, blonde.

He lights the picture and holds it by the edge until the flame almost reaches his fingers.

He drops the remains and watches them turn to ash before rubbing them into the ground with the toe of his boot.

Shards of brown glass can be seen on the ground.

DEREK (to himself) Fuckin’ whore ain’t worth shit.

He snatches the six-pack from the top of the truck and stumbles over to the tower.

Without looking up, he grabs hold of the handle of the six-pack with his teeth and begins his ascent.

EXT. TOP OF TOWER -- NIGHT Rattling sounds of heavy boots on the beams of the tower.

A head emerges from the bottom of the screen with the six pack still in his teeth.

Without hesitation, he hangs the six pack on a nail that sticks out and pulls himself up to a beam to sit.

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He grabs a beer, pops the cap off with his teeth and chugs the whole thing.

Aiming carefully with one eye closed, he drops the empty down the center of the tower. The bottle bounces off several beams, rattling the structure before finally shattering just before the bottom, joining the other shards.

He grabs another beer and repeats the process. This bottle gets a little closer to the bottom, but hits a beam and shatters as well.

DEREK (to himself) Shit! So close...

He cracks open a third beer and lights a cigarette, taking a big drag and audibly exhaling the deep breath.

He whips out his phone and puts on more Guns N’ Roses. He props it up on the beam above his head, making sure it is stable.

He chugs the third beer, takes careful aim and drops this one as well, but it hits a beam even farther up and shatters.

He lets out a huge burp and flicks his cigarette.

A big black NEWFOUNDLAND DOG, having heard the commotion comes out of the bushes and over to the base of the tower.

It looks up at Derek.

DEREK What the fuck do you want?

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The dog jumps his front paws up the first beam, which rattles the structure just enough to dislodge the phone.

It falls, missing all the beams, and joins the shards of glass on the floor in pieces.

DEREK You fucking mutt I’m ‘unna kill you!!!

Derek grabs a fourth beer, chugs this one even faster than before and chucks it as hard as he can at the dog, missing by fifteen feet.

He grabs another beer, downs it and tries again - still not even close to the dog.

He pulls out the last beer, chugs once more and stands up this time taking a second to gain his balance and establish aim. He chucks it as hard as he can and misses again.

DEREK FUCK!!

Still standing, Derek unzips his fly and attempts to pee on the dog. As the dog walks away, Derek strains to push the stream further, making little grunting sounds.

As the stream gains distance it catches a conductor wire.

A zap of electricity lights the night sky as it zips up Derek’s stream, zapping him rigid. He goes limp and falls down the tower catching every beam on the way. He lands among the shards of glass and phone which all sparkle with piss.

The dog barks and runs off into the night. R

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Trees Ayşe Zeynep Özbay

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Jerusalem Nicole Fersko

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My Own Mexican Fiesta Ana Luisa Ramirez

A Restaurant Review

“Always take your tequila with Squirt and lime,� my father advised after handing me my first Paloma at the age of seventeen. I always listen to my father, but now I was in Rome, at the Mexican restaurant La Cucaracha, and I was feeling daring.

So, I ordered a shot of Jose Cuervo, and I drank it in one gulp, like an authentic Mexican. The shot, as expected, was smooth and crisp, but it burned on the way down my throat, and it made me feel a little bit dizzy. I had come to this restaurant looking for a true Mexican taste, and I was surprised by the feelings of nostalgia it provoked in me.

La Cucaracha is a family-owned restaurant close to the Vatican Museums, run by the Beltran sisters since 2002. As soon as I entered the cozy corridor, I smelled the aroma of burritos, chili, and enchiladas verdes in the air. The place is decorated with colorful paintings of Mexican landscapes and joyful decorations of typical Mexican art, inspired by Frida Kahlo, hanging from the ceiling and walls. The pink, blue, and red colors jumped off the walls, reminding me of El Rancho, my favorite Mexican restaurant back home. I have gotten so used to the yellow, white, and ochre tones of Rome that I almost forgot about the revitalizing feeling of a place full of color, as refreshing as the splash of lime after that tequila shot. The conversations I heard around me were all in Italian, but after a while I heard some in Spanish. I was beginning to feel at home. Diana, one of the owners, mentioned how she loved the clash of cultures that happens in her restuarant every night. The vibrant place creates a bond, and we embrace each other as a family, a Mexican familia.

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Browsing through the menu, I was surprised when I found a Tex-Mex section.

I do not want to say I was offended by that term, but the reality is that Tex-Mex food is not Mexican, but an American blend. My friend ordered from that section of the menu, to my dismay, but I was glad to be able to sample a Roman idea of Tex-Mex. He ordered a chimichanga, a deep-fried flour tortilla filled with meat and cheese. I wanted to order a traditional Mexican meal; I really missed the food back in Mexico, and I was craving mole. I scanned the menu, desperately looking for mole; I found Flautas, Arrachera, Tortilla Soup, everything but mole. But I overcame my disappointment and went with cochinita pibil, delicious pork meat enriched with achiote sauce served with white rice, beans, guacamole and pico de gallo. The authenticity of the flavor helped me get over my mole letdown. The dish was served with black beans, perfectly cooked, and the rice was buttery, even creamy, with the perfect texture. The meat was tender, complemented by the red achiote sauce, which was thick and well-seasoned with black pepper. The meal was served with flour tortillas, as I traditionally eat them. Even though they were not handmade, they enhanced the authenticity of the meal.

I read in a food blog that La Cucaracha has the best margaritas in Rome, so I had high expectations, and was disappointed when they turned out to be watery. But I also had a paloma, and it tasted just like the ones I used to drink with my dad back home.

Mexican drinks are great to have over a conversation with friends; it comes from the casual tradition of having a meal and a siesta afterwards. Instead of a siesta, we had churros that tasted just like the ones my grandfather used to make, tasty and crunchy on the outside, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. My friends and I stayed for hours enjoying our food, drinks, and dessert, talking about good moments shared back home with family and friends while Mexican music played by two mariachis filled the place with joy. People around us danced and sang to the music; it was like a big Mexican fiesta, and I even sang with the mariachis. It was a little piece of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico here in Rome. R

49

The City With a View Martina Mikulcikova

“Non si può più toccare neppure una pietra, sarebbe un delitto” Le Corbusier (about the Piazza Vecchia in Bergamo Alta)

The higher I go, the more I see. Every time I pass the massive walls, I get deeper into the city with a view, where I experience more and more of its medieval glory. I park the car outside the outer walls. In my leather jacket, I walk slowly, stepping on the big oval stones fixed in the pavement as if they were made of gold. The pace of the other people, the citizens of the city with a view, isn’t like mine. They walk with a determined certainty, not frightened by the city’s age, unfazed by its history and seemingly immune to the knowledge of a world lying beneath them. My gaze slowly moves from the ground to the stone walls and from the stone walls to the shops and restaurants framed inside them. The narrow streets make everybody closer to each other, and the morning November breeze brings me to a cozy warm café for a ”cappuccio” and brioche.

I take a last bite and am on my way, with my eyes directed to the exit. Via Bartolomeo Colleoni is a long street full of bars and restaurants, and I observe that one could live on this street and come by everything needed without ever actually leaving it. There’s a salumeria, eco-food, hairdresser, little shops with clothes, sweets, wooden crafts and furniture, books, and so on.

I continue through the cobbled street of Bartolomeo Colleoni that leads me to the main piazza of the city: Piazza Vecchia, seemingly an empty square with a fountain on the left side. Looking to its end, I see a perfect scene, as if set for an opera: tall medieval Campanone, the bell tower, along with the Basilica of Santa Maggiore, Duomo, and Colleoni Chapel. All create a perfect backdrop for a theater play. Only the actors are missing; confused by the switch of time or distracted by their caffé and a cigarette.

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The thing that allures me the most is the market at the end of the piazza. About ten long tables with antiquarian objects are set up in the vaulted ceilings under the Palazzo della Ragione: antique books, music disks, Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, old Italian ceramics, large black (to me prehistoric) typewriting machines, hundreds of fluffy fur coats, old paintings, tea sets, and other vintage objects, dressed in dust and smell. I approach the stage and admire the artifacts. I stop by an old man with old books and take three Mickey Mouse comic books, 50 cents each: two from 1977 and one from 1976. I walk past the Palazzo della Ragione that was once the seat of the administration of the city and now serves for exhibitions of paintings from Accademia Carrara, one of the most antique academies in Italy, founded in 1796.

From the piazza, I continue my discovery of the city and its people. Walking up the hill, I realize again that the center is surrounded and hidden by the Venetian walls that have been protecting its citizens from invading armies since the 16th century.

They still seem to protect them from the modern world below. I hear the bells of the church behind me loudly ringing for the Sunday service, and I feel that time has stopped. The history that the walls conceal is embedded like stones in the ground, and with each step I feel closer to the glory of the old city.

The walls were built by the Serenissima Republic of Venice. Legends say the city was founded by the Celtic populations. I can imagine them sitting on the hill, keeping an eye on the valleys and rivers Brembo and Serio that flow into the Adda river. The first step towards success was when Julius Caesar granted the status of Municipium to the town, after which the city began to grow, hiding itself physically and symbolically behind its walls. Wandering around in one of the oldest important cities in Northern Italy, I feel special. I am no longer an observer, I, too, am now part of the city’s history.

I buy a ticket for the funicular that takes me down to the rest of the city. The lift is made of two small wagons but both of them are equally empty. We pass through the little tunnel, and within 30 seconds I see the treasure of those living in this city with a view. The panoramic landscape of Bergamo bassa, with its ancient and modern architecture lies in front of me, seeming close at hand. Even though the sun shown at the top, the city I see from the lift is covered with grey mist. After a three-minute ride, the funicular stops, yet I don’t get off. I stay seated, watching dozens of people of the lower city pushing each other inside to get pulled up the hill. In the wagon, the parents excitingly tell their children, “Stiamo andando su!”. After three minutes, I am up again, ready to get out along with the people pushing me outside.

I decide to stop and turn around where I spot another restaurant called Café e Ristorante della Funicolare. I hesitate, but since I can’t resist the view, I decide to go for another cappuccio. Outside on the terrace are a couple of tiny round tables, and I sit on one of the chairs, leaning against the window, enjoying the spectacle in front of me. Even at nine degrees Celsius, the heat of the November sun makes me warm. The sharp shadows of the waiters passing by are reflected on the yellow walls 51

of the restaurant behind me. After finishing my caffè, I throw pieces of cookie to the birds sitting on the edge of the terrace. They hastily grab it and within a moment they disappear from the view.

I slowly walk back down. I stop at the Porta di San Giacomo, and one last time I enjoy the view of the city spread in front of me. Moving my eyes down, I spot a cobbled street that connects two worlds: Bergamo bassa and the beginning of Bergamo alta. I stop looking at the view, turn around and observe the indestructible grey walls, walls once used for protection, now for division, making an invisible line between up and down. It seems no one can resist the desire to go “up.” Once there, you begin to feel untouchable. Up behind those epic walls, there is only sun and sky… and history.

I turn my head again and look at the lower city. I think of how thin the line is.

None of us are, but all of us love to feel “above”... none of us can remain untouched by time and history. The world turns around. And when the world turns, we turn with it. Whatever we have now can disappear as easily as it came. A shiver goes through my body, and I begin to feel the reality of the thin invisible line. R

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Mazara del Vallo, Sicily Nicole Riker

53

Rumor Mill Olga Carries A Capstone excerpt

High school, for me, like for many people, was an awkward time. It wasn’t because I was awkward though, it was because everyone else around me was.

Whether it was my one classmate named Anastasia, who called herself a “freakin’ Puerto Rican,” but who was really an Italian with identity issues. Or the school priest— who everyone called Father Shake N’ Bake even though his name was Sheckenbeck— who often asked me if I liked my men how I liked my coffee, tall, dark and spicy. I’m not sure who drinks coffee spicy, but to each his own. No, I didn’t consider myself awkward. I took life one day at a time, I knew what I liked, I was comfortable enough with myself, and I had a handful of friends with a few to spare. Holly, my best friend since the eighth grade, made the time served more bearable.

We had our spats, but they were few and far between. They usually consisted of how she often broke plans, or things so petulant that I can’t even recall them now.

However there was one spat bad enough to lead her to schedule us for a counseling session with one of the nuns at school, Sister Peggy. Sister Peggy with tiny body, circular glasses, and pixie haircut was one of the nicer nuns. She asked questions about our relationship and why we were there. Her questions had me staring at Holly with mild disdain. I didn’t talk about my feelings, especially during pseudo couples therapy. When Holly explained our situation, I read the Catholic school approved motivational posters on the wall. I finally tuned in and was informed that I had to share my best friend. That just because we spent less time together didn’t mean our friendship wouldn’t last. I tried not to roll my eyes at this bit of information. That was not my worry. I just simply hated the guys she hung out with. It was a festering hatred that just grew with every glance in their direction or every word they spoke. They were the epitome of all things idiotic. Holly wouldn’t see it for another two more years. My moment of ‘I told you so’ would have to wait..

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To lessen my desire to cause harm to the group of guys Holly spent time with, I gravitated towards the friends I kept in my back pocket. The black ones to be more precise. In a class of nearly three hundred there were sixteen black students including myself. They all migrated towards each other Freshman Year. I stayed on the side lines, not sure exactly how to approach them, afraid that there would be some sort of initiation test that I’d fail because I wasn’t “black enough.” I am the “whitest” in my family, in personality, not in skin complexion, because I’m the second darkest. All I ever really had were white friends, a couple Asians, throw in some Latinos with a dash of random blacks from my old Jewish neighborhood, but the majority were white. I only knew so much black attitude because my female cousins were clearly experts in that department. I harvested what I saw for moments when they might be necessary.

I only needed to be extra black every so often, whenever there was one in my class or I’d pass them in the hall. They seemed to be quiet fond of me, but when I was around them being “black” felt natural. It never felt like I was acting. It was a good thing that it didn’t because once I grew tired of Holly’s posse of idiots I started spending more time with them.

Much like Holly’s group, my group consisted of all guys, and I was the only girl. First there was Rosario, a junior and a grade behind me who spent our lunches spitting rhymes. Then there was Gilbert who was famous for being late to every class because each step he took was something meant to be admired. He had a shuffle that left a scuff mark on the ground after every few steps. He walked and talked as if his whole life were in slow motion. He let the first word of every sentence draw out like, “yooooooooooooooo” or “naaaaaaaaah son.” Gilbert was the kind of guy who could make the prudish of women smile. Next was Maurice, who preferred to be called “Moe Chedda,” we were in the same literature class and sat next to each other. He was the star basket ball player along with Gerald. The both of them together looked like Mario and Luigi. Gerald had always been the tallest in the class, in our freshman year he could pass for a senior, and Maurice only reached his shoulder blades. Gerald and I had a habit of chanting each other’s name whenever we spotted one another.

Whoever chanted the longest won, it was never me because I felt dumb after saying his name more than five times.

“Olga, Olga…”

“Gerald, Gerald…”

“Olga, Olga, Olga, Olga…”

“Gerald, Gerald….”And I was done. I couldn’t continue. He’d raise his hands in triumph after every one of my losses.

These were my guys, protective, supportive, and fun just like a group of brothers. It took me some time to feel comfortable with “my boys” but they made it easy for me. The group of girls that associated themselves with “my boys” had been the ones that made things difficult. They weren’t completely fond of the fact that I 55

hung out with them with no effort, with no hidden agenda. At least I had no hidden agenda, they would have argued differently. I barely hung out with girls as it was.

Holly was the same way, we only hung with boys because they were less drama, but the boys that Holly spent time with were girls. They acted just like all the other girls in school. Talking behind the other’s back, gossiping about who they liked and the things they wanted to do to that said person, or about the person that said person may have been involved with. I didn’t have time for that. It was obnoxious and annoying and really exhausting. I always found girls to be catty, especially high school girls. I liked to keep things mellow. High school was already equivalent to watching a nonstop marathon of tela novella. I never understood one word and barely survived the awful acting.

Apparently there was a system I didn’t care enough to follow, and my fraternization with the guys didn’t fly too well with the group of girls. Especially one girl named Keri Lyn, and if that name wasn’t trailer park enough, her stereotypical white girl rebellion made things worse. This ridiculous addition made her even more unbearable. Keri Lynn blended in with the group of girls through her attire. Being in a private school there was very little room for creative expression through our clothes. I just happened to have grown up around the stereotypical black girls from the “hood”.

They always had a certain uniform but were able to still manage to look different.

There was the weave with different colors, braids, or cornrows for hair. Earrings were the same, always doorknockers and “gold”. There was the small piercing on the left nostril, a small silver ball that added a sort of finesse. There was the addition of a thick gold chain that matched the earrings and hands bedazzled by a tiny Korean woman.

Now I’m not racist, but white girls can’t pull this look off. The fact that Keri Lynn tried is what made her the butt of Sharelle, Kaylee, and Michelle’s jokes. When they weren’t laughing at me they were making fun of her. She was the white girl in the group of black girls who swore up and down she was black. She mastered Ebonics which made her stand out more because she used words that even the girls she hung with didn’t.

I must have been in Keri Lynn’s territory when it came to the basketball boys, because as soon as she spotted me spending time with them, I became the Hester Prynne of St. John’s Diocesan High School.

It all started with a shout of my name from Sharelle during homeroom one morning. Nothing ever good came from her calling my name. It was either to ask an obnoxious question or to…no, no that was it. This time was no different. I reluctantly turned around because if I didn’t she’d keep calling me. She was like a shrubby gnat buzzing in my ear until I recognized its presence enough to swat it away.

“What?”

She didn’t like my response and her face said it all, as she curled her lip up her chubby face then rolled her eyes. I rolled mine.

“Anyway…would you ever date Guesly?”

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The question was about as odd as the boy mentioned. Guesly St. Aubin who—I would reluctantly admit—I had a crush on in the eighth grade. We were somewhat in the same circle of friends during junior high. He was best friends with a girl named Christina who was the first person to greet me on my first day of school at St. Mary’s, when my mother moved me and my brother to Long Island. I hated everything about Long Island, for instance why the buses ran every hour, or that there was only one train, and it followed the same length of time as the buses. The worst was that if you were lucky enough to make any friends, they didn’t live a reasonably timed walk away from you. There wasn’t one spot where everyone could hang out. I always had to be driven some place. The adjustment was not one I liked and never cared enough to get used to. I put up a fight as best as I could. I made my mother drive me down to school in Queens for a month before she transferred me into St. Mary’s. There was nothing saintly or mother of God like about that place at all. I’ve never disliked so many people at one time and I was only twelve. Christina tried her best, but her personality scared me. She greeted me with a hug on my first day, and after that I was always a bit hesitant about her. Over time though, she had made a lasting impression on me.

Her best friend Guesly was a tall black kid with thin rimmed glasses, short hair and extremely lanky. Puberty had been no friend to any of us yet, in time he muscled up but nothing too major.

In junior high Guesly was the male version of me, but whiter if that were even possible, probably because he grew up in the suburbs and didn’t have the rough upbringing I had. My background earned me the color of my skin. He was just another black kid surrounded by a bunch of white people. When he reached high school his height and skin color got him a spot on the basketball team. Disregard the fact that he wasn’t actually any good at the sport. However, he filled two of the three requirements, so he cheered Gerald, Gilbert, and Moe on from the bench. I didn’t talk to him much given my awkward crush on him and the heart breaking rejection I had gone through. I knew I’d never love after Guesly and here was Sharelle poking at buried feelings. I pretended not to hear the question because I wanted to be sure she was really asking this. She sighed as I mustered up enough breath and told her to ask me again, only because I wanted to make sure I heard the random question correctly. I ignored her as she stammered obnoxiously. She did call me after all.

“Would you ever go out with Guesly?”

I just shrugged, said maybe and she just nodded. Phase one had commenced but I wasn’t aware that it had. I just turned around and went about my normal routine. The next day as I entered the school bus, I grabbed my normal seat. The seat was placed next to the emergency exit. I preferred that chair because I liked to be in charge of my own doom. If this bus were to ever flip over at any given moment, I was prepared. I’d be the first one out and really that’s all that mattered. I dropped down into my retractable seat, and before I put my headphones on I overheard Guesly 57

talking about me. Yes, I had the pleasure of having him and Sharelle on my bus. They sat all the way in the back, a total insult to Rosa Parks, if you asked me. Sharelle was already loud, so I easily overheard everything that she said, but I didn’t listen too much, just enough to hear the mention of the unrequited love back in St. Mary’s. That was enough for me. I slipped my headphones over my ears and slept the bus ride to school. Again, another phase had come and gone, and, again, I missed it.

I shoved my book bag in my locker. I wasn’t even one arm into my grey school blazer before Keri came over and leaned against my locker. I gave her a once over and fought off every urge within me to keep from pulling her away from my locker her by her blonde corn rowed hair.

“Can I help you?”

“Guesly likes you.”

I grabbed my books, finished putting on my blazer and for dramatic affect, slammed my locker shut then looked at her. I popped my eyebrows up once and gave her an unimpressed “that’s nice” and went on my way. I had spent the day with the thought in my head. I hadn’t thought of my “feelings” for Guesly since the eighth grade, and, really, how serious were those feelings to begin with. I played with the idea, it would be nice to have a boyfriend. That would get everyone in my family off my back. They all thought that because I spent so much time with Holly and that because we were both such tomboys that we were together. Not that I thought there was anything wrong with being gay. In fact, I was so unfazed by the idea of being gay that my second year in college I realized why I never cared about boys. It was still weird to my family, though, that I didn’t care about having a boyfriend. I always cared when Holly did. It was because Holly became this person I couldn’t stand when a new guy was in her life. Like most lovesick people when she was with that one person it was always all about them. She forgot about me and I hated that. Guesly quickly became useful for my secret experiment to prove to Holly that you could have a boyfriend and not forget about your best friend.

I made it to lunch that afternoon and found Christina. It was time for some recon work as I tried to figure out how I would get this experiment started. First I had to find out if the kid actually liked me. Any information from Keri had been false, and I didn’t understand why she thought I’d believe anything she said. Listening to Keri was the equivalent of bonsai skydiving where you throw your parachute out of the plane and jump after it. Sure the thought was thrilling, but the chances of death were much higher. So, all in all, if you listened to Keri you were basically dead.

I told her that apparently Guesly liked me. She squealed and hugged me, I had gotten used to this since our first greeting in the seventh grade. Christina did a little dance and I looked around to make sure no one was looking at us. She grabbed my shoulders, shook me, then told me to explain everything.

“Don’t get too excited. I got this information from the wannabe hood rat.”

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Christina frowned with disappointment. I reveled in the fact that I didn’t have to explain to her who I was referring to. I didn’t mind that even though the black girls weren’t my biggest fans. But actually being black, I was more a part of them than Keri would ever be. She was jealous of my inherent street cred. It was a ridiculous thing to be jealous of though. It’s like an Olympic Gold Medalist being jealous of a Bronze Medalist from the Special Olympics. Christina being Hispanic agreed with me about Keri’s jealousy, so she agreed to find out about Guesly for me. Things didn’t seem right. She promised to give him a note that I wrote earlier that day. It wasn’t anything emotionally revealing. I honestly didn’t feel anything for him. It was all for the sake of science. To show Holly that women are capable of multitasking. She tucked the message in her large breasts for safekeeping then we went our separate ways. She didn’t trust the pockets of our blazers.

One of the highlights of senior year was having a free period. This perk allowed me to partake in two lunch periods. One lunch period I actually ate, the other I sat with another group of my friends. Oddly enough, they were all girls that had the same views of the awkward people in my school. There was Ashley who was half black, half white. Next was the other Ashley. She was all white, short, chubby and had long, wavy black hair. In order to keep from getting the two Ashleys confused we called her by her last name, Biddy. I always sang her name like Biddy Biddy bom bom like the famous Selena song. Honestly, when you have a name like that you’re asking for it. It was all in good fun. Then there was Tara who we all called T-Weiss because her last name matched up better with her personality, whereas her first name made her as bland and stereotypical as the other thirty Taras in SJB. We were all talking about the release of the newest Harry Potter film that was coming out in a few weeks. We were all fully engaged in a discussion on how much we hated Professor Snape, when Keri passed by our table with the black girls. She made sure to interrupt our important conversation and inform me for the second time that day.

“Guesly likes you.”

She was becoming like the raven from Edgar Allen Poe’s poem. I just looked at her with a glare. If she bugged me one more time she was about to be nevermore. My table all looked at Keri’s fleeting form then back at me. Ashley unnecessarily told me that if it came from Keri it probably wasn’t true. I told her I already knew and that I had it under control. I tried to rid my annoyance by going to stand on the lunch line to buy a soda. As I was walked through the kitchen toward the other side, I filled my cup with Pepsi. Keri snuck up behind.

“Guesly likes you.”

I growled and turned around. I had fire in my eyes because the news went from being curious to annoying.

“Seriously!”

She took the ‘seriously’ out of context. She took it as if I wanted her to 59

reconfirm her claim, when in actuality I was referring to her aggravating presence.

“Yeah he likes you, you should ask him out.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me. He likes you.”

“Are you sure he’s the one that likes me? I’ve seen you more today than I have in all four years here. I’m getting this real serious stalker vibe from you today.”

She sucked her teeth, and if I didn’t value Pepsi so much it would’ve been all over her. She urged me to talk with Guesly one more time and gave me the bitch smile. The one that every bitch thought came off as sincere, but really it was obvious that it was fake and conniving. It was clear that her plan was to have me embarrass myself in front of the guys. Too bad I already had a note that would hinder that event from happening. Keri was about as smart as she was black.

I went back to my table and pondered. My encounter with Keri made me reflect on my note to Guesly. The note simply said, “Hey Guesly, Keri told me that you liked me, and I’m just trying to find out if you do because it’s weird hearing about it out of nowhere.” It was simple, to the point, and if I do say so myself pretty nonchalant.

There was no hearts or smiley faces littering the page, or even those annoying hugs and kisses signs that didn’t look like hugs or kisses. I don’t know who came up with that, but I have never understood the relationship between Xs and Os and kisses and hugs. I emphasize the simplicity of the note because later on that day, as I was headed to my last class, I saw Guesly throwing a tantrum as he stood next to Gerald’s locker.

We didn’t start our tribal chant right away. He just winked at me as I passed by. I sideeyed Guesly as he continued to act like a three-year-old. I caught a glimpse of my note in his hand and I just shook my head. Really, liking me was that bad ? It was as if Gerald could read my mind as the thought lingered in it, because just as I was about to turn the corner I heard him chant, “Olga, Olga, Olga…”

I shouted his name twice over my shoulder and laughed it off. I ended the day in my math class with a teacher who had a voice that was a mix of Franny Fine’s nasally pitch and a hoarse tone that sounded like a bad case of emphysema. Her name was Nuccio…Mrs. Nuccio. Kudos to whomever married that woman because her voice may have sounded like Franny Fine, but there was nothing fine about her. In my class she was known as the Nuccinator or the Nuch. She had a stomach that looked as if she were pregnant, and every year a freshman would find out that she wasn’t after asking when she was due. A small prank passed down from senior class to senior class.

Her famous line—that I mastered, voice and all— was “quiet down please!” She had just finished telling us this very thing as we settled down at the beginning of class. As she was writing down problems on the board, another random friend quietly called out to me. I turned to Jess, a blonde, tiny, bubbly girl who had the ability to drink any guy ten times her size under the table. I lifted my head in that way I learned how to in the “hood” when you acknowledged another person’s presence. When I moved out 60

to Long Island, I quickly saw a difference in this gesture, white people always nodded down, while black people always lifted their head up. I wasn’t sure if it was some symbolic thing done in the many years of oppression, but it sure looks so much cooler.

When she was aware that she had my attention she quickly rushed out her question.

“Is it true about you and Guesly?”

I was confused, obviously, because I only just found out, how is it already known in a circle that neither myself, Guesly, or Keri usually run in.

“That he likes me?”

She looked away more so out of panic than shyness. She managed a grip on whatever she needed to correct me.

“No that you two had sex at the Bayshore Inn near Sunrise?”

My face clearly answered the question because it looked like I just walked in on my brother dressed as a woman. Utterly horrified. I quickly shouted out a ‘no’ and the Nuch turned to tell me to quiet down.

“Who’d you hear that from?” I asked Jess, and she just shrugged and said a bunch of people were talking about it.

When the hell did a bunch of people have any time to talk about Guesly and me having sex. I only found out he supposedly liked me the day before. What made it worse was that this apparently happened at the Bayshore Inn near the highway of all places. That place was known for sheltering registered sex offenders. I had standards!

I was not going to lose my virginity in a place that had most of the offenders from “To Catch a Predator” living there. I told Jess to run a list of names she heard this from and when she reached Sharelle’s name I stopped her. Someone’s ass was going to get kicked. Another disadvantage of growing up in the suburbs was that people rarely knew how to fight. I, on the other hand, was taught by my brother how to box at the age of eight. We used the pillows from the bed as punching bags and practiced everyday for two hours for a good two months. He was tired of having to fight my battles with the older boys in the neighborhood. So, I was eight years old and beating up seventeen year old boys. I’ve grown and Sharelle was no match, especially for a pissed off Olga. I was often seen as this sweet and nice Christian girl. This was not a ‘what would Jesus do’ moment. I angrily stared at the clock and scared it into making time move faster.

The bell went off and I ran out of the classroom. I got my things together, I wanted to be settled on the bus before Sharelle got on it. As I stormed through the hallway and before I could clear onto the other side an old friend—Melanie—from St. Mary’s stopped me in the hallway. I could tell by the way she was looking at me, she knew. It was official. I had a rumor about me started by none other than Keri and Sharelle. I was sleeping with the basketball team…correction I was sleeping with the second string of the basketball team at the international house of pedophiles.

“Olga? Do you want a ride home?”

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“No I’m okay I’m just going to take the bus.”

Melanie wasn’t going to give up. It wasn’t clear if she didn’t want me to hurt Sharelle or to be hurt furthermore by getting on the same bus as Guesly. She gripped me by my wrist and told me she’d drive me home. She had another passenger, so I quietly sat in the backseat. The rain had started to fall as we drove home. My anger subsided but turned to tears, they rolled down as subtly as the drops that rolled down the window that my head was leaning against. I didn’t even realize that this rumor had upset me to the point of tears, but here I was crying about something I knew was a lie.

I got out of the car and slept the news off. I was planning on taking care of Sharelle the next day, but Holly had intervened when she texted that she was picking me up on the way to school. I hadn’t really talked to Holly as much since I didn’t sit with her during lunch anymore. The drive was silent, my best friend knew me well enough to know that I wasn’t going to talk about the rumor. I didn’t even want to go to school, but it was either that or the hospital according to my mother. I ignored the stares, the whispers and I spotted Keri. Her back was to me, and I started towards her but was stopped by Christina. We both had a music class first period, she had band and I had orchestra, and she was set on our walking together, which was weird because we never walked to class together. She stood next to me as I unpacked and got ready for class. I heard a whisper of “heard about Guesly, told you he liked you.”

I pushed myself away from my locker but Christina grabbed the back of my blazer. I cunningly slipped my arms out from the sleeves and managed to get pretty close to Keri before “my boys” stopped me. Gerald and Gilbert stood in my way holding me.

“Guys let me go.”

“We don’t need our girl getting expelled for beating the shit out of a dumb white chick.”

“It wasn’t just her.” I explained as I searched around their tall figures to find her.

They told me they knew, and Guesly would be so lucky. I laughed and made sure they knew it wasn’t true. I explained that I didn’t like him. Again they knew. I told them that I’d probably be a little distant to let this whole thing die down. I was denied, they would not allow it, they said they’d follow me to any table I went to.

The approach they were going for by hanging out with me to prove the rumor wrong wasn’t really helping. I appreciated their dedication to me though. I was the topic of discussion for a while. I did what I always did, what I was taught to do-- make a joke at every opportunity that called for one, and especially at times that it didn’t.

I got asked about the Bayshore Inn on more occasions than I’d like to recount. I’d just give advice on which room had the best view of the Target that was on the other side of the highway. I’d tell them to give the night clerk my name and they’d definitely get an extra pillow mint. The more jokes I told the less people would bother me about it. The boys stopped talking to the girls for a couple of months until I told them to let it go. Keri hung out with white people, until the boys started talking to the black girls 62

again. It seemed that she got shunned from Colored Island. Holly drove me to and from school every day for the rest of the year. She knew I could hold a grudge very well. Two weeks after the rumor, Holly had ended up behind the bus I usually take home. It had its stop sign out, and I knew it was Sharelle’s stop. I tried to get out of the car, but Holly locked it before I could open it and put the child safety locks on as well. I opted just to honk her horn angrily to grab Sharelle’s attention and it worked. She took one glance at me and ran into her house.

“Why didn’t you let me out of the car?”

“You know why?”

“I was just going to talk to her.” I said this in the sincerest voice I could muster up, but it only made my best friend laugh.

“Sure you were, besides if you killed her you’d get arrested then who would I spend time with?”

The way she asked this question made me realize that in some distorted way my experiment worked. Guesly was involved in the ploy of catty high school girls, a lie about the both of us protected the other girl and in turn got me to spend time with Holly during our drives. It was only twenty minutes together in both directions but it was just the two of us. That’s all I needed. At least that was all I needed to not end up back in Sister Peggy’s office for another couples therapy session. R

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(Untitled) Fatharani Fadhilah

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Artwork Fatharani Fadhilah Nicole Fersko Francesco Malavasi AyĹ&#x;e Zeynep Ă–zbay Monika Pedersen Nicole Riker

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